The Grey Cloak

by Harold MacGrath

  CHAPTER XXXII

  THE ENVOI OF A GALLANT POET

  Brother Jacques had done a wise thing. On the morning after thevicomte's singular confession, he had spoken a few words to the BlackKettle. From that hour the vicomte made no move that was not under thevigilant eye of the Onondaga. Wherever he went the Black Kettlefollowed with the soundless cunning of his race. Thus he had warnedthe settlement of what was going on at the hunting hut. Victor, havingmet him on his way up the trail, was first to arrive upon the scene.

  "The poet!" said the vicomte airily. He was, with all his lawlessness,a gallant man. "Did I not prophesy that some day we should be at eachother's throats?"

  "Gabrielle," Victor said, "help is close at hand. I can keep this manat bay. If I should die, Gabrielle . . . you will not forget me?"

  "How affecting! I am almost moved to tears!" mocked the vicomte.

  "Well, Monsieur, let us go about our work without banter. There is noedict here, no meddling priests, only you and I. Engage!" Bare-headedhe stood, scarce but a youth, no match ordinarily for the seasonedswordsman before him. But madame saw the courage of Bayard in hisfrank blue eyes. She turned her face toward the wall and wept. "Havepatience, Paul," Victor called; "they will liberate you soon."

  "So." The vicomte stretched out his arm. "Well, my writer ofrondeaux, I have but little time to spare. As the fair Juliet says, 'Imust be gone and live, or stay and die.' I can not fight thesettlement which will soon be about my ears. You first, then yourfriend. I should scorn to separate, either on earth or in hades, suchloving Orestes and Pylades. Madame, that kiss has cost me the joy ofhaving your presence for the time being. Here shall the poet die, athis beloved's feet! Which is very fine." His blade darted out towardVictor's throat, and the last battle was begun. The vicomte wasfighting for his liberty, and the poet was fighting to kill. They werealmost evenly matched, for the vicomte was weary from his contest withD'Herouville and the Chevalier. For many years madame saw this day inher dreams.

  The blades clashed; there was the soft pad-pad of feet, the involuntary"ah!" when the point was nicely avoided; there were lunges in quart,there were cuts over and under, thrusts in flanconade and tierce, feintand double-feint, and sudden disengagements. The sweat trickled downthe vicomte's face; Victor's forehead glistened with moisture.Suddenly Victor stooped; swift as the tongue of an adder his blade bitdeeply into the vicomte's groin, making a terrible wound. The vicomtecaught his breath in a gasp of exquisite pain.

  . . . Death! The skull and the hollow eyes stared him in the face. Hewas dying! But before Victor could recover and guard the vicomtelunged, and his point came out dully red between Victor'sshoulder-blades. The lad stood perfectly still. There was a questionon his face rather than a sign of pain. His weapon clanged upon thehardened clay of the floor. He took a step toward madame, tottered,and fell at her feet. He clutched the skirts of her Indian garb andpressed it convulsively to his bleeding lips.

  "Gabrielle . . . Gabrielle!" he murmured. His head fell back loosely.He was dead. Gallant poet!

  Madame's flesh seemed turned into marble; she could not move, butleaned against the wall, her arms half extended on each side.

  "See, Madame," said the vicomte; "see what love does! . . . It issudden. But do not worry; I too, have said my little part . . . notvery well, either." He steadied himself by catching hold of the table.The blood gushed from his wound, soaking his leg, and forming a pool onthe clay. "Why, he was worth more than them all, for all he scribbledverses. Bah! I have come the ragged way, and by the ragged way I go.. . . It is a pity: either men should be born blind or women withoutbeauty. The devil of the priests is in it all. And this is what lovedoes!"

  The door darkened again, and the Chevalier, Nicot, Father Chaumonot andfour soldiers came in hurriedly. The Chevalier was first. With a cryhe dropped beside Victor.

  "Lad, lad!" he cried in anguish. "Speak to me, lad!" He touched thepoet's hands, and rose. Like an angry lion he faced the vicomte.

  "Ha!" said the vicomte, rousing from the numbness which was stealingaway his senses. "So it is you? I had each hair on your head separateand standing; and but for a kiss you would now be mad. To have comeall this way and to have stopped a moment too long! That is what theycall irony. But I would give my soul to ten Jesuit hells could I meetyou once again with the sword. You have always plucked the fruit outof my grasp. We walked together, but the sun was always on you and thecloud on me. Ah, well, your poet is dead . . . and I had no realenmity toward him. . . . He was your friend. He will write no moreballades, and rondeaux, and triolets; eh, Madame? . . . Well, in amoment," as if he heard a voice calling. He balanced himself withdifficulty.

  Life returned to madame. Sobbing she sank beside Victor, calling tohim wildly, fondled his head, shook his warm but nerveless hands,kissed his damp forehead, her tears falling on his yellow hair.

  "He is gone!" she said piteously. "Victor is dead; he will not speak.Poor boy, poor boy!"

  They were strong men; the tender quick of pity had grown thick. Yetthey turned away. Father Chaumonot raised her gently.

  "Yes, my daughter, he is dead. God will deal kindly with him, braveboy."

  "Dead . . . as I shall soon be." The vicomte's dulling eyes roved fromone face to another till they rested on madame. "He will sing no more;he will not fly southward this winter, nor next. Ah, Madame, will youforget that kiss? I believe not. Listen: . . . I did not kiss simplyyour lips; 'twas your memory. Ever shall that kiss stand between youand your lover's lips."

  "It is true," she said brokenly. "You had a wicked heart, Monsieur.You, you have brought about all this misery. You have wantonly cast ashadow 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 madeway for him. "I am growing blind, besides." He braced himself againstthe jamb of the door. "My faith! it is a pretty world. . . . I regretto leave it." He stared across the lake, but he could see nothing. Apage of his youth came back.

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

  "Absolution?" The vicomte's lips grimaced; it might have been anattempt to smile. "Absolution for me? Where is Brother Jacques? Thatwould be droll. . . . Those eyes! Absolution? That for your heaven,"snapping his fingers, "and that for your hell. I know. It is allsilence. There is nothing. I wonder. . . ." His knees suddenlyrefused to support the weight of his body. He raised himself upon hishands. The trees were merging together; the lake was red and blurred."Gabrielle, Gabrielle, I loved you after my own fashion! . . . Thedevil 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 weresomewhat 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 asthough years had passed. Madame was weary. She would have liked tolie down and sleep . . . forever. The Chevalier brushed his eyes. Hewas a man. Weeping over death and in pity was denied him. At presenthe was incapable of accepting the full weight of the catastrophe. Hisown agony was too recent. Everything was vague and dreamy. His headached 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 lipsagain. "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 anaffirmative answer.

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

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

&nbs
p; That was all.

  Victor lay in the living-room of the fort. A shroud covered all buthis face. A little gold crucifix, belonging to Father Chaumonot, layagainst his lips. Candles burned at his head and at his feet. Therewas 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 ahawk had builded his eery home. A loving hand had carved upon the treethese words: "Here lies Victor de Saumaise, a brave and gallantFrenchman, a poet, a gentleman, and soldier. He lived honorably and hedied well." Close to the shores of the lake they buried the vicomteand the last of the D'Herouvilles. But only a roll of earth tellswhere they lie. Thus, a heart of sunshine and two hearts of stormrepose in the eternal shadow, in peace, in silence. The same windswhisper mournfully above them, or sing joyously, or breathe in thunder.The heat of summer and the chill of winter pass and repass; the longgrasses grow and die; the sun and the moon and the throbbing starsspread light upon these sepulchers. Two hundred and fifty years havecome and gone, yet do they lie as on that day. After death,inanimation; only the inanimate is changeless.