It was the sort of window which was common in Paris about the end of the seventeenth century. It was high, mullioned, with a broad transom across the centre, and above the middle of the transom a tiny coat of arms—three caltrops gules upon a field argent—let into the diamond-paned glass. Outside there projected a stout¹ iron rod, from which hung a gilded² miniature of a bale of wool which swung and squeaked³ with every puff⁴ of wind. Beyond that again were the houses of the other side, high, narrow, and prim⁵, slashed⁶ with diagonal wood-work in front, and topped with a bristle⁷ of sharp gables and corner turrets⁸. Between were the cobble-stones of the Rue⁹ St. Martin and the clatter¹⁰ of innumerable feet.

Inside, the window was furnished with a broad bancal of brown stamped Spanish leather, where the family might recline and have an eye from behind the curtains on all that was going forward in the busy world beneath them. Two of them sat there now, a man and a woman, but their backs were turned to the spectacle, and their faces to the large and richly furnished room. From time to time they stole a glance at each other, and their eyes told that they needed no other sight to make them happy.

Nor was it to be wondered at, for they were a well-favoured pair. She was very young, twenty at the most, with a face which was pale, indeed, and yet of a brilliant pallor, which was so clear and fresh, and carried with it such a suggestion of purity and innocence

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