Le Bossu’s face brightened. “Good!” he said, “the priest can do much; and now, I am a Catholic, Babet, but as there is a God in heaven, I mean no harm! Is there any boy or man who could carry a message amongst the Camisards?” Babet had grown reckless in her misery over mademoiselle; she did not hesitate to reply. “There is the blacksmith’s boy at St. Césaire,” she said, “a good child, and active as a wild hare. What do you want of him?” “If possible, I must find M. d’Aguesseau,” he replied, “and also Père Ambroise; I cannot do both without help.” “And if M. d’Aguesseau is in prison,” suggested Babet, grimly. “The will of Heaven be done,” replied the cobbler, calmly, “but Père Ambroise shall be here before dawn,” and he rose as he spoke. “How will you get out?” asked the woman, eying him curiously. “You will see,” he rejoined, and quietly gathering up his bag of tools, he left the kitchen and walked through the hall. M. de Baudri had just left by the front way, and the cobbler went out at the back of the house. There was a high row of box beside the path, and dropping on his hands and knees he crept along behind it, past the sentry on that side. He had to move very slowly and softly, avoiding every dry twig and even the dead leaves, but he reached the outer hedge at last. Here there was a hole, through which Truffe passed in and out. The cobbler thrust his bag through and then followed it; his face and hands were scratched, but what of that? He rose from his knees in the open road, and, shaking off the dust, shouldered his load and walked on, limping more painfully than usual. He had to pass one guard, but this man did not know that he had been in the house and saw nothing unusual in the appearance of the little cobbler of St. Antoine. “You are late, le Bossu,” he said good-naturedly. “The shoes fit too well,” retorted the hunchback, coolly, “and my patron is rich.” “_Pardieu!_” the soldier exclaimed with a laugh. “I will borrow to-morrow morning. We have a bag of heretics here.” “_Mère de Dieu_, burn them,--all but the shoes!” said le Bossu, and walked calmly on. CHAPTER XIX “MORTIS PORTIS FRACTIS”