The old man fixed his eyes on me most strangely, and then,
stretching out his finger and leaning forward, he said, with a
voice of senile wildness, "Ah, ah, the coat of our little Jean!"
I stood there like any criminal caught in his shameful act.
Though I had not forgotten that I wore the dead man's clothes, I
could not think that they would be recognized, for they seemed like
others of the French army--white, with violet facings. I can not
tell to this day what it was that enabled them to detect the coat;
but there I stood condemned before them.
The wife sprang to her feet, came to me with a set face, and
stared stonily at the coat for an instant. Then, with a cry of
alarm, she made for the door; but I stepped quickly before her, and
bade her wait till she heard what I had to say. Like lightning it
all went through my brain. I was ruined if she gave an alarm: all
Quebec would be at my heels, and my purposes would be defeated.
There was but one thing to do--tell her the whole truth, and trust
her; for I had at least done fairly by her and by the dead man.
So I told them how Jean Labrouk had met his death; told them who
I was, and why I was in Quebec--how Jean died in my arms; and,
taking from my breast the cross that Mathilde had given me, I swore
by it that every word which I said was true. The wife scarcely
stirred while I spoke, but with wide dry eyes and hands clasping
and unclasping heard me through. I told her how I might have left
Jean to die without a sign or message to them, how I had put the
cross to his lips as he went forth, and how by coming here at all I
placed my safety in her hands, and now, by telling my story, my
life itself.
It was a daring and a difficult task. When I had finished, both
sat silent for a moment, and then the old man said, "Ay, ay, Jean's
father and his uncle Marmon were killed a-horseback, and by the
knife. Ay, ay, it is our way. Jean was good company--none better,
mass over, on a Sunday. Come, we will light candles for Jean, and
comb his hair back sweet, and masses shall be said, and--"
Again the woman interrupted, quieting him. Then she turned to
me, and I awaited her words with a desperate sort of courage.
"I believe you," she said. "I remember you now. My sister was
the wife of your keeper at the common jail. You shall be safe.
Alas! my Jean might have died without a word to me all alone in
the night. Merci mille fois, monsieur!" Then she rocked a little
to and fro, and the old man looked at her like a curious child. At
last, "I must go to him," she said. "My poor Jean must be brought
home."
I told her I had already left word concerning the body at
headquarters. She thanked me again. Overcome as she was, she went
and brought me a peasant's hat and coat. Such trust and kindness
touched me. Trembling, she took from me the coat and hat I had
worn, and she put her hands before her eyes when she saw a little
spot of blood upon the flap of a pocket. The old man reached out
his hands, and, taking them, he held them on his knees, whispering
to himself.
"You will be safe here," the wife said to me. "The loft above is
small, but it will hide you, if you have no better place."
I was thankful that I had told her all the truth. I should be snug
here, awaiting the affair in the cathedral on the morrow. There
was Voban, but I knew not of him, or whether he was open to aid or
shelter me. His own safety had been long in peril; he might be dead,
for all I knew. I thanked the poor woman warmly, and then asked her
if the old man might not betray me to strangers. She bade me leave
all that to her--that I should be safe for a while, at least.
Soon afterwards I went abroad, and made my way by a devious
route to Voban's house. As I did so, I could see the lights of our
fleet in the Basin, and the camp-fires of our army on the Levis
shore, on Isle Orleans, and even at Montmorenci, and the myriad
lights in the French encampment at Beauport. How impossible it all
looked--to unseat from this high rock the Empire of France! Ay,
and how hard it would be to get out of this same city with Alixe!
Voban's house stood amid a mass of ruins, itself broken a little,
but still sound enough to live in. There was no light. I clambered
over debris, made my way to his bedroom window, and tapped on the
shutter. There was no response. I tried to open it, but it would not
stir. So I thrust beneath it, on the chance of his finding it if he
opened the casement in the morning, a little piece of paper, with
one word upon it--the name of his brother. He knew my handwriting,
and he would guess where to-morrow would find me, for I had also
hastily drawn upon the paper the entrance of the cathedral.
I went back to the little house by the cathedral, and was
admitted by the stricken wife. The old man was abed. I climbed up
to the small loft, and lay there wide-awake for hours. At last came
the sounds that I had waited for, and presently I knew by the tramp
beneath, and by low laments floating up, that a wife was mourning
over the dead body of her husband. I lay long and listened to the
varying sounds, but at last all became still, and I fell asleep.