“We want no empty boasters.  We will not let him steal our trade secrets.”

That night, going home to his lodging, the Englishman was set upon by the Italian, and pricked with his stiletto, narrowly escaping with his life.  He gave him what he called “a good English black-eye,” and bawled loudly for justice.  The Italian ran off, and was no more seen; and the Englishman, whose ugly name was Hogg, talked big about applying to his ambassador, Sir William Trumbull, but was induced to let the matter drop.  The ambassador shortly had worse things to complain of.

The next day was the Catholic Feast of St. Magdalen, which, though we Huguenots felt no manner of respect for, we were obliged to conform to outwardly, by not selling or working in open shops, till the services of the day were over.  We made up to ourselves for it by having a prayer-service of our own in-doors, followed by a long exposition and exhortation from a godly minister named Brignolles, who warned us of times of trial that should soon be revealed, and adjured us to put on the whole armor of God, that we might be able to withstand in the evil day, and having done all, to stand.  Then, after our mid-day meal, we went forth to see the show.

This time I had the care of Gabrielle, and wished I had not, for she was in her giddiest humor, and a young man, whose appearance I did not like, continually hung about us, and looked attentively at her, which I resented, but she was evidently pleased with.  At length, some waxwork attracting our notice, a change took place in the disposition of our party.  I shifted the charge of Gabrielle to her father, and got Madeleine instead.  My memories of the rest of the day are more about Madeleine than anything else.

I remember, though, that we fell in with our neighbors the Lefevres at a waxwork stall, and while Madeleine and I were admiring some fruit that exactly imitated nature, little Jules Lefevre stretched out his hand to touch a little waxen boy with a lamb, saying, “Pretty, pretty!”

“Dear child, you shall have it!” cried a honeyed voice behind; and a lady nicely dressed put the image into his hand, and stooped down to kiss him.  When Marie Lefevre turned round, and saw what her little boy held, she looked displeased, and made him lay it on the stall again, for it was one of those papistical images which we hold in detestation.

At night, when all had dispersed but our own immediate party, there was a pause, and I saw that the elders had something on their minds that they were about to unfold.  I felt a strange emotion that presaged what was coming, for not a hint had been dropped.

“Son,” said my father—­and I looked towards him with awe—­“you are now on the confines of manhood, and it behooves us to consider your future.  At your time of life I was betrothed to your mother, and a share was promised me of my father’s business.  What are your own views respecting your course in life?”