“Where did you get the pattern for the rosettes?” she asked eagerly; “truly, they are the prettiest I have seen.” “I copied them after a pair from Paris, mademoiselle,” he replied, as pleased as she at his own success. “The heels too are just like those worn at Versailles.” Mademoiselle Rosaline laughed softly. “I told you that you were a courtier, Charlot,” she said; “but they say that the king wears high red heels, because he is not tall.” “But red heels would not please mademoiselle on blue shoes,” remarked the hunchback, smiling. “But, Charlot,” said she, with a mischievous gleam of fun in her eyes, “if we must all be of the king’s religion, must we not all also wear his red heels?” The cobbler’s pale face grew sad again. “Alas, mademoiselle,” he said, with a sigh, “to you ’tis a jest, but to some--” he shook his head gravely, looking down at the little blue slippers in her lap. “What is the matter?” she asked quickly, the smile dying on her lips. “Have they--been burning any one lately in Nîmes?” “Nay, mademoiselle,” he replied, kneeling on one knee in the gravel path, and taking the slippers off her small feet to try on the new ones. “Come, come, Charlot--tell me,” persisted his patroness, scarcely heeding the shoe that he was drawing on her right foot. “You are as solemn as an owl this morning.” “I will tell mademoiselle,” he rejoined, reverently arranging the rosette and smoothing the white silk stocking around the slender ankle. “Then she must not blame me if she is horrified.” “She is often horrified,” interrupted Rosaline, with a soft little laugh. “Go on, Charlot.” “There was a fair on Saturday--mademoiselle knows, for I saw Babet there buying a silk handkerchief--” “Babet cannot stay away from a fair for her life,” mademoiselle interpolated again. “’Twas a very fine fair,” continued le Bossu, putting on the other slipper. “There were many attractions, and the jailer--Zénon--had the body of a damned woman there; Adolphe, the showman, exhibited it for half a crown. She, the dead woman, was, they say, one of the Huguenot prisoners from the Tour de Constance, and she died on her way here; she was to be examined by M. de Bâville for some reason,--what, I know not,--but she died on the road, and Zénon made much by the exhibition.” Rosaline shuddered, the color fading from her cheeks. “And you went to see that horrible, wicked spectacle, Charlot?” she demanded, in open disgust. “Mademoiselle knows I am a good Catholic,” replied the cobbler, meekly, his eyes drooping before her look of disdain. “’Tis done for the good of our souls--to show us the fate of these misguided people.” “_Mon Dieu!_” ejaculated mademoiselle, softly.