"HER LIFE STANDS IN THE PATH OF OTHERS' GREED."
Awakened in the dark of the morning by a loud knocking on the door,
St. Georges sprang off the bed and called lustily to know who was
there?
"It is near dawn," a female voice answered. "Monsieur was to be
awakened."
"Where is the man called Pierre?" asked St. Georges, perceiving that
the tones were not his gruff ones.
"He has gone forth to one of the bishop's farms at Pouilly. He bade me
call monsieur."
"And the bishop?"
"Monseigneur is not yet risen. There is a meal prepared for monsieur
below, if he will partake of it."
Monsieur so far partook of it on descending--after he had made a rapid
toilet, cleaned his sword by passing the folds of his cloak over it,
and (good soldier as he was!) having said a prayer at his bedside ere
leaving the room--as to drink a cup of thick, lukewarm chocolate. But
beyond this he would wait no longer, being very anxious to regain the
custody of his child. Also he thought that the "Ours" would offer a
more satisfying meal than that now set before him, which, in truth,
was nothing but the selfsame chocolate, some bread, and a
half-finished _saucisson_ which did not look particularly appetizing.
Therefore he tossed on the table a silver crown to the
miserable-looking old woman who had called him, and who afterward
escorted him downstairs, and, following her across the more than ever
snow-covered courtyard, emerged on to the great _place_.
And still, as he observed, the snow fell, must have been falling all
night, since it lay upon this open space in great tussocks, or mounds,
while across the _place_ itself no footmark was to be seen. It was,
indeed, as though a vast white sea stretched from the house of
Phelypeaux over to where the "Ours" stood.
Beneath a dull leaden canopy of cloud the wintry day was, however,
coming; from the chimneys of the inn he could see the smoke, scarcely
more dull and leaden than that canopy itself, rising; at the door of
the inn he saw the mousquetaire standing, looking up at what should
have been the heavens.
"Is all well?" he asked as he drew close to him now. "Have you seen
the child?"
"All well, monsieur," the other replied, saluting as he spoke--"all
well, both with child and horse. Yet, _ma foi!_ what a day for a
journey! Must monsieur, indeed, continue his?"
"Ay!" replied St. Georges, "I must. My orders are to pause no longer
than necessary on the route to Paris, to report myself to the Minister
of War, the Marquis de Louvois." Then turning to the mousquetaire, he
asked: "What are your orders? Do you ride toward Bar to-day?"
"Since monsieur proceeds, so do I. Yet I doubt if we get even so far
as Bar. _Ciel!_ will the snow ever cease to fall?"
But in spite of the snow, in half an hour both were ready to set out.
The little child, Dorine, had slept well, the _patronne_ said, had
lain snug and close with two of her own all through the night, while
she had seen to its nourishment and had herself washed and fed it.
"Heaven bless you, for a true woman," St. Georges said, "Heaven bless
you!"
But the woman would hear of no thanks; she reiterated again and again
that she was a mother herself and had a mother's heart within her; she
only wished monsieur would leave the little thing with her until he
came back; she would warrant it should be well cared for until he did.
"I doubt my ever coming back this way," he said, as he ate his
breakfast--a substantial one, far different from that which the
bishop's servant had been able to set before him--and she ministered
to his wants, "unless the future war rolls toward Burgundy. I am _en
route_ for Paris, and Heaven only knows where to afterward."
"Find a good home for her, monsieur," she said, "a home where she may
at least be safe while you are away campaigning. Nay," she continued,
"if I might make so bold, meaning no offence, find a new mother for
her. It would be a sad life for her even though monsieur followed a
stay-at-home existence; 'twill be doubly hard when you are separated
from her."
But St. Georges only shook his head and said mournfully there was no
other wife for him; a statement from which she dissented vehemently.
Then she asked:
"Does monsieur know of any one in Paris to whom the little Dorine
might be confided? If not," she continued--"she intended no
liberty!--she could recommend one with whom it would always be safe. A
woman of Dijon like herself, married and settled in Paris; married,
indeed, to a cousin of her late husband, who, rest his soul! had been
dead eighteen months. This woman's husband was a mercer in a large way
of business in the Rue de Timoleon, lived well, and had children of
his own; it would be an _abri_ for the child if monsieur cared to
consider it."
"Care to consider it!" exclaimed St. Georges, "why, it is the very
thing I should wish." Then he paused a moment, reflecting deeply and
looking round the kitchen, as though to see that they were alone,
which they were with the exception of the mousquetaire, who sat by the
great fire warming himself.
"Hark you, dame," he said, lowering his voice a little, though not
from any fear of the mousquetaire hearing, but more from instinct
than anything else. "You have done me one great kindness in being so
tender to my poor little motherless babe. Will you answer me,
therefore, a question? Will--will--suppose, I would say, that I wished
the whereabouts of this, my child, unknown to any one--would she be
safe in the house of this mercer you speak of? Also--if you--should be
asked by any one--high or low, here in Dijon--if, _par hasard_, you
know, or could guess, had indeed the faintest suspicion, where that
little child might be--would you hold your peace? Would you let this
be a secret locked only in your own honest heart?"
"Would I? Ay, monsieur, I would! Your child has slept with my little
_fillettes_; when I went to arouse them ere dawn they all lay cheek to
cheek, and with their arms entwined. She is as one of mine, therefore;
she shall be as sacred. _Je le jure._"
"Give me your friend's name and address," St. Georges made answer.
"What you have said is enough. I trust you as I should have trusted
her dead mother." And he took his tablets from his pouch as he spoke.
"Write," said the woman, "the name of Le Sieur Blecy, 5 Rue de
Timoleon. That is sufficient. His wife Susanne will arrange with you
for the safety of the little one when she knows that I have sent you."
"But," exclaimed St. Georges, "can you give me no line, no word, to
her or him? Surely she will not accept me on my own assurances.
Besides, 'tis much to ask. She will scarcely receive my child into her
house, into her family, without some proofs from you."
"How," exclaimed the woman, "can I send such proof? I can not
write--alas! I can not even read." She blushed as she spoke--though
truly she need not have done so, since in all Burgundy, in the days
of Louis _le Dieudonne_, not one in a hundred could do more than
she--and he himself reddened at having so put her to shame, and
muttered some sort of excuse under his thick mustache.
"Send some trifle that she will recognise--some little thing she will
know to have been yours," exclaimed the mousquetaire from his seat in
the chimney-piece. "She will know that."
"Ha!" she said, recovering instantly from her confusion, "and so I
will." Then, casting her eyes round the great stone-floor kitchen and
seeing nothing therein that she could send to her friend, she ran up
the stairs and came back bearing in her hand a little missal, with her
name written in it.
"It was given to me by Susanne's mother on my wedding day, she saying
that, though I could not follow the service with it, my children might
learn to do so--as they shall!--as they shall!"
St. Georges took the book--a tiny one--and put it in his pouch also,
along with his tablets; then he said to the mousquetaire: "Friend, if
you have still a mind to depart, let us set out. Yet I would not take
you from your comfortable nook if duty does not make it absolutely
necessary for you to go."
"I will go," the other said, springing to his feet. "All is ready; my
horse has rested for two days; at least we can get some distance on
our route. Come, monsieur, let us away."
Therefore St. Georges paid the reckoning due, not forgetting among
other things to give the woman's children--who were now all up and
ready for their breakfast--some little sums to buy things with; and so
he bade the woman farewell, thanking her again and again for her
goodness, and promising that he should certainly seek the Sieur de
Blecy on his arrival in Paris.
"Also," he said, as he shook her by the hand, "I shall find some means
of letting you know of her welfare. Burgundy is far from Paris, yet
there is always continuous passing to and fro from one to the
other--you shall hear from me."
"I hope so," she said, "and, _tenez!_ De Blecy is himself of Burgundy;
his old mother lives near here--not a league away--send through him.
He corresponds often with her and others. A word to me will reach.
Farewell, monsieur;--farewell, mousquetaire. Adieu!"
Yet the last word was not said; for while the soldier went into the
inn yard to fetch the horses and St. Georges brought down from the
room she slept in his little child--who prattled in her baby way to
him while her soft blue eyes smiled up in his--and wrapped it in his
great cloak preparatory to mounting the block before the inn door, she
asked:
"Why, why, monsieur, do you desire that no one should know where she
is? Why keep her existence a secret? Surely there are none who would
harm so innocent a little thing as that?"
He paused a moment, looking down at her from his great height as
though meditating deeply; then he said:
"I will trust you fully. I wish her whereabouts--not her existence,
that is already known--kept secret until the time comes that either
she shall be in safety out of France or I can be ever near to guard
and watch over her; for her life--after mine--stands in the path of
others' greed--perhaps of others' ambition. My life first, then hers.
I know it, have known it long; until a day or so ago I thought none
other knew it----"
"And?" she asked, glancing up at him, while she stole her hand into
the folds of his cloak and again softly patted the child's little
dimpled cheek--"and----?"
"And," he continued, "I am sure now that against her life, or at least
her liberty, some attempt will be made--as it will against mine.
That," he said, sinking his voice to a whisper, "is why I am recalled
to Paris. Farewell!"