GERMAIN IN FRANCE
Along the highway through the ancient Forest of Fontainebleau, the coach
of the Chevalier de Bailleul, carven and gilt in elegant forms of the
reign of Louis XVI., and driven with the spirit that belonged to the
service of a grand seigneur, sped forward.
Within, the frank old soldier sat, fresh from the royal hunt at the
Palace; and on his breast coruscated the crimson heart and white rays of
the Great Star of St. Louis, the reward of distinguished service.
Suddenly the horses wheeled round and stopped to drink at a small
stream, which gushed into a natural basin by the roadside. A mounted
young man was about to water his animal at the basin, but noticing the
equipage stopping, he backed out and gave up his place, at the same time
raising his hat.
The Chevalier never ignored a politeness. Laying his hand on the window
frame he saluted the rider, and it was in this glance that his eye
caught sight of the sword-strap of the rapier at the rider's side.
For--strangely out of place in that longitude--this was a piece of
snow-white fawn-skin; embroidered in fantastic colours, woven with
porcupine quills; and adorned with a clan totem, known only in the
region of the River St. Lawrence.
He looked up promptly to the bearer's face. So bright was the expression
of the youth, so fine was his make, so lissome his seat on his chafing
horse, that the old man thought he had never seen a picture more martial
or handsome. A portrait of the rider would have represented a
countenance full of intelligence, a manly bearing, dark eyes, hair jet
black, and the complexion clear. He wore a dark red coat and a black hat
bordered with silver.
De Bailleul spoke.
"May I ask," said he, with the charming manners of the courtier,
"Monsieur's name and country, so that I may link them with the service
just done me?"
"The trifle merits no notice, sir," the youth answered respectfully. "My
name is Germain Lecour, of Répentigny, in Canada."
"Canada!" exclaimed the Chevalier warmly. "This is good fortune, indeed.
It was my lot to have once done service for the king in that country,
since which time every Canadian is my brother. And you live in
Répentigny? That is near Montreal?"
"Eight leagues below, on the River of L'Assomption, Monsieur."
"Nearly thirty years ago I left your land. To hear fresh news of it
would give me the greatest satisfaction of my life. Are you at one of
the inns here at Fontainebleau? Yes? Let me offer you the shelter of my
house, Eaux Tranquilles, which is less that a league forward. My name is
the Chevalier de Bailleul, sir. If you permit it I shall send
immediately for your luggage."
The horseman, blushing, protested that the honour was too great.
"The honour and favour are to me," replied the Chevalier.
Lecour gave in with visible joy and named his inn. The two lifted their
hats and parted with the profoundest bows. The Chevalier, as his
carriage once more sped forward, found himself no less pleased than the
other. The embroidered sword-strap and overshadowing trees conjure up
for him an hour of the past where he, a young lieutenant, is leading a
little column of white-coats through a forest defile in America. The
Indian scouts suddenly come gliding in, the fire of an enemy is heard,
little spots of smoke burst on the mountain side and dissolve again.
Shrill yells resound on every hand, brown arms brandish flashes of
brightness. The young commander rises to the emergency. His white-coats
are rapidly placed in position behind trees, and a battle is
proceeding.