“And it shall make me better,” she rejoined; “’tis said that sorrow refines the heart, but it is joy that fills it with kindness. I am sure of it, for I was never half so full of pity for the unhappy as I am now; my cup overflows and others thirst. Ah, François, let us be good to others always, for that is love.” “Your very presence is love, Rosaline,” he answered softly, “your face, your eyes, your voice. When I first saw you in the little shop I was a desperate man, but from that moment my heart was changed. You entered like an angel, and as an angel I adored you.” “And I made that difference in your life, François?” she said tenderly,--“I, Rosaline de St. Cyr. Ah, _Dieu_, am I not blessed?” She stood away from him on the mossy bank, the stream lying brown and placid below her feet. Behind her the tree trunks were outlined against the rosy west, and the sweet stillness of twilight was enfolding them. The afterglow shone in her beautiful young face, and her blue eyes were radiant. “I was never happy before,” she said, smiling, “now I know it!--but this is happiness--love--life. Do you see that bright star shining yonder, François? There is a little one beside it--see! like two souls, uplifted above the world and radiant. I will be afraid no more, my love, for even death has lost its terrors, for thus our two souls would shine together above the sorrow and the pain. I will fear no more--for stronger than death is love!” CHAPTER XV THE TEMPTATION OF LE BOSSU The shadows had deepened; night already lay in the little woodland; the distant hills were purple against the pale horizon. The rising wind turned the wheel on the old mill; the rusty vanes moved feebly, as though a cripple waved long arms in the twilight. The stream rippled, and here and there a star was reflected in its bosom, and the leaves rustled continuously now. The scene was suddenly desolate, perhaps because the lovers had deserted it, and the darkness came rolling along like a cloud, rising from every hollow, lurking in every grove of figs or of olives, wrapping every object in an elusive gloom. And away in the distance the night wind sighed drearily, as it gathered strength. No spot could have been more quiet or more lonely. A man came out of the mill carrying his bundle, and stood awhile on the edge of the stream,--a small man with a hump on his back and a face that showed white even at nightfall. He remained only a short time motionless, then he shouldered his bag of tools and followed the bank of the stream until he came at last to a bridge, and crossing this made his way to the highroad leading toward Nîmes. He walked slowly and painfully, as though he carried a far greater burden than it appeared, and he held his head down. The soul of the little cobbler of St. Antoine was in torment, what matter if his body walked the earth with other men? Pent up in the heart of the hunchback were the passion and longing and anguish of a lifetime.