My guide made me climb to the fourth floor of a somewhat wretched house, and there I found this strange woman in a small room, attended by her son and daughter.  The table stood in the midst of the room, and was covered with a black cloth, and the two candles standing upon it made it look like some sort of sepulchral altar.  The Hague was a Court town.  I was richly dressed; my elaborate attire made the saddest possible contrast with the gloom of my surroundings.  Therese, dressed in black and seated between her children at that black table, reminded me of Medea.  To see these two fair young creatures vowed to a lot of misery and disgrace was a sad and touching sight.  I took the boy between my arms, and pressing him to my breast called him my son.  His mother told him to look upon me as his father from henceforth.  The lad recognized me; he remembered, much to my delight, seeing me in the May of 1753, in Venice, at Madame Manzoni’s.  He was slight but strong; his limbs were well proportioned, and his features intellectual.  He was thirteen years old.

His sister sat perfectly still, apparently waiting for her turn to come.  I took her on my knee, and as I embraced her, nature herself seemed to tell me that she was my daughter.  She took my kisses in silence, but it was easy to see that she thought herself preferred to her brother, and was charmed with the idea.  All her clothing was a slight frock, and I was able to feel every limb and to kiss her pretty little body all over, delighted that so sweet a being owed her existence to me.

“Mamma, dear,” said she, “is not this fine gentleman the same we saw at Amsterdam, and who was taken for my papa because I am like him?  But that cannot be, for my papa is dead.”

“So he is, sweetheart; but I may be your dear friend, mayn’t I?  Would you like to have me for a friend?”

“Yes, yes!” she cried, and throwing her arms about my neck gave me a thousand kisses, which I returned with delight.

After we had talked and laughed together we sat down at table, and the heroine Therese gave me a delicate supper accompanied by exquisite wines.  “I have never given the margrave better fare,” said she, “at those nice little suppers we used to take together.”

Wishing to probe the disposition of her son, whom I had engaged to take away with me, I addressed several remarks to him, and soon discovered that he was of a false and deceitful nature, always on his guard, taking care of what he said, and consequently speaking only from his head and not from his heart.  Every word was delivered with a quiet politeness which, no doubt, was intended to please me.

I told him that this sort of thing was all very well on occasion; but that there were times when a man’s happiness depended on his freedom from constraint; then and only then was his amiability, if he had any, displayed.  His mother, thinking to praise him, told me that reserve was his chief characteristic, that she had trained him to keep his counsel at all times and places, and that she was thus used to his being reserved with her as with everyone else.