When he was gone Charlot put away his work and went back to the kitchen and set out his supper, some figs and black bread. He could not stitch, he could not meditate, he was troubled. He did not fear Père Ambroise, but he saw a cloud gathering over St. Cyr. He was a constant witness of cruelties to the Protestants, so common then that they scarcely made a ripple in the placid surface of every-day life. He saw the chain, the stake, the corpses of damned persons, and these things troubled him as they did not trouble other good Catholics. When the miserable appealed to him, his heart was touched with sympathy; he never mocked, he never refused a cup of water, as others did; he pitied because he too had suffered the world’s scorn. He could not think of these hideous things approaching Mademoiselle de St. Cyr; he would as soon have dreamed of casting an angel into hell; yet he began now to fear that the finger of Fate was moving slowly but surely in her direction. It sickened him; he sat down to eat, but the bread was as a stone between his teeth. While he sat thus, looking at his frugal supper, he heard some one at the door of the shop, and went out to find Mère Tigrane. She grinned her hideous grin at him as he appeared. She had done a good business that day and her hands were empty and she jingled some coin in her pocket. “I have sold all my fish, Petit Bossu,” she said, “and I’ve been to the château out there by St. Césaire. _Dame!_ but mademoiselle has a white skin, whiter than the corpse we saw at the fair, and her cheeks are pink--but she’s a fury, _mon chéri_.” Charlot frowned. “Is this all you have to say?” he asked sharply; “I am closing my shop.” “Close it, my straight-back!” she replied, mocking him. “I stopped by to tell you that your lodger was out at St. Cyr,” she added, bursting into a hideous cackle of laughter at the sight of his angry face. “You are a fool for your pains!” he retorted and slammed the door in her face. “So ho!” she said, pointing her bony finger at the door; “you are out of temper, Petit Bossu, and I such a friend of yours too! The dog tears my petticoat and the hunchback slams the door in my face. _Viens donc_, Mère Tigrane; they treat you ill, but never mind, my rosebud, ’twill all be well yet for the good old woman and her dear little fish!” And she took herself off, laughing and mumbling as she went. Meanwhile, within the house, le Bossu left his supper untouched, and toiling up the ladder to his room, reverently lighted a taper before the shrine of the Virgin. He fell on his knees before it, and remained a long time, a deep shadow on his worn face, and his callous hands clasped and raised in an attitude of supplication. At that moment the shadows were falling softly about the white walls of St. Cyr, and Rosaline stood looking out of the window of her own room, her face to the east, and singing softly, in all the joy of youth and innocence.