A BRIEF DELAY
Beyond the old windmill, on the estate of St. Cyr, the stream turned
its course westward and tumbling over a rock, fell four or five feet
into a broader rivulet and then flowed placidly on, twisting and
turning at last toward the valley of the Vaunage. The gray cliff’s
towered boldly, hiding the little falls, locking them in a spot as
wild and as deserted as the wildernesses of the Cévennes. But below,
where the stream widened, the banks were mossy, and in summer ferns
and wild flowers clustered, and on either bank was a fringe of juniper
bushes, and beyond, the tall, well-nurtured chestnut trees. Here were
fish,--the brown trout darting through the placid waters, and the eels,
and there were always birds in the trees when the chestnuts blossomed.
But now the touch of autumn was upon it; the moss showed brown tints,
and the nuts fell from the opening burrs, and the squirrels were
gathering their winter stores.
On the edge of the stream stood Rosaline St. Cyr, looking down into
its clear depths at the pebbles in its bed. A little way off was Babet
with a basket, and Charlot, the cobbler, knelt on the bank digging
up a hardy fern with a broad knife, that had been given him for the
purpose by the housekeeper. Truffe meanwhile ran about under the trees
barking at every nut that dropped. The scene, in its rustic peace and
simplicity, struck the shoemaker in pleasant contrast with that other
scene in Nîmes. He was slow at his task, taking the root up carefully
and lingering over it so long that Babet grew impatient.
“How long thou art, Petit Bossu!” she said, her arms akimbo. “_Ciel_, I
could have dug up forty! We were doing better before you came.”
“_C’est fini_,” replied the hunchback, holding up the fern. “Here it
is; how many will you have?”
Rosaline turned toward him. She had a large straw hat tied under her
chin with blue ribbons, and her cheeks were like roses.
“We want four like that, Charlot,” she said cheerfully; “_grand’mère_
always has a box of ferns for winter; they make a green spot in the
room, and that is so pretty.”
“But, mademoiselle, ’tis near supper time,” protested Babet, “and we
have been here all the morning.”
Rosaline laughed--a happy, careless laugh.
“You may go home,” she said; “Charlot will bring me back when the
basket is full, and we must not lose our dish of mushrooms for supper.
Run along, Babet, and set the kettle boiling.”
Babet was nothing loath, though she grumbled loudly at the suggestion,
but Charlot stopped digging a fern and looked up with a troubled face.
The woman set down the basket for him to fill, and he half rose and
made a movement as if to stop her, and then bent over his task again.
Apparently, he had decided to let her go, and in a few moments her
tall figure had disappeared behind the cliffs and he was alone with
the young girl and her dog. Rosaline was strolling along the mossy
bank singing softly to herself, the picture of joyful content. She
was walking in a dream of love and youth, and she had forgotten the
hunchback. He continued to kneel over the ferns, but he had paused
in his digging, and his mournful brown eyes followed her with a mute
devotion in their gaze. He did not know how long he could keep her
there, but every half-hour counted, and surely there was hope that it
would be over before she went back to the château. He knew what was
passing there, but she did not, and her song almost made him shudder.
Still, he hoped, he hoped much, that it was only d’Aguesseau who was
wanted, and he was out of reach. The hunchback did not believe that
this beautiful young creature was in any personal danger. He thought of
the wedding shoes, and bent over the fern with a frown. What would that
handsome savage, M. de Baudri, do? Ah, that was the question. Charlot
remembered last night and its temptations; verily, love and hate were
nearly akin, and he had seen the fiend in monsieur’s open blue eyes.
Rosaline was in a happy mood. She stooped and gathering a handful of
chestnuts, threw them--one by one--for Truffe to chase, and laughed
gayly at the poodle’s antics, clapping her hands to make her bring
the nuts back to be thrown again. The hunchback watched her in
silence, bending over his task again; the basket was nearly full of
plumes of fern now, and he was racking his brain for an excuse to keep
mademoiselle longer away from the house. The drawn white face was full
of anxiety, and now and then the brown hands trembled as they handled
the plants.
“Do you think it will be an early winter, Charlot?” Rosaline said at
last, still tossing the chestnuts for Truffe.
“I cannot tell, mademoiselle,” he replied, looking up at the sky. “But
last night the wind came howling straight from the Cévennes, and some
say that means a short autumn. The _bon Dieu_ knows that there will
be suffering; so many of these Cévenols have been taken or slain, and
there were so few to gather the crops or card the wool. Mother of
Heaven, the times are evil!”
There was silence; Rosaline’s face had lost its joyous look, and she
left off playing with the dog and walked back to the spot where the
shoemaker was kneeling by his basket.
“Babet says the winter will be fearfully cold,” she said absently, “and
she is wise about these matters. I know not how many signs she has, but
certainly more than I could ever remember.”
“I do not know about such things,” he answered quietly, “but the autumn
came early this year.”
Rosaline looked dreamily away toward the north.
“The winter with its terrible storms, and this cruel war,” she said
thoughtfully,--“I fear the suffering will be very great, Charlot. How
does it seem in Nîmes? What does M. Montrevel say?”
“That it cannot last, mademoiselle,” he replied. “His Majesty has sent
great reinforcements, and the maréchal is determined to crush the
insurrection. Nothing is talked of in Nîmes save the grandeur of the
king and the weakness of the Cévenols.”
Rosaline sighed; her mood changed entirely now, and her face was grave
and even apprehensive. There was no sound but the gentle dash of water
from the falls. Presently her eyes lighted on the basket of ferns.
“We have enough, Charlot,” she said, in a dull voice; “I am going back
now. Come also, and Babet will give you supper; you must be tired.”
Poor Charlot was at his wits’ end.
“See, mademoiselle, there is a beautiful fern,” he said, pointing his
finger at three waving plumes of green; “will you not have that also?”
She looked at it without interest. “No,” she replied indifferently,
“let it remain; we have more than enough already, and I am tired.”
She was half-way up the bank, and Charlot rose in despair.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “come back, I pray you; ’tis not yet time to
return to the château.”
She looked around in surprise, and the expression of his face awakened
her suspicions.
“What is it?” she demanded quickly; “what do you mean?”
“You were not to return until six o’clock,” he replied, at a loss for
an excuse; “Madame de St. Cyr so instructed me.”
“Madame de St. Cyr instructed you--about me?” exclaimed Rosaline in
surprise; and there was a touch of hauteur in her manner that Charlot
had never encountered before.
“She told me so, when she sent me after you, mademoiselle,” he answered
humbly.
Rosaline was roused now; she stood looking at him with a searching
glance.
“Why did you come to St. Cyr to-day?” she demanded imperiously.
The hunchback was not adroit, and he felt the peril of the moment too
deeply to find ready replies.
“I brought some shoes for madame to try,” he said lamely.
“That is not true, Charlot!” she retorted indignantly; “madame has
ordered no shoes, and you know it. You came for something,” she went
on, with increasing agitation; “be honest,--was it--did it concern M.
d’Aguesseau?”
The shoemaker looked at her with dull eyes, his pinched face unusually
brown and haggard.
“Yes, mademoiselle,” he replied with an effort, “it concerned M.
d’Aguesseau. M. de Baudri received information that he was a heretic,
and he has come to St. Cyr to take him.”
Mademoiselle turned on him the face of an avenging angel.
“And you--” she said, with passionate scorn, “did you betray him?”
The hunchback’s lips twitched, like those of a person in sudden bodily
pain, and he did not reply.
“You miserable creature!” Rosaline continued, her blue eyes sparkling
with anger. “Did you offer him shelter at first, and get him here
that you might surely betray him? You are baffled, thank God; you are
out-witted!”
Charlot’s hands clenched and he looked at her as if she had struck him.
“_Sang de Dieu_, I am innocent!” he said solemnly; “I never betrayed
him. I came here to warn him, and found that he had gone. I heard it
all in M. de Baudri’s rooms, and I hurried away, and by hiring a cart
that I met in the road, I was at St. Cyr just five minutes before the
dragoons came, and madame sent me here to keep you out of harm’s way.”
“The dragoons at St. Cyr!” cried Rosaline, forgetting all else in that
announcement, “and my grandmother there alone! _Dieu_, I will never
forgive myself!”
She ran up the bank without heeding the cobbler’s appeals.
“Stay, mademoiselle!” he cried after her; “stay but a moment and
listen! Ah, _Mère de Dieu_, she rushes to her fate!”
He called to deaf ears; Rosaline fled through the woods like a young
fawn with the dog at her heels. She took no thought of herself but only
remembered her grandmother and the terrible prospect of a dragonnade
at St. Cyr. The custom of quartering dragoons on families suspected of
heresy was too fearfully frequent for it to be improbable, and such
visitations were attended by horrible indignities; neither age nor
innocence was spared, and the end generally saw the château in smoking
ruins and the members of the devoted family dead or banished.
All these things flashed through Rosaline’s mind as she sped--on the
wings of love--toward her home, and no one could have overtaken her.
The poor hunchback followed as best he could, cursing the fate that had
forced him to tell her.
At the gate of the château, Rosaline met Babet, who tried to stop her,
but in vain; the girl ran across the garden and passed in through
the side door, which the housekeeper had left open. All the while
she wondered that the place seemed so deserted and that she saw no
soldiers. She passed through the kitchen and dining room, and running
upstairs to her grandmother’s sitting-room, flung open the door and
found herself face to face with M. de Baudri.