Transcriber's Notes
[oe] replaces the oe ligature
bold text: =equals signs=
small caps: +plus signs+
italic text: _underscores_
imflammable typo replaced with inflammable
musquitoes replaced with mosquitoes
dazzingly replaced with dazzlingly
Ææan replaced with Ægean
harrasses replaced with harasses
vail replaced with veil
seige replaced with siege
beseiged replaced with besieged
vengance replaced with vengeance
Acadie replaced with Acadia
Uncommon and inconsistent hyphenation and spelling have been retained;
typographical errors have been corrected.
CAMERON OF LOCHIEL
Works of
Charles G. D. Roberts
[Illustration]
The Prisoner of Mademoiselle
The Watchers of the Trails
The Kindred of the Wild
The Heart of the Ancient Wood
Earth's Enigmas
Barbara Ladd
The Forge in the Forest
A Sister to Evangeline
By the Marshes of Minas
A History of Canada
The Book of the Rose
Poems
New York Nocturnes
The Book of the Native
In Divers Tones (_Out of print_)
Songs of the Common Day (_Out of print_)
[Illustration]
Cameron of Lochiel
(_Translated from the French of Philippe Aubert
de Gaspé_)
[Illustration]
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
New England Building
Boston, Mass.
[Illustration
Illustration: _Cameron of Lochiel._]
(_See page 68._)
CAMERON OF
LOCHIEL
BY
PHILIPPE AUBERT DE GASPÉ
TRANSLATED BY
CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS
NEW EDITION
_With a frontispiece by_
H. C. EDWARDS
[Illustration]
BOSTON
L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
_MDCCCCV_
_Copyright, 1890_
+By D. Appleton and Company+
_Copyright, 1905_
+By L. C. Page & Company+
(INCORPORATED)
PREFACE TO NEW EDITION
This leisurely and loose-knit romance of de Gaspé's, which he called
"Les Anciens Canadiens," has for hero one who was not a Canadian, but
a Scotch exile sojourning in Canada. It is on the creation of this
character, consistently developed and convincingly presented, that the
book must mainly base its claim to be called a work of fiction, rather
than a volume of memoirs and folklore. I have ventured, therefore, at
the suggestion of my publishers, to take a liberty with the author's
title, and name the story after this young Scotch exile, "Cameron of
Lochiel." I am the more willing to take this liberty because I feel
that de Gaspé has not hitherto been granted the place he is entitled to
in the ranks of Canadian fictionists. Considered purely as a romance,
it seems to me that the sincerity, simplicity, and originality of this
work quite outweigh its sprawling looseness of structure, and make it
one of the unique ornaments of the composite literature which we are
building up in Canada. If by so changing its title as to emphasize the
fictional character of the work I can the better call attention to the
worth of de Gaspé's achievement, I feel that I am justified, even in
the face of such anticipatory protest as may seem to be implied in the
author's too modest introduction.
When all this has been said, however, the fact remains that it was
not its many merits as a romance that induced me to translate this
work, but the riches of Canadian tradition, folk-lore, and perished
customs embalmed in the clear amber of its narrative, coupled with my
own anxiety to contribute, in however humble a way, to the increase
of understanding and confidence between the two great branches of the
Canadian people. It is a beautiful and gracious life, that of old
French Canada, as depicted in de Gaspé's lucent pages,--a life of high
ideals, and family devotion, and chivalry, and courage. This is an
atmosphere it is wholesome to breathe. These are people it is excellent
to know; and the whole influence of the story makes for trust and a
good understanding.
C. G. D. R.
+Fredericton, N. B.+, _May, 1905_.
PREFACE.
In Canada there is settling into shape a nation of two races; there
is springing into existence, at the same time, a literature in
two languages. In the matter of strength and stamina there is no
overwhelming disparity between the two races. The two languages are
admittedly those to which belong the supreme literary achievements of
the modern world. In this dual character of the Canadian people and the
Canadian literature there is afforded a series of problems which the
future will be taxed to solve. To make any intelligent forecast as to
the solution is hardly possible without a fair comprehension of the two
races as they appear at the point of contact. We, of English speech,
turn naturally to French-Canadian literature for knowledge of the
French-Canadian people. The romance before us, while intended for those
who read to be entertained, and by no means weighted down with didactic
purpose, succeeds in throwing, by its faithful depictions of life and
sentiment among the early French Canadians, a strong side-light upon
the motives and aspirations of the race.
In spite of the disclaimer with which the author begins, the romance
of Les Anciens Canadiens is a classic. From the literary point of
view it is markedly the best historical romance so far produced in
French Canada. It gathers up and preserves in lasting form the songs
and legends, the characteristic customs, the phases of thought and
feeling, the very local and personal aroma of a rapidly changing
civilization. Much of what de Gaspé has so vividly painted from his
boyish reminiscences had faded out of the life upon which his alert
eyes rested in old age. The origin of the romance, as given by his
biographer, the Abbé Casgrain, is as follows:
When, in 1861, that patriotic French-Canadian publication the _Soirées
Canadiennes_ was established, its inaugurators adopted as their motto
the words: "Let us make haste to write down the stories and traditions
of the people, before they are forgotten." M. de Gaspé was struck with
the idea; and seeing that the writers who were setting themselves the
laudable task were all young men, he took the words as a summons to his
old age, and so the book came to be written.
Patriotism, devotion to the French-Canadian nationality, a just pride
of race, and a loving memory for his people's romantic and heroic
past--these are the dominant chords which are struck throughout the
story. Of special significance, therefore, are the words which are put
in the mouth of the old seigneur as he bids his son a last farewell.
The father has been almost ruined by the conquest. The son has left
the French army and taken the oath of allegiance to the English crown.
"Serve thy new sovereign," says the dying soldier, "as faithfully as I
have served the King of France; and may God bless thee, my dear son!"
In the present day, when nationalism in Quebec appears rather given
to extravagant dreams, it would be well for the distant observer to
view the French Canadians through the faithful medium which de Gaspé's
work affords him. Under constitutional forms of government it is
inevitable that a vigorous and homogeneous minority, whose language
and institutions are more or less threatened by the mere preponderance
of the dominant race, should seem at times overvehement in its
self-assertion. A closer knowledge leads us to conclude that perhaps
the extreme of Quebec nationalism is but the froth on the surface of a
not unworthy determination to keep intact the speech and institutions
of French Canada. However this may be, it is certain that the point of
contact between the two races in Canada is at the present day as rich
a field for the romancer as de Gaspé found it at the close of the _old
régime_.
According to the Histoire de la littérature Canadienne of Edmond
Lareau, Philippe Aubert de Gaspé was born in Quebec on the 30th of
October, 1786. He died in 1871. He belonged to a noble French-Canadian
family. At the manor of St. Jean-Port-Joli, of which he was seigneur,
he passed a large part of his life; and there he laid the chief scenes
of his great romance. He was educated at the seminary of Quebec, and
then studied law in the city, under Sewell, afterward chief-justice.
Only for a few years, however, did he devote himself to his
profession--one from which so many a poet and man of letters has broken
loose. He accepted the position of sheriff of Quebec, and afterward
came misfortunes which Lareau passes over with sympathetic haste. His
lavish generosity to his friends and the financial embarrassments into
which he fell, his four years' confinement in the debtors' prison, his
sufferings of soul and body, all doubtless contributed to the poignant
coloring with which he has painted the misfortunes of M. d'Egmont,
_le bon gentilhomme_. On his release from prison he retired to his
estate of St. Jean-Port-Joli, but not to the solitude and benevolent
melancholy of D'Egmont. The romancer was of too sunny a disposition,
he was too genuine and tolerant a lover of his kind, to run much
risk of becoming a recluse. A keynote to his nature may be found in
the bright _Bonsoir la compagnie_ with which, in the words of an old
French-Canadian song, he closed his literary labors at the age of
seventy-nine, when the last page of the Mémoires was completed.
The story we have translated, under the title of The Canadians of Old,
was published in 1862. It is accompanied in the original by a mass of
curious information, in the shape of notes and _addenda_, such as would
hardly interest the general reader. They will more than repay, however,
the attention of any one who wishes to study the French-Canadian people
as they were in their early days. The story itself has the air of being
the product of a happy leisure. The style is quaint and unhurried,
with no fear of the printer's devil before its eyes. The stream of the
narrative, while swift enough and direct enough at need, is taught
to digress into fascinating cross-channels of highly colored local
tradition, or to linger felicitously in eddies of feast and song.
The work begun in Les Anciens Canadiens De Gaspé carried to completion
in his second and last composition, the Mémoires, published in 1866.
As the former work is a vivid epitome of life at the _seigneuries_ and
among the _habitants_ of those days, so the latter reproduces and fixes
for us the picturesque effects of life in the city of Quebec itself in
the generation or two succeeding the conquest--a period during which
the French-Canadian _noblesse_ yet maintained, about the person of
the English governor, something of the remembered splendor of the old
vice-regal court.
C. G. D. R.
_Windsor, Nova Scotia, 1890._
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
+Foreword+ ix
I. +D'Haberville and Cameron of Lochiel+ 19
II. +A Night with the Sorcerers+ 31
III. +La Corriveau+ 45
IV. +The Breaking up of the Ice+ 56
V. +A Supper at the House of a French-Canadian
Seigneur+ 76
VI. +D'Haberville Manor House+ 99
VII. +The May-Feast+ 115
VIII. +The Feast of St. Jean-Baptiste+ 124
IX. "+The Good Gentleman+" 137
X. +Madame D'Haberville's Story+ 154
XI. +The Burning of the South Shore+ 167
XII. +A Night Among the Savages+ 180
XIII. +The Plains of Abraham+ 198
XIV. +The Shipwreck of the Auguste+ 213
XV. +Lochiel and Blanche+ 228
XVI. +The Family Hearth+ 254
XVII. +Conclusion+ 269
FOREWORD.
As my story lays no claim to classicism, either in style or structure,
this foreword may as well be made to play the part of a preface. My
acquaintances will, doubtless, open their eyes on seeing me thus
enter, at the age of seventy-six, on the perilous paths of authorship.
Possibly I owe them an explanation. Although tired of reading all these
years with so little profit either to myself or others, I yet dreaded
to pass the Rubicon. A matter small enough in itself in the end decided
me.
One of my friends, a man of parts, whom I met last year in St Louis
Street, in our good city of Quebec, grasped me warmly by the hand and
exclaimed:
"Awfully glad to see you! Do you know, my dear fellow, I have talked
this morning with no fewer than eleven people, not one of them with
half an idea in his noddle!" And he wrung my arm almost out of joint.
"Really," said I, "you are very complimentary; for I perceive by the
warmth of your greeting that I am the exception, the man you--"
"Oh, yes, indeed," he cried, without letting me finish my sentence,
"those are the only sensible words I have heard this morning." And he
crossed the street to speak to some one, probably his addle-pate number
twelve, who was seeking to attract his attention.
"The devil!" thought I to myself, "if what I just said is in any way
brilliant, it would seem easy enough to shine. Though I have never yet
been suspected of it, I must be rather a clever fellow."
Much elated with this discovery, and congratulating myself that I had
more brains than the unhappy eleven of whom my friend had spoken, I
hurry to my library, I furnish myself, perhaps all too appropriately,
with a ream of the paper called "foolscap," and I set myself to work.
I write for my own amusement, at the risk of wearying the reader who
may have the patience to go through this volume. But, as Nature has
made me compassionate, I will give this dear reader a little good
advice. He had better throw away the unlucky book without taking the
trouble to criticise it, which would be making it much too important,
and would be, moreover, but wasted labor for the serious critic; for,
unlike that old Archbishop of Granada, so touchy on the subject of his
sermons, of whom Gil Blas has told us, I am, for my part, blessed with
an easy humor, and, instead of retorting to my critic, "I wish you good
luck and very much better taste," I will frankly admit that my book has
a thousand faults, of most of which I have a lively consciousness.
As for the unfriendly critic, his work will be all in vain, debarred as
he will be from the privilege of dragging me into a controversy. Let me
say beforehand that I grieve to deprive him of his gentle diversion,
and to clip his claws so soon. I am old and indolently content, like
Figaro of merry memory. Moreover, I have not enough self-conceit to
engage in any defense of my literary productions. To record some
incidents of a well-loved past, to chronicle some memories of a youth
long flown--this is my whole ambition.
Many of the anecdotes, doubtless, will appear insignificant and
childish to some readers. Let these lay the blame upon certain of our
best men-of-letters, who besought me to leave out nothing which could
illustrate the manners and customs of the early Canadians. "That which
will appear insignificant and childish to the eyes of strangers," they
urged, "in the records of a septuagenarian, born but twenty-eight years
after the conquest of New France, will yet not fail to interest true
Canadians."
This production of mine shall be neither very dull nor surpassingly
brilliant. An author should assuredly have too much self-respect to
make his appeal exclusively to the commonplace; and if I should make
the work too fine, it would be appreciated by none but the _beaux
esprits_. Under a constitutional government, a candidate must concern
himself rather with the number than the quality of his votes.
This work will be Canadian through and through. It is hard for an old
fellow of seventy to change his ancient coat for garb of modern pattern.
I must have also plenty of elbow-room. As for rule and precept--which,
by the way, I am well enough acquainted with--I can not submit myself
to them in a work like this. Let the purists, the past masters in the
art of literature, shocked at my mistakes, dub my book romance, memoir,
annals, miscellany, hotch-potch. It is all the same to me.
Having accomplished my preface, let me make a serious beginning with
the following pretty bit of verse, hitherto unpublished, and doubtless
now much surprised to find itself in such unworthy company:
QUEBEC, 1757.
An eagle city on her heights austere,
Taker of tribute from the chainless flood,
She watches wave above her in the clear
The whiteness of her banner purged with blood.
Near her grim citadel the blinding sheen
Of her cathedral spire triumphant soars,
Rocked by the Angelus, whose peal serene
Beats over Beaupré and the Lévis shores.
Tossed in his light craft on the dancing wave,
A stranger where he once victorious trod,
The passing Iroquois, fierce-eyed and grave,
Frowns on the flag of France, the cross of God.
Let him who knows this Quebec of ours betake himself, in body or in
spirit, to the market of the Upper Town, and consider the changes which
the region has undergone since the year of grace 1757, whereat my story
opens. There was then the same cathedral, minus its modern tower, which
seems to implore the charitable either to raise it to its proper height
or to decapitate its lofty and scornful sister.
The Jesuits' College, at a later date transformed into a barrack,
looked much the same as it does to-day; but what has become of the
church which stood of old in the place of the present halls? Where
is the grove of venerable trees behind the building, which adorned
the grounds, now so bare, of this edifice sacred to the education of
Canadian youth? Time and the axe, alas! have worked their will. In
place of the merry sports, the mirthful sallies of the students, the
sober steps of the professors, the high philosophic discourse, we hear
now the clatter of arms, the coarse jest of the guard.
Instead of the market of the present day, some low-built butchers'
stalls, perhaps seven or eight in number, occupied a little plot
between the cathedral and the college. Between these stalls and the
college prattled a brook, which, after descending St. Louis Street and
dividing Fabrique, traversed Couillard and the hospital garden, on its
way to the river St. Charles. Our fathers were bucolic in their tastes!
It is the end of April. The brook is overflowing; children are amusing
themselves by detaching from its edges cakes of ice, which, shrinking
as they go, overleap all barriers, and lose themselves at last in the
mighty tide of the St. Lawrence. A poet, who finds "sermons in stones,
books in the running brooks," dreaming over the scene, and marking
the descent of the ice-cakes, their pausings, their rebuffs, might
have compared them to those ambitious men who, after a restless life,
come with little wealth or fame to the end of their career, and are
swallowed up in eternity.
The houses neighboring the market-place are, for the most part, of
but one story, unlike our modern structures, which tower aloft as if
dreading another deluge.
It is noon. The Angelus rings out from the cathedral belfry. All the
city chimes proclaim the greeting of the angel to the Virgin, who is
the Canadian's patron saint. The loitering _habitants_, whose calashes
surround the stalls, take off their caps and devoutly murmur the
Angelus. All worshiping alike, there is none to deride the pious custom.
Some of our nineteenth-century Christians seem ashamed to perform
before others an act of worship; which is proof, to say the least, of a
shrinking or cowardly spirit. The followers of Mohammed, who have the
courage of their convictions wherever they may chance to be, will seven
times daily make their prayers to Allah under the eyes of the more
timid Christians.
The students of the Jesuits' College, noisy enough on ordinary
occasions, move to-day in a serious silence from the church wherein
they have been praying. What causes this unusual seriousness? They are
on the eve of separation from two beloved fellow-students. The younger
of the two, who, being more of their age, was wont to share more often
in their boyish sports, was the protector of the feeble against the
strong, the impartial arbitrator in all their petty disagreements.
The great door of the college opens, and two young men in traveling
dress join the group of their fellow-students. Two leathern
portmanteaus, five feet long, adorned with rings, chains, and padlocks
which would seem strong enough for the mooring of a ship, lie at their
feet. The younger of the two, slight and delicate-looking, is perhaps
eighteen years old. His dark complexion, great black eyes, alert and
keen, his abruptness of gesture, proclaim his French blood. His name is
Jules D'Haberville. His father is one of the seigneurs, captain of a
company in the colonial marine.
His companion, who is older by two or three years, is much taller and
more robust of frame. His fine blue eyes, his chestnut hair, his blonde
and ruddy complexion with a few scattered freckles on face and hands,
his slightly aggressive chin--all these reveal a foreign origin. This
is Archibald Cameron of Lochiel, commonly known as Archie of Lochiel, a
young Scotch Highlander who has been studying at the Jesuits' College
in Quebec. How is it that he, a stranger, finds himself in this remote
French colony? We will let the sequel show.
The young men are both notably good looking. They are clad alike with
hooded overcoat, scarlet leggings edged with green ribbon, blue woolen
knitted garters, a broad belt of vivid colors embroidered with glass
beads, deer-hide moccasins tied in Iroquois fashion, the insteps
embroidered with porcupine-quills, and, finally, caps of beaver-skin
fastened over the ears by means of a red silk handkerchief knotted
under the chin.
The younger betrays a feverish eagerness, and keeps glancing along
Buade Street.
"You are in a hurry to leave us, Jules," said one of his friends,
reproachfully.
"No," replied D'Haberville, "oh, no, indeed, my dear De Laronde, I
assure you; but, since this parting must take place, I wish it over. It
unnerves me; and it is natural that I should be in a hurry to get back
home again."
"That is right," said De Laronde; "and, moreover, since you are a
Canadian, we hope to see you again before very long."
"But with you the case is different, my dear Archie," said another. "I
fear this parting will be forever, if you return to your own country."
"Promise us that you will come back," cried all the students.
During this conversation Jules darts off like an arrow to meet two men,
each with an oar on his right shoulder, who are hastening along by the
cathedral. One of them wears the costume of the _habitants_--capote
of black homespun, gray woolen cap, gray leggings and garters, belt
of many colors, and heavy cowhide larrigans tied in the manner
of the Iroquois. The dress of the other is more like that of our
young travelers, although much less costly. The first, tall and
rough-mannered, is a ferryman of Point Lévis. The second, shorter,
but of athletic build, is a follower of Captain D'Haberville, Jules's
father. In times of war, a soldier; in peace, he occupies the place of
a favored servant. He is the captain's foster-brother and of the same
age. He is the right hand of the family. He has rocked Jules in his
arms, singing him the gay catches of our up-river boatmen.
"Dear José, how are you? How have you left them all at home?" cried
Jules, flinging his arms about him.
"All well enough, thank God," replied Jose; "they send you all kinds o'
love, and are in a great way to see you. But how you have grown in the
last few months! Lord! Master Jules, but it is good to set eyes on you
again."
In spite of the familiar affection lavished upon José by the whole
D'Haberville family, he never forgot to be scrupulously respectful.
Jules overwhelms him with eager inquiries. He asks about the
servants, about the neighbors, and about the old dog whom, when in
his thirty-sixth lesson, he had christened _Niger_ to display his
proficiency in Latin. He has forgiven even the greedy cat who, the year
before, had gobbled up a young pet nightingale which he had intended to
take to college with him. In the first heat of his wrath, it is true,
he had hunted the assassin with a club, under tables, chairs, and beds,
and finally on to the roof itself, which the guilty animal had sought
as an impregnable refuge. Now, however, he has forgiven the creature's
misdeeds and makes tender inquiry after its health.
"Hello there!" grumbles the ferryman, who takes very little interest in
the above scenes, "when you have done slobbering and chattering about
the cat and dog, perhaps you'll make a move. The tide won't wait for
nobody."
In spite of the impatience and ill-humor of the ferryman, it took long
to say farewell. Their instructors embraced them affectionately.
"You are to be soldiers, both of you", said the principal. "In daily
peril of your life upon the battle-field, you must keep God ever
before you. It may be the will of Heaven that you fall. Be ready,
therefore, at all times, that you may go before the judgment-seat with
a clear conscience. Take this for your battle-cry--'God, the King, and
Fatherland!'"
"Farewell!" exclaimed Archie--"you who have opened your hearts to the
stranger. Farewell, kind friends, who have striven to make the poor
exile forget that he belonged to an alien race. Farewell, perhaps
forever."
"This parting would be hard indeed for me," said Jules, deeply moved,
"had I not the hope that my regiment will soon be ordered to Canada."
Then, turning to his instructors, he said:
"I have tried your patience sorely, gentlemen, but you know that my
heart has always been better than my head; I beg that you will forgive
the one for the sake of the other.--As for you, my fellow-students," he
continued, with a lightness that was somewhat forced, "you must admit
that, if I have tormented you sadly with my nonsense during the last
ten years, I have at least succeeded in sometimes making you laugh."
Seizing Archie by the arm, he hurried him off in order to conceal his
emotion.
We may leave our travelers now to cross the St. Lawrence, and rejoin
them a little later at Point Lévis.
+The Author.+
CAMERON OF LOCHIEL
CHAPTER I.
D'HABERVILLE AND CAMERON OF LOCHIEL.
Give me, oh! give me back the days
When I--I too--was young,
And felt, as they now feel, each coming hour,
New consciousness of power....
The fields, the grove, the air was haunted,
And all that age has disenchanted....
Give me, oh! give youth's passions unconfined,
The rush of joy that felt almost like pain.
+Goethe.+
Archibald Cameron of Lochiel, son of a Highland chief who had wedded
a daughter of France, was but four years old when he lost his mother.
Brought up by his father, who was, in the language of the Scriptures,
a valiant hunter in the sight of God, ever since ten years old he had
followed him in the chase of the roebuck and other wild beasts, scaling
the highest mountains, swimming the icy torrents, making his couch on
the wet sod with no covering but his plaid, no roof but the vault of
heaven. Under such a Spartan training the boy came to find his chief
delight in this wild and wandering life.
When Archie was but twelve years old, in the year 1745, his father
joined the standard of that unhappy young prince who, after the
old romantic fashion, threw himself into the arms of his Scottish
countrymen, and called upon them to win him back a crown which the
bloody field of Culloden forced him to renounce forever.
In the early days of this disastrous struggle, courage was triumphant
over numbers and discipline, and their mountains re-echoed to their
outmost isles the songs of victory. The enthusiasm was at its height.
The victory seemed already won. But short-lived was their triumph.
After achievements of most magnificent heroism they were forced to bow
their necks to defeat. Lochiel shared the fate of the many brave whose
blood reddened the heather on Culloden.
An uncle of Archie's, who had also followed the standard and fortunes
of the unhappy prince, had the good fortune, after the disaster of
Culloden, to save his head from the scaffold. Through a thousand
perils, over a thousand obstacles, he made good his flight to France
with his orphan nephew. The old gentleman, ruined in fortune and under
sentence of banishment, was having a hard struggle to support himself
and his charge, when a Jesuit, an uncle of the boy on his mother's
side, undertook a share of the burden. Archie was sent to the Jesuits'
College in Quebec. Having completed a thorough course in mathematics,
he is leaving college when the reader makes his acquaintance.
Archibald Cameron of Lochiel, whom the harsh hand of misfortune had
brought to an early maturity, knew not at first what to make of a boy
noisy, troublesome and mocking, who seemed the despair alike of masters
and students. To be sure, the boy had not all the fun on his own side.
Out of twenty canings and impositions bestowed upon his class, Jules
D'Haberville was sure to pocket at least nineteen for his share.
It must be acknowledged, also, that the older pupils, driven to the
end of their patience, bestowed upon him sometimes more knocks than
nuts; but you would have thought the youngster regarded all this as an
encouragement, so ready was he to resume his tricks. We may add that
Jules, without being vindictive, never wholly overlooked an injury.
In one way or another he always made matters even. His satire, his
home thrusts, which could bring a flush to the face of even the most
self-possessed, served his purpose very effectually with the masters or
with those larger students whom he could not otherwise reach.
He had adopted it as his guiding principle, that he would never
acknowledge himself beaten; and it was necessary, therefore, for his
opponents, when weary of war, to make him proposals of peace.
The reader will doubtless conclude that the boy was cordially disliked;
on the contrary, every one was fond of him; he was the pet of the
college. The truth is, Jules had such a heart as pulses all too rarely
in the breast of man. To say that he was generous to a fault, that he
was ever ready to defend the absent, to sacrifice himself in order to
conceal the faults of others, would not give an adequate description of
his character. The following incident will reveal him more effectively:
When he was about twelve years old, a senior student got out of
patience and kicked him; with no intention, however, of hurting him
much. It was contrary to Jules's code of honor to carry complaints to
the masters. He contented himself with replying to his assailant: "You
are too thick-headed, you big brute, for me to waste any sarcasm on
you. You would not understand it. One must pierce your hide in some
other way; but be patient, you will lose nothing by waiting!"
After rejecting certain more or less ingenious schemes of vengeance,
Jules resolved to catch his enemy asleep and shave his eyebrows--a
punishment which would be easy to inflict, as Dubuc, the youth who had
kicked him, was a mighty heavy sleeper. This plan had the further
advantage of touching him on a most sensitive point, for he was a
handsome fellow and a good deal of a dandy.
Jules had just decided on this revenge, when he heard Dubuc say to one
of his friends, who had rallied him on looking gloomy:
"Indeed, I have good reason to be, for I expect my father to-morrow. I
have got into debt with the shop-keepers, hoping that my mother would
come to Quebec ahead of him, and would relieve me without his knowing
anything about it. Father is close-fisted and violent. He will probably
strike me in the first heat of his anger; and I don't know where to
hide my head. I have a mind to run away until the storm is over."
"Oh," said Jules, "why don't you let me help you out of the scrape?"
"The devil you say!" exclaimed Dubuc, shaking his head.
"Why," said Jules, "do you think that on account of a kick, more or
less, I would leave a fellow-student in a scrape and exposed to the
violence of his amiable papa? To be sure, you almost broke my back, but
that is another affair, which we will settle later. How much cash do
you want?"
"My dear fellow," answered Dubuc, "that would be abusing your kindness.
I need a large sum, and I know you are not in funds just now; for you
emptied your purse to help that poor woman whose husband was killed the
other day."
"A pretty story," said Jules. "As if one could not always find money
to save a friend from the wrath of a father who is going to break his
neck! How much do you want?"
"Fifty francs!"
"You shall have them this evening," said the boy.
Jules, an only son, belonging to a rich family, indulged by everybody,
had his pockets always full of money. Father and mother, uncles and
aunts, godfathers and godmothers, they all kept loudly proclaiming that
boys should not have too much money to spend. At the same time they
outdid each other in surreptitiously supplying his purse!
Dubuc, however, had spoken truly; the boy's purse was empty for the
moment. Fifty francs was, moreover, quite a sum in those days. The King
of France was paying his red allies only fifty francs for an English
scalp. His Britannic Majesty, richer or more generous, was paying a
hundred for the scalp of a Frenchman!
Jules did not care to apply to his uncles and his aunts, the only
relations he had in the city. His first thought was to borrow fifty
francs by pawning his gold watch, which was worth at least twenty-five
louis. Revolving the matter, however, he bethought himself of a certain
old woman, a servant of the house, whom his father had dowered at her
marriage, and to whom he had afterward advanced enough money to set
her up in business. The business had prospered in her hands. She was a
widow, rich and childless.
There were difficulties to surmount, however. The old dame was rather
avaricious and crusty; and on the occasion of Jules's last visit they
had not parted on the best terms possible. She had even chased him
into the street with a broomstick. The boy had done nothing more,
however, than play her a little trick. He had given her pet spaniel a
dose of snuff, and when the old lady ran to the help of her dog, who
was conducting himself like a lunatic, he had emptied the rest of the
snuff-box into a dandelion salad which she was carefully picking over
for her supper.
"Hold on, mother," he cried, as he ran away, "there is a good seasoning
for you."
Jules saw that it was very necessary to make his peace with the good
dame, and hence these preliminaries. He threw his arms about her neck
on entering, in spite of the old woman's attempt to shield herself from
these too ardent demonstrations, after the way he had affronted her.
"See, my dear Madeleine," he cried, "I am come to pardon thine offenses
as thou must pardon all who have offended against thee. Everybody says
thou art stingy and revengeful, but that is no business of mine. Thou
wilt get quit of it by roasting a little while in another world. I wash
my hands of it entirely."
Madeleine hardly knew whether to laugh or be angry at this fantastic
preamble; but, as she was fond of the boy, for all his tricks, she took
the wiser course and smiled good-naturedly.
"Now that we are in a better humor," continued Jules, "let us proceed
to business. I have been a little foolish and have got into debt, and I
dread to trouble my good father about it. In fact, I want fifty francs
to settle the unfortunate business. Can you lend me that much?"
"Indeed, now, Master D'Haberville," answered the old dame, "if that
were all I had in the world, I would give it all to save your father
any trouble. I owe so much to your father."
"Tut!" said Jules, "if you talk of those ha'pennies, there's an end of
business. But listen, my good Madeleine, since I might break my neck
when I least expect it, or still more probably when climbing on the
roof or among the city bells, I must give you a bit of writing for
security. I hope, however, to pay you back in a month at latest."
At this Madeleine was seriously offended. She refused the note, and
counted him out the money. Jules almost choked her with his embrace,
sprang through the window into the street and hurried back to the
college.
At recess time that evening Dubuc was freed from all anxiety on the
score of his amiable papa.
"But remember," said D'Haberville, "I still owe you for that kick."
"Hold on, dear boy," exclaimed Dubuc, with feeling. "I wish you would
settle that right now. Break my head or my back with the poker, only
let us settle it. To think that, after all you have done for me, you
are still bearing me a grudge, would be nothing less than torture."
"A fine idea that," exclaimed the boy, "to think that I bear any one
a grudge because I am in his debt in regard to a little exchange of
compliments! So that is how you take it, eh? Shake, then, and let us
think no more about it. You may brag of being the only one to scratch
me without my having drawn his blood in return."
With these words he sprang upon the young man's shoulders like a
monkey, pulled out a few hairs to satisfy his conscience, and scampered
off to join the merry group which was waiting for him.
Archibald of Lochiel, matured by bitter experiences, and on that
account more self-contained and more reserved than other boys of his
age, on his first coming to college hardly knew whether to smile or
be angry at the frolics of the little imp who seemed to have taken
him for his special butt, and who hardly left him any peace. He could
not be expected to divine that this was Jules's manner of showing his
affection for those he loved the most. One day, driven to the end of
his forbearance, Archie said to him:
"Do you know, you would try the patience of a saint! Verily I don't
know what to do with you."
"But you have a way out of your difficulties," answered Jules. "My skin
itches; give me a good hiding, and I'll leave you in peace. That will
be easy enough for you, you young Hercules."
Lochiel, indeed, accustomed from his infancy to the trying sports of
the young Highlanders, was at fourteen marvelously strong for his years.
"Do you think," exclaimed Archie, "that I am such a coward as to strike
a boy younger and weaker than myself?"
"Oh, no," said Jules; "I see we agree on that score--never a knock for
a little fellow. What suits me is a good tussle with a fellow of my
own age, or even a little older; then shake hands and think no more
about it. By the way," continued Jules, "you know that comical dog De
Chavigny? He is older than I am, but so weak and miserable that I have
never had the heart to punch him, although he has played me such a
trick as even St. Francis himself would hardly pardon. Just think of
him running to me all out of breath and exclaiming: 'I've just snatched
an egg from that greedy Letourneau, who had stolen it out of the
refectory. Here, hide it; he's after me!'
"'Where do you want me to hide it?' said I.
"'Oh, in your hat,' he answered; 'he'll never think of looking for it
there.'
"As for me, I was fool enough to do it. I ought to have mistrusted him."
In a moment Letourneau came up and jammed my cap down over my eyes.
The accursed egg nearly blinded me, and I swear did not smell like a
rose-garden! It was an addled egg found by Chavigny in a nest which the
hen had probably abandoned a month before. I got out of that mess with
the loss of a cap, a vest, and other garments. Well, after the first
of my fury was over, I could not help laughing; and if I bear him any
grudge at all, it is for having got ahead of me with so neat a trick. I
should love to get it off on Derome, who keeps his hair so charmingly
powdered. As for Letourneau, since he was too stupid to have invented
the trick myself, I contented myself with saying to him, 'Blessed are
they of little wit'; and he professed himself proud of the compliment,
being glad enough, after all, to get off so cheaply.
"And now, my dear Archie," continued Jules, "let us come to terms. I
am a kindly potentate, and my conditions shall be most easy. To please
you, I undertake, on the word of a gentleman, to diminish by one third
those tricks of mine which you lack the good taste to appreciate.
Come, now, you ought to be satisfied with that if you are not utterly
unreasonable, for you see, my dear boy, I love you. I would not have
made peace with any one else on such advantageous terms."
Lochiel could not help laughing as he shook the irrepressible lad. It
was from this conversation that the friendship between the two boys
took its beginning--on Archie's part with a truly Scottish restraint,
on the side of Jules with the passionate warmth of which the French
heart is capable.
A few weeks later, about a month before the vacation, which began then
on the 15th of August, Jules seized his friend's arm and whispered:
"Come into my room. I have just had a letter from father which concerns
you."
"Concerns me!" exclaimed the other in astonishment.
"Why are you surprised?" retorted D'Haberville. "Do you think you
are not of sufficient importance for any one to concern himself about
you? Why, all New France is talking about the handsome Scotchman. The
mammas, fearing your influence on the inflammable hearts of their
daughters, talk seriously of petitioning our principal never to let you
appear in public except with a veil on, like the women of the East."
"Come, stop your fooling, and let me go on with my reading."
"But I am very much in earnest," said Jules. And, dragging his friend
along with him, he read him part of a letter from his father, which ran
as follows:
"What you tell me about your young friend, Master de Lochiel, interests
me very much. I grant your request with the greatest pleasure. Give
him my compliments, and beg him to come and spend his next vacation
with us, and all his vacations so long as he is attending college. If
he does not consider this invitation sufficiently formal, I will write
to him myself. His father sleeps upon a glorious field. Soldiers are
brothers everywhere; so should their sons be likewise. Let him come to
our own hearth-stone, and our hearts shall open to him as to one of our
own blood."
Archie was so affected by the warmth of this invitation that for some
moments he could not answer.
"Come, my haughty Scotlander, will you do us the honor?" said his
friend. "Or must my father send, on a special embassy, his chief
butler, José Dubé, with the bagpipes slung on his back in the form of
a St. Andrew's cross--as is the custom, I believe, among your Highland
chiefs--to present you his invitation with all due formality?"
"As, fortunately, I am no longer in my Highlands," said Archie,
laughing, "we can dispense with these formalities. I shall write at
once to Captain D'Haberville, and thank him with my whole heart for his
noble generosity to the exiled orphan."
"Then, let us speak reasonably for once," said Jules, "if only
for the novelty of the thing. You think me very light, silly, and
scatter-brained. I acknowledge that there is a little of all that in
me, which does not prevent me from being in earnest more often than
you think. I have long been seeking a friend, a true and high-hearted
friend. I have watched you very closely, and I find you all I could
wish. Lochiel, will you be my friend?"
"Without a moment's question, my dear boy," answered Archie, "for I
have always felt strongly attracted toward you."
"Well, then," cried Jules, grasping his hand warmly, "it is for life
and death with us Lochiel!"
Thus, between a boy of twelve and a boy of fourteen, was ratified a
friendship which in the sequel will be exposed to the crudest tests.
"Here's a letter from mother," said Jules, "in which there is a word
for you":
"I hope your friend, Master de Lochiel, will do us the pleasure of
accepting your father's invitation. We are all eager to meet him. His
room is ready, alongside of your own. In the box which José will hand
you there is a parcel for him which he would grieve me greatly by
refusing. In sending it I am thinking of the mother he has lost."
The box contained equal shares for the two boys of cakes, sweetmeats,
jams, and other dainties.
The friendship between the two boys grew stronger day by day. They
became inseparable. Their college-mates dubbed them variously Damon and
Pythias, Orestes and Pylades, Nisus and Euryalus. At last they called
them the brothers.
All the time Lochiel was at college he spent his vacations with the
D'Habervilles, who made no difference between the two boys unless to
lavish the more marked attentions upon the young Scotchman who had
become as it were a son of the house. It was most natural, then, that
Archie, before sailing for Europe, should accompany Jules on his
farewell visit to his father's house.
The friendship between the two young men, as we have already said, is
destined to be put to the bitterest trial, when that code of honor
which has been substituted by civilization for the truest sentiments
of the human heart, shall come to teach them the obligations of men
who are fighting under hostile flags. But why anticipate the dark
future? Have they not enjoyed during almost ten years of college life
the passing griefs, the little jealousies, the eager pleasures, the
differences and ardent reconciliations which characterize a boyish
friendship?