CHAPTER XXV
OF ORIOLES AND WOMAN'S PREROGATIVES
"Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not bedisturbed!"
All through the long night the marquis's thin, piercing voice rang inthe Chevalier's ears, and rang with sinister tone. He could find noease upon his pillow, and he stole quietly forth into the night. Hewandered about the upper town, round the cathedral, past the Ursulines,under the frowning walls of the citadel, followed his shadow in themoonlight and went before it. Those grim words had severed the lastdelicate thread which bound father and son. To have humiliatedhimself! To have left open in his armor a place for such a thrust! Hehad gone with charity and forgiveness, to be repulsed! He had heldforth his hand, to find the other's withdrawn!
"Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not bedisturbed!"
Mockery! And yet this same father had taken up the sword to drive itthrough a man who had laughed. Only God knew; for neither the sonunderstood the father nor the father the son. Well, so be it. He wasnow without weight upon his shoulders; he was conscience free; he hadpaid his obligations, obligations far beyond his allotted part. It wasinevitable that their paths should separate. There had been too manywords; there was still too much pride.
"Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not bedisturbed!"
He had stood there in the corridor and writhed as this blade enteredhis soul and turned and turned. Rage and chagrin had choked him,leaving him utterly speechless. So be it. Forevermore it was to bethe house divided. . . . It was after two o'clock when the Chevalierwent back to his bed. The poet was in slumber, and his face lookedcareworn in repose.
"Poor lad! He is not happy, either. Only the clod knows content as arecompense for his poverty. Good night, Madame; to-morrow, to-morrow,and we shall see!"
And the morrow came, the rarest gem in all the diadem of days. Therewas a ripple on the water; a cloudless sky; fields of corn waving theirtasseled heads and the broad leaf of the tobacco plant trembling,trembling.
"What!" cried Victor in surprise; "you have a new feather in your hat?"
"Faith, lad," said the Chevalier, "the old plume was a shabby one. ButI have not destroyed it; too many fond remembrances cling to it. Howoften have I doffed that plume at court, in the gardens, on thebalconies and on the king's highways! And who would suspect, to lookat it now, that it had ever dusted the mosaics at the Vatican? Andthere have been times when I flung it on the green behind theLuxembourg, my doublet beside it."
"Ah, yes; we used to have an occasional affair." And Victor nodded asone who knew the phrase. "But a new feather here? Who will notice it?Pray, glance at this suit of mine! I give it one month's service, andthen the Indian's clout. I can't wear those skins. Pah!"
"Examine this feather," the Chevalier requested.
"White heron, as I live! You are, then, about to seek the war-path?"laughing.
"Or the path which leads to it. I am going a-courting."
"Ah!"
"Yes. Heigho! How would you like a pheasant, my poet, and a bottle ofMignon's bin of '39?"
"Paris!" Victor smacked his lips drolly.
"Or a night at Voisin's, with dice and the green board?"
"Paris!"
"Or a romp with the girls along the quays?"
"Horns of Panurge! I like this mood."
"It's a man's mood. I am thinking of the chateau of oak and maple Ishall some day build along some river height. What a fireplace I shallhave, and what cellars! Somehow, Paris no longer calls to me."
"To me," said the poet, "it is ever calling, calling. Shall I see mybeloved Paris again? Who can say?"
"Mazarin will not live forever."
"But here it is so lonesome; a desert. And you will make a fineseigneur, you with your fastidious tastes, love of fine clothes andmusic. Look at yourself now! A silk shirt in tatters, tawdrybuckskin, a new hero's feather, and a dingy pair of moccasins. And youare going a-courting. What, fortune?"
"'Tis all the same."
"So you love her?" quietly.
"Yes, lad, I love her; and I am determined to learn this day the worthof loving."
"Take care," warned the poet.
"Victor, some day you will be going back to Paris. Tell them at courthow, of a summer's morn, Monsieur le Chevalier du Cevennes went forthto conquest."
"Hark!" said Victor. "I hear a blackbird." He sorted his papers, forhe was writing. "I will write an ode on your venture. What shall Icall it?"
"Call it 'Hazards,' comrade; for this day I put my all in the leathercup and make but a single throw. Who is madame?"
"Ask her," rather sharply.
"She is worthy of a man's love?"
"Worthy!" Victor half rose from his chair. "Worthy of being loved?Yes, Paul, she is worthy. But are you sure that you love her?"
"I have loved her for two years."
"Two years," repeated the poet. "She is a strange woman."
"But you know her!"
"Yes, I know her; as we know a name and the name of a history."
"She comes from a good family?"
Victor laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, yes!"
"Do you know why she is here?"
"I thought I did, but I have found that I am as ignorant as yourself."
"There is a mad humor in me to-day. Wish me good luck and bid me begone."
"Good luck to you, Paul; good luck to you, comrade." And Victor'ssmile, if forced, was none the less affectionate.
"And luck to your ode, my good poet. I go to find me a nosegay."
And when he was gone, Victor remained motionless in his chair. Twoyears! Ah, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, was that quite fair? He thought ofall the old days, and a great wave of bitterness rushed over him. Heno longer heard the blackbird. The quill fell from his fingers, and helaid his head upon his arms.
"I am tired," was all he said.
The Chevalier wended his way toward the Ursulines. His heart beatfuriously. Sometimes his feet dragged, or again they flew, accordingto the fall or rise of his courage. The sight of a petticoat sent himinto a cold chill. He tramped here and there, in all places where hethought possibly she might be found. Half the time he caught himselfwalking on tiptoe, for no reason whatever. Dared he inquire for her,send a fictitious note enticing her forth from her room? No, he dareddo neither; he must prowl around, waiting and watching for hisopportunity. Would she laugh, be indignant, storm or weep? Heavenonly knew! To attack her suddenly, without giving her time to rallyher forces,--formidable forces of wit and sarcasm!--therein lay hishope.
"What a coward a woman can make of a man! I have known this woman twoyears; I have danced and dined with her, made love, and here I canscarce breathe! I am lost if she sees me in this condition, or finds aweak spot. How I love her, love her! I have kissed the air she leavesin passing by. Oh! I will solve this enchanting mystery. I have theright now; I am rich, and young."
It will be seen that the gods favor those who go forward.
By the wall of the Ursulines stood a rustic bench, and upon this benchsat madame. She was waiting for Anne, who was paying her usual morningdevotions under the guidance of the Mother Superior. Madame was notvery busy with her eyes, and the jeweled miniature which she held inher hand seemed no longer to attract her. The odor of rose andheliotrope pervaded the gently stirring air. From the convent gardencame the melting lilt of the golden oriole. By and by madame's gazereturned to the miniature. For a brief space poppies burned in hercheeks and the seed smoldered in her eyes. Then, as if the circlet ofgold and gems was distasteful to her sight, she hastily thrust it intothe bosom of her gown. Madame had not slept well of late; there wereshadows under her lovely eyes.
All this while the Chevalier watched her. Several times he put forwarda foot, only to draw it back. This, however, could not go onindefinitely, so, summoning all his courage, he took a firm step,another, and another, and there was now no retre
ating saveignominiously. For at the sound of his foot on the gravel, madamediscovered him. By the time he stood before her, however, all was wellwith him; his courage and wit and daring had returned to do him honor.This morning he was what he had been a year ago, a gay and rollickingcourtier.
"Madame, what a glorious day it is!" The heron feather almost touchedthe path, so elaborate was the courtesy. "Does the day not carry youback to France?"
Something in his handsome eyes, something in the debonair smile,something in his whole demeanor, left her without voice. She simplystared at him, wide-eyed. He sat down beside her, thereby increasingher confusion.
"I have left Monsieur de Saumaise writing chansons; and here's anoriole somewhere, singing his love songs. What is it that comes withsummer which makes all male life carry nosegays to my lady's easement?Faith, it must be in the air. Here's Monsieur Oriole in love; itmatters not if last year's love is not this year's. All he knows isthat it is love. Somewhere in yonder forests the eagle seeks its mate,the mountain lion its lioness, the red deer its hind."
Madame sat very still and erect. Her forces were scattered, and shecould not summon them to her aid till this man's purpose was madedistinct.
"In all the hundred days of summer will there be a more perfect day forlove than this? Madame, you said that I had lost a valuable art; whatwas it?"
Madame began vaguely to believe that he had not lost it. This man wasaltogether new to her. Behind all this light converse she recognized apower. She trembled.
"You need not tell me, Diane; I know what it is. It is the art ofmaking love. I had not lost it; I had thought that here it was simplya useless art. When first I saw you I loved you as a boy loves. I ranhither and thither at your slightest bidding; I was the veriest slave,and I was happy in my serfdom. You could have asked me any task, and Ishould have accomplished it. You were in my thoughts day and night;not only because I loved you, but because you had cast a veil aboutyou. And of all enchanting mysteries the most holding to man is thewoman in the mask. You still wear a mask, Madame, only I have lifted acorner of it. And now I love you with the full love of a man, a lovethat has been analyzed and proved."
"I will go to Mademoiselle de Vaudemont, who is within the convent."Madame rose quietly, her eyes averted. She would gladly have flown,but that would have been undignified, the acknowledgment of defeat.And just now she knew that she could not match this mood of his.
Gently he caught her hand and drew her back to the seat.
"Pardon, but I can not lose you so soon. Mademoiselle is doubtless atprayer and may not be interrupted. I have so many questions to ask."
Madame was pale, but her eyes were glowing. She folded her hands witha passiveness which boded future ill.
"When you said that you trapped me that night at the Palais Royal,simply to take a feather from my plume, you did not mean that. You hadsome deeper motive."
Madame's fingers locked and unlocked. "Monsieur . . . !" she began,
"Why, it seems only yesterday that it was 'Paul'," he interrupted.
"Monsieur, I beg of you to let me go. You are emulating Monsieurd'Herouville, and that conduct is beneath you."
"But will you listen to what I have to say?"
"I will listen," with a dangerous quiet. "Go on, Monsieur; tell me howmuch you love me this day. Tell me the story of the oriole, whose matethis year is not the old. Go on; I am listening."
A twinge of his recent cowardice came back to him. He moistened hislips.
"Why do you doubt my love?'"
"Doubt it! Have I not a peculiar evidence of it this very moment?"sarcastically. Madame was gathering her forces slowly but surely.
"I have asked you to be my wife, not even knowing who you are."
Madame laughed, and a strain of wild merriment crept into the music ofit. "You have great courage, Monsieur."
"It is laughable, then?"
"If you saw it from my angle of vision, you would also laugh." Thetone was almost insolent.
"You are married?" a certain hardness in his voice.
Madame drew farther back, for he looked like the man who had, a fewnights since, seized her madly in his arms.
"If you are married," he said, his grey eyes metallic, "I will go atonce, for I should know that you are not a woman worthy of a man'slove."
"Go on, Monsieur; you interest me. Having asked me to listen to yourprotestations of love, you would now have me listen to your analysis ofmy character. Go on."
"That is not a denial."
"Indeed!"
"D'Herouville called you 'Madame.'"
"Well?"
"What am I to believe?"
"What you will: one way or the other, I am equally indifferent." Ah,Madame!
The Chevalier saw that if he became serious, violent, or ill-tempered,he was lost. He pulled himself together. He smiled.
"Why are you not in Montreal? I understand Mademoiselle Catharine isthere."
The Chevalier laughed. "You make me laugh, Diane."
"Why are you here in Quebec?"
"And you, Madame?"
"Perhaps I was seeking adventures."
"Well, perhaps I, too, came with that purpose. Come, Madame; neitherof us is telling the truth."
"Begin, then, Monsieur; set an example for me."
The lines in his face deepened. All the pain of the tragedy came back."Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not bedisturbed!" He struggled and cast aside the gloom.
"I have been accused of conspiracy, Madame."
"Conspiring?"
"Yes; for my happiness."
Madame was plainly disappointed.
"I was exiled from court upon a grave accusation."
"You were recalled, and all your honors restored."
"Since you know all, Madame, it is needless to explain. What mostconcerns me this morning is your belief that I love you."
"Listen: there's the oriole."
"How about Madame Oriole; does she regret the lover of last year?"
"Very good, Monsieur. You are daily recovering your wit. And you usedto be very witty when you were not making extravagant love."
"A man does not weep when he loves and the object of his love simulateskindness."
"I should like to test this love," reflectively.
"Test it, Diane; only test it!" He was all eagerness. He flung hishat to the ground, and with his arm along the back of the seat heleaned toward her. The heron feather remained unharmed; it was aprophetic sign, only he did not realize it. He could realize nothingsave that the glorious beauty of her face was near, and that to-daythere was nothing else in the world. He was young, and youth forgetsovernight.
Madame, with the knuckle of a finger against her lips, posed as ifruminating, when in truth she was turning over in her mind theadvisability of telling him all, laughing, and leaving him. Andsuddenly she grew afraid. What would he do? for there was some latentpower in this man she hesitated to rouse. She hesitated, and theopportunity was gone. For her thought swerved to this: if only he hadnot such handsome eyes! She dropped her hand.
"I will test this love," she said, with malice bubbling in her ownlovely orbs. "The Comte d'Herouville has grievously offended me. Willyou challenge him?" She meant nothing by this, save to gain time.
The Chevalier paled, recalling D'Herouville's threats. "He departs thescene;" but the smile was on his lips alone.
"Then, there is the Vicomte d'Halluys; he, too, has offended me."
"The vicomte?" Challenge the vicomte, who had put D'Herouville in thehospital that night of the fatal supper?
"Ah!" said madame; "you hesitate! And yet you ask me to put you to thetest!"
"I was weighing the matter of preference," with a wave of the hand;"whether to challenge the vicomte first, or D'Herouville. Give me therest of the list."
"Monsieur, I admire the facility with which you adapt yourself tocircumstances," scornfully. "You knew that I wa
s but playing. I amfully capable of repaying any insolence offered to me, whether fromD'Herouville, the vicomte . . . or yourself."
"To love you, then, is insolence?"
"Yes; the method which you use is insolent."
"Is there any way to prove that I love you?" admirably hiding hisdespair.
"What! Monsieur, you go a-courting without buckles on your shoes?"
"Diane, let us play at cross-purposes no longer. You may laugh,thrust, scorn, trample, it will in no wise effect the constancy of mylove. I do not ask you to set tasks for me. Now, hark to me: whereyou go henceforth, there shall I go also, to France, to Spain, to theends of the world. You will never be so far away from the sound of myvoice that you can not hear me say that I love you."
"That is persecution!"
"It is love. I shall master you some day," recovering his hat andstanding, "be that day near or far. I am a man, a man of heart andcourage. You need no proof of that. I have bent my knee to you forthe last time but once. I shall no more entreat," holding his headhigh.
"Truly, Monsieur!" her wrath running over.
"Wait! You have forced me, for some purpose unknown, to love you.Well, I will force you to love me, though God alone knows how."
"You do well to add that clause," hotly. "Your imagination is toolarge. Force me to love you?" She laughed shrilly.
But his eye was steady, even though his broad chest swelled.
"You have asked me who I am," she cried. "Then, listen: I am . . . ."
His face was without eagerness. It was firm.
"I am . . ." she began again.
"The woman I love, the woman who shall some day be my wife."
"Must I call you a coward, Monsieur?" blazing.
"I held you in my arms the other night; you will recollect that I hadthe courage to release you."
Madame saw that she had lost the encounter, for the simple reason thatthe right was all on his side, the wrong and injustice on hers.Instinctively she felt that if she told him all he in his gatheringcoolness would accept it as an artifice, an untruth. Her handkerchief,which she had nervously rolled into a ball, fell to the walk. Hepicked it up, but to the outstretched hand he shook his head.
"That is mine, Monsieur; give it to me."
"I will give it back some day," he replied, thrusting the bit ofcambric into his blouse.
"Now, Monsieur; at once!" she commanded.
"There was a time when I obeyed you in all things. This handkerchiefwill do in place of that single love-letter you had the indiscretion towrite. Do you remember that line, 'I kiss your handsome grey eyes athousand times?' That was a contract, a written agreement, and, on myword of honor, had I it now . . ."
"Monsieur du Cevennes," she said, "I will this day write an answer toyour annoying proposal. I trust that you will be gentleman enough toaccept it as final. I am exceedingly angry at this moment, and mywords do justice neither to you nor to me. Yes, I had a purpose, awoman's purpose; and, to be truthful, I have grown to regret it."
"Your purpose, Madame, is nothing; mine is everything." He bowed anddeparted, the heron feather in his hat showing boldly.
It was almost a complete victory, for he had taken with him her woman'sprerogative, the final word. He strode resolutely along, never onceturning his head . . . not having the courage. But, had he turned,certain it is that he must have stopped.
For madame had fallen back upon that one prerogative which man shallnever take from woman . . . tears!
Look back, Monsieur, while there is yet time.