“That is more than some do in Languedoc,” rejoined the father, with his usual placid philosophy, folding his fat hands on his portly front and gazing mildly around the shop. “Is your room above rented?” he asked, after a moment’s pause. Charlot looked up quickly, his face changing a little, and then he bent over his work again. “It is empty,” he answered; “I found a lodger often troublesome.” “Yet you had one some weeks since,” remarked the priest calmly, “or I have been misinformed.” Charlot stirred uneasily. “I rented it for three days only, _mon père_,” he said. “Ah, yes--for three days,” repeated Père Ambroise, twirling his thumbs and looking up at the ceiling; “and your lodger then became Madame de St. Cyr’s steward. How was this, my son?” The shoemaker’s fingers were twitching the thread nervously. “It was an accident, Père Ambroise,” he said. “Madame de St. Cyr knew his family and heard that he was here.” “She knew his family?” repeated the priest again, his twinkling eyes travelling down from the ceiling to the drawn face before him. “From what part of France did he come?” “From Dauphiné,” le Bossu retorted shortly. “Humph!” ejaculated Père Ambroise, taking up a shoe from the bench and examining it critically. “From Dauphiné--and his name is--?” Charlot laid down his work and looked the good father in the eye. “You love the family at St Cyr, _mon père_?” he asked gravely. Père Ambroise nodded his head in assent, smiling a little all the while and patting the shoe in his hands. “Then I pray you to ask me no more questions,” the hunchback said. “Ah!” ejaculated Père Ambroise, and there was much significance in his tone. There was a long pause. Charlot took up his work, cutting away at the sole of a shoe, and his visitor sat quite still, his fat person spreading comfortably over the chair and settling into it, after the fashion of soft, fleshy bodies. “You go often to St. Cyr,” he remarked at last; “do you know that M. Montrevel is determined to make a clean sweep of these Camisards--of all heretics, in fact; that he will cleanse Languedoc of this corruption?” “’Tis the king’s will,” remarked le Bossu, with a sigh, “but there is much suffering.” “‘If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,’” Père Ambroise retorted placidly; “heretics must suffer--fire here and hereafter.” As he spoke, he rose deliberately and replaced his purse in his pocket. “My son,” he said kindly, “take no more such lodgers--that is my advice, and you know that I am your friend.” “I know it, _mon père_,” replied the shoemaker, respectfully accompanying the priest to the door. The good father moved ponderously and at the threshold he paused a moment to look about the court, waving his hand to the two children who stood gaping at him. Then he bade Charlot farewell. “Peace be to you, my son,” he said benignly, and passed slowly out into the Rue St. Antoine.