_THE ANNUAL FAIR._
THE following day witnessed the opening of the great Annual Fair.
Trade was in full activity; never had Canada known a more prosperous
commerce than now in the midst of her dangers and tribulations. That
very morning, to the overwhelming joy of the citizens of Ville Marie, Le
Durantaye, late Commandant at Michillimackinac, arrived with fifty
canoes, manned by French traders and filled with valuable furs.
Merchants of high and low degree had brought up their most tempting
goods from Quebec, and every inhabitant of Montreal of any substance
sought by every means in his power to gain a share of the profit. The
booths were set along the palisades of the town, and each had an expert
interpreter, to whom the trader usually promised a certain portion of
his gains. The payment was in card money—common playing cards—each
stamped with a crown and a _fleur de lys_. The newly arrived French
bushrangers were the heroes of the hour and appeared to enjoy their
popularity. All the taverns were full. The coureurs de bois conducted
themselves like the crew of a man-of-war paid off after a long voyage,
and their fellow-countrymen, in the prevailing good-humor of the moment,
willingly condoned their excesses. Many of them were painted and
feathered like their wild Indian companions, whose ways they imitated
with perfect success. Some appeared brutally savage, but often their
bronzed countenances expressed only dare-devil courage and reckless
gaiety.
“These gentry will live like lords, and set no bounds to their revelry
as long as their beaver-skins last; then they will starve till they can
go off to the countries up above there to seek a fresh supply.
Swaggering, spending all their gains on dress and feasting, they even
try to imagine themselves nobles, and despise the honest peasants, whose
daughters they will not marry, even though they are themselves
peasant-born,” said one priest to another, as he eyed with evident
disapproval the noisy, reckless crew.
The windows on St. Paul Street were thrown open and crowded with ladies;
the benches before every door were thronged. One woman of the poorer
sort had a half-dressed baby in her arms; another a lettuce that she was
washing; a third held a little bowl of soup, which she ate in the
street, gesticulating with such frantic energy that her sabots rattled
on the stones. All dreaded to lose any part of the show.
The gathering about the market-place represented all classes and
conditions. There were merchants engaged in serious negotiations, grave
priests of St. Sulpice, suave, smiling Jesuits, plump, good-humored
Recollets. Gentlemen critically examined the crowd as it passed,
exchanging salutations with friends and acquaintances, commenting with
the slyest of chuckles upon the appearance of the ladies. Habitants, in
plain, coarse attire, and their brown buxom wives, more gaily attired,
chattered volubly. Indians stalked about with stoical and haughty
composure. Children, in close caps without borders, and long-waisted
gowns and vests, an exact imitation of the dress of their elders,
shouted and gambolled with all the exuberance of youth. Plumed soldiers
swaggered jauntily about, arquebus on shoulder. Licensed beggars
abounded, wearing ostentatiously their certificate of poverty signed by
some local judge or curé. French musicians with drum, trumpet and cymbal
did their best to swell the tumult.
“All this tintamarre presages well for the colony,” decided Nanon as she
followed her mistress. “Beaver-skins and trade and money, it means
absolutely the same thing, and all good in their way. I like not the way
things are going, either. My poor little generous demoiselle! That soft,
sleek, splendid cat of an English girl, for all her feigned innocence,
still makes eyes at the Sieur du Chesne. Is it only I who have eyes to
spy her tricks? For me, I waste not my breath on the melancholy; no
patience have I for jeremiads. Tell not your secret in the eyes of the
cat, but it is I, Nanon Benest, who will at once sew in the lappet of
that gallant’s coat an image of St. Felix to secure him from charms and
lead him in the right way. And it was I who dreaded the evil eye from
the first.”
“_Oui-da! oui-da!_ we are in despair for time, my friends. Shall we then
lose the chance of making a sou when it alights at our very door—we who
have been breaking our hearts for trade so long,” panted a stout woman,
followed by two sturdy lads, as she resolutely pushed her way through
the crowd. “Place, there, _ma bibiche_.”
Nanon reddened and flouted like an enraged turkey gobbler at this
unceremonious address.
“Thy _bibiche!_ indeed, that were an honor to be coveted. I know thee,
wife of Chauvin the younger, whose son Louis was turned back from his
confirmation for running the woods when he should have been ringing the
bells. And old Pepin, who is like a sour crab-apple. _Scaramouch!_
knowest thou to whom thou speakest?”
The struggling, jesting, good-humored assembly found no lack of
diversion. Two men, who had been arrested for theft, were exposed in the
pillory, each having on his chest a record of the offence committed.
One, a sturdy rogue to whom such correction was likely enough not a
novelty, looked boldly around with a certain humorous appreciation of
the situation; the other, younger and more sensitive to the shame of his
position, sat with bowed head and downcast eyes, while a herald, after
beating a drum to call attention to the announcement, proclaimed aloud:
“_De par le roi._ Know, then, nobles, citizens, peasants, that by order
of His Majesty the King, Candide Bourdon and Xavier Cointet, accused and
found guilty of theft, are condemned to two days in the pillory and two
hundred livres damages, payable to the religious ladies of the
Hotel-Dieu.”
The crowd cast mud and abuse liberally at the culprits, and Migeon the
bailiff, an imposing personage in the dignity of his uniform,
contemplated the whole affair with an easy and affable air of
proprietorship. Bayard the notary—a man of consequence in the town as
being thoroughly conversant with everybody’s business affairs; lean and
brown and wrinkled, wearing narrow robes with a collar almost
ecclesiastical in appearance, and waistband to match, whose brown wig in
the ardor of controversy was constantly being pushed crooked—was
settling a dispute between two traders, who in their eagerness seemed
ready to tear the mediator to pieces. In another spot, to the intense
delight of the populace, the effigies of two Indians were being consumed
in a roaring fire. Sentence of death had been passed upon two savages,
who, escaping, had regained their native haunts. Justice therefore for
the moment was obliged to content herself with wreaking vengeance upon
their inanimate representatives.
Amid all this throng du Chesne found friends and companions of every
degree. His father, a man of sound rather than brilliant qualities, was
respected, but was too cautious and distrustful to be liked except by
those who knew him well. His brother Pierre was reverenced as a saint
but despised as a man. It was du Chesne who monopolized the popularity
accorded to the family. His charming lightness of manner expressed
confidence rather than carelessness; he was interested in everybody’s
concerns and carried about with him a buoyancy of spirit which acted
like a tonic upon all with whom he came in contact.
Jean Ameron, Le Ber’s valet, was describing to a soldier recently
arrived from France the burning of four Indians, which had taken place
not long before at the Jesuit Square.
“This is nothing to look at,” pointing to the squirming bundles of
clothes rapidly being consumed by the flames. “These people of whom I am
telling you exhibited a marvellous courage and endurance. That is the
Indian fashion. But, see you, faith of Jean Ameron, that was something
to laugh at. Their agony lasted six hours, during which they never
ceased to sing their own warlike deeds. Four brothers, they were, the
largest and handsomest men I ever saw.”
“Burned to death?” inquired the soldier.
“No, not precisely that. It was a form of torment the Indians themselves
have invented. They were tied to stakes, driven deep into the earth, and
every one of our savage allies, aye, and some Frenchmen, too—in truth,
I myself also took part in the affair, and it requires courage to touch
an Iroquois—even when tied to a stake he might get loose, and their
looks are like those of demons. Every one of us, believe you, armed
himself with a piece of iron heated red-hot, with which we scorched all
the bodies of the heathens from head to foot.”
“Yes, fault of me, too-well treated were those pagans,” interrupted a
sunburnt voyageur, whose head was adorned with waving red feathers,
“Drinking brandy that disappeared down their throats as quickly as
though it had been poured into a hole made in the earth. They were
provided with all they desired.”
“Bah! that explains itself; the brandy was to deaden their sufferings,”
added a woman standing by. “Better chance had those heathens than many
Christians. The Fathers baptized them, addressing merely a few brief
words of exhortation (for to do more would be merely washing a death’s
head), and free from their sins they ascended straight to Heaven.”
Suddenly, while trade and amusement were in the full tide of activity,
high above the babble of chattering and bargaining and the echo of
jovial laughter rose the death-cry. Instantly every sound and motion
ceased; it was as though a sudden spell had fallen upon the busy
gathering, an awed, breathless silence. Once, twice, eight times it was
heard, rising and falling in weird cadences. Its significance was
perfectly comprehended by the listeners, most of whom were habituated to
modes of savage warfare. This was the signal given by a war-party
returning in triumph with the scalps of eight enemies. Every man
snatched his weapon, and for a time all was confusion. Among the
authorities hurriedly whispered consultations took place, then, inspired
by a sudden and irresistible impulse, soldiers, priests, traders,
Indians, women and children, all rushed off in the direction whence the
sound proceeded.
A man of gigantic stature, painted, greased and feathered like an
Indian, and almost as swarthy of complexion, strode forward with a
majestic air of composure, as though enjoying a happy sense of his own
importance. In one hand he held eight long sticks from which were
suspended a like number of lank waving tresses. In front of him, tied
together like children in leading strings, walked two squaws with
downcast eyes, whose resigned and stoical countenances looked as though
carved out of wood.
“Who can this be?” each one asked his neighbor. “He is one of ours, a
Frenchman.”
Suddenly among the voyageurs a cry arose.
“It is Dubocq, or his spirit—no, it _is_ Dubocq, yes, truly, Dubocq!”
Then they raised a resounding shout of welcome—“Vive Dubocq! our brave
Dubocq, our champion against our enemies!”