How Brother Jacques, the Chevalier, Madame de Brissac and Anne de
Vaudemont, guided by the Black Kettle, reached Quebec late in November,
passing through a thousand perils, the bitter cold of nights and the
silence of days more terrifying than the wolf's howl or the whine of
the panther whose jaws dripped with the water of hunger, is history, as
is the final doom of the Onondaga mission, which occurred early the
following year. What became of the vicomte's confederates is unknown.
All throughout the wild journey the Chevalier's efforts were directed
toward keeping up the lagging spirits of the women, who found it easier
to despair than to hope. Night after night he sat beside them during
his watch, always giving up his place reluctantly. That his constant
cheeriness had its effect there is no doubt; for before they came
within sight of the château madame had smiled twice.
They arrived in Quebec late in the afternoon. Immediately Anne entered
the Ursulines, to come forth again only when a nun.
Breton fell upon his ragged knees in thanksgiving. The sight of his
gaunt, bearded master filled him with the keenest joy, for this master
of his had been given up as dead.
"And Monsieur le Marquis?" was the Chevalier's first question.
"He lives."
Early that evening Breton came to the Chevalier, who was dreaming
before his fire.
"Monsieur Paul, but I have found such a remarkable paper in my copy of
Rabelais! Here it is."
The Chevalier glanced at it indifferently . . . and at once became
absorbed. It was the list of the cabal which had cost the lives of
four strong men. He remained seated, lost in meditation. From time to
time he opened the paper and refolded it. The movement was purely
mechanical, and had no significance.
"Monsieur," said Breton timidly, "will you do me the honor to tell me
what has happened? Monsieur de Saumaise, the vicomte and Monsieur
d'Hérouville; they are not with you?"
"Well, lad, perhaps it is due you;" and the Chevalier recounted a
simple story of what had befallen him.
"Ah, that brave Monsieur de Saumaise!" exclaimed Breton, tears in his
eyes. "And what became of the grey cloak, Monsieur?"
The Chevalier did not immediately reply.
"What became of it, Monsieur?"
"The Vicomte d'Halluys sleeps in it, lad. It is his shroud."
And not another word spoke the Chevalier to Breton that night. He sat
before the bright chimney: old scenes, old scenes, with the gay poet
moving blithely among them. Madame had heard the vicomte's insults,
but now there was nothing to explain to her. What should he do with
his useless life? There was no future; everything beyond was dark with
monotony. It was a cruel revenge madame had taken, but she had asked
his forgiveness, and he had forgiven. Would she return to France in
the spring? Would she become a nun? Would his father live or die, and
would he send for him? The winter wind sang in the chimney and the
windows shuddered. He looked out. It was the storm of the winds which
bring no snow. Nine o'clock! How long the nights would be now, having
no dreams!