The cobbler of Nîmes

The months of the terrible summer of 1703 waned, and autumn came. Fire and sword had laid waste in Languedoc. It had been a reign of terror. The chieftains of the Camisards sweeping down from the Cévennes carried the war almost to the sea; priests were slain, Catholic villages burned. On the other side, the king’s soldiers poured into the devoted country, and the Huguenots were hunted far and wide. The galleys at Marseilles were crowded, the jails were packed, the gallows in constant use; the women and children were sent to convents and prisons, and the desolate country threatened famine, with no man to till the soil, and no woman to bind the sheaves. Still it went on, that cruel war for religion’s sake, and the blood of the innocent was poured out as a libation.

Nîmes was thronged with soldiers, the markets were crowded, the busy life choked the marts, but the open country was stricken; even the valley of the Vaunage—“the little Canaan” of Languedoc—had suffered. In the court of the Rue St. Antoine, the little cobbler mended the shoes of the soldiers, and out at St. Cyr only one or two late roses were blooming, and the bees had stored their honey for winter. The every-day life went on; the steward was still there, chained by invisible links now; he scarcely thought of leaving France, and he knew that he might be needed, for Madame de St. Cyr was failing fast. She had had an attack of heart disease, and sat in her chair all day, without strength to take her accustomed part in affairs. M. de Baudri still came, a persistent and undaunted suitor, and Père Ambroise made his regular visits, walking in the garden with Rosaline, and discoursing on the perils of heresy, but closing his eyes to suspicious circumstances. He always walked with his hands behind him, his large black figure seeming to absorb a good deal of the sunlight, and a smile on his round, rosy face. What was the use, after all, of making that poor old woman wretched? he argued comfortably, and he did not force religious consolation upon Madame de St. Cyr. He was willing to let the heretic burn in the next world, and she blessed him in her heart every time she looked out at him as he ambled through the maze of hedges.

There had been a season of quiet, a brief interval in the clash of war, and the family at St. Cyr breathed more freely. Fear and suspicion seemed dormant, and Rosaline’s laugh came more readily, except when she saw how feeble her grandmother looked.

It was the last of October, and the three, Madame de St. Cyr, her granddaughter, and François d’Aguesseau had just finished the midday meal. It was a golden day, almost as warm as summer, and a monthly rose swung its blossoms over the window-sill. M. d’Aguesseau had been fortunate enough to secure a communication with his friends in England, and had received a remittance which enabled him to pay his debts and to provide for the future. But he said nothing of a change, for he saw that Madame de St. Cyr was unable to travel, and he would not quit Languedoc while Rosaline was surrounded with so many dangers. They were talking of every-day matters, of the approach of winter, of the chances for the success of the insurrection, when they were startled by the tramping of a body of horse in the road, and the sharp call of a bugle. Madame’s face paled and Rosaline and d’Aguesseau sprang to their feet. She ran ahead of him out at the door and down the path to an opening in the hedge which afforded a view of the highway.

“’Tis M. de Baudri at the head of his dragoons!” she exclaimed, shading her eyes with her hand and looking out.

A company of dragoons were filing along the road, the even gait of the cavalry horses keeping the whole line swinging on to the sound of the bugle. The gay uniforms were soiled and there were powder stains, and in the centre of the troop were six prisoners,—grim-looking men, in the garb of peasants with the blouse of the Camisards, and bound, their arms tied behind their backs and their feet tied under the bellies of their horses. At the sight of them Rosaline drew back with a shudder, but it was too late; M. de Baudri had seen her and drew rein, saluting her with unruffled composure. As he paused, the cavalcade halted opposite the gate, bringing the prisoners in full view of the château. They did not look to the right or left, however, but stared grimly before them. Of the six, five were wounded, and the blood flowed from an unbandaged wound on one man’s head. Faint from the loss of it, he reeled in his saddle, but uttered no complaint. Meanwhile M. de Baudri sat erect on his spirited horse, his head uncovered, his rich uniform spotless, and his periwig freshly curled. He looked smilingly into Rosaline’s pale face.

“A fair good morning, my Rose of Languedoc,” he said gallantly, speaking too low for the ears of his dragoons; “I count it fortunate when even my duty takes me past your door.”

She curtsied, her blue eyes looking straight before her and her lips firmly closed. She was controlling herself with a mighty effort.

“Monsieur has surely unpleasant duties,” she said formally.

“The gayest in the world,” he replied with a careless laugh. “We have cleaned out a cave full of Barbets this morning, and hung the leader because he had the boldness to be shot in action. We swung his dead body on a chestnut-tree—it hangs there with the burrs ready to ripen. Nom de St. Denis!” he added, with a glance at his prisoners, “these fellows would have been lucky to hang there too!”

Rosaline could endure no more.

“Mon Dieu!” she cried, “are you human? Can you see that poor man bleed to death?”

De Baudri turned in his saddle and stared indifferently at the sufferer.

“A heretic, mademoiselle,” he remarked, with a gesture of disdain; “what would you?”

“I would bind his wounds!” she retorted, taking a step nearer the gate; but the sight had sickened her, the scene swam before her eyes, she reeled, and would have fallen but for François, who had been standing a few yards behind her, and who now sprang forward and caught her in his arms.

“Why do you exhibit such cruelties to her?” he demanded sharply, looking over her head into de Baudri’s eyes.

The latter had made a motion as if to spring from the saddle at the sight of Rosaline’s white face, but now he straightened himself and returned the other’s look with disdain.

“So!” he said with a sneer, “the menial turns into a champion. Mère de Dieu, Sir Camisard, we will be pleased to accommodate you in Nîmes.”

“You may sometime have that pleasure, M. de Baudri,” d’Aguesseau replied, coldly, and lifting Rosaline’s unconscious form in his arms, he carried her back into the house.

The soldier remained a moment staring after them, his blue eyes on fire, then he recollected where he was and gave an order. The bugle sounded “Forward!” and the troop disappeared along the highroad to Nîmes, leaving a cloud of dust in its track.

Meanwhile d’Aguesseau, fearing to alarm Madame de St. Cyr, carried Rosaline into the hall and summoned Babet. But the girl began to recover without any ministrations, and sat up on the high settle by the door, the soft air reviving her; but her joyous mood was gone, she looked out into the garden with unseeing eyes.

“Alas!” she said faintly, “I have been happy—and all this misery at my door! I live a lie secure, and these martyrs die for their religion. What a poor creature I am!”

Babet stood looking at her with a grim face; d’Aguesseau was silent, his own conscience accusing him.

“It will not last,” Rosaline went on slowly, “I feel that trouble is coming to us! What right have we to stand by and see it all and rejoice in our false security. Ah, mon Dieu, that poor man!”

“It’s no use to seek trouble, mademoiselle,” Babet remarked, “it’ll find us fast enough. I hear it grumbling like the thunder in the Cévennes mountains. As for that poor man, never you mind; Cavalier will catch some fat old curé for him!”

Retaliation was a salve to Babet’s moods; she was no saint and had no longing to be a martyr. Rosaline shook her head.

“It must end,” she said, rising. “I will go to my grandmother. You may cut the flowers to-day, Babet.”

She passed d’Aguesseau without a word; her emotion seemed to have separated her from him, and all that day she was sad and preoccupied.

As for François d’Aguesseau, he went out through the garden and passing the mulberry trees, descended a steep slope to the banks of a stream which flowed behind St. Cyr. Following this, he passed through a little forest of chestnut trees, heavily laden with green burrs, and came at last to a deserted windmill. The tower was white and solid, and the wheel still surmounted it though broken in several places, but the mill had long been unused. The door stood open—on rusty hinges—and a heap of straw lay in one corner, doubtless the resting-place of many a vagrant in those evil times. On the threshold d’Aguesseau sat down, facing the stream and the mossy slope. It was a favorite resort of his, because of its solitude and stillness. Here many a battle of the heart had been fought out, and here he came now to face another crisis. He sat there a long while, and it was very quiet. Now and then a chestnut burr fell with a soft thud in the little grove behind him; a squirrel came to the edge of the bank and then leaped away; a fish jumped out of the water and then plunged down again. Presently the breeze freshened, the old windmill creaked as it turned a little, and the leaves rustled softly. At last the sun sank lower in the west and sent long rays of light through the trees, and the clouds overhead grew rosy.

François rose and walked toward the château; he was resolved to live thus no longer. His presence was now more of a menace than a protection to the women there. He had read the look in M. de Baudri’s eyes, and he knew that he might expect the worst that a relentless enemy could do. But it was not that; Rosaline’s words had struck home. He too had been living a lie in security; he too felt himself a miserable coward before the self-devotion of these poor peasants and wool-carders. He must draw his sword for this forlorn hope; he must leave St. Cyr—ah, there was the pang! Could he protect her at a distance? Could he watch over her welfare while he fought with the Camisards? That was the chain that had held him, and now even that must be broken.