Bathilde was obliged to support herself by the back of a chair.
"I would enter into a convent, where I could pray the rest of my life for you, monseigneur, and for him."
"That cannot be," said the regent.
"Why not, monseigneur?"
"Because this very day, this very hour, I have been asked for your hand, and have promised it."
"You have promised my hand, monseigneur; and to whom?"
"Read," said the regent, taking an open letter from his desk, and presenting it to the young girl.
"Raoul's writing!" cried Bathilde; "what does this mean?"
"Read," repeated the regent.
And in a choking voice, Bathilde read the following letter:—