He had a new name for her every time he came, usually a long one.  “But why Sainte Marthe?” she asked, running to let him in.

“She is the patron saint of cooks and housewives, petite.  A good cook can do anything.  Sainte Marthe entertained the blessed Lord in her own home, and was the first nun of the sisterhood she founded.  Moreover when she was preaching at Aix a fearful dragon by the name of Tarasque inhabited the river Rhone, and came out each night to devastate the country until Sainte Marthe was the means of his—­conversion.”

“Oh, go on!” cried Helene, and Lescarbot sat down on the old bench under the pear-tree and began to help with the herbs.

“Sainte Marthe was an excellent cook, and the first thing she did when she founded her convent was to plant a kitchen-garden.  On Saint John’s Eve she went into the garden and watered each plant with holy water, blessing it in the use of God.  People came from miles around to get roots and seeds from the garden and to ask for Sainte Marthe’s recipes for broths and cordials for the sick.  Often they brought roots of such plants as rhubarb and—­er—­marigold, which had been imported from heathen countries, to be blessed and made wholesome.”  Lescarbot’s eye rested on the potato plant, which he distrusted.

“Well.  The dragon prowled around and around the convent walls, but of course he could not come in.  At last he pretended to be sick and sent for Sainte Marthe to come and cure him.  As soon as she set eyes on him she knew what a wicked lie he had told, and resolved to punish him for his impudence.  Of course all he wanted of her was to get her recipes for sauces and stews so that he might cook and eat his victims without having indigestion—­which is what a good sauce is for.  Sainte Marthe promised to make him some broth if he would do no harm while she was gone, and just to make sure he kept his promise she made him hold out his fore-paws and tied them hard and fast with her girdle, while he sat with his fore-legs around his—­er—­knees, and her broomstick thrust crosswise between.  Then she got out her largest kettle and made a good savory broth of all the herbs in her garden—­there were three hundred and sixty-five kinds.  She knew that if he drank it all, the blessed herbs would work such a change in his inside that he would be like a lamb forever after.

“But one thing neither she nor Tarasque had thought of, and that was, that the broth was hot.  Of course he always took his food and drink very cold.  When he smelled its delicious fragrance he opened his mouth wide, and she poured it hissing hot down his throat, and it melted him into a famous bubbling spring.  People go there to be cured of colic.”

Helene drew a long breath.  She did not believe that Lescarbot had found that story in any book of legends of the saints, but she liked it none the worse for that.

“I wonder if Sainte Marthe blessed this garden?” she said.