I.
QUEBEC IN 1775-76.
Quebec is the most picturesque city in America. Its scenery is
unrivalled. Rock, forest and water combine to make its position an
unfailing charm to the student of landscape art. As it is to-day, so was
it one hundred years ago, or if there is a difference, it is in favor of
the latter date, for the pick and the axe had then made fewer inroads
upon the sublime work of nature.
Quebec is the most historical city in America. One of the very oldest in
date, it is by far the most notable in stirring annals. From its
earliest origin, it was the theatre of important events whose results
stretched far beyond its walls, and swayed the destinies of the whole
continent. Its records are religious, diplomatic, military, and naval.
Its great men were missionaries, statesmen, soldiers, and sailors. The
heroic explorers of the Far West were its sons, or went forth from its
gates. Jogues looms up beside Breboeuf. Champlain and Frontenac open
the luminous way along which have trod Dorchester and Dufferin. The
blended glory of Wolfe and Montcalm is immortal, and the renown is
hardly less of the young, ill-fated Montgomery. Where was there ever a
greater sailor than Iberville? The history of the Mississippi Valley is
linked for all time with the names of Marquette, Hennepin, Joliet, and
Lasalle.
It follows that in this era of centennial reminiscences, no city in
America is more interesting than Quebec, and an additional charm is that
we have comparative ease in placing it before the eye as it was a
century ago.
In the winter of 1775-76, the population was about 5,000 souls. Of these
3,200 were women and children. All the men were made to bear arms. Those
who refused were ordered out of the walls. There were probably not one
hundred English families in the town. The English language was spoken
only by the military. The times were hard. Provisions at first were
abundant, but fire-wood was scarce. Fortunately the winter on the whole
was mild. The houses during the day were partially deserted. The men
were on guard. The women were on the streets gadding. They found plenty
of occupation, for the air was thick with rumors. A besieged city must
perforce be a nest of gossip, a hive of cock-and-bull stories. The
regulars looked smart in their regimental uniforms. The militia wore
such toggery as they could get--grey homespun coat with red sash,
cowskin boots, and the traditional _tuque bleue_. The trappers not being
allowed into the town, furs were rare, and women of the lower classes
were obliged to go without them altogether. The centres of attraction
were the guard-rooms and sentry-boxes. There the episodes of the siege
were recounted. There all manner of serious and comic incidents occurred
to relieve the monotony of the long winter months. The principal
barracks were in Cathedral Square, in that venerable Jesuit College
which is to be pulled down during the present year. The three chief
outposts were St. Louis, St. John, and Palace Gates. These were the
three original French Gates, improved and strengthened by the great
engineer, de Lery. Through them, sixteen years before, the army of
Montcalm passed after its defeat on the Plains of Abraham, and then
passed out again, crossing by a bridge of boats to the camp at Beauport.
Through them one year later, the broken army of Murray rushed back in
flight from the disastrous field of St. Foye. But for those strong gates
built by the Frenchmen, the victorious army, under Levis, might have
recovered Quebec, on that memorable day, and regained possession of New
France. Bitter irony of fate! Along the avenue where Prescott Gate was
afterwards erected, palisades were raised by James Thompson, Overseer of
Works, to bar the advance of the Americans from that quarter, and his
name, as we shall see later on, was intimately associated with the
siege. All these defences were in Upper Town, or within the walled
portion. In Lower Town and under the Cape, the eastern extremity was
defended by batteries in Dog Lane or Little Sault-au-Matelot, and the
western end at Près-de-Ville, by a masked battery. Going from one to the
other of these constituted the round of military service. The Lower Town
was chiefly guarded by militia. They went and came singing their French
songs, the very best of military bands.
Vive la Canadienne
Et ses jolis yeux doux,
then received its consecration, and the light-hearted fellows kept step
to _c' était un p'tit bonhomme_ and _à la claire fontaine_. Along with
the singing there was much good-natured conversation. War has its grim
humors. One party standing in the Cul de Sac on the site of the chapel
built by Camplain, made mirth at the expense of Jerry Duggan, late
hair-dresser, in the town, who had gone over to the enemy and was
"stiled" Major amongst them. Jerry was said to be in command of five
hundred Canadians, and had disarmed the inhabitants of St. Roch, a
suburb of Quebec, without opposition. Another party, grouped in front of
the Chien d'Or, laughed heartily at the _Canadiens Bastonnais_,
Canadians who had joined the rebels, because they were stationed on the
ice of the river to keep patrol. "A cold reward for treason," they said.
Mysterious visitors went in and out of George Allsopp's house in
Sous-le-Fort street. Allsopp was chief of opposition in Cramahé's
Council. The outposts were enlivened every night by the arrival of
deserters. Some of these were spies. The information they gave of the
enemy was very puzzling. Every morning at headquarters, when the roll
was called, some one was found missing, having escaped to the Americans.
About one third of every army cannot be depended upon. The length of the
siege produced dearness of provisions, which had not been carefully
husbanded from the start. So early as January, beef rated at nine pence,
fresh pork at one and three, and a small quarter of mutton at thirteen
shillings. Notwithstanding repeated refusals, the besiegers periodically
approached the walls with flags of truce. A needless and unaccountable
courting of humiliation. Every now and again the enemy succeeded in
setting fire to houses within the walls. The consequent excitement
relieved the monotony of the blockade, and was an event to talk about.
The garrison made frequent partial sorties in quest of fire-wood,
sometimes successfully, sometimes unsuccessfully. Fatigue parties dug
trenches in the snow, without the walls, by way of exercise or bravado.
Sentinels at the Block House and other exposed points were frequently
frostbitten. A kind of sentry-box was fixed on a pole thirty feet high,
at Cape Diamond. Thence could be seen the tin spire of St. Foye Church,
but not the Plains of Abraham, beyond Gallow's Hill, where the besiegers
lay in force. Over the American camp the red-flag waved. Some thought
it was the bloody flag, by way of threat. But it was no more than a
signal to the prisoners within the town. About one hundred men were
picked up and formed into an Invalid Company to guard these prisoners.
Among this guard were some "picqued who did not formerly perceive the
meanness of their behaviour," as the old chronicle tells. On dark nights
rockets were sent up and large fires made on the ramparts and the high
streets to confound the enemy's signals. There was much generous rivalry
between the French militiamen and the British regulars. The former were
greatly encouraged by the priests, who went among them familiarly in
their long black robes. The Seminary, in Cathedral-square, where the
Bishop resided, was as much frequented by the soldiery as the
headquarters of MacLean in the Jesuit barracks, on the other side of the
square. Monseigneur Briand was as truly the defender of Quebec as
General Carleton. The most curious signals of the Americans were
fire-balls which burned from one in the morning till three. Whenever
these were seen, the garrison prepared more actively for an attack.
Spite of precautions on both sides, communication to and from the
beleaguered town was carried on to a considerable extent. A bold, active
man could always go in or out from the side of the river under the Cape,
or along the valley of the St. Charles. The Continentals had not men
enough to effect a complete blockade, and the garrison was not
sufficiently numerous to guard every obscure outlet. But spite of these
deficiencies, for eight long months--from November 1775 till May
1776--Quebec was virtually cut off from the rest of the world and the
theatre of one of the most important military events in the history of
America.
II.
CARY'S MESSAGE.
As soon as Pauline had entered the gates of the town, Cary Singleton
leaped into his sleigh and turned his horse's head towards the camp. But
before he could proceed, Batoche was at his side. The young officer had
not had occasion to exchange a single word with the singular being, but
his thoughts had been much occupied with him during the long night ride,
and it was with some satisfaction that he now had an opportunity of
addressing him.
"I must thank you, sir," said he, "for your service to the young lady."
"I did it for her sake, as she is my granddaughter's godmother. And for
her father's sake, who is an old friend," replied Batoche, quietly. And
he added immediately:
"I am prepared to do you a service, sir."
Cary looked at him in surprise. Was he in the presence of an enemy? Had
he fallen into an ambush from which this man was willing to rescue him?
Or if a friend, what service could he refer to? Might it be a message to
Pauline? Strange as it may seem--and perhaps it will not appear so
strange after all--the very thought, as it flashed upon him, created a
throbbing sensation in his heart. Had this little timid girl, after only
a few hours' interview, so ingratiated herself into his affections, that
the unexpected opportunity of communicating with her once more excited a
flutter of pleasurable surprise. Rapidly as these surmises passed
through his mind he had not time to resolve them, before Batoche resumed
in these simple words:
"I am returning at once to Sieur Sarpy's."
For a moment Cary was unable to make a syllable of reply. He looked hard
at the old man as if to fathom his inmost thoughts. But the latter did
not flinch. His countenance wore that expression of utter blankness and
conscious unconsciousness which is an attribute of resolute men, and
which only kindred spirits are gifted to understand.
Cary was as much impressed by his quiet manner as he had been by his
singular offer. He asked himself the following questions sharply one
after the other. What did this man know of him that he should connect
him in any way with the Sarpys? How should he be in possession of the
secret which had been hidden from all his comrades? Zulma did not know
him when he presented himself at her door last night. Sieur Sarpy
exchanged only a few words with him, and certainly did not treat him as
a familiar. And who was this Batoche? Was he a friend or an enemy of the
cause of liberty? Perhaps he was a spy?
During the interval Batoche stood immovable, while the snow piled in
inches on his round shoulders, but at length, divining the thoughts of
Cary, he said in a low voice:
"You are returning to Sieur Sarpy's, did you say?"
"At once."
"But the roads will be all blockaded."
"I know all the by-paths."
"Our troops are advancing and might arrest you."
The old man only smiled.
"I will give you a pass."
Batoche took off his glove and produced from his pocket a folded paper.
Cary opened it, and recognizing the signature of Colonel Meigs, returned
it with a smile.
"I thankfully accept your offer," said he. "Here is a little message
which you will deliver to Mademoiselle Zulma."
Saying which, he wrote a few lines in pencil on a leaf of his pocket
book.
"She will receive it at noon," said Batoche, taking the missive, and
without the addition of another word, he stalked away on his snow-shoes.
Cary returned to camp just in time to take part in the forward movement
of his corps. The main body did not break up its quarters till five days
later, but on the 29th November, the day on which the event just
narrated took place, Morgan's riflemen were ordered to lead the van
towards Quebec. That same afternoon, therefore, Singleton found himself
nearly on the same spot which he had occupied in the early morning.
III.
THE UNREMEMBERED BRAVE.
The snow-storm continued in unabated violence. The low lines of the sky
seemed to lie upon the earth, the sounds of nature were deadened to
mystical murmurs, the long streams of flakes lay like a white curtain
drawn aslant across the face of heaven, and universal silence pervaded
the land. Everybody was within doors, where the exterior calm had
penetrated, and where the families nestled around the hearth as if
conscious of the visible protection of God. It seemed like a desecration
that this holy silence should be disturbed by the iron tread of armed
men, and that the peace sent down from above with every grain of snow
should be violated by designs of vengeance and the thirst of human
blood. Unseen through the storm, the riflemen of Virginia advanced
towards the grey walls of the devoted town. Unheard through the tempest,
the garrison of the ancient capital moved to the gates and ramparts.
Unseen and unheard, the armies of Arnold and Montgomery, which had now
combined, were making their last preparations to depart from
Pointe-aux-Trembles and march for the final catastrophe in this dread
tragedy of war.
Sieur Sarpy sat in his arm-chair after dinner absorbed in the reading of
a book, and apparently under the blessed influence of the peaceful,
noiseless weather. From the staidness of his manner, it was evident that
he had forgotten the events of the previous night, and was unconscious
or oblivious of what was going on among the belligerents around Quebec.
He was interrupted in his occupation by the entrance of the maid, who
announced the arrival of Batoche. The sound of the name surprised him a
little, but without moving from his seat, he said quietly:
"Show him up."
The two old men had not been many minutes together before they
understood each other well. They were both of an age, and had known one
another in former and better days. After the usual preliminaries of
recognition were gone through, Batoche said:
"I have been on my legs for fourteen hours, and must return whence I
came before night. I am old now and have not the endurance of fifteen
years ago. Hence I must be brief, although my business is of the
greatest importance. Please give me all your attention for half an
hour."
Sieur Sarpy closed his book and holding up his right hand, asked:
"Is the business political or personal."
"Both. There is a question of crime on the one hand, and of mercy on the
other. I appeal to your humanity."
At that moment Zulma appeared at the door of the room, but was about to
withdraw at once, when Batoche turned towards her, and with a sweetness
of manner that one would never have suspected in him, said:
"I hope mademoiselle will enter. I have no secret for her. We all know
that she is her father's trusted counsellor. And mademoiselle will be
pleased to learn that her brother and her friend, little Pauline, have
entered safely within the gates of Quebec, and that the young officer,
having rejoined his command, is now somewhere near the walls of the
town. Before parting from him this morning, he requested me to hand you
this little note."
Zulma's hand trembled as she took the paper, but she did not open it.
When she was seated, Batoche immediately resumed:
"You are aware that Governor Carleton has arrived in Quebec?"
"Yes, we heard the guns of the Citadel proclaiming the event," replied
Sieur Sarpy.
"That happened just ten days ago. It was the most terrible blow yet
struck against our cause."
"Your cause, Batoche?" said Sieur Sarpy, looking up.
"Aye, my cause, your cause, the cause of us all. See here, M. Sarpy,
this is no time for mincing words. We must stand up and take a part in
this war. We did not provoke it, but it has come and we must join it.
You may prefer to remain neutral. I do not say you are wrong. Your
health is poor, you have a young daughter, you have large estates. But
for me and hundreds like me, there is only one course. I am an old
French soldier, M. Sarpy. Remember that. I fought on those plains yonder
under the noble Marquis. I fought at St. Foye under the great Chevalier.
I have seen this beautiful country snatched from France. For sixteen
long years I have seen the wolves at work tearing from us the last
shreds of our patrimony. They killed my daughter. They have made an
outcast of me. I have prayed that the day of vengeance might come. I
knew it would come. I heard it coming like distant thunder in the voice
of the waterfall. I heard it coming in the wild throbbings of my violin.
And, thank God, it has come at last! These Americans advance to meet us.
They stretch out the right hand of fraternity. They unfurl the flag of
liberty. They too suffer from the tyranny of England, and they ask us to
join them in striking off the fetters of slavery. Shall we not act with
them?"
Sieur Sarpy's head fell upon his breast and he answered not. Zulma sat
forward in her chair, with dilated eyes fastened on the face of the
speaker, and her own features aglow with the enthusiasm that shot from
him like living electric tongues.
Batoche who had risen from his seat during this impassioned outburst,
now resumed it, and proceeded in more subdued language:
"If Carleton had not returned to Quebec the war would perhaps be ended
now. He was beaten everywhere in the upper country, at Isle-aux-Noix, at
Chambly, at Longueuil, at St. Johns. He fled from Montreal without
striking a blow. All his men surrendered there and at Sorel. All his
ships were captured. All his stores were seized. And do you know how he
escaped?"
"In an open boat, I am told."
"Yes, in an open boat. He passed at Sorel, where the Americans were
watching for him, and the oars were muffled in their locks so that he
could not be heard. The boat was even paddled with open hands in the
most dangerous places."
Zulma listened eagerly to these details, which she had not heard before.
Sieur Sarpy's single remark was:
"Wonderful!"
"And do you know who piloted him?"
"Captain Bouchette, I believe."
"Yes, Joseph Bouchette. And what is Joseph Bouchette?"
"A French Canadian!" exclaimed Zulma, unable to contain herself.
"Aye, mademoiselle, a French Canadian. But for this Joseph Bouchette, a
French Canadian, Carleton would never have reached Quebec, and the war
would now be ended."
"By this you mean that the Americans would have Quebec, the only place
in all Canada that is not theirs already," said Sieur Sarpy, with
considerable energy.
"Just so. Now, it is about this Joseph Bouchette that I have come to see
you."
Both Zulma and her father involuntarily started.
Batoche continued:
"Bouchette has committed a great crime. He has been guilty of treason
against his countrymen. He must perish. There are hundreds who think
like me, but are afraid to strike. I am not afraid to strike. He will
suffer by my hand. The only question is the mode of punishment. Murder
is repugnant to my feelings. Besides it would not be polite. The man was
perhaps sincere in his devotion to Carleton, though I believe that he
rather looked to the reward. But if sincere, that ought to be considered
in mitigation of his sentence. Furthermore, he is a friend of M.
Belmont, and that too shall count in his favor. I had intended to seize
him and deliver him as a prisoner of war to the Bastonnais."
Sieur Sarpy made a solemn gesture of deprecation.
"Are you serious, Batoche?" he asked.
"Serious?" said the old man with that wild strange look characteristic
of his preternatural moods.
"Bouchette is safe."
"Not from me."
"He is well guarded."
"I will break through any guard."
"But you cannot enter the town."
"I can enter whenever I like."
"When inside, you will not be able to come out."
"The weasel makes an invisible hole, which is never filled up."
Zulma listened with riveted eye, set lip, and distended nostril. Sieur
Sarpy smiled.
"You will kidnap Bouchette?"
"I will."
"And fetch him to the American camp?"
"Yes."
"Well, what of that? Bouchette is no friend of mine. I know him only by
name. How does all this concern me?"
"Precisely. That is just what I have come for."
Sieur Sarpy looked at his curious interlocutor with renewed interest,
not unblended with concern.
"I have come from, and in the name of, M. Belmont. He knows of my plan
and has tried to dissuade me from it. But in vain. He might warn
Bouchette or betray me to the garrison, but he is too loyal to France
for that. He respects my secret. This, however, does not prevent him
from striving to help his friend. He said to me, 'Batoche, if you must
make a prisoner of Joseph Bouchette, go first to Sieur Sarpy and ask him
whether he would receive him in his house on parole. He would thus be
relieved of much unnecessary suffering, at the same time that he would
be out of the way of doing you further mischief.' After some hesitation,
I accepted this proposal of my friend, and here I am to communicate it
to you."
"I do not accept," said M. Sarpy curtly and decidedly. "I would be
ashamed to have a countryman of mine a prisoner in my house. If I took
part in this war, I should do so openly, but so long as I remain on
neutral ground, I will not allow my premises to be violated by either
party. If Bouchette deserves to suffer, let him suffer to the full."
"Then he will suffer to the full," said Batoche rising rapidly and
seizing his cap.
"No, he will not," exclaimed Zulma also rising and facing the old
soldier. "M. Bouchette did only his duty. He has his opinions as you and
I have. He has been faithful to those opinions. He has done a brave
deed. He has shed glory on his countrymen instead of disgrace. Who
constituted you his judge? What right have you to punish him? M. Belmont
keeps your secret? I am surprised. I will not keep it. I do not consider
it a secret. Even if it were, I would violate it. Promise me that you
will desist. In the name of France, in the name of honor, in the name of
religion, I call upon you to abandon your project. If you do not, I will
this moment leap into a sleigh, drive to Quebec, find my way within the
walls, seek M. Bouchette and tell him all. What do you say?"
During this impassioned harangue, the face of Batoche was a study. First
there was surprise, then amazement, then incredulity, then
consternation, then perplexity, then utter collapse. It was evident
that the old soldier had never encountered such an adversary before her.
The animated beauty of the speaker no less than her stirring words
magnetised him, and, for a few moments, he could not reply, but his
native cunning gradually awoke and he said slyly:
"Very well, mademoiselle, but what would the young officer say?"
Without noticing the covert allusion, Zulma answered promptly:
"The American officers are all gentlemen. They admire bravery and
devotion wherever they see it, and they would not take unfair advantage
of any enemy. But that is neither here nor now. Answer me. Do you
persevere in your intention or not?"
"Mademoiselle, Joseph Bouchette owes his liberty to you," said Batoche,
and, bowing, he walked out of the room. Sieur Sarpy attempted to detain
him, but without success. He went silently and swiftly as he had come.
An author has said that a wonderful book might be written on Forgotten
Heroes. Joseph Bouchette was one of them. By piloting the Saviour of
Canada in an open boat from Montreal to Quebec, he performed the most
brilliant and momentous single service during the whole war of invasion.
And yet his name is hardly known. No monument of any kind has been
raised to his memory. Nay more, after the lapse of a hundred years, the
material claims of the Bouchette family have been almost entirely
ignored.
IV.
PRACTICAL LOVE.
When Zulma found herself alone in her room, she opened the note of Cary
Singleton. She noticed that it was moist and crumpled in her hand. It
had been a sore trial to wait so long before acquainting herself with
its contents, but she felt, as some sort of compensation, that it had
served to nerve her to the animated dialogue which she had held with
Batoche.
"That paper," she said, "urged me to be brave. I knew that he who had
written it would have expressed the same sentiments under the
circumstance."
The note was very brief and simple. It read thus:
"MADEMOISELLE,--
"I desired to speak to you last night a parting word, but I could
not. I am gone from you, but whither, I cannot tell. The future is
a blank. May I ask this grace? Should I fall, will you cherish a
slight remembrance of me? Your memory will be with me to the last.
Your friendship has been the one ray of light in the darkness of
this war. Should I survive, shall we not meet again?
"Your devoted servant,
"CARY SINGLETON."
When Zulma had read the letter once, she smoothed it out gently on her
knee, threw her head back into her chair, and closed her eyes. After an
interval of full five minutes, she roused herself and took up the paper
again. This time the cheek was white, the eye quenched, and the broad
forehead seemed visibly to droop under the weight of a gathering care.
"Five lines ... eighty-four words ... lead pencil ... paper torn front
pocket book...."
These were the only words she said, the effect of a mental calculation
so characteristic of her sex. But swifter than words could have spoken,
she went through the whole contents of the letter, replying to its every
expressed point, supplying its every insinuation, and supplementing the
effect of it all by her own kindred thoughts and feelings.
He had desired to speak to her last night as they parted in the
snow-storm at the door of the lower hall. She had expected that word of
farewell. It was to have been the culmination of the evening, the
crystallisation of all the undefined and unexpressed sentiment which had
passed between them. If he had not spoken, either through emotion,
timidity, or from whatever cause, she would have done so. The presence
of Pauline would have been no obstacle. The presence of her father would
have been no obstacle. The presence of her father would have been rather
an incentive. But at the supreme moment, the shadow of Batoche fell upon
the lighted door, like a blight of fate, the current of all their
thoughts were turned elsewhere, and the exquisite opportunity was lost.
And now he was gone. Alas! It was only too true to say that neither he
nor she knew what future lay in store for him. The soldier always
carries his life in his hands, and the chances of death are tenfold in
his case.
When he spoke of their friendship and asked a slight remembrance, her
own heart was the lexicon which gave the true interpretation to words
that appeared timid on paper. Zulma was too brave a girl to hide the
real meaning of her feelings from herself, nor would she have feared to
confess them to anybody else. Least of all, in her opinion, should Cary
ignore them. In other circumstances she would have preferred the
lingering indefiniteness and the gradual developments which are perhaps
the sweetest of all phases of love, but in the midst of danger, in the
presence of death, there could be no hesitation, and Zulma concluded her
long meditation with two practical resolves--the first, an instant
answer to the note, the second, the devising of means to meet Cary again
during the progress of hostilities.
When these determinations were made, her features resumed their usual
serenity, her beautiful head rose in its old pride of carriage, and
something very like a saucy laugh fluttered over her lips.
"I am sorry I offended old Batoche," she murmured, folding the paper and
hiding it in her bosom. "He would have been just my man."
She had scarcely uttered the words when her father entered and said:
"Batoche asks to see you, my dear."
V.
ZULMA AND BATOCHE.
The old soldier made his appearance at once. He held his cap in his
hand, his head was bowed, and he appeared slightly disconcerted.
"You have returned, Batoche," said Zulma, rising and advancing towards
him.
"I have returned, mademoiselle."
"You are not offended with me, then?"
"Mademoiselle!"
"Batoche, I am delighted to see you."
The old man looked up, and satisfied that the welcome was sincere, said:
"I had walked nearly two miles, thinking of all you had told me, and
forgetting everything else. Suddenly I remembered something. I stopped.
I reflected. I returned at once and here I am."
Zulma burst out laughing:
"What did you remember, Batoche?"
"That perhaps you might desire to send an answer to the note which I
brought. Excuse me, mademoiselle, I was young once. I know what girls
are."
And his little grey eyes twinkled.
Zulma laid her hand upon his shoulder, and with a half serious, half
jesting caress, replied:
"They call you sorcerer, Batoche. How could you thus divine my thoughts?
Listen. It is an hour since you left me. During that time I have been
occupied reading the note and reflecting upon it. I ended by deciding to
answer it at once. But where was my messenger? I thought of you, and
was expressing regret at your departure, when you were announced."
Batoche's face beamed with pleasure. Not only was he satisfied with the
result of his sagacity, but it afforded him the keenest joy to be able
to render a service to Zulma after the semblance of altercation which
had taken place between them. In the strife of generosity the old
soldier was not to be outdone, and he was rather flattered to believe
that, if anything, the balance was to be in his favour. He gave
expression to none of these thoughts, however. He contented himself with
observing that, as the afternoon was advancing, and he must reach Quebec
by nightfall, it was desirable that Zulma should make as little delay as
possible.
"Certainly, Batoche," she replied. "If you will sit down a moment, I
will write a few lines."
He did as he was desired. Zulma went to her writing table, spread out
her paper and with great deliberation proceeded to her task. She wrote
with a firm, running hand, and as from an overflowing mind, without
stopping to gather her thoughts. No emotion was perceptible on her
features--no distension of the eye, no flush of the cheek. She looked
like a copying clerk, inditing a mechanical business letter. This
circumstance did not escape the observation of Batoche. His knowledge of
human nature led him at once to the conclusion that such wonderful
self-possession must be the key to other admirable qualities, which,
joined to the spirit which she had displayed in her defence of Captain
Bouchette, convinced him that he was in the presence of one who, when
occasion required, would be likely to play the part of a heroine. And
what added to his silent enthusiasm was her matchless beauty as she sat
opposite him, her shapely bust rising grandly above the little table and
curving gracefully to its task, while the head, poised just a trifle to
one side, revealed a fair white face upon which the light of the window
fell slantingly. For such wild solitary natures as that of Batoche the
charms of female beauty are irresistible from their very novelty, and
the old hunter's fascination was so great that he there and then
resolved to cultivate Zulma's acquaintance thoroughly.
"Who can tell," he said to himself, "what role this splendid creature is
destined to act in the drama that is opening out before us? I know she
is a rebel at heart. That proud white neck will never submit to the yoke
of English tyranny. She is born for freedom. There is no chain that can
bind those beautiful limbs. I will have an eye over her. I will be her
protector. Her friendship--is it only friendship?--with the young
Bastonnais is another link that attaches her to me. I will follow her
fortunes."
Zulma finished her letter with a flourish, folded it, addressed it, and,
rising, handed it to Batoche.
"I did not keep you waiting, you see. Deliver this at your earliest
opportunity and accept my thanks. Is there anything that I can do for
you in return?"
Batoche drooped his eyes and hesitated.
"Do not fear to speak. We are perfect friends now."
"There is something I would like to ask, mademoiselle, but should never
have dared if you had not suggested it."
"What is it, Batoche?"
"I have a granddaughter, little Blanche."
"Yes."
"She has been my inseparable companion from her infancy."
"Yes."
"Now that the war has broken out, she is much alone, and that troubles
me."
"Where is she?"
"In our cabin at Montmorenci. Pauline Belmont desired to keep her in
Quebec during the siege, but to this I would not consent, because I
could not see her as often as I wished."
"Let me have the child, Batoche. I will replace her godmother as well as
I can."
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart, mademoiselle, but that is not
precisely what I meant. I could not part from her for good, neither
would she leave me. All I ask is this. I may be absent from my hut for
days at a time. You know what military service is."
"Military service?"
"Yes, mademoiselle, I am a soldier once more."
"You mean...?"
"I am enrolled among the Bastonnais."
"Bravo!" exclaimed Zulma. "Whenever you have to absent yourself from
home fetch Blanche to me."
How little either Zulma or Batoche suspected what strange events would
result from this incident.
VI.
THE BALL AT THE CASTLE.
On the evening of that same day, the 1st December, there was high
festival within the walls of Quebec. A great ball was given at the
Castle to celebrate the arrival of Governor Carleton. There was a
twofold sentiment in the minds of all guests which enhanced the pleasure
of the entertainment--gratification at the Governor's providential
escape from all the perils of his voyage from Montreal to Quebec, and
the assurance that his presence would procure a gallant and successful
defence of the town against the besiegers. The attendance was both large
and brilliant. Never had the old Chateau beheld a gayer scene. The
French families vied with the English in doing honour to the occasion.
Patriotism seemed to revive in the breasts of the most lukewarm, and
many, whose standing had hitherto been dubious, came forward in the
courtliest fashion to proclaim their loyalty to King George in the
person of his representative.
But M. Belmont was not one of these. When he first heard of the
preparations for the ball, he grew very serious.
"It is a snare," he said, "set to entrap us."
A day or two later, when he received a formal invitation, he was so
truly distressed that he fell into a fever.
"Happy malady," he muttered, "I shall now have a valid excuse."
Pauline nursed him with her usual tenderness, but could not extract from
him the cause of his illness. She had heard, of course, of the great
event which was the talk of the whole town, but never suspected that her
father had been invited, and it was, therefore, with no misgiving that
she accepted, at his solicitation, Eugene's offer of a trip to the Sarpy
mansion, the particulars of which have already been set before the
reader. A few hours after her departure, Batoche suddenly made his
appearance with the startling intelligence that the Bastonnais would
return the next day to begin the regular siege of the town, and the
anxious father commissioned him to set out and bring back his daughter
at once. In the course of the same evening Roderick Hardinge called and
was very much concerned to learn the absence of Pauline, but was
partially reassured when M. Belmont informed him of her expected speedy
return. Roderick's visit was short, owing to some undefined constraint
which he observed in the conversation of M. Belmont, and it was perhaps
on that account also that he omitted stating the reason why he
particularly desired to speak to Pauline. We have seen that he was
waiting at the outer gate when she drove up in the early morning
accompanied by Batoche and Cary Singleton.
As soon as they found themselves alone and safe within the town,
Roderick said abruptly:
"I would not have had you absent to-day for all the world."
Pauline noticed his agitation and naturally attributed it to his fears
for her personal safety, but she was soon undeceived when he added:
"You must by all means come to the ball with me this evening, my dear."
"To the ball?" she asked with no feigned surprise, because the events of
the preceding day and night had completely driven the recollection of it
from her mind.
"Yes, the Governor's ball."
It was in vain that she pleaded the suddenness of the invitation, her
want of preparation, and the great fatigue which she had just undergone.
Roderick would admit no excuse. His manner was nervous, excited, and at
times almost peremptory.
"And my father?" she urged as a last argument.
"I saw your father last night. He complained of being unwell and
evidently cannot come."
The slight emphasis which Roderick, in his rapid utterance, placed on
the word "cannot" was not lost on his sensitive companion. She looked up
at him with a timorous air.
"And what if my father will not let me go?" she asked almost in a
whisper.
"Oh, but he will. He _must_, Pauline."
Her eyes were raised to his again, and he met them frankly.
"Let me be plain with you, my dear. If you will not go to the ball for
my sake, you must go for your father's sake. Do you understand?"
She _did_ understand, though for a few moments she had no words to
utter. After advancing a few steps, she took her hand out of her muff,
laid it in that of Hardinge, and without raising her eyes, murmured:
"I will go, Roddy, for his sake and yours."
This preliminary being satisfactorily arranged, Hardinge accompanied her
to the door of her home, and after advising her to spend the day in
resting from her emotions and fatigue, promised to call for her early in
the evening.
He did so. To his surprise he found her cheerful and without the least
sign of weariness or reluctance in her manner. She was arrayed in a rich
and most tasteful costume, which gave a splendid relief to her quiet,
simple beauty. To his further surprise he found M. Belmont in an
agreeable mood, though still ailing. He was pleased to say that he quite
approved of his daughter attending the ball, and especially in the
company of Roderick Hardinge.
"This is another instalment of the reparation which I owe you, Roddy,"
he said, with a smile. "I confide Pauline to you to-night, and I do not
know that I would do the same for any other young fellow in Quebec."
Of course no more was needed to put Hardinge in the most exuberant good
spirits, and when, he drove off with Pauline, he hardly knew what he was
doing.
The ball was opened when they reached the Castle. The Governor who had
led in the first dance, or dance of honour, took part in a third and
fourth, mingling freely with all the guests, apparently disposed to
secure as many friends for himself and cause as possible. During this
interval, Pauline and Roderick glided into the hall almost unnoticed,
but it was not long before they were called upon to take part in the
dance, and at once they attracted general attention. Nor was there cause
to wonder at this. The young Scotchman looked particularly handsome in
his dazzling scarlet tunic, while Pauline, in her rich robes of crimson
satin and sprigs of snowy jasmine twined in her simple headdress,
revealed a warm, ripe, glowing beauty, which was a surprise even to her
most intimate friends.
After a time, the Governor took up his position on the dais, at the
extremity of the room, directly in front of the Chair of State and under
the violet fringes of the canopy. The Royal Arms flashed triumphantly
behind him, while on the panels of the walls, to the right and left, his
own cipher was visible. Those of the guests who had not yet been
presented to his Excellency, seized this opportunity to pay their
respects. Roderick and Pauline were of the number. As they approached
the foot of the throne, they were joined by de Cramahé, the
Lieutenant-Governor. This courtly man bowed profoundly to both and said:
"Lieutenant, I have a duty to perform, and you will please allow me to
perform it. I desire to present mademoiselle and yourself to his
Excellency."
So saying, and without waiting for a reply, he urged them forward to the
viceregal presence.
Carleton received Pauline with the most deferential politeness, and
added to the compliment by a kindly inquiry concerning the health of
her father. Pauline trembled like a leaf at this phase of the interview,
and timidly looked up to assure herself that the Governor was really
earnest in his question. But his open manner dispelled all doubt, and
thus, to the infinite relief of the girl, the sole drawback to her
thorough enjoyment of the evening was removed.
Then her companion's turn came.
"Lieutenant Hardinge," said de Cramahé.
"Hardinge?" replied the Governor, extending his hand and bending his
head to one side, as if trying to recollect something in connection with
the name.
"Yes," rejoined de Cramahé. "Your Excellency will remember. He is the
young officer whose exploits I recounted to you."
"Aye, aye!" exclaimed Carleton. "I do remember very well. Hardinge is a
familiar name to me. This gentleman's father was a brother officer of
mine under Wolfe. Yes, yes, I remember everything."
And taking Roderick's right hand in both his, he added aloud, so that
the promotion might be as public as possible:
"_Captain_ Hardinge, I have the honour to congratulate you."
VII.
THE ATTACK OF THE MASKS.
The ball concluded, as was the invariable custom at the State balls of
the time, with that most graceful and picturesque of all dances, the
Menuet de la Cour, which, brought over from France during the reign of
Louis XIII., had enjoyed great popularity throughout the Province until
the Conquest, and was retained by the British Governors of Quebec until
a comparative recent period. The _pas marché_, the _assemblé_, the _pas
grave_, the _pas bourré_, and the _pirouette_ were all executed with
faultless precision and stately beauty by a double set of eight chosen
from among the best dancers in the room. The rest of the company was
ranged in groups around the walls, some watching the figures with eyes
of critical inquiry, others observing the costumes of the dancers and
their involved movements with a simple sense of enjoyment. The rhythmic
swaying of handsome men and women in the mazes of a dance often produces
on the bystanders a sensation of poetic dreaminess, quite independent of
the accompanying music, and which may be traced directly to the
magnetism of the human form.
It is only true to say that nobody in the Menuet elicited more sympathy
and admiration than Pauline Belmont. The perfection of her dancing, the
sweetness of her face, the modesty of her demeanour, and the childlike
reliance which she seemed to place on the cooperation of her stalwart
partner, Roderick Hardinge, were traits which could not pass unobserved,
and more than once when she swung back into position after the
culmination of a figure, she was greeted with murmurs of applause.
Several gallant old Frenchmen, who looked on humming the music which
they knew so well, signified their approval by words allied to their
subdued chat. Finally, when the second strain was over, the peculiar
nineteen bars had been played, the _Chaîne Anglaise_ had been made, and
the honours performed by profound salutations to the distinguished
company and to the respective partners, the executants retired from the
floor and were immediately set upon by a mob of congratulating friends.
Among them, the portly form of Carleton, with his white shaven face, and
large pleasant eyes, was prominent. He addressed his felicitations to
several of the dancers, and thanked them for the splendid termination
which they had given to the festival. Near them stood his friend
Bouchette, who had been one of the lions of the evening, and who
improved these last moments with a few words of lively conversation with
Pauline.
"This has been a magnificent ball," said he, "worthy of our Governor and
worthy of old Quebec, but what is a particular source of pride to me is
that the belle of the evening has been a countrywoman of mine. You have
shed glory on your race, mademoiselle. I will not fail to report this to
my old friend, M. Belmont, and I am sure the delight he will experience
will be a compensation for his absence."
Pauline blushed as she heard these compliments, and clung more closely
to the arm of Hardinge. She faltered a few words of thanks, but her
confusion was not relieved till the interview closed by the pressure of
the crowds breaking up and making their way to the cloakrooms.
Shortly afterwards, the gay company had entirely dispersed, the lights
in the Castle were extinguished one by one, and silence reigned where,
only half an hour before, light feet beat time to the soft music of viol
and bassoon, and the echoes of merry voices resounded through the halls.
One of the guests, who had tarried longer than all the others, issued
alone and proceeded in the direction of Cathedral Square. Three o'clock
pealed from the turret as he passed. The night was dark and of that
dull, lustreless aspect which not even the white snow on roof and
footpath could relieve. Not another soul was in the streets. The long
square houses were wrapped in sleep. The solitary walker was of middle
size and apparently in the prime of life. A fur coat was loosely thrown
over his evening dress. His step was free and elastic, and he swung an
ivory-headed cane in his right hand. He was evidently in the best of
spirits, as a man should be who has dined well, danced to his heart's
content, and spent an agreeable evening in the society of his superiors,
and the company of handsome women.
When he reached the large stockade erected where Prescott Gate was
afterwards built, he paused a moment in front of the guard, who seemed
to recognize him and opened the wicket without the exchange of a pass
word. He then began the descent of the steep and tortuous Mountain Hill,
walking briskly indeed, but with hardly a perceptible acceleration of
the pace which he had held previously. It was not long before he
attained the foot of the Hill, and he was about turning the very dark
corner which led into Peter street, where he resided, when his step was
suddenly arrested by a shrill whistle on his left. He looked around, and
listened, tightening his great coat over his breast, and grasping his
cane with a firmer hand. He stood thus for several seconds, but hearing
nothing more except the flow of the St. Lawrence, a few yards ahead of
him, he attributed the sound to some sailor's craft in the harbour, and
confidently resumed his march. He had not proceeded more than a few
feet, however, when five men, muffled and masked, issued from a lane in
the rear, threw themselves upon him and dragged him to the ground.
Resistance was vain. The kidnappers gagged him, wrenched his cane from
his hand, and covered his face with a cloak. They were about to drag
him away, when a sixth figure bounded upon the scene.
"Halt!" was his single cry in French.
The men stopped.
"Release your prisoner."
They obeyed instantly and without a remonstrance.
"Ungag him."
They ungagged him.
"Restore him his cane."
The cane was immediately returned.
As soon as the prisoner felt himself free, and in possession of a
weapon, he leaped out into the middle of the street and faced his
enemies like the brave man that he was. He chafed, and fumed, and
brandished his cane.
"What does this mean?" he cried.
No answer.
"Who are you?"
Still no reply.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Yes," said the chief, in a low cold voice, "You are Joseph Bouchette.
We know you well. But go. You are free. You owe your liberty to an
intervention superior to the hatred and vengeance of all your enemies.
Thank God for it."
Bouchette, for it was indeed he, was dumb-founded and did not stir.
The chief repeated his order of dismissal in a tone that could not admit
of denial, and the doughty sailor, without uttering another word, turned
on his heel and walked leisurely to his home.
The masked men stood in a group looking at each other and at their
chief.
"You have astounded us," said Barbin to the latter.
"Possibly," was the quiet reply. "But this is no time for explanations.
Hurry out of the town and seek your hiding places in the forest. The
morning is far advanced and it will soon be day. As for me, I have had
no rest these two days and nights. I will creep into some hole and
sleep."
"Goodnight then," they all said as they slunk into the shadow.
"Goodnight."
In the dreams of the tired Batoche, that night, was blended the sweetest
music of the waterfall, and it seemed to him that there hovered over his
couch the white spirit of Clara thanking him for the deed of mercy which
he had wrought.
VIII.
UNCONSCIOUS GREATNESS.
It was more than a deed of mercy. It was politic as well. After
Bouchette returned home, he was so agitated that he could not sleep. His
chief concern was to know why he had been attacked and who were the men
who attacked him. It was clear that the assault was the result of a
deliberate plot. There was the rallying whistle. There was the disguise
of the men. There was the gag all ready to hand. And his rescuer? Who
could he be? and especially what could mean the strange words which he
had uttered?
Gradually, as he became calmer, he was enabled to grasp all the elements
of the situation, and at length the truth dawned upon him. He had been
singled out for revenge by some of his discontented countrymen because
of the service he had rendered the Governor-General. When he had
satisfied himself this, his first impulse was to rush to the Castle,
announce the outrage to Carleton himself, and head a terrible crusade
against all the rebel French. But, with a moment's reflection, his
better nature prevailed.
"Never," he exclaimed, as he paced his room. "Never, I am a Frenchman
before all. Loyalty to England does not require treason to my own
countrymen. The personal insult and injury I can forgive. Besides, was I
not rescued by an act of chivalry? If I have enemies among my own
people, is it not evident that I have friends as well? No. I will not
allow a word concerning this affair to escape my lips. If it becomes
public it shall be through no fault of mine."
Having relieved his mind by this act of magnanimity, he threw himself
upon a lounge and soon fell asleep. The sun was already high in the
heavens, and it streamed into the room, but did not disturb the slumbers
of the mariner who reposed as calmly as if he had not passed through a
struggle for his life and liberty. It was noon when he awoke. Sitting up
on the edge of his bed, some seconds elapsed before recollection went
back to this event, and when it did, he simply said:
"I will now go and see my friend Belmont."
Meantime, at M. Belmont's the matter had advanced a stage or two.
Batoche had found his way there after dismissing his associates, and,
without disturbing the inmates, had entered by means of a private key
given by his friend. He had gone to sleep at once, and it was eleven
o'clock in the forenoon before he arose. His first step was to seek the
presence of M. Belmont. To him he recounted the conversation he had had
with Sieur Sarpy, and the singular part which Zulma had taken in it. M.
Belmont listened with mingled surprise and concern. When Batoche
continued and described the adventure of the preceding night, he became
quite alarmed.
"This is terrible, Batoche," said.
The old man did what was very unusual with him. He smiled.
"There is nothing terrible about it, sir. Even if Bouchette had been
captured, there would have been nothing terrible. Bouchette is not such
a very important personage, and our men have no fears of retribution.
They are quite able to take care of themselves. But I had promised Zulma
that the man would not be disturbed, and I simply kept my promise. I was
near being too late. It was far past midnight when I reached the town,
after a weary tramp from Pointe-aux-Trembles. I knew all about the ball
and that, of course, Bouchette would be there. We had planned to seize
him on his way home from the Castle. Everything turned out as had been
anticipated. Our men did their work to perfection. They acted with
bravery and intelligence. It was a pity to spoil their success."
"Did you not arrive upon the scene in advance?"
"Yes, a few moments before the assault."
"Then why did you not prevent it altogether?"
"I hadn't the heart to do it. I wanted to give my men and myself that
much satisfaction. I wanted to see how my companions would do their
duty. Besides, although I had promised not to kidnap Bouchette, I did
not promise that I would not give him a good scare."
"Scare?" interrupted M. Belmont contemptuously, "Bouchette is as brave a
man as lives."
"Right enough," said Batoche with a giggle. "He showed fight and
brandished his cane like a man. So far as scaring went, the attack was a
failure."
"The whole thing was a failure, Batoche. It will ruin us. It will drive
me out of the town. I suppose the garrison is in an uproar about it by
this time."
"The assailants are not known and cannot be discovered."
"Exactly, and therefore the innocent will be suspected. Your great
mistake was in doing the thing by halves. A real abduction would not
have been so bad, for then the victim would not have been there to tell
his story. As it is, he has no doubt told it to everybody, and there is
no foreseeing what the consequences will be."
Batoche did not reply, but there was something in his manner which
showed that he felt very little repentance for what he had done.
At this point of the colloquy the servant came to the door and announced
Captain Bouchette.
M. Belmont was thunderstruck. Batoche remained perfectly impassive.
"Show him up," at length faltered M. Belmont.
Batoche made a movement to rise, but his companion stopped him
abruptly.
"Do not stir," he said. "Your presence may be useful."
Bouchette came striding in boisterously and in the fullest good humour.
He embraced his old friend with effusion, and accepted the introduction
to Batoche in a genial, off-hand fashion. Of course this conduct put a
new aspect on affairs, and M. Belmont was set quite at ease. Bouchette
opened at once with an account of the great ball. He said that he had
come purposely for that. He described all its phases in his own
unconventional way, and especially dilated on the share that Pauline had
taken in it. He grew eloquent on this particular theme. He assured M.
Belmont that he ought to be proud of his daughter, as she had made the
most favourable impression on all the guests and particularly on the
Governor.
There is no exaggeration in saying that this was positively delightful
to the anxious father, and that, under the circumstances, it went far
towards restoring his peace of mind. It was, therefore, no wonder that
the conversation, thus initiated, flowed on in a continuous channel of
gaiety, in which even Batoche joined at intervals, and after his own
peculiar manner. He said very little, indeed, perhaps not over a dozen
words, but he chuckled now and again, rolled about in his seat and gave
other tokens of satisfaction at the turn which things were taking. This,
however, did not prevent him, from the comparative obscurity of the
corner which he occupied, closely watching the features of the visitor,
and studying all his movements.
At length, at a convenient turn of the conversation, M. Belmont inquired
of his friend what the news of the day might be.
"Oh, nothing that I know of," replied Bouchette promptly, and quite
unconcernedly. "I have just got out of my bed and came here directly."
If a mountain had been taken from the shoulders of poor M. Belmont, he
could not have felt more relief than he did on hearing these few words.
He simply could not contain his joy. Leaping up from his seat, he
slapped his friend on the shoulder, and exclaimed:
"Well, Bouchette, we shall have a glass of wine, some of my best old
Burgundy. Your visit has done me a world of good."
The little grey eyes of Batoche were fixed like gimlets on the wall
opposite, at the line where it touched the ceiling. There was a glassy
light in them. He had gone off suddenly into one of his absent moods.
But it was only for a moment. Recovering himself, he too rose abruptly
from his seat, bringing his right arm down with a bang upon his thigh,
and muttering a few inarticulate words.
The wine was quaffed with pledges and _bons mots_. A second round of
glasses was indulged in, and when the interview closed at length,
Bouchette thundered out of the house as heartily as he had entered it.
"Well!" exclaimed M. Belmont, closing the door and confronting Batoche
in the hall.
"Well!" replied the other quietly.
"What do you say?"
"What do I say? I say that this man will never speak a word of what has
happened. So you may rest easy."
"And what do you think of himself?"
"He is a great man."
"And a good one."
"A true Knight of St. Louis."
"A friend of his countrymen."
"Yes. I admire his generosity and magnanimity, and I admire the
wonderful instinct of Zulma Sarpy who gauged him so well that she wrung
his liberation from me."
When Pauline descended from her private apartments after a long day's
rest, and was made acquainted with so much of the sailor's visit as
concerned herself, she was deeply moved, and the more that she observed
her father's intense gratification. The whole episode imparted a
happiness to that house such as it had not enjoyed for many days
previous, and such as it was not destined to enjoy later.
IX.
PAULINE'S DEVELOPMENT.
Insensibly a change was coming over Pauline. The sharp, varied
experiences of the past month had a decisive schooling influence upon
her. It is often the case that simple untutored natures like her develop
more rapidly in days of crisis than characters fashioned of sterner
material. There is no preliminary work of undoing to be gone through.
The ground is ready prepared for strong and lasting impressions. The
process of creation is hampered by no obstacles. There is, on the
contrary, a latent spontaneity which accelerates its action.
Pauline herself was hardly conscious of this change. At least she could
not formulate it in words, or even enumerate its phases by any system of
analysis, but there were moments when her mind surged with feelings
which she knew that she had never felt before, and she caught herself
framing visions whose very vagueness of outline swelled before her like
the shadows of a portent. At times, too, through these mists there
flashed illuminations which startled her, and made her innocent heart
shrink as if they were presentiments of doom.
She had seen so much, she had heard so much, she had learned so much
during these eventful weeks. The old peaceful life was gone, and it
seemed ever so far away. She was certain that it would never return
again. Amid her trouble, there was even a tinge of pleasure in this
assurance. That was, at least, one thing of which she was positive. All
else was so doubtful, the future appeared so capricious, her fate and
the fate of those she loved was shrouded in such mystery.
On the evening of the day on which occurred the incidents related in
the last chapter, she was sitting alone in her room. A circumstance
which, of itself, should have excited in her emotions of pleasure, threw
her into a train of painful rehearsals. Her father was singing snatches
of his old French songs in the room below--a thing he had not done for
weeks. This reminded her of the visit of Bouchette, and from that point
her mind travelled backwards to all the scenes, and their concomitants,
of which she had of late been the witness. There was the snow-storm in
Cathedral Square, when her father was summoned to the presence of the
Lieutenant-Governor; there was the burning of Roderick's letter; there
was the dreadful altercation and the happy reconciliation between him
and her father; there was the firing on the handsome young American from
the walls; there was the visit to the Sarpys; there was the night ride
back to the town; there was the dazzling magnificence of the Governor's
ball. And through all this she saw the weird form of Batoche, flitting
in and out, silent, mysterious, terrible. She saw the yearning, anxious,
loving face of Roderick Hardinge. She saw Zulma leaning towards her,
and, as it were, growing to her with a sister's fondness. The spell of
Zulma's affection appeared to her like the embrace of a great spirit,
overpowering, irresistible, and withal delicious in its strength. And in
spite of her she saw--why should the vision be so vivid?--the beautiful,
sad eyes of Cary Singleton, as he sat beside her at the Sarpy mansion,
or parted from her at the St. Louis Gate. She remembered how noble he
looked as he conferred with Roderick under the walls, when bearing the
flag of truce; how proudly he walked back to the ranks of the army, nor
even deigned to look back when a miscreant fired at him from the
ramparts. She recalled every word that Zulma had spoken about him, so
that she seemed to know him as well as Zulma herself.
When Pauline had gone over all these things several times, in that
extraordinary jumbling yet keenly distinct way with which such
reminiscences will troop to the memory, she felt positively fatigued,
and a sense of oppression lay like a burden at her heart. She closed her
eyes while a shudder passed through her frame. She feared that she might
be ill, and it required all the tranquil courage of her nature not to
yield outright to the collapse with which she was threatened.
At length she bethought her of a means to regain her serenity. She would
write a long letter to Zulma, describing the Governor's ball. She at
once set about the task. But when the paper was spread out, she
encountered a difficulty at the very threshold. Would she write about
herself? Would she speak of Roderick? Would she repeat the salutation of
his Excellency? Would she narrate her interview with Captain Bouchette?
If she did, she would relapse at once into the train of ideas of which
it was the object of her letter to get rid. Already, two or three times,
she had detected herself gliding into them, with pen poised in her hand.
"No," she murmured with a slight laugh. "I will do nothing of the kind.
I will write like a milliner. I will give a detailed account of the
dress worn by every lady in the château. This may amuse Zulma, or it may
disgust her, according to her mood when she reads the letter. But no
matter. It will answer my purpose. Zulma has often scolded me for not
being selfish enough. I will be selfish for once."
With this plan well defined, the writing of the letter was an easy and a
pleasant task. As the pen flew over the paper, Pauline showed that she
enjoyed her work. At times she would smile, and her whole face would
light up. At other times she would stop and reread a passage with
evident approbation. Page after page was covered with the mystic
language of the _modiste_, in which Pauline must have been an adept--as
what young woman is not?--for she made no erasures, and inserted no
corrections.
"Now that I have come to my own costume, shall I describe it?" she asked
herself, and almost immediately added:
"It would be affectation if I did not."
She forthwith devoted a whole page to the description.
Were we not right in saying that a great change had come over Pauline?
She, who only a few weeks ago, was the simplest and most unsophisticated
of girls, now knew the meaning of that dreadful word--affectation. She
not only knew what it was, but she knew that it must be avoided, and she
took particular pains to avoid it.
A little later on she asked herself again:
"Shall I make any mention of Roddy?"
The query was apparently not so easily answered as the other. She passed
her left hand wearily over the smooth hair that shaded her temple. Her
eyes were fixed vacantly on the green baize of the table. There was just
the slightest trace of hardness, if that were possible, on her features.
At length she whispered:
"Zulma would think it strange if I did not. Besides, I know she admires
Roddy. Yes, I must tell her about the Lieutenant--oh, beg pardon, the
Captain," and she smiled in her natural way. "Of course she must hear of
his promotion. Poor Roddy! How proud he was of it. And he seemed to
cling to me closer afterwards, as if he meant that I should share half
of the honour."
After detailing that circumstance, she added a few words about Carleton
and Bouchette, and wound up by expressing the regret, which was sincere
with her, that Zulma had not been present at the festival. She wrote:
"Captain Bouchette was kind enough to name some one whom you know as the
belle of the ball. That was flattery, of course. But had some one whom I
know been there, not only M. Bouchette, but the Governor himself and all
the company, not excepting Roderick, would have acclaimed her queen."
This was not an idle compliment from one girl to another. It was a
courtly tribute from woman to woman. Clearly, Pauline was making rapid
progress.
The letter was immediately folded and addressed. Holding it in her hand,
as she rose from the table, Pauline felt wonderfully refreshed. She
glanced through the window, on her way down stairs, and a new horizon
spread before her. Her misgivings for the time had departed, her doubts
were dispelled, and all that remained was a certain buoyant hopefulness,
which she could not explain.
She met her father below and inquired after Batoche.
"He is not here, my dear, but may return to-night."
"I have a letter for him."
"A letter for Batoche?"
"That is, a letter which I would wish him to carry?"
"For whom?"
"For Zulma Sarpy."
"Oh, that is very well. Write to Zulma. Cultivate her friendship. She is
a grand girl."
Batoche did call again at M. Belmont's that night, but it was only for a
moment, as he was about to betake himself once more out of the town. He
accepted Pauline's commission with alacrity.
"I will deliver the letter myself," he said. "I am glad of the chance to
see that magnificent creature again."
X.
ON THE CITADEL.
The next day, instead of experiencing the usual reaction, Pauline
continued in precisely the same state of mind as when she handed the
letter to Batoche. She was not by any means gay. For instance, she could
not have sung a comical song with zest. But she was more than merely
calm. There was a quickening impulse of vague expectancy within her
which led her to move about the house with a light step and a smiling
face. Her father was much pleased, as he too had not outlived the effect
produced upon him by the visit of Bouchette. Furthermore, the weather
may have contributed to the pleasantness that reigned in the house. The
sun was shining brightly, the wind had fallen, and the snow lay crisp
upon the streets inviting to a promenade.
Hardinge called about noon for the purpose of asking Pauline to
accompany him in a little walk.
"I have a couple of hours before me--a thing I may not have every
day--and a ramble will do both of us good," he said.
Pauline was soon ready with the cordial consent of her father.