“Because of the storm there is no sleeping. Is there not the watcher
aloft? Shall the sparrow fall unheeded? The wicked shall be confounded.”
It was Alixe’s writing. She had hazarded this in the hands of my jailer
as her only hope, and, knowing that he might not serve her, had put her
message in vague sentences which I readily interpreted. I read the
words aloud to him, and he laughed, and remarked, “‘Tis a foolish thing
that--The Scarlet Woman, mast like.”
“Most like,” I answered quietly; “yet what should she be doing there at
the Chateau?”
“The mad go everywhere,” he answered, “even to the intendance!”
With that he left me, going, as he said, “to fetch crumbs and wine.”
Exhausted with the day’s business, I threw myself upon my couch, drew my
cloak over me, composed myself, and in a few minutes was sound asleep.
I waked to find Gabord in the dungeon, setting out food upon a board
supported by two stools.
“‘Tis custom to feed your dickey-bird ere you fetch him to the pot.” he
said, and drew the cork from a bottle of wine.
He watched me as I ate and talked, but he spoke little. When I had
finished, he fetched a packet of tobacco from his pocket. I offered him
money, but he refused it, and I did not press him, for he said the food
and wine were not of his buying. Presently he left, and came back with
pens, ink, paper, and candles, which be laid out on my couch without
words.
After a little he came again, and laid a book on the improvised table
before me. It was an English Bible. Opening it, I found inscribed on
the fly-leaf, Charles Wainfleet, Chaplain to the British Army. Gabord
explained that this chaplain had been in the citadel for some weeks;
that he had often inquired about me; that he had been brought from the
Ohio; and had known of me, having tended the lieutenant of my Virginian
infantry in his last hours. Gabord thought I should now begin to make my
peace with Heaven, and so had asked for the chaplain’s Bible, which
was freely given. I bade him thank the chaplain for me, and opening the
book, I found a leaf turned down at the words,
“In the shadow of thy wings will I make my refuge, until these
calamities be overpast.”
When I was left alone, I sat down to write diligently that history of
myself which I had composed and fixed in my memory during the year of
my housing in this dungeon. The words came from my pen freely, and hour
after hour through many days, while no single word reached me from the
outside world, I wrote on; carefully revising, but changing little from
that which I had taken so long to record in my mind. I would not even
yet think that they would hang me; and if they did, what good could
brooding do? When the last word of the memoirs (I may call them so),
addressed to Alixe, had been written, I turned my thoughts to other
friends.
The day preceding that fixed for my execution came, yet there was no
sign from friend or enemy without. At ten o’clock of that day Chaplain
Wainfleet was admitted to me in the presence of Gabord and a soldier. I
found great pleasure in his company, brief as his visit was; and after
I had given him messages to bear for me to old friends, if we never
met again and he were set free, he left me, benignly commending me
to Heaven. There was the question of my other letters. I had but one
desire--Voban again, unless at my request the Seigneur Duvarney would
come, and they would let him come. If it were certain that I was to go
to the scaffold, then I should not hesitate to tell him my relations
with his daughter, that he might comfort her when, being gone from the
world myself, my love could do her no harm. I could not think that he
would hold against me the duel with his son, and I felt sure he would
come to me if he could.
But why should I not try for both Voban and the Seigneur? So I spoke to
Gabord.
“Voban! Voban!” said he. “Does dickey-bird play at peacock still? Well,
thou shalt see Voban. Thou shalt go trimmed to heaven--aho!”
Presently I asked him if he would bear a message to the Governor,
asking permission for the Seigneur Duvarney to visit me, if he were so
inclined. At his request I wrote my petition out, and he carried it away
with him, saying that I should have Voban that evening.
I waited hour after hour, but no one came. As near as I could judge it
was now evening. It seemed strange to think that, twenty feet above
me, the world was all white with snow; the sound of sleigh-bells and
church-bells, and the cries of snowshoers ringing on the clear, sharp
air. I pictured the streets of Quebec alive with people: the young
seigneur set off with furs and silken sash and sword or pistols; the
long-haired, black-eyed woodsman in his embroidered moccasins and
leggings with flying thrums; the peasant farmer slapping his hands
cheerfully in the lighted market-place; the petty noble, with his
demoiselle, hovering in the precincts of the Chateau St. Louis and the
intendance. Up there were light, freedom, and the inspiriting frost;
down here in my dungeon, the blades of corn, which, dying, yet never
died, told the story of a choking air, wherein the body and soul of a
man droop and take long to die. This was the night before Christmas Eve,
when in England and Virginia they would be preparing for feasting and
thanksgiving.
The memories of past years crowded on me. I thought of feastings and
spendthrift rejoicings in Glasgow and Virginia. All at once the carnal
man in me rose up and damned these lying foes of mine. Resignation went
whistling down the wind. Hang me! Hang me! No, by the God that gave me
breath! I sat back and laughed--laughed at my own insipid virtue, by
which, to keep faith with the fanatical follower of Prince Charlie, I
had refused my liberty; cut myself off from the useful services of my
King; wasted good years of my life, trusting to pressure and help to
come from England, which never came; twisted the rope for my own neck
to keep honour with the dishonourable Doltaire, who himself had set
the noose swinging; and, inexpressible misery! involved in my shame and
peril a young blithe spirit, breathing a miasma upon the health of
a tender life. Every rebellious atom in my blood sprang to indignant
action. I swore that if they fetched me to the gallows to celebrate
their Noel, other lives than mine should go to keep me company on the
dark trail. To die like a rat in a trap, oiled for the burning, and
lighted by the torch of hatred! No, I would die fighting, if I must die.
I drew from its hiding-place the knife I had secreted the day I was
brought into that dungeon--a little weapon, but it would serve for the
first blow. At whom? Gabord? It all flashed through my mind how I might
do it when he came in again: bury this blade in his neck or heart--it
was long enough for the work; then, when he was dead, change my clothes
for his, take his weapons, and run my chances to get free of the
citadel. Free? Where should I go in the dead of winter? Who would hide
me, shelter me? I could not make my way to an English settlement. Ill
clad, exposed to the merciless climate, and the end death. But that was
freedom--freedom! I could feel my body dilating with the thought, as I
paced my dungeon like an ill-tempered beast. But kill Gabord, who had
put himself in danger to serve me, who himself had kept the chains from
off my ankles and body, whose own life depended upon my security--“Come,
come, Robert Moray,” said I, “what relish have you for that? That’s an
ill game for a gentleman. Alixe Duvarney would rather see you dead than
get your freedom over the body of this man.”
That was an hour of storm. I am glad that I conquered the baser part of
me; for, almost before I had grown calm again, the bolts of the dungeon
doors shot back, and presently Gabord stepped inside, followed by a
muffled figure.
“Voban the barber,” said Gabord in a strange voice, and stepping again
outside, he closed the door, but did not shoot the bolts.
I stood as one in a dream. Voban the barber? In spite of cap and great
fur coat, I saw the outline of a figure that no barber ever had in this
world. I saw two eyes shining like lights set in a rosy sky. A moment
of doubt, of impossible speculation, of delicious suspense, and then the
coat of Voban the barber opened, dropped away from the lithe, graceful
figure of a young officer of marines, the cap flew off, and in an
instant the dear head, the blushing, shining face of Alixe was on my
breast.
In that moment, stolen from the calendar of hate, I ran into the haven
where true hearts cast anchor and bless God that they have seen upon the
heights, to guide them, the lights of home. The moment flashed by and
was gone, but the light it made went not with it.
When I drew her blushing face up, and stood her off from me that I might
look at her again, the colour flew back and forth on her cheek, as you
may see the fire flutter in an uncut ruby when you turn it in the sun.
Modestly drawing the cloak she wore more closely about her, she hastened
to tell me how it was she came in such a guise; but I made her pause for
a moment while I gave her a seat and sat down beside her. Then by the
light of the flickering torch and flaring candles I watched her feelings
play upon her face as the warm light of autumn shifts upon the glories
of ripe fruits. Her happiness was tempered by the sadness of our
position, and my heart smote me that I had made her suffer, had brought
care to her young life. I could see that in the year she had grown
older, yet her beauty seemed enhanced by that and by the trouble she had
endured. I shall let her tell her story here unbroken by my questions
and those interruptions which Gabord made, bidding her to make haste.
She spoke without faltering, save here and there; but even then I could
see her brave spirit quelling the riot of her emotions, shutting down
the sluice-gate of tears.
“I knew,” she said, her hand clasped in mine, “that Gabord was the only
person like to be admitted to you, and so for days, living in fear lest
the worst should happen, I have prepared for this chance. I have grown
so in height that I knew an old uniform of my brothers would fit me,
and I had it ready--small sword and all,” she added, with a sad sort of
humour, touching the weapon at her side. “You must know that we have for
the winter a house here upon the ramparts near the Chateau. It was my
mother’s doings, that my sister Georgette and I might have no great
journeyings in the cold to the festivities hereabouts. So I, being a
favourite with the Governor, ran in and out of the Chateau at my will;
of which my mother was proud, and she allowed me much liberty, for to be
a favourite of the Governor is an honour. I knew how things were going,
and what the chances were of the sentence being carried out on you.
Sometimes I thought my heart would burst with the anxiety of it all, but
I would not let that show to the world. If you could but have seen me
smile at the Governor and Monsieur Doltaire--nay, do not press my hand
so, Robert; you know well you have no need to fear monsieur--while
I learned secrets of state, among them news of you. Three nights ago
Monsieur Doltaire was talking with me at a ball--ah, those feastings
while you were lying in a dungeon, and I shutting up my love and your
danger close in my heart, even from those who loved me best! Well,
suddenly he said, ‘I think I will not have our English captain shifted
to a better world.’
“My heart stood still; I felt an ache across my breast so that I could
hardly breathe. ‘Why will you not?’ said I; ‘was not the sentence just?’
He paused a minute, and then replied, ‘All sentences are just when an
enemy is dangerous.’ Then said I as in surprise, ‘Why, was he no spy,
after all?’ He sat back, and laughed a little. ‘A spy according to the
letter of the law, but you have heard of secret history--eh?’ I tried
to seem puzzled, for I had a thought there was something private between
you and him which has to do with your fate. So I said, as if bewildered,
‘You mean there is evidence which was not shown at the trial?’ He
answered slowly, ‘Evidence that would bear upon the morals, not the law
of the case.’ Then said I, ‘Has it to do with you, monsieur?’ ‘It has
to do with France,’ he replied. ‘And so you will not have his death?’
I asked. ‘Bigot wishes it,’ he replied, ‘for no other reason than that
Madame Cournal has spoken nice words for the good-looking captain, and
because that unsuccessful duel gave Vaudreuil an advantage over himself.
Vaudreuil wishes it because he thinks it will sound well in France, and
also because he really believes the man a spy. The Council do not care
much; they follow the Governor and Bigot, and both being agreed,
their verdict is unanimous.’ He paused, then added, ‘And the Seigneur
Duvarney--and his daughter--wish it because of a notable injury to one
of their name.’ At that I cautiously replied, ‘No, my father does not
wish it, for my brother gave the offense, and Captain Moray saved his
life, as you know. I do not wish it, Monsieur Doltaire, because hanging
is a shameful death, and he is a gentle man, not a ruffian. Let him be
shot like a gentleman. How will it sound at the Court of France that, on
insufficient evidence, as you admit, an English gentleman was hanged for
a spy? Would not the King say (for he is a gentleman), Why was not this
shown me before the man’s death? Is it not a matter upon which a country
would feel as gentlemen feel?’
“I knew it the right thing to say at the moment, and it seemed the only
way to aid you, though I intended, if the worst came to the worst, to go
myself to the Governor at the last and plead for your life, at least
for a reprieve. But it had suddenly flashed upon me that a reference to
France was the thing, since the Articles of War which you are accused of
dishonouring were signed by officers from France and England.
“Presently he turned to me with a look of curiosity, and another sort of
look also that made me tremble, and said, ‘Now, there you have put your
finger on the point--my point, the choice weapon I had reserved to prick
the little bubble of Bigot’s hate and the Governor’s conceit, if I so
chose, even at the last. And here is a girl, a young girl just freed
from pinafores, who teaches them the law of nations! If it pleased me I
should not speak, for Vaudreuil’s and Bigot’s affairs are none of mine;
but, in truth, why should you kill your enemy? It is the sport to keep
him living; you can get no change for your money from a dead man. He has
had one cheerful year; why not another, and another, and another? And so
watch him fretting to the slow-coming end, while now and again you give
him a taste of hope, to drop him back again into the pit which has no
sides for climbing.’ He paused a minute, and then added, ‘A year ago
I thought he had touched you, this Britisher, with his raw humour and
manners; but, my faith, how swiftly does a woman’s fancy veer!’ At that
I said calmly to him, ‘You must remember that then he was not thought so
base.’ ‘Yes, yes,’ he replied; ‘and a woman loves to pity the captive,
whatever his fault, if he be presentable and of some notice or talent.
And Moray has gifts,’ he went on. I appeared all at once to be offended.
‘Veering, indeed! a woman’s fancy! I think you might judge women better.
You come from high places, Monsieur Doltaire, and they say this and that
of your great talents and of your power at Versailles, but what proof
have we had of it? You set a girl down with a fine patronage, and you
hint at weapons to cut off my cousin the Governor and the Intendant from
their purposes; but how do we know you can use them, that you have power
with either the unnoticeable woman or the great men?’ I knew very
well it was a bold move. He suddenly turned to me, in his cruel eyes
a glittering kind of light, and said, ‘I suggest no more than I can
do with those “great men”; and as for the woman, the slave can not be
patron--I am the slave. I thought not of power before; but now that I
do, I will live up to my thinking. I seem idle, I am not; purposeless,
I am not; a gamester, I am none. I am a sportsman, and I will not
leave the field till all the hunt be over. I seem a trifler, yet I have
persistency. I am no romanticist, I have no great admiration for myself,
and yet when I set out to hunt a woman honestly, be sure I shall never
back to kennel till she is mine or I am done for utterly. Not by worth
nor by deserving, but by unending patience and diligence--that shall be
my motto. I shall devote to the chase every art that I have learned
or known by nature. So there you have me, mademoiselle. Since you have
brought me to the point, I will unfurl my flag.... I am--your--hunter,’
he went on, speaking with slow, painful emphasis, ‘and I shall make you
mine. You fight against me, but it is no use.’ I got to my feet, and
said with coolness, though I was sick at heart and trembling, ‘You are
frank. You have made two resolves. I shall give weight to one as you
fulfill the other’; and, smiling at him, I moved away towards my mother.
“Masterful as he is, I felt that this would touch his vanity. There lay
my great chance with him. If he had guessed the truth of what’s
between us, be sure, Robert, your life were not worth one hour beyond
to-morrow’s sunrise. You must know how I loathe deceitfulness, but when
one weak girl is matched against powerful and evil men, what can she do?
My conscience does not chide me, for I know my cause is just. Robert,
look me in the eyes.... There, like that.... Now tell me. You are
innocent of the dishonourable thing, are you not? I believe with all my
soul, but that I may say from your own lips that you are no spy, tell me
so.”
When I had said as she had wished, assuring her she should know all,
carrying proofs away with her, and that hidden evidence of which
Doltaire had spoken, she went on:
“‘You put me to the test,’ said monsieur. ‘Doing one, it will be proof
that I shall do the other.’ He fixed his eyes upon me with such a look
that my whole nature shrank from him, as if the next instant his hateful
hands were to be placed on me. Oh, Robert, I know how perilous was the
part I played, but I dared it for your sake. For a whole year I have
dissembled to every one save to that poor mad soul Mathilde, who reads
my heart in her wild way, to Voban, and to the rough soldier outside
your dungeon. But they will not betray me. God has given us these rough
but honest friends.
“Well, monsieur left me that night, and I have not seen him since, nor
can I tell where he is, for no one knows, and I dare not ask too much.
I did believe he would achieve his boast as to saving your life, and so,
all yesterday and to-day, I have waited with most anxious heart; but not
one word! Yet there was that in all he said which made me sure he meant
to save you, and I believe he will. Yet think: if anything happened
to him! You know what wild doings go on at Bigot’s chateau out at
Charlesbourg; or, again, in the storm of yesterday he may have been
lost. You see, there are the hundred chances; so I determined not to
trust wholly to him. There was one other way--to seek the Governor
myself, open my heart to him, and beg for a reprieve. To-night at nine
o’clock--it is now six, Robert--we go to the Chateau St. Louis, my
mother and my father and I, to sup with the Governor. Oh, think what I
must endure, to face them with this awful shadow on me! If no word come
of the reprieve before that hour, I shall make my own appeal to the
Governor. It may ruin me, but it may save you; and that done, what
should I care for the rest? Your life is more to me than all the world
beside.” Here she put both hands upon my shoulders and looked me in the
eyes.
I did not answer yet, but took her hands in mine, and she continued:
“An hour past, I told my mother I should go to see my dear friend Lucie
Lotbiniere. Then I stole up to my room, put on my brother’s uniform, and
came down to meet Voban near the citadel, as we had arranged. I knew he
was to have an order from the Governor to visit you. He was waiting, and
to my great joy he put the order in my hands. I took his coat and wig
and cap, a poor disguise, and came straight to the citadel, handing the
order to the soldiers at the gate. They gave it back without a word,
and passed me on. I thought this strange, and looked at the paper by the
light of the torches. What was my surprise to see that Voban’s name had
been left out! It but gave permission to the bearer. That would serve
with the common soldier, but I knew well it would not with Gabord or
with the commandant of the citadel. All at once I saw the great risk I
was running, the danger to us both. Still I would not turn back. But how
good fortune serves us when we least look for it! At the commandant’s
very door was Gabord. I did not think to deceive him. It was my purpose
from the first to throw myself upon his mercy. So there, that moment,
I thrust the order into his hand. He read it, looked a moment, half
fiercely and half kindly, at me, then turned and took the order to the
commandant. Presently he came out, and said to me, ‘Come, m’sieu’, and
see you clip the gentleman dainty fine for his sunrise travel. He’ll get
no care ‘twixt posting-house and end of journey, m’sieu’.’ This he said
before two soldiers, speaking with harshness and a brutal humour. But
inside the citadel he changed at once, and, taking from my head this cap
and wig, he said quite gently, yet I could see he was angry, too, ‘This
is a mad doing, young lady.’ He said no more, and led me straight to
you. If I had told him I was coming, I know he would have stayed me. But
at the dangerous moment he had not heart to drive me back.... And that
is all my story, Robert.”
As I have said, this tale was broken often by little questionings and
exclamations, and was not told in one long narrative as I have written
it here. When she had done I sat silent and overcome for a moment. There
was one thing now troubling me sorely, even in the painful joy of having
her here close by me. She had risked all to save my life--reputation,
friends, even myself, the one solace in her possible misery. Was it not
my duty to agree to Doltaire’s terms, for her sake, if there was yet
a chance to do so? I had made a solemn promise to Sir John Godric that
those letters, if they ever left my hands, should go to the lady who had
written them; and to save my own life I would not have broken faith with
my benefactor. But had I the right to add to the misery of this sweet,
brave spirit? Suppose it was but for a year or two: had I the right to
give her sorrow for that time, if I could prevent it, even at the cost
of honour with the dead? Was it not my duty to act, and at once? Time
was short.
While in a swift moment I was debating, Gabord opened the door, and
said, “Come, end it, end it. Gabord has a head to save!” I begged him
for one minute more, and then giving Alixe the packet which held my
story, I told her hastily the matter between Doltaire and myself, and
said that now, rather than give her sorrow, I was prepared to break my
word with Sir John Godric. She heard me through with flashing eyes, and
I could see her bosom heave. When I had done, she looked me straight in
the eyes.
“Is all that here?” she said, holding up the packet.
“All,” I answered.
“And you would not break your word to save your own life?”