Cameron of Lochiel
does anything yet remain? The question was a knotty one. Nevertheless,
after long debate, it was decided in the negative, and very politely
they showed me the door.
"My future was broken, like my heart, and I had nothing to do but
vegetate without profit to myself or others. But observe the fatality
that pursued me. When making my surrender to my creditors I begged them
to leave me a certain property of very small immediate value, which I
foresaw that I might turn to good account. I promised that whatever I
could make out of it should go to wiping out the debt. They laughed me
in the face; and very naturally, for there was a beaver to catch. Well,
Jules, this same property, which brought hardly enough to cover costs
of sale, sold ten years later for a sum which would have covered all my
debts and more.
"Europe was now too populous for me, and I embarked with my faithful
André for New France. I chose out this peaceful dwelling place, where
I might have lived happily could I have drunk the waters of Lethe. The
ancients, our superiors in point of imagination, knew the needs of the
human heart when they created that stream. Long tainted with the errors
of the sixteenth century, I used once to cry in my pride, 'O men, if I
have shared your vices, I have found few among you endowed with even
one of my virtues.' But religion has taught me to know myself better,
and I have humbled myself beneath God's hand, convinced at length that
I could claim but little credit for merely following the inclinations
of my nature.
"You are the only one, Jules, to whom I have hinted the story of my
life, suppressing the cruelest episodes because I know the tenderness
of your heart. My end is attained; let us now go and finish the evening
with my faithful André, who will keenly appreciate this attention on
the eve of your departure."
When they re-entered the house André was making up a bed on a sofa, a
piece of furniture which was the result of the combined skill of master
and man. This sofa, of which they were both very proud, had one leg
shorter than the others, but this little inconvenience was remedied
with the aid of a chip.
"This sofa," said "the good gentleman," with an air of pride, "has cost
André and me more elaborate calculations than Perrault required for
the construction of the Louvre; but we accomplished it at last to our
satisfaction. One leg, to be sure, presents arms to all comers. But
what work is perfect? You must have remembered, my André, that this
camp-bed was to be a soldiers' couch."
André, though not quite relishing this pleasantry, which jarred a
little on his vanity, nevertheless could not help laughing.
Late in the evening M. d'Egmont handed Jules a little silver
candlestick exquisitely wrought.
"There, my dear boy, is all that my creditors have left me of my
ancient fortune. They intended it, I suppose, to solace my sleepless
nights. Good-night, dear boy; one sleeps well at your age; and when,
after my prayers beneath the vault of that great temple which is
forever declaring the glory of God, I once more come under my roof, you
will be deep in your slumbers."
CHAPTER X.
MADAME D'HABERVILLE'S STORY.
Saepè malum hoc nobis, si mens non læva fuisset,
De c[oe]lo tactas memini praedicere quercus.
+Virgil.+
All was silence and gloom at D'Haberville Manor; the very servants went
about their work with a spiritless air, far unlike their usual gayety.
Madame D'Haberville choked back her tears that she might not add to her
husband's grief, and Blanche, for her mother's sake, did her weeping
in secret; for in three days the vessel was to set sail. Captain
D'Haberville had bidden his two friends, the priest and M. d'Egmont,
to meet Jules and Archie at a farewell dinner. At this meal every one
strove to be cheerful, but the attempt was a conspicuous failure. The
priest, wisely concluding that a sober conversation would be better
than the sorrowful silence into which the party was continually
dropping, introduced a subject which was beginning to press on all
thoughtful minds.
"Do you know, gentlemen," said he, "that a storm is gathering dark
on the horizon of New France. The English are making tremendous
preparations, and everything seems to indicate an early attack."
"And then?" exclaimed Uncle Raoul.
"Then, whatever you like, my dear chevalier," answered the curé; "but
it must be acknowledged that we have hardly forces enough at our
command to long resist our powerful neighbors."
"My dear abbé," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, "I think that in your reading
this morning you must have stumbled on a chapter of the lamentations of
Jeremiah."
"I might turn your weapon against yourself," retorted the priest, "by
reminding you that those prophecies were fulfilled."
"No matter," almost shouted Uncle Raoul, clinching his teeth. "The
English, indeed! The English take Canada! By heaven, I would undertake
to defend Quebec with my crutch. You forget, it seems, that we have
always beaten the English; that we have beaten them against all
odds--five to one--ten to one--sometimes twenty to one! The English,
indeed!"
"_Concedo_," said the curé; "I am ready to grant all you claim, and
more too if you like. But mark this. We grow weaker and weaker with
every victory, while the enemy, thanks to the foresight of England,
rises with new strength from each defeat; meanwhile, France leaves us
to our own resources."
"Which shows," exclaimed Captain D'Haberville, "the faith our King
reposes in our courage."
"Meanwhile," interposed M. d'Egmont, "he sends us so few soldiers that
the colony grows weaker day by day."
"Give us but plenty of powder and lead," answered the captain,
"and a hundred of my militia will do more in such a war as that
which is coming upon us--a war of reconnoitrings, ambuscades, and
surprises--than would five hundred of the best soldiers of France. I
speak from experience. For all that, however, we stand in great need
of help from the mother country. Would that a few of those battalions
which our beloved monarch pours into the north of Europe to fight the
battles of Austria, might be devoted to the defense of the colony."
"You might rather wish," said "the good gentleman," "that Louis XV had
left Maria Theresa to fight it out with Prussia, and had paid a little
more attention to New France."
"It is perhaps hardly becoming in a young man like me," said Lochiel,
"to mix myself up in your arguments; but, to make up for my lack of
experience, I will call history to my aid. Beware of the English,
beware of a government ever alive to the interests of its colonies,
which it identifies with the interests of the empire; beware of a
nation which has the tenacity of the bull-dog. If the conquest of
Canada is necessary to her she will never swerve from her purpose or
count the sacrifice. Witness my unhappy country."
"Bah!" cried Uncle Raoul, "the Scotch, indeed!"
Lochiel began to laugh.
"Gently, my dear Uncle Raoul," said "the good gentleman"; "and, to make
use of your favorite maxim when you are collecting the rents, let us
render unto Cæsar that which is Cæsar's. I have studied the history of
Scotland, and I can assure you that neither in valor nor in patriotism
need the Scotch yield place to any other nation, ancient or modern."
"Oh, you see, I only wanted to tease this other nephew of mine,"
exclaimed Uncle Raoul, swelling his chest; "for we know a little
history ourselves, thank God. No one knows better than Archie my esteem
for his fellow-countrymen, and my admiration for their dashing courage."
"Yes, dear uncle, and I thank you for it," said Archie, grasping him
by the hand; "but distrust the English profoundly. Beware of their
perseverance, and remember the _Delenda est Carthago_ of the Romans."
"So much the better," said Jules. "I will be grateful to their
perseverance if it brings me back to Canada with my regiment. May I do
my first fighting against them here, on this soil of Canada, which I
love and which holds all that is dearest to me! You shall come with me,
my brother, and shall take revenge in this new world for all that you
have suffered in your own country."
"With all my heart," cried Archie, grasping the handle of his knife as
if it were the terrible claymore of the Camerons. "I will serve as a
volunteer in your company, if I can not get a commission as an officer;
and the simple soldier will be as proud of your exploits as if he had a
hand in them himself."
The young men warmed into excitement at the thought of heroic deeds;
the great black eyes of Jules shot fire, and the old warlike ardor of
the race suddenly flamed out in him. This spirit was infectious, and
from all lips came the cry of _Vive le Roi_! From the eyes of mother,
sister, and aunt, in spite of all their efforts to restrain them, there
escaped a few tears silently.
The conversation became eager. Campaigns were planned, the English were
beaten by sea and land, and Canada was set upon a pinnacle of splendor
and prosperity.
"Fill up your glasses," cried Captain D'Haberville, pouring himself out
a bumper. "I am going to propose a health which everybody will drink
with applause: 'Success to our arms; and may the glorious flag of the
_fleur-de-lys_ float forever over every fortress of New France!'"
Just as they were raising the glasses to their lips a terrific report
was heard. It was like a stupendous clap of thunder, or as if some
huge body had fallen upon the manor house, which shook to its very
foundations. Every one rushed out of doors. The sun was shining with
all the brilliance of a perfect day in July. They scaled the roof, but
there was no sign anywhere that the house had been struck. Every one
was stupefied with awe, the seigneur himself appearing particularly
impressed. "Can it be," he exclaimed, "that this phenomenon presages
the fall of my house!"
In vain did M. d'Egmont, the priest, and Uncle Raoul endeavor to
refer the phenomenon to ordinary causes; they could not remove the
painful impression it had left. The glasses were left unemptied in the
dining-room, and the little company passed into the drawing-room to
take their coffee.
What took place afterward only confirmed the D'Haberville family in
their superstitious fears. Who knows, after all, whether such omens,
to which the ancient world lent implicit belief, may not indeed be
warnings from heaven when some great evil threatens us? If, indeed,
we must reject all that our feeble reason comprehends not, we should
speedily become Pyrrhonists, utter skeptics, like Molière's Marphorius.
Who knows? But one might write a whole chapter on this "who knows."
The weather, which had been so fine all day, began to cloud up toward
six o'clock in the evening. By seven the rain fell in torrents; the
thunder seemed to shatter the vault of heaven, and a great mass of
rock, struck by a thunder-bolt, fell from the bluff with terrific noise
and obliterated the highway.
Captain D'Haberville, who had carried on an immense deal of forest
warfare along with his Indian allies, had become tinctured with many of
their superstitions; and when the disasters of 1759 fell upon him, he
was convinced that they had been foretold to him two years before.
Jules, seated at supper between his mother and sister and holding
their hands in his, shared in their depression. In order to turn their
thoughts into another channel, he asked his mother to tell one of those
stories with which she used to amuse his childhood.
"It would give me," said he, "yet another memory of the tenderest of
mothers to take with me to Europe."
"I can refuse my boy nothing," said Madame D'Haberville; and she began
the following story:
"A mother had an only child, a little girl, fair as a lily, whose great