_AN OCCASION OF REJOICING._
THE existence of the colony depended upon the fur trade, and for
nearly three years the Iroquois, with malicious ingenuity, had contrived
to block up the main artery of commerce, the river Ottawa, thus stopping
the flow of the country’s life-blood. The annual supply of beaver-skins
cut off, the settlement was compelled to exist upon credit. During the
preceding winter the need had been so great that the authorities were
obliged to distribute the soldiers among the inhabitants to be fed.
Canada had been reduced to the last extremity, her merchants and farmers
were dying of hunger. But relief was at hand.
One day, shortly before the annual fair, a messenger came in hot haste
with the startling information that Lake St. Louis was covered with
canoes. It must be an Iroquois invasion, and if so it was not an
impossibility that the whole community might be destroyed. Cannon were
fired to call in the troops from the detached posts, the churches were
thronged by excited women and children, and the steady march of trained
soldiers resounded through the streets. The authorities meanwhile were
engaged in anxious consultation.
Suddenly alarm was changed into frantic joy by the arrival of a second
scout, announcing that the new comers were not enemies but friends, who
instead of destruction had come to bring good fortune to Ville Marie.
Frontenac’s courage and policy had at length succeeded in accomplishing
the difficult but absolutely indispensable task of opening the Ottawa.
Louvigny and Perrot, the envoys sent to the Indians by the Governor in
the spring, whose persuasions had been supplemented by the news of the
late victory gained on the Ottawa and the capture of Schenectady, had
executed their mission satisfactorily. Despoiled of an English market
for their furs, the savages were willing to seek sale for them among the
French. Two hundred canoes had come laden with the coveted articles of
merchandise which had for so long been accumulating at Michillimackinac.
It seemed as though good fortune, like ill-luck, were not to come alone.
While three years of arrested sustenance came down from the great lakes
of the West, a French fleet, freighted with soldiers and supplies,
sailed up the St. Lawrence. This sight at any time was a reason for
rejoicing. It meant news from home, succor from want, encouragement,
relief. A moment had changed mourning apprehension into the ease and
composure of perfect security. Almost dizzy with the sweetness of
relief, struggling to retain sober consciousness, men cheered and
laughed, while women who had worn a brave smile during the day of
trouble now wept hysterically. As they looked into each other’s eyes,
the colonists realized how terrible had been the strain through which
they had passed.
As they drew near, the savages, ever delighting in noise, fired their
guns, while the deep continuous roar of cannon from the citadel greeted
them as they landed before the town—woods, waves and hills resounding
with the thunder of artillery. A great quantity of evergreen boughs was
gathered for the use of the Indians, and of these they hastily
constructed their wigwams outside the palisades. The Governor-General
had come up from Quebec to meet the Indian allies. These negotiations,
political and commercial, were of the utmost importance to the
settlement; there was scarcely an individual in all the colony who was
not keenly interested both in the Council which was now to be held and
in the great fair.
Moved by the universal impulse, Diane and Lydia, attended by Le Ber du
Chesne, the Chevalier de Crisasi, and the Sieur d’Ordieux, started to
attend the Council meeting. Nanon, thoroughly enjoying the occasion,
walked behind. Nothing escaped the notice of her quick eyes or the
comment of her unruly tongue.
“It is well said that good blood never lies. Our little partridge holds
her own with the best; those who have taste turn their heads to look at
her. Well they may; a great lady is not a sight to be met with every day
in this part of the world, where every trader’s wife and daughter would
like to perk their heads with their betters. It is an _officier bleu_,
no less, or some great noble at the King’s court, who should claim our
demoiselle as his bride, and think himself lucky to get her besides.”
Diane’s gown of heavy coffee-colored brocade had a train which swayed
gently behind, not dragging, but caught up gracefully and drawn through
both pocket holes, displaying the laced skirt and the pretty shoes on
which jewelled buckles glittered. Her corsage was long waisted and close
fitting; clouds of lace hung from the sleeves, while a lace fichu was
crossed over the bosom and fastened by some fragrant crimson roses.
On either side of Mademoiselle de Monesthrol walked the Chevalier and
the Sieur d’Ordieux. The first was a remarkably elegant and
distinguished-looking man. The thin dark face set within its frame of
powdered hair was somewhat languid and supercilious; the melancholy eyes
were almost oriental in their depth and intensity of expression. The
Marquis de Crisasi and his brother, the Chevalier, were Sicilian
noblemen who had compromised themselves by taking the part of France
against Spain. Their immense possessions were confiscated, and by a
sudden turn of fortune’s wheel they had been precipitated from the
highest pinnacle of prosperity down to bitter adversity. They had been
sent out to Canada in command of French troops. The favor proved, in
this case as in many others, a most unreliable dependence. The Marquis
had been appointed Governor of Three Rivers, a poor post, where it was
almost impossible to keep from starving. The Chevalier, who was regarded
by his contemporaries as a model of every knightly virtue and
accomplishment, neglected and forsaken by his friends at the Court,
waited for those marks of royal favor which he was never to receive.
“For M. le Chevalier, his day is past,” decided Le Ber promptly; “those
who are cast off by the Court have no future.”
But the Chevalier was one of Madame de Monesthrol’s warmest personal
friends, valued by her for his high breeding and personal worth.
The Sieur d’Ordieux was a little man who, in the desire to increase his
stature, used such high heels that he seemed to be walking upon stilts.
He wore a long black wig, powdered and curled in front. He was always
decked in finery like a woman, steeped in perfumes, glittering with
jewelry and ornamented with fluttering ribbons. This youth was a common
type of the men who strolled in the gardens of the Tuilleries or in the
galleries of Versailles, pulling the strings which set the cardboard
toys—the _pantins_—in motion; embroidering at women’s frames in
women’s salons; gambling away body and soul at the receptions given by
great Court ladies, or fighting bloody duels at Longchamps on account of
frail Court beauties. Many of these men were driven by misfortune or
their own reckless folly to the New World. When receiving their baptism
of fire the high heads were dauntless and dignified; these reckless
triflers, when brought into contact with real conditions and
necessities, proved themselves equal to the occasion—the most graceless
young spendthrifts often showing themselves to be brave soldiers and
gallant gentlemen.
Just now the Sieur d’Ordieux certainly could not be considered
interesting. His conversation related exclusively to his own interests
and exploits—the Court, the injuries and indignities which his
relatives had inflicted upon him, the grandeur of his expectations. The
Chevalier walked in dignified silence. His doleful glances inspired
Diane with a teasing wish to coax and torment. She was young, thirsting
for some deep emotion, moved by swaying currents of feeling of whose
origin she had formed no conception. Consequently her smiles encouraged
the loquacious youth, whose vanity never at any time required stimulant.
“_Miséricord!_—but they are fools, these men,” soliloquized Nanon, who
appreciated the humor of the situation. “This little turkey believes
that the world is created for him and his brood to strut and crow in.
That poor, good, jealous Chevalier has grown as thin as a nail, and
makes such sighs. He is furiously displeased, that one, and he never
guesses it is for the grocer’s son that our demoiselle plays the
coquette. _Comment!_ but it is inconceivable that the Sieur du Chesne
perceives nothing.”
Du Chesne’s handsome young face was shaded by a large musquetaire hat of
felt in which a freshly curled white plume waved gaily. He wore a new
crimson coat, bordered with a gold band in a fashion called at that time
_à la bourgogne_. Black silk stockings displayed the perfect symmetry of
his limbs. It was a costume not unworthy a young man’s vanity. De
Crisasi and d’Ordieux both wore swords which clanked at every step. The
knowledge that his favorite son was without one cost Le Ber many a
poignant pang.
Lydia walked demurely at du Chesne’s side. Her fresh face, tinged with
excited color, stood out in bewildering contrast to the flaxen hair. The
neat dress of dark camlet with its snowy frills and “pinners,” which had
formed her Puritan costume, had been exchanged for an imitation of
Diane’s dress. Mademoiselle de Monesthrol delighted in decking out her
protégé in the best she had; nothing was too good to heighten the charm
of the blonde beauty.
“This is likely to be an expensive whim,” Madame had remarked to Le Ber.
“It would have been better, my friend, to have provided Diane with the
little negro boy of whom you have so often spoken. The imp would have
been less mischievous than this colorless English girl.”
Le Ber shook his head. Though a Frenchman he was a man of few words.
Many critical issues had been confided to his judgment with advantageous
results. Was it possible that a frail, silly girl should have power to
thwart the plans which he had labored with a refinement of elaboration
to perfect?
As they neared the encampment Lydia gave a frightened start. “I dread
the savages. The very glance of these painted monsters makes me faint
and ill,” she whispered nervously.
Diane paused with quick compunction.
“It is I who should have thought of that. You have nothing to fear,
little one, with du Chesne at your side. Leave her not, even for an
instant, my friend. Remember the terrible trial through which she has
passed.”
Lydia reddened to her very throat, and turning around flashed upon the
young man such an odd, piteous, pleading glance that it startled him.
Her naivété was as novel as her beauty; every glance had a glamor of
magic. She was attractive with that undefinable charm that belongs to
some women, a magnetic quality not depending upon faultlessness of
physical beauty. A very child, she carried herself with an air of
innocently transparent indifference, with her ready blushes and her
pettish, winning face. She was so petulant that du Chesne was amused,
and found his charge extremely interesting. When, some time later,
Diane, finding herself at his side, whispered words of thanks for his
consideration, he shook his head in protest, laughing in a startled,
gratified sort of way; then turned from the subject with the careless
ease which was one of his characteristics.
“It is to you she owes her life. I want you really to like her, du
Chesne,” the girl pleaded warmly.
“It would not be difficult to do that!” and du Chesne laughed again.