“And how old are you, my dear?” asked the goldsmith.

“I know not, my lord,” replied the girl; “but my lord abbot has it written down.”

This great misery touched the heart of the good man, who for a long time had himself eaten the bread of misfortune.  He conformed his pace to that of the girl, and they moved in this way towards the river in perfect silence.  The burgess looked on her fair brow, her regal form, her dusty but delicately-formed feet, and the sweet countenance which seemed the true portrait of St. Genevieve, the patron saint of Paris.

“You have a fine cow,” said the goldsmith.

“Would you like a little milk?” replied she.  “These early days of May are so warm, and you are so far from the city.”

In fact, the shy was cloudless and burned like a forge.  This simple offer, made without the hope of a return, the only gift in the power of the poor girl, touched the heart of the goldsmith, and he wished that he cold see her on a throne and all Paris at her feet.

“No, ma mie,” replied he; “I am not thirsty—­but I would that I could free you.”

“It cannot be; and I shall die the property of the abbey.  For a long time we have lived here, from father to son, from mother to daughter.  Like my poor ancestors, I shall pass my days upon this land, for the abbot does not loose his prey.”

“What!” cried the goldsmith, “has no gallant been tempted by your bright eyes to buy your liberty, as I bought mine of the king?”

“Truly, it would cost too much.  Therefore those I pleased at first sight went at they came.”

“And you never thought of fleeing to another country with a lover, on a fleet courser?”

“O, yes.  But, my lord, if I were taken I should lose my life, and my lover, if he were a lord, his land.  I am not worth such sacrifice.  Then the arms of the abbey are longer than my feet are swift.  Besides, I live here, in obedience to Heaven that has placed me here.”

“And what does your father, maiden?”

“He is a vine-dresser, in the gardens of the abbey.”

“And your mother?”

“She is a laundress.”

“And what is your name?”

“I have no name, my lord.  My father was baptized Etienne, my dear mother is la Etienne, and I am Tiennette, at your service.”

“Tiennette,” said the goldsmith, “never has maiden pleased me as thou dost.  Hence, as I saw thee at the moment when I was firmly resolved to take a helpmate, I think I see a special providence in our meeting, and if I am not unpleasing in thine eyes, I pray thee to accept me a lover.”

The girl cast down her eyes.  These words were uttered in such a sort, with tone so grave and manner so penetrating, that Tiennette wept.

“No, my lord,” replied she, “I should bring you a thousand troubles and an evil fortune.  For a poor serf, it is enough that I have heard your generous proffer.”