The Project Gutenberg EBook of The False Chevalier, by William Douw Lighthall This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: The False Chevalier or, The Lifeguard of Marie Antoinette Author: William Douw Lighthall Release Date: September 27, 2007 [EBook #22779] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE FALSE CHEVALIER *** Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Canadian Institute for Historical Microreproductions www.canadiana.org) THE FALSE CHEVALIER OR The Lifeguard of Marie Antoinette BY W. D. LIGHTHALL This Edition is intended for circulation only in the Dominion of Canada. The Palace of Versailles. After the contemporary acquarelle by Portail. F. E. GRAFTON & SONS MONTREAL 1898 (All rights reserved) To CYBEL, MY WIFE, the sweet companion and critic of my labours on this book CONTENTS —— Chap. I. THE FUR-TRADER'S SON II. GERMAIN IN FRANCE III. THE INNKEEPER'S LESSON IV. THE CASTLE OF QUIET WATERS V. MONSIEUR DE RÉPENTIGNY VI. EPERGNES AND WAX-LIGHTS VII. "THE LEAP IS TAKEN" VIII. THE ABBÉ'S DISASTER IX. A PHILOSOPHER BEHIND HORSE-PISTOLS X. THE GALLEY-ON-LAND XI. THE COURT XII. GERMAIN GOES TO PARIS XIII. A JAR IN ST. ELPHÈGE XIV. THE OLD-IRON SHOP XV. THE BEGGARS' BALL XVI. BROKEN ON THE WHEEL XVII. THE SAVING OF LA TOUR XVIII. MADAME L'ETIQUETTE XIX. THE COMMISSION XX. DESCAMPATIVOS XXI. THE SHADOW OF THE GOLDEN DOG XXII. THE SECRET OUT XXIII. THE EXECUTIONER OF DESTINY XXIV. A CURIOUS PROFESSION XXV. FACING THE MUSIC XXVI. A DUEL XXVII. JUDE AND THE GALLEY XXVIII. ANOTHER DUEL XXIX. THE LETTRE DE CACHET XXX. THE HEAVENS FALL XXXI. ONE DEFENDER XXXII. A STRONG PROOF XXXIII. THE REGISTER OF ST. GERMAIN-DES-PRÉS XXXIV. AT QUEBEC XXXV. AT ST. ELPHÈGE XXXVI. AT MONTREAL XXXVII. ONCE MORE THE SWORD XXXVIII. THE RECORD XXXIX. THE MARQUIS'S VISITOR XL. AN UNEXPECTED ALLIANCE XLI. A POOR ADVOCATE XLII. A HARD SEASON XLIII. BACK AT EAUX TRANQUILLES XLIV. SELF-DEFENCE XLV. THE NECESSITIES OF CONDITION XLVI. THE PATRIOTS XLVII. THE DEFENCE OF THE BODYGUARD XLVIII. SISTERS DEATH AND TRUTH XLIX. CIVIC VIRTUE L. JUDGMENT DAY LI. LOVE ENDURETH ALL THINGS LII. THE SUPREME EXACTITUDE LIII. RETRIBUTION ACCOMPLISHED PREFATORY NOTE —— This story is founded on a packet of worm-eaten letters and documents found in an old French- Canadian house on the banks of the St. Lawrence. The romance they rudely outline, its intrigues, its brilliancy of surroundings, its intensity of feelings, when given the necessary touches of history and imagination, so fascinated the writer that the result was the present book. A packet of documents of course is not a novel, and the reader may be able to guess what is mine and what is likely to have been the scanty limit of the original hint. The student of history will recognise my debt to many authorities; among whom the chief are Paul Lacroix and Taine. I wish it distinctly understood that the person attacked in the documents in question is not the hero of this narrative. W. D. L. THE FALSE CHEVALIER —— CHAPTER I THE FUR-TRADER'S SON The son of the merchant Lecour was a handsome youth, and there was great joy in the family at his coming home to St. Elphège. For he was going to France on the morrow; it was with that object that his father had sent to town for him—the little walled town of Montreal. It was evening, early in May, of the year 1786. According to an old custom of the French- Canadians, the merchant, surrounded by his family, was bestowing upon his son the paternal blessing. It was a touching sight—the patriarchal ceremony of benediction. The father was a fine type of the peasant. His features might, in the strong chiaroscuro of the candle-light, have stood as model for some church fresco of a St. Peter. His dress was of grey country homespun, cut in a long coat, and girded by a many-coloured arrow-pattern sash, and on his feet he wore a pair of well-worn beef-skin mocassins. The son was some twenty years of age, and his mien and dress told of the better social advantages of the town. Indeed, his costume, though somewhat worn, had marks of good fashion. His younger sister (for he had two, of whom one was absent), and his mother, a lively, black- eyed woman, who dressed and bore herself ambitiously for her station, gazed on him in fond pride as he knelt. "My son," the merchant said reverently, his hands outstretched over his boy, "the Almighty keep and guard thee; may the blessing of thy father and thy mother follow thee wherever thou goest." "Amen," the son responded. He rose and stood before his parent with bent head. The old man exhorted him gravely on the dangers before him—on the ruffians and lures of Paris, and the excitements of youth. He warned him to attend to his religious duties, and to do credit to his family and their condition in life by respectful and irreproachable conduct. "Never forget," he concluded, in words which the young man remembered in after years, "that the Eternal Justice follows us everywhere, and calls us to exact account, either on earth or in the after life, for all our acts." But here Lecour's solemn tone ceased, and he continued—"Now, Germain, I must explain to you more closely the business on which I have sent for you so suddenly. The North-West Company, who, as you know, command the fur-trade of Canada, have word that a new fashion just introduced into Paris has doubled the demand for beaver and tripled the price. They are hurrying over all their skins by their ship which sails in ten days to London from Quebec. I have space on a vessel which goes direct to Dieppe the day after to-morrow, and can therefore forestall them by about two weeks. I have gathered my winter stock into the boats you will see at our landing; and your mother, who has always been so eager to send you to France, has persuaded me to have you as my supercargo. Go, my boy; it is a great opportunity to see the world." "Yes, my Germain, at last," wife Lecour exclaimed joyfully, throwing her arms around his neck, "at last you will set eyes on Versailles, and my dreams about you will come true!" The youth himself was in a daze of smiles and tears. The chamber in which they were was the living-room of the house. Its low ceiling of heavy beams, its spotlessly sanded floor, carpeted with striped catalogne, its pine table, and home-made chairs of elm, were common sights in the country. But a tall, brass-faced London clock in one corner, a cupboard fuller than usual of blue-pattern stone-ware in another, a large copper-plate of the "Descent from the Cross," and an ebony and ivory crucifix on the walls, were indications of more than average prosperity. So thin was population throughout Canada in those days that to leave the banks of the St. Lawrence almost anywhere was to leave human habitation. The hamlet of St. Elphège was part of the half-wild parish of Répentigny. The cause of its existence was its position some miles up the Assumption, as a gateway of many smaller rivers tributary to the latter, which itself was tributary to the River of Jesus; and that in turn, less than a mile further on, to the vast St Lawrence. It flourished on the trade of wandering tribes from up the Achigan, the Lac-Ouareau, the St Esprit, and the Rouge, and on the sale of supplies to rude settlers above and the farmers below. It flourished by the energy of one man—this man, its founder, the Merchant Lecour. He had started life with small prospects; his ideas were of the simplest, and he was at first even a complete stranger to writing and figures. In his youth a common soldier in the levies of the Marquis de Montcalm on the campaigns towards lake Champlain, he had acquired favour with his colonel by his steadiness, had been given charge of a canteen, and in dispensing brandy to his comrades had found it possible to sell a few small articles. The defence of New France against the British collapsed on the investiture of Montreal by Sir Jeffrey Amherst in 1760. The French army surrendered, and part of it was shipped back to the motherland. Lecour remained, and shouldering a pedlar's pack, plodded about the country selling red handkerchiefs, sashes, and jack-knives to the peasantry. Being attracted by the convenience of the portage for dealings with the Indians of the north, he selected a spot in the forest and built a little log dwelling. Success followed from the first. Beaver-skins rose into fabulous demand in Europe for cocked hats, and made the fortunes of all who supplied them. The streams behind Lecour's post were teeming with beaver-dams. He easily kept his monopoly of the trade, and several times a year would send a fleet of boats down to Quebec, which returned with goods imported from Europe. Finally he extended his dealings throughout the Province into varied branches of business, and "the Merchant of St. Elphège" became a household name with the French-Canadians. The home of the Lecours—half dwelling, half vaulted warehouse—was one of four capacious provincial stone cottage buildings, standing about a quadrangular yard, each bearing high up on its peak a date and brief inscription, one of which read "À Dieu la Gloire!"—"To God the Glory." Just at the end of the family scene previously described, a noise was heard without, the latch was lifted, and a troop of Lecour's neighbours and dependants pushed in, an old fiddler at their head, who, clattering forward in sabots, removed his blue tuque from his head, and politely bowed to Lecour. "Father," he said, "these young people ask your permission to give a dance in honour of Monsieur Germain." The Lecours appreciated the honour; the room was cleared, music struck up, and festivity was soon in progress. What a display of neat ankles and deft feet in mocassins! What a clattering of sabots and shuffling of "beefs"! The perspiration rolled off the brow of the musician, and young Lecour was whirling round like a madcap with the daughter of the ferryman of Répentigny, when the latch was again lifted, and the door silently opened. Every woman set up a shriek. The threshold was crowded with Indians in warpaint! All the settlers knew that paint and its dangers. The dancers drew back to one side of the room, and some opened the door of the warehouse adjoining and took refuge in its vaulted shadows. But Lecour himself, the former soldier, was no man to tremble. "Come in," he said, without betraying a trace of any feeling. Seven chiefs stalked grimly across the floor in single file, carrying their tomahawks and knives in their hands, their great silver treaty medals hanging from their necks, and their brightly dyed eagle feathers quivering above their heads, and six sat down opposite Lecour on the floor. Their leader, Atotarho, Grand Chief of Oka, stood erect and silent, an expression of warlike fierceness on his face. "Atotarho!" exclaimed the merchant. "It is I," the Grand Chief answered. "Where is the young man?" "Here," replied Germain, stepping forward with a sangfroid which pleased his father. He faced the powerful Indian. Atotarho shook his tomahawk towards the ceiling, uttered a piercing war-whoop, and commenced to execute the war-dance, chanting this song in his native Six-Nation tongue— "Our forefathers made the rule and said: 'Here they are to kindle a fire; here at the edge of the woods.'" One of the chiefs drummed on a small tom-tom. The chant continued— "Show me the man! "Hail, my grandsires; now hearken while your grand-children cry unto you, you who established the Great League. Come back, ye warriors, and help us. "Come back, ye warriors, and sit about our Council. Lend us your magic tomahawks. Lend us your arrows of flint. Lend us your knives of jade. I am the Great Chief, but ye are greater chiefs than I. "Of old time the nations wandered and warred. "Ye were wonderful who established the Great Peace. "Assuredly six generations before the pale-faces appeared, ye smoked the redstone pipe together, giving white wampum to show that war would cease. "Thenceforth ye bound the nations with a Silver Chain; ye built the Long House; ye established the Great League. "First Hiawatha of the Onondaga nation proposed it; then Dekanawidah of the Mohawks joined him; then Atotarho, my mighty ancestor. "First the Mohawks; then their younger brothers, the Oneidas, joined them; then the Cayugas; then the Onondagas, then the Senecas; and then the Tuscaroras were added. Victorious were the Six Nations!" With a piercing cry of triumph the chiefs sprang up and brandished their tomahawks. "Then we took the sons of the Wyandots, the Eries, the Algonquins. Wherever we found the son of a brave man we adopted him. Wherever we found a brave man we made him a chief. "Here is the son of a brave man, our friend. Let us adopt him. Be ye his grandsires, oh ye chiefs of old! "He is a brave man; let us make him a chief. Our forefathers said: 'Thither shall he be led by the hand, and shall be placed on the principal seat.' "Smoke the peace-pipe with us, chiefs of old, Hiawatha, Dekanawidah, Atotarho, us who bear your names, to-day, being descended of your blood through the line of the mother." "Brighten the Silver Chain, extend the Long House, smoke the magic pipe, sharpen his tomahawk, for he is a son of your League, and shall sit with you in the Council for ever, bearing the name of Arahseh, 'Our Cousin,' and the totem of the Wolf. "Smoke the peace-pipe, Arahseh, 'Our Cousin.'" The tom-tom beat furiously and the six chiefs leaping up and circling round Germain, struck the air with their tomahawks and cried together— "Continue to listen Ye who are braves; Ye who established the Great League, Continue to listen." They gave the peace-pipe to Germain, and again seating themselves in semicircle, gravely passed it from lip to lip. Gradually the settlers during these rites began to learn by those who understood Iroquois, the friendly nature of the fierce-looking actions of the savages and gazed with delight while the merchant's son was made a chief. Thus out of a semi-savage corner of the world Germain Lecour was launched on his voyage to Europe, which commenced at the head of the boats of his father next morning when the dawn first carmined the sky through the forests. CHAPTER II GERMAIN IN FRANCE Along the highway through the ancient Forest of Fontainebleau, the coach of the Chevalier de Bailleul, carven and gilt in elegant forms of the reign of Louis XVI., and driven with the spirit that belonged to the service of a grand seigneur, sped forward. Within, the frank old soldier sat, fresh from the royal hunt at the Palace; and on his breast coruscated the crimson heart and white rays of the Great Star of St. Louis, the reward of distinguished service. Suddenly the horses wheeled round and stopped to drink at a small stream, which gushed into a natural basin by the roadside. A mounted young man was about to water his animal at the basin, but noticing the equipage stopping, he backed out and gave up his place, at the same time raising his hat. The Chevalier never ignored a politeness. Laying his hand on the window frame he saluted the rider, and it was in this glance that his eye caught sight of the sword-strap of the rapier at the rider's side. For—strangely out of place in that longitude—this was a piece of snow-white fawn-skin; embroidered in fantastic colours, woven with porcupine quills; and adorned with a clan totem, known only in the region of the River St. Lawrence. He looked up promptly to the bearer's face. So bright was the expression of the youth, so fine was his make, so lissome his seat on his chafing horse, that the old man thought he had never seen a picture more martial or handsome. A portrait of the rider would have represented a countenance full of intelligence, a manly bearing, dark eyes, hair jet black, and the complexion clear. He wore a dark red coat and a black hat bordered with silver. De Bailleul spoke. "May I ask," said he, with the charming manners of the courtier, "Monsieur's name and country, so that I may link them with the service just done me?" "The trifle merits no notice, sir," the youth answered respectfully. "My name is Germain Lecour, of Répentigny, in Canada." "Canada!" exclaimed the Chevalier warmly. "This is good fortune, indeed. It was my lot to have once done service for the king in that country, since which time every Canadian is my brother. And you live in Répentigny? That is near Montreal?" "Eight leagues below, on the River of L'Assomption, Monsieur." "Nearly thirty years ago I left your land. To hear fresh news of it would give me the greatest satisfaction of my life. Are you at one of the inns here at Fontainebleau? Yes? Let me offer you the shelter of my house, Eaux Tranquilles, which is less that a league forward. My name is the Chevalier de Bailleul, sir. If you permit it I shall send immediately for your luggage." The horseman, blushing, protested that the honour was too great. "The honour and favour are to me," replied the Chevalier. Lecour gave in with visible joy and named his inn. The two lifted their hats and parted with the profoundest bows. The Chevalier, as his carriage once more sped forward, found himself no less pleased than the other. The embroidered sword-strap and overshadowing trees conjure up for him an hour of the past where he, a young lieutenant, is leading a little column of white-coats through a forest defile in America. The Indian scouts suddenly come gliding in, the fire of an enemy is heard, little spots of smoke burst on the mountain side and dissolve again. Shrill yells resound on every hand, brown arms brandish flashes of brightness. The young commander rises to the emergency. His white-coats are rapidly placed in position behind trees, and a battle is proceeding. CHAPTER III THE INNKEEPER'S LESSON The chief inn of Fontainebleau town was a rambling galleried quadrangle of semi-deserted buildings situated on the Rue Basse, and bearing the sign of "The Holy Ghost." This town, in the heart of the woods, had no other sources of livelihood than a vegetable market for the Palace, the small wants of the wooden-shoed foresters and of the workmen employed by the Master of Woods and Waters in planting new trees, and those of the crowd of strangers who flocked to the place during five or six weeks in the autumn of each year, when the king and Court arrived for the pleasures of the hunt. The host of the inn—formerly an assistant butler in Madame du Barry's hotel at Versailles, was a sharp, sour-natured old fellow, truculent and avaricious. The spine of this man was a sort of social barometer; by its exact degree of curvature or stiffness in the presence of a guest the stable-boys and housemaids knew whether his rank was great or small, and whether, to please their cantankerous master, they were to fly or walk at his beck, or in the case of a mere bourgeois, to drink his wine on the way to his room. Germain, on first arriving a few days previously, found himself in an atmosphere of Oriental abjectness; for when the Rouen diligence drove through the inn gateway, and mine host at his pot- room window remarked his smart belongings, his landlord soul settled him as a person of quality. But when the innkeeper had thought it out for an hour over his wine, his attitude became one of doubt. "No valet, no people," he muttered, "this fish then is no noble, and yet, by his mien, no bourgeois. Luggage scanty, dress fine. What is he? Gambler of Paris? Swiss? Italian? No, he speaks French, but without the Court accent. By that he is none of our people—that is one point fixed. A prodigal son, then? Parbleu, I must make him pay in advance." "Sir," said the landlord, knocking at the door of Germain's room, and then stepping in rather freely, "I regret to tell you that it is the rule in Fontainebleau for travellers to pay in advance." "How much?" replied Germain, pulling out a purse full of pistoles. The rascal was taken aback. "I was about to say," said he, retreating, "that though such is the rule, I am making of your honour an exception." And he disappeared to further correct his speculations upon the visitor. "Some little spendthrift of the provinces, I wager," was his next conclusion. He instructed the senior stable-boy to go in and light three candles, and chalked up the guest for nine. He also began to concoct his bill. The household thenceforth took small liberties with Lecour's orders. Next day the landlord, when Monsieur was about to mount the handsomest horse which could be hired in the town, again quitted his post of observation at the pot-room window and advanced. He knew the animal and its saddlery; his suave smile reappeared, and his back bent a little as he noticed with the eye of an expert Germain's ease in his seat. "Monsieur desires to see the Court, no doubt? He knows, perhaps, that it does not arrive till Thursday?" "Indeed. Tell me about the doings of the Court. I have never heard about it." A triumphant, hard expression came over Boniface's visage. He looked up at his guest, straightened himself, turned his back, and went into the house. "What," he muttered, "I, the entertainer of counts of twenty quarterings and the neighbour of a king—am I to have a plebeian in my house so peasant that he ignores the topic of all society? He shall feel that he does not impose on Fontainebleau." Germain's apartment, situated in front of the house, consisted of two rooms fitted up with some elegance, and both looking out upon the market-place and church. He was now told that these quarters were engaged by "persons of quality to whom Monsieur would doubtless give place in the usual manner." He submitted without protest, and accepted uncomplainingly the inferior chamber assigned to him on the courtyard in the rear. The little town shortly began to fill with liveliness and tradesmen. A fine carriage drove up before the inn, its horses ridden by postillions, and followed by two mounted grooms. Three young noblemen, brothers, of an exceedingly handsome type, alighted. The keeper of the "Holy Ghost" and his two rows of servants grovelled before them in a body and conducted them to the best suites within, including that taken from Germain. It was next morning that the latter met de Bailleul. His host now placed the final insult upon him. At dinner he motioned him roughly to sit at the table of the rustics. Germain refused; he was paying for better. The landlord angrily resisted. The Canadian, now aroused, for he saw at last the intention to slight him, stopped, laid his hand significantly on the hilt of his sword, and looked at the man. That motion in those days had but one meaning. He was let alone. Within an hour the coach of the Chevalier drove in for him and his baggage. The sycophant recognised the arms on the panel and collapsed. Yet that hour's reflection on the innkeeper's conduct woke Lecour to the power of rank in old Europe. CHAPTER IV THE CASTLE OF QUIET WATERS Having added to his toilet the special elegance of powdering his hair, arrayed himself in his finest flowered waistcoat, and critically disposed his laces, Germain took seat in de Bailleul's coach and was driven away. As the horses flew along another new feeling came to him. The distinction of a familiar visit with a real "great lord" elated him as débutantes are elated by their first ball. He was no snob, only a very natural young man entering life. He dreamt that he was transferred from the ignoble class to the noble, and in the fancy felt himself lifted to some inconceivable level above the people who passed by. Half a dozen peasants, bronzed and sweaty and trudging in a group, meeting him, took off their hats. One of them said in his hearing: "Baptiste, there is one of the white-wigs." The carriage rolled through the forest, then out into the open country, and shortly after turned under a stately gate of gilded ironwork, and the grounds of Eaux Tranquilles were entered. The château was a mansion of smooth, light sandstone, having four towers at the corners. A turreted side-wing, bridging over water, united it with a more ancient castle which stood, walled in white and capped in black, in the midst of a small lake. In front were gardens; in rear a terrace, and below it a lawn bordered on one side by the lake, on the opposite shore of which a park of poplars, birches, and elms extended, producing, by shading the water, a serenity which doubtless had given the estate its name. The last light of afternoon, that most beautiful of all lights, fell upon the towers, and long shadows swept across the gardens. Lecour thought it glorious. In a few moments he and his host were seated at tea. The lofty window-doors stood open to let in the June zephyrs. With the two wigged and liveried servants attending, the scene to Lecour seemed the acting of a beautiful charade, the introduction to an unreal existence. De Bailleul noted the delicacy of his hand and the tastefulness of his violet-tinted coat. "Let us talk of Canada," said he. "I have no friends yet to offer you, though you shall have some young dogs like yourself very soon. What do you like?—riding, hunting, a quiet minuet on the terrace, eh? Ah me, the coquettes of Quebec! I well remember them." Germain expressed gratitude for the amusements offered. "I will tell you why I love Canada," continued the Chevalier. "It was there that I passed my military youth. Have you ever eaten Indian bean-cake?" "I have tasted it." "And that was enough, eh? But I have lived on it for eight weeks in an Iroquois village. Yes, eight weeks bean-cake was the most horrible of my experiences, except when I saw the hand of an unfortunate Potawatomie turn up in an Abenaki broth-pot. Do you remember General Montcalm?" "I was not born in his time." "I saw him die, and heard him refuse to let the women of Quebec weep for him. Montcalm, sir, was the last hero of France. They glorify Lafayette, but between ourselves Lafayette is more the drum-major than the general." "The lost children of France do not forget the defender of Quebec." "But who now passes from there to here? The noblesse of the colony sank embracing each other on the luckless ship Auguste in which they fled to France. Alas, my friends so brave and so lovely! Ah, Varennes and La Vérandrye, and you my poor Lady de Mezière! Senneville also, my dearest friend," he murmured, speaking to the spirits. "La Corne alone escaped. Pardon me, Monsieur. Who is now Seigneur of Berthier?" "Captain Cuthbert." "In place of the Courthillaux! And of Répentigny?" "General Christie." "In place of Le Gardeurs! And of Longueuil?" "Captain Grant." "In the stead of the Le Moynes!" "He married one of them and calls himself Baron de Longueuil." "An Englishman Baron of Longueuil! Shades of Le Moyne d'Iberville! And what of La Corne, who used to put on warpaint and dance around the council fires waving a tomahawk against the English?" "Good old Colonel La Corne! He is now a loyal subject of the king of Great Britain, and very distinguished in the late American war." "My God, what impossibilities within thirty years!" Lecour, finding that the Chevalier was eager for a general account of all Canadian beaux and dames, did his best to respond. De Bailleul's cup ran over. "Do you know," he exclaimed, "I have never met any people like the Canadians. When Montcalm was general, I commanded a certain detachment towards Lake Champlain. Through how many leagues of forest, over how many cedar swamps and rocky hills, across how many icy torrents did my bronzed woodmen not toil! We made beds from boughs of spruce, our walls were the forest, our roofs were the skies. Many a day we fasted the twenty-four hours. More than once we ate our mocassins. 'Twas all for France. Ah, if our young men at Versailles had that to do, they would have to be different persons. I have no respect for these warriors of hair-powder and lace, who wear stays and learn to march from the dancing-master. Give me a people bred in the lap of wild nature and among whom the paths to reputation are courage and intelligence! Give me——" Lecour saw that the Canada of the good man was an idealised picture, but he admired his affection and asked permission to drink his health. They touched glasses. "Tell me about your own people, my young friend. Who is your father?" "A country merchant, sir." "A well-to-do one, then, I judge." "He has prospered so well as to be reputed rich for a colony." "And you live at St. Elphège? In my time it was only a carrying-place for canoes, to avoid the rapid." "My father is the founder of the little place. He is known throughout our Province as 'The Merchant of St. Elphège.'" "An honourable title, based on an honourable record no doubt. Would that we rightly respected trade in France. That is one of the nation's weaknesses. You have a mother and brothers?" "A mother and two sisters—one married, the other at a convent in Quebec. My brother-in-law assists my father. We are very humble people." "Why have you come to France?" "Because I have admired it since a child, from my mother's stories at her knee." "She came from France, then?" "No, sir, but she was housekeeper in the house of Governor the Marquis de Beauharnois." When he said this the youth blushed. "How is it your accent is so good? It is quite that of our gentry." "I learnt it at the Little Seminary, from the priests, who are gentlemen of Paris. There also the best families send their boys, and we young men grew up together. I have lived a little in Montreal too." "Ah, what is Montreal now like? Are the town walls still standing?" "They surround the city, but the commander-in-chief talks of replacing them by avenues and a Champ de Mars." "The British garrison of course occupies the Arsenal, the British flag flies from the Citadel. Where does the British Governor reside?" "At the Château de Ramezay." "But why not at the Château de Vaudreuil, where Governor de Vaudreuil dwelt? It was larger and its gardens finer." "That now belongs to Monsieur de Lotbinière." "De Lotbinière! the new Marquis! Lucky devil; but blue death, what changes!" They rose and strayed into the gardens. "I seem to find in you already," said the warm-hearted old Chevalier, "one whom I love. There is something frank in your eyes which raises memories of my dead son. In you I see both my offspring's and my own youth recalled to me. You are Canadian—in you I can banish the coldness, hollowness, and degeneracy of Europe. Replace my boy. Let me call you 'Germain' and 'son.'" The bar of evening glow was fading in the west and twilight falling on the walks. A chill breeze seemed to inspire a question, which Germain began. "But——?" "There is some hindrance then?" exclaimed the Chevalier in a disappointed voice. "Alas, does your honour, perhaps, forget the differences of birth?" "Differences of birth, my Germain, are illusions; you have the reality." "Would that I had the illusion," thought poor Lecour. CHAPTER V MONSIEUR DE RÉPENTIGNY For several days he revelled in exploring Eaux Tranquilles. He became familiar with the paths of the gardens, the different statues and fountains. Sweet odours continually seemed to fill his breathing. He sat dreaming in the trellised vineries, or wandered with his host along the walks overhung by carefully trimmed shade-trees. Sometimes he would ramble in the park, which occupied about a mile of hill across the mere; sometimes he strolled curiously about in the old castle, along devious passages and from chamber to chamber, wondering at its heavily tapestried walls, its gloomy dungeons with the water lapping just beneath, its small windows painted with little coats of arms, and its walls ten feet thick. One of his strong recommendations in the eyes of de Bailleul was that he knew a fine horse and how to ride him. The Chevalier, being lord of a large extent of country, and a very conscientious man who sympathised energetically with the broad-minded schemes of the Duke de la Rochefoucauld for bettering the peasants, they did much visiting of curés and cottagers. "Parsangbleu," he exclaimed to Germain. "What is more simple than that every one of the people is a man like any of the rest of us." That was then new doctrine to society. Just when they were starting off one day together, the Chevalier's groom handed him a note. While they cantered outward he perused it and commented. "Our visitors arrive from the Palace this afternoon. One is my very amiable friend, the Prince de Poix, of the family of the Noailles, colonel of bodyguards to his Majesty. With him of course comes his Princess. Make yourself agreeable to her, Germain, which is very easily done. She is the key of the situation for you. In her charge will be some ladies. Don't be afraid of the crinoline, my boy. There will also be some officers of the Prince's command, the Noailles company, namely, Baron de Grancey, Viscount Aymer d'Estaing, the Count de Bellecour, the Marquis d'Amoreau, and the Chevalier de Blair. They lead a famous corps, for every private in the bodyguard is a noble, and has the rank of captain. They have come to Fontainebleau with the hunt." The news brought Germain a shock. Since his experiences at the "Holy Ghost" he had progressively arrived at the conviction that the only parallel to the distinction of caste between the hereditary gentry and all other persons as then drawn in France was the distinction between the heavens above and the earth beneath; the distance between was considered simply immeasurable and impassable except by the transmigration of souls. We cannot understand the extent of it in our day. No aristocrat is now so blind, no plebeian so humble, as to sincerely believe the doctrine. But in that age France was steeped in it. High refinement of manners had grown to really differentiate the Court from the masses, and the members of the governing order were jealous of the privileges of their circle to a degree which has no parallel now. To be suspected of being a farmer or a merchant, no matter how cultivated or wealthy, was to be written "ignoble." The higher noblesse, making up in their own society, by the acquisitions of descent and leisure, a delightful sphere of all that was most fascinating in art, music, dress, and blazonry, as well as power and fame, moved as very gods, flattered with the tenet that other classes were an inferior species actually made out of a different clay. Genealogy and heraldry formed a great part of education. The members of the privileged families all wore territorial titles as their badge. The most beggarly individual who wore the sword claimed precedence of the most substantial citizen. Whatever name was plain, to them was base. Now Germain's name was plain, and he knew his class was held by these people as base. His Elysian gardens, thought he, were about to be snatched away. About two o'clock in the day he saw with beating heart a courier gallop up to the staircase of the main entrance, dismount, and wait. The Chevalier's maître d'hôtel hastily caused the doors to be thrown wide open, and the hall swarmed full of servants. De Bailleul, donning his Grand Cross of St. Louis, placed Germain at his side, and stood at the foot of the steps. The Princess arrived in a sedan-chair at the head of a procession of carriages, the first of which contained her chief servants and an abbé, who was her reader; those following held her husband and the other guests. Germain blanched when he saw the latter descend. They wore that bearing which marked their class, and the dress of each seemed to him like the petals of some rich flower. The Canadian youth looked at them, fascinated. At his age the soul watches eagerly from its tower (what is a man but the tower of a soul?); each new turn of the kaleidoscope, each new figure crossing the landscape, is bathed in the rosy glow of morning. Yet he thought of them with a sense of imprisonment and sadness. "I have not known till now what I desire; alas! I am nothing." The Chevalier assisted the Princess to alight, and, kissing her hand, turned and said— "Permit me, Madame, to present to your Excellency Monsieur Lecour, of Répentigny, in Canada." This was the crucial moment in the history of the merchant's son. As he heard his name uttered the thought rushed into his mind how baldly and badly it sounded. There was a second of suspense, soon over. The great lady, arrayed in all the mountainous spread and shimmering magnificence of the Court costume, glanced at him with formal smile and impassive face, drew back, and made the grande révérence of the woman of high society. He noted it breathlessly, and as he returned it, full of quick-summoned grace and courage, he heard an inner music beginning to sound, loud, triumphant, and strange. He became seized of a new-found confidence that he could sustain his part. Every small doing now appeared of importance. The five Life Guards stood near. De Bailleul introduced Germain to Baron de Grancey and went away. Grancey, not having caught the Canadian's name, amiably asked Germain to repeat it. He stopped, blushed, and faltered— "Germain—Lecour——" "De?" the Baron asked, supposing as a matter of course that a territorial title was to follow. Lecour, in his confusion taking the requested "de" to mean merely "from," proceeded to utter four fatal words— "De Répentigny en Canada." The Baron turned to his nearest companion, and again the formula of introduction fell on Germain's ear— "Chevalier de Blair, I have the honour of presenting you to Monsieur de Répentigny." "Monsieur, I have the honour of saluting you," said de Blair. Before Germain could collect his ideas he had bowed to each of the other Guards under the name "de Répentigny." It cannot be said that, once he had recovered his self-possession after his narrow escape from being announced as a plebeian, any great qualms for the present overtook him. He reasoned that the title just attributed to him was not the result of his own seeking. Though destined to bring on all the serious consequences which form the matter of this story and to change a lighthearted young man into a desperate adventurer, it came in the aspect of a petty accident, which but facilitated his reception at the hands of the companions who crowded around him. "Have I not seen you at Court? Were you not presented six months ago in the Oeil de Boeuf?" inquired de Blair. "I am only a provincial," he answered. "I know nothing of the Court." "When I first came from Dauphiny up to Versailles," laughed the Count de Bellecour, "I spoke such a patois they thought I was a horse." "You come from Canada? Tell us about the Revolution in the English colonies. It is not a new affair, but we army men are always talking about it." Germain ventured on an epigram. "That was simple; it was the coming of age of a continent." "A war of liberty against oppression?" "Rather, gentlemen, a war of human nature against human nature. We had experience of the armies of both sides in our Province." "Would I had been there with Lafayette!" another Guardsman cried. "You, d'Estaing!" exclaimed Grancey. "You would cry if an Englishman spoiled your ruffles!" "Sir, my second shall visit you this evening!" "Pray, you twin imitations of Modesty-in-Person, let us have a real tragediette in steel and blood," put in d'Amoreau, the fifth Life Guard. D'Estaing and Grancey, drawing swords, lunged at each other. D'Amoreau and the Count de Bellecour each ran behind one of them and acted as a second, the Chevalier de Blair standing umpire, when the Abbé, the Princess's reader, entered. The blades were thrust, mock respectfully, back into their scabbards, and they all bowed low to the ecclesiastic. A short, spare man of thirty with a cadaverous face, whose sharp, lustreless black eyes, thin projecting nose, and mouth like a sardonic mere line, combined with a jesuitical downwardness of look, made one feel uneasy—such was the Abbé Jude as he appeared to Germain's brief first glance. "Never mind, gentlemen; one less of you would not be missed," he retorted to their obeisance. "You would like a death-mass fee, Abbé?" The Canadian, brought up to other customs, wondered how a priest could be addressed with such contempt by good Catholics. "Is he a monk or a curé?" he inquired, when the reader had passed on. "He is nothing," answered d'Estaing, with clear eye and scornful lip. "Paris is devastated by fellows calling themselves abbés. They have no connection with the Church, except a hole in the top of their wigs. This fellow is Jude, the Princess's parasite." To Germain the Guardsmen made themselves very agreeable. The manners of the Canadian attracted men who held that the highest human quality after rank was to be amiable. The Baron took him violently into his heart. He was a large, well-made fellow of a certain grand kindliness of bearing, and wore his natural hair, which was golden. The rich-laced blue silk tunic of the Bodyguard shone on his shoulders in ample spaces, and he well set off the deep red facings, the gold stripes, big sleeves, and elegant sword, the coveted uniform, loved of the loveliest and proudest of Versailles. CHAPTER VI EPERGNES AND WAX-LIGHTS Dinner took place at four, with the windows darkened. At the right and left of the host respectively were the Prince and Princess de Poix. Germain presided at the foot of the table, having on his right a Canoness and on his left a young lady to be described presently. As his glances passed down the two rows of guests he thought he could never have imagined a more perfect scene of its kind. He was dazed and intoxicated. A soft but bright radiance was shed by a host of starry wax-lights in the chandeliers above. An indescribable air of distinction marked every face. Numerous servants moved about noiselessly, and the musicians of the château, placed in a recess, played upon violins and a harpsichord. The table was a fairy sight. Flowers, silver statuettes, and candelabra, were placed at intervals down the middle. Between and around these a miniature landscape, representing winter, was extended, with little snowy-roofed temples, an ice-bound stream, bridges, columns, trees and shrubbery, all dusted with hoar frost. The company uttered exclamations of delight at the ingenuity of the idea. There was particular pleasure in eyes of the lady who sat at Lecour's left, the Baroness de la Roche Vernay. She was one of those startlingly beautiful beings whom one meets only once in a lifetime. Less than eighteen, and fragile-looking at first glance, Nature had given her an erectness and grace and a slender, unconscious symmetry which, characterising every feature, seemed to suggest the analogy of the upward growth of a flower. The purity of innocence and truth lightened her fair brow, at the same time that enjoyment of society shone from her sparkling eyes. Her soft light hair was worn, not in the elaborate manner of the ladies about her, but in the simplest fashion and with merely a trace of powder. The most unusual and characteristic element in her appearance was a white, translucent complexion with touches of colour, and as she was also dressed in white, lightly embroidered with gold, she seemed to Lecour, in the radiant, unreal wax-light, so ethereal as to have just come from heaven. So vision-like and wonderful to him was her beauty that he gasped when she turned to him to speak. "Your chef is a real Watteau, Monsieur—a marvel at design." "He doubtless dreamt what stars were to beam over his landscape, Madame," he answered, for he had at least kept grip of his wits. "What stars, Monsieur?" "My lady's eyes, n'est-ce pas?" he answered. The stars thus eulogised brimmed with smiles and searched his face. "Monsieur," said the Canoness, who was not quite so young, but very pretty, "you should have applied that compliment to all of our eyes. I am in the habit of pleading for the community, as we do in my convent." "None of these ladies, including yourself, Madame, have any need of compliments, in my humble opinion." "You deserve a reward, sir. Our Chapter is giving some Arcadian receptions, and you shall be one of the shepherds. We have absolute idylls of white sheep in our garden, though we cannot go to the length, of course, of wearing those old costumes of the nymphs and shepherdesses. How entrancing those costumes were," she added with a careless sigh. The Canoness was an extraordinary curiosity to him. She was pétite and fair. Though a réligieuse, she wore crinoline and large paniers, and, was elegantly furbelowed. The colours of her dress were mainly white and gold, but a long light robe of black crape was thrown over her shoulders, and the jewelled cross of an order ornamented her breast. "Did the ancient nymphs know any better?" cried Mademoiselle de Richeval, who sat a couple of places further on. "Do you not believe that if they lived to-day they would patronise our fashions?" "Know any better? Do you think they were unconscious that to carry a crook is becoming to the arm? No, they were as careful of their crooks as we of our rouges. What is your judgment, Monsieur de Répentigny?" "It is a Judgment of Paris you require," he exclaimed, "and I have not been there yet." Cyrène de la Roche Vernay touched her lovely hand quickly upon the table and turned to him with a delighted little laugh. "As for me, I shall be glad if these tiresome fine clothes are ever to be banished," she murmured, twisting her wine-glass. "Baroness, you have been reading the wicked Rousseau and his 'Social Contract,'" de Blair, who sat next to her, bantered. "It surely ought to cost something to be noble," pronounced the Canoness, in whose convent every candidate was required to prove sixteen quarterings of arms, and received the title of countess. "Permit me to agree with the Church," laughed Mademoiselle de Richeval; "we women ought to be as elaborate as possible, so as to frighten away all those who are not rich enough to marry." "I believe I could say, Miss," asserted d'Estaing, "that nevertheless you yourself have brought to Fontainebleau at least twelve short dresses and five pairs of low-heeled shoes." "More than that—a straw hat and aprons," Cyrène added mischievously, casting a smile also at Germain. "Hold! hold!" de Blair cried. "This is certainly the revolution they say is to come. We are returning rapidly to the State of Nature." "Do I hear a phrase of that man Rousseau, ladies?" the Princess called over, nodding her head- dress. "When I was little he was presented to me at the Prince de Conti's, and had no breeding. Is that not true, Abbé?" "You speak with your unvarying correctness, Madame la Princesse." "You hear the Abbé, ladies," she said languidly, sitting back again. D'Estaing, to change the subject, took up the name of the Prince de Conti, and turning to the Canoness and Cyrène, told a story which he had often heard of him.