CHAPTER XXII
D'HEROUVILLE THREATENS AND MADAME FINDS A DROLL BOOK
The next morning the vicomte went to the hospital to inquire into the state of the Comte d'Hérouville's health. He found that gentleman walking back and forth in the ward. There was little of the invalid about him save for the pallor on his cheeks, which provided proof that his blood was not yet of its accustomed thickness. At the sight of the vicomte he neither frowned nor smiled; the expression on his face remained unchanged, but he ceased his pacing. The two men contemplated each other, and the tableau lasted for a minute.
"Well, Monsieur?" said D'Hérouville, calmly.
The vicomte was genuinely surprised at the strides toward completeness which D'Hérouville had made. An ordinary man would still have been either in bed or in a chair. But none of this surprise appeared on the Vicomte's face. He had come with a purpose, and he went at it directly.
"Count," he replied, "you and I have been playing hide and seek in the woods, needlessly and purposelessly."
"I scarce comprehend your words or your presence."
"I will explain at once. Madame de Brissac has made sorry fools of us all. She is here in Quebec."
"What?" The pain caused by the sudden intake of breath stooped D'Hérouville's shoulders.
"I have the honor, then, of bringing you the news? Yes," easily, "Madame de Brissac is in Quebec. Why, is as yet unknown to me."
"What is your purpose in bringing me this lie?" asked D'Hérouville, recovering. "I have been surrounded by lies ever since I stepped foot in Rochelle. I shall kill Monsieur de Saumaise a week hence."
"And you do not wish satisfaction from me?" slyly.
A fury leaped into D'Hérouville's eyes, but suddenly died away. "I am living only with that end in view. It was very clever of you to make them think you were taking up the Chevalier's cause. You hoodwinked them nicely."
The vicomte played with the ends of his mustache, as was his habit.
"You say Madame de Brissac is in Quebec ?"
"Yes. And presently your own eyes shall prove the truth of my statement."
D'Hérouville glanced at his sword, which hung upon the wall. "In Quebec," he mused. "A lie in this case would be objectless."
"As you see. And would you believe it, there has been a love intrigue between her and the Chevalier! There's a woman, now! How cleverly she juggled with us all!"
"The Chevalier?"
"Yes. How you love that man! Droll, is it not? She has been masquerading, and to this day he hasn't the slightest idea who she is."
"Come, now, Vicomte," with assumed good nature; "your purpose; out with it."
"I am not a man to waste time, certainly."
"You will give me satisfaction, then?"
"You have but to name the day. The truth is, under the present circumstances the world has suddenly contracted."
D'Hérouville nodded. "That is to say, it is no longer large enough for both of us. I comprehend that perfectly."
"As I knew you would. I am exceedingly chagrined," continued the vicomte, "at seeing you walking above the sod when, by a little more care on my part, you would be resting neatly under it. But at that time I had no other idea than temporarily to disable you. Could we but see into the future sometimes!"
"In your place I should recoil from the gift." The count was shaking with rage. "I shall not lose my temper when next we meet. If you were not careful, I was equally careless."
"Within a week's time, Monsieur. By that date you will be as strong as a bull. Your vitality is remarkable. But listen. Madame de Brissac shall be my wife. First, I love her for herself; and then because De Brissac left some handsome property."
"Which has Mazarin's seals of confiscation upon it," mockingly.
"They can be removed," imperturbably. "I tell you frankly that I shall overcome all obstacles to reach my end. You are one of the obstacles which must be removed, and I am here this morning expressly to acquaint you with this fact."
"Perhaps I shall kill you."
"There will be the Chevalier."
"Measure swords with him?" sneeringly. "I believe not."
"There will still remain Monsieur de Saumaise, who, for all his rhymes, handles a pretty blade."
D'Hérouville snapped his fingers. "His death I have already determined."
"Besides, if I read the Chevalier rightly he will force you. You laughed too loudly."
"I will laugh again, even more loudly."
"He will strike you … even as I did."
D'Hérouville spat. "Leave me, Monsieur. My wound may open again, and that would put me back."
"I advise you to take the air to-day."
"I shall do so."
They were very courtly in those old days.
So D'Hérouville went forth to take the air that afternoon and incidentally to pay his respects in person to Madame de Brissac. Fortune favored him, for he met her coming down the path from the upper town. He lifted his hat gravely and barred her path.
"Madame, my delight at seeing you is inexpressible."
Madame's countenance signified that the delight was his alone; she shared no particle of it. She knew that eventually their paths would cross again, but she had prepared no plans to meet this certainty. Her gaze swerved from his and rested longingly on the Henri IV in the harbor. She had determined to return to France upon it. The amazing episode of the night before convinced her that her safety lay rather in France than in Canada. But she had confided this determination to no one, not even to Anne.
"Have you no welcome, Madame?"
"My husband's friends," she said, "were not always mine; and I see no reason why you should continue further to address me."
"De Brissac? Bah! I was never his friend."
"So much the more doubt upon your honesty;" and she moved as if to pass.
"Madame, D'Halluys told me this morning that he is determined that you shall be his wife."
"The vicomte's confidence is altogether too large." She laughed, and made another ineffectual attempt to pass. "Monsieur, you are detaining me."
"That is correct. I have much to say to you. In the first place, you played us all for a pack of fools, and all the while you were carrying on an intrigue with that fellow who calls himself the Chevalier du Cévennes."
Madame's lips closed firmly, and a circle of color spotted her cheeks. There had been times recently when she regretted De Brissac's death.
"What have you to say, Madame?" he demanded.
"To you? Nothing, save that if you do not at once stand aside I shall call for aid. Your impertinence is even greater than Monsieur d'Halluys'. I wonder at your courage in thus addressing me."
"I am not a patient man, Madame," coming closer. "I have publicly vowed my love for you, and Heaven nor hell shall keep me from you."
"Not even myself? Come, Monsieur," wrathfully, "you are acting like a fool or a boy. Women such as I am are not won in this braggart fashion. Certainly you must admit that I have something to say in regard to the disposition of my hand. And let me say this at once: I shall wed no man; and were either you or Monsieur le Comte the last man in the world, I should run away and hide. Stand aside."
"And if I should use force?" throwing aside the reins of self-control.
"Force, force!" flinging wide her hands; "you speak to me of force! Monsieur, you are not a fool, but a madman."
"But we are still tender toward the Chevalier?" snarling.
"The least I can say of Monsieur le Chevalier is that he is a gentleman."
"A gentleman? Ho! that is rich. A gentleman!"
The path was at this point almost too narrow for her to walk around him; so she waited without replying.
"And do not forget, Madame, that you are a fugitive from justice, and that a word to Monsieur de Lauson …"
"I dare you to speak, Monsieur," with growing anger. "Have you no bogus paper to hold over my head? Are you about to play the vicomte's trick second-hand?"
"I know nothing about his tricks, but I shall kill him at an early date."
Madame's shrug said plainly that it mattered nothing to her. "Once more, will you stand aside, or must I call?"
"Call, Madame!" His violence got the better of him, and he seized her wrist. "Call to the fellow who calls himself the Chevalier; call!"
"Do I hear some one calling my name?" said a voice not far away.
D'Hérouville looked over madame's shoulder, while madame turned with relief. She quickly released her wrist and sped some distance up the path, passing the Chevalier, who did not stop till he stood face to face with D'Hérouville.
"You were about to remark?" began the Chevalier, a frank and honest hatred in his eyes.
The count eyed him contemptuously. "Stand out of the way, you …"
"Do not speak that word aloud, Monsieur," interrupted the Chevalier, gloomily, "or I will force it down your throat, though we both tumble over the cliff."
D'Hérouville knew the Périgny blood well enough to believe that the Chevalier was in earnest. "It would be your one opportunity," he said; "for you do not suppose I shall do you the honor to cross swords with you."
"Most certainly I do. You laughed that night, and no man shall laugh at me and boast of it."
"I shall always laugh," and the count's laughter, loud and insulting, drifted to where madame stood.
There was something so sinister in the echo that she became chilled. She watched the two men, fascinated by she knew not what.
"You shall die for that laugh," said the Chevalier, paling.
"By the cliff, then, but never by the sword."
"By the sword. I shall challenge you at the first mess you attend. If you refuse and state your reasons, I promise to knock you down. If you persist in refusing, I shall slap your face wherever and whenever we chance to meet. That is all I have to say to you; I trust that it is explicit."
D'Hérouville's eyes were full of venom. "It wants only the poet to challenge me, and the circle will be complete. I will fight the poet and the vicomte; they come from no doubtful source. As for you, I will do you the honor to hire a trooper to take my place. Fight you? You make me laugh against my will! And as for threats, listen to me. Strike me, and by the gods! Madame shall learn who you are, or, rather, who you pretend to be." The count whistled a bar of music, swung about cavalierly, and retraced his steps toward the lower town.
The Chevalier stared at his retreating figure till it sank below the level of the ridge. He was without redress; he was impotent; D'Hérouville would do as he said. God! He struck his hands together in his despair, forgetful that madame saw his slightest movement. When he recollected her, he moved toward her. Madame. D'Hérouville had called her madame.
On seeing him approach her first desire was to move in the same direction; that is to say, to keep the distance at its present measure. A thousand questions flitted through her brain. She had heard a sentence which so mystified her that the impulse to flee went as suddenly as it came. She succeeded in composing her features by the time he arrived at her side.
"Madame," he said, quietly, "whither were you bound?"
She looked at him blankly. For the life of her she could not tell at that moment what had been her destination! The situation struck her as so absurd that she could barely stifle the hysterical laughter which rushed to her lips.
"I … I will return to the château," she finally replied.
"The count was annoying you?" walking beside her.
"Thanks to you, Monsieur, the annoyance is past."
Some ground was gone over in silence. This silence disturbed her far more than the sound of his voice. It gave him a certain mastery. So she spoke.
"You said 'Madame'," tentatively.
"Such was the title D'Hérouville applied." And again he became silent.
"Did he tell you my name?" with a sudden and unexpected fierceness.
"No, Madame; he did not speak your name. But he knows it; while I, who love you honorably and more than my life, I must remain in ignorance. An expedition is to start soon, Madame, and as I shall join it, my presence here will no longer afford you annoyance."
"Wherefore this rage, Madame, shining in your beautiful eyes, thinning your lips, widening your nostrils?"
Madame was in a rage; but not even the promise of salvation would have forced the cause from her lips. O for Paris, where, lightly and wittily, she could humble this man! Here wit was stale on the tongue, and every one went about with a serious purpose. She went on, her chin tilted, her gaze lofty. The wind tossed her hair, there were phantom roses on her cheeks which bloomed and withered and bloomed yet again. Diane, indeed: Diane of the green Aegean sea and the marbles of Athens!
"You need go no farther, Monsieur. It is quite unnecessary, as I know the way perfectly."
"I prefer to see you safe inside the château," with quiet determination.
Was this the gallant who had attracted her fancy? This was not the way he had made love in former days. Slyly her eyes revolved in his direction. His temples were grey! She had not noted this change till now. Grey; and the face, tanned even in the shaven jaws, was careworn. There was a gesture which escaped his notice. Why had she been guilty of the inexcusable madness, the inexplicable folly, of this voyage?
"Madame, this is your door."
The Chevalier stepped aside and uncovered.
"Monsieur, you have lost a valuable art." There was a fleeting glance, and she vanished within, leaving him puzzled and astonished by the unexpected softening of her voice. How long he stood there, with his gaze fixed upon the vacant doorway, he never knew. What did she mean?
"Well, Paul?" And Victor, having come up behind, laid his hand on the Chevalier's arm. "Do you know her, then?" nodding toward the door.
"Know her?" The Chevalier faced his comrade. "Would to God, lad, I did not, for she has made me the most unhappy of men."
The poet trembled in terror at the light within. "She is … ?"
"Yes, Diane; Diane, whose name I murmur in my dreams, waking or sleeping."
"She?" in half a whisper. "Her name?"
"Her name? No! I know her as a mystery; as Tantalus thirsting for the fruit which hangs ever beyond the reach, I know her; as a woman who is not what she seems, always masked, with or without the cambric. Know her?" with a laugh full of despair.
Victor was a man of courage and resource. "I know where there's a two-quart bottle of burgundy, Paul. Bah! life will look cheerful enough through that mellow red. Come with me."
The Chevalier followed him to the lower town, where, in a room in one of the warehouses, they sat down to the wine.
"Let the women go hang, lad, one and all!" cried the Chevalier, after his sixth and final glass.
"Let them go hang!" But Victor did not confide; not he, loyal friend! And when he held his emptied glass on high, sighed, and dropped it on the earthen floor, the Chevalier did not know that his comrade's heart lay shattered with the glass. Gallant poet!
As madame threaded her way through the dim corridor, but one thought occupied her mind. It echoed and re-echoed—"Or, rather, what you pretend to be." What did D'Hérouville mean by that? To what did the Chevalier pretend? Her foot struck something. It was a book. Absently she stooped and picked it up, carrying it to her room. "Or, rather, what you pretend to be." If only she had heard the first part of the sentence, or what had led to it! The Chevalier was gradually becoming as much of a mystery to her as she was to him. There had been a sea-change; he was no longer a fop; there was grey in his hair; he was a man. In her room there was light from the sun. Carelessly she glanced at the book. It was grey with dust, which she blew away. Evidently it had lain some time in the corridor. She flapped the covers. The title, dim and worn, smiled drolly up. She blushed, and abruptly laid the offending volume on the table. The merry Vicar of Meudon was not wholly acceptable to her woman's mind. To whom did it belong, this foundling book? With a grimace which would have caused Rabelais to smile, she turned back the cover.
"The Chevalier's!" To what did he pretend? "I shall send it back to his room. Gabrielle, Gabrielle, thou wert a fool, and a fool's folly has brought you to Quebec! A nun? I should die! Why did I come? In mercy's name, why? … A letter?" An oblong envelope, lying on the floor, attracted her attention. She took it up with a deal more curiosity than she had the book. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny," she read, "to be delivered into his hands at my death." She studied the scrawl. It was not the Chevalier's; and yet, how strangely familiar to her eyes! Should she send it directly to the marquis or to the son? She debated for several moments. Then she touched the bell and summoned the woman whom the governor had kindly placed at her service.
"Take this book and letter to Monsieur du Cévennes, and if he is not there, leave it in his room." Her lack of curiosity saved her. Some women would have opened the letter, read, and been destroyed. But madame's guiding star was undimmed.
It was just before the evening mess that the Chevalier, on entering his room, saw the volume and the letter. He gave his attention immediately to the letter; and, became strangely fascinated. It was addressed to his father! "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death." Whose death? The Chevalier rested the letter on the palm of his hand. How came it here? He inspected the envelope. It was unsealed. He balanced it, first on one hand, then, on the other. Was it the wine that caused the shudder? Whose death? kept ringing through his brain. How the gods must have smiled as they played with the fate of this man! Terror and tragedy, and only an opaque sheet of paper between! Whose death? The envelope was old, the ink was faded. What was written within? Did the contents in any way concern him? It was within a finger's reach. But he hesitated, as a blind man hesitates when the guiding hand is suddenly withdrawn. "To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death."
"It is his, not mine; let him read it. Breton, lad, here's your Rabelais, come back I know not how. But here is a letter which you will deliver to Jehan, who in turn will see that it reaches its owner."
Thus, the gods, having had their fill of play, relented.
CHAPTER XXIII
A MARQUIS DONS HIS BALDRIC
They were men, the marquis and his contemporaries. They were born in rough times, they lived and died roughly. They were men who made France what it was in life and is to-day in history, resplendent. The marquis never went about his affairs impetuously; he calculated this and balanced that. When he arrived at a conclusion or formed a purpose, it was definite. He never swerved nor retreated. To-night he had formed a purpose, and he proceeded toward it directly, as was his custom.
"Jehan, my campaign rapier," he said.
"Campaign rapier, Monsieur!" repeated the astonished lackey. Monsieur le Marquis had not worn that weapon in almost ten years.
"Take care, Jehan; you know that I am not particularly fond of repeating commands. Certainly my old basket-hilt took the journey with me."
Jehan went rummaging among his master's personal effects, and soon returned. He buckled on the marquis's shoulder a worn baldric pendent to which was the famous basket-sword which had earned for its owner the sobriquet of "Prince of a hundred duels."
"It has grown heavy since the last time I put it on," observed the marquis, thoughtfully, weighing the blade on his palms. "Those were merry days," reminiscently.
"Monsieur goes abroad to-night?" essayed the lackey, experiencing an old-time thrill.
"Yes, but alone. Now, a cup of wine undiluted. Monsieur de Leviston is still in the hospital?"
"Yes, Monsieur."
"Through the kindly offices of Monsieur de Saumaise."
"Who is a gallant fellow."
To this Monsieur le Marquis readily agreed. "But Monsieur d'Hérouville is no longer confined. I saw him abroad this afternoon."
"They say that he is a furious swordsman, Monsieur," ventured Jehan, trembling.
The marquis threw a keen glance at his servant. "What did they say of me, even ten years ago?"
"You had no peer in all France, Monsieur … ten years ago."
The marquis smiled. "I have grown thin in ten years, that is all."
"Shall you leave any commands, Monsieur?"
"You may have the evening to yourself, and don't return till midnight."
Jehan bowed. There was nothing for him to say.
At dinner the marquis was unusually brilliant and witty. He dazzled the governor and his ladies, and unbent so far as to accept four glasses of burgundy. On one side sat Anne de Vaudemont, on the other the governor's son, and directly opposite, Madame de Brissac, an unnamed mystery to them all save Anne. Madame, despite her antagonism and the terror lest she be discovered and unmasked by those remarkable grey eyes, found herself irresistibly drawn toward and fascinated by this remarkable exponent of a past epoch. She forgot the stories she had heard regarding his past, she forgot the sinister shadow he had cast over her own life, she forgot all save that without such men as this there would and could be no history. And she was quite ignorant of the fact that her scrutiny was being returned in kind.
"Madame," he asked, "have I not met you somewhere in wide and beautiful France?"
"France is wide, as you say. I do not recollect having seen you before taking passage on the Henri IV."
He felt instinctively that she had immediately erected a barrier between them; not from her words, but from their hidden sense. He at once turned to Anne and recounted an anecdote relating to her distinguished grandsire. But covertly he watched madame; watched the half-drooping eyelids, the shadow of a dimple in her left cheek, the curving throat, the shimmering ringlet which half obscured the perfect ear. He had seen this face before, or one as like it as the reflection of the moon upon placid water is like the moon itself. Now and then he frowned, remembering his purpose. But why was this young woman, who was fit to grace a palace, why was she here incognito? Ah!
"Madame, have you met Monsieur le Chevalier du Cévennes, my son?"
Anne trembled for her friend.
"I have noticed him, Monsieur. Is he anything like you, as you were in your youth?" It was admirable, but not even Anne dreamed of the delicacy of the thread which held together madame's tones.
"Modesty compels me to remain silent," replied the marquis.
"And how goes Mazarin's foreign policy?" asked De Lauson.
"Politics is a weed which I have cast out of my garden, your Excellency," said the marquis, laughing.
Madame had a grateful thought for the governor, and she regretted that she could not express it aloud. He had changed the current from a dangerous channel.
It was the marquis who opened the door for the ladies; it was the marquis who said good night with an inflection which gave it a new meaning; it was the marquis who intruded into madame's thoughts, causing her partly to forget the letter and the broken sentence of D'Hérouville's.
"What an extraordinary man he is, that marquis!" was Anne's comment as they mounted the stairs.
"Monsieur le Chevalier has yet a good deal to learn from his father. See the moon, Anne; how beautiful it is!"
"Your Excellency," began the marquis, resuming his seat, "where may I find Monsieur le Comte d'Hérouville this evening?"
"I am at a loss to say," was the reply, "unless he is at the hospital, which I understand he left this day."
"He is not here at the château, then?"
"Not at my invitation," tersely. "I will, however, undertake to find him for you."
"I shall be grateful."
So the governor despatched an orderly, who returned within half an hour with the information that Monsieur le Comte was waiting in the citadel's parade. The marquis rose.
"Monsieur, my thanks; your Excellency will excuse me, as I have something important to say to Monsieur d'Hérouville."
It was only when the marquis was leaving the hall that the governor noticed the basket-hilt of the old man's dueling sword. Its formidable length disquieted his Excellency more than he would have liked to confess.
It was early moonlight, and the parade ground was empty and ghostly. The marquis glanced about. He discovered D'Hérouville leaning against a cannon, contemplating the escarps and bastions of the citadel. The marquis went forward, striking his heels soundly. D'Hérouville roused himself and turned round.
"You are Monsieur le Comte d'Hérouville," began the marquis, abruptly.
"I am," peering into the marquis's face, and stepping back in surprise.
"You come, I believe, from an ancient and notable house."
"Almost as notable as yours, Monsieur le Marquis," bowing in his wonder, though this wonder was not wholly free from suspicion.
"Almost, but not quite," added the marquis. "The House of Périgny was established some hundred and fifty years before royalty gave you a patent. Your grandsire and your father were brave men."
"So history writes it," his puzzlement still growing.
"I wish a few words with you in private."
"With me?"
"With you."
"I suppose his Excellency has summoned me here for this purpose. But I am in a hurry. The night air is not good for me, it being heavy with dews, and I am out of the hospital only this day."
The marquis's grim laugh was jarring.
"You laugh, Monsieur?" patiently.
"Yes. I am never in a hurry."
"What is it you wish to say?"
"It is a question. Why do you hate Monsieur le Comte, my son?"
"Monsieur le Comte?" with frank irony.
"In all that the name implies. Some man has, over De Leviston's shoulder, called my son a son of … the left hand." The words seemed to skin the marquis's lips.
"And you, Monsieur," banteringly, "did you not make him so?" D'Hérouville began to understand.
"He is my lawful son."
"Ah! then you have gone to Parliament and had him legitimatized? That is royal on your part, believe me."
"The son of my wife, Monsieur."
"Then, what the devil … !"
"And when Monsieur de Leviston accused my son of not knowing who his mother was," continued the old man, coldly and evenly, which signified a deadly wrath, "you laughed."
"Certainly I did not weep." D'Hérouville did not know the caliber of the man he was speaking to. He merely expected that the marquis would request him to apologize.
"My son has challenged you?" with the same unchanging quiet.
"He has; but I have this day advised him not to wear out his voice in that direction, for certainly I shall not cross swords with him."
"You are very discreet," dryly.
"And I shall make no apologies."
"Apologies, Monsieur! Can one offer an apology for what you have done? Besides, it is said that my son is magnificent with the rapier and would accept the apology of no man."
"Bah! That is a roundabout way of calling me a coward."
"I was presently coming to the phrase bluntly. If I were not seventy; if I were young," as if musing.
"Well," truculently, "if you were young?"
The marquis's bold and fearless eyes sparkled with fire. "I am an old man; vain wishes are useless. You are a coward, Monsieur; one of the coarser breed; and I say to you if my son had not challenged you or had accepted an apology, I would disown him indeed. As you will not fight him, and as apologies are out of the question … Here, Monsieur; there is equal light, and we are alone."
"I do not kill old men."
"Then listen: I apply to you the term De Leviston applied to my son."
"Monsieur, retract that!"
Their shoulders brushed and glowing eyes looked into glowing eyes.
"Bah! In my fifties I killed more men of your kidney than I am proud of. Retract? I never retract;" and the marquis snapped his fingers under D'Hérouville's nose.
D'Hérouville slapped the marquis in the face. "Your age, Monsieur, will not save you. No man shall address me in this fashion!"
"Not even my son, eh, Monsieur? There is still blood in your muddy veins, then? Come to my room, Monsieur; no one will see us there. And you will not be subjected to the evils of the night air and the dew;" and the calm old man waved a hand toward the lights which shone from the windows of his room above.
"You have brought this upon yourself," said D'Hérouville, cold with fury, forgetting his newly healed wound.
"What worried me most was the fear that you might not understand me. Permit me to show you the way, Monsieur."
The marquis was the calmer of the two. A strange and springing new life seemed to have entered his watery veins. A flare of the old-time fire rose up within him: he was again the prince of a hundred duels. On reaching the room, he lit all the candles and arranged them so as to leave no shadows. Next he poured out a glass of wine and drank it, drew his rapier, and bared his arm.
At the sight of that arm, thin and white, D'Hérouville felt all his ire ooze from his pores. He could not measure swords with this old man, who stood near enough to his grave without being sent into it offhand.
"Monsieur, forgive me for striking an old man, who is visibly my inferior in strength and youth. My anger got the better of me. Your courage compels my admiration. I can not fight you."
The marquis spat upon the floor. "On guard, Monsieur!"
"If you insist;" and D'Hérouville stepped forward carelessly.
The blades came together. Then followed a sight for the paladins. For it took D'Hérouville but a moment to learn why the marquis had been called the prince of a hundred duels. Only twice in his life had he met such a master.
"I am old, eh, Monsieur?" said the marquis, making an assault which D'Hérouville, had his blade swerved the breadth of a hair, would never have neutralized.
Back, step by step, he was forced, till he felt his shoulders touch the wall. He was beginning to suffer cruelly. A warmth on his side told him that his old wound had opened and was bleeding. Good God! and if this old man at whom he had laughed should kill him! With a desperate return he succeeded in regaining the open. He tried the offensive, it was too late. The marquis, describing a circle, toppled over a candle, which rolled across the floor and was snuffed in its own melting wax.
The marquis's eyes burned like carbuncles; his blade was like living light. He spoke.
"I am old; beware of old dogs that have teeth."
Round and round they circled, back and forth. D'Hérouville was fighting for his life. His own wonderful mastery, and this alone, kept the life in his body. Sometimes it seemed that he must be in a dream, the victim of some terrible nightmare. For the marquis's face did not look human, animated as it was with the lust to kill.
"God!" burst from the count's cracked lips. His sword was rolling at his feet. It was the end. He shut his eyes.
The marquis drew back his arm to send the blade home, and there came a change. At the very moment when victory must have been his, he staggered, a black mist filming his eyes. The magic blade slipped from his grasp and clanged to the floor. He tried to save himself, but he could not. He fell by the side of his sword and lay there silent. His strength, had been superhuman, the last flare of a burnt-out fire.
"Good God, and I never touched him!" gasped, D'Hérouville. He was covered with a cold sweat. "A moment more and I had been a dead man!" He brushed his eyes, and his hand shook with a transient palsy.
There was a tableau: the aged noble stretched out beside his rapier, D'Hérouville leaning against the wall and wild-eyed … and a black-robed figure standing in the doorway.
"Have you killed him?" asked the black-robed figure, stepping into the room.
D'Hérouville gazed at him, incapable of speaking.
"Have you killed him, I say?" repeated Brother Jacques.
D'Hérouville choked, and presently found his voice. "I have not even touched him. God is witness! He has been stricken by a vapor, or he is dead."
"It is well for you, Monsieur, that your sword did not touch him. You had better go."
The count's hand shook so that he could hardly put his rapier into the scabbard. With a dazed glance at the marquis, who had not yet stirred, with another glance at the priest, he passed out, holding the flat of his hand against his side.
Immediately Brother Jacques bent over the fallen man.
"He lives; that is well. So I must go on to the end."
He poured out some wine and bathed the marquis's temples and wrists. Next he lifted the old man in his arms and carried him to the bed, undressed him, and covered him over. He drew a chair to the side of the bed and sat down, waiting and watching. Occasionally his glance wandered, to the sinking candles, to the moon outside, from the marbled face on the pillow to the empty wine-glass on the small table. Once he recollected seeing an envelope within a hand's span of the glass.
A duel! This palsied old man pressing youth and vigor to the wall! It seemed incredible. What must this man have been in his prime? Age vanquishing youth! A shiver ran across Brother Jacques's spine, a shiver of admiration and wonder. He touched the withered hand which had but a few moments since been endowed with marvelous skill and cunning and strength: it was icy and damp.
He filled the glass of wine, ready for the marquis's awakening, and again found his gaze entrapped by the envelope. His hand reached out for it absently and without purpose. He read the address indifferently—"To Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, to be delivered into his hands at my death." The marquis, then, had lost some friend? He put back the letter, placing a book upon it to prevent its being swept to the floor.
There was a sound. The marquis had recovered his senses. He looked blankly around, at the candles, at Brother Jacques, at the sheets which covered his strangely deadened limbs.
"Ah! I have had only a bad dream, then? Pour me a glass of wine, and I shall sleep."
CHAPTER XXIV
SISTER BENIE AND A DISSERTATION ON CHARITY
Three days passed. At Orléans the settlers had had two or three brushes with marauding Mohawks. A letter from Father Chaumonot at the mission in Onondaga reported favorable progress. D'Hérouville was again out of hospital; and De Leviston had stolen quietly away to Montreal, where he was shortly to succumb to the plague. Only three persons knew of the remarkable conflict between the marquis and D'Hérouville: the son, Brother Jacques, and the Vicomte d'Halluys, who possessed that mysterious faculty of finding out many things of which the majority were unaware. As for the marquis, Brother Jacques fostered the belief that it had been only a wild dream.
Each morning Madame de Brissac watched with growing eagerness the lading of the good ship Henri IV. It seemed impossible to her that the deception in regard to the Chevalier could continue much longer. Where was the dénouement on which she had builded so fondly? She had put it off so many times that perhaps it was now too late. Sooner or later Victor would slip, and the mask would be at an end. And why not? Why not have done with a comedy which had grown stale? Why not tell Monsieur du Cévennes that she was Gabrielle Diane de Montbazon, she whose miniature he had crushed beneath the heel of his riding boot? Rather would she tell him than leave it to the offices of D'Hérouville or the vicomte. Surely her purpose had been to bring him to his knees and then laugh! Relent? Not while her cup still held a drop of pride. She had been mad indeed. To have come here to Quebec with purpose and impulse undefined! Daily she mocked her weakness. Truly she was the daughter of her mother, extravagant, unbalanced, blown hither and thither by caprice as a leaf is blown by an autumn wind.
The thought of him stirred her as nothing had ever before stirred her. It was hate, it was wounded pride crying out for vengeance, it was the barb of scorn urging her to give back in kind. And, heaven above! he had been on his knees, and she had dallied with the moment of revenge even as a cat dallies with a mouse. Diane! She detested the name. Fool! And yet, why was he here? What was this sudden veil of mystery which hid him from her secret eyes? Victor knew, and yet his love for her was not so great that he could tell her another's secret. And the governor knew, D'Hérouville, and the vicomte; and they were as silent as stone. Love? A fillip of her finger for love! Happy indeed was she to learn that neither the marquis nor the Chevalier would return to France on the Henri IV. Such a way have the women.
Monsieur le Marquis lay in his bed, the bed from which he was to rise but once again in life. His thin fingers had drawn the coverlet closely under his chin, and from time to time they worked spasmodically. His head, scarce less white than the pillow beneath it, went on nodding from side to side, as if in perpetual negation to those puzzling questions which occupied his brain. His eyebrows were constantly bending, and his grey eyes burned with a fever which was never to be subdued. Across the foot of the bed lay a golden bar of morning sunlight.
"How long must I lie in this cursed bed?" he asked.
Brother Jacques left the window and came to the bedside. "Perhaps a month, Monsieur; it all depends upon your patience."
"Patience? I have little against my account. When does the Henri IV sail?"
"A week from to-day."
"In bed or on foot, I shall sail with it. I am weary of trees, and rocks, and water. I desire to see the cobbles of Rochelle and Périgny before I die. Have you no canary in this abominable land?"
"The physician denies you wine, Monsieur."
"And what does that fool know about my needs?" demanded the invalid, stirring his feet as if striving to cast aside the sunlight. "Draw the shutter; the sun bites into my eyes. I abhor sunshine in bed. I am seventy, and yet I have risen with the sun for more than sixty-five years. Have you any books?"
"Only of a religious and sacred character, and a volume of the letters of the Order." Brother Jacques offered these without confidence.
"Drivel! Find me something lively: Monsieur Brantôme, for instance. Surely Monsieur de Lauson has these memoirs in his collection."
"I shall make inquiries." Brother Jacques was not at ease.
A long pause ensued.
It was the marquis who broke it. "Why do you come and stand at the side of the bed and stare at me when you suppose I am sleeping? I have watched you, and it annoys me."
"I shall do so no more, Monsieur."
"But why?"
"Perhaps I was contemplating what a happiness it would be to bring about your salvation."
"Ah! I remember now. I told you that if ever I changed my mind regarding worship I should make my first confession to you. Yes, I remember distinctly. Well, Monsieur, you have still some time to wait. I am not upon my death-bed."
The priest turned aside his head.
"Eh? Has that fool of a blood-letter made an ante-mortem?"
"No, Monsieur. But the strongest and youngest of us retire each night, not knowing if we shall rise with the morrow. And you are more ill than you think. It is what they call the palsy. It can not be cured. But your soul may be saved. There is time."
"Palsy? Bah! The wine always stopped my head from wagging. And hang me if that dream of mine hasn't numbed my legs." The marquis held out a hand. "And in my dream I believed this hand to be holding a sword! It was a gallant fight, as I remember. I was Quixote, defending some fool-thing or other."
"Have you ever thought of the future, Monsieur?"
"Death? My faith, no! I have been too busy with the past. The past, the past!" and the marquis closed his eyes. "It walks beside me like a shadow. If I were not too old … I should regret … some of it."
"There is relief in confession."
"I have nothing to confess."
"Shall I seek Monsieur le Chevalier?"
"No. Do not disturb him. He has his affairs. He is busy becoming great and respected," ironically. "Besides, the sight of the stubborn fool would send me into spasms. After all the trouble I have taken for his sake! You do well to take the orders. You do not marry, and you have no ungrateful sons. It was not enough to confess that I lied to him; I must strain the buckles at my knees. But not yet."
"Lied?"
"Why, yes. I told him that he was … But what is it to you? He is a fool … like his father. To throw away a marquisate and the income of a prince! Curse this bed!" with sullen fury.
"Perhaps, Monsieur, the bed is of your own making."
"Ah! So we also indulge in irony? If this bed is of my own making, my mind was occupied with softer things. Would you not like the love of women, endless gold, priceless wines, and all that the world gives to the worldly? Come; what secret envy is yours, you who sleep on straw, in clammy cells, and dine on crusts?"
Brother Jacques went back to his window. He was pale. How deftly had the marquis placed his finger on the raw! Envy? All his life he had envied the rich and the worldly; all his life he had struggled between his cravings and his honesty. Had he not shaved his crown that his head might have a pallet to sleep on and his hunger a crust? His nails indented his palms, but he felt no pain. He was grateful for the cool of the morning air. Down below he saw the Vicomte d'Halluys tramping about in company with some soldiers. The Jesuit stared at that picturesque face. Where had he seen it prior to that night at the Corne d'Abondance?
Up and down the winding path settlers, soldiers, merchants, trappers and Indians straggled, with an occasional seigneur lending to the scene the pomp of a vanished Court. Far away the priest could see a hawk, circling and circling in the summer sky. Now and then a dove flashed by, and a golden bumblebee blundered into the chamber.
"I will fetch Sister Benie," Brother Jacques said at length. He dreaded to remain with this fierce-eyed old man from whom nothing seemed hidden, not even secret thought. "She is an excellent nurse."
"She will please me better than Monsieur le Comte."
The title stirred Brother Jacques strangely.
"But give her to understand," added the marquis, "that I want no canting Loyola. Who is this Sister Benie?"
"She is of the Ursulines."
"No, no; I mean, what does she look like and of what family."
"I have never studied her visual beauty," coldly. Brother Jacques was anxious to be gone.
"I have known priests who were otherwise inclined. I suppose you can see her soul. That is interesting."
"I will go at once in quest of her;" and Brother Jacques went forth.
The marquis turned a cheek to his pillow. "Jehan!"
"Yes, Monsieur," answered the old lackey from his corner.
"I do not like that young priest. He is all eyes; and he makes me cold."
Brother Jacques meanwhile found Sister Benie in one of the Indian schoolrooms.
"Sister, are you too busy to attend the wants of a sick man?"
"Who is the sick man, my son?"
"Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny."
"He is very ill?" laying down her hooks.
"He can not leave his bed. He wishes some one to read to him. I would gladly do it, only I should not have the quieting effect."
The blue eyes of the nun had a range that was far away. Brother Jacques eyed her curiously.
"I will go," she said presently. "Is not the Chevalier du Cévennes the marquis's son?"
"He is."
"And is Monsieur le Marquis of a patient mind?"
"I confess that he is not. That is why it is difficult for me to wait upon his wants. He is a disappointed man; and being without faith, he is without patience. However, if you are too busy …"
"Lead me to him, my son," quietly.
Thus it was that the marquis, waking from the light sleep into which he had fallen after Brother Jacques's departure, espied a nun sitting in a chair by the window facing south, the shutters of which had been thrown wide open again. The room was warm with sunshine. The nun was not aware that Jehan sat in a darkened corner, watching her slightest move, nor that the marquis had awakened. She was dreaming with unclosed eyes, the expression on her face one of repose. The face which the marquis saw had at one time been very beautiful. Presently the marquis's scrutiny became a stare. … That scar; what did it recall to his wandering mind? A fit of trembling seized him and took the strength from his propping arm. The creaking of the bed aroused her.