ACROSS THE MOUNTAINS
"'Tis better, perhaps," thought Andrew, as, walking now by the side of
his beast to ease it, he gazed down from the elevation he had reached
to the plain lying below, "better that I did not slay him on that
night, or leave him there to die. For then I should have accomplished
only the task I was pledged to; might never have discovered that,
besides revenging Philip, there was the woman to save if may be." And
still pondering on all this, he continued:
"Debrasques might have been actually slain instead of condemned to
this living death--as well be dead, poor boy, as he now is!--and then
I should have known nothing; my search would have been ended with his
cousin's death. Nothing. Nothing. And all my life I should have been
coupling the name of Marion Wyatt with that of a treacherous, false
wanton, as doubtless her father does if still alive. As Philip did
unto the last, though sometimes he doubted. Well! his doubts had
reason, it should seem!"
But now he almost laughed aloud as a new thought, or memory, rose to
his mind. The memory of what description of revenge he had meditated
on the woman when he supposed her to be as equally guilty as the man.
A determination to carry her off from him as that man had carried her
off from Philip, or to find her and, in some way, steal her love from
De Bois-Vallée; to pretend love for her until her own was won--then to
break her heart and fling her away. All this he had thought of doing,
or of attempting to do, and had pondered on how it should be done, and
now--now--instead--he was seeking her so that he might save her. He
had reason to laugh at the change that had come into his heart.
The October night was setting in and the evening vapours arising
amongst the great beech and fir trees on the mountain slopes, as
Andrew reached the top of the pass and stood upon the level of the
summit; seeing as he did so--through the rime and dank mist made by
the dripping trees--that the track ran flat for some distance now.
Whereon he set to work to calculate if it were possible for him to
descend into the plains of Lorraine that night--to reflect also if it
would be best to do so.
"I know naught of Remiremont," he reflected, "nor whether 'tis large
or small--a place where a stranger may shelter himself without
attracting attention, or be the object of all eyes by appearing there.
I would I did so know, could see the place ere arriving at it."
Also, he reflected, he had to find out where this man for whom he
sought dwelt. It might be, he knew, that he would have some great
mansion in the town itself, or, which would be far better, that he
lived in some outlying manor or grange.
"For then," he thought, "I could better find an entrance to it, bring
myself face to face with him. Could summon him to come forth and meet
me, or, stealing in, confront him. Yet, whichever it be, I will find
him. Even though he is surrounded by servitors I will get at him, have
him point to point at last."
And as he said these words he determined to push on along the track
once more, in the hope that, at least, the descent might soon begin.
He found, however, that he could of necessity go but little further
that night. From the herbage at his feet there was rising now so
strong and penetrating a mist that, already, it was difficult for him
to follow the track; soon that mist would be a mountain fog enveloping
everything and preventing further progress, and he recognized the
unpleasantness of the situation. He was on the top of the mountains
without so much as a cave to shelter him or his horse, and there he
would doubtless have to stay until daylight--unless the fog which was
thickening every moment should clear suddenly away, and the moon,
which he remembered rose late, come forth. Stay there while both he
and his beast would become chilled to the bone, so that in the morning
they must be stiff with cold and cramp.
"A cheering prospect, truly," he thought, while as he did so he took
from his valise his flask and some bread, and, having drunk a little
spirit, moistened a portion of the bread with it and gave it to the
horse, "a cheering prospect! Fore gad! I begin to think I am no wary
campaigner after all, to be thus caught without a retreat. Yet that
vagabond, my host of the Golden Hart, said the passage of the
mountains might be made ere nightfall. It seems he was a liar, or I
have come too slow."
Now, in truth, Muhlenbein had in this case told him no lie, since the
passage of the Vosges from some parts of Alsace to the other side of
the mountains was possible in a day--though not such short days as
those of October; moreover, Andrew had set out late, it being ten in
the morning ere he had left the Goldener Hirsch. But, if the man had
not deceived Andrew in this manner he had in another, since, for his
own selfish ends and to keep him longer at the inn, whereby he might
be induced to make further purchases and to part with some more of his
gold pieces, he had grievously lied when he said there was no
accommodation to be found on the road. For--unless his memory was
exceedingly treacherous!--he should have remembered that there were
shepherds' and goatherds' huts at frequent intervals on the summit of
the mountains, while but a little divergence from that summit and an
earlier descent would have brought the traveller to St. Dié or Epinal.
But doubtless his greed prompted his forgetfulness, or, to do him
justice, he may have thought Andrew would not care to branch off to
either of those places.
Therefore the latter soon found that, for certain, Muhlenbein was
wrong when he said there was no shelter but that of the mountain pines
to be found on the road, since now, as he led his horse along the
level flat, and felt with his feet at every step to make sure that he
kept the hard and beaten track, he distinctly heard voices ahead of
him--voices that, from the dull and muffled manner in which they
reached his ears, came undoubtedly from within some walls. Then, still
feeling his way carefully over the soft and sodden _chaume_, on which
both his and the horse's feet trod noiselessly, and directing their
footsteps off the path towards the spot whence the sound of the voices
came, he found himself outside a long low hut, as he concluded it to
be--a hut from which a murky gleam of light was visible in the fog,
proceeding evidently from some opening that served as a window.
"I tell you," a voice, harsh and rough, was saying, "the war is over!
Otherwise how would he be here? I tell you I have seen him. And we
know, we old and tried soldiers, that none leave the ranks till peace
is signed." After which the speaker emitted a laugh as raucous as, and
fitting mate to, his speech.
"Ha!" said another, "that is all very well for such poor devils as we
are, 'when peace is signed.' But with him, now, of the noblesse--and
of Turenne's staff, they say--'tis different. They leave the army when
it goes into winter quarters; he would do so. Curse him! He needs come
here to harry us about."
"Ay, but we will harry him, too, in God's good time. Some day he shall
come back from other wars and find he has no home to enter. We will
light the mountain tops with the flames of his old house in spite of
his being Vicomte and----"
Unfortunately, at this moment, Andrew--who, at the words "of Turenne's
staff" first, and of "Vicomte" next, had pricked up his ears wondering
on what he had lighted on now, and what revelations he was about to
hear--was prevented from listening to any more of their talk. His
horse, chilled and cold, shook itself violently, rattling as it did so
its bridle and chain and stirrups, so that none within could fail to
hear the noise it made.
In an instant there was silence in the hut; a moment later a door was
flung open and the shadow of a man, blurred and indistinct in the foul
air that was lit up by the surly light cast out, was visible through
the fog.
"Who's there?" came in an instant a different voice which Andrew had
not previously heard, and, as he advanced to where the figure of the
man was, he answered: "A traveller seeking shelter for the night for
himself and animal; shelter at least till it is clearer, and he can
pursue his way."
"There is no shelter here, monsieur," the voice replied, and the
expression "monsieur" told him he was dealing with Lorrainers now.
"None."
"My friend, there must be. We are cold and perishing, and I see you
have a fire within. Let me come in," and, suiting the action to the
word, he pushed up against the man standing in the doorway, who fell
back somewhat at the sight of the stalwart figure before him. Yet he
was stalwart, too, or had been once when younger, though he was now
old and presented to Andrew nothing but the wreck of a powerful man.
Still, old as he was, he seemed inclined to resent the intrusion and
appeared almost as though about to bar his entrance, when another
voice from within exclaimed--
"Nay, Gaspard, if the traveller wants warmth and shelter let him come
in. Poor as our auberge is, doubtless he will pay for his
accommodation."
"Doubtless," replied Andrew, not stopping, however, his inward
progress while he spoke, but advancing towards the fire where he
warmed his hands and feet, glancing round all the time at the
inhabitants of the hut and thinking them about as villainous a looking
crew as he had ever set eyes on. Nevertheless, this did not deter him
from the resolve he had taken of obtaining shelter here, if not food,
nor prevent him from assuming the masterful manner which he saw at
once was the only one likely to serve him now.
Also he wanted to know--and meant to know!--who was the "Vicomte," the
member of the noblesse, and likewise of Turenne's staff, who was here
and had been seen by one of the speakers. For, putting those remarks
together and coupling them with the fact that Remiremont was not far
from here, he thought it would be marvellously strange if he had not
lighted on the clue to De Bois-Vallée's present whereabouts.
Assuming, therefore, this masterful manner, which he felt would serve
him so well, he administered a kick to a log of wood that had fallen
almost from the rude fire on to the earthen floor without, stretched
his large body in front of the embers until the warmth was obscured
from all the others, and, looking down at the two men by the side of
the old one, said--
"Well, my good friends, you seem to have devilish little hospitality
amongst you, since you wish to close the door to any wandering
traveller across these cursed mountains. Hey! is it not so?"
"We keep no open house," the elder one said, looking sourly at him as
he stood there, his sword by his side, his hat on his head, and with
one hand twirling his moustache, "therefore one may close their door
against whomsoever they please."
"May they! What! When over that door hangs a bush--foul as the
night is I could see that, the feather in my hat had almost brushed it
as I spake to you--testifying you have wine for those who can pay for
it--and what traveller goes without money for his wants? Also, I
observe you have accommodation for beasts as well--if I mistake not I
see the hindquarters of a horse down there," and he pointed with his
finger to the end of the long hut--where, behind a piece of horribly
dirty canvas that hung from a rafter to the earthen floor, he saw a
grey tail switching every now and then.
None of the three men sitting there and gazing up at this
powerful-looking intruder answered a word; instead, all scowled at
him, giving Andrew the idea--doubtless a true one--that they were
meditating some sort of attack upon him. Maybe to pull him to earth;
one to spring at his throat, another at his legs. It was likely enough
to be so, he told himself! And at the thought his spirits rose and
danced within him; it was the love of encountering such adventures as
these that had sent him wandering about Europe and fighting in any
campaign where his sword would be accepted, when, had he followed his
dead mother's desire, he would have remained at home.
"For those who can pay for their accommodation, I say," he repeated,
and with this love of excitement egging him forward, he decided on
tantalizing the men. Whereon he thrust his hand into his pocket, drew
out his leathern bag, and emptied some gold and silver coins into his
other palm.
"Here," said he, pitching a silver dollar down on to the table, "find
me some food and drink, and drink with me yourselves. Meanwhile, I
will attend to my beast," and he strode out into the raw fog again,
and a moment later led in the animal by the bridle, when, taking it up
to the end of the hut, he tied it by the reins to a nail in the wall.
"Now, a bucketful of water," he exclaimed, "and a handful of oats, and
we shall do very well." After which he glanced at the others to see
what disposition there was amongst them to obey him.
The sight of the money--or, perhaps, 'twas rather the sight of the
leathern purse--had, however, wonderfully sharpened their hospitality,
whereon, muttering that "since monsieur appeared desirous of
recompensing them for his intrusion they were willing to oblige him,"
the old man, still looking sour and grim, set about finding some
refreshments. From a hole in the wall he produced a bottle of wine
that, by its appearance, seemed to be old, if not strong; some cheese
and rye bread was also forthcoming, but he said that, as regards meat,
he had none whatever.
"We are poor, very poor," he explained, "simple charcoal burners and
truffle-hunters--nothing else."
"Humph!" said Andrew, as he masticated the provender before him,
though he did not sit down to the table until he had seen the horse
also given water and a feed, "Nothing else, eh? Now I should have
supposed you two worthy gentlemen," and he directed a glance at the
others, whose mugs at the same time he filled to the brim, "would
have been something more in my way. Soldiers, for instance. There is a
good regiment raised hereabouts, the one of Epinal; I have seen it in
the field. Commanded, when I knew it, by Maisonfleur. Yet the
_arrière-ban_ has been out a long while and you are here."
"The war is over," one of these answered, speaking now for the first
time since Andrew had been making himself at home. "We know that."
"How?" asked Andrew, looking at him with a swift glance over his
glass. "How, friend, do you know that?"
"Have we not proof? Monsieur suggests he is a soldier. Yet he is
here--as we are."
"A cunning _riposte_," said Andrew to himself, while he exclaimed
aloud. "My friend, I do not count. I am an auxiliary, or what you
choose to call me--volunteer, nay, mercenary, if you please--and can
do as I desire, only if I do not fight I am not paid. But for you, you
are Frenchmen, and the war is not over. Turenne will engage the
Imperialists again, Condé is in full campaign. Fine fellows like you
should be earning laurels--and louis d'ors."
"_Peste!_" exclaimed the one who had not hitherto spoken. "Louis
d'ors! How many of them does monsieur think we get? And as for being
here--well, why not? It is our _pays_, and we are not the only ones
out of the war. There are others of this neighbourhood back from
it--as we know very well," and he gave a glance as he spoke at the two
men.
"To wit--whom?" asked Andrew, knowing that now the conversation was
approaching the point he desired. Knowing also that it behoved him to
be very careful. If he was that, if he could but be a diplomatist for
half an hour, he might learn much.
"Oh! _avec ça!_" the man said, "it would be useless to tell monsieur.
He would not understand. But we know--we know, _mes amis_," addressing
his friends, "_N'est ce pas?_"
"Perhaps," said Andrew, "I know, too. Know to whom you refer. Shall I
say--for instance--a Vicomte. Mention another name? Humph! Also
beginning with a V?"
All looked at him, the big old man over a pair of horn spectacles he
had assumed, the others under their brows. Then the younger of the two
remaining ones, a dark handsome man, though with a face spoilt by
signs of debauchery and, perhaps, of rough living, said:
"Is monsieur a friend of his?"
"Scarcely that! Otherwise I might be riding on my way now, reckless of
fog and reeking mist, reckless of missing my path and falling to the
bottom of some abyss from one of your crags, to tell him he was in
danger of his house being burned to the ground, of these mountain tops
being lighted by the reflections of the flames from that burning
house."
He had hit the mark when he mentioned the letter V as the first one of
the name of the man they undoubtedly hated, knew it, saw it directly
from their actions.
The man whose home was to be burned over his head, the man who they
had said harried them, whom they had sworn that very evening to harry
in God's good time, was, must be, De Bois-Vallée.
And Andrew laughed fiercely under his moustache as he thought to
himself:
"Between us--with me first--he should not escape this time!"