In the steep street of Quebec which is called "Side of the Mountain,"
there is a great descending curve; and from this curve, at the right,
there drops a break-neck flight of steps, leading by the shortest way
to the Lower Town.
As I came down these steps, after dining comfortably at the Chateau
Frontenac, on the same night when Angelique was sleeping alone beside
the twins in the little house of Saint Gerome, I was aware of a merry
fracas below me in the narrow lane called "Under the Fort." The gas
lamps glimmered yellow in the gulf; the old stone houses almost
touched their gray foreheads across the roadway; and in the cleft
between them a dozen roystering companions, men and girls, were
shouting, laughing, swearing, quarrelling, pushing this way and that
way, like the waves on a turbulent eddy of the river before it decides
which direction to follow. In the centre of the noisy group was a big
fellow with a black mustache.
"I tell you, my boys," he cried, "we go to the Rue Champlain, to the
_Moulin Gris_ of old Trudel. There is good stuff to drink there; we'll
make a night of it! My m'sieu' comes to seek me, but he will not find
me until to-morrow. Shut your mouth, you Louis. What do we care for
the police? Come, Suzanne, _marchons_!"
Then he broke out into song:
"_Ce n'est point du raisin pourri,
C'est le bon vin qui danse!
C'est le bon vin qui danse ici,
C'est le bon vin qui danse!_"
Even through its too evident disguise in liquor I knew the voice of my
errant Pat. Would it be wise to accost him at such a moment, in such
company? The streets of the Lower Town were none too peaceful after
dark. And yet, if he were not altogether out of his head, it would be
a good thing to stop him from going further and getting into trouble.
At least it was worth trying.
"Good-evening, Pat," I cried.
He turned as if a pebble had struck him, and saw me standing under the
flickering lamp. He stared for a moment in bewilderment, then a smile
came over his face, and he pulled off his hat.
"There is my m'sieu'," he said; "my faith, but that is droll! You go
on, you others. I must speak to him a little. See you later--Rue
Champlain--the old place."
The befogged company rolled away in the darkness and Pat rolled over
to me. His greeting was a bit unsteady, but his natural politeness and
good-fellowship did not fail him.
"But how I am happy to see m'sieu'!" said he; "it is a little sooner
than I expected, but so much the better! And how well m'sieu' carries
himself--in full health, is it not? You have the air of it--all ready
for the Peribonca, I suppose? _Bateche_, that will be a great voyage,
and we shall have plenty of the good luck."
"Yes," I answered, "it looks to me like a good trip, if we get started
right. I want to talk with you about it. Can you leave your friends
for a while?"
His face reddened visibly under its dark coat of tan, and he stammered
as he replied:
"But certainly, m'sieu'--they are not my friends--that is to
say--well, I know them a little--they can wait--I am perfectly at the
service of m'sieu'."
So we walked around the corner into the open square (which, by the
way, is shaped like a triangle), at one side of which there is an
old-fashioned French hotel, with a double _galerie_ across its face,
and green-shuttered windows. There were tables in front of it, and at
one of these I invited Pat to join me in having some coffee.
His conversation at first was decidedly vague and woolly, though
polite as ever. There was a thickness about his words as if they were
a little swollen, and his ideas had loose edges, and would not fit
together. However, he did his best to pull himself up and make good
talk. But his _r_'s rolled like an unstrung drum, and his _n_'s
twanged like a cracked banjo. On the subject of the proper amount of
provisions to take with us for our six weeks' camping trip he wandered
wildly. Without doubt we must take enough--in grand quantity--one must
live well--else one could not carry the load on the portages--very
long portages--not good for heavy packs--we must take very little
stuff--small rations, a little pork and flour--we can get plenty to
eat with our guns and m'sieu's rod--a splendid country for sport--and
those little fishes in tin boxes which m'sieu' loves so well--for sure
we must take plenty of them!
It was impossible to get anything definite out of him in regard to the
outfit of the camp, and I knew it beforehand; but I wanted to keep him
talking while the coffee got in its good work, and I knew that his
courtesy would not let him break away while I was asking questions. By
the time I had poured him the second cup of the black brain-clearer
he was distinctly more steady. His laugh was quieter and his eyes grew
more thoughtful.
"And the bread," said I; "we must carry two or three loaves of good
_habitant_ bread, just for the first week out. I can't do without
that. Do you suppose, by any chance, that Angelique would bake it for
us? Or perhaps those lady friends of yours who have just left
you--eh?"
A look of shame and protest flushed in Pat's face. He dropped his
head, and lifted it again, glancing quickly at me to read a hidden
meaning in the question. Then he turned away and stared across the
square toward the slender spire of the little church at the other end.
"I assure you," he said slowly, "they are not of my friends,
those--those--bah! what do those people know about making bread? I beg
m'sieu' not to speak of those girls there in the same breath with my
Angelique!"
"Good!" I answered. "Pardon me, I will not do it again. I did not
understand. They are bad people, I suppose. But how are you so thick
with them?"
"If they are bad," said he, shrugging his shoulders--"if they are bad!
But why should I judge them? That is God's affair. There are all kinds
of people in His world. I do not like it that m'sieu' has found me
with that kind. But a man must make a little fun sometimes, you
comprehend, and sometimes he makes himself a damn fool, do you see? I
have been with those people last night and to-day--and now I have
promised--I have won the money of Pierre Goujon, and he must have his
revenge--and I have promised that Suzanne Gravel--well, I must keep my
word of honour and go to them for to-night. M'sieu' will excuse me
now?"
He rose from the table, but I sat still.
"Wait a moment," I said; "there is no hurry. Let us have another pot
of coffee and some of those little cakes with melted white sugar on
them, like Angelique used to make." (He started slightly at the name.)
"Come, sit down again. I want you to tell me something about that
pretty old church across the square. See how the moonlight sparkles on
the tin spire. What is the name of it?"
"Our Lady of the Victories," he answered, seating himself
unwillingly. "They say it is the most old of the churches of Quebec."
"It is a fine name," said I. "What does it mean? What victories?"
"The French over the English, I suppose, long ago. It does not
interest me now. I must be on my road to the _Moulin Gris_."
"Will you stop on your way to say a prayer at the door of the church
of Our Lady of the Victories?"
His eyes dropped and he shook his head.
"Well, then, on your way back in the morning perhaps you will stop at
the church and go in to confess?"
He nodded his head and spoke heavily. "Who knows? Perhaps yes--perhaps
no. There may be fighting to-night. Pierre is very mad and ugly. I am
not afraid. But it is evident that m'sieu' makes the conversation to
detain me. We are old friends. Why not speak frank?"
"Old friends we are, Pat, and frank it is. I do not want you to go to
the Gray Mill. You have been drinking--stronger stuff than coffee.
Those people will pluck you, do you up, perhaps stick a knife in you.
Then what will become of Angelique and the twins? Stay here a while; I
want to talk to you about the twins. How are they? You have not told
me a word about them yet."
His face sombered and brightened again. He poured himself another cup
of coffee and put in three spoonfuls of sugar, smiling as he stirred
it.
"Ah," said he, "that is something good to speak of--those twins! It is
easily seen that m'sieu' knows how to make the conversation. I could
talk of those twins for a long time. They are better than
ever--strong, fat, and good--and pretty, too--you may believe it! I
pretend to make nothing of the boy, just to tease my wife; and she
pretends to make nothing of the girl, just to tease me. But they are a
pair--I tell you, a pair of marvels!"
He went on telling me about their growth, their adventures, their
clever tricks, as if the subject were inexhaustible. I offered him a
cigar. But no, he preferred his pipe--with a _pipee_ of the good
tobacco from the Upper Town, if I would oblige him? The smoke wreaths
curled over our heads. The other tables were gradually deserted. The
sleepy waiter had received payment for the coffee and cleared away the
cups. The moon slipped behind the lofty cliff of the Citadel, and the
little square lay in soft shadow with the church spire shining dimly
above it. Pat continued the _memoires intimes_ of Jacques and
Jacqueline.
"And the cradle," I asked, "that famous cradle built for two--what has
become of it? Doubtless it exists no more."
"But it is there," he cried warmly. "Angelique said it was in the way,
but I persuaded her to keep it. You see, perhaps we might need
it--what? Ha, ha, that would be droll. But anyway it is good for the
twins to put their dolls to sleep in. It is a cradle so easy to rock.
You do not need to touch it with your hand. It goes like this."
He put out his right foot with its _botte sauvage_, the round toe
turned up, the low heel resting on the ground, and moved it slowly
down and up as if it pressed an unseen rocker.
"_Comme ca, m'sieu'_," he said. "It demands no effort, only the
tranquillity of soul. One can smoke a little, one can sing, one can
dream of the days to come. That is a pleasant inn to stay at--the Sign
of the Cradle. How many good hours I have passed there--the happiest
of my life--I thank God for them. I can never forget them."
A crash as of sudden thunder--a ripping, rending roar of swift,
unknown disaster--filled the air, and shook the quiet houses around
our Lady of the Victories with nameless terror. After it, ten seconds
of thrilling silence, and then the distant sound of shrieking and
wailing. We sprang to our feet, trembling and horror-stricken.
"It is in the Rue Champlain," cried Pat. "Come!"
We darted across the square, turned a corner to the right, a corner to
the left, and ran down the long dingy street that skirts the foot of
the precipice on which the Citadel is enthroned. The ramshackle
houses, grey and grimy, huddled against the cliff that frowned above
them with black scorn and menace. High against the stars loomed the
impregnable walls of the fortress. Low in the shadow crouched the
frail habitations of the poor, the miserable tenements, the tiny
shops, the dusky drinking-dens.
The narrow way was already full of distracted people--some running
toward us to escape from danger--some running with us to see what had
happened.
"The Gray Mill," gasped my comrade; "a hundred yards farther--come
on--we must get there at all hazards! Push through!"
When we came at last to the place, there was a gap in the wall of
houses that leaned against the cliff; a horrible confusion of
shattered roofs and walls hurled across the street; and above it an
immense scar on the face of the precipice. Ten thousand tons of rock,
loosened secretly by the frost and the rain, had plunged without
warning on the doomed habitations below and buried the Gray Mill in
overwhelming ruin.
Pat trembled like a branch caught among the rocks in a swift current
of the river. He buried his face in his hands.
"My God," he muttered, "was it as close as that? How was I spared? My
God, pardon for all poor sinners!"
We worked for hours among the houses that had been more lightly
struck and where there was still hope of rescuing the wounded. The
Church of Our Lady of the Victories was quickly opened to receive
them, and the priests ministered to the suffering and the dying as we
carried them in.
As the pale dawn crept through the narrow windows, I saw Pat rise from
his knees at the altar and come down the aisle to stand with me in the
doorway.
"Well," said I, "it is all over, and here we are in the church this
morning, after all."
"Yes," he answered; "it is the best place. It is where we all need to
come. I have given my money to the priest--it was not mine--I have
left it all for prayers to be said for the poor souls of those--of
those--those friends of mine."
He brought out the words with brave humility, an avowal and a plea for
pardon.
"We must send a telegram," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder.
"Angelique will be frightened if she hears of this. We must
tranquillise her. How will this do? 'Safe and well. Coming home
to-morrow to you and twins.' That makes just ten words."
"It is perfectly correct, m'sieu'." he replied gravely. "She will be
glad to get that message. But--if it would not cost too much--only a
few words more,--I should like to put in something to say, 'God bless
you and forgive me.'"