"Who can tell Don Tadeo's intention?" she interrupted, with a sigh.
"He appears to love you tenderly?" Louis hazarded, timidly.
"Sometimes I am on the point of believing so; he pays me the most delicate attentions, shews me the tenderest care; then at other times he appears to endure me with, pain—he repulses me—my caresses annoy him."
"Singular conduct!" the Count observed; "this gentleman is your relation, there can be no doubt."
"I do not know," she replied ingenuously; "when alone and pensive, my thoughts stray back to my early years. I have some vague remembrance of a young and handsome woman, whose black eyes smiled upon me constantly, and whose rosy lips lavished affectionate kisses upon me; and then, all at once, a complete darkness comes over my brain, and memory entirely fails me. As far back as I can recollect, I find nobody but Don Tadeo watching over me, everywhere and always, as a father would do over his daughter."
"Perhaps, then," said the Count, "he is your father."
"Listen. One day, after a long and dangerous illness which I had just gone through, and in which Don Tadeo had night and day watched over my pillow for more than a month, happy at seeing me restored to life, for he had been fearful he should lose me, he smiled upon me tenderly, kissed my brow and my hands, and appeared to experience the most lively joy. 'Oh!' I said, as a sudden thought rushed across my mind; 'oh! you are my father! None but a father could devote himself with such abnegation for his child!' and throwing my arms round his neck, I concealed my tear-laden face on his chest. Don Tadeo arose, his countenance was lividly pale, his features were frightfully contracted; he repulsed me roughly, and strode hastily about the chamber. I Your father! I! Doña Rosario!' he cried, in a husky voice, 'you are a silly, poor child! Never repeat those words again; your father is dead, and your mother, likewise, long, long ago. I am not your father—never repeat that word—I am only your friend. Yes, your father, at the point of death, confided you to my care, and that is why I am bringing you up, that is why I watch over you; as to me, I am not even your relation!' His agitation was extreme; he said many other things which I do not now remember, and then he left me. Alas! from that day I have never ventured to ask him for any account of my family."
A silence ensued; the two young people were pensively thoughtful: the simple and touching recital of Doña Rosario had strongly affected the Count. At length he said, in a tremulous voice,—
"Let me love you, Doña Rosario!"
The maiden sighed.