THE ENVOI OF A GALLANT POET
Brother Jacques had done a wise thing. On the morning after the
vicomte's singular confession, he had spoken a few words to the Black
Kettle. From that hour the vicomte made no move that was not under the
vigilant eye of the Onondaga. Wherever he went the Black Kettle
followed with the soundless cunning of his race. Thus he had warned
the settlement of what was going on at the hunting hut. Victor, having
met him on his way up the trail, was first to arrive upon the scene.
"The poet!" said the vicomte airily. He was, with all his lawlessness,
a gallant man. "Did I not prophesy that some day we should be at each
other's throats?"
"Gabrielle," Victor said, "help is close at hand. I can keep this man
at bay. If I should die, Gabrielle . . . you will not forget me?"
"How affecting! I am almost moved to tears!" mocked the vicomte.
"Well, Monsieur, let us go about our work without banter. There is no
edict here, no meddling priests, only you and I. Engage!" Bare-headed
he stood, scarce but a youth, no match ordinarily for the seasoned
swordsman before him. But madame saw the courage of Bayard in his
frank blue eyes. She turned her face toward the wall and wept. "Have
patience, Paul," Victor called; "they will liberate you soon."
"So." The vicomte stretched out his arm. "Well, my writer of
rondeaux, I have but little time to spare. As the fair Juliet says, 'I
must be gone and live, or stay and die.' I can not fight the
settlement which will soon be about my ears. You first, then your
friend. I should scorn to separate, either on earth or in hades, such
loving Orestes and Pylades. Madame, that kiss has cost me the joy of
having your presence for the time being. Here shall the poet die, at
his beloved's feet! Which is very fine." His blade darted out toward
Victor's throat, and the last battle was begun. The vicomte was
fighting for his liberty, and the poet was fighting to kill. They were
almost evenly matched, for the vicomte was weary from his contest with
D'Hérouville and the Chevalier. For many years madame saw this day in
her dreams.
The blades clashed; there was the soft pad-pad of feet, the involuntary
"ah!" when the point was nicely avoided; there were lunges in quart,
there were cuts over and under, thrusts in flanconade and tierce, feint
and double-feint, and sudden disengagements. The sweat trickled down
the vicomte's face; Victor's forehead glistened with moisture.
Suddenly Victor stooped; swift as the tongue of an adder his blade bit
deeply into the vicomte's groin, making a terrible wound. The vicomte
caught his breath in a gasp of exquisite pain.
. . . Death! The skull and the hollow eyes stared him in the face. He
was dying! But before Victor could recover and guard the vicomte
lunged, and his point came out dully red between Victor's
shoulder-blades. The lad stood perfectly still. There was a question
on his face rather than a sign of pain. His weapon clanged upon the
hardened clay of the floor. He took a step toward madame, tottered,
and fell at her feet. He clutched the skirts of her Indian garb and
pressed it convulsively to his bleeding lips.
"Gabrielle . . . Gabrielle!" he murmured. His head fell back loosely.
He was dead. Gallant poet!
Madame's flesh seemed turned into marble; she could not move, but
leaned against the wall, her arms half extended on each side.
"See, Madame," said the vicomte; "see what love does! . . . It is
sudden. But do not worry; I too, have said my little part . . . not
very well, either." He steadied himself by catching hold of the table.
The blood gushed from his wound, soaking his leg, and forming a pool on
the clay. "Why, he was worth more than them all, for all he scribbled
verses. Bah! I have come the ragged way, and by the ragged way I go.
. . . It is a pity: either men should be born blind or women without
beauty. The devil of the priests is in it all. And this is what love
does!"
The door darkened again, and the Chevalier, Nicot, Father Chaumonot and
four soldiers came in hurriedly. The Chevalier was first. With a cry
he dropped beside Victor.
"Lad, lad!" he cried in anguish. "Speak to me, lad!" He touched the
poet's hands, and rose. Like an angry lion he faced the vicomte.
"Ha!" said the vicomte, rousing from the numbness which was stealing
away his senses. "So it is you? I had each hair on your head separate
and standing; and but for a kiss you would now be mad. To have come
all this way and to have stopped a moment too long! That is what they
call irony. But I would give my soul to ten Jesuit hells could I meet
you once again with the sword. You have always plucked the fruit out
of my grasp. We walked together, but the sun was always on you and the
cloud on me. Ah, well, your poet is dead . . . and I had no real
enmity toward him. . . . He was your friend. He will write no more
ballades, and rondeaux, and triolets; eh, Madame? . . . Well, in a
moment," as if he heard a voice calling. He balanced himself with
difficulty.
Life returned to madame. Sobbing she sank beside Victor, calling to
him wildly, fondled his head, shook his warm but nerveless hands,
kissed his damp forehead, her tears falling on his yellow hair.
"He is gone!" she said piteously. "Victor is dead; he will not speak.
Poor boy, poor boy!"
They were strong men; the tender quick of pity had grown thick. Yet
they turned away. Father Chaumonot raised her gently.
"Yes, my daughter, he is dead. God will deal kindly with him, brave
boy."
"Dead . . . as I shall soon be." The vicomte's dulling eyes roved from
one face to another till they rested on madame. "He will sing no more;
he will not fly southward this winter, nor next. Ah, Madame, will you
forget that kiss? I believe not. Listen: . . . I did not kiss simply
your lips; 'twas your memory. Ever shall that kiss stand between you
and your lover's lips."
"It is true," she said brokenly. "You had a wicked heart, Monsieur.
You, you have brought about all this misery. You have wantonly cast a
shadow upon my life."
"Have I done that? Well, that is something . . . something."
"I forgive you."
"Eh? I am growing deaf!" He reeled toward the door, and the men made
way for him. "I am growing blind, besides." He braced himself against
the jamb of the door. "My faith! it is a pretty world. . . . I regret
to leave it." He stared across the lake, but he could see nothing. A
page of his youth came back.
"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, "you have many sins upon your soul. Shall
I give you absolution?"
"Absolution?" The vicomte's lips grimaced; it might have been an
attempt to smile. "Absolution for me? Where is Brother Jacques? That
would be droll. . . . Those eyes! Absolution? That for your heaven,"
snapping his fingers, "and that for your hell. I know. It is all
silence. There is nothing. I wonder. . . ." His knees suddenly
refused to support the weight of his body. He raised himself upon his
hands. The trees were merging together; the lake was red and blurred.
"Gabrielle, Gabrielle, I loved you after my own fashion! . . . The
devil take that grey cloak!" And the vicomte's lawless soul went forth.
The men took the three bodies and placed them in the canoes. They were
somewhat rough with the vicomte's.
"Gently, my brothers," said Nicot. "He was a rascal, but he was a man."
Madame and the Chevalier were alone. To both of them it seemed as
though years had passed. Madame was weary. She would have liked to
lie down and sleep . . . forever. The Chevalier brushed his eyes. He
was a man. Weeping over death and in pity was denied him. At present
he was incapable of accepting the full weight of the catastrophe. His
own agony was too recent. Everything was vague and dreamy. His head
ached painfully from the blow he had received in the fight.
"What did he do to you?" he asked, scarce knowing what he said.
"He kissed me; kissed me on the mouth, Monsieur." She wiped her lips
again. "It is of no use. It will always be there."
"You are Madame de Brissac?"
"Yes." The hopelessness of her tone chilled him.
"And you loved Victor?"
Her head drooped. She was merely tired; but he accepted this as an
affirmative answer.
"It would have been well, Madame, had I died in his place."
"Let us go," she said; "they are calling."
That was all.
Victor lay in the living-room of the fort. A shroud covered all but
his face. A little gold crucifix, belonging to Father Chaumonot, lay
against his lips. Candles burned at his head and at his feet. There
was quiet in his breast, peace on his boyish face.
"Come, Anne," said madame softly.
"Let me watch," said Anne. "I have always loved him."
They buried Victor under the hill, at the foot of a kingly pine where a
hawk had builded his eery home. A loving hand had carved upon the tree
these words: "Here lies Victor de Saumaise, a brave and gallant
Frenchman, a poet, a gentleman, and soldier. He lived honorably and he
died well." Close to the shores of the lake they buried the vicomte
and the last of the D'Hérouvilles. But only a roll of earth tells
where they lie. Thus, a heart of sunshine and two hearts of storm
repose in the eternal shadow, in peace, in silence. The same winds
whisper mournfully above them, or sing joyously, or breathe in thunder.
The heat of summer and the chill of winter pass and repass; the long
grasses grow and die; the sun and the moon and the throbbing stars
spread light upon these sepulchers. Two hundred and fifty years have
come and gone, yet do they lie as on that day. After death,
inanimation; only the inanimate is changeless.