They rode on in silence. A little beyond the village of Charlebourg
they suddenly turned into the forest of Beaumanoir, where a well-beaten
track, practicable both for carriages and horses, gave indications that
the resort of visitors to the Château was neither small nor seldom.
The sun's rays scarcely penetrated the sea of verdure overhead. The
ground was thickly strewn with leaves, the memorials of past summers;
and the dark green pines breathed out a resinous odor, fresh and
invigorating to the passing rider.
Colonel Philibert, while his thoughts were for the most part fixed on
the public dangers which led to this hasty visit of his to the Château
of Beaumanoir, had still an eye for the beauty of the forest, and not a
squirrel leaping, nor a bird fluttering among the branches, escaped his
notice as he passed by. Still he rode on rapidly, and having got fairly
into the road, soon outstripped his guide.
“A crooked road this to Beaumanoir,” remarked he at length, drawing
bridle to allow Master Pothier to rejoin him. “It is as mazy as the law.
I am fortunate, I am sure, in having a sharp notary like you to conduct
me through it.”
“Conduct you! Your Honor is leading me! But the road to Beaumanoir is as
intricate as the best case ever drawn up by an itinerant notary.”
“You seldom ride, Master Pothier?” said Philibert, observing his guide
jolting with an audible grunt at every step of his awkward nag.
“Ride, your Honor! N--no! Dame Bédard shall call me plaisant Robin
if she ever tempts me again to mount her livery horse--'if fools only
carried cruppers!' as Panurge says.”
“Why, Master Pothier?” Philibert began to be amused at his odd guide.
“Why? Then I should be able to walk to-morrow--that is all! This nag
will finish me. Hunc! hanc! hoc! He is fit to be Satan's tutor at the
seminary! Hoc! hanc! hunc! I have not declined my pronouns since I left
my accidence at the High School of Tours--not till to-day. Hunc! hanc!
hoc! I shall be jolted to jelly! Hunc! hanc! hoc!”
Philibert laughed at the classical reminiscences of his guide; but,
fearing that Pothier might fall off his horse, which he straddled like
a hay-fork, he stopped to allow the worthy notary to recover his breath
and temper.
“I hope the world appreciates your learning and talent, and that it uses
you more gently than that horse of yours,” remarked he.
“Oh, your Honor! it is kind of you to rein up by the way. I find no
fault with the world if it find none with me. My philosophy is this,
that the world is as men make it.”
“As the old saying is,--
“'To lend, or to spend, or to give in,
'Tis a very good world that we live in;
But to borrow, or beg, or get a man's own,
'Tis the very worst world that ever was known.'
And you consider yourself in the latter category, Master Pothier?”
Philibert spoke doubtingly, for a more self-complacent face than his
companion's he never saw--every wrinkle trembled with mirth; eyes,
cheeks, chin, and brows surrounded that jolly red nose of his like a
group of gay boys round a bonfire.
“Oh, I am content, your Honor! We notaries are privileged to wear furred
cloaks in the Palais de Justice, and black robes in the country when we
can get them! Look here at my robe of dignity!” He held up the tattered
tail of his gown with a ludicrous air. “The profession of notary is
meat, drink, and lodging: every man's house is free to me--his bed and
board I share, and there is neither wedding, christening, nor funeral,
in ten parishes that can go on without me. Governors and intendants
flourish and fall, but Jean Pothier dit Robin, the itinerant notary,
lives merrily: men may do without bread, but they will not live without
law--at least, in this noble, litigious New France of ours.”
“Your profession seems quite indispensable, then!” remarked Philibert.
“Indispensable! I should think so! Without proper actes the world would
soon come to an end, as did Adam's happiness in Eden, for want of a
notary.”
“A notary, Master Pothier?”
“Yes, your Honor. It is clear that Adam lost his first estate de usis et
fructibus in the Garden of Eden, simply because there was no notary to
draw up for him an indefeasable lease. Why, he had not even a bail à
chaptal (a chattel mortgage) over the beasts he had himself named!”
“Ah!” replied Philibert, smiling, “I thought Adam lost his estate
through a cunning notary who persuaded his wife to break the lease he
held; and poor Adam lost possession because he could not find a second
notary to defend his title.”
“Hum! that might be; but judgment went by default, as I have read.
It would be different now; there are notaries, in New France and Old,
capable of beating Lucifer himself in a process for either soul, body,
or estate! But, thank fortune, we are out of this thick forest now.”
The travellers had reached the other verge of the forest of Beaumanoir.
A broad plain dotted with clumps of fair trees lay spread out in a royal
domain, overlooked by a steep, wooded mountain. A silvery brook crossed
by a rustic bridge ran through the park. In the centre was a huge
cluster of gardens and patriarchal trees, out of the midst of which rose
the steep roof, chimneys, and gilded vanes, flashing in the sun, of the
Château of Beaumanoir.
The Château was a long, heavy structure of stone, gabled and pointed
in the style of the preceding century--strong enough for defence, and
elegant enough for the abode of the Royal Intendant of New France. It
had been built, some four-score years previously, by the Intendant Jean
Talon, as a quiet retreat when tired with the importunities of friends
or the persecution of enemies, or disgusted with the cold indifference
of the Court to his statesmanlike plans for the colonization of New
France.
A short distance from the Château rose a tower of rough
masonry--crenellated on top, and loopholed on the sides--which had been
built as a place of defence and refuge during the Indian wars of the
preceding century. Often had the prowling bands of Iroquois turned away
baffled and dismayed at the sight of the little fortalice surmounted
by a culverin or two, which used to give the alarm of invasion to the
colonists on the slopes of Bourg Royal, and to the dwellers along the
wild banks of the Montmorency.
The tower was now disused and partly dilapidated, but many wonderful
tales existed among the neighboring habitans of a secret passage that
communicated with the vaults of the Château; but no one had ever seen
the passage--still less been bold enough to explore it had they found
it, for it was guarded by a loup-garou that was the terror of children,
old and young, as they crowded close together round the blazing fire
on winter nights, and repeated old legends of Brittany and Normandy,
altered to fit the wild scenes of the New World.
Colonel Philibert and Master Pothier rode up the broad avenue that led
to the Château, and halted at the main gate--set in a lofty hedge
of evergreens cut into fantastic shapes, after the fashion of the
Luxembourg. Within the gate a vast and glowing garden was seen--all
squares, circles, and polygons. The beds were laden with flowers
shedding delicious odors on the morning air as it floated by, while the
ear was soothed by the hum of bees and the songs of birds revelling in
the bright sunshine.
Above the hedge appeared the tops of heavily-laden fruit-trees brought
from France and planted by Talon--cherries red as the lips of Breton
maidens, plums of Gascony, Norman apples, with pears from the glorious
valleys of the Rhone. The bending branches were just transmuting their
green unripeness into scarlet, gold, and purple--the imperial colors of
Nature when crowned for the festival of autumn.
A lofty dove-cote, surmounted by a glittering vane, turning and flashing
with every shift of the wind, stood near the Château. It was the home of
a whole colony of snow-white pigeons, which fluttered in and out of it,
wheeled in circles round the tall chimney-stacks, or strutted, cooing
and bowing together, on the high roof of the Château, a picture of
innocence and happiness.
But neither happiness nor innocence was suggested by the look of the
Château itself, as it stood bathed in bright sunshine. Its great doors
were close-shut in the face of all the beauty of the world without.
Its mullioned windows, that should have stood wide open to let in the
radiance and freshness of morning, were closely blinded, like eyes
wickedly shut against God's light that beat upon them, vainly seeking
entrance.
Outside all was still: the song of birds and the rustle of leaves alone
met the ear. Neither man nor beast was stirring to challenge Colonel
Philibert's approach, but long ere he reached the door of the Château,
a din of voices within, a wild medley of shouts, song, and laughter,
a clatter of wine-cups, and pealing notes of violins struck him with
amazement and disgust. He distinguished drunken voices singing snatches
of bacchanalian songs, while now and then stentorian mouths called for
fresh brimmers, and new toasts were drunk with uproarious applause.
The Château seemed a very pandemonium of riot and revelry, that
prolonged the night into the day, and defied the very order of nature by
its audacious disregard of all decency of time, place, and circumstance.
“In God's name, what means all this, Master Pothier?” exclaimed
Philibert, as they hastily dismounted and, tying their horses to a tree,
entered the broad walk that led to the terrace.
“That concert going on, your Honor?”--Master Pothier shook his head
to express disapproval, and smiled to express his inborn sympathy with
feasting and good-fellowship--“that, your Honor, is the heel of the
hunt, the hanging up of the antlers of the stag by the gay chasseurs who
are visiting the Intendant!”
“A hunting party, you mean? To think that men could stand such
brutishness, even to please the Intendant!”
“Stand! your Honor. I wager my gown that most of the chasseurs are lying
under the table by this time, although by the noise they make it must be
allowed there are some burly fellows upon their legs yet, who keep the
wine flowing like the cow of Montmorency.”
“'Tis horrible! 'tis damnable!” Philibert grew pale with passion
and struck his thigh with his palm, as was his wont when very angry.
“Rioting in drunkenness when the Colony demands the cool head, the
strong arm, and the true heart of every man among us! Oh, my country! my
dear country! what fate is thine to expect when men like these are thy
rulers?”
“Your Honor must be a stranger in New France or you would not express
such hasty, honest sentiments upon the Intendant's hospitality. It is
not the fashion, except among plain-spoken habitans, who always
talk downright Norman.” Master Pothier looked approvingly at Colonel
Philibert, who, listening with indignant ears, scarcely heeded his
guide.
“That is a jolly song, your Honor,” continued Pothier, waving one hand
in cadence to a ditty in praise of wine, which a loud voice was heard
singing in the Château, accompanied by a rousing chorus which startled
the very pigeons on the roof and chimney-stacks. Colonel Philibert
recognized the song as one he had heard in the Quartier Latin, during
his student life in Paris--he fancied he recognized the voice also:
“'Pour des vins de prix
Vendons tous nos livres!
C'est pen d'être gris,
Amis, soyons ivres!
Bon.
La Faridondaine!
Gai.
La Faridondé!'”
A roar of voices and a clash of glasses followed the refrain. Master
Pothier's eyes winked and blinked in sympathy. The old notary stood
on tiptoe, with outspread palms, as with ore rotundo he threw in a few
notes of his own to fill up the chorus.
Philibert cast upon his guide a look of scorn, biting his lip angrily.
“Go,” said he, “knock at the door--it needs God's thunder to break in
upon that infamous orgie. Say that Colonel Philibert brings orders from
His Excellency the Governor to the Chevalier Intendant.”
“And be served with a writ of ejectment! Pardon me! Be not angry, sir,”
pleaded Pothier supplicatingly, “I dare not knock at the door when they
are at the devil's mass inside. The valets! I know them all! They would
duck me in the brook, or drag me into the hall to make sport for the
Philistines. And I am not much of a Samson, your Honor. I could not pull
the Château down upon their heads--I wish I could!”
Master Pothier's fears did not appear ill-grounded to Philibert as a
fresh burst of drunken uproar assailed his ears. “Wait my return,” said
he, “I will knock on the door myself.” He left his guide, ran up the
broad stone steps, and knocked loudly upon the door again and again! He
tried it at last, and to his surprise found it unlatched; he pushed it
open, no servitor appearing to admit him. Colonel Philibert went boldly
in. A blaze of light almost dazzled his eyes. The Château was lit up
with lamps and candelabra in every part. The bright rays of the sun beat
in vain for admittance upon the closed doors and blinded windows,
but the splendor of midnight oil pervaded the interior of the stately
mansion, making an artificial night that prolonged the wild orgies of
the Intendant into the hours of day.