"I have a cold in my head."
From time to time Ambroisine turned, and her eyes seemed to seek someone in that multitude, made up of people of all ranks and classes, who seemed to have appointed to meet on Place de Grève.
"Do you see Landry?" Master Hugonnet asked his daughter, who shook her head, murmuring:
"No, father, no, I don't see Monsieur Landry."
But was it Landry for whom she was looking? Was it not rather Miretta, who had told her that she too would try to go to see the Fire of Saint-Jean? Indeed, I would not swear that the belle baigneuse was not looking for someone else, for there was in her eyes a certain expression that might have aroused the suspicions of a jealous husband.
"Well! aren't they going to light the fire this evening? Are they going to make us wait till Saint-Martin's? I say! Plumard! Plumard! are you still playing the wooden man?"
"Come here, Bahuchet; this is a much better place, it's nearer the fire."
"What! do you dare to go so near as that? Look out, Plumard! the flame may singe your hair. Give me a lock first; I am sure that before long it will bring a high price, your hair! and, even so, everyone won't get it who would like some of it."
"You have forgotten something, Bahuchet!"
"What is that?"
"The two corks that you put in your nose when you go out on a windy night. Look out! there's a man with a torch beside you; don't turn, your nose would blow it out."
"Ah! Monsieur Plumard is pleased to be sarcastic.—However, you have a right to swagger; you know that I won't take you by the hair."
"Wait! just wait! I will give you a drubbing, you miserable dwarf!"
The two clerks approached to exchange blows; but as the Chevalier Passedix was between them, they used him as a rampart behind which to shelter themselves, and that rampart received many of the blows which the young gentlemen intended for each other.
"Sandioux! here are two rascals fighting between my legs now! Have you nearly finished, pygmies? If you force me to draw Roland from its sheath, I promise you that you will both be spitted like starlings!"
The two clerks, trying to run away in order to escape the effects of the Gascon's wrath, collided with two women from the market, who pushed them away with so much force that Monsieur Plumard fell to the ground, and, to put the finish to his misfortunes, he lost his cap in the fall, so that that youthful head was disclosed to view, already almost bald, having only a narrow band of vegetation left, just above the ears.
A general laugh arose, and the merriment was increased by the furious manner in which the unfortunate clerk ran through the crowd on all fours, looking between every pair of legs, and shouting:
"My cap! my cap! don't step on it!"
Ambroisine laughed like the rest when she saw Monsieur Plumard's bald head. She turned toward her friend, to see if she had noticed that sight; but she was thunderstruck by the strange expression presented by Bathilde's face at that moment.
The charming girl seemed happy and confused at the same time. Her eyes, half lowered, but in such wise that she could look out of the corners, were more brilliant than usual. Her cheeks wore a deeper flush, her mouth was half open in a smile. All this was not natural; and Ambroisine, with the knowledge that she possessed of the human heart, tried to discover what could cause her friend's emotion. Thereupon Master Hugonnet's daughter saw at Bathilde's left a young man wrapped in a cloak, his head covered by a broad-brimmed hat adorned with waving plumes, and beneath that hat a very comely face, haughty and distinguished, but most seductive when it chose to take the trouble, and that is what it was doing at that moment.
"Mon Dieu! it is Comte Léodgard!" said Ambroisine to herself, as she recognized the young man who held Bathilde as if fascinated by the eloquence of his glance; and almost instantly, as if she divined the danger that threatened her friend, she seized her arm and shook it, saying:
"Well, well! what is the matter? what are you thinking about, Bathilde? I speak to you, and you do not answer!"
"I, Ambroisine? oh! forgive me! I did not hear you."
"You seem confused, excited; has anyone been pushing you or incommoding you? would you like to take my other arm?"
"Oh, no! no! nobody has troubled me; nothing is the matter."
"But I say that there is; it is that young gentleman beside you, who keeps his eyes on you all the time! It is intolerable, isn't it?"
"Oh! it doesn't trouble me; just look at him, Ambroisine, without seeming to; you will see what a handsome man that gentleman is."
"I don't need to look at him again; I know him perfectly well!"
"You know him?"
Before Ambroisine had had time to reply, Léodgard, who had recognized the belle baigneuse in her whose arm was passed through that of the girl who had taken his fancy, quickly stepped toward her and accosted her with his most affable air:
"Hail to the fair Ambroisine! Ah! and Master Hugonnet too! Really, this Fire of Saint-Jean is a delightful ceremony; one makes pleasant meetings here, and I congratulate myself that I came!"
"Your servant, Monsieur le Comte Léodgard! You are very glad that you came, perhaps; but, faith! I can't say as much. I have to stay here to watch these two girls—impossible to go to quench my thirst. I don't find it amusing, myself!"
"Why, my good Hugonnet, if you are anxious to take something, intrust your daughter and her young friend to me for a few moments; I promise you, on my honor, that they will be as safe as with you."
Master Hugonnet, who was exceedingly thirsty, seemed to hesitate a moment; but his daughter squeezed his arm tightly and whispered:
"Surely, father, you will not listen to that suggestion! you will not leave two young girls with the Comte de Marvejols, who is so notorious as a rake and a seducer! with his pretty speeches! If I were alone, I could defend myself; for, as you know, this gentleman tried to make love to me once, and I gave him such a reception that he never tried it again. But Bathilde, who knows nothing of the world, who is likely to believe whatever anyone tells her—Bathilde, whom her father placed in your care, because you promised him that she should not run any risk—oh! you won't intrust her to this young nobleman!"
"No, no! you are right, my child! I will not leave you," replied the bath keeper, whom his daughter's words had caused to reflect. "You talk sensibly; it would be imprudent, especially with the Comte de Marvejols."
"Oh! yes, father!"
"All the same, Landry might have joined us!"
While father and daughter conversed thus in undertones, Léodgard did not take his eyes from Bathilde, whose beauty had made a profound impression on him. She had begun to tremble when she heard the name of Léodgard de Marvejols, for she instantly remembered all that Ambroisine had said to her touching that young nobleman. The terrifying portrait that she had drawn of him was well adapted to take from Bathilde any wish to look at him again. But, on the contrary, whether from a spirit of contradiction, or from mere curiosity, or from that desire to learn which has so much potency in woman's heart, all the evil that one may say to them of a man will never induce them to shun his presence, and their eyes will seek him in preference to any other.
Léodgard saw that his proposition was not accepted; but what did it matter to him? Place de Grève belonged to everybody. If that fascinating girl remained there, he would remain by her side; if she went away, he would follow her. So that his face wore a pleasant smile as he addressed Master Hugonnet again:
"Well, my good man, you do not answer me? Is it because you no longer feel the inclination to take a little walk to one of the nearby wine shops?"
"Oh! no, monsieur le comte; I should lie if I said that it was the inclination that was lacking; but I cannot do it; for monsieur le comte himself well knows that I ought not to intrust two young girls to him. No, thanks! one might as well put two lambs in the custody of a fox!"
"Eh! why so, Hugonnet? Is it because of the little dispute we had some time ago? But you see that I have forgotten all about it. Besides, I was in the wrong; I admit it.—Oh! I am not one of those men who will not hear reason; look you—in those days I was a good-for-nothing fellow—a roisterer, a libertine! But since then I have turned over a new leaf. If you but knew how virtuous I am now!"
"I congratulate you, seigneur; it must be a great source of satisfaction to monsieur le marquis, your father."
Léodgard concealed a faint smile, and his glance rested sweetly on Bathilde's face, who, although she kept her eyes on the ground, did not lose a word of what was said.
"Yes, my good Hugonnet, yes, my father felicitates himself now on having a son who is radically cured of his evil tastes; who no longer cudgels the watch, drives peaceful citizens to frenzy, raises the deuce with tradesmen, and, above all things, who no longer talks nonsense to every woman he sees! For, as to that——"
"Cadédis! the assemblage is becoming most select! Here is our dear Comte Léodgard de Marvejols!"
"Ah! is it you, Chevalier Passedix?"
"Myself, who deeply regretted my inability to join the jovial party with you and your friends and divers charming ladies, the day before yesterday. Ah! you rascal! I fancy that you enjoyed yourselves!—Cards, wine, women! You always were the king of kings for handling such affairs. It seems that everybody was drunk the next morning; there was fighting, and a general scandal; and the ladies were taken to the Repenties! That is what I call sport!"
"May the devil fly away with you, you long-legged idiot!" muttered Léodgard, turning his head away, while Ambroisine nudged Bathilde and whispered:
"Do you hear? That is how he has turned virtuous, how he has reformed, the scapegrace! That is how he turns over a new leaf!"
"Mon Dieu! Ambroisine, what difference does it make to me? You say that as if it interested me."
"Well! he stared at you so! And then, you think him good-looking."
"I think him so, because he is. But what does that prove? Are you going to scold me now because that young gentleman looked at me? Is it my fault?"
"Scold you, dear Bathilde! oh, no! But, you see, it is my duty to look after you, as if I were your older sister; for we made ourselves responsible for you to your father, and I should not want any misfortune to happen to you; it would seem to me as if I were the cause."
"Misfortune! Mon Dieu! what misfortune do you dread for me?"
Ambroisine dared not reply. Suddenly the Chevalier Passedix stood on tiptoe and exclaimed:
"Sandioux! she is over there! I see her in the light of a torch. She is a Venus, the little dear! By Roland! I must join her, even though I have to push this whole crowd out of my way!"
And the tall Gascon, beginning at once to work his arms and legs like a windmill, forced aside all those who stood in his path, and soon reached that part of the square where Miretta had stopped.
Ambroisine followed Passedix with her glance, and she also spied her new friend in the crowd at some distance; but in order to join her she would have had to plunge into the midst of the mob that separated them and to give up the good places they had secured; and Master Hugonnet had declared that he would not stir. Ambroisine tried in vain, by raising her arms and making signs, to attract Miretta's attention.
Nevertheless, Cédrille's pretty cousin turned her eyes in every direction. Surely she too was looking for someone; but was it her friend Ambroisine?
Suddenly Miretta felt a hand on her arm, and a shrill voice exclaimed:
"Ah! sandis! so I have found you at last, O my goddess! I was seeking you, I will not say per montes et vitulos, but among all the groups of pretty women. Will you do me the honor to accept my arm?"
Miretta assumed a stern expression and answered curtly:
"No, monsieur, I will not accept your arm; and since I meet you here, I will take the opportunity to tell you that you are wasting your time by following me constantly, that your obstinacy in pursuing me is most annoying to me——"
"Eh! cadédis! the little one plays the haughty dame! So you refuse my homage—and this is the way you acknowledge the services I rendered you, ingrate! I, who saved you from the most imminent danger! Your cousin Cédrille did me more justice! I was his friend, his faithful companion. I am very sorry that he has returned to Pau; he would have spoken to you in my behalf."
"Cédrille would not have encouraged your undertakings, monsieur le chevalier; he knew too well that you had nothing to hope from me. I do not know whether he had reason to congratulate himself on having taken you for a comrade, but I know very well that he made only a very brief stay in Paris, and that he went away with a black eye, saying that he had had enough of the capital and that he had not enjoyed himself here at all.—However, monsieur, if you did take up my defence when I was insulted, it seems to me that you should not regret it; it was your duty as a man of honor. But I do not consider that it gave you the right to spy upon my every movement and to be always at my heels."
The Gascon chevalier was cut to the quick, and the firm and decided tone in which Miretta had answered him added to his irritation; for a woman's voice, while it may sometimes soften the most severe words, is no less able to impart greater bitterness to the simplest rebuke. In all things, it is the tone that makes the music.
The tone adopted by the pretty brunette exasperated Passedix; he ran his fingers through his beard and tried to sneer, as he muttered:
"Ah! so that's the way it is! so we choose to adopt that tone! By Roland! it is very pretty! And it is a paltry serving maid—a lady's-maid—a mere fille de chambre, who indulges in these manners of a grand duchess, when I condescend to honor her by letting my glance rest on her back hair! Ah! my love, beware! I have never met any cruel charmers—especially among your kind—and if you do not take my arm, I am capable——"
"Capable of what?" demanded a young man, dressed as a simple mechanic, who had suddenly stepped between Miretta and Passedix, at the latter of whom he gazed fixedly, while forcing him back several steps with his left arm.
"What business is it of yours, clown, who presume to question me? I find you exceedingly bold! Knave! stand aside instantly, or I unsheathe——"
And the Gascon chevalier, crimson with wrath, was already standing on guard, with his right hand on the hilt of Roland; while Miretta, having glanced at the young man who had come to her rescue, uttered an exclamation of surprise, while her eyes beamed with joy and delight.
"I will not stand aside, unless it is mademoiselle's pleasure to accept my arm and leave this crowd which is pressing upon her," rejoined the new-comer.
"You! take this little one away from under my nose—from my very beard! You shall die ten deaths first!"
And Passedix instantly drew Roland from its sheath. The sight of that bare sword waving in the midst of the crowd made the women shriek and the children weep; but before he who held it could make use of it the young man's hand seized the chevalier's wrist and squeezed it with such force that the fingers opened and the sword fell to the ground.
"Sandioux! I know that grip; I have felt it before somewhere!" cried Passedix. "Disarm me! Shame! that is unfair! it is treachery!"
But while the Gascon shouted, and shook his benumbed arm, the soi-disant mechanic took Miretta's arm and disappeared with her in the crowd.
At that moment loud cries arose on all sides; the great pile had been set on fire. Thereupon the crowd swayed hither and thither, some trying to draw nearer the fire in order to see better, others to move away because they were afraid.
A powerful wave carried Passedix ten or fifteen yards away from the spot where his sword had fallen. Thereupon he began to whine and lament in the midst of the crowd, these words being distinguishable:
"Look out, my friends! In the name of what you hold most dear, do not step on it! If it is broken, I shall not survive; I shall bury the fragments in my heart!"
But the multitude, engrossed by what it had come to see, paid no heed to the cries and groans and entreaties of the unhappy chevalier, who struggled in vain to return to the place where he had lost Roland, and who before long had no idea himself in which direction it was.
This lasted until the fire died out.
As soon as it was entirely extinct, the crowd scattered; everyone returned home discussing the pleasure he had had, and some looking forward to that which the evening promised them.
Soon nobody was left on the square except two men, one very short, the other quite tall, both of whom were on their hands and knees searching in every corner, one for his cap, the other for his sword. Suddenly they came nose to nose, or rather head to head, in that occupation.
"Are you helping me to look for it!" Passedix asked the clerk of the Basoche; "thanks, my boy, that is very amiable on your part. If you find it, I will give you six deniers; I have received some funds from my family."
"If I find it, I don't want your deniers!" rejoined Plumard, in a surly tone. "It is mine, my own property, and if you find it you will have to give it to me; don't think for a moment that I will let you keep it!"
"What is the little fellow chattering about? If you find it, you propose to keep it? Why, you are mad, my dear fellow! What would you do with it, pray? It is twice too long for you; you could not even wear it."
"I couldn't wear it! that's a good one, that is! On the contrary, it fits me like an angel; while you don't need it, for you have a cap on your head."
"Why should my cap prevent me from wearing it, fool that you are?"
"Do you mean to say that you would put it on over your cap? That would look very pretty! At all events, it's my property."
"Hold your tongue, you little thief! just let me find it and I'll punish you with it!"
The two worthies who had had this altercation, being still on all fours, were about to rush at each other like two frantic cats, when a third personage appeared on the scene, laughing and singing. It was Bahuchet, with long Roland in his hand, twirling his comrade's cap at the end of the blade.
"I say! you fellows! here's a find! the cap is mine, and the sword is mine!"
At sight of the objects they were seeking, Passedix and Plumard rose spontaneously and pounced upon them. The former seized his sword, the latter his cap, which he pulled over his eyes, and ran away at full speed. The chevalier replaced Roland in its sheath, and then he strode rapidly away.
Bahuchet, left alone in the square, looked after them and said to himself:
"Well! they are very polite! they did not so much as thank me!"
A week after the memorable night on which the Fire of Saint-Jean attracted so many people to Place de Grève and gave rise to so many adventures, one evening, just at nightfall, a young man enveloped in a brown cloak was walking on Rue Dauphine in front of Landry the bath keeper's house, toward which he glanced every minute, scrutinizing with especial care a window on the first floor, with a jutting balcony, on which could be seen a superb rosebush covered with flowers and buds. And as, when one is looking in the air, one does not see before one's face, the young man suddenly collided with a person who was walking along the street at a rapid pace.
"Ten thousand devils! be careful! can you not see where you are going?"
"Par le mordieu! you had only to look, yourself!"
"That voice! why, it is the young Comte de Marvejols!"
"Ah! it is the Sire de Jarnonville. Pray excuse me; but I was too distraught to see you. I am waiting—I am watching."
"Very good; I understand; you are en bonne fortune—there is some new intrigue on the carpet?"
"A new intrigue, yes; but en bonne fortune—not yet. Oh! it will be a hard task; there are great obstacles; but I must come out of it with credit to myself!"
"Are there blows to be dealt, sword thrusts to be exchanged? Do you need me to cudgel someone? to break down a door or to scale a wall?"
"Thanks, Jarnonville, thanks; but my intrigue must be carried on quietly and without fighting.—It has to do with a young and pretty girl! Oh! the word pretty falls far short of describing her! She is an enchanting creature, an angel of innocence and beauty, whom I met by chance, a week ago, at the Fire of Saint-Jean. She was with Ambroisine and her father—you know whom I mean, the bath keeper on Rue Saint-Jacques?"
"Yes, Master Hugonnet.—Well?"
"It was impossible to talk with the girl, for Ambroisine watched her like a duenna! But I saw that my aspect did not displease her; she blushed, and lowered her eyes. Her head is worthy of Titian's brush. Ah! I am mad over her!—You will understand that I did not lose sight of that adorable girl! After the fire, they left the square; I followed them and found that they brought that angel to this house. She is the daughter of Landry, the bath keeper; I tell you this in confidence, Jarnonville, because I know that you will not try to rob me of my conquest."
"I! oh, no! My heart is closed henceforth to all such tender sentiments; it no longer knows aught but regret and grief!"
As he spoke, the Black Chevalier let his head sink on his breast.
"Come, come, Jarnonville! do not abandon yourself constantly to your sad memories; you are still young; my word for it, you may again see happy days!—But let me finish my story:
"The next day I went boldly to Master Hugonnet's shop. Ambroisine had surprised me with my eyes fixed on her friend; I did not choose to feign with her, so I asked her about her pretty companion of the preceding night. She received me very harshly, as I expected; she told me that I would have nothing to show for my sighs, my amorous enterprises; that Bathilde—that is the divine creature's name—that Bathilde never went out; that it was an exceptional event, her going to see the fire the night before; but that her father and mother kept watch over her day and night as their most precious treasure—in fact, the haughty baigneuse went so far as to read me a lecture. She told me that it would be frightful in me to think of seducing so much innocence and simplicity.—Poor Ambroisine! she did not realize that the more she expatiated on Bathilde's virtue, the more she increased my desire to possess her.—But I think that you are not listening, Jarnonville."
"I beg pardon; go on."
"I left Ambroisine, swearing that I would respect her friend, and I came at once to this street and began to do sentry duty here. For two days I saw no sign of the girl. I entered the baths—nothing. I was shaved in the shop—still nothing—no Bathilde. At last, three days ago, the window looking on yonder balcony opened, and a young woman appeared carrying a pot of flowers. She placed it carefully where it is now.—It was she, it was Bathilde. But had she seen me pacing the street? had she recognized me? That was something that I could not know; but the sight of her gave me hope. That beautiful rosebush had never been at that window; to place it on the balcony was to afford herself an excuse for coming there again. And, in fact, a few hours after the rosebush was placed there, the sweet girl appeared again and examined her flowers with much care. Never was a rosebush more scrupulously cleaned. She did not look at me while she was thus engaged, but I was certain that she saw me. Now and then a furtive glance was cast in my direction; but as it always met mine, she hastened to turn her head away.—However, since that day Bathilde continues to tend her flowers, to water them, to come several times a day to look at them. At first, I sent her kisses; yesterday, I did better—I wrote a few words, rolled the note around a stone, and, after dark, seizing a moment when no one was passing through the street, I tossed it on the balcony. I am certain that she picked it up, for the stone is no longer there. But to-day she has not once appeared at the window; the rosebush has been pitilessly neglected! Is it to punish me for writing to her? Is it to make me understand that she does not share my love, that I must renounce all hope? Oh, no! that is impossible! I read that charming girl's eyes, her whole expression; she has not yet learned the art of concealing what she feels. I noticed her cheeks flush when she saw me, her lovely eyes kindle with a brighter light, a gleam of joy illumine her face!—Oh! she loves me! she loves me, Jarnonville! And she will be mine!"
The Black Chevalier had listened to Léodgard with a gloomy expression; when the young man had finished his story, he shook his head, saying:
"I do not like this business of seducing young girls! There is at the root of the whole matter something that offends and oppresses the heart. Tell me of a deceived husband, of a jealous rival, of a cruel guardian, if you please. In such cases there is some danger, some risk to be run; there are often sword thrusts or dagger thrusts to be received or exchanged.—You fight, and that occupies, distracts, the mind. But in this instance! seduction! desertion! To make a poor creature weep who has not had the power to defend herself!"
"Ha! ha! ha! On my word, my dear Jarnonville, I cannot help laughing to listen to you! What! is it really you, the bully, the miscreant, the man who believes in nothing—for that is what you are called—who shed tears over the fate of a girl, because I propose to make love to her, and she is likely to hear me? A terrible catastrophe, truly!—How does it happen that you, whose heart, as you have just told me, is closed henceforth to all tender sentiments; that you who have taken the world in hatred and who look upon existence as a burden; who seek, in short, by doing ill to others, to avenge yourself for the ill that destiny has done to you—that you blame me for gratifying my passions at the risk of causing a few tears to flow?"
The Sire de Jarnonville drew his heavy eyebrows together and muttered some words which Léodgard could not hear; then he raised his head abruptly and said to the young count:
"As I cannot be of any service to you here, I will leave you. Adieu! good luck!"
"Oh! I beg your pardon—another word, Jarnonville," cried Léodgard, detaining the Black Chevalier. "I have a favor to ask of you—that is, if you are in a position to grant it. I lost yesterday at brelan all that I possessed; I have not a sou.—Money! money! When, in God's name, shall I have enough to gratify my desires? to enjoy life? For there is no enjoyment when one is constantly obliged to borrow, to have recourse to usurers. I have been in such straits of late that my valet, that knave Latournelle, has left me, on the pretext that I gambled away his wages! I no longer have any servants, except my father's; but I prefer to go without. That old villain Isaac Lehmann, the money lender, who ordinarily supplies me with funds, is away from Paris at this moment. Do you know another, Jarnonville? If so, will you give me his address; especially as Isaac is beginning to make trouble about lending me any more, although the old rascal knows well enough that he will be paid sooner or later."
"I thought that your father paid all your debts some time ago?"
"Yes, and forbade me to incur any more. Ah! if he knew!—Why, he threatened me with the Bastille!"
"And that does not prevent your running in debt again?"
"Can I live on the miserable allowance he gives me?—Well, Jarnonville, do you know a money lender who may consent to help me at this moment?"
"No, I do not know one, for I have never had any relations with those gentry; but I have two hundred gold pieces about me bearing the effigy of our monarch; I intended to play lansquenet to-night. Here is my purse; if you would like it, it is at your disposal."
"Faith! Jarnonville, it would be a great service to me; but I am afraid of being importunate."
"Not at all—take it."
"And your game of lansquenet?"
"If need be, I will play on credit; but, instead of going to La Valteline's to gamble, I will go to Durfeuille the financier's, and get drunk; that will be one way of employing my time."
"Very well; in that case, I accept; but it is my duty to warn you that I do not now know when I shall be able to repay this loan."
"No matter! no matter! Do not worry about that; it is the least of my anxieties. Adieu, count, adieu!"
The Sire de Jarnonville walked rapidly away, without listening to his debtor's thanks; and Léodgard placed the purse filled with gold in his belt, saying to himself:
"He has done me a great service. He's an original fellow, but he has his good points.—When I have spent this money, what shall I do to get some more?—But what am I thinking about? I have a well-lined purse upon me and I am sighing for a lovely girl. Pardieu! this is not the time to worry about the future! What disturbs me now is to see that window remain closed. It has been dark a long while; can it be that Bathilde will not come to the balcony?—Ah! it seems to me that I have never loved a woman as I love her. How different she is from the coquettes of the court! from our courtesans—aye, from our petites bourgeoises! The purest innocence shines on that child's brow.—What bliss to teach her what love is—to be the first to make her heart beat!—But she does not appear!"
Léodgard stamped his foot impatiently and began to pace the street, without losing sight of the bath keeper's house.
Let us see what Bathilde was doing at that moment.
I need not tell you that on leaving the Place de Grève to return to her home Landry's daughter had not failed to discover that the handsome Comte de Marvejols was following her. She had not seemed to notice it, she had not released her hold of Ambroisine's arm for an instant, she had not turned her head; and yet she had seen that the young man was following her.
How had she done it?
That is a mystery which I am unable to solve. I can simply assure you that all women, young or old, from the most sophisticated to the most innocent, possess that faculty. Probably it is the second-sight of the Scotch, except that they have it in the back of the head.
Bathilde returned to her little room, disturbed by a sentiment that was entirely novel to her; her bosom rose and fell more rapidly, she felt happier than she had ever felt.
Was it her pride that was flattered, or her self-esteem?
No; the sweet child did not as yet know either of those sentiments.
It was something sweeter, more tender, which had found its way into her heart with the fiery glances of the handsome cavalier, and against which she had not known how to defend herself, for she was unaware of the danger; it had not occurred to her that it was wrong to glance occasionally at a comely youth who kept his eyes constantly fixed on her.
When she learned that the comely youth was Comte Léodgard de Marvejols, the girl had felt perhaps a secret thrill of terror; but it had not lasted—the young man's glances had soon dispelled it.
Bathilde occupied a room that looked on a yard behind the house. It was impossible for her to see from her window anything that took place in the street. But since her mother had been absent, the girl had enjoyed more liberty; so long as she avoided the baths, a place which it would have been imprudent for her to frequent, she was free to range over the whole first floor at her pleasure. Knowing that his daughter was in the house, Landry asked nothing more.
On the day following the Fire of Saint-Jean, Bathilde, although she did not know why, could not keep still. She went in and out, from one room to another, arranging the furniture, or rather disarranging it, in order to have an excuse for putting it to rights again.
In her peregrinations she visited most frequently a room at the front of the house, which Dame Ragonde used as a linen closet; it was the room with the balcony. Bathilde had put aside the curtain and glanced into the street from time to time, without opening the window. She had soon discovered the young seigneur of the preceding night walking back and forth in front of the baths, and stopping frequently to scrutinize the house from top to bottom.
Bathilde had felt the blood rush to her cheeks, although no one could have seen her put aside the curtain. She had left the window, but had returned to it a moment later.
"He is there!" she said to herself, trembling with excitement; "he is still there! Mon Dieu! why does he keep looking at our house?"
The little innocent guessed well enough why he did it; but there are things which we do not choose to admit at once, even to ourselves, especially when they give us pleasure; we are much less ceremonious with those that make us unhappy.
The next day, Bathilde did not fail to go early to the linen closet; she resumed her manœuvres of the day before, and looked into the street after cautiously raising a corner of the curtain.
This lasted four days, during which she saw the handsome cavalier almost always in the street, gazing sadly at the windows, with his hand to his heart, and probably sighing; she did not hear the sigh, but she divined it.
On the fifth day, she no longer had the heart to keep the window closed, and yet she did not wish to appear on the balcony without a reason for going there.
Suddenly she remembered that she had a rosebush in her chamber, where, by the way, it rarely received a ray of sunlight.
She ran instantly to Master Landry and said:
"Father, you know I have a lovely rosebush, which Ambroisine gave me two years ago, on my birthday."
"Very likely; what then?"
"It is in my room, on the window sill, but I have just noticed that it's dying, the leaves are turning yellow. It's because it doesn't get enough air. The yard is so small, and then the steam from the baths is bad for it, perhaps. I should be awfully sorry if it should die. Will you let me put it on the balcony outside the window of the linen closet? There is nothing there, so it won't be in the way; it will have the sun, and I am sure that it will do better there."
"Put your rosebush where you please, my child; what hinders you?"
"Oh! thank you, father!"
And Bathilde went away, pleased beyond words. Dame Ragonde would never have allowed her to put a rosebush at a window on the front of the house. A woman would have felt, divined, an intrigue therein. But the old soldier saw nothing but a rosebush.
Bathilde made haste to take advantage of the permission her father had given her.
Before carrying the rosebush to the balcony, she cast a glance at her mirror. Was it coquetry? No. But the daughter of a master bath keeper did not wish to show herself to the eyes of chance passers-by without being quite sure that nothing was lacking in her dress.
We know already that for three days the girl did not forget to visit the balcony several times during the day, and even after dark, to make sure that her beautiful rosebush needed nothing. Never was flower more sedulously tended, never were rosebuds examined with such care; and certainly no insect could have found a resting place on their stems, unless it had shown the most determined obstinacy in returning thither.
On the third day, or rather the third evening, Bathilde heard the stone fall on the balcony, where she did not happen to be at the time, although she was always close at hand. She instantly detected the paper wrapped about the stone. Her first impulse was to rush out and pick it up; but she reflected that he who had thrown it must still be in the street, and that, if she picked up his note at once, she would show him that she was there, watching behind the curtain.
See how slyly even the most innocent can act sometimes! La Fontaine tells us how wit comes to young maids; for my part, I believe that it is all there as soon as they feel love for a man.
Bathilde waited, therefore, until the evening was well advanced before she stole noiselessly out and picked up the stone and the paper. Then she hastened to her room and locked herself in, to read at her ease that first love letter, which was destined to put the finishing touch to this turmoil in her heart, and perhaps to cause her much suffering, and which it would have been wiser for her not to read.
But wisdom is often the fruit of experience, and Bathilde had had none.
She opened Léodgard's letter with a trembling hand, and eagerly read these words:
"CHARMING BATHILDE:
"Need I tell you that I love you, that from the moment I first saw you your cherished image has not gone from my memory and my heart? You must know who I am: your friend Ambroisine called me by name before you, but she has slandered me if she has told you that I am incapable of keeping my faith.
"I shall love you always, Bathilde; because my love is sincere, because you are the first woman who ever caused me to know a genuine passion.
"You will say, perhaps, that too great a distance separates us, that my name, my rank, keep us apart.—But only tell me that you love me a little, and I will find a way to remove all obstacles. What does it matter to me in what station of life you were born? In my eyes, you are far above the grandes dames of the court.
"My fortune, my name—I lay everything at your feet! Yes, before God, I swear to take you for my wife!
"But come to your balcony, do not fly at night when I come near; and, in pity's name, grant a few moments' interview to one who will die if you refuse to love him.
"LÉODGARD DE MARVEJOLS."
Such a loving, ardent note was certain to make great ravages in an inexperienced heart, in a heart which was conscious of a craving to love. Love travels fast when it follows an unbeaten path.
Moreover, a secret sympathy drew the girl on; she too loved Léodgard. Only an instant, a single glance, was necessary for that.
Bathilde read and reread and read again the young count's letter; she held it in her hand when she went to bed, she kept it against her heart all night. Ah! a first love letter is such a priceless treasure! A woman may receive many of them in the course of her life, but the others are never worth so much as that one.
The next morning Bathilde knew the letter by heart, and she said to herself every instant:
"He loves me! he will always love me! I am the first woman whom he has ever really loved! My birth is no obstacle, he says; in that case, he will ask my parents for my hand, and will marry me. What joy! how happy I shall be! Not because I shall be a countess; what do I care for that? But I shall be his wife! and I shall be able, in my turn, to tell him that I love him!—But then, I must go out on the balcony to-night and speak to him. Suppose I consult my father first, and show him this letter? But perhaps he would scold me for receiving it and reading it without his permission!"
Bathilde was in dire perplexity, not knowing what she ought to do. But her heart was bursting with joy and happiness because she knew that Léodgard loved her.
She was still hesitating about going to her window, when Ambroisine suddenly appeared.
The belle baigneuse had not had time to visit her friend since the Fire of Saint-Jean; and yet a secret presentiment told her that her friendship was more than ever necessary to Bathilde. At last, she stole a moment during the morning and hastened to Rue Dauphine; she ran up to her friend's room and did not find her there; a servant told her that her master's daughter passed almost all her time now in the linen closet, and pointed it out to her.
This change of habit surprised Ambroisine. However, she went to the small room where Bathilde was. The latter, when she saw her friend, was confused for a moment, and hastily thrust into her bosom the letter which she was reading for the hundredth time.
Ambroisine ran to Bathilde and kissed her, saying:
"Well! here I am at last! I succeeded in making my escape to-day.—We have so many people at our baths, and so many young men come to be shaved by father! But I found a moment this morning, and I ran away. I was so anxious to see you! And you—have you no desire to talk over our evening on the Place de Grève? We have so many things to say to each other! haven't we?"
"Oh, yes! yes! I longed to see you, too."
"It's strange, but you don't say that with all your heart, as I do! You have a curious manner. Have you been sick? You are quite pale.—Oh! there is certainly something wrong!"
"Why, no—you are mistaken; I am not sick at all!"
"So much the better.—But how does it happen that you are in this room looking on the street—you, who never used to leave your own bedroom?"
"Why, I am here—I am here——"
"Yes, I see that you are here!"
"I am here because I asked father's permission to put my lovely rosebush on this balcony, which is a much better place for it; and then—I—I have to come here to tend it."
"Ah! so it's on account of your rosebush?"
"And then, it is much livelier here than in my room."
"That is true enough. But when your mother comes home, I am very sure that she will make you carry your rosebush back to your room, and will forbid your coming here any more."
"Do you think so? O mon Dieu!"
"Well! now you are as pale as a ghost! Come, Bathilde, kiss me and tell me all; you have something on your mind, and you do not want to confide it to me. Am I no longer your sister, your friend? Do you propose to have secrets from me? Oh, no! that is impossible! You are going to tell me why it is that you are so distressed, that your eyes are full of tears, that you are afraid to look me in the face. Do you mean to tell me that you will not open your heart to me any more? Come, speak out!"
Bathilde hesitated, but at last she faltered:
"Ah! but you will say more unkind things about him!"
Ambroisine shuddered; those few words told her the whole story. Her face assumed an expression of profound sadness.
"About him! him! Mon Dieu! have you seen Comte Léodgard again?"
"Did I say that?"
"Yes. The words you have just dropped tell me that it is so.—Come, Bathilde, tell me everything now. You cannot have anything to conceal from your sister, who loves you so dearly. I will not scold you, I have no right to; but my friendship may be useful to you.—Speak, I entreat you!"
Bathilde no longer felt strong enough to resist her friend's entreaties; she had not yet learned to dissemble. She seated herself beside Ambroisine and told her all that had happened since they had met; and finally, taking Léodgard's letter from her bosom with a trembling hand she gave it to her friend.
Ambroisine shuddered as she read the letter, then turned her eyes on Bathilde, who was gazing into her face and waiting to hear what she would say.
But Hugonnet's daughter was silent for several minutes; her eyes were swimming in tears. At last she took Bathilde's head in her hands, pressed it to her breast, and covered it with tears and kisses, murmuring:
"No! no! I do not propose that you shall be ruined! Poor child, I am determined to save you. It is my duty; for is it not my fault that this man, who is now trying to seduce you, ever saw you? Was it not I who insisted on taking you to see the Fire of Saint-Jean? Mon Dieu! was it possible for one to foresee, to divine, that the Evil One would be there in the person of this Comte Léodgard, seeking to ruin you? For he is the Evil One, I tell you; that man is the fallen angel!—But I trust that you do not believe him? Surely you place no faith in what he has written you? This letter—why, there is not a word of truth in it!"
"Not a word of truth!" cried Bathilde, in a heart-rending tone. "But in that case, why should he write me all this, if he did not think it? Why should he pass whole days walking in front of our house? Why should he come here again in the evening—always looking at this window? And I am not sure that he is not here at night too.—Ah! when I go out on the balcony to tend my rosebush, if you could see how he looks at me—how happy he seems all the time that I am there!"
"So you look at him too, do you? O Bathilde!"
"Oh, no! I don't look at him; indeed, I should not dare to. But, you know, one can see, out of the corner of one's eye, without seeming to look."
"My poor dear! can it be that you already love this Monsieur Léodgard?"
"Oh! I don't know—I don't dare to tell you. But since I read his letter, in which he swears that he will always love me—ah! I no longer know how I feel, what I am doing, what I am saying; my head is on fire, and my whole body is like my head. I believe that I have a fever; I think of nothing but him, I cannot drive away his image; I seem to feel pain and pleasure at the same time.—Mon Dieu! I no longer know myself!"
"Dear child! be calm. Listen to me; you have too much good sense not to understand me.—Now, Bathilde, let us admit that the count loves you at this moment; in the first place, his love will very soon pass away. But even if it should be more sincere than all the loves that he has promised, sworn, to other women, how would that help you? You know perfectly well that you can never become the wife of a count, of a great nobleman."
"But you see that in his letter he says that he cares nothing for rank and fortune."
"In his letter he has put down everything that was likely to turn your head!—Ah! Bathilde, do the great nobles ever marry us poor girls, the daughters of humble tradesmen? When we are pretty, they make love to us and try to seduce us, and they are not sparing of lies and promises to effect that purpose! But if we are unfortunate enough to listen to them, they very soon abandon us, leaving us nothing but shame and regret.—What I say is absolutely true, Bathilde. You know perfectly well that I desire nothing but your happiness. But if you listen to Comte Léodgard, you will be unhappy, you will be ruined!—Think of your father, who is so proud of you. Think of your mother, who has watched over you so carefully. They would curse you!"
"Oh! do not say any more! Yes, you are right; I was mad! But you bring me back to myself.—Tell me how I must act; I will do whatever you wish."
Ambroisine embraced her friend again, and said:
"Dear Bathilde, you suffer at this moment, because I am tearing away illusions that made you happy. But I do it so that you may enjoy truer happiness in the future. Listen: first of all, you must not appear on this balcony for a week, at least; nay, you must not even come into this room, for you would look into the street in spite of yourself. Resume your usual mode of life, work as if your mother were by your side.—In the second place, you must—you must not read this letter any more; and, in order to be certain of not yielding to temptation, you must burn it."
"Burn his letter! the only token I shall have of his love—the only souvenir of him when he has ceased to think of me! Oh, no! let me keep it, Ambroisine, I implore you! I will do everything that you have said; but don't burn his letter!"
And Bathilde almost fell at her friend's knees. Ambroisine raised her and replied:
"How do you expect to be cured if you keep that paper with you, in which he says such sweet things—things that turn the heads of us poor women? You will read it every day, and it will simply keep your grief alive."
"Very well! take it, Ambroisine, carry it away, but keep it for me; and later—in a very long time—when I am cured, if I ever can be cured, then you will give the letter back to me, and I shall be very glad to read it again."
"Very well; then I will take the letter away."
"But you won't burn it, will you?"
"No, I promise."
"And you will take good care of it? you will not lose it?"
"I will put it away in my little jewel box. How do you suppose that I can lose it?"
"But you—you won't read it, either, will you? For, if I deprive myself of that happiness, it would not be fair for another to enjoy it in my place!"
"Dear Bathilde! this letter, which is so priceless in your eyes, is of no value at all to another woman.—Never fear, I will not touch it.—Now I must leave you, I must go home.—You will surely do as I have told you. And first of all, my dear, to begin with, you will leave this room?"
"Yes."
"And you will not come here again—for ten days?"
"You said a week!"
"Well, so long as Comte Léodgard continues to walk this street."
"I will not come here."
"And your mother—will she not return soon?"
"I think not. It seems that she is having litigation about her inheritance there in Normandie, where she is; for our kinswoman is dead; but our mother has all the right on her side, so she is not alarmed."
"Litigation—in Normandie! That will take some time!" muttered Ambroisine, shaking her head. Then she kissed her young friend again. "Adieu! I will come to see you as soon as possible. Courage, my poor Bathilde! Your heart is heavy at this moment; but that will pass away. And then, you see, when one is doing one's duty, it gives one strength to endure sorrow."
"Adieu, Ambroisine! I will try to be brave. But take good care of my letter; don't lose it on your way home. I shall never be consoled if you lose it!"
"Never fear, I am no child. Au revoir!"
Ambroisine ran down the staircase; and Bathilde followed her to the foot, whispering to her:
"Remember that you are to give it back to me!"
Bathilde having followed her friend's advice to the letter, Léodgard walked Rue Dauphine in vain on the evening of his meeting with the Sire de Jarnonville. And as Léodgard was very much in love, as he flattered himself that he would win a facile triumph over Landry's daughter, he remained until midnight in front of the barber's house; but the balcony was deserted, the window dark; the girl did not appear.
Thereupon vexation and wrath took possession of our lover. Accustomed as he was to defy and surmount all obstacles, his desires were sharpened by the disdain with which he was treated. He was especially enraged because his note, instead of completing his conquest of Bathilde, had produced just the contrary effect.
He struck the ground impatiently with his spurs and measured with his eye the height of the balcony. If some friend had been there to lend him his shoulders, he would already have tried to scale it. But, instead of a friend, Léodgard spied a patrol coming down the street; and as he was not anxious to fight a patrol single-handed, he decided to decamp. But as he walked away, he said to himself, looking back at the balcony:
"Oh! it is useless for you to conceal yourself, Bathilde; it is useless for you to try to escape from my love; you shall be mine, for I have sworn it—for you are the loveliest, the most fascinating girl whom I know in Paris to-day!"
Early the next morning Léodgard entered the barber's shop; he ordered a bath, and while it was being prepared he looked at all the windows on the yard, and entered into conversation with the attendant who waited on him.
"Is Master Landry married?"
"Yes, seigneur."
"Where is his wife?"
"Travelling at present; she has gone to Normandie to secure an inheritance."
"Master Landry has a daughter?"
"Yes, seigneur."
"Very pretty, I am told?"
"Why do we never see her in the shop or about the baths?"
"For the very reason, seigneur, that she is so pretty."
"Is she watched so closely, pray?"
"When Dame Ragonde, her mother, is here, she doesn't leave her daughter for an instant."
"But now that she is away, is there no way of obtaining a word with the girl—a single word? Here—take this piece of gold and just tell me where Bathilde's room is."
But Léodgard had applied in the wrong quarter. Landry was an old soldier who had a keen eye for an honest man; he had selected his attendants with care, and they esteemed him too highly to betray him. The gold piece was declined; Léodgard insisted to no purpose, for the attendant merely replied:
"I don't work on the women's side, seigneur; I don't know where their rooms are. I am too well treated in Master Landry's service to do anything that would cause my discharge."
"Pardieu! I have bad luck!" said Léodgard to himself. "All our valets and esquires are ready to be bribed; and I must come to a bath keeper's to find an incorruptible servant. And people calumniate these houses! They say that they serve to cloak clandestine love affairs, that the most delicious intrigues are formed and consummated in them.—Gad! that surely is not true of Master Landry's!"
And Léodgard cast his eye over all the windows looking on the yard; but they were closed and supplied with very heavy curtains; it was impossible to discover anything, to guess where Bathilde's room was; for the young man was confident that she did not occupy the front room with the balcony, as there had been no light there throughout the preceding evening.
The young count left the establishment without taking the bath he had ordered; once more he marched up and down the street, but with no better fortune; and at last, weary of the struggle, he left the place, saying to himself:
"I am very sure, none the less, that I did not displease her."
The two following days, Léodgard played sentinel again to no purpose. Bathilde did not appear. The windows on the balcony remained closed, and she did not even come to tend the poor rosebush, which, however, was sorely in need of being watered, for the buds were beginning to droop on their stems.
"What! she will allow her rosebush to die, for fear of seeing me!" said Léodgard to himself. "She must be terribly afraid of me, then! Ah! when a woman is so afraid of a man, it is a good sign; she does not fear those who are indifferent to her. But I will stake my head that Ambroisine has been to see her, that it was she who urged her not to show herself any more. How do I know that Bathilde, without letting herself be seen, is not hidden somewhere, at some other window, whence she watches what I do, and says to herself: 'He is still thinking of me!'—If I thought that!—However, I will try this method: I will force myself to stay away for several days, to avoid passing through this street; she will believe that I have ceased to think of her; and perhaps her vexation, or her confidence, will serve me better than this fruitless watching."
Thereupon our lover wrapped himself in his cloak, pulled his hat over his eyes, and, with the air of a man who has suddenly decided upon a course of action, he walked rapidly away and disappeared, without once turning his head.
Léodgard had read only too well Bathilde's guileless heart, that heart which longed to love, and which found happiness even in the pangs which that sentiment already caused it to feel.
The girl had kept the promise she had made her friend; she had not returned to the room with the balcony; but adjoining that room, and, like it, at the front of the house, there was another, occupied by Master Landry and his wife. Since Dame Ragonde had been away, that room had been deserted throughout the day; for the old soldier went down early to his baths, and did not go up to his room again until bedtime.
On the day following Ambroisine's visit, Bathilde remembered that her father had given her an old jacket to mend; the work was not at all urgent, but Bathilde hastened to do it so that she might have an excuse for going to her parents' bedroom. She went there to return the garment belonging to her father; and once she was in that room, which looked on the street, but had no balcony at the windows—because the architects of those days did not make a point of regularity in their buildings—once there, Bathilde could not resist the temptation to go to one of the windows; and, while she pretended to adjust a curtain which presumably did not fall gracefully, she allowed her glance to wander into the street, where she instantly espied the man she had promised to forget.
This first step once taken, Bathilde found other excuses for going every day to her father's chamber, where, by putting the curtain aside the least bit in the world, she could look into the street—the eye requires such a narrow space to see so many things!
To excuse herself to her own conscience, Bathilde reasoned thus:
"I promised Ambroisine not to go to the linen closet for a week; and I do not go there. I have business in this room, and I am obliged to come here! It isn't my fault that there are windows here from which I can look into the street."
This reasoning was that of a lawyer rather than of an innocent maiden; wit, you see, comes to the most inexperienced simultaneously with love.
Thus Bathilde knew that Léodgard was there, always there, with his eyes fixed on the balcony; and with every moment that passed, she put less faith in what her friend had said to her.
"If he did not love me sincerely," she said to herself, "would he pass his days like this, trying to see me?"
It is so pleasant to make excuses for those whom we love.
But when the young count changed his plan of attack, when he ceased entirely to appear on Rue Dauphine, a new form of torture, a pang sharper than all the rest, tore the poor child's heart.
A whole day passed, and Léodgard did not appear. At first she flattered herself with the thought that he had come just at the time when she was not peering from behind the curtain; for, with the best will in the world, one cannot pass every moment with one's face glued against a window.
But on the following day there was no lover on the street, and so on the day following that.
Bathilde's heart was heavy and oppressed; the tears longed to flow, but she forced them back; she was pale; she was consumed by fever and she could not eat.
Landry noticed his daughter's depression and was disturbed by it; he asked her if she was in pain, if she felt sick.
"Nothing is the matter with me, father, nothing!"—Such is the invariable reply of a maiden whose suffering has its source in her heart.
But Ambroisine was determined not to leave her friend without consolation, and one morning she paid her a hurried visit. She was alarmed by her pallor, her prostration, and the grief-stricken expression of her face.
When she saw Ambroisine, however, Bathilde strove to conceal the misery that was devouring her.
"I came to find out if you have been brave, if you have kept the promises you made me?" said Ambroisine, as she embraced Bathilde, who submitted to her friend's caresses without responding to them.
"Yes," she faltered, "I have done what you ordered."
"Ordered!—As if I gave you any orders! don't you know that it is my affection which leads me to advise you, to keep watch over you?—But how pale you are! Are you so very unhappy?"
"I? oh, no!"
"You have not been on the balcony again?"
"No; but I might as well go there now; for it is all over; he doesn't come any more; he has not passed the house, not once, for four days."
"How do you know? So you have been looking out of the window, have you?"
"Indeed! I was in father's room, and I could not help seeing. Besides, I wanted to be certain that he was not there.—It is all over; he has forgotten me!"
As she said these words, Bathilde, despite all her efforts, could no longer restrain her tears; she let her head fall on Ambroisine's shoulder and gave free vent to her sobs.
Hugonnet's daughter mingled her tears with her friend's, for at that moment she could think of no better way to comfort her. A grief which is able to find a vent always loses its force; it is a torrent changed into a brook.
Bathilde recovered her courage to some degree, and wiped her tears away, saying:
"I will be sensible; I will forget him, too; I will imitate him!—Ah! you were right, Ambroisine, his letter contained nothing but falsehoods; for he told me that he would die rather than cease to love me. Yes, it was nothing but lies, false oaths—so I never want to read it again; you may burn that letter, which deceived me so, you may destroy it; I must not keep anything to remind me of that—that fatal meeting."
"What you say is very wise, my dear child; yes, I will burn his letter this very day—as soon as I go home.—Ah! he well deserves to be roasted, too, the villain! who has caused my poor Bathilde so much misery!"
"Oh, no! you must not wish him ill, Ambroisine! On the contrary, I wish that he may be happy! And when I pray, I will beseech God to watch over him too, and to give him every felicity!"
"Upon my word! you are too kind! But heaven will take pity on you; and before long, I am sure, it will have banished from your memory, from your heart, everything that can possibly recall that seducer! If you could come to see me—if you could go out a little to divert your thoughts.—But, no! no! that would be dangerous; he might be on the watch for you and follow you again! I will come here; I will come whenever I have a moment to myself. I would have liked to bring my other friend with me,—Miretta, the girl I have spoken to you about; she is very agreeable, and she has so many interesting things to tell about Italy! But she never comes to see me, except in the evening; and father will not let me go out after dark, because there is a very dangerous brigand in Paris who attacks everybody, and whom they cannot succeed in arresting. So that many people declare that he is not a natural person at all, that he has dealings with the devil! Indeed, there are some who say that this Giovanni is the devil in person! As if that was not absurd! Why should the devil amuse himself robbing and stripping people in the streets?—But my friend Miretta is no coward, I tell you. She isn't afraid of the brigand, for she sometimes stays at our house quite late; and when father hasn't gone out to drink with the neighbors, he always offers to take Miretta home to the Hôtel de Mongarcin, but she will never accept anybody's escort. Several times father has said to her: 'Beware! you will fall in with Giovanni, and he will attack you!'—But she simply shakes her head and replies: 'I am not afraid of robbers.'—I am not very timid myself; but I confess that I haven't as much courage as Miretta, that I would not dare to go out alone so late, especially as they say that this Giovanni is horrible to look at. It seems that his head is all covered with bristling black hair like a wild beast, and that he has a beard that reaches to his breast.—He must be a frightful creature, mustn't he?"
Bathilde, who had ceased to listen when her friend no longer spoke of Léodgard, answered with a sigh:
"Look you, Ambroisine, I have been reflecting. You must not burn his letter; I prefer to keep it, because it is a proof—because it shows that men tell us things that they don't mean! Oh, no! you must not burn it, but you must give it back to me, after a while, when I can read it without danger, you know!"
Ambroisine shrugged her shoulders; and finding that it was useless to try to divert Bathilde's thoughts, she decided to leave her.
"Very well," she said; "I will not burn that wicked letter, since you wish to treasure it!—Adieu! you no longer listen to my words of consolation, but I trust that time will have more power than I have."
And the belle baigneuse took her leave.
It was midnight; the hour which it is said that lovers and burglars select for their enterprises.
Everything was quiet in Landry's house; it was the hour of repose. But one does not sleep at eighteen, when one's heart is torn by the torments and pangs of love.
Bathilde was in her room; she had risen because it was impossible for her to find rest on her solitary couch; she opened her window, which looked on the yard, and after standing there for a moment left it because there was no air; only that which came from the street could do her any good.
Suddenly the girl remembered her rosebush, which she had neglected for a week; she thought that it must be dying for lack of water, or that it must at least be very sickly; and taking her lamp, which was still burning on the table, she softly opened her door and went to the linen closet, delighted to have found a pretext for going out on the balcony.
Bathilde placed her lamp in a corner, then opened the window without noise, and in a moment was on the balcony, beside the rosebush. But instead of examining the plant, she gazed into the darkness that surrounded her.
The street was dark and seemed entirely deserted. Now and then she could hear shouts in the distance and shrill whistles that seemed to answer one another—signals far from reassuring to the belated bourgeois, who quickened his pace as he hurried homeward preceded by a hired torchbearer.
At other moments the silence of the night was disturbed by the songs of students and pages, assembled to make an uproar and break windows.
But these lasted only an instant, then everything became quiet once more.
The girl could see nothing in the dark street; there was no moon to dissipate the gloom; and yet, she could not make up her mind to leave the balcony. She felt better there; it seemed to her almost as if she were with him of whom she thought constantly.
Suddenly she heard her name; the voice came from beneath the balcony. She shuddered, but not with fear; she listened—her name was called again. The voice was soft and supplicating.
"Who is there?" faltered Bathilde.
"He who thinks only of you, who cannot exist without you!"
"Oh! that is not true, monsieur; for you have not been here for four days, you have not even tried to see me; therefore, you no longer think of me!"
"Oh! you were so cruel, Bathilde! Not a word in reply to my letter; but, instead of that, you ceased to come out, you no longer appeared on the balcony!—Yes, I tried to forget you, to return here no more! But that was impossible; my love is stronger than your disdain!"
"Ah! if that were true! But, no, I must not believe you! You seduce all the women—Ambroisine told me so."
"Ambroisine simply repeats what she hears. Ought you to give credit to the assertions of people who do not know me? Dear Bathilde, you should believe your heart alone, for the heart never deceives."
"But I must not listen to you, for you are a great noble and I am only a poor girl."
"You are an angel! and angels so rarely appear on earth!"