The Grey Cloak Part 69

"Nothing, nothing." Madame took her place in the canoe.

"It is necessary for our general safety, Madame, that the Chevalier goes with us."

"There is danger, then?"

"There will he none," emphatically.

"Let us be off," was madame's rejoinder.

The Chevalier stepped in and took the paddle, while Victor pushed the canoe into the water. He and Anne followed presently. Madame sat in the bow, her back to the Chevalier, her hands resting lightly on the sides. The rings which the Chevalier had seen on those beautiful hands while in Quebec were gone, even to the wedding ring. They were doubtless bedecking the pudgy digits of one Corn Planter's wife, far away in the Seneca country. The canoe quivered as the Chevalier's strong arms swung the narrow-bladed paddle. Past marshes went the painted canoes; they swam the singing shallows; they glided under shading willow; they sped by wild grape-vine and spreading elm. The stream was embroidered with a thousand gra.s.ses, dying daisies, paling goldenrod, berry bushes, and wild-rose thorn. A thousand elusive perfumes rose to greet them, a thousand changing scenes. October, in all her gorgeous furbelows, sat upon her throne. The Chevalier never uttered a word, but studied madame's half-turned cheek. Once he was conscious that the color on that cheek deepened, then faded.

"It is the wind," he thought. "She is truly the most beautiful woman in all the world; and fool that I am, I have vowed to her face that I shall make her love me!" He could hear Victor's voice from time to time, coming with the wind.

"Monsieur," madame said abruptly, when the silence Could no longer be endured, "since you are here . . . Well, why do you not speak?"

The paddle turned so violently that the canoe came dangerously near upsetting.

"What shall I say, Madame?"

"Eh! must I think for you?" impatiently.

The fact that her eye was not upon him, gave him a vestige of courage.

"It is a far cry from the galleries of the Louvre, Madame, to this spot."

"We have gone back to the beginning of the world. No music save Nicot's violin, which he plays sadly enough; no masks, no parties, no galloping to the hunt, no languishing in the balconies. Were it not pregnant with hidden dangers, I should love this land. I wonder who is the latest celebrity at the old Rambouillet; a poet possibly, a swashbuckler, more probably."

"Move back a little, Madame. We shall land on that stretch of sand by the willows."

Madame did as he required, and with a dexterous stroke the Chevalier sent the craft upon the beach and jumped out. This manoeuver to a.s.sist her did not pa.s.s, for she was up and out almost as soon as he. In a moment Victor came to the spot. The two canoes were hidden with a cunning which the Chevalier had learned from the Indian.

Above them was a hill which was almost split in twain by a gorge or gully, down through which a brook leaped and hounded and tumbled, rolling its musical "r's." The four started up the long incline, the women gathering the belated flowers and the men picking up curious sticks or sending boulders hurtling down the hillside. Higher and higher they mounted till the summit was reached. Hill after hill rolled away to the east, to the south, to the west, while toward the north the lake glittered with all the brilliancy of a cardinal's plate.

"Can it be," said Victor, breaking the spell, "can it be that we once knew Paris?"

"Paris!" repeated madame. Her eyes took in her beaded skirt and moccasins and replaced them with glowing silks and shimmering laces.

Paris! Many a phantom was stirred from its tomb at the sound of this magic name.

Anne perched herself upon a boulder and the Chevalier rested beside her, while madame and the poet strolled a short distance away.

"Shall we ever see our dear Paris again, Gabrielle?" asked the poet.

"I hope so; and soon, soon!"

"How came you to sign that paper?"

"He would have broken my arm, else. How I hated him! Tricks, subterfuges, lies, menaces; I was surrounded by them. And I believed in so many things those early days!"

"How softly breathes this last, lingering ghost of summer," he said.

"How lovingly the pearls and opals and amethysts of heaven linger on the crimsoning hills! See how the stream runs like a silver thread, laughing and singing, to join the grave river. We can not see the river from here, but we know how gravely it journeys to the sea. Can you not smell the odor of mint, of earth, of the forest, and the water?

Hark! I hear a bird singing. There he goes, a yellow bird, a golden rouleau of song. How the yellow flower stands out against the dark of the gra.s.ses! It is all beautiful. It is the immortality in us which nature enchants. See how the wooded lands fade and fade till they and the heavens meet and dissolve! And all this is yours, Gabrielle, for the seeing and the hearing. Some day I shall know all things, but never again shall I know the perfect beauty of this day. Some day I shall know the reason for this and for that, why I made a bad step here and a short one there; but never again, this hour." He picked up a chestnut-bur and opened it, extending the plump chestnuts to her.

How delicately this man was telling her that he still loved her!

Absently her hand closed over the chestnuts, and the thought in her eyes was far away. If only it had been written that she might love him!

"Monsieur de Saumaise," said Anne, "will you take me to the pool? You told me that it would make a fine mirror, and I have not seen my face in so long a time that I declare I have quite forgotten how it looks."

"Come along, Mademoiselle; into the heart of the wood. I had a poem to recite to you, but I have forgotten part of it. It is heroic, and begins like this:

"_Laughing at fate and her chilling frown, Plunging through wilderness, cavern, and cave, Building the citadel, fortress, and town, Fearing nor desert, the sea, nor the grave: Courage finds her a niche in the knave, Fame is not n.i.g.g.ard with laurel or pain; Pathways with blood and bones do they pave: These are the hazards that kings disdain!_

"_Bright are the jewels they add to the crown, Levied on savage and pilfered from slave: Under the winds and the suns that brown, Fearing nor desert, the sea, nor the grave!

High shall the Future their names engrave, For these are lives that are not spent in vain, Though their reward be a tomb 'neath the wave.

These are the hazards that kings disdain!_

"I will try to remember the last stanza and the _envoi_ as we go along," added Victor.

And together they pa.s.sed down the ravine, two brave hearts a.s.suming a gaiety which deceived only the Chevalier, who still reclined against the boulder and was proceeding silently to inspect the golden plush of an empty bur. Two or three minutes pa.s.sed; Victor's voice became indistinct and finally was heard no longer, Madame surveyed the Chevalier with a lurking scornful smile. This man was going to force her to love him!

"Monsieur, you seem determined to annoy me. I shall not ask you to speak again."

"Is it possible that I can still annoy you, Madame?"

Madame crushed a bur with her foot . . . and gasped. She had forgotten the loose seam in her moccasin. The delicate needles had penetrated the flesh. This little comedy, however, pa.s.sed over his head.

"I did not ask you to accompany me to-day."

"So I observed. Nor did I ask to come. That is why I believed in silence. Besides, I have said all I have to say," quietly. He cast aside the bur.

"Then your vocabulary consists of a dozen words, such as, 'It is a far cry from the Louvre to this spot'?"

"I believe I used the word 'galleries.'" Their past was indissolubly linked to this word.

"On a certain day you vowed that you should force me to love you. What progress have you made, Monsieur? I am curious."

"No man escapes being an a.s.s sometimes, Madame. That was my particular morning."

Decidedly, this lack of interest on his part annoyed her. He had held her in his arms one night, and had not kissed her; he had vowed to force her to love him, and now he sat still and unruffled under her contempt. What manner of man was it?

"When are we to be returned to Quebec? I am weary, very weary, of all this. There are no wits; men have no tongues, but purposes."

"Whenever Father Chaumonot thinks it safe and men can be spared, he will make preparations. It will be before the winter sets in."

Madame sat down upon an adjacent boulder, and reflected.

"Shall I gather you some chestnuts, Madame? They are not so ripe as they might be, but I daresay the novelty of eating them here in the wilderness will appeal to your appet.i.te."

"If you will be so kind," grudgingly.