The national fete of the summer was over. The day had been successful,
more successful indeed than any within the memory of the inhabitants;
for the English and French soldiers joined in the festivities without
any intrusion of racial spirit, but in the very essence and soul of
good-fellowship. The General had called at the Manor, and paid his
respects to the Seigneur, who received him abstractedly if not coolly,
but Madelinette had captured his imagination and his sympathies. He was
fond of music for an Englishman, and with a ravishing charm she sang
for him a bergerette of the eighteenth century and then a ballad of
Shakespeare’s set to her own music. She was so anxious that the great
holiday should pass off without one untoward incident, that she would
have resorted to any fair device to attain the desired end. The
General could help her by his influence and instructions, and if the
soldiers--regulars and militia--joined in the celebrations harmoniously,
and with goodwill, a long step would be made towards undoing the harm
that Louis had done, and maybe influencing him towards a saner, wiser
view of things. He had changed much since the fateful day when he had
forced George Fournel to fight him; had grown more silent, and had
turned grey. His eyes had become by turns watchful and suspicious,
gloomy and abstracted; and his speech knew the same variations; now
bitter and cynical, now sad and distant, and all the time his eyes
seemed to grow darker and his face paler. But however moody and variable
and irascible he might be with others, however unappeasable, with
Madelinette he struggled to be gentle, and his petulance gave way under
the intangible persuasiveness of her words and will, which had the
effect of command. Under this influence he had prepared the words which
he was to deliver at the Fete. They were full of veneration for past
traditions, but were not at variance with a proper loyalty to the flag
under which they lived, and if the English soldiery met the speech
with genial appreciation the day might end in a blessing--and surely
blessings were overdue in Madelinette’s life in Pontiac.
It had been as she worked for and desired, thanks to herself and the
English General’s sympathetic help. Perhaps his love of music made
him better understand what she wanted, made him even forgiving of the
Seigneur’s strained manner; but certain it is that the day, begun with
uneasiness on the part of the people of Pontiac, who felt themselves
under surveillance, ended in great good-feeling and harmless revelry;
and it was also certain that the Seigneur’s speech gained him an
applause that surprised him and momentarily appeased his vanity. The
General gave him a guard of honour of the French Militia in keeping with
his position as Seigneur; and this, with Madelinette’s presence at his
elbow, restrained him in his speech when he would have broken from the
limits of propriety in the intoxication of his eager eloquence. But he
spoke with moderation, standing under the British Flag on the platform,
and at the last he said:
“A flag not our own floats over us now; guarantees us against the malice
of the world and assures us in our laws and religion; but there is
another flag which in our tearful memories is as dear to us now as it
was at Carillon and Levis. It is the flag of memory--of language and
of race, the emblem of our past upon our hearthstones; and the great
country that rules us does not deny us reverence to it. Seeing it, we
see the history of our race from Charlemagne to this day, and we have
a pride in that history which England does not rebuke, a pride which
is just and right. It is fitting that we should have a day of
commemoration. Far off in France burns the light our fathers saw and
were glad. And we in Pontiac have a link that binds us to the old home.
We have ever given her proud remembrance--we now give her art and song.”
With these words, and turning to his wife, he ended, and cries of
“Madame Madelinette! Madame Madelinette!” were heard everywhere. Even
the English soldiers cheered, and Madelinette sang a la Claire Fontaine,
three verses in French and one in English, and the whole valley rang
with the refrain sung at the topmost pitch by five thousand voices:
“I’ya longtemps que je t’aime, Jamais je ne t’oublierai.”
The day of pleasure done and dusk settled on Pontiac and on the
encampment of soldiers in the valley, a light still burned in the
library at the Manor House long after midnight. Madelinette had gone to
bed, but, excited by the events of the day, she could not sleep, and she
went down to the library to read. But her mind wandered still, and she
sat mechanically looking before her at a picture of the father of the
late Seigneur, which was let into the moulding of the oak wall. As she
looked abstractedly and yet with the intensity of the preoccupied mind,
her eye became aware of a little piece of wood let into the moulding of
the frame. The light of the hanging lamp was full on it.
This irregularity began to perplex her eye. Presently it intruded on her
reverie. Still busy with her thoughts, she knelt upon the table beneath
the picture and pressed the irregular piece of wood. A spring gave, the
picture came slowly away from the frame, and disclosed a small cupboard
behind. In this cupboard were a few books, an old silver-handled pistol,
and a packet. Madelinette’s reverie was broken now. She was face to face
with discovery and mystery. Her heart stood still with fear. After an
instant of suspense, she took out the packet and held it to the light.
She gave a smothered cry.
It was the will of the late Seigneur.