THE COBBLER OF NÃŽMES

By
M. IMLAY TAYLOR

THE
Cobbler of Nîmes

BY
M. IMLAY TAYLOR

CHICAGO
A. C. McCLURG & CO.
1900

Copyright
By A. C. McClurg & Co.
A.D. 1900
All rights reserved

CONTENTS.

The Cobbler of Nîmes

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 Nîmes was therefore at its height. A juggler was swallowing a sword in the midst of an admiring circle. Mademoiselle Héloïse, 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 him—a rival attraction—a monkey in scarlet breeches, with a blouse or camisole over them. The little creature’s antics were hailed with shouts of derisive laughter and cries of “Camisard!� “Barbet!� “Huguenot!� the monkey’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,—though many a heart was in secret sympathy with the Huguenot rebels of the Cévennes; but were they not in Nîmes? And the Intendant Bâville 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 them—chattering—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,—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.

“Messieurs et mesdames!� he cried, “only a half-crown to see the body of a damned person!�

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.

“Here is the body of a damned person!� he shouted. “Dieu! what an opportunity for the good of your soul! Too much, madame?� he said to a fishwife who grumbled at the price, “too much! ’Tis a chance in a thousand! The body came from the Tour de Constance! Madame will have her money’s worth.�

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.

“Half a crown, messieurs et mesdames,� cried the man of the black robe; “half a crown to see a dead and damned Huguenot!�

“Too much, monsieur!� said a voice behind him.

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

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

“I am a good Catholic,� he replied calmly, “but your price is high—’tis only a dead Huguenot.�

“Dame! but live ones are too plenty,� retorted the other, with a loud laugh. “What are you to complain?� he added gayly,—“the hunchback!—le bossu!�

“Le Bossu—yes,� replied the hunchback, calmly; “that is what men call me.�

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

“Your Excellency’s name?� 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.

“’Tis only Charlot,� he said, “the shoemaker of the Rue St. Antoine.�

The showman laughed again.

“Enter, Maître Savetier!� he said derisively, “and see the dead Huguenot. Dame! but I believe he is one himself,� 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.

“This way, mesdames! This way, to see a damned person! Half a crown! half a crown!�

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 centre—directly under the opening in the top—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 devil—cut out of black stuff—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 teeth—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 him—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.

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

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

“Diable!� ejaculated the soldier turning on the old crone, “’tis heresy to call a damned person pretty, Mère Tigrane.�

Mère Tigrane leered at him with horrible intelligence.

“No one is to think a heretic pretty but the dragoons, eh?� she said grinning. “Dame! we know what you think, monsieur.�

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.

“You are a witch, Mère Tigrane,� he said uneasily; “let me alone!�

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 other’s sleeve. The stranger started and stared at him as if he had just awakened from sleep.

“A word with you, friend,� 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 Mère 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.

“Mère de Dieu!� she said, “’tis worth a half-crown after all—and I paid Adolphe in false coin too, pauvre garçon!�

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

“What do you want?� he demanded of le Bossu; “I do not know you.�

“You were in danger,� replied the hunchback, quietly, “and you are in trouble; the bon Dieu knows that I also am in trouble.�

The little man’s tone, his deformity, his kind eyes appealed to the other.

“We should be friends,� he said grimly. “Dieu! I am indeed in trouble.�

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

“Follow me, friend,� 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 “le Bossu!� 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 Récollets—the Franciscan Convent—and entered the Rue St. Antoine. Here it was that the stranger roused himself and addressed his companion.

“Where are we going?� he asked sharply.

“To my shop,� replied le Bossu; “’tis but ten yards ahead now. Have no fear,� he added kindly; “the bon Dieu made me in such shape that my heart is ever with the sorrowful.�

“I do not understand you,� said the other. “I do not know your name—you do not ask mine—why do you seek me out?�

“My name is Charlot,� returned the cripple, simply. “I 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 hunchback—le Bossu! It does not matter. As for your name, I will know it when you please, monsieur.�

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.

“Behold my shop,� he said, “the sign of the Two Shoes.�

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 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.�

CHAPTER III
MADEMOISELLE’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. Césaire.

The highroad, white with dust, unrolled like a ribbon through a rugged plain which lay southwest of Nîmes, stretching from the low range of limestone mountains—the foothills of the Cévennes—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 Cévennes, 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 Cévennes, though Maréchal Montrevel and the Intendant of Languedoc assured the king that they had wiped out the insurrection. But the “Barbets� or “Camisards,� as they were called in derision, though naming themselves “Enfants de Dieu,� kept up the fierce death-struggle. Meanwhile the city of Nîmes 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 Nîmes 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, “Petit Bossu!� 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 hunchback’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.

“The bon Dieu bless her,� he murmured; “to her I am not the hunchback or the cobbler—to her I am poor Charlot, her humble friend. Ciel! I would die for mademoiselle.�

He toiled slowly on; passing the village of St. Césaire, he turned sharply to the north, and walking through a grove of olive trees, came in sight of a château 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.

“Ah, Truffe,� said the cobbler, gently, “where is your mistress? I have brought her the blue slippers at last.�

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.

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

“I have them, Mademoiselle Rosaline,� he replied, his worn face lighting up, “and they are almost worthy of the feet that will wear them.�

“Almost!� laughed mademoiselle, “you are a born courtier, Charlot—oh, what dears!�

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

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

“Oh, Charlot, I shall never forgive you if they do not fit!�

“They will fit like gloves, mademoiselle,� the shoemaker replied complacently; “let me try them on for you.�

But she was not yet done with her examination.

“Where did you get the pattern for the rosettes?� she asked eagerly; “truly, they are the prettiest I have seen.�

“I copied them after a pair from Paris, mademoiselle,� he replied, as pleased as she at his own success. “The heels too are just like those worn at Versailles.�

Mademoiselle Rosaline laughed softly.

“I told you that you were a courtier, Charlot,� she said; “but they say that the king wears high red heels, because he is not tall.�

“But red heels would not please mademoiselle on blue shoes,� remarked the hunchback, smiling.

“But, Charlot,� said she, with a mischievous gleam of fun in her eyes, “if we must all be of the king’s religion, must we not all also wear his red heels?�

The cobbler’s pale face grew sad again.

“Alas, mademoiselle,� he said, with a sigh, “to you ’tis a jest, but to some—� he shook his head gravely, looking down at the little blue slippers in her lap.

“What is the matter?� she asked quickly, the smile dying on her lips. “Have they—been burning any one lately in Nîmes?�

“Nay, mademoiselle,� he replied, kneeling on one knee in the gravel path, and taking the slippers off her small feet to try on the new ones.

“Come, come, Charlot—tell me,� persisted his patroness, scarcely heeding the shoe that he was drawing on her right foot. “You are as solemn as an owl this morning.�

“I will tell mademoiselle,� he rejoined, reverently arranging the rosette and smoothing the white silk stocking around the slender ankle. “Then she must not blame me if she is horrified.�

“She is often horrified,� interrupted Rosaline, with a soft little laugh. “Go on, Charlot.�

“There was a fair on Saturday—mademoiselle knows, for I saw Babet there buying a silk handkerchief—�

“Babet cannot stay away from a fair for her life,� mademoiselle interpolated again.

“’Twas a very fine fair,� continued le Bossu, putting on the other slipper. “There were many attractions, and the jailer—Zénon—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 Bâville for some reason,—what, I know not,—but she died on the road, and Zénon made much by the exhibition.�

Rosaline shuddered, the color fading from her cheeks.

“And you went to see that horrible, wicked spectacle, Charlot?� she demanded, in open disgust.

“Mademoiselle knows I am a good Catholic,� replied the cobbler, meekly, his eyes drooping before her look of disdain. “’Tis done for the good of our souls—to show us the fate of these misguided people.�

“Mon Dieu!� 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.

“That was not all I saw at the fair,� he went on at last. “In the tent there was also—�

Rosaline made a gesture of disgust.

“I will hear no more!� she cried indignantly.

“This will not horrify you, mademoiselle,� he replied gently; “’tis only the story of my new guest.�

Her face relaxed, partly because she saw that she had hurt the hunchback’s feelings.

“Well, you may tell me,� she said reluctantly.

“There was a young man there—in that tent— Nay, mademoiselle, I will say nothing more of it.� Le Bossu broke off, and then went on carefully: “He 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 is—� the cobbler looked about keenly at the hedges, then he lowered his voice, “a Huguenot.�

“And what did you do with him?� Rosaline demanded eagerly.

“He is in my upper room now,� replied the hunchback, “but I do not know where he will go. He is not safe in Nîmes. 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.�

“What is it?� she asked, all interest now, and more than ever forgetful of her new slippers.

“François d’Aguesseau,� he answered, in an undertone, with another cautious glance behind him.

“’Tis all very strange,� remarked mademoiselle, regarding the worn face thoughtfully. “You are a good Catholic, Charlot, yet you imperil yourself to shelter a Huguenot.�

“The risk to me is very little,� he replied with great simplicity. “I am too humble for M. de Bâville, 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.�

“I do not think you do wrong, Charlot,� she said gently, “and I am sure the bon Dieu forgives you; but M. de Bâville will not.�

“I can die but once, mademoiselle,� he rejoined smiling.

“Why is it you always smile at death?� she asked.

“Ah, mademoiselle, you are not as I am,� he said quietly. “Death to me—the gates of Paradise stand open—suffering over—poverty no more!�

Tears gathered in Rosaline’s blue eyes.

“Do you suffer much now?� she asked.

“Nearly always,� he replied.

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

“They fit like gloves, mademoiselle,� he said calmly, “do they give you comfort?�

The girl roused herself.

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

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.

“Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle Rosaline!� it called; “the dinner grows cold, and Madame de St. Cyr is waiting. Viens donc!�

“Poor Babet!� laughed Rosaline; “I 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.�

CHAPTER IV
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.

CHAPTER V
THE COBBLER’S GUEST

In the upper room of the shop of Two Shoes sat a desperate man. The sun did not shine for François d’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 Nîmes was flowing through the thoroughfare at the mouth of the court. But the Huguenot considered none of these things. He sat alone in the cobbler’s house, his elbows leaning on the table before him, his head on his hands. His body was in Nîmes, but his soul was away in Dauphiné. 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,—for his family had not always been Protestants. Then he saw in his vision the château near Embrun where he was born, and the terrace where he and his sister Hélène had played together,—the same Hélène 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 Nîmes. 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 Dauphiné. Therefore François 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 Nîmes 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 Cévennes. 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 ’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. D’Aguesseau recalled the circumstance now and thought of de Bâville 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 murderer’s work in Nîmes, though his soul was darkened by his afflictions.

He reflected, too, on the kindness of the shoemaker. He had recklessly placed himself at the hunchback’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,—for it was criminal to be of any religion except the king’s. The charity of the poor cripple softened d’Aguesseau’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 first—while he was waiting for the chance to quit the country—why not go into the Cévennes? 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 Récollets. It was nearly five o’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 d’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 tavern—which bore the sign of the Golden Cup—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. D’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. D’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,—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.

D’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 François and held out her fish.

“A bargain, monsieur,� she said pleasantly. “The sight of the red-jackets makes Mère Tigrane feel good; the fish are cheap.�

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

“One fish, monsieur,� she protested,—“a mountain trout. Dame! ’tis fresh, caught this morning. The spectacle of these Huguenots has made monsieur hungry.�

“My good woman, I want neither fish nor fowl,� d’Aguesseau said impatiently.

“Monsieur makes a mistake,� she persisted with a grin; “these are good fish, caught in the stream where they drowned a Camisard witch last week!�

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 Mère Tigrane, she stood a moment looking longingly at the inn; could she forego the diversion? Finally, she decided between two attractions, and quietly followed D’Aguesseau.

The next day, when François 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.

“Come in, monsieur,� he said; “Mademoiselle de St. Cyr would speak to you.�

François responded with some surprise, and bowed in reply to Rosaline’s curtsey.

“M. d’Aguesseau,� she said, blushing a little under his glance, “my grand’mère, Madame de St. Cyr desires to see you, being acquainted with your family,—she knew your mother.�

His eyes lighted with surprise and pleasure.

“Madame de St. Cyr does me much honor to request a visit, mademoiselle,� he replied; “I am at her service.�

Rosaline and Babet had been into Nîmes to shop, and they were ready to go. The young girl laid her hand on the older woman’s arm.

“Then we will expect you to-morrow afternoon, monsieur,� she said quietly; “my very good friend Charlot will direct you to St. Cyr, and madame my grand’mère will be pleased to make you welcome.�

M. d’Aguesseau murmured his acknowledgments, while he aided Babet in gathering up numerous small packages, and then the two women bade Charlot adieu and departed,—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.

“Who is that angel?� he demanded eagerly.

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

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

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 girl’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.

“There, there! Marguerite, you have had more than your share; you are as great a gourmande as the naughty Truffe,� she said, shaking her finger at one pretty bird. “Viens donc, my Condé! Here is a crumb for you, sweetheart. As for Mademoiselle d’Hautefort, she shall have nothing if she pushes so against Corneille. What a lot of little rogues!�

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.

“You pretty creatures, how I love you!� said Rosaline, caressing the two doves she had gathered into her arms. “Look 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, there—you are raising your ears; what is it, ma chérie?�

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.

“You hear a step on the gravel, Truffe, and so do I,� said Rosaline listening. “Maybe it is the—new steward.�

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.

“A dove in the midst of doves,� he said with gallantry; “mademoiselle is ever the fairest rose in her garden.�

“M. de Baudri makes very pretty compliments,� Rosaline replied, her smiling composure unruffled. “Truffe and I did not know he had honored St. Cyr with a visit.�

“I have been half an hour with madame,� he replied, “all the while hoping to catch a glimpse of the loveliest face in the world.�

“I would have sent Truffe, if I had known that you desired to see her, monsieur,� Rosaline replied demurely.

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

“Mademoiselle chooses to mock me,� he said, “and mockery comes unnaturally from such lovely lips.�

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

“Tell me the news from Nîmes, monsieur,� she retorted lightly; “I love a good story, you know.�

“With all my heart, mademoiselle, if you will love the story teller,� he replied.

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

“There is not so much to tell, mademoiselle,� he said; “these wretches—the Camisards—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 Maréchal’s dinner party? ’Tis amusing enough. M. Montrevel is in a bad humor; the villain Cavalier has cut up two detachments, as you know,—one at Ners, and one intended for Sommières. Thinking of these things and drinking wine—after dinner—M. le Maréchal 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. Mère 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 children—heretics all! The soldiers went in—ah, mademoiselle does not desire particulars; but truly it is slow work to cut three hundred throats, especially in such confusion. M. le Maréchal ordered them to fire the mill. Mon Dieu! ’twas a scene! It burned artistically, and the soldiers drove back all who tried to escape. One rogue, M. Montrevel’s own servant too, saved a girl, but the maréchal 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. ’Tis called M. Montrevel’s dinner party in Nîmes; and there is a saying that one must burn three hundred heretics before M. le Maréchal has an appetite.�

Rosaline stood stroking the dove, her eyes averted.

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

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

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

“The old story of my love for you, Rosaline,� 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.

“I have spoken to madame,� he added, “and now I speak to you.�

“And what did Madame de St. Cyr say?� she demanded, giving him a questioning glance.

“She 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.� He spoke with feeling, his bold blue eyes on her lovely face. “I trust that you are not wholly indifferent to me, Rosaline,� he continued, “and I can give you much. My beautiful princess is shut up here in a ruinous old château. I will show you the world—Paris—Versailles. No beauty of the court will compare with the rose of Languedoc.�

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.

“Monsieur does me too much honor,� she said. “The château is indeed ruinous, but ’tis my home, and, strange to say, I do not long for the splendors of the court—or the flattery of the courtiers.�

“But my love for you, mademoiselle!� he protested in surprise; surely this child did not realize the honor he paid her. “I offer you my heart and hand.�

Rosaline curtsied with a smile on her lips.

“I am honored, monsieur,� she replied; “but happily, as my grandmother says, I have the decision of my fate. My marriage matters to no one except to her and to me—and, monsieur, I do not desire to marry.�

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

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

She laughed softly, her blue eyes shining.

“I appreciate your condescension, monsieur,� she said amiably; “but I am too wise to thrust myself upon such rash generosity.�

“This is folly, mademoiselle,� he exclaimed, his temper rising; “or is it only a shamefaced reluctance to confess your true sentiments?�

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.

“Mademoiselle is merry,� he said stiffly.

“I beg your pardon, monsieur,� she replied, “a thousand times.�