The Love of Monsieur

She did not answer him at once. When she did, it was softly and with eyes which sought the distant horizon away from him.

“If to be content means to breathe freely, deeply, the pure air of heaven, to thank God for the present, to care not what evil has been or what evil may be, to be engulfed in quiet delight, to be swathed in peace, then, monsieur, I am content.”

He flushed warmly, and the arm about her tightened. He sought her lips with his own. She did not resist him. And so before the high, effulgent altar of God’s heaven, with the surges for choristers, the stars for candles, and the voices of the sentient night for company, he plighted her his troth.

It was then that she swept away the only shadow that remained upon their love. With head bowed, in deep contrition he told her of his madness that first night upon the Saucy Sally, when he had wildly railed at fate, at all things, and promised to wreak upon her he knew not what dire vengeance.

“Our accounts are balanced, then,” she smiled. “We shall begin anew. For I, too, have many times denied you in my heart and on my lips. And I know that I have loved you always.”

“Adorée!” he whispered.

It was Barbara, as if to belie her own happiness, who first broke the spell of witchery that had fallen upon them. Her eyes, which had aimlessly sought the horizon, stopped and dilated as she fixed her gaze upon one spot which trembled and swam in the light. Bras-de-Fer started up, straining his eyes to where she pointed.

“Look!” she cried. “Is it – ”

There, her rigging and sails clearly drawn in lines of ice, a phantom of the thing that she was, hung a vessel. She had crept up on some flaw of wind, her sail in the shadow, and now upon another tack had thrown her white canvases to the reflection of the sky.

“It is no phantom,” cried monsieur, in delight. “A ship, Barbara, chérie! By her build a man-of-war, not two leagues distant.”

“Will she have seen us, do you think?”

“If she has not, it will be but a matter of moments.”

He ran forward to where the provisions and weapons had been put under a piece of pitched canvas. He drew forth a musket, and loaded it with an extra charge of powder. Barbara put her fingers to her ears as the gun roared forth its salute.

The silent night was split and riven asunder by the mighty echoes; the robe of enchantment fell, the prince and princess were prince and princess no longer. Barbara sighed. Their throne was but a rugged boat and themselves but castaways wildly seeking a refuge. The dream of an hour was over. But none the less she helped monsieur load the muskets, and cried gladly when a flash and a puff of smoke came from the side of the stranger, and the low reverberation of the echoes of the shot told her that they were rescued.

The ship came slowly down. ’Twas evident she brought the wind with her, for about the pinnace all was a dead calm. Barbara’s qualms that she, too, might be a boucanier were speedily set at rest; for as she came nearer they discovered that she sat tall upon the water, and the glint of her ordnance along her larboard streaks proclaimed her trade. No sign of her nationality she gave until she had come within long earshot. Then a round, honest English voice rang heartily:

“Ahoy the boat! Who are ye? Whence d’ye come?”

To this Bras-de-Fer replied that they were castaways, marooned, and in sore need of help. The ship, they learned, was his Majesty’s Royal Maid, war brig of his excellency the governor of Jamaica.

“See, madame,” he murmured as the ship drew near. “’Tis manifest you are my destiny. While you have frowned, Dame Fortune would have none of me. And now she is benignity itself.” He paused, sighing. “And yet I could almost wish she had not smiled so soon.”

Her hand under cover of the cloak sought his. “Insatiable man, can you not be content?”

“It was too, too sweet an enchantment to be so soon ended.”

“Nay,” she whispered. “It is but just begun.”

THE END