She stood erect, her face white with emotion.
“One moment, M. le Vicomte, until I see whether I can touch that hand again or not. Is it true that it was laid on my Prince?”
“No, mademoiselle, it was not.”
“Who, then, arrested him?”
“M. de Vaudreuil, mademoiselle.”
“And you? What did you do?”
“I stood there, mademoiselle, and saw that M. de Vaudreuil carried out his instructions.”
“His instructions? Who gave them
“I did, mademoiselle.”
“What! To arrest the Prince?”
“Certainly, mademoiselle.”
“And you think this was the part of 'a gentleman and a man of honour?'”
“Certainly, mademoiselle. It was my duty.”
I own that from the bottom of my heart I admired him. It was clear what was coming, yet he never faltered, never wavered, nor made any attempt at appeal or explanation. It was like the man. I envied him his courage.
“Did you never think for one moment of me? Of my devotion to him and his cause? Did not my regard, my affection even, weigh for one moment with you?” she went on, excitedly.
“Marguerite, Marguerite! This is cruel! This is unjust! I worship you as I have never worshipped woman, and at this moment you are breaking my heart!”
“You have broken mine,” she answered, coldly, and turning, walked slowly out of the room.
He stood with his face like marble.
Then Lady Jane rose, and laying her hand on his shoulder, said: “Gaston, I never thought more of you in my life, and the mother who bore you may well be proud of such a son. Margaret is but a child; when she thinks over what has happened, she will see matters in their true light. Girls' hearts do not break so easily. My own would have flown in pieces a thousand times if it had followed my imaginations,” she said, gayly; and then more tenderly, “Be patient with her, Gaston; she is only a child.”
But he shook his head sadly without reply.
“My dear Vicomte,” I said, “I know you have cause to look on me with no friendly eye; but believe me, I can echo every word my cousin has spoken. I can only admire and hope for such courage myself; and that I may prove the sincerity of my profession, I will withdraw entirely from a scene where I am only a disturbance. I have no thought, no hope of winning Margaret for myself. I will volunteer for service in Canada at once, and at least shall not have the regret of standing in the way of one I honour so highly.”
To all of which he said little, but that little so direct and feeling that we stepped out into the rue Dauphine together, more nearly friends than we had ever been.
HOW I MAKE BOTH FRIENDS AND ENEMIES IN NEW FRANCE
My resolution was immediate, but it was a different matter carrying it into effect. After many applications, and even entreaties, the most favourable opening I could obtain was the offer of an ensign's commission. It was almost beyond even my self-abnegation to accept such degradation. Only by the thought of Margaret, and the consoling comfort that I was making the sacrifice entirely for her sake, joined with the absolute promise of the minister that I should not long remain in such a subordinate position, could I bring myself to the point of acceptance.
Meantime the Vicomte had not in any degree taken a proper advantage of my disinterestedness; for, instead of winning back the affections of his adored one by direct and oft-repeated attack, he withdrew himself entirely from her company, and plunged into a course of the most reckless dissipation, making Paris ring with the tales of his extravagance and folly. Then suddenly, to every one's astonishment, he threw up his commission, and disappeared so effectually, that not even his intimates knew what had come to him. Those at the rue Dauphine were as ignorant as the rest of the world, and though his withdrawal was unquestionably a relief to Margaret, it was a source of deep mortification and sorrow to Lady Jane. However, neither letters nor inquiries were of any avail, and the most rigorous search only elicited the fact that no one knew what had become of the Vicomte Gaston de Trincardel, beyond that he had voluntarily disappeared without any adequate motive being assigned.
At length the time came for me to embark for my miserable command.
Margaret made but little effort to conceal her grief. “It is dreadful, dreadful, this parting!” she cried. “One after another I am losing those to whom I am most attached—first my brother, then Gaston, and now you. I am, indeed, 'a stranger in a strange land,' and if aught happens to Lady Jane, think what will become of me? But I am not thinking of myself alone,” she added, quickly. “Believe me, my greatest sorrow is that you, who have sacrificed so much for your loyalty, who have met with such reverses, such pitiful ill return for all your devotion to your King, are now doomed to an exile worse than before—to the acceptance of a rank that is an insult to your condition, to banishment in a savage country far from all those you love—and you accept it all without a murmur. Now I know, for you have taught me, the definition of 'a gentleman and a man of honour.'”
With this recognition, so worthy of her generous nature, she looked at me so proudly that I would have given anything to kneel at her feet and confess it was only the fact of being “a gentleman and a man of honour” which prevented me answering the love that glowed from every feature of her sweet face and throbbed in every pulse of her ardent young body with the burning words that trembled on my sealed lips.
“Oh, Margaret, sweet Margaret! I cannot say what I would. I dare hardly think what I would. Everything is against me!”
“Not everything,” she answered, quickly—“not everything, unless I am nothing! I am with you heart and soul! No, you cannot speak, because you have no position, and perhaps no future. But I can! Oh, Hugh, Hugh! I care nothing about it being unmaidenly; I cannot mind such matters when my heart is breaking. I love you with all my soul and with all my life. I will think of you every hour you are away from me, and pray for you every hour until God brings you back. Oh, Hugh, tell me-tell me you love me!”
“No, miss! Master Hughie shall do nothing of the sort!” interrupted Lady Jane, who had come in unmarked. “Any man who wishes to do any love-making, so far as Margaret Nairn is concerned, must first do so through me.
“There, there! Peggy, my pet—my wee girlie. You may kiss him once for your poor heart's comfort; and then, my lambie, leave my boy to me; I am the only mother he has. There, dearie, go now,” she said, tenderly, when I had kissed her as one might kiss a saint; and without a word Margaret left the room with my cousin, and it and my heart were empty.
Lady Jane was generous, as was her wont: all that money could do to make my departure easy was done; and most of all, she comforted me as a mother might comfort a son—indeed, as she had said to Margaret, she was the only mother I had ever known.
Again she told me plainly that I must not cherish any hopes upon her death beyond such humble provision as she might spare. “Margaret is my daughter, Hughie; and if you are the man I take you for, you would not deprive her of whatever money may bring.”
“Cousin,” said I, “I am going away for her sake, for her peace of mind alone; and if I am content to bury myself alive for this now, think you I'll regret any other good that can come to her? I love her with my whole heart and soul, and the greatest bitterness I have to bear is that I am prevented from declaring my feelings towards her before I go. She has spoken words to me that call for all the response in a man's soul, and I go away with my mouth closed like a clown.”
“Tut, tut, Hughie! Now you are letting your vanity get the upperhand of you. You are bemoaning yourself because you have not cut a better figure in her eyes. But just one word for your cold comfort. There never was a young girl in her position yet—bless all their lovely, trusting hearts—who would not make a hero of the man she loved, had he the garb of a Merry Andrew and the manners of a Calmuck. Don't fash yourself over imaginary woes when you've real ones in sight, plain enough, my poor boy. But now leave this profitless heart-break and let us plan for the future.”
Our talk lasted late into the night, and by daybreak I was on my way to La Rochelle.
And now began the most miserable period of my life, the details of which I have no intention of inflicting on my reader. A wretched sea-voyage was a fitting introduction to my place of banishment—Louisbourg, a pretentious and costly fortification, but miserably situate and falling to decay for want of the most necessary repair. There it was, shut in on the one hand by the monotonous sea, wild and threatening with its ice, and snow, and storm in winter, sad and depressing with its mournful fog in summer—and on the other by an unbroken wilderness of rock and firs—that I ate out my heart in bitterness year after year; my only alleviation being the rare letters which I received from Margaret, but which I scarce could answer, though my reticence only brought forth a fuller expression of the unwavering affection of her generous soul.
Dear as this indulgence in a cherished affection was to me, I brought myself to renounce it, for I held I was bound to this for more than one reason. Now that I had entirely broken with my past, I recognised that perhaps I should have done so sooner. Was it not folly to suppose that a girl such as Margaret would not follow her generous fancy when propinquity was added to inclination? Alas! that such admirable decisions are only so readily consented to when the occasion for delinquency is no longer possible!
Then, too, my position towards Lady Jane was a delicate one. She had clearly indicated to me her intentions as to the disposal of her fortune. A hopeful or even a contented correspondence was impossible to one in my situation, and to enter into any truthful detail of the misery of my surroundings might well appear, even in her kindly judgment, but an implied appeal to her generosity.
For this it was that I gradually cut down my letters year by year, until I entirely ceased from all intercourse, and lived my lonely life as best I might.
For fellow-exiles, I had near an hundred discontented gentlemen, ruling over a homesick soldiery, two or three unfortunate gentlewomen, a few greedy and dishonest officials, and a handful of wretched townspeople, whose prosperity was never fostered in time of peace nor their safety considered in time of war.
At last, through the friendship of the Comte de Raimond, Governor of the Island, I obtained a tardy promotion to the rank of lieutenant in the Regiment of Artois, under M. de St. Julhien, and the appointment as King's Interpreter, on which I was heartily congratulated by my comrades, who had long pitied my undeserved ill fortune.
Until then I had made but little effort to better my condition, but my advancement, as well as the increase in my pay, aroused me. I took fresh heart in and my appearance, and began to mix somewhat in such society as our forlorn situation afforded.
In Madame de Drucour, wife of our Commandant, I found a grande dame de par le monde, who commanded the admiration and respect of all our officers and the devotion of the soldiery and townspeople.
In Madame Prévost, the most charming little Canadian, wife of the Commissary—a creature with the carriage of a lackey and the soul of a dry-salter—I discovered a heart full of tender sympathy, dying of ennui. Her husband's unpopularity was such that but few of the officers would enter his doors, and indeed he was so fierce a Cerberus in regard to his unfortunate wife, that he made any attempt at alleviation of her unhappy condition wellnigh impossible. However, through my acquaintance with a M. de Sarennes, a Canadian partisan officer, who stood high in his favour, he saw fit to allow my visits, and I willingly put up with his want of breeding to offer such attention as I might to his prisoner, for so in truth she was.
Sarennes was attractive enough, in so far as his outward appearance went, but, like most of his countrymen—that is, the Canadians—was wanting in all those externals which are essential to a gentleman. He was courageous, but a braggart; he was well born, but had no breeding; he was open and friendly, but, I feared, truculent; and his sense of honour was not above the universal dishonesty which disgraced and wrecked his unfortunate country.
I had suspected his intimacy with Prévost had some less honourable foundation than a pitying admiration for his unfortunate wife, and I was confirmed in this by his proposal in my quarters one evening that I should hand over to him some blanks, signed by St. Julhien, on the Commissary, for stores, etc., which I was to requisition as required.
“May I ask to what use you intend to put them?” I said, more to sound him than for information, for this was one of the most favoured forms of peculation in the colonies.
“Oh, none that you will ever know of, Chevalier; and I should think an addition to your inadequate pay would not come amiss,” he added, artfully, without even an effort to veil his knavery.
The whole disgraceful, pettifogging scheme disgusted me; but, because he was a much younger man than I, and I believed might be in Prévost's power, I refrained from my natural indignation, and passing over the personal affront, I spake to him with all the consideration of a friend. I shewed him the path which he was treading, and pointed out the inevitable disgrace which must attend such a course, and most of all, the wretched meanness of so contemptible a crime. But, to my astonishment, he was inclined to excuse and cloak his wrong-doing.
“Sir,” said I, “nothing is further from my liking than an artificial morality, but I would avoid even the appearance of being cheaply vicious. Do not weigh out the largest possible measure of dishonesty to the smallest possible quantum of correction. If you must depart from that path of virtue towards which we should all direct our best endeavours, do so in a manner that will at least command the admiration of gentlemen and the leniency of a Divine Being, who may consider the frailty of the natural man, but never the tortuous conclusions of his compromising intellect.”
He was apparently sensible of my kindly advice, but I soon discovered that he not only disregarded it, but was endeavouring to do me an ill turn with the Commissary by directing his warped and jealous suspicions towards my innocent attentions to his wife.
The word “innocent” I use advisedly, and lest the reader have any doubt now or hereafter as to my intention touching the fair Madame Provost, let me assure him I can lay my hand on my heart and aver I never at any time held any warmer feeling towards her than the sympathy of an exile towards a prisoner.
That her stupidly jealous husband, fired by the insinuations of Sarennes, should distort mere civilities into serious intentions, and bear himself with such a ridiculous assumption of jaundiced suspicion that a cause for his uneasiness was readily invented by a scandal-loving garrison, was no doing of mine. Madame Prévost, with all her charm, had neither experience nor knowledge in such affairs; she was simply a woman profoundly unhappy and profoundly ignorant of the world. Could I have honestly offered her my affections as well as my sympathies, I might have done so, and had them as honestly returned; but no woman had ever awakened a throb in my heart since I bade farewell to one in the rue Dauphine in Paris. She still remained at once my hope and my despair; and, so long as she lived, other women were as dead to me. I lay claim to no great fortitude, to no heroic self-denial—it is seldom a man has attained the results of virtue with as little conscious effort as I was called upon to exercise.
But the mere knowledge of the integrity of my motives was not sufficient to protect them from the idle gossip of the town, and this inconvenience led to an abrupt termination of our intercourse in the following manner:
One afternoon, when amusing myself and Mme. Prévost by singing snatches of old songs, I had ended a favourite of hers with a telling accompaniment and the effective words,
“J'ai perdu mon coeur volage,Mon honneur, mon avantage,De moi ne me parle plus,”
“J'ai perdu mon coeur volage,Mon honneur, mon avantage,De moi ne me parle plus,”
when I was surprised by a burst of pretended applause, and turned to find M. Prévost facing me with a malicious air.
“Believe me, M. le Lieutenant, you have my sincerest sympathy,” he cried, with mock emphasis.
M. le Lieutenant, you have my sincerest sympathy!
“Upon what, sir?”
“Upon the loss of that inestimable jewel, your honour.”
“Pardon me, monsieur; that is merely the license of the verse—a dangerous thing to translate into plain prose.”
“I do not seize the distinction, monsieur.”
“You are probably not qualified to judge of either one or the other, M. Prévost.”
“Possibly not, M. le Lieutenant, but I am qualified to judge of the persons I will admit within my doors; and, 'in plain prose,' I would wish you to understand you are no longer one of them.”
“M. le Commissaire, your meaning is as plain as is your manner; nothing could be more unqualified, and I regret my inability to answer it in the same fashion,” I returned, not without a certain appreciation of his handling of the situation.
“Madame,” I said to his lady, who had preserved an admirable composure throughout this passage at arms, “I owe you a thousand thanks for your kindness, and a thousand regrets should I be the cause of any misunderstanding between you and your husband;” whereupon I raised her hand, and kissing it ceremoniously, I effected a not undignified retreat.
So the summer of '57 dragged on, when one warm afternoon in September—it was the 25th of the month—I wandered down to the landing-place to see the arrival of a ship from France that had slipped through the feeble blockade attempted by the English. I lazily watched the captain and others disembark with an uninterested eye until among them I caught sight of a lad of about fifteen years, whose dress and countenance were certainly English. As he came up with the others I advanced, and laying my hand on his shoulder, said,
“You are not French, my lad?”
“Oh no, sir,” he answered, looking full at me with an open, engaging smile; “I am English.”
“I thought so. What is your name?”
“Christopher Routh.”
“Good God! Kit! I am Captain Geraldine!”
“JOY AND SORROW ARE NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOURS”
As I had not been in the habit of asking favours of my superiors, permission was readily given that the English lad should be allowed to share my quarters with me.
I set my servant to work arranging for his comfort, and we sate in my little garden, I dying with curiosity to hear what lucky chance had blown him hither.
“Where is your mother, Kit?” I asked.
At this his eyes filled and his lips trembled, and for some moments he could not reply, during which I was unable to suppress a selfish hope that perchance my time of probation had ended.
“Mother is lost,” he answered, at last. “But let me start fair.” I was pleased to mark the boy spake with an easy address, for I hate the taint of servility above all things. “Ever since I had grown up I have been begging her to let me get to sea, and at length she yielded, in part to my entreaties, and in part to the wishes of some members of The Society who had settled in Boston, in the Province of Massachusetts, and agreed to come out to them. For me, anything answered that would give me my wish, and I did not see that it mattered whether she was among Methodists in England, or among Methodists in America.”
“You are right, my lad; I imagine they would make the world much of a likeness wherever they might be.”
He answered nothing to my observation, but went on:
“At length all our preparations were complete, and we left in June last in a wretched old craft, called theAfrican Chief, so ill found that she was dismasted and disabled in the first gale we met with.
“We were captured, or rather rescued, three days later by this very ship I have just come in, and the hulk was rerigged and sent back to France a prize, with her unfortunate crew and passengers as prisoners. From this fate my mother and I were preserved through the kindness of a French lady, who took compassion on mother as the only woman on board, and offered to take her as her waiting-woman, and I was allowed to accompany her. Anything was better than the certainty of a prison in France.”
“What was the lady's name, Kit? I may know her.”
“'Pon my word, sir, I am ashamed to say I don't know myself. There were no others of her condition on board, and she was addressed by every one simply as 'Madame.' and I never thought of asking my mother.”
“Never mind; go on.”
“We were treated with every kindness, and Madame showed every conceivable consideration for my poor mother, while I made friends with all on board, and soon learned enough French to find my way about ship. Madame and my poor mother found the length of the voyage tedious to a degree, but I loved every hour of it. We unfortunately ran short of water, as our casks had so strained during a heavy gale we encountered they lost all or most of their contents. Besides this mischief, the gale drove us so far out of our course to the north, that our captain determined to run into the Baie des Chaleurs for a fresh supply of water.
“This we did, and there found it in abundance; and after the boats had begun to pass backward and forward, and we were convinced there was no danger, Madame and mother were allowed to have their wish and leave the ship for a ramble on shore. At first they stayed within sight, but gradually gaining courage, they strayed away unnoticed by any of us for some time. When they were missed, an instant search was made, and we started through the woods hallooing and firing our pieces, but without result; at length some of the sailors, who had been in those parts before, discovered a place where they said Indians had lately camped. We soon found further traces that confirmed this, and at last a small gray tippet which I knew to be mother's, and we were no longer in doubt.
“I was wild to keep at the search, but the others persuaded me it was useless to do so, that these savages wandered over the whole country, and would certainly carry their prisoners to some post where they would claim a reward, especially if they thought they were English, which might well be the case; and in any event there was no danger of their lives, as these savages never illtreat white women, except in attack. Anxious as I was, I could not but agree that they were right, and so said no more; but now I am content to remain here, as I have a better chance of hearing news than if exchanged for some French prisoner, as we were hoping all the way out.”
Although I had not the same confidence as the boy, I encouraged him in his hopefulness, and in turn told him of my own doings since I had left their roof in London.
My whole existence now took on a different aspect; my duties were in no degree onerous; and Kit, the dear boy, so won every heart that he was looked upon as a guest of the whole garrison, rather than a prisoner. No restrictions were placed upon his movements, and we roamed over the whole country with our fowling-pieces or angles, and many a fine string of trout did we present to Madame de Drucour and other friends.
We explored the country from Louisbourg to Miré, and there we fell in with Sarennes and his following, with whom Kit was delighted beyond measure; and indeed there was much in the Canadian to attract those who did not look beyond the externals. He fairly enchanted the boy with his tales of savage life, his exhibition of his wild followers, and his skill in woodcraft and the chase, and I soon felt that Kit was revolving some plan for discovering the whereabouts of his mother through his aid.
This was the one flaw in my happiness. If I had not wished for her death, I had at least hoped never to hear of her again, and indeed there seemed but little likelihood of it in this remote quarter, but every inquiry on the part of Kit gave me fresh uneasiness. This he was quick to perceive, but as I had never given him an inkling of the reason, he put my holding to him down to the liking of a solitary exile for one of his own kind.
Sarennes, too, saw my fondness for the lad, and took a pleasure in attracting him from me on every possible excuse; but it was not until a dinner given by M. de Drucour at the New Year that I saw how far his petty cruelty could go.
With an air of assumed geniality he said to the Commandant: “M. de Drucour, before I start on my expedition to-morrow, I am tempted to ask for a volunteer in the English lad Christopher. He is anxious to go, and I shall be pleased to have him.”
“But, monsieur, you can hardly have him without me, for I am responsible to M. de Drucour for his safe-keeping,” I broke in, with a chilling fear at my heart that my one treasure in the world would be imperilled in such treacherous hands.
“M. de Maxwell seems over-fond of this prisoner,” sneered M. Prévost, who was an unwelcome guest, but could not well be left out on an official occasion. “A too-lenient jailer may be even more dangerous than his prisoner at times,” he went on; and I saw that further discussion might only precipitate matters, when I stood in so delicate a position; for a soldier in foreign service, no matter what his merit, is ever a ready object of suspicion.
However, M. de Drucour turned matters by addressing me in his usual courteous and friendly manner: “With these rumours of war in the spring, have you had no inspiration for your Muse, Chevalier?”
“I have a song, if you will not hold the end a reflection on our surroundings,” I replied. “However, remember that it is not I, but my sword, that sings, and, I am afraid, only strikes a note common to us all.”
I regret I cannot give the graceful French couplets into which Madame de Drucour had obligingly turned my verses, and so cleverly preserved all the fire and strength of my original, which must now serve as it was written.
“In Spanish hands I've bent and swungWith Spanish grace and skill;I've scoured Lepanto of the Turk,And Spain of Boabdil;I've clanged throughout the Low Countrie;I've held the Spanish Main;—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, In Spain.“In Scottish hands I've saved the prideThat else had starved at home,When under Bourbon's banner wideWe swept through Holy Rome;In private fight I've cleared the slightThat Beauty's brow would stain;—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, in Spain.“At Killiecrankie with DundeeI've struck for James the King;The blood-red waters of the BoyneHave heard my metal ring;Again with Mar at Sherriff-muirI've raised the olden strain;—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, in Spain.“Along the line at FontenoyI've flashed in wild parade,When on the English columns fellThe strength of Clare's Brigade;I've stood for Bonnie Charles untilCulloden's fatal plain;—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, in Spain.“But now in exiled hands I rustBeside the salt sea's marge,And though I dream of trumpet call,Of rally, and of charge,Of screaming fife, and throbbing drum,As troops defile in train,—I wake to hear the wailing moanOf the imprisoning Main—Dead is all Glory!Dead all Fame!Will never sound that song again—That great, world-wakening refrain?—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, in Spain.”
“In Spanish hands I've bent and swungWith Spanish grace and skill;I've scoured Lepanto of the Turk,And Spain of Boabdil;I've clanged throughout the Low Countrie;I've held the Spanish Main;—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, In Spain.
“In Scottish hands I've saved the prideThat else had starved at home,When under Bourbon's banner wideWe swept through Holy Rome;In private fight I've cleared the slightThat Beauty's brow would stain;—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, in Spain.
“At Killiecrankie with DundeeI've struck for James the King;The blood-red waters of the BoyneHave heard my metal ring;Again with Mar at Sherriff-muirI've raised the olden strain;—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, in Spain.
“Along the line at FontenoyI've flashed in wild parade,When on the English columns fellThe strength of Clare's Brigade;I've stood for Bonnie Charles untilCulloden's fatal plain;—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, in Spain.
“But now in exiled hands I rustBeside the salt sea's marge,And though I dream of trumpet call,Of rally, and of charge,Of screaming fife, and throbbing drum,As troops defile in train,—I wake to hear the wailing moanOf the imprisoning Main—Dead is all Glory!Dead all Fame!Will never sound that song again—That great, world-wakening refrain?—Ferrara made and fashioned me,In Cordova, in Spain.”
There was a spontaneous outburst of applause as I ended, for I had seldom made a better effort, and my closing lines but echoed a sentiment common to us all—that is, of all of us who were soldiers. Such a creature as Prévost could never have a generous impulse stir the weighing-machine which served him in lieu of a soul; and Sarennes was spoiled for nobler aims by the debasing influence of la petite guerre, dear to all Canadians. So M. Prévost saw fit to refrain from all applause; and Sarennes, foolish boy, for boy he was, in spite of his thirty years, was ill-bred enough to follow his example.
“M. Prévost, surely you are over-critical when you do not applaud,” said M. de St. Julhien, banteringly. “Remember we are not in the rue St. Honoré, though I would trust this voice even there.”
“You have more faith in that, then, than he has in his sword. He puts it in Spanish and Scotch hands. Why not in French?” snapped out the little centipede, virulently.
“Possibly there are some French hands in which he would not trust it,” retorted M. de Julhien, to our great delight.
“Do your words bear that construction?” asked the nettled Commissary, turning on me.
“Possibly, too, M. de Maxwell may think it is not to be trusted in some Canadian hands,” broke in Sarennes, with a hectoring air.
“Now, gentlemen,” I returned, “you are coming too fast with your questions. As for you, M. de Sarennes, I once offered you some good advice which you did not see fit to follow, and now, even at the risk of having it similarly disregarded, I will proffer more; which is, not to expose yourself to punishment for the impertinences of others. As for your question, when I have had some more satisfactory experience of Canadians, I shall know better how to answer it.”
“And has not your experience of me been satisfactory, monsieur?” said he, pluming up again.
“You are perfectly qualified to answer that question, yourself,” I replied, looking “blank requisitions” at him so pointedly that he simply reddened to the roots of his black hair and held his tongue, to the amazement of all who had hoped for some further amusement.
“As for your question, M. Prévost,” I continued, rounding on him, “I made no reflection on Frenchmen in general. They are my comrades, my brothers-in-arms!” I said, playing to the company at large, by whom my sentiment was greeted with a burst of applause. “As to Frenchmen in particular, I have known some who were so dangerous with the pen that I would indeed hesitate to trust them with the sword.” Now, as Prévost was hated and dreaded for nothing more than his lying reports to the Minister at home, and as no man in any position at the table had escaped his venom, my sally was again greeted not only with applause, but also with a roar of stentorian laughter.
The whole affair ended in nothing more serious than the hot words and laughter, for Sarennes, though a braggart, was not evil-tempered, at least towards me. For Prévost I cared not a maravedi, and would have spitted him liked a smoked herring at any time with the greatest pleasure. My chief disappointment was that I had not succeeded in my attempt to obtain a refusal of Sarennes's request for Kit's company, an attempt I dared not renew, and was forced to give a reluctant consent when it was referred to me.
My heart was big with foreboding the last evening we spent together, and it required an effort almost beyond my powers to refrain from taking him into my arms and telling him he was my son. I almost persuaded myself that my life was so wretched, so lonely, so hopeless, that I would be justified in so doing. But for some reason or other I did not, why, I cannot pretend to say, and I saw him march proudly off at daybreak the next morning with my secret still untold. I wondered if any one would be equally faithful to me.
Such a weary month of January I never passed, for no one knew the danger of these miserable, skulking little war parties better than I; and to add to this there was my distrust of Sarennes eating at my heart every time I tried to make little of my fears.
What wonder was it, when the door of my room opened after a quiet knock, one stormy afternoon, and the dark face of the Canadian appeared, that I sprang to my feet and demanded, savagely: “Where is he? What have you done with him?”
“He was taken,” he answered, quietly, “and I am here to answer for him.”
There was such a dignity in his bearing, such a sensibility in his look, that I was melted at once, and my murderous suspicion put to flight.
“A thousand pardons, monsieur, for my rudeness. I have been anxious day and night for the boy. Tell me what has happened.”
He told the story simply, and I could not doubt that he told it truly. It was the ordinary incident, common to these wretched marauding parties, an attempted surprise, a couple of men lost, my poor boy wounded and captured before the baffled coureurs de bois could attempt a rescue.
When Sarennes left me with some words of sympathy, I was suffering only what hundreds of fathers have suffered before me. That it was common was no alleviation to my pain.
“HE WHO SOWS HATRED SHALL GATHER RUE”
Sarennes had taken himself off again to gather fresh laurels in ambuscade and retreat, the alternatives which compose the whole science of la petite guerre, and I had but little to remind me of my loss save the constant ache at my heart when I was alone, a position I strove by every means possible to avoid.
That Sarennes was desirous of making some reparation for his injury towards me, was proved by a letter from him dated in March, and written from his mother's house at Beaulieu:
“Chevalier,—There is an Englishwoman staying here who claims to be your wife. What do you wish me to do in the matter? I am ready to oblige you in any way.
“Sarennes.”
I have never made any pretension to a fortitude other than that which any honourable gentleman of my standing might claim. I was still sore under this last stroke of undeserved misfortune which had so cruelly deprived me of Kit, and I could not but look on his mother as at least the indirect cause of my loss. Under these feelings I delivered the following to the Indian runner:
“Monsieur,—If you have any regard for me, keep the lady claiming to be my wife at such distance that I may never set eyes on her again. Should she be in want, I will gladly reimburse you for any expenditure you may make on her account.
“Le Chev. Maxwell.”
We now come to events on which the antiquary and the student might demand a larger attention and notice than I shall devote to them. I have been too prominent an actor in the drama of the downfall of New France to write on the subject with that calmness and impartiality with which I try to view all matters; and I leave it to the gentleman who has passed his lifetime at his desk, undisturbed by any greater explosion than that of wifely indignation at his late hours and waste of otherwise valuable ink and paper, to relate the battles he has never seen and weigh the interests he cannot understand.
In January we had positive intelligence that the English would make a descent in force at the earliest possible moment in the spring. On the first day of June we saw from our ramparts the sails of their fleet spreading over the horizon, and by the eighth they attempted their descent by land.
We made such defence as seemed possible at the time, but, like all unsuccessful efforts, it has been severely criticised since, chiefly by “the gentleman at his desk.”
As we lay in position at our post at La Cormorandière, hourly expecting the landing of the enemy, it was reported by our surgeon-general, M. Guérin, that we were utterly without provision of lint, brandy, and other necessities for the wounded. A messenger was instantly despatched with a requisition to the Commissary, but he returned with a message from Prévost saying, “There are none of these articles in the King's magazines; if the English force our intrenchments, it will be their business to take care of the wounded; if, on the other hand, we are successful, we shall have time enough to attend to them.”
Our colonel, M. de St. Julhien, read this heartless reply aloud, amid the deepest execrations on the part of our officers, and then turning to me, said, “Here, Chevalier, I understand there is no love lost between you and this creature. I commission you to see that these requirements are fulfilled by the morning.” And he sate down and wrote an order on the Commissary to “deliver to the Chevalier Maxwell such stores as he may demand for the use of the Company d'Artois.”
Armed with this authority, I set forth at once, and arriving at the town about eight o'clock, made my way to the Commissary's house and demanded him with scant ceremony.
He appeared with but little delay, and I caught sight of the bright face of Madame, alight with curiosity, behind him, though he clapped the door to sharply enough.
“Well, Monsieur le Lieutenant”—he took a petty spite in disregarding my title of Chevalier—“what brings you here away from your post?”
“Only the definite intention, M. le Commissaire, of seeing that you obey orders. I require stores for my colonel; there is his order, and if you try any of your devil's tricks with me, sir, I will make no more of running you through than I would a rat.”
He turned as white as a piece of dried plaster.
“Come, sir, none of your shuffling. I want an answer at once.”
“You'll get no answer from me, sir, other than I have sent. I have no stores; the magazines are empty.”
“I know you to be a thief, M. le Commissaire, and it is no great stretch of imagination to believe you a liar. Show me your vaults.”
“Very well, very well. We shall see who is right. We shall see who is a liar,” and he started off with alacrity.
“Wait, sir! Where are you going?”
“Only into the next room to get my keys.”
“Very well; I'll go with you,” and I followed him into the next room.
Here we found Madame on tiptoe with excitement and curiosity.
“Where are you going? What is the matter?” she asked, quickly.
“None of your business!” roared her husband, with his usual brutality.
“Only into the vault to look for stores.” I answered, throwing as much feeling into the commonplace answer as was possible.
Prévost provided himself with a lanthorn and led the way through the passage and down the steps leading to the cellars, muttering and scolding to himself, for he dared not make a complaint to which I might reply, until we reached the outer door. This he unlocked, and I discovered a long passage, evidently underground, for the air struck me as damp and chill as we traversed it, to the entrance of the principal vault, which he opened.
“There! See for yourself if I have not told the truth. It is as empty as death!” and as he spake he held the lanthorn high.
Bat this did not satisfy me. I was determined to take nothing for granted until I had personally proved the truth of his protestations.
“Give me the light,” I said, taking it from him as I entered.
“Willingly.” he replied; but I had not taken a dozen steps before I heard a clang, the quick turn of a key, and found I was a prisoner, trapped like a rat by the man I most hated and despised.
At first I was inclined to laugh, for the turn was not without its cleverness, but the inclination was quickly stifled as I realized what such a situation might mean to one in my position.
A foreign officer failing to be at his post when about to meet his own countrymen face to face, would be a default open to such construction as filled me with dismay—a construction which the wretch who had trapped me would use every means to convert into the blackest of certainties. When the first feeling of dismay had passed I made a careful examination of my prison, but the result brought no encouragement. The vault, which was an outer one, was only provided with two heavy doors, the one by which I had entered, and the other doubtless leading to another vault. There was not a sign of any window or opening, and the walls were covered with a white coating of fungus. In one corner was some useless household lumber, and against the wall stood a wooden coffer like those in well-to-do farmers' houses at home; save for these odds and ends, the place was indeed empty; in so far, at least, my gentleman had not lied.
I placed my lanthorn on the floor, and seating myself on the chest, tried to form some plan of action. There was no use in attempting to attract attention by raising an outcry, for I was certainly underground, cut off by the long passage from the house. If I made a fire the smoke could not escape, and I should only gain suffocation for my pains. There was absolutely no escape that I could further by my unaided effort. Dreadful as this thought was, I was tortured by others infinitely worse; by phantasms that the future might well convert into horrid realities.
With a too-ready imagination I framed the crafty charges which my enemy would prefer against me. No sense of shame would prevent him from distorting my innocent relations towards his wife into a treacherous attempt upon his honour; he would no doubt trump up some suggestive story of my presence in his house. My unsupported statement of my imprisonment must stand against his specious tale—the word of the accused against that of the injured husband, and he an official with powerful backing. The ridiculous trap into which I had so stupidly fallen would be difficult to explain without derision at any time, but now it was a time of actual war, when any infraction of duty would be punished with the severest penalty; nothing short of death would be a sufficient excuse for my failure to return to my post.
I pictured myself, an alien—for a foreigner is always an alien no matter what his merit or service may be—fighting for life against the malevolence of a virulent enemy, contending too against that monstrous perversion of justice which so often sways a court-martial —composed as it is of men little qualified by training for impartial judgment—towards the severest interpretation where an officer without influence is concerned, to win a cheap applause from outsiders and inferiors.
My blood ran cold at the thought. I stared at the lanthorn until my eyes ached, and, when I looked elsewhere, the image of the flame only faded to give place to another scene in the drama that tried my fortitude almost beyond endurance: It was early dawn outside the Brouillon Bastion, chilling sheets of fog swept in from over the dull waters, and there, with back against the ramparts, stood a coatless figure, with pinioned arms and bandaged eyes, facing a file of soldiers—the dreadful waiting in the dark, the whispered commands, the sudden movement of the men, and then—I jumped to my feet trembling in every limb, and with shaking hand wiped the gathered perspiration from my forehead, but could not wipe away the vision of the men staring at the motionless figure lying face downward on the trampled grass, dishonoured, never to be spoken of, until the Great Day, when all the injustices of the ages shall be righted and made clear.
I again seized the lanthorn and re-examined every stone and corner with feverish hope, only to have despair triumph over it more completely than before. Then came a season of mad revolt. It was too horrible! too impossible! that I, Hugh Maxwell, a gentleman, who had lived delicately, who had shone in society which the world courted, who had loved fair women, had talked, and smiled, and sung to them, could in a few short hours be lying a mangled corpse in this obscure corner of the world, could die the death of a dog, of a traitor, the most shameful that can come to a man of honour. I was filled with a vast pity for myself, so mighty and overwhelming that tears filled my eyes as for another, for I saw myself apart, as it were, as distinctly as I saw that pitiful figure before the ramparts; then the childishness of it flashed across me and I laughed aloud; but my laughter was no more real than my tears, for neither brought relief, and the weary round began again.
How many hours this continued I do not know, but my attention was suddenly arrested by a sound at the door, and I made out a jingle of keys. Quickly blowing out the light, I drew my sword and prepared to force an exit, no matter what the odds. But scarce had the door moved when I caught a low whisper. “The chest against the wall! Quick!” Then followed the voice of Madame Prévost raised in dismay: “Mon Dieu, Charles! My candle has gone out! Hurry, bring a light!”
The moment's delay sufficed; I gained the chest and squeezed myself in, letting the lid down over me.
In a moment and before my heart ceased beating I heard her clear accents again. “There, Charles! There, Antoine! Take it up and carry it to my room.” And I felt the chest slowly lifted, and the men staggered out, complaining loudly of its weight.
Up the stairs we travelled, uncomfortably for me; then on a level again along the passage; and I was laughing to myself at the probable outcome of my adventure, when I heard,
“Where in the name of all the devils are you lugging that thing?”
It was the Commissary!
“To my room. I want to put my furs away,” came the soft answer from madame.
“Blague! Put it down!” And I was jarred on the stone flags.
Then came a pause, and I was speculating on the best mode of attack for a man in my ridiculous position, when the chest was lifted at one end and again dropped heavily.
Then came the same voice, but with a tone of triumph to it:
“Well, do as you like; but there is a lot of old rubbish in it. Take it first, and empty it over the Princess's Bastion!” And once more the chest was slowly lifted.
A pretty situation surely, and clever on the part of M. the Commissary again. A tumble down on those rocks or into the moat would be equally effective, and would not require such explanations as if my body were found in the King's vaults; but my gentleman reckoned without his host.
My scheme was as simple as his own. Hardly had we got clear of the house before my mind was made up. When I judged we were at the open space between the end of the barricaded street and the ramparts I uttered a terrifying yell and flapped the lid. It was enough. The chest went crashing to the ground, and I crawled out, bruised but otherwise unhurt, and my valiant porters were out of sight.