The rain was falling heavily as the old travelling carriage, drawn by
four horses, lumbered up to the door of the chateau the next morning.
Into it had been packed the necessaries for the journey to Calais, and
two heavy wains had been sent off some days previously, laden with such
goods as the young people were to take with them to the New World.
Within doors the daughter was taking leave of her parents, and as if to
shorten the sad moment, her father took her hand, and placed within it a
packet carefully bound in silk.
“Dear daughter,” said he, “see that this packet is carefully guarded. In
it is thy heritance, the pearl necklace which my mother had from her
mother, and which in its turn must go to thy daughter, the little
Annette.”
“Oh, father, why give to me that most precious thing? Safeguard it till
we come again, as, if God is willing, we shall.”
“It is yours, and then the daughter’s, and,” he whispered in her ear, “I
have added all the jewels which were my mother’s portion. Keep them till
time of need.”
The impatient stamping of the horses on the cobblestones of the court,
warned them all that they must part, and Pierre led Clemence to the
carriage, where little Annette was sleeping on the broad lap of old
Marie, who had petted and scolded her mother through her babyhood and
was now going with her on that long journey to the land of which they
knew so little and feared so much.
As if desirous of making up for lost time, Jacques cracked his whip, and
with the words, “Farewell, farewell,” ringing in the air, the coach
passed quickly down the long drive and through the gates leading to the
highroad, and turned in the direction of Boulogne, where they were to
pass that night.
The familiar scenes of her childhood never seemed so fair to Clemence as
at this moment when she was parting from them. Here was the little
church nestling among the trees, where she had received her first
communion, and there stood Père Joseph, waving adieux from the old grey
porch, the unfamiliar tear stealing down his wrinkled cheek.
Farther along on the other side of the road was the Rose d’Or, the
quaint old inn, before whose hospitable door the village yokels were
wont to gather of a summer’s evening and play at bowls upon the green.
The very signboard as it hung above the door and swung in the wind
seemed to creak “farewell,” and as the travelling chariot rolled by,
Clemence hid her face upon her husband’s shoulder.
At last her sobs grew less violent, and as if to call attention from her
grief, little Annette awoke, and lying comfortable and rosy upon the lap
of her nurse, cooed out her satisfaction as only a healthy, happy baby
can. Pierre took the child in his arms, and the baby stretched out her
hands towards her mother, who, turning to take her, found neglected in
her own lap the parcel of jewels so carefully wrapped and handed to her
by her father as a parting gift.
“See, Pierre, my father gave to me the pearl necklace which I wore on my
wedding day, and it is to be the portion of little Annette, when she too
marries.”
Hardly had the words passed her lips, when rude shouts were heard, and
the coach gradually came to a standstill.
“Halt!” cried a voice almost beside the window, and old Jacques the
coachman could be heard saying,—
“But, messieurs, my master and mistress—”
“Peace, knave, let thy betters speak for themselves.”
At this a rude leering face was thrust into the window, and a man pulled
roughly at the carriage door and cried,—
“Step out, and quickly too, and bring out your valuables with you.”
“But we are travellers, and have with us barely enough to carry us to
Calais, where our ship lies at anchor,” said Pierre, trying not to let
his voice show his anger and disgust.
“What will serve you will serve us also at a pinch. Is it not so, Jean?”
and he turned to a third ruffian who stood at hand, holding by the
bridle some sorry-looking horses.
“Truth, if we take all they have, ’t will be enough, but do not wait too
long,” answered the one named Jean, who wore a soldier’s cap with a
soiled and broken feather trailing over one ear.
At the first appearance of the highwaymen at the carriage window,
Clemence had handed little Annette to Marie, and in so doing had managed
to slip among her clothes the precious packet of jewels. She gave Marie
a warning look, and when they were commanded to step from the coach, she
begged, for the sake of the child, that it and the nurse might sit
within.
“You can see for yourselves that neither the infant nor the aged woman
has aught of value,” said she.
After hurriedly searching through the coach and finding nothing more,
the highwaymen contented themselves with carrying off Pierre’s sword and
a fair pearl ring which Clemence wore upon her finger, and a small bag
of golden doubloons which Pierre had in the pocket of his travelling
coat. The villainous trio had scarcely got safely away, when the reason
of their haste became apparent, for a captain and four men-at-arms came
around a turn in the road, urging their horses to a smart trot, when
they saw the travelling carriage drawn up by the side of the ditch.
“Have three renegadoes passed this way?” called the leader, as they drew
rein.
“Truly, but a few moments since,” said Pierre, with a rueful face, as he
thought of his bag of gold. “It would have pleased me much had you come
this way but a few moments earlier, since I then had been the richer for
a purse of doubloons.”
“Stole they aught beside?” asked the captain, as he put spurs to his
horse and hardly waited for Pierre’s answer as they rode hastily away in
the direction the robbers had taken.
When once more the coach was in motion, Clemence turned to Annette and
clasped her in her arms, saying,—
“Of a truth, little one, ’twas fortunate indeed that you saved your
inheritance this time,—you and Marie.”
“Let us hide the packet better, Madame,” said Marie. “Who can tell when
another band of cutthroats may be upon us, and truly, as thou saidst, it
was but chance that saved us this time.”
Without any delay the packet was carefully tied among the long skirts of
little Annette, and Marie hardly ceased to tremble till the coach rolled
into the yard of the inn at Boulogne, and the red light streaming from
the open door showed them that warmth and shelter were to be had within.
Early astir the next morning, refreshed and cheered because the rain had
ceased and the sun shone cheerfully abroad, our travellers during the
late afternoon of the next day entered the grey old town of Calais, the
little Annette unconsciously guarding the packet which held her
inheritance as well as the jewels which Monsieur Bienville had given as
a parting token to his daughter.
It was quite dark when the carriage was at last unpacked, and not till
then did Pierre draw from behind a secret panel in the side of the coach
the store of gold which was to suffice for their needs on board ship,
and till they were established in the new home which awaited them on the
other side of the ocean.