“I send him?” exclaimed the cobbler, in mild surprise. “Mademoiselle asked him to come to see her grandmother.” Babet tossed her head. “’Twas all your fault,” she said emphatically. “I’ve nothing to say against M. d’Aguesseau himself, but what need have we for a steward? And what does he do at once, this fine gentleman?” Charlot had seldom seen his friend so out of humor before, and he regarded her in amazement. “What has he done?” he inquired. “Fallen in love with Mademoiselle Rosaline,” retorted Babet, bluntly; “and what use is there in that? I tell you, Charlot, I am jealous for mademoiselle; I have no patience with these young fools--they all do it, from M. de Baudri down.” The hunchback laid down the shoes, the pain in his patient eyes, and the lines deepening around his mouth. “M. d’Aguesseau is a gentleman,” he said slowly. “I know who he is. Does--does mademoiselle--find him pleasing?” This was too much for Babet; she drew a long breath and stared at the offender with eyes of scorn. “Mademoiselle Rosaline!” she said; “Mademoiselle Rosaline pleased with him! _Ciel!_ why, you fool, she must marry a duke or a prince. But what is the use of having a young gentleman hopelessly in love with her and willing to play at being steward to be near her?” Charlot sighed; he was resting his chin on his hand and looking thoughtfully out into the court. “I am sorry,” he said, “if it annoys mademoiselle.” “Annoys her!” repeated the indignant woman. “If it did--but it doesn’t, bless her innocent heart; she does not even suspect it yet. But I see it plain enough. He’s a fine man too, and I might be sorry for him, but what business has he at St. Cyr?” With this, Babet arose and adjusting her little white shawl on her broad shoulders, she smoothed the folds of her black petticoat, and giving Charlot some more arbitrary directions about her boots, stalked out. She crossed the court and trudged away toward the gate of Nîmes with a feeling of satisfaction. She had relieved her mind, and she believed that she had disarmed the hunchback’s suspicions. Babet knew that Charlot thought her a Huguenot, and she took many different ways of deceiving him. She thought now that she had given a reason for M. d’Aguesseau’s stay at St. Cyr. It was a truthful statement, but she had made it to excuse the presence there of a stranger. No one knew of her intentions; Babet always acted on her own impulses and she fancied herself a wise woman. Her jealousy for mademoiselle was so genuine that she did not have to feign her anger; no one was good enough for her darling. She left the hunchback in a thoughtful mood. He did not immediately resume his work; he sat staring out at the door, but he saw nothing. A vision rose indeed before his mind of a tall, straight figure, a handsome, strong face, the voice and manners of a station far above his own in life. The little cobbler sighed painfully, his lips tightened, he felt as if some one had thrust a dagger in his heart.