"You seem to have talked very much about me, Miriam," I said. "When was all this?"
"Oh, it was when we were last in Paris," replied the girl; "when we were staying at the house of Levi, my father's cousin, who has become a Christian, you know; and then I would go and see the lady that you had written to, which he told me about, and who had written to you again, and sent it to my fathers house at Bordeaux for the old merchant. And when the Baron de Blancford wanted the Persian silver brocade for his wife, I went with Martin Vern, that is, with the old merchant, and saw the young lady too, and spoke with her in the cabinet behind the great saloon. I told her then that if she would write you a letter, and send it to Levi's house, it should be conveyed to you; but I did not think then that I should carry it myself."
"And was it so the letter came to me?" I said. "I had fancied, Miriam, that your father had got it when he was in the Protestant camp."
"Oh, no," she replied; "I carried it all the way in my bosom. And now I wish you would tell me why you are so sad, and why she looked so sad too. Perhaps I could do more than you know."
"Oh, no, Miriam," I answered, "You could do no thing, my good girl. That which makes me sad would need a more skilful surgeon than you are to cure."
She looked in my face for a moment, as if to see whether I was speaking plainly or metaphorically, and she then cried, "Ay, now I understand you. You love her, and she loves you, and they will not give her to you in marriage."
"Ay, Miriam," I answered, with a sigh, as she came so near the truth; "and they talk of giving her to another."
"Who to? who to?" cried the girl, eagerly. "I heard something once which makes me suspect."
"Oh, no," I replied, "You know him not, Miriam. His name is the Seigneur de Blaye."
"I hate him!" cried the girl, bounding up from her seat as if I had pronounced some talismanic word; "I hate him! He dared to take hold of me when my father was gone to get him the money he wanted from the other room, and asked me if I would go and live with him; and when I told him no, I would rather be catching-wench to a butcher's wife, he struck me on the face with his fingers, and called me a name that I must not speak. I never told my father, or I believe he would have stabbed him; but I hate him, and I shall ever hate him. Oh, seigneur!" she continued, turning towards me and clasping her hands together, "You have been very good and kind indeed to me and mine, and to all that I ever heard mention your name. It is such people as you that make us know what good people there can be; and I will try to show you that there can be gratitude in a poor little Jewish girl. I told my father, when he knew the people intended to murder him on the march from Jarnac, that if he would let me go and speak to you, you would be kind to him. He would not believe me for a long while; but he said that, if you were, you would be the first Christian that ever looked upon a Jew as anything but a dog. My father, however, can be grateful too, seigneur; and, though you may think that poor little Miriam has no power, yet in this business she may have more power than you know of."