Produced by Al Haines
[Frontispiece: "Come, fellow, thou art trapped; give me up my purse."]
The Black Wolf's Breed
_A Story of France
In the Old World and the New, happening
in the Reign of Louis XIV_
BY
HARRIS DICKSON
ILLUSTRATIONS BY C. M. RELYEA
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers -:- New York
Copyright 1899
by
The Bowen-Merrill Company
_All rights reserved_
TO THE MEMORY OF
_BIENVILLE_
THE SOLDIER-GOVERNOR OF LOUISIANA
OUT OF WHOSE
MIGHTY PROVINCE HAS GROWN NEARLY ONE-HALF
OF THE
WORLD'S GREATEST
REPUBLIC
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
I The Master
II Bienville
III Aboard Le Dauphin
IV The Road to Versailles
V The Decadence of Versailles
VI Louis XIV
VII At the Austrian Arms
VIII A New Friend
IX Mademoiselle
X In the House of Bertrand
XI The Dawn and the Dusk
XII Florine to the Rescue
XIII The Girl of the Wine Shop
XIV The Secretary and the Duke
XV New Hopes
XVI The Unexpected
XVII The Flight From Sceaux
XVIII Serigny's Departure
XIX The Castle of Cartillon
XX From the Path of Duty
XXI The Fall of Pensacola
XXII The Contents of the Box
XXIII A Note Which Went Astray
XXIV The Children of the Black Wolf's Breed
APPENDIX
ILLUSTRATIONS
LOI
"Come, fellow, thou art trapped; give me up my purse." . .
_Frontispiece_
"What is it; what device is there?"
"The old man gazed steadily at me for some moments."
ELOI
_FRANCE--In the old world and in the new!_
_The France of romance and glory under Henry of Navarre; of pride and
glitter under Louis XIV, in whose reign was builded, under the silver
lilies, that empire--Louisiana--in the vague, dim valley of the
Mississippi across the sea: these are the scenes wherein this drama
shall be played. Through these times shall run the tale which follows.
Times when a man's good sword was ever his truest friend, when he who
fought best commanded most respect. It was the era of lusty men----the
weak went to the wall._
_King and courtier; soldier and diplomat; lass and lady; these are the
people with whom this story deals. If, therefore, you find brave
fighting and swords hanging too loosely in their sheaths; if honor
clings round an empty shadow and the women seem more fair than honest,
I pray you remember when these things did happen, who were the actors,
and the stage whereon they played._
_THE AUTHOR._
THE BLACK WOLF'S BREED
FOREWORD
_It is fitting that old men, even those whose trade is war, should end
their days in peace, yet it galls me grievously to sit idly here by the
fire, in this year of grace 1746, while great things go on in the world
about me._
_The feeble hound at my feet, stretching his crippled limbs to the
blaze, dreams of the chase, and bays delighted in his sleep. Nor can I
do more than dream and meditate and brood._
_News of Fontenoy and the glory of Prince Maurice thrills my sluggish
blood; again I taste the wild joys of conflict; the clashing steel, the
battle shouts, the cries of dying men---yea, even the death scream of
those sorely stricken comes as a balm to soothe my droning age. But
the youthful vigor is gone. This arm could scarcely wield a bodkin;
the old friend of many campaigns rusts in its scabbard, and God knows
France had never more urgent need of keen and honest swords._
_Thus run my thoughts while I sit here like some decrepit priest,
bending over my task, for though but an indifferent clerk I desire to
leave this narrative for my children's children._
_My early life was spent, as my children already know, for the most
part in the American Colonies. Of my father I knew little, he being
stationed at such remote frontier posts in the savage country that he
would not allow my mother and myself to accompany him. So we led a
secluded life in the garrison at Quebec. After the news came of his
death somewhere out in the wilderness, my brave mother and I were left
entirely alone. I was far too young then to realize my loss, and the
memory of those peaceful years in America with my patient, accomplished
mother remains to me now the very happiest of my life._
_From her I learned to note and love the beauties of mountain and of
stream. The broad blue St. Lawrence and the mighty forests on its
banks were a constant source of delight to my childish fancy, and those
memories cling to me, ineffaceable even by all these years of war and
tumult._
_When she died I drifted to our newer stations in the south, down the
great river, and it is of that last year in Louisiana, while I was yet
Captain de Mouret of Bienville's Guards, that I would have my children
know._
_Along the shore of Back Bay, on the southern coast of our Province of
Louisiana, the dense marsh grass grows far out into the water,
trembling and throbbing with the ebb and flow of every tide._
_Thicker than men at arms, it stands awhile erect where the shallow sea
waves foam and fret; then climbing higher ground, it straggles away,
thinner and thinner, in oaken-shaded solitudes long innocent of sun._
_Beginning on the slopes, a vast mysterious forest, without village,
path, or white inhabitant, stretches inland far and away beyond the
utmost ken of man. There the towering pines range themselves in
ever-receding colonnades upon a carpet smooth and soft as ever hushed
the tread of Sultan's foot. Dripping from their topmost boughs the
sunlight's splendor flickers on the floor, as if it stole through
chancel window of some cool cathedral where Nature in proud humility
worshiped at the foot of Nature's God._
_It was in those wilds, somewhere, the fabled El Dorado lay; there
bubbled the fountain of eternal youth: through that endless wilderness
of forest, plain and hill flowed on in turbid majesty the waters of De
Soto's mighty grave._
CHAPTER I
THE MASTER
It was late one clear moonlight night in the spring of 17--, when three
silent figures emerged from the woodland darkness and struck across the
wide extent of rank grass which yet separated us from the bay.
Tuskahoma led the way, a tall grim Choctaw chieftain, my companion on
many a hunt, his streaming plumes fluttering behind him as he strode.
I followed, and after me, Le Corbeau Rouge, a runner of the Choctaws.
We were returning to Biloxi from a reconnaissance in the Chickasaw
country.
Each straight behind the other, dumb and soundless shadows, we passed
along the way, hardly bruising a leaf or brushing the rustling reeds
aside.
"See, there is the light," grunted Tuskahoma, pointing to a glimmer
through the trees. "Yes, the White Prophet never sleeps," assented Le
Corbeau Rouge.
The light which marked our almost ended journey came from a window in
one of those low, square log houses, fortress-dwellings, so common in
the provinces.
Here, however, the strong pine palisades were broken down in many
places; the iron-studded gate hung unhinged and open, the accumulated
sand at its base showed it had not been closed in many years.
But the decay and neglect everywhere manifest in its defenses extended
no further, for inside the enclosure was a garden carefully tended; a
trailing vine clung lovingly to a corner of the wide gallery, and even
a few of the bright roses of France lent their sweetness to a place it
seemed impossible to associate with a thought of barbaric warfare.
I loved this humble home, for in such a one my mother and I had spent
those last years of sweet good-comradeship before her death--the roses,
the rude house, all reminded me of her, of peace, of gentler things.
The character of its lone occupant protected this lowly abode far
better than the armies of France, the chivalry of Spain, or the
Choctaw's ceaseless vigilance could possibly have done. He came there
it was said, some fifteen years before, a Huguenot exile, seemingly a
man of education and birth. He built his castle of refuge on a knoll
overlooking the sheltered bay, hoping there to find the toleration
denied him in his native land. The edict of Nantes had been revoked by
King Louis, and thousands of exiled Frenchmen of high and low degree
sought new fortunes in newer lands.
Many had reached America, and strove with energetic swords and
rapacious wallets to wrest blood and gold and fame from whatsoever
source they might.
This man alone of all those first explorers had shown no disposition to
search out the hidden treasures of the wilderness, to prey upon the
natives. He became their friend and not their plunderer.
His quiet life, his kindness, his charity, his knowledge of the simple
arts of healing, so endeared him to every warring faction that at his
house the Choctaw and the Chickasaw, the Frenchman, Spaniard and the
Englishman met alike in peace. So the needless fortifications fell
into unrepaired decay.
Many an afternoon I had paddled across the bay and spent a quiet hour
with him, as far from the jars and discord at Biloxi as if we were in
some other world.
As, this night, we drew nearer the house we saw no signs of life save
the chinks of light creeping beneath the door. I rapped, and his voice
bade me enter.
The master sat at his table in the center of a great room, about which
were a number of surgical and scientific instruments, all objects of
mistrust to my Indian friends.
These curious weapons of destruction or of witchcraft, for so the
Indians regarded them, contributed to make him an object of fear, which
doubtless did much to strengthen his influence among the tribes.
He was at this time somewhat more than sixty, slender and rather above
the medium height. With his usual grave courtesy he welcomed us and
readily loaned the small pirogue necessary to carry our party across
the bay.
The Indians were restless and the governor waited, so I only thanked
our host and turned to go.
He rose, and laying his hand upon my arm detained me. "Wait, Placide;
I am glad you returned this way, for I have long wished to speak with
you; especially do I wish it on this night--on this night. Sit down."
Mechanically I obeyed, for I could see there was something of more than
usual import on his mind. The Indians had withdrawn, and the master,
pacing uncertainly about the room, paused and regarded me intently, as
if he almost regretted his invitation to stay. After several efforts
he abruptly began:
"I fear I have not very long to live, and dread to meet death, leaving
a solemn duty unperformed. It is of this I would speak."
I listened in silence. He spoke hurriedly as though he doubted his
resolution to tell it all.
"You, and every one in these colonies, know me only as Colonel d'Ortez,
the Huguenot refugee. So I have been known by the whites ever since I
came here to escape persecution at home, and to get forever beyond the
sound of a name which has become hateful to me--my own.
"The Counts d'Artin have been a proud race in France for centuries, yet
I, the last d'Artin, find the name too great a burden to bear with me
in shameful silence to my grave. See this," and he took from his
throat a pearl-studded locket, swung by a substantial golden chain,
which he opened and handed to me. Inside were the arms of a noble
family exquisitely blazoned upon a silver shield.
"What is it; what device is there?"
[Illustration: "What is it; what device is there?"]
I knew something of heraldry and read aloud without hesitation the
bearings upon the shield, prominent among which were three wolves'
heads, chevroned, supported by two black wolves, rampant, the coronet
and motto "Praeclare factum."
"Aye," he mused half coherently, "the wolf; 'tis the crest of the
d'Artins, quartered with those of many of the most ancient houses of
France. So do those arms appear to men. But see."
He took the locket quickly from me and with a swift forceful movement
turned the plate in its place, exposing the reverse side.
"What is this? Look!"
I glanced at it and started, looking inquiringly into my old friend's
face. He avoided my eye.
I saw now upon the plate the same arms, the same quarterings, but over
all there ran diagonally across the scutcheon a flaming bar of red
which blazed evilly upon the silver ground. I understood.
"What is it?" he demanded impatiently. I still could find no word to
answer.
"Speak out boy, what is it?"
"The same, but here, overall, is the bendlet sinister." I scarcely
dared to look up into his face.
"Aye," he replied, his countenance livid with shame. "It is the bar
sinister, the badge of dishonor. So do those proud arms appear in the
sight of God, and so shall they be seen of men. And for generations
each Lord of Cartillon has added to that crimson stripe the indelible
stain of cowardice."
The master, his features working convulsively with humbled pride, his
eyes never leaving the floor, continued resolutely.
"The story is short. Over a hundred years ago the Count d'Artin was
murdered in his castle by the son of a peasant woman, his half brother,
who assumed the title and seized the estates. This was easy in those
times, for the murdered man was a Huguenot, his slayer a Catholic in
the service of Guise, and it was the day after St. Bartholomew's. The
count had sent his infant son for safety to an old friend, the abbott
of a neighboring monastery. This child was brought up in the Catholic
faith, and in him and his descendants resided the true right of the
Counts d'Artin. Of this they have always been ignorant. The usurper
on his death bed repented, and calling his own son to him, told him the
whole story, exacting a solemn oath that he would find the disinherited
one and restore to him his own. This oath was kept in part. His son,
Raoul d'Ortez, found the child, then an officer in the army, but lacked
the courage to declare his own shame, and relinquish the price of his
father's crime. By that Raoul d'Ortez this locket was made, and the
same vow and the same tradition were handed down to me. I have no
child. God knows I would give up the accursed heritage if I could.
"During all these years a careful record has been kept of the true
lineage, which was only broken in my father's time. Here in this
packet are the papers which prove it; I confide them to you upon my
death. After I am gone I want you to find the last d'Artin."
He was silent now a long time, then continued in a lower tone: "My
mother was of the reformed religion and I embraced her faith. It seems
like a judgment of God that I, a Huguenot, should lose under King Louis
what my Catholic ancestor gained under King Charles. Now go, lad."
I could say nothing, but touching his hand in mute sympathy turned away
without a word.
I had almost reached the door when he sprang after and again detained
me. His glance searched apprehensively into the shadowy corners of the
room, his voice wavered, the look of a hunted animal crept into his
eyes.
"'Tis said," he whispered, "the restless spirits of my fathers yet
haunt our castle in Normandy--oh, merciful God, do you believe it? Oh
no, no, after all these troubled years I fain would find a dreamless
slumber in my grave."
I soothed him as I would a frightened child, and left him standing at
the door.