CHAPTER XVII
THE PASSING OF OLD QUEBEC
They ate their last crumbs for breakfast. A fine, cutting sleet was inthe air, but they kept quite inside of the forest, except when they wereafraid of losing the trail. There was no stop for a midday meal, andthey pushed on, carrying Destournier in a litter. Must they spendanother night in the woods?
Suddenly a shout reaches them, the sound of familiar French voices, andevery heart thrilled with joy, as they answered it. Blessed relief wasat hand.
Being alarmed at the long delay, a party had been sent out to search forthem. They halted, for indeed it seemed as if they could go no further.Weak and hungry, some of the men sat down and cried, for very joy.
"I have hardly been worth all the trouble," Destournier said, in abroken voice.
"It was not altogether you," replied one of the men. "And to haverescued some of our men from those fiendish Hurons was worth while.Savignon must have had some wonderful power to make them give up theirprey."
The relief party were provided with food, dried meat that had come downfrom some friendly Indians. After they had eaten, they resolved to pushon, and started with good courage. The storm had ceased and the starswere pricking through the blue. The moon would rise later on. But it wasmidnight when they came in sight of the fort. The warm welcome madeamends for all.
Wanamee took Rose under her protection. She was nearly exhausted. M. deChamplain insisted upon caring for Destournier, and examining the leg,which was much swollen, but had been very well set. The story of thewonderful escape was told over, to interested listeners.
"We owe Savignon a great debt, and are too poor to pay it," said theGovernor sorrowfully.
Poor indeed they were. It was the hardest winter the colony had known.The dearth of news was most trying, and the fear of the English descentupon them racked the brave heart of the Commandant, who saw his dream ofa great city vanishing. Jealousy had done some cruel work, and themisgovernment of the mother country stifled the best efforts.
Rose lay listless in bed for many days. How could she meet Savignon, whohaunted the place hourly, to inquire, and begged to see her? One day shetold Wanamee to send him in, and braced herself for the interview.
Semi-famine had not told on him, unless it had added an air ofrefinement. That he was superior to most of his race, was evident.
He was not prepared for the white wraith-like being who did not risefrom her chair, but nodded and motioned him to a seat at a distance.
"Oh, Mam'selle, you have been truly ill," he said, and there was atender sort of pity in his tone. "I have been wild to see you, to hearyou speak. Mam'selle, you must not die. I cannot give you up. I havebeen starved, I have been half-crazy with impatience. Oh, can you nothave a little pity on me, when I love you so? And you have no one whohas a right to protest. You will keep your promise? For I swear to youthat I will kill any man who marries you. I cannot help if it bringsgrief upon you. It would be the sorrow of my life not to have you! Oh,let me touch your little white hand"--and he started from his seat withan eager gesture.
She put both behind her. "I do not love you," she began bravely. "Itwould take time----"
"I said I would wait, Rose of Quebec, wait months, for your sweetness toblossom for me. But I cannot see you go to another."
"There is no other. There will be no other." She was sure she told thewhole truth. "But if you insist now, I shall die before a marriagecomes. I could slip out of life easily. Perhaps when I am strong again,courage may come back to me. You must go away and let me be quite bymyself, and think how brave you were, how patient you are. Then whenyou come again----"
She would be in her white winding sheet, then, and he would be afraid tokiss her.
"But I won you fairly, Mam'selle. And I had great trembling of heart,for the Huron chief was obdurate. I succeeded at length. _He_ has had awife, he does not need another. He might be your father. And you haverepaid him for all care by giving him back his life, by saving him fromtorture you know little about. For if the party joining them haddiscovered the robbery of their storehouse, there would have been littlemercy. Oh, Mam'selle, how can so sweet a being be so cold andunyielding?"
"I have told you the secret of it. I do not love you. I do not want youfor a husband. But I will keep my promise. Give me time to get well. Itmay not look so terrible to me then."
How lovely she was in her pleading, even if it did deny. He could havesnatched her to his heart and stifled her with kisses, yet he did notdare to touch so much as her little finger. What strange power held heraloof? But if she was once his wife----
"A month," he pleaded.
"Longer than that. Three months. Three whole moons. Then you may comeagain and I will answer you."
His face paled with anger, his eyes were points of flame, his blood washot within him.
"I will not wait."
"Then you may have my dead body."
"But you break your promise."
"I ask you to wait," she said, in a steady tone. "That is all."
"And you will not seek to die, Mam'selle?"
"I will be your wife then. Now go. I am too tired to argue any more."
A sudden ray of hope kindled in the Indian's heart. He would see M.Destournier, and lay the case before him, and beg his assistance. Surelyhe could not refuse, when his life had been saved!
Rose leaned back in a half-faint. Oh, surely God would take her beforethat time. But she had promised in good faith. Matters might lookdifferent to her when she was strong once more.
Savignon meant to be armed at all points. He went up to the St. Charlesand laid his case before one of the fathers. His fine bearing andintelligence won him much favor.
"Men often married Indian women, who made good wives. In this case ifthe woman desired to take him for her husband, there could be no realobjection; it was between the two parties. No over-persuasion was to beused. And if her friends or parents consented, it would be right enough.Only they must truly love each other."
He knew now she did not truly love him. You might beat an Indian womaninto obedience--he had never struck one since he had come to manhood.But this beautiful being, who was like a bit of flame, would be blownout by harshness or force, and one would have only the cold body left.If he could not make her love him at the end of the three months----
Then he sought Destournier, and laid the tale before him. He had wonMademoiselle honorably. She had given her promise. At the end of thethree months he would come for her. Now he had resolved to go to theislands, since it would be wretched to stay here and not see Mam'selle.
"Yes, the best thing," Destournier said, but he was stunned by thebargain. Was his life to cost that sacrifice? There must be some way ofpreventing it.
As the days went on he considered various plans. This was why Rose wasso languid and unlike herself. Perhaps the hard winter and poor food hadsomething to do with it. She had bought his life at too great asacrifice. And then came the sweet, sad knowledge that he loved her,also.
The spring was quite early. Men began to work in their gardens and mendthe damages of the winter, but with a certain fear of what was to come.And one day Destournier found Rose sitting in the old gallery, where shehad run about as a child. But she was a child no longer. Theindescribable change had come. There were womanly lines in her figure,although it was thinner than of yore, and the light in her eyes deeper.
He had given up the house to her and the two Indian women, with Pani forattendant. M. Pontgrave had been a great invalid through the winter, andbesought the younger man's company. The Sieur often came in and theytalked over the glowing plans and dreams of the earlier days, when theywere to rear a city that the mother country could be proud of.
He understood why Rose had shunned him, and whenever he resolved to takeup this troublous subject his courage failed him. Saved from thismarriage she surely must be. In a short time Savignon would return. Hehad known of two women who had cast in their lots with the better-classIndians at Tadoussac, and w
ere happy enough. But they were not Rose.
He came slowly over to her now. She looked up and smiled. Much keepingindoors of late had made her skin fair and fine, but her soft hair hadnot shed all its gold.
"Rose," he began, then paused.
She flushed, but made a little gesture, as if he might be seated besideher.
"Rose," he said again, "in the winter you saved my life. I have known itfor some time."
Her breath came with a gasp. How had he learned this, unless Savignonhad come before the time?
"And you paid a great price for it."
"Oh, oh!" she clasped her hands in distress. "How did you know it?"
"Savignon told me before he went away. He asked my consent to yourmarriage. I could not give it then. He will soon return. I cannot giveit now."
"But it was a promise. Monsieur, your life was of more account thanmine."
"Do you think I will accept the sacrifice? I have been weak and cowardlynot to settle this matter before, not to give you the assurance that Iwill make a brave fight for your release."
"I was very sad and frightened at first, partly ill, as well, and Ihoped not to live. But the good God did not take me. And if He meant meto do this thing, keep my word, I must do it. I asked Father Jamay onetime about promises, and he said when one had vowed a vow it must bekept. And I have prayed for courage when the time comes. See, I am quitetranquil."
She raised her face and he read in it a nobly spiritual expression. Herecalled now that she had gone up to the convent quite often withWanamee, and that more than once she had slipped into Madame deChamplain's _prie-dieu_, that her husband never would have disturbed.Was she finding fortitude and comfort in a devotion to religion thatwould strengthen her to meet this tremendous sacrifice? She looked likea saint already.
She could not tell him that he knew only half, that he might still bethe object of Savignon's vengeance, if she failed to keep her word.
"Perhaps the Sieur will have something to say, if my wishes fail.Unless you tell me you love this Indian, and that seems monstrous to me,this marriage shall never take place."
"It must, it must," she said, though her face was like marble, where ithad been human before. "M'sieu, what is right must be done. I promised,and you were saved."
"Of your own free will? Rose," he caught both hands in a pressure thatseemed to draw her soul along with it, "answer me truly."
"Of my will, yes, Monsieur." Her white throat swelled with the anguishshe repressed.
"You have left out the 'free,'" but he knew well why she could not utterit.
"Monsieur, I think you would be noble enough to give your life for afriend"--she was about to say "whom you loved," but she caught her voicein time.
Was this heroic maiden the little girl who had run wild in the old town,and sung songs with the birds; who had been merry and careless, butalways a sweet human Rose; the child he had taken to his heart long ago,the girl he had watched over, the woman--yes, the woman he loved with aman's first fervent passion! She should not go out of his life, now thatGod had made a space for her to come in it. Miladi he had given up toLaurent Giffard, she had never belonged to him in the deep sacredness oflove. And as he watched her, his eyes seeming to look into her soul,through the motes of light that illumined them, he knew it was notsimply that she had no love for the Indian, but that she loved him. Itseemed the sublime moment of his life, the sweetest consciousness thathe had ever known.
"You gave something greater than life. Listen," and he drew his browsinto a resolute line. "When that man comes we will have it out betweenus. For I love you, too. I owe you a great reward that only a life'sdevotion can pay. I am much older, but I seem to have just awakened tothe dream of bliss that sanctifies manhood. My darling, if a better mancame, I could give you up, if I went hungering all the rest of my days.But you shall not go to certain wretchedness. And he must see the truth.That is the way a man should love."
Her slender, white throat rose and fell like a heartbeat. With Savignonshe would be loved with a fierce passion, for the man's supreme joy;this man would love for the woman's joy.
"Monsieur, I have studied the subject, and I think it is right. I prayyou, do not disturb my resolve. It has been made after many prayers. Ifthe good Father should change His mind--but that is hardly to be thoughtof. Do not let us talk about it," and she rose.
For instead of throwing herself in the river, as she had thought in herwildness, she could cross to France, and enter a convent, if she couldnot endure it.
Ralph Destournier saw that argument was useless. When the time came, hewould act.
But May passed without bringing the lover. Quebec was beginning to takecourage, and what with hunting and fishing, semi-starvation was at anend. Emigrants came back and all was stir and activity in the littletown.
There came a letter to Rose, after a long delay. Savignon had joined aparty of explorers, who were pushing westward, and marvelled at thewonderful country. He had pondered much over his desires, and while hislove was still strong, he did not want an unwilling bride. He would giveher a longer time to consider--a year, perhaps. He had wrung a reluctantassent from her, he admitted, and taken an ungenerous advantage. Forthis he would do a year's penance, without sight of the face that had socharmed him.
Was he really brave enough to do that? Rose thought so. Destournierbelieved it some new attraction to the roving blood of the wilderness.
But Rose would not wholly accept her freedom. Still she was more likethe Rose of girlhood, though she no longer climbed or ran races. TheSieur was whiling away the heavy hours of uncertainty by teachingseveral Indian girls, and Rose found this quite a pleasure.
The servant came in with some news. Not the French vessel they hopedfor, but an English man-of-war, with two gunboats, was approaching.
If defence had been futile before, it was doubly so now. The fort wasout of repair, the guns useless from lack of ammunition, there was noprovision to sustain a siege. A small boat with a flag of truce roundedthe point, and with a heavy heart Champlain displayed his on the fort.
The two brothers of Captain David Kirke, who was now at Tadoussac, hadagain been sent to propose terms of surrender. The English were to takepossession in the name of their king.
It was a sad party that assembled around the large table, where so manyplans and hopes had stirred the brave hearts of the explorers andbuilders-up of new France. Old men they were now, Pontgrave a wreck fromrheumatism, a few dead, and Champlain, with the ruin of his ambitionsbefore him. There was some vigorous opposition to the demands, but therewas clearly no alternative but surrender. Hard as the terms were, theymust be accepted. And on July 20, 1629, the lilies of France ceased towave over Quebec, dear old Quebec, and Captain Louis Kirke tookpossession of the fort and the town, in the name of His Majesty, KingCharles I, and the standard of England floated quite as proudly over theSt. Lawrence.
Did they dream then that this scene would be enacted over again when anew Quebec, proud of her improvements and defences, that were consideredimpregnable, should fight and lose one of the greatest of battles, andtwo of the bravest of men, and again lower the lilies! A greater romancethan that of old Quebec, the dream of the Sieur de Champlain.
But it seemed a sad travesty that the mother country should send succortoo late. A French vessel, with emigrants and supplies, came in sightonly to fall into the hands of the victorious English.
Captain Emery de Caen insisted that peace had been declared two monthsbefore, but the Kirkes would not admit this. It was said that allconquests after that date were to be restored. A new hope animated theheart of the brave old Commandant. If it were true, the lilies mightreplace the flaunting standard.
Many of the citizens preferred to remain. They had their little homesand gardens, and the English proved not overbearing. Then there was anend to present want. A hundred and fifty men gave the town a newimpetus, and when the next fleet came, with the large war-ships, therewas a certain aspect of gayety, quite new to the place.
Ralph Destournier was a Frenchman at heart, though a little Englishblood ran in his veins. He had a strong desire to see France.
"Will you go?" he asked of Rose.
"Not until the year is ended," she said gravely. "But if you willgo--Wanamee and Pani can care for me. I am a little girl no longer."
It was true. There was no more little girl, but there was no more oldQuebec. It had already taken on a different aspect. Officers and men inbright uniforms climbed the narrow, crooked streets, with gay jests, inwhat seemed their rough language; there were little taverns opened,where the fife and drum played an unmelodious part. Religion was free,for there had come to be a number of Huguenots, as well as of the newEnglish church. The poor priests were at their wits' end, but they werewell treated.
Eustache Boulle was to go with the Sieur, but he never returned. He tooka rather fond farewell of Rose. "If you would go, we might findsomething of your family," he said. "I once had a slight clew."
"Is it not worth looking after?" asked Destournier, as he and Rose werewalking the plateau, since known as the Plains of Abraham. "If you wereproved of some notable family--there have been so many over-turns."
"Would you feel prouder of me?"
"No. Do you not know that you are dearer to me as the foundling ofQuebec, and the little girl I knew and loved?"
She raised luminous eyes and smiled.
"Then I do not care. No place will seem like home but this."
He would not go to France, but busied himself with his fields and histenants. He came back to the old house, altered a little, the room wheremiladi had spent her fretful invalid years was quite remodelled. Vinesgrew up about it. The narrow steps were widened.
Autumn came, and winter. The cold and somewhat careless living carriedoff many of the English. But Madame Hebert had married again, andTherese had found a husband. There was Nicolas Revert, with some growingchildren. Duchesne, a surgeon, they had been glad to welcome. ThomasGodefroy, Pierre Raye, and the Couillards formed quite a French colony.They met now and then, and kept the old spirit alive with their songsand stories.
June had come again, and the town had begun to bloom. There were stillparties searching for the north sea, for the route to India, for thegreat river that was said to lie beyond the lakes. The priests, too,were stretching out their lines, especially the Jesuits, about whomstill lingers the flavor of heroic martyrdom. Father Breibouf comingback for a short stay, to get some new word from France, told the fateof one unfortunate party. Among them he said "was that fine Indianinterpreter, Savignon, who you must remember went to the rescue of aparty the last time he was in Quebec. He was a brave man, and a greatloss to us. He had come to an excellent state of mind, and was one ofthe few Indians that give me faith in the salvation of the race."
Rose's eyes were lustrous with tears as she listened to this eulogy. Hehad proved nobler than his first passion of love. She had some Massessaid for his soul, but it pleased her better to give thanks to God forhis redemption.
"Now you belong to no one but me," Destournier said to her some weekslater, when she had recovered from her sorrow. "Yet I feel that it isselfish to take your sweet youth. I am no longer young. I shall alwaysbe a little lame, and never perhaps realize my dream of prosperity. ButI love you. I loved you as a little girl, you have always, in somefashion, belonged to me."
"I am glad to belong to you, to take your name. Do you remember that Ihave no other name but Rose? You are very good to shelter me thus. Ithink I could never have gone gladly to any one else. We are a part ofold Quebec, we are still French," and there was a little triumph in hertone.
It was true the English had taken possession after peace had beendeclared, and had not the right to hold the country. When Francedemanded the recession King Charles held off, and the Kirkes wereunwilling to yield up the government, as they found great profit in thefur trade. But needing money sorely, and as the Queen's dowry as aFrench princess had only been half paid, he made this a condition, andRichelieu accepted it.
So in 1632 Acadia, and all the important points in Canada, were cededback to France.
In the spring of the next year Champlain was again commissionedGovernor, and he set sail from Dieppe, with three vessels freighted withgoods, provisions, and the farming implements of that day, clothing andsome of the new hand-looms, beside seeds of all kinds. Two hundredpersons, many of them married couples, and farmers were to found a newQuebec.
One May morning, just at sunrise, there was a great firing of bombards,and for a brief while all was consternation and fear. But persons sentout to explore, brought the welcome news of Champlain's return. Thenwent up a mighty shout of joy, and the lilies of France were once moreunfurled to the breeze. There stood the stalwart old commander, whoselife work was crowned with success. All was gratulation. He must havebeen touched by the ovation.
M. and Madame Destournier were among the throng, while Wanamee carriedthe little son, who stared about with wondering eyes, and smiled as ifhe enjoyed the glad confusion.
Even the Indians vied with the French, as he was triumphantly escortedup the cliff, with colors flying and drums beating, and once morereceived the keys of the fort. The spontaneous welcome showed how deephe was in the affections of the people. He had been thwarted in many ofhis plans, neglected, traduced, but this hour made amends.
"Little Rose," he said, "thou art a part of old Quebec, but thy sonbegins with the new regime. Heaven bless and prosper thee and thyhusband. I should have missed thee sorely had any untoward eventhappened."
The settlement at the foot of the cliff had been burned, but the uppertown, as it came to be called, had stretched out. The Heberts were onthe summit of the cliff, that part of the town where the ancientbishops' palace stood for so long. Many of the former settlers had comeup here.
"I had hoped Madame de Champlain would return with him," Rose said. "Iwonder if any time will ever come when I shall love myself better thanyou."
He bent over and kissed her. He had never quite understood love or knownwhat happiness was until now.
When the Indians learned of the return of their beloved white chief,they planned to come in a body, and salute him. Algonquins, Ottawas,Montagnais, and the more friendly Hurons, came with their gifts, andsmoked the pipe of peace.
In the autumn Champlain commenced the first parochial church, called,appropriately, Notre Dame de Recouvrance. The Angelus was rung threetimes a day. For now the brave old soldier had grown more religious,there were no more exploring journeys, no more voyages across the stormyocean. He had said good-bye to his wife for the last time, though now,perhaps, he understood her mystical devotion better.
It was indeed a new Quebec. There was no more starvation, no moredigging of roots, and searches for edible food products. Their anxiousfaces gave way to French gayety. Up and down the steep road-way, leadingfrom the warehouses to the rough, tumble-down tenements by the river,men passed and repassed with jests and jollity, snatches of song or amerry good-day, for it was indeed good. There were children of mixedparentage, playing about, for Indian mothers were no uncommon thing. Thefort, the church, and the dwellings high up above, gave it a picturesqueaspect. You heard the boatmen singing their songs of old France as theywent up and down the beautiful river. Stone houses began to appear,though wigwams still remained. New streets were opened, but they wereloth to level the hills, and some of them remain to this day.
Ralph and Rose Destournier had a happy life. Children grew up aroundthem. A large, new house received them presently, but they kept a fondremembrance for the old one that seemed somehow to belong exclusively toMiladi and a dreamy sort of old life.
A mixed population it was, shaped by the sincerity of their religion.There were priests in their gray and black cassocks, officers in bravetrappings, traders, Indians, farmers, stout and strong, and thepicturesque
_coureurs de bois_, that came to be a great feature, andadded not a little to the romance of the place. They were not all mereadventurers, but they loved a roving life. Settlements were made hereand there, an important one at Three Rivers, where the Recolletsestablished a mission. The summers were given over to work and business,thronged with traders and trappers, but they found time in the wintersfor much social life.
If the Sieur missed his old friend Hebert, there were others to take anactive interest in horticulture. Pontgrave was no more, but his grandsonkept up the name. A few years later the earnest young Rene de Robaultgave his fortune for the building of a college, and this kept the youngmen from returning to old France for an education. Convent schools wereestablished, and Indian girls were trained in the amenities andindustries of social life. Montreal spread out her borders as well, theBeauport road came to be a place of fine estates. All the way to themouth of the great river there were trading stations. The fur company'sbusiness was good, there were new explorations to Lake Huron, GeorgianBay, Lake Michigan, up to the Fox river.
Of the sons and daughters growing up in the Destournier household,Helene, who should have been a devotee, was a merry madcap, who exceededher mother in daring feats, a dark-eyed, laughing maid the Indian girlsadored. She could manage a canoe, she could fly, they said, she tooksuch wonderful leaps. Rose could sing like a bird and had a fondness forall animals. Little Barbe was a dainty, loving being, always clinging toher mother, and three sons were devoted to their father whose snowywhite hair was like a crown of silver. They loved to hear the old tales,and fired with resentment when the lilies of France had to give way tothe flag of England.
"But they will never do it again," Robert Destournier would exclaim,with flashing eyes.
But they did almost a century later. Robert was not there to strike auseless blow for his beloved land. That belongs to the story of a newerQuebec, and now all the romances are gathered up into history.
In the autumn of 1635 the brave, beloved Champlain passed away in theheart of the city that had been his love, his ambition, his life-dream.The explorer, the crusader, the sharer of toils and battles, his storyis one of the knightly romances of that period, and his name isenshrined with that of old Quebec. Other heroes were to come, otherbattles to be fought, much work for priest and civilian, but this is thesimplest, the bravest of them all, for its mighty work was done at greatodds.
To-day you find the Citadel, the old French fort, but the wharves anddocks run out in the river, and there are steamboats, instead of canoes.There is the Market Place and the City Hall, the Grande Allee St. LouisPlace and Gate, the crowded business-point, with its ferries, the greatLouise basin and embankment. The city runs out to St. Charles river, andstretches on and on until you reach the Convent of the Sacred Heart.There are still the upper and the lower town, and the steep ways, theheights that Wolfe climbed, the world-famed Plains of Abraham.
Everywhere is historic ground, monuments of courage, zeal, and religion.The streets have old names. Here on a height so steep you wonder howthey are content to climb it, juts out a little stone eyrie, just as itstood a hundred years ago. Three or four generations have lived withinits walls, and they are as French to-day as they were then. They wantnothing of the modern gauds of the present. Grandmothers used the clumsyfurniture, and it is almost worth a king's ransom, it has so manylegends woven around it.
There is the Chateau Frontenac, that recalls romance and bravery. Thereare churches, with their stories. There are the old Jesuit barracks, outof which went many a heroic soul to face martyrdom, there is the Chiend'Or, with its stone dog gnawing a bone, and the romance of NicolasJaquin Philibert, the brave Huguenot.
There are old graveyards, where rest the pioneers who prayed, and hoped,and starved with Champlain. All the stories can never be written, allthe monuments that speak of glory do not tell of the sufferings. Yetthere were happy lives, and happy loves, as well. The storms die out,the light and sunshine dry up the tears, and courage is given to go on.
The old French days have left their impress. Champlain will always be aliving memory, as the founder of one of the marvellous cities of theworld. Gay little girls run about and climb the heights, they dance andsing, and have their festivals, and are happy in the thrice-renewedQuebec. Many a Rose has blossomed and faded since the days ofDestournier.
THE END
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