"Eh bien, I am not able to tell," said he, shaking his head
soberly. "You remember that morning--well, I have twenty men there
for two days. They are armed, they surround the Hermitage, they
keep a good watch. The wasp he is very troublesome, but they see
no soldier. They stay, they burn the smudge. By and by I think
there is nothing to fear, and I bring them home, but I leave three
men. The baroness and the two girls and their servants they stay
awhile to pack the trunk. They are coming to the chateau. It is
in the evening; the coach is at the door; the servants have
started. Suddenly--the British! I do not know how many. They
come out of the woods like a lightning, and bang! bang! bang! they
have killed my men. They take the baroness and the Misses de
Lambert, and they drive away with them. The servants they hear the
shots, they return, they come, and they tell us. We follow. We
find the coach; it is in the road, by the north trail. Dieu! they
are all gone! We travel to the river, but--" here he lifted his
shoulders and shook his head dolefully--"we could do nothing."
"The general may let me go after them with a force of cavalry," I
said. "I want you to come with me and talk to him."
"No, no, my capitaine!" said he; "it would not be wise. We must
wait. We do not know where they are. I have friends in Canada;
they are doing their best, and when we hear from them--eh bien, we
shall know what is necessary."
I told him how I had met them that night in Canada, and what came
of it.
"They are a cruel people, the English," said he. "I am afraid to
find them will be a matter of great difficulty."
"But the letter--"
"Ah, the letter," he interrupted, feeling in his pocket. "The
letter is not much. It is from Tiptoes--from Louison. It was
mailed this side of the river at Morristown. You shall see; they
do not know where they are."
He handed me the letter. I read it with an eagerness I could not
conceal. It went as follows:--
"MY DEAR COUNT: If this letter reaches you, it will, I hope,
relieve your anxiety. We are alive and well, but where? I am sure
I have no better idea than if I were a baby just born. We came
here with our eyes covered after a long ride from the river, which
we crossed in the night. I think it must have taken us three days
to come here. We are shut up in a big house with high walls and
trees and gardens around it--a beautiful place. We have fine beds
and everything to eat, only we miss the bouillabaisse, and the
jokes of M. Pidgeon, and the fine old claret. A fat Englishwoman
who waddles around like a big goose and who calls me Mumm (as if I
were a wine-maker!) waits upon us. We do not know the name of our
host. He is a tall man who says little and has hair on his neck
and on the back of his hands. Dieu! he is a lord who talks as if
he were too lazy to breathe. It is 'Your Lordship this' and 'Your
Lordship that.' But I must speak well of him, because he is going
to read this letter: it is on that condition I am permitted to
write. Therefore I say he is a great and good man, a beautiful
man. The baroness and Louise send love to all. Madame says do not
worry; we shall come out all right: but I say _worry_! and, good
man, do not cease to worry until we are safe home. Tell the cure
he has something to do now. I have worn out my rosary, and am
losing faith. Tell him to try his.
"Your affectionate
"LOUISON."
"She is an odd girl," said the count, as I gave back the letter,
"so full of fun, so happy, so bright, so quick--always on her
tiptoes. Come, you are tired; you have ridden far in the dust. I
shall make you glad to be here."
A groom took my horse, and the count led me down a wooded slope to
the lakeside. Octagonal water-houses, painted white, lay floating
at anchor near us. He rowed me to one of them for a bath. Inside
was a rug and a table and soap and linen. A broad panel on a side
of the floor came up as I pulled a cord, showing water clear and
luminous to the sandy lake-bottom. The glow of the noonday filled
the lake to its shores, and in a moment I clove the sunlit
depths--a rare delight after my long, hot ride.
At luncheon we talked of the war, and he made much complaint of the
Northern army, as did everybody those days.
"My boy," said he, "you should join Perry on the second lake. It
is your only chance to fight, to win glory."
He told me then of the impending battle and of Perry's great need
of men. I had read of the sea-fighting and longed for a part in
it. To climb on hostile decks and fight hand to hand was a thing
to my fancy. Ah, well! I was young then. At the count's table
that day I determined to go, if I could get leave.
Therese and a young Parisienne, her friend, were at luncheon with
us. They bade us adieu and went away for a gallop as we took
cigars. We had no sooner left the dining room than I called for my
horse. Due at the Harbor that evening, I could give myself no
longer to the fine hospitality of the count. In a few moments I
was bounding over the road, now cool in deep forest shadows. A
little way on I overtook Therese and the Parisienne. The former
called to me as I passed. I drew rein, coming back and stopping
beside her. The other went on at a walk.
"M'sieur le Capitaine, have you any news of them--of Louise and
Louison?" she inquired. "You and my father were so busy talking I
could not ask you before."
"I know this only: they are in captivity somewhere, I cannot tell
where."
"You look worried, M'sieur le Capitaine; you have not the happy
face, the merry look, any longer. In June you were a boy, in
August--voila! it is a man! Perhaps you are preparing for the
ministry."
She assumed a solemn look, glancing up at me as if in mockery of my
sober face. She was a slim, fine brunette, who, as I knew, had
long been a confidante of Louison.
"Alas! ma'm'selle, I am worried. I have no longer any peace."
"Do you miss them?" she inquired, a knowing look in her handsome
eyes. "Do not think me impertinent."
"More than I miss my mother," I said.
"I have a letter," said she, smiling. "I do not know--I thought I
should show it to you, but--but not to-day."
"Is it from them?"
"It is from Louison--from Tiptoes."
"And--and it speaks of me?"
"Ah, m'sieur," said she, arching her brows, "it has indeed much to
say of you."
"And--and may I not see it?" I asked eagerly. "Ma'm'selle, I tell
you I--I must see it."
"Why?" She stirred the mane of her horse with a red riding-whip.
"Why not?" I inquired, my heart beating fast.
"If I knew--if I were justified--you know I am her friend. I know
all her secrets."
"Will you not be my friend also?" I interrupted.
"A friend of Louison, he is mine," said she.
"Ah, ma'm'selle, then I confess to you--it is because I love her."
"I knew it; I am no fool," was her answer. "But I had to hear it
from you. It is a remarkable thing to do, but they are in such
peril. I think you ought to know."
She took the letter from her bosom, passing it to my hand. A faint
odor of violets came with it. It read:--
"MY DEAR THERESE: I wish I could see you, if only for an hour. I
have so much to say. I have written your father of our prison
home. I am going to write you of my troubles. You know what we
were talking about the last time I saw you--myself and that
handsome fellow. Mon Dieu! I shall not name him. It is not
necessary. Well, you were right, my dear. I was a fool; I laughed
at your warning; I did not know the meaning of that delicious pain.
But oh, my dear friend, it has become a terrible thing since I know
I may never see him again. My heart is breaking with it. Mere de
Dieu! I can no longer laugh or jest or pretend to be happy. What
shall I say? That I had rather die than live without him? No;
that is not enough. I had rather be an old maid and live only with
the thought of _him_ than marry another, if he were a king. I
remember those words of yours, 'I know he loves you.' Oh, my dear
Therese, what a comfort they are to me now! I repeat them often.
If _I_ could only say, 'I know'! Alas! I can but say, 'I do not
know,' nay, even, 'I do not believe.' If I had not been a fool I
should have made him tell me, for I had him over his ears in love
with me one day, or I am no judge of a man. But, you know, they
are so fickle! And then the Yankee girls are pretty and so clever.
Well, they shall not have him if I can help it. When I return
there shall be war, if necessary, between France and America.
And, Therese, you know I have weapons, and you have done me the
honor to say I know how to use them. I have told Louise, and--what
do you think?--the poor thing cried an hour--for pity of me! As
ever, she makes my trouble her own. I have been selfish always,
but I know the cure. It is love--toujours l'amour. Now I think
only of him, and he recalls you and your sweet words. God make you
a true prophet! With love to you and the marquis, I kiss each
line, praying for happiness for you and for him. Believe me as
ever,
"Your affectionate
"LOUISON.
"P.S. I feel better now I have told you. I wonder what his
Lordship will say. Poor thing! he will read this; he will think me
a fool. Eh bien, I have no better thought of him. He can put me
under lock and key, but he shall not imprison my secrets; and, if
they bore him, he should not read my letters. L."
I read it thrice, and held it for a moment to my lips. Every word
stung me with the sweet pain that afflicted its author. I could
feel my cheeks burning.
"Ma'm'selle, pardon me; it is not I she refers to. She does not
say whom."
"Surely," said Therese, flirting her whip and lifting her
shoulders. "M'sieur Le Capitaine is never a stupid man. You--you
should say something very nice now."
"If it is I--thank God! Her misery is my delight, her liberation
my one purpose."
"And my congratulations," said she, giving me her hand. "She has
wit and beauty, a true heart, a great fortune, and--good luck in
having your love."