On the Rue Buade, a street commemorative of the gallant Fontenac, stood
the large, imposing edifice newly built by the Bourgeois Philibert, as
the people of the Colony fondly called Nicholas Jaquin Philibert, the
great and wealthy merchant of Quebec and their champion against the
odious monopolies of the Grand Company favored by the Intendant.
The edifice was of stone, spacious and lofty, but in style solid, plain,
and severe. It was a wonder of architecture in New France and the talk
and admiration of the Colony from Tadousac to Ville Marie. It comprised
the city residence of the Bourgeois, as well as suites of offices and
ware-rooms connected with his immense business.
The house was bare of architectural adornments; but on its façade,
blazing in the sun, was the gilded sculpture that so much piqued the
curiosity of both citizens and strangers and was the talk of every
seigniory in the land. The tablet of the Chien D'or,--the Golden
Dog,--with its enigmatical inscription, looked down defiantly upon
the busy street beneath, where it is still to be seen, perplexing the
beholder to guess its meaning and exciting our deepest sympathies over
the tragedy of which it remains the sole sad memorial.
Above and beneath the figure of a couchant dog gnawing the thigh bone
of a man is graven the weird inscription, cut deeply in the stone, as if
for all future generations to read and ponder over its meaning:
“Je suis un chien qui ronge l'os,
En le rongeant je prends mon repos.
Un temps viendra qui n'est pas venu
Que je mordrai qui m'aura mordu.”
1736.
Or in English:
“I am a dog that gnaws his bone,
I couch and gnaw it all alone--
A time will come, which is not yet,
When I'll bite him by whom I'm bit.”
The magazines of the Bourgeois Philibert presented not only an epitome
but a substantial portion of the commerce of New France. Bales of furs,
which had been brought down in fleets of canoes from the wild, almost
unknown regions of the Northwest, lay piled up to the beams--skins of
the smooth beaver, the delicate otter, black and silver fox, so rich
to the eye and silky to the touch that the proudest beauties longed for
their possession; sealskins to trim the gowns of portly burgomasters,
and ermine to adorn the robes of nobles and kings. The spoils of the
wolf, bear, and buffalo, worked to the softness of cloth by the hands of
Indian women, were stored for winter wear and to fill the sledges with
warmth and comfort when the northwest wind freezes the snow to fine dust
and the aurora borealis moves in stately possession, like an army of
spear-men, across the northern sky. The harvests of the colonists, the
corn, the wool, the flax; the timber, enough to build whole navies,
and mighty pines fit to mast the tallest admiral, were stored upon the
wharves and in the warehouses of the Bourgeois upon the banks of the St.
Lawrence, with iron from the royal forges of the Three Rivers and heaps
of ginseng from the forests, a product worth its weight in gold and
eagerly exchanged by the Chinese for their teas, silks, and sycee
silver.
The stately mansion of Belmont, overlooking the picturesque valley of
the St. Charles, was the residence proper of the Bourgeois Philibert,
but the shadow that in time falls over every hearth had fallen upon
his when the last of his children, his beloved son Pierre, left home to
pursue his military studies in France. During Pierre's absence the home
at Belmont, although kept up with the same strict attention which the
Bourgeois paid to everything under his rule, was not occupied by him.
He preferred his city mansion, as more convenient for his affairs, and
resided therein. His partner of many years of happy wedded life had been
long dead; she left no void in his heart that another could fill, but he
kept up a large household for friendship's sake, and was lavish in his
hospitality. In secret he was a grave, solitary man, caring for the
present only for the sake of the thousands dependent on him--living much
with the memory of the dear dead, and much with the hope of the future
in his son Pierre.
The Bourgeois was a man worth looking at and, at a glance, one to
trust to, whether you sought the strong hand to help, the wise head to
counsel, or the feeling heart to sympathize with you. He was tall and
strongly knit, with features of a high patrician cast, a noble head,
covered thick with grizzly hair--one of those heads so tenacious of life
that they never grow bald, but carry to the grave the snows of a hundred
years. His quick gray eyes caught your meaning ere it was half spoken.
A nose and chin, moulded with beauty and precision, accentuated his
handsome face. His lips were grave even in their smile, for gaiety was
rarely a guest in the heart of the Bourgeois--a man keenly susceptible
to kindness, but strong in resentments and not to be placated without
the fullest atonement.
The Bourgeois sat by the table in his spacious, well-furnished
drawing-room, which overlooked the Rue Buade and gave him a glimpse of
the tall, new Cathedral and the trees and gardens of the Seminary. He
was engaged in reading letters and papers just arrived from France by
the frigate, rapidly extracting their contents and pencilling on their
margins memos, for further reference to his clerks.
The only other occupant of the room was a very elderly lady, in a black
gown of rigid Huguenot fashion. A close white cap, tied under her chin,
set off to the worst advantage her sharp, yet kindly, features. Not an
end of ribbon or edge of lace could be seen to point to one hair-breadth
of indulgence in the vanities of the world by this strict old Puritan,
who, under this unpromising exterior, possessed the kindliest heart in
Christendom. Her dress, if of rigid severity, was of saintly purity, and
almost pained the eye with its precision and neatness. So fond are we of
some freedom from over-much care as from over-much righteousness, that
a stray tress, a loose ribbon, a little rent even, will relieve the
eye and hold it with a subtile charm. Under the snow white hair of
Dame Rochelle--for she it was, the worthy old housekeeper and ancient
governess of the House of Philibert--you saw a kind, intelligent face.
Her dark eyes betrayed her Southern origin, confirmed by her speech,
which, although refined by culture, still retained the soft intonation
and melody of her native Languedoc.
Dame Rochelle, the daughter of an ardent Calvinist minister, was born in
the fatal year of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, when Louis
XIV. undid the glorious work of Henri IV., and covered France with
persecution and civil war, filling foreign countries with the elect
of her population, her industry, and her wealth, exiled in the name of
religion.
Dame Rochelle's childhood had passed in the trying scenes of the great
persecution, and in the succeeding civil wars of the Cevennes she lost
all that was nearest and dearest to her--her father, her brothers, her
kindred nearly all, and lastly, a gallant gentleman of Dauphiny to whom
she was betrothed. She knelt beside him at his place of execution--or
martyrdom, for he died for his faith--and holding his hands in hers,
pledged her eternal fidelity to his memory, and faithfully kept it all
her life.
The Count de Philibert, elder brother of the Bourgeois, was an officer
of the King; he witnessed this sad scene, took pity upon the hapless
girl, and gave her a home and protection with his family in the Château
of Philibert, where she spent the rest of her life until the Bourgeois
succeeded to his childless brother. In the ruin of his house she would
not consent to leave them, but followed their fortunes to New France.
She had been the faithful friend and companion of the wife of the
Bourgeois and the educator of his children, and was now, in her old age,
the trusted friend and manager of his household. Her days were divided
between the exercises of religion and the practical duties of life. The
light that illumined her, though flowing through the narrow window of a
narrow creed, was still light of divine origin. It satisfied her faith,
and filled her with resignation, hope, and comfort.
Her three studies were the Bible, the hymns of Marot, and the sermons of
the famous Jurieu. She had listened to the prophecies of Grande Marie,
and had even herself been breathed upon on the top of Mount Peira by the
Huguenot prophet, De Serre.
Good Dame Rochelle was not without a feeling that at times the spiritual
gift she had received when a girl made itself manifest by intuitions
of the future, which were, after all, perhaps only emanations of her
natural good sense and clear intellect--the foresight of a pure mind.
The wasting persecutions of the Calvinists in the mountains of the
Cevennes drove men and women wild with desperate fanaticism. De Serre
had an immense following. He assumed to impart the Holy Spirit and the
gift of tongues by breathing upon the believers. The refugees carried
his doctrines to England, and handed down their singular ideas to modern
times; and a sect may still be found which believes in the gift of
tongues and practises the power of prophesying, as taught originally in
the Cevennes.
The good dame was not reading this morning, although the volume before
her lay open. Her glasses lay upon the page, and she sat musing by the
open window, seldom looking out, however, for her thoughts were chiefly
inward. The return of Pierre Philibert, her foster child, had filled her
with joy and thankfulness, and she was pondering in her mind the details
of a festival which the Bourgeois intended to give in honor of the
return of his only son.
The Bourgeois had finished the reading of his packet of letters, and sat
musing in silence. He too was intently thinking of his son. His face
was filled with the satisfaction of old Simeon when he cried, out of the
fulness of his heart, “Domine! nunc dimittis!”
“Dame Rochelle,” said he. She turned promptly to the voice of her
master, as she ever insisted on calling him. “Were I superstitious, I
should fear that my great joy at Pierre's return might be the prelude to
some great sorrow.”
“God's blessing on Pierre!” said she, “he can only bring joy to this
house. Thank the Lord for what He gives and what He takes! He took
Pierre, a stripling from his home, and returns him a great man, fit to
ride at the King's right hand and to be over his host like Benaiah, the
son of Jehoiada, over the host of Solomon.”
“Grand merci for the comparison, dame!” said the Bourgeois, smiling,
as he leaned back in his chair. “But Pierre is a Frenchman, and would
prefer commanding a brigade in the army of the Marshal de Saxe to
being over the host of King Solomom. But,” continued he, gravely, “I am
strangely happy to-day, Deborah,”--he was wont to call her Deborah
when very earnest,--“and I will not anticipate any mischief to mar my
happiness. Pshaw! It is only the reaction of over-excited feelings. I am
weak in the strength of my joy.”
“The still, small voice speaks to us in that way, master, to remind us
to place our trust in Heaven, not on earth, where all is transitory and
uncertain; for if a man live many years, and rejoice in them all,
let him remember the days of darkness, for they are many! We are no
strangers to the vanity and shadows of human life, master! Pierre's
return is like sunshine breaking through the clouds. God is pleased if
we bask in the sunshine when he sends it.”
“Right, dame! and so we will! The old walls of Belmont shall ring with
rejoicing over the return of their heir and future owner.”
The dame looked up delightedly at the remark of the Bourgeois. She
knew he had destined Belmont as a residence for Pierre; but the thought
suggested in her mind was, perhaps, the same which the Bourgeois had
mused upon when he gave expression to a certain anxiety.
“Master,” said she, “does Pierre know that the Chevalier Bigot was
concerned in the false accusations against you, and that it was he,
prompted by the Cardinal and the Princess de Carignan, who enforced the
unjust decree of the Court?”
“I think not, Deborah. I never told Pierre that Bigot was ever more than
the avocat du Roi in my persecution. It is what troubles me amidst my
joy. If Pierre knew that the Intendant had been my false accuser on the
part of the Cardinal, his sword would not rest a day in its scabbard
without calling Bigot to a bloody account. Indeed, it is all I myself
can do to refrain. When I met him for the first time here, in the Palace
gate, I knew him again and looked him full in the eyes, and he knew
me. He is a bold hound, and glared back at me without shrinking. Had he
smiled I should have struck him; but we passed in silence, with a salute
as mortal as enemies ever gave each other. It is well, perhaps, I wore
not my sword that day, for I felt my passion rising--a thing I abhor.
Pierre's young blood would not remain still if he knew the Intendant as
I know him. But I dare not tell him! There would be bloodshed at once,
Deborah!”
“I fear so, master! I trembled at Bigot in the old land! I tremble at
him here, where he is more powerful than before. I saw him passing one
day. He stopped to read the inscription of the Golden Dog. His face
was the face of a fiend, as he rode hastily away. He knew well how to
interpret it.”
“Ha! you did not tell me that before, Deborah!” The Bourgeois rose,
excitedly. “Bigot read it all, did he? I hope every letter of it was
branded on his soul as with red-hot iron!”
“Dear master, that is an unchristian saying, and nothing good can come
of it. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!' Our worst enemies are best
left in His hands.”
The dame was proceeding in a still more moralizing strain, when a noise
arose in the street from a crowd of persons, habitans for the most part,
congregated round the house. The noise increased to such a degree that
they stopped their conversation, and both the dame and the Bourgeois
looked out of the window at the increasing multitude that had gathered
in the street.
The crowd had come to the Rue Buade to see the famous tablet of the
Golden Dog, which was talked of in every seigniory in New France;
still more, perhaps, to see the Bourgeois Philibert himself--the great
merchant who contended for the rights of the habitans, and who would not
yield an inch to the Friponne.
The Bourgeois looked down at the ever-increasing throng,--country people
for the most part, with their wives, with not a few citizens, whom he
could easily distinguish by their dress and manner. The Bourgeois stood
rather withdrawn from the front, so as not to be recognized, for he
hated intensely anything like a demonstration, still less an ovation.
He could hear many loud voices, however, in the crowd, and caught up the
chief topics they discussed with each other.
His eyes rested several times on a wiry, jerking little fellow, whom he
recognized as Jean La Marche, the fiddler, a censitaire of the manor of
Tilly. He was a well-known character, and had drawn a large circle of
the crowd around himself.
“I want to see the Bourgeois Philibert!” exclaimed Jean La Marche. “He
is the bravest merchant in New France--the people's friend. Bless the
Golden Dog, and curse the Friponne!”
“Hurrah for the Golden Dog, and curse the Friponne!” exclaimed a score
of voices; “won't you sing, Jean?”
“Not now; I have a new ballad ready on the Golden Dog, which I shall
sing to-night--that is, if you will care to listen to me.” Jean said
this with a very demure air of mock modesty, knowing well that the
reception of a new ballad from him would equal the furor for a new aria
from the prima donna of the opera at Paris.
“We will all come to hear it, Jean!” cried they: “but take care of your
fiddle or you will get it crushed in the crowd.”
“As if I did not know how to take care of my darling baby!” said Jean,
holding his violin high above his head. “It is my only child; it will
laugh or cry, and love and scold as I bid it, and make everybody else
do the same when I touch its heart-strings.” Jean had brought his violin
under his arm, in place of a spade, to help build up the walls of the
city. He had never heard of Amphion, with his lyre, building up the
walls of Thebes; but Jean knew that in his violin lay a power of work
by other hands, if he played while they labored. “It lightened toil, and
made work go merrily as the bells of Tilly at a wedding,” said he.
There was immense talk, with plenty of laughter and no thought of
mischief, among the crowd. The habitans of en haut and the habitans
of en bas commingled, as they rarely did, in a friendly way. Nor was
anything to provoke a quarrel said even to the Acadians, whose rude
patois was a source of merry jest to the better-speaking Canadians.
The Acadians had flocked in great numbers into Quebec on the seizure of
their Province by the English, sturdy, robust, quarrelsome fellows, who
went about challenging people in their reckless way,--Etions pas mon
maître, monsieur?--but all were civil to-day, and tuques were pulled
off and bows exchanged in a style of easy politeness that would not have
shamed the streets of Paris.
The crowd kept increasing in the Rue Buade. The two sturdy beggars
who vigorously kept their places on the stone steps of the barrier, or
gateway, of the Basse Ville reaped an unusual harvest of the smallest
coin--Max Grimau, an old, disabled soldier, in ragged uniform, which he
had worn at the defence of Prague under the Marshal de Belleisle,
and blind Bartemy, a mendicant born--the former, loud-tongued and
importunate, the latter, silent and only holding out a shaking hand for
charity. No Finance Minister or Royal Intendant studied more earnestly
the problem how to tax the kingdom than Max and Blind Bartemy how to
toll the passers-by, and with less success, perhaps.
To-day was a red-letter day for the sturdy beggars, for the news
flew fast that an ovation of some popular kind was to be given to
the Bourgeois Philibert. The habitans came trooping up the rough
mountain-road that leads from the Basse Ville to the Upper Town; and
up the long stairs lined with the stalls of Basque pedlars--cheating,
loquacious varlets--which formed a by-way from the lower regions of the
Rue de Champlain--a break-neck thoroughfare little liked by the old
and asthmatical, but nothing to the sturdy “climbers,” as the habitans
called the lads of Quebec, or the light-footed lasses who displayed
their trim ankles as they flew up the breezy steps to church or market.
Max Grimau and Blind Bartemy had ceased counting their coins. The
passers-by came up in still increasing numbers, until the street, from
the barrier of the Basse Ville to the Cathedral, was filled with a
noisy, good-humored crowd, without an object except to stare at the
Golden Dog and a desire to catch a glimpse of the Bourgeois Philibert.
The crowd had become very dense, when a troop of gentlemen rode at full
speed into the Rue Buade, and after trying recklessly to force their way
through, came to a sudden halt in the midst of the surging mass.
The Intendant, Cadet, and Varin had ridden from Beaumanoir, followed by
a train of still flushed guests, who, after a hasty purification,
had returned with their host to the city--a noisy troop, loquacious,
laughing, shouting, as is the wont of men reckless at all times, and
still more defiant when under the influence of wine.
“What is the meaning of this rabble, Cadet?” asked Bigot; “they seem
to be no friends of yours. That fellow is wishing you in a hot place!”
added Bigot, laughing, as he pointed out a habitan who was shouting “A
bas Cadet!”
“Nor friends of yours, either,” replied Cadet. “They have not recognized
you yet, Bigot. When they do, they will wish you in the hottest place of
all!”
The Intendant was not known personally to the habitans as were Cadet,
Varin, and the rest. Loud shouts and execrations were freely vented
against these as soon as they were recognized.
“Has this rabble waylaid us to insult us?” asked Bigot. “But it
can hardly be that they knew of our return to the city to-day.” The
Intendant began to jerk his horse round impatiently, but without avail.
“Oh, no, your Excellency! it is the rabble which the Governor has
summoned to the King's corvée. They are paying their respects to the
Golden Dog, which is the idol the mob worships just now. They did not
expect us to interrupt their devotions, I fancy.”
“The vile moutons! their fleece is not worth the shearing!” exclaimed
Bigot angrily, at the mention of the Golden Dog, which, as he glanced
upwards, seemed to glare defiantly upon him.
“Clear the way, villains!” cried Bigot loudly, while darting his horse
into the crowd. “Plunge that Flanders cart-horse of yours into them,
Cadet, and do not spare their toes!”
Cadet's rough disposition chimed well with the Intendant's wish. “Come
on, Varin, and the rest of you,” cried he, “give spur, and fight your
way through the rabble.”
The whole troop plunged madly at the crowd, striking right and left with
their heavy hunting-whips. A violent scuffle ensued; many habitans were
ridden down, and some of the horsemen dismounted. The Intendant's
Gascon blood got furious: he struck heavily, right and left, and many a
bleeding tuque marked his track in the crowd.
The habitans recognized him at last, and a tremendous yell burst out.
“Long live the Golden Dog! Down with the Friponne!” while the more bold
ventured on the cry, “Down with the Intendant and the thieves of the
Grand Company!”
Fortunately for the troop of horsemen the habitans were utterly unarmed;
but stones began to be thrown, and efforts were made by them, not always
unsuccessfully, to pull the riders off of their horses. Poor Jean La
Marche's darling child, his favorite violin, was crushed at the first
charge. Jean rushed at the Intendant's bridle, and received a blow which
levelled him.
The Intendant and all the troop now drew their swords. A bloody
catastrophe seemed impending, when the Bourgeois Philibert, seeing the
state of affairs, despatched a messenger with tidings to the Castle of
St. Louis, and rushed himself into the street amidst the surging crowd,
imploring, threatening, and compelling them to give way.
He was soon recognized and cheered by the people; but even his influence
might have failed to calm the fiery passions excited by the Intendant's
violence, had not the drums of the approaching soldiery suddenly
resounded above the noise of the riot. In a few minutes long files of
glittering bayonets were seen streaming down the Rue du Fort. Colonel
St. Remi rode at their head, forming his troops in position to charge
the crowd. The colonel saw at once the state of affairs, and being a man
of judgment, commanded peace before resorting to force. He was at once
obeyed. The people stood still and in silence. They fell back
quietly before the troops. They had no purpose to resist the
authorities--indeed, had no purpose whatever. A way was made by the
soldiers, and the Intendant and his friends were extricated from their
danger.
They rode at once out of the mob amid a volley of execrations, which
were replied to by angry oaths and threats of the cavaliers as they
galloped across the Place d'Armes and rode pell-mell into the gateway of
the Château of St. Louis.
The crowd, relieved of their presence, grew calm; and some of the more
timid of them got apprehensive of the consequences of this outrage upon
the Royal Intendant. They dispersed quietly, singly or in groups, each
one hoping that he might not be called upon to account for the day's
proceedings.
The Intendant and his cortège of friends rode furiously into the
courtyard of the Château of St. Louis, dishevelled, bespattered, and
some of them hatless. They dismounted, and foaming with rage, rushed
through the lobbies, and with heavy trampling of feet, clattering
of scabbards, and a bedlam of angry tongues, burst into the Council
Chamber.
The Intendant's eyes shot fire. His Gascon blood was at fever heat,
flushing his swarthy cheek like the purple hue of a hurricane. He rushed
at once to the council-table, and seeing the Governor, saluted him, but
spoke in tones forcibly kept under by a violent effort.
“Your Excellency and gentlemen of the Council will excuse our delay,”
shouted Bigot, “when I inform you that I, the Royal Intendant of New
France, have been insulted, pelted, and my very life threatened by a
seditious mob congregated in the streets of Quebec.”
“I grieve much, and sympathize with your Excellency's indignation,”
replied the Governor warmly; “I rejoice you have escaped unhurt. I
despatched the troops to your assistance, but have not yet learned the
cause of the riot.”
“The cause of the riot was the popular hatred of myself for enforcing
the royal ordinances, and the seditious example set the rabble by the
notorious merchant, Philibert, who is at the bottom of all mischief in
New France.”
The Governor looked fixedly at the Intendant, as he replied
quietly,--“The Sieur Philibert, although a merchant, is a gentleman of
birth and loyal principles, and would be the last man alive, I think, to
excite a riot. Did you see the Bourgeois, Chevalier?”
“The crowd filled the street near his magazines, cheering for the
Bourgeois and the Golden Dog. We rode up and endeavored to force our way
through. But I did not see the Bourgeois himself until the disturbance
had attained its full proportions.”
“And then, your Excellency? Surely the Bourgeois was not encouraging the
mob, or participating in the riot?”
“No! I do not charge him with participating in the riot, although the
mob were all his friends and partisans. Moreover,” said Bigot, frankly,
for he felt he owed his safety to the interference of the Bourgeois, “it
would be unfair not to acknowledge that he did what he could to protect
us from the rabble. I charge Philibert with sowing the sedition that
caused the riot, not with rioting himself.”
“But I accuse him of both, and of all the mob has done!” thundered
Varin, enraged to hear the Intendant speak with moderation and justice.
“The house of the Golden Dog is a den of traitors; it ought to be pulled
down, and its stones built into a monument of infamy over its owner,
hung like a dog in the market-place.”
“Silence, Varin!” exclaimed the Governor sternly. “I will not hear the
Sieur Philibert spoken of in these injurious terms. The Intendant does
not charge him with this disturbance; neither shall you.”
“Par Dieu! you shall not, Varin!” burst in La Corne St. Luc, roused to
unusual wrath by the opprobrium heaped upon his friend the Bourgeois;
“and you shall answer to me for that you have said!”
“La Corne! La Corne!” The Governor saw a challenge impending, and
interposed with vehemence. “This is a Council of War, and not a place
for recriminations. Sit down, dear old friend, and aid me to get on
with the business of the King and his Colony, which we are here met to
consider.”
The appeal went to the heart of La Corne. He sat down. “You have spoken
generously, Chevalier Bigot, respecting the Bourgeois Philibert,”
continued the Governor. “I am pleased that you have done so. My
Aide-de-Camp, Colonel Philibert, who is just entering the Council, will
be glad to hear that your Excellency does justice to his father in this
matter.”
“The blessing of St. Bennet's boots upon such justice,” muttered Cadet
to himself. “I was a fool not to run my sword through Philibert when I
had the chance.”
The Governor repeated to Colonel Philibert what had been said by Bigot.
Colonel Philibert bowed to the Intendant. “I am under obligation to
the Chevalier Bigot,” said he, “but it astonishes me much that any one
should dare implicate my father in such a disturbance. Certainly the
Intendant does him but justice.”
This remark was not pleasing to Bigot, who hated Colonel Philibert
equally with his father. “I merely said he had not participated in the
riot, Colonel Philibert, which was true. I did not excuse your father
for being at the head of the party among whom these outrages arise. I
simply spoke truth, Colonel Philibert. I do not eke out by the inch my
opinion of any man. I care not for the Bourgeois Philibert more than for
the meanest blue cap in his following.”
This was an ungracious speech. Bigot meant it to be such. He repented
almost of the witness he had borne to the Bourgeois's endeavors to
quell the mob. But he was too profoundly indifferent to men's opinions
respecting himself to care to lie.
Colonel Philibert resented the Intendant's sneer at his father. He faced
Bigot, saying to him,--“The Chevalier Bigot has done but simple justice
to my father with reference to his conduct in regard to the riot. But
let the Intendant recollect that, although a merchant, my father is
above all things a Norman gentleman, who never swerved a hair-breadth
from the path of honor--a gentleman whose ancient nobility would dignify
even the Royal Intendant.” Bigot looked daggers at this thrust at his
own comparatively humble origin. “And this I have further to say,”
continued Philibert, looking straight in the eyes of Bigot, Varin, and
Cadet, “whoever impugns my father's honor impugns mine; and no man, high
or low, shall do that and escape chastisement!”
The greater part of the officers seated round the council-board listened
with marks of approval to Philibert's vindication of his father. But no
one challenged his words, although dark, ominous looks glanced from one
to another among the friends of the Intendant. Bigot smothered his
anger for the present, however; and to prevent further reply from his
followers he rose, and bowing to the Governor, begged His Excellency to
open the Council.
“We have delayed the business of the King too long with these personal
recriminations,” said he. “I shall leave this riot to be dealt with by
the King's courts, who will sharply punish both instigators and actors
in this outrage upon the royal authority.”
These words seemed to end the dispute for the present.