“I have warned you, madame,� he said benignly. “Convey my devotion to mademoiselle—my regret that she is absent from home at this hour. I will soon present myself again; meanwhile, madame, rest assured of my faithful friendship.�
He bowed profoundly, his hand again on his heart, and retired, leaving the poor old woman collapsed in her chair; nor did she breathe freely until she heard his horse’s hoofs on the road to Nîmes.
Meanwhile a very different scene had been enacted in the kitchen. Babet was making a ragoût over the fire; the steward leaned against the window, posted there to watch for the visitor’s departure; the hunchbacked cobbler was by the door, and in the centre of the room stood mademoiselle herself, although she was supposed to be out,—mademoiselle in flesh and blood, and a picture to look at in her malicious triumph over her escape. She wore a white print frock, the neck open enough to show her full, fair throat, and the half-sleeves revealing her round, white arms. Her golden hair had half escaped from its braids and rippled about her rosy, dimpled face, and her blue eyes danced with merriment. It was her birthday, and M. de Baudri had brought a suitable gift, an enamelled casket, but she held in her hands two little white satin shoes with pink rosettes, and the shoemaker’s drawn face was lighted with a reflection of her pleasure.
“You are surely a magician, Charlot,� she said, admiring them for the twentieth time. “I know these are enchanted slippers, and in them I shall walk into the palace of my dreams, where there is no trouble, and Babet and I do not have to conjure a dinner!�
“Ah, mademoiselle, if I could but make such shoes!� exclaimed le Bossu, with a smile; “the poor cobbler of St. Antoine would be made a marquis.�
“’Tis better to give happiness than to be rich, Charlot,� she replied, “and you have given me so much pleasure to-day that I can even endure M. de Baudri’s visit in the parlor!� and she laughed gayly.
“If he hears you laugh, mademoiselle, he will stay to dinner,� remarked Babet grimly, looking over her shoulder as she stirred the stew.
“You have found a way to make me as still as a mouse, Babet,� Rosaline said. “Has he not gone yet, M. d’Aguesseau?�
François shook his head with a smile.
“As a suitor he has the patience of Jacob, mademoiselle,� he replied.