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

true," she said brokenly. "You had a wicked heart, Monsieur. You, you have brought about all this misery. You have wantonly cast a shadow upon my life."

"Have I done that? Well, that is something . . . something."

"I forgive you."

"Eh? I am growing deaf!" He reeled toward the door, and the men made way for him. "I am growing blind, besides." He braced himself against the jamb of the door. "My faith! it is a pretty world. . . . I regret to leave it." He stared across the lake, but he could see nothing. A page of his youth came back.

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, "you have many sins upon your soul. Shall I give you absolution?"

"Absolution?" The vicomte's lips grimaced; it might have been an attempt to smile. "Absolution for me? Where is Brother Jacques? That would be droll. . . . Those eyes! Absolution? That for your heaven," snapping his fingers, "and that for your hell. I know. It is all silence. There is nothing. I wonder. . . ." His knees suddenly refused to support the weight of his body. He raised himself upon his hands. The trees were merging together; the lake was red and blurred. "Gabrielle, Gabrielle, I loved you after my own fashion! . . . The devil take that grey cloak!" And the vicomte's lawless soul went forth.

The men took the three bodies and placed them in the canoes. They were somewhat rough with the vicomte's.

"Gently, my brothers," said Nicot. "He was a rascal, but he was a man."

Madame and the Chevalier were alone. To both of them it seemed as though years had passed. Madame was weary. She would have liked to lie down and sleep . . . forever. The Chevalier brushed his eyes. He was a man. Weeping over death and in pity was denied him. At present he was incapable of accepting the full weight of the catastrophe. His own agony was too recent. Everything was vague and dreamy. His head ached painfully from the blow he had received in the fight.

"What did he do to you?" he asked, scarce knowing what he said.

"He kissed me; kissed me on the mouth, Monsieur." She wiped her lips again. "It is of no use. It will always be there."

"You are Madame de Brissac?"

"Yes." The hopelessness of her tone chilled him.

"And you loved Victor?"

Her head drooped. She was merely tired; but he accepted this as an affirmative answer.

"It would have been well, Madame, had I died in his place."

"Let us go," she said; "they are calling."

That was all.


Victor lay in the living-room of the fort. A shroud covered all but his face. A little gold crucifix, belonging to Father Chaumonot, lay against his lips. Candles burned at his head and at his feet. There was quiet in his breast, peace on his boyish face.

"Come, Anne," said madame softly.

"Let me watch," said Anne. "I have always loved him."


They buried Victor under the hill, at the foot of a kingly pine where a hawk had builded his eery home. A loving hand had carved upon the tree these words: "Here lies Victor de Saumaise, a brave and gallant Frenchman, a poet, a gentleman, and soldier. He lived honorably and he died well." Close to the shores of the lake they buried the vicomte and the last of the D'Hérouvilles. But only a roll of earth tells where they lie. Thus, a heart of sunshine and two hearts of storm repose in the eternal shadow, in peace, in silence. The same winds whisper mournfully above them, or sing joyously, or breathe in thunder. The heat of summer and the chill of winter pass and repass; the long grasses grow and die; the sun and the moon and the throbbing stars spread light upon these sepulchers. Two hundred and fifty years have come and gone, yet do they lie as on that day. After death, inanimation; only the inanimate is changeless.


CHAPTER XXXIII

HOW GABRIELLE DIANE DE MONTBAZON LOVED

How Brother Jacques, the Chevalier, Madame de Brissac and Anne de Vaudemont, guided by the Black Kettle, reached Quebec late in November, passing through a thousand perils, the bitter cold of nights and the silence of days more terrifying than the wolf's howl or the whine of the panther whose jaws dripped with the water of hunger, is history, as is the final doom of the Onondaga mission, which occurred early the following year. What became of the vicomte's confederates is unknown.

All throughout the wild journey the Chevalier's efforts were directed toward keeping up the lagging spirits of the women, who found it easier to despair than to hope. Night after night he sat beside them during his watch, always giving up his place reluctantly. That his constant cheeriness had its effect there is no doubt; for before they came within sight of the château madame had smiled twice.

They arrived in Quebec late in the afternoon. Immediately Anne entered the Ursulines, to come forth again only when a nun.

Breton fell upon his ragged knees in thanksgiving. The sight of his gaunt, bearded master filled him with the keenest joy, for this master of his had been given up as dead.

"And Monsieur le Marquis?" was the Chevalier's first question.

"He lives."

Early that evening Breton came to the Chevalier, who was dreaming before his fire.

"Monsieur Paul, but I have found such a remarkable paper in my copy of Rabelais! Here it is."

The Chevalier glanced at it indifferently . . . and at once became absorbed. It was the list of the cabal which had cost the lives of four strong men. He remained seated, lost in meditation. From time to time he opened the paper and refolded it. The movement was purely mechanical, and had no significance.

"Monsieur," said Breton timidly, "will you do me the honor to tell me what has happened? Monsieur de Saumaise, the vicomte and Monsieur d'Hérouville; they are not with you?"

"Well, lad, perhaps it is due you;" and the Chevalier recounted a simple story of what had befallen him.

"Ah, that brave Monsieur de Saumaise!" exclaimed Breton, tears in his eyes. "And what became of the grey cloak, Monsieur?"

The Chevalier did not immediately reply.

"What became of it, Monsieur?"

"The Vicomte d'Halluys sleeps in it, lad. It is his shroud."

And not another word spoke the Chevalier to Breton that night. He sat before the bright chimney: old scenes, old scenes, with the gay poet moving blithely among them. Madame had heard the vicomte's insults, but now there was nothing to explain to her. What should he do with his useless life? There was no future; everything beyond was dark with monotony. It was a cruel revenge madame had taken, but she had asked his forgiveness, and he had forgiven. Would she return to France in the spring? Would she become a nun? Would his father live or die, and would he send for him? The winter wind sang in the chimney and the windows shuddered. He looked out. It was the storm of the winds which bring no snow. Nine o'clock! How long the nights would be now, having no dreams!

There came presently a timorous knocking on the panels of the door. Only Breton heard it, and he rose silently to answer this delicate summons. He looked at his master. The Chevalier was deep in his melancholy recollections. It seemed to Breton that Quebec was filled with phantoms: he had listened to so many strange noises these lonely nights, waiting and hoping for his master's return. He was not sure that this gentle rapping was not a deception. Besides, it was past nine. Who could be calling this time of night? A trooper or an officer would have put the full weight of his fist against the door. He stopped and put his hand to his ear. The knocking came again. Breton opened the door quietly, and to his unbounded surprise a woman entered. She pointed toward the hall. Breton, comprehending that she wished to be alone with his master, tiptoed out; and the door closed.

The visitor stood with her back to the door, silent and motionless as a statue. A burning log crackled with a sharp report, and a thousand sparks flew heaven-ward. There were wonderful lights in this woman's eyes and a high color on her somewhat thin cheeks. A minute passed; and another ticked itself into eternity. The Chevalier sat upright and stirred restlessly. The paper of the cabal crackled in his hand. . . . What was it? he wondered. Something, he could not tell what, seemed drawing, drawing. He became vaguely conscious of a presence. He turned his head slowly.

"Madame?" He jumped to his feet, his hand bearing heavily upon the back of his chair. "Madame?" he repeated.

The great courage which had brought her here ebbed, and her hand stole toward the latch. Neither of them realized how long a time they faced each other, a wonder in his eyes, an unfamiliar glory in hers.

"Monsieur . . ." she began; but her throat contracted and grew hot. She could not bring another word to her lips. The glisten in her eyes dimmed for a moment, but the color on her cheeks deepened and spread to her throat and brow.

"Madame," he said, speaking first to disembarrass her, "here is something which belongs to you."

The outstretched arm and paper fascinated her. She did not move.

"It is yours, Madame. It is the list of the cabal. I was going to bring it to you in the morning." He forced a smile to his lips to reassure her.

Ah, those treacherous knees of hers! Where was her courage? Alas, for that magnanimous resolve! Whither had it flown? But as the firelight bathed his pale face and emphasized the grey hair and the red scar above one of his temples, both her courage and resolve came back. She walked slowly over to him and took the paper, approached the fire, sank, and eagerly scanned the parchment. She gave a cry of exultation, end thrust the evil thing into the flames.

"Burn!" she cried, clasping her hands. "Burn, burn, burn! And let all the inglorious past burn with you! Burn!"

It was almost hysterical; it was almost childish; but he thought he had never seen a more exquisite picture. And she was so soon to pass out of his life as completely as though she had never entered it. From somewhere she had obtained a blue velvet gown with slashed sleeves and flaring wrists, of a fashion easily fifty years old. On her hair sat a small round cap of the same material, with a rim of amber beads. Was it possible that, save for these past six hours, he had