It was the poignancy of these feelings which, later, drew Valmond to the ashes of the fire in whose glow Elise had stood. The village was quieting down, the excited habitants had scattered to their homes. But in one or two houses there was dancing, and, as he passed, Valmond heard the chansons of the humble games they played—primitive games, primitive chansons:
“In my right hand I hold a rose-bush,
Which will bloom, Manon lon la!
Which will bloom in the month of May.
Come into our dance, pretty rose-bush,
Come and kiss, Manon Ion la!
Come and kiss whom you love best!”
The ardour, the delight, the careless joy of youth, were in the song and in the dance. These simple folk would marry, beget children, labour hard, obey Mother Church, and yield up the ghost peacefully in the end, after their kind; but now and then there was born among them one not after their kind: even such as Madelinette, with the stirring of talent in her veins, and the visions of the artistic temperament—delight and curse all at once—lifting her out of the life, lonely, and yet sorrowfully happy.
Valmond looked around. How still it was, the home of Elise standing apart in the quiet fields! But involuntarily his eyes were drawn to the hill beyond, where showed a light in a window of the Manor. To-morrow he would go there: he had much to say to Madame Chalice. The moon was lying off above the edge of hills, looking out on the world complacently, like an indulgent janitor scanning the sleepy street from his doorway.
He was abruptly drawn from his reverie by the entrance of Lagroin into the little garden; and he followed the old man through the open doorway. All was dark, but as they stepped within they heard some one move. Presently a match was struck, and Elise came forward with a candle raised level with her dusky head. Lagroin looked at her in indignant astonishment.
“Do you not see who is here, girl?” he demanded. “Your Excellency!” she said confusedly to Valmond, and, bowing, offered him a chair.
“You must pardon her, sire,” said the old sergeant. “She has never been taught, and she’s a wayward wench.”
Valmond waved his hand. “Nonsense, we are friends. You are my General; she is your niece.” His eyes followed Elise as she set out for them some cider, a small flask of cognac, and some seed-cakes; luxuries which were served but once a year in this house, as in most homes of Pontiac.
For a long time Valmond and his General talked, devised, planned, schemed, till the old man grew husky and pale. The sight of his senile weariness flashed the irony of the whole wild dream into Valmond’s mind. He rose, and, giving his arm, led Lagroin to his bedroom, and bade him good-night. When he returned to the room, it was empty.
He looked around, and, seeing an open door, moved to it quickly. It led into a little stairway.
He remembered then that there was a room which had been, apparently, tacked on, like an after-thought, to the end of the house. Seeing the glimmer of a light beyond, he went up a few steps, and came face to face with Elise, who, candle in hand, was about to descend the stairs again.
For a moment she stood quite still, then placed the candle on the rude little dressing-table, built of drygoods boxes, and draped with fresh muslin. Valmond took in every detail of the chamber at a single glance. It was very simple and neat, with the small wooden bedstead corded with rope, the poor hickory rocking-chair, the flaunting chromo of the Holy Family, the sprig of blessed palm, the shrine of the Virgin, the print skirts hanging on the wall, the stockings lying across a chair, the bits of ribbon on the bed. The quietness, the alluring simplicity, the whole room filled with the rich presence of the girl, sent a flood of colour to Valmond’s face, and his heart beat hard. Curiosity only had led him into the room, something more radical held him there.
Elise seemed to read his thoughts, and, taking up her candle, she came on to the doorway. Neither had spoken. As she was about to pass him, he suddenly took her arm. But, glancing towards the window, he noticed that the blind was not down. He turned and blew out the candle in her hand.
“Ah, your Excellency!” she cried in tremulous affright.
“We could have been seen from outside,” he explained. She turned and saw the moonlight streaming in at the window, and lying like a silver coverlet upon the floor. As if with a blind, involuntary instinct for protection, she stepped forward into the moonlight, and stood there motionless. The sight thrilled him, and he moved towards her. The mind of the girl reasserted itself, and she hastened to the door. Again, as she was about to pass him, he put his hand upon her shoulder.
“Elise—Elise!” he said. The voice was persuasive, eloquent, going to every far retreat of emotion in her. There was a sudden riot in his veins, and he took her passionately in his arms, and kissed her on the lips, on the eyes, on the hair, on the neck. At that moment the outer door opened below, and the murmur of voices came to them.
“Oh, monsieur—oh, your Excellency, let me go!” she whispered fearfully. “It is my mother and Duclosse the mealman.”
Valmond recognised the fat, wheezy tones of Duclosse—Sergeant Duclosse. He released her, and she caught up the candle.
“What can you do?” she whispered.
“I will wait here. I must not go down,” he replied. “It would mean ruin.”
Ruin! ruin! Was she face to face with ruin already, she who, two minutes ago, was as safe and happy as a young bird in its nest? He felt instantly that he had made a mistake, had been cruel, though he had not intended it.
“Ruin to me,” he said at once. “Duclosse is a stupid fellow: he would not understand; he would desert me; and that would be disastrous at this moment. Go down,” he said. “I will wait here, Elise.”
Her brows knitted painfully. “Oh, monsieur, I’d rather face death, I believe, than that you should remain here.”
But he pushed her gently towards the door, and a moment afterwards he heard her talking to Duclosse and her mother.
He sat down on the couch and listened for a moment. His veins were still glowing from the wild moment just passed. Elise would come back—and then—what? She would be alone with him again in this room, loving him—fearing him. He remembered that once, when a child, he had seen a peasant strike his wife, felling her to the ground; and how afterwards she had clasped him round the neck and kissed him, as he bent over her in merely vulgar fright lest he had killed her. That scene flashed before him.
There came an opposing thought. As Madame Chalice had said, either as prince or barber, he was playing a terrible game. Why shouldn’t he get all he could out of it while it lasted—let the world break over him when it must? Why should he stand in an orchard of ripe fruit, and refuse to pick what lay luscious to his hand, what this stupid mealman below would pick, and eat, and yawn over? There was the point. Wouldn’t the girl rather have him, Valmond, at any price, than the priest-blessed love of Duclosse and his kind?
The thought possessed, devoured him for a moment. Then suddenly there again rang in his ears the words which had haunted him all day:
“Holy bread, I take thee;
If I die suddenly,
Serve me as a sacrament.”
They passed backwards and forwards in his mind for a little time with no significance. Then they gave birth to another thought. Suppose he stayed; suppose he took advantage of the love of this girl? He looked around the little room, showing so peacefully in the moonlight—the religious symbols, the purity, the cleanliness, the calm poverty. He had known the inside of the boudoirs and the bed-chambers of women of fashion—he had seen them, at least. In them the voluptuous, the indulgent, seemed part of the picture. But he was not a beast, that he could fail to see what this tiny bedroom would be, if he followed his wild will. Some terrible fate might overtake his gay pilgrimage to empire, and leave him lost, abandoned, in a desert of ruin.
Why not give up the adventure, and come to this quiet, and this good peace, so shutting out the stir and violence of the world?
All at once Madame Chalice came into his thoughts, swam in his sight, and he knew that what he felt for this peasant girl was of one side of his nature only. All of him worth the having—was any worth the having? responded to that diffusing charm which brought so many men to the feet of that lady of the Manor, who had lovers by the score: from such as the Cure and the avocat, gentle and noble, and requited, to the young Seigneur, selfish and ulterior, and unrequited.
He got to his feet quietly. No, he would make a decent exit, in triumph or defeat, to honour the woman who was standing his friend. Let them, the British Government at Quebec, proceed against him; he would have only one trouble to meet, one to leave behind. He would not load this girl with shame as well as sorrow. Her love itself was affliction enough to her. This adventure was serious; a bullet might drop him; the law might remove him: so he would leave here at once.
He was about to open the window, when he heard a door shut below, and the thud of heavy steps outside the house. Drawing back, he waited until he heard the foot of Elise upon the stair. She came in without a light, and at first did not see him. He heard her gasp. Stepping forward a little, he said:
“I am here, Elise. Come.”
She trembled as she came. “Oh, monsieur—your Excellency!” she whispered; “oh, you cannot go down, for my mother sits ill by the fire. You cannot go out that way.”
He took both her hands. “No matter. Poor child, you are trembling! Come.”
He drew her towards the couch. She shrank back. “Oh no, monsieur, oh—I die of shame!”
“There is no need, Elise,” he answered gently, and he sat on the edge of the couch, and drew her to his side. “Let us say good-night.”
She grew very still, and he felt her move towards him, as she divined his purpose, and knew that this room of hers would have no shadow in it to-morrow, and her soul no unpardonable sin. A warm peace passed through her veins, and she drew nearer still. She did not know that this new ardent confidence came near to wrecking her. For Valmond had an instant’s madness, and only saved himself from the tumult in his blood by getting to his feet, with strenuous resolution. Taking both her hands, he kissed her on the cheeks, and said:
“Adieu, Elise. May your sorrow never be more, and my happiness never less. I am going now.”
He felt her hand grasp his arm, as if with a desire that he should not leave her. Then she rose quickly, and came with him to the window. Raising the sash, she held it, and he looked out. There seemed to be no one in the road, no one in the yard. So, half turning, he swung himself down by his hands, and dropped to the ground. From the window above a sob came to him, and Elise’s face, all tears, showed for an instant in the moonlight.
He did not seek the road directly, but, climbing a fence near by, crossed a hay-field, going unseen, as he thought, to the village.
But a lady, walking in the road with an old gentleman, had seen and recognised him. Her fingers clinched with anger at the sight, and her spirit filled with disgust.
“What are you looking at?” said her companion, who was short-sighted.
“At the tricks moonlight plays. Shadows frighten me sometimes, my dear avocat.” She shuddered. “My dear madame!” he said in warm sympathy.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg