Produced by Donald Lainson
THE GOLDEN DOG. (LE CHIEN D'OR.)
By William Kirby
AUTHOR'S PREFATORY NOTE.
TO THE PUBLIC:
In the year 1877 the first edition of “The Golden Dog” (Le Chien d'Or)
was brought out in the United States, entirely without my knowledge or
sanction. Owing to the inadequacy of the then existing copyright laws,
I have been powerless to prevent its continued publication, which I
understand to have been a successful and profitable undertaking for
all concerned, except the author, the book having gone through many
editions.
It was, consequently, a source of gratification to me when I was
approached by Messrs. L. C. Page & Company, of Boston, with a request to
revise “The Golden Dog,” and re-publish it through them. The result is
the present edition, which I have corrected and revised in the light of
the latest developments in the history of Quebec, and which is the only
edition offered to my readers with the sanction and approval of its
author.
WILLIAM KIRBY.
Niagara, Canada, May, 1897.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
I. MEN OF THE OLD RÉGIME
II. THE WALLS OF QUEBEC
III. A CHATELAINE OF NEW FRANCE
IV. CONFIDENCES
V. THE ITINERANT NOTARY
VI. BEAUMANOIR
VII. THE INTENDANT BIGOT
VIII. CAROLINE DE ST. CASTIN
IX. PIERRE PHILIBERT
X. AMÉLIE DE REPENTIGNY
XI. THE SOLDIER'S WELCOME
XII. THE CASTLE OF ST. LOUIS
XIII. THE CHIEN D'OR
XIV. THE COUNCIL OF WAR
XV. THE CHARMING JOSEPHINE
XVI. ANGÉLIQUE DES MELOISES
XVII. SPLENDIDE MENDAX
XVIII. THE MEROVINGIAN PRINCESS
XIX. PUT MONEY IN THY PURSE
XX. BELMONT
XXI. SIC ITUR AD ASTRA
XXII. SO GLOZED THE TEMPTER
XXIII. SEALS OF LOVE, BUT SEALED IN VAIN
XXIV. THE HURRIED QUESTION OF DESPAIR
XXV. BETWIXT THE LAST VIOLET AND THE EARLIEST ROSE
XXVI. THE CANADIAN BOAT SONG
XXVII. CHEERFUL YESTERDAYS AND CONFIDENT TO-MORROWS
XXVIII. A DAY AT THE MANOR HOUSE
XXIX. FELICES TER ET AMPLIUS
XXX. “NO SPEECH OF SILK WILL SERVE YOUR TURN”
XXXI. THE BALL AT THE INTENDANT'S PALACE
XXXII. “ON WITH THE DANCE”
XXXIII. LA CORRIVEAU
XXXIV. WEIRD SISTERS
XXXV. “FLASKETS OF DRUGS, FULL TO THEIR WICKED LIPS”
XXXVI. THE BROAD, BLACK GATEWAY OF A LIE
XXXVII. ARRIVAL OF PIERRE PHILIBERT
XXXVIII. A WILD NIGHT INDOORS AND OUT
XXXIX. MÈRE MALHEUR
XL. QUOTH THE RAVEN, “NEVERMORE!”
XLI. A DEED WITHOUT A NAME
XLII. “LET'S TALK OF GRAVES AND WORMS AND EPITAPHS”
XLIII. SILK GLOVES OVER BLOODY HANDS
XLIV. THE INTENDANT'S DILEMMA
XLV. “I WILL FEED FAT THE ANCIENT GRUDGE I BEAR HIM”
XLVI. THE BOURGEOIS PHILIBERT
XLVII. A DRAWN GAME
XLVIII. “IN GOLD CLASPS LOCKS IN THE GOLDEN STORY”
XLIX. THE MARKET-PLACE ON ST. MARTIN'S DAY
L. “BLESSED THEY WHO DIE DOING THY WILL”
LI. EVIL NEWS RIDES POST
LII. THE LAMP OF REPENTIGNY
LIII. “LOVELY IN DEATH THE BEAUTEOUS RUIN LAY”
LIV. “THE MILLS OF GOD GRIND SLOWLY”
THE GOLDEN DOG.
(LE CHIEN D'OR.)
CHAPTER I. MEN OF THE OLD RÉGIME.
“'See Naples, and then die!' That was a proud saying, Count, which we
used to hear as we cruised under lateen sails about the glorious bay
that reflects from its waters the fires of Vesuvius. We believed the
boast then, Count. But I say now, 'See Quebec, and live forever!'
Eternity would be too short to weary me of this lovely scene--this
bright Canadian morning is worthy of Eden, and the glorious landscape
worthy of such a sun-rising.”
Thus exclaimed a tall, fair Swedish gentleman, his blue eyes sparkling,
and every feature glowing with enthusiasm, Herr Peter Kalm, to His
Excellency Count de la Galissonière, Governor of New France, as they
stood together on a bastion of the ramparts of Quebec, in the year of
grace 1748.
A group of French and Canadian officers, in the military uniforms
of Louis XV., stood leaning on their swords, as they conversed gaily
together on the broad gravelled walk at the foot of the rampart. They
formed the suite in attendance upon the Governor, who was out by sunrise
this morning to inspect the work done during the night by the citizens
of Quebec and the habitans of the surrounding country, who had been
hastily summoned to labor upon the defences of the city.
A few ecclesiastics, in black cassocks, dignitaries of the Church,
mingled cheerfully in the conversation of the officers. They had
accompanied the Governor, both to show their respect, and to encourage,
by their presence and exhortations, the zeal of the colonists in the
work of fortifying the capital.
War was then raging between old England and old France, and between New
England and New France. The vast region of North America, stretching far
into the interior and southwest from Canada to Louisiana, had for
three years past been the scene of fierce hostilities between the rival
nations, while the savage Indian tribes, ranged on the one side and on
the other, steeped their moccasins in the blood of French and English
colonists, who, in their turn, became as fierce, and carried on the war
as relentlessly, as the savages themselves.
Louisbourg, the bulwark of New France, projecting its mailed arm boldly
into the Atlantic, had been cut off by the English, who now overran
Acadia, and began to threaten Quebec with invasion by sea and land. Busy
rumors of approaching danger were rife in the colony, and the gallant
Governor issued orders, which were enthusiastically obeyed, for the
people to proceed to the walls and place the city in a state of defence,
to bid defiance to the enemy.
Rolland Michel Barrin, Count de la Galissonière, was remarkable no less
for his philosophical attainments, that ranked him high among the savans
of the French Academy, than for his political abilities and foresight
as a statesman. He felt strongly the vital interests involved in the
present war, and saw clearly what was the sole policy necessary for
France to adopt in order to preserve her magnificent dominion in North
America. His counsels were neither liked nor followed by the Court of
Versailles, then sinking fast into the slough of corruption that marked
the closing years of the reign of Louis XV.
Among the people who admired deeds more than words the Count was
honored as a brave and skilful admiral, who had borne the flag of
France triumphantly over the seas, and in the face of her most powerful
enemies--the English and Dutch. His memorable repulse of Admiral Byng,
eight years after the events here recorded,--which led to the death of
that brave and unfortunate officer, who was shot by sentence of court
martial to atone for that repulse,--was a glory to France, but to the
Count brought after it a manly sorrow for the fate of his opponent,
whose death he regarded as a cruel and unjust act, unworthy of the
English nation, usually as generous and merciful as it is brave and
considerate.
The Governor was already well-advanced in years. He had entered upon the
winter of life, that sprinkles the head with snow that never melts, but
he was still hale, ruddy, and active. Nature had, indeed, moulded him
in an unpropitious hour for personal comeliness, but in compensation had
seated a great heart and a graceful mind in a body low of stature,
and marked by a slight deformity. His piercing eyes, luminous with
intelligence and full of sympathy for everything noble and elevated,
overpowered with their fascination the blemishes that a too curious
scrutiny might discover upon his figure; while his mobile, handsome lips
poured out the natural eloquence of clear thoughts and noble sentiments.
The Count grew great while speaking: his listeners were carried away by
the magic of his voice and the clearness of his intellect.
He was very happy this morning by the side of his old friend, Peter
Kalm, who was paying him a most welcome visit in New France. They had
been fellow-students, both at Upsal and at Paris, and loved each other
with a cordiality that, like good wine, grew richer and more generous
with age.
Herr Kalm, stretching out his arms as if to embrace the lovely landscape
and clasp it to his bosom, exclaimed with fresh enthusiasm, “See Quebec,
and live forever!”
“Dear Kalm,” said the Governor, catching the fervor of his friend, as he
rested his hand affectionately on his shoulder, “you are as true a lover
of nature as when we sat together at the feet of Linnaeus, our glorious
young master, and heard him open up for us the arcana of God's works;
and we used to feel like him, too, when he thanked God for permitting
him to look into his treasure-house and see the precious things of
creation which he had made.”
“Till men see Quebec,” replied Kalm, “they will not fully realize the
meaning of the term, 'God's footstool.' It is a land worth living for!”
“Not only a land to live for, but a land to die for, and happy the
man who dies for it! Confess, Kalm,--thou who hast travelled in all
lands,--think'st thou not it is indeed worthy of its proud title of New
France?”
“It is indeed worthy,” replied Kalm; “I see here a scion of the old
oak of the Gauls, which, if let grow, will shelter the throne of France
itself in an empire wider than Caesar wrested from Ambiotrix.”
“Yes,” replied the Count, kindling at the words of his friend, “it
is old France transplanted, transfigured, and glorified,--where her
language, religion, and laws shall be handed down to her posterity, the
glory of North America as the mother-land is the glory of Europe!”
The enthusiastic Galissonière stretched out his hands and implored a
blessing upon the land entrusted to his keeping.
It was a glorious morning. The sun had just risen over the hilltops of
Lauzon, throwing aside his drapery of gold, purple, and crimson. The
soft haze of the summer morning was floating away into nothingness,
leaving every object fresh with dew and magnified in the limpid purity
of the air.
The broad St. Lawrence, far beneath their feet, was still partially
veiled in a thin blue mist, pierced here and there by the tall mast of a
King's ship or merchantman lying unseen at anchor; or, as the fog rolled
slowly off, a swift canoe might be seen shooting out into a streak of
sunshine, with the first news of the morning from the south shore.
Behind the Count and his companions rose the white glistening walls of
the Hôtel Dieu, and farther off the tall tower of the newly-restored
Cathedral, the belfry of the Recollets, and the roofs of the ancient
College of the Jesuits. An avenue of old oaks and maples shaded the
walk, and in the branches of the trees a swarm of birds fluttered and
sang, as if in rivalry with the gay French talk and laughter of the
group of officers, who waited the return of the Governor from the
bastion where he stood, showing the glories of Quebec to his friend.
The walls of the city ran along the edge of the cliff upwards as they
approached the broad gallery and massive front of the Castle of St.
Louis, and ascending the green slope of the broad glacis, culminated in
the lofty citadel, where, streaming in the morning breeze, radiant
in the sunshine, and alone in the blue sky, waved the white banner
of France, the sight of which sent a thrill of joy and pride into the
hearts of her faithful subjects in the New World.
The broad bay lay before them, round as a shield, and glittering like
a mirror as the mist blew off its surface. Behind the sunny slopes of
Orleans, which the river encircled in its arms like a giant lover his
fair mistress, rose the bold, dark crests of the Laurentides, lifting
their bare summits far away along the course of the ancient river,
leaving imagination to wander over the wild scenery in their midst--the
woods, glens, and unknown lakes and rivers that lay hid far from human
ken, or known only to rude savages, wild as the beasts of chase they
hunted in those strange regions.
Across the broad valley of the St. Charles, covered with green fields
and ripening harvests, and dotted with quaint old homesteads, redolent
with memories of Normandy and Brittany, rose a long mountain ridge
covered with primeval woods, on the slope of which rose the glittering
spire of Charlebourg, once a dangerous outpost of civilization. The
pastoral Lairet was seen mingling its waters with the St. Charles in
a little bay that preserves the name of Jacques Cartier, who with his
hardy companions spent their first winter in Canada on this spot, the
guests of the hospitable Donacana, lord of Quebec and of all the lands
seen from its lofty cape.
Directly beneath the feet of the Governor, on a broad strip of land that
lay between the beach and the precipice, stood the many-gabled Palace
of the Intendant, the most magnificent structure in New France. Its long
front of eight hundred feet overlooked the royal terraces and gardens,
and beyond these the quays and magazines, where lay the ships of
Bordeaux, St. Malo, and Havre, unloading the merchandise and luxuries of
France in exchange for the more rude, but not less valuable, products of
the Colony.
Between the Palace and the Basse Ville the waves at high tide washed
over a shingly beach where there were already the beginnings of a
street. A few rude inns displayed the sign of the fleur-de-lis or the
imposing head of Louis XV. Round the doors of these inns in summer-time
might always be found groups of loquacious Breton and Norman sailors in
red caps and sashes, voyageurs and canoemen from the far West in half
Indian costume, drinking Gascon wine and Norman cider, or the still
more potent liquors filled with the fires of the Antilles. The Batture
kindled into life on the arrival of the fleet from home, and in the
evenings of summer, as the sun set behind the Côte à Bonhomme, the
natural magnetism of companionship drew the lasses of Quebec down to
the beach, where, amid old refrains of French ditties and the music of
violins and tambours de Basque, they danced on the green with the jovial
sailors who brought news from the old land beyond the Atlantic.
“Pardon me, gentlemen, for keeping you waiting,” said the Governor, as
he descended from the bastion and rejoined his suite. “I am so proud of
our beautiful Quebec that I can scarcely stop showing off its charms
to my friend Herr Kalm, who knows so well how to appreciate them. But,”
continued he, looking round admiringly on the bands of citizens
and habitans who were at work strengthening every weak point in the
fortifications, “my brave Canadians are busy as beavers on their dam.
They are determined to keep the saucy English out of Quebec. They
deserve to have the beaver for their crest, industrious fellows that
they are! I am sorry I kept you waiting, however.”
“We can never count the moments lost which your Excellency gives to the
survey of our fair land,” replied the Bishop, a grave, earnest-looking
man. “Would that His Majesty himself could stand on these walls and see
with his own eyes, as you do, this splendid patrimony of the crown of
France. He would not dream of bartering it away in exchange for petty
ends and corners of Germany and Flanders, as is rumored, my Lord.”
“True words and good, my Lord Bishop,” replied the Governor; “the
retention of all Flanders now in the strong hands of the Marshal de Saxe
would be a poor compensation for the surrender of a glorious land like
this to the English.”
Flying rumors of some such proposal on the part of France had reached
the Colony, with wild reports arising out of the endless chaffering
between the negotiators for peace, who had already assembled at Aix la
Chapelle. “The fate of America will one day be decided here,” continued
the Governor; “I see it written upon this rock, 'Whoever rules Quebec
will sway the destinies of the continent.' May our noble France be wise,
and understand in time the signs of empire and of supremacy!”
The Bishop looked upwards with a sigh. “Our noble France has not yet
read those tokens, or she misunderstands them. Oh, these faithful
subjects of hers! Look at them, your Excellency.” The Bishop pointed
toward the crowd of citizens hard at work on the walls. “There is not
a man of them but is ready to risk life and fortune for the honor and
dominion of France, and yet they are treated by the Court with such
neglect, and burdened with exactions that take from life the sweet
reward of labor! They cannot do the impossible that France requires of
them--fight her battles, till her fields, and see their bread taken from
them by these new ordinances of the Intendant.”
“Well, my Lord,” replied the Governor, affecting a jocularity he did not
feel, for he knew how true were the words of the Bishop, “we must all
do our duty, nevertheless: if France requires impossibilities of us, we
must perform them! That is the old spirit! If the skies fall upon our
heads, we must, like true Gauls, hold them up on the points of our
lances! What say you, Rigaud de Vaudreuil? Cannot one Canadian surround
ten New Englanders?” The Governor alluded to an exploit of the gallant
officer whom he turned to address.
“Probatum est, your Excellency! I once with six hundred Canadians
surrounded all New England. Prayers were put up in all the churches of
Boston for deliverance when we swept the Connecticut from end to end
with a broom of fire.”
“Brave Rigaud! France has too few like you!” remarked the Governor with
a look of admiration.
Rigaud bowed, and shook his head modestly. “I trust she has ten thousand
better;” but added, pointing at his fellow-officers who stood conversing
at a short distance, “Marshal de Saxe has few the equals of these in his
camp, my Lord Count!” And well was the compliment deserved: they were
gallant men, intelligent in looks, polished in manners, and brave to a
fault, and all full of that natural gaiety that sits so gracefully on a
French soldier.
Most of them wore the laced coat and waistcoat, chapeau, boots, lace
ruffles, sash, and rapier of the period--a martial costume befitting
brave and handsome men. Their names were household words in every
cottage in New France, and many of them as frequently spoken of in the
English Colonies as in the streets of Quebec.
There stood the Chevalier de Beaujeu, a gentleman of Norman family, who
was already famed upon the frontier, and who, seven years later, in the
forests of the Monongahela, crowned a life of honor by a soldier's death
on the bloody field won from the unfortunate Braddock, defeating an army
ten times more numerous than his own.
Talking gayly with De Beaujeu were two gallant-looking young men of
a Canadian family which, out of seven brothers, lost six slain in the
service of their King--Jumonville de Villiers, who was afterwards, in
defiance of a flag of truce, shot down by order of Colonel Washington,
in the far-off forests of the Alleghenies, and his brother, Coulon
de Villiers, who received the sword of Washington when he surrendered
himself and garrison prisoners of war, at Fort Necessity, in 1754.
Coulon de Villiers imposed ignominious conditions of surrender upon
Washington, but scorned to take other revenge for the death of his
brother. He spared the life of Washington, who lived to become the
leader and idol of his nation, which, but for the magnanimity of the
noble Canadian, might have never struggled into independence.
There stood also the Sieur de Lery, the King's engineer, charged with
the fortification of the Colony, a man of Vauban's genius in the art of
defence. Had the schemes which he projected, and vainly urged upon the
heedless Court of Versailles, been carried into effect, the conquest of
New France would have been an impossibility.
Arm in arm with De Lery, in earnest conversation, walked the handsome
Claude de Beauharnais,--brother of a former Governor of the Colony,--a
graceful, gallant-looking soldier. De Beauharnais was the ancestor of a
vigorous and beautiful race, among whose posterity was the fair Hortense
de Beauharnais, who in her son, Napoleon III., seated an offshoot of
Canada upon the imperial throne of France long after the abandonment of
their ancient colony by the corrupt House of Bourbon.
Conspicuous among the distinguished officers by his tall, straight
figure and quick movements, was the Chevalier La Corne St. Luc, supple
as an Indian, and almost as dark, from exposure to the weather and
incessant campaigning. He was fresh from the blood and desolation of
Acadia, where France, indeed, lost her ancient colony, but St. Luc
reaped a full sheaf of glory at Grand Pré, in the Bay of Minas, by the
capture of an army of New Englanders. The rough old soldier was just now
all smiles and gaiety, as he conversed with Monseigneur de Pontbriant,
the venerable Bishop of Quebec, and Father de Berey, the Superior of the
Recollets.
The Bishop, a wise ruler of his Church, was also a passionate lover of
his country: the surrender of Quebec to the English broke his heart, and
he died a few months after the announcement of the final cession of the
Colony.
Father de Berey, a jovial monk, wearing the gray gown and sandals of the
Recollets, was renowned throughout New France for his wit more than for
his piety. He had once been a soldier, and he wore his gown, as he had
worn his uniform, with the gallant bearing of a King's Guardsman. But
the people loved him all the more for his jests, which never lacked the
accompaniment of genuine charity. His sayings furnished all New France
with daily food for mirth and laughter, without detracting an iota of
the respect in which the Recollets were held throughout the colony.
Father Glapion, the Superior of the Jesuits, also accompanied the
Bishop. His close, black soutane contrasted oddly with the gray, loose
gown of the Recollet. He was a meditative, taciturn man,--seeming rather
to watch the others than to join in the lively conversation that went on
around him. Anything but cordiality and brotherly love reigned between
the Jesuits and the Order of St. Francis, but the Superiors were too
wary to manifest towards each other the mutual jealousies of their
subordinates.
The long line of fortifications presented a stirring appearance that
morning. The watch-fires that had illuminated the scene during the night
were dying out, the red embers paling under the rays of the rising sun.
From a wide circle surrounding the city the people had come in--many
were accompanied by their wives and daughters--to assist in making the
bulwark of the Colony impregnable against the rumored attack of the
English.
The people of New France, taught by a hundred years of almost constant
warfare with the English and with the savage nations on their frontiers,
saw as clearly as the Governor that the key of French dominion hung
inside the walls of Quebec, and that for an enemy to grasp it was to
lose all they valued as subjects of the Crown of France.