The cobbler of Nîmes

It was half an hour before moonrise and the night was supremely still. The warm air of midsummer stirred not even a leaf on the trees. There was no sound but the footsteps of three persons walking through a mulberry grove at a short distance from the spot where the highroad from Nîmes turned off to St. Hippolyte. Mademoiselle and Babet, escorted by M. d’Aguesseau, were making their way slowly back to St. Cyr. They had been—at the peril of their lives—to one of the night meetings of the Church of the Desert and were returning; cautiously avoiding observation all the while. Babet led them, her erect form moving deliberately forward; she never made a misstep, never hesitated, but held to her course in grim silence. She did not approve of their guest’s attentions to mademoiselle. D’Aguesseau had Rosaline’s hand and was guiding her, helping her over rough places, feeling the way where neither of them could see. They talked together at intervals, in low voices, and Babet’s ears moved, though she would have sworn that she scorned to listen; but she was guarding her ewe-lamb, and in spite of her convictions that mademoiselle must marry a prince, she began to be afraid of this resolute, quiet man.

They walked as rapidly as they could in the darkness, and leaving the trees behind turned sharply to the right across an arid plain that presented many rough and broken places, and where Rosaline required d’Aguesseau’s helping hand and his cautious guidance. Then they followed the dry bed of a stream, walking over stones and sand, always avoiding the highroad, but making their way steadily toward St. Cyr.

“It seems a long distance,” Rosaline said at last with a sigh.

“Long and dangerous for you,” François answered gently; “I would that we could have persuaded you to remain at home, mademoiselle.”

“Surely you would not have robbed me of such a consolation?” she said reproachfully.

“Nay,” he replied, in a low voice, “you know that I would do anything to serve you, but this was a terrible risk. MM. de Bâville and Montrevel are both watchful; both suspect that these religious meetings are held in the neighborhood, and at any time the troops may descend upon that old quarry; and there would be no quarter.”

“Yet we must serve God, monsieur,” Rosaline said, “even as Daniel did—in peril of the lion’s den; and as the prophet of Israel was delivered, surely the remnant of this people will be also delivered. Truly, monsieur, I would rather cast in my lot with these peasants, enfants de Dieu, than live as I do. But my grandmother is too old and too feeble for the wild life of the Cévenols, and so I go on—a Papist in Nîmes, a Protestant at heart.”

“You would join these people, mademoiselle, yet you have argued against me when I have proposed to go to the Cévennes.”

“You are under a pledge to go to England,” she returned promptly; “you have suffered enough. The time will come quickly for all of us, I suppose. I do not believe that this deception can go on. If the soldiers had found us to-night, I wonder if any of us would have escaped!”

“Mon Dieu!” he murmured softly, “how terrible it would have been. The sentinels told me that there were two hundred and fifty women and children there, besides the men who came with Cavalier.”

“It would have been death,” she said dreamily; “we can die but once, monsieur.”

“You would not have died,” he answered sternly, “while I had a life to give for yours.”

She was silent, but he felt her hand quiver in his. He could not see her face, nor could she see his, but each felt the other’s deep emotion. They walked on, treading carefully; they were skirting the edge of a field of rye on the border of the village of St. Césaire, but they had yet to cross a rocky elevation before they could reach the château. To the left, the lights of the hamlet twinkled like fallen stars, and they heard the dogs baying in the distance.

Meanwhile the sky, which had been so dark, became softly luminous, a whiteness spread over it, the stars paled. At the horizon, the mountains were sharply outlined, black against the growing light, while the earth lay in darkness. Rosaline and her companions began to ascend a steep path, and as they reached the top of the slope the moon rose glorious and a flood of white light poured a searching radiance over the scene. The white rocks cast black shadows, and the sandy soil beneath their feet seemed as white as chalk, while above them a solitary cedar stretched its branches, dark and feathery, against a luminous background. Over there were the spires and turrets of Nîmes, below them the cottage roofs of St. Césaire, around them a wild and barren country, suddenly whitened by the moon.

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Babet, harshly, “’tis a white night—white as a winding-sheet! ’Tis ill luck, mademoiselle; let us hurry—a dog is baying at the moon.”

Rosaline’s mood changed, and for the first time that night she laughed naturally and sweetly.

“You foolish Babet!” she said, “it is a glorious night, and you have been to prayers. Where is your courage?”

Babet shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve courage enough, mademoiselle,” she said, “but I do not love to thrust my head into the lion’s mouth.”

With this remark she went on again, leaving the others to follow. To Babet there were many things more important than a fine scene by moonlight, and she did not approve of the slow progress made by her mistress and her escort.

“A faithful servant,” remarked Rosaline, following her with her eyes. “She was my nurse when I was a baby, and she treats me as a child. Doubtless, monsieur, you think that we lead a strange life at St. Cyr. I fancy it is very different from the lives of other women of our rank, but what else can we do? We are poor, and we are glad of our humble friend Babet; indeed, I think that she and the little cobbler, Charlot, are our most devoted allies. After all, I imagine that grand’mère and I would be very unhappy if we were surrounded with state, and had all our sweet liberty restricted. Were you ever at Versailles, monsieur?”

“But once,” he said quietly. “I went to try to see the king. I wanted to petition him for my innocent sister’s liberty—that I might take her place.”

“Forgive me!” Rosaline exclaimed; “I did not think of the pain I should give. Tell me,” she went on hurriedly, “have you ever seen Cavalier or Roland? To-night, in the darkness, I wanted to see him; ’tis true that they lighted the torches about him, but in that wild illumination I made out nothing except that he appeared a boy. But he did not speak like one!”

“He looked very young,” François replied; “but there is a certain force about him. I never saw him before, but I shall not soon forget him, or the poor, crazed girl.”

“Did you think her demented?” asked Rosaline. “To me she seemed inspired, and surely she preached a wonderful sermon; still, as you say, she spoke wildly.”

“I thought her demented,” he rejoined quietly; “there are so many of these young girls prophesying. It seems to me that it is more the result of suffering, of the horrible spectacles they have witnessed, than a touch of sacred inspiration.”

“It may be so,” she admitted, reluctantly, “but surely such times as these might well produce prophets and soothsayers.”

They were in sight of the château now and saw the light burning in Madame de St. Cyr’s room. She was too feeble to go out on such perilous expeditions and had remained behind in fear and trembling, praying for their safe return. When Babet opened the wicket-gate they were greeted by Truffe’s warning bark, and she was at the door to greet them with noisy joy. Rosaline and M. d’Aguesseau went to Madame de St. Cyr to tell her of the congregation, and Babet retired to her own domain to meditate in solitude on mademoiselle and their visitor.

Rosaline recounted their visit to the quarry where the Camisards met, and old madame listened with eagerness, her pale face unusually animated. She wanted to hear everything, Cavalier’s speech, the sermon of the young girl,—one of the prophets of the Cévenols,—the prayer offered by one of the ministers, the psalms they sang. But she shook her head when she heard that Cavalier had sent word to M. Montrevel that for every Protestant village that the maréchal destroyed, he, Cavalier, would destroy two Papist villages.

“’Twill be useless,” she said quietly; “the king will pour his soldiers upon us, and Languedoc will be laid waste; we cannot prevail against such power. My husband always said so, and my son. They used to say that if the Edict of Nantes should be revoked, the Protestants would soon be destroyed. It will be so—I have felt it from the first.”

“Ah, grand’mère, you are not hopeful enough,” Rosaline said; “see what these two men—Cavalier and Roland—have already accomplished. Let us hope that England will help us.”

Madame shook her head. “The world is selfish,” she said quietly; then she glanced at the clock. “Rosaline, call Babet,” she said; “’tis the hour for our devotions.”

The housekeeper was summoned, while François looked carefully at the windows and saw that all the shutters were fastened. Then the little company joined in evening prayer, Madame de St. Cyr reading a chapter from the Bible. They did not sing; not even in that secluded spot did they dare to give voice to one of Marot’s psalms, for they did not know what ear might be listening in the night. When it was over the grandmother bade Rosaline good-night and sent her away with Babet, but she detained d’Aguesseau. When they were alone she turned to him with a sad face.

“I fear that trouble is brewing, monsieur,” she said quietly; “the very presence of Cavalier near Nîmes increases our perils, and there too are the Florentines,—the White Camisards, as they call themselves,—ruffians, in fact, banded together to hunt us down. I see nothing but danger and death on every side. For myself, I no longer fear,” she added with sorrowful dignity; “I know that I have but a little while to live, and I would die right cheerfully for my religion, but Rosaline—mon Dieu!” she clasped her hands and looked up.

“Madame, if I can protect her—” began François.

“That is what I would pray for, monsieur,” she said. “If I am taken, will you aid Babet to get her out of France?”

“I would give my life for hers!” he answered gravely.

The old woman looked up at his resolute face, at the light in his eyes, and bowed her own face in her hands.

“Madame de St. Cyr,” he said quietly, “I do solemnly pledge myself to defend her—to take her away to a place of safety—to fight for her as long as I live myself.”

She looked up through her tears.

“I thank the bon Dieu!” she said. “To-day men are like wolves toward our lambs. You see how gentle, how innocent the child is.”

She held out her thin, white hand and he took it, and pressed it to his lips.

“Forgive me,” he said gently, “I love her.”

The old face quivered and flushed a little, but she was touched.

“I know not how the child may feel,” she said simply, “but I knew your family, and—I am content that it should be so. Heaven may have sent you to be her defender, for I do greatly fear that the hour of danger draws nigh.”