“No, not I exactly, but a brave and honest sailor who--who--” “Ah, I understand, I understand,” said the watchman, interrupting Stephanette’s stammering; “you mean young Bernard, patron of the tartan, the _Sacred Balm_.” “No, no, Master Peyrou, I assure you I do not mean him,” said the girl, turning as red as a cherry. “Come, come, you need not blush like that,” and the watchman added, in a lower tone: “Was the beautiful bouquet of green thyme, that he tied three days ago to your window bar with rose coloured ribbon, to your taste?” “A bouquet of green thyme! What bouquet are you talking about, Master Peyrou?” The watchman held up a threatening finger to Stephanette and said: “What! last Thursday, at daybreak, did not the patron Bernard carry a bouquet to your window?” “Wait,--let me see, Master Peyrou,” said the young girl, with an air of recalling something to her memory; “was it then yesterday that, in opening my casement, I found something like a bundle of dried herbs?” “Stephanette, Stephanette! you cannot deceive the old watchman. Listen; patron Bernard had hardly descended, when you came and untied the rose coloured ribbon, and put the bouquet in a pretty terra-cotta vase, and you have watered it every morning; yesterday was the only day you neglected it, and it has withered--” The young girl stared at the watchman in utter amazement. This revelation seemed like sorcery. The old man looked at her with a mischievous expression, and continued: “So it is not the patron Bernard who is going to Nice?” “No, Master Peyrou.” “Then it must be the pilot Terzarol.” “The pilot Terzarol!” cried Stephanette, clasping her hands, “may Our Lady help me, if I know anything about this pilot going to sea.” “Well, well, my child, I was mistaken about Bernard, for it is true that you have allowed his bouquet to wither, but I am not mistaken about Terzarol, because yesterday, from the height of the castle turret, you passed more than two hours looking at the bold pilot throwing nets.” “I, Master Peyrou, I?” “Your very self, Stephanette, and at each cast of the net, Terzarol waved his cap in triumph, and you waved your handkerchief in congratulation; he ought to have made a good haul, so enthusiastically did he labour,--you come then to ask me if Terzarol will have a good voyage to Nice?” This time Stephanette began to feel afraid, as she realised how much the watchman knew. “Ah, my faith, Master Peyrou, you know everything!” cried she, innocently. The old man smiled, shook his head, and replied in the words of the Provencal proverb, “_Experienco passo scienco_,--experience passes science.” The poor child, fearing that the watchman’s marvellous discoveries concerning her innocent coquetry might give him a bad opinion of her, cried, with tears in her eyes, as she clasped her hands: “Ah, Master Peyrou, I am an honest girl!”