“‘How long?’ he say, and take out his watch. ‘Five minutes—maybe,’ I answer. He put his watch on the table, and sit down on a bench by it, and for a little minute he do not speak, but look at me close, and not angry, as you would think. ‘Voban,’ he say in a low voice, ‘Bigot was a thief.’ He point to the chest. ‘He stole from the King—my father. He stole your Mathilde from you! He should have died. We have both been blunderers, Voban, blunderers,’ he say; ‘things have gone wrong with us. We have lost all.’ There is little time. ‘Tell me one thing,’ he go on: ‘Is Mademoiselle Duvarney safe—do you know?’ I tell him yes, and he smile, and take from his pocket something, and lay it against his lips, and then put it back in his breast.
“‘You are not afraid to die, Voban?’ he ask. I answer no. ‘Shake hands with me, my friend,’ he speak, and I do so that. ‘Ah, pardon, pardon, m’sieu’,’ I say. ‘No, no, Voban; it was to be,’ he answer. ‘We shall meet again, comrade—eh, if we can?’ he speak on, and he turn away from me and look to the sky through the window. Then he look at his watch, and get to his feet, and stand there still. I kiss my crucifix. He reach out and touch it, and bring his fingers to his lips. ‘Who can tell—perhaps—perhaps!’ he say. For a little minute—ah, it seem like a year, and it is so still, so still he stand there, and then he put his hand over the watch, lift it up, and shut his eyes, as if time is all done. While you can count ten it is so, and then the great crash come.”
For a long time Voban lay silent again. I gave him more cordial, and he revived and ended his tale. “I am a blunderer, as m’sieu’ say,” he went on, “for he is killed, not Bigot and me, and only a little part of the palace go to pieces. And so they fetch me here, and I wish—my God in Heaven, I wish I go with M’sieu’ Doltaire.” But he followed him a little later.
Two hours afterwards I went to the Intendance, and there I found that the body of my enemy had been placed in the room where I had last seen him with Alixe. He lay on the same couch where she had lain. The flag of France covered his broken body, but his face was untouched—as it had been in life, haunting, fascinating, though the shifting lights were gone, the fine eyes closed. A noble peace hid all that was sardonic; not even Gabord would now have called him “Master Devil.” I covered up his face and left him there—peasant and prince—candles burning at his head and feet, and the star of Louis on his shattered breast; and I saw him no more.
All that night I walked the ramparts, thinking, remembering, hoping, waiting for the morning; and when I saw the light break over those far eastern parishes, wasted by fire and sword, I set out on a journey to the Valdoche Hills.
XXX. “WHERE ALL THE LOVERS CAN HIDE”
It was in the saffron light of early morning that I saw it, the Tall Calvary of the Valdoche Hills.
The night before I had come up through a long valley, overhung with pines on one side and crimsoning maples on the other, and, travelling till nearly midnight, had lain down in the hollow of a bank, and listened to a little river leap over cascades, and, far below, go prattling on to the greater river in the south. My eyes closed, but for long I did not sleep. I heard a night-hawk go by on a lonely mission, a beaver slide from a log into the water, and the delicate humming of the pine needles was a drowsy music, through which broke by-and-bye the strange crying of a loon from the water below. I was neither asleep nor awake, but steeped in this wide awe of night, the sweet smell of earth and running water in my nostrils. Once, too, in a slight breeze, the scent of some wild animal’s nest near by came past, and I found it good. I lifted up a handful of loose earth and powdered leaves, and held it to my nose—a good, brave smell—all in a sort of drowsing.
While I mused, Doltaire’s face passed before me as it was in life, and I heard him say again of the peasants, “These shall save the earth some day, for they are of it, and live close to it, and are kin to it.”