"Somebody out of doors in this terrible storm! I must not keep him waiting."
She drew the bolts and opened the heavy door. A woman stood before her, pale, dishevelled, trembling, and with water dripping from all her garments.
Ambroisine uttered a cry and stood for a moment without moving; she could not believe her eyes, she was suffocated with emotion.
"Bathilde!" she whispered; "you—in this condition! No, no! it is impossible!"
"Yes, it is I," replied a faint voice. "It is really Bathilde, driven from her father's house, cursed by her father and mother, who comes to you to beg for shelter! For I have no home, they have turned me out of doors. If you spurn me, Ambroisine; if you too turn me away—then I shall remain in the street; but it will soon be over!"
"I, turn you away! I, refuse you shelter, my friend, my sister!—Oh! mon Dieu! I cannot speak!"
Tears choked Ambroisine, and deprived her of the use of her voice. But she led Bathilde into the house. She embraced her, strained her to her heart; she strove to warm her by her caresses; and the poor girl, reanimated by such a welcome, tried to calm her sobs, saying:
"You do not turn me away—you still love me, do you not?—Ah! I am less unhappy than I was!"
"Poor child! Come with me—we must dry you first of all, change your clothes. You cannot stay like this. Ah! if my father should see you in this state!"
"Your father! Perhaps he would not receive me in his house; for I am very guilty, and if you knew——"