223CHAPTER XIXWE EXCHANGE CONFIDENCES
My eyes fell before his; I could not look into his face, yet I had a sense that he was actually glad to hear my words. There was no anger, rather happiness and relief in the gray eyes.
“And you actually believed I struck the blow? You thought me capable of driving a knife into the man’s back to gain revenge?”
“Monsieur, what could I think?” I urged eagerly. “It did not seem possible, yet I saw you with my own eyes. You knew of the murder, but you made no report, raised no alarm, and in the morning your boat was gone before the body was found by others.”
“True, yet there was a reason which I can confess to you. You also discovered the body that night, yet aroused no alarm. I saw you. Why did you remain silent? Was it to protect me from suspicion?”
I bent my head, but failed to find words with which to answer. De Artigny scarcely permitted me time.
“That is the truth; your silence tells me it was for my sake you remained still. Is it not possible, Adele, that my purpose was the same? Listen to me, my224girl, and have faith in my words––I am not guilty of Hugo Chevet’s death. I did not like the man, it is true, and we exchanged words in anger while loading the boats, but I never gave the matter second thought. That was not the first night of this journey that I sought to assure myself of your safety.
“I know Monsieur Cassion, and of what he is capable, and felt that some time there would occur between you a struggle––so at every camping place, where it was possible, I have watched. It was for that purpose I approached the Mission House. I gained glimpse within, and saw Cassion asleep on a bench, and knew you had retired to the chamber above. I was satisfied, and started to return to the camp. On my way back I found Chevet’s body at the edge of the wood. I discovered how he had been killed––a knife thrust in the back.”
“But you made no report; raised no alarm.”
“I was confused, unable to decide what was best for me to do. I had no business being there. My first impulse was to arouse the Mission House; my second to return to camp, and tell the men there. With this last purpose in view I entered the wood to descend the hill, but had hardly done so when I caught sight of you in the moonlight, and remained there hidden, watching your movements with horror. I saw you go straight to the body, assure yourself the man was dead;225then return to the Mission House, and enter your room by way of the kitchen roof. Do you realize what your actions naturally meant to me?”
I stared at him, scarcely able to speak, yet in some way my lips formed words.
“You––you thought I did it?”
“What else could I think? You were hiding there; you examined the body; you crept secretly in through the window, and gave no alarm.”
The horror of it all struck me like a blow, and I covered my eyes with my hands, no longer able to restrain my sobs. De Artigny caught my hands, and uncovered my face.
“Do not break down, little girl,” he entreated. “It is better so, for now we understand each other. You sought to shield me, and I endeavored to protect you. ’Twas a strange misunderstanding, and, but for the accident to the canoe, might have had a tragic ending.”
“You would never have told?”
“Of seeing you there? of suspecting you? Could you think that possible?”
“But you would have been condemned; the evidence was all against you.”
“Let us not talk of that now,” he insisted. “We have come back to a faith in each other. You believe my word?”
“Yes.”
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“And I yours.”
His hand clasp tightened, and there was that in his eyes which frightened me.
“No, no, Monsieur,” I exclaimed, and drew back quickly. “Do not say more, for I am here with you alone, and there will be trouble enough when Cassion returns.”
“Do I not know that,” he said, yet releasing my hands. “Still it can surely do no harm for us to understand each other. You care nothing for Cassion; you dislike, despise the man, and there is naught sacred in your marriage. We are in the wilderness, not Quebec, and La Barre has little authority here. You have protected me with your silence––was it not because you cared for me?”
“Yes, Monsieur; you have been my friend.”
“Your friend! Is that all?”
“Is that not enough, Monsieur? I like you well; I would save you from injustice. You could not respect me if I said more, for I am Monsieur Cassion’s wife by rite of Holy Church. I do not fear him––he is a coward; but I fear dishonor, Monsieur, for I am Adele la Chesnayne. I would respect myself, and you.”
The light of conquest vanished from the gray eyes. For a moment he stood silent and motionless; then he drew a step backward, and bowed.
“Your rebuke is just, Madame,” he said soberly.
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“We of the frontier grow careless in a land where might is right, and I have had small training save in camp and field. I crave your pardon for my offense.”
So contrite was his expression I had to smile, realizing for the first time the depth of his interest in my good will, yet the feeling which swayed me was not altogether that of pleasure. He was not one to yield so quietly, or to long restrain the words burning his tongue, yet I surrendered to my first impulse, and extended my hand.
“There is nothing to pardon, Sieur de Artigny,” I said frankly. “There is no one to whom I owe more of courtesy than you. I trust you fully, and believe your word, and in return I ask the same faith. Under the conditions confronting us we must aid each other. We have both made mistakes in thus endeavoring to shield one another from suspicion, and, as a result, are both equally in peril. Our being alone together here will enrage Monsieur Cassion, and he will use all his power for revenge. My testimony will only make your case more desperate should I confess what I know, and you might cast suspicion upon me––”
“You do not believe I would.”
“No, I do not, and yet, perchance, it might be better for us both if I made full confession. I hesitate merely because Cassion would doubt my word; would conclude that I merely sought to protect you. Before228others––fair-minded judges at St. Louis––I should have no hesitancy in telling the whole story, for there is nothing I did of which I am ashamed, but here, where Cassion has full authority, such a confession would mean your death.”
“He would not dare; I am an officer of the Sieur de la Salle.”
“The more reason why he would. I know Monsieur Cassion even better than you do. He has conversed with me pretty freely in the boat, and made clear his hatred of La Salle, and his desire to do him evil. No fear of your chief will ever deter him, for he believes La Barre has sufficient power now in this country to compel obedience. I overheard the Governor’s orders to keep you under close surveillance, and Cassion will jump at the chance of finding you guilty of crime. Now my broken pledge gives him ample excuse.”
“But it was not broken except through necessity,” he urged. “He surely cannot blame you because I saved your life.”
“I doubt if that has slightest weight. All he will care about is our being here alone together. That fact will obscure all else in his mind.”
“He believes then that you feel interest in me?”
“I have never denied it; the fact which rankles, however, is his knowledge that I feel no interest whatever in him. But we waste time, Monsieur, in fruitless229discussion. Our only course is a discovery of Hugo Chevet’s real murderer. Know you anything to warrant suspicion?”
De Artigny did not answer at once, his eyes looking out on the white crested waters of the lake.
“No, Madame,” he said at length gravely. “The last time Chevet was seen alive, so far as I now know, was when he left the boats in company with Monsieur Cassion to return to the Mission House.”
“At dusk?”
“It was already quite dark.”
“They did not arrive together, and Cassion reported that Chevet had remained at the beach in charge of the canoes.”
“You saw Cassion when he arrived?”
“Yes, and before; I was at the window, and watched him approach across the open space. He was alone, and appeared at ease.”
“What did he do, and say, after he entered the house?”
“Absolutely nothing to attract notice; he seemed very weary, and, as soon as he had eaten, lay down on the bench, and fell asleep.”
“Are you sure he slept?”
“I felt no doubt; there was nothing strange about his actions, but as soon as possible I left the room. You surely do not suspect him?”
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“He was the last to be seen with Chevet; they left the beach together, yet the murdered man failed to appear at the Mission House, and Cassion falsely reported him left in charge at the beach.”
“But no one could act so indifferent, after just committing such a crime. When you looked in through the window what did you see?”
“Only the priests about the table talking, and Cassion seemingly sound asleep. Could there be any reason why he should desire the death of Chevet?”
“I know of none. My uncle felt bitter over the concealment of my fortune, and no doubt the two had exchanged words, but there was no open quarrel. Chevet was rough and headstrong, yet he was not killed in fight, for the knife thrust was from behind.”
“Ay, a coward’s blow. Chevet possessed no papers of value?”
I shook my head.
“If so, no mention was ever made to me. But, Monsieur, you are still wet, and must be cold in this wind. Why do you not build the fire, and dry your clothing?”
“The wind does have an icy feel,” he admitted, “but this is a poor spot. Up yonder in the wood shadow there is more warmth, and besides it affords better outlook for the canoes. Have you strength now to climb the bluff?”
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“The path did not appear difficult, and it is dreary enough here. I will try.”
I did not even require his aid, and was at the top nearly as soon as he. It was a pleasant spot, a heavy forest growing almost to the edge, but with green carpet of grass on which one could rest, and gaze off across the wide waste of waters. Yet there was little to attract the eyes except the ceaseless roll of the waves, and the curve of the coast line, against which the breakers still thundered, casting high in air their white spray. It was a wild, desolate scene, a wilderness wherever the eyes turned.
I stood silent, gazing to the southward, but there were no canoes visible, although the storm had ceased, and the waves were no longer high enough to prevent their return. They must have been driven below the distant point, and possibly so injured as to make repairs necessary. When I finally turned away I found that De Artigny had already lighted a fire with flint and steel in a little hollow within the forest. He called to me to join him.
“There is nothing to see,” he said, “and the warmth is welcome. You had no glimpse of the boats?”
“No,” I admitted. “Do you really believe they survived?”
“There was no reason why they should not, if properly handled. I have controlled canoes in far worse232storms. They are doubtless safely ashore beyond the point yonder.”
“And will return seeking us?”
“Seeking you, at least. Cassion will learn what occurred, and certainly will never depart without seeking to discover if you are alive. The thought that you may be with me will only serve to spur him to quicker action. My fear is he may be delayed by some accident, and we might suffer from lack of food.”
“I had not thought how helpless we were.”
“Oh, we are not desperate,” and he laughed, getting up from his knees. “You forget I am bred to this life, and have been alone in the wilderness without arms before. The woods are full of game, and it is not difficult to construct traps, and the waters are filled with fish which I will devise some means of catching. You are not afraid to be left alone?”
“No,” in surprise. “Where are you going?”
“To learn more of our surroundings, and arrange some traps for wild game. I will not be away long but someone should remain here to signal any canoe returning in search.”
I watched him disappear among the trees, without regret, or slightest sense of fear at thus being left alone. The fire burned brightly, and I rested where the grateful warmth put new life into my body. The silence was profound, depressing, and a sense of intense233loneliness stole over me. I felt a desire to get away from the gloom of the woods, and climbed the bank to where I could look out once more across the waters.
234CHAPTER XXI CHOOSE MY DUTY
The view outspread before me revealed nothing new; the same dread waste of water extended to the horizon, while down the shore no movement was visible. As I rested there, oppressed by the loneliness, I felt little hope that the others of our party had escaped without disaster.
De Artigny’s words of cheer had been spoken merely to encourage me, to make me less despondent. Deep down in his heart the man doubted the possibility of those frail canoes withstanding the violence of the storm. It was this thought which had made him so anxious to secure food, for, if the others survived, and would return seeking us, as he asserted, surely they would appear before nightfall, and there would be no necessity for our snaring wild game in order to preserve life.
De Artigny did not believe his own words; I even suspicioned that he had gone now alone to explore the shore-line; seeking to discover the truth, and the real fate of our companions. At first this conception of our situation startled me, and yet, strange as it may235seem, my realization brought no deep regret. I was conscious of a feeling of freedom, of liberty, such as had not been mine since we departed from Quebec. I was no longer watched, spied upon, my every movement ordered, my speech criticized. More, I was delivered from the hated presence of Cassion, ever reminding me that I was his wife, and continually threatening to exercise his authority. Ay, and I was with De Artigny, alone with him, and the joy of this was so deep that I came to a sudden realization of the truth––I loved him.
In a way I must have known this before, yet, not until that moment, did the fact dawn upon me in full acknowledgement. I sank my head on my hands, my breath quickened by surprise, by shame, and felt my cheeks burn. I loved him, and believed he loved me. I knew then that all the happiness of life centered in this one fact; while between us arose the shadow of Cassion, my husband. True I loved him not; true I was to him wife only in name; true our marriage was a thing of shame, yet no less a fact, no less a barrier. I was a La Chesnayne to whom honor was a religion; a Catholic bowing humbly to the vow of Holy Church; a Frenchwoman taught that marriage was a sacred rite.
The knowledge of my love for De Artigny brought me more fear than pleasure. I dare not dream, or hope; I must escape his presence while I retained moral236strength to resist temptation. I got to my feet, not knowing what I could do, yet with a wild conception of returning to the beach, and seeking to find a passage southward. I would go now along the shore, before De Artigny came back, and meet those returning canoes. In such action lay my only safety––he would find me gone, would trace me along the sand, yet before I could be caught, I would have met the others, and thus escape the peril of being alone with him again.
Even as I reached this decision, something arose in my throat and choked me, for my eyes saw just outside the curve of the shore-line, a canoe emerge from the shadows of the bluff. I cannot picture the reaction, the sudden shrinking fear which, in that instant, mastered me. They were coming, seeking me; coming to drag me back into slavery; coming to denounce De Artigny of crime, and demand his life.
I know not which thought dominated me––my own case, or his; but I realized instantly what course Cassion would pursue. His hatred of De Artigny would be fanned into flame by discovery that we were alone together. He possessed the power, the authority to put this man forever out of his way. To save him there remained but one possible plan––he must reach Fort St. Louis, and friends before Cassion could bring him to trial. It was in my power to permit his escape237from discovery, mine alone. If I did otherwise I should be his murderer.
I sank down out of sight, yet my decision was made in an instant. It did not seem to me then as though any other course could be taken. That De Artigny was innocent I had no doubt. I loved him, this I no longer denied to myself; and I could not possibly betray the man to the mad vengeance of Cassion. I peered forth, across the ridge of earth concealing me from observation, at the distant canoe. It was too far away for me to be certain of its occupants, yet I assured myself that Indians were at the paddles, while three others, whose dress designated them as whites, occupied places in the boat. The craft kept close to the shore, evidently searching for any sign of the lost canoe, and the man in the stern stood up, pointing, and evidently giving orders. There was that about the fellow’s movements to convince me he must be Cassion, and the very sight of him strengthened my resolve.
I turned, and ran down the bank to where the fire yet glowed dully in the hollow, emitting a faint spiral of blue smoke, dug dirt up with my hands, and covered the coals, until they were completely extinguished. Then I crept back to the bluff summit, and lay down to watch.
The canoe rounded the curve in the shore, and headed straight across toward where I rested in concealment.238Their course would keep them too far away from the little strip of sand on which we had landed to observe the imprint of our feet, or the pile of wood De Artigny had flung down. I observed this with an intense feeling of relief, as I peered cautiously out from my covert.
I could see now clearly the faces of those in the canoe––the dark, expressionless countenances of the Indians, and the three white men, all gazing intently at the shore line, as they swept past, a soldier in the bow, and Père Allouez and Cassion at the stern, the latter standing, gripping the steering paddle. The sound of his rasping, disagreeable voice reached me first.
“This is the spot,” he exclaimed, pointing. “I saw that headland just before the storm struck. But there is no wreck here, no sign of landing. What is your judgment, Père?”
“That further search is useless, Monsieur,” answered the priest. “We have covered the entire coast, and found no sign of any survivor; no doubt they were all lost.”
“’Tis likely true, for there was small hope for any swimmer in such a sea.” Cassion’s eyes turned to the others in the boat. “And you, Descartes, you were in the canoe with the Sieur de Artigny, tell us again what happened, and if this be not the place.”
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The soldier in the bow lifted his head.
“I know little of the place, Monsieur,” he answered gruffly, “though it would seem as if I recalled the forked tree yonder, showing through a rift in the fog. All I know is that one of the paddles broke in the sergeant’s canoe, and over they went into the water. ’Twas as quick as that,” and he snapped his fingers, “and then a head or two bobbed up, but the canoe swept over them, and down they went again. Sieur de Artigny held our steering paddle, and, in an instant, he swung us that way, and there was the lady struggling. I reached out and touched her, but lost hold, and then the Sieur de Artigny leaped overboard, and the storm whirled us off into the fog. I saw no more.”
“You do not know that he reached her?”
“No, Monsieur; the lady sank when I lost my grip; I do not even know if she came up again.”
Cassion stood motionless, staring intently at the bluff. I almost thought he must have seen me, but there was no outcry, and finally he seated himself.
“Go on, round the long point yonder, and if there is no sign there we will return,” he said grimly. “’Tis my thought they were all drowned, and there is no need of our seeking longer. Pull on boys, and let us finish the job.”
They rounded the point, the Père talking earnestly, but the canoe so far away I could not overhear his240words. Cassion paid small heed to what he urged, but, at last, angrily bade him be still, and, after a glance into the narrow basin beyond, swung the bow of the canoe about, and headed it southward, the return course further off shore. The Indians paddled with renewed energy, and, in a few moments, they were so far away their faces were indistinguishable, and I ventured to sit on the bank, my gaze still on the vanishing canoe.
So intent was I that I heard no sound of approaching footsteps, and knew nothing of De Artigny’s presence until he spoke.
“What is that yonder––a canoe?”
I started, shrinking back, suddenly realizing what I had done, and the construction he might place upon my action.
“Yes,” I answered faintly, “it––it is a canoe.”
“But it is headed south; it is going away,” he paused, gazing into my face. “Did it not come this far?”
I hesitated; he had furnished me with an excuse, a reason. I could permit him to believe the boat had not approached close enough to be signaled. It was, for an instant, a temptation, yet as I looked into his eyes I could not tell the lie. More, I felt the uselessness of any such attempt to deceive; he would discover the fire extinguished by dirt thrown on it, and thus learn241the truth. Far better that I confess frankly, and justify my action.
“The canoe came here,” I faltered, my voice betraying me. “It went around the point yonder, and then returned.”
“And you made no signal? You let them go, believing us dead?”
I could not look at him, and I felt my cheeks burn with shame.
“Yes, Monsieur; but listen. No, do not touch me. Perhaps it was all wrong, yet I thought it right. I lay here, hidden from view, and watched them; I extinguished the fire so they could not see the smoke. They came so near I could hear their voices, and distinguish their words, yet I let them pass.”
“Who were in the canoe?”
“Besides the Indians, Cassion, Père Allouez, and the soldier Descartes.”
“He was with me.”
“So I learned from his tale; ’twas he who sought to lift me from the water, and failed. Do you realize, Monsieur, why I chose to remain unseen? Why I have done what must seem an unwomanly act?”
He was still gazing after the canoe, now a mere speck amid the waste of waters, but turned and looked into my face.
“No, Madame, yet I cannot deem your reason an242unworthy one––yet wait; could it be fear for my life?”
“It was that, and that only, Monsieur. The truth came to me in a flash when I first perceived the canoe approaching yonder. I felt that hate rather than love urged Cassion to make search for us. He knew of your attempt at rescue, and if he found us here together alone, he would care for nothing save revenge. He has the power, the authority to condemn you, and have you shot. I saw no way to preserve your life, but to keep you out of his grip, until you were with your friends at Fort St. Louis.”
“You sacrificed yourself for me?”
“’Tis no more than you did when you leaped from the canoe.”
“Pah, that was a man’s work; but now you risk more than life; you peril reputation––”
“No, Monsieur; no more, at least, than it was already imperiled. Cassion need never know that I saw his searching party, and surely no one can justly blame me for being rescued from death. One does not ask, in such a moment, who the rescuer is. I feel I have chosen right, Monsieur, and yet I must trust you to never cause me to regret that I am the wife of Monsieur Cassion.”
To my surprise his face brightened, his eyes smiling, as he bowed low before me.
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“Your confidence shall not be betrayed, Madame,” he said gallantly. “I pledge you my discretion whatever circumstances may arise. There is no cur in the De Artigny strain, and I fight my own battles. Some day I shall be face to face with Francois Cassion, and if then I fail to strike home it will be memory of your faith which restrains my hand. And now I rejoice that I can make your sacrifice less grievous.”
“In what way, Monsieur?”
“In that we are no longer entirely alone in our wilderness adventure. I have fortunately brought back with me a comrade, whose presence will rob Cassion of some sharpness of tongue. Shall we go meet him?”
“Meet him! a man, you mean? One rescued from the canoe?”
“No, but more likely to serve us a good turn––a soldier under Monsieur de la Durantaye, who has camp below at the portage to the Des Plaines. Out yonder I ran onto him, bearing some message from Green Bay––an odd fellow, but with a gun at his shoulder, and a tongue with which to tell the truth on occasion. Come, Madame, there is naught now you need to fear.”
244CHAPTER XXIWE DECIDE OUR COURSE
With a feeling of relief in my heart, a sense that my reputation was safe, and that the good God had set the seal of His approval on the choice made, I accepted De Artigny’s outstretched hand, and permitted him to assist me down the bank. The new arrival was just within the edge of the forest, bending over a freshly kindled fire, barely commencing to blaze, and beside him on the grass lay a wild fowl, already plucked of its feathers. So intent was the fellow at his task, he did not even lift his head until my companion hailed him.
“Barbeau, here is the lady of whom I spoke––the wife of Monsieur Cassion.”
He stood up, and made me a salute as though I were an officer, as odd a looking little man as ever I had seen, with a small, peaked face, a mop of black hair, and a pair of shrewd, humorous eyes. His dress was that of acourier du bois, with no trace of uniform save the blue forage cap gripped in one hand, yet he stood stiff as if on parade. In spite of his strange,245uncouth appearance there was that in his face which won my favor, and I held out my hand.
“You are a soldier of France, Monsieur de Artigny tells me.”
“Yes, Madame, of the Regiment Carignan-Salliers,” he answered.
“I wonder have you served long? My father was an officer in that command––Captain la Chesnayne.”
The expression on the man’s face changed magically.
“You the daughter of Captain la Chesnayne,” he exclaimed, the words bursting forth uncontrolled, “and married to Cassion! how can this be?”
“You knew him then––my father?”
“Ay, Madame; I was with him at the Richelieu, at the village of the Mohawks; and at Bois le Blanc, where he died. I am Jacques Barbeau, a soldier for twenty years; did he not speak to you of me?”
“I was but a girl when he was killed, and we seldom met, for he was usually on campaign. Yet what do you mean by thus expressing surprise at my marriage to Monsieur Cassion?”
He hesitated, evidently regretting his impulsive speech, and glancing from my face into the stern eyes of De Artigny.
“Monsieur, Madame, I spoke hastily; it was not my place.”
“That may be true, Barbeau,” replied the Sieur246grimly, “yet the words have been said, and the lady has a right to have them explained. Was there quarrel between her father and this Francois Cassion?”
“Ay, there was, and bitter, although I know nothing as to the cause. Cassion, and La Barre––he whom I now hear is Governor of New France––were alike opposed to Captain la Chesnayne, and but for reports they made he would have been the colonel. He struck Cassion in the mess tent, and they were to fight the very morning the Iroquois met us at Bois le Blanc. ’Twas the talk of the men that the captain was shot from behind.”
“By Cassion?”
“That I cannot say; yet the bullet entered behind the ear, for I was first to reach him, and he had no other enemy in the Regiment Carignan-Salliers. The feeling against M. Cassion was so strong that he resigned in a few months. You never heard this?”
I could not answer, but stood silent with bowed head. I felt De Artigny place his hand on my shoulder.
“The lady did not know,” he said gravely, as though he felt the necessity of an explanation. “She was at school in a convent at Quebec, and no rumor reached her. She is thankful to you for what you have said, Barbeau, and can trust you as her father’s friend and comrade. May I tell him the truth,247Madame? The man may have other information of value.”
I looked at the soldier, and his eyes were grave and honest.
“Yes,” I answered, “it can do no harm.”
De Artigny’s hand was still on my shoulder, but his glance did not seek my face.
“There is some low trick here, Barbeau,” he began soberly, “but the details are not clear. Madame has trusted me as a friend, and confided all she knows, and I will tell the facts to you as I understand them. False reports were made to France regarding Captain la Chesnayne. We have not learned what they were, or who made them, but they were so serious that Louis, by royal decree, issued order that his estates revert to the crown. Later La Chesnayne’s friends got the ear of the King, no doubt through Frontenac, ever loyal to him, and by royal order the estates were restored to his ownership. This order of restoration reached Quebec soon after La Barre was appointed Governor, and was never made public. It was suppressed by someone, and La Chesnayne was killed three months later, without knowing that he had won the favor of the King.”
“But Cassion knew; he was ever hand in glove with La Barre.”
“We have cause to suspect so, and now, after listening248to your tale, to believe that Captain la Chesnayne’s death was part of a carefully formed plot. By accident the lady here learned of the conspiracy, through overhearing a conversation, but was discovered by La Barre hiding behind the curtains of his office. To keep her quiet she was forced into marriage with Francois Cassion, and bidden to accompany him on this journey to Fort St. Louis.”
“I see,” commented Barbeau shrewdly. “Such marriage would place the property in their control by law. Had Cassion sought marriage previously?”
His eyes were upon me as he asked the question, and I answered him frankly.
“He visited often at the home of my Uncle, Hugo Chevet, and, while he never spoke to me directly of marriage, I was told he desired me for his wife and at the palace he so presented me to Monsieur La Barre.”
“On pledge of Chevet, no doubt. Your uncle knew of your fortune?”
“No; he supposed me penniless; he thought it a great honor done me by the favorite of the Governor’s. ’Twas my belief he expected some reward for persuading me to accept the offer.”
“And this Chevet––what became of him?”
“He accompanied us on the journey, also upon order of Monsieur la Barre, who, no doubt, thought he249would be safer in the wilderness than in Quebec. He was murdered at St. Ignace.”
“Murdered?”
“Ay, struck down from behind with a knife. No one knows who did it, but Cassion has charged the crime against Sieur de Artigny, and circumstances are such he will find it difficult to prove his innocence.”
The soldier stood silent, evidently reviewing in his mind all that had been told him, his eyes narrowed into slits as he gazed thoughtfully at us both.
“Bah,” he exclaimed at last, “the riddle is not so hard to read, although, no doubt the trick has been well played. I know Governor La Barre, and this Francois Cassion, for I have served under both, while Monsieur la Chesnayne was my Captain, and friend. I was not always a soldier, Madame, and once I sought holy orders, but the flesh was weak. However, the experiment gave me education, and led to comradeship with those above me in station––discipline in the wilderness is not rigid. Many a night at the campfire have I talked with my captain. And I have heard before of this Sieur de Artigny, and of how loyally he has served M. de la Salle. Monsieur de Tonty told the tale to M. de la Durantaye, mayhap a month ago, and I overheard. So I possess faith in him as a gallant man, and have desire to serve you both. May I tell you what, in my judgment, seems best for you to do?”
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I glanced at De Artigny, and his eyes gave me courage.
“Monsieur, you are a French soldier,” I answered, “an educated man also, and my father’s friend. I will listen gladly.”
His eyes smiled, and he swept the earth with his cap.
“Then my plan is this––leave Monsieur Cassion to go his way, and let me be your guide southward. I know the trails, and the journey is not difficult. M. de la Durantaye is camped at the portage of the Des Plaines, having but a handful of men to be sure, yet he is a gallant officer, and no enemy to La Salle, although he serves the Governor. He will see justice done, and give you both safe convoy to Fort St. Louis, where De Tonty knows how to protect his officers. Faith! I would like to see Francois Cassion try to browbeat that one armed Italian––’twould be one time he would meet his match.”
De Artigny laughed.
“Ay, you are right there, my friend. I have felt the iron-hook, and witnessed how he wins his way with white and red. Yet he is no longer in command at Fort St. Louis; I bring him orders now from Sieur de la Salle bidding him not to interfere with the Governor’s lieutenants. ’Tis the Chevalier De Baugis with whom we must reckon.”
“True, he has control, and men enough, with Cassion’s251party, to enforce his order. And he is a hothead, conceited, and holding himself a bit better than others, because he bears commission in the King’s Dragoons. ’Tis said that he and De Tonty have had many a stiff quarrel since he came; but he dare not go too far. There are good men there ready to draw sword if it ever come to blows––De Tonty, Boisrondet, L’Espirance, De Marle, and the Algonquins camped on the plain below. They would be tigers if the Italian spoke the word; while I doubt not M. de la Durantaye would throw his influence on the side of mercy; he has small love for the Captain of Dragoons.”
I spoke quickly, and before De Artigny could voice decision.
“We will accept your guidance, Monsieur. It is the best choice, and now the only one, for the time is past when we can expect the return of the canoes. Can we not at once begin the journey?”
It was an hour later, after we had eaten, that we left the bluff, and turned westward into the great woods. Barbeau led the way, moving along the bank of a small stream, and I followed, with De Artigny close behind. As we had nothing to carry, except the soldier’s rifle and blanket, we made rapid progress, and in less than half an hour, we came to the Indian trail, which led southward from Green Bay to the head waters of the Des Plaines. It was so faint and dim, a252mere trace through forest depths, that I would have passed it by unseen, but both my companions were woodsmen, and there was no sign their trained eyes overlooked.
Once in the trail, however, there was no difficulty in following it, although it twisted here and there, in the avoiding of obstacles, ever seeking the easier route. Barbeau had passed this way before, and recalled many a land-mark, occasionally turning, and pointing out to us certain peculiarities he had observed on his journey north. Once he held us motionless while he crept aside, through an intervening fringe of trees to the shore of a small lake, coming back with two fine ducks dangling from his shoulder.
Before dark we halted in a little opening, the grass green underfoot, and a bank of trees all about, and made night camp. There was water near at hand, and the fire quickly built gave cheer to the scene, as the men prepared supper. The adventures of the day had wearied me, and I was very content to lie on Barbeau’s blanket, and watch them work. While the soldier cooked, De Artigny swiftly erected a shelter of boughs, within which I was to pass the night. After we had eaten, I retired at once, yet for a long time could not sleep, but lay looking out at the two men seated before the fire smoking. I could hear their voices, and scraps of conversation––De Artigny telling the tale of the253exploration of the great river to its mouth in the salt sea, and Barbeau relating many a strange adventure in the wilderness. It was a scene long to be remembered––the black shadows all about, the silence of the great woods, the sense of loneliness, the red and yellow flames of the fire, and the two men telling tales of wild adventure amid the unknown.
At last they grew weary also, and lay down, pillowed their heads on their arms, and rested motionless. My own eyes grew heavy, and I fell asleep.
254CHAPTER XXIIWE MEET WITH DANGER
It was late in the afternoon of the second day when we arrived at the forks of the Chicago river. There was a drizzle of rain in the air, and never saw I a more desolate spot; a bare, dreary plain, and away to the eastward a glimpse of the lake.
A hut of logs, a mere shack scarcely fit for shelter, stood on a slight eminence, giving wide view in every direction, but it was unoccupied, the door ajar. Barbeau, in advance, stared at it in surprise, gave utterance to an oath, and ran forward to peer within. Close behind him I caught a glimpse of the interior, my own heart heavy with disappointment.
If this miserable place had been the headquarters of M. de la Durantaye, evidently it was so no longer. Not a vestige of occupancy remained, save a rotten blanket on the floor, and a broken bench in one corner. Rude bunks lined two walls, and a table hewed from a log stood in the center of the dirt floor. On this was a paper pinned to the wood by a broken knife blade. Barbeau grasped it, and read the writing, handing it255back to me. It was a scrawl of a few words, yet told the whole story.
“Francois Cassion, under commission of Governor la Barre, arrived with party of soldiers and Indians. At his orders we accompany the force to Fort St. Louis.“De la Durantaye.”
“Francois Cassion, under commission of Governor la Barre, arrived with party of soldiers and Indians. At his orders we accompany the force to Fort St. Louis.
“De la Durantaye.”
“Perhaps it is as well,” commented De Artigny lightly. “At least as far as my good health goes; but ’tis like to make a hard journey for you, Madame.”
“Is it far yet until we attain the fort?”
“A matter of twenty-five leagues; of no moment had we a boat in which to float down stream, but the trail, as I remember, is rough.”
“Perchance there may be a boat,” interrupted Barbeau. “There was the wreck of an Indian canoe a mile below here on the Des Plaines, not so damaged as to be beyond repair, and here is a hatchet which we will find useful.” He stooped and picked it up from under the bench. “One thing is certain––’tis useless to remain here; they have left the place as bare as a desert. ’Tis my choice that we make the Des Plaines before dark.”
“And mine also; are you too greatly wearied, Madame?”
“I? Oh, no! to escape this desolate place I will go gladly. Have men really lived here?”