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94 Duc de Mercœur. He was altered more than she could have thought possible in so short an interval. "I could not," said he, "leave Paris without expressing my sense of all your kindness."

"My kindness!" exclaimed Francesca, "who owe so much to you"—and yours, she was going to add, but the words died upon her lips. A painful silence ensued—her presence recalled the sense of his loss so freshly to Mercœur's mind, that he could not command his voice. In the hope of rousing him by awakening some more grateful thought, she asked of his child.

"Do not name it!" answered he, passionately. "God forgive me! I cannot yet bear its name. But for its ill-starred birth, Henriette might now be living. What is there in that unconscious infant to replace its mother?"

"Many years, I trust, of consolation and affection. Cherish the poor child in your youth, that he may be a comfort to your old age. Think, too, how Henriette would have loved him, were it but for its likeness to yourself."

The Duc shuddered; and then, as if desirous of changing the conversation, asked her how long she intended remaining in the Carmelite convent.

"Till Guido's return; and then we shall go to Italy."