Little Odette had fallen asleep berced by the lullaby of the old servant’s voice, and when next morning the risen sun shone in a shower of gold through the diamond-paned windows of her room, and all the birds in the garden below were rejoicing amidst the trees, little Odette had forgotten the conversation she had overheard the previous night as she lay awake watching the firelight dancing upon the faded blue gown of the Maid of France. [Illustration: THE NURSE’S STORY] II Sometimes of an afternoon Monsieur le Curé de Bois-Fleuri would call at the chateau and ask Blaise, the long valued butler, whether Mademoiselle Odette d’Antrevernes was at home; and Blaise would smile at Monsieur le Curé and ask him to be seated whilst he went to see. Then slowly, slowly, Blaise would traverse the great hall, pass under the torn and faded flags that drooped sadly like dead things from the massive rafters and shaking his silver head and murmuring to himself he would disappear on the great staircase lined with armour. And the old Curé would sit musing on the past, his eyes fixed on the torn flags that had once been borne in proud splendour at Pavie and Moncontour. Then the little Odette in her flowing robe would trip eagerly down the wide oak staircase, and making a low reverence to the Curé, she would take his hand, and together they would walk out into the rose garden that faced the south side of the chateau. There, by a broken statue on a rustic seat they would sit surrounded by clustering roses, and the Curé, with his soft, low voice, would tell little Odette beautiful stories about the Saints and the Virgin Mary. But the story that Odette found the most wonderful of all, was the account of the child Bernadette beholding the Holy Virgin in the mountains. This, for her, was the most perfect story in the world, and with her quick, imaginative mind she would picture the little peasant girl Bernadette returning to her parents’ distant dwelling, when suddenly in a ray of glorious light, the Holy Mary herself appeared on the lonely mountain path, like a beautiful dream. Oh! how Odette wished that she could have been little Bernadette! And she would delight to surmise what the little peasant girl looked like; whether her hair was brown, or whether it was gold--and Odette was terribly disappointed when asking the Curé this question, that he only shook his head and said he did not know. So the days slipped by quietly as on silver wings. Madame d’Antrevernes always in her high blue chair, her altar cloth between her hands, and little Odette on a faded cushion dreaming at her feet. [Illustration: THE ROSE GARDEN]