Lescarbot's thin keen face with the bald forehead and humorous eyes
appeared now at the grille in the green door. He swept off his beret and
made a deep bow. "Mademoiselle la bien-aimee de la bonne Sainte Marthe,"
he said gravely, "may I come in?"
He had a new name for her every time he came, usually a long one. "But
why Sainte Marthe?" she asked, running to let him in.
"She is the patron saint of cooks and housewives, petite. A good cook
can do anything. Sainte Marthe entertained the blessed Lord in her own
home, and was the first nun of the sisterhood she founded. Moreover when
she was preaching at Aix a fearful dragon by the name of Tarasque
inhabited the river Rhone, and came out each night to devastate the
country until Sainte Marthe was the means of his--conversion."
"Oh, go on!" cried Helene, and Lescarbot sat down on the old bench
under the pear-tree and began to help with the herbs.
"Sainte Marthe was an excellent cook, and the first thing she did when
she founded her convent was to plant a kitchen-garden. On Saint John's
Eve she went into the garden and watered each plant with holy water,
blessing it in the use of God. People came from miles around to get
roots and seeds from the garden and to ask for Sainte Marthe's recipes
for broths and cordials for the sick.
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