CHAPTER XX
A DEATH WARRANT OR A MARRIAGE CONTRACT
"Well, Gabrielle," said Anne, curiously, "what do you propose to do?"
Madame went to the window; madame stared far below the balcony at thebroad river which lay smooth and white in the morning sunshine; madamedrummed on the window-casing.
"It is a mare's nest," she replied, finally.
"First of all, there is D'Herouville. True, he is in the hospital,"observed Anne, "but he will shortly become an element."
Madame shrugged.
"There's the vicomte, for another."
Madame spread the most charming pair of hands.
"And the poet," Anne continued.
Madame tucked away a rebel curl above her ear.
"And last, but not least, there's the Chevalier du Cevennes. Thegovernor was very kind to permit you to remain incognito."
Madame's face became animated. "What an embarrassing thing it is to beso plentifully and frequently loved!"
"If only you loved some one of these noble gentlemen!"
"D'Herouville, a swashbuckler; D'Halluys, a gamester; Du Cevennes, afop. Truly, you can not wish me so unfortunate as that?"
"Besides, Monsieur du Cevennes does not know nor love you."
"I suppose not. How droll it would be if I should set about making himfall in love with me!--to bring him to my feet and tell him who Iam--and laugh!"
"I should advise you not to try it, Gabrielle. He might becomeformidable. Are you not mischief endowed with a woman's form?"
"A mare's nest it is, truly; but since I have entered itwillingly . . ."
"Well?"
"I shall not return to France on the Henri IV," determinedly.
"But Du Cevennes and the others?"
"I shall avoid Monsieur du Cevennes; I shall laugh in D'Herouville'sface; the vicomte will find me as cold and repelling as that icebergwhich we passed near Acadia."
"And Monsieur de Saumaise?" Anne persisted.
"Well, if he wishes it, he may play Strephon to my Phyllis, only theidyl must go no further than verses. No, Anne; his is a brave, goodheart, and I shall not play with it. I am too honest."
"Well, at any rate, you will not become dull while I am on probation.And you will also become affiliated with the Ursulines?"
Madame smiled with gentle irony. "Oh, yes, indeed! And I shall teachIndian children to speak French as elegantly as Brantome wrote it, andknit nurses' caps for the good squaws. . . . Faith, Anne, dear, if Idid not love you, the Henri IV could not carry me back to France quickenough." Madame leaned from the window and sniffed the forest perfumes.
"You will be here six months, then."
"That will give certain personages in France time to forget."
"You were very uncivil to Monsieur le Marquis on board."
"I adore that race, the Perignys," wrathfully. "Twenty times I had theimpulse to tell him who I am."
"But you did not. And what can he be doing here?"
"Doubtless he intends to become a Jesuit father: or he is here for thepurpose of taking his son back to France. Like the good parent he is,he does not wait for the prodigal's return. He comes after him."
"Monsieur le Marquis was taken ill last night, so I understand."
"Ah! perhaps the prodigal scorned the fatted calf!"
"Yon are very bitter."
"I have been married four years; my freedom is become so large that Iknow not what to do with it. Married four years, and every night uponretiring I have locked the door of my bedchamber. And what is thewidow's portion? The menace of the block or imprisonment. I was alure to his political schemes, and I never knew it till too late.Could I but find that paper! Writing is a dangerous and compromisinghabit. I shall never use a pen again; not I. One signs a marriagecertificate or a death-warrant."
Anne crossed the room and put her arms round her companion, whoaccepted the caress with moist eyes.
"You will have me weeping in a moment, Gabrielle," said Anne.
"Let us weep together, then; only I shall weep from pure rage."
"There is peace in the convent," murmured Anne.
"Peace is as the heart is; and mine shall never know peace. I havebeen disillusioned too soon. I should go mad in a convent. Did I notpass my youth in one,--to what end?"
"If only you loved a good man."
"Or even a man," whimsically. "Go on with the thought."
"The mere loving would make you happy."
Madame searched Anne's blue eyes. "Dear heart, are you not hidingsomething from me? Your tone is so mournful. Can it be?" as ifsuddenly illumined within.
"Can what be?" asked Anne, nervously.
"That you have left your heart in France."
"Oh, I have not left my heart in France, Gabrielle. Do you not feel itbeating against your own?"
"Who can he be?" musingly.
"Gabrielle, Gabrielle!" reproachfully.
"Very well, dear. If you have a secret I should be the last to forceit from you."
"See!" cried Anne, suddenly and eagerly; "there is Monsieur du Cevennesand his friend coming up the path. Do you not think that there issomething manly about the Chevalier's head?"
"I will study it some day; that is, if I feel the desire."
"Do you really hate him?"
"Hate him? Faith, no; that would be admitting that he interested me."
The Chevalier and the poet carried axes. They had been laboring sincefive o'clock that morning superintending the construction of a wharf.In truth, they were well worth looking at: the boyishness of one andthe sober manliness of the other, the clear eyes, tanned skin, thequick, strong limbs. The poet's eye was always roving, and he quicklysaw the two women in the window above.
"Paul, is not that a woman to be loved?" he said; with a gaiety whichwas not spontaneous.
"Which one?" asked the Chevalier, diplomatically.
"The one with hair like the haze in the morning."
"The simile is good," confessed the Chevalier. "But there is somethingin the eye which should warn a man."
"Eye? Can you tell the color of an eye from this distance? It's morethan I can do."
The Chevalier's tan became a shade darker. "Perhaps it was thereflection of the sun."
Victor swung his hat from his head gallantly. The Chevalier bowedstiffly; the pain in his heart stopped the smile which would havestirred his lips. The lad at his side had faith in women, and heshould never know that yonder beauty had played cup and ball with his,the Chevalier's, heart. How nonchalant had been her cruelty thepreceding night! That letter! The Chevalier's eyes snapped with angerand indignation as he replaced his hat. It was enough that the poetknew why the marquis was in Quebec.
"You murmured a name in your sleep last night," said the Chevalier.
"What was it?"
"It sounded like 'Gabrielle'; I am not sure."
"They say that Monsieur le Marquis was a most handsome youth," Anneremarked, when the men had disappeared round an angle.
"Then it is possible the son will make a handsome old man," wasmadame's flippant rejoinder.
"Supposing, after all, you had married him?" suggested Anne, with a bitof malice; for somehow the Chevalier's face appealed to her admiration.
"Heaven evidently had some pity for me, for that would have been acatastrophe, indeed." Madame did not employ warm tones, and the lidsof her eyes narrowed. "Wedded to a fop, whose only thought was ofhimself? That would have been even worse than Monsieur le Comte, whowas, with all his faults, a man of great courage."
"I have never heard that the Chevalier was a coward," warmly. "Infact, in Rochelle he had the reputation of being one of the most daringsoldiers in France. And a coward would never have done what he did forMonsieur de Saumaise."
"Good Heaven! let us talk of something else," cried madame. "TheChevalier, the Chevalier! He has no part in my life, nor I in his; norwill he have. I do not at present hate him, but if you keep trumpetingh
is name into my ears I shall." Madame was growing visibly angry. "Iwill leave you, Anne, with the Mother Superior's letters. I do notwant company; I want to be alone. I shall return before the noon meal."
"Gabrielle, you are not angry at me? I was only jesting."
"No, Anne; I am angry at myself. My vanity is still young and green,and I can not yet separate Monsieur du Cevennes from the boot-heelwhich ground upon my likeness. No woman with any pride would forgivean affront like that; and I am both proud and unforgiving."
"I can understand, Gabrielle. You ought not to have joined me. By nowyou would have been in Navarre or in Spain."
"And lonely, lonely, lonely!" with a burst of tenderness, throwing herarms round Anne again and kissing her. "I must go; I shall weep if Iremain."
Half an hour later an orderly announced to his Excellency the governorthat a lady desired to see him.
"Admit her at once," said De Lauson. "Mademoiselle," when madame stoodbefore him, "am I to have the happiness of being of service to you?Or, is it 'madame' instead of 'mademoiselle'?"
"I have promised to disclose my identity in time, your Excellency.However, I shall not object to 'madame.' Monsieur, I am about to askyou a question which I shall request not to be repeated."
The governor, looking at her with open admiration, recalled the dayswhen, as a student, he had conjured up in his own mind the faces of thegoddesses. This face represented neither Venus nor Pallas; rather thelithe-limbed huntress who forswore marriage for the chase.
"And this question?" he inquired.
"What brought Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes, as he calls himself,to Quebec?"
The governor's face became shaded with gravity, "I may not tell youthat. I did not know that you knew Monsieur le Comte. He will,without doubt, return to France with Monsieur le Marquis, his father.Nay, I shall tell you this: the Chevalier expected never to return toFrance."
"Never to return to France?" vaguely.
"Yes, Madame; so I understood, him to say." The governor's curiositywas manifest.
"Conspiring did not bring him here?"
"No, Madame."
"Monsieur, one more question, and then I will go. Is there aMademoiselle Catharine Coquenard upon your books?"
"Peasant or noble?"
"Peasant, Monsieur, of a positive type," with enough scorn to attractthe governor's ear.
He consulted his books, wondering what it was all about. "No suchname, Madame," he said, finally, "I regret to say."
"Thank you, Monsieur; that is all."
For the rest of the day his Excellency the governor went about with apreoccupied expression on his face.
The sun sank; the green of the forests deepened; a violet mist rosefrom the banks; the channel of the river became a perfect mirror, whichsoftened the gorgeous colors which the heavens flung upon its surface.Madame wandered aimlessly around within the outer parapet of thecitadel. Far out upon the river she saw the black hull of the HenriIV, the rigging weaving a delicate spider-web against the faded horizonof the south. A breeze touched madame's cheek, as soft a kiss as thatwhich a mother gives to her sleeping child. For a space her hairburned like ore in a furnace and her eyes sparkled with golden flashes;then the day smoldered and died, leaving the world enveloped in asilvery pallor. To the thought which wanders visual beauty is withoutsignificance, and madame's thought was traversing paths which were manymiles beyond the sea.
"Madame, are you not truly a poet?"
The vicomte stood at her side, his hat under his arm. "I daresay," hewent on, "that many a night while you were crossing the sea you stoodby the railing and watched the pathway of the moon. How like destinyit was! You could not pass that ribbon of moonshine nor could it passyou, but ever and ever it walked and abided with you. Well, so it iswith destiny."
"And when the clouds come, Monsieur le Vicomte, and shut out the moon,there is, then, a cessation to destiny?"
"You are not only a poet, Madame," he observed, his fingers strayingover his mustache. "You have eclipsed my metaphor nicely, I willadmit."
"And this preamble leads . . . ?"
"I have something of vital importance to tell you; but it can not betold here. Will you do me the honor and confidence, Madame, to followme to the chateau?"
"How vital is this information?" the chill in her voice becomingobvious and distinct.
"I was speaking of destiny, Madame; what I have to say pertinentlyconcerns yours."
Madame trembled and her brow became moist. "Where do you wish me to gowith you, Monsieur?"
"Only into a deserted council chamber, where, if doubt or fear disturbsyou, you have but to cry to bring the whole regiment tumbling about myears."
"Proceed, Monsieur; I am not afraid."
"I go before only to show you the way, Madame."
He turned, and madame, casting a regretful glance at the planets whichwere beginning to blaze in the firmament, followed him. She was atonce disturbed and curious. This man, brilliant and daring though sheknew him to be, always stirred a vague distrust. He had never doneaught to give rise to this inward antagonism; yet a shadowy instinct, ahalf-slumbering sense, warned her against him. D'Herouville she hatedcordially, for he had pursued her openly; but this man walking beforeher, she did not hate him, she feared him. There had been nights atthe hotel in Paris when she had felt the fiery current of his glance,but he had never spoken; many a time she had read the secret in hiseyes, but his lips had remained mute. She understood this tact, thisdiplomacy which, though it chafed her, she could not rebuke. Thus, hewas more or less a fragment of her thoughts, day after day. Ah, thatmad folly, that indescribable impulse, which had brought her to NewFrance instead of Spain! Eh well, the blood of the De Rohans and DeMontbazons was in her veins, and the cool of philosophy was neverplentiful in that blood. She was to learn something to-night, if onlythe purpose of this man who loved and spoke not.
"In here, Madame," said the vicomte, courteously, "if you will do methat honor."
A glance told madame that she had been in this room before. Did theyburn candles every night in here, or had the vicomte, relying upon awoman's innate curiosity, lighted these candles himself? Her gaze,traveling along the oak table, discovered a few particles of burntpaper. Her face grew warm.
The vicomte closed the door gently, leaving the key in the lock. Shefollowed, each movement with eyes as keen and wary as a cat's. He drewout a chair, walked around the table and selected another chair.
"Will you not sit down, Madame?"
"I prefer to stand, Monsieur."
"As you please. Pardon me, but I am inclined to sit down."
"Will you be brief?"
"As possible." The vicomte took in a long breath, reached a hand intohis breast and drew out a folded paper, oblong in shape.
At the sight of this madame's eyes first narrowed, then grew wide andround.
"Begin, Monsieur," a suspicion of tremor in her tones.
"Well, then: fate or fortune has made you free; fate or fortune hasbrought you into this wilderness. Here, civilization becomes less finein the grain; men reach forth toward objects brusquely and boldly.Well, Madame, you know that for the past year I have loved you silentlyand devotedly. . . ."
"If that is all, Monsieur . . . !" scornfully.
"Patience!" He tapped the paper with his hand. "Is there notsomething about the shape of this paper, Madame, that is familiar?Does it not recall to your mind something of vital importance?"
Madame placed her hand upon the back of the chair and the ends of herfingers grew white from the pressure.
"The great Beaufort has scrawled negligently across this paper; thesly, astute Gaston. My name is here, and so is yours, Madame. My namewould never have been here but for your beauty, which was a fine lure.Listen. As for my name, there lives in the Rue Saint Martin a friendwho plays at alchemy. He has a liquid which will dissolve ink, eraseit, obliterate it, leaving the paper spotless. Thus it will be easyfor me to substitute
another in place of mine. Mazarin seeks you,Madame, either to place your beautiful neck upon the block or to immureyou for life in prison. Madame, this paper represents two things: yourdeath-warrant or your marriage contract. Which shall it be?"