I knew in the troupe that Cornelia joined when she fled from Paris, and I resolved to address myself first to him; so as not to startle you by too abrupt a disclosure of my claims upon you.  But when I sent the next morning to the hotel in the Rue Dauphine, I learned that Herode’s troupe had just gone to give a representation at a chateau in the environs of Paris, and would be absent three days.  I should have endeavoured to wait patiently for their return, had not a brave fellow, who used to be in my service, and has my interest at heart, come to inform me that the Duke of Vallombreuse, being madly in love with a young actress named Isabelle, who resisted his suit with the utmost firmness and determination, had arranged to gain forcible possession of her in the course of the day’s journey—­the expedition into the country being gotten up for that express purpose—­that he had a band of hired ruffians engaged to carry out his nefarious purpose and bring his unhappy victim to this chateau—­and that he had come to warn me, fearing lest serious consequences should ensue to my son, as the young actress would be accompanied by brave and faithful friends, who were armed, and would defend her to the death.  This terrible news threw me into a frightful state of anxiety and excitement.  Feeling sure, as I did, that you were my own daughter, I shuddered at the thought of the horrible crime that I might not be in time to prevent, and without one moment’s delay set out for this place—­suffering such agony by the way as I do not like even to think of.  You were already delivered from danger when I arrived, as you know, and without having suffered anything beyond the alarm and dread—­which must have been terrible indeed, my poor child!  And then, the amethyst ring on your finger confirmed, past any possibility of doubt, what my heart had told me, when first my eyes beheld you in the theatre.”

“I pray you to believe, dear lord and father,” answered Isabelle, “that I have never accused you of anything, nor considered myself neglected.  Accustomed from my infancy to the roving life of the troupe I was with, I neither knew nor dreamed of any other.  The little knowledge that I had of the world made me realize that I should be wrong in wishing to force myself upon an illustrious family, obliged doubtless by powerful reasons, of which I knew nothing, to leave me in obscurity.  The confused remembrance I had of my origin sometimes inspired me—­when I was very young—­with a certain pride, and I would say to myself, when I noticed the disdainful air with which great ladies looked down upon us poor actresses, I also am of noble birth.  But I outgrew those fancies, and only preserved an invincible self-respect, which I have always cherished.  Nothing in the world would have induced me to dishonour the illustrious blood that flows in my veins.  The disgraceful license of the coulisses, and the loathsome gallantries lavished upon all actresses, even those who are not