Brother Paulus led the way with Gaston; Mademoiselle followed, and I, because the path was in places too narrow for two abreast1, brought up the rear. Of us all, I think Brother Paul was the merriest; though, such is the alchemy of the hills, in us all the cares of life were transmuted2 into gaiety. Brother Paul forgot the weariness of age, Gaston the penalty of being born great, I that I was sworn to add to his penalties for his own good, Mademoiselle, the sorrows and dangers of Navarre. She went further, she even forgot that she was nothing more than Suzanne D'Orfeuil, nurse and gouvernante to the Count de Foix, forgot everything but that the skies were blue, the sun warm, the air thin and sweet. Care was behind us at Morsigny, and for that day the troubled woman entered afresh into her too early lost heritage of girlhood.
Woman! Man! We were neither one nor other. The horses had been left behind in charge of a goat-herd under the shadow of the last pines, and we were four children scrambling3 up the rocks with Gaston the oldest, because the most gravely serious, of the four. In a child, the joy and wonder of living are at times too great to find expression in laughter.
Up and up and up we climbed, a riot of life in our veins—up and up and up, not so fast as to lose breath for merry-making, nor so slow as to grow cold at the game—up and up and up, now by a goat-track, now by a dead watercourse, now by a tumbled scree of stones, the young Count as active as a kid, and Brother Paul, his black frock kilted to his knees, always near him in front. Up and up and up, and then from behind a jutted4 rock there came a cry, one only, but so fierce, so harsh, so edged with agony and despair, that Mademoiselle turning, caught my sleeve, gasping5, "Jesu! What is that?" and we stood listening, but there was a great silence.
"Paul's voice," said I at last.
"Paul's voice," she answered; "yes, Paul's voice, but—God in heaven! what of Gaston?"
Loosening her hold she hastened on, I at her side, but below her lest she should fall, for her limbs were shaking. The nerves that were not afraid of Tristan for herself trembled at she knew not what for her charge.
"Paul has fallen," said I, steadying her with my hand.
"Then Gaston would have come back or cried to us. No, no; it is my boy, it is my boy."
The wail7 in her voice cut me to the heart. That she loved the lad I knew, but that she loved him with the yearning8 tenderness of a woman was new to me. Hitherto I had thought it was Navarre she loved in the person of the little Count, loved him because, as Louis had made clear, he stood for the peace and hope of her nation. That was greatness in her—a greatness, a loftiness of mind, a patriotism9 that led her to such heights of sacrifice as moved my admiration10 and worship. This was less great, but at once more human and more divine. For the common food of life we do not ask that our women shall be patriots11, it is enough that their love flows out full and sweet and strong to husband, child, and kindred, and as this love of Suzanne's burst its bounds in that bitter wail, I knew that it had gulfed me. It was not that I loved her a little, I loved her as I had never dreamed it was possible to love, and at the suddenness of the revelation the blood roared in my ears with the roar of a winter's torrent12 thundering white into its basin. Under the hand that lay upon my shoulder as we plunged13 along the rocky slope I winced14 and trembled as if the fingers were a white heat.
Amongst I do not know how many others, two thoughts were clear cut in my mind; one, that not for my soul's salvation15 would I at that time have dared to touch that hand, the other an execration16, a bitter loathing17 of myself that in a pretence18 of love I had ever kissed a woman's lips. Later—but let the later speak for itself. I pray God the divine measure of a man is what he is at his best, his highest; the sorrowful thing is that for every such hilltop of reverence19, self-sacrifice, self-control, there is a valley, and the valleys burrow20 through the darkness further and fuller than the mountains stretch their pinnacles21 to the light.
Beyond the out-thrust of the cliff there was a shelving flat that seemed to fall away sheer to the air, and as we turned the angle, Mademoiselle ran forward with a cry. On the flat, breast down, lay Brother Paulus, his hands, on either side his chest, gripping the lip of the rock down which he peered. Stooping, Mademoiselle caught him by the shoulder, shaking him roughly.
"Gaston? Where is Gaston?"
Without shifting his hold the monk22 looked up, his grey face ashen-white, the mouth trembling like a frightened child.
"Oh!" he said, drawing a shivering sigh, "would to God it were I."
"Gaston?" repeated Mademoiselle, emphasizing her words with her nervous hands; "where is Gaston? Not there, oh God! not there!" and kneeling, she too peered down the cliff.
For answer, Brother Paulus stretched out a shaking hand.
"We were at play," he said hoarsely23. "All day we were at play, and I forgot that this was the Grey Leap. There was a loose stone, and he slipped upon it. I think—I think—he is still alive."
What the fingers pointed24 at was plainly in sight, a little wisp of white caught upon a point of rock behind the shelter of which grew a stunted25 pine, but I readily comprehended how she had missed seeing him. A moment back, under the revelation of her cry and the touch of her hand, I, too, had gone blind as the sound as of many waters roared in my ears. And now, as love staggered her, she could not see the little bundle of white linen26 which might, as Brother Paul said, be alive, but which showed no life.
"Gaston!" she cried, her voice shrill27 and harsh by turns. "Gaston! Gaston!"
"I think he is alive," said Brother Paulus again, though what he founded his thought on God knows, unless it was on pure faith, for there was neither sound nor motion.
"Gaston! Gaston! Gaston!" she cried again, and then, rising, to my terror she set herself to find a way down the face of the rock.
Rising also, but only to his knees, Brother Paulus caught her by the skirt. He, too, had divined her intention, and saw its hopeless folly28; no cliff amongst the many in the hills had so evil a repute as the Grey Leap.
"No, Suzanne, no," said he, "it is death; there is no way, I have searched, and there is none, none."
"You have searched, you, who let him fall! Stay on your knees and pray; that is your business; mine is to find a way down to my boy, or if there is none, to make a way."
"Let him fall?" said he, with a gasp6, and wincing29 as if she had struck him with a whip. "How did I let him fall? Could I have helped it?"
"God knows," answered she; "but he was with you, and he fell."
I suppose love is cruel at heart, cruelly hard against whatever comes between it and the thing it loves. That the priest was nowise to blame Mademoiselle knew as well as I, but she could not give him the comfort of saying so. That is why, I think, love is always feigned30 to be a child, for in its ignorant singleness of purpose there is nothing so ruthless. It was that same singleness of purpose that frightened me now. Matched against the lad, Gaspard Hellewyl counted for nothing, and never could count, and I dreaded31 lest, in seeking to hold her back, I should drive her by the nearest and most desperate path. To try a forced authority seemed the safest course; that, and a suggestion that she could help me from above, might keep her out of danger.
"You!" said I, with a rough contempt that must have hurt her had her heart not been in the bundle of linen twenty feet down the cliff. "What can you do, cumbered by your skirts as you are? Nothing but add to our trouble. Unless—yes! you may save us both by this, watch here and direct me how to climb."
"You!" The contempt was yet rougher than my own, so rough that the hurt she had escaped galled32 me bitterly. "We have trusted you so far, trusted you in part and because we could not help ourselves, but do you think we shall trust you there?" and with a sudden fierceness she pointed down the ledge33. "Day by day you have said to me, Wait! Has your time come now, Monsieur the messenger of Louis of France? Has your time come now, Monsieur, it may be, his catspaw? Was it for this we have waited all these weeks? A touch of the foot by accident—by accident, you understand, one little slip for which no man could openly blame you—and the hope of Navarre would be where your master would have it be. Stand back, Monsieur! Stand back! If you dare to hinder me by so much as a finger, the monk and I, priest and woman though we are, will fling you after the boy."
So swift, so unexpected, so bitter was the attack that I had no answer ready, no exculpation34, no assurance, no plea, and how the dead-lock would have ended I do not know had Hugues and the big Spaniard 'Tuco not come round the track at a panting trot35. The group of but three where four should have been, Brother Paulus on his knees as if in prayer for a passing soul, Mademoiselle's white face blazing with accusation36, her arms thrust out in defence or threat, none could say which, my own half-shrinking from the venom37 of her thought, not only told the truth, but with the truth linked so plausible38 a lie that I have never blamed them for their thought. I was of France, they of Navarre; and if Mademoiselle, into whose life I had grown daily these weeks past, could think so vilely39 of me, there was little wonder that their suspicion and ignorant hate out-leaped reality.
Their wits worked together. Waiting for neither explanation nor command they turned upon me, and I, taken unawares, was as a child in their hands, hardly even grasping their intent. But Mademoiselle understood, and it was not so much her shriek40 of No! No! No! as the grasp of her hands upon my shoulders as we overhung the very lip of descent that held us there, staggering. From the shoulders her hands slipped forwards, inwards, till her fingers knit themselves under my chin, drawing me back against her bosom41; and there upon the edge we hung a moment, too breathless and shaken for words.
"Not his fault," she said at last, very hoarsely; "not his fault; tell them, Father Paul, for I cannot speak. Oh, Monsieur, Monsieur, forgive them, pray forgive them!"
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1
abreast
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| adv.并排地；跟上(时代)的步伐，与…并进地 | |
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transmuted
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| v.使变形，使变质，把…变成…( transmute的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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3
scrambling
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| v.快速爬行( scramble的现在分词 )；攀登；争夺；（军事飞机）紧急起飞 | |
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4
jutted
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| v.（使）突出( jut的过去式和过去分词 )；伸出；（从…）突出；高出 | |
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5
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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6
gasp
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| n.喘息，气喘；v.喘息；气吁吁他说 | |
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7
wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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8
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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9
patriotism
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| n.爱国精神，爱国心，爱国主义 | |
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10
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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11
patriots
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| 爱国者，爱国主义者( patriot的名词复数 ) | |
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12
torrent
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| n.激流，洪流；爆发，(话语等的)连发 | |
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13
plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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14
winced
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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16
execration
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| n.诅咒，念咒，憎恶 | |
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17
loathing
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| n.厌恶，憎恨v.憎恨，厌恶( loathe的现在分词)；极不喜欢 | |
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18
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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19
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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20
burrow
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| vt.挖掘(洞穴)；钻进；vi.挖洞；翻寻；n.地洞 | |
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21
pinnacles
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| 顶峰( pinnacle的名词复数 )； 顶点； 尖顶； 小尖塔 | |
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22
monk
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| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
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23
hoarsely
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| adv.嘶哑地 | |
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24
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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25
stunted
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| adj.矮小的；发育迟缓的 | |
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26
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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27
shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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28
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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29
wincing
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| 赶紧避开，畏缩( wince的现在分词 ) | |
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30
feigned
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| a.假装的，不真诚的 | |
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31
dreaded
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| adj.令人畏惧的；害怕的v.害怕，恐惧，担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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32
galled
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| v.使…擦痛( gall的过去式和过去分词 )；擦伤；烦扰；侮辱 | |
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33
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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34
exculpation
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| n.使无罪，辩解 | |
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35
trot
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| n.疾走，慢跑；n.老太婆；现成译本；(复数）trots:腹泻（与the 连用）；v.小跑，快步走，赶紧 | |
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36
accusation
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| n.控告，指责，谴责 | |
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37
venom
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| n.毒液，恶毒，痛恨 | |
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38
plausible
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| adj.似真实的，似乎有理的，似乎可信的 | |
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39
vilely
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| adv.讨厌地，卑劣地 | |
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40
shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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41
bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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