Beyond the Frontier. Randall Parrish

quickly, yet unable to conceal my surprise, “but you will find him no friend to Sieur de la Salle.”

      “Ah!” and he stared at me intently. “In the name of the saints, what is the meaning of this? You know me then?”

      I bowed, yet my eyes remained hidden.

      “I knew you once as Monsieur’s friend,” I said, almost regretting my indiscretion, “and have been told you travel in his company.”

      “You knew me once!” he laughed. “Surely that cannot be, for never would I be likely to forget. I challenge you, Mademoiselle to speak my name.”

      “The Sieur Rene de Artigny, Monsieur.”

      “By my faith, the witch is right, and yet in all this New France I know scarce a maid. Nay look up; there is naught to fear from me, and I would see if memory be not new born. Saint Giles! surely ’tis true; I have seen those eyes before; why, the name is on my tongue, yet fails me, lost in the wilderness. I pray you mercy, Mademoiselle!”

      “You have memory of the face you say?”

      “Ay! the witchery of it; ’tis like a haunting spirit.”

      “Which did not haunt long, I warrant. I am Adele la Chesnayne, Monsieur.”

      7

      He stepped back, his eyes on mine, questioningly. For an instant I believed the name even brought no familiar sound; then his face brightened, and his eyes smiled, as his lips echoed the words.

      “Adele la Chesnayne! Ay! now I know. Why ’tis no less than a miracle. It was a child I thought of under that name––a slender, brown-eyed girl, as blithesome as a bird. No, I had not forgotten; only the magic of three years has made of you a woman. Again and again have I questioned in Montreal and Quebec, but no one seemed to know. At the convent they said your father fell in Indian skirmish.”

      “Yes; ever since then I have lived here, with my uncle, Hugo Chevet.”

      “Here!” he looked about, as though the dreariness of it was first noticed. “Alone? Is there no other woman?”

      I shook my head, but no longer looked at him, for fear he might see the tears in my eyes.

      “I am the housekeeper, Monsieur. There was nothing else for me. In France, I am told, my father’s people were well born, but this is not France, and there was no choice. Besides I was but a child of fourteen.”

      “And seventeen, now, Mademoiselle,” and he took my hand gallantly. “Pardon if I have asked questions which bring pain. I can understand much, for in Montreal I heard tales of this Hugo Chevet.”

      8

      “He is rough, a woodsman,” I defended, “yet not unkind to me. You will speak him fair?”

      He laughed, his eyes sparkling with merriment.

      “No fear of my neglecting all courtesy, for I come beseeching a favor. I have learned the lesson of when the soft speech wins more than the iron hand. And this other, the Commissaire Cassion––is he a bird of the same plumage?”

      I made a little gesture, and glanced back at the closed door.

      “Oh, no; he is the court courtier, to stab with words, not deeds. Chevet is rough of speech, and hard of hand, but he fights in the open; Cassion has a double tongue, and one never knows him.” I glanced up into his sobered face. “He is a friend of La Barre.”

      “So ’tis said, and has been chosen by the governor to bear message to De Baugis in the Illinois country. I seek passage in his company.”

      “You! I thought you were of the party of Sieur de la Salle?”

      “I am,” he answered honestly, “yet Cassion will need a guide, and there is none save myself in all New France who has ever made that journey. ’Twill be well for him to listen to my plan. And why not? We do not fight the orders of the governor: we obey, and wait. Monsieur de la Salle will tell his story to the King.”

      9

      “The King! to Louis?”

      “Ay, ’twill not be the first time he has had audience, and already he is at sea. We can wait, and laugh at this Cassion over his useless journey.”

      “But he––he is treacherous, Monsieur.”

      He laughed, as though the words amused.

      “To one who has lived, as I, amid savages, treachery is an old story. The Commissaire will not find me asleep. We will serve each other, and let it go at that. Ah! we are to be interrupted.”

      He straightened up facing the door, and I turned, confronting my uncle as he emerged in advance. He was a burly man, with iron-gray hair, and face reddened by out-of-doors; and he stopped in surprise at sight of a stranger, his eyes hardening with suspicion.

      “And who is this with whom you converse so privately, Adele?” he questioned brusquely, “a young popinjay new to these parts I venture.”

      De Artigny stepped between us, smiling in good humor.

      “My call was upon you, Monsieur Chevet, and not the young lady,” he said quietly enough, yet with a tone to the voice. “I merely asked her if I had found the right place, and if, Monsieur, the Commissaire Cassion was still your guest.”

      “And what may I ask might be your business with the Commissaire Cassion?” asked the latter, pressing 10 past Chevet, yet bowing with a semblance of politeness, scarcely in accord with the studied insolence of his words. “I have no remembrance of your face.”

      “Then, Monsieur Cassion is not observant,” returned the younger man pleasantly, “as I accompanied the Sieur de la Salle in his attempt to have audience with the governor.”

      “Ah!” the word of surprise exploded from the lips. “Sacre! ’tis true! My faith, what difference clothes make. I mistook you for a courier du bois.”

      “I am the Sieur Rene de Artigny.”

      “Lieutenant of La Salle’s?”

      “Scarcely that, Monsieur, but a comrade; for three years I have been with his party, and was chosen by him for this mission.”

      Cassion laughed, chucking the gloomy-faced Chevet in the side, as though he would give point to a good joke.

      “And little the trip hither has profited either master or man, I warrant. La Barre does not sell New France to every adventurer. Monsieur de la Salle found different reception in Quebec than when Frontenac ruled this colony. Where went the fur-stealer?”

      “To whom do you refer?”

      “To whom? Heaven help us, Chevet, the man would play nice with words. Well, let it go, my young cock, and answer me.”

      11

      “You mean the Sieur de la Salle?”

      “To be sure; I called him no worse than I have heard La Barre speak. They say he has left Quebec; what more know you?”

      “’Tis no secret, Monsieur,” replied De Artigny quietly enough, although there was a flash in his eyes, as they met mine. “The Sieur de la Salle has sailed for France.”

      “France! Bah! you jest; there has been no ship outward bound.”

      “The Breton paused at St. Roche, held by the fog. When the fog lifted there was a new passenger aboard. By dawn the Indian paddlers had me landed in Quebec.”

      “Does La Barre know?”

      “Faith! I could not tell you that, as he has not honored me with audience.”

      Cassion strode back and forth, his face dark with passion. It was not pleasant news he had been told, and it was plain enough he understood the meaning.

      “By