“Doubtless, my beloved child, in the midst of the strange events that have brought us together, in such an odd, romantic, almost supernatural manner, the thought has suggested itself to your mind, that during all the years that have passed since your infancy I have not sought you out, and that chance alone has at last restored the long-lost child to her neglectful father.  But you are so good and noble that I know you would not dwell upon such an idea, and I hope that you do not so misjudge me as to think me capable of such culpable neglect, now that you are getting a little better acquainted with me.  As you must know, your mother, Cornelia, was excessively proud and high-spirited.  She resented every affront, whether intended as such or not, with extraordinary violence, and when I was obliged, in spite of my most heartfelt wishes, to separate myself from her, and reluctantly submit to a marriage that I could not avoid, she obstinately refused to allow me to provide for her maintenance in comfort and luxury, as well as for you and your education.  All that I gave her, and settled on her, she sent back to me with the most exaggerated disdain, and inexorably refused to receive again.  I could not but admire, though I so deplored, her lofty spirit, and proud rejection of every benefit which I desired to confer upon her, and I left in the hands of a trusty agent, for her, the deeds of all the landed property and houses I had destined for her, as well as the money and jewels—­so that she could at any time reclaim them, if she would—­hoping that she might see fit to change her mind when the first flush of anger was over.  But, to my great chagrin, she persisted in her refusal of everything, and changing her name, fled from Paris into the provinces; where she was said to have joined a roving band of comedians.  Soon after that I was sent by my sovereign on several foreign missions that kept me long away from France, and I lost all trace of her and you.  In vain were all my efforts to find you both, until at last I heard that she was dead.  Then I redoubled my diligence in the search for my little motherless daughter, whom I had so tenderly loved; but all in vain.  No trace of her could I find.  I heard, indeed, of many children among these strolling companies, and carefully investigated each case that came to my knowledge; but it always ended in disappointment.  Several women, indeed, tried to palm off their little girls upon me as my child, and I had to be on my guard against fraud; but I never failed to sift the matter thoroughly, even though I knew that deceit was intended, lest I should unawares reject the dear little one I was so anxiously seeking.  At last I was almost forced to conclude that you too had perished; yet a secret intuition always told me that you were still in the land of the living.  I used to sit for hours and think of how sweet and lovely you were in infancy; how your little rosy fingers used to play with and pull my long mustache—­which was