Several days passed thus, and they were forced to conclude that Léodgard, angry at having been surprised by Ambroisine when he was kissing his daughter, had preferred not to return to Place Royale, for fear of other disagreeable encounters. The Sire de Jarnonville, the loyal friend of the countess and of Ambroisine, who loved Blanche with all the fervent paternal love that heaven had left in the depths of his heart, was speedily informed of what had happened on Place Royale. He was more touched than surprised; it seemed to him so natural that one should be drawn to Blanche at first sight. "I knew that he needed only to see her to love her!" cried Jarnonville, letting his eyes rest on Blanche. "He refused to listen to me or to believe me, one day when I spoke to him of his daughter; but Providence, more powerful than his will, has brought him and the child together. Henceforth, madame, be of good cheer; it is impossible that your child should not bring her father back to you." With such words did Jarnonville comfort Bathilde when she sighed because Léodgard had not appeared again on the bench where his daughter had twice met him. Ambroisine united her efforts with the chevalier's to encourage her friend. Bathilde, Ambroisine, and the chevalier passed almost every evening at the Hôtel de Marvejols, beside Blanche's cradle, spending in pleasant converse the long autumn evenings, talking almost constantly of him who refused to accept the pure happiness offered him by his own fireside, his wife, and his child. It was after such a conversation, prolonged to a later hour than usual, that Ambroisine left the hôtel with Jarnonville, who always escorted her to Master Hugonnet's door. On this particular evening it was very dark, and the fine rain that was falling was icy cold, so that even when the chevalier and his companion were still protected by the arcades of the square he said to her more than once: "Wrap yourself tightly in your cloak, mademoiselle, for it is raining and it is quite cold." Then, with an almost involuntary movement, the chevalier pressed closer to his side the arm that the lovely girl had slipped through his. They had reached the end of the arcade, when a horrible spectacle arrested their steps: a man lay flat on the ground; his cloak and his sword were at some little distance, and it was so dark that they could not see the pool of blood in which his body lay. "Mon Dieu! what is that?" exclaimed Ambroisine, stopping abruptly; "I believe that it is a man there--lying on the ground." "Yes, you are right; perhaps he is asleep; perhaps he is drunk.--Wait, while I ascertain." Jarnonville released Ambroisine's arm, walked nearer to the body that lay there absolutely inert, and stooped over it. In a moment he cried out: "Ah! the poor fellow is bathed in his own blood!" "See that sword yonder--perhaps there has been a duel."