CHAPTER XXXIII
HOW GABRIELLE DIANE DE MONTBAZON LOVED
How Brother Jacques, the Chevalier, Madame de Brissac and Anne deVaudemont, guided by the Black Kettle, reached Quebec late in November,passing through a thousand perils, the bitter cold of nights and thesilence of days more terrifying than the wolf's howl or the whine ofthe panther whose jaws dripped with the water of hunger, is history, asis the final doom of the Onondaga mission, which occurred early thefollowing year. What became of the vicomte's confederates is unknown.
All throughout the wild journey the Chevalier's efforts were directedtoward keeping up the lagging spirits of the women, who found it easierto despair than to hope. Night after night he sat beside them duringhis watch, always giving up his place reluctantly. That his constantcheeriness had its effect there is no doubt; for before they camewithin sight of the chateau madame had smiled twice.
They arrived in Quebec late in the afternoon. Immediately Anne enteredthe Ursulines, to come forth again only when a nun.
Breton fell upon his ragged knees in thanksgiving. The sight of hisgaunt, bearded master filled him with the keenest joy, for this masterof his had been given up as dead.
"And Monsieur le Marquis?" was the Chevalier's first question.
"He lives."
Early that evening Breton came to the Chevalier, who was dreamingbefore his fire.
"Monsieur Paul, but I have found such a remarkable paper in my copy ofRabelais! Here it is."
The Chevalier glanced at it indifferently . . . and at once becameabsorbed. It was the list of the cabal which had cost the lives offour strong men. He remained seated, lost in meditation. From time totime he opened the paper and refolded it. The movement was purelymechanical, and had no significance.
"Monsieur," said Breton timidly, "will you do me the honor to tell mewhat has happened? Monsieur de Saumaise, the vicomte and Monsieurd'Herouville; they are not with you?"
"Well, lad, perhaps it is due you;" and the Chevalier recounted asimple story of what had befallen him.
"Ah, that brave Monsieur de Saumaise!" exclaimed Breton, tears in hiseyes. "And what became of the grey cloak, Monsieur?"
The Chevalier did not immediately reply.
"What became of it, Monsieur?"
"The Vicomte d'Halluys sleeps in it, lad. It is his shroud."
And not another word spoke the Chevalier to Breton that night. He satbefore the bright chimney: old scenes, old scenes, with the gay poetmoving blithely among them. Madame had heard the vicomte's insults,but now there was nothing to explain to her. What should he do withhis useless life? There was no future; everything beyond was dark withmonotony. It was a cruel revenge madame had taken, but she had askedhis forgiveness, and he had forgiven. Would she return to France inthe spring? Would she become a nun? Would his father live or die, andwould he send for him? The winter wind sang in the chimney and thewindows shuddered. He looked out. It was the storm of the winds whichbring no snow. Nine o'clock! How long the nights would be now, havingno dreams!
There came presently a timorous knocking on the panels of the door.Only Breton heard it, and he rose silently to answer this delicatesummons. He looked at his master. The Chevalier was deep in hismelancholy recollections. It seemed to Breton that Quebec was filledwith phantoms: he had listened to so many strange noises these lonelynights, waiting and hoping for his master's return. He was not surethat this gentle rapping was not a deception. Besides, it was pastnine. Who could be calling this time of night? A trooper or anofficer would have put the full weight of his fist against the door.He stopped and put his hand to his ear. The knocking came again.Breton opened the door quietly, and to his unbounded surprise a womanentered. She pointed toward the hall. Breton, comprehending that shewished to be alone with his master, tiptoed out; and the door closed.
The visitor stood with her back to the door, silent and motionless as astatue. A burning log crackled with a sharp report, and a thousandsparks flew heaven-ward. There were wonderful lights in this woman'seyes and a high color on her somewhat thin cheeks. A minute passed;and another ticked itself into eternity. The Chevalier sat upright andstirred restlessly. The paper of the cabal crackled in his hand. . . .What was it? he wondered. Something, he could not tell what, seemeddrawing, drawing. He became vaguely conscious of a presence. Heturned his head slowly.
"Madame?" He jumped to his feet, his hand bearing heavily upon theback of his chair. "Madame?" he repeated.
The great courage which had brought her here ebbed, and her hand stoletoward the latch. Neither of them realized how long a time they facedeach other, a wonder in his eyes, an unfamiliar glory in hers.
"Monsieur . . ." she began; but her throat contracted and grew hot.She could not bring another word to her lips. The glisten in her eyesdimmed for a moment, but the color on her cheeks deepened and spread toher throat and brow.
"Madame," he said, speaking first to disembarrass her, "here issomething which belongs to you."
The outstretched arm and paper fascinated her. She did not move.
"It is yours, Madame. It is the list of the cabal. I was going tobring it to you in the morning." He forced a smile to his lips toreassure her.
Ah, those treacherous knees of hers! Where was her courage? Alas,for that magnanimous resolve! Whither had it flown? But as thefirelight bathed his pale face and emphasized the grey hair and the redscar above one of his temples, both her courage and resolve came back.She walked slowly over to him and took the paper, approached the fire,sank, and eagerly scanned the parchment. She gave a cry of exultation,end thrust the evil thing into the flames.
"Burn!" she cried, clasping her hands. "Burn, burn, burn! And let allthe inglorious past burn with you! Burn!"
It was almost hysterical; it was almost childish; but he thought he hadnever seen a more exquisite picture. And she was so soon to pass outof his life as completely as though she had never entered it. Fromsomewhere she had obtained a blue velvet gown with slashed sleeves andflaring wrists, of a fashion easily fifty years old. On her hair sat asmall round cap of the same material, with a rim of amber beads. Wasit possible that, save for these past six hours, he had been thiswoman's companion for more than five weeks; that she had accepted eachnew discomfort and peril without complaint; that he had guarded hernight after night in the lonely forests? A slender thread of goldenflame encircled her throat, and disappeared below the ruffle of lace.Doubtless it was a locket; and perchance poor Victor's face lay closeto that warmly beating heart. What evil star shone over him that daywhen he crushed her likeness beneath his foot without looking at it?He sighed. As the last black ash whirled up the gaping chimney sheregained her height. She faced him.
"Four men have died because of that," waving her hand toward the fire;"and one had a great soul."
"Ah, Madame, not an hour passes that I do not envy his sleep."
"Monsieur, before this evil tide swept over us, I sent you a letter.Have you read it?" All her color was gone now, back to her flutteringheart.
"A letter? You sent me a letter?" He did not recall the episode atonce.
"Yes." She was twisting her handkerchief.
It was this simple act which brightened his memory. He went over tohis table. Her gaze, full of trouble and shame, followed him. Yes,there lay the letter; a film of dust covered it. He remembered.
"It was an answer," he said, smiling sadly. He did not quiteunderstand. "It was an answer to my . . ."
"Give it to me, Monsieur; do not read it!" she begged, one handpressing her heart, the other extended toward him appealingly.
"Not read it?" Her very agitation told him that there was something inthe letter worth reading. He calmly tore it open and read the bitingwords, the scorn and contempt which she had penned that memorable day.The letter added nothing to the bitterness of his cup, only he wassurprised at the quality of her wrath on that day. But what surprisedhim more was when she snatched it from his han
ds, rushed to the fire,and cast the letter into it. She watched it writhe and curl and crispand vanish. He saw nothing in this action but a noble regret that shehad caused him pain. Nevertheless, all was not clear to him.
Silence.
"Well, Madame?"
"I . . . I have brought you another!" Redder than ever her faceflamed. The handkerchief was resolving itself into shreds.
"Another letter?" vaguely.
"No, no! Another . . . another answer!"
How still everything had suddenly grown to him! "Another answer? Youhave brought me another answer?" Then the wine of life rushed throughhis veins, and all darkness was gone. "Diane, Diane!" he cried,springing toward her.
"Yes, yes; always call me that! Never call me Gabrielle!"
"And Victor?"
Her hands were against his breast and she was pushing him back. "Oh,it is true that I loved him, as a woman would love a brave and gallantbrother." A strand of hair fell athwart her eyes and she brushed itaside.
"But I?--I, whom you have made dance so sorrily?--but I?"
"To-night I saw you . . . I could see you," incoherently, "alone,bereft of the friend you loved and who loved you. . . . I thought ofyou as you faced them all that day! . . . How calm and brave you were!. . . You said that some day you would force me to love you. You saidI was dishonest. I was, I was! But you could never force me to loveyou, because . . . because. . . ." With a superb gesture of abandonwhich swept aside all barriers, all hesitancies, all that hedgingconvention which compels a woman to be silent, she said: "If you do notimmediately tell me that you still love me madly, I shall die of shame!"
"Diane!" He forced her hands from her burning face.
"Yes, yes; I love you, love you with all my soul; all, all! And I havecome to you this night in my shame, knowing that you would never havecome to me. Wait!" still pressing him back, for he was eager now tomake up in this exquisite moment all he had lost. "Oh, I tried to hateyou; lied to myself that I wanted nothing but to bring you to yourknees and then laugh at you. For each moment I have made you suffer Ihave suffered an hour. Paul, Paul, can you love me still?"
He knelt, kissing her hands madly. "You are the breath of my life, thecoming of morning after a long night of darkness. Love you? With mylatest breath!"
"It was my heart you put your heel upon, for I loved you from themoment I saw your miniature. Paul!" She bent her head till her cheekrested upon his hair. "So many days have been wasted, so many days! Ihave always loved you. Look!" The locket lay in her hand. The facethere was his own.
"And you come to me?" It was so difficult to believe. "Ah, but youheard what the vicomte said that day?" a shade of gloom mingling withthe gladness on his face.
"I saw only you in the doorway, defending my honor with your life. Itried to tell you then that I loved you, but I could not."
"I am not worthy," he said, rising from his knees.
"I love you!"
"I have been a gamester."
"I love you!" The music in her voice deepened and vibrated. Thestrings of the harp of life gave forth their fullest sound.
"I have been a roisterer by night. I have looked into the bottom ofmany an unwise cup."
"Do you not hear me say that I love you? There is no past now, Paul;there is nothing but the future. Once, I promised in a letter that ifyou found me you might take what I had always denied you, my lips."
He put his arms around her and took from her glowing lips that fairestand most perfect flower which grows in the garden of love: the firstkiss.
And there was no shadow between.