"The Manor House at Beaugard, monsieur? Ah, certainlee, I mind it very
well. It was the first in Quebec, and there are many tales. It had a
chapel and a gallows. Its baron, he had the power of life and death, and
the right of the seigneur--you understand?--which he used only once; and
then what trouble it made for him and the woman, and the barony, and the
parish, and all the country!"
"What is the whole story, Larue?" said Medallion, who had spent months
in the seigneur's company, stalking game, and tales, and legends of the
St. Lawrence.
Larue spoke English very well--his mother was English.
"Mais, I do not know for sure; but the Abbe Frontone, he and I were
snowed up together in that same house which now belongs to the Church,
and in the big fireplace, where we sat on a bench, toasting our knees and
our bacon, he told me the tale as he knew it. He was a great scholar--
there is none greater. He had found papers in the wall of the house, and
from the Gover'ment chest he got more. Then there were the tales handed
down, and the records of the Church--for she knows the true story of
every man that has come to New France from first to last. So, because I
have a taste for tales, and gave him some, he told me of the Baron of
Beaugard, and that time he took the right of the seigneur, and the end of
it all.
"Of course it was a hundred and fifty years ago, when Bigot was
Intendant-ah, what a rascal was that Bigot, robber and deceiver! He
never stood by a friend, and never fought fair a foe--so the Abbe said.
Well, Beaugard was no longer young. He had built the Manor House, he had
put up his gallows, he had his vassals, he had been made a lord. He had
quarrelled with Bigot, and had conquered, but at great cost; for Bigot
had such power, and the Governor had trouble enough to care for himself
against Bigot, though he was Beaugard's friend.
"Well, there was a good lump of a fellow who had been a soldier, and he
picked out a girl in the Seigneury of Beaugard to make his wife. It is
said the girl herself was not set for the man, for she was of finer stuff
than the peasants about her, and showed it. But her father and mother
had a dozen other children, and what was this girl, this Falise, to do?
She said yes to the man, the time was fixed for the marriage, and it came
along.
"So. At the very hour of the wedding Beaugard came by, for, the church
was in mending, and he had given leave it should be in his own chapel.
Well, he rode by just as the bride was coming out with the man--Garoche.
When Beaugard saw Falise, he gave a whistle, then spoke in his throat,
reined up his horse, and got down. He fastened his eyes on the girl's.
A strange look passed between them--he had never seen her before, but she
had seen him often, and when he was gone had helped the housekeeper with
his rooms. She had carried away with her a stray glove of his. Of
course it sounds droll, and they said of her when all came out that it
was wicked; but evil is according to a man's own heart, and the girl had
hid this glove as she hid whatever was in her soul--hid it even from the
priest.
"Well, the Baron looked and she looked, and he took off his hat, stepped
forward, and kissed her on the cheek. She turned pale as a ghost, and
her eyes took the colour that her cheeks lost. When he stepped back he
looked close at the husband. 'What is your name?' he said. 'Garoche,
M'sieu' le Baron,' was the reply. 'Garoche, Garoche,' he said, eyeing
him up and down. 'You have been a soldier?' 'Yes, M'sieu' le Baron.'
'You have served with me?' 'Against you, M'sieu' le Baron . . . when
Bigot came fighting.' 'Better against me than for me,' said the Baron,
speaking to himself, though he had so strong a voice that what he said
could be heard by those near him-that is, those who were tall, for he was
six and a half feet, with legs and shoulders like a bull.
"He stooped and stroked the head of his hound for a moment, and all the
people stood and watched him, wondering what next. At last he said: 'And
what part played you in that siege, Garoche?' Garoche looked troubled,
but answered: 'It was in the way of duty, M'sieu' le Baron--I with five
others captured the relief-party sent from your cousin the Seigneur of
Vadrome.' 'Oh,' said the Baron, looking sharp, 'you were in that, were
you? Then you know what happened to the young Marmette?' Garoche
trembled a little, but drew himself up and said: 'M'sieu' le Baron, he
tried to kill the Intendant--there was no other way.' 'What part played
you in that, Garoche?' Some trembled, for they knew the truth, and they
feared the mad will of the Baron. 'I ordered the firing-party, M'sieu'
le Baron,' he answered.
"The Baron's eyes got fierce and his face hardened, but he stooped and
drew the ears of the hound through his hand softly. 'Marmette was my
cousin's son, and had lived with me,' he said. 'A brave lad, and he had
a nice hatred of vileness--else he had not died.' A strange smile played
on his lips for a moment, then he looked at Falise steadily. Who can
tell what was working in his mind! 'War is war,' he went on, 'and Bigot
was your master, Garoche; but the man pays for his master's sins this way
or that. Yet I would not have it different, no, not a jot.' Then he
turned round to the crowd, raised his hat to the Cure, who stood on the
chapel steps, once more looked steadily at Falise, and said: 'You shall
all come to the Manor House, and have your feastings there, and we will
drink to the home-coming of the fairest woman in my barony.' With that
he turned round, bowed to Falise, put on his hat, caught the bridle
through his arm, and led his horse to the Manor House.
"This was in the afternoon. Of course, whether they wished or not,
Garoche and Falise could not refuse, and the people were glad enough, for
they would have a free hand at meat and wine, the Baron being liberal of
table. And it was as they guessed, for though the time was so short, the
people at Beaugard soon had the tables heavy with food and drink. It was
just at the time of candle-lighting the Baron came in and gave a toast.
'To the dwellers in Eden to-night,' he said--'Eden against the time of
the Angel and the Sword.' I do not think that any except the Cure and
the woman understood, and she, maybe, only because a woman feels the
truth about a thing, even when her brain does not. After they had done
shouting to his toast, he said a good-night to all, and they began to
leave, the Cure among the first to go, with a troubled look in his face.
"As the people left, the Baron said to Garoche and Falise: 'A moment with
me before you go.' The woman started, for she thought of one thing, and
Garoche started, for he thought of another--the siege of Beaugard and the
killing of young Marmette. But they followed the Baron to his chamber.
Coming in, he shut the door on them. Then he turned to Garoche. 'You
will accept the roof and bed of Beaugard to-night, my man,' he said, 'and
come to me here at nine tomorrow morning.' Garoche stared hard for an
instant. 'Stay here!' said Garoche, 'Falise and me stay here in the
Manor, M'sieu' le Baron!' 'Here, even here, Garoche; so good-night to
you,' said the Baron. Garoche turned towards the girl. 'Then come,
Falise,' he said, and reached out his hand. 'Your room, Garoche, shall
be shown you at once,' the Baron added softly, 'the lady's at her
pleasure.'
"Then a cry burst from Garoche, and he sprang forward, but the Baron
waved him back. 'Stand off,' he said, 'and let the lady choose between
us.' 'She is my wife,' said Garoche. 'I am your Seigneur,' said the
other. 'And there is more than that,' he went on; 'for, damn me, she
is too fine stuff for you, and the Church shall untie what she has tied
to-day!' At that Falise fainted, and the Baron caught her as she fell.
He laid her on a couch, keeping an eye on Garoche the while. 'Loose her
gown,' he said, 'while I get brandy.' Then he turned to a cupboard,
poured liquor, and came over. Garoche had her dress open at the neck and
bosom, and was staring at something on her breast. The Baron saw also,
stooped with a strange sound in his throat, and picked it up. 'My
glove!' he said. 'And on her wedding-day!' He pointed. 'There on the
table is its mate, fished this morning from my hunting-coat--a pair the
Governor gave me. You see, man, you see her choice!'
"At that he stooped and put some brandy to her lips. Garoche drew back
sick and numb, and did nothing, only stared. Falise came to herself
soon, and when she felt her dress open, gave a cry. Garoche could have
killed her then, when he saw her shudder from him, as if afraid, over
towards the Baron, who held the glove in his hand, and said: 'See,
Garoche, you had better go. In the next room they will tell you where to
sleep. To-morrow, as I said, you will meet me here. We shall have
things to say, you and I.' Ah, that Baron, he had a queer mind, but in
truth he loved the woman, as you shall see!
"Garoche got up without a word, went to the door and opened it, the look
of the Baron and the woman following him, for there was a devil in his
eye. In the other room there were men waiting, and he was taken to a
chamber and locked in. You can guess what that night must have been to
him!"
"What was it to the Baron and Falise?" asked Medallion.
"M'sieu', what do you think? Beaugard had never had an eye for women;
loving his hounds, fighting, quarrelling, doing wild, strong things. So,
all at once, he was face to face with a woman who has the look of love in
her face, who was young, and fine of body--so the Abbe said--and was
walking to marriage at her father's will and against her own, carrying
the Baron's glove in her bosom. What should Beaugard do? But no, ah no,
m'sieu', not as you think, not quite! Wild, with the bit in his teeth,
yes; but at heart-well, here was the one woman for him. He knew it all
in a minute, and he would have her once and for all, and till death
should come their way. And so he said to her, as he raised her, she
drawing back afraid, her heart hungering for him, yet fear in her eyes,
and her fingers trembling as she softly pushed him from her. You see,
she did not know quite what was in his heart. She was the daughter of a
tenant vassal, who had lived in the family of a grand seigneur in her
youth, the friend of his child--that was all, and that was where she got
her manners and her mind.
"She got on her feet and said: 'M'sieu' le Baron, you will let me go--
to my husband. I cannot stay here. Oh, you are great, you are noble,
you would not make me sorry, make me to hate myself--and you! I have
only one thing in the world of any price--you would not steal my
happiness?' He looked at her steadily in the eyes, and said: 'Will it
make you happy to go to Garoche?' She raised her hands and wrung them.
'God knows, God knows, I am his wife,' she said helplessly, 'and he loves
me.' 'And God knows, God knows,' said the Baron, 'it is all a question
of whether one shall feed and two go hungry, or two gather and one have
the stubble! Shall not he stand in the stubble? What has he done to
merit you?
"What would he do? You are for the master, not the man; for love, not the
feeding on; for the Manor House and the hunt, not the cottage and the
loom.'
"She broke into tears, her heart thumping in her throat. 'I am for what
the Church did for me this day,' she said. 'O sir, I pray you, forgive
me and let me go. Do not punish me, but forgive me--and let me go.
I was wicked to wear your glove-wicked, wicked.' 'But no,' was his
reply, 'I shall not forgive you so good a deed, and you shall not go.
And what the Church did for you this day she shall undo--by all the
saints, she shall! You came sailing into my heart this hour past on a
strong wind, and you shall not slide out on an ebb-tide. I have you
here, as your Seigneur, but I have you here as a man who will--'
"He sat down by her at that point, and whispered softly in her ear; at
which she gave a cry which had both gladness and pain. 'Surely, even
that,' he said, catching her to his breast. 'And the Baron of Beaugard
never broke his word.' What should be her reply? Does not a woman when
she truly loves always believe? That is the great sign. She slid to her
knees and dropped her head into the hollow of his arm. 'I do not
understand these things,' she said, 'but I know that the other was death,
and this is life. And yet I know, too, for my heart says so, that the
end--the end, will be death.'
"'Tut, tut, my flower, my wild-rose!' he said. 'Of course the end of all
is death, but we will go a-Maying first, come October, and let the world
break over us when it must. We are for Maying now, my rose of all the
world!' It was as if he meant more than he said, as if he saw what would
come in that October which all New France never forgot, when, as he said,
the world broke over them.
"The next morning the Baron called Garoche to him. The man was like some
mad buck harried by the hounds, and he gnashed his teeth behind his shut
lips. The Baron eyed him curiously, yet kindly, too, as well he might,
for when was ever man to hear such a speech as came to Garoche the
morning after his marriage? 'Garoche,' the Baron said, having waved his
men away, 'as you see, the lady made her choice--and for ever. You and
she have said your last farewell in this world--for the wife of the Baron
of Beaugard can have nothing to say to Garoche the soldier.' At that
Garoche snarled out, 'The wife of the Baron of Beaugard, that is a lie to
shame all hell.' The Baron wound the lash of a riding-whip round and
round his fingers quietly and said: 'It is no lie, my man, but the
truth.' Garoche eyed him savagely, and growled: 'The Church made her my
wife yesterday; and you--you--you--ah, you who had all--you with your
money and place, which could get all easy, you take the one thing I have!
You, the grand seigneur, are only a common robber! Ah, Jesu--if you
would but fight me!'
"The Baron, very calm, said: 'First, Garoche, the lady was only your wife
by a form which the Church shall set aside--it could never have been a
true marriage. Second, it is no stealing to take from you what you did
not have. I took what was mine--remember the glove! For the rest--to
fight you? No, my churl, you know that's impossible. You may shoot me
from behind a tree or a rock, but swording with you--come, come, a pretty
gossip for the Court! Then, why wish a fight? Where would you be, as
you stood before me--you!' The Baron stretched himself up, and smiled
down at Garoche. 'You have your life, man; take it and go--to the
farthest corner of New France, and show not your face here again. If I
find you ever again in Beaugard I will have you whipped from parish to
parish. Here is money for you--good gold coins. Take them, and go.'
"Garoche got still and cold as stone. He said in a low, harsh voice:
'M'sieu' le Baron, you are a common thief, a wolf, a snake. Such men as
you come lower than Judas. As God has an eye to see, you shall pay all
one day. I do not fear you nor your men nor your gallows. You are a
jackal, and the woman has a filthy heart--a ditch of shame.'
"The Baron drew up his arm like lightning, and the lash of his whip came
singing across Garoche's pale face. Where it passed, a red welt rose,
but the man never stirred. The arm came up again, but a voice' behind
the Baron said: 'Ah no, no, not again!' There stood Falise. Both men
looked at her. 'I have heard Garoche,' she said. 'He does not judge me
right. My heart is no filthy ditch of shame; but it was breaking when I
came from the altar with him yesterday. Yet I would have been a true
wife to him after all. A ditch of shame--ah, Garoche--Garoche! And you
said you loved me, and that nothing could change you!'
"The Baron said to her: 'Why have you come, Falise? I forbade you.' 'Oh,
my lord,' she answered, 'I feared--for you both! When men go mad because
of women a devil enters into them.' The Baron, taking her by the hand,
said: 'Permit me,' and he led her to the door for her to pass out. She
looked back sadly at Garoche, standing for a minute very still. Then
Garoche said: 'I command you, come with me; you are my wife.' She did
not reply, but shook her head at him. Then he spoke out high and fierce:
'May no child be born to you. May a curse fall on you. May your fields
be barren, and your horses and cattle die. May you never see nor hear
good things. May the waters leave their courses to drown you, and the
hills their bases to bury you, and no hand lay you in decent graves!'
"The woman put her hands to her ears and gave a little cry, and the Baron
pushed her gently on, and closed the door after her. Then he turned on
Garoche. 'Have you said all you wish?' he asked. 'For, if not, say on,
and then go; and go so far you cannot see the sky that covers Beaugard.
We are even now--we can cry quits. But that I have a little injured you,
you should be done for instantly. But hear me: if I ever see you again,
my gallows shall end you straight. Your tongue has been gross before the
mistress of this Manor; I will have it torn out if it so much as
syllables her name to me or to the world again. She is dead to you. Go,
and go for ever!'
"He put a bag of money on the table, but Garoche turned away from it, and
without a word left the room, and the house, and the parish, and said
nothing to any man of the evil that had come to him.
"But what talk was there, and what dreadful things were said at first-
that Garoche had sold his wife to the Baron; that he had been killed and
his wife taken; that the Baron kept him a prisoner in a cellar under the
Manor House! And all the time there was Falise with the Baron--very
quiet and sweet and fine to see, and going to Chapel every day, and to
Mass on Sundays--which no one could understand, any more than they could
see why she should be called the Baroness of Beaugard; for had they all
not seen her married to Garoche? And there were many people who thought
her vile. Yet truly, at heart, she was not so--not at all. Then it was
said that there was to be a new marriage; that the Church would let it be
so, doing and undoing, and doing again. But the weeks and the months
went by, and it was never done. For, powerful as the Baron was, Bigot
the Intendant was powerful also, and fought the thing with all his might.
The Baron went to Quebec to see the Bishop and the Governor, and though
promises were made, nothing was done. It must go to the King and then to
the Pope, and from the Pope to the King again, and so on. And the months
and the years went by as they waited, and with them came no child to the
Manor House of Beaugard. That was the only sad thing--that and the
waiting, so far as man could see. For never were man and woman truer to
each other than these, and never was a lady of the Manor kinder to the
poor, or a lord freer of hand to his vassals. He would bluster
sometimes, and string a peasant up by the heels, but his gallows was
never used; and, what was much in the minds of the people, the Cure did
not refuse the woman the sacrament.
"At last the Baron, fierce because he knew that Bigot was the cause of
the great delay, so that he might not call Falise his wife, seized a
transport on the river, which had been sent to brutally levy upon a poor
gentleman, and when Bigot's men resisted, shot them down. Then Bigot
sent against Beaugard a company of artillery and some soldiers of the
line. The guns were placed on a hill looking down on the Manor House
across the little river. In the evening the cannons arrived, and in the
morning the fight was to begin. The guns were loaded and everything was
ready. At the Manor all was making ready also, and the Baron had no
fear.
"But Falise's heart was heavy, she knew not why. 'Eugene,' she said, 'if
anything should happen!' 'Nonsense, my Falise,' he answered; 'what
should happen?' 'If--if you were taken--were killed!' she said.
'Nonsense, my rose,' he said again, 'I shall not be killed. But if I
were, you should be at peace here.' 'Ah, no, no!' said she. 'Never.
Life to me is only possible with you. I have had nothing but you--none
of those things which give peace to other women--none. But I have been
happy-yes, very happy. And, God forgive me, Eugene, I cannot regret, and
I never have! But it has been always and always my prayer that, when you
die, I may die with you--at the same moment. For I cannot live without
you, and, besides, I would like to go to the good God with you to speak
for us both; for oh, I loved you, I loved you, and I love you still, my
husband, my adored!'
"He stooped--he was so big, and she but of middle height--kissed her, and
said: 'See, my Falise, I am of the same mind. We have been happy in
life, and we could well be happy in death together.' So they sat long,
long into the night and talked to each other--of the days they had passed
together, of cheerful things, she trying to comfort herself, and he
trying to bring smiles to her lips. At last they said good-night, and he
lay down in his clothes; and after a few moments she was sleeping like a
child. But he could not sleep, for he lay thinking of her and of her
life--how she had come from humble things and fitted in with the highest.
At last, at break of day, he arose and went outside. He looked up at the
hill where Bigot's two guns were. Men were already stirring there. One
man was standing beside the gun, and another not far behind. Of course
the Baron could not know that the man behind the gunner said: 'Yes, you
may open the dance with an early salute;' and he smiled up boldly at the
hill and went into the house, and stole to the bed of his wife to kiss
her before he began the day's fighting. He looked at her a moment,
standing over her, and then stooped and softly put his lips to hers.
"At that moment the gunner up on the hill used the match, and an awful
thing happened. With the loud roar the whole hillside of rock and gravel
and sand split down, not ten feet in front of the gun, moved with
horrible swiftness upon the river, filled its bed, turned it from its
course, and, sweeping on, swallowed the Manor House of Beaugard. There
had been a crack in the hill, the water of the river had sapped its
foundations, and it needed only this shock to send it down.
"And so, as the woman wished: the same hour for herself and the man! And
when at last their prison was opened by the hands of Bigot's men, they
were found cheek by cheek, bound in the sacred marriage of Death.
"But another had gone the same road, for, at the awful moment, beside the
bursted gun, the dying gunner, Garoche, lifted up his head, saw the loose
travelling hill, and said with his last breath: 'The waters drown them,
and the hills bury them, and--'
"He had his way with them, and after that perhaps the great God had His
way with him perhaps."