left the Denis's house? Have they said anything to
wound you?"

"No, Nanette, but I have something to do which is
necessary--indispensable."

"You, go out in your present state! You will kill yourself. M. Buvat! M.
Buvat! here is our young lady going out; come and tell her that it must
not be."

Bathilde turned toward Buvat, with the intention of employing her
ascendency over him, if he endeavored to stop her, but she saw him with
so sorrowful a face that she did not doubt that he knew the fatal news.
On his part, Buvat burst into tears on seeing her.

"My father," said Bathilde, "what has been done to-day has been the work
of men, what remains is in the hands of God, and he will have pity on
us."

"Oh!" cried Buvat, sinking into a chair, "it is I who have killed him!
it is I who have killed him!"

Bathilde went up to him solemnly and kissed him.

"But what are you going to do, my child?"

"My duty," answered Bathilde.

She opened a little cupboard in the prie-Dieu, took out a black
pocket-book, opened it, and drew out a letter.

"You are right, you are right, my child, I had forgotten that letter."

"I remembered it," answered Bathilde, kissing the letter, and placing it
next her heart, "for it was the sole inheritance my mother left me."

At that moment they heard the noise of a coach at the door.

"Adieu, father! adieu, Nanette! Pray for my success."

And Bathilde went away, with a solemn gravity which made her, in the
eyes of those who watched her, almost a saint.

At the door she found Boniface waiting with a coach.

"Shall I go with you, Mademoiselle Bathilde?" asked he.

"No, no, my friend," said Bathilde, "not now; to-morrow, perhaps."

She entered the coach.

"Where to?" asked the coachman.

"To the Arsenal."

CHAPTER XLI.

THE THREE VISITS.

On arriving at the Arsenal Bathilde asked for Mademoiselle de Launay,
who--at her request--led her at once to Madame de Maine.

"Ah, it is you, my child!" said the duchess, with a distracted air and
voice; "it is well to remember one's friends when they are in
misfortune."

"Alas, madame!" replied Bathilde, "I come to your royal highness to
speak of one still more unfortunate. Doubtless you may have lost some of
your titles, some of your dignities, but their vengeance will stop, for
no one would dare to attack the life, or even the liberty, of the son of
Louis XIV., or the granddaughter of the great Conde."

"The life, no; but th