his dispute with the little clerk, with whom he was now furiously angry. As he arranged his shop, he cried:

"Can anyone imagine such a sly, impertinent knave! To propose to me to make pomade for him out of vile things, and to ask me if it would make hair grow!—He had a very cunning leer as he said that, the horrible dwarf!—Just imagine, my girl, a little man with a nose so turned up that you can see nothing but two holes in his face; and making sport of me for all that, because he had a few crowns in his pocket, won in gambling hells, no doubt. If I find him again, I'll give him another good thrashing! I don't propose to have the Basoche insult bath keepers!"

Ambroisine let her father give vent to his bile. Then she approached him and smiled.

"Father," she said, "you didn't talk like that last night when you came home from the wine shop! Then you adored this little dwarf; you shed tears of regret because someone had beaten him."

"Really! I must have been drunk then?"

"Why, yes! rather."

"I must cure myself of that failing."

"Oh! father, a single failing may be excused in one who has so many good qualities; the world is not perfect."

"You spoil me, my child; but as for you, I know of none but good qualities, not a single fault!"

"Do you remember, father, that someone knocked last night, near midnight, during the storm?"

"No, I don't remember."

"But you do remember at least the horrible storm, that lasted almost all night?"

"Very vaguely; why?"

"If someone had come to ask me for hospitality in that weather, should I have done wrong to grant it?"

"It is never wrong to do a good deed, even though it fall upon ingrates."

"Well, father, someone came—all drenched and shivering; that person was very unhappy—with no place to go for shelter. And so I took her in and gave her a night's lodging; she passed the night in this house, and is here still."

"She is here—where, pray?"

"In my room."

"In your room!"

And Master Hugonnet's brows began to contract, but Ambroisine hastened to add:

"That person, father, is Bathilde, the daughter of your friend Landry."

"Landry's daughter here! and she passed the night here, you say? What on earth has happened at her father's house? What's the trouble?"

"Oh! father, some very terrible things have happened in your friend's house."

"Tell me all about it, my child."

Ambroisine, with downcast eyes, told the story of Bathilde's liaison with the young Comte de Marvejols, of Dame Ragonde's return, and of the terrible catastrophe which had followed the discovery of that mystery.

Hugonnet listened, his face betraying the interest he took in the story; at times he clenched his fists, his features contracted, his eyes blazed with anger; but at the last, when Ambroisine described the condition in which she had found Bathilde in the street, at midnight, when the rain was falling in torrents and the thunder roaring almost incessantly, then Master Hugonnet could no longer resist his emotion; tears dimmed his eyes, and he could not help muttering:

"Ah! that was too much! they were too harsh! they were without pity in their anger!—Why, the poor girl might have died!"

"Yes, indeed! a little later, and I should have found her dead!" cried Ambroisine, putting her arm about her father's neck. "Ah! you would not be the man to drive your daughter away like that, without pity, without mercy—to turn her out of doors, where she would be exposed to the fury of such a storm! No, no! no matter how guilty I might be, you would not treat me so, father! you love your girl too dearly!"

Hugonnet had not the strength to reply; he could do no more than wipe his eyes and kiss his daughter.

"I have told you all, father," Ambroisine continued; "I have even told you the name of Bathilde's seducer; but I implore you to keep the secret; for if Master Landry should discover it, he would fight with the count; and if either of them should be killed, the poor girl would be still more to be pitied."

"Very good, I will hold my tongue! but this seducer must be punished! Let me undertake that duty."

"No, father, no; you must not interfere in this business at all. I beg you not to. I propose to see Comte Léodgard. Bathilde believes that he still loves her, she is convinced that he will repair his wrongdoing, that he will restore her honor by marrying her."

"He! Comte Léodgard! that scapegrace, marry Landry's daughter! the daughter of a bath keeper!—Do not hope for that! He will never marry Bathilde, never!"

"Oh! father, if she should hear you, think of her despair!—Well, I shall take no rest until the count has undone the wrong he has done her; nothing will stop me, nothing deter me from attaining that end! You see, I am strong and determined, father; I resemble you—I am brave. Let me act, I beg you; let me see the count myself, and take whatever steps are necessary to make Bathilde happy once more!—I do not know whether it is simply my longing for success, but something tells me that I shall succeed."

Hugonnet pressed Ambroisine's hand.

"Do as you think best; you are a good girl, and I have confidence in you."

"Oh! thanks, father! And now, won't you come with me and say a word of consolation to poor Bathilde, who will not stir from my room and dares not show herself to you?—Come, father, and see her, I beg you; if you do not, she will think that you are angry because I made her welcome; that will add to her grief, and she has quite enough now."

Hugonnet allowed his daughter to take his hand and lead him to her room, where she softly opened the door.

At sight of Ambroisine's father, Bathilde fell on her knees and hid her face in her hands. But when Hugonnet's eyes fell on the poor girl, whose sufferings had already made inroads on her beauty, he forgot her fault and remembered only her misfortune.

He ran to her, lifted her up, and kissed her, saying:

"I am not your judge, I am your friend, as I used to be your father's. Would you like me to go to see him, and entreat him to be kind to his daughter?"

"Oh! you are too kind, monsieur. But I am afraid that you would do no good; perhaps, indeed, the anger of my parents would be redoubled if they should learn that you know of my wrongdoing."

"But suppose that I should go to see Landry and pretend to know nothing about it?"

"That would be better, father," said Ambroisine; "you can see how they receive you, and whether they mention their daughter."

"They will not mention her!" said Bathilde, sadly shaking her head. "When they turned me out of the house, they said to me: 'Never show your face here again; we shall not recognize you, for hereafter we have no daughter!'—So, you see, they will not mention me."

"Courage, my child, courage! It is impossible that their anger will not die away finally. Meanwhile, this house is yours, my daughter will be your sister, and I will try to replace those who have withdrawn their affection from you."

Bathilde kissed Hugonnet's hands; and Ambroisine threw her arms about her father's neck, crying:

"Ah! if I didn't love you already with all my heart, I believe that I should love you more than ever at this moment!"

Left alone with Ambroisine, Bathilde, who had but one thought, one hope, hastily scribbled this note to Léodgard:

"My parents have found out everything, and they have turned me out of their house. Ambroisine has taken me in; she is like a sister to me. But without you, Léodgard, I cannot hope for pardon. I must tell you what I dared not tell you before, something that makes me glad and miserable at once: I am a mother! Oh! my dear, remember your oaths, and come, come quickly, to give your child a father."

She handed her letter to her friend and said:

"It's on Place Royale; you will find