"My father," said Bathilde, "what has been done to-day has been the work of men, what remains is in the hands of God, and he will have pity on us."
"Oh!" cried Buvat, sinking into a chair, "it is I who have killed him! it is I who have killed him!"
Bathilde went up to him solemnly and kissed him.
"But what are you going to do, my child?"
"My duty," answered Bathilde.
She opened a little cupboard in the prie-Dieu, took out a black pocket-book, opened it, and drew out a letter.
"You are right, you are right, my child, I had forgotten that letter."
"I remembered it," answered Bathilde, kissing the letter, and placing it next her heart, "for it was the sole inheritance my mother left me."
At that moment they heard the noise of a coach at the door.
"Adieu, father! adieu, Nanette! Pray for my success."