The Grey Cloak - Harold MacGrath (smallest ebook reader .txt) 📗

hours, to fill my senses with its perfect beauty. At length I plucked it. I never regretted the waiting; the fruit tasted only the sweeter. . . . You are like that peach, Madame. By the Cross, over which these Jesuits mumble, but you are worth a dance with death!"

"Had you a mother, Monsieur?"

This unexpected question made him widen his eyes. "Truly, else I had not been here."

"Did she die in peace?"

He frowned. "It matters not how she died." He sat on the edge of the table and swung one leg to and fro. "Some men would give their chance of heaven for a taste of those lips."

"Your chance of heaven, Monsieur, is remote." The setting sun came in through the door and filled her eyes with a golden haze. If there was any fear, the pride on her face hid it.

"Ye gods, but you are a beauty! I can wait no longer for that kiss."

His leg slid from the table. He walked toward her, and she shrank back till she met with the wall. He sprang forward, laughing. She struggled in his strong arms, uselessly. With one hand he pressed up her chin and kissed her squarely on the lips. Then he let her go. She drew her hand across her mouth and spat upon the floor.

"What! So soon, Madame?"

Her bosom rose and fell quickly, as much from rage and hate as from the exertion of the struggle.

"God will punish you, Monsieur, as he punishes all men who abuse their strength as you have done,-punish you for the misery you have brought upon me."

"What! and I bring you love?"

She wiped her lips again, this time on her sleeve.

"Does it burn like that, then?" laughing.

"It is poison," simply.

Outside the Chevalier writhed and twisted and strained. The agony! She was alone in there, helpless. To be free, free! He wept, strove vainly to loose his bonds. He cried aloud in his anguish. And the vicomte heard him. He came to the door where he could see his enemy in torture and at the same time prevent madame's escape.

"Is that you, Chevalier? Do you recollect the coin? I am a generous debtor. I am paying you a hundred for one. Madame and I shall soon be on the way to Montreal. Remember her kindly. And you will tarry here till they find you, eh?"

"Vicomte, you were a brave man once. Be brave again. Do not torture me like this. Take your sword and run it through my heart, and I shall thank you."

Somberly the vicomte gazed down at him. He drowned the glimmer of pity in the thought of how this man had thwarted him in the past. "What!" he said, "spoil the comedy with a death-scene? I am too much of an artist, Monsieur. I had rather you should live." He went back into the hut. "The Chevalier grows restive, like an audience which can not see what is going on behind the curtain. Will you give me a kiss of your own volition, or must I use force again? It is like sin; the first step leads to another."

Madame stood passive. She would have killed this man with laughter on her lips had a knife been in her hand. He came toward her again. She strove to put the table between. He laughed, leaping the table lightly. She fled to the door, but ere she had taken a dozen steps he was in front of her. The Chevalier heard all these sounds. He prayed to God to end his miseries quickly.

"One more kiss, and we take the river, you and I. We will find some outcast priest to ease your conscience. The kisses will not be so fresh after that."

Far away came a call, but the vicomte did not hear it. He was too busy feasting his eyes. He had forgotten.

"So be it," he said. "This kiss shall last a full breath. Then we must be on the way."

A shadow darkened the doorway.

"Monsieur, here is a kiss for you, cold with death."

Madame cried out in joy. The vicomte whirled around, with an oath, his sword in his hand. Victor, pale but serene and confident, stood between him and freedom.


CHAPTER XXXII

THE ENVOI OF A GALLANT POET

Brother Jacques had done a wise thing. On the morning after the vicomte's singular confession, he had spoken a few words to the Black Kettle. From that hour the vicomte made no move that was not under the vigilant eye of the Onondaga. Wherever he went the Black Kettle followed with the soundless cunning of his race. Thus he had warned the settlement of what was going on at the hunting hut. Victor, having met 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 each other's throats?"

"Gabrielle," Victor said, "help is close at hand. I can keep this man at 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 no edict here, no meddling priests, only you and I. Engage!" Bare-headed he stood, scarce but a youth, no match ordinarily for the seasoned swordsman before him. But madame saw the courage of Bayard in his frank blue eyes. She turned her face toward the wall and wept. "Have patience, Paul," Victor called; "they will liberate you soon."

"So." The vicomte stretched out his arm. "Well, my writer of rondeaux, I have but little time to spare. As the fair Juliet says, 'I must be gone and live, or stay and die.' I can not fight the settlement which will soon be about my ears. You first, then your friend. I should scorn to separate, either on earth or in hades, such loving Orestes and Pylades. Madame, that kiss has cost me the joy of having your presence for the time being. Here shall the poet die, at his beloved's feet! Which is very fine." His blade darted out toward Victor's throat, and the last battle was begun. The vicomte was fighting for his liberty, and the poet was fighting to kill. They were almost evenly matched, for the vicomte was weary from his contest with D'Hérouville and the Chevalier. For many years madame saw this day in her 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, feint and double-feint, and sudden disengagements. The sweat trickled down the vicomte's face; Victor's forehead glistened with moisture. Suddenly Victor stooped; swift as the tongue of an adder his blade bit deeply into the vicomte's groin, making a terrible wound. The vicomte caught his breath in a gasp of exquisite pain.

. . . Death! The skull and the hollow eyes stared him in the face. He was dying! But before Victor could recover and guard the vicomte lunged, and his point came out dully red between Victor's shoulder-blades. The lad stood perfectly still. There was a question on his face rather than a sign of pain. His weapon clanged upon the hardened clay of the floor. He took a step toward madame, tottered, and fell at her feet. He clutched the skirts of her Indian garb and pressed 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, but leaned against the wall, her arms half extended on each side.

"See, Madame," said the vicomte; "see what love does! . . . It is sudden. But do not worry; I too, have said my little part . . . not very well, either." He steadied himself by catching hold of the table. The blood gushed from his wound, soaking his leg, and forming a pool on the clay. "Why, he was worth more than them all, for all he scribbled verses. 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 without beauty. The devil of the priests is in it all. And this is what love does!"

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

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

"Ha!" said the vicomte, rousing from the numbness which was stealing away his senses. "So it is you? I had each hair on your head separate and standing; and but for a kiss you would now be mad. To have come all this way and to have stopped a moment too long! That is what they call irony. But I would give my soul to ten Jesuit hells could I meet you once again with the sword. You have always plucked the fruit out of my grasp. We walked together, but the sun was always on you and the cloud on me. Ah, well, your poet is dead . . . and I had no real enmity toward him. . . . He was your friend. He will write no more ballades, and rondeaux, and triolets; eh, Madame? . . . Well, in a moment," as if he heard a voice calling. He balanced himself with difficulty.

Life returned to madame. Sobbing she sank beside Victor, calling to him 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. Yet they turned away. Father Chaumonot raised her gently.

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

"Dead . . . as I shall soon be." The vicomte's dulling eyes roved from one 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 you forget that kiss? I believe not. Listen: . . . I did not kiss simply your lips; 'twas your memory. Ever shall that kiss stand between you and your lover's lips."

"It is