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_.”