Diane’s agitation affected her strangely. She was surprised at her own composure in this supreme crisis. Hastily forming a distinct plan of action, she coolly took command, directing everything. For the first terrible interval she could not even wonder, or doubt, or question. She seemed to have known it all long ago, to have felt the cold creeping to her heart to thrill her with a shiver as of ice, to have grown used and deadened to it. It was du Chesne who was being borne away helpless in Bras de Fer’s strong arms, surrounded by anxious comrades and kindred—du Chesne, whose eyes were pathetic with the silent protest of life against death, whose bright, boyish face wore that mysterious expression, sweeter, calmer than a smile, that sometimes comes to those who look their last upon life. She saw Cecile drop down to the ground, heard Nanon’s noisy grief, was conscious of the stricken look of Le Ber’s face, yet she seemed to stand outside and beyond it all.
With the hush and awe of natural sympathy, friends and neighbors gathered around, looking with deep pity on the bereavement which might so easily have been their own. Ville Marie was overcast with mourning for the fate of the kindly, genial young fellow.
There was one whom the young Canadian sought—his wandering glances revealed the secret. All the force within Diane was torn two ways, so sorely rent as to scarcely leave her any strength for decisive action. Her own affection, jealous, restless, imperative, had claims which were irresistible. At such a moment who would remember the helpless stranger’s rights? Not Le Ber, who was absorbed in grief for the destruction of his hopes; not Madame de Monesthrol, who despised the English captive’s weakness; nor Pierre, engrossed in his prayers and penances; neither could it be Madame de St. Rochs, nor Nanon, both of whom had conceived violent prejudices against the intruder. During all the years of her after life Diane could never think of the strength of that dreadful temptation without a convulsion of her whole being. She had no choice; the steadfast spirit, holding brave sovereignty over the body and its pangs, must triumph. Hearts, apparently, were made to be crushed and broken. A little more or less, what did it matter in the vast and silent anguish that consumed her? In the heat of conflict there came a new tide in her veins, a novel force to all her thought. It was she who must break the news of this bereavement to her rival, and she would be required to comfort and sustain. It must be her part to see that du Chesne’s desire was satisfied, that the English girl should take her rightful place at her lover’s death-bed. Every trace of color died out of Lydia’s face as she listened; she turned on Diane a wild and appealing look.
“But it is not true; it cannot be true. We were to have been so happy together,” she insisted desperately, sobbing out the words in her anguish and terror.
In one of those brilliant impulses of generosity, courage and self-sacrifice which bear a noble soul on, heedless of the temptations of the body, to the performance of lofty deeds—acts of heroism in which life goes for nothing—Diane supported the pretty, frightened creature who clung to her panting and sobbing.
“You will come to him. You will try to be calm for his sake,” the demoiselle de Monesthrol urged.
But Lydia was overwhelmed with fear. The shock rendered her helpless and hysterical; she wanted to force her own complaints and grievances upon the attention of others, rather than yield to the claims of the dying man. She was utterly unable to collect her scattered faculties. This frail sufferer, with spectral eyes and pain-distorted form, seemed to have no connection with her gay and gallant young lover. She loved strength, brightness, the joy of life, and hated anything that was maimed or gloomy. She shuddered involuntarily as a feeling of repulsion crept over her; she could not look at him without whitening and shivering. She was not touched by the spectacle of a valor so steadfast, a submission so sweet; her one thought was to escape the horror of it.
Du Chesne lay in a quiet room, while the moments which no human will could arrest swept on. He had accepted the verdict passed upon him as the most natural thing in the world—“quite simple,” as he said.
He was still so young and ardent of temperament that even the dark passage to the grave abounded in hopeful portents. He would insist upon being propped up in bed, and being allowed to talk. Affection banished the solemn, wistful look from his face, and gleamed like faint flashes of sunshine from the edges of the dark shadow.
The young Canadian was tender and considerate, even on his death-bed. He was wondrously patient in his pity for Lydia’s simplicity and weakness; his dying eyes followed her ceaselessly, with a faithful love which had been born on earth, but which would last forever.