Meanwhile a very different scene had been enacted in the kitchen. Babet was making a _ragoût_ over the fire; the steward leaned against the window, posted there to watch for the visitor’s departure; the hunchbacked cobbler was by the door, and in the centre of the room stood mademoiselle herself, although she was supposed to be out,--mademoiselle in flesh and blood, and a picture to look at in her malicious triumph over her escape. She wore a white print frock, the neck open enough to show her full, fair throat, and the half-sleeves revealing her round, white arms. Her golden hair had half escaped from its braids and rippled about her rosy, dimpled face, and her blue eyes danced with merriment. It was her birthday, and M. de Baudri had brought a suitable gift, an enamelled casket, but she held in her hands two little white satin shoes with pink rosettes, and the shoemaker’s drawn face was lighted with a reflection of her pleasure. “You are surely a magician, Charlot,” she said, admiring them for the twentieth time. “I know these are enchanted slippers, and in them I shall walk into the palace of my dreams, where there is no trouble, and Babet and I do not have to conjure a dinner!” “Ah, mademoiselle, if I could but make such shoes!” exclaimed le Bossu, with a smile; “the poor cobbler of St. Antoine would be made a marquis.” “’Tis better to give happiness than to be rich, Charlot,” she replied, “and you have given me so much pleasure to-day that I can even endure M. de Baudri’s visit in the parlor!” and she laughed gayly. “If he hears you laugh, mademoiselle, he will stay to dinner,” remarked Babet grimly, looking over her shoulder as she stirred the stew. “You have found a way to make me as still as a mouse, Babet,” Rosaline said. “Has he not gone yet, M. d’Aguesseau?” François shook his head with a smile. “As a suitor he has the patience of Jacob, mademoiselle,” he replied. Rosaline made a little grimace and blushed, turning away from him with a gesture of impatience. The little hunchback, watching the two, read her mood more truly than she read it herself, and his new-born pleasure died out of his face. “I shall wear these shoes to-night, Charlot,” she hastened to say, her back turned on the supposed steward. “They are fit for a ball, but I never go to balls, so I will wear them on my birthday as the greatest honor I can pay them.” “Mademoiselle makes me happy by wearing them at all,” Charlot replied simply. D’Aguesseau was now looking intently out of the window. “M. de Baudri is mounting at the gate,” he announced. “Mademoiselle, you are no longer in prison.” She would not look at him, but she beamed on the little cobbler. “I will run and show my present to _grand’mère_,” she said. Charlot followed her to the door. “Mademoiselle, a word with you,” he said in a low voice. She turned in surprise and then beckoned to him to follow her into the entry. “What is it?” she asked, quickly, a little alarmed.