Cameron of Lochiel
remarked Archie.
For reply, José merely lifted up the stump of his arm, around which he
had twisted the leather of his whip.
For a time our travelers journeyed on in silence, and again Archie grew
heavy with sleep. Perceiving this, José cried:
"Captain, captain, you're nearly asleep! Take care, or you're going to
break your nose, begging your pardon. I think you want another song to
wake you up. Shall I sing you the Complaint of Biron?"
"Who was Biron?" inquired Lochiel.
"Uncle Raoul, who is so learned, told me that he was a prince, a great
warrior, the relative and friend of our late King Henry IV; which did
not prevent the latter from having him executed just as if he was a
nobody. When I made my lament upon his death, Uncle Raoul and the
captain told me that he had proved a traitor to the king, and forbid me
even to sing the complaint in their presence. This struck me as rather
droll, but I obeyed them all the same."
"I have never heard of this lament," said Archie; "and as I am not
particularly sensitive in regard to the kings of France, I wish you
would sing it for me."
Thereupon José struck up, in a voice of thunder, the following lament:
"The king he had been warned by one of his _gens d'armes_,
(His name it was La Fin, that gave him the alarm,)
'Your Majesty, I pray you, of Prince Biron beware,
For he's plotting wicked deeds, and there's treason in the air.'
"La Fin had hardly spoke when Prince Biron came in,
His cap was in his hand, and he bowed before the king.
Said he: 'Will't please Your Majesty to try your hand at play?
Here's a thousand Spanish doubloons that I have won this day.'
"'If you have them with you, prince,' replied His Majesty,
'If you have them with you, prince, go find the queen, and she
Will play you for the Spanish gold you have not long to see!'
"He had not played two games when the constable came in,
And bowing, cap in hand, right courtly said to him:
'Oh, will you rise up, prince, and come along with me?
This night in the Bastile your bed and board shall be!'
"'Oh, had I but my sword, my weapon bright and keen,
Oh, had I but my saber, my knife of golden sheen,
No constable could capture me that ever I have seen!'
"It might have been a month, or may be two weeks more,
That no friends came to see him or passed his prison door;
At last came judges three, pretending not to know,
And asked of him, 'Fair prince, oh, who has used you so?'
"'Oh, they who used me so had power to put me here;
It was the king and queen, whom I served for many a year;
And now for my reward my death it draweth near!
"'And does the king remember no more the Savoy War?
And has the king forgotten the wounds for him I bore?
And is it my true service now that I must suffer for?
"'And has the king forgotten that if I have to die,
The blood of Biron may to Heaven for vengeance cry?
Or does the king remember I have a brother yet?
But when _he_ sees the king he will not me forget.'"
By this time Lochiel was thoroughly awake. The tremendous voice of José
would have awakened the sleeping beauty herself from the depths of her
hundred years' slumber.
"But you, sir," said José, "you who are nearly as learned as Uncle
Raoul, you could perhaps tell me something of this wicked king who so
ungratefully put this poor M. Biron to death."
"Kings, my dear José, never forget a personal offense, and, like a
great many smaller people who can not overlook the faults of others, no
matter how well atoned for, for faithful services, their memory is very
short."
"Well, now, but that seems very queer to me, when I was thinking that
the good God had given them everything that heart could wish! A short
memory! But that is droll."
Smiling at his companion's innocence, Archie replied:
"King Henry IV, however, had an excellent memory, although it failed
him in that one instance. He was a good prince and loved his subjects
as if they were his own children, and he did all he could to make them
happy. It is not surprising that his memory is cherished by all good
Frenchmen, even after a lapse of one hundred and fifty years."
"By our lady," exclaimed José, "there's nothing surprising in that, if
the subjects have a better memory than their princes! It was cruel of
him, however, to hang this poor M. Biron."
"The nobility of France were never hung," said Archie. "That was one of
their special privileges. They simply had their heads cut off."
"That was indeed a privilege. It may perhaps hurt more, but it is much
more glorious to die by the sword than by the rope," remarked José.
"To return to Henry IV," said Archie; "we must not be too severe in
our condemnation of him. He lived in a difficult period, a period of
civil war. Biron, his kinsman and former friend, turned traitor, and
was doubly deserving of his fate."
"Poor M. Biron!" said José; "but he speaks finely in his lament."
"It is not always they who speak the best who have most right on their
side," remarked Archie. "There is no one so like an honest man as an
eloquent knave."
"All very true, Mr. Archie. We have one poor thief in our district,
and as he doesn't know how to defend himself, everybody is continually
getting his teeth into him, while his brother, who is a hundred times
worse than he, has so smooth a tongue that he passes himself off for a
little saint. Meanwhile, yonder is Quebec! But no more the white flag
waving over her," added José, sighing.
To hide his emotion, he went searching in all his pockets for his pipe,
grumbling to himself and repeating his old refrain:
"Our good folk will come again."
José spent two days in Quebec, and returned loaded with all the
presents that Archie thought would find acceptance at D'Haberville
Manor. Such rich gifts as he would have sent under other circumstances
he dared not send now, for fear of wounding his friends. In bidding
José farewell, he said:
"I left my prayer-book at the manor house. Beg Miss Blanche to take
care of it till I return. It was a keepsake."
CHAPTER XVI.
THE FAMILY HEARTH.
Many a calamity had swept over the land since the day when the
relations and friends of Jules had gathered at the manor house to bid
him farewell before his departure for France. Among the old men time
had made his customary inroads. The enemy had carried fire and sword
into the peaceful dwellings of the _habitants_. The famine numbered its
victims by the hundred. The soil had been drenched with the blood of
its brave defenders. Wind and sea had conspired against many of those
brave officers from whom sword and bullet had turned aside. Nature was
satiated with the blood of the children of New France. The future was
dark indeed for the upper classes, already ruined by the havoc of the
enemy, for those who, in laying by the sword, were compelled to lay
by the main support of their families, and for those who foresaw that
their descendants, reduced to a lower walk in life, would be compelled
to till the soil which their valiant ancestors had made illustrious.
The city of Quebec, which of old had seemed to brave, upon its hill
summit, the thunders of the heaviest guns and the assaults of the
most daring battalions, the proud city of Quebec, still incumbered
with wreckage, raised itself with difficulty out of its ruins. The
British flag streamed triumphant from its overbearing citadel, and the
Canadian who, by force of habit, used to raise his eyes to the height
in expectation of seeing the lily banner, would drop them again sadly,
repeating with a sigh these touching words, "But our good kin will come
again."
The reader will doubtless be gratified to see his old acquaintances,
after so many disasters bravely endured, once more gathered together at
a little banquet. This was a feast given by M. D'Haberville in honor of
his son's return. Even "the good gentleman" himself, though nearing the
close of his century, had responded in person to the summons. Captain
des Ecors, a comrade of M. D'Haberville, a brave officer who had been
brought to ruin by the conquest, formed with his family a congenial
addition to the gathering. One of Jules's kinsfolk who perished in
the wreck of the Auguste had left him a small legacy, which brought
a new comfort to the D'Habervilles, and enabled them to exercise a
hospitality from which they had been long and reluctantly debarred.
All the guests were at table, after vainly waiting for the arrival of
Lochiel, who was as a rule the most punctual of men.
"Well, my friends," said M. D'Haberville, "what think you now of
the omens which so saddened me ten years ago? What is your opinion,
Monsieur the Curé, of those mysterious warnings which Heaven appeared
to send me?"
"I think," answered the priest, "that every one has had, or imagined
himself to have, more or less mysterious warnings, even in the most
remote epochs. But, without going too far back, Roman history is rife
with prodigies and portents. Occurrences the most insignificant were
classed as good or bad omens. The soothsayers consulted the flight of
birds, the entrails of the sacrificial victims, and what not! Further,
they say that no two of these holy and veracious personages could look
at each other without laughing."
"And you conclude from this--?" queried M. D'Haberville.
"I conclude," said the priest, "that we need not greatly concern
ourselves about such manifestations. Supposing Heaven were pleased, in
certain exceptional cases, to give visible signs as to the future, this
would but add one more to the already numberless ills of poor humanity.
We are by nature superstitious, and we should be kept in a state of
feverish apprehension, far worse than the actual evils supposed to be
foreshadowed."
"Well," said M D'Haberville, who, like many more, consulted others
merely as a matter of form, "my own experience compels me to believe
that such omens are very often to be trusted. To me they have never
played false. Besides those which you yourselves have witnessed, I
could cite you a host of others. For instance, about fifteen years ago
I was leading a war party against the Iroquois. My band was made up
of Canadians and Huron Indians. We were on the march, when suddenly I
felt a sharp pain in my thigh, as if I had been struck by some hard
substance. The pang was sharp enough to make me halt a moment. I told
my Indians about it. They looked at each other uneasily, consulted the
horizon, and breathed deeply, sniffing the air in every direction, like
dogs in quest of game. Then, certain that there were no enemies in the
neighborhood, they resumed their march. I asked Petit-Étienne, the
chief, who appeared uneasy, if he was dreading a surprise. 'Not that I
know of,' said he, 'but at our first encounter with the enemy you will
be wounded just where you felt the pain.' Of course I laughed at the
prediction; but for all that, not two hours later an Iroquois bullet
went through my thigh at the spot in question, fortunately escaping the
bone. No, gentlemen; omens have proved faithful in my own case."
"And what thinks Monsieur the Chevalier?" asked the priest.
"I think," said Uncle Raoul, "that there is good wine on the table, and
that it is our pressing duty to attack it."
"An admirable decision!" cried everybody.
"The wine," remarked Jules, "is the most faithful of presages, for
it announces happiness and mirth. In proof of it, here is our friend
Lochiel coming up the avenue. I am going to meet him."
"You see, my dear Archie," said the captain, greeting him warmly,
"you see that we have treated you without ceremony, as a child of the
family. We only waited for you half an hour. Knowing your soldierly
punctuality, we feared that some unavoidable business had prevented
your coming."