immediately sought an introduction to my mother.  As his actual rank and position equalled hers of imaginary princess, she received his attentions with evident pleasure.  He was young, handsome, eloquent, and very much in love with her—­what wonder then that she yielded at last to his impassioned entreaties, and gave herself to him, though, because of his high station, he could not do as his heart dictated, and make her his wife.  They were very happy in each other’s love, and after I was born my young father was devoted to me.”

“Ah!” interrupted de Sigognac, eagerly, “that explains it all; princely blood does flow in your veins.  I knew it—­was sure of it!”

“Their happiness continued,” resumed Isabelle, “until reasons of state made it necessary for him to tear himself away from her, to go on a diplomatic mission to one of the great capitals of Europe; and ere his return to France an illustrious marriage had been arranged for him by his family, with the sanction of royalty, which he found it impossible to evade.  In these cruel circumstances he endeavoured to do everything in his power to soften the pain of this rupture to my poor mother—­himself almost broken-hearted at being forced to leave her—­and made every possible arrangement for her comfort and well-being; settling a generous income on her, and providing lavishly for my maintenance and education.  But she would accept nothing from him—­she could not receive his money without his love—­’all or nothing’ was her motto; and taking me with her she fled from him, successfully concealing her place of refuge.  She soon after joined a band of players travelling through the provinces, and resumed her old role; but her heart was broken, and she gradually faded away, dying at last when I was only about seven years old.  Even then I used to appear upon the stage in parts suitable to my age.  I was a precocious little thing in many ways.  My mother’s death caused me a grief far more acute than most children, even a good deal older than I was then, are capable of feeling.  How well I remember being punished because I refused to act the part of one of Medea’s children, the day after she died.  But my grief was not very long-lived—­I was but a child after all, and the actors and actresses of the troupe were so good to me, always petting me, and devising all sorts of ways to please and divert me—­theatrical people are proverbially kind to comrades in distress, you know.  The pedant, who belonged to our company, and looked just as old and wrinkled then as he does now, took the greatest interest in me, constituted himself my master, and taught me thoroughly and indefatigably all the secrets of the histrionic art—­taking unwearied pains with me.  I could not have had a better teacher; perhaps you do not know that he has a great reputation, even in Paris.  You will wonder that a man of his fame and attainments should be found in a strolling company of players like this, but his unfortunate habits of intemperance have been