The cobbler of Nîmes

The two, le Bossu and his guest, entered a small room fitted up as a shop. The window was open and across the unused fireplace were suspended half a dozen shoes of various sizes. The cobbler’s bench was strewn with tools, and scraps of leather lay on the floor. On one side of the room hung a hide prepared for use; opposite was a colored picture of St. Elizabeth, with her arms full of roses, the patron saint of the poor. There were two wooden chairs, the cobbler’s stool, and a box of sabots, nothing more. A door opened into the kitchen, where a narrow flight of stairs—like a ladder—ascended to the second story. On the kitchen hearth the pot-au-feu was simmering, the savory odor filling the room, and on the table was a loaf of black bread and some garlic.

The hunchback asked his guest to be seated and then sat down himself, looking attentively but kindly at the new arrival. The stranger had a strong face, although he was still a young man. His complexion was a clear olive, and his dark eyes were gloomy and even stern. He wore no periwig, his natural hair curling slightly. In his turn, he scrutinized the cripple, and never was there a greater contrast. Le Bossu was small, and the hump on his back made him stoop; as often occurs in such cases, the upper part of his body and his head were out of proportion with his small and shrunken limbs. His arms were long and powerful, however, his hands well shaped and strong, though brown and callous from labor, and they were skilful hands, able to earn a living despite the feeble legs and back. His face was pale and drawn from much physical suffering, but his eyes were beautiful, large, brown, and full of expression. They redeemed the cripple’s whole aspect, as though the soul—looking out of its windows—made its own appeal. It was his eye that won upon his new acquaintance.

“You said you wished to speak to me,” he remarked abruptly. “What is it?”

“I will tell you the truth, friend,” le Bossu replied calmly, “you were showing too much emotion yonder; you were observed by the dragoon and Mère Tigrane. She is a dangerous person; men call her the she-wolf—la Louve.”

“Too much emotion!” repeated the other. “Dieu! you seem an honest man—shall I tell you who that dead woman was?” he asked recklessly. “Are you a Catholic?”

“I am,” replied the cobbler, quietly; “’tis best to tell me nothing.”

His visitor stared at him.

“Why did you try to protect me, then?” he asked. “I am a desperate man and unknown to you—I have no money to reward kindness.”

“Nor to pay for a lodging,” remarked the hunchback.

The other thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out half a crown, looking at it with a grim smile.

“My worldly goods,” he said.

“I thought so,” rejoined the cobbler, dryly, “and you paid the other half-crown to see the dead Huguenot woman.”

An expression of pain passed over the face opposite.

“I would have paid more to be sure that it was—” He broke off, covering his face with his hands. “Oh, mon Dieu!” he exclaimed brokenly.

The hunchback was silent for a few moments, his arms folded and his eyes on the floor.

“You must leave Nîmes,” he said at last; “you will betray yourself here. Meanwhile, there is a room overhead; if you wish you can stay there, free of rent, until you go.”

“Again, why do you do this?” asked the stranger.

The cobbler indicated his hump with a gesture.

“The bon Dieu made me so,” he said simply; “yet I am a scorn in the market-place, a miserable cripple. I swore to the saints that I would help the miserable.”

“You will take a risk,” remarked his companion,—“I am François d’Aguesseau, a Huguenot—”

“Hush!” The cobbler held up his hand. “I do not wish to know, M. d’Aguesseau. If you will take the upper room, ’tis yours.”

“I will take it while I can pay for it, at least,” said d’Aguesseau, “and I thank you.”

The hunchback rose, leading the way across the kitchen to the stairs. He walked slowly, and occasionally dragged one foot, but he ascended the steps with some agility, followed by his guest. There was a trap-door at the top, which he opened before they could step on to the floor above. D’Aguesseau knew that he was taking a great risk, that this might be a snare laid for those of the Religion, but he was, at the moment, a desperate and reckless man, and he cared little. He had entered Nîmes that morning, almost without money, he had just had his worst fears confirmed, and he cared little now for life or death.

They entered a room above the kitchen, where the cripple slept, and this opened into another small room over the shop. Both were clean, though poor and bare. The hunchback stopped before a shrine in his own chamber, and lighting a taper, set it before the Virgin.

“What is that?” asked d’Aguesseau with a strange glance from the image to the devotee.

“A prayer,” replied le Bossu; “when I see danger I always offer a prayer to our Lady.”

The Huguenot smiled contemptuously, but said no more, following his host into the front room.

“It is yours,” said the hunchback. “You are weary; lie down until the pot-au-feu is ready, and we will sup together.”

“I have been in many places,” said d’Aguesseau, “and seen many people—but never one like you before.”

Le Bossu smiled. “Yet—save for the hump—I am as others,” he said quietly. “I hear some one crossing the court,” he added; “if any one enters the shop, ’tis best for you to be quiet up here. There are some who need not know I have a guest.”

“I trust I shall not imperil your safety by any carelessness,” d’Aguesseau replied earnestly, casting a kindly glance at the drawn face.

“I must go down,” said the cobbler. “Rest here awhile; I will call you to supper.”

His guest thanked him, still much perplexed by this unusual friendliness, and stood watching the hunchback as he went back to the trap-door, and did not withdraw his eyes until his host disappeared through the opening in the floor.

Le Bossu heard footsteps in the shop as he descended the stairs, and leaning forward, saw Mère Tigrane in the kitchen door. Without a word he went back and closed the trap, slipping the bolt; then he came down to find la Louve in the kitchen.

“Where are my sabots, Petit Bossu?” she demanded, her fierce little eyes travelling around the room, and her lips very red. “I came for them myself, you are so slow.”

“You do not need them, Mère Tigrane,” the cobbler replied coolly, eying her feet; “your sabots are as good as new. I did not promise the others until St. Bartholomew’s day.”

She began to grumble, moving over to the fire and peering into the pot-au-feu.

“Dame! but you live well, Charlot,” she remarked. “The sight of the damned corpse gave me also an appetite. Mère de Dieu! how white and tender her flesh was! ’Twould have made a good pottage,” she added laughing, her yellow teeth showing against her blood-red tongue like the fangs of a she-wolf—verily, she merited her name.

“You should arrange with Adolphe,” the hunchback said coolly. “I will send you your sabots on Wednesday.”

“Eh! but I’ll come for them,” she replied with a wink; “I love to come to visit you.”

The cobbler grunted, moving slowly and painfully—as he did at times—to the shop. But Mère Tigrane was reluctant to follow him,—she was listening; she thought she heard a step overhead.

“Charlot,” she said amiably, “how much do you get for your room above?”

“I do not rent it,” he replied calmly, but he too was listening.

Happily, the sounds above ceased.

“I want it,” she remarked briskly; “I will pay a good price for it—for my cousin. He is apprenticed to the blacksmith behind the Garden of the Récollets. I will look at it now—at once—Petit Bossu.”

The cobbler started, but controlled himself, though la Louve had her foot on the ladder. She could be swift when she pleased, and she could hobble.

“It is locked to-day,” he said coolly, “and I shall not rent it now.”

She grinned, with an evil look.

“What have you got there, mon chéri?” she demanded, shaking her cane at him with sinister pleasantry.

“The devil,” replied le Bossu, sitting down to his bench and taking up a shoe and beginning to stitch.

“Or his wife—which?” la Louve asked jocosely.

She was satisfied now that the trap was fastened, and it was not always wise to offend the cobbler. She returned to the shop with a dissatisfied face.

“You have no hospitality,” she said, “you dog of a cobbler—I will come on Wednesday again for the sabots.”

“As you please,” he retorted indifferently, stitching away.

“Diable! you sew like a woman,” she remarked. “You might better be cutting my shoes out of the good wood, that does not split, than making those silly things of leather!”

She lingered a little longer, but still he did not heed her, and at last she hobbled off, picking up a basket of fish that she had left on the doorstep. But she did not leave the court until she had looked again and again at the upper window of the shop of Two Shoes. Yet she saw nothing there but the white curtain fluttering in the breeze.

An hour later she was back at the market-place, grinning and selling her fish. She was in time too, to hear the uproar when Adolphe, the showman, found the false coin in his box. She pushed to the fore, her red handkerchief conspicuous in the group, and her sharp eyes recognized the country boy who had followed her in to see the damned person. The showman was belching forth oaths and threats like the fiery furnace that belched flames on Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego. Mère Tigrane’s eyes gleamed, and she pointed a long, bony finger at the poor lad.

“He put it in, Adolphe,” she shrieked, with an oath. “I saw him, the vagabond!”

Then she laughed and shook, clapping her hands to her sides. It was so diverting—the uproar, and the protests of the peasant boy as he was dragged off to jail with the rabble at his heels.

“Dame!” she said, “’twas worth a good half-crown.”