The town house of the Lady de Tilly stood on the upper part of the Place
d'Armes, a broad, roughly-paved square. The Château of St. Louis, with
its massive buildings and high, peaked roofs, filled one side of the
square. On the other side, embowered in ancient trees that had escaped
the axe of Champlain's hardy followers, stood the old-fashioned
Monastery of the Recollets, with its high belfry and broad shady porch,
where the monks in gray gowns and sandals sat in summer, reading their
breviaries or exchanging salutations with the passers-by, who always had
a kind greeting for the brothers of St. Francis.
The mansion of the Lady de Tilly was of stone, spacious and ornate, as
became the rank and wealth of the Seigneurs de Tilly. It overlooked the
Place d'Armes and the noble gardens of the Château of St. Louis, with
a magnificent sweep of the St. Lawrence, flowing majestically under the
fortress-crowned cape and the high, wooded hills of Lauzon, the farther
side of the river closing the view.
In the recess of an ornate mullioned window, half concealed by the rich,
heavy curtains of a noble room, Amélie de Repentigny sat alone--very
quiet in look and demeanor, but no little agitated in mind, as might
be noticed in the nervous contact of her hands, which lay in her lap
clasping each other very hard, as if trying to steady her thoughts.
Her aunt was receiving some lady visitors in the great drawing-room. The
hum of loud feminine voices reached the ear of Amélie, but she paid no
attention, so absorbed was she in the new and strange thoughts that
had stirred in her mind since morning, when she had learned from the
Chevalier La Corne of the return to New France of Pierre Philibert. The
news had surprised her to a degree she could not account for. Her first
thought was, how fortunate for her brother that Pierre had returned;
her second, how agreeable to herself. Why? She could not think why: she
wilfully drew an inference away from the truth that lay in her heart--it
was wholly for the sake of her brother she rejoiced in the return of his
friend and preserver. Her heart beat a little faster than usual--that
was the result of her long walk and disappointment at not meeting
Le Gardeur on her arrival yesterday. But she feared to explore her
thoughts: a rigid self-examination might discover what she instinctively
felt was deeply concealed there.
A subtile, indefinable prevision had suggested to her that Colonel
Philibert would not have failed to meet Le Gardeur at Beaumanoir, and
that he would undoubtedly accompany her brother on his return and call
to pay his respects to the Lady de Tilly and--to herself. She felt her
cheek glow at the thought, yet she was half vexed at her own foolish
fancy, as she called it. She tried to call upon her pride, but that came
very laggardly to the relief of her discomposure.
Her interview, too, with Angélique des Meloises had caused her no little
disquiet. The bold avowals of Angélique with reference to the Intendant
had shocked Amélie. She knew that her brother had given more of his
thoughts to this beautiful, reckless girl than was good for his peace,
should her ambition ever run counter to his love.
The fond sister sighed deeply when she reflected that the woman who had
power to make prize of Le Gardeur's love was not worthy of him.
It is no rare thing for loving sisters who have to resign their brothers
to others' keeping to think so. But Amélie knew that Angélique des
Meloises was incapable of that true love which only finds its own in the
happiness of another. She was vain, selfish, ambitious, and--what Amélie
did not yet know--possessed of neither scruple nor delicacy in attaining
her objects.
It had chimed the hour of noon upon the old clock of the Recollets, and
Amélie still sat looking wistfully over the great square of the Place
d'Armes, and curiously scanning every horseman that rode across it. A
throng of people moved about the square, or passed in and out of the
great arched gateway of the Castle of St. Louis. A bright shield,
bearing the crown and fleur-de-lis, surmounted the gate, and under it
walked, with military pace, a couple of sentries, their muskets and
bayonets flashing out in the sun every time they wheeled to return on
their beat. Occasionally there was a ruffle of drums: the whole
guard turned out and presented arms, as some officer of high rank, or
ecclesiastical dignitary, passed through to pay his respects to the
Governor, or transact business at the vice-regal court. Gentlemen on
foot, with chapeaux and swords, carrying a cloak on their shoulders;
ladies in visiting dress; habitans and their wives in unchanging
costume; soldiers in uniform, and black-gowned clergy, mingled in a
moving picture of city life, which, had not Amélie's thoughts been so
preoccupied to-day, would have afforded her great delight to look out
upon.
The Lady de Tilly had rather wearied of the visit of the two ladies of
the city, Madame de Grandmaison and Madame Couillard, who had bored her
with all the current gossip of the day. They were rich and fashionable,
perfect in etiquette, costume, and most particular in their society;
but the rank and position of the noble Lady de Tilly made her friendship
most desirable, as it conferred in the eyes of the world a patent of
gentility which held good against every pretension to overtop it.
The stream of city talk from the lips of the two ladies had the merit
of being perfect of its kind--softly insinuating and sweetly censorious,
superlative in eulogy and infallible in opinion. The good visitors most
conscientiously discharged what they deemed a great moral and social
duty by enlightening the Lady de Tilly on all the recent lapses and
secrets of the capital. They slid over slippery topics like skaters on
thin ice, filling their listener with anxiety lest they should break
through. But Madame de Grandmaison and her companion were too well
exercised in the gymnastics of gossip to overbalance themselves. Half
Quebec was run over and run down in the course of an hour.
Lady de Tilly listened with growing impatience to their frivolities, but
she knew society too well to quarrel with its follies when it was of no
service to do so: she contented herself with hoping it was not so bad.
The Pope was not Catholic enough to suit some people, but, for her part,
she had generally found people better than they were called.
A rather loud but well-bred exclamation of Madame de Grandmaison roused
Amélie from her day-dream.
“Not going to the Intendant's ball at the Palace, my Lady de Tilly!
neither you nor Mademoiselle de Repentigny, whom we are so sorry not to
have seen to-day? Why, it is to be the most magnificent affair ever got
up in New France. All Quebec has rung with nothing else for a fortnight,
and every milliner and modiste in the city has gone almost insane over
the superlative costumes to be worn there.”
“And it is to be the most select in its character,” chimed in Madame
Couillard; “all gentry and noblesse, not one of the bourgeois to
be invited. That class, especially the female portion of them, give
themselves such airs nowadays! As if their money made them company for
people of quality! They must be kept down, I say, or--”
“And the Royal Intendant quite agrees with the general sentiment of the
higher circles,” responded Madame de Grandmaison. “He is for keeping
down--”
“Noblesse! Noblesse!” The Lady de Tilly spoke with visible impatience.
“Who is this Royal Intendant who dares cast a slight upon the worthy,
honest bourgeoisie of this city? Is he noble himself? Not that I would
think worse of him were he not, but I have heard it disputed. He is the
last one who should venture to scorn the bourgeoisie.”
Madame de Grandmaison fanned herself in a very stately manner. “Oh, my
Lady, you surely forget! The Chevalier Bigot is a distant relative of
the Count de Marville, and the Chevalier de Grandmaison is a constant
visitor at the Intendant's! But he would not have sat at his table an
hour had he not known that he was connected with the nobility. The Count
de Marville--”
“The Count de Marville!” interrupted the Lady de Tilly, whose politeness
almost gave way. “Truly, a man is known by the company he keeps. No
credit to any one to be connected with the Count de Marville.”
Madame de Grandmaison felt rather subdued. She perceived that the Lady
de Tilly was not favorably impressed towards the Intendant. But she
tried again: “And then, my Lady, the Intendant is so powerful at Court.
He was a particular friend of Madame d'Étioles before she was known
at Court, and they say he managed her introduction to the King at the
famous masked ball at the Hôtel de Ville, when His Majesty threw
his handkerchief at her, and she became first dame du palais and the
Marquise de Pompadour. She has ever remained his firm friend, and in
spite of all his enemies could do to prevent it His Majesty made him
Intendant of New France.”
“In spite of all the King's friends could do, you mean,” replied the
Lady de Tilly, in a tone the sound of which caught the ear of Amélie,
and she knew her aunt was losing patience with her visitors. Lady de
Tilly heard the name of the royal mistress with intense disgust, but
her innate loyalty prevented her speaking disparagingly of the King.
“We will not discuss the Court,” said she, “nor the friendships of this
Intendant. I can only pray his future may make amends for his past.
I trust New France may not have as much reason as poor lost Acadia to
lament the day of his coming to the Colonies.”
The two lady visitors were not obtuse. They saw they had roused the
susceptibilities--prejudices, they called them--of the Lady de Tilly.
They rose, and smothering their disappointment under well-bred phrases,
took most polite leave of the dignified old lady, who was heartily glad
to be rid of them.
“The disagreeable old thing--to talk so of the Intendant!” exclaimed
Madame Couillard, spitefully, “when her own nephew, and heir in the
Seigniory of Tilly, is the Intendant's firmest friend and closest
companion.”
“Yes, she forgot about her own house; people always forget to look at
home when they pass judgment upon their neighbors,” replied Madame
de Grandmaison. “But I am mistaken if she will be able to impress Le
Gardeur de Repentigny with her uncharitable and unfashionable opinions
of the Intendant. I hope the ball will be the greatest social success
ever seen in the city, just to vex her and her niece, who is as proud
and particular as she is herself.”
Amélie de Repentigny had dressed herself to-day in a robe of soft muslin
of Deccan, the gift of a relative in Pondicherry. It enveloped her
exquisite form, without concealing the grace and lissomeness of her
movements. A broad blue ribbon round her waist, and in her dark hair a
blue flower, were all her adornments, except a chain and cross of gold,
which lay upon her bosom, the rich gift of her brother, and often kissed
with a silent prayer for his welfare and happiness. More than once,
under the influence of some indefinable impulse, she rose and went to
the mirror, comparing her features now with a portrait of herself taken
as a young girl in the garb of a shepherdess of Provence. Her father
used to like that picture of her, and to please him she often wore her
hair in the fashion of Provence. She did so to-day. Why? The subtile
thought in many Protean shapes played before her fancy, but she would
not try to catch it--no! rather shyly avoided its examination.
She was quite restless, and sat down again in the deep recess of the
window, watching the Place d'Armes for the appearance of her brother.
She gave a sudden start at last, as a couple of officers galloped in to
the square and rode towards the great gate of the Château; one of them
she instantly recognized as her brother, the other, a tall martial
figure in full uniform, upon a fiery gray, she did not recognize, but
she knew in her heart it could be no other than Colonel Philibert.
Amélie felt a thrill, almost painful in its pleasure, agitating her
bosom, as she sat watching the gateway they had entered. It was even a
momentary relief to her that they had turned in there instead of riding
directly to the house. It gave her time to collect her thoughts and
summon all her fortitude for the coming interview. Her fingers wandered
down to the rosary in the folds of her dress, and the golden bead, which
had so often prompted her prayer for the happiness of Pierre Philibert,
seemed to burn to the touch. Her cheek crimsoned, for a strange thought
suddenly intruded--the boy Pierre Philibert, whose image and memory
she had so long and innocently cherished, was now a man, a soldier, a
councillor, trained in courts and camps! How unmaidenly she had acted,
forgetting all this in her childish prayers until this moment! “I mean
no harm,” was all the defence she could think of. Nor had she time to
think more of herself, for, after remaining ten minutes in the Château,
just long enough to see the Governor and deliver the answer of the
Intendant to his message, the gray charger emerged from the gate. His
rider was accompanied by her brother and the well-known figure of her
godfather, La Corne St. Luc, who rode up the hill and in a minute or two
dismounted at the door of the mansion of the Lady de Tilly.
The fabled lynx, whose eye penetrates the very earth to discover hidden
treasure, did not cast a keener and more inquisitive glance than that
which Amélie, shrouded behind the thick curtains, directed from the
window at the tall, manly figure and handsome countenance of him whom
she knew to be Pierre Philibert. Let it not detract from her that she
gave way to an irresistible impulse of womanly curiosity. The Queen of
France would, under the same temptation, have done the same thing, and
perhaps without feeling half the modest shame of it that Amélie did. A
glance sufficed--but a glance that impressed upon her mind forever the
ineffaceable and perfect image of Pierre Philibert the man, who came in
place of Pierre Philibert the boy friend of Le Gardeur and of herself.