“The new steward?” he repeated. “Madame de St. Cyr refused the man I recommended because she said she could not afford to pay for a successor to old Jacques.” “That is true,” she rejoined quietly; “we really could not afford it. But since old Jacques died we have found ourselves in need of a man to help us, therefore we have afforded it, monsieur.” “Humph!” ejaculated M. de Baudri, with another glance at the house. “A strange sort of a steward. You had best be careful, mademoiselle, and not employ disguised Camisards; the neighborhood swarms with the vermin, and M. le Maréchal means to exterminate them all.” “I thank you for the caution, monsieur,” she replied, “but Père Ambroise looks after us very well.” “Père Ambroise is a fat fool,” he retorted, giving a malicious kick at Truffe, who had approached him. Rosaline saw it and her face flushed crimson. “Come here, Truffe,” she said, and then curtsied to her visitor. “We bid you good afternoon, monsieur,” she continued coolly; “neither Truffe nor I appreciate the honor you have offered us. We beg you to confer it on a more worthy object, and we bid you good-evening.” And away she ran with her dog, leaving M. de Baudri standing in the centre of the garden, the image of indignant disgust. The minx had dared to refuse him, an officer of his Majesty’s dragoons, when she should have been overwhelmed by his condescension; but clearly she was not responsible,--a frivolous child! So he thought, and rode away, cursing his folly and the infatuation of Madame de St. Cyr. But, for all that, he did not mean to lose the Rose of Languedoc. CHAPTER VII A STRING OF TROUT The next morning Rosaline was once more among her flowers. There was no gardener at the château now, and it was the young girl’s custom to weed and tend her own flower beds. She was bending over some velvet-faced pansies, snipping off the dead blooms and plucking away the vagrant grass when she heard some one speak behind her, and looking up saw a hideous face peeping over the wicket-gate. Rosaline started and stood erect, viewing her visitor with a suspicious glance. But Mère Tigrane--for it was she--was accustomed to such receptions, and she only grinned more widely as she dropped mademoiselle a curtsey. “Have some fish for dinner, my pretty!” she said in a coaxing tone, holding up a string of trout; “mademoiselle can have the whole string for ten sous!” Rosaline had no thought except one of horror and repulsion. The face looking over the gate, with its wide red mouth and yellow fangs, alarmed her; she did not even look at the fish. “I do not want anything, my good woman,” she replied, shaking her head. “But ’tis fast day, my darling,” remarked Mère Tigrane, with tender solicitude; “all good Catholics eat fish to-day!” Rosaline’s lesson was well learned and she was on her guard in a moment. “We have enough fish,” she said coldly.