Leaning on Gombert's arm, Barbara now moved on more cheerfully until they
were stopped by the vivandiere's counter.

The portly woman stood comfortably at ease behind her eatables and
drinkables, rested her fists on her hips, and glanced toward her
assistant, who stared boldly into the musician's face, and asked him to
take some refreshment for himself and his sweetheart.

She was a young creature, with features prematurely haggard, cheeks
scarlet with rouge, and eyebrows and lashes dyed black. The infant which
a pale little girl nine years old was tending belonged to her. She had
had her hair cut close, and her voice was so discordantly hoarse that it
hurt Barbara's ears.

As the bold young woman tapped Gombert lightly on the arm and, with fresh
words of invitation, pointed toward the counter, a shiver ran through
Barbara's limbs. Even her worst enemy would not have ventured to compare
her with this outcast, but she did herself as she thought of her own
cropped hair and injured voice. Perhaps the child in the arms of the
pale nine-year-old nurse was disowned by its father, and did not the
greatest of sovereigns intend to do the same to his, if the mother
refused to obey him?

These disagreeable thoughts fell upon her soul like mildew upon growing
grain, and after Gombert had helped her into the carriage again she
begged him to let her rest in silence for a while. The Netherlander, it
is true, had no suspicion of her condition, but he knew that she had not
yet wholly recovered, and carefully pushed his own knapsack under her
feet.