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