“Habet!”
I came upon the De Lamourie farmhouse by the rear of the orchard; and
down through the low, blossoming arches, now humming with night moths
and honey beetles, I hastened toward the front door. Before I reached it
there arose an angry barking from the yard, and a huge black dog,
objecting to the manner of my approach, came charging upon me with
appearance of malign intent.
I was vexed at the notion of a possible encounter, for I would not use
my sword or my pistols on the guardian of my friend’s domain; yet I had
small desire that the brute should tear my clothes. I cursed my folly in
not carrying a stick wherewith to beat off such commonplace assailants.
But there was nothing for it save indifference, so I paid no attention
to the dog until he was almost upon me. Then I turned my head and said
sharply, “Down, sir, down!”
To all domestic animals the voice of authority is the voice of right. I
had forgotten that for the moment. The dog stopped, and stood growling
doubtfully. He could not muster up resolution to attack one who spoke
with such an assurance of privilege. Yet what could justify my highly
irregular approach? He would await developments. In a casual, friendly
manner, as I walked on, I stretched out the back of my hand to him, as
if to signify that he might lick it if he would; but this he was by no
means ready for, so he kept his distance obstinately.
In another moment there appeared at the head of the path a white, slight
figure, with something black about the head and shoulders. It was
Yvonne, come out to see the cause of the loud disturbance.
“It is I, mademoiselle,” I exclaimed in an eager voice, hastening to
meet her,—“Paul Grande, back from the West.”
A slight gasping cry escaped her, and she paused irresolutely. It was
but for the least part of an instant; yet my memory took note of it
afterward, though it passed me unobserved at the time. Then she came to
meet me with outstretched hands of welcome. Both little hands I crushed
together passionately in my grasp, and would have dropped on my knees to
kiss them but for two hindrances: Firstly, her father appeared at the
moment close behind her—and things which are but natural in privacy are
like to seem theatrical when critically observed. Further, finding
perhaps a too frank eloquence in my demeanour, Yvonne had swiftly but
firmly extricated her hands from their captivity. She had said nothing
but “I am glad to see you again, after so long a time, monsieur;” and
this so quietly that I knew not whether it was indifference spoke, or
emotion.
But the welcome of Giles de Lamourie was right ardent for one of his
courteous reserve. There was an affection in his voice that warmed my
spirit strangely, the more that I had never suspected it; and he kissed
me on both cheeks as if I had been his own son—“as,” said the up-leaping
heart within me, “I do most resolutely set myself to be!”
“And to what good chance do we owe it, Paul, that we see you here at
Grand Pré, at a time when the swords of New France are everywhere busy?”
he asked.
“To a brief season of idleness in two years of ceaseless action,” I
replied, “and to a desire that would not be denied.” I sought furtively
to catch Yvonne’s eyes; but she was picking an apple-flower to pieces.
This little dainty depredation of her fingers pierced me with
remembrance.
“You have earned your idleness, Paul,” said De Lamourie, “if the stories
we hear of your exploits be the half of them true. But we had thought
down here that Quebec”—“or Trois Pistoles,” murmured Yvonne over the
remnants of the apple-flower—“would have offered metal more attractive
for the enrichment of your holiday.”
I flushed hotly. But in the deepening dusk my confusion passed unseen.
What gossip had come this way? What magnifying and distortion of a very
little affair, so soon gone by and so lightly forgotten?
“The swords of New France are just now sheathed for a little,” said I,
with some reserve in my voice. “They are biding the call to new and
hotter work, or I should not be free for even this breathing-spell. As
for Quebec,”—for I would not seem to have heard mademoiselle’s
interruption,—“for years there has been but one place where I desired to
be, and that is here; so I have come, but it is not for long. Great
schemes are afoot.”
“For long or for little, my boy,” said he, dropping his tone of banter,
“your home here must be under our roof.”
Having intended staying, as of old, with Father Fafard, I knew not for a
moment what to say. I would—and yet a voice within said I would not. I
noted that Yvonne spoke no word in support of her father’s invitation.
While I hesitated we had entered the house, and I found myself bending
over the wizened little hand of Madame de Lamourie. My decision was
postponed. Had I guessed how my silence would by and by be
misinterpreted I would assuredly have decided on the spot, whichever
way.
“It is not only for the breath of gayety from Chateau St. Louis which
you bring with you, my dear Paul, that you are welcome,” said Madame,
with that fine air of affectionate coquetry, reminiscent of Versailles,
which so delightfully became her.
I kissed her hand again. We had always been the best of friends.
“But let me present to you,” she went on, “our good friend, who must
also be yours: Mr. George Anderson;” and observing for the first time a
tall, broad-shouldered, ruddy man, who stood a little to one side of the
fireplace, I bowed to him very courteously. Our eyes met. I felt for him
a prompt friendliness, and as if moved by one impulse we clasped hands.
“With all my heart,” said I, being then in cordial mood, and eager to
love one loved of these my friends.
“And mine,” he said, in a quiet, grave voice, “if it please you,
monsieur.”
“Yet,” I laughed, “if you are English, Monsieur Anderson, we must
officially be enemies. I trust our difference may be in all love.”
“Yes,” said Madame, with a dry little biting accent which she much
affected, “yes, indeed, in all love, my dear Paul. Monsieur Anderson
_is_ English—and he is the betrothed husband of our Yvonne,” she added,
watching me keenly.
It seemed to me as if there had been a sudden roaring noise and then
these last dreadful words coming coldly upon a great silence. At that
moment everything stamped itself ineffaceably on my brain. I see myself
grasp the back of a chair, that I may stand with the more irreproachable
steadiness. I see Madame’s curious scrutiny. I see Yvonne’s eyes, which
had swiftly sought my face as the words were spoken, change and warm to
mine for the least fraction of a second. I see all this now, and her
slim form unspeakably graceful against the dark wainscoting of the
chimney side. Then it all seemed to swim, and I knew that it was with
great effort of will I steadied myself; and at last I perceived that
Yvonne was holding both Anderson and her father in rapt attention by a
sort of radiance of light speech and dainty gesture. I dimly came to
understand that Yvonne had seen in my face something which she had not
looked to see there, and, moved to compassion, had come to my aid and
covered up my hurt. In a moment more I was master of myself, but I knew
that Madame’s eyes had never left me. She liked me more than a little;
but a certain mirthful malice, which she had retained from the old gay
days in France, made her cruel whensoever one afforded her the spectacle
of a tragedy.
All this takes long in the telling; but it was perhaps not above a
minute ere I was able to perceive that Mademoiselle’s diversion had been
upon the theme of one’s duty to one’s enemies. What she had said I knew
not, nor know I to this day; but I will wager it was both witty and
wise. I only know that at this point a direct appeal was made to me.
“You, monsieur,” said Anderson, in his measured tones, “will surely
grant that it is always virtuous, and often possible, to love one’s
enemies.”
“But never prudent!” interjected De Lamourie, whose bitter experiences
in Paris colored his conclusions.
“Your testimony, monsieur, as that of one who has sent so many of them
to Paradise, is much to be desired upon this subject,” exclaimed Yvonne,
in a tone of challenge, at the same time flashing over me a look which
worked upon me like a wizard’s spell, making me straightway strong and
ready.
“Well may we love them!” I cried, with an air of sober mockery. “Our
enemies are our opportunities; and without our opportunities, where are
we?”
“All our life is our opportunity, and if we be brave and faithful to
church and king we are made great by it,” exclaimed a harsh, intense
voice behind us.
I noted a look of something like consternation on De Lamourie’s face,
and a mocking defiance in the eyes of Yvonne. We turned about hastily to
greet the new-comer. I knew at once, by hearsay, that dark-robed
figure—the high, narrow, tonsured head—the long nose with its
aggressively bulbous tip—the thin lips with their crafty smile—the
dogged and indomitable jaw. It was La Garne, the Black Abbé, master of
the Micmac tribes, and terror of the English in Acadie. He was a devoted
servant to the flag I served, the lilied banner of France; but I dreaded
and detested him, for I held that he brought dishonour on the French
cause, as well as on his priestly office, by his devious methods, his
treacheries, and his cruelties. War, I cannot but think, becomes a gross
and hideous thing whensoever it is suffered to slip out of the control
of gentlemen, who alone know how to maintain its courtesies.