The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete - Gilbert Parker
"Dear Louis," she said presently, and as though en passant, "I have
dismissed Tardif to-day--I hope you won't mind these dull domestic
details, Cure," she added.
The Cure nodded and turned his head towards the window musingly. He was
thinking that she had done a wise thing in dismissing Tardif, for the man
had evil qualities, and he was hoping that he would leave the parish now.
The Seigneur nodded. "Then he will go. I have dismissed him--I have a
temper--many times, but he never went. It is foolish to dismiss a man in
a temper. He thinks you do not mean it. But our Madelinette there"--he
turned towards the Cure now--"she is never in a temper, and every one
always knows she means what she says; and she says it as even as a
clock." Then the egoist in him added: "I have power and imagination and
the faculty for great things; but Madelinette has serene judgment--a
tribute to you, Cure, who taught her in the old days."
"In any case, Tardif is going," she repeated quietly. "What did he do?"
said the Seigneur. "What was your grievance, beautiful Madame?"
He was looking at her with unfeigned admiration--with just such a look as
was in his face the first day they met in the Avocat's house on his
arrival in Pontiac. She turned and saw it, and remembered. The scene
flashed before her mind. The thought of herself then, with the flush of a
sunrise love suddenly rising in her heart, roused a torrent of feeling
now, and it required every bit of strength she had to prevent her
bursting into a passion of tears. In imagination she saw him there, a
straight, slim, handsome figure, with the very vanity of proud health
upon him, and ambition and passionate purpose in every line of his
figure, every glance of his eyes. Now--there he was, bent, frail, and
thin, with restless eyes and deep discontent in voice and manner; the
curved shoulder and the head grown suddenly old; the only thing, speaking
of the past, the graceful hand, filled with the illusory courage of a
declining vitality. But for the nervous force in him, the latent vitality
which renewed with stubborn persistence the failing forces, he was dead.
The brain kept commanding the body back to life and manhood daily.
"What did Tardif do?" the Seigneur again questioned, holding out a hand
to her.
She did not dare to take his hand lest her feelings should overcome her;
so with an assumed gaiety she put in it a rose from her basket and said:
"He has been pilfering. Also he was insolent. I suppose he could not help
remembering that I lived at the smithy once--the dear smithy," she added
softly.
"I will go at once and pay the scoundrel his wages," said the Seigneur,
rising, and with a nod to the Cure and his wife opened the door.
"Do not see him yourself, Louis," said Madelinette. "Not I. Havel shall
pay him and he shall take himself off to-morrow morning."
The door closed, and Madelinette was left alone with the Cure. She came
to him and said with a quivering in her voice:
"He mocked Louis."
"It is well that he should go. He is a bad man and a bad servant. I know
him too well."
"You see, he keeps saying"--she spoke very slowly--"that he witnessed a
will the Seigneur made in favour of Monsieur Fournel. He thinks us
interlopers, I suppose."
The Cure put a hand on hers gently. "There was a time when I felt that
Monsieur Fournel was the legal heir to the Seigneury, for Monsieur de la
Riviere had told me there was such a will; but since then I have changed
my mind. Your husband is the natural heir, and it is only just that the
Seigneury should go on in the direct line. It is best."
"Even with all Louis' mistakes?"
"Even with them. You have set them right, and you will keep him within
the bounds of wisdom and prudence. You are his guardian angel,
Madelinette."
She looked up at him with a pensive smile and a glance of gratitude.
"But suppose that will--if there is one--exists, see how false our
position!"
"Do you think it is mere accident that the will has never been found--if
it was not destroyed by the Seigneur himself before he died? No, there is
purpose behind it, with which neither you or I or Louis have anything to
do. Ah, it is good to have you here in this Seigneury, my child! What you
give us will return to you a thousandfold. Do not regret the world and
your work there. You will go back all too soon."
She was about to reply when the Seigneur again entered the room.
"I made up my mind that he should go at once, and so I've sent him
word--the rat!"
"I will leave you two to be drowned in the depths of your own
intelligence," said Madelinette; and taking her empty basket left the
room.
A strange compelling feeling drove her to the library where the fateful
panel was. With a strange sense that her wrong-doing was modified by the
fact, she had left the will where she had found it. She had a
superstition that fate would deal less harshly with her if she did. It
was not her way to temporise. She had concealed the discovery of the will
with an unswerving determination. It was for Louis, it was for his peace,
for the ease of his fading life, and she had no repentance. Yet there it
was, that curious, useless concession to old prejudices, the little touch
of hypocrisy--she left the will where she had found it. She had never
looked at it since, no matter how great the temptation, and sometimes
this was overpowering.
To-day it overpowered her. The house was very still and the blinds were
drawn to shut out the heat, but the soft din of the locusts came through
the windows. Her household were all engaged elsewhere. She shut the doors
of the little room, and kneeling on the table touched the spring. The
panel came back and disclosed the cupboard. There lay the will. She took
it up and opened it. Her eyes went dim on the instant, and she leaned her
forehead against the wall sick at heart.
As she did so a sudden gust of wind drove in the blind of the window. She
started, but saw what it was, and hastily putting the will back, closed
the panel, and with a fast-beating heart, left the room.
Late that evening she found a letter on her table addressed to herself.
It ran:
You've shipped me off like dirt. You'll be shipped off, Madame,
double quick. I've got what'll bring the right owner here. You'll
soon hear from
Tardif.
In terror she hastened to the library and sprung the panel. The will was
gone.
Tardif was on his way with it to George Fournel.
CHAPTER VII
THE PURSUIT
There was but one thing to do. She must go straight to George Fournel at
Quebec. She knew only too well that Tardif was speeding thither as fast
as horses could carry him. He had had several hours' start, but there was
still a chance of overtaking him. And suppose she overtook him? She could
not decide definitely what she should do, but she would do anything,
sacrifice anything, to secure again that fatal document which, in George
Fournel's hands, must bring a collapse worse than death. A dozen plans
flashed before her, and now that her mind was set upon the thing,
compunction would not stay her. She had gone so far, she was prepared to
go further to save this Seigneury to Louis. She put in her pocket the
silver-handled pistol from the fatal cupboard.
In an hour from the time she found the note, the horses and coach were at
the door, and the faithful Havel, cloaked and armed, was ready for the
journey. A note to Louis, with the excuse of a sudden and important call
to Quebec, which he was to construe into business concerning her
profession; hurried yet careful arrangements for his comfort during her
absence; a letter to the Cure begging of him a daily visit to the Manor
House; and then, with the flurried Madame Marie, she entered the coach
with Havel on the box, and they were off.
The coach rattled through the village and stopped for a moment at the
smithy. A few words of cheerful good-bye to her father--she carried the
spring in her face and the summer of gaiety in her face however sore her
heart was--and they were once more upon the road.
Their first stage was twenty-five miles, and it led through the ravine
where Parpon and his comrades had once sought to frighten George Fournel.
As they passed the place Madelinette shuddered, and she remembered
Fournel's cynical face as he left the house three months ago. She felt
that it would not easily soften to mercy or look upon her trouble with a
human eye, if once the will were in his hands. It was a silent journey,
but Madame Marie asked no questions, and there was comfort in her
unspoken sympathy.
Five hours, and at midnight they arrived at the end of the first stage of
their journey, at the village tavern of St. Stanislaus. Here Madame Marie
urged Madelinette to stay and sleep, but this she refused to do, if
horses could be got to go forward. The sight of two gold pieces made the
thing possible in the landlord's eyes, and Madame Marie urged no more,
but found some refreshment, of which she gently insisted that Madelinette
should partake. In another hour from their arrival they were on the road
again, with the knowledge that Tardif had changed horses and gone forward
four hours before, boasting as he went that when the bombshell he was
carrying should burst, the country would stay awake o' nights for a year.
Madelinette herself had made the inquiries of the landlord, whose
easily-bought obsequiousness now knew no bounds, and he gave a letter to
Havel to hand to his cousin the landlord at the next change, which, he
said, would be sure to secure them the best of accommodation and good
horses.
As the night grew to morning, Madelinette drooped a little, and Madame
Marie, who had, to her own anger and disgust, slept three hours or more,
quietly drew Madelinette towards her. With a little sob the girl--for
what was she but a girl--let her head drop on the old woman's shoulder,
and she fell into a troubled sleep, which lasted till, in the flush of
sunrise, they drew up at the solitary inn on the outskirts of the village
of Beaugard. They had come fifty miles since the evening before.
Here Madelinette took Havel into her confidence, in so far as to tell him
that Tardif had stolen a valuable paper from her, the loss of which might
bring most serious consequences.
Whatever Havel had suspected he was the last man in the world to show or
tell. But before leaving the Manor House of Pontiac he had armed himself
with pistols, in the grim hope that he might be required to use them.
Havel had been used hard in the world, Madelinette had been kind to him,
and he was ready to show his gratitude--and he little recked what form it
might take. When he found that they were following Tardif, and for what
purpose, an ugly joy filled his heart, and he determined on revenge--so
long delayed--on the scoundrel who had once tried to turn the parish
against him by evil means. He saw that his pistols were duly primed, he
learned that Tardif had passed but two hours before, boasting again that
Europe would have gossip for a year, once he reached Quebec. Tardif too
had paid liberally for his refreshment and his horses, for here he had
taken a carriage, and had swaggered like a trooper in a conquered
country.
Havel had every hope of overtaking Tardif, and so he told Madelinette,
adding that he would secure the paper for her at any cost. She did not
quite know what Havel meant, but she read purpose in his eye, and when
Havel said: "I won't say 'Stop thief' many times," she turned away
without speaking--she was choked with anxiety. Yet in her own pocket was
a little silver-handled pistol.
It was true that Tardif was a thief, but she knew that his theft would be
counted a virtue before the world. This she could not tell Havel, but
when the critical moment came--if it did come--she would then act upon
the moment's inspiration. If Tardif was a thief, what was she!--But this
she could not tell Havel or the world. Even as she thought it for this
thousandth time, her face flushed deeply, and a mist came before her
eyes. But she hardened her heart and gave orders to proceed as soon as
the horses were ready. After a hasty breakfast they were again on their
way, and reached the third stage of their journey by eleven o'clock.
Tardif had passed two hours before.
So, for two days they travelled, with no sleep save what they could catch
as the coach rolled on. They were delayed three hours at one inn because
of the trouble in getting horses, since it appeared that Tardif had taken
the only available pair in the place; but a few gold pieces brought
another pair galloping from a farm two miles away, and they were again on
the road. Fifty miles to go, and Tardif with three hours' start of them!
Unless he had an accident there was faint chance of overtaking him, for
at this stage he had taken to the saddle again. As time had gone on, and
the distance between them and Quebec had decreased, Madelinette had grown
paler and stiller. Yet she was considerate of Madame Marie, and more than
once insisted on Havel lying down for a couple of hours, and herself made
him a strengthening bowl of soup at the kitchen fire of the inn.
Meanwhile she inquired whether it might be possible to get four horses at
the next change, and she offered five gold pieces to a man who would ride
on ahead of them and secure the team.
Some magic seemed to bring her the accomplishment of the impossible, for
even as she made the offer, and the downcast looks of the landlord were
assuring her that her request was futile, there was the rattle of hoofs
without, and a petty Government official rode up. He had come a journey
of three miles only, and his horse was fresh. Agitated, yet ruling
herself to composure, Madelinette approached him and made her proposal to
him. He was suspicious, as became a petty Government official, and
replied sullenly. She offered him money--before the landlord,
unhappily--and his refusal was now unnecessarily bitter. She turned away
sadly, but Madame Marie had been roused by the official's churlishness,
and for once the placid little body spoke in that vulgar tongue which
needs no interpretation. She asked the fellow if he knew to whom he had
been impolite, to whom he had refused a kindly act.
"You--you, a habitant road-watcher, a pound-keeper, a village
tax-collector, or something less!" she said. "You to refuse the great
singer Madelinette Lajeunesse, the wife of the Seigneur of Pontiac, the
greatest patriot in the land; to refuse her whom princes are glad to
serve--" She stopped and gasped her indignation.
A hundred speeches and a hundred pounds could not have done so much. The
habitant official stared in blank amazement, the landlord took a glass of
brandy to steady himself.
"The Lajeunesse--the Lajeunesse, the singer of all the world--ah, why did
she not say so then!" said the churl. "What would I not do for her!
Money--no, it is nothing, but the Lajeunesse, I myself would give my
horse to hear her sing."
"Tell her she can have M'sieu's horse," said the landlord, excitedly
interposing.
"Tiens, who the devil--the horse is mine! If Madame--if she will but let
me offer it to her myself!" said the agitated official. "I sing myself--I
know what singing is. I have sung in an opera--a sentinel in armour I
was. Ah, but bring me to her, and you shall see what I will do, by grace
of heaven! I will marry you if you haven't a husband," he added with
ardour to the dumfounded Madame Marie, who hurried to the adjoining room.
An instant afterwards the official was making an oration in tangled
sentences which brought him a grateful smile and a hand-clasp from
Madelinette. She could not prevent him from kissing her hand, she could
not refrain from laughing when, outside the room, he tried to kiss Madame
Marie. She was astounded, however, an hour later, to see him still at the
inn door, marching up and down, a whip in his hand. She looked at him
reproachfully, indignantly.
"Why are you not on the way?" she asked.
"Your man, that M'sieu' Havel, has rode on; I am to drive," he said.
"Yes, Madame, it is my everlasting honour that I am to drive you. Havel
has a good horse, the horse has a good rider, you have a good servant in
me. I, Madame, have a good mistress in you--I am content. I am
overjoyed--I am proud--I am ready, I, Pierre Lapierre."
The churlish official had gone back to the natural state of an excitable
habitant, ready to give away his heart or lose his head at an instant's
notice, the temptation being sufficient. Madelinette was frightened. She
knew well why Havel had ridden on ahead without her permission, and
shaking hands with the landlord and getting into the coach, she said
hastily to her new coachman: "Lose not an instant. Drive hard."
They reached the next change by noon, and here they found four horses
awaiting them. Tardif, and Havel also, had come and gone. An hour's rest,
and they were away again upon the last stage of the journey. They should
reach Quebec soon after dusk, all being well. At first, Lapierre the
official had been inclined to babble, but at last he relieved his mind by
interjections only. He kept shaking his head wisely, as though debating
on great problems, and he drove his horses with a master-hand--he had
once been a coach driver on that long river-road, which in summer makes a
narrow ribbon of white, mile for mile with the St. Lawrence from east to
west. This was the proudest moment of his life. He knew great things were
at stake, and they had to do with the famous singer, Lajeunesse; and what
tales for his grandchildren in years to come!
The flushed and comfortable Madame Marie sat upright in the coach,
holding the hand of her mistress, and Madelinette grew paler as the miles
diminished between her and Quebec. Yet she was quiet and unmoving, now
and then saying an encouraging word to Lapierre, who smacked his lips for
miles afterwards, and took out of his horses their strength and paces by
masterly degrees. So that when, at last, on the hill they saw far off the
spires of Quebec, the team was swinging as steadily on as though they had
not come twenty-five miles already. This was a moment of pride for
Lapierre, but of apprehension for Madelinette. At the last two inns on
the road she had got news of both Tardif and Havel. Tardif had had the
final start of half-an-hour. A half-hour's start, and fifteen miles to
go! But one thing was sure, Havel, the wiry Havel, was the better man,
with sounder nerve and a fostered strength.
Yet, as they descended the hill and plunged into the wild wooded valley,
untenanted and uncivilised, where the road wound and curved among giant
boulders and twisted through ravines and gorges, her heart fell within
her. Evening was at hand, and in the thick forest the shadows were heavy,
and night was settling upon them before its time.
They had not gone a mile, however, when, as they swung creaking round a
great boulder, Lapierre pulled up his horses with a loud exclamation, for
almost under his horses' feet lay a man apparently dead, his horse dead
beside him.
It was Havel. In an instant Madelinette and Ma dame Marie were bending
over him. The widow of the Little Chemist had skill and presence of mind.
"He is not dead, dear mine," said she in a low voice, feeling Havel's
heart.
"Thank God," was all that Madelinette could say. "Let us lift him into
the coach."
Now Lapierre was standing beside them, the reins in his hand. "Leave that
to me," he said, and passed the reins into Madame Marie's hands, then
with muttered imprecations on persons unmentioned he lifted up the slight
form of Havel, and carried him to the coach. Meanwhile Madelinette had
stooped to a little stream at the side of the road, and filled her silver
drinking-cup with water.
As she bent over Havel and sprinkled his face, Lapierre examined the
insensible man.
"He is but stunned," he said. "He will come to in a moment."
Then he went to the spot where Havel had lain, and found a pistol lying
at the side of the road. Examining it, he found it had been
discharged-both barrels. Rustling with importance he brought it to
Madelinette, nodding and looking wise, yet half timorous too in sharing
in so remarkable a business. Madelinette glanced at the pistol, her lips
tightened, and she shuddered. Havel had evidently failed, and she must
face the worst. Yet now that it had come, she was none the less
determined to fight on.
Havel opened his eyes and looked round in a startled way. He saw
Madelinette.
"Ah, Madame, Madame, pardon! He got away. I fired twice and winged him,
but he shot my horse and I fell on my head. He has got away. What time is
it, Madame?" he suddenly asked. She told him. "Ah, it is too late," he
added. "It happened over half-an-hour ago. Unless he is badly hurt and
has fallen by the way, he is now in the city. Madame, I have failed
you--pardon, Madame!"
She helped him to sit up, and made a cushion of her cloak for his head,
in a corner of the coach. "There is nothing to ask pardon for, Havel,"
she said; "you did your best. It was to be--that's all. Drink the brandy
now."
A moment afterwards Lapierre was on the box, Madame Marie was inside, and
Madelinette said to the coachman:
"Drive hard--the White Calvary by the church of St. Mary Magdalene."
In another hour the coach drew up by the White Calvary, where a soft
light burned in memory of some departed soul.
The three alighted. Madelinette whispered to Havel, he got up on the box
beside Lapierre, and the coach rattled away to a tavern, as the two women
disappeared swiftly into the darkness.
CHAPTER VIII
FACE TO FACE
As the two approached the mansion where George Fournel lived, they saw
the door open and a man come hurriedly out into the street. He wore his
wrist in a sling.
Madelinette caught Madame Marie's arm. She did not speak, but her heart
sank within her. The man was Tardif.
He saw them and shuffled over.
"Ha, Madame," he said, "he has the will, and I've not done with you
yet--you'll see." Then, shaking a fist in Madelinette's face, he
clattered off into the darkness.
They crossed the street, and Madame Marie knocked at Fournel's door. It
was at once opened, and Madelinette announced herself. The servant stared
stonily at first, then, as she mentioned her name and he saw her face, he
suddenly became servile, and asked them into a small waiting-room.
Monsieur Fournel was at home, and should be informed at once of Madame's
arrival.
A few moments later the servant, somewhat graver, but as courteous still,
came to say that Monsieur would receive her in his library. Madelinette
turned towards Madame Marie. The servant understood.
"I shall see that the lady has refreshment," he said. "Will Madame
perhaps care for refreshment--and a mirror, before Monsieur has the
honour?--Madame has travelled far."
In spite of the anxiety of the moment and the great matters at stake,
Madelinette could not but smile. "Thank you," she said, "I hope I'm not
so unpresentable."
"A little dust here and there perhaps, Madame," he said, with humble
courtesy.
Madelinette was not so heroical as to undervalue the suggestion. Lives
perhaps were in the balance, but she was a woman, and who could tell what
slight influences might turn the scale!
The servant saw her hesitation. "If Madame will but remain here, I will
bring what is necessary," he said, and was gone. In a moment he appeared
again with a silver basin, a mirror, and a few necessaries of the toilet.
"I suppose, Madame," said the servant, with fluttered anxiety, to show
that he knew who she was, "I suppose you have had sometimes to make rough
shifts, even in palaces."
She gave him a gold piece. It cheered her in the moment to think that in
this forbidding house, on a forbidding mission, to a forbidding man, she
had one friend. She made a hasty toilet, and but for the great paleness
of her cheeks, no traces remained of the three days' travel with their
hardship and anxiety. Presently, as the servant ushered her into the
presence of George Fournel, even the paleness was warmed a little by the
excitement of the moment.
Fournel was standing with his back to the door, looking out into the
moonlit night. As she entered he quickly drew the curtains of the windows
and turned towards his visitor, a curious, hard, disdainful look in his
face. In his hands he held a paper which she knew only too well.
"Madame," he said, and bowed. Then he motioned her to a chair. He took
one himself and sat down beside the great oak writing-desk and waited for
her to speak--waited with a look which sent the blood from her heart to
colour her cheeks and forehead.
She did not speak, however, but looked at him fearlessly. It was
impossible for her to humble herself before the latent insolence of his
look. It seemed to degrade her out of all consideration. He felt the
courage of her defiance, and it moved him. Yet he could but speak in
cynical suggestion.
"You had a long, hard, and adventurous journey," he said. He rose
suddenly and drew a tray towards him. "Will you not have some
refreshment?" he added, in an even voice. "I fear you have not had time
to seek it at an inn. Your messenger has but just gone."