Sophie, the little girl, slept in my bed till day, and her mother, keeping the best of her tale to the last, told me that she was my daughter, and shewed me her baptismal certificate.  The birth of the child fell in with the period at which I had been intimate with Therese, and her perfect likeness to myself left no room for doubt.  I therefore raised no objections, but told the mother that I was persuaded of my paternity, and that, being in a position to give the child a good education, I was ready to be a father to her.

“She is too precious a treasure in my sight; if we were separated I should die.”

“You are wrong; for if I took charge of the little girl I should see that she was well provided for.”

“I have a son of twelve to whom I cannot give a proper education; take charge of him instead of Sophie.”

“Where is he?”

“He is boarding, or rather in pawn, at Rotterdam.”

“What do you mean by in pawn?”

“I mean that he will not be returned to me until I pay the person who has got him all my debts.”

“How much do you owe?”

“Eighty florins.  You have already given me sixty-two, give me four ducats more; you can then take my son, and I shall be the happiest of mothers.  I will send my son to you at the Hague next week, as I think you will be there.”

“Yes, my dear Therese; and instead of four ducats, here are twenty.”

“We shall see each other again at the Hague.”

She was grateful to excess, but I only felt pity for her and a sort of friendly interest, and kept quite cool, despite the ardour of her embraces.  Seeing that her trouble was of no avail, she sighed, shed some tears, and, taking her daughter, she bid me adieu, promising once more to send me her son.

Therese was two years older than I. She was still pretty, and even handsome, but her charms no longer retained their first beauty, and my passion for her, having been a merely physical one, it was no wonder that she had no longer any attraction for me.  Her adventures during the six years in which I had lost her would certainly interest my readers, and form a pleasing episode in my book, and I would tell the tale if it were a true one; but not being a romance writer, I am anxious that this work shall contain the truth and nothing but the truth.  Convicted by her amorous and jealous margarve of infidelity, she had been sent about her business.  She was separated from her husband Pompeati, had followed a new lover to Brussels, and there had caught the fancy of Prince Charles de Lorraine, who had obtained her the direction of all the theatres in the Austrian Low Countries.  She had then undertaken this vast responsibility, entailing heavy expenditure, till at last, after selling all her diamonds and lace, she had fled to Holland to avoid arrest.  Her husband killed himself at Vienna in a paroxysm caused by internal pain—­he had cut open his stomach with a razor, and died tearing at his entrails.