"Walk back!" she said. "Yes, Yvon, what could be more delightful? but when I tell you that the sole is sprung from my walking-shoe, and it must go to the village to be mended! How can I get it back in time?" A thought came to me. "If mademoiselle would let me see the shoe?" I said. "Perhaps I can arrange it for her." Yvon frowned and pshawed; he did not like any mention of my shoemaking; this was from no unworthy feeling, but because he thought the trade unsuited to me. I, however, repeated my request, and, greatly wondering, the young lady sent a servant for the shoe. I took it in my hand with pleasure; it was not only beautiful, but well made. "Here is an easy matter!" I said, smiling. "Will mademoiselle see how they mend shoes in my country?" A hammer was soon found, and sitting down on a low bench, I tapped away, and soon had the pretty thing in order again. Mademoiselle Valerie cried out upon my cleverness. "But, you can then do anything you choose, monsieur?" she said. "To play the violin, to save a life, to mend a shoe,--do they teach all these things in your country? and to what wonderful school did you go?" I said, to none more wonderful than a village school; and that this I had indeed learned well, but on the cobbler's bench. "Surely Yvon has told you, mademoiselle, of our good shoemaker, and how he taught me his trade, that I might practise it at times when there is no fiddling needed?" I spoke cheerfully, but let it be seen that I was not in jest. A little pale, she looked from one of us to the other, not understanding. "All nonsense, Valerie!" cried Yvon, forcing a laugh. "Jacques learned shoemaking, as he would learn anything, for the sake of knowledge. He may even have practised it here and there, among his neighbours; why not? I have often wished I could set a stitch, in time of need, as he has done to-day. But to remain at this trade,--it is stuff that he talks; he does not know his own nature, his own descent, when he permits himself to think of such a thing. Fie, M. D'Arthenay!" "No more of that!" I said. "The play is over, _mon cher_! M. D'Arthenay is a figure of your kind, romantic heart, Yvon. Plain Jacques De Arthenay, farmer's son, fiddler, and cobbler, stands from this moment on his own feet, not those of his grandfather four times back." I did not look at my young lady, not daring to see the trouble that I knew was in her sweet face; but I looked full at Yvon, and was glad rather than sorry at his black look. I could have quarrelled with him or any man who had brought me to this pass. But just then, before there could be any more speech, came the sour-faced maid with an urgent message from Mme. de Lalange, that both the young lady and the marquis should attend her in her own room without delay.