D'Ri and I

by Irving Bacheller

  XVI

  We got our bearings, a pair of boots for D'ri, and a hearty meal inthe cabin of a settler. The good man was unfamiliar with the uppershore, and we got no help in our mystery. Starting west, in thewoods, on our way to the Harbor, we stopped here and there tolisten, but heard only wood-thrush and partridge--the fife and drumof nature. That other music had gone out of hearing. We had nocompass, but D'ri knew the forest as a crow knows the air. He knewthe language of the trees and the brooks. The feel of the bark andwhat he called "the lean of the timber" told him which way wassouth. River and stream had a way of telling him whence they hadcome and where they were going, but he had no understanding of amap. I remember, after we had come to the Harbor at dusk and toldour story, the general asked him to indicate our landing-place andour journey home on a big map at headquarters. D'ri studied themap a brief while. There was a look of embarrassment on his soberface.

  "Seems so we come ashore 'bout here," said he, dropping the middlefinger of his right hand in the vicinity of Quebec. "Then wetravelled aw-a-a-ay hellwards over 'n this 'ere direction." Withthat illuminating remark he had slid his finger over some twohundred leagues of country from Quebec to Michigan.

  They met us with honest joy and no little surprise that evening aswe came into camp. Ten of our comrades had returned, but as forourselves, they thought us in for a long stay. We said little ofwhat we had gone through, outside the small office at headquarters,but somehow it began to travel, passing quickly from mouth tomouth, until it got to the newspapers and began to stir the tongueof each raw recruit. General Brown was there that evening, and hadfor me, as always, the warm heart of a father. He heard our reportwith a kindly sympathy.

  Next morning I rode away to see the Comte de Chaumont atLeraysville. I had my life, and a great reason to be thankful, butthere were lives dearer than my own to me, and they were yet inperil. Those dear faces haunted me and filled my sleep withtrouble. I rode fast, reaching the chateau at luncheon time. Thecount was reading in a rustic chair at the big gate. He camerunning to me, his face red with excitement.

  "M'sieur le Capitaine!" he cried, my hand in both of his, "Ithought you were dead."

  "And so I have been--dead as a cat drowned in a well, that turns upagain as lively as ever. Any news of the baroness and the youngladies?"

  "A letter," said he. "Come, get off your horse. I shall read toyou the letter."

  "Tell me--how were they taken?"

  I was leading my horse, and we were walking through the deep grove.

  "Eh bien, I am not able to tell," said he, shaking his headsoberly. "You remember that morning--well, I have twenty men therefor two days. They are armed, they surround the Hermitage, theykeep a good watch. The wasp he is very troublesome, but they seeno soldier. They stay, they burn the smudge. By and by I thinkthere is nothing to fear, and I bring them home, but I leave threemen. The baroness and the two girls and their servants they stayawhile to pack the trunk. They are coming to the chateau. It isin the evening; the coach is at the door; the servants havestarted. Suddenly--the British! I do not know how many. Theycome out of the woods like a lightning, and bang! bang! bang! theyhave killed my men. They take the baroness and the Misses deLambert, and they drive away with them. The servants they hear theshots, they return, they come, and they tell us. We follow. Wefind the coach; it is in the road, by the north trail. Dieu! theyare all gone! We travel to the river, but--" here he lifted hisshoulders and shook his head dolefully--"we could do nothing."

  "The general may let me go after them with a force of cavalry," Isaid. "I want you to come with me and talk to him."

  "No, no, my capitaine!" said he; "it would not be wise. We mustwait. We do not know where they are. I have friends in Canada;they are doing their best, and when we hear from them--eh bien, weshall know what is necessary."

  I told him how I had met them that night in Canada, and what cameof it.

  "They are a cruel people, the English," said he. "I am afraid tofind them will be a matter of great difficulty."

  "But the letter--"

  "Ah, the letter," he interrupted, feeling in his pocket. "Theletter is not much. It is from Tiptoes--from Louison. It wasmailed this side of the river at Morristown. You shall see; theydo not know where they are."

  He handed me the letter. I read it with an eagerness I could notconceal. It went as follows:--

  "MY DEAR COUNT: If this letter reaches you, it will, I hope,relieve your anxiety. We are alive and well, but where? I am sureI have no better idea than if I were a baby just born. We camehere with our eyes covered after a long ride from the river, whichwe crossed in the night. I think it must have taken us three daysto come here. We are shut up in a big house with high walls andtrees and gardens around it--a beautiful place. We have fine bedsand everything to eat, only we miss the bouillabaisse, and thejokes of M. Pidgeon, and the fine old claret. A fat Englishwomanwho waddles around like a big goose and who calls me Mumm (as if Iwere a wine-maker!) waits upon us. We do not know the name of ourhost. He is a tall man who says little and has hair on his neckand on the back of his hands. Dieu! he is a lord who talks as ifhe were too lazy to breathe. It is 'Your Lordship this' and 'YourLordship that.' But I must speak well of him, because he is goingto read this letter: it is on that condition I am permitted towrite. Therefore I say he is a great and good man, a beautifulman. The baroness and Louise send love to all. Madame says do notworry; we shall come out all right: but I say _worry_! and, goodman, do not cease to worry until we are safe home. Tell the curehe has something to do now. I have worn out my rosary, and amlosing faith. Tell him to try his.

  "Your affectionate "LOUISON."

  "She is an odd girl," said the count, as I gave back the letter,"so full of fun, so happy, so bright, so quick--always on hertiptoes. Come, you are tired; you have ridden far in the dust. Ishall make you glad to be here."

  A groom took my horse, and the count led me down a wooded slope tothe lakeside. Octagonal water-houses, painted white, lay floatingat anchor near us. He rowed me to one of them for a bath. Insidewas a rug and a table and soap and linen. A broad panel on a sideof the floor came up as I pulled a cord, showing water clear andluminous to the sandy lake-bottom. The glow of the noonday filledthe lake to its shores, and in a moment I clove the sunlitdepths--a rare delight after my long, hot ride.

  At luncheon we talked of the war, and he made much complaint of theNorthern army, as did everybody those days.

  "My boy," said he, "you should join Perry on the second lake. Itis your only chance to fight, to win glory."

  He told me then of the impending battle and of Perry's great needof men. I had read of the sea-fighting and longed for a part init. To climb on hostile decks and fight hand to hand was a thingto my fancy. Ah, well! I was young then. At the count's tablethat day I determined to go, if I could get leave.

  Therese and a young Parisienne, her friend, were at luncheon withus. They bade us adieu and went away for a gallop as we tookcigars. We had no sooner left the dining room than I called for myhorse. Due at the Harbor that evening, I could give myself nolonger to the fine hospitality of the count. In a few moments Iwas bounding over the road, now cool in deep forest shadows. Alittle way on I overtook Therese and the Parisienne. The formercalled to me as I passed. I drew rein, coming back and stoppingbeside her. The other went on at a walk.

  "M'sieur le Capitaine, have you any news of them--of Louise andLouison?" she inquired. "You and my father were so busy talking Icould not ask you before."

  "I know this only: they are in captivity somewhere, I cannot tellwhere."

  "You look worried, M'sieur le Capitaine; you have not the happyface, the merry look, any longer. In June you were a boy, inAugust--voila! it is a man! Perhaps you are preparing for theministry."

  She assumed a solemn look, glancing up at me as if in mockery of mysober face. She was a slim, fine brunette, who, as I knew, hadlong been a confidante of
Louison.

  "Alas! ma'm'selle, I am worried. I have no longer any peace."

  "Do you miss them?" she inquired, a knowing look in her handsomeeyes. "Do not think me impertinent."

  "More than I miss my mother," I said.

  "I have a letter," said she, smiling. "I do not know--I thought Ishould show it to you, but--but not to-day."

  "Is it from them?"

  "It is from Louison--from Tiptoes."

  "And--and it speaks of me?"

  "Ah, m'sieur," said she, arching her brows, "it has indeed much tosay of you."

  "And--and may I not see it?" I asked eagerly. "Ma'm'selle, I tellyou I--I must see it."

  "Why?" She stirred the mane of her horse with a red riding-whip.

  "Why not?" I inquired, my heart beating fast.

  "If I knew--if I were justified--you know I am her friend. I knowall her secrets."

  "Will you not be my friend also?" I interrupted.

  "A friend of Louison, he is mine," said she.

  "Ah, ma'm'selle, then I confess to you--it is because I love her."

  "I knew it; I am no fool," was her answer. "But I had to hear itfrom you. It is a remarkable thing to do, but they are in suchperil. I think you ought to know."

  She took the letter from her bosom, passing it to my hand. A faintodor of violets came with it. It read:--

  "MY DEAR THERESE: I wish I could see you, if only for an hour. Ihave so much to say. I have written your father of our prisonhome. I am going to write you of my troubles. You know what wewere talking about the last time I saw you--myself and thathandsome fellow. Mon Dieu! I shall not name him. It is notnecessary. Well, you were right, my dear. I was a fool; I laughedat your warning; I did not know the meaning of that delicious pain.But oh, my dear friend, it has become a terrible thing since I knowI may never see him again. My heart is breaking with it. Mere deDieu! I can no longer laugh or jest or pretend to be happy. Whatshall I say? That I had rather die than live without him? No;that is not enough. I had rather be an old maid and live only withthe thought of _him_ than marry another, if he were a king. Iremember those words of yours, 'I know he loves you.' Oh, my dearTherese, what a comfort they are to me now! I repeat them often.If _I_ could only say, 'I know'! Alas! I can but say, 'I do notknow,' nay, even, 'I do not believe.' If I had not been a fool Ishould have made him tell me, for I had him over his ears in lovewith me one day, or I am no judge of a man. But, you know, theyare so fickle! And then the Yankee girls are pretty and so clever.Well, they shall not have him if I can help it. When I returnthere shall be war, if necessary, between France and America.And, Therese, you know I have weapons, and you have done me thehonor to say I know how to use them. I have told Louise, and--whatdo you think?--the poor thing cried an hour--for pity of me! Asever, she makes my trouble her own. I have been selfish always,but I know the cure. It is love--toujours l'amour. Now I thinkonly of him, and he recalls you and your sweet words. God make youa true prophet! With love to you and the marquis, I kiss eachline, praying for happiness for you and for him. Believe me asever,

  "Your affectionate "LOUISON.

  "P.S. I feel better now I have told you. I wonder what hisLordship will say. Poor thing! he will read this; he will think mea fool. Eh bien, I have no better thought of him. He can put meunder lock and key, but he shall not imprison my secrets; and, ifthey bore him, he should not read my letters. L."

  I read it thrice, and held it for a moment to my lips. Every wordstung me with the sweet pain that afflicted its author. I couldfeel my cheeks burning.

  "Ma'm'selle, pardon me; it is not I she refers to. She does notsay whom."

  "Surely," said Therese, flirting her whip and lifting hershoulders. "M'sieur Le Capitaine is never a stupid man. You--youshould say something very nice now."

  "If it is I--thank God! Her misery is my delight, her liberationmy one purpose."

  "And my congratulations," said she, giving me her hand. "She haswit and beauty, a true heart, a great fortune, and--good luck inhaving your love."

  I raised my hat, blushing to the roots of my hair.

  "It is a pretty compliment," I said. "And--and I have no gift ofspeech to thank you. I am not a match for you except in my love ofkindness and--and of Louison. You have made me happier than I havebeen before."

  "If I have made you alert, ingenious, determined, I am content,"was her answer. "I know you have courage."

  "And will to use it."

  "Good luck and adieu!" said she, with a fine flourish of her whip;those people had always a pretty politeness of manner.

  "Adieu," I said, lifting my hat as I rode off, with a prick of thespur, for the road was long and I had lost quite half an hour.

  My elation gave way to sober thought presently. I began to thinkof Louise--that quiet, frank, noble, beautiful, great-hearted girl,who might be suffering what trouble I knew not, and all silently,there in her prison home. A sadness grew in me, and then suddenlyI saw the shadow of great trouble. I loved them both; I knew notwhich I loved the better. Yet this interview had almost committedme to Louison.