The sixty years preceding my arrival had been spent by the le Moynes getting a living as honestly as might be, and if we found a bit of brigandage needful now and again to keep body and soul together, why, we were ever ready to answer for it, man to man.
It was in a small house of stone on the right bank of the Midouze I first saw the light. My father I never knew—he had been killed in some foray a month or two before my birth—but my mother continued living on there with her husband’s brother, Chabert le Moyne, and his wife. The first ten or twelve years of my life passed peacefully enough, my mother giving me such instruction as she could, and insisting that I go with her every Saturday morning, wet or shine, to the curé for my lesson. The remainder of the time I spent as it pleased me—wandering along the river or paddling about in it; or exploring the great forest, which had one time belonged to M. le Comte, but which was now the King’s.
But at the age of twelve, my uncle Chabert took me suddenly in hand. This was the more surprising because, up to that time, he had taken not the slightest notice of me, save to assist me with his toe whenever he chanced to find me scrambling out of his way. But now, all this was changed. I must learn to ride, it seemed; to shoot with the pistol, and to use dagger and rapier. I tell you, he kept me busy—and how I relished it! There were some hard falls, just at the first, that shook the teeth in my head, until I learned the trick of sticking to my horse’s back, but after that only the long rides and the bouts with my uncle. He seldom let me escape without a tap or two on the crown, just to show me what a booby with the blade I was, but I thought nothing of such petty things.
He was a tall, lean man, this uncle of mine, with moustache twisted to a needle-point above a mouth which never opened needlessly. His eyes, too, I remember—few cared to meet them at any time, none when he was enwrathed. A dozen blackguards, who lived somewhere near by—God knows where!—called him master and would have joyfully gone to hell for him. Sometimes they would gather at the house at nightfall, my uncle would kiss his wife and stamp out to his horse. I, looking big-eyed from one corner of the little window in my bed-room, would see him fling himself into the saddle and spur away, the others falling naturally in behind.
It was enough to make one tremble, and if I ventured down the ladder into the room where my aunt and mother were—pretending I wanted a drink or some such thing—I would find them in tears, and my mother would look at me sorrowfully and draw me tenderly to her and weep over me, as though some dreadful fate threatened me. The days that followed, they would spend in horrible suspense, and how they would welcome him when he came riding home again!
I understood nothing of all this, but my sister did. For it was at this time she came home from the convent at Aignan, where the good sisters had been caring for her. She had been sent there, a mere baby, at the time my mother was expecting me, and she had been kept there since, we being too poor to feed another mouth, and the good sisters hoping that she would in the end enter the cloister. But when the time came, she found herself lacking in courage or devotion—I do not know, for this is one of the things about her I never quite understood—and so she was sent home again. At least, here she was, tall and fair and dark-eyed, and we were all a little afraid of her until we found how warm and tender her heart was. Yes, and brave, too,—how could I have said she lacked courage?—as I was presently to find out for myself.
It was one evening in early June. As the twilight deepened along the river, I heard far off the tramp of horses and knew that another journey was afoot. I went to the door to see them dash up along the road, and very fine and brave they looked to me. They pulled full-stop at the door, harness clanking, sword rattling against thigh, and my uncle, who was at table, hastily swallowed the last of his meat, and rose to don sword and headgear. I, who was still gaping out the door, heard the sound of my sister’s voice.
“Where do you go, uncle?” she asked.
He was girding on his sword, and paused an instant to look at her in sheer amazement. Then he turned away without answering.
“If it be upon a Godless errand you go, as I suspect,” she went, on, quite calm and steady, “I pray you to think of your soul. What of it?”