And bowing low, answered her lively greeting.
Presently she rose, and dismissing her court with a laughing bow, they moved down the room together, and as they did so my love followed them, sweeping all doubts aside, and I fell to defending him against myself with all my soul. I had never read that letter aright. Should I not have remembered that such a man could never hurt a woman? It was an impossibility for him to have written me direct; and had he not, through the very hands of my enemy, sent me effective warning not to intrust myself to his treacherous guidance?—“Keep the lady claiming to be my wife at such, a distance that I may never set eyes on her again.” Could anything be plainer or better conceived? If he had denied being married, his letter could have carried no message for me, and would have placed me in even a worse position. It was through my own pride and stupidity that I had blundered into denying the marriage, and so had thrown myself into the power of Sarennes.
“Good-evening, mademoiselle,” whispered a voice; and I faced about, trembling with sudden terror, to find M. de Sarennes close behind me.
“Good-evening, mademoiselle,” he repeated, smiling at my dismay. “You did not expect to see me?”
“I did not know you were in Quebec,” I gasped, trying hard to recover my self-control.
“Nor did any one else, save your friend M. de Montcalm; I arrived an hour ago.”
“How did you know I was here?” I asked, to gain time.
“I guessed whither you had been drawn when I did not find you at the house, and a crown to the right lackey brought me here. And now, with your permission, we will finish that conversation your friend the Jesuit interrupted more than six months ago. No, you dare not cry out; and see, I have the key. You are more alone with me here than in the woods at Beaulieu,” and he smiled with an air of triumph that made me desperate.
“It is useless to attempt to frighten me, monsieur,” I said, boldly. “I am among friends.”
“Indeed? And you count this Chevalier de Maxwell among them?”
“I do; for now I understand the letter he sent.”
“May I ask in what way?”
“In the way of a warning not to trust myself to a man in whom he had no confidence.”
“Ah! He has explained this to you himself?”
“No, monsieur; it was my own fault I did not see it at the time.”
“Will you answer me one question truthfully? Have you seen M. de Maxwell? You will not answer? Then your silence speaks for you. Now if this letter had been sent with the meaning you pretend to put upon it, do you not think M. de Maxwell would have sought you out in a little place like Quebec, where he has no other occupation on his hands than to win enough at pharaon to dress himself for such duties as these?” he said, contemptuously, as he waved his hand towards the ball-room; and with the sneering words my defence of a few moments before was in the dust. “You have seen him here,” he went on, when he marked the effect of his words. “Does he look like a man who is eating his heart out; or like one who is free of a burthen and trying to enjoy the present? Marguerite, listen to me! For your sake I have braved disgrace and perhaps ruin; for your sake I would go through it again—”
“How dare you speak to me thus, monsieur!” I interrupted. “You insult me beyond endurance when you dare to say I ever inspired any man to be a traitor and a coward.”
“By God!” he muttered, “have a care lest I strike you! There are some things I cannot stand, even from you.”
“Strike! I would rather that than anything else from you.”
He glared at me fiercely for a moment, then suddenly changing, he whispered, entreatingly: “Marguerite, do not tempt me thus. Do not bring out all that is worst in me. You know I love you.”
“I will not have your love; it is hateful to me.”
“Why should my love be hateful? It is not different from that of other men! It is as strong—so strong that I cannot master it. It is as tender, if you will but answer it. It is not to be despised, for I have never offered it to another; and as for myself, God made me as I am.”
“I will not have your love, M. de Sarennes. I will not answer it, and you degrade it when you would force it on me. Go, and leave me in peace!”
“Marguerite, you know nothing of my love. It counts neither insult nor rejection. If you will have it in no other way, let me at least serve you. Let me take up your quarrel.”
“What do you mean?”
“This Maxwell. Say so, and I will hunt him down, and never leave him until you are revenged.”
“Are you mad, monsieur?”
“No, mademoiselle, I am not mad! But are you shameless?”
Trembling with indignation, I drew my cloak about me, and sweeping aside the curtain, I stepped out on the floor of the lighted ball-room. As I passed, the curtain caught my hood, and, to my annoyance, it fell back from my head. The full glare of the light was dazzling, and I was bewildered and confused, but I kept my eyes fixed on the doorway and walked swiftly towards it. No one spake to me, or uttered any exclamation of surprise. Two gentlemen stepped apart as I advanced to allow me free passage, and I had just gained the entrance when I came face to face with the Marquis de Montcalm.
Without the slightest hesitation he bowed, and at once stepped back into the corridor with me.
“Ah, madame, you should have been on the floor, and not in the gallery. This ball promises to be amusing, and you are running away before it has fairly begun.” Seeing I was too embarrassed to reply, he continued with perfect savoir-faire a conversation made up of nothings, leading me down the long corridor away from curious eyes as he did so, until I was able to say, with decency:
“Monsieur, a thousand thanks for your timely attention, but I must return. I have been over-long already.”
At this moment M. de Sarennes approached from the opposite direction, and bowing, as if he had met me for the first time that evening, said, after saluting the Marquis, “My mother grows anxious at your stay, madame, and has deputed me to be your escort.”
But he counted too far on my cowardice, and had no knowledge of how far a woman will trust an honourable man. The Marquis, never doubting his good faith, had already fallen back a step, when I turned to him and said, quietly,
“Monsieur, it is quite impossible for me to accept this gentleman's offer, but I shall be grateful if you will provide me with a different escort.”
“There is not the slightest difficulty in that. M. de Sarennes, I must ask you to remain in attendance here, as I will not have another opportunity of seeing you before you start for Montreal in the morning. I will join you within presently;” and he dismissed the angry man with a formal little bow, as if unconscious of anything unusual. Beckoning to a servant, he ordered him to find M. Joannès, and bid him meet us at the entrance.
“I am heartily glad, madame,” he said, when we were alone, “that you had the confidence to appeal to me. I shall take means to keep M. de Sarennes so busily employed that he will have no further opportunity of annoying you.”
“I am very grateful, monsieur, and would never have troubled you could I have seen any other way of escape.”
“'Tutto è bene che riesce bene,' which is the extent of my Italian, madame; but here is M. Joannès. M. Joannès,” he continued, to the merry little officer, “you have already had the pleasure of meeting Mme. de St. Just; you now can render her a service.”
“I am sure madame has confidence in me; she saw how I had provided the wine when it was essential we should wish her bon voyage off Cap Tourmente.”
“Good! The present service only differs in kind. Will you order my cariole, and see her safely to Mme. de Sarennes's?”
“With all the pleasure in the world, mon général,” and he bowed and hurried off to order the sleigh. In a few moments we whirled out of the court-yard and were driving rapidly up Palace Hill.
M. Joannès chattered incessantly, which was the very spur I most needed. His open friendliness and my sure confidence in the protection of M. de Montcalm gave me a feeling of safety against any attempt on the part of M. de Sarennes that was perfectly reassuring, and I slept that night without a fear, in spite of what I had gone through, until awakened by Angélique as the day was breaking.
“Oh, Marguerite, for shame! To think of your being at the ball and never letting me know!” she cried, to my consternation; but added, immediately: “I'm glad you went, though. Didn't we all look fine?”
“Very fine, and I admired you most of all the women, chérie.”
“Flatterer! You made a fine stir yourself when you crossed the floor. I wish I had seen you, and I would have captured you, then and there! Did you not know you could have gone round by the passage?”
“That is the way I came; but when I wished to go, the door was locked,” I answered, boldly, as I saw she suspected nothing.
“I guessed who it was the moment they spoke of your hair; but I told no one, not even M. de Maxwell. Did you see him? He wore a brown coat laced with silver, and we were at your end of the room, I suppose, while you were there.”
“Yes, chérie, I saw him when he first came to you.”
“And am I not right? Has he not le bel air?”
“He certainly has.”
“But who else in the world do you think was there? You will never guess. Charles! He was on his way to Montreal, and came to the ball only to see me in my finery, he said. Not every brother would do that, let me tell you! and he is off the first thing this morning without ever coming to the house. Now I must be off to bed; I couldn't help waking you to tell you my news;” and she kissed me and went to dream of her pleasures.
The following afternoon we went to the Jesuits for benediction—to me the sweetest service of the day. It was already growing dark as we entered. Within, the narrow windows broke the blackness of the walls with their slits of dull gray, and the worshippers sate or knelt in the twilight, a shadowy throng, over which the twinkling flood of light from countless tapers on the altar broke in yellow softness.
The peaceful, tender service was in perfect harmony with the quiet of the evening, and I felt my heart filled with a great comfort; when suddenly from the loft behind us, where the musicians stood, floated out the familiar words,
Tantum ergo sacramentumVeneremur cernui...
Tantum ergo sacramentumVeneremur cernui...
and I sank trembling to my knees, for the voice to me was as the voice of an angel—it was Hugh's! I covered my face with my hands and wept silent, blessed tears of joy, while the beautiful hymn thrilled through my very soul.
Tantum ergo sacramentum Veneremur cernui...
“It is M. de Maxwell,” whispered Angélique; but I could make no answer.
As I walked home with Angélique, her enthusiastic praise of Hugh stirred in me no spark of resentment, much less of jealousy; her satisfaction that I should have seen and admired was so honest and open, and the glimpse I had caught of his bearing towards her was so reassuring, that I was undisturbed. In spite of the truculent suggestions of M. de Sarennes, and even in the face of my own doubts and fears and pride, I was so won back to the old dreamings, so reawakened to the old longings, that I felt nothing less than his own words could ever satisfy me that I had been mistaken. After all, I could not see that I ran any serious risk in meeting him; in such a place as Quebec it was likely to happen at any moment; and surely it were better to take place when I was prepared. At the worst, my position as Mme. de St. Just would still serve to stand between us, and I felt assured I could rely on his forbearance.
However, I was not suffered to come to any conclusion, for Mme. de Sarennes met us as we entered, with tidings that drove everything else out of my head for the moment.
“Marguerite, I have news for you. La mère de Ste. Hélène sends word, saying an Englishwoman has been brought to the Hôtel-Dieu, and from the description I believe her to be Lucie. Do you both go at once and ascertain.”
We hurried off in great excitement, and an interview with the Superior satisfied us that the patient was indeed my poor Lucy. She had been found that very morning, wandering in a benumbed and dazed condition on the road by the St. Charles, by a habitant coming with his load to early market, and as he had business at the Hôtel-Dieu, he had carried her there and given her in charge of the nuns. She was much exhausted by cold and fasting, but sleep and food had restored her to consciousness, and, on finding she was English, they had at once sent us word.
“If you wish, you may see her now, madame,” said the Superior. “And if we are right, it will serve to reassure her, for she is much troubled at being detained here.”
Thanking her, I took my way in charge of a sister, and quietly entered the sick-room. The first glance at the frail face on the pillow told me our search had ended, and there was instant recognition in the eyes that met mine. I was by her bedside in a moment.
“Oh, my dear mistress!” she sobbed. “It was wicked of me to desert you, but I did not understand where you had gone.”
“No, no, Lucy; I am the one to be forgiven. I should never have left you; but now we are together again, and when you are well nothing shall part us.”
“Will you stay with me now? I am afraid here! It is all so strange, and I am not well,” she ended, pitifully.
“Yes, Lucy, I will stay. But first I must ask permission, and send word to Mme. de Sarennes.”
“Will you say to her that I am sorry?”
“Yes, dear; but no one is blaming you.”
“You are all good,” she said, with a sigh of content; and I ran off to obtain a ready approval of my stay from both the Superior and Angélique, who promised to return on the morrow.
My presence was all that was needed to quiet Lucy, and she passed a restful night, to awaken so greatly improved that she readily talked of her wanderings. It was much as I had suspected; M. de Sarennes had wilfully encouraged and deceived her, feeding her delusion at every opportunity, even giving her directions for her road, in the evident intent of getting her out of the way, to have a freer hand in his designs. It was a relief to find that every one had treated her with kindness, and that she had found a shelter in St. Roch, with a widow, who was thankful for the trifle she paid for her lodging. Once she reached Quebec she was quite content, for she had only to wait until Christopher might appear. She gave no reason why she was wandering out by the St. Charles, and I did not question her; but no doubt she had really been ill for days, and was not fully conscious of her action.
Mme. de Sarennes came with Angélique in the morning, and it was touching to see how lively an interest this quiet Lucy had awakened in both their hearts.
“You are in good hands, my dear,” said the old lady, graciously. “Show your gratitude by getting well and coming back to us.”
“I will do my best, madame. God has been very good to me,” she answered, in halting French; whereupon Mme. de Sarennes patted her cheek, and left to speak with her friend the Superior.
As she was going, Angélique beckoned me into the corridor, and whispered: “I was thinking last night that we might ask M. de Maxwell to come and give her news of her boy when he was in Louisbourg. You know Charles told us he was much with him there, and I am sure my mother can obtain leave from the Superior. What do you think?”
“I think it would do her more good than anything else in the world, We will ask her.”
“Lucie,” asked Angélique, “would you like me to bring a gentleman who was in Louisbourg, and who can give you news of Christophe when he was there?”
“Oh yes, mademoiselle; I should love it above all things,” she answered, with a flush of joy over her pale face.
“Very well; we will come to-morrow.”
There was every reason, for Lucy's sake, why Hugh should come, and in my heart I longed to see him again before I determined on my own course of action. It was a pleasing thought, too, that I should see him comforting one to whom it would mean so much.
The morrow was a long day for both of us, and at four o'clock, just as it was growing dusk, I sate by her bed, listening anxiously to every footfall in the corridor, until at last I caught Angélique's light step, followed by a firmer tread, which I recognised at once.
It would be hard to tell whether Lucy or I was the more excited.
“Be calm, Lucy,” I whispered, laying a trembling hand on hers; and I drew my chair up to the head of the bed, so that I was completely hidden by its white curtain.
“Lucie,” said Angélique, on entering, “I have brought my friend. Shall he come in?”
“Yes, mademoiselle,” answered Lucy, in an expectant voice.
I heard Angélique go towards the door, and then heard Hugh enter. I caught the arms of my chair tightly as he approached the bed, when, to my amazement, I felt that Lucy had raised herself, and the next instant she cried, in a voice strained in agony:
“Hugh Maxwell! What have you done with our son?”
I AM TORTURED BY MYSELF AND OTHERS
In some manner I controlled myself, and in the confusion which followed Lucy's wild cry I opened the door beside me and stepped noiselessly into the adjoining room.
I sank down into a chair, benumbed in body and bewildered in mind. Everything was in a whirl of confusion, and through it I heard the heart-breaking cry that was no hallucination of madness, no fancy of a disordered mind, but an arraignment straight from the heart of a woman who perhaps had suffered beyond what I was suffering now.
What was happening behind those closed doors? Once the mad impulse flashed across me to enter and learn the worst, but I shrank appalled at the thought of exposing myself to further humiliation. In my seeking for some escape, I even questioned if I had heard aright; it seemed impossible that there should not be some explanation, that there was not some horrible mistake, and a fierce anger swept over me at the injustice of it all.
Had I wasted the love of my youth—the love of my life—on a man whom I had endowed with every noble quality of which I could conceive to find that he was only of the same common clay as others whose advances I had ignored because I had set him so high?
In my anger I put him beneath all others, because, as a silly girl, I had been blinded by my own delusions, and, as a foolish woman, I had gone on dreaming the dreams of a girl. The thought, too, of Lucy having been so close to me all these months, and of how nearly I had confided in her, stung me like a blow.
And this was the end! I had wasted every affection of my nature in blind worship of the idol which now lay shattered at the first blow. I had wandered with reckless feet far from the path in which all prudent women tread, to find myself in a wilderness alone and without a refuge. My secret was in the keeping of Sarennes, who would sooner or later betray it, when he thought by so doing he could bend me to his will.
Why had I never looked at this with the same eyes, the same brain I had used in other matters? In other matters I had conducted myself as a reasonable woman should; but in this, the weightiest affair in my life, had I wandered, without sane thought, without any guide save impulses so unreasoning that they could scarce have even swayed my judgment in other things.
Then, my anger having passed, I saw the whole incredible folly of my life, and alone and in bitter misery I trod the Valley of Humiliation, until with wearied soul and softened heart I knelt and prayed for deliverance.
When I returned to the house the effort to meet and talk with others did much to restore me to myself. Angélique, I could see, was greatly excited, and it was a pain to think that what to me was a bitter degradation and the wreck of all my hopes could possibly be looked upon by a young and innocent girl as a piece of curious surmisal, perhaps to be laughed over and speculated upon, without a thought of the misery it entailed.
In my room that night I reasoned out my whole position calmly from the beginning, and with a chilling fear I saw myself confronted by a new humiliation.
Had I not in my infatuation misconstrued every little kindness on the part of Hugh, every expression of sympathy and of ordinary courtesy, nay, every smile, and look, and word, into a language which existed only in my credulous imagination? Had he ever spoken a single word of love to me? Had he not even refused to answer my girlish appeal to him at our parting? Was it, then, possible that I was not only in a false position now, but that I had throughout been playing that most contemptible of all rôles—the infatuated woman who imagines herself beloved by one indifferent to her? I was overwhelmed with shame at the thought, still, turn it as I might, I could not see that it admitted of any other conclusion.
Yet ignominious as it all was, it must be faced, for it was impossible that I should go on lamenting or living in the misery of constant self-reproach. If I had had the courage to defy the world in my Quixote endeavour to right the supposed wrongs of another, should I not put forth some measure of the same courage to protect myself? Because I had met with a disaster humbling to my self-respect and pride, surely I was not forced to proclaim my own defeat to the world, and thus add ridicule to humiliation. Cost what it might, I determined to put forth every endeavour to prevent Hugh even suspecting the true motive of my presence in Canada until the time should come when I might return in safety.
It cost me an effort to return to Lucy. I had almost a dislike to see her again, but my pride came to my support, and, when I went, I saw I had exaggerated the difficulty, for I found a different creature awaiting me. Whatever suffering I had gone through, it was clear this poor soul had gained some great relief, and my selfishness was not proof against her content. She had forgotten that I had been beside her when Hugh had entered. The greatness of his revelation, whatever it had been, had swept away all smaller things, and she lay there with a new light in her face, but as quiet and self-contained as before. Had she spoken, I could not have borne it.
My courage in respect to Hugh was not immediately put to the proof, as he had been ordered off to Montreal, there to join M. de Lévis as aide-de-camp, and I had both time and freedom for decision.
Much to Angélique's delight, I now accompanied her to all the balls and junketings that went on, for I had nothing further to fear, and, alas, nothing to hope. M. de Montcalm and the others received me with warm welcome, and made a small ovation over my appearance.
I suffered, however, as is often the case with a newcomer in a small society, from the stupid jealousy of some of the women, who resented my appearance as an intruder, and who more than once started reports as to my position, which were rendered the more persistent on account of the open championship of M. de Montcalm.
At first I thought little of this petty annoyance, but was not prepared for the length to which some were willing to carry it.
Late one afternoon Angélique burst in upon me in a storm of indignation:
“Marguerite, I am ashamed of my countrywomen! There has been a scene this afternoon at Mme. de Beaubassin's which went beyond all limits of decency. Neither your position as a stranger nor mine as your friend was respected. It is horrible what animals women can be when once they begin! Let me tell you what has happened, and see if I am wrong!
“Mme. de Beaubassin, who cannot bear that any one should have any attraction for the Marquis save herself, made some malicious remark about you before M. Poulariez.
“'O, de grâce! madame,' he exclaimed; 'surely you are going too far!'
“'Can you answer for her, then, monsieur?' she returned, wickedly. 'Perhaps you can tell me who la belle Écossaise really is?
“'I will answer for her,' broke in the little Joannès, whom I love, because he is so dreadfully in earnest over everything—'I will answer for her! I lost four hundred good crowns at pharaon last night, but I will wager four hundred more with any lady in the room, or I will cross swords with any gentleman in Quebec, for the fair fame of Mme. de St. Just at any moment. I know that she is intimate with one of the oldest friends of M. de Montcalm, that he knows her family, and I know that she is one of the most charming creatures I ever set eyes on!' Marguerite, I could have kissed him, he was so gallant!
“'Then, M. Joannès, since you are so fully informed, perhaps you will explain the whereabouts of Monsieur de St. Just! Perhaps you will tell us why the lady was so anxious to get into Louisbourg before the siege! Perhaps you know why she went to the ball on Twelfth-Night in disguise! Perhaps it is clear to you why, after refusing to meet any of us, she now goes everywhere, and seeks the confidence of M. de Montcalm and other high officers when the plans for the coming campaign are under discussion! That she is a Scotchwoman she states, but I have not remarked that she is intimate with her countryman, M. de Maxwell, of whose loyalty no one has any doubt.'
“'Neither have I any doubt that Mme. de St. Just has her own reasons for choosing her acquaintance, madame,' answered M. Joannès, with the same spirit. 'But I do not see that anything is to be gained by continuing this conversation; the main thing is that I know Mme. de St. Just to be a lady of both family and position.'
“'Do you happen to know that her brother is a captain in the English army?'
“'I have known it for mouths past, madame. What of it'
“'And that he was a prisoner in Louisbourg?'
“'Certainly; no secret has been made of it,' he answered, as cool as a boy at his catechism.
“She seemed much put but at this rebuff, but turned towards the others and went on, angrily:
“'Of course a woman has no right to an opinion in the face of such an authority as M. Joannès, but I am sure so patriotic a brother will be interested in such a sister's letters, and that the authentic news she may send from Quebec cannot fail to be of interest to his superiors. It may be the part of an affectionate sister, ambitious for her brother's advancement, but hardly that of a friend to be encouraged by us. There! That is what I believe; and if you others are too blind to see behind a pretty face and a disconsolate manner, so much the worse for us all.'
“Marguerite, my dear, there wasn't a man in the room who didn't protest against her ungenerous suspicions. I was proud of them all! But none of the women said a word, and the spiteful little creature stuck to her ground, vowing she would speak to the Marquis, so that he, at least, should not be unwarned.
“I waited until she was done, for I was determined to hear the end, and then I said:
“'Mme. de Beaubassin, I have not spoken because I am only a girl, and neither my mother's hospitality, nor my mother's guest, requires any defence from me; I trust both implicitly. Our thanks and those of Mme. de St. Just, our friend, are due to every gentleman in the room. I was under some obligation to you, madame, for your attentions to me in the past, but you have more than cancelled them now, and I will not enter your door again until you have apologised to us all.'
“'My dear child,' she said, with her hateful smile, 'you are young, but time will correct that, as well as your breeding and your judgment; until then I shall miss your society, but will pray for your enlightenment.'
“Did you ever hear anything so abominable! M. Poulariez gave me his hand, and the dear little Joannès followed us to the door, whispering:
“'Brava! Brava, mademoiselle! It was excellent! You could not have said better!'
“Now what will you do, Marguerite?”
“There is nothing to do, chérie; such things must die of themselves.”
“But she said you were a spy, in so many words.”
“You do not think so?”
“Oh, Marguerite!” she cried, as she jumped up and strained me to her, covering me with kisses.
“Well, neither does your mother, nor M. de Montcalm, nor any of the gentlemen who defended me this afternoon. My only regret is that I should be the cause of annoyance to such friends.”
Though I spake bravely enough, I could not but feel the effect of such a report, nor fail to recognise there was oftentimes a galling restraint on my appearance, which was only aggravated by the too evident efforts of my champions towards its dissipation.
But all such social jealousies and plottings were scattered by the approach of spring, when an unending activity pervaded all classes throughout the colony. The arrival of the first ships was looked for with anxiety, as they would bring the message of peace, or renewed hostilities, which to me meant either escape or a continuance of my difficulties.
It was M. Joannès who brought me the news:
“Well, madame, it seems it is to be war! But instead of money, they have sent us some scanty provisions; and instead of a regiment, some raw recruits to drag out this weary farce, already too long.”
“I am sorry you do not look at it more hopefully, monsieur.”
“How can I? Think what has happened since last spring. Louisbourg, Frontenac, Duquesne, all lost; famine in our towns; misery in the country; an insane jealousy on the part of the officials which thwarts every move we suggest; corruption to an extent that is almost beyond belief, and on every side of us an active, strong, and enthusiastic enemy. That is the only quarter where we look for fair play!” he ended, with the laugh of a boy who sees his sport before him.
It was impossible that I should plan for return before we saw what move the English might make by sea, so I abandoned all thought of it, and settled down to await the outcome.
At the beginning of June volunteers gathered from the upper parishes, and with the militia and troops from Montreal, crossed over the St. Charles to take their places in the camp where M. de Lévis had already projected his works. Day after day we watched the men toiling, and presently our lines of defence began to creep slowly out along the shores of Beauport.
That Hugh was there I knew, but I kept myself from thinking by my daily attendance on Lucy, whose unfailing hope saw its fulfilment almost within touch when I told her of the certain coming of the English. Gay parties of chattering women were made up to go out to the camp and encourage the workers, but my heart ached too wearily even at my own distance to wish for any nearer approach.
I stood with Angélique one evening in the garden of the Hôtel-Dieu, and even here the engineers had erected a battery overhanging the steep cliff. Looking up towards the left, we could see the bridge of boats, at the far end of which a hive of busy workers toiled at a fortification, called a hornwork, while immediately below us others were building a boom to be floated across the wide mouth of the St. Charles to protect the bridge, and from this point on, down the banks of the St. Lawrence, lay our main defences.
There the white coats of the regulars mingled with the blue and grey of the Canadians and volunteers. Indians stalked or squatted about, taking no part in a labour they could not understand; officers moved to and fro, directing and encouraging the men, and from the manor of Beauport floated the General's flag, marking his headquarters.
Before this restless, toiling mass swept the great empty river, changing its colour with every change of sky which floated over it, while behind stretched the beautiful valley of the St. Charles, its gentle upward sweep of woods broken only by the green fields and white walls of Charlesbourg until it met the range of blue and purple hills which guards it to the north. At a point opposite where we were standing the nearer mountains opened out and shewed a succession of golden hills which seemed, in the tender evening light, as the gates of some heavenly country where all was peace, and the rumour of war could never enter.
At length all preparations were complete, and we waited impatiently for the drama to begin.
Towards the end of June the first English ships were reported, and on the evening of the twenty-second an excited group of ladies gathered on the Battery of the Hôtel-Dieu, and through a storm which swept down over the hills, amid the flashing of lightning and to the roar of thunder, we watched their fleet silently file into view in the South Channel, and come to anchor under shelter of the Isle of Orleans. In the chapel the nuns were singing:
“Soutenez, grande Reine,Notre pauvre pays:Il est votre domaine.Faites fleurir nos lis.“L'Anglois sur nos frontièresPorte ses étendards.Exaucez nos prières,Protegez nos remparts.”
“Soutenez, grande Reine,Notre pauvre pays:Il est votre domaine.Faites fleurir nos lis.
“L'Anglois sur nos frontièresPorte ses étendards.Exaucez nos prières,Protegez nos remparts.”
And as if in answer, one by one, our watch-fires were kindled, until they twinkled in a long unbroken line from the St. Charles to Montmorenci.
The long siege had begun. Such an array of ships was never before seen from the walls of Quebec. There were the flag-ships of Admirals Saunders, Holmes, and Durell; twenty-three ships of the line, besides frigates, transports, and a flock of smaller craft nestled under shelter of the Island; all these crowded with ten or twelve thousand troops under General Wolfe and his brigadiers, Monckton, Townshend, and Murray, fresh from triumph, and determined on a desperate effort for new conquest.
Face to face with them stretched our long line of defenders, as resolute and as confident—regulars, militia, Indians, and volunteers, and in the ranks of the latter the grandfather stood by the grandson; had the wives and daughters been permitted, many of them, I doubt not, would have held a musket beside those dearest to them.
On land and on water, there was constant change and movement; the stately vessels moved slowly up and down, small boats plied backward and forward, troops were landed where unopposed; on our side of the river every eye was vigilant, guessing what each new move might portend. No one could look upon it without a swifter-beating heart. Before us swept all “the pomp and circumstance of war” without any of its horror—as yet—and the panorama in which it was displayed added to its dignity and importance.
We became accustomed to the distant boom of heavy guns, and watched the constant movement of the combatants with much excited comment and foolish security.
It was Gabriel who first brought us face to face with the reality. We were surprised by his appearance at the house about the middle of July; he looked twenty years older; all his former jauntiness of manner had disappeared, and so dejected was his bearing I could scarce believe it was the same man I had known.
“Mesdames,” he said, “my respects to you all, though I come as a bearer of bad tidings.”
“No one expects compliments in time of war, Gabriel. Tell me it is not my son, and you may speak freely,” said the brave old lady, with a blanched face.
“Thank God, it is not! He came into camp only yesterday, with a hundred good men behind him, so worn out that they are fitter for the hospital than the field, but good food and rest will set them right again in a week. Ah, madame,” he cried, with a sparkle of his old air, “but he has tickled them rarely! Bedame! his name will not smell sweet in their nostrils for many a long day!”
“Then tell us your news, Gabriel; anything else is easily borne.”
“'Un fou fait toujours commencement,' madame, and I know not how to begin. But the English began with M. de Sarennes, and they found him so little to their taste that they have ended by burning the manor at Beaulieu level with the ground, and not a barn nor out-building is left on the domaine.”
“If their sons could give such cause for reprisal, there is not a woman in Canada who would not be proud to suffer a like revenge,” responded the old lady, with unfaltering voice.
“Do not fear, madame, our day will come; and when it comes we will all have our scores to wipe out. I know that I have mine!”
“Surely they have not stooped to burn your cottage?”
“No; it is safe; and so is my Amelia. My quarrel is on my own account. They tricked me on board their fleet by flying our colours, and carried me here.”
“Do not dare to stand here and tell me that you piloted them!” cried the old lady, with the utmost scorn.
“No, madame, I did not.”
“Then you may go on,” she said, sternly.
“I did not; but it makes little difference, madame.”
“It makes every difference whether we are traitors or not! Go on.”
“Well, madame, when I found I was trapped I made all the stir I could. I blustered and swore, and, Heaven forgive me! I lied to them as I had never lied before. I boasted like a Bostonnais, and when they commanded me to take charge in the Traverse, I said no, though I had a pistol behind my head and my Amelia before my eyes all the time. But they did not blow my brains out—they only laughed at me. Madame, it is dreadful to be ready to die, and find they only laugh,” and the tears streamed down his rugged cheeks as he spake.
“My good Gabriel, we are proud of you! Go on!”
“It was of no use; they had their boats out with flags to mark the channel, and an old devil they called Killick swept me aside as one might a dirty rag, and took command, calling out his directions to the boats and edging the ship along without a mistake, though I prayed with all my soul he might ground her. He was a sorcerer, madame, for he took the ship up as if he had done nothing else all his life. When they were through, they jeered at me in their damnable English, and treated me with a kindness that was harder than blows; and then, to add to my shame, they sent me on shore with the women last week, as if they feared me just as little, which was worst of all.”
“Never mind, Gabriel. You did all that a brave man could—and the siege is not over yet!”
“That is true, madame,” he cried, brightening under her kindly words, “and, saving your honour, 'le mulet garde longuement un coup de pied à son maître,' as we say. That is my comfort.”
“Will you join M. de Sarennes, Gabriel?” asked Mme. de Sarennes. “I would like to think he had so good a man beside him.”
“No, madame; I have orders to go on board the vessels at Sillery. I will be of more use there than on shore.”
“Good. You will remember Beaulieu when your turn comes with the English!”
“I will, madame, and if le bon Dieu ever allows me that kick, rest assured it shall be a good one!” and he left us laughing, much comforted in his trouble.
Though never out of the sight and sound of war, we had so far suffered but little in the city itself. We watched with curiosity the English intrenching themselves on the opposite heights of the Pointe de Lévy, and there was much speculation among us as to their object. That the city would be bombarded was scouted as ridiculous; but one midnight towards the end of June we were awakened by the heavy booming of artillery, and rushed to our windows to see the heights of the Lévy shore flashing with the explosions from the cannon, and the hill beneath us filled with a panting, terror-stricken crowd, laden with every conceivable description of household goods, clambering up past us to gain some corner of safety, while the flames from a shattered warehouse in the Basse Ville threw an ominous glare over the blackness of the river. War in its most terrifying guise was at our very doors, and had it not been for the heroic calmness of Mme. de Sarennes, we should probably have joined the distracted crowd in the streets. While affrighted women and children, and even men, rushed past in the wildness of their terror, filling the night with the clamour of despair, and exposing themselves to still greater dangers in their efforts to escape, she gathered her little household about her and set fear at defiance.
Dressed with her usual care, she sate in the drawing-room with all the candles lighted, the shutters closed, and the curtains tightly drawn. There was not a trace more colour than usual in her fine, high-bred face, nor a quiver to her slender hands, nor a tremor in her voice as she repeated some familiar psalm, or led us in the prayers we offered unceasingly throughout the long night. Her calmness, superior to the alarm without, dominated over the more ignorant—she put away danger from before them—as her unshaken confidence in a high protection inspired the more courageous.
But, for faint and stout hearted alike, it was a fearful night. For hours the great guns played without ceasing; at the nearer explosions the very rock on which the house was founded seemed loosened, and the effort to control ourselves and not leap to our feet with the terrified servants became such a strain on Angélique and myself that we dared not let our eyes meet, for fear of an outburst of tears.
Some time during the night, at an unusual uproar in the street, Mme. de Sarennes sent one of the men-servants to the upper windows to discover its cause. In a few moments he returned with horror-stricken face—“O mon Dieu, madame! the Cathedral is on fire! We are lost!” At which, a wail of despair broke from us all. Angélique's head dropped on her mother's lap. “O ma mère! It was God's own house!” she sobbed.
Her mother's white hand softly stroked her hair with reassuring firmness, while she whispered words of comfort. Then to every awe-struck heart about her she said, with confidence, “It was the house of God Himself, and He has not spared it, while His hand has been over our roof, and He is holding each one of us safe in His keeping”; and we took fresh courage at her words.
Gradually the fire slackened, and at length ceased. The morning came, and we were still safe and untouched, amid the surrounding ruin.
Soon after daybreak we heard a knock at the door, and the Town-Major, M. Joannès, was ushered in.
He looked upon us with astonishment in his tired eyes.
“Mme. de Sarennes, no one suspected you of being here! All the inhabitants fled from the face of the town when the fire opened. Pardon me, but you must move at once.”
“We have only been waiting for orders, monsieur. Where are we to go?”
“To the Hôtel-Dieu for the present, madame; but it is quite possible that will soon be unsafe, now they have our range. With your permission, I will send some men at once to move what can be carried and stored in some safer place; for you cannot expect the house to stand through another fire.”
“It has served its purpose, monsieur; we have no right to larger regrets than have others. Come, my children, let us go.”
With a last look round the room that had seen so much of her life within its walls, she passed out, and bidding us gather our lighter valuables and some clothing, withdrew for a few moments to her own room, and then rejoined us in the hallway.
We made a sad little procession as we threaded our way through the ruined streets, between the smoking and crumbling walls of the homes we had looked upon but yesterday, bright with all the assuring signs of comfortable, secure life, past the wrecked Cathedral, and between piles of household goods heaped in ruinous confusion in the Place. This was now crowded with anxious, pale-faced people, hollow-eyed and aged with the terror of actual war, seeking out their little valuables, some with shrill-voiced complaint and contention, others with a hopeless, silent mien that went to our hearts, and yet others with an air of gayety and the tricks and buffooneries of school children.