’No; only her empty cradle in the burnt house.  But I MUST know her.  She is a year old.

’We have two babes of that age; but I fear me you will scarce see much likeness in either of them to any one you knew,’ said the Prioress, thoughtfully.  ’However, there are two girls old enough to remember the parentage of their companions, though we forbade them to mention it.  Would you see them, sir?

‘And the infants, so please you, reverend Mother,’ exclaimed Berenger.

She desired him to wait, and after an interval of suspense there was a pattering of little sabots behind the partition, and through the grating he beheld six little girls in blue serge frocks and tight white caps.  Of the two infants, one with a puny, wizen, pinched face was in the arms of the Prioress; the other, a big, stout, coarse child, with hard brown cheeks and staring black-eyes, was on its own feet, but with a great basket-work frame round its head to save it from falls.  There were two much more prepossessing children of three or four, and two intelligent-looking girls of perhaps eight and ten, to the elder of whom the Prioress turned, saying, ’Agathe, I release you from my command not to speak of your former life, and desire you to tell this gentleman if you know who were the parents of these two little ones.

‘Yes, reverend Mother,’ said Agathe, readily; ’the old name of Claire’ (touching the larger baby) ’was Salome Potier:  her mother was the washerwoman; and Nannonciade, I don’t know what her name was, but her father worked for Maitre Brassier who made the kettles.

Philip felt relieved to be free from all doubt about these very uninviting little ones, but Berenger, though sighing heavily, asked quickly, ’Permit me, Madame, a few questions.—­Little maid, did you ever hear of Isaac Gardon?

’Maitre Isaac!  Oh yes, sir.  We used to hear him preach at the church, and sometimes he catechized us,’ she said, and her lip quivered.

‘He was a heretic, and I abjure him,’ added the other girl, perking up her head.

‘Was he in the town?  What became of him?’ exclaimed Berenger.

‘He would not be in the town,’ said the elder girl.  ’My poor father had sent him word to go away.

’Eh quoi?

‘Our father was Bailli la Grasse,’ interposed the younger girl, consequentially.  ’Our names were Marthe and Lucie la Grasse, but Agathe and Eulalie are much prettier.

‘But Maitre Gardon?’ still asked Berenger.

‘He ought to be take and burnt,’ said the new Eulalie; ’he brought it all on us.

’How was it?  Was my wife with him—­Madame de Ribaumont?  Speak, my child.

‘That was the name,’ said one girl.

‘But Maitre Gardon had no great lady with him,’ said the other, ’only his son’s widow and her baby, and they lodged with Noemi Laurent, who made the patisserie.

‘Ah!’ cried Berenger, lighting up with the new ray of hope.  ’Tell me, my dear, that they fled with him, and where.