"Can it be possible that she is Cornelia's daughter and mine?" said the
prince to himself. "Her profession, her age, her sweet face, in which I
can trace a softened, beautified likeness of her mother's, but which has
a peculiarly high bred, refined expression, worthy of a royal princess,
all combine to make me believe it must be so. Then, alas! alas! it is
his own sister that this cursed libertine has so wronged, and he has
been guilty of a horrible, horrible crime. Oh! I am cruelly punished for
my youthful folly and sin."
Isabelle at length opened her eyes, and her first look fell upon the
prince, holding the ring that he had drawn from her finger. It seemed to
her as if she had seen his face before--but in youth, without the gray
hair and beard. It seemed also to be an aged copy of the portrait over
the chimney-piece in her room, and a feeling of profound veneration
filled her heart as she gazed at him. She saw, too, her beloved de
Sigognac kneeling beside her, watching her with tenderest devotion; and
the worthy tyrant as well--both safe and sound. To the horrors of the
terrible struggle had succeeded the peace and security of deliverance.
She had nothing more to fear, for her friends or for herself--how could
she ever be thankful enough?
The prince, who had been gazing at her with passionate earnestness, as
if her fair face possessed an irresistible charm for him, now addressed
her in low, moved tones:
"Mademoiselle, will you kindly tell me how you came by this ring, which
recalls very dear and sacred memories to me? Has it been long in your
possession?"
"I have had it ever since my infancy; it is the only thing that my poor
mother left me," Isabelle replied, with gentle dignity.
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