Beyond the Frontier. Randall Parrish
THE WIFE OF FRANCOIS CASSION
It is vague, all that transpired. I knew then, and recall now, much of the scene yet it returns to memory more in a passing picture than an actual reality in which I was an actor. But one clear impression dominated my brain––my helplessness to resist the command of La Barre. His word was law in the colony, and from it there was no appeal, save to the King. Through swimming mist I saw his face, stern, dark, threatening, and then glimpsed Cassion approaching me, a smile curling his thin lips. I shrank back from him, yet arose to my feet, trembling so that I clung to the chair to keep erect.
“Do not touch me, Monsieur,” I said, in a voice which scarcely sounded like my own. Cassion stood still, the smile of triumph leaving his face. La Barre turned, his eyes cold and hard.
“What is this, Mademoiselle? You would dare disobey me?”
I caught my breath, gripping the chair with both hands.
“No, Monsieur le Governor,” I answered, surprised 77 at the clearness with which I spoke. “That would be useless; you have behind you the power of France, and I am a mere girl. Nor do I appeal, for I know well the cause of your decision. It is indeed my privilege to appeal to Holy Church for protection from this outrage, but not through such representative as I see here.”
“Père le Guard is chaplain of my household.”
“And servant to your will, Monsieur. ’Tis known in all New France he is more diplomat than priest. Nay! I take back my word, and will make trial of his priesthood. Father, I do not love this man, nor marry him of my own free will. I appeal to you, to the church, to refuse the sanction.”
The priest stood with fingers interlocked, and head bowed, nor did his eyes meet mine.
“I am but the humble instrument of those in authority, Daughter,” he replied gently, “and must perform the sacred duties of my office. ’Tis your own confession that your hand has been pledged to Monsieur Cassion.”
“By Hugo Chevet, not myself.”
“Without objection on your part.” He glanced up slyly. “Perchance this was before the appearance of another lover, the Sieur de Artigny.”
I felt the color flood my cheeks, yet from indignation rather than embarrassment.
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“No word of love has been spoken me by Monsieur de Artigny,” I answered swiftly. “He is a friend, no more. I do not love Francois Cassion, nor marry him but through force; ay! nor does he love me––this is but a scheme to rob me of my inheritance.”
“Enough of this,” broke in La Barre sternly, and he gripped my arm. “The girl hath lost her head, and such controversy is unseemly in my presence. Père le Guard, let the ceremony proceed.”
“’Tis your order, Monsieur?”
“Ay! do I not speak my will plainly enough? Come, the hour is late, and our King’s business is of more import than the whim of a girl.”
I never moved, never lifted my eyes. I was conscious of nothing, but helpless, impotent anger, of voiceless shame. They might force me to go through the form, but never would they make me the wife of this man. My heart throbbed with rebellion, my mind hardened into revolt. I knew all that occurred, realized the significance of every word and act, yet it was as if they appertained to someone else. I felt the clammy touch of Cassion’s hand on my nerveless fingers, and I must have answered the interrogatories of the priest, for his voice droned on, meaningless to the end. It was only in the silence which followed that I seemed to regain consciousness, and a new grip on my numbed faculties. Indeed I was still groping in the fog, bewildered, 79 inert, when La Barre gave utterance to a coarse laugh.
“Congratulations, Francois,” he cried. “A fair wife, and not so unwilling after all. And now your first kiss.”
The sneer of these words was like a slap in the face, and all the hatred, and indignation I felt seethed to the surface. A heavy paper knife lay on the desk, and I gripped it in my fingers, and stepped back, facing them. The mist seemed to roll away, and I saw their faces, and there must have been that in mine to startle them, for even La Barre gave back a step, and the grin faded from the thin lips of the Commissaire.
“’Tis ended then,” I said, and my voice did not falter. “I am this man’s wife. Very well, you have had your way; now I will have mine. Listen to what I shall say, Monsieur le Governor, and you also, Francois Cassion. By rite of church you call me wife, but that is your only claim. I know your law, and that this ceremony has sealed my lips. I am your captive, nothing more; you can rob me now––but, mark you! all that you will ever get is money. Monsieur Cassion, if you dare lay so much as a finger on me, I will kill you, as I would a snake. I know what I say, and mean it. You kiss me! Try it, Monsieur, if you doubt how my race repays insult. I will go with you; I will bear your name; this the law compels, but I am still mistress 80 of my soul, and of my body. You hear me, Messieurs? You understand?”
Cassion stood leaning forward, just where my first words had held him motionless. As I paused his eyes were on my face, and he lifted a hand to wipe away drops of perspiration. La Barre crumpled the paper he held savagely.
“So,” he exclaimed, “we have unchained a tiger cat. Well, all this is naught to me; and Francois, I leave you and the wilderness to do the taming. In faith, ’tis time already you were off. You agree to accompany the party without resistance, Madame?”
“As well there, as here,” I answered contemptuously.
“And you, Hugo Chevet?”
The giant growled something inarticulate through his beard, not altogether, I thought, to La Barre’s liking, for his face darkened.
“By St. Anne! ’tis a happy family amid which you start your honeymoon, Monsieur Cassion,” he ejaculated at length, “but go you must, though I send a file of soldiers with you to the boats. Now leave me, and I would hear no more until word comes of your arrival at St. Louis.”
We left the room together, the three of us, and no one spoke, as we traversed the great assembly hall, in which dancers still lingered, and gained the outer hall. 81 Cassion secured my cloak, and I wrapped it about my shoulders, for the night air without was already chill, and then, yet in unbroken silence, we passed down the steps into the darkness of the street. I walked beside Chevet, who was growling to himself, scarce sober enough to clearly realize what had occurred, and so we followed the Commissaire down the steep path which led to the river.
There was no pomp now, no military guard, or blazing torches. All about us was gloom and silence, the houses fronting the narrow passage black, although a gleam of fire revealed the surface of the water below. The rough paving made walking difficult, and I tripped twice during the descent, once wrenching an ankle, but with no outcry. I was scarce conscious of the pain, or of my surroundings, for my mind still stood aghast over what had occurred. It had been so swiftly accomplished I yet failed to grasp the full significance.
Vaguely I comprehended that I was no longer Adele la Chesnayne, but the wife of that man I followed. A word, a muttered prayer, an uplifted hand, had made me his slave, his vassal. Nothing could break the bond between us save death. I might hate, despise, revile, but the bond held. This thought grew clearer as my mind readjusted itself, and the full horror of the situation took possession of me. Yet there was nothing I could do; I could neither escape or fight, nor 82 had I a friend to whom I could appeal. Suddenly I realized that I still grasped in my hand the heavy paper knife I had snatched up from La Barre’s desk, and I thrust it into the waistband of my skirt. It was my only weapon of defense, yet to know I had even that seemed to bring me a glow of courage.
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