_A VICE-REGAL BANQUET._
THE Count de Frontenac entertained the dignitaries of the colony at
one of those late suppers which had been so severely denounced by the
clerical authorities, but which were so highly enjoyed by the more
worldly portion of the community. The service of the table was arranged
with elaborate magnificence. Clusters of lights flashed on gold and
silver plate. The banquet consisted of four courses. Chicken soup was
served first; then followed prime legs of mutton garnished with chops,
and choice venison pies whose pale gold-colored crust was raised in
fanciful shapes. Between the roasts were dishes of plover, woodcock and
partridges roasted on the spit, and strings of larks served by the
half-dozen on the little splinters of wood upon which they had been
cooked. The third course consisted of entrées, salads, both sweet and
salt, perfumed omelettes, blanc-manges, burnt creams, fritters and fruit
pies. The fourth was dessert, for which there were fruits piled in
pyramids, cakes, macaroons, march-paine and preserves of various kinds,
the whole accompanied by the fashionable French wines of the day.
As a host, stately, brilliant, imposing, the Governor-General was at his
best. The winning grace that tempered his strenuous will, the delicate
condescension of his bearing, charmed his guests, as they had ever the
power to bind his own party into devoted adherence.
“A last toast before we leave the table: ‘To the glory of our arms.’
Help yourselves, gentlemen, and here’s to you,” carrying to his lips a
golden goblet engraved with the family arms, “To the glory of our arms.”
The guests bowed ceremoniously in acknowledgement, raising their goblets
and repeating, “To the glory of our arms.”
The room to which the company adjourned was a long drawing-room with
curtains of the finest Turkey red, embossed with a damask pattern. The
high carved mantel-piece was painted white. There were rich fauteuils
and couches, buhl cabinets and spindle-legged chairs. On rosewood
cabinets, inlaid with ivory, stood dainty Japanese jars filled with
spices and dried rose-leaves.
The company was as brilliant as beauty and wit could render it. The
fascination and marked individuality which have made of Frenchwomen a
power, and rendered them an inspiration to the men of their race,
stamped on all around them the impress of their aptitudes, their graces,
their charm. Card-tables were set out; the older guests played at
lasquenet, hombre, piquet and brélan; the younger members of the party
revelled in charades and _boutrimés_, or listened to the soft strains of
the théobe. In this charmed circle Madame la Marquise reigned like an
empress. Diane, thoroughly in touch with her surroundings, had never
looked more beautiful. From the white and silver brocade of her robe
rose a regal head and neck; beneath the powdered masses of hair her eyes
burned deeply like violet stars.
“The fairest favorite of Versailles cannot compare with this peerless
flower of New France!” declared the Governor-General, who was considered
a connoisseur in feminine charms. “She has that in her face that would
send men to death as to a banquet.”
“Mademoiselle, will you permit an old man whom your freshness has made
young again to pay his devoirs? Your father was among my early friends,
as Madame la Marquise will bear me witness.” Frontenac made a low bow,
his palms steadying his sword, while his spurs clanked and his plumed
hat, held in the right hand, swept the ground. He spoke the accepted
language of gallantry, uttering the strained courtesies of the Court and
high society; but the homage offered was palpably sincere, and carried
with it a subtle flattery.
The Chevalier de Crisasi held his place at Mademoiselle de Monesthrol’s
side. The Chevalier was owned body and soul by this girl; there was a
pathetic dignity in his very hopelessness. Even to hint at his
affection, under the present unfortunate circumstances, would have been
so glaring a departure from French precedent that the courtly gentleman
would have shrunk from attempting it. He could, however, express many
varying meanings with his eyes, while the rest of his face remained
blandly inexpressive; the most rigid propriety could not deny him that
privilege. The slow veiling of his eyes was like a silent salutation.
Regarding the Chevalier with attention, Diane, by the aid of that new
intuition which vitalized all her faculties, perceived a change in the
man with whom in high spirits of girlhood she had carelessly trifled. Is
this the misery of sleepless nights and weary days—the sick craving of
a heart at variance with itself? A swift thrill of misgiving crossed her
mind. Was it possible that her witcheries had helped to crush one upon
whom the hand of misfortune had already been laid heavily?
“But she is a Circe, the Demoiselle de Monesthrol, a superb, magnificent
creature whose spells are irresistible; but, alas! without heart,
without soul, like the coquettes of the Court,” complained d’Ordieux,
who found himself secluded from the circle which surrounded Diane, and
whose views of matters in general were in consequence somewhat
embittered.
“Ah! softly, my friend, softly, but what a comparison! Women of the
Circe type to me offer no attraction. I prefer something simple and
natural.” Du Chesne laughed with easy frankness as his eyes turned to
the spot where Lydia sat looking like a pale blush rose, childishly
engrossed with all about her.
“‘Simple and natural,’ indeed. How you talk, my cousin. And who could be
more simple and natural than our Diane? You are blind because you won’t
see,” sharply interrupted Le Ber’s niece, Madame de St. Rochs.
Wife and mother at thirteen, the little lady wore her matronly dignity
with exaggerated demureness, or sometimes in the wild exhilaration of
youthful spirits forgot it altogether. Now, with her piquant, mutinous
face, she looked in her rich costume like some pretty, mischievous child
masquerading in the stately robes of a grown woman.
“_Sainte Dame!_ who so sweet to the old and the sick as Diane? who so
patient with the little ones? When my baby—”
“When that baby’s mother,” mischievously interrupted du Chesne, his eyes
twinkling with fun, “heartlessly abandoned the poor infant in order to
enjoy the amusement of sliding with the children, Diane, moved to pity
by its desolate condition, doubtless took the marmot under her
protection. Say, then, is it not so, cousin?”
“Not at all, du Chesne. Could you believe so wicked a falsehood? I went
only to see that no harm befell the little ones, and—”
“And were tempted to join in the amusements. What a situation for a
matron of experience!” The young Canadian delighted in provoking his
quick-tempered cousin. “And the doll, Cecile, that remained so long
hidden in the old oak chest that Armand, believing it a secret concealed
from him, became wildly jealous. When the baby was ill, St. Rochs
cradled the marmot on one knee and his wife on the other, singing
soothing lullabies to the two babies at once. Was it not so, Cecile?”
persisted her good-natured tormentor.
Madame de St. Rochs flushed angrily. Tears of vexation sprang to her
eyes, though she made a determined effort to control herself.
“Say, then, Cecile, have you heard of the Indian witch who is camped at
the foot of the mountain?” It was Diane de Monesthrol who came to the
little mother’s relief. “Strange things are told of her. She is said to
have attained a marvellous age, and to be possessed of extraordinary
powers.”
“She foretold the disasters of the Sieur la Salle,” said Crisasi.
“Let us organize a promenade to visit her,” urged Madame de St. Rochs,
who was immediately interested. “Baptiste Leroux can tell us all about
her, and guide us to where she is to be found. He is as familiar with
the Indian customs as with the five fingers of his hand. A genuine
witch, and the sorcery practised by the natives is said to be of the
worst possible kind. _Ciel!_ let us go.”
“Oh, fie! then, Cecile; such vagaries are unfitting a dignified matron.
Your destiny is already settled. What would you more? A second husband
before you are twenty?” The glimmer of laughter was shining in du
Chesne’s eyes, though his face was grave.
“Rest tranquil, cousin, it is about your fate I would concern myself.
And, oh! there are a thousand things I would know. If Armand is soon to
rise in the army?—we have indeed need of a larger income—and Diane?
and the Chevalier? and the Sieur d’Ordieux?—yes, I would know what
their fortunes are to be—and whether those wolves of Iroquois will end
by devouring us all? I would know all.” Madame de St. Rochs would not
include Lydia, whose beauty and tractability had never won her favor,
and against whom she had conceived a blind and inveterate prejudice.
“Are you so determined to obtain a glance into futurity, Cecile?”
Diane’s eyes sparkled with a glance of audacious fun. “Lydia will become
a nun of the Congregation of Notre Dame. Cecile will be a
great-grandmother before she is forty. The Chevalier will receive a
command and win honor and renown. The Sieur d’Ordieux will regain his
rights and appear as a great noble at the Court. Armand will be a
General.”
“And my cousin du Chesne?”
“Du Chesne will be Governor-General of New France, and subdue the
Iroquois and discover new countries for the King,” said Diane, with a
momentary stirring of impatience, quick and vital.