"Certain people," Madame reminded her meaningfully, "cannot be provoked too far. I hope you know what you are doing."
Felicités curls tossed. "Certain people have been much too independent lately," she answered. "You leave that to me, Maman. I know exactly what I am doing."
When Felicité had finally tripped out of the room in the newly fitted dress to join her handsome captain, Miriam gathered together her thread and scissors and went on her way home. Madame was nowhere to be seen, and it was futile to wait for any payment tonight. The street was dark as she hurried nervously along, and she shrank against the wall as a noisy group of soldiers and girls crowded her off the pavement. They were well past her when one of the group glanced back, stared for a moment, and abruptly left the others. As he came closer, she recognized Pierre, his uniform pulled carelessly open at the throat, his black tricorne teetering on the back of his rumpled head.
"Miriam? Is it you? Parbleu, girl! What are you thinking of to be out on the street at this hour?"
"I am on my way home," Miriam faltered. "I did not realize it was so late."
"Don't you know that the troops are marching in the morning? Every sober citizen in Montreal will stay inside and lock the door tonight."
"Madame had some work for me to do. It is just finished."
"Drat the woman! What sort of work, that couldn't wait?"
"I have told you I am a dressmaker. Felicité's gown needed to be fitted in a hurry. I am going home directly now."
"Un moment! This gown—why must it be fitted in such a hurry?"
"Why—" All at once she saw how she had blundered. Would she never learn to hold her tongue?
"To be worn tonight, by any chance?"
"Pierre, I don't—"
"Answer me!" His fingers bruised her arm.
"Yes, she wore it somewhere tonight."
"The little weasel! Sick in bed with a headache, was she? On my last night!"
The black anger gathered in him like a terrifying wave.
"Please, Pierre! If you will let me by. I must get home." As she tried to pull away from his grasp he noticed her again.
"I will see you home," he said automatically, hardly aware of what he said.
"You don't need to. If you will just let me—"
"Stop your chattering and come along!"
She hurried to keep step with him, thankful to be moving in the right direction. She had merely her own clumsiness to blame for this, she knew. She had been fearful ever since she had met Pierre of provoking the violence that lurked beneath that gay surface. Tonight she was too tired to cope with it. She was impatient when, after a few steps, he halted again.
"Wait. I have thought of something."
With his grip on her arm she waited uneasily while he weighed this something in his mind. Once again, in the darkness, his face reminded her of an Indian's. His eyes, glinting under lowered lids, looked reckless and crafty.
"So you work for Madame Du Quesne," he said at last, in a deceptively casual voice. "I might have put two and two together. My mother has been in a frenzy to know where those new gowns have been coming from."
"I shouldn't have let it slip out. I promised not to tell."
"Well, my good mother is going to find out, right now. We will stop and tell her, and from now on, my little seamstress, I promise you more business than you can handle."
"Not tonight, Pierre. Tomorrow morning, perhaps. No one wants to talk about dressmaking tonight."
"I want to talk about it," Pierre said roughly. "Come along!"
Was there no way to escape him? Was he drunk like the other soldiers whose tipsy shouts filled the streets? Miriam was too inexperienced to tell. And why this talk of dressmaking when he could barely hold in leash his jealous fury? To cross him now would be foolhardy. Better to humor him and, if she could, deliver him safely into his mother's hands and make her escape.
Indeed, she had little choice. He was hurrying her till her breath came in tight gasps, along the moonlit street, down a garden path, into a side doorway.
"Pierre—I am sure this is not your house! I will not—" Too late she understood his trickery. The door opened directly into a long drawing room. There was a dazzle of lights and voices, and the sound of violins. Behind her she heard the door click shut. She stood frozen. The room whirled in a great colored pinwheel, and a roaring in her ears shut out the music. Her forehead felt cold. She must actually have lost her balance, for she was aware of pain in her arm as Pierre held her to her feet. The faintness passed. As her sight cleared, two figures emerged from the mass and came toward them, a woman as haughty as a queen, and an elderly man with heavy snow-white hair and a black velvet coat. The woman's voice was sharp.
"Pierre! What are you doing here in those clothes?"
"My dear Maman, where is our hostess? I have brought a distinguished guest to her party!"
"Pierre! You have been drinking!"
"The idea! Maman, Grandpère, allow me to introduce my guest!"
Madame's horrified gaze swept over the trembling girl. "Who is this girl? Pierre, have you lost your mind? Felicité is here!"
"So I understand!"
Madame Laroche came closer. "Hush, Pierre! I will not tolerate this. You must get away before the others see you."
But the damage was done. In the whole long room there was suddenly not a voice. The roaring began again in Miriam's ears, and from a great distance she heard a man's voice, deep and kind.
"My dear mademoiselle," said the man in the black velvet coat, and incredulously she saw that he was bowing to her, "allow me to bid you welcome. But I did not catch your name?"
"Willard," she forced her lips to shape the word. "Miriam Willard." And with the name the whirling pinwheel slowed to a stop. "Willard," she repeated, half aloud, and it was like a draught of water, cold and strengthening. Her shoulders straightened, her head lifted. She could hear the music again.
Pierre turned to her. "Shall we dance?" he asked mockingly.
Miriam drew a steadying breath. It was like that moment on the shore at St. Francis, when she had known that she must run the gantlet. A pathway cleared in the room, and they waited to see what she would do. She glimpsed Madame Du Quesne, and Felicité, her face shocked to blankness like a painted doll's.
Suddenly a gust of anger shook her, a fury as deadly as Pierre's. Who were these people anyway, these be-ruffled, sophisticated creatures who behaved like savages? Not one of them had ever faced an Indian gantlet. Not one of them had ever done an honest day's work in return for the food that ruined their fashionable figures. She was through with standing in awe of them, of meekly holding silent, and flattening herself invisible against muddy walls. Never again, no matter what it cost her, would she wait humbly for their favor. She despised them, every one of them!
Her head went up. Two brilliant spots of color flared in her cheeks. Deliberately she turned and laid a hand on Pierre's shoulder. "If you wish," she said icily. "By all means, let us dance."
Her feet, in the leather sandals, had not forgotten the minuet. The slender calico figure moved with grace among the satins. Amid powdered curls, the smooth chestnut-red wings of her hair glowed like candlelight. Any ripple of amusement that might have begun was shriveled by the blazing scorn in her gray eyes. As the dance ended she faced a completely sobered partner.
"Now," she demanded imperiously, "you will kindly see that I get home at once."
At the door the elder Monsieur Laroche intercepted them. "My grandson scarcely deserves the honor of seeing you home," he said. "I have ordered a carriage for you." He bowed very low over her hand. "We have been honored, mademoiselle. You are a very beautiful and gallant young lady. If your English soldiers show half your spirit in battle, we French will have no easy victory."
Chapter 22
ONLY A SHORT TIME, it seemed, after Miriam had thrown herself into bed, drained of ability even to think further, she was aroused by a spatter of pebbles against her window.
"M
iriam!" It was Pierre's voice, cautiously half raised. The hail of pebbles was repeated. He would wake the tailor's wife with this racket. Climbing on a chair to peer out the high window, she could just make out his figure in the dimness of early morning.
"Pierre!" she whispered. "What are you thinking of? Go away!"
"I have got to see you. Let me in, Miriam, will you please?"
"You know I can't do that. And I don't want to see you or hear you."
"I don't deserve it, I know that. But I must talk to you."
"Not at this hour!"
"We assemble at daybreak. I can't wait till a decent time. Come out and talk to me here, then. There is something I must say to you."
"No! Go away!"
"Look here, my girl." Pierre's voice lost its caution. "Either you let me in or come out here and listen, or I'll shout what I have to say so loud that every soul in this street will hear me!"
"Oh, wait a minute!" Miriam agreed in exasperation. Climbing down from the chair she hastily drew on the calico dress, pulled a muslin cap over her tousled hair, and crept soundlessly through the shop into the street.
"Bon! I knew you would come. What a girl! Even at this hour you look beautiful!"
She drew back from his outstretched hands. "Whatever you have to say, Pierre, say it quickly."
"You will not make it easy for me, n'est-ce pas? Never mind. I'll get down on my knees to you here on the pavestones if you like. Will you forgive me for last night, Miriam?"
When she did not answer, he hurried on. "It was an unspeakable thing to do. I knew it the moment I came to my senses. But I lost my head there on the street. I can't see now why I ever thought she was worth it!"
"You don't need to explain. It doesn't matter in the least."
"It mattered last night, and you know it. You can call me anything you like. You should have heard my grandfather! Though when it comes to losing your temper, you must admit you haven't much to say!"
"No. I admit I was angry."
"Angry! Parbleu! You were magnificent! Not a woman in Montreal could have done it!"
"Hush, Pierre! Everyone will hear you!"
"Very well, but am I forgiven? Think, Miriam, you can't let a man go off to battle without being forgiven! Here I am, marching off to die for King and country—"
"Oh stop it, Pierre!" Always he somehow made her laugh, no matter how unwillingly. "All right. You are forgiven. Now, please, will you go away?"
"Not yet. I haven't said what I came to say. Will you marry me, Miriam?"
It was the last thing she had expected. She could only stare at him.
"Don't answer yet. I know what you think. You think I am still mad at Felicité, but that is not so. How I could even have looked at her, with a girl like you right under my nose! When I saw you standing there last night, with your head in the air! Such spirit! Such fire! I could have knelt down and asked you right there, in front of all of them!"
"Pierre—I—"
"I would marry you today if I could. But this cursed campaign will take a month or more. The day I come home we will arrange it. I will build the finest house in Montreal. Why don't you say something? Are you not pleased?"
"You can't mean this, Pierre. You will regret it tomorrow," Miriam answered, striving hard to hold to her own common sense. "You have said over and over how you had to be free, how you would never be tied down as long as you lived."
"Wait a minute! Who is talking of being tied down? I am still a coureur, make no mistake about that. But every coureur wants to have a wife to come home to."
"Is that what you want of me? To wait here in Montreal while you are off for a year at a time?"
"But what else does a trader's wife expect?"
A queer trembling had taken possession of Miriam. The spark that had been lighted the first time she heard the rollicking song of the coureur de bois flamed now to give her courage. Sometimes, in the loneliness of her room, she had allowed herself to dream of marriage to Pierre. Always she had pictured herself beside him, sharing the excitement and the danger of the wild unexplored country and the endless shining riverways.
"A wife could go with you!" she spoke impetuously. "Women have traveled through the wilderness before and lived on the frontiers!"
Pierre threw back his head and roared. "What a girl! Imagine Felicité suggesting such a thing! But you have the wrong idea, my love. I am no settler. I am a trader, and believe me, there is no room for a woman in a voyageur's canoe!"
His laughter hurt her. "'Tis not much of a marriage you have to offer then," she said in disappointment.
Pierre was affronted now. "There's plenty of others who've thought I had something to offer. What do you want, anyway? Why, I can give you dresses that will make the womens' eyes pop out! With your beauty I could make you the talk of New France. What a pair we would make! As my wife you'd be second to no one in Montreal—or Quebec either, for that matter!"
Miriam stared up at him for a moment. "Pierre, this isn't a joke to you? I'm beginning to believe you are serious."
"But certainly I am serious. Believe me, Miriam, I have never before asked a girl to be my wife. What more can I say?"
Surely there was something more he could say if he chose. Perhaps it was the unromantic hour, or the public place, or the sense of hurry as the city began to wake and stir that prevented the word she waited for.
"If you are serious," she said slowly, "then I thank you. But I can't decide now, not this very minute like this. Will you wait till you come back, and give me time to think about it?"
Pierre laughed confidently. "Think all you like, my love," he agreed. "And here's something to think about." He pulled her abruptly against the knobby uniform and kissed her triumphantly. The muslin cap slid off onto the pavement.
"Au revoir," he said gaily. "We will get this battle over with in a hurry. They had better not keep me long away from my redheaded bride!"
Later, from the window of the Château, Miriam watched the troops on the parade ground below, as they passed in review before the Governor. From that distance she could not distinguish Pierre's face under the tricorne hat, but his arrogant swinging stride was unmistakable. He and his companions made a colorful picture, with their white uniforms faced with scarlet and purple and yellow, their black-gaitered legs stepping in unison. Above them the white banners flaunted the gold lilies of France.
The roll of the drums stirred Miriam's senses. It was impossible to imagine these glittering ranks engaged in actual battle, and the thought of war held little meaning for her. It was only when she saw, following the regular troops, the row on row of Indians in war paint that she felt a twinge of uneasiness. There were so many Indians, three times as many as the French soldiers. What part could they play in defending a French fort?
It was well that the Marquise left her to herself today. Her fingers were clumsy with the needle, and many times her work dropped neglected in her lap while she lost herself in a frenzy of dizzy imaginings. The finest house in Montreal, he had boasted! She gazed around her. What would it be like to walk all day on such soft carpets, to have the right to touch every piece of furniture and silver and china and know that it was her own? And to choose from these lavish bolts of materials the clothes that would make her beautiful? Yet all day long, behind these dazzling thoughts, there was a question she did not want to answer, that, thankfully, she would not be forced to answer just yet. There was still a little time.
After the astonishment of the past hours, she was scarcely able to be surprised when that evening the white-haired Monsieur Laroche called on her. Her first impression of him was instantly confirmed. No one could help liking this vigorous, confident man, with his handsome weather-beaten face that still bore the stamp of nobility. She could feel no resentment when he came directly to the point.
"When my grandson left this morning," he said, "I was quite sure he was going to ask you to marry him."
Miriam's blush was answer enough.
"I am glad to know
it. If he had not, I intended to do it for him now."
Miriam stared at him. "You mean—you approve?"
"I had about given up hope that I would ever find a wife suitable for my grandson. Last night I saw that he had found her for himself. I had not given him credit for so much good sense."
"But I am English!"
"French—English—it is all the same to me. It is the woman who matters. You, my dear, have exactly what he needs, beauty, intelligence, and the spirit to hold him. I trust you have accepted him?"
While Miriam searched for the right word to say, he studied her shrewdly.
"Surely you are not holding last night's bad manners against him. The boy is young. I had the same quick temper when I was his age. That is why he needs a girl like you who will not give in to his tantrums. But you are too fine a person to let one mistake keep you from a husband like Pierre."
Miriam still had no answer, yet she felt instinctively that she could speak honestly to this man. No wonder Pierre adored his grandfather. There was no question about the love and pride that lay behind this frank appeal.
"What is it, mademoiselle?" he urged, his black eyes both kind and puzzled. "Perhaps I seem over-proud of Pierre. But I have raised him from a small boy. He is a true coureur. No one can outwit him, and he is afraid of nothing. He is lively company and generous. And I have observed that here in Montreal the ladies do not find him undesirable. Why is it that you do not favor my Pierre?"
"I do like him, very much," Miriam answered, wanting to return his frankness. "But I am not sure. I am afraid that to Pierre I am just something he has taken a fancy to, like another ornament to put in this fine house he is going to build. To sit there alone, just waiting for when he chooses to come home—should there not be more to a marriage than that?"
He nodded wisely. "Ah yes, you are very young, and romantic. But you must also be sensible. Let us be quite honest, you and I. No coureur ever made a devoted husband. His true heart is always in the forest. But in the long run there are more practical things to consider. Pierre has a fortune of his own, and he will someday inherit all that I possess as well. Do not demand too much, my dear. Pierre's wife will be a very fortunate woman."
Calico Captive Page 16
