The Grey Cloak

CHAPTER XI

MONSIEUR LE COMTE D'HEROUVILLE
TAKES THE JOURNEY TO QUEBEC

Victor ran most of the way back to the Corne d'Abondance. Gabrielle and Paul were together, unconscious puppets in the booth of Fate, that master of subtile ironies! How many times had their paths neared, always to diverge again, because Fate had yet to prepare the cup of misery? How well he had contrived to bring them together: she, her cup running bitter with disillusion and dread of imprisonment; he, dashed from the summit of worldly hopes, his birth impugned, stripped of riches and pride, his lips brushed with the ashes of greatness! And on this night, of all nights, their paths melted and became as one. It was true that they had never met; but this night was one of dupes and fools, and nothing was impossible. He cursed the vicomte for having put the lust to kill into his head, when he needed clearness and precision and delicacy to avert this final catastrophe. After the morrow all would he well; Gabrielle would be on the way to Spain, the Chevalier on the way to New France. But to-night! Dupes and fools, indeed! He stumbled on through the drifts. The green lantern at last: was he too late? He rushed into the tavern, thence into the private assembly, his rapier still in his hand. The cold air yet choked his lungs, forcing him to breathe noisily and rapidly. He cast about a nervous, hasty glance.

"You are alone, Paul?"

"Alone?" cried the Chevalier, astonished as much by the question as by Victor's appearance. "Yes. Why not? … What have you been doing with that sword?" suddenly.

"Nothing, nothing!" with energy. Victor sheathed the weapon. "A woman entered here by mistake … ?"

"She is gone," indifferently. "She was a lady of quality, for I could see that the odor of wine and the disorder of the room were distasteful to her."

"She left … wearing her mask?" asked the poet, looking everywhere but at the Chevalier, who was growing curious.

"Yes. Her figure was charming. That blockhead of a host! … to have shown her in here!"

"She was in distress?"

"Evidently. In the old days I should have striven to console. What is it all about, lad? Your hand trembles. Do you know her?"

"I know something of her history," with half a truth. Victor's forehead was cold and dry to the touch of his hand.

"She is in trouble?"

"Yes."

The Chevalier arranged a log on the irons. "Whither is she bound?"

"Spain."

"Ah! A matter of careless politics, doubtless."

"Good!" thought the poet. "He does not ask her name."

"Has she a pleasant voice? I spoke to her, but she remained dumb. Spain," ruminating. "For me, New France. Lad, the thought of reaching that far country is inspiriting. I shall mope a while; but there is metal in me which needs but proper molding. … For what purpose had you drawn your sword?"

"I challenged the vicomte, and he refused to fight."

"On my account?" sternly. "You did wrong."

"I can not change the heat of my blood," carelessly.

"No; but you can lose it, and at present it is very precious to me. He refused? The vicomte has sound judgment."

"Oh, he and I shall be killing each other one of these fine days; but not wholly on your account, Paul," gloom wrinkling his brow, as if the enlightening finger of prescience had touched it. "It is fully one o'clock; you will be wanting sleep."

"Sleep?" The ironist twisted his mouth. "It will be many a day ere sleep makes contest with my eyes … unless it be cold and sinister sleep. Sleep? You are laughing! Only the fatuous and the self-satisfied sleep … and the dead. So be it." He took the tongs and stirred the log, from which flames suddenly darted. "I wonder what they are doing at Voisin's to-night?" irrelevantly. "There will be some from the guards, some from the musketeers, and some from the prince's troops. And that little Italian who played the lute so well! Do you recall him? I can see them now, calling Mademoiselle Pauline to bring Voisin's old burgundy." The Chevalier continued his reminiscence in silence, forgetting time and place, forgetting Victor, who was gazing at him with an expression profoundly sad.

The poet mused for a moment, then tiptoed from the room. An idea had come to him, but as yet it was not fully developed.

"Should I have said 'good night'? Good night, indeed! What mockery there is in commonplaces! That idea of mine needs some thought." So, instead of going to bed he sat down on one of the chimney benches.

A sleepy potboy went to and fro among the tables, clearing up empty tankards and breakage. Maître le Borgne sat in his corner, reckoning up the day's accounts.

Suddenly Victor slapped his thigh and rose. "Body of Bacchus and horns of Panurge! I will do it. Mazarin will never look for me there. It is simple." And a smile, genuine and pleasant, lit up his face. "I will forswear Calliope and nail my flag to Clio; I will no longer write poetry, I will write history and make it."

He climbed to his room, cast off his hostler's livery and slid into bed, to dream of tumbling seas, of vast forests, of mighty rivers … and of grey masks.

Promptly at seven he rejoined the Chevalier. Breton was packing a large portmanteau. He had gathered together those things which he knew his master loved.

"Monsieur," said the lackey, holding up a book, "this will not go in."

"What is it?" indifferently.

"Rabelais, Monsieur."

"Keep it, lad; I make you a present of it. You have been writing, Victor?"

Victor was carelessly balancing a letter in his hand. "Yes. A thousand crowns,—which I shall own some day,—that you can not guess its contents," gaily.

"You have found Madame de Brissac and are writing to her?" smiling.

For a moment Victor's gaiety left him. The Chevalier's suggestion was so unexpected as to disturb him. He quickly recovered his poise, however. "You have lost. It is a letter to my good sister, advising her of my departure to Quebec. Spain is too near Paris, Paul."

"You, Victor?" cried the Chevalier, while Breton's face grew warm with regard for Monsieur de Saumaise.

"Yes. Victor loves his neck. And it will be many a day ere monseigneur turns his glance toward New France in quest."

"But supposing he should not find these incriminating papers? You would be throwing away a future."

"Only temporarily. I have asked my sister to watch her brother's welfare. I will go. Come, be a good fellow. Let us go and sign the articles which make two soldiers of fortune instead of one. I have spoken to Du Puys and Chaumonot. It is all settled but the daub of ink. Together, Paul; you will make history and I shall embalm it." He placed a hand upon the Chevalier's arm, his boyish face beaming with the prospect of the exploit.

"And Madame de Brissac?" gently.

"We shall close that page," said the poet, looking out of the window. She would be in Spain. Ah well!"

"Monsieur," said Breton, "will you take this?"

The two friends turned. Breton was holding at arm's length a grey cloak.

"The cloak!" cried Victor.

"Pack it away, lad," the Chevalier said, the lines in his face deepening, "It will serve to recall to me that vanity is a futile thing."

"The devil! but for my own vanity and miserable purse neither of us would have been here." Victor made as though to touch the cloak, but shrugged, and signified to Breton to put it out of sight.

When Breton had buckled the straps he exhibited a restlessness, standing first on one foot, then on the other. He folded his arms, then unfolded them, and plucked at his doublet. The Chevalier was watching him from the corner of his eye.

"Speak, lad; you have something to say."

"Monsieur, I can not return to the hôtel. Monsieur le Marquis has forbidden me." Breton's eyes filled with tears. It was the first lie he had ever told his master.

"Have you any money, Victor?" asked the Chevalier, taking out the fifty pistoles won from the vicomte and dividing them.

"Less than fifty pistoles; here is half of them."

The Chevalier pushed the gold toward the lackey. "Take these, lad; they will carry you through till you find a new master. You have been a good and faithful servant."

Breton made a negative gesture. "Monsieur," timidly, "I do not want money, and I could never grow accustomed to a new master. I was born at the château in Périgny. My mother was your nurse and she loved you. I know your ways so well, Monsieur Paul. Can I not accompany you to Quebec? I ask no wages; I ask nothing but a kind word now and again, and a fourth of what you have to eat. I have saved a little, and out of that I will find my clothing."

The Chevalier smiled at Victor. "We never find constancy where we look for it. Lad," he said to Breton, "I can not take you with me. I am going not as a gentleman but as a common trooper, and they are not permitted to have lackeys. Take the money; it is all I can do for you."

Breton stretched a supplicating hand toward the poet.

"Let him go, Paul," urged Victor. "Du Puys will make an exception in your case. Let him go. My own lad Hector goes to my sister's, and she will take good care of him. You can't leave this lad here, Paul. Take him along."

"But your future?" still reluctant to see Victor leave France.

"It is there," with a nod toward the west.

"The vicomte …"

"We have signed a truce till we return to French soil."

"Well, if you will go," a secret joy in his heart. How he loved this poet!

"It is the land of fortune, Paul; it is calling to us. True, I shall miss the routs, the life at court, the plays and the gaming. But, horns of Panurge! I am only twenty-three. In three years I shall have conquered or have been conquered, and that is something. Do not dissuade me. You will talk into the face of the tempest. Rather make the going a joy for me. You know that at the bottom of your heart you are glad."

"Misery loves company; we are all selfish," replied the Chevalier, "My selfishness cries out for joy, but my sense of honesty tells me not to let you go. I shall never return to France. You will not be happy there."

"I shall be safer; and happiness is a matter of temperament, not of time and place. You put up a poor defense. Look! we have been so long together, Paul; eight years, since I was sixteen, and a page of her Majesty's. I should not know what to do without you. We have shared the same tents on the battlefield; I have borrowed your clothes and your money, and you have borrowed my sword, for that is all I have. Listen to me. There will be exploits over there, and the echo of them will wander back here to France. Fame awaits us. Are we not as brave and inventive as De Champlain, De Montmagny, De Lisle, and a host of others who have made money and name? Come; take my hand. Together, Paul, and what may not fortune hold for us!"

There was something irresistible in his pleading; and the Chevalier felt the need of some one on whom to spend his brimming heart of love. His face showed that he was weighing the matter and viewing it from all points. Presently the severe lines of his face softened.

"Very well, we shall go together, my poet," throwing an arm across Victor's shoulders. "We shall go together, as we have always gone. And, after all, what is a name but sounding brass? 'Tis a man's arm that makes or unmakes his honesty, not his thrift; his loyalty, rather than his self-interest. We shall go together. Come; we'll sign the major's papers, and have done with it."

Victor threw his hat into the air.

"And I, Monsieur Paul?" said Breton, trembling in his shoes, with expectancy or fear.

"If they will let you go, lad," kindly; and Breton fell upon his knees and kissed the Chevalier's hand.

The articles which made them soldiers, obedient first to the will of the king and second to the will of the Company of the Hundred Associates, were duly signed. Breton was permitted to accompany his master with the understanding that he was to entail no extra expense. Father Chaumonot was delighted; Brother Jacques was thoughtful; the major was neutral and incurious. As yet no rumor stirred its ugly head; the Chevalier's reasons for going were still a matter of conjecture. None had the courage to approach the somber young man and question him. The recruits and broken gentlemen had troubles of sufficient strength to be unmindful of the interest in the Chevalier's. The officers from Fort Louis bowed politely to the Chevalier, but came not near enough to speak. Excessive delicacy, or embarrassment, or whatever it was, the Chevalier appreciated it. As for the civilians who had enjoyed the hospitality of the Hôtel de Périgny, they remained unobserved on the outskirts of the crowd. The vicomte expressed little or no surprise to learn that Victor had signed. He simply smiled; for if others were mystified as to the poet's conduct, he was not. Often his glance roved toward the stairs; but there were no petticoats going up or coming down.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," said Brother Jacques, whose curiosity was eating deeply, "will you not explain to me the cause of the Chevalier's extraordinary conduct?"

"Ah, my little Jesuit!" said the vicomte; "so you are still burning with curiosity? Well, I promise to tell you all about it the first time I confess to you."

"Monsieur, have you any reason for insulting me?" asked Brother Jacques, coldly, his pale cheeks aflame.

"Good! there is blood in you, then?" laughed the vicomte, noting the color.

"Red and healthy, Monsieur," in a peculiar tone. Brother Jacques was within an inch of being as tall and broad as the vicomte.

The vicomte gazed into the handsome face, and there was some doubt in his own eyes. "You have not always been a priest?"

"Not always."

"And your antecedents?"

"A nobler race than yours, Monsieur," haughtily. "You also have grown curious, it would seem. I shall be associated with the Chevalier, and I desired to know the root of his troubles in order to help him. But for these robes, Monsieur, you would not use the tone you do."

"La, la! Take them off if they hamper you. But I like not curious people, I am not a gossip. The Chevalier has reasons in plenty. Ask him why he going to Quebec;" and the vicomte whirled on his heels, leaving the Jesuit the desire to cast aside his robes and smite the vicomte on the mouth.

"Swashbuckler!" he murmured. "How many times have you filched the Chevalier of his crowns by the use of clogged dice? … God pardon me, but I am lusting for that man's life!" His hand clutched his rosary and his lips moved in prayer, though the anger did not immediately die out of his eyes. He wandered among the crowds. Words and vague sentences filtered through the noise. Two gentlemen were conversing lowly. Brother Jacques neared them unconsciously, still at his beads.

"On my honor, it is as I tell you. The Chevalier …"

Brother Jacques raised his eyes,

"What! forfeited his rights in a moment of madness? Proclaimed himself to be … before you all? Impossible!"

The beads slipped through Brother Jacques's fingers. He leaned against the wall, his eyes round, his nostrils expanded. A great wave of pity surged over him. He saw nothing but the handsome youth who had spoken kindly to him at the Candlestick in Paris. That word! That invisible, searing iron! He straightened, and his eyes flashed like points of steel in the sunshine. That grim, wicked old man; not a thousand times a thousand livres would give him the key to Heaven. Brother Jacques left the tavern and walked along the wharves, breathing deeply of the vigorous sea-air.

Victor encountered the vicomte as the latter was about to go aboard.

"Ah," said the vicomte; "so you ran about with a drawn sword last night? Monsieur, you are only a boy." The vicomte never lost his banter; it was a habit.

"I was hot-headed and in wine." Victor had an idea in regard to the vicomte.

"The devil is always lurking in the pot; so let us not stir him again."

"Willingly."

"I compliment you on your good sense. Monsieur, I've been thinking seriously. Has it not occurred to you that Madame de Brissac has that paper?"

"Would she seek Spain?" said Victor.

"True. But supposing Mazarin should be seeking her, paper or no paper, to force the truth from her?"

"The supposition, does not balance. She knows no more than you or I."

"And Monsieur le Comte's play-woman?"

"Horns of Panurge!" excitedly. "You have struck a new note, Vicomte. I recollect hearing that she was confined in some one of the city prisons. The sooner the Saint Laurent sails, the better."

"Would that some one we knew would romp into town from Paris. He might have news." The vicomte bit the ends of his mustache.

The opening of the tavern door cut short their conversation. A man entered rudely. He pressed and jostled every one in his efforts to reach Maître le Borgne. He was a man of splendid physical presence. His garments, though soiled and bedraggled by rough riding, were costly and rich. His spurs were bloody; and the dullness of the blood and the brightness of the steel were again presented in his fierce eyes. The face was not pleasing; it was too squarely hewn, too emotional; it indexed the heart too readily, its passions, its loves and its hates. There was cunning in the lips and caution in the brow; but the face was too mutable.

"The Comte d'Hérouville!" exclaimed the vicomte. "Saumaise, this looks bad. He is not a man to run away like you and me."

The new-comer spoke to the innkeeper, who raised his index finger and leveled it at Victor and the vicomte. On seeing them, D'Hérouville came over quickly.

"Messieurs," he began, "I am gratified to find you."

"The news!" cried the poet and the gamester.

"Devilish bad, Monsieur, for every one. The paper …"

"It is not here," interrupted the vicomte.

The count swore. "Mazarin has mentioned your name, Saumaise. You were a frequent visitor to the Hôtel de Brissac. As for me, I swore to a lie; but am yet under suspicion. Has either of you seen Madame de Brissac? I have traced her as far as Rochelle."

The vicomte looked humorously at the poet. Victor scowled. Of the two men he abhorred D'Hérouville the more. As for the vicomte, he laughed.

"You laugh, Monsieur?" said D'Hérouville, coldly. His voice was not unpleasant.

"Why, yes," replied the vicomte. "Has Mazarin published an edict forbidding a man to move his diaphragm? You know nothing about the paper, then?"

"Madame de Brissac knows where it is," was the startling declaration. "I ask you again, Messieurs, have you seen her?"

"She is in Rochelle," said the vicomte. How many men, he wondered, had been trapped, by madame's eyes?

"Where is she?" eagerly.

"He lies!" thought Victor. "He knows madame has no paper."

"Where she is just now I do not know."

"She is to sail for Quebec at one o'clock," said the poet.

There was admiration in the vicomte's glance. To send the count on a wild-goose chase to Quebec while madame sauntered leisurely toward Spain! It was a brilliant stroke, indeed.

"What boat?" demanded D'Hérouville.

"The Saint Laurent," answered the vicomte, playing out the lie.

Victor's glance was sullen.

"Wait a moment, man!" cried the vicomte, catching the count's cloak. "You can not mean to go running after madame in this fashion. You will compromise her. Besides, I have some questions to ask. What about De Brissac's play-woman?"

"Died in prison six days ago. She poisoned herself before they examined her." The count looked longingly toward the door.

"What! Poisoned herself? Then she must have loved that hoary old sinner!" The vicomte's astonishment was genuine.

The chilling smile which passed over the count's face was sinister. "I said she poisoned herself, advisedly."

"Oho!" The vicomte whistled, while Victor drew back.

"Now, Messieurs, will you permit me to go? It is high time you both were on the way to Spain." D'Hérouville stamped his foot impatiently.

"And you will go to Quebec?" asked the vicomte.

"Certainly."

"Well then, till Monsieur de Saumaise and I see you on board. We are bound in that direction."

"You?" taken aback like a ship's sail.

"Why not, Monsieur," said Victor, a bit of irony in his tones, "since you yourself are going that way?"

"You took me by surprise." The count's eye ran up and down the poet's form. He moved his shoulders suggestively. "Till we meet again, then." And he left them.

"My poet," said the vicomte, "that was a stroke. Lord, how he will love you when he discovers the trick! What a boor he makes of himself to cover his designs! Here is a bag of trouble, and necessity has forced our hands into it. For all his gruffness and seeming impatience, D'Hérouville has never yet made a blunder or a mistake. Take care."

"Why do you warn me?" Victor was full to the lips with rage.

"Because, hang me, I like your wit. Monsieur, there is no need of you and me cutting each other's throats. Let us join hands in cutting D'Hérouville's. And there's the Chevalier; I had forgotten him. He and D'Hérouville do not speak. I had mapped out three dull months on the water, and here walks in a comedy of various parts. Let us try a pot of canary together. You ought to change that livery of yours. Somebody will be insulting you and you will be drawing your sword."

Victor followed the vicomte to a table. After all, there was something fascinating about this man, with that devil-may-care air of his, his banter and his courage. So he buried a large part of his animosity, and accepted the vicomte's invitation.

All within the tavern was marked by that activity which precedes a notable departure. Seamen were bustling about, carrying bundles, stores, ammunition, and utensils. Here and there were soldiers polishing their muskets and swords and small arms. There was a calling to and fro. The mayor of the city came in, full of Godspeed and cheer, and following him were priests from the episcopal palace and wealthy burghers who were interested in the great trading company. All Rochelle was alive.

The vicomte, like all banterers, possessed that natural talent of standing aside and reading faces and dissecting emotions. Three faces interested him curiously. The Chevalier hid none of his thoughts; they lay in his eyes, in the wrinkles on his brow, in the immobility of his pose. How easy it was to read that the Chevalier saw nothing, save in a nebulous way, of the wonderful panorama surrounding. He was with the folly of the night gone, with Paris, with to-day's regrets for vanished yesterday. The vicomte could see perfectly well that Victor's gaiety was natural and unassumed; that the past held him but loosely, since this past held the vision of an ax. The analyst passed on to Brother Jacques, and received a slight shock. The penetrating grey eyes of the priest caught his and held them menacingly.

"Ah!" murmured the vicomte, "the little Jesuit has learned the trick, too, it would seem. He is reading my face. I must know more of this handsome fellow whose blood is red and healthy. He comes from no such humble origin as Father Chaumonot. Bah! and look at those nuns: they are animated coffins, holding only dead remembrances and dried, perfumeless flowers."

A strong and steady east wind had driven away all vestige of the storm. The sea was running westward in long and swinging leaps, colorful, dazzling, foam-crested. The singing air was spangled with frosty brine-mist; a thousand flashes were cast back from the city windows; the flower of the lily fluttered from a hundred masts. A noble vision, truly, was the good ship Saint Laurent, standing out boldly against the clear horizon and the dark green of the waters. High up among the spars and shrouds swarmed the seamen. Canvas flapped and bellied as it dropped, from arm to arm, sending the fallen snow in a flurry to the decks. On the poop-deck stood the black-gowned Jesuits, the sad-faced nuns, several members of the great company, soldiers and adventurers. The wharves and docks and piers were crowded with the curious: bright-gowned peasants, soldiers from the fort, merchants, and a sprinkling of the noblesse. It was not every day that a great ship left the harbor on so long and hazardous a voyage.

The Chevalier leaned against the railing, dreamily noting the white faces in the sunshine. He was still vaguely striving to convince himself that he was in the midst of some dream. He was conscious of an approaching illness, too. When would he wake? … and where? A hand touched his arm. He turned and saw Brother Jacques. There was a kindly expression on the young priest's face. He now saw the Chevalier in a new light. It was not as the gay cavalier, handsome, rich, care-free; it was as a man who, suffering a mortal stroke, carried his head high, hiding the wound like a Spartan.

"A last look at France, Monsieur le Chevalier, for many a day to come."

The Chevalier nodded.

"For many days, indeed… And who among us shall look upon France again in the days to come? It is a long way from the Candlestick in Paris to the deck of the Saint Laurent. The widest stretch of fancy would not have brought us together again. There is, then, some invisible hand that guides us surely and certainly to our various ends, as the English poet says." The Chevalier was speaking to a thought rather than to Brother Jacques. "Who among us shall look upon these shores again?"

"What about these shores, Paul?" asked Victor, coming up. "They are not very engaging just now."

"But it is France, Victor; it is France; and from any part of France Paris may be reached." He turned his face toward the north, in the direction of Paris. His eyes closed; he was very pale. "Do we not die sometimes, Victor, while yet the heart and brain go on beating and thinking?"

Victor grasped the Chevalier's hand. There are some friendships which are expressed not by the voice, but by the pressure of a hand, a kindling glance of the eye. Brother Jacques moved on. He saw that for the present he had no part in these two lives.

"Look!" Victor cried, suddenly, pointing toward the harbor towers.

"Jehan?" murmured the Chevalier. "Good old soul! Is he waving his hand, Victor? The sun … I can not see."

"Do you suppose your father …"

"Who?" calmly.

"Ah! Well, then, Monsieur le Marquis: do you suppose he has sent Jehan to verify the report that you sail for Quebec?"

"I do not suppose anything, Victor. As for Monsieur le Marquis, I have already ceased to hate him. How beautiful the sea is! And yet, contemplate the horror of its rolling over your head, beating your life out on the reefs. All beautiful things are cruel."

"But you are glad, Paul," affectionately, "that I am with you?"

"Both glad and sorry. For after a time you will return, leaving me behind."

"Perhaps. And yet who can say that we both may not return, only with fame marching on ahead to announce us in that wonderfully pleasing way she has?"

"It is your illusions that I love, Victor: I see myself again in you. Keep to your ballades, your chant-royals, your triolets; you will write an epic whenever you lose your illusions; and epics by Frenchmen are dull and sorry things. When you go below tell Breton to unpack my portmanteau."

On the wharf nearest the vessel stood two women, hooded so as to conceal their faces.

"There, Gabrielle; you have asked to see the Chevalier du Cévennes, that is he leaning against the railing."

"So that is the Chevalier. And he goes to Quebec. In mercy's name, what business has he there?"

"You are hurting my arm, dear. Victor would not tell me why he goes to Quebec."

"Ah, if he goes out of friendship for Victor, it is well."

"Is he not handsome?"

"Melancholy handsome, after the pattern of the Englishman's Hamlet. I like a man with a bright face. When does the Henri IV sail?" suddenly.

"Two weeks from to-morrow. To-morrow is Fools' Day."

"Why, then, do not those on yonder ship sail to-morrow instead of to-day?"

"You were not always so bitter."

"I must have my jest. To-morrow may have its dupes as well as its fools. … Silence! The Comte d'Hérouville in Rochelle? I am lost if he sees me. Let us go!" And Madame de Brissac dragged her companion back into the crowd. "That man here? Anne, you must hide me well."

"Why do you ask about the gloomy ship which is to take me to Quebec?" asked Anne, her curiosity aroused of a sudden.

Madame put a finger against her lips. "I shall tell you presently. Just now I must find a hiding place immediately. He must not know that I am here. He must have traced me here. Oh! am I not in trouble enough without that man rising up before me? I am afraid of him, Anne."

The two soon gained their chairs and disappeared. Neither of them saw the count go on board the ship.

On board all was activity. There came a lurch, a straining of ropes and a creaking of masts, and the good ship Saint Laurent swam out to sea. Suddenly the waters trembled and the air shook: the king's man-of-war had fired the admiral's salute. So the voyage began. Priests, soldiers, merchants, seamen, peasants and nobles, all stood silent on the poop-deck, watching the rugged promontory sink, turrets and towers and roofs merge into one another, black lines melt into grey; stood watching till the islands became misty in the sunshine and nothing of France remained but a long, thin, hazy line.

"The last of France, for the present," said the poet.

"And for the present," said the vicomte, "I am glad it is the last of France. France is not agreeable to my throat."

The Chevalier threw back his shoulders and stood away from the rail.

The Comte d'Hérouville, his face purple with rage and chagrin, came up. He approached Victor.

"Monsieur," he said, "you lied. Madame is not on board." He drew back his hand to strike the poet in the face, but fingers of iron caught his wrist and held it in the air.

"The day we land, Monsieur," said the Chevalier, calmly. "Monsieur de Saumaise is not your equal with the sword."

"And you?" with a sneer.

"Well, I can try."

CHAPTER XII

ACHATES WRITES A BALLADE OF DOUBLE REFRAIN

The golden geese of day had flown back to the Master's treasure house; and ah! the loneliness of that first night at sea!—the low whistling song of the icy winds among the shrouds; the cold repellent color tones which lay thinly across the west, pressing upon the ragged, heaving horizon; the splendor and intense brilliancy of the million stars; the vast imposing circle of untamed water, the purple of its flowing mountains and the velvet blackness of its sweeping valleys; the monotonous seething round the boring prow and the sad gurgle of the speeding wake; the weird canvas shadows rearing heavenward; and above all, that silence which engulfs all human noises simply by its immensity! More than one stout heart grew doubtful and troubled under the weight of this mystery.

Even the Iroquois Indian, born without fear, stoic, indifferent to physical pain, even he wrapped his blanket closer about his head, held his pipe pendent in nerveless fingers, and softly chanted an appeal to the Okies of his forebears, forgetting the God of the black-robed fathers in his fear of never again seeing the peaceful hills and valleys of Onondaga or tasting the sweet waters of familiar springs. For here was evil water, of which no man might drink to quench his thirst; there were no firebrands to throw into the face of the North Wind; there was no trail, to follow or to retrace. O for his mat by the fire in the Long House, with the young braves and old warriors sprawling around, recounting the victories of the hunt!

Only the seamen and the priests went about unconcerned, untroubled, tranquil, the one knowing his sea and the other his God. There was something reassuring in the serenity of the black cassocks as they went hither and thither, offering physical and spiritual assistance. They inspired the timid and the fearful, many of whom still believed that the world had its falling-off place. And seasickness overcame many.

With some incertitude the Vicomte d'Halluys watched the Jesuits. After all, he mused, it was something to be a priest, if only to possess this calm. He himself had no liking for this voyage, since the woman he loved was on the way to Spain. Whenever Brother Jacques passed under the ship's lanterns, the vicomte stared keenly. What was there in this handsome priest that stirred his antagonism? For the present there seemed to be no solution. Eh, well, all this was a strange whim of fate. Fortune had as many faces as Notre Dame has gargoyles. To bring the Comte d'Hérouville, himself, and the Chevalier du Cévennes together on a voyage of hazard! He looked around to discover the whereabouts of the count. He saw him leaning against a mast, his face calm, his manner easy.

"There is danger in that calm; I must walk with care. My faith! but the Chevalier will have his hands full one of these days."

Mass was celebrated, and a strange, rude picture was presented to those eyes accustomed to the interior of lofty cathedrals: the smoky lanterns, the squat ceiling, the tawdry woodwork, the kneeling figures involuntarily jostling one another to the rolling of the ship, the resonant voice of Father Chaumonot, the frequent glitter of a breast-plate, a sword-hilt, or a helmet.

The Chevalier knelt, not because he was in sympathy with Chaumonot's Latin, but because he desired not to be conspicuous. God was not in his heart save in a shadowy way; rather an infinite weariness, a sense of drifting blindly, a knowledge of a vague and futile grasping at the end of things. And winding in and out of all he heard was that mysterious voice asking: "Whither bound?" Aye, whither bound, indeed! Visions of golden days flitted across his mind's eye, snatches of his youth; the pomp and glory of court as he first saw it; the gallant epoch of the Fronde; the warm sunshine of forgotten summers; and the woman he loved! … The Chevalier was conscious of a pain of stupendous weight bearing down upon his eyes. Waves of dizziness, accompanied by flashes of fire, passed to and fro through his aching head. His tongue was thick and his lips were cracked with fever. It seemed but a moment gone that he had been shaking with the cold. He found himself fighting what he supposed to be an attack of seasickness, but this was not the malady which was seizing him in its pitiless grasp.

Chaumonot's voice rose and fell. Why had the marquis given this man a thousand livres? What evil purpose lay behind it? The marquis gave to the Church? He was surprised to find himself struggling against a wild desire to laugh. Sometimes the voice sounded like thunder in his ears; anon, it was so far away that he could hear only the echo of it. Presently the mass came to an end. The worshipers rose by twos and threes. But the Chevalier remained kneeling. The next roll of the ship toppled him forward upon his face, where he lay motionless. Several sprang to his aid, the vicomte and Victor being first. Together they lifted the Chevalier to his feet, but his knees doubled up. He was unconscious.

"Paul?" cried Victor in alarm. "He is seasick?" turning anxiously toward the vicomte.

"This is not seasickness; more likely a reaction. Here comes Lieutenant Nicot, who has some fame as a leech. He will tell us what the trouble is."

A hasty examination disclosed that the Chevalier was in the first stages of brain fever, and he was at once conveyed to his berthroom. Victor was inconsolable; the vicomte, thoughtful; and even the Comte d'Hérouville showed some interest.

"What brought this on?" asked Nicot, when the Chevalier was stretched on his mattress.

The vicomte glanced significantly at Victor.

"He … The Chevalier has just passed through an extraordinary mental strain," Victor stammered.

"Of what nature?" asked Nicot.

"Never mind what nature, Lieutenant," interrupted the vicomte. "It is enough that he has brain fever. The question is, can you bring him around?"

Nicot eyed his patient critically. "It is splendid flesh, but he has been on a long debauch. I'll fetch my case and bleed him a bit."

"Poor lad!" said Victor. "God knows, he has been through enough already. What if he should die?"

"Would he not prefer it so?" the vicomte asked. "Were I in his place I should consider death a blessing in disguise. But do not worry; he will pull out of it, if only for a day, in order to run his sword through that fool of a D'Hérouville. The Chevalier always keeps his engagements. I will leave you now. I will call in the morning."

For two weeks the Chevalier's mind was without active thought or sense of time. It was as if two weeks had been plucked from his allotment without his knowledge or consent. Many a night Victor and Breton were compelled to use force to hold the sick man on his mattress. He horrified the nuns at evening prayer by shouting for wine, calling the main at dice, or singing a camp song. At other times his laughter broke the quiet of midnight or the stillness of dawn. But never in all his ravings did he mention the marquis or the tragedy of the last rout. Some secret consciousness locked his lips. Sometimes Brother Jacques entered the berthroom and applied cold cloths, and rarely the young priest failed to quiet the patient. Often Victor came in softly to find the Chevalier sleeping that restless sleep of the fever-bound and the priest, a hand propping his chin, lost in reverie. One night Victor had been up with the Chevalier. The berthroom was close and stifling. He left the invalid in Breton's care and sought the deck for a breath of air, cold and damp though it was. Glancing up, he saw Brother Jacques pacing the poop-deck, his hands clasped behind him, his head bent forward, absorbed in thought. Victor wondered about this priest. A mystery enveloped his beauty, his uncommunicativeness.

Presently the Jesuit caught sight of the dim, half-recognizable face below.

"The Chevalier improves?" he asked.

"His mind has just cleared itself of the fever's fog, thank God!" cried Victor, heartily.

"He will live, then," replied Brother Jacques, sadly; and continued his pacing. After a few moments Victor went below again, and the priest mused aloud: "Yes, he will live; misfortune and misery are long-lived." All about him rolled the smooth waters, touched faintly with the first pallor of dawn.

On the sixteenth of April the Chevalier was declared strong enough to be carried up to the deck, where he was laid on a cot, his head propped with pillows in a manner such as to prevent the rise and fall of the ship from disturbing him. O the warmth and glory of that spring sunshine! It flooded his weak, emaciated frame with a soothing heat, a sense of gladness, peace, calm. As the beams draw water from the rivers to the heavens, so they drew forth the fever-poison from his veins and cast it to the cleansing winds. He was aware of no desire save that of lying there in the sun; of watching the clouds part, join, and dissolve, only to form again, when the port rose; of measuring the bright horizon when the port sank. From time to time he held up his white hands and let the sun incarnadine them. He spoke to no one, though when Victor sat beside him he smiled. On the second day he feebly expressed a desire for some one to read to him.

"What shall I read, Paul?" asked Victor, joyously.

"You will find my Odyssey in the berthroom. Read me of Ulysses when he finally arrived at Ithaca and found Penelope still faithful."

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, who overheard the request, "would you not rather I should read to you from the life of Loyola?"

"No, Father," gently; "I am still pagan enough to love the thunder of Homer."

"If only I might convince you of the futility of such books!" earnestly.

"Nothing is futile, Father, which is made of grace and beauty."

So Victor read from the immortal epic. He possessed a fine voice, and being a musician he knew how to use it. The voice of his friend and the warmth of the sun combined to produce a pleasant drowsiness to which the Chevalier yielded, gratefully. That night he slept soundly.

The following day was not without a certain glory. The wind was mild and gentle like that which springs up suddenly during a summer's twilight and breathes mysteriously among the tops of the pines or stirs a murmur in the fields of grain. The sea wrinkled and crinkled its ancient face, not boisterously, but rather kindly; like a giant who had forgotten his feud with mankind and lay warming himself in the sunshine. From the unbroken circle of the horizon rose a cup of perfect turquoise. Victor, leaning against the rail, vowed that he sniffed the perfume of spices, blown up from the climes of the eternal summer.

"I feel it in my bones," he said, solemnly, "that I shall write verses to-day. What is it the presence of spring brings forth from us?—this lightness of spirit, this gaiety, this flinging aside of worldly cares, this longing to laugh and sing?"

"Well, Master Poet," and Major du Puys clapped the young man on the shoulder and smiled into his face. "Let them be like 'Henri at Cahors,' and, my faith! you may read them all day to me."

"No, I have in mind a happy refrain. 'Where are the belles of the balconies?' This is the time of year when life awakens in the gardens. Between four and five the ladies will come out upon the balconies and pass the time of day. Some one will have discovered a new comfit, and word will go round that Mademoiselle So-and-So, who is a great lady, has fallen in love with a poor gentleman. And lackeys will wander forth with scented notes of their mistresses, and many a gallant will furbish up his buckles. Heigho! Where, indeed, are the belles of the balconies? But, Major, I wish to thank you for the privileges which you have extended the Chevalier and myself."

"Nonsense, my lad!" cried the good major. "What are we all but a large family, with a worldly and a spiritual father? All I ask of you, when we are inside the fort at Quebec, is not to gamble or drink or use profane language, to obey the king, who is represented by Monsieur de Lauson and myself, to say your prayers, and to attend mass regularly. And your friend, the Chevalier?"

"On my word of honor, he laughed at a jest of mine not half an hour ago. Oh, we shall have him in his boots again ere we see land. If we are a big family, as you say, Major, will you not always have a fatherly eye upon my friend? He survives a mighty trouble. His heart is like a king's purse, full of gold that rings sound and true. Only give him a trial, and he will prove his metal. I know what lieutenants and corporals are. Sometimes they take delight in pricking a fallen lion. Let his orders come from you till he has served his time."

"And you?"

"I have nothing to ask for myself."

"Monsieur, no man need ask favors of me. Let him not shirk his duty, and the Chevalier's days shall be as peaceful as may be. And if he serves his time in the company, why, he shall have his parcel of land on the Great River. I shall not ask you any questions. His past troubles are none of my affairs. Let him prove a man. I ask no more of him than that. Father Chaumonot has told me that Monsieur le Marquis has given a thousand livres to the cause. The Chevalier will stand in well for the first promotion."

"Thank you, Major. It is nine. I will go and compose verses till noon."

"And I shall arrange for some games this afternoon, feats of strength and fencing. I would that my purse were heavy enough to offer prizes."

"Amen to that."

The major watched the poet as he made for the main cabin. "So the Chevalier has a heart of gold?" he mused. "It must be rich, indeed, if richer than this poet's. He's a good lad, and his part in life will have a fine rounding out."

Victor passed into the cabin and seated himself at the table in the main cabin. Occasionally he would nod approvingly, or rumple the feathery end of the quill between his teeth, or drum with his fingers in the effort to prove a verse whose metrical evenness did not quite satisfy his ear. There were obstacles, however, which marred the sureness of his inspiration. First it was the face of madame as he had seen it, now here, now there, in sunshine, in cloud. Was hers a heart of ice which the warmth of love could not melt? Did she love another? Would he ever see her again? Spain! Ah, but for the Chevalier he might be riding at her side over the Pyrenees. The pen moved desultorily. Line after line was written, only to be rejected. The envoi first took shape. It is a peculiar habit the poet has of sometimes putting on the cupola before laying the foundation of his house of fancy. Victor read over slowly what he had written:

        "Prince, where is the tavern's light that cheers?
        Where is La Place with its musketeers,
        Golden nights and the May-time breeze?
        And where are the belles of the balconies?"

Ah, the golden nights, indeed! What were they doing yonder in Paris? Were they all alive, the good lads in his company? And how went the war with Spain? Would the ladies sometimes recall him in the tennis courts? With a sigh he dipped the quill in the inkhorn and went on. The truth is, the poet was homesick. But he was not alone in this affliction.

Breton was sitting by the port-hole in his master's berthroom. He was reading from his favorite book. Time after time he would look toward the bunk where the Chevalier lay dozing. Finally he closed the book and rose to gaze out upon the sea. In fancy he could see the hills of Périgny. The snow had left them by now. They were green and soft, rolling eastward as far as the eye could see. Old Martin's daughter was with the kine in the meadows. The shepherd dog was rolling in the grass at her feet. Was she thinking of Breton, who was on his way to a strange land, who had left her with never a good by to dull the edge of separation? He sobbed noiselessly. The book slipped from his fingers to the floor, and the noise of it brought the Chevalier out of his gentle dreaming.

"Is it you, lad?"

"Yes, Monsieur Paul," swallowing desperately.

"What is the matter?"

"I was thinking how the snow has left the hills of Périgny. I can see my uncle puttering in the gardens at the château. Do you remember the lilacs which grew by the western gates? They will soon be filling the park with fragrance. Monsieur will forgive me for recalling?"

"Yes; for I was there in my dreams, lad. I was fishing for those yellow perch by the poplars, and you were baiting my hooks."

"Was I, Monsieur?" joyfully. "My mother used to tell me that it was a sign of good luck to dream of fishing. Was the water clear?"

"As clear as Monsieur le Cure's emerald. Do you remember how he used to twist it round and round when he visited the château? It was a fine ring. The Duchesse d'Aiguillon gave it to him, so he used to tell us. 'Twas she who founded the Hôtel Dieu at Quebec, where we are going."

"Yes; and in the month of May, which is but a few days off, we used to ride into Cévennes to the mines of porphyry and marbles which … which …" Breton stopped, embarrassed.

"Which I used to own," completed the Chevalier. "They were quarries, lad, not mines. 'Golden days, that turn to silver, then to lead,' writes Victor. Eh, well! Do you know how much longer we are to remain upon this abominable sea? This must be something like the eighteenth of April."

"The voyage has been unusually prosperous, Captain Bouchard says. We sight Acadia in less than twenty days. It will be colder then, for huge icebergs come floating about in the water. We shall undoubtedly reach Quebec by June. The captain says that it is all nonsense about pirates. They never come so far north as this. I wonder if roses grow in this new country? I shall miss the lattice-covered summer-house."

"There will be roses, Breton, but the thorns will be large and fierce. A month and a half before we reach our destination! It is very long."

"You see, Monsieur, we sail up a river toward the inland seas. If we might sail as we sail here, it would take but a dozen days to pass Acadia. But they tell me that this river is a strange one. Many rocks infest it, and islands grow up or disappear in a night."

The Chevalier fingered the quilt and said nothing. By and by his eyes closed, and Breton, thinking his master had fallen asleep, again picked up his book. But he could not concentrate his thought upon it. He was continually flying over the sea to old Martin's daughter, to the grey château nestling in the green hills. He was not destined long to dream. There was a rap on the door, and Brother Jacques entered.

"My son," he said to Breton, "leave us."