It has often been said, and justly, that anxiety is worse than misfortune itself.
Bathilde, when she found that she had nothing to hope from Léodgard save contempt and disdain, turned all her thoughts upon the child to which she was to give life. It was for it that she resolved to live; it was for it that she derived courage and resignation from the very excess of her suffering.
But one thought still tormented the poor child: she was afraid that her presence was a burden, not to Ambroisine, but to her father; she was afraid that her prolonged sojourn in Master Hugonnet's house was an embarrassment, an inconvenience, which, from kindness of heart, he was careful to conceal from her.
But in her plight, without money or resources of any sort, whither should she go if Ambroisine's father sent her away?
Bathilde was wrong to conceive such fears; Master Hugonnet did not do good for ostentation's sake; he simply followed the biddings of his heart, and he was happy himself when he could render a service; it never occurred to him to plume himself upon it. The thought of sending the poor girl away who had come to him for shelter would never have entered his mind, and it was not necessary that she should be Ambroisine's friend to induce him to be kind and charitable toward her; kind hearts do not require to be stimulated; they who need a great number of witnesses in order to do a good deed are not truly generous.
But Ambroisine read her friend's heart; she divined her thoughts, her anxieties, her fears; she did her utmost to banish them, impressing upon Bathilde that her presence, far from being the slightest embarrassment, was very advantageous to them; that by her skill with her needle she assisted them materially; that her company made her, Ambroisine's, retreat delightful; and that, in fine, it was to Bathilde that gratitude was due.
Friendship is ingenious when it seeks to dissemble its kindly acts.
Bathilde smiled at her friend and pressed her hand; but tears fell from her eyes, despite her efforts.
"Weeping again!" said Ambroisine, one day. "You are not reasonable. You have no further reason to tremble for your child's future. Did I not tell you that the Sire de Jarnonville had promised to be a father to it? And he will not break his word! I judged him rightly when I thought that beneath that savage, yes, terrifying manner, the Black Chevalier concealed a heart accessible to pity. How could he fail to be moved by the sufferings of others, he who had suffered so terribly himself in the loss of his child?—He has been here several times since the day that I met him in Rue de Bretonvilliers. He comes to me when I am alone, and asks in an undertone: 'How is your friend? Does she need anything? Do not forget that I propose to be a father to her child.'"
"A father!" rejoined Bathilde, bitterly. "What! Can it be that the child of Comte Léodgard de Marvejols needs that a stranger should be a father to it—when its own father exists?—Alas! I do what I can to be brave, Ambroisine. But, in spite of myself, I suffer when I think that shame is the only inheritance that I shall bequeath to my child."