_TIDINGS AT LAST._
AS the girls crept wearily homeward, the first rays of the summer dawn
were breaking in the east in flushes of saffron and pink; overhead the
sky held quivering lights, ready to flash into a blaze. A refreshing
sense of physical renewal was in the cool blueness of the morning; there
was dewy fragrance in the atmosphere; the trees gave out a breath of
strength, the golden-rod gleamed in the hollows, the heights were purple
bronze. Lydia moved in a state of passive exhaustion, half stupefied. As
they reached home Diane turned to her companion a face which glowed with
some subtle inspiration.
“Be assured that du Chesne is safe. God is good. Oh, behold! that must
be a messenger from M. du Plessis, sent by M. de Callière. See how all
the people are gathering to hear what the tidings may be. You are so
exhausted, Lydia, it were perhaps better to retire to your room. I see
my uncle. I will go to him; he will certainly know what has occurred. If
there is news I will return to you.” An instant later she had joined Le
Ber on the shore.
“Is there news of M. de Valrenne’s command?”
“Yes, news has come at last. Oshawa has been sent to say that they have
caught sight of the enemy. M. de Callière lies ill at La Prairie. M. de
Valrenne is stationed between there and Chambly.” Jacques Le Ber showed
no sign of weakness save a momentary trembling of the lines about the
mouth.
“Oh! my uncle, even to-night they may be with us victorious.”
The trader smiled. It would never do to admit the possibility of
disaster.
“The sky may brighten for New France, my daughter. I have ever remarked
that good as well as ill-luck runs in courses. Our good fortune may now
commence.”
A number of women, who had been attending the early mass, were emerging
from the church of Notre Dame. Among them, erect and stately, walked
Madame de Monesthrol, attended by Nanon and followed by Madame de St.
Rochs with her baby in her arms. Pierre, thin and dark and sallow,
pushed his way through the crowd to where the demoiselle de Monesthrol
stood a little apart.
“Diane, I Have here for you a picture of Our Lady of Pity surrounded by
the five wounds of her Son.” He tried to fortify himself by recalling
the excellence of his intention, but that only increased his nervous
agitation. “I have been holding a neuvena in honor of St. Joseph and all
the holy saints. For nine days, a number especially dedicated to the
holy angels, have I prayed, and no light has dispersed the darkness of
my soul. Dazzling visions, the creation of the Father of Evil, ever
appear before my eyes. Instead of the angelic faces which once beamed
upon me, it is thine I see, glorified by the crown of martyrdom.”
Until now Diane had had slight patience with Pierre’s freaks and
fancies, considering them effeminate and unreasonable. Now, looking at
him with wistful eyes, she said quietly:
“Dear Pierre, we are all sorely tried by anxiety and suspense. Try to
forget your own temptations, my cousin, in thought for others. Could you
not support my uncle, who is alone in this time of trouble? On every
hand you will find those who have need of your kindly ministrations.”
In the young man’s impatient gesture there appeared all the petulance of
misery. He felt it unreasonable and monstrous that anything save the
painful state of his own concerns should occupy Diane’s mind.
“I stand alone,” he complained. “My father is absorbed in worldly
interests; your heart is engrossed by vanity. What are the trivial
affairs of this life—privation, danger, and even death—in comparison
with the perils that menace the soul?”
* * * * *
The next day a terrible storm broke over Ville Marie. Great trees
groaned and snapped like saplings in the blast, the wind raved, the
whole heavens were illumined by the swift electric flashes. Such a storm
had never been known in the colony. Nature, in her convulsive throes
smote the stoutest heart with terror. Late in the afternoon the tempest
ceased. The sun set fair and beautiful, with rays of purple and gold
smiling on the waters of the river; the clouds, black with the recoil of
tempest, gradually broke into rifts, trailing silvery tints of celestial
hue, sublime marvels of color.
Diane joined Le Ber as he walked down to the shore. That day no news had
been received, yet it was almost certain that an engagement had taken
place. His face was grey with consuming care; his eyes had a famished
expression. The demoiselle de Monesthrol slipped her hand within the arm
of her guardian and walked quietly by his side, offering a mute
responsive sympathy which was grateful to his soul.
“We shall surely have news before night, my daughter. Behold M. du
Plessis on the shore; like ourselves, he looks for tidings from our
men.”
Restless expectation tinged everybody’s thoughts. These were anxious
moments to the French commander. No one understood better than he the
reality of the danger that threatened the settlement. His brow was heavy
with care, though he endeavored to seem at ease.
As she looked out upon the shining waters of the river, a strange
perception came to Diane de Monesthrol. It seemed as though the world
had broken into fragments and lay crumbling at her feet, while her
spirit soared free above the ruins. She already understood the tragic
possibilities of fear and loss and pain; she had acknowledged the
necessity of devotion, self-abnegation, heroism; now a lightning flash
of intuition revealed to her the terrible beauty of self-sacrifice,
giving her to realize, though faintly and indistinctly, some conception
of a divine help, offered with a human eagerness of sympathy, patient
until the feeble mortal hands could reach up and lay hold of it. With
this conviction a wonderful peace came to succeed the burning
wretchedness. Just then the peals of the Angelus rang out, echoing
through the mountain slopes and over the waters. It was the voice of
prayer and praise, rising in triumph above all earthly passions of grief
and pain.
Groups of women, with heavy eyes and care-worn faces, holding their
rosaries with fingers which still mechanically pressed the beads as they
walked, while their lips moved in silent prayer, came out from the dusky
seclusion of the church, where day and night lights burned and prayers
were offered. The beadle of the Parish Church, in full uniform, mace in
hand, was narrating with much dramatic emphasis all the particulars of a
supposed engagement, to a keenly interested group of listeners, when the
tide of his eloquence was abruptly checked by a sharp poke in the ribs
that deprived him of breath. Nanon, her face flushed like a peony, the
lappets of her cap flying, swept past like a whirlwind.
“_Seigneur dieu!_ I would know the truth, me, after waiting so long—a
canoe!”
“A boat arriving!—tidings!—tidings!” The words passed from one to
another, and were repeated in a variety of keys, as, moved by a common
impulse, the group rapidly dispersed, flying down to the shore, where
the whole population of the town seemed to have gathered.
Propelled by four strong arms, skimming lightly as foam over the surface
of the water, leaving a faint track behind it as it moved, the frail
craft advanced. As it came between the eager spectators and the sun, the
forms of those it contained stood out like silhouettes against the
light. The citizens of Ville Marie waited with quickened breath and
beating hearts, hoping, fearing, expecting—they dared not think what.
Le Ber gazed with the wrinkles deepening on his brow. The setting sun
shone so brilliantly in his eyes that he raised his hand to shade them;
and for the moment could see nothing.
“Le Canotier and Madouaska—the Blessed Virgin send us good news,” du
Plessis announced hurriedly, speaking with a catch in his breath.
Then again a breathless silence settled on the crowd; not a sound was
heard but the dipping of the paddles and the soft murmur of the waves as
they caressed the shore. Silently, swiftly the canoe advanced. Beside
the Canotier was an Indian, a tall, superbly built man, whose remarkably
regular features might have been sculptured out of Florentine bronze.
Over his shoulders was thrown a mantle of caribou skin with pink and
lilac border. His head was shaved, with the exception of a tuft on the
crown, which was ornamented with hawk feathers, resembling the crest of
an antique helmet. His face was absolutely impassive in its immobility.
As the canoe grated on the shore, a dozen willing hands offered aid in
landing her.
“All is well?” cried du Plessis, unable longer to restrain his anxiety.
Then a shuddering, convulsive sob ran through the ranks of the women as
a French officer appeared, bearing, in haggard eye and ghastly pallor,
traces of the fatal wound which was rapidly draining his life-blood.
Tender hands lifted him from the boat.
“It is M. le Capitaine de Breteuil. He is dying!” The women separated to
allow a lady, with three little children clinging to her gown, to push
her way to the front.
“Carry him home,” she said quietly. “At least the good Lord has granted
the favor of permitting him to die with me. I must have courage; he will
need me beside him. Let us be together while we may.”
For an instant she had seemed on the point of breaking into a wild
outcry, but quickly checking the impulse, had braced herself for the
duty waiting her. Now, as she spoke, the icy composure of voice and
manner seemed almost like indifference. A black-robed nun silently
detached herself from the crowd, and placed herself at the side of the
stricken wife. Dollier de Casson, his brown earnest face all quivering
with emotion, solemnly raised his hands in benediction over the living
and the dying.
“You will not grudge the sacrifice, my daughter? It is a hero willingly
and gallantly laying down his life for his faith and his King.”
“There will be plenty of time to consider that later,” she answered,
very quietly. “Now he needs me. I have no thought to spare for aught
else.”
The whole assembly were hanging eagerly upon the accents of le Canotier,
who had already delivered the despatches he had brought to M. du
Plessis.
“We marched straight to Chambly—such were our orders. The object of M.
de Valrenne was to permit those devils of English to pass, and then, by
placing himself in their rear, to cut them off from their canoes. Our
scouts—and there are none better than Misti, Tshinespek and
Mushawana,—soon discovered the advance of the enemy, and then we
marched six or seven miles towards La Prairie, on the path by which
Schuyler was retreating. The sun stood high; it was nine o’clock when
our scouts met those of the foe, and then—_Dianthe!_—the woods
resounded with the shrill yells of the Indians as their war-whoops gave
the alarm. You all know how that part of the country is buried in
forests. We take possession of a ridge of ground that crosses the way of
those English wolves. Two enormous trees thrown down by the storm have
fallen along the crest of this rising ground, and behind these we crouch
in a triple row, well hidden by bushes and thick standing stumps, like
wolves ready to spring upon their prey. Believe me, Mesdames and
Messieurs, I have witnessed much of forest warfare, yet never before
have I seen so hot a conflict. The English charged like devils—(to give
them their due they do not lack courage)—and were sent reeling back by
a close and deadly volley. Like hail the balls flew—three times were we
mingled together, scorching each other’s shirts by the flash of our
guns. With still greater fury our enemies repeated the attack, and
dislodged us from our place of ambush. It was then the veritable
struggle commenced. Figure to yourself that they determined to break
through our lines, and our commandant desired, above all else, to drive
them back within the reach of our people at La Prairie. Our muskets
thirsted to kill. There, amidst that storm of hell-fire, stood M. de
Valrenne, giving his orders, calm and smiling as at a ball. Forty dead
they left behind them, those English, yet they managed to cut their way
through and drive us from the path.”
To the anxious listeners the prospect appeared to grow darker and more
appalling. There had been a sharp engagement, many lives apparently had
been lost, and who could divine whose heart had been smitten, whose home
rendered desolate?
“M. le Lieutenant Dumerque?” asked a timorous voice.
“Dead; shot at my side,” responded le Canotier, with the sharp brevity
of excitement. “I see a little officer with hair as red as his coat,
fighting like a Turk. I send him a sugar plum—_v’là!_—his legs in the
air, but not before mon Lieutenant had fallen, pierced by a shot from
his hand.”
There was a faint stifled cry. A pale young girl, who had been listening
eagerly, fell on the ground in a nerveless heap; an elderly woman, with
face set in lines of stony composure, bent anxiously over her; then
Dollier de Casson, raising the slight form in his strong arms, bore her
away to her home.
“It is Mademoiselle Adèle de Montigny; they were to have been married in
the early days of September. And his mother—it is the fourth son she
has lost.”
It seemed that those who listened to the vivid recital could see the dim
forests and floating smoke-wreaths, with vague glimpses of the hidden
foe. They could imagine the incessant rattle of musketry, could see
terrible figures looming through the haze, and watch the gleaming of the
war-axes as the weapons fell clattering from stricken hands.