PART III
THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE.
Headpiece to Chapter I]
THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE.
CHAPTER I.
The Canadian summer has set in, coming upon the land, not gradually andimperceptibly as in many other climates, where a mild and genialspring-time intervenes between the seasons of extreme cold and heat,but suddenly, and, as it were, almost at a bound. But two or threeshort weeks ago the face of the country was still all white with thesnows of many a long month, and the great St. Lawrence was bridged overfrom shore to shore with one broad expanse of solid ice of almostincredible thickness. Anon the vast mass broke up, with explosionsloud as the roar of artillery, into countless rugged fields andhummocks, which, after floating up and down awhile on the bosom of themighty tide, drifted away at last out seaward, to return no more. Itis a trite trick of the mimic stage to make old Father Winter suddenlycast aside his hoary garments and stand forth at once in bright arraybedecked with fruits and flowers; here in very deed, and on thegrandest scale, Nature seems with one touch to sweep away the wintrysnow, and with another to clothe the landscape with profuse andluxuriant vegetation. How strange to see the humming-bird dart like astreak of golden light among the fragrant shrubs; stranger still to seethe butterfly, attracted by the lines of some stray wild flower,flutter away again, repelled by the chilling neighbourhood of the lastremnant of a snow-drift lying in a sheltered corner, where no sunbeamever finds its way.
It is a pleasant evening, and on a little wooded knoll, on the summitof a cliff that overhangs the St. Lawrence two or three miles aboveQuebec, there is a little group of persons, all of whom we have seenbefore. One of them is Boulanger, and in the man now seated besidehim, notwithstanding his mean attire and his careworn look, the honestwoodman had been at no loss to recognise his visitor of the previousautumn, Isidore de Beaujardin. The latter had been welcomed with awarmth and sincerity that touched him deeply, and although he had notoriginally thought of saying anything about his troubles to persons inso humble a condition, some mistaken suppositions on their part as tothe cause of his reappearing amongst them in so unexpected a plight hadled him to tell them that he had been obliged to fly from France. Evenhis own family had taken part against him he said, adding that he hadnot a friend in the world to whom he could turn for help or comfort.As he spoke this in the bitterness of his heart, poor Bibi, who stoodby, was melted to tears, and the sturdy woodsman looked half disposedto follow her example; whilst Amoahmeh, who sat a little way apart, yetnear enough to catch every word that fell from their visitor's lips,turned away, and bent her head over the work on which she was engaged.
"But, monsieur," said Boulanger at length, "there is surely your uncle,the Baron de Valricour, whom I remember well, and who is the most kindand generous of gentlemen one could possibly desire to have for one'sfriend--surely he can help you."
"It was indeed for that very reason that in my despair I resolved tocome out here and secure his assistance, not for my wretched self, butfor one who--who----" He paused awhile as his emotion overcame him;then he continued: "My evil fate still pursues me. I learned thisafternoon at Quebec that M. de Valricour has just gone back to Franceon leave and will not return for some months. But why should I troubleyour kind hearts with my sorrows? You would never have heard of them,indeed, but that I could not find myself within a couple of miles ofyou without sparing an hour or so to learn how it fared with my oldcomrade of the woods. And to think of finding Amoahmeh here too! Ishould scarce have known you again, my good girl," said he, reachingout his hand to her. "'Tis not a year since I left you a girl, and Ifind you quite a woman." The words were natural enough, for thecontrast in Isidore's case between the once brilliant and handsomeaide-de-camp of General Montcalm and the miserable-looking peasant ofto-day was scarcely greater than that between the half-starved idioticIndian girl of a year ago and the comely maiden, dressed in the neatcostume of a Canadian country girl, who, rising from her seat, nowstepped towards him, and taking the extended hand in both of hers,pressed it silently to her lips.
"Yes," said Boulanger smiling, "and I must tell you, monsieur, that itis not outwardly only that Amoahmeh has changed for the better. Shehas become a good Christian like the rest of us, and she proves it too,by helping in one way or another all whom she happens to come across,no matter at what cost to herself. As for outside appearance, Isuppose monsieur knows as well as we do how that has been managed."
"I!" replied Isidore with some surprise. "How should I know?"
"Oh, I supposed you knew of course that monseigneur the Marquis yourfather sent her a letter some months ago, which we got through thesubintendant at Quebec, enclosing a hundred louis for her, and thankingher from himself and Madame the Marquise for the way in which she savedyour life at Fort William Henry. Ah, it was a beautiful letter indeed,so kind and condescending. We had not a dry eye among us when we hadread it. We all agreed that monseigneur must be one of the best men inall the world, so generous and tender-hearted too."
The woodman stopped, for he could not but notice the pained expressionthat came over Isidore's face, and betrayed the conflict of emotionsgoing on within him.
"Yes, I too thought so once, but that is over," said Isidore. "Wouldthat he could have shown himself as tender-hearted and generous to poorMarguerite, if not to his own flesh and blood," he added bitterly,half-speaking to himself.
Boulanger hastened to change a subject evidently so painful to hisvisitor.
"And what may monsieur intend to do now, if it is not an impertinentquestion?" said he. "Surely you could rejoin the army here. Montcalm,I fancy, would be glad enough to help one who has already served underhim so bravely."
"No, honest friend, there is no hope for me in that quarter. Montcalmcould not help me even if he would. It would answer no good purposewere I to tell you why, and it is better for you that you should notknow. I am no longer Colonel de Beaujardin, but a nameless wanderer.If you speak of me it must only be as Claude the poor French peasant;but it were best not to do so at all, or you may get yourself, and metoo, into trouble. Yet something I must do, and I have resolved to gooff to Cape Breton, where, as I have learned at Quebec, the English areabout making an attack on Louisburg."
"On Louisburg!" exclaimed the Canadian. "Why, I should have thoughtthey had enough of that last year."
"At all events," replied Isidore, "they will find the task no easy onewith such a fellow as our brave Drucour in command of the place; but hewill need all his skill and bravery too, for I heard before I leftFrance of the great preparations the English have been making to ensuresuccess this time. Some months ago their Admiral Boscawen sailed fromEngland, and is now in command of a score of line of battle ships, andnearly as many frigates; they say at Quebec that his fleet has leftHalifax, with more than a hundred smaller vessels, carrying a force oftwelve thousand men to attack Louisburg. The English have fetched homea general named Amherst from Germany, where they have been helping ourenemy, King Frederick of Prussia, and have given him the command, andthere is also a Colonel Wolfe amongst their officers, who, they say,has already done good service. If they are as slow about making theattack as they have been in coming from England, they'll not takeLouisburg this year. They have got a Minister now, however, who hatesus thoroughly, and will give us trouble enough. I daresay you haveheard of this Mister Pitt I speak of."
"O yes, I have heard of him sure enough, monsieur, but it don't mattermuch about him. I suppose they have not got any generals like ours,and when it comes to fighting, let them come, say I."
"You seem quite to forget, my friend, that these English once had ageneral called Marlborough," said Isidore.
"O yes, they once had," retorted Boulanger; "but as the famous old songsays--
'Monsieur Malbrouk est mort, Est mort et enterre.'
Malbrouk is dead and buried at all events, and will not frighten us anymore. But, seriously, monsieur, I suppose from what you say that youare thinking of
going to help our brave fellows at Louisburg?"
"Just so," answered Isidore. "It matters little where I go justnow--it is better to die like a soldier than live on thus; so I willnow say adieu, and go back to Quebec, whence I must make my way down toLouisburg as I best may."
"At least, however," exclaimed the Canadian, "you must let us see firstwhat we can do to fit your honour out a little better. Come, Bibi, letus have supper, and I will try what I can rummage out that may be ofuse to monsieur. If I can do nothing else, I can at all events furnishhim with a rifle and powder-horn."
Then without waiting for the thanks which his guest was about to offer,the sturdy woodsman hurried away with his wife to carry his goodintentions into effect.
Amoahmeh, who had remained at a little distance during this colloquy,now approached Isidore, as if about to speak to him, and as she seemedto hesitate, he gave her a smile of encouragement.
"And the dear young lady who was so kind to me?" said she, inquiringly."Where is she, monsieur--is she well?"
The smile was gone at once. Isidore's countenance fell, and he buriedhis face in his hands and groaned in the bitterness of his heart.Amoahmeh shrank lack, and clasping her hands together exclaimed, "Alas!what have I said? I did not--I could not know."
There was a painful silence for a minute or two, then laying her handtimidly on Isidore's arm she said, "Oh, forgive me if I have distressedyou--you to whom I owe so much--you who first told the poor lonelyIndian girl where it is that we may surely hope to see again those whomwe loved, and whom God has taken from us. Ah, it is hard to hear; butmonsieur knows that if there is one angel less on earth, there is onemore in heaven."
"Girl, girl!" exclaimed Isidore, raising his head, "you do not knowwhat you are saying, or how you torture me. She is not dead--at least,for aught I know--but she is dead to me--lost for ever!"
Then as he marked the distressed and bewildered look with which shelistened to him, a look so like the old vacant stare that he rememberedtoo well, a strange fear came over him.
"My good girl," he continued in a soothing tone, "I grieve that I havefrightened you, but my sorrow overcame me for the moment. Becomforted--she is yet alive, and, with Heaven's blessing, I dare stillhope that some day I may find her again, and that we may yet be happy."
Touched by the deep sigh of relief with which Amoahmeh received thesewords, and by the tears that followed it, Isidore could not choose buttell her something of what had befallen Marguerite. Debarred as he hadlatterly been from consolation or sympathy, and without a friend tospeak a single word of comfort or encouragement to him, it is scarcelyto be wondered at that he should open his heart to any one who wouldpour balm upon his wounded spirit. But sorrow had already borne somefruit with him, and as he briefly told the story of the misfortunesthat had befallen him, no word that savoured of anger or of vengefulfeeling passed his lips, and though he could not but speak of grievouswrongs done both to her and to him, he forbore to use hard wordsagainst, or even to name, those who had brought this misery upon them.
"See," said he at last, with a melancholy smile, "I have been led, Iscarce know how, to tell you a long story about myself; let us now talkof other things."
"But, monsieur," replied Amoahmeh, who had listened to every word withintense interest, "you have scarcely once spoken of monsieur yourfather. How could he suffer this? He is a great noble in France,surely he could have saved you? Do I not know him to be so good evento a poor stranger, that it is not possible he would let his own son,and a noble one as you are, to become the victim of such a dreadfulthing as this _lettre de cachet_ which you tell me of? Did you not seehim at the last and tell him what had happened to her? Surely hisheart must have melted if he had known all you tell me now."
Isidore remained silent for a little while. "To speak the truth," saidhe at length, "it is just this that oftentimes adds to my sorrow. I dofeel that I ought at the very last to have made one more appeal to him;but, after all, what could it have availed me? He must have known itall, else why come there to hunt us down? Heaven forgive me if I havewronged him. At all events it is too late now. Let us say no moreabout it. Here is our good Boulanger come to call us in. God bethanked that I have found at least this ray of comfort in my trouble."
Seldom if ever had that humble dwelling seen so abundant a meal as thatwhich Bibi had managed to improvise for their young guest, and when itwas over the honest Canadian produced the promised rifle andaccoutrements, and his wife and Amoahmeh did their best to add to themsuch trifles as might be useful in a campaign. Then, after many ahearty grasp of the hand and many a warm expression of his hope thatthey might meet again in happier times, Isidore bade his kind friendsadieu, and set out on his return to Quebec.
Tailpiece to Chapter I]
Headpiece to Chapter II]
The King's Warrant: A Story of Old and New France Page 15