Alaine once showed the little old book with its silver clasps to her cousin Étienne. “I remember it well,” he told her; “it belonged to our great-grandfather, for in his day the Psalms of David were held in great esteem by the ladies and gentlemen of the court, and once on a time in the heart of Paris, on the favorite promenade, five or six thousand, including the king and queen of Navarre, joined in singing psalms.”
“It must have been fine. I wish I had been there,” Alaine exclaimed, clapping her hands. “Go on, Étienne, what more about the book?”
“It is a seditious thing now,” he returned, turning to the copy of the Hervieu coat of arms on the inside cover. “If we were as zealous as we should be we would burn it, for if it were discovered here trouble might come of it. Let us make a fire of the heretical thing, Alaine.”
“No, no.” Alaine clasped it to her breast. “I like it, Étienne. It is a family relic. I will keep it safely hidden, and no one shall know of it.”
She did keep it safely hidden, and her father never once asked for it, because another book had taken its place; one over which he pored for hours at a time, and which Alaine knew to be a Bible. Was her father turning Protestant? she asked herself.
Within the last few months it was Alaine who tried to divert her father, for often there was a cloud upon his brow, and he was frequently grave and taciturn, so that his daughter tried to set him laughing when she could, and when she could not would take refuge with her cousin Étienne, who lived but a short distance away. He was her elder by ten years, but a good companion for all that, with whom Alaine quarrelled once a day upon an average, and upon whom she penitently used her blandishments when next they met.
She, therefore, was quite ready for Étienne when he appeared upon the terrace the next morning after her latest quarrel with him. “Papa did not come, Étienne,” she cried, jumping up to meet him, “but Michelle says it is nothing; men are often detained so. Come, sit here and tell me what you have done, and how is my aunt; also, if you have that piece of news you offered me yesterday.”
“Am I a thief and robber, then? A monster and a beast?” he asked, sitting down beside her.
“No, you are not; it was yesterday you were those things, and this is to-day.”
“Child!” he exclaimed, “but a woman-child for all. Alainette, would you turn Protestant if your father were one?”