"Bathilde—that is my friend's name—is not yet eighteen years old; her father, now the keeper of a bathing establishment on Rue Dauphine, is an old soldier, who served under Henri IV; he is a man of great courage, and the soul of honor. Bathilde was brought up very strictly in her parents' house; her mother never allowed her to go out, or to have any pleasure whatever.—Excuse me, monsieur le marquis, for going into all these details; I do it because the poor girl who knows nothing is in much greater danger of allowing herself to be deceived than one who is warned by experience. Unfortunately, Bathilde's mother went on a journey, and during her absence her daughter had more liberty. A young man noticed her at the Fire of Saint-Jean, to which I had the unfortunate idea of taking her.—You see, Bathilde is so pretty! there is so much candor and innocence in her beauty that it was easy for a seducer to divine that he could readily deceive her and triumph over her. Well, this young man constantly appeared before my friend's windows; then he sent her, by way of the window, a letter in which he made her the most loving promises; he swore that she should be his wife; he called God to witness the sanctity of his oath.—Ah! monseigneur, poor Bathilde would have considered that she insulted the man she loved if she had not had confidence in such an oath. She was weak, she was guilty! But judge of her despair when her mother returned and discovered her sin! Poor Bathilde was cast out pitilessly, turned into the street at midnight.—Luckily she remembered that I was her friend.—We did not spurn her! we gave her shelter; my father forgave her fault when he saw how miserably unhappy she was.—But Bathilde still hoped that her seducer would keep his promises; she wrote to him, she informed him that she bore within her a pledge of their love; and I undertook to deliver her letter, to see the man in whom her only hope lay.—Ah! monsieur le marquis, he who was the cause of all the harm rejected my petition; he was unmoved by the sufferings of the poor girl whom he had shamefully abused; he ordered me to be turned out of his house, and forbade me ever to appear there again.—Is not that infamous behavior, seigneur? Is it not true that when one has dishonored a poor girl who was as pure and virtuous as she was beautiful, he has no right to be deaf to her prayers and to deny his child?"
The old man listened to Ambroisine with interest, and without interrupting her; while she was speaking, he sat with his head resting on his hand, seemingly weighing every word. When she finished, he looked at her with a kindly expression and said:
"You are a sincere and devoted friend—that is well; this that you are doing, one might ask in vain of the young men who press one another's hands with endless protestations of friendship. But, alas! my poor girl, what has happened to your friend is one of those misfortunes which have become too common in our day. Moreover, what is there to prove that this young Bathilde did not herself invite seduction, that her coquetry did not cause her ruin?—Lastly, why do you apply to me rather than to another, to obtain justice from this seducer? Am I his kinsman or his connection? have I any rights, any power, over him?"
Ambroisine, without replying, took from her breast the letter written to Bathilde by Léodgard, and with a trembling hand presented it to the old man; he had no sooner cast his eye on the paper than he recognized his son's hand. Thereupon his expression changed, a cloud darkened his brow; he controlled his emotion, however, and read the document that he held in his hands. As he read on, his expression became more severe, and when he had finished he let his head fall forward on his breast and seemed utterly crushed by that fresh blow.
Ambroisine, hopeful and afraid by turns, sat perfectly still, not daring to break the silence, and prayed under her breath that heaven would move the old man's heart to pity for poor Bathilde.
"It is my son, the heir of my name, who has done all this!" murmured the marquis at last, speaking to himself, as if he had forgotten the girl's presence. "O mon Dieu! am I doomed always to find him culpable? Shall I owe to him nothing but subjects of grief, misery, and shame?—Yes, it was certainly his hand that traced these characters—indeed, he did not hesitate to sign the letter—to write a name that has always been honorable at the foot of these lines which contain naught but falsehood and perfidy! which have no purpose but to drag an innocent girl to the pit!—Ah! he is misplaced in the reign of a just and virtuous monarch! In the time of Henri III, in that age of license and libertinage, among the Maugirons and Schombergs and Saint-Mégrins and the rest of the king's mignons, he would have found his fitting place, and would have obtained the approbation and favors of a dissolute court for his conduct! But to-day, when a firm hand holds the reins of the State, when protecting laws restore the courage of the weak and make the criminal tremble, my son, the last descendant of the line of Marvejols, seems by his conduct to seek to gain for his name the scandalous celebrity courted by the favorites of Henri III! I cannot allow these disgraceful proceedings to be prolonged! no! Justice must be done before all! Honor takes precedence of nobility!"
And the old man, raising his head proudly, said to Ambroisine in a firm voice:
"Go back to your friend, my girl, and say to her that she will hear from me ere long."
Ambroisine would have been glad to know what she might hope for Bathilde, but a gesture from the marquis imposed silence on her; and she left the Hôtel de Marvejols, uncertain as yet whether she should congratulate herself on having gone thither.