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.