"I confess it, mon--Shall I say 'monsieur' or 'monseigneur'?" "Say 'my friend.'" At this moment her hand touched that of the unknown. "Madame Desroches, are you there?" asked Helene, drawing back. "Madame Desroches," said the voice, "tell mademoiselle that she is as safe as in a temple before God." "Ah! monseigneur, I am at your feet, pardon me." "Rise, my child, and seat yourself there. Madame Desroches, close all the doors; and now," continued he, "give me your hand, I beg." Helene's hand again met that of the stranger, and this time it was not withdrawn. "He seems to tremble also," murmured she. "Tell me are you afraid, dear child?" "No," replied Helene; "but when your hand clasps mine, a strange thrill passes through me." "Speak to me, Helene," said the unknown, with an expression of tenderness. "I know already that you are beautiful, but this is the first time I have heard your voice. Speak--I am listening." "But have you seen me, then?" asked Helene. "Do you remember that two years ago the abbess had your portrait taken?" "Yes, I remember--an artist came expressly from Paris." "It was I who sent him." "And was the portrait for you?" "It is here," said the unknown, taking from his pocket a miniature, which Helene could feel, though she could not see it. "But what interest could you have in the portrait of a poor orphan?" "Helene, I am your father's friend." "My father! Is he alive?" "Yes." "Shall I ever see him?" "Perhaps." "Oh!" said Helene, pressing the stranger's hand, "I bless you for bringing me this news." "Dear child!" said he. "But if he be alive," said Helene, "why has he not sought out his child?" "He had news of you every month; and though at a distance, watched over you." "And yet," said Helene, reproachfully, "he has not seen me for sixteen years." "Believe me, none but the most important reasons would have induced him to deprive himself of this pleasure." "I believe you, monsieur; it is not for me to accuse my father." "No; it is for you to pardon him if he accuses himself." "To pardon him!" cried Helene. "Yes; and this pardon, which he cannot ask for himself, I ask in his name." "Monsieur," said Helene, "I do not understand you.'" "Listen, then, and give me back your hand." "Here it is." "Your father was an officer in the king's service; at the battle of Nerwinden, where he charged at the head of the king's household troops, one of his followers, called M. de Chaverny, fell near him, pierced by a ball. Your father wished to assist him, but the wound was mortal, and the wounded man, who knew that it was so, said, 'Think not of me, but of my child.' Your father pressed his hand as a promise, and the man fell back and died, as though he only waited this assurance to close his eyes. You are listening, are you not, Helene?" "Oh! need you ask such a question?" said the young girl.