Nîmes was thronged with soldiers, the markets were crowded, the busy life choked the marts, but the open country was stricken; even the valley of the Vaunage--“the little Canaan” of Languedoc--had suffered. In the court of the Rue St. Antoine, the little cobbler mended the shoes of the soldiers, and out at St. Cyr only one or two late roses were blooming, and the bees had stored their honey for winter. The every-day life went on; the steward was still there, chained by invisible links now; he scarcely thought of leaving France, and he knew that he might be needed, for Madame de St. Cyr was failing fast. She had had an attack of heart disease, and sat in her chair all day, without strength to take her accustomed part in affairs. M. de Baudri still came, a persistent and undaunted suitor, and Père Ambroise made his regular visits, walking in the garden with Rosaline, and discoursing on the perils of heresy, but closing his eyes to suspicious circumstances. He always walked with his hands behind him, his large black figure seeming to absorb a good deal of the sunlight, and a smile on his round, rosy face. What was the use, after all, of making that poor old woman wretched? he argued comfortably, and he did not force religious consolation upon Madame de St. Cyr. He was willing to let the heretic burn in the next world, and she blessed him in her heart every time she looked out at him as he ambled through the maze of hedges. There had been a season of quiet, a brief interval in the clash of war, and the family at St. Cyr breathed more freely. Fear and suspicion seemed dormant, and Rosaline’s laugh came more readily, except when she saw how feeble her grandmother looked. It was the last of October, and the three, Madame de St. Cyr, her granddaughter, and François d’Aguesseau had just finished the midday meal. It was a golden day, almost as warm as summer, and a monthly rose swung its blossoms over the window-sill. M. d’Aguesseau had been fortunate enough to secure a communication with his friends in England, and had received a remittance which enabled him to pay his debts and to provide for the future. But he said nothing of a change, for he saw that Madame de St. Cyr was unable to travel, and he would not quit Languedoc while Rosaline was surrounded with so many dangers. They were talking of every-day matters, of the approach of winter, of the chances for the success of the insurrection, when they were startled by the tramping of a body of horse in the road, and the sharp call of a bugle. Madame’s face paled and Rosaline and d’Aguesseau sprang to their feet. She ran ahead of him out at the door and down the path to an opening in the hedge which afforded a view of the highway. “’Tis M. de Baudri at the head of his dragoons!” she exclaimed, shading her eyes with her hand and looking out.