_SAINTLY PROTECTION._
WITH each returning morn the land awoke, glad and fragrant, at the
caress of the pale dawn. The rooks clamored in their nests, the fish
rose in the lazy streams, the robins sang plaintively among the shrubs.
Mount Royal, St. Helen’s Island and the St. Lawrence glowed palpitant in
the magical summer haze. All nature seemed to breathe a spirit of
tranquil peace.
But despite this calm a dark cloud of alarm hung over the colony. The
air was full of rumors concerning the expedition which it was
confidently alleged the English were about to direct against Canada.
Priests and traders, nobles and bourgeois, bushrangers, and red-skinned
children of the forest, were content to forget prejudices and
animosities in consideration of the common interest, and to unite in the
extremity of their peril. Yet through all, the elements of true Gallic
light-heartedness relieved the poignant distress of the moment.
It was plainly understood that the situation of the colony was most
precarious. The garrison of Ville Marie consisted of but seven or eight
hundred soldiers, and of these many were posted at various points in the
surrounding country to protect the colonists while gathering in the
harvest. It was deemed advisable to draw in all of these for the
protection of the town. Prolonged echoes reverberated from Mount Royal
and across the St. Lawrence as guns were fired to recall the troops.
Soon they began to arrive, accompanied by many of the settlers seeking
the protection of the forts.
At this crisis the clamor of fear and anxiety and endeavor penetrated
even to the cloistered cell where the recluse, Jeanne Le Ber, strove to
shut out all sign of earth’s joys and sorrows, and to devote herself to
the contemplation of heavenly glories. Yielding to the urgent entreaties
of the Sisters of the Congregation, Jeanne Le Ber wrote upon a sacred
picture a prayer of her own composing, addressed to the Virgin. This the
nuns caused to be fastened up on a barn in the country (owned by the
community, and supposed to be peculiarly liable to attack), as a sort of
talisman, to preserve it from harm. This was Anne Barroy’s hour of
triumph; enjoying it to the fullest extent, her pride swelled to
enormous proportions. At this moment beauty, birth, breeding and worldly
pride could bear no comparison with the temporal as well as spiritual
advantages of superior holiness. “Our saint” and “that sainted one” were
the mildest terms in which Anne permitted herself to allude to her
cousin, and she never wearied of talking.
“When I enter her apartment,” the enthusiast would declare, with
impressive solemnity, “I perceive in the air a certain odor of sanctity
which gives me the sensation of an agreeable perfume. Truly she speaks
like a seraph and is the companion of angels. What a blessing to rest
beneath a roof which affords shelter to so perfect a creature, though
there may be those not so far away who fail to appreciate their
privileges.”
“For me!” cried Nanon with a clatter, “I had no necessity to travel to
Canada to make acquaintance with saints. We have them at home, and of
superior quality. There was St. Anne d’Auray, Mother of the Blessed
Virgin; and St. Geneviève of Paris, at whose shrine kings and nobles
worshipped; but indeed, I have no taste for home-made articles.”
Anne continued as though she were not aware of the interruption. She
knew that at this moment her words were eagerly listened to.
“Indeed, our saint accumulates merits against the day of judgment; those
who are wise would strive to share a small portion of them. From her
earliest years she began the study of perfection; every virtue was seen
and admired in her. It is the country of saints, this. Behold the head
of the martyred Frenchman, which amazed the Iroquois who had cut it off
by scolding them roundly for their perfidy, and threatening them with
the vengeance of Heaven. Think, also, of the handkerchief of the late
Père la Maître (may his soul rest in Paradise!) stamped indelibly, as on
a piece of wax, with the features of its former owner. The heathen
Iroquois have ever since been seen using it as a banner in battle.
Should the country be saved, our deliverance will be due to the prayers
of our sainted one, who has sacrificed herself as an expiatory offering
for Canada.”
“Might I commend myself to the good prayers of our reverend demoiselle,
and particularly to the sacrifice of the Mass for my intention,” urged
Jean Ameron, with eager subserviency. “And are you quite persuaded,
Mam’selle Anne, that our saint’s credit with the powers of heaven will
be sufficient to protect Canada from those sorcerers of English?”
Nanon glared at her adorer, who had so readily gone over to the enemy,
but in his fright his mistress’ ire had no terror for Jean. Anne
hastened to reassure him.
“Certainly. Have not the gentlemen of the Seminary and the blessed
Sisters of the Congregation of Notre Dame given ready testimony to her
perfection? Can you doubt the power of the saints, given them by the
blessed Virgin herself?”
“Assuredly not, nor should I dare to presume. Without doubt it is a
convenience to find one’s self near a holy saint, if she will but
remember the needs of the poor sinners, and exert her credit with all
the heavenly host on our account. Could our sainted demoiselle be
persuaded but to write me a little word that I might wear with my
scapulary to preserve me from evil fortune? _Voilà_, Mam’selle Anne, if
you would have the goodness to remark the fact, like the demoiselle Le
Ber herself I have denied myself the happiness of matrimony in order to
merit the favor of Heaven.”
“Ta, ta! there are saints and saints, my son, and thou wouldst place
thyself among them. Wilt thou then dare to compare thyself to that
spotless creature, reverenced by all the world for her holiness, who is
an expiatory offering for the sins of her country, and not a refuge for
cowardly lackeys? Out of my presence! It is that unruly ostrich Nanon
who has inspired thee with the thought of such impertinence!” cried Anne
with growing fury.
“Mam’selle Anne has always reason. Yet doubtless you will allow that my
bones are precious to me, and that it is a duty to take thought for
one’s self,” whimpered Jean.
When Jeanne Le Ber’s prayer disappeared, stolen from the edifice to
which it had been attached, to the consternation of the good Sisters who
had trusted implicitly in its efficacy, no one suspected the immense
solace which Jean derived from having it tucked comfortably away under
his scapulary.