A young girl with light complexion, black eyes, white teeth, and a bright and mischievous smile, appeared, and stopped a moment on the last step of the stair of rocks which led to the house of the watchman.

She wore the graceful and picturesque costume of the girls of Provence: a brown petticoat and red waist, with wide basques and tight sleeves. Her little felt hat left visible the beautiful nape of her neck and long tresses of black hair rolled under a scarlet silk net.

Orphan and foster-sister to Mlle. Reine des Anbiez, Stephanette served her in the duties of a companion, and was treated more as a friend than a servant.

Stephanette’s heart was good, true, and grateful, her conduct irreproachable. Her only fault was a mischievous village coquetry, which was the despair of the fishers and captains of small craft in the gulf of La Ciotat, nor will we except from the number of these interesting victims her betrothed, Captain Luquin Trinquetaille, captain of the polacre, Holy Terror to the Moors, by the Grace of God,—a long and significant appellation, inscribed at full length on the stern of Captain Trinque-taille’s boat.

Gallantly armed with six swivel-guns, it was the business of the polacre to escort vessels from La Ciotat which, forced by their commerce to have free intercourse with the coasts of Italy, dreaded the attacks of pirates.

Stephanette shared the veneration that the watchman on the cape of l’Aigle inspired among the inhabitants of the neighbourhood. She trembled as she approached him with downcast eyes.

“May God keep you, my child!” said Peyrou, affectionately, for he loved her as he loved all who belonged to the family of his old captain, the Commander des Anbiez.

“May St. Magnus and St. Elzear aid you, Master Peyrou!” replied Stephanette, with her most beautiful curtsey.

“Thank you for your good wishes, Stephanette. How are monseigneur and Mlle. Reine, your young and beautiful mistress? Has she recovered from her fright of the other day?”

“Yes, Master Peyrou; mademoiselle is better, although she is still quite pale. But was ever such a miscreant seen? To dare kiss mademoiselle! and that, too, in the presence of monseigneur and her betrothed! But people say these Muscovites are barbarians. They are more savage and more of Antichrist than the Turks themselves, are they not, Master Peyrou? They will be damned twice in a doubly hot fire.”

Without replying to Stephanette’s theological argument, the watchman said to her: “Does not monseigneur resent this breach of good manners?”

“He! Why, Master Peyrou, as true as Rosseline is a saint in Paradise, the same day that monseigneur came so near falling into the chasm of Ollioules, he supped as merrily as if he had just returned from a patronal feast. Indeed, it is so,—and he drank two cups of Spanish wine to the health of the young miscreant! And would you believe it, Master Peyrou, he is never tired of boasting of the courage and agility of the Muscovite! Yes, he said: ‘Manjour! instead of stealing the pin and kiss like a thief, why did he not ask for them,—my daughter Reine would have given him a kiss, and with a good heart too!’ And ever since that day monseigneur is constantly saying, ‘Really, these Muscovites are strange companions.’ But for all that, M. Honorat de Berrol turns red with indignation whenever he hears this impudent fellow, who stole a kiss from his betrothed, mentioned. And another strange thing, Master Peyrou, is that monseigneur is not willing to get rid of that wicked little horse, Mistraon, that has been the cause of all the mischief; he rides it in preference to any other. Now say, Master Peyrou, don’t you think that is tempting Providence?”

“Have these strangers departed from Marseilles?” asked the watchman, without replying to Stephanette.

“Yes, Master Peyrou, they say they have taken the route to Languedoc, after having made a visit to the Marshal of Vitry. They say, too, that this wicked duke is quite worthy of being acquainted with such rascals. Ah, if monseigneur had his way, the marshal would not be governor of Provence very long. The baron cannot hear him mentioned without flying into a passion,—such a passion! you have no idea of it, Master Peyrou.” “Yes, my child, I have seen the baron, at the time of the revolt of the Cascabeoux, act as his father did at the time of the revolt of the Razats, under Henry III., and again at the time of the rebellion of the Gascons against the Duke d’Epemon, under the last reign. Yes, yes; I know that Raimond V. hates his enemies as much as he loves his friends.”

“You are right, Master Peyrou, and monseigneur’s anger against the governor has increased since this recorder of the admiralty of Toulon, Master Isnard, who they say is so wicked, has been visiting the castles of the diocese by order of his Eminence, the cardinal. Monseigneur says these visits are an outrage upon the nobility, and that the Marshal of Vitry is a scoundrel. Between us, I am of the same opinion, since he protects shameless Muscovites who have the insolence to kiss young girls when they are not expecting it.”

“My opinion is, Stephanette, that you are very severe upon young men who kiss young girls,” said the old man with mock gravity, “which proves that you are naturally ferocious,—but what do you want of me?”

“Master Peyrou,” said the girl, with an air of embarrassment, “I want to know if the weather promises a good passage to Nice, and if one could leave this port with safety.”

“You wish, then, to go to Nice, my child?”

“No, not I exactly, but a brave and honest sailor who—who—”

“Ah, I understand, I understand,” said the watchman, interrupting Stephanette’s stammering; “you mean young Bernard, patron of the tartan, the Sacred Balm.”

“No, no, Master Peyrou, I assure you I do not mean him,” said the girl, turning as red as a cherry.

“Come, come, you need not blush like that,” and the watchman added, in a lower tone: “Was the beautiful bouquet of green thyme, that he tied three days ago to your window bar with rose coloured ribbon, to your taste?”

“A bouquet of green thyme! What bouquet are you talking about, Master Peyrou?”

The watchman held up a threatening finger to Stephanette and said: “What! last Thursday, at daybreak, did not the patron Bernard carry a bouquet to your window?”

“Wait,—let me see, Master Peyrou,” said the young girl, with an air of recalling something to her memory; “was it then yesterday that, in opening my casement, I found something like a bundle of dried herbs?”

“Stephanette, Stephanette! you cannot deceive the old watchman. Listen; patron Bernard had hardly descended, when you came and untied the rose coloured ribbon, and put the bouquet in a pretty terra-cotta vase, and you have watered it every morning; yesterday was the only day you neglected it, and it has withered—”

The young girl stared at the watchman in utter amazement. This revelation seemed like sorcery.

The old man looked at her with a mischievous expression, and continued:

“So it is not the patron Bernard who is going to Nice?”

“No, Master Peyrou.” “Then it must be the pilot Terzarol.”

“The pilot Terzarol!” cried Stephanette, clasping her hands, “may Our Lady help me, if I know anything about this pilot going to sea.”

“Well, well, my child, I was mistaken about Bernard, for it is true that you have allowed his bouquet to wither, but I am not mistaken about Terzarol, because yesterday, from the height of the castle turret, you passed more than two hours looking at the bold pilot throwing nets.” “I, Master Peyrou, I?”

“Your very self, Stephanette, and at each cast of the net, Terzarol waved his cap in triumph, and you waved your handkerchief in congratulation; he ought to have made a good haul, so enthusiastically did he labour,—you come then to ask me if Terzarol will have a good voyage to Nice?”

This time Stephanette began to feel afraid, as she realised how much the watchman knew.

“Ah, my faith, Master Peyrou, you know everything!” cried she, innocently.

The old man smiled, shook his head, and replied in the words of the Provencal proverb, “Experienco passo scienco,—experience passes science.”

The poor child, fearing that the watchman’s marvellous discoveries concerning her innocent coquetry might give him a bad opinion of her, cried, with tears in her eyes, as she clasped her hands:

“Ah, Master Peyrou, I am an honest girl!”

“I know it, my child,” said the watchman, pressing her hand affectionately. “I know that you are worthy of the protection and affection which your noble and kind mistress shows you. It is only girlish mischief and love of fun which tempts you to turn the heads of these young men, and make poor Luquin Trinquetaille jealous, Luquin, who loves you so much and so faithfully. But listen, Stephanette, you know the proverb of the vinedressers in our valleys: Paou vignose ben tengudos,—have few vines and cultivate them well. Instead of scattering your coquetries, concentrate all your charms upon your betrothed, who will prove a good and honest husband for you,—that would be far better,—and then, you see, my child, these young men are quick, inflammable, and courageous; self-love comes in, rivalry exasperates, a combat follows, blood flows, and then—” “Ah, Master Peyrou, then I should die of despair. All of this is folly. I was wrong, I admit, to amuse myself with the admiring glances of Bernard and Terzarol, for I love Luquin and he loves me; we are going to be married the same day as Mlle, and M. Honorat de Berrol,—the baron desires it. Really, Master Peyrou, you, who find out everything, ought to know that I think of nobody but Luquin. It is about his voyage that I have come to consult you. Master Talebard-Talebardon, consul of La Ciotat, is about to send to Nice three tartans laden with merchandise. He has made a bargain with Luquin to escort them; do you think, Master Peyrou, the passage will be good? Can he put to sea with safety? Is there no pirate in sight? Oh, if a corsair is in sight, or a storm threatens, he will not depart!”

“Oh, so, so, my child, do you think you have so much influence over this bold artilleryman? You are mistaken, I think. What! keep him in port when there is danger in going out? You might as well try to anchor a ship with a thread from your distaff.”

“Oh, be quiet, Master Peyrou,” said Stephanette, regaining her composure; “to keep Luquin near me, I need not tell him of winds or tempests or of pirates. I will only tell him that I will give Bernard a ribbon to put on his lance at the next tilting-match, or that I will ask the pilot Terzarol for a good place at one of the windows of his mother’s house, that I may go with Dulceline, the housekeeper at Maison-Forte, to see the wrestling and leaping over the cross-bar in La Ciotat; then, I swear to you, Master Peyrou, Luquin will not go out of the gulf, not if the consul, Talebard-Talebardon, covered the deck of his polacre with pieces of silver.”

“Ah, what a cunning gipsy you are!” said the old man, smiling. “I would never have thought of such tricks. Alas, alas! Buou viel fa rego drecho,—the old ox makes a straight furrow. But come, now, Stephanette, make yourself easy; you need not rob your waist of a ribbon for Bernard nor ask for a window at the Terzarol house: the wind blows from the west, and if it does not change at sunset, and if Martin-Bouffo, the deep grotto of roaring waters in the gulf, says nothing tomorrow at daybreak Luquin will be able to go out of the gulf and sail for Nice without fear; as to the passage, I will answer for that; as to the pirates, I am going to give you a charm that is sure in its effect, if not to confuse them entirely, at least to prevent their carrying off the Holy Terror to the Moors, by the Grace of God.”

“Ah, how thankful I will be, Master Peyrou!” said the young girl, as she assisted him to rise, for he walked with considerable pain.

The old man went into his cabin, took a little bag covered with cabalistic signs and gave it to Stephanette, instructing her to order Luquin to conform scrupulously to the directions he would find in it.

“How good you are, Master Peyrou! How shall I reward—”

“By promising me, my child, henceforth to allow Bernard’s bouquets to dry on the bars of your window,—then, believe me, there will be no more of them, because a bouquet that is watered makes many others grow. Ah! and you must promise me, too, not to encourage pilot Terzarol’s fishing, because to please you he would destroy all the fish in the bay, and he would finish by being called before the overseer fishers, and I would be obliged to condemn him. By the way, how goes on the discussion between monseigneur and the consuls, on the right of fishing in the cove,—does Raimond V. still keep his seines there?”

“Yes, Master Peyrou, and he will not take them away; he says that the right of fishing there belongs to him up to the rocks of Castrembaou, and that he will not yield that right to anybody.”

“Listen, Stephanette: your mistress has her father’s ear; do you persuade her to counsel him to arrange it amicably with the consuls: that will be the best for all parties.”

“Yes, Master Peyrou, make yourself easy about it, I will mention it to Mlle. Reine.”

“Very well, my child,—good-bye, and above all, no more coquetry,—do you promise me that?”

“Yes, Master Peyrou, only—only—”

“Well, say it”

“Only, you see, Master Peyrou, I would not like to make Bernard and Terzarol despair entirely,—not on my own account, Our Lady, no, but on account of Luquin, because I must have some means of keeping him in port, in case of great danger, you see, Master Peyrou,—and for that purpose, jealousy is worth more than all the anchors of his ship.”

“That is right,” said the watchman, with a significant smile, “you must think of Luquin above all things.”

The young girl dropped her eyes and smiled, then said: “Ah, I was about to forget, Master Peyrou, to ask you if you thought that monsieur, the commander, and the Reverend Father Elzear would arrive here for the Christmas holidays, as the baron hopes. He is so anxious to see his two brothers again—do you know that Christmas has been twice celebrated at Maison-Forte without them?”

At the mention of the commander, the face of the watchman took on an expression of profound melancholy.

“If God grants my most earnest prayers, my child, they will both come, but, alas, Father Elzear has gone to redeem captives in Algiers, as a worthy and courageous brother of mercy, and the faith of those Barbary people is perfidious!”

“Yes, Master Peyrou, as Father Elzear learned by experience when he was kept in the convict-prison among slaves for one year! At his age, too, to suffer so much!”

“And without a murmur,—without losing his adorable saintliness—”

“Speaking of them, Master Peyrou, why is the commander’s galley, instead of being white and gold like the gallant galleys of the king, and of monseigneur, the Duke of Guise, always painted in black like a coffin? Why are its sails and masts black? Really, nothing looks more solemn, and his sailors and his soldiers, they look as hard and severe as Spanish monks; and then the commander himself looks so sad. I never saw a smile on his pale face but once, and that was when he arrived at Maison-Forte and embraced monseigneur and my mistress. Yet, my God, what a melancholy smile! Is it not strange, Master Peyrou, and all the more so because Luquin told me, the other day, that when he was artilleryman on board La Guisarde, the admiral’s galley, in the waters of the Levant, many a time he has seen the commanders and captains of Malta at Naples, and notwithstanding the severity of their order, they were as merry as other officers.”

The watchman for some moments seemed as if he no longer heard the girl; his head had fallen upon his breast, he was lost in profound meditation, and when Stephanette bade him farewell, he responded only by an affectionate gesture of the hand. Some time after the departure of the young girl, he went into his cabin, opened the carved ebony box he found there, sprung the secret lock of a double bottom, and took out of it a little casket chased with silver; an embassed Maltese cross ornamented its cover.

For a long time he gazed at this casket with sorrowful attention; the sight of it seemed to awaken the most bitter memories. Then, assuring himself that this mysterious trust was still intact, he shut the doors of the ebony chest and, like a dreamer, returned to his seat at the door of his cabin.