As the unfortunates approached, women leaned from the windows to cry out at them, and even the children cast mud and stones. D’Aguesseau looked on sternly; he did not know how soon he might be of that number, and he counted forty-two red-jackets. The leaders came on stubbornly; they were two strong men of middle age, and they bore the chain with grim fortitude, but the two who followed were pitiful enough,--a white-haired man, who limped painfully and was near the end of his journey, and a boy with a red streak on each cheek, and the rasping cough of a consumptive. The next pair were also red-jackets; both were lame. The fourth couple walked better; the fifth had to be lashed up by the guards. They were hailed with laughter and derision; the convicts received sympathy, the Huguenots were pelted so vigorously that the blood flowed from more than one wound, as the keepers whipped them into the stable-yard of the Golden Cup, with the rabble at their heels. The chain would be fastened in the stable, while the guards took some refreshments, and here was an opportunity, therefore, for the population to enjoy some innocent diversion. A Huguenot prisoner and a dancing bear served much the same purpose. The street was nearly cleared, so many crowded into the inn-yard, and the sounds of merriment rose from within. D’Aguesseau was turning away in stern disgust, when he came face to face with a hideous old woman, with a string of fish in her hand. She had been gloating over the chain, and she was smiling amiably still, running her very red tongue along the edge of her red lips. She curtsied to François and held out her fish. “A bargain, monsieur,” she said pleasantly. “The sight of the red-jackets makes Mère Tigrane feel good; the fish are cheap.” He shook his head, making an effort to pass her, but she persisted. “One fish, monsieur,” she protested,--“a mountain trout. _Dame!_ ’tis fresh, caught this morning. The spectacle of these Huguenots has made monsieur hungry.” “My good woman, I want neither fish nor fowl,” d’Aguesseau said impatiently. “Monsieur makes a mistake,” she persisted with a grin; “these are good fish, caught in the stream where they drowned a Camisard witch last week!” With a suppressed exclamation he thrust her aside and walked on, her shrill laughter in his ears, and the cries of the rabble in the yard of the Golden Cup. As for Mère Tigrane, she stood a moment looking longingly at the inn; could she forego the diversion? Finally, she decided between two attractions, and quietly followed D’Aguesseau.