It was the practice of the Bourgeois Philibert to leave his
counting-room to walk through the market-place, not for the sake of the
greetings he met, although he received them from every side, nor to buy
or sell on his own account, but to note with quick, sympathizing eye the
poor and needy and to relieve their wants.
Especially did he love to meet the old, the feeble, the widow, and the
orphan, so numerous from the devastation of the long and bloody war.
The Bourgeois had another daily custom which he observed with unfailing
regularity. His table in the House of the Golden Dog was set every day
with twelve covers and dishes for twelve guests, “the twelve apostles,”
as he gayly used to say, “whom I love to have dine with me, and who come
to my door in the guise of poor, hungry, and thirsty men, needing meat
and drink. Strangers to be taken in, and sick wanting a friend.” If
no other guests came he was always sure of the “apostles” to empty his
table, and, while some simple dish sufficed for himself, he ordered the
whole banquet to be given away to the poor. His choice wines, which he
scarcely permitted himself to taste, were removed from his table and
sent to the Hôtel Dieu, the great convent of the Nuns Hospitalières, for
the use of the sick in their charge, while the Bourgeois returned thanks
with a heart more content than if kings had dined at his table.
To-day was the day of St. Martin, the anniversary of the death of his
wife, who still lived in his memory fresh as upon the day he took her
away as his bride from her Norman home. Upon every recurrence of that
day, and upon some other special times and holidays, his bounty was
doubled, and the Bourgeois made preparations, as he jocularly used to
say, “not only for the twelve apostles, but for the seventy disciples as
well!”
He had just dressed himself with scrupulous neatness in the fashion of
a plain gentleman, as was his wont, without a trace of foppery. With his
stout gold-headed cane in his hand, he was descending the stairs to go
out as usual to the market, when Dame Rochelle accosted him in the hall.
Her eyes and whole demeanor wore an expression of deep anxiety as the
good dame looked up in the face of the Bourgeois.
“Do not go to the market to-day, dear master!” said she, beseechingly;
“I have been there myself and have ordered all we need for the due honor
of the day.”
“Thanks, good dame, for remembering the blessed anniversary, but you
know I am expected in the market. It is one of my special days. Who is
to fill the baskets of the poor people who feel a delicacy about coming
for alms to the door, unless I go? Charity fulfills its mission best
when it respects the misfortune of being poor in the persons of its
recipients. I must make my round of the market, good dame.”
“And still, dear master, go not to-day; I never asked you before; I do
this time. I fear some evil this morning!”
The Bourgeois looked at her inquiringly. He knew the good dame too well
not to be sure she had some weighty reason for her request.
“What particularly moves you to this singular request, Dame Rochelle?”
asked he.
“A potent reason, master, but it would not weigh a grain with you as
with me. There is this morning a wild spirit afloat,--people's minds
have been excited by a sermon from one of the college fathers. The
friends of the Intendant are gathered in force, they say, to clear the
market of the Honnêtes Gens. A disturbance is impending. That, master,
is one reason. My other is a presentiment that some harm will befall you
if you go to the market in the midst of such excitement.”
“Thanks, good dame,” replied the Bourgeois calmly, “both for your
information and your presentiment; but they only furnish an additional
reason why I should go to try to prevent any disturbance among my
fellow-citizens.”
“Still, master, you see not what I see, and hear not what I hear, and
would not believe it did I tell you! I beseech you, go not to-day!”
exclaimed she imploringly, clasping her hands in the eagerness of her
appeal.
“Good dame,” replied he, “I deeply respect your solicitude, but I could
not, without losing all respect for myself as a gentleman, stay away out
of any consideration of impending danger. I should esteem it my duty all
the more to go, if there be danger, which I cannot believe.”
“Oh, that Pierre were here to accompany you! But at least take some
servants with you, master,” implored the dame, persisting in her
request.
“Good dame, I cannot consult fear when I have duty to perform; besides,
I am in no danger. I have enemies enough, I know; but he would be a bold
man who would assail the Bourgeois Philibert in the open market-place of
Quebec.”
“Yet there may be such a bold man, master,” replied she. “There are many
such men who would consider they did the Intendant and themselves good
service by compassing your destruction!”
“May be so, dame; but I should be a mark of scorn for all men if I
evaded a duty, small or great, through fear of the Intendant or any of
his friends.”
“I knew my appeal would be in vain, master, but forgive my anxiety. God
help you! God defend you!”
She looked at him fixedly for a moment. He saw her features were
quivering with emotion and her eyes filled with tears.
“Good dame,” said he kindly, taking her hand, “I respect your motives,
and will so far show my regard for your forecast of danger as to take
my sword, which, after a good conscience, is the best friend a gentleman
can have to stand by him in peril. Please bring it to me.”
“Willingly, master, and may it be like the sword of the cherubim, to
guard and protect you to-day!”
She went into the great hall for the rapier of the Bourgeois, which he
only wore on occasions of full dress and ceremony. He took it smilingly
from her hand, and, throwing the belt over his shoulder, bade Dame
Rochelle good-by, and proceeded to the market.
The dame looked earnestly after him until he turned the corner of the
great Cathedral, when, wiping her eyes, she went into the house and sat
down pensively for some minutes.
“Would that Pierre had not gone to St. Ann's to-day!” cried she. “My
master! my noble, good master! I feel there is evil abroad for him in
the market to-day.” She turned, as was her wont in time of trouble,
to the open Bible that ever lay upon her table, and sought strength in
meditation upon its sacred pages.
There was much stir in the market when the Bourgeois began his
accustomed walk among the stalls, stopping to converse with such friends
as he met, and especially with the poor and infirm, who did not follow
him--he hated to be followed,--but who stood waiting his arrival at
certain points which he never failed to pass. The Bourgeois knew that
his poor almsmen would be standing there, and he would no more avoid
them than he would avoid the Governor.
A group of girls very gaily dressed loitered through the market,
purchasing bouquets of the last of autumnal flowers, and coquetting with
the young men of fashion who chose the market-place for their morning
promenade, and who spent their smiles and wit freely, and sometimes
their money, upon the young ladies they expected to find there.
This morning the Demoiselles Grandmaison and Hebert were cheapening
immortelles and dry flowers to decorate their winter vases,--a pleasant
fashion, not out of date in the city at the present day.
The attention of these young ladies was quite as much taken up with
the talk of their cavaliers as with their bargaining when a quick
exclamation greeted them from a lady on horseback, accompanied by the
Chevalier de Pean. She drew bridle sharply in front of the group, and
leaning down from her saddle gave her hand to the ladies, bidding them
good morning in a cheery voice which there was no mistaking, although
her face was invisible behind her veil. It was Angélique des Meloises,
more gay and more fascinating than ever.
She noticed two gentlemen in the group. “Oh, pardon me, Messieurs Le
Mercier and d'Estebe!” said she. “I did not perceive you. My veil is so
in the way!” She pushed it aside coquettishly, and gave a finger to each
of the gentlemen, who returned her greeting with extreme politeness.
“Good morning! say you, Angélique?” exclaimed Mademoiselle Hebert; “it
is a good noon. You have slept rarely! How bright and fresh you look,
darling!”
“Do I not!” laughed Angélique in reply. “It is the morning air and a
good conscience make it! Are you buying flowers? I have been to Sillery
for mine!” said she, patting her blooming cheeks with the end of her
riding-whip. She had no time for further parley, for her attention was
suddenly directed by De Pean to some stir upon the other side of the
market, with an invitation to her to ride over and see what was the
matter. Angélique at once wheeled her horse to accompany De Pean.
The group of girls felt themselves eclipsed and overborne by the queenly
airs of Angélique, and were glad when she moved off, fearing that by
some adroit manoeuvre she would carry off their cavaliers. It needed but
a word, as they knew, to draw them all after her.
Angélique, under the lead of De Pean, rode quickly towards the scene
of confusion, where men were gesticulating fiercely and uttering loud,
angry words such as usually precede the drawing of swords and the rush
of combatants.
To her surprise, she recognized Le Gardeur de Repentigny, very drunk
and wild with anger, in the act of leaping off his horse with oaths of
vengeance against some one whom she could not distinguish in the throng.
Le Gardeur had just risen from the gaming-table, where he had been
playing all night. He was maddened with drink and excited by great
losses, which in his rage he called unfair.
Colonel St. Remy had rooked him at piquet, he said, and refused him the
chance of an honorable gamester to win back some part of his losses. His
antagonist had left the Palace like a sneak, and he was riding round
the city to find him, and horsewhip him if he would not fight like a
gentleman.
Le Gardeur was accompanied by the Sieur de Lantagnac, who, by splendid
dissipation, had won his whole confidence. Le Gardeur, when drunk,
thought the world did not contain a finer fellow than Lantagnac, whom he
thoroughly despised when sober.
At a hint from De Pean, the Sieur de Lantagnac had clung to Le Gardeur
that morning like his shadow, had drunk with him again and again,
exciting his wrath against St. Remy; but apparently keeping his own head
clear enough for whatever mischief De Pean had put into it.
They rode together to the market-place, hearing that St. Remy was at the
sermon. Their object, as Le Gardeur believed, was to put an unpardonable
insult upon St. Remy, by striking him with his whip and forcing him to
fight a duel with Le Gardeur or his friend. The reckless De Lantagnac
asserted loudly, he “did not care a straw which!”
Le Gardeur and De Lantagnac rode furiously through the market, heedless
of what they encountered or whom they ran over, and were followed by a
yell of indignation from the people, who recognized them as gentlemen of
the Grand Company.
It chanced that at that moment a poor almsman of the Bourgeois Philibert
was humbly and quietly leaning on his crutches, listening with bowing
head and smiling lips to the kind inquiries of his benefactor as he
received his accustomed alms.
De Lantagnac rode up furiously, followed by Le Gardeur. De Lantagnac
recognized the Bourgeois, who stood in his way talking to the crippled
soldier. He cursed him between his teeth, and lashed his horse with
intent to ride him down as if by accident.
The Bourgeois saw them approach and motioned them to stop, but in
vain. The horse of De Lantagnac just swerved in its course, and without
checking his speed ran over the crippled man, who instantly rolled
in the dust, his face streaming with blood from a sharp stroke of the
horse's shoe upon his forehead.
Immediately following De Lantagnac came Le Gardeur, lashing his horse
and yelling like a demon to all to clear the way.
The Bourgeois was startled at this new danger, not to himself,--he
thought not of himself,--but to the bleeding man lying prostrate upon
the ground. He sprang forward to prevent Le Gardeur's horse going over
him.
He did not, in the haste and confusion of the moment, recognize Le
Gardeur, who, inflamed with wine and frantic with passion, was almost
past recognition by any who knew him in his normal state. Nor did Le
Gardeur, in his frenzy, recognize the presence of the Bourgeois, whose
voice calling him by name, with an appeal to his better nature, would
undoubtedly have checked his headlong career.
The moment was critical. It was one of those points of time where the
threads of many lives and many destinies cross and intersect each other,
and thence part different ways, leading to life or death, happiness or
despair, forever!
Le Gardeur spurred his horse madly over the wounded man who lay upon the
ground; but he did not hear him, he did not see him. Let it be said for
Le Gardeur, if aught can be said in his defence, he did not see him. His
horse was just about to trample upon the prostrate cripple lying in the
dust, when his bridle was suddenly and firmly seized by the hand of the
Bourgeois, and his horse wheeled round with such violence that, rearing
back upon his haunches, he almost threw his rider headlong.
Le Gardeur, not knowing the reason of this sudden interference, and
flaming with wrath, leaped to the ground just at the moment when
Angélique and De Pean rode up. Le Gardeur neither knew nor cared at that
moment who his antagonist was; he saw but a bold, presumptuous man who
had seized his bridle, and whom it was his desire to punish on the spot.
De Pean recognized the stately figure and fearless look of the Bourgeois
confronting Le Gardeur. The triumph of the Friponne was at hand. De Pean
rubbed his hands with ecstasy as he called out to Le Gardeur, his
voice ringing above the din of the crowd, “Achevez-le! Finish him, Le
Gardeur!”
Angélique sat upon her horse fixed as a statue and as pale as marble,
not at the danger of the Bourgeois, whom she at once recognized, but out
of fear for her lover, exposed to the menaces of the crowd, who were all
on the side of the Bourgeois.
Le Gardeur leaped down from his horse and advanced with a terrible
imprecation upon the Bourgeois, and struck him with his whip. The brave
old merchant had the soul of a marshal of France. His blood boiled at
the insult; he raised his staff to ward off a second blow and struck Le
Gardeur sharply upon the wrist, making his whip fly out of his hand. Le
Gardeur instantly advanced again upon him, but was pressed back by the
habitans, who rushed to the defence of the Bourgeois. Then came the
tempter to his ear,--a word or two, and the fate of many innocent lives
was decided in a moment!
Le Gardeur suddenly felt a hand laid upon his shoulder, and heard a
voice, a woman's voice, speaking to him in passionate tones.
Angélique had forced her horse into the thick of the crowd. She was no
longer calm, nor pale with apprehension, but her face was flushed redder
than fire, and her eyes, those magnetic orbs which drove men mad, blazed
upon Le Gardeur with all their terrible influence. She had seen him
struck by the Bourgeois, and her anger was equal to his own.
De Pean saw the opportunity.
“Angélique,” exclaimed he, “the Bourgeois strikes Le Gardeur! What an
outrage! Can you bear it?”
“Never!” replied she; “neither shall Le Gardeur!”
With a plunge of her horse she forced her way close to Le Gardeur, and,
leaning over him, laid her hand upon his shoulder and exclaimed in a
voice choking with passion,--
“Comment, Le Gardeur! vous souffrez qu'un Malva comme ça vous abîme de
coups, et vous portez l'épée!” “What, Le Gardeur! you allow a ruffian
like that to load you with blows, and you wear a sword!”
It was enough! That look, that word, would have made Le Gardeur
slaughter his father at that moment.
Astonished at the sight of Angélique, and maddened by her words as much
as by the blow he had received, Le Gardeur swore he would have revenge
upon the spot. With a wild cry and the strength and agility of a panther
he twisted himself out of the grasp of the habitans, and drawing his
sword, before any man could stop him, thrust it to the hilt through the
body of the Bourgeois, who, not expecting this sudden assault, had not
put himself in an attitude of defense to meet it.
The Bourgeois fell dying by the side of the bleeding man who had just
received his alms, and in whose protection he had thus risked and lost
his own life.
“Bravo, Le Gardeur!” exclaimed De Pean; “that was the best stroke ever
given in New France. The Golden Dog is done for, and the Bourgeois has
paid his debt to the Grand Company.”
Le Gardeur looked up wildly. “Who is he, De Pean?” exclaimed he. “What
man have I killed?”
“The Bourgeois Philibert, who else?” shouted De Pean with a tone of
exultation.
Le Gardeur uttered a wailing cry, “The Bourgeois Philibert! have I slain
the Bourgeois Philibert? De Pean lies, Angélique,” said he, suddenly
turning to her. “I would not kill a sparrow belonging to the Bourgeois
Philibert! Oh, tell me De Pean lies.”
“De Pean does not lie, Le Gardeur,” answered she, frightened at his
look. “The Bourgeois struck you first. I saw him strike you first with
his staff. You are a gentleman and would kill the King if he struck you
like a dog with his staff. Look where they are lifting him up. You see
it is the Bourgeois and no other.”
Le Gardeur gave one wild look and recognized the well-known form and
features of the Bourgeois. He threw his sword on the ground, exclaiming,
“Oh! oh! unhappy man that I am! It is parricide! parricide! to have
slain the father of my brother Pierre! Oh, Angélique des Meloises! you
made me draw my sword, and I knew not who it was or what I did!”
“I told you, Le Gardeur, and you are angry with me. But see! hark! what
a tumult is gathering; we must get out of this throng or we shall all
be killed as well as the Bourgeois. Fly, Le Gardeur, fly! Go to the
Palace!”
“To hell sooner! Never shall the Palace see me again!” exclaimed he
madly. “The people shall kill me if they will, but save yourself,
Angélique. De Pean, lead her instantly away from this cursed spot, or
all the blood is not spilt that will be spilt to-day. This is of your
contriving, De Pean,” cried he, looking savagely, as if about to spring
upon him.
“You would not harm me or her, Le Gardeur?” interrupted De Pean, turning
pale at his fierce look.
“Harm her, you fool, no! but I will harm you if you do not instantly
take her away out of this tumult. I must see the Bourgeois. Oh God, if
he be dead!”
A great cry now ran through the market-place: “The Bourgeois is killed.
The Grand Company have assassinated the Bourgeois.” Men ran up from
every side shouting and gesticulating. The news spread like wild-fire
through the city, and simultaneously a yell for vengeance rose from the
excited multitude.
The Recollet Brother Daniel had been the first to fly to the help of the
Bourgeois. His gray robe presently was dyed red with the blood of the
best friend and protector of their monastery. But death was too quick
for even one prayer to be heard or uttered by the dying man.
The gray Brother made the sign of the cross upon the forehead of the
Bourgeois, who opened his eyes once for a moment, and looked in the face
of the good friar while his lips quivered with two inarticulate words,
“Pierre! Amélie!” That was all. His brave eyes closed again forever from
the light of the sun. The good Bourgeois Philibert was dead.
“'Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord,'” repeated the Recollet.
“'Even so, saith the Spirit, for they rest from their labors.'”
De Pean had foreseen the likelihood of a popular commotion. He was ready
to fly on the instant, but could not prevail on Angélique to leave Le
Gardeur, who was kneeling down by the side of the Bourgeois, lifting him
in his arms and uttering the wildest accents of grief as he gazed upon
the pallid, immovable face of the friend of his youth.
“That is the assassin, and the woman, too,” cried a sturdy habitan. “I
heard her bid him draw his sword upon the Bourgeois.”
The crowd for the moment believed that De Pean had been the murderer of
Philibert.
“No, not he; it was the other. It was the officer who dismounted,--the
drunken officer. Who was he? Where is he?” cried the habitan, forcing
his way into the presence of Le Gardeur, who was still kneeling by the
side of the Bourgeois and was not seen for a few moments; but quickly he
was identified.
“That is he!” cried a dozen voices. “He is looking if he has killed him,
by God!”
A number of men rushed upon Le Gardeur, who made no defence, but
continued kneeling beside the Recollet Brother Daniel over the body of
the Bourgeois. He was instantly seized by some of the crowd. He held out
his hands and bade them take him prisoner or kill him on the spot, if
they would, for it was he who had killed the Bourgeois.
Half a dozen swords were instantly drawn as if to take him at his word,
when the terrible shrieks of Angélique pierced every ear. The crowd
turned in astonishment to see who it was on horseback that cried so
terribly, “Do not kill him! Do not kill Le Gardeur de Repentigny!” She
called several citizens by name and entreated them to help to save him.
By her sudden interference Angélique caused a diversion in the crowd.
Le Gardeur rose up to his feet, and many persons recognized him with
astonishment and incredulity, for no one could believe that he had
killed the good Bourgeois, who was known to have been the warm friend of
the whole family of De Repentigny.
De Pean, taking advantage of the sudden shift of feeling in the crowd
and anxious for the safety of Angélique, seized the bridle of her horse
to drag her forcibly out of the press, telling her that her words had
been heard and in another instant the whole mob would turn its fury upon
her, and in order to save her life she must fly.
“I will not fly, De Pean. You may fly yourself, for you are a coward.
They are going to kill Le Gardeur, and I will not forsake him. They
shall kill me first.”
“But you must! You shall fly! Hark! Le Gardeur is safe for the present.
Wheel your horse around, and you will see him standing up yonder quite
safe! The crowd rather believe it was I who killed the Bourgeois, and
not Le Gardeur! I have a soul and body to be saved as well as he!”
“Curse you, soul and body, De Pean! You made me do it! You put those
hellish words in my mouth! I will not go until I see Le Gardeur safe!”
Angélique endeavored frantically to approach Le Gardeur, and could not,
but as she looked over the surging heads of the people she could see Le
Gardeur standing up, surrounded by a ring of agitated men who did not
appear, however, to threaten him with any injury,--nay, looked at him
more with wonder and pity than with menace of injury.
He was a prisoner, but Angélique did not know it or she would not have
left him. As it was, urged by the most vehement objurgations of De Pean,
and seeing a portion of the crowd turning their furious looks towards
herself as she sat upon her horse, unable either to go or stay, De
Pean suddenly seized her rein, and spurring his own horse, dragged her
furiously in spite of herself out of the tumult. They rode headlong to
the casernes of the Regiment of Béarn, where they took refuge for the
moment from the execrations of the populace.
The hapless Le Gardeur became suddenly sobered and conscious of the
enormity of his act. He called madly for death from the raging crowd. He
held out his hands for chains to bind a murderer, as he called himself!
But no one would strike him or offer to bind him. The wrath of the
people was so mingled with blank astonishment at his demeanor, his grief
and his despair were so evidently genuine and so deep, that many said he
was mad, and more an object of pity than of punishment.
At his own reiterated command, he was given over to the hands of some
soldiers and led off, followed by a great crowd of people, to the main
guard of the Castle of St. Louis, where he was left a prisoner, while
another portion of the multitude gathered about the scene of the
tragedy, surrounded the body of the Bourgeois, which was lifted off the
ground and borne aloft on men's shoulders, followed by wild cries and
lamentations to the House of the Golden Dog,--the house which he had
left but half an hour before, full of life, vigor and humanity, looking
before and after as a strong man looks who has done his duty, and who
feels still able to take the world upon his shoulders and carry it, if
need were.
The sad procession moved slowly on amid the pressing, agitated crowd,
which asked and answered a hundred eager questions in a breath. The two
poor Recollet brothers, Daniel and Ambrose, walked side by side before
the bleeding corpse of their friend, and stifled their emotions by
singing, in a broken voice that few heard but themselves, the words of
the solitary hymn of St. Francis d'Assisi, the founder of their order:
“Praised be the Lord, by our sweet sister Death,
From whom no man escapes, howe'er he try!
Woe to all those who yield their parting breath
In mortal sin! But blessed those who die
Doing thy will in that decisive hour!
The second death o'er such shall have no power.
Praise, blessing, and thanksgiving to my Lord!
For all He gives and takes be He adored!”
Dame Rochelle heard the approaching noise and tumult. She looked out
of the window and could see the edge of the crowd in the market-place
tossing to and fro like breakers upon a rocky shore. The people in the
streets were hurrying towards the market. Swarms of men employed in the
magazines of the Bourgeois were running out of the edifice towards the
same spot.
The dame divined at once that something had happened to her master. She
uttered a fervent prayer for his safety. The noise grew greater, and
as she reached out of the window to demand of passers-by what was the
matter, a voice shouted up that the Bourgeois was dead; that he had been
killed by the Grand Company, and they were bringing him home.
The voice passed on, and no one but God heeded the long wail of grief
that rose from the good dame as she fell upon her knees in the doorway,
unable to proceed further. She preserved her consciousness, however.
The crowd now swarmed in the streets about the doors of the house.
Presently were heard the shuffling steps of a number of men in the great
hall, bearing the body of the Bourgeois into the large room where the
sunshine was playing so gloriously.
The crowd, impelled by a feeling of reverence, stood back; only a few
ventured to come into the house.
The rough habitans who brought him in laid him upon a couch and gazed
for some moments in silent awe upon the noble features, so pale and
placid, which now lay motionless before them.
Here was a man fit to rule an empire, and who did rule the half of
New France, who was no more now, save in the love and gratitude of the
people, than the poorest piece of human clay in the potter's field. The
great leveller had passed his rule over him as he passes it over every
one of us. The dead lion was less now than the living dog, and the
Golden Dog itself was henceforth only a memory, and an epitaph forever
of the tragedy of this eventful day.
“Oh, my master! my good, noble master!” exclaimed Dame Rochelle as
she roused herself up and rushed to the chamber of the dead. “Your
implacable enemies have killed you at last! I knew it! Oh, I knew that
your precious life would one day pay the penalty of your truth and
justice! And Pierre! Oh, where is he on this day of all days of grief
and sorrow?”
She wrung her hands at the thought of Pierre's absence to-day, and what
a welcome home awaited him.
The noise and tumult in the street continued to increase. The friends
of the Bourgeois poured into the house, among them the Governor and La
Corne St. Luc, who came with anxious looks and hasty steps to inquire
into the details of the murder.
The Governor, after a short consultation with La Corne St. Luc, who
happened to be at the Castle, fearing a riot and an attack upon the
magazines of the Grand Company, ordered the troops immediately under
arms and despatched strong detachments under the command of careful and
trusty officers to the Palace of the Intendant, and the great warehouse
of the Friponne, and also into the market-place, and to the residence
of the Lady de Tilly, not knowing in what direction the fury of the
populace might direct itself.
The orders were carried out in a few minutes without noise or confusion.
The Count, with La Corne St. Luc, whose countenance bore a concentration
of sorrow and anger wonderful to see, hastened down to the house of
mourning. Claude Beauharnais and Rigaud de Vaudreuil followed hastily
after them. They pushed through the crowd that filled the Rue Buade,
and the people took off their hats, while the air resounded with
denunciations of the Friponne and appeals for vengeance upon the
assassin of the Bourgeois.
The Governor and his companions were moved to tears at the sight of
their murdered friend lying in his bloody vesture, which was open to
enable the worthy Dr. Gauthier, who had run in all haste, to examine the
still oozing wound. The Recollet Brother Daniel still knelt in silent
prayer at his feet, while Dame Rochelle with trembling hands arranged
the drapery decently over her dead master, repeating to herself:
“It is the end of trouble, and God has mercifully taken him away before
he empties the vials of his wrath upon this New France, and gives it up
for a possession to our enemies! What says the prophet? 'The righteous
perisheth and no man layeth it to heart, and merciful men are taken
away, none considering that the righteous are taken away from the evil
to come!'”
The very heart of La Corne St. Luc seemed bursting in his bosom, and he
choked with agony as he placed his hand upon the forehead of his friend,
and reflected that the good Bourgeois had fallen by the sword of his
godson, the old man's pride,--Le Gardeur de Repentigny!
“Had death come to him on the broad, common road of mortality,--had he
died like a soldier on the battlefield,” exclaimed La Corne, “I would
have had no spite at fate. But to be stabbed in the midst of his good
deeds of alms, and by the hand of one whom he loved! Yes, by God! I will
say it! and by one who loved him! Oh, it is terrible, Count! Terrible
and shameful to me as if it had been the deed of my own son!”
“La Corne, I feel with you the grief and shame of such a tragedy. But
there is a fearful mystery in this thing which we cannot yet unravel.
They say the Chevalier de Pean dropped an expression that sounded like
a plot. I cannot think Le Gardeur de Repentigny would deliberately and
with forethought have killed the Bourgeois.”
“On my life he never would! He respected the Bourgeois, nay, loved him,
for the sake of Pierre Philibert as well as for his own sake. Terrible
as is his crime, he never committed it out of malice aforethought. He
has been himself the victim of some hellish plot,--for a plot there has
been. This has been no chance melee, Count,” exclaimed La Corne St. Luc
impetuously.
“It looks like a chance melee, but I suspect more than appears on
the surface,” replied the Governor. “The removal of the Bourgeois
decapitates the party of the Honnêtes Gens, does it not?”
“Gospel is not more true! The Bourgeois was the only merchant in New
France capable of meeting their monopoly and fighting them with their
own weapons. Bigot and the Grand Company will have everything their own
way now.”
“Besides, there was the old feud of the Golden Dog,” continued the
Governor. “Bigot took its allusion to the Cardinal as a personal insult
to himself, did he not, La Corne?”
“Yes; and Bigot knew he deserved it equally with his Eminence, whose
arch-tool he had been,” replied La Corne. “By God! I believe Bigot has
been at the bottom of this plot. It would be worthy of his craft.”
“These are points to be considered, La Corne. But such is the secrecy
of these men's councils, that I doubt we may suspect more than we shall
ever be able to prove.” The Governor looked much agitated.
“What amazes me, Count, is not that the thing should be done, but that
Le Gardeur should have done it!” exclaimed La Corne, with a puzzled
expression.
“That is the strangest circumstance of all, La Corne,” observed the
Governor. “The same thought has struck me. But he was mad with wine,
they say; and men who upset their reason do not seldom reverse their
conduct towards their friends; they are often cruelest to those whom
they love best.”
“I will not believe but that he was made drunk purposely to commit
this crime!” exclaimed La Corne, striking his hand upon his thigh. “Le
Gardeur in his senses would have lost his right hand sooner than have
raised it against the Bourgeois.”
“I feel sure of it; his friendship for Pierre Philibert, to whom he owed
his life, was something rarely seen now-a-days,” remarked the Count.
La Corne felt a relief in bearing testimony in favor of Le Gardeur.
“They loved one another like brothers,” said he, “and more than
brothers. Bigot had corrupted the habits, but could never soil the heart
or lessen the love of Le Gardeur for Pierre Philibert, or his respect
for the Bourgeois, his father.”
“It is a mystery, La Corne; I cannot fathom it. But there is one more
danger to guard against,” said the Governor meditatively, “and we have
sorrow enough already among our friends.”
“What is that, Count?” La Corne stood up erect as if in mental defiance
of a new danger.
“Pierre Philibert will return home to-night,” replied the Governor;
“he carries the sharpest sword in New France. A duel between him and
Le Gardeur would crown the machinations of the secret plotters in
this murder. He will certainly avenge his father's death, even upon Le
Gardeur.”
La Corne St. Luc started at this suggestion, but presently shook his
head. “My life upon it,” said he, “Le Gardeur would stand up to receive
the sword of Pierre through his heart, but he would never fight him!
Besides, the unhappy boy is a prisoner.”
“We will care well for him and keep him safe. He shall have absolute
justice, La Corne, but no favor.”
An officer entered the room to report to the Governor that the troops
had reached their assigned posts, and that there was no symptom of
rioting among the people in any quarter of the city.
The Governor was greatly relieved by these tidings. “Now, La Corne,”
said he, “we have done what is needful for the public. I can spare you,
for I know where your heart yearns most to go, to offer the consolations
of a true friend.”
“Alas, yes,” replied La Corne sadly. “Men weep tears of water, but women
tears of blood! What is our hardest grief compared with the overwhelming
sorrow and desolation that will pass over my poor goddaughter, Amélie de
Repentigny, and the noble Lady de Tilly at this doleful news?”
“Go comfort them, La Corne, and the angel of consolation go with you!”
The Governor shook him by the hand and wished him Godspeed.
La Corne St. Luc instantly left the house. The crowd uncovered and made
way for him as they would have done for the Governor himself, as with
hasty strides he passed up the Rue du Fort and on towards the Cape,
where stood the mansion of the Lady de Tilly.
“Oh, Rigaud, what a day of sorrow this is!” exclaimed the Governor to
De Vaudreuil, on their return to the Castle of St. Louis. “What a bloody
and disgraceful event to record in the annals of New France!”
“I would give half I have in the world could it be forever blotted out,”
replied De Vaudreuil. “Your friend, Herr Kalm, has left us, fortunately,
before he could record in his book, for all Europe to read, that men are
murdered in New France to sate the vengeance of a Royal Intendant and
fill the purses of the greatest company of thieves that ever plundered a
nation.”
“Hark, Rigaud! do not say such things,” interrupted the Governor; “I
trust it is not so bad as that; but it shall be seen into, if I remain
Governor of New France. The blood of the noble Bourgeois shall be
requited at the hands of all concerned in his assassination. The blame
of it shall not rest wholly upon that unhappy Le Gardeur. We will trace
it up to its very origin and fountain-head.”
“Right, Count; you are true as steel. But mark me! if you begin to trace
this assassination up to its origin and fountain-head, your letters of
recall will be despatched by the first ship that leaves France after the
news reaches Versailles.” Rigaud looked fixedly at the Count as he said
this.
“It may be so, Rigaud,” replied the Count, sadly; “strange things take
place under the régime of the strange women who now rule the Court.
Nevertheless, while I am here my whole duty shall be done. In this
matter justice shall be meted out with a firm and impartial hand, no
matter who shall be incriminated!”
The Count de la Galissonière at once summoned a number of his most
trusted and most sagacious councillors together--the Intendant was not
one of those summoned--to consider what steps it behooved them to take
to provide for the public safety and to ensure the ends of justice in
this lamentable tragedy.