Did you ever think, Robert,” he added, “that this breathing of ours is a labor, and that we have to work every second to keep ourselves alive? We have to pump air in and out like a blacksmith’s boy.” He said it so drolly, though he was deadly ill, that I laughed for half an hour at the stretch, wiping away my tears as I did it; for his pale gray face looked so sorry, with its quaint smile and that odd, dry voice of his.
As I sat there in my dungeon, with Gabord cocking his head and his eyes rolling, that scene flashed on me, and I laughed freely—so much so that Gabord sulkily puffed out his lips, and flamed like bunting on a coast-guard’s hut. The more he scowled and spluttered, the more I laughed, till my wounded side hurt me and my arm had twinges. But my mood changed suddenly, and I politely begged his pardon, telling him frankly then and there what had made me laugh, and how I had come to think of it. The flame passed out of his cheeks, the revolving fire of his eyes dimmed, his lips broke into a soundless laugh, and then, in his big voice, he said:
“You’ve got your knees to pray on yet, and crack my bones, but you’ll have need to con your penitentials if tattle in the town be true.”
“Before you tell of that,” said I, “how is young Monsieur Duvarney? Is—is he alive?” I added, as I saw his face look lower.
“The Beast was at door again last night, wild to be off, and foot of young Seigneur was in the stirrup, when along comes sister with drug got from an Indian squaw who nursed her when a child. She gives it him, and he drinks; they carry him back, sleeping, and Beast must stand there tugging at the leathers yet.”
“His sister—it was his sister,” said I, “that brought him back to life?”
“Like that—aho! They said she must not come, but she will have her way. Straight she goes to the palace at night, no one knowing but—guess who? You can’t—but no!”
A light broke in on me. “With the Scarlet Woman—with Mathilde,” I said, hoping in my heart that it was so, for somehow I felt even then that she, poor vagrant, would play a part in the history of Alixe’s life and mine.
“At the first shot,” he said. “ ’Twas the crimson one, as quiet as a baby chick, not hanging to ma’m’selle’s skirts, but watching and whispering a little now and then—and she there in Bigot’s palace, and he not knowing it! And maids do not tell him, for they knew the poor wench in better days—aho!”
I got up with effort and pain, and made to grasp his hand in gratitude, but he drew back, putting his arms behind him.
“No, no,” said he, “I am your jailer. They’ve put you here to break your high spirits, and I’m to help the breaking.”
“But I thank you just the same,” I answered him; “and I promise to give you as little trouble as may be while you are my jailer—which, with all my heart, I hope may be as long as I’m a prisoner.”
He waved out his hands to the dungeon walls, and lifted his shoulders as if to say that I might as well be docile, for the prison was safe enough. “Poom!” said he, as if in genial disdain of my suggestion.
I smiled, and then, after putting my hands on the walls here and there to see if they were, as they seemed, quite dry, I drew back to my couch and sat down. Presently I stooped to tip the earthen jar of water to my lips, for I could not lift it with one hand, but my humane jailer took it from me and held it to my mouth. When I had drunk, “Do you know,” asked I as calmly as I could, “if our barber gave the letter to Mademoiselle?”
“M’sieu’, you’ve travelled far to reach that question,” said he, jangling his keys as if he enjoyed it. “And if he had—?”
I caught at his vague suggestion, and my heart leaped.
“A reply,” said I, “a message or a letter,” though I had not dared to let myself even think of that.
He whipped a tiny packet from his coat. “ ’Tis a sparrow’s pecking—no great matter here, eh?”—he weighed it up and down on his fingers—“a little piping wren’s par pitie.”
I reached out for it. “I should read it,” said he. “There must be no more of this. But new orders came AFTER I’d got her dainty a m’sieu’! Yes, I must read it,” said he—“but maybe not at first,” he added, “not at first, if you’ll give word of honour not to tear it.”
“On my sacred honour,” said I, reaching out still.
He looked it all over again provokingly, and then lifted it to his nose, for it had a delicate perfume. Then he gave a little grunt of wonder and pleasure, and handed it over.
I broke the seal, and my eyes ran swiftly through the lines, traced in a firm, delicate hand. I could see through it all the fine, sound nature, by its healthy simplicity mastering anxiety, care, and fear.
“Robert,” she wrote, “by God’s help my brother will live, to repent with you, I trust, of Friday night’s ill work. He was near gone, yet we have held him back from that rough-rider, Death.
“You will thank God, will you not, that my brother did not die? Indeed, I feel you have. I do not blame you; I know—I need not tell you how—the heart of the affair; and even my mother can see through the wretched thing. My father says little, and he has not spoken harshly; for which I gave thanksgiving this morning in the chapel of the Ursulines. Yet you are in a dungeon, covered with wounds of my brother’s making, both of you victims of others’ villainy, and you are yet to bear worse things, for they are to try you for your life. But never shall I believe that they will find you guilty of dishonour. I have watched you these three years; I do not, nor ever will, doubt you, dear friend of my heart.
“You would not believe it, Robert, and you may think it fanciful, but as I got up from my prayers at the chapel I looked towards a window, and it being a little open, for it is a sunny day, there sat a bird on the sill, a little brown bird that peeped and nodded. I was so won by it that I came softly over to it. It did not fly away, but hopped a little here and there. I stretched out my hand gently on the stone, and putting its head now this side, now that, at last it tripped into it, and chirped most sweetly. After I had kissed it I placed it back on the window-sill, that it might fly away again. Yet no, it would not go, but stayed there, tipping its gold-brown head at me as though it would invite me to guess why it came. Again I reached out my hand, and once more it tripped into it. I stood wondering and holding it to my bosom, when I heard a voice behind me say, ‘The bird would be with thee, my child. God hath many signs.’ I turned and saw the good Mere St. George looking at me, she of whom I was always afraid, so distant is she. I did not speak, but only looked at her, and she nodded kindly at me and passed on.
“And, Robert, as I write to you here in the Intendant’s palace (what a great wonderful place it is! I fear I do not hate it and its luxury as I ought!), the bird is beside me in a cage upon the table, with a little window open, so that it may come out if it will. My brother lies in the bed asleep; I can touch him if I but put out my hand, and I am alone save for one person. You sent two messengers: can you not guess the one that will be with me? Poor Mathilde, she sits and gazes at me till I almost fall weeping. But she seldom speaks, she is so quiet—as if she knew that she must keep a secret. For, Robert, though I know you did not tell her, she knows—she knows that you love me, and she has given me a little wooden cross which she said will make us happy.
“My mother did not drive her away, as I half feared she would, and at last she said that I might house her with one of our peasants. Meanwhile she is with me here. She is not so mad but that she has wisdom too, and she shall have my care and friendship.
“I bid thee to God’s care, Robert. I need not tell thee to be not dismayed. Thou hast two jails, and one wherein I lock thee safe is warm and full of light. If the hours drag by, think of all thou wouldst do if thou wert free to go to thine own country—yet alas that thought!—and of what thou wouldst say if thou couldst speak to thy ALIXE.
“Postscript.—I trust that they have cared for thy wounds, and that thou hast light and food and wine. Voban hath