Cameron of Lochiel
"I should have been much grieved if you had treated me otherwise than
as a child of the family," answered Archie. "I had planned to be here
quite early this morning, but I did not make sufficient allowance for
your fine quagmire at Cap St.-Ignace. First of all, my horse got into a
bog-hole, whence I extricated him at the cost of the harness, which I
had to do without as best I could. Then I broke a wheel of my carriage,
whereupon I had to go and seek help at the nearest house, about a mile
and a half away. For most of the distance I was wading through mud up
to my knees, and when I got there I was half dead with fatigue."
"Ah, my dear Archie," said Jules, the ceaseless mocker, "_quantum
mutatus ab illo_, as Uncle Raoul would have said if I hadn't got ahead
of him. Where are your mighty legs, of which you were once so proud
in that same morass? Have they lost their agility since the 28th of
April, 1760? They served you admirably in that retreat, as I predicted
they would."
"It is true," replied Lochiel, laughing heartily, "that they did not
fail me in the _retreat_ of 1760, as you so considerately call it, but,
my dear Jules, you had no reason to complain of your own, short as they
are, in the retreat of 1759. One compliment deserves another you know,
always with due regard to a soldier's modesty."
"Ah, but you're all astray there, my dear fellow. A scratch which I
had received from an English bullet was interfering very seriously
with my flight, when a tall grenadier who had somehow taken a fancy to
me, threw me over his shoulder with no more ceremony than as if I were
his haversack, and, continuing his retreat at full speed, deposited me
at length within the walls of Quebec. It was time. In his zeal, the
creature had carried me with my head hanging down his rascally back,
like a calf on the way to the butcher's, so that I was almost choked
by the time he landed me. Would you believe it, the rascal had the
audacity some time afterward, to ask me for a _pour-boire_ for himself
and his friends, who were so glad to see their little grenadier once
more upon his feet; and I was fool enough to treat the crowd. You see,
I never could keep up a grudge. But here is your dinner, piping hot,
which your friend Lisette has kept in the oven for you. To be sure, you
deserve to take your dinner in the kitchen, for the anxiety that you
have been causing us; but we'll let that pass. Here is José bringing
you an appetizer, according to the custom of all civilized nations. The
old fellow is so glad to see you that he is showing his teeth from ear
to ear. I assure you that he is not one-handed when he is giving his
friends a drink, and still less so when, like his late father, he is
taking one himself."
"Our young master," answered José, putting the empty plate under his
arm in order to shake Archie's hand, "our young master is always at
his jokes; but Mr. Archie knows very well that if there was only one
glass of brandy left in the world I should give it to him rather than
drink it myself. As for my poor late father, he was a very systematic
man; so many drinks a day and not a drop more--always barring weddings
and festivals and other special occasions. He knew how to live with
propriety, and also how to take his little recreations from time to
time, the worthy man! All I can say is, that when he entertained his
friends he didn't keep the bottle under the table."
In The Vicar of Wakefield Goldsmith makes the good pastor say:
"I can't say whether we had more wit among us than usual, but I'm
certain we had more laughing, which answered the end as well."
The same might be said of the present gathering, over which there
reigned that French light-heartedness which seems, alas, to be
disappearing in what Homer would call these degenerate days.
"Neighbor," said Captain D'Haberville to Captain des Ecors, "if your
little difficulty with General Murray has not spoiled your throat for
singing, please set a good example by giving us a song."
"Indeed," said Archie, "I heard that you had great difficulty
in escaping the clutches of our bad-tempered general, but I am
unacquainted with the particulars."
"When I think of it, my friend," exclaimed Captain des Ecors, "I
feel something of a strangling sensation in my throat. I should not
complain, however, for in my case the general conducted affairs in due
order; instead of hanging me first and trying me afterward, he came to
the wise conclusion that the trial had better precede the hanging.
The fate of the unhappy miller Nadeau, my fellow-prisoner, who was
accused of the same crime as myself, and who was not tried until after
his execution--the sad fate of this respectable man, whose innocence
he heard too late, led him to hesitate before hanging me untried. In
my captivity I passed many a bad quarter of an hour. All communication
with the outside world was forbidden me. I had no means of learning
what fate was in store for me. Every day I asked the sentinel who was
walking up and down beneath my window if he had any news for me, and
ordinarily I received in answer a cordial 'goddam.' At last a soldier,
more accessible and good-humored, who could jabber a scrap of French,
replied to my question, '_Vous pendar sept heures le matingul!_' I
believe this jolly and sympathetic creature put all his knowledge of
French into that one phrase, for to every other question I asked I
received the same reply--'_Vous pendar sept heures le matingul!_' It
was easy to gather from this that I was to be hung some morning at
seven o'clock, but what morning I could not learn. The outlook was
anything but cheerful. For three whole days I had seen the body of the
unfortunate Nadeau hanging from one of the arms of his wind mill, the
plaything of the gale. Every morning I expected that I should be called
to take his place on this novel and ingenious gibbet."
"Infamous!" cried Archie. "And the man was innocent!"
"This was proved at the inquest which was held after the execution,"
replied Captain des Ecors. "I should add that General Murray appeared
to repent with bitterness for this murder, which he had committed in
his haste. He heaped Nadeau's family with benefits, and adopted his
two little orphan daughters, whom he took with him to England. Poor
Nadeau!"
All the company echoed the words "Poor Nadeau!"
"Alas!" said Des Ecor philosophically, "if we were to set ourselves
lamenting for all who have lost their lives by--But let us change a
subject so painful." Then he sang the following song:
"The new Narcissus am I named,
Whom all men most admire;
From water have I been reclaimed,
In wine to drown my fire.
When I behold the rosy hue
That gives my face renown,
Enraptured with the lovely view,
I drink my image down.
"In all the universe is naught
But tribute pays to thee;
Even the winter's ice is brought
For thy benignant glee.
The Earth exerts her anxious care
Thy nurture to assist;
To ripen thee the sun shines fair;
To drink thee I exist."
The songs and choruses succeeded each other rapidly. That contributed
by Madame Vincelot wrought up the merriment of the party to a high
pitch.
"This festal board, this royal cheer,
They clearly tell
(They clearly tell)
Our host is glad to have us here,
And feast us well
(And feast us well);
For even he permits that we
Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!
"Now pour me out a glass, kind host,
Of this good wine (_repeat_),
For I would drink a loving toast--
This wife of thine (_repeat_),
Who smilingly permits that we
Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"
To this Madame D'Haberville added the following impromptu stanza:
"If our endeavor to make your cheer
Be not in vain (_repeat_),
Consider you're the masters here,
And come again (_repeat_),
And it shall be your care that we
Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"
Then Jules added a verse:
"Without a spice of rivalry
Dan Cupid nods (_repeat_),
But challenge him to cups, and he
'Ll accept the odds (_repeat_).
Bacchus and he, as well as we,
Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"
At the end of each stanza every one pounded on the table with their
hands or rapped on the plates with their forks and spoons, till the din
became something indescribable.
Blanche, being asked to sing her favorite song of Blaise and Babette,
endeavored to excuse herself and substitute another; but the young
ladies insisted, crying: "Let us have Blaise and Babette by all means;
the minor is so touching."
"Yes," said Jules, "that is a minor, with its 'My love it is my life';
a minor to touch the tenderest chord in the feminine heart. Quick, let
us have the sweet minor, to touch the hearts of these charming young
ladies!"
"We'll make you pay for that in blindman's buff," said one of them.
"And in the game of forfeits," said another.
"Look out for yourself, my boy," said Jules, addressing himself, "for
in the hands of these young ladies you stand no better chance than
a cat without claws would in--hades! No matter. Sing away, my dear
sister. Your voice, perhaps, like that of Orpheus, will assuage the
fury of your enemies."
"The wretch!" chorused the young ladies, "to compare us--But, never
mind, we'll settle with you later. Meanwhile, sing us the song,
Blanche, dear."
The latter still hesitated. Then, fearing to attract attention by her
refusal, she sang the following song with tears in her voice. It was
the cry of a pure love finding utterance, in spite of all her efforts
to bury it in her heart:
"For thee, dear heart, these flowers I twine.
My Blaise, accept of thy Babette
The warm rose and the orange-flower,
And jessamine and violet.
Be not thy passion like the bloom,
That shines a day and disappears.
My love is an undying light,
And will not change for time or tears.
"Dear, be not like the butterfly
That knows each blossom in the glades,
And cheapen not thy sighs and vows
Among the laughing village maids.
Such loves are but the transient bloom
That shines a day and disappears.
My love is an undying light,
And will not change for time or tears.
"If I should find my beauty fade,
If I must watch these charms depart,
Dear, see thou but my tenderness--
Oh, look thou only on my heart!
Remember how the transient bloom
Shines for a day and disappears.
My love is an undying light,
And will not change for time or tears."
Every one was moved by her touching pathos, of which they could not
guess the true cause. They attributed it, lamely enough, to her emotion
on seeing Jules thus brought back to the bosom of his family. To divert
their attention, Jules hastened to say:
"But it's myself that has brought the pretty song with me from France."
"Let us have your pretty song," arose the cry on all sides.
"No," said Jules, "I am keeping it for Mademoiselle Vincelot, to whom I
wish to teach it."
Now the young lady in question had for some years been declaring
herself very hostile to the idea of marriage; indeed, she had avowed
a pronounced preference for celibacy. But Jules knew that a certain
widower, not waiting quite so long as decorum required, had overcome
the strange repugnance of this tigress of chastity, and had even
prevailed upon her to name the day. This declared opponent of marriage
was in no hurry to thank Jules, whose malicious waggery she knew too
well; but every one cried persistently: "The song! Give us the song,
and you can teach it to Elise at your leisure."
"As you will," said Jules. "It is very short, but is not wanting in
spice:
"A maiden is a bird
That seems to love the cage,
Enamored of the nest