“They are beautiful, Charlot,” she replied, standing up and pacing to and fro before the bench, to try them. “They do not even feel like new shoes. You are a magician.” She had lifted her white skirts to show the two little blue feet. Le Bossu stood up too, admiring not only the slippers, but the beautiful face and the golden hair, as fair as the sunshine. Even Truffe, the poodle, danced about in open approval. Then they heard a sharp voice from the direction of the house. “Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle Rosaline!” it called; “the dinner grows cold, and Madame de St. Cyr is waiting. _Viens donc!_” “Poor Babet!” laughed Rosaline; “I am her torment. Come to the house, Charlot; she will have a dinner for you also, and grandmother will be delighted with these beautiful slippers. Come, Truffe, you at least are hungry, you little _gourmande_.” CHAPTER IV ROSALINE The sun shone cheerfully in the dining room of the château. The long windows were open, and the soft June air came in, laden with the sweetness of the garden. The room was of moderate size and furnished with perfect simplicity, the polished dark wood floor being bare of rugs. In the corner was a tall clock with a silver dial, wherein were set the sun, moon, and stars, moving in unison with the hands. On the sideboard were a few pieces of silver that dated back to the days of Francis I. The table, covered with a fair linen cloth, was set for two, a glass bowl full of pansies in the centre. Rosaline sat at one end and at the other was her grandmother, Madame de St. Cyr. Between them was Truffe, the poodle, sitting solemnly, with a napkin tied about her neck, and turning her black face from one to the other in eager but subdued anticipation. Madame de St. Cyr was an old gentlewoman with a handsome, delicate face and the blue eyes of her granddaughter; her hair had the whiteness of snow and there were lines of age and suffering about her mouth. She wore a plain gown of black silk with a fall of lace at the throat, and a lace cap on her head, and her thin white hands showed the blue veins like whip-cords, but they were slender and graceful hands, with tapering fingers and delicate wrists. The two women were alone; their only servant, the woman Babet, was in the kitchen, setting out a dinner for the cobbler, and they could hear the murmur of her voice as she lectured him. Madame de St. Cyr was listening to Rosaline with a troubled face. “Ah, _grand’mère_, can we not help him?” the girl said earnestly. “Think of his desolate situation.” “We are poor, Rosaline,” the old woman replied gently, “and helpless. Moreover, if our religion were suspected the _bon Dieu_ only knows what would happen. I am too old to hide away in the caves of the Cévennes! Nor is it clear that it is my duty to help this fellow religionist if by so doing I put you in danger. Ah, my child, for you it would be the Tour de Constance--or worse!” Rosaline was feeding some morsels to Truffe with perfect composure.