_DU CHESNE’S RETURN._
“AND M. de St. Rochs?”
Cecile was clinging to Diane’s gown, trembling, shivering, half
believing herself already a widow, the soft outlines and fresh bloom of
youth contrasting oddly with the pathetic trouble of her eyes.
“M. de St. Rochs was safe, Madame, when I left. I was sent away in
charge of mon Capitaine before the fight was fairly over.”
Like a little tempest, Madame de St. Rochs rushed into Diane’s arms,
sobbing, laughing, uttering inarticulate exclamations of joy.
Le Ber’s grasp on his ward’s arm tightened. She understood that he
desired her to ask the question which his own lips could not frame.
Twice Diane tried to speak, but her throat seemed to close each time;
the words would not come. It was Cecile who, in a burst of joyful
confidence, found voice for the consuming desire of the French girl’s
heart.
“And M. Le Ber du Chesne—he is safe, of course?”
“Ah! yes, Madame, our brave young commandant. And is it any wonder that
the bluecoats love their leader? He fought like all the king’s troops in
one, being of a valor truly marvellous.”
The father caught his breath sharply and drew a hand across his eyes, as
if to clear his mind from confused ideas. Diane had been watching the
working of le Canotier’s scarred and weather-beaten face with vigilant
scrutiny. The reaction, the sweetness of relief, was almost as poignant
a sensation as pain. For an instant she closed her eyes and clung to Le
Ber’s arm. With what trembling thanksgiving she welcomed this gleam of
hope. The Blessed Virgin had granted her prayer; the Holy Mother had a
woman’s heart, and was touched by compassion. Though du Chesne would
never be hers, yet he would live; his career, in the brilliancy of its
promise, would not be cut short; he would continue to move in the light
of God’s earth; she would be spared the supreme anguish of yielding him
up to death.
Absorbed in the interest of le Canotier’s narrative, and in the
incidents attending it, no one perceived the rapid advance of another
canoe. The shrill voice of a child proclaimed the fact.
“_Voilà!_ yet another canoe,” exclaimed one of the group. “Truly, more
news. It is M. le Chevalier and the Sieur d’Ordieux—yes, and Baptiste
Bras de Fer.”
Le Ber, turning abruptly, withdrew his support. Diane, gazing but not
seeing, sickened with a sudden sense of dread. She made a hasty step
forward, staggering like one blind, then, stretching her hands with a
long, gasping cry, that seemed to carry with it the trouble of those
last terrible days, recovered herself by a supreme effort.
“Mademoiselle, I have failed in my commission, believe me, through no
negligence or fault of mine. I have brought back my brave and faithful
comrade. Do me the justice to believe that I would willingly have given
my own life in his stead.” It was the Chevalier de Crisasi who spoke,
the disorder of his dress showing plainly the desperateness of the
conflict through which he had passed.
In the midst of this sudden panic, the downfall of all her hopes, Diane
had pity to spare for him who felt so much. As he encountered her gaze
he bowed his head reverently. At that moment the girl’s secret was
revealed to him, and the Sicilian gentleman stood awed and abashed
before the revelation.
“It was but now they said he was safe; it cannot be du Chesne.” Le Ber’s
shock was so great that he looked piteously into his ward’s eyes as she
stood with her white lips pressed together.
Diane’s agitation affected her strangely. She was surprised at her own
composure in this supreme crisis. Hastily forming a distinct plan of
action, she coolly took command, directing everything. For the first
terrible interval she could not even wonder, or doubt, or question. She
seemed to have known it all long ago, to have felt the cold creeping to
her heart to thrill her with a shiver as of ice, to have grown used and
deadened to it. It was du Chesne who was being borne away helpless in
Bras de Fer’s strong arms, surrounded by anxious comrades and
kindred—du Chesne, whose eyes were pathetic with the silent protest of
life against death, whose bright, boyish face wore that mysterious
expression, sweeter, calmer than a smile, that sometimes comes to those
who look their last upon life. She saw Cecile drop down to the ground,
heard Nanon’s noisy grief, was conscious of the stricken look of Le
Ber’s face, yet she seemed to stand outside and beyond it all.
With the hush and awe of natural sympathy, friends and neighbors
gathered around, looking with deep pity on the bereavement which might
so easily have been their own. Ville Marie was overcast with mourning
for the fate of the kindly, genial young fellow.
There was one whom the young Canadian sought—his wandering glances
revealed the secret. All the force within Diane was torn two ways, so
sorely rent as to scarcely leave her any strength for decisive action.
Her own affection, jealous, restless, imperative, had claims which were
irresistible. At such a moment who would remember the helpless
stranger’s rights? Not Le Ber, who was absorbed in grief for the
destruction of his hopes; not Madame de Monesthrol, who despised the
English captive’s weakness; nor Pierre, engrossed in his prayers and
penances; neither could it be Madame de St. Rochs, nor Nanon, both of
whom had conceived violent prejudices against the intruder. During all
the years of her after life Diane could never think of the strength of
that dreadful temptation without a convulsion of her whole being. She
had no choice; the steadfast spirit, holding brave sovereignty over the
body and its pangs, must triumph. Hearts, apparently, were made to be
crushed and broken. A little more or less, what did it matter in the
vast and silent anguish that consumed her? In the heat of conflict there
came a new tide in her veins, a novel force to all her thought. It was
she who must break the news of this bereavement to her rival, and she
would be required to comfort and sustain. It must be her part to see
that du Chesne’s desire was satisfied, that the English girl should take
her rightful place at her lover’s death-bed. Every trace of color died
out of Lydia’s face as she listened; she turned on Diane a wild and
appealing look.
“But it is not true; it cannot be true. We were to have been so happy
together,” she insisted desperately, sobbing out the words in her
anguish and terror.
In one of those brilliant impulses of generosity, courage and
self-sacrifice which bear a noble soul on, heedless of the temptations
of the body, to the performance of lofty deeds—acts of heroism in which
life goes for nothing—Diane supported the pretty, frightened creature
who clung to her panting and sobbing.
“You will come to him. You will try to be calm for his sake,” the
demoiselle de Monesthrol urged.
But Lydia was overwhelmed with fear. The shock rendered her helpless and
hysterical; she wanted to force her own complaints and grievances upon
the attention of others, rather than yield to the claims of the dying
man. She was utterly unable to collect her scattered faculties. This
frail sufferer, with spectral eyes and pain-distorted form, seemed to
have no connection with her gay and gallant young lover. She loved
strength, brightness, the joy of life, and hated anything that was
maimed or gloomy. She shuddered involuntarily as a feeling of repulsion
crept over her; she could not look at him without whitening and
shivering. She was not touched by the spectacle of a valor so steadfast,
a submission so sweet; her one thought was to escape the horror of it.
Du Chesne lay in a quiet room, while the moments which no human will
could arrest swept on. He had accepted the verdict passed upon him as
the most natural thing in the world—“quite simple,” as he said.
He was still so young and ardent of temperament that even the dark
passage to the grave abounded in hopeful portents. He would insist upon
being propped up in bed, and being allowed to talk. Affection banished
the solemn, wistful look from his face, and gleamed like faint flashes
of sunshine from the edges of the dark shadow.
The young Canadian was tender and considerate, even on his death-bed. He
was wondrously patient in his pity for Lydia’s simplicity and weakness;
his dying eyes followed her ceaselessly, with a faithful love which had
been born on earth, but which would last forever.
Cecile, outside the door of the sick-room, cried out, launching furious,
vehement invectives against the cruelty of Fate; and Nanon, all glowing
red, her eyes blazing with indignation, her lips quivering with genuine
distress, stood by, with a gaze of wrath and disgust fixed on the
stranger’s face.
But Lydia was too completely absorbed in her own fright and misery to be
sensible of criticism, animosity, or even the evidences of tenderest
affection. All her complacent little vanities had vanished as, clinging
to her friend with piteous, shaking hands, she sought vainly to obtain
some inspiration from the desperate bravery of Diane’s face.
“Diane, be good to her,” pleaded the dying man. “You are her only
protector. You are strong and tender and loyal. I can trust you, my
brave and faithful sister.”
In the constancy of her courage Diane never either faltered or failed.
If she was crushed beneath the cross which was laid upon her, she at
least tasted the supreme blessedness of sacrificing self. Tender
affection gave sight to her eyes, and taught her how to comfort and
solace the sufferer to beguile the pain and tedium of a death-bed, to
staunch those wounds for which human art has no remedy.
A consciousness came over the household that sad change and revolution
hung over the family. Jean Le Ber du Chesne was going away in the bloom
of his days to that unknown bourn of which God alone knows the secret.
It was very quiet in the death-chamber, where the young hero lay looking
at the distant tapers, the one centre of light in the great gloomy room,
gazing with eyes from which all conflict had departed, abstracted in
their wistfulness. He had grown calm in absolute self-surrender, giving
a sigh occasionally to what might have been, and feeling perhaps an
awakening thrill of anticipation of what was to come. The room was
filled with dusky, wavering shadows. On a _prie-dieu_ close at hand
knelt Diane. The torture of one who had fought a protracted battle was
ended by the hard-won victory over self. In this solemn hour she felt
the stirring of some wider, grander life within, and the human eyes
gazed appealingly across the darkness of present things, striving to
see, no matter how indistinctly, the first faint glimmer of that light
which glows beyond the grave. Farther from the bed, two nuns of the
Congregation, Sister Marguerite Bourgeois, an aged woman whose serenity
of countenance was like a benediction, and sister Berbier, Superior of
the Convent of the Congregation, whispered together.
Something stirred softly. At the sound of the measured, ill-assured
movements, timid yet rushing, with a definite purpose underlying the
desperate haste, even Diane raised her head, and the nuns, crossing
themselves, drew closer together. A wan, hollow-eyed form, gliding from
among the shadows, advanced towards the bed, stood for a moment gazing
down upon du Chesne’s peaceful face, and then disappeared as noiselessly
as it had entered. The strong and subtle tie of kindred had drawn Jeanne
Le Ber from the seclusion of years. The spectators were awed by the
sight of a mortal, divided from all human hopes and interests, yet still
firmly bound to its inheritance of human woe.
Night had passed. The stars paled in the sky, lingering shadows
dispersed, the dawn was breaking in the east. Sister Berbier rose, and
crossing the room, threw open the heavy wooden shutters. The fresh, cool
air, moist and odorous, rushed in; and with it a searching ray of light,
clear and terrible, fell upon the calm dead face on the pillow.