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Title:  The Golden Dog
Title:  Le Chien d'Or

Author:  William Kirby

July, 2001  [Etext #2735]


The Project Gutenberg Etext of The Golden Dog, by William Kirby
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THE GOLDEN DOG.
(LE CHIEN D'OR.)

by William Kirby




AUTHOR'S PREFATORY NOTE.


TO THE PUBLIC:

In the year 1877 the first edition of "The Golden Dog" (Le Chien
d'Or) was brought out in the United States, entirely without my
knowledge or sanction.  Owing to the inadequacy of the then existing
copyright laws, I have been powerless to prevent its continued
publication, which I understand to have been a successful and
profitable undertaking for all concerned, except the author, the
book having gone through many editions.

It was, consequently, a source of gratification to me when I was
approached by Messrs. L. C. Page & Company, of Boston, with a
request to revise "The Golden Dog," and re-publish it through them.
The result is the present edition, which I have corrected and
revised in the light of the latest developments in the history of
Quebec, and which is the only edition offered to my readers with the
sanction and approval of its author.

WILLIAM KIRBY.

Niagara, Canada, May, 1897.



CONTENTS.


CHAPTER

I. MEN OF THE OLD REGIME

II. THE WALLS OF QUEBEC

III. A CHATELAINE OF NEW FRANCE

IV. CONFIDENCES

V. THE ITINERANT NOTARY

VI. BEAUMANOIR

VII. THE INTENDANT BIGOT

VIII. CAROLINE DE ST. CASTIN

IX. PIERRE PHILIBERT

X. AMELIE DE REPENTIGNY

XI. THE SOLDIER'S WELCOME

XII. THE CASTLE OF ST. LOUIS

XIII. THE CHIEN D'OR

XIV. THE COUNCIL OF WAR

XV. THE CHARMING JOSEPHINE

XVI. ANGELIQUE DES MELOISES

XVII. SPLENDIDE MENDAX

XVIII. THE MEROVINGIAN PRINCESS

XIX. PUT MONEY IN THY PURSE

XX. BELMONT

XXI. SIC ITUR AD ASTRA

XXII. SO GLOZED THE TEMPTER

XXIII. SEALS OF LOVE, BUT SEALED IN VAIN

XXIV. THE HURRIED QUESTION OF DESPAIR

XXV. BETWIXT THE LAST VIOLET AND THE EARLIEST ROSE

XXVI. THE CANADIAN BOAT SONG

XXVII. CHEERFUL YESTERDAYS AND CONFIDENT TO-MORROWS

XXVIII. A DAY AT THE MANOR HOUSE

XXIX. FELICES TER ET AMPLIUS

XXX. "NO SPEECH OF SILK WILL SERVE YOUR TURN"

XXXI. THE BALL AT THE INTENDANT'S PALACE

XXXII. "ON WITH THE DANCE"

XXXIII. LA CORRIVEAU

XXXIV. WEIRD SISTERS

XXXV. "FLASKETS OF DRUGS, FULL TO THEIR WICKED LIPS"

XXXVI. THE BROAD, BLACK GATEWAY OF A LIE

XXXVII. ARRIVAL OF PIERRE PHILIBERT

XXXVIII. A WILD NIGHT INDOORS AND OUT

XXXIX. MERE MALHEUR

XL. QUOTH THE RAVEN, "NEVERMORE!"

XLI. A DEED WITHOUT A NAME

XLII. "LET'S TALK OF GRAVES AND WORMS AND EPITAPHS"

XLIII. SILK GLOVES OVER BLOODY HANDS

XLIV. THE INTENDANT'S DILEMMA

XLV. "I WILL FEED FAT THE ANCIENT GRUDGE I BEAR HIM"

XLVI. THE BOURGEOIS PHILIBERT

XLVII. A DRAWN GAME

XLVIII. "IN GOLD CLASPS LOCKS IN THE GOLDEN STORY"

XLIX. THE MARKET-PLACE ON ST. MARTIN'S DAY

L. "BLESSED THEY WHO DIE DOING THY WILL"

LI. EVIL NEWS RIDES POST

LII. THE LAMP OF REPENTIGNY

LIII. "LOVELY IN DEATH THE BEAUTEOUS RUIN LAY"

LIV. "THE MILLS OF GOD GRIND SLOWLY"




THE GOLDEN DOG.

(LE CHIEN D'OR.)


CHAPTER I.

MEN OF THE OLD REGIME.


"'See Naples, and then die!'  That was a proud saying, Count, which
we used to hear as we cruised under lateen sails about the glorious
bay that reflects from its waters the fires of Vesuvius.  We
believed the boast then, Count.  But I say now, 'See Quebec, and
live forever!'  Eternity would be too short to weary me of this
lovely scene--this bright Canadian morning is worthy of Eden, and
the glorious landscape worthy of such a sun-rising."

Thus exclaimed a tall, fair Swedish gentleman, his blue eyes
sparkling, and every feature glowing with enthusiasm, Herr Peter
Kalm, to His Excellency Count de la Galissoniere, Governor of New
France, as they stood together on a bastion of the ramparts of
Quebec, in the year of grace 1748.

A group of French and Canadian officers, in the military uniforms of
Louis XV., stood leaning on their swords, as they conversed gaily
together on the broad gravelled walk at the foot of the rampart.
They formed the suite in attendance upon the Governor, who was out
by sunrise this morning to inspect the work done during the night by
the citizens of Quebec and the habitans of the surrounding country,
who had been hastily summoned to labor upon the defences of the
city.

A few ecclesiastics, in black cassocks, dignitaries of the Church,
mingled cheerfully in the conversation of the officers.  They had
accompanied the Governor, both to show their respect, and to
encourage, by their presence and exhortations, the zeal of the
colonists in the work of fortifying the capital.

War was then raging between old England and old France, and between
New England and New France.  The vast region of North America,
stretching far into the interior and southwest from Canada to
Louisiana, had for three years past been the scene of fierce
hostilities between the rival nations, while the savage Indian
tribes, ranged on the one side and on the other, steeped their
moccasins in the blood of French and English colonists, who, in
their turn, became as fierce, and carried on the war as
relentlessly, as the savages themselves.

Louisbourg, the bulwark of New France, projecting its mailed arm
boldly into the Atlantic, had been cut off by the English, who now
overran Acadia, and began to threaten Quebec with invasion by sea
and land.  Busy rumors of approaching danger were rife in the
colony, and the gallant Governor issued orders, which were
enthusiastically obeyed, for the people to proceed to the walls and
place the city in a state of defence, to bid defiance to the enemy.

Rolland Michel Barrin, Count de la Galissoniere, was remarkable no
less for his philosophical attainments, that ranked him high among
the savans of the French Academy, than for his political abilities
and foresight as a statesman.  He felt strongly the vital interests
involved in the present war, and saw clearly what was the sole
policy necessary for France to adopt in order to preserve her
magnificent dominion in North America.  His counsels were neither
liked nor followed by the Court of Versailles, then sinking fast
into the slough of corruption that marked the closing years of the
reign of Louis XV.

Among the people who admired deeds more than words the Count was
honored as a brave and skilful admiral, who had borne the flag of
France triumphantly over the seas, and in the face of her most
powerful enemies--the English and Dutch.  His memorable repulse of
Admiral Byng, eight years after the events here recorded,--which led
to the death of that brave and unfortunate officer, who was shot by
sentence of court martial to atone for that repulse,--was a glory to
France, but to the Count brought after it a manly sorrow for the
fate of his opponent, whose death he regarded as a cruel and unjust
act, unworthy of the English nation, usually as generous and
merciful as it is brave and considerate.

The Governor was already well-advanced in years.  He had entered
upon the winter of life, that sprinkles the head with snow that
never melts, but he was still hale, ruddy, and active.  Nature had,
indeed, moulded him in an unpropitious hour for personal comeliness,
but in compensation had seated a great heart and a graceful mind in
a body low of stature, and marked by a slight deformity.  His
piercing eyes, luminous with intelligence and full of sympathy for
everything noble and elevated, overpowered with their fascination
the blemishes that a too curious scrutiny might discover upon his
figure; while his mobile, handsome lips poured out the natural
eloquence of clear thoughts and noble sentiments.  The Count grew
great while speaking: his listeners were carried away by the magic
of his voice and the clearness of his intellect.

He was very happy this morning by the side of his old friend, Peter
Kalm, who was paying him a most welcome visit in New France.  They
had been fellow-students, both at Upsal and at Paris, and loved each
other with a cordiality that, like good wine, grew richer and more
generous with age.

Herr Kalm, stretching out his arms as if to embrace the lovely
landscape and clasp it to his bosom, exclaimed with fresh
enthusiasm, "See Quebec, and live forever!"

"Dear Kalm," said the Governor, catching the fervor of his friend,
as he rested his hand affectionately on his shoulder, "you are as
true a lover of nature as when we sat together at the feet of
Linnaeus, our glorious young master, and heard him open up for us the
arcana of God's works; and we used to feel like him, too, when he
thanked God for permitting him to look into his treasure-house and
see the precious things of creation which he had made."

"Till men see Quebec," replied Kalm, "they will not fully realize
the meaning of the term, 'God's footstool.'  It is a land worth
living for!"

"Not only a land to live for, but a land to die for, and happy the
man who dies for it!  Confess, Kalm,--thou who hast travelled in all
lands,--think'st thou not it is indeed worthy of its proud title of
New France?"

"It is indeed worthy," replied Kalm; "I see here a scion of the old
oak of the Gauls, which, if let grow, will shelter the throne of
France itself in an empire wider than Caesar wrested from Ambiotrix."

"Yes," replied the Count, kindling at the words of his friend, "it
is old France transplanted, transfigured, and glorified,--where her
language, religion, and laws shall be handed down to her posterity,
the glory of North America as the mother-land is the glory of
Europe!"

The enthusiastic Galissoniere stretched out his hands and implored a
blessing upon the land entrusted to his keeping.

It was a glorious morning.  The sun had just risen over the hilltops
of Lauzon, throwing aside his drapery of gold, purple, and crimson.
The soft haze of the summer morning was floating away into
nothingness, leaving every object fresh with dew and magnified in
the limpid purity of the air.

The broad St. Lawrence, far beneath their feet, was still partially
veiled in a thin blue mist, pierced here and there by the tall mast
of a King's ship or merchantman lying unseen at anchor; or, as the
fog rolled slowly off, a swift canoe might be seen shooting out into
a streak of sunshine, with the first news of the morning from the
south shore.

Behind the Count and his companions rose the white glistening walls
of the Hotel Dieu, and farther off the tall tower of the newly-
restored Cathedral, the belfry of the Recollets, and the roofs of
the ancient College of the Jesuits.  An avenue of old oaks and
maples shaded the walk, and in the branches of the trees a swarm of
birds fluttered and sang, as if in rivalry with the gay French talk
and laughter of the group of officers, who waited the return of the
Governor from the bastion where he stood, showing the glories of
Quebec to his friend.

The walls of the city ran along the edge of the cliff upwards as
they approached the broad gallery and massive front of the Castle of
St. Louis, and ascending the green slope of the broad glacis,
culminated in the lofty citadel, where, streaming in the morning
breeze, radiant in the sunshine, and alone in the blue sky, waved
the white banner of France, the sight of which sent a thrill of joy
and pride into the hearts of her faithful subjects in the New World.

The broad bay lay before them, round as a shield, and glittering
like a mirror as the mist blew off its surface.  Behind the sunny
slopes of Orleans, which the river encircled in its arms like a
giant lover his fair mistress, rose the bold, dark crests of the
Laurentides, lifting their bare summits far away along the course of
the ancient river, leaving imagination to wander over the wild
scenery in their midst--the woods, glens, and unknown lakes and
rivers that lay hid far from human ken, or known only to rude
savages, wild as the beasts of chase they hunted in those strange
regions.

Across the broad valley of the St. Charles, covered with green
fields and ripening harvests, and dotted with quaint old homesteads,
redolent with memories of Normandy and Brittany, rose a long
mountain ridge covered with primeval woods, on the slope of which
rose the glittering spire of Charlebourg, once a dangerous outpost
of civilization.  The pastoral Lairet was seen mingling its waters
with the St. Charles in a little bay that preserves the name of
Jacques Cartier, who with his hardy companions spent their first
winter in Canada on this spot, the guests of the hospitable
Donacana, lord of Quebec and of all the lands seen from its lofty
cape.

Directly beneath the feet of the Governor, on a broad strip of land
that lay between the beach and the precipice, stood the many-gabled
Palace of the Intendant, the most magnificent structure in New
France.  Its long front of eight hundred feet overlooked the royal
terraces and gardens, and beyond these the quays and magazines,
where lay the ships of Bordeaux, St. Malo, and Havre, unloading the
merchandise and luxuries of France in exchange for the more rude,
but not less valuable, products of the Colony.

Between the Palace and the Basse Ville the waves at high tide washed
over a shingly beach where there were already the beginnings of a
street.  A few rude inns displayed the sign of the fleur-de-lis or
the imposing head of Louis XV.  Round the doors of these inns in
summer-time might always be found groups of loquacious Breton and
Norman sailors in red caps and sashes, voyageurs and canoemen from
the far West in half Indian costume, drinking Gascon wine and Norman
cider, or the still more potent liquors filled with the fires of the
Antilles.  The Batture kindled into life on the arrival of the fleet
from home, and in the evenings of summer, as the sun set behind the
Cote a Bonhomme, the natural magnetism of companionship drew the
lasses of Quebec down to the beach, where, amid old refrains of
French ditties and the music of violins and tambours de Basque, they
danced on the green with the jovial sailors who brought news from
the old land beyond the Atlantic.

"Pardon me, gentlemen, for keeping you waiting," said the Governor,
as he descended from the bastion and rejoined his suite.  "I am so
proud of our beautiful Quebec that I can scarcely stop showing off
its charms to my friend Herr Kalm, who knows so well how to
appreciate them.  But," continued he, looking round admiringly on
the bands of citizens and habitans who were at work strengthening
every weak point in the fortifications, "my brave Canadians are busy
as beavers on their dam.  They are determined to keep the saucy
English out of Quebec.  They deserve to have the beaver for their
crest, industrious fellows that they are!  I am sorry I kept you
waiting, however."

"We can never count the moments lost which your Excellency gives to
the survey of our fair land," replied the Bishop, a grave, earnest-
looking man.  "Would that His Majesty himself could stand on these
walls and see with his own eyes, as you do, this splendid patrimony
of the crown of France.  He would not dream of bartering it away in
exchange for petty ends and corners of Germany and Flanders, as is
rumored, my Lord."

"True words and good, my Lord Bishop," replied the Governor; "the
retention of all Flanders now in the strong hands of the Marshal de
Saxe would be a poor compensation for the surrender of a glorious
land like this to the English."

Flying rumors of some such proposal on the part of France had
reached the Colony, with wild reports arising out of the endless
chaffering between the negotiators for peace, who had already
assembled at Aix la Chapelle.  "The fate of America will one day be
decided here," continued the Governor; "I see it written upon this
rock, 'Whoever rules Quebec will sway the destinies of the
continent.'  May our noble France be wise, and understand in time
the signs of empire and of supremacy!"

The Bishop looked upwards with a sigh.  "Our noble France has not
yet read those tokens, or she misunderstands them.  Oh, these
faithful subjects of hers!  Look at them, your Excellency."  The
Bishop pointed toward the crowd of citizens hard at work on the
walls.  "There is not a man of them but is ready to risk life and
fortune for the honor and dominion of France, and yet they are
treated by the Court with such neglect, and burdened with exactions
that take from life the sweet reward of labor!  They cannot do the
impossible that France requires of them--fight her battles, till her
fields, and see their bread taken from them by these new ordinances
of the Intendant."

"Well, my Lord," replied the Governor, affecting a jocularity he
did not feel, for he knew how true were the words of the Bishop,
"we must all do our duty, nevertheless: if France requires
impossibilities of us, we must perform them!  That is the old
spirit!  If the skies fall upon our heads, we must, like true Gauls,
hold them up on the points of our lances!  What say you, Rigaud de
Vaudreuil?  Cannot one Canadian surround ten New Englanders?"  The
Governor alluded to an exploit of the gallant officer whom he turned
to address.

"Probatum est, your Excellency!  I once with six hundred Canadians
surrounded all New England.  Prayers were put up in all the churches
of Boston for deliverance when we swept the Connecticut from end to
end with a broom of fire."

"Brave Rigaud!  France has too few like you!" remarked the Governor
with a look of admiration.

Rigaud bowed, and shook his head modestly.  "I trust she has ten
thousand better;" but added, pointing at his fellow-officers who
stood conversing at a short distance, "Marshal de Saxe has few the
equals of these in his camp, my Lord Count!"  And well was the
compliment deserved: they were gallant men, intelligent in looks,
polished in manners, and brave to a fault, and all full of that
natural gaiety that sits so gracefully on a French soldier.

Most of them wore the laced coat and waistcoat, chapeau, boots, lace
ruffles, sash, and rapier of the period--a martial costume befitting
brave and handsome men.  Their names were household words in every
cottage in New France, and many of them as frequently spoken of in
the English Colonies as in the streets of Quebec.

There stood the Chevalier de Beaujeu, a gentleman of Norman family,
who was already famed upon the frontier, and who, seven years later,
in the forests of the Monongahela, crowned a life of honor by a
soldier's death on the bloody field won from the unfortunate
Braddock, defeating an army ten times more numerous than his own.

Talking gayly with De Beaujeu were two gallant-looking young men of
a Canadian family which, out of seven brothers, lost six slain in
the service of their King--Jumonville de Villiers, who was
afterwards, in defiance of a flag of truce, shot down by order of
Colonel Washington, in the far-off forests of the Alleghenies,
and his brother, Coulon de Villiers, who received the sword of
Washington when he surrendered himself and garrison prisoners of
war, at Fort Necessity, in 1754.

Coulon de Villiers imposed ignominious conditions of surrender upon
Washington, but scorned to take other revenge for the death of his
brother.  He spared the life of Washington, who lived to become the
leader and idol of his nation, which, but for the magnanimity of the
noble Canadian, might have never struggled into independence.

There stood also the Sieur de Lery, the King's engineer, charged
with the fortification of the Colony, a man of Vauban's genius in
the art of defence.  Had the schemes which he projected, and vainly
urged upon the heedless Court of Versailles, been carried into
effect, the conquest of New France would have been an impossibility.

Arm in arm with De Lery, in earnest conversation, walked the
handsome Claude de Beauharnais,--brother of a former Governor of the
Colony,--a graceful, gallant-looking soldier.  De Beauharnais was
the ancestor of a vigorous and beautiful race, among whose posterity
was the fair Hortense de Beauharnais, who in her son, Napoleon III.,
seated an offshoot of Canada upon the imperial throne of France long
after the abandonment of their ancient colony by the corrupt House
of Bourbon.

Conspicuous among the distinguished officers by his tall, straight
figure and quick movements, was the Chevalier La Corne St. Luc,
supple as an Indian, and almost as dark, from exposure to the
weather and incessant campaigning.  He was fresh from the blood and
desolation of Acadia, where France, indeed, lost her ancient colony,
but St. Luc reaped a full sheaf of glory at Grand Pre, in the Bay of
Minas, by the capture of an army of New Englanders.  The rough old
soldier was just now all smiles and gaiety, as he conversed with
Monseigneur de Pontbriant, the venerable Bishop of Quebec, and
Father de Berey, the Superior of the Recollets.

The Bishop, a wise ruler of his Church, was also a passionate lover
of his country: the surrender of Quebec to the English broke his
heart, and he died a few months after the announcement of the final
cession of the Colony.

Father de Berey, a jovial monk, wearing the gray gown and sandals of
the Recollets, was renowned throughout New France for his wit more
than for his piety.  He had once been a soldier, and he wore his
gown, as he had worn his uniform, with the gallant bearing of a
King's Guardsman.  But the people loved him all the more for his
jests, which never lacked the accompaniment of genuine charity.  His
sayings furnished all New France with daily food for mirth and
laughter, without detracting an iota of the respect in which the
Recollets were held throughout the colony.

Father Glapion, the Superior of the Jesuits, also accompanied the
Bishop.  His close, black soutane contrasted oddly with the gray,
loose gown of the Recollet.  He was a meditative, taciturn man,--
seeming rather to watch the others than to join in the lively
conversation that went on around him.  Anything but cordiality and
brotherly love reigned between the Jesuits and the Order of St.
Francis, but the Superiors were too wary to manifest towards each
other the mutual jealousies of their subordinates.

The long line of fortifications presented a stirring appearance that
morning.  The watch-fires that had illuminated the scene during the
night were dying out, the red embers paling under the rays of the
rising sun.  From a wide circle surrounding the city the people had
come in--many were accompanied by their wives and daughters--to
assist in making the bulwark of the Colony impregnable against the
rumored attack of the English.

The people of New France, taught by a hundred years of almost
constant warfare with the English and with the savage nations on
their frontiers, saw as clearly as the Governor that the key of
French dominion hung inside the walls of Quebec, and that for an
enemy to grasp it was to lose all they valued as subjects of the
Crown of France.


CHAPTER II.

THE WALLS OF QUEBEC.


Count de la Galissoniere, accompanied by his distinguished
attendants, proceeded again on their round of inspection.  They were
everywhere saluted with heads uncovered, and welcomed by hearty
greetings.  The people of New France had lost none of the natural
politeness and ease of their ancestors, and, as every gentleman of
the Governor's suite was at once recognized, a conversation,
friendly even to familiarity, ensued between them and the citizens
and habitans, who worked as if they were building their very souls
into the walls of the old city.

"Good morning, Sieur de St. Denis!" gaily exclaimed the Governor to
a tall, courtly gentleman, who was super-intending the labor of a
body of his censitaires from Beauport.  "'Many hands make light
work,' says the proverb.  That splendid battery you are just
finishing deserves to be called Beauport.  What say you, my Lord
Bishop?" turning to the smiling ecclesiastic.  "Is it not worthy of
baptism?"

"Yes, and blessing both; I give it my episcopal benediction,"
replied the Bishop, "and truly I think most of the earth of it is
taken from the consecrated ground of the Hotel Dieu--it will stand
fire!"

"Many thanks, my Lord!"--the Sieur de St. Denis bowed very low--
"where the Church bars the door Satan will never enter, nor the
English either!  Do you hear, men?" continued he, turning to his
censitaires, "my Lord Bishop christens our battery Beauport, and
says it will stand fire!"

"Vive le Roi!" was the response, an exclamation that came
spontaneously to the lips of all Frenchmen on every emergency of
danger or emotion of joy.

A sturdy habitan came forward, and doffing his red tuque or cap,
addressed the Governor: "This is a good battery, my Lord Governor,
but there ought to be one as good in our village.  Permit us to
build one and man it, and we promise your Excellency that no
Englishman shall ever get into the back door of Quebec while we have
lives to defend it."  The old habitan had the eye of a soldier--he
had been one.  The Governor knew the value of the suggestion, and at
once assented to it, adding, "No better defenders of the city could
be found anywhere than the brave habitans of Beauport."

The compliment was never forgotten; and years afterwards, when Wolfe
besieged the city, the batteries of Beauport repelled the assault of
his bravest troops, and well-nigh broke the heart of the young hero
over the threatened defeat of his great undertaking, as his brave
Highlanders and grenadiers lay slain by hundreds upon the beach of
Beauport.

The countenances of the hardy workers were suddenly covered with
smiles of welcome recognition at the sight of the well-known
Superior of the Recollets.

"Good morning!" cried out a score of voices; "good morning, Father
de Berey!  The good wives of Beauport send you a thousand
compliments.  They are dying to see the good Recollets down our
way again.  The Gray Brothers have forsaken our parish."

"Ah!" replied the Superior, in a tone of mock severity, while his
eyes overran with mirthfulness, "you are a crowd of miserable
sinners who will die without benefit of clergy--only you don't know
it!  Who was it boiled the Easter eggs hard as agates, which you
gave to my poor brother Recollets for the use of our convent?  Tell
me that, pray!  All the salts and senna in Quebec have not sufficed
to restore the digestion of my poor monks since you played that
trick upon them down in your misnamed village of Beauport!"

"Pardon, Reverend Father de Berey!" replied a smiling habitan, "it
was not we, but the sacrilegious canaille of St. Anne who boiled the
Easter eggs!  If you don't believe us, send some of the good Gray
Friars down to try our love.  See if they do not find everything
soft for them at Beauport, from our hearts to our feather beds, to
say nothing of our eggs and bacon.  Our good wives are fairly
melting with longing for a sight of the gray gowns of St. Francis
once more in our village."

"Oh! I dare be bound the canaille of St. Anne are lost dogs like
yourselves--catuli catulorum."

The habitans thought this sounded like a doxology, and some crossed
themselves, amid the dubious laughter of others, who suspected
Father de Berey of a clerical jest.

"Oh!" continued he, "if fat Father Ambrose, the cook of the convent,
only had you, one at a time, to turn the spit for him, in place of
the poor dogs of Quebec, which he has to catch as best he can, and
set to work in his kitchen! but, vagabonds that you are, you are
rarely set to work now on the King's corvee--all work, little play,
and no pay!"

The men took his raillery in excellent part, and one, their
spokesman, bowing low to the Superior, said,--"Forgive us all the
same, good Father.  The hard eggs of Beauport will be soft as lard
compared with the iron shells we are preparing for the English
breakfast when they shall appear some fine morning before Quebec."

"Ah, well, in that case I must pardon the trick you played upon
Brothers Mark and Alexis; and I give you my blessing, too, on
condition you send some salt to our convent to cure our fish, and
save your reputations, which are very stale just now among my good
Recollets."

A general laugh followed this sally, and the Reverend Superior went
off merrily, as he hastened to catch up with the Governor, who had
moved on to another point in the line of fortifications.

Near the gate of St. John they found a couple of ladies, encouraging
by their presence and kind words a numerous party of habitans,--one
an elderly lady of noble bearing and still beautiful, the rich and
powerful feudal Lady of the Lordship, or Seigniory, of Tilly; the
other her orphan niece, in the bloom of youth, and of surpassing
loveliness, the fair Amelie de Repentigny, who had loyally
accompanied her aunt to the capital with all the men of the
Seigniory of Tilly, to assist in the completion of its defences.

To features which looked as if chiselled out of the purest Parian
marble, just flushed with the glow of morn, and cut in those perfect
lines of proportion which nature only bestows on a few chosen
favorites at intervals to show the possibilities of feminine beauty,
Amelie de Repentigny added a figure which, in its perfect symmetry,
looked smaller than it really was, for she was a tall girl: it
filled the eye and held fast the fancy with the charms of a thousand
graces as she moved or stood, suggestive of the beauty of a tame
fawn, that in all its movements preserves somewhat of the coyness
and easy grace of its free life.

Her hair was very dark and thick, matching her deep liquid eyes,
that lay for the most part so quietly and restfully beneath their
long shading lashes,--eyes gentle, frank, and modest, looking
tenderly on all things innocent, fearlessly on all things harmful;
eyes that nevertheless noted every change of your countenance, and
read unerringly your meaning more from your looks than from your
words.  Nothing seemed to hide itself from that pure, searching
glance when she chose to look at you.

In their depths you might read the tokens of a rare and noble
character--a capability of loving which, once enkindled by a worthy
object, might make all things that are possible to devoted womanhood
possible to this woman, who would not count her life anything either
for the man she loved or the cause she espoused.  Amelie de
Repentigny will not yield her heart without her judgment; but when
she does, it will be a royal gift--never to be recalled, never to be
repented of, to the end of her life.  Happy the man upon whom she
shall bestow her affection!  It will be his forever.  Unhappy all
others who may love her!  She may pity, but she will listen to no
voice but the one which rules her heart, to her life's end!

Both ladies were in mourning, yet dressed with elegant simplicity,
befitting their rank and position in society.  The Chevalier Le
Gardeur de Tilly had fallen two years ago, fighting gallantly for
his King and country, leaving a childless widow to manage his vast
domain and succeed him as sole guardian of their orphan niece,
Amelie de Repentigny, and her brother Le Gardeur, left in infancy to
the care of their noble relatives, who in every respect treated them
as their own, and who indeed were the legal inheritors of the
Lordship of Tilly.

Only a year ago, Amelie had left the ancient Convent of the
Ursulines, perfected in all the graces and accomplishments taught
in the famous cloister founded by Mere Marie de l'Incarnation
for the education of the daughters of New France, generation after
generation of whom were trained, according to her precepts, in
graces of manner as well as in the learning of the age--the latter
might be forgotten; the former, never.  As they became the wives and
mothers of succeeding times, they have left upon their descendants
an impress of politeness and urbanity that distinguishes the people
of Canada to this day.

Of all the crowd of fair, eager aspirants contending for honors on
the day of examination in the great school, crowns had only been
awarded to Amelie and to Angelique des Meloises--two girls equal in
beauty, grace, and accomplishments, but unlike in character and in
destiny.  The currents of their lives ran smoothly together at the
beginning.  How widely different was to be the ending of them!

The brother of Amelie, Le Gardeur de Repentigny, was her elder by a
year--an officer in the King's service, handsome, brave, generous,
devoted to his sister and aunt, but not free from some of the vices
of the times prevalent among the young men of rank and fortune in
the colony, who in dress, luxury, and immorality, strove to imitate
the brilliant, dissolute Court of Louis XV.

Amelie passionately loved her brother, and endeavored--not without
success, as is the way with women--to blind herself to his faults.
She saw him seldom, however, and in her solitary musings in the far-
off Manor House of Tilly, she invested him with all the perfections
he did and did not possess; and turned a deaf, almost an angry ear,
to tales whispered in his disparagement.


CHAPTER III.

A CHATELAINE OF NEW FRANCE.


The Governor was surprised and delighted to encounter Lady de Tilly
and her fair niece, both of whom were well known to and highly
esteemed by him.  He and the gentlemen of his suite saluted them
with profound respect, not unmingled with chivalrous admiration for
noble, high-spirited women.

"My honored Lady de Tilly and Mademoiselle de Repentigny," said the
Governor, hat in hand, "welcome to Quebec.  It does not surprise,
but it does delight me beyond measure to meet you here at the head
of your loyal censitaires.  But it is not the first time that the
ladies of the House of Tilly have turned out to defend the King's
forts against his enemies."

This he said in allusion to the gallant defence of a fort on the
wild Iroquois frontier by a former lady of her house.

"My Lord Count," replied the lady, with quiet dignity, "'tis no
special merit of the house of Tilly to be true to its ancient fame--
it could not be otherwise.  But your thanks are at this time more
due to these loyal habitans, who have so promptly obeyed your
proclamation.  It is the King's corvee to restore the walls of
Quebec, and no Canadian may withhold his hand from it without
disgrace."

"The Chevalier La Corne St. Luc will think us two poor women a weak
accession to the garrison," added she, turning to the Chevalier and
cordially offering her hand to the brave old officer, who had been
the comrade in arms of her husband and the dearest friend of her
family.

"Good blood never fails, my Lady," returned the Chevalier, warmly
grasping her hand.  "You out of place here?  No! no! you are at home
on the ramparts of Quebec, quite as much as in your own drawing-room
at Tilly.  The walls of Quebec without a Tilly and a Repentigny
would be a bad omen indeed, worse than a year without a spring or a
summer without roses.  But where is my dear goddaughter Amelie?"

As he spoke the old soldier embraced Amelie and kissed her cheek
with fatherly effusion.  She was a prodigious favorite.  "Welcome,
Amelie!" said he, "the sight of you is like flowers in June.  What a
glorious time you have had, growing taller and prettier every day
all the time I have been sleeping by camp-fires in the forests of
Acadia!  But you girls are all alike; why, I hardly knew my own
pretty Agathe when I came home.  The saucy minx almost kissed my
eyes out--to dry the tears of joy in them, she said!"

Amelie blushed deeply at the praises bestowed upon her, yet felt
glad to know that her godfather retained all his old affection.
"Where is Le Gardeur?" asked he, as she took his arm and walked a
few paces apart from the throng.

Amelie colored deeply, and hesitated a moment.  "I do not know,
godfather!  We have not seen Le Gardeur since our arrival."  Then
after a nervous silence she added, "I have been told that he is at
Beaumanoir, hunting with His Excellency the Intendant."

La Corne, seeing her embarrassment, understood the reluctance of her
avowal, and sympathized with it.  An angry light flashed beneath his
shaggy eyelashes, but he suppressed his thoughts.  He could not help
remarking, however, "With the Intendant at Beaumanoir!  I could have
wished Le Gardeur in better company!  No good can come of his
intimacy with Bigot; Amelie, you must wean him from it.  He should
have been in the city to receive you and the Lady de Tilly."

"So he doubtless would have been, had he known of our coming.  We
sent word, but he was away when our messenger reached the city."

Amelie felt half ashamed, for she was conscious that she was
offering something unreal to extenuate the fault of her brother--
her hopes rather than her convictions.

"Well, well! goddaughter! we shall, at any rate, soon have the
pleasure of seeing Le Gardeur.  The Intendant himself has been
summoned to attend a council of war today.  Colonel Philibert left
an hour ago for Beaumanoir."

Amelie gave a slight start at the name; she looked inquiringly, but
did not yet ask the question that trembled on her lips.

"Thanks, godfather, for the good news of Le Gardeur's speedy
return."  Amelie talked on, her thoughts but little accompanying her
words as she repeated to herself the name of Philibert.  "Have you
heard that the Intendant wishes to bestow an important and honorable
post in the Palace upon Le Gardeur--my brother wrote to that
effect?"

"An important and honorable post in the Palace?"  The old soldier
emphasized the word HONORABLE.  "No, I had not heard of it,--never
expect to hear of an honorable post in the company of Bigot, Cadet,
Varin, De Pean, and the rest of the scoundrels of the Friponne!
Pardon me, dear, I do not class Le Gardeur among them, far from it,
dear deluded boy!  My best hope is that Colonel Philibert will find
him and bring him clean and clear out of their clutches."

The question that had trembled on her lips came out now.  For her
life she could not have retained it longer.

"Who is Colonel Philibert, godfather?" asked she, surprise,
curiosity, and a still deeper interest marking her voice, in spite
of all she could do to appear indifferent.

"Colonel Philibert?" repeated La Corne.  "Why, do not you know?  Who
but our young Pierre Philibert; you have not forgotten him, surely,
Amelie?  At any rate he has not forgotten you: in many a long night
by our watch-fires in the forest has Colonel Philibert passed the
hours talking of Tilly and the dear friends he left there.  Your
brother at any rate will gratefully remember Philibert when he sees
him."

Amelie blushed a little as she replied somewhat shyly, "Yes,
godfather, I remember Pierre Philibert very well,--with gratitude
I remember him,--but I never heard him called Colonel Philibert
before."

"Oh, true!  He has been so long absent.  He left a simple ensign en
second and returns a colonel, and has the stuff in him to make a
field-marshal!  He gained his rank where he won his glory--in
Acadia.  A noble fellow, Amelie! loving as a woman to his friends,
but to his foes stern as the old Bourgeois, his father, who placed
that tablet of the golden dog upon the front of his house to spite
the Cardinal, they say,--the act of a bold man, let what will be the
true interpretation of it."

"I hear every one speak well of the Bourgeois Philibert," remarked
Amelie.  "Aunt de Tilly is ever enthusiastic in his commendation.
She says he is a true gentleman, although a trader."

"Why, he is noble by birth, if that be needed, and has got the
King's license to trade in the Colony like some other gentlemen I
wot of.  He was Count Philibert in Normandy, although he is plain
Bourgeois Philibert in Quebec; and a wise man he is too, for with
his ships and his comptoirs and his ledgers he has traded himself
into being the richest man in New France, while we, with our
nobility and our swords, have fought ourselves poor, and receive
nothing but contempt from the ungrateful courtiers of Versailles."

Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden rush of people,
making room for the passage of the Regiment of Bearn, which composed
part of the garrison of Quebec, on their march to their morning
drill and guard-mounting,--bold, dashing Gascons in blue and white
uniforms, tall caps, and long queues rollicking down their supple
backs, seldom seen by an enemy.

Mounted officers, laced and ruffled, gaily rode in front.
Subalterns with spontoons and sergeants with halberds dressed the
long line of glistening bayonets.  The drums and fifes made the
streets ring again, while the men in full chorus, a gorge deployee,
chanted the gay refrain of La Belle Canadienne in honor of the
lasses of Quebec.

The Governor and his suite had already mounted their horses, and
cantered off to the Esplanade to witness the review.

"Come and dine with us today," said the Lady de Tilly to La Corne
St. Luc, as he too bade the ladies a courteous adieu, and got on
horseback to ride after the Governor.

"Many thanks! but I fear it will be impossible, my Lady: the council
of war meets at the Castle this afternoon.  The hour may be
deferred, however, should Colonel Philibert not chance to find the
Intendant at Beaumanoir, and then I might come; but best not expect
me."

A slight, conscious flush just touched the cheek of Amelie at the
mention of Colonel Philibert.

"But come if possible, godfather," added she; "we hope to have Le
Gardeur home this afternoon.  He loves you so much, and I know you
have countless things to say to him."

Amelie's trembling anxiety about her brother made her most desirous
to bring the powerful influence of La Corne St. Luc to bear upon
him.

Their kind old godfather was regarded with filial reverence by both.
Amelie's father, dying on the battle-field, had, with his latest
breath, commended the care of his children to the love and
friendship of La Corne St. Luc.

"Well, Amelie, blessed are they who do not promise and still
perform.  I must try and meet my dear boy, so do not quite place me
among the impossibles.  Good-by, my Lady.  Good-by, Amelie."  The
old soldier gaily kissed his hand and rode away.

Amelie was thoroughly surprised and agitated out of all composure by
the news of the return of Pierre Philibert.  She turned aside from
the busy throng that surrounded her, leaving her aunt engaged in
eager conversation with the Bishop and Father de Berey.  She sat
down in a quiet embrasure of the wall, and with one hand resting her
drooping cheek, a train of reminiscences flew across her mind like a
flight of pure doves suddenly startled out of a thicket.

She remembered vividly Pierre Philibert, the friend and fellow-
student of her brother: he spent so many of his holidays at the old
Manor-House of Tilly, when she, a still younger girl, shared their
sports, wove chaplets of flowers for them, or on her shaggy pony
rode with them on many a scamper through the wild woods of the
Seigniory.  Those summer and winter vacations of the old Seminary of
Quebec used to be looked forward to by the young, lively girl as
the brightest spots in the whole year, and she grew hardly to
distinguish the affection she bore her brother from the regard in
which she held Pierre Philibert.

A startling incident happened one day, that filled the inmates of
the Manor House with terror, followed by a great joy, and which
raised Pierre Philibert to the rank of an unparalleled hero in the
imagination of the young girl.

Her brother was gambolling carelessly in a canoe, while she and
Pierre sat on the bank watching him.  The light craft suddenly
upset.  Le Gardeur struggled for a few moments, and sank under the
blue waves that look so beautiful and are so cruel.

Amelie shrieked in the wildest terror and in helpless agony, while
Philibert rushed without hesitation into the water, swam out to the
spot, and dived with the agility of a beaver.  He presently
reappeared, bearing the inanimate body of her brother to the shore.
Help was soon obtained, and, after long efforts to restore Le
Gardeur to consciousness,--efforts which seemed to last an age to
the despairing girl,--they at last succeeded, and Le Gardeur was
restored to the arms of his family.  Amelie, in a delirium of joy
and gratitude, ran to Philibert, threw her arms round him, and
kissed him again and again, pledging her eternal gratitude to the
preserver of her brother, and vowing that she would pray for him to
her life's end.

Soon after that memorable event in her young life, Pierre Philibert
was sent to the great military schools in France to study the art of
war with a view to entering the King's service, while Amelie was
placed in the Convent of the Ursulines to be perfected in all the
knowledge and accomplishments of a lady of highest rank in the
Colony.

Despite the cold shade of a cloister, where the idea of a lover is
forbidden to enter, the image of Pierre Philibert did intrude, and
became inseparable from the recollection of her brother in the mind
of Amelie.  He mingled as the fairy prince in the day-dreams and
bright imaginings of the young, poetic girl.  She had vowed to pray
for him to her life's end, and in pursuance of her vow added a
golden bead to her chaplet to remind her of her duty in praying for
the safety and happiness of Pierre Philibert.

But in the quiet life of the cloister, Amelie heard little of the
storms of war upon the frontier and down in the far valleys of
Acadia.  She had not followed the career of Pierre from the military
school to the camp and the battlefield, nor knew of his rapid
promotion, as one of the ablest officers in the King's service, to a
high command in his native Colony.

Her surprise, therefore, was extreme when she learned that the boy
companion of her brother and herself was no other than the renowned
Colonel Philibert, Aide-de-Camp of His Excellency the Governor-
General.

There was no cause for shame in it; but her heart was suddenly
illuminated by a flash of introspection.  She became painfully
conscious how much Pierre Philibert had occupied her thoughts for
years, and now all at once she knew he was a man, and a great and
noble one.  She was thoroughly perplexed and half angry.  She
questioned herself sharply, as if running thorns into her flesh, to
inquire whether she had failed in the least point of maidenly
modesty and reserve in thinking so much of him; and the more she
questioned herself, the more agitated she grew under her self-
accusation: her temples throbbed violently; she hardly dared lift
her eyes from the ground lest some one, even a stranger, she
thought, might see her confusion and read its cause.  "Sancta
Maria," she murmured, pressing her bosom with both hands, "calm my
soul with thy divine peace, for I know not what to do!"

So she sat alone in the embrasure, living a life of emotion in a few
minutes; nor did she find any calm for her agitated spirits until
the thought flashed upon her that she was distressing herself
needlessly.  It was most improbable that Colonel Philibert, after
years of absence and active life in the world's great affairs, could
retain any recollection of the schoolgirl of the Manor House of
Tilly.  She might meet him, nay, was certain to do so in the society
in which both moved; but it would surely be as a stranger on his
part, and she must make it so on her own.

With this empty piece of casuistry, Amelie, like others of her sex,
placed a hand of steel, encased in a silken glove, upon her heart,
and tyrannically suppressed its yearnings.  She was a victim, with
the outward show of conquest over her feelings.  In the consciousness
of Philibert's imagined indifference and utter forgetfulness, she
could meet him now, she thought, with equanimity--nay, rather
wished to do so, to make sure that she had not been guilty of
weakness in regard to him.  She looked up, but was glad to see her
aunt still engaged in conversation with the Bishop on a topic which
Amelie knew was dear to them both,--the care of the souls and bodies
of the poor, in particular those for whom the Lady de Tilly felt
herself responsible to God and the King.

While Amelie sat thinking over the strange chances of the morning, a
sudden whirl of wheels drew her attention.

A gay caleche, drawn by two spirited horses en fleche, dashed
through the gateway of St. John, and wheeling swiftly towards
Amelie, suddenly halted.  A young lady attired in the gayest fashion
of the period, throwing the reins to the groom, sprang out of the
caleche with the ease and elasticity of an antelope.  She ran up the
rampart to Amelie with a glad cry of recognition, repeating her name
in a clear, musical voice, which Amelie at once knew belonged to no
other than the gay, beautiful Angelique des Meloises.  The newcomer
embraced Amelie and kissed her, with warmest expressions of joy at
meeting her thus unexpectedly in the city.  She had learned that
Lady de Tilly had returned to Quebec, she said, and she had,
therefore, taken the earliest opportunity to find out her dear
friend and school-fellow to tell her all the doings in the city.

"It is kind of you, Angelique," replied Amelie, returning her caress
warmly, but without effusion.  "We have simply come with our people
to assist in the King's corvee; when that is done, we shall return
to Tilly.  I felt sure I should meet you, and thought I should know
you again easily, which I hardly do.  How you are changed--for the
better, I should say, since you left off conventual cap and
costume!"  Amelie could not but look admiringly on the beauty of the
radiant girl.  "How handsome you have grown! but you were always
that.  We both took the crown of honor together, but you would alone
take the crown of beauty, Angelique."  Amelie stood off a pace or
two, and looked at her friend from head to foot with honest
admiration, "and would deserve to wear it too," added she.

"I like to hear you say that, Amelie; I should prefer the crown of
beauty to all other crowns!  You half smile at that, but I must tell
the truth, if you do.  But you were always a truth-teller, you know,
in the convent, and I was not so!  Let us cease flatteries."

Angelique felt highly flattered by the praise of Amelie, whom she
had sometimes condescended to envy for her graceful figure and
lovely, expressive features.

"Gentlemen often speak as you do, Amelie," continued she, "but,
pshaw! they cannot judge as girls do, you know.  But do you really
think me beautiful? and how beautiful?  Compare me to some one we
know."

"I can only compare you to yourself, Angelique.  You are more
beautiful than any one I know," Amelie burst out in frank
enthusiasm.

"But, really and truly, do you think me beautiful, not only in your
eyes, but in the judgment of the world?"

Angelique brushed back her glorious hair and stared fixedly in the
face of her friend, as if seeking confirmation of something in her
own thoughts.

"What a strange question, Angelique!  Why do you ask me in that
way?"

"Because," replied she with bitterness, "I begin to doubt it.  I
have been praised for my good looks until I grow weary of the
iteration; but I believed the lying flattery once,--as what woman
would not, when it is repeated every day of her life?"

Amelie looked sufficiently puzzled.  "What has come over you,
Angelique?  Why should you doubt your own charms? or really, have
you found at last a case in which they fail you?"

Very unlikely, a man would say at first, second, or third sight of
Angelique des Meloises.  She was indeed a fair girl to look upon,--
tall, and fashioned in nature's most voluptuous mould, perfect in
the symmetry of every part, with an ease and beauty of movement not
suggestive of spiritual graces, like Amelie's, but of terrestrial
witcheries, like those great women of old who drew down the very
gods from Olympus, and who in all ages have incited men to the
noblest deeds, or tempted them to the greatest crimes.

She was beautiful of that rare type of beauty which is only
reproduced once or twice in a century to realize the dreams of a
Titian or a Giorgione.  Her complexion was clear and radiant, as of
a descendant of the Sun God.  Her bright hair, if its golden ripples
were shaken out, would reach to her knees.  Her face was worthy of
immortality by the pencil of a Titian.  Her dark eyes drew with a
magnetism which attracted men, in spite of themselves, whithersoever
she would lead them.  They were never so dangerous as when, in
apparent repose, they sheathed their fascination for a moment, and
suddenly shot a backward glance, like a Parthian arrow, from under
their long eyelashes, that left a wound to be sighed over for many a
day.

The spoiled and petted child of the brave, careless Renaud d'Avesne
des Meloises, of an ancient family in the Nivernois, Angelique grew
up a motherless girl, clever above most of her companions, conscious
of superior charms, always admired and flattered, and, since she
left the Convent, worshipped as the idol of the gay gallants of the
city, and the despair and envy of her own sex.  She was a born
sovereign of men, and she felt it.  It was her divine right to be
preferred.  She trod the earth with dainty feet, and a step aspiring
as that of the fair Louise de La Valliere when she danced in the
royal ballet in the forest of Fontainebleau and stole a king's heart
by the flashes of her pretty feet.  Angelique had been indulged by
her father in every caprice, and in the gay world inhaled the
incense of adulation until she regarded it as her right, and
resented passionately when it was withheld.

She was not by nature bad, although vain, selfish, and aspiring.
Her footstool was the hearts of men, and upon it she set hard her
beautiful feet, indifferent to the anguish caused by her capricious
tyranny.  She was cold and calculating under the warm passions of a
voluptuous nature.  Although many might believe they had won the
favor, none felt sure they had gained the love of this fair,
capricious girl.


CHAPTER IV.

CONFIDENCES.


Angelique took the arm of Amelie in her old, familiar schoolgirl
way, and led her to the sunny corner of a bastion where lay a
dismounted cannon.

The girls sat down upon the old gun.  Angelique held Amelie by both
hands, as if hesitating how to express something she wished to say.
Still, when Angelique did speak, it was plain to Amelie that she had
other things on her mind than what her tongue gave loose to.

"Now we are quite alone, Amelie," said she, "we can talk as we used
to do in our school-days.  You have not been in the city during the
whole summer, and have missed all its gaieties?"

"I was well content.  How beautiful the country looks from here!"
replied Amelie.  "How much pleasanter to be in it, revelling among
the flowers and under the trees!  I like to touch the country as
well as to look at it from a distance, as you do in Quebec."

"Well, I never care for the country if I can only get enough of the
city.  Quebec was never so gay as it has been this year.  The Royal
Roussillon, and the freshly arrived regiments of Bearn and Ponthieu,
have turned the heads of all Quebec,--of the girls, that is.
Gallants have been plenty as bilberries in August.  And you may be
sure I got my share, Amelie."  Angelique laughed aloud at some
secret reminiscences of her summer campaign.

"It is well that I did not come to the city, Angelique, to get my
head turned like the rest; but now that I am here, suppose I should
mercifully try to heal some of the hearts you have broken!"

"I hope you won't try.  Those bright eyes of yours would heal too
effectually the wounds made by mine, and that is not what I desire,"
replied Angelique, laughing.

"No! then your heart is more cruel than your eyes.  But, tell me,
who have been your victims this year, Angelique?"

"Well, to be frank, Amelie, I have tried my fascinations upon the
King's officers very impartially, and with fair success.  There
have been three duels, two deaths, and one captain of the Royal
Roussillon turned cordelier for my sake.  Is that not a fair return
for my labor?"

"You are shocking as ever, Angelique!  I do not believe you feel
proud of such triumphs," exclaimed Amelie.

"Proud, no!  I am not proud of conquering men.  That is easy!  My
triumphs are over the women!  And the way to triumph over them is to
subdue the men.  You know my old rival at school, the haughty
Francoise de Lantagnac: I owed her a grudge, and she has put on the
black veil for life, instead of the white one and orange-blossoms
for a day!  I only meant to frighten her, however, when I stole her
lover, but she took it to heart and went into the Convent.  It was
dangerous for her to challenge Angelique des Meloises to test the
fidelity of her affianced, Julien de St. Croix."

Amelie rose up in honest indignation, her cheek burning like a coal
of fire.  "I know your wild talk of old, Angelique, but I will not
believe you are so wicked as to make deadly sport of our holiest
affections."

"Ah, if you knew men as I do, Amelie, you would think it no sin to
punish them for their perjuries."

"No, I don't know men," replied Amelie, "but I think a noble man is,
after God, the worthiest object of a woman's devotion.  We were
better dead than finding amusement in the pain of those who love us;
pray what became of Julien de St. Croix after you broke up his
intended marriage with poor Francoise?"

"Oh! I threw him to the fishes!  What did I care for him?  It was
mainly to punish Francoise's presumption that I showed my power and
made him fight that desperate duel with Captain Le Franc."

"O Angelique, how could you be so unutterably wicked?"

"Wicked?  It was not my fault, you know, that he was killed.  He was
my champion, and ought to have come off victor.  I wore a black
ribbon for him a full half-year, and had the credit of being devoted
to his memory; I had my triumph in that if in nothing else."

"Your triumph! for shame, Angelique!  I will not listen to you: you
profane the very name of love by uttering such sentiments.  The gift
of so much beauty was for blessing, not for pain.  St. Mary pray for
you, Angelique: you need her prayers!"  Amelie rose up suddenly.

"Nay, do not get angry and go off that way, Amelie," ejaculated
Angelique.  "I will do penance for my triumphs by relating my
defeats, and my special failure of all, which I know you will
rejoice to hear."

"I, Angelique?  What have your triumphs or failures to do with me?
No, I care not to hear."  Angelique held her half forcibly by the
scarf.

"But you will care when I tell you that I met an old and valued
friend of yours last night at the Castle--the new Aide-de-Camp of
the Governor, Colonel Philibert.  I think I have heard you speak of
Pierre Philibert in the Convent, Amelie?"

Amelie felt the net thrown over her by the skilful retiaria.  She
stood stock-still in mute surprise, with averted eye and deeply
blushing cheek, fighting desperately with the confusion she feared
to let Angelique detect.  But that keen-sighted girl saw too
clearly--she had caught her fast as a bird is caught by the fowler.

"Yes, I met with a double defeat last night," continued Angelique.

"Indeed! pray, from whom?"  Amelie's curiosity, though not usually a
troublesome quality, was by this time fairly roused.

Angelique saw her drift, and played with her anxiety for a few
moments.

"My first rebuff was from that gentlemanly philosopher from Sweden,
a great friend of the Governor, you know.  But, alas, I might as
well have tried to fascinate an iceberg!  I do not believe that he
knew, after a half-hour's conversation with me, whether I was man or
woman.  That was defeat number one."

"And what was number two?"  Amelie was now thoroughly interested in
Angelique's gossip.

"I left the dry, unappreciative philosopher, and devoted myself to
charm the handsome Colonel Philibert.  He was all wit and courtesy,
but my failure was even more signal with him than with the cold
Swede."

Amelie's eyes gave a sparkle of joy, which did not escape Angelique,
but she pretended not to see it.  "How was that?  Tell me, pray, how
you failed with Colonel Philibert?"

"My cause of failure would not be a lesson for you, Amelie.  Listen!
I got a speedy introduction to Colonel Philibert, who, I confess, is
one of the handsomest men I ever saw.  I was bent on attracting
him."

"For shame, Angelique!  How could you confess to aught so
unwomanly!"  There was a warmth in Amelie's tone that was less
noticed by herself than by her companion.

"Well, it is my way of conquering the King's army.  I shot my whole
quiver of arrows at Colonel Philibert, but, to my chagrin, hit not a
vital part!  He parried every one, and returned them broken at my
feet.  His persistent questioning about yourself, as soon as he
discovered we had been school companions at the Convent, quite
foiled me.  He was full of interest about you, and all that
concerned you, but cared not a fig about me!"

"What could Colonel Philibert have to ask you about me?"  Amelie
unconsciously drew closer to her companion, and even clasped her arm
by an involuntary movement which did not escape her friend.

"Why, he asked everything a gentleman could, with proper respect,
ask about a lady."

"And what did you say?"

"Oh, not half enough to content him.  I confess I felt piqued that
he only looked on me as a sort of pythoness to solve enigmas about
you.  I had a grim satisfaction in leaving his curiosity irritated,
but not satisfied.  I praised your beauty, goodness, and cleverness
up to the skies, however.  I was not untrue to old friendship,
Amelie!"  Angelique kissed her friend on the cheek, who silently
allowed what, in her indignation a few moments ago, she would have
refused.

"But what said Colonel Philibert of himself?  Never mind about me."

"Oh, impatient that you are!  He said nothing of himself.  He was
absorbed in my stories concerning you.  I told him as pretty a fable
as La Fontaine related of the Avare qui avait perdu son tresor!  I
said you were a beautiful chatelaine besieged by an army of lovers,
but the knight errant Fortunatus had alone won your favor, and would
receive your hand!  The brave Colonel!  I could see he winced at
this.  His steel cuirass was not invulnerable.  I drew blood, which
is more than you would have dared to do, Amelie!  But I discovered
the truth hidden in his heart.  He is in love with you, Amelie de
Repentigny!"

"Mad girl!  How could you?  How dare you speak so of me?  What must
Colonel Philibert think?"

"Think?  He thinks you must be the most perfect of your sex!  Why,
his mind was made up about you, Amelie, before he said a word to me.
Indeed, he only just wanted to enjoy the supernal pleasure of
hearing me sing the praises of Amelie De Repentigny to the tune
composed by himself."

"Which you seem to have done, Angelique!"

"As musically as Mere St. Borgia when singing vespers in the
Ursulines," was Angelique's flippant reply.

Amelie knew how useless it was to expostulate.  She swallowed her
mingled pleasure and vexation salt with tears she could not help.
She changed the subject by a violent wrench, and asked Angelique
when she had last seen Le Gardeur.

"At the Intendant's levee the other day.  How like you he is, too,
only less amiable!"

Angelique did not respond readily to her friend's question about her
brother.

"Less amiable? that is not like my brother.  Why do you think him
less amiable than me?"

"Because he got angry with me at the ball given in honor of the
arrival of the Intendant, and I have not been able to restore him to
perfect good humor with me since."

"Oh, then Le Gardeur completes the trio of those who are proof
against your fascinations?"  Amelie was secretly glad to hear of the
displeasure of Le Gardeur with Angelique."

"Not at all, I hope, Amelie.  I don't place Le Gardeur in the same
category with my other admirers.  But he got offended because I
seemed to neglect him a little to cultivate this gay new Intendant.
Do you know him?"

"No; nor wish to!  I have heard much said to his disadvantage.  The
Chevalier La Corne St. Luc has openly expressed his dislike of the
Intendant for something that happened in Acadia."

"Oh, the Chevalier La Corne is always so decided in his likes and
dislikes: one must either be very good or very bad to satisfy him!"
replied Angelique with a scornful pout of her lips."

"Don't speak ill of my godfather, Angelique; better be profane on
any other topic: you know my ideal of manly virtues is the Chevalier
La Corne," replied Amelie.

"Well, I won't pull down your idol, then!  I respect the brave old
soldier, too; but could wish him with the army in Flanders!"

"Thousands of estimable people augur ill from the accession of the
Intendant Bigot in New France, besides the Chevalier La Corne,"
Amelie said after a pause.  She disliked censuring even the
Intendant.

"Yes," replied Angelique, "the Honnetes Gens do, who think
themselves bound to oppose the Intendant, because he uses the royal
authority in a regal way, and makes every one, high and low, do
their devoir to Church and State."

"While he does his devoir to none!  But I am no politician,
Angelique.  But when so many good people call the Intendant a bad
man, it behooves one to be circumspect in 'cultivating him,' as you
call it."

"Well, he is rich enough to pay for all the broken pots: they say he
amassed untold wealth in Acadia, Amelie!"

"And lost the province for the king!" retorted Amelie, with all the
asperity her gentle but patriotic spirit was capable of.  "Some say
he sold the country."

"I don't care!" replied the reckless beauty, "he is like Joseph in
Egypt, next to Pharaoh in authority.  He can shoe his horses with
gold!  I wish he would shoe me with golden slippers--I would wear
them, Amelie!"

Angelique stamped her dainty foot upon the ground, as if in fancy
she already had them on.

"It is shocking if you mean it!" remarked Amelie pityingly, for she
felt Angelique was speaking her genuine thoughts.  "But is it true
that the Intendant is really as dissolute as rumor says?"

"I don't care if it be true: he is noble, gallant, polite, rich, and
all-powerful at Court.  He is reported to be prime favorite of the
Marquise de Pompadour.  What more do I want?" replied Angelique
warmly.

Amelie knew enough by report of the French Court to cause her to
shrink instinctively, as from a repulsive insect, at the name of the
mistress of Louis XV.  She trembled at the thought of Angelique's
infatuation, or perversity, in suffering herself to be attracted by
the glitter of the vices of the Royal Intendant.

"Angelique!" exclaimed she, "I have heard things of the Intendant
that would make me tremble for you, were you in earnest."

"But I am in earnest!  I mean to win and wear the Intendant of New
France, to show my superiority over the whole bevy of beauties
competing for his hand.  There is not a girl in Quebec but would run
away with him tomorrow."

"Fie, Angelique! such a libel upon our sex!  You know better.  But
you cannot love him?"

"Love him?  No!"  Angelique repeated the denial scornfully.  "Love
him!  I never thought of love and him together!  He is not handsome,
like your brother Le Gardeur, who is my beau-ideal of a man I could
love; nor has the intellect and nobility of Colonel Philibert, who
is my model of a heroic man.  I could love such men as them.  But my
ambition would not be content with less than a governor or royal
intendant in New France.  In old France I would not put up with less
than the King himself!"

Angelique laughed at her own extravagance, but she believed in it
all the same.  Amelie, though shocked at her wildness, could not
help smiling at her folly.

"Have you done raving?" said she; "I have no right to question your
selection of a lover or doubt your power, Angelique.  But are you
sure there exists no insurmountable obstacle to oppose these high
aspirations?  It is whispered that the Intendant has a wife, whom he
keeps in the seclusion of Beaumanoir.  Is that true?"

The words burnt like fire.  Angelique's eyes flashed out daggers.
She clenched her delicate hands until her nails drew blood from her
velvet palms.  Her frame quivered with suppressed passion.  She
grasped her companion fiercely by the arm, exclaiming,--"You have
hit the secret now, Amelie!  It was to speak of that I sought you
out this morning, for I know you are wise, discreet, and every way
better than I.  It is all true what I have said, and more too,
Amelie.  Listen!  The Intendant has made love to me with pointed
gallantry that could have no other meaning but that he honorably
sought my hand.  He has made me talked of and hated by my own sex,
who envied his preference of me.  I was living in the most gorgeous
of fool's paradises, when a bird brought to my ear the astounding
news that a woman, beautiful as Diana, had been found in the forest
of Beaumanoir by some Hurons of Lorette, who were out hunting with
the Intendant.  She was accompanied by a few Indians of a strange
tribe, the Abenaquais of Acadia.  The woman was utterly exhausted by
fatigue, and lay asleep on a couch of dry leaves under a tree, when
the astonished Hurons led the Intendant to the spot where she lay.

"Don't interrupt me, Amelie; I see you are amazed, but let me go
on!"  She held the hands of her companion firmly in her lap as she
proceeded:

"The Intendant was startled out of all composure at the apparition
of the sleeping lady.  He spoke eagerly to the Abenaquais in their
own tongue, which was unintelligible to the Hurons.  When he had
listened to a few words of their explanation, he ran hastily to the
lady, kissed her, called her by name, 'Caroline!'  She woke up
suddenly, and recognizing the Intendant, embraced him, crying
'Francois! 'Francois!' and fainted in his arms.

"The Chevalier was profoundly agitated, blessing and banning, in the
same breath, the fortune that had led her to him.  He gave her wine,
restored her to consciousness, talked with her long, and sometimes
angrily; but to no avail, for the woman, in accents of despair,
exclaimed in French, which the Hurons understood, that the Intendant
might kill and bury her there, but she would never, never return
home any more."

Angelique scarcely took breath as she continued her eager recital.

"The Intendant, overpowered either by love of her or fear of her,
ceased his remonstrances.  He gave some pieces of gold to the
Abenaquais, and dismissed them.  The strange Indians kissed her on
both hands as they would a queen, and with many adieus vanished into
the forest.  The lady, attended by Bigot, remained seated under the
tree till nightfall, when he conducted her secretly to the Chateau,
where she still remains in perfect seclusion in a secret chamber,
they say, and has been seen by none save one or two of the
Intendant's most intimate companions."

"Heavens! what a tale of romance!  How learned you all this,
Angelique?" exclaimed Amelie, who had listened with breathless
attention to the narrative.

"Oh, partly from a hint from a Huron girl, and the rest from the
Intendant's Secretary.  Men cannot keep secrets that women are
interested in knowing!  I could make De Pean talk the Intendant's
head off his shoulders, if I had him an hour in my confessional.
But all my ingenuity could not extract from him what he did not
know--who that mysterious lady is, her name and family."

"Could the Huron hunters give no guess?" asked Amelie, thoroughly
interested in Angelique's story.

"No.  They learned by signs, however, from the Abenaquais, that she
was a lady of a noble family in Acadia which had mingled its
patrician blood with that of the native chiefs and possessors of the
soil.  The Abenaquais were chary of their information, however: they
would only say she was a great white lady, and as good as any saint
in the calendar."

"I would give five years of my life to know who and what that woman
is!" Angelique added, as she leaned over the parapet, gazing
intently at the great forest that lay beyond Charlebourg, in which
was concealed the Chateau of Beaumanoir."

"It is a strange mystery.  But I would not seek to unravel it,
Angelique," remarked Amelie, "I feel there is sin in it.  Do not
touch it: it will only bring mischief upon you if you do!"

"Mischief!  So be it!  But I will know the worst!  The Intendant is
deceiving me!  Woe be to him and her if I am to be their intended
victim!  Will you not assist me, Amelie, to discover the truth of
this secret?"

"I? how can I?  I pity you, Angelique, but it were better to leave
this Intendant to his own devices."

"You can very easily help me if you will.  Le Gardeur must know this
secret.  He must have seen the woman--but he is angry with me, for--
for--slighting him--as he thinks--but he was wrong.  I could not
avow to him my jealousy in this matter.  He told me just enough to
madden me, and angrily refused to tell the rest when he saw me so
infatuated--he called it--over other people's love affairs.  Oh,
Amelie, Le Gardeur will tell you all if you ask him!"

"And I repeat it to you, Angelique, I cannot question Le Gardeur on
such a hateful topic.  At any rate I need time to reflect, and will
pray to be guided right."

"Oh, pray not at all!  If you pray you will never aid me!  I know
you will say the end is wicked and the means dishonorable.  But find
out I will--and speedily!  It will only be the price of another
dance with the Chevalier de Pean, to discover all I want.  What
fools men are when they believe we love them for their sakes and
not for our own!"

Amelie, pitying the wild humors, as she regarded them, of her old
school companion, took her arm to walk to and fro in the bastion,
but was not sorry to see her aunt and the Bishop and Father de Berey
approaching.

"Quick," said she to Angelique, "smooth your hair, and compose your
looks.  Here comes my aunt and the Bishop--Father de Berey too!"

Angelique prepared at once to meet them, and with her wonderful
power of adaptation transformed herself in a moment into a merry
creature, all light and gaiety.  She saluted the Lady de Tilly and
the reverend Bishop in the frankest manner, and at once accepted an
interchange of wit and laughter with Father de Berey.

"She could not remain long, however, in the Church's company," she
said, "she had her morning calls to finish."  She kissed the cheek
of Amelie and the hand of the Lady de Tilly, and with a coquettish
courtesy to the gentlemen, leaped nimbly into her caleche, whirled
round her spirited horses like a practised charioteer, and drove
with rapid pace down the crowded street of St. John, the observed of
all observers, the admiration of the men and the envy of the women
as she flashed by.

Amelie and the Lady de Tilly, having seen a plenteous meal
distributed among their people, proceeded to their city home--their
seigniorial residence, when they chose to live in the capital.


CHAPTER V.

THE ITINERANT NOTARY.


Master Jean Le Nocher the sturdy ferryman's patience had been
severely tried for a few days back, passing the troops of habitans
over the St. Charles to the city of Quebec.  Being on the King's
corvee, they claimed the privilege of all persons in the royal
service: they travelled toll-free, and paid Jean with a nod or a
jest in place of the small coin which that worthy used to exact on
ordinary occasions.

This morning had begun auspiciously for Jean's temper however.  A
King's officer, on a gray charger, had just crossed the ferry; and
without claiming the exemption from toll which was the right of all
wearing the King's uniform, the officer had paid Jean more than his
fee in solid coin and rode on his way, after a few kind words to the
ferryman and a polite salute to his wife Babet, who stood courtesying
at the door of their cottage.

"A noble gentleman that, and a real one!" exclaimed Jean, to his
buxom, pretty wife, "and as generous as a prince!  See what he has
given me."  Jean flipped up a piece of silver admiringly, and then
threw it into the apron of Babet, which she spread out to catch it.

Babet rubbed the silver piece caressingly between her fingers and
upon her cheek.  "It is easy to see that handsome officer is from
the Castle," said Babet, "and not from the Palace--and so nice-
looking he is too, with such a sparkle in his eye and a pleasant
smile on his mouth.  He is as good as he looks, or I am no judge of
men."

"And you are an excellent judge of men, I know, Babet," he replied,
"or you would never have taken me!"  Jean chuckled richly over his
own wit, which Babet nodded lively approval to.  "Yes, I know a hawk
from a handsaw," replied Babet, "and a woman who is as wise as that
will never mistake a gentleman, Jean!  I have not seen a handsomer
officer than that in seven years!"

"He is a pretty fellow enough, I dare say, Babet; who can he be?  He
rides like a field-marshal too, and that gray horse has ginger in
his heels!" remarked Jean, as the officer was riding at a rapid
gallop up the long, white road of Charlebourg.  "He is going to
Beaumanoir, belike, to see the Royal Intendant, who has not returned
yet from his hunting party."

"Whither they went three days ago, to enjoy themselves in the chase
and drink themselves blind in the Chateau while everybody else is
summoned to the city to work upon the walls!" replied Babet,
scornfully.  "I'll be bound that officer has gone to order the gay
gallants of the Friponne back to the city to take their share of
work with honest people."

"Ah! the Friponne!  The Friponne!" ejaculated Jean.  "The foul fiend
fly away with the Friponne!  My ferryboat is laden every day with
the curses of the habitans returning from the Friponne, where they
cheat worse than a Basque pedler, and without a grain of his
politeness!"

The Friponne, as it was styled in popular parlance, was the immense
magazine established by the Grand Company of Traders in New France.
It claimed a monopoly in the purchase and sale of all imports and
exports in the Colony.  Its privileges were based upon royal
ordinances and decrees of the Intendant, and its rights enforced in
the most arbitrary manner--and to the prejudice of every other
mercantile interest in the Colony.  As a natural consequence it
was cordially hated, and richly deserved the maledictions which
generally accompanied the mention of the Friponne--the swindle--a
rough and ready epithet which sufficiently indicated the feeling of
the people whom it at once cheated and oppressed.

"They say, Jean," continued Babet, her mind running in a very
practical and womanly way upon the price of commodities and good
bargains, "they say, Jean, that the Bourgeois Philibert will not
give in like the other merchants.  He sets the Intendant at
defiance, and continues to buy and sell in his own comptoir as he
has always done, in spite of the Friponne."

"Yes, Babet! that is what they say.  But I would rather he stood in
his own shoes than I in them if he is to fight this Intendant--who
is a Tartar, they say."

"Pshaw, Jean! you have less courage than a woman.  All the women are
on the side of the good Bourgeois: he is an honest merchant--sells
cheap, and cheats nobody!"  Babet looked down very complacently upon
her new gown, which had been purchased at a great bargain at the
magazine of the Bourgeois.  She felt rather the more inclined to
take this view of the question inasmuch as Jean had grumbled, just a
little--he would not do more--at his wife's vanity in buying a gay
dress of French fabric, like a city dame, while all the women of the
parish were wearing homespun,--grogram, or linsey-woolsey,--whether
at church or market.

Jean had not the heart to say another word to Babet about the French
gown.  In truth, he thought she looked very pretty in it, better
than in grogram or in linsey-woolsey, although at double the cost.
He only winked knowingly at Babet, and went on to speaking of the
Bourgeois.

"They say the King has long hands, but this Intendant has claws
longer than Satan.  There will be trouble by and by at the Golden
Dog--mark that, Babet!  It was only the other day the Intendant was
conversing with the Sieur Cadet as they crossed the ferry.  They
forgot me, or thought I did not hear them; but I had my ears open,
as I always have.  I heard something said, and I hope no harm, will
come to the good Bourgeois, that is all!"

"I don't know where Christian folk would deal if anything happened
him," said Babet, reflectively.  "We always get civility and good
pennyworths at the Golden Dog.  Some of the lying cheats of the
Friponne talked in my hearing one day about his being a Huguenot.
But how can that be, Jean, when he gives the best weight and the
longest measure of any merchant in Quebec?  Religion is a just yard
wand, that is my belief, Jean!"

Jean rubbed his head with a perplexed air.  "I do not know whether
he be a Huguenot, nor what a Huguenot is.  The Cure one day said he
was a Jansenist on all fours, which I suppose is the same thing,
Babet--and it does not concern either you or me.  But a merchant who
is a gentleman and kind to poor folk, and gives just measure and
honest weight, speaks truth and harms nobody, is Christian enough
for me.  A bishop could not trade more honestly; and the word of the
Bourgeois is as reliable as a king's."

"The Cure may call the Bourgeois what he likes," replied Babet, "but
there is not another Christian in the city if the good Bourgeois be
not one; and next the Church there is not a house in Quebec better
known or better liked by all the habitans, than the Golden Dog; and
such bargains too, as one gets there!"

"Ay, Babet! a good bargain settles many a knotty point with a
woman."

"And with a man too, if he is wise enough to let his wife do his
marketing, as you do, Jean!  But whom have we here?"  Babet set her
arms akimbo and gazed.

A number of hardy fellows came down towards the ferry to seek a
passage.

"They are honest habitans of St. Anne," replied Jean.  "I know them;
they too are on the King's corvee, and travel free, every man of
them!  So I must cry Vive le Roi! and pass them over to the city.
It is like a holiday when one works for nothing!"

Jean stepped nimbly into his boat, followed by the rough country
fellows, who amused themselves by joking at Jean Le Nocher's
increasing trade and the need of putting on an extra boat these
stirring times.  Jean put a good face upon it, laughed, and retorted
their quips, and plying his oars, stoutly performed his part in the
King's corvee by safely landing them on the other shore.

Meantime the officer who had lately crossed the ferry rode rapidly
up the long, straight highway that led up on the side of the
mountain to a cluster of white cottages and an old church,
surmounted by a belfry whose sweet bells were ringing melodiously
in the fresh air of the morning.

The sun was pouring a flood of golden light over the landscape.
The still glittering dewdrops hung upon the trees, shrubs, and long
points of grass by the wayside.  All were dressed with jewels to
greet the rising king of day.

The wide, open fields of meadow, and corn-fields, ripening for
harvest, stretched far away, unbroken by hedge or fence.  Slight
ditches or banks of turf, covered with nests of violets, ferns, and
wild flowers of every hue, separated contiguous fields.  No other
division seemed necessary in the mutual good neighborhood that
prevailed among the colonists, whose fashion of agriculture had been
brought, with many hardy virtues, from the old plains of Normandy.

White-walled, red-roofed cottages, or more substantial farmhouses,
stood conspicuously in the green fields, or peered out of embowering
orchards.  Their casements were open to catch the balmy air, while
in not a few the sound of clattering hoofs on the hard road drew
fair faces to the window or door, to look inquisitively after the
officer wearing the white plume in his military chapeau, as he
dashed by on the gallant gray.

Those who caught sight of him saw a man worth seeing--tall, deep-
chested, and erect.  His Norman features, without being perfect,
were handsome and manly.  Steel-blue eyes, solidly set under a broad
forehead, looked out searchingly yet kindly, while his well-formed
chin and firm lips gave an air of resolution to his whole look that
accorded perfectly with the brave, loyal character of Colonel
Philibert.  He wore the royal uniform.  His auburn hair he wore tied
with a black ribbon.  His good taste discarded perukes and powder,
although very much in fashion in those days.

It was long since he had travelled on the highway of Charlebourg,
and he thoroughly enjoyed the beauty of the road he traversed.  But
behind him, as he knew, lay a magnificent spectacle, the sight of
the great promontory of Quebec, crowned with its glorious
fortifications and replete with the proudest memories of North
America.  More than once the young soldier turned his steed, and
halted a moment or two to survey the scene with enthusiastic
admiration.  It was his native city, and the thought that it was
threatened by the national enemy roused, like an insult offered to
the mother that bore him.  He rode onward, more than ever impatient
of delay, and not till he passed a cluster of elm trees which
reminded him of an adventure of his youth, did the sudden heat pass
away, caused by the thought of the threatened invasion.

Under these trees he remembered that he and his school companion, Le
Gardeur de Repentigny, had once taken refuge during a violent storm.
The tree they stood under was shattered by a thunderbolt.  They were
both stunned for a few minutes, and knew they had had a narrow
escape from death.  Neither of them ever forgot it.

A train of thoughts never long absent from the mind of Philibert
started up vividly at the sight of these trees.  His memory flew
back to Le Gardeur and the Manor House of Tilly, and the fair young
girl who captivated his boyish fancy and filled his youth with
dreams of glorious achievements to win her smiles and do her honor.
Among a thousand pictures of her hung up in his mind and secretly
worshipped he loved that which presented her likeness on that day
when he saved her brother's life and she kissed him in a passion of
joy and gratitude, vowing she would pray for him to the end of her
life.

The imagination of Pierre Philibert had revelled in the romantic
visions that haunt every boy destined to prominence, visions kindled
by the eye of woman and the hope of love.

The world is ruled by such dreams, dreams of impassioned hearts, and
improvisations of warm lips, not by cold words linked in chains of
iron sequence,--by love, not by logic.  The heart with its passions,
not the understanding with its reasoning, sways, in the long run,
the actions of mankind.

Pierre Philibert possessed that rich gift of nature, a creative
imagination, in addition to the solid judgment of a man of sense,
schooled by experience and used to the considerations and
responsibilities of weighty affairs.

His love for Amelie de Repentigny had grown in secret.  Its roots
reached down to the very depths of his being.  It mingled,
consciously or unconsciously, with all his motives and plans of
life, and yet his hopes were not sanguine.  Years of absence, he
remembered, work forgetfulness.  New ties and associations might
have wiped out the memory of him in the mind of a young girl fresh
to society and its delights.  He experienced a disappointment in not
finding her in the city upon his return a few days ago, and the
state of the Colony and the stress of military duty had so far
prevented his renewing his acquaintance with the Manor House of
Tilly.

The old-fashioned hostelry of the Couronne de France, with its high-
pitched roof, pointed gables, and broad gallery, stood directly
opposite the rustic church and tall belfry of Charlebourg, not as a
rival, but as a sort of adjunct to the sacred edifice.  The sign of
the crown, bright with gilding, swung from the low, projecting arm
of a maple-tree, thick with shade and rustling with the beautiful
leaves of the emblem of Canada.  A few rustic seats under the cool
maple were usually occupied, toward the close of the day, or about
the ringing of the Angelus, by a little gathering of parishioners
from the village, talking over the news of the day, the progress of
the war, the ordinances of the Intendant, or the exactions of the
Friponne.

On Sundays, after Mass and Vespers, the habitans of all parts of the
extended parish naturally met and talked over the affairs of the
Fabrique--the value of tithes for the year, the abundance of Easter
eggs, and the weight of the first salmon of the season, which was
always presented to the Cure with the first-fruits of the field, to
ensure the blessing of plenty for the rest of the year.

The Reverend Cure frequently mingled in these discussions.  Seated
in his accustomed armchair, under the shade of the maple in summer,
and in winter by the warm fireside, he defended, ex cathedra, the
rights of the Church, and good-humoredly decided all controversies.
He found his parishioners more amenable to good advice over a mug of
Norman cider and a pipe of native tobacco, under the sign of the
Crown of France, than when he lectured them in his best and most
learned style from the pulpit.

This morning, however, all was very quiet round the old inn.  The
birds were singing, and the bees humming in the pleasant sunshine.
The house looked clean and tidy, and no one was to be seen except
three persons bending over a table, with their heads close together,
deeply absorbed in whatever business they were engaged in.  Two of
these persons were Dame Bedard, the sharp landlady of the Crown of
France, and her no less sharp and pretty daughter, Zoe.  The third
person of the trio was an old, alert-looking little man, writing at
the table as if for very life.  He wore a tattered black robe,
shortened at the knees to facilitate walking, a frizzled wig,
looking as if it had been dressed with a currycomb, a pair of black
breeches, well-patched with various colors; and gamaches of brown
leather, such as the habitans wore, completed his odd attire, and
formed the professional costume of Master Pothier dit Robin, the
travelling notary, one of that not unuseful order of itinerants of
the law which flourished under the old regime in New France.

Upon the table near him stood a black bottle, an empty trencher,
and a thick scatter of crumbs, showing that the old notary had
despatched a hearty breakfast before commencing his present work of
the pen.

A hairy knapsack lay open upon the table near his elbow, disclosing
some bundles of dirty papers tied up with red tape, a tattered
volume or two of the "Coutume de Paris," and little more than the
covers of an odd tome of Pothier, his great namesake and prime
authority in the law.  Some linen, dirty and ragged as his law
papers, was crammed into his knapsack with them.  But that was
neither here nor there in the estimation of the habitans, so long
as his law smelt strong in the nostrils of their opponents in
litigation.  They rather prided themselves upon the roughness of
their travelling notary.

The reputation of Master Pothier dit Robin was, of course, very
great among the habitans, as he travelled from parish to parish and
from seigniory to seigniory, drawing bills and hypothecations,
marriage contracts and last wills and testaments, for the peasantry,
who had a genuine Norman predilection for law and chicanery, and a
respect amounting to veneration for written documents, red tape, and
sealing-wax.  Master Pothier's acuteness in picking holes in the
actes of a rival notary was only surpassed by the elaborate
intricacy of his own, which he boasted, not without reason, would
puzzle the Parliament of Paris, and confound the ingenuity of the
sharpest advocates of Rouen.  Master Pothier's actes were as full of
embryo disputes as a fig is full of seeds, and usually kept all
parties in hot water and litigation for the rest of their days.  If
he did happen now and then to settle a dispute between neighbors, he
made ample amends for it by setting half the rest of the parish by
the ears.

Master Pothier's nose, sharp and fiery as if dipped in red ink,
almost touched the sheet of paper on the table before him, as he
wrote down from the dictation of Dame Bedard the articles of a
marriage contract between her pretty daughter, Zoe, and Antoine La
Chance, the son of a comfortable but keen widow of Beauport.

Dame Bedard had shrewdly availed herself of the presence of Master
Pothier, and in payment of a night's lodging at the Crown of France,
to have him write out the contract of marriage in the absence of
Dame La Chance, the mother of Antoine, who would, of course, object
to the insertion of certain conditions in the contract which Dame
Bedard was quite determined upon as the price of Zoe's hand and
fortune.

"There! Dame Bedard!" cried Master Pothier, sticking the pen behind
his ear, after a magnificent flourish at the last word," there is a
marriage contract fit to espouse King Solomon to the Queen of Sheba!
A dowry of a hundred livres tournoises, two cows, and a feather bed,
bedstead, and chest of linen!  A donation entre vifs!"

"A what?  Master Pothier, now mind! are you sure that is the right
word of the grimoire?" cried Dame Bedard, instinctively perceiving
that here lay the very point of the contract.  "You know I only give
on condition, Master Pothier."

"Oh, yes! trust me, Dame Bedard.  I have made it a donation entre
vifs, revocable pour cause d'ingratitude, if your future son-in-law,
Antoine la Chance, should fail in his duty to you and to Zoe."

"And he won't do his duty to Zoe, unless he does it to me, Master
Pothier.  But are you sure it is strong enough?  Will it hold Dame
La Chance by the foot, so that she cannot revoke her gifts although
I may revoke mine?"

"Hold Dame La Chance by the foot?  It will hold her as fast as a
snapping-turtle does a frog.  In proof of it, see what Ricard says,
page 970; here is the book."  Master Pothier opened his tattered
volume, and held it up to the dame.  She shook her head.

"Thanks, I have mislaid my glasses.  Do you read, please!"

"Most cheerfully, good dame!  A notary must have eyes for everybody--
eyes like a cat's, to see in the dark, and power to draw them in
like a turtle, so that he may see nothing that he does not want to
see."

"Oh, bless the eyes of the notary!" Dame Bedard grew impatient.
"Tell me what the book says about gifts revocable--that is what
concerns me and Zoe."

"Well, here it is, dame: 'Donations stipulated revocable at the
pleasure of the donor are null.  But this condition does not apply
to donations by contract of marriage.'  Bourdon also says--"

"A fig for Bourdon, and all such drones!  I want my gift made
revocable, and Dame La Chance's not!  I know by long experience with
my dear feu Bedard how necessary it is to hold the reins tight over
the men.  Antoine is a good boy, but he will be all the better for a
careful mother-in-law's supervision."

Master Pothier rubbed the top of his wig with his forefinger.

"Are you sure, dame, that Antoine La Chance will wear the bridle
easily?"

"Assuredly!  I should like to see son-in-law of mine who would not!
Besides, Antoine is in the humor just now to refuse nothing for sake
of Zoe.  Have you mentioned the children, Master Pothier?  I do not
intend to let Dame La Chance control the children any more than Zoe
and Antoine."

"I have made you tutrice perpetuelle, as we say in the court, and
here it is," said he, placing the tip of his finger on a certain
line in the document.

Zoe looked down and blushed to her finger-ends.  She presently
rallied, and said with some spirit,--"Never mind them, Master
Pothier!  Don't put them in the contract!  Let Antoine have
something to say about them.  He would take me without a dower, I
know, and time enough to remind him about children when they come."

"Take you without dower!  Zoe Bedard! you must be mad!" exclaimed
the dame, in great heat.  "No girl in New France can marry without a
dower, if it be only a pot and a bedstead!  You forget, too, that
the dower is given, not so much for you, as to keep up the credit of
the family.  As well be married without a ring!  Without a dower,
indeed!"

"Or without a contract written by a notary, signed, sealed, and
delivered!" chimed in Master Pothier.

"Yes, Master Pothier, and I have promised Zoe a three-days wedding,
which will make her the envy of all the parish of Charlebourg.  The
seigneur has consented to give her away in place of her poor defunct
father; and when he does that he is sure to stand godfather for all
the children, with a present for every one of them!  I shall invite
you too, Master Pothier!"

Zoe affected not to hear her mother's remark, although she knew it
all by heart, for it had been dinned into her ears twenty times a
day for weeks, and sooth to say, she liked to hear it, and fully
appreciated the honors to come from the patronage of the seigneur.

Master Pothier pricked up his ears till they fairly raised his wig,
at the prospect of a three days wedding at the Crown of France.  He
began an elaborate reply, when a horse's tramp broke in upon them
and Colonel Philibert wheeled up to the door of the hostelry.

Master Pothier, seeing an officer in the King's uniform, rose on the
instant and saluted him with a profound bow, while Dame Bedard and
Zoe, standing side by side, dropped their lowest courtesy to the
handsome gentleman, as, with woman's glance, they saw in a moment he
was.

Philibert returned their salute courteously, as he halted his horse
in front of Dame Bedard.  "Madame!" said he, "I thought I knew all
roads about Charlebourg, but I have either forgotten or they have
changed the road through the forest to Beaumanoir.  It is surely
altered from what it was."

"Your Honor is right," answered Dame Bedard, "the Intendant has
opened a new road through the forest."  Zoe took the opportunity,
while the officer looked at her mother, to examine his features,
dress, and equipments, from head to foot, and thought him the
handsomest officer she had ever seen.

"I thought it must be so," replied Philibert; "you are the landlady
of the Crown of France, I presume?"  Dame Bedard carried it on her
face as plainly marked as the royal emblem on the sign over her
head.

"Yes, your Honor, I am Widow Bedard, at your service, and, I hope,
keep as good a hostelry as your Honor will find in the Colony.  Will
your Honor alight and take a cup of wine, such as I keep for guests
of quality?"

"Thanks, Madame Bedard, I am in haste: I must find the way to
Beaumanoir.  Can you not furnish me a guide, for I like not to lose
time by missing my way?"

"A guide, sir!  The men are all in the city on the King's corvee;
Zoe could show you the way easily enough."  Zoe twitched her
mother's arm nervously, as a hint not to say too much.  She felt
flattered and fluttered too, at the thought of guiding the strange,
handsome gentleman through the forest, and already the question
shot through her fancy, "What might come of it?  Such things have
happened in stories!"  Poor Zoe! she was for a few seconds
unfaithful to the memory of Antoine La Chance.  But Dame Bedard
settled all surmises by turning to Master Pothier, who stood stiff
and upright as became a limb of the law.  "Here is Master Pothier,
your Honor, who knows every highway and byway in ten seigniories.
He will guide your Honor to Beaumanoir."

"As easy as take a fee or enter a process, your Honor," remarked
Master Pothier, whose odd figure had several times drawn the
criticizing eye of Colonel Philibert.

"A fee! ah! you belong to the law, then, my good friend?  I have
known many advocates--" but Philibert stopped; he was too good-
natured to finish his sentence.

"You never saw one like me, your Honor was going to say?  True, you
never did.  I am Master Pothier dit Robin, the poor travelling
notary, at your Honor's service, ready to draw you a bond, frame an
acte of convention matrimoniale, or write your last will and
testament, with any notary in New France.  I can, moreover, guide
your Honor to Beaumanoir as easy as drink your health in a cup of
Cognac."

Philibert could not but smile at the travelling notary, and thinking
to himself, "too much Cognac at the end of that nose of yours, my
friend!" which, indeed, looked fiery as Bardolph's, with hardly a
spot for a fly to rest his foot upon without burning.

"But how will you go, friend?" asked Philibert, looking down at
Master Pothier's gamaches; "you don't look like a fast walker."

"Oh, your Honor," interrupted Dame Bedard, impatiently, for Zoe had
been twitching her hard to let her go.  "Master Pothier can ride the
old sorrel nag that stands in the stable eating his head off for
want of hire.  Of course your Honor will pay livery?"

"Why, certainly, Madame, and glad to do so!  So Master Pothier make
haste, get the sorrel nag, and let us be off."

"I will be back in the snap of a pen, or in the time Dame Bedard can
draw that cup of Cognac, your Honor."

"Master Pothier is quite a personage, I see," remarked Philibert, as
the old notary shuffled off to saddle the nag.

"Oh, quite, your Honor.  He is the sharpest notary, they say, that
travels the road.  When he gets people into law they never can get
out.  He is so clever, everybody says!  Why, he assures me that even
the Intendant consults him sometimes as they sit eating and drinking
half the night together in the buttery at the Chateau!"

"Really!  I must be careful what I say," replied Philibert,
laughing, "or I shall get into hot water!  But here he comes."

As he spoke, Master Pothier came up, mounted on a raw-boned nag,
lank as the remains of a twenty-years lawsuit.  Zoe, at a hint from
the Colonel, handed him a cup of Cognac, which he quaffed without
breathing, smacking his lips emphatically after it.  He called out
to the landlady,--"Take care of my knapsack, dame!  You had better
burn the house than lose my papers!  Adieu, Zoe! study over the
marriage contract till I return, and I shall be sure of a good
dinner from your pretty hands."

They set off at a round trot.  Colonel Philibert, impatient to reach
Beaumanoir, spurred on for a while, hardly noticing the absurd
figure of his guide, whose legs stuck out like a pair of compasses
beneath his tattered gown, his shaking head threatening dislodgment
to hat and wig, while his elbows churned at every jolt, making play
with the shuffling gait of his spavined and wall-eyed nag.


CHAPTER VI.

BEAUMANOIR.


They rode on in silence.  A little beyond the village of Charlebourg
they suddenly turned into the forest of Beaumanoir, where a well-
beaten track, practicable both for carriages and horses, gave
indications that the resort of visitors to the Chateau was neither
small nor seldom.

The sun's rays scarcely penetrated the sea of verdure overhead.
The ground was thickly strewn with leaves, the memorials of past
summers; and the dark green pines breathed out a resinous odor,
fresh and invigorating to the passing rider.

Colonel Philibert, while his thoughts were for the most part fixed
on the public dangers which led to this hasty visit of his to the
Chateau of Beaumanoir, had still an eye for the beauty of the
forest, and not a squirrel leaping, nor a bird fluttering among the
branches, escaped his notice as he passed by.  Still he rode on
rapidly, and having got fairly into the road, soon outstripped his
guide.

"A crooked road this to Beaumanoir," remarked he at length, drawing
bridle to allow Master Pothier to rejoin him.  "It is as mazy as the
law.  I am fortunate, I am sure, in having a sharp notary like you
to conduct me through it."

"Conduct you!  Your Honor is leading me!  But the road to Beaumanoir
is as intricate as the best case ever drawn up by an itinerant
notary."

"You seldom ride, Master Pothier?" said Philibert, observing his
guide jolting with an audible grunt at every step of his awkward
nag.

"Ride, your Honor!  N--no!  Dame Bedard shall call me plaisant Robin
if she ever tempts me again to mount her livery horse--'if fools
only carried cruppers!' as Panurge says."

"Why, Master Pothier?"  Philibert began to be amused at his odd
guide.

"Why?  Then I should be able to walk to-morrow--that is all!  This
nag will finish me.  Hunc! hanc! hoc!  He is fit to be Satan's tutor
at the seminary!  Hoc! hanc! hunc!  I have not declined my pronouns
since I left my accidence at the High School of Tours--not till to-
day.  Hunc! hanc! hoc!  I shall be jolted to jelly!  Hunc! hanc!
hoc!"

Philibert laughed at the classical reminiscences of his guide; but,
fearing that Pothier might fall off his horse, which he straddled
like a hay-fork, he stopped to allow the worthy notary to recover
his breath and temper.

"I hope the world appreciates your learning and talent, and that it
uses you more gently than that horse of yours," remarked he.

"Oh, your Honor! it is kind of you to rein up by the way.  I find no
fault with the world if it find none with me.  My philosophy is
this, that the world is as men make it."

"As the old saying is,--


    "'To lend, or to spend, or to give in,
       'Tis a very good world that we live in;
      But to borrow, or beg, or get a man's own,
       'Tis the very worst world that ever was known.'


And you consider yourself in the latter category, Master Pothier?"
Philibert spoke doubtingly, for a more self-complacent face than his
companion's he never saw--every wrinkle trembled with mirth; eyes,
cheeks, chin, and brows surrounded that jolly red nose of his like a
group of gay boys round a bonfire.

"Oh, I am content, your Honor!  We notaries are privileged to wear
furred cloaks in the Palais de Justice, and black robes in the
country when we can get them!  Look here at my robe of dignity!"  He
held up the tattered tail of his gown with a ludicrous air.  "The
profession of notary is meat, drink, and lodging: every man's house
is free to me--his bed and board I share, and there is neither
wedding, christening, nor funeral, in ten parishes that can go on
without me.  Governors and intendants flourish and fall, but Jean
Pothier dit Robin, the itinerant notary, lives merrily: men may do
without bread, but they will not live without law--at least, in this
noble, litigious New France of ours."

"Your profession seems quite indispensable, then!" remarked
Philibert.

"Indispensable!  I should think so!  Without proper actes the world
would soon come to an end, as did Adam's happiness in Eden, for want
of a notary."

"A notary, Master Pothier?"

"Yes, your Honor.  It is clear that Adam lost his first estate de
usis et fructibus in the Garden of Eden, simply because there was no
notary to draw up for him an indefeasable lease.  Why, he had not
even a bail a chaptal (a chattel mortgage) over the beasts he had
himself named!"

"Ah!" replied Philibert, smiling, "I thought Adam lost his estate
through a cunning notary who persuaded his wife to break the lease
he held; and poor Adam lost possession because he could not find a
second notary to defend his title."

"Hum! that might be; but judgment went by default, as I have read.
It would be different now; there are notaries, in New France and
Old, capable of beating Lucifer himself in a process for either
soul, body, or estate!  But, thank fortune, we are out of this thick
forest now."

The travellers had reached the other verge of the forest of
Beaumanoir.  A broad plain dotted with clumps of fair trees lay
spread out in a royal domain, overlooked by a steep, wooded
mountain.  A silvery brook crossed by a rustic bridge ran through
the park.  In the centre was a huge cluster of gardens and
patriarchal trees, out of the midst of which rose the steep roof,
chimneys, and gilded vanes, flashing in the sun, of the Chateau of
Beaumanoir.

The Chateau was a long, heavy structure of stone, gabled and pointed
in the style of the preceding century--strong enough for defence,
and elegant enough for the abode of the Royal Intendant of New
France.  It had been built, some four-score years previously, by
the Intendant Jean Talon, as a quiet retreat when tired with the
importunities of friends or the persecution of enemies, or disgusted
with the cold indifference of the Court to his statesmanlike plans
for the colonization of New France.

A short distance from the Chateau rose a tower of rough masonry--
crenellated on top, and loopholed on the sides--which had been built
as a place of defence and refuge during the Indian wars of the
preceding century.  Often had the prowling bands of Iroquois turned
away baffled and dismayed at the sight of the little fortalice
surmounted by a culverin or two, which used to give the alarm of
invasion to the colonists on the slopes of Bourg Royal, and to the
dwellers along the wild banks of the Montmorency.

The tower was now disused and partly dilapidated, but many wonderful
tales existed among the neighboring habitans of a secret passage
that communicated with the vaults of the Chateau; but no one had
ever seen the passage--still less been bold enough to explore it had
they found it, for it was guarded by a loup-garou that was the
terror of children, old and young, as they crowded close together
round the blazing fire on winter nights, and repeated old legends of
Brittany and Normandy, altered to fit the wild scenes of the New
World.

Colonel Philibert and Master Pothier rode up the broad avenue that
led to the Chateau, and halted at the main gate--set in a lofty
hedge of evergreens cut into fantastic shapes, after the fashion of
the Luxembourg.  Within the gate a vast and glowing garden was seen--
all squares, circles, and polygons.  The beds were laden with
flowers shedding delicious odors on the morning air as it floated
by, while the ear was soothed by the hum of bees and the songs of
birds revelling in the bright sunshine.

Above the hedge appeared the tops of heavily-laden fruit-trees
brought from France and planted by Talon--cherries red as the lips
of Breton maidens, plums of Gascony, Norman apples, with pears from
the glorious valleys of the Rhone.  The bending branches were just
transmuting their green unripeness into scarlet, gold, and purple--
the imperial colors of Nature when crowned for the festival of
autumn.

A lofty dove-cote, surmounted by a glittering vane, turning and
flashing with every shift of the wind, stood near the Chateau.
It was the home of a whole colony of snow-white pigeons, which
fluttered in and out of it, wheeled in circles round the tall
chimney-stacks, or strutted, cooing and bowing together, on the
high roof of the Chateau, a picture of innocence and happiness.

But neither happiness nor innocence was suggested by the look of the
Chateau itself, as it stood bathed in bright sunshine.  Its great
doors were close-shut in the face of all the beauty of the world
without.  Its mullioned windows, that should have stood wide open to
let in the radiance and freshness of morning, were closely blinded,
like eyes wickedly shut against God's light that beat upon them,
vainly seeking entrance.

Outside all was still: the song of birds and the rustle of leaves
alone met the ear.  Neither man nor beast was stirring to challenge
Colonel Philibert's approach, but long ere he reached the door of
the Chateau, a din of voices within, a wild medley of shouts, song,
and laughter, a clatter of wine-cups, and pealing notes of violins
struck him with amazement and disgust.  He distinguished drunken
voices singing snatches of bacchanalian songs, while now and then
stentorian mouths called for fresh brimmers, and new toasts were
drunk with uproarious applause.

The Chateau seemed a very pandemonium of riot and revelry, that
prolonged the night into the day, and defied the very order of
nature by its audacious disregard of all decency of time, place, and
circumstance.

"In God's name, what means all this, Master Pothier?" exclaimed
Philibert, as they hastily dismounted and, tying their horses to a
tree, entered the broad walk that led to the terrace.

"That concert going on, your Honor?"--Master Pothier shook his head
to express disapproval, and smiled to express his inborn sympathy
with feasting and good-fellowship--"that, your Honor, is the heel of
the hunt, the hanging up of the antlers of the stag by the gay
chasseurs who are visiting the Intendant!"

"A hunting party, you mean?  To think that men could stand such
brutishness, even to please the Intendant!"

"Stand! your Honor.  I wager my gown that most of the chasseurs are
lying under the table by this time, although by the noise they make
it must be allowed there are some burly fellows upon their legs yet,
who keep the wine flowing like the cow of Montmorency."

"'Tis horrible! 'tis damnable!"  Philibert grew pale with passion
and struck his thigh with his palm, as was his wont when very angry.
"Rioting in drunkenness when the Colony demands the cool head, the
strong arm, and the true heart of every man among us!  Oh, my
country! my dear country! what fate is thine to expect when men
like these are thy rulers?"

"Your Honor must be a stranger in New France or you would not
express such hasty, honest sentiments upon the Intendant's
hospitality.  It is not the fashion, except among plain-spoken
habitans, who always talk downright Norman."  Master Pothier looked
approvingly at Colonel Philibert, who, listening with indignant
ears, scarcely heeded his guide.

"That is a jolly song, your Honor," continued Pothier, waving one
hand in cadence to a ditty in praise of wine, which a loud voice was
heard singing in the Chateau, accompanied by a rousing chorus which
startled the very pigeons on the roof and chimney-stacks.  Colonel
Philibert recognized the song as one he had heard in the Quartier
Latin, during his student life in Paris--he fancied he recognized
the voice also:


     "'Pour des vins de prix
       Vendons tous nos livres!
       C'est pen d'etre gris,
       Amis, soyons ivres!
                    Bon.
       La Faridondaine!
                    Gai.
       La Faridonde!'"


A roar of voices and a clash of glasses followed the refrain.
Master Pothier's eyes winked and blinked in sympathy.  The old
notary stood on tiptoe, with outspread palms, as with ore rotundo
he threw in a few notes of his own to fill up the chorus.

Philibert cast upon his guide a look of scorn, biting his lip
angrily.  "Go," said he, "knock at the door--it needs God's thunder
to break in upon that infamous orgie.  Say that Colonel Philibert
brings orders from His Excellency the Governor to the Chevalier
Intendant."

"And be served with a writ of ejectment!  Pardon me!  Be not angry,
sir," pleaded Pothier supplicatingly, "I dare not knock at the door
when they are at the devil's mass inside.  The valets!  I know them
all!  They would duck me in the brook, or drag me into the hall to
make sport for the Philistines.  And I am not much of a Samson, your
Honor.  I could not pull the Chateau down upon their heads--I wish I
could!"

Master Pothier's fears did not appear ill-grounded to Philibert as a
fresh burst of drunken uproar assailed his ears.  "Wait my return,"
said he, "I will knock on the door myself."  He left his guide, ran
up the broad stone steps, and knocked loudly upon the door again and
again!  He tried it at last, and to his surprise found it unlatched;
he pushed it open, no servitor appearing to admit him.  Colonel
Philibert went boldly in.  A blaze of light almost dazzled his eyes.
The Chateau was lit up with lamps and candelabra in every part.  The
bright rays of the sun beat in vain for admittance upon the closed
doors and blinded windows, but the splendor of midnight oil pervaded
the interior of the stately mansion, making an artificial night that
prolonged the wild orgies of the Intendant into the hours of day.


CHAPTER VII.

THE INTENDANT BIGOT.


The Chateau of Beaumanoir had, since the advent of the Intendant
Bigot, been the scene of many a festive revelry that matched, in
bacchanalian frenzy, the wild orgies of the Regency and the present
debaucheries of Croisy and the petits appartements of Versailles.
Its splendor, its luxury, its riotous feasts lasting without
intermission sometimes for days, were the themes of wonder and
disgust to the unsophisticated people of New France, and of endless
comparison between the extravagance of the Royal Intendant and the
simple manners and inflexible morals of the Governor-General.

The great hall of the Chateau, the scene of the gorgeous feasts of
the Intendant, was brilliantly illuminated with silver lamps,
glowing like globes of sunlight as they hung from the lofty ceiling,
upon which was painted a fresco of the apotheosis of Louis XIV.,
where the Grand Monarque was surrounded by a cloud of Condes,
Orleanois, and Bourbons, of near and more remote consanguinity.  At
the head of the room hung a full-length portrait of Marquise de
Pompadour, the mistress of Louis XV., and the friend and patroness
of the Intendant Bigot; her bold, voluptuous beauty seemed well
fitted to be the presiding genius of his house.  The walls bore many
other paintings of artistic and historic value.  The King and Queen;
the dark-eyed Montespan; the crafty Maintenon; and the pensive
beauty of Louise de la Valliere, the only mistress of Louis XIV. who
loved him for his own sake, and whose portrait, copied from this
picture, may still be seen in the chapel of the Ursulines of Quebec,
where the fair Louise is represented as St. Thais kneeling at prayer
among the nuns.

The table in the great hall, a masterpiece of workmanship, was made
of a dark Canadian wood then newly introduced, and stretched the
length of the hall.  A massive gold epergne of choicest Italian art,
the gift of La Pompadour, stood on the centre of the table.  It
represented Bacchus enthroned on a tun of wine, presenting flowing
cups to a dance of fauns and satyrs.

Silver cups of Venetian sculpture and goblets of Bohemian
manufacture sparkled like stars upon the brilliant table, brimming
over with the gold and ruby vintages of France and Spain; or lay
overturned amid pools of wine that ran down upon the velvet carpet.
Dishes of Parmesan cheese, caviare, and other provocatives to thirst
stood upon the table, amid vases of flowers and baskets of the
choicest fruits of the Antilles.

Round this magnificent table sat a score or more of revellers--in
the garb of gentlemen, but all in disorder and soiled with wine;
their countenances were inflamed, their eyes red and fiery, their
tongues loose and loquacious.  Here and there a vacant or overturned
chair showed where a guest had fallen in the debauch and been
carried off by the valets, who in gorgeous liveries waited on the
table.  A band of musicians sat up in a gallery at the end of the
hall, and filled the pauses of the riotous feast with the ravishing
strains of Lulli and Destouches.

At the head of the table, first in place as in rank, sat Francois
Bigot, Intendant of New France.  His low, well-set figure, dark
hair, small, keen black eyes, and swarthy features full of fire and
animation, bespoke his Gascon blood.  His countenance was far from
comely,--nay, when in repose, even ugly and repulsive,--but his eyes
were magnets that drew men's looks towards him, for in them lay the
force of a powerful will and a depth and subtlety of intellect that
made men fear, if they could not love him.  Yet when he chose--and
it was his usual mood--to exercise his blandishments on men, he
rarely failed to captivate them, while his pleasant wit, courtly
ways, and natural gallantry towards women, exercised with the
polished seductiveness he had learned in the Court of Louis XV.,
made Francois Bigot the most plausible and dangerous man in New
France.

He was fond of wine and music, passionately addicted to gambling,
and devoted to the pleasant vices that were rampant in the Court of
France, finely educated, able in the conduct of affairs, and fertile
in expedients to accomplish his ends.  Francois Bigot might have
saved New France, had he been honest as he was clever; but he was
unprincipled and corrupt: no conscience checked his ambition or his
love of pleasure.  He ruined New France for the sake of himself and
his patroness and the crowd of courtiers and frail beauties who
surrounded the King, whose arts and influence kept him in his high
office despite all the efforts of the Honnetes Gens, the good and
true men of the Colony, to remove him.

He had already ruined and lost the ancient Colony of Acadia, through
his defrauds and malversations as Chief Commissary of the Army, and
instead of trial and punishment, had lately been exalted to the
higher and still more important office of Royal Intendant of New
France.

On the right of the Intendant sat his bosom friend, the Sieur Cadet,
a large, sensual man, with twinkling gray eyes, thick nose, and full
red lips.  His broad face, flushed with wine, glowed like the
harvest moon rising above the horizon.  Cadet had, it was said, been
a butcher in Quebec.  He was now, for the misfortune of his country,
Chief Commissary of the Army and a close confederate of the
Intendant.

On the left of the Intendant sat his Secretary, De Pean, crafty
and unscrupulous, a parasite, too, who flattered his master and
ministered to his pleasures.  De Pean was a military man, and not a
bad soldier in the field; but he loved gain better than glory, and
amassed an enormous fortune out of the impoverishment of his
country.

Le Mercier, too, was there, Commandant of Artillery, a brave
officer, but a bad man; Varin, a proud, arrogant libertine,
Commissary of Montreal, who outdid Bigot in rapine and Cadet in
coarseness; De Breard, Comptroller of the Marine, a worthy associate
of Penisault, whose pinched features and cunning leer were in
keeping with his important office of chief manager of the Friponne.
Perrault, D'Estebe, Morin, and Vergor, all creatures of the
Intendant, swelled the roll of infamy, as partners of the Grand
Company of Associates trading in New France, as their charter named
them--the "Grand Company of Thieves," as the people in their plain
Norman called them who robbed them in the King's name and, under
pretence of maintaining the war, passed the most arbitrary decrees,
the only object of which was to enrich themselves and their higher
patrons at the Court of Versailles.

The rest of the company seated round the table comprised a number of
dissolute seigneurs and gallants of fashion about town--men of great
wants and great extravagance, just the class so quaintly described
by Charlevoix, a quarter of a century previous, as "gentlemen
thoroughly versed in the most elegant and agreeable modes of
spending money, but greatly at a loss how to obtain it."

Among the gay young seigneurs who had been drawn into the vortex of
Bigot's splendid dissipation, was the brave, handsome Le Gardeur de
Repentigny--a captain of the Royal Marine, a Colonial corps recently
embodied at Quebec.  In general form and feature Le Gardeur was a
manly reflex of his beautiful sister Amelie, but his countenance was
marred with traces of debauchery.  His face was inflamed, and his
dark eyes, so like his sister's, by nature tender and true, were now
glittering with the adder tongues of the cursed wine-serpent.

Taking the cue from Bigot, Le Gardeur responded madly to the
challenges to drink from all around him.  Wine was now flooding
every brain, and the table was one scene of riotous debauch.

"Fill up again, Le Gardeur!" exclaimed the Intendant, with a loud
and still clear voice; "the lying clock says it is day--broad day,
but neither cock crows nor day dawns in the Chateau of Beaumanoir,
save at the will of its master and his merry guests!  Fill up,
companions all!  The lamplight in the wine-cup is brighter than the
clearest sun that ever shone!"

"Bravo Bigot! name your toast, and we will pledge it till the seven
stars count fourteen!" replied Le Gardeur, looking hazily at the
great clock in the hall.  "I see four clocks in the room, and every
one of them lies if it says it is day!"

"You are mending, Le Gardeur de Repentigny!  You are worthy to
belong to the Grand Company!  But you shall have my toast.  We have
drank it twenty times already, but it will stand drinking twenty
times more.  It is the best prologue to wine ever devised by wit of
man--a woman--"

"And the best epilogue too, Bigot!" interjected Varin, visibly
drunk; "but let us have the toast, my cup is waiting."

"Well, fill up all, then; and we will drink the health, wealth, and
love by stealth, of the jolliest dame in sunny France--The Marquise
de Pompadour!"

"La Pompadour!  La Pompadour!"  Every tongue repeated the name, the
goblets were drained to the bottoms, and a thunder of applause and
clattering of glasses followed the toast of the mistress of Louis
XV., who was the special protectress of the Grand Company,--a goodly
share of whose profits in the monopoly of trade in New France was
thrown into the lap of the powerful favorite.

"Come, Varin! your turn now!" cried Bigot, turning to the Commissary;
"a toast for Ville Marie!  Merry Montreal! where they eat like rats
of Poitou, and drink till they ring the fire-bells, as the Bordelais
did to welcome the collectors of the gabelle.  The Montrealers have
not rung the fire-bells yet against you, Varin, but they will by and
by!"

Varin filled his cup with an unsteady hand until it ran over, and
propping his body against the table as he stood up, replied, "A
toast for Ville Marie! and our friends in need!--The blue caps of
the Richelieu!"  This was in allusion to a recent ordinance of the
Intendant, authorizing him to seize all the corn in store at
Montreal and in the surrounding country--under pretence of supplying
the army, and really to secure the monopoly of it for the Grand
Company.

The toast was drunk, amid rapturous applause.  "Well said, Varin!"
exclaimed Bigot; "that toast implied both business and pleasure: the
business was to sweep out the granges of the farmers; the pleasure
is to drink in honor of your success."

"My foragers sweep clean!" said Varin, resuming his seat, and
looking under his hand to steady his gaze.  "Better brooms were
never made in Besancon.  The country is swept as clean as a ball-
room.  Your Excellency and the Marquise might lead the dance over
it, and not a straw lie in your way!"

"And did you manage it without a fight, Varin?" asked the Sieur
d'Estebe, with a half sneer.

"Fight!  Why fight?  The habitans will never resist the King's name.
We conjure the devil down with that.  When we skin our eels we don't
begin at the tail!  If we did, the habitans would be like the eels
of Melun--cry out before they were hurt.  No! no! D'Estebe!  We are
more polite in Ville Marie.  We tell them the King's troops need the
corn.  They doff their caps, and with tears in their eyes, say,
'Monsieur le Commissaire, the King can have all we possess, and
ourselves too, if he will only save Canada from the Bostonnais.'
This is better than stealing the honey and killing the bees that
made it, D'Estebe!"

"But what became of the families of the habitans after this swoop of
your foragers?" asked the Seigneur de Beauce, a country gentleman
who retained a few honorable ideas floating on top of the wine he
had swallowed.

"Oh! the families--that is, the women and children, for we took the
men for the army.  You see, De Beauce," replied Varin, with a
mocking air, as he crossed his thumbs like a peasant of Languedoc
when he wishes to inspire belief in his words, "the families have to
do what the gentlemen of Beauce practise in times of scarcity--
breakfast by gaping! or they can eat wind, like the people of
Poitou: it will make them spit clean!"

De Beauce was irritated at the mocking sign and the proverbial
allusion to the gaping of the people of Beauce.  He started up in
wrath, and striking his fist on the table, "Monsieur Varin!" cried
he, "do not cross your thumbs at me, or I will cut them off!  Let me
tell you the gentlemen of Beauce do not breakfast on gaping, but
have plenty of corn to stuff even a Commissary of Montreal!"

The Sieur Le Mercier, at a sign from Bigot, interposed to stop the
rising quarrel.  "Don't mind Varin," said he, whispering to De
Beauce; "he is drunk, and a row will anger the Intendant.  Wait, and
by and by you shall toast Varin as the chief baker of Pharoah, who
got hanged because he stole the King's corn."

"As he deserves to be, for his insult to the gentlemen of Beauce,"
insinuated Bigot, leaning over to his angry guest, at the same time
winking good-humoredly to Varin.  "Come, now, De Beauce, friends
all, amantium irae, you know--which is Latin for love--and I will
sing you a stave in praise of this good wine, which is better than
Bacchus ever drank." The Intendant rose up, and holding a brimming
glass in his hand, chanted in full, musical voice a favorite ditty
of the day, as a ready mode of restoring harmony among the company:


     "'Amis! dans ma bouteille,
       Voila le vin de France!
       C'est le bon vin qui danse ici,
       C'est le bon vin qui danse.
                   Gai lon la!
                   Vive la lirette!
                   Des Filettes
                   Il y en aura!'


Vivent les Filettes!  The girls of Quebec--first in beauty, last in
love, and nowhere in scorn of a gallant worthy of them!" continued
Bigot.  "What say you, De Pean?  Are you not prepared to toast the
belles of Quebec?"

"That I am, your Excellency!"  De Pean was unsteady upon his feet,
as he rose to respond to the Intendant's challenge.  He pot-
valiantly drew his sword, and laid it on the table.  "I will call on
the honorable company to drink this toast on their knees, and there
is my sword to cut the legs off any gentleman who will not kneel
down and drink a full cup to the bright eyes of the belle of Quebec--
The incomparable Angelique des Meloises!"

The toast suited their mood.  Every one filled up his cup in honor
of a beauty so universally admired.

"Kneel down, all," cried the Intendant, "or De Pean will hamstring
us!"  All knelt down with a clash--some of them unable to rise
again.  "We will drink to the Angelique charms of the fair Des
Meloises.  Come now, all together!--as the jolly Dutchmen of Albany
say, 'Upp seys over!'"

Such of the company as were able resumed their seats amid great
laughter and confusion, when the Sieur Deschenaux, a reckless young
gallant, ablaze with wine and excitement, stood up, leaning against
the table.  His fingers dabbled in his wine-cup as he addressed
them, but he did not notice it.

"We have drunk with all the honors," said he, "to the bright eyes of
the belle of Quebec.  I call on every gentleman now, to drink to the
still brighter eyes of the belle of New France!"

"Who is she?  Name! name!" shouted a dozen voices; "who is the belle
of New France?"

"Who is she?  Why, who can she be but the fair Angelique, whom we
have just honored?" replied De Pean, hotly, jealous of any
precedence in that quarter.

"Tut!" cried Deschenaux, "you compare glowworms with evening stars,
when you pretend to match Angelique des Meloises with the lady I
propose to honor!  I call for full brimmers--cardinal's hats--in
honor of the belle of New France--the fair Amelie de Repentigny!"

Le Gardeur de Repentigny was sitting leaning on his elbow, his
face beaming with jollity, as he waited, with a full cup, for
Deschenaux's toast.  But no sooner did he hear the name of his
sister from those lips than he sprang up as though a serpent had
bit him.  He hurled his goblet at the head of Deschenaux with a
fierce imprecation, and drew his sword as he rushed towards him.

"A thousand lightnings strike you!  How dare you pollute that holy
name, Deschenaux?  Retract that toast instantly, or you shall drink
it in blood--retract, I say!"

The guests rose to their feet in terrible uproar.  Le Gardeur
struggled violently to break through a number of those who
interposed between him and Deschenaux, who, roused to frenzy by the
insult from Le Gardeur, had also drawn his sword, and stood ready to
receive the assault of his antagonist.

The Intendant, whose courage and presence of mind never forsook him,
pulled Deschenaux down upon his seat and held fast his sword arm,
shouting in his ear,--

"Are you mad, Deschenaux?  You knew she was his sister, and how he
worships her!  Retract the toast--it was inopportune!  Besides,
recollect we want to win over De Repentigny to the Grand Company!"

Deschenaux struggled for a minute, but the influence of the
Intendant was all-powerful over him.  He gave way.  "Damn De
Repentigny," said he, "I only meant to do honor to the pretty witch.
Who would have expected him to take it up in that manner?"

"Any one who knows him; besides," continued the Intendant, "if you
must toast his sister, wait till we get him body and soul made over
to the Grand Company, and then he will care no more for his sister's
fame than you do for yours."

"But the insult!  He has drawn blood with the goblet," said
Deschenaux, wiping his forehead with his fingers; "I cannot pardon
that!"

"Tut, tut; fight him another day.  But you shall not fight here!
Cadet and Le Mercier have pinned the young Bayard, I see; so you
have a chance to do the honorable; Deschenaux; go to him, retract
the toast, and say you had forgotten the fair lady was his sister."

Deschenaux swallowed his wrath, rose up, and sheathed his sword.
Taking the Intendant by the arm, he went up to Le Gardeur, who was
still trying to advance.  Deschenaux held up his hand deprecatingly.
"Le Gardeur," said he, with an air of apparent contrition, "I was
wrong to offer that toast.  I had forgotten the fair lady was your
sister.  I retract the toast, since it is disagreeable to you,
although all would have been proud to drink it."

Le Gardeur was as hard to appease as he was easy to excite to anger.
He still held his drawn sword in his hand.

"Come!" cried Bigot, "you are as hard to please as Villiers Vendome,
whom the King himself could not satisfy.  Deschenaux says he is
sorry.  A gentleman cannot say more; so shake hands and be friends,
De Repentigny."

Impervious to threats, and often to reason, Le Gardeur could not
resist an appeal to his generosity.

He sheathed his sword, and held out his hand with frank forgiveness.
"Your apology is ample, Sieur Deschenaux.  I am satisfied you meant
no affront to my sister!  It is my weak point, messieurs," continued
he, looking firmly at the company, ready to break out had he
detected the shadow of a sneer upon any one's countenance.  "I honor
her as I do the queen of heaven.  Neither of their names ought to be
spoken here."

"Well said! Le Gardeur," exclaimed the Intendant.  "That's right,
shake hands, and be friends again.  Blessed are quarrels that lead
to reconciliation and the washing out of feuds in wine.  Take your
seats, gentlemen."

There was a general scramble back to the table.  Bigot stood up in
renewed force.

"Valets!" cried he, "bring in now the largest cups!  We will drink a
toast five fathoms deep, in water of life strong enough to melt
Cleopatra's pearls, and to a jollier dame than Egypt's queen.  But
first we will make Le Gardeur de Repentigny free of the guild of
noble partners of the company of adventurers trading in New France."

The valets flew in and out.  In a few moments the table was
replenished with huge drinking-cups, silver flagons, and all the
heavy impedimenta of the army of Bacchus.

"You are willing to become one of us, and enter the jolly guild of
the Grand Company?" exclaimed the Intendant, taking Le Gardeur by
the hand.

"Yes, I am a stranger, and you may take me in.  I claim admission,"
replied Le Gardeur with drunken gravity, "and by St. Pigot! I will
be true to the guild!"

Bigot kissed him on both cheeks.  "By the boot of St. Benoit! you
speak like the King of Yvetot.  Le Gardeur de Repentigny, you are
fit to wear fur in the Court of Burgundy."

"You can measure my foot, Bigot," replied Le Gardeur, "and satisfy
the company that I am able to wear the boot of St. Benoit."

"By jolly St. Chinon! and you shall wear it, Le Gardeur," exclaimed
Bigot, handing him a quart flagon of wine, which Le Gardeur drank
without drawing breath.  "That boot fits," shouted the Intendant
exultingly; "now for the chant!  I will lead.  Stop the breath of
any one who will not join in the chorus."

The Intendant in great voice led off a macaronic verse of Moliere,
that had often made merry the orgies of Versailles:


     "'Bene, bene, bene, respondere!
       Dignus, dignus es, entrare
       In nostro laeto corpore!'"


A tintamarre of voices and a jingle of glasses accompanied the
violins and tambours de Basque as the company stood up and sang the
song, winding up with a grand burst at the chorus:


     "'Vivat! vivat! vivat! cent fois vivat!
       Novus socius qui tam bene parlat!
       Mille mille annis et manget et bibat,
       Fripet et friponnat!'"


Hands were shaken all round, congratulations, embracings, and filthy
kisses showered upon Le Gardeur to honor his admission as a partner
of the Grand Company.

"And now," continued Bigot, "we will drink a draught long as the
bell rope of Notre Dame.  Fill up brimmers of the quintessence of
the grape, and drain them dry in honor of the Friponne!"

The name was electric.  It was, in the country, a word of
opprobrium, but at Beaumanoir it was laughed at with true Gallic
nonchalance.  Indeed, to show their scorn of public opinion, the
Grand Company had lately launched a new ship upon the Great Lakes to
carry on the fur trade, and had appropriately and mockingly named
her, "La Friponne."

The toast of La Friponne was drunk with applause, followed by a wild
bacchanalian song.

The Sieur Morin had been a merchant in Bordeaux whose bond was held
in as little value as his word.  He had lately removed to New
France, transferred the bulk of his merchandise to the Friponne,
and become an active agent of the Grand Company.

"La Friponne!" cried he; "I have drunk success to her with all my
heart and throat; but I say she will never wear a night-cap and
sleep quietly in our arms until we muzzle the Golden Dog that barks
by night and by day in the Rue Buade."

"That is true, Morin!", interrupted Varin.  "The Grand Company will
never know peace until we send the Bourgeois, his master, back to
the Bastille.  The Golden Dog is--"

"Damn the Golden Dog!" exclaimed Bigot, passionately.  "Why do you
utter his name, Varin, to sour our wine?  I hope one day to pull
down the Dog, as well as the whole kennel of the insolent
Bourgeois."  Then, as was his wont, concealing his feelings under a
mocking gibe, "Varin," said he, "they say that it is your marrow
bone the Golden Dog is gnawing--ha! ha! ha!"

"More people believe it is your Excellency's!"  Varin knew he was
right, but aware of Bigot's touchiness on that point, added, as is
the wont of panders to great men, "It is either yours or the
Cardinal's."

"Let it be the Cardinal's, then!  He is still in purgatory, and
there will wait the arrival of the Bourgeois, to balance accounts
with him."

Bigot hated the Bourgeois Philibert as one hates the man he has
injured.  Bigot had been instrumental in his banishment years ago
from France, when the bold Norman count defended the persecuted
Jansenists in the Parliament of Rouen.  The Intendant hated him now
for his wealth and prosperity in New France.  But his wrath turned
to fury when he saw the tablet of the Golden Dog, with its taunting
inscription, glaring upon the front of the magazine in the Rue
Buade.  Bigot felt the full meaning and significance of the words
that burned into his soul, and for which he hoped one day to be
revenged.

"Confusion to the whole litter of the Golden Dog, and that is the
party of the Honnetes Gens!" cried he.  "But for that canting savant
who plays the Governor here, I would pull down the sign and hang its
master up in its stead to-morrow!"

The company now grew still more hilarious and noisy in their cups.
Few paid attention to what the Intendant was saying.  But De
Repentigny heard him utter the words, "Oh, for men who dare do men's
deeds!"  He caught the eye of De Repentigny, and added, "But we are
all cowards in the Grand Company, and are afraid of the Bourgeois."

The wine was bubbling in the brain of Le Gardeur.  He scarcely knew
what the Intendant said, but he caught the last words.

"Whom do you call cowards, Chevalier?  I have joined the Grand
Company.  If the rest are cowards, I am not: I stand ready to pluck
the peruke off the head of any man in New France, and carry it on my
sword to the Place d' Armes, where I will challenge all the world to
come and take it!"

"Pish! that is nothing! give me man's work.  I want to see the
partner in the Grand Company who dare pull down the Golden Dog."

"I dare! and I dare!" exclaimed a dozen voices at once in response
to the appeal of the Intendant, who craftily meant his challenge to
ensnare only Le Gardeur.

"And I dare; and I will, too, if you wish it, Chevalier!" shouted Le
Gardeur, mad with wine, and quite oblivious of the thousand claims
of the father of his friend, Pierre Philibert, upon him.

"I take you at your word, Le Gardeur! and bind your honor to it in
the presence of all these gentlemen," said Bigot with a look of
intense satisfaction.

"When shall it be done--to-day?" Le Gardeur seemed ready to pluck
the moon from the sky in his present state of ecstasy.

"Why, no, not to-day; not before the pear is ripe will we pluck it!
Your word of honor will keep till then?"

Bigot was in great glee over the success of his stratagem to entrap
De Repentigny.

"It will keep a thousand years!" replied Le Gardeur, amid a fresh
outburst of merriment round the board which culminated in a
shameless song, fit only for a revel of satyrs.

The Sieur Cadet lolled lazily in his chair, his eyes blinking with a
sleepy leer.  "We are getting stupidly drunk.  Bigot," said he; "we
want something new to rouse us all to fresh life.  Will you let me
offer a toast?"

"Go on, Cadet! offer what toast you please.  There is nothing in
heaven, hell, or upon earth that I won't drink to for your sake."

"I want you to drink it on your knees, Bigot! pledge me that, and
fill your biggest cup."

"We will drink it on all fours if you like! come, out with your
toast, Cadet; you are as long over it as Father Glapion's sermon in
Lent! and it will be as interesting, I dare say!"

"Well, Chevalier, the Grand Company, after toasting all the beauties
of Quebec, desire to drink the health of the fair mistress of
Beaumanoir, and in her presence too!" said Cadet with owlish
gravity.

Bigot started; drunk and reckless as he was, he did not like his
secret to be divulged.  He was angry with Cadet for referring to it
in the presence of so many who knew not that a strange lady was
residing at Beaumanoir.  He was too thoroughly a libertine of the
period to feel any moral compunction for any excess he committed.
He was habitually more ready to glory over his conquests, than to
deny or extenuate them.  But in this case he had, to the surprise of
Cadet, been very reticent, and shy of speaking of this lady even to
him.

"They say she is a miracle of beauty, Bigot!" continued Cadet, "and
that you are so jealous of the charms of your belle Gabrielle that
you are afraid to show her to your best friends."

"My belle Gabrielle is at liberty to go where she pleases, Cadet!"
Bigot saw the absurdity of anger, but he felt it, nevertheless.
"She chooses not to leave her bower, to look even on you, Cadet!  I
warrant you she has not slept all night, listening to your infernal
din."

"Then, I hope you will allow us to go and beg pardon on our knees
for disturbing her rest.  What say the good company?"

"Agreed, agreed!" was the general response, and all pressed the
Intendant vociferously to allow them to see the fair mistress of
Beaumanoir.

Varin, however, proposed that she should be brought into the hall.
"Send her to us, O King," cried he; "we are nobles of Persia, and
this is Shushan the palace, where we carouse according to the law of
the Medes, seven days at a stretch.  Let the King bring in Queen
Vashti, to show her beauty to the princes and nobles of his court!"

Bigot, too full of wine to weigh scruples, yielded to the wish of
his boon companions.  He rose from his chair, which in his absence
was taken by Cadet.  "Mind!" said he, "if I bring her in, you shall
show her every respect."

"We will kiss the dust of her feet," answered Cadet, "and consider
you the greatest king of a feast in New France or Old."

Bigot, without further parley, passed out of the hall, traversed a
long corridor and entered an anteroom, where he found Dame Tremblay,
the old housekeeper, dozing on her chair.  He roused her up, and
bade her go to the inner chamber to summon her mistress.

The housekeeper rose in a moment at the voice of the Intendant.  She
was a comely dame, with a ruddy cheek, and an eye in her head that
looked inquisitively at her master as she arranged her cap and threw
back her rather gay ribbons.

"I want your mistress up in the great hall!  Go summon her at once,"
repeated the Intendant.

The housekeeper courtesied, but pressed her lips together as if to
prevent them from speaking in remonstrance.  She went at once on her
ungracious errand.


CHAPTER VIII.

CAROLINE DE ST. CASTIN.


Dame Tremblay entered the suite of apartments and returned in a few
moments, saying that her lady was not there, but had gone down to
the secret chamber, to be, she supposed, more out of hearing of the
noise, which had disturbed her so much.

"I will go find her then," replied the Intendant; "you may return to
your own room, dame."

He walked across the drawing-room to one of the gorgeous panels that
decorated the wall, and touched a hidden spring.  A door flew open,
disclosing a stair heavily carpeted that led down to the huge
vaulted foundations of the Chateau.

He descended the stair with hasty though unsteady steps.  It led to
a spacious room, lighted with a gorgeous lamp that hung pendant in
silver chains from the frescoed ceiling.  The walls were richly
tapestried with products of the looms of the Gobelins, representing
the plains of Italy filled with sunshine, where groves, temples, and
colonnades were pictured in endless vistas of beauty.  The furniture
of the chamber was of regal magnificence.  Nothing that luxury could
desire, or art furnish, had been spared in its adornment.  On a sofa
lay a guitar, and beside it a scarf and a dainty glove fit for the
hand of the fairy queen.

The Intendant looked eagerly round, as he entered this bright
chamber of his fancy, but saw not its expected occupant.  A recess
in the deep wall at the farthest side of the room contained an
oratory with an altar and a crucifix upon it.  The recess was partly
in the shade.  But the eyes of the Intendant discerned clearly
enough the kneeling, or rather the prostrate, figure of Caroline de
St. Castin.  Her hands were clasped beneath her head, which was
bowed to the ground.  Her long, black hair lay dishevelled over her
back, as she lay in her white robe like the Angel of Sorrow, weeping
and crying from the depths of her broken heart, "Lamb of God, that
taketh away the sins of the world, have mercy upon me!"  She was so
absorbed in her grief that she did not notice the entrance of the
Intendant.

Bigot stood still for a moment, stricken with awe at the spectacle
of this lovely woman weeping by herself in the secret chamber.  A
look of something like pity stole into his eyes; he called her by
name, ran to her, assisted her to rise, which she did, slowly
turning towards him that weeping, Madonna-like face which haunts the
ruins of Beaumanoir to this day.

She was of medium stature, slender and lissome, looking taller
than she really was.  Her features were chiselled with exquisite
delicacy; her hair of a raven blackness, and eyes of that dark
lustre which reappears for generations in the descendants of
Europeans who have mingled their blood with that of the aborigines
of the forest.  The Indian eye is preserved as an heirloom, long
after all memory of the red stain has vanished from the traditions
of the family.  Her complexion was pale, naturally of a rich olive,
but now, through sorrow, of a wan and bloodless hue--still very
beautiful, and more appealing than the rosiest complexion.

Caroline de St. Castin was an Acadienne of ancient and noble family,
whose head and founder, the Baron de St. Castin, had married the
beautiful daughter of the high chief of the Abenaquais.

Her father's house, one of the most considerable in the Colony, had
been the resort of the royal officers, civil and military, serving
in Acadia.  Caroline, the only daughter of the noble house, had been
reared in all the refinements and luxuries of the period, as became
her rank and position both in France and her native Province.

In an evil hour for her happiness this beautiful and accomplished
girl met the Chevalier Bigot, who as Chief Commissary of the Army,
was one of the foremost of the royal officers in Acadia.

His ready wit and graceful manners pleased and flattered the
susceptible girl, not used to the seductions of the polished
courtesies of the mother-land of France.  She was of a joyous
temper--gay, frank, and confiding.  Her father, immersed in public
affairs, left her much to herself, nor, had he known it, would he
have disapproved of the gallant courtesies of the Chevalier Bigot.
For the Baron had the soul of honor, and dreamt every gentleman as
well as himself possessed it.

Bigot, to do him justice, felt as sincere a regard for this
beautiful, amiable girl as his nature was capable of entertaining.
In rank and fortune she was more than his equal, and left to
himself, he would willingly have married her.  Before he learned
that his project of a marriage in the Colony was scouted at Court he
had already offered his love to Caroline de St. Castin, and won
easily the gentle heart that was but too well disposed to receive
his homage.

Her trust went with her love.  Earth was never so green, nor air so
sweet, nor skies so bright and azure, as those of Caroline's wooing,
on the shores of the beautiful Bay of Minas.  She loved this man
with a passion that filled with ecstasy her whole being.  She
trusted his promises as she would have trusted God's.  She loved him
better than she loved herself--better than she loved God, or God's
law; and counted as a gain every loss she suffered for his sake, and
for the affection she bore him.

After some months spent in her charming society, a change came over
Bigot.  He received formidable missives from his great patroness at
Versailles, the Marquise de Pompadour, who had other matrimonial
designs for him.  Bigot was too slavish a courtier to resent her
interference, nor was he honest enough to explain his position to
his betrothed.  He deferred his marriage.  The exigencies of the war
called him away.  He had triumphed over a fond, confiding woman; but
he had been trained among the dissolute spirits of the Regency too
thoroughly to feel more than a passing regret for a woman whom,
probably, he loved better than any other of the victims of his
licentious life.

When he finally left Acadia a conquered province in the hands of the
English, he also left behind him the one true, loving heart that
believed in his honor and still prayed for his happiness.

The days of Caroline's disillusion soon came; she could not conceal
from herself that she had been basely deceived and abandoned by the
man she loved so ardently.  She learned that Bigot had been elevated
to the high office of Intendant of New France, but felt herself as
utterly forgotten by him as the rose that had bloomed and withered
in her garden two summers ago.

Her father had been summoned to France on the loss of the Colony;
and fearing to face him on his return, Caroline suddenly left her
home and sought refuge in the forest among her far-off kindred, the
red Abenaquais.

The Indians welcomed her with joy and unbounded respect, recognizing
her right to their devotion and obedience.  They put upon her feet
the moccasins of their tribe, and sent her, with a trusty escort,
through the wilderness to Quebec, where she hoped to find the
Intendant, not to reproach him for his perfidy,--her gentle heart
was too much subdued for that,--but to claim his protection, and if
refused, to die at his door.

It was under such circumstances that the beautiful, highborn
Caroline de St. Castin became an inmate of Beaumanoir.  She had
passed the night of this wild debauch in a vigil of prayers, tears,
and lamentations over her sad lot and over the degradation of Bigot
by the life which she now knew he led.  Sometimes her maddened fancy
was ready to accuse Providence itself of cruelty and injustice;
sometimes, magnifying her own sin, she was ready to think all
earthly punishment upon herself as too light, and invoked death and
judgment as alone adequate to her fault.  All night she had knelt
before the altar, asking for mercy and forgiveness,--sometimes
starting to her feet in terror, as a fresh burst of revelry came
rushing from the great hall above, and shook the door of her secret
chamber.  But no one came to her help, no one looked in upon her
desolation.  She deemed herself utterly forgotten and forsaken of
God and man.

Occasionally she fancied she could distinguish the voice of the
Intendant amid the drunken uproar, and she shuddered at the
infatuation which bound her very soul to this man; and yet when she
questioned her heart, she knew that, base as he was, all she had
done and suffered for him she would infallibly do again.  Were her
life to live over, she would repeat the fault of loving this false,
ungrateful man.  The promise of marriage had been equivalent to
marriage in her trust of him, and nothing but death could now
divorce her from him.

Hour after hour passed by, each seeming an age of suffering.  Her
feelings were worked up to frenzy: she fancied she heard her
father's angry voice calling her by name, or she heard accusing
angels jeering at her fall.  She sank prostrate at last, in the
abandonment of despair, calling upon God to put an end to her
miserable life.

Bigot raised her from the floor, with words of pity and sympathy.
She turned on him a look of gratitude which, had he been of stone,
he must have felt.  But Bigot's words meant less than she fancied.
He was still too intoxicated to reflect, or to feel shame of his
present errand.

"Caroline!" said he, "what do you here?  This is the time to make
merry--not to pray!  The honorable company in the great hall desire
to pay their respects to the lady of Beaumanoir--come with me!"

He drew her hand through his arm with a courtly grace that seldom
forsook him, even in his worst moments.  Caroline looked at him
in a dazed manner, not comprehending his request.  "Go with you,
Francois?  You know I will, but where?"

"To the great hall," repeated he; "my worthy guests desire to see
you, and to pay their respects to the fair lady of Beaumanoir."

It flashed upon her mind what he wanted.  Her womanly pride was
outraged as it had never been before; she withdrew her hand from his
arm with shame and terror stamped on every feature.

"Go up there!  Go to show myself to your guests!" exclaimed she,
with choking accents, as she stepped back a pace from him.  "Oh,
Francois Bigot, spare me that shame and humiliation!  I am, I know,
contemptible beyond human respect, but still--God help me!--I am not
so vile as to be made a spectacle of infamy to those drunken men
whom I hear clamoring for me, even now."

"Pshaw!  You think too much of the proprieties, Caroline!"  Bigot
felt sensibly perplexed at the attitude she assumed.  "Why!  The
fairest dames of Paris, dressed as Hebes and Ganymedes, thought it a
fine jest to wait on the Regent Duke of Orleans and the Cardinal du
Bois in the gay days of the King's bachelorhood, and they do the
same now when the King gets up one of his great feasts at Choisy; so
come, sweetheart--come!"  He drew her towards the door.

"Spare me, Francois!"  Caroline knelt at his feet, clasping his
hand, and bathing it in tears--"Spare me!" cried she.  "Oh, would to
God I had died ere you came to command me to do what I cannot and
will not do, Francois!" added she, clasping hard the hand of the
Intendant, which she fancied relaxed somewhat of its iron hardness.

"I did not come to command you, Caroline, but to bear the request of
my guests.  No, I do not even ask you on my account to go up to the
great hall: it is to please my guests only."  Her tears and
heartrending appeal began to sober him.  Bigot had not counted on
such a scene as this.

"Oh, thanks, Francois, for that word!  You did not come to command
my obedience in such a shameful thing: you had some small regard
left for the unfortunate Caroline.  Say you will not command me to
go up there," added she, looking at him with eyes of pitiful
pleading, such as no Italian art ever portrayed on the face of the
sorrowing Madonna.

"No," he replied, impatiently.  "It was not I proposed it: it was
Cadet.  He is always a fool when the wine overflows, as I am too, or
I would not have hearkened to him!  Still, Caroline, I have
promised, and my guests will jeer me finely if I return without
you."  He thought she hesitated a moment in her resolve at this
suggestion.  "Come, for my sake, Caroline!  Do up that disordered
hair; I shall be proud of you, my Caroline; there is not a lady in
New France can match you when you look yourself, my pretty Caroline!"

"Francois," said she, with a sad smile, "it is long since you
flattered me thus!  But I will arrange my hair for you alone," added
she, blushing, as with deft fingers she twisted her raven locks into
a coronal about her head.  "I would once have gone with you to the
end of the world to hear you say you were proud of me.  Alas! you
can never be proud of me any more, as in the old happy days at Grand
Pre.  Those few brief days of love and joy can never return--never,
never!"

Bigot stood silent, not knowing what to say or do.  The change from
the bacchanalian riot in the great hall to the solemn pathos and woe
of the secret chamber sobered him rapidly.  Even his obduracy gave
way at last.  "Caroline," said he, taking both her hands in his, "I
will not urge you longer.  I am called bad, and you think me so; but
I am not brutal.  It was a promise made over the wine.  Varin, the
drunken beast, called you Queen Vashti, and challenged me to show
your beauty to them; and I swore not one of their toasted beauties
could match my fair Acadienne."

"Did the Sieur Varin call me Queen Vashti?  Alas! he was a truer
prophet than he knew," replied she, with ineffable sadness.  "Queen
Vashti refused to obey even her king, when commanded to unveil her
face to the drunken nobles.  She was deposed, and another raised to
her place.  Such may be my fate, Francois."

"Then you will not go, Caroline?"

"No; kill me if you like, and bear my dead body into the hall, but
living, I can never show my face again before men--hardly before
you, Francois," added she, blushing, as she hid her tearful eyes on
his shoulder.

"Well then, Caroline," replied, he, really admiring her spirit and
resolution, "they shall finish their carouse without seeing you.
The wine has flowed to-night in rivers, but they shall swim in it
without you."

"And tears have flowed down here," said she, sadly,--"oh, so bitter!
May you never taste their bitterness, Francois!"

Bigot paced the chamber with steadier steps than he had entered it.
The fumes were clearing from his brain; the song that had caught the
ear of Colonel Philibert as he approached the Chateau was resounding
at this moment.  As it ceased Bigot heard the loud impatient
knocking of Philibert at the outer door.

"Darling!" said he, "lie down now, and compose yourself.  Francois
Bigot is not unmindful of your sacrifices for his sake.  I must
return to my guests, who are clamoring for me, or rather for you,
Caroline!"

He kissed her cheek and turned to leave her, but she clung to his
hand as if wanting to say something more ere he went.  She trembled
visibly as her low plaintive tones struck his ear.

"Francois! if you would forsake the companionship of those men and
purify your table of such excess, God's blessing would yet descend
upon you, and the people's love follow you!  It is in your power to
be as good as you are great!  I have many days wished to say this to
you, but alas, I feared you too much.  I do not fear you to-day,
Francois, after your kind words to me."

Bigot was not impenetrable to that low voice so full of pathos and
love.  But he was at a loss what to reply: strange influences were
flowing round him, carrying him out of himself.  He kissed the
gentle head that reclined on his bosom.  "Caroline," said he, "your
advice is wise and good as yourself.  I will think of it for your
sake, if not for my own.  Adieu, darling!  Go, and take rest: these
cruel vigils are killing you, and I want you to live in hope of
brighter days."

"I will," replied she, looking up with ineffable tenderness.  "I am
sure I shall rest after your kind words, Francois.  No dew of Heaven
was ever more refreshing than the balm they bring to my weary soul.
Thanks, O my Francois, for them!"  She kissed his lips, and Bigot
left the secret chamber a sadder and for the moment a better man
than he had ever been before.

Caroline, overcome by her emotions, threw herself on a couch,
invoking blessings upon the head of the man by whom she had been
so cruelly betrayed.  But such is woman's heart--full of mercy,
compassion, and pardon for every wrong, when love pleads for
forgiveness.

"Ha! ha!" said Cadet, as the Intendant re-entered the great hall,
which was filled with bacchanalian frenzy.  "Ha! ha!  His Excellency
has proposed and been rejected!  The fair lady has a will of her own
and won't obey!  Why, the Intendant looks as if he had come from
Quintin Corentin, where nobody gets anything he wants!"

"Silence, Cadet! don't be a fool!" replied Bigot, impatiently,
although in the Intendant's usual mood nothing too gross or too bad
could be said in his presence but he could cap it with something
worse.

"Fool, Bigot!  It is you who have been the fool of a woman!"  Cadet
was privileged to say anything, and he never stinted his speech.
"Confess, your Excellency! she is splay-footed as St. Pedauque of
Dijon!  She dare not trip over our carpet for fear of showing her
big feet!"

Cadet's coarse remark excited the mirth of the Intendant.  The
influences of the great hall were more powerful than those of the
secret chamber.  He replied curtly, however,--"I have excused the
lady from coming, Cadet.  She is ill, or she does not please to
come, or she has a private fancy of her own to nurse--any reason is
enough to excuse a lady, or for a gentleman to cease pressing her."

"Dear me!" muttered Cadet, "the wind blows fresh from a new quarter!
It is easterly, and betokens a storm!" and with drunken gravity he
commenced singing a hunting refrain of Louis XIV.:


     "'Sitot qu'il voit sa Chienne
       Il quitte tout pour elle."'


Bigot burst out into immoderate laughter.  "Cadet," said he, "you
are, when drunk, the greatest ruffian in Christendom, and the
biggest knave when sober.  Let the lady sleep in peace, while we
drink ourselves blind in her honor.  Bring in brandy, valets, and we
will not look for day until midnight booms on the old clock of the
Chateau."

The loud knocking of Philibert in the great hall reverberated again
and again through the house.  Bigot bade the valets go see who
disturbed the Chateau in that bold style.

"Let no one in!" added he "'tis against the rule to open the doors
when the Grand Company are met for business!  Take whips, valets,
and scourge the insolent beggars away.  Some miserable habitans, I
warrant, whining for the loss of their eggs and bacon taken by the
King's purveyors!"

A servant returned with a card on a silver salver.  "An officer in
uniform waits to see your Excellency: he brings orders from the
Governor," said he to the Intendant.

Bigot looked at the card with knitted brows; fire sparkled in his
eyes as he read the name.

"Colonel Philibert!" exclaimed he, "Aide-de-Camp of the Governor!
What the fiend brings HIM at such a time?  Do you hear?" continued
he, turning to Varin.  "It is your friend from Louisbourg, who was
going to put you in irons, and send you to France for trial when the
mutinous garrison threatened to surrender the place if we did not
pay them."

Varin was not so intoxicated but the name of Philibert roused his
anger.  He set his cup down with a bang upon the table.  "I will not
taste a drop more till he is gone," said he; "curse Galissoniere's
crooked neck--could he not have selected a more welcome messenger to
send to Beaumanoir?  But I have got his name in my list of debtors,
and he shall pay up one day for his insolence at Louisbourg."

"Tut, tut, shut up your books! you are too mercantile for gentlemen,"
replied Bigot.  "The question is, shall we allow Colonel Philibert
to bring his orders into the hall?  Par Dieu! we are scarcely
presentable!"

But whether presentable or no, the words were scarcely spoken, when,
impatient at the delay, Philibert took advantage of the open door
and entered the great hall.  He stood in utter amazement for a
moment at the scene of drunken riot which he beheld.  The inflamed
faces, the confusion of tongues, the disorder, filth, and stench of
the prolonged debauch sickened him, while the sight of so many men
of rank and high office revelling at such an hour raised a feeling
of indignation which he had difficulty in keeping down while he
delivered his message to the Intendant.

Bigot, however, was too shrewd to be wanting in politeness.
"Welcome, Colonel Philibert," said he; "you are an unexpected guest,
but a welcome one!  Come and taste the hospitality of Beaumanoir
before you deliver your message.  Bustle, valets, bring fresh cups
and the fullest carafes for Colonel Philibert."

"Thanks for your politeness, Chevalier!  Your Excellency will please
excuse me if I deliver my message at once.  My time is not my own
to-day, so I will not sit down.  His Excellency the Governor desires
your presence and that of the Royal Commissaries at the council of
war this afternoon.  Despatches have just arrived by the Fleur-de-
Lis from home, and the council must assemble at once."

A red flush rested upon the brow of Philibert as in his mind he
measured the important business of the council with the fitness of
the men whom he summoned to attend it.  He declined the offer of
wine, and stepped backward from the table, with a bow to the
Intendant and the company, and was about to depart, when a loud
voice on the further side of the table cried out,--

"It is he, by all that is sacred!  Pierre Philibert! wait!"  Le
Gardeur de Repentigny rushed like a storm through the hall,
upsetting chairs and guests in his advance.  He ran towards Colonel
Philibert, who, not recognizing the flushed face and disordered
figure that greeted him, shrank back from his embrace.

"My God! do you not know me, Pierre?" exclaimed Le Gardeur, wounded
to the quick by the astonished look of his friend.  "I am Le Gardeur
de Repentigny!  O dear friend, look and recognize me!"

Philibert stood transfixed with surprise and pain, as if an arrow
had stricken his eyes.  "You! you Le Gardeur de Repentigny?  It is
impossible!  Le Gardeur never looked like you--much less, was ever
found among people like these!"  The last words were rashly spoken,
but fortunately not heard amid the hubbub in the hall, or
Philibert's life might have paid the penalty from the excited
guests.

"And yet it is true; Pierre, look at me again.  I am no other than
he whom you drew out of the St. Lawrence, the only brother of
Amelie!"

Philibert looked hard in the eyes of Le Gardeur, and doubted no
longer.  He pressed his old friend to his heart, saying, in a voice
full of pathos,--

"O Le Gardeur!  I recognize you now, but under what change of look
and place!  Often have I forecast our meeting again, but it was in
your pure, virtuous home of Tilly, not in this place.  What do you
here, Le Gardeur?"

"Forgive me, Pierre, for the shame of meeting me here."  Le Gardeur
stood up like a new man in the glance of his friend; the shock
seemed to have sobered him at once.  "'What do I do here?' say you,
O dear friend!" said he, glancing round the hall, "it is easier seen
than told what I do here.  But by all the saints, I have finished
here for to-day!  You return to the city at once, Pierre?"

"At once, Le Gardeur.  The Governor awaits my return."

"Then I will return with you.  My dear aunt and sister are in the
city.  News of their arrival reached me here; my duty was to return
at once, but the Intendant's wine-cups were too potent for me--curse
them, for they have disgraced me in your eyes, Pierre, as well as my
own!"

Philibert started at the information that Amelie was in the city.
"Amelie in the city?" repeated he, with glad surprise, "I did not
expect to be able to salute her and the noble Lady de Tilly so
soon."  His heart bounded in secret at the prospect of again seeing
this fair girl, who had filled his thoughts for so many years and
been the secret spring of so much that was noble and manly in his
character.

"Come, Le Gardeur, let us take leave of the Intendant, and return at
once to the city, but not in that plight!" added he, smiling, as Le
Gardeur, oblivious of all but the pleasure of accompanying him,
grasped his arm to leave the great hall.  "Not in that garb, Le
Gardeur!  Bathe, purify, and clean yourself; I will wait outside in
the fresh air.  The odor of this room stifles me!"

"You are not going to leave us, Le Gardeur!" Varin called, across
the table, "and break up good company?  Wait till we finish a few
more rounds, and we will all go together."

"I have finished all the rounds for to-day, Varin, may be forever!
Colonel Philibert is my dearest friend in life; I must leave even
you to go with him, so pray excuse me."

"You are excused, Le Gardeur."  Bigot spoke very courteously to him,
much as he disliked the idea of his companionship with Philibert.
"We must all return by the time the Cathedral bells chime noon.
Take one parting cup before you go, Le Gardeur, and prevail on
Colonel Philibert to do the same, or he will not praise our
hospitality, I fear."

"Not one drop more this day, were it from Jove's own poculum!"  Le
Gardeur repelled the temptation more readily as he felt a twitch on
his sleeve from the hand of Philibert.

"Well, as you will, Le Gardeur; we have all had enough and over, I
dare say.  Ha! ha!  Colonel Philibert rather puts us to the blush,
or would were not our cheeks so well-painted in the hues of rosy
Bacchus."

Philibert, with official courtesy, bade adieu to the Intendant and
the company.  A couple of valets waited upon Le Gardeur, whom they
assisted to bathe and dress.  In a short time he left the Chateau
almost sobered, and wholly metamorphosed into a handsome, fresh
chevalier.  A perverse redness about the eyes alone remained, to
tell the tale of the last night's debauch.

Master Pothier sat on a horse-block at the door with all the gravity
of a judge, while he waited for the return of Colonel Philibert and
listened to the lively noise in the Chateau, the music, song, and
jingle of glass forming a sweet concert in the ears of the jolly old
notary.

"I shall not need you to guide me back, Master Pothier," said
Philibert, as he put some silver pieces in his hollow palm; "take
your fee.  The cause is gained, is it not, Le Gardeur?"  He glanced
triumphantly at his friend.

"Good-by, Master Pothier," said he, as he rode off with Le Gardeur.
The old notary could not keep up with them, but came jolting on
behind, well pleased to have leisure to count and jingle his coins.
Master Pothier was in that state of joyful anticipation when hope
outruns realization.  He already saw himself seated in the old
armchair in the snug parlor of Dame Bedard's inn, his back to the
fire, his belly to the table, a smoking dish of roast in the middle,
an ample trencher before him with a bottle of Cognac on one flank
and a jug of Norman cider on the other, an old crony or two to eat
and drink with him, and the light foot and deft hand of pretty Zoe
Bedard to wait upon them.

This picture of perfect bliss floated before the winking eyes of
Master Pothier, and his mouth watered in anticipation of his Eden,
not of flowers and trees, but of tables, cups, and platters, with
plenty to fill them, and to empty them as well.

"A worthy gentleman and a brave officer, I warrant!" said Pothier,
as he jogged along.  "He is generous as a prince, and considerate as
a bishop, fit for a judge, nay, for a chief justice!  What would you
do for him, Master Pothier?" the old notary asked himself.  "I
answer the interrogatory of the Court: I would draw up his marriage
contract, write his last will and testament with the greatest of
pleasure and without a fee!--and no notary in New France could do
more for him!"  Pothier's imagination fell into a vision over a
consideration of his favorite text--that of the great sheet, wherein
was all manner of flesh and fowl good for food, but the tongue of
the old notary would trip at the name of Peter, and perversely say,
"Rise, Pothier; kill, and eat."


CHAPTER IX.

PIERRE PHILIBERT.


Colonel Philibert and Le Gardeur rode rapidly through the forest of
Beaumanoir, pulling up occasionally in an eager and sympathetic
exchange of questions and replies, as they recounted the events of
their lives since their separation, or recalled their school-days
and glorious holidays and rambles in the woods of Tilly--with
frequent mention of their gentle, fair companion, Amelie de
Repentigny, whose name on the lips of her brother sounded sweeter
than the chime of the bells of Charlebourg to the ear of Pierre
Philibert.

The bravest man in New France felt a tremor in his breast as he
asked Le Gardeur a seemingly careless question--seemingly, for, in
truth, it was vital in the last degree to his happiness, and he knew
it.  He expressed a fear that Amelie would have wholly forgotten him
after so long an absence from New France.

His heart almost ceased beating as he waited the reply of Le
Gardeur, which came impetuously: "Forgotten you, Pierre Philibert?
She would forget me as soon!  But for you she would have had no
brother to-day, and in her prayers she ever remembers both of us--
you by right of a sister's gratitude, me because I am unworthy of
her saintly prayers and need them all the more!  O Pierre Philibert,
you do not know Amelie if you think she is one ever to forget a
friend like you!"

The heart of Philibert gave a great leap for joy.  Too happy for
speech, he rode on a while in silence.

"Amelie will have changed much in appearance?" he asked, at last.
A thousand questions were crowding upon his lips.

"Changed?  Oh, yes!" replied Le Gardeur, gaily.  "I scarcely
recognize my little bright-eyed sister in the tall, perfect young
lady that has taken her place.  But the loving heart, the pure mind,
the gentle ways, and winning smiles are the same as ever.  She is
somewhat more still and thoughtful, perhaps--more strict in the
observances of religion.  You will remember, I used to call her in
jest our St. Amelie: I might call her that in earnest now, Pierre,
and she would be worthy of the name!"

"God bless you, Le Gardeur!" burst out Colonel Philibert,--his voice
could not repress the emotion he felt,--"and God bless Amelie!
Think you she would care to see me to-day, Le Gardeur?"  Philibert's
thoughts flew far and fast, and his desire to know more of Amelie
was a rack of suspense to him.  She might, indeed, recollect the
youth Pierre Philibert, thought he, as she did a sunbeam that
gladdened long-past summers; but how could he expect her to regard
him--the full-grown man--as the same?  Nay, was he not nursing a
fatal fancy in his breast that would sting him to death? for among
the gay and gallant throng about the capital was it not more than
possible that so lovely and amiable a woman had already been wooed,
and given the priceless treasure of her love to another?  It was,
therefore, with no common feeling that Philibert said, "Think you
she will care to see me to-day, Le Gardeur?"

"Care to see you, Pierre Philibert?  What a question!  She and Aunt
de Tilly take every occasion to remind me of you, by way of example,
to shame me of my faults--and they succeed, too!  I could cut off my
right hand this moment, Pierre, that it should never lift wine again
to my lips--and to have been seen by you in such company!  What must
you think of me?"

"I think your regret could not surpass mine; but tell me how you
have been drawn into these rapids and taken the wrong turn, Le
Gardeur?"

Le Gardeur winced as he replied,--"Oh, I do not know.  I found
myself there before I thought.  It was the wit, wine, and
enchantments of Bigot, I suppose,--and the greatest temptation of
all, a woman's smiles,--that led me to take the wrong turn, as you
call it.  There, you have my confession!--and I would put my sword
through any man but you, Pierre, who dared ask me to give such an
account of myself.  I am ashamed of it all, Pierre Philibert!"

"Thanks, Le Gardeur, for your confidence.  I hope you will outride
this storm!"  He held out his hand, nervous and sinewy as that of
Mars.  Le Gardeur seized it, and pressed it hard in his.  "Don't you
think it is still able to rescue a friend from peril?" added
Philibert smiling.

Le Gardeur caught his meaning, and gave him a look of unutterable
gratitude.  "Besides this hand of mine, are there not the gentler
hands of Amelie to intercede for you with your better self?" said
Philibert.

"My dear sister!" interjected Le Gardeur.  "I am a coward when I
think of her, and I shame to come into her pure presence."

"Take courage, Le Gardeur!  There is hope where there is shame of
our faults.  Be equally frank with your sister as with me, and she
will win you, in spite of yourself, from the enchantments of Bigot,
Cadet, and the still more potent smiles you speak of that led you to
take the wrong turn in life."

"I doubt it is too late, Pierre! although I know that, were every
other friend in the world to forsake me, Amelie would not!  She
would not even reproach me, except by excess of affection."

Philibert looked on his friend admiringly, at this panegyric of the
woman he loved.  Le Gardeur was in feature so like his sister that
Philibert at the moment caught the very face of Amelie, as it were,
looking at him through the face of her brother.  "You will not
resist her pleadings, Le Gardeur,"--Philibert thought it an
impossible thing.  "No guardian angel ever clung to the skirts of a
sinner as Amelie will cling to you," said he; "therefore I have
every hope of my dear friend Le Gardeur Repentigny."

The two riders emerged from the forest, and drew up for a minute in
front of the hostelry of the Crown of France, to water their horses
at the long trough before the door and inform Dame Bedard, who ran
out to greet them, that Master Pothier was following with his
ambling nag at a gentle pace, as befitted the gravity of his
profession.

"Oh! Master Pothier never fails to find his way to the Crown of
France; but won't your Honors take a cup of wine?  The day is hot
and the road dusty.  'A dry rider makes a wet nag,'" added the Dame,
with a smile, as she repeated an old saying, brought over with the
rest of the butin in the ships of Cartier and Champlain.

The gentlemen bowed their thanks, and as Philibert looked up, he saw
pretty Zoe Bedard poring over a sheet of paper bearing a red seal,
and spelling out the crabbed law text of Master Pothier.  Zoe, like
other girls of her class, had received a tincture of learning in the
day schools of the nuns; but, although the paper was her marriage
contract, it puzzled her greatly to pick out the few chips of plain
sense that floated in the sea of legal verbiage it contained.  Zoe,
with a perfect comprehension of the claims of meum and tuum, was at
no loss, however, in arriving at a satisfactory solution of the true
merits of her matrimonial contract with honest Antoine La Chance.

She caught the eye of Philibert, and blushed to the very chin as she
huddled away the paper and returned the salute of the two handsome
gentlemen, who, having refreshed their horses, rode off at a rapid
trot down the great highway that led to the city.

Babet Le Nocher, in a new gown, short enough to reveal a pair of
shapely ankles in clocked stockings and well-clad feet that would
have been the envy of many a duchess, sat on the thwart of the boat
knitting.  Her black hair was in the fashion recorded by the grave
Peter Kalm, who, in his account of New France, says, "The peasant
women all wear their hair in ringlets, and nice they look!"

"As I live!" exclaimed she to Jean, who was enjoying a pipe of
native tobacco, "here comes that handsome officer back again, and in
as great a hurry to return as he was to go up the highway!"

"Ay, ay, Babet!  It is plain to see he is either on the King's
errand or his own.  A fair lady awaits his return in the city, or
one has just dismissed him where he has been!  Nothing like a woman
to put quicksilver in a man's shoes--eh! Babet?"

"Or foolish thoughts into their hearts, Jean!" replied she,
laughing.

"And nothing more natural, Babet, if women's hearts are wise enough
in their folly to like our foolish thoughts of them.  But there are
two!  Who is that riding with the gentleman?  Your eyes are better
than mine, Babet!"

"Of course, Jean! that is what I always tell you, but you won't
believe me--trust my eyes, and doubt your own!  The other
gentleman," said she, looking fixedly, while her knitting lay still
in her lap, "the other is the young Chevalier de Repentigny.  What
brings him back before the rest of the hunting party, I wonder?"

"That officer must have been to Beaumanoir, and is bringing the
young seigneur back to town," remarked Jean, puffing out a long
thread of smoke from his lips.

"Well, it must be something better than smoke, Jean!"--Babet
coughed: she never liked the pipe--"The young chevalier is always
one of the last to give up when they have one of their three days
drinking bouts up at the Chateau.  He is going to the bad, I fear--
more's the pity! such a nice, handsome fellow, too!"

"All lies and calumny!" replied Jean, in a heat.  "Le Gardeur de
Repentigny is the son of my dear old seigneur.  He may get drunk,
but it will be like a gentleman if he does, and not like a carter,
Babet, or like a--"

"Boatman! Jean; but I don't include you--you have never been the
worse for drinking water since I took care of your liquor, Jean!"

"Ay, you are intoxication enough of yourself for me, Babet!  Two
bright eyes like yours, a pipe and bitters, with grace before meat,
would save any Christian man in this world."  Jean stood up,
politely doffing his red tuque to the gentlemen.  Le Gardeur stooped
from his horse to grasp his hand, for Jean had been an old servitor
at Tilly, and the young seigneur was too noble-minded and polite to
omit a kindly notice of even the humblest of his acquaintance.

"Had a busy day, Jean, with the old ferry?" asked Le Gardeur,
cheerily.

"No, your Honor, but yesterday I think half the country-side crossed
over to the city on the King's corvee.  The men went to work, and
the women followed to look after them, ha! ha!"  Jean winked
provokingly at Babet, who took him up sharply.

"And why should not the women go after the men?  I trow men are not
so plentiful in New France as they used to be before this weary war
began.  It well behooves the women to take good care of all that are
left."

"That is true as the Sunday sermon," remarked Jean.  "Why, it was
only the other day I heard that great foreign gentleman, who is the
guest of His Excellency the Governor, say, sitting in this very
boat, that 'there are at this time four women to every man in New
France!'  If that is true, Babet,--and you know he said it, for you
were angry enough,--a man is a prize indeed, in New France, and
women are plenty as eggs at Easter!"

"The foreign gentleman had much assurance to say it, even if it were
true: he were much better employed picking up weeds and putting them
in his book!" exclaimed Babet, hotly.

"Come! come!" cried Le Gardeur, interrupting this debate on the
population; "Providence knows the worth of Canadian women, and
cannot give us too many of them.  We are in a hurry to get to the
city, Jean, so let us embark.  My aunt and Amelie are in the old
home in the city; they will be glad to see you and Babet," added he,
kindly, as he got into the boat.

Babet dropped her neatest courtesy, and Jean, all alive to his duty,
pushed off his boat, bearing the two gentlemen and their horses
across the broad St. Charles to the King's Quay, where they
remounted, and riding past the huge palace of the Intendant, dashed
up the steep Cote au Chien and through the city gate, disappearing
from the eyes of Babet, who looked very admiringly after them.  Her
thoughts were especially commendatory of the handsome officer in
full uniform who had been so polite and generous in the morning.

"I was afraid, Jean, you were going to blurt out about Mademoiselle
des Meloises," remarked Babet to Jean on his return; "men are so
indiscreet always!"

"Leaky boats! leaky boats! Babet! no rowing them with a woman
aboard! sure to run on the bank.  But what about Mademoiselle des
Meloises?"  Honest Jean had passed her over the ferry an hour ago,
and been sorely tempted to inform Le Gardeur of the interesting
fact.

"What about Mademoiselle des Meloises?" Babet spoke rather sharply.
"Why, all Quebec knows that the Seigneur de Repentigny is mad in
love with her."

"And why should he not be mad in love with her if he likes?" replied
Jean; "she is a morsel fit for a king, and if Le Gardeur should lose
both his heart and his wits on her account, it is only what half the
gallants of Quebec have done."

"Oh, Jean, Jean! it is plain to see you have an eye in your head as
well as a soft place!" ejaculated Babet, recommencing her knitting
with fresh vigor, and working off the electricity that was stirring
in her.

"I had two eyes in my head when I chose you, Babet, and the soft
place was in my heart!" replied Jean, heartily.  The compliment was
taken with a smile, as it deserved to be.  "Look you, Babet, I would
not give this pinch of snuff," said Jean, raising his thumb and two
fingers holding a good dose of the pungent dust,--"I would not give
this pinch of snuff for any young fellow who could be indifferent to
the charms of such a pretty lass as Angelique des Meloises!"

"Well, I am glad you did not tell the Seigneur de Repentigny that
she had crossed the ferry and gone--not to look for him, I'll be
bound!  I will tell you something by and by, Jean, if you will come
in and eat your dinner; I have something you like."

"What is it, Babet?"  Jean was, after all, more curious about his
dinner than about the fair lady.

"Oh, something you like--that is a wife's secret: keep the stomach
of a man warm, and his heart will never grow cold.  What say you to
fried eels?"

"Bravo!" cried the gay old boatman, as he sang,


     "'Ah! ah! ah! frit a l'huile,
       Frit au beurre et a l'ognon!'"


and the jolly couple danced into their little cottage--no king and
queen in Christendom half so happy as they.


CHAPTER X.

AMELIE DE REPENTIGNY.


The town house of the Lady de Tilly stood on the upper part of the
Place d'Armes, a broad, roughly-paved square.  The Chateau of St.
Louis, with its massive buildings and high, peaked roofs, filled one
side of the square.  On the other side, embowered in ancient trees
that had escaped the axe of Champlain's hardy followers, stood the
old-fashioned Monastery of the Recollets, with its high belfry and
broad shady porch, where the monks in gray gowns and sandals sat in
summer, reading their breviaries or exchanging salutations with the
passers-by, who always had a kind greeting for the brothers of St.
Francis.

The mansion of the Lady de Tilly was of stone, spacious and ornate,
as became the rank and wealth of the Seigneurs de Tilly.  It
overlooked the Place d'Armes and the noble gardens of the Chateau of
St. Louis, with a magnificent sweep of the St. Lawrence, flowing
majestically under the fortress-crowned cape and the high, wooded
hills of Lauzon, the farther side of the river closing the view.

In the recess of an ornate mullioned window, half concealed by the
rich, heavy curtains of a noble room, Amelie de Repentigny sat
alone--very quiet in look and demeanor, but no little agitated in
mind, as might be noticed in the nervous contact of her hands, which
lay in her lap clasping each other very hard, as if trying to steady
her thoughts.

Her aunt was receiving some lady visitors in the great drawing-room.
The hum of loud feminine voices reached the ear of Amelie, but she
paid no attention, so absorbed was she in the new and strange
thoughts that had stirred in her mind since morning, when she had
learned from the Chevalier La Corne of the return to New France of
Pierre Philibert.  The news had surprised her to a degree she could
not account for.  Her first thought was, how fortunate for her
brother that Pierre had returned; her second, how agreeable to
herself.  Why?  She could not think why: she wilfully drew an
inference away from the truth that lay in her heart--it was wholly
for the sake of her brother she rejoiced in the return of his friend
and preserver.  Her heart beat a little faster than usual--that was
the result of her long walk and disappointment at not meeting Le
Gardeur on her arrival yesterday.  But she feared to explore her
thoughts: a rigid self-examination might discover what she
instinctively felt was deeply concealed there.

A subtile, indefinable prevision had suggested to her that Colonel
Philibert would not have failed to meet Le Gardeur at Beaumanoir,
and that he would undoubtedly accompany her brother on his return
and call to pay his respects to the Lady de Tilly and--to herself.
She felt her cheek glow at the thought, yet she was half vexed at
her own foolish fancy, as she called it.  She tried to call upon
her pride, but that came very laggardly to the relief of her
discomposure.

Her interview, too, with Angelique des Meloises had caused her no
little disquiet.  The bold avowals of Angelique with reference to
the Intendant had shocked Amelie.  She knew that her brother had
given more of his thoughts to this beautiful, reckless girl than was
good for his peace, should her ambition ever run counter to his
love.

The fond sister sighed deeply when she reflected that the woman who
had power to make prize of Le Gardeur's love was not worthy of him.

It is no rare thing for loving sisters who have to resign their
brothers to others' keeping to think so.  But Amelie knew that
Angelique des Meloises was incapable of that true love which only
finds its own in the happiness of another.  She was vain, selfish,
ambitious, and--what Amelie did not yet know--possessed of neither
scruple nor delicacy in attaining her objects.

It had chimed the hour of noon upon the old clock of the Recollets,
and Amelie still sat looking wistfully over the great square of the
Place d'Armes, and curiously scanning every horseman that rode
across it.  A throng of people moved about the square, or passed in
and out of the great arched gateway of the Castle of St. Louis.  A
bright shield, bearing the crown and fleur-de-lis, surmounted the
gate, and under it walked, with military pace, a couple of sentries,
their muskets and bayonets flashing out in the sun every time they
wheeled to return on their beat.  Occasionally there was a ruffle of
drums: the whole guard turned out and presented arms, as some
officer of high rank, or ecclesiastical dignitary, passed through to
pay his respects to the Governor, or transact business at the vice-
regal court.  Gentlemen on foot, with chapeaux and swords, carrying
a cloak on their shoulders; ladies in visiting dress; habitans and
their wives in unchanging costume; soldiers in uniform, and black-
gowned clergy, mingled in a moving picture of city life, which, had
not Amelie's thoughts been so preoccupied to-day, would have
afforded her great delight to look out upon.

The Lady de Tilly had rather wearied of the visit of the two ladies
of the city, Madame de Grandmaison and Madame Couillard, who had
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 Amelie 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'Etioles
before she was known at Court, and they say he managed her
introduction to the King at the famous masked ball at the Hotel 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
Amelie, 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."

Amelie 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 Chateau; 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.

Amelie 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 Chateau, 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 Amelie, 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 Amelie 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, Amelie," 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, Amelie, 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!"  Amelie, 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, Amelie, 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.

"Amelie," 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 Chateau and recognized me, or
rather I recognized him?  A stranger--and not such a stranger,
either Amelie."

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

"Pierre Philibert, Amelie!  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, Amelie?  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.  Voila la difference!" 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.  Voila la ressemblance!" added he, pulling her hair
archly as he repeated the antistrophe of the same ditty.

Amelie 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, Amelie 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 Amelie 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 Amelie, 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 Amelie'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, Amelie, 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 Amelie,
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 Amelie!" 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 Amelie 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, Amelie, 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 Pre, and
sent a cask of Gascon 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?"  Amelie'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 chateau for the winter, and his daughter
devoted herself to them with the zeal and tenderness of a saint from
Heaven--a noble, lovely girl, Amelie!" 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 Amelie.  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!"

Amelie 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 Amelie 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 corvee!  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, Amelie, with me."

Lady de Tilly took the arm of Colonel Philibert, followed by Le
Gardeur, La Corne, and Amelie, 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 Chaudiere, 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 Cote a Bonhomme, formed the dessert, with
blue whortleberries from Cape Tourment, plums sweet as honey drops,
and small, gray-coated apples from Beaupre, 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 Amelie, 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 Amelie, 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.  Amelie
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 Amelie.
"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 Francois 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 Amelie 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.

Amelie 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 Amelie 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 Amelie 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 Galissoniere, 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 Chateau.

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 Chateau."

"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 cooperation?" 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 Chateau.  It was the second signal
for the Council to commence.  The Count de la Galissoniere, 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 dais 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 Mere
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 Abbe Metavet, of the Algonquins of the North; Pere Oubal,
the Jesuit missionary of the Abenaquais of the East, and his
confrere, 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, Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe Piquet had lately, in a canoe, descended the Belle Riviere,
as the voyageurs called the noble Ohio.  From its source to its
junction with the solitary Mississippi the Abbe 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 Abbe, 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 corvee!--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 Galissoniere 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
Chateau.  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 facade,
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 Chateau 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 maitre, 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 corvee.  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 Chateau 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 cortege of friends rode furiously into the
courtyard of the Chateau 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 Abbe 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 Abbe Piquet,"
replied La Corne.  "No one has sent more Indian allies into the
field to fight for New France than the patriotic Abbe."

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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe 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 Abbe, 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 Riviere, 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 Riviere, 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 Abbe, 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 Abbe 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, Abbe," 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 Abbe 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
forever her supremacy in America!

"But our forts far and near must be preserved in the meantime.  We
must not withdraw from one foot of French territory.  Quebec must
be walled, and made safe against all attack by land or water.  I
therefore will join the Council in a respectful remonstrance to the
Count de Maurepas, against the inopportune despatches just received
from His Majesty.  I trust the Royal Intendant will favor the
Council now with his opinion on this important matter, and I shall
be happy to have the cooperation of His Excellency in measures of
such vital consequence to the Colony and to France."

The Governor sat down, after courteously motioning the Intendant to
rise and address the Council.

The Intendant hated the mention of peace.  His interests, and the
interests of his associates of the Grand Company, were all involved
in the prolongation of the war.

War enabled the Grand Company to monopolize the trade and military
expenditure of New France.  The enormous fortunes its members made,
and spent with such reckless prodigality, would by peace be dried up
in their source; the yoke would be thrown off the people's neck,
trade would again free.

Bigot was far-sighted enough to see that clamors would be raised and
listened to in the leisure of peace.  Prosecutions for illegal
exactions might follow, and all the support of his friends at Court
might not be able to save him and his associates from ruin--perhaps
punishment.

The parliaments of Paris, Rouen, and Brittany still retained a
shadow of independence.  It was only a shadow, but the fury of
Jansenism supplied the lack of political courage, and men opposed
the Court and its policy under pretence of defending the rights of
the Gallican Church and the old religion of the nation.

Bigot knew he was safe so long as the Marquise de Pompadour governed
the King and the kingdom.  But Louis XV. was capricious and
unfaithful in his fancies; he had changed his mistresses, and his
policy with them, many times, and might change once more, to the
ruin of Bigot and all the dependents of La Pompadour.

Bigot's letters by the Fleur-de-Lis were calculated to alarm him.
A rival was springing up at Court to challenge La Pompadour's
supremacy: the fair and fragile Lange Vaubernier had already
attracted the King's eye, and the courtiers versed in his ways read
the incipient signs of a future favorite.

Little did the laughing Vaubernier forsee the day when, as Madame du
Barry, she would reign as Dame du Palais, after the death of La
Pompadour.  Still less could she imagine that in her old age, in the
next reign, she would be dragged to the guillotine, filling the
streets of Paris with her shrieks, heard above the howlings of the
mob of the Revolution: "Give me life! life! for my repentance!
Life! to devote it to the Republic!  Life! for the surrender of all
my wealth to the nation!"  And death, not life, was given in answer
to her passionate pleadings.

These dark days were yet in the womb of the future, however.  The
giddy Vaubernier was at this time gaily catching at the heart of the
King, but her procedure filled the mind of Bigot with anxiety: the
fall of La Pompadour would entail swift ruin upon himself and
associates.  He knew it was the intrigues of this girl which had
caused La Pompadour suddenly to declare for peace in order to watch
the King more surely in his palace.  Therefore the word peace and
the name of Vaubernier were equally odious to Bigot, and he was
perplexed in no small degree how to act.

Moreover, be it confessed that, although a bad man and a corrupt
statesman, Bigot was a Frenchman, proud of the national success and
glory.  While robbing her treasures with one hand, he was ready with
his sword in the other to risk life and all in her defence.  Bigot
was bitterly opposed to English supremacy in North America.  The
loss of Louisbourg, though much his fault, stung him to the quick,
as a triumph of the national enemy; and in those final days of New
France, after the fall of Montcalm, Bigot was the last man to yield,
and when all others counselled retreat, he would not consent to the
surrender of Quebec to the English.

To-day, in the Council of War, Bigot stood up to respond to
the appeal of the Governor.  He glanced his eye coolly, yet
respectfully, over the Council.  His raised hand sparkled with gems,
the gifts of courtiers and favorites of the King.  "Gentlemen of the
Council of War!," said he, "I approve with all my heart of the words
of His Excellency the Governor, with reference to our fortifications
and the maintenance of our frontiers.  It is our duty to remonstrate,
as councillors of the King in the Colony, against the tenor of the
despatches of the Count de Maurepas.  The city of Quebec, properly
fortified, will be equivalent to an army of men in the field, and
the security and defence of the whole Colony depends upon its walls.
There can be but one intelligent opinion in the Council on that
point, and that opinion should be laid before His Majesty before
this despatch be acted on.

"The pressure of the war is great upon us just now.  The loss of the
fleet of the Marquis de la Jonquiere has greatly interrupted our
communications with France, and Canada is left much to its own
resources.  But Frenchmen! the greater the peril the greater the
glory of our defence!  And I feel a lively confidence,"--Bigot
glanced proudly round the table at the brave, animated faces that
turned towards him,--"I feel a lively confidence that in the skill,
devotion, and gallantry of the officers I see around this council-
table, we shall be able to repel all our enemies, and bear the royal
flag to fresh triumphs in North America."

This timely flattery was not lost upon the susceptible minds of the
officers present, who testified their approval by vigorous tapping
on the table, and cries of "Well said, Chevalier Intendant!"

"I thank, heartily, the venerable Abbe Piquet," continued he, "for
his glorious success in converting the warlike savages of the West
from foes to fast friends of the King; and as Royal Intendant I
pledge the Abbe all my help in the establishment of his proposed
fort and mission at La Presentation, for the purpose of dividing the
power of the Iroquois."

"That is right well said, if the Devil said it!" remarked La Corne
St. Luc, to the Acadian sitting next him.  "There is bell-metal in
Bigot, and he rings well if properly struck.  Pity so clever a
fellow should be a knave!"

"Fine words butter no parsnips, Chevalier La Corne," replied the
Acadian, whom no eloquence could soften.  "Bigot sold Louisbourg!"
This was a common but erroneous opinion in Acadia.

"Bigot butters his own parsnips well, Colonel," replied La Corne St.
Luc; "but I did not think he would have gone against the despatches!
It is the first time he ever opposed Versailles!  There must be
something in the wind!  A screw loose somewhere, or another woman in
the case!  But hark, he is going on again!"

The Intendant, after examining some papers, entered into a detail of
the resources of the Colony, the number of men capable of bearing
arms, the munitions and material of war in the magazines, and the
relative strength of each district of the Province.  He manipulated
his figures with the dexterity of an Indian juggler throwing balls;
and at the end brought out a totality of force in the Colony capable
unaided of prolonging the war for two years, against all the powers
of the English.

At the conclusion of this speech Bigot took his seat.  He had made a
favorable impression upon the Council, and even his most strenuous
opponents admitted that on the whole the Intendant had spoken like
an able administrator and a true Frenchman.

Cadet and Varin supported their chief warmly.  Bad as they were,
both in private life and public conduct, they lacked neither
shrewdness nor courage.  They plundered their country--but were
ready to fight for it against the national enemy.

Other officers followed in succession,--men whose names were already
familiar, or destined to become glorious in New France,--La Corne,
St. Luc, Celeron de Bienville, Colonel Philibert, the Chevalier de
Beaujeu, the De Villiers, Le Gardeur de St. Pierre, and De Lery.
One and all supported that view of the despatches taken by the
Governor and the Intendant.  All agreed upon the necessity of
completing the walls of Quebec and of making a determined stand at
every point of the frontier against the threatened invasion.  In
case of the sudden patching up of a peace by the negotiators at Aix
La Chapelle--as really happened--on the terms of uti possidetis, it
was of vital importance that New France hold fast to every shred of
her territory, both East and West.

Long and earnest were the deliberations of the Council of War.  The
reports of the commanding officers from all points of the frontier
were carefully studied.  Plans of present defence and future
conquest were discussed with reference to the strength and weakness
of the Colony, and an accurate knowledge of the forces and designs
of the English obtained from the disaffected remnant of Cromwellian
republicans in New England, whose hatred to the Crown ever
outweighed their loyalty, and who kept up a traitorous correspondence,
for purposes of their own, with the governors of New France.

The lamps were lit and burned far into the night when the Council
broke up.  The most part of the officers partook of a cheerful
refreshment with the Governor before they retired to their several
quarters.  Only Bigot and his friends declined to sup with the
Governor: they took a polite leave, and rode away from the Chateau
to the Palace of the Intendant, where a more gorgeous repast and
more congenial company awaited them.

The wine flowed freely at the Intendant's table, and as the
irritating events of the day were recalled to memory, the pent-up
wrath of the Intendant broke forth.  "Damn the Golden Dog and his
master both!" exclaimed he.  "Philibert shall pay with his life for
the outrage of to-day, or I will lose mine!  The dirt is not off my
coat yet, Cadet!" said he, as he pointed to a spatter of mud upon
his breast.  "A pretty medal that for the Intendant to wear in a
Council of War!"

"Council of War!" replied Cadet, setting his goblet down with a bang
upon the polished table, after draining it to the bottom.  "I would
like to go through that mob again! and I would pull an oar in the
galleys of Marseilles rather than be questioned with that air of
authority by a botanizing quack like La Galissoniere!  Such
villainous questions as he asked me about the state of the royal
magazines!  La Galissoniere had more the air of a judge cross-
examining a culprit than of a Governor asking information of a
king's officer!"

"True, Cadet!" replied Varin, who was always a flatterer, and who at
last saved his ill-gotten wealth by the surrender of his wife as a
love-gift to the Duc de Choiseul.  "We all have our own injuries to
bear.  The Intendant was just showing us the spot of dirt cast upon
him by the mob; and I ask what satisfaction he has asked in the
Council for the insult."

"Ask satisfaction!" replied Cadet with a laugh.  "Let him take it!
Satisfaction!  We will all help him!  But I say that the hair of the
dog that bit him will alone cure the bite!  What I laughed at the
most was this morning at Beaumanoir, to see how coolly that whelp of
the Golden Dog, young Philibert, walked off with De Repentigny from
the very midst of all the Grand Company!"

"We shall lose our young neophyte, I doubt, Cadet!  I was a fool to
let him go with Philibert!" remarked Bigot.

"Oh, I am not afraid of losing him, we hold him by a strong triple
cord, spun by the Devil.  No fear of losing him!" answered Cadet,
grinning good-humoredly.

"What do you mean, Cadet?"  The Intendant took up his cup and drank
very nonchalantly, as if he thought little of Cadet's view of the
matter.  "What triple cord binds De Repentigny to us?"

"His love of wine, his love of gaming, and his love of women--or
rather his love of a woman, which is the strongest strand in the
string for a young fool like him who is always chasing virtue and
hugging vice!"

"Oh! a woman has got him! eh, Cadet?  Pray who is she?  When once a
woman catches a fellow by the gills, he is a dead mackerel: his fate
is fixed for good or bad in this world.  But who is she, Cadet?--she
must be a clever one," said Bigot, sententiously.

"So she is! and she is too clever for young De Repentigny: she has
got her pretty fingers in his gills, and can carry her fish to
whatever market she chooses!"

"Cadet! Cadet! out with it!" repeated a dozen voices.  "Yes, out
with it!" repeated Bigot.  "We are all companions under the rose,
and there are no secrets here about wine or women!"

"Well, I would not give a filbert for all the women born since
mother Eve!" said Cadet, flinging a nut-shell at the ceiling.  "But
this is a rare one, I must confess.  Now stop!  Don't cry out again
'Cadet! out with it!' and I will tell you!  What think you of the
fair, jolly Mademoiselle des Meloises?"

"Angelique?  Is De Repentigny in love with her?"  Bigot looked quite
interested now.

"In love with her?  He would go on all fours after her, if she
wanted him!  He does almost, as it is."

Bigot placed a finger on his brow and pondered for a moment.  "You
say well, Cadet; if De Repentigny has fallen in love with that girl,
he is ours forever!  Angelique des Meloises never lets go her ox
until she offers him up as a burnt offering!  The Honnetes Gens will
lose one of the best trout in their stream if Angelique has the
tickling of him!"

Bigot did not seem to be quite pleased with Cadet's information.
He rose from his seat somewhat flushed and excited by this talk
respecting Angelique des Meloises.  He walked up and down the room
a few turns, recovered his composure, and sat down again.

"Come, gentlemen," said he; "too much care will kill a cat!  Let us
change our talk to a merrier tune; fill up, and we will drink to the
loves of De Repentigny and the fair Angelique!  I am much mistaken
if we do not find in her the dea ex machina to help us out of our
trouble with the Honnetes Gens!"

The glasses were filled and emptied.  Cards and dice were then
called for.  The company drew their chairs into a closer circle
round the table; deep play, and deeper drinking, set in.  The Palais
resounded with revelry until the morning sun looked into the great
window, blushing red at the scene of drunken riot that had become
habitual in the Palace of the Intendant.


CHAPTER XV.

THE CHARMING JOSEPHINE.


The few words of sympathy dropped by Bigot in the secret chamber had
fallen like manna on the famine of Caroline's starving affections as
she remained on the sofa, where she had half fallen, pressing her
bosom with her hands as if a new-born thought lay there.  "I am sure
he meant it!" repeated she to herself.  "I feel that his words were
true, and for the moment his look and tone were those of my happy
maiden days in Acadia!  I was too proud then of my fancied power,
and thought Bigot's love deserved the surrender of my very
conscience to his keeping.  I forgot God in my love for him; and,
alas for me! that now is part of my punishment!  I feel not the sin
of loving him!  My penitence is not sincere when I can still rejoice
in his smile!  Woe is me!  Bigot! Bigot! unworthy as thou art, I
cannot forsake thee!  I would willingly die at thy feet, only spurn
me not away, nor give to another the love that belongs to me, and
for which I have paid the price of my immortal soul!"

She relapsed into a train of bitter reflections as her thoughts
reverted to herself.  Silence had been gradually creeping through
the house.  The noisy debauch was at an end.  There were trampings,
voices, and footfalls for a while longer, and then they died away.
Everything was still and silent as the grave.  She knew the feast
was over and the guests departed; but not whether Bigot had
accompanied them.

She sprang up as a low knock came to her door, thinking it was he,
come to bid her adieu.  It was with a feeling of disappointment she
heard the voice of Dame Tremblay saying, "My Lady, may I enter?"

Caroline ran her fingers through her disordered hair, pressed her
handkerchief into her eyes, and hastily tried to obliterate every
trace of her recent agony.  She bade her enter.

Dame Tremblay, shrewd as became the whilom Charming Josephine of
Lake Beauport, had a kind heart, nevertheless, under her old-
fashioned bodice.  She sincerely pitied this young creature who was
passing her days in prayer and her nights in weeping, although she
might rather blame her in secret for not appreciating better the
honor of a residence at Beaumanoir and the friendship of the
Intendant.

"I do not think she is prettier than I, when I was the Charming
Josephine!" thought the old dame.  "I did not despise Beaumanoir in
those days, and why should she now?  But she will be neither maid
nor mistress here long, I am thinking!"  The dame saluted the young
lady with great deference, and quietly asked if she needed her
service.

"Oh! it is you, good dame!"--Caroline answered her own thoughts,
rather than the question,--"tell me what makes this unusual silence
in the Chateau?"

"The Intendant and all the guests have gone to the city, my Lady: a
great officer of the Governor's came to summon them.  To be sure,
not many of them were fit to go, but after a deal of bathing and
dressing the gentlemen got off.  Such a clatter of horsemen as they
rode out, I never heard before, my Lady; you must have heard them
even here!"

"Yes, dame!" replied Caroline, "I heard it; and the Intendant, has
he accompanied them?"

"Yes, my Lady; the freshest and foremost cavalier of them all.  Wine
and late hours never hurt the Intendant.  It is for that I praise
him, for he is a gallant gentleman, who knows what politeness is to
women."

Caroline shrank a little at the thought expressed by the dame.
"What causes you to say that?" asked she.

"I will tell, my Lady!  'Dame Tremblay!' said he, just before he
left the Chateau.  'Dame Tremblay'--he always calls me that when he
is formal, but sometimes when he is merry, he calls me 'Charming
Josephine,' in remembrance of my young days, concerning which he has
heard flattering stories, I dare say--"

"In heaven's name! go on, dame!"  Caroline, depressed as she was,
felt the dame's garrulity like a pinch on her impatience.  "What
said the Intendant to you, on leaving the Chateau?"

"Oh, he spoke to me of you quite feelingly--that is, bade me take
the utmost care of the poor lady in the secret chamber.  I was to
give you everything you wished, and keep off all visitors, if such
were your own desire."

A train of powder does not catch fire from a spark more quickly than
Caroline's imagination from these few words of the old housekeeper.
"Did he say that, good dame?  God bless you, and bless him for those
words!"  Her eyes filled with tears at the thought of his
tenderness, which, although half fictitious, she wholly believed.

"Yes, dame," continued she.  "It is my most earnest desire to be
secluded from all visitors.  I wish to see no one but yourself.
Have you many visitors--ladies, I mean--at the Chateau?"

"Oh, yes! the ladies of the city are not likely to forget the
invitations to the balls and dinners of the bachelor Intendant of
New France.  It is the most fashionable thing in the city, and every
lady is wild to attend them.  There is one, the handsomest and
gayest of them all, who, they say, would not object even to become
the bride of the Intendant."

It was a careless shaft of the old dame's, but it went to the heart
of Caroline.  "Who is she, good dame?--pray tell me!"

"Oh, my Lady, I should fear her anger, if she knew what I say!  She
is the most terrible coquette in the city--worshipped by the men,
and hated, of course, by the women, who all imitate her in dress and
style as much as they possibly can, because they see it takes!  But
every woman fears for either husband or lover when Angelique des
Meloises is her rival."

"Is that her name?  I never heard it before, dame!" remarked
Caroline, with a shudder.  She felt instinctively that the name was
one of direful omen to herself.

"Pray God you may never have reason to hear it again," replied Dame
Tremblay.  "She it was who went to the mansion of Sieur Tourangeau
and with her riding-whip lashed the mark of a red cross upon the
forehead of his daughter, Cecile, scarring her forever, because she
had presumed to smile kindly upon a young officer, a handsome
fellow, Le Gardeur de Repentigny--whom any woman might be pardoned
for admiring!" added the old dame, with a natural touch of the
candor of her youth.  "If Angelique takes a fancy to the Intendant,
it will be dangerous for any other woman to stand in her way!"

Caroline gave a frightened look at the dame's description of a
possible rival in the Intendant's love.  "You know more of her,
dame!  Tell me all!  Tell me the worst I have to learn!" pleaded the
poor girl.

"The worst, my Lady!  I fear no one can tell the worst of Angelique
des Meloises,--at least, would not dare to, although I know nothing
bad of her, except that she would like to have all the men to
herself, and so spite all the women!"

"But she must regard that young officer with more than common
affection, to have acted so savagely to Mademoiselle Tourangeau?"
Caroline, with a woman's quickness, had caught at that gleam of hope
through the darkness.

"Oh, yes, my Lady!  All Quebec knows that Angelique loves the
Seigneur de Repentigny, for nothing is a secret in Quebec if more
than one person knows it, as I myself well recollect; for when I was
the Charming Josephine, my very whispers were all over the city by
the next dinner hour, and repeated at every table, as gentlemen
cracked their almonds and drank their wine in toasts to the Charming
Josephine."

"Pshaw! dame!  Tell me about the Seigneur de Repentigny!  Does
Angelique des Meloises love him, think you?"  Caroline's eyes were
fixed like stars upon the dame, awaiting her reply.

"It takes women to read women, they say," replied the dame, "and
every lady in Quebec would swear that Angelique loves the Seigneur
de Repentigny; but I know that, if she can, she will marry the
Intendant, whom she has fairly bewitched with her wit and beauty,
and you know a clever woman can marry any man she pleases, if she
only goes the right way about it: men are such fools!"

Caroline grew faint.  Cold drops gathered on her brow.  A veil of
mist floated before her eyes.  "Water! good dame water!" she
articulated, after several efforts.

Dame Tremblay ran, and got her a drink of water and such
restoratives as were at hand.  The dame was profuse in words of
sympathy: she had gone through life with a light, lively spirit, as
became the Charming Josephine, but never lost the kindly heart that
was natural to her.

Caroline rallied from her faintness.  "Have you seen what you tell
me, dame, or is it but the idle gossip of the city, no truth in it?
Oh, say it is the idle gossip of the city!  Francois Bigot is not
going to marry this lady?  He is not so faithless"--to me, she was
about to add, but did not.

"So faithless to her, she means, poor soul!" soliliquized the dame.
"It is but little you know my gay master if you think he values a
promise made to any woman, except to deceive her!  I have seen too
many birds of that feather not to know a hawk, from beak to claw.
When I was the Charming Josephine I took the measure of men's
professions, and never was deceived but once.  Men's promises are
big as clouds, and as empty and as unstable!"

"My good dame, I am sure you have a kind heart," said Caroline, in
reply to a sympathizing pressure of the hand.  "But you do not know,
you cannot imagine what injustice you do the Intendant"--Caroline
hesitated and blushed--"by mentioning the report of his marriage
with that lady.  Men speak untruly of him--"

"My dear Lady, it is what the women say that frightens one!  The men
are angry, and won't believe it; but the women are jealous, and will
believe it even if there be nothing in it!  As a faithful servant I
ought to have no eyes to watch my master, but I have not failed to
observe that the Chevalier Bigot is caught man-fashion, if not
husband-fashion, in the snares of the artful Angelique.  But may I
speak my real opinion to you, my Lady?"

Caroline was eagerly watching the lips of the garrulous dame.  She
started, brushed back with a stroke of her hand the thick hair that
had fallen over her ear,--"Oh, speak all your thoughts, good dame!
If your next words were to kill me, speak them!"

"My next words will not harm you, my Lady," said she, with a meaning
smile, "if you will accept the opinion of an old woman, who learned
the ways of men when she was the Charming Josephine!  You must not
conclude that because the Chevalier Intendant admires, or even loves
Angelique des Meloises, he is going to marry her.  That is not the
fashion of these times.  Men love beauty, and marry money; love is
more plenty than matrimony, both at Paris and at Quebec, at
Versailles as well as at Beaumanoir or even at Lake Beauport, as I
learned to my cost when I was the Charming Josephine!"

Caroline blushed crimson at the remark of Dame Tremblay.  Her voice
quivered with emotion.  "It is sin to cheapen love like that, dame!
And yet I know we have sometimes to bury our love in our heart, with
no hope of resurrection."

"Sometimes?  Almost always, my Lady!  When I was the Charming
Josephine--nay, listen, Lady: my story is instructive."  Caroline
composed herself to hear the dame's recital.  "When I was the
Charming Josephine of Lake Beauport I began by believing that men
were angels sent for the salvation of us women.  I thought that love
was a better passport than money to lead to matrimony; but I was a
fool for my fancy!  I had a good score of lovers any day.  The
gallants praised my beauty, and it was the envy of the city; they
flattered me for my wit,--nay, even fought duels for my favor, and
called me the Charming Josephine, but not one offered to marry me!
At twenty I ran away for love, and was forsaken.  At thirty I
married for money, and was rid of all my illusions.  At forty I came
as housekeeper to Beaumanoir, and have lived here comfortably ever
since I know what royal intendants are!  Old Hocquart wore night-
caps in the daytime, took snuff every minute, and jilted a lady in
France because she had not the dower of a duchess to match his
hoards of wealth!  The Chevalier Bigot's black eye and jolly laugh
draw after him all the girls of the city, but not one will catch
him!  Angelique des Meloises is first in his favor, but I see it is
as clear as print in the eye of the Intendant that he will never
marry her--and you will prevent him, my Lady!"

"I?  I prevent him!" exclaimed Caroline in amazement.  "Alas! good
dame, you little know how lighter than thistledown floating on the
wind is my influence with the Intendant."

"You do yourself injustice, my Lady.  Listen! I never saw a more
pitying glance fall from the eye of man than the Intendant cast upon
you one day when he saw you kneeling in your oratory unconscious of
his presence.  His lips quivered, and a tear gathered under his
thick eyelashes as he silently withdrew.  I heard him mutter a
blessing upon you, and curses upon La Pompadour for coming between
him and his heart's desire.  I was a faithful servant and kept my
counsel.  I could see, however, that the Intendant thought more of
the lovely lady of Beaumanoir than of all the ambitious demoiselles
of Quebec."

Caroline sprang up, and casting off the deep reserve she had
maintained, threw her arms round the neck of Dame Tremblay, and
half choked with emotion, exclaimed,--

"Is that true? good, dear friend of friends!  Did the Chevalier
Bigot bless me, and curse La Pompadour for coming between him and
his heart's desire!  His heart's desire! but you do not know--you
cannot guess what that means, dame?"

"As if I did not know a man's heart's desire! but I am a woman, and
can guess!  I was not the Charming Josephine for nothing, good
Lady!" replied the dame, smiling, as the enraptured girl laid her
fair, smooth cheek upon that of the old housekeeper.

"And did he look so pityingly as you describe, and bless me as I was
praying, unwitting of his presence?" repeated she, with a look that
searched the dame through and through.

"He did, my Lady; he looked, just then, as a man looks upon a woman
whom he really loves.  I know how men look when they really love us
and when they only pretend to?  No deceiving me!" added she.  "When
I was the Charming Josephine--"

"Ave Maria!" said Caroline, crossing herself with deep devotion, not
heeding the dame's reminiscences of Lake Beauport.  "Heaven has
heard my prayers!  I can die happy!"

"Heaven forbid you should die at all, my Lady!  You die?  The
Intendant loves you.  I see it in his face that he will never marry
Angelique des Meloises.  He may indeed marry a great marchioness
with her lap full of gold and chateaux--that is, if the King
commands him: that is how the grand gentlemen of the Court marry.
They wed rank, and love beauty--the heart to one, the hand to
another.  It would be my way too, were I a man and women so simple
as we all are.  If a girl cannot marry for love, she will marry for
money; and if not for money, she can always marry for spite--I did,
when I was the Charming Josephine!"

"It is a shocking and sinful way, to marry without love!" said
Caroline, warmly.

"It is better than no way at all!" replied the dame, regretting her
remark when she saw her lady's face flush like crimson.  The dame's
opinions were rather the worse for wear in her long journey through
life, and would not be adopted by a jury of prudes.  "When I was the
Charming Josephine," continued she, "I had the love of half the
gallants of Quebec, but not one offered his hand.  What was I to do?
'Crook a finger, or love and linger,' as they say in Alencon, where
I was born?"

"Fie, dame!  Don't say such things!" said Caroline, with a shamed,
reproving look.  "I would think better of the Intendant."  Her
gratitude led her to imagine excuses for him.  The few words
reported to her by Dame Tremblay she repeated with silently moving
lips and tender reiteration.  They lingered in her ear like the
fugue of a strain of music, sung by a choir of angelic spirits.
"Those were his very words, dame?" added she again, repeating them--
not for inquiry, but for secret joy.

"His very words, my Lady!  But why should the Royal Intendant not
have his heart's desire as well as that great lady in France?  If
any one had forbidden my marrying the poor Sieur Tremblay, for whom
I did not care two pins, I would have had him for spite--yes, if I
had had to marry him as the crows do, on a tree-top!"

"But no one bade you or forbade you, dame!  You were happy that no
one came between you and your heart's desire!" replied Caroline.

Dame Tremblay laughed out merrily at the idea.  "Poor Giles Tremblay
my heart's desire!  Listen, Lady, I could no more get that than you
could.  When I was the Charming Josephine there was but one, out of
all my admirers, whom I really cared for, and he, poor fellow, had a
wife already!  So what was I to do?  I threw my line at last in
utter despair, and out of the troubled sea I drew the Sieur
Tremblay, whom I married, and soon put cosily underground with a
heavy tombstone on top of him to keep him down, with this
inscription, which you may see for yourself, my Lady, if you will,
in the churchyard where he lies:


     "'Ci git mon Giles,
       Ah! qu'il est bien,
       Pour son repos,
       Et pour le mien!'


"Men are like my Angora tabby: stroke them smoothly and they will
purr and rub noses with you; but stroke them the wrong way and
whirr! they scratch your hands and out of the window they fly!  When
I was the Charming--"

"Oh, good dame, thanks! thanks! for the comfort you have given me!"
interrupted Caroline, not caring for a fresh reminiscence of the
Charming Josephine.  "Leave me, I pray.  My mind is in a sad tumult.
I would fain rest.  I have much to fear, but something also to hope
for now," she said, leaning back in her chair in deep and quiet
thought.

"The Chateau is very still now, my Lady," replied the dame, "the
servants are all worn out with long attendance and fast asleep.  Let
my Lady go to her own apartments, which are bright and airy.  It
will be better for her than this dull chamber."

"True, dame!" Caroline rose at the suggestion.  "I like not this
secret chamber.  It suited my sad mood, but now I seem to long for
air and sunshine.  I will go with you to my own room."

They ascended the winding stair, and Caroline seated herself by the
window of her own chamber, overlooking the park and gardens of the
Chateau.  The huge, sloping forest upon the mountain side, formed,
in the distance, with the blue sky above it, a landscape of beauty,
upon which her eyes lingered with a sense of freshness and delight.

Dame Tremblay left her to her musings, to go, she said, to rouse up
the lazy maids and menservants, to straighten up the confusion of
everything in the Chateau after the late long feast.

On the great stair she encountered M. Froumois, the Intendant's
valet, a favorite gossip of the dame's, who used to invite him into
her snug parlor, where she regaled him with tea and cake, or, if
late in the evening, with wine and nipperkins of Cognac, while he
poured into her ear stories of the gay life of Paris and the bonnes
fortunes of himself and master--for the valet in plush would have
disdained being less successful among the maids in the servants'
hall than his master in velvet in the boudoirs of their mistresses.

M. Froumois accepted the dame's invitation, and the two were
presently engaged in a melee of gossip over the sayings and doings
of fashionable society in Quebec.

The dame, holding between her thumb and finger a little china cup of
tea well laced, she called it, with Cognac, remarked,--"They fairly
run the Intendant down, Froumois: there is not a girl in the city
but laces her boots to distraction since it came out that the
Intendant admires a neat, trim ankle.  I had a trim ankle myself
when I was the Charming Josephine, M. Froumois!"

"And you have yet, dame,--if I am a judge," replied Froumois,
glancing down with an air of gallantry.

"And you are accounted a judge--and ought to be a good one,
Froumois!  A gentleman can't live at court as you have done, and
learn nothing of the points of a fine woman!"  The good dame liked a
compliment as well as ever she had done at Lake Beauport in her hey-
day of youth and beauty.

"Why, no, dame," replied he; "one can't live at Court and learn
nothing!  We study the points of fine women as we do fine statuary
in the gallery of the Louvre, only the living beauties will compel
us to see their best points if they have them!"  M. Froumois looked
very critical as he took a pinch from the dame's box, which she held
out to him.  Her hand and wrist were yet unexceptionable, as he
could not help remarking.

"But what think you, really, of our Quebec beauties?  Are they not a
good imitation of Versailles?" asked the dame.

"A good imitation!  They are the real porcelain!  For beauty and
affability Versailles cannot exceed them.  So says the Intendant,
and so say I!," replied the gay valet.  "Why, look you, Dame
Tremblay!" continued he, extending his well-ringed fingers, "they do
give gentlemen no end of hopes here!  We have only to stretch out
our ten digits and a ladybird will light on every one of them!  It
was so at Versailles--it is just so here.  The ladies in Quebec do
know how to appreciate a real gentleman!"

"Yes, that is what makes the ladies of Ville Marie so jealous and
angry," replied the dame; "the King's officers and all the great
catches land at Quebec first, when they come out from France, and we
take toll of them!  We don't let a gentleman of them get up to Ville
Marie without a Quebec engagement tacked to his back, so that all
Ville Marie can read it, and die of pure spite!  I say we, Froumois;
but you understand I speak of myself only as the Charming Josephine
of Lake Beauport.  I must content myself now with telling over my
past glories."

"Well dame, I don't know but you are glorious yet!  But tell me,
what has got over my master to-day?  Was the unknown lady unkind?
Something has angered him, I am sure!"

"I cannot tell you, Froumois: women's moods are not to be explained,
even by themselves."  The dame had been sensibly touched by
Caroline's confidence in her, and she was too loyal to her sex to
repeat even to Froumois her recent conversation with Caroline.

They found plenty of other topics, however, and over the tea and
Cognac the dame and valet passed an hour of delightful gossip.

Caroline, left to the solitude of her chamber, sat silently with her
hands clasped in her lap.  Her thoughts pressed inward upon her.
She looked out without seeing the fair landscape before her eyes.

Tears and sorrow she had welcomed in a spirit of bitter penitence
for her fault in loving one who no longer regarded her.  "I do not
deserve any man's regard," murmured she, as she laid her soul on the
rack of self-accusation, and wrung its tenderest fibres with the
pitiless rigor of a secret inquisitor.  She utterly condemned
herself while still trying to find some excuse for her unworthy
lover.  At times a cold half-persuasion, fluttering like a bird in
the snow, came over her that Bigot could not be utterly base.  He
could not thus forsake one who had lost all--name, fame, home, and
kindred--for his sake!  She clung to the few pitying words spoken by
him as a shipwrecked sailor to the plank which chance has thrown in
his way.  It might float her for a few hours, and she was grateful.

Immersed in these reflections, Caroline sat gazing at the clouds,
now transformed into royal robes of crimson and gold--the gorgeous
train of the sun filled the western horizon.  She raised her pale
hands to her head, lifting the mass of dark hair from her temples.
The fevered blood, madly coursing, pulsed in her ear like the stroke
of a bell.

She remembered a sunset like this on the shores of the Bay of Minas,
where the thrush and oriole twittered their even-song before seeking
their nests, where the foliage of the trees was all ablaze with
golden fire, and a shimmering path of sunlight lay upon the still
waters like a glorious bridge leading from themselves to the bright
beyond.

On that well-remembered night her heart had yielded to Bigot's
pleadings.  She had leaned her head upon his bosom, and received the
kiss and gave the pledge that bound her to him forever.

The sun kept sinking--the forests on the mountain tops burst into a
bonfire of glory.  Shadows went creeping up the hill-sides until the
highest crest alone flamed out as a beacon of hope to her troubled
soul.

Suddenly, like a voice from the spirit world, the faint chime of the
bells of Charlebourg floated on the evening breeze: it was the
Angelus, calling men to prayer and rest from their daily labor.
Sweetly the soft reverberation floated through the forests, up the
hill-sides, by plain and river, entering the open lattices of
Chateau and cottage, summoning rich and poor alike to their duty of
prayer and praise.  It reminded men of the redemption of the world
by the divine miracle of the incarnation announced by Gabriel, the
angel of God, to the ear of Mary blessed among women.

The soft bells rang on.  Men blessed them, and ceased from their
toils in field and forest.  Mothers knelt by the cradle, and uttered
the sacred words with emotions such as only mothers feel.  Children
knelt by their mothers, and learned the story of God's pity in
appearing upon earth as a little child, to save mankind from their
sins.  The dark Huron setting his snares in the forest and the
fishers on the shady stream stood still.  The voyageur sweeping his
canoe over the broad river suspended his oar as the solemn sound
reached him, and he repeated the angel's words and went on his way
with renewed strength.

The sweet bells came like a voice of pity and consolation to the ear
of Caroline.  She knelt down, and clasping her hands, repeated the
prayer of millions,--


     "'Ave Maria! gratia plena.'"


She continued kneeling, offering up prayer after prayer for God's
forgiveness, both for herself and for him who had brought her to
this pass of sin and misery.  "'Mea culpa!  Mea maxima culpa!'"
repeated she, bowing herself to the ground.  "I am the chief of
sinners; who shall deliver me from this body of sin and affiction?"

The sweet bells kept ringing.  They woke reminiscences of voices of
by-gone days.  She heard her father's tones, not in anger as he
would speak now, but kind and loving as in her days of innocence.
She heard her mother, long dead--oh, how happily dead! for she
could not die of sorrow now over her dear child's fall.  She heard
the voices of the fair companions of her youth, who would think
shame of her now; and amidst them all, the tones of the persuasive
tongue that wooed her maiden love.  How changed it all seemed! and
yet, as the repetition of two or three notes of a bar of music
brings to recollection the whole melody to which it belongs, the few
kind words of Bigot, spoken that morning, swept all before them in a
drift of hope.  Like a star struggling in the mist the faint voice
of an angel was heard afar off in the darkness.

The ringing of the Angelus went on.  Her heart was utterly melted.
Her eyes, long parched, as a spent fountain in the burning desert,
were suddenly filled with tears.  She felt no longer the agony of
the eyes that cannot weep.  The blessed tears flowed quietly as the
waters of Shiloh, bringing relief to her poor soul, famishing for
one true word of affection.  Long after the sweet bells ceased their
chime Caroline kept on praying for him, and long after the shades of
night had fallen over the Chateau of Beaumanoir.


CHAPTER XVI.

ANGELIQUE DES MELOISES.


"Come and see me to-night, Le Gardeur."  Angelique des Meloises drew
the bridle sharply as she halted her spirited horse in front of the
officer of the guard at the St. Louis Gate.  "Come and see me to-
night: I shall be at home to no one but you.  Will you come?"

Had Le Gardeur de Repentigny been ever so laggard and indifferent a
lover the touch of that pretty hand, and the glance from the dark
eye that shot fire down into his very heart, would have decided him
to obey this seductive invitation.

He held her hand as he looked up with a face radiant with joy.  "I
will surely come, Angelique; but tell me--"

She interrupted him laughingly: "No; I will tell you nothing till
you come!  So good-by till then."

He would fain have prolonged the interview; but she capriciously
shook the reins, and with a silvery laugh rode through the gateway
and into the city.  In a few minutes she dismounted at her own home,
and giving her horse in charge of a groom, ran lightly up the broad
steps into the house.

The family mansion of the Des Meloises was a tall and rather
pretentious edifice overlooking the fashionable Rue St. Louis.

The house was, by a little artifice on the part of Angelique, empty
of visitors this evening.  Even her brother, the Chevalier des
Meloises, with whom she lived, a man of high life and extreme
fashion, was to-night enjoying the more congenial society of the
officers of the Regiment de Bearn.  At this moment, amid the clash
of glasses and the bubbling of wine, the excited and voluble Gascons
were discussing in one breath the war, the council, the court, the
ladies, and whatever gay topic was tossed from end to end of the
crowded mess-table.

"Mademoiselle's hair has got loose and looks like a Huron's," said
her maid Lizette, as her nimble fingers rearranged the rich dark-
golden locks of Angelique, which reached to the floor as she sat
upon her fauteuil.

"No matter, Lizette; do it up a la Pompadour, and make haste.  My
brain is in as great confusion as my hair.  I need repose for an
hour.  Remember, Lizette, I am at home to no one to-night except the
Chevalier de Repentigny."

"The Chevalier called this afternoon, Mademoiselle, and was sorry he
did not find you at home," replied Lizette, who saw the eyelashes of
her mistress quiver and droop, while a flush deepened for an instant
the roseate hue of her cheek.

"I was in the country, that accounts for it!  There, my hair will
do!" said Angelique, giving a glance in the great Venetian mirror
before her.  Her freshly donned robe of blue silk, edged with a foam
of snowy laces and furbelows, set off her tall figure.  Her arms,
bare to the elbows, would have excited Juno's jealousy or Homer's
verse to gather efforts in praise of them.  Her dainty feet,
shapely, aspiring, and full of character as her face, were
carelessly thrust forward, and upon one of them lay a flossy
spaniel, a privileged pet of his fair mistress.

The boudoir of Angelique was a nest of luxury and elegance.  Its
furnishings and adornings were of the newest Parisian style.  A
carpet woven in the pattern of a bed of flowers covered the floor.
Vases of Sevres and Porcelein, filled with roses and jonquils, stood
on marble tables.  Grand Venetian mirrors reflected the fair form of
their mistress from every point of view--who contemplated herself
before and behind with a feeling of perfect satisfaction and sense
of triumph over every rival.

A harpsichord occupied one corner of the room, and an elaborate
bookcase, well-filled with splendidly bound volumes, another.

Angelique had small taste for reading, yet had made some
acquaintance with the literature of the day.  Her natural quick
parts and good taste enabled her to shine, even in literary
conversation.  Her bright eyes looked volumes.  Her silvery laugh
was wiser than the wisdom of a precieuse.  Her witty repartees
covered acres of deficiencies with so much grace and tact that men
were tempted to praise her knowledge no less than her beauty.

She had a keen eye for artistic effects.  She loved painting,
although her taste was sensuous and voluptuous--character is shown
in the choice of pictures as much as in that of books or of
companions.

There was a painting of Vanloo--a lot of full-blooded horses in a
field of clover; they had broken fence, and were luxuriating in the
rich, forbidden pasture.  The triumph of Cleopatra over Antony, by
Le Brun, was a great favorite with Angelique, because of a fancied,
if not a real, resemblance between her own features and those of the
famous Queen of Egypt.  Portraits of favorite friends, one of them
Le Gardeur de Repentigny, and a still more recent acquisition, that
of the Intendant Bigot, adorned the walls, and among them was one
distinguished for its contrast to all the rest--the likeness, in the
garb of an Ursuline, of her beautiful Aunt Marie des Meloises, who,
in a fit of caprice some years before, had suddenly forsaken the
world of fashion, and retired to a convent.

The proud beauty threw back her thick golden tresses as she scanned
her fair face and magnificent figure in the tall Venetian mirror.
She drank the intoxicating cup of self-flattery to the bottom as she
compared herself, feature by feature, with every beautiful woman she
knew in New France.  The longer she looked the more she felt the
superiority of her own charms over them all.  Even the portrait of
her aunt, so like her in feature, so different in expression, was
glanced at with something like triumph spiced with content.

"She was handsome as I!" cried Angelique.  "She was fit to be a
queen, and made herself a nun--and all for the sake of a man!  I am
fit to be a queen too, and the man who raises me nighest to a
queen's estate gets my hand!  My heart?" she paused a few moments.
"Pshaw!"  A slight quiver passed over her lips.  "My heart must do
penance for the fault of my hand!"

Petrified by vanity and saturated with ambition, Angelique retained
under the hard crust of selfishness a solitary spark of womanly
feeling.  The handsome face and figure of Le Gardeur de Repentigny
was her beau-ideal of manly perfection.  His admiration flattered
her pride.  His love, for she knew infallibly, with a woman's
instinct, that he loved her, touched her into a tenderness such as
she felt for no man besides.  It was the nearest approach to love
her nature was capable of, and she used to listen to him with more
than complacency, while she let her hand linger in his warm clasp
while the electric fire passed from one to another and she looked
into his eyes, and spoke to him in those sweet undertones that win
man's hearts to woman's purposes.

She believed she loved Le Gardeur; but there was no depth in the
soil where a devoted passion could take firm root.  Still she was a
woman keenly alive to admiration, jealous and exacting of her
suitors, never willingly letting one loose from her bonds, and with
warm passions and a cold heart was eager for the semblance of love,
although never feeling its divine reality.

The idea of a union with Le Gardeur some day, when she should tire
of the whirl of fashion, had been a pleasant fancy of Angelique.
She had no fear of losing her power over him: she held him by the
very heart-strings, and she knew it.  She might procrastinate, play
false and loose, drive him to the very verge of madness by her
coquetries, but she knew she could draw him back, like a bird held
by a silken string.  She could excite, if she could not feel, the
fire of a passionate love.  In her heart she regarded men as beings
created for her service, amazement, and sport,--to worship her
beauty and adorn it with gifts.  She took everything as her due,
giving nothing in return.  Her love was an empty shell that never
held a kernel of real womanly care for any man.

Amid the sunshine of her fancied love for Le Gardeur had come a day
of eclipse for him, of fresh glory for her.  The arrival of the new
Intendant, Bigot, changed the current of Angelique's ambition.  His
high rank, his fabulous wealth, his connections with the court, and
his unmarried state, fanned into a flame the secret aspirations of
the proud, ambitious girl.  His wit and gallantry captivated her
fancy, and her vanity was full fed by being singled out as the
special object of the Intendant's admiration.

She already indulged in dreams which regarded the Intendant himself
as but a stepping-stone to further greatness.  Her vivid fancy,
conjured up scenes of royal splendor, where, introduced by the
courtly Bigot, princes and nobles would follow in her train and the
smiles of majesty itself would distinguish her in the royal halls of
Versailles.

Angelique felt she had power to accomplish all this could she but
open the way.  The name of Bigot she regarded as the open sesame to
all greatness.  "If women rule France by a right more divine than
that of kings, no woman has a better right than I!" said she, gazing
into the mirror before her.  "The kingdom should be mine, and death
to all other pretenders!  And what is needed after all?" thought
she, as she brushed her golden hair from her temples with a hand
firm as it was beautiful.  "It is but to pull down the heart of a
man!  I have done that many a time for my pleasure; I will now do it
for my profit, and for supremacy over my jealous and envious sex!"

Angelique was not one to quail when she entered the battle in
pursuit of any object of ambition or fancy.  "I never saw the man
yet," said she, "whom I could not bring to my feet if I willed it!
The Chevalier Bigot would be no exception--that is, he would be no
exception"--the voice of Angelique fell into a low, hard monotone as
she finished the sentence--"were he free from the influence of that
mysterious woman at Beaumanoir, who, they say, claims the title of
wife by a token which even Bigot may not disregard!  Her pleading
eyes may draw his compassion where they ought to excite his scorn.
But men are fools to woman's faults, and are often held by the very
thing women never forgive.  While she crouches there like a lioness
in my path the chances are I shall never be chatelaine of
Beaumanoir--never, until she is gone!"

Angelique fell into a deep fit of musing, and murmured to herself,
"I shall never reach Bigot unless she be removed--but how to remove
her?"

Ay, that was the riddle of the Sphinx!  Angelique's life, as she had
projected it, depended upon the answer to that question.

She trembled with a new feeling; a shiver ran through her veins as
if the cold breath of a spirit of evil had passed over her.  A
miner, boring down into the earth, strikes a hidden stone that
brings him to a dead stand.  So Angelique struck a hard, dark
thought far down in the depths of her secret soul.  She drew it to
the light, and gazed on it shocked and frightened.

"I did not mean that!" cried the startled girl, crossing herself.
"Mere de Dieu!  I did not conceive a wicked thought like that!  I
will not!  I cannot contemplate that!"  She shut her eyes, pressing
both hands over them as if resolved not to look at the evil thought
that, like a spirit of darkness, came when evoked, and would not
depart when bidden.  She sprang up trembling in every limb, and
supporting herself against a table, seized a gilded carafe and
poured out a full goblet of wine, which she drank.  It revived her
fainting spirit.  She drank another, and stood up herself again,
laughing at her own weakness.

She ran to the window, and looked out into the night.  The bright
stars shone overhead; the lights in the street reassured her.  The
people passing by and the sound of voices brought back her familiar
mood.  She thought no more of the temptation from which she had not
prayed to be delivered, just as the daring skater forgets the depths
that underlie the thin ice over which he skims, careless as a bird
in the sunshine.

An hour more was struck by the loud clock of the Recollets.  The
drums and bugles of the garrison sounded the signal for the closing
of the gates of the city and the setting of the watch for the night.
Presently the heavy tramp of the patrol was heard in the street.
Sober bourgeois walked briskly home, while belated soldiers ran
hastily to get into their quarters ere the drums ceased beating the
tattoo.

The sharp gallop of a horse clattered on the stony pavement, and
stopped suddenly at the door.  A light step and the clink of a
scabbard rang on the steps.  A familiar rap followed.  Angelique,
with the infallible intuition of a woman who recognizes the knock
and foostep of her lover from ten thousand others, sprang up and met
Le Gardeur de Repentigny as he entered the boudoir.  She received
him with warmth, even fondness, for she was proud of Le Gardeur and
loved him in her secret heart beyond all the rest of her admirers.

"Welcome, Le Gardeur!" exclaimed she, giving both hands in his: "I
knew you would come; you are welcome as the returned prodigal!"

"Dear Angelique!" repeated he, after kissing her hands with fervor,
"the prodigal was sure to return, he could not live longer on the
dry husks of mere recollections."

"So he rose, and came to the house that is full and overflowing with
welcome for him!  It is good of you to come, Le Gardeur! why have
you stayed so long away?"  Angelique in the joy of his presence
forgot for the moment her meditated infidelity.

A swift stroke of her hand swept aside her flowing skirts to clear a
place for him upon the sofa, where he sat down beside her.

"This is kind of you, Angelique," said he, "I did not expect so much
condescension after my petulance at the Governor's ball; I was
wicked that night--forgive me."

"The fault was more mine, I doubt, Le Gardeur."  Angelique
recollected how she had tormented him on that occasion by capricious
slights, while bounteous of her smiles to others.  "I was angry with
you because of your too great devotion to Cecile Tourangeau."

This was not true, but Angelique had no scruple to lie to a lover.
She knew well that it was only from his vexation at her conduct that
Le Gardeur had pretended to renew some long intermitted coquetries
with the fair Cecile.  "But why were you wicked at all that night?"
inquired she, with a look of sudden interest, as she caught a red
cast in his eye, that spoke of much dissipation.  "You have been
ill, Le Gardeur!"  But she knew he had been drinking deep and long,
to drown vexation, perhaps, over her conduct.

"I have not been ill," replied he; "shall I tell you the truth,
Angelique?"

"Always, and all of it!  The whole truth and nothing but the truth!"
Her hand rested fondly on his; no word of equivocation was possible
under that mode of putting her lover to the question.  "Tell me why
you were wicked that night!"

"Because I loved you to madness, Angelique; and I saw myself thrust
from the first place in your heart, and a new idol set up in my
stead.  That is the truth?"

"That is not the truth!" exclaimed she vehemently; and never will be
the truth if I know myself and you.  But you don't know women, Le
Gardeur," added she, with a smile; "you don't know me, the one woman
you ought to know better than that!"

It is easy to recover affection that is not lost.  Angelique knew
her power, and was not indisposed to excess in the exercise of it.
"Will you do something for me, Le Gardeur?" asked she, tapping his
fingers coquettishly with her fan.

"Will I not?  Is there anything in earth, heaven, or hell,
Angelique, I would not do for you if I only could win what I covet
more than life?"

"What is that?"  Angelique knew full well what he coveted more than
life; her own heart began to beat responsively to the passion she
had kindled in his.  She nestled up closer to his side.  "What is
that, Le Gardeur?"

"Your love, Angelique!  I have no other hope in life if I miss that!
Give me your love and I will serve you with such loyalty as never
man served woman with since Adam and Eve were created."

It was a rash saying, but Le Gardeur believed it, and Angelique too.
Still she kept her aim before her.  "If I give you my love," said
she, pressing her hand through his thick locks, sending from her
fingers a thousand electric fires, "will you really be my knight, my
preux chevalier, to wear my colors and fight my battles with all the
world?"

"I will, by all that is sacred in man or woman!  Your will shall be
my law, Angelique; your pleasure, my conscience; you shall be to me
all reason and motive for my acts if you will but love me!"

"I do love you, Le Gardeur!" replied she, impetuously.  She felt the
vital soul of this man breathing on her cheek.  She knew he spoke
true, but she was incapable of measuring the height and immensity of
such a passion.  She accepted his love, but she could no more
contain the fulness of his overflowing affection than the pitcher
that is held to the fountain can contain the stream that gushes
forth perpetually.

Angelique was ALMOST carried away from her purpose, however.  Had
her heart asserted its rightful supremacy--that is, had nature
fashioned it larger and warmer--she had there and then thrown
herself into his arms and blessed him by the consent he sought.  She
felt assured that here was the one man God had made for her, and she
was cruelly sacrificing him to a false idol of ambition and vanity.
The word he pleaded for hovered on her tongue, ready like a bird to
leap down into his bosom; but she resolutely beat it back into its
iron cage.

The struggle was the old one--old as the race of man.  In the losing
battle between the false and true, love rarely comes out of that
conflict unshorn of life or limb.  Untrue to him, she was true to
her selfish self.  The thought of the Intendant and the glories of
life opening to her closed her heart, not to the pleadings of Le
Gardeur,--them she loved,--but to the granting of his prayer.

The die was cast, but she still clasped hard his hand in hers, as if
she could not let him go.  "And will you do all you say, Le Gardeur--
make my will your law, my pleasure your conscience, and let me be
to you all reason and motive?  Such devotion terrifies me, Le
Gardeur?"

"Try me!  Ask of me the hardest thing, nay, the wickedest, that
imagination can conceive or hands do--and I would perform it for
your sake."  Le Gardeur was getting beside himself.  The magic power
of those dark, flashing eyes of hers was melting all the fine gold
of his nature to folly.

"Fie!" replied she, "I do not ask you to drink the sea: a small
thing would content me.  My love is not so exacting as that, Le
Gardeur."

"Does your brother need my aid?" asked he.  "If he does, he shall
have it to half my fortune for your sake!"  Le Gardeur was well
aware that the prodigal brother of Angelique was in a strait for
money, as was usual with him.  He had lately importuned Le Gardeur,
and obtained a large sum from him.

She looked up with well-affected indignation.  "How can you think
such a thing, Le Gardeur? my brother was not in my thought.  It was
the Intendant I wished to ask you about,--you know him better than I."

This was not true.  Angelique had studied the Intendant in mind,
person, and estate, weighing him scruple by scruple to the last
attainable atom of information.  Not that she had sounded the depths
of Bigot's soul--there were regions of darkness in his character
which no eye but God's ever penetrated.  Angelique felt that with
all her acuteness she did not comprehend the Intendant.

"You ask what I think of the Intendant?" asked he, surprised
somewhat at the question.

"Yes--an odd question, is it not, Le Gardeur?" and she smiled away
any surprise he experienced.

"Truly, I think him the most jovial gentleman that ever was in New
France," was the reply; "frank and open-handed to his friends,
laughing and dangerous to his foes.  His wit is like his wine,
Angelique: one never tires of either, and no lavishness exhausts it.
In a word, I, like the Intendant, I like his wit ,his wine, his
friends,--some of them, that is!--but above all, I like you,
Angelique, and will be more his friend than ever for your sake,
since I have learned his generosity towards the Chevalier des
Meloises."

The Intendant had recently bestowed a number of valuable shares in
the Grand Company upon the brother of Angelique, making the fortune
of that extravagant young nobleman.

"I am glad you will be his friend, if only for my sake," added she,
coquettishly.  "But some great friends of yours like him not.  Your
sweet sister Amelie shrank like a sensitive plant at the mention of
his name, and the Lady de Tilly put on her gravest look to-day when
I spoke of the Chevalier Bigot."

Le Gardeur gave Angelique an equivocal look at mention of his
sister.  "My sister Amelie is an angel in the flesh," said he.  "A
man need be little less than divine to meet her full approval; and
my good aunt has heard something of the genial life of the
Intendant.  One may excuse a reproving shake of her noble head."

"Colonel Philibert too! he shares in the sentiments of your aunt and
sister, to say nothing of the standing hostility of his father, the
Bourgeois," continued Angelique, provoked at Le Gardeur's want of
adhesion.

"Pierre Philibert!  He may not like the Intendant: he has reason for
not doing so; but I stake my life upon his honor--he will never be
unjust towards the Intendant or any man."  Le Gardeur could not be
drawn into a censure of his friend.

Angelique shielded adroitly the stiletto of innuendo she had drawn.
"You say right," said she, craftily; "Pierre Philibert is a
gentleman worthy of your regard.  I confess I have seen no handsomer
man in New France.  I have been dreaming of one like him all my
life!  What a pity I saw you first, Le Gardeur!" added she, pulling
him by the hair.

"I doubt you would throw me to the fishes were Pierre my rival,
Angelique," replied he, merrily; "but I am in no danger: Pierre's
affections are, I fancy, forestalled in a quarter where I need not
be jealous of his success."

"I shall at any rate not be jealous of your sister, Le Gardeur,"
said Angelique, raising her face to his, suffused with a blush; "if
I do not give you the love you ask for it is because you have it
already; but ask no more at present from me--this, at least, is
yours," said she, kissing him twice, without prudery or hesitation.

That kiss from those adored lips sealed his fate.  It was the first--
better it had been the last, better he had never been born than
have drank the poison of her lips.

"Now answer me my questions, Le Gardeur," added she, after a pause
of soft blandishments.

Le Gardeur felt her fingers playing with his hair, as, like Delilah,
she cut off the seven locks of his strength.

"There is a lady at Beaumanoir; tell me who and what she is, Le
Gardeur," said she.

He would not have hesitated to betray the gate of Heaven at her
prayer; but, as it happened, Le Gardeur could not give her the
special information she wanted as to the particular relation in
which that lady stood to the Intendant.  Angelique with wonderful
coolness talked away, and laughed at the idea of the Intendant's
gallantry.  But she could get no confirmation of her suspicions from
Le Gardeur.  Her inquiry was for the present a failure, but she made
Le Gardeur promise to learn what he could and tell her the result of
his inquiries.

They sat long conversing together, until the bell of the Recollets
sounded the hour of midnight.  Angelique looked in the face of Le
Gardeur with a meaning smile, as she counted each stroke with her
dainty finger on his cheek.  When finished, she sprang up and looked
out of the lattice at the summer night.

The stars were twinkling like living things.  Charles's Wain lay
inverted in the northern horizon; Bootes had driven his sparkling
herd down the slope of the western sky.  A few thick tresses of her
golden hair hung negligently over her bosom and shoulders.  She
placed her arm in Le Gardeur's, hanging heavily upon him as she
directed his eyes to the starry heavens.  The selfish schemes she
carried in her bosom dropped for a moment to the ground.  Her feet
seemed to trample them into the dust, while she half resolved to be
to this man all that he believed her to be, a true and devoted
woman.

"Read my destiny, Le Gardeur," said she, earnestly.  "You are a
Seminarist.  They say the wise fathers of the Seminary study deeply
the science of the stars, and the students all become adepts in it."

"Would that my starry heaven were more propitious, Angelique,"
replied he, gaily kissing her eyes.  "I care not for other skies
than these!  My fate and fortune are here."

Her bosom heaved with mingled passions.  The word of hope and the
word of denial struggled on her lips for mastery.  Her blood
throbbed quicker than the beat of the golden pendule on the marble
table; but, like a bird, the good impulse again escaped her grasp.

"Look, Le Gardeur," said she.  Her delicate finger pointed at
Perseus, who was ascending the eastern heavens: "there is my star.
Mere Malheur,--you know her,--she once said to me that that was my
natal star, which would rule my life."

Like all whose passions pilot them, Angelique believed in destiny.

Le Gardeur had sipped a few drops of the cup of astrology from the
venerable Professor Vallier.  Angelique's finger pointed to the star
Algol--that strange, mutable star that changes from bright to dark
with the hours, and which some believe changes men's hearts to
stone.

"Mere Malheur lied!" exclaimed he, placing his arm round her, as if
to protect her from the baleful influence.  "That cursed star never
presided over your birth, Angelique!  That is the demon star Algol."

Angelique shuddered, and pressed still closer to him, as if in fear.

"Mere Malheur would not tell me the meaning of that star, but bade
me, if a saint, to watch and wait; if a sinner, to watch and pray.
What means Algol, Le Gardeur?" she half faltered.

"Nothing for you, love.  A fig for all the stars in the sky!  Your
bright eyes outshine them all in radiance, and overpower them in
influence.  All the music of the spheres is to me discord compared
with the voice of Angelique des Meloises, whom alone I love!"

As he spoke a strain of heavenly harmony arose from the chapel of
the Convent of the Ursulines, where they were celebrating midnight
service for the safety of New France.  Amid the sweet voices that
floated up on the notes of the pealing organ was clearly
distinguished that of Mere St. Borgia, the aunt of Angelique, who
led the choir of nuns.  In trills and cadences of divine melody the
voice of Mere St. Borgia rose higher and higher, like a spirit
mounting the skies.  The words were indistinct, but Angelique knew
them by heart.  She had visited her aunt in the Convent, and had
learned the new hymn composed by her for the solemn occasion.

As they listened with quiet awe to the supplicating strain,
Angelique repeated to Le Gardeur the words of the hymn as it was
sung by the choir of nuns:


     "'Soutenez, grande Reine,
       Notre pauvre pays!
       Il est votre domaine,
       Faites fleurir nos lis!
       L'Anglais sur nos frontieres
       Porte ses etendards;
       Exauces nos prieres,
       Protegez nos remparts!'"


The hymn ceased.  Both stood mute until the watchman cried the hour
in the silent street.

"God bless their holy prayers, and good-night and God bless you,
Angelique!" said Le Gardeur, kissing her.  He departed suddenly,
leaving a gift in the hand of Lizette, who courtesied low to him
with a smile of pleasure as he passed out, while Angelique leaned
out of the window listening to his horse's hoofs until the last tap
of them died away on the stony pavement.

She threw herself upon her couch and wept silently.  The soft music
had touched her feelings.  Le Gardeur's love was like a load of
gold, crushing her with its weight.  She could neither carry it
onward nor throw it off.  She fell at length into a slumber filled
with troubled dreams.  She was in a sandy wilderness, carrying a
pitcher of clear, cold water, and though dying of thirst she would
not drink, but perversely poured it upon the ground.  She was
falling down into unfathomable abysses and pushed aside the only
hand stretched out to save her.  She was drowning in deep water and
she saw Le Gardeur buffeting the waves to rescue her but she
wrenched herself out of his grasp.  She would not be saved, and was
lost!  Her couch was surrounded with indefinite shapes of embryo
evil.

She fell asleep at last.  When she awoke the sun was pouring in her
windows.  A fresh breeze shook the trees.  The birds sang gaily in
the garden.  The street was alive and stirring with people.

It was broad day.  Angelique des Meloises was herself again.  Her
day-dream of ambition resumed its power.  Her night-dream of love
was over.  Her fears vanished, her hopes were all alive, and she
began to prepare for a possible morning call from the Chevalier
Bigot.


CHAPTER XVII.

SPLENDIDE MENDAX.


Amid the ruins of the once magnificent palace of the Intendant,
massive fragments of which still remain to attest its former
greatness, there may still be traced the outline of the room where
Bigot walked restlessly up and down the morning after the Council of
War.  The disturbing letters he had received from France on both
public and private affairs irritated him, while it set his fertile
brain at work to devise means at once to satisfy the Marquise de
Pompadour and to have his own way still.

The walls of his cabinet--now bare, shattered, and roofless with the
blasts of six score winters--were hung with portraits of ladies and
statesmen of the day; conspicuous among which was a fine picture
from the pencil of Vanloo of the handsome, voluptuous Marquise de
Pompadour.

With a world of faults, that celebrated dame, who ruled France in
the name of Louis XV., made some amends by her persistent good
nature and her love for art.  The painter, the architect, the
sculptor, and above all, the men of literature in France, were
objects of her sincere admiration, and her patronage of them was
generous to profusion.  The picture of her in the cabinet of the
Intendant had been a work of gratitude by the great artist who
painted it, and was presented by her to Bigot as a mark of her
friendship and demi-royal favor.  The cabinet itself was furnished
in a style of regal magnificence, which the Intendant carried into
all details of his living.

The Chevalier de Pean, the Secretary and confidential friend of the
Intendant, was writing at a table.  He looked up now and then with a
curious glance as the figure of his chief moved to and fro with
quick turns across the room.  But neither of them spoke.

Bigot would have been quite content with enriching himself and his
friends, and turning out of doors the crowd of courtly sycophants
who clamored for the plunder of the Colony.  He had sense to see
that the course of policy in which he was embarked might eventually
ruin New France,--nay, having its origin in the Court, might
undermine the whole fabric of the monarchy.  He consoled himself,
however, with the reflection that it could not be helped.  He formed
but one link in the great chain of corruption, and one link could
not stand alone: it could only move by following those which went
before and dragging after it those that came behind.  Without
debating a useless point of morals, Bigot quietly resigned himself
to the service of his masters, or rather mistresses, after he had
first served himself.

If the enormous plunder made out of the administration of the war by
the great monopoly he had established were suddenly to cease, Bigot
felt that his genius would be put to a severe test.  But he had no
misgivings, because he had no scruples.  He was not the man to go
under in any storm.  He would light upon his feet, as he expressed
it, if the world turned upside down.

Bigot suddenly stopped in his walk.  His mind had been dwelling upon
the great affairs of his Intendancy and the mad policy of the Court
of Versailles.  A new thought struck him.  He turned and looked
fixedly at his Secretary.

"De Pean!" said he.  "We have not a sure hold of the Chevalier de
Repentigny!  That young fellow plays fast and loose with us.  One
who dines with me at the palace and sups with the Philiberts at the
Chien d'Or cannot be a safe partner in the Grand Company!"

"I have small confidence in him, either," replied De Pean.  "Le
Gardeur has too many loose ends of respectability hanging about him
to make him a sure hold for our game."

"Just so!  Cadet, Varin, and the rest of you, have only half
haltered the young colt.  His training so far is no credit to you!
The way that cool bully, Colonel Philibert, walked off with him out
of Beaumanoir, was a sublime specimen of impudence.  Ha! Ha!  The
recollection of it has salted my meat ever since!  It was admirably
performed! although, egad, I should have liked to run my sword
through Philibert's ribs! and not one of you all was man enough to
do it for me!"

"But your Excellency gave no hint, you seemed full of politeness
towards Philibert," replied De Pean, with a tone that implied he
would have done it had Bigot given the hint.

"Zounds! as if I do not know it!  But it was provoking to be
flouted, so politely too, by that whelp of the Golden Dog!  The
influence of that Philibert is immense over young De Repentigny.
They say he once pulled him out of the water, and is, moreover, a
suitor of the sister, a charming girl, De Pean! with no end of
money, lands, and family power.  She ought to be secured as well as
her brother in the interests of the Grand Company.  A good marriage
with one of our party would secure her, and none of you dare
propose, by God!"

"It is useless to think of proposing to her," replied De Pean.  "I
know the proud minx.  She is one of the angelic ones who regard
marriage as a thing of Heaven's arrangement.  She believes God never
makes but one man for one woman, and it is her duty to marry him or
nobody.  It is whispered among the knowing girls who went to school
with her at the Convent,--and the Convent girls do know everything,
and something more,--that she always cherished a secret affection
for this Philibert, and that she will marry him some day."

"Marry Satan!  Such a girl as that to marry a cursed Philibert!"
Bigot was really irritated at the information.  "I think," said he,
"women are ever ready to sail in the ships of Tarshish, so long as
the cargo is gold, silver, ivory, apes, and peacocks!  It speaks ill
for the boasted gallantry of the Grand Company if not one of them
can win this girl.  If we could gain her over we should have no
difficulty with the brother, and the point is to secure him."

"There is but one way I can see, your Excellency."  De Pean did not
appear to make his suggestion very cheerfully, but he was anxious to
please the Intendant.

"How is that?" the Intendant asked sharply.  He had not the deepest
sense of De Pean's wisdom.

"We must call in woman to fight woman in the interests of the
Company," replied the Secretary.

"A good scheme if one could be got to fight and win!  But do you
know any woman who can lay her fingers on Le Gardeur de Repentigny
and pull him out from among the Honnetes Gens?"

"I do, your Excellency.  I know the very one can do it," replied De
Pean confidently.

"You do!  Why do you hesitate then?  Have you any arriere pensee
that keeps you from telling her name at once?" asked the Intendant
impatiently.

"It is Mademoiselle des Meloises.  She can do it, and no other woman
in New France need try!" replied De Pean.

"Why, she is a clipper, certainly!  Bright eyes like hers rule the
world of fools--and of wise men, too," added Bigot in a parenthesis.
"However, all the world is caught by that bird-lime.  I confess I
never made a fool of myself but a woman was at the bottom of it.
But for one who has tripped me up, I have taken sweet revenge on a
thousand.  If Le Gardeur be entangled in Nerea's hair, he is safe in
our toils.  Do you think Angelique is at home, De Pean?"

The Intendant looked up at the clock.  It was the usual hour for
morning calls in Quebec.

"Doubtless she is at home at this hour, your Excellency," replied De
Pean.  "But she likes her bed, as other pretty women do, and is
practising for the petite levee, like a duchess.  I don't suppose
she is up!"

"I don't know that," replied Bigot.  "A greater runagate in
petticoats there is not in the whole city!  I never pass through
the streets but I see her."

"Ay, that is because she intends to meet your Excellency!"  Bigot
looked sharply at De Pean.  A new thought flashed in his eyes.

"What! think you she makes a point of it, De Pean?"

"I think she would not go out of the way of your Excellency."  De
Pean shuffled among his papers, but his slight agitation was noticed
by the Intendant.

"Hum! is that your thought, De Pean?  Looks she in this quarter?"
Bigot meditated with his hand on his chin for a moment or two.  "You
think she is doubtless at home this morning?" added he.

"It was late when De Repentigny left her last night, and she would
have long and pleasant dreams after that visit, I warrant," replied
the Secretary.

"How do you know?  By St. Picot!  You watch her closely, De Pean!"

"I do, your Excellency: I have reason," was the reply.

De Pean did not say what his reason for watching Angelique was;
neither did Bigot ask.  The Intendant cared not to pry into the
personal matters of his friends.  He had himself too much to conceal
not to respect the secrets of his associates.

"Well, De Pean!  I will wait on Mademoiselle des Meloises this
morning.  I will act on your suggestion, and trust I shall not find
her unreasonable."

"I hope your Excellency will not find her unreasonable, but I know
you will, for if ever the devil of contradiction was in a woman he
is in Angelique des Meloises!" replied De Pean savagely, as if he
spoke from some experience of his own.

"Well, I will try to cast out that devil by the power of a still
stronger one.  Ring for my horse, De Pean!"

The Secretary obeyed and ordered the horse.  "Mind, De Pean!"
continued the Intendant.  "The Board of the Grand Company meet at
three for business! actual business! not a drop of wine upon the
table, and all sober! not even Cadet shall come in if he shows one
streak of the grape on his broad face.  There is a storm of peace
coming over us, and it is necessary to shorten sail, take soundings,
and see where we are, or we may strike on a rock."

The Intendant left the palace attended by a couple of equerries.  He
rode through the palace gate and into the city.  Habitans and
citizens bowed to him out of habitual respect for their superiors.
Bigot returned their salutations with official brevity, but his dark
face broke into sunshine as he passed ladies and citizens whom he
knew as partners of the Grand Company or partizans of his own
faction.

As he rode rapidly through the streets many an ill wish followed
him, until he dismounted before the mansion of the Des Meloises.

"As I live, it is the Royal Intendant himself," screamed Lizette, as
she ran, out of breath, to inform her mistress, who was sitting
alone in the summer-house in the garden behind the mansion, a pretty
spot tastefully laid out with flower beds and statuary.  A thick
hedge of privet, cut into fantastic shapes by some disciple of the
school of Lenotre, screened it from the slopes that ran up towards
the green glacis of Cape Diamond.

Angelique looked beautiful as Hebe the golden-haired, as she sat in
the arbor this morning.  Her light morning dress of softest texture
fell in graceful folds about her exquisite form.  She held a Book of
Hours in her hand, but she had not once opened it since she sat
down.  Her dark eyes looked not soft, nor kindly, but bright,
defiant, wanton, and even wicked in their expression, like the eyes
of an Arab steed, whipped, spurred, and brought to a desperate leap--
it may clear the wall before it, or may dash itself dead against
the stones.  Such was the temper of Angelique this morning.

Hard thoughts and many respecting the Lady of Beaumanoir, fond
almost savage regret at her meditated rejection of De Repentigny,
glittering images of the royal Intendant and of the splendors of
Versailles, passed in rapid succession through her brain, forming a
phantasmagoria in which she colored everything according to her own
fancy.  The words of her maid roused her in an instant.

"Admit the Intendant and show him into the garden, Lizette.  Now!"
said she, "I shall end my doubts about that lady!  I will test the
Intendant's sincerity,--cold, calculating woman-slayer that he is!
It shames me to contrast his half-heartedness with the perfect
adoration of my handsome Le Gardeur de Repentigny!"

The Intendant entered the garden.  Angelique, with that complete
self-control which distinguishes a woman of half a heart or no heart
at all, changed her whole demeanor in a moment from gravity to
gayety.  Her eyes flashed out pleasure, and her dimples went and
came, as she welcomed the Intendant to her arbor.

"A friend is never so welcome as when he comes of his own accord!"
said she, presenting her hand to the Intendant, who took it with
empressement.  She made room for him on the seat beside her, dashing
her skirts aside somewhat ostentatiously.

Bigot looked at her admiringly.  He thought he had never seen, in
painting, statuary, or living form, a more beautiful and fascinating
woman.

Angelique accepted his admiration as her due, feeling no thanks, but
looking many.

"The Chevalier Bigot does not lose his politeness, however long he
absents himself!" said she, with a glance like a Parthian arrow well
aimed to strike home.

"I have been hunting at Beaumanoir," replied he extenuatingly; "that
must explain, not excuse, my apparent neglect."  Bigot felt that he
had really been a loser by his absence.

"Hunting! indeed!"  Angelique affected a touch of surprise, as if
she had not known every tittle of gossip about the gay party and all
their doings at the Chateau.  "They say game is growing scarce near
the city, Chevalier," continued she nonchalantly, "and that a
hunting party at Beaumanoir is but a pretty metonomy for a party of
pleasure is that true?"

"Quite true, mademoiselle," replied he, laughing.  "The two things
are perfectly compatible,--like a brace of lovers, all the better
for being made one."

"Very gallantly said!" retorted she, with a ripple of dangerous
laughter.  "I will carry the comparison no farther.  Still, I wager,
Chevalier, that the game is not worth the hunt."

"The play is always worth the candle, in my fancy," said he, with a
glance of meaning; "but there is really good game yet in Beaumanoir,
as you will confess, Mademoiselle, if you will honor our party some
day with your presence."

"Come now, Chevalier," replied she, fixing him mischievously with
her eyes, "tell me, what game do you find in the forest of
Beaumanoir?"

"Oh! rabbits, hares, and deer, with now and then a rough bear to try
the mettle of our chasseurs."

"What! no foxes to cheat foolish crows? no wolves to devour pretty
Red Riding Hoods straying in the forest?  Come, Chevalier, there is
better game than all that," said she.

"Oh, yes!" he half surmised she was rallying him now--"plenty, but
we don't wind horns after them."

"They say," continued she, "there is much fairer game than bird or
beast in the forest of Beaumanoir, Chevalier."  She went on
recklessly, "Stray lambs are picked up by intendants sometimes, and
carried tenderly to the Chateau!  The Intendant comprehends a
gentleman's devoirs to our sex, I am sure."

Bigot understood her now, and gave an angry start.  Angelique did
not shrink from the temper she had evoked.

"Heavens! how you look, Chevalier!" said she, in a tone of half
banter.  "One would think I had accused you of murder instead of
saving a fair lady's life in the forest; although woman-killing is
no murder I believe, by the laws of gallantry, as read by gentlemen--
of fashion."

Bigot rose up with a hasty gesture of impatience and sat down again.
After all, he thought, what could this girl know about Caroline de
St. Castin?  He answered her with an appearance of frankness,
deeming that to be the best policy.

"Yes, Mademoiselle, I one day found a poor suffering woman in the
forest.  I took her to the Chateau, where she now is.  Many ladies
beside her have been to Beaumanoir.  Many more will yet come and go,
until I end my bachelordom and place one there in perpetuity as
'mistress of my heart and home,' as the song says."

Angelique could coquette in half-meanings with any lady of honor at
Court.  "Well, Chevalier, it will be your fault not to find one fit
to place there.  They walk every street of the city.  But they say
this lost and found lady is a stranger?"

"To me she is--not to you, perhaps, Mademoiselle!"

The fine ear of Angelique detected the strain of hypocrisy in his
speech.  It touched a sensitive nerve.  She spoke boldly now.

"Some say she is your wife, Chevalier Bigot!"  Angelique gave vent
to a feeling long pent-up.  She who trifled with men's hearts every
day was indignant at the least symptom of repayment in kind.  "They
say she is your wife or, if not your wife, she ought to be,
Chevalier,--and will be, perhaps, one of these fine days, when
you have wearied of the distressed damsels of the city."

It had been better for Bigot, better for Angelique, that these two
could have frankly understood each other.  Bigot, in his sudden
admiration of the beauty of this girl, forgot that his object in
coming to see her had really been to promote a marriage, in the
interests of the Grand Company, between her and Le Gardeur.  Her
witcheries had been too potent for the man of pleasure.  He was
himself caught in the net he spread for another.  The adroit bird-
catching of Angelique was too much for him in the beginning: Bigot's
tact and consummate heartlessness with women, might be too much for
her in the end.  At the present moment he was fairly dazzled with
her beauty, spirit, and seductiveness.

"I am a simple quail," thought he, "to be caught by her piping.  Par
Dieu!  I am going to make a fool of myself if I do not take care!
Such a woman as this I have not found between Paris and Naples.  The
man who gets her, and knows how to use her, might be Prime Minister
of France.  And to fancy it--I came here to pick this sweet chestnut
out of the fire for Le Gardeur de Repentigny!  Francois Bigot! as a
man of gallantry and fashion I am ashamed of you!"

These were his thoughts, but in words he replied, "The lady of
Beaumanoir is not my wife, perhaps never will be."  Angelique's
eager question fell on very unproductive ground.

Angelique repeated the word superciliously.  "'Perhaps!'  'Perhaps'
in the mouth of a woman is consent half won; in the mouth of a man I
know it has a laxer meaning.  Love has nothing to say to 'perhaps':
it is will or shall, and takes no 'perhaps' though a thousand times
repeated!

"And you intend to marry this treasure trove of the forest--
perhaps?" continued Angelique, tapping the ground with a daintier
foot than the Intendant had ever seen before.

"It depends much on you, Mademoiselle des Meloises," said he.  "Had
you been my treasure-trove, there had been no 'perhaps' about it."
Bigot spoke bluntly, and to Angelique it sounded like sincerity.
Her dreams were accomplished.  She trembled with the intensity of
her gratification, and felt no repugnance at his familiar address.

The Intendant held out his hand as he uttered the dulcet flattery,
and she placed her hand in his, but it was cold and passionless.
Her heart did not send the blood leaping into her finger-ends as
when they were held in the loving grasp of Le Gardeur.

"Angelique!" said he.  It was the first time the Intendant had
called her by her name.  She started.  It was the unlocking of his
heart she thought, and she looked at him with a smile which she had
practised with infallible effect upon many a foolish admirer.

"Angelique, I have seen no woman like you, in New France or in Old;
you are fit to adorn a Court, and I predict you will--if--if--"

"If what, Chevalier?"  Her eyes fairly blazed with vanity and
pleasure.  "Cannot one adorn Courts, at least French Courts, without
if's?"

"You can, if you choose to do so," replied he, looking at her
admiringly; for her whole countenance flashed intense pleasure at
his remark.

"If I choose to do so?  I do choose to do so!  But who is to show me
the way to the Court, Chevalier?  It is a long and weary distance
from New France."

"I will show you the way, if you will permit me, Angelique:
Versailles is the only fitting theatre for the display of beauty and
spirit like yours."

Angelique thoroughly believed this, and for a few moments was
dazzled and overpowered by the thought of the golden doors of her
ambition opened by the hand of the Intendant.  A train of images,
full-winged and as gorgeous as birds of paradise, flashed across her
vision.  La Pompadour was getting old, men said, and the King was
already casting his eyes round the circle of more youthful beauties
in his Court for a successor.  "And what woman in the world,"
thought she, "could vie with Angelique des Meloises if she chose to
enter the arena to supplant La Pompadour?  Nay, more!  If the prize
of the King were her lot, she would outdo La Maintenon herself, and
end by sitting on the throne."

Angelique was not, however, a milkmaid to say yes before she was
asked.  She knew her value, and had a natural distrust of the
Intendant's gallant speeches.  Moreover, the shadow of the lady of
Beaumanoir would not wholly disappear.  "Why do you say such
flattering things to me, Chevalier?" asked she.  "One takes them for
earnest coming from the Royal Intendant.  You should leave trifling
to the idle young men of the city, who have no business to employ
them but gallanting us women."

"Trifling!  By St. Jeanne de Choisy, I was never more in earnest,
Mademoiselle!" exclaimed Bigot.  "I offer you the entire devotion of
my heart."  St. Jeanne de Choisy was the sobriquet in the petits
appartements for La Pompadour.  Angelique knew it very well,
although Bigot thought she did not.

"Fair words are like flowers, Chevalier," replied she, "sweet to
smell and pretty to look at; but love feeds on ripe fruit.  Will you
prove your devotion to me if I put it to the test?"

"Most willingly, Angelique!"  Bigot thought she contemplated some
idle freak that might try his gallantry, perhaps his purse.  But she
was in earnest, if he was not.

"I ask, then, the Chevalier Bigot that before he speaks to me again
of love or devotion, he shall remove that lady, whoever she may be,
from Beaumanoir!"  Angelique sat erect, and looked at him with a
long, fixed look, as she said this.

"Remove that lady from Beaumanoir!" exclaimed he in complete
surprise; "surely that poor shadow does not prevent your accepting
my devotion, Angelique?"

"Yes, but it does, Chevalier!  I like bold men.  Most women do, but
I did not think that even the Intendant of New France was bold
enough to make love to Angelique des Meloises while he kept a wife
or mistress in stately seclusion at Beaumanoir!"

Bigot cursed the shrewishness and innate jealousy of the sex, which
would not content itself with just so much of a man's favor as he
chose to bestow, but must ever want to rule single and alone.
"Every woman is a despot," thought he, "and has no mercy upon
pretenders to her throne."

"That lady," replied he, "is neither wife nor mistress, Mademoiselle:
she sought the shelter of my roof with a claim upon the hospitality
of Beaumanoir.

"No doubt"--Angelique's nostril quivered with a fine disdain--"the
hospitality of Beaumanoir is as broad and comprehensive as its
master's admiration for our sex!" said she.

Bigot was not angry.  He gave a loud laugh.  "You women are
merciless upon each other, Mademoiselle!" said he.

"Men are more merciless to women when they beguile us with insincere
professions," replied she, rising up in well-affected indignation.

"Not so, Mademoiselle!" Bigot began to feel annoyed.  "That lady is
nothing to me," said he, without rising as she had done.  He kept
his seat.

"But she has been! you have loved her at some time or other! and she
is now living on the scraps and leavings of former affection.  I am
never deceived, Chevalier!" continued she, glancing down at him, a
wild light playing under her long eyelashes like the illumined
under-edge of a thundercloud.

"But how in St. Picot's name did you arrive at all this knowledge,
Mademoiselle?"  Bigot began to see that there was nothing for it but
to comply with every caprice of this incomprehensible girl if he
would carry his point.

"Oh, nothing is easier than for a woman to divine the truth in such
matters, Chevalier," said she.  "It is a sixth sense given to our
sex to protect our weakness: no man can make love to two women but
each of them knows instinctively to her finger-tips that he is doing
it."

"Surely woman is a beautiful book written in golden letters, but in
a tongue as hard to understand as hieroglyphics of Egypt."  Bigot
was quite puzzled how to proceed with this incomprehensible girl.

"Thanks for the comparison, Chevalier," replied she, with a laugh.
"It would not do for men to scrutinize us too closely, yet one woman
reads another easily as a horn-book of Troyes, which they say is so
easy that the children read it without learning."

To boldly set at defiance a man who had boasted a long career of
success was the way to rouse his pride, and determine him to
overcome her resistance.  Angelique was not mistaken.  Bigot saw
her resolution, and, although it was with a mental reservation to
deceive her, he promised to banish Caroline from his chateau.

"It was always my good fortune to be conquered in every passage of
arms with your sex, Angelique," said he, at once radiant and
submissive.  "Sit down by me in token of amity."

She complied without hesitation, and sat down by him, gave him her
hand again, and replied with an arch smile, while a thousand
inimitable coquetries played about her eyes and lips, "You speak now
like an amant magnifique, Chevalier!


     "'Quelque fort qu'on s'en defende,
       Il y faut venir un jour!'"


"It is a bargain henceforth and forever, Angelique!" said he; "but I
am a harder man than you imagine: I give nothing for nothing, and
all for everything.  Will you consent to aid me and the Grand
Company in a matter of importance?"

"Will I not?  What a question, Chevalier!  Most willingly I will aid
you in anything proper for a lady to do!" added she, with a touch of
irony.

"I wish you to do it, right or wrong, proper or improper, although
there is no impropriety in it.  Improper becomes proper if you do
it, Mademoiselle!"

"Well, what is it, Chevalier,--this fearful test to prove my loyalty
to the Grand Company, and which makes you such a matchless
flatterer?"

"Just this, Angelique!" replied he.  "You have much influence with
the Seigneur de Repentigny?"

Angelique colored up to the eyes.  "With Le Gardeur!  What of him?
I can take no part against the Seigneur de Repentigny;" said she,
hastily.

"Against him?  For him!  We fear much that he is about to fall into
the hands of the Honnetes Gens: you can prevent it if you will,
Angelique?"

"I have an honest regard for the Seigneur de Repentigny!" said she,
more in answer to her own feelings than to the Intendant's remark--
her cheek flushed, her fingers twitched nervously at her fan, which
she broke in her agitation and threw the pieces vehemently upon the
ground.  "I have done harm enough to Le Gardeur I fear," continued
she.  "I had better not interfere with him any more!  Who knows what
might result?"  She looked up almost warningly at the Intendant.

"I am glad to find you so sincere a friend to Le Gardeur," remarked
Bigot, craftily.  "You will be glad to learn that our intention is
to elevate him to a high and lucrative office in the administration
of the Company, unless the Honnetes Gens are before us in gaining
full possession of him."

"They shall not be before us if I can prevent it, Chevalier,"
replied she, warmly.  She was indeed grateful for the implied
compliment to Le Gardeur.  "No one will be better pleased at his
good fortune than myself."

"I thought so.  It was partly my business to tell you of our
intentions towards Le Gardeur."

"Indeed!" replied she, in a tone of pique.  "I flattered myself your
visit was all on my own account, Chevalier."

"So it was."  Bigot felt himself on rather soft ground.  "Your
brother, the Chevalier des Meloises, has doubtless consulted you
upon the plan of life he has sketched out for both of you?"

"My good brother sketches so many plans of life that I really am not
certain I know the one you refer to."  She guessed what was coming,
and held her breath hard until she heard the reply.

"Well, you of course know that his plan of life depends mainly upon
an alliance between yourself and the Chevalier de Repentigny."

She gave vent to her anger and disappointment.  She rose up
suddenly, and, grasping the Intendant's arm fiercely, turned him
half round in her vehemence.  "Chevalier Bigot! did you come here to
propose for me on behalf of Le Gardeur de Repentigny?"

"Pardon me, Mademoiselle; it is no proposal of mine,--on behalf of
Le Gardeur.  I sanctioned his promotion.  Your brother, and the
Grand Company generally, would prefer the alliance.  I don't!"  He
said this with a tone of meaning which Angelique was acute enough to
see implied Bigot's unwillingness to her marrying any man--but
himself, was the addendum she at once placed to his credit.  "I
regret I mentioned it," continued he, blandly, "if it be contrary to
your wishes."

"It is contrary to my wishes," replied she, relaxing her clutch of
his arm.  "Le Gardeur de Repentigny can speak for himself.  I will
not allow even my brother to suggest it; still less will I discuss
such a subject with the Chevalier Bigot."

"I hope you will pardon me, Mademoiselle--I will not call you
Angelique until you are pleased with me again.  To be sure, I should
never have forgiven you had you conformed to your brother's wishes.
It was what I feared might happen, and I--I wished to try you; that
was all!"

"It is dangerous trying me, Chevalier," replied she, resuming her
seat with some heat.  "Don't try me again, or I shall take Le
Gardeur out of pure SPITE," she said.  Pure love was in her mind,
but the other word came from her lips.  "I will do all I can to
rescue him from the Honnetes Gens, but not by marrying him,
Chevalier,--at present."

They seemed to understand each other fully.  "It is over with now,"
said Bigot.  "I swear to you, Angelique, I did not mean to offend
you,--you cut deep."

"Pshaw!" retorted she, smiling.  "Wounds by a lady are easily cured:
they seldom leave a mark behind, a month after."

"I don't know that.  The slight repulse of a lady's finger--a touch
that would not crush a gnat--will sometimes kill a strong man like a
sword-stroke.  I have known such things to happen," said Bigot.

"Well, happily, my touch has not hurt you, Chevalier.  But, having
vindicated myself, I feel I owe you reparation.  You speak of
rescuing Le Gardeur from the Honnetes Gens.  In what way can I aid
you?"

"In many ways and all ways.  Withdraw him from them.  The great
festival at the Philiberts--when is it to be?"

"To-morrow!  See, they have honored me with a special invitation."
She drew a note from her pocket.  "This is very polite of Colonel
Philibert, is it not?" said she.

Bigot glanced superciliously at the note.  "Do you mean to go,
Angelique?" asked he.

"No; although, had I no feelings but my own to consult, I would
certainly go."

"Whose feelings do you consult, Angelique," asked the Intendant, "if
not your own?"

"Oh, don't be flattered,--the Grand Company's!  I am loyal to the
association without respect to persons."

"So much the better," said he.  "By the way, it would not be amiss
to keep Le Gardeur away from the festival.  These Philiberts and the
heads of the Honnetes Gens have great sway over him."

"Naturally; they are all his own kith and kin.  But I will draw him
away, if you desire it.  I cannot prevent his going, but I can find
means to prevent his staying!" added she, with a smile of confidence
in her power.

"That will do, Angelique,--anything to make a breach between them!"

While there were abysses in Bigot's mind which Angelique could not
fathom, as little did Bigot suspect that, when Angelique seemed to
flatter him by yielding to his suggestions, she was following out a
course she had already decided upon in her own mind from the moment
she had learned that Cecile Tourangeau was to be at the festival of
Belmont, with unlimited opportunities of explanation with Le Gardeur
as to her treatment by Angelique.

The Intendant, after some pleasant badinage, rose and took his
departure, leaving Angelique agitated, puzzled, and dissatisfied, on
the whole, with his visit.  She reclined on the seat, resting her
head on her hand for a long time,--in appearance the idlest, in
reality the busiest, brain of any girl in the city of Quebec.  She
felt she had much to do,--a great sacrifice to make,--but firmly
resolved, at whatever cost, to go through with it; for, after all,
the sacrifice was for herself, and not for others.


CHAPTER XVIII.

THE MEROVINGIAN PRINCESS.


The interior of the Cathedral of St. Marie seemed like another
world, in comparison with the noisy, bustling Market Place in front
of it.

The garish sunshine poured hot and oppressive in the square outside,
but was shorn of its strength as it passed through the painted
windows of the Cathedral, filling the vast interior with a cool,
dim, religious light, broken by tall shafts of columns, which
swelled out into ornate capitals, supporting a lofty ceiling, on
which was painted the open heavens with saints and angels adoring
the Lord.

A lofty arch of cunning work overlaid with gold, the masterpiece of
Le Vasseur, spanned the chancel, like the rainbow round the throne.
Lights were burning on the altar, incense went up in spirals to the
roof; and through the wavering cloud the saints and angels seemed to
look down with living faces upon the crowd of worshippers who knelt
upon the broad floor of the church.

It was the hour of Vespers.  The voice of the priest was answered by
the deep peal of the organ and the chanting of the choir.  The vast
edifice was filled with harmony, in the pauses of which the ear
seemed to catch the sound of the river of life as it flows out of
the throne of God and the Lamb.

The demeanor of the crowd of worshippers was quiet and reverential.
A few gay groups, however, whose occupation was mainly to see and
be seen, exchanged the idle gossip of the day with such of their
friends as they met there.  The fee of a prayer or two did not seem
excessive for the pleasure, and it was soon paid.

The perron outside was a favorite resort of the gallants of fashion
at the hour of Vespers, whose practice it was to salute the ladies
of their acquaintance at the door by sprinkling their dainty fingers
with holy water.  Religion combined with gallantry is a form of
devotion not quite obsolete at the present day, and at the same
place.

The church door was the recognized spot for meeting, gossip,
business, love-making, and announcements; old friends stopped to
talk over the news, merchants their commercial prospects.  It was
at once the Bourse and the Royal Exchange of Quebec: there were
promulgated, by the brazen lungs of the city crier, royal
proclamations of the Governor, edicts of the Intendant, orders of
the Court of Justice, vendues public and private,--in short, the
life and stir of the city of Quebec seemed to flow about the door
of St. Marie as the blood through the heart of a healthy man.

A few old trees, relics of the primeval forest, had been left for
shade and ornament in the great Market Place.  A little rivulet of
clear water ran sparkling down the slope of the square, where every
day the shadow of the cross of the tall steeple lay over it like a
benediction.

A couple of young men, fashionably dressed, loitered this afternoon
near the great door of the Convent in the narrow Street that runs
into the great square of the market.  They walked about with short,
impatient turns, occasionally glancing at the clock of the
Recollets, visible through the tall elms that bounded the garden of
the Gray Friars.  Presently the door of the Convent opened.  Half a
dozen gaily-attired young ladies, internes or pupils of the Convent,
sallied out.  They had exchanged their conventual dress for their
usual outside attire, and got leave to go out into the world on some
errand, real or pretended, for one hour and no more.

They tripped lightly down the broad steps, and were instantly joined
by the young men who had been waiting for them.  After a hasty,
merry hand-shaking, the whole party proceeded in great glee towards
the Market Place, where the shops of the mercers and confectioners
offered the attractions they sought.  They went on purchasing
bonbons and ribbons from one shop to another until they reached the
Cathedral, when a common impulse seized them to see who was there.
They flew up the steps and disappeared in the church.

In the midst of their devotions, as they knelt upon the floor, the
sharp eyes of the young ladies were caught by gesticulations of the
well-gloved hand of the Chevalier des Meloises, as he saluted them
across the aisle.

The hurried recitation of an Ave or two had quite satisfied the
devotion of the Chevalier, and he looked round the church with an
air of condescension, criticizing the music and peering into the
faces of such of the ladies as looked up, and many did so, to return
his scrutiny.

The young ladies encountered him in the aisle as they left the
church before the service was finished.  It had long since been
finished for him, and was finished for the young ladies also when
they had satisfied their curiosity to see who was there and who with
whom.

"We cannot pray for you any longer, Chevalier des Meloises!" said
one of the gayest of the group; "the Lady Superior has economically
granted us but one hour in the city to make our purchases and attend
Vespers.  Out of that hour we can only steal forty minutes for a
promenade through the city, so good-by, if you prefer the church to
our company, or come with us and you shall escort two of us.  You
see we have only a couple of gentlemen to six ladies."

"I much prefer your company, Mademoiselle de Brouague!" replied he
gallantly, forgetting the important meeting of the managers of the
Grand Company at the Palace.  The business, however, was being
cleverly transacted without his help.

Louise de Brouague had no great esteem for the Chevalier des
Meloises, but, as she remarked to a companion, he made rather a neat
walking-stick, if a young lady could procure no better to promenade
with.

"We come out in full force to-day, Chevalier," said she, with a
merry glance round the group of lively girls.  "A glorious sample of
the famous class of the Louises, are we not?"

"Glorious! superb! incomparable!" the Chevalier replied, as he
inspected them archly through his glass.  "But how did you manage to
get out?  One Louise at a time is enough to storm the city, but six
of them at once--the Lady Superior is full of mercy to-day."

"Oh! is she?  Listen: we should not have got permission to come out
to-day had we not first laid siege to the soft heart of Mere des
Seraphins.  She it was who interceded for us, and lo! here we are,
ready for any adventure that may befall errant demoiselles in the
streets of Quebec!"

Well might the fair Louise de Brouague boast of the famous class
of "the Louises," all composed of young ladies of that name,
distinguished for beauty, rank, and fashion in the world of New
France.

Prominent among them at that period was the beautiful, gay Louise de
Brouague.  In the full maturity of her charms, as the wife of the
Chevalier de Lery she accompanied her husband to England after the
cession of Canada, and went to Court to pay homage to their new
sovereign, George III., when the young king, struck with her grace
and beauty, gallantly exclaimed,--

"If the ladies of Canada are as handsome as you, I have indeed made
a conquest!"

To escort young ladies, internes of the Convent, when granted
permission to go out into the city, was a favorite pastime, truly a
labor of love, of the young gallants of that day,--an occupation, if
very idle, at least very agreeable to those participating in these
stolen promenades, and which have not, perhaps, been altogether
discontinued in Quebec even to the present day.

The pious nuns were of course entirely ignorant of the contrivances
of their fair pupils to amuse themselves in the city.  At any rate
they good-naturedly overlooked things they could not quite prevent.
They had human hearts still under their snowy wimples, and perhaps
did not wholly lack womanly sympathy with the dear girls in their
charge.

"Why are you not at Belmont to-day, Chevalier des Meloises?" boldly
asked Louise Roy, a fearless little questioner in a gay summer robe.
She was pretty, and sprightly as Titania.  Her long chestnut hair
was the marvel and boast of the Convent and, what she prized more,
the admiration of the city.  It covered her like a veil down to her
knees when she chose to let it down in a flood of splendor.  Her
deep gray eyes contained wells of womanly wisdom.  Her skin, fair
as a lily of Artois, had borrowed from the sun five or six faint
freckles, just to prove the purity of her blood and distract the eye
with a variety of charms.  The Merovingian Princess, the long-haired
daughter of kings, as she was fondly styled by the nuns, queened it
wherever she went by right divine of youth, wit, and beauty.

"I should not have had the felicity of meeting you, Mademoiselle
Roy, had I gone to Belmont," replied the Chevalier, not liking the
question at all.  "I preferred not to go."

"You are always so polite and complimentary," replied she, a trace
of pout visible on her pretty lips.  "I do not see how any one could
stay away who was at liberty to go to Belmont!  And the whole city
has gone, I am sure! for I see nobody in the street!"  She held an
eye-glass coquettishly to her eye.  "Nobody at all!" repeated she.
Her companions accused her afterwards of glancing equivocally at the
Chevalier as she made this remark; and she answered with a merry
laugh that might imply either assent or denial.

"Had you heard in the Convent of the festival at Belmont,
Mademoiselle Roy?" asked he, twirling his cane rather majestically.

"We have heard of nothing else and talked of nothing else for a
whole week!" replied she.  "Our mistresses have been in a state of
distraction trying to stop our incessant whispering in the school
instead of minding our lessons like good girls trying to earn good
conduct marks!  The feast, the ball, the dresses, the company, beat
learning out of our heads and hearts!  Only fancy, Chevalier," she
went on in her voluble manner; "Louise de Beaujeu here was asked to
give the Latin name for Heaven, and she at once translated it
Belmont!"

"Tell no school tales, Mademoiselle Roy!" retorted Louise de
Beaujeu, her black eyes flashing with merriment.  "It was a good
translation!  But who was it stumbled in the Greek class when asked
for the proper name of the anax andron, the king of men in the
Iliad?"  Louise Roy looked archly and said defiantly, "Go on!"
"Would you believe it, Chevalier, she replied 'Pierre Philibert!'
Mere Christine fairly gasped, but Louise had to kiss the floor as a
penance for pronouncing a gentleman's name with such unction."

"And if I did I paid my penance heartily and loudly, as you may
recollect, Louise de Beaujeu, although I confess I would have
preferred kissing Pierre Philibert himself if I had had my choice!"

"Always her way! won't give in! never! Louise Roy stands by her
translation in spite of all the Greek Lexicons in the Convent!"
exclaimed Louise de Brouague.

"And so I do, and will; and Pierre Philibert is the king of men, in
New France or Old!  Ask Amelie de Repentigny!" added she, in a half
whisper to her companion.

"Oh, she will swear to it any day!" was the saucy reply of Louise de
Brouague.  "But without whispering it, Chevalier des Meloises,"
continued she, "the classes in the Convent have all gone wild in
his favor since they learned he was in love with one of our late
companions in school.  He is the Prince Camaralzaman of our fairy
tales."

"Who is that?"  The Chevalier spoke tartly, rather.  He was
excessively annoyed at all this enthusiasm in behalf of Pierre
Philibert.

"Nay, I will tell no more fairy tales out of school, but I assure
you, if our wishes had wings the whole class of Louises would fly
away to Belmont to-day like a flock of ring-doves."

Louise de Brouague noticed the pique of the Chevalier at the mention
of Philibert, but in that spirit of petty torment with which her sex
avenges small slights she continued to irritate the vanity of the
Chevalier, whom in her heart she despised.

His politeness nearly gave way.  He was thoroughly disgusted with
all this lavish praise of Philibert.  He suddenly recollected that
he had an appointment at the Palace which would prevent him, he
said, enjoying the full hour of absence granted to the Greek class
of the Ursulines.

"Mademoiselle Angelique has of course gone to Belmont, if pressing
engagements prevent YOU, Chevalier," said Louise Roy.  "How
provoking it must be to have business to look after when one wants
to enjoy life!"  The Chevalier half spun round on his heel under the
quizzing of Louise's eye-glass.

"No, Angelique has not gone to Belmont," replied he, quite piqued.
"She very properly declined to mingle with the Messieurs and
Mesdames Jourdains who consort with the Bourgeois Philibert!  She
was preparing for a ride, and the city really seems all the gayer
by the absence of so many commonplace people as have gone out to
Belmont."

Louise de Brouague's eyes gave a few flashes of indignation.  "Fie,
Chevalier! that was naughtily said of you about the good Bourgeois
and his friends," exclaimed she, impetuously.  "Why, the Governor,
the Lady de Tilly and her niece, the Chevalier La Corne St. Luc,
Hortense and Claude de Beauharnais, and I know not how many more
of the very elite of society have gone to do honor to Colonel
Philibert!  And as for the girls in the Convent, who you will allow
are the most important and most select portion of the community,
there is not one of us but would willingly jump out of the window,
and do penance on dry bread and salt fish for a month, just for one
hour's pleasure at the ball this evening, would we not, Louises?"

Not a Louise present but assented with an emphasis that brought
sympathetic smiles upon the faces of the two young chevaliers who
had watched all this pretty play.

The Chevalier des Meloises bowed very low.  "I regret so much,
ladies, to have to leave you! but affairs of State, you know--
affairs of State!  The Intendant will not proceed without a full
board: I must attend the meeting to-day at the Palace."

"Oh, assuredly, Chevalier," replied Louise Roy.  "What would become
of the Nation, what would become of the world, nay, what would
become of the internes of the Ursulines, if statesmen and warriors
and philosophers like you and the Sieurs Drouillon and La Force here
(this in a parenthesis, not to scratch the Chevalier too deep), did
not take wise counsel for our safety and happiness, and also for the
welfare of the nation?"

The Chevalier des Meloises took his departure under this shower of
arrows.

The young La Force was as yet only an idle dangler about the city;
but in the course of time became a man of wit and energy worthy of
his name.  He replied gaily,--

"Thanks, Mademoiselle Roy!  It is just for sake of the fair internes
of the Convent that Drouillon and I have taken up the vocation of
statesmen, warriors, philosophers, and friends.  We are quite ready
to guide your innocent footsteps through the streets of this
perilous city, if you are ready to go."

"We had better hasten too!" ejaculated Louise Roy, looking archly
through her eye-glass.  "I can see Bonhomme Michel peeping round the
corner of the Cote de Lery!  He is looking after us stray lambs of
the flock, Sieur Drouillon!"

Bonhomme Michel was the old watchman and factotum of the monastery.
He had a general commission to keep a sharp eye upon the young
ladies who were allowed to go out into the city.  A pair of horn
spectacles usually helped his vision,--sometimes marred it, however,
when the knowing gallants slipped a crown into his hand to put in
the place of his magnifiers!  Bonhomme Michel placed all his
propitiation money--he liked a pious word--in his old leathern sack,
which contained the redemption of many a gadding promenade through
the streets of Quebec.  Whether he reported what he saw this time is
not recorded in the Vieux Recit, the old annals of the Convent.  But
as Louise Roy called him her dear old Cupid, and knew so well how to
bandage his eyes, it is probable the good nuns were not informed of
the pleasant meeting of the class Louises and the gentlemen who
escorted them round the city on the present occasion.


CHAPTER XIX.

PUT MONEY IN THY PURSE.


The Chevalier des Meloises, quite out of humor with the merry
Louises, picked his way with quick, dainty steps down the Rue du
Palais.  The gay Louises, before returning to the Convent, resolved
to make a hasty promenade to the walls to see the people at work
upon them.  They received with great contentment the military
salutes of the officers of their acquaintance, which they
acknowledged with the courtesy of well-trained internes, slightly
exaggerated by provoking smiles and mischievous glances which had
formed no part of the lessons in politeness taught them by the nuns.

In justice be it said, however, the girls were actuated by a nobler
feeling than the mere spirit of amusement--a sentiment of loyalty to
France, a warm enthusiasm for their country, drew them to the walls:
they wanted to see the defenders of Quebec, to show their sympathy
and smile approval upon them.

"Would to heaven I were a man," exclaimed Louise de Brouague, "that
I might wield a sword, a spade, anything of use, to serve my
country!  I shame to do nothing but talk, pray, and suffer for it,
while every one else is working or fighting."

Poor girl! she did not foresee a day when the women of New France
would undergo trials compared with which the sword stroke that kills
the strong man is as the touch of mercy,--when the batteries of
Wolfe would for sixty-five days shower shot and shell upon Quebec,
and the South shore for a hundred miles together be blazing with the
fires of devastation.  Such things were mercifully withheld from
their foresight, and the light-hearted girls went the round of the
works as gaily as they would have tripped in a ballroom.

The Chevalier des Meloises, passing through the Porte du Palais, was
hailed by two or three young officers of the Regiment of Bearn, who
invited him into the Guard House to take a glass of wine before
descending the steep hill.  The Chevalier stopped willingly, and
entered the well-furnished quarters of the officers of the guard,
where a cool flask of Burgundy presently restored him to good humor
with himself, and consequently with the world.

"What is up to-day at the Palace?" asked Captain Monredin, a
vivacious Navarrois.  "All the Gros Bonnets of the Grand Company
have gone down this afternoon!  I suppose you are going too, Des
Meloises?"

"Yes!  They have sent for me, you see, on affairs of State--what
Penisault calls 'business.'  Not a drop of wine on the board!
Nothing but books and papers, bills and shipments, money paid, money
received!  Doit et avoir and all the cursed lingo of the Friponne!
I damn the Friponne, but bless her money!  It pays, Monredin!  It
pays better than fur-trading at a lonely outpost in the northwest."
The Chevalier jingled a handful of coin in his pocket.  The sound
was a sedative to his disgust at the idea of trade, and quite
reconciled him to the Friponne.

"You are a lucky dog nevertheless, to be able to make it jingle!"
said Monredin, "not one of us Bearnois can play an accompaniment to
your air of money in both pockets.  Here is our famous Regiment of
Bearn, second to none in the King's service, a whole year in arrears
without pay!  Gad! I wish I could go into 'business,' as you call
it, and woo that jolly dame, La Friponne!

"For six months we have lived on trust.  Those leeches of Jews, who
call themselves Christians, down in the Sault au Matelot, won't cash
the best orders in the regiment for less than forty per cent.
discount!"

"That is true!" broke in another officer, whose rather rubicund face
told of credit somewhere, and the product of credit,--good wine and
good dinners generally.  "That is true, Monredin!  The old
curmudgeon of a broker at the corner of the Cul de Sac had the
impudence to ask me fifty per cent. discount upon my drafts on
Bourdeaux!  I agree with Des Meloises there: business may be a good
thing for those who handle it, but devil touch their dirty fingers
for me!"

"Don't condemn all of them, Emeric," said Captain Poulariez, a
quiet, resolute-looking officer.  "There is one merchant in the city
who carries the principles of a gentleman into the usages of
commerce.  The Bourgeois Philibert gives cent. per cent. for good
orders of the King's officers, just to show his sympathy with the
army and his love for France."

"Well, I wish he were paymaster of the forces, that is all, and then
I could go to him if I wanted to," replied Monredin.

"Why do you not go to him?" asked Poulariez.

"Why, for the same reason, I suppose, so many others of us do not,"
replied Monredin.  "Colonel Dalquier endorses my orders, and he
hates the Bourgeois cordially, as a hot friend of the Intendant
ought to do.  So you see I have to submit to be plucked of my best
pen-feathers by that old fesse-mathieu Penisault at the Friponne!"

"How many of yours have gone out to the great spread at Belmont?"
asked Des Meloises, quite weary of commercial topics.

"Par Dieu!" replied Monredin, "except the colonel and adjutant, who
stayed away on principle, I think every officer in the regiment,
present company excepted--who being on duty could not go, much to
their chagrin.  Such a glorious crush of handsome girls has not been
seen, they say, since our regiment came to Quebec."

"And not likely to have been seen before your distinguished arrival--
eh, Monredin?" ejaculated Des Meloises, holding his glass to be
refilled.  "That is delicious Burgundy," added he, "I did not think
any one beside the Intendant had wine like that."

"That is some of La Martiniere's cargo," replied Poulariex.  "It was
kind of him, was it not, to remember us poor Bearnois here on the
wrong side of the Atlantic?"

"And how earnestly we were praying for that same Burgundy,"
ejaculated Monredin, "when it came, as if dropped upon us by
Providence!  Health and wealth to Captain La Martiniere and the good
frigate Fleur-de-Lis!"

Another round followed.

"They talk about those Jansenist convulsionnaires at the tomb of
Master Paris, which are setting all France by the ears," exclaimed
Monredin, "but I say there is nothing so contagious as the drinking
of a glass of wine like that."

"And the glass gives us convulsions too, Monredin, if we try it too
often, and no miracle about it either," remarked Poulariez.

Monredin looked up, red and puffy, as if needing a bridle to check
his fast gait.

"But they say we are to have peace soon.  Is that true, Des
Meloises?" asked Poulariez.  "You ought to know what is under the
cards before they are played."

"No, I don't know; and I hope the report is not true.  Who wants
peace yet?  It would ruin the King's friends in the Colony."  Des
Meloises looked as statesmanlike as he could when delivering this
dictum.

"Ruin the King's friends!  Who are they, Des Meloises?" asked
Poulariez, with a look of well-assumed surprise.

"Why, the associates of the Grand Company, to be sure!  What other
friends has the King got in New France?"

"Really!  I thought he had the Regiment of Bearn for a number of
them--to say nothing of the honest people of the Colony," replied
Poulariez, impatiently.

"The Honnetes Gens, you mean!" exclaimed Des Meloises.  "Well,
Poulariez, all I have to say is that if this Colony is to be kept up
for the sake of a lot of shopkeepers, wood-choppers, cobblers, and
farmers, the sooner the King hands it over to the devil or the
English the better!"

Poulariex looked indignant enough; but from the others a loud laugh
followed this sally.

The Chevalier des Meloises pulled out his watch.  "I must be gone to
the Palace," said he.  "I dare say Cadet, Varin, and Penisault will
have balanced the ledgers by this time, and the Intendant, who is
the devil for business on such occasions, will have settled the
dividends for the quarter--the only part of the business I care
about."

"But don't you help them with the work a little?" asked Poulariez.

"Not I; I leave business to them that have a vocation for it.
Besides, I think Cadet, Vargin, and Penisault like to keep the inner
ring of the company to themselves."  He turned to Emeric: "I hope
there will be a good dividend to-night, Emeric," said he.  "I owe
you some revenge at piquet, do I not?"

"You capoted me last night at the Taverne de Menut, and I had three
aces and three kings."

"But I had a quatorze, and took the fishes," replied Des Meloises.

"Well, Chevalier, I shall win them back to-night.  I hope the
dividend will be good: in that way I too may share in the 'business'
of the Grand Company."

"Good-by, Chevalier; remember me to St. Blague!"  (This was a
familiar sobriquet of Bigot.)  "Tis the best name going.  If I had
an heir for the old chateau on the Adour, I would christen him Bigot
for luck."

The Chevalier des Meloises left the officers and proceeded down the
steep road that led to the Palace.  The gardens were quiet to-day--
a few loungers might be seen in the magnificent alleys, pleached
walks, and terraces; beyond these gardens, however, stretched the
King's wharves and the magazines of the Friponne.  These fairly
swarmed with men loading and unloading ships and bateaux, and piling
and unpiling goods.

The Chevalier glanced with disdain at the magazines, and flourishing
his cane, mounted leisurely the broad steps of the Palace, and was
at once admitted to the council-room.

"Better late than never, Chevalier des Meloises!" exclaimed Bigot,
carelessly glancing at him as he took a seat at the board, where sat
Cadet, Varin, Penisault, and the leading spirits of the Grand
Company.  "You are in double luck to-day.  The business is over, and
Dame Friponne has laid a golden egg worth a Jew's tooth for each
partner of the Company."

The Chevalier did not notice, or did not care for, the slight touch
of sarcasm in the Intendant's tone.  "Thanks, Bigot!" drawled he.
"My eggs shall be hatched to-night down at Menut's.  I expect to
have little more left than the shell of it to-morrow."

"Well, never mind!  We have considered all that, Chevalier.  What
one loses another gets.  It is all in the family.  Look here,"
continued he, laying his finger upon a page of the ledger that lay
open before him, "Mademoiselle Angelique des Meloises is now a
shareholder in the Grand Company.  The list of high, fair, and noble
ladies of the Court who are members of the Company will be honored
by the addition of the name of your charming sister."

The Chevalier's eyes sparkled with delight as he read Angelique's
name on the book.  A handsome sum of five digits stood to her
credit.  He bowed his thanks with many warm expressions of his sense
of the honor done his sister by "placing her name on the roll of the
ladies of the Court who honor the Company by accepting a share of
its dividends."

"I hope Mademoiselle des Meloises will not refuse this small mark of
our respect," observed Bigot, feeling well assured she would not
deem it a small one.

"Little fear of that!" muttered Cadet, whose bad opinion of the sex
was incorrigible.  "The game fowls of Versailles scratch jewels out
of every dung-hill, and Angelique des Meloises has longer claws than
any of them!"

Cadet's ill-natured remark was either unheard or unheeded; besides,
he was privileged to say anything.  Des Meloises bowed with an air
of perfect complaisance to the Intendant as he answered,--"I
guarantee the perfect satisfaction of Angelique with this marked
compliment of the Grand Company.  She will, I am sure, appreciate
the kindness of the Intendant as it deserves."

Cadet and Varin exchanged smiles, not unnoticed by Bigot, who smiled
too.  "Yes, Chevalier," said he, "the Company gives this token of
its admiration for the fairest lady in New France.  We have bestowed
premiums upon fine flax and fat cattle: why not upon beauty, grace,
and wit embodied in handsome women?"

"Angelique will be highly flattered, Chevalier," replied he, "at the
distinction.  She must thank you herself, as I am sure she will."

"I am happy to try to deserve her thanks," replied Bigot; and, not
caring to talk further on the subject,--"what news in the city this
afternoon, Chevalier?" asked he; "how does that affair at Belmont go
off?"

"Don't know.  Half the city has gone, I think.  At the Church door,
however, the talk among the merchants is that peace is going to be
made soon.  Is it so very threatening, Bigot?"

"If the King wills it, it is."  Bigot spoke carelessly.

"But your own opinion, Chevalier Bigot; what think you of it?"

"Amen! amen!  Quod fiat fiatur!  Seigny John, the fool of Paris,
could enlighten you as well as I could as to what the women at
Versailles may decide to do," replied Bigot in a tone of impatience.

"I fear peace will be made.  What will you do in that case, Bigot?"
asked Des Meloises, not noticing Bigot's aversion to the topic.

"If the King makes it, invitus amabo! as the man said who married
the shrew."  Bigot laughed mockingly.  "We must make the best of it,
Des Meloises! and let me tell you privately, I mean to make a good
thing of it for ourselves whichever way it turns."

"But what will become of the Company should the war expenditure
stop?"  The Chevalier was thinking of his dividend of five figures.

"Oh! you should have been here sooner, Des Meloises: you would have
heard our grand settlement of the question in every contingency of
peace or war."

"Be sure of one thing," continued Bigot, "the Grand Company will
not, like the eels of Melun, cry out before they are skinned.  What
says the proverb, 'Mieux vaut engin que force' (craft beats
strength)?  The Grand Company must prosper as the first condition of
life in New France.  Perhaps a year or two of repose may not be
amiss, to revictual and reinforce the Colony; and by that time we
shall be ready to pick the lock of Bellona's temple again and cry
Vive la guerre!  Vive la Grande Compagnie! more merrily than ever!"

Bigot's far-reaching intellect forecast the course of events, which
remained so much subject to his own direction after the peace of Aix
la Chapelle--a peace which in America was never a peace at all, but
only an armed and troubled truce between the clashing interests and
rival ambitions of the French and English in the New World.

The meeting of the Board of Managers of the Grand Company broke up,
and--a circumstance that rarely happened--without the customary
debauch.  Bigot, preoccupied with his own projects, which reached
far beyond the mere interests of the Company, retired to his couch.
Cadet, Varin, and Penisault, forming an interior circle of the
Friponne, had certain matters to shape for the Company's eye.  The
rings of corruption in the Grand Company descended, narrower and
more black and precipitous, down to the bottom where Bigot sat, the
Demiurgos of all.

The Chevalier des Meloises was rather proud of his sister's beauty
and cleverness, and in truth a little afraid of her.  They lived
together harmoniously enough, so long as each allowed the other his
or her own way.  Both took it, and followed their own pleasures, and
were not usually disagreeable to one another, except when Angelique
commented on what she called his penuriousness, and he upon her
extravagance, in the financial administration of the family of the
Des Meloises.

The Chevalier was highly delighted to-day to be able to inform
Angelique of her good fortune in becoming a partner of the Friponne
and that too by grace of his Excellency the Intendant.  The
information filled Angelique with delight, not only because it made
her independent of her brother's mismanagement of money, but it
opened a door to her wildest hopes.  In that gift her ambition found
a potent ally to enable her to resist the appeal to her heart which
she knew would be made to-night by Le Gardeur de Repentigny.

The Chevalier des Meloises had no idea of his sister's own aims.  He
had long nourished a foolish fancy that, if he had not obtained the
hand of the wealthy and beautiful heiress of Repentigny, it was
because he had not proposed.  Something to-day had suggested the
thought that unless he did propose soon his chances would be nil,
and another might secure the prize which he had in his vain fancy
set down as his own.

He hinted to Angelique to-day that he had almost resolved to marry,
and that his projected alliance with the noble and wealthy house of
Tilly could be easily accomplished if Angelique would only do her
share, as a sister ought, in securing her brother's fortune and
happiness.

"How?" asked she, looking up savagely, for she knew well at what her
brother was driving.

"By your accepting Le Gardeur without more delay!  All the city
knows he is mad in love, and would marry you any day you choose if
you wore only the hair on your head.  He would ask no better
fortune!"

"It is useless to advise me, Renaud!" said she, "and whether I take
Le Gardeur or no it would not help your chance with Amelie!  I am
sorry for it, for Amelie is a prize, Renaud! but not for you at any
price.  Let me tell you, that desirable young lady will become the
bride of Pierre Philibert, and the bride of no other man living."

"You give one cold encouragement, sister!  But I am sure, if you
would only marry Le Gardeur, you could easily, with your tact and
cleverness, induce Amelie to let me share the Tilly fortune.  There
are chests full of gold in the old Manor House, and a crow could
hardly fly in a day over their broad lands!"

"Perfectly useless, brother!  Amelie is not like most girls.  She
would refuse the hand of a king for the sake of the man she loves,
and she loves Pierre Philibert to his finger-ends.  She has married
him in her heart a thousand times.  I hate paragons of women, and
would scorn to be one, but I tell you, brother, Amelie is a paragon
of a girl, without knowing it!"

"Hum, I never tried my hand on a paragon: I should like to do so,"
replied he, with a smile of decided confidence in his powers.  "I
fancy they are just like other women when you can catch them with
their armor off."

"Yes, but women like Amelie never lay off their armor!  They seem
born in it, like Minerva.  But your vanity will not let you believe
me, Renaud!  So go try her, and tell me your luck!  She won't
scratch you, nor scold.  Amelie is a lady, and will talk to you like
a queen.  But she will give you a polite reply to your proposal that
will improve your opinions of our sex."

"You are mocking me, Angelique, as you always do!  One never knows
when you are in jest or when in earnest.  Even when you get angry,
it is often unreal and for a purpose!  I want you to be serious for
once.  The fortune of the Tillys and De Repentignys is the best in
New France, and we can make it ours if you will help me."

"I am serious enough in wishing you those chests full of gold, and
those broad lands that a crow cannot fly over in a day; but I must
forego my share of them, and so must you yours, brother!"  Angelique
leaned back in her chair, desiring to stop further discussion of a
topic she did not like to hear.

"Why must you forego your share of the De Repentigny fortune,
Angelique?  You could call it your own any day you chose by giving
your little finger to Le Gardeur! you do really puzzle me."

The Chevalier did look perplexed at his inscrutable sister, who only
smiled over the table at him, as she nonchalantly cracked nuts and
sipped her wine by drops.

"Of course I puzzle you, Renaud!" said she at last.  "I am a puzzle
to myself sometimes.  But you see there are so many men in the
world,--poor ones are so plenty, rich ones so scarce, and sensible
ones hardly to be found at all,--that a woman may be excused for
selling herself to the highest bidder.  Love is a commodity only
spoken of in romances or in the patois of milkmaids now-a-days!"

"Zounds, Angelique! you would try the patience of all the saints in
the calendar!  I shall pity the fellow you take in!  Here is the
fairest fortune in the Colony about to fall into the hands of Pierre
Philibert--whom Satan confound for his assurance!  A fortune which I
always regarded as my own!"

"It shows the folly and vanity of your sex!  You never spoke a word
to Amelie de Repentigny in the way of wooing in your life!  Girls
like her don't drop into men's arms just for the asking."

"Pshaw! as if she would refuse me if you only acted a sister's part!
But you are impenetrable as a rock, and the whole of your fickle sex
could not match your vanity and caprice, Angelique."

She rose quickly with a provoked air.

"You are getting so complimentary to my poor sex, Renaud," said she,
"that I must really leave you to yourself, and I could scarcely
leave you in worse company."

"You are so bitter and sarcastic upon one!" replied he, tartly; "my
only desire was to secure a good fortune for you, and another for
myself.  I don't see, for my part, what women are made for, except
to mar everything a man wants to do for himself and for them!"

"Certainly everything should be done for us, brother; but I have no
defence to make for my sex, none!  I dare say we women deserve all
that men think of us, but then it is impolite to tell us so to our
faces.  Now, as I advised you, Renaud, I would counsel you to study
gardening, and you may one day arrive at as great distinction as the
Marquis de Vandriere--you may cultivate chou chou if you cannot
raise a bride like Amelie de Repentigny."

Angelique knew her brother's genius was not penetrating, or she
would scarcely have ventured this broad allusion to the brother of
La Pompadour, who, by virtue of his relationship to the Court
favorite, had recently been created Director of the Royal Gardens.
What fancy was working in the brain of Angelique when she alluded to
him may be only surmised.

The Chevalier was indignant, however, at an implied comparison
between himself and the plebeian Marquis de Vandriere.  He replied,
with some heat,--

"The Marquis de Vandriere!  How dare you mention him and me
together!  There's not an officer's mess in the army that receives
the son of the fishmonger!  Why do you mention him, Angelique?  You
are a perfect riddle!"

"I only thought something might happen, brother, if I should ever go
to Paris!  I was acting a charade in my fancy, and that was the
solution of it!"

"What was?  You would drive the whole Sorbonne mad with your
charades and fancies!  But I must leave you."

"Good-by, brother,--if you will go.  Think of it!--if you want to
rise in the world you may yet become a royal gardener like the
Marquis de Vandriere!"  Her silvery laugh rang out good-humoredly as
he descended the stairs and passed out of the house.

She sat down in her fauteuil.  "Pity Renaud is such a fool!" said
she; "yet I am not sure but he is wiser in his folly than I with all
my tact and cleverness, which I suspect are going to make a greater
fool of me than ever he is!"

She leaned back in her chair in a deep thinking mood.  "It is
growing dark," murmured she.  "Le Gardeur will assuredly be here
soon, in spite of all the attractions of Belmont.  How to deal with
him when he comes is more than I know: he will renew his suit, I am
sure."

For a moment the heart of Angelique softened in her bosom.  "Accept
him I must not!" said she; "affront him I will not! cease to love
him is out of my power as much as is my ability to love the
Intendant, whom I cordially detest, and shall marry all the same!"
She pressed her hands over her eyes, and sat silent for a few
minutes.  "But I am not sure of it!  That woman remains still at
Beaumanoir!  Will my scheming to remove her be all in vain or no?"
Angelique recollected with a shudder a thought that had leaped in
her bosom, like a young Satan, engendered of evil desires.  "I dare
hardly look in the honest eyes of Le Gardeur after nursing such a
monstrous fancy as that," said she; "but my fate is fixed all the
same.  Le Gardeur will vainly try to undo this knot in my life, but
he must leave me to my own devices."  To what devices she left him
was a thought that sprang not up in her purely selfish nature.

In her perplexity Angelique tied knot upon knot hard as pebbles in
her handkerchief.  Those knots of her destiny, as she regarded them,
she left untied, and they remain untied to this day--a memento of
her character and of those knots in her life which posterity has
puzzled itself over to no purpose to explain.


CHAPTER XX.

BELMONT.


A short drive from the gate of St. John stood the old mansion of
Belmont, the country-seat of the Bourgeois Philibert--a stately
park, the remains of the primeval forest of oak, maple, and pine;
trees of gigantic growth and ample shade surrounded the high-roofed,
many-gabled house that stood on the heights of St. Foye overlooking
the broad valley of the St. Charles.  The bright river wound like a
silver serpent through the flat meadows in the bottom of the valley,
while the opposite slopes of alternate field and forest stretched
away to the distant range of the Laurentian hills, whose pale blue
summits mingled with the blue sky at midday or, wrapped in mist at
morn and eve, were hardly distinguishable from the clouds behind
them.

The gardens and lawns of Belmont were stirring with gay company to-
day in honor of the fete of Pierre Philibert upon his return home
from the campaign in Acadia.  Troops of ladies in costumes and
toilettes of the latest Parisian fashion gladdened the eye with
pictures of grace and beauty which Paris itself could not have
surpassed.  Gentlemen in full dress, in an age when dress was an
essential part of a gentleman's distinction, accompanied the ladies
with the gallantry, vivacity, and politeness belonging to France,
and to France alone.

Communication with the mother country was precarious and uncertain
by reason of the war and the blockade of the Gulf by the English
cruisers.  Hence the good fortune and daring of the gallant Captain
Martiniere in running his frigate, the Fleur-de-Lis, through the
fleet of the enemy, enabling him among other things to replenish the
wardrobes of the ladies of Quebec with latest Parisian fashions,
made him immensely popular on this gala day.  The kindness and
affability of the ladies extended without diminution of graciousness
to the little midshipmen even, whom the Captain conditioned to take
with him wherever he and his officers were invited.  Captain
Martiniere was happy to see the lads enjoy a few cakes on shore
after the hard biscuit they had so long nibbled on shipboard.  As
for himself, there was no end to the gracious smiles and thanks he
received from the fair ladies at Belmont.

At the great door of the Manor House, welcoming his guests as they
arrived, stood the Bourgeois Philibert, dressed as a gentleman of
the period, in attire rich but not ostentatious.  His suit of dark
velvet harmonized well with his noble manner and bearing.  But no
one for a moment could overlook the man in contemplating his dress.
The keen, discriminating eye of woman, overlooking neither dress nor
man, found both worthy of warmest commendation, and many remarks
passed between the ladies on that day that a handsomer man and more
ripe and perfect gentleman than the Bourgeois Philibert had never
been seen in New France.

His grizzled hair grew thickly all over his head, the sign of a
tenacious constitution.  It was powdered and tied behind with a
broad ribbon, for he hated perukes.  His strong, shapely figure was
handsomely conspicuous as he stood, chapeau in hand, greeting his
guests as they approached.  His eyes beamed with pleasure and
hospitality, and his usually grave, thoughtful lips were wreathed in
smiles, the sweeter because not habitually seen upon them.

The Bourgeois had this in common with all complete and earnest
characters, that the people believed in him because they saw that he
believed in himself.  His friends loved and trusted him to the
uttermost, his enemies hated and feared him in equal measure; but no
one, great or small, could ignore him and not feel his presence as a
solid piece of manhood.

It is not intellect, nor activity, nor wealth, that obtains most
power over men; but force of character, self-control, a quiet,
compressed will and patient resolve; these qualities make one man
the natural ruler over others by a title they never dispute.

The party of the Honnetes Gens, the "honest folks" as they were
derisively called by their opponents, regarded the Bourgeois
Philibert as their natural leader.  His force of character made men
willingly stand in his shadow.  His clear intellect, never at fault,
had extended his power and influence by means of his vast mercantile
operations over half the continent.  His position as the foremost
merchant of New France brought him in the front of the people's
battle with the Grand Company, and in opposition to the financial
policy of the Intendant and the mercantile assumption of the
Friponne.

But the personal hostility between the Intendant and the Bourgeois
had its root and origin in France, before either of them crossed the
ocean to the hither shore of the Atlantic.  The Bourgeois had been
made very sensible of a fact vitally affecting him, that the decrees
of the Intendant, ostensibly for the regulation of trade in New
France, had been sharply pointed against himself.  "They draw
blood!" Bigot had boasted to his familiars as he rubbed his hands
together with intense satisfaction one day, when he learned that
Philibert's large trading-post in Mackinaw had been closed in
consequence of the Indians having been commanded by royal authority,
exercised by the Intendant, to trade only at the comptoirs of the
Grand Company.  "They draw blood!" repeated he, "and will draw the
life yet out of the Golden Dog."  It was plain the ancient grudge of
the courtly parasite had not lost a tooth during all those years.

The Bourgeois was not a man to talk of his private griefs, or seek
sympathy, or even ask counsel or help.  He knew the world was
engrossed with its own cares.  The world cares not to look under the
surface of things for sake of others, but only for its own sake, its
own interests, its own pleasures.

To-day, however, cares, griefs, and resentments were cast aside, and
the Bourgeois was all joy at the return of his only son, and proud
of Pierre's achievements, and still more of the honors spontaneously
paid him.  He stood at the door, welcoming arrival after arrival,
the happiest man of all the joyous company who honored Belmont that
day.

A carriage with outriders brought the Count de la Galissoniere and
his friend Herr Kalm and Dr. Gauthier, the last a rich old bachelor,
handsome and generous, the physician and savant par excellence of
Quebec.  After a most cordial reception by the Bourgeois the
Governor walked among the guests, who had crowded up to greet him
with the respect due to the King's representative, as well as to
show their personal regard; for the Count's popularity was unbounded
in the Colony except among the partizans of the Grand Company.

Herr Kalm was presently enticed away by a bevy of young ladies,
Hortense de Beauharnais leading them, to get the learned professor's
opinion on some rare specimens of botany growing in the park.
Nothing loath--for he was good-natured as he was clever, and a great
enthusiast withal in the study of plants--he allowed the merry,
talkative girls to lead him where they would.  He delighted them in
turn by his agreeable, instructive conversation, which was rendered
still more piquant by the odd medley of French, Latin, and Swedish
in which it was expressed.

An influx of fresh arrivals next poured into the park--the Chevalier
de la Corne, with his pretty daughter, Agathe La Corne St. Luc; the
Lady de Tilly and Amelie de Repentigny, with the brothers de
Villiers.  The brothers had overtaken the Chevalier La Corne upon
the road, but the custom of the highway in New France forbade any
one passing another without politely asking permission to do so.

"Yes, Coulon," replied the Chevalier; "ride on!"  He winked
pleasantly at his daughter as he said this.  "There is, I suppose,
nothing left for an old fellow who dates from the sixteen hundreds
but to take the side of the road and let you pass.  I should have
liked, however, to stir up the fire in my gallant little Norman
ponies against your big New England horses.  Where did you get them?
Can they run?"

"We got them in the sack of Saratoga," replied Coulon, "and they ran
well that day, but we overtook them.  Would Mademoiselle La Corne
care if we try them now?"

Scarcely a girl in Quebec would have declined the excitement of a
race on the highroad of St. Foye, and Agathe would fain have driven
herself in the race, but being in full dress to-day, she thought of
her wardrobe and the company.  She checked the ardor of her father,
and entered the park demurely, as one of the gravest of the guests.

"Happy youths!  Noble lads, Agathe!" exclaimed the Chevalier,
admiringly, as the brothers rode rapidly past them.  "New France
will be proud of them some day!"

The rest of the company now began to arrive in quick succession.
The lawn was crowded with guests.  "Ten thousand thanks for coming!"
exclaimed Pierre Philibert, as he assisted Amelie de Repentigny and
the Lady de Tilly to alight from their carriage.

"We could not choose but come to-day, Pierre," replied Amelie,
feeling without displeasure the momentary lingering of his hand as
it touched hers.  "Nothing short of an earthquake would have kept
aunt at home," added she, darting a merry glance of sympathy with
her aunt's supposed feelings.

"And you, Amelie?"  Pierre looked into those dark eyes which shyly
turned aside from his gaze.

"I was an obedient niece, and accompanied her.  It is so easy to
persuade people to go where they wish to go!"  She withdrew her hand
gently, and took his arm as he conducted the ladies into the house.
She felt a flush on her cheek, but it did not prevent her saying in
her frank, kindly way,--"I was glad to come to-day, Pierre, to
witness this gathering of the best and noblest in the land to honor
your fete.  Aunt de Tilly has always predicted greatness for you."

"And you, Amelie, doubted, knowing me a shade better than your
aunt?"

"No, I believed her; so true a prophet as aunt surely deserved one
firm believer!"

Pierre felt the electric thrill run through him which a man feels at
the moment he discovers a woman believes in him.  "Your presence
here to-day, Amelie! you cannot think how sweet it is," said he.

Her hand trembled upon his arm.  She thought nothing could be
sweeter than such words from Pierre Philibert.  With a charming
indirectness, however, which did not escape him, she replied, "Le
Gardeur is very proud of you to-day, Pierre."

He laid his fingers upon her hand.  It was a delicate little hand,
but with the strength of an angel's it had moulded his destiny and
led him to the honorable position he had attained.  He was
profoundly conscious at this moment of what he owed to this girl's
silent influence.  He contented himself, however, with saying, "I
will so strive that one day Amelie de Repentigny shall not shame to
say she too is proud of me."

She did not reply for a moment.  A tremor agitated her low, sweet
voice.  "I am proud of you now, Pierre,--more proud than words can
tell to see you so honored, and proudest to think you deserve it
all."

It touched him almost to tears.  "Thanks, Amelie; when you are proud
of me I shall begin to feel pride of myself.  Your opinion is the
one thing in life I have most cared for,--your approbation is my
best reward."

Her eyes were eloquent with unspoken words, but she thought, "If
that were all!"  Pierre Philibert had long received the silent
reward of her good opinion and approbation.

The Bourgeois at this moment came up to salute Amelie and the Lady
de Tilly.

"The Bourgeois Philibert has the most perfect manner of any
gentleman in New France," was the remark of the Lady de Tilly to
Amelie, as he left them again to receive other guests.  "They say he
can be rough and imperious sometimes to those he dislikes, but to
his friends and strangers, and especially to ladies, no breath of
spring can be more gentle and balmy."  Amelie assented with a mental
reservation in the depths of her dark eyes, and in the dimple that
flashed upon her cheek as she suppressed the utterance of a pleasant
fancy in reply to her aunt.

Pierre conducted the ladies to the great drawing-room, which was
already filled with company, who overwhelmed Amelie and her aunt
with the vivacity of their greeting.

In a fine shady grove at a short distance from the house, a row of
tables was set for the entertainment of several hundreds of the
hardy dependents of the Bourgeois; for while feasting the rich the
Bourgeois would not forget his poorer friends, and perhaps his most
exquisite satisfaction was in the unrestrained enjoyment of his
hospitality by the crowd of happy, hungry fellows and their
families, who, under the direction of his chief factor, filled the
tables from end to end, and made the park resound with songs and
merriment--fellows of infinite gaiety, with appetites of Gargantuas
and a capacity for good liquors that reminded one of the tubs of the
Danaides.  The tables groaned beneath mountains of good things, and
in the centre of each, like Mont Blanc rising from the lower Alps,
stood a magnificent Easter pie, the confection of which was a
masterpiece of the skill of Maitre Guillot Gobet, the head cook of
the Bourgeois, who was rather put out, however, when Dame Rochelle
decided to bestow all the Easter pies upon the hungry voyageurs,
woodmen, and workmen, and banished them from the menu of the more
patrician tables set for the guests of the mansion.

"Yet, after all," exclaimed Maitre Guillot, as he thrust his head
out of the kitchen door to listen to the song the gay fellows were
singing with all their lungs in honor of his Easter pie; "after all,
the fine gentlemen and ladies would not have paid my noble pies such
honor as that! and what is more the pies would not have been eaten
up to the last crumb!"  Maitre Guillot's face beamed like a harvest
moon, as he chimed in with the well-known ditty in praise of the
great pie of Rouen:


     "'C'est dans la ville de Rouen,
       Ils ont fait un pate si grand,
       Ils ont fait un pate si grand,
       Qu'ils ont trouve un homme dedans!'"


Maitre Guillot would fain have been nearer, to share in the shouting
and clapping of hands which followed the saying of grace by the good
Cure of St. Foye, and to see how vigorously knives were handled, and
how chins wagged in the delightful task of levelling down mountains
of meat, while Gascon wine and Norman cider flowed from ever-
replenished flagons.

The Bourgeois and his son, with many of his chief guests, honored
for a time the merry feast out-of-doors, and were almost inundated
by the flowing cups drunk to the health and happiness of the
Bourgeois and of Pierre Philibert.

Maitre Guillot Gobet returned to his kitchen, where he stirred up
his cooks and scullions on all sides, to make up for the loss of his
Easter pies on the grand tables in the hall.  He capered among them
like a marionette, directing here, scolding there, laughing, joking,
or with uplifted hands and stamping feet despairing of his
underlings' cooking a dinner fit for the fete of Pierre Philibert.

Maitre Guilot was a little, fat, red-nosed fellow, with twinkling
black eyes, and a mouth irascible as that of a cake-baker of Lerna.
His heart was of the right paste, however, and full as a butter-boat
of the sweet sauce of good nature, which he was ready to pour over
the heads of all his fellows who quietly submitted to his dictation.
But woe to man or maid servant who delayed or disputed his royal
orders!  An Indian typhoon instantly blew.  At such a time even Dame
Rochelle would gather her petticoats round her and hurry out of the
storm, which always subsided quickly in proportion to the violence
of its rage.

Maitre Guillot knew what he was about, however.  He did not use, he
said, to wipe his nose with a herring! and on that day he was going
to cook a dinner fit for the Pope after Lent, or even for the
Reverend Father De Berey himself, who was the truest gourmet and the
best trencherman in New France.

Maitre Guillot honored his master, but in his secret soul he did not
think his taste quite worthy of his cook!  But he worshipped Father
De Berey, and gloried in the infallible judgment and correct taste
of cookery possessed by the jolly Recollet.  The single approbation
of Father De Berey was worth more than the praise of a world full of
ordinary eating mortals, who smacked their lips and said things were
good, but who knew no more than one of the Cent Suisses why things
were good, or could appreciate the talents of an artiste of the
cordon bleu.

Maitre Guillot's Easter pie had been a splendid success.  "It was
worthy," he said, "to be placed as a crown on top of the new
Cathedral of St. Marie, and receive the consecration of the Bishop."

Lest the composition of it should be forgotten, Maitre Guillot had,
with the solemnity of a deacon intoning the Litany, ravished the ear
of Jules Painchaud, his future son-in-law, as he taught him the
secrets of its confection.

With his white cap set rakishly on one side of his head and arms
akimbo, Maitre Guillot gave Jules the famous recipe:

"Inside of circular walls of pastry an inch thick, and so rich as
easily to be pulled down, and roomy enough within for the Court of
King Pepin, lay first a thick stratum of mince-meat of two savory
hams of Westphalia, and if you cannot get them, of two hams of our
habitans."

"Of our habitans!" ejaculated Jules, with an air of consternation.

"Precisely! don't interrupt me!"  Maitre Guillot grew red about the
gills in an instant.  Jules was silenced.  "I have said it!" cried
he; "two hams of our habitans! what have you to say against it--
stock fish, eh?"

"Oh, nothing, sir," replied Jules, with humility, "only I thought--"
Poor Jules would have consented to eat his thought rather than fall
out with the father of his Susette.

"You thought!"  Maitre Guillot's face was a study for Hogarth, who
alone could have painted the alto tone of voice as it proceeded from
his round O of a mouth.  "Susette shall remain upon my hands an old
maid for the term of her natural life if you dispute the confection
of Easter pie!"

"Now listen, Jules," continued he, at once mollified by the
contrite, submissive air of his future son-in-law: "Upon the
foundation of the mince-meat of two hams of Westphalia,--or, if you
cannot get them, of two hams of our habitans,--place scientifically
the nicely-cut pieces of a fat turkey, leaving his head to stick out
of the upper crust, in evidence that Master Dindon lies buried
there!  Add two fat capons, two plump partridges, two pigeons, and
the back and thighs of a brace of juicy hares.  Fill up the whole
with beaten eggs, and the rich contents will resemble, as a poet
might say, 'fossils of the rock in golden yolks embedded and
enjellied!'  Season as you would a saint.  Cover with a slab of
pastry.  Bake it as you would cook an angel, and not singe a
feather.  Then let it cool, and eat it!  And then, Jules, as the
Reverend Father de Berey always says after grace over an Easter pie,
'Dominus vobiscum!'"


CHAPTER XXI.

SIC ITUR AD ASTRA.


The old hall of Belmont had been decorated for many a feast since
the times of its founder, the Intendant Talon; but it had never
contained a nobler company of fair women and brave men, the pick and
choice of their race, than to-day met round the hospitable and
splendid table of the Bourgeois Philibert in honor of the fete of
his gallant son.

Dinner was duly and decorously despatched.  The social fashion of
New France was not for the ladies to withdraw when the wine followed
the feast, but to remain seated with the gentlemen, purifying the
conversation, and by their presence restraining the coarseness which
was the almost universal vice of the age.

A troop of nimble servitors carried off the carved dishes and
fragments of the splended patisseries of Maitre Guillot, in such a
state of demolition as satisfied the critical eye of the chief cook
that the efforts of his genius had been very successful.  He
inspected the dishes through his spectacles.  He knew, by what was
left, the ability of the guests to discriminate what they had eaten
and to do justice to his skill.  He considered himself a sort of
pervading divinity, whose culinary ideas passing with his cookery
into the bodies of the guests enabled them, on retiring from the
feast, to carry away as part of themselves some of the fine essence
of Maitre Gobet himself.

At the head of his table, peeling oranges and slicing pineapples for
the ladies in his vicinity, sat the Bourgeois himself, laughing,
jesting, and telling anecdotes with a geniality that was contagious.
"'The gods are merry sometimes,' says Homer, 'and their laughter
shakes Olympus!'" was the classical remark of Father de Berey, at
the other end of the table.  Jupiter did not laugh with less loss of
dignity than the Bourgeois.

Few of the guests did not remember to the end of their lives the
majestic and happy countenance of the Bourgeois on this memorable
day.

At his right hand sat Amelie de Repentigny and the Count de la
Galissoniere.  The Governor, charmed with the beauty and
agreeableness of the young chatelaine, had led her in to dinner, and
devoted himself to her and the Lady de Tilly with the perfection of
gallantry of a gentleman of the politest court in Europe.  On his
left sat the radiant, dark-eyed Hortense de Beauharnais.  With a gay
assumption of independence Hortense had taken the arm of La Corne
St. Luc, and declared she would eat no dinner unless he would be her
cavalier and sit beside her!  The gallant old soldier surrendered at
discretion.  He laughingly consented to be her captive, he said, for
he had no power and no desire but to obey.  Hortense was proud of
her conquest.  She seated herself by his side with an air of triumph
and mock gravity, tapping him with her fan whenever she detected his
eye roving round the table, compassionating, she affirmed, her
rivals, who had failed where she had won in securing the youngest,
the handsomest, and most gallant of all the gentlemen at Belmont.

"Not so fast, Hortense!" exclaimed the gay Chevalier; "you have
captured me by mistake!  The tall Swede--he is your man!  The other
ladies all know that, and are anxious to get me out of your toils,
so that you may be free to ensnare the philosopher!"

"But you don't wish to get away from me!  I am your garland,
Chevalier, and you shall wear me to-day.  As for the tall Swede, he
has no idea of a fair flower of our sex except to wear it in his
button-hole,--this way!" added she, pulling a rose out of a vase and
archly adorning the Chevalier's vest with it.

"All pretence and jealousy, mademoiselle.  The tall Swede knows how
to take down your pride and bring you to a proper sense of your
false conceit of the beauty and wit of the ladies of New France."

Hortense gave two or three tosses of defiance to express her
emphatic dissent from his opinions.

"I wish Herr Kalm would lend me his philosophic scales, to weigh
your sex like lambs in market," continued La Corne St. Luc; "but I
fear I am too old, Hortense, to measure women except by the fathom,
which is the measure of a man."

"And the measure of a man is the measure of an angel too scriptum
est, Chevalier!" replied she.  Hortense had ten merry meanings in
her eye, and looked as if bidding him select which he chose.  "The
learned Swede's philosophy is lost upon me," continued she, "he can
neither weigh by sample nor measure by fathom the girls of New
France!"  She tapped him on the arm.  "Listen to me, chevalier,"
said she, "you are neglecting me already for sake of Cecile
Tourangeau!"  La Corne was exchanging some gay badinage with a
graceful, pretty young lady on the other side of the table, whose
snowy forehead, if you examined it closely, was marked with a red
scar, in figure of a cross, which, although powdered and partially
concealed by a frizz of her thick blonde hair, was sufficiently
distinct to those who looked for it; and many did so, as they
whispered to each other the story of how she got it.

Le Gardeur de Repentigny sat by Cecile, talking in a very sociable
manner, which was also commented on.  His conversation seemed to be
very attractive to the young lady, who was visibly delighted with
the attentions of her handsome gallant.

At this moment a burst of instruments from the musicians, who
occupied a gallery at the end of the hall, announced a vocal
response to the toast of the King's health, proposed by the
Bourgeois.  "Prepare yourself for the chorus, Chevalier," exclaimed
Hortense.  "Father de Berey is going to lead the royal anthem!"

"Vive le Roi!" replied La Corne.  "No finer voice ever sang Mass, or
chanted 'God Save the King!'  I like to hear the royal anthem from
the lips of a churchman rolling it out ore rotundo, like one of the
Psalms of David.  Our first duty is to love God,--our next to honor
the King! and New France will never fail in either!"  Loyalty was
ingrained in every fibre of La Corne St. Luc.

"Never, Chevalier.  Law and Gospel rule together, or fall together!
But we must rise," replied Hortense, springing up.

The whole company rose simultaneously.  The rich, mellow voice of
the Rev. Father de Berey, round and full as the organ of Ste. Marie,
commenced the royal anthem composed by Lulli in honor of Louis
Quatorze, upon an occasion of his visit to the famous Convent of St.
Cyr, in company with Madame de Maintenon.

The song composed by Madame Brinon was afterwards translated into
English, and words and music became, by a singular transposition,
the national hymn of the English nation.

"God Save the King!" is no longer heard in France.  It was buried
with the people's loyalty, fathoms deep under the ruins of the
monarchy.  But it flourishes still with pristine vigor in New
France, that olive branch grafted on the stately tree of the British
Empire.  The broad chest and flexile lips of Father de Berey rang
out the grand old song in tones that filled the stately old hall:


     "'Grand Dieu!  Sauvez le Roi!
       Grand Dieu!  Sauvez le Roi!
       Sauvez le Roi!
       Que toujours glorieux.
       Louis Victorieux,
       Voye ses ennemis
       Toujours soumis!'"


The company all joined in the chorus, the gentlemen raising their
cups, the ladies waving their handkerchiefs, and male and female
blending in a storm of applause that made the old walls ring with
joy.  Songs and speeches followed in quick succession, cutting as
with a golden blade the hours of the dessert into quinzaines of
varied pleasures.

The custom of the times had reduced speechmaking after dinner to a
minimum.  The ladies, as Father de Berey wittily remarked, preferred
private confession to public preaching; and long speeches, without
inlets for reply, were the eighth mortal sin which no lady would
forgive.

The Bourgeois, however, felt it incumbent upon himself to express
his deep thanks for the honor done his house on this auspicious
occasion.  And he remarked that the doors of Belmont, so long closed
by reason of the absence of Pierre, would hereafter be ever open to
welcome all his friends.  He had that day made a gift of Belmont,
with all its belongings, to Pierre, and he hoped,--the Bourgeois
smiled as he said this, but he would not look in a quarter where his
words struck home,--he hoped that some one of Quebec's fair
daughters would assist Pierre in the menage of his home and enable
him to do honor to his housekeeping.

Immense was the applause that followed the short, pithy speech of
the Bourgeois.  The ladies blushed and praised, the gentlemen
cheered and enjoyed in anticipation the renewal of the old
hospitalities of Belmont.

"The skies are raining plum cakes!" exclaimed the Chevalier La Corne
to his lively companion.  "Joy's golden drops are only distilled in
the alembic of woman's heart!  What think you, Hortense?  Which of
Quebec's fair daughters will be willing to share Belmont with
Pierre?"

"Oh, any of them would!" replied she.  "But why did the Bourgeois
restrict his choice to the ladies of Quebec, when he knew I came
from the Three Rivers?"

"Oh, he was afraid of you, Hortense; you would make Belmont too good
for this world!  What say you, Father de Berry?  Do you ever walk on
the cape?"

The friar, in a merry mood, had been edging close to Hortense.  "I
love, of all things, to air my gray gown on the cape of a breezy
afternoon," replied the jovial Recollet, "when the fashionables are
all out, and every lady is putting her best foot foremost.  It is
then I feel sure that Horace is the next best thing to the Homilies:


    "'Teretesque suras laudo, et integer ego!'"


The Chevalier La Corne pinched the shrugging shoulder of Hortense as
he remarked, "Don't confess to Father de Berey that you promenade on
the cape!  But I hope Pierre Philibert will soon make his choice!
We are impatient to visit him and give old Provencal the butler a
run every day through those dark crypts of his, where lie entombed
the choicest vintages of sunny France."

The Chevalier said this waggishly, for the benefit of old Provencal,
who stood behind his chair looking half alarmed at the threatened
raid upon his well-filled cellars.

"But if Pierre should not commit matrimony," replied Hortense, "what
will become of him? and especially what will become of us?"

"We will drink his wine all the same, good fellow that he is!  But
Pierre had as lief commit suicide as not commit matrimony; and who
would not?  Look here, Pierre Philibert," continued the old soldier,
addressing him, with good-humored freedom.  "Matrimony is clearly
your duty, Pierre; but I need not tell you so: it is written on your
face plain as the way betwen Peronne and St. Quintin,--a good,
honest way as ever was trod by shoe leather, and as old as Chinon in
Touraine!  Try it soon, my boy.  Quebec is a sack full of pearls!"
Hortense pulled him mischievously by the coat, so he caught her hand
and held it fast in his, while he proceeded: "You put your hand in
the sack and take out the first that offers.  It will be worth a
Jew's ransom!  If you are lucky to find the fairest, trust me it
will be the identical pearl of great price for which the merchant
went and sold all that he had and bought it.  Is not that Gospel,
Father de Berey?  I think I have heard something like that preached
from the pulpit of the Recollets?"

"Matter of brimborion, Chevalier! not to be questioned by laymen!
Words of wisdom for my poor brothers of St. Francis, who, after
renouncing the world, like to know that they have renounced
something worth having!  But not to preach a sermon on your parable,
Chevalier, I will promise Colonel Philibert that when he has found
the pearl of great price,"--Father de Berey, who knew a world of
secrets, glanced archly at Amelie as he said this,--"the bells of
our monastery shall ring out such a merry peal as they have not rung
since fat Brother Le Gros broke his wind, and short Brother Bref
stretched himself out half a yard pulling the bell ropes on the
wedding of the Dauphin."

Great merriment followed the speech of Father de Berey.  Hortense
rallied the Chevalier, a good old widower, upon himself not
travelling the plain way between Peronne and St. Quintin, and
jestingly offered herself to travel with him, like a couple of
gypsies carrying their budget of happiness pick-a-back through the
world.

"Better than that!" La Corne exclaimed.  Hortense was worthy to ride
on the baggage-wagons in his next campaign!  Would she go?  She gave
him her hand.  "I expect nothing else!" said she.  "I am a soldier's
daughter, and expect to live a soldier's wife, and die a soldier's
widow.  But a truce to jest.  It is harder to be witty than wise,"
continued she.  "What is the matter with Cousin Le Gardeur?"  Her
eyes were fixed upon him as he read a note just handed to him by a
servant.  He crushed it in his hand with a flash of anger, and made
a motion as if about to tear it, but did not.  He placed it in his
bosom.  But the hilarity of his countenance was gone.

There was another person at the table whose quick eye, drawn by
sisterly affection, saw Le Gardeur's movement before even Hortense.
Amelie was impatient to leave her seat and go beside him, but she
could not at the moment leave the lively circle around her.  She at
once conjectured that the note was from Angelique des Meloises.
After drinking deeply two or three times Le Gardeur arose, and with
a faint excuse that did not impose on his partner left the table.
Amelie rose quickly also, excusing herself to the Bourgeois, and
joined her brother in the park, where the cool night air blew fresh
and inviting for a walk.

Pretty Cecile Touraugeau had caught a glimpse of the handwriting as
she sat by the side of Le Gardeur, and guessed correctly whence it
had come and why her partner so suddenly left the table.

She was out of humor; the red mark upon her forehead grew redder as
she pouted in visible discontent.  But the great world moves on,
carrying alternate storms and sunshine upon its surface.  The
company rose from the table--some to the ball-room, some to the park
and conservatories.  Cecile's was a happy disposition, easily
consoled for her sorrows.  Every trace of her displeasure was
banished and almost forgotten from the moment the gay, handsome
Jumonville de Villiers invited her out to the grand balcony, where,
he said, the rarest pastime was going on.

And rare pastime it was!  A group of laughing but half-serious girls
were gathered round Doctor Gauthier, urging him to tell their
fortunes by consulting the stars, which to-night shone out with
unusual brilliancy.

At that period, as at the present, and in every age of the world,
the female sex, like the Jews of old, asks signs, while the Greeks--
that is, the men--seek wisdom.

The time never was, and never will be, when a woman will cease to be
curious,--when her imagination will not forecast the decrees of fate
in regard to the culminating event of her life and her whole nature--
marriage.  It was in vain Doctor Gauthier protested his inability
to read the stars without his celestial eye-glasses.

The ladies would not accept his excuses: he knew the heavens by
heart, they said, and could read the stars of destiny as easily as
the Bishop his breviary.

In truth the worthy doctor was not only a believer but an adept in
astrology.  He had favored his friends with not a few horoscopes and
nativities, when pressed to do so.  His good nature was of the
substance of butter: any one that liked could spread it over their
bread.  Many good men are eaten up in that way by greedy friends.

Hortense de Beauharnais urged the Doctor so merrily and so
perseveringly, promising to marry him herself if the stars said so,
that he laughingly gave way, but declared he would tell Hortense's
fortune first, which deserved to be good enough to make her fulfil
her promise just made.

She was resigned, she said, and would accept any fate from the rank
of a queen to a cell among the old maids of St. Cyr!  The girls of
Quebec hung all their hopes on the stars, bright and particular ones
especially.  They were too loving to live single, and too proud to
live poor.  But she was one who would not wait for ships to land
that never came, and plums to drop into her mouth that never
ripened.  Hortense would be ruled by the stars, and wise Doctor
Gauthier should to-night declare her fate.

They all laughed at this free talk of Hortense.  Not a few of the
ladies shrugged their shoulders and looked askance at each other,
but many present wished they had courage to speak like her to Doctor
Gauthier.

"Well, I see there is nothing else for it but to submit to my ruling
star, and that is you, Hortense!" cried the Doctor; "so please
stand up before me while I take an inventory of your looks as a
preliminary to telling your fortune."

Hortense placed herself instantly before him.  "It is one of the
privileges of our dry study," remarked he, as he looked admiringly
on the tall, charming figure and frank countenance of the girl
before him.

"The querent," said he gravely, "is tall, straight, slender, arms
long, hands and feet of the smallest, hair just short of blackness,
piercing, roving eyes, dark as night and full of fire, sight quick,
and temperament alive with energy, wit, and sense."

"Oh, tell my fortune, not my character!  I shall shame of energy,
wit, and sense, if I hear such flattery, Doctor!" exclaimed she,
shaking herself like a young eagle preparing to fly.

"We shall see what comes of it, Hortense!" replied he gravely, as
with his gold-headed cane he slowly quartered the heavens like an
ancient augur, and noted the planets in their houses.  The doctor
was quite serious, and even Hortense, catching his looks, stood very
silent as he studied the celestial aspects,


     "Carrying through ether in perpetual round
      Decrees and resolutions of the Gods."


"The Lord of the ascendant," said he, "is with the Lord of the
seventh in the tenth house.  The querent, therefore, shall marry the
man made for her, but not the man of her youthful hope and her first
love.

"The stars are true," continued he, speaking to himself rather than
to her.  "Jupiter in the seventh house denotes rank and dignity by
marriage, and Mars in sextile foretells successful wars.  It is
wonderful, Hortense!  The blood of Beauharnais shall sit on thrones
more than one; it shall rule France, Italy, and Flanders, but not
New France, for Saturn in quintile looks darkly upon the twins who
rule America!"

"Come, Jumonville," exclaimed Hortense, "congratulate Claude on the
greatness awaiting the house of Beauharnais, and condole with me
that I am to see none of it myself!  I do not care for kings and
queens in the third generation, but I do care for happy fortune in
the present for those I know and love!  Come, Jumonville, have your
fortune told now, to keep me in countenance.  If the Doctor hits the
truth for you I shall believe in him for myself."

"That is a good idea, Hortense," replied Jumonville; "I long ago
hung my hat on the stars--let the Doctor try if he can find it."

The Doctor, in great good humor, surveyed the dark, handsome face
and lithe, athletic figure of Jumonville de Villiers.  He again
raised his cane with the gravity of a Roman pontifex, marking off
his templum in the heavens.  Suddenly he stopped.  He repeated more
carefully his survey, and then turned his earnest eyes upon the
young soldier.

"You see ill-fortune for me, Doctor!" exclaimed Jumonville, with
bright, unflinching eyes, as he would look on danger of any kind.

"The Hyleg, or giver of life, is afflicted by Mars in the eighth
house, and Saturn is in evil aspect in the ascendant!" said the
Doctor slowly.

"That sounds warlike, and means fighting I suppose, Doctor.  It is a
brave fortune for a soldier.  Go on!"  Jumonville was in earnest
now.

"The pars fortunae," continued the Doctor, gazing upward, "rejoices
in a benign aspect with Venus.  Fame, true love, and immortality
will be yours, Jumonville de Villiers; but you will die young under
the flag of your country and for sake of your King!  You will not
marry, but all the maids and matrons of New France will lament your
fate with tears, and from your death shall spring up the salvation
of your native land--how, I see not; but decretum est, Jumonville,
ask me no more!"

A thrill like a stream of electricity passed through the company.
Their mirth was extinguished, for none could wholly free their minds
from the superstition of their age.  The good Doctor sat down, and
wiped his moistened eye-glasses.  He would tell no more to-night, he
said.  He had really gone too far, making jest of earnest and
earnest of jest, and begged pardon of Jumonville for complying with
his humor.

The young soldier laughed merrily.  "If fame, immortality, and true
love are to be mine, what care I for death?  It will be worth giving
up life for, to have the tears of the maids and matrons of New
France to lament your fate.  What could the most ambitious soldier
desire more?"

The words of Jumonville struck a kindred chord in the bosom of
Hortense de Beauharnais.  They were stamped upon her heart forever.
A few years after this prediction, Jumonville de Villiers lay slain
under a flag of truce on the bank of the Monongahela, and of all the
maids and matrons of New France who wept over his fate, none shed
more and bitterer tears than his fair betrothed bride, Hortense de
Beauharnais.

The prediction of the Sieur Gauthier was repeated and retold as a
strangely true tale; it passed into the traditions of the people,
and lingered in their memory generations after the festival of
Belmont was utterly forgotten.

When the great revolt took place in the English Colonies, the death
of the gallant Jumonville de Villiers was neither forgotten nor
forgiven by New France.  Congress appealed in vain for union and
help from Canadians.  Washington's proclamations were trodden under
foot, and his troops driven back or captured.  If Canada was lost to
France partly through the death of Jumonville, it may also be said
that his blood helped to save it to England.  The ways of Providence
are so mysterious in working out the problems of national existence
that the life or death of a single individual may turn the scales of
destiny over half a continent.

But all these events lay as yet darkly in the womb of the future.
The gallant Jumonville who fell, and his brother Coulon who took his
"noble revenge" upon Washington by sparing his life, were to-day the
gayest of the gay throng who had assembled to do honor to Pierre
Philibert.

While this group of merry guests, half in jest, half in earnest,
were trying to discover in the stars the "far-reaching concords"
that moulded the life of each, Amelie led her brother away from the
busy grounds near the mansion, and took a quiet path that led into
the great park which they entered.

A cool salt-water breeze, following the flood tide that was coming
up the broad St. Lawrence, swept their faces as Amelie walked by the
side of Le Gardeur, talking in her quiet way of things familiar, and
of home interests until she saw the fever of his blood abate and his
thoughts return into calmer channels.  Her gentle craft subdued his
impetuous mood--if craft it might be called--for more wisely cunning
than all craft is the prompting of true affection, where reason
responds like instinct to the wants of the heart.

They sat down upon a garden seat overlooking the great valley.  None
of the guests had sauntered out so far, but Amelie's heart was full;
she had much to say, and wished no interruption.

"I am glad to sit in this pretty spot, Amelie," said he, at last,
for he had listened in silence to the sweet, low voice of his sister
as she kept up her half sad, half glad monologue, because she saw it
pleased him.  It brought him into a mood in which she might venture
to talk of the matter that pressed sorely upon her heart.

"A little while ago, I feared I might offend you, Le Gardeur," said
she, taking his hand tenderly in hers, "if I spoke all I wished.  I
never did offend you that I remember, brother, did I?"

"Never, my incomparable sister; you never did, and never could.  Say
what you will, ask me what you like; but I fear I am unworthy of
your affection, sister."

"You are not unworthy; God gave you as my only brother, you will
never be unworthy in my eyes.  But it touches me to the quick to
suspect others may think lightly of you, Le Gardeur."

He flinched, for his pride was touched, but he knew Amelie was
right.  "It was weakness in me," said he, "I confess it, sister.  To
pour wine upon my vexation in hope to cure it, is to feed a fire
with oil.  To throw fire into a powder magazine were wisdom compared
with my folly, Amelie: I was angry at the message I got at such a
time.  Angelique des Meloises has no mercy upon her lovers!"

"Oh, my prophetic heart!  I thought as much!  It was Angelique,
then, sent you the letter you read at table?"

"Yes, who else could have moved me so?  The time was ill-chosen, but
I suspect, hating the Bourgeois as she does, Angelique intended to
call me from Pierre's fete.  I shall obey her now, but tonight she
shall obey me, decide to make or mar me, one way or other!  You may
read the letter, Amelie, if you will."

"I care not to read it, brother; I know Angelique too well not to
fear her influence over you.  Her craft and boldness were always a
terror to her companions.  But you will not leave Pierre's fete
tonight?" added she, half imploringly; for she felt keenly the
discourtesy to Pierre Philibert.

"I must do even that, sister!  Were Angelique as faulty as she is
fair, I should only love her the more for her faults, and make them
my own.  Were she to come to me like Herodias with the Baptist's
head in a charger, I should outdo Herod in keeping my pledge to
her."

Amelie uttered a low, moaning cry.  "O my dear infatuated brother,
it is not in nature for a De Repentigny to love irrationally like
that!  What maddening philtre have you drank, to intoxicate you
with a woman who uses you so imperiously?  But you will not go, Le
Gardeur!" added she, clinging to his arm.  "You are safe so long as
you are with your sister,--you will be safe no longer if you go to
the Maison des Meloises tonight!"

"Go I must and shall, Amelie!  I have drank the maddening philtre,--
I know that, Amelie, and would not take an antidote if I had one!
The world has no antidote to cure me.  I have no wish to be cured of
love for Angelique, and in fine I cannot be, so let me go and
receive the rod for coming to Belmont and the reward for leaving it
at her summons!"  He affected a tone of levity, but Amelie's ear
easily detected the false ring of it.

"Dearest brother!" said she, "are you sure Angelique returns, or is
capable of returning, love like yours?  She is like the rest of us,
weak and fickle, merely human, and not at all the divinity a man in
his fancy worships when in love with a woman."  It was in vain,
however, for Amelie to try to persuade her brother of that.

"What care I, Amelie, so long as Angelique is not weak and fickle to
me?" answered he; "but she will think her tardy lover is both weak
and fickle unless I put in a speedy appearance at the Maison des
Meloises!"  He rose up as if to depart, still holding his sister by
the hand.

Amelie's tears flowed silently in the darkness.  She was not willing
to plant a seed of distrust in the bosom of her brother, yet she
remembered bitterly and indignantly what Angelique had said of her
intentions towards the Intendant.  Was she using Le Gardeur as a
foil to set off her attractions in the eyes of Bigot?

"Brother!" said Amelie, "I am a woman, and comprehend my sex better
than you.  I know Angelique's far-reaching ambition and crafty ways.
Are you sure, not in outward persuasion but in inward conviction,
that she loves you as a woman should love the man she means to
marry?"

Le Gardeur felt her words like a silver probe that searched his
heart.  With all his unbounded devotion, he knew Angelique too well
not to feel a pang of distrust sometimes, as she showered her
coquetries upon every side of her.  It was the overabundance of her
love, he said, but he thought it often fell like the dew round
Gideon's fleece, refreshing all the earth about it, but leaving the
fleece dry.  "Amelie!" said he, "you try me hard, and tempt me too,
my sister, but it is useless.  Angelique may be false as Cressida to
other men, she will not be false to me!  She has sworn it, with her
hand in mine, before the altar of Notre Dame.  I would go down to
perdition with her in my arms rather than be a crowned king with all
the world of women to choose from and not get her."

Amelie shuddered at his vehemence, but she knew how useless was
expostulation.  She wisely refrained, deeming it her duty, like a
good sister, to make the best of what she could not hinder.  Some
jasmines overhung the seat; she plucked a handful, and gave them to
him as they rose to return to the house.

"Take them with you, Le Gardeur," said she, giving him the flowers,
which she tied into a wreath; "they will remind Angelique that she
has a powerful rival in your sister's love."

He took them as they walked slowly back.  "Would she were like you,
Amelie, in all things!" said he.  "I will put some of your flowers
in her hair to-night for your sake, sister."

"And for her own!  May they be for you both an augury of good!  Mind
and return home, Le Gardeur, after your visit.  I shall sit up to
await your arrival, to congratulate you;" and, after a pause, she
added, "or to console you, brother!"

"Oh, no fear, sister!" replied he, cheeringly.  "Angelique is true
as steel to me.  You shall call her my betrothed tomorrow!  Good-by!
And now go dance with all delight till morning."  He kissed her and
departed for the city, leaving her in the ball-room by the side of
the Lady de Tilly.

Amelie related to her aunt the result of her conversation with Le
Gardeur, and the cause of his leaving the fete so abruptly.  The
Lady de Tilly listened with surprise and distress.  "To think," said
she, "of Le Gardeur asking that terrible girl to marry him!  My only
hope is, she will refuse him.  And if it be as I hear, I think she
will!"

"It would be the ruin of Le Gardeur if she did, aunt!  You cannot
think how determined he is on this marriage."

"It would be his ruin if she accepted him!" replied the Lady de
Tilly.  "With any other woman Le Gardeur might have a fair chance of
happiness; but none with her!  More than one of her lovers lies in a
bloody grave by reason of her coquetries.  She has ruined every man
whom she has flattered into loving her.  She is without affection.
Her thoughts are covered with a veil of deceit impenetrable.  She
would sacrifice the whole world to her vanity.  I fear, Amelie, she
will sacrifice Le Gardeur as ruthlessly as the most worthless of her
admirers."

"We can only hope for the best, aunt; and I do think Angelique loves
Le Gardeur as she never loved any other."

They were presently rejoined by Pierre Philibert.  The Lady de Tilly
and Amelie apologized for Le Gardeur's departure,--he had been
compelled to go to the city on an affair of urgency, and had left
them to make his excuses.  Pierre Philibert was not without a shrewd
perception of the state of affairs.  He pitied Le Gardeur, and
excused him, speaking most kindly of him in a way that touched the
heart of Amelie.  The ball went on with unflagging spirit and
enjoyment.  The old walls fairly vibrated with the music and dancing
of the gay company.

The music, like the tide in the great river that night, reached its
flood only after the small hours had set in.  Amelie had given her
hand to Pierre for one or two dances, and many a friendly, many a
half envious guess was made as to the probable Chatelaine of
Belmont.


CHAPTER XXII.

SO GLOZED THE TEMPTER.


The lamps burned brightly in the boudoir of Angelique des Meloises
on the night of the fete of Pierre Philibert.  Masses of fresh
flowers filled the antique Sevres vases, sending delicious odors
through the apartment, which was furnished in a style of almost
royal splendor.  Upon the white hearth a few billets of wood blazed
cheerfully, for, after a hot day, as was not uncommon in New France,
a cool salt-water breeze came up the great river, bringing reminders
of cold sea-washed rocks and snowy crevices still lingering upon the
mountainous shores of the St. Lawrence.

Angelique sat idly watching the wreaths of smoke as they rose in
shapes fantastic as her own thoughts.

By that subtle instinct which is a sixth sense in woman, she knew
that Le Gardeur de Repentigny would visit her to-night and renew
his offer of marriage.  She meant to retain his love and evade his
proposals, and she never for a moment doubted her ability to
accomplish her ends.  Men's hearts had hitherto been but potter's
clay in her hands, and she had no misgivings now; but she felt that
the love of Le Gardeur was a thing she could not tread on without a
shock to herself like the counter-stroke of a torpedo to the naked
foot of an Indian who rashly steps upon it as it basks in a sunny
pool.

She was agitated beyond her wont, for she loved Le Gardeur with a
strange, selfish passion, for her own sake, not for his,--a sort of
love not uncommon with either sex.  She had the frankness to be half
ashamed of it, for she knew the wrong she was doing to one of the
most noble and faithful hearts in the world.  But the arrival of the
Intendant had unsettled every good resolution she had once made to
marry Le Gardeur de Repentigny and become a reputable matron in
society.  Her ambitious fantasies dimmed every perception of duty to
her own heart as well as his; and she had worked herself into that
unenviable frame of mind which possesses a woman who cannot resolve
either to consent or deny, to accept her lover or to let him go.

The solitude of her apartment became insupportable to her.  She
sprang up, opened the window, and sat down in the balcony outside,
trying to find composure by looking down into the dark, still
street.  The voices of two men engaged in eager conversation reached
her ear.  They sat upon the broad steps of the house, so that every
word they spoke reached her ear, although she could scarcely
distinguish them in the darkness.  These were no other than Max
Grimeau and Blind Bartemy, the brace of beggars whose post was at
the gate of the Basse Ville.  They seemed to be comparing the amount
of alms each had received during the day, and were arranging for a
supper at some obscure haunt they frequented in the purlieus of the
lower town, when another figure came up, short, dapper, and carrying
a knapsack, as Angelique could detect by the glimmer of a lantern
that hung on a rope stretched across the street.  He was greeted
warmly by the old mendicants.

"Sure as my old musket it is Master Pothier, and nobody else!"
exclaimed Max Grimeau rising, and giving the newcomer a hearty
embrace.  "Don't you see, Bartemy?  He has been foraging among the
fat wives of the south shore.  What a cheek he blows--red as a
peony, and fat as a Dutch Burgomaster!"  Max had seen plenty of the
world when he marched under Marshal de Belleisle, so he was at no
loss for apt comparisons.

"Yes!" replied Blind Bartemy, holding out his hand to be shaken.  "I
see by your voice, Master Pothier, that you have not said grace over
bare bones during your absence.  But where have you been this long
time?"

"Oh, fleecing the King's subjects to the best of my poor ability in
the law! and without half the success of you and Max here, who toll
the gate of the Basse Ville more easily than the Intendant gets in
the King's taxes!"

"Why not?" replied Bartemy, with a pious twist of his neck, and an
upward cast of his blank orbs.  "It is pour l'amour de Dieu!  We
beggars save more souls than the Cure; for we are always exhorting
men to charity.  I think we ought to be part of Holy Church as well
as the Gray Friars."

"And so we are part of Holy Church, Bartemy!" interrupted Max
Grimeau.  "When the good Bishop washed twelve pair of our dirty feet
on Maunday Thursday in the Cathedral, I felt like an Apostle--I did!
My feet were just ready for benediction; for see! they had never
been washed, that I remember of, since I marched to the relief of
Prague!  But you should have been out to Belmont to-day, Master
Pothier!  There was the grandest Easter pie ever made in New France!
You might have carried on a lawsuit inside of it, and lived off the
estate for a year--I ate a bushel of it.  I did!"

"Oh, the cursed luck is every day mine!" replied Master Pothier,
clapping his hands upon his stomach.  "I would not have missed that
Easter pie--no, not to draw the Pope's will!  But, as it is laid
down in the Coutume d' Orleans (Tit. 17), the absent lose the
usufruct of their rights; vide, also, Pothier des Successions--
I lost my share of the pie of Belmont!"

"Well, never mind, Master Pothier," replied Max.  "Don't grieve;
you shall go with us to-night to the Fleur-de-Lis in the Sault au
Matelot.  Bartemy and I have bespoken an eel pie and a gallon of
humming cider of Normandy.  We shall all be jolly as the
marguilliers of Ste. Roche, after tithing the parish!"

"Have with you, then!  I am free now: I have just delivered a letter
to the Intendant from a lady at Beaumanoir, and got a crown for it.
I will lay it on top of your eel pie, Max!"

Angelique, from being simply amused at the conversation of the old
beggars, became in an instant all eyes and ears at the words of
Master Pothier.

"Had you ever the fortune to see that lady at Beaumanoir?" asked
Max, with more curiosity than was to be expected of one in his
position.

"No; the letter was handed me by Dame Tremblay, with a cup of wine.
But the Intendant gave me a crown when he read it.  I never saw the
Chevalier Bigot in better humor!  That letter touched both his purse
and his feelings.  But how did you ever come to hear of the Lady of
Beaumanoir?"

"Oh, Bartemy and I hear everything at the gate of the Basse Ville!
My Lord Bishop and Father Glapion of the Jesuits met in the gate one
day and spoke of her, each asking the other if he knew who she was--
when up rode the Intendant; and the Bishop made free, as Bishops
will, you know, to question him whether he kept a lady at the
Chateau.

"'A round dozen of them, my Lord Bishop!' replied Bigot, laughing.
La!  It takes the Intendant to talk down a Bishop!  He bade my Lord
not to trouble himself, the lady was under his tutelle! which I
comprehended as little, as little--"

"As you do your Nominy Dominy!" replied Pothier.  "Don't be angry,
Max, if I infer that the Intendant quoted Pigean (Tit. 2, 27): 'Le
Tuteur est comptable de sa gestion.'"

"I don't care what the pigeons have to say to it--that is what the
Intendant said!" replied Max, hotly, "and THAT, for your law
grimoire, Master Pothier!"  Max snapped his fingers like the lock of
his musket at Prague, to indicate what he meant by THAT!

"Oh, inepte loquens! you don't understand either law or Latin, Max!"
exclaimed Pothier, shaking his ragged wig with an air of pity.

"I understand begging; and that is getting without cheating, and
much more to the purpose," replied Max, hotly.  "Look you, Master
Pothier! you are learned as three curates; but I can get more money
in the gate of the Basse Ville by simply standing still and crying
out Pour l'amour de Dieu! than you with your budget of law lingo-
jingo, running up and down the country until the dogs eat off the
calves of your legs, as they say in the Nivernois."

"Well, never mind what they say in the Nivernois about the calves of
my legs!  Bon coq ne fut jamais gras!--a game-cock is never fat--and
that is Master Pothier dit Robin.  Lean as are my calves, they will
carry away as much of your eel pie to-night as those of the stoutest
carter in Quebec!"

"And the pie is baked by this time; so let us be jogging!"
interrupted Bartemy, rising.  "Now give me your arm, Max! and with
Master Pothier's on the other side, I shall walk to the Fleur-de-Lis
straight as a steeple."

The glorious prospect of supper made all three merry as crickets on
a warm hearth, as they jogged over the pavement in their clouted
shoes, little suspecting they had left a flame of anger in the
breast of Angelique des Meloises, kindled by the few words of
Pothier respecting the lady of Beaumanoir.

Angelique recalled with bitterness that the rude bearer of the note
had observed something that had touched the heart and opened the
purse of the Intendant.  What was it?  Was Bigot playing a game with
Angelique des Meloises?  Woe to him and the lady of Beaumanoir if he
was!  As she sat musing over it a knock was heard on the door of her
boudoir.  She left the balcony and reentered her room, where a neat,
comely girl in a servant's dress was waiting to speak to her.

The girl was not known to Angelique.  But courtesying very low, she
informed her that she was Fanchon Dodier, a cousin of Lizette's.
She had been in service at the Chateau of Beaumanoir, but had just
left it.  "There is no living under Dame Tremblay," said she, "if
she suspect a maid servant of flirting ever so little with M.
Froumois, the handsome valet of the Intendant!  She imagined that I
did; and such a life as she has led me, my Lady!  So I came to the
city to ask advice of cousin Lizette, and seek a new place.  I am
sure Dame Tremblay need not be so hard upon the maids.  She is
always boasting of her own triumphs when she was the Charming
Josephine."

"And Lizette referred you to me?" asked Angelique, too occupied just
now to mind the gossip about Dame Tremblay, which another time she
would have enjoyed immensely.  She eyed the girl with intense
curiosity; for might she not tell her something of the secret over
which she was eating her heart out?

"Yes, my Lady!  Lizette referred me to you, and told me to be very
circumspect indeed about what I said touching the Intendant, but
simply to ask if you would take me into your service.  Lizette need
not have warned me about the Intendant; for I never reveal secrets
of my masters or mistresses, never! never, my Lady!"

"You are more cunning than you look, nevertheless," thought
Angelique, "whatever scruple you may have about secrets."  "Fanchon,"
said she, "I will make one condition with you: I will take you into
my service if you will tell me whether you ever saw the Lady of
Beaumanoir."

Angelique's notions of honor, clear enough in theory, never
prevented her sacrificing them without compunction to gain an object
or learn a secret that interested her.

"I will willingly tell you all I know, my Lady.  I have seen her
once; none of the servants are supposed to know she is in the
Chateau, but of course all do."  Fanchon stood with her two hands in
the pockets of her apron, as ready to talk as the pretty grisette
who directed Lawrence Sterne to the Opera Comique.

"Of course!" remarked Angelique, "a secret like that could never be
kept in the Chateau of Beaumanoir!  Now tell me, Fanchon, what is
she like?"  Angelique sat up eagerly and brushed back the hair from
her ear with a rapid stroke of her hand as she questioned the girl.
There was a look in her eyes that made Fanchon a little afraid, and
brought out more truth than she intended to impart.

"I saw her this morning, my Lady, as she knelt in her oratory: the
half-open door tempted me to look, in spite of the orders of Dame
Tremblay."

"Ah! you saw her this morning!" repeated Angelique impetuously; "how
does she appear?  Is she better in looks than when she first came to
the Chateau, or worse?  She ought to be worse, much worse!"

"I do not know, my Lady, but, as I said, I looked in the door,
although forbid to do so.  Half-open doors are so tempting, and one
cannot shut one's eyes!  Even a keyhole is hard to resist when you
long to know what is on the other side of it--I always found it so!"

"I dare say you did!  But how does she look?" broke in Angelique,
impatiently stamping her dainty foot on the floor.

"Oh, so pale, my Lady! but her face is the loveliest I ever saw,--
almost," added she, with an after-thought; "but so sad! she looks
like the twin sister of the blessed Madonna in the Seminary chapel,
my Lady."

"Was she at her devotions, Fanchon?"

"I think not, my Lady: she was reading a letter which she had just
received from the Intendant."

Angelique's eyes were now ablaze.  She conjectured at once that
Caroline was corresponding with Bigot, and that the letter brought
to the Intendant by Master Pothier was in reply to one from him.
"But how do you know the letter she was reading was from the
Intendant?  It could not be!"  Angelique's eyebrows contracted
angrily, and a dark shadow passed over her face.  She said "It could
not be," but she felt it could be, and was.

"Oh, but it was from the Intendant, my Lady!  I heard her repeat his
name and pray God to bless Francois Bigot for his kind words.  That
is the Intendant's name, is it not, my Lady?"

"To be sure it is!  I should not have doubted you, Fanchon! but
could you gather the purport of that letter?  Speak truly, Fanchon,
and I will reward you splendidly.  What think you it was