The Grey Cloak by Harold MacGrath (uplifting book club books .txt) 📕

Quebec? Not one laid his head down at night without these questions.

The monotonous beating of the drum went on. Harsh laughter rose; for every night the Indians contrived to find new epithets with which to revile the captives. So far there had been no hint of torture save the gamut. The Chevalier, even with his inconsequent knowledge of the tongue, caught the meaning of some of the words. The jests were coarse and vulgar, and the women laughed over them as heartily as the men. Modesty and morality were not among the red man's immediate obligations.

The Chevalier devoted his time to dreaming. It was an occupation which all shared in, as it took them mentally away from their surroundings. He conjured up faces from the sparkle of the fire. He could see the Rubens above the mantel at the hôtel in Rochelle, the assembly at the Candlestick, the guardroom at the Louvre, the kitchens along the quays, or the cabarets in the suburbs. A camp song rises above the clinking of the bottles and glasses; a wench slaps a cornet's face for a pilfered kiss; a drunken guardsman quarrels over an unduly heavy die.

"Count," said the vicomte to D'Hérouville, "did you ever reckon what you should do with those ten thousand livres which you were to receive for that paper of signatures?"

At any other time this remark would have interested Victor.

D'Hérouville, having concentrated his gaze upon the ragged soles of his boots, saw no reason why he should withdraw it. He was weary of the vicomte's banter. All he wanted was a sword and a clear sweep, with this man opposing him.

"Now, if I had those livres," went on the vicomte, whose only object was to hear the sound of his own voice, "and were at Voisin's, I should order twelve partridge pies and twelve bottles of bordeaux."

"Bordeaux," said Victor, absently.

The Chevalier looked up, but seeing that he was not addressed, resumed his dreams.

"Yes, my poet, bordeaux, red and friendly. And on top of that should be a fish salad, with that wonderful vinegar and egg dressing which Voisin alone knows how to make."

"And then?" urged Victor, falling into the grim humor of the thing.

"Then, two bottles of champagne." The vicomte stood up. He appeared to be counting on his fingers. "That would make fourteen bottles."

"You would be drunk."

"Drunk as a fiddler on Saturday night. Now, I am going to promote my character among these rascals by doing some medicine work myself." And he burst forth sonorously in profanity, waving his hands and swaying his body. He recalled every oath in his extensive camp vocabulary. The expression on his face was sober, and Victor had a suspicion that this exhibition was not all play. The savages regarded the vicomte as one suddenly gone demented, till it dawned upon one of them that the white man was committing a sacrilege, mocking the reverend medicine man. He rose up behind the vicomte, reached over and struck him roughly on the mouth. The vicomte wheeled like a flash. The Indian folded his arms across his bronzed chest and looked the furious man calmly in the eye. The vicomte presently dropped his balled fists, shrugged, and sat down. It was the best and wisest thing he could do.

D'Hérouville, roused from his apathy, laughed. "Eh, you laugh?" said the vicomte, wiping his bloody lips. His eyes snapped wickedly.

"It is a habit I have," retorted D'Hérouville, glancing boldly at the Chevalier.

"Some day your habit will choke you to death."

D'Hérouville's cheeks darkened. He returned to the contemplation of his boots.

"Ten thousand livres!" The vicomte wiped his lips again, and became quiet.

This was one evening among many of its like. The poet busied himself with taking some of the burs from his hair and absently plucking them to pieces. . . . And Paul had had an intrigue with Gabrielle which had lasted nearly two years! And madame was unknown to him! What was her purpose? Blind fool that he had been, with all his dreams. Ever was he hearing the music of her voice, breathing the vague perfume of her flowering lips, seeing the heavenly shadows in her eyes. Once he had come upon her while she slept. Oh, happy thief, to have pressed his lips upon that cheek, blooming delicately as a Persian peach! And that memory was all he had. She did not love him!

The musing came to an abrupt end. A moccasined foot shot out and struck Victor in the small of the back, sending him reeling toward the fire. In trying to save himself he extended his hands. He fell upon a glowing ember, and his palms were burned cruelly. Cries of laughter resounded through the hut. Victor bit his lips to repress the cry of pain.

With the agility of a panther, the Chevalier sprang toward the bully. There was a terrible smile on his face as he seized the young brave's wrists in a grip of iron. The Oneida was a strong youth, but he wrestled in vain. The Chevalier had always been gifted with strength, and these weeks of toil and hardship had turned his muscles into fibers unyielding as oak. Gradually he turned the Indian around. The others watched the engagement with breathless interest. Presently the Indian came to his knees. Quick as light the Chevalier forced him upon his face, caught an arm by the elbow and shoved the brown hand into the fire. There was a howl of pain and a yell of laughter. Without seeming effort the Chevalier then rolled the bully among the evil-tempered dogs. So long as he continued to smile, the Indians saw nothing but good-natured play, such as had been the act which caused Victor his pain. The Chevalier sat down, drew his tattered cloak around his shoulders, and once more resumed his study of the fire.

"Hoh!" grunted the fighting braves, who frankly admired this exhibition of strength.

"Curse it, why didn't I think of that?" said the vicomte, his hand seeking his injured mouth again.

"God bless you for that, Paul," murmured Victor, the sparkle of tears in his eyes. "My hands do not hurt half so much now."

"Would to God, lad, you had gone to Spain. I am content to suffer alone; that is my lot; but it triples my sufferings to see you in pain."

"Good!" said D'Hérouville. "The cursed fool of a medicine man has stopped his din. We shall be able to sleep." He doubled up his knees and wrapped his arms around them.

A squaw gave Victor some bears' grease, and he rubbed his palms with it, easing the pain and the smart.

One by one the Indians dozed off, some on their bellies, some on their backs, some with their heads upon their knees, while others curled themselves up among the warm-bodied dogs. Monsieur Chouan hooted once more; the panther's whine died away in the distance; from another part of the village a cur howled: and stillness settled down.

Victor, kept awake by his throbbing hands, which he tried to ease by gently rocking his body, listened dully to all these now familiar sounds. Across his shoulders was flung the historic grey cloak. In the haste to pursue madame's captors, it had mysteriously slipped into the bundle they had packed. Like a Nemesis it followed them relentlessly. This inanimate witness of a crime had followed them with a purpose; the time for its definition had not yet arrived. The Chevalier refused to touch it, and heaped curses upon it each time it crossed his vision. But Victor had ceased to feel any qualms; it kept out the chill at night and often served as a pillow. Many a time D'Hérouville and the vicomte discovered each other gaping at it. If caught by D'Hérouville, the vicomte shrugged and smiled; on the other hand, D'Hérouville scowled and snarled his beard with his fingers. There was for these two men a peculiar fascination attached to that grey garment, of which neither could rid himself, try as he would. Upon a time it had represented ten thousand livres, a secure head, and a woman's hand if not her heart.

Once Victor thoughtlessly clasped his hands, and a gasp of pain escaped him.

"Does it pain you much, lad?" asked the Chevalier, turning his head.

"I shut them, not thinking. I shall be all right by morning."

The Chevalier dropped his head upon his knees and dozed. The vicomte and the poet alone were awake and watchful.

A sound. It drifted from afar. After a while it came again, nearer. The sleeping braves stirred restlessly, and one by one sat up. A dog lifted his nose, sniffed, and growled. Once more. It was a cry, human and designed. It consisted of a prolonged call, followed by several short yells. The old chief rose, and putting his hands to his mouth, uttered a similar call. It was immediately answered; and a few minutes later three Indians and two Jesuit priests pushed aside the bearskin and entered the hut.

"Chaumonot!" exclaimed the Chevalier.

The kindly priest extended his hands, and the four white men respectfully brushed them with their lips. It was a tribute less to his office than to his appearance; for not one of them saw in his coming aught else than a good presage and probable liberation.

Chaumonot was accompanied by Father Dablon, the Black Kettle,-now famous among his Onondaga brothers as the one who had crossed the evil waters, and two friendly Oneida chiefs. There ensued a prodigious harangue; but at the close of it the smile on Chaumonot's face signified that he had won his argument.

"You are free, my sons," he said. "It took some time to find you, but there is nothing like perseverance in a good cause. At dawn you will return with me to Onondaga. Monsieur," addressing the Chevalier; "and how is the health of Monsieur le Marquis, your kind father?"

The smile died from the Chevalier's face. "Monsieur le Marquis is at Quebec; I can not say as regards his health."

"In Quebec?"

"Yes, Father," Victor interposed.

"How did you know that we were here ?" asked the vicomte.

"Pauquet, in his wanderings, finally arrived at Onondaga two weeks ago. Upon hearing his story I at once began a search. We are virtually at peace with the Senecas and the Oneidas."

"And . . . the women?" inquired Victor, his heart's blood gushing to his throat.

The two Jesuits solemnly shook their heads.

Victor laid his head against the Chevalier's arm to hide the bitter tears.

"No sign?" asked the Chevalier calmly. All the joy of the rescue was gone.

"None. They were taken by a roving band of Senecas, of whom nothing has been heard. They are not at the Senecas' chief village."

However great the vicomte's disappointment may have been, his face remained without any discernible emotion. But he turned to D'Hérouville, his tone free from banter and his dark eyes full of menace:

"Monsieur le Comte, you and I shall