_VILLE MARIE_.
BEAUTIFULLY situated as it was between Mount Royal and the St.
Lawrence, at that early date Ville Marie could scarcely be termed
imposing in appearance. It was busy and bustling, and had been described
as “a place which makes so much noise, but is of so little account.” A
frontier town at the head of the colony, it was the natural resort of
desperadoes of every description, offering a singular contrast between
the rigor of its clerical seigniors and the riotous license of the wild
crews which invaded it. Its citizens were mostly disbanded soldiers,
traders and coureurs de bois—a turbulent population, whose control
taxed to the utmost the patience, tact and ingenuity of the priestly
governors. While a portion of the residents were given up to practices
of mystical piety, others gambled, drank and stole; if hard pressed by
justice they had only to cross the river and place themselves beyond
seigniorial jurisdiction.
Limited as was the sphere of action, here existence offered many
striking contrasts. In love with an exquisite ideal, men and women
struggled to attain purity and unselfishness: they nursed the sick, fed
the hungry, loved and forgave, lived in godly fear and died fortified by
eternal hope; and this side by side with those who yielded themselves up
with boundless license to the worse passions of the human heart.
While scarcely more than a village in dimensions, the preponderance of
large buildings, churches and convents imparted to the town a
substantial appearance which the number of the population and its scanty
resources scarcely warranted. Quaint steeples and turrets cut the misty
pallor of the sky. Ville Marie wore an aspect half military, half
monastic. At sunrise and sunset a squad of soldiers paraded in front of
the citadel; at night patrols marched through the streets; church bells,
deep and sweet mouthed, rang out the Angelus morning, noon and night.
On the river-front were numerous taverns, in front of which boats and
canoes were drawn up on the shore. Here voyageurs swaggered and swore,
and Indians, whom what Charlevois quaintly terms “a light tinge of
Christianity” had scarcely redeemed from savagery, squatted in sullen
apathy or quarrelled with brutal ferocity. A row of small compact
dwellings extended along a narrow street then, as now, called St. Paul.
Some of the houses were of stone, but the majority were of wood with
stone gables, as required by law, the roofs covered with shingles. All
outlying houses were pierced with loopholes and fortified as well as the
slender means of their owners would permit. Gardens were mostly fenced
by pointed cedar stakes, with the poles firmly tied together. Fields
studded with scarred and blackened stumps stretched away to the
bordering forest, crowding gloomy and silent on the right side and on
the left. The green shaggy back of the Mountain towered over all.
Crowning the hill on the right stood the Seignior’s windmill, built of
rough stone, and pierced with loopholes to serve in time of need as a
place of defence. This mill had a right to claim one-third of the grain
brought to be ground; of which portion the miller received one-third as
his share, and the Seminary required that the inhabitants should have
all their corn ground there, or at one of the other mills owned by the
priests.
Toward the left, on an artificial elevation, at an angle formed by the
junction of a swift-glancing rivulet with the St. Lawrence, was a
square-bastioned stone fort. This was the citadel of Ville Marie. About
1640, M. d’Ailleboust had removed the palisade of stakes which had
formerly protected it, and had fortified it by two bastions. The fort
was provided with artillery, and here, in command of a portion of the
Carignan-Salière regiment, resided the military governor appointed by
the Seminary.
Overlooking the river appeared the church of Notre Dame de Bonsecours,
whose walls of rough grey stone have shone as a symbol of hope to the
yearning eyes of many a weary voyageur, many a travel-worn emigrant.
Above the entrance stood a statue of the Virgin, below which ran the
inscription:
_“Si l’amour de Marie_
_Dans ton cœur est gravé,_
_En passant ne t’oublie_
_De lui dire un avé.”_
The Hotel-Dieu, founded in 1644 by Madame de Bouillon, fronting on both
St. Paul and St. Joseph (now St. Sulpice) streets, was an abode of much
charity, tender devotion and heroic self-abnegation. The nuns, a devoted
sisterhood, nobly conspicuous in the annals of the colony, excelled in
acts of kindness which had become sacramental symbols of faithful
obedience to God and loving brotherhood with man. Under their snow-white
wimples beat hearts as brave as ever stirred under the robe of statesman
or gorget of soldier. The church stood on St. Paul street, and was of
stone in Tuscan style, surmounted by a triangular pediment and cross.
The buildings consisted of hospital, convent and church.
On a gently swelling knoll west of the citadel stood the edifice erected
by M. Charon as a hospital. Farther back, to the left, was the Jesuit
church, fronting on Notre Dame street. Adjoining this was the College, a
very small structure with large and carefully cultivated gardens
attached. The buildings of the Congregation of Notre Dame faced on St.
Paul street, while the back windows overlooked the river; they were
surrounded by a high stone wall. Here Marguerite Bourgeois, assisted by
a band of noble women, labored for the conversion of the savages, and
here the young girls of Ville Marie received all the instruction they
were likely to obtain. Back of the settlement ran from the citadel a
rough country road, which is now Notre Dame street.
Fronting the river on the line of the street were the enclosures and
buildings of the Seminary, fortified, as was the Hotel-Dieu, to resist
the attacks of the Iroquois. The ancient edifice was of the same shape
as the present, forming three sides of a square, surrounded by spacious
grounds. The priests’ gardens were already renowned for the delicious
quality of their fruit. The air of thrift and comfort which
characterized the belongings of the clergy presented a painful contrast
to the extreme penury of the colonists. With them, method, industry and
frugality had resulted in abounding prosperity. The parish church of
Notre Dame was directly in the centre of Notre Dame street. It was a low
edifice, built of rough stone, pointed with mortar; the high-pitched
roof, covered with tin, reflecting the sunshine in dazzling brightness.
The principal entrance was at the south end, and on the south-west
corner was a tower, surmounted by a belfry. The public market was near
the river, directly facing the Seminary property. This was a favorite
rendezvous for all loiterers, as were also the public wells, which, to
suit the general convenience, had been placed near the Seminary, at the
market-place, and in the Jesuits’ garden. Here the citizens gathered.
The women enjoyed the opportunities of gossiping at the well, their
tongues moving as swiftly as the running water, their whole bodies
aiding with an endless variety of appropriate gestures.
The men, with a vivacity that never diminished, held choleric arguments,
or repeated marvellous stories. They tapped their foreheads, clasped
their hands, clutched impetuously at perruques that presented a
wonderful impunity from becoming disarranged. They discussed how Jean
Louis had strained his right arm and fallen under the power of a
sorcerer; how the good St. Anne had rescued Pierre Boulot and his
comrade from shipwreck because they had made a vow in her honor; how
Mère Bouillette had been tormented by the lutin in the shape of a
will-o’-the-wisp, and the good Mère Berbier, of the Congregation of
Notre Dame, had presented Madelon with a scapulaire as a charm against
fever. It was whispered that it was feared that Georgeon and his fifty
wolves, invisible when hunted by honest men, were driving the colts
about at night. With bated breath they spoke of the dreaded scourge, the
Iroquois, and then, with tears still glistening in their eyes, they
broke into merry laughter at some careless jest. The rigor of the
climate prevented much indulgence in that pleasant outdoor life in which
the French peasant delights, but as soon as the late northern spring
broke forth, and the air became soft and balmy, the natural instincts
reasserted themselves.
To the east of the town, where Viger Square now stands, stretched a
swampy marsh where the bulrushes raised their tall heads and the stately
purple iris bloomed in profusion; there the long-drawn plaintive cry of
the water-fowl echoed through the stillness in melancholy cadences. Back
of the settlement, parallel with Notre Dame street, a stream with mimic
rush and roar urged its way to the river. Between this and the street,
removed from the noise and bustle, lay the quiet cemetery. Some distance
away, to the left, nestling at the foot of the mountain, was situated
the Mission village established by St. Sulpice for the Christianized
Indians. It was dominated by two round stone towers, which afforded
considerable protection to the colony; a few French soldiers were always
stationed here. Near at hand, in winter half buried in peaked drifts and
massive banks of snow, was the shrine of Notre Dame des Nièges.
Opposite the city, on the south bank of the St. Lawrence, extending from
Longueuil to Laprairie, lay the fief acquired by that brave colonist
Charles Le Moyne, the brother-in-law of Jacques Le Ber. His son, the
Baron de Longueuil, notwithstanding the conditions of painful change and
fluctuation that attended the fortunes of the colony, reigned like a
feudal noble at Longueuil. His stone fort, flanked by four strong
towers, resembled a fortified French chateau. A church and various
substantial stone buildings clustered around it. On St. Helen’s lovely
isle, rising with gently wooded slopes out of the water, the troops
often camped. Opposite La Salle’s Seigniory at La Chine, on the south
bank, was Sault St. Louis (Caughnawaga), an Indian mission station.
Ville Marie was open to attack on all sides. The town had been recently
fortified with palisades. The few defences it possessed were in very
indifferent condition. The country around, and for nearly a hundred
miles below it, was easily accessible to the Iroquois by the routes of
Lake Champlain and the Upper St. Lawrence. In the unsettled and variable
condition of the colony, the clerical influence maintained a certain
solidity of aim to the community which they had originated, and in which
they certainly were the ruling influence.
A Christian outpost established in the wilderness, ravaged by foes,
feeble from the exhaustion of a starved and persecuted infancy, Ville
Marie still contrived to exist.
* * * * *
Amid all the conflicting elements of her new surroundings, Lydia Longloy
contrived dexterously to steer her way. In her old home she had been
taught to regard the French as “bloodthirsty heathen,” but with easy
adaptability and admirable tact she now showed herself quite as ready to
adopt the faith and opinions of these new friends as she was to follow
their fashions and manners. A beguiling innocence was her chief
characteristic, accompanied as it was by a soft amiability and
teachableness both touching and flattering.
Père de Mereil, of the Seminary, who spoke the English language and
devoted himself especially to the conversion of heretics, declared
enthusiastically that this young girl was the most interesting convert
he had ever been privileged to instruct. If the English captive were
occasionally betrayed into frivolity by the levity of youth, the worthy
priest ascribed these lapses entirely to the worldly influence of
Mademoiselle de Monesthrol. Lydia had an easy way of explaining herself
to be always in the right, and it would be unjust to attribute the
pretty creature’s innocent vanity and frank simplicity to other than
natural childish frailty.
Heedlessly generous with the divine faith of youth, Diane de Monesthrol
gave her love to the stranger. During the long illness which followed
Lydia’s removal to Ville Marie, Diane nursed her with tender care, and
in her helplessness she had twined herself around the closest fibres of
Diane’s heart. She might not be either very strong or very wise, but she
was her own pet, the joint protégé of herself and du Chesne. Lydia’s
trials and sufferings invested her with a halo of romantic interest.
Diane’s own glowing imagination conferred upon the Puritan maiden
qualities of which the stranger had formed no conception. Her pure and
simple beauty would have shone alike at a cottage door and in the halls
of princes.
Lydia rejoiced in the sweet and exhilarating consciousness of an
approving Providence. She found herself placed exactly to her taste.
Dreading pain, she was only too well pleased to be allowed to forget the
past; finding herself flattered and caressed, she desired nothing better
than to enjoy the present. An orphan, thrown upon the charity of distant
and reluctant relatives, her life had not been happy. She had no
enthusiasm, no imagination, no warm human sympathy to render the severe
existence of her childhood endurable. Without in the least realizing it,
Lydia had been bored to extinction. She hated now to think of those
long, unlovely years of repression of her natural faculties. She had
been accustomed to be looked down upon by her thrifty England kindred,
who had felt no hesitation in sharply chiding her shortcomings. There
her beauty had been of small account; she had no chance of wearing
beautiful clothes, and had never listened to the sweet accents of
flattery. Her various misdeeds had been severely visited upon her, her
frailties exposed to open scorn, with the cheerful prospect held over
her that in another existence these trifling vanities should be still
more actively rued in fire and brimstone.
Thinking of all this Lydia Longloy rejoiced in her new freedom with the
whole strength of her trivial soul. The Puritan settlement of Grotton,
near Boston, with its memories of friends and neighbors, its precise
restraint and rigid formality, became merely an unpleasant remembrance
to be crushed out of sight. All the strict discipline of her New England
training fell from her like a cast-off garment. She learned French with
rapidity, absorbing the ideas and sentiments of those among whom her lot
was cast. She adopted powder and patches, fans and feathers, as though
to the manner born. She acquired a deliciously arch imitation of the
Marquise’s airs; and if she missed Diane’s dainty grace, her coquetry
had a touch of sweet naturalness as of a child’s affectation and
extravagance. Once she found that to be pious was considered essential,
thereafter her piety satisfied even Anne Barroy.
In the large, hospitable household one more or less made very little
difference. Le Ber smiled indulgently upon what he considered his ward’s
new caprice, but for him the English prisoner had no charms. There were
two whose favor she never succeeded in winning: these were Madame de
Monesthrol and Nanon, who quickly arrived at a very distinct perception
of the situation.
“Plebeian to the core,” Madame nodded her stately head sagaciously,
smelling at her _flacon_ as if to keep off infection. “The little one
waters a barren field. All that will count for nothing. This English
girl will keep all she can get, and she is clever at getting. Yet one is
young but once—can one blame her faith?”
Nanon was still more outspoken in her opinion.
“Bah! that crocodile blonde demoiselle. There are two words to a
bargain, and our demoiselle will always be a loser, for she is of those
who give lavishly with both hands; this other is a sponge who absorbs
all and yields nothing in return.”