THE COBBLER’S FAITH
Père Ambroise was plentifully supplied with this world’s goods, and
he had a house of his own in Nîmes, not a hundred yards from the
Esplanade, where he lived in comfort and security, with no fear
of the Camisard raids. To the right of the door of this house was
a comfortable room, furnished with many luxuries: soft rugs, deep
arm-chairs, tapestry-hangings, a huge fireplace, where the logs
burned cheerfully on the great andirons. And here Père Ambroise sat
entertaining M. de Baudri over a bottle of rare wine, on the evening
of that eventful day. They had both dined well, and the good father’s
rubicund face wore an expression of satisfaction, while his guest was
visibly discontented. The fact was that Père Ambroise was in command of
the situation, and he had forced the soldier to yield at all points. At
that moment Rosaline was secure in one of his upper rooms, and he was
in a position to dictate his own terms. If he chose he could declare
her a heretic and immure her in a convent for life; M. de Baudri’s only
chances of being a bridegroom lay in his ability to propitiate the
priest. Nothing could have been more distasteful to the soldier than
this unexpected turn of affairs; he was accustomed to command and not
to sue, and now he was forced to persuade a man who disliked him to
look at things from his point of view. He cursed his luck in secret,
and tried to smile over his wine; never had he been more neatly balked
in his purposes--nor by a more contemptible enemy. Meanwhile Père
Ambroise leaned back in his chair and regarded him from between his
half-closed lids, mightily diverted by the other’s discomfiture, and
not yet entirely decided on his own course. He was not sure that it
would be a merciful thing to shut Rosaline up in a convent for life,
and Père Ambroise was one of those men who cannot be ill-natured after
a good dinner. He raised his wine-glass in his fat fingers and held it
before the candle that he might admire the delicate amber color of the
wine before he drank it, and all his movements were deliberate and
comfortable. His placidity goaded M. de Baudri to the verge of murder.
“You cannot marry a heretic, my son,” Père Ambroise remarked
pleasantly; “therefore you must either allow her to go to her
fate--which, by the way, is of your preparing--or wait until she is
converted.”
“_Dame!_ do you take me for a fool?” exclaimed his companion. “How long
have you been at this hopeful business of conversion?”
“Only since I have known her to be a heretic,” the priest replied
composedly.
“_Sacristi!_ convert a heretic!” de Baudri laughed; “how many are ever
converted?”
“Large numbers--in some circumstances,” Père Ambroise said, with
a broad smile; “’tis said that Du Chayla had a basement full of
converts when their misguided friends arose and murdered him at
Pont-de-Montvert; a poor requital for his zeal, monsieur. As for
myself,”--he waved his fat hands,--“I am a man of peace, and I have
ever labored to save these misguided people from violence.”
M. de Baudri was leaning his elbow on the table, staring gloomily at
the floor.
“_Mère de Dieu!_” he said bitterly; “they are all only fit for hanging.”
“Perhaps you would prefer to hang mademoiselle,” his companion
remarked, refilling his glass cautiously, for he did not wish to
disturb his brain with the fumes of liquor.
M. de Baudri looked at him darkly.
“I do her great honor in offering to marry her,” he said harshly.
Père Ambroise nodded his head approvingly, and took a sip of wine.
“Assuredly,” he said; “so great an honor that I am inclined to prevent
you. A true son of the Church should not wed a heretic. The proper
destination for her is a convent.”
The younger man swore under his breath.
“You old fox, you,” he exclaimed, “you do not want me to marry the
girl--I believe you want her yourself!”
Père Ambroise turned his eyes piously toward heaven.
“The saints forbid!” he murmured. “You have an unbridled tongue, _mon
fils_, and deserve discipline for offering an insult to one in holy
orders.”
The officer laughed. “_Dame_, you old rogue!” he said, “do you fat
fathers take us for fools? Hark!” he added sharply, pausing to listen,
“what is that? I heard the dog bark.”
“Rosaline’s poodle,” replied the priest, undisturbed.
M. de Baudri was suspicious. “Have you got her secure?” he demanded
imperiously.
“Absolutely secure,” retorted his companion, indifferently; “my
servants are faithful, and her door is fastened by an oaken bar too
strong for two women to force. Compose yourself, _mon fils_; you
consented to this respite; she was to have until eight to-morrow
morning for reflection, and she has reason enough to make good use of
the time. Her grandmother is dead and she has no defender but me. She
will not resist my authority, but you take a strange way to propitiate
me and obtain my good offices.”
M. de Baudri gnawed his lip with a lowering expression on his face.
“I shall have to come to your terms, I suppose, _mon père_,” he said at
last with an effort to appear congenial.
“That is more to the point,” Père Ambroise remarked pleasantly, and
leaned over to fill his guest’s glass again.
While these two worthies talked and drank, a very different scene was
being enacted in the second story of the house. Here, in a large back
room, Rosaline and Babet were confined; the woman sitting stiffly
upright in a chair by the table, where the candles were set, while
Rosaline had thrown herself face downward on the bed, in a silent agony
of grief and despair. Between the two was the black poodle Truffe, her
ears pointed, silent and watchful after the fashion of dogs in new
places.
Babet ventured upon no consolation; she stared grimly before her
with unwinking eyes. She was thinking of her own fate; there was no
one to interpose for her, and her destiny was probably the Tour de
Constance. She tried to recall all she had heard of this fearful prison
at Aiguemortes, of the malarious swamps about it, of the smells that
arose at low tide, of the hideous cruelties practised in its loathsome
dungeons, of the sick and dying, whose bodies were denied decent
burial. Grim and strong as old Babet was, her cheek blanched at the
thought, and, for the moment, she forgot even her ewe-lamb. (The most
unselfish soul must fight its own battle sometime, to the exclusion of
all else.)
Meanwhile Rosaline lay there with her face hidden on her arms; her
grandmother’s death had bereaved her of one who might have remained
with her, helping her to endure her lot, for she hoped for no release;
she must purchase her lover’s liberty and life at the expense of her
own happiness. M. de Baudri had taken care to remind her that he still
held the fate of François d’Aguesseau in his hand, and she knew that
the sacrifice must still be made. If François divined it, he would
refuse his life at such a cost,--that she knew; but he would never
know, he might even think her false and lightly won! But all these
things were small compared with the alternative; it was not for her to
send him to the gallows, or worse, to make him a galley slave, that
she might escape M. de Baudri. Again she shuddered at the thought of
her fate; the lowest dungeons of the Tour de Constance would be heaven
compared with such a marriage! She shrank from it as all pure women
shrink from any marriage that is not founded on the highest and purest
motives. Her very flesh rebelled against her spirit, and she lay there
shivering, like one stricken with ague. Yet strong is love; she must
save him, and then, oh, she prayed the _bon Dieu_ to release her!
In spite of all this misery, time passed. The house was quiet, no
sounds came from below, and practical Babet began to wonder what time
it was. There was no clock in the room, and she could not conjecture
the hour; it seemed as if they had been there an age. Just at this
moment she heard some one lift the bar outside the door, and Truffe
barked. Babet pounced upon her, muffled her head in her petticoat,
and then she listened intently. The visitor could not enter, for she
had secured the door within. There was a soft knock on the panels,
and Rosaline rose with a white face, and stood waiting. The knock was
repeated, and some one spoke their names very low. The voice seemed
familiar, and the young girl went to the door and listened again.
“Mademoiselle de St. Cyr,” the visitor whispered, “open the door--’tis
I, Charlot the cobbler.”
Babet uttered an exclamation, and Rosaline unfastened the lock and
admitted the hunchback. He looked old and worn, and carried his green
bag, and he paused just inside the door, looking from one to the other,
as if he doubted his reception.
“Why have you come, Charlot?” Rosaline asked sadly.
“I have come to help you to get away, mademoiselle,” he replied simply,
hurt past reason by their indifference, but bearing it, as he bore all
things, as a part of his lot.
Rosaline shook her head. “I cannot go,” she said, “but Babet--you will
save Babet, Charlot.”
“_Ciel!_” ejaculated that woman sharply, “he will save me, will he? And
what do you propose to do?”
The young girl did not heed her, nor did the cobbler.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “your grandmother is dead, and M. d’Aguesseau
was never captured.”
Rosaline stood looking at him with parted lips, her whole form
quivering with emotion.
“_Mon Dieu!_” she said, “was it a lie?”
“It was,” replied the cobbler quietly; “I have sent a message to him,
he is with Cavalier.”
She could not believe him. “Alas!” she said, “you do this to get me
away.”
The cobbler knelt down at her feet.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, looking earnestly into her face, “I swear by
all I hold most sacred, that I do not deceive you. M. d’Aguesseau is at
liberty, though M. de Baudri offers a hundred crowns for his head.”
Her strength failed her, she sank on the nearest chair, covering her
face with her hands. The reaction was too great for resistance; it
seemed as if her heart would stop beating, and the room whirled about
her. He was safe, and she was not required to make the sacrifice!
The effect on Babet was very different; she released Truffe and began
to gather up their scattered belongings.
“How can we get out, Petit Bossu?” she demanded grimly,--“in your
shoe-bag?”
“The servants are feasting in the kitchen,” the cobbler said. “Père
Ambroise and M. de Baudri are drinking below, and the stairs are not
two yards from this door. We must trust in the _bon Dieu_.”
As he spoke, he opened his bag and took out two long cloaks and hoods
similar to those worn by an order of Sisters of Charity at Nîmes.
“Thou hast the mind of a great general, Charlot,” remarked Babet, with
a queer smile; “the hump is a pity.”
Rosaline roused herself and looked at the disguise.
“Alas! where can we go, Charlot?” she asked sadly; “how can we escape
them?”
“To-night you can go to my shop, mademoiselle,” he replied, quietly,
“and to-morrow, as soon as the gates are open, you can start out to St.
Césaire. I have arranged with the blacksmith’s wife to hide you until I
can guide you to--to a place of safety.”
“It may be done,” Rosaline said, after a moment’s thought. “I was to
have till eight to-morrow; there is one hope in a thousand--but the
risk to you, Charlot!”
The little hunchback smiled. “Mademoiselle,” he said quietly, “I am
scarcely worth killing.”
The tears shone in her blue eyes, but she said nothing, partly because
Babet was hurriedly muffling her in the cloak and hood.
A few moments later they emerged from the room, Babet carrying Truffle
under her mantle; Charlot secured the door behind them, replacing the
bar, and softly and cautiously they descended. They heard Père Ambroise
speaking, in unctuous tones, and a coarse oath from M. de Baudri, on
whom the wine was having some effect, but no one heard them. The porter
had left his place and the door was unbolted. Almost without noise, the
three slipped out and stood free upon the open street.