PART III
THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Headpiece to Chapter I]
THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE.
CHAPTER I.
The Canadian summer has set in, coming upon the land, not gradually and imperceptibly as in many other climates, where a mild and genial spring-time intervenes between the seasons of extreme cold and heat, but suddenly, and, as it were, almost at a bound. But two or three short weeks ago the face of the country was still all white with the snows of many a long month, and the great St. Lawrence was bridged over from sh.o.r.e to sh.o.r.e with one broad expanse of solid ice of almost incredible thickness. Anon the vast ma.s.s broke up, with explosions loud as the roar of artillery, into countless rugged fields and hummocks, which, after floating up and down awhile on the bosom of the mighty tide, drifted away at last out seaward, to return no more. It is a trite trick of the mimic stage to make old Father Winter suddenly cast aside his h.o.a.ry garments and stand forth at once in bright array bedecked with fruits and flowers; here in very deed, and on the grandest scale, Nature seems with one touch to sweep away the wintry snow, and with another to clothe the landscape with profuse and luxuriant vegetation. How strange to see the humming-bird dart like a streak of golden light among the fragrant shrubs; stranger still to see the b.u.t.terfly, attracted by the lines of some stray wild flower, flutter away again, repelled by the chilling neighbourhood of the last remnant of a snow-drift lying in a sheltered corner, where no sunbeam ever finds its way.
It is a pleasant evening, and on a little wooded knoll, on the summit of a cliff that overhangs the St. Lawrence two or three miles above Quebec, there is a little group of persons, all of whom we have seen before. One of them is Boulanger, and in the man now seated beside him, notwithstanding his mean attire and his careworn look, the honest woodman had been at no loss to recognise his visitor of the previous autumn, Isidore de Beaujardin. The latter had been welcomed with a warmth and sincerity that touched him deeply, and although he had not originally thought of saying anything about his troubles to persons in so humble a condition, some mistaken suppositions on their part as to the cause of his reappearing amongst them in so unexpected a plight had led him to tell them that he had been obliged to fly from France. Even his own family had taken part against him he said, adding that he had not a friend in the world to whom he could turn for help or comfort.
As he spoke this in the bitterness of his heart, poor Bibi, who stood by, was melted to tears, and the st.u.r.dy woodsman looked half disposed to follow her example; whilst Amoahmeh, who sat a little way apart, yet near enough to catch every word that fell from their visitor"s lips, turned away, and bent her head over the work on which she was engaged.
"But, monsieur," said Boulanger at length, "there is surely your uncle, the Baron de Valricour, whom I remember well, and who is the most kind and generous of gentlemen one could possibly desire to have for one"s friend--surely he can help you."
"It was indeed for that very reason that in my despair I resolved to come out here and secure his a.s.sistance, not for my wretched self, but for one who--who----" He paused awhile as his emotion overcame him; then he continued: "My evil fate still pursues me. I learned this afternoon at Quebec that M. de Valricour has just gone back to France on leave and will not return for some months. But why should I trouble your kind hearts with my sorrows? You would never have heard of them, indeed, but that I could not find myself within a couple of miles of you without sparing an hour or so to learn how it fared with my old comrade of the woods. And to think of finding Amoahmeh here too! I should scarce have known you again, my good girl," said he, reaching out his hand to her. ""Tis not a year since I left you a girl, and I find you quite a woman." The words were natural enough, for the contrast in Isidore"s case between the once brilliant and handsome aide-de-camp of General Montcalm and the miserable-looking peasant of to-day was scarcely greater than that between the half-starved idiotic Indian girl of a year ago and the comely maiden, dressed in the neat costume of a Canadian country girl, who, rising from her seat, now stepped towards him, and taking the extended hand in both of hers, pressed it silently to her lips.
"Yes," said Boulanger smiling, "and I must tell you, monsieur, that it is not outwardly only that Amoahmeh has changed for the better. She has become a good Christian like the rest of us, and she proves it too, by helping in one way or another all whom she happens to come across, no matter at what cost to herself. As for outside appearance, I suppose monsieur knows as well as we do how that has been managed."
"I!" replied Isidore with some surprise. "How should I know?"
"Oh, I supposed you knew of course that monseigneur the Marquis your father sent her a letter some months ago, which we got through the subintendant at Quebec, enclosing a hundred louis for her, and thanking her from himself and Madame the Marquise for the way in which she saved your life at Fort William Henry. Ah, it was a beautiful letter indeed, so kind and condescending. We had not a dry eye among us when we had read it. We all agreed that monseigneur must be one of the best men in all the world, so generous and tender-hearted too."
The woodman stopped, for he could not but notice the pained expression that came over Isidore"s face, and betrayed the conflict of emotions going on within him.
"Yes, I too thought so once, but that is over," said Isidore. "Would that he could have shown himself as tender-hearted and generous to poor Marguerite, if not to his own flesh and blood," he added bitterly, half-speaking to himself.
Boulanger hastened to change a subject evidently so painful to his visitor.
"And what may monsieur intend to do now, if it is not an impertinent question?" said he. "Surely you could rejoin the army here. Montcalm, I fancy, would be glad enough to help one who has already served under him so bravely."
"No, honest friend, there is no hope for me in that quarter. Montcalm could not help me even if he would. It would answer no good purpose were I to tell you why, and it is better for you that you should not know. I am no longer Colonel de Beaujardin, but a nameless wanderer.
If you speak of me it must only be as Claude the poor French peasant; but it were best not to do so at all, or you may get yourself, and me too, into trouble. Yet something I must do, and I have resolved to go off to Cape Breton, where, as I have learned at Quebec, the English are about making an attack on Louisburg."
"On Louisburg!" exclaimed the Canadian. "Why, I should have thought they had enough of that last year."
"At all events," replied Isidore, "they will find the task no easy one with such a fellow as our brave Drucour in command of the place; but he will need all his skill and bravery too, for I heard before I left France of the great preparations the English have been making to ensure success this time. Some months ago their Admiral Boscawen sailed from England, and is now in command of a score of line of battle ships, and nearly as many frigates; they say at Quebec that his fleet has left Halifax, with more than a hundred smaller vessels, carrying a force of twelve thousand men to attack Louisburg. The English have fetched home a general named Amherst from Germany, where they have been helping our enemy, King Frederick of Prussia, and have given him the command, and there is also a Colonel Wolfe amongst their officers, who, they say, has already done good service. If they are as slow about making the attack as they have been in coming from England, they"ll not take Louisburg this year. They have got a Minister now, however, who hates us thoroughly, and will give us trouble enough. I daresay you have heard of this Mister Pitt I speak of."
"O yes, I have heard of him sure enough, monsieur, but it don"t matter much about him. I suppose they have not got any generals like ours, and when it comes to fighting, let them come, say I."
"You seem quite to forget, my friend, that these English once had a general called Marlborough," said Isidore.
"O yes, they once had," retorted Boulanger; "but as the famous old song says--
"Monsieur Malbrouk est mort, Est mort et enterre."
Malbrouk is dead and buried at all events, and will not frighten us any more. But, seriously, monsieur, I suppose from what you say that you are thinking of going to help our brave fellows at Louisburg?"
"Just so," answered Isidore. "It matters little where I go just now--it is better to die like a soldier than live on thus; so I will now say adieu, and go back to Quebec, whence I must make my way down to Louisburg as I best may."
"At least, however," exclaimed the Canadian, "you must let us see first what we can do to fit your honour out a little better. Come, Bibi, let us have supper, and I will try what I can rummage out that may be of use to monsieur. If I can do nothing else, I can at all events furnish him with a rifle and powder-horn."
Then without waiting for the thanks which his guest was about to offer, the st.u.r.dy woodsman hurried away with his wife to carry his good intentions into effect.
Amoahmeh, who had remained at a little distance during this colloquy, now approached Isidore, as if about to speak to him, and as she seemed to hesitate, he gave her a smile of encouragement.
"And the dear young lady who was so kind to me?" said she, inquiringly.
"Where is she, monsieur--is she well?"
The smile was gone at once. Isidore"s countenance fell, and he buried his face in his hands and groaned in the bitterness of his heart.
Amoahmeh shrank lack, and clasping her hands together exclaimed, "Alas!
what have I said? I did not--I could not know."
There was a painful silence for a minute or two, then laying her hand timidly on Isidore"s arm she said, "Oh, forgive me if I have distressed you--you to whom I owe so much--you who first told the poor lonely Indian girl where it is that we may surely hope to see again those whom we loved, and whom G.o.d has taken from us. Ah, it is hard to hear; but monsieur knows that if there is one angel less on earth, there is one more in heaven."
"Girl, girl!" exclaimed Isidore, raising his head, "you do not know what you are saying, or how you torture me. She is not dead--at least, for aught I know--but she is dead to me--lost for ever!"
Then as he marked the distressed and bewildered look with which she listened to him, a look so like the old vacant stare that he remembered too well, a strange fear came over him.
"My good girl," he continued in a soothing tone, "I grieve that I have frightened you, but my sorrow overcame me for the moment. Be comforted--she is yet alive, and, with Heaven"s blessing, I dare still hope that some day I may find her again, and that we may yet be happy."
Touched by the deep sigh of relief with which Amoahmeh received these words, and by the tears that followed it, Isidore could not choose but tell her something of what had befallen Marguerite. Debarred as he had latterly been from consolation or sympathy, and without a friend to speak a single word of comfort or encouragement to him, it is scarcely to be wondered at that he should open his heart to any one who would pour balm upon his wounded spirit. But sorrow had already borne some fruit with him, and as he briefly told the story of the misfortunes that had befallen him, no word that savoured of anger or of vengeful feeling pa.s.sed his lips, and though he could not but speak of grievous wrongs done both to her and to him, he forbore to use hard words against, or even to name, those who had brought this misery upon them.
"See," said he at last, with a melancholy smile, "I have been led, I scarce know how, to tell you a long story about myself; let us now talk of other things."
"But, monsieur," replied Amoahmeh, who had listened to every word with intense interest, "you have scarcely once spoken of monsieur your father. How could he suffer this? He is a great n.o.ble in France, surely he could have saved you? Do I not know him to be so good even to a poor stranger, that it is not possible he would let his own son, and a n.o.ble one as you are, to become the victim of such a dreadful thing as this _lettre de cachet_ which you tell me of? Did you not see him at the last and tell him what had happened to her? Surely his heart must have melted if he had known all you tell me now."
Isidore remained silent for a little while. "To speak the truth," said he at length, "it is just this that oftentimes adds to my sorrow. I do feel that I ought at the very last to have made one more appeal to him; but, after all, what could it have availed me? He must have known it all, else why come there to hunt us down? Heaven forgive me if I have wronged him. At all events it is too late now. Let us say no more about it. Here is our good Boulanger come to call us in. G.o.d be thanked that I have found at least this ray of comfort in my trouble."
Seldom if ever had that humble dwelling seen so abundant a meal as that which Bibi had managed to improvise for their young guest, and when it was over the honest Canadian produced the promised rifle and accoutrements, and his wife and Amoahmeh did their best to add to them such trifles as might be useful in a campaign. Then, after many a hearty grasp of the hand and many a warm expression of his hope that they might meet again in happier times, Isidore bade his kind friends adieu, and set out on his return to Quebec.
[Ill.u.s.tration: Tailpiece to Chapter I]
[Ill.u.s.tration: Headpiece to Chapter II]
CHAPTER II.