he was a woman
accursed to have no child, and nothing in life to call her own. But
that was a natural enough feeling in a wife attached to her husband; and
certainly it must have been a great grief to Yves de Cornault that
she bore no son. Yet he never made her feel her childlessness as a
reproach--she admits this in her evidence--but seemed to try to make her
forget it by showering gifts and favours on her. Rich though he was, he
had never been openhanded; but nothing was too fine for his wife, in
the way of silks or gems or linen, or whatever else she fancied. Every
wandering merchant was welcome at Kerfol, and when the master was
called away he never came back without bringing his wife a handsome
present--something curious and particular--from Morlaix or Rennes
or Quimper. One of the waiting-women gave, in cross-examination, an
interesting list of one year's gifts, which I copy. From Morlaix, a
carved ivory junk, with Chinamen at the oars, that a strange sailor had
brought back as a votive offering for Notre Dame de la Clarte, above
Ploumanac'h; from Quimper, an embroidered gown, worked by the nuns of
the Assumption; from Rennes, a silver rose that opened and showed an
amber Virgin with a crown of garnets; from Morlaix, again, a length
of Damascus velvet shot with gold, bought of a Jew from Syria; and for
Michaelmas that same year, from Rennes, a necklet or bracelet of round
stones--emeralds and pearls and rubies--strung like beads on a fine gold
chain. This was the present that pleased the lady best, the woman said.
Later on, as it happened, it was produced at the trial, and appears to
have struck the Judges and the public as a curious and valuable jewel.

The very same winter, the Baron absented himself again, this time as far
as Bordeaux, and on his return he brought his wife something even odder
and prettier than the bracelet. It was a winter evening when he rode up
to Kerfol and, walking into the hall, found her sitting by the hearth,
her chin on her hand, looking into the fire. He carried a velvet box
in his hand and, setting it down, lifted the lid and let out a little
golden-brown dog.

Anne de Cornault exclaimed with pleasure as the little creature bounded
toward her. "Oh, it looks like a bird or a butterfly!" she cried as she
picked it up; and the dog put its paws on her shoulders and looked at
her with eyes "like a Christian's." After that she would never have
it out of her sight, and petted and talked to