The Governor was surprised and delighted to encounter Lady de Tilly and
her fair niece, both of whom were well known to and highly esteemed
by him. He and the gentlemen of his suite saluted them with profound
respect, not unmingled with chivalrous admiration for noble,
high-spirited women.
“My honored Lady de Tilly and Mademoiselle de Repentigny,” said the
Governor, hat in hand, “welcome to Quebec. It does not surprise, but
it does delight me beyond measure to meet you here at the head of your
loyal censitaires. But it is not the first time that the ladies of the
House of Tilly have turned out to defend the King's forts against his
enemies.”
This he said in allusion to the gallant defence of a fort on the wild
Iroquois frontier by a former lady of her house.
“My Lord Count,” replied the lady, with quiet dignity, “'tis no special
merit of the house of Tilly to be true to its ancient fame--it could not
be otherwise. But your thanks are at this time more due to these loyal
habitans, who have so promptly obeyed your proclamation. It is the
King's corvée to restore the walls of Quebec, and no Canadian may
withhold his hand from it without disgrace.”
“The Chevalier La Corne St. Luc will think us two poor women a weak
accession to the garrison,” added she, turning to the Chevalier and
cordially offering her hand to the brave old officer, who had been the
comrade in arms of her husband and the dearest friend of her family.
“Good blood never fails, my Lady,” returned the Chevalier, warmly
grasping her hand. “You out of place here? No! no! you are at home on
the ramparts of Quebec, quite as much as in your own drawing-room at
Tilly. The walls of Quebec without a Tilly and a Repentigny would be a
bad omen indeed, worse than a year without a spring or a summer without
roses. But where is my dear goddaughter Amélie?”
As he spoke the old soldier embraced Amélie and kissed her cheek with
fatherly effusion. She was a prodigious favorite. “Welcome, Amélie!”
said he, “the sight of you is like flowers in June. What a glorious time
you have had, growing taller and prettier every day all the time I have
been sleeping by camp-fires in the forests of Acadia! But you girls are
all alike; why, I hardly knew my own pretty Agathe when I came home. The
saucy minx almost kissed my eyes out--to dry the tears of joy in them,
she said!”
Amélie blushed deeply at the praises bestowed upon her, yet felt glad
to know that her godfather retained all his old affection. “Where is
Le Gardeur?” asked he, as she took his arm and walked a few paces apart
from the throng.
Amélie colored deeply, and hesitated a moment. “I do not know,
godfather! We have not seen Le Gardeur since our arrival.” Then after a
nervous silence she added, “I have been told that he is at Beaumanoir,
hunting with His Excellency the Intendant.”
La Corne, seeing her embarrassment, understood the reluctance of her
avowal, and sympathized with it. An angry light flashed beneath his
shaggy eyelashes, but he suppressed his thoughts. He could not help
remarking, however, “With the Intendant at Beaumanoir! I could have
wished Le Gardeur in better company! No good can come of his intimacy
with Bigot; Amélie, you must wean him from it. He should have been in
the city to receive you and the Lady de Tilly.”
“So he doubtless would have been, had he known of our coming. We sent
word, but he was away when our messenger reached the city.”
Amélie felt half ashamed, for she was conscious that she was offering
something unreal to extenuate the fault of her brother--her hopes rather
than her convictions.
“Well, well! goddaughter! we shall, at any rate, soon have the pleasure
of seeing Le Gardeur. The Intendant himself has been summoned to
attend a council of war today. Colonel Philibert left an hour ago for
Beaumanoir.”
Amélie gave a slight start at the name; she looked inquiringly, but did
not yet ask the question that trembled on her lips.
“Thanks, godfather, for the good news of Le Gardeur's speedy return.”
Amélie talked on, her thoughts but little accompanying her words as
she repeated to herself the name of Philibert. “Have you heard that the
Intendant wishes to bestow an important and honorable post in the Palace
upon Le Gardeur--my brother wrote to that effect?”
“An important and honorable post in the Palace?” The old soldier
emphasized the word HONORABLE. “No, I had not heard of it,--never expect
to hear of an honorable post in the company of Bigot, Cadet, Varin, De
Pean, and the rest of the scoundrels of the Friponne! Pardon me, dear,
I do not class Le Gardeur among them, far from it, dear deluded boy! My
best hope is that Colonel Philibert will find him and bring him clean
and clear out of their clutches.”
The question that had trembled on her lips came out now. For her life
she could not have retained it longer.
“Who is Colonel Philibert, godfather?” asked she, surprise, curiosity,
and a still deeper interest marking her voice, in spite of all she could
do to appear indifferent.
“Colonel Philibert?” repeated La Corne. “Why, do not you know? Who but
our young Pierre Philibert; you have not forgotten him, surely, Amélie?
At any rate he has not forgotten you: in many a long night by our
watch-fires in the forest has Colonel Philibert passed the hours talking
of Tilly and the dear friends he left there. Your brother at any rate
will gratefully remember Philibert when he sees him.”
Amélie blushed a little as she replied somewhat shyly, “Yes, godfather,
I remember Pierre Philibert very well,--with gratitude I remember
him,--but I never heard him called Colonel Philibert before.”
“Oh, true! He has been so long absent. He left a simple ensign en second
and returns a colonel, and has the stuff in him to make a field-marshal!
He gained his rank where he won his glory--in Acadia. A noble fellow,
Amélie! loving as a woman to his friends, but to his foes stern as the
old Bourgeois, his father, who placed that tablet of the golden dog upon
the front of his house to spite the Cardinal, they say,--the act of a
bold man, let what will be the true interpretation of it.”
“I hear every one speak well of the Bourgeois Philibert,” remarked
Amélie. “Aunt de Tilly is ever enthusiastic in his commendation. She
says he is a true gentleman, although a trader.”
“Why, he is noble by birth, if that be needed, and has got the King's
license to trade in the Colony like some other gentlemen I wot of.
He was Count Philibert in Normandy, although he is plain Bourgeois
Philibert in Quebec; and a wise man he is too, for with his ships and
his comptoirs and his ledgers he has traded himself into being the
richest man in New France, while we, with our nobility and our swords,
have fought ourselves poor, and receive nothing but contempt from the
ungrateful courtiers of Versailles.”
Their conversation was interrupted by a sudden rush of people, making
room for the passage of the Regiment of Béarn, which composed part
of the garrison of Quebec, on their march to their morning drill and
guard-mounting,--bold, dashing Gascons in blue and white uniforms, tall
caps, and long queues rollicking down their supple backs, seldom seen by
an enemy.
Mounted officers, laced and ruffled, gaily rode in front. Subalterns
with spontoons and sergeants with halberds dressed the long line of
glistening bayonets. The drums and fifes made the streets ring again,
while the men in full chorus, à gorge deployée, chanted the gay refrain
of La Belle Canadienne in honor of the lasses of Quebec.
The Governor and his suite had already mounted their horses, and
cantered off to the Esplanade to witness the review.
“Come and dine with us today,” said the Lady de Tilly to La Corne St.
Luc, as he too bade the ladies a courteous adieu, and got on horseback
to ride after the Governor.
“Many thanks! but I fear it will be impossible, my Lady: the council
of war meets at the Castle this afternoon. The hour may be deferred,
however, should Colonel Philibert not chance to find the Intendant at
Beaumanoir, and then I might come; but best not expect me.”
A slight, conscious flush just touched the cheek of Amélie at the
mention of Colonel Philibert.
“But come if possible, godfather,” added she; “we hope to have Le
Gardeur home this afternoon. He loves you so much, and I know you have
countless things to say to him.”
Amélie's trembling anxiety about her brother made her most desirous to
bring the powerful influence of La Corne St. Luc to bear upon him.
Their kind old godfather was regarded with filial reverence by both.
Amélie's father, dying on the battle-field, had, with his latest breath,
commended the care of his children to the love and friendship of La
Corne St. Luc.
“Well, Amélie, blessed are they who do not promise and still perform.
I must try and meet my dear boy, so do not quite place me among the
impossibles. Good-by, my Lady. Good-by, Amélie.” The old soldier gaily
kissed his hand and rode away.
Amélie was thoroughly surprised and agitated out of all composure by the
news of the return of Pierre Philibert. She turned aside from the
busy throng that surrounded her, leaving her aunt engaged in eager
conversation with the Bishop and Father de Berey. She sat down in a
quiet embrasure of the wall, and with one hand resting her drooping
cheek, a train of reminiscences flew across her mind like a flight of
pure doves suddenly startled out of a thicket.
She remembered vividly Pierre Philibert, the friend and fellow-student
of her brother: he spent so many of his holidays at the old Manor-House
of Tilly, when she, a still younger girl, shared their sports, wove
chaplets of flowers for them, or on her shaggy pony rode with them on
many a scamper through the wild woods of the Seigniory. Those summer and
winter vacations of the old Seminary of Quebec used to be looked forward
to by the young, lively girl as the brightest spots in the whole year,
and she grew hardly to distinguish the affection she bore her brother
from the regard in which she held Pierre Philibert.
A startling incident happened one day, that filled the inmates of the
Manor House with terror, followed by a great joy, and which raised
Pierre Philibert to the rank of an unparalleled hero in the imagination
of the young girl.
Her brother was gambolling carelessly in a canoe, while she and Pierre
sat on the bank watching him. The light craft suddenly upset. Le Gardeur
struggled for a few moments, and sank under the blue waves that look so
beautiful and are so cruel.
Amélie shrieked in the wildest terror and in helpless agony, while
Philibert rushed without hesitation into the water, swam out to the
spot, and dived with the agility of a beaver. He presently reappeared,
bearing the inanimate body of her brother to the shore. Help was
soon obtained, and, after long efforts to restore Le Gardeur to
consciousness,--efforts which seemed to last an age to the despairing
girl,--they at last succeeded, and Le Gardeur was restored to the
arms of his family. Amélie, in a delirium of joy and gratitude, ran to
Philibert, threw her arms round him, and kissed him again and again,
pledging her eternal gratitude to the preserver of her brother, and
vowing that she would pray for him to her life's end.
Soon after that memorable event in her young life, Pierre Philibert was
sent to the great military schools in France to study the art of war
with a view to entering the King's service, while Amélie was placed in
the Convent of the Ursulines to be perfected in all the knowledge and
accomplishments of a lady of highest rank in the Colony.
Despite the cold shade of a cloister, where the idea of a lover is
forbidden to enter, the image of Pierre Philibert did intrude, and
became inseparable from the recollection of her brother in the mind
of Amélie. He mingled as the fairy prince in the day-dreams and bright
imaginings of the young, poetic girl. She had vowed to pray for him to
her life's end, and in pursuance of her vow added a golden bead to
her chaplet to remind her of her duty in praying for the safety and
happiness of Pierre Philibert.
But in the quiet life of the cloister, Amélie heard little of the storms
of war upon the frontier and down in the far valleys of Acadia. She had
not followed the career of Pierre from the military school to the camp
and the battlefield, nor knew of his rapid promotion, as one of the
ablest officers in the King's service, to a high command in his native
Colony.
Her surprise, therefore, was extreme when she learned that the boy
companion of her brother and herself was no other than the renowned
Colonel Philibert, Aide-de-Camp of His Excellency the Governor-General.
There was no cause for shame in it; but her heart was suddenly
illuminated by a flash of introspection. She became painfully conscious
how much Pierre Philibert had occupied her thoughts for years, and now
all at once she knew he was a man, and a great and noble one. She was
thoroughly perplexed and half angry. She questioned herself sharply, as
if running thorns into her flesh, to inquire whether she had failed in
the least point of maidenly modesty and reserve in thinking so much of
him; and the more she questioned herself, the more agitated she grew
under her self-accusation: her temples throbbed violently; she hardly
dared lift her eyes from the ground lest some one, even a stranger, she
thought, might see her confusion and read its cause. “Sancta Maria,”
she murmured, pressing her bosom with both hands, “calm my soul with thy
divine peace, for I know not what to do!”
So she sat alone in the embrasure, living a life of emotion in a few
minutes; nor did she find any calm for her agitated spirits until the
thought flashed upon her that she was distressing herself needlessly. It
was most improbable that Colonel Philibert, after years of absence and
active life in the world's great affairs, could retain any recollection
of the schoolgirl of the Manor House of Tilly. She might meet him, nay,
was certain to do so in the society in which both moved; but it would
surely be as a stranger on his part, and she must make it so on her own.
With this empty piece of casuistry, Amélie, like others of her sex,
placed a hand of steel, encased in a silken glove, upon her heart,
and tyrannically suppressed its yearnings. She was a victim, with the
outward show of conquest over her feelings. In the consciousness of
Philibert's imagined indifference and utter forgetfulness, she could
meet him now, she thought, with equanimity--nay, rather wished to do so,
to make sure that she had not been guilty of weakness in regard to
him. She looked up, but was glad to see her aunt still engaged in
conversation with the Bishop on a topic which Amélie knew was dear to
them both,--the care of the souls and bodies of the poor, in particular
those for whom the Lady de Tilly felt herself responsible to God and the
King.
While Amélie sat thinking over the strange chances of the morning, a
sudden whirl of wheels drew her attention.
A gay calèche, drawn by two spirited horses en flèche, dashed through
the gateway of St. John, and wheeling swiftly towards Amélie, suddenly
halted. A young lady attired in the gayest fashion of the period,
throwing the reins to the groom, sprang out of the calèche with the ease
and elasticity of an antelope. She ran up the rampart to Amélie with a
glad cry of recognition, repeating her name in a clear, musical voice,
which Amélie at once knew belonged to no other than the gay, beautiful
Angélique des Meloises. The newcomer embraced Amélie and kissed her,
with warmest expressions of joy at meeting her thus unexpectedly in the
city. She had learned that Lady de Tilly had returned to Quebec, she
said, and she had, therefore, taken the earliest opportunity to find
out her dear friend and school-fellow to tell her all the doings in the
city.
“It is kind of you, Angélique,” replied Amélie, returning her caress
warmly, but without effusion. “We have simply come with our people
to assist in the King's corvée; when that is done, we shall return to
Tilly. I felt sure I should meet you, and thought I should know you
again easily, which I hardly do. How you are changed--for the better, I
should say, since you left off conventual cap and costume!” Amélie could
not but look admiringly on the beauty of the radiant girl. “How handsome
you have grown! but you were always that. We both took the crown
of honor together, but you would alone take the crown of beauty,
Angélique.” Amélie stood off a pace or two, and looked at her friend
from head to foot with honest admiration, “and would deserve to wear it
too,” added she.
“I like to hear you say that, Amélie; I should prefer the crown of
beauty to all other crowns! You half smile at that, but I must tell the
truth, if you do. But you were always a truth-teller, you know, in the
convent, and I was not so! Let us cease flatteries.”
Angélique felt highly flattered by the praise of Amélie, whom she had
sometimes condescended to envy for her graceful figure and lovely,
expressive features.
“Gentlemen often speak as you do, Amélie,” continued she, “but, pshaw!
they cannot judge as girls do, you know. But do you really think me
beautiful? and how beautiful? Compare me to some one we know.”
“I can only compare you to yourself, Angélique. You are more beautiful
than any one I know,” Amélie burst out in frank enthusiasm.
“But, really and truly, do you think me beautiful, not only in your
eyes, but in the judgment of the world?”
Angélique brushed back her glorious hair and stared fixedly in the
face of her friend, as if seeking confirmation of something in her own
thoughts.
“What a strange question, Angélique! Why do you ask me in that way?”
“Because,” replied she with bitterness, “I begin to doubt it. I have
been praised for my good looks until I grow weary of the iteration; but
I believed the lying flattery once,--as what woman would not, when it is
repeated every day of her life?”
Amélie looked sufficiently puzzled. “What has come over you, Angélique?
Why should you doubt your own charms? or really, have you found at last
a case in which they fail you?”
Very unlikely, a man would say at first, second, or third sight of
Angélique des Meloises. She was indeed a fair girl to look upon,--tall,
and fashioned in nature's most voluptuous mould, perfect in the symmetry
of every part, with an ease and beauty of movement not suggestive of
spiritual graces, like Amélie's, but of terrestrial witcheries, like
those great women of old who drew down the very gods from Olympus, and
who in all ages have incited men to the noblest deeds, or tempted them
to the greatest crimes.
She was beautiful of that rare type of beauty which is only reproduced
once or twice in a century to realize the dreams of a Titian or a
Giorgione. Her complexion was clear and radiant, as of a descendant of
the Sun God. Her bright hair, if its golden ripples were shaken out,
would reach to her knees. Her face was worthy of immortality by the
pencil of a Titian. Her dark eyes drew with a magnetism which attracted
men, in spite of themselves, whithersoever she would lead them. They
were never so dangerous as when, in apparent repose, they sheathed their
fascination for a moment, and suddenly shot a backward glance, like a
Parthian arrow, from under their long eyelashes, that left a wound to be
sighed over for many a day.
The spoiled and petted child of the brave, careless Renaud d'Avesne des
Meloises, of an ancient family in the Nivernois, Angélique grew up
a motherless girl, clever above most of her companions, conscious of
superior charms, always admired and flattered, and, since she left the
Convent, worshipped as the idol of the gay gallants of the city, and the
despair and envy of her own sex. She was a born sovereign of men, and
she felt it. It was her divine right to be preferred. She trod the earth
with dainty feet, and a step aspiring as that of the fair Louise de
La Vallière when she danced in the royal ballet in the forest of
Fontainebleau and stole a king's heart by the flashes of her pretty
feet. Angélique had been indulged by her father in every caprice, and in
the gay world inhaled the incense of adulation until she regarded it as
her right, and resented passionately when it was withheld.
She was not by nature bad, although vain, selfish, and aspiring. Her
footstool was the hearts of men, and upon it she set hard her beautiful
feet, indifferent to the anguish caused by her capricious tyranny. She
was cold and calculating under the warm passions of a voluptuous nature.
Although many might believe they had won the favor, none felt sure they
had gained the love of this fair, capricious girl.