ROSALINE
The sun shone cheerfully in the dining room of the château. The long
windows were open, and the soft June air came in, laden with the
sweetness of the garden. The room was of moderate size and furnished
with perfect simplicity, the polished dark wood floor being bare of
rugs. In the corner was a tall clock with a silver dial, wherein were
set the sun, moon, and stars, moving in unison with the hands. On the
sideboard were a few pieces of silver that dated back to the days of
Francis I. The table, covered with a fair linen cloth, was set for two,
a glass bowl full of pansies in the centre. Rosaline sat at one end
and at the other was her grandmother, Madame de St. Cyr. Between them
was Truffe, the poodle, sitting solemnly, with a napkin tied about her
neck, and turning her black face from one to the other in eager but
subdued anticipation.
Madame de St. Cyr was an old gentlewoman with a handsome, delicate face
and the blue eyes of her granddaughter; her hair had the whiteness of
snow and there were lines of age and suffering about her mouth. She
wore a plain gown of black silk with a fall of lace at the throat,
and a lace cap on her head, and her thin white hands showed the blue
veins like whip-cords, but they were slender and graceful hands, with
tapering fingers and delicate wrists.
The two women were alone; their only servant, the woman Babet, was in
the kitchen, setting out a dinner for the cobbler, and they could hear
the murmur of her voice as she lectured him. Madame de St. Cyr was
listening to Rosaline with a troubled face.
“Ah, _grand’mère_, can we not help him?” the girl said earnestly.
“Think of his desolate situation.”
“We are poor, Rosaline,” the old woman replied gently, “and helpless.
Moreover, if our religion were suspected the _bon Dieu_ only knows what
would happen. I am too old to hide away in the caves of the Cévennes!
Nor is it clear that it is my duty to help this fellow religionist if
by so doing I put you in danger. Ah, my child, for you it would be the
Tour de Constance--or worse!”
Rosaline was feeding some morsels to Truffe with perfect composure.
“I have never been afraid, _grand’mère_,” she said, “and I hate to live
a lie--but I know you are wise. Yet, oh, madame, think of this Huguenot
in Nîmes!”
“What did Charlot call him?” her grandmother asked thoughtfully. “I
thought the name was familiar.”
“He said ’twas François d’Aguesseau.”
Madame de St. Cyr sat a moment silent, trying to gather her
recollections in shape, then her memory suddenly helped her.
“Certainly I know,” she said; “they are from Dauphiné. He must be the
son of Sieur d’Aguesseau who was broken on the wheel at Montpellier in
’99. I remember now very well; he had a son and a daughter, and I did
hear that she was carried away to the Tour de Constance. It must have
been the same young woman whose corpse was exhibited on Saturday at
Nîmes. The song is true,” she added sadly:
“‘Nos filles dans les monastères,
Nos prisonniers dans les cachots,
Nos martyrs dont le sang se répand à grands flots,
Nos confesseurs sur les galères,
Nos malades persécutés,
Nos mourants exposés à plus d’une furie,
Nos morts traînés à la voierie,
Te disent (ô Dieu!) nos calamités.’”
“What a terrible story of sorrow it is!” remarked Rosaline; “and
to think that the corpse of a gentlewoman should be exposed in the
market-place! _Mon Dieu!_ I wonder if mine will be!”
Madame put up her hand with a gesture of horror.
“Hush!” she said, with white lips, “I cannot bear it.”
Rosaline was contrite in a moment.
“A thousand pardons, _grand’mère_,” she said sweetly; “you and I have
lived so long the life of concealed Huguenots, treading on the edge of
the volcano, that I grow careless in speech.”
“But do you not see why I am so reluctant to take a risk?” her
grandmother asked. “Yet I know that this François d’Aguesseau is
related to me through his mother. I remember now who she was, and it
seems that I must do what I can.”
Her granddaughter’s face lighted. “That is like you, madame,” she said
brightly; “we could not believe she would turn a deaf ear, could we,
Truffe? Ah, you _petite gourmande_, have I not given you enough?”
The older woman watched the girl fondly as she fed and petted the dog.
This granddaughter was her last link with the world. Her son, the
Comte de St. Cyr had fallen fighting for the king the year before the
Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, when Rosaline was only three months
old. His wife survived him only two years, and the grandmother brought
up the child. They had never been rich, and the estate had suffered
under madame’s management, for she was always cheated and robbed, being
as unworldly as a woman could be who had seen something of the gay life
of her day. Her mind now was full of the guest of le Bossu, and she was
troubled.
“I do not know what we can do, Rosaline,” she said in evident
perplexity; “he can come here, of course, and share our crust, if he
will, but a guest, and an unknown one, would excite comment; and there
is M. de Baudri.”
Rosaline made a grimace. “I wish M. de Baudri would stay with his
dragoons in Nîmes,” she retorted. “But, _grand’mère_, there must be a
way. Let us think and think, until we find it.”
“I cannot understand Charlot,” remarked Madame, meditatively. “We know
he is a devout Romanist, yet this is not the first time I have known
him to help the persecuted.”
“He is the strangest little man in the world,” replied Rosaline, “and
I believe that his heart is as big as his poor misshapen body. He is
strangely refined too, for his condition in life. Poor little Charlot!”
“Do you think he suspects our religion?” madame asked anxiously.
“I do not know,” her granddaughter replied slowly, “but sometimes I
think so.”
“_Mon Dieu!_” murmured the old woman, with a sigh; “the axe hangs over
our heads.”
Rosaline looked up surprised.
“Surely you do not fear Charlot?” she exclaimed. “Charlot!--why, he
would no more betray us than would old Babet.”
“Babet is of the Religion; I trust no one else,” returned Madame de St.
Cyr, gravely.
“I do,” replied Rosaline calmly; “I trust Charlot and Père Ambroise.”
“In a way, we are in Père Ambroise’s hands,” her grandmother replied,
“and I do not believe he would betray you; he means instead to convert
you. As for me, I am too near death to trouble him.”
“You do him an injustice,” retorted Rosaline; and then she smiled. “The
good father is naturally kind,--he cannot help it; he is so round and
sleek that he rolls through the world as easily as a ball. To strike
anything violently would make him bounce uncomfortably, so dear old
Père Ambroise rolls blandly on. I should weep indeed if the naughty
Camisards caught the kind soul and harmed him. I can see him, though,
trying to run away, with his round eyes starting and his fat cheeks
quivering like Babet’s moulds of jelly; and how short his breath
would come! _Mon père_ is my friend, so do not find fault with him,
_grand’mère_, even when he tries to convert me,--pretending all the
while that he believes me to be one of his flock!”
Madame de St. Cyr laughed a little at the picture the girl drew of Père
Ambroise, but the laugh died in a sigh. She had all the misgivings,
the faint-heartedness of age, while Rosaline was as full of life and
spirits as a child, and as thoughtless of the dreadful fate that
might any day overtake her. She laughed now and told Truffe to beg
for a tart, and then scolded the poodle for eating sweets, all the
while making a picture of youthful loveliness that made the old room
bright with hope and joy. The finger of fate had not yet been laid on
Rosaline’s heart; she knew neither love nor fear.