The cobbler of Nîmes

In the upper room of the shop of Two Shoes sat a desperate man. The sun did not shine for François d’Aguesseau, and in the little court off the Rue St. Antoine there were no honey-bees to fill the June air with their cheerful hum, and no flowers except the blooming weed that had sprung up between the flagstones. The good woman in the house opposite had a couple of children, who were playing on her doorstep; the sign of the Two Shoes squeaked a little as it swung in the gentle breeze; these were the only sounds, though the busy life of Nîmes was flowing through the thoroughfare at the mouth of the court. But the Huguenot considered none of these things. He sat alone in the cobbler’s house, his elbows leaning on the table before him, his head on his hands. His body was in Nîmes, but his soul was away in Dauphiné. When he closed his eyes he saw the valley of the Durance and the old town of Embrun, where his childish feet had made so many journeys that he might look up in wonder at the Tour Brune or rest in the parvis of the Cathedral,—for his family had not always been Protestants. Then he saw in his vision the château near Embrun where he was born, and the terrace where he and his sister Hélène had played together,—the same Hélène whose body lay exposed at the bazar on Saturday. She was only a woman, but she had died for her religion and he had escaped; through no fault of his, though, for he had been reckless enough of life in his efforts to rescue her. He had tried to move heaven and earth for her, and had not even obtained a hearing in Paris. Fate, the inexorable, had closed every avenue of mercy; the young and innocent woman had languished in the pestilential atmosphere of the Tour de Constance, had died at last to be subjected to degradation after death by her unmerciful jailers. It was over at last, her body had been publicly burned, and there remained no longer any reason for him to linger in Nîmes. His mother, dying of a broken heart over the fates of husband and daughter, had made him solemnly promise to leave France forever. In England he would find relatives, and there too his father had wisely invested a small sum of money against the evil day when they might have to quit Dauphiné. Therefore François was not quite penniless, though the State had comfortably seized all his lands and his goods. But he was, at the moment, without money or means of communicating with his English friends. The Huguenots were closely watched, and it was no light thing to escape. Moreover, he longed to strike a blow for his religion, for liberty, before he left his native land. His promise bound him, yet could he not linger long enough to serve the cause in some way? A strange fascination held him in Nîmes where he had suffered so much; not only did he lack money to pay his way to the sea-coast, but he lacked also the desire to go. Languedoc had been fatal to two of his family, yet he lingered, casting his eyes toward the Cévennes. Ah, to strike a good blow to revenge his father and sister! He was no saint, and in the upper room over the shop he ground his teeth in his rage and despair. Dieu! had he not seen the body of his innocent sister exhibited for half a crown? the body of his father broken on the wheel at Montpellier? He thought with grim satisfaction of the terrible death of the archpriest Du Chayla at Pont-de-Montvert in ’72. The enraged peasantry of the surrounding country, having endured terrible persecutions at the hands of the archpriest, rose and attacking his house in the night slew him with fifty-two blows. D’Aguesseau recalled the circumstance now and thought of de Bâville the Intendant of Languedoc, and of Montrevel, who was directing the army in its efforts to crush the Camisards. But the young Huguenot did not come of the blood of assassins. Doubtless, it would be a service to his religion to strike down either of these men, and die for it afterwards, but he was not made to creep upon a victim in the dark or lie in wait for him at some unexpected moment. He could join Cavalier or Roland, but he could not do the murderer’s work in Nîmes, though his soul was darkened by his afflictions.

He reflected, too, on the kindness of the shoemaker. He had recklessly placed himself at the hunchback’s mercy, yet no advantage had been taken of his admission. It was a crime to conceal or shelter a Huguenot, yet the humble little cobbler showed no fear, but courageously offered his friendship to a proscribed criminal,—for it was criminal to be of any religion except the king’s. The charity of the poor cripple softened d’Aguesseau’s heart; he suppressed his sneer when he saw the taper burning in front of the Virgin. It was Romish idolatry, he said to himself, but the idolater was also a Christian. Nor would he be a charge upon the kind shoemaker; he had been now two nights and nearly two days his guest, and he must relieve him of such a burden. He could repay him if he ever reached England, but he cared little whether he reached it or not. His enforced idleness, too, wrought upon him; he was a strong, active man, and he could not endure this sitting still and waiting an opportunity. He had been brought up for the army, but no Huguenots were wanted in the army, and he had not the instinct of a merchant. He intended to go to England or Holland and enter the service of one State or the other. But first—while he was waiting for the chance to quit the country—why not go into the Cévennes? The temptation was upon him and he well-nigh forgot his pledge to quit France.

As the afternoon advanced, he left the little room over the shop and descended into the kitchen. He did not eat the dinner that le Bossu had set out for him; he had gone fasting too often of late to feel the loss of regular meals, and he could not eat with relish food for which he could not pay. He went out through the shop, creating no little excitement in the neighboring houses as he crossed the court and entered the Rue St. Antoine. He had been closely housed since Saturday, and freedom was sweet. He stood a moment looking about at the groups of chattering townspeople, and then he turned his steps toward the Garden of the Récollets. It was nearly five o’clock and the shadows were lengthening on the west side of the streets, and he heard the church bells ringing as though there were peace and good-will on earth. A rag-picker was at work at the mouth of an alley, some dirty children were playing in the kennel, and a boy with a basket of figs on his head was crying the price as he went along. It was an ordinary street scene, busy and noisy, and d’Aguesseau brushed against a Jesuit priest as he walked on past the Cathedral of St. Castor.

Full of his own gloomy thoughts he went from street to street, and was only aroused at last by finding himself nearly opposite a tavern—which bore the sign of the Golden Cup—and in the midst of an uproar. The doors and windows of the public house were crowded, and a rabble came up the street with jeers and cries and laughter. D’Aguesseau drew back into the shelter of a friendly doorway and waited the approach of the canaille, and it was not long before the excitement was explained. The street was not very wide, and the crowds seemed to choke it up as they advanced; and a little ahead of the rabble came a chain of prisoners driven along by the whips of their guards and pelted with stones and offal by the spectators. The criminals were fastened in pairs by short chains, each having a ring in the centre; then a long heavy chain was passed through these rings, thus securing the pairs in a long double column. There were fifty men thus fastened; twenty-five on one side, and twenty-five on the other, and between, the cruel iron chain; each man bearing a weight of a hundred and fifty pounds, though they were of all ages and conditions, from the beardless boy to the veteran bowed with years. It was a gang going to the galleys at Marseilles, and there were thieves, murderers, and Huguenots; the latter especially and fatally distinguished by red-jackets that they might be the mark of every stone and every insult of the bystanders. Like the exposure of the corpses of damned persons, the chain was a moral lesson for the people, and especially for the recalcitrants.

As the unfortunates approached, women leaned from the windows to cry out at them, and even the children cast mud and stones. D’Aguesseau looked on sternly; he did not know how soon he might be of that number, and he counted forty-two red-jackets. The leaders came on stubbornly; they were two strong men of middle age, and they bore the chain with grim fortitude, but the two who followed were pitiful enough,—a white-haired man, who limped painfully and was near the end of his journey, and a boy with a red streak on each cheek, and the rasping cough of a consumptive. The next pair were also red-jackets; both were lame. The fourth couple walked better; the fifth had to be lashed up by the guards. They were hailed with laughter and derision; the convicts received sympathy, the Huguenots were pelted so vigorously that the blood flowed from more than one wound, as the keepers whipped them into the stable-yard of the Golden Cup, with the rabble at their heels. The chain would be fastened in the stable, while the guards took some refreshments, and here was an opportunity, therefore, for the population to enjoy some innocent diversion. A Huguenot prisoner and a dancing bear served much the same purpose. The street was nearly cleared, so many crowded into the inn-yard, and the sounds of merriment rose from within.

D’Aguesseau was turning away in stern disgust, when he came face to face with a hideous old woman, with a string of fish in her hand. She had been gloating over the chain, and she was smiling amiably still, running her very red tongue along the edge of her red lips. She curtsied to François and held out her fish.

“A bargain, monsieur,” she said pleasantly. “The sight of the red-jackets makes Mère Tigrane feel good; the fish are cheap.”

He shook his head, making an effort to pass her, but she persisted.

“One fish, monsieur,” she protested,—“a mountain trout. Dame! ’tis fresh, caught this morning. The spectacle of these Huguenots has made monsieur hungry.”

“My good woman, I want neither fish nor fowl,” d’Aguesseau said impatiently.

“Monsieur makes a mistake,” she persisted with a grin; “these are good fish, caught in the stream where they drowned a Camisard witch last week!”

With a suppressed exclamation he thrust her aside and walked on, her shrill laughter in his ears, and the cries of the rabble in the yard of the Golden Cup. As for Mère Tigrane, she stood a moment looking longingly at the inn; could she forego the diversion? Finally, she decided between two attractions, and quietly followed D’Aguesseau.

The next day, when François descended from his room, he heard voices in the shop, and saw that the cobbler was talking to two women. One was tall, raw-boned, and grim-faced, with iron-gray hair and keen black eyes, and wore the dress of an upper servant; the other was one of the most charming young girls he had ever seen. He stood in the kitchen undecided whether to retire or to quietly admire the picture, but before he could determine upon his proper course le Bossu called him.

“Come in, monsieur,” he said; “Mademoiselle de St. Cyr would speak to you.”

François responded with some surprise, and bowed in reply to Rosaline’s curtsey.

“M. d’Aguesseau,” she said, blushing a little under his glance, “my grand’mère, Madame de St. Cyr desires to see you, being acquainted with your family,—she knew your mother.”

His eyes lighted with surprise and pleasure.

“Madame de St. Cyr does me much honor to request a visit, mademoiselle,” he replied; “I am at her service.”

Rosaline and Babet had been into Nîmes to shop, and they were ready to go. The young girl laid her hand on the older woman’s arm.

“Then we will expect you to-morrow afternoon, monsieur,” she said quietly; “my very good friend Charlot will direct you to St. Cyr, and madame my grand’mère will be pleased to make you welcome.”

M. d’Aguesseau murmured his acknowledgments, while he aided Babet in gathering up numerous small packages, and then the two women bade Charlot adieu and departed,—the drawn face of the cobbler clouding as Rosaline left, as though the sun were obscured. The younger man turned from the door with an exclamation.

“Who is that angel?” he demanded eagerly.

Le Bossu was stitching a shoe, his fingers shaking a little as he thrust the needle into the stubborn leather.

“Mademoiselle Rosaline de St. Cyr,” he replied quietly, his brown eyes searching his guest with a new sternness. “You had better retire, monsieur, there comes one of the Franciscan fathers for his shoes.”