"What does his looking sad matter to me? What has he to do with me? I do not know him. I do not even know his name. He is a stranger, who has come here to stay for a few days, and who to-morrow may go away again.

If I had thought anything of him I should have been wrong, Nanette; and, instead of encouraging me in a love which would be folly, you ought, on the contrary--supposing that it existed--to show me the absurdity and the danger of it."

"Mon Dieu! mademoiselle, why so? you must love some day, and you may as well love a handsome young man who looks like a king, and who must be rich, since he does not do anything."

"Well, Nanette, what would you say if this young man who appears to you so simple, so loyal, and so good, were nothing but a wicked traitor, a liar!"

"Ah, mon Dieu! mademoiselle, I should say it was impossible."

"If I told you that this young man who lives in an attic, and who shows himself at the window dressed so simply, was yesterday at Sceaux, giving his arm to Madame de Maine, dressed as a colonel?"

"I should say, mademoiselle, that at last G.o.d is just in sending you some one worthy of you. Holy Virgin! a colonel! a friend of the d.u.c.h.esse de Maine! Oh, Mademoiselle Bathilde, you will be a countess, I tell you!

and it is not too much for you. If Providence gave every one what they deserve, you would be a d.u.c.h.ess, a princess, a queen, yes, queen of France; Madame de Maintenon was--"

"I would not be like her, Nanette."

"I do not say like her; besides, it is not the king you love, mademoiselle."

"I do not love any one, Nanette."

"I am too polite to contradict you; but never mind, you are ill; and the first remedy for a young person who is ill, is air and sun. Look at the poor flowers, when they are shut up, they turn pale. Let me open the window, mademoiselle."

"Nanette, I forbid you; go to your work and leave me."

"Very well, mademoiselle, I will go, since you drive me away," said Nanette, lifting the corner of her ap.r.o.n to her eye; "but if I were in that young man's place I know very well what I would do."

"And what would you do?"

"I would come and explain myself, and I am sure that even if he were wrong you would excuse him."

"Nanette," said Bathilde, "if he comes, I forbid you to admit him; do you hear?"

"Very well, mademoiselle; he shall not be admitted, though it is not very polite to turn people away from the door."

"Polite or not, you will do as I tell you," said Bathilde, to whom contradiction gave strength; "and now go. I wish to be alone."

Nanette went out.

When she was alone, Bathilde burst into tears, for her strength was but pride. She believed herself the most unfortunate woman in the world, as D'Harmental thought himself the most unfortunate man. At four o'clock Buvat returned. Bathilde, seeing the traces of uneasiness on his good-natured face, tried all she could to tranquilize him. She smiled, she joked, she kept him company at table; but all was in vain. After dinner he proposed to Bathilde, as an amus.e.m.e.nt which nothing could resist--to take a walk on the terrace. Bathilde, thinking that if she refused Buvat would remain with her, accepted, and went up with him into his room, but when there, she remembered that she must write a letter of thanks to the Abbe Chaulieu, for his kindness in presenting her to Madame de Maine; and, leaving her guardian with Mirza, she went down.

Shortly after she heard Mirza scratching at the door, and went to open it. Mirza entered with such demonstrations of joy that Bathilde understood that something extraordinary must have happened, but on looking attentively she saw the letter tied to her collar. As this was the second she had brought, Bathilde had no difficulty in guessing the writer. The temptation was too strong to be resisted, so she detached the paper with one hand, which trembled as she remembered that it probably contained the destiny of her life, while with the other she caressed Mirza, who, standing on her hind legs, appeared delighted to become so important a personage. Bathilde opened the letter, and looked at it twice without being able to decipher a single line. There was a mist before her eyes.

The letter, while it said a great deal, did not say quite enough. It protested innocence and asked for pardon; it spoke of strange circ.u.mstances requiring secrecy; but, above all, it said that the writer was madly in love. The result was, that, without completely rea.s.suring her, it yet did her good. Bathilde, however, with a remnant of pride, determined not to relent till the next day. Since Raoul confessed himself guilty, he should be punished. Bathilde did not remember that half of this punishment recoiled upon herself. The effect of the letter, incomplete as it was, was such that when Buvat returned from the terrace he thought Bathilde looked infinitely better, and began to believe what she herself had told him in the morning, that her agitation was only caused by the emotion of the day before. Buvat went to his own room at eight o'clock, leaving Bathilde free to retire at any hour she liked, but she had not the least inclination to sleep; for a long time she watched, contented and happy, for she knew that her neighbor's window was open, and by this she guessed his anxiety. Bathilde at length dreamed that Raoul was at her feet, and that he gave her such good reasons that it was she, in her turn, who asked for pardon.

Thus in the morning she awoke convinced that she had been dreadfully severe, and wondering how she could have had the courage to do so. It followed that her first movement was to run to the window and open it; but perceiving, through an almost imperceptible opening, the young man at his window, she stopped short. Would not this be too complete an avowal? It would be better to wait for Nanette; she would open the window naturally, and in this way her neighbor would not be so able to pride himself on his conquest. Nanette arrived, but she had been too much scolded the day before about this window to risk a second representation of the same scene. She took the greatest pains to avoid even touching the curtains. Bathilde was ready to cry. Buvat came down as usual to take his coffee with Bathilde, and she hoped that he at least would ask why she kept herself so shut up, and give her an opportunity to open the window. Buvat, however, had received a new order for the cla.s.sification of some ma.n.u.scripts, and was so preoccupied, that he finished his coffee and left the room without once remarking that the curtains were closed.

For the first time Bathilde felt almost angry with him, and thought he must have paid her very little attention not to discover that she must be half-stifled in such a close room. What was she to do? Tell Nanette to open the window? She would not do it. Open it herself she could not.

She must then wait; but till when? Till the next day, or the day after perhaps, and what would Raoul think? Would he not become impatient at this exaggerated severity? Suppose he should again leave for a fortnight, for a month, for six weeks--forever; Bathilde would die, she could not live without Raoul. Two hours pa.s.sed thus; Bathilde tried everything, her embroidery, her harpsichord, her drawing, but she could do nothing. Nanette came in--a slight hope returned to her, but it was only to ask leave to go out. Bathilde signed to her that she could go.

Nanette was going to the Faubourg St. Antoine; she would be away two hours. What was she to do during these two hours? It would have been so delightful to pa.s.s them at the window.

Bathilde sat down and drew out the letter; she knew it by heart, but yet she read it again. It was so tender, so pa.s.sionate, so evidently from the heart. Oh! if she could receive a second letter. This was an idea; she looked at Mirza, the graceful little messenger; she took her in her arms, and then, trembling as if she were about to commit a crime, she went to open the outer door. A young man was standing before this door, reaching out his hand toward the bell. Bathilde uttered a cry of joy, and the young man a cry of love--it was Raoul.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE SEVENTH HEAVEN.

Bathilde made some steps backward, for she had nearly fallen into Raoul's arms. Raoul, having shut the door, followed Bathilde into the room. Their two names, exchanged in a double cry, escaped their lips.

Their hands met in an electric clasp, and all was forgotten. These two, who had so much to say to each other, yet remained for a long time silent; at length Bathilde exclaimed--

"Oh, Raoul, how I have suffered!"

"And I," said D'Harmental, "who have appeared to you guilty, and am yet innocent!"

"Innocent!" cried Bathilde, to whom, by a natural reaction, all her doubts returned.

"Yes, innocent," replied the chevalier.

And then he told Bathilde all of his life that he dared to tell her--his duel with Lafare; how he had, after that, hidden in the Rue du Temps-Perdu; how he had seen Bathilde, and loved her; his astonishment at discovering successively in her the elegant woman, the skillful painter, the accomplished musician; his joy when he began to think that she was not indifferent to him; then he told her how he had received, as colonel of carabineers, the order to go to Brittany, and on his return was obliged to render an account of his mission to the d.u.c.h.esse de Maine before returning to Paris. He had gone directly to Sceaux, expecting only to leave his dispatches in pa.s.sing, when he had found himself in the midst of the fete, in which he had been obliged unwillingly to take a part. This recital was finished by expressions of regret, and such protestations of fidelity and love that Bathilde almost forgot the beginning of his discourse in listening to the end.

It was now her turn. She also had a long history to tell D'Harmental; it was the history of her life. With a certain pride in proving to her lover that she was worthy of him, she showed herself as a child with her father and mother, then an orphan and abandoned; then appeared Buvat with his plain face and his sublime heart, and she told all his kindness, all his love to his pupil; she pa.s.sed in review her careless childhood, and her pensive youth; then she arrived at the time when she first saw D'Harmental, and here she stopped and smiled, for she felt that he had nothing more to learn. Yet D'Harmental insisted on hearing it all from her own lips, and would not spare her a single detail. Two hours pa.s.sed thus like two seconds, and they were still there when some one rang at the door. Bathilde looked at the clock which was in the corner of the room; it was six minutes past four; there was no mistake, it was Buvat. Bathilde's first movement was one of fear, but Raoul rea.s.sured her, smiling, for he had the pretext with which the Abbe Brigaud had furnished him. The two lovers exchanged a last grasp of the hand, then Bathilde went to open the door to her guardian, who, as usual, kissed her on the forehead, then, on entering the room, perceived D'Harmental. Buvat was astonished; he had never before found any man with his pupil. Buvat fixed on him his astonished eyes and waited; he fancied he had seen the young man before. D'Harmental advanced toward him with that ease of which people of a certain cla.s.s have not even an idea.

"It is to Monsieur Buvat," he said, "that I have the honor of speaking?"

"To myself, sir," said Buvat, starting at the sound of a voice which he thought he recognized; "but the honor is on my side."

"You know the Abbe Brigaud?" continued D'Harmental.

"Yes, perfectly, monsieur--the--that--the--of Madame Denis, is he not?"

"Yes," replied D'Harmental, smiling; "the confessor to Madame Denis."

"Yes, I know him. A clever man."

"Did you not once apply to him to get some copies to make?"

"Yes, monsieur, for I am a copyist, at your service."

"Well," said D'Harmental, "this dear Abbe Brigaud, who is my guardian (that you may know who you are speaking to), has found an excellent customer for you."

"Ah! truly; pray take a seat, monsieur."

"Thank you."

"And who is the customer?"

"The Prince de Listhnay, Rue du Bac, 110."