The cobbler’s pale face grew sad again.
“Alas, mademoiselle,� he said, with a sigh, “to you ’tis a jest, but to some—� he shook his head gravely, looking down at the little blue slippers in her lap.
“What is the matter?� she asked quickly, the smile dying on her lips. “Have they—been burning any one lately in Nîmes?�
“Nay, mademoiselle,� he replied, kneeling on one knee in the gravel path, and taking the slippers off her small feet to try on the new ones.
“Come, come, Charlot—tell me,� persisted his patroness, scarcely heeding the shoe that he was drawing on her right foot. “You are as solemn as an owl this morning.�
“I will tell mademoiselle,� he rejoined, reverently arranging the rosette and smoothing the white silk stocking around the slender ankle. “Then she must not blame me if she is horrified.�
“She is often horrified,� interrupted Rosaline, with a soft little laugh. “Go on, Charlot.�
“There was a fair on Saturday—mademoiselle knows, for I saw Babet there buying a silk handkerchief—�
“Babet cannot stay away from a fair for her life,� mademoiselle interpolated again.
“’Twas a very fine fair,� continued le Bossu, putting on the other slipper. “There were many attractions, and the jailer—Zénon—had the body of a damned woman there; Adolphe, the showman, exhibited it for half a crown. She, the dead woman, was, they say, one of the Huguenot prisoners from the Tour de Constance, and she died on her way here; she was to be examined by M. de Bâville for some reason,—what, I know not,—but she died on the road, and Zénon made much by the exhibition.�