CHAPTER XXIX
A JOURNEY INTO THE HILLS AND THE TEN LIVRES OF CORPORAL FREMIN
"Madame, you have studiously avoided me." The vicomte twirled his hat.
"And with excellent reason, you will agree."
"You have been here six days, and you have not given me the barestchance of speaking to you." There was a suspicion of drollery in hisreproachful tones.
"Monsieur," replied madame, who, finding herself finally trapped withno avenue of escape, quickly adapted herself to the situation, thebattle of evasion, "our last meeting has not fully escaped myrecollection."
"All is fair in love and war. It came near being a good trick,--thatblank paper."
"Not quite so near as might be. It is true that I did not suspect yourruse; but it is also true that I had but one idea and one intention, togain the paper."
"And supposing it had been real, genuine?"
"Why, then, I should have at least half of it, which would be the samething as having all of it." Contact with this man always put adelicate edge to her wit and sense of defense. She could not deny aparticle of admiration for this strange man, who proceeded toward hisends with the most intricate subterfuge, and who never drew a longface, who accepted rebuffs with smiles and banter.
"You know, Madame, that whatever I have done or shall do is out of lovefor you."
"I would you were out of love with me!"
"The quality of my love . . ."
"Ah, that is what disturbs me--the quality!" shrewdly.
"There is quality and quantity without end. I am not a lover who pinesand goes without his meals. Madame, observe me--I kneel. I tell youthat I adore you. Will you be my wife?"
"No, a thousand times no! I know you to be a brave man, Monsieur leVicomte; but who can put a finger on your fancy? To-day it is I;to-morrow, elsewhere. You would soon tire of me who could bring you nodowry save lost illusions and confiscated property. Doubtless you havenot heard that his Eminence the cardinal has posted seals upon all thatwhich fell to me through Monsieur de Brissac."
"What penetration!" thought the vicomte, rising and dusting his knees.
"And yet, Monsieur," impulsively, "I would not have you for an enemy."
"One would think that you are afraid of me."
"I am," simply.
"Why?"
"You are determined that I shall love you, and I am equally determinedthat I shall not."
"Ah! a matter of the stronger mind and will."
"My will shall never bend toward yours, Monsieur. What I fear is yourpersecution. Let us put aside love, which is impossible, and turn ourattention to something nearer and quite possible--friendship." Sheextended her hand, frankly, without reservation. If only she could insome manner disarm this man!
"What!" mockingly, "you forgive my attempt at Quebec to coerce you?"
"Frankly, since you did not succeed, Monsieur, I have seen too much ofmen not to appreciate a brilliant stroke. Had I not torn that paperfrom your hand, you might have scored at least half a trick. There isa high place somewhere in this world for a man of your wit and courage."
"Mazarin's interpretation of that would be a gibbet on Montfaucon."
"I am offering you friendship, Monsieur." The hand remained extended.
The vicomte bowed, placed his hands behind his back and bowed again."Friendship and love; oil and water. Madame, when they mix well, Iwill come in the guise of a friend. Sometimes I've half a mind to tellthe Chevalier who you are; for, my faith! it is humorous in theextreme. I understand that you and he were affianced, once upon atime; and here he is, making violent love to you, not knowing your nameany more than Adam knew Eve's."
"Very well, then, Monsieur. Since there can be no friendship, therecan be nothing. Hereafter you will do me the kindness not to intrudeinto my affairs."
"Madame, I am a part of your destiny. I told you so long ago."
"I am a woman, and women are helpless." Madame was discouraged. Whatwith that insane D'Herouville, the Chevalier, and this mocking suitor,her freedom was to prove but small. France, France! "And I am here inexile, Monsieur, innocent of any wrong."
"You are guilty of beautiful eyes."
"I should have thrown myself upon Mazarin's mercy."
"Which is like unto the flesh of the fish--little blood and that cold.You forget your beauty, Madame, and your wit. Mazarin would have foundyou very guilty of these. And is not Madame de Montbazon your mother?Mazarin loves her not overwell. Ah, but that paper! What the devildid we sign it for? I would give a year of my life could I but put myhands upon it."
"Or the man who stole it."
"Or the man who stole it," repeated he.
"When I return to France, I shall have a deal to revenge," her handsclenching.
"Let me be the sword of wrath, Madame. You have but to say the word.You love no one, you say. You are young; I will devote my life toteaching you."
Madame's gesture was of protest and of resignation. "Monsieur, if youaddress me again, I shall appeal to Father Le Mercier or FatherChaumonot. I will not be persecuted longer."
"Ah, well!" He moved aside for her and leaned against a tree, watchingher till she disappeared within the palisade. "Now, that is a woman!She lacks not one attribute of perfection, save it be a husband, andthat shall be found. I wonder what that fool of a D'Herouville wasdoing this morning with those dissatisfied colonists and that manPauquet? I will watch. Something is going on, and it will not harm toknow what." He laughed silently.
Before the women entered the wilderness to create currents and eddiesin the sluggish stream which flowed over the colonists, Victor began tocompile a book on Indian lore. He took up the work the very firstnight of his arrival; took it up as eagerly as if it were a gift fromthe gods, as indeed it was, promising as it did to while away many along night. He depended wholly upon Father Chaumonot's knowledge ofthe tongue and the legends; and daring the first three nights he andChaumonot divided a table between them, the one to scribble his loreand the other to add a page to those remarkable memoirs, the JesuitRelations. The Chevalier watched them both from a corner where he satand gravely smoked a wooden pipe.
And then the manuscript of the poet was put aside.
"Why?" asked Chaumonot one night. He had been greatly interested inthe poet's work.
Victor flushed guiltily. "Perhaps it may be of no value. There arebut half a dozen thoughts worth remembering."
"And who may say that immortality does not dwell in these thoughts?"said the priest. "All things are born to die save thought; and if inpassing we leave but a single thought which will alleviate thesufferings of man or add beauty to his existence, one does not live anddie in vain." Chaumonot's afterthought was: "This good lad is in lovewith one or the other of these women."
But Clio knew Victor no more. On the margins he drew faces or beganrondeaux which came to no end.
"Laughter has a pleasant sound in my ears, Paul," said Victor; "and Ihave not heard you laugh in some time."
"Perhaps the thought has not occurred to me," replied the Chevalier,glancing at the entrance to the palisade. Madame had only that momentpassed through, having left the vicomte. "I have lost the trick oflaughing. No thought of mine is spontaneous. With a carpenter's ell Imark out each thought; it is all edges and angles."
"Something must be done, then, to make you laugh. Madame andmademoiselle have promised to take a canoe trip back into the hillsthis afternoon. Come with us."
"They suggested . . . ?" the Chevalier stammered.
"No. But haven't you the right? At least you know madame."
"Madame?"
"Madame, always madame. Here formalities would only be ridiculous.You will go with us for safety's sake, if for nothing more."
"I will go . . . with that understanding. Ah, lad, if only I knew whatyou know!"
"We should still be where we are," evasively. The poet had a plan inregard to madame and the Chevalier. It twisted his brave h
eart, yet heclung to it.
Caprice is an exquisite trait in a woman; a woman who has it--and whatwoman has not?--is all the seasons of the year compressed into anhour--the mildness of spring, the warmth of summer, the glory ofautumn, and the chill of winter. And when madame saw the Chevalierthat afternoon, she put a foot into the canoe, and immediately withdrewit.
"What is it?" asked Victor.
"Is Monsieur le Chevalier going?"
"Yes." Victor waited. "Why?" he said finally.
"Nothing, nothing." Madame took her place in the canoe.
"It is necessary for our general safety, Madame, that the Chevaliergoes with us."
"There is danger, then?"
"There will he none," emphatically.
"Let us be off," was madame's rejoinder.
The Chevalier stepped in and took the paddle, while Victor pushed thecanoe into the water. He and Anne followed presently. Madame sat inthe bow, her back to the Chevalier, her hands resting lightly on thesides. The rings which the Chevalier had seen on those beautiful handswhile in Quebec were gone, even to the wedding ring. They weredoubtless bedecking the pudgy digits of one Corn Planter's wife, faraway in the Seneca country. The canoe quivered as the Chevalier'sstrong arms swung the narrow-bladed paddle. Past marshes went thepainted canoes; they swam the singing shallows; they glided undershading willow; they sped by wild grape-vine and spreading elm. Thestream was embroidered with a thousand grasses, dying daisies, palinggoldenrod, berry bushes, and wild-rose thorn. A thousand elusiveperfumes rose to greet them, a thousand changing scenes. October, inall her gorgeous furbelows, sat upon her throne. The Chevalier neveruttered a word, but studied madame's half-turned cheek. Once he wasconscious that the color on that cheek deepened, then faded.
"It is the wind," he thought. "She is truly the most beautiful womanin all the world; and fool that I am, I have vowed to her face that Ishall make her love me!" He could hear Victor's voice from time totime, coming with the wind.
"Monsieur," madame said abruptly, when the silence Could no longer beendured, "since you are here . . . Well, why do you not speak?"
The paddle turned so violently that the canoe came dangerously nearupsetting.
"What shall I say, Madame?"
"Eh! must I think for you?" impatiently.
The fact that her eye was not upon him, gave him a vestige of courage."It is a far cry from the galleries of the Louvre, Madame, to thisspot."
"We have gone back to the beginning of the world. No music saveNicot's violin, which he plays sadly enough; no masks, no parties, nogalloping to the hunt, no languishing in the balconies. Were it notpregnant with hidden dangers, I should love this land. I wonder who isthe latest celebrity at the old Rambouillet; a poet possibly, aswashbuckler, more probably."
"Move back a little, Madame. We shall land on that stretch of sand bythe willows."
Madame did as he required, and with a dexterous stroke the Chevaliersent the craft upon the beach and jumped out. This manoeuver to assisther did not pass, for she was up and out almost as soon as he. In amoment Victor came to the spot. The two canoes were hidden with acunning which the Chevalier had learned from the Indian.
Above them was a hill which was almost split in twain by a gorge orgully, down through which a brook leaped and hounded and tumbled,rolling its musical "r's." The four started up the long incline, thewomen gathering the belated flowers and the men picking up curioussticks or sending boulders hurtling down the hillside. Higher andhigher they mounted till the summit was reached. Hill after hillrolled away to the east, to the south, to the west, while toward thenorth the lake glittered with all the brilliancy of a cardinal's plate.
"Can it be," said Victor, breaking the spell, "can it be that we onceknew Paris?"
"Paris!" repeated madame. Her eyes took in her beaded skirt andmoccasins and replaced them with glowing silks and shimmering laces.
Paris! Many a phantom was stirred from its tomb at the sound of thismagic name.
Anne perched herself upon a boulder and the Chevalier rested besideher, while madame and the poet strolled a short distance away.
"Shall we ever see our dear Paris again, Gabrielle?" asked the poet.
"I hope so; and soon, soon!"
"How came you to sign that paper?"
"He would have broken my arm, else. How I hated him! Tricks,subterfuges, lies, menaces; I was surrounded by them. And I believedin so many things those early days!"
"How softly breathes this last, lingering ghost of summer," he said."How lovingly the pearls and opals and amethysts of heaven linger onthe crimsoning hills! See how the stream runs like a silver thread,laughing and singing, to join the grave river. We can not see theriver from here, but we know how gravely it journeys to the sea. Canyou not smell the odor of mint, of earth, of the forest, and the water?Hark! I hear a bird singing. There he goes, a yellow bird, a goldenrouleau of song. How the yellow flower stands out against the dark ofthe grasses! It is all beautiful. It is the immortality in us whichnature enchants. See how the wooded lands fade and fade till they andthe heavens meet and dissolve! And all this is yours, Gabrielle, forthe seeing and the hearing. Some day I shall know all things, butnever again shall I know the perfect beauty of this day. Some day Ishall know the reason for this and for that, why I made a bad step hereand a short one there; but never again, this hour." He picked up achestnut-bur and opened it, extending the plump chestnuts to her.
How delicately this man was telling her that he still loved her!Absently her hand closed over the chestnuts, and the thought in hereyes was far away. If only it had been written that she might love him!
"Monsieur de Saumaise," said Anne, "will you take me to the pool? Youtold me that it would make a fine mirror, and I have not seen my facein so long a time that I declare I have quite forgotten how it looks."
"Come along, Mademoiselle; into the heart of the wood. I had a poem torecite to you, but I have forgotten part of it. It is heroic, andbegins like this:
"_Laughing at fate and her chilling frown, Plunging through wilderness, cavern, and cave, Building the citadel, fortress, and town, Fearing nor desert, the sea, nor the grave: Courage finds her a niche in the knave, Fame is not niggard with laurel or pain; Pathways with blood and bones do they pave: These are the hazards that kings disdain!_
"_Bright are the jewels they add to the crown, Levied on savage and pilfered from slave: Under the winds and the suns that brown, Fearing nor desert, the sea, nor the grave! High shall the Future their names engrave, For these are lives that are not spent in vain, Though their reward be a tomb 'neath the wave. These are the hazards that kings disdain!_
"I will try to remember the last stanza and the _envoi_ as we goalong," added Victor.
And together they passed down the ravine, two brave hearts assuming agaiety which deceived only the Chevalier, who still reclined againstthe boulder and was proceeding silently to inspect the golden plush ofan empty bur. Two or three minutes passed; Victor's voice becameindistinct and finally was heard no longer, Madame surveyed theChevalier with a lurking scornful smile. This man was going to forceher to love him!
"Monsieur, you seem determined to annoy me. I shall not ask you tospeak again."
"Is it possible that I can still annoy you, Madame?"
Madame crushed a bur with her foot . . . and gasped. She had forgottenthe loose seam in her moccasin. The delicate needles had penetratedthe flesh. This little comedy, however, passed over his head.
"I did not ask you to accompany me to-day."
"So I observed. Nor did I ask to come. That is why I believed insilence. Besides, I have said all I have to say," quietly. He castaside the bur.
"Then your vocabulary consists of a dozen words, such as, 'It is a farcry from the Louvre to this spot'?"
"I believe I used the word 'galleries.'" Their past was indissolublylinked to this word.
"On a certain day you vowed that you should
force me to love you. Whatprogress have you made, Monsieur? I am curious."
"No man escapes being an ass sometimes, Madame. That was my particularmorning."
Decidedly, this lack of interest on his part annoyed her. He had heldher in his arms one night, and had not kissed her; he had vowed toforce her to love him, and now he sat still and unruffled under hercontempt. What manner of man was it?
"When are we to be returned to Quebec? I am weary, very weary, of allthis. There are no wits; men have no tongues, but purposes."
"Whenever Father Chaumonot thinks it safe and men can be spared, hewill make preparations. It will be before the winter sets in."
Madame sat down upon an adjacent boulder, and reflected.
"Shall I gather you some chestnuts, Madame? They are not so ripe asthey might be, but I daresay the novelty of eating them here in thewilderness will appeal to your appetite."
"If you will be so kind," grudgingly.
So he set to work gathering the nuts while she secretly took off hermoccasin in a vain attempt to discover the disquieting bur-needles. Hereturned presently and deposited a hatful of nuts in her lap. Then hewent back to his seat from where he watched her calmly as she munchedthe starchy meat. It gradually dawned on him that the situation wasabsurd; and he permitted a furtive smile to soften his firm lips. Butfurtive as it was, she saw it, and colored, her quick intuitiontranslating the smile.
"It is absurd; truthfully, it is." She swept the nuts to the ground.
"But supposing I change all this into something more than absurd?Supposing I should suddenly take you in my arms? There is no one insight. I am strong. Supposing, then, I kissed you, taking a tithe ofyour promises?"
She looked at him uneasily. Starting a fire was all very well, but thetouch of it!
"Supposing that I took you away somewhere, alone, with me, to a placewhere no one would find us? I do not speak, you say; but I amthinking, thinking, and every thought means danger to you, to myself,to the past and the future. How do these suppositions appeal to you,Madame?"
Had he moved, madame would have been frightened; but as he remained inthe same easy attitude, her fear had no depths.
"But I shall do none of these things because . . . because it would behardly worth while. I tried to win your love honestly; but as Ifailed, let us say no more about it. I shall make no inquiries intoyour peculiar purpose; since you have accomplished it, there is nothingmore to be said, save that you are not honest."
"Let us be going," she said, standing. "It will be twilight ere wereach the settlement."
"Very well;" and he halloed for Victor.
The way back to the fort was one of unbroken silence. Neither madamenor the Chevalier spoke again.
The Chevalier had some tasks to perform that evening which employed histime far beyond the meal hour. When he entered the mess-room it wasdeserted save for the presence of Corporal Fremin, one of thedissatisfied colonists. Several times he had been found unduly underthe influence of apricot brandy. Du Puys had placed him in theguardhouse at three different periods for this misdemeanor. Where hegot the brandy none could tell, and the corporal would not confess tothe Jesuit Fathers, nor to his brother, who was a priest.Unfortunately, he had been drinking again to-day. He sat opposite theChevalier, smoking moodily, his little eyes blinking, blinking.
"Corporal," said the Chevalier, "will you pass me the corn?"
"Reach for it yourself," replied the corporal, insolently. He went onsmoking.
The Chevalier sat back in his chair, dumfounded. "Pass me that corn!"peremptorily.
The intoxicated soldier saw nothing in the flashing eyes; so heshrugged. "I am not your lackey."
The Chevalier was up in an instant. Passing quickly around the tablehe inserted his fingers between the corporal's collar and his neck,twisting him out of his chair and literally lifting him to his feet.
"What do you mean by this insolence? Pah!" scenting the brandy; "youhave been drinking."
"What's that to you? You are not my superior officer. Let go of mycollar."
"I am an officer in the king's army, and there is an unwritten law thatall non-commissioned officers are my inferiors, here or elsewhere, andmust obey me. You shall go to the guardhouse. I asked nothing of youbut a common courtesy, and you became insolent. To the guardhouse youshall go."
"My superior, eh?" tugging uselessly at the hand of iron gripping hiscollar. "I know one thing, and it is something you, fine gentlemanthat you are, do not know. I know who my mother was . . ."
The corporal lay upon his back, his eyes bulging, his face purple, hisbreaths coming in agonizing gasps.
"Who told you to say that? Quick, or you shall this instant stand injudgment before the God who made you! Quick!"
There was death in the Chevalier's eyes, and the corporal saw it. Hestruggled.
"Quick!"
"Monsieur d'Herouville! . . . You are killing me!"
The Chevalier released the man's throat.
"Get up," contemptuously.
The corporal crawled to his knees and staggered to his feet. "By God,Monsieur! . . ." adjusting his collar.
"Not a word. How much did he pay you to act thus basely?"
"Pay me?"
"Answer!" taking a step forward.
"Ten livres," sullenly.
The Chevalier's hands opened and closed, convulsively. "Give me thoselivres," he commanded.
"To you?" The corporal's jaw fell. "What do you . . . ?"
"Be quick about it, man, if you love your worthless life!"
There was no gainsaying the devil in the Chevalier's eyes.
Scowling blackly, the corporal emptied his pockets. Immediately theChevalier scooped up the coin in his hand.
"When did D'Herouville give these to you?"
"This afternoon."
"You lie, wretch!"
Both the corporal and the Chevalier turned. D'Herouville's form stood,framed in the doorway.
"Leave the room!" pointing toward the door.
D'Herouville stepped aside, and the corporal slunk out.
The two men faced each other.
"He lies. If I have applied epithets to you, it has been done openlyand frankly. I have not touched you over some one's shoulder, as inthe De Leviston case. I entertain for you the greatest hatred. Itwill be a pleasure some day to kill you."
The Chevalier looked at the coin in his hand, at D'Herouville, thenback at the coin.
"Believe me or not, Monsieur. I overheard what took place, and injustice to myself I had to speak." D'Herouville touched his hat anddeparted.
The Chevalier stood alone, staring with blurred eyes at the sinistercontents of his hand.