Rosaline made a grimace. “I wish M. de Baudri would stay with his dragoons in Nîmes,” she retorted. “But, _grand’mère_, there must be a way. Let us think and think, until we find it.” “I cannot understand Charlot,” remarked Madame, meditatively. “We know he is a devout Romanist, yet this is not the first time I have known him to help the persecuted.” “He is the strangest little man in the world,” replied Rosaline, “and I believe that his heart is as big as his poor misshapen body. He is strangely refined too, for his condition in life. Poor little Charlot!” “Do you think he suspects our religion?” madame asked anxiously. “I do not know,” her granddaughter replied slowly, “but sometimes I think so.” “_Mon Dieu!_” murmured the old woman, with a sigh; “the axe hangs over our heads.” Rosaline looked up surprised. “Surely you do not fear Charlot?” she exclaimed. “Charlot!--why, he would no more betray us than would old Babet.” “Babet is of the Religion; I trust no one else,” returned Madame de St. Cyr, gravely. “I do,” replied Rosaline calmly; “I trust Charlot and Père Ambroise.” “In a way, we are in Père Ambroise’s hands,” her grandmother replied, “and I do not believe he would betray you; he means instead to convert you. As for me, I am too near death to trouble him.” “You do him an injustice,” retorted Rosaline; and then she smiled. “The good father is naturally kind,--he cannot help it; he is so round and sleek that he rolls through the world as easily as a ball. To strike anything violently would make him bounce uncomfortably, so dear old Père Ambroise rolls blandly on. I should weep indeed if the naughty Camisards caught the kind soul and harmed him. I can see him, though, trying to run away, with his round eyes starting and his fat cheeks quivering like Babet’s moulds of jelly; and how short his breath would come! _Mon père_ is my friend, so do not find fault with him, _grand’mère_, even when he tries to convert me,--pretending all the while that he believes me to be one of his flock!” Madame de St. Cyr laughed a little at the picture the girl drew of Père Ambroise, but the laugh died in a sigh. She had all the misgivings, the faint-heartedness of age, while Rosaline was as full of life and spirits as a child, and as thoughtless of the dreadful fate that might any day overtake her. She laughed now and told Truffe to beg for a tart, and then scolded the poodle for eating sweets, all the while making a picture of youthful loveliness that made the old room bright with hope and joy. The finger of fate had not yet been laid on Rosaline’s heart; she knew neither love nor fear. CHAPTER V THE COBBLER’S GUEST