The Grey Cloak, Harold MacGrath [smart books to read TXT] 📗

buckskin, a new hero's feather, and a dingy pair of moccasins. And you are going a-courting. What, fortune?"

"'Tis all the same."

"So you love her?" quietly.

"Yes, lad, I love her; and I am determined to learn this day the worth of loving."

"Take care," warned the poet.

"Victor, some day you will be going back to Paris. Tell them at court how, of a summer's morn, Monsieur le Chevalier du Cévennes went forth to conquest."

"Hark!" said Victor. "I hear a blackbird." He sorted his papers, for he was writing. "I will write an ode on your venture. What shall I call it?"

"Call it 'Hazards,' comrade; for this day I put my all in the leather cup and make but a single throw. Who is madame?"

"Ask her," rather sharply.

"She is worthy of a man's love?"

"Worthy!" Victor half rose from his chair. "Worthy of being loved? Yes, Paul, she is worthy. But are you sure that you love her?"

"I have loved her for two years."

"Two years," repeated the poet. "She is a strange woman."

"But you know her!"

"Yes, I know her; as we know a name and the name of a history."

"She comes from a good family?"

Victor laughed mirthlessly. "Oh, yes!"

"Do you know why she is here?"

"I thought I did, but I have found that I am as ignorant as yourself."

"There is a mad humor in me to-day. Wish me good luck and bid me be gone."

"Good luck to you, Paul; good luck to you, comrade." And Victor's smile, if forced, was none the less affectionate.

"And luck to your ode, my good poet. I go to find me a nosegay."

And when he was gone, Victor remained motionless in his chair. Two years! Ah, Gabrielle, Gabrielle, was that quite fair? He thought of all the old days, and a great wave of bitterness rushed over him. He no longer heard the blackbird. The quill fell from his fingers, and he laid his head upon his arms.

"I am tired," was all he said.

The Chevalier wended his way toward the Ursulines. His heart beat furiously. Sometimes his feet dragged, or again they flew, according to the fall or rise of his courage. The sight of a petticoat sent him into a cold chill. He tramped here and there, in all places where he thought possibly she might be found. Half the time he caught himself walking on tiptoe, for no reason whatever. Dared he inquire for her, send a fictitious note enticing her forth from her room? No, he dared do neither; he must prowl around, waiting and watching for his opportunity. Would she laugh, be indignant, storm or weep? Heaven only knew! To attack her suddenly, without giving her time to rally her forces,-formidable forces of wit and sarcasm!-therein lay his hope.

"What a coward a woman can make of a man! I have known this woman two years; I have danced and dined with her, made love, and here I can scarce breathe! I am lost if she sees me in this condition, or finds a weak spot. How I love her, love her! I have kissed the air she leaves in passing by. Oh! I will solve this enchanting mystery. I have the right now; I am rich, and young."

It will be seen that the gods favor those who go forward.

By the wall of the Ursulines stood a rustic bench, and upon this bench sat madame. She was waiting for Anne, who was paying her usual morning devotions under the guidance of the Mother Superior. Madame was not very busy with her eyes, and the jeweled miniature which she held in her hand seemed no longer to attract her. The odor of rose and heliotrope pervaded the gently stirring air. From the convent garden came the melting lilt of the golden oriole. By and by madame's gaze returned to the miniature. For a brief space poppies burned in her cheeks and the seed smoldered in her eyes. Then, as if the circlet of gold and gems was distasteful to her sight, she hastily thrust it into the bosom of her gown. Madame had not slept well of late; there were shadows under her lovely eyes.

All this while the Chevalier watched her. Several times he put forward a foot, only to draw it back. This, however, could not go on indefinitely, so, summoning all his courage, he took a firm step, another, and another, and there was now no retreating save ignominiously. For at the sound of his foot on the gravel, madame discovered him. By the time he stood before her, however, all was well with him; his courage and wit and daring had returned to do him honor. This morning he was what he had been a year ago, a gay and rollicking courtier.

"Madame, what a glorious day it is!" The heron feather almost touched the path, so elaborate was the courtesy. "Does the day not carry you back to France?"

Something in his handsome eyes, something in the debonair smile, something in his whole demeanor, left her without voice. She simply stared at him, wide-eyed. He sat down beside her, thereby increasing her confusion.

"I have left Monsieur de Saumaise writing chansons; and here's an oriole somewhere, singing his love songs. What is it that comes with summer which makes all male life carry nosegays to my lady's easement? Faith, it must be in the air. Here's Monsieur Oriole in love; it matters not if last year's love is not this year's. All he knows is that it is love. Somewhere in yonder forests the eagle seeks its mate, the mountain lion its lioness, the red deer its hind."

Madame sat very still and erect. Her forces were scattered, and she could not summon them to her aid till this man's purpose was made distinct.

"In all the hundred days of summer will there be a more perfect day for love than this? Madame, you said that I had lost a valuable art; what was it?"

Madame began vaguely to believe that he had not lost it. This man was altogether new to her. Behind all this light converse she recognized a power. She trembled.

"You need not tell me, Diane; I know what it is. It is the art of making love. I had not lost it; I had thought that here it was simply a useless art. When first I saw you I loved you as a boy loves. I ran hither and thither at your slightest bidding; I was the veriest slave, and I was happy in my serfdom. You could have asked me any task, and I should have accomplished it. You were in my thoughts day and night; not only because I loved you, but because you had cast a veil about you. And of all enchanting mysteries the most holding to man is the woman in the mask. You still wear a mask, Madame, only I have lifted a corner of it. And now I love you with the full love of a man, a love that has been analyzed and proved."

"I will go to Mademoiselle de Vaudemont, who is within the convent." Madame rose quietly, her eyes averted. She would gladly have flown, but that would have been undignified, the acknowledgment of defeat. And just now she knew that she could not match this mood of his.

Gently he caught her hand and drew her back to the seat.

"Pardon, but I can not lose you so soon. Mademoiselle is doubtless at prayer and may not be interrupted. I have so many questions to ask."

Madame was pale, but her eyes were glowing. She folded her hands with a passiveness which boded future ill.

"When you said that you trapped me that night at the Palais Royal, simply to take a feather from my plume, you did not mean that. You had some deeper motive."

Madame's fingers locked and unlocked. "Monsieur . . . !" she began,

"Why, it seems only yesterday that it was 'Paul'," he interrupted.

"Monsieur, I beg of you to let me go. You are emulating Monsieur d'Hérouville, and that conduct is beneath you."

"But will you listen to what I have to say?"

"I will listen," with a dangerous quiet. "Go on, Monsieur; tell me how much you love me this day. Tell me the story of the oriole, whose mate this year is not the old. Go on; I am listening."

A twinge of his recent cowardice came back to him. He moistened his lips.

"Why do you doubt my love?'"

"Doubt it! Have I not a peculiar evidence of it this very moment?" sarcastically. Madame was gathering her forces slowly but surely.

"I have asked you to be my wife, not even knowing who you are."

Madame laughed, and a strain of wild merriment crept into the music of it. "You have great courage, Monsieur."

"It is laughable, then?"

"If you saw it from my angle of vision, you would also laugh." The tone was almost insolent.

"You are married?" a certain hardness in his voice.

Madame drew farther back, for he looked like the man who had, a few nights since, seized her madly in his arms.

"If you are married," he said, his grey eyes metallic, "I will go at once, for I should know that you are not a woman worthy of a man's love."

"Go on, Monsieur; you interest me. Having asked me to listen to your protestations of love, you would now have me listen to your analysis of my character. Go on."

"That is not a denial."

"Indeed!"

"D'Hérouville called you 'Madame.'"

"Well?"

"What am I to believe?"

"What you will: one way or the other, I am equally indifferent." Ah, Madame!

The Chevalier saw that if he became serious, violent, or ill-tempered, he was lost. He pulled himself together. He smiled.

"Why are you not in Montreal? I understand Mademoiselle Catharine is there."

The Chevalier laughed. "You make me laugh, Diane."

"Why are you here in Quebec?"

"And you, Madame?"

"Perhaps I was seeking adventures."

"Well, perhaps I, too, came with that purpose. Come, Madame; neither of us is telling the truth."

"Begin, then, Monsieur; set an example for me."

The lines in his face deepened. All the pain of the tragedy came back. "Tell Monsieur le Comte for me that I am sleeping and may not be disturbed!" He struggled and cast aside the gloom.

"I have been accused of conspiracy, Madame."

"Conspiring?"

"Yes; for my happiness."

Madame was plainly disappointed.

"I was exiled from court upon a grave accusation."

"You were recalled, and all your honors restored."

"Since you know all, Madame, it is needless to explain. What most concerns me this morning is your belief that I love you."

"Listen: there's the oriole."