But the end was too near for the dying woman to understand; she sank back with closed eyes and Père Ambroise began to recite the prayer for the dying. In his emotion he forgot that she was a heretic. Rosaline clung to her in an agony of grief and self-abnegation.
“Oh, let me save you!� she cried; “live that I may die for you!�
Madame opened her eyes, there was a placid smile on her face, she had forgotten all the terror and the pain, prison walls held her no more.
“There is no anguish,� she said softly, looking away into space, “only light—my husband—my son—the bon Dieu be praised—there shall be peace!�
She spoke no more; there was no sound but Père Ambroise’s Latin and Rosaline’s weeping. The dying woman lay still, and the clear eyes still looked triumphantly beyond this world’s agony, and almost without a sigh the gentle soul escaped from prison. Death, the Deliverer, opened the gates.
CHAPTER XX
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.