A short drive from the gate of St. John stood the old mansion of
Belmont, the country-seat of the Bourgeois Philibert--a stately park,
the remains of the primeval forest of oak, maple, and pine; trees of
gigantic growth and ample shade surrounded the high-roofed, many-gabled
house that stood on the heights of St. Foye overlooking the broad valley
of the St. Charles. The bright river wound like a silver serpent through
the flat meadows in the bottom of the valley, while the opposite slopes
of alternate field and forest stretched away to the distant range of the
Laurentian hills, whose pale blue summits mingled with the blue sky at
midday or, wrapped in mist at morn and eve, were hardly distinguishable
from the clouds behind them.
The gardens and lawns of Belmont were stirring with gay company to-day
in honor of the fête of Pierre Philibert upon his return home from the
campaign in Acadia. Troops of ladies in costumes and toilettes of the
latest Parisian fashion gladdened the eye with pictures of grace and
beauty which Paris itself could not have surpassed. Gentlemen in full
dress, in an age when dress was an essential part of a gentleman's
distinction, accompanied the ladies with the gallantry, vivacity, and
politeness belonging to France, and to France alone.
Communication with the mother country was precarious and uncertain by
reason of the war and the blockade of the Gulf by the English cruisers.
Hence the good fortune and daring of the gallant Captain Martinière in
running his frigate, the Fleur-de-Lis, through the fleet of the enemy,
enabling him among other things to replenish the wardrobes of the ladies
of Quebec with latest Parisian fashions, made him immensely popular
on this gala day. The kindness and affability of the ladies extended
without diminution of graciousness to the little midshipmen even, whom
the Captain conditioned to take with him wherever he and his officers
were invited. Captain Martinière was happy to see the lads enjoy a
few cakes on shore after the hard biscuit they had so long nibbled on
shipboard. As for himself, there was no end to the gracious smiles and
thanks he received from the fair ladies at Belmont.
At the great door of the Manor House, welcoming his guests as they
arrived, stood the Bourgeois Philibert, dressed as a gentleman of the
period, in attire rich but not ostentatious. His suit of dark velvet
harmonized well with his noble manner and bearing. But no one for a
moment could overlook the man in contemplating his dress. The keen,
discriminating eye of woman, overlooking neither dress nor man, found
both worthy of warmest commendation, and many remarks passed between
the ladies on that day that a handsomer man and more ripe and perfect
gentleman than the Bourgeois Philibert had never been seen in New
France.
His grizzled hair grew thickly all over his head, the sign of a
tenacious constitution. It was powdered and tied behind with a broad
ribbon, for he hated perukes. His strong, shapely figure was handsomely
conspicuous as he stood, chapeau in hand, greeting his guests as they
approached. His eyes beamed with pleasure and hospitality, and his
usually grave, thoughtful lips were wreathed in smiles, the sweeter
because not habitually seen upon them.
The Bourgeois had this in common with all complete and earnest
characters, that the people believed in him because they saw that he
believed in himself. His friends loved and trusted him to the uttermost,
his enemies hated and feared him in equal measure; but no one, great or
small, could ignore him and not feel his presence as a solid piece of
manhood.
It is not intellect, nor activity, nor wealth, that obtains most power
over men; but force of character, self-control, a quiet, compressed will
and patient resolve; these qualities make one man the natural ruler over
others by a title they never dispute.
The party of the Honnêtes Gens, the “honest folks” as they were
derisively called by their opponents, regarded the Bourgeois Philibert
as their natural leader. His force of character made men willingly stand
in his shadow. His clear intellect, never at fault, had extended his
power and influence by means of his vast mercantile operations over
half the continent. His position as the foremost merchant of New France
brought him in the front of the people's battle with the Grand Company,
and in opposition to the financial policy of the Intendant and the
mercantile assumption of the Friponne.
But the personal hostility between the Intendant and the Bourgeois had
its root and origin in France, before either of them crossed the ocean
to the hither shore of the Atlantic. The Bourgeois had been made very
sensible of a fact vitally affecting him, that the decrees of the
Intendant, ostensibly for the regulation of trade in New France, had
been sharply pointed against himself. “They draw blood!” Bigot had
boasted to his familiars as he rubbed his hands together with
intense satisfaction one day, when he learned that Philibert's large
trading-post in Mackinaw had been closed in consequence of the Indians
having been commanded by royal authority, exercised by the Intendant,
to trade only at the comptoirs of the Grand Company. “They draw blood!”
repeated he, “and will draw the life yet out of the Golden Dog.” It was
plain the ancient grudge of the courtly parasite had not lost a tooth
during all those years.
The Bourgeois was not a man to talk of his private griefs, or seek
sympathy, or even ask counsel or help. He knew the world was engrossed
with its own cares. The world cares not to look under the surface of
things for sake of others, but only for its own sake, its own interests,
its own pleasures.
To-day, however, cares, griefs, and resentments were cast aside, and
the Bourgeois was all joy at the return of his only son, and proud of
Pierre's achievements, and still more of the honors spontaneously paid
him. He stood at the door, welcoming arrival after arrival, the happiest
man of all the joyous company who honored Belmont that day.
A carriage with outriders brought the Count de la Galissonière and
his friend Herr Kalm and Dr. Gauthier, the last a rich old bachelor,
handsome and generous, the physician and savant par excellence of
Quebec. After a most cordial reception by the Bourgeois the Governor
walked among the guests, who had crowded up to greet him with the
respect due to the King's representative, as well as to show their
personal regard; for the Count's popularity was unbounded in the Colony
except among the partizans of the Grand Company.
Herr Kalm was presently enticed away by a bevy of young ladies, Hortense
de Beauharnais leading them, to get the learned professor's opinion on
some rare specimens of botany growing in the park. Nothing loath--for he
was good-natured as he was clever, and a great enthusiast withal in the
study of plants--he allowed the merry, talkative girls to lead him where
they would. He delighted them in turn by his agreeable, instructive
conversation, which was rendered still more piquant by the odd medley of
French, Latin, and Swedish in which it was expressed.
An influx of fresh arrivals next poured into the park--the Chevalier de
la Corne, with his pretty daughter, Agathe La Corne St. Luc; the Lady
de Tilly and Amélie de Repentigny, with the brothers de Villiers. The
brothers had overtaken the Chevalier La Corne upon the road, but the
custom of the highway in New France forbade any one passing another
without politely asking permission to do so.
“Yes, Coulon,” replied the Chevalier; “ride on!” He winked pleasantly at
his daughter as he said this. “There is, I suppose, nothing left for an
old fellow who dates from the sixteen hundreds but to take the side of
the road and let you pass. I should have liked, however, to stir up the
fire in my gallant little Norman ponies against your big New England
horses. Where did you get them? Can they run?”
“We got them in the sack of Saratoga,” replied Coulon, “and they ran
well that day, but we overtook them. Would Mademoiselle La Corne care if
we try them now?”
Scarcely a girl in Quebec would have declined the excitement of a race
on the highroad of St. Foye, and Agathe would fain have driven herself
in the race, but being in full dress to-day, she thought of her wardrobe
and the company. She checked the ardor of her father, and entered the
park demurely, as one of the gravest of the guests.
“Happy youths! Noble lads, Agathe!” exclaimed the Chevalier, admiringly,
as the brothers rode rapidly past them. “New France will be proud of
them some day!”
The rest of the company now began to arrive in quick succession.
The lawn was crowded with guests. “Ten thousand thanks for coming!”
exclaimed Pierre Philibert, as he assisted Amélie de Repentigny and the
Lady de Tilly to alight from their carriage.
“We could not choose but come to-day, Pierre,” replied Amélie, feeling
without displeasure the momentary lingering of his hand as it touched
hers. “Nothing short of an earthquake would have kept aunt at home,”
added she, darting a merry glance of sympathy with her aunt's supposed
feelings.
“And you, Amélie?” Pierre looked into those dark eyes which shyly turned
aside from his gaze.
“I was an obedient niece, and accompanied her. It is so easy to persuade
people to go where they wish to go!” She withdrew her hand gently, and
took his arm as he conducted the ladies into the house. She felt a flush
on her cheek, but it did not prevent her saying in her frank, kindly
way,--“I was glad to come to-day, Pierre, to witness this gathering of
the best and noblest in the land to honor your fête. Aunt de Tilly has
always predicted greatness for you.”
“And you, Amélie, doubted, knowing me a shade better than your aunt?”
“No, I believed her; so true a prophet as aunt surely deserved one firm
believer!”
Pierre felt the electric thrill run through him which a man feels at the
moment he discovers a woman believes in him. “Your presence here to-day,
Amélie! you cannot think how sweet it is,” said he.
Her hand trembled upon his arm. She thought nothing could be sweeter
than such words from Pierre Philibert. With a charming indirectness,
however, which did not escape him, she replied, “Le Gardeur is very
proud of you to-day, Pierre.”
He laid his fingers upon her hand. It was a delicate little hand, but
with the strength of an angel's it had moulded his destiny and led him
to the honorable position he had attained. He was profoundly conscious
at this moment of what he owed to this girl's silent influence. He
contented himself, however, with saying, “I will so strive that one day
Amélie de Repentigny shall not shame to say she too is proud of me.”
She did not reply for a moment. A tremor agitated her low, sweet voice.
“I am proud of you now, Pierre,--more proud than words can tell to see
you so honored, and proudest to think you deserve it all.”
It touched him almost to tears. “Thanks, Amélie; when you are proud of
me I shall begin to feel pride of myself. Your opinion is the one thing
in life I have most cared for,--your approbation is my best reward.”
Her eyes were eloquent with unspoken words, but she thought, “If that
were all!” Pierre Philibert had long received the silent reward of her
good opinion and approbation.
The Bourgeois at this moment came up to salute Amélie and the Lady de
Tilly.
“The Bourgeois Philibert has the most perfect manner of any gentleman in
New France,” was the remark of the Lady de Tilly to Amélie, as he
left them again to receive other guests. “They say he can be rough
and imperious sometimes to those he dislikes, but to his friends and
strangers, and especially to ladies, no breath of spring can be more
gentle and balmy.” Amélie assented with a mental reservation in the
depths of her dark eyes, and in the dimple that flashed upon her cheek
as she suppressed the utterance of a pleasant fancy in reply to her
aunt.
Pierre conducted the ladies to the great drawing-room, which was already
filled with company, who overwhelmed Amélie and her aunt with the
vivacity of their greeting.
In a fine shady grove at a short distance from the house, a row of
tables was set for the entertainment of several hundreds of the hardy
dependents of the Bourgeois; for while feasting the rich the Bourgeois
would not forget his poorer friends, and perhaps his most exquisite
satisfaction was in the unrestrained enjoyment of his hospitality by
the crowd of happy, hungry fellows and their families, who, under the
direction of his chief factor, filled the tables from end to end, and
made the park resound with songs and merriment--fellows of infinite
gaiety, with appetites of Gargantuas and a capacity for good liquors
that reminded one of the tubs of the Danaïdes. The tables groaned
beneath mountains of good things, and in the centre of each, like Mont
Blanc rising from the lower Alps, stood a magnificent Easter pie, the
confection of which was a masterpiece of the skill of Maître Guillot
Gobet, the head cook of the Bourgeois, who was rather put out, however,
when Dame Rochelle decided to bestow all the Easter pies upon the hungry
voyageurs, woodmen, and workmen, and banished them from the menu of the
more patrician tables set for the guests of the mansion.
“Yet, after all,” exclaimed Maître Guillot, as he thrust his head out of
the kitchen door to listen to the song the gay fellows were singing
with all their lungs in honor of his Easter pie; “after all, the fine
gentlemen and ladies would not have paid my noble pies such honor as
that! and what is more the pies would not have been eaten up to the last
crumb!” Maître Guillot's face beamed like a harvest moon, as he chimed
in with the well-known ditty in praise of the great pie of Rouen:
“'C'est dans la ville de Rouen,
Ils ont fait un paté si grand,
Ils ont fait un paté si grand,
Qu'ils ont trouvê un homme dedans!'”
Maître Guillot would fain have been nearer, to share in the shouting and
clapping of hands which followed the saying of grace by the good Curé of
St. Foye, and to see how vigorously knives were handled, and how chins
wagged in the delightful task of levelling down mountains of meat, while
Gascon wine and Norman cider flowed from ever-replenished flagons.
The Bourgeois and his son, with many of his chief guests, honored for
a time the merry feast out-of-doors, and were almost inundated by the
flowing cups drunk to the health and happiness of the Bourgeois and of
Pierre Philibert.
Maître Guillot Gobet returned to his kitchen, where he stirred up his
cooks and scullions on all sides, to make up for the loss of his Easter
pies on the grand tables in the hall. He capered among them like a
marionette, directing here, scolding there, laughing, joking, or with
uplifted hands and stamping feet despairing of his underlings' cooking a
dinner fit for the fête of Pierre Philibert.
Maître Guilot was a little, fat, red-nosed fellow, with twinkling black
eyes, and a mouth irascible as that of a cake-baker of Lerna. His heart
was of the right paste, however, and full as a butter-boat of the sweet
sauce of good nature, which he was ready to pour over the heads of all
his fellows who quietly submitted to his dictation. But woe to man or
maid servant who delayed or disputed his royal orders! An Indian typhoon
instantly blew. At such a time even Dame Rochelle would gather her
petticoats round her and hurry out of the storm, which always subsided
quickly in proportion to the violence of its rage.
Maître Guillot knew what he was about, however. He did not use, he said,
to wipe his nose with a herring! and on that day he was going to cook a
dinner fit for the Pope after Lent, or even for the Reverend Father De
Berey himself, who was the truest gourmet and the best trencherman in
New France.
Maître Guillot honored his master, but in his secret soul he did not
think his taste quite worthy of his cook! But he worshipped Father
De Berey, and gloried in the infallible judgment and correct taste
of cookery possessed by the jolly Recollet. The single approbation
of Father De Berey was worth more than the praise of a world full of
ordinary eating mortals, who smacked their lips and said things were
good, but who knew no more than one of the Cent Suisses why things were
good, or could appreciate the talents of an artiste of the cordon bleu.
Maître Guillot's Easter pie had been a splendid success. “It was
worthy,” he said, “to be placed as a crown on top of the new Cathedral
of St. Marie, and receive the consecration of the Bishop.”
Lest the composition of it should be forgotten, Maître Guillot had, with
the solemnity of a deacon intoning the Litany, ravished the ear of Jules
Painchaud, his future son-in-law, as he taught him the secrets of its
confection.
With his white cap set rakishly on one side of his head and arms akimbo,
Maître Guillot gave Jules the famous recipe:
“Inside of circular walls of pastry an inch thick, and so rich as easily
to be pulled down, and roomy enough within for the Court of King
Pepin, lay first a thick stratum of mince-meat of two savory hams of
Westphalia, and if you cannot get them, of two hams of our habitans.”
“Of our habitans!” ejaculated Jules, with an air of consternation.
“Precisely! don't interrupt me!” Maître Guillot grew red about the gills
in an instant. Jules was silenced. “I have said it!” cried he; “two hams
of our habitans! what have you to say against it--stock fish, eh?”
“Oh, nothing, sir,” replied Jules, with humility, “only I thought--”
Poor Jules would have consented to eat his thought rather than fall out
with the father of his Susette.
“You thought!” Maître Guillot's face was a study for Hogarth, who alone
could have painted the alto tone of voice as it proceeded from his round
O of a mouth. “Susette shall remain upon my hands an old maid for the
term of her natural life if you dispute the confection of Easter pie!”
“Now listen, Jules,” continued he, at once mollified by the contrite,
submissive air of his future son-in-law: “Upon the foundation of the
mince-meat of two hams of Westphalia,--or, if you cannot get them, of
two hams of our habitans,--place scientifically the nicely-cut pieces
of a fat turkey, leaving his head to stick out of the upper crust, in
evidence that Master Dindon lies buried there! Add two fat capons, two
plump partridges, two pigeons, and the back and thighs of a brace of
juicy hares. Fill up the whole with beaten eggs, and the rich contents
will resemble, as a poet might say, 'fossils of the rock in golden yolks
embedded and enjellied!' Season as you would a saint. Cover with a slab
of pastry. Bake it as you would cook an angel, and not singe a feather.
Then let it cool, and eat it! And then, Jules, as the Reverend Father de
Berey always says after grace over an Easter pie, 'Dominus vobiscum!'”