“You need not shrink from me,” said La Croissette, advancing among us when he had looked around.  “I may not be as good as yourselves, or I may be—­that’s neither here nor there.  I’m not quite a bad fellow, I believe, though at times I am driven to keep indifferent company.  Still, I am not very fond of those I’m among at present, so I thought I’d look in on you.  Your servant, sir,” to my father.  “A votre service, madame,” very politely to my mother.  “You were not here last night, when your son and that young lady rather unexpectedly looked in on us.  To speak the truth, there are reasons why some of us don’t relish being looked in on unexpectedly.”

“Quite natural,” said my father; “no more do we.”

“Ah, but you need not be afraid of me,” said La Croissette, “I’m no traitor, I!  It might be rash, though, to say as much of some of my companions, and therefore I advise you not to be too familiar with them.”

“My good friend, we have not the least intention of being so.”

“Age is wary, and youth is full of trust,” said La Croissette.  “Not knowing that you, respected sir, and you, madame, were here to look after the younger persons, I ventured to do so myself, to bid them beware of their neighbors.”

“That was very friendly, and I thank you heartily for it,” said my father.

“Shall you remain here long?” said La Croissette.

“That depends entirely on circumstances.”

“Doubtless you are hiding from the dragoons.”

“Is it necessary to tell you?”

“Why, no; but you might do so without fear.  I have no love for them myself, but nothing to fear; I am certainly not a Huguenot; but neither would I betray one.  Come, I see you would rather I went away.  I am going into town.  There is nothing I can do for you, then?”

“Nothing; we thank you very much.”

When he was gone, Gabrielle exclaimed, “Now that is what I call an opportunity wasted.”

“We must beware, my child, who we trust,” said my mother.

“Of course; but he was so evidently a harmless, good sort of man.”

“We had no occasion to trouble him.”

Gabrielle plainly thought there was a good deal of occasion.  Indeed, had she known she was actually doomed to spend a few days in the vaults of Les Arenes, I am persuaded she would have fitted them up with upholstery and eatables, even to pickles and preserves.  Meanwhile Madeleine was beguiling the time to the children by setting them easy sums on the wall, scratched with a nail, and drawing pictures for them with the same implement, accompanied with stories, as thus:—­“Once on a time there was a poor Christian captive in this very dungeon—­here he is (drawing his picture)—­sentenced to be thrown to the lions (picture).  Once he had been a little boy like this (picture), fond of playing with other little boys (picture), and ready to carry his mother’s pitcher to the well (picture),