CHAPTER I.

Produced by Al Haines

[Frontispiece: "'You can tell me where they are,' she said softly, but

very earnestly."]

THE KING'S WARRANT.

A Story of Old and New France

BY

ALFRED H. ENGELBACH,

_Author of_

_"Poor Little Gaspard's Drum," "Lionel's Revenge," "Two Campaigns,"

&c., &c._

PUBLISHED UNDER THE DIRECTION OF THE

COMMITTEE OF GENERAL LITERATURE AND EDUCATION

APPOINTED BY THE SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING

CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE.

LONDON:

SOCIETY FOR PROMOTING CHRISTIAN KNOWLEDGE,

NORTHUMBERLAND AVENUE, CHARING CROSS, W.C.;

43, QUEEN VICTORIA STREET, E.C.;

BRIGHTON: 135, NORTH STREET.

NEW YORK: E. & J. B. YOUNG & CO.

1878

CONTENTS.

PART I.

THE TWO ORPHANS

PART II.

THE LETTRE DE CACHET

PART III.

THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE

ILLUSTRATIONS

LOI

"'You can tell me where they are,' she said softly, but very earnestly."

"The fiery little king of the kitchen bounded from his chair, sprang at

him, and seized him by the throat."

"Flinging away his sword, he knelt beside her."

ELOI

PART I

THE TWO ORPHANS.

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter I]

THE KING'S WARRANT.

THE TWO ORPHANS.

CHAPTER I.

At last England and France had formally drawn the sword which they had

sheathed only eight years before at the Treaty of Aix-la-Chapelle, and

the great struggle known in history as the Seven Years' War had begun

in earnest. Yet although the old countries had until now managed to

abstain from a declared and open rupture in the Old World, it had for

well-nigh two years past been far otherwise with their great

dependencies beyond the Atlantic. There, during the years 1754 and

1755, New France and New England had already been carrying on a deadly

conflict, which seemed to increase in intensity and fierceness as the

months rolled on, and in which for some time the royal troops of both

kingdoms had taken a prominent part, notwithstanding the nominal state

of peace between the mother countries. Some short-sighted men, indeed,

tried to persuade themselves of the possibility that the colonists

might carry on the war on the soil of the New World, without

necessarily compromising the peace of Europe; but the European powers

had their own apples of discord, and the ambitious designs of the Great

Frederick had now set Europe once more in a blaze.

But what was to be the issue of the struggle in America? With the

history of the last hundred years open before us--with such names as

those of Wolfe, Abercrombie, and Wellington; Rodney, Howe, and Nelson

ever ringing now like household words in our ears--with such

achievements as those of the plains of Abraham, the sand-hills of

Aboukir, Waterloo, the Nile and Trafalgar ever present to our minds, we

are apt enough to ignore the uncertainty which, humanly speaking, in

those days hung about the result of a collision between New England and

New France, backed by the power of their respective sovereign states.

From the descendants of the Pilgrim Fathers might, indeed, be expected

an amount of vigour, energy, and self-reliance, that must needs

contribute greatly to success in such a contest; but these very

qualities, so far from finding much favour with their rulers in the Old

Country, were like enough to be met with jealousy and distrust, to

produce coldness and estrangement, and perhaps even to weaken the

support of the government in England. In addition to this, the

rivalries and dissensions that were always springing up amongst the

several colonies themselves could hardly fail to interfere materially,

as they had done for years past, with their cordial combination in any

effort, however needful, for their common good. Canada, on the other

hand, was essentially the creation of the parent State, its favoured

offspring; it was unceasingly cherished and fostered as a nursery of

commerce, and as the means of planting the Christian faith amongst the

heathens, over which France would spread her protecting wings with the

jealousy of an eagle defending its young even at the cost of its life.

Yet so far as the colony was concerned that protection had been dearly

bought at a cost of patronage and favouritism that had checked all

healthy exertion amongst the colonists. With some bright exceptions,

oppression, rapacity, and bigotry had ever characterised the ruling

powers in the colony, and now that the hour of trial had come there

could be little hope that the colonists of New France, however loyally

disposed, could do much to help King Louis to retain this much-prized

dependency of the French crown. But what of that? The French king

probably cared as little for the help of his Canadian subjects as he

did for the enmity of the New Englanders. Nearly fifty years had

passed away since the victories of Marlborough, whilst the humiliation

of Dettingen had been eclipsed by the triumph of Fontenoy. England,

moreover, had but just succeeded, with no little difficulty, in putting

down a rebellion at home, and Jacobite disaffection was still rife in

the land--such at least might well be the French view of the English

situation. In America, too, the successes of General Johnson on Lake

Champlain, however substantial, could not efface the recollection of

Braddock's disastrous rout at Fort Duquesne.

There were, nevertheless, some circumstances in the case which led

reflecting men to think that even were the troops of France commanded

by another Marshal Saxe the victory might yet be doubtful. The

exploits of Anson, Hawke, Boscawen, and Warren, both previously to the

peace, and now again immediately on the resumption of hostilities, had

established almost beyond question England's superiority at sea, and

this could scarcely fail to be of incalculable advantage in a contest

which would make it necessary to transport and convey land forces to a

distant theatre of war. There was, moreover, yet another circumstance

that could not be put out of sight, even by those most inclined to rely

on the military prestige of France, acquired in wars of the old

conventional European type. Brought year by year more and more into

contact with the white man, and year by year more debased by an

insatiable thirst for the deadly fire-water, the American Indian had

indeed gradually become less and less formidable to his foes; he was,

however, by no means an enemy to be despised. Many a well-conceived

plan was defeated by the sudden and murderous onslaught of a tribe

whose stealthy approach had eluded all common precautions, and many an

engagement which in civilised war might have had but small results, was

turned into a massacre from which not one escaped to tell the tale.

Even the hardy colonists, whilst they affected to despise the wild and

untutored savage, felt a secret dread of him, and as for those who had

come less in contact with him, the stories of the Red Indian's ruthless

barbarity, blended as it was with traits of generous magnanimity, of

his stoical indifference to physical suffering, and of his incredible

sagacity in following up the trail of his enemies, seemed to invest him

with a strange and almost supernatural power. Against such a foe mere

bravery, or even the common prudence of ordinary warfare, was utterly

insufficient, and the knowledge that there were a hundred red men in

the ranks of the enemy entailed an amount of harassing precautions and

fatigue that even the alliance of a thousand friendly Indians could do

little to relieve. In the present struggle, which indeed may be said

to have originated mainly in the jealous rivalry of Canada and New

England to obtain monopolies of the trade with the red man, both

parties were aided by many tribes of Indians. The powerful Iroquois,

otherwise called the "Five Nations," with the Outagamis, the Fox

Indians, and others, were for the most part allies of the English;

whilst the Hurons, the Outamacs, the Morian Indians, and others, were

generally found fighting on the French side.

The campaign of 1756 was opened with some inconsiderable advantages

obtained by the French along the line of forts that lay between

Montreal and Oswego. The erection of this latter fort, where the

Onondaga river falls into Lake Ontario, had been amongst the first

causes of serious enmity between the French Canadians and their New

England neighbours, the latter having boldly planted this outpost right

in the teeth of their rivals, for the better prosecution of their trade

with the Indians--the great and ever-recurring subject of dispute. The

reduction of this small stronghold was accordingly the first object of

the Marquis de Montcalm, who this year took the command in Canada of

the French forces, which had been largely increased by drafts from

home. Fort Ontario, situated on the right bank of the river opposite

to Oswego, was first attacked, and, running short of ammunition, owing

to some unaccountable neglect on the part of the British, was carried

in little more than twelve hours. The French artillery, and such guns

as were found available in the captured fort, were then turned upon the

more important stronghold of Oswego. The English commandant and many

more of its brave defenders were soon killed, and on the 14th of August

it fell into the hands of the French. It is to be lamented, however,

that the massacre, by Montcalm's savage Indian auxiliaries, of a large

number of the prisoners who had placed themselves under his protection,

has cast a stain on the otherwise irreproachable character of the

renowned and chivalrous commander, and tarnishes the glory of this

brilliant exploit. The loss on the French side had been comparatively

small, nevertheless the evening of that same 14th of August found the

army surgeons busy enough, and from many a rude couch in the shed on

which the wounded had been laid the doctor turned away with a shrug,

which told plainly enough that all further human aid was hopeless.

Such was the case with a certain Captain Lacroix, of the Regiment of

Auvergne, who had at first seemed only slightly wounded; but symptoms

of more serious injury suddenly became apparent, and one of his

companions in arms, who now stood by his bedside, had just broken to

him the intelligence that in a few hours more he would be no longer of

this world.

"Yes," said the dying man, "I was afraid that it was so; and yet I

hoped it might not be--for her sake, for her sake, Valricour. As for

myself, what could I wish better than to die a soldier's death in the

hour of victory? But my poor Marguerite! My heart bleeds for her,

left so young without a father--without a friend."

"Say not so, old comrade," replied the other, scarcely able to speak

for emotion. "I should be a base hound indeed if I could let such a

thought embitter the last moments of an old brother officer to whom I

once owed my life. Poor Marguerite shall never want a home--I swear it

to you."

"I thank God! I thank God!" exclaimed the dying man, faintly, as he

wrung the hand of his friend. But this effort, coupled with the sudden

revulsion of feeling produced by the unexpected promise, proved too

much for him, and poor Réné Lacroix fell back upon his pillow to rise

no more.

For a brief space Valricour, and a young officer who had shared with

him the task of watching by the bedside of his comrade, remained

absorbed in mournful silence. It was at last broken by Valricour, who,

half soliloquising, half speaking to his younger companion, sorrowfully

uttered the words--

"Poor fellow! It was indeed a hard thing for him to leave her all

alone and friendless here in a strange land. I could not but promise

him that I would care for her, though how to set about it as matters

stand is truly more than I exactly know at present. Well, we must see

what can be done."

"His daughter is motherless too, is she not, my uncle?" said the young

soldier.

"Yes, Isidore; she is, as he even now told us, utterly alone in the

world, and penniless too, I fancy. When poor Lacroix came out with the

regiment, and brought her with him, it was in the hope that he might

ultimately obtain a grant of land here in New France and settle down

upon it, for what little property he had was thrown away upon a

worthless son, who died some little time ago."

Here M. de Valricour was interrupted by a summons to attend upon the

general at head-quarters. He accordingly quitted the shed, leaving to

young de Beaujardin the melancholy duty of seeing their friend

consigned to his last resting-place amidst the battered outworks of the

stronghold which his valour had helped to conquer.

When Baron de Valricour had spoken of his friend's having come to

Canada in the hope of restoring his broken fortunes, he had, in some

measure at least, described his own case. Though descended from an

ancient family, he had never been a very wealthy man, and the lands of

Valricour yielded an income quite inadequate to keep up a state

befitting the chateau of so noble a house. The baron had made matters

still worse by marrying, at an early age, an imperious beauty of like

noble birth, but without a dowry, whose extravagance soon plunged her

husband into difficulties, which gradually increased until there

remained but one chance. By means of court influence he obtained a

subordinate command in the army sent out to New France. A seigneurie

on the St. Lawrence might well be looked forward to as the reward of

military service when the war should be happily terminated; if not, it

was something to be able to reduce the great establishment which

otherwise must still be kept up in France. The Baroness de Valricour

had yet another hope; the same day that witnessed her union with the

young baron had seen his sister united to the Marquis de Beaujardin,

one of the wealthiest nobles in the west of France. The Valricours had

a daughter now in her twentieth year, whilst the Beaujardins might well

be proud of their son Isidore, about a twelvemonth older than Clotilde

de Valricour. The marriage of these two young people would blend into

one the small estate of Valricour and the magnificent heritage of the

Beaujardins. This was the cherished object of Madame de Valricour's

life. Unfortunately for her design she had one day spoken of it to her

husband, whose pride rebelled at the idea of purchasing an advantage

for himself at the price of his daughter's hand. He had, moreover, no

great liking for the young marquis, who carried to excess the luxury

and affected politeness then so prevalent amongst the wealthy young

nobles at the French court, where he was already a favourite. These

were no recommendations in the eyes of his uncle, who had fought in the

last wars, and had less of the polished courtier in him than of the

bluff, straightforward soldier. But Madame de Valricour had no idea of

being foiled by such small obstacles. Finding that her husband had

resolved on going out to New France, she left no stone unturned until

she had persuaded the Marquis de Beaujardin to obtain a commission for

young Isidore, in order that he might accompany his uncle.

It may be observed by the way that Isidore was not obliged to enter the

army as a mere subaltern, and to work his way up through the lower

grades of command. As was usual with sons of the higher and more

influential nobles, he became at once what was styled colonel _en

second_, a second colonelcy being specially attached to every regiment

for the immediate advancement of young soldiers of his rank and

condition. Madame de Valricour not only hoped that by this proceeding

she might keep the young marquis from the possibility of losing his

heart at Paris, but she felt assured that she would overcome Monsieur

de Valricour's dislike to him. With a woman's shrewdness she perceived

that underneath those courtly airs and graces, and the silly

affectation of extreme politeness which then prevailed in France,

Isidore had many striking qualities which a little campaigning must

needs bring out, and which would soon win the heart of M. de Valricour.

Thus it came about that Isidore de Beaujardin, instead of lounging

amongst the gay and courtly throng in the brilliant _salons_ of

Versailles, found himself threading his way on the saddest of all

errands amongst ghastly and disfigured corpses in the far distant wilds

of Canada.

In one respect, at all events, the designs of the baroness were in a

fair way to succeed; for her husband, though there was much in

Isidore's habits and behaviour that irritated him at times, was

unconsciously becoming daily more and more attached to his nephew.

True, Isidore's hair was always dressed to perfection; his bow--that is

to say, when he was off duty--might have gained a smile of approval at

the king's levée or at one of the Pompadour's receptions; his hands

would scarce have disgraced a lady; and the perfumes and cosmetics he

used were as choice as they were multifarious. But then the same

perfection was observable in his uniform and accoutrements, and the

most exacting martinet would have sought in vain to find a fault in

aught that pertained to his military duties. At the close of a long

day's march under the burning sun that had knocked up many an old

soldier, the young marquis seemed quite cool and ready for any fresh

duty, whilst his imperturbable _nonchalance_, even when leading on his

men to the assault, had called forth an exclamation of surprise from

Montcalm himself, who was not slow to recognise true courage whenever

he met with it.

So, after liberally rewarding the soldiers who had helped him in his

sorrowful task, and with a sigh of commiseration for the desolate but

unknown Marguerite, the young soldier betook himself to his quarters to

attend to his toilet and get rid, as far as might be, of the

distasteful and offensive traces of the day's fight. He had just

completed that agreeable task, very much to his own satisfaction at all

events, when the orderly who had previously called M. de Valricour

away, once more made his appearance and informed Isidore that the

Marquis de Montcalm desired his attendance at head-quarters.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter I]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter II]

CHAPTER II.

Notably short in stature and of slight figure, Montcalm had by nature

an air and manner which at once powerfully impressed those who came

across him, and the rapidity with which he habitually spoke tended

rather to enhance the impression. He was endowed with a singular

quickness of perception, an unusually retentive memory both for things

and persons, and an unfailing judgment in the selection of the right

man. These qualities, joined to an unvarying uprightness and a bravery

of the most chivalrous character, not only won for him the esteem and

affection of all who served under him, but stamped him unmistakably as

one of those born to command.

When Isidore entered the shot-riddled building in which the marshal had

taken up his quarters, he found him in conversation with Monsieur de

Valricour. The young soldier accordingly saluted, and then remained

standing near the door, whilst Montcalm, dropping his voice so as not

to be overheard, concluded as follows:--

"As for me, I do not think so badly of these dandies as you do; some of

them only need to have all the pains they take upon themselves directed

into the proper channel to realise great things. From what I have seen

of our young friend I think he is one of these; at any rate I will give

him the chance." Then, turning to Isidore, he added aloud: "Monsieur

de Beaujardin, I have noticed with satisfaction your courage and

self-command during the assault, and have selected you for a duty of

importance. You will take this despatch and deliver it, with the least

possible delay, into the hands of Monsieur de Longueuil at Fort

Chambly. On your way you will observe the formation of the ground and

any obstacles or facilities for the march of troops, and will take note

of any appearance of an intention on the part of the enemy to throw

forward advanced posts on your line of route. At Chambly you will hold

yourself at M. de Longueuil's orders either to return or proceed

elsewhere."

Isidore took the despatch which the general held out to him, and as the

latter remained silent, he again saluted, and was turning to withdraw

when Montcalm stopped him, saying--

"You seem to make very light of the matter, my young friend; but you

will not find the task before you so easy an affair as dancing a

gavotte or a minuet, I can tell you. Do you know that Chambly is some

seventy leagues distant? How do you mean to find your way there?"

"I presume I shall be furnished with a guide, and if so, I shall trust

to him for that; if not, I shall find the way as best I can."

"Yes, and get scalped by some of our red friends before you have gone a

league; and then what becomes of my despatch on the king's service?"

"In that case," replied Isidore, coolly, "I shall be no longer in His

Majesty's service, and be accountable to another King for having at

least done my duty."

"Good," said Montcalm. "You will find that I have provided you with a

guide--one in whom you may place implicit confidence. Adieu, sir."

On leaving the general's quarters Isidore was followed by Monsieur de

Valricour.

"I congratulate you heartily, my dear fellow," said the baron. "Our

general has evidently taken a fancy to you; only carry out this affair

to his satisfaction, and the path to distinction is open to you. As

for me, I am under orders to convoy the prisoners to Quebec. I am glad

of it, for, in the first place, the slight wound I have received----"

"You wounded, my uncle?" exclaimed Isidore anxiously. "I hope it is

really slight; you are apt to think too lightly of such a thing."

"Oh, it is only a trifle, and there will be no great fatigue on the

march, as we shall probably go by water if we can find boats enough.

At Quebec I can rest and take care of myself; besides, I shall thus be

enabled to break the sad tidings myself to poor Marguerite, who is

staying there, and take measures for sending her over to France. Aha!

here is your guide; you will find him a first-rate fellow, and as true

as steel. Moreover, I fancy there are not many men, red-skinned or

white, who know the country you have to traverse better than our friend

Jean Baptiste Boulanger, woodman, _voyageur_, trader in peltries, and

everything else that can make a man at home in the backwoods."

Isidore looked at his guide, whose countenance seemed, to confirm this

favourable opinion. The Canadian looked at him, though more covertly,

and it must be owned that his face did not betray any evidence of a

similar good opinion of the young marquis. On the contrary, it was in

a rather sulky tone that, after touching his cap, the guide observed--

"Monsieur does not intend to make the journey in his uniform, and in

those boots?" (The last words were especially emphasised.) "If I

might be so bold, I would suggest a peasant's coat like mine, and a

pair of moccasins as likely to----"

"I go as I am, Master Guide," replied Isidore curtly. "Mind your own

business."

"H'm--well, perhaps you are right," said Monsieur de Valricour. "Yes,

stick to the uniform; a soldier cannot well do wrong in that, when

there is any doubt."

"Monsieur at least will take with him some better weapon than that

small sword," urged the Canadian. "But perhaps monsieur is not used to

carry a musket?"

"Yes, yes, do so, Isidore," said the baron. "Do that by all means; one

doesn't know what one may come across on such a journey."

Isidore would probably have refused, but that he felt somewhat nettled

at the guide's last remark, so he took a rifle from a pile of arms that

stood close by. To this the baron would fain have added a knapsack,

and Isidore seemed by no means disinclined to take one, as it would

enable him to carry with him some articles pertaining to the toilet,

which to him were rather necessaries of life than mere comforts or

luxuries. Here, however, the guide again relentlessly interfered,

declaring it to be worse than useless. "A light load makes a quick

journey," said he; "monsieur would be glad enough to get rid of it

before the end of the first day's march. My game-bag will suffice for

both, and I have taken care to stock it with all that monsieur can want

on such a journey." Isidore gave way, perhaps not very graciously, but

a glance at the figure and equipments of Boulanger made him feel that

he was in the presence of an unquestionable authority in such matters.

He had indeed some slight misgivings that he had been rather hasty in

the affair of the boots, and that he was likely enough ere long to envy

the guide his light and roomy moccasins, to say nothing of his loose

leggings and the well-worn frock of grey homespun that had evidently

seen service in the woods. Even the gay wampum belt spoke of an ease

and comfort to which the young French soldier's stiff sword-belt could

not pretend. In fact Jean Baptiste Boulanger, or "J'n B'tiste" as he

was familiarly called, with his leathern game-bag slung over one

shoulder, his long rifle over the other, and his Indian knife, with its

gaudy sheath, hanging at his side was the very beau-ideal of a Canadian

forester of those days, and if his features did not just then give

evidence of his natural _bonhomie_ and kindliness of heart there was

that in his sunburnt face and keen dark eyes that inspired confidence

at the first glance.

These important preliminaries were scarcely settled when a hue-and-cry

was heard, and no little commotion arose. It turned out that an Indian

had been found huddled up, apparently asleep, in a corner of the room

adjoining the one occupied by the Marquis de Montcalm himself. He

proved to be not one of those acting with the French troops, but an

Iroquois, and on being detected had darted through the open window, and

though the alarm was instantly raised, had succeeded in baffling his

pursuers and making his escape. Such incidents, however, were not so

uncommon as to excite more than a passing notice, and as soon as the

outcry had subsided the baron took an affectionate leave of the young

envoy, who, accompanied by his guide, forthwith set out upon his

journey.

The circumstances under which the travellers had commenced their

acquaintance were not calculated to produce very quickly a good

understanding between them. The woodsman, rough as he was, had a

sensitive disposition, which chafed under the rebuff with which his

well-meant advice had been met. After crossing the river and leaving

Fort Ontario behind them, they plunged into the apparently trackless

forest, and for some time neither of them spoke a word. Boulanger

strode on, eyeing his companion askance, and possibly speculating

whether the fine gentleman who had treated him so superciliously would

not very soon be forced to give in, and perhaps commit to him the task

of proceeding alone to their intended destination. Isidore seemed

indeed scarcely the man for a task like that which lay before them.

Rather under the middle height and slightly built, he had apparently

been little accustomed to severe or protracted exertion, whilst

everything about him bespoke the _petit maître_, if not the fop. In

the meanwhile the young marquis had not given a second thought to the

few words that had passed at the outset of the journey. Being

habitually reserved towards his inferiors, he was content to indulge in

his own meditations without caring what such a man as Jean Baptiste

Boulanger might think about him. The guide, however, had no notion of

being kept at arm's length by a man with whom he was to traverse those

lonely woods for the next week; and as he observed the coolness, and

still more the agility, with which Isidore met and surmounted some

little difficulties that soon presented themselves on the way, he began

to warm towards him and to feel half sorry that he should have been put

to an undertaking that might prove too much for him. It was probably

some feeling of this kind that at last brought out the words--

"And how far does monsieur mean to march to-night?"

"Nay, my friend," replied Isidore, "that is for you to arrange; I never

interfere with the business of other people. You are the guide; you

know the distance and the road. It is for you to settle the length of

the stages, and where we are to encamp for the night, as I suppose,

from the little I know of these parts, that we have not much chance of

sleeping under a roof between this and Fort Chambly."

"Bravely spoken, monsieur!" exclaimed Boulanger, thoroughly restored to

good-humour by these words. "Monsieur will pardon me for having had my

misgivings as to the length of the marches that might be accomplished

by--by a personage like yourself, not used to this kind of work. Well,

then, I propose that we halt at midnight; that will be enough for a

start, and it will bring us to good camping ground. I think we had

better do the greater part of our work by night, and rest and sleep

during the heat of the day. We shall do more, besides escaping notice

in case there should be any scouts, either white or red, or marauding

parties prowling about, as is sometimes the case near the border."

"I should have thought there was small chance of meeting any one in

these interminable woods, through which, as a matter of taste, I should

prefer to travel by daylight," replied Isidore. "Indeed, I am rather

thankful for the bright moonlight we seem likely to have, and wish we

had a few more of such open glades as the one we have just crossed; it

would be more agreeable--at least to me."

They had re-entered the wood, and had not proceeded very far when they

came to a spot that would have been particularly dark owing to the

great size of the trees and their closeness to each other, but for the

few gleams of moonlight that found their way even through the dense

foliage and lighted up a branch here and there with a strange and

almost supernatural brightness. Suddenly the guide stopped, and

slightly raising his hand as if to keep back his companion, gazed

intently for a moment at a good-sized button-wood tree that stood at a

distance of about thirty yards, but somewhat out of their course.

Following the direction of the Canadian's eyes, Isidore looked

wonderingly at the tree, when suddenly he saw a dark shapeless object

drop from one of the lower branches. He expected of course to see it

lying on the ground beneath the tree, but not a trace of it was

visible; it seemed as if the earth had swallowed up the big dark thing,

whatever it might have been.

The guide, who had half raised his rifle, now lowered it again. "The

rascal has got off this time," said he, "but who would have expected to

come across a red skin hereabouts just now? Stop a bit! Depend upon

it, this is the same fellow who was found skulking about the general's

head-quarters this evening. Yes, he is dogging our steps, and we shall

hear more of him before we get to Chambly."

There was something about this announcement that was not at all

pleasant to Boulanger's companion. He might be brave as a lion and

cool enough in fair open fight, but the idea of being the object of a

planned attack by Indian savages in the depths of a lonely American

forest somewhat disconcerted him, and he looked rather anxiously

around, as if each tree might harbour another lurking enemy.

"Nay, monsieur!" exclaimed Boulanger, "we shall not be troubled by any

more of them just yet. There is not much hereabouts to tempt the red

skins to come this way. That fellow was but a single scout, and he

won't attack two men armed as we are; having made sure of our

destination and the route we have chosen he is off by this time to join

his friends, who may very likely make a dash at us two or three days

hence; but Jean Baptiste is too old a hand to run into a trap with his

eyes open. We will give them the slip yet by changing our route a

little. We shall have to pass a small New England settlement, but----"

"An English settlement!" exclaimed Isidore, "that would surely be

running into a trap, as you call it, with a vengeance."

"Not a bit," replied Boulanger; "I have been through fifty times as

_voyageur_, trader, or what you will, and one of the settlers, John

Pritchard, married a sister of mine, and the settlement is too near the

border for them to do an ill-turn to a Canadian; still, with that

uniform, it may be best for you to keep close and not show yourself,

whilst I visit my old friends and lay in what is needful. We shall be

safe enough. _Allons_!" So on they went.

Isidore could not fail to be struck by the unhesitating certainty with

which his companion threaded the intricacies of the apparently

interminable forest, through which he could detect no path or track of

any kind, much less anything in the remotest degree resembling a road.

There were, indeed, such things as tracks in the woods, though perhaps

a league apart, but the practised eye of the Canadian forester needed

none; his habits of observing every peculiarity, whether on the ground

or above, enabled him to keep not only a direct course, but one which

avoided any obstructions or impediments to their progress. Boulanger

said that he had been used to these woods ever since he was born, some

forty years since, and had lived in those parts until two or three

years previously, when he had removed to the neighbourhood of Quebec

with his wife, whom he called Bibi. His experience in all things

pertaining to the woods had obtained for him a situation under the

manager of the Royal Chase, as it was called, but he had been engaged

by Montcalm, who had the gift of selecting the best man for every

business, to act as one of the guides to the troops in the present

campaign. After conducting Isidore to Chambly he was to have his

discharge, and would be at liberty to return home; but it was plain

that the last few months had revived in him a love for his old

independent way of life, which doubtless contrasted strongly with his

new position. It galled him to work for wages, however high, however

certain, and his servitude brought him into contact with much at which

his disposition revolted. So, as he told his story, he gradually grew

more and more excited, declaiming hotly against the evils he had seen

and heard of since he had quitted his log hut in the forest. For some

little time Isidore listened with patience, or rather indifference, to

his guide's indignant invectives against the various misdoings and

iniquities of the creatures and underlings of the Government, and

especially of those employed by Bigot, the king's intendant. At last,

however, in his excitement, Boulanger began to launch out against

Monsieur Bigot himself, whereupon he was somewhat sternly called to

order by his aristocratic young companion, who bade him remember that

it was not for such low-born fellows as he to open their mouths against

the seigneurs and nobles, and least of all against the officers of His

Most Christian Majesty. Had the guide been a New England colonist,

rejoicing in the name of John Smith, he would probably have retorted

boldly enough and held his ground, but what could be expected from Jean

Baptiste the Canadian woodsman? He might have sense enough to

understand the wrong-doing, and in the honest zeal of the moment he

might inveigh against it, but it was not for him to set himself up

against monseigneur the young Marquis de Beaujardin. There was a

murmured apology, mingled with some kind of protest that it was all

true, nevertheless, and then our travellers continued their journey for

a while in the same unsatisfactory silence with which they had

commenced it.

This state of things, however, did not continue very long. The young

marquis, though he had considered it incumbent on him to rebuke a

person who ventured to speak in such a way of the nobility, was not one

to persist in assailing an adversary who had succumbed to him.

Moreover, even his short experience of affairs in Canada told him that

Boulanger had good grounds for what he said. The courtly magnificence

of Versailles and the Tuileries might dazzle his understanding so far

as to blind him to the existence of many crying evils in old France,

but here there was nothing to gild and gloss over the corruption and

mismanagement that everywhere prevailed. The shameful monopoly of all

commerce by the Merchant Company; the iniquitous sale of spirits by the

Government to the Indians; the rapacity exhibited in the system of

trade-licences and other extortions by which the officials wrung from

the humbler classes whatever could be got by fair means or by foul; to

say nothing of the scandalous effrontery with which the Government

itself was robbed by its own officers in every conceivable way--all

these stood out in their naked deformity, and had more than once made

Isidore wonder how a people thus treated could remain so generally

loyal as the Canadians undoubtedly were. He was, consequently, ready

enough to give his guide credit for honesty in his indignation, whilst

the courtier-like habits he had already acquired in the _salons_ of

Paris made him appreciate the desirableness of being on fair terms with

one who held not only his comfort, but probably his life, in his hands.

He accordingly took the first opportunity of dropping some remark

expressive of the admiration which he really felt for the beauty and

grandeur of the forest through which they were just then passing.

He had touched a chord in Boulanger's breast which was always ready to

vibrate.

"Yes, monsieur," exclaimed the latter, forgetting in an instant the

rebuff he had recently received; "yes, here, indeed, all is peaceful

and happy, for all is as it comes to us from God's hand. The folly and

wickedness of man have not yet invaded these sublime yet lovely

solitudes. All things around can but remind us of the days when the

world came forth from the hands of our Father, and He said it was very

good. Come, monsieur, it is time we should call a halt, and take some

supper; we have done very well, and made a good beginning. Let us sit

down here under this noble tree, and rest and refresh ourselves."

Thereupon the travellers seated themselves, and Boulanger produced from

his game-bag a plentiful supply of provisions, which soon disappeared

under the keen appetites resulting from the night's march, following on

a day of hard work and light rations.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter II]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter III]

CHAPTER III.

No further incident worth notice occurred either during the remainder

of the night or on the two following days. Thanks to Boulanger's

experience and to the genial August weather, Isidore found none of the

inconveniences he had anticipated in this impromptu journey, and slept

perhaps more soundly than he had ever done before during the long halts

which they made in the heat of the day. On the third day, late in the

afternoon, they approached the English settlement of which Boulanger

had spoken.

They had reached the top of a small ridge that looked upon the

clearings, the guide being perhaps a dozen yards in advance, when, just

as Isidore came up to him, the Canadian turned, and grasping his arm,

exclaimed, "The Indians! the Indians! Look! the Indians have been

there and destroyed the place. Alas! would that this were all. I fear

we may hardly hope to find one soul alive."

A single glance at the scene before them was sufficient to satisfy

Isidore that his companion's supposition was only too well founded. On

the extensive clearings spread out in the valley below he could plainly

see the remains of the half dozen homesteads, now either mere heaps of

ruins, or at best with only some portion left standing, like blackened

monuments serving to mark the spots where the bright hopes and joys of

the once happy little community, nay, perhaps they themselves, lay

buried for ever.

"Let us go down," said Boulanger, as soon as he recovered from the

first shock, "let us go down; it is not so very long since this has

happened, surely they cannot all have perished--at least we may learn

something as to how this came about, and if any yet survive." They

descended the hill, and scarcely had the guide begun to cross the first

tract of cultivated ground when the mournful expression of his face

changed to one of curiosity and surprise.

"Why, what is this?" exclaimed he, pointing to a dark object that lay

at a short distance from the spot. "A dead Huron, and in his war

paint! Yes--and there lies another. There has been a fight here not

many hours since, and the red skins have been worsted or we should not

see that sight, and yet the half dozen men belonging to the place could

have been no match for them." Boulanger hurried forward, Isidore

following him, and they soon came to an open spot that had served as a

kind of village green, on which many articles of various kinds were

strewed about. "Look here, and here!" cried he, now seizing Isidore by

the arm and pointing first in one direction, then in another. Half

irritated at this familiarity, half bewildered by Boulanger's words,

Isidore gazed about him; but the broken musket, the extinguished

camp-fire, the rudely tied up bundle of spoils, such as none but a Red

Indian would prize, were to him wholly without meaning. To add to his

perplexity, Boulanger, who had been scrutinising everything around them

with eager curiosity, suddenly quitted his side, and vaulting over a

fence, disappeared in the wood that skirted the clearing.

"Hang the fellow!" muttered Isidore. "This is a little too bad. If he

expects me to follow him everywhere, he is mistaken. A pretty thing,

truly, if I were to miss him and lose myself in this out-of-the-way

place, I'll let him know that it is his business to attend to me

instead of running about to look after dead savages, or live Englishmen

either."

The guide, however, soon reappeared, saying, as he rejoined his

companion, "There are red skins enough lying in the wood yonder. They

must have been surprised here after a successful attack on some other

place, and the people here have had little or no share in it, but have

been helped by some much stronger force than they could muster. That's

plain enough, at all events."

"It may be all plain enough to you," replied Isidore. "As for me, I

can see there has been a fight between the white men and savages; but

more than that I cannot make out, and in truth I don't see that it

matters much to us, except that we are disappointed of our expected

quarters for the night."

There was a look of anger not wholly unmixed with contempt on the face

of the Canadian as Isidore concluded these remarks.

"Truly," said he, "I had forgotten, in my anxiety for the fate of many

who were no strangers to me, that monsieur may lose his supper and his

bed."

The rebuke was not thrown away. Beneath all his aristocratic pride,

and the selfishness that had grown upon him, Isidore still had a heart

capable of sympathy and compassion, and there was a nobleness in his

nature which at once compelled him to avow his error even to so humble

a companion.

"Forgive me, my friend," said he; "I have deserved your reproof. Come,

let us at least see before we go further whether we can find in any of

these ruined buildings something that may give us a clue to what has

befallen your friends. As it is clear that the Englishmen had the best

of it, perhaps we may find that the people of this place have only gone

elsewhere for temporary shelter."

Boulanger was appeased in a moment; his was one of those rare

dispositions with which a little kindness outweighs more than a like

amount of harshness and injustice.

"Enough! enough! monsieur," said he. "That is a good old French

proverb which says, 'A fault avowed is half pardoned,' though I think

that 'wholly pardoned' would be better still. Let us do as you

propose; afterwards we will continue our journey for a short league, so

as to get away from this miserable scene, and then we will encamp for

the night."

Keeping purposely away from that part of the settlement which had been

the scene of the terrible tragedy, they crossed two or three of the

clearings without coming upon anything worthy of notice, except that

the buildings, and in many places the growing crops, had been wantonly

destroyed. At length they reached the homestead which had belonged to

Pritchard, Boulanger's relative. It was about half a mile from the

spot where they had first come upon the settlement, and, perhaps owing

to its somewhat remote position, had escaped better than the others,

one-half of the house being almost uninjured. With a deep sigh

Boulanger pushed open the door, but immediately started back as a man,

who had been sitting there with his face buried in his hands, rose up

hastily and surveyed the intruders with surprise evidently not

unmingled with fear. He was soon reassured on perceiving that one of

his unexpected visitors was Boulanger, who on his part was not slow to

recognise his brother-in-law.

They soon learned from him that things had come to pass pretty much as

Boulanger had surmised. A formidable body of Indians, numbering full a

hundred warriors, had about a week previously crossed the St. Lawrence

and made an incursion into the New England territory. Fortunately the

settlers at Little Creek had been warned of their danger by a

half-witted Indian orphan girl, on whom Pritchard had taken compassion

some time before, and who had become domesticated amongst them. They

fled in haste, leaving everything behind them, and the Indians having

other objects in view did not turn aside to follow them; but after

ravaging the place hurried on to attack a yet larger settlement,

further from the border, whose inhabitants had thought themselves far

removed from any such inroad. The onslaught was as successful as it

was sudden. The men were for the most part absent; the settlement was

sacked, the women and children were either killed or carried off as

prisoners, after which the Indians turned back, and having again

reached Little Creek encamped there and gave themselves up for the day

to celebrate their victory with their usual savage rites, and to

indulge their greedy thirst for the fatal fire-water of their enemies.

But the New Englanders had not been idly weeping over their

misfortunes. Hastily collecting every man who could bear a musket,

they followed up their retiring foes and came upon them in the midst of

their drunken carouse. Burning with the desire of revenge, and

infuriated by their recent bereavement of all they held most dear, they

fell upon the almost unresisting Indians and massacred them to the last

man. Then they in their turn retreated to rebuild their ruined

homesteads and mourn over the dead. Some stragglers of the party had

told all this to the fugitives from Little Creek, and Pritchard had

ventured back to the place to make sure and report to the rest whether

the coast was really clear for them to come back again. Such was the

border warfare of those days.

The travellers now abandoned their intention of going further that

night, as Pritchard urgently pressed them not to leave him there alone,

and Isidore indeed was hardly in a condition to continue the journey.

The house had not been plundered, so Pritchard was able to offer them

what they needed in the way both of rest and refreshment. When their

frugal meal was over it was arranged that each of them should keep

watch in turn. There was indeed no likelihood that any one would come

near the spot, or that they would be molested in any way, nevertheless

there was something in the awful solitude of the place that seemed to

create a feeling of insecurity. The first watch fell to Pritchard's

lot, and Boulanger took the second. Isidore thought he had only just

dozed off when the guide awoke him, and told him that it was his turn.

"Why, it is still daylight," said he, rubbing his eyes, "unless

indeed---- You do not mean to say it is morning?" he added, half

vexed, as the thought arose in his mind that the Canadian had

compassionately allowed him to sleep on beyond this time.

"Monsieur is less used to the forest than we are," replied Boulanger,

good-humouredly. "I had one spell of sleep to begin with, and another

hour's rest will set me up for a week to come." So saying he stopped

all further discussion by stretching himself on the floor, and

apparently dropping off at once.

Isidore rose and went out; then, seating himself on a great stump that

stood near the door, he gazed out upon the still and desolate

landscape, which was just distinguishable in the first grey light of

morning. He had become absorbed in a reverie on the events that had

brought him into so strange a locality when he felt his arm lightly

touched, and, looking round, beheld, to his great astonishment, a young

Indian girl standing by his side. His first impulse was to start up

and give the alarm to his companions; then came a feeling of shame at

such an idea as he scanned the girl's face, from which one might have

supposed her to be twelve or thirteen years old at most, although,

judging from her stature and figure, she was probably some years older.

There was, however, a strangely forlorn expression on her features that

went to Isidore's heart as he looked at her. Perhaps she noticed the

impression she had made upon him, for she again laid her hand upon his

arm, saying, timidly, "The pale faces are very wise. Can the young

warrior tell Amoahmeh where _they_ are?"

This was much too mysterious for Isidore; in fact, it suggested to him

at once all sorts of Indian wiles and stratagems. What if there was a

whole tribe of red men in the next cover! Without more ado he called

to Boulanger and Pritchard, who instantly came rushing out of the

building rifle in hand.

"Hola! what have we here?" exclaimed Boulanger, looking round as if

the Indian girl had suggested to him the same possibility of an Indian

attack as had occurred to Isidore.

"Oh, 'tis only Amoahmeh," said Pritchard, quietly, as he recognised the

cause of their alarm. "It is all right; she is the half-witted Indian

girl--if she has any wits at all--of whom I was telling you. I fancy

some of the red skins with whom her tribe were at war butchered all her

family in bygone days, and she is always bothering one to tell her

where _they_ are--I suppose she means her kith and kin. I always tell

her that it is of no use asking what has become of a lot of heathens

like them."

"But," said Isidore, rather interested in the poor girl, "how was it

she escaped when all her friends were killed?"

"Well," replied Pritchard; "perhaps she became crazy then, and was

spared on that account. The red skins are queer folk, and never harm

crazy people. For that matter, they might teach a lesson to some that

call themselves Christians. They seem to think idiots something

supernatural, and call them 'Great Medicine.'"

"Yes, that's true enough," said Boulanger; "I suppose the child has had

wit enough to keep out of the way of those New Englanders, and has been

hiding about in the woods during all this business. Well, if that is

all, we may as well turn in again. Monsieur need have no fears," added

he, addressing Isidore; "the best way is to take no notice of her. At

all events, if she does skulk about, she is more likely to warn us of

any danger than to bring it upon us." With these words the guide,

followed by Pritchard, again entered the house, leaving Isidore alone

with Amoahmeh.

During this little interlude the girl had eagerly watched each speaker

in turn, apparently trying to follow what was said. It was but too

evident, however, that all was a blank to her except an occasional

word, at which her face would once and again lighten up with

intelligence. Isidore could not help being touched by her desolate

condition, and when Pritchard and the guide had left them, he turned

towards her to bestow on her a few kindly words, but Amoahmeh had

timidly retreated to a little distance and had seated herself at the

foot of a tree, apparently absorbed in conning over what had passed.

Let us be as tender-hearted and compassionate as we may, a pain in our

little finger must still come home to us more than another's loss of a

limb, at least, if there is no special link between us. Isidore's pity

for the half-witted girl was presently lost sight of in what had first

been only the inconvenience, but had latterly become the positive

suffering inflicted on him by those unfortunate boots of his. Pride

alone had restrained him from hinting at this to Boulanger during the

latter part of the day's march; but he now began to have some

misgivings as to whether he might not become wholly incapacitated from

proceeding further unless he put his pride in his pocket and adopted

the suggestions of his guide. Here was, however, a chance of temporary

relief at least, as he was likely to be unmolested for a couple of

hours, so he proceeded at once to divest himself of the said boots, a

business that was not effected without much pain and exertion, and an

unmistakable aggravation of the mischief. He was just debating with

himself on the advisability of bathing his swollen ankles in a tempting

stream that rippled along only a few yards off, when he was surprised

to find Amoahmeh--who had been watching his proceedings with an

interest of which he was wholly unconscious--kneeling before him,

evidently intent on applying to the inflamed and aching joints a

quantity of large green leaves which she had just gathered for the

purpose.

There are probably few amongst us who have not, at one time or another,

experienced that ineffably exquisite sensation caused by the sudden

cessation of intense and wearing pain. For a minute or two Isidore

could, only look down complacently on his ministering angel, giving

forth more than one deep and long drawn sigh of relief; then naturally

enough pity for her once more awoke within him, and he exclaimed, "Poor

child! now this is very thoughtful of you. Really one must admit that

there are some things in which even a mere savage has the advantage of

us. Yes," he added thoughtfully, "I wish I could do something to

lighten your troubles and hardships."

The girl looked up in his face. His words had fallen dead, but the

tone in which they were spoken reached her heart.

"You can tell me where they are," she said softly, but very earnestly.

"Where they are," repeated Isidore. "Ah, well. Do you mean your

father or your kindred?"

"Tsawanhonhi is in the happy hunting grounds--Amoahmeh knows that,"

answered the girl, quietly yet firmly. "Yes, and Wacontah is with

him--I know that too. But--but the little ones, Tanondah and Tsarahes,

my brothers--where are they? Oh! who will tell me where they are?"

Isidore was silent. "I suppose," thought he, "these must be the little

ones that she has loved and lost; Pritchard said something of her

friends having been all killed."

He looked at her sorrowfully, for the eager, inquiring face troubled

him, he scarce knew why.

"The pale faces know what the Great Spirit says about all things. Will

the young brave hide this from poor Amoahmeh?" said she with a yet more

wistful look.

"Now what is this fellow Pritchard," said Isidore to himself, "or what

am I, ay, or what is even Monseigneur the Archbishop for that matter,

that we should take upon ourselves to say what a loving Father in His

wisdom may choose to do with these red skins after they leave this

world?"

"My good girl," he blurted out, after a short pause, "the Great Spirit

has taken your little brothers, and keeps them safe enough in a place

that He has made on purpose for them. The Great Spirit is a good

Spirit, and you may be quite sure that He would not hurt your little

brothers. You have found trouble and sorrow enough already in this

world to enable you to believe that the poor little fellows may be all

the better for being taken out of it."

"Ah, yes!" replied Amoahmeh, looking gratefully up in the young

soldier's face, "I was sure the pale face knew where they were. But,"

she added earnestly, "can he tell me whether I shall see them again?"

"See them again!" rejoined Isidore, apparently somewhat puzzled for the

moment. "Ah, well, I don't know why you should not. I think," he

muttered, "I may go as far as that, though she is but a heathen. At

all events it will be some comfort to the poor thing."

It did comfort her indeed. Perhaps she only understood it very

partially, but the one absorbing uncertainty that had troubled her was

cleared away. She took Isidore's hand and kissed it; no tears fell

upon it--perhaps it would have been well with her could she have wept.

Then she arose, and before he could call to her, she had disappeared.

With a pleasant sense of relief from bodily suffering, and with a mind

not particularly pre-occupied by any anxiety, Isidore passed the

remainder of his watch in recollections now of the courtly assemblages

at Versailles, now of the voyage out to New France, now of the assault

at Oswego, as the current of his ideas was swept hither and thither by

some casual link of association, and he was only aroused from his

meditations by the appearance of the guide, who came to warn him that

breakfast was ready within, and that they would have to start in a

quarter of an hour so as to make good way daring the cool of the

morning.

As Boulanger said this his eyes lighted on the green bandages that

still enveloped Isidore's ankles. The facts were of course soon told,

and Boulanger was loud in his praises of the girl's thoughtfulness,

though he did not disguise his fears that the resumption of the boots

and a day's march in them would be a serious matter. At this juncture

Amoahmeh once more made her appearance, bringing with her a pair of

Indian moccasins, with leggings to match, on the manufacture of which

out of materials found in one of the deserted dwellings she had been

busily employed since her interview with the young soldier. Great was

Boulanger's delight, while Isidore on donning the new made, and by no

means unornamental moccasins, declared that nothing could be more

comfortable, and that he felt able to accomplish any journey that the

guide might think fit to lay out for the day. He would have expressed

his thanks to the girl, and indeed he would have made her a handsome

present, and bestowed on her a kind word at parting, but she was

nowhere to be seen. The morning meal did not occupy much time, and

after taking leave of Pritchard, Isidore and the guide set out on their

day's march.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter III]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter IV]

CHAPTER IV.

On quitting the clearings, Isidore and his guide once more plunged into

the seemingly interminable forest, and had proceeded about half a

league when Boulanger, whose eye appeared to be unceasingly on the

look-out, cast a glance behind him and then came to a halt, saying,

"Why, there is that girl again! What can she be up to?"

Isidore looked round, and there she was, sure enough. Amoahmeh, too,

had stopped and remained standing about a hundred yards from them, but

she showed no signs of wishing to avoid notice, and looked as if she

only waited for them to go on in order to follow them.

"This will not do," exclaimed the guide; "she must have some object in

tracking us like this. Hola! come here," he added, beckoning to her.

Amoahmeh was at their side in a moment.

"What do you want? where are you going?" inquired Boulanger, sharply.

The girl looked timidly at him, then gazed for a minute in Isidore's

face.

"The young brave knows where they are," said she; "I am going with him."

"With him! Nonsense," ejaculated the Canadian, "you can't go with him.

Get you back, there's a good girl. Pritchard and the rest of them will

be at the old place before nightfall, I daresay. You must go back to

them."

The girl did not answer, neither did she manifest any disposition to do

as Boulanger desired her.

"_Peste!_" said the latter. "One doesn't know how to deal with these

idiots; it's of no use talking sensibly to them, and they are as

obstinate as mules. Monsieur must try to make her go back. One cannot

beat her, you know," he added half apologetically, as the thought of

Amoahmeh's resolutely refusing to relieve them of her company probably

suggested some such extreme proceeding.

"Beat her!" exclaimed Isidore indignantly, "I should think not. My

good girl, I cannot take you with me. You must go back to your

friends."

She looked at him long and wistfully. At last she said, "You are my

friend, you know where they are. I will go with you until we find

them."

Boulanger struck the end of his rifle on the ground despair. Isidore

was puzzled, but suddenly a thought struck him.

"If Amoahmeh goes with me," said he quietly, "I shall be discovered by

the English, and if they find me they will shoot me."

She looked inquiringly at him as if she half understood the purport of

his words.

"To be sure," interposed the guide. "Do you want him to be shot? If

not, you must go back." There was a short pause; then Amoahmeh bowed

her head, and crossing her hands over her bosom turned away and began

to retrace her steps towards the settlement.

The young soldier made a gesture as though he would have recalled her,

but Boulanger stopped him. "Let her alone, monsieur, for goodness

sake. But for that lucky shot of yours we should never have got rid of

her; and think, only think, monsieur, the further she had gone the more

impossible it would have been for you to shake her off. Do you want

her to stick to you all your life?"

Isidore admitted that the guide was right, and on they went. Yet his

heart was full of pity for the poor child as he looked back and saw her

stealing silently away through the wood, and he felt that he had been

compelled to extinguish the ray of sunlight that had shone in upon the

darkness of her soul.

The travellers halted before noon and rested for some hours. They then

pursued their march until near sunset, when they came to the elevated

ridges which divide the small rivers flowing northward into the St.

Lawrence, from those which run southward towards the West Hudson and

the Ohio. Boulanger's object was to reach a village situated amongst

the numerous small lakes in this district, and obtain a canoe, by means

of which he might greatly lighten the rest of their journey. The

Indians were of a friendly tribe and knew him of old, so he had no

fears about the reception they might give him.

"In ten minutes," said he, "we shall reach the largest lake about here,

and at this season we can skirt along its banks instead of having to go

over yonder hill--no light task after the close of such a march as we

have had to-day." As he spoke, a form was seen bounding towards them

with the swiftness of a young roe; both stopped amazed, as Amoahmeh

sprang forward, and laying her hand on Boulanger's arm, pointed with

the other towards the leaf-covered ground, and uttered the single word

"Iroquois."

Isidore of course saw nothing, but the practised eye of the Canadian

was not slow, now that his attention had been roused, to detect the

trail of footsteps that had crossed their track. "The girl is right,"

said he, after a rapid but close inspection of them, "and take my word

for it, it is the trail of our old friend of the button-tree. Yes, he

has been tracking us all the way. Now, look at that! The child came

upon it this morning, and has followed it; she has caught him up, and

has come to warn us of----"

Here Amoahmeh placed her finger on her lips, and made a gesture of

impatience.

"Right, child," said Boulanger. "To think now that a bit of a girl

like this should have to teach me to keep my tongue from wagging too

loud."

"But what are we to do?" asked Isidore, somewhat bewildered by all this.

"Do!" repeated the guide. "Well, we had better leave that to her.

Questions would only puzzle her poor brain, whereas it is clear she has

still got all the red skin's cunning, and won't let any harm befall you

at any rate."

Probably Amoahmeh understood the expression of his face better than his

words. At all events she took upon herself at once the office of

guide, and beckoning to them to follow her turned off from the

direction they had been taking and led them into the wood. In a few

minutes they found themselves on the borders of a creek, scarcely a

dozen yards from the point where it ran into a lake of great extent,

and there, to their surprise, Amoahmeh pointed out two or three canoes

which had evidently been purposely drawn up under some overhanging

bushes, so as to escape the possibility of being observed either from

the forest or the lake.

By this time a perfect understanding had been established between

Boulanger and their new guide, and they seemed to need a few signs only

to express their meaning. A good many whispers, however, were

necessary in order to make Isidore crouch down in the middle of the

largest canoe without upsetting the frail craft, but as soon as he had

done so his companions stepped lightly in, one at each end, and the

next moment they were silently paddling out into the lake.

Again Boulanger made a sign; stealthily they paddled back, and the

Canadian reached over into the other canoes in succession, and with a

few strokes of his Indian knife ripped them up after a fashion that did

away with all chance of pursuit from that quarter; this done, they once

more regained the lake.

After pausing for a few seconds to listen, Boulanger and the girl, as

if with one consent, drove the canoe close under the bushes that

fringed the bank and here and there hung down and dipped their long

branches in the water. Isidore's impatience and curiosity now became

so great, and his sense of his own rather undignified position so

galling, that he was just about to assert some kind of right to know

what and whereabouts the danger might be, when he was stopped by the

sound of voices upon the bank at no great distance from them. A few

more strokes of the stealthy paddles and the voices were distinctly

within hearing.

"And I say," exclaimed some one in English, "that I am not going to

stay out here all night on such a wild-goose chase."

"Nor I," said another. "You, Master Kirby, may stop here with them

that will; some of us have sorrow and trouble enough at our own doors

that call us home instead of loitering here. Besides, who knows that

the whole thing isn't a lie of this red scoundrel's after all?"

"You placed yourself under my orders, and I bid you stop here," replied

a firm voice. "The Indian's story was clear enough as he told it at

first, before you were such fools as to let him get dead drunk after

his hard run. What more likely than that Oswego has been taken by that

rascally Montcalm, or that he should send important despatches across

country this way? I know this Indian fellow well: he is trustworthy

enough when sober, and he says he not only saw the French officer and

his guide start from Oswego after the disaster there, but left them not

two hours ago on a path that must bring them either along here or take

them over the hill, in which latter case they will fall into Tyler's

hands."

As these various views and opinions were uttered the canoe was gliding

along within a couple of feet of the bank, stealthily indeed and with

diminished speed, lest the mere splash of the paddle should give the

alarm. The bank was for the most part steep enough to afford complete

concealment from any one at a short distance from the edge. It had

just passed the spot, and was drawing away from the voices, when it

suddenly stopped and swung round. But for a dexterous stroke of

Boulanger's paddle it must have turned over, for it had come right

across a long bramble that had become submerged.

"What was that?" exclaimed one of the New England men; "it sounded like

a paddle."

"Sounded like a fiddlestick!" replied another; "you with your sharp

ears are always hearing something that nobody else can, Master Dick."

"Well, I am not going to stop here any longer," said the first speaker.

"We know that the Commandant of Fort Chambly has pushed forward

detachments in this direction, and 'tis my belief that if we don't

clear out, instead of shooting these Frenchmen and sending their

despatches to the General at New York, we may get shot ourselves, or be

taken and sent off to Montreal."

By this time Boulanger, feeling cautiously over the side, had come

across the bramble that had stopped their course; his knife was through

it in a moment and the canoe swung clear.

"Hush! I'll swear I heard a paddle this time, say what you like,"

cried the former speaker. "Run one of you to the creek and see that

the canoes are all safe."

What else he may have said died away in the distance as the frail

barque that carried Isidore and his companions stole swiftly away, and

soon afterwards rounded a small headland and took to the open waters.

"All safe!" cried Boulanger. "Half an hour will bring us across to a

point they could not reach on foot in three hours at least. We are out

of rifle shot already, even if they should see us; so take it easy a

little, my brave girl, whilst I look about and get my bearings all

right."

Just for a moment the evening breeze wafted towards them a faint sound

as of men shouting; then a shot was fired, but after that all became

still. In half an hour they had crossed the lake, and on landing the

guide ordered a halt and produced their supper.

"Our friends from Chambly are pretty certain to have reached St. Michel

by this time if they are really moving in this direction," said

Boulanger, as he shared the provisions among them. "We will rest a bit

here and then push on; in any case there is, or used to be, an Indian

settlement there, where we can take up our quarters for the night."

"Thank Heaven for that, on this poor child's account," replied Isidore.

"From what you have told me I hope that her misfortunes will ensure her

safety with any tribe of friendly Indians."

"Undoubtedly; but we will not talk of that now, nor think about it just

yet, monsieur," whispered the guide, "or she will read it in our faces

that we want to get rid of her, which may make the thing not quite so

easy."

On starting again, to Isidore's great surprise, the guide quietly

shouldered the canoe and marched off with it, though he subsequently

allowed both Isidore and Amoahmeh to assist him in carrying it. A

short hour's march brought them to another creek sufficiently large to

float their skiff, and soon afterwards they came upon a second lake,

which they traversed from end to end. Then, as they neared the shore,

Isidore's ears were greeted by a well-known and most welcome sound--the

challenge of a French sentinel. They had come upon the detachment sent

out from Fort Chambly.

Great was the surprise of the French officer, who was in command of the

little force, on seeing his friend Isidore at such a time and place and

in such company. All this was of course quickly explained, and the

young soldier and his guide were soon comfortably housed, but not until

they had committed poor Amoahmeh, with many an expression of their

gratitude for her kindly help, to the care of an Indian family, into

whose wigwam she was received with all the awe that her infirmity was

sure to command. It may well be believed that after such a day it was

not long before all three were asleep and dreaming of old friends and

old homes, either amid the grand and gloomy forests of the New World or

the sunny slopes and smiling vineyards of the Old.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter IV]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter V]

CHAPTER V.

At sunrise on the following morning Isidore and his guide started for

Chambly. Happily, Amoahmeh was still asleep. Accustomed as she was to

the woods, the great distance they had traversed on the preceding day,

and perhaps the excitement she had undergone, had told on her slight

frame, and nature had insisted on her claim to a longer rest than

usual. What the poor child's feelings may have been when she awoke and

found herself once more alone in the world who shall say? Possibly the

unwonted exercise of some still active faculties the day before had

dulled her sensibility, for outwardly, at least, she seemed to have

forgotten all the past, and went about as though she had never known

any other home, and as though the strange faces that she saw around her

had looked upon her all her life. But the earnest yet plaintively

uttered, "Where are they?" no longer fell from her lips. It had been

answered, and amid the darkness that enveloped that young loving soul,

it may well be that there was one glimmering ray of light that kept

some smouldering embers of reason still alive.

Isidore's mission was completed without further adventure, and after

delivering his despatches at Chambly, and reporting to the commandant

the particulars he had noted on his way thither, in conformity with

General Montcalm's directions, he was ordered to proceed to Quebec on

another service. This journey, although of about the same length as

the previous one, was a much more easy affair, and was performed by

water. Boulanger, however, who was now on his way home, still acted as

guide, and day by day won more and more upon Isidore by his readiness

and intelligence, and probably--though the young marquis might have

been unwilling to own it--by his honest frankness and his outspoken

dislike of everything mean and underhand. Even his remarks on passing

events were listened to with a forbearance which they would hardly have

met with from the Isidore de Beaujardin of a week ago.

In a few days Isidore and his guide reached Quebec, and there,

notwithstanding the little occasional skirmishes that had taken place

between them, they parted with regret, and with cordial expressions of

good-will. The young soldier had had opportunity enough to see and

appreciate the honest character of the Canadian, whilst the latter had

been still more struck with the condescension as well as by the courage

and endurance of the young noble, of whose high rank he was well aware,

and whose almost necessarily courteous manner, even to his inferiors,

formed a strong contrast to the overbearing and arbitrary behaviour of

the Government officials with whom he generally had to deal.

Isidore's first proceeding was to report himself and deliver his

despatches, on doing which he learned that although the intelligence of

the capture of Oswego had arrived, no details had as yet been received,

nor had his uncle, the Baron de Valricour, as yet reached Quebec. It

was consequently not without hesitation that he made his way to the

house of Madame de Rocheval, the lady with whom the daughter of Captain

Lacroix was staying.

Isidore had never seen Marguerite Lacroix, but he took it for granted

that it was she who, on his being shown into the drawing-room, rose

from her embroidery frame to receive him.

"I am sorry, monsieur," said she, "that Madame de Rocheval is not at

home. You have, doubtless, heard that news has been received of

General Montcalm's having captured Oswego. Madame de Rocheval has a

brother in one of the regiments about whom she is anxious, and my

father, Captain Lacroix, who is quartered at Montreal, has not written

either to me or to her for some time, so she has gone to the adjutant's

office to----"

Here she paused; she would probably not have thought it necessary to

offer all this explanation, but that her visitor seemed awkward and

embarrassed, and she had continued speaking out of politeness. She

stopped suddenly on perceiving, with a woman's quickness, that Isidore

was evidently agitated or unwell.

"I beg your pardon, mademoiselle," said he, at last, but not without

difficulty, "I have just come from Oswego."

"Indeed! Then you have passed through Montreal. Perhaps you have seen

my father? He is very intimate with Monsieur de Valricour, who, I

believe, is your uncle."

"Yes, yes, that is true, but--I had hoped that you might have already

heard--that is, I did not suppose----" here Isidore stopped; and then,

as he looked up and saw the half bewildered, half alarmed look that

came over her face, he added, scarce audibly, "Now may God be merciful

to you, my dear young lady, for the news that I bring will----"

"My father! my father!" was all that poor Marguerite could utter, as,

with hands clasped together, she bent forward in an agony of suspense.

"He is at rest, my dear young lady," said Isidore, with as much

calmness as he could command. "He fell in the moment of victory, as a

brave soldier like him would wish to do."

Marguerite uttered a cry that went to Isidore's heart. He stepped

forward just in time, for, had he not caught her in his arms, she would

have fallen to the ground insensible. At this moment they were joined

by Madame de Rocheval, who had returned in haste, having heard in the

town the news of Captain Lacroix's death; the fainting girl was carried

to her room, and Isidore, after hurriedly explaining to Madame de

Rocheval the circumstances that had brought him there, quitted the

house, promising to call on the following day.

On the morrow letters arrived from the Baron de Valricour, who had come

down from Oswego to Montreal, but was compelled to remain there. They

contained the news of his friend's death, and also an assurance of his

intention to fulfil the promise which he had given to Marguerite's

father. It remained for Isidore, however, to give to the poor orphan

girl that which in this direst of all trials we all so earnestly yearn

after, the personal account of one who has himself seen the dear one

laid to his last rest, and to present to her the little relic he had

himself meant to keep in memory of his fellow-soldier--the

blood-stained strip of a flag in which, by Isidore's directions, they

had carried the hero to his grave.

After the lapse of another week Monsieur de Valricour was able to

resume his journey and reach Quebec, when he took Marguerite under his

guardianship, arranging that she should stay with Madame de Rocheval

until such time as he might be able to take her to France. He brought

with him Isidore's appointment as one of the aides-de-camp to General

Montcalm, who, already prepossessed in his favour by his coolness and

courage at Oswego, had been particularly pleased with the report he had

subsequently made on the line of country between Oswego and Lake

Champlain.

"How strange it is"--such was part of Isidore's musings as the next day

he passed out of the old Porte St. Louis on his road to Montcalm's

head-quarters up the country--"how strange it is that one should feel

such regret at parting from people like Madame Rocheval and that poor

girl, whom one never set eyes on till within a week or two! I daresay,

too, that I shall never see them again. It seems a pity to make

friends, if only to part with them so soon, and perhaps forget them

just as quickly, or at all events only to be forgotten by them."

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter VI]

CHAPTER VI.

A Canadian winter, with the thermometer frequently standing at forty,

and sometimes even fifty or sixty degrees below the freezing point of

Fahrenheit, with its rivers completely blocked by ice and its fields

covered by several feet of snow, puts a stop to most operations,

whether mercantile or military. The winter of 1756 consequently

afforded Isidore de Beaujardin, in his comfortable quarters at

Montreal, complete leisure to reflect upon the incidents that had

occurred during the last few months of his life, amongst which his

short visit to Quebec occupied a prominent place in his reveries and

meditations.

"A charming woman that Madame de Rocheval," so ran his thoughts at

times, "though a little too much of a matchmaker I should say, from

what I have heard of her latterly; but as my uncle says, she is not

very likely to succeed so far as poor Marguerite Lacroix is concerned.

Now-a-days men of any position won't marry a girl without a farthing,

especially if she is not good-looking, though I certainly cannot agree

with the baron or madame, who both seem to think her absolutely plain.

Women, however, are never fair judges of female beauty, we all know

that, though I rather wonder at my uncle's want of taste. Beautiful

she certainly is not--in the sense in which I might have understood the

word a twelvemonth ago; but a little wear and tear in the world makes

us look below the surface. I could envy a fellow now who had such a

girl for his sister; it makes a man selfish and frivolous if he has

only himself to think of. I don't believe I should have been guilty of

half the follies and extravagances which I am afraid I must own to if I

had always had such a young loving thing at my side to lead me to

better and gentler thoughts and ways. Well, I was not so favoured, so

much the worse for me. By the way, I suppose that as my uncle has now

entirely got over the effects of his wound, he will give up the notion

of going back to France till next year. I am glad of it; for I don't

think the baroness is likely to care much about having poor Marguerite

Lacroix on her hands, though it will be the very thing for Clotilde,

who must be moped to death in that dismal old chateau, without any one

of her own age to associate with and no amusement of any kind, for they

are as poor as church mice, and must find it hard enough to keep up

even the small appearance they do make. I wonder when I shall go back

to old France again! I thought when I left it that six months would be

quite enough of this; but I really do not think it so bad after all,

and now that I have got this staff appointment, why, I suppose I must

make up my mind to stay, at all events for next year's campaign."

So Isidore resigned himself to his fate; nay, when it came to his turn

to have the option of carrying despatches to the king in person, he

actually gave up the privilege in favour of a brother officer, who had

not got over his old longing to spend New Year's Day in Paris. It is

not for us to say how far Colonel de Beaujardin may have been

influenced by the private knowledge that General Montcalm's

head-quarters were to be transferred for a time to Quebec. Such,

however, was the case, and Isidore spent his New Year's Day under the

hospitable roof of Madame de Rocheval.

The first two or three days that Isidore passed at Quebec were

singularly happy ones. Some months had now elapsed since the death of

Captain Lacroix, and Marguerite had regained much of her natural

cheerfulness, which seemed all the more bright and winning for the

shade of melancholy that occasionally came over her at the thought of

her lonely and dependent position in the world. Isidore had few

acquaintances there, and did not care to add to their number; at first

his visits at the house of Madame de Rocheval were as frequent as he

could decorously make them. As it happened, Marguerite was more than

an ordinary proficient on the harpsichord, whilst the young marquis,

who had a singularly fine voice, and had had the advantage of the best

masters that Paris could boast of, sang with a taste and feeling seldom

met with; and this afforded a fair excuse for prolonging his visits

beyond the ordinary limits. It is like enough that, notwithstanding

the vast and absolutely impassable distance which their respective

positions would have placed between them in Old France, the most noble

and wealthy young Marquis de Beaujardin would have offered his hand to

the penniless orphan of a man who could not write the "de" of gentle

birth before his name: one untoward circumstance alone, perhaps,

prevented this; Madame de Rocheval, who was very fond of Marguerite,

could not help feeling what a masterly stroke it would be on her part

if she could but catch for her a husband of such rank and fortune, so

she at once began to do all she could to bring about the hoped-for

result. Unfortunately for all parties, madame's zeal outran her usual

discretion, and no sooner did poor Marguerite perceive, or think that

she perceived, the covert designs of her friend than her sensitive

delicacy recoiled from doing anything that might seem like aiding or

abetting such a scheme. She constrained herself to assume a cold and

formal manner, so unnatural to her that Isidore, as men are apt enough

to do, grew vexed and annoyed at a treatment which he knew was

undeserved, and soon began to think there was more affectation about

Mademoiselle Lacroix than he had at first imagined. Then he, too,

suddenly discovered from some little circumstance or other that he was

the object of a studied scheme to make a catch of him, and this

naturally irritated him still more. His pride revolted at the thought

that he who had been admired and courted by the highest and the noblest

even at the Pompadour's own magnificent fêtes and receptions should be

entrapped by a mere matchmaker at an out-of-the-way little place like

this. So he put on a rather grand and haughty air the next time he

called, for which Marguerite not only thought him very silly, but even

told him so. That afternoon he took his leave, alleging that he had to

return to Montreal early the next morning. Yet when he had quitted the

house his heart smote him, and when he passed Madame de Rocheval's the

next day he stopped his cariole and went in just to ask if Marguerite

had any message for her guardian, the Baron de Valricour, at Montreal.

She was alone, and the fact that she had been in tears was so

unmistakably apparent that Isidore was led to express a hope that no

misfortune had occurred to distress her.

"I was mourning over the loss of a friend," said she; "I have so few in

the world that I can scarce afford to lose one, and least of all such

an one as Monsieur de Beaujardin has been to me."

Isidore felt that he had been guilty of a very mean but common fault in

visiting on Marguerite the ill-humour he had felt at something, in

which not she but some one else was to blame.

"Forgive me," said he, at once; "I am, indeed, ashamed to think that I

behaved like a fool, or even worse, in giving just cause of offence to

one who has every claim to very different treatment at my hands. I was

an idiot--I was not myself, or----"

"Yes, yes, let it be so," exclaimed Marguerite, smiling through her

tears and extending her hand to him. "Let it be so; you were indeed

not your own self, so I will forget the stranger of yesterday, and only

remember the courteous Colonel Beaujardin to whom I owe so much."

The entrance of Madame de Rocheval here brought this brief colloquy to

an end, and Isidore once more bade adieu and took his departure.

Perhaps he would have altered his arrangements and remained still

longer at Quebec; but this he could not well do with any show of

self-respect, and he was soon on his road to Montreal. It is, however,

most certainly the fact that he gave up the intention, which he had

formed on the previous evening, of throwing up his commission and

returning to France, and he now once more made up his mind to stay in

Canada, and see out the campaign of 1757.

The opening of the new year found the British Government resolved to

prosecute the war in Canada with unprecedented vigour. An attack on

Louisburg was to be the great feature of the campaign. Upwards of

twenty thousand regular troops from England co-operating with immense

levies raised in America, and large bodies of allied Indians,

constituted the force to be arrayed against France in the New World,

whilst a splendid fleet, counting no less than twenty ships of the

line, under the command of Admiral Holborne, was to carry on the

operations by sea. They made a bad beginning, however, for nearly half

the year had slipped away before the fleet put to sea, and the end was

a complete and disastrous failure. Owing to the incapacity of the

commander-in-chief the time was simply wasted in marchings and

counter-marchings, and continually embarking, disembarking, and

re-embarking the troops. At sea a terrible hurricane scattered the

ships, of which many were wrecked and lost, while the rest, more or

less shattered, made their way back to England as they best could.

The one success of the year was gained by the French, and it was

unfortunately attended by horrors that will never be forgotten. The

capture of Fort William Henry, and the massacre which followed it, is

an oft-told tale, to which allusion needs only to be made here so far

as it bears on the fortunes of our young French soldier. Abandoned at

the most critical juncture by Colonel Webb, the brave but unfortunate

Munro was compelled to surrender the place to Montcalm, with the

stipulation that the garrison, numbering about two thousand men, should

be allowed to march out unmolested. Whilst they were doing so,

however, the Indian allies of the French fell upon them with all the

relentless fury of their savage race. A panic seized upon the wretched

victims, and then ensued a scene of slaughter such as defies

description. In vain did Montcalm interpose; the respect and even love

with which the Indians had come to regard him availed nothing. At the

imminent risk of his own life he rushed in and strove to stay the

carnage, but to no purpose; those of the ill-fated garrison of Fort

William Henry who escaped from the knives and tomahawks of their

vengeful foes, found their way to Fort Edward, or some other place of

safety.

In this matter the conduct of Montcalm and his officers is wholly free

from blame. Many of the latter, like their chief, exposed their lives

in their endeavour to save those whom they were bound to protect as far

as in them lay. Amongst the foremost of these was Isidore de

Beaujardin, and at one moment his life was in the greatest peril. An

English soldier who had been thrown down in the rush was just about to

rise, when a gigantic Indian, yelling out the dreaded war-whoop, darted

towards him. Isidore sprang between them. With a sweep of his

tomahawk the maddened savage sent de Beaujardin's small sword flying

into the air. The weapon of the Indian was already uplifted for the

deadly stroke when a strange fantastically-dressed figure passed,

noiselessly but swiftly, between the two combatants, and then the red

skin fell back, the fierce expression of his face changing to one of

awe, if not of terror. Then came another rush, in which Isidore

received a slight wound, and then by degrees the French regulars

succeeded in forcing back the Indians, but, unhappily, not until their

purpose had been but too thoroughly effected.

Isidore's wound did not prove serious, and in the course of a fortnight

he had nearly recovered from its effects, but he had mentioned it in a

letter to his father, and the consequence was an urgent injunction,

almost amounting to an order, that he should at once return home. This

did not reach him, however, until near the end of October, and it is by

no means improbable that he would have made his recovery an excuse for

disregarding his father's wishes but for other circumstances. It had

become necessary for Madame de Rocheval to visit the old country, and

Monsieur de Valricour had resolved to avail himself of that opportunity

to send Marguerite to France, in order that she might take up her abode

under his roof and find there the home which he had promised to her

dying father to provide for her. This may or may not have influenced

young Beaujardin; at all events he wrote to his father a letter

intimating a dutiful compliance with the order for his return, and

after resigning his appointment as aide-de-camp he made his

arrangements for his departure. Finding no immediate opportunity of

going down from Montreal to Quebec by the St. Lawrence, he resolved to

travel on horseback, and, after selecting a steady servant to accompany

him, he bade adieu to his old quarters and set out for Quebec.

Of all the glories of nature on this earth there is perhaps not one so

gorgeous as that expanse of wooded plain and slope and mountain, clad

in the magnificently varied tints of the Canadian fall of the year,

which met the eyes of Isidore when, towards the end of his journey, he

reined up his horse upon an elevated spot on the banks of the St.

Lawrence, a few miles above Quebec. Some three hundred feet below, the

broad and noble river glided along between precipitous heights, the

red-brown tint of which, interspersed with masses of clustering shrubs,

glowed in the yet warm autumn sun, whilst beyond it to the south, and

away for miles to the north, were spread out great undulating tracts,

bounded by picturesque ranges of lofty mountains, whose waving lines no

pen or pencil can adequately describe. The maple, the sumach, and many

other forest trees, all changing their hues in the warm dry atmosphere

peculiar to the climate, presented everywhere a combination of bright

colour beyond the most fantastic flight of imagination, in which every

tint, from pale sea-green to dusky olive, from palest primrose through

orange and scarlet to deepest crimson, were blended together with a

harmony which the hand of nature can alone produce. The utter

stillness that reigned around, and the marvellous distinctness with

which the most distant objects stood out through the transparent

atmosphere, gave a strange and dream-like character to the scene that

insensibly led him who looked upon it into that mysterious phase of

mind in which we seem to be living over again some moments of a former

life. Even the voice of yonder sturdy woodsman, who has just appeared

above the brow of the hill, seems to set in vibration the slumbering

chord of some memory of things past; yes, and he is vehemently

declaiming to the comely matron who trudges beside him about the

rascality of that fellow Cadet, the most rapacious of the greedy

underlings of Monsieur the Intendant! Truly it is no other than our

friend Jean Baptiste Boulanger, who is just hot from a visit to Quebec

on some business pertaining to his craft, and whose fond and faithful

Bibi has come to meet him by the way.

Isidore and his _quondam_ guide were both glad to meet again. Cadet

and his doings were instantly and utterly forgotten, and de Beaujardin

could not help being pleased to find that the Canadian had taken so

much interest in him that he already knew from the inquiries he had

made all about the young soldier's movements, his wound, and other

incidents of the past year. His request that Isidore would honour his

humble dwelling with a visit was so pressing that the latter consented

to do so, and, sending his servant forward to prepare for his arrival

somewhat later at Quebec, he accompanied Boulanger and his wife to

their cottage, which stood at some little distance from the road.

Great was Bibi's anxiety to do honour to their noble guest, and not

less great her delight at the commendations he bestowed, not only on

the order and tidiness of her little _ménage_, but also on her three

chubby little children, who, notwithstanding divers and sundry private

injunctions to the contrary, would occasionally come to the front and

gaze open-mouthed and awestruck at so uncommon a visitor. At length

Isidore rose to pursue his journey; Boulanger would fain have

accompanied him, but this he would not permit, and, after taking the

Canadian's directions for regaining the road by a bridle path through

the wood in which the cottage was situated, he bade adieu to the honest

couple and galloped away.

The ground was more broken than he had expected, and he was soon

obliged to rein up his horse. As he did so he thought he heard a

rustling in the underwood at no great distance, but it was not until

the same thing had occurred two or three times that the thought crossed

his mind that some one might be following him. Yet, after all, it

might be nothing more than a stray lynx or some such animal, though it

seemed strange that it should move when he moved and stop when he

stopped. At length he gained the road, and would probably have

forgotten the incident altogether had he not accidentally cast a look

behind him, when he saw a dark figure amongst the trees just at the

point where he had quitted the wood. It disappeared, however, almost

instantly, leaving Isidore in some doubt whether it might not have been

Boulanger, who, notwithstanding his expressed wish, might possibly have

desired to see him safely on the road. At all events he saw no more of

it, and riding on soon found himself once more within the great

Canadian fortress.

In the evening he paid a visit to Madame de Rocheval, when he learned

that that lady intended to embark for France in about a fortnight,

taking Marguerite with her, and there was some talk of the possibility

of his going by the same vessel. He did not remain long, however, but

promised to call again the next day. On the following afternoon he

paid his friends a more lengthened visit, and, at his request,

Marguerite presently sat down to the harpsichord, as she had been used

to do of old, to play to him some music she had recently received from

France, and amongst these were some canzonets and other vocal pieces

which she begged Isidore to sing.

Those who should best understand these matters say that the tenor is

the most common voice with men. It may be so, but certainly the rarest

of all voices met with in perfection is the tenor of that marvellous

enchanting quality that thrills the very soul of the listener with its

heavenly vibrations. Such a voice was that of Isidore de Beaujardin,

and the instruction he had received from the best masters at Paris

enabled him to use it with uncommon taste and skill. He was just

concluding an air of Stradella's, in which the melody and

instrumentation alike were perfect, and in which a simple yet stately

grandeur alternated with the most touching plaintiveness, when he

became aware that some one near to him was sobbing violently. It was

not Marguerite, that was certain, though a tear did just then drop on

the hand that touched the harpsichord so charmingly. He turned in some

surprise, and there kneeling beside him, with her face buried in her

hands, he beheld a young girl whom, although her features were

concealed from him, he recognised at once; it was Amoahmeh. Even as

Isidore ceased, the girl's emotion utterly overpowered her, and she

burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. Marguerite rose hastily,

while at the same moment Madame de Rocheval entered the room, and with

the assistance of a domestic they carried Amoahmeh to an adjoining

apartment, where, as Isidore could plainly hear, the strange and

distressing paroxysm continued unabated notwithstanding every effort to

soothe and calm the troubled spirit.

Presently Marguerite returned. "It is a most singular thing," said

she. "This poor Indian girl was found in an exhausted and fainting

state on the steps of our house last evening some time after you had

left. Madame de Rocheval had her brought in and attended to, but when

she revived and had somewhat recovered we found that she had evidently

lost her reason. 'Some one,' she said, 'had told her where they were,

but that she had forgotten, and had come to pray of him to tell her

once again.' We could not understand what she meant. Madame de

Rocheval sent for the doctor to consult him as to what could be done

for her, but we suddenly missed her, and saw no more of her until she

reappeared just now in this strange way."

"Poor child!" exclaimed Isidore, greatly moved. "She is no stranger to

me; indeed, once at least, if not twice, I have owed my life to her.

But it is a long story, and I must not keep you from a holy duty.

To-morrow you shall hear all. In the meantime I know it is not needful

for me to commend this unfortunate and afflicted one to your

compassionate care."

On reaching his apartments, Isidore found that a courier had just

arrived from Montreal with despatches, accompanied by the most urgent

orders that he should carry them to Paris without delay. A ship

appointed to sail from Quebec on the following morning was even

indicated to him as the one in which he was to take his passage without

fail. This was particularly annoying under all circumstances, and at

first Isidore was inclined to demur, or even to refuse compliance; but

on a little reflection he saw that for many reasons this was not to be

thought of, and he accordingly decided to carry out his orders. On the

following morning he was an early visitor at Madame de Rocheval's, and

his first inquiry was after poor Amoahmeh. To his amazement he learnt

that the doctor who had been sent for on the preceding day had

succeeded, though with much difficulty and after a long time, in

allaying the girl's excitement, and that she had then dropped into a

deep sleep, apparently from sheer exhaustion. She had awoke that

morning calm and quiet, and the doctor, who was with her at the time,

had gradually, and to his extreme astonishment, discovered that her

reason, which had in fact given way two or three years previously amid

the horrors of an Indian raid, had partially if not entirely returned.

The strangeness of all around her and her inability to recollect any

recent events had, however, plainly begun to distress her, and the

doctor, fearing a relapse, had given the strictest injunctions that

only one person, namely, Madame de Rocheval, should on any account be

permitted to see her. With this and other precautions he was not

without hope that her recovery might be ultimately insured, and he

attributed it entirely to the strong emotion and subsequent revulsion

of feeling caused by the power and pathos with which the young soldier

had given the soul-stirring and touching melody of the great master.

It was a source of the liveliest satisfaction to young de Beaujardin to

be able to look forward to Amoahmeh's complete restoration to reason,

and he could only regret that he could not be allowed to see her and

express his good wishes. His last hours at Quebec, however, were

devoted to making arrangements with Boulanger to receive her under his

roof as soon as she should be well enough to be removed, which the

doctor hoped would be the case before Madame de Rocheval's departure.

Finally Isidore took leave of his friends, and with the warmly

expressed wish that he and Marguerite might soon meet again in Old

France--a wish which she echoed with her heart, if not with her

lips--he bade adieu once more to Quebec.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter VI]

PART II.

THE LETTRE DE CACHET.

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter I]

THE LETTRE DE CACHET.

CHAPTER I.

The pleasant spring-time had returned once more. Far away in New

France the snows that had mantled the ground for months were

disappearing fast. In Old France the flowers already decked the

meadows and grassy banks, the blossoms had opened, and the song-birds

had begun to break the dreary silence that had reigned in the hedgerows

and the woods, for in those days Old France could let the little

warblers sing without at once devoting them to eke out the rustic meal.

Perhaps in all the west of France there was no tract of country in

which this season was more peculiarly attractive, or could present a

more charming landscape, than that overlooked from the terrace of the

old Chateau de Valricour. It was, however, of the class not

appreciated by those who hold that there is no real beauty, properly so

called, except in rugged, wild, and romantic scenery. Here were no

deep ravines, no dark glens, no bold scarped rocky heights or frightful

precipices. Salvator Rosa would have turned away, whilst Claude would

have desired to linger long to catch some new effect of bright light

gradually softening away in clear yet mellowed distance. There was no

eminence that could be dignified by the name of a mountain, yet there

were hills in one part of the horizon, and slight undulations in the

middle ground sufficient to prevent any idea of monotony. The fields

were green, the trees sufficiently abundant, and a not inconsiderable

stream winding about, and sometimes losing itself for a while behind a

rising ground topped by a quaint old windmill, gave to the scene

variety and life. Homesteads and cottages of all sorts and sizes

dotted the landscape. One or two edifices there were, moreover, of

more pretentious dimensions, evidently the residences of the wealthier

seigneurs, whilst in the extreme distance, flanked by large patches of

woodland, the eye rested on a magnificent chateau covering many and

many a rood, the princely abode of the most noble and most respected

Marquis de Beaujardin.

There was one circumstance, however, connected with this landscape

which, although common to all parts of France in those days, played a

more than usually important part in this particular district, and yet

it was one which a mere stranger looking down from the terrace would

never have suspected. Few of the tenements could claim to be anything

better than mere farm-houses. Yet every second building you came upon

was a chateau--yes, a veritable chateau, the actual abode of some

seigneur of the old noblesse of France, whose name might be like enough

to call up the memory of some illustrious deed done in the old

chivalric days of France. The country literally swarmed with chateaux

and with nobles. Do you see yon rickety, tumble-down building, scarce

big enough for a good-sized family? That is the chateau of Monsieur le

Comte de Joliment, not one of your new nobles, who have become such in

virtue of some one or other of the thousands of royal patent places

that conferred nobility on their upstart holders as a right. No; these

latter gentry have fine salaries or pensions attached to their

appointments; they are comfortable enough as to means, and profess not

to care about pedigree or descent, though the old nobles hold

themselves aloof and look down upon them as _parvenus_. The Count de

Joliment would probably prefer starving to giving up even for a fat

pension his rights over the miserable remnants of the old family

estates that he can still call his own. Did not one of his ancestors

fight by the side of Charles Martel himself at the battle of Tours?

You may almost read something of the kind in the aristocratic bearing

of the old noble, though the most liberal old-clothes-man would

scarcely like to give twenty francs for the whole of the count's

wardrobe, including those clod-hopping boots, but excluding, of course,

the somewhat antiquated rapier which his rank gives him the privilege

of wearing. "How does he manage to live?" you ask. Well, it is not so

easy to say, as incumbrances in many quarters swallow up every sou of

the slender rental. But then the count being a noble, is free from all

the heavy taxes that crush his poor and wretched tenants; his tailor's

bills are nominal, and as he exacts to the last ounce the seigneurial

rights payable in kind, and enjoys besides the lordly privilege of

keeping pigeons and rabbits, he manages to hold body and soul together.

He does not trouble himself about the muttered curses of the commoners

against him and his class, or dream of their taking shape some day in

the hideous cry of "Down with the aristocrats! A la lanterne!"

The same picture, with a slight alteration here and there, will do

equally well for some of the count's neighbours, such as the Marquis de

Marcy, the Sieur de Vallancelles, and even the noble Duke de Hautbois,

who is perhaps the most hopelessly impoverished of those who may cross

your path in the course of the day's walk that separates the Chateau de

Valricour from that of Beaujardin. Yes, but then Madame la Duchesse

can claim the privilege of sitting on a tabouret in the royal presence,

that is to say she could if there were such a personage, but the Duke

is not married, wisely considering, perhaps, that a dozen young dukes

(for all his progeny would have a right to the title) might make the

whole thing look ridiculous, so when he dies there will happily be one

poor noble the less instead of a dozen more for the despised Third

Estate of the realm to hate and scowl upon.

It must by no means be supposed, however, that there is no other side

to this strange picture. There are hosts of noble families whose means

enable them to maintain a proper state, and to keep up the dignity of

their ancient houses; and this, be it remembered, is in truth their

only calling, for as a class or body the nobles had no influence or

power in the Government of the kingdom. Nay, there is yet another set,

so splendidly, so magnificently wealthy that the mind, accustomed to

the more measured and sober scale even of the most princely

establishments of modern days, can scarcely picture to itself the

boundless extravagance which marked those of the age of Louis the

Fifteenth and his successor, until the Revolution swept them away.

Some great nobles there were whose landed revenues were sufficient to

enable them to live in almost royal state. Then there were some who,

having no landed property to squander, flocked to Paris or Versailles,

and sought and found favour at the profligate court of "His Most

Christian Majesty" (as the kings of France were styled), no matter by

what base and scandalous means. These were lavishly rewarded, and

obtained large incomes from the enormous grants and pensions given to

them as court favourites and personal attendants on the king, not

merely by thousands but even by millions of francs. These profligates

cared not what they spent so long as they could outdo this or that

rival in extravagance, by having fifty more guest chambers in their

chateaux, or fifty more horses in their stables. If a day of reckoning

did thrust itself upon them it was but a question of asking for another

pension in addition to those they already held, or of obtaining at a

nominal price a grant of crown domains, to be sold again for hundreds

of thousands of francs. Truly there was but one thing that could match

the flaunting wastefulness of the reigning favourites at court, and

that was the hard condition, the intolerable poverty, of the despised

commonalty.

Nevertheless, whilst the greater part of the old nobility of France

came unmistakably under one or other of these extreme descriptions,

there were to be found, in the country districts, some who were free

alike from such boundless extravagance and such abject poverty. Of

this small and exceptional class the Marquis de Beaujardin was a

striking example. His naturally calm and unexcitable temperament had

been still further disciplined by early habits of self-command, first

as a scholar and subsequently as a soldier. Slow to apprehend the

bearings of questions, he seldom failed, if he had time for

consideration and reflection, to arrive at a right conclusion, and then

he could be not only just but generous. Thus he had long since arrived

at a fair judgment of the state of things in France, and keeping aloof

from the court and its intrigues, added as little as might be to the

terrible burdens which the laws of the land and the existing state of

society inevitably laid upon the poorer classes around him. Had he

followed his own inclination, he would from choice have kept as small

an establishment at Beaujardin as Madame de Valricour did from

necessity, but the marchioness was far too frivolous and fond of the

world to give up what she could fairly claim as suitable to their

exalted position. This was not unreasonable, and to this, within

limits, the marquis did not demur; so the establishment at Beaujardin

was kept up in a style fairly befitting their rank, but without

needless ostentation.

Perhaps the marchioness, with her childish silliness of character,

might not have found it so easy to prevail over her husband's firmness

and good sense in such a matter, had she not been supported and

counselled by the Baroness de Valricour, of whom, to own the truth, the

marquis always stood in awe. Nobody knew this better than the clever

and strong-minded lady herself; for the last twenty years, indeed, she

had decided most questions that arose at the Chateau de Beaujardin,

although the marquis not unfrequently regretted this when it was too

late for him to recede from an over hasty concurrence. Now, however,

the great aim of the baroness' life might be accomplished. Those were

days when the inclinations of the persons really most interested were

held of small account in family alliances, and if Madame de Valricour

could only obtain a complete ascendancy over her weak sister-in-law,

the success of her plan was certain. That ascendancy she had at last

achieved, and the game seemed to be in her hands.

The return of Isidore to France had of course been the great event of

the autumn, and the chateau had been even more than usually thronged

with visitors during the six months that succeeded his arrival. Madame

de Valricour had managed matters with her accustomed dexterity, and

although she had not yet brought Isidore to the point of formally

avowing himself as a suitor for the hand of Clotilde, she was satisfied

that all was going right, and was too wary to spoil all by

precipitancy. The baroness fancied she knew Isidore better even than

he knew himself, and secretly rejoiced to find his visits to Valricour

become more and more frequent, and his walks in the forest with

Clotilde, accompanied by Marguerite for propriety's sake, more and more

prolonged. At last she thought the pear was ripe, and she took a

decided step in order to bring the affair to an issue. Let us see what

came of it.

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter II]

CHAPTER II.

Whether or not there was in that part of France a more charming view

than that from the terrace of the Chateau de Valricour, there certainly

was not in all France on that bright May morning a more happy pair than

the two young people who sat side by side, each clasping the other's

hand, in one of the pleasant trellised arbours which from either end of

the terrace overlooked the pleasant scene. And yet, perhaps, those who

think the beautiful in nature inconsistent with strongly marked and

striking features, might consider that true happiness and prosperity,

so called, could not co-exist with such intense excitement and such

bewildering surprise as just then rendered Isidore and Marguerite for

some minutes incapable of expressing what they felt.

"I can scarcely believe it possible. O Isidore! are you quite sure

that there is no strange mistake in it all?"

"Nay, read for yourself, my darling one," he replied, once more

unfolding the letter which he held in his hand, and quietly withdrawing

the other to point to the words that had brought out the passionate

declaration he had but just made to her.

"See here! After a few lines about my uncle Valricour, this is what my

father says. You do not know him as well as I do, but you see he is

not one to allow any silly notions about fortune or noble descent to

stand in the way of what he believes to be right."

Marguerite took the letter, and though still trembling with excitement,

managed to read as follows:

"And now, my dear son, I must allude to a very different matter.

Madame de Valricour writes to me that you have lost your heart, and

that although for reasons, which, she says, she quite understands, you

have not made it known, she thinks it time that I should intervene. I

think so too; and I do so the more willingly as I doubt not that your

reticence and hesitation in this matter has arisen from a natural

feeling that I might be opposed to your union with one who is not your

equal in point of rank, and who will not, I fancy, bring you a sou in

the way of marriage portion. Well, I will ease your mind at once. To

you, and therefore to me, money can be no object. As an old soldier

myself I might well be content to receive as my daughter-in-law even

one who could boast of no higher title than that of a brave soldier's

daughter; in any case, your wife will be the Marquise de Beaujardin,

so, assuming that Madame de Valricour is correct in her supposition, I

see no reason why I should go out of my way to thwart a son who has

ever deserved my affection, and has proved himself likewise to be

worthy of the name of a good soldier."

The letter dropped from her hands. "Isidore, Isidore! what have you

done?" said she in a tone that had in it no trace of the delight he had

anticipated. "O Isidore! your fond heart has blinded you. What shall

I do? Isidore, you have brought ruin on your dear self, and all for

me!"

Astonished and disconcerted at this unexpected outburst, Isidore would

have endeavoured to calm her, but as he took her hand in his she

uttered a slight cry, and on looking round he beheld Madame de

Valricour standing only a few paces from them, regarding them

apparently with speechless amazement.

However much the young marquis might have lost his self-possession when

he and Marguerite were the only actors in the scene, the appearance of

Madame de Valricour at once brought back his usual command over

himself, although he certainly was somewhat puzzled at the blank

expression of her face at that moment.

"I would apologise to you, my dear aunt," said he, "for allowing myself

to be caught at such a very sentimental crisis, but that I know that it

is to you and no one else that I owe my happiness at this moment,

and----"

He stopped short, for the blank look had suddenly changed into one so

fiercely angry that anything further in the way of complimentary

speeches was not to be thought of, and a dead pause ensued.

"Leave us, Mademoiselle Lacroix!" cried Madame de Valricour vehemently.

Marguerite hesitated, her reluctance to leave Isidore alone in so

painful a dilemma, overcoming even her habitual deference to Madame de

Valricour; but Isidore, who felt that he should be more free to speak

or act if unembarrassed by her presence, quietly led her away from the

spot. Then, after raising her hand to his lips, he returned to the

baroness and addressed her thus--

"I am utterly at a loss to understand you, my aunt--you, to whom I was

about to offer my warmest thanks for so kindly smoothing the way to my

union with Mademoiselle Lacroix."

"I!" exclaimed the baroness, apparently forgetting her indignation for

a moment in her amazement. "I! Who says this? It is false! There is

some ridiculous mistake here--or rather some shameful trick. You have

not dared, sir, to make the girl believe that----"

"Calm yourself, my good aunt," replied Isidore, interrupting her. "As

for trick or deception, I shall not insult either you or myself by

further noticing words spoken in a hasty moment. As for any mistake,

you or my father must answer for that, if there is any. He tells me

you have written to him on the subject, and he has expressed his

approval of my choice."

"It is false, absolutely false!" exclaimed the baroness, passionately.

"When--where has the marquis told you this? Show me the letter. It is

a cheat which you would put both upon me and this girl. Show me the

letter, I say!"

"If Madame de Valricour doubts my word," answered Isidore haughtily,

"she will have to satisfy herself elsewhere. I am not in the habit of

substantiating my assertions."

"I say again it is false," reiterated the incensed baroness, forgetting

her usual caution. "I wrote to your father about you and Clotilde. Do

you dare to tell me that he has bidden you to marry some one else? If

you are not a base and unworthy trickster, then you must be the veriest

idiot alive."

A single lens may not, perhaps, suffice to make an object visible, but

place another in juxtaposition with it and suddenly all becomes clear

and distinct. Isidore recalled the piteous words uttered by Marguerite

as she dropped the letter, and the truth flashed across his mind at

once.

Madame de Valricour had thrown herself into a chair as she concluded

her tirade, for the collected way in which her nephew had at first

listened to her, and his high and mighty air, seemed to belie any

charge of duplicity at all events. But when she noticed the alarmed

expression of his face, and the no less unmistakable change in his

manner, she was on her feet again in a moment and was about to renew

the attack, but he interrupted her.

"Pardon me, my aunt," said he, "it is worse than useless for us two to

discuss this business. I am afraid I have made a mistake indeed, and

one that is like enough to cause no little bitterness and trouble. Yet

I do not regret it for one moment," he added, as he thought of the few

loving words with which Marguerite had confessed her long-cherished

affection for him. "Whatever you may think, my aunt, I have acted

honestly and in good faith, and it will rest with my father to decide

how all this is to end. I shall appeal to him at once. Nay, I beseech

you, my good aunt," he continued, seeing the baroness about to break

forth again, "let us not make things worse by useless altercation.

With your permission I will relieve you of my presence, and will desire

Jasmin to order our horses that I may return at once to Beaujardin."

Without giving Madame de Valricour time for any further comment,

Isidore then bowed to her and withdrew.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter II]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter III]

CHAPTER III.

Isidore had scarcely quitted the terrace before he was accosted by

Clotilde's maid, who begged him to come to her young mistress without

delay, and he soon reached his fair cousin's boudoir. He found her

trying to cheer up poor Marguerite, but not very successfully, it must

be owned, for Clotilde's spirits were always of the highest, and her

thoughtless raillery increased rather than allayed her friend's

distress.

"Mercy on us!" she exclaimed as Isidore made his appearance. "If any

one ever deserved the name of 'the knight of the rueful countenance' it

is certainly my doughty cousin. Well, if men put on that dismal face

when their lady-loves accept them, I shall certainly always say 'no'

for their sakes, if not for my own."

"Nay, but, my dear, sweet cousin," said Isidore, "I entreat you to be

serious for half an hour, or even for a few minutes, if you can. Has

not Marguerite told you?"

"She has told me that you have fallen in love with her, and I suppose

that mamma does not like it. I have not got further than that as yet,

and I do not think that is anything so very, very awful."

"Not if that were really all, my dear cousin; but the baroness, it

seems, had taken it into her head that I was in love with you. It is

too absurd. Can you imagine anything so ridiculous?"

"I am infinitely obliged to you for your politeness, Monsieur de

Beaujardin, in supposing it to be so very ridiculous that any one

should fall in love with _me_. Why, there is my devoted cousin, the

Duke de St. Menehould, who would make me his duchess any day, if I had

but a million of livres for my dowry, to say nothing of the Sieur de

Crillon, who declares he is dying for me, and would have married mo

long ago, if mamma had not made up her mind that I should have my most

uncivil cousin de Beaujardin. Dear me, only think, though, how

dreadful it would have been if mamma had fancied I was in love with

you!"

"Do, pray, be serious," replied Isidore. "Can you not see, Clotilde,

that your mother is not one to be thwarted with impunity in any scheme

she has formed. This affair may, if I cannot conciliate my father,

prove fatal to my whole life's happiness, and, what is infinitely

worse, to dear Marguerite's also."

"Isidore! Isidore!" exclaimed the latter, passionately, "do not think

of me; I am only distressed and unhappy for your sake. If I can only

save you from harm, I will do anything. O Isidore! I will give up

everything, even your dear self, though I shall never cease to love

you."

There was a pause as Isidore put his arm around her, as if to reassure

her of his steadfastness, and gently kissed her forehead. Even

Clotilde was subdued.

"I am afraid that you are right, and that it is a serious business

after all," said she. "Mamma is ever either a good friend or a bitter

enemy; but all must depend on my uncle, so do not lose a moment, my

good cousin, but be off to Beaujardin at once. In the meanwhile I will

do what I can to soothe mamma and comfort Marguerite. Yes, sir,

although it is so very absurd to think of any one falling in love with

me, I won't bear malice, but behave like a generous heroine to my

odious rival here. There, off with you, and let us hear all about it

as soon as you can."

The advice was obviously too sensible to be disregarded, and Isidore at

once proceeded to summon his valet, Monsieur Jasmin, for the purpose of

ordering the horses and packing up for the journey. In the corridor he

came upon the very person he sought, and, perhaps somewhat curtly, gave

him the needful directions.

News travels apace in such households, where there is often enough some

scheming underling, who makes it his business to know everything about

everybody. Monsieur Jasmin had long since satisfied himself that

Mademoiselle Marguerite, and not Mademoiselle Clotilde, had won his

young master's heart; he knew, moreover, that the baroness had set her

heart on a union between the two families, and the rumour that there

had been a scene between madame and the young marquis, and that

Marguerite had fled to Clotilde's boudoir in tears, did not surprise

him much. Nevertheless he affected to be astonished at so abrupt a

departure, and, overdoing his part a little, as the most clever people

sometimes do, he exclaimed--

"But, monsieur, it is impossible! Surely monsieur does not think of

such a thing?"

Isidore had had to suppress much bitterness and vexation during his

interview with the ladies; but little was needed to bring out his

irritation pretty strongly, and Jasmin's opposition did it most

effectually.

"Do as I bid you, insolence!" cried Isidore, turning angrily upon him,

"and lose no time about it, unless you want me to chastise you for a

meddling, impertinent cur." So saying he passed on, whilst the valet

remained standing in the middle of the corridor chafing under this

unexpected rebuff.

The very pink of courteous servility, aping to the utmost pitch the

prevalent extravagance of courtesy, Monsieur Jasmin had ever been too

adroit to bring on himself such a humiliation, and in the few months

during which he had been in Isidore's service he had never even

suspected his master to be capable of such rudeness even to a menial.

He had not yet recovered from the shock when Madame de Valricour came

sweeping along the corridor. He stepped back to allow her to pass, but

instead of doing so, she stopped, and after looking steadily at him for

a few moments, as if she were making up her mind about some

contemplated step, she hastily desired him to attend her in the saloon.

Jasmin bowed, and followed her.

When left to herself by Isidore, a few minutes' reflection had enabled

the baroness to realise the exact position of affairs, and she had at

once set about considering what course she would have to take if she

would prevent her cherished scheme from being utterly overthrown. She

knew Isidore's father well, and believed it quite possible that his

affection for his son might outweigh any considerations founded on the

mere absence of rank and fortune on the part of Marguerite, especially

if he were once convinced that Isidore had plighted his word in the

honest belief that he was acting in accordance with his father's

wishes. Yes, that was the point she had to look to. She knew her own

influence over the marquis, but it must be brought to bear strongly and

without delay, and Isidore must, if possible, be prevented from

forestalling her. All this was being weighed whilst her nephew was

debating the matter with Clotilde and Marguerite. Having formed her

resolution, the baroness had rung the bell, and ordered her coach to be

got ready, saying that she desired to take an airing; she then hastened

to equip herself for a journey. Coming upon Monsieur Jasmin, however,

in the corridor a fresh thought struck her.

On reaching the saloon the lady paused awhile, and then addressed the

valet thus--

"I have heard highly creditable accounts of the zeal and ability with

which you discharge your duties, Monsieur Jasmin, and of your fidelity

to your master."

The valet knew that this was not true; besides, even the overstrained

euphuism of the day would not lead the proud Baroness de Valricour to

speak thus to a mere valet--unless, indeed, she had some covert end in

view. What did she want? That was the question.

Jasmin bowed, and answered with some common-place remark, expressing

his obligations to madame for her good opinion.

"Monsieur de Beaujardin gives handsome wages, no doubt," was her next

remark, "and you would not care to leave his service, I suppose?"

Jasmin certainly had no desire to exchange the liberal _ménage_ of

Beaujardin for the scarcely disguised poverty of Valricour, but it was

second nature with him to cringe and flatter: "I could not desire to

quit so noble a family, except, indeed, for the service of so exalted

and gracious a personage as the Baroness de Valricour."

"That is precisely what I wish, Monsieur Jasmin," was the prompt

rejoinder. "To be brief, I believe Monsieur de Beaujardin allows you

fifty louis a year. For special reasons I desire to engage you in my

service, and I will give you double that amount."

However tempting the offer might seem, Jasmin happened to know that

those who had the honour of serving Madame de Valricour were not

unfrequently put to straits, from the difficulty of getting their wages

paid at all, and at any other moment he would probably have declared

that no amount could induce him to leave so noble a master as the young

marquis; but he thought he saw clouds gathering over Isidore's head,

and the little incident in the corridor was rankling in him.

"But, madame," said he, "what will be said abroad if I----"

"For the present, at least," replied the baroness, "I do not desire

that it shall be known. You can still be valet to my nephew, and

receive your wages from him too. Has Monsieur Jasmin never heard of

such little arrangements in families where untoward circumstances have

occurred to mar a good understanding?"

"Madame," said Jasmin, bowing, "I accept your offer. It is not for me

to say more than that my doing so puts me under the necessity of

carrying out, without question or scruple, any directions you may give

me."

"Good," rejoined the baroness. "Monsieur de Beaujardin has offended,

and even insulted me. I am going to the Chateau de Beaujardin, and I

wish to reach it before he does."

Jasmin bowed again: "If monsieur's horse should unfortunately go lame,"

said he, suggestively, "I am afraid there will be nothing left in the

stables for him to ride, if your ladyship takes the four horses."

"It is for you to see to that," replied the lady, sharply, for she did

not relish the half sneer at the state of the Valricours' stables, nor

the idea of Monsieur Jasmin's presuming upon his new position and

becoming familiar. "For the rest," she added, "you will understand

that I desire to be kept exactly informed of Monsieur de Beaujardin's

movements and also those of----"

"Of Mademoiselle Lacroix," said Jasmin, filling up the pause.

"Yes; that is enough. Stay, here are twenty crowns on account of your

wages."

With these words Madame de Valricour opened her escritoire and handed

the money to Jasmin, who once more bowed low and retired. He had

scarcely gone half the length of the corridor, however, before he was

recalled by his new mistress. "There is one thing more," said she, as

they re-entered the saloon; "it is a matter of much delicacy, but if I

thought I could entirely rely on----"

Here the baroness stopped and seemed to hesitate. Jasmin, who under a

show of servile obsequiousness noted every look, word, and gesture with

unremitting keenness, thought that he detected in the lady's

embarrassment an apprehension that she might compromise or commit

herself too seriously by some communication she desired to make to him,

and he hastened to remove her fears.

"Madame has the best security for my executing any task she may impose

on me without any scruples on my part, as I have placed it in her power

to deprive me at her pleasure of my engagement with Monsieur Isidore,

as well as of that with which she has honoured me."

Perhaps Madame de Valricour had her own ideas as to who would lose most

by an exposure of her schemes, nevertheless Monsieur Jasmin's little

speech had its effect.

"In short, then," said she, "my nephew received yesterday a letter from

the marquis, his father, concerning a family matter of interest to me.

Monsieur Isidore has deeply offended me, and I do not choose to ask him

to let me see the letter, but it is important that I should do so--in

fact I wish to have this letter in my possession."

"The letter shall be in madame's hands before she leaves the chateau,"

replied the valet; and so ended this little supplementary conversation.

Monsieur Jasmin, who had hitherto considered Isidore's service rather a

tame and monotonous one, had at last found occupation congenial to his

taste, and he performed his task with the greatest readiness and

ability. It was not until after the young marquis had twice ordered

the horses to be brought round, and had been worked up into a state of

impatience which would brook no further delay, that he was informed

that his horse had gone dead lame. Determined not to be baffled in his

purpose, and half suspecting that some trick was being put upon

him--though his suspicion fell on the groom instead of the real

delinquent--he expressed his intention of riding Jasmin's horse, and

leaving that personage to follow on foot as he best could. This

resolve might have answered had he acted upon it at once; but just as

he was putting his foot in the stirrup the valet informed him that

Mademoiselle Lacroix had a packet which she desired to send to the

marquise. Should he go and ask her for it? The temptation to say a

few more last words was too great. Isidore hastily re-entered the

chateau, but only to hear from Marguerite that there must have been

some mistake, as she had no commands at Beaujardin. In a towering rage

Isidore once more descended the staircase, and on reaching the

courtyard he would probably have carried out there and then his former

threat of chastisement; but Monsieur Jasmin had taken good care to be

absent, and his incensed master, anxious to lose no more time, was soon

galloping away in the direction of Beaujardin.

He did not gallop far, however, for the horse he rode soon showed signs

that something was amiss with him. Still Isidore urged him on, and the

animal, which was of a noble breed, seemed to gather himself together,

and for a time appeared to have recovered his powers, but it was of no

use; they had gone just half-way when the creature suddenly broke down

and could go no further. As he disengaged himself, Isidore muttered

something not very complimentary to Monsieur Jasmin, for he began to

suspect that the valet had something to do with his mishap. There was

nothing for it, however, but to proceed on foot and endeavour to obtain

another horse, if possible, at a farmhouse some distance further on.

This he at last accomplished, but what with one delay and another it

proved of no avail. When he reached the chateau, he learned that

Madame de Valricour had arrived there nearly half an hour before him,

and as he ascended the great staircase he met her coming down. She

curtsied to him in the most polite manner, but there was an expression

of triumph in her face which warned him to prepare for the worst.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter III]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter IV]

CHAPTER IV.

"This is an impertinence, sir!" exclaimed the marquis angrily, as

Isidore, without any announcement, entered the private apartment in

which Madame de Valricour had just concluded her interview.

"My father," replied Isidore firmly, "there are times and circumstances

which oblige us to lay aside all ceremony. At a moment like this the

last thing I could desire is to offend you, but----"

"The circumstances, sir," answered the marquis, "are such as to make

any want of respect on your part an additional insult, and you are

mistaken if you think that you can thus presume on the forbearance I

have too blindly shown towards you."

"I will not appeal either to your forbearance or your affection, sir,

though I cannot forget either," answered Isidore, "because I know that

you are just now unfairly prejudiced against me by Madame de Valricour."

"How dare you say this to my face, sir!" retorted the marquis with a

vehemence very unusual in him. "You should know, sir, that your aunt

is one who is utterly incapable of such conduct towards any person, and

your ingratitude to one who has ever been most indulgent and

affectionate to you makes your proceedings even more reprehensible.

Begone, sir! I will not listen to you."

"Sir, I ask no favour of your kindness, but I demand it of your sense

of justice that you listen to me, and do not condemn me unheard. I do

not expect to be denied, merely because I am your son, a right I

believe you accord even to the meanest of your servants."

For a moment or so the marquis made no reply. However blinded he might

be by his anger, he could have no plausible reason for refusing this

request.

"Well, sir," said he at last, "you have liberty to speak, but have a

care that you make no more insinuations against your estimable aunt,

and let us have no silly sentiment. We have to do with facts, and to

these you will confine yourself. If you can disprove what Madame de

Valricour alleges, so much the better for you, but that you cannot do.

You have told her that I--yes, I--approved of your engaging yourself to

this Marguerite Lacroix. Why, sir, if you had seen it in my own

handwriting you would have hardly been justified in believing your own

eyes, but you know, and knew, that I never wrote anything of the kind.

I can scarcely command patience to speak of such an absurdity. Besides

this, you have for a long time past been paying to your cousin a

devotion so manifest that Madame de Valricour assures me it is the

common talk, and I can share with her in her indignation at the

humiliating position in which you have placed her unhappy daughter."

"Nay," rejoined Isidore, who felt almost inclined to laugh,

notwithstanding his vexation, "this is really too absurd. I can not

only vouch for it that Clotilde does not care for me, but that she

knows I never dreamed of paying her any special attention. I can

assure you that she is aware of the position in which Mademoiselle

Lacroix and I stand in regard to each other, and heartily rejoices at

it."

At this the marquis broke out more indignantly than ever. "What, sir!

Do you dare to own this to my face? Your excellent aunt, though she

could not altogether disguise her fears, evidently allowed her

affection for you to deter her from accusing you of such effrontery,

but it is now clear that there has been a secret understanding between

you all to deceive her, and the falsification of my letter to you is a

fitting climax to such behaviour."

"Falsification, sir!" retorted Isidore indignantly. "You are the only

man living whom I would permit to use that word with impunity."

"I repeat the word," replied the marquis, sternly. "I cannot doubt,

even if any other part of my letter could have been misunderstood, that

I must have mentioned your cousin Clotilde's name in connection with

this affair. To pretend the contrary is as impudent as it is absurd."

"It is a fortunate thing that I can at least prove to you that your

letter not only did not mention my cousin's name, but that it left

ample room for misconception," answered Isidore, feeling in his pocket

for the all-important missive; "though I may add that to you alone,

sir, would I condescend to attempt to clear myself of such an

imputation."

The marquis started slightly, and regarded him with a look in which

expectation seemed mingled with distrust. In vain, however, did

Isidore search one pocket after another; the letter was not there.

"This is most annoying," said he at last; "I must have left it at

Valricour."

"Of course," rejoined the marquis, sarcastically, "very unfortunate,

indeed! Perhaps I can assist you in your search for the missing

document, or at least as much of it as you incautiously and unwittingly

left undestroyed." So saying he drew forth from a drawer in his

writing-table and held out towards his son a small piece of paper. It

was all burnt at the edges, and from the signature still just legible

upon it, Isidore at once recognised it as a fragment of his father's

letter to him. He might well be amazed and dumbfounded. A minute ago

he had supposed the letter safe in his pocket, and relied on it for his

justification; now a shred of it, charred and defaced, was produced

against him, in mute but irrefragable proof that he had himself

destroyed it to cover his own falsehood and deceit.

"I suppose, sir," said the marquis, "as you pretend to be so much

astonished, that I must tell you that this little piece of paper was

found in your chamber at the Chateau de Valricour. No, sir," he

continued, more vehemently as Isidore attempted to speak, "I will not

hear another word from lips already so basely, so vilely forsworn. Go!

From this moment I disown you as my son. For the sake of others I will

spare you any public degradation, and any punishment beyond the

necessity of seeking your fortune henceforward as you best may, with no

sympathy or aid from me beyond a small allowance which I shall cause to

be remitted to you from time to time. For the rest, I have done with

you."

The last words were scarcely uttered when Isidore found himself alone

with his own reflections.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter IV]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter V]

CHAPTER V.

For several days after the eventful scene at the Chateau de Beaujardin

nothing particularly worth mentioning occurred either there or at

Valricour; outwardly at least, matters seemed to have relapsed into

their ordinary routine, just as some usually placid stream, after being

swollen and agitated for a while by a sudden storm of wind and rain,

subsides once more into its customary channel. The marquis, indeed,

might seem somewhat more sedate and more taciturn than was his wont,

and the marchioness possibly suffered herself to be looked upon by her

female friends as very much to be pitied for some mysterious cause of

anxiety she could not divulge for all the world. Madame de Valricour,

however, betrayed not the slightest indication that anything was going

or had gone wrong; on the contrary, she appeared more lively and

amiable than usual, and treated Marguerite with peculiar affability and

sweetness. But Clotilde, at all events, was not slow to perceive that

both Marguerite and herself were watched much more closely than they

had ever been before by Madame de Bleury, a decayed gentlewoman and

distant relative of Madame de Valricour, who had for some years past

lived at the chateau, and discharged the multifarious duties of

housekeeper, chaperone, duenna, and private secretary to the baroness

as occasion required. More than once during those few days Madame de

Valricour went over to Beaujardin, but did not take either of the young

ladies with her, a circumstance at which Clotilde chafed not a little,

declaring that she was quite sure that it was neither the weather nor

the distance that stood in the way, as her mother alleged, but in order

that she might not come across Monsieur de Crillon, who was just then

on a visit at Beaujardin.

"What should I care about him?" she would say to Marguerite. "He has

become much too grand a personage at court to care about such

insignificant creatures as you or I. Why, I am told he is quite the

right-hand man of the king's minister, and that he is likely enough

some day to rise to be one of the first officers of state; but then he

has no money, and as I have not a farthing, perhaps it is no wonder

that mamma is in such terrible fear of our meeting, even for one

evening, at Beaujardin."

And where was Isidore all this week? If any one asked, the reply was

that it was believed he had gone to Paris to pay his respects to the

king, though there were some amongst the domestics at Beaujardin who

smiled when they heard that, for Monsieur Jasmin was still at the

chateau; it was even whispered that Isidore had once or twice been seen

at Valricour whilst the baroness was away. If that lady, however, did

know anything of these rumours, she took no notice of them, and bided

her time.

There had been a large party at Beaujardin, at which the marquis and

marchioness, whatever may have been their disquietude at heart, had

treated their guests with all their wonted courtesy and attention.

Nevertheless it is likely enough that long after the numerous and

distinguished visitors had retired to rest, the noble host and hostess,

as well as the Baroness de Valricour, who had been present, spent more

than one wakeful hour. Besides them, however, there were three other

persons in the chateau who sat up till a late period of the night. In

a handsomely furnished and well lighted apartment at the rear of the

mansion Monsieur Boulederouloue, the steward or _maître d'hotel_, with

his special guests, Monsieur Achille Perigord, the _chef de cuisine_,

and Monsieur Jasmin, the young marquis' valet, yet lingered over a

flask of Chateau d'Yquem, such as all the regiments of royal butlers at

Versailles could not have set before his most Christian Majesty Louis

Quinze himself.

The three men were in every particular about as unlike to each other as

any three men could be. The valet, who possessed an unusually good

face and figure, whose costume was unexceptionable, and who had

acquired to perfection the ultra-courteous manners of the time, might

have passed for a nobleman anywhere except alongside of a real one.

One might really have been excused for fancying him of a different race

of beings from Monsieur Boulederouloue, the shapelessness of whose huge

unwieldy frame was happily rendered undistinguishable by an

extravagantly full suit of the Louis Quatorze fashion. An enormous

full-bottomed wig of the same period surmounted and flanked his full

moon face of pasty whiteness, most like the battered and colourless

visage of an old wax doll, in which a transverse slit does duty for a

mouth, and whose deficiency in the article of nose is counterbalanced

by great glassy eyes guiltless of a single atom of expression.

Marvellous indeed was Monsieur Boulederouloue's stolidity in all

things, and not less notable his stupidity in all but one; that one

thing, however, was his business as _maître d'hotel_, in which he was

unsurpassed, unrivalled. If you told him that there had been no kings

of France before Louis the Fourteenth, and that his native country was

an island in the Pacific, that grass grew on trees in India, and that

the stars were old moons chopped up into bits, he would have stared at

you and believed it all. What did he know of such things? His father

and grandfather had been stewards in the Beaujardin family before he

was born; from his infancy he had seen, noted, watched, talked of,

cared for only what pertained to the proper regulation of the household

that constituted his little world. So he grew up, and on the day on

which his father, old Mathieu Boulederouloue, departed this life, young

Mathieu put on the Louis Quatorze suit and wig, and not one of the

guests at the chateau could have imagined that the one functionary in

the place most important to him had bequeathed to new and untried hands

the post that he had filled for forty years. What of it? From that

day it was with young Mathieu as it had been with old Mathieu. One

glance into the brilliant saloon told him how many covers were required

for supper, what wines, what viands, suited the occasion. One stately

walk round the furnished table was enough for him to detect the

minutest error or omission of his myrmidons. Not one of the hundreds

of guests that visited the chateau crossed the great hall to whom the

_maître d'hotel_ was unable to assign on the spot the chamber he was to

occupy, his place at table, and the degree of precedence to which he

was entitled. Yes, M. Boulederouloue was assuredly a perfect master of

his business; and what is more, the scores of servants under him were

all masters of theirs, for he had a most simple and summary mode of

dealing with any one that was not perfectly in order. The offending

party was at once summoned to the presence of Monsieur Boulederouloue,

who presented him with an order on the intendant for the wages due to

him, and without a word waved his hand towards the door. Remonstrance

and entreaty, or the assurance that it was a first fault, were alike in

vain; a stare, a shrug, and just possibly the pithy injunction, "Go!"

was the utmost they ever elicited from the _maître d'hotel_; and as

their wages were high and always paid to the day, a practice by no

means common in great households in those times, the cases of

delinquency were few, and M. Boulederouloue's staff, like himself, did

their duty to perfection.

And Monsieur Perigord, the _chef_? Well, if Monsieur Boulederouloue

weighed twice as much as M. Jasmin, the latter certainly weighed twice

as much as Monsieur Perigord. Diminutive and meagre to a degree, the

master of the kitchen possessed a mighty soul, and was endowed with an

energy of purpose that must have made him first and foremost in any

sphere of life; but fate had ordained that he should only be the first

and foremost cook in all the world, though as Beaujardin, and not

Versailles, was the scene of his operations, it is only in these humble

pages that his name will go down to posterity. Such was his restless

vivacity, that in his ever ready denunciations of anything poor and

mean, or cowardly, his shrivelled frame would quiver like a marionette

on wires; he would rend in shreds his laced frill and ruffles,

scattering thorn like snowflakes on the floor, and end by flinging

after them his small pig-tailed queue, leaving all bare and bald a head

that for colour and size might have been mistaken for an ostrich egg,

but for the hawk-like beak and small fiery black eyes, that would have

been ridiculous in any face but that of Monsieur Perigord.

That Monsieur Jasmin should look down with sovereign contempt on two

such men--on the _maître d'hotel_ for his entire absence of all

sensitiveness, and on the _chef de cuisine_ for his unpolished excess

of it was only natural. Yet it must not be supposed that with either

of them he indulged that air of supercilious patronage with which he

was accustomed to treat all not absolutely above him in the social

scale; it would have been simply thrown away upon the one, the other

would have kicked him for it, even if he had to get upon a chair to do

so. Still Monsieur Jasmin managed to maintain some kind of mysterious

superiority over both, and, on the present occasion, he took care to

let them know that he was the depository of a most important family

secret--in fact the counsellor and confidential agent in an affair of

the most vital consequence to the powers above. At first he had only

dropped vague hints, but what with M. Boulederouloue's dullness in

comprehending them, and Monsieur Perigord's sudden and searching

comments on them, he gradually began to let out more and more. Perhaps

the Chateau d'Yquem loosened M. Jasmin's tongue, for he had latterly

been staying much at Valricour, and as the wine allowed that household

was of a quality and quantity that gave an additional relish to

unstinted measure and a vintage of the choicest class, he became more

and more communicative.

"To be sure--to be sure! It is but natural that Monsieur Isidore

should marry Mademoiselle Clotilde," exclaimed the voluble little man,

as Jasmin with a mysterious smile left some allusion to the subject

half unsaid. "It is only what was to be expected--it could hardly be

otherwise--any one could guess that. What! Have I not danced them

both on my knees when they were babies, and seen them grow up together

as it were hand in hand, as if they were destined from their cradles to

be husband and wife? He is noble, generous, and handsome; she is

witty, virtuous, and beautiful. What do you tell us of a rival--of

complications--of difficulties--of a _mésalliance_?"

Again M. Jasmin smiled mysteriously; M. Boulederouloue, collecting all

his energies for the purpose, ejaculated, "Impossible!"

"Our good friend is right; it is impossible," continued Perigord

vivaciously. "Who could come between them? Who else could aspire to

the hand of monsieur our young marquis? Ah! my good friend, you have

been dreaming of something till you have imagined it to be a reality."

Monsieur Jasmin was nettled, but he only smiled again more

contemptuously, saying, "Of course, it was doubtless only a dream of

mine that there is such a young lady as Mademoiselle Lacroix."

"What! Mademoiselle Marguerite, she is a reality indeed--sensible,

handsome, courageous, charitable, an angel for one in her station; but

then," here M. Perigord shrugged his shoulders, "she knows well that

the rank of monsieur our young marquis forbids the thought of her

aspiring to his hand. Ah, no! you deceive yourself, my friend, but you

cannot deceive me in such a matter."

"Indeed," replied the other, sarcastically; "and what should you say if

I tell you that she has won monsieur's heart already, and that he has

offered her his hand? Yes," he added, observing the effect which his

words produced even on the stolid countenance of the major-domo. "Yes,

and what would you say if I told you that madame the baroness, who had

set her heart on the union of the cousins, has discovered all this and

has appealed to monsieur the marquis himself about it?"

Monsieur Perigord could only stare at the speaker in amazement, while,

strange to say, M. Boulederouloue, with whom astonishment was an

habitual and chronic state, was able to exclaim, "The world is coming

to an end!"

"Absurd, ridiculous, preposterous, impossible!" cried Perigord at last,

with a vehement sweep of his hand which sent a decanter and a couple of

wine glasses flying off the table. "Monsieur Jasmin, your powers of

invention are wonderful indeed, but I am not such a fool as to believe

all this. How could you know it even if it were all true? Answer me

that, my friend--answer me that!"

"But I am fool enough to believe what I know to be true," retorted the

valet, forgetting his habitual caution in his irritation at M.

Perigord's incredulity. "And if you wish to know how I learnt all

this, permit me to inform you that madame the baroness herself was so

obliging as to make me acquainted with it at interviews with which she

favoured me. I can tell you more," he added, provoked by the scornful

smile with which M. Perigord received these last words, and thereupon

he gave forth, with a volubility that would have done no discredit to

old Perigord himself, a tolerably full account of all he knew or had

gathered from others respecting the affair, concluding with a

supercilious intimation that he had now at madame's request taken the

matter in hand, and would soon set all to rights.

"Ah, no doubt--no doubt! Madame could not have chosen a more able

person for the business," cried M. Perigord, suppressing the

indignation that boiled within him by an effort which could scarcely

have deceived the wily valet had he been sober. "I was a fool indeed

to suppose that my good friend could be mistaken in his surmises; but

then I could not know that he was honoured with the confidence of

madame the baroness. And yet it is a weighty matter--a maze of

difficulties, a labyrinth of conflicting circumstances. If

Mademoiselle Clotilde does not care for Monsieur Isidore after all, and

he loves Mademoiselle Marguerite, and has actually plighted his word to

her, what master-stroke of policy can even the genius of M. Jasmin

devise to overcome such obstacles?"

The valet's wits were too blunted to detect the irony, but he drank in

the flattery as he sipped his wine. "Bah!" replied he, "our young

master can have his choice between a union with Mademoiselle Clotilde

or a _lettre de cachet_; and as for pretty Mademoiselle Lacroix, as she

has no particular home of her own, she ought to be grateful if we find

her one in some convent where the lady superior is not too fond of

letting her _protégées_ gad abroad--you understand?"

"Yes; but what if she should appeal to the baron, who, as we know,

pledged himself to protect the poor orphan, and should refuse to permit

her to go just wherever she is bid?" As he spoke these words M.

Perigord clutched the chair in which he sat as if to keep himself

steady, whilst a nervous twitching seemed to convulse his lilliputian

frame.

"Oh, leave that to me," rejoined the valet; "I warrant you I'll find a

way when the time comes, and that will very likely be no further off

than to-morrow, to tempt the silly little bird into the snare of the

fowler." Saying this, the valet rose as if to depart, but at the same

moment the fiery little king of the kitchen bounded from his chair,

sprang at him, and seized him by the throat, exclaiming--

"Traitor! miscreant! Is this your duty, faith, and loyalty to your

young master? If all men had their due your false and cowardly heart

should be torn out of your bosom for daring thus to plot against a

noble and beautiful young lady, whom one would think even the meanest

would feel bound to help and protect."

[Illustration: "The fiery little king of the kitchen bounded from his

chair, sprang at him, and seized him by the throat."]

M. Boulederouloue rose from his chair and stood aghast, ejaculating

solemnly, "It is terrible!"

"And to think that such a scoundrel should be trusted by madame the

baroness! Shame upon her! It is abominable!" Saying which M.

Perigord, who had by this time let go the valet's throat, snatched off

his own wig and dashed it passionately on the floor. "Begone,

despicable scoundrel that you are," he added, as the valet, with a

malignant scowl, but without venturing to utter a word, made his way to

the door. "Begone! go to madame if you like, and tell her that if old

Achille Perigord can do anything to save our young master and this poor

young lady from your horrible schemes he will not leave it undone, I

promise you."

Having hurled this speech after his retreating foe, M. Perigord also

retired, after a parting salutation to the _maître d'hotel_, who could

only answer by holding up his hands and exclaiming, "Alas! the world is

coming to an end!"

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter V]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter VI]

CHAPTER VI.

After the memorable interview with his father, Isidore had at first

buoyed himself up with the hope that with the help Clotilde and

Marguerite he might still find some way out of the difficulty; a night

of anxious thought, however, convinced him that they would be powerless

to effect anything, and that he must act for himself, and promptly too.

He could not remain at Beaujardin, nor could he any longer accept the

hospitality of the baroness. Besides, out of consideration for

Clotilde he did not care to disclose to her her mother's part in the

matter, whilst his pride recoiled from telling Marguerite all the

humiliating incidents of the scene with his father. There could be no

hope of their speedy union, or indeed of any favourable turn of affairs

for some time to come, and he therefore resolved to go off straight to

Paris and obtain his re-appointment to his former post in Canada; there

he could communicate with his uncle, and secure his aid. He

accordingly confided to a trusty messenger a note, in which he briefly

informed Marguerite of the unfavourable result of his visit to

Beaujardin, and of his object in proceeding to Paris, whence he

promised to return without delay. He set off for that city on the

following morning, and on arriving there made his application to the

Minister of War; but two days elapsed before he received an answer.

What was his astonishment on opening it to find that the application

was refused! He was on the point of hurrying off to seek an interview

with the Minister himself, when he perceived a small note, which had

been enclosed with the official letter; it was in the hand of a

confidential secretary whom he knew well, and ran as follows:--

"_Quit Paris without an hour's delay, or you are lost. The danger also

threatens a person about whom you are most concerned._"

The warning came from one who would not have penned it without good

grounds, and Isidore felt that it was not to be neglected for a moment.

What if some mischief had already befallen Marguerite during his

absence! In half an hour he was again in the saddle and on his way to

Valricour.

Full of anxiety, and wholly unable to form any plan for want of

information as to the nature of the impending danger, he rode on, with

but scanty rest, stopping only for a few hours during each night. The

road to Valricour passed close to Beaujardin, and the sun was just

rising as he came to one of the side gates leading into the great

gardens of the chateau. Suddenly the thought occurred to him that he

would see his father once more, and make a final appeal to him. Prompt

to act on his resolves, he sprang from his horse, and telling his

attendant to await his return, entered the garden and made his way

towards the mansion. Ah, if only his path were as clear and straight

as those he was now treading--and yet the stiff formality of the vast

pleasure grounds seemed hideous and hateful to him. To think that

hundreds of thousands of livres should be spent on making nature as

unlike to herself as possible. Here were miles of straight gravel

walks and terraces, and hedges of almost incredible height, cut trimly

to pattern like gigantic green walls, with prim and formal arches cut

to the inch, and, for a change, long terraces with cold stone

balustrades and statues, which, instead of giving life, made everything

seem yet more lifeless. O for a thicket or a coppice, or a clump of

tangled brambles, to show that there was some sympathy in nature with

the tangled trouble of his heart! Yet the inflexible regularity of all

around him produced one effect on Isidore, and led him to make up his

mind on one point at least. He resolved that no consideration whatever

should induce him to give up Marguerite, or to desert at such a crisis

the poor girl who could have no hope but in his constancy. There were

moments in which he could not help thinking that the kindest thing he

could do would be to relinquish her, and thus free her at once from the

persecution she had incurred. Still he clung to the notion that his

father could not really intend to cast him off altogether. Yes, the

marquis had been indeed harsh and angry, but it could not be denied

that appearances gave him some excuse. These thoughts were passing

through his mind when he noticed that some one was dogging his steps.

In no mood to brook anything that looked like espionage he turned

sharply on the intruder, and, to his surprise, found that it was old

Achille Perigord.

"What! is it you?" said the young marquis. "What brings you here at

such an hour?"

"Alas, alas! my dear young master," replied the old man, "then it is

you indeed; I had hardly dared to hope for such good fortune. But

there is not a moment to be lost."

"What do you mean?" answered Isidore, hastily. "What brings you here?"

"I thought I saw you in the garden as I stood at my window, almost

despairing of ever seeing you again. Ah, there may yet be a chance of

saving you, for you are in such danger that I shudder to think of

it--you whom I have dandled on my knee--you who were always so brave

and so good, and so considerate to me, and were always fighting any

young malapert who laughed at old Perigord."

Isidore could not help feeling his heart yearn towards the old _chef_,

who, indeed, had got him out of many a boyish scrape, and allayed the

pain of many a whipping with tarts, preserves, and other delicacies.

"Yes, you used to stand my friend often enough, Monsieur Perigord,"

said Isidore, as the old days came vividly back to his memory, "though

I am afraid your well-meant sympathy will not help me much just now.

But what do you know of my troubles and my danger?"

"I know all--everything--partly from what I have picked up in various

quarters, for you may easily suppose that what goes on in the salon is

talked about in the kitchen, but principally from that villain, that

traitor, Jasmin, who for once let his tongue run on last night, and

told enough to make it certain that something terrible is impending

over you, and not only over you, but also over that sweet young lady,

Mademoiselle Marguerite. Yes, my dear young master," continued the old

man, as Isidore gave a slight start, and regarded him with manifest

anxiety, "yes, I know how matters stand between you, and that there is

a plot hatching against you, in which--monsieur will excuse me if I say

it plainly--madame the baroness is the chief actor, and in which she

has bribed that rascal to assist her and to betray you."

Isidore gazed at him half incredulous, and yet after what he had

learned at Paris, what could be more likely, considering Madame de

Valricour's conduct, and the check she had received in her most

cherished plans?

"And Jasmin too! Where is the scoundrel?" said Isidore, impetuously.

"Is he here?"

"My good master, do not waste time on him. I tell you frankly that I

fear madame is contemplating a _lettre de cachet_, it may be for

mademoiselle only, but I do not believe that even you are safe from her

machinations, and I have reason to believe she has influence enough at

Versailles for anything."

"I am not afraid of her, Monsieur Perigord," observed Isidore

haughtily. "My father would hardly stand that, although he may be

angry with me, as I suppose you know, since you know so much else."

"Perhaps so, perhaps so," answered old Perigord; "but it may be done

behind his back, and before he can interfere. Besides, even if

monsieur is safe I do not suppose he would let Mademoiselle Marguerite

run any risk of such a horrible fate if he could help it."

"You are right, my good friend," said Isidore; "I am afraid there is

danger indeed, and at all events I will do what I can to avert it. I

will go on at once to Valricour and warn Mademoiselle Lacroix, though

as to what more I can do I am at present utterly at a loss."

"Then I will tell you," rejoined the old man. "I have a cousin at St.

Sulpice--you know the place, monsieur--it is on the Paris road from

Valricour, not more than four or five leagues from the chateau; he is

an honest and kindly man. I will go to him to-day--it is a fête day

there, and my visit will cause no surprise. I will tell him that you

are coming, and I am sure he and his wife will give mademoiselle a

refuge--ay, and you too, if things should come to the worst--until

something can be done. He is a worthy man, and I will answer for him

with my life. Now go, my dear young master, and Heaven speed you.

There is no time to lose."

Isidore would have expressed his thanks to the old man for the lively

interest he had shown, and for the assistance he had so promptly

offered in case of need, but Perigord had already vanished. Ten

minutes later the young marquis was again on horseback, and on his way

to Valricour.

On reaching the chateau Isidore found his cousin and Marguerite in a

state of great anxiety on account of his long absence, and what he had

to tell them was not calculated to allay their uneasiness. Fortunately

they were alone, as the baroness had again gone over to Beaujardin that

morning, and many a plan was discussed and abandoned by turns as their

vague hopes of finding some way out of the difficulty alternated with

the fears to which Isidore's account of the interview with his father,

of the warning received in Paris, and of the meeting with old Perigord,

could not but give rise. At last it was agreed that Isidore should

wait and boldly face Madame de Valricour on her return, and that the

final step to be taken should depend on the clue which that interview

might afford as to the precise nature of the danger and the quarter

from which it was likely to come. In the meanwhile Isidore, who was

well known and much liked in the neighbouring village, engaged the

services of a small tenant farmer who owned a good horse and cart, in

case Marguerite's immediate removal from Valricour should prove to be

necessary.

It was already dusk when the distant sound of wheels was heard, and on

hastening to the window they perceived the great lumbering family coach

coming up the avenue. In a couple of minutes more it had stopped at

the hall door, and all eyes were bent on the spot to catch a sight of

the baroness. To their surprise, however, no Madame Valricour

descended from the vehicle, but they noticed that in addition to

madame's coachman and footman it was accompanied by one of the

Beaujardin servants on horseback, a not unusual precaution when persons

of note travelled after dusk, although one which the state of her

household and stable mostly obliged the baroness to dispense with. The

mystery was soon solved by the entrance of a servant with a note for

Mademoiselle Lacroix. It was from Madame de Valricour, and was to the

effect that as she had found it impossible to return to the chateau

that evening, she considered it undesirable that Marguerite should

remain under her roof after what had passed, she had therefore, she

added, sent the carriage to bring her to the Chateau de Beaujardin,

where she would for the present remain.

More than once was this unexpected communication perused both by

Marguerite and her friends, and then an animated dispute arose as to

what was to be done. Marguerite, anxious only to escape from a roof

under which she was in such a false position, was for setting off at

once in compliance with the wishes of the baroness; Isidore, however,

would not hear of her going alone, and declared that he would accompany

her and make another appeal to his father.

Clotilde shook her head. "It is useless," said she; "nay, I will go

further," she continued with a sigh, "I am afraid that there is more

beneath this letter than we can fathom. It is not what my mother would

write if this were all she meant. I will take Marguerite's place and

go to Beaujardin."

"You!" exclaimed Isidore and Marguerite in a breath. "What will be the

good of that?"

"At any rate," replied Clotilde, "I will try what I can do with my

uncle, and I think I may do more than either or both of you just now."

"But how can I stay here?" pleaded Marguerite.

"I have not forgotten that; you can remain here no longer, and there is

but one thing to be done. Isidore must take you at once and place you

under the care of Greboeuf, at St. Sulpice. Ask me no questions; I

have my reasons, but I cannot tell them. Alas! that it should ever

fall to my lot to bid you, whom I have loved so dearly, to leave my own

father's house!"

For a few minutes the two girls were clasped in each other's arms; but

Clotilde soon regained her composure, and assuming as cheerful a face

as she could, impressed upon her friend the necessity of carrying out

her plan, which was this. She herself was to depart in the coach

sufficiently disguised to pass for Marguerite; the latter, putting on

Clotilde's cloak and hood, was immediately afterwards to leave the

chateau with Isidore and go off to St. Sulpice. Clotilde was to let

them know on the following day, through old Perigord, how matters stood

at Beaujardin, so that they might act accordingly. By this time the

horses had been baited, and all being now arranged, Isidore took down

his cousin and hurried her into the vehicle, which started off at once.

Not a little perplexed and anxious at the turn things had taken,

Clotilde leaned back in the comfortable coach and called to mind the

various incidents of the day. At first her cheek flushed with

indignation at the thought of her mother's conduct towards one whom

hospitality and the commonest feeling of pity should have protected

from such treatment. To think that it was her own mother! Clotilde

covered her face with her hands and gave way to her tears. She was,

however, not one of those who fold their hands and let circumstances

overmaster them. She had by nature both the wit and the courage that

can turn things to the best account; quickly drying her tears,

therefore, she set herself to consider how she might take advantage of

this unexpected visit to Beaujardin. She could not but fear that the

baroness intended to carry off Marguerite to some safe place, where

there would be no means of communicating with Isidore; such things were

not seldom done, and with a strong hand too, when it was found

necessary to cut the gordian knot of a family difficulty. In this

design she would be foiled, at least for the present, and with the help

of M. Perigord and his friends Marguerite might be kept out of harm's

way. In the meanwhile Clotilde would have an opportunity of appealing

to her uncle, who, she fully believed, would never countenance any

positive ill-treatment of one who might be said to have been bequeathed

to the hospitality of the family. She might have doubted even her own

ability to detach the marquis from the enemy's ranks but for one little

circumstance, which was this. On hearing Isidore's account of the

scene at the Chateau de Beaujardin, and the incident of the charred

scrap of paper, Clotilde had gone and examined the stove in the

apartment occupied by Isidore during his recent visit. Not a trace

could she find of anything having been burnt there, and a minute

questioning of the domestics had proved beyond a doubt that any story

of the burning of the letter in that room was a fabrication. She knew

well her uncle's intense abhorrence of anything like treachery or

deceit. It was indeed this trait in his disposition that had led to

his severity towards Isidore, and it was on this that she now relied

for the success of her efforts to enlist the sympathy of the old

marquis in favour of her cousin and her friend.

Absorbed in these thoughts Clotilde took no note of time or distance,

while the growing darkness and the absence of novelty in a ride from

Valricour to Beaujardin, to say nothing of the pre-occupation of her

mind, kept her from observing anything outside of the lumbering vehicle

in which she sat. They had jogged on for a considerable time, however,

when the coach stopped. Under ordinary circumstances this would hardly

have interfered with Clotilde's meditations, the occurrence being

common enough at a period when in France, as in other countries, most

of the roads, except those along which the king himself was accustomed

to travel, were usually in a deplorable condition, notwithstanding the

lessons left behind by those famous old road-makers the Romans, and in

spite of the iniquitous road-laws which threw upon all but the nobles

an intolerable amount of personal labour in the making and maintaining

of the highways. But on the present occasion Clotilde's attention was

arrested by the circumstance that men were busy changing the horses,

and although it was now dark, she noticed at the roadside a great white

stone cross, from which she knew that they must have turned off from

the direct road to Beaujardin. Surprised, and perhaps a little

alarmed, she tried to open one of the windows to obtain some

explanation, but it was so tightly fastened that she found this

impossible. She tried the other, but that too defied all her efforts,

and whilst she was still thus engaged the coach was once more driven

on, and now at a gallop. Then, as she peered anxiously out, she

observed that the horseman who rode close to the carriage was a much

bigger man than the groom from Beaujardin who had started with them

from Valricour, and that he was muffled in a great riding-cloak.

Clotilde was one of those women whose courage rises just when that of

others usually fails: without an instant's hesitation she stooped down,

and the next moment the high wooden heel of one of her shoes sent the

window-pane flying in shivers out upon the road. A touch of the spur

at once brought her escort alongside of the broken window.

"Holloa!" he exclaimed, in a voice Clotilde had never heard before,

"what is all this about?"

"Fellow!" she replied, indignantly, "what is the meaning of this? Who

are you?--and why have we gone out of our road?"

"Ah, well," answered the man coolly, "of course it is natural enough

that you should want to know, but----"

"Impudent scoundrel!" cried Clotilde, "stop the carriage this moment

and let me alight, or----"

"Look you, mademoiselle," the horseman here broke in, bringing his face

at the same time close to the carriage window, and speaking sternly,

though in a low voice, as if to avoid being overheard, "you seem to be

a fine spirited young lady, and I should be sorry to let that bring you

into more trouble. You are not going to Beaujardin this time. I have

my orders to take you somewhere else. Now just listen, no harm will

come to you if you keep quiet and go peaceably. What is more, I give

you my word, if you choose to take it, that I am going to hand you over

to the safe keeping of a lady who, I suppose, will treat you as a

gentlewoman ought to be treated, but go you must--there's no help for

that. 'Tis of no use trying to raise an alarm; that might only cost a

couple of lives, perhaps," and here the speaker just opened his heavy

mantle sufficiently to show the butt ends of two heavy pistols at his

belt. "So, mademoiselle," he concluded, "be complaisant, and make the

best of a bad business."

For a few minutes Clotilde felt overwhelmed and almost stunned at

finding herself suddenly, and without the slightest warning, in a

position so strange and obviously so full of peril. As soon as she

could collect herself, however, a light broke in upon her, and with it

a faint hope of escape.

"Whoever you are," she exclaimed, calling to her unknown attendant, who

now continued to ride close to the window, perhaps to stop promptly any

possible attempt to give an alarm, "whoever you are, you have simply

made a stupid mistake, which will only get you into trouble. I am not

the lady you suppose. No, sirrah," she added, as her anger made her

for the moment forget her danger, "I am Mademoiselle de Valricour; so

now you will see that if you dare to attempt to carry out your villainy

you will have to pay dearly for it the moment that I can send either to

Valricour or to Beaujardin."

"A very likely thing, no doubt," replied the horseman; "I have had that

sort of trick tried upon me more than once; but to tell you the truth I

neither know nor care a sou whether you be what you say you are or not.

I have my orders and I stick to them, so there's an end of it." With

these words the man dropped a few paces behind, and left Clotilde to a

very different train of meditations from those which had been so

startlingly interrupted.

There could not be a doubt that she had fallen into a trap intended for

another victim, and that the object of this nefarious plot was to put a

stop to the engagement between Marguerite Lacroix and the young

marquis. The thought that such foul means should be used for the

purpose against her bosom friend brought the hot blood into Clotilde's

cheeks, and she stamped her little foot impetuously in the height of

her indignation. Then she paused, and her colour fled again as she

bethought her of what might be the end of it all if she should be

unable to communicate with her mother or the Marquis de Beaujardin, and

should be left to----

To what? More than once she had heard M. de Crillon talk--and very

unconcernedly too--of the living death of those who unhappily became

the victims of a _lettre de cachet_. Yes, she remembered well how

once, in order to gratify her importunate curiosity, he had told her of

people sent to Pignerol, St. Michel, or Isle Marguerite, never to be

heard of more. He had actually taken to himself some little share of

credit for the dread inspired far and near by the terrible length of

the merciless arm which could strike down an enemy at the court of some

foreign potentate. Not long since, indeed, it had dared to seize at

Frankfort a man too dangerous through his connection with the world of

letters, and had consigned him to a living tomb, if even his life had

been spared. She shuddered at the thought; but even the prospect of a

fate so dismal could not long keep down the generous and heroic spirit

of Clotilde de Valricour. "At least," she murmured, "I shall save poor

Marguerite; nay, I perhaps maybe the means of enabling her to be happy

with Isidore in spite of these cruel machinations."

How long the journey lasted the unfortunate girl had no means of

knowing; it seemed to her an age, though in reality it was but a few

hours. She became at last nearly exhausted with the incessant jolting

over rough roads, and plunging about in others that were little better

than bogs. Excitement, however, and the continual apprehension of some

unlooked-for catastrophe forbade all thoughts of sleep, and it was

actually with a sensation of relief that she noticed that the huge

carriage was rattling over a rough pavement, and heard the noise of

great gates being swung to, and barred behind them. She looked out,

and could just perceive that they had driven into a spacious

court-yard, nearly surrounded by grey, sombre-looking buildings, at the

great entrance door of which the vehicle drew up.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter VI]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter VII]

CHAPTER VII.

Alighting hastily from the carriage, Clotilde ran up the great flight

of steps which led to the door. As she entered, it was closed behind

her, but to her surprise, and much to her relief, she found that the

janitress was a nun.

"Tell me, good sister, tell me for the love of Heaven, what place is

this? Where have these men brought me to?" she exclaimed, trembling

with excitement.

Apparently somewhat astonished at the vehemence of the new-comer, the

female answered only by making a sign to Clotilde to follow her; she

then led the way across the hall to a spacious apartment, and there

left her. Clotilde would have repeated her questions, but she was too

late, and on trying the door she found it locked.

The fact that the house must in some way be connected with a religious

establishment of some kind allayed her fears, however, and she cast an

anxious glance around the apartment, which was lighted by a handsome

chandelier suspended from the ceiling. Her quick eye soon noticed more

than one little accessory, which showed that the room was habitually

occupied by a lady, and one moreover with wealth at her command, and

apparently of refined taste. Any further speculations, however, were

interrupted by the entrance of a personage whose dress and bearing

seemed to indicate that she must be the Lady Superior of the place.

The poor girl's first impulse was to spring towards her new protectress

and pour out her troubles to her, but in spite of herself she felt the

impulse checked, and her overflowing heart chilled by the cold and

supercilious look that made still more repellant a face repulsively

plain.

Clotilde could only clasp her hands together and gaze at her new

hostess, as if she felt that any appeal for help or pity from such a

quarter would be hopeless.

"I presume, mademoiselle," said the Lady Superior at last, "that we may

begin by taking it for granted that you quite understand the reasons

which have induced your friends, for your own good as well as in your

own interests, to take the course they have done."

These words were spoken in a voice so sweet, and with an air of such

high and courtly breeding, that for a moment Clotilde forgot everything

else in her surprise that they could belong to one so hideously ugly.

But the feeling was only momentary; the terrors of the night, which

might well have beaten down the boldest spirit, had passed away; and

once more, face to face with one of her own sex, Clotilde was herself

again.

"I can indeed guess, madame," she answered, with almost her usual

vivacity, "what reasons have induced those who should be dear to me to

do this most wicked thing; but right glad am I to think that they have

been foiled. By a strange mistake the bird they meant to catch has

escaped, and I have for the moment fallen into the trap intended for

another. I have not the pleasure of your acquaintance--a nearer

acquaintance, indeed, I do not desire, if I am to understand that you

are a willing party to this abominable plot--but I beg to introduce

myself to you as the Baroness Clotilde de Valricour. May I beg the

honour of your name and title?"

The lady's supercilious look gave place just for a few seconds to one

of involuntary surprise, but it soon came back again as she replied,

"Mademoiselle Lacroix will pardon me if I do not allow myself to be

deceived by this little scheme. I have been made so far acquainted

with the circumstances of the case as to know that much deceit has been

already practised, in which I believe the young baroness you speak of

has not been without her share, and this may be, for aught I know, some

fresh and cleverly devised phase of it. I must be excused for

believing that those who had the matter in hand would not make so very

silly a mistake, and I have only to communicate to mademoiselle the

object with which she has been brought hither."

It may well be imagined that Clotilde was not a little disconcerted

both by the tone and tenor of this reply. Had she been able to frame

any very definite wish during her journey, it would perhaps have been

that she might meet with some such person as the Lady Superior of a

religious house and claim her protection. Here she was in just such a

position, yet with the clouds apparently gathering still more blackly

over her. She would have been less surprised, however, had she known a

little more about the antecedents of Madame de Varny, the Superior of

the Ursuline Convent, the place to which she had been brought. Noble

by birth, and pre-eminently lovely and accomplished, Madame de Varny

had once been the proudest beauty of the court of King Louis, but

having been attacked by that terrible scourge the small-pox, she had

recovered only to find herself as hideous as she had once been

beautiful. To be an object of loathing where she had formerly been

courted and admired was more than her frivolous and worldly mind could

bear, and she had retired to the seclusion of a nominally religious

life, in which her rank and influence secured her the position she now

enjoyed; but, like many of her class, she still clung to the world, and

her intriguing disposition led her often enough to lend her aid,

whenever those with whom she had been used to associate required it, to

carry out some plot or scheme arising out of the debased and

unscrupulous court life of that period. She was an old acquaintance of

Madame de Valricour, and in her the baroness had found an able and

willing confederate in the business now on hand.

"Madame," said Clotilde, after a short silence, "you will believe me or

not, as you think best, and will make to me what communication you

choose; it rests with me to decide how I shall act upon it."

"Not altogether," replied the lady, with a smile that had nothing very

pleasant in it. "Mademoiselle will not have much choice in the matter.

I shall not waste time," she continued, "by any allusion to the family

circumstances to which you owe your visit here; they are as well known

to you as to me--perhaps better. I can pity your infatuation of

course; it must have been very great indeed to allow you to suppose

that a personage so exalted as the Marquis de Beaujardin could for one

moment dream of permitting an alliance between his son and one like

yourself. Such a thing would be absurd, and of course the marquis and

his relatives must prevent it by all and any means. It has been

therefore arranged that a gentleman of excellent family, who it seems

has had some opportunity of meeting you, and has, I hear, been much

taken with your modest manners, as some foolish young men occasionally

are, shall make you his wife. The marriage will take place here this

afternoon; and I am permitted to tell you that the Marquis de

Beaujardin has most generously taken it upon him to provide a dowry for

you, notwithstanding your ingratitude to that noble family. You are

indeed fortunate, my young lady, in so happy an ending to so lamentable

an affair." Here the lady paused as if to receive the acknowledgments

befitting such kindness and consideration.

"Indeed!" answered Clotilde at last. "Indeed! And pray, madame, what

if, in the new character thus forced upon me, I should decline to

accept the gentleman, and should fling my uncle's dowry in his face,

and tell him that he ought to be ashamed of degrading himself by taking

part against a poor orphan girl, whom he and his are bound by all that

is sacred to love and protect? What then?"

The lady seemed just for a minute or so rather bewildered by Clotilde's

vehement sally, but as soon as she recovered herself she replied with

ominous coldness and decision, "I can scarcely suppose that

mademoiselle could do anything so very silly; but if such should be the

case, why there will be another ride in the coach, perhaps a longer one

than the last. It will certainly not be to Beaujardin nor to

Valricour. Where it may stop I will not pretend to say. But did

Mademoiselle Marguerite never hear of such a thing as a _lettre de

cachet_? Well, you will have some hours to think over it, and in the

meanwhile you will be quite safe here; but pray do not cherish any

foolish hope that you have any choice except between a ring and a ride

to some place where you will not be less safe than here, but where you

will most assuredly stay a good deal longer. Let us hope that you will

be better advised, and accept the hand of Monsieur de Crillon."

The hand of Monsieur de Crillon! Yes, those were the words with which

the imperious dame had swept out of the room, locking the door after

her. Clotilde could scarcely believe her ears. Then he, too, who had

allowed her, nay, led her to suppose that to win her hand was the

object nearest to his heart, had consented for the sake of the promised

dowry to wed one for whom he cared not a jot, well knowing that the

union could only bring misery, not happiness, to the victim of his

selfish covetousness! Never till this moment had Clotilde suspected

how much she really cared for him; but that was now a thing of the

past. Happily she had learned in time how mean and despicable he was,

and in her indignation she rejoiced at the humiliation he would

experience on finding that the wicked scheme was marred, and that he

himself would have the task of proving who she was, and bringing about

her release. But it was a bitter thing to find herself in such a

position, and to know that her mother, and even the marquis, were

concerned in such a plot. It is scarcely to be wondered at that she at

length gave way to her grief; her only comfort was that, as it had

turned out, Marguerite had escaped the present danger, and as she

thought of this she could not help feeling thankful that there would

yet be a delay of many hours before the shameless de Crillon would

discover how they had been foiled.

Somewhat reassured by these reflections, she proceeded to examine a

little more calmly the place where she was detained. She now observed

for the first time a side-table, on which a repast that might serve

either as a supper or a breakfast was laid out, and on looking timidly

through an open door she found a sleeping apartment, evidently intended

for the expected prisoner. She was too excited as yet to take either

food or rest, and sat down to meditate on the prospect before her. It

would, however, be as painful as it would be profitless to follow her

through the long hours that ensued; let us see, then, what in the

meanwhile was happening elsewhere.

Madame de Valricour had remained at Beaujardin for the night, perhaps

not caring to have to answer the questions with which Clotilde might be

expected to meet her on her return home. What was her surprise when,

early in the forenoon, a messenger arrived from Valricour with a note

from Madame de Bleury, informing her that immediately on the departure

of the coach on the previous evening Isidore had left the chateau in

company with Mademoiselle de Valricour, and that they had not since

returned. Utterly at a loss to account for so strange a proceeding,

the baroness prepared to hasten home at once, but finally resolved

first to make sure that the plot against Marguerite, which she deemed

of the greatest moment, had been successful; and she accordingly set

out for the convent. It was a ride of some hours' length, and she did

not arrive until the afternoon was well advanced. Imagine her

amazement and anger when, after hearing from the Superior an account of

her interview with the young lady, she satisfied herself beyond a doubt

that Clotilde was really there, and that it must have been Marguerite

with whom Isidore had escaped from Valricour.

"Bid Monsieur de Crillon wait for me when he arrives," said she. "I

shall want his help more than ever. In the meanwhile I will go and

inform the curé that his services will not be required at present. I

will then see my daughter, and take her home."

The little dwelling of Père Hypolite was at no great distance from the

convent, and the baroness soon reached the small but exquisite garden,

in which she found the priest busily engaged in planting out his choice

flowers for the summer. A little later in the year and those flowers

would outshine even the gay and splendid costume in which the baroness

had hastily quitted the Chateau de Beaujardin. The unwonted appearance

of a lady in such brilliant attire at once attracted the attention of

Père Hypolite, who bowed respectfully as she approached him.

"You are Father Hypolite, the curé of St. Sulpice--is it not so?" said

she. The old man bowed assent. "I have come to tell you that the

marriage you were to have solemnised cannot take place to-day."

Père Hypolite looked somewhat surprised.

"The marriage!" said he. "I do not quite understand your ladyship."

"I mean the marriage of Mademoiselle Lacroix and a gentleman of rank

who was to come here for the purpose," rejoined the lady. "The Lady

Superior told me that you had been directed to hold yourself in

readiness to perform the rite."

"The marriage of Mademoiselle Lacroix!" replied the priest, apparently

amazed. "There must be some mistake. I did receive the directions of

the Lady Superior, and the marriage took place this morning."

"This morning! Are you mad?" retorted the baroness. "What marriage?"

"The marriage of Mademoiselle Lacroix with the young Marquis de

Beaujardin, who came here to St. Sulpice for the purpose."

"Fool! idiot! do you know what you are saying? There has been no

marriage at the convent to-day. Are you mad?"

"Pardon me, madame," replied the priest, with dignity. "Even your

ladyship's rank, whoever you may be, cannot excuse such expressions

towards one of my holy calling. What I have told you is the simple

truth. Little as I like these hasty and irregular proceedings, you

must be well aware that one in my humble position must needs do the

bidding of those who have a right to dictate to him in such matters.

The persons I have named to you were married by me this morning soon

after daybreak at the chapel of St. Sulpice."

For a little while Madame de Valricour seemed utterly confounded. As

soon as she regained her self-control she demanded of the priest a full

account of what had occurred.

"It was simply thus," said he. "Quite early this morning Colonel de

Beaujardin, whom I know of course by sight, came to me, and, not

without some agitation, told me that he wished to speak to me as to the

possibility of his being united to Mademoiselle Lacroix, who had come

to the village under circumstances of peculiar difficulty arising out

of some family differences. I told him that I had already received

directions respecting the marriage of Mademoiselle Lacroix on her

arrival here, though of course I knew nothing of the private matters to

which he alluded, and that it was not for me to enter into them. He

seemed somewhat astonished."

"No doubt. I should think so indeed," muttered the baroness between

her teeth. "What next?"

"I assumed, as a matter of course, that the family desired the marriage

to be kept secret on account of the disparity in the rank of the young

people; but this was no business of mine, and I simply asked him

whether I should repair to the convent, and at what hour. He then told

me that it was his wish that the marriage should be solemnised, not at

the convent, but at our little chapel here, adding that he would

arrange, if possible, to meet me there in an hour's time. He did so,

and the marriage took place in the presence of Michel Greboeuf and his

wife. I have nothing more to add."

"You have said enough, in all conscience," ejaculated the baroness,

passionately. "But you shall pay dearly for this, miserable creature!"

and with these words the enraged lady hurried away, leaving the good

old priest as thunderstruck as she herself had been but a few short

minutes since.

Inquiring of the first person whom she met the way to Michel Greboeuf's

house, Madame de Valricour at once bent her steps thither, and soon

reached the spot. Anything more miserable and dilapidated than

Greboeuf's cottage could hardly be conceived, though it was perhaps no

worse than the dwellings of most people of his class in France at that

time. Michel was standing at the door, and a very small exercise of

Madame de Valricour's powers was required in order to obtain from him

the fullest corroboration of all she had heard from Father Hypolite.

"Though, to be sure," continued the simple-hearted peasant, who was

quite won over by the gracious condescension of so grand a personage,

"I think the young gentleman did not come here intending at first to

marry the lady, but only to leave her for a time under our poor roof;

but when they saw what a place it was they were in a great taking, as

you may suppose, and he went down to Father Hypolite to talk about it,

as I told him that the good man was always ready to help anybody in

distress; and sure enough he came back presently and said they were to

be married at once. The poor young lady was in a terrible way about

it, I can tell you, madame. However, we all went down together to the

chapel, and that is how it came about."

"What! are they still here then?" asked Madame de Valricour, eagerly.

"O dear, no!" replied Greboeuf. "Our poor place is not fit for the

like of them, for I assure you, madame, I think they be quite gentle

folks."

"Poor place indeed! I should think so. What on earth could ever have

brought them here?"

"Why, you see, madame, a cousin of mine, a M. Perigord, who is employed

at the Chateau de Beaujardin, sent them here to me, and asked me to do

anything I could to help them; and I would give the last drop of my

blood to serve my cousin Perigord, for we should all have perished long

ago but for his kindness. He kept us alive all last winter, when

things were so bad. Ah, madame, you great folks don't know what the

poor people suffer. We had no fuel and had to lie a-bed to warm

ourselves, till we were obliged to get rid even of our beds and last

bits of furniture for a mouthful of bread. But my cousin heard of it

and helped us. As for those who haven't got such a friend, what with

crown taxes, duties, fines, tolls, and forced labour on the roads,

manorial dues, seigneurial rights, and I don't know how many more

heart-vexing imposts and exactions besides, there's nothing left to

subsist upon; and that's hard when one hears how grandly all the great

folks live, and never lift a finger to keep the poor from starving."

"But where have they gone?" inquired the lady, eagerly.

"Well, madame, I took them on to the next village, where the gentleman

got a good horse, and presently rode away with his young wife on a

pillion behind him. They have gone to Nantes, where a brother of my

cousin Perigord keeps an inn on the Quai La Fosse."

It was not long before Madame de Valricour was closeted with de

Crillon, who had by this time arrived at the convent.

"We have come too late," said she, bitterly, after describing her

interviews with the curé and Greboeuf.

De Crillon shrugged his shoulders. "I presume, then," said he, "that

there is nothing more to be done."

"Nothing more!" retorted the lady, impetuously. "We have all the clue

we want, and you have with you the king's _lettre de cachet_. I care

not what becomes of her, so long as she is safely placed where she will

not trouble us any more; but mind, M. de Crillon, no harm is to come to

my nephew."

De Crillon smiled. "Ah," said he, "I am to dispose of the young lady,

so that Monsieur Isidore may come back and some day marry Mademoiselle

Clotilde?"

"That was not spoken with M. de Crillon's usual acuteness," replied the

baroness. "Isidore is more likely in his anger and disappointment to

betake himself anywhere else than to Beaujardin, and in any case you

know that he is now married, and cannot wed Clotilde."

"Well, then," said he, "I fail to see the drift of madame's proposal."

"What!" exclaimed the baroness; "do you know so little what a woman is

as to suppose that I could ever brook seeing this upstart come to

Beaujardin as Isidore's wife, to lord it over me, after I have had

every one there at my beck and call for a score of years past? Think

you I could live to be tolerated by that child when she came to be

mistress of Beaujardin? Never! Listen to me," said she. "You have

played your part well enough till now, and I engage that, on my return

to Beaujardin, I will obtain for you from the marquis the dowry you

would have had with Mademoiselle Lacroix but for the accident which you

could not help. That is but fair. But it must be on the condition

that this hateful girl shall trouble me no more. I know well enough,

monsieur, that it will be no disappointment to you to touch the dowry

without being obliged to take the bride with it. Nay, more, I will add

that, if things should so fall out that Isidore should fail to inherit

Beaujardin, and Clotilde should become her uncle's heiress, it will be

for you to win her hand if you can, and thus some day become the owner

of that noble inheritance. Of course, not a word must be breathed at

Beaujardin about this marriage. I have nothing more to say; it is for

you to do the rest."

Within an hour Monsieur de Crillon had started off in pursuit of the

fugitives, and the great unwieldy family coach, with Clotilde and her

mother inside of it, and two of de Crillon's myrmidons acting as

escort, was rolling along, like some great ship at sea, and ploughing

up the miry roads, on its way back to the Chateau of Valricour.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter VII]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter VIII]

CHAPTER VIII.

On the following afternoon, after giving Madame de Bleury strict

injunctions to keep a watchful eye on the movements of mademoiselle,

the baroness repaired to the Chateau de Beaujardin for the purpose of

making the marquis acquainted with so much of what had recently

transpired as it was desirable that he should know. This was a

business requiring considerable tact and discretion. She had found

little difficulty in persuading him that it was of the highest

importance to break off the intimacy between his son and Marguerite,

and he had readily consented to give such an amount as might induce M.

de Crillon, or any one else, to marry the girl, and thus effectually

save Isidore from such a _mésalliance_. After promising the dowry the

marquis had indeed felt somewhat vexed with himself at not having asked

her for a little more information as to the means by which she intended

to carry out her plans and how Mademoiselle Lacroix was to be induced

to agree to them. He always rather liked Marguerite, and even the high

crime of endeavouring to inveigle his son and heir into a marriage so

infinitely beneath his station could not quite stifle a feeling of pity

for her. But it would have seemed so vacillating and so mistrustful to

question Madame de Valricour's discretion that he had thought it best

to let matters take their course, and this now relieved the baroness

from the necessity of much troublesome explanation. She accordingly

said nothing whatever about the way in which Clotilde had been

entrapped and carried off, nor did she mention a word about her own

proceedings at St. Sulpice, but confined herself to informing the

marquis that Isidore had fled with Marguerite, and that she had left it

to M. de Crillon to follow up the fugitives, and endeavour to bring

Isidore to reason, and persuade him to return to Beaujardin.

The marquis was of course most indignant at so flagrant an act on the

part of his son, declaring that he would disinherit him and never see

him again; and Madame de Valricour returned home well satisfied with

her interview, to await, though not without some anxiety, such tidings

as she might receive from M. de Crillon in the course of a few days.

She had, however, scarcely left Beaujardin when some one else sought an

interview with the marquis. This was Monsieur Perigord, who, after

being admitted into his master's presence, began, with much agitation,

by imploring him to interfere in an affair of the most terrible

importance. The marquis, who was well acquainted with the excitable

disposition of his old _chef de cuisine_, supposed that some slight had

been put upon him by the inferior domestics, or perhaps even by M.

Boulederouloue himself, so he kindly told the old man that he would

take care to see him righted if he would only be calm and say what was

the matter.

"Calm, my master!" exclaimed Perigord, throwing himself at the feet of

his patron; "who could be calm when such dreadful things are happening?

Ah, monsieur, it is not for my poor self that I come to you; it is to

plead for my unhappy young master, who, if you do not take some steps,

will fall a victim to a most horrible scheme."

"Are you mad, Perigord?" said the marquis, somewhat irritated at such

an interference in his domestic affairs by a person of that kind.

"What silly nonsense is this?"

"It is no silly nonsense, monsieur. If you will but deign to listen to

me I can prove beyond doubt that a dreadful plot, of which you cannot

be aware, threatens not only poor Monsieur Isidore's happiness, but his

very life--that madame the baroness, before she came back from St.

Sulpice yesterday, sent off M. de Crillon with a _lettre de cachet_ to

Nantes, whither the young marquis has gone with his bride. Ah,

monsieur, those terrible _lettres de cachet_! You know, we all know,

what they mean. Alas, alas! my poor young master! He is lost if you

will not save him."

Just for a moment the marquis fancied that all this might be only an

exaggeration of the simple facts which he already knew; but Madame de

Valricour had said nothing to him of having been at St. Sulpice,

nothing about an actual marriage, nothing about a _lettre de cachet_

even against Marguerite, much less against his own son. He began to be

troubled.

"My good Perigord," said he, "I am afraid your zeal has outrun your

discretion, but I can pardon you even if your attachment to me and mine

has led you into some little extravagance. The thing can, however, be

soon tested. How do you know that the baroness has been at St.

Sulpice? Have you anything to show that your story about my son's

marriage is not a mere idle rumour? How can you know anything about

the _lettre de cachet_ that you talk of?" And as he asked the

questions the marquis quite regained his usual calmness and

self-possession, which had for a moment been disturbed.

Monsieur Perigord was ready with his proofs; and with his master's

permission forthwith summoned Michel Greboeuf, who had come to the

chateau an hour since. Not only was he able to describe his own

conversation with Madame de Valricour, from which her presence at St.

Sulpice and her knowledge of the marriage at once became evident, but

he stated that he had met at the little village inn a strange man who

over his cups had let out that he was in the employ of a M. de Crillon,

and that they were looking out for a youngster of quality, who would

soon find out to his cost that his master had in his pocket a little

document with the signature of His Most Christian Majesty, which would

provide him with a lodging for life, if even worse did not befall him.

In spite of his agitation, the marquis succeeded in commanding himself

so far as to be able to question Greboeuf more than once respecting the

circumstances he had narrated; but the more he questioned the more

clear it became that he was telling the truth. At best, Madame de

Valricour's concealment of many things that must have been within her

knowledge, and which Isidore's father had the most undoubted right to

know, showed that she was deceiving him. Most of all his mind dwelt on

the fact that she had learned that Isidore had fled to Nantes, whereas

she had professed complete ignorance as to his whereabouts. With as

much composure as he could assume the marquis dismissed Greboeuf with a

handsome reward, and now turning to Perigord, said, "But even if we are

sure that they have gone to Nantes, what clue have we as to where they

may be lodged?"

"They have gone to my brother, Jean Perigord, who keeps an inn on the

Quai La Fosse called the 'Great Gun.'"

"Can your brother be trusted?" asked Monsieur de Beaujardin, somewhat

anxiously.

"He is as true as steel, monseigneur," was the reply, "yet so simple

that a child may cheat him--so much the worse for him, poor fellow!"

"Sit down and write to him as I shall dictate," said the marquis.

Perigord did so, and his master read over what he had written. "You

have been an attached and faithful servant to me, Perigord," said the

marquis, "and you have now done to me and mine a service which I shall

certainly never forget," and with these words he took the old man's

hand and grasped it with undisguised emotion.

"Ah, monseigneur, you are too good, too condescending to one so humble

as myself," exclaimed the old _chef_, the tears running down his cheeks

as he spoke. "But you have deigned to listen to me. Yes, you will go

to him--you will save my poor young master--is it not so?"

The marquis did not answer, but Perigord knew by the look his old

master gave him that he had not spoken in vain.

Great was the surprise of everybody at the chateau when, soon after

these interviews, Monsieur de Beaujardin gave orders that horses should

be got ready by daybreak on the following morning, as he was about to

make a journey. The marchioness flew to her husband to inquire the

reason of such unusual orders, but he would tell her no more than that

some business called him away, and that he should be absent for a week

at least. He knew that anything he might tell her would soon be wormed

out of her by the baroness, which in the present case might prove most

undesirable. There were, however, others at the chateau who knew their

own interests too well to let Madame de Valricour remain in ignorance

of what was passing. Again she went to the marquis, but he refused to

see her, and even sent so strange a message to her that she augured at

once that something was going wrong, though what it was she could not

ascertain.

In due time the travelling equipage was at the door, but as the marquis

was stepping into it he was informed that his valet, François, without

whom he never went half a dozen miles away from Beaujardin, had been

suddenly taken ill and could not possibly attend his master on the

journey. What was to be done? Despite his usual philosophic calmness,

the marquis stamped with vexation, and stood irresolute on the great

steps of the chateau, undecided whether he should start without the

valet or wait till he got better.

"What is the matter with the fellow, Jasmin?" said he, as the latter

appeared, bringing with him the travelling cloak, in order to deposit

it in the coach.

"It is a fever, monsieur," replied Jasmin, bowing, "nay, it may be

worse. Heaven send it be not the small-pox."

The marquis looked aghast. "I must go, there is no help for it," said

he. "Louis must attend me instead."

"I will fetch him instantly," said Jasmin; but in five minutes he

returned with the intelligence that Louis was not to be found, high or

low.

"Then I must go alone," exclaimed the marquis, irritably, "I cannot

wait. Stay, you have nothing to do, Jasmin, you can go with me."

"Monsieur honours me," replied Jasmin, with a bow. "If monsieur will

step in and proceed, I will follow without delay, and overtake the

carriage in a short quarter of an hour."

So the marquis entered the vehicle, saying to himself, "This is a

useful fellow--ready at a moment. I am not likely to miss François.

Indeed, I may find poor Isidore's man more useful to me as matters

stand."

Jasmin was as good as his word, and soon joined the equipage, which

proceeded on its journey. They then travelled with as much speed as

circumstances would allow, and reached Nantes on the following day just

as it was growing dusk, and put up at the great hotel of the place.

Immediately on their arrival, and before Jasmin had had time even to

change his travelling dress and heavy riding boots, he was summoned by

the marquis, who told him to repair at once to the inn kept by Jean

Perigord on the Quai La Fosse, and to desire the landlord to come to

him without a moment's delay at the Hotel du Roi.

The first thing which the valet did, however, was to read a letter

which Monsieur de Beaujardin gave to him to hand to Perigord. It ran

as follows:--

"MY GOOD BROTHER,

"The Marquis de Beaujardin, my master, is about to proceed to Nantes on

some business in which, as I am informed, you will be able to assist

him. Render him all the aid in your power, and do not hesitate to give

him any information you can, as the affair is one deeply concerning the

honour and welfare of the whole family, to which, as you know, I have

been so long and so devotedly attached.

"Always your loving Brother,

"ACHILLE PERIGORD."

Having made himself master of the contents of this letter, Jasmin

wrapped himself in his cloak, for the wind was keen and the weather

looked threatening, and sallied forth from the hotel. But he did not

go straight to Jean Perigord's. On the way he stopped at another inn

called the Hotel Turenne, where he inquired whether a certain M. de

Crillon had yet arrived there. He was answered in the affirmative, and

was presently shown into a saloon, where he found de Crillon, to whom

he forthwith communicated the circumstances which had brought him

thither with the marquis, showing him at the same time the letter from

old Achille. The conference was short, and M. de Crillon concluded it

by saying, "I suspected they would go to Maitre Jean's, and try to get

away in some vessel sailing from this port, and my men are already on

the look-out near the house. If, with the aid of this note, you can

bring them here, or entice them on to the quay, the business is done."

With these instructions, Jasmin once more set out.

It had now become dark, and he found the quay a very long one. He had

traversed nearly the whole length of it without coming upon the "Great

Gun," when he saw a sailor lounging under one of the trees that lined

the road, and asked him if the inn was anywhere near.

"What! Jean Perigord's house?" answered the man. "O yes; I thought

every one knew the 'Great Gun.' Come along, I will show it to you."

In a couple of minutes they reached the house. It was still open; a

lamp was burning over the door, and there stood Jean Perigord himself,

apparently looking out for some one. The sailor touched his hat and

asked Jasmin for a trifle; the latter told the landlord to give the man

something to drink, and they entered the house together. The man then

tossed off his glass and left them alone.

"I will not ask if you are Jean Perigord," said Jasmin, as they entered

the little parlour, "you are so like our honest old Achille. I have

come to you on a delicate and most important matter; but first of all

read this," and he handed to the innkeeper the letter from his brother,

which he read with evident astonishment and perturbation.

"Now listen to me," continued Jasmin. "There is no time for beating

round the bush. What about two young persons sent to you by your

cousin Michel Greboeuf, of St. Sulpice?"

"Mercy on us!" exclaimed Jean, in great agitation. "Do you know that

they are here?"

"Of course," replied Jasmin. "When did they come?"

"Early this afternoon," said the innkeeper; "but I was not to say a

word about it."

"Are they within?"

"She is; but he went out a couple of hours ago and hired a boat to take

him to one of the vessels lying in the river. Ah! I thought, in spite

of their being dressed like common country folk, they must be something

more than they seemed. But," added he, abruptly, "I don't know why I

should tell you all this."

"Nay, my good fellow," rejoined Jasmin, in his blandest way, "surely

the word of our good old Achille is enough."

Jean glanced hastily at the letter as if to reassure himself, and then

a thought seemed suddenly to strike him.

"Stay. Mercy on us!" said he, stepping back a little, "is it possible?

Yes, I see--of course you are monseigneur the marquis. How could I be

so stupid? Ah, monsieur," he added, "I can only be too glad to----"

"Hush!" cried Jasmin, interrupting him. "We are watched. Do you not

see?"

And, sure enough, following the direction of Jasmin's eyes, Jean did

see the man who had brought his visitor there emerge noiselessly from a

dark corner near the open door and steal away into the street.

"Quick," said Jasmin, "go to her at once. Tell her all is well, but

that she must come instantly to the Hotel Turenne."

"But she will never come without him," cried Jean, pleadingly.

"Tell her that you will bring her husband to her the moment he returns;

but that if she delays, he will be lost. I will go on first and see

that the way is clear."

With these words Monsieur Jasmin drew his cloak about him and

disappeared. For a few moments poor Jean stood utterly bewildered, but

the thought of the danger aroused him, and he hurried up-stairs to the

chamber where Marguerite was sitting, anxiously awaiting her husband's

return.

In a few hasty words, and not a little excited by his mission, the

landlord bade her get ready and follow him at once, adding that a good

friend had come to aid them, and that she and her husband would soon be

safe. At first she hesitated, but on his urgent assurance that she had

nothing to fear, she forthwith put on her hood and accompanied him down

the stairs, and they quitted the house.

They had proceeded about a hundred yards, and had just reached a part

of the quay where some stone steps led down to a landing-place, when

Jean heard footsteps behind him. He stopped and turned round, and was

instantly seized and thrown to the ground, his assailant whispering to

him as he held him down with a grasp like that of a vice, "Keep quiet,

good Master Jean. This business does not concern you, and you shall be

set free in a minute or two."

Jean Perigord had too brave a heart for that, however, and he struggled

to get loose. He succeeded in raising himself a little, but it was

only to hear a shriek, and to see the unhappy girl borne past him by

two men, who carried her down the steps and placed her in a boat that

lay at the landing-place. The next moment he saw two other men

carrying past him what seemed to be the figure of a man struggling in

the folds of a cloak that had apparently been thrown over him. The

muffled form was thrown into the same boat, which was then instantly

shoved off.

"Now, my good Jean," said the man, as he let go his hold of the

innkeeper, "just go home and keep your tongue quiet--it will be best

for you. I shall have an eye on you, and if you blab about what you

have seen, why you will stand a good chance of sharing the same fate as

your friends yonder. They have been arrested under the king's _lettre

de cachet_, and if you meddle in the matter you are a dead man."

Half an hour later Monsieur de Crillon received the report of his chief

_employé_, which was to the effect that the young marquis had been

overheard whilst discovering himself to Jean Perigord, and that he and

the young female who had previously reached the "Great Gun" had been

seized and conveyed to the prison of Bouffay, where they awaited

Monsieur de Crillon's further orders. "Let the horses be got ready and

brought round at once," was the reply, and his follower retired to give

directions accordingly.

In the meanwhile Jean Perigord had returned to his house in dire dismay

at what had taken place, and his anxiety was heightened, if that were

possible, by the reflection that he had very likely been made the means

of decoying poor Marguerite into a trap. He could not help fearing,

moreover, that the figure he had seen carried past him and thrown into

the boat had been that of the poor young fellow her husband, who had

doubtless been captured on the quay as he was landing. Without a

thought about closing his house as usual, he threw himself into a chair

and groaned aloud. What was he to do? Now he resolved to seek out the

Marquis de Beaujardin at the Hotel Turenne; now again he shrank from

such a step as he remembered that terrible injunction to keep silence

about the matter. He was, however, suddenly aroused from his rueful

reflections by the sound of hasty footsteps in the passage, and had

scarcely had time to rise from his chair when there stood before him a

young man, in the garb of a peasant indeed, but whose face and figure,

to say nothing of his language and manner, were little in accordance

with his homely apparel.

"You will be glad to hear, honest Jean," said he, "that I have managed

it all, and have succeeded in taking passages in a ship that sails

to-morrow morning. I must go and bring down my poor young wife at

once, as I have kept my boat waiting to take us off to the ship. I can

never repay you for your kindness, but----" Here he stopped short, and

then added in some surprise: "How now, my good friend! you look as if

you had seen a ghost."

That was, indeed, just what Jean himself was thinking at that moment.

"Heaven have mercy on us!" he ejaculated. "Is it you? It cannot be."

"Are you ill, or crazy, or else what is the matter?" cried Isidore.

"Has anything befallen her?" he added, as Jean stood there before him

wringing his hands. Isidore was about to rush up-stairs, but the

landlord grasped his arm and stopped him, and then in hurried and

broken sentences he related to him what had occurred during his absence.

Incoherent as the narrative was, it sufficed to tell Isidore only too

plainly what had happened; yet he could at first scarcely realise it

all. Trembling with agitation, he pressed the innkeeper with question

after question till nothing more remained to be told. "What could I

do," cried Jean, despairingly, "when monseigneur the marquis

himself--if, indeed, it was he--told me you would be all safe if I took

her at once to the Hotel Turenne?"

"The marquis himself!" cried Isidore. "Are you mad? I will not

believe it. What was he like--how old?"

"Perhaps a little older than yourself. I supposed, of course, that it

was the young marquis, of whom my brother has often spoken to me."

"The young marquis! There is some horrible treachery in all this; but

I will find it out, cost what it will. At the Hotel Turenne, did you

say?"

Jean nodded an affirmative, and before he could add another word

Isidore had rushed out of the house.

Dark as it was, he managed to find his way, after many inquiries, to

the Hotel Turenne. As he reached the door two mounted men with a led

horse came up; the master of the house and two or three of the hotel

servants with lights were standing in the hall.

"Is the Marquis de Beaujardin staying here?" asked Isidore, abruptly.

"No, he is not," answered, the hotel-keeper; "but he came to the Hotel

du Roi this afternoon; you will find him there. Stand aside."

At this moment a gentleman in a riding suit, and booted and spurred,

passed through the hall and descended the steps, accompanied by the

landlord, who officiously held the stirrup as he mounted.

"Stay," said he, bending forward and addressing the hotel-keeper in an

undertone, "should a person named Jasmin come again, you will tell him

that I am obliged by his assistance, which has been quite successful.

Should he not return, send this message to him to-morrow at the Hotel

du Roi; he is in the _suite_ of the Marquis de Beaujardin." With these

words the speaker put spurs to his horse and galloped off, followed by

his attendants.

Isidore had not seen the speaker's face indeed, but he knew that voice

only too well. What! had his own father then come there in league with

de Crillon to hunt her down so relentlessly? Had they even employed

his own discharged menial to personate him and entrap her? With his

brows knit and his teeth set close, he bent his steps in the direction

of the Hotel du Roi, but he had not gone far before he stopped; then,

after considering for a minute or two, he turned and made his way

almost mechanically to the Quai La Fosse.

The landlord was standing at the door, peering anxiously out into the

darkness, but Isidore passed him without notice, and hurrying by into

the little parlour threw himself into a chair; there, burying his face

in his hands, he gave way for the first time, and broke into a

passionate outburst of grief and despair.

Perigord stood near him for a while, not daring to intrude on his

distress; but at last he approached him timidly, and laying his hand on

his shoulder tried to calm and soothe him. Then, growing bolder, he

began to implore him at least to try and save his own life. But

Isidore seemed not to heed him. "His own life! What was life to him

now--now that he had lost all that seemed to him to make life worth

preserving?"

"For the poor young creature's sake," continued Jean, the tears running

down his cheeks, "save yourself. Perhaps you may yet find some one;

surely there must be some one who may have the power to help you to try

and rescue her." As he said this, poor Jean shuddered at the thought

of those terrible words about the _lettre de cachet_.

Perhaps the innkeeper's words reminded Isidore that his uncle, the

Baron de Valricour, or possibly the Marquis de Montcalm himself, might

yet do something for him, if indeed anything could be done. At all

events it was useless to hope for aid from anyone in France. Somewhat

to the honest innkeeper's surprise, he suddenly arose, and speaking

with a calmness and dignity which quite awed the would-be comforter, he

said, "You are right, good friend. I take shame to myself for showing

such weakness. Yes, there are those who may still help me, if it be

God's will; and if they can, I know they will not shrink from doing so.

For the kindness which would have sheltered and assisted us, I can

never repay you, but I can never forget it. Farewell! It is best for

you that you should not even know my name. The boat that is waiting

yonder shall take me back to the ship alone," he added, with a groan.

"Ah, if ever I visit France again----"

He could say no more, but he grasped honest Jean's hand and left the

house. The landlord hurried after him, but it was only to see him

descend the steps of the quay and enter the boat, which, in a minute or

two, was lost in the darkness.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter VIII]

PART III

THE FALL OF NEW FRANCE.

[Illustration: 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 shore to shore with one broad expanse of solid ice of almost

incredible thickness. Anon the vast mass 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 hoary 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 butterfly, 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 sturdy 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 assistance, 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 enterré.'

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 sturdy 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 God 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 passed 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 noble 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 noble 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. God 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.

[Illustration: Tailpiece to Chapter I]

[Illustration: Headpiece to Chapter II]