The cobbler of Nîmes

That night, when the shutters were closed and the doors secured, the family sat in an upper room. Babet had come in to hear the Bible read by Madame de St. Cyr, and they were all grouped about the table where the candles were burning. The old woman was reading in a low voice, with many pauses, and the faces around her were grave and even sad as they listened. Suddenly the dog sprang up from her place at Rosaline’s feet and began to bark, and the reading ceased.

“What is it? I hear something!” exclaimed the young girl, trying to silence Truffe.

Babet was listening intently.

“I hear the sound of many feet,” she said.

D’Aguesseau rose and went to the window and, unfastening the shutter, looked out. The moon was struggling to shine through drifting clouds; one moment the world was lighted, the next it lay in darkness. In one of these intervals of illumination he saw the scene without plainly enough. The garden lay below the window, and beyond was a view of the highroad, the sloping plain, and farther off the village of St. Césaire. He could hear the sound of marching men, and as he looked they came in sight on the road, filing slowly past the château, line after line, their weapons gleaming in the moonshine. He watched them curiously; these were not the dragoons,—he could distinguish the rough and ragged appearance of the men even from a distance. He closed the shutter and turned toward the women with a flush on his face; his opportunity was at hand.

“They are passing the château,” he said, in a reassuring tone, “I will go out and ascertain who they are. I think I cannot be mistaken in them.”

Rosaline’s blue eyes kindled.

“Are they Camisards?” she demanded.

“I think so,” he replied as he left the room.

The next moment they heard him go out, and Rosaline went to the window to watch. Madame de St. Cyr’s face was very pale.

“They may be Florentines,” she said, “and if so—we shall scarcely escape them.”

“They have halted,” her granddaughter replied from the window. “The clouds have drifted wide apart now and the night is as white as that night which frightened you, Babet. M. d’Aguesseau has gone out to them.”

“The bon Dieu defend us!” murmured madame; “the times are very evil;” and she fell to praying silently.

Babet was kneeling on the floor, with Truffe’s head smothered in her apron to hush the dog’s bark. Rosaline leaned against the window frame looking out, the moonlight outlining her slender figure.

“M. d’Aguesseau talks with one of them,” she said. “Ciel! how ghastly their faces look in this light—like chalk—and I see everywhere the flash of steel.”

“Can you make out who they are?” asked her grandmother, in a tremulous voice.

“Nay,” she replied, “but M. d’Aguesseau is friendly with them,—I can see that; he has shaken hands with one who seems to be a leader.”

“It is well,” said madame, in a tone of relief; “they must be of our people.”

The night was very still and the three women listened, but they did not distinguish the words that were spoken, though they heard the voices.

“Does M. d’Aguesseau still speak with them?” the old woman asked.

“He is coming back alone,” Rosaline replied in a low tone; and she did not leave her post when she heard him coming up the stairs.

He entered the room quietly, though he had his sword in his hand.

“Madame,” he said, “I came back to reassure you. These men are Camisards, led by Cavalier himself, and they are on their way to cut off a train of ammunition that is leaving Nîmes for St. Hippolyte. There will be a fight, but not very near here, I trust, and I believe you will be in safety. For myself, madame, I go with them.”

The old woman clasped her hands and leaned back in her chair.

“Alas!” she said, “I sent out my two soldiers to die for their king, and I cannot bid you stay, since you go to fight in the cause of the King of kings, but I grieve to part with you thus.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“Madame,” he said, “you have been as good to me as a mother, in my extremity, and I will not forget your kindness. May God give me the opportunity to requite it. I must strike a good blow in the cause of my brethren, but I shall not forget my duty to you—and yours.”

Tears fell on her white cheeks, and she gave him her blessing.

Leaving her, he walked over to the window where the young girl had remained motionless as a statue, her face set toward the scene without.

“Mademoiselle,” he said very low, “I bid you adieu. I know that you have thought me lacking in the spirit to fight—but believe me, it was not cowardice that held me at St. Cyr.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes clear and fearless.

“The cause is sacred,” she said. “I—I am glad that—”

She broke off, and he filled up the sentence.

“Glad that I have the courage to go,” he said coldly.

“I never doubted that,” she replied gravely; “but oh, monsieur, if I could be a man, I would fight—I can understand how you feel—the bon Dieu defend you!”

He looked at her a moment sadly, and seemed to hesitate; then he turned and went quietly away, leaving her standing there tongue-tied, her eyes suddenly filled with hot tears. What had she done? she thought, as he went down and out into the night. What had she done?

Her grandmother’s voice roused her.

“Has he gone to them?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes,” Rosaline replied, “and they are forming in columns again,—they are going to march on.”

There was a pause; the women could hear that there were some orders given and then it was strangely quiet, the men standing like statues in the road. The clouds drifted over the moon and darkness enveloped the scene again, and out of that still night arose the murmur of many voices, a volume of sound, throbbing and gaining strength and sweetness and solemnity.

“Hush!” said Rosaline, raising her hand, “the Sixty-eighth Psalm—the battle hymn.”

Full and strong it rose, every word poured out from the hearts of those stern men, and in that lonely spot, in the darkness, the sound was profoundly solemn. Softly at first, and then sweetly and fearlessly, Rosaline joined them, her rich young voice floating out to mingle with the song of the soldiers.

The last verses grew softer as they marched away, and the singing died at last in the distance.

Rosaline remained at her post, straining her eyes to search the darkness, and Babet, releasing Truffe, came and stood beside her. They could see the distant lights of St. Césaire, and this window in the daytime commanded a view of the road that led in the direction of St. Hippolyte. It was an hour of suspense, and none of the women thought of sleep. Old Madame de St. Cyr lay back in her chair, engaged in silent devotion, and the others watched and watched with tireless eagerness. The very stillness was oppressive, and the darkness now was like a pall, close over the earth.

“Ciel!” said Babet, “how quiet it is!—and black as soot. I wonder how many men he had?”

“There seemed to be an army,” replied Rosaline, “but I suppose it could not be that he had more than a thousand men, perhaps not so many, and Nîmes is a hive of soldiers!”

“Bah!” ejaculated the other woman, grimly, “Cavalier can whip them—he’ll have M. Montrevel’s periwig yet.”

Rosaline did not reply, her mind was elsewhere; she was thinking of that dangerous march into the enemy’s country, of the fight that must ensue.

Suddenly there was a distant sound—the fire of musketry—the first clash of battle, borne to them on the night air, and at the same moment they saw the lights flashing red in St. Césaire.

“They have met the enemy!” Rosaline exclaimed, straining her eyes and ears and leaning out of the window.

They could hear firing quite plainly now; and presently far off they saw a blaze kindled, and then the flames leaped up into the night, like fiery swords cutting the blackness in twain.

“They have set fire to the old château over there,” Rosaline said.

Madame de St. Cyr turned in her chair.

“Tell me what you see,” she exclaimed eagerly.

“Fire, grand’mère, leaping up in the night, and I hear the guns,” Rosaline replied, “and now—see, see, Babet!—there are black figures outlined against the flames! Ah, Dieu, they fight!—’tis a part of the battle—oh, if I could but see it plainly!”

The rattle of small arms came to them, and now the boom of heavier guns.

“They have brought artillery from Nîmes,” said Rosaline, in a low voice. “Ah, see, Babet, another house has caught! ’Tis the village in the highroad yonder; how it burns! The night is gaping as though we looked into a fiery furnace. Oh, mon Dieu, what a fearful sight it is! There! something exploded—see the timbers flying—some one perished when they fell.”

She leaned from the window and gazed at the wild night with a throbbing heart.

“Can you not see, Babet?” she cried. “I do—they fight there in the firelight—see their black figures—hush! there is a heavy gun.”

“My eyes are old,” Babet replied; “to me ’tis the mouth of the infernal regions—no more.”

Another pause while madame prayed softly.

“How goes it?” she asked again.

“I cannot tell—I cannot tell!” cried Rosaline, “but the fire has consumed the houses, I think. It seems to sink now, and I cannot see so well.”

Again they watched in silence; but now the firing seemed to grow more distant, and finally they heard it no more, though the flames still made the night as red as blood. An hour passed—two—and they watched, and could see no more, and could only divine the cause of the silence.

“Cavalier must have been driven back,” madame said, “else the fighting would have lasted longer. May the bon Dieu guard our poor fellows!”

Again there was stillness, and the clock struck four, the clear little bell startling them. Rosaline closed the shutter softly; her face was as white as snow.

“’Tis over,” she said; “the flames have died away, darkness is there again, and silence—and death!”