"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!"