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

/> "How about Madame Oriole; does she regret the lover of last year?"

"Very good, Monsieur. You are daily recovering your wit. And you used to be very witty when you were not making extravagant love."

"A man does not weep when he loves and the object of his love simulates kindness."

"I should like to test this love," reflectively.

"Test it, Diane; only test it!" He was all eagerness. He flung his hat to the ground, and with his arm along the back of the seat he leaned toward her. The heron feather remained unharmed; it was a prophetic sign, only he did not realize it. He could realize nothing save that the glorious beauty of her face was near, and that to-day there was nothing else in the world. He was young, and youth forgets overnight.

Madame, with the knuckle of a finger against her lips, posed as if ruminating, when in truth she was turning over in her mind the advisability of telling him all, laughing, and leaving him. And suddenly she grew afraid. What would he do? for there was some latent power in this man she hesitated to rouse. She hesitated, and the opportunity was gone. For her thought swerved to this: if only he had not such handsome eyes! She dropped her hand.

"I will test this love," she said, with malice bubbling in her own lovely orbs. "The Comte d'Hérouville has grievously offended me. Will you challenge him?" She meant nothing by this, save to gain time.

The Chevalier paled, recalling D'Hérouville's threats. "He departs the scene;" but the smile was on his lips alone.

"Then, there is the Vicomte d'Halluys; he, too, has offended me."

"The vicomte?" Challenge the vicomte, who had put D'Hérouville in the hospital that night of the fatal supper?

"Ah!" said madame; "you hesitate! And yet you ask me to put you to the test!"

"I was weighing the matter of preference," with a wave of the hand; "whether to challenge the vicomte first, or D'Hérouville. Give me the rest of the list."

"Monsieur, I admire the facility with which you adapt yourself to circumstances," scornfully. "You knew that I was but playing. I am fully capable of repaying any insolence offered to me, whether from D'Hérouville, the vicomte . . . or yourself."

"To love you, then, is insolence?"

"Yes; the method which you use is insolent."

"Is there any way to prove that I love you?" admirably hiding his despair.

"What! Monsieur, you go a-courting without buckles on your shoes?"

"Diane, let us play at cross-purposes no longer. You may laugh, thrust, scorn, trample, it will in no wise effect the constancy of my love. I do not ask you to set tasks for me. Now, hark to me: where you go henceforth, there shall I go also, to France, to Spain, to the ends of the world. You will never be so far away from the sound of my voice that you can not hear me say that I love you."

"That is persecution!"

"It is love. I shall master you some day," recovering his hat and standing, "be that day near or far. I am a man, a man of heart and courage. You need no proof of that. I have bent my knee to you for the last time but once. I shall no more entreat," holding his head high.

"Truly, Monsieur!" her wrath running over.

"Wait! You have forced me, for some purpose unknown, to love you. Well, I will force you to love me, though God alone knows how."

"You do well to add that clause," hotly. "Your imagination is too large. Force me to love you?" She laughed shrilly.

But his eye was steady, even though his broad chest swelled.

"You have asked me who I am," she cried. "Then, listen: I am . . . ."

His face was without eagerness. It was firm.

"I am . . ." she began again.

"The woman I love, the woman who shall some day be my wife."

"Must I call you a coward, Monsieur?" blazing.

"I held you in my arms the other night; you will recollect that I had the courage to release you."

Madame saw that she had lost the encounter, for the simple reason that the right was all on his side, the wrong and injustice on hers. Instinctively she felt that if she told him all he in his gathering coolness would accept it as an artifice, an untruth. Her handkerchief, which she had nervously rolled into a ball, fell to the walk. He picked it up, but to the outstretched hand he shook his head.

"That is mine, Monsieur; give it to me."

"I will give it back some day," he replied, thrusting the bit of cambric into his blouse.

"Now, Monsieur; at once!" she commanded.

"There was a time when I obeyed you in all things. This handkerchief will do in place of that single love-letter you had the indiscretion to write. Do you remember that line, 'I kiss your handsome grey eyes a thousand times?' That was a contract, a written agreement, and, on my word of honor, had I it now . . ."

"Monsieur du Cévennes," she said, "I will this day write an answer to your annoying proposal. I trust that you will be gentleman enough to accept it as final. I am exceedingly angry at this moment, and my words do justice neither to you nor to me. Yes, I had a purpose, a woman's purpose; and, to be truthful, I have grown to regret it."

"Your purpose, Madame, is nothing; mine is everything." He bowed and departed, the heron feather in his hat showing boldly.

It was almost a complete victory, for he had taken with him her woman's prerogative, the final word. He strode resolutely along, never once turning his head . . . not having the courage. But, had he turned, certain it is that he must have stopped.

For madame had fallen back upon that one prerogative which man shall never take from woman . . . tears!

Look back, Monsieur, while there is yet time.


CHAPTER XXVI

BROTHER JACQUES TELLS THE STORY OP HIAWATHA

At the noon meal madame's chair at the table was vacant, and Anne, who had left madame outside the convent gate and had not seen her since, went up to the room to ascertain the cause of the absence. She found the truant asleep, the last vestige of her recent violent tears fringing her lashes. Silently Anne contemplated the fall and rise of the lovely bosom, eyed thoughtfully the golden thread which encircled the white throat; and wondered. Had this poor victim of conspiracy, this puppet in the cruel game of politics, left behind in France some unhappy love affair? What was this locket which madame hid so jealously? She bent and pressed a kiss upon the blooming cheek, lightly and lovingly. And light as the touch of her lips was, it was sufficient to arouse the sleeper.

"What is it?" madame said, sitting up. "Oh, it is you, Anne. I am glad you awoke me. Such a frightful dream! I dreamt that I had married the Chevalier du Cévennes! What is the hour?"

"It is the noon meal, dear. You have been weeping."

"Yes, for France, beloved France, with all its Mazarins and its cabals. Anne, dear, I must confess. I can not remain here. I am afraid, afraid of D'Hérouville, the vicomte. I am going to return on the Henri IV. I can bear it here no longer. I shall find a hiding place beyond the reach of Mazarin."

"As you think best. But why not enter the Ursulines with me? There is peace in the House of God."

"Is there not peace wherever the peaceful heart is? Walls will not give me peace."

"You should have known your heart before you left France," shrewdly.

"Anne, does any one know the human heart? Do you know yours?"

Anne's eyes closed, for the briefest moment. Know her heart? Alas!

"Come, Gabrielle; they are waiting for us at the table."

"I will go with you, but I have no appetite."

"We will go upon the water after four. It will pass away the time. You are certain that you wish to return to France; from passive danger into active?"

Madame nodded.

"I will inform his Excellency, for it is no more than right that he should be acquainted with your plans."

"How serious you have become, Anne," wistfully. "I am sure that I should be livelier and more contented if you were not always at prayer. I am lonely at times."

"You have been here scarce more than a week."

Madame did not reply.

At four her calm and even spirits returned; and the thought of seeing France again filled her with subdued gaiety. The sun was nearing the forests' tops when the two women sauntered down to the river front, to put about the governor's pleasure boat. They put blankets and mats into the skiff and were about to push off, when Brother Jacques approached them.

"Now, what may he want?" asked Anne, in a whisper.

"You are going for a row upon the river?" asked Brother Jacques, respectfully.

"Yes, Brother Jacques," replied Anne. "Is not the water beautiful and inviting?"

"I would not venture far," he said. "Iroquois have been reported in the vicinity of Orléans."

"We intend to row as far as Sillery and back. There can be no danger in that."

Brother Jacques looked doubtful.

"And are not the Iroquois our friends?" asked madame. "Are not Frenchmen building a city in the heart of their kingdom?"

Brother Jacques smiled sadly. "Madame, I should not be surprised to learn on the morrow that the expedition to Onondaga had already been exterminated."

"You, of all persons, should be loyal to the Indian," replied Anne, arranging the mats in the bottom of the boat.

"Mademoiselle, I know him thoroughly. That is why I undertake to warn you. The rattlesnake which you dread is less terrible to me than the Iroquois. My duty, not my inclination, makes me walk among them."

"We promise not to go beyond sight of the warehouses."

"Come with us," said Anne. "We will read to you and you will in turn tell us the legend of Hiawatha, so long delayed."

"If madame is agreeable," replied the priest, his heart beating a trifle faster than normal: he was human, and these two women were beautiful.

"Come with us, by all means," said madame graciously.

"You will sit in the stern, Gabrielle," said the admiral's granddaughter; "I shall sit on the mat, as the Indian says, and Brother Jacques shall take the oars. And take care that we do not run away with you."

"I am not afraid," returned Brother Jacques, a secret happiness possessing him. "Besides, I can swim." He recognized the danger of beauty in close proximity, but he unwisely forgot the dangers of