Montlivet

by Alice Prescott Smith

CHAPTER XX

WHAT I FOUND

Once in the canoe I bade Lord Starling crouch low, and I paddled fiercely. I breathed hard not from exertion, but like a swimmer fighting for his breath. I was submerged in waves of terror, yet I had no name for what I feared. I learned then that there is but one real terror in the world,—fear of the unseen. The man who feels terror of an open foe must be a strange craven.

Lord Starling respected my mood and was silent. He sat warily, shifting his weight to suit the plunging canoe.

"The fog chokes me," he said at length. "How large a camp have you?
Whom did you leave on guard?"

I told him.

"That should be sufficient."

"Not for a concerted attack."

"But who would make a concerted attack?"

I lengthened my stroke till the canoe quivered. "I am not sure. I have been shadowed. I thought it was by your order. I cannot talk and paddle, monsieur."

But I could paddle and think. And always I saw the meadow as we had found it that first day with drifts of white butterflies over the flowers, and the woods warm and beckoning. How would the meadow look now?

But when we came to it I thought it looked unchanged, save that the fog made all things sinister. We crashed through the guarding reeds, and I let the canoe drive hard upon the sand. No one was in sight, and a wolf was whining at the edge of the timber. I leaped to the shore.

I think that I called as I stumbled forward. I saw the ashes of a dead fire, and a cask that had held rum lying with the sides and end knocked in. Then I saw a dead body.

I did not hasten then. My feet crawled. The body lay sprawled and limp with its out-stretched fingers clutching. One hand pointed toward the woman's cabin.

I turned the corpse over. It was Simon. His scarlet head was still dripping, but his face was untouched. I saw that he had died despairing, and I laid him back with a prayer on my lips but with the lust to kill in my heart.

I went through the cabins quickly but methodically. I think that I made no sound of grief or excitement, but I knew indefinitely that Lord Starling was following me, and that, at horribly measured intervals, he gave short, panting groans. But I did not speak to him, nor he to me.

I spoke for the first time at the woman's cabin. I looked within and saw that it was untouched; then I put out my arm and barred Lord Starling's way.

"I have never stepped in here, and you shall not," I told him with my jaws set, and I think that I struck him across the face, though of that I have never been quite sure.

In my own lodge I found havoc. Bales had been broken open, and my papers were thrown and trampled. Many of the papers were blood-smeared.

I examined every cabin and every bale, then went to the ashes of the camp fire and stood still. Lord Starling followed, and I heard his smothered groan. I took out my knife.

"I shall kill you if you make that noise again," I said.

I think that I spoke quietly, but he stepped back. I saw that he was afraid,—afraid of losing his miserable, mistaken life,—and I laughed. I laughed for a long time. Hearing myself laugh, I knew that it sounded as if I were near insanity, but I was not. My head had never been clearer.

Perhaps Lord Starling conquered his fear. He came nearer and lifted his magnificent, compelling bulk above me.

"Listen!" he began. "We have been foes; we shall be again; but now we are knit closer than eye and brain in a common cause. I will deal with you with absolute truth as with my own right hand. Tell me. Tell me, in God's mercy! What do you know? Who did this? What can we do?"

His voice was judicial, but I saw his great frame swaying like a shambling ox. I marveled that he could show emotion. My own body felt dead.

"The woman has been taken away," my stiff, strange voice explained.
"So far they have not harmed her."

"How do you know?"

"There are no marks of struggle. Simon resisted, and they killed him.
The other men surrendered. The Indians wanted prisoners, not scalps."

"Was it Pemaou and his Hurons?"

"Yes."

"You are sure?"

"He left a broken spear in my lodge. There was bad blood between us once, and I broke the spear in two and tossed the pieces at him, telling him to keep them,—to keep them, for we should meet again. I humbled him. Now it is his jest. He is a capable Indian. He seems to have outwitted even you, monsieur."

Because I spoke as one dead he thought I needed leading. He took me by the arm and would have guided me gently to the canoe.

"Come, Monsieur de Montlivet, you must rouse yourself. We must start in pursuit."

I shook him off. "Sit here where it is dry. You need your strength. We have hours to get through here before we leave, and little to do to help us through the time. We must wait here for Pierre."

"What do you mean? We must go at once."

"No, we wait for Pierre. It may be dusk before he returns. I sent him over the portage yesterday with orders to explore some leagues to the south. We must wait for him. He can tell us whether Pemaou went east by way of the portage."

"But we lose time!"

"We gain it. If Pemaou did not go by way of the portage, he went west. He would not dare go north, for fear of the Pottawatamies, and he would have no object in going south. He went east or west. We can learn from Pierre."

The man's shoulders heaved. "Your men were cowards," he muttered.

I looked at him. So a coward could despise a coward! "My men were wise," I corrected. "With Simon killed there were only two men left,—one, rather, for Leclerc is a nonentity. Labarthe, left alone, was wise to surrender. He is skillful with Indians. Monsieur, tell me of your dealings with Pemaou. Tell me your trip here. I need details."

He measured me. "You dictate, monsieur?"

I pointed to Simon's body. "That is my claim."

He gulped at that, and turned his back on the red horror to fix his steady, critical gaze on my face. "After the massacre," he began, with an effort, "I followed many false trails. I went to Quebec, to Montreal. All this has nothing to do with what you wish to know. But at Montreal I first heard rumors of an English prisoner who was being carried westward. That sent me to Michillimackinac."

"You heard this rumor through the priests?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"I thought so. It is fortunate for the success of your somewhat complicated plans that you are a Catholic and a Jacobite."

"Is there a slur in that remark, monsieur?"

"Not unless the facts themselves are insulting, Our priests would see no hidden purpose in your story. They would be predisposed in favor of a Catholic and follower of James. They would give you letters where a commandant would not. It was good policy to go to them."

"But, monsieur, I am a Catholic!"

"Which, I repeat, is fortunate."

"Monsieur, this is wanton insult. Are you trying to pick a quarrel with me here, here with this tragedy around us? It is a dog's trick. I will not fight you."

Again I took out my knife. "I will not fight you here,—here with this tragedy around us,—but I may kill you. I shall do it if you do not tell me this story fairly. I care nothing for your life, and I need this story. I will have it if I have to choke it out of your throat."

"I am trying to tell you the story, monsieur."

"No. You are telling me a pleasant fairy tale of a love-lorn knight searching the wilderness for his lost mistress. A moving tale, monsieur, but not the true one. I want the real story. The story of the English spy who wishes to ransom his cousin, but who also treats secretly with the Hurons,—who treats with Pemaou, monsieur. Tell me his story."

His face did not alter. "You believe me a spy?"

"I have reason, monsieur."

Still he regarded me. "You might be right, but you are not. Monsieur, I am a broken man. I want nothing but my cousin. If there is intrigue around me I do not know it. I am telling you the truth."

I fought hard against the man's fascination, his splendid, ruined pomp. "You must have a code," I burst out. "There must be something you hold dear. Will you swear to me by the name of the woman that you have not had secret dealings with the Hurons?"

"I swear."

"But the profile that the Huron carried!"

"Those pictures I scattered broadcast. You will find them among the Algonquins, and the Ottawas of the upper river. My cousin has a distinctive profile. I offered rewards for news of any one—man or woman—who looked like the face that I had drawn."

I put out my hand. "I hope that I have wronged you, monsieur."

He bowed and touched my fingers. His own were icy, yet he shivered at the chill of mine. "Pemaou would not dare harm the woman. Monsieur de Montlivet, you know Indians. Surely Pemaou would not dare?"

I gripped my knife. "No man knows Indians! Where did you see Pemaou first?"

"At Michillimackinac. When I reached there and learned that the prisoner had gone with you I sent interpreters through the camps with offers of reward for news of your whereabouts. Pemaou came. He said he could locate you and I took him as guide."

"He selected his own escort?"

"Yes."

"And you traveled slowly?"

"Very slowly."

I fingered my pipe and bit hard at its stem. "Pemaou has played carefully. He had the woman captured and brought to camp. The time was not ripe for him to use her, so he let me carry her away. But he has had me shadowed. You played well into his hands, for you furnished blankets and provisions. He had no intention of letting you find us. We are equal dupes. I see that I wronged you, monsieur."

He looked down, his breath laboring. I could look at him now without recoil, for a common humiliation bound us. We were white and we had been tricked by a savage. We sat in heavy silence.

At last Starling spoke dully. "Why did Pemaou wait so long?"

I gripped my knife the closer. "That we shall learn when we learn what he has done with the woman."

He looked up with his jaw shaking. "Monsieur, we must make haste."

But I shook my head. "Monsieur, no. We must await Pierre."

The fog was withdrawing. It was noon, and I rose and made ready a grave for Simon. I chose a spot under a pine where I had seen the woman sit, and I dug deep as my crude implements would permit. Then I piled stones on the mound. The Englishman helped me, and together we said a prayer. We did not comment till our work was over. Then Starling looked down at the mound.

"I wonder why he was killed? The others surrendered."

I shrugged a trifle bitterly. "He loved the woman. It was not her fault. I doubt that she knew it, and she could not help it. But it cost him his life, for it made him attempt to carry a forlorn hope. And she never even knew. It is suicide to love a woman hopelessly, monsieur."

It was hideous when we went back to our seats by the ashes. The sun had come out hot and nauseating, and the flies buzzed horribly. We tried to crowd down food, but we could not swallow. We sat and chewed on our despairing thoughts, and hate that was a compound of physical faintness and sick uncertainty rose between us.

The Englishman took a miniature from his pocket and handed it to me.

"She gave it to me herself," he said. "With laughter and with kisses, monsieur."

I tried to wave the picture away, but I had not strength to resist looking. It was no profile that I saw. The brown eyes looked full in mine; merry eyes, challenging, fun-crowded, innocent. There were no sombre shadows there. There was spirit in plenty, but no sorrow. White shoulders rose from clouds of pink gauze, and the hair was powdered and pearl-wreathed and piled high in a coronet. It was not the face of the woman that I knew. I said so, and returned the portrait to the Englishman.

He could not resist baiting me. "You do not like it, monsieur?"

I shook my head. "It is nothing to me. It is the face of a laughing, trusting, untouched girl. I have never seen her."

"You say that you married her."

"Monsieur, this is a girl. I married a woman, a woman matured by tragedy. The eyes that are laughing in this portrait are wiser now. They have seen the depths of a man's treachery. But they have not lost their spirit, no, nor their tenderness, monsieur. You will find little that you recognize in the woman who is now my wife."

He kept his composure. "You use the word 'wife' very glibly," he said, with a yawn. "Do you use it when the lady is within hearing, as you do now?"

"She is my wife."

He laughed, for he saw he had drawn blood. "Your wife in name, perhaps,—I grant you that,—but not in fact. Do you think me blind that I should not see the two cabins. And you said that you had never crossed the threshold of the woman's room. I see that I shall find my cousin the maiden that I left her, monsieur."

I kept my lips closed. He had indeed drawn blood. I could not answer.
He leaned forward and tapped a significant forefinger on my knee.

"Remember, she has kissed me, monsieur. She has kissed me often of her own will."

And then my spirit did return. "That does not concern me."

He lifted his great lip. "You are indulgent."

The flies buzzed odiously. The Englishman was gloating over me, his great head craned forward like a buzzard's. My brain took fire.

"I am not indulgent," I said slowly, with my throat dry. "I am wise. She has kissed you, yes. I have no doubt that she has kissed you many times, casually, lightly, indifferently. She brushed the plumage of her falcon in the same way. You are welcome to the memory of those kisses, my lord. You may have more like them in the future, and I shall not say you nay. They mean nothing."

He scowled at me. "What do you know of her kisses?" he said under his breath.

I looked him in the eye. "I know this. There is but one kiss that means anything from a woman, and she gives it, if she is the right kind of a woman, to but one man in her life. For the rest,—I value them no more than the brush of her finger-tips. Tell me, have you felt her lips pressed to yours till her breath and her soul were one with you? Tell me that. Answer, I say."

I had let the cord of reason and decency slip. I rose, and I think that the hate in my face must have been wolfish, for the man drew back. He tried to look contemptuous, but I saw fear in his eyes. Fear and something more,—a sudden pain and longing. The emotion that heretofore he had kept well in hand trapped him for the moment. I was answered. The woman might never be mine, but she had never been his, either. I turned away. I was triumphant, but I loathed myself. I was sick with the situation, and the man who had brought me to it.

"You may keep your kisses, monsieur," I said savagely. "You may keep them. But if you mention them to me again I shall throttle you where you stand."

The Englishman had felt the revulsion, and he showed no resentment of my heat. He heaved himself up in the hot, horrible sunshine and rubbed his hands as if washing them free.

"We are curs," he said quietly.

I could not say nay. "We must eat," I cautioned; "we must eat, and keep ourselves sane. If we can get through this day without murder or worse, we shall have work to do from now on that will serve to keep our heads clear. Pierre will be coming soon now."

Starling was regarding me keenly. "You lose your temper, and therefore you should be easy to read," he said reflectively. "But you are not. You evidently married my cousin for convenience. I can understand the situation. But you stand by your bargain well. You have the honor of your name somewhat sensitively at heart. But if you had not married her—— If there were no compulsion, no outside reason—tell me, would you marry her now?"

But that I left unanswered.