‘Louise Gauthier.’
‘I don’t remember to have heard it. I ought to have known, though, that you were from the south by your accent. And what brought you to Paris?’
‘There has been much misery and persecution amongst us,’ answered the girl; ‘for we are Protestant; almost all our homes have been broken up, for that reason, and so,’—and she hesitated—‘and so I came up to seek work.’
‘Was there no other reason?’ asked the man. ‘I think there must have been.’
‘I went to the Gobelins,’ continued Louise, avoiding the question, ‘and got employment. I heard that others had gained money there.’
‘And rank too,’ said the fool. ‘My master had a customer this afternoon—an officer in the King’s army, who is better known as the Marquis of Brinvilliers than by his proper name of Antoine Gobelin. The water of the Bièvre has rather enriched his blood; he has besides a fair income, and a fairer wife. And are you there still?’
‘I am not. I was discharged from the atelier this morning for resisting the importunities of the superintendent Lachaussée, and I am now alone—alone!’
She hid her face in her hands, and burst into tears.
‘And why not return to Languedoc, my poor girl?’ said the mountebank, in a kind voice, which associated but oddly with his quaint dress. ‘They would scarcely care to persecute such a gentle thing as yourself—Protestant though you be.’
‘No, no, I cannot leave Paris. There is another object that keeps me here; or rather it did—for all hope is gone. There is now nothing left for me but death. I could have remained unheeded in the country; but in this great city the solitude is fearful: those who are alone, alone can tell how terrible it is.’