“V'là l'bon vent!
V'là l'joli vent!
V'là l'bon vent!
Ma mie m'appelle!
V'là l'bon vent!
V'là l'joli vent!
V'là l'bon vent!
Ma mie m'attend!”
The gay chorus of the voyageurs made the shores ring, as they kept
time with their oars, while the silver spray dripped like a shower of
diamonds in the bright sunshine at every stroke of their rapid paddles.
The graceful bark canoes, things of beauty and almost of life, leaped
joyously over the blue waters of the St. Lawrence as they bore the
family of the Lady de Tilly and Pierre Philibert with a train of
censitaires back to the old Manor House.
The broad river was flooded with sunshine as it rolled majestically
between the high banks crowned with green fields and woods in full leaf
of summer. Frequent cottages and villages were visible along the shores,
and now and then a little church with its bright spire or belfry marked
the successive parishes on either hand.
The tide had already forced its way two hundred leagues up from the
ocean, and still pressed irresistibly onward, surging and wrestling
against the weight of the descending stream.
The wind too was favorable. A number of yachts and bateaux spread their
snowy sails to ascend the river with the tide. They were for the most
part laden with munitions of war for the Richelieu on their way to the
military posts on Lake Champlain, or merchandise for Montreal to be
reladen in fleets of canoes for the trading posts up the river of the
Ottawas, the Great Lakes, or, mayhap, to supply the new and far-off
settlements on the Belle Rivière and the Illinois.
The line of canoes swept past the sailing vessels with a cheer. The
light-hearted crews exchanged salutations and bandied jests with each
other, laughing immoderately at the well-worn jokes current upon the
river among the rough voyageurs. A good voyage! a clear run! short
portages and long rests! Some inquired whether their friends had
paid for the bear and buffalo skins they were going to buy, or they
complimented each other on their nice heads of hair, which it was hoped
they would not leave behind as keepsakes with the Iroquois squaws.
The boat-songs of the Canadian voyageurs are unique in character, and
very pleasing when sung by a crew of broad-chested fellows dashing their
light birch-bark canoes over the waters rough or smooth, taking them, as
they take fortune, cheerfully,--sometimes skimming like wild geese over
the long, placid reaches, sometimes bounding like stags down the rough
rapids and foaming saults.
Master Jean La Marche, clean as a new pin and in his merriest mood, sat
erect as the King of Yvetot in the bow of the long canoe which held the
Lady de Tilly and her family. His sonorous violin was coquettishly fixed
in its place of honor under his wagging chin, as it accompanied his
voice while he chanted an old boat-song which had lightened the labor of
many a weary oar on lake and river, from the St. Lawrence to the Rocky
Mountains.
Amélie sat in the stern of the canoe, laying her white hand in the cool
stream which rushed past her. She looked proud and happy to-day, for the
whole world of her affections was gathered together in that little bark.
She felt grateful for the bright sun; it seemed to have dispelled every
cloud that lately shaded her thoughts on account of her brother, and she
silently blessed the light breeze that played with her hair and cooled
her cheek, which she felt was tinged with a warm glow of pleasure in the
presence of Pierre Philibert.
She spoke little, and almost thanked the rough voyageurs for their
incessant melodies, which made conversation difficult for the time, and
thus left her to her own sweet silent thoughts, which seemed almost too
sacred for the profanation of words.
An occasional look, or a sympathetic smile exchanged with her brother
and her aunt, spoke volumes of pure affection. Once or twice the eyes
of Pierre Philibert captured a glance of hers which might not have been
intended for him, but which Amélie suffered him to intercept and
hide away among the secret treasures of his heart. A glance of true
affection--brief, it may be, as a flash of lightning--becomes, when
caught by the eyes of love, a real thing, fixed and imperishable
forever. A tender smile, a fond word of love's creation, contains a
universe of light and life and immortality,--small things, and of little
value to others, but to him or her whom they concern more precious and
more prized than the treasures of Ind.
Master Jean La Marche, after a few minutes' rest, made still more
refreshing by a draught from a suspicious-looking flask, which, out of
respect for the presence of his mistress, the Lady de Tilly, he said
contained “milk,” began a popular boat-song which every voyageur in New
France knew as well as his prayers, and loved to his very finger-ends.
The canoe-men pricked up their ears, like troopers at the sound of a
bugle, as Jean La Marche began the famous old ballad of the king's son
who, with his silver gun, aimed at the beautiful black duck, and shot
the white one, out of whose eyes came gold and diamonds, and out of
whose mouth rained silver, while its pretty feathers, scattered to the
four winds, were picked up by three fair dames, who with them made a bed
both large and deep--
“For poor wayfaring men to sleep.”
Master Jean's voice was clear and resonant as a church bell newly
christened; and he sang the old boat-song with an energy that drew
the crews of half-a-dozen other canoes into the wake of his music, all
uniting in the stirring chorus:
“Fringue! Fringue sur la rivière!
Fringue! Fringue sur l'aviron!”
The performance of Jean La Marche was highly relished by the critical
boatmen, and drew from them that flattering mark of approval, so welcome
to a vocalist,--an encore of the whole long ballad, from beginning to
end.
As the line of canoes swept up the stream, a welcome cheer occasionally
greeted them from the shore, or a voice on land joined in the gay
refrain. They draw nearer to Tilly, and their voices became more and
more musical, their gaiety more irrepressible, for they were going home;
and home to the habitans, as well as to their lady, was the world of all
delights.
The contagion of high spirits caught even Le Gardeur, and drew him
out of himself, making him for the time forget the disappointments,
resentments, and allurements of the city.
Sitting there in the golden sunshine, the blue sky above him, the blue
waters below,--friends whom he loved around him, mirth in every eye,
gaiety on every tongue,--how could Le Gardeur but smile as the music of
the boatmen brought back a hundred sweet associations? Nay, he laughed,
and to the inexpressible delight of Amélie and Pierre, who watched every
change in his demeanor, united in the chorus of the glorious boat-song.
A few hours of this pleasant voyaging brought the little fleet of canoes
under the high bank, which from its summit slopes away in a wide domain
of forests, park, and cultivated fields, in the midst of which stood the
high-pointed and many-gabled Manor House of Tilly.
Upon a promontory--as if placed there for both a land and sea mark,
to save souls as well as bodies--rose the belfry of the Chapel of St.
Michael, overlooking a cluster of white, old-fashioned cottages, which
formed the village of St. Michael de Tilly.
Upon the sandy beach a crowd of women, children, and old men had
gathered, who were cheering and clapping their hands at the unexpected
return of the lady of the Manor with all their friends and relatives.
The fears of the villagers had been greatly excited for some days past
by exaggerated reports of the presence of Iroquois on the upper waters
of the Chaudière. They not unnaturally conjectured, moreover, that
the general call for men on the King's corvée, to fortify the city,
portended an invasion by the English, who, it was rumored, were to come
up in ships from below, as in the days of Sir William Phipps with his
army of New Englanders, the story of whose defeat under the walls of
Quebec was still freshly remembered in the traditions of the Colony.
“Never fear them!” said old Louis, the one-eyed pilot. “It was in my
father's days. Many a time have I heard him tell the story--how, in the
autumn of the good year 1690, thirty-four great ships of the Bostonians
came up from below, and landed an army of ventres bleus of New England
on the flats of Beauport. But our stout Governor, Count de Frontenac,
came upon them from the woods with his brave soldiers, habitans, and
Indians, and drove them pell-mell back to their boats, and stripped
the ship of Admiral Phipps of his red flag, which, if you doubt my
word,--which no one does,--still hangs over the high altar of the Church
of Notre Dame des Victoires. Blessed be our Lady, who saved our country
from our enemies,--and will do so again, if we do not by our wickedness
lose her favor! But the arbre sec--the dry tree--still stands upon the
Point de Levis, where the Boston fleet took refuge before beating their
retreat down the river again,--and you know the old prophecy: that while
that tree stands, the English shall never prevail against Quebec!”
Much comforted by this speech of old Louis the pilot, the villagers of
Tilly rushed to the beach to receive their friends.
The canoes came dashing into shore. Men, women, and children ran
knee-deep into the water to meet them, and a hundred eager hands were
ready to seize their prows and drag them high and dry upon the sandy
beach.
“Home again! and welcome to Tilly, Pierre Philibert!” exclaimed Lady de
Tilly, offering her hand. “Friends like you have the right of welcome
here.” Pierre expressed his pleasure in fitting terms, and lent his aid
to the noble lady to disembark.
Le Gardeur assisted Amélie out of the canoe. As he led her across the
beach, he felt her hand tremble as it rested on his arm. He glanced down
at her averted face, and saw her eyes directed to a spot well remembered
by himself--the scene of his rescue from drowning by Pierre Philibert.
The whole scene came before Amélie at this moment. Her vivid
recollection conjured up the sight of the inanimate body of her brother
as it was brought ashore by the strong arm of Pierre Philibert and laid
upon the beach; her long agony of suspense, and her joy, the greatest
she had ever felt before or since, at his resuscitation to life, and
lastly, her passionate vow which she made when clasping the neck of his
preserver--a vow which she had enshrined as a holy thing in her heart
ever since.
At that moment a strange fancy seized her: that Pierre Philibert was
again plunging into deep water to rescue her brother, and that she would
be called on by some mysterious power to renew her vow or fulfil it to
the very letter.
She twitched Le Gardeur gently by the arm and said to him, in a half
whisper, “It was there, brother! do you remember?”
“I know it, sister!” replied he; “I was also thinking of it. I am
grateful to Pierre; yet, oh, my Amélie, better he had left me at the
bottom of the deep river, where I had found my bed! I have no pleasure
in seeing Tilly any more!”
“Why not, brother? Are we not all the same? Are we not all here? There
is happiness and comfort for you at Tilly.”
“There was once, Amélie,” replied he, sadly; “but there will be none for
me in the future, as I feel too well. I am not worthy of you, Amélie.”
“Come, brother!” replied she, cheerily, “you dampen the joy of our
arrival. See, the flag is going up on the staff of the turret, and
old Martin is getting ready to fire off the culverin in honor of your
arrival.”
Presently there was a flash, a cloud of smoke, and the report of a
cannon came booming down to the shore from the Manor House.
“That was well done of Martin and the women!” remarked Felix Baudoin,
who had served in his youth, and therefore knew what was fitting in
a military salute. “'The women of Tilly are better than the men of
Beauce,' says the proverb.”
“Ay, or of Tilly either!” remarked Josephte Le Tardeur, in a sharp,
snapping tone. Josephte was a short, stout virago, with a turned-up nose
and a pair of black eyes that would bore you through like an auger.
She wore a wide-brimmed hat of straw, overtopping curls as crisp as
her temper. Her short linsey petticoat was not chary of showing her
substantial ankles, while her rolled-up sleeves displayed a pair of arms
so red and robust that a Swiss milkmaid might well have envied them.
Her remark was intended for the ear of José Le Tardeur, her husband, a
lazy, good-natured fellow, whose eyes had been fairly henpecked out of
his head all the days of his married life. Josephte's speech hit him
without hurting him, as he remarked to a neighbor. Josephte made a
target of him every day. He was glad, for his part, that the women of
Tilly were better soldiers than the men, and so much fonder of looking
after things! It saved the men a deal of worry and a good deal of work.
“What are you saying, José?” exclaimed Felix, who only caught a few half
words.
“I say, Master Felix, that but for Mère Eve there would have been no
curse upon men, to make them labor when they do not want to, and no
sin either. As the Curé says, we could have lain on the grass sunning
ourselves all day long. Now it is nothing but work and pray, never play,
else you will save neither body nor soul. Master Felix, I hope you will
remember me if I come up to the Manor house.”
“Ay, I will remember you, José,” replied Felix, tartly; “but if labor
was the curse which Eve brought into the world when she ate the apple,
I am sure you are free from it. So ride up with the carts, José, and get
out of the way of my Lady's carriage!”
José obeyed, and taking off his cap, bowed respectfully to the Lady
de Tilly as she passed, leaning on the arm of Pierre Philibert, who
escorted her to her carriage.
A couple of sleek Canadian horses, sure-footed as goats and strong as
little elephants, drew the coach with a long, steady trot up the winding
road which led to the Manor House.
The road, unfenced and bordered with grass on each side of the track,
was smooth and well kept, as became the Grande Chaussée of the Barony
of Tilly. It ran sometimes through stretches of cultivated fields--green
pastures or corn-lands ripening for the sickle of the censitaire.
Sometimes it passed through cool, shady woods, full of primeval
grandeur,--part of the great Forest of Tilly, which stretched away far
as the eye could reach over the hills of the south shore. Huge oaks that
might have stood there from the beginning of the world, wide-branching
elms, and dark pines overshadowed the highway, opening now and then
into vistas of green fields where stood a cottage or two, with a herd of
mottled cows grazing down by the brook. On the higher ridges the trees
formed a close phalanx, and with their dark tops cut the horizon into a
long, irregular line of forest, as if offering battle to the woodman's
axe that was threatening to invade their solitudes.
Half an hour's driving brought the company to the Manor House, a stately
mansion, gabled and pointed like an ancient château on the Seine.
It was a large, irregular structure of hammered stone, with
deeply-recessed windows, mullioned and ornamented with grotesque
carvings. A turret, loopholed and battlemented, projected from each of
the four corners of the house, enabling its inmates to enfilade every
side with a raking fire of musketry, affording an adequate defence
against Indian foes. A stone tablet over the main entrance of the Manor
House was carved with the armorial bearings of the ancient family of
Tilly, with the date of its erection, and a pious invocation placing the
house under the special protection of St. Michael de Thury, the patron
saint of the House of Tilly.
The Manor House of Tilly had been built by Charles Le Gardeur de Tilly,
a gentleman of Normandy, one of whose ancestors, the Sieur de Tilly,
figures on the roll of Battle Abbey as a follower of Duke William at
Hastings. His descendant, Charles Le Gardeur, came over to Canada with a
large body of his vassals in 1636, having obtained from the King a grant
of the lands of Tilly, on the bank of the St. Lawrence, “to hold in
fief and seigniory,”--so ran the royal patent,--“with the right and
jurisdiction of superior, moyenne and basse justice, and of hunting,
fishing, and trading with the Indians throughout the whole of this royal
concession; subject to the condition of foi et hommage, which he shall
be held to perform at the Castle of St. Louis in Quebec, of which he
shall hold under the customary duties and dues, agreeably to the coutume
de Paris followed in this country.”
Such was the style of the royal grants of seignioral rights conceded
in New France, by virtue of one of which this gallant Norman gentleman
founded his settlement and built this Manor House on the shores of the
St. Lawrence.
A broad, smooth carriage road led up to the mansion across a park dotted
with clumps of evergreens and deciduous trees. Here and there an ancient
patriarch of the forest stood alone,--some old oak or elm, whose goodly
proportions and amplitude of shade had found favor in the eyes of the
seigniors of Tilly, and saved it from the axe of the woodman.
A pretty brook, not too wide to be crossed over by a rustic bridge,
meandered through the domain, peeping occasionally out of the openings
in the woods as it stole away like a bashful girl from the eyes of her
admirer.
This brook was the outflow of a romantic little lake that lay hidden
away among the wooded hills that bounded the horizon, an irregular sheet
of water a league in circumference, dotted with islands and abounding
with fish and waterfowl that haunted its quiet pools. That primitive bit
of nature had never been disturbed by axe or fire, and was a favorite
spot for recreation to the inmates of the Manor House, to whom it was
accessible either by boat up the little stream, or by a pleasant drive
through the old woods.
As the carriages drew up in front of the Manor House, every door,
window, and gable of which looked like an old friend in the eyes of
Pierre Philibert, a body of female servants--the men had all been away
at the city--stood ranged in their best gowns and gayest ribbons to
welcome home their mistress and Mademoiselle Amélie, who was the idol of
them all.
Great was their delight to see Monsieur Le Gardeur, as they usually
styled their young master, with another gentleman in military costume,
whom it did not take two minutes for some of the sharp-eyed lasses to
recognize as Pierre Philibert, who had once saved the life of Le Gardeur
on a memorable occasion, and who now, they said one to another, was come
to the Manor House to--to--they whispered what it was to each other, and
smiled in a knowing manner.
Women's wits fly swiftly to conclusions, and right ones too on most
occasions. The lively maids of Tilly told one another in whispers that
they were sure Pierre Philibert had come back to the Manor House as
a suitor for the hand of Mademoiselle Amélie, as was most natural he
should do, so handsome and manly looking as he was, and mademoiselle
always liked to hear any of them mention his name. The maids ran out
the whole chain of logical sequences before either Pierre or Amélie
had ventured to draw a conclusion of any kind from the premises of this
visit.
Behind the mansion, overlooking poultry-yards and stables which were
well hidden from view, rose a high colombière, or pigeon-house, of
stone, the possession of which was one of the rights which feudal
law reserved to the lord of the manor. This colombière was capable of
containing a large army of pigeons, but the regard which the Lady de
Tilly had for the corn-fields of her censitaires caused her to thin out
its population to such a degree that there remained only a few favorite
birds of rare breed and plumage to strut and coo upon the roofs, and
rival the peacocks on the terrace with their bright colors.
In front of the mansion, contrasting oddly with the living trees around
it, stood a high pole, the long, straight stem of a pine-tree, carefully
stripped of its bark, bearing on its top the withered remains of a bunch
of evergreens, with the fragments of a flag and ends of ribbon which
fluttered gaily from it. The pole was marked with black spots from the
discharge of guns fired at it by the joyous habitans, who had kept the
ancient custom of May-day by planting this May-pole in front of the
Manor House of their lady.
The planting of such a pole was in New France a special mark of respect
due to the feudal superior, and custom as well as politeness required
that it should not be taken down until the recurrence of another
anniversary of Flora, which in New France sometimes found the earth
white with snow and hardened with frost, instead of covered with flowers
as in the Old World whence the custom was derived.
The Lady de Tilly duly appreciated this compliment of her faithful
censitaires, and would sooner have stripped her park of half its live
trees than have removed that dead pole, with its withered crown, from
the place of honor in front of her mansion.
The revels of May in New France, the king and queen of St. Philip, the
rejoicings of a frank, loyal peasantry--illiterate in books but not
unlearned in the art of life,--have wholly disappeared before the
levelling spirit of the nineteenth century.
The celebration of the day of St. Philip has been superseded by the
festival of St. John the Baptist, at a season of the year when green
leaves and blooming flowers give the possibility of arches and garlands
in honor of the Canadian summer.
Felix Beaudoin with a wave of his hand scattered the bevy of maid
servants who stood chattering as they gazed upon the new arrivals. The
experience of Felix told him that everything had of course gone wrong
during his absence from the Manor House, and that nothing could be
fit for his mistress's reception until he had set all to rights again
himself.
The worthy majordomo was in a state of perspiration lest he should not
get into the house before his mistress and don his livery to meet her at
the door with his white wand and everything en régle, just as if nothing
had interrupted their usual course of housekeeping.
The Lady de Tilly knew the weakness of her faithful old servitor, and
although she smiled to herself, she would not hurt his feelings by
entering the house before he was ready at his post to receive her. She
continued walking about the lawn conversing with Amélie, Pierre, and Le
Gardeur, until she saw old Felix with his wand and livery standing at
the door, when, taking Pierre's arm, she led the way into the house.
The folding doors were open, and Felix with his wand walked before his
lady and her companions into the mansion. They entered without delay,
for the day had been warm, and the ladies were weary after sitting
several hours in a canoe, a mode of travelling which admits of very
little change of position in the voyagers.
The interior of the Manor House of Tilly presented the appearance of
an old French château. A large hall with antique furniture occupied the
center of the house, used occasionally as a court of justice when
the Seigneur de Tilly exercised his judicial office for the trial of
offenders, which was very rarely, thanks to the good morals of the
people, or held a cour plenière of his vassals, on affairs of
the seigniory for apportioning the corvées for road-making and
bridge-building, and, not the least important by any means, for the
annual feast to his censitaires on the day of St. Michael de Thury.
From this hall, passages led into apartments and suites of rooms
arranged for use, comfort, and hospitality. The rooms were of all sizes,
panelled, tapestried, and furnished in a style of splendor suited to
the wealth and dignity of the Seigneurs of Tilly. A stair of oak, broad
enough for a section of grenadiers to march up it abreast, led to
the upper chambers, bedrooms, and boudoirs, which looked out of old
mullioned windows upon the lawn and gardens that surrounded the house,
affording picturesque glimpses of water, hills, and forests far enough
off for contemplation, and yet near enough to be accessible by a short
ride from the mansion.
Pierre Philibert was startled at the strange familiarity of everything
he saw: the passages and all their intricacies, where he, Le Gardeur,
and Amélie had hid and found one another with cries of delight,--he
knew where they all led to; the rooms with their antique and stately
furniture, the paintings on the wall, before which he had stood and
gazed, wondering if the world was as fair as those landscapes of sunny
France and Italy and why the men and women of the house of Tilly, whose
portraits hung upon the walls, looked at him so kindly with those dark
eyes of theirs, which seemed to follow him everywhere, and he imagined
they even smiled when their lips were illumined by a ray of sunshine.
Pierre looked at them again with a strange interest,--they were like the
faces of living friends who welcomed him back to Tilly after years of
absence.
Pierre entered a well-remembered apartment which he knew to be the
favorite sitting-room of the Lady de Tilly. He walked hastily across
it to look at a picture upon the wall which he recognized again with a
flush of pleasure.
It was the portrait of Amélie painted by himself during his last visit
to Tilly. The young artist, full of enthusiasm, had put his whole soul
into the work, until he was himself startled at the vivid likeness which
almost unconsciously flowed from his pencil. He had caught the divine
upward expression of her eyes, as she turned her head to listen to him,
and left upon the canvas the very smile he had seen upon her lips.
Those dark eyes of hers had haunted his memory forever after. To his
imagination that picture had become almost a living thing. It was as a
voice of his own that returned to his ear as the voice of Amélie. In
the painting of that portrait Pierre had the first revelation of a
consciousness of his deep love which became in the end the master
passion of his life.
He stood for some minutes contemplating this portrait, so different from
her in age now, yet so like in look and expression. He turned suddenly
and saw Amélie; she had silently stepped up behind him, and her features
in a glow of pleasure took on the very look of the picture.
Pierre started. He looked again, and saw every feature of the girl of
twelve looking through the transparent countenance of the perfect
woman of twenty. It was a moment of blissful revelation, for he felt an
assurance at that moment that Amélie was the same to him now as in their
days of youthful companionship. “How like it is to you yet, Amélie!”
said he; “it is more true than I knew how to make it!”
“That sounds like a paradox, Pierre Philibert!” replied she, with a
smile. “But it means, I suppose, that you painted a universal portrait
of me which will be like through all my seven ages. Such a picture might
be true of the soul, Pierre, had you painted that, but I have outgrown
the picture of my person.”
“I could imagine nothing fairer than that portrait! In soul and body it
is all true, Amélie.”
“Flatterer that you are!” said she, laughing. “I could almost wish
that portrait would walk out of its frame to thank you for the care you
bestowed upon its foolish little original.”
“My care was more than rewarded! I find in that picture my beau-ideal of
the beauty of life, which, belonging to the soul, is true to all ages.”
“The girl of twelve would have thanked you more enthusiastically for
that remark, Pierre, than I dare do,” replied she.
“The thanks are due from me, not from you, Amélie! I became your
debtor for a life-long obligation when without genius I could do
impossibilities. You taught me that paradox when you let me paint that
picture.”
Amélie glanced quickly up at him. A slight color came and went on her
cheek. “Would that I could do impossibilities,” said she, “to thank you
sufficiently for your kindness to Le Gardeur and all of us in coming to
Tilly at this time.
“It would be a novelty, almost a relief, to put Pierre Philibert under
some obligation to us for we all owe him, would it not, Le Gardeur?”
continued she, clasping the arm of her brother, who just now came into
the room. “We will discharge a portion of our debt to Pierre for this
welcome visit by a day on the lake,--we will make up a water-party. What
say you, brother? The gentlemen shall light fires, the ladies shall make
tea, and we will have guitars and songs, and maybe a dance, brother! and
then a glorious return home by moonlight! What say you to my programme,
Le Gardeur de Repentigny? What say you, Pierre Philibert?”
“It is a good programme, sister, but leave me out of it. I shall only
mar the pleasure of the rest; I will not go to the lake. I have been
trying ever since my return home to recognize Tilly; everything looks
to me in an eclipse, and nothing bright as it once was, not even you,
Amélie. Your smile has a curious touch of sadness in it which does not
escape my eyes; accursed as they have been of late, seeing things they
ought not to see, yet I can see that, and I know it, too; I have given
you cause to be sad, sister.”
“Hush, brother! it is a sin against your dear eyes to speak of them
thus! Tilly is as bright and joyous as ever. As for my smiles, if you
detect in them one trace of that sadness you talk about, I shall grow as
melancholy as yourself, and for as little cause. Come! you shall confess
before three days, brother, if you will only help me to be gay, that
your sister has the lightest heart in New France.”