“But these are so fresh, mademoiselle,” persisted la Louve. “But then the young lady cannot judge; permit poor Mère Tigrane to show these lovely trout to the cook.” “I tell you that we have more fish than we can eat,” said Rosaline, haughtily; “you had better try elsewhere.” “But think of the bargain, my dear,” rejoined the old hag, in honeyed tones; “now the cook will know--or the steward.” As she spoke Mère Tigrane gently opened the gate and entered, to Rosaline’s disgust. She instinctively feared the fishwife and she did not want her to approach the house. She moved, therefore, into the centre of the path, blocking the way,--a very bad move, indeed, for it roused all la Louve’s suspicions. “Now, my dearie, let me sell these pretty fish in the kitchen,” she coaxed, approaching the girl and laying her bony hand on Rosaline’s skirt. Mademoiselle drew back with horror, dragging her frock from the talon fingers with a little involuntary cry of disgust. As she did so there was a low growl from the hedge and Truffe, dashing suddenly upon the scene, sprang on Mère Tigrane. The old woman shrieked, snatching a knife from her bosom and striking at the dog. “Do not dare to hurt Truffe!” cried Rosaline, throwing herself on the poodle and dragging her off before she had done more mischief than to tear the other’s clothes. “Go!” she added imperiously, stamping her foot; “you forced yourself in--and see, I cannot hold the dog! There is a crown to buy you a new petticoat; take it and go!” Mère Tigrane gathered up the money greedily, and prudently retired beyond the gate before she spoke. Her little eyes glittered with rage, although she smiled broadly at the young girl. “Mademoiselle is generous,” she said; “she has more than paid for the fish--will she not have them?” Rosaline was annoyed beyond endurance. She still held the dog and she turned a withering glance on Mère Tigrane. “Go!” she said sharply, “at once. Let me hear no more of you or your fish.” “_Mère de Dieu_, but my beauty can be angry!” remarked la Louve. “Farewell, my pretty, and good luck to you and your dog.” The old woman made her another curtsey and still chuckling to herself walked slowly away. Scarcely had she disappeared behind the tall hedge when there was a footstep on the path behind Rosaline and François d’Aguesseau came in sight. He was soberly dressed like a steward, and bare-headed, having hurried from the house at the sound of Mère Tigrane’s outcry. He found Rosaline still holding the dog, her face flushed with anger and her eyes fastened on the opening in the hedge where her unpleasant visitor had disappeared. “I heard a noise, mademoiselle,” he said, “and thought something had alarmed you.” “And something did,” replied Rosaline, with a shudder; “the most dreadful old woman has been here trying to force her way into the house.” D’Aguesseau smiled; old women did not terrify him, and he set mademoiselle’s excitement down to her nerves.