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!




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