_THE MATSHI SKOUÉOU._
AS the party came out into the street the flambeaux of the servants
flared wildly against the solemn sky of night.
“It is against the rules of the Church, this expedition,” hazarded
Lydia, raising the most beauteous of anxious eyes.
“Then risk it not,” counselled Madame de St. Rochs, briskly. “There is
always a danger of being attacked by the savages, but we shall be well
protected. For us, that promenade takes place to-morrow. Just fancy, a
witch who talks to the devil face to face! It is assuredly a sin, but we
will do ample penance afterwards, and Father Denys is never severe to
those who are contrite for their sins.”
“There is but evil to be found with the witch of the woods and all
others of her tribe, I answer to you for that, Mesdames and Messieurs.”
Bras de Fer removed the pipe from his mouth and gazed around
reflectively at the circle of eager faces. Here, where he could pose as
an authority, he found no difficulty in expressing his views. “Trust to
the experience of a coureur de bois to whom the silence of the forest
has taught much that is not found in books. Tales of the most exciting I
could tell you of the Lady of the Iris, whom the redskins call Matshi
Skouéou.”
“Tell us, then, I pray thee, good Baptiste,” implored Madame de St.
Rochs. “It is in such tales we delight.”
“The Matshi Skouéou,” the voyageur began, “is in alliance with the Evil
One, and this witch must be one of her disciples. Her green eyes possess
the power of fascination, like those of a snake. On her head she wears a
crown of iris flowers, and she is surrounded by flames of fire. She
never appears in the light of day, but at midnight she descends upon a
moonbeam, and appears in the foam of waterfalls, in the shadow of dark
rocks, or among the mists rising in the valleys. Her favorite hour is
when all nature reposes, the time when the fire-flies, those spirits of
the lost, dance over the rank marshes; when bats beat the air with their
wings, or cling with sharp, slim claws to the rocks; when the silence is
broken only by the croaking of frogs and the hou-hou of night birds. It
is then the Matshi Skouéou descends to gather the iris with which to
crown herself and to invoke the great Manitou.
“‘Children,’ say the old people, and they know that of which they speak,
those old ones; ‘never go near the river by moonlight. Hidden behind the
rushes the Lady of the Iris watches for her prey; her voice enthralls
the senses, but those upon whom her glance falls are blighted. Woe to
him who falls into her power.’ No, no, Mesdames and Messieurs, remain at
home and say your prayers; think not of the witch of the woods.”
This salutary advice, instead of allaying the young people’s curiosity,
served only to increase it. Baptiste, much against his better judgment,
was forced to serve as guide to the expedition, and the hardy voyageur
uttered the most doleful predictions concerning the disasters that would
surely follow this traffic with unholy things.
Far in the heart of the forest stood the solitary lodge of the Witch of
the Woods. The witch herself was a diminutive old crone, wrinkled and
shrivelled like a mummy, in whom the whole force of a vigorous vitality
was gathered in a pair of luminous dark eyes. Displaying no surprise at
the late hour which the strangers had chosen for their visit, she
received them with cringing servility, the chief characteristic of her
face being a kind of animal cunning.
When the merry party found themselves in direct contact with the
consequences of their indiscretion, all the fun of the enterprise faded
away, and only the undefined sense of terror and mystery remained. In
those days superstition reigned supreme; but at the same time existence
was environed with real dangers of so many kinds that it required no
effort of imagination to create phantoms of dread. As they stood
silently seeking mutual support and encouragement amidst the quiet of
the forest, a vague sound made itself heard. At first it was scarcely
perceptible, but growing more distinct, it rose in waves of tender
harmony, and then receded to die away in the distance. Lydia, frightened
and tired, began to cry. Bras de Fer had drawn his rosary from his
pocket, and was telling over his beads assiduously.
“The blessed saints will bear me witness that I am here against my
will,” he protested. “Besides that I am protected by a scapulary and a
piece of consecrated palm against the attacks of evil spirits.”
As the mysterious sounds were resumed, the bushranger looked up gravely
from his prayers.
“Ah! well, Mesdames and Messieurs, will you now believe the word of a
man who has not gained his knowledge from books? Midnight, the first
night of the new moon, that unearthly music! _Voilà!_”
“Bah! that is a seal on the rocks far in the distance,” responded du
Chesne promptly.
“_Mon dieu!_ I fear—I would I had not ventured—I dare not!” Madame de
St. Rochs turned her troubled childish face towards her companions, her
brown eyes moist with tears, when informed that those who would
penetrate the mysteries of futurity must, one by one, accompany the
witch into still deeper recesses of the forest. Du Chesne jestingly
assured her that as matron of the party she should set an example of
dignified courage.
“Let us return, Cecile,” proposed her husband.
Young as he was, Armand de St. Rochs had already given incontestible
proofs of gallantry, but he had no taste for ghostly terrors and would
have avoided them. But the girl-wife’s curiosity still exceeded her
fear; she would not consent to abandon her project.
“_Parbleu!_ that is demanding too much of a lady. It is the gentlemen’s
place to lead the way,” proposed Crisasi. “I shall be charmed to venture
first. Having little to risk and much to hope—.”
“And being, as your friends are well aware, a stranger to fear,”
interrupted du Chesne, laying his hand upon his companion’s shoulder in
a friendly persuasive fashion.
When after an interval the Chevalier returned to the party his smile was
as suave, his tone as bland as usual. No one would have divined that the
Sicilian had received, and accepted as irrevocable, his death-warrant.
Toward Diane he had gained a new confidence; his manner was respectful,
as became a gentleman, but he scarcely withdrew his eyes from her face.
The miserable past and doubtful future were forgotten in the rich flavor
of the exquisite present, intensified now by the conviction of its brief
duration.
Du Chesne presently reappeared, looking flushed and annoyed.
“It is a cheat! I saw nothing—but the water was red as blood,” he
announced.
“_Mort diable!_ I am convinced that no deception exists.” D’Ordieux
shook his perfumed locks excitedly. “I have had the very happiest
predictions, far exceeding my expectations, which should naturally be
great in a man of my rank—the promise of realizing my dearest hopes. I
entertain no doubt of its truth.”
“I wish we had not been tempted to come. I shall vow a taper to the
Virgin to keep us from harm,” whispered Madame de St. Rochs to her
husband.
“I am persuaded that this is very wicked. I was induced to consent
against my sense of right,” murmured Lydia, her blue eyes swimming in
tears. She was so deliciously timid and gentle that in his efforts to
reassure her du Chesne was betrayed into several trifling follies; but
her scruples were not sufficiently urgent to induce her to relinquish
her intentions, and she returned from the interview radiant and flushed.
It had finally come to Diane’s turn. The shade of the trees was
excessively dense, and for an instant the French girl stood confused by
the prevailing obscurity and the air of unreality in which all things
seemed to be wrapped. Presently she perceived the witch, with a long
wand in her hand, standing before a fountain of water. She was speaking
rapidly in her native tongue, her voice rising and falling in a weird,
monotonous recitative, a strange fantastic incantation in which distant
voices appeared to join, rendered more impressive by the perfect
stillness of the forest. She could hear sounding and re-echoing a slow,
solemn chant, dreamy and plaintive, redolent of mystery and
melancholy—long-drawn sighs, the whisper of angels’ voices, the song of
the winds, all those magical accents that captivate imagination. Then
there was a change. Quick and bright came broken notes, rising to a mad,
reckless gaiety that set the blood aflame; then mournful melody like the
autumn wind moaning in the branches, deepening and still deepening; anon
rising into the flourish of trumpets on the battle-field, and ending in
a funeral hymn floating through the dim aisles of some vast cathedral.
It was like the entrance into dream-life, for those enchanted strains
embodied all the extremes of human joy and suffering, aspiration and
yearning.
As she listened, the witch’s decrepit form expanded, acquiring size,
height and dignity; the crafty, sensual features gained a strange power
and majesty. A sudden sense of mystery, of dominant and all but
overpowering force, took possession of Diane. Every thought of her
heart, to the very depth of her being, seemed familiar to this influence
and responsive to its command. She shivered with an excited desperation
of feeling, of mingled desire and apprehension, of attraction and
repulsion. A rich, heavy perfume, resembling the fragrance of incense,
filled the air, and a thick cloud hung over the large basin of water
which stood before her. Obeying an imperious gesture of the Indian
woman, the girl advanced and bent over the basin.
Diane’s form grew rigid as she stood with eyes fixed on the water, their
pupils dilated in a terror-stricken gaze. A light film of pungent smoke
arose, which, wreathing itself in airy circles, seemed to catch a fiery
color from some unseen flame. Then, gradually crystallizing, it assumed
definite form. Was it a tissue of fancy and reality that produced a
creation so fantastic? Vaguely, as in a dream, she perceived remote
vistas, all weird and mysterious, peopled by spectral shapes, resounding
with far-off, uncertain footsteps. Then out of the darkness there glided
wavering, shadowy figures, at first faint and indefinite, then gradually
becoming more distinct. Clear as a reflection in a mirror, every
trifling, delicate detail perceptible, the scene shaped itself before
her eager gaze. It was a spacious apartment; two nuns were moving softly
to and fro about the lofty four-post bed; wax tapers, in tall
curiously-chased silver candlesticks, shed a softened radiance upon the
room. Lying on the bed, still and stately, like the heroic statue of
some knight asleep upon his tomb, lay a young man. In the shadow a girl,
slender and delicately formed, knelt upon a _prie-dieu_, her head bowed
upon her tightly clasped hands. For a time she seemed to be looking on
some scene that she had long known and loved, but which had taken on a
new aspect. Then as the flickering, uncertain light settled into a
clearer reflection, Mademoiselle de Monesthrol asked herself if that
aged nun with the sweet, benign expression did not surely resemble the
venerable Sister Marguerite Bourgeois; and that other, taller and more
active, certainly must be Sister Berbier, Superior of the Congregation
of Notre Dame. The young man’s features were concealed from her, but the
girlish mourner moved, and with the listlessness of apathetic suffering
turned her head.
A horrible paralyzing dread ran shuddering through Diane’s veins, for
that face, haggard, bloodless, convulsed by inexpressible grief, was her
own. Then a thick cloud of darkness passed between her and the mystic
scene; she was conscious only that the glowing eyes of the witch were
riveted intensely upon her. When, bewildered, she turned to look again,
all had collapsed like shadows in a dream; the basin of water alone
remained.
Diane did not often lose self-command. In this supreme crisis, when all
things seemed to be slipping away from her, she fought to persuade
herself that what she had seen had been all a creation of her own
imagination. A faint smile, like the palest of winter sunshine, curved
her lips; her hands tightened in a silent struggle at self-restraint.
When she raised her white face, a proud, confident look shone from her
eyes.
“Never yet has it been in the power of danger and disaster to daunt the
spirit of a de Monesthrol. Others have suffered—I may suffer—yet are
we still in the hands of the good God.” Drawing herself up with
conscious dignity, Diane spoke as though hurling defiance at some
unknown and threatening power.
The soft sounds of quivering leaves were the only noises that disturbed
the silence of the forest; she seemed to be surrounded by darkling
shadows profound with fate. The witch crouched low on the ground, her
face hidden in the folds of her blanket.
“We have been guilty of a folly. It is but an idle jest,” Diane said
quietly as she rejoined her companions. “We can go home now and do
penance for the sin we have committed.”
“Now that it is over I do not care about our expedition in the least,”
grumbled Madame de St. Rochs, who was tired and sleepy, and who had not
received the flattering predictions which her youthful buoyancy of
spirit had led her to anticipate.
Crisasi regarded Mademoiselle de Monesthrol earnestly. The man who loved
her alone perceived that the girl was stricken, and that, with hand
clenched hard against her heart, she was resolutely striving to control
her throbbing pulses.
“It has, indeed, been tiresome, and not worth the trouble,” he said
gently.
In the serene composure of Diane’s outward bearing as she left the scene
there was no trace of the tense passion and misery that were gnawing at
her heart. She was resolved calmly to face the future, whatever it might
contain.
* * * * *
That night, as the French girl lay awake, a strange flash of realization
came over her. Panting with pain and terror, flinging up her hands in
the darkness, she cried desperately:
“Holy Virgin! deliver me. That which I never imagined has come upon
me—has conquered me—that which will never again leave me in peace, all
my life long. Something beautiful and terrible—so terrible! Holy
Virgin! thou hast a woman’s heart—deliver me from this!”