“I guessed as much,” she answered. Their eyes met, and she slowly shook her head. “It is too late,” she said; “all that was earthly in her heart and soul has dropped away from her and lies buried in her father’s grave. She has no thoughts left which are not of heaven. And now I will leave you. As soon as to-morrow’s ceremony is over I go to Montreal. Is there any service I can render you? any request you have to make to Chevalier Levis? He is well aware how you have behaved throughout the war, and would be only too glad if you would join his poor remnant of an army, with which he still hopes to wrest Canada from the English.”
Charles shook his head.
“He will never do that,” he said. “The cause is lost; he will only uselessly sacrifice fresh lives. Is it not so, Roger?”
“Most certainly it is. But, Madame,” said Roger, “if you would do my friend a real service, it would be to obtain from the Chevalier for him and for me a free pass through all the country still occupied by the French troops. We are anxious to return to our people, but without this it would be almost impossible during the winter; we should have to take such a circuitous route, and my friend’s health is not sufficiently recovered to resist the cold and fatigue; if we can pass through Montreal, it will shorten the journey greatly.”
“I will do my best,” said Madame Péan. “And now farewell; we are none of us likely to meet again in this world. When the last French ship leaves the shores of Canada, I shall sail in her, and go back to old France.” She dropped her veil and rose. Charles also rose, and silently they shook hands; then Roger re-conducted her to her carriage, and they took leave of each other.
She had said truly they were never to meet again.
That evening, as he had promised, Charles went alone to the convent. He waited what seemed to him an eternity in the parlour, watching anxiously a grated window in the wall, across which was a dark curtain; at last he saw it slowly drawn back, and on the opposite side, with a face almost as white as her veil, stood Mercèdes.
“Thank you for coming,” she said, in a low, calm voice. “Before bidding my last farewell to the world, I desired greatly to see you, to tell you how I have grieved for the child you committed to my care. I loved him very dearly. I would not have parted from him if I could possibly have done otherwise; but we were taken by surprise. Before even Marthe, who was in the room with him, was aware of it, he was gone; we had no time to prevent it; he was truly spirited away. I pray you forgive me: it has been a bitter grief to me.”
“Forgive you!” exclaimed Charles. “Surely you never for one moment thought I blamed either you or Marthe? Knowing the Indians would use every means in their power to get hold of my poor little son, I placed him with you, believing he must be safe in the convent. How could either of us imagine you would be driven out into the world again? How can I harbour one thought of blame against you! Indeed, I almost think it best for him to be at rest. Had he lived, his would have been a very divided life. He must have suffered, and I for him. I am content. It is well with the child.”
“I am thankful to hear you speak thus,” answered Mercèdes. “Truly all God does is well done. And now, Monsieur Langlade, I will bid you farewell. You will go back to the world to which, to-morrow, I shall for ever bid adieu; but I wish to thank you for many pleasant hours and for much kindness, but, above all things, for your faithfulness to my dear father. I beg you to cherish his memory, and be assured I shall ever remember you in my prayers.”