The cobbler of Nîmes

Madame de St. Cyr was leaning back in her chair, her white hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed in an absent gaze on the space outside the sitting-room window. Opposite to her, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece was the elegant figure of M. de Baudri. He was watching the old face before him, with indifferent eyes, a smile on his lips. She was ill at ease; he was well satisfied. He was the first to break the pause.

“I think madame will acknowledge that I am willing to do all that is liberal and kind,” he said suavely.

“I do acknowledge it, monsieur,” she replied, in troubled tones, “but the child—you know, M. de Baudri, that I have never treated Rosaline as other girls are treated. She is accustomed to deciding for herself, young as she is, and—she does not listen favorably to your suit.”

He waved his hand airily. “The whim of a child, madame, the natural coyness of a young maiden. I honor mademoiselle, for her hesitations, but between us there need be no such conventionalities. I desire to marry your granddaughter, and I flatter myself that you do not object, madame.”

He fixed his eyes on her haughtily as he spoke; there was a covert threat in his tone, despite his affable manner. The old woman sighed.

“’Tis hard for me to explain,” she said plaintively; “I can have no objections to you personally, M. de Baudri, but I am averse to doing anything to force Rosaline’s inclinations.”

He smiled scornfully. “Madame does not expect me to believe in so flimsy an excuse, surely?” he remarked with a frown. “I never heard that the whims of a mere girl controlled arrangements of this kind. My marriage with your granddaughter would benefit you in many ways. The de Baudris confer an honor when they marry.”

A red spot flamed in madame’s white cheeks; her situation had made a coward of her, but there was a limit even to her endurance.

“The St. Cyrs thank monsieur,” she said ironically, “but they also are of noble blood. No man could confer an honor on the daughter of the house; she will confer it, when she makes her choice. We are poor, M. de Baudri, but we ask favors of no one.”

He saw his error, and bowed low before the old dame, his hand on his heart.

“Mademoiselle is an angel,” he said; “if I did not recognize that, I would not, a second time, sue for her hand. I also am proud, madame.”

The old woman returned his bow, but was silent. She was hurt, angry, alarmed. She began to fear those handsome, bold eyes, and the smooth voice; after all, he was like a panther, ready to spring, and her beautiful darling, the idol of her old age was the object of his desire. But for that fearful danger, their concealed religion, she could have faced him well enough, but he had a mighty weapon in his hand, and she almost feared that he knew it. For herself, death would be no great hardship, but for Rosaline—she shuddered, pressing her handkerchief to her lips, and staring out of the window. Meanwhile M. de Baudri watched her narrowly; he knew far less than she thought, but he was fiercely in love with Rosaline, and such love as his was as dangerous as hate. The girl’s indifference enraged him; he would have her, and then—Mother of Heaven! he would teach her to scorn him, indeed! He would break her will and humble her into his slave. Madame de St. Cyr felt all this, vaguely, it is true, but still strongly enough to make her recoil from him. What could she do? she thought, a helpless old woman with all the world against her! Père Ambroise loved the child, it was true, but might not Père Ambroise favor an orthodox lover? M. de Baudri’s smooth voice broke in on her troubled thoughts, and demanded her attention again.

“You have advanced no reasonable objections to my suit, madame,” he said affably; “I shall therefore regard it as accepted by you, and only in abeyance on account of mademoiselle’s maidenly scruples.”

“But I have not accepted it,” she protested, greatly troubled; “I will not accept any offer for the child that—that does not give her happiness. Why should I desire to part with the jewel of my old age? You are naturally forgetful of my situation, monsieur; Rosaline’s marriage would leave me desolate.”

“Nay, madame,” he replied, not ungracefully, “you would but gain a son. If this is your only scruple—is it not a selfish one?”

Poor Madame de St. Cyr was fairly cornered. He saw it and laughed in his sleeve.

“You are very kind, M. de Baudri,” she faltered, “but after all it rests where it did. Rosaline must decide.”

He smiled. “Then, madame, you virtually acquiesce,” he said blandly; “for I trust that I can win so young and amiable a girl as mademoiselle—if you give me a fair opportunity.”

She shook her head, smiling faintly. “You have had opportunity, M. de Baudri,” she replied; “’tis not in my mind to influence her in any way. She must choose for herself.”

He was all smooth amiability now; he took his plumed hat from the table and stood a moment longer on the hearth-rug, the picture of ease and assurance,—his curled periwig, his lace cravat, his military coat, all of the latest mode.

“I will undertake to win mademoiselle’s consent,” he said. “Permit me, however, to remark that your ideas on the matter are—to say the least—unconventional. But no matter, ’twill be a little romance. There is one thing, though, I would say, madame, and that is, I notice with surprise that you keep that fellow as steward still. I spoke to you before.”

A faint flush rose on the old dame’s pale face and her eyes kindled. She was not yet accustomed to dictation.

“The man is useful to me,” she said shortly. “Monsieur forgets that he is not yet one of my family.”

De Baudri bit his lip, an ugly look in his blue eyes.

“I beg madame’s pardon,” he said, “but she probably remembers the cause of my protest; a grave one,—I believe the rogue may be a concealed Camisard.”

Madame de St. Cyr’s hands trembled, and she controlled herself with an effort.

“I think you are mistaken, M. de Baudri,” she protested; “he was well recommended, and I have seen nothing to indicate—that he was other than he claimed to be.”

“You can see that he is no steward by profession, though, madame,” retorted the officer, coolly, “and his presence may be dangerous at St. Cyr.”

“He has done his duty so far, monsieur,” she mustered courage to reply, “and I have no pretext for his discharge.”

De Baudri shrugged his shoulders.

“Madame should not need a second warning,” he remarked, with much suavity; “perhaps ’twould be well for me to investigate his antecedents and thus relieve madame of farther embarrassments.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” she said, with an effort to be calm, “I can see to the matter myself. I will refer it to Père Ambroise. If any one is anxious about our spiritual welfare, he should be.”

“Doubtless, madame,” M. de Baudri replied pleasantly, “but Père Ambroise is notoriously easy-tempered. I should advise you to be careful. You cannot afford to harbor a heretic here; a word to M. de Bâville—” He broke off, shrugging his shoulders.

Madame stirred uneasily in her chair. Every word that he had uttered had been a covert threat, and she knew well enough to what end it all tended. He loved Rosaline and he meant to have her. “Mon Dieu!” thought the old woman, “he would have the child even against her will! Can he be wicked enough to try to intimidate her,—to force her into a marriage?”

She awoke from these reflections to find him making his adieux.

“I have warned you, madame,” he said benignly. “Convey my devotion to mademoiselle—my regret that she is absent from home at this hour. I will soon present myself again; meanwhile, madame, rest assured of my faithful friendship.”

He bowed profoundly, his hand again on his heart, and retired, leaving the poor old woman collapsed in her chair; nor did she breathe freely until she heard his horse’s hoofs on the road to Nîmes.

Meanwhile a very different scene had been enacted in the kitchen. Babet was making a ragoût over the fire; the steward leaned against the window, posted there to watch for the visitor’s departure; the hunchbacked cobbler was by the door, and in the centre of the room stood mademoiselle herself, although she was supposed to be out,—mademoiselle in flesh and blood, and a picture to look at in her malicious triumph over her escape. She wore a white print frock, the neck open enough to show her full, fair throat, and the half-sleeves revealing her round, white arms. Her golden hair had half escaped from its braids and rippled about her rosy, dimpled face, and her blue eyes danced with merriment. It was her birthday, and M. de Baudri had brought a suitable gift, an enamelled casket, but she held in her hands two little white satin shoes with pink rosettes, and the shoemaker’s drawn face was lighted with a reflection of her pleasure.

“You are surely a magician, Charlot,” she said, admiring them for the twentieth time. “I know these are enchanted slippers, and in them I shall walk into the palace of my dreams, where there is no trouble, and Babet and I do not have to conjure a dinner!”

“Ah, mademoiselle, if I could but make such shoes!” exclaimed le Bossu, with a smile; “the poor cobbler of St. Antoine would be made a marquis.”

“’Tis better to give happiness than to be rich, Charlot,” she replied, “and you have given me so much pleasure to-day that I can even endure M. de Baudri’s visit in the parlor!” and she laughed gayly.

“If he hears you laugh, mademoiselle, he will stay to dinner,” remarked Babet grimly, looking over her shoulder as she stirred the stew.

“You have found a way to make me as still as a mouse, Babet,” Rosaline said. “Has he not gone yet, M. d’Aguesseau?”

François shook his head with a smile.

“As a suitor he has the patience of Jacob, mademoiselle,” he replied.

Rosaline made a little grimace and blushed, turning away from him with a gesture of impatience. The little hunchback, watching the two, read her mood more truly than she read it herself, and his new-born pleasure died out of his face.

“I shall wear these shoes to-night, Charlot,” she hastened to say, her back turned on the supposed steward. “They are fit for a ball, but I never go to balls, so I will wear them on my birthday as the greatest honor I can pay them.”

“Mademoiselle makes me happy by wearing them at all,” Charlot replied simply.

D’Aguesseau was now looking intently out of the window.

“M. de Baudri is mounting at the gate,” he announced. “Mademoiselle, you are no longer in prison.”

She would not look at him, but she beamed on the little cobbler.

“I will run and show my present to grand’mère,” she said.

Charlot followed her to the door.

“Mademoiselle, a word with you,” he said in a low voice.

She turned in surprise and then beckoned to him to follow her into the entry.

“What is it?” she asked, quickly, a little alarmed.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, quietly, “do not be needlessly afraid, but I would warn you against an old woman—a fishwife—”

“Ciel!” exclaimed Rosaline; “you mean that terrible creature who came here?”

“Yes,” he replied, “and she was angry because of her torn petticoat, I suppose. She is Mère Tigrane, a dangerous woman, a spying, mischief-making demon of the market. And—well, mademoiselle, she saw M. d’Aguesseau when I first saw him, she tracked him to my house, she tracked him here. I fear it may mean mischief; if he goes away it will be better for all.”

Rosaline was very pale; all the joy died out of her face; she pressed her hand involuntarily to her heart.

“I thank you, Charlot,” she said quietly. “If—if you hear anything—you will tell me?”

“Assuredly, mademoiselle,” replied the cobbler earnestly, “and—” he hesitated, and then went on firmly, “will you believe, mademoiselle, that in all cases—at all times—I am your humble but faithful servant?”

She looked at him kindly; his devotion touched her.

“Indeed, I have always believed it, Charlot,” she said heartily, and held out her hand.

The shoemaker took it with wonder. Her little soft hand in his! He had never dreamed of it; he had touched her feet, but her hand! Poor Charlot, he turned red to his temples and did not know what she said. And Rosaline left him and went on to her grandmother without a thought of her act of condescension. She was naturally gracious, and she did not despise the poor as did other young women of her rank. But the poor little shoemaker went back to Nîmes feeling that he had been translated; had he not touched the white hand of an angel of mercy?