"Stay, my child, you are still very weak; sit down there," said Clémence, to turn her attention from the prince; and she led her to a large arm-chair of bronze and gilt, in which the Goualeuse seated herself. Her agitation increased every moment: she was oppressed, speech failed her; she had not a word of gratitude for Rudolph. At length, on a sign from Lady d'Harville, who was leaning on the back of the chair, and holding one of Fleur-de-Marie's hands in her own, the prince approached softly to the other side of the seat. With more self-command, he then said to Fleur-de-Marie, who turned toward him her enchanting face: "At length, my child, you are once more reunited to your friends, and forever! You never shall leave them more Now you must forget what you have suffered." "Yes, my child, the best way to prove that you love us," added Clémence, "is to forget the past." "Believe me, M. Rudolph--believe me, my lady, that if I do recall it sometimes, it will only be to say to myself, that, without you, I should still be very unhappy." "Yes; but we will take care that you have no more such gloomy thoughts. Our tenderness will not leave you the time, my dear Marie," answered Rudolph, "for you know that I gave you this name at the farm." "Yes, M. Rudolph. And is Madame George, who allowed me to call her mother, well?" "Very well, my child. But I have important news to tell you." "Me, M. Ruldoph?" "Since I have seen you, great discoveries have been made concerning your birth." "My birth!" "It is known who were your parents--who was your father." Rudolph was so much choked by his tears on his pronouncing these words, that Fleur-de-Marie, very much affected, turned quickly toward him: he had turned away his head. An incident, half burlesque, diverted the attention of La Goualeuse, and prevented her from remarking more closely the emotion of her father: the worthy squire, who still remained behind the curtain, and, apparently was very attentively looking into the garden of the hotel, could not refrain from blowing his nose with a most formidable noise, for he wept like a child. "Yes, my dear Marie," Clémence hastened to say, "your father is known--he still lives." "My father!" cried the Goualeuse, with an outburst which put the composure of Rudolph to a new trial. "And some day," resumed Clémence, "very soon, perhaps, you will see him. What will doubtless surprise you very much is, that he is of high standing--noble birth." "And my mother, madame-shall I see her?" "Your father will answer this question, my child; but shall you not be very happy to see him?" "Oh! yes, madame," answered Fleur-de-Marie, casting down her eyes. "How much you will love him, when you know him," said the marchioness. "From that day forward, a new life will commence for you, Marie," added the prince. "Oh! no, M. Rudolph," answered the Goualeuse, unaffectedly. "My new life commenced on the day when you took pity on me--when you sent me to the farm."