Roads of Destiny

by O. Henry

I go to seek on many roadsWhat is to be.True heart and strong, with love to light--Will they not bear me in the fightTo order, shun or wield or mouldMy Destiny? /Unpublished Poems of David Mignot/. The song was over. The words were David's; the air, one of thecountryside. The company about the inn table applauded heartily, forthe young poet paid for the wine. Only the notary, M. Papineau, shookhis head a little at the lines, for he was a man of books, and he hadnot drunk with the rest. David went out into the village street, where the night air drove thewine vapour from his head. And then he remembered that he and Yvonnehad quarrelled that day, and that he had resolved to leave his homethat night to seek fame and honour in the great world outside. "When my poems are on every man's tongue," he told himself, in a fineexhilaration, "she will, perhaps, think of the hard words she spokethis day." Except the roisterers in the tavern, the village folk were abed. Davidcrept softly into his room in the shed of his father's cottage andmade a bundle of his small store of clothing. With this upon a staff,he set his face outward upon the road that ran from Vernoy. He passed his father's herd of sheep, huddled in their nightly pen--the sheep he herded daily, leaving them to scatter while he wroteverses on scraps of paper. He saw a light yet shining in Yvonne'swindow, and a weakness shook his purpose of a sudden. Perhaps thatlight meant that she rued, sleepless, her anger, and that morningmight--But, no! His decision was made. Vernoy was no place for him.Not one soul there could share his thoughts. Out along that road layhis fate and his future. Three leagues across the dim, moonlit champaign ran the road, straightas a ploughman's furrow. It was believed in the village that the roadran to Paris, at least; and this name the poet whispered often tohimself as he walked. Never so far from Vernoy had David travelledbefore. THE LEFT BRANCH /Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. Itjoined with another and a larger road at right angles. Davidstood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the road to theleft./ Upon this more important highway were, imprinted in the dust, wheeltracks left by the recent passage of some vehicle. Some half an hourlater these traces were verified by the sight of a ponderous carriagemired in a little brook at the bottom of a steep hill. The driver andpostilions were shouting and tugging at the horses' bridles. On theroad at one side stood a huge, black-clothed man and a slender ladywrapped in a long, light cloak. David saw the lack of skill in the efforts of the servants. He quietlyassumed control of the work. He directed the outriders to cease theirclamour at the horses and to exercise their strength upon the wheels.The driver alone urged the animals with his familiar voice; Davidhimself heaved a powerful shoulder at the rear of the carriage, andwith one harmonious tug the great vehicle rolled up on solid ground.The outriders climbed to their places. David stood for a moment upon one foot. The huge gentleman waved ahand. "You will enter the carriage," he said, in a voice large, likehimself, but smoothed by art and habit. Obedience belonged in the pathof such a voice. Brief as was the young poet's hesitation, it was cutshorter still by a renewal of the command. David's foot went to thestep. In the darkness he perceived dimly the form of the lady upon therear seat. He was about to seat himself opposite, when the voice againswayed him to its will. "You will sit at the lady's side." The gentleman swung his great weight to the forward seat. The carriageproceeded up the hill. The lady was shrunk, silent, into her corner.David could not estimate whether she was old or young, but a delicate,mild perfume from her clothes stirred his poet's fancy to the beliefthat there was loveliness beneath the mystery. Here was an adventuresuch as he had often imagined. But as yet he held no key to it, for noword was spoken while he sat with his impenetrable companions. In an hour's time David perceived through the window that the vehicletraversed the street of some town. Then it stopped in front of aclosed and darkened house, and a postilion alighted to hammerimpatiently upon the door. A latticed window above flew wide and anightcapped head popped out. "Who are ye that disturb honest folk at this time of night? My houseis closed. 'Tis too late for profitable travellers to be abroad. Ceaseknocking at my door, and be off." "Open!" spluttered the postilion, loudly; "open for Monsiegneur theMarquis de Beaupertuys." "Ah!" cried the voice above. "Ten thousand pardons, my lord. I did notknow--the hour is so late--at once shall the door be opened, and thehouse placed at my lord's disposal." Inside was heard the clink of chain and bar, and the door was flungopen. Shivering with chill and apprehension, the landlord of theSilver Flagon stood, half clad, candle in hand, upon the threshold. David followed the Marquis out of the carriage. "Assist the lady," hewas ordered. The poet obeyed. He felt her small hand tremble as heguided her descent. "Into the house," was the next command. The room was the long dining-hall of the tavern. A great oak table randown its length. The huge gentleman seated himself in a chair at thenearer end. The lady sank into another against the wall, with an airof great weariness. David stood, considering how best he might nowtake his leave and continue upon his way. "My lord," said the landlord, bowing to the floor, "h-had I ex-expected this honour, entertainment would have been ready. T-t-thereis wine and cold fowl and m-m-maybe--" "Candles," said the marquis, spreading the fingers of one plump whitehand in a gesture he had. "Y-yes, my lord." He fetched half a dozen candles, lighted them, andset them upon the table. "If monsieur would, perhaps, deign to taste a certain Burgundy--thereis a cask--" "Candles," said monsieur, spreading his fingers. "Assuredly--quickly--I fly, my lord." A dozen more lighted candles shone in the hall. The great bulk of themarquis overflowed his chair. He was dressed in fine black from headto foot save for the snowy ruffles at his wrist and throat. Even thehilt and scabbard of his sword were black. His expression was one ofsneering pride. The ends of an upturned moustache reached nearly tohis mocking eyes. The lady sat motionless, and now David perceived that she was young,and possessed of pathetic and appealing beauty. He was startled fromthe contemplation of her forlorn loveliness by the booming voice ofthe marquis. "What is your name and pursuit?" "David Mignot. I am a poet." The moustache of the marquis curled nearer to his eyes. "How do you live?" "I am also a shepherd; I guarded my father's flock," David answered,with his head high, but a flush upon his cheek. "Then listen, master shepherd and poet, to the fortune you haveblundered upon to-night. This lady is my niece, Mademoiselle Lucie deVarennes. She is of noble descent and is possessed of ten thousandfrancs a year in her own right. As to her charms, you have but toobserve for yourself. If the inventory pleases your shepherd's heart,she becomes your wife at a word. Do not interrupt me. To-night Iconveyed her to the /chateau/ of the Comte de Villemaur, to whom herhand had been promised. Guests were present; the priest was waiting;her marriage to one eligible in rank and fortune was ready to beaccomplished. At the alter this demoiselle, so meek and dutiful,turned upon me like a leopardess, charged me with cruelty and crimes,and broke, before the gaping priest, the troth I had plighted for her.I swore there and then, by ten thousand devils, that she should marrythe first man we met after leaving the /chateau/, be he prince,charcoal-burner, or thief. You, shepherd, are the first. Mademoisellemust be wed this night. If not you, then another. You have ten minutesin which to make your decision. Do not vex me with words or questions.Ten minutes, shepherd; and they are speeding." The marquis drummed loudly with his white fingers upon the table. Hesank into a veiled attitude of waiting. It was as if some great househad shut its doors and windows against approach. David would havespoken, but the huge man's bearing stopped his tongue. Instead, hestood by the lady's chair and bowed. "Mademoiselle," he said, and he marvelled to find his words flowingeasily before so much elegance and beauty. "You have heard me say Iwas a shepherd. I have also had the fancy, at times, that I am a poet.If it be the test of a poet to adore and cherish the beautiful, thatfancy is now strengthened. Can I serve you in any way, mademoiselle?" The young woman looked up at him with eyes dry and mournful. Hisfrank, glowing face, made serious by the gravity of the adventure, hisstrong, straight figure and the liquid sympathy in his blue eyes,perhaps, also, her imminent need of long-denied help and kindness,thawed her to sudden tears. "Monsieur," she said, in low tones, "you look to be true and kind. Heis my uncle, the brother of my father, and my only relative. He lovedmy mother, and he hates me because I am like her. He has made my lifeone long terror. I am afraid of his very looks, and never before daredto disobey him. But to-night he would have married me to a man threetimes my age. You will forgive me for bringing this vexation upon you,monsieur. You will, of course, decline this mad act he tries to forceupon you. But let me thank you for your generous words, at least. Ihave had none spoken to me in so long." There was now something more than generosity in the poet's eyes. Poethe must have been, for Yvonne was forgotten; this fine, new lovelinessheld him with its freshness and grace. The subtle perfume from herfilled him with strange emotions. His tender look fell warmly uponher. She leaned to it, thirstily. "Ten minutes," said David, "is given me in which to do what I woulddevote years to achieve. I will not say I pity you, mademoiselle; itwould not be true--I love you. I cannot ask love from you yet, but letme rescue you from this cruel man, and, in time, love may come. Ithink I have a future; I will not always be a shepherd. For thepresent I will cherish you with all my heart and make your life lesssad. Will you trust your fate to me, mademoiselle?" "Ah, you would sacrifice yourself from pity!" "From love. The time is almost up, mademoiselle." "You will regret it, and despise me." "I will live only to make you happy, and myself worthy of you." Her fine small hand crept into his from beneath her cloak. "I will trust you," she breathed, "with my life. And--and love--maynot be so far off as you think. Tell him. Once away from the power ofhis eyes I may forget." David went and stood before the marquis. The black figure stirred, andthe mocking eyes glanced at the great hall clock. "Two minutes to spare. A shepherd requires eight minutes to decidewhether he will accept a bride of beauty and income! Speak up,shepherd, do you consent to become mademoiselle's husband?" "Mademoiselle," said David, standing proudly, "has done me the honourto yield to my request that she become my wife." "Well said!" said the marquis. "You have yet the making of a courtierin you, master shepherd. Mademoiselle could have drawn a worse prize,after all. And now to be done with the affair as quick as the Churchand the devil will allow!" He struck the table soundly with his sword hilt. The landlord came,knee-shaking, bringing more candles in the hope of anticipating thegreat lord's whims. "Fetch a priest," said the marquis, "a priest; doyou understand? In ten minutes have a priest here, or--" The landlord dropped his candles and flew. The priest came, heavy-eyed and ruffled. He made David Mignot andLucie de Verennes man and wife, pocketed a gold piece that the marquistossed him, and shuffled out again into the night. "Wine," ordered the marquis, spreading his ominous fingers at thehost. "Fill glasses," he said, when it was brought. He stood up at the headof the table in the candlelight, a black mountain of venom andconceit, with something like the memory of an old love turned topoison in his eyes, as it fell upon his niece. "Monsieur Mignot," he said, raising his wineglass, "drink after I saythis to you: You have taken to be your wife one who will make yourlife a foul and wretched thing. The blood in her is an inheritancerunning black lies and red ruin. She will bring you shame and anxiety.The devil that descended to her is there in her eyes and skin andmouth that stoop even to beguile a peasant. There is your promise,monsieur poet, for a happy life. Drink your wine. At last,mademoiselle, I am rid of you." The marquis drank. A little grievous cry, as if from a sudden wound,came from the girl's lips. David, with his glass in his hand, steppedforward three paces and faced the marquis. There was little of ashepherd in his bearing. "Just now," he said, calmly, "you did me the honor to call me'monsieur.' May I hope, therefore that my marriage to mademoiselle hasplaced me somewhat nearer to you in--let us say, reflected rank--hasgiven me the right to stand more as an equal to monseigneur in acertain little piece of business I have in my mind?" "You may hope, shepherd," sneered the marquis. "Then," said David, dashing his glass of wine into the contemptuouseyes that mocked him, "perhaps you will condescend to fight me." The fury of the great lord outbroke in one sudden curse like a blastfrom a horn. He tore his sword from its black sheath; he called to thehovering landlord: "A sword there, for this lout!" He turned to thelady, with a laugh that chilled her heart, and said: "You put muchlabour upon me, madame. It seems I must find you a husband and makeyou a widow in the same night." "I know not sword-play," said David. He flushed to make the confessionbefore his lady. "'I know not sword-play,'" mimicked the marquis. "Shall we fight likepeasants with oaken cudgels? /Hola/! Francois, my pistols!" A postilion brought two shining great pistols ornamented with carvensilver, from the carriage holsters. The marquis tossed one upon thetable near David's hand. "To the other end of the table," he cried;"even a shepherd may pull a trigger. Few of them attain the honour todie by the weapon of a De Beaupertuys." The shepherd and the marquis faced each other from the ends of thelong table. The landlord, in an ague of terror, clutched the air andstammered: "M-M-Monseigneur, for the love of Christ! not in my house!--do not spill blood--it will ruin my custom--" The look of themarquis, threatening him, paralyzed his tongue. "Coward," cried the lord of Beaupertuys, "cease chattering your teethlong enough to give the word for us, if you can." Mine host's knees smote the floor. He was without a vocabulary. Evensounds were beyond him. Still, by gestures he seemed to beseech peacein the name of his house and custom. "I will give the word," said the lady, in a clear voice. She went upto David and kissed him sweetly. Her eyes were sparkling bright, andcolour had come to her cheek. She stood against the wall, and the twomen levelled their pistols for her count. "/Un/--/deux/--/trois/!" The two reports came so nearly together that the candles flickered butonce. The marquis stood, smiling, the fingers of his left handresting, outspread, upon the end of the table. David remained erect,and turned his head very slowly, searching for his wife with his eyes.Then, as a garment falls from where it is hung, he sank, crumpled,upon the floor. With a little cry of terror and despair, the widowed maid ran andstooped above him. She found his wound, and then looked up with herold look of pale melancholy. "Through his heart," she whispered. "Oh,his heart!" "Come," boomed the great voice of the marquis, "out with you to thecarriage! Daybreak shall not find you on my hands. Wed you shall beagain, and to a living husband, this night. The next we come upon, mylady, highwayman or peasant. If the road yields no other, then thechurl that opens my gates. Out with you into the carriage!" The marquis, implacable and huge, the lady wrapped again in themystery of her cloak, the postilion bearing the weapons--all moved outto the waiting carriage. The sound of its ponderous wheels rollingaway echoed through the slumbering village. In the hall of the SilverFlagon the distracted landlord wrung his hands above the slain poet'sbody, while the flames of the four and twenty candles danced andflickered on the table. THE RIGHT BRANCH /Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. Itjoined with another and a larger road at right angles. Davidstood, uncertain, for a while, and then took the road to theright./ Whither it led he knew not, but he was resolved to leave Vernoy farbehind that night. He travelled a league and then passed a large/chateau/ which showed testimony of recent entertainment. Lights shonefrom every window; from the great stone gateway ran a tracery of wheeltracks drawn in the dust by the vehicles of the guests. Three leagues farther and David was weary. He rested and slept for awhile on a bed of pine boughs at the roadside. Then up and on againalong the unknown way. Thus for five days he travelled the great road, sleeping upon Nature'sbalsamic beds or in peasants' ricks, eating of their black, hospitablebread, drinking from streams or the willing cup of the goatherd. At length he crossed a great bridge and set his foot within thesmiling city that has crushed or crowned more poets than all the restof the world. His breath came quickly as Paris sang to him in a littleundertone her vital chant of greeting--the hum of voice and foot andwheel. High up under the eaves of an old house in the Rue Conti, David paidfor lodging, and set himself, in a wooden chair, to his poems. Thestreet, once sheltering citizens of import and consequence, was nowgiven over to those who ever follow in the wake of decline. The houses were tall and still possessed of a ruined dignity, but manyof them were empty save for dust and the spider. By night there wasthe clash of steel and the cries of brawlers straying restlessly frominn to inn. Where once gentility abode was now but a rancid and rudeincontinence. But here David found housing commensurate to his scantpurse. Daylight and candlelight found him at pen and paper. One afternoon he was returning from a foraging trip to the lowerworld, with bread and curds and a bottle of thin wine. Halfway up hisdark stairway he met--or rather came upon, for she rested on the stair--a young woman of a beauty that should balk even the justice of apoet's imagination. A loose, dark cloak, flung open, showed a richgown beneath. Her eyes changed swiftly with every little shade ofthought. Within one moment they would be round and artless like achild's, and long and cozening like a gypsy's. One hand raised hergown, undraping a little shoe, high-heeled, with its ribbons dangling,untied. So heavenly she was, so unfitted to stoop, so qualified tocharm and command! Perhaps she had seen David coming, and had waitedfor his help there. Ah, would monsieur pardon that she occupied the stairway, but theshoe!--the naughty shoe! Alas! it would not remain tied. Ah! ifmonsieur /would/ be so gracious! The poet's fingers trembled as he tied the contrary ribbons. Then hewould have fled from the danger of her presence, but the eyes grewlong and cozening, like a gypsy's, and held him. He leaned against thebalustrade, clutching his bottle of sour wine. "You have been so good," she said, smiling. "Does monsieur, perhaps,live in the house?" "Yes, madame. I--I think so, madame." "Perhaps in the third story, then?" "No, madame; higher up." The lady fluttered her fingers with the least possible gesture ofimpatience. "Pardon. Certainly I am not discreet in asking. Monsieur will forgiveme? It is surely not becoming that I should inquire where he lodges." "Madame, do not say so. I live in the--" "No, no, no; do not tell me. Now I see that I erred. But I cannot losethe interest I feel in this house and all that is in it. Once it wasmy home. Often I come here but to dream of those happy days again.Will you let that be my excuse?" "Let me tell you, then, for you need no excuse," stammered the poet."I live in the top floor--the small room where the stairs turn." "In the front room?" asked the lady, turning her head sidewise. "The rear, madame." The lady sighed, as if with relief. "I will detain you no longer then, monsieur," she said, employing theround and artless eye. "Take good care of my house. Alas! only thememories of it are mine now. Adieu, and accept my thanks for yourcourtesy." She was gone, leaving but a smile and a trace of sweet perfume. Davidclimbed the stairs as one in slumber. But he awoke from it, and thesmile and the perfume lingered with him and never afterward did eitherseem quite to leave him. This lady of whom he knew nothing drove himto lyrics of eyes, chansons of swiftly conceived love, odes to curlinghair, and sonnets to slippers on slender feet. Poet he must have been, for Yvonne was forgotten; this fine, newloveliness held him with its freshness and grace. The subtle perfumeabout her filled him with strange emotions. * * * * * On a certain night three persons were gathered about a table in a roomon the third floor of the same house. Three chairs and the table and alighted candle upon it was all the furniture. One of the persons was ahuge man, dressed in black. His expression was one of sneering pride.The ends of his upturned moustache reached nearly to his mocking eyes.Another was a lady, young and beautiful, with eyes that could be roundand artless, as a child's, or long and cozening, like a gypsy's, butwere now keen and ambitious, like any other conspirator's. The thirdwas a man of action, a combatant, a bold and impatient executive,breathing fire and steel. he was addressed by the others as CaptainDesrolles. This man struck the table with his fist, and said, with controlledviolence: "To-night. To-night as he goes to midnight mass. I am tired of theplotting that gets nowhere. I am sick of signals and ciphers andsecret meetings and such /baragouin/. Let us be honest traitors. IfFrance is to be rid of him, let us kill in the open, and not hunt withsnares and traps. To-night, I say. I back my words. My hand will dothe deed. To-night, as he goes to mass." The lady turned upon him a cordial look. Woman, however wedded toplots, must ever thus bow to rash courage. The big man stroked hisupturned moustache. "Dear captain," he said, in a great voice, softened by habit, "thistime I agree with you. Nothing is to be gained by waiting. Enough ofthe palace guards belong to us to make the endeavour a safe one." "To-night," repeated Captain Desrolles, again striking the table. "Youhave heard me, marquis; my hand will do the deed." "But now," said the huge man, softly, "comes a question. Word must besent to our partisans in the palace, and a signal agreed upon. Ourstanchest men must accompany the royal carriage. At this hour whatmessenger can penetrate so far as the south doorway? Ribouet isstationed there; once a message is placed in his hands, all will gowell." "I will send the message," said the lady. "You, countess?" said the marquis, raising his eyebrows. "Yourdevotion is great, we know, but--" "Listen!" exclaimed the lady, rising and resting her hands upon thetable; "in a garret of this house lives a youth from the provinces asguileless and tender as the lambs he tended there. I have met himtwice or thrice upon the stairs. I questioned him, fearing that hemight dwell too near the room in which we are accustomed to meet. Heis mine, if I will. He writes poems in his garret, and I think hedreams of me. He will do what I say. He shall take the message to thepalace." The marquis rose from his chair and bowed. "You did not permit me tofinish my sentence, countess," he said. "I would have said: 'Yourdevotion is great, but your wit and charm are infinitely greater.'" While the conspirators were thus engaged, David was polishing somelines addressed to his /amorette d'escalier/. He heard a timorousknock at his door, and opened it, with a great throb, to behold herthere, panting as one in straits, with eyes wide open and artless,like a child's. "Monsieur," she breathed, "I come to you in distress. I believe you tobe good and true, and I know of no other help. How I flew through thestreets among the swaggering men! Monsieur, my mother is dying. Myuncle is a captain of guards in the palace of the king. Some one mustfly to bring him. May I hope--" "Mademoiselle," interrupted Davis, his eyes shining with the desire todo her service, "your hopes shall be my wings. Tell me how I may reachhim." The lady thrust a sealed paper into his hand. "Go to the south gate--the south gate, mind--and say to the guardsthere, 'The falcon has left his nest.' They will pass you, and youwill go to the south entrance to the palace. Repeat the words, andgive this letter to the man who will reply 'Let him strike when hewill.' This is the password, monsieur, entrusted to me by my uncle,for now when the country is disturbed and men plot against the king'slife, no one without it can gain entrance to the palace grounds afternightfall. If you will, monsieur, take him this letter so that mymother may see him before she closes her eyes." "Give it me," said David, eagerly. "But shall I let you return homethrough the streets alone so late? I--" "No, no--fly. Each moment is like a precious jewel. Some time," saidthe lady, with eyes long and cozening, like a gypsy's, "I will try tothank you for your goodness." The poet thrust the letter into his breast, and bounded down thestairway. The lady, when he was gone, returned to the room below. The eloquent eyebrows of the marquis interrogated her. "He is gone," she said, "as fleet and stupid as one of his own sheep,to deliver it." The table shook again from the batter of Captain Desrolles's fist. "Sacred name!" he cried; "I have left my pistols behind! I can trustno others." "Take this," said the marquis, drawing from beneath his cloak ashining, great weapon, ornamented with carven silver. "There are nonetruer. But guard it closely, for it bears my arms and crest, andalready I am suspected. Me, I must put many leagues between myself andParis this night. To-morrow must find me in my /chateau/. After you,dear countess." The marquis puffed out the candle. The lady, well cloaked, and the twogentlemen softly descended the stairway and flowed into the crowd thatroamed along the narrow pavements of the Rue Conti. David sped. At the south gate of the king's residence a halberd waslaid to his breast, but he turned its point with the words; "Thefalcon has left his nest." "Pass, brother," said the guard, "and go quickly." On the south steps of the palace they moved to seize him, but againthe /mot de passe/ charmed the watchers. One among them steppedforward and began: "Let him strike--" but a flurry among the guardstold of a surprise. A man of keen look and soldierly stride suddenlypressed through them and seized the letter which David held in hishand. "Come with me," he said, and led him inside the great hall. Thenhe tore open the letter and read it. He beckoned to a man uniformed asan officer of musketeers, who was passing. "Captain Tetreau, you willhave the guards at the south entrance and the south gate arrested andconfined. Place men known to be loyal in their places." To David hesaid: "Come with me." He conducted him through a corridor and an anteroom into a spaciouschamber, where a melancholy man, sombrely dressed, sat brooding in agreat, leather-covered chair. To that man he said: "Sire, I have told you that the palace is as full of traitors andspies as a sewer is of rats. You have thought, sire, that it was myfancy. This man penetrated to your very door by their connivance. Hebore a letter which I have intercepted. I have brought him here thatyour majesty may no longer think my zeal excessive." "I will question him," said the king, stirring in his chair. He lookedat David with heavy eyes dulled by an opaque film. The poet bent hisknee. "From where do you come?" asked the king. "From the village of Vernoy, in the province of Eure-et-Loir, sire." "What do you follow in Paris?" "I--I would be a poet, sire." "What did you in Vernoy?" "I minded my father's flock of sheep." The king stirred again, and the film lifted from his eyes. "Ah! in the fields!" "Yes, sire." "You lived in the fields; you went out in the cool of the morning andlay among the hedges in the grass. The flock distributed itself uponthe hillside; you drank of the living stream; you ate your sweet,brown bread in the shade, and you listened, doubtless, to blackbirdspiping in the grove. Is not that so, shepherd?" "It is, sire," answered David, with a sigh; "and to the bees at theflowers, and, maybe, to the grape gatherers singing on the hill." "Yes, yes," said the king, impatiently; "maybe to them; but surely tothe blackbirds. They whistled often, in the grove, did they not?" "Nowhere, sire, so sweetly as in Eure-et-Loir. I have endeavored toexpress their song in some verses that I have written." "Can you repeat those verses?" asked the king, eagerly. "A long timeago I listened to the blackbirds. It would be something better than akingdom if one could rightly construe their song. And at night youdrove the sheep to the fold and then sat, in peace and tranquillity,to your pleasant bread. Can you repeat those verses, shepherd?" "They run this way, sire," said David, with respectful ardour: "'Lazy shepherd, see your lambkinsSkip, ecstatic, on the mead;See the firs dance in the breezes,Hear Pan blowing at his reed. "Hear us calling from the tree-tops,See us swoop upon your flock;Yield us wool to make our nests warmIn the branches of the--'" "If it please your majesty," interrupted a harsh voice, "I will ask aquestion or two of this rhymester. There is little time to spare. Icrave pardon, sire, if my anxiety for your safety offends." "The loyalty," said the king, "of the Duke d'Aumale is too well provento give offence." He sank into his chair, and the film came again overhis eyes. "First," said the duke, "I will read you the letter he brought: "'To-night is the anniversary of the dauphin's death. If he goes,as is his custom, to midnight mass to pray for the soul of hisson, the falcon will strike, at the corner of the Rue Esplanade.If this be his intention, set a red light in the upper room at thesouthwest corner of the palace, that the falcon may take heed.' "Peasant," said the duke, sternly, "you have heard these words. Whogave you this message to bring?" "My lord duke," said David, sincerely, "I will tell you. A lady gaveit me. She said her mother was ill, and that this writing would fetchher uncle to her bedside. I do not know the meaning of the letter, butI will swear that she is beautiful and good." "Describe the woman," commanded the duke, "and how you came to be herdupe." "Describe her!" said David with a tender smile. "You would commandwords to perform miracles. Well, she is made of sunshine and deepshade. She is slender, like the alders, and moves with their grace.Her eyes change while you gaze into them; now round, and then halfshut as the sun peeps between two clouds. When she comes, heaven isall about her; when she leaves, there is chaos and a scent of hawthornblossoms. She came to see me in the Rue Conti, number twenty-nine." "It is the house," said the duke, turning to the king, "that we havebeen watching. Thanks to the poet's tongue, we have a picture of theinfamous Countess Quebedaux." "Sire and my lord duke," said David, earnestly, "I hope my poor wordshave done no injustice. I have looked into that lady's eyes. I willstake my life that she is an angel, letter or no letter." The duke looked at him steadily. "I will put you to the proof," hesaid, slowly. "Dressed as the king, you shall, yourself, attend massin his carriage at midnight. Do you accept the test?" David smiled. "I have looked into her eyes," he said. "I had my proofthere. Take yours how you will." Half an hour before twelve the Duke d'Aumale, with his own hands, seta red lamp in a southwest window of the palace. At ten minutes to thehour, David, leaning on his arm, dressed as the king, from top to toe,with his head bowed in his cloak, walked slowly from the royalapartments to the waiting carriage. The duke assisted him inside andclosed the door. The carriage whirled away along its route to thecathedral. On the /qui vive/ in a house at the corner of the Rue Esplanade wasCaptain Tetreau with twenty men, ready to pounce upon the conspiratorswhen they should appear. But it seemed that, for some reason, the plotters had slightly alteredtheir plans. When the royal carriage had reached the Rue Christopher,one square nearer than the Rue Esplanade, forth from it burst CaptainDesrolles, with his band of would-be regicides, and assailed theequipage. The guards upon the carriage, though surprised at thepremature attack, descended and fought valiantly. The noise ofconflict attracted the force of Captain Tetreau, and they came peltingdown the street to the rescue. But, in the meantime, the desperateDesrolles had torn open the door of the king's carriage, thrust hisweapon against the body of the dark figure inside, and fired. Now, with loyal reinforcements at hand, the street rang with cries andthe rasp of steel, but the frightened horses had dashed away. Upon thecushions lay the dead body of the poor mock king and poet, slain by aball from the pistol of Monseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys. THE MAIN ROAD /Three leagues, then, the road ran, and turned into a puzzle. Itjoined with another and a larger road at right angles. Davidstood, uncertain, for a while, and then sat himself to rest uponits side./ Whither these roads led he knew not. Either way there seemed to lie agreat world full of chance and peril. And then, sitting there, his eyefell upon a bright star, one that he and Yvonne had named for theirs.That set him thinking of Yvonne, and he wondered if he had not beentoo hasty. Why should he leave her and his home because a few hotwords had come between them? Was love so brittle a thing thatjealousy, the very proof of it, could break it? Mornings alwaysbrought a cure for the little heartaches of evening. There was yettime for him to return home without any one in the sweetly sleepingvillage of Vernoy being the wiser. His heart was Yvonne's; there wherehe had lived always he could write his poems and find his happiness. David rose, and shook off his unrest and the wild mood that hadtempted him. He set his face steadfastly back along the road he hadcome. By the time he had retravelled the road to Vernoy, his desire torove was gone. He passed the sheepfold, and the sheep scurried, with adrumming flutter, at his late footsteps, warming his heart by thehomely sound. He crept without noise into his little room and laythere, thankful that his feet had escaped the distress of new roadsthat night. How well he knew woman's heart! The next evening Yvonne was at thewell in the road where the young congregated in order that the /cure/might have business. The corner of her eye was engaged in a search forDavid, albeit her set mouth seemed unrelenting. He saw the look;braved the mouth, drew from it a recantation and, later, a kiss asthey walked homeward together. Three months afterwards they were married. David's father was shrewdand prosperous. He gave them a wedding that was heard of three leaguesaway. Both the young people were favourites in the village. There wasa procession in the streets, a dance on the green; they had themarionettes and a tumbler out from Dreux to delight the guests. Then a year, and David's father died. The sheep and the cottagedescended to him. He already had the seemliest wife in the village.Yvonne's milk pails and her brass kettles were bright--/ouf/! theyblinded you in the sun when you passed that way. But you must keepyour eyes upon her yard, for her flower beds were so neat and gay theyrestored to you your sight. And you might hear her sing, aye, as faras the double chestnut tree above Pere Gruneau's blacksmith forge. But a day came when David drew out paper from a long-shut drawer, andbegan to bite the end of a pencil. Spring had come again and touchedhis heart. Poet he must have been, for now Yvonne was well-nighforgotten. This fine new loveliness of earth held him with itswitchery and grace. The perfume from her woods and meadows stirred himstrangely. Daily had he gone forth with his flock, and brought it safeat night. But now he stretched himself under the hedge and piecedwords together on his bits of paper. The sheep strayed, and thewolves, perceiving that difficult poems make easy mutton, venturedfrom the woods and stole his lambs. David's stock of poems grew longer and his flock smaller. Yvonne'snose and temper waxed sharp and her talk blunt. Her pans and kettlesgrew dull, but her eyes had caught their flash. She pointed out to thepoet that his neglect was reducing the flock and bringing woe upon thehousehold. David hired a boy to guard the sheep, locked himself in thelittle room at the top of the cottage, and wrote more poems. The boy,being a poet by nature, but not furnished with an outlet in the way ofwriting, spent his time in slumber. The wolves lost no time indiscovering that poetry and sleep are practically the same; so theflock steadily grew smaller. Yvonne's ill temper increased at an equalrate. Sometimes she would stand in the yard and rail at David throughhis high window. Then you could hear her as far as the double chestnuttree above Pere Gruneau's blacksmith forge. M. Papineau, the kind, wise, meddling old notary, saw this, as he saweverything at which his nose pointed. He went to David, fortifiedhimself with a great pinch of snuff, and said: "Friend Mignot, I affixed the seal upon the marriage certificate ofyour father. It would distress me to be obliged to attest a papersignifying the bankruptcy of his son. But that is what you are comingto. I speak as an old friend. Now, listen to what I have to say. Youhave your heart set, I perceive, upon poetry. At Dreux, I have afriend, one Monsieur Bril--Georges Bril. He lives in a little clearedspace in a houseful of books. He is a learned man; he visits Pariseach year; he himself has written books. He will tell you when thecatacombs were made, how they found out the names of the stars, andwhy the plover has a long bill. The meaning and the form of poetry isto him as intelligent as the baa of a sheep is to you. I will give youa letter to him, and you shall take him your poems and let him readthem. Then you will know if you shall write more, or give yourattention to your wife and business." "Write the letter," said David, "I am sorry you did not speak of thissooner." At sunrise the next morning he was on the road to Dreux with theprecious roll of poems under his arm. At noon he wiped the dust fromhis feet at the door of Monsieur Bril. That learned man broke the sealof M. Papineau's letter, and sucked up its contents through hisgleaming spectacles as the sun draws water. He took David inside tohis study and sat him down upon a little island beat upon by a sea ofbooks. Monsieur Bril had a conscience. He flinched not even at a mass ofmanuscript the thickness of a finger-length and rolled to anincorrigible curve. He broke the back of the roll against his knee andbegan to read. He slighted nothing; he bored into the lump as a worminto a nut, seeking for a kernel. Meanwhile, David sat, marooned, trembling in the spray of so muchliterature. It roared in his ears. He held no chart or compass forvoyaging in that sea. Half the world, he thought, must be writingbooks. Monsieur Bril bored to the last page of the poems. Then he took offhis spectacles, and wiped them with his handkerchief. "My old friend, Papineau, is well?" he asked. "In the best of health," said David. "How many sheep have you, Monsieur Mignot?" "Three hundred and nine, when I counted them yesterday. The flock hashad ill fortune. To that number it has decreased from eight hundredand fifty." "You have a wife and home, and lived in comfort. The sheep brought youplenty. You went into the fields with them and lived in the keen airand ate the sweet bread of contentment. You had but to be vigilant andrecline there upon nature's breast, listening to the whistle of theblackbirds in the grove. Am I right thus far?" "It was so," said David. "I have read all your verses," continued Monsieur Bril, his eyeswandering about his sea of books as if he conned the horizon for asail. "Look yonder, through that window, Monsieur Mignot; tell me whatyou see in that tree." "I see a crow," said David, looking. "There is a bird," said Monsieur Bril, "that shall assist me where Iam disposed to shirk a duty. You know that bird, Monsieur Mignot; heis the philosopher of the air. He is happy through submission to hislot. None so merry or full-crawed as he with his whimsical eye androllicking step. The fields yield him what he desires. He nevergrieves that his plumage is not gay, like the oriole's. And you haveheard, Monsieur Mignot, the notes that nature has given him? Is thenightingale any happier, do you think?" David rose to his feet. The crow cawed harshly from his tree. "I thank you, Monsieur Bril," he said, slowly. "There was not, then,one nightingale among all those croaks?" "I could not have missed it," said Monsieur Bril, with a sigh. "I readevery word. Live your poetry, man; do not try to write it any more." "I thank you," said David, again. "And now I will be going back to mysheep." "If you would dine with me," said the man of books, "and overlook thesmart of it, I will give you reasons at length." "No," said the poet, "I must be back in the fields cawing at mysheep." Back along the road to Vernoy he trudged with his poems under his arm.When he reached his village he turned into the shop of one Zeigler, aJew out of Armenia, who sold anything that came to his hand. "Friend," said David, "wolves from the forest harass my sheep on thehills. I must purchase firearms to protect them. What have you?" "A bad day, this, for me, friend Mignot," said Zeigler, spreading hishands, "for I perceive that I must sell you a weapon that will notfetch a tenth of its value. Only last I week I bought from a peddlar awagon full of goods that he procured at a sale by a /commissionaire/of the crown. The sale was of the /chateau/ and belongings of a greatlord--I know not his title--who has been banished for conspiracyagainst the king. There are some choice firearms in the lot. Thispistol--oh, a weapon fit for a prince!--it shall be only forty francsto you, friend Mignot--if I lose ten by the sale. But perhaps anarquebuse--" "This will do," said David, throwing the money on the counter. "Is itcharged?" "I will charge it," said Zeigler. "And, for ten francs more, add astore of powder and ball." David laid his pistol under his coat and walked to his cottage. Yvonnewas not there. Of late she had taken to gadding much among theneighbours. But a fire was glowing in the kitchen stove. David openedthe door of it and thrust his poems in upon the coals. As they blazedup they made a singing, harsh sound in the flue. "The song of the crow!" said the poet. He went up to his attic room and closed the door. So quiet was thevillage that a score of people heard the roar of the great pistol.They flocked thither, and up the stairs where the smoke, issuing, drewtheir notice. The men laid the body of the poet upon his bed, awkwardly arranging itto conceal the torn plumage of the poor black crow. The womenchattered in a luxury of zealous pity. Some of them ran to tellYvonne. M. Papineau, whose nose had brought him there among the first, pickedup the weapon and ran his eye over its silver mountings with a mingledair of connoisseurship and grief. "The arms," he explained, aside, to the /cure/, "and crest ofMonseigneur, the Marquis de Beaupertuys."

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