"Madame," Cyrène cried, her eyes flashing, "withdraw those words! I demand it!"
The situation aroused all his faculties.
"Madame la Maréchale," said he quite coolly, "has taken, I observe, the word of my enemies without asking for the facts. I shall not fatigue her with arguments, as I am on my way to produce the proofs."
With two profound bows, the first to Cyrène, the other to Madame de Noailles, he withdrew.
A STRONG PROOF
Remorse in all its horror seized him with the last glance of Cyrène's tearful eyes. He could not but feel the demand of those eyes for fine honour in the man on whom they rested in love. She was to him the white flower sprung of the truth and fearlessness, as well as the grace, of long descended chivalry, and who must not be associated with anything base. He had never before fully faced his Répentigny impersonation in the aspect of a falsity to her. Now, after his direct lie to her, self-contempt threatened to altogether overwhelm him.
He mechanically went on to Paris, whither Dominique had gone before to secure his lodging. The evening of his arrival was spent in grief.
"The fault is mine, but why?" he asked himself with impatient gloom. "Why has Providence so unfairly divided the honours and the guilt of life? Why are there rich and poor? Why good and bad? Why should an unfortunate like me, who has meant only well, be entangled in such a mesh of accidents? Why were my eyes designed but to see, my breast to love, my Cyrène, at such frightful cost?"
Next morning, the sunlight gilding the pinnacles of the Louvre, the cries of Paris, the fascinating dash of the metropolis, brought back to him his gift of animal spirits. Were he, he thought, but to successfully outride his present troubles, he would accept a post which had been offered him, as commandant of a cadet school on the far away estates of the Duke de la Rochefoucault, and thither retire quietly with Cyrène, away from the jealousy and criticism of the Court, and make open confession to her.
By appointment made at Troyes he went to meet Grancey in the Palais Royal garden.
Germain took his friend's arm and led him along the antiquated quarter of the Marais, where he had secured a room in a quiet neighbourhood for the old Chevalier de Lincy. His heart beat lest anything should have occurred to arrest the old noble's illusion. His intention was to introduce Grancey into the apartment of the old man, and there to let him gather from the lips of the occupant words that would link Germain with a house so ancient and respected. They arrived at the door, rang, and demanded of the landlady whether the Chevalier was in. She looked at them curiously as she held the door open.
"Is one of you Monsieur de Lincy's cousin!" she inquired.
"I, Madame," replied he.
"Come in, sir. Have you not received the letter posted yesterday by the priest?"
"By the priest?" Germain stopped, with his friend, on the threshold of the chamber into which she had led them. "Is he ill, then?"
"The saints protect him, sir, he has finished his last illness. He lies upstairs in his beautiful mortuary chamber draped by the Sisters of the Hospital."
"Poor old de Lincy," he murmured, yet could hardly realise it.
"Are you not Monsieur de Lincy, too, sir?" she inquired.
"Certainly," he replied quickly, checking himself, "but he was the head of the house. Alas! let me see him."
She led them up two flights and into the death chamber, which was heavily hung with black and the windows darkened. Two tapers at the head and two at the feet showed where the corpse lay, and near by stood an altar with lights and flowers, beside which two Black Nuns knelt motionlessly. The visitors crossed the room with bowed heads and looked down at the face of the dead. It had lost its worn look and was at peace. A faint smile, as of proud pleasure, rested on the lips, and Lecour knew that smile was for him. It brought him a strange emotion; he felt as if, though condemned by so many of the living, he was loved by the dead; and a great tenderness towards his pathetic relative welled in his heart. He bent over the face and earnestly wept.
"He loved you, Monsieur le Chevalier," the landlady said, weeping also, "and bade the notary leave with me a copy of his will for you. When Monsieur descends, I shall give it to him."
"Did he talk much before he died?"
"A great deal. The confessor said there was a high fever. He talked of a castle upon a mountain—and about you, Monsieur, a good deal. He was not strong when he came to us: I said from the beginning 'He is on the short way to heaven': he seemed like one who had suffered too much."
They followed her out of the chamber. Lecour could not help some eagerness concerning the will, and perusing it closely when she handed it to him, found it bequeathed him all the testator's possessions. He passed the deed silently to his friend the Baron, who read the first half and caught the drift.
"Your proof is incontestable," he said briefly.
"The difficulty is but the completion of my proofs. I have to go to Canada for that. But assure the company of my return."
"We shall appeal in a body to the Prince."
"I pray you not."
"What can we do for you, then?"
"Thank the others. Invite all my friends in Troyes to a banquet in my name this day week, at which you will preside for me. Spare no expense. You shall be witness for me while I am absent in Canada."
"If to serve you is the programme, I shall live happy."
The Baron returned to Troyes and, duly presiding at the dinner given to the Guards in Germain's name, related excitedly what he had seen.
The young men heard the story with outbursts of delight, drank Lecour's health standing on their chairs, heaped his place with roses, sang over and over a chorus in his honour, and parted swearing vehemently that the dismissal of such a good fellow was a wrong to the company of Noailles concocted as an insult to the whole of them by the rival company of Villeroy.
THE REGISTER OF ST. GERMAIN-DES-PRÉS
A hazy hope concerning his descent had haunted Lecour for some months past. That the Chevalier de Lincy was really in some manner his relative became his belief. He argued that his own fitness for aristocratic society must have a hereditary explanation and that, were he able to trace his lineage a short distance backward he would discover some higher status fallen from by his family through misfortune. On the day of de Grancey's departure, he began to place together the straws of information which might guide him. He had once heard his father speak of having left France at the age of twelve years. Was he a kidnapped and deported heir? Was he a cadet of some reduced family?
Again, on one of the rare occasions when Lecour senior referred to the past—a winter's evening chat by the fire-side with the curé of the parish—he had described his boyish recollection of the interior of the Paris church of St. Germain-des-Prés, then the family church of his family. Was his own name taken from its patron saint? Would its registers contain records of the Lecours?
He knew at least his father's age—born in 1736, it would make him—yes, and also his birth month, June. Here were straws to start by.
He lost no time in crossing the Seine and seeking the church. As he passed the middle of the Pont Neuf—near the equestrian statue of Henry IV., a small man, meanly dressed, glided out of the shadow of a vehicle, and moved stealthily after him, his motions wary as a cat's. This man was Jude.
Germain arrived at the edifice, which adjoined the great abbey of the same name, and scanned its ancient spire and dilapidated façade for some moments before he entered, full of thought—"for here," said he "is the temple of my forefathers—the visible link that binds my origin to France." He passed in, regarding every pillar and ornament of its quaint, dark, Norman interior with the same fascination, and traversing its length, came to the sacristy behind the high altar. A young priest was standing there overlooking the operations of some workmen, and muttering his breviary.
"Messire, I am seeking information for which I wish to examine your parish registers," said Germain.
"It is an honour, sir," replied the priest. "What is the year?"
"1736."
"The books are here, sir," opening a cupboard in which various large volumes leaned against each other on the shelves. "This is 1736. May I assist you in finding the entry?"
"I am not sure what I need."
"I fear Monsieur will not find some of the entries easy reading."
"Time is not important to me, father," answered Germain cheerfully. "May I take the register to this table near the light?"
"With pleasure; but should the handwriting be difficult, speak to me. I am the archivist of the abbey." And thus saying he turned back to his workmen.
Lecour examined the volume with beating heart. He nervously fingered the leaves at first without receiving any distinct impression of the contents, his brain was so full of other thoughts. At last he noticed that the entries were regular and consecutive, and though written in different hands, were clear to follow. He reached the month of June, read its entries slowly, one after another—a birth, a marriage, a death, then another death, then a birth again, and so on, with the names of the parties and their parents, some high, some low, until he came to nearly the end, when suddenly one seemed to stare at him out of the page.
"The 27th,—Took place the baptism of François Xavier, tenth son ofPierre Lecour, master-butcher, of this Parish, and of his wife, Marie LeCoq. He had for godfather, Jean LeCoq, tinker, and for godmother, Thérèse, wife of Louis Bossu, Charcoal vendor."
From the moment he read the word "master-butcher," his head swam, his heart sank, he felt a blow as if it were the stunning thud of a heavy weight upon it, and an unconscious groan escaped him.
"Monsieur is sick," exclaimed the priest to his men. "Bring wine."
"No, father," returned Germain, slowly rising, and steadying himself, "it is nothing," and he walked forward and left the sacristy.
The room had two doors leading inward to the high altar, one on each side. Just as Lecour passed out by the left one, Jude glided in by that on the right, and crossing boldly to the open book, pounced upon the entry of baptism.
AT QUEBEC
Germain was now committed to the most desperate courses to maintain his assumed character. He left France, and by way of London, took ship for his colony. The Canada of 1788 was a quaint community shut away out of the great world. It consisted of a few widely separated hamlets, keeping in touch with each other by means of a long road on each shore of the St. Lawrence, and having as chief cities the two tiny walled towns of Quebec and Montreal. It possessed a population of perhaps a hundred and fifty thousand souls, all French except a couple of British regiments, and a handful of officials and tradesmen. Some bodies of refugee Loyalists of the American Revolution had recently also come in. The driblet of population thus strung scantily along the banks of the vast river seemed as nothing in the mighty forest by which it was surrounded. The country therefore had in great part the virgin look of the primeval solitude.
After an eight weeks' stormy voyage in the London barqueChatham, Germain cast his eyes with relief on the tawny, lion-like rock of Quebec, with the fortress above and the little town about its feet, and straggling up its sides. The vessel at length drew up to moorings, the anchor dropped, and a boat came out for the passengers. He disembarked with his boxes, and inquired for a good lodging in the Upper Town. Acalèche-driver undertook to find him one, and leaving the heavier luggage with a merchant near by, lashed his brisk little horse with the ends of the reins, and inspired it into a cat-like climb by which Lecour was whisked up the precipitous windy street called Mountain Hill, from the busy Lower to the aristocratic and military Upper Town.
After some searching they found a certain Madame Langlois, a widow who lived in a comfortable house on St. Louis Street, and could give the gentleman a front room on her first floor. There he could see the principal doings of the town, for it was not far from the Place d'Armes and the Castle. It suited him and he installed himself. As it was late in the afternoon, he occupied the time by unpacking his effects until called to supper by Madame Langlois. At the meal, he noted that his landlady—a thin, civil woman of thirty-eight or so, was simply dying of discreet curiosity. He vouchsafed her only his name, and that he was just arrived from France. He, however, asked a number of questions about the Castle, the Governor, his staff, and the prominent people of the town, and inflamed her interest as much by his questions as by his dress and manners. Then retiring till dusk fell, he went out and wandered about the neighbourhood.
The rock of Quebec is like a lion couchant beside the St. Lawrence. On the head is the fortress, on the back the Upper Town, around the feet nestles the Lower Town, while the River St. Charles flows around the hinder parts.
The city was no vast place: its population was but some seven thousand souls, with about two thousand of a garrison, and the occupied area in the Upper Town covered a few streets only, the remainder consisting of grassy fields stretching to the fortification walls. The citadel, picturesquely crowning the summit of the rock, stood several hundred yards higher, at one side. The Castle of St. Louis, the main ornament of the place next to the cathedral, overlooked the cliff, resting on a series of tall buttresses ribbing the side of the precipice.
At every point along the "lion's back," or upper edge of the cliff, where Germain was, a magnificent view greeted him. He stopped to enjoy it. The harbour lay glimmering far below in the moonbeams, across it the heights of Levis stretched along the weird landscape. The lighted windows of the Lower Town, of which he could see little more than the shimmering dark roofs, shone up obliquely. All was domed over by a dark-blue sky in which the harvest moon rode.
He walked back from the cliff along the Rue St. Louis to the city wall, and returned by the Rue Buade. In doing so he scanned the fortifications with military interest, and returning, remarked the dark, low pile of the convent of the Jesuits, and also the cathedral and the seminary adjoining. He remembered once hearing his father say this cathedral of Quebec had been designed by one of the de Lérys. From the place in front of it he could make out dimly, down the slope of Ste. Famille Street close by, the de Léry mansion itself.
"The father and mother will be there," he cogitated. "They will have had letters about me from France by this time."
He turned again along Buade Street, and continued his stroll with an object, for at the point where the sharp descent towards the Lower Town began he brought up before a stately house of stone, of an antique architecture, on the face of which, over the door, something indistinctly glittered. It was the house of the Golden Dog; and as he surveyed it and tried vainly to read the letters of the inscription, his shadowy visitor at Troyes once more arose vividly before his imagination, and the terrible scene of Philibert's murder seemed to be enacted again upon the flight of steps before the door. Absorbed in the gruesome story with which he was so strangely connected, he returned to his chamber, and retired.
Twice he heard the tramp of a change of guards passing along the street. Once a convent bell rang, perhaps for some midnight burial.
The next day at breakfast he learned from his hostess that the presence of the strange gentleman lodging with her had been remarked by several young women, and that it was already the gossip of the Upper Town. In the course of her stream of news she mentioned Monsieur de Léry. The hand with which he was about to lift his cup to his lips stopped, and he casually asked—
"Who ishe?"
"The Honourable Monsieur de Léry," she exclaimed. "I thought he was known to all the world. He is the senior in the Governor's council, and his lady is the best customer of my brother-in-law's shop. The old Chevalier de Léry never did a wrong to any one, and if he is a little stiff, he still walks the straightest man in the town of Quebec."
Lecour withdrew to his chamber, and opened a miniature portmanteau covered with purple leather and stamped in gold with the de Lincy arms. He drew out a parchment, which he placed on the table. Then, taking from his clothes-box the uniform of his lieutenancy in the Bodyguard—which he had been so expressly forbidden to wear—he dressed himself before the glass with the greatest care, and having finished, put on his sword, placed the parchment in his bosom, took up his hat, and went forth with his ordinary air of ease and command. Passing along the street and across the Place d'Armes—at the insignificance of which, comparing it with that of Versailles, he laughed almost aloud—he entered the gate of the Castle.
The tow-headed Briton who was performing sentry duty at the gate, though he challenged him like an automaton, was astonished at the sight of a uniform, the like of which, in style, brilliancy, and ornaments, he had never before seen.
"Be blowed to me, Bill," he soon afterwards remarked to a comrade of the guard-room, "if I didn't take 'im fer ole General Montcalm come back from blazes; 'e looked so grand an' Frenchy-like, an' come on me so sudden."
The Governor'saide-de-camp, de la Naudière, a dashing Canadian officer, was almost as surprised at the sight of Lecour's uniform as the sentry, and receiving him with profound deference, read the passport which the new arrival handed him. He was not aware how closely the eyes of Germain watched his face. At the name "LeCour de Lincy, Esquire," in the paper he gave a slight start, but by the time he came to the end his manner recovered itself, and he greeted him cordially.
"The French army, Monsieur, never lacks honour in the Province of Quebec. You bear a uniform and a rank which commend you to our best hospitalities. Will you permit me to share my good fortune in meeting you with our Governor, Lord Dorchester?"
"I have heard of Lord Dorchester," replied Germain, "how gallant a man he is, and how true a friend to our nation."
"Nothing is truer, sir; every Canadian will tell you he is the soul of kindness and sympathy with us, and that he has quite withdrawn the sting of our being a conquered people. Here I am, a Catholic and a Canadian, yet as well pleased as if I were in the service of France. His friendship with our gentry is like the relation of a veritable father to his family."
"Were not his services very great in the American Revolution? I have heard General Lafayette speak highly of his name."
"Yes, Monsieur; his services preserved this Province from the enemy, and we have named him 'the Saviour of Canada.' Pardon me a moment to announce you."
While waiting to be summoned to the Governor, Lecour glanced around. The part of the buildings in which he stood was the Old Château, a picturesque structure of the French times, dating from 1694, crowning its conspicuous position as a landmark by a mediæval roof of steep pitch; while a gallery two hundred feet in length ran along the outside, supported by tall buttresses, which, clinging to the cliff-side, gave it beneath the same elongated lines as the steep roof above. The result was exceedingly quaint and castellated. He remembered that he had often seen it thus from the river. His present point of view gave him, through the windows and over the gallery, another form of his view of the harbour and Point Levis, one of the most striking landscapes in the world. Looking closer about the room, the low-raftered ceilings of an older time brought another thought to his mind.
"Is not this," he exclaimed to himself, "the very chamber where Count Frontenac, a hundred years ago, must have received the envoy of Admiral Phipps with request to surrender, and returned the reply, 'I will answer your master by the mouth of my cannon.'" He imagined he heard the gallant veteran say the words.
Turning to the windows towards the courtyard, he saw opposite the handsome new range of buildings lately erected, and nicknamed "Castle Haldimand," in which were the apartments of the Governor and his family, and which, on their further side, fronted on the Place d'Armes.
As a boy he had once looked into the courtyard, and contemplated its precincts with juvenile awe. Now, he was standing a guest of honour in the then inaccessible arcana. He was not given much time to continue his reflections. De la Naudière came back, brought him across, and conducted him into the reception chamber of Governor Dorchester. His Excellency, who was a large, finely-made man of a ruddy and generous countenance, received him with that trained, lofty courtesy which marked the meeting of distinguished men of that time, and Lecour, as he reciprocated the salutation, saw that he had nothing to fear from him.
"I recognise your uniform, Chevalier," said he, "which revives to me some pleasant memories of Versailles."
"Your Lordship is, then, acquainted with my Sovereign's Court? His Majesty knows how to appreciate a brave man."
"He has too many in his service to do otherwise; but I have no pretensions on that score."
"The world well knows, your Excellency, 'The Saviour of Canada,'" Lecour replied, "and my country honours you as one of the worthiest of former foes."
"Tut, tut, Monsieur le Chevalier—excuse the freedom of an old Englishman in turning the conversation. My lady will die of curiosity over the appearance of a Garde-du-Corps in this out-of-the-way quarter of the globe. How can I answer her as to the cause?"
"Private business with my family, my Lord, connected with an estate in our mother country."
"Ah, your people are Canadians?"
"My father is generally known as the Merchant Lecour of St Elphège. His full name is LeCour de Lincy."
"That is the name on your passport," interrupted de la Naudière. "I never knew he was a noble."
"He has never boasted of it," returned Lecour.
"An honest old fellow," Dorchester commented. Then, remembering himself, added, "You will, of course, do us the honour while in Quebec of being a guest at the Castle?"
"Your Lordship's invitation is a command, but I am here for a few hours only."
"Let us enjoy these hours then; eh, la Naudière? See that Mr. de Lincy's luggage is brought to the Castle."
"We review the garrison, in a few minutes," continued Dorchester, "then we luncheon. After that we are to drive to the Montmorenci Falls."
A beautiful and haughty-looking woman of over forty years entered the room. She stopped when she saw Lecour, but concealing her surprise at his uniform, stood graciously while her husband—for she was the Governor's wife—turned and said—
"Lady Dorchester, allow me to present the Chevalier de Lincy, whom we have just acquired as our guest, and whom you will recognise as a Garde-du-Corps of the King of France."
"The Milady Dorchester," as she was called among the people, was of the famous line of the Howards, daughter of that Earl of Effingham who refused in 1776 to draw his sword against the liberties of his fellow-subjects in America.
At her table many a scathing dissertation on the nobodiness of nobodies had been given the youthful gentry of the Province, a fact not unknown to Germain. De la Naudière himself had experienced her sharpness when he was first introduced at her table. On that occasion in carving a joint he had the misfortune to spill some gravy on the cloth. "Young man," cried Milady, "where were you brought up?" "At my father's table, where they change the cloth three times a day," he quickly retorted, and captured her favour.
A Garde-du-Corps, however, was sacred from reproach. To have with them for the day an inner member of the Court of France, fresh from delightful Paris, and from still more delightful Versailles, was really more than an exiled lady of fashion in her position could just then have dreamt. How he acquitted himself in her coach at the review and during the beautiful afternoon drive to the Falls, how he kept the table smiling at dinner, and of their walk in the Castle garden, with its low cannon-embrasured wall along the cuff, it would scarcely profit the reader to hear, except in one particular.
On the shady lawn at Montmorenci—a name which thrilled him with sweet associations—he stood in the midst of the picnic party and sang them one of the current songs of the Bodyguard:—
"Yes, I am a soldier—I,And for my country live—For my Queen and for my KingMy life I'll freely give.When the insolent demagogueLoud rants at this and that,Not less do I go singing round,'Vive an aristocrat!'Yes, &c.To the Devil, Equality!Your squalor I decline,With you I would no better beNor sprung of older line.Yes, &c.March on, my comrades gay,Strike up the merry drums,And drink the Bourbons long, long lifeWhatever fortune comes.Yes, &c."
Next morning her Excellency rose early to see him start upon his journey up the river.
One result followed, of which he did not know. La Naudière described his visit to the de Lérys in connection with the account received by them from Châlons. They again read over the paragraph and discussed it, and de la Naudière pronounced decidedly that the man could not be the same—the passport of the present individual did not bear the name of Répentigny, and he was too perfect a gentleman.
AT ST. ELPHÈGE
All afternoon of the day of his arrival at St. Elphège, lofty clouds had been moving in threatening masses across the sky. When the Lecours were rejoicing together at supper, a storm came on, producing a raw, wet evening, which was not unwelcome to the reunited family, for it kept them undisturbed.
Old Lecour, to denote his satisfaction at his son's return, brought forth his fiddle and played some of the merry airs of the Province, an action which touched Germain's heart.
"Is this the noble," exclaimed he to himself, as he looked, with a heart full of affection, at the roughly-dressed, homely figure, "whom I would produce to the Noailles, the Montmorencys and the Vaudreuils, as my father? Perhaps not; but I would offer him before sounder judges as their superior." But notwithstanding his goodwill, there is a limit where content is impossible in such things.
The Versaillesélégantcould not but see in everything about him an inevitable contrast with his late life. He felt unable to re-accustom himself to the low-ceiled chambers, the rude appliances, the rough dress, the country manners, the accent and phrases of his family—things in respect of which he had at one time believed them quite superior. Whole-heartedly concealing his impressions and his dejection, however, he made himself as pleasant as possible. Madame had thrown open her parlour, a rare occurrence.
When the rain began to beat against the windows, the old man called in the Indian dwarf, and with his assistance made a fire of logs which crackled merrily in the fireplace and threw cheerful, light and warmth upon the circle.
Madame lit her precious sconces of wax tapers for the first time since her daughter's wedding, and all drew closer to listen to the accounts which came from the lips of the long-absent son. The father put his violin aside, seated himself in his tall-backed arm-chair and gazed alternately into the fire and at his son's face. The mother hung upon her favourite's words and movements as mothers ever will. The convent girl, his youngest sister, worshipped him with eyes and ears—to her he was the hero of her family, whom she could measure in the lists against the vaunted brothers of her proud Quebec school-mates, Lanaudières, Bleurys, la Gorgendières, Tonnancours and those others, who, familiar with the doings of the Castle, looked down upon the trader's daughter.
"What about this new name?" said the mother at length; "they have given you a title in France?"
"Not at all, mother," he replied.
"But they call you 'Monsieur de Lincy,' you say."
"It is not a new name; it is the real one of the family—you are entitled to it as well as I."
"What does that mean, son Germain? Have we been ignorant of our own name?"
"It means that we are gentlepeople—and that in my father there, you behold the real or principal Chevalier de Lincy. I am but the younger Chevalier."
The family, at this announcement, gave voice to a mutual cry. The father looked up and said soberly—
"You mistake, my son."
"In no respect, dear father. I have learnt our descent in France, and am glad to inform you that you are what you deserve to be—a noble."
"There, François Xavier!" exclaimed the wife. "You are not going to deny it."
"Many good stocks forget their origin in going out to the colonies," added Germain. "You, sir, crossed the sea at a very early age."
"At twelve years old," asserted the merchant.
"You were too young to make those inquiries which I have completed. You knew little of your parents."
"My father was a butcher of Paris; I know that."
"That is an error, sir. Those you regarded as your parents were but foster-parents, though they bore the same name."
"Who, then, do you pretend was my father?" cried the merchant in amazement. "There was no question of that matter before I left France."
"Because your mother had died, and your father, who was a poor man, though a gentleman, had departed for service in the East Indies, and there was heard of no more."
"In any event I do not care about these things. I shall always remain the Merchant Lecour," the old man said, with steady-going pride.
"But François Xavier!" cried his wife. "Have you no care about your children and me? Is it nothing to us if we arenoblesse? Will you be forever turning over skins and measuring groceries when you ought to have a grand house and a grand office, like the gentry of the North-West Company at Montreal, who dine with the Governor, and are yet no better off than you? I am suretheyare no Chevaliers de Lincy".
"I cannot believe it, wife. I know where I came from, and that I was nothing but a boy sent out with the troops by the magistrates of Paris"—Germain started—"then a poor private, and by good conduct at length acantineerof the liquor. Chevaliers are not of those grades, as I well enough know, and I never heard of any good from a man getting out of his place."
The convent girl looked up in suspense at her hero for reply.
"Listen, father," exclaimed Germain with a kind of gaiety, appreciating the melancholy humour of the situation, "I have not only traced you up, but shall show you the evidence. Carry in my little box while I bring the black one."
They brought the boxes in, and the small one—that with the gilt coat of arms, from which Germain had taken his passport at Quebec—was put on the table. Germain unlocked it, and brought out the de Lincy genealogical tree.
"Here," said he to his father, while the family crowded to look over their shoulders, "you are the son of this one; I have seen and read your baptismal register which records it, in the Church of St. Germain-des-Prés."
"True—that was my parish," the old man answered. "Are you certain that my father was not——?"
"Positive."
"Very well, then," old Lecour answered, somewhat reluctantly.
"What a romance!" the married daughter cried.
"I am about to show you some precious relics of our past," Germain continued. "See what a store of parchments. Here are grants ofnoblessefrom the King, grants of titles, dispensations signed by the Popes—do you know what these are?" he cried, taking out and putting on his breast a couple of beautiful jewels, standing up as he did so.
"Tell us!"
"This," said he, "is the Commander's Cross of St. Louis; and that the Order of the Holy Ghost."
While they pushed forward in excitement to look closer at the decorations, he bent, lifted the lid of the large black box and with both hands raised before them an oil portrait of a gentleman in full wig, velvet coat and ruffles.
"That," said he, surveying it with becoming pride, "is our ancestor Hypolite LeCour de Lincy. Sir," said he, laughingly turning to his parent, "behold your father against your will."
"Bravo, Monsieur my son," cried Madame Lecour.
"Now I can make my old man dress like a gentleman. The next time I go to Montreal, Lecour—or rather my Chevalier—I shall spend some of your money on a peruke and a scarlet coat for you."
"Holy Mary, save me!"
"About that please the ladies, father," Germain put in; "but there is another matter. Who drew your marriage contract?"
"D'Aguilhe, the notary," his mother returned.
"Is he of St. Elphège?"
"Yes."
"He has, of course, omitted mention of your nobility."
"He knew of none," said the merchant.
"Then we must go to him with our titles, and he must rectify it to-morrow."
"As you please, if it will suit you better," the merchant murmured.
"I must be a Prince, for I create nobles," pronounced Germain, shaking with fevered laughter, as he drew the sheets over him in the state bed that night. His merriment was a pitiful cover for his desperation. In his favour it is well to remember the dictum of Schopenhauer: that the English are the only nation who thoroughly realise the immorality of lying; and we must also keep in mind that the extent of his disorder was a measure of the power of that passion which was its cause. Better things were yet in him.
AT MONTREAL
Next morning, after old Lecour had, with a heart full of content, and a pipeful of tobacco, taken his son the round of his warehouses and granaries, his piles of furs, his mountains of wheat, and the rising vaults of what was to be his newest and greatest building, they set off down the village street to the Notary's house.
D'Aguilhe was of a famous breed of notaries, who had driven the quill and handed it down from father to son from the earliest days of the colony. When Lecour discovered that he was founding St. Elphège, one of the first things he did was to jolt up to Montreal, and catch a young scion of this race of d'Aguilhes, and here he had kept him making a comfortable living at his profession ever since. It was therefore not improper that the man of theparaphe—and a wondrousparaphehis signature had, flourishing from edge to edge of a foolscap page, in woolly and laborious curves—should, when called upon next morning, treat his best client to his best office manners.
"Monsieur d'Aguilhe," commenced old Lecour, "here is my son, who thinks me a noble—and upon my honour I cannot argue against him; he is too able for me."
"Aha!" returned d'Aguilhe, pricking up his ears, and saying to himself, "This looks like something important."
"We desire," said Germain, taking the business into his own hands, "to see the marriage contract of my father and mother."
"Certainly, Monsieur Germain," he answered, and going to his cupboards, took his package of deeds for the year 1765, picked out the document and handed it to Germain, who read a few lines at the beginning.
"I see," the latter said, "that my father is improperly described here, as you will observe by these documents I now place before you. He is entitled to be called in this contract 'François Xavier LeCour, Chevalier de Lincy.'"
"A—ah!" exclaimed again the Notary, solemnly, raising his eyebrows and poking over Germain's parchments.
"Are they not correct?" asked Germain.
"Without a doubt."
"Is not my father the Chevalier de Lincy?"
"It seems so."
"Then we have only to ask, as it is a family matter, that you add this name to the contract of marriage, and give us a copy."
"It cannot be done, sir."
Germain felt a check. He was silent.
"Do not say that, d'Aguilhe," the merchant said; "if the boy wants it, let him have it. What do I care?"
"No sir, it cannot be done."
"Cannot be done? forme? Have I done nothing for you, M. d'Aguilhe? Have I not been a good client to you?"
"Nevertheless, sir, nothing can weigh with me against the rules of my profession," pompously replied the Notary. "A Public Person must not allow himself to be swayed by private considerations."
"In what lies your difficulty in changing this deed?" Germain asked.
"A deed once deposited in the archives of the Notary is sacred."
"But you see a mistake has been made?"
"Etiquette, Monsieur."
"You see that the honour of the family is concerned in rectifying that mistake."
"Etiquette, Monsieur."
"But is there no way? If I offer fifty livres for your advice upon a way, for instance?"
"Ah, Monsieur, that is different; the heart of the professional man should open, and his knowledge be accessible to his client. There is a way."
"What is it?"
"Obtain an order of the Judge upon me to add the required paragraphs to my deed."
"Here are your fifty livres."
"I thank you, sir," and, so saying, d'Aguilhe put his quill behind his ear and showed them politely to the door.
Germain and his father—the father arrayed by Madame in his best black coat—set, therefore, off for Montreal. They crossed the ferry near Répentigny church, and drove through open country along the riverside till, as evening drew on, they came in sight of the walls, the citadel hill, the enchanting suburban estates and green Mount Royal in the background, which denoted the city.
They drew up in the court of a bustling inn, stabled their horse, went to bed, and the next morning sought the house of a celebrated advocate, the great Rottot. The great Rottot was chiefly known for his imposing proportions, and no sight was thought so beautiful by thehabitantsas that of his black silk leg, as, with his robe fluttering out in the breezes, he seemed to be flying from his office across the street to the court-house, followed by a bevy of clients.
He listened, standing, to the respectful request of Lecour, helped out in his explanations by Germain, who desired to have the pleader obtain for them the requisite order of the Judge.
"Ah," said he, "I see, gentlemen, you do not appreciate the importance of your case. Such a matter ought to be made the subject of the profoundest studies, and we should at length approach the Legislature itself with a petition and demand the passage of a private bill. The affair tempts my powers."
"But we have no special wish for publicity."
"Gentlemen, you know not what would be your good fortune. It would make you the talk of the Province.In re Lecourwould be a great precedent."
"Such is not our desire."
"What! not to establish a precedent?"
"No, Mr. Advocate," Germain said firmly; "a simple petition to obtain this order is what we want. We must have it, and quickly, and nothing more."
"Ah, then, this is what you want," said he. "I will draw it for you," and, sitting down, he wrote out a document as follows:—
"To the Honourable Judges of the Court of Common Pleas of the District of Montreal:"The petition of François Xavier LeCour de Lincy, Esquire, residing at St. Elphège, respectfully shews:—That when he contracted marriage with Mademoiselle Lanier, he knew not that he was of noble origin, having left Europe at a very early age with scarcely any knowledge of his family; that since then he has learned of his extraction and obtained his titles ofnoblessewhich he now presents to your Honours in evidence."Wherefore may it please your Honours to grant an order upon Maître d'Aguilhe, Notary, of St. Elphège, to add to the minute of his contract of marriage the name and title of 'de Lincy, Esquire'; and you will do justice."
"To the Honourable Judges of the Court of Common Pleas of the District of Montreal:
"The petition of François Xavier LeCour de Lincy, Esquire, residing at St. Elphège, respectfully shews:—That when he contracted marriage with Mademoiselle Lanier, he knew not that he was of noble origin, having left Europe at a very early age with scarcely any knowledge of his family; that since then he has learned of his extraction and obtained his titles ofnoblessewhich he now presents to your Honours in evidence.
"Wherefore may it please your Honours to grant an order upon Maître d'Aguilhe, Notary, of St. Elphège, to add to the minute of his contract of marriage the name and title of 'de Lincy, Esquire'; and you will do justice."
"Sign, sir, please."
François Xavier attached his signature.
"It will do," Rottot sighed; "but I should have preferred the precedent."
They crossed the road and entered the court-room.
A rubicund, easy-going old judge, Fraser by name, sat on the bench, the royal arms painted large in oils on a canvas behind him. In front were a lawyer or two and a few clients—a slack court. Rottot, with a flourish, read the petition.
The judge smiled. "Only ahabitantfrom the country," he mused, good-humouredly, "who wants to add some mouldy flourishes to his name. Well, if it pleases him, let him have them. Does anybody oppose the petition?" he said aloud. "No? Well, it is granted. Hand it up for my signature."
The astute Rottot had added the words—"Granted as prayed for, as well as to all other deeds and writings."
This gave Germain great satisfaction. With the precious order in his pocket he spent a few hours reconnoitring the town, and especially the headquarters of the garrison and the Governor's residence, the Château de Ramezay.
Returning to St. Elphège, he presented the order of the Court at once to Maître d'Aguilhe, and obtained a copy of the amended marriage contract, which he stored in his box as proof for use in France of the titles of his father in Canada.
While in Montreal he had determined to make that place also useful to him. So, after a decent delay, he found lodging at an elegant little house which suited him in St. Jean Baptiste Street, secluded behind the great Convent of the Grey Nuns and yet not far away from garrison headquarters.
image: Germain Lecour at the House in St. Jean Baptiste Street.Germain Lecour at the House in St. Jean Baptiste Street.
His first act when he was left alone in his room was to don his uniform, his next to take out of his pocket the certified copy of the marriage contract of his parents which had been made for him by the Notary d'Aguilhe. He conned it a minute, standing by the Louis XIV. mantel, which may still be seen in that house, and sought but his mother's name. "Dame Catherine Lanier," it read. He drew out his little inkstand and quill, and, seizing a scrap of paper, tried some marks on it. Finding the ink to his satisfaction, he carefully touched the point of the quill to the contract and rapidly inserted the particle "de," making the name "Catherine de Lanier."
Rushing out of the house—it was afternoon—he sought relief in the open air and garden-like freshness of Notre Dame Street, a thoroughfare up to which the serried buildings of the "Lower Town"—for Montreal also had a Lower and Upper Town, even within its contracted width—had not yet crept, and which, situated on the top of the long, low ridge of the city, commanded free views of the river, the town, and all the prominent landmarks on one side, and of the fortification walls and the beautiful country seats on the slopes towards Mount Royal on the other. At first he noticed these alone, but gradually the wind from the west cooled his blood, and his eyes became conscious of military men and frilled and powdered people of fashion promenading the street to and from the barracks, and of his uniform becoming, as at Quebec, a subject of public curiosity. He stopped at length to note a prisoner in the town pillory, when a promenader of somewhat frayed attire and a countenance which bore marks of dissipation looked at him closely.
"I know your face very well," said he, coming forward, "though I cannot recall you. Do you remember any one of the name of Quinson St. Ours?"
"Quinson St. Ours? I should think I do. Are you my old schoolfellow of the Little Seminary?"
"Yes, it was at the Little Seminary—I have not been wrong then—but it is your name, my good schoolfellow, which escapes me; and now you look so distinguished that I hope you are not going to forget a schoolmate on that account?"
"Never, sir. My name is the Chevalier LeCour de Lincy, officer of the Guards of His Most Christian Majesty. I am the boy whom you knew as the little Lecour of St. Elphège."
The somewhat humble and seedy Quinson, black sheep of an excellent family, was glad to brighten up his tarnished career as the cicerone of so brilliant a butterfly, and only too proud to be the means of introducing Germain to the young bloods of the city. At the end of the week, when departing, Lecour gave a banquet, to which he invited all the choicest spirits, and having brought the feast well on into the drinking he said, casually—
"I am about, gentlemen, to go from here into the American colonies before I return to Europe and have a letter drawn which is necessary to identify me, when requisite, in places where I shall be totally unknown. Will you all do me the favour of signing it?"
"By Pollux and Castor we will!" shouted St. Ours, decidedly vinous.
"Certainly, friend," cried the others, and each in turn affixed his signature to the paper laid on the table. It read—