Pierre was permitted to see the remains of his affianced bride interred
in the Convent chapel. Her modest funeral was impressive from the number
of sad, sympathizing faces which gathered around her grave.
The quiet figure of a nun was seen morn and eve, for years and years
after, kneeling upon the stone slab that covered her grave, laying upon
it her daily offering of flowers, and if the name of Le Gardeur mingled
with her prayers, it was but a proof of the unalterable affection of
Héloise de Lotbinière, known in religion as Mère St. Croix.
The lamp of Repentigny shed its beams henceforth over the grave of
the last representative of that noble house, where it still shines
to commemorate their virtues, and perpetuate the memory of their
misfortunes; but God has long since compensated them for all.
Lady de Tilly was inconsolable over the ruin of her fondest hopes. She
had regarded Pierre as her son, and intended to make him and Amélie
joint inheritors with Le Gardeur of her immense wealth. She desired
still to bequeath it to Pierre, not only because of her great kindness
for him, but as a sort of self-imposed amercement upon her house for the
death of his father.
Pierre refused. “I have more of the world's riches already than I can
use,” said he; “and I value not what I have, since she is gone for whose
sake alone I prized them. I shall go abroad to resume my profession
of arms, not seeking, yet not avoiding an honorable death, which may
reunite me to Amélie, and the sooner the more welcome.”
Lady de Tilly sought, by assiduous devotion to the duties of her life
and station, distraction from the gnawing cares that ever preyed upon
her. She but partially succeeded. She lived through the short peace
of Aix-la-Chapelle, and shared in the terrible sufferings of the seven
years' war that followed in its wake. When the final conquest of New
France overwhelmed the Colony, to all appearances in utter ruin, she
endowed the Ursulines with a large portion of her remaining wealth, and
retired with her nearest kinsmen to France. The name of Tilly became
extinct among the noblesse of the Colony, but it still flourishes in a
vigorous branch upon its native soil of Normandy.
Pierre Philibert passed a sad winter in arranging and settling the vast
affairs of his father before leaving New France. In the spring following
the death of Amélie, he passed over to the old world, bidding a long and
last adieu to his native land.
Pierre endeavored manfully to bear up under the load of recollections
and sorrows which crushed his heart, and made him a grave and melancholy
man before his time. He rejoined the army of his sovereign, and sought
danger--his comrades said for danger's sake--with a desperate valor that
was the boast of the army; but few suspected that he sought death and
tempted fate in every form.
His wish was at last accomplished,--as all earnest, absorbing wishes
ever are. He fell valorously, dying a soldier's death upon the field
of Minden, his last moments sweetened by the thought that his beloved
Amélie was waiting for him on the other side of the dark river, to
welcome him with the bridal kiss promised upon the banks of the Lake of
Tilly. He met her joyfully in that land where love is real, and where
its promises are never broken.
The death of the Bourgeois Philibert, affecting so many fortunes, was
of immense consequence to the Colony. It led to the ruin of the party of
the Honnêtes Gens, to the supremacy of the Grand company, and the final
overthrow of New France.
The power and extravagance of Bigot after that event grew without check
or challenge, and the departure of the virtuous La Galissonière left the
Colony to the weak and corrupt administrations of La Jonquière, and
De Vaudreuil. The latter made the Castle of St. Louis as noted for its
venality as was the Palace of the Intendant. Bigot kept his high place
through every change. The Marquis de Vaudreuil gave him free course,
and it was more than suspected shared with the corrupt Intendant in the
plunder of the Colony.
These public vices bore their natural fruit, and all the efforts of
the Honnêtes Gens to stay the tide of corruption were futile. Montcalm,
after reaping successive harvests of victories, brilliant beyond all
precedent in North America, died a sacrifice to the insatiable greed
and extravagance of Bigot and his associates, who, while enriching
themselves, starved the army and plundered the Colony of all its
resources. The fall of Quebec, and the capitulation of Montreal were
less owing to the power of the English than to the corrupt misgovernment
of Bigot and Vaudreuil, and the neglect by the court of France of her
ancient and devoted Colony.
Le Gardeur, after a long confinement in the Bastille, where he
incessantly demanded trial and punishment for his rank offence of the
murder of the Bourgeois, as he ever called it, was at last liberated by
express command of the King, without trial and against his own wishes.
His sword was restored to him, accompanied by a royal order bidding him,
upon his allegiance, return to his regiment, as an officer of the King,
free from all blame for the offence laid to his charge. Whether the
killing of the Bourgeois was privately regarded at Court as good service
was never known. But Le Gardeur, true to his loyal instincts, obeyed the
King, rejoined the army, and once more took the field.
Upon the outbreak of the last French war in America, he returned to
New France, a changed and reformed man; an ascetic in his living, and,
although a soldier, a monk in the rigor of his penitential observances.
His professional skill and daring were conspicuous among the number of
gallant officers upon whom Montcalm chiefly relied to assist him in his
long and desperate struggle against the ever-increasing forces of the
English. From the capture of Chouaguen and the defence of the Fords of
Montmorency, to the last brave blow struck upon the plains of St. Foye,
Le Gardeur de Repentigny fulfilled every duty of a gallant and desperate
soldier. He carried his life in his hand, and valued it as cheaply as he
did the lives of his enemies.
He never spoke to Angélique again. Once he met her full in the face,
upon the perron of the Cathedral of St. Marie. She started as if touched
by fire,--trembled, blushed, hesitated, and extended her hand to him in
the old familiar way,--with that look of witchery in her eyes, and that
seductive smile upon her lips, which once sent the hot blood coursing
madly in his veins. But Le Gardeur's heart was petrified now. He cared
for no woman more,--or if he did, his thought dwelt with silent regret
upon that pale nun in the Convent of the Ursulines--once Héloise de
Lotbinière--who he knew was wasting her young life in solitary prayers
for pardon for his great offence.
His anger rose fiercely at the sight of Angélique, and Le Gardeur forgot
for a moment that he was a gentleman, a man who had once loved this
woman. He struck her a blow, and passed on. It shattered her last
illusion. The proud, guilty woman still loved Le Gardeur, if she loved
any man. But she felt she had merited his scorn. She staggered, and sat
down on the steps of the Cathedral, weeping the bitterest tears her eyes
had ever wept in her life. She never saw Le Gardeur again.
After the conquest of New France, Le Gardeur retired with the shattered
remnant of the army of France, back to their native land. His sovereign
loaded him with honors which he cared not for. He had none to share them
with now! Lover, sister, friends, all were lost and gone! But he went on
performing his military duties with an iron rigor and punctuality that
made men admire, while they feared him. His life was more mechanical
than human. Le Gardeur spared neither himself nor others. He never
married, and never again looked with kindly eye upon a woman. His
heart was proof against every female blandishment. He ended his life in
solitary state and greatness, as Governor of Mahé in India, many years
after he had left his native Canada.
One day, in the year of grace 1777, another council of war was sitting
in the great chamber of the Castle of St. Louis, under a wonderful
change of circumstances. An English governor, Sir Guy Carleton, presided
over a mixed assemblage of English and Canadian officers. The royal arms
and colors of England had replaced the emblems and ensigns of France
upon the walls of the council-chamber, and the red uniform of her army
was loyally worn by the old, but still indomitable, La Corne St. Luc,
who, with the De Salaberrys, the De Beaujeus, Duchesnays, De Gaspes, and
others of noblest name and lineage in New France, had come forward as
loyal subjects of England's Crown to defend Canada against the armies of
the English Colonies, now in rebellion against the King.
“Read that, La Corne,” said Sir Guy Carleton, handing him a newspaper
just received from England. “An old friend of yours, if I mistake not,
is dead. I met him once in India. A stern, saturnine man he was, but a
brave and able commander; I am sorry to hear of his death, but I do not
wonder at it. He was the most melancholy man I ever saw.”
La Corne took the paper and gave a start of intense emotion as he read
an obituary notice as follows:
“East Indies. Death of the Marquis de Repentigny. The Marquis Le Gardeur
de Repentigny, general of the army and Governor of Mahé, died last year
in that part of India, which he had, by his valor and skill, preserved
to France. This officer had served in Canada with the reputation of an
able and gallant soldier.”
La Corne was deeply agitated; his lips quivered, and tears gathered
in the thick gray eyelashes that formed so prominent a feature of his
rugged but kindly face. He concluded his reading in silence, and handed
the paper to De Beaujeu, with the single remark, “Le Gardeur is dead!
Poor fellow! He was more sinned against than sinning! God pardon him for
all the evil he meant not to do! Is it not strange that she who was the
cursed cause of his ruin still flourishes like the Queen of the Kingdom
of Brass? It is hard to justify the ways of Providence, when wickedness
like hers prospers, and virtues like those of the brave old Bourgeois
find a bloody grave! My poor Amélie, too! poor girl, poor girl!”
La Corne St. Luc sat silent a long time, immersed in melancholy
reflections.
The Canadian officers read the paragraph, which revived in their minds
also sad recollections of the past. They knew that, by her who had
been the cursed cause of the ruin of Le Gardeur and of the death of
the Bourgeois, La Corne referred to the still blooming widow of the
Chevalier de Pean,--the leader of fashion and gaiety in the capital
now, as she had been thirty years before, when she was the celebrated
Angélique des Meloises.
Angélique had played desperately her game of life with the juggling
fiend of ambition, and had not wholly lost. Although the murder of
Caroline de St. Castin pressed hard upon her conscience, and still
harder upon her fears, no man read in her face the minutest asterisk
that pointed to the terrible secret buried in her bosom, nor ever
discovered it. So long as La Corriveau lived, Angélique never felt
safe. But fear was too weak a counsellor for her to pretermit either her
composure or her pleasures. She redoubled her gaiety and her devotions;
and that was the extent of her repentance! The dread secret of
Beaumanoir was never revealed. It awaited, and awaits still, the
judgment of the final day of account.
Angélique had intrigued and sinned in vain. She feared Bigot knew more
than he really did, in reference to the death of Caroline, and oft,
while laughing in his face, she trembled in her heart, when he played
and equivocated with her earnest appeals to marry her. Wearied out at
length with waiting for his decisive yes or no, Angélique, mortified by
wounded pride and stung by the scorn of Le Gardeur on his return to the
Colony, suddenly accepted the hand of the Chevalier de Pean, and as a
result became the recognized mistress of the Intendant,--imitating as
far as she was able the splendor and the guilt of La Pompadour, and
making the Palace of Bigot as corrupt, if not as brilliant, as that of
Versailles.
Angélique lived thenceforth a life of splendid sin. She clothed herself
in purple and fine linen, while the noblest ladies of the land were
reduced by the war to rags and beggary. She fared sumptuously, while men
and women died of hunger in the streets of Quebec. She bought houses
and lands, and filled her coffers with gold out of the public treasury,
while the brave soldiers of Montcalm starved for the want of their pay.
She gave fêtes and banquets while the English were thundering at the
gates of the capital. She foresaw the eventual fall of Bigot and the
ruin of the country, and resolved that, since she had failed in getting
himself, she would make herself possessor of all that he had.
The fate of Bigot was a warning to public peculators and oppressors. He
returned to France soon after the surrender of the Colony, with Cadet,
Varin, Penisault, and others of the Grand Company, who were now useless
tools, and were cast aside by their court friends. The Bastille opened
its iron doors to receive the godless and wicked crew, who had lost the
fairest Colony of France, the richest jewel in her crown. Bigot and the
others were tried by a special commission, were found guilty of the most
heinous malversations of office, and sentenced to make full restitution
of the plunder of the King's treasures, to be imprisoned until their
fines and restitutions were paid, and then banished from the kingdom
forever.
It is believed that, by favor of La Pompadour, Bigot's heavy sentence
was commuted, and he retained a sufficiency of his ill-gotten wealth
to enable him, under a change of name, to live in ease and opulence at
Bordeaux, where he died.
Angélique had no sympathy for Bigot in his misfortunes, no regrets save
that she had failed to mould him more completely to her own purposes,
flattering herself that had she done so, the fortunes of the war and the
fate of the Colony might have been different. What might have been, had
she not ruined herself and her projects by the murder of Caroline, it
were vain to conjecture. But she who had boldly dreamed of ruling king
and kingdom by the witchery of her charms and the craft of her subtle
intellect, had to content herself with the name of De Pean and the shame
of a lawless connection with the Intendant.
She would fain have gone to France to try her fortunes when the Colony
was lost, but La Pompadour forbade her presence there, under pain of
her severest displeasure. Angélique raved at the inhibition, but was too
wise to tempt the wrath of the royal mistress by disobeying her mandate.
She had to content herself with railing at La Pompadour with the energy
of three furies, but she never ceased, to the end of her life, to boast
of the terror which her charms had exercised over the great favorite of
the King.
Rolling in wealth and scarcely faded in beauty, Angélique kept herself
in the public eye. She hated retirement, and boldly claimed her right
to a foremost place in the society of Quebec. Her great wealth and
unrivalled power of intrigue enabled her to keep that place, down to the
last.
The fate of La Corriveau, her confederate in her great wickedness, was
peculiar and terrible. Secured at once by her own fears, as well as by
a rich yearly allowance paid her by Angélique, La Corriveau discreetly
bridled her tongue over the death of Caroline, but she could not bridle
her own evil passions in her own household.
One summer day, of the year following the conquest of the Colony, the
Goodman Dodier was found dead in his house at St. Valier. Fanchon, who
knew something and suspected more, spoke out; an investigation into the
cause of death of the husband resulted in the discovery that he had
been murdered by pouring melted lead into his ear while he slept. La
Corriveau was arrested as the perpetrator of the atrocious deed.
A special court of justice was convened in the great hall of the Convent
of the Ursulines, which, in the ruinous state of the city after the
siege and bombardment, had been taken for the headquarters of General
Murray. Mère Migeon and Mère Esther, who both survived the conquest, had
effected a prudent arrangement with the English general, and saved the
Convent from all further encroachment by placing it under his special
protection.
La Corriveau was tried with all the fairness, if not with all the forms,
of English law. She made a subtle and embarrassing defence, but was
at last fairly convicted of the cruel murder of her husband. She was
sentenced to be hung, and gibbetted in an iron cage, upon the hill of
Levis, in sight of the whole city of Quebec.
La Corriveau made frantic efforts during her imprisonment to engage
Angélique to intercede in her behalf; but Angélique's appeals were
fruitless before the stern administrators of English law. Moreover,
Angélique, to be true to herself, was false to her wicked confederate.
She cared not to intercede too much, or enough to ensure success. In her
heart she wished La Corriveau well out of the way, that all memory of
the tragedy of Beaumanoir might be swept from the earth, except what
of it remained hid in her own bosom. She juggled with the appeals of
La Corriveau, keeping her in hopes of pardon until the fatal hour came,
when it was too late for La Corriveau to harm her by a confession of the
murder of Caroline.
The hill of Levis, where La Corriveau was gibbetted, was long remembered
in the traditions of the Colony. It was regarded with superstitious awe
by the habitans. The ghost of La Corriveau long haunted, and, in the
belief of many, still haunts, the scene of her execution. Startling
tales, raising the hair with terror, were told of her around the
firesides in winter, when the snow-drifts covered the fences, and the
north wind howled down the chimney and rattled the casement of the
cottages of the habitans; how, all night long, in the darkness, she ran
after belated travellers, dragging her cage at her heels, and defying
all the exorcisms of the Church to lay her evil spirit!
Our tale is now done. There is in it neither poetic nor human justice.
But the tablet of the Chien d'Or still overlooks the Rue Buade; the lamp
of Repentigny burns in the ancient chapel of the Ursulines; the ruins of
Beaumanoir cover the dust of Caroline de St. Castin; and Amélie sleeps
her long sleep by the side of Héloise de Lotbinière.