“Madame,” said he, “shall I make you a frank avowal? Ever since I was a wild page at Versailles, and you were so kind to me, I have believed in Madame de Montmirail as my ideal of all that woman should be, and perhaps might never have loved Cerise so well had she not resembled her mother.”
The Marquise was not without plenty of self-command, but she wanted it all now. Under pretence of adjusting her glove, she snatched away the hand he held, that he might not feel it tremble, and forced herself to laugh while she replied lightly—
“You are complimentary, monsieur, but your compliments are somewhat out of date. An old woman, you know, does not like to be reminded of her age, and you were, yes, I honestly confess you were, a dear, mischievous, good-looking, good-for-nothing boy in that far-off time so long ago. But all this is nothing to the purpose. Let us send ashore at once to the priest. The ceremony may take place at noon, and I can give the young couple my blessing before wishing them good-bye.”
“How, madame?” replied he, astonished. “You will surely accompany us? You will return with us to Europe? You will never trust yourself amongst these savages again, after once escaping out of their hands?”
“I shall be safe enough when the garrison has crossed the mountain,” she answered, “and that must be in a few hours, for they are probably even now on the march. Till then I will take refuge with the Jesuits on their plantation at Maria-Galante. I do not think all my people can have rebelled. Some of them will escort me faithfully as far as that. No, monsieur, the La Fiertés have never been accustomed to abandon a post of danger, and I shall not leave the island until this rising has been completely put down.”
She spoke carelessly, almost contemptuously, but she scarcely knew what she said. Her actual thoughts, had she allowed herself to utter them, would have thus framed themselves: “Can there be anything so blind, so heartless, so self-engrossed—shall I say it?—so entirely and hopelessly stupid as a man?”
It was not for George to dispute her wishes. Though little given to illusions, he could scarcely believe that he was not dreaming now, so strange did it seem to have achieved in the last twelve hours that which had hitherto formed the one engrossing object of his life, prized, coveted, dwelt on the more that it looked almost impossible of fulfilment. There was but one drawback to his joy, one difficulty left, perplexing indeed, although simple, and doubly annoying because others of apparently far greater moment had been surmounted. There was no priest to be found in Port Welcome! The good old Portuguese Curé who took spiritual charge of the white inhabitants, and such negroes as could be induced to pay attention to his ministering, had been nearly frightened out of his wits by the outbreak. This quiet meek old man, who, since he left his college forty years before, had never known an excitement or anxiety greater than a visit from his bishop or a blight in his plantain-ground, now found himself surrounded by swarms of drunken and infuriated slaves, yelling for his life. It was owing to the presence of mind shown by an old coloured woman who lived with him as housekeeper, and to no energy or activity of his own, that he made his escape. She smuggled him out of the town through a by-street, and when he had once got his mule into an amble he never drew rein till he reached the Jesuits’ establishment at Maria-Galante, where he found a qualified welcome and a precarious refuge. From this shelter, defenceless and uncertain as it was, nothing would induce him to depart till the colours of a Spanish three-decker were flying in the harbour, and ere such an arrival could restore confidence to the colony it would behove ‘The Bashful Maid’ to spread her wings and flee away.
Captain George was at his wits’ end. In such a dilemma he bethought him of consulting his second in command. For this purpose he went below to seek Beaudésir, and found him keeping guard at the cabin door within which Mademoiselle de Montmirail was reposing, a post he had held without stirring since she came on board before dawn, and was confided by the Captain to his care. He had not spoken to her, he had not even seen her face; but from that moment he had exchanged no words with his comrades, standing as pale, as silent, and almost as motionless as a statue. He started violently when the Captain spoke, and collected his faculties with an obvious effort. George could not but observe his preoccupation.
“I am in a difficulty,” said the latter, “as I have already told you more than once. Try and comprehend me. I do not often ask for advice, but I want yours now.”