There was a dignity in the manners of M. de Lambert to me
formidable and oppressive. It showed in his tall, erect figure,
his deep tone, his silvered hair and mustache. There was a merry
word between the kisses of one daughter; between those of the other
only tears and a broken murmur.
"Oh, papa," said Louison, as she greeted him, "I do love you--but I
dread that--tickly old mustache. Mon Dieu! what a lover--you must
have been!"
Then she presented me, and put her hand upon my arm, looking
proudly at her father.
"My captain!" said she. "Did you ever see a handsomer Frenchman?"
"There are many, and here is one," said he, turning to the young
count, who stood behind him--a fine youth, tall, strong-built,
well-spoken, with blond hair and dark, keen eyes. I admit frankly
I had not seen a better figure of a man. I assure you, he had the
form of Hercules, the eye of Mars. It was an eye to
command--women; for I had small reason to admire his courage when I
knew him better. He took a hand of each young lady, and kissed it
with admirable gallantry.
"Dieu! it is not so easy always to agree with one's father," said
Louison.
We went riding that afternoon--Therese and her marquis and Louison
and I. The first two went on ahead of us; we rode slowly, and for
a time no word was spoken. Winds had stripped the timber, and
swept its harvest to the walls and hollows, where it lay bleaching
in the sun. Birch and oak and maple were holding bared arms to the
wind, as if to toughen them for storm and stress. I felt a mighty
sadness, wondering if my own arms were quite seasoned for all that
was to come. The merry-hearted girl beside me was ever like a day
of June--the color of the rose in her cheek, its odor always in her
hair and lace. There was never an hour of autumn in her life.
"Alas, you are a very silent man!" said she, presently, with a
little sigh.
"Only thinking," I said.
"Of what?"
"Dieu! of the dead summer," I continued.
"Believe me, it does not pay to think," she interrupted. "I tried
it once, and made a sad discovery."
"Of what?"
"A fool!" said she, laughing.
"I should think it--it might have been a coquette," said I, lightly.
"Why, upon my word," said she, "I believe you misjudge me. Do you
think me heartless?"
For the first time I saw a shadow in her face.
"No; but you are young and--and beautiful, and--"
"What?" she broke in impatiently, as I hesitated. "I long to know."
"Men will love you in spite of all you can do," I added.
"Captain!" said she, turning her face away.
"Many will love you, and--and you can choose only one--a very hard
thing to do--possibly."
"Not hard," said she, "if I see the right one--and--and--he loves
me also."
I had kept myself well in hand, for I was full of doubts that day;
but the clever girl came near taking me, horse, foot, and guns,
that moment. She spoke so charmingly, she looked so winning, and
then, was it not easy to ask if I were the lucky one? She knew I
loved her, I knew that she had loved me, and I might as well
confess. But no; I was not ready.
"You must be stern with the others; you must not let them tell
you," I went on.
"Ciel!" said she, laughing, "one might as well go to a nunnery.
May not a girl enjoy her beauty? It is sweet to her."
"But do not make it bitter for the poor men. Dieu! I am one of
them, and know their sorrows."
"And you--you have been in love?"
"Desperately," I answered, clinging by the finger-tips. Somehow we
kept drifting into fateful moments when a word even might have
changed all that has been--our life way, the skies above us, the
friends we have known, our loves, our very souls.
She turned, smiling, her beauty flashing up at me with a power
quite irresistible. I shut my eyes a moment, summoning all my
forces. There was only a step between me and--God knows what!
"Captain, you are a foolish fellow," said she, with a little
shudder. "And I--well, I am cold. Parbleu! feel my hand."
She had drawn her glove quickly, and held out her hand, white and
beautiful, a dainty finger in a gorget of gems. That little cold,
trembling hand seemed to lay hold of my heart and pull me to her.
As my lips touched the palm I felt its mighty magic. Dear girl! I
wonder if she planned that trial for me.
"We must--ride--faster. You--you--are cold," I stammered.
She held her hand so that the sunlight flashed in the jewels, and
looked down upon it proudly.
"Do you think it beautiful?" she asked.
"Yes, and wonderful," I said. "But, mark me, it is all a sacred
trust--the beauty you have."
"Sacred?"
"More sacred than the power of kings," I said.
"Preacher!" said she, with a smile. "You should give yourself to
the church."
"I can do better with the sword of steel," I said.
"But do not be sad. Cheer up, dear fellow!" she went on, patting
my elbow with a pretty mockery. "We women are not--not so bad.
When I find the man I love--"
Her voice faltered as she began fussing with her stirrup.
I turned with a look of inquiry, changing quickly to one of
admiration.
"I shall make him love me, if I can," she went on soberly.
"And if he does?" I queried, my blood quickening as our eyes met.
"Dieu! I would do anything for him," said she.
I turned away, looking off at the brown fields. Ah, then, for a
breath, my heart begged my will for utterance. The first word
passed my lips when there came a sound of galloping hoofs and
Theresa and the marquis.
"Come, dreamers," said the former, as they pulled up beside us. "A
cold dinner is the worst enemy of happiness."
"And he is the worst robber that shortens the hour of love," said
the marquis, smiling.
We turned, following them at a swift gallop. They had helped me
out of that mire of ecstasy, and now I was glad, for, on my soul, I
believed the fair girl had found one more to her liking, and was
only playing for my scalp. And at last I had begun to know my own
heart, or thought I had.
D'ri came over that evening with a letter from General Brown. He
desired me to report for duty next day at two.
"War--it is forever war," said Therese, when I told her at dinner.
"There is to be a coaching-party to-morrow, and we shall miss you,
captain."
"Can you not soon return?" said the baroness.
"I fear not," was my answer. "It is to be a long campaign."
"Oh, the war! When will it ever end?" said Louise, sighing.
"When we are all dead," said Louison.
"Of loneliness?" said the old count, with a smile.
"No; of old age," said Louison, quickly.
"When the army goes into Canada it will go into trouble," said the
Comte de Chaumont, speaking in French. "We shall have to get you
out of captivity, captain."
"Louise would rescue him," said her sister. "She has influence
there."
"Would you pay my ransom?" I inquired, turning to her.
"With my life," said she, solemnly.
"Greater love hath no man than this," said the good Pere Joulin,
smiling as the others laughed.
"And none has greater obligation," said Louise, blushing with
embarrassment. "Has he not brought us three out of captivity?"
"Well, if I am taken," I said, "nothing can bring me back unless it
be--"
"A miracle?" the baroness prompted as I paused.
"Yes; even a resurrection," was my answer. "I know what it means
for a man to be captured there these days."
Louise sat beside me, and I saw what others failed to notice--her
napkin stop quickly on its way to her lips, her hand tighten as it
held the white linen. It made me regretful of my thoughtless
answer, but oddly happy for a moment. Then they all besought me
for some adventure of those old days in the army. I told them the
story of the wasps, and, when I had finished, our baroness told of
the trouble it led to--their capture and imprisonment.
"It was very strange," said she, in conclusion. "That Englishman
grew kinder every day we were there, until we began to feel at
home."
They were all mystified, but I thought I could understand it. We
had a long evening of music, and I bade them all good-by before
going to bed, for they were to be off early.
Well, the morning came clear, and before I was out of bed I heard
the coach-horn, the merry laughter of ladies under my window, the
prancing hoofs, and the crack of the whip as they all went away.
It surprised me greatly to find Louise at the breakfast table when
I came below-stairs; I shall not try to say how much it pleased me.
She was gowned in pink, a red rose at her bosom. I remember, as if
it were yesterday, the brightness of her big eyes, the glow in her
cheeks, the sweet dignity of her tall, fine figure when she rose
and gave me her hand.
"I did feel sorry, ma'm'selle, that I could not go; but now--now I
am happy," was my remark.
"Oh, captain, you are very gallant," said she, as we took seats.
"I was not in the mood for merrymaking, and then, I am reading a
book."
"A book! May its covers be the gates of happiness," I answered.
"Eh bien! it is a tale of love," said she.
"Of a man for a woman?" I inquired.
"Of a lady that loved two knights, and knew not which the better."
"Is it possible and--and reasonable?" I inquired. "In a tale
things should go as--well, as God plans them."
"Quite possible," said she, "for in such a thing as love who knows
what--what may happen?"
"Except he have a wide experience," I answered.
"And have God's eyes," said she. "Let me tell you. They were both
handsome, brave, splendid, of course, but there was a difference:
the one had a more perfect beauty of form and face, the other a
nobler soul."
"And which will she favor?"
"Alas! I have not read, and do not know her enough to judge," was
her answer; "but I shall hate her if she does not take him with the
better soul."
"And why?" I could hear my heart beating.
"Love is not love unless it be--" She paused, thinking. "Dieu!
from soul to soul," she added feelingly.
She was looking down, a white, tapered finger stirring the red
petals of the rose. Then she spoke in a low, sweet tone that
trembled with holy feeling and cut me like a sword of the spirit
going to its very hilt in my soul.
"Love looks to what is noble," said she, "or it is vain--it is
wicked; it fails; it dies in a day, like the rose. True love, that
is forever."
"What if it be hopeless?" I whispered.
"Ah! then it is very bitter," said she, her voice diminishing. "It
may kill the body, but--but love does not die. When it comes--"
There was a breath of silence that had in it a strange harmony not
of this world.
"'When it comes'?" I whispered.
"You see the coming of a great king," said she, looking down
thoughtfully, her chin, upon her hand.
"And all people bow their heads," I said.
"Yes," she added, with a sigh, "and give their bodies to be burned,
if he ask it. The king is cruel--sometimes."
"Dieu!" said I. "He has many captives."
She broke a sprig of fern, twirling it in her fingers; her big eyes
looked up at me, and saw, I know, to the bottom of my soul.
"But long live the king!" said she, her lips trembling, her cheeks
as red as the rose upon her bosom.
"Long live the king!" I murmured.
We dared go no farther. Sweet philosopher, inspired of Heaven, I
could not bear the look of her, and rose quickly with dim eyes and
went out of the open door. A revelation had come to me. Mere de
Dieu! how I loved that woman so fashioned in thy image! She
followed me, and laid her hand upon my arm tenderly, while I shook
with emotion.
"Captain," said she, in that sweet voice, "captain, what have I
done?"
It was the first day of the Indian summer, a memorable season that
year, when, according to an old legend, the Great Father sits idly
on the mountain-tops and blows the smoke of his long pipe into the
valleys. In a moment I was quite calm, and stood looking off to
the hazy hollows of the far field. I gave her my arm without
speaking, and we walked slowly down a garden path. For a time
neither broke the silence.
"I did not know--I did not know," she whispered presently.
"And I--must--tell you," I said brokenly, "that I--that I--"
"Hush-sh-sh!" she whispered, her hand over my lips. "Say no more!
say no more! If it is true, go--go quickly, I beg of you!"
There was such a note of pleading in her voice, I hear it, after
all this long time, in the hushed moments of my life, night or day.
"Go--go quickly, I beg of you!" We were both near breaking down.
[Illustration: "We were both near breaking down."]
"Vive le roi!" I whispered, taking her hand.
"Vive le roi!" she whispered, turning away.