“Mademoiselle,” he said, quietly, “do not be needlessly afraid, but I would warn you against an old woman--a fishwife--” “_Ciel!_” exclaimed Rosaline; “you mean that terrible creature who came here?” “Yes,” he replied, “and she was angry because of her torn petticoat, I suppose. She is Mère Tigrane, a dangerous woman, a spying, mischief-making demon of the market. And--well, mademoiselle, she saw M. d’Aguesseau when I first saw him, she tracked him to my house, she tracked him here. I fear it may mean mischief; if he goes away it will be better for all.” Rosaline was very pale; all the joy died out of her face; she pressed her hand involuntarily to her heart. “I thank you, Charlot,” she said quietly. “If--if you hear anything--you will tell me?” “Assuredly, mademoiselle,” replied the cobbler earnestly, “and--” he hesitated, and then went on firmly, “will you believe, mademoiselle, that in all cases--at all times--I am your humble but faithful servant?” She looked at him kindly; his devotion touched her. “Indeed, I have always believed it, Charlot,” she said heartily, and held out her hand. The shoemaker took it with wonder. Her little soft hand in his! He had never dreamed of it; he had touched her feet, but her hand! Poor Charlot, he turned red to his temples and did not know what she said. And Rosaline left him and went on to her grandmother without a thought of her act of condescension. She was naturally gracious, and she did not despise the poor as did other young women of her rank. But the poor little shoemaker went back to Nîmes feeling that he had been translated; had he not touched the white hand of an angel of mercy? CHAPTER XI FRANÇOIS MAKES A PLEDGE It was half an hour before moonrise and the night was supremely still. The warm air of midsummer stirred not even a leaf on the trees. There was no sound but the footsteps of three persons walking through a mulberry grove at a short distance from the spot where the highroad from Nîmes turned off to St. Hippolyte. Mademoiselle and Babet, escorted by M. d’Aguesseau, were making their way slowly back to St. Cyr. They had been--at the peril of their lives--to one of the night meetings of the Church of the Desert and were returning; cautiously avoiding observation all the while. Babet led them, her erect form moving deliberately forward; she never made a misstep, never hesitated, but held to her course in grim silence. She did not approve of their guest’s attentions to mademoiselle. D’Aguesseau had Rosaline’s hand and was guiding her, helping her over rough places, feeling the way where neither of them could see. They talked together at intervals, in low voices, and Babet’s ears moved, though she would have sworn that she scorned to listen; but she was guarding her ewe-lamb, and in spite of her convictions that mademoiselle must marry a prince, she began to be afraid of this resolute, quiet man.