CHAPTER XXII.
THE DEPARTURE.
PIERRE LE BER and de Crisasi were standing side by side; the Chevalier was also to form one of the expedition. As Diane looked at the two men she was conscious of a pang of keen self-reproach. Had her girlish levity and thoughtlessness indeed made havoc of their lives? Her imagination endowed them with the pathos of her own suffering. Pierre was thin and haggard. He had drifted far from that state of acquiescent contemplation, passionless and impersonal, destitute of either desire or movement, which in the estimation of the mystic constitutes the highest conception of enduring bliss. A dreadful tension of resistance, a dim anguish of fear and impotence, had him in possession. His passion blinded him, but it could not stifle the abhorrence of the chains which bound him, nor could it restore his self-esteem. He seemed to have fallen to the lowest depths, yet this despairing dream was more exquisite than any of his mystical visions.
De Crisasi, on the contrary, in the perfection of his high breeding, was even blander and more courtly than ever. He was a strong man, who could calmly set self aside and rise above the sensations of the hour. The Indian witch’s prediction, in his opinion, had settled the whole affair. He had received his death-warrant, and since all was so soon to be over, it was really not worth while to trouble about mundane matters. Life had been hard of late years, and this very conflict would likely end all. He had always desired a soldier’s death; he had a soldier’s simple faith, too, in the duty of obedience, courage and discipline, and made no question that fate had dealt hardly with him. As Diane’s glance met his, over her whole frame there came a tremulous fluttering of apprehension, as though beneath the warmth of true affection her self-control were breaking; something inexpressibly touching came into her eyes. That look overcame the man who loved her. De Crisasi removed his hat, and bowed profoundly.
“M. de Chevalier,” the girl exclaimed impulsively, “let me wish you God-speed. My prayers shall follow you.”
His heart leaped into his throat. Could it be possible that his devotion had won its reward, that the twilight of life should be gilded by a ray of vivid sunshine? Then he smiled at the absurdity of his own fancy. Two great hot tears, that scorched like fire, gathered in Mademoiselle de Monesthrol’s eyes, and fell upon her cheeks unheeded.
“M. Le Chevalier, my cousin du Chesne carries with him all our hopes, especially those of my uncle and my poor Lydia. If it should happen to be in your power to shield him from danger, I know we can rely upon you, our friend.”
The Sicilian had given this girl the best love of his heart, yet their acquaintance had been at best but a formal one. His fancy had endowed her with many high qualities, but never before had he realized her tenderness and simple womanliness. He spoke in a low, moved tone.
“The confidence with which you have honored me, Mademoiselle, shall not be in vain. It is a soldier’s fate to die with fortitude and resignation, professing the fate of a Christian. Du Chesne is my valued friend and comrade; if any act of mine can avail to help him, to bring him back to those who love him, you can trust to me. The prayers of such as you, Mademoiselle, must ever be heard in heaven.”
“Diane, hold up the little one, high, there, that his father’s last look may rest upon his face. I can no longer see,” pleaded Madame de St. Rochs, “and Armand must not see me weep.”
“Diane, I can’t bear it, I am fainting; take me home.” Sobbing and quivering, Lydia clung to her friend. “I am afraid of the Indians and the noise. Oh! let us go away.”
“For our Blessed Lady’s sake try to comfort her,” were du Chesne’s parting words. “She is only a child, sensitive and tender-hearted, and it is I who have brought this sorrow upon her. For my sake be good to her, Diane.”
“My daughter!”
As he looked upon his youngest son, Jacques Le Ber grasped his ward’s arm. He spoke almost sternly. The strong muscles about his mouth quivered, though the facial lines did not lose their firm expression.
A soft golden haze, obscuring the view of the opposite shore, lay upon the river, sweeping on in subdued silvery tints. The Indians manned the large elm-bark canoes, their paddles cleaving the sunshine and dimpling the waters of the river. The savage voices arose in a wild tumult of resounding yells; the soldiers cheered lustily; a sharp wailing cry resounded from the shore.
The agony of parting, the strain and stress of the hour at last over, du Chesne stood erect in the bow of his canoe. His handsome young face, eager and animated with the excitement of adventure, bore no trace of grief or care or doubt; in the relief afforded by action all dark forebodings had sunk into the background. As the boats vanished from the tear-dimmed eyes that watched the last gleam of the receding oars, the strains of a stirring chorus resounded across the wave—
“Grand Dieu! sauvez le Roi.
Grand Dieu! sauvez le Roi,
Sauvez le Roi.
Que toujours glorieux,
Louis victorieux,
Voit ses enemies,
Toujours soumis.”