“A faithful servant,� remarked Rosaline, following her with her eyes. “She was my nurse when I was a baby, and she treats me as a child. Doubtless, monsieur, you think that we lead a strange life at St. Cyr. I fancy it is very different from the lives of other women of our rank, but what else can we do? We are poor, and we are glad of our humble friend Babet; indeed, I think that she and the little cobbler, Charlot, are our most devoted allies. After all, I imagine that grand’mère and I would be very unhappy if we were surrounded with state, and had all our sweet liberty restricted. Were you ever at Versailles, monsieur?�
“But once,� he said quietly. “I went to try to see the king. I wanted to petition him for my innocent sister’s liberty—that I might take her place.�
“Forgive me!� Rosaline exclaimed; “I did not think of the pain I should give. Tell me,� she went on hurriedly, “have you ever seen Cavalier or Roland? To-night, in the darkness, I wanted to see him; ’tis true that they lighted the torches about him, but in that wild illumination I made out nothing except that he appeared a boy. But he did not speak like one!�
“He looked very young,� François replied; “but there is a certain force about him. I never saw him before, but I shall not soon forget him, or the poor, crazed girl.�
“Did you think her demented?� asked Rosaline. “To me she seemed inspired, and surely she preached a wonderful sermon; still, as you say, she spoke wildly.�
“I thought her demented,� he rejoined quietly; “there are so many of these young girls prophesying. It seems to me that it is more the result of suffering, of the horrible spectacles they have witnessed, than a touch of sacred inspiration.�
“It may be so,� she admitted, reluctantly, “but surely such times as these might well produce prophets and soothsayers.�
They were in sight of the château now and saw the light burning in Madame de St. Cyr’s room. She was too feeble to go out on such perilous expeditions and had remained behind in fear and trembling, praying for their safe return. When Babet opened the wicket-gate they were greeted by Truffe’s warning bark, and she was at the door to greet them with noisy joy. Rosaline and M. d’Aguesseau went to Madame de St. Cyr to tell her of the congregation, and Babet retired to her own domain to meditate in solitude on mademoiselle and their visitor.
Rosaline recounted their visit to the quarry where the Camisards met, and old madame listened with eagerness, her pale face unusually animated. She wanted to hear everything, Cavalier’s speech, the sermon of the young girl,—one of the prophets of the Cévenols,—the prayer offered by one of the ministers, the psalms they sang. But she shook her head when she heard that Cavalier had sent word to M. Montrevel that for every Protestant village that the maréchal destroyed, he, Cavalier, would destroy two Papist villages.
“’Twill be useless,� she said quietly; “the king will pour his soldiers upon us, and Languedoc will be laid waste; we cannot prevail against such power. My husband always said so, and my son. They used to say that if the Edict of Nantes should be revoked, the Protestants would soon be destroyed. It will be so—I have felt it from the first.�