CHAPTER XV.
THE SECOND DISPATCH.
Dominique Guyon departed shortly before noon; and a week later half adozen _habitants_ arrived from Boisveyrac to work at the entrenchmentwhich the Commandant had already opened across Sans Quartier'scabbage plot. The Commandant himself donned a blouse and dug withthe rest; and M. Etienne; and even old Jeremie Tripier, thoughgrumbling over his rheumatism almost as bitterly as Sans Quartierover his wasted cabbages. Every one, in fact, toiled, and with awill, at the King's _corvee_: every one, that is, except the women,and John, and Menehwehna (whose Indian dignity revolted againstspade-work), and old Father Joly, the chaplain of the fort, who wastoo infirm.
From him, as they sat together and watched the diggers, John learnedmuch of the fort's history, and something, too, of his hosts'; forFather Joly delighted in gossip, and being too deaf to derive muchprofit from asking questions kept the talk to himself--greatly toJohn's relief. His gossip, be it said, was entirely innocent.The good man seemed to love every one in his small world, exceptFather Launoy. And again this exception was fortunate; for onlearning that John had been visited and exhorted at Boisveyrac byFather Launoy, Father Joly showed no further concern in his spiritualhealth. He was perhaps the oldest parochial priest in New France,and since leaving the seminary at Quebec had spent almost all hisdays at Boisveyrac. He remembered the Seigneur's father (he alwayscalled the Commandant "the Seigneur"). "Such a man, monsieur!He stood six feet four inches in his stockings, and could lift andcast a grown bullock with his own hands." John pointed out that thepresent Seigneur--in his working blouse especially--made a finefigure of a man; but this the old priest could hardly be brought toallow. "A heart of gold, I grant you; but to have seen his fatherstriding among his _censitaires_ on St. Martin's Feast! It may bethat, having watched the son from childhood, I still think of him asa boy. . . ."
Of Fort Amitie itself Father Joly had much to tell. It dated fromthe early days of the great Frontenac, who had planted a settlementhere--a collection of wooden huts within a stockade--to be an_entrepot_ of commerce with the Indians of the Upper Lakes. Later itbecame a favourite haunt of deserters from the army and _coureurs debois_ outlawed by royal edict; and, strangely enough, these had beenthe days of its prosperity. Its real decline began when theGovernor, toward the end of his rule, replaced the wooden huts with afortress of stone. The traders, trappers, ne'er-do-wells and Indiansdeserted the lake-head, which had been a true camp of amity, andmoved their rendezvous farther west, leaving the fortress to itsCommandant and a sleepy garrison.
From that time until the war the garrison had been composed ofregulars, who lived on the easiest terms with their Commandant andhis officers, and retired at the age of forty or fifty, when KingLouis presented them with a farm and farm stock and provisions fortwo or three years, and often completed the outfit with a wife.
"A veritable Age of Gold, monsieur! But war has put an end to itall--war, and the greed of these English, whom God will confound!The regulars went their ways, leaving only Sergeant Bedard; who hadretired upon a farm, but was persuaded by the Seigneur to come backand drill the recruits of the militia."
--"Who take very kindly to garrison life, so far as I can see."
"Fort Amitie has its amenities, monsieur," said Father Joly, catchingJohn's glance rather than hearing the words. "There are theallotments, to begin with--the fences between them, you may not haveobserved, are made of stakes from the original palisade; the mould isexcellent. The Seigneur, too, offers prizes for vegetable-growingand poultry-raising; he is an unerring judge of poultry, as onehas need to be at Boisveyrac, where the rents are mostly paid infowls. Indeed, yes, the young recruits are well enough content.The Seigneur feeds them well, and they can usually have a holiday forthe asking and go a-hunting in the woods or a-fishing in the river.But, for my part, I regret Boisveyrac. A man of my years does notreadily bear transplanting. And here is a curious thing, monsieur;deaf though I am, I miss the sound of the rapids. I cannot tell youhow; nevertheless it seems to me that something has gone out of mydaily life, and the landscape here is still and empty."
"And how," John managed to make him hear, "did the Seigneur come tocommand Fort Amitie?"
Father Joly glanced nervously down the slope and lowered his voice."That was M. Armand's doing, monsieur." Then, seeing that John didnot understand, "M. Armand--mademoiselle's brother and the Seigneur'sonly son. He went to Quebec, when the Governor had given him a postin his household; a small post, but with good prospects for a youngman of his birth and address. He had wits, monsieur, and good looks;everything in short but money; and there is no better blood in theprovince than that of the des Noel-Tilly. They have held Boisveyracnow for five generations, and were Seigneurs of Deuxmanoirs andPreaux-Sources even before that. Well, as I say, the lad startedwith good prospects; but by and by he began to desert the ChateauSaint-Louis for the Intendant's Palace. Monsieur has heard of theIntendant Bigot--is perhaps acquainted with him? No? Then I may saywithout hurting any one's feelings what I would say to the Intendanthimself were he here--that he is a corrupter of youth, and acorrupter of the innocence of women, and a corrupter of honestgovernment. If New France lie under the scourge to-day, it is forthe sins of such men as he." The old man's voice shook with suddenanger, but he calmed himself. "In brief, there was a gambling debt--a huge sum owing; and the Seigneur was forced to travel to Quebec andfetch the lad home. How he paid the amount I cannot tell you; belikehe raised the money on Boisveyrac; but pay he did. Dominique Guyonwent with him to Quebec, having just succeeded his father, oldBonhomme Guyon, as Boisveyrac's man of business; and doubtlessDominique made some arrangements with the merchants there. He has ahead on his shoulders, that lad. M. de Vaudreuil, too, taking pityon a distressed gentleman of New France, gave the Seigneur thecommand of this fort, to grow fat on it, and hither we have allmigrated. But our good Seigneur will never grow fat, monsieur; he isof the poor to whom shall belong the Kingdom of God."
John did not clearly understand this, being unacquainted with theofficial system of peculation by false vouchers--a system under whichthe command of a backwoods fort was reckoned to be worth a smallfortune. His mind recurred to Dominique and to the Commandant'suneasiness at Dominique's mention of business.
"A queer fellow, that Dominique!" he muttered, half to himself; "anda queer fate that made him the brother of Bateese."
The priest heard, as deaf men sometimes will hear a word or twospoken below ordinary pitch.
"Ah!" said he, shaking his head. "You have heard of Bateese?A sad case--a very sad case!"
"There was an accident, I have heard."
Father Joly glanced at John's face and, reading the question, benthis own dim eyes on the river. John divined at once that the old manknew more than he felt inclined to tell.
"It was at Bord-a-Loup, a little above Boisveyrac, four years agolast St. Peter's tide. The two brothers were driving some timberwhich the Seigneur had cleared there; the logs had jammed around arock not far from shore and almost at the foot of the fall.The two had managed to get across and were working the mass loosewith handspikes when, just as it began to break up, Bateese slippedand fell between two logs."
"Through some careless push of Dominique's, was it not?"
But Father Joly did not hear, or did not seem to.
"He was hideously broken, poor Bateese. For weeks it did not seempossible that he could live. The _habitants_ find Dominique a queerfellow, even as you do; and I have observed that even MademoiselleDiane treats him somewhat impatiently. But in truth he is a ladgrown old before his time. It is terrible when such a blow fallsupon the young. He and Bateese adored one another."
And this was all John learned at the time. But three days later heheard more of the story, and from Mademoiselle Diane.
She was seated in an embrasure of the terrace--the same, in fact, inwhich she had taken measurements for John's new tunic. She wasembroidering it now with the Bearnais badge, and had spread
Barboux'stunic on the gun-breach to give her the pattern. John, passing alongthe terrace in a brown study, while his eyes followed the evolutionsof Sergeant Bedard's men at morning parade in the square below, didnot catch sight of her until she called to him to come and admire herhandiwork.
"Monsieur is _distrait_, it appears," she said, mischievously."It must be weary work for him, whiling away the hours in thiscontemptible fortress?"
"I do not find Fort Amitie contemptible, mademoiselle."
She shook her head and laughed. "If you wish to please me, monsieur,you must find some warmer praise for it. For in some sort it is myancestral home, and I love every stone of it."
"Mademoiselle speaks in riddles. I had thought that every one of theCommandant's household--except the Commandant himself, perhaps--waspining to get back to Boisveyrac."
She let her needlework lie for a moment, and sat with her eyesresting on the facade of the Commandant's quarters across the square.
"It is foolish in me," she said musingly; "for in the days of which Iam thinking not one of these stones was laid. You must know,monsieur, that in those days many and many a young man of family tookto the woods; no laws, no edicts would restrain them; the life of theforest seemed to pass into their blood and they could not helpthemselves . . . ah, I myself understand that, sometimes!" she added,after a pause.
"Well, monsieur," she went on, "there came to Fort Amitie a certainyoung Raoul de Tilly, who suffered from this wandering fever.The Government outlawed him in the end; but as yet his family hadhopes to reclaim him, and, being powerful in New France, they managedto get his sentence delayed. He came here, and here he fell in lovewith an Indian girl, and married her--putting, they say, a pistol atthe priest's head. The girl was a Wyandot from Lake Huron, and hadbeen baptised but a week before. For a year they lived together inthe Fort here; but when a child was born the husband sent her downthe river to his father's Seigniory below Three Rivers, and himselfwandered westward into the Lakes, and was never again heard of.The mother died on the voyage, it is said; but the child--a daughter--reached the Seigniory and was acknowledged, and lived tomarry a cousin, a de Tilly of Roc Sainte-Anne. My mother was hergrand-daughter."
Why had she chosen to tell him this story? He turned to her in somewonder. But, for whatever reason she had told it, the truth of thestory was written in her face. Hardly could he recognise theMademoiselle Diane who had declaimed to him of Joan of Arc and theglory of fighting for New France. She was gone, and in her place agirl fronted him, a child almost, with a strange anguish in hervoice, and in her eyes the look of a wild creature trapped. She wasappealing to him. But again, why?
"I think you must be in some trouble, mademoiselle," said he,speaking the thought that came uppermost. Something prompted him toadd, "Has it to do with Dominique Guyon?" The question seemed tostab her. She stood up trembling, with a scared face.
"Why should you think I am troubled? What made you suppose--" shestammered, and stopped again in confusion. "I only wanted you tounderstand. Is it not much better when folks speak to one anotherfrankly? Something may be hidden which seems of no importance, andyet for lack of knowing it we may misjudge utterly, may we not?"
Heaven knew that of late John had been feeling sorely enough thetorment of carrying about a secret. But to the girl's brokenutterances he held no clue at all, nor could he hit on one.
"See now," she went on, almost fiercely; "you speak of DominiqueGuyon. You suspected something--what, you could not tell; perhaps ithad not even come to a suspicion. But, seeing me troubled--as youthink--at once Dominique's name comes to your lips. Now listen tothe truth, how simple it is. When Armand and I were children . . .you have heard of Armand?"
"A little; from Father Joly."
"Papa thinks he has behaved dishonourably, and will scarcely allowhis name to be uttered until he shall return from the army, havingredeemed his fault. Papa, though he seems easy, can be very stern onall questions of honour. Well, when Armand and I were children, weplayed with the two Guyon boys. Their father, Bonhomme Guyon, wasonly my father's farmer; but in a lonely place like Boisveyrac, andwith no one to instruct us in difference of rank and birth--for mymother died when I was a baby--"
"I understand, mademoiselle."
"And so we played about the farm, as children will. But by and by,and a short while before I left Boisveyrac to go to school with theUrsulines, Dominique began to be--what shall I say? He was verytiresome."
She paused. "I understand," repeated John quietly. "At first I didnot guess what he meant. And the others, of course, did not guess.But he was furiously jealous, even of his brother, poor Bateese. Andwhen Bateese met with his accident--"
"One moment, mademoiselle. When Bateese fell between the logs, wasit because Dominique had pushed him?"
She wrung her hands as in a sudden fright. "You guessed that?How did you guess? No one knows it but I, and Father Launoy, nodoubt, and perhaps Father Joly. But Dominique knows that _I_ know;and his misery seems to give him some hold over me."
"In what way can I help you, mademoiselle?"
"Did I ask you to help me?" She had resumed her seat on thegun-carriage and, drawing Sergeant Barboux's tunic off its gun,began with her embroidery scissors to snip at the shanks of itsbreast-buttons. His cheeks were burning now; she spoke with atrained accent of levity. "I called you, monsieur, to say that Icannot, of course, copy these buttons, and to ask if you consent tomy using them on your new tunic, or if you prefer to put up withplain ones. But it appears that I have wandered to some distancefrom my question." She attempted a laugh; which, however, faileddolefully.
"Decidedly I prefer any buttons to those. But, excuse me," persistedJohn, drawing nearer, "though you asked for no help and need none,yet I will not believe you have honoured me so far with yourconfidence and all without purpose."
"Oh," she replied, still in the same tone of hard, almostcontemptuous, levity. "I had a whim, monsieur, to be understood byyou, that is all; and perhaps to rebuke you by contrast for tellingus so little of yourself. It is as Felicite said--you messieurs ofthe army keep yourselves well padded over the heart. See here--"She began to dig with her scissor-point and lay bare the quiltingwithin Barboux's tunic; but presently stopped, with a sharp cry.
"What is the matter, mademoiselle?"
For a second or two she snipped furiously, and then--"This is thematter!" she cried, plunging her fingers within the lining."A dispatch! He carried one after all!" She dragged forth a paperand held it up in triumph.
"Give it to me, please. But I say that you must and shall,mademoiselle!" John's head swam, but he stepped and caught her bythe wrists.
And with that the paper fell to the ground. He held her wrist; hefelt only the magnetic touch, looked into her eyes, and understood.From wonder at his outburst they passed to fear, to appeal, to love.Yes, they shrank from him, sick with shame and self-comprehension,pitifully seeking to hide the wound. But it would not by any meansbe hid. A light flowed from it, blinding him.
"You hurt! Oh, you hurt!"
He dropped her hands and strode away, leaving the paper at her feet.