CONDEMNED
He opened the paper gravely, shadowing the page with one hand so that Cassion was prevented from seeing the words. He read slowly, a frown on his face.
“’Tis the writing of Governor La Barre, although unsigned,” he said at last.
“Yes, Monsieur.”
“How came the page in your possession?”
“I removed it last night from a leather bag found beneath the sleeping bunk in the quarters assigned me.”
“Do you know whose bag it was?”
“Certainly; it was in the canoe with me all the way from Quebec––M. Cassion’s.”
“Your husband?”
“Yes, Monsieur.”
De Baugis’ eyes seemed to darken as he gazed at me; then his glance fell upon Cassion, who was leaning forward, his mouth open, his face ashen gray. He straightened up as he met De Baugis’ eyes, and gave vent to an irritating laugh.
“Sacre, ’tis quite melodramatic,” he exclaimed 331 harshly. “But of little value else. I acknowledge the letter, M. de Baugis, but it bears no relation to this affair. Perchance it was unhappily worded, so that this woman, eager to save her lover from punishment––”
De Tonty was on his feet, his sword half drawn.
“’Tis a foul lie,” he thundered hotly. “I will not stand silent before such words.”
“Messieurs,” and De Baugis struck the table. “This is a court, not a mess room. Be seated, M. de Tonty; no one in my presence will be permitted to besmirch the honor of Captain la Chesnayne’s daughter. Yet I must agree with Major Cassion that this letter in no way proves that he resorted to violence, or was even urged to do so. The governor in all probability suggested other means. I could not be led to believe he countenanced the commission of crime, and shall ask to read the remainder of his letter before rendering decision. You found no other documents, Madame?”
“None bearing on this case.”
“The papers supposed to be taken from the dead body of Chevet?”
“No, Monsieur.”
“Then I cannot see that the status of the prisoner is changed, or that we have any reason to charge the crime to another. You are excused, Madame, while we listen to such other witnesses as may be called.”
“You wish me to retire?”
“I would prefer you do so.”
I arose to my feet, hesitating and uncertain. It was evident enough that the court intended to convict the prisoner. All the hatred and dislike engendered by years of controversy with La Salle, all the quarrels and misunderstandings of the past few months between the two rival commanders at the fort, was now finding natural outlet in this trial of Rene de Artigny. He was officer of La Salle, friend of De Tonty, and through his conviction they could strike at the men they both hated and feared. More, they realized also that such action would please La Barre. Whatever else had been accomplished by my exhibit of the governor’s letter, it had clearly shown De Baugis that his master desired the overthrow of the young explorer. And while he felt slight friendship for Cassion, he was still La Barre’s man, and would obey his orders. He wished me out of the way for a purpose. What purpose? That I might not hear the lying testimony of those soldiers and Indians, who would swear as they were told.
Tears misted my eyes, so the faces about me were blurred, but, before I could find words in which to voice my indignation, De Tonty stood beside me, and grasped my arm.
“There is no use, Madame,” he said coldly enough, 333 although his voice shook. “You only invite insult when you deal with such curs. They represent their master, and have made verdict already––let us go.”
De Baugis, Cassion, De la Durantaye were upon their feet, but the dragoon first found voice.
“Were those words addressed to me, M. de Tonty?”
“Ay, and why not! You are no more than La Barre’s dog. Listen to me, all three of you. ’Twas Sieur de la Salle’s orders that I open the gates of this fort to your entrance, and that I treat you courteously. I have done so, although you took my kindness to be sign of weakness, and have lorded it mightily since you came. But this is the end; from now it is war between us, Messieurs, and we will fight in the open. Convict Rene de Artigny from the lies of these hirelings, and you pay the reckoning at the point of my sword. I make no threat, but this is the pledged word of Henri de Tonty. Make passage there! Come, Madame.”
No one stopped us; no voice answered him. Almost before I realized the action, we were outside in the sunlight, and he was smiling into my face, his dark eyes full of cheer.
“It will make them pause and think––what I said,” he exclaimed, “yet will not change the result.”
“They will convict?”
“Beyond doubt, Madame. They are La Barre’s men, and hold commission only at his pleasure. With M. de la Durantaye it is different, for he was soldier of Frontenac’s, yet I have no hope he will dare stand out against the rest. We must find another way to save the lad, but when I leave you at the door yonder I am out of it.”
“You, Monsieur! what can I hope to accomplish without your aid?”
“Far more than with it, especially if I furnish a good substitute. I shall be watched now, every step I take. ’Tis like enough De Baugis will send me challenge, though the danger that Cassion would do so is slight. It is the latter who will have me watched. No, Madame, Boisrondet is the lad who must find a way out for the prisoner; they will never suspicion him, and the boy will enjoy the trick. Tonight, when the fort becomes quiet, he will find way to explain his plans. Have your room dark, and the window open.”
“There is but one, Monsieur, outward, above the precipice.”
“That will be his choice; he can reach you thus unseen. ’Tis quite possible a guard may be placed at your door.”
He left me, and walked straight across the parade to his own quarters, an erect, manly figure in the sun, his long black hair falling to his shoulders. I drew a 335 chair beside the door, which I left partially open, so that I might view the scene without. There was no firing now, although soldiers were grouped along the western stockade, keeping guard over the gate. I sat there for perhaps an hour, my thoughts sad enough, yet unconsciously gaining courage and hope from the memory of De Tonty’s words of confidence. He was not a man to fail in any deed of daring, and I had already seen enough of this young Boisrondet, and heard enough of his exploits, to feel implicit trust in his plans of rescue. Occasionally a soldier of the garrison, or a courier du bois, of La Salle’s company, passed, glancing at me curiously, yet I recognized no familiar face, and made no attempt to speak, lest the man might prove an enemy. I could see the door of the guardhouse, and, at last, those in attendance at the trial emerged, talking gravely, as they scattered in various directions. The three officers came forth together, proceeding directly across toward De Tonty’s office, evidently with some purpose in view. No doubt, angered at his words, they sought satisfaction. I watched until they disappeared within the distant doorway, De Baugis the first to enter. A moment later one of the soldiers who had accompanied us from Quebec, a rather pleasant-faced lad, whose injured hand I had dressed at St. Ignace, approached where I sat, and lifted his hand in salute.
“A moment, Jules,” I said swiftly. “You were at the trial?”
“Yes, Madame.”
“And the result?”
“The Sieur de Artigny was held guilty, Madame,” he said regretfully, glancing about as though to assure himself alone. “The three officers agreed on the verdict, although I know some of the witnesses lied.”
“You know––who?”
“My own mate for one––Georges Descartes; he swore to seeing De Artigny follow Chevet from the boats, and that was not true, for we were together all that day. I would have said so, but the court bade me be still.”
“Ay, they were not seeking such testimony. No matter what you said, Jules, De Artigny would have been condemned––it was La Barre’s orders.”
“Yes, Madame, so I thought.”
“Did the Sieur de Artigny speak?”
“A few words, Madame, until M. Cassion ordered him to remain still. Then M. de Baugis pronounced sentence––it was that he be shot tomorrow.”
“The hour?”
“I heard none mentioned, Madame.”
“And a purpose in that also to my mind. This gives them twenty-four hours in which to consummate murder. They fear De Tonty and his men may attempt 337 rescue; ’tis to find out the three have gone now to his quarters. That is all, Jules; you had best not be seen talking here with me.”
I closed the door, and dropped the bar securely into place. I knew the worst now, and felt sick and faint. Tears would not come to relieve, yet it seemed as though my brain ceased working, as if I had lost all physical and mental power. I know not how long I sat there, dazed, incompetent to even express the vague thoughts which flashed through my brain. A rapping on the door aroused me. The noise, the insistent raps awoke me as from sleep.
“Who wishes entrance?”
“I––Cassion; I demand speech with you.”
“For what purpose, Monsieur?”
“Mon Dieu! Does a man have to give excuse for desiring to speak with his own wife? Open the door, or I’ll have it broken in. Have you not yet learned I am master here?”
I drew the bar, no longer with any sense of fear, but impelled by a desire to hear the man’s message. I stepped back, taking refuge behind the table, as the door opened, and he strode in, glancing first at me, then suspiciously about the apartment.
“You are alone?”
“Assuredly, Monsieur; did you suspect others to be present?”
“Hell’s fire! How did I know; you have time enough to spare for others, although I have had no word with you since you came. I come now only to tell you the news.”
“If it be the condemnation of Sieur de Artigny, you may spare your words.”
“You know that! Who brought you the message?”
“What difference, Monsieur? I would know the result without messenger. You have done your master’s will. What said De Tonty when you told him?”
Cassion laughed, as though the memory was pleasant.
“Faith, Madame, if you base your hopes there on rescue you’ll scarce meet with great result. De Tonty is all bark. Mon Dieu! I went in to hold him to account for his insult, and the fellow met us with such gracious speech, that the four of us drank together like old comrades. The others are there yet, but I had a proposition to make you––so I left them.”
“A proposition, Monsieur?”
“Ay, a declaration of peace, if you will. Listen Adele, for this is the last time I speak you thus fairly. I have this De Artigny just where I want him now. His life is in my hands. I can squeeze it out like that; or I can open my fingers, and let him go. Now you are to decide which it is to be. Here is where you choose, between that forest brat and me.”
“Choose between you? Monsieur you must make your meaning more clear.”
“Mon Dieu, is it not clear already? Then I will make it so. You are my wife by law of Holy Church. Never have you loved me, yet I can pass that by, if you grant me a husband’s right. This De Artigny has come between us, and now his life is in my hands. I know not that you love the brat, yet you have that interest in him which would prevent forgiveness of me if I show no mercy. So now I come and offer you his life, if you consent to be my wife in truth. Is that fair?”
“It may so sound,” I answered calmly, “yet the sacrifice is all mine. How would you save the man?”
“By affording him opportunity to escape during the night; first accepting his pledge never to see you again.”
“Think you he would give such pledge?”
Cassion laughed sarcastically.
“Bah, what man would not to save his life! It is for you to speak the word.”
I stood silent, hesitating to give final answer. Had I truly believed De Artigny’s case hopeless I might have yielded, and made pledge. But as I gazed into Cassion’s face, smiling with assurance of victory, all my dislike of the man returned, and I shrank back in horror. The sacrifice was too much, too terrible; besides 340 I had faith in the promises of De Tonty, in the daring of Boisrondet. I would trust them, aye, and myself, to find some other way of rescue.
“Monsieur,” I said firmly, “I understand your proposition, and refuse it. I will make no pledge.”
“You leave him to die?”
“If it be God’s will. I cannot dishonor myself, even to save life. You have my answer. I bid you go.”
Never did I see such look of beastly rage in the face of any man. He had lost power of speech, but his fingers clutched as though he had my throat in their grip. Frightened, I stepped back, and Chevet’s pistol gleamed in my hand.
“You hear me, Monsieur––go!”