“I will take it while I can pay for it, at least,” said d’Aguesseau, “and I thank you.” The hunchback rose, leading the way across the kitchen to the stairs. He walked slowly, and occasionally dragged one foot, but he ascended the steps with some agility, followed by his guest. There was a trap-door at the top, which he opened before they could step on to the floor above. D’Aguesseau knew that he was taking a great risk, that this might be a snare laid for those of the Religion, but he was, at the moment, a desperate and reckless man, and he cared little. He had entered Nîmes that morning, almost without money, he had just had his worst fears confirmed, and he cared little now for life or death. They entered a room above the kitchen, where the cripple slept, and this opened into another small room over the shop. Both were clean, though poor and bare. The hunchback stopped before a shrine in his own chamber, and lighting a taper, set it before the Virgin. “What is that?” asked d’Aguesseau with a strange glance from the image to the devotee. “A prayer,” replied le Bossu; “when I see danger I always offer a prayer to our Lady.” The Huguenot smiled contemptuously, but said no more, following his host into the front room. “It is yours,” said the hunchback. “You are weary; lie down until the _pot-au-feu_ is ready, and we will sup together.” “I have been in many places,” said d’Aguesseau, “and seen many people--but never one like you before.” Le Bossu smiled. “Yet--save for the hump--I am as others,” he said quietly. “I hear some one crossing the court,” he added; “if any one enters the shop, ’tis best for you to be quiet up here. There are some who need not know I have a guest.” “I trust I shall not imperil your safety by any carelessness,” d’Aguesseau replied earnestly, casting a kindly glance at the drawn face. “I must go down,” said the cobbler. “Rest here awhile; I will call you to supper.” His guest thanked him, still much perplexed by this unusual friendliness, and stood watching the hunchback as he went back to the trap-door, and did not withdraw his eyes until his host disappeared through the opening in the floor. Le Bossu heard footsteps in the shop as he descended the stairs, and leaning forward, saw Mère Tigrane in the kitchen door. Without a word he went back and closed the trap, slipping the bolt; then he came down to find la Louve in the kitchen. “Where are my _sabots_, Petit Bossu?” she demanded, her fierce little eyes travelling around the room, and her lips very red. “I came for them myself, you are so slow.” “You do not need them, Mère Tigrane,” the cobbler replied coolly, eying her feet; “your _sabots_ are as good as new. I did not promise the others until St. Bartholomew’s day.” She began to grumble, moving over to the fire and peering into the _pot-au-feu_.