Part 4 (1/2)
”Who is she, Klussman?”
”I know not what name she bears now, but two years since she bore the name of Marguerite Klussman.”
”Surely she is not your sister?”
”No, madame. She is only my wife.” He lifted his lip, and his blue eyes stared at the m.u.f.fled culprit.
”We knew not you had a wife when you entered our service, Klussman.”
”Nor had I, madame. D'Aulnay de Charnisay had already taken her.”
”Then this woman does come from D'Aulnay de Charnisay?”
”Yes, madame! And if you would have my advice, I say put her out of the gate this instant, and let her find shelter with our Indians above the falls.”
”Madame,” exclaimed Zelie, lifting the half-nude infant, and thrusting it before her mistress with importunity which could wait no longer, ”of your kindness look at this little creature. With all my chafing and sprinkling I cannot find any life in it. That girl hath let it die on her knees, and hath not made it known!”
Klussman's glance rested on the body with that abashed hatred which a man condemns in himself when its object is helpless.
”It is D'Aulnay's child,” he muttered, as if stating abundant reason for its taking off.
”I have brought an agent from D'Aulnay and D'Aulnay's child into our fortress,” said Madame La Tour, speaking toward Marguerite's silent cover, under which the girl made no sign of being more than a hidden animal. Her stern face traveled from mother back to tiny body.
There is nothing more touching than the emaciation of a baby. Its sunken temples and evident cheekbones, the line of its jaw, the piteous parted lips and thin neck were all reflected in Marie's eyes. Her entire figure softened, and pa.s.sionate motherhood filled her. She took the still pliant shape from Zelie, held it in her hands, and finally pressed it against her bosom. No sign of mourning came from the woman called its mother.
”This baby is no enemy of ours,” trembled Madame La Tour. ”I will not have it even reproached with being the child of our enemy. It is my little dead lad come again to my bosom. How soft are his dear limbs! And this child died for lack of loving while I went with empty arms! Have you suffered, dear? It is all done now. Mother will give you kisses,--kisses. Oh, baby,--baby!”
Klussman turned away, and Zelie whimpered. But Le Rossignol thrust her head around the settle to see what manner of creature it was over which Madame Marie sobbed aloud.
III.
FATHER ISAAC JOGUES.
The child abandoned by La Tour's enemy had been carried to the upper floor, and the woman sent with a soldier's wife to the barracks; yet Madame La Tour continued to walk the stone flags, feeling that small skeleton on her bosom, and the pressure of death on the air.
Her Swiss lieutenant opened the door and uttered a call. Presently, with a clatter of hoofs on the pavement, and a mighty rasping of the half-tree which they dragged, in burst eight Sable Island ponies, s.h.a.ggy fellows, smaller than mastiffs, yet with large heads. The settles were hastily cleared away for them, and they swept their load to the hearth.
As soon as their chain was unhooked, these fairy horses shot out again, and their joyful neighing could be heard as they scampered around the fort to their stable. Two men rolled the log into place, set a table and three chairs, and one returned to the cook-house while the other spread the cloth.
Claude La Tour and his wife, the maid of honor, seemed to palpitate in their frames, with the flickering expressions of firelight. The silent company of these two people was always enjoyed by Le Rossignol. She knew their disappointments, and liked to have them stir and sigh. In the daytime, the set courtier smile was sadder than a pine forest. But the chimney's huge throat drew in the hall's heavy influences, and when the log was fired not a corner escaped its glow. The man who laid the cloth lighted candles in a silver candelabrum and set it on the table, and carried a brand to waxlights which decorated the buffet.
These cheerful preparations for her evening meal recalled Madame La Tour to the garrison's affairs. Her Swiss lieutenant yet stood by, his arms and chin settled sullenly on his breast; reluctant to go out and pa.s.s the barrack door where his wife was sheltered.
”Are sentinels set for the night, Klussman?” inquired the lady.
He stood erect, and answered, ”Yes, madame.”
”I will not wait for my supper before I hear your news. Discharge it now. I understand the grief you bear, my friend. Your lord will not forget the faithfulness you show toward us.”
”Madame, if I may speak again, put that woman out of the gate. If she lingers around, I may do her some hurt when I have a loaded piece in my hand. She makes me less a man.”