“I have never been afraid, _grand’mère_,” she said, “and I hate to live a lie--but I know you are wise. Yet, oh, madame, think of this Huguenot in Nîmes!” “What did Charlot call him?” her grandmother asked thoughtfully. “I thought the name was familiar.” “He said ’twas François d’Aguesseau.” Madame de St. Cyr sat a moment silent, trying to gather her recollections in shape, then her memory suddenly helped her. “Certainly I know,” she said; “they are from Dauphiné. He must be the son of Sieur d’Aguesseau who was broken on the wheel at Montpellier in ’99. I remember now very well; he had a son and a daughter, and I did hear that she was carried away to the Tour de Constance. It must have been the same young woman whose corpse was exhibited on Saturday at Nîmes. The song is true,” she added sadly: “‘Nos filles dans les monastères, Nos prisonniers dans les cachots, Nos martyrs dont le sang se répand à grands flots, Nos confesseurs sur les galères, Nos malades persécutés, Nos mourants exposés à plus d’une furie, Nos morts traînés à la voierie, Te disent (ô Dieu!) nos calamités.’” “What a terrible story of sorrow it is!” remarked Rosaline; “and to think that the corpse of a gentlewoman should be exposed in the market-place! _Mon Dieu!_ I wonder if mine will be!” Madame put up her hand with a gesture of horror. “Hush!” she said, with white lips, “I cannot bear it.” Rosaline was contrite in a moment. “A thousand pardons, _grand’mère_,” she said sweetly; “you and I have lived so long the life of concealed Huguenots, treading on the edge of the volcano, that I grow careless in speech.” “But do you not see why I am so reluctant to take a risk?” her grandmother asked. “Yet I know that this François d’Aguesseau is related to me through his mother. I remember now who she was, and it seems that I must do what I can.” Her granddaughter’s face lighted. “That is like you, madame,” she said brightly; “we could not believe she would turn a deaf ear, could we, Truffe? Ah, you _petite gourmande_, have I not given you enough?” The older woman watched the girl fondly as she fed and petted the dog. This granddaughter was her last link with the world. Her son, the Comte de St. Cyr had fallen fighting for the king the year before the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, when Rosaline was only three months old. His wife survived him only two years, and the grandmother brought up the child. They had never been rich, and the estate had suffered under madame’s management, for she was always cheated and robbed, being as unworldly as a woman could be who had seen something of the gay life of her day. Her mind now was full of the guest of le Bossu, and she was troubled. “I do not know what we can do, Rosaline,” she said in evident perplexity; “he can come here, of course, and share our crust, if he will, but a guest, and an unknown one, would excite comment; and there is M. de Baudri.”