Cameron of Lochiel
than the valet of his riper years, André Franc[oe]ur had found it as
natural to follow D'Egmont's fortunes in adversity as in prosperity.
D'Egmont and his servant were living on the interest of a small capital
which they had in common. One might even say that the savings of the
valet were even greater than those of the master. Was it consistent
with D'Egmont's honor to be thus, in a way, dependent on his own
servant? Many will answer no; but "the good gentleman" argued otherwise.
"When I was rich I spent my wealth for my friends, and how have my
friends rewarded me? André, alone, has shown himself grateful and
noble-hearted. In no way, therefore, do I lower myself by associating
my fortune with his, as I would have done with one of my own station
had one been found as noble as my valet."
When Jules arrived, the good gentleman was busy weeding a bed of
lettuce in his garden. Entirely absorbed, he did not see his young
friend, who overheard the following soliloquy:
"Poor little insect! I have wounded you, and lo! all the other ants,
just now your friends, are falling upon you to devour you. These tiny
creatures are as cruel as men. I am going to rescue you; and as for
you, my good ants, thanks for the lesson; I have now a better opinion
of my kind."
"Poor fellow!" thought Jules, "with a heart so tender, how he must have
suffered!"
Withdrawing noiselessly, he entered by the garden gate.
M. d'Egmont uttered an exclamation of delight on seeing his young
friend, whom he loved as a son. Although, during the thirty years
that he had lived on Captain D'Haberville's estate, he had constantly
refused to take up his abode at the manor house, he yet was a frequent
visitor there, often remaining a week at a time when there were no
strangers present. Without actually shunning society, he had suffered
too much in his relations with men of his own class to be able to
mingle cordially in their enjoyments.
Although poor, M. d'Egmont was able to do a great deal of good. He
comforted the afflicted; he visited the sick, whom he healed with herbs
whose virtues were revealed to him by his knowledge of botany; and if
his alms-giving was not lavish, it was accompanied by such sympathy and
tact that it was none the less appreciated by the poor, who had come to
know him by no other title than that of _le bon gentilhomme_.
When D'Egmont and his young friend entered the house, André set before
them a dish of fine trout and a plate of broiled pigeons, garnished
with chives.
"It is a frugal supper, indeed," said D'Egmont, "I caught the trout
myself in yonder brook, about an hour ago, and André bagged the doves
this morning at sunrise, in yonder dead tree, half a gunshot from the
cottage. You see that, without being a seigneur, I have a fish-pond
and dove-cote on my estate. Now for a salad of lettuce with cream, a
bowl of raspberries, a bottle of wine--and there is your supper, friend
Jules."
"And never fish-pond and dove-cote supplied better meal to a hungry
hunter," exclaimed Jules.
The meal was a cheerful one, for M. d'Egmont seemed to have recovered
something of the gayety of his youth. His conversation was no less
instructive than amusing; for, although he had mingled much with men in
his early days, he had found in study a refuge from his unhappiness.
"How do you like this wine?" said he to Jules, who was eating like a
hungry wolf, and had already quaffed several bumpers.
"It is capital, upon my word."
"You are a connoisseur, my friend," went on M. d'Egmont. "If it is true
that wine and men improve with age, that wine must indeed be excellent;
and as for me, I must be approaching perfection, for I am very nearly
ninety."
"Thus it is," said Jules, "that they call you 'the good gentleman.'"
"The Athenians, my son, sent Aristides into exile, and at the same time
called him the Just. But let us drop men and speak of wine. For my own
part, I drink it rarely. As with many other useless luxuries, I have
learned to do without it, and yet I enjoy perfect health. This wine
is older than you are; its age, for a man, would not be much, but for
wine it is something. Your father sent me a basket of it the day you
were born. In his happiness he made gifts to all his friends. I have
kept it with great care, and I only bring it out on such rare occasions
as this. Here is a health to you, my dear boy. Success to all your
undertakings; and when you come back to New France, promise that you
will come and sup here with me, and drink a last bottle of this wine,
which I will keep for you. You look astonished. You think it likely
that when you return I shall have long since paid that debt which is
paid even by the most recalcitrant debtor. You are mistaken, my son;
a man like me does not die. But come, we have finished supper, let us
go and sit _sub tegmine fagi_, which may be interpreted to mean, under
that splendid walnut-tree whose branches are reflected in the river."
The night was magnificent. The ripple of running water was the only
sound that broke the moonlit stillness. M. d'Egmont was silent for some
moments, and Jules, not caring to disturb his reverie, began tracing
hieroglyphics with his finger in the sand.
"I have greatly desired," said "the good gentleman," "to have a talk
with you before your departure, before you go out into the world. I
know that we can profit little by the experience of others, but that
each must purchase his own. No matter, I shall at least have the
consolation of having opened my heart to you, a heart which should have
been dried up long since, but which yet beats as warmly as when I led
the joyous troops of my companions more than half a century ago. Just
now you looked at me with surprise when I said that a man like me does
not die; you thought I spoke in metaphor, but I was sincere at the
moment. So often on my knees have I begged for death that I have ended
by almost doubting Death's existence. The heathen have made of him a
divinity, doubtless that they might call him to their aid in time of
heavy sorrow. If it is as physiology teaches us, and our sufferings
depend upon the sensitiveness of our nerves, then have I suffered what
would have killed fifty strong men." M. d'Egmont was silent once more,
and Jules flung some pebbles into the river.
"See," resumed the old man, "this stream which flows so quietly at our
feet. Within an hour it mingles with the troubled waters of the St.
Lawrence, and in a few days it will be writhing under the scourge of
the Atlantic storms. Behold therein an image of our life! Thy days
hitherto have been like the current of this stream; but soon you will
be tossed on the great river of life, and will be carried into the
ocean of men, whose waves rage ceaselessly. I have watched you from
child-hood up; I have studied your character minutely, and that is
what has caused me to seek this conversation. Between your character
and mine I have found the closest resemblance. Like you, I was born
kind-hearted, sympathetic, generous to a fault. How has it come that
these virtues, which should have secured me happiness, have rather been
the cause of all my ills? How comes it, my son, that these qualities,
so applauded among men, have risen against me as my most implacable
enemies and beaten me to the dust? I can not but think that I deserved
a kindlier fate. Born, like you, of rich and loving parents, I was
free to follow my every inclination. Like you, I sought nothing so
much as the love of those about me. Like you, in my childhood I would
not willingly injure the most insignificant of God's creatures, and to
the beggar child I gave the very clothes I wore. Needless to add that,
again like you, my hand was ever open to all my comrades, so that I was
said to have 'nothing of my own.' It is curious to consider that, at
the hands of my playfellows, I never tasted ingratitude. Is ingratitude
the attribute only of the full-grown man? Or is it a snare which this
human nature casts about the feet of generous childhood, the better
to despoil the prey when grown to be a richer prize! But, no; it is
impossible that youth could be so depraved.
"And you, Jules," continued the old man after this semi-soliloquy,
"have you yet experienced the ingratitude of those you have befriended,
the ingratitude which pierces the heart like a blade of steel?"
"Never," said the young man.
"It is self-interest, then, bitter fruit of civilization, which causes
ingratitude; the more a man needs, the more ungrateful he becomes. This
reminds me of a little story. About twenty years ago a poor savage
of the Huron tribe came to me in a pitiable state. It was spring. He
had made a long and painful march, he had swum the icy streams when
overheated, and as a result he was seized with a violent attack of
pleurisy, accompanied by inflammation of the lungs. I judged that only
a copious bleeding could save him, and I made shift to bleed him with
my penknife. In a word, with care and simple remedies, I effected a
cure; but his convalescence was slow, and he stayed with me more than
two months. In a little while André and I could talk to him in his own
tongue. He told me that he was a great warrior and hunter, but that
fire-water had been his ruin. His thanks were as brief as his farewells:
"'My heart is too full for many words,' said he; 'the Huron warrior
knows not how to weep like a woman. I thank you, my brothers,' And he
vanished in the forest.
"I had entirely forgotten my Indian, when about four years later he
arrived at my door, accompanied by another savage. I could scarcely
recognize him. He was splendidly clad, and everything about him
bespoke the great hunter and the mighty warrior. In one corner of my
room he and his companion laid down two bundles of merchandise of
great value--the richest furs, moccasins splendidly embroidered with
porcupine quills, and exquisite pieces of work in birch bark, such as
the Indians alone know how to make. I congratulated him upon the happy
turn his affairs had taken.
"'Listen to me, my brother,' said he. 'I owe you much, and I am come
to pay my debt. You saved my life, for you know good medicine. You
have done more, for you know the words which reach the heart; dog of
a drunkard as I was, I am become once more a man as I was created by
the Great Spirit. You were rich when you lived beyond the great water.
This wigwam is too small for you; build one large enough to hold your
great heart. All these goods belong to you,' The gratitude of this
child of the forest brought tears to my eyes; for in all my long life
I had found but two men who could be grateful--the faithful André, my
foster-brother, and this poor Indian, who, seeing that I was going to
accept nothing but a pair of deer-hide moccasins, struck three fingers
rapidly across his mouth with a shrill cry of 'houa,' and took himself
off at top speed with his companion. Never after could I find a trace
of him. Our good curé undertook the sale of the goods, the product of
which, with interest, was lately distributed among his tribe."
The good gentleman sighed, reflected a moment, then resumed his speech:
"I am now going to tell you, my dear Jules, of the most happy and most
wretched periods of my life. Five years of happiness! Five years of
misery! O God! for one single day of the joy of my youth, the joy as
keen as pain, which could make me forget all that I have suffered! Oh,
for one of those happy days when I believed in human friendship, when I
knew not the ingratitude of men!
"When I had completed my studies, all careers were open to me. That
of arms seemed most suitable, but I hated to shed blood. I obtained a
place of trust under the government. For me such a place was ruin. I
had a great fortune of my own, my office was a lucrative one, and I