CHAPTER VI.

D'HABERVILLE MANOR HOUSE.

Je bénis le soleil, je bénis la lune et les astres qui étoilent le ciel. Je

bénis aussi les petits oiseaux qui gazouillent dans l'air.

+Henri Heine.+

+D'Haberville Manor House+ was situated at the foot of a bluff which

covered about nine acres of the seigniory, on the south side of the

highway. This bluff was about a hundred feet high and very picturesque.

Its summit was clothed with pines and firs, whose perpetual green

formed a cheerful contrast with the desolation of the winter landscape.

Jules D'Haberville used to compare these trees, triumphing on their

height and flaunting their fadeless green in the face of the harshest

seasons, to the mighty ones of the earth whose strength and happiness

are beyond the reach of vicissitude, however much the poor may shiver

at their feet.

One might well believe that the brush of a Claude Lorraine had

exercised itself in adorning the flanks and base of this hill, so

endless was the variety of the trees which had gathered thither from

all the neighboring woodlands. Elm, maple, birch, and beech, red

thorn, cherry, ash, and cedar, sumach, and all the other native trees

which are the glory of our forests, combined to throw a cloak of all

imaginable greens over the rugged outlines of the bluff.

A wood of ancient maples covered the space between the foot of the

bluff and the highway, which was bordered with hedges of hazel and

cinnamon rose.

The first object to attract the eye on approaching the manor house was

a brook, which, falling through the trees in a succession of foamy

cascades down the southwest slope of the hill, mingled its clear

current with that of a fountain which burst forth some distance below.

After winding and loitering through a breadth of meadow country, the

wedded streams slipped reluctantly into the St. Lawrence.

The spring, bubbling from the very heart of the hill into a basin cut

from the living rock, preserves its icy coolness, its crystal purity,

through the fiercest heats of summer. It was inclosed in those days

in a little white-washed pavilion, thick shaded by a group of ancient

trees. The seats arranged within and without this cool retreat, the

cone-shaped drinking-cups of birch bark hanging on the wall, served as

so many invitations from the nymph of the fount to wayfarers oppressed

by the dog-star.

Fresh as of old, to this day the hill-top keeps its crown of emerald,

the slope preserves its varied verdure; but of the ancient grove there

remain but five gnarled maples. These trees, decaying little by little

beneath the touch of time, like the closing years of the master of the

domain, appear almost like a visible and ceaseless prophecy that his

life will fade out with that of the last veteran of the grove. When

the last log shall have been consumed in warming the old man's frozen

limbs, its ashes will mingle with his own--a grim admonition, like that

of the priest on Ash Wednesday: "Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, ut in

pulverem reverteris."

The manor house, situated between the river St. Lawrence and the

bluff, was divided from the water only by the highway, the grove, and

a spacious yard. It was a one-storied structure with high gables,

about a hundred feet long, with two wings of fifty feet. A bake-house,

built into the northeast corner of the kitchen, served also the purpose

of a laundry. A small attachment, adjoining the great drawing-room on

the southwest, gave symmetry to the proportions of this piece of early

Canadian architecture.

Two other small buildings at the southeast served, the one for a dairy,

the other for a second wash-house. This wash-house stood over a well,

which was connected by a long trough with the kitchen of the main

building. Coach-houses, barns, stables, five small sheds (three of them

standing in the grove), a kitchen garden to the southwest of the manor

house, two orchards on the north and northeast, respectively--all these

went to make up the establishment of one of the old French Canadian

seigneurs. The _habitants_ called the establishment "le village

D'Haberville."

Sitting on the crest of the bluff, it mattered little in what direction

one allowed his gaze to wander. Immediately below the little village,

dazzlingly white, appeared to spring from the green bosom of the

meadows. On all sides a panorama of splendid magnificence unrolled

itself. There was the sovereign of streams, already seven leagues in

width, confined on the north by the ancient barrier of Laurentians,

whose feet it washes, and whose peopled slopes are in view from Cape

Tourmente to Malbaie; yonder, to the west, _Ile aux Oies_ and _Ile

aux Grues_; right in front, the Piliers Islands, one of which is as

arid as the Ægean rock of Circe, the other always green, like the

Ogygian paradise of Calypso; northward, the reefs and shoals of the

Loups-Marins, so dear to Canadian hunters; and, lastly, the hamlets of

l'Islet and St. Jean-Port-Joli, crowned with their gleaming spires.

It was nearly nine in the evening when the young men arrived on the

slope overlooking the manor. At the first glimpse of the scene which

recalled the happiest days of his existence, Jules paused and exclaimed:

"Never have I approached this home of my ancestors without being

deeply impressed. Let them boast as they will the scenes of beauty or

sublimity which abound in our fair Canada, among them all there is but

one for me, this spot where I was born, where I passed my childhood

under such tender cherishing! I used to think the days too short for my

childish sports. I rose at dawn, I dressed in haste, my thirst for my

enjoyments was feverish and unfailing.

"I love everything about us. I love the moon which you see climbing

over the wooded crest of the bluff; nowhere else does she appear to me

so beautiful. I love yonder brook which used to turn my little water

mills. I love the fountain which refreshed me in the August heats.

"Yonder my mother used to sit," continued Jules, pointing out a mossy

rock in the shadow of two great beeches. "Thither I used to bring her

in my little silver cup the ice-cool water from the spring. Ah! how

often this tender mother, watching by my pillow, or awakened suddenly

by my cries, brought me that same cup filled with sweet milk! And to

think that I must leave all this--perhaps forever! O mother, mother!"

Jules burst into tears.

Lochiel, much moved, grasped his friend's hand and answered:

"You will come back again, my brother. You will come back, bringing

glory and good fortune to your family."

"Thank you, dear old boy," said Jules, "but let us hurry on. The

greetings of my parents will soon scatter this little cloud."

Archie, who had never before visited the country in spring-time, wished

to know the meaning of those white objects which he saw at the dusky

foot of every maple.

"Those are the three-cornered spouts," said Jules, "which catch the sap

for making sugar. The sugar-maker cuts a notch in the tree and right

beneath it he drives in one of these affairs."

"One might almost say," replied Archie, "that these trees were vast

water-pipes, with their funnels ready to supply a crowded city."

He was interrupted by the barking of a great dog, which came running to

meet them.

"Niger! Niger!" shouted Jules. At the sound of the well-loved voice the

dog paused, then ran up and snuffed at his master to assure himself of

his identity. He returned Jules's caresses with a howling half joyous,

half plaintive, which expressed his love as well as words could have

done.

"Ah, poor Niger," said Jules, "I understand your language perfectly. It

is half a reproach to me for having stayed away from you so long, and

it is half delight at seeing me again, with forgiveness of my neglect.

Poor Niger, when I come again after my long, long journey, you will

not even have the happiness that was granted to the faithful hound of

Ulysses, of dying at your master's feet."

The reader is doubtless ready by this time to make the acquaintance of

the D'Haberville family. Let me introduce them according to their rank

in the domestic hierarchy:

The Seigneur D'Haberville was scarcely forty-five years old, but the

toils of war had so told on his constitution that he looked a good ten

years older. His duties as captain in the Colonial Marine kept him

constantly under arms. The ceaseless forest warfare, with no shelter,

according to the stern Canadian custom, except the vault of heaven,

the expeditions of reconnoissance or surprise against the Iroquois

or against the English settlements, carried on during the severest

weather, produced their speedy effect on the strongest frames.

Captain D'Haberville might fairly have been called handsome. A little

below the medium height, his regular features, his vivid complexion,

his great black eyes which softened at will but whose intensity when

aroused few men could face, the simple elegance of his manners, all

combined to give him an air of extreme distinction. A severe critic

might perhaps have found fault with the great length and thickness of

his black eyebrows.

As to character, the Seigneur D'Haberville was possessed of all those

qualities which distinguished the early Canadians of noble birth. It

is true, on the other hand, that he might fairly have been charged

with vindictiveness. An injury, real or supposed, he found it hard to

forgive.

Madame D'Haberville, a devout and gentle woman of thirty-six, was

endowed with that mature beauty which men often prefer to the freshness

of youth. Blonde and of medium height, her countenance was of an

angelic sweetness. Her sole object seemed to be the happiness of those

about her. The _habitants_, in their simple way, used to call her "the

perfect lady."

Mademoiselle Blanche D'Haberville, younger than her brother Jules, was

the image of her mother, but of a somewhat graver temperament. Wise

beyond her years, she had a great influence over her brother, whose

outbursts she often checked with one imploring glance. While apparently

absorbed in her own thoughts, the girl was capable, on occasion, of

acting with energy and effect.

Madame Louise de Beaumont, younger sister of Madame D'Haberville, had

lived with her ever since her marriage. Though rich and independent,

she was altogether devoted to her sister's family. Sharing their

happiness, she was equally ready to share, should need arise, the

utmost that adversity could bring upon them.

Lieutenant Raoul D'Haberville, or rather the Chevalier D'Haberville,

whom everybody called Uncle Raoul, was a younger brother of the captain

by two years. He looked fully ten years his senior. A little man was

Uncle Raoul, almost as broad as he was long, and walking with the

assistance of a stick; he would have been remarkably ugly even if the

small-pox could have been induced to spare his countenance. It is hard

to say how he came by his nickname. One may say of a man, he has a

paternal air, he is _un petit père_; but one accuses nobody of having

an avuncular appearance. For all that, Lieutenant D'Haberville was

everybody's uncle. Even his soldiers, unknown to him, used to call

him Uncle Raoul. In like manner, to compare great things with small,

Napoleon was to the grumblers merely "the little corporal."

Uncle Raoul was the _littérateur_ of the D'Haberville family, and,

therefore, something of a pedant, like almost all men who live in daily

contact with people less learned than themselves. Uncle Raoul was the

best fellow in the world when he had his own way; but he had one little

defect. He held the profound conviction that he was always right, which

made him very bad tempered with any who might dare to differ with him.

Uncle Raoul prided himself on his knowledge of Latin, fragments of

which language he was wont to launch freely at the heads of cultured

and ignorant alike. Endless were his discussions with the curé over

some line of Horace, Ovid, or Virgil, who were his favorite authors.

The curé, who was of a mild and peaceable humor, almost always grew

weary of the contest and gave way before his fiery opponent. But Uncle

Raoul also prided himself on being a profound theologian, which was the

cause of much embarrassment to the poor curé. The latter was deeply

concerned for the soul of his friend, who had been in his youth a

rather risky subject, and whom he had had great difficulty in leading

into better courses. He found it necessary, however, sometimes to give

way on points not absolutely essential to the safety of Uncle Raoul's

soul. When points were attacked which he durst not yield he was wont to

call in the aid of Blanche, whom her uncle idolized.

"Dear uncle," she would say to him with a caress, "are you not already

learned enough without encroaching on the field of our good pastor?

You are victorious on all the other points under discussion," she

would add, with a sly glance at the curé; "be generous, then, and

suffer yourself to be convinced on those points which are the especial

province of God's ministers."

Thereupon, as Uncle Raoul argued simply for the pleasure of argument, a

peace would be concluded between the disputants.

Uncle Raoul was by no means the least important personage at

D'Haberville manor. Since his retirement from the army, the captain,

whom military service kept much away from home, left the management

of affairs entirely in his hands. His occupations were very numerous.

He kept account of the receipts and expenditures of the family; he

collected the rents of the seigniory; he managed the farm; he betook

himself every Sunday, rain or shine, to mass to receive the Easter

water in the seigneur's absence; and, among other minor duties which

devolved upon him, he presented for baptism all the first-born children

of the tenants of the estate--an honor which belonged to his elder

brother, but of which the latter had freed himself in favor of Raoul.

A little incident may be cited to show Uncle Raoul's importance. Let us

imagine ourselves in the month of November, when the seigneurial rents

fall due. Uncle Raoul, with a long quill pen behind his ear, sits in

a great armchair as on a throne. Beside him is a table covered with

green cloth, and on this table rests his sword. As the tenant appears,

he assumes an expression of severity, which does not greatly alarm the

debtor, for the Seigneur D'Haberville is an indulgent landlord, and his

tenants pay when they please.

But Uncle Raoul is more deeply concerned for the form than for the

substance; the appearance of power pleases him even as power itself. He

will have everything done with due ceremony.

"How do you do, my--my--lieutenant?" says the _censitaire_, accustomed

to call him uncle behind his back.

"Very well. And thyself? What wilt thou?" replies Uncle Raoul, with an

air of great importance.

"I have come to pay the rent, my--my lieutenant; but the times are

so hard that I have no money," says Jean Baptiste, ducking his head

penitently.

"_Nescio vos!_" exclaims Uncle Raoul in a sonorous voice; "_reddite quæ

sunt Cæsaris Cæsari_."

"That's fine what you say, my--my captain, so fine that I can't

understand it at all," murmurs the _censitaire_.

"It's Latin, blockhead!" exclaims Uncle Raoul, "and this Latin means,

pay your lawful rents to the Seigneur D'Haberville, on pain of being

taken before the King's courts and of being condemned in first and

second instance to pay all expense, damages, claims, and costs."

"It would go hard with me," murmurs the _censitaire_.

"Heavens, you may well say so!" exclaims Uncle Raoul, raising his eyes

to the ceiling.

"I know very well my--my seigneur, that your Latin threatens me with

all these punishments; but I had the misfortune to lose my filly of

last spring."

"What, you rascal! On account of having lost a wretched brute of six

months old you wish to evade the seigneurial claims, which have been

established by your sovereign on a foundation as enduring as yonder

mountains. _Quos ego ...!_"

"I believe," murmurs the _habitant_ to himself, "that he is speaking

Indian to frighten me."

Then he adds aloud: "You see, my filly, according to what all the best

judges declared, would have been in four years' time the best trotter

on all the south shore, and worth a hundred francs if a penny."

"Oh, to the devil with you!" replied Uncle Raoul. "Go and tell Lisette

to give you a good drink of brandy, to console you for the loss of your

filly. These scoundrels," adds Uncle Raoul, "drink more of our brandy

than their rents will ever pay for."

The _habitant_, going into the kitchen, remarks to Lisette with a

chuckle: "I've had a bad job with Uncle Raoul; he even threatened to

haul me up before the courts."

As Uncle Raoul was very devout after his fashion, he failed not to

tell his beads and read his primer daily. In singular contrast with

this devotion, however, his leisure moments were occupied in cursing,

with an edifying fervor, his enemies the English, who had broken a leg

for him at the capture of Louisburg. It was this accident which had

compelled him to relinquish the life of a soldier.

When the young men arrived before the manor-house, they were

astonished at the sight that met their eyes. Not only were all the

rooms lit up, but also some of the out-buildings. There was an

unaccustomed stir, a strange hurrying to and fro. As the whole yard

was illuminated by the blaze of lights, they could distinguish six men

armed with guns and axes and seated on a log.

"I perceive," remarked Archie, "that the lord of the manor has called

out his guard to give us a fitting reception, just as I predicted."

José, who did not understand this sort of chaffing, shifted his pipe

from one corner of his mouth to the other, muttered something between

his teeth, and began to smoke fiercely.

"I can not tell why my father's guards, as you do them the honor to

call them, are under arms," answered Jules, laughing, "unless it is

that they are expecting an attack from our friends the Iroquois. But,

come on, we'll soon solve the problem."

As they entered the yard the six men rose simultaneously and came

forward to welcome their young master and his friend.

"What, you here!" exclaimed Jules, grasping their hands cordially;

"you, Father Chouinard! you, Julien! and Alexis Dubé, and Father

Tontaine, and François Maurice, the incorrigible! Why, I thought the

parish would have taken advantage of my absence to rise as one man

and chuck you into the St. Lawrence, as a proper punishment for the

infernal tricks you play on peaceable people."

"Our young seigneur," said Maurice, "always has his joke ready; but,

if they were to drown all those who put other folk into a rage, I know

some one who would have got his deserts long ago."

"You think so!" said Jules, laughing. "Perhaps that all comes from the

bad milk on which I was nursed. Remember that it was at the breast of

your own dear mother I was nourished. But, to change the subject, what

in the mischief are you all doing here at this hour? Are you gaping at

the stars and moon?"

"There are twelve of us," said Father Chouinard. "We are taking turns

in guarding the May-pole which we are going to present to your honored

father to-morrow. Six are in the house, having a good time, while we

are taking the first watch."

"I should have thought that the May-pole might safely have been left to

guard itself," said Jules. "I don't think there is anybody crazy enough

to get out of his warm bed for the pleasure of breaking his back in

dragging away this venerable timber, at least while there are May-poles

on all sides to be had for the cutting."

"You are off there, young master," answered Chouinard. "You see there

are always some folks jealous because they have not been invited to the

May-feast. It was only last year some scoundrels who had been invited

to stay at home had the audacity to saw up, during the night, the

May-pole which the folks of Ste. Anne were going to present to Captain

Besse. Think of the poor peoples' feelings when they gathered in the

morning and saw that their fine tree was nothing more nor less than so

much firewood!"

Jules burst out laughing at a trick which he could so well appreciate.

"Laugh as much as you like," said Father Tontaine, "but t'ain't hardly

Christian to put up tricks like that. You understand," he added

seriously, "we don't think no such trick is going to be played on our

good master; but there be always some rascals everywhere, so we're

taking our precautions."

"I am a poor man," interposed Alexis Dubé, "but not for all I own

would I see such an insult put on our captain."

The others spoke to the same effect, but Jules was already in the arms

of his family, while the worthy _habitants_ went on muttering their

imprecations against the imaginary, though improbable, wretches who

would have the hardihood to cut up the good fir log which they were

going to present to their seigneur on the morrow. It may be suspected

that the liberal cups and ample supper of May-day eve, together with

the sure anticipation of a toothsome breakfast, were not without their

effect on the zeal of the honest _habitants_.

"Come," said Jules to his friend after supper, "let us go and see

the preparations for the May-day feast. As neither of us has had the

advantage of being present at those famous nuptials of the opulent

Gamache, which so ravished the heart of Sancho Panza, the present

occasion may give us some faint idea of that entertainment."

In the kitchen all was bustle and confusion. The laughing shrill voices

of the women were mixed with those of the six men off guard, who were

occupied in drinking, smoking, and chaffing. Three servants, armed

each with a frying-pan, were making, or, to use the common expression,

"turning" pancakes over the fire in an ample fireplace, whose flames

threw ruddy lights and shadows, _à la_ Rembrandt, over the merry faces

thronging the great kitchen. Some of the neighbor women, armed with

dish and spoon and seated at a long table, kept dropping into the

frying-pans, as fast as they were emptied, the liquid paste of which

the pancakes were made; while others sprinkled them with maple sugar as

they were piled upon the plates. A great kettle, half full of boiling

lard, received the doughnuts which two cooks kept incessantly dropping

in and ladling out.

The faithful José, the right hand of the establishment, seemed to be

everywhere at once on these solemn occasions.

Seated at the end of a table, coat thrown off, sleeves of his shirt

rolled up to the elbows, his inseparable knife in hand, he was hacking

fiercely at a great loaf of maple-sugar and at the same time urging

on two servants who were engaged at the same task. The next moment he

was running for fine flour and eggs, as the pancake paste got low in

the bowls; nor did he forget to visit the refreshment table from time

to time to assure himself that nothing was lacking, or to take a drink

with his friends.

Jules and Archie passed from the kitchen to the bake-house, where

the cooks were taking out of the oven a batch of pies, shaped like

half-moons and about fourteen inches long; while quarters of veal and

mutton, spare-ribs, and cutlets of fresh pork, ranged around in pans,

waited to take their places in the oven. Their last visit was to the

wash-house where, in a ten-gallon caldron, bubbled a stew of pork and

mutton for the special delectation of the old folks whose jaws had

grown feeble.

"Why!" exclaimed Archie, "it is a veritable feast of Sardanapalus--a

feast to last six months!"

"But you have only seen a part of it," said Jules. "The dessert is yet

ahead of us. I had imagined, however, that you knew more about the

customs of our _habitants_. If at the end of the feast the table were

not as well supplied as at the beginning, the host would be accused of

stinginess. Whenever a dish even threatens to become empty, you will

see the servants hasten to replace it."

"I am the more surprised at that," said Archie, "because your

_habitants_ are generally economical, even to the point of meanness.

How do you reconcile this with the great waste which must take place

after a feast?"

"Our _habitants_, scattered wide apart over all New France, and

consequently deprived of markets during spring, summer, and autumn,

live then on nothing but salt meat, bread, and milk, and, except in

the infrequent case of a wedding, they rarely give a feast at either

of those seasons. In winter, on the other hand, there is a lavish

abundance of fresh meats of all kinds; there is a universal feasting,

and hospitality is carried to an extreme from Christmas time to Lent;

there is a perpetual interchange of visits. Four or five _carrioles_,

containing a dozen people, drive up; the horses are unhitched, the

visitors take off their wraps, the table is set, and in an hour or so

it is loaded down with smoking dishes."

"Your _habitants_ must possess Aladdin's lamp!" exclaimed Archie.

"You must understand," said Jules, "that if the _habitants'_ wives had

to make such preparations as are necessary in higher circles, their

hospitality would be much restricted or even put a stop to, for few

of them are able to keep a servant. As it is, however, their social

diversions are little more trouble to them than to their husbands.

Their method is very simple. From time to time, in their leisure

moments, they cook three or four batches of various kinds of meat,

which in our climate keeps without difficulty; when visitors come,

all they have to do is to warm up these dishes in their ovens, which

at this season of the year are kept hot enough to roast an ox. The

_habitants_ abhor cold meat. It is good to see our Canadian women,

so gay at all times, making ready these hasty banquets--to see them

tripping about, lilting a bit of a song, or mixing in the general

chatter, and dancing backward and forward between the table and the

stove. Josephte sits down among her guests, but jumps up to wait upon

them twenty times during the meal. She keeps up her singing and her

chaffing, and makes everybody as merry as herself.

"You will, doubtless, imagine that these warmed-up dishes lose a good

deal of their flavor; but habit is second nature, and our _habitants_

do not find fault. Moreover, as their taste is more wholesome and

natural than ours, I imagine that these dinners, washed down with a

few glasses of brandy, leave them little cause to envy us. But we

shall return to this subject later on; let us now rejoin my father and

mother, who are probably getting impatient at our absence. I merely

wanted to initiate you a little beforehand in the customs of our

_habitants_, whom you have never before observed in their winter life."

Everybody sat up late that night at D'Haberville Manor. There was

so much to talk about. It was not till the small hours that the

good-nights were said; and soon the watchers of the May-pole were the

only ones left awake in the manor house of St. Jean-Port-Joli.