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Tous les autres exemplaires originaux sont filmte nii commandant par la premiere page qui comporte une empreinte d'impression ou d'illustration et en terminant par la dernidre page qui comporte une telle empreinte. Un des symboles suivants apparaltra sur la dernidre image de cheque microfiche, selon le cas: le symbols — ► signifie "A SUIVRE ", le symbols V signifie "FIN". Les cartes, planches, tableaux, etc., peuvent dtre filmis A des taux de rMuction diff«rents. Lorsque le document est trop grand pour Atre reproduit en un seul clichA, il est film« A partir de I'angle supArieur gauche, de gauche A droite, et de haut en bas. en prenant le nombre d'images nAcessaire. Les diagrammas suivants illustrent la mAthode. 1 2 3 t 2 3 4 5 6 ■V T;-.ltiV y "0> TUKlll WAY TO MASS AT MiB AUtlUHTINS IN -1^ WILLIAM McLENNAN AUTHOR OP THK SPAN O' LTFK," "SPANISH JOHN," KTO. ILLUSTRATED f^T OLD FRANCE AND NEW W 111 TORONTO THE COPP, CLARK COMPANY, LIMITED 1900 ^^4511 ^3oRyri*ht, ISM. by Rnnn « BR ' 8' t ■!: . I 11 I I i Mi THE STORY-TELLERS would have journeyed through hall and cor- ridor appalling in their black emptiness before he caught a gleam of light which shone invit- ingly through a half-splintered door opening into the billiard-room. Here a dozen or more men in the uniform of the National Guard were gathered. Some were making quiet cheer round a fire in the wide chimney fed from a pile of broken furniture close at hand, others were lazily throwing dice, and two or three more were asleep on w.attresses thrown on the billiard-table, now shoved into a corner, where the j?core of the last games between the unfortunate King and Queen still hung un- touched. Besides these guardians of the national prop- erty the only other inmates of the palace were three men in an upper room in the Pavilion de Flore. Two of them were not over twenty- five. The first, evidently an Englishman in every line of his face and movement of his body, was known to his friends at home as an enthusiastic and consistent supporter of national freedom, and to the world at large as Francis Eussell, fifth Duke of Bedford. The tall young Frenchman near him was xxviii TIJE STORY-TELLERS Maitre Jacques Michel d'Arde, an advocate of Haute Lorraine, who had been drawn to Paris by his enthusiastic belief in the new doctrines which were to bring France back into that path of greatness Trom which she had wandered so far. In his own home he had known and ahnost worshipped those graces which threw such a glamour over the noblesse, in the person of the young Coratesse de Velesme ; he had felt the arrogance and indifference which as strongly characterized it in the bearing of her father, the old Comte, and its injustice in his own posi- tion as one outside the favored class; but he was not prepared for the quiet, womanl}'- courage, patient under every galling indig- nity, which he had found in the (^ueen. His chivalrous nature caught fire at the few gra- cious words with which she had acknowledged his forbidden salute, and he had more than once risked his position as a captain of the Federes to win some recognition from the woman whom he had once known as "the Austriq^n." The other member of the group was a man in middle life, with a keen, masterful face, M. xxix lip I m: i' ,' ' > tilt- * THE STORY-TELLERS Maurice Guilloux, one of the commissioners appointed by Roland to conduct the inventory and valuation of such effects in the palace as had escaped the fury of the mob. The Duke and M. d'Arde had obtained per- mission to observe the proceedings, and M. Guilloux had shown them every courtesy dur- ing the long investigation. Their intercourse had developed a mutual sympathy during their journe}^ through the desecrated palace, where one room after another echoed with the empti- ness of death, and each familiar object of ordi- nary use suggested the hopeless encounter of warm, breathing humanity with the terror of destruction. The apartment in which they sat had been that of Madame Elizabeth, the King's sister, and her dainty furniture, her prie-dieu, her paintings, her ivory and silver drawing instru- ments, her books, and other evidences of her devout and studious life, still lay scattered about in the track of tiie storm as it had rushed onward. A heavy silver candelabrum held a few lights, which flickered and flared as the fierce gusts of the December storm forced their way XXX THE STORY-TELLERS through the uncurtained windows to sweep through the hollow rooms, wailing over the desolation of the past and the irapendincr hor- ror of the future. '^ AS TOLD TO HIS GRACE MAITRE D'ARDE'S STORY A KING FOR A WEEK M. GUILLOUX'S STORY MONSIEUR LE COMTE MAITRE D'ARDE'S STORY AN ADJUSTMENT OF ACCOUNTS M. GUILLOUX'S STORY CACHE-CACHE HIS GRACE, THE DUKE OF BEDFORD, AN INTERRUPTED STORY M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE A LETTER ii ill i A KING FOR A WEE K maItre d'arde's story A KING FOR A WEEK M ILORD (said M. d'Arde, drawing the shattered sofa on which he sat nearer the table), here is a story I heard from a confrere in the cafe last night : In the Franche-Comte, about half-way be- tween Besan9on and Vesoul, are three little villages, so close together that none save a native can determine their boundaries. The principal one, with the church facing the little square, is St. Isart, and its inhabitants had heard little and understood still less of the movement whose direction and end we in its centre cannot foresee. One day, shortly after the arrest of the King at Varennes, a detachment of dragoons rode into St. Isart and formed up in the little square. The inhabitants gathered quickly, and 5 ^j [ * ! li k I !'^ i \'i K I 1 i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW after a flourish from the trumpeter, a proclama- tion WHS read to the listening rustics, who un- derstood not a word, but gazed in open-mouthed admiration at the handsome horses and gay uniforms of the troop. Then there was another flourish, and the dragoons rode clattering out into the v.^orld beyond, of which these people knew nothing. Something had happened — that was evi- dent. But after long consultation they were no wiser than before, and it was not until a Sunday or two afterwards, when the cure in obedience to certain instructions, read forth an ordonnance concerning the National Guard, that they missed the familiar beginning, " De par le Eoy." Here was the explanation. The King was dead. But then many could remember the death of the former King, Louis le Bien Aime, and what difference had it made? Ordon- nances and regulations had still continued " De par le Roy." They had cried, " Vive le Roi !" and danced round the bonfire, and eaten the beef and drunk the wine their old seigneur had given freely to all. But now — the King was dead, ard there 6 A KING FOR A WEEK was no bonfire, no feast, and no new King to take his place. Yes, here 'was reason for it all. Did not Feron the blacksmith say so ? Could not any one see it with half an eye ? And though each new order and proclamation was eagerly listened to as read aloud bv Perthius, who could read and write nearly as well as the cure himself, there was no " De par le Eoy " to re- assure them. "What should they do ? Long and earnestly they talked, and were wellnigh crushed under the imaginary dangers which they conceived must follow so unnatural a condition. Then Tregarde, who had served a good lifetime in the army, and had dragged home his shattered body in its tattered uniform to tell his stories and do little services for any who would reward him with a meal, startled them all into a new world of possibilities by crying : " "We are free men now ! That's what the dragoons said. Each one in the whole country can do as he likes. There is no King now ; every one knows that ; but, sacre nom d'une pipe! why not choose one for our- selves ?" 7 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW What an idea! Who but Tregarde could have thought of it ? Then followed days of discussion, with rep- etition of the same words and phrases until they formed themselves into ideas, and the ideas slowly worked into their understanding, and finally into action — and their King was chosen. Naturally it was Perthius, for a King must read and write; and then his ministers, for they knew all about ministers, were selected to advise with him. One was Tregarde. True, he was not irre- proachable as to his manner of life, but had he not seen the world, and even spoken with Monsieur de Soubise and the Prince de Poix, and knew not fear? And of the two others, they named one " Neckar," a testimony of pop- ular trust Jit which any one with a heart can- not even smile. Then everything went well. Their seigneur had fled, but the new King and his minis- ters heard all cases, and rendered judgment daily under the great elm in the square of St. Isart. The cure protested in vain ; they absolutely 8 A KING FOR A WEEK would not listen to his words of advice and warning. The present order was a relief from the former uncertainty and anxiety, and every one was satisfied with the new regime. The effect was good on the principal actors. Tregarde had not been inside the tavern since his appointment, so that he no longer sang " Malgre la bataille" and other similar ditties when quieter folk were abed. The Ki/ig and his other ministers fully realized what was due to their position, and carried themselves with the somewhat formal but not unbecom- ing dignity very often found among the sim- pler class of our country people. So things continued for four or five days, and the cure almost regretted his sending to Besanyon for a troop to break up the harmless comedy, when, on the evening of the sixth day, the King rose in his place and said : " My friends, you know well how I and my minis- ters thank you for the honour you have done us. But, my friends, as you know, and all the world can see, we are so busy with your affairs all day that we cannot work. "VVe have wives and children like you, and if we don't eat we cannot live." i '-' :i) Ul! ii IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW Ko one had realized this responsibility bo- fore, but now aV willingly accepted it, and be- fore night the royal family and the ministers of state were amply supplied, and hearty as- surances were given for the future. The following day a number of the younger men set off to the neighboring commune, where, without leave or license, thej^ proceed- ed to fell the timber and carry it off for the royal use, when they were interrupted by the garde, who not only violently opposed their trespass but even ridiculed their pretensions. This was too much. Should this wretch stand in the way of their public duty? l!^everl So without further waste of words they bound him hand and foot and carried him off to St. Isart, where he was safely imprisoned in the mill. A court was held in the open square, and after a solemn statement of the case, King, ministers, and people unanimously decided that the unfortunate garde should be hanged forthwith. By this it was growing dark, but a huge bonfire was quickly built and started. At the unusual sight the cur^ had come out on the 10 A KING FOR A WEEK steps of the presbytere, where he was met by a messenger of the King, requesting his pres- ence without delay, and as he descended to the meeting, wondering what new folly was afoot, the prisoner was brought up and con- fronted with the authorities he had set at naught. The King sat in his usual place under the elm, on an outstretched branch of which a man was seated, busied about something, with a long rope loosely wound about his shoul- ders. The garde bore his restraint impatiently, and looked threateningly around as if marking out culprits for future punishment. But the people seemed strangely indifferent. Everj' eye was directed towards the lower branches of the great elm, until, moved by the common impulse, he glanced upward and caught sight of the sin'ster figure appearing and disappear- ing in the light of the leaping fire. Up to that moment he had not the slightest suspicion of the gravity of his position, treating the whole matter as an annoying practical joke. But before his trembling lips could form a word the cure rushed breathless into the square, and 11 I) I i H IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW the crowd fell back until he stood between the King and his victim. Ignoring all their pretensions, he called on the principal actors by name, showed them clearly the awful crime they were about to commit, urged the certainty of immediate r)unishment — the troops were on their way iL.ATi Besan9on even now, and might arrive at iv/ > moment. Then followed threats of fut- nre en i.Ipiti nation, persuasion, and entreaty, u . •! t rivm were in tears, and the boys edged to tlie outskirts of the crowd as if to assure escape ; but the King and his followers sat absolutely unmoved. Cruel they were not, but their slow minds could not readily grasp any position other than that which they had so gradually as- sumed. Gravely, slowly, in their simple, awful ig- norance they explained the man's offence and their judgment. They had not sent for Mon- sieur le Cure to speak for the man — that part was ended now — but to confess him, if the garde so desired. Whereupon, seeing there was no hope but to delay until the arrival of the troops, the 1» I Ig- and VIoii- [part the but the A KING FOR A WEEK cure consented, provided they would allow him to administer the rite without interruption. To this they readily agreed, and Avith the boys who served him as acolytes he walked slowly towards the sacristy. As soon as he was out of hearing he gave his instructions to the eldest lad, and before he left the sacristy the boy was leading his father's horse with every precaution out of the village to ride at all speed down the Besan- 9on road and w^arn the coming troopers that life or death hung on their speedy arrival. In a few minutes the silvery sound of a bell was heard, and the little procession came in view, the boys in their white vestments with bell and candle, followed by the priest bearing the host upon his breast. The people — King, prisoner, men, women, and children — fell on their knees, and the tinkle of the bell, the sobs of the women, and the crackle of the fire went up to the calm stars above. The ceremony of confession was full. Ko sentence of the solemn service for the dying was omitted. The crowd showed no impa- tience, but, on the other hand, gave no sign of wavering ; the unfortunate garde was insensi- m IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW j ; :i il J ble to everything but the words of the cure, who alone betrayed anxiety, and listened in an agony for some sound from the Besan9on road. Tiie last prayer was said, and for a mo- ment the cure bowed his head in a silent, pas- sionate appeal for help, but no answer came from the south. Then, breaking the silence, he attempted to plead again, but as before was firmly refused, and in another moment the helpless victim of arbitrary power had passed from this world into whatever may be beyond, and the kneeling crowd was repeating the Litany for the Dead. Suddenly there was a faint rumbling, which grew louder and louder until it shaped itself into the heavy thunder of a troop of dragoons, which an instant later swept up the main street of the village. At the entrance to the square there was a sharp cry of " Halte !" The fore- most threw up the right hand as a signal to those behind, and the troop was motionless — the men wild-eved and starinoj at the evidence of the tragedy before them, the horses snort- ing and shaking chains and accoutrements after the effort of their fierce race. The crowd of villagers made no attempt to 14 1 ii A KING FOR A WEEK fly, but only huddled together like sheep about their King and ministers under the tree with its ghastly burden. The cure stepped forward and said a few words to the officer in command, at whose order half the troop dismounted, formed into line, and unslung their carbines. Another command, and they advanced on the crowd, who now fell back, leaving their King with his ministers alone under the tree. Not a word was spoken on either side, but at a sharp command Tregarde, with the in- stinct and old habit of the soldier, drew him- self up, saluted, made a half-turn, and led the way, followed by his companions, to the low wall joining the church with the presbytere, where they turned to the troops drawn up in line before them. Tregarde alone realized the situation. At the word the carbines moved to the ready. The cure sprang forward towards the officer, " Pour I'amour de Dieu, monsieur . . . " ; but was waved back. " Pardon me, monsieur. I accept the re- sponsibility. Present! Fire!" And simultaneously with the carbines a tri- 15 \ J IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW umphant cry of "Vive le Roi !" rang out from Tregarde, and the bodies fell together, and the He volution swept on. The young advocate, republican by principle, royalist by sentiment, rose to his feet as he finished his story, and, unmindful of time and place, Tregarde's cry of " Vive le Roi !" went echoing from the dismantled chamber out through the empty corridors. M. Guilloux sprang from his feet, his face blanched with alarm, while the Duke quickly lifted the can- delabrum, and turning it upsidedown extin- guishv^d the flaring lights. They sat there in excited silence for a mo- ment ; then heard a door open, and listened to the sound of feet and voices in the main body of the palace until the distant noises ceased, to be followed by the same hollow stillness. Without a word the three friends arose, and groping their way along corridors, through rooms, and down stairways, where so lately murder and rapine stalked triumphant, found exit through a private door, and with a silent pressuj'e of the hand each went his way into the storm and the night. 16 MONSIEUR LE COMTE 1 ■ M. GUILLOUX'S STORY MONSIEUK LE COMTE IT will probably never be definitely known what responsibility Mirabeau had touching the riots at Versailles (said M. Guilloux, a few evenings later), but I can at least account for some of his time during those two days and nights. The afternoon before the outbreak he and Dumont dined with M. de Servan in his apartments in Les Petites Ecuries. Host and guests were anxious and preoccupied, Mirabeau particularly so, and when he slipped away be- fore dinner was over, muttering some excuse, his absence called forth no comment. "When the evening session of the Assembly opened, the hall was crowded with the mem- bers and their friends, and the galleries over- flowed with the scum of Paris, who interrupted the proceedings and insulted the speakers with IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW the unrestrained flow of their filth}^ approba- tion or anger. There M. Dumont looked and waited in vain for Mirabeau, and at last went to his lodgings, where, to his astonishment, he found him in bed, though the hour was still early. They returned together, and Mirabeau's pres- ence through that stormy sitting undoubtedly added to his popularity. At half-past two in the morning the Assem- bly adjourned, and Mirabeau and his friend walked in the direction of their lodgings at the Hotel Charost. The mob was everywhere; carrying on its drunken and obscene orgies in the Church of St. Louis, filling the avenues- and gardens, and prowling restlessly about the palace. ^ Mirabeau could not rest after the events of the night ; a crisis was imminent, and sleep im- possible. At daybreak, when the first sounds of the attack on the palace were heard, he took his cloak and sword and made his way towards the scene of disturbance. As he passed through the garden where the body-guard so narrowly escaped slaughter the day before, he heard a shrill scream of terror, 30 ■ds '■ i 11 MONSIEUR LE COMTE and turning into the alley from whence it came, received into his arras a flying child. "With a natural instinct he caught the child to him, and, sword in hand, faced two drunken ruffians who were close behind her. They , gave up their prey at once, and slunk away in the darkness before the indignant words hurled at them by this unexpected champion. The child had ceased her cries the moment she felt the safety of his powerful arm, and now clung sobbing to her protector. She was too frightened to look up or answer any ques- tions. He was puzzled for a moment what to do. But the generous sense of protection was still too strong within him to care to lose the confidence of the little being whose fluttering breath was warm on his face. It was Romance once more ! For Romance he had quarrelled with his family, ruined his prospects, disappointed his friends, and brought misery upon himself ; but at its magic call was still as ready to yield up the future as on the day he eloped with Sophie Monnier, and won his three years in Vincennes as a reward. "Vivo Henri Quatre ! Vive ce roi galant !" 21 i* IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW roared the mob across the gray of the morn- ing, in invitation to every lawless vagabond within ear-shot. Mirabeau laughed as the song reached him, " You must get on with your devil's work without me, my loyal citizens," and, turning his back on the palace, walked slowly to his lodgings, where he handed the half-sleeping child to his valet, Teutch, who received his orders without astonishment or curiosity. Within half an hour she was quietly sleeping in the Count's own bed, and by eight o'clock Mirabeau was again in his place in the As- sembly. The morning had well advanced when the child awakened and sat up, looking wonder- ingly at the unfamiliar surroundings. Pres- ently the door opened softly, and a big, good- natured face, surmounted by a mass of yellow hair, peered cautiously in. The child stared gravely at the intruder, but when she caught the welcome beamed from the kindly blue eyes she smiled back her welcome in turn, and con- fidence was established before the huge body in blue livery followed the yellow head and 22 I HE CAUdllT TlIK Cllll-D Tl> IHM ^ ' I j i MONSIEUR LE COMTE blue eyes into the room. How quickly and noiselessly he moved, and in what a funny way he said, " Pon jour, marazelle ; fous avez bien dormi ?" By the time the little thing thanked him and demanded his name, greeting his an- swer, " Teutch, mamzelle, a vot' service," with a burst of merry laughter, contidence had be- come friendship. " Teutch," she said, and laughed again at the old name — " Teutch, who sleeps here ?" " M'sieu' le Comte, mamzelle." " Who brought me here last night, when those bad men came ?" and her eyes deepened at the remembrance of her terror. " Yes, mamzelle." Then, assuming the "grand air": "Well, you must thank him for me, and now I will dress and go home; but" — and here she be- came the child once more — "you will come with me ?" " Pardon, mamzelle ; M'sieu' le Comte said I was to give you breakfast when you wakened, and take care of you until he came back." " Does he know my papa, in the Guard ?" " M'sieu' le Comte knows every one, mam- zelle." 23 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW " Good ! Now — breakfast. Can I have chocolate ?" " Whatever marazelle wishes." Before he left his lodgings that morning, Mirabeau, with his vanity of doing things in his own way, had said: " Teutch, when the lit- tle one awakens, get her what she wants, and keep her safely till I give other orders"; and Teutch, whose only idea of right was strict obedience to his master's commands, was pre- pared to follow them to the letter. Accordingly the child was dressed, and spent a joyous day under the care of the faithful Teutch. Evening came without any message from Mirabeau ; so Teutch carefully undressed her, and sat beside her until she fell asleep, prepared to renew his charge on the following day. But morning came and went, and Mira- beau neither returned to his lodgings nor sent any instructions, so that Teutch did not con- sider himself bound to make any inquiry re- garding the child. Indeed, such an attempt would have been useless. Her father was evi- dently a member of the Garde-du-corps ; the court was deserted ; some of the Guard had been murdered, and the others had followed 24 I M MONSIEUR LE COMTE in the train of the hapless King and Queen. His instructions were to see the child wanted nothing, and as he was sufficiently provided with money to supply her wants, he did so without consulting any one. It was no busi- ness of his to question the child as to her his- tory, or even as to her name ; to him she was simply " Mamzelle," and " Mamzelle " showed no disposition to question the reason for her new surroundings. Mirabeau was too much occupied with his duties to give even a passing thought to the little one, whom he had never seen since the morning she lay sleeping in his bed, and had gone off to Paris, when the Assembly moved thither, forgetting even her existence. Teutch waited on at his post, fulfilling his duties as he conceived them, without question- ing. As for the child, she had accepted him from their first meeting as a companion, for he had a child's heart to meet her under his gigantic frame. Then, too, if Teutch was de- voted to Mirabeau, his charge was equally de- voted to the Queen, and this common senti- ment of loyalty still further bound them together. 85 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW The removal of the royal family to Paris had greatly disturbed her, and Teutch's account of their ominous departure did not tend to reas- surance. " Did you see my papa there ? He would be near the carriage ; quite, quite close." " No, mamzelle ; there were so man}''. But I saw an officer of the Guard walking with his hand on the carriage." " Perhaps that was my papa ; perhaps it was," she repeated, softly ; and then inquired, anxiously, "Will those people hurt the Queen?" " We hope not, mamzelle." " Not in Paris ?" " No, mamzelle ; M'sieu' le Comte is there !" — a statement made with such confidence that it was sufficient for both. It was a joyous day for Teutch and his charge when he received orders to pack up and proceed to Paris to join his master in his lodg- ings near the Manege. The preparation was a merry one, and the journey a constant excitement, of which the incidents did not interest the child so much as 1 I MONSIEUR LE COMTE this mysterious " Monsieur le Comte," whom she was to see somewhere at her journey's end. At last the long day was over; and the child, wearied out, was safely asleep in a hastily contrived bed in her new home. The following afternoon Mirabeau, on enter- ing his lodgings, was surprised into a sudden remembrance of his thoughtless action by a clear, childish voice singing, "O, Richard! mon roil L'univers t* abandonne !" " Ah I ah ! my little royalist," he laughed ; and opening the door of his study, saw the little waif seated in his own chair, thought- fully building a house of cards as she slowly sang the forbidden song. He called to her in that rich soft voice of his, which could be as tender as a woman's, "Eh, eh, la petite!" At the words the child slipped to the floor and turned towards him. Instantly her eyes brightened, her face flushed with a glad sur- prise, and with a joyous intonation she ex- claimed, " Ah ! Monsieur le Comte !" 27 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW Nothing in the world could have pleased him so much. " Yes, cherie ! Monsieur le Comte always, let others be what they will !" and he knelt to ' embrace the child, whose arms for the second time were close about his neck. He happened to dine alone that day; but his dinner was as long drawn out as if a dozen guests sat round the table. Close beside him was his " little royalist," for whom every charm of his manner and voice was as care- fully studied as if she were an enemy to be won over or a friend to be drawn still closer. " Did you see my papa ?" she asked, sudden- ly. " But of course you did, because he was in the Guard. Teutch saw him when they left, with his hand on the carriage. I'm sure that was papa! He would stay near the Queen. And that poor Queen! Did they hurt her?" " No, my child. She is safe." " I was sure of that. Teutch said you would take care of her." "Teutch takes a good deal on him^ f at times." "Eh?" she queried, wonderingly, and then m ■ MONSIEUR LE COMTE ran on explaining : " When we knew you were here we were so glad. We knew then nothing would happen." " So you've converted Teutch, the impassive Teutch!" and Mirabeau laughed long and heartily. The child stared at him in surprise, until she caught the infection, and Ler merry treble mingled with the joyous roll of his laughter. When Teutch set the dessert and retired, the "little royalist" climbed to Mirabeau's lap, and sat there lightly caressing that black crown of hair of which he was so proud. So far, in his selfish enjoyment of the pres- ent, he had stirred no chord of the past, but with the child's touch a feeling deeper than mere enjoyment was awakened, and be asked, " And your name, my little one ?" She laughed merrily at an imaginary Teutch. " How funny ! He doesn't know my name !" Then, with a second happy intuition, the child knelt, and taking his great scarred face be- tween her little hands, kissed him on the lips before she answered, " Sophie." His sudden start and pallor half frightened her. But his arms were about her, and in an 29 1 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW instant her courage returned as she lay on thai bosom, torn by conflicting emotions. Had it been any other name — but Sophie! All his reckless, stormy youth and passion re- turned at that once loved name. No ! he would ask no more questions ! A Mirabeau was not to be governed as other men. The child had opened up all his past again. She had come into his life without his seeking her, and now he would hold her for the future. So from that day forward the little Sophie entered fully into her new life. A bonne was engaged for her special service, but it was Teutch who filled up her waking existence in the absence of his master. It was a strange, unnatural life the child led. Her world was made up of Mirabeau and her two attendants ; there might be other people in the house, but she saw nothing of them, and Teutch kept a jealous eye over her whenever they moved abroad. Mirabeau was usually so occupied during the day that he seldom saw her then ; but at night, no matter at what hour he returned 80 I i MONSIEUR LE COMTE I ' )f from the Assembly, no matter how disturbed or weary he was, as soon as he had changed his dress, Teutch carried the child down to him, and there he would sit with her on his knee, listening to her prattle, silent under the magic of her touch, until the excitement with- in died down, the irritation was soothed, the wearmess had passed. Then, awakening to the enjoyment of the hour, he laughed with her, and talked as only he could talk to wom- an, old or young. He was only " Monsieur le Comte " to her ; of his other life she knew nothing, and ques- tioned him about the Queen, and Madame Royale, and the little Dauphin, without re- buke or the slightest knowledge of the emo- tions her simple faith was awakening. "Is tlie Queen happy in your big Paris?" she asked one night. "No, cherie, I'm afraid not," he answered, frankly. " But she is not afraid ?" "No, my little royaHst. I don't think your Queen could ever be afraid." " Not my Queen alone ; your Queen, too, monsieur. Say your Queen !" 31 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW it "Pardon, mademoiselle — a thousand par- dons. My Queen, certainly!" and he laughed. " Are the Tuiieries like Versailles ?" she con- tinued. " You shall see for yourself, petite. Teutch shall take you there to-morrow." And on the morrow the ardent little royalist was brought by Teutch into the gardens of the palace, and there, to her great delight, she saw the Queen laughing with Madame Roy ale, as the little Dauphin fed his ducks in the pond, while the King strolled about, his hands be- hind his back, without noticing an}^ one. She returned home fully satisfied and greatly comforted. She had not seen her father, but that was only natural ; he had his duties, and as a gentleman of the Guard must not leave the palace. Mirabeau agreed with her explanation, and as time went on he brought her daily news and stories of her beloved Queen and the royal children, until he grew to share something of the pleasure and enthusiasm of his "little royalist." It would be fanciful to suppose that the child in any way influenced his public action. But 32 MONSIEUR LE COMTE her implicit faith in his nobleness awakened a sense of the degradation into which he had wilfully descended ; the purity of her soul at times recalled him to a recognition of the life he might have lived ; at times he caught a glimpse of the quiet and repose of mind such a life might have won. AVhen he decidedly took up the royal cause, there was an almost triumphant sense of relief and freedom in his intercourse with the child, as if he had broken down some invisible barrier between them. " Did you say something for the Queen to- night ?" " Yes, ma mie, yes, I said something to- night, if never before." " I knew it !" she cried, confidently raising her smiling face to kiss him. Such returns were always triumphs to them both. In the morning, if he were alone, she would beg to be allowed to tie his hair, and was de- lighted when his dress was richer than usual. " Oh, I hope you will have to speak for her to-day !" and she arranged his lace and patted his brooch, and spread out the wide skirts of 83 ^wL. IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW his coat, while Teutch looked on with admira- tion, and the "King of the People" smiled with pride. ill I When the old lodgings were abandoned and Mirabeau took up his luxurious apartments in the rue Chaussee d'Antin, the change did not in any way alter the daily life of little Sophie. He never allowed her to appear before the brill- iant gatherings at his suppers, and although he was surely killing himself with overwork and reckless living, his strong affection for the child never wavered. She could still calm down the burning passion of his life into some- thing like repose, and she alone could rouse him from the bitter despondency into which he was thrown by his recurring storms of re- morse. He was dying on his feet — " at the stake," as he described it — and the end came quickly. He was only confined to bed for four or five days, and whenever he could arouse himself from the alrac '; intolerable tortures he en- dured, turned with all his energy to public affairs. But his " little royalist " was not for- gotten even then. 34 • MONSIEUR LE COMTE » Each night when the house was still she was carried down to sit for a few moments beside the mighty frame outlined on the white bed, to lay her little face beside his, to lightly touch his waving hair, and to receive once more his caress and the loving farewell, " Dors bien, ma Sophie," from the heart which so longed for rest. Early one April morning she awakened to find Teutch standing beside her cot. Without a word he picked her up and carried her as she was into the room now filled with people whom she had never seen before. They gave way before Teutch as he ad- vanced towards the bed with his little white burden ; some one held the curtain over, and there was a sob from the heart of the faithful servant as the lips of the innocent Sophie for the last time touched those of his beloved " M'sieu' le Comte." AN ADJUSTMENT OF AC COUNTS maItre d'arde's story AN ADJUSTMENT OF AC COUNTS M. LOUIS AEMAND REGNAULT DE QUATRE - VENTS, Captain of the Royal Guard and Seigneur of Quatre-Yents in Haute- Lorraine, had for many a day rigorously exacted from his censi- taires every liard the law allowed or tolerated. Personally he was brave, and possessed the virtues inherent in his class and calling; but personally his censitaires knew nothing of him, as for the last twenty years he had lived ex- clusively at Versailles, and, like men of his position, being constantly in need of money, demanded the last sou from his agent, who, assuming new authority with each new de- mand, worried and harried the people in every conceivable manner, legitimate or otherwise. 39 !ii> f !i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW Lawsuits, fines, and confiscations were the order of the day, and so long as the mon- ey was forthcoming, M. de Quatre- Vents troubled himself but little as to the means em- ployed. As for the people, they were stolid and un- complaining enough ; long-ingrained habit had to a certain extent reconciled them to oppres- sion ; a natural, hereditary loyalty had thrown about their seigneur and his family a tradition of attachment, and the grinding and yielding process went on until the wave of Change, Awakening, and finally Revolution, swept over the land. There was desperately high water in Paris before the storm broke in Lorraine. M. de Quatre -Yents would gladly have remained with the wreck of the Court, but after the disbanding of the body-guard, in the begin- ning of October, 1789, he felt free to devote his services to his familv. He succeeded in es- corting them in safety across the frontier, and then returned, accompanied only by Mathurin, his life-long servant, to Quatre- Yents, where he arrived at midnight, and reached the manor without being discovered. 10 )r AN ADJUSTMENT OF ACCOUNTS No attack had as yet been made on the house. Zelie, the soHtary servant, was awakened, and came hesitatinglv to the door of the basse-cour, where her ahirm was changed to tearful joy at the sight of her " young mas- ter," as she still called him, standing, way- worn but smiling, in the light of the candle shaded by her trembling hand. In the empty stables some scant provision was found for the jaded horses, and the trav- elling-carriage was rolled safely out of sight. Then, after a hasty meal, eaten by the light of a single candle, M. de Quatre-Yents wrapped himself up in his cloak on a sofa which Zelie and Mathurin had carried into the warmth of the kitchen. Mathurin made himself comfort- able on a wooden settle, while old Zelie sat and watched through the long hours which precede the day. It was not her affair to speculate on this sudden appearance. She accepted it as she accepted everything else which came from the hand of the master she had seen grow from birth to boyhood — now the careworn man sleeping uneasily under her faithful eye. 41 ' iHi . IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW Tho morning was well advanced before the wearied travellers sat up and stared for a mo- ment at their surroundings and at each other, until they realized their position, when M. de Quatre-Yents laughed lightly at his valet, half servant, half confidant : " Well, Mathu- rin, we are nowhere greater strangers than at home! Let us see what Zelie has been about." Zelie had been -about many things since she had stolen away from her long, silent watch. Under her care the horses had been fed and watered, and a breakfast now await- ed " Monsieur " in a room duly set in order, where, in snowy apron, she stood to see that he wanted nothing. Through the scarcely opened window the fresh clear air of the early autumn found an entrance, inviting the fugitive to throw wide the shutters and let in the day with its living light to wander through the old house, as it had done for over a hundred years past. Finally, M. de Quatre-Yents turned from the table and said : " Zelie, ma vieille, I leave on a long journey to-night, and, in case of anything happening, there are some things I cannot m AN ADJUSTMENT OF ACCOUNTS bear to leave behind. Bring a light now, and let us see what is left in the vault below." Then began a lo.ig and wearisome day's work. Rooms were opened which had only been used for an occasional hunting-party since he had left the house after his early marriage. Boxes and bureaux were raiisacked. A fire, fed with papers and mementos of an al- most forgotten past, was kindled on the empty hearth, which had known no family life since his own boyhood. "When all was finished, it hardly seemed worth while risking liberty and possibly life for these few family relics. Some little plate, a few miniatures, three or four portraits cut from their frames, a bundle of letters, and a few, dingy tin cases containing parchments, made a pitifully small treasure lying on an out-spread curtain in the middle of the empty dining-room. But their very lack of appreci- able value evidenced a side to the nature of M. Louis Armand Regnault de Quatre-Yents for which few of his acquaintance would have given him credit. By eight o'clock everything was safely packed and strapped in place on the trav- 48 B^ IN 1 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW elling-carriage, the horses were in good order, and the night promised well. M. de Quatre-Yents was again in the little room, at supper, chatting with Zelie, and form- ing plans for her future. Mathurin sat in the kitchen, dividing his attention between a pair of pistolfj and his huge travelling -boots ab* «orbing uhe largest possible quantity of grease before a hot fire. Suddenly their quiet was broken by a dis- charge of guns under the windows and a wild yell from a dozen throats, answered by a low cry from Zelie, " Ah ! les brigands !" She feii on her knees, crying : " Come, mon- sieur — Monsieur Louis, come ! The old hiding- place ! No one knows of it !" and in her misery and terror the poor creature held and kissed his hand as she tried to drag him towards the door. With a sweep of his napkin M. de Quatre- Yents extinguished the candles, and said, quiet- ly : " Non, non, ma bonne vieille ! No need of that yet. All will come out w^ell." lie then passed quickly into the adjoining room, and peering through the slmtters, saw the house surrounded by armed men, their faces fully lighted up by flaring torches. 44 AN ADJUSTMENT OF ACCOUNTS 50 y A low whisper told him that Mathurin was close behind, and a moment later they were both well armed for what might Tollow. *' Mathurin, there is no use hiding. The horses would betray us in any case. Wo are fairly caught ; no doubt through some fault of our own." Then, after a sliort pause, he went on, rapidly : " Here ! let Zelie get all tlie candles she can find. Put all you can in the great lustre in the drawing-room. Break and tear up anything that will burn quickly ; pUe it in readiness on the hearth, with some oil and a trifle of powder to start it. Get some wine and a glass, and we'll receive the brutes as if they were our masters — which they are," he added, bitterly, as Mathurin felt his way out of the room. Mathurin's order was absolutely bewilder- ing to the old woman, but he said, se^'^erel}'' : " Nover mind why ! Siiow me whore the things are, and I'll get all ready. You talk to the canaille, and keep them quiet- AVe'vo for- gotten how!" he added, including liimself with his master in his sweeping truth and insolence. When the crowd would no longer listen to the old woman's protestations and i)rayers they 45 ill ' 1' J I IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW entered the kitchen, filling it to the utmost, while she, unharmed, beat a masterly retreat into the hall of the main building, securing the door with its heavy bar. By the time it was beaten down and the crowd surged through they were astonished to find the hall in a glare of light issuing from the open drawing-room. Their first thought was that their prey had escaped, leaving only his blazing nest behind. When they reached the entrance to the room there was a gasp of surprise from the foremost, and as they crowded in v. silence fell on all. There was the great lustre blazing with lights as for some fete of the old diiys, which they dreamed were gone forever. Before a fire that was beginning to leap up the long-unused chim- ney was M. de Quatre- Vents, seated behind a small writing-table, with his cloak, hat, and sword thrown across a tall chair beside him, giving orders to Matliurin, who built up the fire under his direction as methodically and unconcernedly as if no one had disturbed tiieir privacy. On the table was wine, flanked by bread, and the ordinary cheese of the country. Before M. do Quatre- Vents were papers and 40 AN ADJUSTMENT OF ACCOUNTS letters, and in the open drawer next his hand were two pistols fully cocked, while two others lay beneath the out-spread cloak on the chair beside him. Many of the intruders had never seen their seigneur before, and they stared open-mouthed at this brown -haired, hard-featured soldier, who seemed utterly indifferent to their pres- ence ; older men were silently recalling older days and older faces of the same family, and the silence was unbroken save by the low voice of the master and the movements of the man. Here some fellow, with a sense of the ridicu- lous, laughed aloud, at which M. de Quatre- Yents, clapping his hat on his head, sprang to his feet, while Mathurin moved quickly past him, and stood bolt-upright behind the tall chair. The laugh ceased abruptly. Every man in- stinctively drew himself together and tight- ened his hold on his weapon, when, without a word, M. de Quatre- Vents bowed low with a mocking sweep of his hat, replaced it, and sat down, with his right hand just touching the edge of the drawer witli the pistols. i!!t m 1: . i !M ! : . IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW The rush did not come. Then, before the tension relaxed, M. de Quatre- Vents broke the silence : " Well, my friends, to w^hat do I owe the honour of this visit?"' There was not a tremor nor a suggestion of sarcasm in. his voice, and except for the fan- faronnade of the bow, all was as natural as if greeting them on some fete-day. With the softening influence of the mem- ories which had swept over their hearts a mo- ment before, the older men felt but the kindly if masterful manner of older days, and the younger did not know enough to catch the import of his gesture. " M'sieu'," spoke out old Colas, " it is a long day since you have sat here in your father's house — since we have been able to speak \vith you face to face. Since that day many things have changed, but the change has never brought good to us. No matter what came, we still sweated in summer and froze in winter to meet the demands, always growing larger, which M. Michel made upon us. lie swore that your only answer to our pra3'^ers was that you needed the money and must have it. Not a good an- swer to make to hungry men ! We stand be- 4b HI!' be- I ! i ■ 1 i!f 1 ; 1 1 1 AN ADJUSTMENT OF ACCOUNTS fore you in arms to-night, which I, for one, never thought to do ; but, m'sieu', before we speak further, let us all know from your own mouth if you ever heard of this — and this — " Thereupon the old man told story after story of oppression and injustice, until M. de Quatre- Yents's face grew dark with indignation ; but he listened without interruption until the tale of patient endurance and suffering was ended. When the old man had finished, M.de Quatre- Yents turned, and whispered some orders to Mathurin, who without a moment's hesitation made his way through the crowd, which fell back right and left at his advance without a word. The men all stood motionless, eying M. dc Quatre-Yents, who sat immovable, with his chin on his hand, staring moodily at the table before him. In a few moments Mathurin re- appeared, carrying a small case, which he placed in front of his master and unlocked. Then M. de Quatre-Yents removed his hat, closed the little drawer on bis right, and said: " My friends, greater wrongs have been done vou than I knew of — o:reater wrongs 'mfort- unately,than I can right. I am a muci poor- > 49 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW er man than any of you to-da}', for I am leav- ing my country and my home without any knowledge — with hardly a hope — of the day when I may return. When you entered here I never thought to pass through the door alive; but now I know my life would be a sorry repayment for the wrongs you hfve sustained. Colas, I appoint you to distribute the gold in this case among m}'^ people as far as it will go, and if my fathers before me have worked some good towards yours in the past, that must suffice to make up the balance. I am persuaded that I leave Zelie safe in your hands, and perhaps, for the sake of a woman's faithfulness, you will spare this old house while she lives." There was a hurried consultation among the leaders as M. de Quatre-Yents arose, and Ma- thurin handed him his hat, fastened on his sword, and arranged his cloak over his shoul- ders. Then old Colas again spoke up : " Non, non, m'sieu', we will not do this ! The things which touch us most cannot be paid off by money ; but they are gone now, wiped away by the words you have spoken. As for the rest, each 50 AN ADJUSTMENT OF ACCOUNTS non. one can tell just how much he has been forced to pay unjustly. We have not talked these matters over on winter nights to have any need now for a notary to draw up our ac- counts. Pay each as he can show cause !" JVI. do Quatre-Yents, with somewhat of his old manner, laughed as one laughs at a child ; but thro^' ing back his cloak and drinking off his glass, ho said, " Come then, begin !" The task seemed unending. Most of the de- mands were trifling, but each claimant insisted on going into every detail, no matter how dis- tant, and on showing the justness of his claim down to the last livre, until M. de Quatre- Vents began to yawn with very weariness, and to regret the piquancy had died out of the adventure. Hour after hour dragged away, M. de Quatre-Vents bravely trying to keep up some appearance of interest, when his atten- tion was aroused by a hot dispute between Colas and two claimants. " No, no I I tell you I will not allow it ! The business was settled in open court, and you have no rigi)t to rob m'sieu' !" The others as hotly insisted. But M. de Quatre- Vents cut tlie argument short with, 51 I il I IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW "What's the amount?" and, in spite of the protestations of Colas, paid over the money, to the evident satisfaction of the majority — and at last the claimants were exhausted. Thereupon Mathurin set forth in search of Zelie, and a dozen bottles of wine were brought up and distributed among the leaders. As they hesitated a moment, and then slow- ly withdrew, old Colas turned and said in a low voice trembling with emotion : " Adieu, m'sieu'! We will ever carrv in our hearts what you have done to-night. It will never be forgotten by us or by our children. May the blessing of God be with you wherever 3'ou may go ! He alone can hold you safe in these evil days, Avhich are only beginning." Tired and overtaxed with the long strain, M. de Quatre- Vents, as he laid his hand on the old man's shoulder, said, with a weary and hopeless laugh : " Evif days indeed. Colas ; but I will trust more to my Fate than to your God ! Adieu, adieu !" and he raised his glass to his lips, and then shattered it in pieces on the hearthstone at his feet. Colas crossed himself at the ominous sound, and hastened after the others, who trooped 5d AN ADJUSTMENT OF ACCOUNTS down the great avenue towards the vilkige in silent, decorous order. IS on As soon as the house was cleared, M. de Quatre- Vents said, shortly : " Now, Mathurin, don't lose an instant ! Our friends there may change their minds at any moment. We'll take the upper road, and don't spare the whip, once we are out of hearing." Old Zelie followed her "young master" out into the court as the horses were put in, and her prayers followed him after he had drawn to the door of the carriage, which was soon lost in the shadows of the trees. M. de Quatre -Yents sat in the darkness, wearied in body and sick at heart. He did not for a moment hide from himself that his late action was merely the result of an impulse which had died away as quickly as it had arisen. His patience and restraint were neces- sities to the role he had assumed, and he de- spised his acting, in comparison with the gen- erous and manly acceptance of his sacrifice by his censitaires. Mathurin was now moving at a good pace, when suddenly there was a hoarse shout in 68 N> IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 US '^ "■ ^^ Uj 122 12.2 u US 1.1 l.-^la IL25 III 1.4 II 1.6 Photographic Sciences Corporation 4. V c\ \ '^ o^ .^*/' 33 WIST MAIN STMIT WnSTIR.N.Y. MSM (71«)I73-4S03 *^ ^ ^ *i^> ^^^ '^' V \ vV 5^ n IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW front, and the horses leaped forward under a fierce cut of the whip. M. de Quatre- Vents sprang to his feet — saw a fire burning by the road, and some figures making for the horses' heads ; he took in the situation at a glance, and shouted : " Stop, Mathurin I Stop I They have forgotten to send word to these fellows. I will explain !" But the words had not passed his lips be- fore there was a flash, a deafening report, and the terrified horses flew on wildly into the night, while in the bottom of the carriage lay all that was mortal of M. Louis Armand Reg- nault. Seigneur de Quatre- Vents. His Fate had betrayed him t • a res :he op, to !" be- md the lay leg- CACHE-CACHE II M. GUILLOUX'S STORY CACHE-CACHE DURING the early summer, in 1786, M. I Maurice Lenormant brought his bride home to his handsome hotel in the rue Dauphine, near the corner of the rue do Bussy. It was purely a love-match on both sides. In position and fortune they were nearly equal ; their families had held high rank in Normandy for generations; they both were young, and were united by common sympa- thies and aims. But before another summer opened he bore her forth from the home in which they had so fondly planned their future; that had vanished now and forever, leaving only her memory and her babe. Aline. To the child M. Lenormant turned in his 67 1 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW desolation with a tenderness and care which were unfailing; and as she grew older, every hour he could spare from his public duties was devoted to her. She grew up a singularly attractive little thing, inheriting much of the sturdy Norman blood, for she was strong- limbed and dark- haired, full of high spirits, and absolutely fear- less. Wiien '89 brought the first outward sign of the New Era, Lenormant threw himself heart and soul into the cause of liberty, and his self-imposed duties increased as every month brought its unforeseen difficulties and compli- cations. Heavy as his actual duties were, they were rendered heavier by the constant thought of the lonely child in the empty house in the rue Dauphine. Yet he could not bear to send her away among comparative strangers, for the rare hours he could spend with her were his only rest and solace from his arduous la- bors. As for the child, she quickly accustomed herself to the gradual change, and, childlike, found a new object round which her affection and life could centre. This was the Suisse, as all porters in private houses were then called, 98 l! i CACHE-CACHE a great strapping fellow from the family es* ..o in Normand}', rejoicing in the name of iiazile and in his manly proportions set forth in the glory of a red and gold livery. Ba^ile was en- tirely devoted to the child, and Lenormant had even more confidence in him than in Lizette, the bonne, so, as Aline was contented, he was free to pursue his work without anxiety for the care of his little one. Lizette was kind, and her patience untiring, but then her stories of " la poulette grise " were not like those of Bazile. Hour after hour the dark- haired, bright -faced child sat in the lodge of "her Suisse," listening to his wonder- ful stories, or learning his long complaintes of dead-and-gone kings and princesses and cap- tains and fairies of far-off Normandy. People passing or calling at the house were struck by the queer companionship. Many were amused, others were scandalised, among them Madame d' Averolles, who lived opposite ; she went so far as to rebuke M. Lenormant for the foU}^ of allowing the child to mix with such "manants." "Madame," he answered, " it was such * ma- nants' whom our ancestors protected, and by 59 I ' IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW whose help we won such honours as we yet hold." So Aline was allowed to revel in her fairy- land of kings and queens within the lodge of •' her Suisse," while in the world outside the stern reality was working towards its end un- known to child or servant. But Aline's happiest days were when Bazile walked behind her and Lizette on their way to mass at Les Augustins. Then she was la grande dame de par le monde, and never for a moment did she forget the dignity of her role. Not the slightest trace of familiarity towards Bazile, who, on his part, was equal- ly particular that his young mistress should as properly r>lay her part in her natural sphere. Thus the months went on, and though the child saw but little of her father, she was happy in her own way in her own world. Her world became yet more restricted in the spring of '92, as M. Lenormant was forced to forbid any expe- ditions into the streets, for even into their quiet quarter disturbances were carried by crowds, who appeared without warning and vanished as suddenly, like an ugly dream. The restric- tion hardly distressed Aline, for she did not 60 CACHE-CACHE care for her walk now that Bazile was only dressed in sober black; red cloth and gold lace and powder had all been blown away a good year ago by the rising storm ; the streets had lost all the colour and life to which she was accustomed, and she had lost her interest when the old gayety disappeared. Besides this, she had compensations. Bazile's usual duties as porter had dwindled down to an occasional opening and closing of the doors, for people rarely called at the house in daytime now, so Aline had him for herself. Many a day he and Lizette would play for hours with her in her now unused drawing-room. They had many games, but the favorite for all three was cache-cache (hide-and-seek), and they played in this wise : Bazile left the room, with strict injunctions to remain at the very end of the hall until he heard Aline's signal; Aline directed Lizette to stand behind a screen or curtain — she took too keen an interest in tlie game to hide herself — and then her call to Bazile rang out. The child stood before the concealing curtain or screen, her eyes flashing with merriment, and hardly able to refrain from shouts of delight as Bazile made fruit- 61 i M \\\ m\ IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW less search behind chairs and sofas, moved the heavy vases beside the fireplace, pretended to look behind the mirrors, but never found the hidden Lizette until warned by the impa- tient movements of Aline that the game had t^one far enough. Lizette was thereupon duly discovered, and their burst of merriment crowned the climax of the excitement. Could any one tire of such a pleasure ? Cer- tainly these two devoted souls showed no signs of flagging, nor ever failed to answer the de- mand of the fun -loving child. Cache-cache was " her game," as Bazile was " her suisse." Then there were sights to be seen from the windows. So many people passed. Very few carriages, to be sure ; but there were soldiers, the like of whom Aline had never seen, whose fantastic uniforms were unknown to Bazile. Sometimes, too, there were terrible wild-look- ing men and women hurrying along, singing and shouting, at whom Aline stared curiously, but before whose approach Bazile carefully shut and barred the large doors. It was now the middle of the summer, and no one but Bazile ever ventured into the 62 ») CACHE. CACHE streets. M. Lenormant had given strict orders that the large doors were to be kept fastened at all hours, and no one was to enter unless known to the Suisse. One hot midnight in August a distant bell was heard tolling, tolling, until answered by the clang and boom of other bells and the rolling of drums from all quarters of the city. Through the early morning, crowds trooped out from their holes and hiding-places, and went sweeping through streets, tramping over bridges, until they centred at the Tuileries. Before the morning was over, there came from the other side of the river the heavy roar of cannon, the sharp rattle of musket- ry, and a never-ending howling as of wild beasts. Poor Lizette, agonized with terror, could do nothing but tell her beads. Bazile, with an anxious face, went about the house endeavour- ing to make some attempt at work, but the other servants never descended from their quarters in the attics. Aline alone was undisturbed, but greatly bored, and inclined to be fretful. Why could not Lizette leave off her stupid 6.^ ■ I ' M >m\\ ! i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW * prayers? Why could not Bazile sing "C'^tait Anne de Bretagne " with her as before ? Her father had forbidden her to go near the "windows unless with Bazile, who to-day would not even open those giving on the street, and on the garden-side there was nothing to see. So the child passed the long day, her first happy moment being when Bazile carried her down into the empty kitchen, where for an hour she again enjoyed life, as she watched him make the fire, warm up her bouillon, and prepare her dinner. She then made him feed her bit by bit until she was satisfied; which little necessity of ordinary work went far to restore the realities of life to the anxious Suisse. After he had eaten a little at the imperious command of the child, he carried her upstairs again, and made an attempt to rouse Lizette to some effort of her duty. Straggling bands began to pass through the quarter again, and leaving Aline in charge of the bonne, he climbed to the highest windows at the back of the house, and his heart sank within him at the sight of flames bursting upward in the direction of the Tuileries, and the constant, 64 CACHE-CACHE uninterrupted howl from the scattering mob. He stood there fascinated by the sight of the burning buildings, and the horrible readiness with which he pictured the scenes passing round the leaping flames, until aroused by, cries in the street below. Running to the front of the house, he looked down on a drunk- en, shrieking rabble passing in wild and bestial triumph with the sickening trophies of their murderous success whirled and brandished on swaying pike-heads. It froze the very life in his veins as he looked; but the mob was at least returning, to slink back into its dens once more, and he trusted the worst was over for this time. So down-stairs he came, with a greater sense of security than he had yet felt, to entertain Aline and reassure Lizette. At Aline's request he carried her down into the drawing-room, and, after carefully closing the shutters and drawing over the heavy curtains, lighted up all the candles in the lustres. The great room, with its yellow hangings, its brilliant mirrors and graceful furniture, shone in the golden light, and the child was B 65 li 1 1 I' I !il'!i \m I. :i!' .'! f :l ii; li hi IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW delighted at the cheerful brightness after her dreary day. Then, would not Bazile put on his livery? He was not like "her Suisse" at all in this nasty black, and all would be like the old days once more. After all. Revolution or no Revolution, was he not M. Lenormant's suisse ? Was not his only duty now to please the child ? So in a short time he reappeared in all the forbidden glory of his long-disused red and yellow liv- ery, with his brown hair as carefully powdered as of old. Aline was delighted ; she clapped her hands and danced round him as he beamed upon her from his imposing height. At last she quieted down, and for over an hour Bazile held her enraptured by his never- failing stories, and then her clear voice follow- ed his through the complicated roulades and embellishments of their favourite songs. All this time the noises in the street went on ; but they had become almost indifferent to the street and its people. The mob, with its bru- tality, was shut out by the heavy walls and closed windows, and they lived in a world of 66 'I CACHE. CACHE candle-light and repose, far apart from other people, with whom they had nothing in com- mon, and who went on their own way without. Bazile and Aline were just in the middle of " Le grand Due de Maine, briguedondaine," and were dimlv aware that the tumult in the street had grown fiercer, when the song was frozen on their lips by the awful scream of a man in his death-agony, high above the fiend- ish yelling of the mob. Catching up the child, Bazile ran with her to Lizette's room, where he left her in charge of the fear-stricken girl, and, promising to re- turn in a moment, flew to the entrance-doors. Peering cautiously through the judas, he saw the broad street filled with the same awful creatures in a mad riot of murder and ferocity. Their constant howl was: "Les suisses ! les suisses ! a has les suisses !" As he looked, there was an attack made on the hotel of Madame d'Averolles ; but before the tragedy was complete, a woman's voice rose high and shrill over all, "En v'la un autre !" At her direction part of the mob turned with a savage howl towards M. Lenor- mant's — and Bazile knew his hour was come. 67 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW ■' The heavy doors would hold them back a few moments. As he quickly glanced over the fastenings to see all was secure, and then flew up the stairs, he knew instinctively how the mob must have attacked the Swiss Guard at the Tuileries, and now, in its devilish igno- rance and cruelty, it was hunting to death the unfortunate porters, or suisses, in private houses. Whether the doors held or not, he must see that Aline was safe with Lizette. He did not believe for a moment that either of them would be harmed, for the mob as yet had not touched women or children. When he opened Lizette's door he found the girl on the floor by the bed, speechless with terror, but no sign of Aline. Leaving the bonne, he ran through the house calling for the child, but his call brought no reply. He was lessening his chances of escape terribly by such delay, for the storm of blows rained fiercely on the doors below. Sick with anxiety for the child, he ran from room to room, until he again reached the lighted salon, and there, undisturbed, sat Aline, greeting him with laughter at his discomfiture. 08 CACHE-CACHE ik a )ver hen bow lard gno- eath vate i see not hem not mnd iless ouse b no sape ows rom the line, ure. With a cry of relief he sprang forward and caught her in his arms ; but as he turned to run through the hail to reach Lizette's room, he heard the doors go down amid a trium- phant yell — and he was too late ! With a single bound he was back agaim He shut the door quietly, and striding across the room, placed the child on the floor by one of the windows. Escape seemed impossible, but with a cour- age never surpassed by human creature, he knelt beside Aline, and said, quickly : "^Ecoute, ma belle. We are going to play * our game.' Only, wild men are coming to find me; but you must not be frightened. It is the same game. You will just stand in front, and say nothing. Now !" There was a wild rush up the staircase, and a moment later, when the mob burst from the darkness of the hall into the peace of the lighted room, they saw only a round - eyed child of five in a white dress standing in front of one of the yellow brocade curtains in the recess of the window. She was startled, but stared undaunted at the dreadful creatures who poured through 69 i i 1 I ill IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW the opened doors. But they knew the game, and that was something. So she shook her black curls and recovered her composure as she saw them begin to search in earnest, and almost laughed aloud when one of them thrust his sword up the chimney. It did not take long to examine the room, with its fragile furniture. She wondered why they did not pretend to look in more places, like Bazile; they never moved the vases or looked behind the mirrors at all. As they passed by her, some one cried out, *' The window !" and with a slash of his sabre a ruffian ripped down the curtain beside Aline, and the crowd laughed as another held out the butt of his pike to the fearless child, who mockingly clapped her hands at him. This was something like the game ! That was very near ! But suddenly Aline's face fell and her lip began to tremble with disappointment, for the rabble had turned, and were making their way out of the room as quickly as they had entered. This was not her game at all ! They mustn't go away and the game not 70 Hiiiiii:!i:!ji lit . >^ CACHE. CACHE half finished ! No, no ! That is not the way at all! And in her childish fearlessness she ran after the retreating ruifians, and, catching at the filthy rags of the hindermost, called out, "Ah, lost! lost!" "What?" he thundered. She hardly understood the uncouth, fierce cry, and was terrified at the evil face turned upon her, but it was "her game," and she bravely went on, " You couldn't find him!" At his first hoarse shout the rabble had turned, and stood expectant. " Find whom ?" " My Suisse ! My Bazile !" The mob surged back into the room with a low growl, but the fairy-like form of Aline went flying before them, and with a ringing laugh of delight she swung aside the heavy curtain; and there, unshrinking, in all the hated insignia of his office, "her Bazile, her Suisse," stood face to face with the ravening mob. il ! jl' ii u HIS GRACE, THE DUKE OF BEDFORD AN INTERRUPTED STORY ONE evening in his room the Ditke turned to his friends and asked : "Per- haps, gentlemen, you may never have heard how my late father insisted on telling a story to the Due de Choiseul ?" "We are listening," smiled M. Guilloux, while M. d'Ardii nodded eagerly. "I have no distinct remembrance of my father," began the young Duke, "for he died when I was still a child, but I know he added to his ability a somewhat quick and imperious temper. In '62 he was accredited to your court to conclude the terms of the treaty upon which the fate of Canada was to be de- cided. " The Duke de Choiseul, although then Min- ister of War and Marine, was the actual power, 7fi IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW and all the terms were quickly agreed upon, save certain points which touched the protec- tion of the fishing rights of your nation. " Neither would listen to any conapromise ; my father declared that the point must be yielded in his favour, as his instructions were positive. 'Very well,' answered M. de Choi- seul, hotly; 'then War! You are at liberty to withdraw whenever it may suit your con- venience.* " My father, highly indignant, was about to reply as hotly, but suddenly controlled him- self, and, dropping into his natural tone, said: ' But, mon cher due, you must listen while I tell a little story.' " M. de Choiseul replied, very dryly, that he might spare himself the trouble, but my father went on, unheeding : ' It was only the other day, when walking through the grounds of M. Bouret, thati— '" At this point the young Duke was inter- rupted by a heavy trampling of feet in the outer passage, followed b}^ a sharp rat-tat-tat of a cane on the panel of the door of the ante- chamber and a quick turn of the handle. The door was locked, and an impatient voice was AN INTERRUPTED STORY heard : " Open, open, citizens, in the Name of the Nation !" The servant appeared with a blanched face at the inner door. " What shall I do, milord ?" "Open, open, citizen, in the Name of the Nation !" laughingly answered the Duke. The three friends waited a moment in si- lence ; they heard the door unlocked and pushed violently open, a few impatient de- mands from the intruders, and when the inner door was held back again it was to admit three men — the leader arrayed in all the dignity of cockade and scarf. "Le citoyen anglais, styling himself Bed- fort ?" he queried, with curt incivility. The young Duke turned towards the speaker and said, smiling, " I am Francis Russell, whom most men call the Duke of Bedford." " Il-m-m, brown hair, high complexion, large nose; h-m-m, yes, yes, that answers the de- scription. Well, Citoyen Fran9ois, or Russell, or whatever you may choose to scyle yourself, we are not too sure of your motives ; and in its paternal solicitude for inquisitive strangers, as well as its own children, the Nation has de- 77 m l1 ll IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW creed that all foreigners must leave France within twenty -four hours after receiving no- tice, which I now hand you." D'Arde, who was boiling with indignation throughout this diatribe, stepped forward. "Come, come, my fine fellow, the Nation gives you no right to insult peaceable citizens, and if you don't keep a civil tongue in your head I'll throw you down-stairs." "Kot so loud, my big country game-cock! You were wearing a uniform a few months ago, and where is it now ? Have a care how you crow, for I have my eye upon you, and you may find yourself in water hot enough to draggle your feathers before you know what has happened." D'Arde was about to put his threat into execution, when M. Guilloux's hand dropped heavily on his shoulder. " Have a care, have a care, my friend ; you may only compromise the Duke." The whispered warning was sufficient, and D'Arde controlled himself, while the Duke, who had glanced over the paper, turned to the official, and said, quietly : " Your instructions are exact, Citoyen — " 78 AN INTERRUPTED STORY '^j "Loches," answered the man, somewhat mollified. " — Citoyen Loches, and I have ever been too honest an upholder of public order to resist such a demand for a moment. Let me have my passport in the morning, and I will trouble the Nation no longer with my insignificant presence," and with perfect coolness he bowed the commissioner and his following out through the antechamber, and closed the door behind their clattering heels. " The whole affair appears to me to be false on its very face. There never has been any such order passed, milord," said M. Guilloux. " This man is certainly not a regular official, bad as they are. Why not apply to Danton ? I am sure this is the work of some private enemy." But his Grace only laughed. " It has spoiled my story, at all events, and things have now come to such a pass here that I can do no good by remaining." The friends consulted long and earnestly, and separated at midnight with hearts full of fore- boding. The following day the Duke left Paris, never to enter her walls again. 79 M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE A Monseigneur, Munaeigneur le Due de Bedford, d son Chateau de Woborn, Comte de Bedford, En Angleterre. Paris, Thermidor, Van 11. MY LORD,— I have an opportunity to send this by a safe hand, and hasten to apprise you of the fate of our friend M. d'Arde, with whom we passed so many pleasant hours a long year and a half ago. It did not require any great insight into the future to foresee the path into which he was drifting, and you already know how the death of the unfortunate King drove him completely from the ranks of the extreme party. He was aware that he was closely watched ; but to leave France was impossible, and to 83 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW i return home was even more dangerous than to remain here. On the morning of the 16th of October last he dressed quietly, and took up his position, with others, in the Place de la Kevolution, to look for the last time on the face of Marie Antoinette, whose heroic courage had first opened his eyes to the other side of the struggle. At noon, when she reached the scaffold, there was more or less disturbance at various points in the crowd, probably excited by creat- ures expressly employed for this purpose. Our friend was standing quietly, his eyes fixed on the unfortunate princess, whom he had learned to reverence as his Queen dur- ing the weary months of her sufferings, when he was startled by a harsh voice beside him: " Where is your cockade, citizen ?" He turned, and saw close behind him the ominous face of Loches, whom you will re- member as the soi-disant official on the night of your departure, now one of the public ac- cusers. Without a word,d'Arde fixed his eyes again on the scaffold, only to be tapped inso- 84 M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE lently on the shoulder and to hear the ruffian's brutal voice raised in the same question: " Where is your cockade, citizen ?" Recognizing his intention, d'Arde sensibly suppressed his anger, and remonstrated, " Mais, mais, monsieur — " " No more monsieur than yourself, mon aristo !" interrupted the spy ; " all honest men are citizens together now! Have you ever cried * Vive la Republique,' mon p'tit avoue ?" he continued, bound to pick a quarrel. " I have, citizen," answered d'Arde, with ad- mirable coolness. " Then shout it now, coquin I" screamed the brute, as the axe fell. With a cry of disgust d'Arde turned and struck his tormentor full in the face. There wis a scream, a struggle, and before our friend fully realized what had happened, he was half-way across Paris, on his way to the Conciergerie. For more than two weeks I could hear no word of him, and feared he had perished. My first move was to enter his rooms, burn every paper which could possibly compromise 80 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW him, and secure his valuables. Then I set to work, and at last succeeded in finding that he was confined in one of the dungeons with some of the worst criminals. There was no specific charge against him. Loches had dis- appeared, so 1 had him removed to the main corridor, where he had a cell to himself, the liberty of the large hall, and even got so far as to visit him once, when I handed him a sum of money to secure him what comforts were possible. He had found friends there — the old Comte de Velesme and his daughter, the principal family of his native town. The old Comte was a completely broken man. He barely tolerated our friend, whose unvarying kind- ness and unceasing self-denial were accepted by the Comte as a natural offering due to one of his exalted position. With the petulance of a child, the old gentleman blamed him per- sonally for the crimes of the whole Revolution, including his individual misfortunes. But our young friend bore with it all ; and why, my lord? The question would not be difficult to an- swer did you know Mademoiselle Arline. 86 M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE Whatever burden of ingratitude the old Comte endeavored to lay upon M. d'Arde was borne equally by his bright-eyed friend, separated from him by the great iron grating. Prison flowers grow apace, my lord, and if ever the flower of love took deep root, it was in the hearts of these two young people. The winter dragged out its long tragedy of death and despair; the old Comte grumbled and growled disconsolate, inconsolable, and before spring came died in the faithful arms of the man he had dared to despise in his self- ish arrogance. The awful prison was ever filling, ever emp- tying, but these two lived on uncalled-for, unnoticed; it seemed as if even Death had forgotten them. At the risk of instant execution if discov- ered, they joined hands through the bars, and amid the tears and laughter, the coming and going of that ever unquiet centre, were made man and wife by a priest, who ventured his life to add a gleam of happiness to two pass- ing souls. The summer came, and the prison w^as even 87 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW more intolerable than in the winter; few of their original fellow-prisoners remained; but the Conciergerie was none the less full. The rule of Robespierre and his creatures was at its height ; the former pretence of trial had now dwindled down to a hurried examination, the summons to which was given by the jailer during the previous evening, at an hour whose uncertainty added to its terror, and in the early morning a chalk-mark on the door of the cells told who were to be taken. One evening in July the unfortunates sat in their usual expectancy, awaiting the coming of the jailer with his fatal list. D'Arde stood at the grating beside Arline when the door opened to admit the jailer and his clerk, accompanied by an unknown man, evidently of some authority. They advanced into the middle of the room, under the light of the lantern hung from the vaulted ceiling, and the jailer began to read aloud what he play- fully called " les extraits mortuaires." Name after name was called, and was re- ceived in silence : " Jean Coulet, gendarme, twenty-four years; Pierre Fran9ois Daulhac, ex-abbe, thirty years ; Arline Tourigny, here- 88 M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE tofore Comtessede Yelesme, aristocrat, twenty >? years " Oh, my God ! my God !" moaned Arline in her sudden terror as she fell half fainting against the grille. The three men looked up at her faint cry. " She thought we had forgotten her, la sainte Nitouche !" laughed the jailer. The official looked sharply at d'Arde for a moment. " Who is that tall fellow beside her?" he whispered. The clerk turned over his list and read: "D'Arde, Jacques -Michel, Haute Lorraine. Here since October. Was a federe on service at the Tuileries. No special charge." D'Arde looked anxiously towards the group. The face of the new official seemed strangely familiar, but before he had time to recall it, his own name was read out — "Jacques-Michel d'Arde, advocate, twenty-six years !" and he turned to whisper joyfully to the fainting girl : " Courage ! courage, ma mie I We are to- gether !" At an early hour in the morning d'Arde was up and dressed, impatient for the opening of 89 M IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW his cell. When the door was at length swung back he called the turnkey, and placing his few remaining gold pieces in his hand, begged for a last favour — that Arline should be placed in the same cart with him. The man, a Swiss, named Straale, who had all along shown him much kindness, consented readily, and d'Arde awaited patiently for his call. The short hours passed ; he heard voices and the sound of footsteps through the prison ; the noises outside increased, and he knew what was passing in the court below. The door of his cell was slammed to, sud- denly. He stared at it for a moment in sur- prise, then instantly sprang forward and began to beat upon it with all his strength, crying after the retreating turnkey. The man re- turned, unlocked the door, swung it open again, and left on his round without a word, while d'Arde stood trembling within the nar- row limits of his cell. The death -mark had been chalked upon his opened door that morn- ing, and Straale, moved by sudden impulse, had shut to the door, thus forcing life in upon his prisoner, who only longed for death with her his soul desired. 90 M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE I. Presently the head jailer began his round ; he stopped at cell after cell to deliver his brief summons to the condemned, until " Jacques- Michel d' Arde !" came like an order of release to the waiting prisoner. He joined a little group, and with them passed through the familiar corridor, ^vith one last glance at the great hall, in which he had found a joy passing all his suffering, then through doors and passages, until they joined the main body of the victims in the outer hall. He glanced quickly about, without catching sign of Arline, but he instantly determined that she must have gone on before. Each prisoner's hands were securely bound, and then one by one, as their names were called, they entered an adjoining room, and went through the pitiable mockery of a trial. There waspractically no charge against d' Arde; but he refused to reply to the questions put by his judges, for in the man sitting beside the chief official he recognized the triumphant face of Loches the informer. He heard his fate without emotion, and was led away to join the condemned. "All here!" rang out a stentorian voice. 91 mmm IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW The great doors were slowly opened ; a file of soldiers passed out and formed up. There was a refreshing rush of cool morning air, but d'Arde hardly felt it ; there was a hoarse murmur from the waiting crowd, but he was not conscious of it ; all his senses were con- centrated towards one object. The moment he stepped on the threshold he raised himself to his full height — and saw the three waiting carts were empty. He was to die alone ! For the first time since his imprisonment he broke down ; and, Englishman though you are, my lord, I know you will count it no shame that the tears sprang to those eyes which no fear had ever dimmed. He stood there, see- ing nothing, hearing nothing, thinking only of the terrible misery of the poor creature he had left behind ; thinking of how short this weary journey would have been had she stood beside him. How slowly, slowly, the dismal little pro- cession moved forward ! Gradually he recog- nized things about him, and saw they were entering the Kue St. Antoine; he became aware that there was unusual disturbance on 93 M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE the quays ; there were stoppages in their slow progress ; twice had the carts been arrested, and the uproar and crowding in the narrow street forced the soldiers to use their muskets, to the intense anger and irritation of the press- ing crowd, whose attacks were directed rather against them than against their prisoners. He roused himself, and saw in front of him, in the same cart, a mother with her three daughters, the eldest not more than twelve. A man in a long military cloak pressed close to the cart, and d'Arde heard him sa}'^, dis- tinctly, " I can save one, madame." " 'Toinette, maman ; save 'Toinette!" whis- pered the other two ; and when the man was forced away from the wheels the little one was safe under the folds of his cloak. D'Arde realized that a dozen eyes must have seen the rescue, but no alarm was given, and the deliverer disappeared without diflSculty in the pressing crowd. Then for the first time awoke a tierce desire for life and liberty. Why should he die like a dog, and never raise his hand to help Arline ? He sat down at the back of the cart un- noticed, and at the next disturbance, which 93 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW was fiercer than ever about the foremost carts, he slipped off, and in a moment had reached the side of the street, and was moving along in the same direction as the crowd, with his bound hands against the wall. Ko hand was raised against him ; every eye was directed towards the soldiery and their charge. Scarcely daring to credit his good fortune, he found himself at the corner of the Rue Tison, and moving quickly up it, always with his back against the wall, gained the Rue du Roi de Sicile, which, to his joy, was entire- ly deserted. He stopped at the angle of a house, and set to work to cut away his bonds against the sharp stone. But as he sawed at the tough cords he heard footsteps, and a moment later saw a man rounding the corner and rapidly approach, with his face muffled in his cloak. D'Arde's position was too compromising to admit of any attempt at concealment; he would risk his fate and boldly ask for assist- ance. " Citizen — " he began, before the pass- er-by perceived him. The man looked up. It was Loches. With a shout of hatred the informer leaped 84 i M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE at his throat, but with a cry of equal fierce- ness d'Arde sprang to meet him, and with his shoulder struck him full under the chin. The man fell without a cry, and lay insensible on the stones. The effort had broken d'Arde's bonds, but, without a look at his enemy, he picked up his hat and hurried on, with an ex- ultant feeling of renewed strength and resolve. Hastily undoing the remnants of cord, he thrust them into his pockets, and kept on his way through the quiet streets, careless of where he wandered, so long as he left the noise of the mob behind. But want of food and the excitement of the past hours began to tell upon him, and, to his alarm, he found him- self staggering from weakness. At a corner he saw a small fountain. Hurrying towards it, he drank eagerly, and then, removing his hat and coat, bathed his face and swollen wrists. While so em pi 03^ ed he heard steps, and turned expectant of fresh peril, but the new- comer proved to be a young girl of seventeen or eighteen, bearing her pitcher. The unusual sight of a gentleman thus performing his toilet in public made her hesitate, but ho spoke at 95 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW once : " Mademoiselle, I am an escaped pris- oner; my name is d*Arde. If you like, you can give me up ; but if I read your face aright, I am safe in your hands." " What can I do, monsieur ?" " Can you take me somewhere where I can have an hour's rest and something to eat ?" "Willingly, monsieur; you can come with jj me. "But not to your home, mademoiselle. I have no right to bring danger to your roof." " Come, come, monsieur ; I am sure my fa- ther will approve. Besides, there is little dan- ger of any one observing you at this hour if you do not enter with me." She filled her pitcher, and a fe>v minutes later he followed her across the little square, entered a narrow street, caught a glimpse of her behind a half-opened shutter, and in a few minutes was in safety in her humble apartments. In a short time he was refreshed and anx- ious to depart, but she urged him to wait until her father returned. Any one might suspect him, with his white face and thin beard. If 96 r - ■-i^ -.^ -i "' I ■ ■ I , I ' il ' iMI^ WHAT CAN 1 DO. MON>IKL'K V " * s\ M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE monsieur could shave himself she would bring her father's razors. He shaved carefully, and, after dressing his hair, was a different-looking man from the escaped prisoner of a few hours before. lie agreed to wait until the father returned, and in the interval his hostess told him their simple story. Her father was a watch-maker ; so was her brother, but he had been hurried off to the frontier, under pain of death, and they had heard nothing of him since Longwy. He told her something of his own story, and she was full of sympathy and thoughtful suggestion. If he would help poor despairing madame, his first care must be for his own safety ; and he had better not venture out until dusk. He felt the truth of her warning, and forced himself into an apparent quiet, but the long July day seemed never-ending, and in his anx- iety a vague suspicion was aroused. "Was the girl's father really a watch-maker? and was her story a,s true as it was simple ? At last a knock came to the door, and cry- ing, "Ah, there he is !" his hostess flew to open it. D'Arde arose apprehensive, but his fears G 07 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW took flight at the sight of the honest face beaming in kindly greeting. It only required a few words of explanation t insure a welcome for his unexpected guest ; aiid, with his welcome, he cried : " But, mon- sieur, there is news — great, wonderful news! Kobespierre is arrested ; they say he is dead ; ' " r-'ents, an end has come, and we are free me.L ' , rr^ore!" My ioi'i that same evening the honest wacli I laki \ic:ht me out, and in his own house 1 onco ag.x.iu held in my arms our friend returned from the dead. Before another day France was free from the tyrant who had so long held her in terror ; in their joy the people were rushing to the other extreme ; the doors of more than one prison were thrown open lo release the inno- cent, and Arline de Velesme was a free woman before she knew of her lover's safety. As I write, they are journeying in all hope to claim a welcome at your hands. They urged me to accompany them, as I could read- ily have procured a third passport, but I am old enough to dread change more than danger. 08 M. GUILLOUX TO THE DUKE Besides, " J'ai du bon tabac dans ma tabatiere " and while it lasts I will quietly await the future, ever with strong hope that we have seen the worst, and that the day is coming of which we so often spoke in '92. And until it dawns I am, my lord, Your ever-admiring friend and servant, GuiLLOUX. 1 ! I! I il it CANADIAN STORIES OLD AND NEW LE COUREUR-DE-BOIS LE COUREUR-DE-NEIGES THE VETERAN UNE SCEUR MON ROCHER THE INDISCRETION OF GROSSE BOULE I '*>ll^ V: LE COUREUR-DE-BOIS THE guard -house at the Porte du Port of the old town of Montreal was com- paratively empty that cool May even- ing of 1701. There had been a week of al- most stifling heat, and every one was exhausted by the sudden change from the temperature of wiuter into that of raidsum.iier. Most of the men had turned in early, glad of the prospect of a refreshing night's rest. In the guard- room a couple of non-commissioned officers were chatting and smoking, three or four sol- diers were playing passe-dix on a long bench which served as a table; the officer in com- mand was walking to and fro in the empty Place du Marche with his friend Jacques Bi- zard, the Town Major, and the sentry yawned sleepily in the refreshing coolness as he slowly paced up and down before the gate. From the windows of the wakeful Serainaire 105 ^M IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW opposite a few lights twinkled, but the town itself was as dark and as silent as the grave. Outside the wall, beyond the " Little Eiver," the new mansion of Monsieur Louis Hector de Calliere, Chevalier of the Order of St. Louis and Governor of Canada, loomed up imposing- ly with its heavy bastions. Before the main entrance a sentry paced up and down, for the Governor had come up from Quebec to spend a few days with his friend rran9ois Dollier de Casson, the Cure of Montreal. Within the new dining-rt 'm the two friends sat in earnest converse. The Governor, gray- haired, worn with years and service, rested with his gouty leg pillowed on a chair, talking as cheerfully as a man might under such cir- cumstances. There was at times a strong sym- pathy in his voice and an affectionate light in his eye as he marked with regret the failing of that herculean strength which had so long distinguished Dollier de Casson. Both men were evidently nearinff the end of their careers, and both hud much in com- mon. They were equal in birth; in youth their profession was the same — for the priest had ridden far on the highway to fame under 100 LE COUREUR.DE-BOIS ?j the great Turenne before he had donned the cassock ; and for years the object of their com- mon labour and devotion had been the success of the struggling colony. The windows at the lower end of the room giving on the river were wide open and the night wind swept pleasantly in. Suddenly a shrill, high-pitched cry, broken into sharp, short jerks, burst upon them from the outer darkness. The Cure started to his feet, while the Gov- ernor sat bolt-upright in amazement. " Mor- dieu ! Les Iroquois !" he exclaimed ; for the quick jerk of the Iroquois war-whoop once heard can never be forgotten. Tlie challenge of the sentries both at the Governor's and at the town gate i*ang out simultaneously as the priest hastened to the window. For answer, the same sharp, evil cry arose from the blackness of the river, and without further hesitation the sentry before the Governor's levelled his piece and fired in the direction wlience it came. At the gate quick command was followed by instantane- ous commotion as the whole guard turned out and lights Hashed across the square ; 107 { ^4 Illli l!ll! K \ IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW when from the river came a wild chorus of shouts and laughter and jeering cries of mock reproach and welcome, as a large canoe was faintly seen to sweep round the Point and up to the beach opposite the Porte du Port. "The devil takes care of his own! It is that vaurien Dubosq back again," reported the Cure from his post at the window. From the canoe sprang six men, followed by two women, who made their way up to the gate, but to their surprise it was still fast closed, and remained so in spite of their clam- ourous demands for entrance. As they paused for a moment for some response, they heard within the commands of the officer and the tramp of retreating footsteps as the guard was dismissed and returned to quarters. Where- upon one of their number drew a short axe from his belt and began to batter on the stout oaken panel. His performance was cut short by a commanding voice overhead : " Here, below there ! Rest where 3'^ou have lit, ye thieves, until morning. If I open, you shall all go under lock and key, and if one of you dare so much as lay a hand on that gate again or speak above his breath I'll open fire 1" 108 LE COUREUR-DE.BOIS There was no mistaking that voice ; each one of the riotous crew sullenly cursed the un- lucky chance by which the Town Major hap- pened to be at the gate to spoil their trium- phant entry ; but they knew he was quite ca- pable of carrying out his threats, and retired in silence, consigning him to everlasting tort- ures for a "maudit suisse," as he was. After watching them until they disappeared in the darkness the corpulent Major withdrew to re- join his companion, laughing and pleased at this tribute to his authority. Meanwhile there was angry discussion and hot reproach bandied back and forth be- tween the discomfited and mortified arrivals ; at length he who had plied his axe to such disappointing effect said in a low tone of sav- age authority : " Hold your tongues, fools ! Get that canoe and set me across at the Point, and we'll see if the Governor will refuse to re- ceive a man who returns as I do !" As he awaited the fulfilment of his orders he turned towards the gate, and, patting his axe with an angry gesture, growled slowly : " You pack of hounds ! Would ^'^ou have me come to your beggarly town on my hands and knees because 109 lil IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW I am without a load of furs behind me? You'll have another song to sing by the morn- ing. )5 A few strokes were sufficient to reach the farther side, where their leader, followed by the two women, scrambled up the steep bank. He answered the challenge of the sentry who had advanced from his post before the main door of the chateau, and civilly demanded per- mission to see the Governor. However lightly the authorities might hold him, he was well known and highly admired by the soldiery, most of whom looked with longing towards the freedom of his roving life ; so he and iiis two companions were read- ily admitted into the entrance-hall and bidden await the Governor's pleasure. Under the light of the smoking oil-lamp he stood, the ideal half-breed Coureur-de-bois. He was rather undersized, but his lithe, grace- ful figure was perfect in its proportions, and his oliv^e f;ice strikingly handsome, with its thin, regular features framed by his jet-black hair, which fell in two long braids on each breast. He was dressed in complete buck- skin, and, notwithstanding the season, his 110 ! i LE COUREUR-DE-BOIS blanket, which hung over his left shoulder, was wound closely round his waist in approved Indian fashion. The two women were squaws, manifestly Iroquois in feature and dress ; one middle- aged and ordinary enough, but the other was a girl of not more than fifteen, with the soft eyes and fawn -like timidity of face w^hich constitute the charm of Indian beauty. The Governor was annoyed at the bravado of the intruders' approach, but amused at the predicament into which they had fallen, and after a few words with the Cure ordered the trio to be admitted. As tiie Coureur-de-bois entered, followed by the two squaws, the Governor eyed him with no friendly glance, for he represented the worst type of that lawless class which had outgrown its first usefulness, and had now developed into the most disturbing element in the internal government of the colony. The Coureur-de-bois advanced into the room with a natural dignity and assumed deference of manner, for ho fully realized the delicacy of his position ; and, after bowing low before the Governor, turned towards the Cure, to 111 n ? V IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW whom he extended his hand with easy assur- ance. "All in good time, Master Dubosq," said Dollier, dryly, waving aside the proffered greeting. " Let us first hear what you have to say to his Excellency." Dubosq smiled as his name was mentioned^ dropped his hand palm upward on the table, and bending forward said, with scarcely hidden insolence : " Is he necessary ?" indicating the soldier standing armed and motionless at the door. The Governor frowned impatiently, but signed to the soldier, who withdrew. Dubosq on his part turned to the squaws, who at his bidding backed over to the wall, where, crouch- ing on the floor, they remained immovable throughout the interview, silently following every gesture and expression of the actors with their tireless eyes. " Now then," said the Governor, impatient- ly, " no lies and no boasting, mo^-e than you can help! I am sick of you and all your tribe ! What new deviltry have you been up to, that you must needs carry your impu- dence into my presence at this hour ? I care 112 LE COUREUR-DE-BOIS nothing about your idiocy before the gate; you shall answer to the Major for that to- morrow ! Xow then, begin !" An angry blush burned redly under Du- bosq's dusky skin, but his low voice, with its trace of Indian sweetness, betraj-ed no re- sentment as he spoke. " Yes, mon Gouverneur, I have something to tell, and something to show, or I would not have disturbed you and Monsieur le Cure at this hour. "It is not two weeks since I left with La Taupine to trade ; and my conge was in proper otder," he added, quickly. " We had line weatlier, two good canoes, and four men ; we had attended to all our duties, as vou know, Monsieur le Cure," glancing at the priest, who, however, gave no sign of acknowledg- ment to this adroit feeling for support. "We owed no man anything but our regular ac- counts ; so nothing could promise better. " But see how things fall out ! No sooner A had we entered Les Mille lies than we heard La Mouche was in camp at a place we knew of. Good! I was not too well; so La Tau- pine, taking all the men, set off in the big canoe, and I was left with the smaller and R 118 !i > ^ m\ II :! I f ill 1 1;: : nil I'M ' ■ f Mi III li i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW most of the goods to await their return until evenin?". ' Tj kill time I unlojided the canoe, lifted it np under the bushes, and piled the stuff be- side it. Then I set to work to wait, and, with nothing to do and no one to talk to, waiting is the devil. So during the morn- ing, somehow, I fell asleep, and I slept un- til I was awakened by a fly tickling my » nose " Get on with your story, fellow !" said the Governor, sharply. " Pardon me, mon Gouverneur, but that fly has much to do with my story, and I can only tell it my own way. I shook my head, but the fly returned. I tried to hit it, but hit my nose instead, and, half asleep, I started up and began: 'Ah! mon — ' but the fl}^ was gone, and, instead, there sat an Iroquois with a twig in his hand, and seven other devils like himself, in full war paint, squatting close about with a grin on every face. " There I was ! This was the end of our beautiful journey for which we had paid so many masses! The canoe was gone, ever}'- Indian had a pile of goods on the ground be- 114 iii; I LE COUREUR-DE-BOIS fore him, and I without so much as a musk-rat skin to show for it all. "*Well, my children,' I said, 'you have only caught me asleep, so don't boast too loudly. If you had been men you would have wakened me. Any squaw could have done as much'; but no one answered me a word. At last I said, ' Now, if you wish to move, I am ready,' and so we started. " Such a march ! We .vent through the bush at a half run, only stopping once that evening Avhen we reached their camp, and there picked up these two squaws; but half an hour later we were astir again. All that night we march- ed until daylight without halt, and it was the next afternoon before they dared make a reg- ular camp. They knew La Taupine was with me, and that they were not safe within any reasonable distance. "No doubt we would have moved on the next day as well, only one of the Iroquois in- sisted he had carried his plunder far enough, and now would taste it." Dubosq caught the Governor's angry start at this admission of his carrying the forbidden spirits, but, like the fly on his nose, it was too important a point 115 It >\\ 11 :i > i !i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW to be passed over, and he continued with a well-assumed innocence : " So they tapped one of the kegs, and when I awoke — for I was so done out that I had slept like the dead as soon as I could throw myself down — they were all pretty reasonably drunk, and they liad begun on a second. " We were all friends together now ; they boasted of how they would be received in their bourgade when they walked in with Dubosq — Dubosq-le-Coureur — tied between two squaws ; and they laughed, those painted devils, and struck me on the back, and I laughed with them. Why not? Were we not all friends together? They said ray standing quarrel with their people was an old affair, something that had passed, and I let them say on. So we drank, but all the time I was keeping my head clear by planning how I would take that same quarrel up before long. " A third keg was opened, and then a fourth ; which was sheer waste, for before it was touched, and long before the moon was an hour up, the two squaws and I were the only ones sober in the camp. "They had tried to fasten me in their usual 116 ^ LE COUREUR-DE-BOIS fashion, but onl}'^ one tirm was really tied to the sapling, and the Indian on my right was so drunk that, as soon as I determined upon my plan, I drew my arm with the unfastened cords from under him, and with his own knife cut myself free. I was sure of him, but was not quite so certain of the one on my left. " The two squaws were asleep, as far as I could tell ; but I dared not make a noise, for fear they should scream out or escape ; so I raised myself slowly on my elbow, and, after just touching my Indian over the body with the tips of my fingers to make sure of how he was lying, I struck him with all ray strength, and at the same time threw myself across his body, covering his mouth and nose with my hand. I might have spared myself the trouble, for my knife had found its way to the right place, and he only drew himself up together and trembled a little, and then lay quite still. " I raised my head, and listened with both ears. Nothing moved but the wind in the trees. There was no sound but the moving of the leaves and the snoring of the drunken Indians. I sat up, took my cords, and, tying them together, crept softly over towards the 117 ri "i I'l IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW iii: Mil ilii^ Jlliii: ii! two squaws, and before they were well awake they were so tied tliat I was safe from any move on their part, and I easily showed them it would not be well to make a noise. Now I had only to finish my work. " I walked back to my first man, and with his own casse-tete I sent him, and after him his six fellow-thieves, one after another, down to hell, in such quick following that they were treading on each other's heels. " In three days I was back at the river again, for I had had all the trading I wanted this journey ; but I have not come empty-handed." Here the vanity of the half-breed could not be controlled, the Indian blood asserting itself. He drew himself up to his full height, and his voice swelled into a triumphant boast as he re- peated : " No, I have not come empty-handed 1 I have brought no furs, I have come back in a strange canoe ! I have brought back no goods, nor have I a pound of beaver to show for them ! I will not trade on the Place du Marche to- morrow, but there is not a proper man in Mon- treal who would not give ten years of his life for my butin ! I travel light, but I carry the lives of eight men ! There !" 118 1 !• m LE COUREUK-DE-UOIS M HI At the word he threw back liis blanket, and slipping a belt from his waist hurled on the table before the two gentlemen eight Iroquois scalps, with their long locks twisted and plait- ed with coloured porcupine and beads in the highest refinement of savage art. They both started involuntaril3\ Dubosq stood with his arms crossed on his heaving chest and his gaze fixed on the Governor's face, while the e3'^es of the two squaws sparkled and danced in ad- miration of the successful warrior. The Governor, with an exclamation of dis- gust, pushed the belt with its horrible trophies from him, and he and the Cure looked sternly into each other's eyes before he sjwke : " Take up j^our devil's necklace, you scoun- drel ! The law allows you a reward ; but, had I my way, it would take a different shape. It is to you, and such as you, we owe the stain that is gathering on our name. You are worse than the savages whom you disgrace by 3"our presence; and, if you come before us for praise, you have brought your suit to the wrong court. I have nothing to say to you! T morrow you may bring your tale before t Governor of the town, and if I have any 119 |[ U I ii ; I IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW m' -'v\ !■;!! influence with him, be assured you shall meet with your full reward." Dubosq calmly replaced his belt and gather- ed his blanket about him ; but the angry flush on his cheeks burned still redder as he signed to the two squaws, who arose and stood in their places. "We will go?" he inquired, softly. " Non, niordieu ! You shall not go !" thun- dered the Governor, striking his stick fiercely on the table. At his signal the doors swung open, and a sergeant with four men enterea. " Here ! take this fellow and keep him and the women safe till morning. See they are comfortable, though, and have enough to eat." The sergeant saluted, and crossed over to Dubosq, who, bowing quietly to the Governor and the priest, passed out of the room, fol- lowed by the squaws and the soldiers. In the early morning there was commotion in the court-yard of the Governor's residence, there was much running to and fro, and indig- nant reproach and answer. One thing alone was clear. Dubosq had 120 B! i'' LE COUREUR-DE-BOIS escaped in some mysterious manner in spite of his guards, for the elder squaw was the only occupant of the out-house in which they had been confined overnight. Later on, a piece of coarse paper was dis- covered fastened liigh on the main door of the Chateau, on which was scrawled in red chalk : fiTIENNE DUBOSQ, SA MARQUE, and in the centre was one of the ghastly tro- phies, an Iroquois scalp, pinned fast by the blade of his hunting-knife. i M i? i' i \'l\\ : It h "i! m \\mu'\ LE COUEEUR-DE-NEIGES ' M • t iff i| i!Pi| fc i A^ LE COUREUR-DE-JSTEIGES "Sancta Maria, speed us! The sun is falling low. Before us lies the valley Of the Walker of the Snow." —Charles D. Shanly. a B ENEDICITE," prayed the child, with uplifted hands; " Dominus," began the company round the table, in chorus ; and the child lisped on alone : " nos et ea quae sumus sumpturi benedicat dextera Christi. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti." " Amen," hastily responded the company, and with the word burst forth the clatter and dis- turbance of an ill-conducted family dinner in a Canadian household of two hundred years ago. The father and mother had barely helped themselves before half a dozen spoons met and rattled against the sides of the large earthen- 125 \! F 1 {i t\ I Si ill 'ii:^ ri'i' IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW ware bowl in a struggle to transfer the choicer morsels to the plates crowded close about its generous circumference. The clamorous con- testants were a lot of half -grown boys and girls, ranging from Henri, an unlicked cub of eighteen, down to the child of six who had just repeated the familiar grace. A glance at the father, who, with an open book propped against his silver cup, sat quiet- ly reading, unmindful of the noise and brawl- ing, assured one that it was a gentleman's household; but the rough, uneven floor, the bare walls, the rude benches down each side of the uncovered table, told of its careless pov- erty. Of the children, not one was fittingly dressed, nor, for the matter of that, properly clean ; the girls were apparently without ordi- nary vanity, and the boys without a saving pride. The children ate off pewter, with heavy iron spoons and an insufficient number of knives between them ; forks they had none, so, like their social inferiors, they helped themselves with their fingers ; but Charles-Marie- Antoine Lanouillier, Seigneur de Bois-Feuillant, at the head of the table, was served on silver, as was 126 '»Vi. r i LE COUREUR-DE-NEIGES his wife, Denise, the pale-faced, small-featured lady in the faded green gown who faced him at its other end. M. de Bois-Feuillant, Chevalier of the Mili- tary Order of St. Louis, and formerly a captain in the Carignan-Salieres regiment, had done a man's fair share of campaigning, both against the Turk in Europe and the Indian in Kew France, and, for reward, was granted some thousands of acres on the banks of the Riche- lieu en fief et seigneurie, with the imposing privileges of haute, moyenne, et basse justice. His seigneurie, however, was at such perilous distance from the protecting forts of Chambly and St. Jean that censitaires were slow in pre- senting themselves, and M. de Bois-Feuillant, without adequate means for the cultivation of his estate, was fast drifting into hopeless pov- erty. He was the last man in the world to make any successful effort to retrieve his fort- unes. AVhile a soldier he had fulfilled his duties with a punctilious exactitude, more in keeping with the spirit of a knight of the days of chiv- alrv than of an infantrv officer of the seven- teeuth century. As he was of good family, his connections at court saw to his advance- 127 i M i ! ; 1 1 It ' « hi lii: ' % IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW raent, and his present position as seigneur of these unbroken acres had come to him in like manner, without effort on his part. He had an unusual liking Tor book-learning, and so long as he could pore over his Tacitus or Montaigne, and eat decently off his silver, he took but little notice of what went on about him. He considered he had made sufficient sac- rifice for his family when he wrote to a pow- erful relative soliciting his favour on behalf of his eldest son, who was now in France as squire to the Baron de la Roche- Bernard, learn- ing the art of war, after the unvarying tradi- tion of the familv. Madame de Bois-Feuillant, like many anoth- er gentlewoman of her day, had been bitterly disheartened by the unending and apparently hopeless struggle which life in the half-savage colony demanded. So long as her husband had remained in the army and she might cherish the hope of a return to France, she lived her life as bravely as her fellow-exiles ; but when he accepted his grant from the King, and settled down contentedly to a life of coarse poverty and careless indifference, she wearied of any attempt to govern the household in his 128 LE COUREUR-DE.NEIGES stead, and rapidly aged into a hardened, cynical woman, looking on the mean surroundings of her daily life with the sometimes amused, some- times contemptuous eye of an outsider. The children had grown up uncared for, uneducated, and unrestrained ; they wandered where they would, without a thought for any other than themselves, and the natural devel- opment followed. A loud barking without, interrupted and at length silenced by a string of vigorous im- precations, quieted the noisy crowd about the table for a moment. "There's Gui!" called out Angelique. " You'd better get out of his place before he asks you, monsieur Henri." But Henri paid no attention to the taunting warning except to forestall Gui's probable choice by securing the best portion of fowl left on the platter, transferring it to his own plate with his unwiped fingers. Gui entered — a tall, handsome, dark-featured youth of twenty, dressed in the height of savage finery. He wore neatly made mocca- sins, his leggings were new and tight-fitting, X 129 j^ I 1. '3 1 m 'ii;! ill ■::::' IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW and his white buckskin shirt, worn outside his leggings, and secured round his waist with a worked porcupine belt, was ornamented down the arms and breast with a short fringe, eacli point of which was tipped with red and yellow beads. His father never raised his head from his book, but the others looked towards him ex- pectantly. Gui glanced at his usual seat ; then, placing his gun in the corner, strode over to the table and stood behind the exasperating Henri. A look at the others sufficed : in an instant he had the usurper by the collar and about the waist, and in spite of a frantic clutch at every- thing within reach, jerked him over the low bench, and sent him sprawling on the floor, A shout of jeering laughter greeted the dis- comfited Henri as he rose, and, w^ith an angry snarl, hurled his pewter plate with all his force at his elder brother, who avoided it with ease and straddled the captured place in convenient position for further defence. But no attack w^as made, whereupon Gui, ordering Angelique to pick up the battered plate and wipe it, be- gan his dinner with what remained on the 130 i ■■' ■' M LE COUREUR-DE-NEIGES large platter, in the same uncouth manner as the others. When his hunger was satisfied he walked over to a rude placard, or cupboard, let into the side wall, poured out a mug of small-beer from the pitcher, and drank in silence, staring moodily at his mother the while. " Do you see anything, mon petit?" she chal- lenged, in her flute-like voice. "Nothing worth remarking," he retorted, set- ting down his mug. The clatter about the table ceased instantly, the children glanced eagerly from mother to brother, while M. de Bois-Feuillant, roused by the sudden silence, exclaimed, dreamily : "Eh! eh ! ' lat did you say, my son ?" " Nothing, my father, except a word to madame, my mother, to express my regret at leaving so pleasant a home." " What ! Has the Vicomte written ?" asked M. de Bois-Feuillant, with sudden interest. " No, I go where I need no protection from Vicomte, or any other than myself." " Not that folly of the woods, my son ? Not that disreputable life, full of ignoble dan- gers . . . ?" 131 i^^l! I 1 ■ M ' n \\\ ii I '■ r I 11 ' i i !:. IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW " Oh, he is a brave runner !" piped the moth- er, mockingly. " Madame, I felicitate you on the taste of your compliment." "... full of ignoble dangers," continued M. de Bois-Feuillant, unheeding, " and a degrada- tion to any gentleman of good family ?" "A gentleman of good family !" laughed Gui. " A gentleman of good family ! Has my ' fam- ily ' ever given me anything more than life ? Has my 'family ' prevented these " — indicating his brothers and sisters with scornful sweep of his hand — "from growing up into good-for- nothing savages? I was a fool to have re- fused Dulhut's offer when with La Taupine last vear, but now I make no more mistakes. Here everything has gone to the devil with- out, everything is going to the devil within, and you would have me stay in it, all for- sooth that I am ' a gentleman of good family.' No! I have played the 'gentleman' for the last time, and now I turn coureur. Yes, ma- dame" — turning on his mother in answer to her affected surprise — "yes, madarae, cou- reur — coureur-de-bois, if you will have it at length." 132 m LE COUREUR-DE-NEIGES " May you be as successful in your new role as in your present !" smiled Madame. For once Gui did not respond; he movid towards his gun, and there stood for a moment as if expecting some word from his father; but the old officer fingered nervously at his silver cup, so unmistakably anxious to end the scene, that Gui, in contemptuous pity, walked quietly out of the room, his mother's tantaliz- in«^ lauojh rinp^infj after him in mockino: fare- well. Henceforth Gui do Bois-Feuillant was seen no more in his usual haunts about the seigneu- rie, nor yet in the streets of Montreal, nor in the taverns of Quebec. At the befjinninof of his career he ran the round of the distant posts of Michilimackinac, of Kaministiquia, of La Tourette in the north, and of Crevecceur and Prud'homme in the south ; but he soon wore out his welcome at each in turn, for his overbearing, savage nature scorn- fully leaped the easy limits of decency recog- nized by the unexacting coureurs-de-bois. His appearances at the larger forts grew rare, and as they not unfrequently ended in more or less 133 t t! w j:: m- hr m IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW serious quarrels, he was there looked upon with a suspicion and distrust that but served as ad- ditional fuel to his vanity. He naturally fell in with the most lawless of his kind ; with them he committed flagrant oifences against ordonnances of both Governor and Intendant, and before long was a pro- scribed and outlawed man, with a price set upon his head. His unquestioned courage, joined to his un- usual strength, had won him universal admira- tion from the Indians, who readily proffered the open worship his overweening vanity greedily demand* , and he was nowhere so thoroughly satisfied as when the centre of a group of approving savages. His fame spread thi"^>agh most distant tribes. He was renowned among the Siou:: and Dah- cotahs of the plains, the Issati of the upper ^lississippi, and the Natchez of the south as a mighty hunter and warrior, a runner of in- credible speed, and the most reckless of game- sters. No foot was surer, no instinct truer in the chase than his ; no great funeral feast was com- plete without his presence to lead tlie custom- 184 LE COUREUR-DE-NEIGES ary games ; and when he had anything to lose, he would sit night after night in the lodges, risking his dearly won peltries or -more dearly prized weapons on the cast of the col- oured bones, or the combined skill and chance of the jeu de paille. When he ceased to visit the French posts, it was easy to throw aside what little remained of the restraints of civilization. No red-skinned pagan with whom he fraternized was more naturally a savage than this son of a French officer, who had never met their breed save at the sword's point. His straight, regular features were burned into as duskv a colour as his fellows, his dress was theirs in every particular ; like them, he painted his face and body, and oiled ..nd dressed his hair in long, ornamental braids. About the ever -moving camp-fires he could boast or lie as bravely of real or imaginary exploits, bandy his obscene jests, or quarrel as fie' cely as any savage of them all. In time he was forgotten by his own race, lie had disappeared from their thinly scat- tered ranks into the darkness of the surround- ing barbarism, and in the painted, half-naked 135 y m 11 ;ii:' t m 1 »- I'l IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW savage, famed among his fellow - savages as Outagami, the Fox, there was nothing to re- call the turbulent personality once known to men as Charles-Nicolas-Gui Lanouillier de Bois- Feuillant. Outagami the savage ventured where Gui the renegade would not dare. Outagami had no known past '^ehind him. He joined in and led war-parties against Frenchmen, Hollander, or English without scruple or remorse. He was not more cruel than his fellows — that was impossible — but to their cruelty he added an intelligence devilish in its ingenuity. When M. de la Barre moved, with all his impotent " pomp and circumstance of war," against the Iroquois, only to end in the humil- iating peace of La Famine, Outagami was ab- sent on a marauding expedition in the south, and only rejoined his tribe when they returned flushed with insolent victorv. In wilful de- fiance of their would - bo conquerors, and in flagrant violation of the despised treaty, they had made a detour on their return, raided an Outaouais village, and carried off a score of prisoners. 136 LE COUREUR-DE-NEIGES ^ Chafing at his ill-fortune — for he would have given much to have bearded the Governor and his following, each of whom he looked upon with envenomed hate as his personal enemy — Outagarai vented his displeasure in taunting his comrades and underrating their exploit. Finding this course unavailing, he began an insolent examination of the prisoners, demand- ing the names of their captors, boasting of his own achiev^cments, and promising tortures to each victim in turn. Suddenly he stopped before a young squaw in pretended indignation and amazement. Who had dared to interfere with his property ? She belonged to him ; he had seen her once in a dream. Then, changing his tone — but per- chance he was mistaken ! She had come of her own free-will to meet him, or some brother had guided her feet to his side. The girl shrank back, alarmed at his trucu- lent advances, while a burst of laughter greet- ed his bravado. It was quieted for a moment, only to swell into a roar of applause as a brave stepped forward and challenged Outagami to make his words good. "I brought her, my brotlier. But you were 137 F w^ ■; ^5 I: IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW 3i J , I i m :!i:" pa i^H i i!^'' 1 ' ; IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW waters, haunted by his ever-present fear of accident, in ever-increasing lonehness, followed by the one human creature whose presence he could command. She seldom spoke to him and never uttered his name. When he entered any camp, the old familiar cry, " Outagami," never heralded his approach. If spoken of at all, it was as Le Coureur. He had lost his human name, and had become a thing^ even to the savage. But a day came when the passion for victory awoke once more within him. News was spread of a wonderful runner who had arisen among the Outaouais — a runner whose name and whose exploits were on all lips, as were once those of the almost-forgotten champion. While in the Sioux country he heard from a wandering half-breed of the renown of the new hero, who might be found with his tribe on their hunting-grounds on the upper Ottawa. The old fire of ambition and lust of praise, once rekindled, burned with renewed fierce- ness, and ho would brave all to taste again the long-ungathered sweets of victory. Relying on his unabated strength and en- 144 m LE COUREUR-DENEIGES durance, he braved the almost insurmountable hardships of a winter journey through the desolate region north of Lake Superior, not daring to approach the forts or risk encounter with certain enemies on the regular routes of travel. He battled against storm, and cold, and hunger, undaunted and unshaken, but when he reached the ice-bound limits of the Ottawa, the woman who had so long borne her unmerited burden of shame and ill-repute, laid herself down exhausted, and, with a gleam of hope, saw the hour of her deliverance at hand. He commanded and threatened her in vain. Then, not in pity, but in terror lest he should be left alone with his ever-present fear, he built a rude wigwam, cut fir branches for a bed, gathered a store of wood, and for a whole morning hunted, and returned laden with a supply of food. She lay without a movement, following his every motion with her fever-lighted eyes, as he cooked the meat, laid some of it beside her, then uto of it him- self, and stretched his wearied body by tlie fire, where he slept to the shrill piping of the icy wind through the openings of their frail shelter. Hour after hour she lay there, watching the K 145 t f B '*^ „ i i m -I •!r III III' ■ ! ■ !■: :l ir IN OLD FUANCE AND NEW immovable sleeper, watching the gloom gather closer and closer round the dying lire, listen- ing to the piping blast sinking into a moaning softness or gradually swelling into a roar, as it swept down with its scourge of icy snow that whipped and flogged at the rattling bark on the straining poles. At last he awoke — listened for a moment to the rising storm, threw fresh wood on the smoking Are, and taking up his snow-shoes, examined them with the greatest care. She spoke to him, but he only glanced at her without a word. When he had examined and tested his snow - shoes, he threw off his scanty clothing, and warming his pot of coloured earths at the Are, began to paint his face and body according to his wont. She spoke again, but he went on unheeding. When he finished, he dressed with care and deliberation, and tak- ing a small portion of food, he picked up his snow-shoes and bent to crawl through the low entrance. Again the dying woman spoke, but this time her feeble mutterings ended in such a cry of fierce desperation that he sprang to his feet in amazement. 146 i 3 13 a LE COUREUR-DE-NEIGES "What had happened ? The stolid, expressionless mask he had so long known had fallen, and in its place started forth a face distorted in a storm of passionate hate; the timid, shifting eyes blazed with a steady, demoniacal fire ; the mute, slavish lips now poured forth a fearless torrent of re- proach and execration. His surprise died as quickly as it had arisen, and, with his devilish skill, he stood there eying her immovably until the old power reasserted itself, and she cowered beneath the terror of his glance, her strident scream breaking into a low wail of hopeless weakness. But even as he triumphed, the crisis re- turned, and gathering new force, the sup- pressed hatred of her life burst forth in all the tierceness of savage malediction. She called upon every power of evil to curse him in his strength, in his pride of mastery, in his hour of victory, in his hour of direst need. "Go!" she screamed, with a shriek of frenzied laughter, high above the roar of the storm. "Go! Run swifter than the wind, faster than the day ; run until the wind dies forever and the day comes no 147 III if 1 ■ i I I I i 1 1 I' f' i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW more — but before you my curse shall ever wait. Go I Go !" And with fear clinging to him as a garment, he turned and crawled through the opening into the blackness without. With the awful curse ringing in his ears, he staggered to his feet, and in blind desperation rushed forward in the teeth of the driving storm, heedless of his course. The familiar struggle against the tempest at last partially recalled him to his senses. With a shudder, he paused and shook himself as if to throw off his overwhelming burden, and turning his back to the wind, stood crouching before it as he tried to collect his thoughts. But he could think of nothing save her impre- cation. It rang through his brain with a ter- rible insistence till all the evil of his nature awoke in fierce revolt, and with a low growl of defiance, he stood upright and retraced his steps. She must unsay the curse she had laid upon him, or he would strangle her with his hands as she lay. Pushing aside the frozen cloth before the entrance, he crawled back into the wigwam. 148 LE COUREUR-DE-NEIGES The fire still burned brightly, and on her oed of pine the figure of the woman lay im- movable. ' With hot anger surging through every fibre and contracting every muscle into murderous tension, he crawled noiselessly towards the out- stretched figure. He was almost beside her now, but she lay unmindful of his presence. He raised himself on the points of his fingers, ready for his spring, when he caught a fuller view of her face, and, with a gasp of despair, he saw that another and a greater change had come. The being he had known was gone, and in her place was Death Eternal — Death under a frozen mask of hate, thrilling him with terror as he read the undying curse written in its staring eyes. There he knelt as immovable as the Presence before him, with no thought of vengeance, no effort of escape, the life within him ebbing backward, backward, backward, before the un- changeable hatred of the dead. Suddenly the wigwam strained and bent, and then was torn bodily from its fastenings, the blazing fire was whirled and scattered into the 149 >'■ m ! ^r i I' : -i 1 I < i ,! M ■1,- .' ^ . ■j ■ 1 l ' i I 1 1 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW white emptiness about, and with a scream of torture the kneeling figure leaped to its feet, and was swept before the scourge of the mid- night storm. Onward it fled through the depths of the groaning forest amid the crash of frozen branches, down the broad course of the sheeted river shrieking between the ice-bound walls of rock in the narrows, over the open plain to the sleeping town where the bells quivered in a long moan as they lifted before its fury and then swung back with one harsh clang, at which affrighted sleepers moaned, or, starting up, crossed themselves in the darkness, as it swept onward, onward, down to the very edge of the realm ot Winter and of Death. But to the tortured spirit no boundary could mean rest, no road lead to a journey's end. As the signs of winter lessened, the storm but made a wider circle to bear the lost soul, with its never- ceasing wail of despair, back towards the end- less night and desolation of the North. Men have looked upon that midnight horror, but no living man has told what his eyes have seen. But when the fierce might of summer 150 LE COUREUH-DE-NEIGES has rolled back the shroud of winter to the unchangeable limits of the eternal snow, in the depth of the awakening forest, on the green breast of the flowering prairie, on the level beach of the swollen river, are sometimes found the forever quiet bodies of those who in an evil hour have looked upon the face of the lost Coureur-de-Neiges. '12 1 ■; M ' ■ ''S1 I I^PI i -Ml 'I i- jH^' In THE VETERAN M ■M r Ml I I j '!' U i'» ill THE VETERAN THE excitement was intense throughout the county, and especially in such centres as Ste. Philomene. The Liberals were making a most determined effort to regain the power which they had lost soon after the death of the elder Malouin, who had been their acknowledged leader for nearly half a century, and no effort was spared on either side. Old party cries and shibboleths were revived, racial and religious differences ap- pealed to, and discords rekindled with unhesi- tating activity. One of the strong cards of the Rouge party on nomination day at Ste. Philomone was Phileas Tranchemontagne, the cobbler of St. Isidore. The old man had ever found time during his busiest day of patching to entertain a friend with cheerful if not always veracious conversation, and being a good listener as well, 165 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW !i; ! <: rii his little workshop was seldom empty, save when host and audience could execute a stealthy exit and, unintercepted by Malvina his wife, gain the shelter of the widow Le- febvre's to wet their whistles with a short but effective choke of her fiery "w'iskie blanc." Long practice had made him not only a skilful story-teller, but even something of an orator; a fervid imagination stood him in stead of ex- perience and raised him superior to all facts, especially when dealing with matters of the past. On the eventful day he was kept well in ev- idence. What patriotic Canadian could behold unmoved this old man, so typical of all that was traditional in his race, dressed from top to toe in"etoffe du pays," shod with"bottes sauvages," smoking a pipe made from a knot of hard maple constantly refilled with "bon tabac blanc" from a time-worn pouch of moose hide? Under the stimulus of frequent "p'ti' coups," " w'iskie au citron," and ''square face," his sonorous references to "le trente sept," "St. Denis," "St. Eustache," and "le pauvre Chenier" indicated clearly the drift of his in- tended flight, and when his leaders, fore- 156 THE VETERAN Mi seeing that too long dalliance with the heavy- bottomed tumblers, held they never so little, might interfere with his eloquence, hurried him up to address the waiting crowd, he was in his best form. Never did his periods rollout more roundly; after a strong speech in favour of the Liberal candidate, whom he qualified as "un veritable enfant du sol," a direct descendant of "the heroes of Thirty- Seven," he alluded to the un- happy differences that"/i<2 and Papineau" had striven to adjust by all peaceable means, and how when the call came to arms "A^ and Chenier, ce pauvre cher homme," "A^ and Nelson," "Ad and DeLorimier" had risen as a single man, backed by the fathers, uncles, cousins, and the whole of the immediate elder generation, all relatives of those surrounding him, and had held the might of England at bay until, outnumbered, suffering, woundod, dead and dying, they had laid down their arms; not conquered, not subdued, but ready again, at any time, night or day, to grasp them once more at the agonized cry of their suffering countrymen, should any foreign power once more attempt to place her iron heel upon the 157 ^H 1 WR}- ''^i I, L Ill I ! IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW neck of a people who were cradled in the lap of Freedom ! The enthusiasm was intense. "With that astonishing aptitude to believe any sentiment which appeals to its imagination, the crowd, Bleu and Rouge alike, caught fire; "Thirty- Seven " was but yesterday, and no statement of old Tranchemontagne seemed too extravagant for acceptance ; the orator was cheered to the echo and congratulated on all sides, while the frequent exclamations of "Les Patriotes," "Chenier," and the instant relapse into rem- iniscence of those stormy days, showed plainly the trend of public sentiment. So general was the feeling aroused that it was with much difficulty that young Philippe Lebeau — of course " le beau Philippe " to his admirers— the advocate from Ste. Marguerite, obtained a hearing. However, he soon ar- rested attention by a glowing and unexpected eulogy of those who had sacrificed both lives and property in the days of "the Thirty- Seven " ; but once attention was warmed into enthusiasm he quickly changed his tone. " It must not be forgotten," he said, " that there were others as fully deserving the name of 158 THE VETERAN * Patriote.' My old grandfather was one who withstood all popular disfavour and obloquy, be',^use he would not fight against that flag under whose folds he and his fellow- heroes, French and English alike, repulsed the invader in 1812 on the field of Chjiteauguay. No po- litical faction could force him to forswear the oath his ancestor had taken in accepting Brit- ish rule and protection wlien French Canada was abandoned by the mother- country. And, while honouring both classes of men, wo must not be led away by the statements of the last speaker, whose eloquence has always outdis- tanced his appreciation of the actual facts of anjj^ question. I am not aware that either his- tory or tradition has preserved any record of his services in the constitutional struggle in- augurated by the great Papineau, I have never heard that his military knowledge or experi- ence materially strengthened the hands of the leaders in the appeal to arms ; however, I do know that he never saw either St. Charles or St. Denis with his physical eyes, that he never so much as spoke to Dr. Chenier; and, what is more, the only military service he ever ren- dered was when a solitary skirmisher of Sir 159 i m w !i I: liF' IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW John Colborne's column, coming unexpectedly upon a score of Patriotes' drilling in a field near St. Benoit, sent a musket- ball whistling over their heads to give them timely chance to escape, he, Phileas Tranchemontagne, in his iamiliarity wi*^h the usages of modern war- fare, sprang to the top of the intervening stone wall, and wildly waving his arms screamed out: *Quien! Quien! Quoi'ce tu fais Id? Y'a du monde ici!' "* The veteran missed his coup. *"Hi! Hi! What are you about there? There are people over here 1" I I 111! 'g 36 n r- le d a UNE SCETJR ). imiiii lllHii UNE SCEUR »:1 IT was more than sixty years ago, and was the closing day at the little countr}'^ con- vent of St. Pierre des Monts. It was a day important, even among closing days, for the first gold medal offered in the convent had been won, and was to be presented by Mon- seigneur the Bishop, who had come to this distant centre of gentle civilization for that express purpose, and now sat on the platform surrounded by his coadjutor, the Cure of the parish, the Mother Superior, and the principal members of the community. His Grace's purple was the only point of decided colour in the room. The solemn-faced local member was in glossy broadcloth, the visiting friends and relations were in black or gray homespun, the nuns and clergy in sombre gown or soutane, while the younger classes wore the regulation black alpaca of the con- 163 ir 1 1 111 m |lilli|:!i i!i;' IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW li ' ■.■y vent. All this served to throw the graduating class into high relief. Like a row of lilies, these maidens stood before the platform, fresh and pure and sweet in snowy lawn, their eager faces aglow with the charm of youth and all eyes alight with expectation. The gold -medallist was a tall, black -eyed maid of sixteen, with a fine, oval face and reg- ular features, surrounded bj^ a glorious crown of luxuriant hair. Her progress and standing throughout her course had been extraordinary, and the words of praise and encouragement with which the Bishop presented the prize were spoken with deserved appreciation of her effort and success. As he ended be took the little gold cross in his hand, and reading the inscription, " Mar- celine Legendre, Convent de Notre Dame des Monts, July 1814," he said : " My child, you are now beginning your larger life, and none of us can say what it may hold for you" — here the girl glanced quickly up at the Moth- er Superior, her eyes big with tears, while the Bishop went on — " but be certain that your honest endeavour will ever meet with its reward, as sure if not as tangible as this 164 UNE SCEUR precious cross which I now place in your ^g- » keeping When the little ceremony was over, era- bracings, congratulations, and compliments followed from all present. Beside Marceline stood her mother, a glance at whom, although she was now worn and bowed with a life of labour, told whence the girl derived her beauty and carriage. Now her quiet face was lighted with a grateful joy in her daughter's triumph. All the privations necessitated by the expense of Marceline's education were fully repaid, every word of praise fell refreshingly on her mother heart; in her joy she had grown young once more, and her eyes shone with the same exalte light which illumined her daughter's face. "When the time for departure came, Marceline lingered to the last, but now her little wood- en trunk was placed in the springless charette, old Blonde stood patiently at the door, and Madame Legendre listened earnestly to the parting words of the Mother Superior, while Marceline stood hand-in-hand with her friend la Soeur Ste. Therese, the youngest sister in the community. Finally the last farewells were said; the two women climbed into the 165 tWT 1 1 "r! IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW high cart, and the elder taking up the reins they drove slowly through the convent gates. The long July evening was just beginning ; its peaceful glow invited silence, and they drove on without speaking. The mother had all the familiar past before her, and her heart was filled with thankfulness; the daughter had all the unknown future, and she was weep- ing silently with averted face. Their road lay along the river, beyond which the sun was setting, throwing the shadows of the dense pines in great black patches across their way and making great golden glories in the open. Through alternate light and shadow the jolting charette moved onward with its silent occupants, until the girl's hand stole beneath her black woollen shawl and clasping her mother's she said ; " Es tu contente, maman ?" and for answer the mother bent over and kissed her. It was nearly ten o'clock before the tired travellers drove into the little passage, just wide enough to admit the charette, beside their cottage in the village of Ste. Philomene. From the side -window shone a welcoming 166 UXE SCEUR iir e. gleam of light, which was darkened by an in- tervening head the moment Blonde slackened her pace, and a merry series of raps on the closely fastened window tapped out a joyous recognition of their home-coming. " Run in, child ! He has waited all day for you. I'll look after Blonde." Without a w^ord Marceline leaped lightly out and hurried into the house, where she was greeted b}^ a thankful, satisfied cry as she knelt beside a low chair and clasped to her breast the little figure seated therein. She might have been a mother, so protecting was her embrace, so tender was the caressing touch of her hand on the head pillowed on her shoulder. "Wait one moment, cheri, I must bring maman the light," and lifting the pierced tin lantern from the peg behind the door, she blew the embers on the hearth into a flame and lighted the candle. In a few moments she returned, and kneeling before the low chair said : " Let us see how ray Octave has kept himself !" As she spoke she pushed the boy's hair back from his forehead and held his face in both her hands. It bad the same delicate contour as her own, and her 167 »| A'v\i- I IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW I fine eyes looked into eyes of even greater depth and lustre, but the face wanted her warm colour, and the sensitive mouth was marked with lines of suffering. However, they Avere only lines of suffering, not of discontent or selfishness, and there was a happy sweetness to his voice as he laughed : " And you, ma belle? But I needn't ask, you grow prettier every day, and I know you've got the medal. I was sure of that ! Where is it ?" With a glad smile Marceline drew the precious prize from her bosom and handed it to the expectant Octave. "Oh, Marceline!" he cried in his joy, as he drew the full softness of her olive cheek close to his ; and when the mother entered to find them both admiring the golden guerdon, she, in turn, said softly, as she caught the girl's upward glance: "Es tu con- tente, fiUette ?" at which Octave laughed mer- rily and the happy mother failed to note Mar- celine's silence. That night Marceline knelt before the little crucifix over her bed and prayed as she had only learned to pray during the past year. It was a pitiful prayer for patience, for resig- nation, and for courage, with all the weakness 168 ¥ UNE SCEUR of a dearly cherished desire welling up through her appeal. During her last year at the convent her dream had been to enter the community. Not through any conscious spirit of self-sacrilice : her character was too devoutly fervent to real- ize any personal merit in such a consecration of her life. She had never considered the possibility of any opposition until near the end of the year when she had spoken of her desire to the Mother Superior, who, to her surprise, reminded her that there were earthly duties as well as spirit- ual. Her mother, on whose care her crippled brother Octave was entirely dependent, was no longer a young woman. She must be sure she was not forsaking an evident duty before her in taking such a step, and, above all, she must consult with the Abbe Marsolet when next he visited the convent. It was a new light for the girl. She her- self had been so constantly cared for that she had never realized the responsibilities of life must some day present themselves before her, when she would be called upon to accept or reject them. And, as she thought her position 169 I II WT I ! IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW over, she dimly realized that perhaps her pres- ent action might prove her decision. Le pere Marsolet, a priest of wide sympathies and great experience, found Marceline strangely troubled and perplexed. How could she be wrong in such a desire ? Had not Christ him- self said : " He that loveth father or mother more than me, is not worthy of me ?" "Would He not care for her mother and brother ? Could Ihe consecration of her life to His service be a mistake ? Thereupon the abbe pointed out her clear line of duty with an authority which the Mother Superior had not assumed : " My child, God calls upon us all to pray alike, but He calls on each one to work in different ways, and in so far as we rebel and try to work in ways of our own choosing, just in so far are we wrong, and in so far will our work be fruit- less. *' Be thankful that you have no doubt as to your course. Be sure also that you can serve God no more effectually here in the Convent of Saint- Pierre than in your own home at Sainte-Philomene. He will call you back here in His own time if 3"our service be needed, but 170 a UNE S(EUR to-day He calls you to the side of your mother and brother. " Humanly speaking, your time of probation cannot be long; although that is a side from which I would be sorr}'- for 3'ou to look for any comfort — but, long or short, never allow your- self to think that the true service of God is confined wnthin any particular spot or to any outward form and manner of life; and, in ac- cepting this service, remember you are not making a spiritual sacrifice any more than3'ou would be in following the desire of your heart by remaining here." Then followed his words of kindly human comfort and encouragement; and Marceline knew the truth of it all and accepted it, but that night, the first of her new life, she cried herself asleep beside her bed in the moonlight before the crucifix on the white wall of her chamber. ire ut The next morning the new life began, and Marceline filled her place in the little house- hold as if she had never dreamed of a dilferent future. The first bitterness had passed in that lonely vigii, and as the time went on all such feeling died out absolute]3^ 171 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW ■1 ii. ■' She assumed the entire charge of her brother, who improved steadily under her unceasing care. Wliile she had been absent at the con- vent the boy found sucli pleasure as he might with older people. Country lads have too many occupations and too little sympathy for any companionship with a boy like Octave, whom they rather despised on account of his infirmity, their only recognition of his existence being a jeering call as they passed his window. Thus cut off from those of his own age he de- veloped only the graver side of his nature, and was in danger of losing much of the generou«; qualities of youth. With returning health came a gracious expansion of his being; his world began to unfold new beauties and hold forth new possibilities under the sunshine of Mar- celine's briglit companionship. Her ambition had been too thoroughly aroused by her success to make her willing to settle down to a mere routine of house- work and nursing; her care of Octave must go beyond faithful devotion to his comfort or amusement, and being a bright, intelligent bov he responded readily to her effort. They were both passionately fond of reading, and together 173 UNE S(EUR go or Dov ere ler they eagerly devoured the books she had brought home and sucli as they could borrow from the Cure andMaitre Cabazier, the Notary. Maitre Cabazier, an old bachelo;*, had known both brother and sister from their birth ; and his nephew Philippe, whom he had brought up, had been Marceline's constant pla^nnate be- fore they separated for school and convent. Philippe had done brilliantly at college and was now making his way as an advocate in the city, and the lonely old man had turned for conso- lation to the lonely cripple, Octave Legeiidre. Octave's whimsical, old-fashioned talk was a rest to him, he declared, after a day's hard work; and, with an old man's quiet amusement in little things, he developed the boy's powers in this direction to an unusual degree. He ad- mired his innate quickness of judgment, and took a delight in discussing and expounding curious or difficult points of practice to the boy, who compreliended all the intricacies of "family" law with the intuition of his race. Upon Marceline's return he took an active interest in her efforts with Octave, and was especially pleased at his progress in writing, for the boy rapidly acquired a modilied form 173 ii 1 P IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW of Marceline's pretty Italian hand, in which they both took great pleasure and practised assiduously. Octave had at times discussed with him the possibility of turning his natural dexterity of hand to some account, and regretted there was no opportunity in their little village for the trade of a watchmaker, but to this the old man replied triumphantly: "Writing! my son, writing; stick to that! Look at me! With my pen I make secure what others win by their arms; I write men into their marriages, into their homes, and, last of all" — he laughed — "into their graves." One night when Marceline produced with pride a most creditable specimen of his progress, the Notary exclaimed, vigorously: "Eh, mon vieux! there is your trade at your tinger-ends! No more watchmaking or nonsense of that sort! Yoyons! I am an old man now, and killed with copying out my actes, a work I detest. Are you too lazy to help an old idler, or will you be read}^ to copy out a contrat de mariage for me in the morning? I won't pay much, mind ! and every mistake will take off so much of the pay. Come ! " 174 )ff UNP] SCEUR Marceline's e3"es were full of grateful tears, and that night tlie brother and sister saw a new world full of promise opening before them. Ah, Maitre Cabazier, you may well double up your kindly hands under your cloak and smile and talk to yourself on your way home, for a kindlier act you have never done in your long, honourable life! The cop3nng was entirely successful, but a week or so later Maitre Cabazier began to growl: "This won't do at all, Marceline! I can't have Octave wasting his time in simply copying. Then, I have no control over him, and the first thing I know he may be blabbing my secrets to the first person he meets. No! no! If I am to make any use of him, I must be his patron, and then I will know where I am ?5 Maitre Cabazier his patron? Why, that meant that in five short years Octave might be a notary himself, provided he knew his Pothier and Coutume de Paris. And why not ? So there was great rejoicing in the fam- ily the day Maitre Cabazier appeared with his confrere Maitre Normandin, and he with Ma- 175 1 i It il IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW mm\ iitiniiiiil dame Legendre and Octavo affixed their sig- natures to the brevet de clericature. Then time went on apace. Marceline's hands were full between her household duties and her work with Octave. She read aloud the deeds as he copied, they compared them together, and she did all the running to and fro between the house and the office of the old Notary. Together they bravely attacked the stout quartos which contain the wisdom and subtlety of the famous Pothier, revered of notaries, and hand-in- hand they treaded the devious labyrinth of the Coutume de Paris. Never had Marceline been so busy or so happy, and her letters to the Mother Superior and her friend la Soeur Ste. Therese were full of con- tent with her lot. The old Notary laughed at their eagerness, and as often examined Marceline as Octave. He invented problems and cases for their solv- ing. He seldom entered the house without some legal puzzle to unravel, and when Philippe came home for his rare holiday one Ne v/ Year's, he brought him with pride to renew his boyish friendship with Marceline, whom he introduced as " la plus parfaite notairesse du pays." 176 pe s, sh led UNE SCEUR Octave fulfilled bis time with Maitre Caba- zier, and eventually succeeded to bis greffe and practice. There were, of course, certain outside duties which be could not undertake, but he acquired such a reputation for probit}' and skill through- out the country that on market days the little house was full of waiting clients from morning till night. His kindly patron seldom moved abroad now, but Octave's success was a constant pleasure to him, as were Marceline's daily visits and frequent consultations on knotty points, to the unravelling of which he readily lent all bis experience and knowledge. His experiment had been entirely successful, but there was another possibility which he long hesitated to put to the touch, until one summer morning, when Marceline was about leaving, he took his courage in both hands and said: " Just one moment, my child. Sit down and listen patiently for a little to an old man whose affection must be his excuse if it has led him astray." There was an unusual tenderness in his tone, M 177 PTTT (, i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW which caused Marceline to look keenly at his strong, venerable face. She marked how it had lost all its harder traits in the quiet peaceful- ness of these later years, and was surprised at an almost timid entreaty in the clear brown eyes which appealed to her with all the force of unwonted emotion in a strong nature. " Marceline," he continued," you know with- out my telling you what I think of Philippe. He is a good boy, a man now ; he has never disappointed me in anything, and to-day, when I see him gaining an honourable position by his own exertion, my heart cries out that he is not even nearer to me than he is. You know what he was as a child — a heart of gold. To this his years have only added wisdom and virtue, and success has taken away nothing. Still, he is a young man, only at the beginning of life, and I have seen men, as full of promise as he, lose all that seemed secure within their grasp" — he paused for a moment with a far-away look in his eyes as if he again saw the course of the wrecked lives that had set forth with such hopes, and when he roused himself he went on with a yearning appeal — "Marceline, my child, only a mother can know the anxiety with 178 UNE S(EUR wliicli I look forward to his future! Only a mother can realize what I would sacrifice for his sake! " I am an old man now, even older than my years, for I am just upon the entrance to an- other world, and when I look back towards this, in which there may be so much happiness or so much miser3% I am tempted to do what I can to secure the happiness of those I love. " I have watched you and Octave since your mother bore vou in her arms, and since Phi- lippe has left, you have become a part of my life. Knowing this, you also know I could propose nothing which I did not believe was for your highest good — " Here the old man hesitated for a moment and looked at Mar- celine, whose face suddenly flamed with colour as she realized his thought. Her visible emo- tion might be open to a favourable interpreta- tion, but with a tightening pain at his heart he recognized no answering light in her eyes, which looked into his honestly, pityingly, but without response. Still, he was pleading the cause of another, and he continued slowly, watching her face carefully as he spoke : " I have seen you grow 179 ■iij.5 i Ill \mwm IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW from child into woman, Marceline, and I know what a blessing such a woman may be to any man worthy — such a man — as I know — Phi- lippe — " the words came slower and slower, for it seemed as if Marceline were somehow apart, removed from the appeal, even of one so entitled to a hearing as himself, and the faltering words ceased, as her hand stole un- consciously to the little golden cross on her breast. It was her answer. He said nothing further, and a moment later picked up his book and pretended he was alone, whereupon she arose and, without a word, passed out into the sunlight of the narrow street. Madame Legendre died full of years and content; Marceline grew from womanhood into old age, the black hair became silvery, the olive cheek lost its roundness and its tinge of red; but Octave, the fragile cripple, whose days seemed measured forty years before, held on his useful, busy career, sheltered from the storms and temptations of life by reason of his very weakness. 180 UN2 S(EUR Although he was esteemed a wealthy man, the brother and sister lived on in the same simple, frugal manner in which they had been brought up. Neither of them had ever been beyond the limits of Ste. Philomene since Marceline's return from the convent; for Oc- tave it was an impossibility, and her place was by his side. Her interest in the convent never ceased; the community had removed from St. Pierre to the city, but her old friend, la soeur Ste. Tbercse, faithfully kept up her monthly letter, and every change was known to Marceline, who had long proved the truth of the Abbe Marsolet's words, and was spiritually as much a member of her beloved community within the walls of her home as if she had worn coif and gown within the convent. She felt it would be wrong to lock up the dreamings of her heart from Octave — in fact, it would have been impossible in the intimacy of their relations; so they talked openly and freely of her dream, and if regret existed it was onl}'^ expressed by him. Yet at times, in the quiet of the summer afternoon, as Marceline sat knitting behind the 181 Iflf! Itl 1 W4 ill IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW screen of geranium plants in the front window, when there was no sound save the buzz of flies on the pane, a vision of tiie white interior and the unpainted wood-work of the liumble convent would come back, the brave, tireless hands would sink in quiet on her lap, and the gray-haired woman was a girl again beside her dear soeur Ste. Therese in the colourless purity of her early life. At last the day came which the abbe had foretold; Octave and she had lived an abso- lutely uninterrupted life of fifty years together since the day she had left the convent and placed her golden prize in his hands; he had amply repaid every sacrifice she had made, for their lives had been one, every effort had been undertaken together, and every success had brought a common joy. He passed away as quietly as he had lived, and when she followed his body into the church, which he had never entered save in his godmother's arms on the day of his chris- tening, her heart was as full of thankfulness as of sorrow. She was wealthy, enormously so in the opin- 182 UNE SQiUR ion of her neighbours, and the remainder of her life might be passed in comfort and good works. But the dream of the girl of sixteen was still that of the woman of sixt3'-six, and as soon as she had set her affairs in order she turned her face towards the city, to be wel- comed at the convent door by her friend, la sa3ur Ste. Thercse. Iin- That night the nun heard a low sound of weeping in the adjoining room, and, entering softly, she found ^Marceline on her knees. " My child ! my child !" whispered the elder woman, tenderly, as she sank on the floor be- side her, with her trembling hand protectingly on the thin gray hair which she had not touched since it shone black and luxuriant, the glory of the first gold medallist of the convent fifty years before. At her touch Marceline leaned close to her as if she were a girl again : " Ah, ma soeur! I bring nothing now ! Then — I had beauty, and it has gone ! I had youth, and it has fled ! They said I had talent, and it has died ! And now — I come with nothing but a few years of life and some worthless gold. Ma soeur, ma 183 ^$m n IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW mm\ mmm m jiii soeur! if it only could have been fifty years ago!" The protecting hand gently stroked the sil- ver hair and smoothed the wrinkled cheek, and, soothingly, as a mother comforts her child, she whispered the loving assurance; " No, no, my sister I You have brought what is better than all else — the beauty of a perfect life and the riches of a heart that has held nothing higher than the love of God" — and the two women kissed each other in the silence of the night. years le sil- heek, ; her a.nce; what irfect held -and tence MOK ROCHER 1 jl r ■ '1 1 • ;^i H > 4 -f ■A im> n 'fi.' : ill if W"<' ■ MON ROCHER THERE was a heavy bank of fog lying low over the sullen waters of the Sag- uenay as we left the weste 'n side to cross the river and descend the other shore with the full force of the current. Before we reached the middle of the stream the fog was sweeping across in belts so thick that at times ^\e could only dimly see the almost immovable figure of Xavier, the metis, seated high in the stern of our canoe, but these, in turn, Avere quickly blown away as we steadily advanced. The wind was beginning to make its voice heard above the rush of the river, and it was fast growing unpleasantly dark, but we kept on our way, watching with a comforting sense of protection the impassive face of the half- breed, confident in his skill and knowledge of every possible danger. Yet it was a relief when WG saw him give a backward stroke, and the 187 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW ,Pr- canoe swung with her bow up-stream, and bare- ly touched the shore before he was in the water, steadying her with one Hand and helping us out with the other. No explanation was need- ed : the rising wind and gathering gloom brought the message of the coming storm, and Xavier was no waster of words. As he lifted the canoe lightly into safet}^ we looked about us to find that we ^vere on a narrow strip of green, shut in between the black river \ve had crossed and the stunted growth of juniper and fir along the bottom of an almost perpendicu- lar cliff, which rose black and forbidding to its overhanging crown of green above. Odi' rising feeling of isolation was quieted, however, b}'^ the unexpected sight of a little whitewashed cottage, with its surrounding garden nestling close under the foot of the mighty rock, not more liim two hundred yards away. In glad surprise we shook out our rumpled skirts and hurried towards it. We passed through the little whitewashed gate and up the garden path, between the geraniums, phlox, sweot-williams, and other old-fashioned flow- ers, to receive a hearty welcome at tlie open 188 MON ROCHER id 3d r IV- m door from the mistress of the house. With our knowledge of that generous hospitality which makes every Canadian house a shelter to the traveller in time of need, we entered the usual living-room, with its well-scrubbed floor partially hidden by the pieces of cata- logue, the reds and yellows in which made cheerful contrast to the dark blue of the wain- scot and to the whitewashed walls; the usual three-storied stove stood high in the centre, with its short black lengths of pipe reaching across to the square chimney jutting well out into the room, flanked by wooden cup- boards in each angle, its great square hearth, with its ample, clean-swept stone, yawning be- low. A deal table with blue legs and a top rubbed and used into a satiny smoothness stood by one of the low square windows, and six straight-legged, narrow-backed ci.airs with seats of netted deer sinew balanced themselves against the blue line of the garde-mur. Over the fireplace wr.s a small coloured print of St. Anne, which, with a black wooden crucifix adorned with a few bunches of sweet-smelling pine, were the only attempts at ornament. The partitions separated us from the bed- 189 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW 4^- room and pantry; we knew that overhead was the high, unfinished garret which insured cool- ness in summer and safe-keeping for such pro- visi'^^' - as would not be injured by frost in winter — a typical specimen of the better class of Canadian house in that part of the country. I. ^ : :' her plain gray skirt of home- s', lui. \v.Uicli ■"'^i' ♦^>>ni-, fold or plait to her ankles, and in the simple mantelet of white linen. All this was as thoroughly home-like and Canadian as her surroundings, but her fair pale face, with her blue eyes and almost auburn hair, were of so pronounced a Scotch type, that I spoke to her in English on en- tering, but she had only smiled and apologized for her ignorance of the language. Her voice and accent showed unusual cultivation. Her face was marked by a gentle, thoughtful grav- ity, almost sadness, but differing altogether from that resigned apathy which so often hardens the faces of country people into ex- pressionless masks, as if the unending round of monotonous work had crushed all emotion. 190 )n. MON ROCIIER By this time Xavier was smoking beside the low fire which our hostess had rekindled upon the hearth, and we were seated with her at the table, now covered with her best linen, drinking green tea sweetened with maple sugar, and eating rye-bread redeemed by per- fect butter, in a sudden but natural intimacy born of our isolation. "Misere, madame! Have you always lived here?" asked Louise, as a heavy peal of thunder perceptibly shook the cottage, and growled and boomed as it died away down the course of the savage river. " Oh, no ! I am from la Mai Bale," she an- swered, with a quiet smile. Here, then, was the explanation of the fair face and foreign air. She might be a Trem- blay, or a Pelletier, or a Chouinard, but back of that we knew there was a Fraser, or a War- ren, or a Murray, the blue of whose Scottish eyes shone once more in this distant de- scendant. It was very plain. "Where could a woman acquire that soldierly bearing and lightness of step save from the grandfather or great-grandfather who had looked into the French muzzles behind Frederick at Ross- 191 tli; 1* i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW *v':, -i bach, and had scaled the heights behind "Wolfe at Quebec. " La Mai Baie," she repeated, slowly, " and - then I never thought to pass my life here. But can we ever tell ?" Slie rested her elbow on the table, and with her face on her hand gazed silently out of the window on the dark- ening storm, then, after a little pause, as if it were a relief to speak, she continued in a low voice : " Poor papa ! he had planned some- thing very fine for us girls. You see, we were four with Andre, and papa was rich. But he was hard, too, and went the worst way about his plans, as he did about his family. " We never grew up for him, so he treated us all as children. Things grew harder every day, until Andre left home for Quebec, two years sooner than we had hoped, and the bur- den fell on us. " He was better to rae, perhaps, than any of the others, for he was proud of the prizes I brought home every summer from the con- vent; but when the Sisters praised my work and my progress, he grew suspicious that they wished to make me a nun, and this because of his mone3^ However, I put an end to that 193 MON ROCIIER by ray promise that I would never enter a convent. My word was always sufficient for him; we at least had that in common, so I was allowed to finish ray studies in peace. To tell the truth I never had the slightest idea of convent life. I cannot bear the staring whiteness of the walls, the close, rehgious sraell, and the stillness, that is so different to me from quiet. I hardly look like a nun, even yet, do I ? " Well, the convent days were over at last and I went home, but it was only going back to the old life. " There were faults on our side, too, no doubt, and perhaps all might have been straightened out if we only could have talked it over, but a girl cannot reason with her father when he will never listen, and never look on her but as a child. " Poor papa ! Since I have lived alone I can guess something of what he suffered too, but then I could only see my own side. " At last I persuaded him to let me take the school at Ste. Irenee, and I was glad to be out of the never-ending discussion ; but even distance did not bring peace, and then — well. iiii5 i ! i5f i 5 I N 193 m I 11- IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW \\ J 1 1 111 it came to a question between us two. He would not reason, only command, and I was as proud as he, and I kept on the road I had chosen — and it has led me here." She broke the silence which followed by a laughing comment on her stupidity for not noticing how dark it had grown, and ex- changed a few kindly words with the taciturn Xavier as she lighted the lamp and again sat down by us to await the passing of the storm. " Has this place any name ?" I asked. " Mais, oui, madame, Ste. Anne." " But there are so many Ste. Annes," laughed Louise. " La Bonne Ste. Anne, Ste. Anne des Monts, Ste. Anne du Bout de I'lsle, Ste. Anne de la Perade, Ste. Anne de yi, Ste. Anne de 9a, and again Ste. Anne, Ste. Anne, Ste. Anne without any end. Why in the world didn't they give it some other name? Surely they needn't always stick by the calendar?" " Oh, well ! It is not a bad name after all. They are safer too when they stick by the saints, or else they tumble into a Sault aux Cochons, or something worse." Here there w^as a warning grunt from the 194 m\ J l>i ill. the lux he MON ROCHER listening Xavier, who evidently did not ap- prove of the turn our talk was taking. " II ore a tout 9a, vous savez," she apolo- gized, dropping at once into the broadest ver- nacular. Then, as if to make up for any light- ness, she told of a Belgian priest whom she had heard preaching at Ste. Anne de Beaupre, " la Bonne Ste. Anne," while on a pilgrimage during the previous summer. "He told us how there was once a poor woman, very tired and in great trouble, who came with her little boy to ask help from la sainte vierge, and as she prayed before the Mother and the Child, her little one grew tired and restless and pulled at her skirt, and cried to be taken home, so that the poor woman could not make her vows as her heart desired. " So she said, ' O most Holy Virgin, Thou too art a mother, and knowest what children are. I have much to ask yet. Wilt Thou not let Thy little one come down and play with my Jean until I can tell Thee all my pain V " Her child ceased his troubling, and when she had finished her prayers, she looked beside her, and there were the two children silent to- gether, and she was afraid, for she could not 195 m\ f m i ^■'-tl ! ' n IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW was Anglish ; dere was de odder Anglish peo- ple w'at live on St. Eustache an' Terrebonne; but 'e can' speak wid de habitants like dose Anglish w'at was always live on de country. An' 'cause 'e never was speak de French good dey begin for say 'e was proud ; an' dat's de t'ing w'at de people w'at live on de country 'ate de mos' of all. But we don' see dat; 'e was always 'av^e de kin' word for de Little Modder, an' 'e speak wid mc, an' 'e laugh on my name, Melchior, an' sometime 'e give me de copper. But de people w'at don' see 'ira, dey say 'e was proud, an' dat was not de trut', but 'e was bad for de Captain all de same. » mi An' dat summer dere was de talk begin, nobody know 'ow, dat de Anglish was try to take all de farm from de habitants, an' dey was wan' for sen' all de French people out de country. An' de stranger come from Mont- real an' from de State', some French an' some Anglish, an' on de night de men all go down on de assemblee. An' de one w'at al- waj^s speak de mos' wid every one, an' always come for tell de people forgo on de assemblee, was de j^oung Malouin. 220 fin, to dey de •nt- go al- DE LITTLE iMODDER A .' de Little Modder, like all de res' do women, was not like dat, an' she tell de fad- der 'ow de young Malouin was bad on de in- side, no matter w'at 'e say, an' she try all she can for keep 'ira on de 'ouse. But de young Malouin was make like 'e was big frien' wid de fadder, an' 'e tell 'im lies, an' 'e always got 'im on de assemblee. Den 'e lend 'im de mon- ey w'at de Little Modder say dey don' wan', an' de fadder 'e give de hypotheque on de farm. No matter 'ow 'ard de Little Modder try, de young Malouin was more strong nor 'er, an' de fadder always go wid 'im — an' all de trouble come dat way. All dat fall dere was nobody w^ork on de fiel', only de women ; de men \vas always busy on somet'ing else ; an' more stranger was come t'rough de country, an' every night de assem- blee was go on, sometime on de 'ouse, sometime on de barn, an' de talk grow more strong, an' never stop. An' dey say 'ow somet'ing will arrive soon, an' 'ow nobody will be poor no more, an' 'ow everybody Avill be boss like de Anglish. An' on mos' every 'ouse dere was de new gun, or else de ole one was fix' up. An' de 3'^oung Malouin, dey was call' 'ira 221 I ii IM. II f '1 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW Captain now, all do time 'e was never lef de fadder ; an' de Little Modder she don' try no more — she jus"ave to wait an' see w'at arrive. One night de fadder was not come 'ome till de mornin', an' dere 'e fin' de Little Modder was wait for 'im, wid 'er face all w'ite, like she was get ol' on dose day an' night w'at go so fas', an' was long like de year too. An' w'en 'e see 'er face like dat, 'e kiss 'er, an' 'e say, " My poor Josephte, dat won' be long time now w'en I'll be wid you like before." An' 'e was so tire' 'e lie down on de bed, an' 'e go for sleep. But 'e's not sleep ver' good, an' bj^mby 'e begin for speak somet'ing, an' I'll see de Lit- tle Modder get w'ite like she was w'en 'e come on de 'ouse, an' she say, " Melchior, go on de stable an' see ef de 'en was lay some egg " — an' I'll go. An' dat day w'en 'e begin for get dark, de fadder put on 'es capot, an' 'e take down 'es gun, an' 'e not look on de modder, an' 'e don' say nodding; but w'en 'e pass on de door, 'e turn roun' an' 'e come back, an' 'e kiss 'er an' me — an' den e' go. After w'ile de Little Modder she say, 232 ^1* m ,n DE LITTLE MODDER "Come, Melchior, 'ere's cle supper;" an' den she fix me for bed, an' I'll say de pra^'er wid 'er, an' de little song w'at I'll be always say : "Je mets ma confiance, Vicrge, en votre secours ; Scrvcz inoi de defeuse ; Prenez soin de mes jours." An' she cover me up on de bed, an' she kiss me an' kiss me, an' tell me on de mornin', ef she not be dere, for go down on la tante Lisa an' wait for 'er, an' she take 'er big blue cloak — an' she go too. I'll be mos' eight year ol' den, an' I'll not be 'fraid, me; I'll jus' go for sleep. An' w'en I'll sleep, de Little Modder was go Sv^ .as' she can on de manoir; an' she was not go by de road, but t'rougli -de fiel', an' 'cause de firs' snow was come she 'ave to run 'long by de fence an' be'in' de bushes, an' bymby she pass onder de big tree w'at go all de wa}'- up on de front of de 'ouse. An' she open de door sof, an' she pass on de 'all wid- out meet wid nobody, an' she come on de big room, an' dere de Captain an' Mam'zelle Laure was sit on de fire, an' 'e was read to 'er wid de book on 'es 'an'. 223 ^ ':. I IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW m ^\ i'}' De Captain 'e jump up, but de Little Mod- der liol' up 'er 'an', an' she shut de door, an' she tell dem 'o\v de people was come on de raanoir dat night for get de gun an' de pow- der w'at dey say de Captain 'ave on de cellar. An' de Captain 'e laugh, an' 'e tell 'er she was de goose for be 'fraid wid dose story ; but den she tell 'im 'ow she know, an w'at dey say 'bout 'im an' Mam'zelle, an' 'ow she was not meet wid an}' of de dog w'en she come up. An' den de Captain 'is face got black an' 'ard ; but w'en Mam'zelle go over on 'im an' try an' put 'er 'an' roun' 'is neck, 'e pass 'is arm roun' 'er, like 'e 'old 'er safe, an' 'is face was sof some more, an 'e say, " Josephte, you was de brave girl, an' I'll t'ank you for come." An' den 'e take Mam'zelle on one side, an' 'e speak wid 'er long time, an' she cr\% an' try for get 'im for change w'at 'e say, an' de Lit- tle Modder stan' dere, an' watch de needle on de clock dat go on an' on, an' 'er 'eart jump every time w'en she 'ear de noise outside, an' she make de prayer dat Mam'zelle not be fool- ish, an' at de las' de Captain turn, an' 'e say, "Josephte, my wife mus' go on Montreal to- night. You will go wid he*". Sen' Jacques to 264 IW m )\- to I '* 1 1 I' ; M i '^ ^w DE LITTLE MODDER me, an' tell Charles to put de two 'orse on de little wagon." But de Little Modder say, " Dat won' do, Captain. De road's not safe ! De people al- ways be out on de night now." Den she say 'ow ef 'e was trus' 'er wid Mam'zelle Laure, she 'ave de plan, an' she tell 'im w'at dat was. Den dey all go on de bedroom, an' dere on de dark dey dress Mam'zelle wid de warm clo'es, an' over all dey put de long blue cloak, like de Little Modder, an' dey take somet'ing for h'eat, an' some wine, an' den de Captain open de window ver' quiet, an' 'e lif Mam'zelle out, an' de Little Modder she come be'in'. Den de Captain 'ol' Mam'zelle to 'im, an' 'e say some- t'ing, an' 'e kiss 'er, an' 'e 7>ut 'er 'an' on de 'an' of de Little Modder, an' 'e say, " Dere, Josephte, you take my life wid you, tool"— an' dey go. Wen dey got off from de 'ouse dey go t'rough de fieP for de river, an' dey don' say nod ling, jus' 'urry all dey was able; but on de top of de 'ill dey stop, an' dey look be'in', an' dey see de light on de window of the de big room jus' like 'e was shine before de trouble come — an' dey go on. p 225 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW Nobody meet wid dem, nobody see dem ; but on de road dey can 'ear like de people was pass. Wen dey get on de river de Little Modder lef ]\[am'zelle on de bashes, an' she run up de bank, an' bymby she come back, an' she 'ave de fadder's canoe. Den she run on de l)ushes for Mam'zelle, an' she don' reach 'er before dey 'ear de gun go off on de manoir, an' Mam'zelle she look on de Little Modder an' she go for scream ; but she only put 'er bot' 'an's on 'er 'eart an' fall on 'er knee. But de Little Modder *i;et 'er on de canoe bvmbv, an' cover 'er up wid 'er own cloak, an' every time de gun go, Manrzelle she shake like she was d-e. An' all dat night dey was go down, down — an' on de mornin' dey see de church at Kepentigny. De Little Modder was "fraid for stay dere, an' w'en de Cure say 'e can sen' dem on de City, no matter if dey bot' was sick wid de col' an' de night w'at was pas', dey bot' say dey go, an' before dat night dey was drive on Montreal — an' de Little Modder 'ave keep 'er promise to de Captain. She was sick 'erself, an' she can' get up de 226 de siiK iM r i:i; am> on in "i M!l AND KA.l, oN "i;!. knkk'" DE LITTLE MODDER next day ; but de day after she start, an' dat night she go on la tante Lisa, w'ere she fin' me. Nobody h'ax 'er no question, only La Tante tell 'er de Captain 'e's back on de manoir ; an' w'en she 'ear dat she start off some more, an' she go straight on de manoir, widout care ef dey see 'er or ef dey don'. Wen she was pass on de gate she see de big stone pos' was t'row down, but de snow cover up mos' w'at was outside But w'en she pass on de 'ouse, she see de wooden shutter was all smash wid de h'axe, an' de front-door was lie on de floor, an' dere was jus' de bar nail' 'cross. Shf crawl onder de bar an' walk t'rough de 'all, an' open de door of de big room sof, an' dere was de Captain sit on de fire wid one arm tie up an' 'is 'ead on 'is 'an' ; an' de minute "e 'ear de door 'e jump up, an' w'en 'e see de Little Modder stan' dere, all w'ite an' tire' wid 'er voyage, 'e can' speak, but she say, " Safe !" an' de Captain 'e say, " T'ank God !" An' de Little JSLodder see de Captain was change' on dose free day ; like 'er, 'e was grow ol' w^id de trouble w'at was come. 'E don' say nodding, but 'e jus' stir de fire so 'e burn up good, an' den 'e make de sign wid 'is arm, an' 237 f ; * f li I' 'I ^' i ji ■ ' i, f ! ■( ?4 in r ! IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW 'e laugh w'en de Little Modder look on de room — an' dere's no good for tell de story. Everyt'ing was smash' an' break up ; de table was fix 'cross de window, an' de chair, an' de sofa, an' de cushion, an' de paillasse, an' de clo'es from de bed w'at de Captain was pile on de window an' de door, was all over de floor ; an' de picture of de ol' M'sieu' Georges an' Mam'zelle Laure and de family, some was pull down, an' de odder w'at was lef was all cut on de face. An' after — de ol' Jacques tell 'er — 'ow de Captain was sen' de women out de 'ouse w'en de people promise' for lef dem pass, an' den 'ow de Captain an' Charles fight — 'imself, 'e was too ol' for do nodding 'cep' load de gun. An' 'ow de Captain was shoot Perreault de black- smith, ai ' some odder, too, and 'ow 'e was near kiii 'imself only for de young Malouin ; an' 'ow de young Malouin 'ave 'im tie' up, an' dey smash everyt'ing before 'is eyes, an' 'e sit dere an' 'e don' say nodding, an' 'is face never change; an' 'ow dey 'unt forde powder an'de gun, an' don' fin' ver' much. An' den 'ow de}'^ go off an' take de Captain on St. Isidore ; but 'e get out some'ow, an' 'e was jus' get back on 228 it \ m DE LITTLE iMODDER (le manoir dat day, an' 'e lin' only 'im, de oV Jacques, w'at was lef on de 'ouse. Den de trouble come fas' ; de fadder was 'way all de time, an' de camp was make on St. Benoit an' St. Eustache; an' one day les troupes was pass on de road from Montreal, an' den La Tante she come an' she try for get de Little Modder for go wid 'er ; but de Little Modder she kiss 'er an' she cry, an' she say she was not 'fraid for 'erself, an' ef 'er man come 'e mus' fin' 'er dere. An' de day after les troupes pass' bad news was come from St. Eustache, an' de Little Modder she take me an' go down on de vil- lage, an' all de people was do nodding but go on de church an' say de prayer an' make des vceux; an' w'en de news come dat de Anglish was kill all les patriotes, some of de people was take all dey can carry an' run 'way on de bush ; an' on de church dey was cry an' say de prayer out loud, an' only de Cure was dere for sav soraet'ino;. W'at 'e was sav I'll don' know, but de women don' cry no more ; an' w'en de dark come, me an' de Little Modder we go back 'ome. An' dat night she don' put me on de bed. 259 h '4 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW i i! She sit on de fire, an' she 'ol' me on 'er knee. An' on de mornin', vv'en de light was jus' begin, we 'ear de noise like de 'orse on de road, an' w'en dey come on our 'ouse dey turn in, 'an we wait, an' den de knock come on de door, an' de door was open', an' dere was de Cap- tain Lawless wid 'is cap on 'is 'an'. An' 'e was 'ol' de door open, an' den two soldier come on de 'ouse, an' dey carry some- t'ing. An' de Captain 'e don' say nodding, jus' make de sign wid 'is 'ead, an' de soldier move over on de bed ; an' de Captain 'e stan' dere 'gains' de wall like de man w'at was tire' out, an' 'is face was like de face of de ol' man. An' w'en de soldier go out, 'e was shut de door sof, an' 'e come over on de Little Mod- der; an' I'll be 'fraid den, an' I'll 'ide my face on 'er dress, an' I'll 'ear 'im say, "My poor Josephte, you 'ave save me de living, an' I'll only be able for save your dead." An' den de Captain 'e go out, an' we 'ear de sleigh an' de 'orse go off slow, slow, down de road, an' bymby every ,'ing was qui't some more — an' me an' de Little Modder was lef alone. LA MESSE DE MINUIT 11: ii } mp:;l ^^'d LA MESSE DE MINTJIT A CHRISTMAS LEGEND DAT was de only good story w'at de ol' ' Phinee Daoust was tell all de time 'e was wid me an' Xistc Brouillette on de Gatineau dat winter. I'll not be sure if dat was de trut', but 'e say 'e was tell dat by la tante Lisa, 'is modder; an' I'll not be sure w'ere all dat was arrive—but dat was jus' before Chris'mis, an' all de people was go on la messe de minuit, an' de church was fill' from de rail of de altar to the door. An' de young King 'e was dere too, an' w'en 'e look on all dose people an' on de 'igh altar, w'at was like le saint Paradis wid all de candle an' de little angel, an' w'en 'e look on de pries' wid deir fine clones all red, an' w'ite, an' gol', an' on de little feller on de choeur, an' on de soldier, 'is 'eart was glad, an' 'e see 'e was de bigges' 233 M 'Vf ^ <9^. ****>. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 SKSI I.I 2.5 m 2.2 I 2.0 ^ m |LA ^ 6" ► <^ V, w V o Photographic Sciences Corporation 33 WIST MAIN STRUT WnSTM.N.Y. USIO (716)S73-4S03 l\ V 4 ■^ <> VV^ V c>\ ^ C ^ I IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW an' de stronges' King w'at dere ever was. An' all de time 'e lis'en to de music an' de boys w'at sing, an' w'en 'e see de pries' move on de altar, an' de people w'at stan' up an' kneel down, 'e forget for "Who all dat was make, an' 'e feel like dey was make all dat for 'im. An' bymby de pries' w'at was serve begin de Gloria ; an' dat pries' 'ave de voice w'at soun' jus' like de angel was sing. An' de King lis'en ver' 'ard, an' bymby 'e 'ear 'im an' de odder pries' sing " Tu solus DomiDUS ; Tu solus Altissimus." An' de boys on de choeur dey sing back, " Tu solus Dominus ; Tu solus Altissimus." An' de King turn on de ol', ol' pries' w'at was sit 'longside 'im, an' w'at was de confesseur to 'is fadder an' to 'is gran'fadder too, an' 'e say ver' slow, " Tu solus Dominus ; Tu solus Altissimus?" An' de ol' pries' t'ink 'e was h'ax w'at dat mean, an' 'e say, " Dat's w'at de angel was sing w'en de men fin' de little J^sus — *You are de only King. You are de stronges' King!'" 284 LA MESSE DE MINUIT An' de King make de black face, an^ 'e say on Ms inside, " Les gueux! Let dem say w'at dey like, nobody's de only King so long's I'll be 'ere! An' dere's no King more strong nor rUbe!" An' w'en de ol' pries' was see 'is face get 'ard like dat, 'e kneel down an' 'e say de prayer for de soul of de young King. An' de King sit dere, an' 'e don' look no more on de altar, an' 'e don' lis'en no more on de office, an' bymby, w'en de pries' was be- gin de Credo, 'e shut 'is eyes— an' after w'ile 'e sleep. d 'E don' know 'ow long dat was 'e was sleep, but bymby 'e wake up, an' for little minute 'o don' know w'ere 'e was. Den 'e see de little red lamp w'at never, never go out, burn on de front de altar, an' 'igb up on de roof 'e can see de w'ite shine of de moon t'rout^h de little win- dow, an' den 'e know 'e was all 'lone on de big church. 'E try an' t'ink 'ow dat was arrive, but de more 'e t'ink, de more 'e don' know. Bymby 'e get up, an' 'e pass down de middle of de church, but w'en 'e was come on de big door, 235 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW 'e fin' dat was fas' lock'. Den 'e feel 'is way ronn', an* bymby 'e fin' de little door onder de docher was open, an' w'en 'e pass out, 'e laugh — 'e t'ink dat was de firs' time w'at 'e ever was go t'rough any door 'cep' de big one. On de outside de snow was everyw'ere, an' de moon was w'ite, an' de sky was ver' 'igh an' blue, an' de King was shiver wid de col', so 'e make de straight course for de Palais. W'en 'e get dere 'e don' see no light on de window, so 'e go on de fron' door an' 'e give some 'ard knock, but 'e jus' wait de smalles' minute, an' den 'e knock some more, jus' so fas' an' so 'ard 'e was able widout wait for nodding, an' bymby 'e 'ear de door open little bit an' somebody say, " Who was dere V An' 'e was so mad 'e jus' give de door 'ard push, an' 'e shout : " H'open de door, vaurien ! Don' keep me 'ere !" An' de man say somet'ing, an' den de door was slap' on 'is face. W'en de King see dat, 'e can' say nodding. 'E jus' Stan' dere an' 'e try for t'ink, but nod- ding come ; but bymby 'e go back on de door some more, an' 'e give little qui't knock. An' de minute 'e do dat, de door was open' an' somebody stan' dere, an' de King say, qui't like, 286 i 11 I i ' ' Au U\:S 1H;V (oMi; ON 1>K roi NIKV n M t. LA MESSE DE MINUIT " Let me pass on de 'ouse." But dat man say, *' Who you are?" An' 'e say, " Me ? De Kiig I" An' de man, 'e say, "Wat king?" An' 'e say, " Wat king ? Wy, de only King dere is !" An' den de man 'e say, " Wait one minute." An' 'e call for bring de lamp, an' 'e lif de lamp up so dey all can see, an' 'e say, " You know dat man?" An' dey all look on 'im, an' de King seedeir eyes, an' 'e know vv'at dey will say before dey speak, an' 'is 'eart got col' on 'im like ice. An' den de man lif up de lamp some more, an' 'e say, " Look on me !" An' dere de King see nodder King jus' like 'e was 'imself. 'E was all dress up on 'is clo'es, an' 'e see 'is crown on 'is 'ead ; but 'e don' say nodding for dat, because 'e know dat was de angel, an' not de man like 'e was. An' so 'e don' say nodding, 'o jus' turn an 'e' walk 'way over de snow. An' de lamp w'at de angel 'ol' up make every t'ing bright — 'cep' jus' w'ere de King was go. An' de King 'e go on like de man w'at was sleep, an' den 'e stop, an' 'e say, "Dat's all lies I 237 lit IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW I I'll make de dream all dis time. Til go on de men, an' dey all know me I" An' 'e go over on de 'ouse w'ere de soldier an' de men was sleep, an' 'e knock on de door, an' 'e call so loud 'e was able, " Ourra, Ourra, mes gars I" An' all de men jump up an' run out, an' dey see jus' one poor man w'at stan' dere on de snow. An' w'en dey say, " Well ?" 'e go for say, " Don' you know me ? I'll be de— " But w'en 'e see deir face 'e can' go on, an' 'e get sick on 'is 'eart, like w'en 'e was on de door of de Palais. An' den dey laugh on 'im, an' dey call 'ira all de bad name dey know ; but nobody don' dare for touch 'im. An' bymby. w'en dey get tire' wid deir fun, dey open de door of de stable w'ere de 'orse was keep, an' dey say 'e can sleep dere, an' dey go off ; an' 'e 'ear dem laugh w'en de}'^ go. An' de King 'e sit dere on de stable, an' 'e try not for cry, an' 'e try for min' 'ow 'e was de bigges' an' de stronges' King on de worl', no matter w'at arrive. But dere was Somebody else on dat stable too. I'll not be sure 'ow for say jus' w'at dat was; not de angel, but de little Boy, de ' 238 LA MESSE DE MINUIT CHIL* an' you see after w'ile for w'y 'e was be dere. Sode CHIL* stan' dere an' 'e watch de King w'at was sit an' not say nodding for long time, an'de'orse dey all turn deir 'eadsan'dey watch 'im too. An' bymby de King 'e got up an' go over on 'is own 'orse w'at nobody can' go lear. An' de 'orse was move on 'is box, an' make de little noise like 'e try for speak, an' bymby de CHIL' 'ear de noise like de man was cry, an' 'e go over an' 'e see de King wid 'is two arm roun' de neck of de 'orse, an' 'e 'ear 'im say, " You know w'at I'll be ! Vou know w'at I'll be!" Den bymby de King come out an' 'e look on de CIIIL' like 'e was know *im all 'is life, an' w'en de CIIIL' sa}^ " Come, let us go !" de King take 'is 'an', an' dey go out de stable an' pass down de street, an' dey pass de 'ouse w'ere de odder people was sleep, an' de big church, an' den dey come on de country ; an' den far, far 'way w'ere de King never was pass before. An' dey go on an' on, p'r'aps for six, eight, nine weeks like dat, an' all dat time de King 239 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW was t'ink an' t'ink, an' sometime 'e don' speak all de day, an' don' sleep on de night, an' 'is face get like de face of de ol^ man w'at 'ave plenty trouble. An' de CIIIL' don' say nod- ding, jus' let de King go w'ere 'e wan', an' at de las' de King 'e say, " I'll be tire' for always go on like dis, an' never get no place, an' not do nodding." Den de CHIL' 'e say, " Dat's jus' w'at I'll wan' too. I'll look for de job." An' 'e go off, an' bymby after w'ile, 'e come back, an' 'e say to de King, " Come wid me," an' dey go to w'ere de Shanty Boss was 'ire de men. An' de Boss look ver' 'ard on de King, but all 'e say was, " Wat you call yourself ?" An' de King begin for say, " Wat I call myself ? — I'll be de— " But de CHIL' pull 'im by de coat, an' 'e say quick, " 'Is name ? Dat's Jean LeRoy." Den de Boss, 'e sa}', " W'at you can do 1" An' de King not know w'at for say, 'cause 'e never was do nodding all 'is life ; but de CHIL' say, " 'E can drive de 'orse." Den de Boss laugh, an' 'e say, " Well, I'll s'pose I'll 'ave to 'ire you, too, for speak for 240 LA MESSE DE MINUIT do odder feller." An' so 'e take dem bot', an' de work begin. An' de Boss 'e take de wil'es' team dey *ave, an' 'e say, " Dere's your job ; start on de morn- ing." An' de CIIIL' an' de King was manage dose 'orse like dey never was do nodding else on deir life ; an' de Boss was wonder w'en 'e see dem start. Den dey was 'appy; jus' demself on de long empty road, sometime on de ice up de river, an' sometime t'rough de bush, an' everyt'ing so sof, an' qui't, an' w'ite, like dere never was no trouble an' no bodder on de worl'. An' sometime dey see de cariboo, w'at jus' Stan' dere an' look on dem pass ; an' de squir- rel, an' de little beas' an' de bird w'at was lef, run beside dem on de bush, an' come on deir camp w'en dey stop ; an' nodding like dat was 'fraid for dem, because dey know w'at de CHIL* an' de King was. An' de King was not t'ink like before, an' 'e tramp beside de team, an' 'e work all de day, an' on de night 'e sleep like de little baby ; so dey was sorry only w'en dey make deir voyage, an' come on de big shanty. Dere all de bodder begin some more. De Q 241 ir-^ IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW King was all right wid de 'orse on de bush, but wid de man all de oP trouble come back, an' 'is face begin for grow oV an' w'ite, an' de CHIL' was glad vv'en de day come for start de down trip. Wen dey was all t' rough wid dat job an' was pay off, dey go on de farm an' 'ire dem- self for plough de new fiel' w'at was break up for de firs' time. An' vv'en dey was 'lone by demself everyt'ing go all right; de King was sof, an' 'is face get like de young man some more ; but w'en dey go back on de 'ouse de King 'e h'eat 'is supper an' 'e don' say nodding 'cep' w'en dey h'ax 'im de question ; an' w'en dey sit roun' de lamp for jaser, de King 'e go an' sit on the door an' look out on de night. ( An' one time dey begin for speak 'bout de King, and dey say 'ow good 'e was, an' 'ow good everyt'ing go on. An' all dat night de CHIL' 'ear de King turn on 'is bed, an' on de morning 'e see 'is face was grow ol' an' w'ite like before. Den de CHIL' see dat won' do; an' w'en dey got t'rough wid deir job, 'e sa}^ " Now we go on some more," an' de King don' h'ax nodding — dey jus' go on. 243 • /v. Hi>'''j^- -'' f " ' ««T/k«.-' won' You I'ass on |)k orsi; an iti>' ? ' i !i f.; i LA MESSE DE MINUIT '■J An' dat time dey go ver' far, an' one day w'en 'e was make ver' 'ot, an' dey was all tire' out, dey come on de little village, an' dey pass on de little w'ite 'ouse w'at was stan' between de road an' de river, an' dere was de woman w'at work on 'er flower on de garden. An' dey give 'er de bonjour, an' dey speak wid 'er little w'ile, an' de CIIIL' li'ax 'er 'bout de flower, an' bymby she say, " Won' you pass on de 'ouse an' res' ? — you look like you was all tire' out." An' she open de gate, an' dey pass' on de inside. An' den de woman bring de chair, an' dey sit w'ere it was make nice an' col', an' dey can see de river, an' de church, an' de bridge ; an' de woman she bring dem de milk an' de bread. An' dey sit dere, an' de woman h'ax dem de question 'bout de way dey come, an' 'boutdeir village; an' den she tell dem all 'bout 'erself an' 'er man w'at was die; an' de King listen all de time, an' bymby after w'ile, 'e turn on de CHIL', an' 'e say, " I'll be tire' wid always change. I'll like for stay 'ere little w'ile." An' dat's de firs' time de King was satisfy for be wid de odder people. An' w'en de CHIL' see dat, 'e was glad, an' 'c go off ; an' w'en 'e come 243 ■fi- ' I , Cll IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW back, 'e say, " Dat's all right ! I'll see de Cure, an' 'e say you can teach de school for 'im." An' so dey stay, an' dey live wid dat woman ; an' every day de King 'e was teach de school. On de morning 'e was get up early, an' 'e work on de garden, an' den 'e 'ave de break- fas', an' den 'e go on de school; an' every- t'ing w'at 'e do, 'e do good ; de garden 'ave de bes' flower on de parish, an' nobody 'ave no trouble for sen' de chil'n on de school. De King 'e like all dose little feller, an' de little girl too; but dere was one little feller w'at 'e like de bes' of all, an' 'e was glad w'en 'e come wid 'ira on de garden, an' watch 'im work, an' 'e never was tire' for speak wid 'im, no matter w'at 'e h'ax. An' so dey go on like dat, an' every day w'en de school was finish' de CHIL' lock up, an' de King go over on de presbytere, an' 'im an' de Cure smoke de pipe onder de tree near de river, an' sometime dey walk up an' down, an' sometime dey sit qui't. Nobody know w'at de Cure say, but de King always come back wid 'is face sof like 'e was '. ippy. An' de summer pass on dat way, an' w'en de Chris'mis-time come near, de Cure an' de King 244 LA MESSE DE MINUIT was teach de boy for sing de noels an' de cantiques. An' one day w'en dey was sing long time, an' de King see de little feller was tire', 'e stop an' begin for tell dem de story. De King 'e was ver' strong on de story — 'e know mos' all w'at arrive on de worl' — an' dat Sonday 'e was tell dem 'bout de King Da- vid, 'ow 'e was kill de wil' beas' ; an' dat little feller w'at I'll tol' 3'ou 'bout, 'e say w'en 'e 'ear dat, " Dat's jus' like our King ! 'E's de bigges' an' de stronges' King on de worl' !" An' den de little feller say on de King, " Dere's nobody w'at's more strong nor our King — hein?" An' de King 'is face got all w'ite, an' 'e can' say nodding. An' de little feller 'e pull 'is coat, an' 'e say some more, " You don' t'ink dere's nobody more strong nor 'im ?" An' de King 'e look up, an' 'e see de CHIL' was look straight on 'im, like 'e was seen on 'is 'eart. Den de King turn on de little feller, an' 'e say, ver' sof an' qui't, but dey all 'ear w'at 'e say, " Mais oui, mon cher petit — le bon Dieu." An' 'e make de sign of de cross, an' cover up 'is face wid 'is 'an' . . . 245 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW An' de minute 'e do dat, 'e 'ear like de 'ole place was fill wid de music, an' 'e 'ear like de angel was sing, " Minuit Chretien, C'est I'heure de deliverance 1" An' 'e take 'is 'an' off 'is face, an' dere, jus' like before 'e was go for sleep, 'e see de 'igh altar shine wid de gol', an' dere was all de pries', an' de soldier, an' de people, an' dere 'e was 'imself on de church. An' den de King give little shiver, an' bym- by 'e kneel down on de floor, an' 'e put 'is 'an' on de 'an' of de ol' pries' w'at was pray dere beside 'im, an' nobody see 'ow de tear of de pries' was fall on de 'an' of de young King. ^f MALOUIN •i ■ . . \ i 'i ' : ■■ I V-l MALOUIN OH yes, dat was all change' now; but I'll not be sure 'e was any better nor de oV way. You put your vote in de box now, of course. But w'at's de good? Ef de man not be 'ones', 'e jus' sell 'is vote, an' den 'e vote de odder way, an' nobody know. I'll be always vote bleue, me ; 'cep' only once — an' dat arrive like dis : Dat was de year w'en de young Bigrr.s, de avocat, run 'gainst de ol' Malouin, an' we 'ave de 'ole country out dat time, for sure. De ol' Malouin, 'e was de riches' man on Ste.-Philoraene; 'e 'ave de big store an' de bes' 'ouse on de village — de big stone 'ouse w'at 'e buy w'en de ol' Mackenzie die— an' 'e 'ave plenty farm, an' 'e len' de money wid every- body ; an' nearly always w'en 'e len', 'e get de Ian' some'ow. An' wid all 'is money 'e was 249 I: IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW de mean, miserable oV feller, wid Ms 'eart like de 'ardes' stone on de Gran' Cote. 'E was de same w'at get mv f adder on all de trouble on de " trente-sept" ; an' w'en my fad- der was kill', 'e was sell de poor Little Modder out, like she was de common beggar-woman. An' de young Bigras, 'e was de son to de ol', ol' Bigras, de notary, w'at live so long dey say 'e's forget 'ow for die. Any'ow, dat young feller 'e was ver' smart, an' dey say 'e was do well on Montreal, an' 'e was come down all t'rough de country on de las' 'lection, an' dey speak of 'im good deal sence dat ; but we was all 'fraid 'e not 'ave much chance wid de ol' Malouin. De firs' assemblee w'at dey 'ave for name deir man was on St. Isidore, on de Sonday after la grande messe, an' nearly de 'ole of de crowd was Malouin. De young Bigras was dere, too, an' wid 'im was 'is frien' from Montreal, French an' Ang- lish, too; an' dey all come late on de church, an' all take deir place near de door, an' ever^'^- body turn 'roun' for see dem ; an' dey all look ver' fine wid deir black coat, an' we was proud for de young Bigras to 'ave frien' like dat. 250 ». J DEY WAS JCS LIKK ALT- I)K SPKlOCir DKV MAKI. i:vi:UV IIMK ••»— li^^^ MALOUIN m Of course dey was out de firs', an' w'en de odder come, dey fin' de 'ole platform, w'at was fix up on de square, was all fill' up wid de black coat an' de new 'at from Montreal; but Ma- louin 'e don' say nodding, an' I'll see all 'is gang was look like dey was wait for somet'ing. Bymby we see M. Alec Watson come on de front of de platform, an' 'e 'ol' out 'is 'an', an' 'e begin for say, "Messieurs les — ^" w'en some- body yell out, "Ourra pour Malouin!" an' de minute de gang 'ear dat, de place was t'ick wid stone, an' e' wasn' two minute before de plat- form was empty, an' all de fine 'at an' de black coat was run so 'ard dey can for deir wagon, w'at you not be able for see dem wid de dus' ! Well, bagosh! I'll be sorry for de young Bigras, but I'll fin' dat so fonny, I'll jus' laugh wid all de res' ; an' w'en we laugh de ol' Ma- louin wid all 'is frien', all dress' wid etoffe du pays, Avas up, an' de speech begin. Dey was jus' like all de speech w'at dey make every time — all lies w'at (^ey say, an' all mud w'at dey t'ro\v\ But Mailhot, de notary, 'e say one t'ing w'at I'll not forgot. 'E say, " Bymby dose gennelmen dey come back, an' dey 'ave de same chance w'en dey come for 251 . I! ill IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW speak like we 'ave. Nobody won' say * Ourra' for scare dera some more, an' ef 'e rain, 'e jus' rain sof , an' no more stone. An' w'en dey come, dey talk like dey always do, but dia year all deir talk is 'de deficit.' Dat's w'at dey try an' scare you wid; an' dat's somet'ing w'at dey know all 'bout, for dat was de bigges' t'ing w'at dey lef be'in' dem. " Now I'll tell vou w'at dat was. W'en we ft' go down on Quebec two year pas' for save de country, de firs' t'ing w'at we look for, for see ef 'e's not be gone wid de gennolmen w'at we put out, was — de money. " Well, we look all t'rough de 'ole boutique from de bottom to de top, an' we was jus' give up, w'en somebody say dere was de little ar- moire onder de stair; but we all say dere was no good for look dere. But de little Amyot from St. Barthelmi, 'e say 'e don' know, 'e was look any'ow. An' 'e open de door, an' 'e pull out de little ches', un p'ti' coffre ; an' 'e was all paint' blue, an' 'e 'ave de big iron 'inges an' de big iron padlock tie up wid little piece of string ; an' de minute we see dat, we all say, * Dat's 'im!' *' But de little Amyot 'e sit down on de top, MA LOU IN an' 'e say, ''An's off ! I'll fin' dis, an' nobody can' grab firs'.' An' den 'e h'ax us for all Stan' wid our 'an's be'in' our back, an' w'en 'e open de ches', w'at you t'ink 'e fin' ? 'E fin' * de deficit !' Qui, messieurs, ' le deficit !' An' dere was nodding else on de ches' but *de deficit.' "But no; I'll be mistake! Dere was sorae- t'ing else ! " On de one corner, stick down 'ard on de crack, was one big two-sous piece, an' de wood was all scratch wid de finger of de gennelraan w'at try for not leave 'im be'in' wid de res'. " So, messieurs, w'en dey talk on 'de deficit,' you all know w'at dey mean." Well, bymby, de odder come back, and de assemblee was go on, an' after w'ile 'e was t'rough, an' we all go 'ome. i < An' den de work begin, an' nobody was do nodding, nobody was talk nodding, 'cep' de 'lection. 'We 'ave de assemblee all over de country. We go up, an' we go down. Some- time we 'ave de fight, but everybody was 'appy, an' everybody talk so big 's 'e can for 'is man. Well, bymby de day come, an' we was up 253 ni IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW ii ' mos' de 'ole night before, an' de chance look pretty good for Bigras ; but we know ef dere's not good man for watch de poll for 'ira on Ste. Philomene, dere's n^ chance. So we h'ax Johnny Shepper' for come down, an' w'en 'e say 'e was come, we know dat's all correc', for 'e's pretty big man w'at scare Johnny. But we was pretty sick dat morning w'en we come out an' fin' de ol' Malouin 'ave bring down all dose Irish feller all de way from de Gore on de night. An' dere dey was w'ere dey 'ad no biznet for be, 'mos' a 'undre' of dem, an' every one 'ave de new h'axe-'andle on 'is 'an', an' I'll know does 'andle' come from de ol' Malouin. An' dat was not de wors' ! Seven a-clock come, an' no Johnny Shepper' ; eight a-clock, an' no Johnny; an' den 'alt-pas' eight, an' de poll was open at nine, an' dere's no Johnny come. An' den me an' Xiste Brouillette take Rosa- lie an' start off down de road for see w'at ar- rive. An w'en we come near to de big turn on de swamp we 'ear somebody yell; an' w'en we get more near, we 'ear 'im some more, an' Xiste 'e say, '' Dat soun' like Johnny !" ^^54 MALOUIN ■^-i You know de road make de long detour for go roun' de end of de swamp, an' w'en 'e cross de bad place w'ere dere's water de 'ole year long, dere is two little bridge, one on each side, wid de good Ian' on de middle. Well, w'en we get on de turn for cross, sure 'nough dere was Johnny, wid de bridge all gone between w'ere we was an' 'im. An' 'e was walk up an' down on de front of 'is 'orse, an' de way 'e was curse an' swear was awful. 'E say dat was de ol' Malouin w'at fix 'im dat way. An' w'en we say w'y 'e don' go back an' come roun' by de odder road, 'e swear worse nor before, an' 'e say 'e can' get off de swamp, dat de odder bridge was gone too. Well, bagosh ! dat was ver' smart trick, even ef 'e was play' by de ol' Malouin ! Dey mus' 'ave pull down de odder bridge jus' after John- ny was pass an' w'en 'e was 'oiler for some- body for 'elp 'im on dis bridge, w'at 'e t'ink was break bv 'imself. Well, dere 'e was! An' bymby after w'ile, 'e begin for laugh, an' 'e say, '' Well, boys, I'll be fix' 'ere! You go back an' vote straight; dough dat poll's gone, for sure !" An' den we tell 'im 'bout de Irish from de Gore, an' 'e 255 3 i. IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW M i 1 1 say dat don' make nodding any'ow ; ef dey don' 'ave no man for watch de poll 'e's gone, Irish or no Irish. Den 'e say, " Sen' me some- t'ing for drink any'ow, an' tell de ol' Malouin w'en 'e's finish for vote all de chil'n an' all de people w'at ^yas dead, for come an' fix de bridge an' let me off, an' I'll not lick 'im till de day 'e was leave for Quebec." So we go back. An' Xiste 'e say dere's no good for vote, an' 'e won' get 'is 'ead smash for no Irish picnic ; but I'll say I'll don' care, I'll 'ave ray vote down 'gainst dat ol' devil Malouin, ef 'e's de last act. So Xiste 'e go on 'is fadder wid Eosalie, an' I'll go on de poll, an' I'll meet Mailhot, an' 'e say, "Don' Johnny Shepper' come for see de fair play?" An' I'll not say nodding; I'll jus' go on. An' dere on de front of de poll, w'at was on de school-'ouse, was all de Irish gang, an' I'll 'ear dem yell an' shout ; an' den I'll see Tom Culbert was stan' dere wid 'is 'orse, an' I'll 'ear de ol' Pelland, w'at keep de poll, say, "Wat's 'is name?" An' he make like 'e was look over Ms book ver' 'ard, an' e won' look up. An' Culbert 'e say, " Jack, John Culbert," 2o0 p ii. .— M.**^ " ' DKItK MAS .lOllNNIK WIl) DK liUUMJK AM, (loNK MALOUIN ^=W^ de name of 'is brodder w'at was on Califournie. An' de ol' Pelland say, ** Correc' ; h'ax 'im for w'o 'e vote." An' Tom 'e say, " You vote for Malouin?" an' 'e pull de rein an' de 'orse put 'is 'ead down. An' Tom say, " 'E can' speak, 'e jus' make de bow w'en I'll say ' Malouin.' " An' den dey all yell, an' de ol' Pelland put de 'orse down. Den dey see me, an' Tom Culbert yell out, " Line up dere ! Don' you see de gennelman 'e's wait for vote ? An' den dey was all stan' up on two line, an' dey all 'ave deir h'axe- 'andle. An' den Tom 'e yell, " 'Tenshion !" like dey was soldier, an' up go all de stick, an' I'll see I'll 'ave to go onder dem for pass on de poll. Bagosh ! I'll be scare' ; but w'en I'll t'ink on dat ol' Malouin, I'll jus' make myself 'ard, an' I'll keep my eye fix on de poll, an' I'll go on. An' dose feller say, " AV'ere's Johnny Shep- per' ?" An' de one feller say on de odder fel- ler, "You not see Johnny Shepper', Mike?" An' de odder feller sa}^, " No, Tim. Il'ax dis gennelman ; p'r'aps 'e was meet wid 'im." An' nodder say, " '01' up your stick dere ! Don' you see de man 'ave de sore 'ead ?" An' all R 257 iiltl ■ Ill IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW dat make me all de more wan' for get one 'ones' vote 'gainst dat ol' devil Malouin. An' de ol' Pelland sit dere Avid his book, an' 'q look on me, an' 'e laugh on my face, an 'e say, " Bonjour, Melchior. 'E was make 'igh water on de swamp to-day ! But dat's not de biznet. Now for w'o you vote ? For Fran9ois Xavier Malouin, marchand — " An' I'll be so mad, I'll say, "Wat, me? Malouin «" An' dat little cross-eye' goglu 'e say, " Dat's all right ; 'e say, ' Malouin !' " An' my name go down for dat ol' v'limeux. An' Pelland 'e yell out, " 'JSTodder for Malouin ! Ourra !" An' I'll try for grab de book, but dey all begin wid deir "Ourra! ourra pour Malouin!" An' dey pull me de one way, an' dey pull me de odder way, an' de one feller t'row de flour all over my 'ead, an' de odder tear my coat, an' no matter 'ow I'll try, I'll not get de chance for fight. Well, after w'ile dey was tire' out, and I'll get down on de ol' Brouillette, an' de girl fix me up so well's I'll be able ; but w'en I'll start for 'ome, I'll fin' some feller have paint all de 358 MALOUIN spot on Rosalie wid do red paint, an I'll not be able for come on de village for more nor t ree week. An' dat's de only time w'at I'll not vote for de straight ticket, me ! JOHNNY JRAWSON 1 m JOHNNY EAWSON II DE firs' time w'at I'll see Johnny Raw- I son was at Le May's, de big tavern at Bord-a-Plouffle. 'E was come down boss of de big raf for Quebec, an' I'll go up for Bytown wid my cousin Pliinee Daoust, w'at was promis' de Little Modder for take care of me for make my firs' winter on de bush. Phinee was dere of'en, but me I'll was only 'bout twelve, t'irteen year ol', an' dat's de firs' time w'at I'll be from 'ome. Dey sen' me on Le May's for wait for Phi- nee, w'at was come de nex' day, an' w'en I'll wait dere, dose feller all come. Wen dey 'ave deir supper de fun begin, an' de room was clear', an' de ol' Le May, big, fat man, bring in de fiddle, an' de dance was start. "Well, de music don' go ver' good, an' de boys not dance ver' strong; an' bymby I'll see de big feller — more big nor anybody on de room 263 IN OLD FRANCE AND N?:\V — go up on de fiddler, an' 'e say somet'ing on 'im, an' 'e laugh, 'an' 'e take a chair an' stick 'ira on de table, an' de big man jump dere wid de fiddle on 'is 'an', an 'e 'oiler out, " 'Ere, boys ! You don' call dat dancin'! Shout, you devil, shout!" An' de fiddle go up onder 'is chin, an' de bow come down on 'er like 'e go for cut 'er on two ; an' de fiddle give de scream ; an' den dey laugh ; an' 'is foot go up an' down, an 'e sing : "A By town c'est un' joli' place, Oi il 8'raina8s' bien d' la crasse ; Oil y a des j oil's fiUes, Et aussi des jolis gar^ons, Dans les chanticrs nous bivernerons!" Bagosh! I'll never 'ear nodding like dat! Dera boys sing so strong dey scare de smoke out de room. An' de way dey dance ! I'll go roun' on de ol' Le May, an' I'll h'ax 'im w'o dat big feller was, an' 'e say, "You be know 'im pretty well 'nough, little feller, ef 'e let you grow up. Dat's Johnny Rawson !" " Wat Johnny Rawson ?" "Wy, Johnny Rawson — 'Gatineau John- ny' — de "Walking Boss for de Richardson shanty !" 264 rm rvAj.^a***^* A BYTOWN c'ksT IN JOIJ PLACE JOHNNY RAWSON "Well, for sure I'll know Johnny Rawson pretty good after dat, an' 'e was de devil! But jus' one time dey get square wid him ; all 'cep' one feller. Dat was 'bout four mont' after dat time, an' Mose Snow was de boss for our shanty, an' Johnny was de boss for de 'ole de camp. Well, dere come one of dose wet, rainy Son- day, w'en de rain rain, an' de snow snow, an' de trees an' everyt'ing was wet like warm water. De boys all sit on de fire, more nor forty fel- ler, an' dey play card, an' dey smoke, an' dey men' deir clo'es ; but nobody sing, nobody do nodding, 'cep' spit, an' swear on de rain an' de wet. Bymby, good strong talk begin w'ere John- ny was, an' de mos' of us stop doin' nodding an' listen. 'E talk wid Irish Mike, an' bymby I'll 'ear Mike say, " Oh, damn de Queen !" An' den Johnny 'e spit over 'is shoulder an' 'e yell, "Mose!" An' w'en Mose come, 'e turn, an' 'e say, sof and slow like, " Mose Snow, you 'ear w'at dis gennelman say ?^' An' Mose 'e say jus' de same way, qui't, qui't, " No, Johnny. W'at 'o was say ?" 265 1 1 ( i if ti IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW Bagosli ! I'll not like de way dey was speak so sof '. An' Johnny 'e say some more, "Wy Mose Snow, 'e say, ' Damn de Queen !' " Well, Mose 'e jus' give one 'oiler, an' de fight begin ! You bet your life I'll skin for de door all de fas' I'll be able ! An' bymby, w'en I'll get my win', I'll come back, an' w'en I'll come on de shanty, I'll 'ear Johnny sing: "O! dans les chanliers nous hivernerons !" An' w'en I'll look t'rough de windy, I'll see Mose w'at stan' on front w'ere all de h'axe was pile' an' de boys try for get pas' 'im, but nobody like for come too near de h'axe w'at 'e swing. An' Johnny was beside 'im, an' 'e 'ave de iron fire-shovel wid de long 'ic'ory 'andle, an' w'enever 'e get de lick at de feller, down dey go. One man was crawl out de camboose fire w'ere 'e was knock' by Johnny, an' dere was plenty on de floor. De res' dey t'row de fire-wood, de bake-kettle, de tin pan sofas' you can 'ardly see, an' all de time dey was yell an' swear jus' de same like de}'^ was fight. Bymby, I'll see Phi nee Daoust an' free odder 36G JOHNNY RAWSON odder feller pick up de long bench an' run for Mose. An' 'e yell for Johnny, an' dey bot' rush for de boys. An' de h'axe go, an' de fire-shovel go; an' bymby de boys go too, an' de door wasn' 'ardly big 'nough for let dera out so fas' dey want. An' w'en de shanty was all clear, Johnny an' Mose dey sit down, and dey swear, an' dey laugh w'en dey get deir win', like 'e's all some good joke. I'll not like dose joke, me ! Ef de man wan' for fight bad, w'y don' 'e go out an' fight wid de tree, or lick 'is dog, or do somet'ing w'at don' 'urt aobody? "Well, den Johnny an' Mose dey start an' fix up de feller w'at dey was 'urt de wors', an' w'en dey was all come back, an' everyt'ing was qui't some more, I'll come on de inside too, but I'll sit near de door. An' den Johnny say, " "Well, boys, dis is Sonday, an' now you all 'ave your fon don' let's 'avo no 'ard feelin'. An' Mose an' me we go up on de widdy Green an' we tote down little w'iskey jus' for fix up any 'ead' what's little sore." An' dey go, an' nobody don' min' me, so I'll foUer for see w'at arrive. "Well, sir, dem fcl- 267 ill I if IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW ler dey was reg'lar 'ogs ! Dey was not be sat- isfy wid fight like de animal de 'ole day, but w'en dey get on de widdy Green, dey tell de oP woman, an' dey all laugh, an' dey drink an' drink, an' I'll see dere's not much show for de boys. So I'll go back, an' w'en 111 tell dem, Irish Mike yell, "Come on, boys, we'll fix dem now I" An' dey all start. Well, dose feller dey was worse nor de odder ! W'en dey get dere, Johnny and Mose dey couldn' 'ardly stan', an' Johnny t'ink 'e was all some joke, an' he sing 'out, " Come on, boys! 'Ere's de w'iskey for de crowd!" an' 'oP up de bottle. An' Mike say, "Let's see if 'e's strong!" An' 'e grab de bottle an' 'it Johnny smash on de 'ead wid 'im, an' down 'e go. An' den Mike an' de man w'at was knock' on de fire, dtj lick Johnny an' Mose till dey can' stir, an' de oP woman run off on de bush an' yell "Murder! murder!" An' dey end up de act by lick dem bot' wid de oP gun-barrel ; an' all de odder feller jus' look on an' laugh ; an' den dey take all de w'iskey w'at was lef , an' go on de camp. W'en dey all go, I'll look roun' an' I'll don' 268 JOHNNY RAWSON see de widdy, an' I'll go an' look on dose two 'ogs, an' I'll be disgust' wid dem ; an' den I'll 'it Johnny 'leven or eight kick, an' den I'll kick Mose. Bagosh ! I'll never kick nodding so big like dat before, and w'en I'll get t'rough, I'll go on after de boys. Well, de nex' day Mike was gone, an' 'e never h'ax for no pa^'^, an' don' tell nobody w'ere 'e go. An' Johnny an' Mose don' never say nodding ; but, bagosh ! every time Johnny look on me, I'll get col' all down my back, an' 'e make me sick on my 'eart. An' every time 'e look, every time I'll be sorry for kick 'im. ; an' an' an' don' Well, de nex' fall, on September, one day 'bout four a-clock, we was all sit on de store to McTaggart', an' wait for de up stage; an' Johnny was dere, an' we see some feller ride up so quick's 'e can, an' 'e pull up, an' 'e say, " Johniy Eawson 'ere ?" A.tl Johnny come out, an' de man tell 'im somet'ing, an' 'e point up w'ere de down stage was come on de odder side de river. An' Johnny jus' turn an' run for de bank, an' give one 'oiler to do driver, an' 'e don' wait foi no 200 ' 'I'll ' I IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW boat nor nodding; 'e jus' wade in, an' we see 'im swim over an olimb on de stage, w'at was wait, an' swing 'is arm, an' off dey go. An' den we turn on de man, an' we say, " Wat's de matter, Sam?" An' 'e say, "Nodding's de matter, only Johnny 'e go for meet somebody w'at come on de up boat." An' dat's all 'e say — an' we 'ave for go by tho Hex' stage. But on de nex' day, w'en Trkl c^tch up wid us, Mose 'e say, " VV'u yuu was go for meet, Johnny?" An' Johnny 'e say, qui't an' slow, " Ob, dat feller ? Wy dat was Irish Mike !" An', bagosh ! I'll feel so sick w'en 'e say dat, I'll go 'way widout 'ear w'at arrive. ii But dat Johnny Rawson 'o was good frien' for me once, an' dat arrive like dis : Dose feller on de shanty, w'en dey h'eat deir breakfas', or deir dinner, or deir supper, or on de bad wedder w'en dey can' work, or w'en- ever dey don' got somet'ing else for do, dey 'buse me. Dat was deir fon; but all people don't t'ink de same togedder 'bout de fon ; an' de wors', was Chunky Peters. 'E was awful 2:0 frien' awful K r,.\l(!FI \VII)(»t T MAKh; NO \f)| SI-; ' ■I JOHNNY RAWSON ^:oi-i big feller, 'mos' so big like Johnny, but more worse, too. Chunky 'e was always call me " Pea Soup," an' "Bananer Skin," an' "Roun' Toe"; an' ef Vs stan' up w'en I'll pass, 'e mos' always give me kick, an' ef I'll be carry de soup or sorae- t'ing 'ot, 'e yell so strong 'e nearly make me fall down. Well, one Sonday I'll 'ave pretty bad time. De cook 'e was little drunk, an' 'e's ver' mad all de time. 'E swear ver' strong, an' 'e call me all de bad name w'at 'e know. An' w'en I'll carry de potato for de table, Jimmie Green stick out 'is leg, an' I'll not see 'im, an' I'll fall an' de potato go all over de floor ; an' Chunky 'e swear, an' 'e 'it me awful lick wid de boot w'at 'e 'ave on 'is 'an'. An' dey all laugh, an' my 'eart get so big I'll lose my win', an' w'en I'll get up for try an' gadder de potato, 'nodder feller give me push, an' I'll fall all over dem some more. Bagosh ! I'll be near cry, but I'll 'ear Johnny Rawson say, "'Ere, you damn 'ogs' lef dat boy 'lone, else you wan' for talk wid me!" An' den dey lef me 'lone, but nodding was 271 ;■ i ill' ili« !i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW go right ! You see t'ing go like dat some time, hein? Bymby after w'ile,de dinner was all t'rough, an' I'll be 'ongry an' tire' an' sore, an' I'll wan' somet'ing for h'eat bad, an' de pea soup was good an' strong dat day. "Well, I'll look roun', an' I'll can' fin' my tin. 'E 4vas gone! An' bymby I'll see Chunky sit near de door, an' 'e 'ave my tin on 'is knee an' 'e cut 'is 'baccy on 'im. An' w'en 'e see me see 'im, 'e laugh widout make no noise. Well, bagosh ! dat was de las' act ! I'll not care for nodding, I'll only wan' for be 'ome some more. An' I'll go out qui't, an' I'll go on de bush, an' I'll sit down on de log, an' every'ting was like I'll be ver' far off. An' bymby I'll can' 'elp 'im ; my 'eart 'e get more big, an' more big, an' bymby I'll t'ink 'e was broke, an' I'll cover up my 'ead wid my arm, an' I'll cry, an' I'll cry. Well, dat was make me some good, an' after w'ile I'll only be cry qui't, on myself like, w'en I'll feel somebody grab me on de shoulder. An' den I'll make myself 'ard, ready for de kick I'll be sure was come, an' I'll 'ear Johnny 272 w ; some 'rough, an' I'll ia soup [ny tin. nky sit is knee L 'e see ike no I'll not ae 'ome I'll go log, an' f. An' t more 'e was ly arm, n' after [e, w'en oulder. for de Johnny " ' w'at's dk mattku, fkknchv V Tin II li'j JOHNNY PwAWSON Eawson say, sof an' qui't, "Wat's de matter, Frenchy ?" An' I'll not be sure ef 'e's not some joke, an' I'll keep myself 'ard, but no kick come, an' den I'll feel 'is 'an' come off my shoulder, an' 'e put 'im for little minute on my 'ead, an' 'e say some more, "Wat's de matter, boy?" An' den I'll can' 'elp 'im, I'll jus' tell 'im 'o\v I'll wish I'll was 'ome wid de Little Modder, an' 'e sit down on de log, an' bymb}^ after w'ile, 'e say, " Look 'ere, Frenchy ! You wan' for be bully boy, an' de feller won' touch you some more. De boy on dc bush mus' be de man, an' not be scare' for nodding. I'll see dat Chunky wid your tin. You jus' come 'long wid me, an' I'll fix dat all right !" Den we go back on de shanty, an' 'e tell me w'at for do. An' jus' w'en we get dere, 'e turn me 'roun', an' 'e say, " Now, boy, ef you be scare' an' don' do w'at I'll tell you, I'll lick your 'ead off myself. Now go, an' don' forget I'll be dere." An' 'e stan' on de door, an' I'll go on de inside. My 'eart was go so 'ard 'e almos' bus' on my ches', but I'll go up on Chunky an' I'll say, s 273 il I IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW " Please, Chunky, dat's my tin." An' 'e say, " Go to 'ell ! ' An' I'll say, " Look, iny mark 1" An' I'll turn de tin top-side down on 'is knee. Den I'll don' wait for see w'at arrive, I'll jus' skin for de door, an' I'll feel 'im be'in'. An' I'll run on de bush, w'en I'll 'ear Johnny yell, " Stop, stop, you fool ! Come back !" An' I'll look an' I'll see Chunky was down on de snow, an' Johnny was stan' over 'im wid de h'axe 'andle. Den I'll stop; an' Johnny say, " Come 'ere !" An' w'en I'll come, ver' slow, Johnny 'e say, " Kick 'im !" An' I'll kick 'ira little kick; an' tjohnny 'e say, "Kick 'im good, else I'll lick your 'ead off !" An' I'll kick 'im all de 'ard I'll be able. An' Johnny laugh, an' every time Chunky try for get up, Johnny knock 'im down ; an' every time 'e knock 'im down, I'll kick 'im. An' bymby Johnny 'e say, " Dere, Frenchy, dat's 'nough for de firs' day!" An' 'e say, " Now go on de shanty an' get your dinner." An' I'll go, an' I'll never h'eat de pea soup so good like dat on my life. EW i' 'e say, mark !" is knee. ^, I'll jus' n'. An' my yell, clown on I wid de iny say, jr' slow, kick 'ira n good, iick 'im Jgh, an' Johnny ock 'im P'TI' BAROUETTE renchy, 'e say, nner." ea soup P'TI' BAROUETTE DAT was de winter of de big snow. Dere was de oP Pliinee Daoust, an' me, an' Xiste Brouillette was 'unt an' trap on de 'ead-water of de Gatineau. We miis' bo near de 'ead of de St. Maurice, too, an' de only place near was de Fort Metiscan, somew'ere on de nort'. De las' camp w'at we make was de wors' of all. De wedder was bad ; de col' was make so 'ard de game all go, an' de snow was so dry de raquettes go almos' to de groun' an' 'o fly up an' blow roun' like powder. One night we was sit on de fire, an' we was talk 'bout clear out an' strike down for de Bio- River, an' we was all ver' glad for go. 'E was too far 'way, dose place ; de day was too short ; dere's no skin w'at's wort' de bodder for take 'im; an' de snow come so often an' 'e's so light dere's no good for set de trap. 277 1^ IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW We 'ave buiP good cabane, an' 'e's no bod- der for keep warm, but dere's not too much for h'eat ; an' on de bad wedder, an' every day w'on 'e get dark, we was all get tire' for sit on dat fire an' lis'en to de ol' Phinde tell de story. An' dat was de wors' of all. Dat ol' feller know all de awful story of all w'at arrive on de woii'. 'E tell de wors' 'bout w'at arrive on de bush ; 'bout de feller w'en dey're all 'lone ; an' 'e know all 'bout de Windegos.* An' 'e tell dose t'ing on de night-time, an' Xiste an' me ver' often be so scare' our pipe dey go out ; but w'en 'e's t'rough we all laugh, an' try for fool de odder w'at we not min' dose t'ing w'at dey tell de baby for make 'im keep qui't. But, bagosh! 'e's not de same for 'ear dose t'ing an' be sit on de fire at 'ome wid de ol' modder w'at sit on 'er corner an' de girls w'at veiller, an' be sit on de camboose fire near de 'ead of de Gatineau an' 'ear de ol' feller like Phinee tell dose t'ing, an' outside dere's only t'ousan' mill- ion tree, an' de snow, an' de win', an' de dark. * The Wiudegos, or Wiudego, is an evil spirit, general- ly of gigantic size, wliich leaves mysterious footprints in the snow, and is much dreaded by those who live in the depths of the forest. 278 .' \ P'TP BA.ROUETTE Well, dat night Pliinee 'e jus' begin for say, " My poor cliil'n, I'll 'ear de story of w'at ar- rive on de man w'at was fix like us one time" — w'en de dog, w'at w^as sleep on de fire, lif up 'is 'ead an' give one bark like de gun go off, an' we mos' jump out our skin ; den 'e run on de door, an' 'e bark an' 'owl, like somet'ing w^as come on de camp, an' I'll grab my gun an' start for de door, an' Phinee and Xiste come be'in'. We look w'at de dog was bark for, an' we see dere's somet'ing w'at stan' straight up on de w'ite snow. An' Xiste 'e °^w, " Ba^fosh ! dat's de man, any'ow ! 'Ere, sir ! Go on de 'ouse, you pig !" 'e say on de dog. An' den I'll shout, an' de man don' say nod- ding. An' den Phinee, 'e say, *' Dat's too small for de man, 'c's de w^oman for sure, or p'r'aps 'e's dc— " An' I'll say, " Don' ! don' !" Dat's awful for 'ear de ol' man make some jokes lil:e dat on de night-time, an' somet'ing out der^ on de snow w'at we don' know. W'atever dat was, 'e Stan' dere all black, an' don' say nodding, an' we all Stan' dere too, an' look an' look, an' de 379 !l t IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW dog crawl 'roun be'in', and make de noise like de baby w'at be scare' bad. Bymby I'll go down little bit from de door, an' I'll say, "Wo was dat?" An' I'll 'ear somet'ing was answer, an' de minute I'll 'ear dat, I'll wonder 'ow I'll be so scare', an' I'll run down fas', an' w'en I'll be dere, I'll fin', not de woman like Phinee say, but de little Injun boy, not more nor fourteen, sixteen year ol', wid 'is gun 'cross 'is arm, an' 'mos' froze. Den I'll say, " Come wid me, poor little devil; all frien's 'ere, plenty fire, plenty h'eat" — an' 'e don' say nodding, jus' come 'long be'in' like de dog. 'E pass' on de inside de camp like 'e was dere all de time. 'E don' say nodding, 'e don' look on nobody, jus' sit down on de fire, all wrap' up on 'is blanket, an' 'is gun 'cross 'is knee. An' dere 'e sit an' look on de fire, jus' like w'at 'e see somet'ing far 'way off, an' dere was no fire dere, an' dere was nodding dere, jus' 'im an' w'at 'e see. Phinee put on de tea for boil, an' w'en 'e see de little feller was warm' up good, 'e say, "'Ere, P'ti' Barouettc!" Dat's Phinee; 'c al- ways make some joke, an' 'e give de poor 280 P'TP BAROUETTE ^^ little feller name like 'e was big Injun. Ba- rouette?* Dat's w'at you call cle w'eelbar- row. Well, 'e sa}^, "'Ere, P'ti' Barouette! Don' look too far 'way, h'else p'r'aps you sec de Windegos. Drink dat." An' 'e give 'im de 'ot tea. De boy look on 'im, an' 'e was satisfy, an' 'o take de tea, an' 'e 'ol' 'im long time; an' bym- by after w'ile, 'e go for sleep dere wid de gun 'cross 'is knee, an' we was sit dere an' look on 'im, an' de one h'ax de odder w'at arrive on dat little feller. Bymby Pliinee 'e say, " Dat don' make nod- ding, all dat talk ! I'll go for bed, me, an' de boy 'e's tell 'is story to-morrow, or de nex' day, or de day after dat." An' den 'e go for get up. But de minute 'e move, de boy jump up wid 'is eye wide open, an' t'row up 'is gun like 'e go for shoot; but I'll knock de gun up, an' before 'e know, Phineo 'ave 'im safe, an' 'e say sof an' kin', like e' was talk to de wom- *Tlie Frencli-Ctiiuuliiin has a curious trick of transpos- ing letters in certain words ; thus, crocodile becomes coco- drile; St. Sulpice, St. Suplicc; Carolina, Calorina. Here l^Ielchior transforms Brouette, a wheelbarrow, into Ba- rouette. 281 :l t' IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW an, " Dere, dere, my poor little cabbage! jus' you lie down, an' nobody don' touch you 'ere." But de boy back over on de corner, an' 'e Stan' dere, an' every time we move 'e was watch us like de cat watch de dog. Xiste 'e say, " Bagosh ! Melchior, I'll don' like de way dat boy look w'id 'is eye; dat make de bad luck." But Phinee 'e say, "Ah, tut, tut, tut! de boy's scare' bad wid somet'ing, dat's all! Go for sleep, an' don' min' 'im." An' bymby, sure 'nough, de boy slide down on 'is 'eels, an' bymby 'e go for sleep on de corner, an' everyt'ing w^as qui't some more, only outside de tree w'at crack wid de fros'. On de middle of de night I'll wake up, for 'e's my turn for fix de fire, an' I'll look over on de boy, an' I'll see 'im dere sit up on 'is cor- ner wid 'is eye fas' shut. But de minute I'll take de firs' step, 'e jump up like de firs' timr , an' start for t'row up 'is 'an's, like e' 'ave de gun ; an' w'en 'e fin' dat's gone, 'e drop down on 'is knee, an' 'is two 'an's up over 'is eye, an' 'e say, sof an' quick, "Shoot! shoot!" In- jun wa}'. Den bymby after w'ile, 'e take 'is 283 P'TI' BAROUETTE 'an's down off 'is face, an' look on me ver' 'ard, an' den 'e crawl over on 'is blanket, an' lie down widout say nodding more. Bagosh ! I'll fin' dat fonnv ! I'll not know w'at for t'ink, an' so I'll fix de fire, an' I'll go back on my bunk, an' I'll go for sleep myself. Well, de nex' day de boy was not be so scare'. 'E h'eat w'at we give 'im, but 'e don' say nodding. An' Phinee try Injun talk wid 'im, but dat don' make nodding too. An' dey begin for say de boy can' talk any'ow. But I'll tell Phinee w'at I'll 'ear, an' 'e say, — " Dat's correc'. 'E go for tell de story bj^m- by, w'en I'll h'ax 'im." Wen we break de camp an' start for de Big Ttivcr, I'll make de boy do de work like de res', an' de day after we lef 'e say " Via !" w'en 'e 'ear me h'ax for de strap w'at was be'in' me. An' after dat'e speak little more, an' little more; but 'e was de Injun boy, an' all w'at 'e say not make ver' long string ef 'o was say 'im all to once. But de t'ing was, 'e can speak ; an' 'e can speak de French pretty good, too. I'll see Phinee was watch de boy, an' one 283 rr IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW night, w'en we was 'ave de supper, 'e look ver' 'ard on de boy, w'at begin for look like de live Injun some more, an' 'e say, — " I'll 'ave 'im! You're de son to de Canard Noir. I'll see you wid 'im on de Spanish River, two year pas'." An', bagosh ! w'en 'e say dat, de little feller get scare', like 'e was de firs' night, an' 'e be- gin for tell de lie; but Phinee say to every- t'ing w'at 'e say, — ''''DaCs not good! Da^s not good! I'll know de Injun like I'll know de dog. You're de son to de Canard Noir!" An' dat night we was 'wake up by de dog, an' we jump on time for see Phinee run out on de dark, an' bymby 'e come back, an' 'e 'ave le P'ti' Barouette wid 'im, an' 'e sa}^, "Now you try an' run 'way some more an' I'll cut out your 'eart, an' I'll give 'im to de Windegos for h'eat!" An' de boy 'e look like 'e die, 'e was so scare'. An' bymby Phinee 'e say, " Now dere's no good for go on like dis wa}^ Tell us w'at's de trouble, an' 'ow 'e was arrive." Den we all sit on de fire, an' bymby de boy begin for speak, an' "e tell us 'ow 'e is de 284 WSSBW ^^: V " ' ])K CANAUI) NOIK SIT l)Ki{K AN' WoN' CO OlT '" i P'TT BAROUETTE son to cle Canard Noir, an' 'ow de ol' man was sick w'en dey start on deir way for make de 'Odson' Bay, an' 'ow do res' dey go on an' lef dem. Dere was de ol' man, an' de mod- der, an' 'im, an' de little baby; but firs' dey make dem good cabane, an' lef dem plenty powder an' somet'ing for h'eat. An' after w'ile de ol' man not be no worse, an' bymby 'e get some more better, an' den de snow come, an' dey wait for de river's take so dey be go up on de h'ice. Byraby all dey 'ave lef was h'eat, an' de fros' was make some more 'ard an' more 'ard, an' every day dey 'ave to go more far on de bush for fin' de game ; an' all de time de game was go more far too, an' every day dey was more 'fraid for start de voyage for de Bay; for ei de game was bad dere, 'e was sure for be worse w'en dey go more on de iiort'. Den de storm come, an' dey can' go out, an' bymby only de wolf an' de snow was lef, an' de Canard Noir 'e won' go out w'en de storm was over. 'E jus' sit on de fire an' 'e smoke, an' 'e don' say nodding Av'en de little feller fix up for start. i An' dat day de boy hardly fin' de trail — de 285 ■r %i IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW snow was so dry dere was no mark, an^ every- t'ing WPS so change' 'e can' fin' de mcs' deir trap ; but de little feller go on, an' go on, an' 'e try for foller w'at trail 'e fin', but 'e's no good, an' w'en 'e turn 'e was mos' die, 'e was so tire' an' 'ongry before 'e come on de cabane. 'E pull back de clot', an' 'e crawl on de in- side. Dere was de fire burn up good, an' dere was de Canard Noir w'at sit on de fire, but de modder was cover up 'er 'ead wid 'er blanket — an' — dere was somet'ing on de fire. De little feller look firs' on de Canard Noir, an' den 'e look on de modder. Den 'e take 'is blanket an' 'e crawl out de cabane some more, an' 'e make de 'ole on de snow — an' some'ow on de morning 'e was still 'live. An' de Canard Noir come out, an' 'e stan' dere, an' 'e say, " De wolf stay 'ere, an' de wolf h'eat an' not die." An' den dey bot' go back on de cabane. An' now de boy speak only Injun way. 'E tol' us 'ow bymby dey was 'ongry some more; 'ow de modder an' de Canard Noir sit dere on de fire an' won' go out ; 'ow 'e see de modder was watch de Canard Koir, an' 'ow 'o 280 ' evcry- cs' deir on, an' 'e's no 'e was cabane. 1 de in- in' dere , but de blanket d Noir, take 'is 3 more, )me'ow e Stan' an' de bot' go y- r some oir sit see de 'o\v 'e «r<~ ■ \ \ «:,." .1 1 an" .h>' w'kn 1)K (.anaui) skk 'i.m !•: Kim:'"' ■ P'TF BAROUETTE was 'fraid for go out an' lef dem dere wid demself. An' 'ow one day 'e can' stay dere no longer ; an' 'ow 'e go out, an' dere was no game ; an' 'ow, w'en 'e was come back, de Canard Noir was 'lone on de cabane, an', like de firs' time — dere "was somet'ing on de fire. Den, jus' like de modder, 'e was watch de Canard Noir, an' de Canard Noir was watch 'im. On de night dey was never lie down, an' ef de one was move, de odder jump up for show 'e was 'wake. One day de Canard Noir say 'e go wid de boy for 'unt too. An' dey was start out, an' do little feller start de one way, an' de Canard Noir start de odder. But de boy not go ver' far w'en 'e look roun', an' dere 'e see 'is fadder was Stan' dere an' watch 'im. Den de bey know w'at 'e was t'ink. an' all de time 'e watch be'in' jus' de same like 'e was look on front. An' byraby 'e was sure 'e see de fadder w'at foUer be'in'. An' w'en 'e see dat, 'e make do start like 'e see de game, an' 'o keep 'imself low down on de groun', an' 'e run quick, till 'e get over de top of de 'ill, an' dere 'e 'ide be'in' de tree an' wait. An' bymby 'e see de Canard Noir come up, 287 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW all ben' over, an' 'e move sof an' fas' ; an' de little feller wait till 'e get 'im clear of de tree, an' 'e fire jus' w'en de Canard see 'im, an' de Canard t'row up 'is arm an' fall over on 'is face on de snow; an' de little feller scream* an' scream', an' den 'e turn an' run so fas' 'e can, widout know w'ere 'e go ; — an' dat night 'e was come on our camp. Dat was de story 'e tol' us dat night, an' all de time 'e was speak sof an' qui't, Injun way; an' 'e was tell all dat like 'e was arrive on some odder people, an' not on 'hn. An' w'en 'e was t'rough, 'e go off on 'is blanket an' sleep, like 'e was all well some more. Weil, we was talk an' talk, an' we h'ax w'at was bes' for do, an' we don' know. Phinee, 'e say dere's no good for 'ang de boy, an' dey be 'ang 'im sure ef we was tol' w'at arrive. An' 'e was good boy, too; 'e work 'ard; 'e never say nodding for de col'; 'e don' talk. So w'en we get down on Notre Dame du T>6- sert,an' v ) fin' de Pere Gendron was pass on de settlemen' for make 'is mission, we tol' 'ira, an' wo sen' 'im de boy. An' de nex' day, w'en we h'ax de Pere w'at 388 :w an' de de tree, , an' de " on 'is scream' ► fas' 'e t night ;ht, an' , Injun ; arrive L An' jlanket IX w'at inee, 'e m' dey arrive, ird; 'e i' talk, du Dd- lass on ol' 'im, P'Tr BAROUETTE 'e t'ink, 'e jus' say, " Poor little chil' I Poor chip !" Den we h'ax 'im w'at 'e do, an' 'e say, " Do? I'll jus' give 'im slap on de side 'is 'ead, an' tell 'im for not do 'im some more!" An' p'r'aps dat was de bes'. e w'at LA CABAISTE ?!?? I I mSj '1 1 \!k' i LA CABANE ONE winter, me an' Xiste Brouillette, we make 'mos' six 'undre' dollar wid de skin w'at we take, an' de nex' winter after dat I'll say I'll not 'ave no pardner, jus' 'ire two men for work. One of dose men is Injun feller from de Mission call' Alexis, an' de odder was de "metif "* call' Joe. I'll never go so far on de woods for camp like dat time. We was take five day for get up after we leave de settlemen', but we 'ave de bully place, an' we buil' good big cabane, an' we do pretty good biznet for de firs' part de winter. One Sonday morning— I'll make 'im some time near Cliris'mis — I'Jl get up, light my pipe, an' go out for see de wedder. Dat was fine col' day ; de sun was show strong, an' de * Metis, a half-breed. 293 ;3 m; V '■: ill IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW sky was coP an' blue widout no cloud. Den I'll get de bucket, an' go down on de river for get de water, an' w'en I'll get near de 'ole, I'll see de moose track all fresh an' new, jus' like 'e was pass on de 'ole for drink. Bagosh ! I'll 'ave nodding but my knife, I'll be in my shirt, an' no raquettes, but I'll can' 'elp 'im, dat track 'e was too strong for me! An' I'll drop de bucket an' start. De snow was pretty t'ick, an' I'll know de moose can' be far off, an' I'll run so 'ard I'll be able ; but w'en I'll come on de place w'ere de tree was t'in, I'll see de moose 'way on de middle of de clearin', an' dere's no chance. Bagosh! I'll feel bad; but dere's no good. Den I'll fin' myself wid all my win' gone, an' so tire' I'll feel like de ol' man. Den, w'en I'll be done call dat moose some bad name, I'll start for go back, an' I'll be so dr^"- dat w'en I'll come on de firs' water, I'll break de 'ole on de h'ice an' I'll drink an' drink. Den I'll go on for de camp, but I'll fin' dat ver' long way w'at was so little w'en de moose was on de front; an' de wedder was make more col', an' de win' begin for blow, an' bymby I'll feel de shirt dry on my back, 294 LA CABANE an' every time 'e touch ray skin 'e make me jump. Well, bymby after 'while, I'll get back on de camp, an' I'll fin' de boys 'ome from de trap, an' dey 'ave pretty good catch, an' dey 'ave de breakfas' cook'. But I'll not feel like h'eat ; my 'ead was 'eavy like 'e was fill' wid sand, an' I'll jus* drink de tea, an' den I'll crawl on my bunk, an' de boys say, — " Wat's de matter? You was sick ?" But I'll be 'mos' too sleepy for say nodding; an' I'll 'ear dem talk, an' w'at dey say soun' big on my 'ead, an' byraby I'll go for sleep. An' I'll t'ink I'll be sleep 'ard an' I'll be sleep long; an' w'en I'll wake up 'e was all dark like de middle of de night, an' I'll not know w'ere I'll be. Dere was big noise go on, an' I'll not know w'at make 'ira. An' I'll be col', an' w'en I'll try for get up, I'll fin' I'll can' 'ardly move my leg. Den I'll put up my 'an', an' I'll feel de wall, an' I'll know w'ere I'll be. An' den I'll call, " Joe !" pretty sof, an' nobody say nodding. Den I'll call, "Alexis !" more stronfj, an' no- body say nodding. 295 If! 'OJ IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW An' den I'll get out my bunk, an' I'll shake all over wid de col', an' my legs dey ben' up, an' I'll fall over on de floor. Den bymby I'll crawl on de odder bunk, an 'I'll feel on 'im, an' dere's nobody dere. I'll crawl over on de fire, an' dere's no wood on, jus' a little bit of fire, w'at show like some eyes on de dark. Dat was scare me! Den I'll yell all de strong I'll be able, " Joe ! Alexis ! Joe !" An' nobody don' say nodding some more. Bagosh I I'll be scare' den for sure. I'll be 'fraid somet'ing arrive on dose boys, an' I'll not be able for do no good, an' dey was fall down some place, an' dey die. Den de col' come on me some more, an' I'll shake an' shake, an' den I'll be scare' I'll go for be sick, sure. I'll t'row some wood on de fire, an' bymby 'e was burn up good, an' 111 be warm, an' I'll feel more better; but I'll t'ink on dose boys off on de dark, an' dat 'mos' make me sick on my 'eart. Den I'll saj'", " Melchior, don' you be de baby! Dem boys dey's ol' 'nough for take care demself. You jus' get somet'ing ready for dem w'en dey come 'ome." 296 7 dat LA CABANE An' I'll begin for stir up little. I'll cut de pork an' I'll fry good lot, an' I'll boil good big pot tea. An' all dat make me feel more good ; an' de fire burn good, an' de cabane was all look warm, an' I'll t'ink dose boys was pretty glad w'en dey see do fire an' smell dat pork an' dat h'onion w'at I'll fry. An' I'll lis'en for long time, but dere's no soun', an' bymby I'll go on de door an' I'll look out, an' dere's no soun' come; only do Avin' w'at begin for rise on de tree an' cry like de ol' man on de pine. De moon look sof an' w'ite like de snow come, an' 'e was ver' dark on de groun'. Den — I'll don' know for w'y — I'll look on de big wood- pile w'at we make near de door, an' I'll don' see de odder toboggan. I'll t'ink dat fonny, but den de win' strike me col', an' I'll go back on de cabane. 'E was look so warm, an' de fire was burn so good, I'll sit down, an' de warm come all over me, an' I'll 'mos' forget all 'bout de to- boggan, w'en all to once Somet'ing come — I'll don' know w'at dat was, but jus' de same like on de door — an' I'll look roun' de wall, an' I'll see all de skin w'at was 'ang dero on de stretch- 297 I ¥ i 11 1 fill IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW er — an' 'e's all gone; den I'll jump up an' I'll go on ray bunk — an' my gun 'e's gone from 'is place; I'll look on de corner — an' all de ra- quettes 'e's gone too ! An' den I'll know w'at arrive ! Dem boys t'ink I'll be sick bad, an' dey steal all de skin, an' dey was go off wid everyt'ing, an' lef me dere by myself for die on de col'. Bagosh ! I'll don' care. I'll be so sick an' so col' I'll can' 'elp 'im. I'll jus' sit down an' I'll cry dere on de fire. Den I'll say, " No, bagosh ! I'll not die, me ! I'll get all right, an' I'll 'ave dem two felle'^s 'ang'." An' den I'll go over on de doc r, an' I'll bring in de wood, an' I'll pile 'im up on a big pile near de fire till I'll be near dead, I'll be so tire' an' sore. Den I'll driak some de 'ot tea, an' dat make me feel some good, an' I'll say, " Come on, Melcliior ! Dere's more work for vou to-nifjlit." An' I'll take de two bucket, an' I'll go down on de river, an' I'll fill 'im on de 'ole, an' den I'll fin' I'll not be able for carry de bot', an' I'll 'ave to lef de one dere; an', bagosh! dat was long time be- 298 LA CABANE I'll fore I'll get dose two bucket on de cabane. An' w'en I'll start for fix up de door, de storm was jus' begin, an' w'en I'll shut de door, 'e feel like de 'ole worl' was shut out wid de storm an' de dark, an' I'll be de only man w'at was 'live on de bush wid my fire an' ray cabane. An' w'en I'll get de blanket out de bunk for pile dem on de floor near de fire, I'll feel 'appy, I'll don' know for w'y ; an' den I'll get all de bread, an' more tea, an' de Pain Killer. An' den I'll put more wood on de fire, an' I'll sit dere an' wait. Bymby Somet'ing was h'ax me w'at for I'll be wait. Den 'e say, " Dere 6 no good wait' for de boys !" An' 'e say dat over an' over more nor forty time, an' every time w'at 'e say dat, my 'ead go round, an' my 'ead get more big an' more big, an' sometime' I'll see do fire all move togedder an' swing de 'ole cabane wid 'im. I'll try for say de prayer, an' I'll try for make des — voeux, de promis' — but I'll can' remember nodding 'cep' dose oV song w'at my Little Modder teach rae w'en I'll be de baby: 299 /. ■ I IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW " Je mets ma confiance, Vierge, en votre secours; Servez raoi de defense, Prenez soin de mes jours." An' dat's all. But Av'en I'll say dat, de fire stop for move, an' I'll not 'ear dose word some more, an' — dere's one t'ing for sure — Dey know w'at I'll h'ax for w'en I'll only be able for say, *' Je mets ma confiance." I'll tell you 'ow I'll know dat : — De nrs' night, 'cep' I'll not get de wood v«.»i de water, I'll never be able for got dat sence ; ef I'll not cook dose t'ino- for de bovs, I'll not 'ave nodding for h'eat ; den no matter 'ow long I'll sleep, dat don' make nodding for De77i — I'll always was wake plenty time for roll de wood on do lire, an' de fire never go out once; an' one time I'll wake up, an' I'll fin' big 'olo burn' on my blanket, an' de fire was put out 'fore 'e make no bodder ; 'e only burn long 'nough for show mo De?/ lis'en w'en I'll not be able for talk no sense, an' only can say, 300 LA CABANE " Scivez moi de defense Preuez soin de mes jours." ni not know wedder I'll be dere for free week, or free monf , or free j^ear. I'll can' tell 'ow long I'll sleep. An' ef 'e was dark w'en I'll wake up, I'll not be sure ef 'e's de same night 'e was w'en I'll go for sleep. Sometime I'll wake up an' I'll fin' I'll be sit up on de fire, an' p'r'aps I'll be cry like de baby. One night w'en de fire not burn good I'll look up f rough de caraboose 'ole, an' I'll see de star, an' dey look so near, like I'll be able for touch dem wid my 'an', an' jus' like de little baby, I'll put my 'an' up ; but de minute I'll move, de star dey dance mile an' mile 'way on de sky, an' I'll jump up, an' I'll scream out wid de fright w'en I'll see de little fire an' de black wall of de cabane w 'at shut me in. An' after dat I'll never forget w'at I'll be all alone, — an' dat was de wors' of all. 'Nodder time I'll be wake up, an' I'll fin' myself kneel' down, an' I'll fink I'll be on de church, an' I'll 'ear de Cure say, " Sursum corda." An' I'll make for answer: 801 ■ Si IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW " Je mets ma confiance, Vierge, en votre secours." NU U < < I An' dat's not de answer at all, you know; but I'll see de candle w'at burn on de altar like de little star, an' I'll 'ear dera sing des Noels; an' den I'll begin for wake up little more, an' I'll see de light on de altar get more small, an' I'll 'ear de noise like de people was go out, an' I'll see de candle on de altar was go out too, firs' one, an' den 'nodder, an' den 'noder, an' I'll begin for get scare' I'll be lef dere all 'lone, an' I'll go for get up, an' den — de church all go, de altar go, de candle go, an' I'll see only de fire, w'at dance up an' down like 'e was glad for fool me ; an' den every t'ing go roun', an' I'll 'ear myself laugh, an' I'll fall down. Wen I'll wake up I'll be col', col', like my 'eart was froze', an' I'll t'ink I'll lie dere, an' not try no more; an' den de col' twist me some more ; an' I'll look on de fire, an' I'll see dere's jus' de w'ite ash lef, an' outside I'll 'ear de win' on de pine cry like de oF man, " Dere's no good wait' for do boys; dere's no good wait' 303 LA CABANE for de boys!" An' I'll crawl over on de fire, an' I'll move de ash, an' dere I'll fin' some fire w'at was 'live yet. An' den I'll crawl over on de wall an' I'll pick out all de dry moss w'at I'll fin', an' all de time I'll be cry like de baby, an' all de time de win' call t'rough de wall an' down de camboose 'ole, "Dere's no good wait' for de boys ! Dere's no good wait' for de boys !" I'll be so tire' I'll can' go ver' fas', an' all de time I'll be'fraid de fire go out, or p'r'aps I'll go for sleep some more an' I'll not get de moss. But bymby, I'll 'ave good lot on de ches' of my shirt ; but I'll be so tire' I'll can' crawl some more, an' I'll pull myself over wid my arm till I'll get on de fire, an' all de time I'll say de song of de Little Modder : " Jc mets ma confiance, Vierge, en voire secours." An' dere I'll lie down, an' I'll can 'ardly move. Bymby I'll try some more, an' I'll take de smalles' wood w'at I'll fin' near, an' I'll take all de moss, an' I'll take de little bits pork w'at was lef, an' I'll put dem on de fire, an' I'll wait an' wait. I'll trv for blow, but I'll not 'ave no win'. Den I'll say de same song 303 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW E'M fl some more; an' bymby, firs' de smoke come, an' den de little fire, like some little snake w'at run out an' den in, an' after w'ile de red fire come, an' begin for climb for de roof. De smoke was ver' bad, but de win' don' speak no more, an' I'll put more wood on, an' jus' be near fall asleep w'en I'll 'ear, hiz! an' den some more, hiz! ! an' den I'll see de fire give little wriggle, an' dQxi 'e come more fas', hizf hiz! ! hiz! ! ! an' I'll see dat was some snow w'at melt on de chimbly; an' de smoke come more worse, an' my 'ead begin for make de noise an' go roun', an' I'll jus' begin for say, "Je mets ma — " w'en, tr-r-r-r! down come de snow in a 'cap on de top of de fire, an' de fire go z-z-z-z ! an' de smoke go all on de cabane, an' I'll can' see nodding; an' I'll 'ear de win' say some more, " Dere's no good wait' for de boys ! Dere's no — good — wait' — " An' den, I'll not know nodding. De nex' t'ing w'at I'll know I'll feel I'll be move — move — move, like somebody was carry me wid deir arm every place w'ere I'll be tire' an' sore ; an' I'll feel de win' on my face, good an' col', an' den I'll know I'll be dead, :104 ^1 . ' IkJ^ EW lG come, ake w'at red fire 'ill' don' 1 on, an' hiz! an' ) de fire ore fas', as some 3 smoke or make ogin for / down de fire, o all on an' I'll 10 good rait'—" I'll be s carry I'll be y face, dead, :/: tr K 'y. rr 'y. •f. W\ U> I' -J, < i I W I t I'A CABANE an' de angel was carry me on Ip ^Mmf t> i- an' I'Jl sav nil . f> . ^'"^ Paradis, ^^ in say, all sof to myself; " Je mets ma confianco, Vierge. en votre secours- Servez moi de defense, Prenez aoin de mes jours." An' I'll not open my h'eye. I'll jus' feel dem goin' on, goin' on, an' I'll not t' nl^ Z . ding, jus' bo 'appy /^ "^^ ^ ^"^^ for nod- onXe'^ii'S^'^^^'t^^^-^-^-'open "eye, an 111 open 'im little bit an' I'll ee somet'ing w'at was pass quick an" P Jno. at. n -^ • ^n 1 11 'ear some- 30.> 1 1 n l\ 1- w 9^' [ ' 1 I !t| 1 Ii| :A ': jts'-^. 1 H3n 1 I i ; f M'4 > ^i'' ii IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW body say, " '01' on, Jim !" An' de feller on front stop, an' somebody come up, an' I'll see dere was four feller, an' I'll try for h'ax sorae- t'ing but dey say, " 'Ere, try dis !" An' dey 'ol' de bottle on my mout'; an' de minute I'll tas'e 'im, I'll know 'e's w'iskie — an' I'll not be on le Saint; Paradis dis time. Well, dey don' let me say nodding, an' I'll lie dere on dat toboggan an' sleep mos' de time. An' after four day we get down on de settle- men', an' dey tell me dey was pass on my shanty widout see nodding, de snow was cover up de 'ole boutique — w'en all at once dey 'ear like somet'ing fall, an' dey see de smoke come out de top of dat pile snow w'at 'ide every- t'ing; an' dey start for dig for de door, an' dey fin' me jus' end up de las' act 'longside de fire w'at was go out. No, sir ; I'll never be able for 'ear nodding on Alexis an' Joe. De pries' on de Mission, 'e say dat don' make nodding; ef dey don' be 'ang', dey bot' be burn some day ! An' w'en dat day come, I'll not be cry, me, — for sure ! 306 FEW feller on i' I'll see *iix sorae- An' (ley inute I'll '11 not be I ^, an' I'll ' de time, le settle- 5 on my as cover dey 'ear ke come e every- [oor, an' gside de MARIE nodding n' make be burn be cry, ^ '^>. IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) 1.0 I.I 1 2.5 m Mi 1 2.8 U (•25 1 1.4 1 1.6 ■^ 6" ► VQ .^ .* /a ,v •> '/ /A Hiotographic Sciences Corporation 23 WIST MAIN STRiET WEBSTIR.N.Y. MSSO (716) S73-4503 m ^•^ w ^ MlKIE OYES, de Anglish, dat's ver' easy for me for speak. My wife, she's Anglish girl, Marie. Not Marie, like de French say. No ! Marie, Anglis): way — Marie Boyle. She's de younges' daughter to de oP Paddy Boyle w'at work on de mill. Dat's fonny fel- ler, de oV man ! 'E speak Anglish ver' bad. 'E always say " Bagorry " w'en 'e go for say " Bagosh " ; an' 'e say " kittle " for " pot " ; an' 'e wear 'is pipe topside down on 'is mout' ; but w'en 'e swear, 'e swear good an' strong I De oldes' girl, she's call' Emma, an' Xiste Brouillette, de son to de ol' Brouillette w'at make de barr'l near de church, 'e was cavalier to 'er. One night 'e h'ax me for go down wid ira for veiller on de ol' Boyle ; an' all de way 'e was speak wid me 'bout Mftrie. 'Ow she was 809 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW be bes' girl on de parish ; 'ow de oP man was give plenty money wid 'er ; 'ow she was work 'ard; an' w'at Emma was tell 'Im she speak on me most all de time. I'll not care for all w'at 'e say. I'll be know dat Marie ever sence she was little girl, an' I'll not t'ink nodding on 'er. An' ef 'e was tol' me all dat, jus' for 'ear me say somet'ing on Emma, I'll not be satisfy 'im ; I'll jus' say, " Dat don' make nodding for me." De ol' Paddy Boyle 'e was good feller, an' I'll go for veiller wid 'im, to 'ear 'im tell de story an' make 'is joke. One night 'e was say, " Wy don' de young feller get marry? Dey work 'ard, an' dey t'row 'way deir money. Dey get ol', an' den de good girl not 'ave dem " — an' 'e make long string like dat. Den 'e say, " Look dem two girl ! Same day w'at dey get marry, I'll be give de feller w'at take dem one 'ondre' poun'." Den I'll say, for make some joke wid de ol' man, " You give 'ondre' poun' wid Emma, an' you give 'ondre' poun' wid Marie?" An' 'e say, " Dat's w'at I'll say." Don I'll sa}^ " Monsieur Boyle, I'll take de bot' !" An' I'll don' 'ave de word speak afore 010 MARIE de ol' man stiff out 'is leg quick an' kick my stool, an' I'll fall all over de floor ; an' de ol' feller laugh, an' Xiste 'e laugh, an' de bot' girl dey laugh. Bagosh ! I'll be so mad, I'll start for make de course for 'orae ; but Marie she put 'er back on de door, an' she say, "Ah, Melchior I Please don', Melchior ! Don' min' de ol' fadder, Mel- chior. Please don' !" An' she say dat so sof ', an' she put 'er 'an' on my arm so pretty, an' she look me on de eye so like she was go for cry, all de mad was go off, an' we go back on de fire. An' den we was all laugh, an' de ol' Paddy 'e bring out de bottle, an' we 'ave de little coup, an' make good frien's some more ; an' dat night w'en we was walk 'ome I'll say, " Bagosh ! Xiste, she'p pretty girl ; 'mos' de pretties' girl w'at I'll ever see." An' 'e say, " Who's pretty girl ?" An' I'll say, " Never min' !" Well, after dat I'll go on de ol' Paddy w'en- ever I'll get de chance, an' dat's not any more wid do ol' man w'at I'll go for veiller, me I But Marie she don' be so kin' for me like dat night any more. She laugh plenty ; she 811 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW sing all de song w'at de oV man h'ax 'er for sing ; she lis'en w'en I'll tell de story 'bout de bush, an' 'bout w'^^n I'll go for 'unt ; but I'll never 'ear 'er speak sof ' like dat night, an' w'en I'll speak sof, she only laugh an' laugh. But 'e was nice on dose night! 'E don' make nodding 'o\v 'ard de win' blow, or 'ow 'ard de col' make; w'en Xiste and me open de door an' bot' de girl an' de ol' Paddy was dere, an' de big stove was roar 'mos' so loud like de win', an' de fire was show red t'rough de crack an' dance on de wall t'rough de 'ole on de door; an' Emma, 'er foot go up an' down, up an' down, aii' 'er w'eel 'um wid de fire; an' Murie she make de stockin', an' 'er 'an's de}*^ dance wid de needle; an' me an' Xiste an' de ol' Paddy sit an' smoke ; an' we tell de ol' story an' sing de song an' de complaintes; an' de warm of de stove 'e's good, good, till de time come for go. Xiste an' Emma was marry de nex' spring, but all de time I'll don' get no more near wid Mfirie. 'E go on dat way all de nex' summer, an' de nex' winter, an' de nex' summer after dat. 813 MARIE An' dat summer dere was come a gennelman from Montreal, an' 'e was board wid de oV Paddy. 'E don' do nodding but make de picture of de ol' mill, an' de church, an' de red bridge, an' de river, an' do trees. No matter 'ow big dey was, dat make nodding for 'im ; 'e jus' make dem so small w'at 'e want on de picture. Bagosh! 'e's ver' smart! An' w'en 'e's dere tirs', I'll 'elp 'im all I'll bo able. One time I'll take 'im up so far's do lake on my canoe, an' 'e was 'mos' crazy wid all w'at 'e see. An' sometime 'e 'oiler for some- t'ing, an' h'ax me for not paddle, an' 'e look an' look, like 'e go for h'eat de 'ole boutique ; an' I'll look too, an' I'll don' see nodding — jus' de same ol' sky, an' de same ol' water, an' do same ol' 'ill' w'at spoil de good farm, an' make mo tire' for look on 'im. Ef dat was all, dat was all correc' ; but dere was Marie. I'll don't get so much chance for see 'er den, 'cause I'll work on de quarry, an' dey was pay for make over- time, an' I'll stay so long's 'e's not be dark. Sonday's de only time w'at I'll 'ave de chance for veiller ; an' de ol' Paddy 'e's glad for see me work 813 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW like dat an' make de money, an' 'e tell me dat ef Marie say yes, 'e don' say no. But Marie I I'll don' know w'at arrive on 'eri Sometime I'll t'ink 'e was de paint man; but 'e never say nodding. I'll never see 'im 'lone wid 'er. 'E jus' work, work, work, jus' de same like 'e was make de money wid make de ol' mill an' de tree small on de picture. But I'll see Marie was always wear de bes' dress, an' she was glad every time 'e speak on 'er ; an' de Anglish soun' so sof an' nice w'en dey speak wid each odder. One night w'en I'll say good-bye, I'll turn on de door an' I'll say, " Marie, I'm wait long time." An' sh** say, ver' fas', " De watch' pot never boll." , An' I'll say, " I'll don' wan' de watch' pot for Boyle ; I'll wan' 'im for me." An' she laugh at dat, but de eyes dey don' laugh wid de mout' — an' she don' say nod- ding. An' dat be always de way ; I'll get de good start an' den I'll be stop like dat ; an' 'e's pretty 'ard for de man for make all de talk by 'im- self alone. 814 MXRIE On de middle of de summer Emmfl she come 'ome for make de ol' Paddy visit. 'E was do gran'fadder now, an' de little fel- ler was call' like 'im, Paddy — Patrice Brouil- lette. De ol' man 'e was proud, an' Marie she was proud too. An' she way wid de little fel- ler all de time ; 'ug 'im, an' dance wid 'im, an' speak wid 'im all de time, like dere was no big people on do worl'. Dat make me glad for see 'er like dat, but sometime 'e make me sore on de 'eart too — for all dat was make nodding for me. Sometime she laugh all do time, an' don' let me say nodding ; sometime she was cross, an' den I'll can' say nodding; an' sometime she was qui't, an' den she don' say nodding; an' every way she was, dat's bad for me ; an' I'll t'ink sometime I'll go 'way on de shanty some more. Well, one day we was work on de quarry, an' de rock we try for bias' was jus' on de top, on de new groun' w'at we open. But dat rock Avas 'ard, an' we was work on 'im near de 'ole day, an' we make two bias', but 'e don' come. An' de boss say, " Now, boys, 315 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW make dis one good an' deep, an' we blow de bottom out !" Well, for sure I'll made dat good bias' ! I'll not be mean wid de powder, an' w'en I'll put in de brick, I'll tamp 'im down de bes' I'll know 'ow, an' I'll 'ave dat fuse fix like 'e was grow on de rock. Bymby, w'en all was finish', de boss sen' all de boys off, an' me an' 'ira stan' dere, an' w'en 'e see de fuse w'at's outside, 'e laugh an' say, "Well, dat's long 'nough for coax 'er, for sure!" An' den 'e say, " Let 'er go I" An' I'll light 'er up, an' we start. We was walk over on w'ere de boys was 'ide widout 'urry, an' we was jus' be dere, w'en Tenice Lalonde jump up an* swing 'is 'an's an' yell, " Melchior, look ! look !" An' I'll turn roun' an' I'll see de little Paddy w'at run 'long de top of de quarry, an' jus' be'in' 'im dere's MiTrie jus' over de top of de 'ill, w'at walk an' laugh wid de flower on 'er 'an', an' between us de smoke of de fuse go up like de little w'ite snake. I'll see Marie stop, an' den de laugh go, an' 'er face was w'ite an' fix like 'e was froze w'en she see w'ere dey was come. Den she 816 MiRIE call, "Paddy! Paddy!" An' de boss yell, " Quick, boy ! quick ! 1" an' 'e start for de little feller ; an' I'll start back for de bias'. I'll see onl}' do smoke w'at go up, an' I'll not know ef de fuse was burn to de top ontil I'll be kneel over 'im, but I'll fin' dere's jus' 'nough for take good 'ol'. Wid de one 'an' I'll grab dat fuse, an' I'll squeeze 'im all de 'ard I'll bo able, an' wid de odder my knife go " pick," " pick," on de tamp, for get de place for cut de fuse pas' de fire. I'll s'pose I'll only be dere for de smalles' minute, but everyt'ing go on my 'ead like I'll be dere all my life. I'll say I'll mus'n' pull too 'ard or p'r'aps de fuse was break. I'll say I'll mus'n' pick de tamp too 'ard or else de knife was break ; den, ef I'll not cut far 'nough down, de fire go pas', an' dere's no chance; den, p'r'aps de fire 'e's pas' now ; den, will 'e 'urt w'en de bias' go ? An' p'r'aps all dat don' make nodding for me any'ow ! Den I'll see de face of Marie, all w'ite an' froze, an' I'll say, like de prayer, " O God ! O God ! " an' I'll risk de cut. One, two — one — , an' de fuse come 'way on my 'an', an' w'en I'll find de en' was not touch' wid de fire I'll try 317 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW for yell, but my t'roat was all stiff, an' I'll 'oP up do en' of de fuse, an' I'll 'ear de boss say, " T'ank God !" An' I'll look, an' I'll see 'im an' Marie w'at was kneel togedder on de groun', an' dey was cover up de little Paddy like dey could keep 'im safe from de bias' w'en 'e come. An' I'll 'ear de boss say, " Dere, girl I dere girl ! don' cry ! don' cry !" like 'e was go for cry 'imself. An' den 'e turn roun' on de boys w'at was run up, an' 'e yell, " Get out dis, you foo) ! Go 'ome I" an' 'e swear strong, an' dey go ; an' I'll not know w'y, I'll get up an' I'll go too. An' bymby de boys h'ax me de question, an' I'll look on my 'an', an' I'll see I'll 'ave dere dat fuse not more long nor 'alf my finger, an' my 'an' was all twis' up wid de fire, an' 'e was cut wid my nail ; but dat don' make nodding for me den ! An' dat night late, I'll go down on de ol' Paddy, an' de ol' man meet me on de door, an' 'e jus' take me on de room w'ere de little Paddy was 'sleep wid 'is modder. An' 'e can' say nodding; 'e jus' slap me sof on de back, 318 >r, tie r f. ill vV ,, ,. :ill!i^l'^l^.;iWJi:^l^;lJ:!i.^':.^,fe A ^y/;y:^<-.' w '"/ ' I'l-L can' 'kli* iM, I'll i'lt my oood 'an' on 'ek 'aiu'" MARIE an' I'll jus' feel like dat myself, too ! An' I'll not say nodding, an' den we go back on de odder room. An' dere's no Marie. An' I'll say, after w'ile, " Marie, she was sick ?" An' de ol' man shake 'is 'ead, an' 'e go out. An' bymby after w'ile, Marie she was come an' she sit down near de table, an' she 'ardly look on me. An' I'll speak little w'ile, an' I'll see dat don' do no good ; an' den I'll look on 'er, an' I'll say, " Marie, I'll go on de shanty dis winter." An' w'en she don' say nodding, I'll feel my 'cart get col' on me like h'ice, an' I'll t'ink 'e's no use for try some more, an' I'll get up. Den Marie she put 'er 'ead on de table, an' — I'll can' 'elp 'im — I'll put my good 'an' on 'er 'air, w'at was sof like de little Paddy. An' de minute she feel dat, she jump up, wid 'er eye all bright, an' she say, fas' an' 'ard, " W'at for you touch me ? 'Ow dare you put your 'an's on me?" An' I'll say, " Dat was only one 'an', Marie "; an' I'll 'ol' out de odder w'at was all twis' up so I'll can' open 'im; an' Marie she jus' say 319 IN OLD FRANCE AND NEW one word, an' den 'er two arm was roun' my neck, an' — Well, dat's Marie w'at teach me for speak de Anglish good like dat. POSTSCRIPTUM Any one interested in tlie actual condition of the Frencli- Canadian farmer cannot do better than read that admir- able study L'HaMtant de St. Justin, by M. Leon Gcrin, F.R.S.C, of Ottawa, published in llie Proceedings of tlie Royal Society of Canada for 1898. un' my ' speak Prench- admir- Gerin, I of the