as she approached him with downcast eyes.
“May God keep you, my child!” said Peyrou, affectionately, for he loved her as he loved all who belonged to the family of his old captain, the Commander des Anbiez.
“May St. Magnus and St. Elzear aid you, Master Peyrou!” replied Stephanette, with her most beautiful curtsey.
“Thank you for your good wishes, Stephanette. How are monseigneur and Mlle. Reine, your young and beautiful mistress? Has she recovered from her fright of the other day?”
“Yes, Master Peyrou; mademoiselle is better, although she is still quite pale. But was ever such a miscreant seen? To dare kiss mademoiselle! and that, too, in the presence of monseigneur and her betrothed! But people say these Muscovites are barbarians. They are more savage and more of Antichrist than the Turks themselves, are they not, Master Peyrou? They will be damned twice in a doubly hot fire.”
Without replying to Stephanette’s theological argument, the watchman said to her: “Does not monseigneur resent this breach of good manners?”
“He! Why, Master Peyrou, as true as Rosseline is a saint in Paradise, the same day that monseigneur came so near falling into the chasm of Ollioules, he supped as merrily as if he had just returned from a patronal feast. Indeed, it is so,—and he drank two cups of Spanish wine to the health of the young miscreant! And would you believe it, Master Peyrou, he is never tired of boasting of the courage and agility of the Muscovite! Yes, he said: ‘Manjour! instead of stealing the pin and kiss like a thief, why did he not ask for them,—my daughter Reine would have given him a kiss, and with a good heart too!’ And ever since that day monseigneur is constantly saying, ‘Really, these Muscovites are strange companions.’ But for all that, M. Honorât de Berrol turns red with indignation whenever he hears this impudent fellow, who stole a kiss from his betrothed, mentioned. And another strange thing, Master Peyrou, is that monseigneur is not willing to get rid of that wicked little horse, Mistraon, that has been the cause of all the mischief; he rides it in preference to any other. Now say, Master Peyrou, don’t you think that is tempting Providence?”
“Have these strangers departed from Marseilles?” asked the watchman, without replying to Stephanette.
“Yes, Master Peyrou, they say they have taken the route to Languedoc, after having made a visit to the Marshal of Vitry. They say, too, that this wicked duke is quite worthy of being acquainted with such rascals. Ah, if monseigneur had his way, the marshal would not be governor of Provence very long. The baron cannot hear him mentioned without flying into a passion,—such a passion! you have no idea of it, Master Peyrou.” “Yes, my child, I have seen the baron, at the time of the revolt of the Cascabeoux, act as his father did at the time of the revolt of the Razats, under Henry III., and again at the time of the rebellion of the Gascons against the Duke d’Epemon, under the last reign. Yes, yes; I know that Raimond V. hates his enemies as much as he loves his friends.”
“You are right, Master Peyrou, and monseigneur’s anger against the governor has increased since this recorder of the admiralty of Toulon, Master Isnard, who they say is so wicked, has been visiting the castles of the diocese by order of his Eminence, the cardinal. Monseigneur says these visits are an outrage upon the nobility, and that the Marshal of Vitry is a scoundrel. Between us, I am of the same opinion, since he protects shameless Muscovites who have the insolence to kiss young girls when they are not expecting it.”
“My opinion is, Stephanette, that you are very severe upon young men who kiss young girls,” said the old man with mock gravity, “which proves that you are naturally ferocious,—but what do you want of me?”
“Master Peyrou,” said the girl, with an air of embarrassment, “I want to know if the weather promises a good passage to Nice, and if one could leave this port with safety.”
“You wish, then, to go to Nice, my child?”
“No, not I exactly, but a brave and honest sailor who—who—”
“Ah, I understand, I understand,” said the watchman, interrupting Stephanette’s stammering; “you mean young Bernard, patron of the tartan, the Sacred Balm.”
“No, no, Master Peyrou, I assure you I do not mean him,” said the girl, turning as red as a cherry.
“Come, come, you need not blush like that,” and the watchman added, in a lower tone: “Was the beautiful bouquet of green thyme, that he tied three days ago to your window bar with rose coloured ribbon, to your taste?”
“A bouquet of green thyme! What bouquet are you talking about, Master Peyrou?”
The watchman held up a threatening finger to Stephanette and said: “What! last Thursday, at daybreak, did not the patron Bernard carry a bouquet to your window?”
“Wait,—let me see, Master Peyrou,” said the young girl, with an air of recalling something to her memory; “was it then yesterday that, in opening my casement, I found something like a bundle of dried herbs?”
“Stephanette, Stephanette! you cannot deceive the old watchman. Listen; patron Bernard had hardly descended, when you came and untied the rose coloured ribbon, and put the bouquet in a pretty terra-cotta vase, and you have watered it every morning; yesterday was the only day you neglected it, and it has withered—”
The young girl stared at the watchman in utter amazement. This revelation seemed like sorcery.
The old man looked at her with a mischievous expression, and continued:
“So it is not the patron Bernard who is going to Nice?”
“No, Master Peyrou.” “Then it must be the pilot Terzarol.”
“The pilot Terzarol!” cried Stephanette, clasping her hands, “may Our Lady help me, if I know anything about this pilot going to sea.”
“Well, well, my child, I was mistaken about Bernard, for it is true that you have allowed his bouquet to wither, but I am not mistaken about Terzarol, because yesterday, from the height of the castle turret, you passed more than two hours looking at the bold pilot throwing nets.” “I, Master Peyrou, I?”
“Your very self, Stephanette, and at each cast of the net, Terzarol waved his cap in triumph, and you waved your handkerchief in congratulation; he ought to have made a good haul, so enthusiastically did he labour,—you come then to ask me if Terzarol will have a good voyage to Nice?”
This time Stephanette began to feel afraid, as she realised how much the watchman knew.
“Ah, my faith, Master Peyrou, you know everything!” cried she, innocently.
The old man smiled, shook his head, and replied in the words of the Provencal proverb, “Experienco passo scienco,—experience passes science.”
The poor child, fearing that the watchman’s marvellous discoveries concerning her innocent coquetry might give him a bad opinion of her, cried, with tears in her eyes, as she clasped her hands:
“Ah, Master Peyrou, I am an honest girl!”
“I know it, my child,” said the watchman, pressing her hand affectionately. “I know that you are worthy of the protection and affection which your noble and kind mistress shows you. It is only girlish mischief and love of fun which tempts you to turn the heads of these young men, and make poor Luquin Trinquetaille
