I sat hungry and thirsty for quite three hours, and then the church became empty, and only an old verger kept a seat by the door, half asleep, though the artillery of both armies was at work, and the air was laden with the smell of powder. (Until this time our batteries had avoided firing on the churches.) At last I heard footsteps near me in the dark stairway, and I felt for my pistols, for the feet were not those of Labrouk’s wife. I waited anxiously, and was overjoyed to see Voban enter my hiding-place, bearing some food. I greeted him warmly, but he made little demonstration. He was like one who, occupied with some great matter, passed through the usual affairs of life with a distant eye. Immediately he handed me a letter, saying:
“M’sieu’, I give my word to hand you this—in a day or a year, as I am able. I get your message to me this morning, and then I come to care for Jean Labrouk, and so I find you here, and I give the letter. It come to me last night.”
The letter was from Alixe. I opened it with haste, and, in the dim light, read:
MY BELOVED HUSBAND: Oh, was there no power in earth or heaven to bring me to your arms to-day?
To-morow they come to see my marriage annulled by the Church. And every one will say it is annulled—every one but me. I, in God’s name, will say no, though it break my heart to oppose myself to them all.
Why did my brother come back? He has been hard—O, Robert, he has been hard upon me, and yet I was ever kind to him! My father, too, he listens to the Church, and, though he likes not Monsieur Doltaire, he works for him in a hundred ways without seeing it. I, alas! see it too well, and my brother is as wax in monsieur’s hands. Juste loves Lucie Lotbiniere—that should make him kind. She, sweet friend, does not desert me, but is kept from me. She says she will not yield to Juste’s suit until he yields to me. If—oh, if Madame Jamond had not gone to Montreal!
... As I was writing the foregoing sentence, my father asked to see me, and we have had a talk—ah, a most bitter talk!
“Alixe,” said he, “this is our last evening together, and I would have it peaceful.”
“My father,” said I, “it is not my will that this evening be our last; and for peace, I long for it with all my heart.”
He frowned, and answered, “You have brought me trouble and sorrow. Mother of God! was it not possible for you to be as your sister Georgette? I gave her less love, yet she honours me more.”