The cobbler of Nîmes

A week had passed and the afternoon sun was shining red on the windows of St. Cyr, while the shadows lengthened in the rambling old garden. Rosaline was feeding her doves beside the sundial, Truffe sitting on the rustic bench in disgrace because she had made a dash at the feathered pets who came cooing to the young girl’s feet. It was a picture that the sunshine touched with tender radiance; behind was the dark green hedge, the blooming roses, and in the circle by the dial the doves were flocking to take food from their mistress, whose fair face was as softly colored as the roses, and her hair showing its loveliest tints of gold. She talked to her pets while she fed them.

“There, there! Marguerite, you have had more than your share; you are as great a gourmande as the naughty Truffe,” she said, shaking her finger at one pretty bird. “Viens donc, my Condé! Here is a crumb for you, sweetheart. As for Mademoiselle d’Hautefort, she shall have nothing if she pushes so against Corneille. What a lot of little rogues!”

She had distributed all her crumbs and the doves were fluttering over them, struggling for the largest fragments, and even alighting on her wrists and hands in their eagerness. Truffe meanwhile sulked under her punishment, her bright black eyes watching the birds with malicious longing for vengeance.

“You pretty creatures, how I love you!” said Rosaline, caressing the two doves she had gathered into her arms. “Look at them, Truffe, and be ashamed of your evil thoughts. Nay, do not deny them, madame; can I not read your eyes? You would eat them, you wicked ogress, I see it! Ah, there—you are raising your ears; what is it, ma chérie?”

The dog not only pointed her ears, she began to bark, looking back toward the house, but not daring to spring from the seat where she had been ordered to remain until pardoned.

“You hear a step on the gravel, Truffe, and so do I,” said Rosaline listening. “Maybe it is the—new steward.”

Truffe barked again and then uttered a low growl of displeasure as a man turned the corner of the hedge and came into view. He was moderately tall, with a handsome figure, which was arrayed in the height of fashion; his coat of uncut velvet was laced with gold, and he wore red heels on his high riding-boots, and his waistcoat and trousers were of satin. His full, curled periwig was fresh from Paris like the little hat, which was covered with feathers. He made Mademoiselle de St. Cyr a wonderful bow and then looked at her in open admiration, his blue eyes sparkling and his white teeth showing as he smiled.

“A dove in the midst of doves,” he said with gallantry; “mademoiselle is ever the fairest rose in her garden.”

“M. de Baudri makes very pretty compliments,” Rosaline replied, her smiling composure unruffled. “Truffe and I did not know he had honored St. Cyr with a visit.”

“I have been half an hour with madame,” he replied, “all the while hoping to catch a glimpse of the loveliest face in the world.”

“I would have sent Truffe, if I had known that you desired to see her, monsieur,” Rosaline replied demurely.

Monsieur bit his lip; he hated dogs and the provoking little witch knew it.

“Mademoiselle chooses to mock me,” he said, “and mockery comes unnaturally from such lovely lips.”

Rosaline laughed softly, still caressing a dove that nestled on her arm.

“Tell me the news from Nîmes, monsieur,” she retorted lightly; “I love a good story, you know.”

“With all my heart, mademoiselle, if you will love the story teller,” he replied.

“I cannot judge until I have heard the story,” she retorted, mischievous mirth in her blue eyes.

“There is not so much to tell, mademoiselle,” he said; “these wretches—the Camisards—still trouble us despite their defeat at Vagnas. If we could get the head of the brigand Cavalier all would be well. Has mademoiselle heard of M. le Maréchal’s dinner party? ’Tis amusing enough. M. Montrevel is in a bad humor; the villain Cavalier has cut up two detachments, as you know,—one at Ners, and one intended for Sommières. Thinking of these things and drinking wine—after dinner—M. le Maréchal was angry, and at the moment came tidings that these heretics were praying and howling in a mill on the canal, outside of the Porte-des-Carmes. Mère de Dieu! you should have seen Montrevel. In a trice he had out a regiment of foot, and away he went to the mill. The soldiers surrounded it and broke open the door, and there sure enough were a lot of psalm-singers, about three hundred old men, women, and children—heretics all! The soldiers went in—ah, mademoiselle does not desire particulars; but truly it is slow work to cut three hundred throats, especially in such confusion. M. le Maréchal ordered them to fire the mill. Mon Dieu! ’twas a scene! It burned artistically, and the soldiers drove back all who tried to escape. One rogue, M. Montrevel’s own servant too, saved a girl, but the maréchal ordered them both hung at once. He was begged off by some sisters of mercy, who unhappily came by just as they had the noose over his head, but the heretic had been hung already. ’Tis called M. Montrevel’s dinner party in Nîmes; and there is a saying that one must burn three hundred heretics before M. le Maréchal has an appetite.”

Rosaline stood stroking the dove, her eyes averted.

“What a pleasant story, monsieur,” she remarked coldly, “to tell out here in the warm sunshine! What do I want to know of those wretches dying in the flames?” and she flashed a sudden look of scorn upon him that brought a flush to his face.

“Mademoiselle should have asked me to tell her the one story that I know by heart,” he replied, his voice and manner changing in an instant and full now of courtesy and propitiation.

“And what is that, monsieur?” she asked shortly; the color was warm in her cheeks and her blue eyes flashed dangerously.

“The old story of my love for you, Rosaline,” he said eagerly, advancing nearer the sundial, the flock of doves rising with a whir of wings as he approached.

She was unmoved, however, only averting her face.

“I have spoken to madame,” he added, “and now I speak to you.”

“And what did Madame de St. Cyr say?” she demanded, giving him a questioning glance.

“She told me that so great was her love for her only grandchild that she would never force your choice, and therefore it remained with you to decide for yourself.” He spoke with feeling, his bold blue eyes on her lovely face. “I trust that you are not wholly indifferent to me, Rosaline,” he continued, “and I can give you much. My beautiful princess is shut up here in a ruinous old château. I will show you the world—Paris—Versailles. No beauty of the court will compare with the rose of Languedoc.”

He paused, carried away by his own eloquence, for M. de Baudri was not given to sentiment. Rosaline had listened with patience and composure, and she answered him in a tone of quiet amusement.

“Monsieur does me too much honor,” she said. “The château is indeed ruinous, but ’tis my home, and, strange to say, I do not long for the splendors of the court—or the flattery of the courtiers.”

“But my love for you, mademoiselle!” he protested in surprise; surely this child did not realize the honor he paid her. “I offer you my heart and hand.”

Rosaline curtsied with a smile on her lips.

“I am honored, monsieur,” she replied; “but happily, as my grandmother says, I have the decision of my fate. My marriage matters to no one except to her and to me—and, monsieur, I do not desire to marry.”

He stared at her in such frank surprise that she had to avert her face to hide her amusement.

“You are only a child,” he said bluntly; “you do not understand what my name and fortune would mean to you. ’Tis not every day, mademoiselle, that a man desires to marry a young girl without a dot!”

She laughed softly, her blue eyes shining.

“I appreciate your condescension, monsieur,” she said amiably; “but I am too wise to thrust myself upon such rash generosity.”

“This is folly, mademoiselle,” he exclaimed, his temper rising; “or is it only a shamefaced reluctance to confess your true sentiments?”

Rosaline had borne much, but at this she broke down, laughing as merrily and recklessly as a child; laughing until tears stood in her blue eyes. Meanwhile M. de Baudri stood in front of her swelling with rage and mortification, his face crimson and his blue eyes fierce with indignation. Still Rosaline laughed.

“Mademoiselle is merry,” he said stiffly.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” she replied, “a thousand times.”

“You have not answered me,” he went on harshly. “Am I to understand that my suit is refused?”

“It is refused, monsieur,” she rejoined more calmly; “M. de Baudri should seek a bride of more wealth and distinction.”

He stood a moment silent, the picture of furious indignation, then he looked over the hedge and saw a man crossing the space between the house and the wing. M. de Baudri frowned.

“Who is that, mademoiselle?” he demanded sharply, pointing toward the stranger.

Rosaline’s eyes followed his finger, and she colored, her composure disturbed at last.

“It is the new steward, monsieur,” she replied.

“The new steward?” he repeated. “Madame de St. Cyr refused the man I recommended because she said she could not afford to pay for a successor to old Jacques.”

“That is true,” she rejoined quietly; “we really could not afford it. But since old Jacques died we have found ourselves in need of a man to help us, therefore we have afforded it, monsieur.”

“Humph!” ejaculated M. de Baudri, with another glance at the house. “A strange sort of a steward. You had best be careful, mademoiselle, and not employ disguised Camisards; the neighborhood swarms with the vermin, and M. le Maréchal means to exterminate them all.”

“I thank you for the caution, monsieur,” she replied, “but Père Ambroise looks after us very well.”

“Père Ambroise is a fat fool,” he retorted, giving a malicious kick at Truffe, who had approached him.

Rosaline saw it and her face flushed crimson.

“Come here, Truffe,” she said, and then curtsied to her visitor. “We bid you good afternoon, monsieur,” she continued coolly; “neither Truffe nor I appreciate the honor you have offered us. We beg you to confer it on a more worthy object, and we bid you good-evening.”

And away she ran with her dog, leaving M. de Baudri standing in the centre of the garden, the image of indignant disgust. The minx had dared to refuse him, an officer of his Majesty’s dragoons, when she should have been overwhelmed by his condescension; but clearly she was not responsible,—a frivolous child! So he thought, and rode away, cursing his folly and the infatuation of Madame de St. Cyr. But, for all that, he did not mean to lose the Rose of Languedoc.