CHAPTER XXII.
DOMINIQUE.
"Montreal?"
While they stood wondering, a dull wave of sound broke on their earsfrom the westward, and another, and yet another--the booming ofcannon far up the river.
"That will be at La Galette," said the Commandant, answering thequestion in Dominique's eyes. "Come up to your quarters, mychildren, and get some sleep. We have work before us." He motionedthe others to fall back out of hearing while he and Dominique mountedthe slope together. "You had audience, then, of the Governor?"he asked.
"He declined to see us, Monseigneur, and I do not blame him, since hecould not send us back telling you to fight. Doubtless it does notbecome one in M. de Vaudreuil's position to advise the other thing--aloud."
"I do not understand you. Why could not M. de Vaudreuil order me tofight?"
Dominique stared at his master. "Why, Monseigneur,--seeing that hesends no troops, it would be a queer message. He could not have theface."
"Yet he must be intending to strike at the English coming fromQuebec?"
"They are already arrived and encamped at Isle Sainte-Therese belowthe city, and another army has come down the Richelieu from the southand joined them."
"It is clear as daylight. M. de Vaudreuil must be meaning to attackthem instantly, and therefore he cannot spare a detachment--Youfollow me?"
"It may be so, Monseigneur," Dominique assented doubtfully.
"'May be so'! It must be so! But unhappily he does not know of thisthird army descending upon him; or, rather, he does not know how nearit is. Yet, to win time for him, we must hold up this army at allcosts."
"It is I, Monseigneur, who am puzzled. You cannot be intending--"
"Eh? Speak it out, man!"
"You cannot be intending to await these English!"
"Name of thunder! What else do you suppose? Pray, my dearDominique, use your wits. We have to gain time, I tell you--time forour friends below at Montreal."
"With twenty odd men against as many hundreds? Oh, pardon me,Monseigneur, but I cannot bring my mind to understand you."
"But since it gains time--"
"They will not stay to snap up such a mouthful. They will sail pastyour guns, laughing; unless--great God, Monseigneur! If in truth youintend this folly, where is Mademoiselle Diane? I did not see her inany of the boats from La Galette. Whither have you sent her, and inwhose charge?"
"She is yonder on the wall, looking down on us. She will stay; Ihave given her my promise."
Dominique came to a halt, white as a ghost. His tongue touched hisdry lips. "Monseigneur!"--the cry broke from him, and he put out ahand and caught his seigneur by the coat sleeve.
"What is the matter with the man?" The Commandant plucked his armaway and stood back, outraged by this breach of decorum.
But Dominique, having found his voice, continued heedless. "She mustgo! She _shall_ go! It is a wickedness you are doing--do you hearme, Monseigneur?--a wickedness, a wickedness! But you shall not keepher here; I will not allow it!"
"Are you stark mad, Dominique Guyon?"
"I will not allow it. I love her, I tell you--there, I have said it!Listen again, Monseigneur, if you do not understand: I love her, Ilove her--oh, get that into your head! I love her, and will notallow it!"
"Certainly your brain is turned. Go to your quarters, sir; it mustbe sleep you want. Yes, yes, my poor fellow, you are pale as acorpse! Go, get some sleep, and when you wake we will forget allthis."
"Before God, Monseigneur, I am telling you the truth. I need nosleep but the sleep of death, and that is like to come soon enough.But since we were children I have loved your daughter, and in thestrength of that love I forbid you to kill her."
The Commandant swung round on his heel.
"Follow me, if you please."
He led the way to his orderly-room, seated himself at the table, andso confronted the young man, who stood humbly enough, though with hispale face twitching.
"Dominique Guyon, once in my life I made a great mistake; and thatwas when, to save my poor son's honour, I borrowed money of one of my_censitaires_. I perceive now what hopes you have nursed, feedingthem on my embarrassments. You saw me impoverished, brought low,bereaved by God's will of my only son; you guessed that I lay awakeof nights, troubled by the thought of my daughter, who must inheritpoverty; and on these foundations you laid your schemes. You dreamedof becoming a _gentilhomme_, of marrying my daughter, of sitting inmy chair at Boisveyrac and dealing justice among the villagers.And a fine dream it seemed to you, eh?" He paused.
"Monseigneur," Dominique answered simply, "you say some things thatare true; but you say them so that all seems false and vile. Yes, Ihave dreamed dreams--even dreams of becoming a _gentilhomme_, as yousay; but my dreams were never wicked as you colour them, seeing thatthey all flowed from love of Mademoiselle Diane, and returned toher."
He glanced towards the window, through which the pair could see Dianepacing the _terre-plein_ in the sunlight. The sight kindled theelder man to fresh anger.
"If," said he harshly, "I tried to explain to you exactly how youinsult us, it would be wasting my time and yours; and, however muchyou deserve it, I have no wish to wound your feelings beyond need.Let us come to business." He unlocked a drawer and drew out threebundles of notes. "As my farmer you will know better than I thecurrent discount on these. You come from Montreal. At what pricewas the Government redeeming its paper there?"
As he unfolded them, Dominique glanced at the notes, and then let hisgaze wander out through the window.
"Is Monseigneur proposing to pay me the interest on his bonds?"
"To be sure I am."
"I do not ask for it."
"Devil care I if you ask or not! Count the notes, if you please."
Dominique took a packet in his hands for a moment, still with hiseyes bent absently on the window, fingered the notes, and laid themback on the table.
"Monseigneur will do me the justice to own that in former times Ihave given him good advice in business. I beg him to keep thesenotes for a while. In a month or two their value will have trebled,whichever Government redeems them."
The Commandant struck the table. "In a few hours, sir, I shall be adead man. My honour cannot wait so long; and since the question isnow of honour, not of business, you will keep your advice toyourself. Be quick, please; for time presses, and I have someinstructions to leave to my brother. At my death he will sell theSeigniory. The Government will take its quint of the purchase-money,and out of the remainder you shall be paid. My daughter will then gopenniless, but at least I shall have saved her from a creditor withsuch claims as you are like to press. And so, sir, I hope you haveyour answer."
"No, Monseigneur, not my answer. That I will never take but fromMademoiselle Diane herself."
"By God, you shall have it here and now!" The Commandant stepped tothe window and threw open the casement. "Diane!" he called.
She came. She stood in the doorway; and Dominique--a moment beforeso bold--lowered his eyes before hers. At sight of him her colourrose, but bravely. She was young, and had been making her accountwith death. She had never loved Dominique; she had feared him attimes, and at times pitied him; but now fate had lifted her and sether feet on a height from which she looked down upon love and fearwith a kind of wonder that they had ever seemed important, and evenher pity for him lost itself in compassion for all men and women introuble. In truth, Dominique looked but a miserable culprit beforeher.
The Commandant eyed him grimly for a moment before turning to her.
"Diane," he said with grave irony, "you will be interested to learnthat Monsieur Dominique Guyon here has done you the honour to requestyour hand in marriage."
She did not answer, but stood reading their faces.
"Moreover, on my declining that honour, he tells me that he will takehis answer from you alone."
Still for a few seconds she kept silence.
"Why shou
ld I not answer him, papa?" she said at length, and softly."It is not for us to choose what he should ask." She paused."All his life Dominique Guyon has been helping us; see how he has,even in these few days, worn himself in our service!"
Her father stared at her, puzzled, not following her thought. He hadexpected her to be shocked, affronted; he did not know thatDominique's passion was an old tale to her; and as little did heperceive that in her present mood she put herself aside and thoughtonly of Dominique as in trouble and needing help.
But apparently something in her face reassured him, for he steppedtoward the door.
"You prefer to give him his answer alone?"
She bent her head.
For a while after the door had closed upon the Commandant, Dominiquestood with eyes abased. Then, looking up and meeting the divinecompassion in hers, he fell on his knees and stretched out both handsto her.
"Is there no hope for me, ma'amzelle?"
She shook her head. Looking down on him through tears, she held outa hand; he took it between his palms and clung to it, sobbing like achild.
Terrible, convulsive sobs they were at first, but grew quieter bydegrees, and as the outburst spent itself a deep silence fell uponthe room.
A tear had fallen upon his clasped knuckles. He put his lips to itand, imprisoning her fingers, kissed them once, reverently.
He was a man again. He stood up, yet not releasing her hand, andlooked her in the face.
"Ma'amzelle, you will leave the Fort? You will let Bateese carry youout of danger? For me, of course, I stay with the Seigneur."
"No, Dominique. All New France is dying around us, and I stay withmy father to see the end. Perhaps at the last I shall need you tohelp me." She smiled bravely. "You have been trying to persuade myfather, I know."
"I have been trying to persuade him, and yet--yet--Oh, I will tell toyou a wickedness in my heart that I could not tell even to FatherLaunoy! There was a moment when I thought to myself that even tohave you die here and to die beside you were better than to let yougo. Can you forgive me such a thought as that?"
"I forgive."
"And will you grant one thing more?"
"What is it, Dominique?"
"A silly favour, ma'amzelle--but why not? The English will be heresoon, maybe in a few hours. Let me call Bateese, and we three willbe children again and go up to the edge of the forest and watch forour enemies. They will be real enemies, this time; but even that wemay forget, perhaps."
She stood back a pace and laughed--yes, laughed--and gaily, albeitwith dewy eyes. Her hands went up as if she would have clapped them."Why, to be sure!" she cried. "Let us fetch Bateese at once!"
They passed out into the sunlight together, and she waited in thecourtyard while Dominique ran upstairs to fetch Bateese. In fiveminutes' time the two brothers appeared together, Bateese with hispockets enormously bulging--whereat Diane laughed again.
"So you have brought the larder, as ever. Bateese was alwaysprudent, and never relied on the game he killed in hunting.You remember, Dominique?"
"He was always a poor shot, ma'amzelle," answered Dominique gravely.
"But this is not the larder!" Bateese began to explain with a queerlook at his brother.
"Eh?"
"Never mind explanations! Come along, all three!" cried Dominique,and led the way. They passed out by the postern unobserved--for thegarrison was assembled in the lunette under the river wall--andhurried toward the shade of the forest.
How well Diane remembered the old childish make-believe! How manyscores of times had they played it together, these three, in thewoods around Boisveyrac!--when Dominique and Bateese were boldhuntsmen, and she kept house for them, cooking their imaginary spoilsof the chase.
"We must have a fire!" she exclaimed, and hurried off to gathersticks. But when she returned with the lap of her gown well filled,a fire was already lit and blazing.
"How have you managed it so quickly?" she asked, and with that hereyes fell on a scrap of ashes. "Where did you get this? You havebeen lighting with paper, Bateese--and that is not playing fair!"
Bateese, very red in the face, stooped in the smoke and crammedanother handful upon the blaze.
"They were papers, ma'amzelle, upon which Dominique and I for a longtime could not agree. But now "--he turned to Dominique--"there isno longer any quarrel between us. Eh, brother?"
"None, Bateese; none, if you forgive."
"What did I tell you?" cried Bateese triumphantly. "Did I not alwaystell you that your heart would be lighter, with this shadow gone?And there was never any shadow but this; none--none!"
"That is all very well," Diane remonstrated; "but you two have nobusiness to hide a secret from me to-day, even though it make youhappier."
"We have burnt it for a propitiation, ma'amzelle; it no longerexists." Bateese cast himself on his back at full length in theherbage and gazed up through the drifting smoke into the tree-topsand sky. "A-ah!" said he with a long sigh, "how good God has been tome! How beautiful He has made all my life!" He propped himself onone elbow and continued with shining eyes: "What things we were goingto do, in those days! What wonders we looked forward to! And allthe while we were doing the most wonderful thing in the world, for weloved one another." He stretched out a hand and pointed. "There, bythe bend, the English boats will come in sight. Suppose, Dominique,that as they come you launched out against them, and fought and sankthe fleet single-handed, like the men in the old tales--"
"He would save New France, and live in song," Diane put in."Would that not content any man, Bateese?" She threw back her headwith a gesture which Dominique noted; a trick of her childhood, whenin moments of excitement her long hair fell across her eyes and hadto be shaken back.
"Ma'amzelle," he pleaded, "there is yet one favour."
"Can I grant it easily?"
"I hope so; it is that you will let down your hair for us."
Diane blushed, but put up a hand and began to uncoil the tresses."Bateese has not answered me," she insisted. "I tell him that a manwho should do such a feat as he named would live in song for ever andever."
"But I say to you humbly, ma'amzelle, that though he lived in songfor ever and ever, the true sweetness of his life would be unknown tothe singers; for he found it here under the branches, and, steppingforth to his great deed, he left the memory for a while, to meet himagain and be his reward in Heaven."
"And I say to you 'no,' and 'no,' and again 'no'!" cried Diane,springing to her feet--the childish, impetuous Diane of old."It is in the great deed that he lives--the deed, and the moment thatmakes him everlasting! If Dominique now, or I, as these English cameround the bend--"
She paused, meeting Dominique's eyes. She had not said "or you,"and could not say it. Why? Because Bateese was a cripple."Bateese's is a cripple's talk," said their glances one to another,guiltily, avoiding him.
Dominique's gaze, flinching a little, passed down the splendid coilsof her hair and rested on the grass at her feet. She lifted a tresson her forefinger and smoothed it against the sunlight.
"There was a war once," said she, "between the Greeks and thePersians; and the Persians overran the Greeks' country until theycame to a pass in the mountains where a few men could stand againstmany. There three hundred of the Greeks had posted themselves,despising death, to oppose an army of tens and hundreds of thousands.The Persian king sent forward a horseman, and he came near and lookedalong the pass and saw but a few Greeks combing their hair anddressing it carefully, as I am dressing mine."
"What happened, ma'amzelle?"
"They died, and live in song for ever and ever!"
She faced them, her cheeks glowing, and lifted a hand as the note ofa sweet-toned bell rose upon the morning air above the voices of thebirds; of the chapel-bell ringing the garrison to Mass.
The two young men scrambled to their feet.
"Come!" said Diane, and they walked back to the Fort together.