t to discover that she must
be half-stifled in such a close room. What was she to do? Tell Nanette
to open the window? She would not do it. Open it herself she could not.
She must then wait; but till when? Till the next day, or the day after
perhaps, and what would Raoul think? Would he not become impatient at
this exaggerated severity? Suppose he should again leave for a
fortnight, for a month, for six weeks--forever; Bathilde would die, she
could not live without Raoul. Two hours passed thus; Bathilde tried
everything, her embroidery, her harpsichord, her drawing, but she could
do nothing. Nanette came in--a slight hope returned to her, but it was
only to ask leave to go out. Bathilde signed to her that she could go.
Nanette was going to the Faubourg St. Antoine; she would be away two
hours. What was she to do during these two hours? It would have been so
delightful to pass them at the window.

Bathilde sat down and drew out the letter; she knew it by heart, but yet
she read it again. It was so tender, so passionate, so evidently from
the heart. Oh! if she could receive a second letter. This was an idea;
she looked at Mirza, the graceful little messenger; she took her in her
arms, and then, trembling as if she were about to commit a crime, she
went to open the outer door. A young man was standing before this door,
reaching out his hand toward the bell. Bathilde uttered a cry of joy,
and the young man a cry of love--it was Raoul.

CHAPTER XXVII.

THE SEVENTH HEAVEN.

Bathilde made some steps backward, for she had nearly fallen into
Raoul's arms. Raoul, having shut the door, followed Bathilde into the
room. Their two names, exchanged in a double cry, escaped their lips.
Their hands met in an electric clasp, and all was forgotten. These two,
who had so much to say to each other, yet remained for a long time
silent; at length Bathilde exclaimed--

"Oh, Raoul, how I have suffered!"

"And I," said D'Harmental, "who have appeared to you guilty, and am yet
innocent!"

"Innocent!" cried Bathilde, to whom, by a natural reaction, all her
doubts returned.

"Yes, innocent," replied the chevalier.

And then he told Bathilde all of his life that he dared to tell her--his
duel with Lafare; how he had, after that, hidden in the Rue du
Temps-Perdu; how he had seen Bathilde, and loved her; his astonishment
at discovering successively in her the elegant woman, the skillful
painter, the accomplished musician; his joy w