"

"And did he see you often?"

"Every week."

"Then you love him?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"But how could you dispose of your heart, knowing that you were not your
own mistress?"

"For sixteen years I had heard nothing of my family; how could I suppose
that all at once it would reveal itself, or rather, that an odious
maneuver should take me from my quiet retreat to my ruin?"

"Then you still think that that man lied, when he called himself your
father?"

"I scarcely know what to think, and my mind becomes bewildered in
contemplating this strange reality, which seems so like a dream."

"But you should not consult your mind here, Helene," said the regent;
"you should consult your heart. When you were with this man, did not
your heart speak to you?"

"Oh!" said Helene, "while he was there I was convinced, for I have never
felt emotion such as I felt then."

"Yes," replied the regent, bitterly; "but when he was gone, this emotion
disappeared, driven away by stronger influence. It is very simple, this
man was only your father; Gaston was your lover."

"Monsieur," said Helene, drawing back, "you speak strangely."

"Pardon me," replied the regent, in a sweet voice; "I see that I allowed
myself to be carried away by my interest. But what surprises me more
than all, mademoiselle," continued he, "is that, being beloved as you
are by Gaston, you could not induce him to abandon his projects."

"His projects, monsieur! what do you mean?"

"What! you do not know the object of his visit to Paris?"

"I do not, monsieur. When I told him, with tears in my eyes, that I was
forced to leave Clisson, he said he must also leave Nantes. When I told
him that I was coming to Paris, he answered, with a cry of joy, that he
was about to set out for the same place."

"Then," cried the regent, his heart freed from an enormous load, "you
are not his accomplice?"

"His accomplice!" cried Helene, alarmed; "ah, mon Dieu! what does this
mean?"

"Nothing," said the regent, "nothing."

"Oh, yes, monsieur; you have used a word which explains all. I wondered
what made so great a change in Gaston. Why, for the last year, whenever
I spoke of our future, his brow became dark. Why, with so sad a smile,
he said to me, 'Helene, no one is sure of the morrow.' Why he fell into
such reveries, as though some misfortune threatened him. That misfortune
you have shown me, monsieur. Gaston saw none but malcontents
there--Montlouis, Pontcalec. Ah! Ga