"Truth, truth! as I shall answer to Heaven, when all men shall stand at the tribunal to be judged on the great day which is to come. I tell you truth,—she is your daughter." "Her mother?" asked the dragoon, bending forward his dark eyes, as if he would look searchingly into the very soul of the curate. "Her mother—" "Was Justine Rosat,—the lily of Besançon." "Poor Justine!" exclaimed the other, covering his face for a moment with his hand. "And, Monsieur le Curé, you are—" "François Rosat, her father, and grandsire of this poor orphan." "What! the gardener at my jovial old château of Quinsay, on the banks of the Doubs? Impossible! he was destroyed when I blew up the hall, with all the base republican mechanics who filled it." "Monsieur, I am he," replied the curate. Maria, with her hands crossed on her bosom, knelt at the feet of De Mesmai weeping bitterly, and imploring him, if he was really her father, to speak to her, to look upon her. But the devil-may-care-spirit of the true Parisian roué and libertine was not at all subdued: he turned from her to Ronald, who had been listening in silence and wonder. "Ah! Monsieur Stuart," said he with a laugh, "I have been a sad fellow when a subaltern. _Tête-dieu!_ what would old D’Erlon and his countess think of this?’ "Noble senor," said the kneeling girl, in a soft plaintive voice, "ah, if you are indeed my father, speak to me;" and she pressed his hand between her own. "Father, hear me!" "Father! _ma belle_. Very good, but something new when addressed to me, and sounds odd. How D’Erlon and his plumed and aiguletted staff would laugh at this! Maurice de Mesmai of the 10th cuirassiers,—the most dashing aide-de-camp in the Imperial service, to be father of a little Spanish _paisana_. By the bomb! you do me infinite honour. What a very odd adventure! And so, monsieur, my old rebellious gardener escaped the explosion at Quinsay? Excellently planned affair that was! Hand me wine: thank you. Really, ’pon honour, this respectable title of father has in it something very overpowering." He quaffed a long horn of the wine, which had already begun to cloud his faculties, and he endeavoured by talking in his usually careless manner to hide the confusion that he evidently felt. Maria, who had shrunk from his side, wept bitterly, and covered her face with her hands.