A Little Girl in Old Quebec

by Amanda M. Douglas

  CHAPTER III

  SUMMER TIME

  The child sat in a dream on a rude, squarely-built settle with a coarseblanket on it of Indian make and some skins thrown over the back, foroften at sundown the air grew cool and as yet women were not spinning orweaving as in old France. A few luxuries had been brought thither, butthe mother government had a feeling that the colonists ought mostly toprovide for themselves, and was often indifferent to the necessarydemands.

  Mere Dubray went out to the kitchen and began to prepare supper. Therewas a great stone chimney with a bench at each side, and for a fireplacetwo flat stones that would be filled in with chunks of wood. When theblaze had burned them to coals the cooking began. Corn bread baked onboth sides, sometimes rye or wheaten cakes, a kettle boiled, though thehome-brewed beer was the common drink in summer, except among those whoused the stronger potions. The teas were mostly fragrant herbs, thoughtto be good for the stomach and to keep the blood pure.

  Mere Dubray dressed half a dozen birds in a trice. It was true that inthe summer they could live on the luxuries of the land in somerespects. Fish and game of all kinds were abundant, and as there werebut few ways of keeping against winter it was as well to feast while onecould. They dried and smoked eels and some other fish, and salted them,but they had learned that too much of this diet induced scurvy.

  The birds were hung on an improvised spit, with a pan below to catch thedrippings with which they were basted. Between whiles the worthy womanunexpectedly bolted out to the garden with a switch in her hand and laidit about the two Indian boys, who did not bear it with the stoicism oftheir race, as they learned the greater the noise the shorter theirpunishment.

  The little girl did not heed the screams or the shrill scolding, or eventhe singing of the birds that grew deliciously tender toward nightfall.She often watched the waving branches as the wind blew among them untilit seemed as if they must be alive, bending over caressing each otherand murmuring in low tones. If she could only know what they said. Ofcourse they must be alive; she heard them cry piteously in winter whenthey were stripped of their covering. Why did God do it? Why did He sendwinter when summer was so much better, when people were merry and happyand could hunt and fish and wander in the woods and fight Indians? Shehad not had much of an idea of God hitherto only as a secret charmconnected with Mere Dubray's beads, but now it was some great powerliving beyond the sky, just as the Indians believed. You could only gothere by growing cold and stiff and being put in the ground. She shrankfrom that thought.

  Something new had come in her life now. There was a vague, confused ideaof gods and goddesses, that she had gathered from the Latin verses thatshe no more understood than the language. And this must be one thatdescended upon her this afternoon. The soft, sweet voice still lingeredin her ears, entrancing her. The graceful figure that was like somedelicate swaying branch, the attire the like of which she had never evendreamed of. How could she indeed, when the finest things she had seenwere the soldiers' trappings?

  And this beautiful being had kissed her. Only once she remembered beingkissed, but Catherine's lips were so cold that for days when she thoughtof it she shuddered and connected it with that mysterious going away,that horrid, underground life. This was warm and sweet and strange, likethe nectar of flowers she had held to her lips. Oh, would the lovelybeing come again? But M'sieu Ralph had said so, and what he promisedcame to pass. There was a sudden ecstasy as if she could not wait, as ifshe could fly out of the body after her charmer. Whither was she going?Oh, M'sieu Ralph would know. But could she wait until to-morrow?

  Into this half-delirious vision broke the strong, rather harsh voicethat filled her for an instant with a curious hate so acute that if shehad been large enough, strong enough, she would have thrust the womanout of doors.

  "Oh, have you been asleep? Your eyes look wild. And your cheeks! Is itthe fever coming back again? That chatter went through my head. And tobe gowned as if she were going to have audience with the Queen! I don'tknow about such things. There is a King always--I suppose there must bea Queen."

  The child had recovered herself a little and the enraptured dream wasslipping by.

  "And here is your supper. Such a great dish of raspberries, and somejuice pressed out for wine. And the birds broiled to a turn. Here is alittle wheaten cake. The Sieur sent the wheat and it is a great rarity.And now eat like a hungry child."

  She raised her up and put a cushion of dried hay at her back. The foodwas on a small trencher with a flat bottom, and was placed on the settlebeside her.

  "No, no, the tea first," she said, holding a birch-bark cup to her lips.

  Rose made a wry face, but drank it, nevertheless. Then she took theraspberry juice, which was much pleasanter.

  "Yes, a great lady, no doubt. We have few of them. This is no place forsilken hose and dainty slippers, and gowns slipping off the shoulders,and my lady will soon find that out. I wondered at M. Destournier. Thesaints forbid that we should import these kind of cattle to NewFrance."

  "She is very sweet"--protestingly.

  "Oh, yes. So is the flower sweet, and it drops off into withered leaves.And her eyes looked askance at M'sieu Ralph, yet she hath a husband.Come, eat of thy bird and bread, and to-morrow maybe thou wilt run aboutlest thy limbs stiffen up to a palsy."

  "Mistress, mistress," called Pani--"here is a man to see thee."

  She went through both rooms. The man stood without, rather rough,unkempt, with buckskin breeches, fringed leggings, an Indian blanket, agrizzled beard hanging down on his breast, and his tousled hair wellsprinkled with white; his face wrinkled with the hardships he had passedthrough, but the gray-blue eyes twinkled.

  "Ha! ha!" A coarse, but not unfriendly laugh finished the greeting as hecaught both hands in an impetuous embrace. "Lalotte, old girl, has thymemory failed in two years? Or hast thou gotten another husband?"

  The woman gave a shriek of mingled surprise and delight. "The saints bepraised, it is Antoine. And how if thou hast taken some Indian woman towife? Braves do not consort with white women who cannot be made intoslaves," she answered, with spirit.

  "Lalotte, thou wert hard to win in those early days. But now a dozengood kisses with more flavor in them than Burgundy wine, and I willprove to you I am the same old Antoine. And then--but thy supper smellis good to a hungry man. And a dish of shallots. It takes a man back toold Barbizon."

  Stout and strong as was Madame Dubray, her husband almost kissed thebreath out of her body in his rapturous embrace.

  "But I had no word of your coming----"

  "How could you, pardieu! But you knew the traders were coming in. And aman can't send messengers hundreds of miles."

  "I looked last year----"

  "Pouf! There are men who stay five or ten years, and have left a wife inFrance. You can't blame them for taking a new one when you are invitedto. It is a wild, hard life, but not worse than a soldier's. And whenyou are your own master the hardships are light. But some of this goodsupper."

  "Out with you," she said to the Indian boys, who had snatched a piece ofthe broiled fish. Then she put down a plate, took up two birds thatdripped delicious gravy, and a squirrel browned to a turn. From thecupboard beside the great stone chimney, so cunningly devised that noone would have suspected it, she brought forth a bottle of wine from theold world, her last choice possession, that she had dreamed of savingfor Antoine, and now her dream had come true.

  There was much to tell on both sides, though her life had beencomparatively uneventful. He related incidents of his wilder experiencesfar away from civilization that he had grown to enjoy in its perfectfreedom that often lapped over into lawlessness. And he ate untilsquirrel, fish, and the cakes, both of rye and corn, had disappeared.The slave boys fared ill that night.

  Rose had eaten her supper more daintily. The great pile of raspberrieswas a delight; large, luscious; melting in one's mouth without the aidof sugar, and being picked up with the fingers. She had been startled atthe sudden appearance of the husband s
he had heard talked of, but ofcourse not seen. His loud voice grated on her ears, made more sensitiveby illness, and when, a long while after, the pine torch that wasflaring in the kitchen defined his brawny frame as he stood in thedoorway, she wanted to scream.

  "Oh--what have you here--a ghost?" he asked.

  "A child who was left here more than a year ago. Jean Arlac lost hiswife, and not knowing what to do with her--she was not his ownchild--left her here. He went out with the fur-hunters."

  "Jean Arlac!" Antoine scratched among his rough locks as if to assisthis memory. "Yes. And on the way he picked up a likely Indian girl whohas given him a son. And he saddled her on you?"

  "Oh, the Sieur will look after her--perhaps take her back to France,"she answered, indifferently.

  "The best place for her, no doubt. She looks a frail reed. And womenneed strength in this new world. A little infusion of Indian blood willdo no harm. I wouldn't mind a son myself, but a girl--pouf!"

  The child was glad he would not want her. She turned her face to thewall. She had not known what loneliness was before, but now she felt itthrough all her body, like a great pain.

  On the opposite side of the room was another settle, part of whichturned over and was upheld by drawing out two rounds of logs. MereDubray made up the wider bed now, and soon Antoine was snoring lustily.At first it frightened the child, though she was used to the screech ofthe owl that spent his nights in the great walnut tree inside thepalisade.

  Was it a dream, she wondered the next morning. She slept soundly at lastand late and found herself alone in the house. She put on her simplefrock and went to the doorway. Ah, what a splendid glowing morning itwas! The sunshine lay in golden masses and fairly gilded the green ofthe maize, the waving grasses, the bronze of the trees, and the riverthrew up lights and shadows like birds skimming about.

  No one was in the garden. The table had been despoiled to the lastcrumb. Even the cupboard had been ransacked and all that remained wassome raw fish. She was not hungry and the fragrant air was reviving. Itseemed to speed through every pulse. Why, she suddenly felt strongagain.

  She wandered out of the enclosure and climbed the steps, sitting downnow and then and drawing curious breaths that frightened her, they cameso irregularly. There were workmen building additional fortificationsaround the post, there were houses going up. It was like a strangeplace. She reached the gallery presently and looked over what wassometime to be the city of Quebec. The long stretch was full of tentsand tepees and throngs of men of every description, it would seem;Indians, swarthy Spaniards who had roamed half round the world, Frenchfrom the jaunty trader, with a certain air of breeding, down to therough, unkempt peasant, who had been lured away from his native landwith visions of an easily-made fortune and much liberty in New France,and convicts who had been given a choice between death and expatriation.Great stacks of furs still coming in from some quarter, haranguing,bargaining, shouting, coming to blows, and the interference of soldiers.Was it so last summer when she sometimes ran out with Pani, though shehad been forbidden to?

  It was growing very hot up here. The sun that looked so glorious throughthe long stretches of the forest and played about the St. Lawrence as ifin a game of hide-and-seek with the boats, grew merciless. All the airwas full of dancing stars and she was so tired trying to reach out tothem, as if they were a stairway leading up to heaven, so that one neednot be put in the dark, wretched ground. Oh, yes, she could find theway, and she half rose.

  It seemed a long journey in the darkness. Then there was a coolness onher brow, a soft hand passed over it, and she heard some murmuring,caressing words. She opened her eyes, she tried to rise.

  "Lie still, little one," said the voice that soothed and somehow made iteasy to obey. She was fanned slowly, and all was peace.

  "Did you climb up to the gallery all alone? And yesterday you seemed soweak, so fragile."

  "I wanted--some one. They had all gone----"

  "Quebec looks like a besieged camp. Laurent, that is my husband," with abright color, "said I could see it from the gallery, and that itresembled a great show. I went out and found you. At first I thought youwere dead. But the Indian woman, Jolette is her Christian name, but Ishould have liked Wanamee better, carried you in here and after a whilebrought you to. But I thought sure you were dead. Poor little whiteRose! Truly named."

  "But once I had red cheeks," in a faint voice.

  "Then thou wouldst have been a red Rose."

  She sang a delicious little chanson to a red rose from a lover. Thechild sighed in great content.

  "Were they good to you down there? That woman seemed--well, hard. Andwere you left all alone?"

  Rose began to tell the story of how the husband came home, and MadameGiffard could see that she shrank from him. "And when she woke they hadall gone away. There was nothing to eat."

  "Merci! How careless and unkind!" But Madame Giffard could not know thelittle slave boys had ransacked the place.

  "I was not hungry. And it was so delightful to walk about again. ThoughI trembled all over and thought I should fall down."

  "As you did. Now I have ordered you some good broth. And you must liestill to get rested."

  "But it is so nice to talk. You were so beautiful yesterday I wasafraid. I never saw such fine clothes."

  Madame Giffard was in a soft gray gown to-day that had long wrinkledsleeves, a very short waist, and a square neck filled in with rufflesthat stood up in a stiff fashion. She looked very quaint and pretty,more approachable, though the child felt rather than understood.

  "Are there no women here, and no society? Merci! but it is a strangeplace, a wilderness. And no balls or dinners or excursions, with gaylittle luncheons? There is war all the time at home, but plenty ofpleasure, too. And what is one to do here!"

  "The Indians have some ball games. But they often fight at the end."

  The lady laughed. What a charming ripple it was, like the falls here andthere, and there were many of them.

  "Not that kind," she said, in her soft tone that could not wound thechild. "A great room like a palace, and lights everywhere, hundreds ofcandles, and mirrors where you see yourself at every turn. Then festoonsof gauzy things that wave about, and flowers--not always real ones, theyfade so soon. And the men--there are officers and counts and marquises,and their habiliments are--well, I can't describe them so you wouldunderstand, but a hundred times finer than those of the Sieur deChamplain. And the women--oh, if I had worn a ball dress yesterday, youwould have been speechless."

  She laughed again gayly at the child's innocence. And just then Wanameecame in with the broth.

  "Madame Dubray's husband has come," nodding to the child.

  "Yes, yesterday, just at night."

  "He has great stores, they say. He is shrewd and means to make money.But there will be no quiet now for weeks. And it will hardly be safe toventure outside the palisades."

  Jolette had been among the first converts, a prisoner taken in one ofthe numerous Indian battles, rescued and saved from torture by the Sieurhimself, and though she had been a wife of one of the chiefs, she hadbeen beaten and treated like a slave. Champlain found her amenable tothe influences of civilization, and in some respects really superior tothe emigrants that had been sent over, though most of them were eagerlyseized upon as wives for the workmen. Frenchwomen were not anxious toleave their native land.

  Madame Giffard fed her small _protegee_ in a most dainty and enticingmanner. The little girl would have thought herself in an enchantedcountry if she had known anything about enchantment. But most of thestories she had heard were of Indian superstition, and so horrid shenever wanted to recur to them. Madame Dubray was much too busy to allowher thoughts to run in fanciful channels, and really lacked any sort ofimagination.

  After she had been fed she leaned back on the pillow again. Madame soonsang her to sleep. The child was very much exhausted and in the quietudeof slumber looked like a bit of carving.

  "Her eyelashes are splendid," thought
her watcher, "and her lips havepretty curves. There is something about her--she must have belonged togentle people. But she will grow coarse under that woman's training."

  She sighed a little. Did she want the child, she wondered. If Laurentcould make a fortune here in this curious land where most of thepopulation seemed barbarians.

  She drew from a work-bag a purse she was knitting of silken thread, andworked as she watched the sleeping child. Once she rose, but the viewfrom the window did not satisfy her, so she went out on the gallery. AFrench vessel was coming up into port, with its colors at half mast andits golden lilies shrouded with crape. Some important personage must bedead--was it the King?

  She heard her husband's voice calling her and turned, took a few stepsforward. "Oh, what has happened?" she cried.

  "The King! Our heroic Bearnese! For though we must always regret hischange of religion, yet it was best for France and his rights. And awretched miscreant stabbed him in his carriage, but he has paid thepenalty. And the new King is but a child, so a woman will rule. There isno knowing what policies may be overturned."

  "Our brave King!" There were tears in her eyes.

  "They are loading vessels to return. Ah, what a rich country, even ifthey cannot find the gold the Spaniards covet. Such an array of choicefurs bewilders one, and to see them tossed about carelessly makes onealmost scream with rage. Ah, my lady, you shall have in the winter whatthe Queen Mother would envy."

  "Then you mean to stay"--uncertainly.

  "Yes, unless there should be great changes. I have not seen the Sieursince the news came. He was to go to Tadoussac the first of the week,and I had permission to go with him. One would think to-day that Quebecwas one of the most flourishing of towns, and it is hard to believe thecontrary. But every soldier is on the watch. They trust no one. Whathave you been doing, _ma mie_?"

  "Oh, I have something to show you. Come."

  She placed her finger to her lips in token of silence and led him backto the room she had left. The child was still sleep.

  "What an angel," he murmured. "Is it--how did it come here? I thoughtyou said the little girl was ill."

  "She was, and is. Doesn't she look like a marvellous statue? But no oneseems to regard her beauty here."

  "She is too delicate."

  "But she was well and strong and daring, and could climb like a deer, M.Destournier says. She will be well again with good care. I want to keepher."

  "She will be a good plaything for thee when I am away. Though this maychange many plans. The Sieur is bent on discoveries, and now he hasorders to print his book. The maps are wonderful. What a man! He shouldbe a king in this new world. France does not understand the mightyempire he is founding for her."

  "Then you do not mind--if I keep the child? She has crept into the emptyniche in my heart. I must have been directed by the saints when I feltthe desire to go out. She would have died from exhaustion in thebroiling sun."

  "Say the good Father, rather."

  "And yet we must adore the saints, the old patriarchs. Did not thedisciples desire to build a memento to them?"

  "They were not such men as have disgraced the holy calling by fire andsword and persecution. And if one can draw a free breath in this newland. The English with all their faults allow freedom in religion. It isthese hated Jesuits. And I believe they are answerable for the murder ofour heroic King."

  Wanamee summoned them to the midday repast. The plain walnut boardsthat formed the table had been polished until the beautiful grain andthe many curvings were brought out like the shades of a painting. If thedishes were a motley array, a few pieces of silver and polished pewterwith common earthenware and curious cups of carved wood as well asbirch-bark platters, the viands were certainly appetizing.

  "One will not starve in this new country," he said.

  "But it is the winter that tries one, M. Destournier says."

  "There must be plenty of game. And France sends many things. But acolony must have agricultural resources. And the Indian raids are sodestructive. We need more soldiers."

  He was off again to plunge in the thick of business. It was supposed thefur company and the concessions ruled most of the bargain-making, butthere were independent trappers who had not infrequently secured skinsthat were well-nigh priceless when they reached the hands of the Parisfurrier. And toward night, when wine and whiskey had been passed aroundrather freely, there were broils that led to more than one fatal ending.Indian women thronged around as well, with curious handiwork made intheir forest fastnesses.

  The child slept a long while, she was so exhausted.

  "Why, the sun is going over the mountains," she began, in vague alarm."I must go home. I did not mean to run away."

  She sprang up on her feet, but swayed so that she would have fallen hadnot Madame caught her.

  "Nay, nay, thou art not well enough to run away from me, little one. Iwill send word down to the cabin of Mere Dubray. She has her husband,whom she has not seen for two years, and will care naught for thee.Women are all alike when a man's love is proffered," and she gave a gaylittle laugh.

  "My head feels light and swims around as if it was on the rapid river.But I must go home, I----"

  "Art afraid? Well, I promise nothing shall harm thee. Lie down again. Iwill send Wanamee with the word. Will it make thee happy--content?"

  The child looked at her hostess as if she was studying her, but herintellect had never been roused sufficiently for that. There was a vaguedelight stealing over her as slumber does at times, a confusion of whatmight have been duty if she had understood that even, in staying awayfrom what was really her home. Mere Dubray would be angry. She wouldhardly beat her, she had only slapped her once during her illness, andthat was to make her swallow some bitter tea. And something within herseemed to cry out for the adjuncts of this place. She had been in theroom before, she had even peered into the Sieur's study. He always had akindly word for her, she was different from the children of the workmen,and looked at one with sober, wondering eyes, as if she might fathommany things.

  "You do not want to go back?"--persuasively.

  Was it the pretty lady who changed the aspect of everything for her?

  "Oh, if I could stay here always!" she cried, with a vehemence of moreyears than had passed over her head. "It is better than the beautifulworld where I sit on the rocks and wonder, and dream of the great beyondthat goes over and meets the sky. There are no cruel Indians then, and Iwant to wander on and on and listen to the voices in the trees, theplash of the great river, and the little stream that plays against thestones almost like the song you sung. If one could live there always anddid not get hungry or cold----"

  "What a queer, visionary child! One would not look for it in thesewilds. The ladies over yonder talk of them because it is a fashion, butwhen they ride through the parks and woods they want a train ofadmirers. And with you it is pure love. Could you love any one as you donature? Was any one ever so good to you that you could fall down attheir feet and worship them? Surely you do not love Madame Dubray?"

  "M'sieu Ralph has been very kind. But you are like a wonderful flowerone finds now and then, and dares not gather it lest the gods of thewoods and trees should be angry."

  "But I will gather you to my heart, little one," and she slipped downbeside the couch, encircling the child in her arms, and pressing kisseson brow and legs and pallid cheeks, bringing a roseate tint to them.

  "And you must love me, you must want to stay with me. Oh, there was alittle one once who was flesh of my flesh, on whom I lavished thedelight and tenderness of my soul, and the great Father took her. Hesent nothing in her place, though I prayed and prayed. And now I shallput you there. Surely the good God cannot be angry, for you have noone."

  She had followed a sudden impulse, and was not quite sure it was for thebest. Only her mother heart cried out for love.

  The child stared, motionless, and it dampened her ardor for the moment.She could not fathom the eyes.

  "Are you not glad? Wo
uld you not like to live with me?"

  "Oh, oh!" It was a cry of rapture. She caught the soft white hands andkissed them. The joy was so new, so unexpected, she had no words forit.