The next day, when François descended from his room, he heard voices in the shop, and saw that the cobbler was talking to two women. One was tall, raw-boned, and grim-faced, with iron-gray hair and keen black eyes, and wore the dress of an upper servant; the other was one of the most charming young girls he had ever seen. He stood in the kitchen undecided whether to retire or to quietly admire the picture, but before he could determine upon his proper course le Bossu called him. “Come in, monsieur,” he said; “Mademoiselle de St. Cyr would speak to you.” François responded with some surprise, and bowed in reply to Rosaline’s curtsey. “M. d’Aguesseau,” she said, blushing a little under his glance, “my _grand’mère_, Madame de St. Cyr desires to see you, being acquainted with your family,--she knew your mother.” His eyes lighted with surprise and pleasure. “Madame de St. Cyr does me much honor to request a visit, mademoiselle,” he replied; “I am at her service.” Rosaline and Babet had been into Nîmes to shop, and they were ready to go. The young girl laid her hand on the older woman’s arm. “Then we will expect you to-morrow afternoon, monsieur,” she said quietly; “my very good friend Charlot will direct you to St. Cyr, and madame my _grand’mère_ will be pleased to make you welcome.” M. d’Aguesseau murmured his acknowledgments, while he aided Babet in gathering up numerous small packages, and then the two women bade Charlot _adieu_ and departed,--the drawn face of the cobbler clouding as Rosaline left, as though the sun were obscured. The younger man turned from the door with an exclamation. “Who is that angel?” he demanded eagerly. Le Bossu was stitching a shoe, his fingers shaking a little as he thrust the needle into the stubborn leather. “Mademoiselle Rosaline de St. Cyr,” he replied quietly, his brown eyes searching his guest with a new sternness. “You had better retire, monsieur, there comes one of the Franciscan fathers for his shoes.” CHAPTER VI A MILITARY SUITOR A week had passed and the afternoon sun was shining red on the windows of St. Cyr, while the shadows lengthened in the rambling old garden. Rosaline was feeding her doves beside the sundial, Truffe sitting on the rustic bench in disgrace because she had made a dash at the feathered pets who came cooing to the young girl’s feet. It was a picture that the sunshine touched with tender radiance; behind was the dark green hedge, the blooming roses, and in the circle by the dial the doves were flocking to take food from their mistress, whose fair face was as softly colored as the roses, and her hair showing its loveliest tints of gold. She talked to her pets while she fed them.