The Golden Dog by William Kirby (page 3)

bored her with all the current gossip of the day. They were rich and fashionable, perfect in etiquette, costume, and most particular in their society; but the rank and position of the noble Lady de Tilly made her friendship most desirable, as it conferred in the eyes of the world a patent of gentility which held good against every pretension to overtop it.

The stream of city talk from the lips of the two ladies had the merit of being perfect of its kind–softly insinuating and sweetly censorious, superlative in eulogy and infallible in opinion. The good visitors most conscientiously discharged what they deemed a great moral and social duty by enlightening the Lady de Tilly on all the recent lapses and secrets of the capital. They slid over slippery topics like skaters on thin ice, filling their listener with anxiety lest they should break through. But Madame de Grandmaison and her companion were too well exercised in the gymnastics of gossip to overbalance themselves. Half Quebec was run over and run down in the course of an hour.

Lady de Tilly listened with growing impatience to their frivolities, but she knew society too well to quarrel with its follies when it was of no service to do so: she contented herself with hoping it was not so bad. The Pope was not Catholic enough to suit some people, but, for her part, she had generally found people better than they were called.

A rather loud but well-bred exclamation of Madame de Grandmaison roused Amélie from her day-dream.

“Not going to the Intendant’s ball at the Palace, my Lady de Tilly! neither you nor Mademoiselle de Repentigny, whom we are so sorry not to have seen to-day? Why, it is to be the most magnificent affair ever got up in New France. All Quebec has rung with nothing else for a fortnight, and every milliner and modiste in the city has gone almost insane over the superlative costumes to be worn there.”

“And it is to be the most select in its character,” chimed in Madame Couillard; “all gentry and noblesse, not one of the bourgeois to be invited. That class, especially the female portion of them, give themselves such airs nowadays! As if their money made them company for people of quality! They must be kept down, I say, or–“

“And the Royal Intendant quite agrees with the general sentiment of the higher circles,” responded Madame de Grandmaison. “He is for keeping down–“

“Noblesse! Noblesse!” The Lady de Tilly spoke with visible impatience. “Who is this Royal Intendant who dares cast a slight upon the worthy, honest bourgeoisie of this city? Is he noble himself? Not that I would think worse of him were he not, but I have heard it disputed. He is the last one who should venture to scorn the bourgeoisie.”

Madame de Grandmaison fanned herself in a very stately manner. “Oh, my Lady, you surely forget! The Chevalier Bigot is a distant relative of the Count de Marville, and the Chevalier de Grandmaison is a constant visitor at the Intendant’s! But he would not have sat at his table an hour had he not known that he was connected with the nobility. The Count de Marville–“

“The Count de Marville!” interrupted the Lady de Tilly, whose politeness almost gave way. “Truly, a man is known by the company he keeps. No credit to any one to be connected with the Count de Marville.”

Madame de Grandmaison felt rather subdued. She perceived that the Lady de Tilly was not favorably impressed towards the Intendant. But she tried again: “And then, my Lady, the Intendant is so powerful at Court. He was a particular friend of Madame d’Étioles before she was known at Court, and they say he managed her introduction to the King at the famous masked ball at the Hôtel de Ville, when His Majesty threw his handkerchief at her, and she became first dame du palais and the Marquise de Pompadour. She has ever remained his firm friend, and in spite of all his enemies could do to prevent it His Majesty made him Intendant of New France.”

“In spite of all the King’s friends could do, you mean,” replied the Lady de Tilly, in a tone the sound of which caught the ear of Amélie, and she knew her aunt was losing patience with her visitors. Lady de Tilly heard the name of the royal mistress with intense disgust, but her innate loyalty prevented her speaking disparagingly of the King. “We will not discuss the Court,” said she, “nor the friendships of this Intendant. I can only pray his future may make amends for his past. I trust New France may not have as much reason as poor lost Acadia to lament the day of his coming to the Colonies.”

The two lady visitors were not obtuse. They saw they had roused the susceptibilities–prejudices, they called them–of the Lady de Tilly. They rose, and smothering their disappointment under well- bred phrases, took most polite leave of the dignified old lady, who was heartily glad to be rid of them.

“The disagreeable old thing–to talk so of the Intendant!” exclaimed Madame Couillard, spitefully, “when her own nephew, and heir in the Seigniory of Tilly, is the Intendant’s firmest friend and closest companion.”

“Yes, she forgot about her own house; people always forget to look at home when they pass judgment upon their neighbors,” replied Madame de Grandmaison. “But I am mistaken if she will be able to impress Le Gardeur de Repentigny with her uncharitable and unfashionable opinions of the Intendant. I hope the ball will be the greatest social success ever seen in the city, just to vex her and her niece, who is as proud and particular as she is herself.”

Amélie de Repentigny had dressed herself to-day in a robe of soft muslin of Deccan, the gift of a relative in Pondicherry. It enveloped her exquisite form, without concealing the grace and lissomeness of her movements. A broad blue ribbon round her waist, and in her dark hair a blue flower, were all her adornments, except a chain and cross of gold, which lay upon her bosom, the rich gift of her brother, and often kissed with a silent prayer for his welfare and happiness. More than once, under the influence of some indefinable impulse, she rose and went to the mirror, comparing her features now with a portrait of herself taken as a young girl in the garb of a shepherdess of Provence. Her father used to like that picture of her, and to please him she often wore her hair in the fashion of Provence. She did so to-day. Why? The subtile thought in many Protean shapes played before her fancy, but she would not try to catch it–no! rather shyly avoided its examination.

She was quite restless, and sat down again in the deep recess of the window, watching the Place d’Armes for the appearance of her brother.

She gave a sudden start at last, as a couple of officers galloped in to the square and rode towards the great gate of the Château; one of them she instantly recognized as her brother, the other, a tall martial figure in full uniform, upon a fiery gray, she did not recognize, but she knew in her heart it could be no other than Colonel Philibert.

Amélie felt a thrill, almost painful in its pleasure, agitating her bosom, as she sat watching the gateway they had entered. It was even a momentary relief to her that they had turned in there instead of riding directly to the house. It gave her time to collect her thoughts and summon all her fortitude for the coming interview. Her fingers wandered down to the rosary in the folds of her dress, and the golden bead, which had so often prompted her prayer for the happiness of Pierre Philibert, seemed to burn to the touch. Her cheek crimsoned, for a strange thought suddenly intruded–the boy Pierre Philibert, whose image and memory she had so long and innocently cherished, was now a man, a soldier, a councillor, trained in courts and camps! How unmaidenly she had acted, forgetting all this in her childish prayers until this moment! “I mean no harm,” was all the defence she could think of. Nor had she time to think more of herself, for, after remaining ten minutes in the Château, just long enough to see the Governor and deliver the answer of the Intendant to his message, the gray charger emerged from the gate. His rider was accompanied by her brother and the well-known figure of her godfather, La Corne St. Luc, who rode up the hill and in a minute or two dismounted at the door of the mansion of the Lady de Tilly.

The fabled lynx, whose eye penetrates the very earth to discover hidden treasure, did not cast a keener and more inquisitive glance than that which Amélie, shrouded behind the thick curtains, directed from the window at the tall, manly figure and handsome countenance of him whom she knew to be Pierre Philibert. Let it not detract from her that she gave way to an irresistible impulse of womanly curiosity. The Queen of France would, under the same temptation, have done the same thing, and perhaps without feeling half the modest shame of it that Amélie did. A glance sufficed–but a glance that impressed upon her mind forever the ineffaceable and perfect image of Pierre Philibert the man, who came in place of Pierre Philibert the boy friend of Le Gardeur and of herself.

CHAPTER XI.

THE SOLDIER’S WELCOME.

The voices of the gentlemen mingled with her aunt’s in eager greetings. She well knew which must be the voice of Colonel Philibert–the rest were all so familiar to her ear. Suddenly footsteps ran up the grand stair, clearing three at a time. She waited, trembling with anticipation. Le Gardeur rushed into the room with outstretched arms, embraced her, and kissed her in a transport of brotherly affection.

“Oh, Le Gardeur!” cried she, returning his kiss with fond affection, and looking in his face with tenderness and joy. “O my brother, how I have prayed and longed for your coming. Thank God! you are here at last. You are well, brother, are you not?” said she, looking up with a glance that seemed to betray some anxiety.

“Never better, Amélie,” replied he, in a gayer tone than was quite natural to him, and shyly averting his eyes from her tender scrutiny. “Never better. Why, if I had been in my grave, I should have risen up to welcome a friend whom I have met to-day after years of separation. Oh, Amélie, I have such news for you!”

“News for me, Le Gardeur! What can it be?” A blush stole over her countenance, and her bosom heaved, for she was very conscious of the nature of the news her brother was about to impart.

“Guess! you unsuspecting queen of shepherdesses,” cried he, archly twisting a lock of her hair that hung over her shoulder. “Guess, you pretty gipsy, you!”

“Guess? How can I guess, Le Gardeur? Can there be any news left in the city of Quebec after an hour’s visit from Madame de Grandmaison and Madame Couillard? I did not go down, but I know they inquired much after you, by the way!” Amélie, with a little touch of feminine perversity, shyly put off the grand burst of Le Gardeur’s intelligence, knowing it was sure to come.

“Pshaw! who cares for those old scandal-mongers! But you can never guess my news, Amélie, so I may as well tell you.” Le Gardeur fairly swelled with the announcement he was about to make.

“Have mercy then, brother, and tell me at once, for you do now set my curiosity on tiptoe.” She was a true woman, and would not for anything have admitted her knowledge of the presence of Colonel Philibert in the house.

“Amélie,” said he, taking her by both hands, as if to prevent her escape, “I was at Beaumanoir–you know the Intendant gave a grand hunting party,” added he, noticing the quick glance she gave him; “and who do you think came to the Château and recognized me, or rather I recognized him? A stranger–and not such a stranger, either Amélie.”

“Nay; go on, brother! Who could this mysterious stranger and no stranger have been?”

“Pierre Philibert, Amélie! Pierre–our Pierre, you know! You recollect him, sister!”

“Recollect Pierre Philibert? Why, how could I ever forget him while you are living? since to him we are all indebted for your life, brother!”

“I know that; are you not glad, as I am, at his return?” asked Le Gardeur, with a penetrating look.

She threw her arms round him involuntarily, for she was much agitated. “Glad, brother? Yes, I am glad because you are glad.”

“No more than that, Amélie? That is a small thing to be glad for.”

“Oh, brother! I am glad for gladness’s sake! We can never overpay the debt of gratitude we owe Pierre Philibert.”

“O my sweet sister,” replied he, kissing her, “I knew my news would please you. Come, we will go down and see him at once, for Pierre is in the house.”

“But, Le Gardeur!” She blushed and hesitated. “Pierre Philibert I knew–I could speak to him; but I shall hardly dare recognize him in the stately soldier of to-day. Voilà la différence!” added she, repeating the refrain of a song very popular both in New France and in Old at that period.

Le Gardeur did not comprehend her hesitation and tone. Said he,– “Pierre is wonderfully changed since he and I wore the green sash of the seminary. He is taller than I, wiser and better,–he was always that,–but in heart the same generous, noble Pierre Philibert he was when a boy. Voilà la ressemblance!” added he, pulling her hair archly as he repeated the antistrophe of the same ditty.

Amélie gave her brother a fond look, but she did not reply, except by a tight pressure of the hand. The voices of the Chevalier La Corne and the Lady de Tilly and Colonel Philibert were again heard in animated conversation. “Come, brother, we will go now,” said she; and quick in executing any resolution she had formed, she took the arm of her brother, swept with him down the broad stair, and entered the drawing-room.

Philibert rose to his feet in admiration of the vision of loveliness that suddenly beamed upon his eyes. It was the incarnation of all the shapes of grace and beauty that had passed through his fervid fancy during so many years of absence from his native land. Something there was of the features of the young girl who had ridden with flying locks, like a sprite, through the woods of Tilly. But comparing his recollection of that slight girl with the tall, lithe, perfect womanhood of the half-blushing girl before him, he hesitated, although intuitively aware that it could be no other than the idol of his heart, Amélie de Repentigny.

Le Gardeur solved the doubt in a moment by exclaiming, in a tone of exultation, “Pierre Philibert, I bring an old young friend to greet you–my sister!”

Philibert advanced, and Amélie raised her dark eyes with a momentary glance that drew into her heart the memory of his face forever. She held out her hand frankly and courteously. Philibert bent over it as reverently as he would over the hand of the Madonna.

The greeting of the Lady de Tilly and La Corne St. Luc had been cordial, nay, affectionate in its kindness. The good lady kissed Pierre as a mother might have done a long-absent son.

“Colonel Philibert,” said Amélie, straining her nerves to the tension of steel to preserve her composure, “Colonel Philibert is most welcome; he has never been forgotten in this house.” She glanced at her aunt, who smiled approvingly at Amélie’s remark.

“Thanks, Mademoiselle de Repentigny; I am indeed happy to be remembered here; it fulfils one of my most cherished hopes in returning to my native land.”

“Ay, ay, Pierre,” interrupted La Corne St. Luc, who looked on this little scene very admiringly, “good blood never lies. Look at Colonel Philibert there, with the King’s epaulets on his shoulders. I have a sharp eye, as you know, Amélie, when I look after my pretty goddaughter, but I should not have recognized our lively Pierre in him, had Le Gardeur not introduced him to me, and I think you would not have known him either.”

“Thanks for your looking after me, godfather,” replied Amélie, merrily, very grateful in her heart for his appreciation of Pierre, “but I think neither aunt nor I should have failed to recognize him.”

“Right, my Amélie!” said the Lady de Tilly. “We should not, and we shall not be afraid, Pierre,–I must call you Pierre or nothing,– we shall not be afraid, although you do lay in a new stock of acquaintances in the capital, that old friends will be put aside as unfashionable remnants.”

“My whole stock of friendship consists of those remnants, my Lady,– memories of dear friends I love and honor. They will never be unfashionable with me: I should be bankrupt indeed, were I to part with one of them.”

“Then they are of a truer fabric than Penelope’s web, for she, I read, pulled in pieces at night what she had woven through the day,” replied Lady de Tilly. “Give me the friendship that won’t unravel.”

“But not a thread of my recollections has ever unravelled, or ever will,” replied Pierre, looking at Amélie as she clasped the arm of her aunt, feeling stronger, as is woman’s way, by the contact with another.

“Zounds! What is all this merchant’s talk about webs and threads and thrums?” exclaimed La Corne. “There is no memory so good as a soldier’s, Amélie, and for good reason: a soldier on our wild frontiers is compelled to be faithful to old friends and old flannels; he cannot help himself to new ones if he would. I was five years and never saw a woman’s face except red ones–some of them were very comely, by the way,” added the old warrior with a smile.

“The gallantry of the Chevalier La Corne is incontestable,” remarked Pierre, “for once, when we captured a convoy of soldiers’ wives from New England, he escorted them, with drums beating, to Grand Pré, and sent a cask of Gasçon wine for them to celebrate their reunion with their husbands.”

“Frowzy huzzies! not worth the keeping, or I would not have sent them; fit only for the bobtailed militia of New England!” exclaimed La Corne.

“Not so thought the New Englanders, who had a three days feast when they remarried their wives–and handsome they were, too,” said Philibert; “the healths they drank to the Chevalier were enough to make him immortal.”

La Corne always brushed aside compliments to himself: “Tut, my Lady! it was more Pierre’s good-nature than mine–he out of kindness let the women rejoin their husbands; on my part it was policy and stratagem, of war. Hear the sequel! The wives spoiled the husbands, as I guessed they would do, taught them to be too late at reveille, too early at tattoo. They neglected guards and pickets, and when the long nights of winter set in, the men hugged their wives by the firesides instead of their muskets by their watch- fires. Then came destruction upon them! In a blinding storm, amid snow-drifts and darkness, Coulon de Villiers, with his troops on snow-shoes, marched into the New England camp, and made widows of the most of the poor wives, who fell into our hands the second time. Poor creatures! I saw that day how hard it was to be a soldier’s wife.” La Corne’s shaggy eyelash twinkled with moisture. “But it was the fortune of war!–the fortune of war, and a cruel fortune it is at the best!”

The Lady de Tilly pressed her hand to her bosom to suppress the rising emotion. “Alas, Chevalier! poor widows! I feel all they suffered. War is indeed a cruel fortune, as I too have had reason to learn.”

“And what became of the poor women, godfather?” Amélie’s eyes were suffused with tears: it was in her heart, if ever in any mortal’s, to love her enemies.

“Oh, we cared for them the best we could. The Baron de St. Castin sheltered them in his château for the winter, and his daughter devoted herself to them with the zeal and tenderness of a saint from Heaven–a noble, lovely girl, Amélie!” added La Corne, impressively; “the fairest flower in all Acadia, and most unfortunate, poor girl! God’s blessing rest upon her, wherever she may be!” La Corne St. Luc spoke with a depth of emotion he rarely manifested.

“How was she unfortunate, godfather?” Philibert watched the cheek flush and the eyelid quiver of the fair girl as she spoke, carried away by her sympathy. His heart went with his looks.

“Alas!” replied La Corne, “I would fain not answer, lest I distrust the moral government of the universe. But we are blind creatures, and God’s ways are not fashioned in our ways. Let no one boast that he stands, lest he fall! We need the help of the host of Heaven to keep us upright and maintain our integrity. I can scarcely think of that noble girl without tears. Oh, the pity of it! The pity of it!”

Lady de Tilly looked at him wonderingly. “I knew the Baron de St. Castin,” said she. “When he came to perform homage at the Castle of St. Louis, for the grant of some lands in Acadia, he was accompanied by his only daughter, a child perfect in goodness, grace, and loveliness. She was just the age of Amélie. The ladies of the city were in raptures over the pretty Mayflower, as they called her. What, in heaven’s name, has happened to that dear child, Chevalier La Corne?”

La Corne St. Luc, half angry with himself for having broached the painful topic, and not used to pick his words, replied bluntly,– “Happened, my Lady! what is it happens worst to a woman? She loved a man unworthy of her love–a villain in spite of high rank and King’s favor, who deceived this fond, confiding girl, and abandoned her to shame! Faugh! It is the way of the Court, they say; and the King has not withdrawn his favor, but heaped new honors upon him!” La Corne put a severe curb upon his utterance and turned impatiently away, lest he might curse the King as well as the favorite.

“But what became of the poor deceived girl?” asked the Lady de Tilly, after hastily clearing her eyes with her handkerchief.

“Oh, the old, old story followed. She ran away from home in an agony of shame and fear, to avoid the return of her father from France. She went among the Indians of the St. Croix, they say, and has not been heard of since. Poor, dear girl! her very trust in virtue was the cause of her fall!”

Amélie turned alternately pale and red at the recital of her godfather. She riveted her eyes upon the ground as she pressed close to her aunt, clasping her arm, as if seeking strength and support.

Lady de Tilly was greatly shocked at the sad recital. She inquired the name of the man of rank who had acted so treacherously to the hapless girl.

“I will not utter the name to-day, my Lady! It has been revealed to me as a great secret. It is a name too high for the stroke of the law, if there be any law left us but the will of a King’s mistress! God, however, has left us the law of a gentleman’s sword to avenge its master’s wrong. The Baron de St. Castin will soon return to vindicate his own honor, and whether or no, I vow to heaven, my Lady, that the traitor who has wronged that sweet girl will one day have to try whether his sword be sharper than that of La Corne St. Luc! But pshaw! I am talking bravado like an Indian at the war post. The story of those luckless New England wives has carried us beyond all bounds.”

Lady de Tilly looked admiringly, without a sign of reproof, at the old soldier, sympathizing with his honest indignation at so foul a wrong to her sex. “Were that dear child mine, woman as I am, I would do the same thing!” said she, with a burst of feeling. She felt Amélie press her arm as if she too shared the spirit of her bolder aunt.

“But here comes Felix Baudoin to summon us to dinner!” exclaimed Lady de Tilly, as an old, white-headed servitor in livery appeared at the door with a low bow, announcing that dinner was served.

Le Gardeur and La Corne St. Luc greeted the old servitor with the utmost kindness, inquired after his health, and begged a pinch from his well-worn snuff-box. Such familiarities were not rare in that day between the gentlemen of New France and their old servants, who usually passed their lifetime in one household. Felix was the majordomo of the Manor House of Tilly, trusty, punctilious, and polite, and honored by his mistress more as an humble friend than as a servant of her house.

“Dinner is served, my Lady!” repeated Felix, with a bow. “But my Lady must excuse! The kitchen has been full of habitans all day. The Trifourchettes, the Doubledents, and all the best eaters in Tilly have been here. After obeying my Lady’s commands to give them all they could eat we have had difficulty in saving anything for my Lady’s own table.”

“No matter, Felix, we shall say grace all the same. I could content myself with bread and water, to give fish and flesh to my censitaires, who are working so willingly on the King’s corvée! But that must be my apology to you, Pierre Philibert and the Chevalier La Corne, for a poorer dinner than I could wish.”

“Oh, I feel no misgivings, my Lady!” remarked La Corne St. Luc, laughing. “Felix Baudoin is too faithful a servitor to starve his mistress for the sake of the Trifourchettes, the Doubledents, and all the best eaters in the Seigniory! No! no! I will be bound your Ladyship will find Felix has tolled and tithed from them enough to secure a dinner for us all–come, Amélie, with me.”

Lady de Tilly took the arm of Colonel Philibert, followed by Le Gardeur, La Corne, and Amélie, and, marshalled by the majordomo, proceeded to the dining-room–a large room, wainscotted with black walnut, a fine wood lately introduced. The ceiling was coved, and surrounded by a rich frieze of carving. A large table, suggestive of hospitality, was covered with drapery of the snowiest linen, the product of the spinning-wheels and busy looms of the women of the Seigniory of Tilly. Vases of china, filled with freshly-gathered flowers, shed sweet perfumes, while they delighted the eye with their beauty, etherializing the elements of bread and meat by suggestions of the poetry and ideals of life. A grand old buffet, a prodigy of cabinet-maker’s art, displayed a mass of family plate, and a silver shield embossed with the arms of Tilly, a gift of Henry of Navarre to their ancient and loyal house, hung upon the wall over the buffet.

In spite of the Trifourchettes and the Doubledents, Felix Baudoin had managed to set an excellent dinner upon the table of his lady, who looked archly at the Chevalier La Corne, as if assenting to his remark on her old servitor.

The lady remained standing at the head of her table until they all sat down, when, clasping her hands, she recited with feeling and clearness the old Latin grace, “Benedic, Domine, nos et haec tua dona,” sanctifying her table by the invocation of the blessing of God upon it and upon all who sat round it.

A soup, rich and savory, was the prelude at all dinners in New France. A salmon speared in the shallows of the Chaudière, and a dish of blood-speckled trout from the mountain streams of St. Joachim, smoked upon the board. Little oval loaves of wheaten bread were piled up in baskets of silver filigree. For in those days the fields of New France produced crops of the finest wheat–a gift which Providence has since withheld. “The wheat went away with the Bourbon lilies, and never grew afterwards,” said the old habitans. The meat in the larder had all really been given to the hungry censitaires in the kitchen, except a capon from the basse cour of Tilly and a standing pie, the contents of which came from the manorial dovecote. A reef of raspberries, red as corals, gathered on the tangled slopes of Côte à Bonhomme, formed the dessert, with blue whortleberries from Cape Tourment, plums sweet as honey drops, and small, gray-coated apples from Beaupré, delicious as those that comforted the Rose of Sharon. A few carafes of choice wine from the old manorial cellar, completed the entertainment.

The meal was not a protracted one, but to Pierre Philibert the most blissful hour of his life. He sat by the side of Amélie, enjoying every moment as if it were a pearl dropped into his bosom by word, look, or gesture of the radiant girl who sat beside him.

He found Amélie, although somewhat timid at first to converse, a willing, nay, an eager listener. She was attracted by the magnetism of a noble, sympathetic nature, and by degrees ventured to cast a glance at the handsome, manly countenance where feature after feature revealed itself, like a landscape at dawn of day, and in Colonel Philibert she recognized the very looks, speech, and manner of Pierre Philibert of old.

Her questioning eyes hardly needed the interpretation of her tongue to draw him out to impart the story of his life during his long absence from New France, and it was with secret delight she found in him a powerful, cultivated intellect and nobility of sentiment such as she rightly supposed belonged only to a great man, while his visible pleasure at meeting her again filled her with a secret joy that, unnoticed by herself, suffused her whole countenance with radiance, and incited her to converse with him more freely than she had thought it possible when she sat down at table.

“It is long since we all sat together, Mademoiselle, at the table of your noble aunt,” remarked Philibert. “It fulfills an often and often repeated day-dream of mine, that I should one day find you just the same.”

“And do you find me just the same?” answered she, archly. “You take down the pride of ladyhood immensely, Colonel! I had imagined I was something quite other than the wild child of Tilly!”

“I hardly like to consider you as in the pride of ladyhood, Mademoiselle, for fear I should lose the wild child of Tilly, whom I should be so glad to find again.”

“And whom you do find just the same in heart, mind, and regard too!” thought she to herself, but her words were,–“My school mistresses would be ashamed of their work, Colonel, if they had not improved on the very rude material my aunt sent them up from Tilly to manufacture into a fine lady! I was the crowned queen of the year when I left the Ursulines, so beware of considering me ‘the child of Tilly’ any longer.”

Her silvery laugh caught his heart, for in that he recognized vividly the gay young girl whose image he was every instant developing out of the tall, lovely woman beside him.

La Corne St. Luc and the Lady de Tilly found a thousand delights in mutual reminiscences of the past. Le Gardeur, somewhat heavy, joined in conversation with Philibert and his sister. Amélie guessed, and Philibert knew, the secret of Le Gardeur’s dulness; both strove to enliven and arouse him. His aunt guessed too, that he had passed the night as the guests of the Intendant always passed it, and knowing his temper and the regard he had for her good opinion, she brought the subject of the Intendant into conversation, in order, casually as it were, to impress Le Gardeur with her opinion of him. “Pierre Philibert too,” thought she, “shall be put upon his guard against the crafty Bigot.”

“Pierre,” said she, “you are happy in a father who is a brave, honorable man, of whom any son in the world might be proud. The country holds by him immensely, and he deserves their regard. Watch over him now you are at home, Pierre. He has some relentless and powerful enemies, who would injure him if they could.”

“That has he,” remarked La Corne St. Luc; “I have spoken to the Sieur Philibert and cautioned him, but he is not impressible on the subject of his own safety. The Intendant spoke savagely of him in public the other day.”

“Did he, Chevalier?” replied Philibert, his eyes flashing with another fire than that which had filled them looking at Amélie. “He shall account to me for his words, were he Regent instead of Intendant!”

La Corne St. Luc looked half approvingly at Philibert.

“Don’t quarrel with him yet, Pierre! You cannot make a quarrel of what he has said.”

Lady de Tilly listened uneasily, and said,–

“Don’t quarrel with him at all, Pierre Philibert! Judge him and avoid him, as a Christian man should do. God will deal with Bigot as he deserves: the crafty man will be caught in his own devices some day.”

“Oh, Bigot is a gentleman, aunt, too polite to insult any one,” remarked Le Gardeur, impatient to defend one whom he regarded as a friend. “He is the prince of good fellows, and not crafty, I think, but all surface and sunshine.”

“You never explored the depths of him, Le Gardeur,” remarked La Corne. “I grant he is a gay, jesting, drinking, and gambling fellow in company; but, trust me, he is deep and dark as the Devil’s cave that I have seen in the Ottawa country. It goes story under story, deeper and deeper, until the imagination loses itself in contemplating the bottomless pit of it–that is Bigot, Le Gardeur.”

“My censitaires report to me,” remarked the Lady de Tilly, “that his commissaries are seizing the very seed-corn of the country. Heaven knows what will become of my poor people next year if the war continue!”

“What will become of the Province in the hands of François Bigot?” replied La Corne St. Luc. “They say, Philibert, that a certain great lady at Court, who is his partner or patroness, or both, has obtained a grant of your father’s sequestered estate in Normandy, for her relative, the Count de Marville. Had you heard of that, Philibert? It is the latest news from France.”

“Oh, yes, Chevalier! Ill news like that never misses the mark it is aimed at. The news soon reached my father!”

“And how does your father take it?”

“My father is a true philosopher; he takes it as Socrates might have taken it; he laughs at the Count de Marville, who will, he says, want to sell the estate before the year is out, to pay his debts of honor–the only debts he ever does pay.”

“If Bigot had anything to do with such an outrage,” exclaimed Le Gardeur warmly, “I would renounce him on the spot. I have heard Bigot speak of this gift to De Marville, whom he hates. He says it was all La Pompadour’s doing from first to last, and I believe it.”

“Well,” remarked La Corne, “Bigot has plenty of sins of his own to answer for to the Sieur Philibert, on the day of account, without reckoning this among them.”

The loud report of a cannon shook the windows of the room, and died away in long-repeated echoes among the distant hills.

“That is the signal for the Council of War, my Lady,” said La Corne. “A soldier’s luck! just as we were going to have music and heaven, we are summoned to field, camp, or council.”

The gentlemen rose and accompanied the ladies to the drawing-room, and prepared to depart. Colonel Philibert took a courteous leave of the ladies of Tilly, looking in the eyes of Amélie for something which, had she not turned them quickly upon a vase of flowers, he might have found there. She plucked a few sprays from the bouquet, and handed them to him as a token of pleasure at meeting him again in his own land.

“Recollect, Pierre Philibert!” said the Lady de Tilly, holding him cordially by the hand, “the Manor House of Tilly is your second home, where you are ever welcome.”

Philibert was deeply touched by the genuine and stately courtesy of the lady. He kissed her hand with grateful reverence, and bowing to both the ladies, accompanied La Corne St. Luc and Le Gardeur to the castle of St. Louis.

Amélie sat in the recess of the window, resting her cheek upon her tremulous hand as she watched the gentlemen proceed on their way to the castle. Her mind was overflowing with thoughts and fancies, new, enigmatical, yet delightful. Her nervous manner did not escape the loving eye of her aunt; but she spoke not–she was silent under the burden of a secret joy that found not vent in words.

Suddenly Amélie rose from the window, and seated herself, in her impulsive way, at the organ. Her fingers touched the keys timidly at first as she began a trembling prelude of her own fantasy. In music her pent-up feelings found congenial expression. The fire kindled, and she presently burst out with the voice of a seraph in that glorious psalm, the 116th:

“‘Toto pectore diligam
Unice et Dominum colam,
Qui lenis mihi supplici
Non duram appulit aurem.

Aurem qui mihi supplici,
Non duram dedit; hunc ego
Donec pectora spiritus
Pulset semper, amabo.'”

The Lady de Tilly, half guessing the truth, would not wound the susceptibilities of her niece by appearing to do so; so rose quietly from her seat and placed her arms gently round Amélie when she finished the psalm. She pressed her to her bosom, kissed her fondly, and without a word, left her to find in music relief from her high-wrought feelings. Her voice rose in sweeter and loftier harmonies to the pealing of the organ as she sang to the end the joyful yet solemn psalm, in a version made for Queen Mary of France and Scotland when life was good, hope all brightness, and dark days as if they would never come.

CHAPTER XII.

THE CASTLE OF ST. LOUIS.

The Count de la Galissonière, with a number of officers of rank in full uniform, was slowly pacing up and down the long gallery that fronted the Castle of St. Louis, waiting for the Council of War to open; for although the hour had struck, the Intendant, and many other high officials of the Colony, had not yet arrived from Beaumanoir.

The Castle of St. Louis, a massive structure of stone, with square flanking towers, rose loftily from the brink of the precipice, overlooking the narrow, tortuous streets of the lower town. The steeple of the old Church of Notre Dame des Victoires, with its gilded vane, lay far beneath the feet of the observer as he leaned over the balustrade of iron that guarded the gallery of the Château.

A hum of voices and dense sounds rose up from the market of Notre Dame and from the quay where ships and bateaux were moored. The cries of sailors, carters, and habitans in thick medley floated up the steep cliffs, pleasant sounds to the ear of the worthy Governor, who liked the honest noises of industry and labor better than all the music of the Academy.

A few merchantmen which had run the blockade of the English cruisers lay at anchor in the stream, where the broad river swept majestically round the lofty cape. In the midst of them a newly- arrived King’s ship, the Fleur-de-Lis, decorated with streamers, floated proudly, like a swan among a flock of teal.

Le Gardeur, as an officer of the garrison, went to report himself to the military commandant, while La Corne St. Luc and Colonel Philibert proceeded to the gallery, where a crowd of officers were now assembled, waiting for the Council.

The Governor at once called Philibert aside, and took his arm. “Philibert,” said he, “I trust you had no difficulty in finding the Intendant?”

“No difficulty whatever, your Excellency. I discovered the Intendant and his friends by ear long before I got sight of them.” An equivocal smile accompanied Philibert’s words, which the Governor rightly interpreted.

“Ah! I understand, Philibert; they were carousing at that hour of daylight? Were they all–? Faugh! I shame to speak the word. Was the Intendant in a condition to comprehend my summons?” The Governor looked sad, rather than surprised or angry, for he had expected no less than Philibert had reported to him.

“I found him less intoxicated, I think, than many of his guests. He received your message with more politeness than I expected, and promised to be here punctually at the hour for opening the Council.”

“Oh, Bigot never lacks politeness, drunk or sober: that strong intellect of his seems to defy the power of wine, as his heart is proof against moral feeling. You did not prolong your stay in Beaumanoir, I fancy?” remarked the Governor, dinting the point of his cane into the floor.

“I hastened out of it as I would out of hell itself! After making prize of my friend De Repentigny and bringing him off with me, as I mentioned to you, I got quickly out of the Château.”

“You did rightly, Philibert: the Intendant is ruining half the young men of birth in the Colony.”

“He shall not ruin Le Gardeur if I can save him,” said Philibert, resolutely. “May I count upon your Excellency’s coöperation?” added he.

“Assuredly, Philibert! Command me in anything you can devise to rescue that noble young fellow from the fatal companionship of Bigot. But I know not how long I shall be permitted to remain in New France: powerful intrigues are at work for my removal!” added the Governor. “I care not for the removal, so that it be not accompanied with insult.”

“Ah! you have received news to-day by the frigate?” said Philibert, looking down at the King’s ship at anchor in the stream.

“News? Yes; and such news, Philibert!” replied the Governor in at one of despondency. “It needs the wisdom of Solon to legislate for this land, and a Hercules to cleanse its Augean stables of official corruption. But my influence at Court is nil–you know that, Philibert!”

“But while you are Governor your advice ought to prevail with the King,” replied Philibert.

“My advice prevail! Listen, Philibert: my letters to the King and the Minister of Marine and Colonies have been answered by whom, think you?”

“Nay, I cannot conceive who, out of the legal channel, would dare to reply to them.”

“No! no man could guess that my official despatches have been answered by the Marquise de Pompadour! She replies to my despatches to my sovereign!”

“La Pompadour!” exclaimed Philibert in a burst of indignation. “She, the King’s mistress, reply to your despatches! Has France come to be governed by courtesans, like imperial Rome?”

“Yes! and you know the meaning of that insult, Philibert! They desire to force me to resign, and I shall resign as soon as I see my friends safe. I will serve the King in his fleet, but never more in a colony. This poor land is doomed to fall into the hands of its enemies unless we get a speedy peace. France will help us no more!”

“Don’t say that, your Excellency! France will surely never be untrue to her children in the New World! But our resources are not yet all exhausted: we are not driven to the wall yet, your Excellency!”

“Almost, I assure you, Philibert! But we shall understand that better after the Council.”

“What say the despatches touching the negotiations going on for peace?” asked Philibert, who knew how true were the Governor’s vaticinations.

“They speak favorably of peace, and I think, correctly, Philibert; and you know the King’s armies and the King’s mistresses cannot all be maintained at the same time–women or war, one or other must give way, and one need not doubt which it will be, when the women rule Court and camp in France at the same time!”

“To think that a woman picked out of the gutters of Paris should rule France and answer your despatches!” said Philibert, angrily; “it is enough to drive honorable Frenchmen mad. But what says the Marquise de Pompadour?”

“She is especially severe upon my opposing the fiscal measures and commercial policy, as she calls it, of her friend the Intendant! She approves of his grant of a monopoly of trade to the Grand Company, and disputes my right, as Governor, to interfere with the Intendant in the finances of the Colony.”

Philibert felt deeply this wound to the honor and dignity of his chief. He pressed his hand in warmest sympathy.

The Governor understood his feelings. “You are a true friend, Philibert,” said he; “ten men like you might still save this Colony! But it is past the hour for the Council, and still Bigot delays! He must have forgotten my summons.”

“I think not; but he might have to wait until Cadet, Varin, Deschenaux, and the rest of them were in a condition fit to travel,” answered Philibert with an air of disgust.

“O Philibert! the shame of it! the shame of it! for such thieves to have the right to sit among loyal, honorable men,” exclaimed, or rather groaned, the Governor. “They have the real power in New France, and we the empty title and the killing responsibility! Dine with me to-night after the Council, Philibert: I have much to say to you.”

“Not to-night, your Excellency! My father has killed the fatted calf for his returned prodigal, and I must dine with him to-night,” answered Philibert.

“Right! Be it to-morrow then! Come on Wednesday,” replied the Governor. “Your father is a gentleman who carries the principles of true nobility into the walks of trade; you are happy in such a father, Philibert, as he is fortunate in such a son.” The Governor bowed to his friend, and rejoined the groups of officers upon the terrace.

A flash, and a column of smoke, white and sudden, rose from the great battery that flanked the Château. It was the second signal for the Council to commence. The Count de la Galissonière, taking the arm of La Corne St. Luc, entered the Castle, and followed by the crowd of officers, proceeded to the great Hall of Council and Audience. The Governor, followed by his secretaries, walked forward to the vice-regal chair, which stood on a daïs at the head of a long table covered with crimson drapery. On each side of the table the members of the Council took the places assigned to them in the order of their rank and precedence, but a long array of chairs remained unoccupied. These seats, belonging to the Royal Intendant and the other high officers of the Colony who had not yet arrived to take their places in the Council, stood empty.

The great hall of the Castle of St. Louis was palatial in its dimensions and adornments. Its lofty coved ceiling rested on a cornice of rich frieze of carved work, supported on polished pilasters of oak. The panels of wainscoting upon the walls were surrounded by delicate arabesques, and hung with paintings of historic interest–portraits of the kings, governors, intendants, and ministers of state who had been instrumental in the colonization of New France.

Over the Governor’s seat hung a gorgeous escutcheon of the royal arms, draped with a cluster of white flags sprinkled with golden lilies, the emblems of French sovereignty in the Colony.

Among the portraits on the walls, besides those of the late and present King,–which hung on each side of the throne,–might be seen the features of Richelieu, who first organized the rude settlements on the St. Lawrence into a body politic–a reflex of feudal France; and of Colbert, who made available its natural wealth and resources by peopling it with the best scions of the motherland, the noblesse and peasantry of Normandy, Brittany, and Aquitaine. There too might be seen the keen, bold features of Cartier, the first discoverer, and of Champlain, the first explorer of the new land and the founder of Quebec. The gallant, restless Louis Buade de Frontenac was pictured there side by side with his fair countess, called by reason of her surpassing loveliness “the divine;” Vaudreuil too, who spent a long life of devotion to his country, and Beauharnais, who nourished its young strength until it was able to resist not only the powerful confederacy of the Five Nations but the still more powerful league of New England and the other English Colonies. There, also, were seen the sharp, intellectual face of Laval, its first bishop, who organized the Church and education in the Colony; and of Talon, wisest of intendants, who devoted himself to the improvement of agriculture, the increase of trade, and the well- being of all the King’s subjects in New France. And one more striking portrait was there, worthy to rank among the statesmen and rulers of New France,–the pale, calm, intellectual features of Mère Marie de l’Incarnation, the first superior of the Ursulines of Quebec, who, in obedience to heavenly visions, as she believed, left France to found schools for the children of the new colonists, and who taught her own womanly graces to her own sex, who were destined to become the future mothers of New France.

In marked contrast with the military uniforms of the officers surrounding the council-table were the black robes and tonsured heads of two or three ecclesiastics, who had been called in by the Governor to aid the council with their knowledge and advice. There were the Abbé Metavet, of the Algonquins of the North; Père Oubal, the Jesuit missionary of the Abenaquais of the East, and his confrère, La Richardie, from the wild tribes of the Far West; but conspicuous among the able and influential missionaries who were the real rulers of the Indian nations allied with France was the famous Sulpicien, Abbé Piquet, “the King’s missionary,” as he was styled in royal ordinances, and the apostle to the Iroquois, whom he was laboring to convert and bring over to the side of France in the great dispute raised between France and England for supremacy in North America.

Upon the wall behind the vice-regal chair hung a great map, drawn by the bold hand of Abbé Piquet, representing the claims as well as actual possessions of France in America. A broad, red line, beginning in Acadia, traversed the map westerly, taking in Lake Ontario and running southerly along the crests and ridges of the Appalachian Mountains. It was traced with a firm hand down to far- off Louisiana, claiming for France the great valleys of the Ohio, the Mississippi, and the vast territories watered by the Missouri and the Colorado–thus hemming the English in between the walls of the Appalachian range on the west and the seacoast on the east.

The Abbé Piquet had lately, in a canoe, descended the Belle Rivière, as the voyageurs called the noble Ohio. From its source to its junction with the solitary Mississippi the Abbé had planted upon its conspicuous bluffs the ensigns of France, with tablets of lead bearing the fleur-de-lis and the proud inscription, “Manibus date lilia plenis,”–lilies destined, after a fierce struggle for empire, to be trampled into the earth by the feet of the victorious English.

The Abbé, deeply impressed with the dangers that impended over the Colony, labored zealously to unite the Indian nations in a general alliance with France. He had already brought the powerful Algonquins and Nipissings into his scheme, and planted them at Two Mountains as a bulwark to protect the city of Ville Marie. He had created a great schism in the powerful confederacy of the Five Nations by adroitly fanning into a flame their jealousy of English encroachments upon their ancient territory on Lake Ontario; and bands of Iroquois had, not long since, held conference with the Governor of New France, denouncing the English for disregarding their exclusive right to their own country. “The lands we possess,” said they at a great council in Ville Marie, “the lands we possess were given to us by the Master of Life, and we acknowledge to hold of no other!”

The Abbé had now strong hopes of perfecting a scheme which he afterwards accomplished. A powerful body of the Iroquois left their villages and castles on the Mohawk and Genesee rivers, and under the guidance of the Abbé settled round the new Fort of La Presentation on the St. Lawrence, and thus barred that way, for the future, against the destructive inroads of their countrymen who remained faithful to the English alliance.

Pending the arrival of the Royal Intendant the members of the Council indulged freely in conversation bearing more or less upon the important matters to be discussed,–the state of the country, the movements of the enemy, and not seldom intermingled remarks of dissatisfaction and impatience at the absence of the Intendant.

The revel at Beaumanoir was well known to them; and eyes flashed and lips curled in open scorn at the well-understood reason of the Intendant’s delay.

“My private letters by the Fleur-de-Lis,” remarked Beauharnais, “relate, among other Court gossip, that orders will be sent out to stop the defensive works at Quebec, and pull down what is built! They think the cost of walls round our city can be better bestowed on political favorites and certain high personages at Court.” Beauharnais turned towards the Governor. “Has your Excellency heard aught of this?” asked he.

“Yes! It is true enough, Beauharnais! I also have received communications to that effect!” replied the Governor, with an effort at calmness which ill-concealed the shame and disgust that filled his soul.

There was an indignant stir among the officers, and many lips seemed trembling with speech. The impetuous Rigaud de Vaudreuil broke the fierce silence. He struck his fist heavily on the table.

“Ordered us to stop the building of the walls of Quebec, and to pull down what we have done by virtue of the King’s corvée!–did I hear your Excellency right?” repeated he in a tone of utmost incredulity. “The King is surely mad to think of such a thing!”

“Yes, Rigaud! it is as I tell you; but we must respect the royal command, and treat His Majesty’s name as becomes loyal servants.”

“Ventre saint bleu!–heard ever Canadian or Frenchman such moonshine madness! I repeat it, your Excellency–dismantle Quebec? How in God’s name are the King’s dominions and the King’s subjects to be defended?” Rigaud got warmer. He was fearless, and would, as every one knew, have out his say had the King been present in person. “Be assured, your Excellency, it is not the King who orders that affront to his faithful colony; it is the King’s ministers–the King’s mistresses–the snuff-box-tapping courtiers at Versailles, who can spend the public money in more elegant ways than in raising up walls round our brave old city! Ancient honor and chivalry of France! what has become of you?”

Rigaud sat down angrily; the emotion he displayed was too much in accord with the feelings of the gallant officers present to excite other than marks of approbation, except among a few personal friends of the Intendant, who took their cue from the avowed wishes of the Court.

“What reason does His Majesty give,” asked La Corne St. Luc, “for this singular communication?”

“The only reason given is found in the concluding paragraph of the despatch. I will allow the Secretary to read so much of it, and no more, before the Intendant arrives.” The Governor looked up at the great clock in the hall with a grim glance of impatience, as if mentally calling down anything but a blessing upon the head of the loitering Intendant.

“The Count de le Galissonière ought to know,” said the despatch sneeringly, “that works like those of Quebec are not to be undertaken by the governors of colonies, except under express orders from the King; and therefore it is His Majesty’s desire that upon the reception of this despatch your Excellency will discontinue the works that have been begun upon Quebec. Extensive fortifications require strong garrisons for their defence, and the King’s treasury is already exhausted by the extraordinary expenses of the war in Europe. It cannot at the same time carry on the war in Europe and meet the heavy drafts made upon it from North America.”

The Secretary folded the despatch, and sat down without altering a line of his impassive face. Not so the majority of the officers round the table: they were excited, and ready to spring up in their indignation. The King’s name restrained them all but Rigaud de Vaudreuil, who impetuously burst out with an oath, exclaiming,– “They may as well sell New France at once to the enemy, if we are not to defend Quebec! The treasury wants money for the war in Europe forsooth! No doubt it wants money for the war when so much is lavished upon the pimps, panders, and harlots of the Court!”

The Governor rose suddenly, striking the table with his scabbard to stop Rigaud in his rash and dangerous speech.

“Not a word more of comment, Chevalier Rigaud!” said he, with a sharp imperative tone that cut short debate; “not another word! His Majesty’s name and those of his ministers must be spoken here respectfully, or not at all! Sit down, Chevalier de Vaudreuil; you are inconsiderate.”

“I obey your Excellency–I am, I dare say, inconsiderate! but I am right!” Rigaud’s passion was subsiding, but not spent. He obeyed the order, however. He had had his say, and flung himself heavily upon his chair.

“The King’s despatch demands respectful and loyal consideration, remarked De Lery, a solid, grave officer of engineers, “and I doubt not that upon a proper remonstrance from this council His Majesty will graciously reconsider his order. The fall of Louisbourg is ominous of the fall of Quebec. It is imperative to fortify the city in time to meet the threatened invasion. The loss of Quebec would be the loss of the Colony; and the loss of the Colony, the disgrace of France and the ruin of our country.”

“I cordially agree with the Chevalier de Lery,” said La Corne St. Luc; “he has spoken more sense than would be found in a shipload of such despatches as that just read! Nay, your Excellency,” continued the old officer, smiling, “I shall not affront my sovereign by believing that so ill-timed a missive came from him! Depend upon it, His Majesty has neither seen nor sanctioned it. It is the work of the minister and his mistresses, not the King’s.”

“La Corne! La Corne!” The Governor raised his finger with a warning look. “We will not discuss the point further until we are favored with the presence and opinion of the Intendant; he will surely be here shortly!” At this moment a distant noise of shouting was heard in some part of the city.

An officer of the day entered the hall in great haste, and whispered something in the Governor’s ear.

“A riot in the streets!” exclaimed the Governor. “The mob attacking the Intendant! You do not say so! Captain Duval, turn out the whole guard at once, and let Colonel St. Remy take the command and clear the way for the Intendant, and also clear the streets of all disturbers.”

A number of officers sprang to their feet. “Keep seated, gentlemen! We must not break up the Council,” said the Governor. “We are sure to have the Intendant here in a few minutes and to learn the cause of this uproar. It is some trifling affair of noisy habitans, I have no doubt.”

Another loud shout, or rather yell, made itself distinctly heard in the council-chamber. “It is the people cheering the Intendant on his way through the city!” remarked La Corne St. Luc, ironically. “Zounds! what a vacarme they make! See what it is to be popular with the citizens of Quebec!”

There was a smile all round the table at La Corne’s sarcasm. It offended a few friends of the Intendant, however.

“The Chevalier La Corne speaks boldly in the absence of the Intendant,” said Colonel Leboeuf. “A gentleman would give a louis d’or any day to buy a whip to lash the rabble sooner than a sou to win their applause! I would not give a red herring for the good opinion of all Quebec!”

“They say in France, Colonel,” replied La Corne de St. Luc, scornfully, “that ‘King’s chaff is better than other people’s corn, and that fish in the market is cheaper than fish in the sea!’ I believe it, and can prove it to any gentleman who maintains the contrary!”

There was a laugh at La Corne’s allusion to the Marquise de Pompadour, whose original name of Jeanne Poisson, gave rise to infinite jests and sarcasms among the people of low and high degree.

Colonel Leboeuf, choleric as he was, refrained from pressing the quarrel with La Corne St. Luc. He sat sulkily smothering his wrath– longing to leave the hall and go to the relief of the Intendant, but kept against his will by the command of the Governor.

The drums of the main guard beat the assembly. The clash of arms and the tramp of many feet resounded from the court-yard of the Château. The members of the Council looked out of the windows as the troops formed in column, and headed by Colonel St. Remy, defiled out of the Castle gate, the thunder of their drums drowning every other sound and making the windows shake as they marched through the narrow streets to the scene of disturbance.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE CHIEN D’OR.

On the Rue Buade, a street commemorative of the gallant Fontenac, stood the large, imposing edifice newly built by the Bourgeois Philibert, as the people of the Colony fondly called Nicholas Jaquin Philibert, the great and wealthy merchant of Quebec and their champion against the odious monopolies of the Grand Company favored by the Intendant.

The edifice was of stone, spacious and lofty, but in style solid, plain, and severe. It was a wonder of architecture in New France and the talk and admiration of the Colony from Tadousac to Ville Marie. It comprised the city residence of the Bourgeois, as well as suites of offices and ware-rooms connected with his immense business.

The house was bare of architectural adornments; but on its façade, blazing in the sun, was the gilded sculpture that so much piqued the curiosity of both citizens and strangers and was the talk of every seigniory in the land. The tablet of the Chien D’or,–the Golden Dog,–with its enigmatical inscription, looked down defiantly upon the busy street beneath, where it is still to be seen, perplexing the beholder to guess its meaning and exciting our deepest sympathies over the tragedy of which it remains the sole sad memorial.

Above and beneath the figure of a couchant dog gnawing the thigh bone of a man is graven the weird inscription, cut deeply in the stone, as if for all future generations to read and ponder over its meaning:

“Je suis un chien qui ronge l’os,
En le rongeant je prends mon repos. Un temps viendra qui n’est pas venu
Que je mordrai qui m’aura mordu.” 1736.

Or in English:

“I am a dog that gnaws his bone,
I couch and gnaw it all alone–
A time will come, which is not yet, When I’ll bite him by whom I’m bit.”

The magazines of the Bourgeois Philibert presented not only an epitome but a substantial portion of the commerce of New France. Bales of furs, which had been brought down in fleets of canoes from the wild, almost unknown regions of the Northwest, lay piled up to the beams–skins of the smooth beaver, the delicate otter, black and silver fox, so rich to the eye and silky to the touch that the proudest beauties longed for their possession; sealskins to trim the gowns of portly burgomasters, and ermine to adorn the robes of nobles and kings. The spoils of the wolf, bear, and buffalo, worked to the softness of cloth by the hands of Indian women, were stored for winter wear and to fill the sledges with warmth and comfort when the northwest wind freezes the snow to fine dust and the aurora borealis moves in stately possession, like an army of spear-men, across the northern sky. The harvests of the colonists, the corn, the wool, the flax; the timber, enough to build whole navies, and mighty pines fit to mast the tallest admiral, were stored upon the wharves and in the warehouses of the Bourgeois upon the banks of the St. Lawrence, with iron from the royal forges of the Three Rivers and heaps of ginseng from the forests, a product worth its weight in gold and eagerly exchanged by the Chinese for their teas, silks, and sycee silver.

The stately mansion of Belmont, overlooking the picturesque valley of the St. Charles, was the residence proper of the Bourgeois Philibert, but the shadow that in time falls over every hearth had fallen upon his when the last of his children, his beloved son Pierre, left home to pursue his military studies in France. During Pierre’s absence the home at Belmont, although kept up with the same strict attention which the Bourgeois paid to everything under his rule, was not occupied by him. He preferred his city mansion, as more convenient for his affairs, and resided therein. His partner of many years of happy wedded life had been long dead; she left no void in his heart that another could fill, but he kept up a large household for friendship’s sake, and was lavish in his hospitality. In secret he was a grave, solitary man, caring for the present only for the sake of the thousands dependent on him–living much with the memory of the dear dead, and much with the hope of the future in his son Pierre.

The Bourgeois was a man worth looking at and, at a glance, one to trust to, whether you sought the strong hand to help, the wise head to counsel, or the feeling heart to sympathize with you. He was tall and strongly knit, with features of a high patrician cast, a noble head, covered thick with grizzly hair–one of those heads so tenacious of life that they never grow bald, but carry to the grave the snows of a hundred years. His quick gray eyes caught your meaning ere it was half spoken. A nose and chin, moulded with beauty and precision, accentuated his handsome face. His lips were grave even in their smile, for gaiety was rarely a guest in the heart of the Bourgeois–a man keenly susceptible to kindness, but strong in resentments and not to be placated without the fullest atonement.

The Bourgeois sat by the table in his spacious, well-furnished drawing-room, which overlooked the Rue Buade and gave him a glimpse of the tall, new Cathedral and the trees and gardens of the Seminary. He was engaged in reading letters and papers just arrived from France by the frigate, rapidly extracting their contents and pencilling on their margins memos, for further reference to his clerks.

The only other occupant of the room was a very elderly lady, in a black gown of rigid Huguenot fashion. A close white cap, tied under her chin, set off to the worst advantage her sharp, yet kindly, features. Not an end of ribbon or edge of lace could be seen to point to one hair-breadth of indulgence in the vanities of the world by this strict old Puritan, who, under this unpromising exterior, possessed the kindliest heart in Christendom. Her dress, if of rigid severity, was of saintly purity, and almost pained the eye with its precision and neatness. So fond are we of some freedom from over-much care as from over-much righteousness, that a stray tress, a loose ribbon, a little rent even, will relieve the eye and hold it with a subtile charm. Under the snow white hair of Dame Rochelle–for she it was, the worthy old housekeeper and ancient governess of the House of Philibert–you saw a kind, intelligent face. Her dark eyes betrayed her Southern origin, confirmed by her speech, which, although refined by culture, still retained the soft intonation and melody of her native Languedoc.

Dame Rochelle, the daughter of an ardent Calvinist minister, was born in the fatal year of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, when Louis XIV. undid the glorious work of Henri IV., and covered France with persecution and civil war, filling foreign countries with the elect of her population, her industry, and her wealth, exiled in the name of religion.

Dame Rochelle’s childhood had passed in the trying scenes of the great persecution, and in the succeeding civil wars of the Cevennes she lost all that was nearest and dearest to her–her father, her brothers, her kindred nearly all, and lastly, a gallant gentleman of Dauphiny to whom she was betrothed. She knelt beside him at his place of execution–or martyrdom, for he died for his faith–and holding his hands in hers, pledged her eternal fidelity to his memory, and faithfully kept it all her life.

The Count de Philibert, elder brother of the Bourgeois, was an officer of the King; he witnessed this sad scene, took pity upon the hapless girl, and gave her a home and protection with his family in the Château of Philibert, where she spent the rest of her life until the Bourgeois succeeded to his childless brother. In the ruin of his house she would not consent to leave them, but followed their fortunes to New France. She had been the faithful friend and companion of the wife of the Bourgeois and the educator of his children, and was now, in her old age, the trusted friend and manager of his household. Her days were divided between the exercises of religion and the practical duties of life. The light that illumined her, though flowing through the narrow window of a narrow creed, was still light of divine origin. It satisfied her faith, and filled her with resignation, hope, and comfort.

Her three studies were the Bible, the hymns of Marot, and the sermons of the famous Jurieu. She had listened to the prophecies of Grande Marie, and had even herself been breathed upon on the top of Mount Peira by the Huguenot prophet, De Serre.

Good Dame Rochelle was not without a feeling that at times the spiritual gift she had received when a girl made itself manifest by intuitions of the future, which were, after all, perhaps only emanations of her natural good sense and clear intellect–the foresight of a pure mind.

The wasting persecutions of the Calvinists in the mountains of the Cevennes drove men and women wild with desperate fanaticism. De Serre had an immense following. He assumed to impart the Holy Spirit and the gift of tongues by breathing upon the believers. The refugees carried his doctrines to England, and handed down their singular ideas to modern times; and a sect may still be found which believes in the gift of tongues and practises the power of prophesying, as taught originally in the Cevennes.

The good dame was not reading this morning, although the volume before her lay open. Her glasses lay upon the page, and she sat musing by the open window, seldom looking out, however, for her thoughts were chiefly inward. The return of Pierre Philibert, her foster child, had filled her with joy and thankfulness, and she was pondering in her mind the details of a festival which the Bourgeois intended to give in honor of the return of his only son.

The Bourgeois had finished the reading of his packet of letters, and sat musing in silence. He too was intently thinking of his son. His face was filled with the satisfaction of old Simeon when he cried, out of the fulness of his heart, “Domine! nunc dimittis!”

“Dame Rochelle,” said he. She turned promptly to the voice of her master, as she ever insisted on calling him. “Were I superstitious, I should fear that my great joy at Pierre’s return might be the prelude to some great sorrow.”

“God’s blessing on Pierre!” said she, “he can only bring joy to this house. Thank the Lord for what He gives and what He takes! He took Pierre, a stripling from his home, and returns him a great man, fit to ride at the King’s right hand and to be over his host like Benaiah, the son of Jehoiada, over the host of Solomon.”

“Grand merci for the comparison, dame!” said the Bourgeois, smiling, as he leaned back in his chair. “But Pierre is a Frenchman, and would prefer commanding a brigade in the army of the Marshal de Saxe to being over the host of King Solomom. But,” continued he, gravely, “I am strangely happy to-day, Deborah,”–he was wont to call her Deborah when very earnest,–“and I will not anticipate any mischief to mar my happiness. Pshaw! It is only the reaction of over-excited feelings. I am weak in the strength of my joy.”

“The still, small voice speaks to us in that way, master, to remind us to place our trust in Heaven, not on earth, where all is transitory and uncertain; for if a man live many years, and rejoice in them all, let him remember the days of darkness, for they are many! We are no strangers to the vanity and shadows of human life, master! Pierre’s return is like sunshine breaking through the clouds. God is pleased if we bask in the sunshine when he sends it.”

“Right, dame! and so we will! The old walls of Belmont shall ring with rejoicing over the return of their heir and future owner.”

The dame looked up delightedly at the remark of the Bourgeois. She knew he had destined Belmont as a residence for Pierre; but the thought suggested in her mind was, perhaps, the same which the Bourgeois had mused upon when he gave expression to a certain anxiety.

“Master,” said she, “does Pierre know that the Chevalier Bigot was concerned in the false accusations against you, and that it was he, prompted by the Cardinal and the Princess de Carignan, who enforced the unjust decree of the Court?”

“I think not, Deborah. I never told Pierre that Bigot was ever more than the avocat du Roi in my persecution. It is what troubles me amidst my joy. If Pierre knew that the Intendant had been my false accuser on the part of the Cardinal, his sword would not rest a day in its scabbard without calling Bigot to a bloody account. Indeed, it is all I myself can do to refrain. When I met him for the first time here, in the Palace gate, I knew him again and looked him full in the eyes, and he knew me. He is a bold hound, and glared back at me without shrinking. Had he smiled I should have struck him; but we passed in silence, with a salute as mortal as enemies ever gave each other. It is well, perhaps, I wore not my sword that day, for I felt my passion rising–a thing I abhor. Pierre’s young blood would not remain still if he knew the Intendant as I know him. But I dare not tell him! There would be bloodshed at once, Deborah!”

“I fear so, master! I trembled at Bigot in the old land! I tremble at him here, where he is more powerful than before. I saw him passing one day. He stopped to read the inscription of the Golden Dog. His face was the face of a fiend, as he rode hastily away. He knew well how to interpret it.”

“Ha! you did not tell me that before, Deborah!” The Bourgeois rose, excitedly. “Bigot read it all, did he? I hope every letter of it was branded on his soul as with red-hot iron!”

“Dear master, that is an unchristian saying, and nothing good can come of it. ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!’ Our worst enemies are best left in His hands.”

The dame was proceeding in a still more moralizing strain, when a noise arose in the street from a crowd of persons, habitans for the most part, congregated round the house. The noise increased to such a degree that they stopped their conversation, and both the dame and the Bourgeois looked out of the window at the increasing multitude that had gathered in the street.

The crowd had come to the Rue Buade to see the famous tablet of the Golden Dog, which was talked of in every seigniory in New France; still more, perhaps, to see the Bourgeois Philibert himself–the great merchant who contended for the rights of the habitans, and who would not yield an inch to the Friponne.

The Bourgeois looked down at the ever-increasing throng,–country people for the most part, with their wives, with not a few citizens, whom he could easily distinguish by their dress and manner. The Bourgeois stood rather withdrawn from the front, so as not to be recognized, for he hated intensely anything like a demonstration, still less an ovation. He could hear many loud voices, however, in the crowd, and caught up the chief topics they discussed with each other.

His eyes rested several times on a wiry, jerking little fellow, whom he recognized as Jean La Marche, the fiddler, a censitaire of the manor of Tilly. He was a well-known character, and had drawn a large circle of the crowd around himself.

“I want to see the Bourgeois Philibert!” exclaimed Jean La Marche. “He is the bravest merchant in New France–the people’s friend. Bless the Golden Dog, and curse the Friponne!”

“Hurrah for the Golden Dog, and curse the Friponne!” exclaimed a score of voices; “won’t you sing, Jean?”

“Not now; I have a new ballad ready on the Golden Dog, which I shall sing to-night–that is, if you will care to listen to me.” Jean said this with a very demure air of mock modesty, knowing well that the reception of a new ballad from him would equal the furor for a new aria from the prima donna of the opera at Paris.

“We will all come to hear it, Jean!” cried they: “but take care of your fiddle or you will get it crushed in the crowd.”

“As if I did not know how to take care of my darling baby!” said Jean, holding his violin high above his head. “It is my only child; it will laugh or cry, and love and scold as I bid it, and make everybody else do the same when I touch its heart-strings.” Jean had brought his violin under his arm, in place of a spade, to help build up the walls of the city. He had never heard of Amphion, with his lyre, building up the walls of Thebes; but Jean knew that in his violin lay a power of work by other hands, if he played while they labored. “It lightened toil, and made work go merrily as the bells of Tilly at a wedding,” said he.

There was immense talk, with plenty of laughter and no thought of mischief, among the crowd. The habitans of en haut and the habitans of en bas commingled, as they rarely did, in a friendly way. Nor was anything to provoke a quarrel said even to the Acadians, whose rude patois was a source of merry jest to the better-speaking Canadians.

The Acadians had flocked in great numbers into Quebec on the seizure of their Province by the English, sturdy, robust, quarrelsome fellows, who went about challenging people in their reckless way,– Etions pas mon maître, monsieur?–but all were civil to-day, and tuques were pulled off and bows exchanged in a style of easy politeness that would not have shamed the streets of Paris.

The crowd kept increasing in the Rue Buade. The two sturdy beggars who vigorously kept their places on the stone steps of the barrier, or gateway, of the Basse Ville reaped an unusual harvest of the smallest coin–Max Grimau, an old, disabled soldier, in ragged uniform, which he had worn at the defence of Prague under the Marshal de Belleisle, and blind Bartemy, a mendicant born–the former, loud-tongued and importunate, the latter, silent and only holding out a shaking hand for charity. No Finance Minister or Royal Intendant studied more earnestly the problem how to tax the kingdom than Max and Blind Bartemy how to toll the passers-by, and with less success, perhaps.

To-day was a red-letter day for the sturdy beggars, for the news flew fast that an ovation of some popular kind was to be given to the Bourgeois Philibert. The habitans came trooping up the rough mountain-road that leads from the Basse Ville to the Upper Town; and up the long stairs lined with the stalls of Basque pedlars– cheating, loquacious varlets–which formed a by-way from the lower regions of the Rue de Champlain–a break-neck thoroughfare little liked by the old and asthmatical, but nothing to the sturdy “climbers,” as the habitans called the lads of Quebec, or the light- footed lasses who displayed their trim ankles as they flew up the breezy steps to church or market.

Max Grimau and Blind Bartemy had ceased counting their coins. The passers-by came up in still increasing numbers, until the street, from the barrier of the Basse Ville to the Cathedral, was filled with a noisy, good-humored crowd, without an object except to stare at the Golden Dog and a desire to catch a glimpse of the Bourgeois Philibert.

The crowd had become very dense, when a troop of gentlemen rode at full speed into the Rue Buade, and after trying recklessly to force their way through, came to a sudden halt in the midst of the surging mass.

The Intendant, Cadet, and Varin had ridden from Beaumanoir, followed by a train of still flushed guests, who, after a hasty purification, had returned with their host to the city–a noisy troop, loquacious, laughing, shouting, as is the wont of men reckless at all times, and still more defiant when under the influence of wine.

“What is the meaning of this rabble, Cadet?” asked Bigot; “they seem to be no friends of yours. That fellow is wishing you in a hot place!” added Bigot, laughing, as he pointed out a habitan who was shouting “A bas Cadet!”

“Nor friends of yours, either,” replied Cadet. “They have not recognized you yet, Bigot. When they do, they will wish you in the hottest place of all!”

The Intendant was not known personally to the habitans as were Cadet, Varin, and the rest. Loud shouts and execrations were freely vented against these as soon as they were recognized.

“Has this rabble waylaid us to insult us?” asked Bigot. “But it can hardly be that they knew of our return to the city to-day.” The Intendant began to jerk his horse round impatiently, but without avail.

“Oh, no, your Excellency! it is the rabble which the Governor has summoned to the King’s corvée. They are paying their respects to the Golden Dog, which is the idol the mob worships just now. They did not expect us to interrupt their devotions, I fancy.”

“The vile moutons! their fleece is not worth the shearing!” exclaimed Bigot angrily, at the mention of the Golden Dog, which, as he glanced upwards, seemed to glare defiantly upon him.

“Clear the way, villains!” cried Bigot loudly, while darting his horse into the crowd. “Plunge that Flanders cart-horse of yours into them, Cadet, and do not spare their toes!”

Cadet’s rough disposition chimed well with the Intendant’s wish. “Come on, Varin, and the rest of you,” cried he, “give spur, and fight your way through the rabble.”

The whole troop plunged madly at the crowd, striking right and left with their heavy hunting-whips. A violent scuffle ensued; many habitans were ridden down, and some of the horsemen dismounted. The Intendant’s Gascon blood got furious: he struck heavily, right and left, and many a bleeding tuque marked his track in the crowd.

The habitans recognized him at last, and a tremendous yell burst out. “Long live the Golden Dog! Down with the Friponne!” while the more bold ventured on the cry, “Down with the Intendant and the thieves of the Grand Company!”

Fortunately for the troop of horsemen the habitans were utterly unarmed; but stones began to be thrown, and efforts were made by them, not always unsuccessfully, to pull the riders off of their horses. Poor Jean La Marche’s darling child, his favorite violin, was crushed at the first charge. Jean rushed at the Intendant’s bridle, and received a blow which levelled him.

The Intendant and all the troop now drew their swords. A bloody catastrophe seemed impending, when the Bourgeois Philibert, seeing the state of affairs, despatched a messenger with tidings to the Castle of St. Louis, and rushed himself into the street amidst the surging crowd, imploring, threatening, and compelling them to give way.

He was soon recognized and cheered by the people; but even his influence might have failed to calm the fiery passions excited by the Intendant’s violence, had not the drums of the approaching soldiery suddenly resounded above the noise of the riot. In a few minutes long files of glittering bayonets were seen streaming down the Rue du Fort. Colonel St. Remi rode at their head, forming his troops in position to charge the crowd. The colonel saw at once the state of affairs, and being a man of judgment, commanded peace before resorting to force. He was at once obeyed. The people stood still and in silence. They fell back quietly before the troops. They had no purpose to resist the authorities–indeed, had no purpose whatever. A way was made by the soldiers, and the Intendant and his friends were extricated from their danger.

They rode at once out of the mob amid a volley of execrations, which were replied to by angry oaths and threats of the cavaliers as they galloped across the Place d’Armes and rode pell-mell into the gateway of the Château of St. Louis.

The crowd, relieved of their presence, grew calm; and some of the more timid of them got apprehensive of the consequences of this outrage upon the Royal Intendant. They dispersed quietly, singly or in groups, each one hoping that he might not be called upon to account for the day’s proceedings.

The Intendant and his cortège of friends rode furiously into the courtyard of the Château of St. Louis, dishevelled, bespattered, and some of them hatless. They dismounted, and foaming with rage, rushed through the lobbies, and with heavy trampling of feet, clattering of scabbards, and a bedlam of angry tongues, burst into the Council Chamber.

The Intendant’s eyes shot fire. His Gascon blood was at fever heat, flushing his swarthy cheek like the purple hue of a hurricane. He rushed at once to the council-table, and seeing the Governor, saluted him, but spoke in tones forcibly kept under by a violent effort.

“Your Excellency and gentlemen of the Council will excuse our delay,” shouted Bigot, “when I inform you that I, the Royal Intendant of New France, have been insulted, pelted, and my very life threatened by a seditious mob congregated in the streets of Quebec.”

“I grieve much, and sympathize with your Excellency’s indignation,” replied the Governor warmly; “I rejoice you have escaped unhurt. I despatched the troops to your assistance, but have not yet learned the cause of the riot.”

“The cause of the riot was the popular hatred of myself for enforcing the royal ordinances, and the seditious example set the rabble by the notorious merchant, Philibert, who is at the bottom of all mischief in New France.”

The Governor looked fixedly at the Intendant, as he replied quietly,–“The Sieur Philibert, although a merchant, is a gentleman of birth and loyal principles, and would be the last man alive, I think, to excite a riot. Did you see the Bourgeois, Chevalier?”

“The crowd filled the street near his magazines, cheering for the Bourgeois and the Golden Dog. We rode up and endeavored to force our way through. But I did not see the Bourgeois himself until the disturbance had attained its full proportions.”

“And then, your Excellency? Surely the Bourgeois was not encouraging the mob, or participating in the riot?”

“No! I do not charge him with participating in the riot, although the mob were all his friends and partisans. Moreover,” said Bigot, frankly, for he felt he owed his safety to the interference of the Bourgeois, “it would be unfair not to acknowledge that he did what he could to protect us from the rabble. I charge Philibert with sowing the sedition that caused the riot, not with rioting himself.”

“But I accuse him of both, and of all the mob has done!” thundered Varin, enraged to hear the Intendant speak with moderation and justice. “The house of the Golden Dog is a den of traitors; it ought to be pulled down, and its stones built into a monument of infamy over its owner, hung like a dog in the market-place.”

“Silence, Varin!” exclaimed the Governor sternly. “I will not hear the Sieur Philibert spoken of in these injurious terms. The Intendant does not charge him with this disturbance; neither shall you.”

“Par Dieu! you shall not, Varin!” burst in La Corne St. Luc, roused to unusual wrath by the opprobrium heaped upon his friend the Bourgeois; “and you shall answer to me for that you have said!”

“La Corne! La Corne!” The Governor saw a challenge impending, and interposed with vehemence. “This is a Council of War, and not a place for recriminations. Sit down, dear old friend, and aid me to get on with the business of the King and his Colony, which we are here met to consider.”

The appeal went to the heart of La Corne. He sat down. “You have spoken generously, Chevalier Bigot, respecting the Bourgeois Philibert,” continued the Governor. “I am pleased that you have done so. My Aide-de-Camp, Colonel Philibert, who is just entering the Council, will be glad to hear that your Excellency does justice to his father in this matter.”

“The blessing of St. Bennet’s boots upon such justice,” muttered Cadet to himself. “I was a fool not to run my sword through Philibert when I had the chance.”

The Governor repeated to Colonel Philibert what had been said by Bigot.

Colonel Philibert bowed to the Intendant. “I am under obligation to the Chevalier Bigot,” said he, “but it astonishes me much that any one should dare implicate my father in such a disturbance. Certainly the Intendant does him but justice.”

This remark was not pleasing to Bigot, who hated Colonel Philibert equally with his father. “I merely said he had not participated in the riot, Colonel Philibert, which was true. I did not excuse your father for being at the head of the party among whom these outrages arise. I simply spoke truth, Colonel Philibert. I do not eke out by the inch my opinion of any man. I care not for the Bourgeois Philibert more than for the meanest blue cap in his following.”

This was an ungracious speech. Bigot meant it to be such. He repented almost of the witness he had borne to the Bourgeois’s endeavors to quell the mob. But he was too profoundly indifferent to men’s opinions respecting himself to care to lie.

Colonel Philibert resented the Intendant’s sneer at his father. He faced Bigot, saying to him,–“The Chevalier Bigot has done but simple justice to my father with reference to his conduct in regard to the riot. But let the Intendant recollect that, although a merchant, my father is above all things a Norman gentleman, who never swerved a hair-breadth from the path of honor–a gentleman whose ancient nobility would dignify even the Royal Intendant.” Bigot looked daggers at this thrust at his own comparatively humble origin. “And this I have further to say,” continued Philibert, looking straight in the eyes of Bigot, Varin, and Cadet, “whoever impugns my father’s honor impugns mine; and no man, high or low, shall do that and escape chastisement!”

The greater part of the officers seated round the council-board listened with marks of approval to Philibert’s vindication of his father. But no one challenged his words, although dark, ominous looks glanced from one to another among the friends of the Intendant. Bigot smothered his anger for the present, however; and to prevent further reply from his followers he rose, and bowing to the Governor, begged His Excellency to open the Council.

“We have delayed the business of the King too long with these personal recriminations,” said he. “I shall leave this riot to be dealt with by the King’s courts, who will sharply punish both instigators and actors in this outrage upon the royal authority.”

These words seemed to end the dispute for the present.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE COUNCIL OF WAR.

The Council now opened in due form. The Secretary read the royal despatches, which were listened to with attention and respect, although with looks of dissent in the countenances of many of the officers.

The Governor rose, and in a quiet, almost a solemn strain, addressed the Council: “Gentlemen,” said he, “from the tenor of the royal despatches just read by the Secretary, it is clear that our beloved New France is in great danger. The King, overwhelmed by the powers in alliance against him, can no longer reinforce our army here. The English fleet is supreme–for the moment only, I hope!” added the Governor, as if with a prevision of his own future triumphs on the ocean. “English troops are pouring into New York and Boston, to combine with the militia of New England and the Middle Colonies in a grand attack upon New France. They have commenced the erection of a great fort at Chouagen on Lake Ontario, to dispute supremacy with our stronghold at Niagara, and the gates of Carillon may ere long have to prove their strength in keeping the enemy out of the Valley of the Richelieu. I fear not for Carillon, gentlemen, in ward of the gallant Count de Lusignan, whom I am glad to see at our Council. I think Carillon is safe.

The Count de Lusignan, a gray-headed officer of soldierly bearing, bowed low to this compliment from the Governor. “I ask the Count de Lusignan,” continued the Governor, “what he thinks would result from our withdrawing the garrison from Carillon, as is suggested in the despatches?”

“The Five Nations would be on the Richelieu in a week, and the English in Montreal a month after such a piece of folly on our part!” exclaimed the Count de Lusignan.

“You cannot counsel the abandonment of Carillon then, Count?” A smile played over the face of the Governor, as if he too felt the absurdity of his question.

“Not till Quebec itself fall into the enemy’s hands. When that happens, His Majesty will need another adviser in the place of the old Count de Lusignan.”

“Well spoken, Count! In your hands Carillon is safe, and will one day, should the enemy assail it, be covered with wreaths of victory, and its flag be the glory of New France.”

“So be it, Governor. Give me but the Royal Roussillon and I pledge you neither English, Dutch, nor Iroquois shall ever cross the waters of St. Sacrament.”

“You speak like your ancestor the crusader, Count. But I cannot spare the Royal Roussillon. Think you you can hold Carillon with your present garrison?”

“Against all the force of New England. But I cannot promise the same against the English regulars now landing at New York.”

“They are the same whom the King defeated at Fontenoy, are they not?” interrupted the Intendant, who, courtier as he was, disliked the tenor of the royal despatches as much as any officer present,– all the more as he knew La Pompadour was advising peace out of a woman’s considerations rather than upholding the glory of France.

“Among them are many troops who fought us at Fontenoy. I learned the fact from an English prisoner whom our Indians brought in from Fort Lydius,” replied the Count de Lusignan.

“Well, the more of them the merrier,” laughed La Corne St. Luc. “The bigger the prize, the richer they who take it. The treasure- chests of the English will make up for the beggarly packs of the New Englanders. Dried stock fish, and eel-skin garters to drive away the rheumatism, were the usual prizes we got from them down in Acadia!”

“The English of Fontenoy are not such despicable foes,” remarked the Chevalier de Lery; “they sufficed to take Louisbourg, and if we discontinue our walls, will suffice to take Quebec.”

“Louisbourg was not taken by THEM, but fell through the mutiny of the base Swiss!” replied Bigot, touched sharply by any allusion to that fortress where he had figured so discreditably. “The vile hirelings demanded money of their commander when they should have drawn the blood of the enemy!” added he, angrily.

“Satan is bold, but he would blush in the presence of Bigot,” remarked La Corne St. Luc to an Acadian officer seated next him. “Bigot kept the King’s treasure, and defrauded the soldiers of their pay: hence the mutiny and the fall of Louisbourg.”

“It is what the whole army knows,” replied the officer. “But hark! the Abbé Piquet is going to speak. It is a new thing to see clergy in a Council of War!”

“No one has a better right to speak here than the Abbé Piquet,” replied La Corne. “No one has sent more Indian allies into the field to fight for New France than the patriotic Abbé.”

Other officers did not share the generous sentiments of La Corne St. Luc. They thought it derogatory to pure military men to listen to a priest on the affairs of the war.

“The Marshal de Belleisle would not permit even Cardinal de Fleury to put his red stockings beneath his council-table,” remarked a strict martinet of La Serre; “and here we have a whole flock of black gowns darkening our regimentals! What would Voltaire say?”

“He would say that when priests turn soldiers it is time for soldiers to turn tinkers and mend holes in pots, instead of making holes in our enemies,” replied his companion, a fashionable freethinker of the day.

“Well, I am ready to turn pedlar any day! The King’s army will go to the dogs fast enough since the Governor commissions Recollets and Jesuits to act as royal officers,” was the petulant remark of another officer of La Serre.

A strong prejudice existed in the army against the Abbé Piquet for his opposition to the presence of French troops in his Indian missionary villages. They demoralized his neophytes, and many of the officers shared in the lucrative traffic of fire-water to the Indians. The Abbé was zealous in stopping those abuses, and the officers complained bitterly of his over-protection of the Indians.

The famous “King’s Missionary,” as he was called, stood up with an air of dignity and authority that seemed to assert his right to be present in the Council of War, for the scornful looks of many of the officers had not escaped his quick glance.

The keen black eyes, thin resolute lips, and high swarthy forehead of the Abbé would have well become the plumed hat of a marshal of France. His loose black robe, looped up for freedom, reminded one of a grave senator of Venice whose eye never quailed at any policy, however severe, if required for the safety of the State.

The Abbé held in his hand a large roll of wampum, the tokens of treaties made by him with the Indian nations of the West, pledging their alliance and aid to the great Onontio, as they called the Governor of New France.

“My Lord Governor!” said the Abbé, placing his great roll on the table, “I thank you for admitting the missionaries to the Council. We appear less as churchmen on this occasion than as the King’s ambassadors, although I trust that all we have done will redound to God’s glory and the spread of religion among the heathen. These belts of wampum are tokens of the treaties we have made with the numerous and warlike tribes of the great West. I bear to the Governor pledges of alliance from the Miamis and Shawnees of the great valley of the Belle Rivière, which they call the Ohio. I am commissioned to tell Onontio that they are at peace with the King and at war with his enemies from this time forth forever. I have set up the arms of France on the banks of the Belle Rivière, and claimed all its lands and waters as the just appanage of our sovereign, from the Alleghanies to the plantations of Louisiana. The Sacs and Foxes, of the Mississippi; the Pottawatomies, Winnebagoes, and Chippewas of a hundred bands who fish in the great rivers and lakes of the West; the warlike Ottawas, who have carried the Algonquin tongue to the banks of Lake Erie,–in short, all enemies of the Iroquois have pledged themselves to take the field whenever the Governor shall require the axe to be dug up and lifted against the English and the Five Nations. Next summer the chiefs of all these tribes will come to Quebec, and ratify in a solemn General Council the wampums they now send by me and the other missionaries, my brothers in the Lord!”

The Abbé, with the slow, formal manner of one long accustomed to the speech and usages of the Indians, unrolled the belts of wampum, many fathoms in length, fastened end to end to indicate the length of the alliance of the various tribes with France. The Abbé interpreted their meaning, and with his finger pointed out the totems or signs manual–usually a bird, beast, or fish–of the chiefs who had signed the roll.

The Council looked at the wampums with intense interest, well knowing the important part these Indians were capable of assuming in the war with England.

“These are great and welcome pledges you bring us, Abbé,” said the Governor; “they are proofs at once of your ability and of your zealous labors for the King. A great public duty has been ably discharged by you and your fellow-missionaries, whose loyalty and devotion to France it shall be my pleasure to lay before His Majesty. The Star of Hope glitters in the western horizon, to encourage us under the clouds of the eastern. Even the loss of Acadia, should it be final, will be compensated by the acquisition of the boundless fertile territories of the Belle Riviere and of the Illinois. The Abbé Piquet and his fellow-missionaries have won the hearts of the native tribes of the West. There is hope now, at last, of uniting New France with Louisiana in one unbroken chain of French territory.

“It has been my ambition, since His Majesty honored me with the Government of New France, to acquire possession of those vast territories covered with forests old as time, and in soil rich and fertile as Provence and Normandy.

“I have served the King all my life,” continued the Governor, “and served him with honor and even distinction,–permit me to say this much of myself.”

He spoke in a frank, manly way, for vanity prompted no part of his speech. “Many great services have I rendered my country, but I feel that the greatest service I could yet do Old France or New would be the planting of ten thousand sturdy peasants and artisans of France in the valley of the far West, to make its forests vocal with the speech of our native land.

“This present war may end suddenly,–I think it will: the late victory at Lawfelt has stricken the allies under the Duke of Cumberland a blow hard as Fontenoy. Rumors of renewed negotiations for peace are flying thick through Europe. God speed the peacemakers, and bless them, I say! With peace comes opportunity. Then, if ever, if France be true to herself and to her heritage in the New World, she will people the valley of the Ohio and secure