MEMORY.

When Bathilde reopened her eyes, she found herself in Mademoiselle
Emilie's room. Mirza was lying on the end of the bed; the two sisters
were one at each side of her pillow, and Buvat, overcome by grief, was
sitting in a corner, his head bent, and his hands resting on his knees.

At first all her thoughts were confused, and her sensation was one of
bodily pain; she raised her hand to her head; the wound was behind the
temple. A doctor, who had been called in, had arranged the first
dressing, and left orders that he was to be sent for if fever declared
itself.

Astonished to find herself--on waking from a sleep which had appeared to
her heavy and painful--in bed in a strange room, the young girl turned
an inquiring glance on each person present, but Emilie and Athenais
shunned her eyes, and Buvat heaved a mournful sigh. Mirza alone
stretched out her little head for a caress. Unluckily for the coaxing
little creature, Bathilde began to recover her memory; the veil which
was drawn before the late events rose little by little, and soon she
began to connect the broken threads which might guide her in the past.
She recalled the return of Buvat, what he had told her of the
conspiracy, the danger which would result to D'Harmental from the
revelation he had made. Then she remembered her hope of being in time to
save him, the rapidity with which she had crossed the street and mounted
the staircase; lastly, her entry into Raoul's room returned to her
memory, and once more she found herself before the corpse of
Roquefinette.

"And he," she cried, "what has become of him?"

No one answered, for neither of the three persons who were in the room
knew what reply to give; only Buvat, choking with tears, rose, and went
toward the door. Bathilde understood the grief and remorse expressed in
that mute withdrawal; she stopped him by a look, and extending her arms
toward him--

"My father," said she, "do you no longer love your poor Bathilde?"

"I no longer love you, my darling child!" cried Buvat, falling on his
knees, and kissing her hand, "I love you no longer! My God! it will be
you who will not love me now, and you will be right, for I am worthless;
I ought to have known that that young man loved you, and ought to have
risked all, suffered all, rather than--. But you told me nothing, you
had no confidence in me, and I--with the best intentions in the
world--made nothing but mistakes; oh, unlucky, unhappy, that I am, y