“What were these expressions?”
“‘Go,’ said she, ‘kneel before him, for you and you alone can soften his heart.’”
“Then you knelt before me because your mother told you to do so.”
“Yes, for if I had followed my own inclination I should have rushed to your arms.”
“You answer well. But are you sure of persuading me?”
“No, for one can never be sure of anything; but I have good hopes of success, remembering what you told me at the Hague. My mother told me that I was only three then, but I know I was five. She it was who told me not to look at you when I spoke to you, but fortunately you made her remove her prohibition. Everybody says that you are my father, and at the Hague she told me so herself; but here she is always dinning it into my ears that I am the daughter of M. de Monpernis.”
“But, Sophie dear, your mother does wrong in making you a bastard when you are the legitimate daughter of the dancer Pompeati, who killed himself at Vienna.”
“Then I am not your daughter?”
“Clearly, for you cannot have two fathers, can you?”
“But how is it that I am your image?”