CHAPTER XIV. MARGUERITE FINDS HER PATH OF DUTY AMONG THE FLOWERS. The very next evening after Marguerite had entered on her new duties, she was hard at work in Dame Doudel’s apartment, where she found delight in arranging the garlands and bouquets, which were to be sold on the morrow. The good dame was in high spirits. The talent and rapid execution of her young friend surprised her, and she chatted gaily as she handed flower after flower from her lap, to be richly clustered by those active fingers. “And you have never seen my good husband, that is strange; he is often on the stairs when off duty. Everybody loves him, for he is tender-hearted as an infant. That is singular, people say, considering that he is a prison guard, and has been years and years in the Bastille.” Marguerite uttered a faint cry, and dropped the flowers she was twining. “The Bastille! The Bastille! Is your husband a guard in the Bastille?” she cried. “Of course he is. I thought everybody knew that; why, he has grown old in the Bastille; old, but never hard-hearted—nothing can make him that, my good Gaston; but he sees sights—such terrible sights, and hears moans that make his blood run cold. But then sometimes he does a little good, and that cheers him. I tell it you, in strict confidence, my child, but many a time he has eaten little, and carried half his breakfast hid away in his pocket, for some of the poor creatures, pining to death in those awful vaults. Yes, yes; those poor prisoners would lose a good friend if Gaston were to leave.” Marguerite listened breathlessly. A strange, wild light came into her eyes. Her words came swift and eagerly when she spoke. “But will they let him. Is it possible? oh! if I could see your husband!” “Well, that is easy, little one; for he is coming now. You can hear his step on the stairs. Ah—yes, that is Gaston. I can never mistake.” A smile of kindly affection lighted the old woman’s face, as she turned it to the door, which opened, admitting a tall, elderly man, who walked wearily into the room. “Ah! you are tired, my friend. I can see it,” exclaimed the dame, emptying the flowers from her lap into a basket, and smoothing down her dress. “Been walking the ramparts? It was your turn, I know. Hungry, too, I dare say. Well, well; your supper is waiting. Ah! you see my little friend here; and are surprised. No wonder.” “Is she not lovely? Like some one, _mon chere_, we never talk about. You observe that. Yes, yes, I see it in your face.” “She is at least welcome,” answered Doudel, kindly. “Now dame, for our little supper. I have had a hard day at the prison.” Dame Doudel bustled off into the next room, which was one of those tiny, neat kitchens, the French know how to make so inviting; and, after a little time, looked through the door again. “Come, my friend, come little one. There is a plate for you always, remember.”