Part 11 (2/2)

”Like enough,” replied the dame indifferently. ”She wouldn't wince, either,--not she.”

Alice ran into the house with the foils and Beverley followed.

”We must try it over again some day soon,” he said; ”I find that you can show me a few points. Where did you learn to fence so admirably? Is Monsieur Roussillon your master?”

”Indeed he isn't,” she quickly replied, ”he is but a bungling swordsman. My master--but I am not at liberty to tell you who has taught me the little I know.”

”Well, whoever he is I should be glad to have lessons from him.”

”But you'll never get them.”

”Why?”

”Because.”

”A woman's ultimatum.”

”As good as a man's!” she bridled prettily; ”and sometimes better--at the foils for example. Vous--comprenez, n'est ce pas?”

He laughed heartily.

”Yes, your point reaches me,” he said, ”but sperat et in saeva victus gladiatur arena, as the old Latin poet wisely remarks.” The quotation was meant to tease her.

”Yes, Montaigne translated that or something in his book,” she commented with prompt erudition. ”I understand it.”

Beverley looked amazed.

”What do you know about Montaigne?” he demanded with a blunt brevity amounting to something like gruffness.

”Sh', Monsieur, not too loud,” she softly protested, looking around to see that neither Madame Roussillon nor Jean had followed them into the main room. ”It is not permitted that I read that old book; but they do not hide it from me, because they think I can't make out its dreadful spelling.”

She smiled so that her cheeks drew their dimples deep into the delicately tinted pink-and-brown, where wind and sun and wholesome exercise had set the seal of absolute health, and took from a niche in the logs of the wall a stained and dog-eared volume. He looked, and it was, indeed, the old saint and sinner, Montaigne.

Involuntarily he ran his eyes over the girl from head to foot, comparing her show of knowledge with the outward badges of abject rusticity, and even wildness, with which she was covered.

”Well,” he said, ”you are a mystery.”

”You think it surprising that I can read a book! Frankly I can't understand half of this one. I read it because--well just because they want me to read about nothing but sickly old saints and woe-begone penitents. I like something lively. What do I care for all that uninteresting religious stuff?”

”Montaigne IS decidedly lively in spots,” Beverley remarked. ”I shouldn't think a girl--I shouldn't think you'd particularly enjoy his humors.”

”I don't care for the book at all,” she said, flus.h.i.+ng quickly, ”only I seem to learn about the world from it. Sometimes it seems as if it lifted me up high above all this wild, lonely and tiresome country, so that I can see far off where things are different and beautiful. It is the same with the novels; and they don't permit me to read them either; but all the same I do.”

When Beverley, taking his leave, pa.s.sed through the gate at Roussillon place, he met Rene de Ronville going in. It was a notable coincidence that each young man felt something troublesome rise in his throat as he looked into the other's eyes.

A week of dreamy autumn weather came on, during which Beverley managed to be with Alice a great deal, mostly sitting on the Roussillon gallery, where the fading vine leaves made fairy whispering, and where the tempered breeze blew deliciously cool from over the distant multi-colored woods. The men of Vincennes were gathering their Indian corn early to dry it on the cob for grating into winter meal. Many women made wine from the native grapes and from the sweeter and richer fruit of imported vines. Madame Roussillon and Alice stained their hands a deep purple during the pressing season, and Beverley found himself engaged in helping them handle the juicy crop, while around the overflowing earthen pots the wild bees, wasps and hornets hummed with an incessant, jarring monotony.

Jean, the hunchback, gathered ample stores of hickory nuts, walnuts, hazel-nuts and pin-oak acorns. Indeed, the whole population of the village made a great spurt of industry just before the falling of winter; and presently, when every preparation had been completed for the dreaded cold season, M. Roussillon carried out his long-cherished plan, and gave a great party at the river house. After the most successful trading experience of all his life he felt irrepressibly liberal.

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