I was wakened completely by the shooting of bolts. With the opening
of the door I saw the figures of Gabord and Voban. My little friend
the mouse saw them also, and scampered from the bread it had been
eating, away among the corn, through which my footsteps had now made
two rectangular paths, not disregarded by Gabord, who solicitously
pulled Voban into the narrow track, that he should not trespass on
my harvest.
I rose, showed no particular delight at seeing Voban, but greeted
him easily--though my heart was bursting to ask him of Alixe--and
arranged my clothes. Presently Gabord said, "Stools for barber,"
and, wheeling, he left the dungeon. He was gone only an instant,
but long enough for Voban to thrust a letter into my hand, which
I ran into the lining of my waistcoat as I whispered, "Her
brother--he is well?"
"Well, and he have go to France," he answered. "She make me say,
look to the round window in the Chateau front."
We spoke in English--which, as I have said, Voban understood
imperfectly. There was nothing more said, and if Gabord, when he
returned, suspected, he showed no sign, but put down two stools,
seating himself on one, as I seated myself on the other for Voban's
handiwork. Presently a soldier appeared with a bowl of coffee.
Gabord rose, took it from him, waved him away, and handed it to me.
Never did coffee taste so sweet, and I sipped and sipped till Voban
had ended his work with me. Then I drained the last drop and stood
up. He handed me a mirror, and Gabord, fetching a fine white
handkerchief from his pocket, said, "Here's for your tears, when
they drum you to heaven, dickey-bird."
But when I saw my face in the mirror, I confess I was startled.
My hair, which had been black, was plentifully sprinkled with
white, my face was intensely pale and thin, and the eyes were sunk
in dark hollows. I should not have recognized myself. But I laughed
as I handed back the glass, and said, "All flesh is grass, but a
dungeon's no good meadow."
"'Tis for the dry chaff," Gabord answered, "not for young
grass--aho!"
He rose and made ready to leave, Voban with him. "The commissariat
camps here in an hour or so," he said, with a ripe chuckle.
It was clear the new state of affairs was more to his mind than
the long year's rigour and silence. It seemed to me strange then,
and it has seemed so ever since, that during all that time I never
was visited by Doltaire but once, and of that event I am going to
write briefly here.
It was about two months before this particular morning that he
came, greeting me courteously enough.
"Close quarters here," said he, looking round as if the place
were new to him and smiling to himself.
"Not so close as we all come to one day," said I.
"Dismal comparison!" he rejoined; "you've lost your
spirits."
"Not so," I retorted; "nothing but my liberty."
"You know the way to find it quickly," he suggested.
"The letters for La Pompadour?" I asked.
"A dead man's waste papers," responded he; "of no use to him or
you, or any one save the Grande Marquise."
"Valuable to me," said I.
"None but the Grande Marquise and the writer would give you a
penny for them!"
"Why should I not be my own merchant?"
"You can--to me. If not to me, to no one. You had your chance long
ago, and you refused it. You must admit I dealt fairly with you.
I did not move till you had set your own trap and fallen into it.
Now, if you do not give me the letters--well, you will give them to
none else in this world. It has been a fair game, and I am winning
now. I've only used means which one gentleman might use with
another. Had you been a lesser man I should have had you spitted
long ago. You understand?"
"Perfectly. But since we have played so long, do you think I'll
give you the stakes now--before the end?"
"It would be wiser," he answered thoughtfully.
"I have a nation behind me," urged I.
"It has left you in a hole here to rot."
"It will take over your citadel and dig me out some day," I
retorted hotly.
"What good that? Your life is more to you than Quebec to England."
"No, no," said I quickly; "I would give my life a hundred times
to see your flag hauled down!"
"A freakish ambition," he replied; "mere infatuation!"
"You do not understand it, Monsieur Doltaire," I remarked
ironically.
"I love not endless puzzles. There is no sport in following a maze
that leads to nowhere save the grave." He yawned. "This air is
heavy," he added; "you must find it trying."
"Never as trying as at this moment," I retorted.
"Come, am I so malarious?"
"You are a trickster," I answered coldly.
"Ah, you mean that night at Bigot's?" He smiled. "No, no, you
were to blame--so green. You might have known we were for having
you between the stones."
"But it did not come out as you wished?" hinted I.
"It served my turn," he responded; and he gave me such a smiling,
malicious look that I knew sought to convey he had his way with
Alixe; and though I felt that she was true to me, his cool
presumption so stirred me I could have struck him in the face.
I got angrily to my feet, but as I did so I shrank a little, for
at times the wound in my side, not yet entirely healed, hurt me.
"You are not well," he said, with instant show of curiosity;
"your wounds still trouble you? They should be healed. Gabord was
ordered to see you cared for."
"Gabord has done well enough," answered I. "I have had wounds
before, monsieur."
He leaned against the wall and laughed. "What braggarts you
English are!" he said. "A race of swashbucklers--even on bread and
water!"
He had me at advantage, and I knew it, for he had kept his
temper. I made an effort. "Both excellent," rejoined I, "and
English too."
He laughed again. "Come, that is better. That's in your old
vein. I love to see you so. But how knew you our baker was
English?--which he is, a prisoner like yourself."
"As easily as I could tell the water was not made by Frenchmen."
"Now I have hope of you," he broke out gaily; "you will yet
redeem your nation."
At that moment Gabord came with a message from the Governor to
Doltaire, and he prepared to go.
"You are set on sacrifice?" he asked. "Think--dangling from Cape
Diamond!"
"I will meditate on your fate instead," I replied.
"Think!" he said again, waving off my answer with his hand.
"The letters I shall no more ask for; and you will not escape
death?"
"Never by that way," rejoined I.
"So. Very good. Au plaisir, my captain. I go to dine at
the Seigneur Duvarney's."
With that last thrust he was gone, and left me wondering if the
Seigneur had ever made an effort to see me, if he had forgiven the
duel with his son.
That was the incident.
* * * * *
When Gabord and Voban were gone, leaving the light behind, I
went over to where the torch stuck in the wall, and drew Alixe's
letter from my pocket with eager fingers. It told the whole story
of her heart.
CHATEAU ST. LOUIS, 27th November, 1757.
Though I write you these few words, dear Robert, I do not know
that they will reach you, for as yet it is not certain they will
let Voban visit you. A year, dear friend, and not a word from you!
I should have broken my heart if I had not heard of you one way and
another. They say you are much worn in body, though you have always
a cheerful air. There are stories of a visit Monsieur Doltaire paid
you, and how you jested. He hates you, and yet he admires you too.
And now listen, Robert, and I beg you not to be angry--oh, do not
be angry, for I am all yours; but I want to tell you that I have
not repulsed Monsieur Doltaire when he has spoken flatteries to me.
I have not believed them, and I have kept my spirits strong against
the evil in him. I want to get you free of prison, and to that end
I have to work through him with the Intendant, that he will not set
the Governor more against you. With the Intendant himself I will
not deal at all. So I use the lesser villain, and in truth the more
powerful, for he stands higher at Versailles than any here. With
the Governor I have influence, for he is, as you know, a kinsman of
my mother's, and of late he has shown a fondness for me. Yet you
can see that I must act most warily, that I must not seem to care
for you, for that would be your complete undoing. I rather seem
to scoff. (Oh, how it hurts me! how my cheeks tingle when I think
of it alone! and how I clench my hands, hating them all for
oppressing you!)
I do not believe their slanders--that you are a spy. It is I,
Robert, who have at last induced the Governor to bring you to
trial. They would have put it off till next year, but I feared you
would die in that awful dungeon, and I was sure that if your trial
came on there would be a change, as there is to be for a time, at
least. You are to be lodged in the common jail during the sitting
of the court; and so that is one step gained. Yet I had to use all
manner of device with the Governor.
He is sometimes so playful with me that I can pretend to
sulkiness; and so one day I said that he showed no regard for our
family or for me in not bringing you, who had nearly killed my
brother, to justice. So he consented, and being of a stubborn
nature, too, when Monsieur Doltaire and the Intendant opposed
the trial, he said it should come off at once. But one thing
grieves me: they are to have you marched through the streets of
the town like any common criminal, and I dare show no distress
nor plead, nor can my father, though he wishes to move for you in
this; and I dare not urge him, for then it would seem strange the
daughter asked your punishment, and the father sought to lessen it.
When you are in the common jail it will be much easier to help
you. I have seen Gabord, but he is not to be bent to any purpose,
though he is kind to me. I shall try once more to have him take
some wine and meat to you to-night. If I fail, then I shall only
pray that you may be given strength in body for your time of
trouble equal to your courage.
It may be I can fix upon a point where you may look to see me as
you pass to-morrow to the Chateau. There must be a sign. If you
will put your hand to your forehead-- But no, they may bind you,
and your hands may not be free. When you see me, pause in your
step for an instant, and I shall know. I will tell Voban where
you shall send your glance, if he is to be let in to you, and I
hope that what I plan may not fail.
And so, Robert, adieu. Time can not change me, and your misfortunes
draw me closer to you. Only the dishonourable thing could make me
close the doors of my heart, and I will not think you, whate'er
they say, unworthy of my constant faith. Some day, maybe, we shall
smile at, and even cherish, these sad times. In this gay house I
must be flippant, for I am now of the foolish world! But under all
the trivial sparkle a serious heart beats. It belongs to thee, if
thou wilt have it, Robert, the heart of thy