The cobbler of Nîmes

When Rosaline came to herself it was with a bewildered recollection of some horrible event, and, for a few moments, she was scarcely conscious of her surroundings. Then she opened her eyes and tried to move, but she could not. She was in a sitting posture, her hands and feet tied, and a rope, slipped under her arms, held her securely against a wall behind her. The discovery of her situation roused all her dormant faculties, and she looked about her, trying to find out where she was. She saw above her head familiar rafters, and then she discovered the door closed opposite her, and recognized the old windmill, near which François and she had spent those hours of happiness, so cruelly interrupted. The light in the place was very dim, and the poor girl could not at first see plainly in all the corners. She thought herself alone and wondered where her captor was, and what was to come next. Then the hope that her cries might bring help began to rise in her heart, and she was on the point of screaming aloud, when a sound struck her ear that froze her blood in her veins. It was a laugh, but it sounded like a fiendish chuckle. It came from her right hand, and she turned her head quickly and looked into the face of Mère Tigrane. An exclamation of horror and fear burst from Rosaline’s heart, and she shrieked for help—help!—and the old fishwife laughed and rocked to and fro. She was sitting on an old log, in the dim corner, and she was quite undisturbed by her prisoner’s cries.

“Shriek away, mademoiselle!” she said pleasantly. “Ciel! what a voice she has! But no one will hear you except dear old Mère Tigrane.”

Rosaline’s heart sank; it might be too true, for they had arranged to avoid the mill because strangers sometimes strayed there. She must have been carried to it, in this fearful woman’s arms, for it was a considerable distance from the spot where she had fainted. She sank back against the wall with a groan; she knew it was useless to appeal to this horrible creature; just such wretched women made a living by informing against the Huguenots, and there was no mercy in them. Rosaline did not know what to do; it was useless to plead with Mère Tigrane, and it seemed useless, too, to hope for rescue; moreover, the girl had conceived such a horror of the old witch, such a scorn of her vileness, that she could not endure the sight of her. She closed her eyes and prayed silently, but she made no sign of begging for mercy. Her face was like a white rose in the dim light, and her hair lay in a pale aureole about her brow; but, with all her agony, she bore herself proudly.

La Louve sat on her log and watched, gloating over her and running her red tongue along the edge of her lips.

“Art comfortable, my lady-bird?” she asked amiably. “What! so proud that you will not speak to poor Mère Tigrane? And what do you suppose I intend to do with such a fine lady, eh?”

Rosaline opened her eyes and looked at her with an effort, her soul filled with loathing, and the old hag saw it in her face and hated her for it.

“God knows what you want of me,” Rosaline said. “I have never harmed you, and I cannot tell why you so misuse me.”

“You never harmed me!” la Louve cried, throwing up her bony hands. “Dame! you are a peril to my soul, you little heretic!”

Rosaline read the evil look in the hag’s eyes and knew that she would never relent; and so great was her own abhorrence that it was well-nigh impossible to look at her again. She turned her eyes toward the door, therefore, and closed her lips; she had no hope save in heaven.

“How would mademoiselle like the Tour de Constance?” Mère Tigrane inquired pleasantly. “’Tis a healthful place and full of her friends. Dame de Dieu, what an opportunity to travel without pay from Nîmes to Aiguemortes!”

She stopped and looked at the girl eagerly, trying to discover what emotions were stirring in the heart of her victim, longing for tears and entreaties; but Rosaline sat like a statue.

“Nom de St. Denis!” she exclaimed at last, “how proud mademoiselle is,—an aristocrat! But ’tis not the Tour de Constance, ma chérie,” she added, with a mocking laugh. “No, no, there must be a better fate for such a lovely prisoner. Dame! but your flesh is white—I could eat it. How much does mademoiselle think that M. de Baudri would pay for such a prize?”

“Dieu!” cried Rosaline, shaken out of her resolve, “are you a woman? Is it possible that the bon Dieu put such a heart in a woman?”

“A woman, my pretty?” retorted the hag, with a peal of wild laughter. “Ay—and once a pretty one! Now you see what I am—and you are like to live to be like me, unless I wring that pretty, white throat now! I am a woman, morbleu, yes—this is what a woman becomes!” and she crooked her talon fingers pointing at herself. “Do you think I will pity you? Dame, I would see you burn this minute with joy, you little white fool!”

Rosaline nerved herself to bear it without tears; she struggled hard to ward off the faintness that stole upon her, clasping her heart in a vice.

“What do you mean to do with me?” she asked, in a strange voice, her eyes chained now by a horrible fascination to the old hag’s face.

“Sell you, my sweetheart,” Mère Tigrane retorted, showing her fangs, “to the highest bidder in Nîmes. Dame, you are pretty enough to keep poor Mère Tigrane’s pot boiling for a year or two, my sweetie.”

“God will not let you do it!” cried Rosaline, with white lips; “I am His.”

La Louve shrieked with laughter.

“You heretic!” she said gleefully, “you are the devil’s—body and soul—my fine lady, and you will wish yourself in hell presently, I doubt not, ma chérie! Next time you drive Mère Tigrane away with her fish, I think you will not hold that little head so high.”

“Mon Dieu!” cried Rosaline, in amazement, “is it possible that my one little act has made you hate me so?”

Mère Tigrane shook her head, wagging it slowly from side to side. “No,” she replied, “I hate you for living; I hate all men and all women and all children. I would blast them if I could; I live on hatred! Mère de Dieu! how I love to see a heretic burn!”

Rosaline closed her eyes with a shudder, and la Louve sat looking at her thoughtfully, with a greedy eye. Dame! but she would make money out of this dainty morsel. She had an eye for beauty, and she knew its market value. She was even content to let her victim rest a little, while she turned over in her own mind many business matters. She could not get the girl back to Nîmes before night, for she had no intention of having her prize snatched from her by any adventurer upon the road. She was not without uneasiness too, for M. de Baudri might yet come to St. Cyr, and, if he did, his search would be thorough and she was likely to lose her pay. Yet her scheme had worked so far like a charm. She had seen Babet and Rosaline leave Nîmes; their disguise had not deceived her ferret eyes, and she had tracked them to St. Césaire and from St. Césaire to the château, for she possessed the patient watchfulness of a fiend. Her success had surpassed her most sanguine hopes, and she gloated over it with savage delight. She knew that she was strong enough to deal with Babet, and for the present she looked for no other interference.

The silence that had fallen upon the little mill was almost more oppressive to Rosaline than the hag’s dreadful talk; the girl felt as if she could not endure it longer, her heart throbbed heavily, there was a choking sensation in her throat and it seemed as if she could not draw another breath. And then she struggled in her bonds and shrieked aloud, for she heard Truffe’s short bark. Her scream was answered just as Mère Tigrane sprang upon her and thrust a rag into her mouth as a gag. The fishwife was furious, though she expected no one but Babet.

“Dame!” she ejaculated, drawing a knife from her bosom, “I’ll make short work of the woman and the cur!”

The mill door had stood open too long on rusty hinges to be easily secured, and she had only been able to lay an old timber across it. She took her position therefore, ready to strike, just as the door was shaken from without and pushed heavily inward. It resisted the first attempt, and she burst out into shrill laughter; but a second push sent the timber rolling back a foot, and the third opened the door wide enough to admit—not Babet, but the cobbler.

Mère Tigrane, taken by surprise, withheld her knife, but when Babet followed him she struck a vicious blow at le Bossu.

“Diable!” she shrieked. “Petit Bossu! take yourself off—this is my game!”

Charlot quietly thrust his hand into his breast and drew out a pistol, levelling it at the hag’s head.

“If you move one finger,” he said grimly, “you are dead. Babet, take her knife and loose mademoiselle.”

But Babet would not touch her. She made a wide circle to avoid any contact, and drawing a knife from her own wallet, began to cut the bands about Rosaline’s feet and hands, all the while pouring out a torrent of sympathy and self-reproach. Why had she left her lamb to fall among wolves?

Rosaline was too faint for any words except a murmur of thanksgiving, and the air was filled with Mère Tigrane’s oaths as she writhed helpless before le Bossu’s pistol. He was watching Babet.

“Do not cut the long rope,” he said grimly; “untie it—we have need of it.”

At this, la Louve began to howl, rocking to and fro.

“You villain!” she whined, “you dare not hang me! M. de Baudri is coming; you will be punished—” She went on with a stream of oaths.

Le Bossu stopped her. “Another word,” he said, “and I’ll shoot you. You will not be hung, though you deserve it. Babet, stuff those dirty rags in her mouth, we have heard enough.”

Babet obeyed this time, first relieving the hag of her knife and binding her hands.

“There’s some dinner for you to chew, my beauty,” Babet said pleasantly, and proceeded to tie her feet.

“Now the rope,” ordered the cobbler; “slip it twice around her waist—that is it; draw her back to the post and tie it securely.”

He helped Babet in this, putting the pistol back into his bosom. Mère Tigrane was black in the face with rage, but she could offer no resistance; only, her terrible eyes leered at them—red as blood.

Rosaline had gone out and was leaning against a tree, her face colorless and her hands clasped. When the others joined her, she turned and threw her arms about Babet and burst into tears, too overcome to speak. The woman tried to comfort and soothe her.

“’Twas Truffe who found you,” she said, “bless the creature! The cobbler and I would have been searching still, but suddenly she put her nose to the ground and came straight as an arrow!”

Le Bossu was not listening to them; he had walked a few yards into the wood and knelt down, bending his head close to the ground. When he arose his face was white and he moved quickly toward them.

“Have courage, mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “but let us be gone, there are horsemen in the road by St. Cyr; the dragoons have returned.”