ABOUT MARRIAGES
The new fort was begun on the summit of the cliff, almost two hundred
feet above the water, and the guns would command it up and down. A good
deal of stone was used. New houses were being reared in a much better
fashion, the crevices thickly plastered with mortar, the chimneys of
stone, with generous fireplaces. Destournier had repaired his small
settlement and added some ground to the cultivated area.
"The only way to colonize," declared the Sieur. "If we could rouse the
Indians into taking more interest. Civilization does not seem to attract
them, though the women make good wives, and they are a scarce commodity.
The English and the Dutch are wiser in this respect than we. When
children are born on the soil and marry with their neighbors, one may be
sure of good citizens."
The church, too, was progressing, and was called Notre Dame des Anges.
Madame de Champlain was intensely religious, and used her best efforts
to further the plans. She took a great interest in the Indian children,
and when she found many of the women were not really married to the
laborers around the fort, insisted that Pere Jamay should perform the
ceremony. The women were quite delighted with this, considering it a
great mark of respect.
She began to study the Algonquin language, which was the most prevalent.
She had brought three serving women from France, but they were not
heroic enough to be enamored of the hardships. There was so little
companionship for her that but for her religion she would have had a
lonely time. The Heberts were plain people and hardly felt themselves on
a par with the wife of their Governor, though Champlain himself, with
more democratic tastes, used often to drop in to consult the farmer and
take a meal.
Madame Giffard was not really religious. She was fond of pleasure and
games of cards, and really hated any self-denial, or long prayers,
though she went to Mass now and then. But between her and the earnest,
devoted Helene there was no sympathy.
The new house was ready by October. Helene would fain have had it made
less comfortable, but this the Governor would not permit. It would be
hung with furs when the bitter weather came in.
No one paid much attention to Rose, who came and went, and wandered
about at her own sweet will. Eustache Boulle was fairly fascinated with
her, and followed her like a shadow when he was not in attendance on his
sister. He persuaded her to sit for a picture, but it was quite
impossible to catch her elusive beauty. She would turn her head, change
the curve of her pretty lips, allow her eyes to rove about and then let
the lids drop decorously in a fashion he called a nun's face; but it was
adorable.
"I shall not be a nun," she would declare vehemently.
"No, Mam'selle, thou art the kind to dance on a man's heart and make him
most happy and most wretched. No nun's coif for that sunny, tangled mop
of thine."
He would fain have lingered through the winter, but a peremptory message
came for him.
"I shall be here another summer and thou wilt be older, and understand
better what life is like."
"It is good enough and pleasant enough now," she answered perversely.
"I wonder--if thou wilt miss me?"
"Why, yes, silly! The splendid canoeing and the races we run, and I may
be big enough next summer to go to Lachine. I would like to rush through
the rapids that Antoine the sailor tells about, where you feel as if you
were going down to the centre of the world."
"No woman would dare. It would not be safe," he objected.
"Men are not always lost, only a few clumsy ones. And I can swim with
the best of them."
"M. Destournier will not let you go."
"He is not my father. I belong just to myself, and I will do as I
like."
She stamped her foot on the ground, but she laughed as well. He was not
nineteen yet, but a man would be able to manage her.
She did miss him when he was gone. And it seemed as if Marie grew more
stupid and cared less for her. And that lout of a Jules Personeau would
sit by her on the grass, or help her pick berries or grapes and open
them skilfully, take out the seeds or the pits of plums, and place them
on the flat rocks to dry. He never seemed to talk. And Rose knew that M.
Destournier scolded because he was not breaking stone.
He was building a new house himself, and helping the Sieur plan out the
path from the fort up above to the settlement down below. They did not
dream that one day it would be the upper and the lower town, and that on
the plain would be fought one of the historic battles of the world,
where two of the bravest of men would give up their lives, and the
lilies of France go down for the last time. Quebec was beginning to look
quite a town.
Destournier's house commanded his settlement, which was more strongly
fortified with a higher palisade, over which curious thorn vines were
growing for protection. He had a fine wheat field, and some tobacco. Of
Indian corn a great waving regiment planted only two rows thick so as to
give no chance for skulking marauders.
The house of M. Giffard was falling into decay. Miladi had sent to
France early in the season for many new stuffs and trinkets, and the
settlement of some affairs, instead of turning all over to Destournier.
The goods had come at an exorbitant price, but there had been a great
tangle in money matters, and at his death his concessions had passed
into other hands.
"They always manage to rob a woman," he thought grimly.
"I supposed you were to leave things in my hands," he said, a little
upbraidingly, to her.
"I make you so much trouble. And you have so much to do for the Governor
and your settlement, and I am so weak and helpless. I have never been
strong since that dreadful night. I miss all the care and love. Oh, if
you were a woman you would know how heart-breaking it was. I wish I were
dead! I wish I were dead!"
"And you do not care to go back to France?"
"Do not torment me with that question. I should die on the voyage. And
to be there without friends would be horrible. I have no taste for a
convent."
A great many times the vague plan had entered his mind as a sort of
duty. Now he would put it into execution.
"Become my wife," he said. He leaned over and took her slim hands in his
and glanced earnestly into her eyes, and saw there were fine wrinkles
setting about them. What did it matter? She needed protection and care,
and there was no woman here that he could love as the romances
described. He was too busy a man, too practical.
She let her head drop on his broad breast. She had dreamed of this and
used many little arts, but had never been sure of their effect. There
were the years between, but she needed his strength and devotion more
than a younger woman.
"Oh, ought I be so happy again?" she murmured. "There is so much that is
strong and generous to you that a woman could rest content in giving her
whole life to you, her best love."
He wished she had not said that. He would have been content that her
best love should lie softly in the grave, like an atmosphere around the
sleeping body of Laurent Giffard, whom he had admired very much, and who
had loved his wife with the fervor of youth. He drew a long breath of
pity for the man. It seemed as if he was taking something away from him.
"Is it true?" she asked, in a long silence.
"That I shall care for you, yes. That you will be my wife." Then he
kissed her tenderly.
"I am so happy. Oh, you cannot think how sad I have been for months,
with no one to care for me," and her voice was exquisitely pathetic.
"I have cared for you all this while," he said. "You were like a sister
to whom I owed a duty."
"Duty is not quite love," in her soft murmurous tone, touching his cheek
caressingly.
He wondered a little what love was like, if this tranquil half pity was
all. Madame de Champlain was like a child to her husband, the women
emigrants thus far had not been of a high order, and the marriages had
been mostly for the sake of a helpmeet and possible children. The
Governor had really encouraged the mixed marriages, where the Indian
women were of the better sort. A few of them were taking kindly to
religion, and had many really useful arts in the way of making garments
out of dressed deerskins. He chose rather some of those who had been
taken prisoners and had no real affiliation with the tribes. They felt
honored by marrying a white man, and now Pere Jamay performed a legal
and religious ceremony, so that no man could put away his wife.
"Oh, what do you think!" and Rose sprang eagerly to Destournier,
catching him by the arm with both hands and giving a swing, as he was
pacing the gallery, deep in his new plans. "It is so full of amusement
for me. And I can't understand how she can do it. Jules Personeau is
such a stupid! And that great shock of hair that keeps tumbling into his
eyes. It is such a queer color, almost as if much sitting in the sun was
turning it red."
"What about Jules? He is very absent-minded nowadays, and does not
attend to his work. The summer will soon be gone."
"Oh, it isn't so much about Jules. Marie Gaudrion is going to marry
him."
"Why, then I think it is half about Jules," laughing down into the eager
face. "A girl can't be married alone."
"Well, I suppose you would have to go and live with some one," in a
puzzled tone. "But Jules has such rough, dirty hands. He caught me a few
days ago and patted my cheek, and I slapped him. I will not have rough
hands touch me! And Marie laughs. She is only thirteen, but she says she
is a woman. I don't want to be a woman. I won't have a husband, and be
taken off to a hut, and cook, and work in the garden. M'sieu, I should
fly to the woods and hide."
"And the poor fellow would get no dinner." He laughed at her vehemence.
"I suppose Jules is in love and we must excuse his absent-mindedness.
Will it be soon?"
"Why, yes, Jules is getting his house ready. Barbe is to help her mother
and care for the babies. I like Marie some," nodding indecisively, "but
I wish there was a girl who liked to run and play, and climb trees, and
talk to the birds, and oh, do a hundred things, all different from the
other."
She gave a little hop and a laugh of exquisite freedom. She was full of
restless grace, as the birds themselves; her blooming cheeks and shining
eyes, the way she carried her head, the face breaking into dimples with
every motion, the mouth tempting in its rosy sweetness. He bent and
kissed her. She held him a moment by the shoulders.
"Oh, I like you, I like you," she cried. "You are above them all, you
have something,"--her pretty brow knit,--"yet you are better than the
Sieur even, the best of them all. If you will wait a long while I might
marry you, but no other, no other," shaking her curls.
He laughed, yet it was not from her naive confession. She did not
realize what she was saying.
"How old am I?" insistently.
"About ten, I think."
"Ten. And ten more would be twenty. Is that old?"
"Oh, no."
"And Madame de Champlain was twelve when she was married in France.
Well, I suppose that is right. And--two years more! No, M'sieu, I shall
wait until I am twenty. Maybe I shall not want to climb trees then, nor
scramble over rocks, nor chase the squirrels, and pelt them with nuts."
"Thou wilt be a decorous little lady then."
"That is a long way off."
"Yes. And Wanamee is calling thee."
"The priest says we must call her Jolette, that is her Christian name.
Must I have another name? Well, I will not. Good-night," and away she
ran.
He fell into rumination again. What would she say to his marriage? He
had a misgiving she would take it rather hardly. She had not been so
rapturously in love with miladi of late, but since the death of her
husband, the rather noisy glee of the child had annoyed her. She would
be better now. Of course they would keep the child, she had no other
friends, nor home.
Marie Gaudrion's marriage was quite a mystery to Rose. That any one
could love such an uncouth fellow as Jules, that a girl could leave the
comfortable home and pretty garden, for now the fruit trees had grown
and were full of fragrant bloom in the early season, and the ripening
fruit later on, and go to that dismal little place under the rocks.
"You see it will be much warmer," Jules had said. It was built against
the rock. "This will shield us from the north wind and the heavy snows,
and another year we will take a place further down in the allotment. I
will lay in a store of things, and we will be as happy as the squirrels
in their hollow tree."
Marie and her mother cleared it up a bit. The floor was of rough planks
filled in with mortar, and skins were laid down for carpet. There was
but one window looking toward the south, and the door was on that side
also. Then a few steps and a sort of plateau. Inside there was a box
bunk, where the household goods were piled away inside. A few shelves
with dishes, a table, and several stools completed the furnishing.
So on Sunday they went up to the unfinished chapel on the St. Charles,
where a Mass was said, and the young couple were united. It was a lovely
day, and they rowed down in the canoes to the Gaudrions, where a feast
was given and healths drank to the newly-wedded couple, in which they
were wished much happiness and many children. The table was spread
luxuriously; the Mere had been two days cooking. Roasts and broils, game
and fish, and many of the early fruits in preserve and just ripened.
Sunday was a day for gorging in this primitive land, while summer
lasted. No one need starve then.
Afterward the young couple were escorted home.
Rose sat out in the moonlight thinking of the strangeness of it all. How
could Marie like it? Mere Gaudrion had said, "Jules will make a good
husband, if he is clumsy and not handsome. He will never beat Marie, and
now he will settle to work again, and make a good living, since courting
days are over."
The child wondered what courting days were. Several strange ideas came
into her mind. It was as if it grew suddenly and there were things in
the world she would like to know about. Perhaps M. Ralph could tell her.
Miladi said she was tiresome when she asked questions, and there was
always a headache. Would her head ache when she was grown up? And she
stood in curious awe of Madame de Champlain, who would only talk of the
saints and martyrs, and repeat prayers. She was very attractive to the
children, and gathered them about her, letting them gaze in her little
mirror she carried at her belt, as was the fashion in France. They liked
the touch of her soft hand on their heads, they were sometimes allowed
to press their tawny cheeks against it. Then she would try to instruct
them in the Catechism. They learned the sentences by rote, in an eager
sort of way, but she could see the real understanding was lacking.
"It seems an almost hopeless task," she said one day to Pere Jamay. "And
though the little girls in the convent seemed obtuse, they did
understand what devotion was. These children would worship me. When I
talk of the blessed Virgin they are fain to press their faces to the hem
of my gown, taking it to mean that I am our dear Lady of Sorrows.
Neither do they comprehend penance, they suppose they have offended me
personally."
"'Tis a curious race that God has allowed to sink to the lowest ebb,
that His laborers should work the harder in the vineyard. I do not
despair. There will come a glorious day when every soul shall bow the
knee to our blessed Lord. The men seem incapable of any true discernment
of holy things. But we must not weary in well-doing. Think what a
glorious thing it would be to convert this nation to the true faith."
The lady sighed. Many a day she went to her _prie-dieu_ not seven times,
but twice that, to pray for their conversion.
"We must win the children. They will grow up with some knowledge and
cast aside their superstitions. We must be filled with holy zeal and
never weary doing our Master's will."
She had tried to win Rose, as well as some of the more intelligent
half-breeds. But prayers were wearisome to the child. And why should you
ask the same thing over and over again? Even M. Destournier, she had
noticed, did not like to be importuned, and why then the great God, who
had all the world to care for, and sent to His creatures what He thought
best.
The child looked out on the wide vault so full of stars, and her heart
was thrilled with the great mystery. What was the beautiful world beyond
that was called heaven? What did they know who had never seen it? The
splendor of the great white moon--moving majestically through the
blue--touched her with a sort of ecstasy. Was it another world? And how
tenderly it seemed to touch the tree tops, silvering the branches and
deepening the shadows until they were haunts of darkness. Did not other
gods dwell there, as those old people in the islands on the other side
of the world dreamed? Over the river hung trailing clouds of misty
sheen, there was a musical lapping of the waves, the curious vibration
of countless insects--now the shrill cry of some night bird, then such
softness again that the world seemed asleep.
"_Ma fille, ma fille_," and the half-inquiring accent of Wanamee's voice
fell on her ear.
"I am here. It is so beautiful. Wanamee, did you ever feel that you must
float away to some other world and learn things that seem to hover all
about you, and yet you cannot grasp?"
"You cannot, child, until you are admitted to the company of the saints.
And this life is very comfortable, to some at least. Thou hast no
trouble, little one. But it is time for the bed."
"Why can I not sleep out here? The Indians sleep under the tree. So has
M'sieu Ralph, and the Governor. Oh, I should like to and have just that
great blue sky and the stars over me."
"They would not show under the tree branches. And there are wolves and
strollers that it would not be safe to see at this time of the year,
when there are so many drunken traders. So come in, child."
She rose slowly. A little room in the end of the Giffard house was
devoted to her and Wanamee. Two small pallets raised a little above the
floor, a stand with a crucifix, that the Governor's wife insisted was
necessary, a box, in which winter bedding was stored, and that served
for a seat, completed the simple furniture.
Rose knelt before the stand. There were two or three Latin prayers she
often said aloud, but to-night her lips did not move. This figure on the
cross filled her with a kind of horror just now.
"Mam'selle," said the waiting Wanamee.
The child rose. "You must pray for yourself to-night," she said in a
soft voice, throwing her pliant body on the pallet. "I do not understand
anything about God any more. I do not see why He should send His Son to
die for the thousands of people who do not care for Him. The great
Manitou of the Indians did not do it."
"_Ma fille_, ask the priest. But then is it necessary to ask God when we
have only to believe?"
"I am afraid I don't even believe," was the hesitating reply.
"Surely thou art wicked. There will be penance for thee."
"I will not do penance either. You are cruel if you torture dumb
animals, and it is said they have not the keen feeling of humans. I am
not sure. But where one thinks of the pain or punishment he is bearing
it is more bitter. And what right has another to inflict it upon you?"
Wanamee was silent. She would ask the good priest. But ah, could she
have her darling punished?