CHAPTER XVI
THE POET EXPLAINS TO MONSIEUR DE LAUSON
By the next morning all Quebec had heard of the double duel, and speculation ran high as to the cause. All Quebec, to be sure, amounted only to a few hundreds; and a genuine duel at this period was a rare happening. So everybody knew that D'Hérouville and De Leviston were in hospital, seriously though not dangerously wounded, and that Monsieur de Saumaise was in the guardhouse, where, it was supposed, he would remain for some time to come, in order that his hot blood might cool appreciably. As for Monsieur d'Halluys, he was not under the governor's direct jurisdiction, and was simply ordered to stay in his room.
The officers and civilians respected the governor's command, and no outsider gathered a word of information from them. The officers, talking among themselves, secretly admired the poet's pluck. Like all men of evil repute, De Leviston was a first-class swordsman and the poet's stroke had lessened his fame. As for what had caused the fight between the vicomte and D'Hérouville, they were somewhat at a loss to say or account for. The governor himself was exceedingly wrathful. At ten o'clock he summoned Victor to appear before him, to render a full account of the affair. The savages made life hazardous enough, without the additional terror of duels.
Victor found the governor alone, and for this he was thankful.
"Monsieur de Saumaise," De Lauson began, sternly, "I gave you credit for being a young man of sense."
"And a man of heart, too, your Excellency, I hope," replied the poet, valiantly.
"Heart? Is it heart to break the edict, to upset the peace of my household, to set tongues wagging? Persons will want to know the cause of this foolish duel. I am positive that it was fought contrary to the Chevalier's wishes. He conducted himself admirably last night. You have done more harm than good with your impetuosity. My command would have been respected, and your friend's misfortune would have gone no farther than my dining-room."
"And Monsieur de Leviston?" with a shade of irony which escaped the governor.
"Would have remained silent on the pain of being sent back to France, where the Bastille awaits him. He was exiled to this country, and he may not leave it till the year sixty. De Maisonneuve would have stood by me in the matter. So you see that you have blundered in the worst possible manner."
"And the Vicomte d'Halluys?"
"If D'Hérouville dies, the vicomte shall return to France in irons."
"Monsieur," with a sign of heat, "there are some insults which can not be treated with contempt. I should have proved myself a false friend and a coward had I done otherwise than I did."
"What does the Chevalier say about your fighting his battles for him?" asked the governor, quietly.
Victor's gaze rested on his boots.
"He doesn't approve, then?" The governor drummed with his fingers. "I thought as much. At your age I was young myself. Youth sees affronts where it ought to see caution and circumspection."
"When I have arrived at your Excellency's age …"
"No sarcasm, if you please. You are still under arrest."
Victor bowed, and twirled his hat, which was sadly in need of a new plume.
"I warn you, if De Leviston dies I shall hang you high from one of the Chevalier's gibbets on Orléans. If he lives, I shall keep in touch with your future conduct, Monsieur; so take good care of yourself."
"De Leviston will not die. Such men as he do not die honestly in bed. But he was only a puppet in this instance."
"A puppet? Explain."
"There was another who prompted him from behind."
"Who?" sharply.
"I am afraid that at present I can not name him."
"D'Hérouville? Be careful, Monsieur; this is a grave accusation you are making. You will be forced to prove it." The governor looked worried; for to him the Comte d'Hérouville was a great noble.
"I did not name him. There was a woman behind all this; a woman who is the innocent cause."
"Ha! a woman?" The governor leaned forward on his elbows.
"Yes."
"Who?"
"Mademoiselle de Longueville. D'Hérouville insulted her and the Chevalier took up her cause."
"Why, then, did you not pick your quarrel with the count?"
"The vicomte had some prior claim."
The governor got up and walked about, biting his mustache. Victor eyed him with some anxiety.
"But the Chevalier; why did he not defend himself?"
Victor breathed impatiently. "Frankly, Monsieur, how can he defend himself?"
"True." The governor scrubbed his beard. He was in a quandary and knew not which way to move. Tardy decision was the stumbling-block in the path of this well meaning man. Problems irritated him; and in his secret heart he wished he had never seen the Chevalier, D'Hérouville, the poet, or the vicomte, since they upset his quiet. He had enough to do with public affairs without having private ones thrust gratuitously upon his care. "Well, well," he said, reseating himself; "you know my wishes. Nothing but publicity will come of duels and brawls, and publicity is the last thing the Chevalier is seeking. I feel genuinely sorry for him. The stain on his name does not prevent him from being a brave man and a gentleman. Control yourself, Monsieur de Saumaise, and the day will come when you will thank me for the advice. As you have no incentive for running away, I will put you on your word, and the vicomte also. You may go. While I admire the spirit which led you to take up the Chevalier's cause, I deplore it. Who, then, will succeed Monsieur le Marquis?"
"That is a question I can not answer. To the best of my knowledge, no one will succeed Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny."
"So this is what brought him over here? What brought you?"
"Friendship for him, an empty purse and a pocketful of ambition."
The answer pleased De Lauson, and he nodded. "That is all."
"Thank you, Monsieur."
"I shall keep you in mind … if you escape the gibbet."
Monsieur de Saumaise, in displaying his teeth, signified that the least of his worries was the thought of the gibbet.
And so concluded the interview.
The Chevalier remained in his room all day, putting aside his food, and staring beyond the river. His eyes were dull and the lids discolored from sleeplessness. Victor waited for him to heap reproach upon him; but never a word did the Chevalier utter. The only sign he gave of the volcano raging and burning beneath the thin mask of calm was the ceaseless knotting of the muscles of the jaw and the compressed lips. When the poet broke forth, reviling his own conduct, the Chevalier silenced him with a gesture of the hand.
"You are wasting your breath. What you have done can not be undone." The tones of his voice were all on a dull level, cold and unimpassioned.
Victor was struck with admiration at the sight of such extraordinary control; and he trembled to think of the whirlwind which would some day be let loose.
"I will kill De Leviston the first opportunity," he said.
The Chevalier arose. "No, lad; the man who told him. He is mine!"
Victor sought out Brother Jacques for advice; but Brother Jacques's advice was similar to the Chevalier's and the governors.
So the day wore on into evening, and only then did the Chevalier venture forth. He wandered aimlessly about the ramparts, alone, having declined Victor's company, and avoiding all whom he saw. He wanted to be alone, alone, forever alone. Longingly he gazed toward the blackening forests. Yonder was a haven. Into those shadowy woods he might plunge and hide himself, built him a hut, and become lost to civilization, his name forgotten and his name forgetting. O fool in wine that he had been! To cut himself off from the joys and haunts of men in a moment of drunken insanity! He had driven the marquis with taunts and gibes; he had shouted his ignoble birth across a table; and he expected, by coming to this wilderness, to lose the Nemesis he himself had set upon his heels! What a fool! What a fool! He had cast out his heart for the rooks and the daws. Wherever he might go, the world would go also, and the covert smile … and the covert smile … God, how apart from all mankind he seemed this night. But for Victor he would have sought the woods at once, facing the Iroquois fearlessly. He must remain, to bow his head before the glances of the curious, the head that once was held so high; accept rebuffs without murmur, stand aside, step down, and follow. If a man laughed at him, he must turn away: his sword could no longer protect him. How his lips thirsted for the wine-cup, for one mad night, and then … oblivion! An outcast! What would be his end? O the long years! For him there should be no wifely lips to kiss away the penciled lines of care; the happy voices of children would never make music in his ears. He was alone, always and ever alone!
Presently the Chevalier bowed his head upon the cold iron of the cannon. The crimson west grew fainter and fainter; and the evening breeze came up and stirred the Company's flags on the warehouses far below.
Suddenly the Chevalier lifted his head. He was still an officer and a gentleman. He would stand taller, look into each eye and dare with his own. It was not what he had been, nor what had been done to him; it was what he was, would be and do. If every hand was to be against his, so be it. D'Hérouville? Some day that laugh should cost him dear. The vicomte? What was his misfortune to the vicomte that he should pick a quarrel on his account? Was he a gallant fellow like Victor? He would learn.
He put on his hat. It was dark. Lights began to flicker in the fort and the château. The resolution seemed to give him new strength, and he squared his shoulders, took in deep breaths, entered the officers' mess and dined.
The men about him were for the most part manly men, brave, open-handed, rough outwardly and soft within. And as they saw him take his seat quietly, a sparkle of admiration gleamed from every eye. The vicomte and Victor, both out on parole, took their plates and glasses and ranged alongside of the Chevalier. In France they would have either left the room or cheered him; as it was, they all finished the evening meal as if nothing extraordinary had happened.
So the Chevalier won his first victory.
CHAPTER XVII
WHAT THE SHIP HENRI IV BRINGS TO QUEBEC
The ship Henri IV dropped anchor before Quebec on the seventh day of August. This being the Company's vessel, hundreds of Canadians flocked to the wharves. And again flags decked the château and town, and cannon roared. The Henri IV was part merchantman and part man-of-war. Her ports bristled with cannon, her marines wore formidable cutlasses, and the law on board was military in the strictest sense. Stores and ammunition filled her hull; carpenters' tools, tea-chests, bags of plaster, uniforms, cannon, small arms, beads and trinkets of no value save to the Indian, silk and wool and a beautiful window for the cathedral. And in return she was to carry away mink, otter and beaver skins.
Breton had been left behind by the Chevalier, who had joined a scouting party up the river. Love and anxiety had made the lad thin. Any night might bring disastrous news from Three Rivers, the burning of the settlement and the massacre. Such speculation counteracted his usually good appetite. So Breton mooned about the wharves day by day, always looking up the river instead of down.
To-day he lingered to witness the debarkation. Besides, the Henri IV was a great ship, bringing with her a vague perfume from France. Listlessly he watched the seamen empty the hold of its treasures; carelessly he observed the meeting of sweethearts and lovers, wives and husbands. Two women in masks meant nothing to him… Holy Virgin! it was not possible! Was his brain fooling him? He grew faint. Did he really see these two old men climbing down the ship's ladder to the boats? He choked; tears blinded him. He dashed aside the tears and looked once more. Oh! there could be no doubt; his eyes had not deceived him. There was only one face like that in the world; only one face like that, with its wrinkles, its haughty chin, its domineering nose. He had seen that lean, erect figure, crowned with silver-white hair, too many times to mistake it. It was the marquis, the grim and terrible marquis, the ogre of his dreams. The lad had always hated the marquis, taking his master's side; but at the sight of that familiar face, he felt his heart swell with joy and love and veneration. For intuition told him why Monsieur le Marquis was in Quebec. It was to seek Monsieur le Chevalier. And together they would all go back to France, beautiful France. He burst into hysterical tears, regardless of the wonder which he created. And there was the kindly Jehan, who had dandled him on his knee, long years ago before trouble had cast its blighting shadow over the House of Périgny. Blessed day!
Very slowly and with infinite pains the marquis climbed from the boat to the wharf. It was evident to Breton that the long voyage at sea had sapped his vitality and undermined his vigor. He was still erect, but, ah! how lean and frail! But his eye was still the eye of the proud eagle, and it swept the crowd, searching for a familiar face. Breton dared not make himself known because of that eye. An officer who had formerly resided in Rochelle recognized the marquis instantly, and he pressed forward.
"Monsieur le Marquis in Quebec?" he cried.
"You are of the fort?" replied the marquis. His voice was thin and high, like that of old men whose blood is turning to water.
"Yes, Monsieur," answered the officer.
"Will you lead me to his Excellency the governor? I have letters to present from her Majesty the queen."
"Follow me, Monsieur;" and the officer conducted the marquis through the crowd, politely but firmly brushing aside those who blocked his path. He found the governor quickly. "Your Excellency, the Marquis de Périgny wishes to present to you letters from her august Majesty."
"Monsieur le Marquis here?" exclaimed the governor. He embraced the old nobleman, whom he held in genuine regard.
"So your Excellency remembers me?" said the marquis, pleased.
"One does not forget a man such as you are, Monsieur. And I see you here in Quebec? What twist of fortune brings you to my household?"
"I have come in search of a prodigal son, Monsieur," smiling. "Know you one who calls himself the Chevalier du Cévennes?"
"The Chevalier du Cévennes?" The governor was nonplussed. The marquis here in search of the Chevalier?
"I see that he is here," said the marquis, with a note of satisfaction.
"No, Monsieur; not here, but has been."
"He can be found?"
"Within sixty hours."
"That is well. I am very fortunate."
"You will be my guest during your stay?" suggested the governor.
"Her Majesty asks that good favor of you."
"A great honor, Monsieur, truly;" and the governor was elated at the thought of having so distinguished a guest at his table.
The marquis turned to the patient Jehan. "Jehan, you will see to the portmanteaus."
"Yes, Monsieur."
A priest elbowed his way toward them. On seeing him, the marquis raised and lowered his bushy white brows. It was the handsome Jesuit whose face had stolen into many a dream of late. Brother Jacques was greatly astonished. The marquis greeted him, but without marked cordiality. At a sign from the governor the quartet moved up the path toward the cliffs, which the marquis measured with the eye of one who understood thoroughly the art and value of military strategy.
"Superb!" he murmured. "With a few men and plenty of ammunition, I could hold even England at bay."
"I am proud of it," acknowledged the governor; but there was a twinge of envy when it occurred to him that a handful of savages had worried him more than once. And here was a man who would defy the whole world.
Jehan felt a pressure on his arm. Turning, he beheld the shining face of Breton. He caught the lad in his arms and kissed him on the cheek.
"I expected to find you, lad. Ah, but you have done wrong. You should have told us. You should not have run away with Monsieur le Comte…"
"Monsieur le Comte?" bewildered.
"Yes; you should not have run away with him as you did."
"Had I told you, you would have prevented my coming," Breton confessed.
"You would have saved Monsieur le Marquis and myself a great deal of trouble."
"But Monsieur le Chevalier was in trouble, too. I could not leave him."
"Which speaks well for your heart, lad, but not for your reason. Where is Monsieur le Comte?"
"At Three Rivers; a day and a night's ride from here, with good paddlers."
"Good. We shall start out in the morning."
"To bring him back to France?"
"Nothing less, lad. The count has been greatly wronged by Monsieur le Marquis, and it is to be set to rights forthwith. Can you read?"
"Yes."
"Here is a letter which Monsieur le Curé wrote at Périgny. It was from old Martin's daughter."
"God bless you, Monsieur," cried the happy Breton. He would have shouted for joy had not the quiet dignity of the old lackey put a damper on his enthusiasm.
"Monsieur le Comte was well when last you saw him?"
"Yes; physically."
"He is troubled?"
"Who would not be?" burst forth Breton, indignantly. "But why do you call Monsieur le Chevalier the count?"
"Is not that his title?" quietly.
"But …"
"Would Monsieur le Marquis take all this trouble if Monsieur le Chevalier was anything but Monsieur le Comte?"
"I shall offer a dozen candles!" cried Breton, joyously.
Meantime the governor conducted the marquis around the fortress and the château; and together they stood upon the highest balcony and looked down upon the river, which was dotted with canoes and small boats.
"Magnificent!" repeated the marquis time and again.
"And not even in the Cévennes, Monsieur, will you see such sunsets," said De Lauson.
"This should not be managed by speculators," unconsciously pricking the governor's quick, "nor by the priest's cold hand. It should be wholly the king's. It would be France's salvation. What are they doing there in Paris?"
"Spending money on lace for the Swiss and giving masks at the Palais Royal."
"Richelieu died too soon; here would have been his fame." The marquis never underestimated an enemy. "If your Excellency will excuse me now, I will sleep. I am an old man, and sleep calls to me often. I will join you at supper."
"The ladies will be delighted. There is but little here of the life of the court. When we are not guarding against Indians, we are celebrating religious fêtes."
"Till supper, then, your Excellency."
And the governor departed to read the messages from the queen. She had placed all Quebec at the disposal of the marquis in the search for his son. The governor was greatly mystified. That the marquis should still call the Chevalier by his former title of count added to this mystery. Since when did fathers set out for sons of the left hand? He soon gave up the riddle, confident that the marquis himself would solve it for him.
The marquis rose before sundown and with the assistance of his aged valet made his toilet. He was dressed in black satin, with white lace ruffles, and across his breast he flung the ribbon of the Chevalier of the Order, in honor of the governor's attentions. Presently, from his window he saw the figure of a woman—young and slender; doubtless some relative of the governor's. Patiently he waited for her to turn. When she did so, a subdued exclamation fell from his lips. He had seen that face before, once or twice on board the Henri IV. It was the woman in the grey mask. He stared hard and long. Where else had he seen this face? He was growing old, and sometimes his memory failed him. Without being conscious of the act, he readjusted his wristbands and the ruffles at his throat. A handsome young woman at the table would be a recompense for the dullness of the hour. But he waited in vain at supper for the appearance of the exquisite face. Like the true courtier he was, he made no inquiries.
When they were at last alone, the governor said: "I am truly glad you have come to make the Chevalier return to France. He will never be at peace here."
"Why?" asked the marquis, weakening his burgundy with water.
"The … That is …" But the governor foundered.
"Why?" repeated the marquis. "Has he made a fool of himself here as in France?"
"No, Monsieur," warmly. "He has proved himself to be a gentleman and a brave soldier."
"He drinks?"
"Only as a gentleman might; neither does he gamble."
"Ah!"
The governor drew figures on the dusty bottle at the side of his plate.
"If he does none of these things," said the marquis, "why can not he live in peace here?"
"His … unfortunate history has followed him here."
"What?" The marquis's glass crashed upon the table and the wine crept among the plates, soaking the marquis's sleeves and crimsoning his elegant wristbands.
"What did you say?"
"Why," began the governor, startled and confused, "the history of his birth is known." He looked at the walls, at the wine running about, at the floor, at everything save the flashing eyes opposite.
"So the fool has told it here?" harshly. "Bah! let him rot here, then; fool!"
"But he has said nothing; no one knew till …"
"Oh! then it was not Monsieur le Comte who spoke?"
"Monsieur le Comte?"
"That is the title which my son bears."
"Good God, Monsieur, then what is all this about?"
"It will take some time to tell it, Monsieur," said the marquis, shaking his sleeves and throwing salt upon the table. "First, I wish to know the name of the man who started the story."
"Monsieur de Leviston, of Montreal, prompted by I know not whom."
"De Leviston. I shall remember that name."
"There was a duel fought."
"A duel? Who were the participants?"
"The Vicomte d'Halluys against the Comte d'Hérouville, and Monsieur de Saumaise against De Leviston. D'Hérouville and De Leviston are both in hospital."
"D'Hérouville? What had he to do with the affair?"
"He laughed," said the governor; "he laughed when De Leviston accused your son of not knowing who his mother was."
"Thank you, Monsieur. I see that you are in great puzzle. Let me solve the puzzle for you. I have always been a man of quick and violent temper, and sometimes this temper has been that of the fool. The wisest of us make mistakes. I have made a grievous one. In a moment of anger …" He ceased, taking up the stem of the broken glass and twirling it. "In a moment of anger, then, I did Monsieur le Comte a most grievous wrong, a wrong for which I can never fully atone. We have never been on friendly terms since his refusal to wed a young woman of my choice, Mademoiselle de Montbazon. I had never seen this daughter, nor had my son. Paris life, Monsieur, as doubtless you know, is ruinous to youth. Monsieur le Comte was much in wine; he gambled recklessly. It was my desire to change his course, but I went at it either too late or bunglingly. In February he was exiled from court in disgrace. I have never ascertained the character of this disgrace. One night in March we had an exchange of opinions. My faith, your Excellency, but that boy has a terrible tongue. There was not a place in my armor that he did not pierce. I shall not repeat to you the subject of our conversation. Suffice it to say that he roused the devil and the fool in me, and I told him that he had no right to his name. I am here to correct that wrong as much as lies within my power. He did not give me an opportunity at home. It is not sentiment; it is my sense of justice that brings me here. And I truly admire the lad's spirit. To plunge into the wilderness without calculation; ah, well, it is only the fool who stops to weigh the hazards of fortune. The boy is my son, lawfully; and I want him to know it. I am growing old, and this voyage has written a shorter term for me."
"Monsieur," said De Lauson, "what you tell me makes me truly happy. But I am afraid that you have destroyed the Chevalier's trust in humanity. If you ask me to judge you, I shall be severe. You have committed a terrible sin, unnatural and brutal, unheard of till now by me."
"I bow to all that," said the marquis. "It was brutal, cruel; it was all you say. But the fact remains that it is done and that a part of it must be undone."
"Your sense of justice does credit to a great noble like yourself. Worldly reparation you may make, but you have wounded his heart and soul beyond all earthly reparation."
"The worldly reparation quite satisfies me," replied the marquis, fumbling with his lips. "As I observed, sentiment is out of the question. Monsieur le Comte would not let me love him if I would," lightly. "I wish to undo as much as possible the evil I have done. If he refuses to return to France, that is his affair, not mine. I shall be the last to urge him. This Monsieur de Saumaise is a poet, I understand."
"Who writes equally well with his sword."
"I should like to meet him. How long before De Leviston and D'Hérouville will be out of hospital?"
"D'Hérouville, any day; De Leviston has a bad fever, having taken cold."
The marquis had not acquired the habit of smoking, so the governor lit his pipe and smoked alone.
"Your Excellency, who is this handsome young priest who goes by the name of Brother Jacques; of what family?"
"That I do not know; no one knows; not even Father Chaumonot, who is his sponsor. The good Father picked him up somewhere in Italy and placed him in a convent."
"Monsieur le Comte, then, is at Three Rivers?"
"Yes; and to-morrow we shall set out for him; though he may return at any hour."
"I thank your Excellency. The Henri IV sails by next week, so I understand. I daresay that we both shall be on it. At any rate, I shall wait."
The door opened and Jehan, expressing as much excitement as his weather-beaten face made possible, stood before them.
"Well?" said the marquis.
"Monsieur le Comte is returned from Three Rivers, and is about to dine in the citadel."
"Tell a trooper that the presence of Monsieur le Chevalier is requested here at once. Do not let the Chevalier see you," and the governor rose and laid down his pipe. "I will leave the room at your service, Monsieur."
"It is very kind of you." If the marquis was excited, or nervous, there was nothing on his face to indicate it.
Jehan and the governor made their exits through opposite doors; and Monsieur le Marquis sat alone. Several minutes passed. Once or twice the marquis turned his attention to his wine-soaked sleeve. Steps were heard in the corridor, but these died away in the distance. From time to time the old man's hand wandered to his throat, as if something was bothering him there. Time marked off a quarter of an hour. Then the door opened, and a man entered; a man bronzed of countenance, tall, and deep of chest. He wore the trapper's blouse and fringed leggings. From where he stood he could not see who sat at the table.
"Come toward the light, Monsieur," said the marquis, "where I may see you to better advantage." The marquis rose and stood with the fingers of his right band pressing lightly on the table.
At the sound of that voice, the Chevalier's heart leaped. He strode forward quickly, and, leaning across the table, stared into his father's eyes.
CHAPTER XVIII
THE MASTER OF IRONIES
So they stood for some moments, the one with eyes glaring, the other with quiet scrutiny.
"It appears to agree with you here," began the marquis. There was not the slightest tremor in his voice.
"You?" said the son.
The marquis winced inwardly: that pronoun was so pregnant with surprise, contempt, anger, and indignation! "Yes, it is I, your paternal parent."
"And you could not leave me in peace, even here?" The son stepped, back and strained his arms across his chest.
"From your tone it would seem so." The marquis sat down. A fit of trembling had seized his legs. How the boy had changed in three months! He looked like a god, an Egyptian god, with that darkened skin; and the tilt of the chin recalled the mother.
"I had hoped never to look upon your face again," coldly.
The marquis waved his hand. "Life is a page of disappointments, with a margin of realized expectations which is narrow indeed. Will you not sit down?"
"I prefer to stand. It is safer for you with the table between us."
"Your sword was close to my heart one night. I made no effort to repulse it."
"Heaven was not quite ready for you, Monsieur."
"Heaven or Hell. There seems to be gall in your blood yet."
"Who put it there?" The Chevalier was making an effort to control his passion.
"I put it there, it is true. But did you not stir a trifle too well?"
"Why are you here? What is your purpose?"
"I have been three months on the water; I have been without my accustomed canary and honey; I have dined upon salt meats till my tongue and stomach are parched like corn. Have you no welcome?"
The Chevalier laughed.
"They haven't tamed you, then?" The marquis drew circles in the spilled salt. "Have you become … great and respected?"
The thrust went deep. A pallor formed under the Chevalier's tan. "I have made some progress, Monsieur. If any laugh, they do so behind my back."
The marquis nodded approvingly.
"Have you come all this journey to mock me?"
"Well," the father confessed, "I do not like the way you say 'you'."
They rested. The marquis breathed the easier of the two.
"Monsieur, I have not much time to spare. What has brought you here?"
"Why am I here? I have come to do my flesh and blood a common justice. In France you did not give me time."
"Justice?" ironically. "Is that not a new word in your vocabulary?"
"I have always known the word; there were some delicate shades which I overlooked. I lied to you."
The Chevalier started.
"It was a base lie, unworthy of a gentleman and a father." The marquis fumbled at his lips. "The lie has kept me rather wakeful. Anger burns quickly, and the ashes are bitter. I am a proud man, but there is no flaw in my pride. You are my lawful son."
"What! Have you gone to the trouble of having me legitimatized?" with a terrible laugh.
"I shall never lose my temper again," retorted the father, a ghost of a smile parting his thin lips. "Let us put aside antagonism for the present. Let us analyze my action. Why should I go to the trouble of having your title adjusted by parliamentary law? I am too old for Paris; Paris shall see me no more. Am I a man to run after sentimentality? You will scarce accuse me of that weakness. Were you aught but what you are, I should be dining in Rochelle, with all my accustomed comforts. You are successor to my titles. Believe me or not, as to that I am totally indifferent. I am doing what my sense of justice demands. That is sufficient for me. The night of the day you took passage on the Saint Laurent I called to the hôtel those whilom friends of yours and charged them on the pain of death to stop a further spread to your madness. Scarce a dozen in Rochelle know; Paris is wholly ignorant. Your revenues in the Cévennes are accumulating. Return to France, or remain here to become … great and respected; that is no concern of mine. To tell you these facts I have crossed the Atlantic. There can be no maudlin sentiment between you and me; there have been too many harsh words. That is all I have to say. Digest it well."
Silence. A breeze, blowing in through a window, stirred the flames of the candles, and their lines of black smoke wavered horizontally through the air. Monsieur le Marquis waited for the outpouring of thanks, the protestations of joy, the bending of this proud and haughty spirit. While waiting he did not look at his son; rather he busied himself with the stained ruffles of his sleeve. The pause grew. It was so long that the marquis was compelled finally to look up. In his cabinet at Périgny he had a small bronze statue of the goddess Ate: the scowling eyes, the bent brows, the widened nostrils, the half-visible row of teeth, all these he saw in the face towering above him.
"So that is all you have to say? How easily and complacently you say it! 'Monsieur, the honor I robbed you of I bring back. It is worthless, either to you or to me, it is true. Nevertheless, thank me and bid me be gone!' And that is all you have to say!"
The marquis sat back in his chair, thunderstruck.
"It is nothing, then," went on the son, leaning across the table and speaking in those thin tones of one who represses fury; "it is nothing that men have laughed behind my back, insulted me to my face? It is nothing to have trampled on my illusions and bittered the cup of life? It is nothing that I have suffered for three months as they in hell suffer for eternity? It is nothing that my trust in humanity is gone? All these things are inconsiderable! In a moment of anger you told me this unholy lie, without cause, without definite purpose, without justice, carelessly, as a pastime?"
"Not as a pastime, not carelessly; rather with a definite purpose, to bring you to your senses. You were becoming an insolent drunkard."
The chevalier stretched out a hand. "We have threshed that subject well. We will not recall it."
"Very well." The marquis's anger was close to the surface. This was his reward for what he understood to be a tremendous personal sacrifice! He had come three thousand miles to make a restitution only to receive covert curses for his pains! "But I beg of you not to repeat that extravagant play-acting. This glass belongs to Monsieur de Lauson, and it might cost you dear."
"Is your heart made of stone or of steel that you think you can undo what you have done? Can I believe you? How am I to tell that you are not doubling on the lie? Is not all this because you are afraid to die without succession, the fear that men will laugh?"
"I am not afraid of anything," sharply; "not even of ridicule."
"Well, Monsieur le Marquis, neither am I. You have wasted your time."
"So I perceive," sourly. "A letter would have been more to the purpose."
"It would indeed. It is the sight of you, Monsieur, that rouses fury and unbelief. We ought never to meet again."
"I will go at once," making a movement to rise.
"Wait till I have done. You will do well to listen, as I swear to God I shall never address a word to you again. Your death-bed shall be no more to me than my heart has been to you. Ah, could I but find a way to wring your heart as you have wrung mine! You have wasted your time. I shall never resume my title, if indeed I have one; I shall never return to France. Do as you please with my estates. There is an abyss between us; you can never cross it, and I shall never make the attempt."
"Supposing I had a heart," quietly; "how would you go about to wring it?"
"There are easier riddles, Monsieur. If you waked to the sense of what it is to love, waked as a sleeping volcano wakes, and I knew the object of this love, it is possible that I might find a way to wring your heart. But I refuse to concern myself with such ridiculous impossibilities."
It was the tone, not the words, that cut; but the marquis gave no sign. He was tired physically and felt himself mentally incompetent to play at repartee. Besides, he had already lost too much through his love of this double-edged sword.
"Suppose it was belated paternal love, as well as the sense of justice, that brings me into this desert?" The Chevalier never knew what it cost the proud old man to utter these words.
"Monsieur," laughing rudely, "you are, and always will be, the keenest wit in France!"
"I am an old man," softly. "It is something to acknowledge that I did you a wrong."
"You have brought the certificate of my birth?" bluntly.
"I searched for it, but unfortunately I could not find it;" and a shadow of worry crossed the marquis's face. For the first time in his life he became conscious of incompleteness, of having missed something in the flight. "I have told you the truth. I can say no more. I had some hope that we might stand again upon the old footing."
"I shall not even visit your grave."
"I might turn over, it is true," a flare in the grey eyes. "And, after all, I have a heart."
"Good heaven! Monsieur, your mind wanders!" the Chevalier exclaimed.
The marquis swept the salt from the table. The movement was not impatient; rather resigned. "There is nothing more to be said. You may go. Our paths shall not cross again."
The Chevalier bowed, turned, and walked toward the door through which he had entered. He stopped at the threshold and looked back. The grey eyes met grey eyes; but the son's burned with hate. The marquis, listening, heard the soft pat of moccasined feet. He was alone. He scowled, but not with anger. The chill of stone lay upon his flesh.
"It is my blood," he mused; "my blood and hers: mine the pride of the brain, hers the pride of the heart. I have lost something; what is it?" He slid forward in his chair, his head sunk between his shoulders. Thus the governor, returning, found him.
As for the Chevalier, on leaving his father he had a vague recollection of passing into one of the council chambers, attracted possibly by the lights. Tumult was in his heart, chaos in his brain; rage and exultation, unbelief and credulity. He floated, drifted, dreamed. His father! It was so fantastic. That cynical, cruel old man here in Quebec!—to render common justice! … A lie! He had lied, then, that mad night? There was a ringing in the Chevalier's ears and a blurring in his eyes. He raised his clenched hands, only to drop them limply, impotently. All these months wasted, all these longings and regrets for nothing, all this suffering to afford Monsieur le Marquis the momentary pleasure of seeing his own flesh and blood writhe! Hate. As hot lead sinks into the flesh, so this word sank into the Chevalier's soul, blotting out charity and forgiveness. Forgive? His laughter rang out hard and sinister. Only God could forgive such a wrong. How that wrinkled face roused the venom in his soul! Was the marquis telling the truth? Had he lied? Was not this the culmination of the series of tortures the marquis had inflicted upon him all these years: to let him fly once more, only to drag him down into swallowing mire from which he might never rise? And yet … if it were true!—and the pall of shame and ignominy were lifted! The Chevalier grew faint.
Diane! From beyond the wilderness spoke a voice, the luring voice of love. Diane! He was free to seek her; no barrier stood between. He could return to France. Her letter! He drew it forth, his hands trembling like a woman's. "France is large. If you love me you will find me. … I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times." There was still the delicate odor of vervain—her perfume—clinging to it. Ah, if that terrible old man were not lying again! If he but spoke the truth!
As he strode back and forth his foot struck something. He bent and picked up the object. It was a grey mask with a long curtain. He carried it to the candle-light and inspected it. A grey mask: what was such a thing doing in Quebec? There were no masks in Quebec save those which nature herself gave to man, that ever-changing mask called the human face. A grey mask: what did it recall to him? Ah! Like a bar of light the memory of it returned to him. The mysterious woman of the Corne d'Abondance! But this mask could not be hers, since she was by now in Spain. With a movement almost unconscious he held the silken fabric close to his face and inhaled … vervain!
"Monsieur," said a soft but thrilling voice from the doorway, "will you return to me my mask, which I dropped in this room a few moments ago?"
As he raised his head the woman stopped, transfixed.
"Diane?" leaped from the Chevalier's lips. He caught the back of a chair to steady himself. He was mad, he knew he was mad; it had come at last, this loosing of reason.