CHAPTER XXV.
TIDINGS AT LAST.
AS the girls crept wearily homeward, the first rays of the summer dawn were breaking in the east in flushes of saffron and pink; overhead the sky held quivering lights, ready to flash into a blaze. A refreshing sense of physical renewal was in the cool blueness of the morning; there was dewy fragrance in the atmosphere; the trees gave out a breath of strength, the golden-rod gleamed in the hollows, the heights were purple bronze. Lydia moved in a state of passive exhaustion, half stupefied. As they reached home Diane turned to her companion a face which glowed with some subtle inspiration.
“Be assured that du Chesne is safe. God is good. Oh, behold! that must be a messenger from M. du Plessis, sent by M. de Callière. See how all the people are gathering to hear what the tidings may be. You are so exhausted, Lydia, it were perhaps better to retire to your room. I see my uncle. I will go to him; he will certainly know what has occurred. If there is news I will return to you.” An instant later she had joined Le Ber on the shore.
“Is there news of M. de Valrenne’s command?”
“Yes, news has come at last. Oshawa has been sent to say that they have caught sight of the enemy. M. de Callière lies ill at La Prairie. M. de Valrenne is stationed between there and Chambly.” Jacques Le Ber showed no sign of weakness save a momentary trembling of the lines about the mouth.
“Oh! my uncle, even to-night they may be with us victorious.”
The trader smiled. It would never do to admit the possibility of disaster.
“The sky may brighten for New France, my daughter. I have ever remarked that good as well as ill-luck runs in courses. Our good fortune may now commence.”
A number of women, who had been attending the early mass, were emerging from the church of Notre Dame. Among them, erect and stately, walked Madame de Monesthrol, attended by Nanon and followed by Madame de St. Rochs with her baby in her arms. Pierre, thin and dark and sallow, pushed his way through the crowd to where the demoiselle de Monesthrol stood a little apart.
“Diane, I Have here for you a picture of Our Lady of Pity surrounded by the five wounds of her Son.” He tried to fortify himself by recalling the excellence of his intention, but that only increased his nervous agitation. “I have been holding a neuvena in honor of St. Joseph and all the holy saints. For nine days, a number especially dedicated to the holy angels, have I prayed, and no light has dispersed the darkness of my soul. Dazzling visions, the creation of the Father of Evil, ever appear before my eyes. Instead of the angelic faces which once beamed upon me, it is thine I see, glorified by the crown of martyrdom.”
Until now Diane had had slight patience with Pierre’s freaks and fancies, considering them effeminate and unreasonable. Now, looking at him with wistful eyes, she said quietly:
“Dear Pierre, we are all sorely tried by anxiety and suspense. Try to forget your own temptations, my cousin, in thought for others. Could you not support my uncle, who is alone in this time of trouble? On every hand you will find those who have need of your kindly ministrations.”
In the young man’s impatient gesture there appeared all the petulance of misery. He felt it unreasonable and monstrous that anything save the painful state of his own concerns should occupy Diane’s mind.
“I stand alone,” he complained. “My father is absorbed in worldly interests; your heart is engrossed by vanity. What are the trivial affairs of this life—privation, danger, and even death—in comparison with the perils that menace the soul?”
The next day a terrible storm broke over Ville Marie. Great trees groaned and snapped like saplings in the blast, the wind raved, the whole heavens were illumined by the swift electric flashes. Such a storm had never been known in the colony. Nature, in her convulsive throes smote the stoutest heart with terror. Late in the afternoon the tempest ceased. The sun set fair and beautiful, with rays of purple and gold smiling on the waters of the river; the clouds, black with the recoil of tempest, gradually broke into rifts, trailing silvery tints of celestial hue, sublime marvels of color.
Diane joined Le Ber as he walked down to the shore. That day no news had been received, yet it was almost certain that an engagement had taken place. His face was grey with consuming care; his eyes had a famished expression. The demoiselle de Monesthrol slipped her hand within the arm of her guardian and walked quietly by his side, offering a mute responsive sympathy which was grateful to his soul.
“We shall surely have news before night, my daughter. Behold M. du Plessis on the shore; like ourselves, he looks for tidings from our men.”
Restless expectation tinged everybody’s thoughts. These were anxious moments to the French commander. No one understood better than he the reality of the danger that threatened the settlement. His brow was heavy with care, though he endeavored to seem at ease.
As she looked out upon the shining waters of the river, a strange perception came to Diane de Monesthrol. It seemed as though the world had broken into fragments and lay crumbling at her feet, while her spirit soared free above the ruins. She already understood the tragic possibilities of fear and loss and pain; she had acknowledged the necessity of devotion, self-abnegation, heroism; now a lightning flash of intuition revealed to her the terrible beauty of self-sacrifice, giving her to realize, though faintly and indistinctly, some conception of a divine help, offered with a human eagerness of sympathy, patient until the feeble mortal hands could reach up and lay hold of it. With this conviction a wonderful peace came to succeed the burning wretchedness. Just then the peals of the Angelus rang out, echoing through the mountain slopes and over the waters. It was the voice of prayer and praise, rising in triumph above all earthly passions of grief and pain.
Groups of women, with heavy eyes and care-worn faces, holding their rosaries with fingers which still mechanically pressed the beads as they walked, while their lips moved in silent prayer, came out from the dusky seclusion of the church, where day and night lights burned and prayers were offered. The beadle of the Parish Church, in full uniform, mace in hand, was narrating with much dramatic emphasis all the particulars of a supposed engagement, to a keenly interested group of listeners, when the tide of his eloquence was abruptly checked by a sharp poke in the ribs that deprived him of breath. Nanon, her face flushed like a peony, the lappets of her cap flying, swept past like a whirlwind.
“Seigneur dieu! I would know the truth, me, after waiting so long—a canoe!”
“A boat arriving!—tidings!—tidings!” The words passed from one to another, and were repeated in a variety of keys, as, moved by a common impulse, the group rapidly dispersed, flying down to the shore, where the whole population of the town seemed to have gathered.
Propelled by four strong arms, skimming lightly as foam over the surface of the water, leaving a faint track behind it as it moved, the frail craft advanced. As it came between the eager spectators and the sun, the forms of those it contained stood out like silhouettes against the light. The citizens of Ville Marie waited with quickened breath and beating hearts, hoping, fearing, expecting—they dared not think what. Le Ber gazed with the wrinkles deepening on his brow. The setting sun shone so brilliantly in his eyes that he raised his hand to shade them; and for the moment could see nothing.
“Le Canotier and Madouaska—the Blessed Virgin send us good news,” du Plessis announced hurriedly, speaking with a catch in his breath.
Then again a breathless silence settled on the crowd; not a sound was heard but the dipping of the paddles and the soft murmur of the waves as they caressed the shore. Silently, swiftly the canoe advanced. Beside the Canotier was an Indian, a tall, superbly built man, whose remarkably regular features might have been sculptured out of Florentine bronze. Over his shoulders was thrown a mantle of caribou skin with pink and lilac border. His head was shaved, with the exception of a tuft on the crown, which was ornamented with hawk feathers, resembling the crest of an antique helmet. His face was absolutely impassive in its immobility. As the canoe grated on the shore, a dozen willing hands offered aid in landing her.
“All is well?” cried du Plessis, unable longer to restrain his anxiety. Then a shuddering, convulsive sob ran through the ranks of the women as a French officer appeared, bearing, in haggard eye and ghastly pallor, traces of the fatal wound which was rapidly draining his life-blood. Tender hands lifted him from the boat.
“It is M. le Capitaine de Breteuil. He is dying!” The women separated to allow a lady, with three little children clinging to her gown, to push her way to the front.
“Carry him home,” she said quietly. “At least the good Lord has granted the favor of permitting him to die with me. I must have courage; he will need me beside him. Let us be together while we may.”
For an instant she had seemed on the point of breaking into a wild outcry, but quickly checking the impulse, had braced herself for the duty waiting her. Now, as she spoke, the icy composure of voice and manner seemed almost like indifference. A black-robed nun silently detached herself from the crowd, and placed herself at the side of the stricken wife. Dollier de Casson, his brown earnest face all quivering with emotion, solemnly raised his hands in benediction over the living and the dying.
“You will not grudge the sacrifice, my daughter? It is a hero willingly and gallantly laying down his life for his faith and his King.”
“There will be plenty of time to consider that later,” she answered, very quietly. “Now he needs me. I have no thought to spare for aught else.”
The whole assembly were hanging eagerly upon the accents of le Canotier, who had already delivered the despatches he had brought to M. du Plessis.
“We marched straight to Chambly—such were our orders. The object of M. de Valrenne was to permit those devils of English to pass, and then, by placing himself in their rear, to cut them off from their canoes. Our scouts—and there are none better than Misti, Tshinespek and Mushawana,—soon discovered the advance of the enemy, and then we marched six or seven miles towards La Prairie, on the path by which Schuyler was retreating. The sun stood high; it was nine o’clock when our scouts met those of the foe, and then—Dianthe!—the woods resounded with the shrill yells of the Indians as their war-whoops gave the alarm. You all know how that part of the country is buried in forests. We take possession of a ridge of ground that crosses the way of those English wolves. Two enormous trees thrown down by the storm have fallen along the crest of this rising ground, and behind these we crouch in a triple row, well hidden by bushes and thick standing stumps, like wolves ready to spring upon their prey. Believe me, Mesdames and Messieurs, I have witnessed much of forest warfare, yet never before have I seen so hot a conflict. The English charged like devils—(to give them their due they do not lack courage)—and were sent reeling back by a close and deadly volley. Like hail the balls flew—three times were we mingled together, scorching each other’s shirts by the flash of our guns. With still greater fury our enemies repeated the attack, and dislodged us from our place of ambush. It was then the veritable struggle commenced. Figure to yourself that they determined to break through our lines, and our commandant desired, above all else, to drive them back within the reach of our people at La Prairie. Our muskets thirsted to kill. There, amidst that storm of hell-fire, stood M. de Valrenne, giving his orders, calm and smiling as at a ball. Forty dead they left behind them, those English, yet they managed to cut their way through and drive us from the path.”
To the anxious listeners the prospect appeared to grow darker and more appalling. There had been a sharp engagement, many lives apparently had been lost, and who could divine whose heart had been smitten, whose home rendered desolate?
“M. le Lieutenant Dumerque?” asked a timorous voice.
“Dead; shot at my side,” responded le Canotier, with the sharp brevity of excitement. “I see a little officer with hair as red as his coat, fighting like a Turk. I send him a sugar plum—v’là!—his legs in the air, but not before mon Lieutenant had fallen, pierced by a shot from his hand.”
There was a faint stifled cry. A pale young girl, who had been listening eagerly, fell on the ground in a nerveless heap; an elderly woman, with face set in lines of stony composure, bent anxiously over her; then Dollier de Casson, raising the slight form in his strong arms, bore her away to her home.
“It is Mademoiselle Adèle de Montigny; they were to have been married in the early days of September. And his mother—it is the fourth son she has lost.”
It seemed that those who listened to the vivid recital could see the dim forests and floating smoke-wreaths, with vague glimpses of the hidden foe. They could imagine the incessant rattle of musketry, could see terrible figures looming through the haze, and watch the gleaming of the war-axes as the weapons fell clattering from stricken hands.