Nothing in the world smelled so sweet as fresh sun-dried linen, thought Alaine as she watched Michelle heaping the white pile upon her strong arms; unless, indeed, Alaine reflected a moment later, it be a loaf baking in the oven, yet even that did not suggest odorous grass and winds laden with the fragrance of hedge and wood. She lay in the long grass, chin in hands, her brown eyes wandering over the low-growing objects which her position brought easily within her vision. “Now I know what it is to be a creature like Fifi; no wonder he is forever running after the impossible, as it seems to me, for I, gigantically lifted above him, cannot see the objects on a level with his sharp eyes.” She watched her dog darting among the stubble at the edge of the field, and as she idly viewed his gambols her eyes caught sight of a yellow flower growing near the hedge. She lifted her little head with its toss of brown hair, then drew her slender, lithe body from its covert to stand erect and to walk slowly across the open space to gather the wild marigold, at which she gazed thoughtfully, standing so still that her shadow scarcely wavered.
The sudden sharp bark of her little dog roused her, and she turned her head to see some one coming toward her,—a young man swinging along with an easy, confident tread.
“Good-evening, my cousin,” he cried. “You were so deep in thought that I fancied I should not move you till I came near enough to touch you. What are you studying so intently?”
“This.” Alaine held out her yellow blossom. “Tell me, Étienne, does it turn always to the sun, this yellow marigold?”
“Who told you so?”
“Michelle, and she says it was chosen as her device by Margaret of Valois because it does truly resemble the sun. It is likewise the emblem of the Protestants, who say that it signifies that they ever turn to the true source of light,—God in his heaven. Was Margaret of Valois Protestant, Étienne, and——”
“Is Michelle, then, Protestant?” Étienne interrupted her by asking.
“Yes, I think so. I know so. She has a little Bible, Étienne, which she guards sacredly, and she makes long journeys at night to secret meetings, I fancy. She is very good and devout, Étienne, but still——”
“Still you can cry, ‘À bas les Huguenots!’ is it not so? She would make you Protestant, my cousin, would she not?”
Alaine looked up at him gravely from under her long lashes. She wondered how much she dared tell to this cousin to whose opinions she had deferred ever since she could remember.