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

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Title: The cobbler of Nîmes

Author: Mary Imlay Taylor

Release date: October 19, 2022 [eBook #69180]
Most recently updated: October 19, 2024

Language: English

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

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 NÃŽMES

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 Cardinalâ€™s Musketeer. 12mo | 1.25
The Cobbler of NÃ®mes. 12mo | 1.25

THE
Cobbler of NÃ®mes

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. | Mademoiselleâ€™s Slippers | 31
IV. | Rosaline | 44
V. | The Cobblerâ€™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. | FranÃ§ois Makes a Pledge | 119
XII. | The Finger of Fate | 130
XIII. | The Battle Hymn | 140
XIV. | â€œAnd All for Loveâ€� | 151
XV. | The Temptation of le Bossu | 164
XVI. | A Brief Delay | 178
XVII. | M. de Baudriâ€™s Terms | 189
XVIII. | Rosalineâ€™s Humble Friends | 203
XIX. | â€œMortis Portis Fractis!â€� | 213
XX. | The Cobblerâ€™s Faith | 225
XXI. | In the Woods of St. Cyr | 237
XXII. | The Old Windmill | 249
XXIII. | The Cobblerâ€™s Bargain | 260
XXIV. | â€œO Death, Where Is Thy Sting?â€� | 269
XXV. | The Ship at Sea | 275

The Cobbler of NÃ®mes

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 NÃ®mes was therefore at its height. A juggler was swallowing a sword in the midst of an admiring circle. Mademoiselle HÃ©loÃ¯se, 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 himâ€”a rival attractionâ€”a monkey in scarlet breeches, with a blouse or camisole over them. The little creatureâ€™s antics were hailed with shouts of derisive laughter and cries of â€œCamisard!â€� â€œBarbet!â€� â€œHuguenot!â€� the monkeyâ€™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,â€”though many a heart was in secret sympathy with the Huguenot rebels of the CÃ©vennes; but were they not in NÃ®mes? And the Intendant BÃ¢ville 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 themâ€”chatteringâ€”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,â€”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.

â€œMessieurs et mesdames!â€� he cried, â€œonly a half-crown to see the body of a damned person!â€�

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.

â€œHere is the body of a damned person!â€� he shouted. â€œDieu! what an opportunity for the good of your soul! Too much, madame?â€� he said to a fishwife who grumbled at the price, â€œtoo much! â€™Tis a chance in a thousand! The body came from the Tour de Constance! Madame will have her moneyâ€™s worth.â€�

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.

â€œHalf a crown, messieurs et mesdames,â€� cried the man of the black robe; â€œhalf a crown to see a dead and damned Huguenot!â€�
â€œToo much, monsieur!â€� said a voice behind him.

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

â€œYou are not a good Catholic, M. le Bossu!â€� replied the showman, mocking, for the hunchback wore a poor suit of brown and a frayed hat.

â€œI am a good Catholic,â€� he replied calmly, â€œbut your price is highâ€”â€™tis only a dead Huguenot.â€�
â€œDame! but live ones are too plenty,â€� retorted the other, with a loud laugh. â€œWhat are you to complain?â€� he added gayly,â€”â€œthe hunchback!â€”le bossu!â€�
â€œLe Bossuâ€”yes,â€� replied the hunchback, calmly; â€œthat is what men call me.â€�

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

â€œYour Excellencyâ€™s name?â€� 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.

â€œâ€™Tis only Charlot,â€� he said, â€œthe shoemaker of the Rue St. Antoine.â€�

The showman laughed again.

â€œEnter, MaÃ®tre Savetier!â€� he said derisively, â€œand see the dead Huguenot. Dame! but I believe he is one himself,â€� 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.

â€œThis way, mesdames! This way, to see a damned person! Half a crown! half a crown!â€�

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 centreâ€”directly under the opening in the topâ€”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 devilâ€”cut out of black stuffâ€”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 teethâ€”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 himâ€”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.

â€œDieu!â€� said the fishwife, licking her lips, â€œwhat a white throat she had; â€™twould have been a pity to hang her. See, there is a mark there on her arm where â€™twas bound! Is she not pretty, Bossu?â€�

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

â€œDiable!â€� ejaculated the soldier turning on the old crone, â€œâ€™tis heresy to call a damned person pretty, MÃ¨re Tigrane.â€�

MÃ¨re Tigrane leered at him with horrible intelligence.

â€œNo one is to think a heretic pretty but the dragoons, eh?â€� she said grinning. â€œDame! we know what you think, monsieur.â€�

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.

â€œYou are a witch, MÃ¨re Tigrane,â€� he said uneasily; â€œlet me alone!â€�

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 otherâ€™s sleeve. The stranger started and stared at him as if he had just awakened from sleep.

â€œA word with you, friend,â€� 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 MÃ¨re 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.

â€œMÃ¨re de Dieu!â€� she said, â€œâ€™tis worth a half-crown after allâ€”and I paid Adolphe in false coin too, pauvre garÃ§on!â€�

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

â€œWhat do you want?â€� he demanded of le Bossu; â€œI do not know you.â€�
â€œYou were in danger,â€� replied the hunchback, quietly, â€œand you are in trouble; the bon Dieu knows that I also am in trouble.â€�

The little manâ€™s tone, his deformity, his kind eyes appealed to the other.

â€œWe should be friends,â€� he said grimly. â€œDieu! I am indeed in trouble.â€�

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

â€œFollow me, friend,â€� 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 â€œle Bossu!â€� 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 RÃ©colletsâ€”the Franciscan Conventâ€”and entered the Rue St. Antoine. Here it was that the stranger roused himself and addressed his companion.

â€œWhere are we going?â€� he asked sharply.

â€œTo my shop,â€� replied le Bossu; â€œâ€™tis but ten yards ahead now. Have no fear,â€� he added kindly; â€œthe bon Dieu made me in such shape that my heart is ever with the sorrowful.â€�
â€œI do not understand you,â€� said the other. â€œI do not know your nameâ€”you do not ask mineâ€”why do you seek me out?â€�
â€œMy name is Charlot,â€� returned the cripple, simply. â€œI 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 hunchbackâ€”le Bossu! It does not matter. As for your name, I will know it when you please, monsieur.â€�

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.

â€œBehold my shop,â€� he said, â€œthe sign of the Two Shoes.â€�

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 cobblerâ€™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 cobblerâ€™s stool, and a box of sabots, nothing more. A door opened into the kitchen, where a narrow flight of stairsâ€”like a ladderâ€”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 crippleâ€™s whole aspect, as though the soulâ€”looking out of its windowsâ€”made its own appeal. It was his eye that won upon his new acquaintance.

â€œYou said you wished to speak to me,â€� he remarked abruptly. â€œWhat is it?â€�
â€œI will tell you the truth, friend,â€� le Bossu replied calmly, â€œyou were showing too much emotion yonder; you were observed by the dragoon and MÃ¨re Tigrane. She is a dangerous person; men call her the she-wolfâ€”la Louve.â€�
â€œToo much emotion!â€� repeated the other. â€œDieu! you seem an honest manâ€”shall I tell you who that dead woman was?â€� he asked recklessly. â€œAre you a Catholic?â€�
â€œI am,â€� replied the cobbler, quietly; â€œâ€™tis best to tell me nothing.â€�

His visitor stared at him.

â€œWhy did you try to protect me, then?â€� he asked. â€œI am a desperate man and unknown to youâ€”I have no money to reward kindness.â€�
â€œNor to pay for a lodging,â€� remarked the hunchback.

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

â€œMy worldly goods,â€� he said.

â€œI thought so,â€� rejoined the cobbler, dryly, â€œand you paid the other half-crown to see the dead Huguenot woman.â€�

An expression of pain passed over the face opposite.

â€œI would have paid more to be sure that it wasâ€”â€� He broke off, covering his face with his hands. â€œOh, mon Dieu!â€� he exclaimed brokenly.

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

â€œYou must leave NÃ®mes,â€� he said at last; â€œyou will betray yourself here. Meanwhile, there is a room overhead; if you wish you can stay there, free of rent, until you go.â€�
â€œAgain, why do you do this?â€� asked the stranger.

The cobbler indicated his hump with a gesture.

â€œThe bon Dieu made me so,â€� he said simply; â€œyet I am a scorn in the market-place, a miserable cripple. I swore to the saints that I would help the miserable.â€�
â€œYou will take a risk,â€� remarked his companion,â€”â€œI am FranÃ§ois dâ€™Aguesseau, a Huguenotâ€”â€�
â€œHush!â€� The cobbler held up his hand. â€œI do not wish to know, M. dâ€™Aguesseau. If you will take the upper room, â€™tis yours.â€�
â€œI will take it while I can pay for it, at least,â€� said dâ€™Aguesseau, â€œand I thank you.â€�

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. Dâ€™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 NÃ®mes 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.

â€œWhat is that?â€� asked dâ€™Aguesseau with a strange glance from the image to the devotee.

â€œA prayer,â€� replied le Bossu; â€œwhen I see danger I always offer a prayer to our Lady.â€�

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

â€œIt is yours,â€� said the hunchback. â€œYou are weary; lie down until the pot-au-feu is ready, and we will sup together.â€�
â€œI have been in many places,â€� said dâ€™Aguesseau, â€œand seen many peopleâ€”but never one like you before.â€�

Le Bossu smiled. â€œYetâ€”save for the humpâ€”I am as others,â€� he said quietly. â€œI hear some one crossing the court,â€� he added; â€œif any one enters the shop, â€™tis best for you to be quiet up here. There are some who need not know I have a guest.â€�
â€œI trust I shall not imperil your safety by any carelessness,â€� dâ€™Aguesseau replied earnestly, casting a kindly glance at the drawn face.

â€œI must go down,â€� said the cobbler. â€œRest here awhile; I will call you to supper.â€�

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 MÃ¨re 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.

â€œWhere are my sabots, Petit Bossu?â€� she demanded, her fierce little eyes travelling around the room, and her lips very red. â€œI came for them myself, you are so slow.â€�
â€œYou do not need them, MÃ¨re Tigrane,â€� the cobbler replied coolly, eying her feet; â€œyour sabots are as good as new. I did not promise the others until St. Bartholomewâ€™s day.â€�

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

â€œDame! but you live well, Charlot,â€� she remarked. â€œThe sight of the damned corpse gave me also an appetite. MÃ¨re de Dieu! how white and tender her flesh was! â€™Twould have made a good pottage,â€� she added laughing, her yellow teeth showing against her blood-red tongue like the fangs of a she-wolfâ€”verily, she merited her name.

â€œYou should arrange with Adolphe,â€� the hunchback said coolly. â€œI will send you your sabots on Wednesday.â€�
â€œEh! but Iâ€™ll come for them,â€� she replied with a wink; â€œI love to come to visit you.â€�

The cobbler grunted, moving slowly and painfullyâ€”as he did at timesâ€”to the shop. But MÃ¨re Tigrane was reluctant to follow him,â€”she was listening; she thought she heard a step overhead.

â€œCharlot,â€� she said amiably, â€œhow much do you get for your room above?â€�
â€œI do not rent it,â€� he replied calmly, but he too was listening.

Happily, the sounds above ceased.

â€œI want it,â€� she remarked briskly; â€œI will pay a good price for itâ€”for my cousin. He is apprenticed to the blacksmith behind the Garden of the RÃ©collets. I will look at it nowâ€”at onceâ€”Petit Bossu.â€�

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.

â€œIt is locked to-day,â€� he said coolly, â€œand I shall not rent it now.â€�

She grinned, with an evil look.

â€œWhat have you got there, mon chÃ©ri?â€� she demanded, shaking her cane at him with sinister pleasantry.

â€œThe devil,â€� replied le Bossu, sitting down to his bench and taking up a shoe and beginning to stitch.

â€œOr his wifeâ€”which?â€� 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.

â€œYou have no hospitality,â€� she said, â€œyou dog of a cobblerâ€”I will come on Wednesday again for the sabots.â€�
â€œAs you please,â€� he retorted indifferently, stitching away.

â€œDiable! you sew like a woman,â€� she remarked. â€œYou might better be cutting my shoes out of the good wood, that does not split, than making those silly things of leather!â€�

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. MÃ¨re Tigraneâ€™s eyes gleamed, and she pointed a long, bony finger at the poor lad.

â€œHe put it in, Adolphe,â€� she shrieked, with an oath. â€œI saw him, the vagabond!â€�

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

â€œDame!â€� she said, â€œâ€™twas worth a good half-crown.â€�

CHAPTER III
MADEMOISELLEâ€™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. CÃ©saire.

The highroad, white with dust, unrolled like a ribbon through a rugged plain which lay southwest of NÃ®mes, stretching from the low range of limestone mountainsâ€”the foothills of the CÃ©vennesâ€”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 CÃ©vennes, 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 CÃ©vennes, though MarÃ©chal Montrevel and the Intendant of Languedoc assured the king that they had wiped out the insurrection. But the â€œBarbetsâ€� or â€œCamisards,â€� as they were called in derision, though naming themselves â€œEnfants de Dieu,â€� kept up the fierce death-struggle. Meanwhile the city of NÃ®mes 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 NÃ®mes 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, â€œPetit Bossu!â€� 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 hunchbackâ€™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.

â€œThe bon Dieu bless her,â€� he murmured; â€œto her I am not the hunchback or the cobblerâ€”to her I am poor Charlot, her humble friend. Ciel! I would die for mademoiselle.â€�

He toiled slowly on; passing the village of St. CÃ©saire, he turned sharply to the north, and walking through a grove of olive trees, came in sight of a chÃ¢teau 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.

â€œAh, Truffe,â€� said the cobbler, gently, â€œwhere is your mistress? I have brought her the blue slippers at last.â€�

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.

â€œAh, Charlot, you have my slippers at last,â€� she exclaimed gayly, her blue eyes full of kindness as she greeted her humble visitor.

â€œI have them, Mademoiselle Rosaline,â€� he replied, his worn face lighting up, â€œand they are almost worthy of the feet that will wear them.â€�
â€œAlmost!â€� laughed mademoiselle, â€œyou are a born courtier, Charlotâ€”oh, what dears!â€�

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

â€œThey are pretty enough for a queen!â€� said Rosaline, taking them in her hands and looking at them critically, with her head on one side.

â€œOh, Charlot, I shall never forgive you if they do not fit!â€�
â€œThey will fit like gloves, mademoiselle,â€� the shoemaker replied complacently; â€œlet me try them on for you.â€�

But she was not yet done with her examination.

â€œWhere did you get the pattern for the rosettes?â€� she asked eagerly; â€œtruly, they are the prettiest I have seen.â€�
â€œI copied them after a pair from Paris, mademoiselle,â€� he replied, as pleased as she at his own success. â€œThe heels too are just like those worn at Versailles.â€�

Mademoiselle Rosaline laughed softly.

â€œI told you that you were a courtier, Charlot,â€� she said; â€œbut they say that the king wears high red heels, because he is not tall.â€�
â€œBut red heels would not please mademoiselle on blue shoes,â€� remarked the hunchback, smiling.

â€œBut, Charlot,â€� said she, with a mischievous gleam of fun in her eyes, â€œif we must all be of the kingâ€™s religion, must we not all also wear his red heels?â€�

The cobblerâ€™s pale face grew sad again.

â€œAlas, mademoiselle,â€� he said, with a sigh, â€œto you â€™tis a jest, but to someâ€”â€� he shook his head gravely, looking down at the little blue slippers in her lap.

â€œWhat is the matter?â€� she asked quickly, the smile dying on her lips. â€œHave theyâ€”been burning any one lately in NÃ®mes?â€�
â€œNay, mademoiselle,â€� he replied, kneeling on one knee in the gravel path, and taking the slippers off her small feet to try on the new ones.

â€œCome, come, Charlotâ€”tell me,â€� persisted his patroness, scarcely heeding the shoe that he was drawing on her right foot. â€œYou are as solemn as an owl this morning.â€�
â€œI will tell mademoiselle,â€� he rejoined, reverently arranging the rosette and smoothing the white silk stocking around the slender ankle. â€œThen she must not blame me if she is horrified.â€�
â€œShe is often horrified,â€� interrupted Rosaline, with a soft little laugh. â€œGo on, Charlot.â€�
â€œThere was a fair on Saturdayâ€”mademoiselle knows, for I saw Babet there buying a silk handkerchiefâ€”â€�
â€œBabet cannot stay away from a fair for her life,â€� mademoiselle interpolated again.

â€œâ€™Twas a very fine fair,â€� continued le Bossu, putting on the other slipper. â€œThere were many attractions, and the jailerâ€”ZÃ©nonâ€”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 BÃ¢ville for some reason,â€”what, I know not,â€”but she died on the road, and ZÃ©non made much by the exhibition.â€�

Rosaline shuddered, the color fading from her cheeks.

â€œAnd you went to see that horrible, wicked spectacle, Charlot?â€� she demanded, in open disgust.

â€œMademoiselle knows I am a good Catholic,â€� replied the cobbler, meekly, his eyes drooping before her look of disdain. â€œâ€™Tis done for the good of our soulsâ€”to show us the fate of these misguided people.â€�
â€œMon Dieu!â€� 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.

â€œThat was not all I saw at the fair,â€� he went on at last. â€œIn the tent there was alsoâ€”â€�

Rosaline made a gesture of disgust.

â€œI will hear no more!â€� she cried indignantly.

â€œThis will not horrify you, mademoiselle,â€� he replied gently; â€œâ€™tis only the story of my new guest.â€�

Her face relaxed, partly because she saw that she had hurt the hunchbackâ€™s feelings.

â€œWell, you may tell me,â€� she said reluctantly.

â€œThere was a young man thereâ€”in that tentâ€” Nay, mademoiselle, I will say nothing more of it.â€� Le Bossu broke off, and then went on carefully: â€œHe 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 isâ€”â€� the cobbler looked about keenly at the hedges, then he lowered his voice, â€œa Huguenot.â€�
â€œAnd what did you do with him?â€� Rosaline demanded eagerly.

â€œHe is in my upper room now,â€� replied the hunchback, â€œbut I do not know where he will go. He is not safe in NÃ®mes. 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.â€�
â€œWhat is it?â€� she asked, all interest now, and more than ever forgetful of her new slippers.

â€œFranÃ§ois dâ€™Aguesseau,â€� he answered, in an undertone, with another cautious glance behind him.

â€œâ€™Tis all very strange,â€� remarked mademoiselle, regarding the worn face thoughtfully. â€œYou are a good Catholic, Charlot, yet you imperil yourself to shelter a Huguenot.â€�
â€œThe risk to me is very little,â€� he replied with great simplicity. â€œI am too humble for M. de BÃ¢ville, 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.â€�
â€œI do not think you do wrong, Charlot,â€� she said gently, â€œand I am sure the bon Dieu forgives you; but M. de BÃ¢ville will not.â€�
â€œI can die but once, mademoiselle,â€� he rejoined smiling.

â€œWhy is it you always smile at death?â€� she asked.

â€œAh, mademoiselle, you are not as I am,â€� he said quietly. â€œDeath to meâ€”the gates of Paradise stand openâ€”suffering overâ€”poverty no more!â€�

Tears gathered in Rosalineâ€™s blue eyes.

â€œDo you suffer much now?â€� she asked.

â€œNearly always,â€� he replied.

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

â€œThey fit like gloves, mademoiselle,â€� he said calmly, â€œdo they give you comfort?â€�

The girl roused herself.

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

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.

â€œMademoiselle! Mademoiselle Rosaline!â€� it called; â€œthe dinner grows cold, and Madame de St. Cyr is waiting. Viens donc!â€�
â€œPoor Babet!â€� laughed Rosaline; â€œI 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.â€�

CHAPTER IV
ROSALINE

The sun shone cheerfully in the dining room of the chÃ¢teau. 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.

â€œAh, grandâ€™mÃ¨re, can we not help him?â€� the girl said earnestly. â€œThink of his desolate situation.â€�
â€œWe are poor, Rosaline,â€� the old woman replied gently, â€œand 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 CÃ©vennes! 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 Constanceâ€”or worse!â€�

Rosaline was feeding some morsels to Truffe with perfect composure.

â€œI have never been afraid, grandâ€™mÃ¨re,â€� she said, â€œand I hate to live a lieâ€”but I know you are wise. Yet, oh, madame, think of this Huguenot in NÃ®mes!â€�
â€œWhat did Charlot call him?â€� her grandmother asked thoughtfully. â€œI thought the name was familiar.â€�
â€œHe said â€™twas FranÃ§ois dâ€™Aguesseau.â€�

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

â€œCertainly I know,â€� she said; â€œthey are from DauphinÃ©. He must be the son of Sieur dâ€™Aguesseau who was broken on the wheel at Montpellier in â€™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 NÃ®mes. The song is true,â€� she added sadly:

â€œ â€˜Nos filles dans les monastÃ¨res,

Nos prisonniers dans les cachots,

Nos martyrs dont le sang se rÃ©pand Ã  grands flots,

Nos confesseurs sur les galÃ¨res,
Nos malades persÃ©cutÃ©s,
Nos mourants exposÃ©s Ã  plus dâ€™une furie,
Nos morts traÃ®nÃ©s Ã  la voierie,
Te disent (Ã´ Dieu!) nos calamitÃ©s.â€™ â€�

â€œWhat a terrible story of sorrow it is!â€� remarked Rosaline; â€œand to think that the corpse of a gentlewoman should be exposed in the market-place! Mon Dieu! I wonder if mine will be!â€�

Madame put up her hand with a gesture of horror.

â€œHush!â€� she said, with white lips, â€œI cannot bear it.â€�

Rosaline was contrite in a moment.

â€œA thousand pardons, grandâ€™mÃ¨re,â€� she said sweetly; â€œyou and I have lived so long the life of concealed Huguenots, treading on the edge of the volcano, that I grow careless in speech.â€�
â€œBut do you not see why I am so reluctant to take a risk?â€� her grandmother asked. â€œYet I know that this FranÃ§ois dâ€™Aguesseau is related to me through his mother. I remember now who she was, and it seems that I must do what I can.â€�

Her granddaughterâ€™s face lighted. â€œThat is like you, madame,â€� she said brightly; â€œwe could not believe she would turn a deaf ear, could we, Truffe? Ah, you petite gourmande, have I not given you enough?â€�

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 madameâ€™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.

â€œI do not know what we can do, Rosaline,â€� she said in evident perplexity; â€œhe 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.â€�

Rosaline made a grimace. â€œI wish M. de Baudri would stay with his dragoons in NÃ®mes,â€� she retorted. â€œBut, grandâ€™mÃ¨re, there must be a way. Let us think and think, until we find it.â€�
â€œI cannot understand Charlot,â€� remarked Madame, meditatively. â€œWe know he is a devout Romanist, yet this is not the first time I have known him to help the persecuted.â€�
â€œHe is the strangest little man in the world,â€� replied Rosaline, â€œand 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!â€�
â€œDo you think he suspects our religion?â€� madame asked anxiously.

â€œI do not know,â€� her granddaughter replied slowly, â€œbut sometimes I think so.â€�
â€œMon Dieu!â€� murmured the old woman, with a sigh; â€œthe axe hangs over our heads.â€�

Rosaline looked up surprised.

â€œSurely you do not fear Charlot?â€� she exclaimed. â€œCharlot!â€”why, he would no more betray us than would old Babet.â€�
â€œBabet is of the Religion; I trust no one else,â€� returned Madame de St. Cyr, gravely.

â€œI do,â€� replied Rosaline calmly; â€œI trust Charlot and PÃ¨re Ambroise.â€�
â€œIn a way, we are in PÃ¨re Ambroiseâ€™s hands,â€� her grandmother replied, â€œand 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.â€�
â€œYou do him an injustice,â€� retorted Rosaline; and then she smiled. â€œThe good father is naturally kind,â€”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 PÃ¨re 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 Babetâ€™s moulds of jelly; and how short his breath would come! Mon pÃ¨re is my friend, so do not find fault with him, grandâ€™mÃ¨re, even when he tries to convert me,â€”pretending all the while that he believes me to be one of his flock!â€�

Madame de St. Cyr laughed a little at the picture the girl drew of PÃ¨re 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 Rosalineâ€™s heart; she knew neither love nor fear.

CHAPTER V
THE COBBLERâ€™S GUEST

In the upper room of the shop of Two Shoes sat a desperate man. The sun did not shine for FranÃ§ois dâ€™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 NÃ®mes was flowing through the thoroughfare at the mouth of the court. But the Huguenot considered none of these things. He sat alone in the cobblerâ€™s house, his elbows leaning on the table before him, his head on his hands. His body was in NÃ®mes, but his soul was away in DauphinÃ©. 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,â€”for his family had not always been Protestants. Then he saw in his vision the chÃ¢teau near Embrun where he was born, and the terrace where he and his sister HÃ©lÃ¨ne had played together,â€”the same HÃ©lÃ¨ne 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 NÃ®mes. 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 DauphinÃ©. Therefore FranÃ§ois 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 NÃ®mes 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 CÃ©vennes. 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 â€™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. Dâ€™Aguesseau recalled the circumstance now and thought of de BÃ¢ville 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 murdererâ€™s work in NÃ®mes, though his soul was darkened by his afflictions.

He reflected, too, on the kindness of the shoemaker. He had recklessly placed himself at the hunchbackâ€™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,â€”for it was criminal to be of any religion except the kingâ€™s. The charity of the poor cripple softened dâ€™Aguesseauâ€™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 firstâ€”while he was waiting for the chance to quit the countryâ€”why not go into the CÃ©vennes? 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 RÃ©collets. It was nearly five oâ€™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 dâ€™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 tavernâ€”which bore the sign of the Golden Cupâ€”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. Dâ€™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. Dâ€™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,â€”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.

Dâ€™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 FranÃ§ois and held out her fish.

â€œA bargain, monsieur,â€� she said pleasantly. â€œThe sight of the red-jackets makes MÃ¨re Tigrane feel good; the fish are cheap.â€�

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

â€œOne fish, monsieur,â€� she protested,â€”â€œa mountain trout. Dame! â€™tis fresh, caught this morning. The spectacle of these Huguenots has made monsieur hungry.â€�
â€œMy good woman, I want neither fish nor fowl,â€� dâ€™Aguesseau said impatiently.

â€œMonsieur makes a mistake,â€� she persisted with a grin; â€œthese are good fish, caught in the stream where they drowned a Camisard witch last week!â€�

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 MÃ¨re Tigrane, she stood a moment looking longingly at the inn; could she forego the diversion? Finally, she decided between two attractions, and quietly followed Dâ€™Aguesseau.

The next day, when FranÃ§ois 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.

â€œCome in, monsieur,â€� he said; â€œMademoiselle de St. Cyr would speak to you.â€�

FranÃ§ois responded with some surprise, and bowed in reply to Rosalineâ€™s curtsey.

â€œM. dâ€™Aguesseau,â€� she said, blushing a little under his glance, â€œmy grandâ€™mÃ¨re, Madame de St. Cyr desires to see you, being acquainted with your family,â€”she knew your mother.â€�

His eyes lighted with surprise and pleasure.

â€œMadame de St. Cyr does me much honor to request a visit, mademoiselle,â€� he replied; â€œI am at her service.â€�

Rosaline and Babet had been into NÃ®mes to shop, and they were ready to go. The young girl laid her hand on the older womanâ€™s arm.

â€œThen we will expect you to-morrow afternoon, monsieur,â€� she said quietly; â€œmy very good friend Charlot will direct you to St. Cyr, and madame my grandâ€™mÃ¨re will be pleased to make you welcome.â€�

M. dâ€™Aguesseau murmured his acknowledgments, while he aided Babet in gathering up numerous small packages, and then the two women bade Charlot adieu and departed,â€”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.

â€œWho is that angel?â€� he demanded eagerly.

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

â€œMademoiselle Rosaline de St. Cyr,â€� he replied quietly, his brown eyes searching his guest with a new sternness. â€œYou had better retire, monsieur, there comes one of the Franciscan fathers for his shoes.â€�

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 girlâ€™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.

â€œThere, there! Marguerite, you have had more than your share; you are as great a gourmande as the naughty Truffe,â€� she said, shaking her finger at one pretty bird. â€œViens donc, my CondÃ©! Here is a crumb for you, sweetheart. As for Mademoiselle dâ€™Hautefort, she shall have nothing if she pushes so against Corneille. What a lot of little rogues!â€�

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.

â€œYou pretty creatures, how I love you!â€� said Rosaline, caressing the two doves she had gathered into her arms. â€œLook 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, thereâ€”you are raising your ears; what is it, ma chÃ©rie?â€�

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.

â€œYou hear a step on the gravel, Truffe, and so do I,â€� said Rosaline listening. â€œMaybe it is theâ€”new steward.â€�

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.

â€œA dove in the midst of doves,â€� he said with gallantry; â€œmademoiselle is ever the fairest rose in her garden.â€�
â€œM. de Baudri makes very pretty compliments,â€� Rosaline replied, her smiling composure unruffled. â€œTruffe and I did not know he had honored St. Cyr with a visit.â€�
â€œI have been half an hour with madame,â€� he replied, â€œall the while hoping to catch a glimpse of the loveliest face in the world.â€�
â€œI would have sent Truffe, if I had known that you desired to see her, monsieur,â€� Rosaline replied demurely.

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

â€œMademoiselle chooses to mock me,â€� he said, â€œand mockery comes unnaturally from such lovely lips.â€�

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

â€œTell me the news from NÃ®mes, monsieur,â€� she retorted lightly; â€œI love a good story, you know.â€�
â€œWith all my heart, mademoiselle, if you will love the story teller,â€� he replied.

â€œI cannot judge until I have heard the story,â€� she retorted, mischievous mirth in her blue eyes.

â€œThere is not so much to tell, mademoiselle,â€� he said; â€œthese wretchesâ€”the Camisardsâ€”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 MarÃ©chalâ€™s dinner party? â€™Tis amusing enough. M. Montrevel is in a bad humor; the villain Cavalier has cut up two detachments, as you know,â€”one at Ners, and one intended for SommiÃ¨res. Thinking of these things and drinking wineâ€”after dinnerâ€”M. le MarÃ©chal 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. MÃ¨re 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 childrenâ€”heretics all! The soldiers went inâ€”ah, mademoiselle does not desire particulars; but truly it is slow work to cut three hundred throats, especially in such confusion. M. le MarÃ©chal ordered them to fire the mill. Mon Dieu! â€™twas a scene! It burned artistically, and the soldiers drove back all who tried to escape. One rogue, M. Montrevelâ€™s own servant too, saved a girl, but the marÃ©chal 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. â€™Tis called M. Montrevelâ€™s dinner party in NÃ®mes; and there is a saying that one must burn three hundred heretics before M. le MarÃ©chal has an appetite.â€�

Rosaline stood stroking the dove, her eyes averted.

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

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

â€œAnd what is that, monsieur?â€� she asked shortly; the color was warm in her cheeks and her blue eyes flashed dangerously.

â€œThe old story of my love for you, Rosaline,â€� 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.

â€œI have spoken to madame,â€� he added, â€œand now I speak to you.â€�
â€œAnd what did Madame de St. Cyr say?â€� she demanded, giving him a questioning glance.

â€œShe 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.â€� He spoke with feeling, his bold blue eyes on her lovely face. â€œI trust that you are not wholly indifferent to me, Rosaline,â€� he continued, â€œand I can give you much. My beautiful princess is shut up here in a ruinous old chÃ¢teau. I will show you the worldâ€”Parisâ€”Versailles. No beauty of the court will compare with the rose of Languedoc.â€�

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.

â€œMonsieur does me too much honor,â€� she said. â€œThe chÃ¢teau is indeed ruinous, but â€™tis my home, and, strange to say, I do not long for the splendors of the courtâ€”or the flattery of the courtiers.â€�
â€œBut my love for you, mademoiselle!â€� he protested in surprise; surely this child did not realize the honor he paid her. â€œI offer you my heart and hand.â€�

Rosaline curtsied with a smile on her lips.

â€œI am honored, monsieur,â€� she replied; â€œbut happily, as my grandmother says, I have the decision of my fate. My marriage matters to no one except to her and to meâ€”and, monsieur, I do not desire to marry.â€�

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

â€œYou are only a child,â€� he said bluntly; â€œyou do not understand what my name and fortune would mean to you. â€™Tis not every day, mademoiselle, that a man desires to marry a young girl without a dot!â€�

She laughed softly, her blue eyes shining.

â€œI appreciate your condescension, monsieur,â€� she said amiably; â€œbut I am too wise to thrust myself upon such rash generosity.â€�
â€œThis is folly, mademoiselle,â€� he exclaimed, his temper rising; â€œor is it only a shamefaced reluctance to confess your true sentiments?â€�

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.

â€œMademoiselle is merry,â€� he said stiffly.

â€œI beg your pardon, monsieur,â€� she replied, â€œa thousand times.â€�
â€œYou have not answered me,â€� he went on harshly. â€œAm I to understand that my suit is refused?â€�
â€œIt is refused, monsieur,â€� she rejoined more calmly; â€œM. de Baudri should seek a bride of more wealth and distinction.â€�

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.

â€œWho is that, mademoiselle?â€� he demanded sharply, pointing toward the stranger.

Rosalineâ€™s eyes followed his finger, and she colored, her composure disturbed at last.

â€œIt is the new steward, monsieur,â€� she replied.

â€œThe new steward?â€� he repeated. â€œMadame de St. Cyr refused the man I recommended because she said she could not afford to pay for a successor to old Jacques.â€�
â€œThat is true,â€� she rejoined quietly; â€œwe 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.â€�
â€œHumph!â€� ejaculated M. de Baudri, with another glance at the house. â€œA 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 MarÃ©chal means to exterminate them all.â€�
â€œI thank you for the caution, monsieur,â€� she replied, â€œbut PÃ¨re Ambroise looks after us very well.â€�
â€œPÃ¨re Ambroise is a fat fool,â€� he retorted, giving a malicious kick at Truffe, who had approached him.

Rosaline saw it and her face flushed crimson.

â€œCome here, Truffe,â€� she said, and then curtsied to her visitor. â€œWe bid you good afternoon, monsieur,â€� she continued coolly; â€œneither 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.â€�

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 Majestyâ€™s dragoons, when she should have been overwhelmed by his condescension; but clearly she was not responsible,â€”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 chÃ¢teau now, and it was the young girlâ€™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 MÃ¨re Tigraneâ€”for it was sheâ€”was accustomed to such receptions, and she only grinned more widely as she dropped mademoiselle a curtsey.

â€œHave some fish for dinner, my pretty!â€� she said in a coaxing tone, holding up a string of trout; â€œmademoiselle can have the whole string for ten sous!â€�

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.

â€œI do not want anything, my good woman,â€� she replied, shaking her head.

â€œBut â€™tis fast day, my darling,â€� remarked MÃ¨re Tigrane, with tender solicitude; â€œall good Catholics eat fish to-day!â€�

Rosalineâ€™s lesson was well learned and she was on her guard in a moment.

â€œWe have enough fish,â€� she said coldly.

â€œBut these are so fresh, mademoiselle,â€� persisted la Louve. â€œBut then the young lady cannot judge; permit poor MÃ¨re Tigrane to show these lovely trout to the cook.â€�
â€œI tell you that we have more fish than we can eat,â€� said Rosaline, haughtily; â€œyou had better try elsewhere.â€�
â€œBut think of the bargain, my dear,â€� rejoined the old hag, in honeyed tones; â€œnow the cook will knowâ€”or the steward.â€�

As she spoke MÃ¨re Tigrane gently opened the gate and entered, to Rosalineâ€™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,â€”a very bad move, indeed, for it roused all la Louveâ€™s suspicions.

â€œNow, my dearie, let me sell these pretty fish in the kitchen,â€� she coaxed, approaching the girl and laying her bony hand on Rosalineâ€™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 MÃ¨re Tigrane. The old woman shrieked, snatching a knife from her bosom and striking at the dog.

â€œDo not dare to hurt Truffe!â€� cried Rosaline, throwing herself on the poodle and dragging her off before she had done more mischief than to tear the otherâ€™s clothes. â€œGo!â€� she added imperiously, stamping her foot; â€œyou forced yourself inâ€”and see, I cannot hold the dog! There is a crown to buy you a new petticoat; take it and go!â€�

MÃ¨re 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.

â€œMademoiselle is generous,â€� she said; â€œshe has more than paid for the fishâ€”will she not have them?â€�

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

â€œGo!â€� she said sharply, â€œat once. Let me hear no more of you or your fish.â€�
â€œMÃ¨re de Dieu, but my beauty can be angry!â€� remarked la Louve. â€œFarewell, my pretty, and good luck to you and your dog.â€�

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 FranÃ§ois dâ€™Aguesseau came in sight. He was soberly dressed like a steward, and bare-headed, having hurried from the house at the sound of MÃ¨re Tigraneâ€™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.

â€œI heard a noise, mademoiselle,â€� he said, â€œand thought something had alarmed you.â€�
â€œAnd something did,â€� replied Rosaline, with a shudder; â€œthe most dreadful old woman has been here trying to force her way into the house.â€�

Dâ€™Aguesseau smiled; old women did not terrify him, and he set mademoiselleâ€™s excitement down to her nerves.

â€œWhat sort of an old woman?â€� he asked pleasantly; â€œyou look as if you had seen a witch, mademoiselle.â€�
â€œAnd so I have,â€� retorted the girl; â€œa witch with a string of fish.â€�

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.

â€œWhich way did she go?â€� he asked, and as Rosaline pointed, he went to the gate, and looked in both directions but saw nothing. â€œShe has vanished,â€� he said reassuringly. â€œI trust that she did not annoy you, mademoiselle.â€�
â€œShe was teasing me to buy her fish, and finally pushed into the garden,â€� Rosaline replied, â€œand then she caught hold of my skirt in her eagerness to arrest my attention. I was foolish, I know, but, I couldnâ€™t help it, I cried outâ€”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, andâ€”and I fear her; I canâ€™t tell why, but I fear her!â€�
â€œPut her from your thoughts, mademoiselle,â€� he said soothingly; â€œâ€™tis not in the power of such a wretched creature to hurt you.â€�
â€œI do not know,â€� she replied, still excited; â€œwe are concealing so much, and she wanted to get to the house. I was afraid she would seeâ€”â€� she broke off, her face flushing.

â€œSee me,â€� finished dâ€™Aguesseau quietly. â€œMademoiselle, 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. Cyrâ€™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.â€�

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.

â€œHave no fear, monsieur,â€� Rosaline said; â€œour 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.â€�
â€œSo much,â€� he corrected gravely. â€œI 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 stewardâ€™s place as a temporary disguise.â€�

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

â€œI have been urging Madame de St. Cyr to leave this neighborhood,â€� he said,â€”â€œto 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.â€�

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

â€œAh, monsieur,â€� she said, â€œyou forget that the bon Dieu is with us! Surely we must win, when the Captain of our Salvation leads us.â€�

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

â€œThat is true, mademoiselle,â€� he replied, â€œbut 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 chÃ¢teau, in the very heart of it; for, doubtless, Cavalier will assault NÃ®mes at last.â€�
â€œMadame de St. Cyr cannot go to England,â€� the girl said quietly; â€œshe is too old for the flight. We must face it.â€�
â€œThen, mademoiselle, I will remain with you here,â€� he declared.

She gave him a startled glance, coloring slightly.

â€œYou promised your mother to go to England,â€� she reminded him; â€œand your single sword could never defend us.â€�
â€œAnd my presence draws dangerâ€”you would add, mademoiselle,â€� he said quietly; â€œthat is true, but I shall not remain in this house, I shall go to the CÃ©vennes, and there I can still watch over you a little. I shall indeed go to England, but not now.â€�

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.

â€œI suppose the end will come some time,â€� she said dreamily. â€œThe old chÃ¢teau will be consumed by the flames that M. de Baudriâ€™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 Godâ€™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?â€�

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

â€œMademoiselle,â€� he replied, â€œI pray that it may never end. But once I too had such a dream. I was a little lad at my motherâ€™s knee in DauphinÃ©. 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.â€� He paused and then added, â€œI am almost a beggar nowâ€”but for madameâ€™s loan which my fatherâ€™s prudent investments in England will enable me to repay. I have neither father nor mother nor sister. The chÃ¢teau is a blackened ruin, the lands are tilled by strangers. Mon Dieu! my dream ended as I pray yours may not!â€�

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

â€œMonsieur, pardon me for speaking of it,â€� she said, a quiver in her voice; â€œyour sisterâ€”oh, believe me, I grieve with you for so terrible an affliction. God knows what my fate may be!â€�

He took her hand in both his and kissed it.

â€œMademoiselle,â€� he said gravely, â€œwhile I live I will surely defend you from that awful calamity. There is no one to require my serviceâ€”â€™tis yours, mademoiselle, and my gratitude and devotion. Would that I had more to devote to your protection!â€�

CHAPTER VIII
BABET VISITS THE COBBLER

The little hunchback, Charlot, sat patiently at his cobblerâ€™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,â€”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 motherâ€™s death robbed him of his only friend, and he struggled through painful years of neglect and suffering to manhoodâ€”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 Charlotâ€™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 manâ€™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 manâ€™s table, to look on at feasts and weddings; he was even wanted at funeralsâ€”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.

â€œAh, mon Dieu!â€� Charlot said sometimes, â€œwhy didst thou give me the soul of a man, and a body that is only a mark for pity or scorn?â€�

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 shoemakerâ€™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 armâ€™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 Rosalineâ€™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 mademoiselleâ€™s birthday. That pair of little white satin shoes stood for much joy in le Bossuâ€™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 chÃ¢teau 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 mademoiselleâ€™s little shoe and looking across at the children on his neighborâ€™s step; they had finished their dinner now, and the father had gone back to his work. Le Bossuâ€™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 goodwifeâ€™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.

â€œWell, Charlot,â€� she said, opening a bundle that she had brought, â€œhere 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.â€�

The cobbler smiled. â€œYour feet are not alike; that is the trouble, Babet,â€� he retorted; â€œthe left one is larger than the right.â€�
â€œTush!â€� ejaculated the woman in disgust, â€œdo you take me for a fool? Iâ€™ve set my right foot forward all my life, little man, and yet you say the left is larger.â€�
â€œYou have worn the flesh off your right, thrusting it forward, Babet,â€� replied the cobbler; â€œâ€™tis the way with some nosesâ€”they are ground off, being thrust into other peopleâ€™s business.â€�
â€œHumph!â€� said Babet, â€œâ€™tis not so with mine. Can you fix the shoe so I can wear it?â€�

The shoemaker knelt down and patiently tried on Babetâ€™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 Charlotâ€™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 chÃ¢teau were of the new religion, and now he was secretly convinced of it, and in dâ€™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 Babetâ€™s bickering, therefore, he found an opportunity to broach the subject nearest his heart.

â€œDoes the new steward suit Madame de St. Cyr?â€� he asked, as he finally took off the offending boots and put back the old ones on Babetâ€™s large feet.

â€œThe new steward indeed!â€� said she, with a sniff; â€œa precious steward!â€”I have no use for fine gentlemen without money! What did you send him to us for?â€�
â€œI send him?â€� exclaimed the cobbler, in mild surprise. â€œMademoiselle asked him to come to see her grandmother.â€�

Babet tossed her head. â€œâ€™Twas all your fault,â€� she said emphatically. â€œIâ€™ve nothing to say against M. dâ€™Aguesseau himself, but what need have we for a steward? And what does he do at once, this fine gentleman?â€�

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

â€œWhat has he done?â€� he inquired.

â€œFallen in love with Mademoiselle Rosaline,â€� retorted Babet, bluntly; â€œand what use is there in that? I tell you, Charlot, I am jealous for mademoiselle; I have no patience with these young foolsâ€”they all do it, from M. de Baudri down.â€�

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

â€œM. dâ€™Aguesseau is a gentleman,â€� he said slowly. â€œI know who he is. Doesâ€”does mademoiselleâ€”find him pleasing?â€�

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

â€œMademoiselle Rosaline!â€� she said; â€œMademoiselle 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?â€�

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

â€œI am sorry,â€� he said, â€œif it annoys mademoiselle.â€�
â€œAnnoys her!â€� repeated the indignant woman. â€œIf it didâ€”but it doesnâ€™t, bless her innocent heart; she does not even suspect it yet. But I see it plain enough. Heâ€™s a fine man too, and I might be sorry for him, but what business has he at St. Cyr?â€�

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 NÃ®mes with a feeling of satisfaction. She had relieved her mind, and she believed that she had disarmed the hunchbackâ€™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. dâ€™Aguesseauâ€™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 priestâ€™s stout figure seemed to fill Charlotâ€™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. PÃ¨re Ambroise was popular; hardly a parish priest in NÃ®mes 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. PÃ¨re Ambroise was lazy, and, MÃ¨re 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 NÃ®mes. It was a season of trouble for his brethren who were outside of the protection of the garrison towns, and PÃ¨re Ambroise was sorry for them. Chayla had been slain at Pont-de-Montvert; the CurÃ© of FrugÃ¨res shot in a rye field; the CurÃ© of St. AndrÃ© de LancÃ¨ze thrown from the highest window of his own belfry; others had suffered violent deaths, and PÃ¨re Ambroise felt that NÃ®mes 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,â€”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.

â€œSit downâ€”sit down,â€� said PÃ¨re Ambroise, with good-humored remembrance of the hunchbackâ€™s weariness. â€œI only came to pay for my shoes.â€�

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 Charlotâ€™s bench.

â€œHow is the business, my son?â€� he asked, blandly; â€œyou seem to be always occupied.â€�
â€œYes,â€� replied the shoemaker; â€œthanks to the bon Dieu I am well occupied. All men must try to walk, and most men wear shoes.â€�
â€œWhen they can afford them,â€� supplemented PÃ¨re Ambroise. â€œYou have a better trade than some of your competitors. All goes well with you, then?â€�
â€œAs well as usual, mon pÃ¨re,â€� the hunchback replied quietly, â€œI live and I eat.â€�
â€œThat is more than some do in Languedoc,â€� rejoined the father, with his usual placid philosophy, folding his fat hands on his portly front and gazing mildly around the shop. â€œIs your room above rented?â€� he asked, after a momentâ€™s pause.

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

â€œIt is empty,â€� he answered; â€œI found a lodger often troublesome.â€�
â€œYet you had one some weeks since,â€� remarked the priest calmly, â€œor I have been misinformed.â€�

Charlot stirred uneasily. â€œI rented it for three days only, mon pÃ¨re,â€� he said.

â€œAh, yesâ€”for three days,â€� repeated PÃ¨re Ambroise, twirling his thumbs and looking up at the ceiling; â€œand your lodger then became Madame de St. Cyrâ€™s steward. How was this, my son?â€�

The shoemakerâ€™s fingers were twitching the thread nervously.

â€œIt was an accident, PÃ¨re Ambroise,â€� he said. â€œMadame de St. Cyr knew his family and heard that he was here.â€�
â€œShe knew his family?â€� repeated the priest again, his twinkling eyes travelling down from the ceiling to the drawn face before him. â€œFrom what part of France did he come?â€�
â€œFrom DauphinÃ©,â€� le Bossu retorted shortly.

â€œHumph!â€� ejaculated PÃ¨re Ambroise, taking up a shoe from the bench and examining it critically. â€œFrom DauphinÃ©â€”and his name isâ€”?â€�

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

â€œYou love the family at St Cyr, mon pÃ¨re?â€� he asked gravely.

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

â€œThen I pray you to ask me no more questions,â€� the hunchback said.

â€œAh!â€� ejaculated PÃ¨re 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.

â€œYou go often to St. Cyr,â€� he remarked at last; â€œdo you know that M. Montrevel is determined to make a clean sweep of these Camisardsâ€”of all heretics, in fact; that he will cleanse Languedoc of this corruption?â€�
â€œâ€™Tis the kingâ€™s will,â€� remarked le Bossu, with a sigh, â€œbut there is much suffering.â€�
â€œâ€˜If thy right hand offend thee, cut it off,â€™â€� PÃ¨re Ambroise retorted placidly; â€œheretics must sufferâ€”fire here and hereafter.â€�

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

â€œMy son,â€� he said kindly, â€œtake no more such lodgersâ€”that is my advice, and you know that I am your friend.â€�
â€œI know it, mon pÃ¨re,â€� 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.

â€œPeace be to you, my son,â€� 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 PÃ¨re 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 worldâ€™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 MÃ¨re 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.

â€œI have sold all my fish, Petit Bossu,â€� she said, â€œand Iâ€™ve been to the chÃ¢teau out there by St. CÃ©saire. Dame! but mademoiselle has a white skin, whiter than the corpse we saw at the fair, and her cheeks are pinkâ€”but sheâ€™s a fury, mon chÃ©ri.â€�

Charlot frowned. â€œIs this all you have to say?â€� he asked sharply; â€œI am closing my shop.â€�
â€œClose it, my straight-back!â€� she replied, mocking him. â€œI stopped by to tell you that your lodger was out at St. Cyr,â€� she added, bursting into a hideous cackle of laughter at the sight of his angry face.

â€œYou are a fool for your pains!â€� he retorted and slammed the door in her face.

â€œSo ho!â€� she said, pointing her bony finger at the door; â€œyou 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, MÃ¨re Tigrane; they treat you ill, but never mind, my rosebud, â€™twill all be well yet for the good old woman and her dear little fish!â€�

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.

â€œI think madame will acknowledge that I am willing to do all that is liberal and kind,â€� he said suavely.

â€œI do acknowledge it, monsieur,â€� she replied, in troubled tones, â€œbut the childâ€”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, andâ€”she does not listen favorably to your suit.â€�

He waved his hand airily. â€œThe 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.â€�

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.

â€œâ€™Tis hard for me to explain,â€� she said plaintively; â€œI can have no objections to you personally, M. de Baudri, but I am averse to doing anything to force Rosalineâ€™s inclinations.â€�

He smiled scornfully. â€œMadame does not expect me to believe in so flimsy an excuse, surely?â€� he remarked with a frown. â€œI 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.â€�

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

â€œThe St. Cyrs thank monsieur,â€� she said ironically, â€œbut 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.â€�

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

â€œMademoiselle is an angel,â€� he said; â€œif I did not recognize that, I would not, a second time, sue for her hand. I also am proud, madame.â€�

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 Rosalineâ€”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 girlâ€™s indifference enraged him; he would have her, and thenâ€”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! PÃ¨re Ambroise loved the child, it was true, but might not PÃ¨re Ambroise favor an orthodox lover? M. de Baudriâ€™s smooth voice broke in on her troubled thoughts, and demanded her attention again.

â€œYou have advanced no reasonable objections to my suit, madame,â€� he said affably; â€œI shall therefore regard it as accepted by you, and only in abeyance on account of mademoiselleâ€™s maidenly scruples.â€�
â€œBut I have not accepted it,â€� she protested, greatly troubled; â€œI will not accept any offer for the child thatâ€”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; Rosalineâ€™s marriage would leave me desolate.â€�
â€œNay, madame,â€� he replied, not ungracefully, â€œyou would but gain a son. If this is your only scrupleâ€”is it not a selfish one?â€�

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

â€œYou are very kind, M. de Baudri,â€� she faltered, â€œbut after all it rests where it did. Rosaline must decide.â€�

He smiled. â€œThen, madame, you virtually acquiesce,â€� he said blandly; â€œfor I trust that I can win so young and amiable a girl as mademoiselleâ€”if you give me a fair opportunity.â€�

She shook her head, smiling faintly. â€œYou have had opportunity, M. de Baudri,â€� she replied; â€œâ€™tis not in my mind to influence her in any way. She must choose for herself.â€�

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,â€”his curled periwig, his lace cravat, his military coat, all of the latest mode.

â€œI will undertake to win mademoiselleâ€™s consent,â€� he said. â€œPermit me, however, to remark that your ideas on the matter areâ€”to say the leastâ€”unconventional. But no matter, â€™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.â€�

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

â€œThe man is useful to me,â€� she said shortly. â€œMonsieur forgets that he is not yet one of my family.â€�

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

â€œI beg madameâ€™s pardon,â€� he said, â€œbut she probably remembers the cause of my protest; a grave one,â€”I believe the rogue may be a concealed Camisard.â€�

Madame de St. Cyrâ€™s hands trembled, and she controlled herself with an effort.

â€œI think you are mistaken, M. de Baudri,â€� she protested; â€œhe was well recommended, and I have seen nothing to indicateâ€”that he was other than he claimed to be.â€�
â€œYou can see that he is no steward by profession, though, madame,â€� retorted the officer, coolly, â€œand his presence may be dangerous at St. Cyr.â€�
â€œHe has done his duty so far, monsieur,â€� she mustered courage to reply, â€œand I have no pretext for his discharge.â€�

De Baudri shrugged his shoulders.

â€œMadame should not need a second warning,â€� he remarked, with much suavity; â€œperhaps â€™twould be well for me to investigate his antecedents and thus relieve madame of farther embarrassments.â€�
â€œI thank you, monsieur,â€� she said, with an effort to be calm, â€œI can see to the matter myself. I will refer it to PÃ¨re Ambroise. If any one is anxious about our spiritual welfare, he should be.â€�
â€œDoubtless, madame,â€� M. de Baudri replied pleasantly, â€œbut PÃ¨re 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 BÃ¢villeâ€”â€� 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. â€œMon Dieu!â€� thought the old woman, â€œhe would have the child even against her will! Can he be wicked enough to try to intimidate her,â€”to force her into a marriage?â€�

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

â€œI have warned you, madame,â€� he said benignly. â€œConvey my devotion to mademoiselleâ€”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.â€�

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 horseâ€™s hoofs on the road to NÃ®mes.

Meanwhile a very different scene had been enacted in the kitchen. Babet was making a ragoÃ»t over the fire; the steward leaned against the window, posted there to watch for the visitorâ€™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,â€”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 shoemakerâ€™s drawn face was lighted with a reflection of her pleasure.

â€œYou are surely a magician, Charlot,â€� she said, admiring them for the twentieth time. â€œI 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!â€�
â€œAh, mademoiselle, if I could but make such shoes!â€� exclaimed le Bossu, with a smile; â€œthe poor cobbler of St. Antoine would be made a marquis.â€�
â€œâ€™Tis better to give happiness than to be rich, Charlot,â€� she replied, â€œand you have given me so much pleasure to-day that I can even endure M. de Baudriâ€™s visit in the parlor!â€� and she laughed gayly.

â€œIf he hears you laugh, mademoiselle, he will stay to dinner,â€� remarked Babet grimly, looking over her shoulder as she stirred the stew.

â€œYou have found a way to make me as still as a mouse, Babet,â€� Rosaline said. â€œHas he not gone yet, M. dâ€™Aguesseau?â€�

FranÃ§ois shook his head with a smile.

â€œAs a suitor he has the patience of Jacob, mademoiselle,â€� 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.

â€œI shall wear these shoes to-night, Charlot,â€� she hastened to say, her back turned on the supposed steward. â€œThey 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.â€�
â€œMademoiselle makes me happy by wearing them at all,â€� Charlot replied simply.

Dâ€™Aguesseau was now looking intently out of the window.

â€œM. de Baudri is mounting at the gate,â€� he announced. â€œMademoiselle, you are no longer in prison.â€�

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

â€œI will run and show my present to grandâ€™mÃ¨re,â€� she said.

Charlot followed her to the door.

â€œMademoiselle, a word with you,â€� he said in a low voice.

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

â€œWhat is it?â€� she asked, quickly, a little alarmed.

â€œMademoiselle,â€� he said, quietly, â€œdo not be needlessly afraid, but I would warn you against an old womanâ€”a fishwifeâ€”â€�
â€œCiel!â€� exclaimed Rosaline; â€œyou mean that terrible creature who came here?â€�
â€œYes,â€� he replied, â€œand she was angry because of her torn petticoat, I suppose. She is MÃ¨re Tigrane, a dangerous woman, a spying, mischief-making demon of the market. Andâ€”well, mademoiselle, she saw M. dâ€™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.â€�

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

â€œI thank you, Charlot,â€� she said quietly. â€œIfâ€”if you hear anythingâ€”you will tell me?â€�
â€œAssuredly, mademoiselle,â€� replied the cobbler earnestly, â€œandâ€”â€� he hesitated, and then went on firmly, â€œwill you believe, mademoiselle, that in all casesâ€”at all timesâ€”I am your humble but faithful servant?â€�

She looked at him kindly; his devotion touched her.

â€œIndeed, I have always believed it, Charlot,â€� 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 NÃ®mes feeling that he had been translated; had he not touched the white hand of an angel of mercy?

CHAPTER XI
FRANÃ‡OIS 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 NÃ®mes turned off to St. Hippolyte. Mademoiselle and Babet, escorted by M. dâ€™Aguesseau, were making their way slowly back to St. Cyr. They had beenâ€”at the peril of their livesâ€”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 guestâ€™s attentions to mademoiselle. Dâ€™Aguesseau had Rosalineâ€™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 Babetâ€™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 dâ€™Aguesseauâ€™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.

â€œIt seems a long distance,â€� Rosaline said at last with a sigh.

â€œLong and dangerous for you,â€� FranÃ§ois answered gently; â€œI would that we could have persuaded you to remain at home, mademoiselle.â€�
â€œSurely you would not have robbed me of such a consolation?â€� she said reproachfully.

â€œNay,â€� he replied, in a low voice, â€œyou know that I would do anything to serve you, but this was a terrible risk. MM. de BÃ¢ville 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.â€�
â€œYet we must serve God, monsieur,â€� Rosaline said, â€œeven as Daniel didâ€”in peril of the lionâ€™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 CÃ©venols, and so I go onâ€”a Papist in NÃ®mes, a Protestant at heart.â€�
â€œYou would join these people, mademoiselle, yet you have argued against me when I have proposed to go to the CÃ©vennes.â€�
â€œYou are under a pledge to go to England,â€� she returned promptly; â€œyou 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!â€�
â€œMon Dieu!â€� he murmured softly, â€œhow 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.â€�
â€œIt would have been death,â€� she said dreamily; â€œwe can die but once, monsieur.â€�
â€œYou would not have died,â€� he answered sternly, â€œwhile I had a life to give for yours.â€�

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 otherâ€™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. CÃ©saire, but they had yet to cross a rocky elevation before they could reach the chÃ¢teau. 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 NÃ®mes, below them the cottage roofs of St. CÃ©saire, around them a wild and barren country, suddenly whitened by the moon.

â€œMon Dieu!â€� exclaimed Babet, harshly, â€œâ€™tis a white nightâ€”white as a winding-sheet! â€™Tis ill luck, mademoiselle; let us hurryâ€”a dog is baying at the moon.â€�

Rosalineâ€™s mood changed, and for the first time that night she laughed naturally and sweetly.

â€œYou foolish Babet!â€� she said, â€œit is a glorious night, and you have been to prayers. Where is your courage?â€�

Babet shrugged her shoulders. â€œIâ€™ve courage enough, mademoiselle,â€� she said, â€œbut I do not love to thrust my head into the lionâ€™s mouth.â€�

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.

â€œA faithful servant,â€� remarked Rosaline, following her with her eyes. â€œShe 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 grandâ€™mÃ¨re 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?â€�
â€œBut once,â€� he said quietly. â€œI went to try to see the king. I wanted to petition him for my innocent sisterâ€™s libertyâ€”that I might take her place.â€�
â€œForgive me!â€� Rosaline exclaimed; â€œI did not think of the pain I should give. Tell me,â€� she went on hurriedly, â€œhave you ever seen Cavalier or Roland? To-night, in the darkness, I wanted to see him; â€™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!â€�
â€œHe looked very young,â€� FranÃ§ois replied; â€œbut there is a certain force about him. I never saw him before, but I shall not soon forget him, or the poor, crazed girl.â€�
â€œDid you think her demented?â€� asked Rosaline. â€œTo me she seemed inspired, and surely she preached a wonderful sermon; still, as you say, she spoke wildly.â€�
â€œI thought her demented,â€� he rejoined quietly; â€œthere 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.â€�
â€œIt may be so,â€� she admitted, reluctantly, â€œbut surely such times as these might well produce prophets and soothsayers.â€�

They were in sight of the chÃ¢teau now and saw the light burning in Madame de St. Cyrâ€™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 Truffeâ€™s warning bark, and she was at the door to greet them with noisy joy. Rosaline and M. dâ€™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, Cavalierâ€™s speech, the sermon of the young girl,â€”one of the prophets of the CÃ©venols,â€”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 marÃ©chal destroyed, he, Cavalier, would destroy two Papist villages.

â€œâ€™Twill be useless,â€� she said quietly; â€œthe 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 soâ€”I have felt it from the first.â€�
â€œAh, grandâ€™mÃ¨re, you are not hopeful enough,â€� Rosaline said; â€œsee what these two menâ€”Cavalier and Rolandâ€”have already accomplished. Let us hope that England will help us.â€�

Madame shook her head. â€œThe world is selfish,â€� she said quietly; then she glanced at the clock. â€œRosaline, call Babet,â€� she said; â€œâ€™tis the hour for our devotions.â€�

The housekeeper was summoned, while FranÃ§ois 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 Marotâ€™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 dâ€™Aguesseau. When they were alone she turned to him with a sad face.

â€œI fear that trouble is brewing, monsieur,â€� she said quietly; â€œthe very presence of Cavalier near NÃ®mes increases our perils, and there too are the Florentines,â€”the White Camisards, as they call themselves,â€”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,â€� she added with sorrowful dignity; â€œI know that I have but a little while to live, and I would die right cheerfully for my religion, but Rosalineâ€”mon Dieu!â€� she clasped her hands and looked up.

â€œMadame, if I can protect herâ€”â€� began FranÃ§ois.

â€œThat is what I would pray for, monsieur,â€� she said. â€œIf I am taken, will you aid Babet to get her out of France?â€�
â€œI would give my life for hers!â€� 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.

â€œMadame de St. Cyr,â€� he said quietly, â€œI do solemnly pledge myself to defend herâ€”to take her away to a place of safetyâ€”to fight for her as long as I live myself.â€�

She looked up through her tears.

â€œI thank the bon Dieu!â€� she said. â€œTo-day men are like wolves toward our lambs. You see how gentle, how innocent the child is.â€�

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

â€œForgive me,â€� he said gently, â€œI love her.â€�

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

â€œI know not how the child may feel,â€� she said simply, â€œbut I knew your family, andâ€”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.â€�

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 CÃ©vennes carried the war almost to the sea; priests were slain, Catholic villages burned. On the other side, the kingâ€™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 religionâ€™s sake, and the blood of the innocent was poured out as a libation.

NÃ®mes 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 Vaunageâ€”â€œthe little Canaanâ€� of Languedocâ€”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 PÃ¨re 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 Rosalineâ€™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 FranÃ§ois dâ€™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. dâ€™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. Madameâ€™s face paled and Rosaline and dâ€™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.

â€œâ€™Tis M. de Baudri at the head of his dragoons!â€� 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,â€”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 chÃ¢teau. 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 manâ€™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 Rosalineâ€™s pale face.

â€œA fair good morning, my Rose of Languedoc,â€� he said gallantly, speaking too low for the ears of his dragoons; â€œI count it fortunate when even my duty takes me past your door.â€�

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

â€œMonsieur has surely unpleasant duties,â€� she said formally.

â€œThe gayest in the world,â€� he replied with a careless laugh. â€œWe 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-treeâ€”it hangs there with the burrs ready to ripen. Nom de St. Denis!â€� he added, with a glance at his prisoners, â€œthese fellows would have been lucky to hang there too!â€�

Rosaline could endure no more.

â€œMon Dieu!â€� she cried, â€œare you human? Can you see that poor man bleed to death?â€�

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

â€œA heretic, mademoiselle,â€� he remarked, with a gesture of disdain; â€œwhat would you?â€�
â€œI would bind his wounds!â€� 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 FranÃ§ois, who had been standing a few yards behind her, and who now sprang forward and caught her in his arms.

â€œWhy do you exhibit such cruelties to her?â€� he demanded sharply, looking over her head into de Baudriâ€™s eyes.

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

â€œSo!â€� he said with a sneer, â€œthe menial turns into a champion. MÃ¨re de Dieu, Sir Camisard, we will be pleased to accommodate you in NÃ®mes.â€�
â€œYou may sometime have that pleasure, M. de Baudri,â€� dâ€™Aguesseau replied, coldly, and lifting Rosalineâ€™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 â€œForward!â€� and the troop disappeared along the highroad to NÃ®mes, leaving a cloud of dust in its track.

Meanwhile dâ€™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.

â€œAlas!â€� she said faintly, â€œI have been happyâ€”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!â€�

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

â€œIt will not last,â€� Rosaline went on slowly, â€œI 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!â€�
â€œItâ€™s no use to seek trouble, mademoiselle,â€� Babet remarked, â€œitâ€™ll find us fast enough. I hear it grumbling like the thunder in the CÃ©vennes mountains. As for that poor man, never you mind; Cavalier will catch some fat old curÃ© for him!â€�

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

â€œIt must end,â€� she said, rising. â€œI will go to my grandmother. You may cut the flowers to-day, Babet.â€�

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

As for FranÃ§ois dâ€™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 openâ€”on rusty hingesâ€”and a heap of straw lay in one corner, doubtless the resting-place of many a vagrant in those evil times. On the threshold dâ€™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.

FranÃ§ois rose and walked toward the chÃ¢teau; 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 Baudriâ€™s eyes, and he knew that he might expect the worst that a relentless enemy could do. But it was not that; Rosalineâ€™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. Cyrâ€”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 Rosalineâ€™s feet and began to bark, and the reading ceased.

â€œWhat is it? I hear something!â€� exclaimed the young girl, trying to silence Truffe.

Babet was listening intently.

â€œI hear the sound of many feet,â€� she said.

Dâ€™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. CÃ©saire. He could hear the sound of marching men, and as he looked they came in sight on the road, filing slowly past the chÃ¢teau, line after line, their weapons gleaming in the moonshine. He watched them curiously; these were not the dragoons,â€”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.

â€œThey are passing the chÃ¢teau,â€� he said, in a reassuring tone, â€œI will go out and ascertain who they are. I think I cannot be mistaken in them.â€�

Rosalineâ€™s blue eyes kindled.

â€œAre they Camisards?â€� she demanded.

â€œI think so,â€� 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. Cyrâ€™s face was very pale.

â€œThey may be Florentines,â€� she said, â€œand if soâ€”we shall scarcely escape them.â€�
â€œThey have halted,â€� her granddaughter replied from the window. â€œThe clouds have drifted wide apart now and the night is as white as that night which frightened you, Babet. M. dâ€™Aguesseau has gone out to them.â€�
â€œThe bon Dieu defend us!â€� murmured madame; â€œthe times are very evil;â€� and she fell to praying silently.

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

â€œM. dâ€™Aguesseau talks with one of them,â€� she said. â€œCiel! how ghastly their faces look in this lightâ€”like chalkâ€”and I see everywhere the flash of steel.â€�
â€œCan you make out who they are?â€� asked her grandmother, in a tremulous voice.

â€œNay,â€� she replied, â€œbut M. dâ€™Aguesseau is friendly with them,â€”I can see that; he has shaken hands with one who seems to be a leader.â€�
â€œIt is well,â€� said madame, in a tone of relief; â€œthey must be of our people.â€�

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.

â€œDoes M. dâ€™Aguesseau still speak with them?â€� the old woman asked.

â€œHe is coming back alone,â€� 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.

â€œMadame,â€� he said, â€œI 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 NÃ®mes 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.â€�

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

â€œAlas!â€� she said, â€œI 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.â€�

He took her hand and kissed it.

â€œMadame,â€� he said, â€œyou 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 youâ€”and yours.â€�

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.

â€œMademoiselle,â€� he said very low, â€œI bid you adieu. I know that you have thought me lacking in the spirit to fightâ€”but believe me, it was not cowardice that held me at St. Cyr.â€�

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

â€œThe cause is sacred,â€� she said. â€œIâ€”I am glad thatâ€”â€�

She broke off, and he filled up the sentence.

â€œGlad that I have the courage to go,â€� he said coldly.

â€œI never doubted that,â€� she replied gravely; â€œbut oh, monsieur, if I could be a man, I would fightâ€”I can understand how you feelâ€”the bon Dieu defend you!â€�

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 grandmotherâ€™s voice roused her.

â€œHas he gone to them?â€� she asked anxiously.

â€œYes,â€� Rosaline replied, â€œand they are forming in columns again,â€”they are going to march on.â€�

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.

â€œHush!â€� said Rosaline, raising her hand, â€œthe Sixty-eighth Psalmâ€”the battle hymn.â€�

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.

â€œQue Dieu se montre seulement
Et lâ€™on verra dans un moment
Abandonner la place;
Le camp des ennemis Ã©pars,
Ã‰pouvantÃ© de toutes parts,
Fuira devant sa face.

â€œOn verra tout ce camp sâ€™enfuir,
Comme lâ€™on voit sâ€™Ã©vanouir
Une Ã©paisse fumÃ©e;
Comme la cire fond au feu,
Ainsi des mÃ©chants devant Dieu,
La force est consumÃ©e.

â€œLâ€™Ã‰ternel est notre recours;
Nous obtenons par son secours,
Plus dâ€™une dÃ©livrance.
Câ€™est Lui qui fut notre support,
Et qui tient les clefs de la mort,
Lui seul en sa puissance.

â€œÃ€ nous dÃ©fendre toujours prompt,
Il frappe le superbe front
De la troupe ennemie;
On verra tomber sous ses coups
Ceux qui provoquent son courroux
Par leur mÃ©chante vie.â€�

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. CÃ©saire, 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.

â€œCiel!â€� said Babet, â€œhow quiet it is!â€”and black as soot. I wonder how many men he had?â€�
â€œThere seemed to be an army,â€� replied Rosaline, â€œbut I suppose it could not be that he had more than a thousand men, perhaps not so many, and NÃ®mes is a hive of soldiers!â€�
â€œBah!â€� ejaculated the other woman, grimly, â€œCavalier can whip themâ€”heâ€™ll have M. Montrevelâ€™s periwig yet.â€�

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

Suddenly there was a distant soundâ€”the fire of musketryâ€”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. CÃ©saire.

â€œThey have met the enemy!â€� 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.

â€œThey have set fire to the old chÃ¢teau over there,â€� Rosaline said.

Madame de St. Cyr turned in her chair.

â€œTell me what you see,â€� she exclaimed eagerly.

â€œFire, grandâ€™mÃ¨re, leaping up in the night, and I hear the guns,â€� Rosaline replied, â€œand nowâ€”see, see, Babet!â€”there are black figures outlined against the flames! Ah, Dieu, they fight!â€”â€™tis a part of the battleâ€”oh, if I could but see it plainly!â€�

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

â€œThey have brought artillery from NÃ®mes,â€� said Rosaline, in a low voice. â€œAh, see, Babet, another house has caught! â€™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 explodedâ€”see the timbers flyingâ€”some one perished when they fell.â€�

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

â€œCan you not see, Babet?â€� she cried. â€œI doâ€”they fight there in the firelightâ€”see their black figuresâ€”hush! there is a heavy gun.â€�
â€œMy eyes are old,â€� Babet replied; â€œto me â€™tis the mouth of the infernal regionsâ€”no more.â€�

Another pause while madame prayed softly.

â€œHow goes it?â€� she asked again.

â€œI cannot tellâ€”I cannot tell!â€� cried Rosaline, â€œbut the fire has consumed the houses, I think. It seems to sink now, and I cannot see so well.â€�

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 passedâ€”twoâ€”and they watched, and could see no more, and could only divine the cause of the silence.

â€œCavalier must have been driven back,â€� madame said, â€œelse the fighting would have lasted longer. May the bon Dieu guard our poor fellows!â€�

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.

â€œâ€™Tis over,â€� she said; â€œthe flames have died away, darkness is there again, and silenceâ€”and death!â€�

CHAPTER XIV
â€œAND ALL FOR LOVEâ€�

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 Rosalineâ€™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 â€œkingâ€™s religion,â€� 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 dâ€™Aguesseauâ€™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.

â€œAlas!â€� she said quietly, â€œI fear I shall never see him againâ€”and he was a brave man. But for me he would have gone long ago.â€�

Her granddaughter looked at her strangely. â€œDid you urge him to stay here?â€� she asked.

â€œI prayed him to be near us,â€� the old woman replied. â€œI felt that I might go, and there would be no one to help you. PÃ¨re Ambroise would be all on M. de Baudriâ€™s side.â€�
â€œAnd you told M. dâ€™Aguesseau that?â€� exclaimed Rosaline, her face flushing.

â€œSomething like it, yes,â€� Madame de St. Cyr rejoined sadly; â€œbut the call came and he obeyed it. May the bon Dieu protect him and us.â€�

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. Rosalineâ€™s face burned; she did not look up, even when Truffe came in search of her and thrust her head into her mistressâ€™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 NÃ®mes, 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 kingâ€™s religion.

Never did a day drag more wearily, but at last the sun descended toward the west, the shadows lengthened, and Rosalineâ€™s doves came cooing to their rest. Babet had not returned yet from NÃ®mes. 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 NÃ®mes, 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.

â€œI have come to assure myself of your safety, mademoiselle,â€� he said quietly, â€œand then to go away again.â€�
â€œBabet is in NÃ®mes now, monsieur, trying to find out the names of the prisoners,â€� Rosaline replied. â€œWe did not know what had happened and we feared the worst.â€�
â€œIt was a short, sharp battle,â€� he said. â€œWe took some ammunition, but they brought up reinforcements from NÃ®mes and we were forced to fall back. Cavalier is a soldier, indeed.â€�
â€œM. de Baudri was at the chÃ¢teau,â€� she rejoined. â€œHe told us of the dead and the prisoners, and my grandmother could not rest until she knew.â€�

There was a pause, and he watched her face.

â€œAnd you, mademoiselle?â€� he asked gravely.

Her eyes sought the ground.

â€œI also was anxious, monsieur,â€� she said with an effort.

â€œYet last night you wished me to go,â€� he remarked, unmercifully.

She turned toward him with a grave face.

â€œI did not know until to-day, monsieur,â€� she said, â€œthat my grandmother had asked you to stay with us to protect usâ€”â€™twas more than she had a right to ask.â€�
â€œNot more than she had a right to ask,â€� he replied, â€œbut I remained for another reasonâ€”can you not divine it, mademoiselle?â€�

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

â€œI have no right perhaps to tell you now, when the future looks so dark,â€� he said, â€œand I have felt that you were displeased at my inactivity. Yetâ€”last nightâ€”when I was facing death I longed to speakâ€”to tell you all that was in my heartâ€”even if you were indifferent. Love cannot always be silentâ€”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 youâ€”I had lost allâ€”and then I looked out of my darkness and saw your face. I cannot but speakâ€”we must part now and I must know if you careâ€”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 goâ€”I am a fool, no woman ever said that to the man she loved.â€�

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

â€œForgive me,â€� he said hoarsely; â€œI did not mean to speakâ€”but one cannot always smother the heartâ€™s utterances! You are so young, so beautiful, so innocentâ€”forgive me, and let me serve you still.â€�

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

â€œYou do not understand,â€� she replied softly. â€œI wanted you to go becauseâ€”â€�
â€œYou thought me a coward,â€� he exclaimed harshly.

â€œNay, monsieur,â€� she said, â€œI wanted you to go because a woman wants the man sheâ€”she loves to be a heroâ€”â€�

He caught her hands, looking eagerly into her face.

â€œIs it possible?â€� he cried.

She smiled through her tears.

â€œI wanted you to be a hero,â€� she answered, â€œand when you went I thoughtâ€”my heart would break!â€�

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.

â€œAre you happy?â€� 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.

â€œYou want me to go and you do not,â€� he said; â€œwhat am I to think?â€�
â€œYes, I wanted you to go,â€� she replied, a flush on her face. â€œI could not bear to have you seem less brave or daring than other menâ€”or to lack zeal for your religionâ€”and then you went! Andâ€”and I cannot bear to have you go to face dangerâ€”even death itself!â€�
â€œOh, thou perfect woman!â€� he exclaimed, smiling; â€œI must be a true knight and yet you would not have me in danger.â€�

She smiled, turning her face aside.

â€œYesâ€”yes, â€™tis that,â€� she answered very low. â€œI want you to be the bravest of the brave, and yetâ€”oh, mon Dieu, I cannot bear to see you in any danger!â€�

He held her to his heart again with many caresses.

â€œWhat can I do?â€� he asked. â€œI cannot be both,â€”your constant attendant and a soldier in the field. Ah, Rosaline, love is kingâ€”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.â€�
â€œAnd I could not bear to see you flee,â€� she said, â€œand yet my heart was torn when I knew that you were in the midst of that fight in the darkness.â€�
â€œTake comfort, my dearest,â€� he said softly, â€œlet us forget the perils and think only of each other. Ah, my darling, I little thought, when I was in the cobblerâ€™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.â€�
â€œDid you?â€� she cried with shining eyes, â€œoh, tell meâ€”tell me how it was!â€�

And he told her, Loveâ€™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,â€”

â€œAre you happy, sweetheart, tell me?â€�
â€œAh, FranÃ§ois,â€� she answered, â€œwe are too happyâ€”â€™tis thatâ€”I am afraid!â€�
â€œOf what, dear heart?â€� he asked gently, â€œsurely, not that our love can die?â€�
â€œNot that,â€� she replied, â€œnot that! I have been light of heart, careless as a child. I never was afraid before, but nowâ€”oh, FranÃ§ois, if you were taken from me it would kill me.â€�

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

â€œBut that could not be,â€� he said soothingly; â€œnot even death could part us save for a little while, my heart, for our souls are immortalâ€”and they are one.â€�

She clung to him, her eyes full of tenderness.

â€œâ€™Tis so,â€� she murmured, â€œour souls are immortal, I never felt it so strongly before! Love touches the heart and all the world is differentâ€”ah, mon Dieu, â€™tis thy gift to us! See, FranÃ§ois,â€� she added, â€œis not the world more beautiful, the sky more tender? Do not the birds sing more sweetly to-day? And is it because we love?â€�
â€œIt must be so, my Rosaline,â€� he answered gently; â€œthe Garden of Eden must have blossomed so to welcome Eveâ€”and love makes the world more beautiful each day.â€�
â€œAnd it shall make me better,â€� she rejoined; â€œâ€™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, FranÃ§ois, let us be good to others always, for that is love.â€�
â€œYour very presence is love, Rosaline,â€� he answered softly, â€œyour 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.â€�
â€œAnd I made that difference in your life, FranÃ§ois?â€� she said tenderly,â€”â€œI, Rosaline de St. Cyr. Ah, Dieu, am I not blessed?â€�

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.

â€œI was never happy before,â€� she said, smiling, â€œnow I know it!â€”but this is happinessâ€”loveâ€”life. Do you see that bright star shining yonder, FranÃ§ois? There is a little one beside itâ€”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 moreâ€”for stronger than death is love!â€�

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,â€”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 NÃ®mes. 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.

â€œMon Dieu!â€� he cried out in his bitterness, â€œwhy didst thou give me the heart of a man and the body of a toad?â€�

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. CÃ©saire, 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 chÃ¢teau, 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 NÃ®mes 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. dâ€™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. dâ€™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 NÃ®mes. 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 oâ€™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 RÃ©collets. 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.

â€œViens donc, Petit Bossu,â€� he said, â€œare the boots finished?â€�

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

â€œSacristi! if I had four legs I should come to you for boots,â€� M. de Baudri remarked, inspecting them. â€œDiable! those buckles are too small.â€�
â€œThe latest from Paris, monsieur,â€� le Bossu replied; â€œhis Majesty has a pair of the same size and design.â€�

M. de Baudriâ€™s face relaxed, and he thrust out one foot.

â€œTry them, Bossu,â€� he said; â€œand see that they are good,â€� he added with a smile, â€œfor I expect to wear them at my wedding.â€�

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

â€œMonsieur expects to be married soon?â€� he asked quietly.

â€œDame de Dieu, I do not know!â€� de Baudri exclaimed with a laugh; â€œmy little white bird likes to use her wings, butâ€”I mean to clip them.â€�

Le Bossu smoothed the leather on the officerâ€™s ankle, and arranged the buckle, his head bent low over his work.

â€œMonsieur plans for an early marriage, then?â€� he ventured again.

M. de Baudri stared at him.

â€œAu diable!â€� he said harshly; â€œwhat is it to you, worm?â€�

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

â€œIs monsieur satisfied?â€� he asked meekly.

The officer stood up, looking down at his feet.

â€œVery good,â€� he said at last, â€œthey will do; but make your bill small, you little beggar, or you will see that I know how to use them!â€� 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.

â€œCurse you, you dog!â€� he exclaimed, with a vicious kick at the shoemaker; â€œyou hurt me in pulling that off!â€�
â€œI beg your pardon, monsieur,â€� 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 Baudriâ€™s high-heeled slippers and was taking off the other bootâ€”with some cautionâ€”when the door was opened by a servant, who came to announce a visitor.

â€œA miserable old woman, monsieur,â€� the man said hesitatingly, â€œbut she will not be denied.â€�
â€œDame, send her to the devilâ€”or to the Intendant!â€� 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.

â€œWhat is it, idiot?â€� he demanded.

â€œShe has some information about these heretics, monsieur,â€� the fellow answered, stammering; â€œshe wants money.â€�
â€œÃ‚me de St. Denis!â€� exclaimed monsieur, with a sneer, â€œdoes she take me for a paymaster?â€�

The servant summoned his courage.

â€œShe told me to say to you two words, monsieur,â€� he said, â€œand they were â€˜St. Cyr.â€™â€�
â€œDiable!â€� M. de Baudri cried fiercely. â€œShow her up here, you blockhead!â€�

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,â€”the mate to the one on his patronâ€™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 MÃ¨re Tigrane.â€”MÃ¨re 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.

â€œI have a little news for monsieur,â€� she said pleasantly, â€œa little information about his friends, and â€™tis worth a little money; monsieur knows that.â€�
â€œDiable, you old witch, out with it!â€� 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.

â€œDame!â€� he exclaimed; â€œthere are degrees even among vermin!â€�

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

â€œâ€™Tis not enough,â€� she said bluntly, turning on the officer with a sinister smile; â€œâ€™tis worth more, my beauty.â€�

Her insolent tone offended him and he stared at her.

â€œDiantre!â€� he said, â€œI will have you thrown from the roof if you do not tell all you know, you thievish hag!â€�

MÃ¨re 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.

â€œIâ€™m a poor woman, Excellency,â€� she whined; â€œâ€™tis worth more.â€�

He threw her a broad piece, with a curse.

â€œGo on!â€� he shouted, fiercely; â€œor Iâ€™ll break your neck.â€�

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

â€œMonsieur knows the family at St. Cyr,â€� she said, one evil eye seeming to fix itself on Charlot; â€œthe old woman and her granddaughter are there, and a steward.â€�

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

â€œDoes monsieur know who the steward is?â€� she demanded, her head on one side. â€œNo, I thought not! â€™Tis M. dâ€™Aguesseau,â€”the heretic from DauphinÃ©,â€”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.â€�

M. de Baudri threw her another coin.

â€œYour information is good,â€� he said, leaning back in his chair with a smile.

She curtsied and thrust the money in her wallet.

â€œThat is not all, monsieur,â€� she said amiably; â€œthe young mademoiselle at the chÃ¢teauâ€”she went with this heretic to a prayer-meeting out there by the old quarry and sang psalms there. MÃ¨re Tigrane knows! And old Madame de St. Cyr, she too is a heretic. Dame! the chÃ¢teau would make a good burning, monsieur.â€�

M. de Baudri turned a black face on her.

â€œLook you, hag,â€� he said, â€œthere 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. Nowâ€”au diable!â€�

MÃ¨re 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 CÃ©saire stretched before him, as endless and as steepâ€”to his visionâ€”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 cliffâ€™s towered boldly, hiding the little falls, locking them in a spot as wild and as deserted as the wildernesses of the CÃ©vennes. 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,â€”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 NÃ®mes. He was slow at his task, taking the root up carefully and lingering over it so long that Babet grew impatient.

â€œHow long thou art, Petit Bossu!â€� she said, her arms akimbo. â€œCiel, I could have dug up forty! We were doing better before you came.â€�
â€œCâ€™est fini,â€� replied the hunchback, holding up the fern. â€œHere it is; how many will you have?â€�

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

â€œWe want four like that, Charlot,â€� she said cheerfully; â€œgrandâ€™mÃ¨re always has a box of ferns for winter; they make a green spot in the room, and that is so pretty.â€�
â€œBut, mademoiselle, â€™tis near supper time,â€� protested Babet, â€œand we have been here all the morning.â€�

Rosaline laughedâ€”a happy, careless laugh.

â€œYou may go home,â€� she said; â€œCharlot 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.â€�

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 chÃ¢teau. 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 dâ€™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 monsieurâ€™s open blue eyes.

Rosaline was in a happy mood. She stooped and gathering a handful of chestnuts, threw themâ€”one by oneâ€”for Truffe to chase, and laughed gayly at the poodleâ€™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.

â€œDo you think it will be an early winter, Charlot?â€� Rosaline said at last, still tossing the chestnuts for Truffe.

â€œI cannot tell, mademoiselle,â€� he replied, looking up at the sky. â€œBut last night the wind came howling straight from the CÃ©vennes, and some say that means a short autumn. The bon Dieu knows that there will be suffering; so many of these CÃ©venols 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!â€�

There was silence; Rosalineâ€™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.

â€œBabet says the winter will be fearfully cold,â€� she said absently, â€œand she is wise about these matters. I know not how many signs she has, but certainly more than I could ever remember.â€�
â€œI do not know about such things,â€� he answered quietly, â€œbut the autumn came early this year.â€�

Rosaline looked dreamily away toward the north.

â€œThe winter with its terrible storms, and this cruel war,â€� she said thoughtfully,â€”â€œI fear the suffering will be very great, Charlot. How does it seem in NÃ®mes? What does M. Montrevel say?â€�
â€œThat it cannot last, mademoiselle,â€� he replied. â€œHis Majesty has sent great reinforcements, and the marÃ©chal is determined to crush the insurrection. Nothing is talked of in NÃ®mes save the grandeur of the king and the weakness of the CÃ©venols.â€�

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.

â€œWe have enough, Charlot,â€� she said, in a dull voice; â€œI am going back now. Come also, and Babet will give you supper; you must be tired.â€�

Poor Charlot was at his witsâ€™ end.

â€œSee, mademoiselle, there is a beautiful fern,â€� he said, pointing his finger at three waving plumes of green; â€œwill you not have that also?â€�

She looked at it without interest. â€œNo,â€� she replied indifferently, â€œlet it remain; we have more than enough already, and I am tired.â€�

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

â€œMademoiselle,â€� he said, â€œcome back, I pray you; â€™tis not yet time to return to the chÃ¢teau.â€�

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

â€œWhat is it?â€� she demanded quickly; â€œwhat do you mean?â€�
â€œYou were not to return until six oâ€™clock,â€� he replied, at a loss for an excuse; â€œMadame de St. Cyr so instructed me.â€�
â€œMadame de St. Cyr instructed youâ€”about me?â€� exclaimed Rosaline in surprise; and there was a touch of hauteur in her manner that Charlot had never encountered before.

â€œShe told me so, when she sent me after you, mademoiselle,â€� he answered humbly.

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

â€œWhy did you come to St. Cyr to-day?â€� she demanded imperiously.

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

â€œI brought some shoes for madame to try,â€� he said lamely.

â€œThat is not true, Charlot!â€� she retorted indignantly; â€œmadame has ordered no shoes, and you know it. You came for something,â€� she went on, with increasing agitation; â€œbe honest,â€”was itâ€”did it concern M. dâ€™Aguesseau?â€�

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

â€œYes, mademoiselle,â€� he replied with an effort, â€œit concerned M. dâ€™Aguesseau. M. de Baudri received information that he was a heretic, and he has come to St. Cyr to take him.â€�

Mademoiselle turned on him the face of an avenging angel.

â€œAnd youâ€”â€� she said, with passionate scorn, â€œdid you betray him?â€�

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

â€œYou miserable creature!â€� Rosaline continued, her blue eyes sparkling with anger. â€œDid 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!â€�

Charlotâ€™s hands clenched and he looked at her as if she had struck him.

â€œSang de Dieu, I am innocent!â€� he said solemnly; â€œI never betrayed him. I came here to warn him, and found that he had gone. I heard it all in M. de Baudriâ€™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 harmâ€™s way.â€�
â€œThe dragoons at St. Cyr!â€� cried Rosaline, forgetting all else in that announcement, â€œand my grandmother there alone! Dieu, I will never forgive myself!â€�

She ran up the bank without heeding the cobblerâ€™s appeals.

â€œStay, mademoiselle!â€� he cried after her; â€œstay but a moment and listen! Ah, MÃ¨re de Dieu, she rushes to her fate!â€�

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 chÃ¢teau in smoking ruins and the members of the devoted family dead or banished.

All these things flashed through Rosalineâ€™s mind as she spedâ€”on the wings of loveâ€”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 chÃ¢teau, 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 grandmotherâ€™s sitting-room, flung open the door and found herself face to face with M. de Baudri.

CHAPTER XVII
M. DE BAUDRIâ€™S TERMS

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

â€œWhere is she?â€� she demanded of M. de Baudri imperiously. â€œWhere is Madame de St. Cyr?â€�

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

â€œMadame is on her way to NÃ®mes, mademoiselle,â€� he said pleasantly.

â€œTo NÃ®mes?â€� repeated Rosaline, with pale lips. â€œMon Dieu! what have you done?â€�

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

â€œI am afflicted to tell you such ill news, mademoiselle,â€� he said suavely, â€œbut 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,â€� he concluded with a shrug, â€œI have to do my duty.â€�
â€œYour duty!â€� repeated Rosaline, with sparkling eyes. â€œYour duty, then, monsieur, is to drag a helpless old woman from the shelter of her home?â€�

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

â€œAssuredly, mademoiselle,â€� he replied, â€œif she is guilty of the detestable crime of heresy.â€�
â€œAnd you will be guilty of the crime of murder, monsieur,â€� she retorted with a fierce indignation; for the moment, she was perfectly fearless. â€œWhere is she? Where have you taken her?â€� she cried.

He looked at the clock. â€œShe must be in NÃ®mes now, mademoiselle,â€� he replied courteously; â€œshe will be strictly confined there under guard until she has been interrogated by the authorities.â€�

Rosaline uttered a low cry of despair.

â€œMon Dieu!â€� she said, â€œit will kill her; you know it will kill her!â€�

He shrugged his shoulders. â€œI am not responsible,â€� he said; â€œI 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 â€™tis possible thatâ€”that there might be a compromise.â€�

He paused, looking at her with a strange expression.

â€œWhat do you mean?â€� she demanded eagerly.

M. de Baudri laid his hand on his heart.

â€œIt rests with you, mademoiselle,â€� he said with gallantry, â€œto determine madameâ€™s fate. There is no doubt that she is a heretic, and you know the doom of heretics, but you may save her yet.â€�

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

â€œYour meaning, monsieur?â€� she said in a low voice.

â€œI stand high in the favor of M. Montrevel,â€� he said placidly; â€œI 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.â€�

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

â€œYou know that I love you, mademoiselle,â€� he said; â€œif you consent nowâ€”this momentâ€”to marry me, I will save madame.â€�

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

â€œYou wish me to marry you!â€� she exclaimed, her voice quivering with passion. â€œM. de Baudri, I too am a heretic.â€�

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

â€œWhy do you not give me up to the authorities, monsieur?â€� she went on defiantly; â€œyou are a soldier, do your duty!â€�
â€œMademoiselle does not understand that I love her,â€� he retorted, unmoved. â€œCome, 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.â€�
â€œBeware, monsieur!â€� Rosaline exclaimed with scorn. â€œI have thought you a brave man, but this is the act of a coward.â€�

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

â€œYou forget,â€� he said slowly, â€œthat you are completely in my power. You are a heretic by your own declaration, your grandmother is a prisoner, and the precious steward, dâ€™Aguesseau, is also in my power.â€�

His keen eyes saw the swift change in her face at dâ€™Aguesseauâ€™s name.

â€œM. dâ€™Aguesseau?â€� she exclaimed, â€œis he taken?â€�

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

â€œThis morning, mademoiselle,â€� he replied coolly. â€œHe is not only a heretic, but also a rebel.â€�

She was controlling herself by a great effort.

â€œWhat will you do with him, monsieur?â€� she asked faintly.

â€œHang him, or send him to the galleys,â€� 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.

â€œDo not touch me!â€� she cried; â€œdo not touch me!â€�

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.

â€œMon Dieu!â€� she cried in a choking voice; â€œwhat shall I do?â€�

The fiercest passions leaped up into M. de Baudriâ€™s eyes,â€”anger, jealousy, the desire for revenge; he had suspected that there was some secret between FranÃ§ois and Rosaline, and now he doubted it no longer.

â€œMademoiselle is more afflicted at the capture of a menial than at the arrest of her own grandmother,â€� he remarked with a sneer. â€œDoubtless she would like to arrange for his liberation also.â€�

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

â€œEven that is not beyond my power,â€� M. de Baudri added coolly, â€œif mademoiselle desires to purchase thisâ€”servantâ€™sâ€”liberty.â€�

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

â€œFranÃ§ois dâ€™Aguesseau is no servant,â€� she cried; â€œhe is as well born and far more noble than his persecutor!â€�

The man laughed fiercely. â€œHe is doubtless mademoiselleâ€™s lover,â€� he remarked contemptuously; â€œshe is more lightly won than I supposed.â€�
â€œIt is always in the power of the strong to insult the weak,â€� Rosaline retorted coldly.

â€œYou cannot deny that this heretic is your lover!â€� 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.

â€œI do not deny it,â€� she said fearlessly; â€œM. dâ€™Aguesseau is my equalâ€”andâ€”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!â€�

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.

â€œYou are frank, mademoiselle,â€� he remarked coolly. â€œâ€™Tis unusual for a young girl to be so eager to declare her affection. I am afflicted indeed; for â€™tis my portion to decide M. dâ€™Aguesseauâ€™s fate, and it would grieve me to bereave mademoiselle of her lover!â€�

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

â€œIs his fate in your hands, monsieur?â€� she asked, with passionate anxiety and a desperate hope.

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

â€œAbsolutely,â€� he replied pleasantly; â€œhe 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.â€�

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

â€œAh, monsieur, surely you will be merciful,â€� she exclaimed, â€œsurely you will spare my grandmotherâ€”a feeble womanâ€”and M. dâ€™Aguesseauâ€”has he not suffered enough? Dieu! he has lost all,â€”his parents, his sister, his property. I cannot believe that you will condemn these two! You are a man, and not a fiend.â€�

He watched her with an inscrutable expression on his face.

â€œAnd what will you do to regain their liberty?â€� he asked slowly. â€œWhat petition do you make for them?â€�
â€œI ask you in Godâ€™s name,â€� she said with passionate earnestness, â€œand on my knees, monsieur, though I never kneeled to living man before.â€�

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.

â€œRise, mademoiselle,â€� he said, offering his hand with gallantry. â€œSerious 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 grantedâ€”on one condition.â€�

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

â€œAnd that condition?â€� she demanded in a low tone.

â€œA simple one, mademoiselle,â€� he said, with an easy air of confidence: â€œI adore you, Rosaline; and when you are my wife, these two are free.â€�
â€œYou say this to me after I have declared my love for another man!â€� she exclaimed aghast, â€œyou say this to me,â€”a heretic! Your conscience is not very scrupulous.â€�

He smiled. â€œYou are but a child, Rosaline,â€� he said; â€œyou will embrace my religion and marry me, orâ€”â€� he shrugged his shoulders,â€”â€œthe Tour de Constance for madame and the gallows for your ex-lover. I give you a free choice!â€�

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

â€œMon Dieu!â€� she cried; â€œforgive me for kneeling to mortal man. I ought to have known that there was no mercy save in Thee. Alas, alas, my dear ones!â€�

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.

â€œI see that you are willing to kill both rather than sacrifice your whim,â€� he remarked, striking a skilful blow at her tottering resolution.

â€œIs it possible that this is your fixed purpose?â€� she cried. â€œCan 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?â€�
â€œI am showing much,â€� he replied suavely. â€œHow many men would spare a successful rivalâ€™s neck?â€�
â€œIt will avail nothing,â€� she said passionately. â€œI will appeal to M. de BÃ¢ville himself!â€�

He laughed heartlessly. â€œDo so, mademoiselle,â€� he said, with a shrug, â€œand you will have the pleasure of seeing your lover broken on the wheel like his father.â€�

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 grandmotherâ€™s chair, her face buried in her hands, and her golden hair, escaping its bonds, had fallen about her like a mantle.

â€œI am going back to NÃ®mes, mademoiselle,â€� he said courteously, â€œand 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.â€�

She looked up with ineffable scorn in her blue eyes.

â€œDieu! is this a man?â€� 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.

â€œIt is your devoted lover, mademoiselle,â€� 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.

â€œIf any man attempts to enter this house to-night,â€� he said in a hard tone, â€œshoot him. If you let him evade you, I will hang you.â€�

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

CHAPTER XVIII
ROSALINEâ€™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 Rosalineâ€™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.

â€œWhat brought you here this morning, Petit Bossu?â€� she demanded harshly; â€œwe needed no new shoes.â€�

The cobblerâ€™s face darkened. â€œNom de St. Denis!â€� he exclaimed; â€œhave you nothing better to do than to suspect your friends at such a time?â€�
â€œYet you cameâ€”and why?â€� persisted Babet.

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

â€œThere is no reason why I should explain to you,â€� he retorted contemptuously.

â€œAh!â€� ejaculated Babet, in a tone of dark suspicion, â€œwhat do you expect me to think of such obstinate silence? You must be a wicked manâ€”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?â€�

The cobbler was tried beyond endurance.

â€œMother of Heaven!â€� he cried bitterly, â€œdo you think that I would injure a hair of mademoiselleâ€™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 cataractâ€”in the woodsâ€”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.â€�

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

â€œYou knew a great deal about it,â€� she remarked maliciously; â€œcouldnâ€™t you warn us?â€�

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.

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

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 Rosalineâ€™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 soldierâ€™s back was turned, Babet shook her fist at it, uttering threats in language that was more fervent than pious.

â€œMy poor lamb!â€� she muttered, her thoughts returning to Rosaline, â€œwhat will she do in the hands of this wolf? Nom de Ciel! if I could but tear his throat!â€�

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.

â€œThere, you varlet!â€� she exclaimed, holding the tongs close to the end of his nose, â€œlearn to take off your hat to a decent woman, whoâ€™s old enough to be your mother, and stop staring in the window with those goggle eyes of yours. Iâ€™m no jail-bird, I tell you!â€�
â€œMother!â€� ejaculated the astonished dragoon, â€œyou old gray cat! Dame! if I do not wring your neck for your impudence when M. le Capitaine has gone.â€�
â€œHumph!â€� retorted Babet, grimly, â€œyouâ€™ll find it tough, mon fils. Your hat is in the briar bush, my lad;â€� 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 housekeeperâ€™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 Baudriâ€™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.

â€œMon Dieu!â€� cried Babet, regardless now of the sentryâ€™s stare, â€œhe would force that white dove to marry him! That villain de Baudriâ€”may the bon Dieu blast him as the great chestnut-tree yonder was blasted with lightning! Heâ€”the rogueâ€”would make mademoiselle sell herself to him to save old madame and her lover. Woe is me, why did that man dâ€™Aguesseau ever come here?â€�

The hunchback looked up, surprise in his dull eyes.

â€œWhat do you mean?â€� he demanded, â€œsave her lover? Her lover is safe in the CÃ©vennes.â€�
â€œMuch you know!â€� retorted the woman, scornfully; â€œit seems that he was captured this morning.â€�

The cobbler was silent a moment, thinking deeply.

â€œI do not believe it,â€� he said quietly.

â€œYou think it a lie of that devilâ€™s?â€� asked Babet, eagerly.

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

â€œDieu, what a fiend!â€� exclaimed Babet, thrusting her tongs into the fire, where they would heat, after casting a vicious glance toward the window. â€œHe has given mademoiselle until to-morrow morning to decide,â€� she added.

â€œWhat will she do?â€� the cobbler asked in a strange voice.

â€œDo? oh, I know her!â€� the woman retorted with a snort; â€œto save those two she would die. Sheâ€™ll marry him unlessâ€”â€� Babet thrust the tongs deeper in the coals, â€œunless I wring his neck!â€�
â€œThat cannot be done,â€� remarked le Bossu, soberly, â€œbut something must be done to-night.â€�
â€œWhat?â€� snapped his companion, â€œwhat 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!â€� she added in an aside, her fierce eyes on the window.

â€œHas she one true friend with influence in NÃ®mes?â€� the cobbler asked.

Babet shook her head, and then, after a momentâ€™s thought,â€”

â€œThere is PÃ¨re Ambroise,â€� she said.

Le Bossuâ€™s face brightened. â€œGood!â€� he said, â€œthe 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?â€�

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

â€œThere is the blacksmithâ€™s boy at St. CÃ©saire,â€� she said, â€œa good child, and active as a wild hare. What do you want of him?â€�
â€œIf possible, I must find M. dâ€™Aguesseau,â€� he replied, â€œand also PÃ¨re Ambroise; I cannot do both without help.â€�
â€œAnd if M. dâ€™Aguesseau is in prison,â€� suggested Babet, grimly.

â€œThe will of Heaven be done,â€� replied the cobbler, calmly, â€œbut PÃ¨re Ambroise shall be here before dawn,â€� and he rose as he spoke.

â€œHow will you get out?â€� asked the woman, eying him curiously.

â€œYou will see,â€� 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.

â€œYou are late, le Bossu,â€� he said good-naturedly.

â€œThe shoes fit too well,â€� retorted the hunchback, coolly, â€œand my patron is rich.â€�
â€œPardieu!â€� the soldier exclaimed with a laugh. â€œI will borrow to-morrow morning. We have a bag of heretics here.â€�
â€œMÃ¨re de Dieu, burn them,â€”all but the shoes!â€� said le Bossu, and walked calmly on.

CHAPTER XIX
â€œMORTIS PORTIS FRACTISâ€�

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. PÃ¨re Ambroise detested extraordinary exertion, but he had yielded to the importunities of the cobbler. For his own part, he thought that ten oâ€™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 Bossuâ€™s representations. No man could regret the trouble at the chÃ¢teau de St. Cyr more sincerely than he did; he had labored to protect these two defenceless women, and he saw no profit in madameâ€™s arrest. PÃ¨re 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 Baudriâ€™s triumph. PÃ¨re 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 Rosalineâ€™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 girlâ€™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,â€”the only man who could take M. de Baudri in hand. The result of PÃ¨re Ambroiseâ€™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, PÃ¨re 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 fatherâ€™s fat sides shook a little with silent laughter as he drew rein at the gate of the chÃ¢teau. Ã‚me 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 sentryâ€”the same young man who had been disciplined by Babetâ€”received the priest with respect; his instructions had not mentioned PÃ¨re 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.

PÃ¨re 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 sentryâ€”perfectly acquainted with her occupationâ€”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 PÃ¨re 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.

â€œI have no choice, mon pÃ¨re,â€� she said, in a low voice; â€œno 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 Baudriâ€™s terms, and thenâ€”â€� she paused, drawing a deep breath and her clear blue eyes looked out, away toward the grim mountains of the north, â€œand then I know that the bon Dieu will release me. He will send me deathâ€”sweet deathâ€”for my bridegroom!â€�

PÃ¨re 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.

â€œThe bon Dieu is offended with you for heresy, Rosaline,â€� he remarked calmly; â€œthat is the cause of your misfortunes.â€�

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

â€œHe is my Judge,â€� 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.

â€œPÃ¨re Ambroise,â€� she said, â€œI want to go into NÃ®mes nowâ€”at onceâ€”to see my grandmother. I will consent to nothing until I doâ€”you can get this favor for meâ€”I ask nothing else, but oh, do this for me!â€�

PÃ¨re 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.

â€œIt shall be done,â€� he said, â€œbut not until M. de Baudri comes; I have no authority, but he cannot refuse this at my request.â€�

Rosaline thanked him without emotion; the girlâ€™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 PÃ¨re 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 Babetâ€™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. Cyrâ€™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 oâ€™clock he found PÃ¨re 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 PÃ¨re 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 NÃ®mes. A carriage had been obtained at St. CÃ©saire, 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 PÃ¨re 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.

â€œYou are just in time, mon pÃ¨re,â€� 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 grandmotherâ€™s face Rosaline awoke from her dream and running forward, fell on her knees beside her with a cry of surprise and anguish. PÃ¨re 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.

â€œSpeak to me, grandâ€™mÃ¨re,â€� Rosaline cried pitifully. â€œOh, mon Dieu, why did I ask for one night to decide? Twelve hours ago I might have saved her!â€�

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.

â€œMerciful Heaven!â€� she gasped, rallying her forces. â€œAre you here, my darling?â€”now is death bitter indeed!â€�
â€œShe is safe,â€� PÃ¨re Ambroise interposed, his heart touched at last; â€œI will protect her.â€�

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

â€œThank the bon Dieu,â€� she murmured faintly, â€œthe old tree was cutâ€”downâ€”and the flowerâ€”spared! Weep not, my child. Beyondâ€”there is peace.â€�

Rosalineâ€™s slender frame was shaken with agony.

â€œLive for me, grandâ€™mÃ¨re!â€� she cried; â€œnow indeed am I desolateâ€”and I would have saved you!â€�

But the end was too near for the dying woman to understand; she sank back with closed eyes and PÃ¨re 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.

â€œOh, let me save you!â€� she cried; â€œlive that I may die for you!â€�

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.

â€œThere is no anguish,â€� she said softly, looking away into space, â€œonly lightâ€”my husbandâ€”my sonâ€”the bon Dieu be praisedâ€”there shall be peace!â€�

She spoke no more; there was no sound but PÃ¨re Ambroiseâ€™s Latin and Rosalineâ€™s weeping. The dying woman lay still, and the clear eyes still looked triumphantly beyond this worldâ€™s agony, and almost without a sigh the gentle soul escaped from prison. Death, the Deliverer, opened the gates.

CHAPTER XX
THE COBBLERâ€™S FAITH

PÃ¨re Ambroise was plentifully supplied with this worldâ€™s goods, and he had a house of his own in NÃ®mes, 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 PÃ¨re 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 fatherâ€™s rubicund face wore an expression of satisfaction, while his guest was visibly discontented. The fact was that PÃ¨re 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 Baudriâ€™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 purposesâ€”nor by a more contemptible enemy. Meanwhile PÃ¨re Ambroise leaned back in his chair and regarded him from between his half-closed lids, mightily diverted by the otherâ€™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 PÃ¨re 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.

â€œYou cannot marry a heretic, my son,â€� PÃ¨re Ambroise remarked pleasantly; â€œtherefore you must either allow her to go to her fateâ€”which, by the way, is of your preparingâ€”or wait until she is converted.â€�
â€œDame! do you take me for a fool?â€� exclaimed his companion. â€œHow long have you been at this hopeful business of conversion?â€�
â€œOnly since I have known her to be a heretic,â€� the priest replied composedly.

â€œSacristi! convert a heretic!â€� de Baudri laughed; â€œhow many are ever converted?â€�
â€œLarge numbersâ€”in some circumstances,â€� PÃ¨re Ambroise said, with a broad smile; â€œâ€™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,â€�â€”he waved his fat hands,â€”â€œI am a man of peace, and I have ever labored to save these misguided people from violence.â€�

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

â€œMÃ¨re de Dieu!â€� he said bitterly; â€œthey are all only fit for hanging.â€�
â€œPerhaps you would prefer to hang mademoiselle,â€� 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.

â€œI do her great honor in offering to marry her,â€� he said harshly.

PÃ¨re Ambroise nodded his head approvingly, and took a sip of wine.

â€œAssuredly,â€� he said; â€œso 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.â€�

The younger man swore under his breath.

â€œYou old fox, you,â€� he exclaimed, â€œyou do not want me to marry the girlâ€”I believe you want her yourself!â€�

PÃ¨re Ambroise turned his eyes piously toward heaven.

â€œThe saints forbid!â€� he murmured. â€œYou have an unbridled tongue, mon fils, and deserve discipline for offering an insult to one in holy orders.â€�

The officer laughed. â€œDame, you old rogue!â€� he said, â€œdo you fat fathers take us for fools? Hark!â€� he added sharply, pausing to listen, â€œwhat is that? I heard the dog bark.â€�
â€œRosalineâ€™s poodle,â€� replied the priest, undisturbed.

M. de Baudri was suspicious. â€œHave you got her secure?â€� he demanded imperiously.

â€œAbsolutely secure,â€� retorted his companion, indifferently; â€œmy 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.â€�

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

â€œI shall have to come to your terms, I suppose, mon pÃ¨re,â€� he said at last with an effort to appear congenial.

â€œThat is more to the point,â€� PÃ¨re Ambroise remarked pleasantly, and leaned over to fill his guestâ€™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 grandmotherâ€™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 loverâ€™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 FranÃ§ois dâ€™Aguesseau in his hand, and she knew that the sacrifice must still be made. If FranÃ§ois divined it, he would refuse his life at such a cost,â€”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.

â€œMademoiselle de St. Cyr,â€� the visitor whispered, â€œopen the doorâ€”â€™tis I, Charlot the cobbler.â€�

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.

â€œWhy have you come, Charlot?â€� Rosaline asked sadly.

â€œI have come to help you to get away, mademoiselle,â€� 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. â€œI cannot go,â€� she said, â€œbut Babetâ€”you will save Babet, Charlot.â€�
â€œCiel!â€� ejaculated that woman sharply, â€œhe will save me, will he? And what do you propose to do?â€�

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

â€œMademoiselle,â€� he said, â€œyour grandmother is dead, and M. dâ€™Aguesseau was never captured.â€�

Rosaline stood looking at him with parted lips, her whole form quivering with emotion.

â€œMon Dieu!â€� she said, â€œwas it a lie?â€�
â€œIt was,â€� replied the cobbler quietly; â€œI have sent a message to him, he is with Cavalier.â€�

She could not believe him. â€œAlas!â€� she said, â€œyou do this to get me away.â€�

The cobbler knelt down at her feet.

â€œMademoiselle,â€� he said, looking earnestly into her face, â€œI swear by all I hold most sacred, that I do not deceive you. M. dâ€™Aguesseau is at liberty, though M. de Baudri offers a hundred crowns for his head.â€�

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.

â€œHow can we get out, Petit Bossu?â€� she demanded grimly,â€”â€œin your shoe-bag?â€�
â€œThe servants are feasting in the kitchen,â€� the cobbler said. â€œPÃ¨re 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.â€�

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 NÃ®mes.

â€œThou hast the mind of a great general, Charlot,â€� remarked Babet, with a queer smile; â€œthe hump is a pity.â€�

Rosaline roused herself and looked at the disguise.

â€œAlas! where can we go, Charlot?â€� she asked sadly; â€œhow can we escape them?â€�
â€œTo-night you can go to my shop, mademoiselle,â€� he replied, quietly, â€œand to-morrow, as soon as the gates are open, you can start out to St. CÃ©saire. I have arranged with the blacksmithâ€™s wife to hide you until I can guide you toâ€”to a place of safety.â€�
â€œIt may be done,â€� Rosaline said, after a momentâ€™s thought. â€œI was to have till eight to-morrow; there is one hope in a thousandâ€”but the risk to you, Charlot!â€�

The little hunchback smiled. â€œMademoiselle,â€� he said quietly, â€œI am scarcely worth killing.â€�

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 PÃ¨re 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 blacksmithâ€™s boy whom he had sent in search of dâ€™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. CÃ©saire. In le Bossuâ€™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. â€œIt is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.â€� 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 manâ€™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? Rosalineâ€™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 lifeâ€”of so little worthâ€”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 Bossuâ€™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 PÃ¨re Ambroise or one of M. de Baudriâ€™s emissaries, but a second glance reassured him, for he came face to face with FranÃ§ois dâ€™Aguesseau. The hunchback signed to him to follow him in to his shop and then closed the door.

â€œWhere is she?â€� demanded dâ€™Aguesseau, in an agitated tone. â€œI received your message, and I am here.â€�

The cobbler looked at him strangely. â€œDid you come to release mademoiselle single-handed?â€� he asked quietly.

â€œI came to save herâ€”if mortal man can do it,â€� he retorted sternly. â€œIt may be that they will take me in exchange; I hear that there is a price on my headâ€”but, mon Dieu! where is she?â€�

His face was haggard and his dress much disordered. It was evident that he had not paused for either rest or food.

â€œShe is at St. CÃ©saire, I trust,â€� the cobbler replied calmly; â€œshe and Babet got away from PÃ¨re Ambroiseâ€™s house last night and started this morning in disguise for St. CÃ©saire.â€�

He made no mention of his share in the deliverance, and FranÃ§ois jumped to another conclusion.

â€œFaithful Babet!â€� he exclaimed joyfully; â€œdoubtless she planned it all. I will follow them at once.â€�
â€œYou must meet them at the appointed spot, not elsewhere,â€� said the cobbler. â€œI was to meet them between the bridge and the cataract, at the spot where the old mulberry stands. Do you recall it?â€�
â€œPerfectly,â€� replied dâ€™Aguesseau, â€œbut why there?â€�
â€œBecause they are to hide at St. CÃ©saire until afternoon; then, if there is no pursuit to St. Cyr, they can start without being observed. If the chÃ¢teau is too closely guarded, they will wait until night,â€� he added; â€œbut it will not be, for no one will think of their return to the close vicinity of danger; it is NÃ®mes that will be searched for them.â€�
â€œBut why can I not go straight to them now?â€� FranÃ§ois demanded impatiently.

The cobbler sighed. â€œMonsieur,â€� he said patiently, â€œevery house, every cottage is watched, and if you are recognizedâ€”â€�

He broke off with an expressive gesture.

â€œI see,â€� dâ€™Aguesseau replied; â€œyou are a wise man, Petit Bossu. Tell me about Madame de St. Cyr.â€�
â€œShe died yesterday in the jail here,â€� the hunchback answered; â€œthe shock of the arrest and mademoiselleâ€™s danger ended her life.â€�

Dâ€™Aguesseau clenched his hand. â€œMon Dieu!â€� he exclaimed, â€œhow long wilt Thou afflict us?â€”how long?â€�
â€œIt was best so,â€� the cobbler remarked quietly. â€œIf 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 livesâ€”to release you both only on the condition that she should marry him.â€�
â€œThe accursed villain!â€� broke out FranÃ§ois, laying his hand on his sword: â€œmay I be spared to chastise him!â€�

He walked to and fro in the little room in suppressed fury; all the fierce impulses of a bold and daring nature were aroused.

â€œDieu!â€� he exclaimed, in a low tone, â€œI cannot go to England for Cavalier; I must stay and fight this monster!â€�
â€œNay,â€� remarked le Bossu, gravely, â€œyou must save Mademoiselle de St. Cyr.â€�

FranÃ§ois came to himself. â€œI ought not to need you to remind me,â€� he said. â€œI will go at once to the appointed place and wait; it is not long now, but, in the meantime, is she safe?â€�
â€œWe can only trust in Providence,â€� replied the cobbler, â€œsince to approach her would increase her risks. Butâ€”pardon me, monsieurâ€”if you stay much longer in NÃ®mes, you will be arrested.â€�
â€œI know it,â€� he replied; â€œI thought only of her when I came, but I must get away now for her sake. Charlot, I thank you,â€� he said, holding out his hand; â€œI do not know why you should do so much for us who are, in your eyes, heretics and criminals.â€�

The hunchback smiled as he returned the pressure of dâ€™Aguesseauâ€™s hand.

â€œLife is a mystery,â€� he rejoined, with a new dignity that became him well, â€œand so is death.â€�

He went with FranÃ§ois 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 NÃ®mes. But there was time yet, and he wanted to know what PÃ¨re Ambroise intended to do, and where M. de Baudri would next cast his net.

Meanwhile, out at St. CÃ©saire, Babet and Rosaline were safely hidden in the blacksmithâ€™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 chÃ¢teau, and like many others, he was a concealed Huguenot. He and his wife therefore gladly ministered to Rosalineâ€™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 Babetâ€™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 womanâ€™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 CÃ©venols.

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 blacksmithâ€™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 chÃ¢teau, if possible, to secure Madame de St. Cyrâ€™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 madameâ€™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 chÃ¢teau with great caution, listening and watching, but no one appeared, not a leaf stirred, and Rosalineâ€™s doves were cooing in the sun.

â€œAh, my poor birds,â€� she said sadly. â€œI am glad that the blacksmithâ€™s good wife will take them; otherwise I should feel as if I were leaving them to perish.â€�

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 Truffeâ€™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 FranÃ§ois 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 MÃ¨re Tigrane. An exclamation of horror and fear burst from Rosalineâ€™s heart, and she shrieked for helpâ€”help!â€”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 prisonerâ€™s cries.

â€œShriek away, mademoiselle!â€� she said pleasantly. â€œCiel! what a voice she has! But no one will hear you except dear old MÃ¨re Tigrane.â€�

Rosalineâ€™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 womanâ€™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 MÃ¨re 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.

â€œArt comfortable, my lady-bird?â€� she asked amiably. â€œWhat! so proud that you will not speak to poor MÃ¨re Tigrane? And what do you suppose I intend to do with such a fine lady, eh?â€�

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.

â€œGod knows what you want of me,â€� Rosaline said. â€œI have never harmed you, and I cannot tell why you so misuse me.â€�
â€œYou never harmed me!â€� la Louve cried, throwing up her bony hands. â€œDame! you are a peril to my soul, you little heretic!â€�

Rosaline read the evil look in the hagâ€™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.

â€œHow would mademoiselle like the Tour de Constance?â€� MÃ¨re Tigrane inquired pleasantly. â€œâ€™Tis a healthful place and full of her friends. Dame de Dieu, what an opportunity to travel without pay from NÃ®mes to Aiguemortes!â€�

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.

â€œNom de St. Denis!â€� she exclaimed at last, â€œhow proud mademoiselle is,â€”an aristocrat! But â€™tis not the Tour de Constance, ma chÃ©rie,â€� she added, with a mocking laugh. â€œNo, no, there must be a better fate for such a lovely prisoner. Dame! but your flesh is whiteâ€”I could eat it. How much does mademoiselle think that M. de Baudri would pay for such a prize?â€�
â€œDieu!â€� cried Rosaline, shaken out of her resolve, â€œare you a woman? Is it possible that the bon Dieu put such a heart in a woman?â€�
â€œA woman, my pretty?â€� retorted the hag, with a peal of wild laughter. â€œAyâ€”and once a pretty one! Now you see what I amâ€”and you are like to live to be like me, unless I wring that pretty, white throat now! I am a woman, morbleu, yesâ€”this is what a woman becomes!â€� and she crooked her talon fingers pointing at herself. â€œDo you think I will pity you? Dame, I would see you burn this minute with joy, you little white fool!â€�

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.

â€œWhat do you mean to do with me?â€� she asked, in a strange voice, her eyes chained now by a horrible fascination to the old hagâ€™s face.

â€œSell you, my sweetheart,â€� MÃ¨re Tigrane retorted, showing her fangs, â€œto the highest bidder in NÃ®mes. Dame, you are pretty enough to keep poor MÃ¨re Tigraneâ€™s pot boiling for a year or two, my sweetie.â€�
â€œGod will not let you do it!â€� cried Rosaline, with white lips; â€œI am His.â€�

La Louve shrieked with laughter.

â€œYou heretic!â€� she said gleefully, â€œyou are the devilâ€™sâ€”body and soulâ€”my fine lady, and you will wish yourself in hell presently, I doubt not, ma chÃ©rie! Next time you drive MÃ¨re Tigrane away with her fish, I think you will not hold that little head so high.â€�
â€œMon Dieu!â€� cried Rosaline, in amazement, â€œis it possible that my one little act has made you hate me so?â€�

MÃ¨re Tigrane shook her head, wagging it slowly from side to side. â€œNo,â€� she replied, â€œI 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! MÃ¨re de Dieu! how I love to see a heretic burn!â€�

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 NÃ®mes 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 NÃ®mes; their disguise had not deceived her ferret eyes, and she had tracked them to St. CÃ©saire and from St. CÃ©saire to the chÃ¢teau, 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 hagâ€™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 Truffeâ€™s short bark. Her scream was answered just as MÃ¨re 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.

â€œDame!â€� she ejaculated, drawing a knife from her bosom, â€œIâ€™ll make short work of the woman and the cur!â€�

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 admitâ€”not Babet, but the cobbler.

MÃ¨re Tigrane, taken by surprise, withheld her knife, but when Babet followed him she struck a vicious blow at le Bossu.

â€œDiable!â€� she shrieked. â€œPetit Bossu! take yourself offâ€”this is my game!â€�

Charlot quietly thrust his hand into his breast and drew out a pistol, levelling it at the hagâ€™s head.

â€œIf you move one finger,â€� he said grimly, â€œyou are dead. Babet, take her knife and loose mademoiselle.â€�

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 Rosalineâ€™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 MÃ¨re Tigraneâ€™s oaths as she writhed helpless before le Bossuâ€™s pistol. He was watching Babet.

â€œDo not cut the long rope,â€� he said grimly; â€œuntie itâ€”we have need of it.â€�

At this, la Louve began to howl, rocking to and fro.

â€œYou villain!â€� she whined, â€œyou dare not hang me! M. de Baudri is coming; you will be punishedâ€”â€� She went on with a stream of oaths.

Le Bossu stopped her. â€œAnother word,â€� he said, â€œand Iâ€™ll shoot you. You will not be hung, though you deserve it. Babet, stuff those dirty rags in her mouth, we have heard enough.â€�

Babet obeyed this time, first relieving the hag of her knife and binding her hands.

â€œThereâ€™s some dinner for you to chew, my beauty,â€� Babet said pleasantly, and proceeded to tie her feet.

â€œNow the rope,â€� ordered the cobbler; â€œslip it twice around her waistâ€”that is it; draw her back to the post and tie it securely.â€�

He helped Babet in this, putting the pistol back into his bosom. MÃ¨re Tigrane was black in the face with rage, but she could offer no resistance; only, her terrible eyes leered at themâ€”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.

â€œâ€™Twas Truffe who found you,â€� she said, â€œbless 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!â€�

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.

â€œHave courage, mademoiselle,â€� he said quietly, â€œbut let us be gone, there are horsemen in the road by St. Cyr; the dragoons have returned.â€�

CHAPTER XXIII
THE COBBLERâ€™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,â€”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.

â€œThat is mademoiselleâ€™s,â€� he said calmly; â€œguard it well. And nowâ€”go on in Godâ€™s name! Do not let them tarry, for Death is behind them.â€�

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

â€œWhere are you going?â€� she asked bluntly.

He pointed to the woods. â€œBack,â€� he said, â€œto keep them from finding MÃ¨re Tigrane who would set them on your track. I will delay them all I can.â€�
â€œIt is well,â€� Babet remarked, â€œyou are a good man, Charlot; the bon Dieu will bless you. I suppose you do not want the blessing of a heretic?â€�

He smiled. â€œDo not tarry,â€� he said, warningly. â€œKeep straight to the west; M. dâ€™Aguesseau will guide you. Adieu!â€�

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 loverâ€™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 chÃ¢teau. 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.

â€œWhat are you doing here, Petit Bossu?â€� he demanded fiercely. â€œOut with all you know, orâ€”â€� He drew his hand expressively across his throat.

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

â€œI am monsieurâ€™s humblest servant,â€� he said. â€œI have been over yonder to sell my shoes in St. CÃ©saire, and I came here to look aboutâ€”monsieur understands, the place is open, the house of heretics; the poor cobbler thought to find some trifle left by the soldiers.â€�
â€œIt would be a devilish small thing if they left it!â€� retorted M. de Baudri, with a grim smile. â€œLook, you little beast, no triflingâ€”these heretics have escaped. Have you seen them?â€�

The cobbler assumed an air of importance.

â€œMy life is valuable to me, monsieur,â€� he said, â€œand if I tell, the Camisards may kill me, as they kill the curÃ©s; nevertheless, for the sake of my soulâ€” Monsieur, will the Intendant pay?â€�
â€œDiable!â€� shouted de Baudri; â€œpay! I can pay if I choose, but Iâ€™ll shoot you if you trifle.â€�
â€œI will guide you, monsieur,â€� the cobbler replied, with a stubborn air, â€œbut I will have pay for the risk,â€”a hundred crowns.â€�

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

â€œThere is some, beast,â€� he said coarsely; â€œand you shall have the rest if you find the girl,â€”Rosaline de St Cyr.â€�

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

â€œYou promise the rest, monsieur?â€� le Bossu persisted, with a shrewd look.

â€œDame!â€� retorted the other; â€œyouâ€™ll get it and hell too, if you donâ€™t make haste. Where are these women?â€�

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

â€œYou shall have them all, monsieur,â€� he said, â€œthe girl, the old woman, M. dâ€™Aguesseau, and the dog!â€�
â€œBien!â€� exclaimed de Baudri cheerfully; â€œyou shall have your hundred crowns. Viens donc, show me the way!â€�

The hunchback pointed toward the north.

â€œUp yonder,â€� he said, â€œbehind those rocks on the hill, there is a grottoâ€”I know it by accident; there they have hidden since morning. The way is long and rocky; monsieur must follow me.â€�
â€œWill they not see us approaching in time to fly?â€� he asked sharply.

Le Bossu shook his head with a smile.

â€œNay,â€� he replied quietly, â€œwe 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.â€�
â€œGo on, then,â€� said de Baudri, impatiently; â€œto the cave or au diable! I tell thee plainly, though, that deceit will cost thee thy life.â€�
â€œSo be it, monsieur,â€� rejoined the hunchback, calmly; â€œand the bon Dieu judge between me and thee,â€� 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 horseâ€™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.

â€œHere,â€� he said sharply, â€œPetit Bossu must be mounted; bring up a horse.â€�
â€œI cannot ride,â€� said the cobbler, meekly; â€œmy back and my hips, monsieur, will not permit it.â€�
â€œMille tonnerres!â€� ejaculated the officer, with a black frown, â€œyou mean to walk? We shall not be there for an hour!â€�
â€œI can walk fast, at times, monsieur,â€� replied Charlot; â€œI will do my best. If you had but a cartâ€”â€�

M. de Baudri cursed him and his deformity.

â€œA cart!â€� he said mockingly; â€œa litter! Do you suppose that dragoons drive out in carriages; such vermin should not cumber the earth. If we miss them, MÃ¨re de Dieu, Iâ€™ll hang you!â€�
â€œWe cannot miss them, monsieur,â€� rejoined the cobbler, patiently; â€œthey dare not leave their lurking place in daylight, and it is yet an hour to sunset.â€�
â€œDame de Dieu, let us be off!â€� 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 NÃ®mes and sparkled on the polished steel of the soldiersâ€™ 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 Baudriâ€™s keen eyes swept the scene with the savage glance of a vulture seeking its prey.

CHAPTER XXIV
â€œO DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?â€�

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 Baudriâ€™s command and surrounded the spot. It would be impossible for any one to escape down that bare hillside unseen. De Baudriâ€™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.

â€œA whole hour,â€� he said to himself. â€œPlease God she is out of reach!â€�

He obeyed a motion of M. de Baudriâ€™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 NÃ®mes. 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 Baudriâ€™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,â€”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 Baudriâ€™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.

â€œSang de Dieu!â€� he thundered, â€œwhere is the grotto, slave?â€�

Le Bossu turned on him a calm face.

â€œThere is none, monsieur,â€� he replied simply.

De Baudri broke out with a terrible oath, drawing his sword.

â€œYou lying, humped toad!â€� he said, â€œhow dared you do this?â€�

He made a move as if to strike him dead, and then a sudden thought checked him.

â€œBah!â€� he ejaculated, â€œsoil my sword with the blood of such vermin? I am a fool. Where is the girl?â€� he added fiercely. â€œPardieu, I will wring your neck!â€�
â€œI do not know where she is,â€� replied le Bossu, truthfully enough, for he did not know where they were then.

â€œAnd you led us here to cheat us, slave?â€� said de Baudri. â€œA fine schemeâ€”as you will learn to your cost. If I thought you knew where she was, Iâ€™d torture it out of you with hot irons.â€�

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! â€œMother of God,â€� he prayed, â€œcomfort the wretched.â€� 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.

â€œHang him by the feet,â€� he said coolly, pointing with his white hand to a tree. â€œSacrebleu! â€™twill hurt more so.â€�

They secured the rope about the hunchbackâ€™s feet while their victim watched them with calm eyes.

â€œWhat matter,â€� he thought, â€œif I have saved her? May the bon Dieu make my sacrifice complete!â€�

De Baudri watched him coolly, wondering that the rapt face was so calm.

â€œWhen I give the order,â€� he said to the soldiers, â€œhaul him up and let him hang twenty minutes. Now, rogue, where is the girl?â€�

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.

â€œNom de St. Denis!â€� ejaculated de Baudri, â€œwhat a stubborn fool. Now, my men!â€�

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 passedâ€”twenty.

â€œFire!â€� 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,â€”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 NÃ®mes. 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 MÃ¨re 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,â€”her husband now, for they had been wedded in the CÃ©vennes,â€”and near them sat Babet contentedly feeding Truffe with a cake. Rosaline leaned on the rail, looking back toward France.

â€œDear native land,â€� she sighed softly, â€œI may never see you more; yet I am content. Ah, FranÃ§ois, 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.â€�
â€œI pray so,â€� he replied gently; â€œEnglandâ€™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 CÃ©vennes, with winter so near. Ah, my love, are you satisfied?â€�

She looked up with tender eyes. â€œI am content, my husband,â€� she answered softly. â€œI bless the bon Dieu, but my heart is sore at the thought of poor Charlot. Can it be that the blacksmithâ€™s boy was mistaken? Could they really hang him for not betraying us?â€�
â€œI fear so,â€� replied dâ€™Aguesseau sadly; â€œthe report came straight enough. Let us remember, though, that it ended his sufferings; he told me that his life was full of pain.â€�

Rosaline looked back over the blue sea with tearful eyes.

â€œPoor little Charlot,â€� she murmured gently. â€œThe hunchbacked cobbler with the soul of a hero and a martyr. His memory shall be sacred to me forever.â€�

THE END

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Sold by all booksellers, or mailed, on receipt of price, by

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TRANSCRIBERâ€™S NOTES:

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Table of Contents

- THE COBBLER OF NÃŽMES
- CONTENTS.
- CHAPTER I THE BODY OF A DAMNED PERSON
- CHAPTER II THE SHOP OF TWO SHOES
- CHAPTER III MADEMOISELLEâ€™S SLIPPERS
- CHAPTER IV ROSALINE
- CHAPTER V THE COBBLERâ€™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 FRANÃ‡OIS MAKES A PLEDGE
- CHAPTER XII THE FINGER OF FATE
- CHAPTER XIII THE BATTLE HYMN
- CHAPTER XIV â€œAND ALL FOR LOVEâ€�
- CHAPTER XV THE TEMPTATION OF LE BOSSU
- CHAPTER XVI A BRIEF DELAY
- CHAPTER XVII M. DE BAUDRIâ€™S TERMS
- CHAPTER XVIII ROSALINEâ€™S HUMBLE FRIENDS
- CHAPTER XIX â€œMORTIS PORTIS FRACTISâ€�
- CHAPTER XX THE COBBLERâ€™S FAITH
- CHAPTER XXI IN THE WOODS OF ST. CYR
- CHAPTER XXII THE OLD WINDMILL
- CHAPTER XXIII THE COBBLERâ€™S BARGAIN

- CHAPTER XXIV â€œO DEATH, WHERE IS THY STING?â€�

- CHAPTER XXV THE SHIP AT SEA

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE