“She was shut up at Chateau Bigot--hand of iron and lock of steel--who
knows the rest! But Voban was for always,” he added presently.
The thing was clear. The Scarlet Woman was Mathilde. So here was the end
of Voban’s little romance--of the fine linen from Ste. Anne de Beaupre
and the silver pitcher for the wedding wine. I saw, or felt, that in
Voban I might find now a confederate, if I put my hard case on Bigot’s
shoulders.
“I can’t see why she stayed with Bigot,” I said tentatively.
“Break the dog’s leg, it can’t go hunting bones--mais, non! Holy, how
stupid are you English!”
“Why doesn’t the Intendant lock her up now? She’s dangerous to him. You
remember what she said?”
“Tonnerre, you shall see to-morrow,” he answered; “now all the sheep go
bleating with the bell. Bigot--Bigot--Bigot--there is nothing but Bigot!
But, pish! Vaudreuil the Governor is the great man, and Montcalm, aho!
son of Mahomet! You shall see. Now they dance to Bigot’s whistling; he
will lock her safe enough to-morrow, ‘less some one steps in to help
her. Before to-night she never spoke of him before the world--but a
poor daft thing, going about all sad and wild. She missed her chance
to-night--aho!”
“Why are you not with Montcalm’s soldiers?” I asked. “You like him
better.”
“I was with him, but my time was out, and I left him for Bigot. Pish! I
left him for Bigot, for the militia!” He raised his thumb to his nose,
and spread out his fingers. Again light dawned on me. He was still with
the Governor in all fact, though soldiering for Bigot--a sort of watch
upon the Intendant.
I saw my chance. If I could but induce this fellow to fetch me Voban!
There was yet an hour before I was to go to the intendance.
I called up what looks of candour were possible to me, and told him
bluntly that I wished Voban to bear a letter for me to the Seigneur
Duvarney’s. At that he cocked his ear and shook his bushy head, fiercely
stroking his mustaches.
I knew that I should stake something if I said it was a letter for
Mademoiselle Duvarney, but I knew also that if he was still the
Governor’s man in Bigot’s pay he would understand the Seigneur’s
relations with the Governor. And a woman in the case with a
soldier--that would count for something. So I said it was for her.
Besides, I had no other resource but to make a friend among my enemies,
if I could, while yet there was a chance.
It was like a load lifted from me when I saw his mouth and eyes open
wide in a big soundless laugh, which came to an end with a voiceless
aho! I gave him another tumbler of wine. Before he took it, he made a
wide mouth at me again, and slapped his leg. After drinking, he said,
“Poom--what good? They’re going to hang you for a spy.”
“That rope’s not ready yet,” I answered. “I’ll tie a pretty knot in
another string first, I trust.”
“Damned if you haven’t spirit!” said he. “That Seigneur Duvarney, I know
him; and I know his son the ensign--whung, what saltpetre is he! And the
ma’m’selle--excellent, excellent; and a face, such a face, and a seat
like leeches in the saddle. And you a British officer mewed up to kick
your heels till gallows day! So droll, my dear!”
“But will you fetch Voban?” I asked.
“To trim your hair against the supper to-night--eh, like that?”
As he spoke he puffed out his red cheeks with wide boylike eyes, burst
his lips in another soundless laugh, and laid a finger beside his nose.
His marvellous innocence of look and his peasant openness hid, I saw,
great shrewdness and intelligence--an admirable man for Vaudreuil’s
purpose, as admirable for mine. I knew well that if I had tried to bribe
him he would have scouted me, or if I had made a motion for escape he
would have shot me off-hand. But a lady--that appealed to him; and that
she was the Seigneur Duvarney’s daughter did the rest.
“Yes, yes,” said I, “one must be well appointed in soul and body when
one sups with his Excellency and Monsieur Doltaire.”
“Limed inside and chalked outside,” he retorted gleefully. “But M’sieu’
Doltaire needs no lime, for he has no soul. No, by Sainte Helois! The
good God didn’t make him. The devil laughed, and that laugh grew into
M’sieu’ Doltaire. But brave!--no kicking pulse is in his body.”
“You will send for Voban--now?” I asked softly.
He was leaning against the door as he spoke. He reached and put the
tumbler on a shelf, then turned and opened the door, his face all
altered to a grimness.
“Attend here, Labrouk!” he called; and on the soldier coming, he blurted
out in scorn, “Here’s this English captain can’t go to supper without
Voban’s shears to snip him. Go fetch him, for I’d rather hear a calf in
a barn-yard than this whing-whanging for ‘M’sieu’ Voban!’”
He mocked my accent in the last two words, so that the soldier grinned,
and at once started away. Then he shut the door, and turned to me
again, and said more seriously, “How long have we before Monsieur
comes?”--meaning Doltaire.
“At least an hour,” said I.
“Good,” he rejoined, and then he smoked while I sat thinking.
It was near an hour before we heard footsteps outside; then came a
knock, and Voban was shown in.
“Quick, m’sieu’,” he said. “M’sieu’ is almost at our heels.”
“This letter,” said I, “to Mademoiselle Duvarney,” and I handed four:
hers, and those to Governor Dinwiddie, to Mr. Washington, and to my
partner.
He quickly put them in his coat, nodding. The soldier--I have not yet
mentioned his name--Gabord, did not know that more than one passed into
Voban’s hands.
“Off with your coat, m’sieu’,” said Voban, whipping out his shears,
tossing his cap aside, and rolling down his apron. “M’sieu’ is here.”
I had off my coat, was in a chair in a twinkling, and he was clipping
softly at me as Doltaire’s hand turned the handle of the door.
“Beware--to-night!” Voban whispered.
“Come to me in the prison,” said I. “Remember your brother!”
His lips twitched. “M’sieu’, I will if I can.” This he said in my ear as
Doltaire entered and came forward.
“Upon my life!” Doltaire broke out. “These English gallants! They go to
prison curled and musked by Voban. VOBAN--a name from the court of the
King, and it garnishes a barber. Who called you, Voban?”
“My mother, with the cure’s help, m’sieu’.”
Doltaire paused, with a pinch of snuff at his nose, and replied lazily,
“I did not say ‘Who called you VOBAN?’ Voban, but who called you here,
Voban?”
I spoke up testily then of purpose: “What would you have, monsieur? The
citadel has better butchers than barbers. I sent for him.”
He shrugged his shoulders and came over to Voban. “Turn round, my
Voban,” he said. “Voban--and such a figure! a knee, a back like that!”
Then, while my heart stood still, he put forth a finger and touched
the barber on the chest. If he should touch the letters! I was ready to
seize them--but would that save them? Twice, thrice, the finger prodded
Voban’s breast, as if to add an emphasis to his words. “In Quebec you
are misplaced, Monsieur le Voban. Once a wasp got into a honeycomb and
died.”
I knew he was hinting at the barber’s resentment of the poor Mathilde’s
fate. Something strange and devilish leapt into the man’s eyes, and he
broke out bitterly,
“A honey-bee got into a nest of wasps--and died.”