Upon the long march to Biloxi, de la Mora was the life of the command, and drew to our camp fire every straggler who could make a fair excuse to come. He knew good songs, and he sang them well; he knew good cheer, and he kept us all in radiant spirits. All, save myself. I was bitterly dejected.
"Cheer up, lad," he'd say, "What ails you? One would think you'd met reverse, instead of winning glory and promotion. It was a brave day, and bravely you did bear yourself. Would that Jerome could see."
But the consciousness of dishonor had torn elation from my soul, though, God knows, it had before been stainless in thought or deed.
"We'll have many sweet and tranquil hours at Biloxi when days of peace are come. My cottage can be your home after the barracks no longer claim your care. Agnes is the sweetest of wives; her little sister, too, a child, but fair, and clever too, beyond her years."
Verily I cared nothing for a baby sister. But Agnes?
He repeated his invitation to their cottage many times, and mentally I prayed, "O God, lead not Thy children into temptation."
When we had settled down again at Biloxi, for days I remained to myself in the barracks, and saw no one, making pretense of being busy amongst my men.
De la Mora rallied me upon my ungallant conduct, in denying to the ladies the sight of so famous a soldier.
I had now firmly determined to make it necessary to be away from the post for a season, either in campaign with the Choctaws against the Natchez, or by taking part in the coming siege of Havana. Any pretext to get away. Anything but the truth.
One day very soon thereafter my servant presented me a box, which he said had been brought there by an Indian from Colonel d'Ortez, with the request that it be delivered into my own hand. And further, to beg I would make him a visit as soon as my duties would permit.
The evening being far advanced I could not go that night, so contented myself with the promise I would cross the bay on the morrow.
Later, my company being my own, I gave attention to the box, such a metal receptacle as was commonly used for articles of value. It responded easily to the key, and opened without difficulty.
The reasons for d'Ortez's fear and retirement lay bare before me, if I would but search them out. Within the box, bound together by deerskin thongs, were many writings, some on parchment, some paper, of different dates and degrees of preservation. Some were well worn from age and handling, others more recent, were in better condition. Some there were which appeared quite new and fresh; these must have been the latest to find a resting place in his keeping.
All were arranged in due and systematic order; of whatever age, each bore a careful superscription, giving in brief the contents of the paper written by his own exact hand. Beside this, each document was numbered and placed in sequence. Verily, it was most methodically done, so any child could read and understand.
It was with much misgiving I approached the task of making myself familiar with my old friend's secret. Had he committed some youthful crime which weighed heavily upon his trembling age, and had driven him to these savage shores, where, shut out from all companionship with his kind, he did a lonely penance? If so, I preferred to remain in ignorance, for his was a friendship so dear, so pure, I desired not to taint it with the odor of guilt.
He had, however, made his request in such urgent terms, even pathetic, I could not disregard it, and putting aside the reluctance I felt, I took up the paper which lay on top, directed to myself, and began its perusal. It was as follows:
My dear Placide:
The great feebleness of my worn-out frame warns me again that time for me is almost past. It may be, when you recross the seas, I shall have gone to final judgment. * * * remember my request, and carry on to the end that work which generations of cowards have left undone. * * * All is here contained in these papers, except some recent news I have of the Pasquiers from the northern colonies.
Possibly if you went to Quebec and sought out the Cure of St. Martin's (who wrote this last letter, No. 32) you may right it all, and give to my soul its eternal peace. * * * With the strong affection which my bodily infirmities have in no wise diminished, I am,
Your old friend.RAOUL ARMAND XAVIER D'ORTEZ.of Cartillon, Normandy.
Having carefully read this letter, I then proceeded to peruse the various documents in the order he had arranged them.
The first, written by the hand of the Benedictine, Laurent of Lorraine, Abbot of Vaux, told of the admission to the monastery of a child, son of Henri d'Artin, to whom the good monks gave the name Bartholomew Pasquier. This child, though designed for orders, left the monastery, cast his fortunes with the King of Navarre, and became a great officer in the household of King Henri the Fourth.
Other documents gave an account of the posterity of this child down to one Francois Rene Alois de Pasquier, who fled to America in 1674 to escape the vengeance of a certain great lord whose son he slew in a duel. This was he who was reputed to have been killed in battle, and to have left no issue. And this was he whom I afterward found to be my own good father.
There was also contained an account of the later life of Pedro d'Ortez, who, profiting not by his blood-gotten gains, threw himself, while in delirium, into the same old well whereon he had hanged his brother, Henri d'Artin.
Some further notes by the good abbot told of how Raoul, the second son of Pedro, slew his own brother, before their father's eyes, in order that he, Raoul, might be Count of Cartillon. And this same Raoul, some years later, did have the locket made and forced his own son to swear that he would restore the real sons of d'Artin, the true children of the Black Wolf's Breed, to their own again. All of these accounts are of surpassing interest, old and quaint, to a perusal of which I recommend my children.[1]
For the first time, in reading these manuscripts, did I begin clearly to associate the name d'Ortez with the name used by the madman in his story at the old Norman ruin. With this new light, link by link did the whole knotted chain untangle. Curiously enough, the tale I had heard at the ruined castle tallied in the main with the monkish documents here preserved. Indeed it supplied me with knowledge of much which otherwise I would not have comprehended so completely. The horrible reality of that weird recital was still fresh and distinct before me, undimmed by time and unforgotten through all my troubles.
I had sought refuge many times from brooding over my own affairs by turning to this for interest and occupation. Every further detail was supplied by a number of quaint documents, which Colonel d'Ortez had digested into this:
HENRI d'ARTIN AND OF PEDRO ORTEZ.Henri Francois Placide Pedro d'Ortez, suicided 1604.d'Artin, died Aug. 28, Charles Pedro, killed ) Sons1572. by Raoul 1602. ) ofBartholomew Pasquier (son Raoul, died 1618. ) aboveof above), died 1609. Charles Francis Peter (son ofBartholomew Placide ) Raoul), died without issue.Pasquier killed in ) Sons Pedro d'Ortez (brother towars of the Fronde. ) of above), died 1663Henri Louis John (brother ) above. Henry (son of above), killedto above), died 1654. ) in battle.Francois Rene Xavier de Pasquier Alphonze, killed in )(ennobled), killed 1650. battle. )Francois Rene Alois de Pasquier, Felix, died in infancy. ) Sonsfled to America. Supposed to Raoul Armand Xavier ) ofhave been killed about 1681. d'Ortez, born 1641 ) above.No known descendants. Well (myself). Died ----. )known to the Cure of St. No children. )Martin's, Quebec. She who was born my daughter Idisowned, and she died withoutissue.
It appeared that the only thing to be done was to visit the good Cure of St. Martin's, and, enlisting him in the search, find whatever descendants might have been left by this Francois Rene Alois de Pasquier. The task need not be a difficult one, as many old people should still be living who might have known of the man.[2]
I now bethought me of this enterprise as a fair excuse whereby I could leave Biloxi for a space. I would, therefore, call upon my old friend, and having obtained leave, matters now being safe with the colony, make the journey to Quebec.
But, alas for the weakness of fallen humanity; my last act before putting myself out of temptation's way was to run full tilt into it.
While this came so near to causing my dishonorable death, yet it was, under Divine Providence, the direct means of spreading before me a long life of happiness and honor. After a hard battle with my weaker self I lost the fight.
Just as on the day I departed from Versailles, I determined, cost what it would, to see Agnes once again. So I wrote her a note. Such a blunt and clumsy billet as only a love-sick soldier or a country clown could have written. It craved pardon for the heat and the haste displayed by me when we parted at Sceaux; it implored one last interview before I left the colonies forever. I had not the art to conceal or veil my meaning, but told it out and plainly. Such a note as an idiotic boy might pen, or a simpering school lass be set fluttering to receive.
I bade my man deliver this to Madame de la Mora on the morrow, charging him minutely and repeatedly to see it safe in her own hands. So careful was I, I did not doubt that even so stupid a lout as Jacques understood me perfectly.
His further instructions were to meet me at the Bay when I should return in the evening from my visit to Colonel d'Ortez, and there beside its rippling waters—or so I had arranged—I was to receive her answer.
It had now turned late of the night, and I sought repose. Sleep evaded my bed. What with my own restless desires, my chiding sense of ill-doing, and the d'Ortez story I had read, I tossed and tumbled through the remaining hours of darkness. Tumbled and tossed, whilst the sins and sufferings of men long dead passed and repassed with their spectral admonitions.
Early on the morrow, while the day was yet cool, I crossed the Bay, and climbed the slope of sand before the lonely house. It looked more deserted and desolate than I had ever seen it. The stillness of solitary death clung as a pall about the place. Pachaco, the Indian servant, sat beside the gate, as motionless as the post against which he leaned.
"How is the master, Pachaco?" I inquired, passing in.
"Him die yesterday," came the stolid reply.
"What? Dead! When?"
"The shadows were at the longest," he answered, indicating by a gesture the western horizon.
I hurried into the master's room. In the same position he had occupied, when, months ago, he had beckoned me to remain, he sat there, dead in his chair. His clothing hung about him in that sharply angular fashion in which garments cling to a corpse. Long, thin locks were matted above his brow, awesomely disarranged. But the pose of his head, drooped a little forward, suggested a melancholy reverie, nothing more.
The golden locket, which he had shown me that well-remembered night, rested within his shrunken palm. I noted that the side was open which revealed the blazing bar of red. As if absorbed in that same unpleasant thought, there sat the master, dead; dead, and I alone knew his story. How vividly the old man's sorrow came back; how it oppressed me.
I bent down in tender sympathy to look again upon his wasted features, and kneeling, gazed into his wide-open eyes. The calm of promised peace upon his brow was distorted by the unsatisfied expression of one who has left his work undone.
So are the sins of the fathers visited upon their children, for I was no longer in doubt but that the murderer, Pedro Ortez, was the sinning ancestor of my old-time friend. Even in his presence my thoughts flew to Agnes; had she not spoken of her grandsire as being such a man? The stiffening body at my side was speedily forgotten in the music of this meditation.
I gained my feet again and looked down upon him, fascinated by the changeless features of the dead. It was probably natural that standing there I should revolve the whole matter over and over again, from the first I knew of it until the last. A young man's plans, though, work ever with the living; the dead he places in their tomb, covers them with earth, bids them "God-speed," and banishes the recollection. I was already busy with my contemplated search for the last d'Artin, and stood there leaning against the oaken table pondering over the question, "Where is the last d'Artin?"
My mind wandered, returning with a dogged persistence to that one thought, "Where is the last d'Artin?" "Where couldIfind him?" My restless eyes roamed round the cheerless room, coming always back to rest upon a long dust-covered mirror set in the wall across the way.
As wind-driven clouds gather and group themselves in fantastic shapes, so, deep in that mirror's shadowy depths, a vague figure gradually took form and character—myself.
With the vacant glance of a man whose mind is intensely preoccupied, I studied minutely the reflection, my own bearing, my dress, my weapons. I even noted a button off my coat, and tried dimly to remember where I had lost it, until—great God—this chamber of death and revelation had turned my brain.
What face was that I saw? My own, assuredly, but so like another.
Aghast, powerless to move or cry out, I stared helplessly into the glass. Every other sensation vanished now before this new-born terror which held my soul enslaved. I closed my eyes, I dared not look.
My body seemed immovable with horror, but a trembling hand arose and pointed at the mirror. Scant need there was to call attention to that dim, terrible presence; my whole soul shrank from the ghostly face reflected in the glass. For there, there was the same pallid countenance, death-distorted and drawn, which I had conjured up in many a frightened dream as that of the murdered Count—there was Henri d'Artin.
How long I stood transfixed, pointing into the mirror, I know not. As men think of trifles even in times of deadly fear, so did my lips frame over and over again the last question I had in mind before all sense forsook me, "Where is the last d'Artin? Where is the last d'Artin? Where—?"
And in answer to my question, that long, rigid finger pointeddirectly at mefrom out the dusty glass. It was as if the hand of the dead had told me who I was.
It had been no blind chance, then, which led me to the Paris house of the "Black Wolf's Head;" the girl's ring with the same device, and the grewsome narrative beneath the shadow of the Wolf at the Norman ruin—nothing less than fate had brought these lights to me.
Verily some more logical power than unreasoning accident must direct the steps of men. A God of justice perhaps had placed these tokens in my path. And soldiers call this "Fortune."
I dispatched Pachaco to Biloxi with the news of death, and long before the afternoon our few simple arrangements for his funeral had been made.
"Bury me here, Placide, beneath this great oak," he had said to me one day. "The Infinite Mercy will consecrate the grave of penitence, wherever it may be."
He had his wish.
[1] These documents have been included in an appendix to this volume.
[2] A very slight investigation showed that this last named Francois Rene Alois de Pasquier was none other than my own good father, who assumed the name de Mouret to avoid the consequences of a fatal duel in France. This I learned from the pious Cure of St. Martin's, who knew him well.
Meanwhile Jacques had undertaken to manage my little affair at Biloxi with tact and discretion. And this is how the fellow did it:
It seems that Jacques thought no harm of the note, and when he took it first to the house my lady was out. The honest fellow, doing his best to carry out my instructions, refused to leave it. When he returned, my lady worked, bent down amongst her flowers, in the little garden beside their cottage. The Chevalier stood some distance off, busied someway, Jacques knew not how, but with his face turned away from my messenger as he came up. Jacques handed the note to my lady through the fence, and she took it gently by the corner, fearing to soil it. She held it up to look at the name written upon it, and seeing it was her own, looked again more curiously at the writing. She did not know the hand. Then she gaily called to the Chevalier:
"Oh, Charles, come here; see what I have; it is a missive to your wife, and from some gay gallant, too. I do not know the writing. Do you come here and read it to me. My hands are so—" She held up two small white hands dabbled in the dirt.
"Perhaps some invitation to a court ball. We'll go, eh, Agnes?"
He came like the fine, strong gentleman he was, across the garden, taking the note from her and tearing it open. He began straightway to read, my lady on tip-toe behind him reading over his shoulder, and holding her contaminated hands away from his coat. His face grew puzzled at the first, then as he seemed to finish, he stood a pace apart from my lady and read again. There was murder in his face—yet so white and quiet.
He threw down the note and ground it into the soft earth beneath his heel. Then he caught my lady firmly by both her shoulders and held her fast, at full arm's length, gazing steadily into her face.
"God in heaven," as Jacques said to me; "Master, what eyes has that Chevalier de la Mora! No man could lie to him with those eyes reading what a fellow thought." Jacques could not make himself to leave; he stood rigid and watched.
"Well, Madame?"
"She tried to laugh, but her husband's face forbade that this could be a spark of lover's play.
"Well, Madame?"
"Why, Charles, what is the matter with you, you behave so strangely?"
The Chevalier had grown an older man, his face stern and resolute, eyes a-glitter, and mouth drawn in tense, determined lines. A most dangerous man.
"Why, Charles, what is the matter?"
"When did you meet him at Sceaux? What did you do?"
"Meet who?"
"Don't lie to me, woman, I am in no mood for subterfuge."
She besought him with one frightened look, one step forward to him as if for protection, which he repelled; then she looked as though she might weep.
"Neither do you weep. Tell me how many notes like this have you received?"
"Like what? I could not read it, you held it so high," she sobbed.
The Chevalier stooped down, picked up the crumpled paper from the earth, and smoothed it out. He then handed it to her, and regarded her face intently as she read it.
"Read this, Madame, and see how careless you have been."
And my lady read the note; she, too, read it again, the first reading not sufficing her to understand. Then she looked at her husband with great wide-open eyes; she was now calm, and as quiet as he.
"Truly, Charles, I know nothing of this."
"It was always said, Madame, at Sceaux, you could take the stage and play the parts of distressed and virtuous damosels," he answered her, coldly curling his lip.
"Tell me, Madame, as you value your soul, what is this Captain de Mouret to you?"
"As I value my soul," my lady answered him direct and steadily, looking straight into his eye, her own hands folded across her heaving breast. "As I value my soul, Charles, I know nothing of him."
"What does he mean when he says here 'I was hasty and too impulsive when we parted in the chapel at Sceaux'?"
"Upon my honor, Charles, I do not know. I never saw the man in all my life—to know him."
"Upon yourhonor," the Chevalier repeated.
And my lady's cheek flushed fire. But her form straightened up, and her eyes met his unflinching, without guilt or fear. The Chevalier turned and caught sight of Jacques, for the lout, according to his story, had grown to the spot as firm as one of the oaks.
"Here, you fellow, come here,come here!"
And Jacques dared not disobey him.
"Here, fellow, how many notes like this have you brought to my wife?"
"Only that one, my lord." Jacques started in by telling the truth, and he followed it up religiously. According to his account of it, the Chevalier looked him straight through and through until he dared not tell a lie.
"Mind that you tell me the truth. Who gave you this note?"
"Captain de Mouret."
"When?"
"Last night."
"Where?"
"At his quarters."
"To whom did he say you should deliver it?"
"To Madame Agnes de la Mora."
The Chevalier stooped, picked up the envelope, and re-read the superscription, handing it over to my lady, who took it unseeing.
"Did he expect a reply?"
"Yes, my lord."
"And where did he say to bring it?"
"Bring it to him when he returned from across the Bay this afternoon. I was to await him upon the shore."
"At what hour?"
"None was named, my Lord; he said it would be late, perchance."
Verily, as Jacques told it me, he must have drained the stupid fellow dry.
Then the Chevalier turned to my lady with the utmost courtesy:
"What say you, Madame, shall I bear your reply to this gentle captain? For by my faith, Madame, you require a more careful go-between than this, one more discreet and less glib of tongue."
"Charles, upon my honor, I know nothing of all this; I have never seen this Captain de Mouret."
He looked as if he did not hear her. He glanced at the sun, full two hours high, drew his sword and started to leave the garden.
He paused to doff his cap, and say, "I bear your message for you, Madame; verily, I am honored."
My lady neither screamed nor fainted during his questioning of Jacques; she stood and listened as one dazed, or who but dimly understood. The Chevalier strode out sword in hand.
"For shame, Charles," she called to him calmly enough, though she was deadly pale, "here is some wretched mistake—"
"Yes, there does appear to have been a mistake—in the delivery of this precious billet. I will speedily make that right."
"Charles, Charles!"
He turned. Her bearing was full as proud as his. He looked from the woman to the paper in his hand.
"Well, if you know not this man, then he has wantonly insulted you. I shall await this Captain de Mouret by the water, and there I shall know the truth. He shall explain what means this pretty letter to my wife."
Jacques watched her proudly erect figure enter the door. He saw her sway a moment in indecision, then sink beside the bed to pray. She came shortly to the door again and called him. The fellow's brain worked slowly, and he had not yet comprehended the extent of mischief he had done. That he had done something amiss, though, he began to understand.
"You had that note from Monsieur le Capitaine de Mouret?"
"Yes, Madame."
"And he said deliver it to me?"
"To Madame Agnes de la Mora. Am I not right?"
"Yes, I am Madame Agnes de la Mora, but that note was not intended for me."
She came closer to Jacques, so close indeed she laid her trembling hand upon his sleeve.
"Tell me—you know this Captain de Mouret well—tell me if you would save an innocent woman, has this Captain de Mouret a love affair here? Answer me, answer me truly, has he a love affair, or—or a mistress?"
Her innocence and direct question abashed Jacques sorely and set him a wondering what manner of escapade was this his master had got into.
"I will go to her, be she what she may, go to anybody; my husband must not kill this innocent man. No; and here I disturb myself about my own reputation, while two lives are in jeopardy. I must think, I must act—but how?"
And she broke down to weep again, showing the woman in her that was behind so brave a front. Her tears were not for long. Jacques felt it was his turn now to say something, so he blundered out, "See the Governor;" then one whit better he went, "Iwill see the Governor for you."
The good fellow had in that moment for the first time realized that he could stop the affair, and do it he would if he had to quit the colony. And she such a lovely lady, so gentle with the poor.
"Do you not fear to speak with him of such as this?"
"No, Madame, Bienville's soldiers do not fear him; they leave that for his enemies."
And so it fell out that Jacques told the Governor. And he told him all.
It was ever Bienville's wont to act with quick decision.
"Order Major Boisbriant to report to me at once." And off posted Jacques upon his errand.
That officer attended with military promptitude.
"Major Boisbriant, do you seek on the instant the Chevalier de la Mora, and bear him company wherever he may go until you are relieved. Put upon him no restraint, and say nothing of your having such orders from me if you can avoid it. There is trouble brewing here, which I want to prevent; an affair of honor, you understand. He has gone toward the landing on the Bay. Be discreet and delicate."
Boisbriant nodded his comprehension, saluted, and was gone. Bienville turned to Jacques.
"Saddle my horse at once and bring him here."
It was much later than I had hoped before I could with decency return to Biloxi. Impatient, childish and excited I recrossed the bay, leaving a little detail of soldiers to watch beside the body of my friend. As soon as I saw Jacques on the other shore I knew something had gone wrong. That senseless knave was pacing uncertainly about the beach, stopping here and there to dig great holes in the sand with his toe, and carefully filling them up again. The fellow, ever on the watch for me, was at the same time watching the path from Biloxi, and seemed to dread my coming. Instead of meeting me at the water, he waited for me to approach him, thus leaving the two boatmen out of hearing.
"Well, give me the note; why stand there like a driveling fool," for the fellow's hesitant manner angered and frightened me.
"There is no note, sir."
"No reply?"
"The lady sent none."
"Why?"
Under my questions Jacques turned red and pale, then he blundered out:
"The Chevalier de la Mora said he would bring the answer to you himself—at the shore."
He kept his eyes fast riveted upon another hole he was digging in the sand.
"The—Chevalier?" I knew what that meant. Great God! and this was the end of it all.
"Tell me, you bungling fool, what knows he of this?"
"Pardon, Master; I thought no harm of it; you had never before employed me on such an errand."
It was now my own turn to seek the ground with my eyes, so just, so humble was the rebuke.
"I thought no harm of it, sir, and gave it to Madame in the garden; she called upon the Chevalier to read it for her."
"What said he? To her? Was he violent?"
"No sir, most polite; terribly polite, and cool; but, master, you must not meet him; he will kill you."
Of this I had scant doubt.
"Did he make no sign as if he would do her harm?"
"No, sir, not then, but he looked so queer one could hardly say what he meditated. I would not care to have him look at me like that."
I was paralyzed by the suddenness of the ill-fortune which had befallen, but I was to be allowed no day of grace in which to plan a line of conduct. My face had been turned all this while toward the sea, there being something soothing to me about the long, even sweep of those bright, blue waters in the south.
Jacques faced the town. I noted a deprecatory gesture, and following his gaze saw the Chevalier himself coming our way at a good round pace. My knees did quake, and the veriest poltroon might have well been ashamed of the overweening fear which possessed me. In defense of which I may say, I believe it was due in large part to my great respect and fondness for de la Mora, as well as a deep consciousness of the justice of his cause. From long habit I looked first to my weapons, but for once felt no joy in them.
"Captain de Mouret," he greeted me with a soldier's formal courtesy.
"Chevalier de la Mora."
"Captain, I have the honor to return to you a note which I believe bears your name," and he handed me the unfortunate billet.
"Am I right? Is that your hand?"
I scorned to lie, and answered him evenly;
"It is."
"Is that note properly directed? To Madame de la Mora?"
"It is, but—"
"Have you any explanation, sir, to offer?"
For the life of me I could think of nothing to say; I could not tell him the truth, neither could I lie to him with grace. So I simply said:
"It was not her fault," probably the worst remark I could have made.
"Then, this note is true? You did meet my wife by appointment in the ruined chapel at Sceaux?"
"No, by my honor, there was no appointment; I came upon her by chance, and through no consent of hers."
"And so you presumed to meet my wife in a lonely place—which she denies to me upon her honor, as you now swear; you were there 'hot, impulsive and hasty' which thishonorablemissive of yours craves pardon for. Now you seek another private interview which you say you can not live without?"
I nodded moodily, wishing only to have the matter over, and avoid his further questioning.
"By my soul, Captain, I am rejoiced to find you so frank—rejoiced that you do not lie. The other, God knows, is bad enough."
I winced, but held my tongue.
"Our business, then, is plain enough; and there is no time like the present."
So saying he cast off his coat and began to roll his sleeves back, leaving bare that magnificent forearm of his, supple and dexterous. Imitating him we were both soon stripped for action.
I had only my light rapier, worn about the garrison, while he was armed with his heavy campaign blade. I was already a dead man, or so I felt, for there was no spirit in me for the fight. Our blades crossed, and immediately he noted the disparity of arms.
"Captain," he remarked, composedly, drawing back a pace. "This is a bad business; I shall surely kill you, but wish to do so as a gentleman. Permit me to exchange our weapons, so you fence not at such great disadvantage."
And he offered me the hilt of his own reversed sword.
"Chevalier de la Mora, you are a gallant gentleman, will you believe a man who has not yet lied to you, and who feels a word is your due?"
"Be quick," he replied, "we maybe interrupted."
"I have wronged you and will render full atonement. But it has only been a wrong of the heart; one of which I had no control, no choice. Your sweet wife has never, by word or deed, dishonored the noble name she bears."
"Of course, Captain, it is a gentleman's part to make such protestations. It is fruitless for us to discuss this matter further, except as we had so well begun."
So intent were we both that neither had seen Jacques leave us, nor had either heard the swift hoof beats of a horse upon the deadening sand, until the rider was full upon us.
Bienville. Behind him, on foot, just emerging from the brush some distance away, Boisbriant and Jacques.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, put by your weapons. What does this mean?" He had flung himself from his horse and stood between.
De la Mora sullenly dropped his point.
"A mere private matter of honor, sire."
"Are there so few enemies of France with whom to fight that you must needs turn your swords at each other to rob me of a good soldier when I need every one?"
By this time Boisbriant and Jacques had come up, and Bienville commanded:
"Major, do you accompany the Chevalier de la Mora to his quarters. You will take his parole to remain there during the night, and he will report to me at ten to-morrow. Placide, do you come with me."
He gave up his horse to Jacques, and taking me by the arm led me in the direction of the garrison. Truly, I was in no better plight, for I feared reproof from the Governor more than the steel of de la Mora. During all this time I said no word. We returned to Biloxi in absolute silence. Bienville, with all a gentleman's instinct, recognized the delicacy of my position.
The Governor took me at once to his own room, and sat me down at the table.
"Now, Placide, tell me all about this miserable affair,"
"I can not, sire; believe me, I can not. I beg of you not to put upon me a command I must disobey. This wretched matter is not for me to tell, even to you."
"A woman?"
I held my peace.
"Yes, I thought as much. Is it your fault or his, Placide?"
"Mine."
He drummed on the table with his fingers a while before he spoke again.
"Then, my lad, there is but one thing I can do, that is to send you away from here at once. You can leave this place to-night, seek out Tuskahoma, make your way to Pensacola, thence to Havana, where I warrant you will find other occupation. Or, if you so desire, I will accredit you to Governor Frontenac in the north."
I chose Havana, there being the greater prospect of active service there. It took the methodical Governor but brief space to give me such letters as would insure me fitting reception from our brave fellows at Pensacola. He placed them in my hand, and I quietly rose to bid him good-night, and good-bye. I would not have ventured upon anything more than a formal word of parting, for I had the consciousness of having done much to forfeit his regard. But the old man came over and put his arms about me as he might a beloved son.
"Placide," he said, "it grieves me to the soul for you to leave me. I love you, boy, as I do my own flesh. You have served me truly, always with affection and honor. I respect your silence now, and ask you for no confidences not your own. Serigny has told me how faithful you were in Paris, and what he heard from others of your interview with the King. Placide, my lad, even now it fires my blood to think of a boy of mine standing before the mighty Louis, surrounded by our enemies, and daring to tell the truth. It was glorious, glorious, and it saved your Governor. I had minded me in an idle day to hear it all from your own lips. Perhaps, some day, who knows, it may yet come. You will lose not an hour in leaving Biloxi, and I have your word to engage in no encounter?"
"Aye, sire, you have my word."
"Good-by, Placide."
I had dropped upon my knee, and, taking his hand, kissed it gently. He turned back into his room, shut the door, and left me alone in the hall. I walked thence straightway to my own quarters, put on hastily the garb of the forest and made all readiness. My toilet was not elaborate, and a short half hour found me completely equipped for the journey.
Leaving Biloxi, unaccompanied, like a thief in the night, I set out, and having reached the Bay winded a horn until Pachaco heard, then sat me down to wait for his boat.
According to the Governor's recollection, I had been gone only a short space when a peremptory knock came upon his door. He opened it, and there stood the Chevalier de la Mora, dishevelled and with evidences of haste, but courteous as was his wont.
"I desire to speak with Captain de Mouret, at once, at once."
"That you can not do; he has gone. Chevalier, I am astonished. Had I not a gentleman's parole that you should remain in your house this night?"
"You had, sire, but the conditions were urgent, and see, I have sought Captain de Mouret without arms, so no breach could occur between us."
"Fortunately, M. le Chevalier, Captain de Mouret has consented to leave this colony to-night, and before the day dawns he will doubtless be many miles away."
The Chevalier heard like one dumb and undecided, a great doubt tugging at his heart. He departed unsteadily in the direction of the barracks.
"Here, my good fellow, hast seen Captain de Mouret?" he inquired of a straggler.
The man saluted.
"Yes, sire, he but lately went the path towards the Bay."
"How long since?"
"A bare quarter of an hour. He was dressed for the forest and went alone."
During this while I, Placide de Mouret, stranger and outcast, sat upon a grassy hillock awaiting Pachaco with his boat. The echoes of my horn had died away in the night, and soon after I caught the sound of running feet, and heard a man's voice calling my name as he ran. To my utter astonishment it was the Chevalier, breathless from his speed.
"Is it you—Captain de Mouret?"
"It is—Chevalier," I replied, uncertain at the first who the man could be.
Seeing him in such a state of mind I knew the struggle had come. There be times in every man's life when he recks lightly of consequences, and this was not my night for caring. I had, in a measure, run away thus far from him, and he, not content with this, had pursued me past the limit of forbearance. So anticipating his own action, I began carefully to take off my own coat, and remembered with pleasure that it was not a slight rapier which now hung confidently by my side.
"No, Captain, not that. I have sought you this time in peace. See, I have no weapons."
Suiting the gesture to the speech, he flung wide his arms, and showed himself unprepared for battle.
"Captain, you and I have fought side by side. You are a man of courage, and if you have injured me you will render me due account upon my demand. I do demand this of you now, that you return with me to Biloxi at once, upon my assurance as a soldier that no harm will there befall you. This, sir, upon a soldier's honor."
It was a most unexpected outcome to such an interview. I hesitated warily at his request, and then thinking it could make matters no worse, inquired:
"How long will you require me, and for what purpose?"
"The time will be most brief, a moment should suffice. The purpose I can not give, but it will bring you into no danger. I repeat, upon the word of a man of honor, that you will be permitted to return safely as you came, and no one will follow."
I must say, in spite of these protests, I did not want to go. But he pressed his wish so earnestly that I followed the Chevalier down the winding path back to Biloxi, not without great trepidation, however. He walked rapidly in front, and not a word was exchanged between us. We passed the barracks and the Governor's house, where I thought to stop, but he led me on. Leaving the thicker portions of the little town, he soon paused before his own gate and swung it open. The wild thought now entered my brain that perhaps he had planned some terrible revenge upon his wife, and desired to torture me by forcing me to witness it. I hung back at the gate. My own good sword re-assured me, and he mounted the step to throw open the door.
"Come in, Captain. I regret that I can not give you a more sincere welcome."
Truly, there was nothing in the aspect of the room to cause alarm. Two ladies were inside, one at either end of a simple working table—Agnes and another lady, about her own figure, whom I did not know. The elder woman looked straight in my face with an anxious air.
The Chevalier did not formally present me. Agnes drooped her head somewhat, and never raised her eyes at my entrance. It was a most awkward situation. As to what de la Mora contemplated I could not venture the wildest guess; certainly no violence in the presence of this other lady who looked so cool while yet so pale.
"Captain de Mouret, as you hope for your soul's salvation, I conjure you to tell me the whole truth. I do solemnly promise you, upon a soldier's honor, at the very worst which may come, I will only leave this colony, and will not injure any one."
I had seen de la Mora on many a field, but never did he look stronger or nobler than on that night. His voice sounded full and clear despite the intensity of his suffering.
"Captain de Mouret, you are a soldier, a brave one, as my own eyes have witnessed, reputed a man of untarnished honor. Will you truly answer me one question upon the sacred Blood of Christ?"
His earnestness appealed to every better instinct of my nature, so I replied to him:
"I will."
"Have I your oath?"
"You have."
"Then, sir, to which of these ladies, if either, did you intend this note should be delivered; and which, if either, did you meet at the ruined chapel at Sceaux? Speak, in God's name, and do not spare me! Suspicion is more terrible than truth."
The very worst had come, and I felt my resolution waver. I knew not what story Agnes had told her husband, nor did I know who that other lady was. She looked enough like Agnes to have afforded shallow pretext for an evasion. Verily here was a strong temptation for a lie, and I was almost minded to tell it and relieve Agnes. Agnes, though, would give me no cue; never once did she lift her eyes to mine. I might even then have told the lie, but for the reflection it would compromise an innocent woman.
"Captain, in God's name, speak! do you not see that I am quiet and self-controlled?"
"Chevalier de la Mora, I shall tell you the exact truth, and hold you to your promise that there shall be no violence—now. What I did was through my fault alone, nor did your lady give me the slightest encouragement—she is blameless. It is a sore strait you have placed me in, butthisis the lady who has all a soldier's love, and a soldier's respect, which she has done nothing to forfeit."
As I spoke, I indicated the shrinking figure of Agnes, and turned to meet the storm. Verily the storm did come, but from a different source.
The elder lady rose with a fervent "Thank God!" which I could find no reason for her saying. Agnes nervously twisted at the table cover, her cheeks crimson with the shame. I could not resist a long look down upon her, and do what I might, my love showed full and strong in my face and mien.
De la Mora keenly watched us all. That other lady, for whom I had no thought, to my utter surprise, moved toward him with hands outstretched, and cried:
"Charles."
For a moment he hesitated, then:
"Oh, Agnes, Agnes, a lifetime's love and service can not compensate you for what I've made you suffer—the doubt I bore my loyal wife."
He fell upon his knee before her and carried her hand to his lips as though she were a goddess, and then sprang toward me with the gladdest of glad smiles, thrust his hand at me, and came near to cracking mine by the vigor of his grasp. His throat choked up, and he said nothing.
And all this while I looked from one to the other with a most dull and stupid stare.
Agnes looked up at me once, radiant and confused, then lowered her eyes again.
The Chevalier broke a silence which was becoming intolerable, to me at least, who did not understand it all.
"Captain de Mouret, you have been in error, and have done me no wrong. This lady here is my worshiped wife, Madame Agnes de la Mora." I looked upon her incredulously, while that gracious woman took one hand from her husband long enough to extend to me her greeting.
Thoroughly perplexed by this most unlooked for denouement, I asked:
"Who, then, isthis?"
"This chit," he replied, walking round the table, happy as a boy, and almost lifting her bodily, "this is Madame's little sister, Charlotte. She confessed this evening to having spoken with you once in the Chapel at Sceaux—and I, may God forgive me, doubted but she had done it to shield her sister. I knew the little minx had warned you in the Park, but thought nothing of it. Charlotte, come here!"
And Charlotte de Verges laid her warm little hand in mine. For thirty years it has rested there in peace.