Literature · Historical Fiction

The rose of old St. Louis 9

I Go to Midnight Mass

DillonEnglish

"Tender-handed stroke a nettle, And it stings you for your pains; Grasp it like a man of mettle, And it soft as silk remains."

In our room, making ready for midnight mass, which all the family, including guests, were expected to attend, my captain told me what Dr. Saugrain had said to him about mademoiselle. He had told her fully her history and expectations (save only her exact rank and title, which he had thought best still to withhold from her), and the plans of her friends for her future. He had also told her very plainly that he had suspected the chevalier of just such an attempt at her capture as he had made, and for that reason had been so unwilling that she should go to Chouteau's Pond.

Mademoiselle had listened, and had asked him many questions, and had at last said that she could not doubt the truth of her guardian, but she thought it possible the chevalier was honest also, and misjudged Dr. Saugrain because he did not know him. The doctor had tried to convince her of the chevalier's duplicity, and showed her the letter of warning from France concerning him; but the doctor was not sure that mademoiselle was convinced, and he had determined, as soon as safe convoy could be found, to send her to her friends in Paris.

In the meantime mademoiselle did not seem happy, and the good doctor was much puzzled to know whether it was, as he hoped, regret at leaving his wife and himself, who had been father and mother to her, or, as he feared, a secret regret for the chevalier, and a lurking doubt of the Saugrains.

And now all my bitterness toward mademoiselle had suddenly vanished. I seemed to understand fully the state of mind the poor girl was in, and there was no room in my heart for anything but a great pity for her. The remembrance of her face as I had seen it when the chevalier was talking to her, the generous indignation changing to doubt, and then the gradual kindling of a desire for the life depicted to her by the chevalier (and, perhaps, a touch of a softer emotion for the chevalier himself),--it was like reading an open book, and I said to myself:

"Mademoiselle is torn by conflicting emotions: her love for her friends here whom she is to leave, and longing for the life in Paris which may soon be hers, and, perhaps, love for the chevalier, whom she feels she ought to despise. What does it matter if she sometimes vents her irritation with herself upon me, whom she regards as but a boy? I shall not resent it; but if I find a chance I will try to let her know I understand."

But I had no chance on the way to mass. Madame Saugrain seemed to take it for granted that Captain Clarke and the doctor would walk with mademoiselle, and I was her peculiar property; and I suppose I had given her the right to think so by always pointedly devoting myself to her.

It was a solemn service at that midnight hour: the bare little church made beautiful with our garlands of green, and the twinkle of many candles around the altar; the heads bowed in prayer; the subdued murmur of voices making the responses; the swelling note of triumph in the Gregorian chant; and then coming out under the quiet stars and exchanging greetings with friend and neighbor.

And last of all the quiet walk home, and, to my surprise, I was walking by mademoiselle's side. I was surprised, for it was not of my arranging, and it set my blood to leaping to think it was possibly of hers. I made up my mind that no word of mine should mar the friendliness of the act, and I plunged quickly into a lively discussion of the ball that was to take place at Madame Chouteau's on Christmas evening. But she interrupted me almost in the beginning, and, as was her habit when she talked with me, she spoke in French. It was only rarely she tried her English, though, when she did, it was with such a witching grace I could have wished it oftener.

"Monsieur," she said, "I have been so unmaidenly as to inflict my company upon you for the walk home when you had not solicited it, but I had a reason for so doing. I hope," as if a sudden thought had struck her, "I have not interfered with other plans. Had you desired to escort some one else home?"

"Certainly not," I said coolly, for I was unaccountably irritated by the suggestion. "And I did not solicit the honor of being your escort only because I had reason to suppose it would not be agreeable to you."

"It was for that I am here without an invitation," she answered quickly. "I have many times given you occasion to think me entirely without manners. I have often been very rude to you. I wish to ask your pardon for my silly speeches at the table, and for all my unamiability, and to assure you I have not forgotten your great services to me, and I am not ungrateful. It is because I have naturally a very bad temper; and now I believe I am not quite well, I am so irritable of late."

Several times I had tried to interrupt her; I could not bear to have her humiliate herself to me (for I was sure it must be a humiliation to one of her haughty temper). But she would not listen to my interruptions; she went steadily on with a voice so low and sweet and sad it quite unmanned me.

Yet because I thought her voice trembled, and in the moonlight (for the late moon was now well up in the sky) I was sure I saw something bright glistening on her long lashes, and because my heart was torn for her, and I was seized with a horrible fear that she might weep, and I would not know what to do--for all these reasons I spoke quickly and lightly:

"Mademoiselle, you have the temper of an angel, and if sometimes you lose it, I fear it is because only an angel with wings could be patient with a blundering giant like me."

"You are no blunderer, monsieur," she said gravely; "and if you are a giant, you are one of the good kind who use their strength and their courage in rescuing distressed damsels. I hope they will not all requite you as badly as I have done."

"Mademoiselle,"--I spoke as gravely as she had spoken,--"I hope you will not let the remembrance of any service I have been able to render you prove a burden to you. I would risk much more in your service, if the occasion offered, than I risked then, and find my delight in so doing." And then I added: "I wish you would promise me that if you should ever need such service again--if you are ever in peril of any kind, and I am in reach--that you will call on me."

Mademoiselle hesitated a moment before she replied:

"You are heaping coals of fire on my head, monsieur; you are far kinder to me than I deserve, but--I promise."

"Thank you, mademoiselle; you have given me my reward, and if you were ever unamiable to me, you have fully atoned. Sometimes I think, mademoiselle," I went on, inwardly trembling but determined, "that you did not esteem it so great a service that I rendered you--that perhaps you had rather not have been rescued. Am I wrong?"

I was looking down on her and watching her narrowly as I spoke. I could see, even by the uncertain light of the moon, that she went suddenly white, and there was a perceptible pause before she spoke.

"I hardly think, monsieur, that you have any right to ask me such a question, but I am going to answer your question by another." And slowly the color crept back into her face, and grew brighter and brighter, but she went steadily on. "Did you overhear what the Chevalier Le Moyne was saying to me in the glen?"

It was my time to wince. Must I confess to eavesdropping? It was hard enough to do that under any circumstances--but she might think I had listened too to the chevalier's wooing; it seemed to me I could not so outrage her sense of delicacy as to let her think that. I had been reared to revere the truth, but for once I thought it not wrong to chip a little from its sharp edge.

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I will confess to you. I missed you and the chevalier from the dance. I had been warned that the chevalier might attempt to carry you off, and I had given my word not to let you out of my sight. Of course I went at once in search of you, and because I believed the whippoorwills we had heard in the woods to be signal of savages, I bade Yorke follow me with the horses. I heard voices, and in following them came to the top of the bluff encircling the glen. I would scorn to be an eavesdropper under ordinary circumstances, but a chance word caught my ear, and when I found the chevalier was not pleading a lover's cause, but maligning my friend Dr. Saugrain to the maiden he loves as his own daughter, I felt it my duty to listen. Your rejection with scorn of the chevalier's base insinuation against Dr. Saugrain delighted my heart, but when I found that he was continuing with devilish ingenuity to seek to undermine your faith in your guardian, I concluded it was time for me to interfere. I told Yorke to be ready with the horses, and myself went down to the entrance of the glen, intending to interrupt the chevalier, and use my pledge to your guardian as authority for requesting your return. Imagine my astonishment to find Yorke, whom I had left in charge of the horses, astride the chevalier's neck! What followed you know, and now you know what I heard and why I listened. Was it wrong?"

Mademoiselle was silent for a minute. I think she was not quite sure that I had not heard more than I confessed to, but she was willing to hope I had not.

"Monsieur," she said, "you were no doubt justified in listening, if one can ever be justified in listening to what is not intended for his ears. But you have used some harsh expressions concerning the chevalier, and I think it is possible you wrong him, even as he wronged my guardian. I do not for one moment believe that my guardian has had any but the best of motives in keeping from me all knowledge of my rank and wealth; but I might still be ignorant of it, and I know not for how much longer, if the chevalier had not revealed it to me. Dr. Saugrain corroborated all that he has said. He only refuses to believe that the chevalier was sent by my friends to take me back to Paris. He accuses him of being in a plot to get possession of my person and of my wealth. Yet that is exactly the accusation made by the chevalier against Dr. Saugrain. Dr. Saugrain admits that all the chevalier said about my present rank and future prospects is true. Why should not the rest be true--that he had been sent by my friends to bring me back to Paris? Can you not see that he does not necessarily seem to me so black as he does to you and my guardian? And it seems a hard thing to me that he should be a refugee among savages, leaving a blackened reputation behind him (for there is no one in St. Louis who does not vilify him), when he was actuated by most chivalrous motives, however mistaken they might be; for he thought he was rescuing a wronged maiden from those who had unlawful possession of her, and restoring her to her friends. I cannot but feel shame and regret that I should have caused the chevalier so great a journey, at such cost of money and fatigue, in vain, and that he may be even now suffering all kinds of exposure from wild savages, if not in peril of his life."

Now here was the opportunity I had desired to assure her of my sympathy, and tell her that I understood the difficulties in which she was placed; but my tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. When I thought of that villain (for whatever mademoiselle might think, I never for a moment doubted his villainy) my blood boiled, and, instead, I blurted out roughly:

"Mademoiselle, 'tis incomprehensible to me how you can for one moment give the word of such a man as the chevalier, whom you have known so short a time, equal credence with the word of such a man as Dr. Saugrain, thorough Christian gentleman in every fiber of his being, and your lifelong friend and benefactor, your more than father."

But I had spoken beyond my right. Mademoiselle turned on me with cold fury:

"Monsieur, I have not sought this interview that you should teach me my duty to my guardian, nor criticize my attitude toward the chevalier. I am sorry we have allowed the others to get so far ahead of us, but if we hasten we may overtake them and I will relieve you from further attendance." Whereupon she started ahead at a round pace.

"Mademoiselle!" I called to her, "I entreat you to listen to me for a moment."

Mademoiselle stopped and turned toward me, and we stood facing each other in the middle of the road, alone in the white moonlight, for the others were quite out of sight around a bend in the road, and there were no houses near. Below us lay the Mississippi, a white flood in the moonlight, and far across the river the twinkling lights of Cahokia, one of them, no doubt, in Mr. Gratiot's house, where I had first seen mademoiselle. Her eyes were flashing scorn at me now, as they flashed at me when she knelt with her arms around the great shaggy brute, and, looking up in my face, called me "Bête!" There was no doubt about it, mademoiselle could be a little fury at times, and no doubt she would have liked to call me once more, "Bête!"

"Mademoiselle," I said, "I am so unhappy as to be always offending you. From the moment when I made my descent of Mr. Gratiot's staircase on the back of your dog, to the present moment, I seem to have been able to make myself only ridiculous or offensive to you! I beg you to believe that it is a matter of the deepest regret to me that this should be so, and to believe that to offend you is ever farthest from my desire. I realize that I was over-zealous for Dr. Saugrain, whom I greatly admire and love, and that you certainly had never given me any right to take such interest in you and your affairs as I just now displayed. I beg you to believe that I shall never again offend in like manner, mademoiselle la comtesse."

I saw her face slowly change from its expression of scorn to that same wondering look I had noticed in the church, as if she were regarding some one she did not know and was trying to understand. As I uttered the last words, "mademoiselle la comtesse," another and a swift change came over her. Her eyes fell, her head drooped. Still standing there in the moonlight, she suddenly buried her face in her hands and sobs shook her slender figure.

"Mademoiselle, mademoiselle!" I cried. "I beg, I implore, you to forgive me. I am, indeed, a brute!" And as she continued to sob drearily, I was beside myself. What could I do? She looked so like a little child, and I was so big, to have hurt her seemed cruel and shameful. I was in a state of desperation. I begged her and implored her not to weep; but it seemed to me she only sobbed the harder. What did one do, I wondered, with a weeping maiden? Had it only been a child I would have known, for I had ever a way with children; but before a weeping maiden I was helpless.

And still mademoiselle sobbed on, her sobs coming faster and harder, until, in a paroxysm of grief (or I know not what), she flung herself upon a low bank beside the road, moaning and crying aloud.

Instantly my courage returned to me. Mademoiselle was acting like a child; I should treat her as one.

"Mademoiselle," I said firmly, "I cannot permit you to sit upon the cold ground. I am very, very sorry for you, but you must at once arise and dry your eyes and tell me what is the matter, so that I can help you."

Mademoiselle but wept the louder. There was no help for it; at the risk of being rude I must stop her weeping and make her rise from the ground.

"Mademoiselle!" I said sternly, "you will oblige me by rising at once from that cold ground or you will compel me to go for Madame Saugrain and deliver you into her hands."

For a second, amazement at my tone of authority kept her silent, then followed a storm of sobs and tears more violent than before.

"I am sorry, mademoiselle," I said, in a tone purposely cool and cutting (though it was my own heart I stabbed with my coldness), "that you compel me to treat you comme enfant. I shall wait one minute, and if you do not rise from the ground in that time I shall call your friends." Then I drew myself up tall and stiff, like a sentinel, turned my back on mademoiselle, and took out my watch to note the time by the moon-beams.

There was no answer, but the sobs grew less until there was only an occasional convulsive catching of the breath. Then came a moment of quiet. There were neither sobs nor moans. Then a small and plaintive voice said gently:

"Monsieur, I will be good now."

I turned quickly. Mademoiselle was starting to rise from the low bank; I grasped her hands and helped her to her feet and looked down upon her. Her face was flushed with weeping; her hood had fallen back and her dark curls were in wild disorder; she might have been a beautiful child who had been naughty but was now subdued. She adjusted her hood and her curls as best she could, and then walked quietly along beside me. We neither of us spoke, and we walked rapidly and in a few minutes overtook the others and came up to the house together, and into the big living-room, where fresh logs piled in the great chimney-place were blazing and crackling, and lighting every cranny of the long room.

Mademoiselle was paler than usual, but otherwise there were no signs of the tempest she had just been through, and I looked at her with wonder. Madame Saugrain, noticing her pallor, and thinking she was cold, put her down on the wooden settle in the chimney-place to warm by the glowing fire, and bustled about helping Narcisse to bring in plates of croquecignolles and cups of hot mulled gooseberry wine, which was much to my satisfaction, for the frosty air and the lateness of the hour had put a keen edge on an appetite that was ever ready for trencher service.

Now the settle on which mademoiselle sat had a high back and was turned away from the rest of us, so that, as we engaged in helping Madame Saugrain, we might easily have forgotten the little figure hidden away upon it. Perhaps the others did, but I did not. My mind hovered around it all the time; but I was divided between a desire to take her some cake and wine, which I was sure would do her good, and a fear of my reception if I did, and a baser fear that I might thereby lose my own toothsome cake and fragrant wine, which was at that moment making most potent appeals to my inner man by way of the nostrils. "For," I said to myself, "I know the ways of maidens. They like not to see men eat. It seems in their minds a greater compliment to them if a man do but nibble and sip and seem to be careless of his victuals and drink, which I maintain is a great mistake, for a good trencherman is ever a good lover, and a man to be trusted in all the serious business of life."

To ease my conscience and my appetite at the same time, I disposed of a croquecignolle and my steaming cup of wine with such haste that the one stuck in my windpipe and liked to choke me, and the other burnt my mouth well and might as well have been boiling water for all the pleasure my palate got out of it. Then I pretended to suddenly remember mademoiselle, and carried her a plate of cake and a cup of wine with fear and trembling.

She refused them, as I thought she would, but looked up at me very sweetly and asked me very gently to sit down beside her for a moment, and I remember thinking as I did so that I had been wise to secure my cake and wine first, else would I have gone hungry, since I could scarce have the face to eat if mademoiselle would not eat with me. But I still thought it would do her good to have at least a little of the wine, and, remembering how well she had yielded to discipline when she found she must, I set the wine on the hearth where it would keep warm for further use, and then turned to hear what she had to say.

"I only want to say to you, Monsieur, that I am very much ashamed of myself this evening, but I am very unhappy, and I have brooded upon my unhappiness until I have become nervous and irritable, and, as you saw to-night, incapable of self-control. Is that a sufficient excuse for behaving like a spoiled child?"

"Mademoiselle," I said, "it is far more than sufficient, but I am more distressed than I can tell you that you should be so unhappy. If you would but tell me the cause perhaps I could help you. Is it anything you can tell me?"

"Oh, no, no, no!" said Pelagie, hastily, and then seeing perhaps by my face that it hurt me that she should think it impossible I could help her, she added hesitatingly: "That is, I think not. Perhaps it might be possible. I will think about it to-night and to-morrow, and perhaps at Madame Chouteau's dance, if I have an opportunity, I may tell you. I believe," still more slowly, "if any one could help me, you could."

I am sure I thanked her more with my eyes than with my voice, but I know she understood, and then, thinking she had had more than enough of serious converse for one evening, I resumed my rôle of stern disciplinarian and made her eat a little of the cake and drink most of the wine, pretending all the time that she was a naughty child to be sternly dealt with. And I could see that the warm wine and the foolish play were bringing back the color to her cheeks and the brightness to her eyes and the gay ring to her voice, which pleased me greatly. Then my captain called to me that it was high time to be saying good night to the ladies, or rather good morning, and I rose to go, but I turned first and leaned over the back of the tall settle:

"Mademoiselle, at the picnic on Chouteau's Pond I won the first dance with you, I think somewhat against your will. If I should ask you for the first dance to-morrow night, would you give it to me willingly?"

"Willingly, Monsieur," with a glance into my eyes (which were very near her own) by far the sweetest I had yet had from hers.

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