The cobbler of Nîmes

The next morning found Charlot in his shop. He had spread his tools and leather on his bench with a pretence of work, but he was not working. He sat watching his door with eager eyes, alert and impatient. He was waiting for the return of the blacksmith’s boy whom he had sent in search of d’Aguesseau. Rosaline and Babet had walked out of the gate of the town as soon as it was opened, and must be now near St. Césaire. In le Bossu’s chamber a candle burned before the Virgin, a prayer for the heretics; such is the inconsistency of the human heart and its religion.

In a week the little hunchback had grown old, and his back seemed more pitifully bowed than ever. The Intendant of Languedoc might indeed regard him as scarcely worth the killing; but no man can see the naked soul of his brother, and it may be vastly different from his body; as different as the abode on earth is from the mansion in heaven. “It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.” It is cast in the shape of a cripple on earth, it is raised in the form of an angel. The starved soul of le Bossu looked out of his patient eyes and saw not even a crumb of comfort falling from the rich man’s table, and self-sacrifice became the law of his life.

He looked down at his brown, toil-worn, right hand, and tears shone in his eyes. It was sanctified, for she had kissed it. He shrank within himself at the thought, but in her gratitude and her relief, she had thanked him and she had even taken his hand and kissed it. Had he not delivered her from a fate worse than death? and was he not her humble friend and servant? Rosaline’s impulse had been followed by no second thought; her whole soul was filled with the hope of escaping to her lover. And the poor little cobbler understood her, but he felt that he might fall down and worship her still. No one else had ever considered him, no one else had ever been uniformly kind to him; in the parched desert of his life she alone had held him a cup of water. The starved and empty heart held one image; the life—of so little worth—was at her service.

The sun was high enough now to reach the court, and the spot of light on the pavement began to grow, but the weed that had blossomed in June had gone to seed and stood there yellow and lean. One of the children opposite was ill of a fever, and the other played silently, in a melancholy way, on the steps. Le Bossu’s glance lighted on her and his heart was touched; it was cruel that a heart so large in its sympathy for all sufferers should have been cast by the wayside and choked with thorns. He rose from his bench and took up a little pair of shoes, and then he opened his wallet and counted out some money; with the shoes and the coin he crossed the court and gave them to the little girl for her sick sister. The child stared at him wide-eyed; she had shown him as little mercy as the others, and had looked upon the hunchback as unlike other human beings. She had not the sense to thank him, though she clasped his presents greedily to her breast and fled into the house, half-affrighted at the little man with his hump. The unwitting cruelty of children often hurts as much as the coarse brutality of their parents, but to-day le Bossu smiled. If his life was worth something to Rosaline de St. Cyr, it was worth all the suffering of living it; the bon Dieu had given him a blessed compensation.

He was returning to the shop of Two Shoes when another man entered the court. The cobbler looked about anxiously, for he had been dreading the possible appearance of Père Ambroise or one of M. de Baudri’s emissaries, but a second glance reassured him, for he came face to face with François d’Aguesseau. The hunchback signed to him to follow him in to his shop and then closed the door.

“Where is she?” demanded d’Aguesseau, in an agitated tone. “I received your message, and I am here.”

The cobbler looked at him strangely. “Did you come to release mademoiselle single-handed?” he asked quietly.

“I came to save her—if mortal man can do it,” he retorted sternly. “It may be that they will take me in exchange; I hear that there is a price on my head—but, mon Dieu! where is she?”

His face was haggard and his dress much disordered. It was evident that he had not paused for either rest or food.

“She is at St. Césaire, I trust,” the cobbler replied calmly; “she and Babet got away from Père Ambroise’s house last night and started this morning in disguise for St. Césaire.”

He made no mention of his share in the deliverance, and François jumped to another conclusion.

“Faithful Babet!” he exclaimed joyfully; “doubtless she planned it all. I will follow them at once.”

“You must meet them at the appointed spot, not elsewhere,” said the cobbler. “I was to meet them between the bridge and the cataract, at the spot where the old mulberry stands. Do you recall it?”

“Perfectly,” replied d’Aguesseau, “but why there?”

“Because they are to hide at St. Césaire until afternoon; then, if there is no pursuit to St. Cyr, they can start without being observed. If the château is too closely guarded, they will wait until night,” he added; “but it will not be, for no one will think of their return to the close vicinity of danger; it is Nîmes that will be searched for them.”

“But why can I not go straight to them now?” François demanded impatiently.

The cobbler sighed. “Monsieur,” he said patiently, “every house, every cottage is watched, and if you are recognized—”

He broke off with an expressive gesture.

“I see,” d’Aguesseau replied; “you are a wise man, Petit Bossu. Tell me about Madame de St. Cyr.”

“She died yesterday in the jail here,” the hunchback answered; “the shock of the arrest and mademoiselle’s danger ended her life.”

D’Aguesseau clenched his hand. “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, “how long wilt Thou afflict us?—how long?”

“It was best so,” the cobbler remarked quietly. “If she had lived, Mademoiselle Rosaline would have sacrificed herself to save her. She believed that you and her grandmother were both captives; M. de Baudri told her so, and promised to save your lives—to release you both only on the condition that she should marry him.”

“The accursed villain!” broke out François, laying his hand on his sword: “may I be spared to chastise him!”

He walked to and fro in the little room in suppressed fury; all the fierce impulses of a bold and daring nature were aroused.

“Dieu!” he exclaimed, in a low tone, “I cannot go to England for Cavalier; I must stay and fight this monster!”

“Nay,” remarked le Bossu, gravely, “you must save Mademoiselle de St. Cyr.”

François came to himself. “I ought not to need you to remind me,” he said. “I will go at once to the appointed place and wait; it is not long now, but, in the meantime, is she safe?”

“We can only trust in Providence,” replied the cobbler, “since to approach her would increase her risks. But—pardon me, monsieur—if you stay much longer in Nîmes, you will be arrested.”

“I know it,” he replied; “I thought only of her when I came, but I must get away now for her sake. Charlot, I thank you,” he said, holding out his hand; “I do not know why you should do so much for us who are, in your eyes, heretics and criminals.”

The hunchback smiled as he returned the pressure of d’Aguesseau’s hand.

“Life is a mystery,” he rejoined, with a new dignity that became him well, “and so is death.”

He went with François down the Rue St. Antoine and stood at the gate watching him until his figure disappeared on the long white road. Later le Bossu would go himself to keep the appointment, for he too had an errand there; nor could he rest until he knew that mademoiselle was safely out of the neighborhood of Nîmes. But there was time yet, and he wanted to know what Père Ambroise intended to do, and where M. de Baudri would next cast his net.

Meanwhile, out at St. Césaire, Babet and Rosaline were safely hidden in the blacksmith’s house. It was a little cottage on the outskirts of the village, and from the rear the inmates could easily reach the woods about St. Cyr. The smith had been a faithful though humble friend to the family at the château, and like many others, he was a concealed Huguenot. He and his wife therefore gladly ministered to Rosaline’s comfort and set a simple dinner of pot-au-feu before their two guests. Babet and Truffe did ample justice to the meal, but Rosaline could not eat, in spite of Babet’s remonstrances. The young girl was frantic to be off, to fly to her lover, that they might seek safety together; and she had not the older woman’s prudence, who felt that another dinner might be a long way off, and who did not believe profoundly in the culinary accomplishments of the Cévenols.

The hour came at last, and bidding her faithful friends, the smith and his wife, adieu, Rosaline set out with her escort, Babet and the dog. Nothing had occurred to alarm them or to indicate that their hiding-place was suspected, and the blacksmith’s boy, employed for scout duties, brought in the report that St. Cyr had been deserted since the previous day, when Rosaline had left it. The two women entered the place, therefore, with lighter hearts. Babet was determined to enter the château, if possible, to secure Madame de St. Cyr’s jewels and a considerable sum of money that had been secreted to provide for just such an emergency; for they had for many years expected to be denounced as Huguenots. Rosaline was to remain near the hedge that surrounded the garden, to warn Babet if any one approached, while the older and stronger woman went for madame’s iron box. Rosaline doubted the wisdom of the attempt, yet neither of the two women cared to face the wilderness without money to pay for either shelter or food, and it was impossible to open the secret place where the box was while the dragoons lurked about the house.

They approached the château with great caution, listening and watching, but no one appeared, not a leaf stirred, and Rosaline’s doves were cooing in the sun.

“Ah, my poor birds,” she said sadly. “I am glad that the blacksmith’s good wife will take them; otherwise I should feel as if I were leaving them to perish.”

Babet did not pause to listen to these sentiments. Being sure that no one was about, she entered the garden, followed by Truffe, who dashed eagerly along, anxious to be at home again. Still there were no sounds or signs of humanity, and advancing with a firmer step, Babet entered the house unmolested.

Meanwhile Rosaline, left alone outside of the hedge, walked to and fro in the shade of the mulberries, watching the place and beginning to feel easier when she heard no sound, for she knew that Truffe’s bark would have announced the presence of strangers. It would take Babet some little time, and Rosaline walked further on among the trees; this might be the last time that she would ever approach the home of her childhood, and her heart was very sad. Thoughts of her grandmother thronged into her mind, and she lived over again the agony of yesterday. Absorbed in her painful revery, she forgot her surroundings, and unconsciously strayed farther into the wood. Here it was thickest; the tree trunks clustered closely and the shadows lay about her; beyond, a broad band of sunlight fell athwart the green shade. The moss under her feet was thick and brown, and already the leaves were falling.

Suddenly some one sprang upon her from behind, strong fingers clasping her throat and choking back the cries that rose to her lips. She resisted with all her might, but her unseen foe was stronger than she, and forced her forward. In vain she strove to call for help, to evade the clutching arms; then her foot caught in the gnarled root of a mulberry tree and she fell, face downward, with those terrible hands still at her throat. Then the shock of the fall, the horror of her situation, and a choking sensation overcame her and she lost consciousness.