# D'ri and I/Chapter 24

XXIV 325
here was a dignity in the manners of M. de Lambert to me formidable and oppressive. It showed in his tall, erect figure, his deep tone, his silvered hair and mustache. There was a merry word between the kisses of one daughter; between those of the other only tears and a broken murmur.
"Oh, papa," said Louison, as she greeted him, "I do love you—but I dread that—tickly old mustache. Mon Dieu! what a lover—you must have been!"
Then she presented me, and put her hand upon my arm, looking proudly at her father.
"My captain!" said she. "Did you ever see a handsomer Frenchman?"
"There are many, and here is one," said he, turning to the young count, who stood behind ​him—a fine youth, tall, strong-built, well-spoken, with blond hair and dark, keen eyes. I admit frankly I had not seen a better figure of a man. I assure you, he had the form of Hercules, the eye of Mars. It was an eye to command—women; for I had small reason to admire his courage when I knew him better. He took a hand of each young lady, and kissed it with admirable gallantry.
"Dieu! it is not so easy always to agree with one's father," said Louison.
We went riding that afternoon—Thérèse and her marquis and Louison and I. The first two went on ahead of us; we rode slowly, and for a time no word was spoken. Winds had stripped the timber, and swept its harvest to the walls and hollows, where it lay bleaching in the sun. Birch and oak and maple were holding bared arms to the wind, as if to toughen them for storm and stress. I felt a mighty sadness, wondering if my own arms were quite seasoned for all that was to come. The merry-hearted girl beside me was ever like a day of June—the color of the rose in her cheek, its odor always in her hair and lace. There was never an hour of autumn in her life.
"Only thinking," I said.
"Of what?"
"Dieu! of the dead summer," I continued.
"Believe me, it does not pay to think," she interrupted. "I tried it once, and made a sad discovery."
"Of what?"
"A fool!" said she, laughing.
"I should think it—it might have been a coquette," said I, lightly.
"Why, upon my word," said she, "I believe you misjudge me. Do you think me heartless?"
For the first time I saw a shadow in her face.
"No; but you are young and—and beautiful, and—"
"What?" she broke in impatiently, as I hesitated. "I long to know."
"Men will love you in spite of all you can do," I added.
"Captain!" said she, turning her face away.
"Many will love you, and—and you can choose only one—a very hard thing to do—possibly."
I had kept myself well in hand, for I was full of doubts that day; but the clever girl came near taking me, horse, foot, and guns, that moment. She spoke so charmingly, she looked so winning, and then, was it not easy to ask if I were the lucky one? She knew I loved her, I knew that she had loved me, and I might as well confess. But no; I was not ready.
"You must be stern with the others; you must not let them tell you," I went on.
"Ciel!" said she, laughing, "one might as well go to a nunnery. May not a girl enjoy her beauty? It is sweet to her."
"But do not make it bitter for the poor men. Dieu! I am one of them, and know their sorrows."
"And you—you have been in love?"
"Desperately," I answered, clinging by the finger-tips. Somehow we kept drifting into fateful moments when a word even might have changed all that has been—our life way, the skies above us, the friends we have known, our loves, our very souls.
"Captain, you are a foolish fellow," said she, with a little shudder. "And I—well, I am cold. Parbleu! feel my hand."
She had drawn her glove quickly, and held out her hand, white and beautiful, a dainty finger in a gorget of gems. That little cold, trembling hand seemed to lay hold of my heart and pull me to her. As my lips touched the palm I felt its mighty magic. Dear girl! I wonder if she planned that trial for me.
"We must—ride—faster. You—you—are cold," I stammered.
She held her hand so that the sunlight flashed in the jewels, and looked down upon it proudly.
"Do you think it beautiful?" she asked.
"Yes, and wonderful," I said. "But, mark me, it is all a sacred trust—the beauty you have."
"Sacred?"
"Preacher!" said she, with a smile. "You should give yourself to the church."
"I can do better with the sword of steel," I said.
"But do not be sad. Cheer up, dear fellow!" she went on, patting my elbow with a pretty mockery. "We women are not—not so bad. When I find the man I love—"
Her voice faltered as she began fussing with her stirrup.
I turned with a look of inquiry, changing quickly to one of admiration.
"I shall make him love me, if I can," she went on soberly.
"And if he does?" I queried, my blood quickening as our eyes met.
"Dieu! I would do anything for him," said she.
I turned away, looking off at the brown fields. Ah, then, for a breath, my heart begged my will for utterance. The first word passed my lips when there came a sound of galloping hoofs and Thérèse and the marquis.
"And he is the worst robber that shortens the hour of love," said the marquis, smiling.
We turned, following them at a swift gallop. They had helped me out of that mire of ecstasy, and now I was glad, for, on my soul, I believed the fair girl had found one more to her liking, and was only playing for my scalp. And at last I had begun to know my own heart, or thought I had.
D'ri came over that evening with a letter from General Brown. He desired me to report for duty next day at two.
"War—it is forever war," said Thérèse, when I told her at dinner. "There is to be a coaching-party to-morrow, and we shall miss you, captain."
"Can you not soon return?" said the baroness.
"I fear not," was my answer. "It is to be a long campaign."
"Oh, the war! When will it ever end?" said Louise, sighing.
"Of loneliness?" said the old count, with a smile.
"No; of old age," said Louison, quickly.
"When the army goes into Canada it will go into trouble," said the Comte de Chaumont, speaking in French. "We shall have to get you out of captivity, captain."
"Louise would rescue him," said her sister. "She has influence there."
"Would you pay my ransom?" I inquired, turning to her.
"With my life," said she, solemnly.
"Greater love hath no man than this," said the good Père Joulin, smiling as the others laughed.
"And none has greater obligation," said Louise, blushing with embarrassment. "Has he not brought us three out of captivity?"
"Well, if I am taken," I said, "nothing can bring me back unless it be—"
"A miracle?" the baroness prompted as I paused.
"Yes; even a resurrection," was my answer. "I know what it means for a man to be captured there these days."
"It was very strange," said she, in conclusion. "That Englishman grew kinder every day we were there, until we began to feel at home."
They were all mystified, but I thought I could understand it. We had a long evening of music, and I bade them all good-by before going to bed, for they were to be off early.
Well, the morning came clear, and before I was out of bed I heard the coach-horn, the merry laughter of ladies under my window, the prancing hoofs, and the crack of the whip as they all went away. It surprised me greatly to find Louise at the breakfast table when I came below-stairs; I shall not try to say how ​much it pleased me. She was gowned in pink, a red rose at her bosom. I remember, as if it were yesterday, the brightness of her big eyes, the glow in her cheeks, the sweet dignity of her tall, fine figure when she rose and gave me her hand.
"I did feel sorry, ma'm'selle, that I could not go; but now—now I am happy," was my remark.
"Oh, captain, you are very gallant," said she, as we took seats. "I was not in the mood for merrymaking, and then, I am reading a book."
"A book! May its covers be the gates of happiness," I answered.
"Eh bien! it is a tale of love," said she.
"Of a man for a woman?" I inquired.
"Of a lady that loved two knights, and knew not which the better."
"Is it possible and—and reasonable?" I inquired. "In a tale things should go as—well, as God plans them."
"Quite possible," said she, "for in such a thing as love who knows what—what may happen?"
"Except he have a wide experience," I answered.
"And which will she favor?"
"Alas! I have not read, and do not know her enough to judge," was her answer; "but I shall hate her if she does not take him with the better soul."
"And why?" I could hear my heart beating.
"Love is not love unless it be—" She paused, thinking. "Dieu! from soul to soul," she added feelingly.
She was looking down, a white, tapered finger stirring the red petals of the rose. Then she spoke in a low, sweet tone that trembled with holy feeling and cut me like a sword of the spirit going to its very hilt in my soul.
"Love looks to what is noble," said she, "or it is vain—it is wicked; it fails; it dies in a day, like the rose. True love, that is forever."
"What if it be hopeless?" I whispered.
"Ah! then it is very bitter," said she, her ​voice diminishing. "It may kill the body, but—but love does not die. When it comes—" There was a breath of silence that had in it a strange harmony not of this world.
"‘When it comes'?" I whispered.
"You see the coming of a great king," said she, looking down thoughtfully, her chin, upon her hand.
"And all people bow their heads," I said.
"Yes," she added, with a sigh, "and give their bodies to be burned, if he ask it. The king is cruel—sometimes."
"Dieu!" said I. "He has many captives."
She broke a sprig of fern, twirling it in her fingers; her big eyes looked up at me, and saw, I know, to the bottom of my soul.
"But long live the king!" said she, her lips trembling, her cheeks as red as the rose upon her bosom.
"Long live the king!" I murmured.
We dared go no farther. Sweet philosopher, inspired of Heaven, I could not bear the look of her, and rose quickly with dim eyes and went out of the open door. A revelation had come to me. Mere de Dieu! how I loved that ​woman so fashioned in thy image! She followed me, and laid her hand upon my arm tenderly, while I shook with emotion.
"Captain," said she, in that sweet voice, "captain, what have I done?"
It was the first day of the Indian summer, a memorable season that year, when, according to an old legend, the Great Father sits idly on the mountain-tops and blows the smoke of his long pipe into the valleys. In a moment I was quite calm, and stood looking off to the hazy hollows of the far field. I gave her my arm without speaking, and we walked slowly down a garden path. For a time neither broke the silence.
"I did not know—I did not know," she whispered presently.
"And I—must—tell you," I said brokenly, "that I—that I—"
"Hush-sh-sh!" she whispered, her hand over my lips. "Say no more! say no more! If it is true, go—go quickly, I beg of you!"
There was such a note of pleading in her voice, I hear it, after all this long time, in the ​hushed moments of my life, night or day. "Go—go quickly, I beg of you!" We were both near breaking down.
"Vive le roi!" I whispered, taking her hand.
"Vive le roi!" she whispered, turning away.