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?�