“It was the year that Margot’s cousin, Camille, was drawn in the conscription,” said Baptiste, smiling to himself at his own private recollections. “It is twenty years since. But madame was lovely! So poor Monsieur Jean became jealous and carried her away. They went, I know not where, to the end of the world. In the meantime the old gentleman died. He was of the old _régime_--he was of good blood--but he was poor--he had but this house here and that other to leave to his son--fragments, monsieur, fragments, crumbs out of the hands of the Revolution; and Monsieur Jean was gay and of a great spirit. He was not a _bourgeois_ to go to become rich. The money dropped through his fine fingers. He came back, let me see, but three years ago. He was a gentleman, he was a noble, with but a thousand francs of rent. He did not do any thing. Madame sat at the window and worked, with her pretty white hands. Eh, bien! what shall you say then? she loved him--nothing was hard to her. He was made to be loved, this poor Monsieur Jean.” “It is easy to say so--but he could not have deserved such a wife,” cried Cosmo, with a boy’s indignation; “he ought to have toiled for her rather, night and day.” “Ah, monsieur is young,” said Baptiste, with a half satirical smile and shrug of his stooping French shoulders. “We know better when we have been married twenty years. Monsieur Jean was not made to toil, neither night nor day; but he loved madame still, and was jealous of her--he was a _beau garçon_ himself to his last days.” “Jealous!” Cosmo was horrified; “you speak very lightly, Baptiste,” said the boy, angrily, “but that is worst of all--a lady so beautiful, so good--it is enough to see her to know how good she is--the man deserved to be shot!” “Nay, nay,” cried Baptiste, laughing, “monsieur does not understand the ways of women--it pleased madame--they love to know their power, and to hear other people know it; all the women are so. Madame loved him all the better for being a little--just a little afraid of her beauty. But he did not live long--poor Monsieur Jean!” “I hope she was very glad to be rid of such a fellow,” cried Cosmo, who was highly indignant at the deficient husband of his beautiful old lady. Baptiste rubbed the corner of his own eye rather hard with his knuckle. The cobbler had a little sentiment lingering in his ancient bosom for the admired of his youth. “But he had an air noble--a great spirit,” cried Baptiste. “But madame loved him! She wept--all St. Ouen wept, monsieur--and he was the last of an old race. Now there are only the women, and madame herself is a foreigner and a stranger, and knows not our traditions. Ah, it is a great change for the house of Roche de St. Martin! If you will believe it, monsieur, madame herself is called by the common people nothing but Madame Roche!”