"Perhaps she is the mother of messire?"
"Prater, how thou talkest! she is my best beloved—my betrothed wife!" said Gray, with enthusiasm.
"Diable! Bon Dieu!" exclaimed Baudoin, making a pirouette. "Messire must not despair."
"I do not despair, Maître Baudoin; but I am sorely bewildered," said poor Gray, passing a hand across his scarred forehead.
"Messire, with your permission, I shall tell you a little story."
"Say on, my friend."
"Have you perceived near the church of Jesus—just about thirty paces from it—a well, covered with curious ironwork?"
"Yes; what about it?"
"The branches from which the pulley hangs are rich with foliaged work of iron, and are deemed a miracle of skill. They were the chef d'œuvre of a famous young smith of Antwerp who dearly loved the daughter of a great painter, and desired greatly to win his esteem; so he lavished all the energies of his soul, and all the cunning of his hands, all his skill and experience, upon that piece of ironwork; but when it was finished, monsieur the painter viewed it coldly, and said, crustily,
"'I cannot agree to have you for a son-in-law.'"