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!"
XXII
THE BALCONY
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?"
"That is true, seigneur."
"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.