The cobbler of Nîmes

The two women and le Bossu had followed the course of the stream, walking rapidly along the bank, and now they descended the rocky path by the cataract. They were travelling west and the afternoon sun shone full in their faces; the wind was blowing too,—a chill November wind that swept the leaves from the chestnut trees and dropped the empty burrs. They had not wasted breath in words, and now le Bossu left them and ran forward, looking under the lowest branches; then he whistled softly. There was a response, and Babet and Rosaline stopped in alarm; they expected no one. The next moment, however, a tall figure came rapidly towards them and Rosaline recognized her lover. She gave a little sob of joy and ran to meet him, the dog bounding beside her. They met a few yards in front of the others and he caught her in his arms, supporting her trembling form. Le Bossu looked but once; in their joy they had forgotten him. He turned his back and approached Babet, putting a small but heavy bag in her hands.

“That is mademoiselle’s,” he said calmly; “guard it well. And now—go on in God’s name! Do not let them tarry, for Death is behind them.”

Babet had learned to value the poor little hunchback, but she was sober and undemonstrative.

“Where are you going?” she asked bluntly.

He pointed to the woods. “Back,” he said, “to keep them from finding Mère Tigrane who would set them on your track. I will delay them all I can.”

“It is well,” Babet remarked, “you are a good man, Charlot; the bon Dieu will bless you. I suppose you do not want the blessing of a heretic?”

He smiled. “Do not tarry,” he said, warningly. “Keep straight to the west; M. d’Aguesseau will guide you. Adieu!”

He looked once more toward the lovers, but they were still absorbed in each other. The cobbler turned sadly away, and climbing the steep path was lost to sight among the trees before Rosaline knew that he had gone; and he never heard her thanks, never knew her remorse because she had, for the moment, forgotten him in her own joy. There was no time for her to redeem her error; there was only time to flee on and on, with a terrible danger pursuing them and lurking for them at every step.

Meanwhile le Bossu went back through the woods. His heart was full, but he was not without a feeling of joy. So far she was safe, and he had just given Babet all his savings. His years of patient labor had not been in vain if his money could help Rosaline now. He would have liked to speak to her, to touch her hand; but what was he? Le Bossu, le savetier, the beggarly cripple of St. Antoine! It was enough, and more than enough, to serve her. Dieu! would his wretched lameness keep him from reaching the windmill before the dragoons? He walked fast, urging his energies to the utmost, but the way seemed long indeed. A picture of her in her lover’s arms, with the sunshine on her hair, rose before his eyes and he set his teeth. What was it to him? He was only a hunchbacked cobbler, he could scarcely be made of the same clay that they were, yet his starved soul cried out. Now and then he stooped down and listened, but the place was silent save for the rustling of the wind amid the dead leaves; winter was coming.

At last, the mill! He did not pause after assuring himself that la Louve was still secure; he fastened the door as tightly as he could and sped on toward the château. Fortune smiled upon him; he was just in time. Not twenty yards away he came upon M. de Baudri and a couple of dragoons. The hunchback was halted by a sharp challenge, but the soldiers looked indifferent when they recognized him. Their commander was in a black temper, and he ordered the cobbler to approach.

“What are you doing here, Petit Bossu?” he demanded fiercely. “Out with all you know, or—” He drew his hand expressively across his throat.

Charlot assumed an attitude of profound respect, his eyes on the ground.

“I am monsieur’s humblest servant,” he said. “I have been over yonder to sell my shoes in St. Césaire, and I came here to look about—monsieur understands, the place is open, the house of heretics; the poor cobbler thought to find some trifle left by the soldiers.”

“It would be a devilish small thing if they left it!” retorted M. de Baudri, with a grim smile. “Look, you little beast, no trifling—these heretics have escaped. Have you seen them?”

The cobbler assumed an air of importance.

“My life is valuable to me, monsieur,” he said, “and if I tell, the Camisards may kill me, as they kill the curés; nevertheless, for the sake of my soul— Monsieur, will the Intendant pay?”

“Diable!” shouted de Baudri; “pay! I can pay if I choose, but I’ll shoot you if you trifle.”

“I will guide you, monsieur,” the cobbler replied, with a stubborn air, “but I will have pay for the risk,—a hundred crowns.”

De Baudri burst out with a volley of oaths, but he flung some money at the hunchback.

“There is some, beast,” he said coarsely; “and you shall have the rest if you find the girl,—Rosaline de St Cyr.”

The cobbler gathered up the money and counted it with greedy fingers, M. de Baudri watching him with scornful eyes.

“You promise the rest, monsieur?” le Bossu persisted, with a shrewd look.

“Dame!” retorted the other; “you’ll get it and hell too, if you don’t make haste. Where are these women?”

The hunchback drew closer to him, lowering his voice and speaking with his hand before his mouth.

“You shall have them all, monsieur,” he said, “the girl, the old woman, M. d’Aguesseau, and the dog!”

“Bien!” exclaimed de Baudri cheerfully; “you shall have your hundred crowns. Viens donc, show me the way!”

The hunchback pointed toward the north.

“Up yonder,” he said, “behind those rocks on the hill, there is a grotto—I know it by accident; there they have hidden since morning. The way is long and rocky; monsieur must follow me.”

“Will they not see us approaching in time to fly?” he asked sharply.

Le Bossu shook his head with a smile.

“Nay,” he replied quietly, “we must go as if we intended to take the St. Hippolyte road; then, when we approach the spot we can surround them. The country is open and bare below the cave, though it lies in a little wood. They could not escape us.”

“Go on, then,” said de Baudri, impatiently; “to the cave or au diable! I tell thee plainly, though, that deceit will cost thee thy life.”

“So be it, monsieur,” rejoined the hunchback, calmly; “and the bon Dieu judge between me and thee,” he added to himself.

A few sharp orders were given, the bugle was sounded, and the troopers gathered in the road, each man at his horse’s head. M. de Baudri came out of the garden and leaped into the saddle; then his eyes lighted on the cobbler standing quietly in the road.

“Here,” he said sharply, “Petit Bossu must be mounted; bring up a horse.”

“I cannot ride,” said the cobbler, meekly; “my back and my hips, monsieur, will not permit it.”

“Mille tonnerres!” ejaculated the officer, with a black frown, “you mean to walk? We shall not be there for an hour!”

“I can walk fast, at times, monsieur,” replied Charlot; “I will do my best. If you had but a cart—”

M. de Baudri cursed him and his deformity.

“A cart!” he said mockingly; “a litter! Do you suppose that dragoons drive out in carriages; such vermin should not cumber the earth. If we miss them, Mère de Dieu, I’ll hang you!”

“We cannot miss them, monsieur,” rejoined the cobbler, patiently; “they dare not leave their lurking place in daylight, and it is yet an hour to sunset.”

“Dame de Dieu, let us be off!” exclaimed de Baudri, and gave the order to mount.

The long line of dragoons swung into their saddles and the little cavalcade moved slowly off, with le Bossu in advance.

The sun was sinking over the valley of the Vaunage, and its rays shone on the towers and spires of Nîmes and sparkled on the polished steel of the soldiers’ accoutrements. The hills were purple against the November sky, and clouds drifted overhead. Autumn had stripped the landscape of much of its beauty, and the arid plains about them showed but little verdure save a low growth of juniper bushes. It was not a spot to afford many places of concealment, and as the little troop advanced, M. de Baudri’s keen eyes swept the scene with the savage glance of a vulture seeking its prey.