The cobbler of Nîmes

Beyond the old windmill, on the estate of St. Cyr, the stream turned its course westward and tumbling over a rock, fell four or five feet into a broader rivulet and then flowed placidly on, twisting and turning at last toward the valley of the Vaunage. The gray cliff’s towered boldly, hiding the little falls, locking them in a spot as wild and as deserted as the wildernesses of the Cévennes. But below, where the stream widened, the banks were mossy, and in summer ferns and wild flowers clustered, and on either bank was a fringe of juniper bushes, and beyond, the tall, well-nurtured chestnut trees. Here were fish,—the brown trout darting through the placid waters, and the eels, and there were always birds in the trees when the chestnuts blossomed. But now the touch of autumn was upon it; the moss showed brown tints, and the nuts fell from the opening burrs, and the squirrels were gathering their winter stores.

On the edge of the stream stood Rosaline St. Cyr, looking down into its clear depths at the pebbles in its bed. A little way off was Babet with a basket, and Charlot, the cobbler, knelt on the bank digging up a hardy fern with a broad knife, that had been given him for the purpose by the housekeeper. Truffe meanwhile ran about under the trees barking at every nut that dropped. The scene, in its rustic peace and simplicity, struck the shoemaker in pleasant contrast with that other scene in Nîmes. He was slow at his task, taking the root up carefully and lingering over it so long that Babet grew impatient.

“How long thou art, Petit Bossu!” she said, her arms akimbo. “Ciel, I could have dug up forty! We were doing better before you came.”

“C’est fini,” replied the hunchback, holding up the fern. “Here it is; how many will you have?”

Rosaline turned toward him. She had a large straw hat tied under her chin with blue ribbons, and her cheeks were like roses.

“We want four like that, Charlot,” she said cheerfully; “grand’mère always has a box of ferns for winter; they make a green spot in the room, and that is so pretty.”

“But, mademoiselle, ’tis near supper time,” protested Babet, “and we have been here all the morning.”

Rosaline laughed—a happy, careless laugh.

“You may go home,” she said; “Charlot will bring me back when the basket is full, and we must not lose our dish of mushrooms for supper. Run along, Babet, and set the kettle boiling.”

Babet was nothing loath, though she grumbled loudly at the suggestion, but Charlot stopped digging a fern and looked up with a troubled face. The woman set down the basket for him to fill, and he half rose and made a movement as if to stop her, and then bent over his task again. Apparently, he had decided to let her go, and in a few moments her tall figure had disappeared behind the cliffs and he was alone with the young girl and her dog. Rosaline was strolling along the mossy bank singing softly to herself, the picture of joyful content. She was walking in a dream of love and youth, and she had forgotten the hunchback. He continued to kneel over the ferns, but he had paused in his digging, and his mournful brown eyes followed her with a mute devotion in their gaze. He did not know how long he could keep her there, but every half-hour counted, and surely there was hope that it would be over before she went back to the château. He knew what was passing there, but she did not, and her song almost made him shudder. Still, he hoped, he hoped much, that it was only d’Aguesseau who was wanted, and he was out of reach. The hunchback did not believe that this beautiful young creature was in any personal danger. He thought of the wedding shoes, and bent over the fern with a frown. What would that handsome savage, M. de Baudri, do? Ah, that was the question. Charlot remembered last night and its temptations; verily, love and hate were nearly akin, and he had seen the fiend in monsieur’s open blue eyes.

Rosaline was in a happy mood. She stooped and gathering a handful of chestnuts, threw them—one by one—for Truffe to chase, and laughed gayly at the poodle’s antics, clapping her hands to make her bring the nuts back to be thrown again. The hunchback watched her in silence, bending over his task again; the basket was nearly full of plumes of fern now, and he was racking his brain for an excuse to keep mademoiselle longer away from the house. The drawn white face was full of anxiety, and now and then the brown hands trembled as they handled the plants.

“Do you think it will be an early winter, Charlot?” Rosaline said at last, still tossing the chestnuts for Truffe.

“I cannot tell, mademoiselle,” he replied, looking up at the sky. “But last night the wind came howling straight from the Cévennes, and some say that means a short autumn. The bon Dieu knows that there will be suffering; so many of these Cévenols have been taken or slain, and there were so few to gather the crops or card the wool. Mother of Heaven, the times are evil!”

There was silence; Rosaline’s face had lost its joyous look, and she left off playing with the dog and walked back to the spot where the shoemaker was kneeling by his basket.

“Babet says the winter will be fearfully cold,” she said absently, “and she is wise about these matters. I know not how many signs she has, but certainly more than I could ever remember.”

“I do not know about such things,” he answered quietly, “but the autumn came early this year.”

Rosaline looked dreamily away toward the north.

“The winter with its terrible storms, and this cruel war,” she said thoughtfully,—“I fear the suffering will be very great, Charlot. How does it seem in Nîmes? What does M. Montrevel say?”

“That it cannot last, mademoiselle,” he replied. “His Majesty has sent great reinforcements, and the maréchal is determined to crush the insurrection. Nothing is talked of in Nîmes save the grandeur of the king and the weakness of the Cévenols.”

Rosaline sighed; her mood changed entirely now, and her face was grave and even apprehensive. There was no sound but the gentle dash of water from the falls. Presently her eyes lighted on the basket of ferns.

“We have enough, Charlot,” she said, in a dull voice; “I am going back now. Come also, and Babet will give you supper; you must be tired.”

Poor Charlot was at his wits’ end.

“See, mademoiselle, there is a beautiful fern,” he said, pointing his finger at three waving plumes of green; “will you not have that also?”

She looked at it without interest. “No,” she replied indifferently, “let it remain; we have more than enough already, and I am tired.”

She was half-way up the bank, and Charlot rose in despair.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “come back, I pray you; ’tis not yet time to return to the château.”

She looked around in surprise, and the expression of his face awakened her suspicions.

“What is it?” she demanded quickly; “what do you mean?”

“You were not to return until six o’clock,” he replied, at a loss for an excuse; “Madame de St. Cyr so instructed me.”

“Madame de St. Cyr instructed you—about me?” exclaimed Rosaline in surprise; and there was a touch of hauteur in her manner that Charlot had never encountered before.

“She told me so, when she sent me after you, mademoiselle,” he answered humbly.

Rosaline was roused now; she stood looking at him with a searching glance.

“Why did you come to St. Cyr to-day?” she demanded imperiously.

The hunchback was not adroit, and he felt the peril of the moment too deeply to find ready replies.

“I brought some shoes for madame to try,” he said lamely.

“That is not true, Charlot!” she retorted indignantly; “madame has ordered no shoes, and you know it. You came for something,” she went on, with increasing agitation; “be honest,—was it—did it concern M. d’Aguesseau?”

The shoemaker looked at her with dull eyes, his pinched face unusually brown and haggard.

“Yes, mademoiselle,” he replied with an effort, “it concerned M. d’Aguesseau. M. de Baudri received information that he was a heretic, and he has come to St. Cyr to take him.”

Mademoiselle turned on him the face of an avenging angel.

“And you—” she said, with passionate scorn, “did you betray him?”

The hunchback’s lips twitched, like those of a person in sudden bodily pain, and he did not reply.

“You miserable creature!” Rosaline continued, her blue eyes sparkling with anger. “Did you offer him shelter at first, and get him here that you might surely betray him? You are baffled, thank God; you are out-witted!”

Charlot’s hands clenched and he looked at her as if she had struck him.

“Sang de Dieu, I am innocent!” he said solemnly; “I never betrayed him. I came here to warn him, and found that he had gone. I heard it all in M. de Baudri’s rooms, and I hurried away, and by hiring a cart that I met in the road, I was at St. Cyr just five minutes before the dragoons came, and madame sent me here to keep you out of harm’s way.”

“The dragoons at St. Cyr!” cried Rosaline, forgetting all else in that announcement, “and my grandmother there alone! Dieu, I will never forgive myself!”

She ran up the bank without heeding the cobbler’s appeals.

“Stay, mademoiselle!” he cried after her; “stay but a moment and listen! Ah, Mère de Dieu, she rushes to her fate!”

He called to deaf ears; Rosaline fled through the woods like a young fawn with the dog at her heels. She took no thought of herself but only remembered her grandmother and the terrible prospect of a dragonnade at St. Cyr. The custom of quartering dragoons on families suspected of heresy was too fearfully frequent for it to be improbable, and such visitations were attended by horrible indignities; neither age nor innocence was spared, and the end generally saw the château in smoking ruins and the members of the devoted family dead or banished.

All these things flashed through Rosaline’s mind as she sped—on the wings of love—toward her home, and no one could have overtaken her. The poor hunchback followed as best he could, cursing the fate that had forced him to tell her.

At the gate of the château, Rosaline met Babet, who tried to stop her, but in vain; the girl ran across the garden and passed in through the side door, which the housekeeper had left open. All the while she wondered that the place seemed so deserted and that she saw no soldiers. She passed through the kitchen and dining room, and running upstairs to her grandmother’s sitting-room, flung open the door and found herself face to face with M. de Baudri.