The Refugees | Page 2

the same
disappeared into high polished boots with gilt spurs upon the heels. A
silver-hilted rapier and a plumed cap lying upon a settle beside him
completed a costume which was a badge of honour to the wearer, for

any Frenchman would have recognised it as being that of an officer in
the famous Blue Guard of Louis the Fourteenth. A trim, dashing soldier
he looked, with his curling black hair and well-poised head. Such he
had proved himself before now in the field, too, until the name of
Amory de Catinat had become conspicuous among the thousands of the
valiant lesser noblesse who had flocked into the service of the king.
They were first cousins, these two, and there was just sufficient
resemblance in the clear-cut features to recall the relationship. De
Catinat was sprung from a noble Huguenot family, but having lost his
parents early he had joined the army, and had worked his way without
influence and against all odds to his present position. His father's
younger brother, however, finding every path to fortune barred to him
through the persecution to which men of his faith were already
subjected, had dropped the "de" which implied his noble descent, and
he had taken to trade in the city of Paris, with such success that he was
now one of the richest and most prominent citizens of the town. It was
under his roof that the guardsman now sat, and it was his only daughter
whose white hand he held in his own.
"Tell me, Adele," said he, "why do you look troubled?"
"I am not troubled, Amory,"
"Come, there is just one little line between those curving brows. Ah, I
can read you, you see, as a shepherd reads the sky."
"It is nothing, Amory, but--"
"But what?"
"You leave me this evening."
"But only to return to-morrow."
"And must you really, really go to-night?"
"It would be as much as my commission is worth to be absent. Why, I

am on duty to-morrow morning outside the king's bedroom! After
chapel-time Major de Brissac will take my place, and then I am free
once more."
"Ah, Amory, when you talk of the king and the court and the grand
ladies, you fill me with wonder."
"And why with wonder?"
"To think that you who live amid such splendour should stoop to the
humble room of a mercer."
"Ah, but what does the room contain?"
"There is the greatest wonder of all. That you who pass your days amid
such people, so beautiful, so witty, should think me worthy of your
love, me, who am such a quiet little mouse, all alone in this great house,
so shy and so backward! It is wonderful!"
"Every man has his own taste," said her cousin, stroking the tiny hand.
"It is with women as with flowers. Some may prefer the great brilliant
sunflower, or the rose, which is so bright and large that it must ever
catch the eye. But give me the little violet which hides among the
mosses, and yet is so sweet to look upon, and sheds its fragrance round
it. But still that line upon your brow, dearest."
"I was wishing that father would return."
"And why? Are you so lonely, then?"
Her pale face lit up with a quick smile. "I shall not be lonely until
to-night. But I am always uneasy when he is away. One hears so much
now of the persecution of our poor brethren."
"Tut! my uncle can defy them."
"He has gone to the provost of the Mercer Guild about this notice of the
quartering of the dragoons."

"Ah, you have not told me of that."
"Here it is." She rose and took up a slip of blue paper with a red seal
dangling from it which lay upon the table. His strong, black brows
knitted together as he glanced at it.
"Take notice," it ran, "that you, Theophile Catinat, cloth-mercer of the
Rue St. Martin, are hereby required to give shelter and rations to twenty
men of the Languedoc Blue Dragoons under Captain Dalbert, until
such time as you receive a further notice. [Signed] De Beaupre
(Commissioner of the King)."
De Catinat knew well how this method of annoying Huguenots had
been practised all over France, but he had flattered himself that his own
position at court would have insured his kinsman from such an outrage.
He threw the paper down with an exclamation of anger.
"When do they come?"
"Father said to-night."
"Then they shall not be here long. To-morrow I shall have an order to
remove them. But the sun has sunk behind St. Martin's Church, and I
should already be upon my way."
"No, no; you must not go yet."
"I would that I could give you into your father's