e of their own. This latter is, commonly, a mere hut, a
little stony plot of ground yielding a little wine. In the days of its
naval greatness, under Colbert and his son, the wondrous bustle in the
harbour brought some profit to the town. French money flowed in. The
many great lords who passed that way brought their households along
with them, an army of wasteful domestics, who left a good many things
behind them. All this came to a sudden end. The artificial movement
stopped short: even the workmen at the arsenal could no longer get
their wages; shattered vessels were left unrepaired; and at last the
timbers themselves were sold.

Toulon was keenly sensible of the rebound. At the siege of 1707 it
seemed as if dead. What, then, was it in the dreadful year 1709, the
71st of Louis XIV., when every plague at once, a hard winter, a
famine, and an epidemic, seemed bent on utterly destroying France? The
very trees of Provence were not spared. All traffic came to an end.
The roads were covered with starving beggars. Begirt with bandits who
stopped up every outlet, Toulon quaked for fear.

To crown all, Madame Cadiere, in this year of sorrow, was with child.
Three boys she had borne already. The eldest stayed in the shop to
help his father. The second was with the Friar Preachers, and destined
to become a Dominican, or a Jacobin as they were then called. The
third was studying in the Jesuit seminary as a priest to be. The
wedded couple wanted a daughter; Madame prayed to Heaven for a saint.
She spent her nine months in prayer, fasting, or eating nought but rye
bread. She had a daughter, namely Catherine. The babe was very
delicate and, like her brothers, unhealthy. The dampness of an
ill-aired dwelling, and the poor nourishment gained from a mother so
thrifty and more than temperate, had something to do with this. The
brothers had scrofulous glands, and in her earlier years the little
thing suffered from the same cause. Without being altogether ill, she
had all the suffering sweetness of a sickly child. She grew up without
growing stronger. At an age when other children have all the strength
and gladness of upswelling life in them, she was already saying, "I
have not long to live."

She took the small-pox, which left her rather marked. I know not if
she was handsome, but it is clear that she was very winning, with all
the charming contrasts, the twofold nature of the maidens of Provence.
Lively and pensive, gay and sad, by t