CHAPTER XI
MONSIEUR LE COMTE D'HEROUVILLE TAKES THE JOURNEY TO QUEBEC
Victor ran most of the way back to the Corne d'Abondance. Gabrielleand Paul were together, unconscious puppets in the booth of Fate, thatmaster of subtile ironies! How many times had their paths neared,always to diverge again, because Fate had yet to prepare the cup ofmisery? How well he had contrived to bring them together: she, her cuprunning bitter with disillusion and dread of imprisonment; he, dashedfrom the summit of worldly hopes, his birth impugned, stripped ofriches and pride, his lips brushed with the ashes of greatness! And onthis night, of all nights, their paths melted and became as one. Itwas true that they had never met; but this night was one of dupes andfools, and nothing was impossible. He cursed the vicomte for havingput the lust to kill into his head, when he needed clearness andprecision and delicacy to avert this final catastrophe. After themorrow all would he well; Gabrielle would be on the way to Spain, theChevalier on the way to New France. But to-night! Dupes and fools,indeed! He stumbled on through the drifts. The green lantern at last:was he too late? He rushed into the tavern, thence into the privateassembly, his rapier still in his hand. The cold air yet choked hislungs, forcing him to breathe noisily and rapidly. He cast about anervous, hasty glance.
"You are alone, Paul?"
"Alone?" cried the Chevalier, astonished as much by the question as byVictor's appearance. "Yes. Why not? . . . What have you been doingwith that sword?" suddenly.
"Nothing, nothing!" with energy. Victor sheathed the weapon. "A womanentered here by mistake . . . ?"
"She is gone," indifferently. "She was a lady of quality, for I couldsee that the odor of wine and the disorder of the room were distastefulto her."
"She left . . . wearing her mask?" asked the poet, looking everywherebut at the Chevalier, who was growing curious.
"Yes. Her figure was charming. That blockhead of a host! . . . tohave shown her in here!"
"She was in distress?"
"Evidently. In the old days I should have striven to console. What isit all about, lad? Your hand trembles. Do you know her?"
"I know something of her history," with half a truth. Victor'sforehead was cold and dry to the touch of his hand.
"She is in trouble?"
"Yes."
The Chevalier arranged a log on the irons. "Whither is she bound?"
"Spain."
"Ah! A matter of careless politics, doubtless."
"Good!" thought the poet. "He does not ask her name."
"Has she a pleasant voice? I spoke to her, but she remained dumb.Spain," ruminating. "For me, New France. Lad, the thought of reachingthat far country is inspiriting. I shall mope a while; but there ismetal in me which needs but proper molding. . . . For what purpose hadyou drawn your sword?"
"I challenged the vicomte, and he refused to fight."
"On my account?" sternly. "You did wrong."
"I can not change the heat of my blood," carelessly.
"No; but you can lose it, and at present it is very precious to me. Herefused? The vicomte has sound judgment."
"Oh, he and I shall be killing each other one of these fine days; butnot wholly on your account, Paul," gloom wrinkling his brow, as if theenlightening finger of prescience had touched it. "It is fully oneo'clock; you will be wanting sleep."
"Sleep?" The ironist twisted his mouth. "It will be many a day eresleep makes contest with my eyes . . . unless it be cold and sinistersleep. Sleep? You are laughing! Only the fatuous and theself-satisfied sleep . . . and the dead. So be it." He took the tongsand stirred the log, from which flames suddenly darted. "I wonder whatthey are doing at Voisin's to-night?" irrelevantly. "There will besome from the guards, some from the musketeers, and some from theprince's troops. And that little Italian who played the lute so well!Do you recall him? I can see them now, calling Mademoiselle Pauline tobring Voisin's old burgundy." The Chevalier continued his reminiscencein silence, forgetting time and place, forgetting Victor, who wasgazing at him with an expression profoundly sad.
The poet mused for a moment, then tiptoed from the room. An idea hadcome to him, but as yet it was not fully developed.
"Should I have said 'good night'? Good night, indeed! What mockerythere is in commonplaces! That idea of mine needs some thought." So,instead of going to bed he sat down on one of the chimney benches.
A sleepy potboy went to and fro among the tables, clearing up emptytankards and breakage. Maitre le Borgne sat in his corner, reckoningup the day's accounts.
Suddenly Victor slapped his thigh and rose. "Body of Bacchus and hornsof Panurge! I will do it. Mazarin will never look for me there. Itis simple." And a smile, genuine and pleasant, lit up his face. "Iwill forswear Calliope and nail my flag to Clio; I will no longer writepoetry, I will write history and make it."
He climbed to his room, cast off his hostler's livery and slid intobed, to dream of tumbling seas, of vast forests, of mighty rivers . . .and of grey masks.
Promptly at seven he rejoined the Chevalier. Breton was packing alarge portmanteau. He had gathered together those things which he knewhis master loved.
"Monsieur," said the lackey, holding up a book, "this will not go in."
"What is it?" indifferently.
"Rabelais, Monsieur."
"Keep it, lad; I make you a present of it. You have been writing,Victor?"
Victor was carelessly balancing a letter in his hand. "Yes. Athousand crowns,--which I shall own some day,--that you can not guessits contents," gaily.
"You have found Madame de Brissac and are writing to her?" smiling.
For a moment Victor's gaiety left him. The Chevalier's suggestion wasso unexpected as to disturb him. He quickly recovered his poise,however. "You have lost. It is a letter to my good sister, advisingher of my departure to Quebec. Spain is too near Paris, Paul."
"You, Victor?" cried the Chevalier, while Breton's face grew warm withregard for Monsieur de Saumaise.
"Yes. Victor loves his neck. And it will be many a day eremonseigneur turns his glance toward New France in quest."
"But supposing he should not find these incriminating papers? Youwould be throwing away a future."
"Only temporarily. I have asked my sister to watch her brother'swelfare. I will go. Come, be a good fellow. Let us go and sign thearticles which make two soldiers of fortune instead of one. I havespoken to Du Puys and Chaumonot. It is all settled but the daub ofink. Together, Paul; you will make history and I shall embalm it." Heplaced a hand upon the Chevalier's arm, his boyish face beaming withthe prospect of the exploit.
"And Madame de Brissac?" gently.
"We shall close that page," said the poet, looking out of the window.She would be in Spain. Ah well!"
"Monsieur," said Breton, "will you take this?"
The two friends turned. Breton was holding at arm's length a greycloak.
"The cloak!" cried Victor.
"Pack it away, lad," the Chevalier said, the lines in his facedeepening, "It will serve to recall to me that vanity is a futilething."
"The devil! but for my own vanity and miserable purse neither of uswould have been here." Victor made as though to touch the cloak, butshrugged, and signified to Breton to put it out of sight.
When Breton had buckled the straps he exhibited a restlessness,standing first on one foot, then on the other. He folded his arms,then unfolded them, and plucked at his doublet. The Chevalier waswatching him from the corner of his eye.
"Speak, lad; you have something to say."
"Monsieur, I can not return to the hotel. Monsieur le Marquis hasforbidden me." Breton's eyes filled with tears. It was the first liehe had ever told his master.
"Have you any money, Victor?" asked the Chevalier, taking out the fiftypistoles won from the vicomte and dividing them.
"Less than fifty pistoles; here is half of them."
The Chevalier pushed the gold toward the lackey.
"Take these, lad;they will carry you through till you find a new master. You have beena good and faithful servant."
Breton made a negative gesture. "Monsieur," timidly, "I do not wantmoney, and I could never grow accustomed to a new master. I was bornat the chateau in Perigny. My mother was your nurse and she loved you.I know your ways so well, Monsieur Paul. Can I not accompany you toQuebec? I ask no wages; I ask nothing but a kind word now and again,and a fourth of what you have to eat. I have saved a little, and outof that I will find my clothing."
The Chevalier smiled at Victor. "We never find constancy where we lookfor it. Lad," he said to Breton, "I can not take you with me. I amgoing not as a gentleman but as a common trooper, and they are notpermitted to have lackeys. Take the money; it is all I can do for you."
Breton stretched a supplicating hand toward the poet.
"Let him go, Paul," urged Victor. "Du Puys will make an exception inyour case. Let him go. My own lad Hector goes to my sister's, and shewill take good care of him. You can't leave this lad here, Paul. Takehim along."
"But your future?" still reluctant to see Victor leave France.
"It is there," with a nod toward the west.
"The vicomte . . ."
"We have signed a truce till we return to French soil."
"Well, if you will go," a secret joy in his heart. How he loved thispoet!
"It is the land of fortune, Paul; it is calling to us. True, I shallmiss the routs, the life at court, the plays and the gaming. But,horns of Panurge! I am only twenty-three. In three years I shall haveconquered or have been conquered, and that is something. Do notdissuade me. You will talk into the face of the tempest. Rather makethe going a joy for me. You know that at the bottom of your heart youare glad."
"Misery loves company; we are all selfish," replied the Chevalier, "Myselfishness cries out for joy, but my sense of honesty tells me not tolet you go. I shall never return to France. You will not be happythere."
"I shall be safer; and happiness is a matter of temperament, not oftime and place. You put up a poor defense. Look! we have been so longtogether, Paul; eight years, since I was sixteen, and a page of herMajesty's. I should not know what to do without you. We have sharedthe same tents on the battlefield; I have borrowed your clothes andyour money, and you have borrowed my sword, for that is all I have.Listen to me. There will be exploits over there, and the echo of themwill wander back here to France. Fame awaits us. Are we not as braveand inventive as De Champlain, De Montmagny, De Lisle, and a host ofothers who have made money and name? Come; take my hand. Together,Paul, and what may not fortune hold for us!"
There was something irresistible in his pleading; and the Chevalierfelt the need of some one on whom to spend his brimming heart of love.His face showed that he was weighing the matter and viewing it from allpoints. Presently the severe lines of his face softened.
"Very well, we shall go together, my poet," throwing an arm acrossVictor's shoulders. "We shall go together, as we have always gone.And, after all, what is a name but sounding brass? 'Tis a man's armthat makes or unmakes his honesty, not his thrift; his loyalty, ratherthan his self-interest. We shall go together. Come; we'll sign themajor's papers, and have done with it."
Victor threw his hat into the air.
"And I, Monsieur Paul?" said Breton, trembling in his shoes, withexpectancy or fear.
"If they will let you go, lad," kindly; and Breton fell upon his kneesand kissed the Chevalier's hand.
The articles which made them soldiers, obedient first to the will ofthe king and second to the will of the Company of the HundredAssociates, were duly signed. Breton was permitted to accompany hismaster with the understanding that he was to entail no extra expense.Father Chaumonot was delighted; Brother Jacques was thoughtful; themajor was neutral and incurious. As yet no rumor stirred its uglyhead; the Chevalier's reasons for going were still a matter ofconjecture. None had the courage to approach the somber young man andquestion him. The recruits and broken gentlemen had troubles ofsufficient strength to be unmindful of the interest in the Chevalier's.The officers from Fort Louis bowed politely to the Chevalier, but camenot near enough to speak. Excessive delicacy, or embarrassment, orwhatever it was, the Chevalier appreciated it. As for the civilianswho had enjoyed the hospitality of the Hotel de Perigny, they remainedunobserved on the outskirts of the crowd. The vicomte expressed littleor no surprise to learn that Victor had signed. He simply smiled; forif others were mystified as to the poet's conduct, he was not. Oftenhis glance roved toward the stairs; but there were no petticoats goingup or coming down.
"Monsieur le Vicomte," said Brother Jacques, whose curiosity was eatingdeeply, "will you not explain to me the cause of the Chevalier'sextraordinary conduct?"
"Ah, my little Jesuit!" said the vicomte; "so you are still burningwith curiosity? Well, I promise to tell you all about it the firsttime I confess to you."
"Monsieur, have you any reason for insulting me?" asked BrotherJacques, coldly, his pale cheeks aflame.
"Good! there is blood in you, then?" laughed the vicomte, noting thecolor.
"Red and healthy, Monsieur," in a peculiar tone. Brother Jacques waswithin an inch of being as tall and broad as the vicomte.
The vicomte gazed into the handsome face, and there was some doubt inhis own eyes. "You have not always been a priest?"
"Not always."
"And your antecedents?"
"A nobler race than yours, Monsieur," haughtily. "You also have growncurious, it would seem. I shall be associated with the Chevalier, andI desired to know the root of his troubles in order to help him. Butfor these robes, Monsieur, you would not use the tone you do."
"La, la! Take them off if they hamper you. But I like not curiouspeople, I am not a gossip. The Chevalier has reasons in plenty. Askhim why he going to Quebec;" and the vicomte whirled on his heels,leaving the Jesuit the desire to cast aside his robes and smite thevicomte on the mouth.
"Swashbuckler!" he murmured. "How many times have you filched theChevalier of his crowns by the use of clogged dice? . . . God pardonme, but I am lusting for that man's life!" His hand clutched hisrosary and his lips moved in prayer, though the anger did notimmediately die out of his eyes. He wandered among the crowds. Wordsand vague sentences filtered through the noise. Two gentlemen wereconversing lowly. Brother Jacques neared them unconsciously, still athis beads.
"On my honor, it is as I tell you. The Chevalier . . ."
Brother Jacques raised his eyes,
"What! forfeited his rights in a moment of madness? Proclaimed himselfto be . . . before you all? Impossible!"
The beads slipped through Brother Jacques's fingers. He leaned againstthe wall, his eyes round, his nostrils expanded. A great wave of pitysurged over him. He saw nothing but the handsome youth who had spokenkindly to him at the Candlestick in Paris. That word! That invisible,searing iron! He straightened, and his eyes flashed like points ofsteel in the sunshine. That grim, wicked old man; not a thousand timesa thousand livres would give him the key to Heaven. Brother Jacquesleft the tavern and walked along the wharves, breathing deeply of thevigorous sea-air.
Victor encountered the vicomte as the latter was about to go aboard.
"Ah," said the vicomte; "so you ran about with a drawn sword lastnight? Monsieur, you are only a boy." The vicomte never lost hisbanter; it was a habit.
"I was hot-headed and in wine." Victor had an idea in regard to thevicomte.
"The devil is always lurking in the pot; so let us not stir him again."
"Willingly."
"I compliment you on your good sense. Monsieur, I've been thinkingseriously. Has it not occurred to you that Madame de Brissac has thatpaper?"
"Would she seek Spain?" said Victor.
"True. But supposing Mazarin should be seeking her, paper or no paper,to force the truth from her?"
"The supposition, does not balance. She knows no more than you or I."
/> "And Monsieur le Comte's play-woman?"
"Horns of Panurge!" excitedly. "You have struck a new note, Vicomte.I recollect hearing that she was confined in some one of the cityprisons. The sooner the Saint Laurent sails, the better."
"Would that some one we knew would romp into town from Paris. He mighthave news." The vicomte bit the ends of his mustache.
The opening of the tavern door cut short their conversation. A manentered rudely. He pressed and jostled every one in his efforts toreach Maitre le Borgne. He was a man of splendid physical presence.His garments, though soiled and bedraggled by rough riding, were costlyand rich. His spurs were bloody; and the dullness of the blood and thebrightness of the steel were again presented in his fierce eyes. Theface was not pleasing; it was too squarely hewn, too emotional; itindexed the heart too readily, its passions, its loves and its hates.There was cunning in the lips and caution in the brow; but the face wastoo mutable.
"The Comte d'Herouville!" exclaimed the vicomte. "Saumaise, this looksbad. He is not a man to run away like you and me."
The new-comer spoke to the innkeeper, who raised his index finger andleveled it at Victor and the vicomte. On seeing them, D'Herouvillecame over quickly.
"Messieurs," he began, "I am gratified to find you."
"The news!" cried the poet and the gamester.
"Devilish bad, Monsieur, for every one. The paper . . ."
"It is not here," interrupted the vicomte.
The count swore. "Mazarin has mentioned your name, Saumaise. You werea frequent visitor to the Hotel de Brissac. As for me, I swore to alie; but am yet under suspicion. Has either of you seen Madame deBrissac? I have traced her as far as Rochelle."
The vicomte looked humorously at the poet. Victor scowled. Of the twomen he abhorred D'Herouville the more. As for the vicomte, he laughed.
"You laugh, Monsieur?" said D'Herouville, coldly. His voice was notunpleasant.
"Why, yes," replied the vicomte. "Has Mazarin published an edictforbidding a man to move his diaphragm? You know nothing about thepaper, then?"
"Madame de Brissac knows where it is," was the startling declaration."I ask you again, Messieurs, have you seen her?"
"She is in Rochelle," said the vicomte. How many men, he wondered, hadbeen trapped, by madame's eyes?
"Where is she?" eagerly.
"He lies!" thought Victor. "He knows madame has no paper."
"Where she is just now I do not know."
"She is to sail for Quebec at one o'clock," said the poet.
There was admiration in the vicomte's glance. To send the count on awild-goose chase to Quebec while madame sauntered leisurely towardSpain! It was a brilliant stroke, indeed.
"What boat?" demanded D'Herouville.
"The Saint Laurent," answered the vicomte, playing out the lie.
Victor's glance was sullen.
"Wait a moment, man!" cried the vicomte, catching the count's cloak."You can not mean to go running after madame in this fashion. You willcompromise her. Besides, I have some questions to ask. What about DeBrissac's play-woman?"
"Died in prison six days ago. She poisoned herself before theyexamined her." The count looked longingly toward the door.
"What! Poisoned herself? Then she must have loved that hoary oldsinner!" The vicomte's astonishment was genuine.
The chilling smile which passed over the count's face was sinister. "Isaid she poisoned herself, advisedly."
"Oho!" The vicomte whistled, while Victor drew back.
"Now, Messieurs, will you permit me to go? It is high time you bothwere on the way to Spain." D'Herouville stamped his foot impatiently.
"And you will go to Quebec?" asked the vicomte.
"Certainly."
"Well then, till Monsieur de Saumaise and I see you on board. We arebound in that direction."
"You?" taken aback like a ship's sail.
"Why not, Monsieur," said Victor, a bit of irony in his tones, "sinceyou yourself are going that way?"
"You took me by surprise." The count's eye ran up and down the poet'sform. He moved his shoulders suggestively. "Till we meet again,then." And he left them.
"My poet," said the vicomte, "that was a stroke. Lord, how he willlove you when he discovers the trick! What a boor he makes of himselfto cover his designs! Here is a bag of trouble, and necessity hasforced our hands into it. For all his gruffness and seemingimpatience, D'Herouville has never yet made a blunder or a mistake.Take care."
"Why do you warn me?" Victor was full to the lips with rage.
"Because, hang me, I like your wit. Monsieur, there is no need of youand me cutting each other's throats. Let us join hands in cuttingD'Herouville's. And there's the Chevalier; I had forgotten him. Heand D'Herouville do not speak. I had mapped out three dull months onthe water, and here walks in a comedy of various parts. Let us try apot of canary together. You ought to change that livery of yours.Somebody will be insulting you and you will be drawing your sword."
Victor followed the vicomte to a table. After all, there was somethingfascinating about this man, with that devil-may-care air of his, hisbanter and his courage. So he buried a large part of his animosity,and accepted the vicomte's invitation.
All within the tavern was marked by that activity which precedes anotable departure. Seamen were bustling about, carrying bundles,stores, ammunition, and utensils. Here and there were soldierspolishing their muskets and swords and small arms. There was a callingto and fro. The mayor of the city came in, full of Godspeed and cheer,and following him were priests from the episcopal palace and wealthyburghers who were interested in the great trading company. AllRochelle was alive.
The vicomte, like all banterers, possessed that natural talent ofstanding aside and reading faces and dissecting emotions. Three facesinterested him curiously. The Chevalier hid none of his thoughts; theylay in his eyes, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the immobility of hispose. How easy it was to read that the Chevalier saw nothing, save ina nebulous way, of the wonderful panorama surrounding. He was with thefolly of the night gone, with Paris, with to-day's regrets for vanishedyesterday. The vicomte could see perfectly well that Victor's gaietywas natural and unassumed; that the past held him but loosely, sincethis past held the vision of an ax. The analyst passed on to BrotherJacques, and received a slight shock. The penetrating grey eyes of thepriest caught his and held them menacingly.
"Ah!" murmured the vicomte, "the little Jesuit has learned the trick,too, it would seem. He is reading my face. I must know more of thishandsome fellow whose blood is red and healthy. He comes from no suchhumble origin as Father Chaumonot. Bah! and look at those nuns: theyare animated coffins, holding only dead remembrances and dried,perfumeless flowers."
A strong and steady east wind had driven away all vestige of the storm.The sea was running westward in long and swinging leaps, colorful,dazzling, foam-crested. The singing air was spangled with frostybrine-mist; a thousand flashes were cast back from the city windows;the flower of the lily fluttered from a hundred masts. A noble vision,truly, was the good ship Saint Laurent, standing out boldly against theclear horizon and the dark green of the waters. High up among thespars and shrouds swarmed the seamen. Canvas flapped and bellied as itdropped, from arm to arm, sending the fallen snow in a flurry to thedecks. On the poop-deck stood the black-gowned Jesuits, the sad-facednuns, several members of the great company, soldiers and adventurers.The wharves and docks and piers were crowded with the curious:bright-gowned peasants, soldiers from the fort, merchants, and asprinkling of the noblesse. It was not every day that a great shipleft the harbor on so long and hazardous a voyage.
The Chevalier leaned against the railing, dreamily noting the whitefaces in the sunshine. He was still vaguely striving to convincehimself that he was in the midst of some dream. He was conscious of anapproaching illness, too. When would he wake? . . . and where? A handtouched his arm. He turned and saw Brother Jacques. There was
akindly expression on the young priest's face. He now saw the Chevalierin a new light. It was not as the gay cavalier, handsome, rich,care-free; it was as a man who, suffering a mortal stroke, carried hishead high, hiding the wound like a Spartan.
"A last look at France, Monsieur le Chevalier, for many a day to come."
The Chevalier nodded.
"For many days, indeed. . . . And who among us shall look upon Franceagain in the days to come? It is a long way from the Candlestick inParis to the deck of the Saint Laurent. The widest stretch of fancywould not have brought us together again. There is, then, someinvisible hand that guides us surely and certainly to our various ends,as the English poet says." The Chevalier was speaking to a thoughtrather than to Brother Jacques. "Who among us shall look upon theseshores again?"
"What about these shores, Paul?" asked Victor, coming up. "They arenot very engaging just now."
"But it is France, Victor; it is France; and from any part of FranceParis may be reached." He turned his face toward the north, in thedirection of Paris. His eyes closed; he was very pale. "Do we not diesometimes, Victor, while yet the heart and brain go on beating andthinking?"
Victor grasped the Chevalier's hand. There are some friendships whichare expressed not by the voice, but by the pressure of a hand, akindling glance of the eye. Brother Jacques moved on. He saw that forthe present he had no part in these two lives.
"Look!" Victor cried, suddenly, pointing toward the harbor towers.
"Jehan?" murmured the Chevalier. "Good old soul! Is he waving hishand, Victor? The sun . . . I can not see."
"Do you suppose your father . . ."
"Who?" calmly.
"Ah! Well, then, Monsieur le Marquis: do you suppose he has sent Jehanto verify the report that you sail for Quebec?"
"I do not suppose anything, Victor. As for Monsieur le Marquis, I havealready ceased to hate him. How beautiful the sea is! And yet,contemplate the horror of its rolling over your head, beating your lifeout on the reefs. All beautiful things are cruel."
"But you are glad, Paul," affectionately, "that I am with you?"
"Both glad and sorry. For after a time you will return, leaving mebehind."
"Perhaps. And yet who can say that we both may not return, only withfame marching on ahead to announce us in that wonderfully pleasing wayshe has?"
"It is your illusions that I love, Victor: I see myself again in you.Keep to your ballades, your chant-royals, your triolets; you will writean epic whenever you lose your illusions; and epics by Frenchmen aredull and sorry things. When you go below tell Breton to unpack myportmanteau."
On the wharf nearest the vessel stood two women, hooded so as toconceal their faces.
"There, Gabrielle; you have asked to see the Chevalier du Cevennes,that is he leaning against the railing."
"So that is the Chevalier. And he goes to Quebec. In mercy's name,what business has he there?"
"You are hurting my arm, dear. Victor would not tell me why he goes toQuebec."
"Ah, if he goes out of friendship for Victor, it is well."
"Is he not handsome?"
"Melancholy handsome, after the pattern of the Englishman's Hamlet. Ilike a man with a bright face. When does the Henri IV sail?" suddenly.
"Two weeks from to-morrow. To-morrow is Fools' Day."
"Why, then, do not those on yonder ship sail to-morrow instead ofto-day?"
"You were not always so bitter."
"I must have my jest. To-morrow may have its dupes as well as itsfools. . . . Silence! The Comte d'Herouville in Rochelle? I am lostif he sees me. Let us go!" And Madame de Brissac dragged hercompanion back into the crowd. "That man here? Anne, you must hide mewell."
"Why do you ask about the gloomy ship which is to take me to Quebec?"asked Anne, her curiosity aroused of a sudden.
Madame put a finger against her lips. "I shall tell you presently.Just now I must find a hiding place immediately. He must not know thatI am here. He must have traced me here. Oh! am I not in troubleenough without that man rising up before me? I am afraid of him, Anne."
The two soon gained their chairs and disappeared. Neither of them sawthe count go on board the ship.
On board all was activity. There came a lurch, a straining of ropesand a creaking of masts, and the good ship Saint Laurent swam out tosea. Suddenly the waters trembled and the air shook: the king'sman-of-war had fired the admiral's salute. So the voyage began.Priests, soldiers, merchants, seamen, peasants and nobles, all stoodsilent on the poop-deck, watching the rugged promontory sink, turretsand towers and roofs merge into one another, black lines melt intogrey; stood watching till the islands became misty in the sunshine andnothing of France remained but a long, thin, hazy line.
"The last of France, for the present," said the poet.
"And for the present," said the vicomte, "I am glad it is the last ofFrance. France is not agreeable to my throat."
The Chevalier threw back his shoulders and stood away from the rail.
The Comte d'Herouville, his face purple with rage and chagrin, came up.He approached Victor.
"Monsieur," he said, "you lied. Madame is not on board." He drew backhis hand to strike the poet in the face, but fingers of iron caught hiswrist and held it in the air.
"The day we land, Monsieur," said the Chevalier, calmly. "Monsieur deSaumaise is not your equal with the sword."
"And you?" with a sneer.
"Well, I can try."