The Grey Cloak

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER XII

  ACHATES WRITES A BALLADE OF DOUBLE REFRAIN

  The golden geese of day had flown back to the Master's treasure house;and ah! the loneliness of that first night at sea!--the low whistlingsong of the icy winds among the shrouds; the cold repellent color toneswhich lay thinly across the west, pressing upon the ragged, heavinghorizon; the splendor and intense brilliancy of the million stars; thevast imposing circle of untamed water, the purple of its flowingmountains and the velvet blackness of its sweeping valleys; themonotonous seething round the boring prow and the sad gurgle of thespeeding wake; the weird canvas shadows rearing heavenward; and aboveall, that silence which engulfs all human noises simply by itsimmensity! More than one stout heart grew doubtful and troubled underthe weight of this mystery.

  Even the Iroquois Indian, born without fear, stoic, indifferent tophysical pain, even he wrapped his blanket closer about his head, heldhis pipe pendent in nerveless fingers, and softly chanted an appeal tothe Okies of his forebears, forgetting the God of the black-robedfathers in his fear of never again seeing the peaceful hills andvalleys of Onondaga or tasting the sweet waters of familiar springs.For here was evil water, of which no man might drink to quench histhirst; there were no firebrands to throw into the face of the NorthWind; there was no trail, to follow or to retrace. O for his mat bythe fire in the Long House, with the young braves and old warriorssprawling around, recounting the victories of the hunt!

  Only the seamen and the priests went about unconcerned, untroubled,tranquil, the one knowing his sea and the other his God. There wassomething reassuring in the serenity of the black cassocks as they wenthither and thither, offering physical and spiritual assistance. Theyinspired the timid and the fearful, many of whom still believed thatthe world had its falling-off place. And seasickness overcame many.

  With some incertitude the Vicomte d'Halluys watched the Jesuits. Afterall, he mused, it was something to be a priest, if only to possess thiscalm. He himself had no liking for this voyage, since the woman heloved was on the way to Spain. Whenever Brother Jacques passed underthe ship's lanterns, the vicomte stared keenly. What was there in thishandsome priest that stirred his antagonism? For the present thereseemed to be no solution. Eh, well, all this was a strange whim offate. Fortune had as many faces as Notre Dame has gargoyles. To bringthe Comte d'Herouville, himself, and the Chevalier du Cevennes togetheron a voyage of hazard! He looked around to discover the whereabouts ofthe count. He saw him leaning against a mast, his face calm, hismanner easy.

  "There is danger in that calm; I must walk with care. My faith! butthe Chevalier will have his hands full one of these days."

  Mass was celebrated, and a strange, rude picture was presented to thoseeyes accustomed to the interior of lofty cathedrals: the smokylanterns, the squat ceiling, the tawdry woodwork, the kneeling figuresinvoluntarily jostling one another to the rolling of the ship, theresonant voice of Father Chaumonot, the frequent glitter of abreast-plate, a sword-hilt, or a helmet.

  The Chevalier knelt, not because he was in sympathy with Chaumonot'sLatin, but because he desired not to be conspicuous. God was not inhis heart save in a shadowy way; rather an infinite weariness, a senseof drifting blindly, a knowledge of a vague and futile grasping at theend of things. And winding in and out of all he heard was thatmysterious voice asking: "Whither bound?" Aye, whither bound, indeed!Visions of golden days flitted across his mind's eye, snatches of hisyouth; the pomp and glory of court as he first saw it; the gallantepoch of the Fronde; the warm sunshine of forgotten summers; and thewoman he loved! . . . The Chevalier was conscious of a pain ofstupendous weight bearing down upon his eyes. Waves of dizziness,accompanied by flashes of fire, passed to and fro through his achinghead. His tongue was thick and his lips were cracked with fever. Itseemed but a moment gone that he had been shaking with the cold. Hefound himself fighting what he supposed to be an attack of seasickness,but this was not the malady which was seizing him in its pitiless grasp.

  Chaumonot's voice rose and fell. Why had the marquis given this man athousand livres? What evil purpose lay behind it? The marquis gave tothe Church? He was surprised to find himself struggling against a wilddesire to laugh. Sometimes the voice sounded like thunder in his ears;anon, it was so far away that he could hear only the echo of it.Presently the mass came to an end. The worshipers rose by twos andthrees. But the Chevalier remained kneeling. The next roll of theship toppled him forward upon his face, where he lay motionless.Several sprang to his aid, the vicomte and Victor being first.Together they lifted the Chevalier to his feet, but his knees doubledup. He was unconscious.

  "Paul?" cried Victor in alarm. "He is seasick?" turning anxiouslytoward the vicomte.

  "This is not seasickness; more likely a reaction. Here comesLieutenant Nicot, who has some fame as a leech. He will tell us whatthe trouble is."

  A hasty examination disclosed that the Chevalier was in the firststages of brain fever, and he was at once conveyed to his berthroom.Victor was inconsolable; the vicomte, thoughtful; and even the Comted'Herouville showed some interest.

  "What brought this on?" asked Nicot, when the Chevalier was stretchedon his mattress.

  The vicomte glanced significantly at Victor.

  "He . . . The Chevalier has just passed through an extraordinarymental strain," Victor stammered.

  "Of what nature?" asked Nicot.

  "Never mind what nature, Lieutenant," interrupted the vicomte. "It isenough that he has brain fever. The question is, can you bring himaround?"

  Nicot eyed his patient critically. "It is splendid flesh, but he hasbeen on a long debauch. I'll fetch my case and bleed him a bit."

  "Poor lad!" said Victor. "God knows, he has been through enoughalready. What if he should die?"

  "Would he not prefer it so?" the vicomte asked. "Were I in his place Ishould consider death a blessing in disguise. But do not worry; hewill pull out of it, if only for a day, in order to run his swordthrough that fool of a D'Herouville. The Chevalier always keeps hisengagements. I will leave you now. I will call in the morning."

  For two weeks the Chevalier's mind was without active thought or senseof time. It was as if two weeks had been plucked from his allotmentwithout his knowledge or consent. Many a night Victor and Breton werecompelled to use force to hold the sick man on his mattress. Hehorrified the nuns at evening prayer by shouting for wine, calling themain at dice, or singing a camp song. At other times his laughterbroke the quiet of midnight or the stillness of dawn. But never in allhis ravings did he mention the marquis or the tragedy of the last rout.Some secret consciousness locked his lips. Sometimes Brother Jacquesentered the berthroom and applied cold cloths, and rarely the youngpriest failed to quiet the patient. Often Victor came in softly tofind the Chevalier sleeping that restless sleep of the fever-bound andthe priest, a hand propping his chin, lost in reverie. One nightVictor had been up with the Chevalier. The berthroom was close andstifling. He left the invalid in Breton's care and sought the deck fora breath of air, cold and damp though it was. Glancing up, he sawBrother Jacques pacing the poop-deck, his hands clasped behind him, hishead bent forward, absorbed in thought. Victor wondered about thispriest. A mystery enveloped his beauty, his uncommunicativeness.

  Presently the Jesuit caught sight of the dim, half-recognizable facebelow.

  "The Chevalier improves?" he asked.

  "His mind has just cleared itself of the fever's fog, thank God!" criedVictor, heartily.

  "He will live, then," replied Brother Jacques, sadly; and continued hispacing. After a few moments Victor went below again, and the priestmused aloud: "Yes, he will live; misfortune and misery are long-lived."All about him rolled the smooth waters, touched faintly with the firstpallor of dawn.

  On the sixteenth of April the Chevalier was declared strong enough tobe carried up to the deck, where he was laid on a cot, his head proppedwith pillows in a manner such as to prevent the rise and fall of theship from d
isturbing him. O the warmth and glory of that springsunshine! It flooded his weak, emaciated frame with a soothing heat, asense of gladness, peace, calm. As the beams draw water from therivers to the heavens, so they drew forth the fever-poison from hisveins and cast it to the cleansing winds. He was aware of no desiresave that of lying there in the sun; of watching the clouds part, join,and dissolve, only to form again, when the port rose; of measuring thebright horizon when the port sank. From time to time he held up hiswhite hands and let the sun incarnadine them. He spoke to no one,though when Victor sat beside him he smiled. On the second day hefeebly expressed a desire for some one to read to him.

  "What shall I read, Paul?" asked Victor, joyously.

  "You will find my Odyssey in the berthroom. Read me of Ulysses when hefinally arrived at Ithaca and found Penelope still faithful."

  "Monsieur," said Chaumonot, who overheard the request, "would you notrather I should read to you from the life of Loyola?"

  "No, Father," gently; "I am still pagan enough to love the thunder ofHomer."

  "If only I might convince you of the futility of such books!" earnestly.

  "Nothing is futile, Father, which is made of grace and beauty."

  So Victor read from the immortal epic. He possessed a fine voice, andbeing a musician he knew how to use it. The voice of his friend andthe warmth of the sun combined to produce a pleasant drowsiness towhich the Chevalier yielded, gratefully. That night he slept soundly.

  The following day was not without a certain glory. The wind was mildand gentle like that which springs up suddenly during a summer'stwilight and breathes mysteriously among the tops of the pines or stirsa murmur in the fields of grain. The sea wrinkled and crinkled itsancient face, not boisterously, but rather kindly; like a giant who hadforgotten his feud with mankind and lay warming himself in thesunshine. From the unbroken circle of the horizon rose a cup ofperfect turquoise. Victor, leaning against the rail, vowed that hesniffed the perfume of spices, blown up from the climes of the eternalsummer.

  "I feel it in my bones," he said, solemnly, "that I shall write versesto-day. What is it the presence of spring brings forth from us?--thislightness of spirit, this gaiety, this flinging aside of worldly cares,this longing to laugh and sing?"

  "Well, Master Poet," and Major du Puys clapped the young man on theshoulder and smiled into his face. "Let them be like 'Henri atCahors,' and, my faith! you may read them all day to me."

  "No, I have in mind a happy refrain. 'Where are the belles of thebalconies?' This is the time of year when life awakens in the gardens.Between four and five the ladies will come out upon the balconies andpass the time of day. Some one will have discovered a new comfit, andword will go round that Mademoiselle So-and-So, who is a great lady,has fallen in love with a poor gentleman. And lackeys will wanderforth with scented notes of their mistresses, and many a gallant willfurbish up his buckles. Heigho! Where, indeed, are the belles of thebalconies? But, Major, I wish to thank you for the privileges whichyou have extended the Chevalier and myself."

  "Nonsense, my lad!" cried the good major. "What are we all but a largefamily, with a worldly and a spiritual father? All I ask of you, whenwe are inside the fort at Quebec, is not to gamble or drink or useprofane language, to obey the king, who is represented by Monsieur deLauson and myself, to say your prayers, and to attend mass regularly.And your friend, the Chevalier?"

  "On my word of honor, he laughed at a jest of mine not half an hourago. Oh, we shall have him in his boots again ere we see land. If weare a big family, as you say, Major, will you not always have afatherly eye upon my friend? He survives a mighty trouble. His heartis like a king's purse, full of gold that rings sound and true. Onlygive him a trial, and he will prove his metal. I know what lieutenantsand corporals are. Sometimes they take delight in pricking a fallenlion. Let his orders come from you till he has served his time."

  "And you?"

  "I have nothing to ask for myself."

  "Monsieur, no man need ask favors of me. Let him not shirk his duty,and the Chevalier's days shall be as peaceful as may be. And if heserves his time in the company, why, he shall have his parcel of landon the Great River. I shall not ask you any questions. His pasttroubles are none of my affairs. Let him prove a man. I ask no moreof him than that. Father Chaumonot has told me that Monsieur leMarquis has given a thousand livres to the cause. The Chevalier willstand in well for the first promotion."

  "Thank you, Major. It is nine. I will go and compose verses tillnoon."

  "And I shall arrange for some games this afternoon, feats of strengthand fencing. I would that my purse were heavy enough to offer prizes."

  "Amen to that."

  The major watched the poet as he made for the main cabin. "So theChevalier has a heart of gold?" he mused. "It must be rich, indeed, ifricher than this poet's. He's a good lad, and his part in life willhave a fine rounding out."

  Victor passed into the cabin and seated himself at the table in themain cabin. Occasionally he would nod approvingly, or rumple thefeathery end of the quill between his teeth, or drum with his fingersin the effort to prove a verse whose metrical evenness did not quitesatisfy his ear. There were obstacles, however, which marred thesureness of his inspiration. First it was the face of madame as he hadseen it, now here, now there, in sunshine, in cloud. Was hers a heartof ice which the warmth of love could not melt? Did she love another?Would he ever see her again? Spain! Ah, but for the Chevalier hemight be riding at her side over the Pyrenees. The pen moveddesultorily. Line after line was written, only to be rejected. The_envoi_ first took shape. It is a peculiar habit the poet has ofsometimes putting on the cupola before laying the foundation of hishouse of fancy. Victor read over slowly what he had written:

  "_Prince, where is the tavern's light that cheers? Where is La Place with its musketeers, Golden nights and the May-time breeze? And where are the belles of the balconies?_"

  Ah, the golden nights, indeed! What were they doing yonder in Paris?Were they all alive, the good lads in his company? And how went thewar with Spain? Would the ladies sometimes recall him in the tenniscourts? With a sigh he dipped the quill in the inkhorn and went on.The truth is, the poet was homesick. But he was not alone in thisaffliction.

  Breton was sitting by the port-hole in his master's berthroom. He wasreading from his favorite book. Time after time he would look towardthe bunk where the Chevalier lay dozing. Finally he closed the bookand rose to gaze out upon the sea. In fancy he could see the hills ofPerigny. The snow had left them by now. They were green and soft,rolling eastward as far as the eye could see. Old Martin's daughterwas with the kine in the meadows. The shepherd dog was rolling in thegrass at her feet. Was she thinking of Breton, who was on his way to astrange land, who had left her with never a good by to dull the edge ofseparation? He sobbed noiselessly. The book slipped from his fingersto the floor, and the noise of it brought the Chevalier out of hisgentle dreaming.

  "Is it you, lad?"

  "Yes, Monsieur Paul," swallowing desperately.

  "What is the matter?"

  "I was thinking how the snow has left the hills of Perigny. I can seemy uncle puttering in the gardens at the chateau. Do you remember thelilacs which grew by the western gates? They will soon be filling thepark with fragrance. Monsieur will forgive me for recalling?"

  "Yes; for I was there in my dreams, lad. I was fishing for thoseyellow perch by the poplars, and you were baiting my hooks."

  "Was I, Monsieur?" joyfully. "My mother used to tell me that it was asign of good luck to dream of fishing. Was the water clear?"

  "As clear as Monsieur le Cure's emerald. Do you remember how he usedto twist it round and round when he visited the chateau? It was a finering. The Duchesse d'Aiguillon gave it to him, so he used to tell us.'Twas she who founded the Hotel Dieu at Quebec, where we are going."

  "Yes; and in the month of May, which is but a few days off, we used toride into Cevennes
to the mines of porphyry and marbles which . . .which . . ." Breton stopped, embarrassed.

  "Which I used to own," completed the Chevalier. "They were quarries,lad, not mines. 'Golden days, that turn to silver, then to lead,'writes Victor. Eh, well! Do you know how much longer we are to remainupon this abominable sea? This must be something like the eighteenthof April."

  "The voyage has been unusually prosperous, Captain Bouchard says. Wesight Acadia in less than twenty days. It will be colder then, forhuge icebergs come floating about in the water. We shall undoubtedlyreach Quebec by June. The captain says that it is all nonsense aboutpirates. They never come so far north as this. I wonder if roses growin this new country? I shall miss the lattice-covered summer-house."

  "There will be roses, Breton, but the thorns will be large and fierce.A month and a half before we reach our destination! It is very long."

  "You see, Monsieur, we sail up a river toward the inland seas. If wemight sail as we sail here, it would take but a dozen days to passAcadia. But they tell me that this river is a strange one. Many rocksinfest it, and islands grow up or disappear in a night."

  The Chevalier fingered the quilt and said nothing. By and by his eyesclosed, and Breton, thinking his master had fallen asleep, again pickedup his book. But he could not concentrate his thought upon it. He wascontinually flying over the sea to old Martin's daughter, to the greychateau nestling in the green hills. He was not destined long todream. There was a rap on the door, and Brother Jacques entered.

  "My son," he said to Breton, "leave us."