The Trail of the Sword, Complete - Gilbert Parker
She was admitted almost at once to the governor. He was at dinner when
she came. When her message was brought to him, his brows twitched with
surprise and perplexity. He called Maurice Joval, and ordered that she be
shown to his study and tendered every courtesy. A few moments later he
entered the room. Wonder and admiration crossed his face. He had not
thought to see so beautiful a woman. Himself an old courtier, he knew
women, and he could understand how Iberville had been fascinated. She had
arranged her toilette at Levis, and there were few traces of the long,
hard journey, save that her hands and face were tanned. The eloquence of
her eyes, the sorrowful, distant smile which now was natural to her,
worked upon the old soldier before she spoke a word. And after she had
spoken, had pleaded her husband's cause, and appealed to the nobleman's
chivalry, Frontenac was moved. But his face was troubled. He drew out his
watch and studied it.
Presently he went to the door and called Maurice Joval. There was
whispering, and then the young man went away.
"Madame, you have spoken of Monsieur Iberville," said the governor.
"Years ago he spoke to me of you."
Her eyes dropped, and then they raised steadily, clearly. "I am sure,
sir," she said, "that Monsieur Iberville would tell you that my husband
could never be dishonourable. They have been enemies, but noble enemies."
"Yet, Monsieur Iberville might be prejudiced," rejoined the governor. "A
brother's life has weight."
"A brother's life!" she broke in fearfully. "Madame, your husband killed
Iberville's brother."
She swayed. The governor's arm was as quick to her waist as a gallant's
of twenty-five: not his to resist the despair of so noble a creature. He
was sorry for her; but he knew that if all had gone as had been planned
by Iberville, within a half-hour this woman would be a widow.
With some women, perhaps, he would not have hesitated: he would have
argued that the prize was to the victor, and that, Gering gone, Jessica
would amiably drift upon Iberville. But it came to him that she was not
as many other women. He looked at his watch again, and she mistook the
action.
"Oh, your excellency," she said, "do not grudge these moments to one
pleading for a life-for justice."
"You mistake, madame," he said; "I was not grudging the time--for
myself."
At that moment Maurice Joval entered and whispered to the governor.
Frontenac rose.
"Madame," he said, "your husband has escaped." A cry broke from her.
"Escaped! escaped!"
She saw a strange look in the governor's eyes.
"But you have not told me all," she urged; "there is more. Oh, your
excellency, speak!"
"Only this, madame: he may be retaken and--"
"And then? What then?" she cried.
"Upon what happens then," he as drily as regretfully added, "I shall have
no power."
But to the quick searching prayer, the proud eloquence of the woman, the
governor, bound though he was to secresy, could not be adamant.
"There is but one thing I can do for you," he said at last. "You know
Father Dollier de Casson?"
To her assent, he added: "Then go to him. Ask no questions. If anything
can be done, he may do it for you; that he will I do not know."
She could not solve the riddle, but she must work it out. There was the
one great fact: her husband had escaped.
"You will do all you can do, your excellency?" she said.
"Indeed, madame, I have done all I can," he said. With impulse she caught
his hand and kissed it. A minute afterwards she was gone with Maurice
Joval, who had orders to bring her to the abbe's house--that, and no
more.
The governor, left alone, looked at the hand that she had kissed and
said: "Well, well, I am but a fool still. Yet--a woman in a million!" He
took out his watch. "Too late," he added. "Poor lady!"
A few minutes afterwards Jessica met the abbe on his own doorstep.
Maurice Joval disappeared, and the priest and the woman were alone
together. She told him what had just happened.
"There is some mystery," she said, pain in her voice. "Tell me, has my
husband been retaken?"
"Madame, he has."
"Is he in danger?"
The priest hesitated, then presently inclined his head in assent.
"Once before I talked with you," she said, "and you spoke good things.
You are a priest of God. I know that you can help me, or Count Frontenac
would not have sent me to you. Oh, will you take me to my husband?"
If Count Frontenac had had a struggle, here was a greater. First, the man
was a priest in the days when the Huguenots were scattering to the four
ends of the earth. The woman and her husband were heretics, and what
better were they than thousands of others? Then, Sainte-Helene had been
the soldier-priest's pupil. Last of all, there was Iberville, over whom
this woman had cast a charm perilous to his soul's salvation. He loved
Iberville as his own son. The priest in him decided against the woman;
the soldier in him was with Iberville in this event--for a soldier's
revenge was its mainspring. But beneath all was a kindly soul which
intolerance could not warp, and this at last responded.
His first words gave her a touch of hope. "Madame," he said, "I know not
that aught can be done, but come."
CHAPTER XXII
FROM TIGER'S CLAW TO LION'S MOUTH
Every nation has its traitors, and there was an English renegade soldier
at Quebec. At Iberville's suggestion he was made one of the guards of the
prison. It was he that, pretending to let Gering win his confidence, at
last aided him to escape through the narrow corner-door of his cell.
Gering got free of the citadel--miraculously, as he thought; and,
striking off from the road, began to make his way by a roundabout to the
St. Charles River, where at some lonely spot he might find a boat. No
alarm had been given, and as time passed his chances seemed growing, when
suddenly there sprang from the grass round him armed men, who closed in,
and at the points of swords and rapiers seized him. Scarcely a word was
spoken by his captors, and he did not know who they were, until, after a
long detour, he was brought inside a manor-house, and there, in the light
of flaring candles, faced Perrot and Iberville. It was Perrot who had
seized him.
"Monsieur," said Perrot, saluting, "be sure this is a closer prison than
that on the heights." This said, he wheeled and left the room.
The two gentlemen were left alone. Gering folded his arms and stood
defiant.
"Monsieur," said Iberville, in a low voice, "we are fortunate to meet so
at last."
"I do not understand you," was the reply.
"Then let me speak of that which was unfortunate. Once you called me a
fool and a liar. We fought and were interrupted. We met again, with the
same ending, and I was wounded by the man Bucklaw. Before the wound was
healed I had to leave for Quebec. Years passed, you know well how. We met
in the Spaniards' country, where you killed my servant; and again at Fort
Rupert, you remember. At the fort you surrendered before we had a chance
to fight. Again, we were on the hunt for treasure. You got it; and almost
in your own harbour I found you, and fought you and a greater ship with
you, and ran you down. As your ship sank you sprang from it to my own
ship--a splendid leap. Then you were my guest, and we could not fight;
all--all unfortunate."
He paused. Gering was cool; he saw Iberville's purpose, and he was ready
to respond to it.
"And then?" asked Gering. "Your charge is long--is it finished?"
A hard light came into Iberville's eyes.
"And then, monsieur, you did me the honour to come to my own country. We
did not meet in the fighting, and you killed my brother." Iberville
crossed himself. "Then"--his voice was hard and bitter--"you were
captured; no longer a prisoner of war, but one who had broken his parole.
You were thrown into prison, were tried and condemned to death. There
remained two things: that you should be left to hang, or an escape--that
we should meet here and now."
"You chose the better way, monsieur."
"I treat you with consideration, I hope, monsieur." Gering waved his hand
in acknowledgment, and said: "What weapons do you choose?"
Iberville quietly laid on the table a number of swords. "If I should
survive this duel, monsieur," questioned Gering, "shall I be free?"
"Monsieur, escape will be unnecessary."
"Before we engage, let me say that I regret your brother's death."
"Monsieur, I hope to deepen that regret," answered Iberville quietly.
Then they took up their swords.
CHAPTER XXIII
AT THE GATES OF MISFORTUNE
Meanwhile the abbe and Jessica were making their way swiftly towards the
manor-house. They scarcely spoke as they went, but in Jessica's mind was
a vague horror. Lights sparkled on the crescent shore of Beauport, and
the torches of fishermen flared upon the St. Charles. She looked back
once towards the heights of Quebec and saw the fires of many homes--they
scorched her eyes. She asked no questions. The priest beside her was
silent, not looking at her at all. At last he turned and said:
"Madame, whatever has happened, whatever may happen, I trust you will be
brave."
"Monsieur l'Abbe" she answered, "I have travelled from Boston here--can
you doubt it?"
The priest sighed. "May the hope that gave you strength remain, madame!"
A little longer and then they stood within a garden thick with plants and
trees. As they passed through it, Jessica was vaguely aware of the rich
fragrance of fallen leaves and the sound of waves washing the foot of the
cliffs.
The abbe gave a low call, and almost instantly Perrot stood before them.
Jessica recognised him. With a little cry she stepped to him quickly and
placed her hand upon his arm. She did not seem conscious that he was her
husband's enemy: her husband's life was in danger, and it must be saved
at any cost. "Monsieur," she said, "where is my husband? You know. Tell
me."
Perrot put her hand from his arm gently, and looked at the priest in
doubt and surprise.
The abbe said not a word, but stood gazing off into the night.
"Will you not tell me of my husband?" she repeated. "He is within that
house?" She pointed to the manor-house. "He is in danger, I will go to
him."
She made as if to go to the door, but he stepped before her.
"Madame," he said, "you cannot enter."
Just then the moon shot from behind a cloud, and all their faces could be
seen. There was a flame in Jessica's eyes which Perrot could not stand,
and he turned away. She was too much the woman to plead weakly.
"Tell me," she said, "whose house this is." "Madame, it is Monsieur
Iberville's."
She could not check a gasp, but both the priest and the woodsman saw how
intrepid was the struggle in her, and they both pitied.
"Now I understand! Oh, now I understand!" she cried. "A plot was laid. He
was let escape that he might be cornered here--one single man against a
whole country. Oh, cowards, cowards!"
"Pardon me, madame," said Perrot, bristling up, "not cowards. Your
husband has a chance for his life. You know Monsieur Iberville--he is a
man all honour. More than once he might have had your husband's life, but
he gave it to him."
Her foot tapped the ground impatiently, her hands clasped before her. "Go
on, oh, go on!" she said. "What is it? why is he here? Have you no pity,
no heart?" She turned towards the priest. "You are a man of God. You said
once that you would help me make peace between my husband and Monsieur
Iberville, but you join here with his enemies."
"Madame, believe me, you are wrong. I have done all I could: I have
brought you here."
"Yes, yes; forgive me," she replied. She turned to Perrot again. "It is
with you, then. You helped to save my life once--what right have you to
destroy it now? You and Monsieur Iberville gave me the world when it were
easy to have lost it; now when the world is everything to me because my
husband lives in it, you would take his life and break mine."
Suddenly a thought flashed into her mind. Her eyes brightened, her hand
trembled towards Perrot, and touched him. "Once I gave you something,
monsieur, which I had worn on my own bosom. That little gift--of a
grateful girl, tell me, have you it still?"
Perrot drew from his doublet the medallion she had given him, and
fingered it uncertainly.
"Then you value it," she added. "You value my gift, and yet when my
husband is a prisoner, to what perilous ends God only knows, you deny me
to him. I will not plead; I ask as my right; I have come from Count
Frontenac; he sent me to this good priest here. Were my husband in the
citadel now I should be admitted. He is here with the man who, you know,
once said he loved me. My husband is wickedly held a prisoner; I ask for
entrance to him."
Pleading, apprehension, seemed gone from her; she stood superior to her
fear and sorrow. The priest reached a hand persuasively towards Perrot,
and he was about to speak, but Perrot, coming close to the troubled wife,
said: "The door is locked; they are there alone. I cannot let you in, but
come with me. You have a voice--it may be heard. Come."
Presently all three were admitted into the dim hallway.
CHAPTER XXIV
IN WHICH THE SWORD IS SHEATHED
How had it gone with Iberville and Gering?
The room was large, scantily, though comfortably, furnished. For a moment
after they took up their swords they eyed each other calmly. Iberville
presently smiled: he was recalling that night, years ago, when by the
light of the old Dutch lantern they had fallen upon each other,
swordsmen, even in those days, of more than usual merit. They had
practised greatly since. Iberville was the taller of the two, Gering the
stouter. Iberville's eye was slow, calculating, penetrating; Gering's was
swift, strangely vigilant. Iberville's hand was large, compact, and
supple; Gering's small and firm.
They drew and fell on guard. Each at first played warily. They were keen
to know how much of skill was likely to enter into this duel, for each
meant that it should be deadly. In the true swordsman there is found that
curious sixth sense, which is a combination of touch, sight,
apprehension, divination. They had scarcely made half a dozen passes
before each knew that he was pitted against a master of the art--an art
partly lost in an age which better loves the talk of swords than the
handling of them. But the advantage was with Iberville, not merely
because of more practice,--Gering made up for that by a fine certainty of
nerve,--but because he had a prescient quality of mind, joined to the
calculation of the perfect gamester.
From the first Iberville played a waiting game. He knew Gering's
impulsive nature, and he wished to draw him on, to irritate him, as only
one swordsman can irritate another. Gering suddenly led off with a
disengage from the carte line into tierce, and, as he expected, met the
short parry and riposte. Gering tried by many means to draw Iberville's
attack, and, failing to do so, played more rapidly than he ought, which
was what Iberville wished.
Presently Iberville's chance came. In the carelessness of annoyance,
Gering left part of his sword arm uncovered, while he was meditating a
complex attack, and he paid the penalty by getting a sharp prick from
Iberville's sword-point. The warning came to Gering in time. When they
crossed swords again, Iberville, whether by chance or by momentary want
of skill, parried Gering's disengage from tierce to carte on to his own
left shoulder.
Both had now got a taste of blood, and there is nothing like that to put
the lust of combat into a man. For a moment or two the fight went on with
no special feat, but so hearty became the action that Iberville, seeing
Gering flag a little,--due somewhat to loss of blood, suddenly opened
such a rapid attack on the advance that it was all Gering could do to
parry, without thought of riposte, the successive lunges of the swift
blade. As he retreated, Gering felt, as he broke ground, that he was
nearing the wall, and, even as he parried, incautiously threw a
half-glance over his shoulder to see how near. Iberville saw his chance,
his finger was shaping a fatal lunge, when there suddenly came from the
hallway a woman's voice. So weird was it that both swordsmen drew back,
and once more Gering's life was waiting in the hazard.
Strange to say, Iberville recognised the voice first. He was angered with
himself now that he had paused upon the lunge and saved Gering. Suddenly
there rioted in him the disappointed vengeance of years. He had lost her
once by sparing this man's life. Should he lose her again? His sword
flashed upward.
At that moment Gering recognised his wife's voice, and he turned pale.
"My wife!" he exclaimed.
They closed again. Gering was now as cold as he had before been ardent,
and he played with malicious strength and persistency. His nerves seemed
of iron. But there had come to Iberville the sardonic joy of one who
plays for the final hazard, knowing that he shall win. There was one
great move he had reserved for the last. With the woman's voice at the
door beseeching, her fingers trembling upon the panel, they could not
prolong the fight. Therefore, at the moment when Gering was pressing
Iberville hard, the Frenchman suddenly, with a trick of the Italian
school, threw his left leg en arriere and made a lunge, which ordinarily
would have spitted his enemy, but at the critical moment one word came
ringing clearly through the locked door. It was his own name, not
Iberville, but--"Pierre! Pierre!"
He had never heard the voice speak that name. It put out his judgment,
and instead of his sword passing through Gering's body it only grazed his
ribs.
Perhaps there was in him some ancient touch of superstition, some sense
of fatalism, which now made him rise to his feet and throw his sword upon
the table.
"Monsieur," he said cynically, "again we are unfortunate."
Then he went to the door, unlocked it, and threw it open upon Jessica.
She came in upon them trembling, pale, yet glowing with her anxiety.
Instantly Iberville was all courtesy. One could not have guessed that he
had just been engaged in a deadly conflict. As his wife entered, Gering
put his sword aside. Iberville closed the door, and the three stood
looking at each other for a moment. Jessica did not throw herself into
her husband's arms. The position was too painful, too tragic, for even
the great emotion in her heart. Behind Iberville's courtesy she read the
deadly mischief. But she had a power born for imminent circumstances, and
her mind was made up as to her course. It had been made up when, at the
critical moment, she had called out Iberville's Christian name. She
rightly judged that this had saved her husband's life, for she guessed
that Iberville was the better swordsman.
She placed her hands with slight resistance on the arms of her husband,
who was about to clasp her to his breast, and said: "I am glad to find
you, George." That was all.
He also had heard that cry, "Pierre," and he felt shamed that his life
was spared because of it--he knew well why the sword had not gone through
his body. She felt less humiliation, because, as it seemed to her, she
had a right to ask of Iberville what no other woman could ask for her
husband.
A moment after, at Iberville's request, they were all seated. Iberville
had pretended not to notice the fingers which had fluttered towards him.
As yet nothing had been said about the duel, as if by tacit consent. So
far as Jessica was concerned it might never have happened. As for the
men, the swords were there, wet with the blood they had drawn, but they
made no sign. Iberville put meat and wine and fruit upon the table, and
pressed Jessica to take refreshment. She responded, for it was in keeping
with her purpose. Presently Iberville said, as he poured a glass of wine
for her: "Had you been expected, madame, there were better
entertainment."
"Your entertainment, monsieur," she replied, "has two sides,"--she
glanced at the swords,--"and this is the better."
"If it pleases you, madame."
"I dare not say," she returned, "that my coming was either pleasant or
expected."
He raised his glass towards her: "Madame, I am proud to pledge you once
more. I recall the first time that we met."
Her reply was instant. "You came, an ambassador of peace to the governor
of New York. Monsieur, I come an ambassador of peace to you."
"Yes, I remember. You asked me then what was the greatest, bravest thing
I ever did. You ever had a buoyant spirit, madame."
"Monsieur," she rejoined, with feeling, "will you let me answer that
question for you now? The bravest and greatest thing you ever did was to
give a woman back her happiness."
"Have I done so?"
"In your heart, yes, I believe. A little while ago my husband's life and
freedom were in your hands--you will place them in mine now, will you
not?"
Iberville did not reply directly. He twisted his wineglass round, sipped
from it pleasantly, and said: "Pardon me, madame, how were you admitted
here?"
She told him.
"Singular, singular!" he replied; "I never knew Perrot fail me before.
But you have eloquence, madame, and he knew, no doubt, that you would
always be welcome to my home."
There was that in his voice which sent the blood stinging through
Gering's veins. He half came to his feet, but his wife's warning,
pleading glance brought him to his chair again.
"Monsieur, tell me," she said, "will you give my husband his freedom?"
"Madame, his life is the State's."
"But he is in your hands now. Will you not set him free? You know that
the charge against him is false--false. He is no spy. Oh, monsieur, you
and he have been enemies, but you know that he could not do a
dishonourable thing."
"Madame, my charges against him are true."
"I know what they are," she said earnestly, "but this strife is not
worthy of you, and it is shaming me. Monsieur, you know I speak truly.
"You called me Pierre a little while ago," he said; "will you not now?"
His voice was deliberate, every word hanging in its utterance. He had a
courteous smile, an apparent abandon of manner, but there was devilry
behind all, for here, for the first time, he saw this woman, fought for
and lost, in his presence with her husband, begging that husband's life
of him. Why had she called him Pierre? Was it because she knew it would
touch a tender corner of his heart? Should that be so--well, he would
wait.
"Will you listen to me?" she asked, in a low gentle voice.
"I love to hear you speak," was his reply, and he looked into her eyes as
he had boldly looked years before, but his gaze made hers drop. There was
revealed to her all that was in his mind.
"Then, hear me now," she said slowly. "There was a motherless young girl.
She had as fresh and cheerful a heart as any in the world. She had not
many playmates, but there was one young lad who shared her sports and
pleasant hours, who was her good friend. Years passed; she was nearing
womanhood, the young man was still her friend, but in his mind there had
come something deeper. A young stranger also came, handsome, brave, and
brilliant. He was such a man as any girl could like and any man admire.
The girl liked him, and she admired him. The two young men quarreled;
they fought; and the girl parted them. Again they would have fought, but
this time the girl's 'life was in danger. The stranger was wounded in
saving her. She owed him a debt--such a debt as only a woman can feel;
because a woman loves a noble deed more than she loves her life--a good
woman."
She paused, and for an instant something shook in her throat. Her husband
looked at her with a deep wonder. And although Iberville's eyes played
with his glass of wine, they were fascinated by her face, and his ear was
strangely charmed by her voice.
"Will you go on?" he said.
"The three parted. The girl never forgot the stranger. What might have
happened if he had always been near her, who can tell--who can tell?
Again in later years the two men met, the stranger the aggressor--without
due cause."
"Pardon me, madame, the deepest cause," said Iberville meaningly.
She pretended not to understand, and continued: "The girl, believing that
what she was expected to do would be best for her, promised her hand in
marriage. At this time the stranger came. She saw him but for a day, for
an hour, then he passed away. Time went on again, and the two men met in
battle--men now, not boys; once more the stranger was the victor. She
married the defeated man. Perhaps she did not love him as much as he
loved her, but she knew that the other love, the love of the stranger,
was impossible--impossible. She came to care for her husband more and
more--she came to love him. She might have loved the stranger--who can
tell? But a woman's heart cannot be seized as a ship or a town. Believe
me, monsieur, I speak the truth. Years again passed: her husband's life
was in the stranger's hand. Through great danger she travelled to plead
for her husband's life. Monsieur, she does not plead for an unworthy
cause. She pleads for justice, in the name of honourable warfare, for the
sake of all good manhood. Will--will you refuse her?"