The Lady of Fort St. John | Page 8

But she also was obliged to wait. Marie extended a hand to the claws of Le Rossignol, who touched it with her beak.
"Thou hast very greatly displeased me."
"Yes, Madame Marie," said the culprit, with resignation.
"How many times have you set all our people talking about these witch flights on the swan, and sudden returns after dark?"
"I forget, Madame Marie."
"In all seriousness thou shalt be well punished for this last," said the lady severely.
"I was punished before the offense. Your absence punished me, Madame Marie."
"A bit of adroit flattery will not turn aside discipline. The smallest vassal in the fort shall know that. A day in the turret, with a loaf of bread and a jug of water, may put thee in better liking to stay at home."
"Yes, Madame Marie," assented the dwarf, with smiles.
"And I may yet find it in my heart to have that swan's neck wrung."
"Shubenacadie's neck! Oh, Madame Marie, wring mine! It would be the death of me if Shubenacadie died. Consider how long I have had him. And his looks, my lady! He is such a pretty bird."
"We must mend that dangerous beauty of his. If these flights stop not, I will have his wings clipped."
"His satin wings,--his glistening, polished wings," mourned Le Rossignol, "tipped with angel-finger feathers! Oh, Madame Marie, my heart's blood would run out of his quills!"
"It is a serious breach in the discipline of this fortress for even you to disobey me constantly," said the lady, again severely, though she knew her lecture was wasted on the human brownie.
Le Rossignol poked and worried the mandolin with antenn?-like fingers, and made up a contrite face.
The dimness of the hall had not covered Klussman's large pallor. The emotions of the Swiss passed over the outside of his countenance, in bulk like himself. His lady often compared him to a noble young bullock or other well-conditioned animal. There was in Klussman much wholesomeness and excuse for existence.
"Now, Klussman," said Marie, meeting her lieutenant with the intentness of one used to sudden military emergencies. He trod straight to the fireplace, and pointed at the strange girl, who hid her face.
"Madame, I have come in to speak of a thing you ought to know. Has that woman told you her name?"
"No, she hath not. She hath kept a close tongue ever since we found her at the outpost."
"She ever had a close tongue, madame, but she works her will in silence. It hath been no good will to me, and it will be no good will to the Fort of St. John."
"Who is she, Klussman?"
"I know not what name she bears now, but two years since she bore the name of Marguerite Klussman."
"Surely she is not your sister?"
"No, madame. She is only my wife." He lifted his lip, and his blue eyes stared at the muffled culprit.
"We knew not you had a wife when you entered our service, Klussman."
"Nor had I, madame. D'Aulnay de Charnisay had already taken her."
"Then this woman does come from D'Aulnay de Charnisay?"
"Yes, madame! And if you would have my advice, I say put her out of the gate this instant, and let her find shelter with our Indians above the falls."
"Madame," exclaimed Z��lie, lifting the half-nude infant, and thrusting it before her mistress with importunity which could wait no longer, "of your kindness look at this little creature. With all my chafing and sprinkling I cannot find any life in it. That girl hath let it die on her knees, and hath not made it known!"
Klussman's glance rested on the body with that abashed hatred which a man condemns in himself when its object is helpless.
"It is D'Aulnay's child," he muttered, as if stating abundant reason for its taking off.
"I have brought an agent from D'Aulnay and D'Aulnay's child into our fortress," said Madame La Tour, speaking toward Marguerite's silent cover, under which the girl made no sign of being more than a hidden animal. Her stern face traveled from mother back to tiny body.
There is nothing more touching than the emaciation of a baby. Its sunken temples and evident cheekbones, the line of its jaw, the piteous parted lips and thin neck were all reflected in Marie's eyes. Her entire figure softened, and passionate motherhood filled her. She took the still pliant shape from Z��lie, held it in her hands, and finally pressed it against her bosom. No sign of mourning came from the woman called its mother.
"This baby is no enemy of ours," trembled Madame La Tour. "I will not have it even reproached with being the child of our enemy. It is my little dead lad come again to my bosom. How soft are his dear limbs! And this child died for lack of loving while I went with empty arms! Have you suffered, dear? It is all done