Montlivet

by Alice Prescott Smith

CHAPTER XII

A COMPACT

We paddled that afternoon till the men splashed water into the canoes, which was their way of telling me that I had worked them hard enough. It was dusk when we landed, and starlight before our kettles were hot. I had been silent, when I had not been fault finding, till, supper over, the woman, leaning across the fire, asked me why.

"Is something wrong?" she ventured. "Ever since we met the
Pottawatamies you have seemed in haste."

I looked around. The men were at a distance preparing for sleep. "I wish to reach the Pottawatamie Islands before to-morrow night. Mademoiselle Starling, may I talk of our future?"

She rose. "You called me mademoiselle."

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"And you mean"—

I took off my hat. "Will you come with me?" I asked,—"come where we shall not be overheard? We must talk of our future."

I knew that she trembled as she bowed her assent, but I pretended to be blind. I led the way outside of the circle of light, then waited for her to come to me. I stood with my hat in hand, and my heart cried in pity for the woman, but my tongue was heavy as a savage's.

"I learned from the Pottawatamies," I said, "that Father Nouvel is tarrying at their islands. If we haste, we may find him there. Mademoiselle, will you marry me?"

I do not know that I was cool enough to measure rightly the space of the silence that ensued, but it seemed a long one. The woman stood very still. A star fell slanting from the mid-sky, and I watched it slip behind the horizon. The woman's head was high, and I knew that she was thinking. It troubled me that she could think at such a time.

"Mademoiselle"—I began.

"Wait!" she interrupted. She raised her hand, and her fingers looked carven white in the moonlight, though by daylight they were brown. "Monsieur, you watched the star. It went into the unknown,—a way so wide and terrible that we may not follow it even in thought. We live alone with majestic forces,—forests greater than an empire, unmapped waters, and strange, savage men. We are pygmies; yet, if we have spirit we can grow into some measure of the greatness and inflexibility around us. Monsieur, when you asked me—what you asked me now—you were thinking of France and its standards. Of little, tidy, hedged-in France. You were not—— Oh, monsieur, I am sorry you asked me that question. Of course I answer 'no,' but—but I am sorry that you asked it."

I went to her. "You are cold. Come with me to the fire. Come. The men are asleep by this time. Mademoiselle, your spirit is steel and fire, but your body betrays you. You are shivering and afraid. Yet—— Well, mademoiselle, pygmies or giants, whichever we may be, we must not scorn counsel. You once called us partners. On that basis, will you listen to me now?"

"But you must not"——

"Mademoiselle, on that basis will you listen to me now?"

"Yes."

"Then come." I led her to the warmth, and placed her snugly, with logs to pillow her and her face away from the sleeping men. Then I sat beside her. But my speech had left me. I had no reasons, no persuasions at my tongue.

"Father Nouvel is at the islands," I said. "Mademoiselle, you must marry me. You must."

"Why 'must,' monsieur?"

"We cannot travel in this way."

"A week ago you thought it possible."

"I had not tried it then. It will not do."

"Monsieur, what has gone wrong?"

I took out my hunting knife and tried its edge.

"My mind," I answered savagely. "Mademoiselle, I may, as you say, have tidy, circumscribed France behind my thought, but—— Well, mademoiselle, I was brought up to certain observances in regard to a woman. And I cannot forget you are a woman. When the men speak roughly to you I put my hand on my sword."

"I have seen you, monsieur."

"And so I lose much thought and time conquering my anger. It fills my thought. When I taught you Indian verbs the other day the rain dripped from your hair. And I sat like a clod. What could I do? I could not shelter you for fear of rousing suspicion in the men. Mademoiselle, I cannot stand it. I must let the men know that you are a woman. And then I must marry you when we reach Father Nouvel."

She rose. "Monsieur, you must send me back to Montreal."

I kept my seat. "Mademoiselle, I have your word," I reminded. "You agreed to listen."

I had meant to plead, not to rebuke, and I regretted that she flushed. She seated herself lingeringly, but I saw that she leaned back, and did not sit as she had done before with her muscles braced for flight.

"Why not send me back to Montreal?" she begged.

The embers of the fire fell into irregular, rectangular shapes like the stone buildings on the Marne, where I was born. My father had beggared us, but those buildings were left. I scorned my father's memory, but I had strange pride in the name and place that had been his.

"I have thought over this matter by night and day," I replied slowly. "I cannot send you to Montreal, for I cannot trust these men. If I take you myself I shall lose six weeks out of the summer. Then it will be too late to accomplish anything. No, I cannot afford so much time. The summer is all too short as it is."

"You would marry me—marry me to get me out of the way—rather than lose six weeks of time!"

I rose. "Spare your scorn, mademoiselle. This is no joust of wits. I would sell everything—except the honor of my sword—rather than lose six weeks of time."

"Then you have a mission?"

"A self-sent one, mademoiselle."

"But you can come again next year."

"Next year will be too late."

She threw out her hands. "Monsieur, try me. Let me travel with you as a man. I will be a man. I will be Monsieur Starling in truth. Try me once more."

I took her hand. "Mademoiselle, mademoiselle," I said, "think a moment. Would I force you to this marriage—would I suggest it even—if it did not seem a necessity, a necessity for my own ends? For I must have my head and hands clear. It is a selfish view. I know that. It is crushingly selfish. But it is for a large purpose. I am a small man fitted to a great undertaking, and I can permit no divided interests. I need an unhampered mind."

She walked a few steps. "And if I should travel with you as a woman and yet not marry you," she asked over her shoulder, "what then?"

I looked away. "I should be obliged to fight every man of my company first, then every white man that we might meet. It would hardly leave me with an unhampered mind, mademoiselle."

She made no comment with word or eye, and going back to the place where we had been sitting, she dropped upon the sand. I covered her shoulders with the red blanket, and again sat beside her. I would be silent till she chose to speak. After a time I went back into the forest to search fresh fuel for our fire.

When I returned with my arms laden, she turned her face toward me; her sorrowful eyes looked as if she could never again know sleep or forgetfulness. "I am a coward," she said, "yet I thought that cowardice and my desire for life had both died together. I did not draw back from the knives of the Indians, but now I am afraid of a loveless marriage. We are young. We may live many years. Oh, monsieur, I have not the courage!"

I piled the wood on the fire and did not answer. I stirred the red coals and marked how the flames slipped along the dried branches in festoons of light. Pierre was snoring, and I kicked him till he rolled over and swore in bastard French. Then I went to the woman.

"You have won," I said, and I laughed a little,—a mean, harsh laugh, my ears told me, not the laugh of a gentleman. "Mademoiselle, you have won. We start toward Montreal tomorrow. Then marry—whom you will."

She looked into my eyes. "Wait a moment;" she stopped. "Monsieur, how much time have you spent in learning the Indian dialects and preparing for this expedition?"

"Two years."

"And next year will indeed be too late?"

I shrugged my shoulders. "We waste good hours," I suggested.
"Mademoiselle, may I say 'good-night'?"

She stepped toward me. "Monsieur, do not spoil your courtesy," she begged. "I asked you a question."

I smiled at her. "The answer has lost pith and meaning. Yes, mademoiselle, next year will indeed be too late."

She put her hands before her eyes. "Then I will change my answer.
Monsieur, I will marry you when we reach Father Nouvel."

But I would not reply. I walked to the beach where there were dark and stars. I ground my heel into the pebbles, and I did not hear her moccasined step behind me. She had to touch my arm.

"I meant it, monsieur," she whispered.

I raised her fingers, and laid them back against her side. "Why tempt me?" I said rudely. "Happily for you my word is a man's word. We start toward Montreal to-morrow."

"Monsieur, I beg you. Go west to-morrow."

"No, mademoiselle."

"Then—then—monsieur, I give you warning. If we start toward Montreal to-morrow I shall escape you at the first opportunity, and try my fortune alone in the woods."

"You threaten me?"

She stood in front of me. "I would bring you to reason. Yes, I threaten you, in that I shall do what I say. Come, monsieur, I will follow you westward. Your years of preparation, your great opportunity, shall not be wasted because of me."

I took her hand. "You are a strange woman. A sage and a child; a woman and a warrior. But I will not marry you, mademoiselle."

"Why not, monsieur?"

"Because I will not hoodwink you. So long as I took you blindly against your will, I felt no shame at going about my own ends. But now that you have turned the tables on me and come without force, I cannot let you be a tool. I would not take you without telling you my plans,—and then you would not come."

"I know your plans, monsieur."

"You know that I hunt beaver."

"I know that you hunt men. Monsieur, are all the women of your nation puppets, that you should think me blind? Listen. You plan a coalition of the western tribes. La Salle's plan—with changes. You hope to make yourself a dictator, chief of a league of red men that shall control this western water-way. Is not this so, monsieur?"

"I—— Yes, mademoiselle."

"You intend to form your league this summer and advance upon the Iroquois in the autumn before the ice locks the lakes. You are in haste, for if you delay another twelvemonth you are convinced that the Iroquois will make a treaty with the Hurons at Michillimackinac, massacre your garrison there, cow the western tribes, and so wrest this country from the French. Is not this so, monsieur?"

"Yes, mademoiselle."

"You see that I understand all this, monsieur. Yet, I will go with you."

I did not stir. "You are acute. Yet there is one point in my plan that you did not mention," I said dully.

She turned away. "I hoped to spare us both," she returned in a tone as lifeless as my own. "Yet, if you wish words, take them. Monsieur, the Iroquois are allies of the English. Your warfare with them is but a step in pursuit of larger game. In founding an empire for your own land you would take one away from mine. You hope in the end to crush the English on this continent. Have I stated you correctly, monsieur?"

I bowed.

She laughed—a laugh more bitter than my own had been. "I am indeed the plaything of Fate," she said a little wildly. "But I will marry you. You saved my life. Yes, more. You threw your career into the balance for an unknown man, your foe. You jeopardized all that you hoped for, and you never whined nor lost sleep. You are a superb gamester, monsieur."

I smiled. "Not enough of a gamester to accept your sacrifice, mademoiselle."

She clenched her hands. "I will marry you," she retorted. "You shall follow out your purpose. Though, after all, you cannot succeed. Who are you? A dreamer, a soldier of fortune, a man without place or following. You think slowly, and your heart rules your head. How can you hope to wrest an empire from—from us? You cannot do it. You cannot. But you shall have your chance. You gave me mine and you shall have yours. We go west. Otherwise—I have warned you, monsieur."

I seized her wrist, and made her meet my look. "That is a coward's threat," I said contemptuously.

I could not daunt her. "I mean it. I mean it, monsieur," she repeated quietly.

I stood and looked at her. "You have a man's equity," I said. "You are determined to give me my chance. Well, I will take it,—and remember that you gave it to me. But, would you have me in any way weaken my purpose, mademoiselle?"

She looked up with a flash of anger. "Am I a child or an intriguing woman? No, no. Do your best, or your worst, or I shall despise you for your weakness. I have told you that I have scant hopes for your success, monsieur."

What could I say? I stood before her awkwardly. "Mademoiselle, may I tell you something of myself and my people? You should know what sort of name you are to bear."

But she pressed her hands outward. "No, no!" she cried. "Why tell me?" Then she sobered. "I know that you are brave and kind," she said, with her eyes down. "Beyond that—I do not think that I am interested, monsieur."

I felt angered. "You should be interested," I said bluntly. "Well, the night is slipping away. Let me lead you to the fire and bid you good-night."

Her finger tips met mine as we walked back together, but the touch was as remote as the brushing of the pine boughs on my cheek. Yet when I would have handed her her blanket and turned away, she detained me. "Sit with me a little longer, monsieur," she begged. "I—I think I am afraid of the woods to-night. Let us sit here a while."

I could not grasp her mood, but there was nothing for me but to yield to it. I made her as comfortable as possible, and saw that the fire was kept alight; then I sat near her. I was tired, but time went swiftly. My mind would not have given my body rest, even had I lain down.

In time the woman leaned toward me. "There is—there is no woman who will suffer from this?" she asked slowly.

I stirred the fire. "I have no wife, mademoiselle."

"I did not mean that. There is no woman who—who cares for you?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"And you—and you, monsieur? There is no one whom you are giving up?"

I answered slowly. "Mademoiselle," I said, "you are a strangely wise woman. You know the value of reticence,—something few women seem to know. We have talked of many things, of ambition, of justice, of generosity, but never, never of love. Are you wise to open the past in that one matter? I have asked you no questions."

She hid her face in her hands. "But I will tell you. I was betrothed to my cousin,—to Benjamin Starling. I would not marry him now, I would not marry him now to save him from the rack. I have nothing more to tell you, monsieur."

I let the moments slip. The east was brightening, and in an hour it would be dawn. I knew we needed rest. I rose, and, standing behind the woman, bent over her.

"Mademoiselle Starling," I whispered, "tomorrow, at this time, you will be Madame Montlivet." She did not stir, and I laid my hand on her shoulder where it rose slim and sinewy as a boy's from the low neck of her squaw's dress. I bent lower. "You strange woman," I went on, marveling at her calm. "You strange woman, with the justice of a man and the tempers of a child. Have you a woman's heart, I wonder? I do not talk to you of love, but it may be that it will come to us. I will try to be good to you, Mary Starling. Carry that promise with you when I say good-night."

And then she trembled. "Wait, wait, monsieur! There is one word first. I have tried—I have tried to say it."

I knelt beside her. "What would you say to me, mademoiselle?"

But she turned away. "Monsieur, monsieur! I will marry you, yes. But it is to save your hopes,—your future. We have—we have no love. Monsieur, will you not hold me as your guest, your sister? It is I who would kneel to you, monsieur."

I pushed her down. "Sit still," I commanded. I turned my back to her, for I had no speech. She did not plead, but I could feel her tremble. I forced words out of me.

"You are a Protestant?"

"Yes, monsieur."

I picked up the corner of her blanket. "I am a Catholic," I said, drawing away the woolen folds that I might look at her. "In our church marriage is a sacrament, mademoiselle."

She lifted her great eyes. "Monsieur, our marriage will be no sacrament. It will be a political contract. A marriage—a marriage of convenience—in name only—— Surely when we reach home it can be annulled. Must I—must I beg of you, monsieur?"

I rose and looked down at her. "A strange woman of a strange race," I said. "No, you need not beg of me. I have never had a captive in my life,—not even a bird. Mademoiselle, you shall bear my name, if you are willing, for your protection, but you shall go as my guest to Montreal." And I left her in her red blanket and went away.