"No; he is at liberty not to come home!"
"What sort of a life is he leading?" thought Ambroisine.—"At all events, you will give him this letter as soon as he returns?"
"Yes, if I see him."
"What! you do not see him when he returns?—you, the concierge?"
"Bless me! he has his own key; and he doesn't always knock."
"Well! try to see him as soon as possible!"
Ambroisine went home, far from satisfied with what she had learned.
Bathilde was impatiently awaiting her; she told her all that she had done, all that the marquis's old valet had told her concerning the young count. But Bathilde, far from being dismayed, was persuaded that her lover had left his father's house only to be more free to offer a home to his future wife.
"He will have my letter soon!" she cried, taking her friend's hand; "he will know my plight, all that I have had to suffer for him; in a word, he will know that I am a mother.—Ah! you will see, Ambroisine, that he will come at once to comfort me."
Ambroisine made no reply; but she did not share her friend's hope.