"Why, surely you don't take us to be _croquemitaines_ who devour little children; do you?" "Have you got a little girl of your own?" queried the little one, suddenly. "No, my dear," replied the old gentleman, visibly affected by the question. "I have no wife; therefore I cannot have a little girl." "But my mama has no husband, and she 's got me," prattled the child. "That is different, my dear. But if I have not got a little girl, I know very well what to do for one." As he spoke he drew off the child's wet slippers and stockings, rubbed her feet with a flannel cloth, then laid her on the bed which stood in the alcove. "Why, how warm this bed is!" cried the child; "just as if some one had been sleeping here." The old man's face betrayed some confusion as he responded: "Might I not have warmed it with a warming-pan?" "But where did you get hot coals?" "Well, well, what an inquisitive little creature it is!" muttered the old man. Then, aloud: "My dear, don't you say your prayers before going to sleep?" "No, indeed! Mama says we shall have plenty of time for that when we grow old." "An enlightened woman, truly! Well, I dare say, my little maid, your convictions will not prevent you from drinking a cup of egg-punch, and partaking of a bit of pasty or a small biscuit?" At mention of these dainties the child's countenance brightened; and while she was eating the repast with evident relish, the younger man rummaged from somewhere a large, beautifully dressed doll. All thought of fear now vanished from the small guest's mind. She clasped the toy in her arms, and, having finished her light meal, began to sing a lullaby, to which she very soon fell asleep herself. "She is sleeping soundly," whispered the elder man, softly drawing together the faded damask bed-curtains, and walking on tiptoe back to the fireplace, where his companion had fanned the fire into a fresh blaze. "It is high time," was the low and rather impatient response. "We can't stop here much longer. Do you know what has happened to the duke?" "Yes, I know. He has been sentenced to death. To-morrow he will be executed. What have you discovered?" "A fox on the trail of a lion!" harshly replied the young man. "He who aroused so many hopes is, after all, nothing more than an impostor--Leon Maria Hervagault, the son of a tailor at St. Leu. The true dauphin, the son of Louis XVI., really died a natural death, after he had served a three years' apprenticeship as shoemaker under Master Simho; and in order that a later generation might not be able to secure his ashes, he was buried in quick-lime in the Chapel of St. Margarethe." "They were not so scrupulous concerning monsieur,"[1] observed the old man, restlessly pacing the floor. "I received a letter from my agent to-day; he writes that monsieur was secretly shot at Dillingen." [Footnote 1: Count de Provence, afterward Louis XVIII.] "What! He, too? Then--"