The cobbler of Nîmes

It was daybreak; the pale sky was luminous, and the golden east throbbed with the approaching glory. Already the hill-tops were radiant, but the low country lay in the shadow, and a white mist floated over the valleys. The air was full of the twittering of birds, and all the life in Nature began to stir. There were no travellers on the highroad so early, save one, a corpulent priest, mounted on a stout mule, proceeding toward St. Cyr. Père Ambroise detested extraordinary exertion, but he had yielded to the importunities of the cobbler. For his own part, he thought that ten o’clock was soon enough to deal with M. de Baudri, but he had roused himself and set out at an unearthly hour because of le Bossu’s representations. No man could regret the trouble at the château de St. Cyr more sincerely than he did; he had labored to protect these two defenceless women, and he saw no profit in madame’s arrest. Père Ambroise would never be numbered with the persecutors; he cared more for a bottle of good wine from the vintage of the Vaunage than he did for the arrest of a score of heretics. Besides, he had no real love for M. de Baudri, and he foresaw M. de Baudri’s triumph. Père Ambroise wanted to convert Rosaline; he wanted to see her either in a convent or wedded to a good son of the Church, but he could not digest the prospect of this particular bridegroom. He had not the smallest respect for Rosaline’s religious convictions or scruples; it was impossible for him to regard them with anything but contempt or hatred, but he really cared for the girl’s welfare. He had known her from a child, and he felt a sincere affection for her. For her sake he had spared Madame de St. Cyr, and he had no desire now to give her pain. He rode along, therefore, revolving all these matters in his mind, and wondering how far he could trespass on the patience and friendship of the Intendant of Languedoc,—the only man who could take M. de Baudri in hand. The result of Père Ambroise’s ruminations was not satisfactory; he advanced at a leisurely pace, for his mule was nearly as stout as he was, and the sun rose in all its splendor as he approached St. Cyr. He disliked effort and excitement, and he could devise no easy and comfortable way out of the dilemma. After all, perhaps she would have to marry M. de Baudri; at least, that ought to bring her into the church, and if she remained a heretic? Well, Père Ambroise reflected with a broad smile, that alternative would furnish him with a rod to hold over the stubborn head of M. le Capitaine. The good father’s fat sides shook a little with silent laughter as he drew rein at the gate of the château. Âme de St. Denis! he would make M. de Baudri dance to a pretty tune before the Intendant; there were compensations, no matter what the result.

The sentry—the same young man who had been disciplined by Babet—received the priest with respect; his instructions had not mentioned Père Ambroise, and the stout, black-robed figure ambled placidly up the gravel path and entered by way of the kitchen. This was empty, for Babet had deserted her fortress for the moment to wait on her young mistress. The priest proceeded through the house and was greeted at the stairs by Truffe, who knew him. He climbed up in a leisurely way, panting at each step, and, entering the sitting-room, found Rosaline and her faithful attendant. The young girl hailed his entrance with relief and hope, and something like life came back into her white face.

Père Ambroise was touched by her evident confidence in his good-will, and seating himself comfortably, he dismissed Babet with a placid air of authority that sent her fuming to the kitchen, where she resumed her task of heating the fire-irons. She was determined not to be taken unawares, and the sentry—perfectly acquainted with her occupation—kept his distance and bided his time.

Meanwhile, in response to a few well-directed questions, Rosaline told her story, which was substantially the same as the one already recited by le Bossu. A man less keen than Père Ambroise would have detected her resolution in her manner, and he was not unprepared for her answer when he asked her what she intended to do. She was standing in front of him, her hands clasped loosely before her, and her head erect, but her face was like marble, white and still.

“I have no choice, mon père,” she said, in a low voice; “no one cares for a heretic. It is my duty to save my grandmother. I cannot let her die for my happiness! Mon Dieu! what a monster I should be! I must consent to M. de Baudri’s terms, and then—” she paused, drawing a deep breath and her clear blue eyes looked out, away toward the grim mountains of the north, “and then I know that the bon Dieu will release me. He will send me death—sweet death—for my bridegroom!”

Père Ambroise regarded her thoughtfully. For his times, he was a liberal man, and he did not immediately foresee hell fires. He saw only a pure and defenceless girl, and his heart smote him.

“The bon Dieu is offended with you for heresy, Rosaline,” he remarked calmly; “that is the cause of your misfortunes.”

Rosaline looked at him searchingly; she had long ago weighed Père Ambroise and found him wanting.

“He is my Judge,” she replied, and closed her lips firmly.

It was not the hour for religious controversy, and the priest knew it; he pursed up his lips and was silent. But she had a purpose at heart, and not even his frowns discouraged it.

“Père Ambroise,” she said, “I want to go into Nîmes now—at once—to see my grandmother. I will consent to nothing until I do—you can get this favor for me—I ask nothing else, but oh, do this for me!”

Père Ambroise had been considering many things, and he was not unwilling to listen to so reasonable a desire. Indeed, he had been thinking with some pity of poor old Madame de St. Cyr.

“It shall be done,” he said, “but not until M. de Baudri comes; I have no authority, but he cannot refuse this at my request.”

Rosaline thanked him without emotion; the girl’s passionate grief and rebellion had spent itself in a night of agony; she had reached the dead level of despair. She still believed her lover to be a prisoner, for Babet had been too wise to hold out uncertain hopes, and Rosaline had made up her mind to sacrifice herself for her two loved ones, and the sacrifice she contemplated was worse to her than death. No victim was ever prepared to be laid on the altar with a greater vigil of misery. She would have died gladly, but this was far more terrible and more degrading. She was in a stupor of misery, but yet too wise to expect relief from Père Ambroise. His point of view and hers were sundered as widely as the poles. To him it was only an undesirable step toward her conversion, and a certain way of saving her life.

It was early, and the placid father left the victim to her reflections and, proceeding to the pantry, foraged with some comfort. He was too intimately acquainted with Babet’s peculiarities to approach her at such a moment with a demand for breakfast, but he managed to comfort the inner man with the remains of a cold chicken pasty and a salad, and some more diligent search unearthed a small bottle of eau-de-vie, so that he emerged from his seclusion, at last, wiping his lips and with an air of satisfaction. After this, he mounted his spectacles and searched Madame de St. Cyr’s little library for heretical books, but the old gentlewoman had been too cautious to be so easily betrayed, and he found nothing of interest.

Thus it happened that when M. de Baudri arrived at ten o’clock he found Père Ambroise in possession, and fell to cursing his luck, knowing well enough that the priest had both the will and the power to hamper his designs. He held the corpulent father in supreme contempt, but he dared not insult him at a time when the priests were supreme, nor could he drive Rosaline to extremities while she had such a respectable protector. M. de Baudri was a keen man, and he saw that a few concessions might gain an ally, while insolence would make an undesirable enemy. There was no hope of his marrying Rosaline if Père Ambroise chose to declare her a heretic and have her shut up in a convent. The priest held the winning card and knew it, and it took him only half an hour to arrange that the young girl should accompany him to see her grandmother, under the escort of M. de Baudri and his dragoons.

Before eleven, therefore, they were on the road to Nîmes. A carriage had been obtained at St. Césaire, and the priest, Rosaline, and Babet sat within it, while M. de Baudri rode beside it and a guard of dragoons followed at a short distance. Rosaline felt herself to be on the way to an open grave, and she leaned back in her corner with closed eyes. No one spoke, and the drive was taken in silence. Finally they passed through the Porte de France and then proceeded more slowly through the streets. The noises of the city aroused the poor girl a little, and she looked out, only to shrink again from the curious stare of the crowd. On the carriage went, turning at last into a long street and then stopping at the door of the common jail. Happily for Rosaline, she did not recognize it, though she shuddered as she passed under the grim portal with Père Ambroise. They were alone, the others remaining without, and they were admitted with but little parley. Like a somnambulist, the girl passed through a gloomy corridor and saw the jailer unfastening the bolts of a strong door. The man threw it open and stood back, and Rosaline did not heed his remark to the priest.

“You are just in time, mon père,” he said, with a brutal laugh.

They stood at the entrance of a narrow cell lighted by one small window, and on the wretched pallet lay the motionless form of Madame de St. Cyr. At the sight of her grandmother’s face Rosaline awoke from her dream and running forward, fell on her knees beside her with a cry of surprise and anguish. Père Ambroise hastily closed the door behind him; he did not need to look a second time to see that M. de Baudri was to be defrauded of one victim.

“Speak to me, grand’mère,” Rosaline cried pitifully. “Oh, mon Dieu, why did I ask for one night to decide? Twelve hours ago I might have saved her!”

The sound of a beloved voice often rouses even the dying; Madame de St. Cyr stirred and opened her eyes. They dwelt lovingly on the girl for a moment, and then memory returned and an expression of horror came into her face.

“Merciful Heaven!” she gasped, rallying her forces. “Are you here, my darling?—now is death bitter indeed!”

“She is safe,” Père Ambroise interposed, his heart touched at last; “I will protect her.”

The old woman gave him a look of ineffable gratitude; she was almost beyond speech, but she laid one hand feebly on Rosaline’s head, and her lips moved as she blessed her.

“Thank the bon Dieu,” she murmured faintly, “the old tree was cut—down—and the flower—spared! Weep not, my child. Beyond—there is peace.”

Rosaline’s slender frame was shaken with agony.

“Live for me, grand’mère!” she cried; “now indeed am I desolate—and I would have saved you!”

But the end was too near for the dying woman to understand; she sank back with closed eyes and Père Ambroise began to recite the prayer for the dying. In his emotion he forgot that she was a heretic. Rosaline clung to her in an agony of grief and self-abnegation.

“Oh, let me save you!” she cried; “live that I may die for you!”

Madame opened her eyes, there was a placid smile on her face, she had forgotten all the terror and the pain, prison walls held her no more.

“There is no anguish,” she said softly, looking away into space, “only light—my husband—my son—the bon Dieu be praised—there shall be peace!”

She spoke no more; there was no sound but Père Ambroise’s Latin and Rosaline’s weeping. The dying woman lay still, and the clear eyes still looked triumphantly beyond this world’s agony, and almost without a sigh the gentle soul escaped from prison. Death, the Deliverer, opened the gates.