The Queen turned as pale as a corpse. “You doubt?” she stammered, “you doubt whether your father is alive?”
“A dangerous illness which has confined him to his bed, gives me reason to apprehend---but what is the matter with your Majesty?”
“Nothing---nothing at all---A dangerous illness did you say.”
“So he has informed me sometime since, by a letter, and requested me, at the same time, to hasten to his arms, that he might see me once more before his death, and give me his blessing.”
The Queen started up, and went to another part of the room, as if in search of something, but soon came back again:
“He wants to see you and you are here?”
“Before I received the letter of my father, I had promised to that Unknown of whom I have been speaking, that nothing should detain me from travelling to Fr**ce, and imploring your assistance in behalf of my unhappy country.”
“Poor father!” said the Queen, absorbed in melancholy, “how anxiously will he have expected the arrival of his son—I fancy I see the dying Marquis, how he extends his arms in vain to receive the child of his love—”
“Does your Majesty know my father?” I enquired hastily.
She gazed at me. “If I know him?---no!---yes---I saw him several times when at the court of my father---But why do you ask this question?”---Without giving me time to reply, she resumed, “Make haste! make haste, return to your native country; perhaps he is yet alive---the sight of you will animate him with new strength, he will recover in your arms, and perhaps be restored to health!” The last words she pronounced with a visible joyful emotion.