But presently Croisette had something to add.  “What will the Wolf say?” he whispered to me.

“Ah!  To be sure!” I exclaimed aloud.  I had been thinking of myself before; but this opened quite another window.  “What will the Vidame say, Kit?”

She dropped her kerchief from her face, and turned so pale that I was sorry I had spoken—­apart from the kick Croisette gave me.  “Is M. de Bezers at his house?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes” Croisette answered.  “He came in last night from St. Antonin, with very small attendance.”

The news seemed to set her fears at rest instead of augmenting them as I should have expected.  I suppose they were rather for Louis de Pavannes, than for herself.  Not unnaturally, too, for even the Wolf could scarcely have found it in his heart to hurt our cousin.  Her slight willowy figure, her pale oval face and gentle brown eyes, her pleasant voice, her kindness, seemed to us boys and in those days, to sum up all that was womanly.  We could not remember, not even Croisette the youngest of us—­who was seventeen, a year junior to Marie and myself—­we were twins—­the time when we had not been in love with her.

But let me explain how we four, whose united ages scarce exceeded seventy years, came to be lounging on the terrace in the holiday stillness of that afternoon.  It was the summer of 1572.  The great peace, it will be remembered, between the Catholics and the Huguenots had not long been declared; the peace which in a day or two was to be solemnized, and, as most Frenchmen hoped, to be cemented by the marriage of Henry of Navarre with Margaret of Valois, the King’s sister.  The Vicomte de Caylus, Catherine’s father and our guardian, was one of the governors appointed to see the peace enforced; the respect in which he was held by both parties—­he was a Catholic, but no bigot, God rest his soul!—­ recommending him for this employment.  He had therefore gone a week or two before to Bayonne, his province.  Most of our neighbours in Quercy were likewise from home, having gone to Paris to be witnesses on one side or the other of the royal wedding.  And consequently we young people, not greatly checked by the presence of good-natured, sleepy Madame Claude, Catherine’s duenna, were disposed to make the most of our liberty; and to celebrate the peace in our own fashion.

We were country-folk.  Not one of us had been to Pau, much less to Paris.  The Vicomte held stricter views than were common then, upon young people’s education; and though we had learned to ride and shoot, to use our swords and toss a hawk, and to read and write, we knew little more than Catherine herself of the world; little more of the pleasures and sins of court life, and not one-tenth as much as she did of its graces.  Still she had taught us to dance and make a bow.  Her presence had softened our manners; and of late we had gained something from the frank companionship of Louis de Pavannes, a Huguenot whom the Vicomte had taken prisoner at Moncontour and held to ransom.  We were not, I think, mere clownish yokels.