Part 17 (1/2)

'He died when the Emperor was only taken. I too would have gone to my grave smiling, could I have thought that my Emperor would come riding over it with all his army around him again! But he is dead,--my Emperor is dead! Ah! that comrade was a happy man; he died! He did not have to stand by, while the English--may they be forever cursed!--slowly, slowly murdered him,--murdered the great Napoleon! No; that comrade died. Perhaps he is with the Emperor now,--that comrade-grenadier.'

'To be with his Emperor was Jacques's idea of heaven.

'From that moment each time I visited the Agency I must repeat the verses again and again; they became a sort of hymn. Jacques had not the capacity to learn the ballad, although he so often listened to it, but the seventh verse he managed to repeat after a fas.h.i.+on of his own, setting it to a nondescript tune, and crooning it about the house as he came and went on his little rounds. Gradually he altered the words, but I could not make out the new phrases as he muttered them over to himself, as if trying them.

'What is it you are saying, Jacques'? I asked.

'But he would not tell me. After a time I discovered that he had added the altered verse to his prayers; for always when I was at the Agency I went with him to the sanctuary, if for no other purpose than to prevent the uttered imprecation that served as amen for the whole. The verse, whatever it was, came in before this.

'So the summer pa.s.sed. The vague intention of going on to the Red River of the North had faded away, and Jacques lived along on the island as though he had never lived anywhere else. He grew wonted to the Agency, like some old family cat, until he seemed to belong to the house, and all thought of disturbing him was forgotten. 'There is Jacques out was.h.i.+ng his cloths.' 'There is Jacques going to buy his coffee,' 'There is Jacques sitting on the piazza,' said the islanders; the old man served them instead of a clock.

'One dark autumn day I came over from the Chenaux to get the mail. The water was rough, and my boat, tilted far over on one side, skimmed the crests of the waves in the daring fas.h.i.+on peculiar to the Mackinac craft: the mail-steamer had not come in, owing to the storm outside, and I went on to the Agency to see Jacques. He seemed as usual, and we had dinner over the little fire, for the day was chilly; the meal over, my host put everything in order again in his methodical way, and then retired to his sanctuary for prayers. I followed, and stood in the doorway while he knelt. The room was dusky, and the uniform with its outstretched sabre looked like a dead soldier leaning against the wall; the face of Napoleon opposite seemed to gaze down on Jacques as he knelt, as though listening. Jacques muttered his prayers, and I responded Amen! then, after a silence, came the altered verse; then with a quick glance toward me, another silence, which I felt sure contained the unspoken curse. Gravely he led the way back to the kitchen--for, owing to the cold, he allowed me to dispense with the parlor,--and there we spent the afternoon together, talking and watching for the mail-boat. 'Jacques,' I said, 'what is that verse you have added to your prayers! Come, my friend, why should you keep it from me?'

'It is nothing, mon pere,--nothing.' he replied. But again I urged him to tell me; more to pa.s.s away the time than from any real interest.

'Come,' I said, 'it may be your last chance. Who knows but that I may be drowned on my way back to the Chenaux?'

'True,' replied the old soldier calmly. 'Well, then, here it is, mon pere: my death-wish. Voila!'

'Something you wish to have done after death?'

'Yes.'

'And who is to do it?'

'My Emperor.'

'But, Jacques, the Emperor is dead.'

'He will have done it all the same, mon pere.'

'In vain I argued; Jacques was calmly obstinate. He had mixed up his Emperor with the stories of the Saints; why should not Napoleon do what they had done?

'What is the verse, any way?' I said at last.

'It is my death-wish, as I said before, mon pere.' And he repeated the following. He said it in French, for I had given him a French translation, as he knew nothing of German; but I will give you the English, as he had altered it:--

'The Emperor's face with its green leaf-band Shall rest on my heart that loved him so.

Give me the sprig in my dead hand, My uniform and sabre around me.

Amen.'

'So prays Grenadier Jacques.

'The old soldier had sacrificed the smooth metre; but I understood what he meant.

'The storm increased, and I spent the night at the Agency, lying on the bed of boughs, covered with a blanket. The house shook in the gale, the shutters rattled, and all the floors near and far creaked as though feet were walking over them. I was wakeful and restless, but Jacques slept quietly, and did not stir until daylight broke over the stormy water, showing the s.h.i.+ps scudding by under bare poles, and the distant mail-boat laboring up toward the island through the heavy sea.

My host made his toilet, was.h.i.+ng and shaving himself carefully, and putting on his old clothes as though going on parade. Then came breakfast, with a stew added in honor of my presence; and as by this time the steamer was not far from Round Island, I started down toward the little post-office, anxious to receive some expected letters. The steamer came in slowly, the mail was distributed slowly, and I stopped to read my letters before returning. I had a picture-paper for Jacques, and as I looked out across the straits, I saw that the storm was over, and decided to return to the Chenaux in the afternoon, leaving word with my half-breeds to have the sail-boat in readiness at three o'clock. The sun was throwing out a watery gleam as, after the lapse of an hour or two, I walked up the limestone road and entered the great gate of the Agency. As I came through the garden along the cherry-tree avenue I saw Jacques sitting on that bench in the sun, for this was his hour for suns.h.i.+ne; his staff was in his hand, and he was leaning back against the side of the house with his eyes closed, as if in revery. 'Jacques, here is a picture-paper for you,' I said, laying my hand on his shoulder. He did not answer. He was dead.