D’Aguesseau was turning away in stern disgust, when he came face to face with a hideous old woman, with a string of fish in her hand. She had been gloating over the chain, and she was smiling amiably still, running her very red tongue along the edge of her red lips. She curtsied to François and held out her fish.
“A bargain, monsieur,� she said pleasantly. “The sight of the red-jackets makes Mère Tigrane feel good; the fish are cheap.�
He shook his head, making an effort to pass her, but she persisted.
“One fish, monsieur,� she protested,—“a mountain trout. Dame! ’tis fresh, caught this morning. The spectacle of these Huguenots has made monsieur hungry.�
“My good woman, I want neither fish nor fowl,� d’Aguesseau said impatiently.
“Monsieur makes a mistake,� she persisted with a grin; “these are good fish, caught in the stream where they drowned a Camisard witch last week!�
With a suppressed exclamation he thrust her aside and walked on, her shrill laughter in his ears, and the cries of the rabble in the yard of the Golden Cup. As for Mère Tigrane, she stood a moment looking longingly at the inn; could she forego the diversion? Finally, she decided between two attractions, and quietly followed D’Aguesseau.
The next day, when François descended from his room, he heard voices in the shop, and saw that the cobbler was talking to two women. One was tall, raw-boned, and grim-faced, with iron-gray hair and keen black eyes, and wore the dress of an upper servant; the other was one of the most charming young girls he had ever seen. He stood in the kitchen undecided whether to retire or to quietly admire the picture, but before he could determine upon his proper course le Bossu called him.
“Come in, monsieur,� he said; “Mademoiselle de St. Cyr would speak to you.�
François responded with some surprise, and bowed in reply to Rosaline’s curtsey.