"You remember the day upon which the Duke B—— dismissed me from his house."
"Remember it," answered Pauline, "I have good reason to remember it. That day was the turning point of my life."
"And of mine. Reckless and desperate, I strode through the streets of Paris, with my breast rent with contending love and hatred. Love for you, hatred for the conventionalities of rank, which elevated an insurmountable barrier between genius and beauty; for I felt that I had genius, energy, and patience, to conquer fortune—all the gifts which help to make men great, and which the haughty lordling dare not despise, since they are the root of all aristocracies. The very air of France seemed hateful to me, for I despised a country in which the differences of rank could part those whom Heaven had created for each other. I sailed for America, determined that in a free country I would attain such eminence as might entitle me to sue for the hand of a duke's daughter. So enraged was I against the fate which had separated us, that I threw aside my old name, and whatever small degree of distinction might be attached to it, and called myself Forester Townshend."
"And it was thus that my search for you was fruitless," said Pauline; "but go on."
"Under that assumed name I won considerable eminence as a portrait painter, throughout the United States, and seven years after leaving France, had amassed a considerable fortune. I returned to my native country, resolved, if I found you still true to me, to make one more appeal to the Duke; and failing in obtaining his consent, to persuade you to agree to a clandestine marriage. On reaching Paris, my first act was to go to the house you had occupied with your supposed father and mother. I was told that the family had removed to Milan. I lost not an hour in traveling to that city, and there I heard from the Duke's steward, the story of Jeannette's death-bed confession, and the heartless way in which you had been treated, by those who for nearly seventeen years had caressed you as their only child."
"But they never loved me," murmured Pauline.
"No, dearest; it was an heir for a haughty title, and not a father's affections, that they sought. Providence punished their ambition, and terrible retribution overtook them for their cruelty in visiting upon your innocent head the crimes of others. The duchess died, broken-hearted at the discovery of her guilty deception, and the Duke was stabbed by an assassin in the streets of Milan. It is thought that this assassin was his kinsman and the heir to his fortune."
Pauline bowed her head in silence.
"This story is very terrible," she said, solemnly; "I had long ago forgiven their wrong to me, in casting me from home and shelter; but I had never forgiven them for parting me from him I loved."
"Dearest Pauline, the ways of Providence are indeed inscrutable. I left Milan, after vainly endeavoring to ascertain whither you had gone after leaving the ducal palace. My inquiries were vain, and my only thought was to find you in Paris, to which city I imagined you would have fled. I remained in Paris for three months, during which time I inserted numerous advertisements in the papers, and applied to the police in order to discover your retreat. At the end of that time I began to despair of ever finding you, and I was seized with a gloomy conviction that you had committed suicide in the first moments of your anguish. I left my fortune in the hands of my mother, in whose care it has been accumulating year by year, and withdrawing only sufficient to pay my voyage to America, I once more turned my back upon my native country."