As to the poor child, in vain she attempted to articulate a prayer. Voice and strength failing her together, she would have fallen if the regent had not held her in his arms.
"Mon Dieu! mademoiselle," said the regent, on whom the signs of grief produced their ordinary effect, "what is the matter? What can I do for you? Come to this couch, I beg."
"No, monseigneur, it is at your feet that I should be, for I come to ask a boon."
"And what is it?"
"See first who I am, monseigneur, and then I may dare to speak."
And again Bathilde held out the letter, on which rested her only hope, to the Duc d'Orleans.
The regent took the letter, and, by the light of a candle which burned on the chimney-piece, recognized his own writing, and read as follows:
"'Madame—Your husband is dead for France and for me. Neither France nor I can give you back your husband; but, remember, that if ever you are in want of anything we are both your debtors.
"'Your affectionate,
"'Philippe d'Orleans.'