The cobbler of Nîmes

The day dawned calm, after the night of suspense; the October sky was full of light clouds, and there was a chill in the air, the first suggestion of winter, and the birds twittered in the ivy that clung below Rosaline’s window. The daylight found no roses in her cheeks, but rather a new consciousness of pain in her blue eyes. From an almost childlike innocence and calm, her heart had been awakened; life in its fulness had come upon her, and with it the sense of insecurity. All that she cared for was threatened with terrible dangers; her own every-day life might pass like a dream and she might find herself shut in by grim prison walls. They were not of the “king’s religion,” and imprisonment, banishment, death awaited them.

She looked out over the tranquil scene with an anxious heart. What had happened yonder in that murky night? Who had fallen? She could see soldiers on the distant highroad, and now and then a train of wagons moving slowly in the direction of the St. Hippolyte road, but these things told her no more than the flames of the night before. Cavalier had been repulsed, no doubt, but how many had fallen? She could not tell, and her heart throbbed and her hands trembled as she busied herself with the morning tasks. She and her grandmother sat down as usual to breakfast, but she could not eat; she quietly fed Truffe with her meal. Madame de St. Cyr herself scarcely touched anything, and Babet removed the dishes with a gloomy face. There was no conversation, there could not be while the terror of the night was upon them, and d’Aguesseau’s vacant chair seemed to mock them.

Once during the day Madame de St. Cyr let her knitting fall in her lap and looked at Rosaline with tears in her eyes.

“Alas!” she said quietly, “I fear I shall never see him again—and he was a brave man. But for me he would have gone long ago.”

Her granddaughter looked at her strangely. “Did you urge him to stay here?” she asked.

“I prayed him to be near us,” the old woman replied. “I felt that I might go, and there would be no one to help you. Père Ambroise would be all on M. de Baudri’s side.”

“And you told M. d’Aguesseau that?” exclaimed Rosaline, her face flushing.

“Something like it, yes,” Madame de St. Cyr rejoined sadly; “but the call came and he obeyed it. May the bon Dieu protect him and us.”

Rosaline made no reply, but went out of the room and up the stairs to her own, where she knelt in the window recess, her head on her arms. This, then, was the key to all that she had not understood. He had stayed to protect them, to serve them, and but for that might perhaps have been in England, and her grandmother had demanded this return for her friendship. Rosaline’s face burned; she did not look up, even when Truffe came in search of her and thrust her head into her mistress’s lap.

Presently, however, she heard a horse stop at the gate, and peeping cautiously through her screen of ivy, saw M. de Baudri, resplendent in gold lace, coming up to the house. An ill-enough omen at such a time, she thought, and remained at her post, refusing to go down when Babet was sent for her. She heard his voice, smooth and pleasant, in the room below, and after a while she saw him go away again, sitting very erect in his saddle, the picture of a soldier. After his departure she found Madame de St. Cyr sad and nervous. He had told her of the skirmish with Cavalier, speaking of the affair with contempt. The dragoons had beaten off the Camisards, killed twenty and taken sixteen wounded prisoners. He had come to press his suit again and to covertly threaten Madame de St. Cyr. The old woman did not tell all to Rosaline; she dared not. But the girl read much in the anxious eyes that followed her as she moved about, waiting on her grandmother, for she had sent Babet to Nîmes, to learn from Charlot, if possible, the names of the prisoners, the list of the dead. It would be an infinitely difficult task to learn this without suspicion; but if any one could help them, the little cobbler could, and he was known to be of the king’s religion.

Never did a day drag more wearily, but at last the sun descended toward the west, the shadows lengthened, and Rosaline’s doves came cooing to their rest. Babet had not returned yet from Nîmes. Madame de St. Cyr had her supper, served by her granddaughter, and then Rosaline went out with Truffe. She walked slowly through the garden, where the autumn had already laid its fingers, and then she passed out into the grove of mulberry trees, where the path led to the old windmill. The sun had set, and the clouds were red and purple overhead, and between them were great rifts of pale blue. The mulberry leaves rustled softly; but save for that it was still. The air was chill, and the openings between the trees made broad avenues of light and shade.

Rosaline had walked but a little way, when the dog sprang forward with a quick, short bark of welcome, and she saw a man coming toward her. At the sight of his face she stood still, her own turning from white to red. A moment ago she had thought of him as perhaps lying in some loathsome dungeon in Nîmes, or dead, and this sudden meeting took away her self-control; she was trembling when he came up. Looking at her, he read more in her eyes than he had dared to hope for.

“I have come to assure myself of your safety, mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “and then to go away again.”

“Babet is in Nîmes now, monsieur, trying to find out the names of the prisoners,” Rosaline replied. “We did not know what had happened and we feared the worst.”

“It was a short, sharp battle,” he said. “We took some ammunition, but they brought up reinforcements from Nîmes and we were forced to fall back. Cavalier is a soldier, indeed.”

“M. de Baudri was at the château,” she rejoined. “He told us of the dead and the prisoners, and my grandmother could not rest until she knew.”

There was a pause, and he watched her face.

“And you, mademoiselle?” he asked gravely.

Her eyes sought the ground.

“I also was anxious, monsieur,” she said with an effort.

“Yet last night you wished me to go,” he remarked, unmercifully.

She turned toward him with a grave face.

“I did not know until to-day, monsieur,” she said, “that my grandmother had asked you to stay with us to protect us—’twas more than she had a right to ask.”

“Not more than she had a right to ask,” he replied, “but I remained for another reason—can you not divine it, mademoiselle?”

The blue eyes avoided his, and the color came back into her cheeks.

“I have no right perhaps to tell you now, when the future looks so dark,” he said, “and I have felt that you were displeased at my inactivity. Yet—last night—when I was facing death I longed to speak—to tell you all that was in my heart—even if you were indifferent. Love cannot always be silent—God forgive me if I break in upon your innocent peace with my life and its passions and regrets. The world was desolate when I saw you—I had lost all—and then I looked out of my darkness and saw your face. I cannot but speak—we must part now and I must know if you care—ever so little. Dieu! how black the world was when I saw this tall, white lily! You told me last night that you were glad to have me go—I am a fool, no woman ever said that to the man she loved.”

He paused, and the leaves rustled overhead. Her face was averted and he could not see her eyes.

“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely; “I did not mean to speak—but one cannot always smother the heart’s utterances! You are so young, so beautiful, so innocent—forgive me, and let me serve you still.”

She turned and looked at him, but he could not read her eyes.

“You do not understand,” she replied softly. “I wanted you to go because—”

“You thought me a coward,” he exclaimed harshly.

“Nay, monsieur,” she said, “I wanted you to go because a woman wants the man she—she loves to be a hero—”

He caught her hands, looking eagerly into her face.

“Is it possible?” he cried.

She smiled through her tears.

“I wanted you to be a hero,” she answered, “and when you went I thought—my heart would break!”

Her fair head was on his shoulder now, and he kissed her, the perils of their lives forgotten, all the world changed in an instant and only Love triumphant. After a while he broke the silence.

“Are you happy?” he asked her softly, holding her a little away from him that he might see her face.

She smiled radiantly, but did not answer, and he went on, questioning her that he might have a fresh assurance of her affection.

“You want me to go and you do not,” he said; “what am I to think?”

“Yes, I wanted you to go,” she replied, a flush on her face. “I could not bear to have you seem less brave or daring than other men—or to lack zeal for your religion—and then you went! And—and I cannot bear to have you go to face danger—even death itself!”

“Oh, thou perfect woman!” he exclaimed, smiling; “I must be a true knight and yet you would not have me in danger.”

She smiled, turning her face aside.

“Yes—yes, ’tis that,” she answered very low. “I want you to be the bravest of the brave, and yet—oh, mon Dieu, I cannot bear to see you in any danger!”

He held her to his heart again with many caresses.

“What can I do?” he asked. “I cannot be both,—your constant attendant and a soldier in the field. Ah, Rosaline, love is king—not even the perils of battle can defeat him. I can love you and fight too, but I cannot flee from danger for your sweet sake.”

“And I could not bear to see you flee,” she said, “and yet my heart was torn when I knew that you were in the midst of that fight in the darkness.”

“Take comfort, my dearest,” he said softly, “let us forget the perils and think only of each other. Ah, my darling, I little thought, when I was in the cobbler’s upper room so downcast, that the light of my life would shine in upon me there. I loved you from the first moment that I saw you.”

“Did you?” she cried with shining eyes, “oh, tell me—tell me how it was!”

And he told her, Love’s language being eloquent to such ears, as it has been always, as it will be while the round world moves.

Then they walked on, hand in hand, through the trees, the soft moss beneath their feet, the pale October sky overhead, and only the murmur of the leaves. They came presently to the old mill, and went down to the edge of the stream, and then he asked her again the question that was first in his thoughts,—

“Are you happy, sweetheart, tell me?”

“Ah, François,” she answered, “we are too happy—’tis that—I am afraid!”

“Of what, dear heart?” he asked gently, “surely, not that our love can die?”

“Not that,” she replied, “not that! I have been light of heart, careless as a child. I never was afraid before, but now—oh, François, if you were taken from me it would kill me.”

He clasped her close, laying his cheek against her soft one.

“But that could not be,” he said soothingly; “not even death could part us save for a little while, my heart, for our souls are immortal—and they are one.”

She clung to him, her eyes full of tenderness.

“’Tis so,” she murmured, “our souls are immortal, I never felt it so strongly before! Love touches the heart and all the world is different—ah, mon Dieu, ’tis thy gift to us! See, François,” she added, “is not the world more beautiful, the sky more tender? Do not the birds sing more sweetly to-day? And is it because we love?”

“It must be so, my Rosaline,” he answered gently; “the Garden of Eden must have blossomed so to welcome Eve—and love makes the world more beautiful each day.”

“And it shall make me better,” she rejoined; “’tis said that sorrow refines the heart, but it is joy that fills it with kindness. I am sure of it, for I was never half so full of pity for the unhappy as I am now; my cup overflows and others thirst. Ah, François, let us be good to others always, for that is love.”

“Your very presence is love, Rosaline,” he answered softly, “your face, your eyes, your voice. When I first saw you in the little shop I was a desperate man, but from that moment my heart was changed. You entered like an angel, and as an angel I adored you.”

“And I made that difference in your life, François?” she said tenderly,—“I, Rosaline de St. Cyr. Ah, Dieu, am I not blessed?”

She stood away from him on the mossy bank, the stream lying brown and placid below her feet. Behind her the tree trunks were outlined against the rosy west, and the sweet stillness of twilight was enfolding them. The afterglow shone in her beautiful young face, and her blue eyes were radiant.

“I was never happy before,” she said, smiling, “now I know it!—but this is happiness—love—life. Do you see that bright star shining yonder, François? There is a little one beside it—see! like two souls, uplifted above the world and radiant. I will be afraid no more, my love, for even death has lost its terrors, for thus our two souls would shine together above the sorrow and the pain. I will fear no more—for stronger than death is love!”