THE SHOP OF TWO SHOES
The two, le Bossu and his guest, entered a small room fitted up as
a shop. The window was open and across the unused fireplace were
suspended half a dozen shoes of various sizes. The cobbler’s bench
was strewn with tools, and scraps of leather lay on the floor. On one
side of the room hung a hide prepared for use; opposite was a colored
picture of St. Elizabeth, with her arms full of roses, the patron saint
of the poor. There were two wooden chairs, the cobbler’s stool, and a
box of _sabots_, nothing more. A door opened into the kitchen, where a
narrow flight of stairs--like a ladder--ascended to the second story.
On the kitchen hearth the _pot-au-feu_ was simmering, the savory odor
filling the room, and on the table was a loaf of black bread and some
garlic.
The hunchback asked his guest to be seated and then sat down himself,
looking attentively but kindly at the new arrival. The stranger had
a strong face, although he was still a young man. His complexion
was a clear olive, and his dark eyes were gloomy and even stern. He
wore no periwig, his natural hair curling slightly. In his turn, he
scrutinized the cripple, and never was there a greater contrast. Le
Bossu was small, and the hump on his back made him stoop; as often
occurs in such cases, the upper part of his body and his head were out
of proportion with his small and shrunken limbs. His arms were long and
powerful, however, his hands well shaped and strong, though brown and
callous from labor, and they were skilful hands, able to earn a living
despite the feeble legs and back. His face was pale and drawn from much
physical suffering, but his eyes were beautiful, large, brown, and full
of expression. They redeemed the cripple’s whole aspect, as though the
soul--looking out of its windows--made its own appeal. It was his eye
that won upon his new acquaintance.
“You said you wished to speak to me,” he remarked abruptly. “What is
it?”
“I will tell you the truth, friend,” le Bossu replied calmly, “you
were showing too much emotion yonder; you were observed by the
dragoon and Mère Tigrane. She is a dangerous person; men call her the
she-wolf--_la Louve_.”
“Too much emotion!” repeated the other. “_Dieu!_ you seem an honest
man--shall I tell you who that dead woman was?” he asked recklessly.
“Are you a Catholic?”
“I am,” replied the cobbler, quietly; “’tis best to tell me nothing.”
His visitor stared at him.
“Why did you try to protect me, then?” he asked. “I am a desperate man
and unknown to you--I have no money to reward kindness.”
“Nor to pay for a lodging,” remarked the hunchback.
The other thrust his hand into his pocket and drew out half a crown,
looking at it with a grim smile.
“My worldly goods,” he said.
“I thought so,” rejoined the cobbler, dryly, “and you paid the other
half-crown to see the dead Huguenot woman.”
An expression of pain passed over the face opposite.
“I would have paid more to be sure that it was--” He broke off,
covering his face with his hands. “Oh, _mon Dieu!_” he exclaimed
brokenly.
The hunchback was silent for a few moments, his arms folded and his
eyes on the floor.
“You must leave Nîmes,” he said at last; “you will betray yourself
here. Meanwhile, there is a room overhead; if you wish you can stay
there, free of rent, until you go.”
“Again, why do you do this?” asked the stranger.
The cobbler indicated his hump with a gesture.
“The _bon Dieu_ made me so,” he said simply; “yet I am a scorn in the
market-place, a miserable cripple. I swore to the saints that I would
help the miserable.”
“You will take a risk,” remarked his companion,--“I am François
d’Aguesseau, a Huguenot--”
“Hush!” The cobbler held up his hand. “I do not wish to know, M.
d’Aguesseau. If you will take the upper room, ’tis yours.”
“I will take it while I can pay for it, at least,” said d’Aguesseau,
“and I thank you.”
The hunchback rose, leading the way across the kitchen to the stairs.
He walked slowly, and occasionally dragged one foot, but he ascended
the steps with some agility, followed by his guest. There was a
trap-door at the top, which he opened before they could step on to the
floor above. D’Aguesseau knew that he was taking a great risk, that
this might be a snare laid for those of the Religion, but he was, at
the moment, a desperate and reckless man, and he cared little. He had
entered Nîmes that morning, almost without money, he had just had his
worst fears confirmed, and he cared little now for life or death.
They entered a room above the kitchen, where the cripple slept, and
this opened into another small room over the shop. Both were clean,
though poor and bare. The hunchback stopped before a shrine in his own
chamber, and lighting a taper, set it before the Virgin.
“What is that?” asked d’Aguesseau with a strange glance from the image
to the devotee.
“A prayer,” replied le Bossu; “when I see danger I always offer a
prayer to our Lady.”
The Huguenot smiled contemptuously, but said no more, following his
host into the front room.
“It is yours,” said the hunchback. “You are weary; lie down until the
_pot-au-feu_ is ready, and we will sup together.”
“I have been in many places,” said d’Aguesseau, “and seen many
people--but never one like you before.”
Le Bossu smiled. “Yet--save for the hump--I am as others,” he said
quietly. “I hear some one crossing the court,” he added; “if any one
enters the shop, ’tis best for you to be quiet up here. There are some
who need not know I have a guest.”
“I trust I shall not imperil your safety by any carelessness,”
d’Aguesseau replied earnestly, casting a kindly glance at the drawn
face.
“I must go down,” said the cobbler. “Rest here awhile; I will call you
to supper.”
His guest thanked him, still much perplexed by this unusual
friendliness, and stood watching the hunchback as he went back to the
trap-door, and did not withdraw his eyes until his host disappeared
through the opening in the floor.
Le Bossu heard footsteps in the shop as he descended the stairs, and
leaning forward, saw Mère Tigrane in the kitchen door. Without a word
he went back and closed the trap, slipping the bolt; then he came down
to find la Louve in the kitchen.
“Where are my _sabots_, Petit Bossu?” she demanded, her fierce little
eyes travelling around the room, and her lips very red. “I came for
them myself, you are so slow.”
“You do not need them, Mère Tigrane,” the cobbler replied coolly, eying
her feet; “your _sabots_ are as good as new. I did not promise the
others until St. Bartholomew’s day.”
She began to grumble, moving over to the fire and peering into the
_pot-au-feu_.
“_Dame!_ but you live well, Charlot,” she remarked. “The sight of the
damned corpse gave me also an appetite. _Mère de Dieu!_ how white and
tender her flesh was! ’Twould have made a good pottage,” she added
laughing, her yellow teeth showing against her blood-red tongue like
the fangs of a she-wolf--verily, she merited her name.
“You should arrange with Adolphe,” the hunchback said coolly. “I will
send you your _sabots_ on Wednesday.”
“Eh! but I’ll come for them,” she replied with a wink; “I love to come
to visit you.”
The cobbler grunted, moving slowly and painfully--as he did at
times--to the shop. But Mère Tigrane was reluctant to follow him,--she
was listening; she thought she heard a step overhead.
“Charlot,” she said amiably, “how much do you get for your room above?”
“I do not rent it,” he replied calmly, but he too was listening.
Happily, the sounds above ceased.
“I want it,” she remarked briskly; “I will pay a good price for it--for
my cousin. He is apprenticed to the blacksmith behind the Garden of the
Récollets. I will look at it now--at once--Petit Bossu.”
The cobbler started, but controlled himself, though la Louve had her
foot on the ladder. She could be swift when she pleased, and she could
hobble.
“It is locked to-day,” he said coolly, “and I shall not rent it now.”
She grinned, with an evil look.
“What have you got there, _mon chéri_?” she demanded, shaking her cane
at him with sinister pleasantry.
“The devil,” replied le Bossu, sitting down to his bench and taking up
a shoe and beginning to stitch.
“Or his wife--which?” la Louve asked jocosely.
She was satisfied now that the trap was fastened, and it was not
always wise to offend the cobbler. She returned to the shop with a
dissatisfied face.
“You have no hospitality,” she said, “you dog of a cobbler--I will come
on Wednesday again for the _sabots_.”
“As you please,” he retorted indifferently, stitching away.
“_Diable!_ you sew like a woman,” she remarked. “You might better be
cutting my shoes out of the good wood, that does not split, than
making those silly things of leather!”
She lingered a little longer, but still he did not heed her, and at
last she hobbled off, picking up a basket of fish that she had left
on the doorstep. But she did not leave the court until she had looked
again and again at the upper window of the shop of Two Shoes. Yet she
saw nothing there but the white curtain fluttering in the breeze.
An hour later she was back at the market-place, grinning and selling
her fish. She was in time too, to hear the uproar when Adolphe, the
showman, found the false coin in his box. She pushed to the fore,
her red handkerchief conspicuous in the group, and her sharp eyes
recognized the country boy who had followed her in to see the damned
person. The showman was belching forth oaths and threats like the fiery
furnace that belched flames on Shadrach, Meshach, and Abed-nego. Mère
Tigrane’s eyes gleamed, and she pointed a long, bony finger at the poor
lad.
“He put it in, Adolphe,” she shrieked, with an oath. “I saw him, the
vagabond!”
Then she laughed and shook, clapping her hands to her sides. It was so
diverting--the uproar, and the protests of the peasant boy as he was
dragged off to jail with the rabble at his heels.
“_Dame!_” she said, “’twas worth a good half-crown.”