The sun was going down behind the hills, like a drowsy boy to his bed, radiant and weary from his day’s sport. The villagers were up at Dalgrothe Mountain, soldiering for Valmond. Every evening, when the haymakers put up their scythes, the mill-wheel stopped turning, and the Angelus ceased, the men marched away into the hills, where the ardent soldier of fortune had pitched his camp.
Tents, muskets, ammunition came out of dark places, as they are ever sure to come when the war-trumpet sounds. All seems peace, but suddenly, at the wild call, the latent barbarian in human nature springs up and is ready; and the cruder the arms, the fiercer the temper that wields.
Recruits now arrived from other parishes, and besides those who came every night to drill, there were others who stayed always in camp. The lime-burner left his kiln, and sojourned with his dogs at Dalgrothe Mountain; the mealman neglected his trade; and Lajeunesse was no longer at his blacksmith shop, save after dark, when the red glow of his forge could be seen till midnight. He was captain of a company in the daytime, forgeron at night.
Valmond, no longer fantastic in dress, speech, or manner, was happy, busy, buoyed up and cast down by turn, troubled, exhilarated. He could not understand these variations of health and mood. He had not felt equably well since the night of Gabriel’s burial in the miasmic air of the mountain. At times he felt a wonderful lightness of head and heart, with entrancing hopes; again a heaviness and an aching, accompanied by a feeling of doom. He fought the depression, and appeared before his men cheerful and alert always. He was neither looking back nor looking forward, but living in his dramatic theme from day to day, and wondering if, after all, this movement, by some joyful, extravagant chance, might not carry him on even to the chambers of the Tuileries.
From the first day that he had gathered these peasants about him, had convinced, almost against their will, the wise men of the village, this fanciful exploit had been growing a deep reality to him. He had convinced himself; he felt that he could, in a larger sphere, gather thousands about him where he now gathered scores—with a good cause. Well, was his cause not good, he asked himself?
There were others to whom this growing reality was painful. The young Seigneur was serious enough about it, and more than once, irritated and perturbed, he sought Madame Chalice; but she gave him no encouragement, remarking coldly that Monsieur Valmond probably knew very well what he was doing, and was weighing all consequences.
She had become interested in a passing drama, and De la Riviere’s attentions produced no impression on her, and gave her no pleasure. They were, however, not obtrusive. She had seen much of him two years before; he had been a good friend of her husband. She was amused at his attentions then; she had little to occupy her, and she felt herself superior to any man’s emotions: not such as this young Seigneur could win her away from her passive but certain fealty. She had played with fire, from the very spirit of adventure in her, but she had not been burnt.
“You say he is an impostor, dear monsieur,” she said languidly: “do pray exert yourself, and prove him one. What is your evidence?”
She leaned back in the very chair where she had sat looking at Valmond a few weeks before, her fingers idly smoothing out the folds of her dress.
“Oh, the thing is impossible,” he answered, blowing the smoke of a cigarette; “we’ve had no real proof of his birth, and life—and so on.”
“But there are relics—and so on!” she said suggestively, and she picked up the miniature of the Emperor.
“Owning a skeleton doesn’t make it your ancestor,” he replied.
He laughed, for he was pleased at his own cleverness, and he also wished to remain good-tempered.
“I am so glad to see you at last take the true attitude towards this,” she responded brightly. “If it’s a comedy, enjoy it. If it’s a tragedy”—she drew herself up with a little shudder, for she was thinking of that figure dropping from Elise’s window—“you cannot stop it. Tragedy is inevitable; but comedy is within the gift and governance of mortals.”
For a moment again she was lost in the thought of Elise, of Valmond’s vulgarity and commonness; and he had dared to speak words of love almost to her! She flushed to the hair, as she had done fifty times since she had seen him that moonlit night. Ah, she had thought him the dreamer, the enthusiast—maybe, in kind, credulous moments, the great man he claimed to be; and he had only been the sensualist after all! That he did not love Elise, she knew well enough: he had been coldblooded; in this, at least, he was Napoleonic.
She had not spoken with him since that night; but she had had two long letters superscribed: “In Camp, Headquarters, Dalgrothe Mountain,” and these had breathed only patriotism, the love of a cause, the warmth of a strong, virile temperament, almost a poetical abandon of unnamed ambitions and achievements. She had read the letters again and again, for she had found it hard to reconcile them with her later knowledge of this man. He wrote to her as to an ally, frankly, warmly. She felt the genuine thing in him somewhere; and, in spite of all, she felt a sort of kinship for him. Yet that scene—that scene! She flushed with anger again, and, in spite of her smiling lips, the young Seigneur saw the flush, and wondered.
“The thing must end soon,” he said, as he rose to go, for a messenger had come for him. “He is injuring the peace, the trade, and the life of the parishes; he is gathering men and arms, drilling, exploiting military designs in one country, to proceed against another. England is at peace with France!”
“An international matter, this?” she asked sarcastically.
“Yes. The Government at Quebec is English; we are French and he is French; and, I repeat, this thing is serious.”
She smiled. “I am an American. I have no responsibility.”
“They might arrest you for aiding and abetting if—”
“If what, dear and cheerful friend?”
“If I did not make it right for you.” He smiled, approving his own kindness.
She touched his arm, and said with ironical sweetness: “How you relieve my mind!” Then with delicate insinuation: “I have a lot of old muskets here, at least two hundred pounds of powder, and plenty of provisions, and I will send them to—Valmond Napoleon.”
He instantly became grave. “I warn you—”
She interrupted him. “Nonsense! You warn me!” She laughed mockingly. “I warn you, dear Seigneur, that you will be more sorry than satisfied, if you meddle in this matter.”
“You are going to send those things to him?” he asked anxiously.
“Certainly—and food every day.” And she kept her word.
De la Riviere, as he went down the hill, thought with irritation of how ill things were going with him and Madame Chalice—so different from two years ago, when their friendship had first begun. He had remembered her with a singular persistency; he had looked forward to her coming back; and when she came, his heart had fluttered like a schoolboy’s. But things had changed. Clearly she was interested in this impostor. Was it the man himself or the adventure? He did not know. But the adventure was the man—and who could tell? Once he thought he had detected some warmth for himself in her eye, in the clasp of her hand; there was nothing of that sort now. A black, ungentlemanly spirit seized him.
It possessed him most strongly at the moment he was passing the home of Elise Malboir. The girl was standing by the gate, looking down towards the village. Her brow was a little heavy, so that it gave her eyes at all times a deep look, but now De la Riviere saw that they were brooding as well. There was sadness in the poise of the head. He did not take off his hat to her.
“‘Oh, grand to the war he goes,
O gai, rive le roi!’”
he said teasingly. He thought she might have a lover among the recruits at Dalgrothe Mountain.
She turned to him, startled, for she thought he meant Valmond. She did not speak, but became very still and pale.
“Better tie him up with a garter, Elise, and get the old uncle back to Ville Bambord. Trouble’s coming. The game’ll soon be up.”
“What trouble?” she asked.
“Battle, murder, and sudden death,” he answered, and passed on with a sour laugh.
She slowly repeated his words, looked towards the Manor House, with a strange expression, then went up to her little bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed for a long time, where she had sat with Valmond. Every word, every incident, of that night came back to her; and her heart filled up with worship. It flowed over into her eyes and fell upon her clasped hands. If trouble did come to him?—He had given her a new world, he should have her life and all else.
A half-hour later, De la Riviere came rapping at the Cure’s door. The sun was almost gone, the smell of the hay-fields floated over the village, and all was quiet in the streets. Women gossiped in their doorways, but there was no stir anywhere. With the young Seigneur was the member of the Legislature for the county. His mood was different from that of his previous visit to Pontiac; for he had been told that whether the cavalier adventurer was or was not a Napoleon, this campaign was illegal. He had made no move. Being a member of the Legislature, he naturally shirked responsibility, and he had come to see the young Seigneur, who was justice of the peace, and practically mayor of the county. They found the Cure, the avocat, and Medallion, talking together amiably.
The three were greatly distressed by the representations of the member and De la Riviere. The Cure turned to Monsieur Garon, the avocat, inquiringly.
“The law—the law of the case is clear,” said the avocat helplessly. “If the peace is disturbed, if there is conspiracy to injure a country not at war with our own, if arms are borne with menace, if His Excellency—”
“His Excellency—my faith!—You’re an ass, Garon!” cried the young Seigneur, with an angry sneer.
For once in his life the avocat bridled up. He got to his feet, and stood silent an instant, raising himself up and down on his tiptoes, his lips compressed, his small body suddenly contracting to a firmness, and grown to a height, his eyelids working quickly. To the end of his life the Cure remembered and talked of the moment when the avocat gave battle. To him it was superb—he never could have done it himself.
“I repeat, His Excellency, Monsieur De la Riviere. My information is greater than yours, both by accident and through knowledge. I accept him as a Napoleon, and as a Frenchman I have no cause to blush for my homage or my faith, or for His Excellency. He is a man of loving disposition, of great knowledge, of power to win men, of deep ideas, of large courage. Monsieur, I cannot forget the tragedy he stayed at the smithy, with risk of his own life. I cannot forget—”
The Cure, anticipating, nodded at him encouragingly. Probably the avocat intended to say something quite different, but the look in the Cure’s eyes prompted him, and he continued:
“I cannot forget that he has given to the poor, and liberally to the Church, and has promised benefits to the deserving—ah, no, no, my dear Seigneur!”
He had delivered his speech in a quaint, quick way, as though addressing a jury, and when he had finished, he sat down again, and nodded his head, and tapped a foot on the floor; and the Cure did the same, looking inquiringly at De la Riviere.
This was the first time there had been trouble in the little coterie. They had never differed painfully before. Tall Medallion longed to say something, but he waited for the Cure to speak.
“What is your mind, Monsieur le Cure?” asked De la Riviere testily.
“My dear friend, Monsieur Garon, has answered for us both,” replied the Cure quietly.
“Do you mean to say that you will not act with me to stop this thing,” he urged—“not even for the safety of the people?”
The reply was calm and resolute:
“My people shall have my prayers and my life, when needed, but I do not feel called upon to act for the State. I have the honour to be a friend of His Excellency.”
“By Heaven, the State shall act!” cried De la Riviere, fierce with rancour. “I shall go to this Valmond to-night, with my friend the member here. I shall warn him, and call upon the people to disperse. If he doesn’t listen, let him beware! I seem to stand alone in the care of Pontiac!”
The avocat turned to his desk. “No, no; I will write you a legal opinion,” he said, with professional honesty. “You shall have my legal help; but for the rest, I am at one with my dear Cure.”
“Well, Medallion, you too?” asked De la Riviere. “I’ll go with you to the camp,” answered the auctioneer. “Fair play is all I care for. Pontiac will come out of this all right. Come along.”
But the avocat kept them till he had written his legal opinion and had handed it courteously to the young Seigneur. They were all silent. There had been a discourtesy, and it lay like a cloud on the coterie. De la Riviere opened the door to go out, after bowing to the Cure and the avocat, who stood up with mannered politeness; but presently he turned, came back, was about to speak, when, catching sight of a miniature of Valmond on the avocat’s desk, before which was set a bunch of violets, he wheeled and left the room without a word.
The moon had not yet risen, but stars were shining, when the young Seigneur and the member came to Dalgrothe Mountain. On one side of the Rock of Red Pigeons was a precipice and wild water; on the other was a deep valley like a cup, and in the centre of this was a sort of plateau or gentle slope. Dalgrothe Mountain towered above. Upon this plateau Valmond had pitched his tents. There was water, there was good air, and for purposes of drill—or defence—it was excellent. The approaches were patrolled, so that no outside stragglers could reach either the Rock of Red Pigeons or the valley, or see what was going on below, without permission. Lagroin was everywhere, drilling, commanding, browbeating his recruits one minute, and praising them the next. Lajeunesse, Garotte, and Muroc were invaluable, each after his kind. Duclosse the mealman was sutler.
The young Seigneur and his companions were not challenged, and they passed on up to the Rock of Red Pigeons. Looking down, they had a perfect view of the encampment. The tents had come from lumber-camps, from river-driving gangs, and from private stores; there was some regular uniform, flags were flying everywhere, many fires were burning, the voice of Lagroin in command came up the valley loudly, and Valmond watched the drill and a march past. The fires lit up the sides of the valley and glorified the mountains beyond. In this inspiring air it was impossible to feel an accent of disaster or to hear the stealthy footfall of ruin.
The three journeyed down into the valley, then up onto the plateau, where they were challenged, allowed to pass, and came to where Valmond sat upon his horse. At sight of them, with a suspicion of the truth, he ordered Lagroin to march the men down the long plateau. They made a good figure filing past the three visitors, as the young Seigneur admitted.
Valmond got from his horse, and waited for them. He looked weary, and there were dark circles round his eyes, as though he had had an illness; but he stood erect and quiet. His uniform was that of a general of the Empire. It was rather dingy, yet it was of rich material, and he wore the ribbon of the Legion of Honour on his breast. His paleness was not of fear, for when his eyes met Monsieur De la Riviere’s, there was in them waiting, inquiry—nothing more. He greeted them all politely, and Medallion warmly, shaking his hand twice; for he knew well that the gaunt auctioneer had only kindness in his heart; and they had exchanged humorous stories more than once—a friendly bond.
He motioned towards his tent near by, but the young Seigneur declined. Valmond looked round, and ordered away a listening soldier.
“It is business and imperative,” said De la Riviere. Valmond bowed. “Isn’t it time this burlesque was ended?” continued the challenger, waving a hand towards the encampment.
“My presence here is my reply,” answered Valmond. “But how does it concern monsieur?”
“All that concerns Pontiac concerns me.”
“And me; I am as good a citizen as you.”
“You are troubling our people. This is illegal—this bearing arms, these purposes of yours. It is mere filibustering, and you are an—”
Valmond waved his hand, as if to stop the word. “I am Valmond Napoleon, monsieur.”
“If you do not promise to forego this, I will arrest you,” said De la Riviere sharply.
“You?” Valmond smiled ironically.
“I am a justice of the peace. I have the power.”
“I have the power to prevent arrest, and I will prevent it, monsieur. You alone of all this parish, I believe of all this province, turn a sour face, a sour heart, to me. I regret it, but I do not fear it.”
“I will have you in custody, or there is no law in Quebec,” was the acrid set-out.
Valmond’s face was a feverish red now, and he made an impatient gesture. Both men had bitter hearts, for both knew well that the touchstone of this malice was Madame Chalice. Hatred looked out of their eyes. It was, each knew, a fight to the dark end.
“There is not law enough to justify you, monsieur,” answered Valmond quickly.
“Be persuaded, monsieur,” urged the member to Valmond, with a persuasive, smirking gesture.
“All this country could not persuade me; only France can do that; and first I shall persuade France,” he answered, speaking to his old cue stoutly.
“Mummer!” broke out De la Riviere. “By God, I will arrest you now!”
He stepped forward, putting his hand in his breast, as if to draw a weapon, though, in truth, it was a summons.
Like lightning the dwarf shot in between, and a sword flashed up at De la Riviere’s breast.
“I saved your father’s life, but I will take yours, if you step farther, dear Seigneur,” he said coolly.
Valmond had not stirred, but his face was pale again.
“That will do, Parpon,” he said quietly. “Monsieur had better go,” he added to De la Riviere, “or even his beloved law may not save him!”
“I will put an end to this,” cried the other, bursting with anger. “Come, gentlemen,” he said to his companions, and turned away.
Medallion paused, then came to Valmond and said: “Your Excellency, if ever you need me, let me know. I’d do much to prove myself no enemy.”
Valmond gave him his hand courteously, bowed, and, beckoning a soldier to take his horse, walked towards his tent. He swayed slightly as he went, then a trembling seized him. He staggered as he entered the door of the tent, and Parpon, seeing, ran forward and caught him in his arms. The little man laid him down, felt his pulse, his heart, saw a little black stain on his lips, and cried out in a great fear:
“My God! The black fever! Ah, my Napoleon!”
Valmond lay in a burning stupor; and word went abroad that he might die; but Parpon insisted that he would be well presently, and at first would let no one but the Little Chemist and the Cure come in or near the tent.
All books are sourced from Project Gutenberg