"Some kind of fever. On St. Jean Baptiste's day he was taken ill, and
that animal Portugais took care of him all night--I wonder how M'sieu'
can have the creature about! That St. Jean Baptiste's night was an awful
night. Have you heard of what happened, M'sieu'? Ghost or no ghost--"

"Come, come, I want to know about the tailor, not of ghosts," impatiently
interrupted the Seigneur. "Tiens! M'sieu', the tailor was ill for three
days here, and he would let no one except the Cure and Jo Portugais near
him. I went myself to clean up and make some broth, but that toad of a
Portugais shut the door in my face. The Cure told us to go home and
leave M'sieu' with Portugais. He must be very sick to have that black
sheep about him--and no doctor either."

The saddler spoke up now. "I took him a bottle of good brandy and some
buttermilk-pop and seed cake--I would give him a saddle if he had a
horse--he got my thousand dollars for me! Well, he took them, but what
do you think? He sent them right off to the shantyman, Gugon, who has a
broken leg. Infidel or no, I'm on his side for sure. And God blesses a
cheerful giver, I'm told."

It was the baker's chance, and he took it. "I played 'The Heart Bowed
Down'-it is English-under his window, two nights ago, and he sent word
for me to come and play it again in the kitchen. Ah, that is a good
song, 'The Heart Bowed Down.'"

"You'd be a better baker if you fiddled less," said Madame Dauphin,
annoyed at being dropped out of the conversation.

"The soul must be fed, Madame," rejoined the baker, with asperity.