He toiled slowly on; passing the village of St. Césaire, he turned sharply to the north, and walking through a grove of olive trees, came in sight of a château that nestled on the crest of a little eminence looking west toward the Vaunage. The sun shone on its white walls and sloping roof, and sparkled on its window panes. The building was not large, and it had a long, low wing at one side, the whole thrown into sharp relief by its background of mulberry trees. The house was partially closed, the wing showing green-shuttered windows, but the main part was evidently occupied. On the southern side was the garden, with high hedges of box, and toward this the cobbler turned his steps. As he approached the wicket-gate, which was set in a lofty part of the hedge, a dog began to bark furiously, and a black poodle dashed toward him as he entered, but recognizing the visitor, she ceased barking and greeted le Bossu with every demonstration of friendship. “Ah, Truffe,” said the cobbler, gently, “where is your mistress? I have brought her the blue slippers at last.” As if she understood the question, the poodle turned and, wagging her tail, led the way back between two rows of box toward the centre of the garden. The dog and the cobbler came out into an open circle well planted with rose bushes, that grew in wild profusion around the old sundial. Here were white roses and pink, yellow and red, large and small; and sweet and fragile they looked in the old garden, which was but poorly kept despite the neat hedges. On a rustic seat in the midst of the flowers sat a young girl, the sun shining on her fair hair, and tingeing with brown the red and white of her complexion. Her face and figure were charming, and she had almost the air of a child, dressed as she was in white, her flaxen hair falling in two long braids over her shoulders. The dog began to bark again at the sight of her, running to her and back to the hunchback to announce the arrival of a friend. She looked up with a bright smile as the cobbler lifted his cap and laid down the green bag on the seat at her side. “Ah, Charlot, you have my slippers at last,” she exclaimed gayly, her blue eyes full of kindness as she greeted her humble visitor. “I have them, Mademoiselle Rosaline,” he replied, his worn face lighting up, “and they are almost worthy of the feet that will wear them.” “Almost!” laughed mademoiselle, “you are a born courtier, Charlot--oh, what dears!” Le Bossu had opened his bag and drawn out the blue slippers, holding them up for her admiration. “They are pretty enough for a queen!” said Rosaline, taking them in her hands and looking at them critically, with her head on one side. “Oh, Charlot, I shall never forgive you if they do not fit!” “They will fit like gloves, mademoiselle,” the shoemaker replied complacently; “let me try them on for you.” But she was not yet done with her examination.