"No one ever knows; he doesn't say." "But you will hand him this letter to-day?" "Yes, if I see him." "Do you not see him every day?" "No; he is at liberty not to come home!" "What sort of a life is he leading?" thought Ambroisine.--"At all events, you will give him this letter as soon as he returns?" "Yes, if I see him." "What! you do not see him when he returns?--you, the concierge?" "Bless me! he has his own key; and he doesn't always knock." "Well! try to see him as soon as possible!" Ambroisine went home, far from satisfied with what she had learned. Bathilde was impatiently awaiting her; she told her all that she had done, all that the marquis's old valet had told her concerning the young count. But Bathilde, far from being dismayed, was persuaded that her lover had left his father's house only to be more free to offer a home to his future wife. "He will have my letter soon!" she cried, taking her friend's hand; "he will know my plight, all that I have had to suffer for him; in a word, he will know that I am a mother.--Ah! you will see, Ambroisine, that he will come at once to comfort me." Ambroisine made no reply; but she did not share her friend's hope. Master Hugonnet came again in the evening to see the poor girl, and said to her with a disappointed air: "I went to Master Landry's to-day." "You have seen my father!" cried Bathilde; "well?" "He received me very coolly, very shortly, in fact; he answered only a few curt words to what I said. His face was dark and careworn." "Oh! my poor father! it is I who am the cause of his unhappiness!" "But he did not say a word about you.--As for your mother, when she saw me, she turned her back and disappeared; perhaps she was afraid that I should read her grief in her eyes." "Oh, no! monsieur, she was afraid that you would mention her daughter's name." And Bathilde turned away to weep, thinking how sad it was to be an object of shame and misery to those whose existence it was her duty to make glad. Two days passed, and Bathilde received no news of Léodgard. Each hour, each minute that went seemed a century to the poor girl, whose eyes expressed the anxiety and suffering that were devouring her heart. When the second day had gone, Ambroisine, realizing her friend's tortures, said to her in the morning, after kissing her: "While my father is busy with his customers, I will run to Rue de Bretonvilliers." "Oh, yes! do go, Ambroisine; it is not possible that Léodgard has received my letter and has not taken the slightest step toward consoling me. If he will simply come and tell me that he still loves me, that will give me strength to endure my suffering. Either the concierge has not seen him or she has forgotten to hand him my note." "That is what I propose to find out." "If he is at home, try to see him, to speak to him, to obtain an answer from him, so that I may at least know what my child's fate will be!" "I know all that I am to say to him."