But Hugonnet's daughter was silent for several minutes; her eyes were swimming in tears. At last she took Bathilde's head in her hands, pressed it to her breast, and covered it with tears and kisses, murmuring:
"No! no! I do not propose that you shall be ruined! Poor child, I am determined to save you. It is my duty; for is it not my fault that this man, who is now trying to seduce you, ever saw you? Was it not I who insisted on taking you to see the Fire of Saint-Jean? Mon Dieu! was it possible for one to foresee, to divine, that the Evil One would be there in the person of this Comte Léodgard, seeking to ruin you? For he is the Evil One, I tell you; that man is the fallen angel!—But I trust that you do not believe him? Surely you place no faith in what he has written you? This letter—why, there is not a word of truth in it!"
"Not a word of truth!" cried Bathilde, in a heart-rending tone. "But in that case, why should he write me all this, if he did not think it? Why should he pass whole days walking in front of our house? Why should he come here again in the evening—always looking at this window? And I am not sure that he is not here at night too.—Ah! when I go out on the balcony to tend my rosebush, if you could see how he looks at me—how happy he seems all the time that I am there!"
"So you look at him too, do you? O Bathilde!"
"Oh, no! I don't look at him; indeed, I should not dare to. But, you know, one can see, out of the corner of one's eye, without seeming to look."
"My poor dear! can it be that you already love this Monsieur Léodgard?"
"Oh! I don't know—I don't dare to tell you. But since I read his letter, in which he swears that he will always love me—ah! I no longer know how I feel, what I am doing, what I am saying; my head is on fire, and my whole body is like my head. I believe that I have a fever; I think of nothing but him, I cannot drive away his image; I seem to feel pain and pleasure at the same time.—Mon Dieu! I no longer know myself!"
"Dear child! be calm. Listen to me; you have too much good sense not to understand me.—Now, Bathilde, let us admit that the count loves you at this moment; in the first place, his love will very soon pass away. But even if it should be more sincere than all the loves that he has promised, sworn, to other women, how would that help you? You know perfectly well that you can never become the wife of a count, of a great nobleman."
"But you see that in his letter he says that he cares nothing for rank and fortune."
"In his letter he has put down everything that was likely to turn your head!—Ah! Bathilde, do the great nobles ever marry us poor girls, the daughters of humble tradesmen? When we are pretty, they make love to us and try to seduce us, and they are not sparing of lies and promises to effect that purpose! But if we are unfortunate enough to listen to them, they very soon abandon us, leaving us nothing but shame and regret.—What I say is absolutely true, Bathilde. You know perfectly well that I desire nothing but your happiness. But if you listen to Comte Léodgard, you will be unhappy, you will be ruined!—Think of your father, who is so proud of you. Think of your mother, who has watched over you so carefully. They would curse you!"