The cobbler of Nîmes

Père Ambroise was plentifully supplied with this world’s goods, and he had a house of his own in Nîmes, not a hundred yards from the Esplanade, where he lived in comfort and security, with no fear of the Camisard raids. To the right of the door of this house was a comfortable room, furnished with many luxuries: soft rugs, deep arm-chairs, tapestry-hangings, a huge fireplace, where the logs burned cheerfully on the great andirons. And here Père Ambroise sat entertaining M. de Baudri over a bottle of rare wine, on the evening of that eventful day. They had both dined well, and the good father’s rubicund face wore an expression of satisfaction, while his guest was visibly discontented. The fact was that Père Ambroise was in command of the situation, and he had forced the soldier to yield at all points. At that moment Rosaline was secure in one of his upper rooms, and he was in a position to dictate his own terms. If he chose he could declare her a heretic and immure her in a convent for life; M. de Baudri’s only chances of being a bridegroom lay in his ability to propitiate the priest. Nothing could have been more distasteful to the soldier than this unexpected turn of affairs; he was accustomed to command and not to sue, and now he was forced to persuade a man who disliked him to look at things from his point of view. He cursed his luck in secret, and tried to smile over his wine; never had he been more neatly balked in his purposes—nor by a more contemptible enemy. Meanwhile Père Ambroise leaned back in his chair and regarded him from between his half-closed lids, mightily diverted by the other’s discomfiture, and not yet entirely decided on his own course. He was not sure that it would be a merciful thing to shut Rosaline up in a convent for life, and Père Ambroise was one of those men who cannot be ill-natured after a good dinner. He raised his wine-glass in his fat fingers and held it before the candle that he might admire the delicate amber color of the wine before he drank it, and all his movements were deliberate and comfortable. His placidity goaded M. de Baudri to the verge of murder.

“You cannot marry a heretic, my son,” Père Ambroise remarked pleasantly; “therefore you must either allow her to go to her fate—which, by the way, is of your preparing—or wait until she is converted.”

“Dame! do you take me for a fool?” exclaimed his companion. “How long have you been at this hopeful business of conversion?”

“Only since I have known her to be a heretic,” the priest replied composedly.

“Sacristi! convert a heretic!” de Baudri laughed; “how many are ever converted?”

“Large numbers—in some circumstances,” Père Ambroise said, with a broad smile; “’tis said that Du Chayla had a basement full of converts when their misguided friends arose and murdered him at Pont-de-Montvert; a poor requital for his zeal, monsieur. As for myself,”—he waved his fat hands,—“I am a man of peace, and I have ever labored to save these misguided people from violence.”

M. de Baudri was leaning his elbow on the table, staring gloomily at the floor.

“Mère de Dieu!” he said bitterly; “they are all only fit for hanging.”

“Perhaps you would prefer to hang mademoiselle,” his companion remarked, refilling his glass cautiously, for he did not wish to disturb his brain with the fumes of liquor.

M. de Baudri looked at him darkly.

“I do her great honor in offering to marry her,” he said harshly.

Père Ambroise nodded his head approvingly, and took a sip of wine.

“Assuredly,” he said; “so great an honor that I am inclined to prevent you. A true son of the Church should not wed a heretic. The proper destination for her is a convent.”

The younger man swore under his breath.

“You old fox, you,” he exclaimed, “you do not want me to marry the girl—I believe you want her yourself!”

Père Ambroise turned his eyes piously toward heaven.

“The saints forbid!” he murmured. “You have an unbridled tongue, mon fils, and deserve discipline for offering an insult to one in holy orders.”

The officer laughed. “Dame, you old rogue!” he said, “do you fat fathers take us for fools? Hark!” he added sharply, pausing to listen, “what is that? I heard the dog bark.”

“Rosaline’s poodle,” replied the priest, undisturbed.

M. de Baudri was suspicious. “Have you got her secure?” he demanded imperiously.

“Absolutely secure,” retorted his companion, indifferently; “my servants are faithful, and her door is fastened by an oaken bar too strong for two women to force. Compose yourself, mon fils; you consented to this respite; she was to have until eight to-morrow morning for reflection, and she has reason enough to make good use of the time. Her grandmother is dead and she has no defender but me. She will not resist my authority, but you take a strange way to propitiate me and obtain my good offices.”

M. de Baudri gnawed his lip with a lowering expression on his face.

“I shall have to come to your terms, I suppose, mon père,” he said at last with an effort to appear congenial.

“That is more to the point,” Père Ambroise remarked pleasantly, and leaned over to fill his guest’s glass again.

While these two worthies talked and drank, a very different scene was being enacted in the second story of the house. Here, in a large back room, Rosaline and Babet were confined; the woman sitting stiffly upright in a chair by the table, where the candles were set, while Rosaline had thrown herself face downward on the bed, in a silent agony of grief and despair. Between the two was the black poodle Truffe, her ears pointed, silent and watchful after the fashion of dogs in new places.

Babet ventured upon no consolation; she stared grimly before her with unwinking eyes. She was thinking of her own fate; there was no one to interpose for her, and her destiny was probably the Tour de Constance. She tried to recall all she had heard of this fearful prison at Aiguemortes, of the malarious swamps about it, of the smells that arose at low tide, of the hideous cruelties practised in its loathsome dungeons, of the sick and dying, whose bodies were denied decent burial. Grim and strong as old Babet was, her cheek blanched at the thought, and, for the moment, she forgot even her ewe-lamb. (The most unselfish soul must fight its own battle sometime, to the exclusion of all else.)

Meanwhile Rosaline lay there with her face hidden on her arms; her grandmother’s death had bereaved her of one who might have remained with her, helping her to endure her lot, for she hoped for no release; she must purchase her lover’s liberty and life at the expense of her own happiness. M. de Baudri had taken care to remind her that he still held the fate of François d’Aguesseau in his hand, and she knew that the sacrifice must still be made. If François divined it, he would refuse his life at such a cost,—that she knew; but he would never know, he might even think her false and lightly won! But all these things were small compared with the alternative; it was not for her to send him to the gallows, or worse, to make him a galley slave, that she might escape M. de Baudri. Again she shuddered at the thought of her fate; the lowest dungeons of the Tour de Constance would be heaven compared with such a marriage! She shrank from it as all pure women shrink from any marriage that is not founded on the highest and purest motives. Her very flesh rebelled against her spirit, and she lay there shivering, like one stricken with ague. Yet strong is love; she must save him, and then, oh, she prayed the bon Dieu to release her!

In spite of all this misery, time passed. The house was quiet, no sounds came from below, and practical Babet began to wonder what time it was. There was no clock in the room, and she could not conjecture the hour; it seemed as if they had been there an age. Just at this moment she heard some one lift the bar outside the door, and Truffe barked. Babet pounced upon her, muffled her head in her petticoat, and then she listened intently. The visitor could not enter, for she had secured the door within. There was a soft knock on the panels, and Rosaline rose with a white face, and stood waiting. The knock was repeated, and some one spoke their names very low. The voice seemed familiar, and the young girl went to the door and listened again.

“Mademoiselle de St. Cyr,” the visitor whispered, “open the door—’tis I, Charlot the cobbler.”

Babet uttered an exclamation, and Rosaline unfastened the lock and admitted the hunchback. He looked old and worn, and carried his green bag, and he paused just inside the door, looking from one to the other, as if he doubted his reception.

“Why have you come, Charlot?” Rosaline asked sadly.

“I have come to help you to get away, mademoiselle,” he replied simply, hurt past reason by their indifference, but bearing it, as he bore all things, as a part of his lot.

Rosaline shook her head. “I cannot go,” she said, “but Babet—you will save Babet, Charlot.”

“Ciel!” ejaculated that woman sharply, “he will save me, will he? And what do you propose to do?”

The young girl did not heed her, nor did the cobbler.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “your grandmother is dead, and M. d’Aguesseau was never captured.”

Rosaline stood looking at him with parted lips, her whole form quivering with emotion.

“Mon Dieu!” she said, “was it a lie?”

“It was,” replied the cobbler quietly; “I have sent a message to him, he is with Cavalier.”

She could not believe him. “Alas!” she said, “you do this to get me away.”

The cobbler knelt down at her feet.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, looking earnestly into her face, “I swear by all I hold most sacred, that I do not deceive you. M. d’Aguesseau is at liberty, though M. de Baudri offers a hundred crowns for his head.”

Her strength failed her, she sank on the nearest chair, covering her face with her hands. The reaction was too great for resistance; it seemed as if her heart would stop beating, and the room whirled about her. He was safe, and she was not required to make the sacrifice!

The effect on Babet was very different; she released Truffe and began to gather up their scattered belongings.

“How can we get out, Petit Bossu?” she demanded grimly,—“in your shoe-bag?”

“The servants are feasting in the kitchen,” the cobbler said. “Père Ambroise and M. de Baudri are drinking below, and the stairs are not two yards from this door. We must trust in the bon Dieu.”

As he spoke, he opened his bag and took out two long cloaks and hoods similar to those worn by an order of Sisters of Charity at Nîmes.

“Thou hast the mind of a great general, Charlot,” remarked Babet, with a queer smile; “the hump is a pity.”

Rosaline roused herself and looked at the disguise.

“Alas! where can we go, Charlot?” she asked sadly; “how can we escape them?”

“To-night you can go to my shop, mademoiselle,” he replied, quietly, “and to-morrow, as soon as the gates are open, you can start out to St. Césaire. I have arranged with the blacksmith’s wife to hide you until I can guide you to—to a place of safety.”

“It may be done,” Rosaline said, after a moment’s thought. “I was to have till eight to-morrow; there is one hope in a thousand—but the risk to you, Charlot!”

The little hunchback smiled. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “I am scarcely worth killing.”

The tears shone in her blue eyes, but she said nothing, partly because Babet was hurriedly muffling her in the cloak and hood.

A few moments later they emerged from the room, Babet carrying Truffle under her mantle; Charlot secured the door behind them, replacing the bar, and softly and cautiously they descended. They heard Père Ambroise speaking, in unctuous tones, and a coarse oath from M. de Baudri, on whom the wine was having some effect, but no one heard them. The porter had left his place and the door was unbolted. Almost without noise, the three slipped out and stood free upon the open street.