reat deal, did not say quite enough. It
protested innocence and asked for pardon; it spoke of strange
circumstances requiring secrecy; but, above all, it said that the writer
was madly in love. The result was, that, without completely reassuring
her, it yet did her good. Bathilde, however, with a remnant of pride,
determined not to relent till the next day. Since Raoul confessed
himself guilty, he should be punished. Bathilde did not remember that
half of this punishment recoiled upon herself. The effect of the letter,
incomplete as it was, was such that when Buvat returned from the terrace
he thought Bathilde looked infinitely better, and began to believe what
she herself had told him in the morning, that her agitation was only
caused by the emotion of the day before. Buvat went to his own room at
eight o'clock, leaving Bathilde free to retire at any hour she liked,
but she had not the least inclination to sleep; for a long time she
watched, contented and happy, for she knew that her neighbor's window
was open, and by this she guessed his anxiety. Bathilde at length
dreamed that Raoul was at her feet, and that he gave her such good
reasons that it was she, in her turn, who asked for pardon.

Thus in the morning she awoke convinced that she had been dreadfully
severe, and wondering how she could have had the courage to do so. It
followed that her first movement was to run to the window and open it;
but perceiving, through an almost imperceptible opening, the young man
at his window, she stopped short. Would not this be too complete an
avowal? It would be better to wait for Nanette; she would open the
window naturally, and in this way her neighbor would not be so able to
pride himself on his conquest. Nanette arrived, but she had been too
much scolded the day before about this window to risk a second
representation of the same scene. She took the greatest pains to avoid
even touching the curtains. Bathilde was ready to cry. Buvat came down
as usual to take his coffee with Bathilde, and she hoped that he at
least would ask why she kept herself so shut up, and give her an
opportunity to open the window. Buvat, however, had received a new order
for the classification of some manuscripts, and was so preoccupied, that
he finished his coffee and left the room without once remarking that the
curtains were closed.

For the first time Bathilde felt almost angry with him, and thought he
must have paid her very little attention no