“Yes!” replied Blind Bartemy, holding out his hand to be shaken. “I see by your voice, Master Pothier, that you have not said grace over bare bones during your absence. But where have you been this long time?”
“Oh, fleecing the King’s subjects to the best of my poor ability in the law! and without half the success of you and Max here, who toll the gate of the Basse Ville more easily than the Intendant gets in the King’s taxes!”
“Why not?” replied Bartemy, with a pious twist of his neck, and an upward cast of his blank orbs. “It is pour l’amour de Dieu! We beggars save more souls than the Curé; for we are always exhorting men to charity. I think we ought to be part of Holy Church as well as the Gray Friars.”
“And so we are part of Holy Church, Bartemy!” interrupted Max Grimeau. “When the good Bishop washed twelve pair of our dirty feet on Maunday Thursday in the Cathedral, I felt like an Apostle–I did! My feet were just ready for benediction; for see! they had never been washed, that I remember of, since I marched to the relief of Prague! But you should have been out to Belmont to-day, Master Pothier! There was the grandest Easter pie ever made in New France! You might have carried on a lawsuit inside of it, and lived off the estate for a year–I ate a bushel of it. I did!”
“Oh, the cursed luck is every day mine!” replied Master Pothier, clapping his hands upon his stomach. “I would not have missed that Easter pie–no, not to draw the Pope’s will! But, as it is laid down in the Coutume d’ Orléans (Tit. 17), the absent lose the usufruct of their rights; vide, also, Pothier des Successions– I lost my share of the pie of Belmont!”
“Well, never mind, Master Pothier,” replied Max. “Don’t grieve; you shall go with us to-night to the Fleur-de-Lis in the Sault au Matelot. Bartemy and I have bespoken an eel pie and a gallon of humming cider of Normandy. We shall all be jolly as the marguilliers of Ste. Roche, after tithing the parish!”
“Have with you, then! I am free now: I have just delivered a letter to the Intendant from a lady at Beaumanoir, and got a crown for it. I will lay it on top of your eel pie, Max!”
Angélique, from being simply amused at the conversation of the old beggars, became in an instant all eyes and ears at the words of Master Pothier.
“Had you ever the fortune to see that lady at Beaumanoir?” asked Max, with more curiosity than was to be expected of one in his position.
“No; the letter was handed me by Dame Tremblay, with a cup of wine. But the Intendant gave me a crown when he read it. I never saw the Chevalier Bigot in better humor! That letter touched both his purse and his feelings. But how did you ever come to hear of the Lady of Beaumanoir?”
“Oh, Bartemy and I hear everything at the gate of the Basse Ville! My Lord Bishop and Father Glapion of the Jesuits met in the gate one day and spoke of her, each asking the other if he knew who she was– when up rode the Intendant; and the Bishop made free, as Bishops will, you know, to question him whether he kept a lady at the Château.
“‘A round dozen of them, my Lord Bishop!’ replied Bigot, laughing. La! It takes the Intendant to talk down a Bishop! He bade my Lord not to trouble himself, the lady was under his tutelle! which I comprehended as little, as little–“
“As you do your Nominy Dominy!” replied Pothier. “Don’t be angry, Max, if I infer that the Intendant quoted Pigean (Tit. 2, 27): ‘Le Tuteur est comptable de sa gestion.'”
“I don’t care what the pigeons have to say to it–that is what the Intendant said!” replied Max, hotly, “and THAT, for your law grimoire, Master Pothier!” Max snapped his fingers like the lock of his musket at Prague, to indicate what he meant by THAT!
“Oh, inepte loquens! you don’t understand either law or Latin, Max!” exclaimed Pothier, shaking his ragged wig with an air of pity.
“I understand begging; and that is getting without cheating, and much more to the purpose,” replied Max, hotly. “Look you, Master Pothier! you are learned as three curates; but I can get more money in the gate of the Basse Ville by simply standing still and crying out Pour l’amour de Dieu! than you with your budget of law lingo- jingo, running up and down the country until the dogs eat off the calves of your legs, as they say in the Nivernois.”
“Well, never mind what they say in the Nivernois about the calves of my legs! Bon coq ne fut jamais gras!–a game-cock is never fat–and that is Master Pothier dit Robin. Lean as are my calves, they will carry away as much of your eel pie to-night as those of the stoutest carter in Quebec!”
“And the pie is baked by this time; so let us be jogging!” interrupted Bartemy, rising. “Now give me your arm, Max! and with Master Pothier’s on the other side, I shall walk to the Fleur-de-Lis straight as a steeple.”
The glorious prospect of supper made all three merry as crickets on a warm hearth, as they jogged over the pavement in their clouted shoes, little suspecting they had left a flame of anger in the breast of Angélique des Meloises, kindled by the few words of Pothier respecting the lady of Beaumanoir.
Angélique recalled with bitterness that the rude bearer of the note had observed something that had touched the heart and opened the purse of the Intendant. What was it? Was Bigot playing a game with Angélique des Meloises? Woe to him and the lady of Beaumanoir if he was! As she sat musing over it a knock was heard on the door of her boudoir. She left the balcony and reëntered her room, where a neat, comely girl in a servant’s dress was waiting to speak to her.
The girl was not known to Angélique. But courtesying very low, she informed her that she was Fanchon Dodier, a cousin of Lizette’s. She had been in service at the Château of Beaumanoir, but had just left it. “There is no living under Dame Tremblay,” said she, “if she suspect a maid servant of flirting ever so little with M. Froumois, the handsome valet of the Intendant! She imagined that I did; and such a life as she has led me, my Lady! So I came to the city to ask advice of cousin Lizette, and seek a new place. I am sure Dame Tremblay need not be so hard upon the maids. She is always boasting of her own triumphs when she was the Charming Josephine.”
“And Lizette referred you to me?” asked Angélique, too occupied just now to mind the gossip about Dame Tremblay, which another time she would have enjoyed immensely. She eyed the girl with intense curiosity; for might she not tell her something of the secret over which she was eating her heart out?
“Yes, my Lady! Lizette referred me to you, and told me to be very circumspect indeed about what I said touching the Intendant, but simply to ask if you would take me into your service. Lizette need not have warned me about the Intendant; for I never reveal secrets of my masters or mistresses, never! never, my Lady!”
“You are more cunning than you look, nevertheless,” thought Angélique, “whatever scruple you may have about secrets.” “Fanchon,” said she, “I will make one condition with you: I will take you into my service if you will tell me whether you ever saw the Lady of Beaumanoir.”
Angélique’s notions of honor, clear enough in theory, never prevented her sacrificing them without compunction to gain an object or learn a secret that interested her.
“I will willingly tell you all I know, my Lady. I have seen her once; none of the servants are supposed to know she is in the Château, but of course all do.” Fanchon stood with her two hands in the pockets of her apron, as ready to talk as the pretty grisette who directed Lawrence Sterne to the Opéra Comique.
“Of course!” remarked Angélique, “a secret like that could never be kept in the Château of Beaumanoir! Now tell me, Fanchon, what is she like?” Angélique sat up eagerly and brushed back the hair from her ear with a rapid stroke of her hand as she questioned the girl. There was a look in her eyes that made Fanchon a little afraid, and brought out more truth than she intended to impart.
“I saw her this morning, my Lady, as she knelt in her oratory: the half-open door tempted me to look, in spite of the orders of Dame Tremblay.”
“Ah! you saw her this morning!” repeated Angélique impetuously; “how does she appear? Is she better in looks than when she first came to the Château, or worse? She ought to be worse, much worse!”
“I do not know, my Lady, but, as I said, I looked in the door, although forbid to do so. Half-open doors are so tempting, and one cannot shut one’s eyes! Even a keyhole is hard to resist when you long to know what is on the other side of it–I always found it so!”
“I dare say you did! But how does she look?” broke in Angélique, impatiently stamping her dainty foot on the floor.
“Oh, so pale, my Lady! but her face is the loveliest I ever saw,– almost,” added she, with an after-thought; “but so sad! she looks like the twin sister of the blessed Madonna in the Seminary chapel, my Lady.”
“Was she at her devotions, Fanchon?”
“I think not, my Lady: she was reading a letter which she had just received from the Intendant.”
Angélique’s eyes were now ablaze. She conjectured at once that Caroline was corresponding with Bigot, and that the letter brought to the Intendant by Master Pothier was in reply to one from him. “But how do you know the letter she was reading was from the Intendant? It could not be!” Angélique’s eyebrows contracted angrily, and a dark shadow passed over her face. She said “It could not be,” but she felt it could be, and was.
“Oh, but it was from the Intendant, my Lady! I heard her repeat his name and pray God to bless François Bigot for his kind words. That is the Intendant’s name, is it not, my Lady?”
“To be sure it is! I should not have doubted you, Fanchon! but could you gather the purport of that letter? Speak truly, Fanchon, and I will reward you splendidly. What think you it was about?”
“I did more than gather the purport of it, my Lady: I have got the letter itself!” Angélique sprang up eagerly, as if to embrace Fanchon. “I happened, in my eagerness, to jar the door; the lady, imagining some one was coming, rose suddenly and left the room. In her haste she dropped the letter on the floor. I picked it up; I thought no harm, as I was determined to leave Dame Tremblay to-day. Would my Lady like to read the letter?”
Angélique fairly sprang at the offer. “You have got the letter, Fanchon? Let me see it instantly! How considerate of you to bring it! I will give you this ring for that letter!” She pulled a ring off her finger, and seizing Fanchon’s hand, put it on hers. Fanchon was enchanted; she admired the ring, as she turned it round and round her finger.
“I am infinitely obliged, my Lady, for your gift. It is worth a million such letters,” said she.
“The letter outweighs a million rings,” replied Angélique as she tore it open violently and sat down to read.
The first word struck her like a stone:
“DEAR CAROLINE:”–it was written in the bold hand of the Intendant, which Angélique knew very well–“You have suffered too much for my sake, but I am neither unfeeling nor ungrateful. I have news for you! Your father has gone to France in search of you! No one suspects you to be here. Remain patiently where you are at present, and in the utmost secrecy, or there will be a storm which may upset us both. Try to be happy, and let not the sweetest eyes that were ever seen grow dim with needless regrets. Better and brighter days will surely come. Meanwhile, pray! pray, my Caroline! it will do you good, and perhaps make me more worthy of the love which I know is wholly mine.
“Adieu, FRANÇOIS.”
Angélique devoured rather than read the letter. She had no sooner perused it than she tore it up in a paroxysm of fury, scattering its pieces like snowflakes over the floor, and stamping on them with her firm foot as if she would tread them into annihilation.
Fanchon was not unaccustomed to exhibitions of feminine wrath; but she was fairly frightened at the terrible rage that shook Angélique from head to foot.
“Fanchon! did you read that letter?” demanded she, turning suddenly upon the trembling maid. The girl saw her mistress’s cheeks twitch with passion, and her hands clench as if she would strike her if she answered yes.
Shrinking with fear, Fanchon replied faintly, “No, my Lady; I cannot read.”
“And you have allowed no other person to read it?”
“No, my Lady; I was afraid to show the letter to any one; you know I ought not to have taken it!”
“Was no inquiry made about it?” Angélique laid her hand upon the girl’s shoulder, who trembled from head to foot.
“Yes, my Lady; Dame Tremblay turned the Château upside down, looking for it; but I dared not tell her I had it!”
“I think you speak truth, Fanchon!” replied Angélique, getting somewhat over her passion; but her bosom still heaved, like the ocean after a storm. “And now mind what I say!”–her hand pressed heavily on the girl’s shoulder, while she gave her a look that seemed to freeze the very marrow in her bones. “You know a secret about the Lady of Beaumanoir, Fanchon, and one about me too! If you ever speak of either to man or woman, or even to yourself, I will cut the tongue out of your mouth and nail it to that door-post! Mind my words, Fanchon! I never fail to do what I threaten.”
“Oh, only do not look so at me, my Lady!” replied poor Fanchon, perspiring with fear. “I am sure I never shall speak of it. I swear by our Blessed Lady of Ste. Foye! I will never breathe to mortal that I gave you that letter.”
“That will do!” replied Angélique, throwing herself down in her great chair. “And now you may go to Lizette; she will attend to you. But REMEMBER!”
The frightened girl did not wait for another command to go. Angélique held up her finger, which to Fanchon looked terrible as a poniard. She hurried down to the servants’ hall with a secret held fast between her teeth for once in her life; and she trembled at the very thought of ever letting it escape.
Angélique sat with her hands on her temples, staring upon the fire that flared and flickered in the deep fireplace. She had seen a wild, wicked vision there once before. It came again, as things evil never fail to come again at our bidding. Good may delay, but evil never waits. The red fire turned itself into shapes of lurid dens and caverns, changing from horror to horror until her creative fancy formed them into the secret chamber of Beaumanoir with its one fair, solitary inmate, her rival for the hand of the Intendant,–her fortunate rival, if she might believe the letter brought to her so strangely. Angélique looked fiercely at the fragments of it lying upon the carpet, and wished she had not destroyed it; but every word of it was stamped upon her memory, as if branded with a hot iron.
“I see it all, now!” exclaimed she–“Bigot’s falseness, and her shameless effrontery in seeking him in his very house. But it shall not be!” Angélique’s voice was like the cry of a wounded panther tearing at the arrow which has pierced his flank. “Is Angélique des Meloises to be humiliated by that woman? Never! But my bright dreams will have no fulfilment so long as she lives at Beaumanoir,– so long as she lives anywhere!”
She sat still for a while, gazing into the fire; and the secret chamber of Beaumanoir again formed itself before her vision. She sprang up, touched by the hand of her good angel perhaps, and for the last time. “Satan whispered it again in my ear!” cried she. “Ste. Marie! I am not so wicked as that! Last night the thought came to me in the dark–I shook it off at dawn of day. To-night it comes again,–and I let it touch me like a lover, and I neither withdraw my hand nor tremble! To-morrow it will return for the last time and stay with me,–and I shall let it sleep on my pillow! The babe of sin will have been born and waxed to a full demon, and I shall yield myself up to his embraces! O Bigot, Bigot! what have you not done? C’est la faute à vous! C’est la faute à vous!” She repeated this exclamation several times, as if by accusing Bigot she excused her own evil imaginings and cast the blame of them upon him. She seemed drawn down into a vortex from which there was no escape. She gave herself up to its drift in a sort of passionate abandonment. The death or the banishment of Caroline were the only alternatives she could contemplate. “‘The sweetest eyes that were ever seen’–Bigot’s foolish words!” thought she; “and the influence of those eyes must be killed if Angélique des Meloises is ever to mount the lofty chariot of her ambition.”
“Other women,” she thought bitterly, “would abandon greatness for love, and in the arms of a faithful lover like Le Gardeur find a compensation for the slights of the Intendant!”
But Angélique was not like other women: she was born to conquer men– not to yield to them. The steps of a throne glittered in her wild fancy, and she would not lose the game of her life because she had missed the first throw. Bigot was false to her, but he was still worth the winning, for all the reasons which made her first listen to him. She had no love for him–not a spark! But his name, his rank, his wealth, his influence at Court, and a future career of glory there–these things she had regarded as her own by right of her beauty and skill in ruling men. “No rival shall ever boast she has conquered Angélique des Meloises!” cried she, clenching her hands. And thus it was in this crisis of her fate the love of Le Gardeur was blown like a feather before the breath of her passionate selfishness. The weights of gold pulled her down to the nadir. Angélique’s final resolution was irrevocably taken before her eager, hopeful lover appeared in answer to her summons recalling him from the festival of Belmont.
CHAPTER XXIII.
SEALS OF LOVE, BUT SEALED IN VAIN.
She sat waiting Le Gardeur’s arrival, and the thought of him began to assert its influence as the antidote of the poisonous stuff she had taken into her imagination. His presence so handsome, his manner so kind, his love so undoubted, carried her into a region of intense satisfaction. Angélique never thought so honestly well of herself as when recounting the marks of affection bestowed upon her by Le Gardeur de Repentigny. “His love is a treasure for any woman to possess, and he has given it all to me!” said she to herself. “There are women who value themselves wholly by the value placed upon them by others; but I value others by the measure of myself. I love Le Gardeur; and what I love I do not mean to lose!” added she, with an inconsequence that fitted ill with her resolution regarding the Intendant. But Angélique was one who reconciled to herself all professions, however opposite or however incongruous.
A hasty knock at the door of the mansion, followed by the quick, well-known step up the broad stair, brought Le Gardeur into her presence. He looked flushed and disordered as he took her eagerly- extended hand and pressed it to his lips.
Her whole aspect underwent a transformation in the presence of her lover. She was unfeignedly glad to see him. Without letting go his hand she led him to the sofa, and sat down by him. Other men had the semblance of her graciousness, and a perfect imitation it was too; but he alone had the reality of her affection.
“O Le Gardeur!” exclaimed she, looking him through and through, and detecting no flaw in his honest admiration, “can you forgive me for asking you to come and see me to-night? and for absolutely no reason–none in the world, Le Gardeur, but that I longed to see you! I was jealous of Belmont for drawing you away from the Maison des Meloises to-night!”
“And what better reason could I have in the world than that you were longing to see me, Angélique? I think I should leave the gate of Heaven itself if you called me back, darling! Your presence for a minute is more to me than hours of festivity at Belmont, or the company of any other woman in the world.”
Angélique was not insensible to the devotion of Le Gardeur. Her feelings were touched, and never slow in finding an interpretation for them she raised his hand quickly to her lips and kissed it. “I had no motive in sending for you but to see you, Le Gardeur!” said she; “will that content you? If it won’t–“
“This shall,” replied he, kissing her cheek–which she was far from averting or resenting.
“That is so like you, Le Gardeur!” replied she,–“to take before it is given!” She stopped–“What was I going to say?” added she. “It was given, and my contentment is perfect to have you here by my side!” If her thoughts reverted at this moment to the Intendant it was with a feeling of repulsion, and as she looked fondly on the face of Le Gardeur she could not help contrasting his handsome looks with the hard, swarthy features of Bigot.
“I wish my contentment were perfect, Angélique; but it is in your power to make it so–will you? Why keep me forever on the threshold of my happiness, or of my despair, whichever you shall decree? I have spoken to Amélie tonight of you!”
“O do not press me, Le Gardeur!” exclaimed she, violently agitated, anxious to evade the question she saw burning on his lips, and distrustful of her own power to refuse; “not now! not to-night! Another day you shall know how much I love you, Le Gardeur! Why will not men content themselves with knowing we love them, without stripping our favors of all grace by making them duties, and in the end destroying our love by marrying us?” A flash of her natural archness came over her face as she said this.
“That would not be your case or mine, Angélique,” replied he, somewhat puzzled at her strange speech. But she rose up suddenly without replying, and walked to a buffet, where stood a silver salver full of refreshments. “I suppose you have feasted so magnificently at Belmont that you will not care for my humble hospitalities,” said she, offering him a cup of rare wine, a recent gift of the Intendant,–which she did not mention, however. “You have not told me a word yet of the grand party at Belmont. Pierre Philibert has been highly honored by the Honnêtes Gens I am sure!”
“And merits all the honor he receives! Why were you not there too, Angélique? Pierre would have been delighted,” replied he, ever ready to defend Pierre Philibert.
“And I too! but I feared to be disloyal to the Fripponne!” said she, half mockingly. “I am a partner in the Grand Company you know, Le Gardeur! But I confess Pierre Philibert is the handsomest man– except one–in New France. I own to THAT. I thought to pique Amélie one day by telling her so, but on the contrary I pleased her beyond measure! She agreed without excepting even the one!”
“Amélie told me your good opinions of Pierre, and I thanked you for it!” said he, taking her hand. “And now, darling, since you cannot with wine, words, or winsomeness divert me from my purpose in making you declare what you think of me also, let me tell you I have promised Amélie to bring her your answer to-night!”
The eyes of Le Gardeur shone with a light of loyal affection. Angélique saw there was no escaping a declaration. She sat irresolute and trembling, with one hand resting on his arm and the other held up deprecatingly. It was a piece of acting she had rehearsed to herself for this foreseen occasion. But her tongue, usually so nimble and free, faltered for once in the rush of emotions that well-nigh overpowered her. To become the honored wife of Le Gardeur de Repentigny, the sister of the beauteous Amélie, the niece of the noble Lady de Tilly, was a piece of fortune to have satisfied, until recently, both her heart and her ambition. But now Angélique was the dupe of dreams and fancies. The Royal Intendant was at her feet. France and its courtly splendors and court intrigues opened vistas of grandeur to her aspiring and unscrupulous ambition. She could not forego them, and would not! She knew that, all the time her heart was melting beneath the passionate eyes of Le Gardeur.
“I have spoken to Amélie, and promised to take her your answer to- night,” said he, in a tone that thrilled every fibre of her better nature. “She is ready to embrace you as her sister. Will you be my wife, Angélique?”
Angélique sat silent; she dared not look up at him. If she had, she knew her hard resolution would melt. She felt his gaze upon her without seeing it. She grew pale and tried to answer no, but could not; and she would not answer yes.
The vision she had so wickedly revelled in flashed again upon her at this supreme moment. She saw, in a panorama of a few seconds, the gilded halls of Versailles pass before her, and with the vision came the old temptation.
“Angélique!” repeated he, in a tone full of passionate entreaty, “will you be my wife, loved as no woman ever was,–loved as alone Le Gardeur de Repentigny can love you?”
She knew that. As she weakened under his pleading and grasped both his hands tight in hers, she strove to frame a reply which should say yes while it meant no; and say no which he should interpret yes.
“All New France will honor you as the Châtelaine de Repentigny! There will be none higher, as there will be none fairer, than my bride!” Poor Le Gardeur! He had a dim suspicion that Angélique was looking to France as a fitting theatre for her beauty and talents.
She still sat mute, and grew paler every moment. Words formed themselves upon her lips, but she feared to say them, so terrible was the earnestness of this man’s love, and no less vivid the consciousness of her own. Her face assumed the hardness of marble, pale as Parian and as rigid; a trembling of her white lips showed the strife going on within her; she covered her eyes with her hand, that he might not see the tears she felt quivering under the full lids, but she remained mute.
“Angélique!” exclaimed he, divining her unexpressed refusal; “why do you turn away from me? You surely do not reject me? But I am mad to think it! Speak, darling! one word, one sign, one look from those dear eyes, in consent to be the wife of Le Gardeur, will bring life’s happiness to us both!” He took her hand, and drew it gently from her eyes and kissed it, but she still averted her gaze from him; she could not look at him, but the words dropped slowly and feebly from her lips in response to his appeal:
“I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not marry you!” said she. She could not utter more, but her hand grasped his with a fierce pressure, as if wanting to hold him fast in the very moment of refusal.
He started back, as if touched by fire. “You love me, but will not marry me! Angélique, what mystery is this? But you are only trying me! A thousand thanks for your love; the other is but a jest,–a good jest, which I will laugh at!” And Le Gardeur tried to laugh, but it was a sad failure, for he saw she did not join in his effort at merriment, but looked pale and trembling, as if ready to faint.
She laid her hands upon his heavily and sadly. He felt her refusal in the very touch. It was like cold lead. “Do not laugh, Le Gardeur, I cannot laugh over it; this is no jest, but mortal earnest! What I say I mean! I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not marry you!”
She drew her hands away, as if to mark the emphasis she could not speak. He felt it like the drawing of his heartstrings.
She turned her eyes full upon him now, as if to look whether love of her was extinguished in him by her refusal. “I love you, Le Gardeur–you know I do! But I will not–I cannot–marry you now!” repeated she.
“Now!” he caught at the straw like a drowning swimmer in a whirlpool. “Now? I said not now but when you please, Angélique! You are worth a man’s waiting his life for!”
“No, Le Gardeur!” she replied, “I am not worth your waiting for; it cannot be, as I once hoped it might be; but love you I do and ever shall!” and the false, fair woman kissed him fatuously. “I love you, Le Gardeur, but I will not marry you!”
“You do not surely mean it, Angélique!” exclaimed he; “you will not give me death instead of life? You cannot be so false to your own heart, so cruel to mine? See, Angélique! My saintly sister Amélie believed in your love, and sent these flowers to place in your hair when you had consented to be my wife,–her sister; you will not refuse them, Angélique?”
He raised his hand to place the garland upon her head, but Angélique turned quickly, and they fell at her feet. “Amélie’s gifts are not for me, Le Gardeur–I do not merit them! I confess my fault: I am, I know, false to my own heart, and cruel to yours. Despise me,– kill me for it if you will, Le Gardeur! better you did kill me, perhaps! but I cannot lie to you as I can to other men! Ask me not to change my resolution, for I neither can nor will.” She spoke with impassioned energy, as if fortifying her refusal by the reiteration of it.
“It is past comprehension!” was all he could say, bewildered at her words thus dislocated from all their natural sequence of association. “Love me and not marry me!–that means she will marry another!” thought he, with a jealous pang. “Tell me, Angélique,” continued he, after several moments of puzzled silence, “is there some inscrutable reason that makes you keep my love and reject my hand?”
“No reason, Le Gardeur! It is mad unreason,–I feel that,–but it is no less true. I love you, but I will not marry you.” She spoke with more resolution now. The first plunge was over, and with it her fear and trembling as she sat on the brink.
The iteration drove him beside himself. He seized her hands, and exclaimed with vehemence,–“There is a man–a rival–a more fortunate lover–behind all this, Angélique des Meloises! It is not yourself that speaks, but one that prompts you. You have given your love to another, and discarded me! Is it not so?”
“I have neither discarded you, nor loved another,” Angélique equivocated. She played her soul away at this moment with the mental reservation that she had not yet done what she had resolved to do upon the first opportunity–accept the hand of the Intendant Bigot.
“It is well for that other man, if there be one!” Le Gardeur rose and walked angrily across the room two or three times. Angélique was playing a game of chess with Satan for her soul, and felt that she was losing it.
“There was a Sphinx in olden times,” said he, “that propounded a riddle, and he who failed to solve it had to die. Your riddle will be the death of me, for I cannot solve it, Angélique!”
“Do not try to solve it, dear Le Gardeur! Remember that when her riddle was solved the Sphinx threw herself into the sea. I doubt that may be my fate! But you are still my friend, Le Gardeur!” added she, seating herself again by his side, in her old fond, coquettish manner. “See these flowers of Amélie’s, which I did not place in my hair; I treasure them in my bosom!” She gathered them up as she spoke, kissed them, and placed them in her bosom.
“You are still my friend, Le Gardeur?” Her eyes turned upon him with the old look she could so well assume.
“I am more than a thousand friends, Angélique!” replied he; “but I shall curse myself that I can remain so and see you the wife of another.”
The very thought drove him to frenzy. He dashed her hand away and sprang up towards the door, but turned suddenly round. “That curse was not for you, Angélique!” said he, pale and agitated; “it was for myself, for ever believing in the empty love you professed for me. Good-by! Be happy! As for me, the light goes out of my life, Angélique, from this day forth.”
“Oh, stop! stop, Le Gardeur! do not leave me so!” She rose and endeavored to restrain him, but he broke from her, and without adieu or further parley rushed out bareheaded into the street. She ran to the balcony to call him back, and leaning far over it, cried out, “Le Gardeur! Le Gardeur!” That voice would have called him from the dead could he have heard it, but he was already lost in the darkness. A few rapid steps resounded on the distant pavement, and Le Gardeur de Repentigny was lost to her forever!
She waited long on the balcony, looking over it for a chance of hearing his returning steps, but none came. It was the last impulse of her love to save her, but it was useless. “Oh, God!” she exclaimed in a voice of mortal agony, “he is gone forever–my Le Gardeur! my one true lover, rejected by my own madness, and for what?” She thought “For what!” and in a storm of passion, tearing her golden hair over her face, and beating her breast in her rage, she exclaimed,–“I am wicked, unutterably bad, worse and more despicable than the vilest creature that crouches under the bushes on the Batture! How dared I, unwomanly that I am, reject the hand I worship for sake of a hand I should loathe in the very act of accepting it? The slave that is sold in the market is better than I, for she has no choice, while I sell myself to a man whom I already hate, for he is already false to me! The wages of a harlot were more honestly earned than the splendor for which I barter soul and body to this Intendant!”
The passionate girl threw herself upon the floor, nor heeded the blood that oozed from her head, bruised on the hard wood. Her mind was torn by a thousand wild fancies. Sometimes she resolved to go out like the Rose of Sharon and seek her beloved in the city and throw herself at his feet, making him a royal gift of all he claimed of her.
She little knew her own wilful heart. She had seen the world bow to every caprice of hers, but she never had one principle to guide her, except her own pleasure. She was now like a goddess of earth, fallen in an effort to reconcile impossibilities in human hearts, and became the sport of the powers of wickedness.
She lay upon the floor senseless, her hands in a violent clasp. Her glorious hair, torn and disordered, lay over her like the royal robe of a queen stricken from her throne and lying dead upon the floor of her palace.
It was long after midnight, in the cold hours of the morning, when she woke from her swoon. She raised herself feebly upon her elbow, and looked dazedly up at the cold, unfeeling stars that go on shining through the ages, making no sign of sympathy with human griefs. Perseus had risen to his meridian, and Algol, her natal star, alternately darkened and brightened as if it were the scene of some fierce conflict of the powers of light and darkness, like that going on in her own soul.
Her face was stained with hard clots of blood as she rose, cramped and chilled to the bone. The night air had blown coldly upon her through the open lattice; but she would not summon her maid to her assistance. Without undressing she threw herself upon a couch, and utterly worn out by the agitation she had undergone, slept far into the day.
CHAPTER XXIV.
THE HURRIED QUESTION OF DESPAIR.
Le Gardeur plunged headlong down the silent street, neither knowing nor caring whither. Half mad with grief, half with resentment, he vented curses upon himself, upon Angélique, upon the world, and looked upon Providence itself as in league with the evil powers to thwart his happiness,–not seeing that his happiness in the love of a woman like Angélique was a house built on sand, which the first storm of life would sweep away.
“Holla! Le Gardeur de Repentigny! Is that you?” exclaimed a voice in the night. “What lucky wind blows you out at this hour?” Le Gardeur stopped and recognized the Chevalier de Pean. “Where are you going in such a desperate hurry?”
“To the devil!” replied Le Gardeur, withdrawing his hand from De Pean’s, who had seized it with an amazing show of friendship. “It is the only road left open to me, and I am going to march down it like a garde du corps of Satan! Do not hold me, De Pean! Let go my arm! I am going to the devil, I tell you!”
“Why, Le Gardeur,” was the reply, “that is a broad and well- travelled road–the king’s highway, in fact. I am going upon it myself, as fast and merrily as any man in New France.”
“Well, go on it then! March either before or after me, only don’t go with me, De Pean; I am taking the shortest cuts to get to the end of it, and want no one with me.” Le Gardeur walked doggedly on; but De Pean would not be shaken off. He suspected what had happened.
“The shortest cut I know is by the Taverne de Menut, where I am going now,” said he, “and I should like your company, Le Gardeur! Our set are having a gala night of it, and must be musical as the frogs of Beauport by this hour! Come along!” De Pean again took his arm. He was not repelled this time.
“I don’t care where I go, De Pean!” replied he, forgetting his dislike to this man, and submitting to his guidance,–the Taverne de Menut was just the place for him to rush into and drown his disappointment in wine. The two moved on in silence for a few minutes.
“Why, what ails you, Le Gardeur?” asked his companion, as they walked on arm in arm. “Has fortune frowned upon the cards, or your mistress proved a fickle jade like all her sex?”
His words were irritating enough to Le Gardeur. “Look you, De Pean, said he, stopping, “I shall quarrel with you if you repeat such remarks. But you mean no mischief I dare say, although I would not swear it!” Le Gardeur looked savage.
De Pean saw it would not be safe to rub that sore again. “Forgive me, Le Gardeur!” said he, with an air of sympathy well assumed. “I meant no harm. But you are suspicious of your friends to-night as a Turk of his harem.”
I have reason to be! And as for friends, I find only such friends as you, De Pean! And I begin to think the world has no better!” The clock of the Recollets struck the hour as they passed under the shadow of its wall. The brothers of St. Francis slept quietly on their peaceful pillows, like sea birds who find in a rocky nook a refuge from the ocean storms. “Do you think the Recollets are happy, De Pean?” asked he, turning abruptly to his companion.
“Happy as oysters at high water, who are never crossed in love, except of their dinner! But that is neither your luck nor mine, Le Gardeur!” De Pean was itching to draw from his companion something with reference to what had passed with Angélique.
“Well, I would rather be an oyster than a man, and rather be dead than either!” was the reply of Le Gardeur. “How soon, think you, will brandy kill a man, De Pean?” asked he abruptly, after a pause of silence.
“It will never kill you, Le Gardeur, if you take it neat at Master Menut’s. It will restore you to life, vigor, and independence of man and woman. I take mine there when I am hipped as you are, Le Gardeur. It is a specific for every kind of ill-fortune,–I warrant it will cure and never kill you.”
They crossed the Place d’Armes. Nothing in sight was moving except the sentries who paced slowly like shadows up and down the great gateway of the Castle of St. Louis.
“It is still and solemn as a church-yard here,” remarked De Pean; “all the life of the place is down at Menut’s! I like the small hours,” added he as the chime of the Recollets ceased. “They are easily counted, and pass quickly, asleep or awake. Two o’clock in the morning is the meridian of the day for a man who has wit to wait for it at Menut’s!–these small hours are all that are worth reckoning in a man’s life!”
Without consenting to accompany De Pean, Le Gardeur suffered himself to be led by him. He knew the company that awaited him there–the wildest and most dissolute gallants of the city and garrison were usually assembled there at this hour.
The famous old hostelry was kept by Master Menut, a burly Breton who prided himself on keeping everything full and plenty about his house–tables full, tankards full, guests full, and himself very full. The house was to-night lit up with unusual brilliance, and was full of company–Cadet, Varin, Mercier, and a crowd of the friends and associates of the Grand Company. Gambling, drinking, and conversing in the loudest strain on such topics as interested their class, were the amusements of the night. The vilest thoughts, uttered in the low argot of Paris, were much affected by them. They felt a pleasure in this sort of protest against the extreme refinement of society, just as the collegians of Oxford, trained beyond their natural capacity in morals, love to fall into slang and, like Prince Hal, talk to every tinker in his own tongue.
De Pean and Le Gardeur were welcomed with open arms at the Taverne de Menut. A dozen brimming glasses were offered them on every side. De Pean drank moderately. “I have to win back my losses of last night,” said he, “and must keep my head clear.” Le Gardeur, however, refused nothing that was offered him. He drank with all, and drank every description of liquor. He was speedily led up into a large, well-furnished room, where tables were crowded with gentlemen playing cards and dice for piles of paper money, which was tossed from hand to hand with the greatest nonchalance as the game ended and was renewed.
Le Gardeur plunged headlong into the flood of dissipation. He played, drank, talked argot, and cast off every shred of reserve. He doubled his stakes, and threw his dice reckless and careless whether he lost or won. His voice overbore that of the stoutest of the revellers. He embraced De Pean as his friend, who returned his compliments by declaring Le Gardeur de Repentigny to be the king of good fellows, who had the “strongest head to carry wine and the stoutest heart to defy dull care of any man in Quebec.”
De Pean watched with malign satisfaction the progress of Le Gardeur’s intoxication. If he seemed to flag, he challenged him afresh to drink to better fortune; and when he lost the stakes, to drink again to spite ill luck.
But let a veil be dropped over the wild doings of the Taverne de Menut. Le Gardeur lay insensible at last upon the floor, where he would have remained had not some of the servants of the inn who knew him lifted him up compassionately and placed him upon a couch, where he lay, breathing heavily like one dying. His eyes were fixed; his mouth, where the kisses of his sister still lingered, was partly opened, and his hands were clenched, rigid as a statue’s.
“He is ours now!” said De Pean to Cadet. “He will not again put his head under the wing of the Philiberts!”
The two men looked at him, and laughed brutally.
“A fair lady whom you know, Cadet, has given him liberty to drink himself to death, and he will do it.”
“Who is that? Angélique?” asked Cadet.
“Of course; who else? and Le Gardeur won’t be the first or last man she has put under stone sheets,” replied De Pean, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Gloria patri filioque!” exclaimed Cadet, mockingly; “the Honnêtes Gens will lose their trump card. How did you get him away from Belmont, De Pean?”
“Oh, it was not I! Angélique des Meloises set the trap and whistled the call that brought him,” replied De Pean.
“Like her, the incomparable witch!” exclaimed Cadet with a hearty laugh. “She would lure the very devil to play her tricks instead of his own. She would beat Satan at his best game to ruin a man.”
“It would be all the same, Cadet, I fancy–Satan or she! But where is Bigot? I expected him here.”
“Oh, he is in a tantrum to-night, and would not come. That piece of his at Beaumanoir is a thorn in his flesh, and a snow-ball on his spirits. She is taming him. By St. Cocufin! Bigot loves that woman!”
“I told you that before, Cadet. I saw it a month ago, and was sure of it on that night when he would not bring her up to show her to us.”
“Such a fool, De Pean, to care for any woman! What will Bigot do with her, think you?”
“How should I know? Send her adrift some fine day I suppose, down the Rivière du Loup. He will, if he is a sensible man. He dare not marry any woman without license from La Pompadour, you know. The jolly fish-woman holds a tight rein over her favorites. Bigot may keep as many women as Solomon–the more the merrier; but woe befall him if he marries without La Pompadour’s consent! They say she herself dotes on Bigot,–that is the reason.” De Pean really believed that was the reason; and certainly there was reason for suspecting it.
“Cadet! Cadet!” exclaimed several voices. “You are fined a basket of champagne for leaving the table.”
“I’ll pay it,” replied he, “and double it; but it is hot as Tartarus in here. I feel like a grilled salmon.” And indeed, Cadet’s broad, sensual face was red and glowing as a harvest moon. He walked a little unsteady too, and his naturally coarse voice sounded thick, but his hard brain never gave way beyond a certain point under any quantity of liquor.
“I am going to get some fresh air,” said he. “I shall walk as far as the Fleur-de-Lis. They never go to bed at that jolly old inn.”
“I will go with you!” “And I!” exclaimed a dozen voices.
“Come on then; we will all go to the old dog-hole, where they keep the best brandy in Quebec. It is smuggled of course, but that makes it all the better.”
Mine host of the Taverne de Menut combatted this opinion of the goodness of the liquors at the Fleur-de-Lis. His brandy had paid the King’s duties, and bore the stamp of the Grand Company, he said; and he appealed to every gentleman present on the goodness of his liquors.
Cadet and the rest took another round of it to please the landlord, and sallied out with no little noise and confusion. Some of them struck up the famous song which, beyond all others, best expressed the gay, rollicking spirit of the French nation and of the times of the old régime:
“‘Vive Henri Quatre!
Vive le Roi vaillant!
Ce diable à quatre
A le triple talent,
De boire et de battre,
Et d’être un vert galant!'”
When the noisy party arrived at the Fleur-de-Lis, they entered without ceremony into a spacious room–low, with heavy beams and with roughly plastered walls, which were stuck over with proclamations of governors and intendants and dingy ballads brought by sailors from French ports.
A long table in the middle of the room was surrounded by a lot of fellows, plainly of the baser sort,–sailors, boatmen, voyageurs,– in rough clothes, and tuques–red or blue,–upon their heads. Every one had a pipe in his mouth. Some were talking with loose, loquacious tongues; some were singing; their ugly, jolly visages– half illumined by the light of tallow candles stuck in iron sconces on the wall–were worthy of the vulgar but faithful Dutch pencils of Schalken and Teniers. They were singing a song as the new company came in.
At the head of the table sat Master Pothier, with a black earthen mug of Norman cider in one hand and a pipe in the other. His budget of law hung on a peg in the corner, as quite superfluous at a free- and-easy at the Fleur-de-Lis.
Max Grimeau and Blind Bartemy had arrived in good time for the eel pie. They sat one on each side of Master Pothier, full as ticks and merry as grigs; a jolly chorus was in progress as Cadet entered.
The company rose and bowed to the gentlemen who had honored them with a call. “Pray sit down, gentlemen; take our chairs!” exclaimed Master Pothier, officiously offering his to Cadet, who accepted it as well as the black mug, of which he drank heartily, declaring old Norman cider suited his taste better than the choicest wine.
“We are your most humble servitors, and highly esteem the honor of your visit,” said Master Pothier, as he refilled the black mug.
“Jolly fellows!” replied Cadet, stretching his legs refreshingly, “this does look comfortable. Do you drink cider because you like it, or because you cannot afford better?”
“There is nothing better than Norman cider, except Cognac brandy,” replied Master Pothier, grinning from ear to ear. “Norman cider is fit for a king, and with a lining of brandy is drink for a Pope! It will make a man see stars at noonday. Won’t it, Bartemy?”
“What! old turn-penny! are you here?” cried Cadet, recognizing the old beggar of the gate of the Basse Ville.
“Oh, yes, your Honor!” replied Bartemy, with his professional whine, “pour l’amour de Dieu!”
“Gad! you are the jolliest beggar I know out of the Friponne,” replied Cadet, throwing him a crown.
“He is not a jollier beggar than I am, your Honor,” said Max Grimeau, grinning like an Alsatian over a Strasbourg pie. “It was I sang bass in the ballad as you came in–you might have heard me, your Honor?”
“To be sure I did; I will be sworn there is not a jollier beggar in Quebec than you, old Max! Here is a crown for you too, to drink the Intendant’s health and another for you, you roving limb of the law, Master Pothier! Come, Master Pothier! I will fill your ragged gown full as a demijohn of brandy if you will go on with the song you were singing.”
“We were at the old ballad of the Pont d’Avignon, your Honor,” replied Master Pothier.
“And I was playing it,” interrupted Jean La Marche; “you might have heard my violin, it is a good one!” Jean would not hide his talent in a napkin on so auspicious an occasion as this. He ran his bow over the strings and played a few bars,–“that was the tune, your Honor.”
“Ay, that was it! I know the jolly old song! Now go on!” Cadet thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his laced waistcoat and listened attentively; rough as he was, he liked the old Canadian music.
Jean tuned his fiddle afresh, and placing it with a knowing jerk under his chin, and with an air of conceit worthy of Lulli, began to sing and play the old ballad:
“‘A St. Malo, beau port de mer,
Trois navires sont arrivés,
Chargés d’avoine, chargés de bled; Trois dames s’en vont les merchander!'”
“Tut!” exclaimed Varin, “who cares for things that have no more point in them than a dumpling! give us a madrigal, or one of the devil’s ditties from the Quartier Latin!”
“I do not know a ‘devil’s ditty,’ and would not sing one if I did,” replied Jean La Marche, jealous of the ballads of his own New France. “Indians cannot swear because they know no oaths, and habitans cannot sing devil’s ditties because they never learned them; but ‘St. Malo, beau port de mer,’–I will sing that with any man in the Colony!”
The popular songs of the French Canadians are simple, almost infantine, in their language, and as chaste in expression as the hymns of other countries. Impure songs originate in classes who know better, and revel from choice in musical slang and indecency.
“Sing what you like! and never mind Varin, my good fellow,” said Cadet, stretching himself in his chair; “I like the old Canadian ballads better than all the devil’s ditties ever made in Paris! You must sing your devil’s ditties yourself, Varin; our habitans won’t,– that is sure!”
After an hour’s roystering at the Fleur-de-Lis the party of gentlemen returned to the Taverne de Menut a good deal more unsteady and more obstreperous than when they came. They left Master Pothier seated in his chair, drunk as Bacchus, and every one of the rest of his companions blind as Bartemy.
The gentlemen, on their return to the Taverne de Menut, found De Pean in a rage. Pierre Philibert had followed Amélie to the city, and learning the cause of her anxiety and unconcealed tears, started off with the determination to find Le Gardeur.
The officer of the guard at the gate of the Basse Ville was able to direct him to the right quarter. He hastened to the Taverne de Menut, and in haughty defiance of De Pean, with whom he had high words, he got the unfortunate Le Gardeur away, placed him in a carriage, and took him home, receiving from Amélie such sweet and sincere thanks as he thought a life’s service could scarcely have deserved.
“Par Dieu! that Philibert is a game-cock, De Pean,” exclaimed Cadet, to the savage annoyance of the Secretary. “He has pluck and impudence for ten gardes du corps. It was neater done than at Beaumanoir!” Cadet sat down to enjoy a broad laugh at the expense of his friend over the second carrying off of Le Gardeur.
“Curse him! I could have run him through, and am sorry I did not,” exclaimed De Pean.
“No, you could not have run him through, and you would have been sorry had you tried it, De Pean,” replied Cadet. “That Philibert is not as safe as the Bank of France to draw upon. I tell you it was well for yourself you did not try, De Pean. But never mind,” continued Cadet, “there is never so bad a day but there is a fair to-morrow after it, so make up a hand at cards with me and Colonel Trivio, and put money in your purse; it will salve your bruised feelings.” De Pean failed to laugh off his ill humor, but he took Cadet’s advice, and sat down to play for the remainder of the night.
“Oh, Pierre Philibert, how can we sufficiently thank you for your kindness to my dear, unhappy brother?” said Amélie to him, her eyes tremulous with tears and her hand convulsively clasping his, as Pierre took leave of her at the door of the mansion of the Lady de Tilly.
“Le Gardeur claims our deepest commiseration, Amélie,” replied he; “you know how this has happened?”
“I do know, Pierre, and shame to know it. But you are so generous ever. Do not blame me for this agitation!” She strove to steady herself, as a ship will right up for a moment in veering.
“Blame you! what a thought! As soon blame the angels for being good! But I have a plan, Amélie, for Le Gardeur–we must get him out of the city and back to Tilly for a while. Your noble aunt has given me an invitation to visit the Manor House. What if I manage to accompany Le Gardeur to his dear old home?”
“A visit to Tilly in your company would, of all things, delight Le Gardeur,” said she, “and perhaps break those ties that bind him to the city.”
These were pleasing words to Philibert, and he thought how delightful would be her own fair presence also at Tilly.
“All the physicians in the world will not help Le Gardeur as will your company at Tilly!” exclaimed she, with a sudden access of hope. “Le Gardeur needs not medicine, only care, and–“
“The love he has set his heart on, Amélie! Men sometimes die when they fail in that.” He looked at her as he said this, but instantly withdrew his eyes, fearing he had been overbold.
She blushed, and only replied, with absolute indirection, “Oh, I am so thankful to you, Pierre Philibert!” But she gave him, as he left, a look of gratitude and love which never effaced itself from his memory. In after-years, when Pierre Philibert cared not for the light of the sun, nor for woman’s love, nor for life itself, the tender, impassioned glance of those dark eyes wet with tears came back to him like a break in the dark clouds, disclosing the blue heaven beyond; and he longed to be there.
CHAPTER XXV.
BETWIXT THE LAST VIOLET AND THE EARLIEST ROSE.
“Do not go out to-day, brother, I want you so particularly to stay with me to-day,” said Amélie de Repentigny, with a gentle, pleading voice. “Aunt has resolved to return to Tilly to-morrow; I need your help to arrange these papers, and anyway, I want your company, brother,” added she, smiling.
Le Gardeur sat feverish, nervous, and ill after his wild night spent at the Taverne de Menut. He started and reddened as his sister’s eyes rested on him. He looked through the open window like a wild animal ready to spring out of it and escape.
A raging thirst was on him, which Amélie sought to assuage by draughts of water, milk, and tea–a sisterly attention which he more than once acknowledged by kissing the loving fingers which waited upon him so tenderly.
“I cannot stay in the house, Amélie,” said he; “I shall go mad if I do! You know how it has fared with me, sweet sister! I yesterday built up a tower of glass, high as heaven, my heaven–a woman’s love; to-day I am crushed under the ruins of it.”
“Say not so, brother! you were not made to be crushed by the nay of any faithless woman. Oh! why will men think more of our sex than we deserve? How few of us do deserve the devotion of a good and true man!”
“How few men would be worthy of you, sweet sister!’ replied he, proudly. “Ah! had Angélique had your heart, Amélie!”
“You will be glad one day of your present sorrow, brother,” replied she. “It is bitter I know, and I feel its bitterness with you, but life with Angélique would have been infinitely harder to bear.”
He shook his head, not incredulously, but defiantly at fate. “I would have accepted it,” said he, “had I been sure life with her had been hard as millstones! My love is of the perverse kind, not to be transmuted by any furnace of fiery trial.”
“I have no answer, brother, but this:” and Amdlie stooped and kissed his fevered forehead. She was too wise to reason in a case where she knew reason always made default.
“What has happened at the Manor House,” asked he after a short silence, “that aunt is going to return home sooner than she expected when she left?”
“There are reports to-day of Iroquois on the upper Chaudière, and her censitaires are eager to return to guard their homes from the prowling savages; and what is more, you and Colonel Philibert are ordered to go to Tilly to look after the defence of the Seigniory.”
Le Gardeur sat bolt upright. His military knowledge could not comprehend an apparently useless order. “Pierre Philibert and I ordered to Tilly to look after the defence of the Seigniory! We had no information yesterday that Iroquois were within fifty leagues of Tilly. It is a false rumor raised by the good wives to get their husbands home again! Don’t you think so, Amélie?” asked he, smiling for the first time.
“No, I don’t think so, Le Gardeur! but it would be a pretty ruse de guerre, were it true. The good wives naturally feel nervous at being left alone–I should myself,” added she, playfully.
“Oh, I don’t know! the nervous ones have all come with the men to the city; but I suppose the works are sufficiently advanced, and the men can be spared to return home. But what says Pierre Philibert to the order despatching him to Tilly? You have seen him since?”
Amélie blushed a little as she replied, “Yes, I have seen him; he is well content, I think, to see Tilly once more in your company, brother.”
“And in yours, sister!–Why blush, Amélie? Pierre is worthy of you, should he ever say to you what I so vainly said last night to Angélique des Meloises!” Le Gardeur held her tightly by the hand.
Her face was glowing scarlet,–she was in utter confusion. “Oh, stop, brother! Don’t say such things! Pierre never uttered such thoughts to me!–never will, in all likelihood!”
“But he will! And, my darling sister, when Pierre Philibert shall say he loves you and asks you to be his wife, if you love him, if you pity me, do not say him nay!” She was trembling with agitation, and without power to reply. But Le Gardeur felt her hand tighten upon his. He comprehended the involuntary sign, drew her to him, kissed her, and left the topic without pressing it further; leaving it in the most formidable shape to take deep root in the silent meditations of Amélie.
The rest of the day passed in such sunshine as Amélie could throw over her brother. Her soft influence retained him at home: she refreshed him with her conversation and sympathy, drew from him the pitiful story of his love and its bitter ending. She knew the relief of disburdening his surcharged heart; and to none but his sister, from whom he had never had a secret until this episode in his life, would he have spoken a word of his heart’s trouble.
Numerous were the visitors to-day at the hospitable mansion of the Lady de Tilly; but Le Gardeur would see none of them except Pierre Philibert, who rode over as soon as he was relieved from his military attendance at the Castle of St. Louis.
Le Gardeur received Pierre with an effusion of grateful affection– touching, because real. His handsome face, so like Amélie’s, was peculiarly so when it expressed the emotions habitual to her; and the pleasure both felt in the presence of Pierre brought out resemblances that flashed fresh on the quick, observant eye of Pierre.
The afternoon was spent in conversation of that kind which gives and takes with mutual delight. Le Gardeur seemed more his old self again in the company of Pierre; Amélie was charmed at the visible influence of Pierre over him, and a hope sprang up in her bosom that the little artifice of beguiling Le Gardeur to Tilly in the companionship of Pierre might be the means of thwarting those adverse influences which were dragging him to destruction.
If Pierre Philibert grew more animated in the presence of those bright eyes, which were at once appreciative and sympathizing, Amélie drank in the conversation of Pierre as one drinks the wine of a favorite vintage. If her heart grew a little intoxicated, what the wonder? Furtively as she glanced at the manly countenance of Pierre, she saw in it the reflection of his noble mind and independent spirit; and remembering the injunction of Le Gardeur,– for, woman-like, she sought a support out of herself to justify a foregone conclusion,–she thought that if Pierre asked her she could be content to share his lot, and her greatest happiness would be to live in the possession of his love.
Pierre Philibert took his departure early from the house of the Lady de Tilly, to make his preparations for leaving the city next day. His father was aware of his project, and approved of it.
The toils of the day were over in the house of the Chien d’Or. The Bourgeois took his hat and sword and went out for a walk upon the cape, where a cool breeze came up fresh from the broad river. It was just the turn of tide. The full, brimming waters, reflecting here and there a star, began to sparkle under the clear moon that rose slowly and majestically over the hills of the south shore.
The Bourgeois sat down on the low wall of the terrace to enjoy the freshness and beauty of the scene which, although he had seen it a hundred times before, never looked lovelier, he thought, than this evening. He was very happy in his silent thoughts over his son’s return home; and the general respect paid him on the day of his fête had been more felt, perhaps, by the Bourgeois than by Pierre himself.
As he indulged in these meditations, a well-known voice suddenly accosted him. He turned and was cordially greeted by the Count de la Galissonière and Herr Kalm, who had sauntered through the garden of the Castle and directed their steps towards the cape with intention to call upon the Lady de Tilly and pay their respects to her before she left the city.
The Bourgeois, learning their intentions, said he would accompany them, as he too owed a debt of courtesy to the noble lady and her niece Amélie, which he would discharge at the same time.
The three gentlemen walked gravely on, in pleasant conversation. The clearness of the moonlit night threw the beautiful landscape, with its strongly accentuated features, into contrasts of light and shade to which the pencil of Rembrandt alone could have done justice. Herr Kalm was enthusiastic in his admiration,–moonlight over Drachenfels on the Rhine, or the midnight sun peering over the Gulf of Bothnia, reminded him of something similar, but of nothing so grand on the whole as the matchless scene visible from Cape Diamond–worthy of its name.
Lady de Tilly received her visitors with the gracious courtesy habitual to her. She especially appreciated the visit from the Bourgeois, who so rarely honored the houses of his friends by his welcome presence. As for His Excellency, she remarked, smiling, it was his official duty to represent the politeness of France to the ladies of the Colony, while Herr Kalm, representing the science of Europe, ought to be honored in every house he chose to visit,–she certainly esteemed the honor of his presence in her own.
Amélie made her appearance in the drawing-room, and while the visitors stayed exerted herself to the utmost to please and interest them by taking a ready and sympathetic part in their conversation. Her quick and cultivated intellect enabled her to do so to the delight, and even surprise, of the three grave, learned gentlemen. She lacked neither information nor opinions of her own, while her speech, soft and womanly, gave a delicacy to her free yet modest utterances that made her, in their recollections of her in the future, a standard of comparison,–a measure of female perfections.
Le Gardeur, learning who were in the house, came down after a while to thank the Governor, the Bourgeois, and Herr Kalm for the honor of their visit. He exerted himself by a desperate effort to be conversable,–not very successfully, however; for had not Amélie watched him with deepest sympathy and adroitly filled the breaks in his remarks, he would have failed to pass himself creditably before the Governor. As it was, Le Gardeur contented himself with following the flow of conversation which welled up copiously from the lips of the rest of the company.
After a while came in Félix Baudoin in his full livery, reserved for special occasions, and announced to his lady that tea was served. The gentlemen were invited to partake of what was then a novelty in New France. The Bourgeois, in the course of the new traffic with China that had lately sprung up in consequence of the discovery of ginseng in New France, had imported some chests of tea, which the Lady de Tilly, with instinctive perception of its utility, adopted at once as the beverage of polite society. As yet, however, it was only to be seen upon the tables of the refined and the affluent.
A fine service of porcelain of Chinese make adorned her table, pleasing the fancy with its grotesque pictures,–then so new, now so familiar to us all. The Chinese garden and summer-house, the fruit- laden trees, and river with overhanging willows; the rustic bridge with the three long-robed figures passing over it; the boat floating upon the water and the doves flying in the perspectiveless sky–who does not remember them all?
Lady de Tilly, like a true gentlewoman, prized her china, and thought kindly of the mild, industrious race who had furnished her tea-table with such an elegant equipage.
It was no disparagement to the Lady de Tilly that she had not read English poets who sang the praise of tea: English poets were in those days an unknown quantity in French education, and especially in New France until after the conquest. But Wolfe opened the great world of English poetry to Canada as he recited Gray’s Elegy with its prophetic line,–
“The paths of glory lead but to the grave,”
as he floated down the St. Lawrence in that still autumnal night to land his forces and scale by stealth the fatal Heights of Abraham, whose possession led to the conquest of the city and his own heroic death, then it was the two glorious streams of modern thought and literature united in New France, where they have run side by side to this day,–in time to be united in one grand flood stream of Canadian literature.
The Bourgeois Philibert had exported largely to China the newly discovered ginseng, for which at first the people of the flowery kingdom paid, in their sycee silver, ounce for ounce. And his Cantonese correspondent esteemed himself doubly fortunate when he was enabled to export his choicest teas to New France in exchange for the precious root.
Amélie listened to an eager conversation between the Governor and Herr Kalm, started by the latter on the nature, culture, and use of the tea-plant,–they would be trite opinions now,–with many daring speculations on the ultimate conquest of the tea-cup over the wine- cup. “It would inaugurate the third beatitude!” exclaimed the philosopher, pressing together the tips of the fingers of both hands, “and the ‘meek would inherit the earth;'” so soon as the use of tea became universal, mankind would grow milder, as their blood was purified from the fiery products of the still and the wine- press! The life of man would be prolonged and made more valuable.
“What has given China four thousand of years of existence?” asked Herr Kaim, abruptly, of the Count.
The Count could not tell, unless it were that the nation was dead already in all that regarded the higher life of national existence,– had become mummified, in fact,–and did not know it.
“Not at all!” replied Herr Kalm. “It is the constant use of the life-giving infusion of tea that has saved China! Tea soothes the nerves; it clears the blood, expels vapors from the brain, and restores the fountain of life to pristine activity. Ergo, it prolongs the existence of both men and nations, and has made China the most antique nation in the world.”
Herr Kalm was a devotee to the tea-cup; he drank it strong to excite his flagging spirits, weak to quiet them down. He took Bohea with his facts, and Hyson with his fancy, and mixed them to secure the necessary afflatus to write his books of science and travel. Upon Hyson he would have attempted the Iliad, upon Bohea he would undertake to square the circle, discover perpetual motion, or reform the German philosophy.
The professor was in a jovial mood, and gambolled away gracefully as a Finland horse under a pack-saddle laden with the learning of a dozen students of Abo, travelling home for the holidays.
“We are fortunate in being able to procure our tea in exchange for our useless ginseng,” remarked the Lady de Tilly, as she handed the professor a tiny plate of the leaves, as was the fashion of the day. After drinking the tea, the infused leaves were regarded as quite a fashionable delicacy. Except for the fashion, it had not been perhaps considered a delicacy at all.
The observation of the Lady de Tilly set the professor off on another branch of the subject. “He had observed,” he said, “the careless methods of preparing the ginseng in New France, and predicted a speedy end of the traffic, unless it were prepared to suit the fancy of the fastidious Chinese.”
“That is true, Herr Kalm,” replied the Governor, “but our Indians who gather it are bad managers. Our friend Philibert, who opened this lucrative trade, is alone capable of ensuring its continuance. It is a mine of wealth to New France, if rightly developed. How much made you last year by ginseng, Philibert?”
“I can scarcely answer,” replied the Bourgeois, hesitating a moment to mention what might seem like egotism; “but the half million I contributed towards the war in defence of Acadia was wholly the product of my export of ginseng to China.”
“I know it was! and God bless you for it, Philibert!” exclaimed the Governor with emotion, as he grasped the hand of the patriotic merchant.
“If we have preserved New France this year, it was through your timely help in Acadia. The King’s treasury was exhausted,” continued the Governor, looking at Herr Kalm, “and ruin imminent, when the noble merchant of the Chien d’Or fed, clothed, and paid the King’s troops for two months before the taking of Grand Pré from the enemy!”
“No great thing in that, your Excellency,” replied the Bourgeois, who hated compliments to himself. “If those who have do not give, how can you get from those who have not? You may lay some of it to the account of Pierre too,–he was in Acadia, you know, Governor.” A flash of honest pride passed over the usually sedate features of the Bourgeois at the mention of his son.
Le Gardeur looked at his sister. She knew instinctively that his thoughts put into words would say, “He is worthy to be your father, Amélie!” She blushed with a secret pleasure, but spoke not. The music in her heart was without words yet; but one day it would fill the universe with harmony for her.
The Governor noticed the sudden reticence, and half surmising the cause, remarked playfully, “The Iroquois will hardly dare approach Tilly with such a garrison as Pierre Philibert and Le Gardeur, and with you, my Lady de Tilly, as commandant, and you, Mademoiselle Amélie, as aide-de-camp!”
“To be sure! your Excellency,” replied the Lady de Tilly. “The women of Tilly have worn swords and kept the old house before now!” she added playfully, alluding to a celebrated defence of the château by a former lady of the Manor at the head of a body of her censitaires; “and depend upon it, we shall neither give up Tilly nor Le Gardeur either, to whatever savages claim them, be they red or white!”
The lady’s allusion to his late associates did not offend Le Gardeur, whose honest nature despised their conduct, while he liked their company. They all understood her, and laughed. The Governor’s loyalty to the King’s commission prevented his speaking his thoughts. He only remarked, “Le Gardeur and Pierre Philibert will be under your orders, my Lady, and my orders are that they are not to return to the city until all dangers of the Iroquois are over.”
“All right, your Excellency!” exclaimed Le Gardeur. “I shall obey my aunt.” He was acute enough to see through their kindly scheming for his welfare; but his good nature and thorough devotion to his aunt and sister, and his affectionate friendship for Pierre, made him yield to the project without a qualm of regret. Le Gardeur was assailable on many sides,–a fault in his character–or a weakness– which, at any rate, sometimes offered a lever to move him in directions opposite to the malign influences of Bigot and his associates.
The company rose from the tea-table and moved to the drawing-room, where conversation, music, and a few games of cards whiled away a couple of hours very pleasantly.
Amélie sang exquisitely. The Governor was an excellent musician, and accompanied her. His voice, a powerful tenor, had been strengthened by many a conflict with old Boreas on the high seas, and made soft and flexible by his manifold sympathies with all that is kindly and good and true in human nature.
A song of wonderful pathos and beauty had just been brought down from the wilds of the Ottawa, and become universally sung in New France. A voyageur flying from a band of Iroquois had found a hiding-place on a rocky islet in the middle of the Sept Chutes. He concealed himself from his foes, but could not escape, and in the end died of starvation and sleeplessness. The dying man peeled off the white bark of the birch, and with the juice of berries wrote upon it his death song, which was found long after by the side of his remains. His grave is now a marked spot on the Ottawa. La Complainte de Cadieux had seized the imagination of Amélie. She sang it exquisitely, and to-night needed no pressing to do so, for her heart was full of the new song, composed under such circumstances of woe. Intense was the sympathy of the company, as she began:
“‘Petit rocher de la haute montagne, Je viens finir ici cette campagne!
Ah! doux echos, entendez mes soupirs! En languissant je vais bientôt–mourir.'”
There were no dry eyes as she concluded. The last sighs of Cadieux seemed to expire on her lips:
“‘Rossignole, va dire à ma maîtresse, A mes enfans, qu’un adieu je leur laisse, Que j’ai gardé mon amour et ma foi,
Et desormais faut renoncer à moi.'”
A few more friends of the family dropped in–Coulon de Villiers, Claude Beauharnais, La Corne St. Luc, and others, who had heard of the lady’s departure and came to bid her adieu.
La Corne raised much mirth by his allusions to the Iroquois. The secret was plainly no secret to him. “I hope to get their scalps,” said he, “when you have done with them and they with you, Le Gardeur!”
The evening passed on pleasantly, and the clock of the Recollets pealed out a good late hour before they took final leave of their hospitable hostess, with mutual good wishes and adieus, which with some of them were never repeated. Le Gardeur was no little touched and comforted by so much sympathy and kindness. He shook the Bourgeois affectionately by the hand, inviting him to come up to Tilly. It was noticed and remembered that this evening Le Gardeur clung filially, as it were, to the father of Pierre, and the farewell he gave him was tender, almost solemn, in a sort of sadness that left an impress upon all minds. “Tell Pierre–but indeed, he knows we start early,” said Le Gardeur, “and the canoes will be waiting on the Batture an hour after sunrise.
The Bourgeois knew in a general way the position of Le Gardeur, and sympathized deeply with him. “Keep your heart up, my boy!” said he on leaving. “Remember the proverb,–never forget it for a moment, Le Gardeur: Ce que Dieu garde est bien gardé!”
“Good-by, Sieur Philibert!” replied he, still holding him by the hand. “I would fain be permitted to regard you as a father, since Pierre is all of a brother to me!”
“I will be a father, and a loving one too, if you will permit me, Le Gardeur,” said the Bourgeois, touched by the appeal. “When you return to the city, come home with Pierre. At the Golden Dog, as well as at Belmont, there will be ever welcome for Pierre’s friend as for Pierre’s self.”
The guests then took their departure.
The preparations for the journey home were all made, and the household retired to rest, all glad to return to Tilly. Even Felix Baudoin felt like a boy going back on a holiday. His mind was surcharged with the endless things he had gathered up, ready to pour into the sympathizing ear of Barbara Sanschagrin; and the servants and censitaires were equally eager to return to relate their adventures in the capital when summoned on the King’s corvée to build the walls of Quebec.
CHAPTER XXVI.
THE CANADIAN BOAT-SONG.
“V’là l’bon vent!
V’là l’joli vent!
V’là l’bon vent!
Ma mie m’appelle!
V’là l’bon vent!
V’là l’joli vent!
V’là l’bon vent!
Ma mie m’attend!”
The gay chorus of the voyageurs made the shores ring, as they kept time with their oars, while the silver spray dripped like a shower of diamonds in the bright sunshine at every stroke of their rapid paddles. The graceful bark canoes, things of beauty and almost of life, leaped joyously over the blue waters of the St. Lawrence as they bore the family of the Lady de Tilly and Pierre Philibert with a train of censitaires back to the old Manor House.
The broad river was flooded with sunshine as it rolled majestically between the high banks crowned with green fields and woods in full leaf of summer. Frequent cottages and villages were visible along the shores, and now and then a little church with its bright spire or belfry marked the successive parishes on either hand.
The tide had already forced its way two hundred leagues up from the ocean, and still pressed irresistibly onward, surging and wrestling against the weight of the descending stream.
The wind too was favorable. A number of yachts and bateaux spread their snowy sails to ascend the river with the tide. They were for the most part laden with munitions of war for the Richelieu on their way to the military posts on Lake Champlain, or merchandise for Montreal to be reladen in fleets of canoes for the trading posts up the river of the Ottawas, the Great Lakes, or, mayhap, to supply the new and far-off settlements on the Belle Rivière and the Illinois.
The line of canoes swept past the sailing vessels with a cheer. The light-hearted crews exchanged salutations and bandied jests with each other, laughing immoderately at the well-worn jokes current upon the river among the rough voyageurs. A good voyage! a clear run! short portages and long rests! Some inquired whether their friends had paid for the bear and buffalo skins they were going to buy, or they complimented each other on their nice heads of hair, which it was hoped they would not leave behind as keepsakes with the Iroquois squaws.
The boat-songs of the Canadian voyageurs are unique in character, and very pleasing when sung by a crew of broad-chested fellows dashing their light birch-bark canoes over the waters rough or smooth, taking them, as they take fortune, cheerfully,–sometimes skimming like wild geese over the long, placid reaches, sometimes bounding like stags down the rough rapids and foaming saults.
Master Jean La Marche, clean as a new pin and in his merriest mood, sat erect as the King of Yvetot in the bow of the long canoe which held the Lady de Tilly and her family. His sonorous violin was coquettishly fixed in its place of honor under his wagging chin, as it accompanied his voice while he chanted an old boat-song which had lightened the labor of many a weary oar on lake and river, from the St. Lawrence to the Rocky Mountains.
Amélie sat in the stern of the canoe, laying her white hand in the cool stream which rushed past her. She looked proud and happy to- day, for the whole world of her affections was gathered together in that little bark.
She felt grateful for the bright sun; it seemed to have dispelled every cloud that lately shaded her thoughts on account of her brother, and she silently blessed the light breeze that played with her hair and cooled her cheek, which she felt was tinged with a warm glow of pleasure in the presence of Pierre Philibert.
She spoke little, and almost thanked the rough voyageurs for their incessant melodies, which made conversation difficult for the time, and thus left her to her own sweet silent thoughts, which seemed almost too sacred for the profanation of words.
An occasional look, or a sympathetic smile exchanged with her brother and her aunt, spoke volumes of pure affection. Once or twice the eyes of Pierre Philibert captured a glance of hers which might not have been intended for him, but which Amélie suffered him to intercept and hide away among the secret treasures of his heart. A glance of true affection–brief, it may be, as a flash of lightning–becomes, when caught by the eyes of love, a real thing, fixed and imperishable forever. A tender smile, a fond word of love’s creation, contains a universe of light and life and immortality,–small things, and of little value to others, but to him or her whom they concern more precious and more prized than the treasures of Ind.
Master Jean La Marche, after a few minutes’ rest, made still more refreshing by a draught from a suspicious-looking flask, which, out of respect for the presence of his mistress, the Lady de Tilly, he said contained “milk,” began a popular boat-song which every voyageur in New France knew as well as his prayers, and loved to his very finger-ends.
The canoe-men pricked up their ears, like troopers at the sound of a bugle, as Jean La Marche began the famous old ballad of the king’s son who, with his silver gun, aimed at the beautiful black duck, and shot the white one, out of whose eyes came gold and diamonds, and out of whose mouth rained silver, while its pretty feathers, scattered to the four winds, were picked up by three fair dames, who with them made a bed both large and deep–
“For poor wayfaring men to sleep.”
Master Jean’s voice was clear and resonant as a church bell newly christened; and he sang the old boat-song with an energy that drew the crews of half-a-dozen other canoes into the wake of his music, all uniting in the stirring chorus:
“Fringue! Fringue sur la rivière!
Fringue! Fringue sur l’aviron!”
The performance of Jean La Marche was highly relished by the critical boatmen, and drew from them that flattering mark of approval, so welcome to a vocalist,–an encore of the whole long ballad, from beginning to end.
As the line of canoes swept up the stream, a welcome cheer occasionally greeted them from the shore, or a voice on land joined in the gay refrain. They draw nearer to Tilly, and their voices became more and more musical, their gaiety more irrepressible, for they were going home; and home to the habitans, as well as to their lady, was the world of all delights.
The contagion of high spirits caught even Le Gardeur, and drew him out of himself, making him for the time forget the disappointments, resentments, and allurements of the city.
Sitting there in the golden sunshine, the blue sky above him, the blue waters below,–friends whom he loved around him, mirth in every eye, gaiety on every tongue,–how could Le Gardeur but smile as the music of the boatmen brought back a hundred sweet associations? Nay, he laughed, and to the inexpressible delight of Amélie and Pierre, who watched every change in his demeanor, united in the chorus of the glorious boat-song.
A few hours of this pleasant voyaging brought the little fleet of canoes under the high bank, which from its summit slopes away in a wide domain of forests, park, and cultivated fields, in the midst of which stood the high-pointed and many-gabled Manor House of Tilly.
Upon a promontory–as if placed there for both a land and sea mark, to save souls as well as bodies–rose the belfry of the Chapel of St. Michael, overlooking a cluster of white, old-fashioned cottages, which formed the village of St. Michael de Tilly.
Upon the sandy beach a crowd of women, children, and old men had gathered, who were cheering and clapping their hands at the unexpected return of the lady of the Manor with all their friends and relatives.
The fears of the villagers had been greatly excited for some days past by exaggerated reports of the presence of Iroquois on the upper waters of the Chaudière. They not unnaturally conjectured, moreover, that the general call for men on the King’s corvée, to fortify the city, portended an invasion by the English, who, it was rumored, were to come up in ships from below, as in the days of Sir William Phipps with his army of New Englanders, the story of whose defeat under the walls of Quebec was still freshly remembered in the traditions of the Colony.
“Never fear them!” said old Louis, the one-eyed pilot. “It was in my father’s days. Many a time have I heard him tell the story–how, in the autumn of the good year 1690, thirty-four great ships of the Bostonians came up from below, and landed an army of ventres bleus of New England on the flats of Beauport. But our stout Governor, Count de Frontenac, came upon them from the woods with his brave soldiers, habitans, and Indians, and drove them pell-mell back to their boats, and stripped the ship of Admiral Phipps of his red flag, which, if you doubt my word,–which no one does,–still hangs over the high altar of the Church of Notre Dame des Victoires. Blessed be our Lady, who saved our country from our enemies,–and will do so again, if we do not by our wickedness lose her favor! But the arbre sec–the dry tree–still stands upon the Point de Levis, where the Boston fleet took refuge before beating their retreat down the river again,–and you know the old prophecy: that while that tree stands, the English shall never prevail against Quebec!”
Much comforted by this speech of old Louis the pilot, the villagers of Tilly rushed to the beach to receive their friends.
The canoes came dashing into shore. Men, women, and children ran knee-deep into the water to meet them, and a hundred eager hands were ready to seize their prows and drag them high and dry upon the sandy beach.
“Home again! and welcome to Tilly, Pierre Philibert!” exclaimed Lady de Tilly, offering her hand. “Friends like you have the right of welcome here.” Pierre expressed his pleasure in fitting terms, and lent his aid to the noble lady to disembark.
Le Gardeur assisted Amélie out of the canoe. As he led her across the beach, he felt her hand tremble as it rested on his arm. He glanced down at her averted face, and saw her eyes directed to a spot well remembered by himself–the scene of his rescue from drowning by Pierre Philibert.
The whole scene came before Amélie at this moment. Her vivid recollection conjured up the sight of the inanimate body of her brother as it was brought ashore by the strong arm of Pierre Philibert and laid upon the beach; her long agony of suspense, and her joy, the greatest she had ever felt before or since, at his resuscitation to life, and lastly, her passionate vow which she made when clasping the neck of his preserver–a vow which she had enshrined as a holy thing in her heart ever since.
At that moment a strange fancy seized her: that Pierre Philibert was again plunging into deep water to rescue her brother, and that she would be called on by some mysterious power to renew her vow or fulfil it to the very letter.
She twitched Le Gardeur gently by the arm and said to him, in a half whisper, “It was there, brother! do you remember?”
“I know it, sister!” replied he; “I was also thinking of it. I am grateful to Pierre; yet, oh, my Amélie, better he had left me at the bottom of the deep river, where I had found my bed! I have no pleasure in seeing Tilly any more!”
“Why not, brother? Are we not all the same? Are we not all here? There is happiness and comfort for you at Tilly.”
“There was once, Amélie,” replied he, sadly; “but there will be none for me in the future, as I feel too well. I am not worthy of you, Amélie.”
“Come, brother!” replied she, cheerily, “you dampen the joy of our arrival. See, the flag is going up on the staff of the turret, and old Martin is getting ready to fire off the culverin in honor of your arrival.”
Presently there was a flash, a cloud of smoke, and the report of a cannon came booming down to the shore from the Manor House.
“That was well done of Martin and the women!” remarked Felix Baudoin, who had served in his youth, and therefore knew what was fitting in a military salute. “‘The women of Tilly are better than the men of Beauce,’ says the proverb.”
“Ay, or of Tilly either!” remarked Josephte Le Tardeur, in a sharp, snapping tone. Josephte was a short, stout virago, with a turned-up nose and a pair of black eyes that would bore you through like an auger. She wore a wide-brimmed hat of straw, overtopping curls as crisp as her temper. Her short linsey petticoat was not chary of showing her substantial ankles, while her rolled-up sleeves displayed a pair of arms so red and robust that a Swiss milkmaid might well have envied them.
Her remark was intended for the ear of José Le Tardeur, her husband, a lazy, good-natured fellow, whose eyes had been fairly henpecked out of his head all the days of his married life. Josephte’s speech hit him without hurting him, as he remarked to a neighbor. Josephte made a target of him every day. He was glad, for his part, that the women of Tilly were better soldiers than the men, and so much fonder of looking after things! It saved the men a deal of worry and a good deal of work.
“What are you saying, José?” exclaimed Felix, who only caught a few half words.
“I say, Master Felix, that but for Mère Eve there would have been no curse upon men, to make them labor when they do not want to, and no sin either. As the Curé says, we could have lain on the grass sunning ourselves all day long. Now it is nothing but work and pray, never play, else you will save neither body nor soul. Master Felix, I hope you will remember me if I come up to the Manor house.”
“Ay, I will remember you, José,” replied Felix, tartly; “but if labor was the curse which Eve brought into the world when she ate the apple, I am sure you are free from it. So ride up with the carts, José, and get out of the way of my Lady’s carriage!”
José obeyed, and taking off his cap, bowed respectfully to the Lady de Tilly as she passed, leaning on the arm of Pierre Philibert, who escorted her to her carriage.
A couple of sleek Canadian horses, sure-footed as goats and strong as little elephants, drew the coach with a long, steady trot up the winding road which led to the Manor House.
The road, unfenced and bordered with grass on each side of the track, was smooth and well kept, as became the Grande Chaussée of the Barony of Tilly. It ran sometimes through stretches of cultivated fields–green pastures or corn-lands ripening for the sickle of the censitaire. Sometimes it passed through cool, shady woods, full of primeval grandeur,–part of the great Forest of Tilly, which stretched away far as the eye could reach over the hills of the south shore. Huge oaks that might have stood there from the beginning of the world, wide-branching elms, and dark pines overshadowed the highway, opening now and then into vistas of green fields where stood a cottage or two, with a herd of mottled cows grazing down by the brook. On the higher ridges the trees formed a close phalanx, and with their dark tops cut the horizon into a long, irregular line of forest, as if offering battle to the woodman’s axe that was threatening to invade their solitudes.
Half an hour’s driving brought the company to the Manor House, a stately mansion, gabled and pointed like an ancient château on the Seine.
It was a large, irregular structure of hammered stone, with deeply- recessed windows, mullioned and ornamented with grotesque carvings. A turret, loopholed and battlemented, projected from each of the four corners of the house, enabling its inmates to enfilade every side with a raking fire of musketry, affording an adequate defence against Indian foes. A stone tablet over the main entrance of the Manor House was carved with the armorial bearings of the ancient family of Tilly, with the date of its erection, and a pious invocation placing the house under the special protection of St. Michael de Thury, the patron saint of the House of Tilly.
The Manor House of Tilly had been built by Charles Le Gardeur de Tilly, a gentleman of Normandy, one of whose ancestors, the Sieur de Tilly, figures on the roll of Battle Abbey as a follower of Duke William at Hastings. His descendant, Charles Le Gardeur, came over to Canada with a large body of his vassals in 1636, having obtained from the King a grant of the lands of Tilly, on the bank of the St. Lawrence, “to hold in fief and seigniory,”–so ran the royal patent,–“with the right and jurisdiction of superior, moyenne and basse justice, and of hunting, fishing, and trading with the Indians throughout the whole of this royal concession; subject to the condition of foi et hommage, which he shall be held to perform at the Castle of St. Louis in Quebec, of which he shall hold under the customary duties and dues, agreeably to the coutume de Paris followed in this country.”
Such was the style of the royal grants of seignioral rights conceded in New France, by virtue of one of which this gallant Norman gentleman founded his settlement and built this Manor House on the shores of the St. Lawrence.
A broad, smooth carriage road led up to the mansion across a park dotted with clumps of evergreens and deciduous trees. Here and there an ancient patriarch of the forest stood alone,–some old oak or elm, whose goodly proportions and amplitude of shade had found favor in the eyes of the seigniors of Tilly, and saved it from the axe of the woodman.
A pretty brook, not too wide to be crossed over by a rustic bridge, meandered through the domain, peeping occasionally out of the openings in the woods as it stole away like a bashful girl from the eyes of her admirer.
This brook was the outflow of a romantic little lake that lay hidden away among the wooded hills that bounded the horizon, an irregular sheet of water a league in circumference, dotted with islands and abounding with fish and waterfowl that haunted its quiet pools. That primitive bit of nature had never been disturbed by axe or fire, and was a favorite spot for recreation to the inmates of the Manor House, to whom it was accessible either by boat up the little stream, or by a pleasant drive through the old woods.
As the carriages drew up in front of the Manor House, every door, window, and gable of which looked like an old friend in the eyes of Pierre Philibert, a body of female servants–the men had all been away at the city–stood ranged in their best gowns and gayest ribbons to welcome home their mistress and Mademoiselle Amélie, who was the idol of them all.
Great was their delight to see Monsieur Le Gardeur, as they usually styled their young master, with another gentleman in military costume, whom it did not take two minutes for some of the sharp-eyed lasses to recognize as Pierre Philibert, who had once saved the life of Le Gardeur on a memorable occasion, and who now, they said one to another, was come to the Manor House to–to–they whispered what it was to each other, and smiled in a knowing manner.
Women’s wits fly swiftly to conclusions, and right ones too on most occasions. The lively maids of Tilly told one another in whispers that they were sure Pierre Philibert had come back to the Manor House as a suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle Amélie, as was most natural he should do, so handsome and manly looking as he was, and mademoiselle always liked to hear any of them mention his name. The maids ran out the whole chain of logical sequences before either Pierre or Amélie had ventured to draw a conclusion of any kind from the premises of this visit.
Behind the mansion, overlooking poultry-yards and stables which were well hidden from view, rose a high colombière, or pigeon-house, of stone, the possession of which was one of the rights which feudal law reserved to the lord of the manor. This colombière was capable of containing a large army of pigeons, but the regard which the Lady de Tilly had for the corn-fields of her censitaires caused her to thin out its population to such a degree that there remained only a few favorite birds of rare breed and plumage to strut and coo upon the roofs, and rival the peacocks on the terrace with their bright colors.
In front of the mansion, contrasting oddly with the living trees around it, stood a high pole, the long, straight stem of a pine- tree, carefully stripped of its bark, bearing on its top the withered remains of a bunch of evergreens, with the fragments of a flag and ends of ribbon which fluttered gaily from it. The pole was marked with black spots from the discharge of guns fired at it by the joyous habitans, who had kept the ancient custom of May-day by planting this May-pole in front of the Manor House of their lady.
The planting of such a pole was in New France a special mark of respect due to the feudal superior, and custom as well as politeness required that it should not be taken down until the recurrence of another anniversary of Flora, which in New France sometimes found the earth white with snow and hardened with frost, instead of covered with flowers as in the Old World whence the custom was