"Good!" said I, answering Mademoiselle's bitter mistrust, rather than her broken appeal upon the men's behalf. Against them I had no rancour; the fault was none of theirs, if their zeal4 lacked information. "Good! He is the Count de Foix! Let Foix and Navarre save him, only let them remember that there is fifty feet of a tumble below that bundle of linen5 there, and a bed of saw-toothed rocks to fall upon."
It is my belief that for these thirty seconds, and the minute or two of stress which preceded them, Mademoiselle had utterly6 forgotten the boy's danger. Instantly she turned, and, pointing downward, broke into passionate7 command. Her speech was that quaint8 mixture of slurred9 French, Spanish and Basque which passed for a language in Morsigny, and so was strange to me. But the clamour of the boy's need made her meaning clear, even had she spoken no word. Nudely, ruthlessly clear, and a grim gladness warmed me to see that Hugues and the Spaniard grew cold as she waxed more and more passionate, her brief authority lost at the last in a pleading almost choked by tears.
A word or two of the slurred French I understood, such as peace, Navarre, their duty, then Navarre again, and yet again Navarre. But to more than fifty feet of a fall left them cold. Peace? The peace of a loosened grip was too profound a peace for their taste! Duty? Surely the soul's first duty is to its own body! Navarre? They looked at one another; Navarre would have battles to fight, and dead men, even dead in duty, make no war. So they argued, speaking no word; and so, with my back against the cliff, I read their reasoning and laughed aloud.
But the laughter died in my mouth.
If it failed to shame them, being coarse-grained peasants, it moved Mademoiselle to an unendurable despair. With a last indignant word, some acid, biting phrase of scorn, she knelt to renew her folly10 of descent. But to do Hugues and the other justice, if they were careful of themselves they were careful also of her, for even before I could reach her they held her back.
"Leave me go, you cowards, leave me go!" she cried, struggling, her face wet with unconscious tears of rage and shame. "My God! is there not one man amongst you!"
"It is for Navarre," said I, giving my bitter mood rein11, now she was safe. "It is for Foix and Navarre; let me beg you both to fall down fifty feet for the glory of Foix and Navarre. The thought will comfort you—till you hit the stones at the bottom."
It was not a very manly12 gibe13, but in the best of us, and I do not claim to be that, there is a beast who only needs rousing, and at that moment the man in me was not uppermost. From the hilltop I had sunk to the valley. My new found and newer trampled14 love was too raw in its wounds to be just. Had not Mademoiselle, in her very last words, called me a coward with the rest? And yet it was she whose scorn and contumely forbade me to climb.
"Oh, that I were a man!" she said, swallowing her sobs16 till they choked her; "then would I sooner lie dead with the child."
While she was speaking, Brother Paulus had risen and stripped himself of his clinging frock. Now, flinging it aside, he turned to me.
"So would I; she is right, Monsieur Hellewyl; the shame of it is not to be borne."
"A man," said I, answering Mademoiselle, but laying the flat of my hand on the priest's breast, that he might do nothing useless. The spirit within him was strong to dare, but the flesh was weak. Had there been ten Father Pauls, they must have followed one another to the bottom of the cliff. "A man—that is, a true man—one trusts. Do you trust me, Mademoiselle?"
"Oh, you are cruel!" she cried, but the sobs were softer. "Would you let the child die because of a girl's——?" she paused, searching for an adjective, but finding none that fitted her thought went on—"Must I ask your pardon, Monsieur? Must I humble17 myself to you? I'll do it, I'll do it gladly."
"I would have you say: I trust you. Come what may, I trust you, now and always."
As a child repeats its lesson she answered me, her face all drawn18 by pain, the tears still shining in her eyes. "I trust you, Monsieur, now and always, come what may."
Of what followed I have no desire to say much. Of neither the manner nor the motive19 of the exploit have I any reason to be proud. For the one, I am a man of the flats, and with no skill for such a piece of work. To every crevice20, every cranny, every boss of rock I clung as a drowning cat clings to a crumbling21 bank when a swishing current tears at her flanks; and if I did not howl in my terror like the same cat, it was because I grit22 my teeth and whimpered inwardly, for there is no denying I was horribly afraid. Fifty feet of air hung from my ancles, dragging me down like so many pounds of lead. As to the motive, it was compounded of as many diversities as go to the mixing of an apothecary's potion. There was a little pity, a little pride, a little love, some contempt, some braggadocio23, Jan Meert's throat, and a new roof to Solignac all blent through it. But most of these I left on the ledge24 or dropped into the void at the first touch of despair, and thenceforward pride and a dogged love of dear life were motive enough.
Blunderer as I was, and hampered25 by Brother Paul's frock knotted loosely across my shoulders, I must inevitably26 have followed the bulk of my influencing ingredients, had not Mademoiselle directed every move.
"There is a knob of rock to the right; no, more to the right—more yet—yes, that is it; but, oh, Monsieur, try it first before you trust your weight upon it, lest it crumble27. It holds? Thank God for that! Now a foot below there is a crevice, and then to the left an open seam for your fingers. You have it? That is splendid, splendid! Remember, always to the right, little by little, the—the—boy lies there, and—oh, God! he is stirring. Gaston! Gaston! do not move! Jesu! Jesu! that he may not move! Lie still, Gaston, lie still, mon gars; the brave Monsieur Gaspard is going down to you, and there is nothing to fear, nothing—do you hear me?—nothing at all."
For which sore straining of the truth may she be forgiven! Nothing to fear? If there was nothing to fear, why was the sweat pouring down my back, or that sob15 rattling28 in my throat? And why was the brave Monsieur Gaspard realising fully29 for the first time how good a thing is life?
How long the boy had recovered consciousness I do not know, but the bewilderment of the shock had passed away, and now the courage that had squared his fists in the whin brake saved him. From the silence which followed Mademoiselle's passionate adjuration30, a thin voice piped out: "I'm not afraid, Suzanne. I hear you, and I will be quiet."
"Mon brave! Thou art not afraid, no, not thou; but do not stir, my heart, no, not a finger. Monsieur Hellewyl, are you rested? There is a ledge below you sloping to the right. It must be four inches broad—good! that is it. Only a moment now Gaston, and the rest is easy." For which second straining of the truth, I say again, may she be forgiven! Later, long after, I learned that this time the lie was on my account. In the brief pause I had glanced up, and from the agony of soul stamped on my white face, Mademoiselle for the first time truly recognised the risk I ran. The Paris rabble31 had taught her it was no common danger that made Gaspard Hellewyl go in frank terror for his life—I use her own words—and with a quick wit she set herself to put heart in me, and at a time when there was least heart in her own hope. But I believed her, and the lie steadied my nerve. Believing the rest to be easier made it easier, for there is no courage like the courage of faith; that of manhood or despair alike pales before its forces.
Nor was the upward journey so difficult, even with the child upon my back in the monk's frock, knapsack fashion. Every foot climbed was a year or more of life gained, and Mademoiselle's face, still white, but with the tears dried from the eyes, turned down to mine, drew me. Not a word was spoken, hardly a breath except my own seemed to stir; but God, He knows what prayers went up through the silence. Then came the end. Down from the top 'Tuco stretched his long arms, grasping my wrists. With a heave, Hugues helping32, I was breast high; another, and we rolled forward on the ledge, four pairs of hands holding us, with Mademoiselle sobbing33 and crying as she had neither sobbed34 nor cried while the fear of death was cold upon her.
"Let come what may, Mademoiselle?" said I, when I could command my breath.
"Let come what may," she answered, and this time it was not the tears that shone in the eyes, but the eyes behind the tears.
Thenceforward, not even 'Tuco the Spaniard held us in doubt, and as we rode into Morsigny I knew that my bleeding finger-tips had drawn nearer three such differing rewards as Mademoiselle's friendship, Jan Meert's throat, and the building again of Solignac.
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1
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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2
patois
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| n.方言；混合语 | |
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3
grudges
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| 不满，怨恨，妒忌( grudge的名词复数 ) | |
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zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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5
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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6
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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8
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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9
slurred
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| 含糊地说出( slur的过去式和过去分词 )； 含糊地发…的声； 侮辱； 连唱 | |
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10
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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rein
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| n.疆绳，统治，支配；vt.以僵绳控制，统治 | |
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12
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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13
gibe
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| n.讥笑；嘲弄 | |
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14
trampled
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| 踩( trample的过去式和过去分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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15
sob
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| n.空间轨道的轰炸机；呜咽，哭泣 | |
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16
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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17
humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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18
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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19
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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20
crevice
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| n.(岩石、墙等)裂缝；缺口 | |
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21
crumbling
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| adj.摇摇欲坠的 | |
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22
grit
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| n.沙粒，决心，勇气；v.下定决心，咬紧牙关 | |
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23
braggadocio
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| n.吹牛大王 | |
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24
ledge
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| n.壁架，架状突出物；岩架，岩礁 | |
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25
hampered
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| 妨碍，束缚，限制( hamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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inevitably
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| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
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27
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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28
rattling
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| adj. 格格作响的, 活泼的, 很好的 adv. 极其, 很, 非常 动词rattle的现在分词 | |
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29
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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30
adjuration
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| n.祈求，命令 | |
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31
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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32
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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33
sobbing
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| <主方>Ⅰ adj.湿透的 | |
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34
sobbed
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| 哭泣，啜泣( sob的过去式和过去分词 )； 哭诉，呜咽地说 | |
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