When Valmond Came to Pontiac: Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The sickness had come like a whirlwind: when it passed, what would be
left? The fight went on in the quiet hills--a man of no great stature or
strength, against a monster who racked him in a fierce embrace. A
thousand scenes flashed through Valmond's brain, before his eyes, while
the great wheel of torture went round, and he was broken, broken-mended
and broken again, upon it. Spinning--he was for ever spinning, like a
tireless moth through a fiery air; and the world went roaring past. In
vain he cried to the wheelman to stop the wheel: there was no answer.
Would those stars never cease blinking in and out, or the wind stop
whipping the swift clouds past? So he went on, endless years, driving
through space, some terrible intangible weight dragging at his heart, and
all his body panting as it spun.

Grotesque faces came and went, and bright-eyed women floated by, laughing
at him, beckoning to him; but he could not come, because of this endless
going. He heard them singing, he felt the divine notes in his battered
soul; he tried to weep for the hopeless joy of it; but the tears came no
higher than his throat. Why did they mock him so? At last, all the
figures merged into one, and she had the face--ah, he had seen it
centuries ago!--of Madame Chalice. Strange that she was so young still,
and that was so long past--when he stood on a mountain, and, clambering a
high wall of rock, looked over into a happy No-man's Land.

Why did the face elude him so, flashing in and out of the vapours? Why
was its look sorrowful and distant? And yet there was that perfect smile,
that adorable aspect of the brow, that light in the deep eyes. He tried
to stop the eternal spinning, but it went remorselessly on; and presently
the face was gone; but not till it had given him ease of his pain.

Then came fighting, fighting, nothing but fighting--endless charges of
cavalry, continuous wheelings and advancings and retreatings, and the mad
din of drums; afterwards, in a swift quiet, the deep, even thud of the
horses' hoofs striking the ground. Flags and banners flaunted gaily by.
How the helmets flashed, and the foam flew from the bits! But those
flocks of blackbirds flying over the heads of the misty horsemen--they
made him shiver. Battle, battle, battle, and death, and being born--he
felt it all.

All at once there came a wide peace and clearing, and the everlasting jar
and movement ceased. Then a great pause, and light streamed round him,
comforting him.

It seemed to him that he was lying helpless and still by falling water in
a valley. The water soothed him, and he fell asleep. After a long time he
waked, and dimly knew that a face, good to look at, was bending over him.
In a vague, far-off way he saw that it was Elise Malboir; but even as he
saw, his eyes closed, the world dropped away, and he sank to sleep again.

It was no vision or delirium; for Elise had come. She had knelt beside
his bed, and given him drink, and smoothed his pillow; and once, when no
one was in the tent, she stooped and kissed his hot dark lips, and
whispered words that were not for his ears to hear, nor to be heard by
any one of this world. The good Cure found her there. He had not heart to
bid her go home, and he made it clear to the villagers that he approved
of her great kindness. But he bade her mother also come, and she stayed
in a tent near by.

Lagroin and two hundred men held the encampment, and every night the
recruits arrived from the village, drilled as before, and waited for the
fell disease to pass. No one knew its exact nature, but now and again, in
long years, some one going to Dalgrothe Mountain was seized by it, and
died, or was left stricken with a great loss of the senses, or the limbs.
Yet once or twice, they said, men had come up from it no worse at all.
There was no known cure, and the Little Chemist could only watch the
swift progress of the fever, and use simple remedies to allay the
suffering. Parpon knew that the disease had seized upon Valmond the night
of the burial of Gabriel. He remembered now the sickly, pungent air that
floated past, and how Valmond, weak from the loss of blood in the fight
at the smithy, shuddered, and drew his cloak about him. A few days would
end it, for good or ill.

Madame Chalice heard the news with consternation, and pity would have
sent her to Valmond's bedside, but that she found Elise was his faithful
nurse and servitor. This fixed in her mind the belief that if Valmond
died, he would leave both misery and shame behind; if he lived, she
should, in any case, see him no more. But she sent him wines and
delicacies, and she also despatched a messenger to a city sixty miles
away, for the best physician. Then she sought the avocat, to discover
whether he had any exact information as to Valmond's friends in Quebec,
or in France. She had promised not to be his enemy, and she remembered
with a sort of sorrow that she had told him she meant to be his friend;
but, having promised, she would help him in his sore strait.

She had heard of De la Riviere's visit to Valmond, and she intended
sending for him, but delayed it. The avocat told her nothing: matters
were in abeyance, and she abided the issue; meanwhile getting news of the
sick man twice a day. More, she used all her influence to keep up the
feeling for him in the country, to prevent flagging of enthusiasm. This
she did out of a large heart, and a kind of loyalty to her temperament
and to his own ardour for his cause. Until he was proved the comedian (in
spite of the young Seigneur) she would stand by him, so far as his public
career was concerned. Misfortune could not make her turn from a man; it
was then she gave him a helping hand. What was between him and Elise was
for their own souls and consciences.

As she passed the little cottage in the field the third morning of
Valmond's illness, she saw the girl entering. Elise had come to get some
necessaries for Valmond and for her mother. She was pale; her face had
gained a spirituality, a refinement, new and touching. Madame Chalice was
tempted to go and speak to her, and started to do so, but turned back.

"No, no, not until we know the worst of this illness--then!" she said to
herself.

But ten minutes later De la Riviere was not so kind. He had guessed a
little at Elise's secret, and as he passed the house on the way to visit
Madame Chalice, seeing the girl, he came to the door and said:

"How goes it with the distinguished gentleman, Elise? I hear you are his
slave."

The girl turned a little pale. She was passing a hot iron over some
coarse sheets, and, pausing, she looked steadily at him and replied:

"It is not far to Dalgrothe Mountain, monsieur."

"The journey's too long for me; I haven't your hot young blood," he said
suggestively.

"It was not so long a dozen years ago, monsieur." De la Riviere flushed
to his hair. That memory was a hateful chapter in his life--a boyish
folly, which involved the miller's wife. He had buried it, the village
had forgotten it,--such of it as knew,--and the remembrance of it stung
him. He had, however, brought it on himself, and he must eat the bitter
fruit.

The girl's eyes were cold and hard. She knew him to be Valmond's enemy,
and she had no idea of sparing him. She knew also that he had been
courteous enough to send a man each day to inquire after Valmond, but
that was not to the point; he was torturing her, he had prophesied the
downfall of her "spurious Napoleon."

"It will be too long a journey for you, and for all, presently," he said.

"You mean that His Excellency will die?" she asked, her heart beating so
hard that it hurt her. Yet the flat-iron moved backwards and forwards
upon the sheets mechanically.

"Or fight a Government," he answered. "He has had a good time, and good
times can't last for ever, can they, Elise? Have you ever thought of
that?"

She turned pale and swayed over the table. In an instant he was beside
her; for though he had been irritable and ungenerous, he had at bottom a
kind heart. Catching up a glass of water, he ran an arm round her waist
and held the cup to her lips.

"What's the matter, my girl?" he asked. "There, pull yourself together."

She drew away from him, though grateful for his new attitude. She could
not bear everything. She felt nervous and strangely weak.

"Won't you go, monsieur?" she said, and turned to her ironing again.

He looked at her closely, and not unkindly. For a moment the thought
possessed him that evil and ill had come to her. But he put it away from
him, for there was that in her eyes which gave his quick suspicions the
lie. He guessed now that the girl loved Valmond, and he left her with
that thought. Going up the hill, deep in thought, he called at the Manor,
to find that Madame Chalice was absent, and would not be back till
evening.

When Elise was left alone, a weakness seized her again, as it had done
when De la Riviere was present. She had had no sleep in four days, and it
was wearing on her, she said to herself, refusing to believe that a
sickness was coming. Leaving the kitchen, she went up to her bedroom.
Opening the window, she sat down on the side of the bed and looked round.
She figured Valmond in her mind as he stood in this place and that, his
voice, his words to her, the look in his face, the clasp of his hand.

All at once she sprang up, fell on her knees before the little shrine of
the Virgin, and burst into tears. Her rich hair, breaking loose, flowed
round her-the picture of a Magdalen; but it was, in truth, a pure girl
with a true heart. At last she calmed herself and began to pray:

"Ah, dear Mother of God, thou who dost speak for the sorrowful before thy
Son and the Father, be merciful to me and hear me. I am but a poor girl,
and my life is no matter. But he is a great man, and he has work to do,
and he is true and kind. Oh, pray for him, divine Mother, sweet Mary,
that he may be saved from death! If the cup must be emptied, may it be
given to me to drink! Oh, see how all the people come to him and love
him! For the saving of Madelinette, oh, may his own life be given him! He
cannot pray for himself, but I pray for him. Dear Mother of God, I love
him, and I would lose my life for his sake. Sweet Mary, comfort thy
child, and out of thy own sorrow be good to my sorrow. Hear me and pray
for me, divine Mary. Amen."

Her whole nature had been emptied out, and there came upon her a calm, a
strange clearness of brain, exhausted in body as she was. For an instant
she stood thinking.

"Madame Degardy! Madame Degardy!" she cried, with sudden inspiration.
"Ah, I will find her; she may save him with her herbs!"

She hurried out of the house and down through the village to the little
hut by the river, where the old woman lived.

Elise had been to Madame Degardy as good a friend as a half-mad creature,
with no memory, would permit her. Parpon had lived for years in the same
village, but, though he was her own son, she had never given him a look
of recognition, had used him as she used all others. In turn, the dwarf
had never told any one but Valmond of the relationship; and so the two
lived their strange lives in their own singular way. But the Cure knew
who it was that kept the old woman's house supplied with wood and other
necessaries. Parpon himself had tried to summon her to Valmond's bedside,
for he knew well her skill with herbs, but the little hut was empty, and
he could get no trace of her. She had disappeared the night Valmond was
seized of the fever, and she came back to her little home in the very
hour that Elise visited her. The girl found her boiling herbs before a
big fire. She was stirring the pot diligently, now and then sprinkling in
what looked like a brown dust, and watching the brew intently.

She nodded, but did not look at Elise, and said crossly:

"Come in, come in, and shut the door, silly."

"Madame," said the girl, "His Excellency has the black fever."

"What of that?" she returned irritably.

"I thought maybe your herbs could cure him. You've cured others, and this
is an awful sickness. Ah, won't you save him, if you can?"

"What are you to him, pale-face?" she said, her eyes peering into the
pot.

"Nothing more to him than you are, madame," the girl answered wearily.

"I'll cure because I want, not because you ask me, pretty brat."

Elise's heart gave a leap: these very herbs were for Valmond! The old
woman had travelled far to get the medicaments immediately she had heard
of Valmond's illness. Night and day she had trudged, and she was more
brown and weather-beaten than ever.

"The black fever! the black fever!" cried the old woman. "I know it well.
It's most like a plague. I know it. But I know the cure-ha, ha! Come
along now, feather-legs, what are you staring there for? Hold that jug
while I pour the darling liquor in. Ha, ha! Crazy Joan hasn't lived for
nothing. They have to come to her; the great folks have to come to her!"

So she meandered on, filling the jug. Later, in the warm dusk, they
travelled up to Dalgrothe Mountain, and came to Valmond's tent. By the
couch knelt Parpon, watching the laboured breathing of the sick man. When
he saw Madame Degardy, he gave a growl of joy, and made way for her. She
pushed him back with her stick contemptuously, looked Valmond over, ran
her fingers down his cheek, felt his throat, and at last held his
restless hand. Elise, with the quick intelligence of love, stood ready.
The old woman caught the jug from her, swung it into the hollow of her
arm, poured the cup half full, and motioned the girl to lift up Valmond's
head. Elise raised it to her bosom, leaning her face down close to his.
Madame Degardy instantly pushed back her head.

"Don't get his breath--that's death, idiot!" she said, and began to pour
the liquid into Valmond's mouth very slowly. It was a tedious process at
first, but at length he began to swallow naturally, and finished the cup.

There was no change for an hour, and then he became less restless. After
another cupful, his eyes half opened. Within an hour a perspiration came,
and he was very quiet, and sleeping easily. Parpon crouched near the
door, watching it all with deep, piercing eyes. Madame Degardy never
moved from her place, but stood shaking her head and muttering. At last
Lagroin came, and whisperingly asked after his chief; then, seeing him in
a healthy and peaceful sleep, he stooped and kissed the hand lying upon
the blanket.

"Beloved sire! Thank the good God!" he said. Soon after he had gone,
there was a noise of tramping about the tent, and then a suppressed
cheer, which was fiercely stopped by Parpon, and the soldiers of the
Household Troops scattered to their tents.

"What's that?" asked Valmond, opening his eyes bewilderedly.

"Your soldiers, sire," answered the dwarf.

Valmond smiled languidly. Then he saw Madame Degardy and Elise.

"I am very sleepy, dear friends," he said, with a courteous, apologetic
gesture, and closed his eyes. Presently they opened again. "My
snuff-box--in my pocket," he said to the old woman, waving a hand to
where his uniform hung from the tent-pole; "it is for you, madame."

She understood, smiled grimly, felt in a waistcoat pocket, found the
snuff-box, and, squatting on the ground like a tailor, she took two
pinches, and sat holding the antique silver box in her hand.

"Crazy Joan's no fool, dear lad," she said at last, and took another
pinch, and knowingly nodded her head again and again, while he slept
soundly.

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