ad sustained her for the last three or four
hours was ready to disappear just as she needed it the most.

"Oh, mon Dieu! I shall never dare to speak," said Bathilde.

"Courage, mademoiselle! enter, fall at his feet, God and his own heart
will do the rest."

At these words, seeing that the young girl still hesitated, she opened
the door, pushed Bathilde in, and closed it behind her. She then ran
down with a light step to rejoin Richelieu, leaving Bathilde to plead
her cause tete-a-tete with the regent.

At this unforeseen action, Bathilde uttered a low cry, and the regent,
who was walking to and fro with his head bent down, raised it, and
turned toward Bathilde, who, incapable of making a step in advance, fell
on her knees, drew out her letter, and held it toward the regent. The
regent had bad sight; he did not understand what was going on, and
advanced toward this woman, who appeared to him in the shade as a white
and indistinct form; but soon in that form he recognized a woman, and,
in that woman, a young, beautiful, and kneeling girl.

As to the poor child, in vain she attempted to articulate a prayer.
Voice and strength failing her together, she would have fallen if the
regent had not held her in his arms.

"Mon Dieu! mademoiselle," said the regent, on whom the signs of grief
produced their ordinary effect, "what is the matter? What can I do for
you? Come to this couch, I beg."

"No, monseigneur, it is at your feet that I should be, for I come to ask
a boon."

"And what is it?"

"See first who I am, monseigneur, and then I may dare to speak."

And again Bathilde held out the letter, on which rested her only hope,
to the Duc d'Orleans.

The regent took the letter, and, by the light of a candle which burned
on the chimney-piece, recognized his own writing, and read as follows:

"'MADAME--Your husband is dead for France and for me.
Neither France nor I can give you back your husband;
but, remember, that if ever you are in want of anything
we are both your debtors.

"'Your affectionate,

"'PHILIPPE D'ORLEANS.'

"I recognize this letter perfectly as being my own," said the regent,
"but to the shame of my memory I must confess that I do not know to whom
it was written."

"Look at the address, monseigneur," said Bathilde, a little reassured by
the expression of benevolence on the duke's face.

"Clarice du Rocher," cried the regent, "yes, indeed, I remember now; I
wrote th