But below his wretchedness something whispered: "SHE
appreciates me, and her dot is quite as large."
CHAPTER XIII
George Waldeaux hummed a tune gayly as he climbed the
winding maze of streets in Vannes, one cloudy afternoon,
with Lisa.
"It is impertinent to be modern Americans in this old
town," he said. "We might play that we were jongleurs,
and that it was still mediaeval times. I am sure the
gray walls yonder and the fortress houses in this street
have not changed in ages."
"Neither have the smells, apparently," said Lisa grimly.
"Wrap this scarf about your throat, George. You coughed
last night."
George tied up his throat. "Coughed, did I?" he said
anxiously. He had had a cold last winter, and his wife
with her poultices and fright had convinced him that he
was a confirmed invalid. The coming of her baby had
given to the woman a motherly feeling toward all of the
world, even to her husband.
"Look at these women," he said, going on with his fancy
presently. "I am sure that they were here wearing
these black gowns and huge red aprons in the twelfth
century. What is this?" he said, stopping abruptly, to
a boy of six who was digging mud at the foot of an
ancient ivy-covered tower.
"C'est le tour du Connetable," the child lisped. "Et
v'la, monsieur!" pointing to a filthy pen with a gate of
black oak; "v'la le donjon de Clisson!"
"Who was Clisson?" said Lisa impatiently.
"A live man to Froissart--and to this boy," said George,
laughing.
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