CHAPTER XVI.

THE FAMILY HEARTH.

Many a calamity had swept over the land since the day when the

relations and friends of Jules had gathered at the manor house to bid

him farewell before his departure for France. Among the old men time

had made his customary inroads. The enemy had carried fire and sword

into the peaceful dwellings of the _habitants_. The famine numbered its

victims by the hundred. The soil had been drenched with the blood of

its brave defenders. Wind and sea had conspired against many of those

brave officers from whom sword and bullet had turned aside. Nature was

satiated with the blood of the children of New France. The future was

dark indeed for the upper classes, already ruined by the havoc of the

enemy, for those who, in laying by the sword, were compelled to lay

by the main support of their families, and for those who foresaw that

their descendants, reduced to a lower walk in life, would be compelled

to till the soil which their valiant ancestors had made illustrious.

The city of Quebec, which of old had seemed to brave, upon its hill

summit, the thunders of the heaviest guns and the assaults of the

most daring battalions, the proud city of Quebec, still incumbered

with wreckage, raised itself with difficulty out of its ruins. The

British flag streamed triumphant from its overbearing citadel, and the

Canadian who, by force of habit, used to raise his eyes to the height

in expectation of seeing the lily banner, would drop them again sadly,

repeating with a sigh these touching words, "But our good kin will come

again."

The reader will doubtless be gratified to see his old acquaintances,

after so many disasters bravely endured, once more gathered together at

a little banquet. This was a feast given by M. D'Haberville in honor of

his son's return. Even "the good gentleman" himself, though nearing the

close of his century, had responded in person to the summons. Captain

des Ecors, a comrade of M. D'Haberville, a brave officer who had been

brought to ruin by the conquest, formed with his family a congenial

addition to the gathering. One of Jules's kinsfolk who perished in

the wreck of the Auguste had left him a small legacy, which brought

a new comfort to the D'Habervilles, and enabled them to exercise a

hospitality from which they had been long and reluctantly debarred.

All the guests were at table, after vainly waiting for the arrival of

Lochiel, who was as a rule the most punctual of men.

"Well, my friends," said M. D'Haberville, "what think you now of

the omens which so saddened me ten years ago? What is your opinion,

Monsieur the Curé, of those mysterious warnings which Heaven appeared

to send me?"

"I think," answered the priest, "that every one has had, or imagined

himself to have, more or less mysterious warnings, even in the most

remote epochs. But, without going too far back, Roman history is rife

with prodigies and portents. Occurrences the most insignificant were

classed as good or bad omens. The soothsayers consulted the flight of

birds, the entrails of the sacrificial victims, and what not! Further,

they say that no two of these holy and veracious personages could look

at each other without laughing."

"And you conclude from this--?" queried M. D'Haberville.

"I conclude," said the priest, "that we need not greatly concern

ourselves about such manifestations. Supposing Heaven were pleased, in

certain exceptional cases, to give visible signs as to the future, this

would but add one more to the already numberless ills of poor humanity.

We are by nature superstitious, and we should be kept in a state of

feverish apprehension, far worse than the actual evils supposed to be

foreshadowed."

"Well," said M D'Haberville, who, like many more, consulted others

merely as a matter of form, "my own experience compels me to believe

that such omens are very often to be trusted. To me they have never

played false. Besides those which you yourselves have witnessed, I

could cite you a host of others. For instance, about fifteen years ago

I was leading a war party against the Iroquois. My band was made up

of Canadians and Huron Indians. We were on the march, when suddenly I

felt a sharp pain in my thigh, as if I had been struck by some hard

substance. The pang was sharp enough to make me halt a moment. I told

my Indians about it. They looked at each other uneasily, consulted the

horizon, and breathed deeply, sniffing the air in every direction, like

dogs in quest of game. Then, certain that there were no enemies in the

neighborhood, they resumed their march. I asked Petit-Étienne, the

chief, who appeared uneasy, if he was dreading a surprise. 'Not that I

know of,' said he, 'but at our first encounter with the enemy you will

be wounded just where you felt the pain.' Of course I laughed at the

prediction; but for all that, not two hours later an Iroquois bullet

went through my thigh at the spot in question, fortunately escaping the

bone. No, gentlemen; omens have proved faithful in my own case."

"And what thinks Monsieur the Chevalier?" asked the priest.

"I think," said Uncle Raoul, "that there is good wine on the table, and

that it is our pressing duty to attack it."

"An admirable decision!" cried everybody.

"The wine," remarked Jules, "is the most faithful of presages, for

it announces happiness and mirth. In proof of it, here is our friend

Lochiel coming up the avenue. I am going to meet him."

"You see, my dear Archie," said the captain, greeting him warmly,

"you see that we have treated you without ceremony, as a child of the

family. We only waited for you half an hour. Knowing your soldierly

punctuality, we feared that some unavoidable business had prevented

your coming."

"I should have been much grieved if you had treated me otherwise than

as a child of the family," answered Archie. "I had planned to be here

quite early this morning, but I did not make sufficient allowance for

your fine quagmire at Cap St.-Ignace. First of all, my horse got into a

bog-hole, whence I extricated him at the cost of the harness, which I

had to do without as best I could. Then I broke a wheel of my carriage,

whereupon I had to go and seek help at the nearest house, about a mile

and a half away. For most of the distance I was wading through mud up

to my knees, and when I got there I was half dead with fatigue."

"Ah, my dear Archie," said Jules, the ceaseless mocker, "_quantum

mutatus ab illo_, as Uncle Raoul would have said if I hadn't got ahead

of him. Where are your mighty legs, of which you were once so proud

in that same morass? Have they lost their agility since the 28th of

April, 1760? They served you admirably in that retreat, as I predicted

they would."

"It is true," replied Lochiel, laughing heartily, "that they did not

fail me in the _retreat_ of 1760, as you so considerately call it, but,

my dear Jules, you had no reason to complain of your own, short as they

are, in the retreat of 1759. One compliment deserves another you know,

always with due regard to a soldier's modesty."

"Ah, but you're all astray there, my dear fellow. A scratch which I

had received from an English bullet was interfering very seriously

with my flight, when a tall grenadier who had somehow taken a fancy to

me, threw me over his shoulder with no more ceremony than as if I were

his haversack, and, continuing his retreat at full speed, deposited me

at length within the walls of Quebec. It was time. In his zeal, the

creature had carried me with my head hanging down his rascally back,

like a calf on the way to the butcher's, so that I was almost choked

by the time he landed me. Would you believe it, the rascal had the

audacity some time afterward, to ask me for a _pour-boire_ for himself

and his friends, who were so glad to see their little grenadier once

more upon his feet; and I was fool enough to treat the crowd. You see,

I never could keep up a grudge. But here is your dinner, piping hot,

which your friend Lisette has kept in the oven for you. To be sure, you

deserve to take your dinner in the kitchen, for the anxiety that you

have been causing us; but we'll let that pass. Here is José bringing

you an appetizer, according to the custom of all civilized nations. The

old fellow is so glad to see you that he is showing his teeth from ear

to ear. I assure you that he is not one-handed when he is giving his

friends a drink, and still less so when, like his late father, he is

taking one himself."

"Our young master," answered José, putting the empty plate under his

arm in order to shake Archie's hand, "our young master is always at

his jokes; but Mr. Archie knows very well that if there was only one

glass of brandy left in the world I should give it to him rather than

drink it myself. As for my poor late father, he was a very systematic

man; so many drinks a day and not a drop more--always barring weddings

and festivals and other special occasions. He knew how to live with

propriety, and also how to take his little recreations from time to

time, the worthy man! All I can say is, that when he entertained his

friends he didn't keep the bottle under the table."

In The Vicar of Wakefield Goldsmith makes the good pastor say:

"I can't say whether we had more wit among us than usual, but I'm

certain we had more laughing, which answered the end as well."

The same might be said of the present gathering, over which there

reigned that French light-heartedness which seems, alas, to be

disappearing in what Homer would call these degenerate days.

"Neighbor," said Captain D'Haberville to Captain des Ecors, "if your

little difficulty with General Murray has not spoiled your throat for

singing, please set a good example by giving us a song."

"Indeed," said Archie, "I heard that you had great difficulty

in escaping the clutches of our bad-tempered general, but I am

unacquainted with the particulars."

"When I think of it, my friend," exclaimed Captain des Ecors, "I

feel something of a strangling sensation in my throat. I should not

complain, however, for in my case the general conducted affairs in due

order; instead of hanging me first and trying me afterward, he came to

the wise conclusion that the trial had better precede the hanging.

The fate of the unhappy miller Nadeau, my fellow-prisoner, who was

accused of the same crime as myself, and who was not tried until after

his execution--the sad fate of this respectable man, whose innocence

he heard too late, led him to hesitate before hanging me untried. In

my captivity I passed many a bad quarter of an hour. All communication

with the outside world was forbidden me. I had no means of learning

what fate was in store for me. Every day I asked the sentinel who was

walking up and down beneath my window if he had any news for me, and

ordinarily I received in answer a cordial 'goddam.' At last a soldier,

more accessible and good-humored, who could jabber a scrap of French,

replied to my question, '_Vous pendar sept heures le matingul!_' I

believe this jolly and sympathetic creature put all his knowledge of

French into that one phrase, for to every other question I asked I

received the same reply--'_Vous pendar sept heures le matingul!_' It

was easy to gather from this that I was to be hung some morning at

seven o'clock, but what morning I could not learn. The outlook was

anything but cheerful. For three whole days I had seen the body of the

unfortunate Nadeau hanging from one of the arms of his wind mill, the

plaything of the gale. Every morning I expected that I should be called

to take his place on this novel and ingenious gibbet."

"Infamous!" cried Archie. "And the man was innocent!"

"This was proved at the inquest which was held after the execution,"

replied Captain des Ecors. "I should add that General Murray appeared

to repent with bitterness for this murder, which he had committed in

his haste. He heaped Nadeau's family with benefits, and adopted his

two little orphan daughters, whom he took with him to England. Poor

Nadeau!"

All the company echoed the words "Poor Nadeau!"

"Alas!" said Des Ecor philosophically, "if we were to set ourselves

lamenting for all who have lost their lives by--But let us change a

subject so painful." Then he sang the following song:

"The new Narcissus am I named,

Whom all men most admire;

From water have I been reclaimed,

In wine to drown my fire.

When I behold the rosy hue

That gives my face renown,

Enraptured with the lovely view,

I drink my image down.

"In all the universe is naught

But tribute pays to thee;

Even the winter's ice is brought

For thy benignant glee.

The Earth exerts her anxious care

Thy nurture to assist;

To ripen thee the sun shines fair;

To drink thee I exist."

The songs and choruses succeeded each other rapidly. That contributed

by Madame Vincelot wrought up the merriment of the party to a high

pitch.

"This festal board, this royal cheer,

They clearly tell

(They clearly tell)

Our host is glad to have us here,

And feast us well

(And feast us well);

For even he permits that we

Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!

"Now pour me out a glass, kind host,

Of this good wine (_repeat_),

For I would drink a loving toast--

This wife of thine (_repeat_),

Who smilingly permits that we

Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"

To this Madame D'Haberville added the following impromptu stanza:

"If our endeavor to make your cheer

Be not in vain (_repeat_),

Consider you're the masters here,

And come again (_repeat_),

And it shall be your care that we

Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"

Then Jules added a verse:

"Without a spice of rivalry

Dan Cupid nods (_repeat_),

But challenge him to cups, and he

'Ll accept the odds (_repeat_).

Bacchus and he, as well as we,

Make Charivari! Charivari! Charivari!"

At the end of each stanza every one pounded on the table with their

hands or rapped on the plates with their forks and spoons, till the din

became something indescribable.

Blanche, being asked to sing her favorite song of Blaise and Babette,

endeavored to excuse herself and substitute another; but the young

ladies insisted, crying: "Let us have Blaise and Babette by all means;

the minor is so touching."

"Yes," said Jules, "that is a minor, with its 'My love it is my life';

a minor to touch the tenderest chord in the feminine heart. Quick, let

us have the sweet minor, to touch the hearts of these charming young

ladies!"

"We'll make you pay for that in blindman's buff," said one of them.

"And in the game of forfeits," said another.

"Look out for yourself, my boy," said Jules, addressing himself, "for

in the hands of these young ladies you stand no better chance than

a cat without claws would in--hades! No matter. Sing away, my dear

sister. Your voice, perhaps, like that of Orpheus, will assuage the

fury of your enemies."

"The wretch!" chorused the young ladies, "to compare us--But, never

mind, we'll settle with you later. Meanwhile, sing us the song,

Blanche, dear."

The latter still hesitated. Then, fearing to attract attention by her

refusal, she sang the following song with tears in her voice. It was

the cry of a pure love finding utterance, in spite of all her efforts

to bury it in her heart:

"For thee, dear heart, these flowers I twine.

My Blaise, accept of thy Babette

The warm rose and the orange-flower,

And jessamine and violet.

Be not thy passion like the bloom,

That shines a day and disappears.

My love is an undying light,

And will not change for time or tears.

"Dear, be not like the butterfly

That knows each blossom in the glades,

And cheapen not thy sighs and vows

Among the laughing village maids.

Such loves are but the transient bloom

That shines a day and disappears.

My love is an undying light,

And will not change for time or tears.

"If I should find my beauty fade,

If I must watch these charms depart,

Dear, see thou but my tenderness--

Oh, look thou only on my heart!

Remember how the transient bloom

Shines for a day and disappears.

My love is an undying light,

And will not change for time or tears."

Every one was moved by her touching pathos, of which they could not

guess the true cause. They attributed it, lamely enough, to her emotion

on seeing Jules thus brought back to the bosom of his family. To divert

their attention, Jules hastened to say:

"But it's myself that has brought the pretty song with me from France."

"Let us have your pretty song," arose the cry on all sides.

"No," said Jules, "I am keeping it for Mademoiselle Vincelot, to whom I

wish to teach it."

Now the young lady in question had for some years been declaring

herself very hostile to the idea of marriage; indeed, she had avowed

a pronounced preference for celibacy. But Jules knew that a certain

widower, not waiting quite so long as decorum required, had overcome

the strange repugnance of this tigress of chastity, and had even

prevailed upon her to name the day. This declared opponent of marriage

was in no hurry to thank Jules, whose malicious waggery she knew too

well; but every one cried persistently: "The song! Give us the song,

and you can teach it to Elise at your leisure."

"As you will," said Jules. "It is very short, but is not wanting in

spice:

"A maiden is a bird

That seems to love the cage,

Enamored of the nest

That nursed her tender age;

But leave the window wide

And, presto! she's outside

And off on eager wing

To mate and sing."

They chaffed Elise a good deal, who, like all prudes, took their

pleasantries with rather a bad grace, seeing which, Madame D'Haberville

gave the signal, and the company arose and went into the drawing-room.

Elise, as she was passing Jules, gave him a pinch that nearly brought

the blood.

"Come, my fair one, whose claws are so sharp," exclaimed Jules, "is

this such a caress as you destined for your future spouse, this which

you are now bestowing on one of your best friends? Happy spouse! May

Heaven keep much joy for him at the last!"

After the coffee and the customary _pousse-café_ the company went out

into the court-yard to dance country dances and to play fox and geese

and my lady's toilet. Nothing could be more picturesque than this

latter game, played in the open air in a yard studded with trees. The

players took their places each under a tree. One only remained in the

open. Each furnished his or her contribution to my lady's toilet--one

being her dress, another her necklace, another her ring, and so forth.

It was the office of one of the players to direct the game. As soon

as he called for one of these articles the one representing this

article was obliged at once to leave his post, which was promptly taken

possession of by another. Then, as the different articles of my lady's

toilet were called for rapidly, a lively interchange of positions

was set up between the players, the one left out in the first place

striving to capture any post that might be left for an instant vacant.

This merry game was continued until my lady considered her toilet

complete. Then, on the cry, "My lady wants all her toilet," all the

players change places with alacrity, and the one who was left out had

to pay a forfeit. It is not to be supposed that this game was conducted

without a vast deal of laughter and clamor and ludicrous mishaps.

When the ladies were tired the party went into the house to amuse

themselves less vigorously with such games as "does the company please

you," or "hide the ring," "shepherdess," or "hide and seek," or "hot

cockles," etc. They ended up with a game proposed by Jules, which was

ordinarily productive of much laughter.

The early Canadians, though redoubtable warriors on the battle-field,

were thorough children in their social gatherings. Being nearly all

kinsfolk or friends of long standing, many of their games which in

these days might be regarded in the best circles as overfamiliar were

robbed of the objectionable element. The stranger would have said that

they were a lot of brothers and sisters letting their spirits have free

play within the privacy of the family.

It was not without deliberate purpose that Jules, who still felt the

pinch Elise had given him, proposed a game by which he hoped to get

his revenge. This is the game: A lady seated in an arm-chair begins by

choosing some one as her daughter. Her eyes are then blindfolded, and,

by merely feeling the faces of the players, who kneel before her one by

one, with their heads enveloped in a shawl or scarf, she is required to

pick out her daughter. Every time she makes a mistake she has to pay a

forfeit. It is often a man or an old woman who kneels before her thus

disguised, whence arises many a laughable mistake.

When it came the turn of Elise to take the arm-chair, she did not fail

to select Jules for her daughter, with the purpose of tormenting him a

little during the inspection. As each person knelt at the feet of the

blindfolded lady, all the others sang in chorus:

"Oh, lady, say, is this your daughter?

Oh, lady, say, is this your daughter?

In buckles of gold and rings galore,

The watermen bold are at the oar."

The blindfolded lady responds in the same fashion:

"Oh, yes, it is, it is my daughter, etc."

Or else:

"Oh, no, it is not, it is not my daughter;

Oh, no, it is not, it is not my daughter.

In buckles of gold and rings galore,

The watermen bold are at the oar."

After having inspected several heads, Elise, hearing under the shawl

the stifled laughter of Jules, imagined she had grasped her prey. She

feels his head. It is not unlike that of Jules. The face, indeed,

seems a trifle long, but this rascally Jules has so many tricks for

disguising himself! Did he not mystify the company for a whole evening,

having been introduced as an old aunt just arrived that very day from

France? Under this disguise, did he not have the audacity to kiss all

the pretty women in the room, including Elise herself? The wretch! Yes,

Jules is capable of anything! Under this impression she pinches an ear.

There is a cry of pain and a low growl, followed by a loud barking. She

snatches the bandage from her eyes, to find herself confronted with two

rows of threatening teeth. It was Niger. Just as at the house of Farmer

Dinmont, of whom Scott tell us, all the dogs were named Pepper, so at

the D'Haberville mansion all the dogs were called Niger or Nigra, in

memory of their ancestor, whom the little Jules had named to show his

progress in Latin.

Elise at once snatched off her high-heeled shoe, and made an attack on

Jules. The latter held poor Niger as a shield, and ran from room to

room, the girl following him hotly amid roars of laughter.

Oh, happy time when lightness of heart made wit unnecessary! Oh, happy

time when the warmth of welcome made superfluous the luxury which

these ruined Canadians were learning to do without! The houses, like

the hearts of their owners, seemed able to enlarge themselves to meet

every possible demand of hospitality. Sleeping-places were improvised

upon the slightest occasion; and when once the ladies were comfortably

provided for the sterner sex found no difficulty in shifting for

themselves. These men, who had passed half their life in camp during

the harshest seasons; who had journeyed four or five leagues on

snow-shoes, resting by night in holes which they dug in the snow (as

they did when they went to attack the English in Acadia), these men of

iron could do without swan's-down coverlets to their couches.

The merry-making paused only for sleep, and was renewed in all its

vigor in the morning. As every one then wore powder, the more skillful

would undertake the _rôle_ of hairdresser, or even of barber. The

subject, arrayed in an ample dressing-gown, seated himself gravely in a

chair. The impromptu hairdresser rarely failed to heighten the effect

of his achievement, either by tracing with the powder puff an immense

pair of whiskers on those who lacked such adornment, or, in the case of

those who were already provided, by making one side a great deal longer

than the other. The victim frequently was made aware of his plight only

by the peals of laughter which greeted him on entering the drawing-room.

The party broke up at the end of three days, in spite of the efforts

of M. and Madame D'Haberville to keep them longer. Archie alone, who

had promised to spend a month with his old friends, kept his word and

remained.