“There, there! Marguerite, you have had more than your share; you are as great a _gourmande_ as the naughty Truffe,” she said, shaking her finger at one pretty bird. “_Viens donc_, my Condé! Here is a crumb for you, sweetheart. As for Mademoiselle d’Hautefort, she shall have nothing if she pushes so against Corneille. What a lot of little rogues!” She had distributed all her crumbs and the doves were fluttering over them, struggling for the largest fragments, and even alighting on her wrists and hands in their eagerness. Truffe meanwhile sulked under her punishment, her bright black eyes watching the birds with malicious longing for vengeance. “You pretty creatures, how I love you!” said Rosaline, caressing the two doves she had gathered into her arms. “Look at them, Truffe, and be ashamed of your evil thoughts. Nay, do not deny them, madame; can I not read your eyes? You would eat them, you wicked ogress, I see it! Ah, there--you are raising your ears; what is it, _ma chérie_?” The dog not only pointed her ears, she began to bark, looking back toward the house, but not daring to spring from the seat where she had been ordered to remain until pardoned. “You hear a step on the gravel, Truffe, and so do I,” said Rosaline listening. “Maybe it is the--new steward.” Truffe barked again and then uttered a low growl of displeasure as a man turned the corner of the hedge and came into view. He was moderately tall, with a handsome figure, which was arrayed in the height of fashion; his coat of uncut velvet was laced with gold, and he wore red heels on his high riding-boots, and his waistcoat and trousers were of satin. His full, curled periwig was fresh from Paris like the little hat, which was covered with feathers. He made Mademoiselle de St. Cyr a wonderful bow and then looked at her in open admiration, his blue eyes sparkling and his white teeth showing as he smiled. “A dove in the midst of doves,” he said with gallantry; “mademoiselle is ever the fairest rose in her garden.” “M. de Baudri makes very pretty compliments,” Rosaline replied, her smiling composure unruffled. “Truffe and I did not know he had honored St. Cyr with a visit.” “I have been half an hour with madame,” he replied, “all the while hoping to catch a glimpse of the loveliest face in the world.” “I would have sent Truffe, if I had known that you desired to see her, monsieur,” Rosaline replied demurely. Monsieur bit his lip; he hated dogs and the provoking little witch knew it. “Mademoiselle chooses to mock me,” he said, “and mockery comes unnaturally from such lovely lips.” Rosaline laughed softly, still caressing a dove that nestled on her arm. “Tell me the news from Nîmes, monsieur,” she retorted lightly; “I love a good story, you know.” “With all my heart, mademoiselle, if you will love the story teller,” he replied. “I cannot judge until I have heard the story,” she retorted, mischievous mirth in her blue eyes.