_BAPTISTE FINDS HIS WITS._
NANON, who for the last few days had been as restless as an unquiet
spirit, had followed her mistress down to the beach, and now stood close
at hand, watching the preparations for departure which were being
energetically carried on. She found herself in a position antagonistic
to all her former instincts. Those about her were so completely
engrossed by their own concerns that no one remarked how greatly Nanon
had changed in the last few days. The Frenchwoman’s rich brown
complexion had turned to dark chalk color; her cap, usually poised so
coquettishly, was pushed carelessly to the extreme corner of her head;
the crushed lappets hung limp over her shoulders, her cheeks had lost
their rounded contour, her eyes were red and swollen with crying. A
rueful sense of loss was troubling her, and she had even ceased to care
whether Anne Barroy suspected the cause of her affliction.
“Is it for her sins that poor Nanon is taking thought, or is it the men
who are pleased to go that she is weeping for?” Anne had whispered to a
crony, taking care that her voice should be quite loud enough to be
overheard.
The malicious words revived Nanon’s spirit. As she spoke there was a
blaze of fiery agitation, and a light of pain flashed through the
moisture in her eyes.
“Yes, it is for the brave men going to their death that I am crying. I
am not ashamed of being soft-hearted; if there were more like me it
would be to their credit.”
“The poor Nanon! she fears that she may be left to make _la tire_ on the
feast of St. Catharine.”[4]
Baptiste, smoking his pipe in silence, eyed Nanon reflectively. He was
very slow, but he was very sure, and an heroic resolve was gradually
assuming definite proportions in his mind. Things could not continue as
they had been; any change was better than that. He meditated upon his
long, hopeless passion. When did it begin? He could not decide that; it
seemed always to have dominated him. Away in the forest, amidst toil,
hardship and privation, when he thought of home, it was Nanon’s saucy
face that smiled upon him. He thought upon all the wit and sparkling
vivacity that rendered his cruel love charming, the oppressive thraldom
in which she had held him, the burning pains of jealousy which he had
endured. No one knew better the dangers of an expedition such as that
upon which he and his comrades were starting, and none dreaded them less
than Baptiste Leroux. But the thought that he might never again see
Nanon confused and depressed his mind; happily it also inspired the
great simple fellow with a more desperate courage than any required to
resist the attacks of English or Iroquois, or to die in defence of his
country.
“That is the last of all trades—a coward,” he said to himself. “My
principle has always been to conduct matters by beat of drum. After all,
I can be in no worse condition than I am now; so here goes, even if I
pay through the nose for it.”
He stretched out his strong right arm, quietly took possession of his
coquettish mistress,—who appeared to be so entirely taken by surprise
that she made no attempt to offer resistance—enveloped her in a great
bear’s hug, kissed her once, twice, a dozen times, then recovering
himself, loosened his hold. Realizing the enormity of his offence he
stood humbled and contrite, with bowed head, to receive the punishment
of his audacity. He could conceive no idea of what form the tempest
which was about to break upon his devoted head was to assume, but even
the noisiest clamor of Nanon’s sharp tongue would be less terrible to
bear than this breathless silence. Feeling that he could no longer
endure the suspense, he burst out impetuously:
“I do not care, I could not help it; you may be enraged if it pleases
you; in truth, I could no longer contain myself. Any good woman would
have some pity on a poor fellow.” Words were scarce with Bras de Fer,
but now he was fairly started, the sound of his own eloquence delighted
him, and he continued boldly, “If to-morrow I am to be scalped, or
thrown into the Iroquois kettle—and either may likely happen—I shall
have had the satisfaction of feeling what it would be like if you were
really my own girl, who would welcome me back if I should be so lucky as
to escape tomahawk and bullet, and who would mourn for me should I
fall.” The light of a strong love illumined his brave, honest face as he
spoke.
There was still silence. It was hard that at such a moment she should
remain obdurate. His heart swelled to bursting; she must be altogether
heartless. Bras de Fer at last found courage to steal an anxious,
imploring glance in the direction of his sweet tormentor. Nanon stood
still as a statue; the warm tears were streaming down her cheeks, but a
strangely happy smile lingered about her lips.
“If you please, Master Baptiste Bras de Fer, but it is an innocent one
may eat with salt, your Canadian.” The color had returned to the girl’s
cheek, the sparkle to her eye. “Your wits have long been wool gathering;
say, then, is it possible that you have found them at last? Did you
expect the women to make love to you, my fine big fellow?”
* * * * *
Du Chesne had drawn Lydia apart from the crowd. The girl made no effort
to control herself; sobbing convulsively, she clung to him as, taking
her hands in his, his eyes went slowly over her from head to foot. He
was silent, as one who, looking for the last time on a face he loves,
would carry the memory of it with him to the wide world’s end.
“Stay! Give the expedition up; let the others go. What does it matter?
Even if the English come here, I may find friends among them. Do not
leave me; the parting will kill me,” she entreated.
The young Canadian shook his head. He scarcely understood her thought,
or grasped the idea that she should dream of placing herself between him
and his duty. A low, pitiful wail, like that of some helpless creature
in distress, stole unawares from her quivering lips. Du Chesne shivered,
and looked around fearfully. In all his life he had never endured
torture like this; great drops of moisture gathered on his brow. Could
courage desert him now? It was Diane who, rousing her dauntless spirit
with courage that affection alone could give, came to his aid. She had
reached the highest manifestation of human passion—self-sacrifice—and
was learning that the soul can be taught to bear pain as the saints
taught their bodies to bear the rigors of hardship and
self-mortification. She was like a soldier who must fight till the last
gasp, who must bear every blow like a stoic, so long as there was any
excuse for the conflict.
“They call you, du Chesne; leave Lydia to my care. The Blessed Virgin
protect you.”
An expression of sharp anguish for a moment marred the composure of his
countenance. A quick breath escaped him, half groan, half sob; one long,
lingering look, and he was gone.
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[4] A saying commonly applied to confirmed spinsters.