They walked on in silence, Nigel meditating on what he had heard.
“Some fresh air will do you good after the scenes we have witnessed,” observed Maître Leroux. “We will take a turn in the Pré-aux-Clercs. It is but a short distance past the Invalides.”
It was evening, and a number of people were thronging that pleasant meadow on the banks of the Seine, the Hyde Park of that period. A party of young men coming by struck up one of the hymns of Marot, a translation of one of the psalms of David, written some years before by the Protestant poet. Others joined in, and evidently sang them heartily; several other parties, as they passed along, were indulging in the same melodies.
“How is it, after what you have told me, that the people venture to sing these hymns?” asked Nigel. “I know them well, for they have already been introduced into our Protestant congregations in Scotland.”
“They became the favourites of the king and court before they had the significance they now possess,” answered the steward; “and it is only thus that many who hate the papal system can give expression to their sentiments. Before long, however, I fear that they will be prohibited, or those who sing them will be marked as suspected. Alas, alas! our lovely France will be deprived of all freedom of thought, opinion, and action.”
The worthy Maître Leroux seemed greatly out of spirits as they took their way back to the inn. They parted at the door, for Nigel felt no inclination to go forth again, and the steward had business, he said, to attend to. He promised to call for Nigel at an early hour the next morning to set out for Meaux, undertaking to direct Jacques Cochût to have his horses in readiness.