“You may sometime have that pleasure, M. de Baudri,” d’Aguesseau replied, coldly, and lifting Rosaline’s unconscious form in his arms, he carried her back into the house. The soldier remained a moment staring after them, his blue eyes on fire, then he recollected where he was and gave an order. The bugle sounded “Forward!” and the troop disappeared along the highroad to Nîmes, leaving a cloud of dust in its track. Meanwhile d’Aguesseau, fearing to alarm Madame de St. Cyr, carried Rosaline into the hall and summoned Babet. But the girl began to recover without any ministrations, and sat up on the high settle by the door, the soft air reviving her; but her joyous mood was gone, she looked out into the garden with unseeing eyes. “Alas!” she said faintly, “I have been happy--and all this misery at my door! I live a lie secure, and these martyrs die for their religion. What a poor creature I am!” Babet stood looking at her with a grim face; d’Aguesseau was silent, his own conscience accusing him. “It will not last,” Rosaline went on slowly, “I feel that trouble is coming to us! What right have we to stand by and see it all and rejoice in our false security. Ah, _mon Dieu_, that poor man!” “It’s no use to seek trouble, mademoiselle,” Babet remarked, “it’ll find us fast enough. I hear it grumbling like the thunder in the Cévennes mountains. As for that poor man, never you mind; Cavalier will catch some fat old curé for him!” Retaliation was a salve to Babet’s moods; she was no saint and had no longing to be a martyr. Rosaline shook her head. “It must end,” she said, rising. “I will go to my grandmother. You may cut the flowers to-day, Babet.” She passed d’Aguesseau without a word; her emotion seemed to have separated her from him, and all that day she was sad and preoccupied.