That night, at nine o'clock, the Terror of France, catching the
flow of the tide, with one sail set and a gentle wind, left the
fleet, and came slowly up the river, under the batteries of the
town. In the gloom we passed lazily on with the flow of the tide,
unquestioned, soon leaving the citadel behind, and ere long came
softly to that point called Anse du Foulon, above which Sillery
stood. The shore could not be seen distinctly, but I knew by a
perfect instinct the cleft in the hillside where was the path
leading up the mountain. I bade Clark come up the river again two
nights hence to watch for my signal, which was there agreed upon.
If I did not come, then, with General Wolfe's consent, he must
show the General this path up the mountain. He swore that all
should be as I wished; and indeed you would have thought that he
and his Terror of France were to level Quebec to the water's edge.
I stole softly to the shore in a boat, which I drew up among the
bushes, hiding it as well as I could in the dark, and then, feeling
for my pistols and my knife, I crept upwards, coming presently to
the passage in the mountain. I toiled on to the summit without a
sound of alarm from above. Pushing forward, a light flashed from
the windmill, and a man, and then two men, appeared in the open
door. One of them was Captain Lancy, whom I had very good reason
to remember. The last time I saw him was that famous morning when
he would have had me shot five minutes before the appointed hour,
rather than endure the cold and be kept from his breakfast. I
itched to call him to account then and there, but that would have
been foolish play. I was outside of the belt of light falling from
the door, and stealing round I came near to the windmill on the
town side. I was not surprised to see such poor watch kept. Above
the town, up to this time, the guard was of a perfunctory sort, for
the great cliffs were thought impregnable; and even if surmounted,
there was still the walled town to take, surrounded by the St.
Lawrence, the St. Charles, and these massive bulwarks.
Presently Lancy stepped out into the light, and said, with a
hoarse laugh, "Blood of Peter, it was a sight to-day! She has a
constant fancy for the English filibuster. 'Robert! my husband!'
she bleated like a pretty lamb, and Doltaire grinned at her."
"But Doltaire will have her yet."
"He has her pinched like a mouse in a weasel's teeth."
"My faith, mademoiselle has no sweet road to travel since her
mother died," was the careless reply.
I almost cried out. Here was a blow which staggered me. Her
mother dead!
Presently the scoffer continued: "The Duvarneys would remain in
the city, and on that very night, as they sit at dinner, a shell
disturbs them, a splinter strikes Madame, and two days after she
is carried to her grave."
They linked arms and walked on.
It was a dangerous business I was set on, for I was sure that I
would be hung without shrift if captured. As it proved afterwards,
I had been proclaimed, and it was enjoined on all Frenchmen and
true Catholics to kill me if the chance showed.
Only two things could I depend on: Voban and my disguise, which
was very good. From the Terror of France I had got a peasant's
dress, and by rubbing my hands and face with the stain of
butternut, cutting again my new-grown beard, and wearing a wig,
I was well guarded against discovery.
How to get into the city was the question. By the St. Charles
River and the Palace Gate, and by the St. Louis Gate, not far from
the citadel, were the only ways, and both were difficult. I had,
however, two or three plans, and these I chewed as I went across
Maitre Abraham's fields, and came to the main road from
Sillery to the town.
Soon I heard the noise of clattering hoofs, and jointly with
this I saw a figure rise up not far ahead of me, as if waiting for
the coming horseman. I drew back. The horseman passed me, and,
as he came on slowly, I saw the figure spring suddenly from the
roadside and make a stroke at the horseman. In a moment they were
a rolling mass upon the ground, while the horse trotted down the
road a little, and stood still. I never knew the cause of that
encounter--robbery, or private hate, or paid assault; but there
was scarcely a sound as the two men struggled. Presently, there
was groaning, and both lay still. I hurried to them, and found one
dead, and the other dying, and dagger wounds in both, for the
assault had been at such close quarters that the horseman had had
no chance to use a pistol.
My plans were changed on the instant. I drew the military coat,
boots, and cap off the horseman, and put them on myself; and
thrusting my hand into his waistcoat--for he looked like a
courier--I found a packet. This I put into my pocket, and then,
making for the horse which stood quiet in the road, I mounted it
and rode on towards the town. Striking a light, I found that the
packet was addressed to the Governor. A serious thought disturbed
me: I could not get into the town through the gates without the
countersign. I rode on, anxious and perplexed.
Presently a thought pulled me up. The courier was insensible
when I left him, and he was the only one who could help me in this.
I greatly reproached myself for leaving him while he was still
alive. "Poor devil," thought I to myself, "there is some one whom
his death will hurt. He must not die alone. He was no enemy of
mine." I went back, and, getting from the horse, stooped to him,
lifted up his head, and found that he was not dead. I spoke in his
ear. He moaned, and his eyes opened.
"What is your name?" said I.
"Jean--Labrouk," he whispered.
Now I remembered him. He was the soldier whom Gabord had sent as
messenger to Voban the night I was first taken to the citadel.
"Shall I carry word for you to any one?" asked I.
There was a slight pause; then he said, "Tell my--Babette--Jacques
Dobrotte owes me ten francs--and--a leg--of mutton. Tell--my
Babette--to give my coat of beaver fur to Gabord the soldier.
Tell"...he sank back, but raised himself, and continued: "Tell my
Babette I weep with her.... Ah, mon grand homme de Calvaire--bon
soir!" He sank back again, but I roused him with one question more,
vital to me. I must have the countersign.
"Labrouk! Labrouk!" said I sharply.
He opened his dull, glazed eyes.
"Qui va la?" said I, and I waited anxiously.
Thought seemed to rally in him, and, staring--alas! how helpless
and how sad: that look of a man brought back for an instant from
the Shadows!--his lips moved.
"France," was the whispered reply.
"Advance and give the countersign!" I urged.
"Jesu--" he murmured faintly. I drew from my breast the cross that
Mathilde had given me, and pressed it to his lips. He sighed softly,
lifted his hand to it, and then fell back, never to speak again.
After covering his face and decently laying the body out, I mounted
the horse again. Glancing up, I saw that this bad business had
befallen not twenty feet from a high Calvary at the roadside.
I was in a painful quandary. Did Labrouk mean that the countersign
was "Jesu," or was that word the broken prayer of his soul as it
hurried forth? So strange a countersign I had never heard, and yet
it might be used in this Catholic country. This day might be some
great feast of the Church--possibly that of the naming of Christ
(which was the case, as I afterwards knew). I rode on, tossed
about in my mind. So much hung on this. If I could not give the
countersign, I should have to fight my way back again the road I
came. But I must try my luck. So I went on, beating up my heart to
confidence; and now I came to the St. Louis Gate. A tiny fire was
burning near, and two sentinels stepped forward as I rode boldly on
the entrance.
"Qui va la?" was the sharp call.
"France," was my reply, in a voice as like the peasant's as
possible.
"Advance and give the countersign," came the demand.
Another voice called from the darkness of the wall: "Come and
drink, comrade; I've a brother with Bougainville."
"Jesu," said I to the sentinel, answering his demand for the
countersign, and I spurred on my horse idly, though my heart was
thumping hard, for there were several sturdy fellows lying beyond
the dull handful of fire.
Instantly the sentinel's hand came to my bridle-rein. "Halt!"
roared he.
Surely some good spirit was with me then to prompt me, for,
with a careless laugh, as though I had not before finished the
countersign, "Christ," I added--"Jesu Christ!"
With an oath the soldier let go the bridle-rein, the other
opened the gates, and I passed through. I heard the first fellow
swearing roundly to the others that he would "send yon courier to
fires of hell, if he played with him again so."
The gates closed behind me, and I was in the town which had seen
the worst days and best moments of my life. I rode along at a trot,
and once again beyond the citadel was summoned by a sentinel.
Safely passed on, I came down towards the Chateau St. Louis. I rode
boldly up to the great entrance door, and handed the packet to the
sentinel.
"From whom?" he asked.
"Look in the corner," said I. "And what business is't of yours?"
"There is no word in the corner," answered he doggedly. "Is't
from Monsieur le General at Cap Rouge?"
"Bah! Did you think it was from an English wolf?" I asked.
His dull face broke a little. "Is Jean Labrouk with Bougainville
yet?"
"He's done with Bougainville; he's dead," I answered.
"Dead! dead!" said he, a sort of grin playing on his face.
I made a shot at a venture. "But you're to pay his wife Babette
the ten francs and the leg of mutton in twenty-four hours, or his
ghost will follow you. Swallow that, pudding-head! And see you pay
it, or every man in our company swears to break a score of shingles
on your bare back."
"I'll pay, I'll pay," he said, and he took to trembling.
"Where shall I find Babette?" asked I. "I come from Isle aux
Coudres; I know not this rambling town."
"A little house hugging the cathedral rear," he explained. "Babette
sweeps out the vestry, and fetches water for the priests."
"Good," said I. "Take that to the Governor at once, and send the
corporal of the guard to have this horse fed and cared for, and
he's to carry back the Governor's messenger. I've further business
for the General in the town. And tell your captain of the guard to
send and pick up two dead men in the highway, just against the
first Calvary beyond the town."
He did my bidding, and I dismounted, and was about to get away,
when I saw the Chevalier de la Darante and the Intendant appear at
the door. They paused upon the steps. The Chevalier was speaking
most earnestly:
"To a nunnery--a piteous shame! it should not be, your Excellency."
"To decline upon Monsieur Doltaire, then?" asked Bigot, with a
sneer.
"Your Excellency believes in no woman," responded the Chevalier
stiffly.
"Ah yes, in one!" was the cynical reply.
"Is it possible? And she remains a friend of your Excellency?"
came back in irony.
"The very best; she finds me unendurable."
"Philosophy shirks the solving of that problem, your
Excellency," was the cold reply.
"No, it is easy. The woman to be trusted is she who never trusts."
"The paragon--or prodigy--who is she?"
"Even Madame Jamond."
"She danced for you once, your Excellency, they tell me."
"She was a devil that night; she drove us mad."
So Doltaire had not given up the secret of that affair! There
was silence for a moment, and then the Chevalier said, "Her father
will not let her go to a nunnery--no, no. Why should he yield to
the Church in this?"