CHAPTER XVI.
A VICE-REGAL BANQUET.
THE Count de Frontenac entertained the dignitaries of the colony at one of those late suppers which had been so severely denounced by the clerical authorities, but which were so highly enjoyed by the more worldly portion of the community. The service of the table was arranged with elaborate magnificence. Clusters of lights flashed on gold and silver plate. The banquet consisted of four courses. Chicken soup was served first; then followed prime legs of mutton garnished with chops, and choice venison pies whose pale gold-colored crust was raised in fanciful shapes. Between the roasts were dishes of plover, woodcock and partridges roasted on the spit, and strings of larks served by the half-dozen on the little splinters of wood upon which they had been cooked. The third course consisted of entrées, salads, both sweet and salt, perfumed omelettes, blanc-manges, burnt creams, fritters and fruit pies. The fourth was dessert, for which there were fruits piled in pyramids, cakes, macaroons, march-paine and preserves of various kinds, the whole accompanied by the fashionable French wines of the day.
As a host, stately, brilliant, imposing, the Governor-General was at his best. The winning grace that tempered his strenuous will, the delicate condescension of his bearing, charmed his guests, as they had ever the power to bind his own party into devoted adherence.
“A last toast before we leave the table: ‘To the glory of our arms.’ Help yourselves, gentlemen, and here’s to you,” carrying to his lips a golden goblet engraved with the family arms, “To the glory of our arms.”
The guests bowed ceremoniously in acknowledgement, raising their goblets and repeating, “To the glory of our arms.”
The room to which the company adjourned was a long drawing-room with curtains of the finest Turkey red, embossed with a damask pattern. The high carved mantel-piece was painted white. There were rich fauteuils and couches, buhl cabinets and spindle-legged chairs. On rosewood cabinets, inlaid with ivory, stood dainty Japanese jars filled with spices and dried rose-leaves.
The company was as brilliant as beauty and wit could render it. The fascination and marked individuality which have made of Frenchwomen a power, and rendered them an inspiration to the men of their race, stamped on all around them the impress of their aptitudes, their graces, their charm. Card-tables were set out; the older guests played at lasquenet, hombre, piquet and brélan; the younger members of the party revelled in charades andboutrimés, or listened to the soft strains of the théobe. In this charmed circle Madame la Marquise reigned like an empress. Diane, thoroughly in touch with her surroundings, had never looked more beautiful. From the white and silver brocade of her robe rose a regal head and neck; beneath the powdered masses of hair her eyes burned deeply like violet stars.
“The fairest favorite of Versailles cannot compare with this peerless flower of New France!” declared the Governor-General, who was considered a connoisseur in feminine charms. “She has that in her face that would send men to death as to a banquet.”
“Mademoiselle, will you permit an old man whom your freshness has made young again to pay his devoirs? Your father was among my early friends, as Madame la Marquise will bear me witness.” Frontenac made a low bow, his palms steadying his sword, while his spurs clanked and his plumed hat, held in the right hand, swept the ground. He spoke the accepted language of gallantry, uttering the strained courtesies of the Court and high society; but the homage offered was palpably sincere, and carried with it a subtle flattery.
The Chevalier de Crisasi held his place at Mademoiselle de Monesthrol’s side. The Chevalier was owned body and soul by this girl; there was a pathetic dignity in his very hopelessness. Even to hint at his affection, under the present unfortunate circumstances, would have been so glaring a departure from French precedent that the courtly gentleman would have shrunk from attempting it. He could, however, express many varying meanings with his eyes, while the rest of his face remained blandly inexpressive; the most rigid propriety could not deny him that privilege. The slow veiling of his eyes was like a silent salutation. Regarding the Chevalier with attention, Diane, by the aid of that new intuition which vitalized all her faculties, perceived a change in the man with whom in high spirits of girlhood she had carelessly trifled. Is this the misery of sleepless nights and weary days—the sick craving of a heart at variance with itself? A swift thrill of misgiving crossed her mind. Was it possible that her witcheries had helped to crush one upon whom the hand of misfortune had already been laid heavily?
“But she is a Circe, the Demoiselle de Monesthrol, a superb, magnificent creature whose spells are irresistible; but, alas! without heart, without soul, like the coquettes of the Court,” complained d’Ordieux, who found himself secluded from the circle which surrounded Diane, and whose views of matters in general were in consequence somewhat embittered.
“Ah! softly, my friend, softly, but what a comparison! Women of the Circe type to me offer no attraction. I prefer something simple and natural.” Du Chesne laughed with easy frankness as his eyes turned to the spot where Lydia sat looking like a pale blush rose, childishly engrossed with all about her.
“ ‘Simple and natural,’ indeed. How you talk, my cousin. And who could be more simple and natural than our Diane? You are blind because you won’t see,” sharply interrupted Le Ber’s niece, Madame de St. Rochs.
Wife and mother at thirteen, the little lady wore her matronly dignity with exaggerated demureness, or sometimes in the wild exhilaration of youthful spirits forgot it altogether. Now, with her piquant, mutinous face, she looked in her rich costume like some pretty, mischievous child masquerading in the stately robes of a grown woman.
“Sainte Dame!who so sweet to the old and the sick as Diane? who so patient with the little ones? When my baby—”
“When that baby’s mother,” mischievously interrupted du Chesne, his eyes twinkling with fun, “heartlessly abandoned the poor infant in order to enjoy the amusement of sliding with the children, Diane, moved to pity by its desolate condition, doubtless took the marmot under her protection. Say, then, is it not so, cousin?”
“Not at all, du Chesne. Could you believe so wicked a falsehood? I went only to see that no harm befell the little ones, and—”
“And were tempted to join in the amusements. What a situation for a matron of experience!” The young Canadian delighted in provoking his quick-tempered cousin. “And the doll, Cecile, that remained so long hidden in the old oak chest that Armand, believing it a secret concealed from him, became wildly jealous. When the baby was ill, St. Rochs cradled the marmot on one knee and his wife on the other, singing soothing lullabies to the two babies at once. Was it not so, Cecile?” persisted her good-natured tormentor.
Madame de St. Rochs flushed angrily. Tears of vexation sprang to her eyes, though she made a determined effort to control herself.
“Say, then, Cecile, have you heard of the Indian witch who is camped at the foot of the mountain?” It was Diane de Monesthrol who came to the little mother’s relief. “Strange things are told of her. She is said to have attained a marvellous age, and to be possessed of extraordinary powers.”
“She foretold the disasters of the Sieur la Salle,” said Crisasi.
“Let us organize a promenade to visit her,” urged Madame de St. Rochs, who was immediately interested. “Baptiste Leroux can tell us all about her, and guide us to where she is to be found. He is as familiar with the Indian customs as with the five fingers of his hand. A genuine witch, and the sorcery practised by the natives is said to be of the worst possible kind.Ciel!let us go.”
“Oh, fie! then, Cecile; such vagaries are unfitting a dignified matron. Your destiny is already settled. What would you more? A second husband before you are twenty?” The glimmer of laughter was shining in du Chesne’s eyes, though his face was grave.
“Rest tranquil, cousin, it is about your fate I would concern myself. And, oh! there are a thousand things I would know. If Armand is soon to rise in the army?—we have indeed need of a larger income—and Diane? and the Chevalier? and the Sieur d’Ordieux?—yes, I would know what their fortunes are to be—and whether those wolves of Iroquois will end by devouring us all? I would know all.” Madame de St. Rochs would not include Lydia, whose beauty and tractability had never won her favor, and against whom she had conceived a blind and inveterate prejudice.
“Are you so determined to obtain a glance into futurity, Cecile?” Diane’s eyes sparkled with a glance of audacious fun. “Lydia will become a nun of the Congregation of Notre Dame. Cecile will be a great-grandmother before she is forty. The Chevalier will receive a command and win honor and renown. The Sieur d’Ordieux will regain his rights and appear as a great noble at the Court. Armand will be a General.”
“And my cousin du Chesne?”
“Du Chesne will be Governor-General of New France, and subdue the Iroquois and discover new countries for the King,” said Diane, with a momentary stirring of impatience, quick and vital.
CHAPTER XVII.
THE MATSHI SKOUÉOU.
AS the party came out into the street the flambeaux of the servants flared wildly against the solemn sky of night.
“It is against the rules of the Church, this expedition,” hazarded Lydia, raising the most beauteous of anxious eyes.
“Then risk it not,” counselled Madame de St. Rochs, briskly. “There is always a danger of being attacked by the savages, but we shall be well protected. For us, that promenade takes place to-morrow. Just fancy, a witch who talks to the devil face to face! It is assuredly a sin, but we will do ample penance afterwards, and Father Denys is never severe to those who are contrite for their sins.”
“There is but evil to be found with the witch of the woods and all others of her tribe, I answer to you for that, Mesdames and Messieurs.” Bras de Fer removed the pipe from his mouth and gazed around reflectively at the circle of eager faces. Here, where he could pose as an authority, he found no difficulty in expressing his views. “Trust to the experience of a coureur de bois to whom the silence of the forest has taught much that is not found in books. Tales of the most exciting I could tell you of the Lady of the Iris, whom the redskins call Matshi Skouéou.”
“Tell us, then, I pray thee, good Baptiste,” implored Madame de St. Rochs. “It is in such tales we delight.”
“The Matshi Skouéou,” the voyageur began, “is in alliance with the Evil One, and this witch must be one of her disciples. Her green eyes possess the power of fascination, like those of a snake. On her head she wears a crown of iris flowers, and she is surrounded by flames of fire. She never appears in the light of day, but at midnight she descends upon a moonbeam, and appears in the foam of waterfalls, in the shadow of dark rocks, or among the mists rising in the valleys. Her favorite hour is when all nature reposes, the time when the fire-flies, those spirits of the lost, dance over the rank marshes; when bats beat the air with their wings, or cling with sharp, slim claws to the rocks; when the silence is broken only by the croaking of frogs and the hou-hou of night birds. It is then the Matshi Skouéou descends to gather the iris with which to crown herself and to invoke the great Manitou.
“ ‘Children,’ say the old people, and they know that of which they speak, those old ones; ‘never go near the river by moonlight. Hidden behind the rushes the Lady of the Iris watches for her prey; her voice enthralls the senses, but those upon whom her glance falls are blighted. Woe to him who falls into her power.’ No, no, Mesdames and Messieurs, remain at home and say your prayers; think not of the witch of the woods.”
This salutary advice, instead of allaying the young people’s curiosity, served only to increase it. Baptiste, much against his better judgment, was forced to serve as guide to the expedition, and the hardy voyageur uttered the most doleful predictions concerning the disasters that would surely follow this traffic with unholy things.
Far in the heart of the forest stood the solitary lodge of the Witch of the Woods. The witch herself was a diminutive old crone, wrinkled and shrivelled like a mummy, in whom the whole force of a vigorous vitality was gathered in a pair of luminous dark eyes. Displaying no surprise at the late hour which the strangers had chosen for their visit, she received them with cringing servility, the chief characteristic of her face being a kind of animal cunning.
When the merry party found themselves in direct contact with the consequences of their indiscretion, all the fun of the enterprise faded away, and only the undefined sense of terror and mystery remained. In those days superstition reigned supreme; but at the same time existence was environed with real dangers of so many kinds that it required no effort of imagination to create phantoms of dread. As they stood silently seeking mutual support and encouragement amidst the quiet of the forest, a vague sound made itself heard. At first it was scarcely perceptible, but growing more distinct, it rose in waves of tender harmony, and then receded to die away in the distance. Lydia, frightened and tired, began to cry. Bras de Fer had drawn his rosary from his pocket, and was telling over his beads assiduously.
“The blessed saints will bear me witness that I am here against my will,” he protested. “Besides that I am protected by a scapulary and a piece of consecrated palm against the attacks of evil spirits.”
As the mysterious sounds were resumed, the bushranger looked up gravely from his prayers.
“Ah! well, Mesdames and Messieurs, will you now believe the word of a man who has not gained his knowledge from books? Midnight, the first night of the new moon, that unearthly music!Voilà!”
“Bah! that is a seal on the rocks far in the distance,” responded du Chesne promptly.
“Mon dieu!I fear—I would I had not ventured—I dare not!” Madame de St. Rochs turned her troubled childish face towards her companions, her brown eyes moist with tears, when informed that those who would penetrate the mysteries of futurity must, one by one, accompany the witch into still deeper recesses of the forest. Du Chesne jestingly assured her that as matron of the party she should set an example of dignified courage.
“Let us return, Cecile,” proposed her husband.
Young as he was, Armand de St. Rochs had already given incontestible proofs of gallantry, but he had no taste for ghostly terrors and would have avoided them. But the girl-wife’s curiosity still exceeded her fear; she would not consent to abandon her project.
“Parbleu!that is demanding too much of a lady. It is the gentlemen’s place to lead the way,” proposed Crisasi. “I shall be charmed to venture first. Having little to risk and much to hope—.”
“And being, as your friends are well aware, a stranger to fear,” interrupted du Chesne, laying his hand upon his companion’s shoulder in a friendly persuasive fashion.
When after an interval the Chevalier returned to the party his smile was as suave, his tone as bland as usual. No one would have divined that the Sicilian had received, and accepted as irrevocable, his death-warrant. Toward Diane he had gained a new confidence; his manner was respectful, as became a gentleman, but he scarcely withdrew his eyes from her face. The miserable past and doubtful future were forgotten in the rich flavor of the exquisite present, intensified now by the conviction of its brief duration.
Du Chesne presently reappeared, looking flushed and annoyed.
“It is a cheat! I saw nothing—but the water was red as blood,” he announced.
“Mort diable!I am convinced that no deception exists.” D’Ordieux shook his perfumed locks excitedly. “I have had the very happiest predictions, far exceeding my expectations, which should naturally be great in a man of my rank—the promise of realizing my dearest hopes. I entertain no doubt of its truth.”
“I wish we had not been tempted to come. I shall vow a taper to the Virgin to keep us from harm,” whispered Madame de St. Rochs to her husband.
“I am persuaded that this is very wicked. I was induced to consent against my sense of right,” murmured Lydia, her blue eyes swimming in tears. She was so deliciously timid and gentle that in his efforts to reassure her du Chesne was betrayed into several trifling follies; but her scruples were not sufficiently urgent to induce her to relinquish her intentions, and she returned from the interview radiant and flushed.
It had finally come to Diane’s turn. The shade of the trees was excessively dense, and for an instant the French girl stood confused by the prevailing obscurity and the air of unreality in which all things seemed to be wrapped. Presently she perceived the witch, with a long wand in her hand, standing before a fountain of water. She was speaking rapidly in her native tongue, her voice rising and falling in a weird, monotonous recitative, a strange fantastic incantation in which distant voices appeared to join, rendered more impressive by the perfect stillness of the forest. She could hear sounding and re-echoing a slow, solemn chant, dreamy and plaintive, redolent of mystery and melancholy—long-drawn sighs, the whisper of angels’ voices, the song of the winds, all those magical accents that captivate imagination. Then there was a change. Quick and bright came broken notes, rising to a mad, reckless gaiety that set the blood aflame; then mournful melody like the autumn wind moaning in the branches, deepening and still deepening; anon rising into the flourish of trumpets on the battle-field, and ending in a funeral hymn floating through the dim aisles of some vast cathedral. It was like the entrance into dream-life, for those enchanted strains embodied all the extremes of human joy and suffering, aspiration and yearning.
As she listened, the witch’s decrepit form expanded, acquiring size, height and dignity; the crafty, sensual features gained a strange power and majesty. A sudden sense of mystery, of dominant and all but overpowering force, took possession of Diane. Every thought of her heart, to the very depth of her being, seemed familiar to this influence and responsive to its command. She shivered with an excited desperation of feeling, of mingled desire and apprehension, of attraction and repulsion. A rich, heavy perfume, resembling the fragrance of incense, filled the air, and a thick cloud hung over the large basin of water which stood before her. Obeying an imperious gesture of the Indian woman, the girl advanced and bent over the basin.
Diane’s form grew rigid as she stood with eyes fixed on the water, their pupils dilated in a terror-stricken gaze. A light film of pungent smoke arose, which, wreathing itself in airy circles, seemed to catch a fiery color from some unseen flame. Then, gradually crystallizing, it assumed definite form. Was it a tissue of fancy and reality that produced a creation so fantastic? Vaguely, as in a dream, she perceived remote vistas, all weird and mysterious, peopled by spectral shapes, resounding with far-off, uncertain footsteps. Then out of the darkness there glided wavering, shadowy figures, at first faint and indefinite, then gradually becoming more distinct. Clear as a reflection in a mirror, every trifling, delicate detail perceptible, the scene shaped itself before her eager gaze. It was a spacious apartment; two nuns were moving softly to and fro about the lofty four-post bed; wax tapers, in tall curiously-chased silver candlesticks, shed a softened radiance upon the room. Lying on the bed, still and stately, like the heroic statue of some knight asleep upon his tomb, lay a young man. In the shadow a girl, slender and delicately formed, knelt upon aprie-dieu, her head bowed upon her tightly clasped hands. For a time she seemed to be looking on some scene that she had long known and loved, but which had taken on a new aspect. Then as the flickering, uncertain light settled into a clearer reflection, Mademoiselle de Monesthrol asked herself if that aged nun with the sweet, benign expression did not surely resemble the venerable Sister Marguerite Bourgeois; and that other, taller and more active, certainly must be Sister Berbier, Superior of the Congregation of Notre Dame. The young man’s features were concealed from her, but the girlish mourner moved, and with the listlessness of apathetic suffering turned her head.
A horrible paralyzing dread ran shuddering through Diane’s veins, for that face, haggard, bloodless, convulsed by inexpressible grief, was her own. Then a thick cloud of darkness passed between her and the mystic scene; she was conscious only that the glowing eyes of the witch were riveted intensely upon her. When, bewildered, she turned to look again, all had collapsed like shadows in a dream; the basin of water alone remained.
Diane did not often lose self-command. In this supreme crisis, when all things seemed to be slipping away from her, she fought to persuade herself that what she had seen had been all a creation of her own imagination. A faint smile, like the palest of winter sunshine, curved her lips; her hands tightened in a silent struggle at self-restraint. When she raised her white face, a proud, confident look shone from her eyes.
“Never yet has it been in the power of danger and disaster to daunt the spirit of a de Monesthrol. Others have suffered—I may suffer—yet are we still in the hands of the good God.” Drawing herself up with conscious dignity, Diane spoke as though hurling defiance at some unknown and threatening power.
The soft sounds of quivering leaves were the only noises that disturbed the silence of the forest; she seemed to be surrounded by darkling shadows profound with fate. The witch crouched low on the ground, her face hidden in the folds of her blanket.
“We have been guilty of a folly. It is but an idle jest,” Diane said quietly as she rejoined her companions. “We can go home now and do penance for the sin we have committed.”
“Now that it is over I do not care about our expedition in the least,” grumbled Madame de St. Rochs, who was tired and sleepy, and who had not received the flattering predictions which her youthful buoyancy of spirit had led her to anticipate.
Crisasi regarded Mademoiselle de Monesthrol earnestly. The man who loved her alone perceived that the girl was stricken, and that, with hand clenched hard against her heart, she was resolutely striving to control her throbbing pulses.
“It has, indeed, been tiresome, and not worth the trouble,” he said gently.
In the serene composure of Diane’s outward bearing as she left the scene there was no trace of the tense passion and misery that were gnawing at her heart. She was resolved calmly to face the future, whatever it might contain.
That night, as the French girl lay awake, a strange flash of realization came over her. Panting with pain and terror, flinging up her hands in the darkness, she cried desperately:
“Holy Virgin! deliver me. That which I never imagined has come upon me—has conquered me—that which will never again leave me in peace, all my life long. Something beautiful and terrible—so terrible! Holy Virgin! thou hast a woman’s heart—deliver me from this!”
CHAPTER XVIII.
SAINTLY PROTECTION.
WITH each returning morn the land awoke, glad and fragrant, at the caress of the pale dawn. The rooks clamored in their nests, the fish rose in the lazy streams, the robins sang plaintively among the shrubs. Mount Royal, St. Helen’s Island and the St. Lawrence glowed palpitant in the magical summer haze. All nature seemed to breathe a spirit of tranquil peace.
But despite this calm a dark cloud of alarm hung over the colony. The air was full of rumors concerning the expedition which it was confidently alleged the English were about to direct against Canada. Priests and traders, nobles and bourgeois, bushrangers, and red-skinned children of the forest, were content to forget prejudices and animosities in consideration of the common interest, and to unite in the extremity of their peril. Yet through all, the elements of true Gallic light-heartedness relieved the poignant distress of the moment.
It was plainly understood that the situation of the colony was most precarious. The garrison of Ville Marie consisted of but seven or eight hundred soldiers, and of these many were posted at various points in the surrounding country to protect the colonists while gathering in the harvest. It was deemed advisable to draw in all of these for the protection of the town. Prolonged echoes reverberated from Mount Royal and across the St. Lawrence as guns were fired to recall the troops. Soon they began to arrive, accompanied by many of the settlers seeking the protection of the forts.
At this crisis the clamor of fear and anxiety and endeavor penetrated even to the cloistered cell where the recluse, Jeanne Le Ber, strove to shut out all sign of earth’s joys and sorrows, and to devote herself to the contemplation of heavenly glories. Yielding to the urgent entreaties of the Sisters of the Congregation, Jeanne Le Ber wrote upon a sacred picture a prayer of her own composing, addressed to the Virgin. This the nuns caused to be fastened up on a barn in the country (owned by the community, and supposed to be peculiarly liable to attack), as a sort of talisman, to preserve it from harm. This was Anne Barroy’s hour of triumph; enjoying it to the fullest extent, her pride swelled to enormous proportions. At this moment beauty, birth, breeding and worldly pride could bear no comparison with the temporal as well as spiritual advantages of superior holiness. “Our saint” and “that sainted one” were the mildest terms in which Anne permitted herself to allude to her cousin, and she never wearied of talking.
“When I enter her apartment,” the enthusiast would declare, with impressive solemnity, “I perceive in the air a certain odor of sanctity which gives me the sensation of an agreeable perfume. Truly she speaks like a seraph and is the companion of angels. What a blessing to rest beneath a roof which affords shelter to so perfect a creature, though there may be those not so far away who fail to appreciate their privileges.”
“For me!” cried Nanon with a clatter, “I had no necessity to travel to Canada to make acquaintance with saints. We have them at home, and of superior quality. There was St. Anne d’Auray, Mother of the Blessed Virgin; and St. Geneviève of Paris, at whose shrine kings and nobles worshipped; but indeed, I have no taste for home-made articles.”
Anne continued as though she were not aware of the interruption. She knew that at this moment her words were eagerly listened to.
“Indeed, our saint accumulates merits against the day of judgment; those who are wise would strive to share a small portion of them. From her earliest years she began the study of perfection; every virtue was seen and admired in her. It is the country of saints, this. Behold the head of the martyred Frenchman, which amazed the Iroquois who had cut it off by scolding them roundly for their perfidy, and threatening them with the vengeance of Heaven. Think, also, of the handkerchief of the late Père la Maître (may his soul rest in Paradise!) stamped indelibly, as on a piece of wax, with the features of its former owner. The heathen Iroquois have ever since been seen using it as a banner in battle. Should the country be saved, our deliverance will be due to the prayers of our sainted one, who has sacrificed herself as an expiatory offering for Canada.”
“Might I commend myself to the good prayers of our reverend demoiselle, and particularly to the sacrifice of the Mass for my intention,” urged Jean Ameron, with eager subserviency. “And are you quite persuaded, Mam’selle Anne, that our saint’s credit with the powers of heaven will be sufficient to protect Canada from those sorcerers of English?”
Nanon glared at her adorer, who had so readily gone over to the enemy, but in his fright his mistress’ ire had no terror for Jean. Anne hastened to reassure him.
“Certainly. Have not the gentlemen of the Seminary and the blessed Sisters of the Congregation of Notre Dame given ready testimony to her perfection? Can you doubt the power of the saints, given them by the blessed Virgin herself?”
“Assuredly not, nor should I dare to presume. Without doubt it is a convenience to find one’s self near a holy saint, if she will but remember the needs of the poor sinners, and exert her credit with all the heavenly host on our account. Could our sainted demoiselle be persuaded but to write me a little word that I might wear with my scapulary to preserve me from evil fortune?Voilà, Mam’selle Anne, if you would have the goodness to remark the fact, like the demoiselle Le Ber herself I have denied myself the happiness of matrimony in order to merit the favor of Heaven.”
“Ta, ta! there are saints and saints, my son, and thou wouldst place thyself among them. Wilt thou then dare to compare thyself to that spotless creature, reverenced by all the world for her holiness, who is an expiatory offering for the sins of her country, and not a refuge for cowardly lackeys? Out of my presence! It is that unruly ostrich Nanon who has inspired thee with the thought of such impertinence!” cried Anne with growing fury.
“Mam’selle Anne has always reason. Yet doubtless you will allow that my bones are precious to me, and that it is a duty to take thought for one’s self,” whimpered Jean.
When Jeanne Le Ber’s prayer disappeared, stolen from the edifice to which it had been attached, to the consternation of the good Sisters who had trusted implicitly in its efficacy, no one suspected the immense solace which Jean derived from having it tucked comfortably away under his scapulary.
CHAPTER XIX.
A WOMAN’S LOYALTY.
ONE day scouts coming into the town informed the Military Governor, M. de Callière, that Peter Schuyler, with a strong force of English and Dutch troops, accompanied by Mohawks, Wolves and Mohegans, was marching on Ville Marie. Rumor magnified the actual facts to the most exaggerated proportions. A crowd of anxious people blocked the streets in every direction.
“Is it true that the invaders are close at hand?” asked the baker.
“But assuredly,” responded the grocer, who in his haste had forgotten to remove his blue woollen night-cap, the corner of which dangled rakishly over his left eye. “It is the English who will make mincemeat of us. They have sold themselves to the devil, and bathe themselves in the blood of little children. I already see us all being devoured.”
“Ah! my good St. Anne!” cried a young woman, whose short homespun skirt revealed a trim pair of ankles. “Can anyone tell if they are numerous, these sorcerers of English?”
“Numerous, good woman?Dame!but like the sands of the sea. A thousand fire-eaters are close at hand.” A soldier who happened to be passing amused himself at the public expense.
“Javotte! Javotte!” the woman shrieked, waving her hands excitedly. “Five thousand English are upon us; we are all to be scalped and taken prisoners immediately!”
This terrifying prediction spread among the populace, creating consternation which almost amounted to a panic. Meanwhile energetic preparations for defence were being made. All the military and most of the bourgeois were under arms; among the soldiers appeared old men and young lads who, in ordinary cases, would have been considered unfit for service. It had become an absolute necessity that anyone who could shoulder a musket should lend a helping hand. Women and children, who at the signal of alarm had come in from the surrounding country, were busily occupied in carrying their poor possessions to the shelter of the citadel or to the convents. Here an invalid with pale face was carried on a hastily improvised stretcher; there an old man, anxious to preserve the poor remnant of life that remained to him, tottered feebly, leaning on his daughter’s arm; yonder a young mother, frantic with terror, flying in search of refuge, bore in her arms a tiny babe, the little one regarding with true infantile calmness the unfamiliar scene of tumult and confusion.
“Make way there, good people, make way!” cried a stout, robust woman, who was bearing a large blue wooden chest, into which she had thrown pell-mell everything she could collect—clothing, furniture and cooking utensils all huddled together—and which was so heavy that it seemed a marvel she could move it at all. “It is hard enough to get along with never a man’s hand to help, or even to push, without being blocked up as well. Make way there, I say!”
“Make way then yourself, Pétronille,” retorted the sharp, quivering voice of a tiny, withered old crone, staggering under the weight of a feather-bed. “Chut! screech-owl! see to it.”
“Allons!Mère Poisson, bite with but one tooth. Rest tranquil, I pray you. At your age it would appear more seemly to rest upon your mattress than to drag it about the streets in the open light of day.”
“And your rubbish had better be burnt, it is so long since those things have touched water.”
The shrewish Pétronille, enraged by the taunt, roughly jostled her neighbor, who fell against a child carrying a clock; the glass cracked into splinters, while a nail, standing out from the chest, tore a hole in the covering of the mattress, from which, the feathers escaped, flying out in a cloud. The child cried, the old woman loudly lamented the catastrophe, but Pétronille, without even turning her head, and still dragging her chest, pushed her way resolutely on.
It was decided by the authorities that M. de Callière should encamp at La Prairie, to be in readiness to meet Schuyler’s attack, while Valrenne, an officer of birth and ability, should proceed to Chambly with one hundred and sixty regulars and Canadians, a body of Huron and Algonquin converts, and another band of Algonquin converts from the Ottawa, in order to intercept any of the English forces which might chance to come by that way.
“Du Chesne goes in command of the Canadians.” Jacques Le Ber spoke with a long-drawn sigh, that seemed to come from the depths of his heart. These tragic episodes were interruptions to his own serious interests. More than that, affection for his youngest son was entwined with the closest fibres of his nature, and no one recognized the dangers of forest warfare more clearly than the grave merchant, experienced in such strife, who himself had ever been ready to serve his country.
“They are going to lay siege to Paradise, to win it and enter in, because they are fighting for religion and the faith.” A sort of passionate insistence contrasted oddly with the ordinary calm preciseness of Pierre Le Ber’s level tones. The words fell upon the father’s ear like a prediction which he resented. He regarded his eldest son with a mingling of reverence and impatience, and then turned to seek comfort in Diane de Monesthrol’s open, steadfast gaze.
“It is but a plain duty, my uncle; a soldier belongs to his country. It is an honor that du Chesne should have been selected. The men adore him; there is no one who has as much influence with them as he. How proud we all shall be when he returns covered with glory.” The liquid voice, speaking in tones of deepest compassion and tenderness, penetrated to the core of the man’s scheming, worldly nature.
“Certainly times may change, my rabbit. Before now we have been reduced to extremities, and have found deliverance. It may happen so again. Whichever way it goes, there is nothing to be done but make the best of it.” Saying this, Le Ber shrugged his shoulders with resigned emphasis, though there were strange nervous twitches about his firm lips.
Diane was so young, so buoyant in her hopes, so high-spirited and high-hearted, that neither fear nor shadow of disaster could easily crush her. This was a time of trial, to be lived through as best they could, but it seemed positive that, after all, things must go well. With the sweet agitation of hope and delight dancing in her veins, she felt only elation from the excitement around her. The spectacle of a courage absolutely free from egotism was too common among the devoted Canadian women of the day to attract much attention. Yet it was with some surprise that those about saw Mademoiselle de Monesthrol throwing off the dainty air of stateliness which was considered becoming to her station, and growing sweet and womanly in the glory of self-sacrifice. It was difficult to identify the proud and capricious beauty with the gentle girl whose watchful eye and helpful hand were at the service of all, who in a frank, generous fashion dealt out cheer and sympathy to whoever chanced to need it.
“This is a change I scarcely expected, a new development,” mused the Marquise, always critical and philosophical. “Well, the little one comes of a race born brave and generous.” For an instant the keen eyes softened, the delicate features quivered, warm waves of memory rolled over the proud woman’s soul.
“Diane, I must talk with you. I can trust you entirely.” Du Chesne spoke eagerly.
A hot wave of color swept over the girl’s face, but she raised her eyes frankly to the young man’s.
Out of the careless gladness of his youth du Chesne was going forth to meet the solemn future, full of lights and shadows. Nature breathed into his heart an inarticulate thrill of prophecy, a dark foreboding. He paused before advancing lightly to meet that fate, whatever it might be. Grasping the outstretched slender hands so hard that the pressure hurt the girl, he gazed at her with a subdued and silent tenderness, such as he might bestow upon a sister. There was a shadow of anxious care upon the merry, boyish face which no one could ever have associated with du Chesne. He sought assurance and comfort from the companion of his childhood. As he watched the moist red lips close firm and sweet above the delicate chin, he was persuaded that his expectation would not be disappointed. With a sob of excitement and agitation swelling in her throat, Diane returned his gaze. A cry of momentary anguish almost escaped her, but she scorned herself for the failure of courage, and forced a smile upon lips that quivered. It was not weak repining, but encouragement to strengthen his heart in time of need, that a man had the right to expect from the woman who loved him.
“I have had too much experience of forest warfare not to know that I take my life—aye, and carry it lightly, too—in my hand. A stray shot from behind a tree”—Diane shivered—“a random blow from a tomahawk, and all is over. There are things I would settle in case an accident should befall me. I know you will be a true daughter to my father, who loves you as though you were his own. And for Pierre—our good Pierre,” knitting his brows in perplexity over a problem to which he had failed to find a solution, “I don’t know. Things arrange themselves, Diane; don’t trifle with him, or lose heart, my dear. I have promised a mass in honor of the good St. Anne that things may go well with you both, though I know not how. You have never trusted me as I mean to trust you.”
Diane’s heart suddenly stilled its fluttering, and sank like lead. Of what interest at this supreme moment were Pierre’s concerns that they should be allowed to occupy word or thought.
“We have been as brother and sister, truly attached,—is it not so, Diane? I can remember now exactly what you looked like when my father arrived holding you in his arms, saying that you would be my little companion, and that I must be gentle and learn to protect you; and I was so proud to have a little lady for my playmate. You have, indeed, been a sunbeam in our house. Before we part I would share my secret with you, knowing I can rely upon your sympathy.”
The conscious face, with its hot color and drooping eyes; the air of happy confusion that sat so curiously upon impetuous, light-hearted du Chesne; the tenderness that softened the force and boldness of his features, thrilled the girl who stood beside him.
“On my return I shall ask my father’s consent to make Lydia my wife. Should success attend our arms it will be a propitious moment to win a hearing, and I want you to use your influence, which is great, to plead my cause. My father is ambitious; greatly as he is attached to me, I am by no means certain that his sanction will be easily gained. From the first moment that my eyes rested upon the English captive I have loved her. All through the winter before I met her I had passed through toil and danger and carnage, and then that summer day her tender presence dawned upon me like some star of peace and repose. You, too, have been won by her sweetness. It was together we rescued her, remember, Diane. I never loved you so dearly as when I watched your tender care of the helpless stranger cast upon your mercy. She has the gift of winning all hearts. For my sake I would ask you to protect and care for my treasure.”
Du Chesne was so completely engrossed by his own thoughts and feelings that he paid but slight attention to his companion. Diane’s rich color had given place to a strange excited pallor. She looked at him with the wild, hunted eyes of some desperate animal at bay. The world was suddenly upheaving beneath her feet, and her heart stood still as the keenness and sharpness of the shock crushed the spirit within her.
Oh, Heaven! not later than yesterday she had been as a queen, graciously dispensing her favors, smiling tolerantly at Lydia’s petty vanities and weaknesses—Lydia, who had come into her life as a stranger, stirring it to its very foundations, robbing it of peace and happiness, leaving her in return the blank of a great desolation—Lydia, whom she had protected and cherished, who owed all to her generosity. Now a flash of lightning had come out of the apparently cloudless sky, smiting her from her pedestal, precipitating her into this awful void in which every wretchedness was conceivable. Others had not been as blind as herself. She remembered her aunt’s sarcasm, the hints Nanon had given her, the ill-will to the English girl Cecile de St. Rochs had so often openly expressed. The glare of illumination was intolerable, bringing with it a galling, insupportable mortification. As these bitter truths flashed upon her, Diane clenched her hands, flushing into a sudden rage of bitter humiliation.
“Diane, you are surely not surprised? I thought that you, who are so quick, would have divined my feeling from the first. I fancied that your kindness to Lydia was inspired by friendship for me, as well as delight in her charms.”
The trustful glance of the young man’s frank, eager eyes melted the fire of pain and rage and jealousy. A piteous little smile crossed her lips, as though she were amused at, yet very sorry for, that proud, high-handed girl who had fancied herself supreme, and who was none other than her old self. The vehement, hot-blooded creature was overwhelmed by a black pall of shame and self-disgust. What did it matter if the whole world crumbled away, and that her pride and vanity vanished with it? If du Chesne sought comfort it must be her place, crowned by the glory and agony of self-sacrifice, to supply it. No one could supplant the companion of his childhood in that office. Turning her resolute face to the future, without wasting a single thought upon her own strength or need, she battled against the rush of strong feeling with a fierce, determined energy.
Diane could scarcely stand, but she confronted the young Canadian with a brave smile, a dumb denial of her anguish, and even succeeded in assuming an air of gaiety.
“You did take me by surprise. I had no thought of this. But I am grateful for your confidence, and shall try to prove myself worthy. And then, my cousin, when you return——”
“Aye, return, who can tell how that will be.”
He paled before a supposition to which he dreaded to give form even in his thoughts. Together with a stern sense of his own immediate duty, which was to put through the work in hand steadily and cheerfully, without any careful hesitation or speculation concerning the ultimate ethics of the situation, there existed in Le Ber’s youngest son much tenderness of heart towards the weak and unfortunate, and delicate consideration for friends and kindred, as well as ardent devotion to the chosen one of his heart. Existence was full of hope and generous ambition; he was surrounded by kindly, faithful faces and honest love. In the strength of his early manhood he was conscious of stirring hopes and untold possibilities, above which shone the thought of his girl-love with her innocent grace and guilelessness. All this was deepened by that touch of uncertainty that gives exquisite intensity to affection, and the quickened interest of tragic possibilities. These fancies were followed by wiser and sadder thoughts, and immediate practical considerations. Just as the color grew richer and the pace faster, and life spread before him a full completeness he had never even imagined, was it, he asked himself, to be stained forever by the cruelty of circumstances? A great wave of sadness, a swift dread of advancing pain and disaster, the reaction from his natural buoyancy of temperament, rushed over du Chesne’s spirit.
“Somehow, Diane, when I try to picture my return, I cannot imagine how it will be. Many times before have I started on such expeditions without a thought; this time it is entirely different. I cannot help remembering—it was less than a year ago—St. Helène’s fate. Then De Clermont, Bienville, De Bellefonds, De la Motte, were close friends and trusty comrades, with whom I fought and camped and hunted; where are they? Gallant gentlemen, they have laid down their lives, gaily and carelessly, forcing and country.Mort dieu!what will you? A day sooner or later makes but little difference. Shall I make a nightmare of death?”
One thing, evident and definite, seemed to clear Diane’s dazzled senses—du Chesne had turned to her for comfort. She held his hand with a strong compelling pressure which had in it no trace of selfish sentiment.
“But there are others, my cousin, whose duty compels them constantly to go upon such expeditions, and who have ever returned unharmed.”
“Yes, but to you I do not mind confessing that for the last few days I have been unnerved by strange fancies. It is because another’s fate depends upon my own. It is for her, so young, so tender and trusting, without protection of friend or relative; at this thought the heart melts within me, and there is nothing to be done. Diane, you have ever been strong and true; you could not fail one who trusts you.”
The strength of one dedicated to a pure and elevated purpose flamed into Mademoiselle de Monesthrol’s eyes; all her face grew nobly luminous. Every word she spoke was crystal clear, coming straight from the heart.
“You can trust me, du Chesne. I will be to Lydia a loving sister; I will place her welfare before my own. With our Blessed Lady’s help I will be as true and tender to her as I would be to you.”
“In life or death I commit her to your charge. You have removed my heaviest care.” Du Chesne bent reverently to kiss the warm hand that clasped his own. “I shall have perfect peace in trusting to the loyalty of my brave and tender sister.”