"Well, as I was saying," continued José, "La Thèque said to her husband: 'Are you going to see the girls, my man? Look out for yourself! If you get off any pranks I will let you into the soup.'
"'You know very well I'm not,' said Larouche laughingly, and flicking her on the back with his whip. 'Here we are at the end of March, my grain is all thrashed out, and I'm going to carry my tithes to the priest.'
"'That's right, my man,' said his wife, who was a good Christian; 'we must render back to God a share of what he has just given us.'
"Larouche then threw his sacks upon the sled, lit his pipe with a hot coal, sprang aboard, and set off in high spirits.
"As he was passing a bit of woods he met a traveler, who approached by a side path.
"This stranger was a tall, handsome man of about thirty. Long fair hair fell about his shoulders, his blue eyes were as sweet as an angel's, and his countenance wore a sort of tender sadness. His dress was a long blue robe tied at the waist. Larouche said he had never seen any one so beautiful as this stranger, and that the loveliest woman was ugly in comparison.
"'Peace be with you, my brother,' said the traveler.
"'I thank you for your good wishes,' answered Davy; 'a good word burns nobody's mouth. But that is something I don't particularly need. I am at peace, thank God, with everybody. I have an excellent wife, good children, we get on well together, all my neighbors love me. I have nothing to desire in the way of peace.'
"'I congratulate you,' said the traveler. 'Your sled is well loaded; where are you going this morning?'
"'It is my tithes which I am taking to the priest.'
"'It would seem, then,' said the stranger, 'that you have had a good harvest, reckoning one measure of tithes to every twenty-six measures of clean grain.'
"'Good enough, I confess; but if I had had the weather just to my fancy it would have been something very much better.'
"'You think so,' said the traveler.
"'No manner of doubt of it,' answered Davy.
"'Very well,' said the stranger; 'now you shall have just what weather you wish, and much good may it do you.'
"Having spoken thus, he disappeared around the foot of a little hill.
"'That's queer now,' thought Davy. 'I know very well that there are wicked people who go about the world putting spells on men, women, children, or animals. Take the case of the woman, Lestin Coulombe, who, on the very day of her wedding, made fun of a certain beggar who squinted in his left eye. She had good cause to regret it, poor thing; for he said to her angrily: "Take care, young woman, that your own children don't turn out cross-eyed." She trembled, poor creature, for every child she brought into the world, and not without good cause; for the fourteenth, when looked at closely, showed a blemish on its right eye.'"
"It seems to me," said Jules, "that Madame Lestin must have had a mighty dread of cross-eyed children if she could not be content to present her dear husband with one even after twenty years of married life. Evidently she was a thoughtful and easy-going woman, who took her time about whatever she was going to do."
José shook his head with a dubious air and continued:
"'Well,' thought Larouche to himself, 'though bad folk go about the country putting spells on people, I have never heard of saints wandering around Canada to work miracles. After all, it is no business of mine. I won't say a word about it, and we'll see next spring.'
"About that time the next year Davy, very much ashamed of himself, got up secretly, long before daylight, to take his tithes to the priest. He had no need of horse or sleigh. He carried the whole thing in his handkerchief.
"As the sun was rising he once more met the stranger, who said to him:
"'Peace be with you, my brother!'
"'Never was wish more appropriate,' answered Larouche, 'for I believe the devil himself has got into my house, and is kicking up his pranks there day and night. My wife scolds me to death from morn till eve, my children sulk when they are not doing worse, and all my neighbors are set against me.'
"'I am very sorry to hear it,' said the traveler, 'but what are you carrying in that little parcel?'
"'My tithes,' answered Larouche, with an air of chagrin.
"'It seems to me, however,' said the stranger, 'that you have been having just the weather you asked for.'
"'I acknowledge it,' said Davy. 'When I asked for sunshine, I had it; when I wanted rain, wind, calm weather, I got them; yet nothing has succeeded with me. The sun burned up the grain, the rain caused it to rot, the wind beat it down, the calm brought the night frosts. My neighbors are all bitter against me; they regard me as a sorcerer, who has brought a curse on their harvests. My wife began by distrusting me, and has ended by heaping me with reproaches. In a word, it is enough to drive one crazy.'
"'Which proves to you, my brother,' said the traveler, 'that your wish was a foolish one; that one must always trust to the providence of God, who knows what is good for man better than man can know it for himself. Put your trust in him, and you will not have to endure the humiliation of having to carry your tithes in a handkerchief.'
"With these words, the stranger again disappeared around the hill.
"Larouche took the hint, and thenceforth acknowledged God's providence, without wishing to meddle with the weather."
As José brought his tale to an end, Archie said: "I like exceedingly the simplicity of this legend. It has a lofty moral, and at the same time it displays the vivid faith of the habitants of New France. Shame on the heartless philosopher who would deprive them of that whence they derive so many a consolation in the trials of life!
"It must be confessed," continued Archie later, when they were at a little distance from the sleigh, "that our friend José has always an appropriate story ready; but do you believe that his father really told him that marvelous dream that was dreamed on the hillsides of St. Michel?"
"I perceive," said Jules, "that you do not yet know José's talents; he is an inexhaustible raconteur. The neighbors gather in our kitchen on the long winter evenings, and José spins them a story which often goes on for weeks. When he feels his imagination beginning to flag he breaks off, and says: 'I'm getting tired; I'll tell you the rest another day.'
"José is also a much more highly esteemed poet than my learned uncle the chevalier, who prides himself on his skill in verse. He never fails to sacrifice to the Muses either on flesh days or on New Year's Day. If you were at my father's house at such times, you would see messengers arrive from all parts of the parish in quest of José's compositions."
"But he does not know how to write," said Archie.
"No more do his audience know how to read," replied Jules. "This is how they work it. They send to the poet a good chanter (chanteux), as they call him, who has a prodigious memory; and, presto! inside of half an hour said chanter has the whole poem in his head. For any sorrowful occasion José is asked to compose a lament; and if it be an occasion of mirth he is certain to be in demand. That reminds me of what happened to a poor devil of a lover who had taken his sweetheart to a ball without being invited. Although unexpected, they were received with politeness, but the young man was so awkward as to trip the daughter of the house while dancing, which raised a shout of laughter from all the company. The young girl's father, being a rough fellow and very angry at the accident, took poor José Blais by the shoulders and put him out of the house. Then he made all manner of excuses to the poor girl whose lover had been so unceremoniously dismissed, and would not permit her to leave. On hearing of this, our friend José yonder was seized with an inspiration, and improvised the following naïve bit of verse:
"A party after vespers at the house of old Boulé;
But the lads that couldn't dance were asked to stay away:
Mon ton ton de ritaine, mon ton ton de rité.
"The lads that couldn't dance were asked to stay away,
But his heart was set on going, was the heart of José Blai:
Mon ton ton, etc.
His heart was set on going, was the heart of José Blai.
'Get done your chores,' said his mistress, 'and I will not say you
nay':
Mon ton ton, etc.
"'Get done your chores,' said his mistress, 'and I will not say you
nay':
So he hurried out to the barn to give the cows their hay:
Mon ton ton, etc.
"He hurried out to the barn to give the cows their hay.
He rapped Rougett' on the nose, and on the ribs Barré:
Mon ton ton, etc.
"He rapped Rougett' on the nose, and on the ribs Barré,
And then rubbed down the horses in the quickest kind of way:
Mon ton ton, etc.
"He rubbed down the horses in the quickest kind of way;
Then dressed him in his vest of red and coat of blue and gray:
Mon ton ton, etc.
"He dressed him in his vest of red and coat of blue and gray,
And black cravat, and shoes for which he had to pay:
Mon ton ton, etc.
"His black cravat, and shoes for which he had to pay;
And he took his dear Lizett', so proud of his display:
Mon ton ton, etc.
"He took his dear Lizett', so proud of his display;
But they kicked him out to learn to dance, and call another day:
Mon ton ton, etc.
"They kicked him out to learn to dance, and call another day;
But they kept his dear Lizett', his pretty fiancée:
Mon ton ton de ritaine, mon ton ton de rité."
"Why, it is a charming little idyl!" cried Archie, laughing. "What a pity José had not an education! Canada would possess one poet the more."
"But to return to the experiences of his late father," said Jules, "I believe that the old drunkard, after having dared La Corriveau (a thing which the habitants consider very foolhardy, as the dead are sure to avenge themselves, sooner or later) – I believe the old drunkard fell asleep in the ditch just opposite Isle d'Orléans, where the habitants traveling by night always think they see witches; I believe also that he suffered a terrible nightmare, during which he thought himself attacked by the goblins of the island on the one hand and by La Corriveau on the other. José's vivid imagination has supplied the rest, for you see how he turns everything to account – the pictures in your natural history, for instance, and the Cyclopes in my uncle's illustrated Virgil, of which his dear late father had doubtless never heard a word. Poor José! How sorry I am for the way I abused him the other day. I knew nothing of it until the day following, for I had entirely lost my senses on seeing you disappear in the flood. I begged his pardon very humbly, and he answered: 'What! are you still thinking about that trifle? Why, I look back upon it with pleasure now all the racket is over. It made me even feel young again, reminding me of your furies when you were a youngster – when you would scratch and bite like a little wild cat, and when I would carry you off in my arms to save you from the punishment of your parents. How you used to cry! And then, when your anger was over, you would bring me your playthings to console me."
"Faithful José! what unswerving attachment to our family through every trial! Men with hearts as dry as tinder often look with scorn on such people as José, though possessed of none of their virtues. A noble heart is the best gift of God to man."
As our travelers drew near the manor house of St. Jean-Port-Joli, whose roof they could see under the starlight, the conversation of Jules D'Haberville, ordinarily so frivolous and mocking, grew more and more thoughtful and sincere.
CHAPTER VI.
D'HABERVILLE MANOR HOUSE
Je bénis le soleil, je bénis la lune et les astres qui étoilent le ciel. Je bénis aussi les petits oiseaux qui gazouillent dans l'air.
Henri Heine.
D'haberville Manor House was situated at the foot of a bluff which covered about nine acres of the seigniory, on the south side of the highway. This bluff was about a hundred feet high and very picturesque. Its summit was clothed with pines and firs, whose perpetual green formed a cheerful contrast with the desolation of the winter landscape. Jules D'Haberville used to compare these trees, triumphing on their height and flaunting their fadeless green in the face of the harshest seasons, to the mighty ones of the earth whose strength and happiness are beyond the reach of vicissitude, however much the poor may shiver at their feet.
One might well believe that the brush of a Claude Lorraine had exercised itself in adorning the flanks and base of this hill, so endless was the variety of the trees which had gathered thither from all the neighboring woodlands. Elm, maple, birch, and beech, red thorn, cherry, ash, and cedar, sumach, and all the other native trees which are the glory of our forests, combined to throw a cloak of all imaginable greens over the rugged outlines of the bluff.
A wood of ancient maples covered the space between the foot of the bluff and the highway, which was bordered with hedges of hazel and cinnamon rose.
The first object to attract the eye on approaching the manor house was a brook, which, falling through the trees in a succession of foamy cascades down the southwest slope of the hill, mingled its clear current with that of a fountain which burst forth some distance below. After winding and loitering through a breadth of meadow country, the wedded streams slipped reluctantly into the St. Lawrence.
The spring, bubbling from the very heart of the hill into a basin cut from the living rock, preserves its icy coolness, its crystal purity, through the fiercest heats of summer. It was inclosed in those days in a little white-washed pavilion, thick shaded by a group of ancient trees. The seats arranged within and without this cool retreat, the cone-shaped drinking-cups of birch bark hanging on the wall, served as so many invitations from the nymph of the fount to wayfarers oppressed by the dog-star.
Fresh as of old, to this day the hill-top keeps its crown of emerald, the slope preserves its varied verdure; but of the ancient grove there remain but five gnarled maples. These trees, decaying little by little beneath the touch of time, like the closing years of the master of the domain, appear almost like a visible and ceaseless prophecy that his life will fade out with that of the last veteran of the grove. When the last log shall have been consumed in warming the old man's frozen limbs, its ashes will mingle with his own – a grim admonition, like that of the priest on Ash Wednesday: "Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, ut in pulverem reverteris."
The manor house, situated between the river St. Lawrence and the bluff, was divided from the water only by the highway, the grove, and a spacious yard. It was a one-storied structure with high gables, about a hundred feet long, with two wings of fifty feet. A bake-house, built into the northeast corner of the kitchen, served also the purpose of a laundry. A small attachment, adjoining the great drawing-room on the southwest, gave symmetry to the proportions of this piece of early Canadian architecture.
Two other small buildings at the southeast served, the one for a dairy, the other for a second wash-house. This wash-house stood over a well, which was connected by a long trough with the kitchen of the main building. Coach-houses, barns, stables, five small sheds (three of them standing in the grove), a kitchen garden to the southwest of the manor house, two orchards on the north and northeast, respectively – all these went to make up the establishment of one of the old French Canadian seigneurs. The habitants called the establishment "le village D'Haberville."
Sitting on the crest of the bluff, it mattered little in what direction one allowed his gaze to wander. Immediately below the little village, dazzlingly white, appeared to spring from the green bosom of the meadows. On all sides a panorama of splendid magnificence unrolled itself. There was the sovereign of streams, already seven leagues in width, confined on the north by the ancient barrier of Laurentians, whose feet it washes, and whose peopled slopes are in view from Cape Tourmente to Malbaie; yonder, to the west, Ile aux Oies and Ile aux Grues; right in front, the Piliers Islands, one of which is as arid as the Ægean rock of Circe, the other always green, like the Ogygian paradise of Calypso; northward, the reefs and shoals of the Loups-Marins, so dear to Canadian hunters; and, lastly, the hamlets of l'Islet and St. Jean-Port-Joli, crowned with their gleaming spires.
It was nearly nine in the evening when the young men arrived on the slope overlooking the manor. At the first glimpse of the scene which recalled the happiest days of his existence, Jules paused and exclaimed:
"Never have I approached this home of my ancestors without being deeply impressed. Let them boast as they will the scenes of beauty or sublimity which abound in our fair Canada, among them all there is but one for me, this spot where I was born, where I passed my childhood under such tender cherishing! I used to think the days too short for my childish sports. I rose at dawn, I dressed in haste, my thirst for my enjoyments was feverish and unfailing.
"I love everything about us. I love the moon which you see climbing over the wooded crest of the bluff; nowhere else does she appear to me so beautiful. I love yonder brook which used to turn my little water mills. I love the fountain which refreshed me in the August heats.
"Yonder my mother used to sit," continued Jules, pointing out a mossy rock in the shadow of two great beeches. "Thither I used to bring her in my little silver cup the ice-cool water from the spring. Ah! how often this tender mother, watching by my pillow, or awakened suddenly by my cries, brought me that same cup filled with sweet milk! And to think that I must leave all this – perhaps forever! O mother, mother!"
Jules burst into tears.
Lochiel, much moved, grasped his friend's hand and answered:
"You will come back again, my brother. You will come back, bringing glory and good fortune to your family."
"Thank you, dear old boy," said Jules, "but let us hurry on. The greetings of my parents will soon scatter this little cloud."
Archie, who had never before visited the country in spring-time, wished to know the meaning of those white objects which he saw at the dusky foot of every maple.
"Those are the three-cornered spouts," said Jules, "which catch the sap for making sugar. The sugar-maker cuts a notch in the tree and right beneath it he drives in one of these affairs."
"One might almost say," replied Archie, "that these trees were vast water-pipes, with their funnels ready to supply a crowded city."
He was interrupted by the barking of a great dog, which came running to meet them.
"Niger! Niger!" shouted Jules. At the sound of the well-loved voice the dog paused, then ran up and snuffed at his master to assure himself of his identity. He returned Jules's caresses with a howling half joyous, half plaintive, which expressed his love as well as words could have done.
"Ah, poor Niger," said Jules, "I understand your language perfectly. It is half a reproach to me for having stayed away from you so long, and it is half delight at seeing me again, with forgiveness of my neglect. Poor Niger, when I come again after my long, long journey, you will not even have the happiness that was granted to the faithful hound of Ulysses, of dying at your master's feet."
The reader is doubtless ready by this time to make the acquaintance of the D'Haberville family. Let me introduce them according to their rank in the domestic hierarchy:
The Seigneur D'Haberville was scarcely forty-five years old, but the toils of war had so told on his constitution that he looked a good ten years older. His duties as captain in the Colonial Marine kept him constantly under arms. The ceaseless forest warfare, with no shelter, according to the stern Canadian custom, except the vault of heaven, the expeditions of reconnoissance or surprise against the Iroquois or against the English settlements, carried on during the severest weather, produced their speedy effect on the strongest frames.
Captain D'Haberville might fairly have been called handsome. A little below the medium height, his regular features, his vivid complexion, his great black eyes which softened at will but whose intensity when aroused few men could face, the simple elegance of his manners, all combined to give him an air of extreme distinction. A severe critic might perhaps have found fault with the great length and thickness of his black eyebrows.
As to character, the Seigneur D'Haberville was possessed of all those qualities which distinguished the early Canadians of noble birth. It is true, on the other hand, that he might fairly have been charged with vindictiveness. An injury, real or supposed, he found it hard to forgive.
Madame D'Haberville, a devout and gentle woman of thirty-six, was endowed with that mature beauty which men often prefer to the freshness of youth. Blonde and of medium height, her countenance was of an angelic sweetness. Her sole object seemed to be the happiness of those about her. The habitants, in their simple way, used to call her "the perfect lady."
Mademoiselle Blanche D'Haberville, younger than her brother Jules, was the image of her mother, but of a somewhat graver temperament. Wise beyond her years, she had a great influence over her brother, whose outbursts she often checked with one imploring glance. While apparently absorbed in her own thoughts, the girl was capable, on occasion, of acting with energy and effect.
Madame Louise de Beaumont, younger sister of Madame D'Haberville, had lived with her ever since her marriage. Though rich and independent, she was altogether devoted to her sister's family. Sharing their happiness, she was equally ready to share, should need arise, the utmost that adversity could bring upon them.
Lieutenant Raoul D'Haberville, or rather the Chevalier D'Haberville, whom everybody called Uncle Raoul, was a younger brother of the captain by two years. He looked fully ten years his senior. A little man was Uncle Raoul, almost as broad as he was long, and walking with the assistance of a stick; he would have been remarkably ugly even if the small-pox could have been induced to spare his countenance. It is hard to say how he came by his nickname. One may say of a man, he has a paternal air, he is un petit père; but one accuses nobody of having an avuncular appearance. For all that, Lieutenant D'Haberville was everybody's uncle. Even his soldiers, unknown to him, used to call him Uncle Raoul. In like manner, to compare great things with small, Napoleon was to the grumblers merely "the little corporal."
Uncle Raoul was the littérateur of the D'Haberville family, and, therefore, something of a pedant, like almost all men who live in daily contact with people less learned than themselves. Uncle Raoul was the best fellow in the world when he had his own way; but he had one little defect. He held the profound conviction that he was always right, which made him very bad tempered with any who might dare to differ with him.
Uncle Raoul prided himself on his knowledge of Latin, fragments of which language he was wont to launch freely at the heads of cultured and ignorant alike. Endless were his discussions with the curé over some line of Horace, Ovid, or Virgil, who were his favorite authors. The curé, who was of a mild and peaceable humor, almost always grew weary of the contest and gave way before his fiery opponent. But Uncle Raoul also prided himself on being a profound theologian, which was the cause of much embarrassment to the poor curé. The latter was deeply concerned for the soul of his friend, who had been in his youth a rather risky subject, and whom he had had great difficulty in leading into better courses. He found it necessary, however, sometimes to give way on points not absolutely essential to the safety of Uncle Raoul's soul. When points were attacked which he durst not yield he was wont to call in the aid of Blanche, whom her uncle idolized.
"Dear uncle," she would say to him with a caress, "are you not already learned enough without encroaching on the field of our good pastor? You are victorious on all the other points under discussion," she would add, with a sly glance at the curé; "be generous, then, and suffer yourself to be convinced on those points which are the especial province of God's ministers."
Thereupon, as Uncle Raoul argued simply for the pleasure of argument, a peace would be concluded between the disputants.
Uncle Raoul was by no means the least important personage at D'Haberville manor. Since his retirement from the army, the captain, whom military service kept much away from home, left the management of affairs entirely in his hands. His occupations were very numerous. He kept account of the receipts and expenditures of the family; he collected the rents of the seigniory; he managed the farm; he betook himself every Sunday, rain or shine, to mass to receive the Easter water in the seigneur's absence; and, among other minor duties which devolved upon him, he presented for baptism all the first-born children of the tenants of the estate – an honor which belonged to his elder brother, but of which the latter had freed himself in favor of Raoul.
A little incident may be cited to show Uncle Raoul's importance. Let us imagine ourselves in the month of November, when the seigneurial rents fall due. Uncle Raoul, with a long quill pen behind his ear, sits in a great armchair as on a throne. Beside him is a table covered with green cloth, and on this table rests his sword. As the tenant appears, he assumes an expression of severity, which does not greatly alarm the debtor, for the Seigneur D'Haberville is an indulgent landlord, and his tenants pay when they please.
But Uncle Raoul is more deeply concerned for the form than for the substance; the appearance of power pleases him even as power itself. He will have everything done with due ceremony.
"How do you do, my – my – lieutenant?" says the censitaire, accustomed to call him uncle behind his back.
"Very well. And thyself? What wilt thou?" replies Uncle Raoul, with an air of great importance.
"I have come to pay the rent, my – my lieutenant; but the times are so hard that I have no money," says Jean Baptiste, ducking his head penitently.
"Nescio vos!" exclaims Uncle Raoul in a sonorous voice; "reddite quæ sunt Cæsaris Cæsari."
"That's fine what you say, my – my captain, so fine that I can't understand it at all," murmurs the censitaire.
"It's Latin, blockhead!" exclaims Uncle Raoul, "and this Latin means, pay your lawful rents to the Seigneur D'Haberville, on pain of being taken before the King's courts and of being condemned in first and second instance to pay all expense, damages, claims, and costs."
"It would go hard with me," murmurs the censitaire.
"Heavens, you may well say so!" exclaims Uncle Raoul, raising his eyes to the ceiling.
"I know very well my – my seigneur, that your Latin threatens me with all these punishments; but I had the misfortune to lose my filly of last spring."
"What, you rascal! On account of having lost a wretched brute of six months old you wish to evade the seigneurial claims, which have been established by your sovereign on a foundation as enduring as yonder mountains. Quos ego …!"
"I believe," murmurs the habitant to himself, "that he is speaking Indian to frighten me."
Then he adds aloud: "You see, my filly, according to what all the best judges declared, would have been in four years' time the best trotter on all the south shore, and worth a hundred francs if a penny."
"Oh, to the devil with you!" replied Uncle Raoul. "Go and tell Lisette to give you a good drink of brandy, to console you for the loss of your filly. These scoundrels," adds Uncle Raoul, "drink more of our brandy than their rents will ever pay for."
The habitant, going into the kitchen, remarks to Lisette with a chuckle: "I've had a bad job with Uncle Raoul; he even threatened to haul me up before the courts."
As Uncle Raoul was very devout after his fashion, he failed not to tell his beads and read his primer daily. In singular contrast with this devotion, however, his leisure moments were occupied in cursing, with an edifying fervor, his enemies the English, who had broken a leg for him at the capture of Louisburg. It was this accident which had compelled him to relinquish the life of a soldier.
When the young men arrived before the manor-house, they were astonished at the sight that met their eyes. Not only were all the rooms lit up, but also some of the out-buildings. There was an unaccustomed stir, a strange hurrying to and fro. As the whole yard was illuminated by the blaze of lights, they could distinguish six men armed with guns and axes and seated on a log.
"I perceive," remarked Archie, "that the lord of the manor has called out his guard to give us a fitting reception, just as I predicted."
José, who did not understand this sort of chaffing, shifted his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, muttered something between his teeth, and began to smoke fiercely.
"I can not tell why my father's guards, as you do them the honor to call them, are under arms," answered Jules, laughing, "unless it is that they are expecting an attack from our friends the Iroquois. But, come on, we'll soon solve the problem."
As they entered the yard the six men rose simultaneously and came forward to welcome their young master and his friend.
"What, you here!" exclaimed Jules, grasping their hands cordially; "you, Father Chouinard! you, Julien! and Alexis Dubé, and Father Tontaine, and François Maurice, the incorrigible! Why, I thought the parish would have taken advantage of my absence to rise as one man and chuck you into the St. Lawrence, as a proper punishment for the infernal tricks you play on peaceable people."
"Our young seigneur," said Maurice, "always has his joke ready; but, if they were to drown all those who put other folk into a rage, I know some one who would have got his deserts long ago."