Cadets of Gascony: Two stories of old France

But it was not to tell that story I set pen to paper. Indeed, it were scarce worth the telling, save to sympathetic ears, such as were those tiny pink ones into which I poured it that morning.

Yet, two words about it.

We of Marsan have not always been so poor. Time was, when, as fief of the house of Cauteret, we held broad fields and deep woods. Unfortunately, M. le Comte, being half-Spanish himself, was so foolish as to espouse the Spanish side in one of the innumerable intrigues against the thirteenth Louis—they trod so fast upon each other’s heels that I never knew just which it was. At any rate, in the event, M. le Comte was fain to seek safety on his wife’s estates at Valladolid, and rode away merrily enough, little regretting France.

We le Moynes, though we had followed M. le Comte to battle as in duty bound, were honest enough to refuse to change our French coats for Spanish ones, and so remained behind. We were too small fry to attract the displeasure of the King, who had a host of greater cares to worry him, so we were left to follow our own devices and keep ourselves from starving as best we might.

The sixty years preceding my arrival had been spent by the le Moynes getting a living as honestly as might be, and if we found a bit of brigandage needful now and again to keep body and soul together, why, we were ever ready to answer for it, man to man.

It was in a small house of stone on the right bank of the Midouze I first saw the light. My father I never knew—he had been killed in some foray a month or two before my birth—but my mother continued living on there with her husband’s brother, Chabert le Moyne, and his wife. The first ten or twelve years of my life passed peacefully enough, my mother giving me such instruction as she could, and insisting that I go with her every Saturday morning, wet or shine, to the curé for my lesson. The remainder of the time I spent as it pleased me—wandering along the river or paddling about in it; or exploring the great forest, which had one time belonged to M. le Comte, but which was now the King’s.

But at the age of twelve, my uncle Chabert took me suddenly in hand. This was the more surprising because, up to that time, he had taken not the slightest notice of me, save to assist me with his toe whenever he chanced to find me scrambling out of his way. But now, all this was changed. I must learn to ride, it seemed; to shoot with the pistol, and to use dagger and rapier. I tell you, he kept me busy—and how I relished it! There were some hard falls, just at the first, that shook the teeth in my head, until I learned the trick of sticking to my horse’s back, but after that only the long rides and the bouts with my uncle. He seldom let me escape without a tap or two on the crown, just to show me what a booby with the blade I was, but I thought nothing of such petty things.

He was a tall, lean man, this uncle of mine, with moustache twisted to a needle-point above a mouth which never opened needlessly. His eyes, too, I remember—few cared to meet them at any time, none when he was enwrathed. A dozen blackguards, who lived somewhere near by—God knows where!—called him master and would have joyfully gone to hell for him. Sometimes they would gather at the house at nightfall, my uncle would kiss his wife and stamp out to his horse. I, looking big-eyed from one corner of the little window in my bed-room, would see him fling himself into the saddle and spur away, the others falling naturally in behind.

It was enough to make one tremble, and if I ventured down the ladder into the room where my aunt and mother were—pretending I wanted a drink or some such thing—I would find them in tears, and my mother would look at me sorrowfully and draw me tenderly to her and weep over me, as though some dreadful fate threatened me. The days that followed, they would spend in horrible suspense, and how they would welcome him when he came riding home again!

I understood nothing of all this, but my sister did. For it was at this time she came home from the convent at Aignan, where the good sisters had been caring for her. She had been sent there, a mere baby, at the time my mother was expecting me, and she had been kept there since, we being too poor to feed another mouth, and the good sisters hoping that she would in the end enter the cloister. But when the time came, she found herself lacking in courage or devotion—I do not know, for this is one of the things about her I never quite understood—and so she was sent home again. At least, here she was, tall and fair and dark-eyed, and we were all a little afraid of her until we found how warm and tender her heart was. Yes, and brave, too,—how could I have said she lacked courage?—as I was presently to find out for myself.

It was one evening in early June. As the twilight deepened along the river, I heard far off the tramp of horses and knew that another journey was afoot. I went to the door to see them dash up along the road, and very fine and brave they looked to me. They pulled full-stop at the door, harness clanking, sword rattling against thigh, and my uncle, who was at table, hastily swallowed the last of his meat, and rose to don sword and headgear. I, who was still gaping out the door, heard the sound of my sister’s voice.

“Where do you go, uncle?” she asked.

He was girding on his sword, and paused an instant to look at her in sheer amazement. Then he turned away without answering.

“If it be upon a Godless errand you go, as I suspect,” she went, on, quite calm and steady, “I pray you to think of your soul. What of it?”

My faith, but I was trembling for her and the women staring open-mouthed!

I saw my uncle’s face darken, but he drew on his gauntlets and turned to the door, saying never a word. He found her before him. For a moment he stood looking into her eyes with a gaze that brought the sweat to my forehead. I protest I am no coward, but I could not look in his face—no, not even now—with such calm as hers.

But the moment passed. With a swift movement of his hand, he swept her from his path and strode from the house. We heard him leap to saddle and then the clatter of hoofs down the road. The girl stood silent, listening, until the distance swallowed up the sound.

“He will not come back,” she said at last, with the air of a prophetess. “The Virgin told me so this morning. He will never come back, and he goes to his death unshriven.”

Then she went from the room, while terror still held her hearers palsied.

Even yet can I remember the agony of those days, the prayers on our knees before the cross, the straining of eyes down the road. And then, at last, in the gray dawn of the fourth day, came the rush of a single horse’s hoofs, and a rude clatter at the door. I, peeping out my window, saw a man sitting on his horse—such a man!—mud-stained, blood-stained, unkempt, breathless, with livid fear still on his face and in his eyes. I could hear my aunt fumbling at the bar with trembling hands and then the door opened.

“Le Moyne is dead,” said the man abruptly, in a terrible voice. “So are all the others but one or two. It was an ambush. We thought we had the coach and good plunder, when out they spurred from front and rear, left and right. We had no chance, curse them! but they paid two for one—aye, four for le Moyne. There was a man!” and with a horrible choking in his throat, he struck spur to flank and pushed on.

Well, we lived on in a way—the wood gave us fagots—the earth a little grain—sometimes my snares brought game to table. But what a life for a lusty youth of nineteen, hot with impatience to see the world, yet bound to three women! I loved them, I would not have left them, but how I gnawed my heart out with longing to be gone!

We were well off the highway, hidden deep in the woods along the river, else we must have fallen prey to violence ere we did, for that sister of mine had grown into a woman fit to make men mad to look at. But it came at last.

I was staggering home one day under a load of fagots from the wood—what disgrace for a le Moyne to gather fagots! Mordieu, it makes me warm even yet to think of! Well, I was staggering home, and cursing my unhappy fate, when of a sudden I heard a woman scream, and knew the voice for my sister’s. I dropped the fagots and ran forward, stooping low to avoid the branches. In a moment I was at the house.

Before it were three horses, one of them bestrode by the finest gentleman I had ever seen, the others riderless. Through the open door came the sounds of a struggle.

“What is it?” I demanded roughly. “What do you here, Monsieur?”

He scarcely deigned me a glance.

“Be off, canaille!” he said, and turned to the door. “Bring her out,” he cried, “but so much as a bruise and I’ll kill you both.”

And there appeared in the doorway two ruffians, bearing my sister between them.

Then I understood, and my blood turned to fire.

How I did it, I know no more now than I did then, but I sprang upon them and flung them right and left—one crashing against the door-post, the other backward into the road that I might stamp his life out. I heard a curse behind me, and a whip was brought hissing down across my face—see, there is the scar, just at the corner of my eye. But I turned on him like the wild beast I in that moment felt myself to be and dragged him down from the saddle. I knew the others would be upon me, that I could not escape, but I prayed Christ that I might kill him first. I had him by the throat, bending him backward; I saw his eyes start, his tongue swell—and then heavy steps behind me. I waited the stab that I knew must come. Ah, my brave sister! it was you who saved me, seizing my sword from the scabbard as it hung just within the door, and using it how well!

One rode away hot-foot, in safety. The others lay where they had fallen, and we staring down at them. Then my sister looked at the red blade in her hand and dropped it, shuddering and faint.

“Their blood is on their own hands, not on ours,” I said. “Why did they not pass in peace?”

“Yes, why did they not?” and she stared down at them. “I was here, alone, the others had gone to wash at the river, when they came by. He saw me, and—oh, infamous! The world is well rid of him!”

I saw the other women coming towards us under the trees, and then of a sudden I knew our danger.

“We cannot stay here,” I cried. “They will be back again. The one who fled will bring them, hot for vengeance. We must go!”

The women looked down the road, white-faced.

“Not you others, perhaps,” I said. “You were not here—they will not seek for you. But we—I and my sister—must go.”

“Yes—but whither?” asked my aunt.

Whither? I did not know. I did not care. Here there was only death.

It was my sister who proved the wisest—then as always.

“I will go to Aignan,” she said, with a calmness that astonished me. “The good sisters will protect me and give me sanctuary. You, dear Pierre, must go farther—to some great city, where you can lose yourself for a time.”

My blood was tingling. I knew whither I would go.

“To Paris!” I cried. “To Paris!”

My mother uttered a little cry of horror.

“Paris! Oh, no, Pierre! How can you cover those two hundred leagues?”

My eyes were on the horse, which stood patiently by its master, waiting for him to rise and mount.

“The horse will carry me,” I said. “Yes, and provide me money at my journey’s end.”

She would have protested, would have pleaded, but I broke away into the house, donned the best suit my uncle had left behind, stretching it somewhat in the struggle, buckled on sword and dagger, and was ready. Never had I felt so strong, so confident. At last was I to have a bout with fortune!

But money? I had little—well—and then, as I left the house, I saw again the gallant lying stark in the dust. Perhaps in his pockets were broad gold-pieces—a jewel flashed on his finger—but even as I stooped, a hand was laid on my shoulder, and I turned to find myself looking into my sister’s eyes.

“Not that, Pierre,” she said hoarsely. “For Christ’s sake, not that! The le Moynes have been thieves long enough—now let them be honest men!”

I felt my throat contract and my eyes grow wet.

“But I cannot starve,” I faltered, cursing my own weakness.

I saw the blood die from her lips.

“Here, take this!” she cried, and she tore open her gown and snatched a cross from her bosom. I saw that it was of gold. “It was given to me,” she said, “at Aignan. Now I give it to you to buy bread. It is the dearest thing I have, but I give it gladly, for I am ransoming your soul. Henceforth the le Moynes will be honest men.”

I could not speak, but I dropped at her feet and kissed the cross as she held it down to me. It is an oath, thank God, I have never broken.

“And you will not sell the horse,” she added—what a woman she was! “You will ride him as far as Tours. There you will deliver him to a coureur to be returned to Marsan. I will see that he is claimed. Good-by, dear Pierre,” and she held up her lips.

I kissed her as I would have kissed the Virgin, then my mother and aunt. They seemed quite broken, yet it was clear we must be off. To Marsan and back was only a matter of three hours, and near an hour of this was already gone. I sprang to saddle and looked at them all, once again, standing there in the road. Then I touched spur to flank and was off.

And so, in the course of days, I came to Tours, where I sold the cross and delivered the horse to the coureur. Then to Paris, where I arrived at last, weary and somewhat stained by the road, yet with ten pistoles in my pocket, a good sword at my side, and a light heart in my bosom—the heart of youth!

Two words, did I say? How memory makes one garrulous!