The cobbler of Nîmes
Date: 2022-10-19T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: France -- History -- Louis XIV; 1643-1715 -- Fiction; Shoemakers -- Fiction; Huguenots -- Persecutions -- France -- Fiction

The Project Gutenberg eBook of The cobbler of Nîmes

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

Title: The cobbler of Nîmes

Author: Mary Imlay Taylor

Release date: October 19, 2022 [eBook #69180]

Language: English

Original publication: United States: A. C. McClurg & Company, 1900

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69180

Credits: D A Alexander, David E. Brown, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by University of California libraries)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COBBLER OF NÎMES ***

THE COBBLER OF NÎMES

By
M. IMLAY TAYLOR

On the Red Staircase. 12mo | $1.25
An Imperial Lover. 12mo | 1.25
A Yankee Volunteer. 12mo | 1.25
The House of the Wizard. 12mo | 1.25
The Cardinal’s Musketeer. 12mo | 1.25
The Cobbler of Nîmes. 12mo | 1.25

THE
Cobbler of Nîmes

BY
M. IMLAY TAYLOR

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1900

Copyright
By A. C. McClurg & Co.
A.D. 1900

All rights reserved

CONTENTS.

Chapter | Page
I. | The Body of a Damned Person | 7
II. | The Shop of Two Shoes | 20
III. | Mademoiselle’s Slippers | 31
IV. | Rosaline | 44
V. | The Cobbler’s Guest | 52
VI. | A Military Suitor | 64
VII. | A String of Trout | 75
VIII. | Babet Visits the Cobbler | 86
IX. | Charlot Burns a Candle | 97
X. | A Dangerous Suit | 106
XI. | François Makes a Pledge | 119
XII. | The Finger of Fate | 130
XIII. | The Battle Hymn | 140
XIV. | “And All for Love” | 151
XV. | The Temptation of le Bossu | 164
XVI. | A Brief Delay | 178
XVII. | M. de Baudri’s Terms | 189
XVIII. | Rosaline’s Humble Friends | 203
XIX. | “Mortis Portis Fractis!” | 213
XX. | The Cobbler’s Faith | 225
XXI. | In the Woods of St. Cyr | 237
XXII. | The Old Windmill | 249
XXIII. | The Cobbler’s Bargain | 260
XXIV. | “O Death, Where Is Thy Sting?” | 269
XXV. | The Ship at Sea | 275

The Cobbler of Nîmes

CHAPTER I
THE BODY OF A DAMNED PERSON

It was the month of June, 1703, and about noontide on the last day of the week. The fair in the market-place at Nîmes was therefore at its height. A juggler was swallowing a sword in the midst of an admiring circle. Mademoiselle Héloïse, the danseuse, was walking the tight-rope near at hand, and the pick-pockets were plying their trade profitably on the outskirts of the throng. There was a dancing bear, and beyond him—a rival attraction—a monkey in scarlet breeches, with a blouse or camisole over them. The little creature’s antics were hailed with shouts of derisive laughter and cries of “Camisard!” “Barbet!” “Huguenot!” the monkey’s little blouse being an unmistakable caricature of the dress of the Camisards. It therefore behooved the wise to laugh, and they did, and that loudly,—though many a heart was in secret sympathy with the Huguenot rebels of the Cévennes; but were they not in Nîmes? And the Intendant Bâville was there, and the dragoons of King Louis XIV.; so it was that the monkey gathered many a half-crown, and sous and deniers in profusion, in his little cap, and carried them—chattering—to the showman. It was a motley throng: broad, red-faced market-women, old crones with bearded lip and toothless gums, little gamins of the market with prematurely aged faces, countrymen who glanced askance at the monkey while they laughed, pretty peasant girls who had sold their eggs and their poultry, and come to spend their newly acquired riches in ribbons and trinkets, and to have their fortunes told by the old gypsy in the yellow pavilion. Some strolling musicians were playing a popular air, two drunken men were fighting, and a busy tradesman was selling his wares near the entrance of a tent that was manifestly the centre of attraction. It was of white canvas and decorated with numerous images of the devil,—a black figure with horns, hoofs, and tail, engaged in casting another person into the flames; the whole being more startling than artistic. At the door of this tent was a man mounted on a barrel, and dressed fantastically in black, with a repetition of the devils and flames, in red and yellow, around the edge of his long gown, which flapped about a pair of thin legs, set squarely in the centre of two long, schooner-shaped feet. This person, whose face was gross and dull rather than malicious, kept calling his invitation and bowing low as each new visitor dropped a half-crown into the box fastened on the front of the barrel beneath his feet.

“Messieurs et mesdames!” he cried, “only a half-crown to see the body of a damned person!”

He raised his voice almost to a scream, to be heard in the babel of tongues; he clapped his hands to attract notice; he swayed to and fro on his barrel.

“Here is the body of a damned person!” he shouted. “Dieu! what an opportunity for the good of your soul! Too much, madame?” he said to a fishwife who grumbled at the price, “too much! ’Tis a chance in a thousand! The body came from the Tour de Constance! Madame will have her money’s worth.”

Madame went in, licking her lips like a wolf. The curtain of the tent swung to behind her. A peasant lad followed her, hesitating too over the half-crown, but then the spectacle was worth money. A soldier followed, then a butcher, and two stupid-looking servant-girls, with frightened faces, but still eager to see. Then there was a pause, and the showman began to shout once more; he had need to, for the bear was performing with unusual vivacity, and the danseuse displayed her pretty legs as she tripped on the rope.

“Half a crown, messieurs et mesdames,” cried the man of the black robe; “half a crown to see a dead and damned Huguenot!”

“Too much, monsieur!” said a voice behind him.

He started and looked back into the face of a little hunchbacked man who had been watching him curiously.

“You are not a good Catholic, M. le Bossu!” replied the showman, mocking, for the hunchback wore a poor suit of brown and a frayed hat.

“I am a good Catholic,” he replied calmly, “but your price is high—’tis only a dead Huguenot.”

“Dame! but live ones are too plenty,” retorted the other, with a loud laugh. “What are you to complain?” he added gayly,—“the hunchback!—le bossu!”

“Le Bossu—yes,” replied the hunchback, calmly; “that is what men call me.”

Again the showman mocked him, doffing his cap and grinning.

“Your Excellency’s name?” he demanded.

The hunchback took no notice of him; he had his hand in his wallet feeling for a half-crown; he had determined to see the damned person. But the other got his answer; a little gamin piped up on the edge of the crowd, pointing his finger at the cripple.

“’Tis only Charlot,” he said, “the shoemaker of the Rue St. Antoine.”

The showman laughed again.

“Enter, Maître Savetier!” he said derisively, “and see the dead Huguenot. Dame! but I believe he is one himself,” he added, under his breath, peering sharply at the pale face of le Bossu as he entered the tent.

But a minute later the hunchback was forgotten and the showman was screaming again.

“This way, mesdames! This way, to see a damned person! Half a crown! half a crown!”

Within, the tent was lighted solely by a small aperture at the top, and the effect was rather of a murky twilight than of broad noonday. It was draped with cheap red cloth, and in the centre—directly under the opening in the top—was a rough bier constructed of bare boards, and on this lay a body only partially covered with a piece of coarse serge; images of the devil—cut out of black stuff—were sewed on the corners of this wretched pall. The visitors, the sight-seers, who had paid their half-crowns to enjoy this gruesome spectacle, moved slowly past it, making the circuit of the tent and finally passing out at the door by which they had entered. When the hunchback came in, he paused long enough to become accustomed to the swift transition from sunlight to shadow, and then he too proceeded to join the circle around the corpse. There were many comments made, the sight affected the spectators differently. The two servant-girls clung together, whispering hysterical confidences; the peasant youth stared open-mouthed, fright showing plainly in his eyes; the soldier looked down with brutal indifference; the old fishwife showed satisfaction, her wolf mouth was slightly opened by a grin that displayed three long yellow teeth—all she possessed; a red handkerchief was tied around her head and from below it hung her long gray locks. Her short petticoat and bodice revealed a withered, lean form, and her fingers were like talons. She feasted her eyes on the dead face, and then she squinted across the body at the man who stood like a statue opposite. He was young, with a sad, dark countenance and was poorly, even shabbily dressed. But it was none of these things that the old crone noted, it was the expression of grief and horror that seemed frozen on his features. He did not see her, he did not see the others passing by him—with more than one curious glance; he seemed like a man in a trance, deaf, blind, dumb, but yet gazing fixedly at the inanimate figure on the bier. It was the corpse of a young woman, who had been handsome; the features were still so, and her long black hair fell about her shoulders like a mourning pall.

“Dieu!” said the fishwife, licking her lips, “what a white throat she had; ’twould have been a pity to hang her. See, there is a mark there on her arm where ’twas bound! Is she not pretty, Bossu?”

The hunchback had approached the corpse, and at this appeal he nodded his head.

“Diable!” ejaculated the soldier turning on the old crone, “’tis heresy to call a damned person pretty, Mère Tigrane.”

Mère Tigrane leered at him with horrible intelligence.

“No one is to think a heretic pretty but the dragoons, eh?” she said grinning. “Dame! we know what you think, monsieur.”

The man laughed brutally, and she edged up to him, whispering in his ear, her narrow eyes on the silent visitor opposite. The dragoon looked over too at her words, and broke out with an oath.

“You are a witch, Mère Tigrane,” he said uneasily; “let me alone!”

Again she whispered, but laughed this time, showing her yellow teeth.

Meanwhile the showman had been fortunate and a dozen new-comers crowded into the tent, pressing the others aside. This afforded an opportunity for the hunchback to approach the young man, who had remained by the bier as if chained to the ground. Le Bossu touched his arm, at first lightly, but finding himself unheeded, he jerked the other’s sleeve. The stranger started and stared at him as if he had just awakened from sleep.

“A word with you, friend,” said the hunchback, softly.

The man hesitated, started, paused and cast another long look at the dead face, and then followed the cripple through the group at the door, out into the sunshine and uproar of the market-place. They were not unobserved by Mère Tigrane, but she made no effort to follow them; she was watching the new arrivals as they approached the corpse. As she saw their faces of curiosity and horror, she laughed.

“Mère de Dieu!” she said, “’tis worth a half-crown after all—and I paid Adolphe in false coin too, pauvre garçon!”

In the market-place, the stranger had halted with the hunchbacked cobbler.

“What do you want?” he demanded of le Bossu; “I do not know you.”

“You were in danger,” replied the hunchback, quietly, “and you are in trouble; the bon Dieu knows that I also am in trouble.”

The little man’s tone, his deformity, his kind eyes appealed to the other.

“We should be friends,” he said grimly. “Dieu! I am indeed in trouble.”

The hunchback made a sign to him to be cautious, the crowd hemmed them in, the monkey chattered, the bear danced, Mademoiselle Héloïse was singing a savory song from Paris. The whole square was white with the sunshine; above, the sky was deeply blue.

“Follow me, friend,” said le Bossu again, and commenced to thread his way through the crowd.

His new acquaintance hesitated a moment, cast a backward glance at the tent he had just quitted, and then quietly followed the hunchback. They had to cross the market-place, and the little cobbler seemed to be widely known. Goodwives greeted him, young girls giggled heartlessly before the misshapen figure passed, men nodded indifferently, the maliciously disposed children calling out “le Bossu!” at him as he went. A heartless rabble out for a gala day; what pity had they for the hunchbacked shoemaker of the St. Antoine? The man who followed him escaped notice; he was straight-limbed and erect, and his shabby dress disguised him as completely as any masquerade. When they had left the crowd behind, they walked together, but still silently, along the thoroughfare.

The groups of pleasure-seekers grew more rare as they advanced, and they were almost alone when they passed the Garden of the Récollets—the Franciscan Convent—and entered the Rue St. Antoine. Here it was that the stranger roused himself and addressed his companion.

“Where are we going?” he asked sharply.

“To my shop,” replied le Bossu; “’tis but ten yards ahead now. Have no fear,” he added kindly; “the bon Dieu made me in such shape that my heart is ever with the sorrowful.”

“I do not understand you,” said the other. “I do not know your name—you do not ask mine—why do you seek me out?”

“My name is Charlot,” returned the cripple, simply. “I make shoes, and they call me by more than one name. My rich patrons say Charlot, my poor ones call me le Savetier, others mock me as the hunchback—le Bossu! It does not matter. As for your name, I will know it when you please, monsieur.”

They had come to an arched gateway between two houses, and the cobbler entered, followed by the other man. They stood in a court, and on three sides of it were the faces of three houses; it was a veritable cul-de-sac. A small square of sunshine marked the centre of the opening, and in this a solitary weed had bloomed, springing up between the crevices in the stone pavement. To the left was an arched door with three steps leading to it, and over it hung a sign with two shoes painted upon it. The hunchback pointed at this.

“Behold my shop,” he said, “the sign of the Two Shoes.”

He took a key out of his wallet, and ascending the steps, opened the door and invited his new acquaintance to enter.

CHAPTER II
THE SHOP OF TWO SHOES

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.”

CHAPTER III
MADEMOISELLE’S SLIPPERS

The first day of the week Petit Bossu set his house in order. He swept the floor of the shop and put a cold dinner on the kitchen table that his guest might eat in his absence. Then he hung up his apron and blouse and, putting on his worn brown coat, slipped the leather strap of his wallet over his shoulder. Last he took a pair of slippers out of a cupboard and examined them with loving care and honest pride in their workmanship. They were small, high-heeled, blue slippers, daintily lined with white silk, and with rosettes of blue ribbon on the square toes. The little cobbler stroked them tenderly, fastened one bow more securely, and putting them carefully in his green bag, set out on his journey. It was early, and few people lounged in the streets, and le Bossu passed unheeded through the Rue St. Antoine, and went out at last at the Porte de France. His pace was always slow, and to-day he limped a little, but he kept cheerfully on, turning his face toward St. Césaire.

The highroad, white with dust, unrolled like a ribbon through a rugged plain which lay southwest of Nîmes, stretching from the low range of limestone mountains—the foothills of the Cévennes—on the north to the salt marshes of the Mediterranean on the south. Rocks cropped up on either side of the road; the country was wild and barren-looking, although here and there were fig trees and vineyards, and farther west was the fertile valley of the Vaunage. North of those limestone hills lay the Cévennes, where since the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes the poor Huguenot peasants were making their desperate fight for liberty of conscience, against the might and the bigotry of Louis XIV. Their leader, Laporte, was dead, but he had been succeeded by Jean Cavalier and Roland, and revolt still raged in the caves and fastnesses of the upper Cévennes, though Maréchal Montrevel and the Intendant of Languedoc assured the king that they had wiped out the insurrection. But the “Barbets” or “Camisards,” as they were called in derision, though naming themselves “Enfants de Dieu,” kept up the fierce death-struggle. Meanwhile the city of Nîmes was judiciously orthodox in the presence of the dragoons, and many Huguenots went to mass rather than suffer torture and death. Not every man is made for a martyr, and there were terrors enough to awe the most heroic. The bodies of Protestants who died in prison were exposed at fairs for a fee, or dragged through the streets on hurdles to be burned, as a warning and example to the misguided who still lived.

Yet the busy life of every day went on; people bought and sold and got gain; others married and made feasts; children were born, to be snatched from Huguenot parents and baptized into the old religion; some men died and were buried, others were cast from the galleys, at Marseilles, into the sea. Such was life in Nîmes in those old days when the sign of Two Shoes hung over the humble shop on the Rue St. Antoine.

All this while le Bossu was trudging along the white road. He met many country people now, bringing their vegetables and poultry to town, and more than once he was saluted with the mocking cry, “Petit Bossu!” He kept steadily on, however, taking no heed, his face pale from the exertion, or the repression of his natural temper, which resented insults and injury more keenly than most people of his condition, in an age when the poor were as the beasts of the field to the upper classes. Many thoughts were passing in the hunchback’s mind, but he dwelt most upon the little blue slippers, and when he did, his brown eyes softened, the drawn expression on his thin face relaxed.

“The bon Dieu bless her,” he murmured; “to her I am not the hunchback or the cobbler—to her I am poor Charlot, her humble friend. Ciel! I would die for mademoiselle.”

He toiled slowly on; passing the village of St. Césaire, he turned sharply to the north, and walking through a grove of olive trees, came in sight of a château that nestled on the crest of a little eminence looking west toward the Vaunage. The sun shone on its white walls and sloping roof, and sparkled on its window panes. The building was not large, and it had a long, low wing at one side, the whole thrown into sharp relief by its background of mulberry trees. The house was partially closed, the wing showing green-shuttered windows, but the main part was evidently occupied. On the southern side was the garden, with high hedges of box, and toward this the cobbler turned his steps. As he approached the wicket-gate, which was set in a lofty part of the hedge, a dog began to bark furiously, and a black poodle dashed toward him as he entered, but recognizing the visitor, she ceased barking and greeted le Bossu with every demonstration of friendship.

“Ah, Truffe,” said the cobbler, gently, “where is your mistress? I have brought her the blue slippers at last.”

As if she understood the question, the poodle turned and, wagging her tail, led the way back between two rows of box toward the centre of the garden. The dog and the cobbler came out into an open circle well planted with rose bushes, that grew in wild profusion around the old sundial. Here were white roses and pink, yellow and red, large and small; and sweet and fragile they looked in the old garden, which was but poorly kept despite the neat hedges. On a rustic seat in the midst of the flowers sat a young girl, the sun shining on her fair hair, and tingeing with brown the red and white of her complexion. Her face and figure were charming, and she had almost the air of a child, dressed as she was in white, her flaxen hair falling in two long braids over her shoulders.

The dog began to bark again at the sight of her, running to her and back to the hunchback to announce the arrival of a friend. She looked up with a bright smile as the cobbler lifted his cap and laid down the green bag on the seat at her side.

“Ah, Charlot, you have my slippers at last,” she exclaimed gayly, her blue eyes full of kindness as she greeted her humble visitor.

“I have them, Mademoiselle Rosaline,” he replied, his worn face lighting up, “and they are almost worthy of the feet that will wear them.”

“Almost!” laughed mademoiselle, “you are a born courtier, Charlot—oh, what dears!”

Le Bossu had opened his bag and drawn out the blue slippers, holding them up for her admiration.

“They are pretty enough for a queen!” said Rosaline, taking them in her hands and looking at them critically, with her head on one side.

“Oh, Charlot, I shall never forgive you if they do not fit!”

“They will fit like gloves, mademoiselle,” the shoemaker replied complacently; “let me try them on for you.”

But she was not yet done with her examination.

“Where did you get the pattern for the rosettes?” she asked eagerly; “truly, they are the prettiest I have seen.”

“I copied them after a pair from Paris, mademoiselle,” he replied, as pleased as she at his own success. “The heels too are just like those worn at Versailles.”

Mademoiselle Rosaline laughed softly.

“I told you that you were a courtier, Charlot,” she said; “but they say that the king wears high red heels, because he is not tall.”

“But red heels would not please mademoiselle on blue shoes,” remarked the hunchback, smiling.

“But, Charlot,” said she, with a mischievous gleam of fun in her eyes, “if we must all be of the king’s religion, must we not all also wear his red heels?”

The cobbler’s pale face grew sad again.

“Alas, mademoiselle,” he said, with a sigh, “to you ’tis a jest, but to some—” he shook his head gravely, looking down at the little blue slippers in her lap.

“What is the matter?” she asked quickly, the smile dying on her lips. “Have they—been burning any one lately in Nîmes?”

“Nay, mademoiselle,” he replied, kneeling on one knee in the gravel path, and taking the slippers off her small feet to try on the new ones.

“Come, come, Charlot—tell me,” persisted his patroness, scarcely heeding the shoe that he was drawing on her right foot. “You are as solemn as an owl this morning.”

“I will tell mademoiselle,” he rejoined, reverently arranging the rosette and smoothing the white silk stocking around the slender ankle. “Then she must not blame me if she is horrified.”

“She is often horrified,” interrupted Rosaline, with a soft little laugh. “Go on, Charlot.”

“There was a fair on Saturday—mademoiselle knows, for I saw Babet there buying a silk handkerchief—”

“Babet cannot stay away from a fair for her life,” mademoiselle interpolated again.

“’Twas a very fine fair,” continued le Bossu, putting on the other slipper. “There were many attractions, and the jailer—Zénon—had the body of a damned woman there; Adolphe, the showman, exhibited it for half a crown. She, the dead woman, was, they say, one of the Huguenot prisoners from the Tour de Constance, and she died on her way here; she was to be examined by M. de Bâville for some reason,—what, I know not,—but she died on the road, and Zénon made much by the exhibition.”

Rosaline shuddered, the color fading from her cheeks.

“And you went to see that horrible, wicked spectacle, Charlot?” she demanded, in open disgust.

“Mademoiselle knows I am a good Catholic,” replied the cobbler, meekly, his eyes drooping before her look of disdain. “’Tis done for the good of our souls—to show us the fate of these misguided people.”

“Mon Dieu!” ejaculated mademoiselle, softly.

Silence fell between them unbroken save by the soft sounds of summer, the humming of the honey-bees, the murmur of the mulberry leaves stirred by a light wind. Mademoiselle sat looking vacantly at her new slippers, while the shoemaker still knelt on one knee watching her face with that pathetic expression in his eyes that we see only in the look of sufferers.

“That was not all I saw at the fair,” he went on at last. “In the tent there was also—”

Rosaline made a gesture of disgust.

“I will hear no more!” she cried indignantly.

“This will not horrify you, mademoiselle,” he replied gently; “’tis only the story of my new guest.”

Her face relaxed, partly because she saw that she had hurt the hunchback’s feelings.

“Well, you may tell me,” she said reluctantly.

“There was a young man there—in that tent— Nay, mademoiselle, I will say nothing more of it.” Le Bossu broke off, and then went on carefully: “He was in great anguish, and I saw that he was watched by a wicked old woman and one of the dragoons. I got him away to my house, and there I found he had no money, except one piece, and was in great trouble. He is—” the cobbler looked about keenly at the hedges, then he lowered his voice, “a Huguenot.”

“And what did you do with him?” Rosaline demanded eagerly.

“He is in my upper room now,” replied the hunchback, “but I do not know where he will go. He is not safe in Nîmes. I think he wants to join the Barbets, but, of course, he tells me nothing. He is a gentleman, mademoiselle, le Bossu knows, and very poor, like many of the Huguenots, and proud. I know no more, except that he was reckless enough to tell me his name.”

“What is it?” she asked, all interest now, and more than ever forgetful of her new slippers.

“François d’Aguesseau,” he answered, in an undertone, with another cautious glance behind him.

“’Tis all very strange,” remarked mademoiselle, regarding the worn face thoughtfully. “You are a good Catholic, Charlot, yet you imperil yourself to shelter a Huguenot.”

“The risk to me is very little,” he replied with great simplicity. “I am too humble for M. de Bâville, and how could I give him up? He is a kind young man, and in trouble; ah, mademoiselle, I also have had troubles. May the bon Dieu forgive me if I do wrong.”

“I do not think you do wrong, Charlot,” she said gently, “and I am sure the bon Dieu forgives you; but M. de Bâville will not.”

“I can die but once, mademoiselle,” he rejoined smiling.

“Why is it you always smile at death?” she asked.

“Ah, mademoiselle, you are not as I am,” he said quietly. “Death to me—the gates of Paradise stand open—suffering over—poverty no more!”

Tears gathered in Rosaline’s blue eyes.

“Do you suffer much now?” she asked.

“Nearly always,” he replied.

Again there was a painful silence. Then le Bossu recollected the slippers and rearranged the rosettes.

“They fit like gloves, mademoiselle,” he said calmly, “do they give you comfort?”

The girl roused herself.

“They are beautiful, Charlot,” she replied, standing up and pacing to and fro before the bench, to try them. “They do not even feel like new shoes. You are a magician.”

She had lifted her white skirts to show the two little blue feet. Le Bossu stood up too, admiring not only the slippers, but the beautiful face and the golden hair, as fair as the sunshine. Even Truffe, the poodle, danced about in open approval. Then they heard a sharp voice from the direction of the house.

“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle Rosaline!” it called; “the dinner grows cold, and Madame de St. Cyr is waiting. Viens donc!”

“Poor Babet!” laughed Rosaline; “I am her torment. Come to the house, Charlot; she will have a dinner for you also, and grandmother will be delighted with these beautiful slippers. Come, Truffe, you at least are hungry, you little gourmande.”

CHAPTER IV
ROSALINE

The sun shone cheerfully in the dining room of the château. The long windows were open, and the soft June air came in, laden with the sweetness of the garden. The room was of moderate size and furnished with perfect simplicity, the polished dark wood floor being bare of rugs. In the corner was a tall clock with a silver dial, wherein were set the sun, moon, and stars, moving in unison with the hands. On the sideboard were a few pieces of silver that dated back to the days of Francis I. The table, covered with a fair linen cloth, was set for two, a glass bowl full of pansies in the centre. Rosaline sat at one end and at the other was her grandmother, Madame de St. Cyr. Between them was Truffe, the poodle, sitting solemnly, with a napkin tied about her neck, and turning her black face from one to the other in eager but subdued anticipation.

Madame de St. Cyr was an old gentlewoman with a handsome, delicate face and the blue eyes of her granddaughter; her hair had the whiteness of snow and there were lines of age and suffering about her mouth. She wore a plain gown of black silk with a fall of lace at the throat, and a lace cap on her head, and her thin white hands showed the blue veins like whip-cords, but they were slender and graceful hands, with tapering fingers and delicate wrists.

The two women were alone; their only servant, the woman Babet, was in the kitchen, setting out a dinner for the cobbler, and they could hear the murmur of her voice as she lectured him. Madame de St. Cyr was listening to Rosaline with a troubled face.

“Ah, grand’mère, can we not help him?” the girl said earnestly. “Think of his desolate situation.”

“We are poor, Rosaline,” the old woman replied gently, “and helpless. Moreover, if our religion were suspected the bon Dieu only knows what would happen. I am too old to hide away in the caves of the Cévennes! Nor is it clear that it is my duty to help this fellow religionist if by so doing I put you in danger. Ah, my child, for you it would be the Tour de Constance—or worse!”

Rosaline was feeding some morsels to Truffe with perfect composure.

“I have never been afraid, grand’mère,” she said, “and I hate to live a lie—but I know you are wise. Yet, oh, madame, think of this Huguenot in Nîmes!”

“What did Charlot call him?” her grandmother asked thoughtfully. “I thought the name was familiar.”

“He said ’twas François d’Aguesseau.”

Madame de St. Cyr sat a moment silent, trying to gather her recollections in shape, then her memory suddenly helped her.

“Certainly I know,” she said; “they are from Dauphiné. He must be the son of Sieur d’Aguesseau who was broken on the wheel at Montpellier in ’99. I remember now very well; he had a son and a daughter, and I did hear that she was carried away to the Tour de Constance. It must have been the same young woman whose corpse was exhibited on Saturday at Nîmes. The song is true,” she added sadly:

“ ‘Nos filles dans les monastères,

Nos prisonniers dans les cachots,

Nos martyrs dont le sang se répand à grands flots,

Nos confesseurs sur les galères,
Nos malades persécutés,
Nos mourants exposés à plus d’une furie,
Nos morts traînés à la voierie,
Te disent (ô Dieu!) nos calamités.’ ”

“What a terrible story of sorrow it is!” remarked Rosaline; “and to think that the corpse of a gentlewoman should be exposed in the market-place! Mon Dieu! I wonder if mine will be!”

Madame put up her hand with a gesture of horror.

“Hush!” she said, with white lips, “I cannot bear it.”

Rosaline was contrite in a moment.

“A thousand pardons, grand’mère,” she said sweetly; “you and I have lived so long the life of concealed Huguenots, treading on the edge of the volcano, that I grow careless in speech.”

“But do you not see why I am so reluctant to take a risk?” her grandmother asked. “Yet I know that this François d’Aguesseau is related to me through his mother. I remember now who she was, and it seems that I must do what I can.”

Her granddaughter’s face lighted. “That is like you, madame,” she said brightly; “we could not believe she would turn a deaf ear, could we, Truffe? Ah, you petite gourmande, have I not given you enough?”

The older woman watched the girl fondly as she fed and petted the dog. This granddaughter was her last link with the world. Her son, the Comte de St. Cyr had fallen fighting for the king the year before the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, when Rosaline was only three months old. His wife survived him only two years, and the grandmother brought up the child. They had never been rich, and the estate had suffered under madame’s management, for she was always cheated and robbed, being as unworldly as a woman could be who had seen something of the gay life of her day. Her mind now was full of the guest of le Bossu, and she was troubled.

“I do not know what we can do, Rosaline,” she said in evident perplexity; “he can come here, of course, and share our crust, if he will, but a guest, and an unknown one, would excite comment; and there is M. de Baudri.”

Rosaline made a grimace. “I wish M. de Baudri would stay with his dragoons in Nîmes,” she retorted. “But, grand’mère, there must be a way. Let us think and think, until we find it.”

“I cannot understand Charlot,” remarked Madame, meditatively. “We know he is a devout Romanist, yet this is not the first time I have known him to help the persecuted.”

“He is the strangest little man in the world,” replied Rosaline, “and I believe that his heart is as big as his poor misshapen body. He is strangely refined too, for his condition in life. Poor little Charlot!”

“Do you think he suspects our religion?” madame asked anxiously.

“I do not know,” her granddaughter replied slowly, “but sometimes I think so.”

“Mon Dieu!” murmured the old woman, with a sigh; “the axe hangs over our heads.”

Rosaline looked up surprised.

“Surely you do not fear Charlot?” she exclaimed. “Charlot!—why, he would no more betray us than would old Babet.”

“Babet is of the Religion; I trust no one else,” returned Madame de St. Cyr, gravely.

“I do,” replied Rosaline calmly; “I trust Charlot and Père Ambroise.”

“In a way, we are in Père Ambroise’s hands,” her grandmother replied, “and I do not believe he would betray you; he means instead to convert you. As for me, I am too near death to trouble him.”

“You do him an injustice,” retorted Rosaline; and then she smiled. “The good father is naturally kind,—he cannot help it; he is so round and sleek that he rolls through the world as easily as a ball. To strike anything violently would make him bounce uncomfortably, so dear old Père Ambroise rolls blandly on. I should weep indeed if the naughty Camisards caught the kind soul and harmed him. I can see him, though, trying to run away, with his round eyes starting and his fat cheeks quivering like Babet’s moulds of jelly; and how short his breath would come! Mon père is my friend, so do not find fault with him, grand’mère, even when he tries to convert me,—pretending all the while that he believes me to be one of his flock!”

Madame de St. Cyr laughed a little at the picture the girl drew of Père Ambroise, but the laugh died in a sigh. She had all the misgivings, the faint-heartedness of age, while Rosaline was as full of life and spirits as a child, and as thoughtless of the dreadful fate that might any day overtake her. She laughed now and told Truffe to beg for a tart, and then scolded the poodle for eating sweets, all the while making a picture of youthful loveliness that made the old room bright with hope and joy. The finger of fate had not yet been laid on Rosaline’s heart; she knew neither love nor fear.

CHAPTER V
THE COBBLER’S GUEST

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.”

CHAPTER VI
A MILITARY SUITOR

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.

CHAPTER VII
A STRING OF TROUT

The next morning Rosaline was once more among her flowers. There was no gardener at the château now, and it was the young girl’s custom to weed and tend her own flower beds. She was bending over some velvet-faced pansies, snipping off the dead blooms and plucking away the vagrant grass when she heard some one speak behind her, and looking up saw a hideous face peeping over the wicket-gate. Rosaline started and stood erect, viewing her visitor with a suspicious glance. But Mère Tigrane—for it was she—was accustomed to such receptions, and she only grinned more widely as she dropped mademoiselle a curtsey.

“Have some fish for dinner, my pretty!” she said in a coaxing tone, holding up a string of trout; “mademoiselle can have the whole string for ten sous!”

Rosaline had no thought except one of horror and repulsion. The face looking over the gate, with its wide red mouth and yellow fangs, alarmed her; she did not even look at the fish.

“I do not want anything, my good woman,” she replied, shaking her head.

“But ’tis fast day, my darling,” remarked Mère Tigrane, with tender solicitude; “all good Catholics eat fish to-day!”

Rosaline’s lesson was well learned and she was on her guard in a moment.

“We have enough fish,” she said coldly.

“But these are so fresh, mademoiselle,” persisted la Louve. “But then the young lady cannot judge; permit poor Mère Tigrane to show these lovely trout to the cook.”

“I tell you that we have more fish than we can eat,” said Rosaline, haughtily; “you had better try elsewhere.”

“But think of the bargain, my dear,” rejoined the old hag, in honeyed tones; “now the cook will know—or the steward.”

As she spoke Mère Tigrane gently opened the gate and entered, to Rosaline’s disgust. She instinctively feared the fishwife and she did not want her to approach the house. She moved, therefore, into the centre of the path, blocking the way,—a very bad move, indeed, for it roused all la Louve’s suspicions.

“Now, my dearie, let me sell these pretty fish in the kitchen,” she coaxed, approaching the girl and laying her bony hand on Rosaline’s skirt.

Mademoiselle drew back with horror, dragging her frock from the talon fingers with a little involuntary cry of disgust. As she did so there was a low growl from the hedge and Truffe, dashing suddenly upon the scene, sprang on Mère Tigrane. The old woman shrieked, snatching a knife from her bosom and striking at the dog.

“Do not dare to hurt Truffe!” cried Rosaline, throwing herself on the poodle and dragging her off before she had done more mischief than to tear the other’s clothes. “Go!” she added imperiously, stamping her foot; “you forced yourself in—and see, I cannot hold the dog! There is a crown to buy you a new petticoat; take it and go!”

Mère Tigrane gathered up the money greedily, and prudently retired beyond the gate before she spoke. Her little eyes glittered with rage, although she smiled broadly at the young girl.

“Mademoiselle is generous,” she said; “she has more than paid for the fish—will she not have them?”

Rosaline was annoyed beyond endurance. She still held the dog and she turned a withering glance on Mère Tigrane.

“Go!” she said sharply, “at once. Let me hear no more of you or your fish.”

“Mère de Dieu, but my beauty can be angry!” remarked la Louve. “Farewell, my pretty, and good luck to you and your dog.”

The old woman made her another curtsey and still chuckling to herself walked slowly away.

Scarcely had she disappeared behind the tall hedge when there was a footstep on the path behind Rosaline and François d’Aguesseau came in sight. He was soberly dressed like a steward, and bare-headed, having hurried from the house at the sound of Mère Tigrane’s outcry. He found Rosaline still holding the dog, her face flushed with anger and her eyes fastened on the opening in the hedge where her unpleasant visitor had disappeared.

“I heard a noise, mademoiselle,” he said, “and thought something had alarmed you.”

“And something did,” replied Rosaline, with a shudder; “the most dreadful old woman has been here trying to force her way into the house.”

D’Aguesseau smiled; old women did not terrify him, and he set mademoiselle’s excitement down to her nerves.

“What sort of an old woman?” he asked pleasantly; “you look as if you had seen a witch, mademoiselle.”

“And so I have,” retorted the girl; “a witch with a string of fish.”

He started; he too had unpleasant associations with an apparition with a basket of fish. He remembered the terrible tent at the fair, and the encounter opposite the Sign of the Golden Cup.

“Which way did she go?” he asked, and as Rosaline pointed, he went to the gate, and looked in both directions but saw nothing. “She has vanished,” he said reassuringly. “I trust that she did not annoy you, mademoiselle.”

“She was teasing me to buy her fish, and finally pushed into the garden,” Rosaline replied, “and then she caught hold of my skirt in her eagerness to arrest my attention. I was foolish, I know, but, I couldn’t help it, I cried out—such a horror came over me! Then Truffe sprang on her, and she drew a knife on my dog! I saved Truffe and ordered her away, but I know she was fearfully angry, and—and I fear her; I can’t tell why, but I fear her!”

“Put her from your thoughts, mademoiselle,” he said soothingly; “’tis not in the power of such a wretched creature to hurt you.”

“I do not know,” she replied, still excited; “we are concealing so much, and she wanted to get to the house. I was afraid she would see—” she broke off, her face flushing.

“See me,” finished d’Aguesseau quietly. “Mademoiselle, I pray that you will not let my presence add to your anxieties. I fear I have indeed exposed this house to peril by accepting Madame de St. Cyr’s beautiful friendship. If I believed so, I would quit it at once. My lot would indeed be a miserable one if I should bring misfortune to the roof that shelters me.”

He spoke gloomily, standing with folded arms and bent head, his eyes on the ground. Rosaline loosened her hold on Truffe, who wriggled herself free and fled away along the hedge barking angrily. Neither of them heeded the poodle, however, for their thoughts were of more serious matters.

“Have no fear, monsieur,” Rosaline said; “our peril could scarcely be increased. We are all members of a proscribed religion, and it is natural that we should all suffer together. It has been a pleasure to my grandmother to be able to have you as her guest. We have been so situated that we could do nothing for our fellow-religionists, and it is much to her to do even so little for you.”

“So much,” he corrected gravely. “I was friendless and homeless, when madame asked me to stay here, and I wish from my heart that I could be of real service to you, instead of merely assuming a steward’s place as a temporary disguise.”

He paused an instant, watching the young girl’s downcast face intently, and then he spoke again, with yet more earnestness.

“I have been urging Madame de St. Cyr to leave this neighborhood,” he said,—“to go to England. No one is safe here, and I cannot hope much from this insurrection, when I think of the mighty force that the king can hurl against these poor peasants.”

Rosaline raised her face, a look of inspiration on her delicate features.

“Ah, monsieur,” she said, “you forget that the bon Dieu is with us! Surely we must win, when the Captain of our Salvation leads us.”

He looked at her with admiration in his eyes. How beautiful she was!

“That is true, mademoiselle,” he replied, “but it may not be His will that we should conquer upon earth. The battle must be waged, and death and destruction follow it. I cannot bear to think of you and madame here in this château, in the very heart of it; for, doubtless, Cavalier will assault Nîmes at last.”

“Madame de St. Cyr cannot go to England,” the girl said quietly; “she is too old for the flight. We must face it.”

“Then, mademoiselle, I will remain with you here,” he declared.

She gave him a startled glance, coloring slightly.

“You promised your mother to go to England,” she reminded him; “and your single sword could never defend us.”

“And my presence draws danger—you would add, mademoiselle,” he said quietly; “that is true, but I shall not remain in this house, I shall go to the Cévennes, and there I can still watch over you a little. I shall indeed go to England, but not now.”

He spoke with such resolution that she attempted no reply. There was a pause and again Truffe barked viciously at the other end of the hedge, and a glint of red showed through a break in the thicket, but neither of the two friends noticed it. At last the girl broke the silence.

“I suppose the end will come some time,” she said dreamily. “The old château will be consumed by the flames that M. de Baudri’s troops will kindle, the garden will be a desolate place, and Languedoc will know us no more. I have lain awake at night thinking of it, monsieur, and yet I am not afraid. I do not know why, but I have never been really afraid of the day when this concealment must end. But oh, I do pray that my grandmother may escape! I think of these things, and then I come out and see God’s sun shining, and hear my doves coo, and it seems impossible that the world is so cruel. Is it indeed so, monsieur? Is my life here at St. Cyr a dream of peace amid the fierce world? Can it be that this too, that I have always known, will end?”

His face was sad and stern, and he looked at her with sorrowful eyes.

“Mademoiselle,” he replied, “I pray that it may never end. But once I too had such a dream. I was a little lad at my mother’s knee in Dauphiné. The sun shone there too, and the birds sang, and every-day life went on. I had a father whom I reverenced, who taught me and guided me, a sister whom I loved, and we were rich.” He paused and then added, “I am almost a beggar now—but for madame’s loan which my father’s prudent investments in England will enable me to repay. I have neither father nor mother nor sister. The château is a blackened ruin, the lands are tilled by strangers. Mon Dieu! my dream ended as I pray yours may not!”

Rosaline’s face was full of sympathy, tears gathered in her eyes, she held out her hand with a gesture of commiseration.

“Monsieur, pardon me for speaking of it,” she said, a quiver in her voice; “your sister—oh, believe me, I grieve with you for so terrible an affliction. God knows what my fate may be!”

He took her hand in both his and kissed it.

“Mademoiselle,” he said gravely, “while I live I will surely defend you from that awful calamity. There is no one to require my service—’tis yours, mademoiselle, and my gratitude and devotion. Would that I had more to devote to your protection!”

CHAPTER VIII
BABET VISITS THE COBBLER

The little hunchback, Charlot, sat patiently at his cobbler’s bench making a pair of shoes. The sun was not shining in his window; it shone on the house across the court, and there was only a reflected glare to brighten the shop at the sign of Two Shoes. His door was open, and from where he sat he could see the two children opposite, playing on the threshold of their home. They were not handsome children, and were clad in patched and faded garments, yet the shoemaker looked over at them often as he plied his needle. He heard the voice of their mother singing as she did her work; he saw the father come home for his dinner, the two little ones greeting him with noisy affection. A humble picture of family life, scarcely worth recording, yet every day le Bossu watched it with interest and a dull pain. His hearth was desolate, but not so desolate as his heart. Charlot cut a strip of fine kid and stitched it, but his eyes dwelt sadly on the house across the court. He went in and out his own door daily, but no one ever greeted him; no loving voice spoke kind words of sympathy when his trouble was upon him; no friendly hand performed the little every-day services for him. There was silence always,—silence and loneliness. The hunchback thought of it and of his life. He could remember no great blessings or joys in it. His parents were humble, and he was the one misshapen child in a large family. From his birth he had been unwelcome in the world. A neglected infant, he fell from the bed to the floor, and from that time began to grow crooked and sickly. His mother’s death robbed him of his only friend, and he struggled through painful years of neglect and suffering to manhood—but what a manhood! he said to himself; not even his own brethren cared for him. The brothers and sisters went out into the world, and Charlot would have been left in miserable poverty but for a kind cobbler who taught him his trade, and thus enabled the cripple to earn his own living.

That meagre story of pain and sorrow was Charlot’s history, and now he stitched away patiently on his shoes and made no complaint. No one thought of him as a man endowed with all a man’s feelings and passions. The little hunchbacked shoemaker of St. Antoine was not disliked by his neighbors; he was welcome to gather up the crumbs of joy that fell from the happier man’s table, to look on at feasts and weddings; he was even wanted at funerals—for he had a strangely touching way of showing his sympathy; but Dieu! he was a thing apart, le bossu, a little deformity. No one thought of the soul caged within that wretched shape, and looking out on all it desired of the fulness of life, hungering for a crumb of joy, and debarred forever and ever.

“Ah, mon Dieu!” Charlot said sometimes, “why didst thou give me the soul of a man, and a body that is only a mark for pity or scorn?”

A question that could be answered only when the long and painful journey should be over and the poor, misshapen body laid to rest. Who can say in what beautiful form such a spirit may be clad when the River of Death is crossed?

All these thoughts were in the shoemaker’s mind as he turned a little shoe in his hand. It was of white satin and he was making a rosette of pink ribbon, shaping it like a rose and fastening it on the toe. He fondled his work and held it off at arm’s length, admiring it. Another pair of shoes for Mademoiselle de St. Cyr, but this time they would come as a surprise. Next Thursday was Rosaline’s birthday, and the cobbler had been long fashioning these shoes as a present. He had never dared offer her a gift before, but now he owed them so many kindnesses, they had done so much to help him, that he felt he might offer this humble return on mademoiselle’s birthday. That pair of little white satin shoes stood for much joy in le Bossu’s dreary life; to plan them, to make them, to buy the ribbon for the rosettes, had furnished him with so many separate diversions. In the blankness of his existence there was one sacred spot, the château of St. Cyr; in his sad days, the figure of Rosaline stood before him like an angel. There was a great gulf between these two, the beautiful girl and the humble cobbler, and he knelt down on the farther side and worshipped her, as he would worship a saint in heaven. And she knew it not. To her, he was little Charlot, poor Charlot, and her voice softened when she spoke to him; her manner was more kind too than to others; she could afford to be goodness itself to the hunchbacked cobbler, and she never dreamed that she held his life in the hollow of her hand. Great was the gulf indeed, and she stood a long way off with the merciful sympathy of the angel that she seemed to him to be. He understood it all well enough and looked up to worship, happy to fashion a shoe that pleased her and to see the light in her blue eyes when she thanked him.

So it was that he sat stitching mademoiselle’s little shoe and looking across at the children on his neighbor’s step; they had finished their dinner now, and the father had gone back to his work. Le Bossu’s drawn face was pale to-day, and there was pathos in his brown eyes. He waxed his thread and drew it back and forth and once or twice he sighed. There was no sound in his house but the ticking of his clock, but over the way there were the voices of children, the goodwife’s song, the clatter of dishes. Charlot had finished one slipper and put it away, and was taking up the other when some one entered the court. His work would be done in good season, the cobbler thought with satisfaction, and he was cutting the pink ribbon when he looked up and saw Babet, the cook and housekeeper at St. Cyr. Le Bossu tucked the slipper out of sight and greeted his visitor. She entered with a quick, firm step, bearing herself like a grenadier, and dusted the stool with the end of her shawl before she sat down.

“Well, Charlot,” she said, opening a bundle that she had brought, “here are my boots, and the left one pinches me and the right is too large. I tell you, man, that you never make two shoes alike.”

The cobbler smiled. “Your feet are not alike; that is the trouble, Babet,” he retorted; “the left one is larger than the right.”

“Tush!” ejaculated the woman in disgust, “do you take me for a fool? I’ve set my right foot forward all my life, little man, and yet you say the left is larger.”

“You have worn the flesh off your right, thrusting it forward, Babet,” replied the cobbler; “’tis the way with some noses—they are ground off, being thrust into other people’s business.”

“Humph!” said Babet, “’tis not so with mine. Can you fix the shoe so I can wear it?”

The shoemaker knelt down and patiently tried on Babet’s boots, while she found fault first with one and then with the other. It was evident that she was in no very good humor. A different customer was this from mademoiselle, and Charlot’s thoughts were not set on pleasing her. His guest had left him to go to St. Cyr and had ostensibly become steward there; but the hunchback was not deceived. He had long suspected that the women of the château were of the new religion, and now he was secretly convinced of it, and in d’Aguesseau he saw a grave danger for them. Charlot was a sincere Romanist too, and his conscience was troubled, but his heart was full of sympathy for misery; he had himself been miserable all his life. In spite of Babet’s bickering, therefore, he found an opportunity to broach the subject nearest his heart.

“Does the new steward suit Madame de St. Cyr?” he asked, as he finally took off the offending boots and put back the old ones on Babet’s large feet.

“The new steward indeed!” said she, with a sniff; “a precious steward!—I have no use for fine gentlemen without money! What did you send him to us for?”

“I send him?” exclaimed the cobbler, in mild surprise. “Mademoiselle asked him to come to see her grandmother.”

Babet tossed her head. “’Twas all your fault,” she said emphatically. “I’ve nothing to say against M. d’Aguesseau himself, but what need have we for a steward? And what does he do at once, this fine gentleman?”

Charlot had seldom seen his friend so out of humor before, and he regarded her in amazement.

“What has he done?” he inquired.

“Fallen in love with Mademoiselle Rosaline,” retorted Babet, bluntly; “and what use is there in that? I tell you, Charlot, I am jealous for mademoiselle; I have no patience with these young fools—they all do it, from M. de Baudri down.”

The hunchback laid down the shoes, the pain in his patient eyes, and the lines deepening around his mouth.

“M. d’Aguesseau is a gentleman,” he said slowly. “I know who he is. Does—does mademoiselle—find him pleasing?”

This was too much for Babet; she drew a long breath and stared at the offender with eyes of scorn.

“Mademoiselle Rosaline!” she said; “Mademoiselle Rosaline pleased with him! Ciel! why, you fool, she must marry a duke or a prince. But what is the use of having a young gentleman hopelessly in love with her and willing to play at being steward to be near her?”

Charlot sighed; he was resting his chin on his hand and looking thoughtfully out into the court.

“I am sorry,” he said, “if it annoys mademoiselle.”

“Annoys her!” repeated the indignant woman. “If it did—but it doesn’t, bless her innocent heart; she does not even suspect it yet. But I see it plain enough. He’s a fine man too, and I might be sorry for him, but what business has he at St. Cyr?”

With this, Babet arose and adjusting her little white shawl on her broad shoulders, she smoothed the folds of her black petticoat, and giving Charlot some more arbitrary directions about her boots, stalked out. She crossed the court and trudged away toward the gate of Nîmes with a feeling of satisfaction. She had relieved her mind, and she believed that she had disarmed the hunchback’s suspicions. Babet knew that Charlot thought her a Huguenot, and she took many different ways of deceiving him. She thought now that she had given a reason for M. d’Aguesseau’s stay at St. Cyr. It was a truthful statement, but she had made it to excuse the presence there of a stranger. No one knew of her intentions; Babet always acted on her own impulses and she fancied herself a wise woman. Her jealousy for mademoiselle was so genuine that she did not have to feign her anger; no one was good enough for her darling.

She left the hunchback in a thoughtful mood. He did not immediately resume his work; he sat staring out at the door, but he saw nothing. A vision rose indeed before his mind of a tall, straight figure, a handsome, strong face, the voice and manners of a station far above his own in life. The little cobbler sighed painfully, his lips tightened, he felt as if some one had thrust a dagger in his heart.

He was still sitting there, staring into space, when a large figure darkened his doorway and a stout man wearing the habit of a priest entered his shop.

CHAPTER IX
CHARLOT BURNS A CANDLE

The priest’s stout figure seemed to fill Charlot’s little shop, and he stood with his hands crossed behind his back looking down placidly at the shoemaker. He had a round, rosy, face with a succession of double chins and a nose like a turnip, but his eyes were kindly and he was nearly always smiling. Père Ambroise was popular; hardly a parish priest in Nîmes was more welcome as a visitor, and none were less feared. Children ran after the amiable father, babies crowed for him, invalids were glad to hear his cheery voice. He was not intended as a persecutor or a martyr; he was round and the world was round, and both revolved comfortably in their own orbits. Père Ambroise was lazy, and, Mère de Dieu, these wretched Camisards were as fleet of foot as mountain goats! The good priest preferred a good dinner and a soft bed in Nîmes. It was a season of trouble for his brethren who were outside of the protection of the garrison towns, and Père Ambroise was sorry for them. Chayla had been slain at Pont-de-Montvert; the Curé of Frugères shot in a rye field; the Curé of St. André de Lancèze thrown from the highest window of his own belfry; others had suffered violent deaths, and Père Ambroise felt that Nîmes was the safest spot for his residence. He did not belong to the missionaries or the prophets, but he raised his hand against no man, and more than one sufferer secretly blessed the stout father as he ambled along the Esplanade, or stopped to chat with the children.

He wore his usual expression of placidity, a certain unctuous, well-fed air,—the cheerfulness that comes from a full stomach and the digestion of an ox. He looked down with mild compassion on the drawn face of the hunchback. He pitied Charlot, but with all his worldly wisdom he had not the least comprehension of him. The cobbler greeted him respectfully, rising from his stool at his entrance.

“Sit down—sit down,” said Père Ambroise, with good-humored remembrance of the hunchback’s weariness. “I only came to pay for my shoes.”

As he spoke he tried the back of a chair with his hand before trusting his weight upon it. Being satisfied with its strength, he sat down with a sigh of relief, and drawing out his purse slowly counted out the money and laid it on Charlot’s bench.

“How is the business, my son?” he asked, blandly; “you seem to be always occupied.”

“Yes,” replied the shoemaker; “thanks to the bon Dieu I am well occupied. All men must try to walk, and most men wear shoes.”

“When they can afford them,” supplemented Père Ambroise. “You have a better trade than some of your competitors. All goes well with you, then?”

“As well as usual, mon père,” the hunchback replied quietly, “I live and I eat.”

“That is more than some do in Languedoc,” rejoined the father, with his usual placid philosophy, folding his fat hands on his portly front and gazing mildly around the shop. “Is your room above rented?” he asked, after a moment’s pause.

Charlot looked up quickly, his face changing a little, and then he bent over his work again.

“It is empty,” he answered; “I found a lodger often troublesome.”

“Yet you had one some weeks since,” remarked the priest calmly, “or I have been misinformed.”

Charlot stirred uneasily. “I rented it for three days only, mon père,” he said.

“Ah, yes—for three days,” repeated Père Ambroise, twirling his thumbs and looking up at the ceiling; “and your lodger then became Madame de St. Cyr’s steward. How was this, my son?”

The shoemaker’s fingers were twitching the thread nervously.

“It was an accident, Père Ambroise,” he said. “Madame de St. Cyr knew his family and heard that he was here.”

“She knew his family?” repeated the priest again, his twinkling eyes travelling down from the ceiling to the drawn face before him. “From what part of France did he come?”

“From Dauphiné,” le Bossu retorted shortly.

“Humph!” ejaculated Père Ambroise, taking up a shoe from the bench and examining it critically. “From Dauphiné—and his name is—?”

Charlot laid down his work and looked the good father in the eye.

“You love the family at St Cyr, mon père?” he asked gravely.

Père Ambroise nodded his head in assent, smiling a little all the while and patting the shoe in his hands.

“Then I pray you to ask me no more questions,” the hunchback said.

“Ah!” ejaculated Père Ambroise, and there was much significance in his tone.

There was a long pause. Charlot took up his work, cutting away at the sole of a shoe, and his visitor sat quite still, his fat person spreading comfortably over the chair and settling into it, after the fashion of soft, fleshy bodies.

“You go often to St. Cyr,” he remarked at last; “do you know that M. Montrevel is determined to make a clean sweep of these Camisards—of all heretics, in fact; that he will cleanse Languedoc of this corruption?”

“’Tis the king’s will,” remarked le Bossu, with a sigh, “but there is much suffering.”

“‘If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,’” Père Ambroise retorted placidly; “heretics must suffer—fire here and hereafter.”

As he spoke, he rose deliberately and replaced his purse in his pocket.

“My son,” he said kindly, “take no more such lodgers—that is my advice, and you know that I am your friend.”

“I know it, mon père,” replied the shoemaker, respectfully accompanying the priest to the door.

The good father moved ponderously and at the threshold he paused a moment to look about the court, waving his hand to the two children who stood gaping at him. Then he bade Charlot farewell.

“Peace be to you, my son,” he said benignly, and passed slowly out into the Rue St. Antoine.

When he was gone Charlot put away his work and went back to the kitchen and set out his supper, some figs and black bread. He could not stitch, he could not meditate, he was troubled. He did not fear Père Ambroise, but he saw a cloud gathering over St. Cyr. He was a constant witness of cruelties to the Protestants, so common then that they scarcely made a ripple in the placid surface of every-day life. He saw the chain, the stake, the corpses of damned persons, and these things troubled him as they did not trouble other good Catholics. When the miserable appealed to him, his heart was touched with sympathy; he never mocked, he never refused a cup of water, as others did; he pitied because he too had suffered the world’s scorn. He could not think of these hideous things approaching Mademoiselle de St. Cyr; he would as soon have dreamed of casting an angel into hell; yet he began now to fear that the finger of Fate was moving slowly but surely in her direction. It sickened him; he sat down to eat, but the bread was as a stone between his teeth.

While he sat thus, looking at his frugal supper, he heard some one at the door of the shop, and went out to find Mère Tigrane. She grinned her hideous grin at him as he appeared. She had done a good business that day and her hands were empty and she jingled some coin in her pocket.

“I have sold all my fish, Petit Bossu,” she said, “and I’ve been to the château out there by St. Césaire. Dame! but mademoiselle has a white skin, whiter than the corpse we saw at the fair, and her cheeks are pink—but she’s a fury, mon chéri.”

Charlot frowned. “Is this all you have to say?” he asked sharply; “I am closing my shop.”

“Close it, my straight-back!” she replied, mocking him. “I stopped by to tell you that your lodger was out at St. Cyr,” she added, bursting into a hideous cackle of laughter at the sight of his angry face.

“You are a fool for your pains!” he retorted and slammed the door in her face.

“So ho!” she said, pointing her bony finger at the door; “you are out of temper, Petit Bossu, and I such a friend of yours too! The dog tears my petticoat and the hunchback slams the door in my face. Viens donc, Mère Tigrane; they treat you ill, but never mind, my rosebud, ’twill all be well yet for the good old woman and her dear little fish!”

And she took herself off, laughing and mumbling as she went.

Meanwhile, within the house, le Bossu left his supper untouched, and toiling up the ladder to his room, reverently lighted a taper before the shrine of the Virgin. He fell on his knees before it, and remained a long time, a deep shadow on his worn face, and his callous hands clasped and raised in an attitude of supplication.

At that moment the shadows were falling softly about the white walls of St. Cyr, and Rosaline stood looking out of the window of her own room, her face to the east, and singing softly, in all the joy of youth and innocence.

Ah, the contrast in the lives that touch each other so strangely in this world of ours!

CHAPTER X
A DANGEROUS SUIT

Madame de St. Cyr was leaning back in her chair, her white hands folded in her lap, her eyes fixed in an absent gaze on the space outside the sitting-room window. Opposite to her, leaning his elbow on the mantelpiece was the elegant figure of M. de Baudri. He was watching the old face before him, with indifferent eyes, a smile on his lips. She was ill at ease; he was well satisfied. He was the first to break the pause.

“I think madame will acknowledge that I am willing to do all that is liberal and kind,” he said suavely.

“I do acknowledge it, monsieur,” she replied, in troubled tones, “but the child—you know, M. de Baudri, that I have never treated Rosaline as other girls are treated. She is accustomed to deciding for herself, young as she is, and—she does not listen favorably to your suit.”

He waved his hand airily. “The whim of a child, madame, the natural coyness of a young maiden. I honor mademoiselle, for her hesitations, but between us there need be no such conventionalities. I desire to marry your granddaughter, and I flatter myself that you do not object, madame.”

He fixed his eyes on her haughtily as he spoke; there was a covert threat in his tone, despite his affable manner. The old woman sighed.

“’Tis hard for me to explain,” she said plaintively; “I can have no objections to you personally, M. de Baudri, but I am averse to doing anything to force Rosaline’s inclinations.”

He smiled scornfully. “Madame does not expect me to believe in so flimsy an excuse, surely?” he remarked with a frown. “I never heard that the whims of a mere girl controlled arrangements of this kind. My marriage with your granddaughter would benefit you in many ways. The de Baudris confer an honor when they marry.”

A red spot flamed in madame’s white cheeks; her situation had made a coward of her, but there was a limit even to her endurance.

“The St. Cyrs thank monsieur,” she said ironically, “but they also are of noble blood. No man could confer an honor on the daughter of the house; she will confer it, when she makes her choice. We are poor, M. de Baudri, but we ask favors of no one.”

He saw his error, and bowed low before the old dame, his hand on his heart.

“Mademoiselle is an angel,” he said; “if I did not recognize that, I would not, a second time, sue for her hand. I also am proud, madame.”

The old woman returned his bow, but was silent. She was hurt, angry, alarmed. She began to fear those handsome, bold eyes, and the smooth voice; after all, he was like a panther, ready to spring, and her beautiful darling, the idol of her old age was the object of his desire. But for that fearful danger, their concealed religion, she could have faced him well enough, but he had a mighty weapon in his hand, and she almost feared that he knew it. For herself, death would be no great hardship, but for Rosaline—she shuddered, pressing her handkerchief to her lips, and staring out of the window. Meanwhile M. de Baudri watched her narrowly; he knew far less than she thought, but he was fiercely in love with Rosaline, and such love as his was as dangerous as hate. The girl’s indifference enraged him; he would have her, and then—Mother of Heaven! he would teach her to scorn him, indeed! He would break her will and humble her into his slave. Madame de St. Cyr felt all this, vaguely, it is true, but still strongly enough to make her recoil from him. What could she do? she thought, a helpless old woman with all the world against her! Père Ambroise loved the child, it was true, but might not Père Ambroise favor an orthodox lover? M. de Baudri’s smooth voice broke in on her troubled thoughts, and demanded her attention again.

“You have advanced no reasonable objections to my suit, madame,” he said affably; “I shall therefore regard it as accepted by you, and only in abeyance on account of mademoiselle’s maidenly scruples.”

“But I have not accepted it,” she protested, greatly troubled; “I will not accept any offer for the child that—that does not give her happiness. Why should I desire to part with the jewel of my old age? You are naturally forgetful of my situation, monsieur; Rosaline’s marriage would leave me desolate.”

“Nay, madame,” he replied, not ungracefully, “you would but gain a son. If this is your only scruple—is it not a selfish one?”

Poor Madame de St. Cyr was fairly cornered. He saw it and laughed in his sleeve.

“You are very kind, M. de Baudri,” she faltered, “but after all it rests where it did. Rosaline must decide.”

He smiled. “Then, madame, you virtually acquiesce,” he said blandly; “for I trust that I can win so young and amiable a girl as mademoiselle—if you give me a fair opportunity.”

She shook her head, smiling faintly. “You have had opportunity, M. de Baudri,” she replied; “’tis not in my mind to influence her in any way. She must choose for herself.”

He was all smooth amiability now; he took his plumed hat from the table and stood a moment longer on the hearth-rug, the picture of ease and assurance,—his curled periwig, his lace cravat, his military coat, all of the latest mode.

“I will undertake to win mademoiselle’s consent,” he said. “Permit me, however, to remark that your ideas on the matter are—to say the least—unconventional. But no matter, ’twill be a little romance. There is one thing, though, I would say, madame, and that is, I notice with surprise that you keep that fellow as steward still. I spoke to you before.”

A faint flush rose on the old dame’s pale face and her eyes kindled. She was not yet accustomed to dictation.

“The man is useful to me,” she said shortly. “Monsieur forgets that he is not yet one of my family.”

De Baudri bit his lip, an ugly look in his blue eyes.

“I beg madame’s pardon,” he said, “but she probably remembers the cause of my protest; a grave one,—I believe the rogue may be a concealed Camisard.”

Madame de St. Cyr’s hands trembled, and she controlled herself with an effort.

“I think you are mistaken, M. de Baudri,” she protested; “he was well recommended, and I have seen nothing to indicate—that he was other than he claimed to be.”

“You can see that he is no steward by profession, though, madame,” retorted the officer, coolly, “and his presence may be dangerous at St. Cyr.”

“He has done his duty so far, monsieur,” she mustered courage to reply, “and I have no pretext for his discharge.”

De Baudri shrugged his shoulders.

“Madame should not need a second warning,” he remarked, with much suavity; “perhaps ’twould be well for me to investigate his antecedents and thus relieve madame of farther embarrassments.”

“I thank you, monsieur,” she said, with an effort to be calm, “I can see to the matter myself. I will refer it to Père Ambroise. If any one is anxious about our spiritual welfare, he should be.”

“Doubtless, madame,” M. de Baudri replied pleasantly, “but Père Ambroise is notoriously easy-tempered. I should advise you to be careful. You cannot afford to harbor a heretic here; a word to M. de Bâville—” He broke off, shrugging his shoulders.

Madame stirred uneasily in her chair. Every word that he had uttered had been a covert threat, and she knew well enough to what end it all tended. He loved Rosaline and he meant to have her. “Mon Dieu!” thought the old woman, “he would have the child even against her will! Can he be wicked enough to try to intimidate her,—to force her into a marriage?”

She awoke from these reflections to find him making his adieux.

“I have warned you, madame,” he said benignly. “Convey my devotion to mademoiselle—my regret that she is absent from home at this hour. I will soon present myself again; meanwhile, madame, rest assured of my faithful friendship.”

He bowed profoundly, his hand again on his heart, and retired, leaving the poor old woman collapsed in her chair; nor did she breathe freely until she heard his horse’s hoofs on the road to Nîmes.

Meanwhile a very different scene had been enacted in the kitchen. Babet was making a ragoût over the fire; the steward leaned against the window, posted there to watch for the visitor’s departure; the hunchbacked cobbler was by the door, and in the centre of the room stood mademoiselle herself, although she was supposed to be out,—mademoiselle in flesh and blood, and a picture to look at in her malicious triumph over her escape. She wore a white print frock, the neck open enough to show her full, fair throat, and the half-sleeves revealing her round, white arms. Her golden hair had half escaped from its braids and rippled about her rosy, dimpled face, and her blue eyes danced with merriment. It was her birthday, and M. de Baudri had brought a suitable gift, an enamelled casket, but she held in her hands two little white satin shoes with pink rosettes, and the shoemaker’s drawn face was lighted with a reflection of her pleasure.

“You are surely a magician, Charlot,” she said, admiring them for the twentieth time. “I know these are enchanted slippers, and in them I shall walk into the palace of my dreams, where there is no trouble, and Babet and I do not have to conjure a dinner!”

“Ah, mademoiselle, if I could but make such shoes!” exclaimed le Bossu, with a smile; “the poor cobbler of St. Antoine would be made a marquis.”

“’Tis better to give happiness than to be rich, Charlot,” she replied, “and you have given me so much pleasure to-day that I can even endure M. de Baudri’s visit in the parlor!” and she laughed gayly.

“If he hears you laugh, mademoiselle, he will stay to dinner,” remarked Babet grimly, looking over her shoulder as she stirred the stew.

“You have found a way to make me as still as a mouse, Babet,” Rosaline said. “Has he not gone yet, M. d’Aguesseau?”

François shook his head with a smile.

“As a suitor he has the patience of Jacob, mademoiselle,” he replied.

Rosaline made a little grimace and blushed, turning away from him with a gesture of impatience. The little hunchback, watching the two, read her mood more truly than she read it herself, and his new-born pleasure died out of his face.

“I shall wear these shoes to-night, Charlot,” she hastened to say, her back turned on the supposed steward. “They are fit for a ball, but I never go to balls, so I will wear them on my birthday as the greatest honor I can pay them.”

“Mademoiselle makes me happy by wearing them at all,” Charlot replied simply.

D’Aguesseau was now looking intently out of the window.

“M. de Baudri is mounting at the gate,” he announced. “Mademoiselle, you are no longer in prison.”

She would not look at him, but she beamed on the little cobbler.

“I will run and show my present to grand’mère,” she said.

Charlot followed her to the door.

“Mademoiselle, a word with you,” he said in a low voice.

She turned in surprise and then beckoned to him to follow her into the entry.

“What is it?” she asked, quickly, a little alarmed.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, quietly, “do not be needlessly afraid, but I would warn you against an old woman—a fishwife—”

“Ciel!” exclaimed Rosaline; “you mean that terrible creature who came here?”

“Yes,” he replied, “and she was angry because of her torn petticoat, I suppose. She is Mère Tigrane, a dangerous woman, a spying, mischief-making demon of the market. And—well, mademoiselle, she saw M. d’Aguesseau when I first saw him, she tracked him to my house, she tracked him here. I fear it may mean mischief; if he goes away it will be better for all.”

Rosaline was very pale; all the joy died out of her face; she pressed her hand involuntarily to her heart.

“I thank you, Charlot,” she said quietly. “If—if you hear anything—you will tell me?”

“Assuredly, mademoiselle,” replied the cobbler earnestly, “and—” he hesitated, and then went on firmly, “will you believe, mademoiselle, that in all cases—at all times—I am your humble but faithful servant?”

She looked at him kindly; his devotion touched her.

“Indeed, I have always believed it, Charlot,” she said heartily, and held out her hand.

The shoemaker took it with wonder. Her little soft hand in his! He had never dreamed of it; he had touched her feet, but her hand! Poor Charlot, he turned red to his temples and did not know what she said. And Rosaline left him and went on to her grandmother without a thought of her act of condescension. She was naturally gracious, and she did not despise the poor as did other young women of her rank. But the poor little shoemaker went back to Nîmes feeling that he had been translated; had he not touched the white hand of an angel of mercy?

CHAPTER XI
FRANÇOIS MAKES A PLEDGE

It was half an hour before moonrise and the night was supremely still. The warm air of midsummer stirred not even a leaf on the trees. There was no sound but the footsteps of three persons walking through a mulberry grove at a short distance from the spot where the highroad from Nîmes turned off to St. Hippolyte. Mademoiselle and Babet, escorted by M. d’Aguesseau, were making their way slowly back to St. Cyr. They had been—at the peril of their lives—to one of the night meetings of the Church of the Desert and were returning; cautiously avoiding observation all the while. Babet led them, her erect form moving deliberately forward; she never made a misstep, never hesitated, but held to her course in grim silence. She did not approve of their guest’s attentions to mademoiselle. D’Aguesseau had Rosaline’s hand and was guiding her, helping her over rough places, feeling the way where neither of them could see. They talked together at intervals, in low voices, and Babet’s ears moved, though she would have sworn that she scorned to listen; but she was guarding her ewe-lamb, and in spite of her convictions that mademoiselle must marry a prince, she began to be afraid of this resolute, quiet man.

They walked as rapidly as they could in the darkness, and leaving the trees behind turned sharply to the right across an arid plain that presented many rough and broken places, and where Rosaline required d’Aguesseau’s helping hand and his cautious guidance. Then they followed the dry bed of a stream, walking over stones and sand, always avoiding the highroad, but making their way steadily toward St. Cyr.

“It seems a long distance,” Rosaline said at last with a sigh.

“Long and dangerous for you,” François answered gently; “I would that we could have persuaded you to remain at home, mademoiselle.”

“Surely you would not have robbed me of such a consolation?” she said reproachfully.

“Nay,” he replied, in a low voice, “you know that I would do anything to serve you, but this was a terrible risk. MM. de Bâville and Montrevel are both watchful; both suspect that these religious meetings are held in the neighborhood, and at any time the troops may descend upon that old quarry; and there would be no quarter.”

“Yet we must serve God, monsieur,” Rosaline said, “even as Daniel did—in peril of the lion’s den; and as the prophet of Israel was delivered, surely the remnant of this people will be also delivered. Truly, monsieur, I would rather cast in my lot with these peasants, enfants de Dieu, than live as I do. But my grandmother is too old and too feeble for the wild life of the Cévenols, and so I go on—a Papist in Nîmes, a Protestant at heart.”

“You would join these people, mademoiselle, yet you have argued against me when I have proposed to go to the Cévennes.”

“You are under a pledge to go to England,” she returned promptly; “you have suffered enough. The time will come quickly for all of us, I suppose. I do not believe that this deception can go on. If the soldiers had found us to-night, I wonder if any of us would have escaped!”

“Mon Dieu!” he murmured softly, “how terrible it would have been. The sentinels told me that there were two hundred and fifty women and children there, besides the men who came with Cavalier.”

“It would have been death,” she said dreamily; “we can die but once, monsieur.”

“You would not have died,” he answered sternly, “while I had a life to give for yours.”

She was silent, but he felt her hand quiver in his. He could not see her face, nor could she see his, but each felt the other’s deep emotion. They walked on, treading carefully; they were skirting the edge of a field of rye on the border of the village of St. Césaire, but they had yet to cross a rocky elevation before they could reach the château. To the left, the lights of the hamlet twinkled like fallen stars, and they heard the dogs baying in the distance.

Meanwhile the sky, which had been so dark, became softly luminous, a whiteness spread over it, the stars paled. At the horizon, the mountains were sharply outlined, black against the growing light, while the earth lay in darkness. Rosaline and her companions began to ascend a steep path, and as they reached the top of the slope the moon rose glorious and a flood of white light poured a searching radiance over the scene. The white rocks cast black shadows, and the sandy soil beneath their feet seemed as white as chalk, while above them a solitary cedar stretched its branches, dark and feathery, against a luminous background. Over there were the spires and turrets of Nîmes, below them the cottage roofs of St. Césaire, around them a wild and barren country, suddenly whitened by the moon.

“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed Babet, harshly, “’tis a white night—white as a winding-sheet! ’Tis ill luck, mademoiselle; let us hurry—a dog is baying at the moon.”

Rosaline’s mood changed, and for the first time that night she laughed naturally and sweetly.

“You foolish Babet!” she said, “it is a glorious night, and you have been to prayers. Where is your courage?”

Babet shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve courage enough, mademoiselle,” she said, “but I do not love to thrust my head into the lion’s mouth.”

With this remark she went on again, leaving the others to follow. To Babet there were many things more important than a fine scene by moonlight, and she did not approve of the slow progress made by her mistress and her escort.

“A faithful servant,” remarked Rosaline, following her with her eyes. “She was my nurse when I was a baby, and she treats me as a child. Doubtless, monsieur, you think that we lead a strange life at St. Cyr. I fancy it is very different from the lives of other women of our rank, but what else can we do? We are poor, and we are glad of our humble friend Babet; indeed, I think that she and the little cobbler, Charlot, are our most devoted allies. After all, I imagine that grand’mère and I would be very unhappy if we were surrounded with state, and had all our sweet liberty restricted. Were you ever at Versailles, monsieur?”

“But once,” he said quietly. “I went to try to see the king. I wanted to petition him for my innocent sister’s liberty—that I might take her place.”

“Forgive me!” Rosaline exclaimed; “I did not think of the pain I should give. Tell me,” she went on hurriedly, “have you ever seen Cavalier or Roland? To-night, in the darkness, I wanted to see him; ’tis true that they lighted the torches about him, but in that wild illumination I made out nothing except that he appeared a boy. But he did not speak like one!”

“He looked very young,” François replied; “but there is a certain force about him. I never saw him before, but I shall not soon forget him, or the poor, crazed girl.”

“Did you think her demented?” asked Rosaline. “To me she seemed inspired, and surely she preached a wonderful sermon; still, as you say, she spoke wildly.”

“I thought her demented,” he rejoined quietly; “there are so many of these young girls prophesying. It seems to me that it is more the result of suffering, of the horrible spectacles they have witnessed, than a touch of sacred inspiration.”

“It may be so,” she admitted, reluctantly, “but surely such times as these might well produce prophets and soothsayers.”

They were in sight of the château now and saw the light burning in Madame de St. Cyr’s room. She was too feeble to go out on such perilous expeditions and had remained behind in fear and trembling, praying for their safe return. When Babet opened the wicket-gate they were greeted by Truffe’s warning bark, and she was at the door to greet them with noisy joy. Rosaline and M. d’Aguesseau went to Madame de St. Cyr to tell her of the congregation, and Babet retired to her own domain to meditate in solitude on mademoiselle and their visitor.

Rosaline recounted their visit to the quarry where the Camisards met, and old madame listened with eagerness, her pale face unusually animated. She wanted to hear everything, Cavalier’s speech, the sermon of the young girl,—one of the prophets of the Cévenols,—the prayer offered by one of the ministers, the psalms they sang. But she shook her head when she heard that Cavalier had sent word to M. Montrevel that for every Protestant village that the maréchal destroyed, he, Cavalier, would destroy two Papist villages.

“’Twill be useless,” she said quietly; “the king will pour his soldiers upon us, and Languedoc will be laid waste; we cannot prevail against such power. My husband always said so, and my son. They used to say that if the Edict of Nantes should be revoked, the Protestants would soon be destroyed. It will be so—I have felt it from the first.”

“Ah, grand’mère, you are not hopeful enough,” Rosaline said; “see what these two men—Cavalier and Roland—have already accomplished. Let us hope that England will help us.”

Madame shook her head. “The world is selfish,” she said quietly; then she glanced at the clock. “Rosaline, call Babet,” she said; “’tis the hour for our devotions.”

The housekeeper was summoned, while François looked carefully at the windows and saw that all the shutters were fastened. Then the little company joined in evening prayer, Madame de St. Cyr reading a chapter from the Bible. They did not sing; not even in that secluded spot did they dare to give voice to one of Marot’s psalms, for they did not know what ear might be listening in the night. When it was over the grandmother bade Rosaline good-night and sent her away with Babet, but she detained d’Aguesseau. When they were alone she turned to him with a sad face.

“I fear that trouble is brewing, monsieur,” she said quietly; “the very presence of Cavalier near Nîmes increases our perils, and there too are the Florentines,—the White Camisards, as they call themselves,—ruffians, in fact, banded together to hunt us down. I see nothing but danger and death on every side. For myself, I no longer fear,” she added with sorrowful dignity; “I know that I have but a little while to live, and I would die right cheerfully for my religion, but Rosaline—mon Dieu!” she clasped her hands and looked up.

“Madame, if I can protect her—” began François.

“That is what I would pray for, monsieur,” she said. “If I am taken, will you aid Babet to get her out of France?”

“I would give my life for hers!” he answered gravely.

The old woman looked up at his resolute face, at the light in his eyes, and bowed her own face in her hands.

“Madame de St. Cyr,” he said quietly, “I do solemnly pledge myself to defend her—to take her away to a place of safety—to fight for her as long as I live myself.”

She looked up through her tears.

“I thank the bon Dieu!” she said. “To-day men are like wolves toward our lambs. You see how gentle, how innocent the child is.”

She held out her thin, white hand and he took it, and pressed it to his lips.

“Forgive me,” he said gently, “I love her.”

The old face quivered and flushed a little, but she was touched.

“I know not how the child may feel,” she said simply, “but I knew your family, and—I am content that it should be so. Heaven may have sent you to be her defender, for I do greatly fear that the hour of danger draws nigh.”

CHAPTER XII
THE FINGER OF FATE

The months of the terrible summer of 1703 waned, and autumn came. Fire and sword had laid waste in Languedoc. It had been a reign of terror. The chieftains of the Camisards sweeping down from the Cévennes carried the war almost to the sea; priests were slain, Catholic villages burned. On the other side, the king’s soldiers poured into the devoted country, and the Huguenots were hunted far and wide. The galleys at Marseilles were crowded, the jails were packed, the gallows in constant use; the women and children were sent to convents and prisons, and the desolate country threatened famine, with no man to till the soil, and no woman to bind the sheaves. Still it went on, that cruel war for religion’s sake, and the blood of the innocent was poured out as a libation.

Nîmes was thronged with soldiers, the markets were crowded, the busy life choked the marts, but the open country was stricken; even the valley of the Vaunage—“the little Canaan” of Languedoc—had suffered. In the court of the Rue St. Antoine, the little cobbler mended the shoes of the soldiers, and out at St. Cyr only one or two late roses were blooming, and the bees had stored their honey for winter. The every-day life went on; the steward was still there, chained by invisible links now; he scarcely thought of leaving France, and he knew that he might be needed, for Madame de St. Cyr was failing fast. She had had an attack of heart disease, and sat in her chair all day, without strength to take her accustomed part in affairs. M. de Baudri still came, a persistent and undaunted suitor, and Père Ambroise made his regular visits, walking in the garden with Rosaline, and discoursing on the perils of heresy, but closing his eyes to suspicious circumstances. He always walked with his hands behind him, his large black figure seeming to absorb a good deal of the sunlight, and a smile on his round, rosy face. What was the use, after all, of making that poor old woman wretched? he argued comfortably, and he did not force religious consolation upon Madame de St. Cyr. He was willing to let the heretic burn in the next world, and she blessed him in her heart every time she looked out at him as he ambled through the maze of hedges.

There had been a season of quiet, a brief interval in the clash of war, and the family at St. Cyr breathed more freely. Fear and suspicion seemed dormant, and Rosaline’s laugh came more readily, except when she saw how feeble her grandmother looked.

It was the last of October, and the three, Madame de St. Cyr, her granddaughter, and François d’Aguesseau had just finished the midday meal. It was a golden day, almost as warm as summer, and a monthly rose swung its blossoms over the window-sill. M. d’Aguesseau had been fortunate enough to secure a communication with his friends in England, and had received a remittance which enabled him to pay his debts and to provide for the future. But he said nothing of a change, for he saw that Madame de St. Cyr was unable to travel, and he would not quit Languedoc while Rosaline was surrounded with so many dangers. They were talking of every-day matters, of the approach of winter, of the chances for the success of the insurrection, when they were startled by the tramping of a body of horse in the road, and the sharp call of a bugle. Madame’s face paled and Rosaline and d’Aguesseau sprang to their feet. She ran ahead of him out at the door and down the path to an opening in the hedge which afforded a view of the highway.

“’Tis M. de Baudri at the head of his dragoons!” she exclaimed, shading her eyes with her hand and looking out.

A company of dragoons were filing along the road, the even gait of the cavalry horses keeping the whole line swinging on to the sound of the bugle. The gay uniforms were soiled and there were powder stains, and in the centre of the troop were six prisoners,—grim-looking men, in the garb of peasants with the blouse of the Camisards, and bound, their arms tied behind their backs and their feet tied under the bellies of their horses. At the sight of them Rosaline drew back with a shudder, but it was too late; M. de Baudri had seen her and drew rein, saluting her with unruffled composure. As he paused, the cavalcade halted opposite the gate, bringing the prisoners in full view of the château. They did not look to the right or left, however, but stared grimly before them. Of the six, five were wounded, and the blood flowed from an unbandaged wound on one man’s head. Faint from the loss of it, he reeled in his saddle, but uttered no complaint. Meanwhile M. de Baudri sat erect on his spirited horse, his head uncovered, his rich uniform spotless, and his periwig freshly curled. He looked smilingly into Rosaline’s pale face.

“A fair good morning, my Rose of Languedoc,” he said gallantly, speaking too low for the ears of his dragoons; “I count it fortunate when even my duty takes me past your door.”

She curtsied, her blue eyes looking straight before her and her lips firmly closed. She was controlling herself with a mighty effort.

“Monsieur has surely unpleasant duties,” she said formally.

“The gayest in the world,” he replied with a careless laugh. “We have cleaned out a cave full of Barbets this morning, and hung the leader because he had the boldness to be shot in action. We swung his dead body on a chestnut-tree—it hangs there with the burrs ready to ripen. Nom de St. Denis!” he added, with a glance at his prisoners, “these fellows would have been lucky to hang there too!”

Rosaline could endure no more.

“Mon Dieu!” she cried, “are you human? Can you see that poor man bleed to death?”

De Baudri turned in his saddle and stared indifferently at the sufferer.

“A heretic, mademoiselle,” he remarked, with a gesture of disdain; “what would you?”

“I would bind his wounds!” she retorted, taking a step nearer the gate; but the sight had sickened her, the scene swam before her eyes, she reeled, and would have fallen but for François, who had been standing a few yards behind her, and who now sprang forward and caught her in his arms.

“Why do you exhibit such cruelties to her?” he demanded sharply, looking over her head into de Baudri’s eyes.

The latter had made a motion as if to spring from the saddle at the sight of Rosaline’s white face, but now he straightened himself and returned the other’s look with disdain.

“So!” he said with a sneer, “the menial turns into a champion. Mère de Dieu, Sir Camisard, we will be pleased to accommodate you in Nîmes.”

“You may sometime have that pleasure, M. de Baudri,” d’Aguesseau replied, coldly, and lifting Rosaline’s unconscious form in his arms, he carried her back into the house.

The soldier remained a moment staring after them, his blue eyes on fire, then he recollected where he was and gave an order. The bugle sounded “Forward!” and the troop disappeared along the highroad to Nîmes, leaving a cloud of dust in its track.

Meanwhile d’Aguesseau, fearing to alarm Madame de St. Cyr, carried Rosaline into the hall and summoned Babet. But the girl began to recover without any ministrations, and sat up on the high settle by the door, the soft air reviving her; but her joyous mood was gone, she looked out into the garden with unseeing eyes.

“Alas!” she said faintly, “I have been happy—and all this misery at my door! I live a lie secure, and these martyrs die for their religion. What a poor creature I am!”

Babet stood looking at her with a grim face; d’Aguesseau was silent, his own conscience accusing him.

“It will not last,” Rosaline went on slowly, “I feel that trouble is coming to us! What right have we to stand by and see it all and rejoice in our false security. Ah, mon Dieu, that poor man!”

“It’s no use to seek trouble, mademoiselle,” Babet remarked, “it’ll find us fast enough. I hear it grumbling like the thunder in the Cévennes mountains. As for that poor man, never you mind; Cavalier will catch some fat old curé for him!”

Retaliation was a salve to Babet’s moods; she was no saint and had no longing to be a martyr. Rosaline shook her head.

“It must end,” she said, rising. “I will go to my grandmother. You may cut the flowers to-day, Babet.”

She passed d’Aguesseau without a word; her emotion seemed to have separated her from him, and all that day she was sad and preoccupied.

As for François d’Aguesseau, he went out through the garden and passing the mulberry trees, descended a steep slope to the banks of a stream which flowed behind St. Cyr. Following this, he passed through a little forest of chestnut trees, heavily laden with green burrs, and came at last to a deserted windmill. The tower was white and solid, and the wheel still surmounted it though broken in several places, but the mill had long been unused. The door stood open—on rusty hinges—and a heap of straw lay in one corner, doubtless the resting-place of many a vagrant in those evil times. On the threshold d’Aguesseau sat down, facing the stream and the mossy slope. It was a favorite resort of his, because of its solitude and stillness. Here many a battle of the heart had been fought out, and here he came now to face another crisis. He sat there a long while, and it was very quiet. Now and then a chestnut burr fell with a soft thud in the little grove behind him; a squirrel came to the edge of the bank and then leaped away; a fish jumped out of the water and then plunged down again. Presently the breeze freshened, the old windmill creaked as it turned a little, and the leaves rustled softly. At last the sun sank lower in the west and sent long rays of light through the trees, and the clouds overhead grew rosy.

François rose and walked toward the château; he was resolved to live thus no longer. His presence was now more of a menace than a protection to the women there. He had read the look in M. de Baudri’s eyes, and he knew that he might expect the worst that a relentless enemy could do. But it was not that; Rosaline’s words had struck home. He too had been living a lie in security; he too felt himself a miserable coward before the self-devotion of these poor peasants and wool-carders. He must draw his sword for this forlorn hope; he must leave St. Cyr—ah, there was the pang! Could he protect her at a distance? Could he watch over her welfare while he fought with the Camisards? That was the chain that had held him, and now even that must be broken.

CHAPTER XIII
THE BATTLE HYMN

That night, when the shutters were closed and the doors secured, the family sat in an upper room. Babet had come in to hear the Bible read by Madame de St. Cyr, and they were all grouped about the table where the candles were burning. The old woman was reading in a low voice, with many pauses, and the faces around her were grave and even sad as they listened. Suddenly the dog sprang up from her place at Rosaline’s feet and began to bark, and the reading ceased.

“What is it? I hear something!” exclaimed the young girl, trying to silence Truffe.

Babet was listening intently.

“I hear the sound of many feet,” she said.

D’Aguesseau rose and went to the window and, unfastening the shutter, looked out. The moon was struggling to shine through drifting clouds; one moment the world was lighted, the next it lay in darkness. In one of these intervals of illumination he saw the scene without plainly enough. The garden lay below the window, and beyond was a view of the highroad, the sloping plain, and farther off the village of St. Césaire. He could hear the sound of marching men, and as he looked they came in sight on the road, filing slowly past the château, line after line, their weapons gleaming in the moonshine. He watched them curiously; these were not the dragoons,—he could distinguish the rough and ragged appearance of the men even from a distance. He closed the shutter and turned toward the women with a flush on his face; his opportunity was at hand.

“They are passing the château,” he said, in a reassuring tone, “I will go out and ascertain who they are. I think I cannot be mistaken in them.”

Rosaline’s blue eyes kindled.

“Are they Camisards?” she demanded.

“I think so,” he replied as he left the room.

The next moment they heard him go out, and Rosaline went to the window to watch. Madame de St. Cyr’s face was very pale.

“They may be Florentines,” she said, “and if so—we shall scarcely escape them.”

“They have halted,” her granddaughter replied from the window. “The clouds have drifted wide apart now and the night is as white as that night which frightened you, Babet. M. d’Aguesseau has gone out to them.”

“The bon Dieu defend us!” murmured madame; “the times are very evil;” and she fell to praying silently.

Babet was kneeling on the floor, with Truffe’s head smothered in her apron to hush the dog’s bark. Rosaline leaned against the window frame looking out, the moonlight outlining her slender figure.

“M. d’Aguesseau talks with one of them,” she said. “Ciel! how ghastly their faces look in this light—like chalk—and I see everywhere the flash of steel.”

“Can you make out who they are?” asked her grandmother, in a tremulous voice.

“Nay,” she replied, “but M. d’Aguesseau is friendly with them,—I can see that; he has shaken hands with one who seems to be a leader.”

“It is well,” said madame, in a tone of relief; “they must be of our people.”

The night was very still and the three women listened, but they did not distinguish the words that were spoken, though they heard the voices.

“Does M. d’Aguesseau still speak with them?” the old woman asked.

“He is coming back alone,” Rosaline replied in a low tone; and she did not leave her post when she heard him coming up the stairs.

He entered the room quietly, though he had his sword in his hand.

“Madame,” he said, “I came back to reassure you. These men are Camisards, led by Cavalier himself, and they are on their way to cut off a train of ammunition that is leaving Nîmes for St. Hippolyte. There will be a fight, but not very near here, I trust, and I believe you will be in safety. For myself, madame, I go with them.”

The old woman clasped her hands and leaned back in her chair.

“Alas!” she said, “I sent out my two soldiers to die for their king, and I cannot bid you stay, since you go to fight in the cause of the King of kings, but I grieve to part with you thus.”

He took her hand and kissed it.

“Madame,” he said, “you have been as good to me as a mother, in my extremity, and I will not forget your kindness. May God give me the opportunity to requite it. I must strike a good blow in the cause of my brethren, but I shall not forget my duty to you—and yours.”

Tears fell on her white cheeks, and she gave him her blessing.

Leaving her, he walked over to the window where the young girl had remained motionless as a statue, her face set toward the scene without.

“Mademoiselle,” he said very low, “I bid you adieu. I know that you have thought me lacking in the spirit to fight—but believe me, it was not cowardice that held me at St. Cyr.”

She looked up at him, her blue eyes clear and fearless.

“The cause is sacred,” she said. “I—I am glad that—”

She broke off, and he filled up the sentence.

“Glad that I have the courage to go,” he said coldly.

“I never doubted that,” she replied gravely; “but oh, monsieur, if I could be a man, I would fight—I can understand how you feel—the bon Dieu defend you!”

He looked at her a moment sadly, and seemed to hesitate; then he turned and went quietly away, leaving her standing there tongue-tied, her eyes suddenly filled with hot tears. What had she done? she thought, as he went down and out into the night. What had she done?

Her grandmother’s voice roused her.

“Has he gone to them?” she asked anxiously.

“Yes,” Rosaline replied, “and they are forming in columns again,—they are going to march on.”

There was a pause; the women could hear that there were some orders given and then it was strangely quiet, the men standing like statues in the road. The clouds drifted over the moon and darkness enveloped the scene again, and out of that still night arose the murmur of many voices, a volume of sound, throbbing and gaining strength and sweetness and solemnity.

“Hush!” said Rosaline, raising her hand, “the Sixty-eighth Psalm—the battle hymn.”

Full and strong it rose, every word poured out from the hearts of those stern men, and in that lonely spot, in the darkness, the sound was profoundly solemn. Softly at first, and then sweetly and fearlessly, Rosaline joined them, her rich young voice floating out to mingle with the song of the soldiers.

“Que Dieu se montre seulement
Et l’on verra dans un moment
Abandonner la place;
Le camp des ennemis épars,
Épouvanté de toutes parts,
Fuira devant sa face.

“On verra tout ce camp s’enfuir,
Comme l’on voit s’évanouir
Une épaisse fumée;
Comme la cire fond au feu,
Ainsi des méchants devant Dieu,
La force est consumée.

“L’Éternel est notre recours;
Nous obtenons par son secours,
Plus d’une délivrance.
C’est Lui qui fut notre support,
Et qui tient les clefs de la mort,
Lui seul en sa puissance.

“À nous défendre toujours prompt,
Il frappe le superbe front
De la troupe ennemie;
On verra tomber sous ses coups
Ceux qui provoquent son courroux
Par leur méchante vie.”

The last verses grew softer as they marched away, and the singing died at last in the distance.

Rosaline remained at her post, straining her eyes to search the darkness, and Babet, releasing Truffe, came and stood beside her. They could see the distant lights of St. Césaire, and this window in the daytime commanded a view of the road that led in the direction of St. Hippolyte. It was an hour of suspense, and none of the women thought of sleep. Old Madame de St. Cyr lay back in her chair, engaged in silent devotion, and the others watched and watched with tireless eagerness. The very stillness was oppressive, and the darkness now was like a pall, close over the earth.

“Ciel!” said Babet, “how quiet it is!—and black as soot. I wonder how many men he had?”

“There seemed to be an army,” replied Rosaline, “but I suppose it could not be that he had more than a thousand men, perhaps not so many, and Nîmes is a hive of soldiers!”

“Bah!” ejaculated the other woman, grimly, “Cavalier can whip them—he’ll have M. Montrevel’s periwig yet.”

Rosaline did not reply, her mind was elsewhere; she was thinking of that dangerous march into the enemy’s country, of the fight that must ensue.

Suddenly there was a distant sound—the fire of musketry—the first clash of battle, borne to them on the night air, and at the same moment they saw the lights flashing red in St. Césaire.

“They have met the enemy!” Rosaline exclaimed, straining her eyes and ears and leaning out of the window.

They could hear firing quite plainly now; and presently far off they saw a blaze kindled, and then the flames leaped up into the night, like fiery swords cutting the blackness in twain.

“They have set fire to the old château over there,” Rosaline said.

Madame de St. Cyr turned in her chair.

“Tell me what you see,” she exclaimed eagerly.

“Fire, grand’mère, leaping up in the night, and I hear the guns,” Rosaline replied, “and now—see, see, Babet!—there are black figures outlined against the flames! Ah, Dieu, they fight!—’tis a part of the battle—oh, if I could but see it plainly!”

The rattle of small arms came to them, and now the boom of heavier guns.

“They have brought artillery from Nîmes,” said Rosaline, in a low voice. “Ah, see, Babet, another house has caught! ’Tis the village in the highroad yonder; how it burns! The night is gaping as though we looked into a fiery furnace. Oh, mon Dieu, what a fearful sight it is! There! something exploded—see the timbers flying—some one perished when they fell.”

She leaned from the window and gazed at the wild night with a throbbing heart.

“Can you not see, Babet?” she cried. “I do—they fight there in the firelight—see their black figures—hush! there is a heavy gun.”

“My eyes are old,” Babet replied; “to me ’tis the mouth of the infernal regions—no more.”

Another pause while madame prayed softly.

“How goes it?” she asked again.

“I cannot tell—I cannot tell!” cried Rosaline, “but the fire has consumed the houses, I think. It seems to sink now, and I cannot see so well.”

Again they watched in silence; but now the firing seemed to grow more distant, and finally they heard it no more, though the flames still made the night as red as blood. An hour passed—two—and they watched, and could see no more, and could only divine the cause of the silence.

“Cavalier must have been driven back,” madame said, “else the fighting would have lasted longer. May the bon Dieu guard our poor fellows!”

Again there was stillness, and the clock struck four, the clear little bell startling them. Rosaline closed the shutter softly; her face was as white as snow.

“’Tis over,” she said; “the flames have died away, darkness is there again, and silence—and death!”

CHAPTER XIV
“AND ALL FOR LOVE”

The day dawned calm, after the night of suspense; the October sky was full of light clouds, and there was a chill in the air, the first suggestion of winter, and the birds twittered in the ivy that clung below Rosaline’s window. The daylight found no roses in her cheeks, but rather a new consciousness of pain in her blue eyes. From an almost childlike innocence and calm, her heart had been awakened; life in its fulness had come upon her, and with it the sense of insecurity. All that she cared for was threatened with terrible dangers; her own every-day life might pass like a dream and she might find herself shut in by grim prison walls. They were not of the “king’s religion,” and imprisonment, banishment, death awaited them.

She looked out over the tranquil scene with an anxious heart. What had happened yonder in that murky night? Who had fallen? She could see soldiers on the distant highroad, and now and then a train of wagons moving slowly in the direction of the St. Hippolyte road, but these things told her no more than the flames of the night before. Cavalier had been repulsed, no doubt, but how many had fallen? She could not tell, and her heart throbbed and her hands trembled as she busied herself with the morning tasks. She and her grandmother sat down as usual to breakfast, but she could not eat; she quietly fed Truffe with her meal. Madame de St. Cyr herself scarcely touched anything, and Babet removed the dishes with a gloomy face. There was no conversation, there could not be while the terror of the night was upon them, and d’Aguesseau’s vacant chair seemed to mock them.

Once during the day Madame de St. Cyr let her knitting fall in her lap and looked at Rosaline with tears in her eyes.

“Alas!” she said quietly, “I fear I shall never see him again—and he was a brave man. But for me he would have gone long ago.”

Her granddaughter looked at her strangely. “Did you urge him to stay here?” she asked.

“I prayed him to be near us,” the old woman replied. “I felt that I might go, and there would be no one to help you. Père Ambroise would be all on M. de Baudri’s side.”

“And you told M. d’Aguesseau that?” exclaimed Rosaline, her face flushing.

“Something like it, yes,” Madame de St. Cyr rejoined sadly; “but the call came and he obeyed it. May the bon Dieu protect him and us.”

Rosaline made no reply, but went out of the room and up the stairs to her own, where she knelt in the window recess, her head on her arms. This, then, was the key to all that she had not understood. He had stayed to protect them, to serve them, and but for that might perhaps have been in England, and her grandmother had demanded this return for her friendship. Rosaline’s face burned; she did not look up, even when Truffe came in search of her and thrust her head into her mistress’s lap.

Presently, however, she heard a horse stop at the gate, and peeping cautiously through her screen of ivy, saw M. de Baudri, resplendent in gold lace, coming up to the house. An ill-enough omen at such a time, she thought, and remained at her post, refusing to go down when Babet was sent for her. She heard his voice, smooth and pleasant, in the room below, and after a while she saw him go away again, sitting very erect in his saddle, the picture of a soldier. After his departure she found Madame de St. Cyr sad and nervous. He had told her of the skirmish with Cavalier, speaking of the affair with contempt. The dragoons had beaten off the Camisards, killed twenty and taken sixteen wounded prisoners. He had come to press his suit again and to covertly threaten Madame de St. Cyr. The old woman did not tell all to Rosaline; she dared not. But the girl read much in the anxious eyes that followed her as she moved about, waiting on her grandmother, for she had sent Babet to Nîmes, to learn from Charlot, if possible, the names of the prisoners, the list of the dead. It would be an infinitely difficult task to learn this without suspicion; but if any one could help them, the little cobbler could, and he was known to be of the king’s religion.

Never did a day drag more wearily, but at last the sun descended toward the west, the shadows lengthened, and Rosaline’s doves came cooing to their rest. Babet had not returned yet from Nîmes. Madame de St. Cyr had her supper, served by her granddaughter, and then Rosaline went out with Truffe. She walked slowly through the garden, where the autumn had already laid its fingers, and then she passed out into the grove of mulberry trees, where the path led to the old windmill. The sun had set, and the clouds were red and purple overhead, and between them were great rifts of pale blue. The mulberry leaves rustled softly; but save for that it was still. The air was chill, and the openings between the trees made broad avenues of light and shade.

Rosaline had walked but a little way, when the dog sprang forward with a quick, short bark of welcome, and she saw a man coming toward her. At the sight of his face she stood still, her own turning from white to red. A moment ago she had thought of him as perhaps lying in some loathsome dungeon in Nîmes, or dead, and this sudden meeting took away her self-control; she was trembling when he came up. Looking at her, he read more in her eyes than he had dared to hope for.

“I have come to assure myself of your safety, mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “and then to go away again.”

“Babet is in Nîmes now, monsieur, trying to find out the names of the prisoners,” Rosaline replied. “We did not know what had happened and we feared the worst.”

“It was a short, sharp battle,” he said. “We took some ammunition, but they brought up reinforcements from Nîmes and we were forced to fall back. Cavalier is a soldier, indeed.”

“M. de Baudri was at the château,” she rejoined. “He told us of the dead and the prisoners, and my grandmother could not rest until she knew.”

There was a pause, and he watched her face.

“And you, mademoiselle?” he asked gravely.

Her eyes sought the ground.

“I also was anxious, monsieur,” she said with an effort.

“Yet last night you wished me to go,” he remarked, unmercifully.

She turned toward him with a grave face.

“I did not know until to-day, monsieur,” she said, “that my grandmother had asked you to stay with us to protect us—’twas more than she had a right to ask.”

“Not more than she had a right to ask,” he replied, “but I remained for another reason—can you not divine it, mademoiselle?”

The blue eyes avoided his, and the color came back into her cheeks.

“I have no right perhaps to tell you now, when the future looks so dark,” he said, “and I have felt that you were displeased at my inactivity. Yet—last night—when I was facing death I longed to speak—to tell you all that was in my heart—even if you were indifferent. Love cannot always be silent—God forgive me if I break in upon your innocent peace with my life and its passions and regrets. The world was desolate when I saw you—I had lost all—and then I looked out of my darkness and saw your face. I cannot but speak—we must part now and I must know if you care—ever so little. Dieu! how black the world was when I saw this tall, white lily! You told me last night that you were glad to have me go—I am a fool, no woman ever said that to the man she loved.”

He paused, and the leaves rustled overhead. Her face was averted and he could not see her eyes.

“Forgive me,” he said hoarsely; “I did not mean to speak—but one cannot always smother the heart’s utterances! You are so young, so beautiful, so innocent—forgive me, and let me serve you still.”

She turned and looked at him, but he could not read her eyes.

“You do not understand,” she replied softly. “I wanted you to go because—”

“You thought me a coward,” he exclaimed harshly.

“Nay, monsieur,” she said, “I wanted you to go because a woman wants the man she—she loves to be a hero—”

He caught her hands, looking eagerly into her face.

“Is it possible?” he cried.

She smiled through her tears.

“I wanted you to be a hero,” she answered, “and when you went I thought—my heart would break!”

Her fair head was on his shoulder now, and he kissed her, the perils of their lives forgotten, all the world changed in an instant and only Love triumphant. After a while he broke the silence.

“Are you happy?” he asked her softly, holding her a little away from him that he might see her face.

She smiled radiantly, but did not answer, and he went on, questioning her that he might have a fresh assurance of her affection.

“You want me to go and you do not,” he said; “what am I to think?”

“Yes, I wanted you to go,” she replied, a flush on her face. “I could not bear to have you seem less brave or daring than other men—or to lack zeal for your religion—and then you went! And—and I cannot bear to have you go to face danger—even death itself!”

“Oh, thou perfect woman!” he exclaimed, smiling; “I must be a true knight and yet you would not have me in danger.”

She smiled, turning her face aside.

“Yes—yes, ’tis that,” she answered very low. “I want you to be the bravest of the brave, and yet—oh, mon Dieu, I cannot bear to see you in any danger!”

He held her to his heart again with many caresses.

“What can I do?” he asked. “I cannot be both,—your constant attendant and a soldier in the field. Ah, Rosaline, love is king—not even the perils of battle can defeat him. I can love you and fight too, but I cannot flee from danger for your sweet sake.”

“And I could not bear to see you flee,” she said, “and yet my heart was torn when I knew that you were in the midst of that fight in the darkness.”

“Take comfort, my dearest,” he said softly, “let us forget the perils and think only of each other. Ah, my darling, I little thought, when I was in the cobbler’s upper room so downcast, that the light of my life would shine in upon me there. I loved you from the first moment that I saw you.”

“Did you?” she cried with shining eyes, “oh, tell me—tell me how it was!”

And he told her, Love’s language being eloquent to such ears, as it has been always, as it will be while the round world moves.

Then they walked on, hand in hand, through the trees, the soft moss beneath their feet, the pale October sky overhead, and only the murmur of the leaves. They came presently to the old mill, and went down to the edge of the stream, and then he asked her again the question that was first in his thoughts,—

“Are you happy, sweetheart, tell me?”

“Ah, François,” she answered, “we are too happy—’tis that—I am afraid!”

“Of what, dear heart?” he asked gently, “surely, not that our love can die?”

“Not that,” she replied, “not that! I have been light of heart, careless as a child. I never was afraid before, but now—oh, François, if you were taken from me it would kill me.”

He clasped her close, laying his cheek against her soft one.

“But that could not be,” he said soothingly; “not even death could part us save for a little while, my heart, for our souls are immortal—and they are one.”

She clung to him, her eyes full of tenderness.

“’Tis so,” she murmured, “our souls are immortal, I never felt it so strongly before! Love touches the heart and all the world is different—ah, mon Dieu, ’tis thy gift to us! See, François,” she added, “is not the world more beautiful, the sky more tender? Do not the birds sing more sweetly to-day? And is it because we love?”

“It must be so, my Rosaline,” he answered gently; “the Garden of Eden must have blossomed so to welcome Eve—and love makes the world more beautiful each day.”

“And it shall make me better,” she rejoined; “’tis said that sorrow refines the heart, but it is joy that fills it with kindness. I am sure of it, for I was never half so full of pity for the unhappy as I am now; my cup overflows and others thirst. Ah, François, let us be good to others always, for that is love.”

“Your very presence is love, Rosaline,” he answered softly, “your face, your eyes, your voice. When I first saw you in the little shop I was a desperate man, but from that moment my heart was changed. You entered like an angel, and as an angel I adored you.”

“And I made that difference in your life, François?” she said tenderly,—“I, Rosaline de St. Cyr. Ah, Dieu, am I not blessed?”

She stood away from him on the mossy bank, the stream lying brown and placid below her feet. Behind her the tree trunks were outlined against the rosy west, and the sweet stillness of twilight was enfolding them. The afterglow shone in her beautiful young face, and her blue eyes were radiant.

“I was never happy before,” she said, smiling, “now I know it!—but this is happiness—love—life. Do you see that bright star shining yonder, François? There is a little one beside it—see! like two souls, uplifted above the world and radiant. I will be afraid no more, my love, for even death has lost its terrors, for thus our two souls would shine together above the sorrow and the pain. I will fear no more—for stronger than death is love!”

CHAPTER XV
THE TEMPTATION OF LE BOSSU

The shadows had deepened; night already lay in the little woodland; the distant hills were purple against the pale horizon. The rising wind turned the wheel on the old mill; the rusty vanes moved feebly, as though a cripple waved long arms in the twilight. The stream rippled, and here and there a star was reflected in its bosom, and the leaves rustled continuously now. The scene was suddenly desolate, perhaps because the lovers had deserted it, and the darkness came rolling along like a cloud, rising from every hollow, lurking in every grove of figs or of olives, wrapping every object in an elusive gloom. And away in the distance the night wind sighed drearily, as it gathered strength. No spot could have been more quiet or more lonely.

A man came out of the mill carrying his bundle, and stood awhile on the edge of the stream,—a small man with a hump on his back and a face that showed white even at nightfall. He remained only a short time motionless, then he shouldered his bag of tools and followed the bank of the stream until he came at last to a bridge, and crossing this made his way to the highroad leading toward Nîmes. He walked slowly and painfully, as though he carried a far greater burden than it appeared, and he held his head down. The soul of the little cobbler of St. Antoine was in torment, what matter if his body walked the earth with other men? Pent up in the heart of the hunchback were the passion and longing and anguish of a lifetime.

“Mon Dieu!” he cried out in his bitterness, “why didst thou give me the heart of a man and the body of a toad?”

He had had black hours before when he was well-nigh ready to curse God and die, but never a worse moment than this. The devil was contending for the soul of le Bossu, and the darkness fell, and it seemed as if that road might lead to hell. And what was he, after all? he thought; a peasant, a shoemaker, a hunchback! But, oh, mon Dieu! the long, long years of desolation, the anguish, the hunger for one word of love, of kindness, of sympathy. What evil spirit had led him to lie down in that old windmill? had let him sleep there until her voice awoke him, and out of purgatory he had looked into paradise? Like Dives, he had cried out for a drop of water to slake his thirst, and yet he still lay in the fires of Satan.

Early that day he had set out for St. Césaire, and he had done his work in the village, and before sunset he went up the stream to the old mill and rested, thinking of mademoiselle in the château, thankful that she was sheltered and safe. Sleep had come to the weary cobbler, and when he awoke Rosaline and her lover were talking at the door of the mill. He had heard all, lying there almost in a stupor and he had remained quiet. It was too late to warn them of a listener, and was it not best that she should be ignorant of it? He had heard all; their love for each other, their talk of their religion, their hopes and their fears. He was no longer in doubt of the nature of the dangers that surrounded them, and he possessed a secret that it was a crime to conceal; that the State and the Church had ordered every good Catholic to reveal; and if he revealed it, the lovers would be separated forever, and he would have no cause to think of their happiness with such a pang of miserable jealousy. The poor hunchbacked cobbler held their lives in his hand, their joy, and their desolation.

All these thoughts and many more crowded in upon le Bossu as he toiled along the road, and it seemed to him that Satan walked beside him. When a bodily infirmity as great as his is laid upon a man, there come hours of supreme temptation, when human nature revolts and the starved heart cries out in agony and will not be satisfied. Must one man suffer so, and yet rejoice to see others happy? A soul is strong indeed that rises out of such misery clean.

The little cobbler struggled on, and presently the lights of Nîmes shone in his face and he entered the gate and passed along the Rue St. Antoine to his shop. Babet had been there three times that day to find him, and had gone back at last to St. Cyr without news, and found M. d’Aguesseau there, talking with old madame. Unconscious that he had disappointed such a visitor, Charlot unlocked his door and entered, feeling his way until he could light a candle. There had been another visitor at his door too, though he knew it not, an old woman with a red handkerchief around her head, and with a wide, red mouth. But the cobbler was ignorant of all these things and went about as usual. He had tasted nothing since midday, but he had no appetite and he went up the ladder to his room and lighted a taper before the shrine there. After that he threw himself on the bed, dressed as he was, and all night he wrestled with a temptation that beset him, with a new-born hatred of the man whom he had befriended in the market-place. If he had left M. d’Aguesseau in that tent with the body of the damned person, how different the end might have been! Ah, the desolate soul and the desolate hearth, the misery and the poverty! Dame de Dieu! some men possessed the earth and the fulness thereof, and others starved!

Morning found Charlot stirring the fire in the kitchen; the commonplace world possessed him again; he was no longer an individual, only one of many, the little cobbler of Nîmes. He made his coffee and he ate his black bread, and then he went to his bench and worked patiently, finishing a pair of high military riding-boots. They were of fine leather, and he fastened burnished buckles on the high insteps. They were elaborate, and he had put some fine labor upon them, and he looked at them now with a recognition of their perfections; no one made better shoes than the hunchback.

It was twelve o’clock when he rose and put the boots into his green bag, and gathering up his measure and some tools, set out once more. The streets were full and the cobbler made his way slowly through the throng. One or two spoke to him, others noticed him less than the mule that stood waiting for a reverend father outside the Garden of the Récollets. Le Bossu took little heed of it all; his face was drawn and haggard, and the hump seemed larger than ever. He walked on until he passed in front of the inn of the Golden Cup and came to a house a few yards beyond it. Here he knocked and was admitted by a man-servant who wore the uniform of a dragoon. The house had a long, narrow hall, and at the end of this was a flight of stairs, and up these le Bossu was conducted to the second story. Here the soldier opened a door to the right, and the cobbler entered a large room, lighted by three windows, where M. de Baudri sat eating his breakfast. Charlot made his salutation, and putting his bag in the corner, patiently waited the pleasure of his patron. De Baudri noticed him as little as he would have noticed a rat or a mouse, and finished his meal before he even glanced in his direction. Finally, however, he pushed back his chair and called the shoemaker.

“Viens donc, Petit Bossu,” he said, “are the boots finished?”

Charlot took them out of his bag without a word, and displayed them.

“Sacristi! if I had four legs I should come to you for boots,” M. de Baudri remarked, inspecting them. “Diable! those buckles are too small.”

“The latest from Paris, monsieur,” le Bossu replied; “his Majesty has a pair of the same size and design.”

M. de Baudri’s face relaxed, and he thrust out one foot.

“Try them, Bossu,” he said; “and see that they are good,” he added with a smile, “for I expect to wear them at my wedding.”

A strange expression crossed the drawn face of the hunchback, as he knelt to put on the boot.

“Monsieur expects to be married soon?” he asked quietly.

“Dame de Dieu, I do not know!” de Baudri exclaimed with a laugh; “my little white bird likes to use her wings, but—I mean to clip them.”

Le Bossu smoothed the leather on the officer’s ankle, and arranged the buckle, his head bent low over his work.

“Monsieur plans for an early marriage, then?” he ventured again.

M. de Baudri stared at him.

“Au diable!” he said harshly; “what is it to you, worm?”

The cobbler made no reply; he was accustomed to such language from his patrons. He had put both boots on M. de Baudri’s feet, and he sat back now on his own heels, looking at his work.

“Is monsieur satisfied?” he asked meekly.

The officer stood up, looking down at his feet.

“Very good,” he said at last, “they will do; but make your bill small, you little beggar, or you will see that I know how to use them!” and he laughed coarsely as he sat down and waited for Charlot to remove the boots and put on his others, which the hunchback began to do.

“Curse you, you dog!” he exclaimed, with a vicious kick at the shoemaker; “you hurt me in pulling that off!”

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,” le Bossu replied, with white lips, having dexterously dodged the kick.

He knew to his cost that there were some perils attendant upon trying on shoes. He had put back one of M. de Baudri’s high-heeled slippers and was taking off the other boot—with some caution—when the door was opened by a servant, who came to announce a visitor.

“A miserable old woman, monsieur,” the man said hesitatingly, “but she will not be denied.”

“Dame, send her to the devil—or to the Intendant!” retorted M. de Baudri, with a grin at his own joke.

The servant still stood at the door, with a perplexed face. His master cast a frowning glance in his direction.

“What is it, idiot?” he demanded.

“She has some information about these heretics, monsieur,” the fellow answered, stammering; “she wants money.”

“Âme de St. Denis!” exclaimed monsieur, with a sneer, “does she take me for a paymaster?”

The servant summoned his courage.

“She told me to say to you two words, monsieur,” he said, “and they were ‘St. Cyr.’”

“Diable!” M. de Baudri cried fiercely. “Show her up here, you blockhead!”

The man closed the door hastily, and they heard his hurried steps retreating down the hall. M. de Baudri fell to cursing, and Charlot suddenly found that the buckle was hanging by a thread on the other shoe,—the mate to the one on his patron’s foot. The shoemaker got out his thread and his needle, and began to sew the rosette in place, and it was very slow work indeed.

Presently the door opened again, and Charlot looked up quickly and saw Mère Tigrane.—Mère Tigrane, with her blood-red handkerchief about her head, and her blood-red mouth with its yellow fangs. She curtsied low to the officer and grinned as she did when she intended to be most amiable, but all this had no effect upon de Baudri; he cursed her roundly and ordered her to tell her tale and be gone. The old hag took it in good part, leering at him out of her evil eyes.

“I have a little news for monsieur,” she said pleasantly, “a little information about his friends, and ’tis worth a little money; monsieur knows that.”

“Diable, you old witch, out with it!” he said, tossing her some coins.

La Louve grovelled on the floor after them as they rolled away, her talon fingers clutching each piece greedily. One fell near the cobbler, and he thrust it toward her with the end of his awl, a look of disgust on his face. M. de Baudri laughed loudly.

“Dame!” he exclaimed; “there are degrees even among vermin!”

Mère Tigrane gave le Bossu an evil, triumphant look, and then began to count her money.

“’Tis not enough,” she said bluntly, turning on the officer with a sinister smile; “’tis worth more, my beauty.”

Her insolent tone offended him and he stared at her.

“Diantre!” he said, “I will have you thrown from the roof if you do not tell all you know, you thievish hag!”

Mère Tigrane hesitated, looking at the coins in her hand, but she had a motive more powerful than greed this time. She changed her tone, however.

“I’m a poor woman, Excellency,” she whined; “’tis worth more.”

He threw her a broad piece, with a curse.

“Go on!” he shouted, fiercely; “or I’ll break your neck.”

She put the money into her wallet and then licked her lips; there was a good taste in her mouth.

“Monsieur knows the family at St. Cyr,” she said, one evil eye seeming to fix itself on Charlot; “the old woman and her granddaughter are there, and a steward.”

M. de Baudri was interested now; he frowned darkly upon her.

“Does monsieur know who the steward is?” she demanded, her head on one side. “No, I thought not! ’Tis M. d’Aguesseau,—the heretic from Dauphiné,—whose father was broken on the wheel at Montpellier to the edification of all good people; and his sister was in the Tour de Constance. Her body was shown here at a fair. Dame! but her flesh was white.”

M. de Baudri threw her another coin.

“Your information is good,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a smile.

She curtsied and thrust the money in her wallet.

“That is not all, monsieur,” she said amiably; “the young mademoiselle at the château—she went with this heretic to a prayer-meeting out there by the old quarry and sang psalms there. Mère Tigrane knows! And old Madame de St. Cyr, she too is a heretic. Dame! the château would make a good burning, monsieur.”

M. de Baudri turned a black face on her.

“Look you, hag,” he said, “there is more money. You are well paid, but if a word of this goes to any one else, nom de Ciel! I will hang you. Now—au diable!”

Mère Tigrane took the money eagerly, vowing that she would be discreet, and got out of the room just in time to escape a boot that M. de Baudri picked up to throw at her.

He was in a storm of passion; he summoned his servants and ordered one to bring his horse and the other to get his riding-suit, and then he went to his room to dress, cursing heaven and earth in his haste to be off to St. Cyr.

The hunchbacked cobbler had been forgotten, and when M. de Baudri went out he quietly gathered up his bag and left the house. His face was white, but he had never walked so fast as he did then. He did not go to the shop; he went straight along the Rue St. Antoine and out at the gate, and the road to St Césaire stretched before him, as endless and as steep—to his vision—as the road to heaven.

CHAPTER XVI
A BRIEF DELAY

Beyond the old windmill, on the estate of St. Cyr, the stream turned its course westward and tumbling over a rock, fell four or five feet into a broader rivulet and then flowed placidly on, twisting and turning at last toward the valley of the Vaunage. The gray cliff’s towered boldly, hiding the little falls, locking them in a spot as wild and as deserted as the wildernesses of the Cévennes. But below, where the stream widened, the banks were mossy, and in summer ferns and wild flowers clustered, and on either bank was a fringe of juniper bushes, and beyond, the tall, well-nurtured chestnut trees. Here were fish,—the brown trout darting through the placid waters, and the eels, and there were always birds in the trees when the chestnuts blossomed. But now the touch of autumn was upon it; the moss showed brown tints, and the nuts fell from the opening burrs, and the squirrels were gathering their winter stores.

On the edge of the stream stood Rosaline St. Cyr, looking down into its clear depths at the pebbles in its bed. A little way off was Babet with a basket, and Charlot, the cobbler, knelt on the bank digging up a hardy fern with a broad knife, that had been given him for the purpose by the housekeeper. Truffe meanwhile ran about under the trees barking at every nut that dropped. The scene, in its rustic peace and simplicity, struck the shoemaker in pleasant contrast with that other scene in Nîmes. He was slow at his task, taking the root up carefully and lingering over it so long that Babet grew impatient.

“How long thou art, Petit Bossu!” she said, her arms akimbo. “Ciel, I could have dug up forty! We were doing better before you came.”

“C’est fini,” replied the hunchback, holding up the fern. “Here it is; how many will you have?”

Rosaline turned toward him. She had a large straw hat tied under her chin with blue ribbons, and her cheeks were like roses.

“We want four like that, Charlot,” she said cheerfully; “grand’mère always has a box of ferns for winter; they make a green spot in the room, and that is so pretty.”

“But, mademoiselle, ’tis near supper time,” protested Babet, “and we have been here all the morning.”

Rosaline laughed—a happy, careless laugh.

“You may go home,” she said; “Charlot will bring me back when the basket is full, and we must not lose our dish of mushrooms for supper. Run along, Babet, and set the kettle boiling.”

Babet was nothing loath, though she grumbled loudly at the suggestion, but Charlot stopped digging a fern and looked up with a troubled face. The woman set down the basket for him to fill, and he half rose and made a movement as if to stop her, and then bent over his task again. Apparently, he had decided to let her go, and in a few moments her tall figure had disappeared behind the cliffs and he was alone with the young girl and her dog. Rosaline was strolling along the mossy bank singing softly to herself, the picture of joyful content. She was walking in a dream of love and youth, and she had forgotten the hunchback. He continued to kneel over the ferns, but he had paused in his digging, and his mournful brown eyes followed her with a mute devotion in their gaze. He did not know how long he could keep her there, but every half-hour counted, and surely there was hope that it would be over before she went back to the château. He knew what was passing there, but she did not, and her song almost made him shudder. Still, he hoped, he hoped much, that it was only d’Aguesseau who was wanted, and he was out of reach. The hunchback did not believe that this beautiful young creature was in any personal danger. He thought of the wedding shoes, and bent over the fern with a frown. What would that handsome savage, M. de Baudri, do? Ah, that was the question. Charlot remembered last night and its temptations; verily, love and hate were nearly akin, and he had seen the fiend in monsieur’s open blue eyes.

Rosaline was in a happy mood. She stooped and gathering a handful of chestnuts, threw them—one by one—for Truffe to chase, and laughed gayly at the poodle’s antics, clapping her hands to make her bring the nuts back to be thrown again. The hunchback watched her in silence, bending over his task again; the basket was nearly full of plumes of fern now, and he was racking his brain for an excuse to keep mademoiselle longer away from the house. The drawn white face was full of anxiety, and now and then the brown hands trembled as they handled the plants.

“Do you think it will be an early winter, Charlot?” Rosaline said at last, still tossing the chestnuts for Truffe.

“I cannot tell, mademoiselle,” he replied, looking up at the sky. “But last night the wind came howling straight from the Cévennes, and some say that means a short autumn. The bon Dieu knows that there will be suffering; so many of these Cévenols have been taken or slain, and there were so few to gather the crops or card the wool. Mother of Heaven, the times are evil!”

There was silence; Rosaline’s face had lost its joyous look, and she left off playing with the dog and walked back to the spot where the shoemaker was kneeling by his basket.

“Babet says the winter will be fearfully cold,” she said absently, “and she is wise about these matters. I know not how many signs she has, but certainly more than I could ever remember.”

“I do not know about such things,” he answered quietly, “but the autumn came early this year.”

Rosaline looked dreamily away toward the north.

“The winter with its terrible storms, and this cruel war,” she said thoughtfully,—“I fear the suffering will be very great, Charlot. How does it seem in Nîmes? What does M. Montrevel say?”

“That it cannot last, mademoiselle,” he replied. “His Majesty has sent great reinforcements, and the maréchal is determined to crush the insurrection. Nothing is talked of in Nîmes save the grandeur of the king and the weakness of the Cévenols.”

Rosaline sighed; her mood changed entirely now, and her face was grave and even apprehensive. There was no sound but the gentle dash of water from the falls. Presently her eyes lighted on the basket of ferns.

“We have enough, Charlot,” she said, in a dull voice; “I am going back now. Come also, and Babet will give you supper; you must be tired.”

Poor Charlot was at his wits’ end.

“See, mademoiselle, there is a beautiful fern,” he said, pointing his finger at three waving plumes of green; “will you not have that also?”

She looked at it without interest. “No,” she replied indifferently, “let it remain; we have more than enough already, and I am tired.”

She was half-way up the bank, and Charlot rose in despair.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “come back, I pray you; ’tis not yet time to return to the château.”

She looked around in surprise, and the expression of his face awakened her suspicions.

“What is it?” she demanded quickly; “what do you mean?”

“You were not to return until six o’clock,” he replied, at a loss for an excuse; “Madame de St. Cyr so instructed me.”

“Madame de St. Cyr instructed you—about me?” exclaimed Rosaline in surprise; and there was a touch of hauteur in her manner that Charlot had never encountered before.

“She told me so, when she sent me after you, mademoiselle,” he answered humbly.

Rosaline was roused now; she stood looking at him with a searching glance.

“Why did you come to St. Cyr to-day?” she demanded imperiously.

The hunchback was not adroit, and he felt the peril of the moment too deeply to find ready replies.

“I brought some shoes for madame to try,” he said lamely.

“That is not true, Charlot!” she retorted indignantly; “madame has ordered no shoes, and you know it. You came for something,” she went on, with increasing agitation; “be honest,—was it—did it concern M. d’Aguesseau?”

The shoemaker looked at her with dull eyes, his pinched face unusually brown and haggard.

“Yes, mademoiselle,” he replied with an effort, “it concerned M. d’Aguesseau. M. de Baudri received information that he was a heretic, and he has come to St. Cyr to take him.”

Mademoiselle turned on him the face of an avenging angel.

“And you—” she said, with passionate scorn, “did you betray him?”

The hunchback’s lips twitched, like those of a person in sudden bodily pain, and he did not reply.

“You miserable creature!” Rosaline continued, her blue eyes sparkling with anger. “Did you offer him shelter at first, and get him here that you might surely betray him? You are baffled, thank God; you are out-witted!”

Charlot’s hands clenched and he looked at her as if she had struck him.

“Sang de Dieu, I am innocent!” he said solemnly; “I never betrayed him. I came here to warn him, and found that he had gone. I heard it all in M. de Baudri’s rooms, and I hurried away, and by hiring a cart that I met in the road, I was at St. Cyr just five minutes before the dragoons came, and madame sent me here to keep you out of harm’s way.”

“The dragoons at St. Cyr!” cried Rosaline, forgetting all else in that announcement, “and my grandmother there alone! Dieu, I will never forgive myself!”

She ran up the bank without heeding the cobbler’s appeals.

“Stay, mademoiselle!” he cried after her; “stay but a moment and listen! Ah, Mère de Dieu, she rushes to her fate!”

He called to deaf ears; Rosaline fled through the woods like a young fawn with the dog at her heels. She took no thought of herself but only remembered her grandmother and the terrible prospect of a dragonnade at St. Cyr. The custom of quartering dragoons on families suspected of heresy was too fearfully frequent for it to be improbable, and such visitations were attended by horrible indignities; neither age nor innocence was spared, and the end generally saw the château in smoking ruins and the members of the devoted family dead or banished.

All these things flashed through Rosaline’s mind as she sped—on the wings of love—toward her home, and no one could have overtaken her. The poor hunchback followed as best he could, cursing the fate that had forced him to tell her.

At the gate of the château, Rosaline met Babet, who tried to stop her, but in vain; the girl ran across the garden and passed in through the side door, which the housekeeper had left open. All the while she wondered that the place seemed so deserted and that she saw no soldiers. She passed through the kitchen and dining room, and running upstairs to her grandmother’s sitting-room, flung open the door and found herself face to face with M. de Baudri.

CHAPTER XVII
M. DE BAUDRI’S TERMS

Rosaline did not look at M. de Baudri, but beyond him into the room, and she saw her grandmother’s armchair vacant, and the door that led into the bedroom beyond stood open. The girl’s heart seemed to stop beating, yet she could not believe the evidence of her senses.

“Where is she?” she demanded of M. de Baudri imperiously. “Where is Madame de St. Cyr?”

He had greeted her with a profound bow and he stood now before her, smiling and composed.

“Madame is on her way to Nîmes, mademoiselle,” he said pleasantly.

“To Nîmes?” repeated Rosaline, with pale lips. “Mon Dieu! what have you done?”

Her agitation did not ruffle his composure; he still looked at her with a smile.

“I am afflicted to tell you such ill news, mademoiselle,” he said suavely, “but unhappily a complaint has been lodged against Madame de St. Cyr. She is accused of being a heretic, and of sheltering a heretic. A charge so serious must be investigated. Unfortunately,” he concluded with a shrug, “I have to do my duty.”

“Your duty!” repeated Rosaline, with sparkling eyes. “Your duty, then, monsieur, is to drag a helpless old woman from the shelter of her home?”

He bit his lip and a red spot showed in either cheek, but he controlled his own rising temper.

“Assuredly, mademoiselle,” he replied, “if she is guilty of the detestable crime of heresy.”

“And you will be guilty of the crime of murder, monsieur,” she retorted with a fierce indignation; for the moment, she was perfectly fearless. “Where is she? Where have you taken her?” she cried.

He looked at the clock. “She must be in Nîmes now, mademoiselle,” he replied courteously; “she will be strictly confined there under guard until she has been interrogated by the authorities.”

Rosaline uttered a low cry of despair.

“Mon Dieu!” she said, “it will kill her; you know it will kill her!”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I am not responsible,” he said; “I am a soldier, bound to execute the orders of my superiors. For her sake, for yours, mademoiselle, I have endeavored to alleviate the circumstances of her arrest, and ’tis possible that—that there might be a compromise.”

He paused, looking at her with a strange expression.

“What do you mean?” she demanded eagerly.

M. de Baudri laid his hand on his heart.

“It rests with you, mademoiselle,” he said with gallantry, “to determine madame’s fate. There is no doubt that she is a heretic, and you know the doom of heretics, but you may save her yet.”

Rosaline drew her breath sharply; an intuition warned her of what was coming. She was white to the lips, but her blue eyes shone.

“Your meaning, monsieur?” she said in a low voice.

“I stand high in the favor of M. Montrevel,” he said placidly; “I am a good Catholic. It is possible for me to obtain many concessions, if I wish to do so. Mademoiselle understands me; it is necessary for me to help her, and my help can be obtained if Rosaline de St. Cyr desires it.”

She stood looking at him in silence, and he became at last a little uneasy under that searching glance.

“You know that I love you, mademoiselle,” he said; “if you consent now—this moment—to marry me, I will save madame.”

He spoke with the air of one who contemplated a virtuous deed.

“You wish me to marry you!” she exclaimed, her voice quivering with passion. “M. de Baudri, I too am a heretic.”

She turned on him the same face that she had turned on the cobbler in the wood.

“Why do you not give me up to the authorities, monsieur?” she went on defiantly; “you are a soldier, do your duty!”

“Mademoiselle does not understand that I love her,” he retorted, unmoved. “Come, come, Rosaline, you are young, you are misguided, but you will be converted. Say the word; promise to be my wife, and your grandmother shall be saved, I pledge you my word.”

“Beware, monsieur!” Rosaline exclaimed with scorn. “I have thought you a brave man, but this is the act of a coward.”

His face reddened, and he suppressed the violence of his own mood with difficulty.

“You forget,” he said slowly, “that you are completely in my power. You are a heretic by your own declaration, your grandmother is a prisoner, and the precious steward, d’Aguesseau, is also in my power.”

His keen eyes saw the swift change in her face at d’Aguesseau’s name.

“M. d’Aguesseau?” she exclaimed, “is he taken?”

There was an expression of satisfaction in the keen blue eyes; he had touched her at last.

“This morning, mademoiselle,” he replied coolly. “He is not only a heretic, but also a rebel.”

She was controlling herself by a great effort.

“What will you do with him, monsieur?” she asked faintly.

“Hang him, or send him to the galleys,” he retorted calmly.

She reeled, catching at the back of a chair to save herself from falling. M. de Baudri sprang toward her to proffer his assistance, but she motioned him away with a gesture of horror.

“Do not touch me!” she cried; “do not touch me!”

She laid her head down on the back of the chair, overcome with contending emotions. The two she loved best in the world had been taken from her.

“Mon Dieu!” she cried in a choking voice; “what shall I do?”

The fiercest passions leaped up into M. de Baudri’s eyes,—anger, jealousy, the desire for revenge; he had suspected that there was some secret between François and Rosaline, and now he doubted it no longer.

“Mademoiselle is more afflicted at the capture of a menial than at the arrest of her own grandmother,” he remarked with a sneer. “Doubtless she would like to arrange for his liberation also.”

Rosaline made no reply; she was summoning all her powers to meet this terrible emergency.

“Even that is not beyond my power,” M. de Baudri added coolly, “if mademoiselle desires to purchase this—servant’s—liberty.”

Rosaline looked up with a haggard face, but her eyes sparkled with anger.

“François d’Aguesseau is no servant,” she cried; “he is as well born and far more noble than his persecutor!”

The man laughed fiercely. “He is doubtless mademoiselle’s lover,” he remarked contemptuously; “she is more lightly won than I supposed.”

“It is always in the power of the strong to insult the weak,” Rosaline retorted coldly.

“You cannot deny that this heretic is your lover!” he exclaimed passionately.

Rosaline raised her head proudly; her innocent gentleness had deserted her; she was like a young lioness roused in defence of her own.

“I do not deny it,” she said fearlessly; “M. d’Aguesseau is my equal—and—and, yes, monsieur, my affianced husband. I do not deny it, nor do I deny my love for him, though he is a prisoner and at your mercy; the bon Dieu defend him and me!”

She had never looked more beautiful than at that moment of passionate indignation and defiance in the cause of those she loved. M. de Baudri, looking at her, swore in his heart that he would have her despite heaven and hell.

“You are frank, mademoiselle,” he remarked coolly. “’Tis unusual for a young girl to be so eager to declare her affection. I am afflicted indeed; for ’tis my portion to decide M. d’Aguesseau’s fate, and it would grieve me to bereave mademoiselle of her lover!”

Rosaline’s distress was shaking her resolution; already her lips were quivering, and there were tears in the blue eyes.

“Is his fate in your hands, monsieur?” she asked, with passionate anxiety and a desperate hope.

M. de Baudri bowed, with his hand on his heart.

“Absolutely,” he replied pleasantly; “he has not yet been handed over to the authorities. By lifting my finger I can set him free and also your grandmother, and as easily I can consign both to the miserable fate awaiting the heretics.”

Rosaline took a step forward, clasping her hands and gazing intently into his face.

“Ah, monsieur, surely you will be merciful,” she exclaimed, “surely you will spare my grandmother—a feeble woman—and M. d’Aguesseau—has he not suffered enough? Dieu! he has lost all,—his parents, his sister, his property. I cannot believe that you will condemn these two! You are a man, and not a fiend.”

He watched her with an inscrutable expression on his face.

“And what will you do to regain their liberty?” he asked slowly. “What petition do you make for them?”

“I ask you in God’s name,” she said with passionate earnestness, “and on my knees, monsieur, though I never kneeled to living man before.”

She was kneeling, her white face lifted, her hands clasped; and with her golden hair she looked more like a supplicating angel than an unhappy and defenceless girl. For him it was a moment of triumph; and his heart was untouched by any feeling of compulsion; it only throbbed with fierce determination.

“Rise, mademoiselle,” he said, offering his hand with gallantry. “Serious as the situation is, dangerous as it is for me to release heretics, yet I must be less than human to resist such eloquence and beauty. Your petition is granted—on one condition.”

She looked at him searchingly, and her heart sank as she read the expression in his eyes.

“And that condition?” she demanded in a low tone.

“A simple one, mademoiselle,” he said, with an easy air of confidence: “I adore you, Rosaline; and when you are my wife, these two are free.”

“You say this to me after I have declared my love for another man!” she exclaimed aghast, “you say this to me,—a heretic! Your conscience is not very scrupulous.”

He smiled. “You are but a child, Rosaline,” he said; “you will embrace my religion and marry me, or—” he shrugged his shoulders,—“the Tour de Constance for madame and the gallows for your ex-lover. I give you a free choice!”

Rosaline clasped her hands against her heaving bosom, looking up, while the tears fell on her pale cheeks.

“Mon Dieu!” she cried; “forgive me for kneeling to mortal man. I ought to have known that there was no mercy save in Thee. Alas, alas, my dear ones!”

There was a pause; she seemed to be absorbed in her devotions, and M. de Baudri watched her in silence but with relentless eyes. Her beauty and her sorrow only intensified his fierce passion.

“I see that you are willing to kill both rather than sacrifice your whim,” he remarked, striking a skilful blow at her tottering resolution.

“Is it possible that this is your fixed purpose?” she cried. “Can it be that you would have me save them thus? Have you no pride, that you are willing to take a bride on such terms as these? Have you no mercy?”

“I am showing much,” he replied suavely. “How many men would spare a successful rival’s neck?”

“It will avail nothing,” she said passionately. “I will appeal to M. de Bâville himself!”

He laughed heartlessly. “Do so, mademoiselle,” he said, with a shrug, “and you will have the pleasure of seeing your lover broken on the wheel like his father.”

She gave a low cry of horror, hiding her face in her hands. He walked over to the window and looked out. The sun was setting behind the valley of the Vaunage, and the wind was already blowing the yellow leaves from the trees and strewing the garden path with a shower of gold. He knew that she was in the throes of a mortal agony, and he did not dream of relaxing the pressure until he broke her will. He knew something of her character, and he believed her capable of any sacrifice for those she loved. He stood a while watching his orderly leading his horse to and fro before the gate. He had purposely deceived her on one point, and he believed that he would succeed without violence, but he intended to have her at any cost. With her consent if he could, without it, if necessary, he was not troubled with many scruples, and her helpless anguish did not touch him.

He turned at last to find her sitting in her grandmother’s chair, her face buried in her hands, and her golden hair, escaping its bonds, had fallen about her like a mantle.

“I am going back to Nîmes, mademoiselle,” he said courteously, “and I regret that I have to leave the house in the hands of guards, but they are instructed to treat you with courtesy. Permit me to recommend that you continue your former prudent reserve in the matter of religion. At ten to-morrow morning, I shall return for my answer. You know the solitary condition, and you hold two lives in your lovely hands.”

She looked up with ineffable scorn in her blue eyes.

“Dieu! is this a man?” she exclaimed.

A deep red flush mounted to his forehead, but he bowed so profoundly that the curls of his periwig fell before his face.

“It is your devoted lover, mademoiselle,” he replied, and walked backward to the door, holding his plumed hat against his heart and stepping with the ease and precision of a dancing master.

On the threshold he made her another profound obeisance and, smiling, closed the door behind him. He paused only a moment in the hall below to give a few sharp instructions to the sergeant left in command.

“If any man attempts to enter this house to-night,” he said in a hard tone, “shoot him. If you let him evade you, I will hang you.”

The soldier saluted, and M. de Baudri walked calmly down the garden path, and leaping into the saddle, set off at a gallop for Nîmes.

CHAPTER XVIII
ROSALINE’S HUMBLE FRIENDS

Meanwhile a very different scene had been enacted in the kitchen, where Babet had confronted the cobbler and poured upon his devoted head a volley of questions. She had gone out with Rosaline early, before there was even a hint of approaching catastrophe, and she could not understand the swift march of events, and her suspicious soul was possessed with a rooted distrust of the poor hunchback, who had not yet rallied from Rosaline’s accusations, striking home as they did after the guilty hours of his temptation. The two had shut themselves in the kitchen with the dog, and le Bossu sat by the fire, an expression of dull despair upon his face, while Babet stood over him, her arms akimbo and her keen black eyes riveted upon him. Like Rosaline, she questioned his motive for coming to the house at all.

“What brought you here this morning, Petit Bossu?” she demanded harshly; “we needed no new shoes.”

The cobbler’s face darkened. “Nom de St. Denis!” he exclaimed; “have you nothing better to do than to suspect your friends at such a time?”

“Yet you came—and why?” persisted Babet.

The hunchback threw out his hands with a gesture of impatience.

“There is no reason why I should explain to you,” he retorted contemptuously.

“Ah!” ejaculated Babet, in a tone of dark suspicion, “what do you expect me to think of such obstinate silence? You must be a wicked man—I have always heard that hunchbacks were malicious; how could you give mademoiselle up? Why did you not let her escape through the woods, beast?”

The cobbler was tried beyond endurance.

“Mother of Heaven!” he cried bitterly, “do you think that I would injure a hair of mademoiselle’s head? She could not escape; M. de Baudri had two circles of sentries about the place, and I knew it. There were men below the cataract—in the woods—to attempt to pass them would have been to risk her life. You were in the snare; I tried to keep her away from the house, but I could not, and they would have found her anywhere in the end.”

Babet threw back her head with a snort; she had the air of an old war-horse scenting the battle from afar.

“You knew a great deal about it,” she remarked maliciously; “couldn’t you warn us?”

He sighed; a weary resignation was settling down on his heart. It seemed that no one thought well of him, or expected good from him.

“I knew nothing of it until this morning,” he said coldly, “and then too late to help you. I am lame, and M. de Baudri rides a fine horse. Nevertheless, I got here five minutes before him—but that was too late.”

His face and his voice began to convince even Babet, and a faint pang of remorse smote her heart, which, after all, was angered only on Rosaline’s account. She left off questioning him and walked to and fro in the kitchen, trying to collect her thoughts, and the process was much impeded by the even tramp of the sentry, which sounded distinctly enough on the gravel path outside the windows. Once or twice, when the soldier’s back was turned, Babet shook her fist at it, uttering threats in language that was more fervent than pious.

“My poor lamb!” she muttered, her thoughts returning to Rosaline, “what will she do in the hands of this wolf? Nom de Ciel! if I could but tear his throat!”

The hunchback did not heed her; he was staring at the floor with vacant eyes. He meant to save mademoiselle if he could, but how? His lips moved now and then, and his brown hands twitched nervously, but his ears were straining to catch the slightest sound. Presently Babet turned around, as if a sudden thought had flashed upon her; she picked up the tongs from beside the fire, and hiding them under her apron walked deliberately out of the kitchen, slamming the door behind her. The sound brought the sentry at a run, and they met face to face. Without a word, Babet lifted the tongs, and, snapping them on to the brim of his hat, flung it over the hedge.

“There, you varlet!” she exclaimed, holding the tongs close to the end of his nose, “learn to take off your hat to a decent woman, who’s old enough to be your mother, and stop staring in the window with those goggle eyes of yours. I’m no jail-bird, I tell you!”

“Mother!” ejaculated the astonished dragoon, “you old gray cat! Dame! if I do not wring your neck for your impudence when M. le Capitaine has gone.”

“Humph!” retorted Babet, grimly, “you’ll find it tough, mon fils. Your hat is in the briar bush, my lad;” and she walked back into the house with a grim smile of triumph, leaving the soldier cursing her while he searched for his hat.

Babet did not return to the kitchen; she proceeded up the stairs to the room where Rosaline was talking to M. de Baudri. The door was closed; but refined scruples were not among the good housekeeper’s faults, and she calmly applied her ear to the keyhole, all the while clasping the tongs fiercely under her apron; and for the next twenty minutes her face was a picture. More than once she had her hand on the latch, but prudence finally prevailed, and three minutes before M. de Baudri emerged, she made her way cautiously back to the kitchen. She had heard enough to understand the whole, and she descended upon the cobbler like an avalanche, carrying all before her. In the storm of her indignation she could not remain silent, and she poured out the whole story of M. de Baudri’s shameless persecution of his prisoner. Le Bossu had long ago learned the lesson of self-control, and he listened with composure, though his face seemed to have aged since the morning.

“Mon Dieu!” cried Babet, regardless now of the sentry’s stare, “he would force that white dove to marry him! That villain de Baudri—may the bon Dieu blast him as the great chestnut-tree yonder was blasted with lightning! He—the rogue—would make mademoiselle sell herself to him to save old madame and her lover. Woe is me, why did that man d’Aguesseau ever come here?”

The hunchback looked up, surprise in his dull eyes.

“What do you mean?” he demanded, “save her lover? Her lover is safe in the Cévennes.”

“Much you know!” retorted the woman, scornfully; “it seems that he was captured this morning.”

The cobbler was silent a moment, thinking deeply.

“I do not believe it,” he said quietly.

“You think it a lie of that devil’s?” asked Babet, eagerly.

He nodded. “M. de Baudri is doing it to force her to yield,” he said slowly; “he has sworn to marry her. I do not believe that he has taken one Huguenot prisoner to-day, save—” he stopped, and looked out of the window at the sentry, who kept staring in with a furious face.

“Dieu, what a fiend!” exclaimed Babet, thrusting her tongs into the fire, where they would heat, after casting a vicious glance toward the window. “He has given mademoiselle until to-morrow morning to decide,” she added.

“What will she do?” the cobbler asked in a strange voice.

“Do? oh, I know her!” the woman retorted with a snort; “to save those two she would die. She’ll marry him unless—” Babet thrust the tongs deeper in the coals, “unless I wring his neck!”

“That cannot be done,” remarked le Bossu, soberly, “but something must be done to-night.”

“What?” snapped his companion, “what can a hunchback and an old woman do? A pretty pair of birds for such an emergency. Leer away, young man; I have the tongs ready for you!” she added in an aside, her fierce eyes on the window.

“Has she one true friend with influence in Nîmes?” the cobbler asked.

Babet shook her head, and then, after a moment’s thought,—

“There is Père Ambroise,” she said.

Le Bossu’s face brightened. “Good!” he said, “the priest can do much; and now, I am a Catholic, Babet, but as there is a God in heaven, I mean no harm! Is there any boy or man who could carry a message amongst the Camisards?”

Babet had grown reckless in her misery over mademoiselle; she did not hesitate to reply.

“There is the blacksmith’s boy at St. Césaire,” she said, “a good child, and active as a wild hare. What do you want of him?”

“If possible, I must find M. d’Aguesseau,” he replied, “and also Père Ambroise; I cannot do both without help.”

“And if M. d’Aguesseau is in prison,” suggested Babet, grimly.

“The will of Heaven be done,” replied the cobbler, calmly, “but Père Ambroise shall be here before dawn,” and he rose as he spoke.

“How will you get out?” asked the woman, eying him curiously.

“You will see,” he rejoined, and quietly gathering up his bag of tools, he left the kitchen and walked through the hall.

M. de Baudri had just left by the front way, and the cobbler went out at the back of the house. There was a high row of box beside the path, and dropping on his hands and knees he crept along behind it, past the sentry on that side. He had to move very slowly and softly, avoiding every dry twig and even the dead leaves, but he reached the outer hedge at last. Here there was a hole, through which Truffe passed in and out. The cobbler thrust his bag through and then followed it; his face and hands were scratched, but what of that? He rose from his knees in the open road, and, shaking off the dust, shouldered his load and walked on, limping more painfully than usual. He had to pass one guard, but this man did not know that he had been in the house and saw nothing unusual in the appearance of the little cobbler of St. Antoine.

“You are late, le Bossu,” he said good-naturedly.

“The shoes fit too well,” retorted the hunchback, coolly, “and my patron is rich.”

“Pardieu!” the soldier exclaimed with a laugh. “I will borrow to-morrow morning. We have a bag of heretics here.”

“Mère de Dieu, burn them,—all but the shoes!” said le Bossu, and walked calmly on.

CHAPTER XIX
“MORTIS PORTIS FRACTIS”

It was daybreak; the pale sky was luminous, and the golden east throbbed with the approaching glory. Already the hill-tops were radiant, but the low country lay in the shadow, and a white mist floated over the valleys. The air was full of the twittering of birds, and all the life in Nature began to stir. There were no travellers on the highroad so early, save one, a corpulent priest, mounted on a stout mule, proceeding toward St. Cyr. Père Ambroise detested extraordinary exertion, but he had yielded to the importunities of the cobbler. For his own part, he thought that ten o’clock was soon enough to deal with M. de Baudri, but he had roused himself and set out at an unearthly hour because of le Bossu’s representations. No man could regret the trouble at the château de St. Cyr more sincerely than he did; he had labored to protect these two defenceless women, and he saw no profit in madame’s arrest. Père Ambroise would never be numbered with the persecutors; he cared more for a bottle of good wine from the vintage of the Vaunage than he did for the arrest of a score of heretics. Besides, he had no real love for M. de Baudri, and he foresaw M. de Baudri’s triumph. Père Ambroise wanted to convert Rosaline; he wanted to see her either in a convent or wedded to a good son of the Church, but he could not digest the prospect of this particular bridegroom. He had not the smallest respect for Rosaline’s religious convictions or scruples; it was impossible for him to regard them with anything but contempt or hatred, but he really cared for the girl’s welfare. He had known her from a child, and he felt a sincere affection for her. For her sake he had spared Madame de St. Cyr, and he had no desire now to give her pain. He rode along, therefore, revolving all these matters in his mind, and wondering how far he could trespass on the patience and friendship of the Intendant of Languedoc,—the only man who could take M. de Baudri in hand. The result of Père Ambroise’s ruminations was not satisfactory; he advanced at a leisurely pace, for his mule was nearly as stout as he was, and the sun rose in all its splendor as he approached St. Cyr. He disliked effort and excitement, and he could devise no easy and comfortable way out of the dilemma. After all, perhaps she would have to marry M. de Baudri; at least, that ought to bring her into the church, and if she remained a heretic? Well, Père Ambroise reflected with a broad smile, that alternative would furnish him with a rod to hold over the stubborn head of M. le Capitaine. The good father’s fat sides shook a little with silent laughter as he drew rein at the gate of the château. Âme de St. Denis! he would make M. de Baudri dance to a pretty tune before the Intendant; there were compensations, no matter what the result.

The sentry—the same young man who had been disciplined by Babet—received the priest with respect; his instructions had not mentioned Père Ambroise, and the stout, black-robed figure ambled placidly up the gravel path and entered by way of the kitchen. This was empty, for Babet had deserted her fortress for the moment to wait on her young mistress. The priest proceeded through the house and was greeted at the stairs by Truffe, who knew him. He climbed up in a leisurely way, panting at each step, and, entering the sitting-room, found Rosaline and her faithful attendant. The young girl hailed his entrance with relief and hope, and something like life came back into her white face.

Père Ambroise was touched by her evident confidence in his good-will, and seating himself comfortably, he dismissed Babet with a placid air of authority that sent her fuming to the kitchen, where she resumed her task of heating the fire-irons. She was determined not to be taken unawares, and the sentry—perfectly acquainted with her occupation—kept his distance and bided his time.

Meanwhile, in response to a few well-directed questions, Rosaline told her story, which was substantially the same as the one already recited by le Bossu. A man less keen than Père Ambroise would have detected her resolution in her manner, and he was not unprepared for her answer when he asked her what she intended to do. She was standing in front of him, her hands clasped loosely before her, and her head erect, but her face was like marble, white and still.

“I have no choice, mon père,” she said, in a low voice; “no one cares for a heretic. It is my duty to save my grandmother. I cannot let her die for my happiness! Mon Dieu! what a monster I should be! I must consent to M. de Baudri’s terms, and then—” she paused, drawing a deep breath and her clear blue eyes looked out, away toward the grim mountains of the north, “and then I know that the bon Dieu will release me. He will send me death—sweet death—for my bridegroom!”

Père Ambroise regarded her thoughtfully. For his times, he was a liberal man, and he did not immediately foresee hell fires. He saw only a pure and defenceless girl, and his heart smote him.

“The bon Dieu is offended with you for heresy, Rosaline,” he remarked calmly; “that is the cause of your misfortunes.”

Rosaline looked at him searchingly; she had long ago weighed Père Ambroise and found him wanting.

“He is my Judge,” she replied, and closed her lips firmly.

It was not the hour for religious controversy, and the priest knew it; he pursed up his lips and was silent. But she had a purpose at heart, and not even his frowns discouraged it.

“Père Ambroise,” she said, “I want to go into Nîmes now—at once—to see my grandmother. I will consent to nothing until I do—you can get this favor for me—I ask nothing else, but oh, do this for me!”

Père Ambroise had been considering many things, and he was not unwilling to listen to so reasonable a desire. Indeed, he had been thinking with some pity of poor old Madame de St. Cyr.

“It shall be done,” he said, “but not until M. de Baudri comes; I have no authority, but he cannot refuse this at my request.”

Rosaline thanked him without emotion; the girl’s passionate grief and rebellion had spent itself in a night of agony; she had reached the dead level of despair. She still believed her lover to be a prisoner, for Babet had been too wise to hold out uncertain hopes, and Rosaline had made up her mind to sacrifice herself for her two loved ones, and the sacrifice she contemplated was worse to her than death. No victim was ever prepared to be laid on the altar with a greater vigil of misery. She would have died gladly, but this was far more terrible and more degrading. She was in a stupor of misery, but yet too wise to expect relief from Père Ambroise. His point of view and hers were sundered as widely as the poles. To him it was only an undesirable step toward her conversion, and a certain way of saving her life.

It was early, and the placid father left the victim to her reflections and, proceeding to the pantry, foraged with some comfort. He was too intimately acquainted with Babet’s peculiarities to approach her at such a moment with a demand for breakfast, but he managed to comfort the inner man with the remains of a cold chicken pasty and a salad, and some more diligent search unearthed a small bottle of eau-de-vie, so that he emerged from his seclusion, at last, wiping his lips and with an air of satisfaction. After this, he mounted his spectacles and searched Madame de St. Cyr’s little library for heretical books, but the old gentlewoman had been too cautious to be so easily betrayed, and he found nothing of interest.

Thus it happened that when M. de Baudri arrived at ten o’clock he found Père Ambroise in possession, and fell to cursing his luck, knowing well enough that the priest had both the will and the power to hamper his designs. He held the corpulent father in supreme contempt, but he dared not insult him at a time when the priests were supreme, nor could he drive Rosaline to extremities while she had such a respectable protector. M. de Baudri was a keen man, and he saw that a few concessions might gain an ally, while insolence would make an undesirable enemy. There was no hope of his marrying Rosaline if Père Ambroise chose to declare her a heretic and have her shut up in a convent. The priest held the winning card and knew it, and it took him only half an hour to arrange that the young girl should accompany him to see her grandmother, under the escort of M. de Baudri and his dragoons.

Before eleven, therefore, they were on the road to Nîmes. A carriage had been obtained at St. Césaire, and the priest, Rosaline, and Babet sat within it, while M. de Baudri rode beside it and a guard of dragoons followed at a short distance. Rosaline felt herself to be on the way to an open grave, and she leaned back in her corner with closed eyes. No one spoke, and the drive was taken in silence. Finally they passed through the Porte de France and then proceeded more slowly through the streets. The noises of the city aroused the poor girl a little, and she looked out, only to shrink again from the curious stare of the crowd. On the carriage went, turning at last into a long street and then stopping at the door of the common jail. Happily for Rosaline, she did not recognize it, though she shuddered as she passed under the grim portal with Père Ambroise. They were alone, the others remaining without, and they were admitted with but little parley. Like a somnambulist, the girl passed through a gloomy corridor and saw the jailer unfastening the bolts of a strong door. The man threw it open and stood back, and Rosaline did not heed his remark to the priest.

“You are just in time, mon père,” he said, with a brutal laugh.

They stood at the entrance of a narrow cell lighted by one small window, and on the wretched pallet lay the motionless form of Madame de St. Cyr. At the sight of her grandmother’s face Rosaline awoke from her dream and running forward, fell on her knees beside her with a cry of surprise and anguish. Père Ambroise hastily closed the door behind him; he did not need to look a second time to see that M. de Baudri was to be defrauded of one victim.

“Speak to me, grand’mère,” Rosaline cried pitifully. “Oh, mon Dieu, why did I ask for one night to decide? Twelve hours ago I might have saved her!”

The sound of a beloved voice often rouses even the dying; Madame de St. Cyr stirred and opened her eyes. They dwelt lovingly on the girl for a moment, and then memory returned and an expression of horror came into her face.

“Merciful Heaven!” she gasped, rallying her forces. “Are you here, my darling?—now is death bitter indeed!”

“She is safe,” Père Ambroise interposed, his heart touched at last; “I will protect her.”

The old woman gave him a look of ineffable gratitude; she was almost beyond speech, but she laid one hand feebly on Rosaline’s head, and her lips moved as she blessed her.

“Thank the bon Dieu,” she murmured faintly, “the old tree was cut—down—and the flower—spared! Weep not, my child. Beyond—there is peace.”

Rosaline’s slender frame was shaken with agony.

“Live for me, grand’mère!” she cried; “now indeed am I desolate—and I would have saved you!”

But the end was too near for the dying woman to understand; she sank back with closed eyes and Père Ambroise began to recite the prayer for the dying. In his emotion he forgot that she was a heretic. Rosaline clung to her in an agony of grief and self-abnegation.

“Oh, let me save you!” she cried; “live that I may die for you!”

Madame opened her eyes, there was a placid smile on her face, she had forgotten all the terror and the pain, prison walls held her no more.

“There is no anguish,” she said softly, looking away into space, “only light—my husband—my son—the bon Dieu be praised—there shall be peace!”

She spoke no more; there was no sound but Père Ambroise’s Latin and Rosaline’s weeping. The dying woman lay still, and the clear eyes still looked triumphantly beyond this world’s agony, and almost without a sigh the gentle soul escaped from prison. Death, the Deliverer, opened the gates.

CHAPTER XX
THE COBBLER’S FAITH

Père Ambroise was plentifully supplied with this world’s goods, and he had a house of his own in Nîmes, not a hundred yards from the Esplanade, where he lived in comfort and security, with no fear of the Camisard raids. To the right of the door of this house was a comfortable room, furnished with many luxuries: soft rugs, deep arm-chairs, tapestry-hangings, a huge fireplace, where the logs burned cheerfully on the great andirons. And here Père Ambroise sat entertaining M. de Baudri over a bottle of rare wine, on the evening of that eventful day. They had both dined well, and the good father’s rubicund face wore an expression of satisfaction, while his guest was visibly discontented. The fact was that Père Ambroise was in command of the situation, and he had forced the soldier to yield at all points. At that moment Rosaline was secure in one of his upper rooms, and he was in a position to dictate his own terms. If he chose he could declare her a heretic and immure her in a convent for life; M. de Baudri’s only chances of being a bridegroom lay in his ability to propitiate the priest. Nothing could have been more distasteful to the soldier than this unexpected turn of affairs; he was accustomed to command and not to sue, and now he was forced to persuade a man who disliked him to look at things from his point of view. He cursed his luck in secret, and tried to smile over his wine; never had he been more neatly balked in his purposes—nor by a more contemptible enemy. Meanwhile Père Ambroise leaned back in his chair and regarded him from between his half-closed lids, mightily diverted by the other’s discomfiture, and not yet entirely decided on his own course. He was not sure that it would be a merciful thing to shut Rosaline up in a convent for life, and Père Ambroise was one of those men who cannot be ill-natured after a good dinner. He raised his wine-glass in his fat fingers and held it before the candle that he might admire the delicate amber color of the wine before he drank it, and all his movements were deliberate and comfortable. His placidity goaded M. de Baudri to the verge of murder.

“You cannot marry a heretic, my son,” Père Ambroise remarked pleasantly; “therefore you must either allow her to go to her fate—which, by the way, is of your preparing—or wait until she is converted.”

“Dame! do you take me for a fool?” exclaimed his companion. “How long have you been at this hopeful business of conversion?”

“Only since I have known her to be a heretic,” the priest replied composedly.

“Sacristi! convert a heretic!” de Baudri laughed; “how many are ever converted?”

“Large numbers—in some circumstances,” Père Ambroise said, with a broad smile; “’tis said that Du Chayla had a basement full of converts when their misguided friends arose and murdered him at Pont-de-Montvert; a poor requital for his zeal, monsieur. As for myself,”—he waved his fat hands,—“I am a man of peace, and I have ever labored to save these misguided people from violence.”

M. de Baudri was leaning his elbow on the table, staring gloomily at the floor.

“Mère de Dieu!” he said bitterly; “they are all only fit for hanging.”

“Perhaps you would prefer to hang mademoiselle,” his companion remarked, refilling his glass cautiously, for he did not wish to disturb his brain with the fumes of liquor.

M. de Baudri looked at him darkly.

“I do her great honor in offering to marry her,” he said harshly.

Père Ambroise nodded his head approvingly, and took a sip of wine.

“Assuredly,” he said; “so great an honor that I am inclined to prevent you. A true son of the Church should not wed a heretic. The proper destination for her is a convent.”

The younger man swore under his breath.

“You old fox, you,” he exclaimed, “you do not want me to marry the girl—I believe you want her yourself!”

Père Ambroise turned his eyes piously toward heaven.

“The saints forbid!” he murmured. “You have an unbridled tongue, mon fils, and deserve discipline for offering an insult to one in holy orders.”

The officer laughed. “Dame, you old rogue!” he said, “do you fat fathers take us for fools? Hark!” he added sharply, pausing to listen, “what is that? I heard the dog bark.”

“Rosaline’s poodle,” replied the priest, undisturbed.

M. de Baudri was suspicious. “Have you got her secure?” he demanded imperiously.

“Absolutely secure,” retorted his companion, indifferently; “my servants are faithful, and her door is fastened by an oaken bar too strong for two women to force. Compose yourself, mon fils; you consented to this respite; she was to have until eight to-morrow morning for reflection, and she has reason enough to make good use of the time. Her grandmother is dead and she has no defender but me. She will not resist my authority, but you take a strange way to propitiate me and obtain my good offices.”

M. de Baudri gnawed his lip with a lowering expression on his face.

“I shall have to come to your terms, I suppose, mon père,” he said at last with an effort to appear congenial.

“That is more to the point,” Père Ambroise remarked pleasantly, and leaned over to fill his guest’s glass again.

While these two worthies talked and drank, a very different scene was being enacted in the second story of the house. Here, in a large back room, Rosaline and Babet were confined; the woman sitting stiffly upright in a chair by the table, where the candles were set, while Rosaline had thrown herself face downward on the bed, in a silent agony of grief and despair. Between the two was the black poodle Truffe, her ears pointed, silent and watchful after the fashion of dogs in new places.

Babet ventured upon no consolation; she stared grimly before her with unwinking eyes. She was thinking of her own fate; there was no one to interpose for her, and her destiny was probably the Tour de Constance. She tried to recall all she had heard of this fearful prison at Aiguemortes, of the malarious swamps about it, of the smells that arose at low tide, of the hideous cruelties practised in its loathsome dungeons, of the sick and dying, whose bodies were denied decent burial. Grim and strong as old Babet was, her cheek blanched at the thought, and, for the moment, she forgot even her ewe-lamb. (The most unselfish soul must fight its own battle sometime, to the exclusion of all else.)

Meanwhile Rosaline lay there with her face hidden on her arms; her grandmother’s death had bereaved her of one who might have remained with her, helping her to endure her lot, for she hoped for no release; she must purchase her lover’s liberty and life at the expense of her own happiness. M. de Baudri had taken care to remind her that he still held the fate of François d’Aguesseau in his hand, and she knew that the sacrifice must still be made. If François divined it, he would refuse his life at such a cost,—that she knew; but he would never know, he might even think her false and lightly won! But all these things were small compared with the alternative; it was not for her to send him to the gallows, or worse, to make him a galley slave, that she might escape M. de Baudri. Again she shuddered at the thought of her fate; the lowest dungeons of the Tour de Constance would be heaven compared with such a marriage! She shrank from it as all pure women shrink from any marriage that is not founded on the highest and purest motives. Her very flesh rebelled against her spirit, and she lay there shivering, like one stricken with ague. Yet strong is love; she must save him, and then, oh, she prayed the bon Dieu to release her!

In spite of all this misery, time passed. The house was quiet, no sounds came from below, and practical Babet began to wonder what time it was. There was no clock in the room, and she could not conjecture the hour; it seemed as if they had been there an age. Just at this moment she heard some one lift the bar outside the door, and Truffe barked. Babet pounced upon her, muffled her head in her petticoat, and then she listened intently. The visitor could not enter, for she had secured the door within. There was a soft knock on the panels, and Rosaline rose with a white face, and stood waiting. The knock was repeated, and some one spoke their names very low. The voice seemed familiar, and the young girl went to the door and listened again.

“Mademoiselle de St. Cyr,” the visitor whispered, “open the door—’tis I, Charlot the cobbler.”

Babet uttered an exclamation, and Rosaline unfastened the lock and admitted the hunchback. He looked old and worn, and carried his green bag, and he paused just inside the door, looking from one to the other, as if he doubted his reception.

“Why have you come, Charlot?” Rosaline asked sadly.

“I have come to help you to get away, mademoiselle,” he replied simply, hurt past reason by their indifference, but bearing it, as he bore all things, as a part of his lot.

Rosaline shook her head. “I cannot go,” she said, “but Babet—you will save Babet, Charlot.”

“Ciel!” ejaculated that woman sharply, “he will save me, will he? And what do you propose to do?”

The young girl did not heed her, nor did the cobbler.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, “your grandmother is dead, and M. d’Aguesseau was never captured.”

Rosaline stood looking at him with parted lips, her whole form quivering with emotion.

“Mon Dieu!” she said, “was it a lie?”

“It was,” replied the cobbler quietly; “I have sent a message to him, he is with Cavalier.”

She could not believe him. “Alas!” she said, “you do this to get me away.”

The cobbler knelt down at her feet.

“Mademoiselle,” he said, looking earnestly into her face, “I swear by all I hold most sacred, that I do not deceive you. M. d’Aguesseau is at liberty, though M. de Baudri offers a hundred crowns for his head.”

Her strength failed her, she sank on the nearest chair, covering her face with her hands. The reaction was too great for resistance; it seemed as if her heart would stop beating, and the room whirled about her. He was safe, and she was not required to make the sacrifice!

The effect on Babet was very different; she released Truffe and began to gather up their scattered belongings.

“How can we get out, Petit Bossu?” she demanded grimly,—“in your shoe-bag?”

“The servants are feasting in the kitchen,” the cobbler said. “Père Ambroise and M. de Baudri are drinking below, and the stairs are not two yards from this door. We must trust in the bon Dieu.”

As he spoke, he opened his bag and took out two long cloaks and hoods similar to those worn by an order of Sisters of Charity at Nîmes.

“Thou hast the mind of a great general, Charlot,” remarked Babet, with a queer smile; “the hump is a pity.”

Rosaline roused herself and looked at the disguise.

“Alas! where can we go, Charlot?” she asked sadly; “how can we escape them?”

“To-night you can go to my shop, mademoiselle,” he replied, quietly, “and to-morrow, as soon as the gates are open, you can start out to St. Césaire. I have arranged with the blacksmith’s wife to hide you until I can guide you to—to a place of safety.”

“It may be done,” Rosaline said, after a moment’s thought. “I was to have till eight to-morrow; there is one hope in a thousand—but the risk to you, Charlot!”

The little hunchback smiled. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “I am scarcely worth killing.”

The tears shone in her blue eyes, but she said nothing, partly because Babet was hurriedly muffling her in the cloak and hood.

A few moments later they emerged from the room, Babet carrying Truffle under her mantle; Charlot secured the door behind them, replacing the bar, and softly and cautiously they descended. They heard Père Ambroise speaking, in unctuous tones, and a coarse oath from M. de Baudri, on whom the wine was having some effect, but no one heard them. The porter had left his place and the door was unbolted. Almost without noise, the three slipped out and stood free upon the open street.

CHAPTER XXI
IN THE WOODS OF ST. CYR

The next morning found Charlot in his shop. He had spread his tools and leather on his bench with a pretence of work, but he was not working. He sat watching his door with eager eyes, alert and impatient. He was waiting for the return of the blacksmith’s boy whom he had sent in search of d’Aguesseau. Rosaline and Babet had walked out of the gate of the town as soon as it was opened, and must be now near St. Césaire. In le Bossu’s chamber a candle burned before the Virgin, a prayer for the heretics; such is the inconsistency of the human heart and its religion.

In a week the little hunchback had grown old, and his back seemed more pitifully bowed than ever. The Intendant of Languedoc might indeed regard him as scarcely worth the killing; but no man can see the naked soul of his brother, and it may be vastly different from his body; as different as the abode on earth is from the mansion in heaven. “It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.” It is cast in the shape of a cripple on earth, it is raised in the form of an angel. The starved soul of le Bossu looked out of his patient eyes and saw not even a crumb of comfort falling from the rich man’s table, and self-sacrifice became the law of his life.

He looked down at his brown, toil-worn, right hand, and tears shone in his eyes. It was sanctified, for she had kissed it. He shrank within himself at the thought, but in her gratitude and her relief, she had thanked him and she had even taken his hand and kissed it. Had he not delivered her from a fate worse than death? and was he not her humble friend and servant? Rosaline’s impulse had been followed by no second thought; her whole soul was filled with the hope of escaping to her lover. And the poor little cobbler understood her, but he felt that he might fall down and worship her still. No one else had ever considered him, no one else had ever been uniformly kind to him; in the parched desert of his life she alone had held him a cup of water. The starved and empty heart held one image; the life—of so little worth—was at her service.

The sun was high enough now to reach the court, and the spot of light on the pavement began to grow, but the weed that had blossomed in June had gone to seed and stood there yellow and lean. One of the children opposite was ill of a fever, and the other played silently, in a melancholy way, on the steps. Le Bossu’s glance lighted on her and his heart was touched; it was cruel that a heart so large in its sympathy for all sufferers should have been cast by the wayside and choked with thorns. He rose from his bench and took up a little pair of shoes, and then he opened his wallet and counted out some money; with the shoes and the coin he crossed the court and gave them to the little girl for her sick sister. The child stared at him wide-eyed; she had shown him as little mercy as the others, and had looked upon the hunchback as unlike other human beings. She had not the sense to thank him, though she clasped his presents greedily to her breast and fled into the house, half-affrighted at the little man with his hump. The unwitting cruelty of children often hurts as much as the coarse brutality of their parents, but to-day le Bossu smiled. If his life was worth something to Rosaline de St. Cyr, it was worth all the suffering of living it; the bon Dieu had given him a blessed compensation.

He was returning to the shop of Two Shoes when another man entered the court. The cobbler looked about anxiously, for he had been dreading the possible appearance of Père Ambroise or one of M. de Baudri’s emissaries, but a second glance reassured him, for he came face to face with François d’Aguesseau. The hunchback signed to him to follow him in to his shop and then closed the door.

“Where is she?” demanded d’Aguesseau, in an agitated tone. “I received your message, and I am here.”

The cobbler looked at him strangely. “Did you come to release mademoiselle single-handed?” he asked quietly.

“I came to save her—if mortal man can do it,” he retorted sternly. “It may be that they will take me in exchange; I hear that there is a price on my head—but, mon Dieu! where is she?”

His face was haggard and his dress much disordered. It was evident that he had not paused for either rest or food.

“She is at St. Césaire, I trust,” the cobbler replied calmly; “she and Babet got away from Père Ambroise’s house last night and started this morning in disguise for St. Césaire.”

He made no mention of his share in the deliverance, and François jumped to another conclusion.

“Faithful Babet!” he exclaimed joyfully; “doubtless she planned it all. I will follow them at once.”

“You must meet them at the appointed spot, not elsewhere,” said the cobbler. “I was to meet them between the bridge and the cataract, at the spot where the old mulberry stands. Do you recall it?”

“Perfectly,” replied d’Aguesseau, “but why there?”

“Because they are to hide at St. Césaire until afternoon; then, if there is no pursuit to St. Cyr, they can start without being observed. If the château is too closely guarded, they will wait until night,” he added; “but it will not be, for no one will think of their return to the close vicinity of danger; it is Nîmes that will be searched for them.”

“But why can I not go straight to them now?” François demanded impatiently.

The cobbler sighed. “Monsieur,” he said patiently, “every house, every cottage is watched, and if you are recognized—”

He broke off with an expressive gesture.

“I see,” d’Aguesseau replied; “you are a wise man, Petit Bossu. Tell me about Madame de St. Cyr.”

“She died yesterday in the jail here,” the hunchback answered; “the shock of the arrest and mademoiselle’s danger ended her life.”

D’Aguesseau clenched his hand. “Mon Dieu!” he exclaimed, “how long wilt Thou afflict us?—how long?”

“It was best so,” the cobbler remarked quietly. “If she had lived, Mademoiselle Rosaline would have sacrificed herself to save her. She believed that you and her grandmother were both captives; M. de Baudri told her so, and promised to save your lives—to release you both only on the condition that she should marry him.”

“The accursed villain!” broke out François, laying his hand on his sword: “may I be spared to chastise him!”

He walked to and fro in the little room in suppressed fury; all the fierce impulses of a bold and daring nature were aroused.

“Dieu!” he exclaimed, in a low tone, “I cannot go to England for Cavalier; I must stay and fight this monster!”

“Nay,” remarked le Bossu, gravely, “you must save Mademoiselle de St. Cyr.”

François came to himself. “I ought not to need you to remind me,” he said. “I will go at once to the appointed place and wait; it is not long now, but, in the meantime, is she safe?”

“We can only trust in Providence,” replied the cobbler, “since to approach her would increase her risks. But—pardon me, monsieur—if you stay much longer in Nîmes, you will be arrested.”

“I know it,” he replied; “I thought only of her when I came, but I must get away now for her sake. Charlot, I thank you,” he said, holding out his hand; “I do not know why you should do so much for us who are, in your eyes, heretics and criminals.”

The hunchback smiled as he returned the pressure of d’Aguesseau’s hand.

“Life is a mystery,” he rejoined, with a new dignity that became him well, “and so is death.”

He went with François down the Rue St. Antoine and stood at the gate watching him until his figure disappeared on the long white road. Later le Bossu would go himself to keep the appointment, for he too had an errand there; nor could he rest until he knew that mademoiselle was safely out of the neighborhood of Nîmes. But there was time yet, and he wanted to know what Père Ambroise intended to do, and where M. de Baudri would next cast his net.

Meanwhile, out at St. Césaire, Babet and Rosaline were safely hidden in the blacksmith’s house. It was a little cottage on the outskirts of the village, and from the rear the inmates could easily reach the woods about St. Cyr. The smith had been a faithful though humble friend to the family at the château, and like many others, he was a concealed Huguenot. He and his wife therefore gladly ministered to Rosaline’s comfort and set a simple dinner of pot-au-feu before their two guests. Babet and Truffe did ample justice to the meal, but Rosaline could not eat, in spite of Babet’s remonstrances. The young girl was frantic to be off, to fly to her lover, that they might seek safety together; and she had not the older woman’s prudence, who felt that another dinner might be a long way off, and who did not believe profoundly in the culinary accomplishments of the Cévenols.

The hour came at last, and bidding her faithful friends, the smith and his wife, adieu, Rosaline set out with her escort, Babet and the dog. Nothing had occurred to alarm them or to indicate that their hiding-place was suspected, and the blacksmith’s boy, employed for scout duties, brought in the report that St. Cyr had been deserted since the previous day, when Rosaline had left it. The two women entered the place, therefore, with lighter hearts. Babet was determined to enter the château, if possible, to secure Madame de St. Cyr’s jewels and a considerable sum of money that had been secreted to provide for just such an emergency; for they had for many years expected to be denounced as Huguenots. Rosaline was to remain near the hedge that surrounded the garden, to warn Babet if any one approached, while the older and stronger woman went for madame’s iron box. Rosaline doubted the wisdom of the attempt, yet neither of the two women cared to face the wilderness without money to pay for either shelter or food, and it was impossible to open the secret place where the box was while the dragoons lurked about the house.

They approached the château with great caution, listening and watching, but no one appeared, not a leaf stirred, and Rosaline’s doves were cooing in the sun.

“Ah, my poor birds,” she said sadly. “I am glad that the blacksmith’s good wife will take them; otherwise I should feel as if I were leaving them to perish.”

Babet did not pause to listen to these sentiments. Being sure that no one was about, she entered the garden, followed by Truffe, who dashed eagerly along, anxious to be at home again. Still there were no sounds or signs of humanity, and advancing with a firmer step, Babet entered the house unmolested.

Meanwhile Rosaline, left alone outside of the hedge, walked to and fro in the shade of the mulberries, watching the place and beginning to feel easier when she heard no sound, for she knew that Truffe’s bark would have announced the presence of strangers. It would take Babet some little time, and Rosaline walked further on among the trees; this might be the last time that she would ever approach the home of her childhood, and her heart was very sad. Thoughts of her grandmother thronged into her mind, and she lived over again the agony of yesterday. Absorbed in her painful revery, she forgot her surroundings, and unconsciously strayed farther into the wood. Here it was thickest; the tree trunks clustered closely and the shadows lay about her; beyond, a broad band of sunlight fell athwart the green shade. The moss under her feet was thick and brown, and already the leaves were falling.

Suddenly some one sprang upon her from behind, strong fingers clasping her throat and choking back the cries that rose to her lips. She resisted with all her might, but her unseen foe was stronger than she, and forced her forward. In vain she strove to call for help, to evade the clutching arms; then her foot caught in the gnarled root of a mulberry tree and she fell, face downward, with those terrible hands still at her throat. Then the shock of the fall, the horror of her situation, and a choking sensation overcame her and she lost consciousness.

CHAPTER XXII
THE OLD WINDMILL

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.”

CHAPTER XXIII
THE COBBLER’S BARGAIN

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.

CHAPTER XXIV
“O DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?”

An hour later the dusty little cavalcade filed slowly up a steep and rocky hill and drew rein beside a strip of woodland on the summit. On every side the country rolled away, barren and broken with crags; here and there a low growth of juniper bushes or a solitary fig tree, where the soil was more fertile. The dragoons dismounted at M. de Baudri’s command and surrounded the spot. It would be impossible for any one to escape down that bare hillside unseen. De Baudri’s eyes burned fiercely; he thought his prey within his grasp. Le Bossu was lame from the long and weary walk, and his drawn face was white, but his expression was full of content.

“A whole hour,” he said to himself. “Please God she is out of reach!”

He obeyed a motion of M. de Baudri’s hand and led the way into the wood. It was not thick and there was but little underbrush, for even here the ground was rocky and uncharitable. He looked about as he walked, as if he wanted to remember even little things now; almost all the trees were chestnuts, these and mulberries growing best in the neighborhood of Nîmes. He noticed the moss and the lichens, and here and there a wild vine trailed across the way. The wind blew keenly now from the north, and overhead the gray clouds hung low, but the west was glorious, the sun hanging just above the horizon. The hunchback noted all these things, and he heard the heavy tread of the men behind him, the rattle of M. de Baudri’s sword. He walked on; a great peace was filling his soul, his pulses throbbed evenly, he lifted his head; his life was, after all, worth much,—it was to pay her ransom. He came to the centre of the wood and sat down on a large rock; before him the trees parted and he could look straight toward the west, the whole landscape at his feet. He drew M. de Baudri’s money from his wallet and cast it on the ground.

A suspicion had been dawning upon de Baudri since they had dismounted, and he halted now and stared fiercely from the cobbler to the despised coins, the price of blood.

“Sang de Dieu!” he thundered, “where is the grotto, slave?”

Le Bossu turned on him a calm face.

“There is none, monsieur,” he replied simply.

De Baudri broke out with a terrible oath, drawing his sword.

“You lying, humped toad!” he said, “how dared you do this?”

He made a move as if to strike him dead, and then a sudden thought checked him.

“Bah!” he ejaculated, “soil my sword with the blood of such vermin? I am a fool. Where is the girl?” he added fiercely. “Pardieu, I will wring your neck!”

“I do not know where she is,” replied le Bossu, truthfully enough, for he did not know where they were then.

“And you led us here to cheat us, slave?” said de Baudri. “A fine scheme—as you will learn to your cost. If I thought you knew where she was, I’d torture it out of you with hot irons.”

The cobbler did not look at him; his brown eyes dwelt on the distance, and his soul was uplifted by the approaching joy of self-sacrifice. He did not hear the abuse that M. de Baudri continued to pour upon him; his life was passing before his eyes, his wretched, abused childhood, his sharp mortification over his physical infirmity, his silent, intense longing for friendship and love, his despised solitude, his hard, thankless labor; and now it was over, and not in vain! “Mother of God,” he prayed, “comfort the wretched.” He awoke to hear M. de Baudri ordering his soldiers to bring a rope.

A dragoon went for a piece that was coiled on the back of one of the horses. The troopers never hunted heretics without rope. He returned promptly, and approaching le Bossu was slipping the noose over his head, but another scheme had occurred to the leader.

“Hang him by the feet,” he said coolly, pointing with his white hand to a tree. “Sacrebleu! ’twill hurt more so.”

They secured the rope about the hunchback’s feet while their victim watched them with calm eyes.

“What matter,” he thought, “if I have saved her? May the bon Dieu make my sacrifice complete!”

De Baudri watched him coolly, wondering that the rapt face was so calm.

“When I give the order,” he said to the soldiers, “haul him up and let him hang twenty minutes. Now, rogue, where is the girl?”

No answer; the clear eyes looked straight toward the setting sun, over the beautiful valley of the Vaunage. The radiance of the west fell on his face, as though he looked through those golden gates into Paradise.

“Nom de St. Denis!” ejaculated de Baudri, “what a stubborn fool. Now, my men!”

He raised his hand carelessly and the cripple was drawn up by the feet to the limb of a tree, his head hanging with the face to the west. Ten minutes passed—twenty.

“Fire!” said M. de Baudri.

There was the crash of a volley, the blue smoke rose, the poor, misshapen body swung around in the red sunlight, and there was silence,—broken at last by the trample of horses as the troopers mounted and rode down the hill.

The sun set in a sea of gold; the gray clouds above turned the color of a red rose; a haze floated over Nîmes. In the wood, only the dead leaves rustled as they fell. In the upper room of the shop of Two Shoes, the candle before the shrine had burned down to the very end. It flickered and flared up, a single flame in the gloom, and then it went out forever.

CHAPTER XXV
THE SHIP AT SEA

Two weeks later a party of wayfarers came to the old mill at St. Cyr. The door was fastened, but they opened it, only to recoil with horror. They found a hideous old woman tied there. She had been dead a long while and the fearful distortion of her face sent them shrieking from the spot. Even in death Mère Tigrane had not lost her power to strike terror to the hearts of others.

Not long afterwards a ship was crossing the channel to Dover, on a calm sea with a blue sky overhead. The white foam gathered in its wake and the sun glistened on its full-set sails and on the flag bearing the crosses of St. George and St. Andrew. On the deck stood Rosaline and her lover,—her husband now, for they had been wedded in the Cévennes,—and near them sat Babet contentedly feeding Truffe with a cake. Rosaline leaned on the rail, looking back toward France.

“Dear native land,” she sighed softly, “I may never see you more; yet I am content. Ah, François, we ought to be thankful indeed. I am glad that Cavalier sent you to England; I can bear no more, and it may be we can move these strangers to help the cause.”

“I pray so,” he replied gently; “England’s queen is favorable to us. At least, you will be safe; I could not take my wife to those rugged hiding-places in the Cévennes, with winter so near. Ah, my love, are you satisfied?”

She looked up with tender eyes. “I am content, my husband,” she answered softly. “I bless the bon Dieu, but my heart is sore at the thought of poor Charlot. Can it be that the blacksmith’s boy was mistaken? Could they really hang him for not betraying us?”

“I fear so,” replied d’Aguesseau sadly; “the report came straight enough. Let us remember, though, that it ended his sufferings; he told me that his life was full of pain.”

Rosaline looked back over the blue sea with tearful eyes.

“Poor little Charlot,” she murmured gently. “The hunchbacked cobbler with the soul of a hero and a martyr. His memory shall be sacred to me forever.”

THE END

The Cardinal’s Musketeer

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE

BY
MARY IMLAY TAYLOR
12mo, $1.25.

The hero of “The Cardinal’s Musketeer” is a knightly youth, brave and generous, and a devoted lover. The plots of the King’s mother, Marie de Médicis, and the counter-plots of the patriotic Cardinal give rise to forceful action and dramatic situations; yet no attempt is made to cram the reader’s mind with the facts and dates of French history. * * * Our hearty sympathy is engaged from the first on behalf of Péron, the Cardinal’s Musketeer, to whom we are introduced in his childhood, and on behalf of the haughty little demoiselle Renée, who ultimately becomes his wife. The story is full of life and love. Lengthy descriptions and sermonizings are conspicuously absent; the characters speak for themselves, act their parts, and manifest all that is in them by their words and deeds.

“The story is full of life, love, and exquisite, not to say dramatic, incidents.”—Boston Times.

“There is love enough to warm and color the adventure, but not to cloy the taste; there is dramatic contrast of character and situation, swiftness of movement, and an easy, confident flow of style that combine to make a delightful tale—one that the reader will lay down with a regret that there is not more of it.”—Chicago Chronicle.

“The story is a strong, well-studied reproduction of the times of Cardinal Richelieu. * * * It is a stirring romance, overflowing with life and action.”—The Indianapolis News.

OTHER BOOKS BY MISS TAYLOR

ON THE RED STAIRCASE, 12mo, $1.25.

“A most vivid and absorbing tale of love and adventure.”—The Churchman, New York.

AN IMPERIAL LOVER, 12mo, $1.25.

“Skillfully constructed, well written, and thoroughly interesting.”—Spectator, London.

A YANKEE VOLUNTEER, 12mo, $1.25.

“A story fraught with such exquisite beauty as is seldom associated with history.”—Boston Times.

THE HOUSE OF THE WIZARD, 12mo, $1.25.

“A strong, well-studied, and striking reproduction of the social and political conditions of the age of King Henry VIII. * * * Overflowing with life and action.”—Chicago Chronicle.

For sale by all booksellers, or mailed on receipt of price by the publishers,

A. C. McCLURG & CO.,
CHICAGO.

The DREAD AND FEAR
OF KINGS

By J. BRECKENRIDGE ELLIS

12mo . . $1.25

READERS will find in this historical romance a work of thrilling interest. The period is the beginning of the Christian era, and the scenes are laid in Rome, the island of Capri and other parts of Italy. The Emperor, Tiberius, had retired to Capri, and from his mysterious seclusion sent forth decrees which kept the Imperial City in a continual state of terror. A single word uttered in disrespect of the Emperor or his favorite, Sejanus, might mean death and confiscation of property. No man in Rome felt the least security that his life might not in a moment be sworn away by some slave or base informer.

IT is this reign of terror in Rome that forms the background to the striking picture of ancient life that Mr. Ellis has produced. The story is one of love and adventure, in which types of the diverse nationalities that then thronged the Imperial City are revealed in characters—some of them historical personages—of marked individuality. The interest of the love story, the stirring incidents and the spirited dialogue, enchain the attention of the reader.

For sale by booksellers generally, or mailed on receipt of price, by the publishers,

A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers
CHICAGO

THE STORY OF TONTY.

AN HISTORICAL ROMANCE.

By Mrs. Mary Hartwell Catherwood.

12mo, 224 pages. Price, $1.25.

“The Story of Tonty” is eminently a Western story, beginning at Montreal, tarrying at Fort Frontenac, and ending at the old fort at Starved Rock, on the Illinois River. It weaves the adventures of the two great explorers, the intrepid La Salle and his faithful lieutenant, Tonty, into a tale as thrilling and romantic as the descriptive portions are brilliant and vivid. It is superbly illustrated with twenty-three masterly drawings by Mr. Enoch Ward.

Such tales as this render service past expression to the cause of history. They weave a spell in which old chronicles are vivified and breathe out human life. Mrs. Catherwood, in thus bringing out from the treasure-houses of half-forgotten historical record things new and old, has set herself one of the worthiest literary tasks of her generation, and is showing herself finely adequate to its fulfillment.—Transcript, Boston.

A powerful story by a writer newly sprung to fame.... All the century we have been waiting for the deft hand that could put flesh upon the dry bones of our heroes. Here is a recreation indeed.... One comes from the reading of the romance with a quickened interest in our early national history, and a profound admiration for the art that can so transport us to the dreamful realms where fancy is monarch of fact.—Press, Philadelphia.

“The Story of Tonty” is full of the atmosphere of its time. It betrays an intimate and sympathetic knowledge of the great age of explorers, and it is altogether a charming piece of work.—Christian Union, New York.

Original in treatment, in subject, and in all the details of mise en scene, it must stand unique among recent romances.—News, Chicago.

Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by

A. C. McCLURG & CO., Publishers.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Obvious typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE COBBLER OF NÎMES ***

Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will be renamed.

Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg™ electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG™ concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away—you may do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark license, especially commercial redistribution.

START: FULL LICENSE

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE

PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK

To protect the Project Gutenberg™ mission of promoting the free distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work (or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project Gutenberg License available with this file or online at www.gutenberg.org/license.

Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg electronic works

1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property (trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg electronic works in your possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project Gutenberg electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8.

1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg electronic works even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project Gutenberg electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below.

1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project Gutenberg electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the United States and you are located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project Gutenberg mission of promoting free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg name associated with the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg License when you share it without charge with others.

1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project Gutenberg work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any country other than the United States.

1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg:

1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg License must appear prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg work (any work on which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, copied or distributed:

This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook.

1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked to the Project Gutenberg License for all works posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work.

1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg.

1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project Gutenberg License.

1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg work in a format other than “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version posted on the official Project Gutenberg website (www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1.

1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg works unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9.

1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing access to or distributing Project Gutenberg electronic works provided that:

- • You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from the use of Project Gutenberg works calculated using the method you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg trademark, but he has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.”

- • You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg™ License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg™ works.

- • You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of receipt of the work.

- • You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free distribution of Project Gutenberg™ works.

1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark. Contact the Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below.

1.F.

1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project Gutenberg™ collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain “Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment.

1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project Gutenberg™ trademark, and any other party distributing a Project Gutenberg™ electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGE.

1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further opportunities to fix the problem.

1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’, WITH NO OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE.

1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions.

1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone providing copies of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works in accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg™ electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg work, and (c) any Defect you cause.

Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg

Project Gutenberg is synonymous with the free distribution of electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from people in all walks of life.

Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg’s goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg collection will remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure and permanent future for Project Gutenberg and future generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at www.gutenberg.org.

Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit 501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws.

The Foundation’s business office is located at 41 Watchung Plaza #516, Montclair NJ 07042, USA, +1 (862) 621-9288. Email contact links and up to date contact information can be found at the Foundation’s website and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact

Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation

Project Gutenberg™ depends upon and cannot survive without widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations ($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt status with the IRS.

The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate.

While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who approach us with offers to donate.

International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff.

Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate.

Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg electronic works

Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and distributed Project Gutenberg eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support.

Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition.

Most people start at our website which has the main PG search facility: www.gutenberg.org.

This website includes information about Project Gutenberg, including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks.

Table of Contents

- THE COBBLER OF NÎMES
- CONTENTS.
- CHAPTER I THE BODY OF A DAMNED PERSON
- CHAPTER II THE SHOP OF TWO SHOES
- CHAPTER III MADEMOISELLE’S SLIPPERS
- CHAPTER IV ROSALINE
- CHAPTER V THE COBBLER’S GUEST
- CHAPTER VI A MILITARY SUITOR
- CHAPTER VII A STRING OF TROUT
- CHAPTER VIII BABET VISITS THE COBBLER
- CHAPTER IX CHARLOT BURNS A CANDLE
- CHAPTER X A DANGEROUS SUIT
- CHAPTER XI FRANÇOIS MAKES A PLEDGE
- CHAPTER XII THE FINGER OF FATE
- CHAPTER XIII THE BATTLE HYMN
- CHAPTER XIV “AND ALL FOR LOVE”
- CHAPTER XV THE TEMPTATION OF LE BOSSU
- CHAPTER XVI A BRIEF DELAY
- CHAPTER XVII M. DE BAUDRI’S TERMS
- CHAPTER XVIII ROSALINE’S HUMBLE FRIENDS
- CHAPTER XIX “MORTIS PORTIS FRACTIS”
- CHAPTER XX THE COBBLER’S FAITH
- CHAPTER XXI IN THE WOODS OF ST. CYR
- CHAPTER XXII THE OLD WINDMILL
- CHAPTER XXIII THE COBBLER’S BARGAIN
- CHAPTER XXIV “O DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?”
- CHAPTER XXV THE SHIP AT SEA
- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE