THE EPIC OF THE HUNTING HUT
So the amiable dog became a lion, bold, impudent, mocking; the mask was
gone forever, both from his face and his desires. He wore his empty
scabbard with all the effrontery of a man who had fought and won his
first duel. Du Puys had threatened to hang the man who gave the
vicomte a sword. As the majority of the colonists were ignorant of
what lay behind this remarkable quarrel, they naturally took sides with
the man whose laugh was more frequent than his frown. Thus, the
vicomte still shuffled the ebon dominoes of a night and sang out
jovially, "Doubles!" Whenever the man he had so basely wronged passed
him, he spat contemptuously and cried: "See, Messieurs, what it is to
be without a sword!" And as for Brother Jacques, it was: "And how is
Monsieur Jacques's health this fine morning?" or "What a handsome rogue
of a priest you are!" or "Can you tell me where I may find a sword?" He
laughed at D'Hérouville, and bantered the poet on his silence,--the
poet whose finer sense and intuition had distrusted the vicomte from
the first.
One day madame came out to feed the mission's chickens. Her hand swung
to and fro, and like a stream of yellow gold the shelled corn trailed
through the air to the ground. The fowls clustered around her noisily.
She was unaware of the vicomte, who leaned against the posts of the
palisade.
There was in his glance which said: "Madame, I offered to make you my
wife; now I shall make you something less." And seeing the Chevalier
stirring inside the fort, he mused: "My faith, but that old marquis
must have had an eye. The fellow's mother must have been a handsome
wench."
Once the vicomte came secretly upon D'Hérouville, Frémin, Pauquet, and
the woodsman named The Fox because of his fiery hair and beard, peaked
face and beady eyes. When the party broke up, the vicomte emerged from
his hiding place, wearing a smile which boded no good to whatever plot
or plan D'Hérouville had conceived. And that same night he approached
each of D'Hérouville's confederates and spoke. What passed only they
themselves knew; but when the vicomte left them they were irrevocably
his.
"Eye of the bull!" murmured Corporal Frémin, "but this vicomte is much
of a man. As for the Chevalier, what the devil! his fingers have been
sunken into my throat."
A mile from the mission, toward the north, of the lake, stood a hut of
Indian construction. It had been erected long before the mission. It
served as a half-way to the savages after days of hunting in the
northern confines of the country of the Onondagas. Here the savages
would rest of a night before carrying the game to the village in the
hills. It was well hidden from the eyes, thick foliage and vines
obscuring it from the view of those at the mission. But there was a
well worn path leading to it. It was here that tragedy entered into
the comedy of these various lives.
Indian summer. The leaves rustled and sighed upon the damp earth. The
cattails waved their brown tassels. Wild ducks passed in dark flocks.
A stag sent a challenge across the waters. The lord-like pine looked
lordlier than ever among the dismantled oak and maple. The brown nuts
pattered softly to the ground, and the chatter of the squirrel was
heard. The Chevalier stood at the door of the hunting hut, and all the
varying glories of the dying year stirred the latent poetry in his
soul. In his hand he held a slip of paper which he read and reread.
There was a mixture of joy and puzzlement in his eyes. Diane. It had
a pleasant sound; what had she to say that necessitated this odd
trysting place? He glanced at the writing again. Evidently she had
written it in a hurry. What, indeed, had she to say? They had scarce
exchanged a word since the day in the hills when he told her that she
was not honest.
A leaf drifted lazily down from the overhanging oak, and another and
still another; and he listened. There was in the air the ghostly
perfume of summer; and he breathed. He was still young. Sorrow had
aged his thought, not his blood; and he loved this woman with his whole
being, dishonest though she might be. He carried the note to his lips.
She would be here at four. What she had to tell him must be told here,
not at the settlement. There was the woman and the caprice. Strange
that she had written when early that morning it had been simple to
speak. And the Indian who had given him the note knew nothing.
He entered the hut and looked carelessly around. A rude table stood at
one side. On the top of it Victor had carved his initials. The
Chevalier's eyes filled. Brave poet! Always ready with the jest,
light of heart and cheery, gentle and tender, brave as a lion, too.
Here was a man such as God intended all men to be. A beggar himself,
he gave his last crown to the beggar; undismayed, he would borrow from
his friend, paying the crown back in golden louis. How he loved the
lad! Only that morning he had romped about the mess-room like a boy
escaped from the school-room; imitated Mazarin, Uncle Gaston, the few
great councillors, and the royal actors themselves. Even the austere
visage of the Father Superior had relaxed and Du Puys had roared with
laughter. What was this sudden chill? Or was it his fancy? He
stepped into the open again, and found it warm.
"She will be here soon. It is after four. What can she have to say?"
Even as he spoke he heard a sound. It was madame, alone, and she was
hurrying along the path. A moment later and they stood together before
the threshold of the hut. There was mutual embarrassment which was
difficult to analyze. The exertion of the walk had filled her cheeks
with a color as brilliant as the bunch of maple leaves which she had
fastened at her throat. She was first to speak.
"Well, Monsieur," not over warmly, "what is it you have to say to me
which necessitates my coming so far? I believed we had not much more
to say." There was no distrust in her eyes, only a cold inquiry. "Are
you going to apologize for applying to me the term 'dishonest'?"
The joy vanished from his face, to be replaced by an anxiety which
lightened the tan on his cheeks. "Madame, it was your note which
brought me here. Read it."
"A clumsy imitation," quickly; "it is not my writing. I suppose, then,
that this is also a forgery?" handing him a note which was worded
identically the same as his own, "Some one has been playing us a sorry
trick." She was angered.
"Let us go back immediately, Madame. We stand in the midst of some
secret danger."
But even as he spoke she uttered a suppressed cry and clutched his arm.
The Chevalier saw four men advancing with drawn swords. They formed a
semicircle around the hut, cutting off all avenues of escape. Quickly
he thrust madame into the hut, whipped out his blade, bared his arm,
and waited just inside the doorway. Everything was plain to him. Eh!
well, some one would take the journey with him; he would not set out
alone. And madame! He was unnerved for a moment.
"Diane," he said, "forgive me as easily as I forgive you," he said
quietly. "And pray for us both. I shall be too busy."
She fell upon her knees, folding her hands across her heaving bosom.
Her lips moved, but without sound. She saw, possibly, farther into
this dark design than the Chevalier. Women love brave men, even as
brave men love woman's beauty; and persistently into her prayers stole
the thought that this man who was about to defend her honor with his
life was among the bravest. A sob choked her.
"D'Hérouville, you black scoundrel, why do you come so slowly?"
challenged the Chevalier. "The single window is too small for a man to
crawl through. Think you to pass this way?"
"I am going to try!" cried D'Hérouville, triumphantly. How well
everything had turned out. "Now, men, stand back a little; there will
be some sword play."
"I'll engage the four of you in the open, if madame is permitted to go
free." The Chevalier urged, this simply to gain time. He knew what
the answer would be.
D'Hérouville appealed to Corporal Frémin. "Is that not an excellent
joke, my Corporal?"
"Eye of the bull, yes!"
"Ho! D'Hérouville, wait for me!"
Madame sprang to her feet screaming: "Vicomte, save us!" She flew to
the door.
"Back, Madame," warned the Chevalier, "or you will have me killed."
With his left arm he barred the door.
"Have patience, sweet bird, whom I shall soon take to an eery nest. To
be sure I shall save you!" From behind a clumb of hazel the vicomte
came forth, a sword in his hand.
It was the tone, not the words, which enveloped madame's heart in a
film of ice. One way or the other, it did not matter, she was lost.
"Guard the Chevalier, men!" cried D'Hérouville, wheeling. "We shall
wipe out all bad debts while we are at it. D'Halluys, look to
yourself!"
"You fat head!" laughed the vicomte, parrying in a circle. "Did I not
tell you that I should kill you?"
Had he been alone the Chevalier would have rushed his opponents. God
help madame when he fell, for he could not kill all these men; sooner
or later he must fall. The men made no attempt to engage him. They
merely held ready in case he should make a rush.
With the fury of a maddened bull, D'Hérouville engaged the vicomte. He
was the vicomte's equal in all save generalship. The vicomte loved,
next to madame, the game of fence, and he loved it so thoroughly that
his coolness never fell below the level of his superb courage.
Physically, there was scarce a hair's difference in the weight of the
two men. But a parried stroke, or a nicely balked assault, stirred
D'Hérouville's heat; if repeated the blood surged into his head, and he
was often like to throw caution to the winds. Once his point scratched
the vicomte's jaw.
"Very good," the vicomte admitted, lunging in flanconade. His blade
grated harshly against D'Hérouville's hilt. It was close work.
They disengaged. D'Hérouville's weapon flashed in a circle. The
vicomte's parry was so fine that his own blade lay flat against his
side.
"Count, you would be wonderful if you could keep cool that fat head of
yours. That is as close as I ever expect to come and pull out."
Presently the end came. D'Hérouville feinted and thrust for the
throat. Quick as a wind-driven shadow the vicomte dropped on a knee;
his blade taking an acute angle, glided under D'Hérouville's arm and
slid noiselessly into the broad chest of his opponent, who opened his
mouth as if to speak, gasped, stumbled and fell upon his face, dead.
The vicomte sank his blade into the earth to cleanse it.
Madame had covered her eyes. The Chevalier, however, had watched the
contest, but without any sign of emotion on his face. He had nothing
to do but wait. He had gained some advantage; one of these men would
be tired.
The vicomte came within a yard of the hut, and stopped. He smiled
evilly and twisted his mustache. By the attitude of the men, the
Chevalier could see that the vicomte had outplanned D'Hérouville.
"Chevalier," the vicomte began softly, "for me this is the hour of
hours. You will never learn who your mother was. Gabrielle, sweet one
with the shadowful eyes, you once asked me why this fellow left France.
I will tell you. His father is Monsieur le Marquis de Périgny, but his
mother . . . who can say as to that?"
He could see the horror gather and grow in madame's eyes, but he
misinterpreted it.
"Gabrielle, Gabrielle Diane de Brissac, Montbazon that was, it has been
a long chase. Offer me your congratulations. 'Twas I who made you so
charming a widow. That grey cloak! It has played the very devil with
us all. The tailor who made it must have sprinkled it with the devil's
holy water. I wanted only that paper, but the old fool made me fight
for it. Monsieur, but for me you would still have lorded it in France.
'Twas the cloak that brought you to Rochelle, induced your paternal
parent to declare your illegitimacy, made you wind up the night by
flaunting abroad your spotted ticket."
"I am waiting for you," suggested the Chevalier.
"Presently. But what a fine comedy it has been! My faith, it was your
poet who had the instinct. Somehow he saw vaguely through the screen,
but he could not join the separate parts. It was all droll, my word
for it, when I paid you those fifty pistoles that night. But see!
those who stand in my path go out of it one by one; De Brissac,
D'Hérouville, and now comes your turn. D'Hérouville planned it well;
but it is the old story of the monkey and the cat and the chestnuts in
the fire. You shall wear a crown of agony, Chevalier. The waiting has
been worth while. We shall not kill you; we shall only crucify your
heart . . . by the way of possessing madame."
"Over my body!" The Chevalier cared nothing for these vile insults.
He knew the history of his birth; he knew that he was Madame la
Marquise's son. He refused to allow these taunts to affect his calm as
the vicomte had hoped they would. If he passed through this crisis, he
would tell madame the truth. . . . De Brissac! A blur swept across
his eyes, and for a moment his hand shook. De Brissac, De Montbazon!
It came to him now, the truth of all this coquetry, this fast and
loose, this dangling of promises: the vengeance of a woman's vanity.
The irony of this moment, the stinging, bitter irony!
The vicomte never knew how close victory was to him in that moment.
"Monsieur le Comte," said madame, "fight bravely, and God be with you.
As for me, be easy; Monsieur le Vicomte will not so much as put a
finger on me while I live." She drew a knife from the bosom of her
blouse and held it in her hand significantly.
"Half the victory gone already, Vicomte!" cried the Chevalier. Madame
had addressed him as "Monsieur le Comte."
"Do not disfigure your beauty, Madame; I desire that," was the
vicomte's mocking retort. "Now, my friends, if you all would see _la
belle France_ again! But mind; the man who strikes the Chevalier a
fatal blow shall by my own hand peg out."
In a twinkling of an eye the bright tongues of steel met, flashed,
sparkled, ground upon each other, pressed and beat down. As the full
horror of the situation came to her, madame saw the figures reel, and
there were strangling sensations in her throat and bubbling noises in
her ears. The knife slipped from her fingers. She rocked on her
knees, sobbing. The power to pray had gone; she could only watch,
watch, watch. Ah God! if he should die before her eyes! Her hands
rose from her bosom and pressed against her cheeks. Dimly she could
hear the gonk-gonk of flying water-fowl: that murder should be done in
so fair a place!
The unequal duel went on. Presently The Fox stepped back, his arm
gashed. He cursed and took up his sword with his left hand. They
tried to lure the Chevalier from his vantage point; but he took no
step, forward or backward. He was like a wall. The old song of battle
hummed in his ears. Would that Victor were here. It would be a good
fight.
"These Pérignys are living sword blades," murmured the vicomte. "Come,
come; this must end."
They were all hardy men, the blood was rich, the eye keen, the wrist
sure; but they could not break down the Chevalier's guard. They knew
that in time they must wear him out, but time was very precious to the
vicomte. The Chevalier's point laid open the rascal's cheek, it ripped
open Frémin's forehead, it slid along Pauquet's hand. A cold smile
grew upon the Chevalier's lips and remained there. They could not
reach him. There was no room for four blades, and soon the vicomte
realized this.
"Satan of hell, back, three of you! We can gain nothing this way. Let
me have him alone for a while."
The vicomte's allies drew away, not unreluctantly; and the two engaged.
Back a little, then forward a little, lunging, parrying, always that
strange, nerve-racking noise of grating steel. It seemed to madame
that she must eventually go mad. The vicomte tried all the tricks at
his command, but to no avail; he could make no impression on the man in
the doorway. Indeed, the vicomte narrowly escaped death three or four
different times. The corporal, alive to the shade of advantage which
the Chevalier was gaining and to the disaster which would result from
the vicomte's defeat, crept slowly up from the side. Madame saw him;
but her cry of warning turned into a moan of horror. It was all over.
The Chevalier lay motionless on the ground, the blood trickling from a
ragged cut above the temple. The corporal had used the hilt of his
heavy sword, and no small power had forced the blow.
The vicomte sprang forward just as madame was groping for the knife.
He put his foot on it, laughing.
"Not at present, Madame; later, if you are inclined that way. That was
well done, Corporal."
The vicomte bound the Chevalier's hands and ankles securely and took
the dripping hat from Pauquet, dashing the contents into the
Chevalier's face.
"Help me set him up against the wall."
The Chevalier shuddered, and by and by opened his eyes. The world came
back to him. He looked at his enemies calmly.
"Well?" he said. He would waste no breath asking for mercy. There was
no mercy here.
"You shall be left where you are, Monsieur," replied the vicomte,
"while I hold converse with madame inside. You are where you can hear
but not see. Corporal, take the men to the canoe and wait for me.
Warn me if there is any danger. I shall be along presently.
Chevalier, I compliment you upon your fight. I know but a dozen men in
all France who are your match."
"What are you going to do?" The Chevalier felt his heart swell with
agony.
"What am I going to do? Listen. You shall hear even if you can not
see." The vicomte entered the hut.
Madame was standing in a corner. . . . The Chevalier lived. If she
could but hold the vicomte at arm's length for a space!
"Well, Madame, have you no friendly welcome for one who loves you
fondly? I offered to make you my wife; but now! What was it that
Monsieur Shakspere says? . . . 'Sit you down, sweet, till I wring your
heart'? Was that it?"
All her courage returned at the sound of his voice. Her tongue spoke
not, but the hate in her eyes was a language he read well enough.
"Mine! . . . For a day, or a week, or for life! Has it not occurred
to you, sweet? You are mine. Here we are, alone together, you and I;
and I am a man in all things, and you are a beautiful woman." His
glance, critical and admiring, ran over her face and form. "You would
look better in silks. Well, you shall have them. You stood at the
door of a convent; why did you not enter? You love the world too well;
eh? . . . Like your mother."
Her eyes were steady.
"In my father's orchards there used to be a peach-tree. It had the
whimsical habit of bearing one large peach each season. When it
ripened I used to stand under it and gloat over it for hours, to fill
my senses with its perfect beauty. At length I plucked it. I never
regretted the waiting; the fruit tasted only the sweeter. . . . You
are like that peach, Madame. By the Cross, over which these Jesuits
mumble, but you are worth a dance with death!"
"Had you a mother, Monsieur?"
This unexpected question made him widen his eyes. "Truly, else I had
not been here."
"Did she die in peace?"
He frowned. "It matters not how she died." He sat on the edge of the
table and swung one leg to and fro. "Some men would give their chance
of heaven for a taste of those lips."
"Your chance of heaven, Monsieur, is remote." The setting sun came in
through the door and filled her eyes with a golden haze. If there was
any fear, the pride on her face hid it.
"Ye gods, but you are a beauty! I can wait no longer for that kiss."
His leg slid from the table. He walked toward her, and she shrank back
till she met with the wall. He sprang forward, laughing. She
struggled in his strong arms, uselessly. With one hand he pressed up
her chin and kissed her squarely on the lips. Then he let her go. She
drew her hand across her mouth and spat upon the floor.
"What! So soon, Madame?"
Her bosom rose and fell quickly, as much from rage and hate as from the
exertion of the struggle.
"God will punish you, Monsieur, as he punishes all men who abuse their
strength as you have done,--punish you for the misery you have brought
upon me."
"What! and I bring you love?"
She wiped her lips again, this time on her sleeve.
"Does it burn like that, then?" laughing.
"It is poison," simply.
Outside the Chevalier writhed and twisted and strained. The agony!
She was alone in there, helpless. To be free, free! He wept, strove
vainly to loose his bonds. He cried aloud in his anguish. And the
vicomte heard him. He came to the door where he could see his enemy in
torture and at the same time prevent madame's escape.
"Is that you, Chevalier? Do you recollect the coin? I am a generous
debtor. I am paying you a hundred for one. Madame and I shall soon be
on the way to Montreal. Remember her kindly. And you will tarry here
till they find you, eh?"
"Vicomte, you were a brave man once. Be brave again. Do not torture
me like this. Take your sword and run it through my heart, and I shall
thank you."
Somberly the vicomte gazed down at him. He drowned the glimmer of pity
in the thought of how this man had thwarted him in the past. "What!"
he said, "spoil the comedy with a death-scene? I am too much of an
artist, Monsieur. I had rather you should live." He went back into
the hut. "The Chevalier grows restive, like an audience which can not
see what is going on behind the curtain. Will you give me a kiss of
your own volition, or must I use force again? It is like sin; the
first step leads to another."
Madame stood passive. She would have killed this man with laughter on
her lips had a knife been in her hand. He came toward her again. She
strove to put the table between. He laughed, leaping the table
lightly. She fled to the door, but ere she had taken a dozen steps he
was in front of her. The Chevalier heard all these sounds. He prayed
to God to end his miseries quickly.
"One more kiss, and we take the river, you and I. We will find some
outcast priest to ease your conscience. The kisses will not be so
fresh after that."
Far away came a call, but the vicomte did not hear it. He was too busy
feasting his eyes. He had forgotten.
"So be it," he said. "This kiss shall last a full breath. Then we
must be on the way."
A shadow darkened the doorway.
"Monsieur, here is a kiss for you, cold with death."
Madame cried out in joy. The vicomte whirled around, with an oath, his
sword in his hand. Victor, pale but serene and confident, stood
between him and freedom.