CHAPTER X.

MADAME D'HABERVILLE'S STORY.

Saepè malum hoc nobis, si mens non læva fuisset,

De c[oe]lo tactas memini praedicere quercus.

+Virgil.+

All was silence and gloom at D'Haberville Manor; the very servants went

about their work with a spiritless air, far unlike their usual gayety.

Madame D'Haberville choked back her tears that she might not add to her

husband's grief, and Blanche, for her mother's sake, did her weeping

in secret; for in three days the vessel was to set sail. Captain

D'Haberville had bidden his two friends, the priest and M. d'Egmont,

to meet Jules and Archie at a farewell dinner. At this meal every one

strove to be cheerful, but the attempt was a conspicuous failure. The

priest, wisely concluding that a sober conversation would be better

than the sorrowful silence into which the party was continually

dropping, introduced a subject which was beginning to press on all

thoughtful minds.

"Do you know, gentlemen," said he, "that a storm is gathering dark

on the horizon of New France. The English are making tremendous

preparations, and everything seems to indicate an early attack."

"And then?" exclaimed Uncle Raoul.

"Then, whatever you like, my dear chevalier," answered the curé; "but

it must be acknowledged that we have hardly forces enough at our

command to long resist our powerful neighbors."

"My dear abbé," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, "I think that in your reading

this morning you must have stumbled on a chapter of the lamentations of

Jeremiah."

"I might turn your weapon against yourself," retorted the priest, "by

reminding you that those prophecies were fulfilled."

"No matter," almost shouted Uncle Raoul, clinching his teeth. "The

English, indeed! The English take Canada! By heaven, I would undertake

to defend Quebec with my crutch. You forget, it seems, that we have

always beaten the English; that we have beaten them against all

odds--five to one--ten to one--sometimes twenty to one! The English,

indeed!"

"_Concedo_," said the curé; "I am ready to grant all you claim, and

more too if you like. But mark this. We grow weaker and weaker with

every victory, while the enemy, thanks to the foresight of England,

rises with new strength from each defeat; meanwhile, France leaves us

to our own resources."

"Which shows," exclaimed Captain D'Haberville, "the faith our King

reposes in our courage."

"Meanwhile," interposed M. d'Egmont, "he sends us so few soldiers that

the colony grows weaker day by day."

"Give us but plenty of powder and lead," answered the captain,

"and a hundred of my militia will do more in such a war as that

which is coming upon us--a war of reconnoitrings, ambuscades, and

surprises--than would five hundred of the best soldiers of France. I

speak from experience. For all that, however, we stand in great need

of help from the mother country. Would that a few of those battalions

which our beloved monarch pours into the north of Europe to fight the

battles of Austria, might be devoted to the defense of the colony."

"You might rather wish," said "the good gentleman," "that Louis XV had

left Maria Theresa to fight it out with Prussia, and had paid a little

more attention to New France."

"It is perhaps hardly becoming in a young man like me," said Lochiel,

"to mix myself up in your arguments; but, to make up for my lack of

experience, I will call history to my aid. Beware of the English,

beware of a government ever alive to the interests of its colonies,

which it identifies with the interests of the empire; beware of a

nation which has the tenacity of the bull-dog. If the conquest of

Canada is necessary to her she will never swerve from her purpose or

count the sacrifice. Witness my unhappy country."

"Bah!" cried Uncle Raoul, "the Scotch, indeed!"

Lochiel began to laugh.

"Gently, my dear Uncle Raoul," said "the good gentleman"; "and, to make

use of your favorite maxim when you are collecting the rents, let us

render unto Cæsar that which is Cæsar's. I have studied the history of

Scotland, and I can assure you that neither in valor nor in patriotism

need the Scotch yield place to any other nation, ancient or modern."

"Oh, you see, I only wanted to tease this other nephew of mine,"

exclaimed Uncle Raoul, swelling his chest; "for we know a little

history ourselves, thank God. No one knows better than Archie my esteem

for his fellow-countrymen, and my admiration for their dashing courage."

"Yes, dear uncle, and I thank you for it," said Archie, grasping him

by the hand; "but distrust the English profoundly. Beware of their

perseverance, and remember the _Delenda est Carthago_ of the Romans."

"So much the better," said Jules. "I will be grateful to their

perseverance if it brings me back to Canada with my regiment. May I do

my first fighting against them here, on this soil of Canada, which I

love and which holds all that is dearest to me! You shall come with me,

my brother, and shall take revenge in this new world for all that you

have suffered in your own country."

"With all my heart," cried Archie, grasping the handle of his knife as

if it were the terrible claymore of the Camerons. "I will serve as a

volunteer in your company, if I can not get a commission as an officer;

and the simple soldier will be as proud of your exploits as if he had a

hand in them himself."

The young men warmed into excitement at the thought of heroic deeds;

the great black eyes of Jules shot fire, and the old warlike ardor of

the race suddenly flamed out in him. This spirit was infectious, and

from all lips came the cry of _Vive le Roi_! From the eyes of mother,

sister, and aunt, in spite of all their efforts to restrain them, there

escaped a few tears silently.

The conversation became eager. Campaigns were planned, the English were

beaten by sea and land, and Canada was set upon a pinnacle of splendor

and prosperity.

"Fill up your glasses," cried Captain D'Haberville, pouring himself out

a bumper. "I am going to propose a health which everybody will drink

with applause: 'Success to our arms; and may the glorious flag of the

_fleur-de-lys_ float forever over every fortress of New France!'"

Just as they were raising the glasses to their lips a terrific report

was heard. It was like a stupendous clap of thunder, or as if some

huge body had fallen upon the manor house, which shook to its very

foundations. Every one rushed out of doors. The sun was shining with

all the brilliance of a perfect day in July. They scaled the roof, but

there was no sign anywhere that the house had been struck. Every one

was stupefied with awe, the seigneur himself appearing particularly

impressed. "Can it be," he exclaimed, "that this phenomenon presages

the fall of my house!"

In vain did M. d'Egmont, the priest, and Uncle Raoul endeavor to

refer the phenomenon to ordinary causes; they could not remove the

painful impression it had left. The glasses were left unemptied in the

dining-room, and the little company passed into the drawing-room to

take their coffee.

What took place afterward only confirmed the D'Haberville family in

their superstitious fears. Who knows, after all, whether such omens,

to which the ancient world lent implicit belief, may not indeed be

warnings from heaven when some great evil threatens us? If, indeed,

we must reject all that our feeble reason comprehends not, we should

speedily become Pyrrhonists, utter skeptics, like Molière's Marphorius.

Who knows? But one might write a whole chapter on this "who knows."

The weather, which had been so fine all day, began to cloud up toward

six o'clock in the evening. By seven the rain fell in torrents; the

thunder seemed to shatter the vault of heaven, and a great mass of

rock, struck by a thunder-bolt, fell from the bluff with terrific noise

and obliterated the highway.

Captain D'Haberville, who had carried on an immense deal of forest

warfare along with his Indian allies, had become tinctured with many of

their superstitions; and when the disasters of 1759 fell upon him, he

was convinced that they had been foretold to him two years before.

Jules, seated at supper between his mother and sister and holding

their hands in his, shared in their depression. In order to turn their

thoughts into another channel, he asked his mother to tell one of those

stories with which she used to amuse his childhood.

"It would give me," said he, "yet another memory of the tenderest of

mothers to take with me to Europe."

"I can refuse my boy nothing," said Madame D'Haberville; and she began

the following story:

"A mother had an only child, a little girl, fair as a lily, whose great

blue eyes wandered from her mother to heaven and back from heaven to

her mother, only to fix themselves on heaven at last. How proud and

happy was this loving mother when every one praised the beauty of her

child! Her cheeks like the rose just blown, her tresses fair and soft

as the beaten flax and falling over her shoulders in gracious waves!

Immeasurably happy was this good mother.

"At last she lost the child she idolized; and, like Rachel, she would

not be comforted. She passed her days in the cemetery embracing the

little grave. Mad with grief, she kept calling to the child with

ceaseless pleadings:

"'My darling! my darling! listen to your mother, who is come to carry

you to your own bed, where you shall sleep so warmly! Oh, how cold you

must be under the wet sod!'

"She kept her ear close to the earth, as if she expected a response.

She trembled at every slightest noise, and sobbed to discover that

it was but the murmur of the weeping willow moved by the breeze. The

passers-by used to say: 'This grass, so incessantly watered by her

weeping, should be always green; but her tears are so bitter that they

wither it, even like the fierce sun of midday after a heavy shower.'

"She wept beside a brook where the little one had been accustomed to

play with pebbles, and in whose pure stream she had so often washed the

little feet. The passers-by used to say:

"'This mother sheds so many tears that she swells the current of the

stream!'

"She nursed her grief in every room wherein the little one had played.

She opened the trunk in which she kept religiously all the child's

belongings--its clothes, its playthings, the little gold-lined cup of

silver from which she had last given it to drink. Passionately she

kissed the little shoes, and her sobs would have melted a heart of

steel.

"She went continually to the village church to pray, to implore God to

work one miracle in her behalf, and give her back her child. And the

voice of God seemed to answer her:

"'Like David you shall go to her, but she shall not return to you.'

"Then she would cry:

"'When, Lord, when shall such joy be mine?'

"She threw herself down before the image of the blessed Virgin, our

Lady of Sorrows; and it seemed to her that the eyes of the Madonna

rested upon her sadly, and that she read in them these words:

"'Endure with patience, even as I have done, O daughter of Eve, till

the day when your mourning shall be turned into gladness.'

"And the unhappy mother cried anew:

"'But when, when will that blessed day come, O Mother of God?'

"One day the wretched mother, having prayed with more than her usual

fervor, having shed, if possible, more tears than was her wont, fell

asleep in the church, exhausted with her grief. The sexton shut the

doors without noticing her. It must have been about midnight when

she awoke. A ray of moonlight illuminating the altar revealed to her

that she was yet in the church. Far from being terrified, she rather

rejoiced at her situation, if such a thing as joy could be said to find

any place in her sad heart.

"'Now,' said she, 'I can pray alone with God, alone with the Blessed

Virgin, alone with myself!'

"Just as she was going to kneel down a low sound made her raise her

head.

"She saw an old man, who, entering by one of the side doors of the

sacristy, made his way to the altar with a lighted taper in his hand.

She saw with astonishment that it was the former sexton, dead twenty

years before. She felt no fear at the sight, for every sentiment of her

breast had been swallowed up in grief. The specter climbed the altar

steps, lighted the candles, and made the customary preparations for the

celebration of a _requiem_ mass. When he turned she saw that his eyes

were fixed and expressionless, like those of a statue. He re-entered

the sacristy, but reappeared almost at once, followed this time by a

venerable priest bearing a chalice and clothed in full vestments. His

great eyes, wide open, were filled with sadness; his movements were

like those of an automaton. She recognized the old priest, twenty years

dead, who had baptized her and given her her first communion. Far from

being terrified by this marvel, the poor mother, wrapped up in her

sorrow, concluded that her old friend had been touched by her despair,

and had broken the bonds of the sepulchre for her sake.

"All was somber, grim, and silent in this mass thus celebrated and

ministered by the dead. The candles cast a feeble light like that of

a dying lamp. At the moment when the bell of the '_Sanctus_,' striking

with a dull sound, as when a bone is broken by the grave-digger in

some old cemetery, announced the descent of Christ upon the altar, the

door of the sacristy opened anew and admitted a procession of little

children, marching two and two, who traversed the choir and filed into

the space to the right of the altar. These children, the oldest of whom

had had scarce six years of life upon earth, wore crowns of immortelles

and carried in their hands, some of them baskets of flowers, some of

them little vases of perfume, others cups of gold and silver filled

with a transparent liquid. They stepped lightly, and a celestial

rapture shone upon their faces. One only, a little girl at the end of

the procession, appeared to follow the others painfully, loaded down

as she was with two great jars which she could hardly drag. Her little

feet, reddening under the pressure, were lifted heavily, and her crown

of immortelles seemed withered. The poor mother strove to reach out

her arms, to utter a cry of joy on recognizing her own little one, but

she found that she could neither move nor speak. She watched all the

children file past her into the place to the left of the altar, and she

recognized several who had but lately died. When her own child, bending

under her burden, passed before her, she noticed that at every step

the two jars besprinkled the floor with the water that filled them to

the brim. When the little one's eyes met those of her mother, she saw

in their depths a mingling of sadness, tenderness, and reproach. The

poor woman strove to clasp her in her arms, but sight and consciousness

alike fled from her. When she recovered from her swoon the church was

empty.

"In a monastery about a league from the village, dwelt a monk who was

renowned for his sanctity.

"This old man never left his cell, save to listen with sympathy to the

bitter confessions of sinners, or to succor the afflicted. To the first

he said:

"'I know the corruptness of man's nature, so be not cast down; come to

me with confidence and courage every time you fall, and my arms shall

ever be open to lift you up again.'

"To the second he said: 'Since God, who is so good, lays this burden

upon you now, he is reserving you for infinite joys hereafter.'

"To all he said: 'If I should confess to you the story of my life, you

would be astonished to behold in me a man who has been the sport of

unbridled passion, and my misfortunes would melt you to tears.'

"The poor mother threw herself sobbing at his feet, and told him

the marvelous thing she had seen. The compassionate old man, who

had sounded the depths of the human heart, beheld here a favorable

opportunity to set bounds to this excessive anguish.

"'My dear child,' said he, 'our overwrought imagination often cheats

us with illusions which must be relegated to the realms of dream.

Nevertheless, the Church teaches us that such marvels can really take

place. It is not for us in our ignorance to set limit to the power

of God. It is not for us to question the decrees of Him who took the

worlds into his hand and launched them into space. I accept, then, the

vision, and I will explain it to you. This priest, coming from the tomb

to say a mass, doubtless obtained God's permission to fulfill part

of his sacred ministry which he had left undone; and the sexton, by

forgetfulness or negligence, was probably the cause of his omission.

The children crowned with immortelles are those who died with their

baptismal grace unimpaired. They who carried baskets of flowers or

vases of perfume are those whose mothers gave them up to God with

holy resignation, comforted by the thought that they were exchanging

this world of pain for the celestial country and the ineffable light

about the throne. In the little cups of gold and silver were the tears

of mothers who, though torn by the anguish of their loss yet taught

themselves to cry: "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away; blessed

be the name of the Lord."'

"On her knees the poor mother drank in the old man's words. As Martha

exclaimed at the feet of Christ, 'Lord, if thou hadst been here, my

brother had not died. But I know that even now, whatever thou wilt ask

of God, God will give it thee,' even so the poor mother cried in her

ardent faith, 'If thou hadst been with me, my father, my little one

would not have died; but I know that even now, whatsoever thou wilt ask

of God, God will give it thee.'

"The good monk reflected a moment and prayed God for wisdom. It was a

sentence of life or of death that he was about to pronounce upon this

mother who appeared inconsolable. He was about to strike a blow which

should either restore her to reason or break her heart forever. He took

her hands in his withered and trembling clasp, and said gently:

"'You loved, then, this child whom you have lost?'

"'Loved her? My God, what a question!' And she threw herself moaning at

his feet. Then, raising herself suddenly, she grasped the skirt of his

cassock and besought him through her sobs: 'You are a saint, my father;

oh, give me back my child--my darling!'

"'Yes,' said the monk, 'you loved your little one. Doubtless you would

have done much to spare her even the lightest grief?'

"'Anything, everything, my father!' exclaimed the poor woman; 'I would

have been rolled on the hot coals to spare her a little burn.'

"'I believe you,' said the monk; 'and doubtless you love her yet?'

"'Do I love her? Merciful Heaven!' cried the wretched mother, springing

to her feet as if bitten by a serpent; 'I see, priest, that you know

little of a mother's love if you imagine death can efface it.' And

trembling from head to foot, she burst again into a torrent of tears.

"'Begone, woman,' said the old man, forcing himself to speak with

sternness; 'begone, woman, who hast come to impose upon me; begone,

woman, who liest to God and to his priest. Thou hast seen thy little

one staggering under the burden of thy tears, which she gathers drop

by drop, and thou tellest me that thou lovest her! She is near thee

now, toiling at her task; and thou sayest that thou lovest her! Begone,

woman, for thou liest to God and to his minister!'

"The eyes of the poor woman were opened as if she were awaking from a

frightful dream. She confessed that her grief had been insensate, and

she besought the pardon of God.

"'Go in peace,' said the old man; 'resign yourself to God's will, and

the peace of God will be shed upon your soul.'

"Some days after, she told the good monk that her little one, radiant

with joy and carrying a basket of flowers, had appeared to her in a

dream and thanked her for having ceased from her tears. The good woman,

who was rich in this world's goods, devoted the rest of days and her

substance to charity. To the children of the poor she gave most loving

attention, and adopted several of them. When she died they wrote upon

her tomb, 'Here lies the mother of the orphans.'"

All were deeply moved by Madame D'Haberville's story, and some were

even in tears. Jules embraced his mother, and left the room to hide his

emotion.

"O God," he cried, "guard this life of mine! for if evil should befall

me, my loving mother would be as inconsolable as the mother in the

story she has just told us."

A day or two later Jules and Archie were tossing upon the Atlantic; and

at the end of two months, after a prosperous voyage, they reached the

shores of France.