I am indeed the daughter of the Duc de Verneuil,--but
his natural daughter. My mother, a Demoiselle de Casteran, who became
a nun to escape the reproaches of her family, expiated her fault by
fifteen years of sorrow, and died at Seez, where she was abbess. On
her death-bed she implored, for the first time and only for me, the
help of the man who had betrayed her, for she knew she was leaving me
without friends, without fortune, without a future. The duke accepted
the charge, and took me from the roof of Francine's mother, who had
hitherto taken care of me; perhaps he liked me because I was
beautiful; possibly I reminded him of his youth. He was one of those
great lords of the old regime, who took pride in showing how they
could get their crimes forgiven by committing them with grace. I will
say no more, he was my father. But let me explain to you how my life
in Paris injured my soul. The society of the Duc de Verneuil, to which
he introduced me, was bitten by that scoffing philosophy about which
all France was then enthusiastic because it was wittily professed. The
brilliant conversations which charmed my ear were marked by subtlety
of perception and by witty contempt for all that was true and
spiritual. Men laughed at sentiments, and pictured them all the better
because they did not feel them; their satirical epigrams were as
fascinating as the light-hearted humor with which they could put a
whole adventure into a word; and yet they had sometimes too much wit,
and wearied women by making love an art, and not a matter of feeling.
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