Cameron of Lochiel

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 songs and choruses succeeded each other rapidly. That contributed by Madame Vincelot wrought up the merriment of the party to a high pitch.