← catalogue

A Little Girl in Old Quebec

by Amanda M. Douglas · English · Gutenberg #23779 · 430,785 chars · public domain (US)

The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Little Girl in Old Quebec
    
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and
most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions
whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms
of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online
at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States,
you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located
before using this eBook.

Title: A Little Girl in Old Quebec

Author: Amanda M. Douglas


        
Release date: December 9, 2007 [eBook #23779]

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/23779

Credits: Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, J.P.W. Fraser, Mary
        Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
        http://www.pgdp.net


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD QUEBEC ***




Produced by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, J.P.W. Fraser, Mary
Meehan and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net









                     A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD QUEBEC

                        By AMANDA M. DOUGLAS




A. L. BURT COMPANY
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1906
BY DODD, MEAD & COMPANY




CONTENTS


        I. A WILD ROSE

       II. THE JOY OF FRIENDSHIP

      III. SUMMER TIME

       IV. A HUSBAND

        V. CHANGING ABOUT

       VI. FINDING AMUSEMENTS

      VII. JOURNEYING TO A FAR COUNTRY

     VIII. WHAT ROSE DID NOT LIKE

       IX. ABOUT MARRIAGES

        X. MILADI AND M. DESTOURNIER

       XI. A FEAST OF SUMMER

      XII. A LOVER IN EARNEST

     XIII. FROM A GIRL'S HEART

      XIV. A WAY OVER THORNS

       XV. HELD IN AN ENEMY'S GRASP

      XVI. A LOVER OF THE WILDERNESS

     XVII. THE PASSING OF OLD QUEBEC




A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD QUEBEC




CHAPTER I

A WILD ROSE


Ralph Destournier went gayly along, whistling a merry French song that
was nearly all chorus, climbing, slipping, springing, wondering in his
heart as many a man did then what had induced Samuel de Champlain to
dream out a city on this craggy, rocky spot. Yet its wildness had an
impressive grandeur. Above the island of Orleans the channel narrowed,
and there were the lovely green heights of what was to be Point Levis,
more attractive, he thought, than these frowning cliffs. The angle
between the St. Charles and St. Lawrence gave an impregnable site for a
fortress, and Champlain was a born soldier with a quick eye to seize on
the possibility of defence.

On the space between the cliffs and the water a few wooden buildings,
rough hewn, marked the site of the lower town. A wall had been erected,
finished with a gallery, loopholed for musketry, and within this were
the beginnings of a town that was to be famous for heroic deeds, for men
of high courage, for quaintness that perpetuates old stories which are
perfect romances yet to-day after the lapse of three centuries.

There was a storehouse quite well fortified, there was a courtyard with
some fine walnut trees, and a few gardens stretching out with pleasant
greenery, while doves were flying about in wide circles, a reminder of
home. Ralph Destournier had a spirit of adventure and Champlain was a
great hero to him. Coming partly of Huguenot stock he had fewer chances
at home, and he believed there was more liberty in the new world, a
better outlook for a restless, eager mind.

He went on climbing over the sun-baked cliffs, while here and there in a
depression where rain could linger there were patches of verdure, trees
that somehow maintained a footing. How unlike the level old seaport town
where he had passed a good part of his youth, considered his
grandfather's heir, when in the turn of fortune's wheel the sturdy old
Huguenot had been killed in battle and his estates confiscated.

Something stirred up above him, not any small animal either. It crackled
the bushes and moved about with a certain agility. Could it be a deer?
He raised his gun.

Then a burst of song held him in amaze. It was not a bird, though it
seemed to mock several of them. There were no especial words or rhymes,
but the music thrilled him. He strode upward. Out of a leafy bower
peered a face, child or woman, he could not tell at first, a crown of
light, loose curling hair and two dark, soft merry eyes, a cherry-red
mouth and dimpled chin.

"Hello! How did you get up there?" he asked in his astonishment. Indians
sometimes lurked about.

"I climbed. You did not suppose I flew?"

The tone was merry rather than saucy, and taking a few steps nearer, he
saw she was quite a child. But she wore no cap and she shook the
wind-blown hair aside with a dainty gesture. There was a fearlessness
about her that charmed him.

"And you live--here?"

"Not here in the woods--no. But down in the town. Down there by the
garden, M'sieu Hebert and the General. And Maman has one. But I hate
working in it. So I ran away. Do you know what will happen to me when I
go back?"

"No, what?" with a sense of amusement. "Perhaps you will get no supper!"

"I shall be whipped. And to-morrow I shall not be let out of the garden.
When I get to be a woman I won't work in the garden. I won't even have a
husband. They make you do just as they like. Why isn't one's way as good
as another's?"

A line of perplexity settled between her eyes that were soft enough to
melt the heart of a stone, he thought, if stones really had hearts.

"Older people are generally wiser. And mothers----"

"Oh, she isn't my mother," interrupted the child. "Even Catherine was
not my mother. I was very sorry for that. She was good and tender, but
she died. And Jean was very angry because she was not my real mother,
and he would have nothing to do with me. So he brought me to Maman. Oh,
it was a long while ago. Maman is good in some ways. She gives me plenty
to eat when we have it and she does not beat me often, as she does
Pani."

"And who is Pani?"

"Oh, the little slave. His tribe was driven away after they had lost
their battle, but some of the children were left behind and they are
slaves. Do you suppose the Indians will ever conquer M. de Champlain?
Then we should be slaves--or killed."

He shuddered. Already he had heard tales of awful cruelty in the
treatment of prisoners.

"Are you not afraid some Indians may be prowling about?" and he glanced
furtively around.

"Oh, they do not come here. They are good friends with M. de Champlain.
And the fort is guarded. I should hide if one came."

She began to descend and presently reached his level.

"There are long shadows. It gets to be supper time."

He smiled. "Are the shadows your clock hands?"

"We have no clock. M. de Champlain carries his in his pocket. But you
see the sun sends long shadows over to the east. It is queer. The sun
keeps going round. What is on the other side?"

"It would take a good deal of study to understand it all," he returned
gravely.

"I like to hear them talk. There are wonderful places. And where is
India? Can any one find the passage they are looking for and sail round
the world?"

"They have sailed round it."

"And have you seen Paris and the King?"

"I fought for the dead King. And Paris--why, you cannot imagine anything
like it."

"Ah, but we are going to have new France here. And perhaps Paris."

There were pride and gladness in her voice. He smiled inwardly, he would
not disturb her childish dream. Would she ever see the beautiful city
and the pageants that were almost daily occurrences?

"When did you come here?" she asked presently.

"A fortnight ago, when the storeship arrived."

"Ah, yes. Maman and I went to see it and M. Hebert sent us some curious,
delicious dried fruits. M. de Champlain is quite sure we shall grow them
in time and have beautiful gardens, and fine people who know many
things. Can you read?"

"Why, yes"--laughing.

"I wish I could. But we have no books. Maman thinks it a waste of time,
except for the men who must do business and write letters. Can you write
letters?"

"Yes"--studying her with amusement.

"Catherine could read. But she had no books. I once learned some of the
letters. Jean could make figures."

"Where is he?"

"Oh, off with the fur-hunters. And Antoine makes ever so much money. And
he says he and Maman will go back to France. And I suppose they will
leave me here. Antoine has two brothers and one is at Brouage, where M.
de Champlain was born."

She leaped from point to point in a graceful, agile manner, ran swiftly
down some declivity, while he held his breath, it seemed so fraught with
danger, but she only looked back laughingly. What a daring midget she
was!

And when they were in sight of the palisades they saw a group of men,
Pontgrave and Champlain among them. Destournier quickened his pace and
touched his hat to them with a reverent grace.

"Have you had a guide?" and Champlain held out his hand to the little
girl while he asked the question of Destournier. She took Champlain's
hand in both of hers and pressed it against her cheek. Pontgrave smiled
at her as well.

Destournier glanced up at the eminence where he had first seen the
moving figure. How steep and unapproachable!

"Could you find no fairer site for a new Paris?" he inquired smilingly.
"How will you get up and down the streets when you come to that?"

"Is it not the key to the north and a natural fortress? Look you, with a
cannon at its base and over opposite, no trading vessel could steal up,
no hostile man-of-war invade us. There will come a time when the old
world will divide this mighty continent between them and the struggle
will be tremendous. It will behoove France to see that her entrances are
well guarded. And from this point we must build. What could be a
fairer, prouder, more invincible heritage for France? For we shall sweep
across the continent, we shall have the whole of the fur trade in time.
We shall build great cities," and Champlain's face glowed with the pride
he took in the new world.

Yet it was a small beginning, and a less intrepid soul would have been
daunted by the many discouragements. A few dwelling houses, a moat with
a drawbridge, and the space of land running down to the river divided
into gardens. The Sieur de Champlain found time to sow various seeds,
wheat and rye as well, to set out berries brought from the woods and
native grape vines that were better fitted to withstand the rigorous
climate. But now it was simply magnificent, glowing with the early
autumn suns.

"I have a good neighbor who takes a great interest in these things. You
must inspect Mere Dubray's garden. With a dozen emigrants like her we
should have the wilderness abloom. She rivals Hebert. We must have some
agriculture. We cannot depend on the mother country for all our food.
And if the Indians can raise corn and other needful supplies, why not
we?"

"Ah, ha! little truant!" cried Mere Dubray, with a sharp glance at the
child, "where hast thou been all the afternoon, while weeds have been
growing apace?"

"She has been playing guide to a stranger," explained Destournier, "and
I have found her most interesting. It has been time well spent."

Mere Dubray smiled. She always felt honored by the encomiums of M. de
Champlain. She was proud of her garden, as well, and pleased to have
visitors inspect it. Indeed the young man thought he had seen no neater
gardens in sunny France.

"Mere Dubray," he said, "convert this young man into an emigrant. I am a
little sorry to have him begin in the autumn when the summer is so much
more enticing. But if the worst is taken first there is hope for better
to cheer the heart."

Something about her brought to mind the women of old France who sturdily
fought their way to a certain prosperity. She was rather short and
stout, but with no loosely-hanging flesh, her hair was still coal-black,
with a sharp sort of waviness, and her eyes had the sparkle of beads.
Her brown skin was relieved by a warm color in the cheeks and the red,
rather smiling lips. No one could imagine the child hers. It was nothing
to him, yet he felt rather glad.

Destournier was very friendly, however, and found her really
intelligent. The little girl ran hither and thither, quite a privileged
character. There were very few children beyond the Indians and
half-breeds. The fur-hunters often went through a sort of ceremony with
the Indian girls during their weeks of dickering with the traders. Some
returned another season to renew their vows, others sought new loves.

"I suppose the child has some sort of story?" he said to Champlain as
they sat in the evening smoking their pipes.

"The child? The reputed mother came over with some emigrants sent by the
King, and as a widow she married Jean Arlac. He, it seems, was much
disappointed at not having children of his own and was not over-cordial
to the little girl. Rather more than a year ago his wife was taken ill,
she had never been robust. And in her last moments she confessed the
child was not her own, but that of a friend, and before she told the
whole story a convulsion seized her. Jean was very angry and declared
the child was nothing to him. He brought it to Mere Dubray and then went
off to the fur regions, from whence the tidings came that he had married
an Indian woman and taken a post station. She is a bright little thing,
and I think must have come of gentle people. Her only trinket is a chain
and locket, with a sweet young face in it."

"But there is no chance here for any sort of education. She seems
naturally intelligent."

"There will be soon. There is a plan to bring out some nuns, and we
shall build a chapel. We cannot do everything at once. The mother
country cannot be roused to the importance of this step. It is not
simply to discover, one must hold with a secure hand. And we must make
homes, we must people them."

Pontgrave was to return to France. Ralph Destournier had half a mind to
accompany him, but he was young and adventurous and desirous of seeing
more of this strange country. At last he cast in his lot with them for
the year at least.

October was a gorgeous month with its changing colors, its rather sharp
nights when the log fires were a delight, and its days of sunshine that
brought a summer warmth at noon. At night the sky sparkled with stars.

The buildings were calked on the outside and hung with furs within.
Harsh winds swept down from the northwest, everything was hooded with
snow. Now one counted stores carefully and wasted nothing, though
Champlain's ever sympathetic heart dealt out a little from his not too
abundant supplies to the wandering Montagnais and gave their women and
children food and shelter. There was a continual fight to keep even
tolerably well. Scurvy was one enemy, a low sort of fever another.

There were many plans to make for the opening of spring. Yet Ralph
Destournier would have found it intolerably dull but for the little girl
whose name was Rose. He taught her to read--Champlain fortunately had
some books in French and Latin. There were bits of old history, a volume
of Terence, another of Virgil, and out of what he knew and read he
reconstructed stories that charmed her. Most of all she liked to hear
about the King. The romances of Henry of Navarre fired her
rapidly-awakening imagination.

Destournier took several little excursions with the intrepid explorer
before the severest of the winter set in. What faith he had in this
wonderful new France that was to add so much glory and prosperity to the
old world! If its rulers could have but looked through his eyes and had
his aims. There was Tadoussac, there was the upper St. Charles, where
Jacques Cartier and his men had passed a winter that in spite of the
utmost heroism had ended in the tragedy of death. To the south there was
a sturdy band of Englishmen trying the same experiment, not merely for
their King and country, but also some reward for themselves. Neither
were they eager to plant the standard of religion; that was left for
Puritans and French missionaries.

It seemed to Destournier that the scheme of colonization was hardly
worth while. He had not Champlain's enthusiasm--there was much to do for
France, and that land had always to be on the defensive with England.
Would it not be so here in the years to come? And the Indians would be a
continual menace.

But there was a whole continent to convert, to civilize. He went back to
the times of Charlemagne and the struggles that had brought out a
glorious France. And no one had given up the passage to India. Lying
westward was a great river, and what was beyond that no one knew. It was
the province of man to find out.

It was a dull life for a little girl in the winter. Rose almost longed
for the garden, even if weeds did grow apace. In the old country Mere
Dubray had spun flax and wool, here there was none to spin. She had
learned a little work from the Indian women, but she was severely
plain. What need of fringes and bead work and laying feathers in rows to
be stitched on with a sort of thread made of fine, tough grass? And as
for cooking, one had to be economical and make everything with a view to
real sustenance, not the high art of cooking, though her peasant life
had inducted her into this.

The little girl made a playhouse in one corner of the cabin and stood up
sticks for Indian children to whom she told over what had been taught
her. They blundered just as she had done, but she had a curious patience
with them that would have touched one's heart.

"What nonsense!" Mere Dubray would exclaim. "It is well enough for men,
and priests must know Latin prayers, but this is beyond anything a woman
needs. And to be repeating it to sticks----"

"But I get so lonely when they are all away," and the child sighed. "The
real Indian girls were a pleasure, but I'm afraid you could not teach
them to read any more than these make-believes."

"Yes, winter is a dreary time. I'm not sure but I would rather be up in
the fur country with my man. It seems they find plenty of game."

There was not so much game here, for the Indians were ever on the alert
and the roving bands always on the verge of starvation. But once in a
while there was a feast of fresh meat and Mere Dubray made tasty messes
for the hungry men.

Rose, bundled up in furs sometimes, ran around the gallery where they
had cleared the snow. Then there were the forge and the workshop, where
the men were hewing immense walnut trees into slabs and posts for spring
building. Some days the doves were let out of the cote in the sunshine
and it was fascinating to see them circle around. They knew the little
girl and would alight on her shoulder and eat grains out of her hand,
coo to her and kiss her. Destournier loved to watch her, a real child of
nature, innocent as the doves themselves. Mere Dubray had scarcely more
idea of the seriousness of life or the demands of another existence
beyond. She told her beads, prayed to her patron saint with small idea
of what heaven might be like, unless it was the beautiful little hamlet
where she was born. And as she was not sure the child had been
christened, she thought it best to wait for the advent of a priest to
direct her in the right way.

She was not a little horrified by Destournier's curious familiarity with
God and heaven, as it seemed to her. Rose understood almost intuitively
that it terrified her, that it seemed a sacrilege, though she would not
have known what the word meant. So she said very little about it--it was
a beautiful land beyond the sky where people went when they died.
Sometimes, when the wonderful beauty of sunset moved her to a strange
ecstasy, she longed to be transported thither. And in the moving white
drifts she saw angel forms with out-stretched arms and called to them.

The beginning of the new year was bitter indeed. Snow piled mountain
high, it seemed a whole world of snow. For windows they had cloth
soaked in oil, but now the curtains of fur were dropped within and a
barricade raised without. There were only the blazing logs to give light
and make shadows about. They hovered around it, ate nuts, parched corn,
and heated their smoked eels. They slept late in the morning and went to
bed early. The lack of exercise and vegetables told on health, and
towards spring more than one of the little band went their way to the
land beyond and left a painful vacancy. But one week there came a
marvellous change. The mountains of snow sank down into hills, there was
a rush in the river, the barricades were removed from the windows and
the fur hangings pushed aside to let in some welcome light.

Rose ran around wild. "I can recall last spring," she said, with a burst
of gayety. "The trees coming out in leaf, the birds singing, the
blossoms----"

"And the garden," interposed Destournier.

Rose made a wry face.

"It will be an excellent thing for you to run about out of doors. You
have lost your rosy cheeks."

"But I am Rose still," she said archly.

She ran gayly one day, she went up the stream in the canoe with
Destournier and was full of merriment. But the next day she felt
strangely languid. Most of the men had gone hunting. Mere Dubray was
piling away some of the heaviest furs.

"Thou wilt roast there in the chimney corner," she said rather sharply.
"Get thee out of doors in the fresh air again. It is silly to think one
cannot stir without a troop of men tagging to one. Thou art too young
for such folly."

"My legs ache," returned the child, "and my head feels queer and goes
round when I stir. And I am sleepy, as if there had not been any night."

Mere Dubray glanced at her sharply.

"Why, thy cheeks are red and thy eyes bright. Come, stir about or I
shall take a stick to thee. That will liven thee up."

The child rose and made a few uncertain steps. Then she flung out her
hands wildly, and the next instant fell in a little heap on the floor.

The elder looked at her in amaze and shook her rather roughly by the
arm. And now the redness was gone and the child had a strange gray look,
with her eyes rolled up so that only a little of the pupil showed.

"Saint Elizabeth have mercy!" she cried. "The child is truly ill. And
she has been so well and strong. And the doctor gone up to Tadoussac!"

She laid her on the rude couch. Rose began to mutter and then broke into
a pitiful whine. There were some herbs that every householder gathered,
there were secrets extorted from the squaws much more efficacious than
those of their medicine men. The little hand was burning hot; yes, it
was fever. There had been scurvy and dysentery, but she was a little
non-plussed by the fever. And the Sieur would not be here until
to-morrow; the doctor, no one knew when.

She took out her chest of simples, a quaintly-made birchen-bark
receptacle. They had been carefully labelled by the doctor. Yes, here
was "fever"--here another. Which to take puzzled her.

"I might try first one and then the other," she ruminated. "I would get
the good of both. And they might not mix well."

She boiled some water and poured it over the herbs. It diffused a
bitter, but not unpleasant flavor. Then she put it out of doors to cool.

Rose was sleeping heavily, but her eyes were half open and it startled
Mere Dubray.

"A child is a great responsibility," she moaned to herself. "If the
Sieur were only here, or the doctor!" She woke her presently and
administered the potion. But it brought on a desperate sickness.

"Perhaps I had better try the other." She took the hot, limp hand, the
cheeks were burning, but great drops of perspiration stood out on the
forehead. She twisted the soft hair in a knot and struck one of her
highly-prized pins through it, then she thought a night-cap would be
better. Only they would be a world too large for the child. But she
succeeded in pinning it to the right shape, though she grudged the two
pins. They were a great rarity in those days, and if one was lost hours
were spent hunting it up.

The second dose fared better. There was nothing to do but let the child
sleep. She busied herself about the few household cares, studied the
weather and the signs of spring. Oh, was that a bird! Surely he was
early with his song. The river went rushing on joyously, leaping,
foaming as if glad to be unchained. The air had softened marvellously.
Ah, why should one be ill when spring had come!

The kindly Mere repeated her dose. Towards night the fever seemed to
abate, but the child was desperately restless and the worthy woman much
troubled. Yet what was the child to her? to any one? And death was sure
to come sometime. She would be spared much trouble. She would also lose
much happiness. But was there any great share of it in this new world?

Rose was no better the next day. The nausea returned and clearly she was
out of her head. But late this afternoon the Sieur and the young guest
returned and were so much alarmed they dispatched an Indian servitor
with instructions to bring the doctor at once.

"A pretty severe case," he said, with a grave shake of the head. "You
have done the best you could, Mere Dubray, and children have wonderful
recuperative powers. So we will try."

"Poor, pretty little thing," thought Destournier. "Will she find
anything worth living for?" Women had so few opportunities in those
times. And when one was poor and unknown, and in a strange country. Yet
he could not bear to think of her dying. There was always a hopeful
future to living.




CHAPTER II

THE JOY OF FRIENDSHIP


She went down to the very boundaries of the other country, this little
Rose. One night and one day they gave her up. She lay white and silent
and Mere Dubray brought out a white muslin dress and ironed it up, much
troubled to know whether she had a right to Christian burial or not.

And then she opened her eyes with their olden light and began to ask in
a weak voice what happened to her yesterday, and found her last
remembrance was six weeks agone.

She could hardly raise her thin little hand, but all the air was sweet
with growing things. The tall trees had come into rich leafage, the
sunshine glowed upon the grass that danced as if each blade was
fairy-born, and sparkled on the river that went hurrying by as if to
tell a wonderful story. The great craggy upper town glinted in a
thousand varying tints, and at evening was wreathed in trailing mists
that seemed some strange army marching across. The thickly wooded hills
were nodding and smiling to each other, some native fruit trees were in
bloom, and the air was delicious with the scent of wild-grape
fragrance.

"It was a bad fever. And we had no priest to call upon. As if people
here did not need one as well as in that wild place with a long name
where they are hunting copper and maybe gold. But thanks to the saints
and the good doctor, you have come through. Ah, we ought to have a
chapel at least where one could go and pray."

"It is so beautiful and sweet. One would not want to be put in the
ground."

She shuddered thinking of it.

"No, no! And M. Pontgrave has come in with two ships. There is plenty of
provisions and fruits from La Belle France. See, M'sieu Ralph brought
them in for you. Now you have only to get well."

Mere Dubray's face was alight with joy. The child smiled faintly.

"And the Sieur de Champlain?" she asked.

"Oh, he is as busy as any two men with plans for building up the town,
and workmen, and some women for wives--two of whom are married already,
though one couple did their courting on shipboard. Oh, you must soon get
about. We are going to have a rare summer."

The child raised herself up a trifle and then sank back.

"Oh, dear!" with a little cry.

"Do not mind, _ma petite_. People are always so at first. To-morrow
maybe you can sit up, and a few days after walk. And then go out."

"The world is so lovely and sweet," she murmured. And she was glad she
had not died.

The next day M'sieu Ralph came in. He appeared changed some way, but the
old smile was there. The eyes seemed to have taken on a deeper blue
tint. She stretched out her hands.

"Thank the good God that you are restored, little one," he exclaimed,
with deep fervor. "Only you are a shadow of the Rose who climbed rocks
like a joyous kid less than a year agone. When will you pilot me again?"

She drew a long breath like a sigh.

"And there have been so many happenings. There are new people, though no
little girls among them, for which I am sorry. And already they are
building houses. The Sieur de Champlain has great plans. He will have a
fine city if they work. Why, when thou art an old lady and goest dressed
in silks and velvets and furs, as the women of the mother country, thou
wilt have rare stories to tell to thy grandchildren. And no doubt thou
wilt have seen Paris as well."

Then she smiled, but it was a pitiful attempt.

It was true Quebec had received a wonderful hastening in the new-comers
and in several grants the King had made concerning the fur trade. The
dreary winter was a thing of the past.

Destournier came in the next day and insisted the child should be
wrapped up and carried out in the sunshine. She seemed light as a baby
when he took her in his arms. He seated himself on a bench and held her
closely wound up in Mere's choicest blanket she had brought from St.
Malo, and which had been woven by her grandmother.

Ah, how lovely that savage primeval beauty looked to the child, who felt
more than she could understand. Every pulse seemed instinct with new
life. The gardens with their beds of vegetables, the tall slim spikes of
onions which everybody had been requested to plant plentifully, the
feathery leaves of the young carrots, the beans already in white bloom,
the sword-like leaves of the corn hardly long enough to wave as yet, and
the river with boats and canoes--why, it had never been so brisk and
wonderful before.

She drew in long breaths of health-giving fragrance. There had been some
trouble with the Indians and the Sieur de Champlain had gone to chastise
them. There were fur-traders on the way and soon everything would be
stirring with eager business. And when she could they would take a sail
around and up the St. Charles, and visit the islands, for besides Pani
the Mere had another Indian boy the Sieur had sent her, so there would
be no gardening for the small, white Rose. And he had made a new friend
for her, who was waiting anxiously to see her.

Presently she went soundly asleep in the fragrant air, and he carried
her back and laid her on the bed. Mere Dubray came and looked at her and
shook her head. She was indeed a white Rose now. They had cut her hair
when she had tangled it with her tossing about, and it was now a bed of
golden rings, but the long lashes that were like a fringe on her cheeks
were black.

"It will take her a good while to get back all she has lost," said the
young man. "It is little short of a miracle that she is here."

She gained a little every day. But she felt very shaky when she walked
about, and light in the head. And then Destournier brought her a visitor
one afternoon, a lady the like of whom the child had not dreamed of in
her wildest imaginings, as she had listened to tales of royalty. A tall,
fair woman whose bright hair was a mass of puffs and short dainty curls
held by combs that sparkled with jewels, and the silken gown that was
strewn with brocaded roses on a soft gray ground. It had dainty ruffles
around the bottom that barely reached her ankles, and showed the clocked
and embroidered stockings and elegant slippers laced back and forth with
golden cord, and a buckle that sparkled with gems like the combs. Even
royalty condescended to wear imitation jewels, so why should not the
lower round? Her shapely shoulders were half veiled by a gauze scarf on
which were woven exquisite flowers.

The child gazed with fascinated admiration. Did the Greek women
Destournier had read about, who won every heart, look like this?

"This is the lady I told you of, little one, who has lately come from
France, Madame Giffard. And this is Rose----" He paused suddenly with a
half smile. "I believe the child has no other name."

"Was she born here?" How soft and winning the voice was.

Destournier flushed unconsciously.

"She has a story and a mystery that no one has fathomed. The Sieur made
some inquiries. A woman of the better class who came over with some
emigrants brought her, and was supposed to be her mother. But some
secret lay heavy on her mind, it seemed, and when she was dying she
confessed that the child was not hers, but she had no time for
explanations. The husband brought her here and has gone to one of the
fur stations. His disappointment was so intense he gave up the child.
And so--her name is neither Arlac nor Dubray. We shall have to
rechristen her."

"What a curious romance! If one knew what town she came from. Oh, my
little one, will you let me be your friend? I had a little golden-haired
girl who died when she was but four, and no children have come since to
gladden my heart."

Madame Giffard bent over and took the small hand, noting the taper
fingers and slender wrist that seemed to indicate good birth. She
pressed it to her lips. Rose looked up trustfully and smiled.

"I like you," she said, with frank earnestness.

"Then I shall come to see you often. This is such a queer place with no
ready-made houses and really nothing but log huts or those made of rough
slabs. I wonder now how I had the courage to come. But I could not be
separated from my dear husband. And when he makes his fortune we shall
go back to our dearly beloved France."

The child smiled. The story had no embarrassment for her--Catherine had
brought her from France and she had never called her mother until on
shipboard. Back of it was vague and misty, though Catherine was in it
all. But this beautiful woman with her soft voice, different from
anything she had ever heard--why, she liked her already almost as much
as M'sieu Ralph.

"And you have been ill a long while?"

"It seemed only a day when I first woke up. Then the snow was on the
ground. I was so cold. I wanted to go to sleep on the chimney seat and
Mere would not let me. And now everything is in bloom and the garden is
planted and the sun shines in very gladness. I shall never like winter
again," and she shuddered.

"Are the winters so dreadful?" she inquired of Destournier.

"I never knew anything like it. I can't understand why the Sieur de
Champlain should want to found a city here when the country south is so
much more congenial. Although this is the key to the North, as he says.
And there is a north to the continent over there."

"You think there are fortunes to be made?"

"For those who come to make them. But the mother country will squeeze
hard. We have not found the gold and silver yet. But after all, trade is
your best pioneer. And this is an era of exploring, of fame, rather than
money-getting. We are just coming to know there are other sides to the
world. Ah, here is Mere Dubray."

The child glanced from one woman to the other. She saw the same
difference as there was between the workmen and the few of the better
class. Was it knowledge such as M'sieu Ralph had? And the good-hearted
home-making Mere scouted learning for women. Their business was cooking
and keeping the house. But she decided she liked the lady the best, just
as she liked M'sieu Ralph better than the brawny leathern- and fur-clad
workmen. But the Mere had been very good and never scolded her now.

She brought in some little cakes and a glass of beer brewed from roots
and herbs. Madame Giffard thanked her and sipped it delicately. Some
vague memory haunted the child, as if she had seen this lady before with
the dead Catherine.

"It is a wild, wild country. There is nothing like it in France," the
lady said, in a tone of disparagement. "And how one is to live----"

"You were not in France two or three centuries ago," he returned
good-naturedly. "Most countries go through this period. Beginnings are
not always agreeable."

"But I cannot admit this is a city. Yet they talk about it at home. The
furs are certainly fine. But the Indians! You are in fear of them all
the time. And if they should make an attack here?"

"They will hardly dare now. Indeed one Indian tribe is practically wiped
out. And the fortifications are to be strengthened. We manage to keep
quite friendly, though we do not trust too far."

"But it is horrible to live in perpetual fear," and she shuddered.

"You must not look on that side of it. It is a hard country for women, I
shall have to admit."

"But I have not come to stay, thank the saints. A year maybe at the
longest. My husband is to go back when he has--what you call
it--established his claim--concession. We like sunny France the best.
Only one wants a fortune to enjoy it."

"That is true, too. But here one can do without. At least a man
can"--laughing a little as he surveyed the dainty figure.

"A year," repeated the child. "How long is a year?"

Mere Dubray had been standing in the doorway, waiting to take the cup
when my lady had finished. Now she said in an unemotional tone--

"It is a summer and a winter. It was last May when Jean Arlac brought
you here."

The child nodded thoughtfully and there came a far-away expression in
her eyes.

"Jean Arlac went up to the fur country," she said to the guest.

"Does he return when the furs come in?"

She glanced at Mere Dubray, who shook her head.

"He comes back no more. He has married an Indian woman. But my husband
will be here."

"Does M. Gifford desire to go out himself?"

"That is his plan, I believe. Can he get back before winter?"

"Oh, yes, or by that time."

"I shall come often to see the little one. And when they have finished
the--the hut, the child must come often to me. I have brought some
furnishings and pictures and a few books. There is much more in the old
chateau, and my aunt is there to take care of it. But I wanted some old
friends about me."

At the mention of books Rose had glanced up eagerly at Destournier. Then
there was a sudden rush without. Both Indian boys were racing and
yelling in their broken language.

"They are coming; they are coming! The canoes are in," and both began to
caper about.

Mere Dubray took down a leathern thong and laid it about them; but they
were like eels and glided out of her reach.

"One was bad enough, but I could manage him. The other"--and she gave
her shoulders a shrug.

The lady laughed. "That is like home," she said.

"It is quite a sight. And I hope you will not be frightened, for the
next few days. I had better escort you back, I think, for there will be
a crowd."

They were guests of M. de Champlain, who had quite comfortable
quarters. Beside his governmental business he was much engrossed with a
history of his journeys and explorations and the maps he was making. All
the furnishings were plain, as became a hardy soldier who often slept
out in the open. But the keeping room already showed some traces of a
woman's love for adornment. He looked rather grim over it, but made no
comment.

"I will come again to-morrow." Madame Giffard pressed a kiss upon the
white forehead. The child grasped her hand with convulsive warmth.

An hour had changed the aspect of everything. Instead of the quiet,
deserted, winding ways, you could hardly call them streets, everything
seemed alive with a motley, moving throng. A long line of boats, and
what one might call a caravan, seemed to have risen from the very earth,
or been evolved from the wilderness. There were shouting and singing,
white men turned to brown by exposure, Indians, half-breeds of varying
shades, and attire that was really indescribable.

"Is it an attack?" and Madame Giffard clung to her guide in affright.

He laughed reassuringly.

"It is only the awakening of Quebec after its long hibernation. They
have been expected some days. Ah, now you will see the true business
side and really believe the town flourishing, be able to carry a good
report back to France."

They looked over the land side from the eminence of the fortifications.
Quebec did not mean to admit these roisterers within her precincts,
which were none too well guarded. Still the cannons looked rather
formidable from their embrasures. But as little would these lawless men
have cared to be under the guard of the soldiery.

They seemed to come to a pause. Indians and half-breeds threw down their
packs. Some sat on them and gesticulated fiercely, as if on the verge of
a quarrel. A few, who seemed the leaders, went about ordering, pointing
to places where a few stakes had been driven. Great bundles were
unpacked, a centre pole reared, and a tent was in progress.

"Why, it is like a magic play," and she clapped her hands in eager
delight. "Will they live here? Oh, where is Laurent, I wonder. He ought
to see this."

"They will live here a month or so. Some of the earlier ones will go
away, new ones come. The company's furs will be packed and loaded on
vessels for France, but there are plenty of others who trade on their
own account. There will be roistering and drinking and quarrelling and
dickering, and then the tents will be folded and packed and the throng
take up their march for the great north again, and months of hunting."

It was fascinating to watch them. They were building stone fireplaces
outside and kindling fires. Here some deft hands were skinning a moose
or a deer and placing portions on a rude spit. And there was the Sieur
de Champlain and a dozen or so of armed soldiers, he holding parley with
some of the leaders.

"Oh, there is M. Giffard," she cried presently. "And look--are
there--women?"

"Squaws. Oh, yes."

"Do they travel, I mean come from the fur country? What a long journey
it must be for them."

"They do not mind. They are nomads of the wilderness. You know the
Indians never build towns as we do. Some of them settle for months until
the hunting gives out, then they are off on a new trail."

"What queer people. One would think the good missionaries would civilize
them, teach them to be like--can they civilize them?"

"After centuries, perhaps"--dryly.

"Is all this country theirs?"

"Well"--he lifted his eyebrows in a queer, humorous fashion. "The King
of France thinks he has a right to what his explorers discover; the King
of England--well, it was Queen Elizabeth, I believe, who laid claim to a
portion called Virginia. She died, but the English remain. Their colony
is largely recruited from their prisons, I have heard. Then his Spanish
majesty has somewhat. It is a great land. But the French set out to save
souls and convert the heathen savages into Christian men. They have made
friends with some of the tribes. But they are not like the people of
Europe, rather they resemble the barbarians of the north. And the
Church, you know, has labored to convert them."

"How much men know!" she said, with a long sigh of admiration.

The sun was dropping down behind the distant mountains, pine- and
fir-clad. She had never looked upon so grand a scene and was filled with
a tremulous sort of awe. Up there the St. Charles river, here the
majestic St. Lawrence, islands, coves, green points running out in the
water where the reedy grass waved to and fro, tangles of vines and wild
flowers. And here at their feet the settlement that had just sprung into
existence.

"You must be fatigued," he said suddenly. "Pardon my forgetfulness. I
have been so interested myself."

"Yes, I am a little tired. It has been such a strange afternoon. And
that poor little girl, Monsieur--does that woman care well for her? She
has the coarseness of a peasant, and the child not being her own----"

"Oh, I think she is fairly good to her. We do not expect all the graces
here in the wilderness. But I could wish----"

Madame Gifford stumbled at that moment and might have gone over a ledge
of rock, and there were many there, but he caught her in strong arms.

"How clumsy!" she cried. "No, I am not hurt, thanks to you. I was
looking over at that woman with something on her back that resembles a
child."

"Yes, a papoose. That is their way of carrying them."

"Poor mother! She must get very weary."

They threaded their way carefully to the citadel. The guard nodded and
they passed. An Indian woman was bringing in a basket of vegetables and
there was a savory smell of roasting meat.

"Now you are safe," he said. "The Sieur would have transported me to
France or hung me on the ramparts if any evil had happened to you."

He gave a short laugh as if he had escaped a danger, but there was a
gleam of mirth in his eyes.

"A thousand thanks, M'sieu. Though I can't think I was in any great
danger. And another thousand for the sweet little girl. I must see a
good deal of her."

The room she entered was within the double fortification and its windows
were securely barred. The walls were of heavy timbers stained just
enough to bring out the beautiful grain. But some of the dressed
deerskins were still hanging and there were festoons of wampum,
curiously made bead and shell curtains interspersed with gun racks,
great moose horns and deer heads, and antlers. Tables and chairs
curiously made and a great couch big enough for a bed.

But the adjoining room was the real workroom of the Sieur. Here were his
books, he brought a few more every time he came from France; shelves of
curiosities, a wide stone fireplace, with sundry pipes of Indian make on
the ledges. A great table occupied the centre of the room and all about
it were strewn papers,--maps in every state,--plans for the city, plans
of fortifications, diagrams of the unsuccessful settlements, and the new
project of Mont Real. Notes on agriculture and the propagation of
fruits, for none better than the Sieur understood that the colony must
in some way provide its own food, that it could not depend upon
sustenance from the mother country. For his ambition desired to make New
France the envy of the nations who had tried colonizing. He ordered
crops of wheat and rye and barley sown, and often worked in his own
field when the moon shone with such glory that it inspired him. And
though he had all the ardor of an explorer, he meant to turn the profits
of trade to this end, but to further it settlements were necessary, and
he bent much of his energy to the duller and more trying task of
building colonies. Though the route to the Indies fired his ambition he
was in real earnest to bring this vast multitude of heathens within the
pale of the Church, and to do that he must be friendly with them as far
as they could be trusted, but there were times when he almost lost
faith.




CHAPTER III

SUMMER TIME


The child sat in a dream on a rude, squarely-built settle with a coarse
blanket on it of Indian make and some skins thrown over the back, for
often at sundown the air grew cool and as yet women were not spinning or
weaving as in old France. A few luxuries had been brought thither, but
the mother government had a feeling that the colonists ought mostly to
provide for themselves, and was often indifferent to the necessary
demands.

Mere Dubray went out to the kitchen and began to prepare supper. There
was a great stone chimney with a bench at each side, and for a fireplace
two flat stones that would be filled in with chunks of wood. When the
blaze had burned them to coals the cooking began. Corn bread baked on
both sides, sometimes rye or wheaten cakes, a kettle boiled, though the
home-brewed beer was the common drink in summer, except among those who
used the stronger potions. The teas were mostly fragrant herbs, thought
to be good for the stomach and to keep the blood pure.

Mere Dubray dressed half a dozen birds in a trice. It was true that in
the summer they could live on the luxuries of the land in some
respects. Fish and game of all kinds were abundant, and as there were
but few ways of keeping against winter it was as well to feast while one
could. They dried and smoked eels and some other fish, and salted them,
but they had learned that too much of this diet induced scurvy.

The birds were hung on an improvised spit, with a pan below to catch the
drippings with which they were basted. Between whiles the worthy woman
unexpectedly bolted out to the garden with a switch in her hand and laid
it about the two Indian boys, who did not bear it with the stoicism of
their race, as they learned the greater the noise the shorter their
punishment.

The little girl did not heed the screams or the shrill scolding, or even
the singing of the birds that grew deliciously tender toward nightfall.
She often watched the waving branches as the wind blew among them until
it seemed as if they must be alive, bending over caressing each other
and murmuring in low tones. If she could only know what they said. Of
course they must be alive; she heard them cry piteously in winter when
they were stripped of their covering. Why did God do it? Why did He send
winter when summer was so much better, when people were merry and happy
and could hunt and fish and wander in the woods and fight Indians? She
had not had much of an idea of God hitherto only as a secret charm
connected with Mere Dubray's beads, but now it was some great power
living beyond the sky, just as the Indians believed. You could only go
there by growing cold and stiff and being put in the ground. She shrank
from that thought.

Something new had come in her life now. There was a vague, confused idea
of gods and goddesses, that she had gathered from the Latin verses that
she no more understood than the language. And this must be one that
descended upon her this afternoon. The soft, sweet voice still lingered
in her ears, entrancing her. The graceful figure that was like some
delicate swaying branch, the attire the like of which she had never even
dreamed of. How could she indeed, when the finest things she had seen
were the soldiers' trappings?

And this beautiful being had kissed her. Only once she remembered being
kissed, but Catherine's lips were so cold that for days when she thought
of it she shuddered and connected it with that mysterious going away,
that horrid, underground life. This was warm and sweet and strange, like
the nectar of flowers she had held to her lips. Oh, would the lovely
being come again? But M'sieu Ralph had said so, and what he promised
came to pass. There was a sudden ecstasy as if she could not wait, as if
she could fly out of the body after her charmer. Whither was she going?
Oh, M'sieu Ralph would know. But could she wait until to-morrow?

Into this half-delirious vision broke the strong, rather harsh voice
that filled her for an instant with a curious hate so acute that if she
had been large enough, strong enough, she would have thrust the woman
out of doors.

"Oh, have you been asleep? Your eyes look wild. And your cheeks! Is it
the fever coming back again? That chatter went through my head. And to
be gowned as if she were going to have audience with the Queen! I don't
know about such things. There is a King always--I suppose there must be
a Queen."

The child had recovered herself a little and the enraptured dream was
slipping by.

"And here is your supper. Such a great dish of raspberries, and some
juice pressed out for wine. And the birds broiled to a turn. Here is a
little wheaten cake. The Sieur sent the wheat and it is a great rarity.
And now eat like a hungry child."

She raised her up and put a cushion of dried hay at her back. The food
was on a small trencher with a flat bottom, and was placed on the settle
beside her.

"No, no, the tea first," she said, holding a birch-bark cup to her lips.

Rose made a wry face, but drank it, nevertheless. Then she took the
raspberry juice, which was much pleasanter.

"Yes, a great lady, no doubt. We have few of them. This is no place for
silken hose and dainty slippers, and gowns slipping off the shoulders,
and my lady will soon find that out. I wondered at M. Destournier. The
saints forbid that we should import these kind of cattle to New
France."

"She is very sweet"--protestingly.

"Oh, yes. So is the flower sweet, and it drops off into withered leaves.
And her eyes looked askance at M'sieu Ralph, yet she hath a husband.
Come, eat of thy bird and bread, and to-morrow maybe thou wilt run about
lest thy limbs stiffen up to a palsy."

"Mistress, mistress," called Pani--"here is a man to see thee."

She went through both rooms. The man stood without, rather rough,
unkempt, with buckskin breeches, fringed leggings, an Indian blanket, a
grizzled beard hanging down on his breast, and his tousled hair well
sprinkled with white; his face wrinkled with the hardships he had passed
through, but the gray-blue eyes twinkled.

"Ha! ha!" A coarse, but not unfriendly laugh finished the greeting as he
caught both hands in an impetuous embrace. "Lalotte, old girl, has thy
memory failed in two years? Or hast thou gotten another husband?"

The woman gave a shriek of mingled surprise and delight. "The saints be
praised, it is Antoine. And how if thou hast taken some Indian woman to
wife? Braves do not consort with white women who cannot be made into
slaves," she answered, with spirit.

"Lalotte, thou wert hard to win in those early days. But now a dozen
good kisses with more flavor in them than Burgundy wine, and I will
prove to you I am the same old Antoine. And then--but thy supper smell
is good to a hungry man. And a dish of shallots. It takes a man back to
old Barbizon."

Stout and strong as was Madame Dubray, her husband almost kissed the
breath out of her body in his rapturous embrace.

"But I had no word of your coming----"

"How could you, pardieu! But you knew the traders were coming in. And a
man can't send messengers hundreds of miles."

"I looked last year----"

"Pouf! There are men who stay five or ten years, and have left a wife in
France. You can't blame them for taking a new one when you are invited
to. It is a wild, hard life, but not worse than a soldier's. And when
you are your own master the hardships are light. But some of this good
supper."

"Out with you," she said to the Indian boys, who had snatched a piece of
the broiled fish. Then she put down a plate, took up two birds that
dripped delicious gravy, and a squirrel browned to a turn. From the
cupboard beside the great stone chimney, so cunningly devised that no
one would have suspected it, she brought forth a bottle of wine from the
old world, her last choice possession, that she had dreamed of saving
for Antoine, and now her dream had come true.

There was much to tell on both sides, though her life had been
comparatively uneventful. He related incidents of his wilder experiences
far away from civilization that he had grown to enjoy in its perfect
freedom that often lapped over into lawlessness. And he ate until
squirrel, fish, and the cakes, both of rye and corn, had disappeared.
The slave boys fared ill that night.

Rose had eaten her supper more daintily. The great pile of raspberries
was a delight; large, luscious; melting in one's mouth without the aid
of sugar, and being picked up with the fingers. She had been startled at
the sudden appearance of the husband she had heard talked of, but of
course not seen. His loud voice grated on her ears, made more sensitive
by illness, and when, a long while after, the pine torch that was
flaring in the kitchen defined his brawny frame as he stood in the
doorway, she wanted to scream.

"Oh--what have you here--a ghost?" he asked.

"A child who was left here more than a year ago. Jean Arlac lost his
wife, and not knowing what to do with her--she was not his own
child--left her here. He went out with the fur-hunters."

"Jean Arlac!" Antoine scratched among his rough locks as if to assist
his memory. "Yes. And on the way he picked up a likely Indian girl who
has given him a son. And he saddled her on you?"

"Oh, the Sieur will look after her--perhaps take her back to France,"
she answered, indifferently.

"The best place for her, no doubt. She looks a frail reed. And women
need strength in this new world. A little infusion of Indian blood will
do no harm. I wouldn't mind a son myself, but a girl--pouf!"

The child was glad he would not want her. She turned her face to the
wall. She had not known what loneliness was before, but now she felt it
through all her body, like a great pain.

On the opposite side of the room was another settle, part of which
turned over and was upheld by drawing out two rounds of logs. Mere
Dubray made up the wider bed now, and soon Antoine was snoring lustily.
At first it frightened the child, though she was used to the screech of
the owl that spent his nights in the great walnut tree inside the
palisade.

Was it a dream, she wondered the next morning. She slept soundly at last
and late and found herself alone in the house. She put on her simple
frock and went to the doorway. Ah, what a splendid glowing morning it
was! The sunshine lay in golden masses and fairly gilded the green of
the maize, the waving grasses, the bronze of the trees, and the river
threw up lights and shadows like birds skimming about.

No one was in the garden. The table had been despoiled to the last
crumb. Even the cupboard had been ransacked and all that remained was
some raw fish. She was not hungry and the fragrant air was reviving. It
seemed to speed through every pulse. Why, she suddenly felt strong
again.

She wandered out of the enclosure and climbed the steps, sitting down
now and then and drawing curious breaths that frightened her, they came
so irregularly. There were workmen building additional fortifications
around the post, there were houses going up. It was like a strange
place. She reached the gallery presently and looked over what was
sometime to be the city of Quebec. The long stretch was full of tents
and tepees and throngs of men of every description, it would seem;
Indians, swarthy Spaniards who had roamed half round the world, French
from the jaunty trader, with a certain air of breeding, down to the
rough, unkempt peasant, who had been lured away from his native land
with visions of an easily-made fortune and much liberty in New France,
and convicts who had been given a choice between death and expatriation.
Great stacks of furs still coming in from some quarter, haranguing,
bargaining, shouting, coming to blows, and the interference of soldiers.
Was it so last summer when she sometimes ran out with Pani, though she
had been forbidden to?

It was growing very hot up here. The sun that looked so glorious through
the long stretches of the forest and played about the St. Lawrence as if
in a game of hide-and-seek with the boats, grew merciless. All the air
was full of dancing stars and she was so tired trying to reach out to
them, as if they were a stairway leading up to heaven, so that one need
not be put in the dark, wretched ground. Oh, yes, she could find the
way, and she half rose.

It seemed a long journey in the darkness. Then there was a coolness on
her brow, a soft hand passed over it, and she heard some murmuring,
caressing words. She opened her eyes, she tried to rise.

"Lie still, little one," said the voice that soothed and somehow made it
easy to obey. She was fanned slowly, and all was peace.

"Did you climb up to the gallery all alone? And yesterday you seemed so
weak, so fragile."

"I wanted--some one. They had all gone----"

"Quebec looks like a besieged camp. Laurent, that is my husband," with a
bright color, "said I could see it from the gallery, and that it
resembled a great show. I went out and found you. At first I thought you
were dead. But the Indian woman, Jolette is her Christian name, but I
should have liked Wanamee better, carried you in here and after a while
brought you to. But I thought sure you were dead. Poor little white
Rose! Truly named."

"But once I had red cheeks," in a faint voice.

"Then thou wouldst have been a red Rose."

She sang a delicious little chanson to a red rose from a lover. The
child sighed in great content.

"Were they good to you down there? That woman seemed--well, hard. And
were you left all alone?"

Rose began to tell the story of how the husband came home, and Madame
Giffard could see that she shrank from him. "And when she woke they had
all gone away. There was nothing to eat."

"Merci! How careless and unkind!" But Madame Giffard could not know the
little slave boys had ransacked the place.

"I was not hungry. And it was so delightful to walk about again. Though
I trembled all over and thought I should fall down."

"As you did. Now I have ordered you some good broth. And you must lie
still to get rested."

"But it is so nice to talk. You were so beautiful yesterday I was
afraid. I never saw such fine clothes."

Madame Giffard was in a soft gray gown to-day that had long wrinkled
sleeves, a very short waist, and a square neck filled in with ruffles
that stood up in a stiff fashion. She looked very quaint and pretty,
more approachable, though the child felt rather than understood.

"Are there no women here, and no society? Merci! but it is a strange
place, a wilderness. And no balls or dinners or excursions, with gay
little luncheons? There is war all the time at home, but plenty of
pleasure, too. And what is one to do here!"

"The Indians have some ball games. But they often fight at the end."

The lady laughed. What a charming ripple it was, like the falls here and
there, and there were many of them.

"Not that kind," she said, in her soft tone that could not wound the
child. "A great room like a palace, and lights everywhere, hundreds of
candles, and mirrors where you see yourself at every turn. Then festoons
of gauzy things that wave about, and flowers--not always real ones, they
fade so soon. And the men--there are officers and counts and marquises,
and their habiliments are--well, I can't describe them so you would
understand, but a hundred times finer than those of the Sieur de
Champlain. And the women--oh, if I had worn a ball dress yesterday, you
would have been speechless."

She laughed again gayly at the child's innocence. And just then Wanamee
came in with the broth.

"Madame Dubray's husband has come," nodding to the child.

"Yes, yesterday, just at night."

"He has great stores, they say. He is shrewd and means to make money.
But there will be no quiet now for weeks. And it will hardly be safe to
venture outside the palisades."

Jolette had been among the first converts, a prisoner taken in one of
the numerous Indian battles, rescued and saved from torture by the Sieur
himself, and though she had been a wife of one of the chiefs, she had
been beaten and treated like a slave. Champlain found her amenable to
the influences of civilization, and in some respects really superior to
the emigrants that had been sent over, though most of them were eagerly
seized upon as wives for the workmen. Frenchwomen were not anxious to
leave their native land.

Madame Giffard fed her small _protegee_ in a most dainty and enticing
manner. The little girl would have thought herself in an enchanted
country if she had known anything about enchantment. But most of the
stories she had heard were of Indian superstition, and so horrid she
never wanted to recur to them. Madame Dubray was much too busy to allow
her thoughts to run in fanciful channels, and really lacked any sort of
imagination.

After she had been fed she leaned back on the pillow again. Madame soon
sang her to sleep. The child was very much exhausted and in the quietude
of slumber looked like a bit of carving.

"Her eyelashes are splendid," thought her watcher, "and her lips have
pretty curves. There is something about her--she must have belonged to
gentle people. But she will grow coarse under that woman's training."

She sighed a little. Did she want the child, she wondered. If Laurent
could make a fortune here in this curious land where most of the
population seemed barbarians.

She drew from a work-bag a purse she was knitting of silken thread, and
worked as she watched the sleeping child. Once she rose, but the view
from the window did not satisfy her, so she went out on the gallery. A
French vessel was coming up into port, with its colors at half mast and
its golden lilies shrouded with crape. Some important personage must be
dead--was it the King?

She heard her husband's voice calling her and turned, took a few steps
forward. "Oh, what has happened?" she cried.

"The King! Our heroic Bearnese! For though we must always regret his
change of religion, yet it was best for France and his rights. And a
wretched miscreant stabbed him in his carriage, but he has paid the
penalty. And the new King is but a child, so a woman will rule. There is
no knowing what policies may be overturned."

"Our brave King!" There were tears in her eyes.

"They are loading vessels to return. Ah, what a rich country, even if
they cannot find the gold the Spaniards covet. Such an array of choice
furs bewilders one, and to see them tossed about carelessly makes one
almost scream with rage. Ah, my lady, you shall have in the winter what
the Queen Mother would envy."

"Then you mean to stay"--uncertainly.

"Yes, unless there should be great changes. I have not seen the Sieur
since the news came. He was to go to Tadoussac the first of the week,
and I had permission to go with him. One would think to-day that Quebec
was one of the most flourishing of towns, and it is hard to believe the
contrary. But every soldier is on the watch. They trust no one. What
have you been doing, _ma mie_?"

"Oh, I have something to show you. Come."

She placed her finger to her lips in token of silence and led him back
to the room she had left. The child was still sleep.

"What an angel," he murmured. "Is it--how did it come here? I thought
you said the little girl was ill."

"She was, and is. Doesn't she look like a marvellous statue? But no one
seems to regard her beauty here."

"She is too delicate."

"But she was well and strong and daring, and could climb like a deer, M.
Destournier says. She will be well again with good care. I want to keep
her."

"She will be a good plaything for thee when I am away. Though this may
change many plans. The Sieur is bent on discoveries, and now he has
orders to print his book. The maps are wonderful. What a man! He should
be a king in this new world. France does not understand the mighty
empire he is founding for her."

"Then you do not mind--if I keep the child? She has crept into the empty
niche in my heart. I must have been directed by the saints when I felt
the desire to go out. She would have died from exhaustion in the
broiling sun."

"Say the good Father, rather."

"And yet we must adore the saints, the old patriarchs. Did not the
disciples desire to build a memento to them?"

"They were not such men as have disgraced the holy calling by fire and
sword and persecution. And if one can draw a free breath in this new
land. The English with all their faults allow freedom in religion. It is
these hated Jesuits. And I believe they are answerable for the murder of
our heroic King."

Wanamee summoned them to the midday repast. The plain walnut boards
that formed the table had been polished until the beautiful grain and
the many curvings were brought out like the shades of a painting. If the
dishes were a motley array, a few pieces of silver and polished pewter
with common earthenware and curious cups of carved wood as well as
birch-bark platters, the viands were certainly appetizing.

"One will not starve in this new country," he said.

"But it is the winter that tries one, M. Destournier says."

"There must be plenty of game. And France sends many things. But a
colony must have agricultural resources. And the Indian raids are so
destructive. We need more soldiers."

He was off again to plunge in the thick of business. It was supposed the
fur company and the concessions ruled most of the bargain-making, but
there were independent trappers who had not infrequently secured skins
that were well-nigh priceless when they reached the hands of the Paris
furrier. And toward night, when wine and whiskey had been passed around
rather freely, there were broils that led to more than one fatal ending.
Indian women thronged around as well, with curious handiwork made in
their forest fastnesses.

The child slept a long while, she was so exhausted.

"Why, the sun is going over the mountains," she began, in vague alarm.
"I must go home. I did not mean to run away."

She sprang up on her feet, but swayed so that she would have fallen had
not Madame caught her.

"Nay, nay, thou art not well enough to run away from me, little one. I
will send word down to the cabin of Mere Dubray. She has her husband,
whom she has not seen for two years, and will care naught for thee.
Women are all alike when a man's love is proffered," and she gave a gay
little laugh.

"My head feels light and swims around as if it was on the rapid river.
But I must go home, I----"

"Art afraid? Well, I promise nothing shall harm thee. Lie down again. I
will send Wanamee with the word. Will it make thee happy--content?"

The child looked at her hostess as if she was studying her, but her
intellect had never been roused sufficiently for that. There was a vague
delight stealing over her as slumber does at times, a confusion of what
might have been duty if she had understood that even, in staying away
from what was really her home. Mere Dubray would be angry. She would
hardly beat her, she had only slapped her once during her illness, and
that was to make her swallow some bitter tea. And something within her
seemed to cry out for the adjuncts of this place. She had been in the
room before, she had even peered into the Sieur's study. He always had a
kindly word for her, she was different from the children of the workmen,
and looked at one with sober, wondering eyes, as if she might fathom
many things.

"You do not want to go back?"--persuasively.

Was it the pretty lady who changed the aspect of everything for her?

"Oh, if I could stay here always!" she cried, with a vehemence of more
years than had passed over her head. "It is better than the beautiful
world where I sit on the rocks and wonder, and dream of the great beyond
that goes over and meets the sky. There are no cruel Indians then, and I
want to wander on and on and listen to the voices in the trees, the
plash of the great river, and the little stream that plays against the
stones almost like the song you sung. If one could live there always and
did not get hungry or cold----"

"What a queer, visionary child! One would not look for it in these
wilds. The ladies over yonder talk of them because it is a fashion, but
when they ride through the parks and woods they want a train of
admirers. And with you it is pure love. Could you love any one as you do
nature? Was any one ever so good to you that you could fall down at
their feet and worship them? Surely you do not love Madame Dubray?"

"M'sieu Ralph has been very kind. But you are like a wonderful flower
one finds now and then, and dares not gather it lest the gods of the
woods and trees should be angry."

"But I will gather you to my heart, little one," and she slipped down
beside the couch, encircling the child in her arms, and pressing kisses
on brow and legs and pallid cheeks, bringing a roseate tint to them.

"And you must love me, you must want to stay with me. Oh, there was a
little one once who was flesh of my flesh, on whom I lavished the
delight and tenderness of my soul, and the great Father took her. He
sent nothing in her place, though I prayed and prayed. And now I shall
put you there. Surely the good God cannot be angry, for you have no
one."

She had followed a sudden impulse, and was not quite sure it was for the
best. Only her mother heart cried out for love.

The child stared, motionless, and it dampened her ardor for the moment.
She could not fathom the eyes.

"Are you not glad? Would you not like to live with me?"

"Oh, oh!" It was a cry of rapture. She caught the soft white hands and
kissed them. The joy was so new, so unexpected, she had no words for
it.




CHAPTER IV

A HUSBAND


Lalotte Dubray had had the gala day of her life. Her peasant wedding had
been simple enough. The cure's blessing after the civil ceremony, the
dance on the green, the going home to the one room in the small thatched
hut, the bunk-like bed along the wall, the two chests that answered for
seats, a kitchen table, two shelves for a rude dresser, with dishes that
had been earned by the hardest toil, but they were better off than some,
for there was a pig grunting and squealing outside, and a little garden.

Times had grown harder and harder. Antoine had been compelled to join
the army and fight for he knew not what. Then he had decamped, and
instead of being shot had been sent to New France. Lalotte was willing
enough to go with him.

Hard as it was, it bettered their fortunes. He had gone out once as a
sort of servant and handy man to the company. Then he had struck out for
himself. He was shrewd and industrious, and did not mind hard work, nor
hardships.

Now he was in the lightest of spirits. He had some choice furs that were
eagerly snapped up. The Indian women had been shrewd enough to arrange
tempting booths, where frying fish and roasted birds gave forth an
appetizing fragrance. There were cakes of ground maize baked on hot
stones, and though Champlain had used his best efforts to keep some
restraint on spirituous liquors, there were many ways of evading.

Lalotte was fairly stupefied with amazement at her husband's prosperity.

"Why, you are rich with that bag of money," she cried. "I never saw so
much."

He laughed jovially. "Better than standing up to be shot--he! he!
Jacques Lallemont had the idea, and they wanted emigrants for New France
bad enough. Why don't they send more? The English understand better.
_Sacre!_ But it is a great country. Only Quebec stays little, when it
should be a great place. Why can they not see?"

Lalotte could venture no explanation of that. She seemed to be in a maze
herself.

Vessels were taking on cargoes of furs as soon as they were inspected.
The river as far as Tadoussac looked thriving enough. Antoine met old
friends, but he was more level-headed than some, and did not get tipsy.
Lalotte held her head higher than ever.

When it was getting rather too rough they made their way out.

"Oh, the child!" she exclaimed, with a sudden twinge of conscience. "And
those wretched slave boys. If your back is turned they are in league
with the evil one himself. Baptism does not seem to drive it out.
Whether the poor thing had her breakfast."

"Let that alone. It was mighty cool in Jean Arlac to foist her on thee.
And now that we have left the crowd behind and are comfortable in the
stomach."

"But the cost, Antoine. I could have gotten it for half!"

"A man may treat his wife, when he has not seen her for two years," and
he gave a short chuckling laugh. "There has been a plan in my head,
hatched in the long winter nights up at the bay. Why should man and wife
be living apart when they might be together? Thou hast a hot temper,
Lalotte, but it will serve to warm up the biting air."

"A hot temper!" resentfully. "Much of it you have taken truly! Two years
soldiering--months in prison, and now two years again----"

He laughed good-humoredly, if it was loud enough to wake echoes.

"The saints know how I have wished for the sound of your voice. Indian
women there are ready enough to be a wife for six months, and then
perhaps some brave steals in at night and pouf! out goes your candle."

"The sin of it!"--holding up both hands.

"Sins are not counted in this wild land. But there are no old memories,
no talks with each other. Oh, you cannot think how the loneliness almost
freezes up one's very vitals. And I said to myself--I will bring
Lalotte back with me. Why should we not share the same life and live
over together our memories of sunny France?--not always sunny, either."

"To--take me with you"--gasping.

"Yes, why not? As if a man cannot order his wife about!" he exclaimed
jocosely, catching her around the waist and imprinting half a dozen
kisses with smacks that were like an explosion. "Yes--I have sighed for
thee many a night. There are high logs for firing, there are piles of
bearskins, thick and fleecy as those of our best sheep at home. There is
enough to eat at most times, and with thy cookery, _ma mie_, a man would
feast. It is a rough journey, to be sure, but then thou wilt not refuse,
or I shall think thou hast a secret lover."

"The Virgin herself knows I shall be glad to go with thee, Antoine," and
the tears of joy stood in her eyes. "There is nothing in all Quebec to
compare with thee. And heaven knows one sometimes grows hungry of a
winter night, when food is scarce and one depends upon sleep to make it
up. No, I should be happy anywhere with thee."

They jogged along in a lover-like fashion, but they were not quite out
of hearing of the din. At nightfall all dickering was stopped and guards
placed about. But in many a tent there were drinking and gambling, and
more than one affray.

They came to the small unpretentious cabin. The door stood wide open,
and the shaggy old dog was stretched on the doorstep, dozing. No soul
was to be seen.

"Where is the child, Britta? Why, she must have been carried off. She
could not walk any distance."

The dog gave a wise look and flicked her ear. Lalotte searched every
nook.

"Where could she have gone?" in dismay.

"Let the child alone. What is she to us? Does Jean Arlac stay awake
nights with trouble in his conscience about her? She was not his wife's
child and so nothing to him. What more is she to us? Come, get some
supper; I've not tasted such fried fish in an age as yours last night."

"The fish about here has a fine flavor, that is true. Those imps of
boys, and not a stick of wood handy. Their skins shall be well warmed;
just wait until I get at them."

"Nay, I will get some wood. I am hungry as a bear in the thaw, when he
crawls out."

But Lalotte, armed with a switch, began a survey of the garden. The work
had been neglected, that was plain. There under a clump of bushes lay
Pani, sleeping, with no fear of retribution on his placid face. And
Lalotte put in some satisfactory work before he even stirred.

But he knew nothing of his compeer, only they had been down to the river
together. As for the child, when he returned she was gone.

"Let the child alone, I say!" and Antoine brought his fist heavily down
on the table. "Next thing you will be begging that we take her. Since
the good Lord in His mercy has refrained from giving us any mouths to
feed, we will not fly in His face for those who do not concern us. And
the puling thing would die on the journey and have to be left behind to
feed the wolves. Come! come! Attend to thy supper."

The slim Indian convert was coming up the path. She was one of the
Abenaqui tribe, and she had mostly discarded the picturesque attire.

"The lady Madame Giffard sent me to say the girl is safe with her and
will not be able to return to-night."

"So much the better," growled Antoine, looking with hungry eyes on the
fish browning before the coals.

"Did she come and take her? I went with my husband to see the traders."

"She has been very poorly, but is much better now. And miladi
thought----"

"Oh, yes, it is all right. Yes, I am glad," nodding definitely, as if
the matter was settled. She did not want to quarrel with Antoine about a
child that was no kin to them, when he was so much like her old lover.
He seemed to bring back the hopes of youth and a certain gayety to which
she had long been a stranger.

After enjoying his meal he brought out his pipe and stretched himself in
a comfortable position, begging her to attend to him and let the slave
boy take the fragments. He went on to describe the settlement of the
fur merchants and trappers at Hudson Bay, but toned down much of the
rudeness of the actual living. A few of the white women, wives of the
leaders and the men in command, formed a little community. There was
card-playing and the relating of adventures through the long winter
evenings, that sometimes began soon after three. Dances, too, Indian
entertainments, and for daylight, flying about on snowshoes, and
skating. There was a short summer. The Indian women were expert in
modelling garments--everything was of fur and dressed deerskins.

Few knew how to read at that day among the seekers of fortune and
adventurers, but they were shrewd at keeping accounts, nevertheless.
There were certain regulations skilfully evaded by the knowing ones.

No, it would never do to take the child. She had no real mother love for
it, yet she often wondered whose child it might be, since it was not
Catherine Arlac's? Strange stories about foundlings often came to light
in old France.

The death of the King rather disorganized matters, for no one quite knew
what the new order of things would be. The Sieur de Champlain sorrowed
truly, for he had ever been a staunch admirer of Henry of Navarre.
Demont had not had his concession renewed and to an extent the fur trade
had been thrown open. Several vessels were eagerly competing for stores
of Indian peltries, as against those of the company. Indeed it was a
regular carnival time. One would think old Quebec a most prosperous
settlement, if judged only by that. But none of the motley crew were
allowed inside the palisades. The Sieur controlled the rough community
with rare good judgment. He had shown that he could punish as well as
govern; fight, if need be, and then be generous to the foe. Indeed in
the two Indian battles he had won much prestige, and had frowned on the
torture of helpless prisoners.

Madame Giffard besought her husband that evening to consent to her
taking the care of little Rose, at least while they remained in Canada,
the year and perhaps more.

"And that may unfit her for her after life. You will make a pet and
plaything of her, and then it would be cruel to return her to this woman
to whom it seems she was given. She may be claimed some day."

"And if we liked her, might we not take her home with us? There seems no
doubt but what she came from France. Not that I could put any one quite
in the place of my lost darling, but it will afford me much interest
through the winter, which, by all accounts, is dreary. I can teach her
to read--she hardly knows a French letter. M. Destournier has taken a
great interest in her. And she needs care now, encouragement to get
well."

"Let us do nothing rash. The Sieur may be able to advise what is best,"
he returned gently. He felt he would rather know more of the case before
he took the responsibility.

"She is so sweet, so innocent. She did not really know what love was,"
and Madame laughed softly. "This Catherine Arlac must have been a maid,
I think. Yes, I am sure she must have come from gentle people. She has
every indication of it."

"Well, thou canst play nurse a while and it will interest thee, and fill
up thy lonely hours, for I have much to do and must take some journeys
quite impossible for a woman. And then we will decide, if this woman is
ready to part with her. _Ma mie_, thou knowest I would not refuse thee
any wish that was possible."

"That is true, Laurent," and she kissed him fondly.

Destournier had been busy every moment of the day and had been closeted
with the Sieur until late in the evening. Champlain felt now that he
must give up an exploring expedition, on which his heart was set, and
return to France, where large interests of the colony were at stake.
There was much to be arranged.

So it was not until the next morning that he found his way to the Dubray
house, and then he was surprised at the tidings. Lalotte was almost a
girl again in her interest in the new plans. As soon as a sufficient
number had sold their wares to make a journey safe from marauders they
would start for Hudson's Bay, while the weather was pleasant. Of course
the child must be left behind. She had no real claim on them; neither
could she stand the journey. She was now with Madame Giffard.

Thither he hurried. Little Rose had improved wonderfully, though she was
almost transparently thin, and her eyes seemed larger and softer in
their mysterious darkness. Already love had done much for her.

He told his story and the plans of the Dubrays.

"Then I can stay here," she cried with kindling eyes, reaching out her
small hand as if to sign her right in Madame's.

Madame's eyes, too, were joyous as she raised them in a sort of
gratitude to her visitor.

"How strange it comes about," she cried. "And now, M. Destournier, will
you learn all you can about this Catherine Arlac; where she came from in
France, and if she was any sort of a trustworthy person? It may some day
be of importance to the child."

"Yes, anything I can do to advance her interest you may depend on. Are
you happy, little one?"

"I could fly like a bird, I am so light with joy. But I would not fly
away from here. Oh, then I shall not have to go back! I was frightened
at M. Dubray."

"I don't wonder. Yet these are the kind of men New France needs, who are
not afraid of the wilderness and its trials. The real civilization
follows on after the paths are trodden down. Did you go out yesterday?"
to the lady.

"Only on the gallery."

"That was safest. Such a crowd was fit only for Indian women, and some
of them shrank from it, I noticed. You heard the news about the King?"

"The sad, sad news. Yes."

"And the Sieur feels he must go back to France."

"What is Quebec to do? And if there is an Indian raid? Oh, this new land
is full of fears."

"And think of the strifes and battles of the old world! Ah, if peace
could reign. Yet the bravest of men are in the forefront."

Then he came over to the child.

"Who brought you here yesterday?" he asked, with a smile.

"I was all alone. I had nothing to eat. I wanted to get out in the
sunshine. I walked, but presently I shook so, I crawled up on the
gallery. And then----"

She looked wistfully at miladi, who took up the rest of the journey.

"You were a brave little girl. But what if Madame had not chanced to
come out? Why, you might have died."

The dark eyes grew humid. "It does not hurt to die," she said slowly.
"Only if you did not have to be put in the ground."

"Don't talk of such things," interposed Madame, with a half shudder.
"You are going to get well now, and run about and show me the places you
love. And we can sail up to the islands and through the St. Charles,
that looks so fascinating and mysterious, can we not?" smiling up at
Destournier.

"Oh, yes, a month will finish the trading, for the ships will want to
start with their freight, while the weather is fine. True, the Indians
and many of the _coureurs de bois_ will loiter about until the last
moment. There is to be a great Indian dance, I hear. They generally
break up with one that has a good deal of savagery in it, but this early
one is quite mild, I have understood, and gives one an opportunity to
see them in their fine feathers and war paint."

"Oh, it must be interesting. Would it be safe to go?" she inquired.

"With a bodyguard, yes. Your husband and myself, and we might call in
the services of the Dubrays. Madame is a host in herself. And they are
glad, it seems, to shift the care of the child on some one else,"
lowering his voice.

"You will not forget to inquire----"

"Why, there must be a record here. The Sieur has the name and addresses
of all the emigrants, I think. There have not been many shiploads of
women."

"She has no indication of peasant parentage. There is a curious delicacy
about her, but _merci!_ what wonderful and delightful ignorance. It is
like a fallow field. Mere Dubray seems to have sown nothing in it. Oh, I
promise myself rare pleasure in teaching her many things."

"She has a quick and peculiar imagination. I am glad she has fallen into
other hands. Settling a new country is a great undertaking, especially
when one has but a handful of people and you have to uproot other habits
of life and thought. I wonder if one can civilize an Indian!" and he
laughed doubtfully.

"But it is to save their souls, I thought!"

"Yet some of them worship the same God that we do, only He is called the
Great Manitou. And they have an hereafter for the braves at least, a
happy hunting ground. But they are cruel and implacable enemies with
each other. And we have wars at home as well. It is a curious muddle, I
think. You come from a Huguenot family, I believe."

"My mother did. But she went with my father. There were no family
dissensions. Does it make so much difference if one is upright and
honest and kindly?"

"Kindly. If that could be put in the creed. 'Tis a big question," and he
gave a sigh. "At least you are proving that part of the creed," and he
crossed over to the child, chatting with her in a pleasant manner until
he left them.

That evening there was a serious discussion in the Sieur's study.
Captain Chauvin was to return also, and who was most trustworthy to be
put in command of the infant colony was an important matter. There had
been quite an acreage of grain sown the year before, maize was
promising, and a variety of vegetables had been cultivated. Meats and
fish were dried and salted. They had learned how to protect themselves
from serious inroads of the scurvy. The houses in the post were being
much improved and made more secure against the rigors of the long
winter.

An officer who had spent the preceding winter at the fort was put in
command, and the next day the garrison and the workmen were called in
and enjoined to render him full obedience.

Destournier and Gifford were to undertake some adventures in a northerly
direction, following several designated routes that Champlain had
expected to pursue. Their journeys would not be very long.

As for Rose, she improved every day and began to chatter delightfully,
while her adoration of Madame Giffard was really touching, and filled
hours that would otherwise have been very tedious.

They had brought with them a few books. Madame was an expert at
embroidery and lace-making, but was aghast when she realized her slender
stock of materials, and that it would be well-nigh a year before any
could come from France.

"But there is bead work, and the Indian women make threads out of
grasses," explained Wanamee. "And feathers of birds are sewed around
garments and fringes are cut. Oh, miladi will find some employment for
her fingers."

Mere Dubray made no objection to accompanying them to the Indian dance.
She had been to several of them, but they were wild things that one
could not well understand; nothing like the village dances at home. "But
what would you? These were savages!"

"I wish I could go, too," the child said wistfully. "But I could not
climb about nor stand up as I used. When will I be able to run around
again?"

She was gaining every day and went out on the gallery for exercise. She
was a very cheerful invalid; indeed miladi was so entertaining she was
never weary when with her, and if her husband needed her, Wanamee came
to sit with the child. Rose knew many words in the language, as well as
that of the unfortunate Iroquois.

All they had been able to learn about Catherine Arlac was that she had
come from Paris to Honfleur, a widow, with a little girl. And Paris was
such a great and puzzling place for a search.

"But she is a sweet human rose with no thorns, and I must keep her,"
declared miladi.

Laurent Giffard made no demur. He was really glad for his wife to have
an interest while he was away.

The party threaded their way through the narrow winding paths that were
to be so famous afterward and witness the heroic struggle, when the
lilies of France went down for the last time, and the heritage that had
cost so much in valiant endeavor and blood and treasure was signed away.

There were flaming torches and swinging lanterns and throngs wending to
the part beyond the tents. The dance was not to pass a certain radius,
where guards were stationed. Already there was a central fire of logs,
around which the braves sat with their knees drawn up and their chins
resting upon them, looking as if they were asleep.

"A fire this warm night," said miladi, in irony.

"We could hardly see them without it," returned her husband.

At the summons of a rude drum that made a startling noise, the braves
rose, threw down their blankets and displayed their holiday attire of
paint, fringes, beads, and dressed deerskins with great headdresses of
feathers. Another ring formed round them. One brave, an old man, came
forward, and gesticulating wildly, went through a series of antics. One
after another fell in, and the slow tread began to increase. Then shrill
songs, with a kind of musical rhythm, low at first, but growing louder
and louder, the two or three circles joining in, the speed increasing
until they went whirling around like madmen, shouting, thrusting at each
other with their brawny arms, until all seemed like a sudden frenzy.

"Oh, they will kill each other!" almost shrieked Madame.

"_Non, non_, but small loss if they did," commented Madame Dubray.

They paused suddenly. It seemed like disentangling a chain. The
confusion was heightened by the cries and the dancing feather
headdresses that might have been a flock of giant birds. But presently
they resolved into a circle again, and began to march to a slow chant.
One young fellow seized a brand from the fire and began a wild gyration,
pointing the end to the circle, at random, it seemed. Then another and
another until the lights flashed about madly and there was a scent of
burning feathers. The circle stood its ground bravely, but there were
shrieks and mocking laughter as they danced around, sometimes making a
lunge out at the spectators, who would draw back in affright, a signal
for roars of mirth.

"They will burn each other up," cried Madame. "Oh, let us go. The noise
is more than I can bear. And if they should attack us. Do you remember
what M. du Parc was telling us?"

"I think we have had enough of it," began M. Giffard. "They are said to
be very treacherous. What is to hinder them from attacking the whites?"

"The knowledge that they have not yet received any pay, and their
remaining stock would be confiscated. They are not totally devoid of
self-interest, and most of them have a respect for the fighting powers
of the Sieur and his punishing capacity, as well."

As they left the place the noise seemed to subside, though it was like
the roar of wild animals.

"Am I to remain here all winter with these savages? Can I not return
with M. de Champlain?" pleaded Madame Giffard.

"Such a time would be almost a Godsend in the winter," declared
Destournier. "But they will be hundreds of miles away, and the near
Indians are sometimes too friendly, when driven by hunger to seek the
fort. Oh, you will find no cause for alarm, I think."

"And how long will they keep this up?" she asked, as they were ascending
the parapet from which they could still see the moving mass and the
flashing lights, weird amid the surrounding darkness.

"They will sit in a ring presently and smoke the pipe of peace and
enjoyment, and drop off to sleep. And for your satisfaction, not a few
among those were fur-hunters and traders, white men, who have given up
the customs of civilized life and enjoy the hardships of the wilderness,
but who will fight like tigers for their brethren when the issue comes.
They are seldom recreant to their own blood."

"I do not want to see it again, ever," she cried passionately. "I shall
hardly sleep for thinking of it and some horrible things a sailor told
on shipboard. I can believe them all true now."

"And we have had horrible battles, cruelty to prisoners," declared her
husband. "These poor savages have never been taught anything better, and
are always at war with each other. But for us, who have a higher state
of civilization, it seems incredible that we should take a delight in
destroying our brethren."

It was quiet and peaceful enough inside the fort. The Sieur was still
engrossed with his papers, marking out routes and places where lakes and
rivers might be found and where trading posts might be profitably set,
and colonies established. It was a daring ambition to plant the lilies
of France up northward, to take in the mighty lakes they had already
discovered and to cross the continent and find the sure route to India.
There were heroes in those days and afterwards.




CHAPTER V

CHANGING ABOUT


"If you are ready for your sail and have the courage----"

Laurent Giffard kissed his pretty wife as she sat with some needlework
in her hand, telling legendary tales, that were half fairy
embellishments, to the little Rose, who was listening eager-eyed and
with a delicious color in her cheeks. The child lived in a sort of fairy
land. Miladi was the queen, her gowns were gold and silver brocade, but
what brocade was, it would have been difficult for her to describe. She
was very happy in these days, growing strong so she could take walks
outside the fort, though she did not venture to do much climbing. The
old life was almost forgotten. Mere Dubray was very busy with her own
affairs, and her husband was as exigent as any new lover. Her cookery
appealed to him in the most important place, his stomach.

"And to think I have done without thee these two years," he would moan.

When she saw her, the little girl had a strange fear that at the last
moment they would seize her and take her up to the fur country with
them. Pani was to go; he was of some service, if you kept a sharp eye
on him, and had a switch handy.

"I'll tell you," he said to Rose when he waylaid her one day, "because
you never got me into trouble and had me beaten. I shall have to start
with them and I will go two days' journey, so they won't suspect. Then
at night I'll start back. I like Quebec, and you and the good gentleman
who throws you a laugh when he passes, instead of striking you. And I'll
hunt and fish, and be a sailor. I'll not starve. And you will not tell
even miladi, who is so beautiful and sweet. Promise."

Rose promised. And now they were to go down the river.

"The courage, of course," and Madame glanced up smilingly. "We take the
child for the present."

"I shall soon be jealous, _ma mie_, but it is a pleasure to see a bright
young thing about that can talk with her eyes and not chatter shrilly.
_Mon dieu!_ what voices most of the wives have, and they are
transmitting them to their children. Yes; we will start at noon, and be
gone two days. Destournier has some messages to deliver. Put on thy
plainest frock, we are not in sunny France now."

She had learned that and only dressed up now and then for her husband's
sake, or to please the child. And she had made her some pretty frocks
out of petticoats quite too fine for wear here.

Rose was overjoyed. Wanamee was to accompany them. When they were ready
they were piloted down to the wharf by Monsieur, and there was M. Ralph
to welcome them. The river was brisk with boats and canoes and shallops.
The sun glistened on the naked backs of Indian rowers bending with every
stroke of the paddles to a rhythmic sort of sound, that later on grew to
be regular songs. There were squaws handling canoes with grace and
dexterity. One would have considered Quebec a great _entrepot_.

But the river with its beautiful bank, its groves of trees that had not
yet been despoiled, its frowning rocks glinting in the sunshine, its
wild flowers, its swift dazzle of birds, its great flocks of geese,
snowy white, in the little coves that uttered shrill cries and then
huddled together, the islands that reared grassy heads a moment and were
submerged as the current swept over them.

"Why are they not drowned?" asked Rose. "Or can they swim like the
little Indian boys?"

M. Giffard laughed--he often did at her quaint questions.

"They are like the trees; they have taken root ever so far down, and the
tide cannot sweep them away."

"And is Quebec rooted that way? Do the rocks hold fast? And--all the
places, even France?"

"They have staunch foundations. The good God has anchored them fast."

A puzzled look wavered over her face. "Monsieur, it is said the great
world is round. Why does not the water spill out as it turns? It would
fall out of a pail."

"Ah, child, that once puzzled wiser heads than thine. And years must
pass over thy head before thou canst understand."

"When I am as big as miladi?"

"I am afraid I do not quite understand myself, though I learned it in
the convent, I am quite sure. And I could not see why we did not fall
off. Some of the good nuns still believed the world was flat," and
miladi laughed. "Women's brains were not made for over-much study."

"Is it far to France?"

"Two months' or so sail."

"On a river?"

"Oh, on a great ocean. We must look at the Sieur's chart. Out of sight
of any land for days and days."

"I should feel afraid. And if you did not know where the land was?"

"But the sailor can tell by his chart."

What a wonderful world it was. She had supposed Quebec the greatest
thing in it. And now she knew so much about France and the beautiful
city called Paris, where the King and Queen lived, and ladies who went
gowned just like Madame, the first time she saw her. And there was an
England. M. Ralph had been there and seen their island empire, which
could not compare with France. She had a vague idea France was all the
rest of the world.

What days they were, for the weather was unusually fine. Now and then
they paused to explore some small isle, or to get fresh game. As for
fish, in those days the river seemed full of them. So many small streams
emptied into the St. Lawrence. Berries were abundant, and they feasted
to their hearts' content. The Indians dried them in the sun for winter
use.

Tadoussac was almost as busy as Quebec. As the fur monopoly had been in
part broken up, there were trappers here with packs of furs, and several
Indian settlements. It was Champlain's idea which Giffard was to work
up, to enlist rival traders to become sharers in the traffic, and
enlarge the trade, instead of keeping in one channel.

Madame and the little girl, piloted by Wanamee, visited several of the
wigwams, and the surprise of the Indian women at seeing the white lady
and the child was great indeed. Rose was rather afraid at first, and
drew back.

"They take it that you are the wife of the great father in France, that
is the King," translated Wanamee, "because you have crossed the ocean.
And you must not blame their curiosity. They will do you no harm."

But they wanted to examine my lady's frock and her shoes, with their
great buckles that nearly covered her small foot. Her sleeves came in
for a share of wonder, and her white, delicate arms they loaded with
curious bracelets, made of shells ground and polished until they
resembled gems. Then, too, they must feast them with a dish of Indian
cookery, which seemed ground maize broken by curiously arranged
millstones, in which were put edible roots, fish, and strips of dried
meat, that proved quite too much for miladi's delicate stomach. The
child had grown accustomed to it, as Lalotte sometimes indulged in it,
but she always shook her head in disdain and frowned on it.

"Such _pot au feu_ no one would eat at home," she would declare
emphatically.

They were loaded with gifts when they came away. Beautifully dressed
deerskins, strips of work that were remarkable, miladi thought, and she
wondered how they could accomplish so much with so few advantages.

The child had been a great source of amusement to all on shipboard. Her
utter ignorance of the outside world, her quaint frankness and innocence
tempted Giffard to play off on her curiosity and tell wonderful tales of
the mother country. And then Wanamee would recount Indian legends and
strange charms and rites used by the sages of the Abenaquis in the time
of her forefathers, before any white man had been seen in the country.

Then their homeward route began, the pause at the Isle d'Orleans, the
narrowing river, the more familiar Point Levis, the frowning rocks, the
palisades, and the fort. All the rest was wildness, except the clearing
that had been made and kept free that no skulking enemy should take an
undue advantage and surprise them by a sudden onslaught.

The Sieur de Champlain came down to meet them. Rose was leaping from
point to point like a young deer. It was no longer a pale face, it had
been a little changed by sun and wind.

"Well, little one, hast thou made many discoveries?"

"Oh, yes, indeed. I would not mind going to France now. And we have
brought back some such queer things; beautiful, too. But we did not like
some of the cooking, miladi and I, and Quebec is dearer, for it is
home," and her eyes shone with delight.

"Home! Thanks, little maid, for your naming it on this wise," and he
smiled down in the eager face as he turned to greet Madame.

She was a little weary of the wildness and loneliness of dense woods and
great hills and banks of the river, that roared and shrieked at times as
if ghost-haunted. Wanamee's stories had touched the superstitious
threads of her brain.

M. Giffard took the Sieur's arm and drew him a trifle aside. Destournier
offered his to the lady and assisted her up the rocky steep. Many a
tragedy would pass there before old Quebec became new Quebec, with
famous and heroic story.

She leaned a little heavily on his arm. "The motion of the ship is still
swaying my brain," she remarked, with a soft laugh. "So, if I am
awkward, I crave your patience. Oh, see that child! She will surely
fall."

Rose was climbing this way and that, now hugging a young tree growing
out of some crevice, then letting it go with a great flap, now
snatching a handful of wild flowers, and treading the fragrance out of
wild grapes.

"She is sure-footed like any other wild thing. I saw her first perched
upon that great gray rock yonder."

"The daring little monkey! I believe they brave every danger. I wonder
if we shall ever learn anything about her. The Sieur has so much on
hand, and men are wont to drop the thread of a pursuit or get it tangled
up with other things, so it would be too much of a burthen to ask him.
And another year I shall go to Paris myself. If she does not develop too
much waywardness, and keeps her good looks, I shall take her."

"Then I think you may be quite sure of a companion."

Wanamee had preceded them and thrown open the room to the slant rays of
western sunshine. Madame sank down on a couch, exhausted. The Indian
girl brought in some refreshments.

"Stay and partake of some," she said, with a winsome smile. "I cannot be
bereft of everybody."

But the child came in presently, eager and full of news that was hardly
news to her, after all.

"Pani is here," she exclaimed. "Madame Dubray and her husband have gone
with the trappers. They took Pani. He said he would run away. They kept
him two days, and tied him at night, but he loosened the thongs and ran
nearly all night. Then he has hidden away, for some new people have
taken the house. And he wants to stay here. He will be my slave."

She looked eagerly at my lady.

"Thou art getting to be such a venturesome midge that it may be well to
have so devoted an attendant. Yet I remember he left thee alone and ill
and hungry not so long ago."

Rose laughed gayly.

"If he had not left me I could not have taken the courage to crawl out.
And no one else might have come. He wanted to see the ships. And Madame
Dubray whipped him well, so that score is settled," with a sound of
justice well-paid for in her voice.

"We will see"--nodding and laughing.

"Then can I tell him?"

"The elders had better do that. But there will be room enough in Quebec
for him and us, I fancy," returned miladi.

Rose ran away. Pani was waiting out on the gallery.

"They will not mind," she announced. "But you must have some place to
sleep, and"--studying him critically from the rather narrow face, the
bony shoulders, and slim legs--"something to eat. Mere Dubray had
plenty, except towards spring when the stores began to fail."

"I can track rabbits and hares, and catch fish on the thin places in the
rivers. Oh, I shall not starve. But I'm hungry."

The wistful look in his eyes touched her.

"Let us find Wanamee," she exclaimed, leading the way to the culinary
department.

Miladi had been surprised and almost shocked at the rough manner of
living in this new France. The food, too, was primitive, lacking in the
delicacies to which she had been used, and the manners she thought
barbarous. But for M. Destournier and the courtesy of the Sieur she
would have prayed to return at once.

"Wait a little," pleaded Laurent. "If there is a fortune to be made in
this new world, why should we not have our share? And I can see that
there is. Matters are quite unsettled at home, but if we go back with
gold in our purses we shall do well enough."

Then the child had appealed to her. And it was flattering to be the only
lady of note and have homage paid to her.

So the children sought Wanamee, and while Pani brought some sticks and
soon had a bed of coals, Wanamee stirred up some cakes of rye and maize,
and the boy prepared a fish for cooking. He was indeed hungry, and his
eyes glistened with the delight of eating.

"It smells so good," said Rose. "Wanamee, bring me a piece. I can always
eat now, and a while ago I could not bear the smell of food."

"You were so thin and white. And Mere Dubray thought every morning you
would be dead. You wouldn't like to be put in the ground, would you?"

"Oh, no, no!" shivering.

"Nor burned. Then you go to ashes and only the bones are left."

"That is horrid, too. Burning hurts. I have burned my fingers with
coals."

"But my people don't mind it. They are very brave. And you go to the
great hunting grounds way over to the west, where the good Manitou has
everything, and you don't have to work, and no one beats you."

"The white people have a heaven. That is above the sky. And when the
stars come out it is light as day on the other side, and there are
flowers and trees, and rivers and all manner of fruit such as you never
see here."

"I'd rather hunt. When I get to be a man I shall go off and discover
wonderful things. In some of the mountains there is gold. And out by the
great oceans where the Hurons have encamped there are copper and silver.
The company talked about it. Some were for going there. And there were
fur animals, all the same."

Rose had been considering another subject.

"Pani," she began, with great seriousness, "you are not any one's slave
now."

"No"--rather hesitatingly. "The Dubrays will never come back, or if they
should next summer, with furs, I will run away again up to the Saguenay,
where they will not look. But there are Indian boys in plenty where the
tribes fight and take prisoners."

"You shall be my slave."

The young Indian's cheek flushed.

"The slave of a girl!" he said, with a touch of disdain.

"Why not? I should not beat you."

"Oh, you couldn't"--triumphantly.

"But you might be miladi's slave," suggested Wanamee, "and then you
could watch the little one and follow her about to see that nothing
harmed her."

"There shouldn't anything hurt her." He sprang up. "You see I am growing
tall, and presently I shall be a man. But I won't be a slave always."

"No, no," said the Indian woman.

"That was very good, excellent," pointing to the two empty birch-bark
dishes, which he picked up and threw on the coals, a primitive way to
escape dish washing. "I will find you a heap more. I will get fish or
berries, and oh, I know where the bees have stored a lot of honey in a
hollow tree."

"You let them alone for another month," commanded Wanamee. "Honey--that
will be a treat indeed."

Miladi had missed the sweets of her native land, though there they had
not been over-plentiful, since royalty must needs be served first. They
bought maple sugar and a kind of crude syrup of the Abenaqui women, who
were quite experts in making it. When the sun touched the trees in the
morning when the hoarfrost had disappeared, they inserted tubes of bark,
rolled tightly, and caught the sap in the troughs. Then they filled
their kettles that swung over great fires, and the fragrance arising
made the forests sweet with a peculiar spiciness. It was a grand time
for the children, who snatched some of the liquid out of the kettle on a
birch-bark ladle, and ran into the woods for it to cool. Pani had often
been with them.

"Let us go down to the old house," exclaimed Rose. "Do you know who is
there?"

"Pierre Gaudrion. He gets stone for the new walls they are laying
against the fort. And there are five or six little ones."

"It must be queer. Oh, let us go and see them."

She was off like a flash, but he followed as swiftly. Here was the
garden where she had pulled weeds with a hot hatred in her heart that
she would have liked to tear up the whole garden and throw it over in
the river. She glanced around furtively--what if Mere Dubray should come
suddenly in search of Pani.

Three little ones were tumbling about on the grass. The oldest girl was
grinding at the rude mill, a boy was making something out of birch
branches, interlaced with willow. A round, cheerful face glanced up from
patching a boy's garment, and smiled. Madame Gaudrion's mother had been
a white woman left at the Saguenay basin in a dying condition, it was
supposed, but she had recovered and married a half-breed. One daughter
had cast in her lot with a roving tribe. Pierre Gaudrion had seen the
other in one of the journeys up to Tadoussac and brought her home.

The Sieur did not discourage these marriages, for the children
generally affiliated with the whites, and if the colony was to prosper
there must be marriages and children.

Rose stopped suddenly, rather embarrassed, for all her bravado.

"I used to live here," as if apologizing.

"Yes. But Mere Dubray was not your mother."

"No. Nor Catherine Arlac."

The woman shook her head. "I know not many people. We live on the other
side. And the babies come so fast I have not much time. But Pierre say
now we must have bigger space and garden for the children to work in. So
we are glad when Mere Dubray go up to the fur country with her man. You
were ill, they said. But you do not look ill. Did you not want to go
with her?"

"Oh, no, no. And I live clear up there," nodding to the higher altitude.
"M'sieu Hebert is there and Madame. And a beautiful lady, Madame
Giffard. I did not love Mere Dubray."

"If I have a child that will not love me, it would break my heart. What
else are little ones for until they grow up and marry in turn?"

"But--I was not her child."

"And your mother."

"I do not know. She was dead before I could remember. Then I was brought
from France."

Suddenly she felt the loss of her mother. She belonged to no one in the
world.

"Poor _petite_." She made a sudden snatch at her own baby and hugged it
so tightly that it shrieked, at which she laughed.

"Some day a man will hug thee and thou wilt not scream," she said in
good humor.

Pani came from round the corner and then darted back. The boy left his
work and came forward.

"Who was that?" he asked. "My father said 'get an Indian boy to work in
the garden.' I am making a chair for the little one. And I can't tell
which are weeds. Yesterday I pulled up some onions and father was angry,
but he could set them out again."

Rose laughed at that, and thought it remarkable that his father did not
beat him.

"Pani might show you a little. He belongs to me now. We both used to
work in the garden. Mere Dubray was always knitting and cooking."

Pani emerged again. "Yes, let us go," and Rose led the way, but she
would have liked to throw herself down among the babies, who seemed all
arms and legs.

"Can you read?" the boy said suddenly. "We have a book and I can read
quite well. My father knows how. And I want to be a great man like the
Sieur, and some of the soldiers. I want to know how to keep accounts,
and to go to France some time in the big ships."

Rose colored. "I am going to learn to read this winter, when we have to
stay in. But it is very difficult--tiresome. I'd rather climb the rocks
and watch the birds. I had some once that would come for grains and bits
of corn cake. And the geese were so tame down there by the end of the
garden."

The rows of corn stood up finely, shaking out their silken heads,
turning to a bronze red. Then there were potatoes. These were of the
Dubrays' planting, as well as some of the smaller beds.

"M'sieu Hebert gave father some of these plants. He knows a great deal,
and he can make all kinds of medicine. It is very fine to know a great
deal, isn't it?"

"But it must be hard to study so much," returned Rose, with a sigh.

"I don't think so. I wish I had ever so many books like the Sieur and M.
Hebert. And you can find out places--there are so many of them in the
world. And do you know there are English people working with all their
might down in Virginia, and Spanish and Dutch! But some day we shall
drive them all out and it will be New France as far as you can go. And
the Indians----"

"You can't drive the Indians out," exclaimed Pani decisively. "The whole
country is theirs. And there are so many of them. There are tribes and
tribes all over the land. And they know how to fight."

"They are fighting each other continually. M. Hebert says they will
sweep each other off after a while. And they are very cruel. You will
see the French do not fight the French."

Alas, young Pierre Gaudrion, already Catholic and Huguenot were at war:
one fighting for the right to live in a certain liberty of belief, the
other thinking they did God a service by undertaking their
extermination.

The argument rather floored Pani, whose range of knowledge was only wide
enough to know that many tribes were at bitter enmity with each other.

"Do you want to work in the garden? There are weeds enough to keep you
busy," said Pierre presently.

"No," returned Pani stoutly.

"And Pani belongs to me," declared Rose.

Pierre turned to look at the girl. Her beauty stirred him strangely.
Sometimes, when his father sang the old songs of home, the same quiver
went through every pulse.

"I'm sorry," he said, in a gentler tone. "Now I must go back to my
chair."

"Is it to be a chair?"

"I can't weave the grasses just right, though some one showed me, only I
was thinking of other things."

"Let's see." Pani was a little mollified.

They went back to the boy's work.

"I'm only making a little one for Marie. Then I shall try a larger one.
There are two in the room."

Yes, Rose knew them well. The place was about the same, with the great
bunk on one side and the smaller one on the other. Mere Dubray's bright
blankets were gone, with the pictures of the Virgin, and the high
candlestick, that was alight on certain days. Little mattresses filled
with dried grass were piled on top of the bunk. It looked like, and yet
unlike. Rose was glad she did not live here.

Pani inspected the boy's work.

"Oh, you haven't it right. You must put pegs in here, then you can pull
it up. And this is the way you go."

Pani's deft fingers went in and out like a bit of machinery. It was
forest lore, and he was at home in it.

"You make it beautiful," exclaimed Pierre. "Oh, go slower, so I can
understand."

Pani smiled with the praise and put in a word of explanation now and
then. The boys were fast becoming friends.

"Maman," Pierre cried, "come and see how fine the boy does it. If he
would come and live with us!"

"I might come a little while and look after the garden. And I could
catch fish and I know the best places for berries, and the grapes will
soon be ripening. And the plums. I can shoot birds with an arrow. But I
belong to mam'selle."

"If she will let you come now and then," wistfully.

"Yes, I might," with an air of condescension.

"Thou art a pretty little lady," was Mere Gaudrion's parting benison to
the little girl, and Rose smiled. "Come again often."

When they were out of the narrow passageway she said, "Now let us have a
race. I am glad Mere Dubray is there no longer, are you not? But what a
funny pile of children!"

They had their race, and a climb, and on the gallery they found miladi
looking for them, and they told over their adventure.

"Yes," she said smilingly. "I think we can find a place for Pani, and
between us all I fancy we can keep him so well employed he will not want
to run away."




CHAPTER VI

FINDING AMUSEMENTS


About the middle of August the Sieur de Champlain and Captain Francois
de Pontgrave sailed from Tadoussac for France. The Giffards,
Destournier, and several others accompanied them to the port, and were
then to survey some of the places that had advantages for planting
colonies. They did not return until in September. The season was
unusually fine and warm, and there had been an abundance of everything.
The colonists had been busy enough preparing for winter. They had
learned ways of drying fruit, of smoking meats and fish, of caring for
their grains. There had been no talk of Indian raids, indeed the
villages about were friendly with the whites, and friendly with several
of the outlying tribes. Some had gone on raids farther south.

Madame Giffard would have found time hanging heavy on her hands but for
the child. She began to teach her to read and to play checkers. Rose did
not take kindly to embroidery, but some of the Indian work interested
her. With Pani and Wanamee's assistance she made baskets and curious
vase-like jars. Pierre Gaudrion came up now and then, and miladi
considered him quite a prodigy in several ways.

When they were dull and tired miladi gave Rose dancing lessons. The
child was really fascinated with the enjoyment. Miladi would dress up in
one of her pretty gowns to the child's great delight, and they would
invent wonderful figures. Sometimes the two men would join them, and
they would keep up the amusement till midnight.

Pani was growing rapidly and he was their most devoted knight. And when
the snows set in there were great snowballing games; sometimes between
the Indians alone, at others, the whites would take a hand.

It was splendid entertainment for the children to slide about on the
snowy crust, that glistened in the sunlight as if sprinkled with gems.
The Indian women often participated in this amusement. And miladi looked
as bewitching in her deerskin suit, with its fringes and bright
adornments of feather borders, and her lovely furs, as in her Paris
attire. She often thought she would like to walk into some assembly and
make a stir in her strange garments.

What is the Sieur doing? Making new bargains, persuading colonists to
join them, getting concessions to the profit of New France. Alas! Old
France was a selfish sort of stepmother. She wanted furs, she wanted
colonies planted, she wanted explorations, and possessions taken in
every direction, to thwart English and Dutch, who seemed somehow to be
prospering, but the money supplies were pared to the narrowest edge.

The little girl would have been much interested in one step her dear
Sieur was taking, though she did not hear of it until long afterward.
This was his betrothment and marriage to Marie Helene, the daughter of
Nicolas Boulle, private secretary to the young King. A child of twelve,
and the soldier and explorer who was now forty or over, but held his
years well and the hardships had written few lines on his kindly and
handsome face. That he was very much charmed with the child, who was
really quite mature for her age, was true, though it is thought the
friendship of her father and her dowry had some weight. But she adored
her heroic lover, although she was to be returned to the convent to
finish her education. Then the Sieur made his will and settled a part of
the dowry on his bride, and the income of all his other property, his
maps and books, "in case of his death in voyages on the sea and in the
service of the King."

If the autumn had been lovely and long beyond expectations, winter
lingered as well. And the travellers had a hard time on their return.
Lofty bergs floated down the Atlantic, and great floes closed in around
the vessel, and the rigging was encased in glittering ice. Sometimes
their hearts failed them and the small boats were made ready, but
whither would they steer? Captain Pontgrave kept up his courage, and
"when they brought their battered craft into the harbor of Tadoussac
they fired a cannon shot in joyous salute," says history. Seventy-four
days had their journey lasted.

The country was still white with snow, although it was May. Already some
trading vessels were bidding for furs, but the Montagnais had had a hard
winter as well, and the Bay traders would have perished on the way.

Champlain pushed on to Quebec, though his heart was full of fears.

Rose was out on the gallery, that Pani was clearing from the frequent
light falls of snow. A canoe was being rowed by some Indians and in the
stern sat the dearly-loved Commander. "They have come! they have come!"
shouted Rose, and she ran in to spread the joyful news. Destournier and
Giffard were at a critical point in a game of chess, but both sprang up.
The bell pealed out, there was a salute, and every one in the fort
rushed out with exclamations of joy. For the sake of the little girl he
had left, the Sieur stooped and kissed Rose.

Du Parc was in the best of spirits, and had only a good account. There
had been no sickness, no Indian troubles, and provisions had lasted
well. All was joy and congratulations. Even the Indian settlements near
by built bonfires and beat their drums, dancing about with every
indication of delighted welcome.

He had brought with him the young Indian Savignon, while Etienne Brule
had wintered with the Ottawas, perfecting himself in their language. He
was a fine specimen of his race, as far as physique went, and his winter
in civilization had given him quite a polish.

There was a great feast. Miladi was in her glory ordering it, and
Savignon paid her some compliments that quite savored of old times in
her native land. She was fond of admiration, and here there was but
small allowance of it.

He was to restore the young brave to his tribe, and Destournier was to
accompany him. He saw that with trade open to rivals there must be some
stations. It was true no men could be spared to form a new colony, and
the few he had induced to emigrate would do better service in the old
settlement. In Cartier's time there had been the village of Hochelega.
It was a great stretch of open fertile land, abounding in wild fruits
and grapes, so he pre-empted it in the name of the King, put up a stout
cross, and built two or three log huts, and planted some grain seeds
that might in turn scatter themselves around. And so began Montreal. The
river was dotted with islands; the largest, on which the wild iris, the
fleur-de-lis, grew abundantly, he named St. Helene, in remembrance of
his little betrothed.

They pushed on beyond the rapids and here he met the Algonquins and
restored their young brave to them, and was glad to find Etienne Brule
in good health and spirits. But Savignon bade him farewell ruefully,
declaring life in Paris was much more agreeable, and spoiled one for the
wilderness.

Various bands of Hurons and Algonquins came to meet the great white
Sagamore, and he secured much trade for the coming season. But the fur
business was being greatly scattered, and Demont's finances were at a
rather low ebb, so there could not be the necessary branching out.

Destournier had some schemes as well. He had come to the new world
partly from curiosity and the desire to mend his fortunes. He saw now
some fine openings, if he could get a concession or grant of land. His
old family seat might be disposed of, he had not Laurent Giffard's aim
to make a fortune here and go back to France and spend it for show.

Madame Giffard was deeply disappointed at this prospect, and Rose was
inconsolable.

"Who will read to us in the long evenings and the days when the driving
snow makes it seem like night. And oh, M'sieu, who will dance with me
and tell me those delightful stories, and laugh at my sayings that come
like birds' flights across my mind and go their way?"

"You will have miladi. And there are the Gaudrion children. Pierre has a
heart full of worship for you. And books that the Governor brought. The
time will pass quickly."

"To you. There will be so many things. But the long, long days. And
miladi says there are so many pretty girls in Paris, whose dancing and
singing are marvellous, and who would laugh at a frock of deerskin. Oh,
you will forget me, and all the time I shall think of you. You will not
care."

Her beautiful eyes were suffused with tears, the brilliance of her cheek
faded, and her bosom heaved with emotion. What a girl she would be a few
years hence. His dear Sieur had married a child--was he really in love
with her? But his regard was fatherly, brotherly.

"See," he began, "we will make a bargain. When the first star comes out
you will watch for it and say, 'M'sieu Ralph is looking at it and
thinking of me.' And I will say--'the little Rose of Quebec is turning
toward me,' and we will meet in heart. Will not this comfort thee?"

"Oh, I shall hug it to my heart. The star! the star! And when the sky is
thick with clouds I shall remember you told me the stars were always
there. And I will shut my eyes and see you. I see strange things at
times."

"So you must not be unhappy, for I shall return," and he took her
throbbing fingers in his.

She raised her lovely eyes. What a charming coquette she would make, if
she were not so innocent. But the long fringe of lashes was beaded with
tears.

It was odd, he thought, but with all the admiration of her husband
miladi made as great a time as the child. What should she do in this
horrible lonely place, shut up in the fort all winter, with no company
but an Indian woman and a child whose limited understanding took in only
foolish pleasures. What miladi needed was companionship. Ah! if she
could return to France. If Laurent would only consent. But now he
thought only of fortune-making.

"And a return at the end. He is not taking root here. I am. I like the
boundless freedom of this new country," said Destournier.

"You will marry. There is some demoiselle at home on whom your heart is
set. And the old friendship will go for naught. You have been--yes, like
a brother," and she flushed.

"No, I am not likely to marry," he returned gravely.

"But--you will not return," in a desperate kind of tone. "You will be
won by Paris."

"I shall return. All my interests are here. And as I said--I shall leave
my heart in this new country."

Then she smiled, a little secure in the thought that she had no rival.

So again the Sieur de Champlain set sail for France, and many a
discourse he held with Ralph Destournier on the future of Quebec, that
child of his dreams and his heart. It would be fame enough, he thought,
to be handed down to posterity as the founder of Quebec, the explorer of
the great inland seas that joining arms must lead across the continent.

Miladi was very capricious, Rose found, although she did not know the
meaning of the word. What she wanted to-day she scouted to-morrow.
Rose's reading was enough to set one wild. Sure she was not
French-born, or she would know by intuition. Sometimes she would say
pettishly, "Go away, child, you disturb me," and then Rose would play
hide-and-seek with Pani, or run down to the Gaudrions. Marie was quite
an expert in Indian embroidery, the children were gay and frolicsome,
and there was a new baby. Pierre was very fond of her; a studious
fellow, with queer ideas that often worked themselves out in some useful
fashion. They read together, stumbling over words they could not
understand.

"And I shall build a boat of my own and go out to those wonderful
rapids. At one moment it feels as if you would be submerged, then you
ride up on top with a shout. Cubenic said the Sieur stood it as bravely
as any Indian. Why--if your boat was overturned you could swim."

"But there's a current that sucks you in. And there's a strange woman, a
windigo, who haunts the rapids and drags you down and eats you."

"I don't believe such nonsense. In one of the Sieur's books there is a
story of some people who believed there was a spirit in everything.
There were gods of the waters, of the trees, of the winds, and the
Indians are much like them. I've never found any of their gods, have
you?"

"No"--rather reluctantly. "But Wanamee has. And sometimes they bring
back dead people."

"Then they don't always eat them," and the boy laughed.

She had meant to tell miladi of her tryst and beg her to come out and
see the star, but when she found her not only indifferent, but fretful,
she refrained and was glad presently that she had this delicious secret
to herself. But there was a great mystery. Sometimes the star was
different. Instead of being golden, it was a pale blue, and then almost
red. Was it that way in France, she wondered.

She came to have a strange fondness for the stars, and to note their
changes. Was it true that the old people M'sieu Ralph had read about,
the Greeks, had seen their gods and goddesses taken up to the sky and
set in the blue? There were thrones mounted with gems, there were
figures that chased each other; to-night they were here, to-morrow night
somewhere else. But the star that came out first was hers, and she sent
a message across the ocean with it. And the star said in return, "I am
thinking of you."

He did think of her, and tried to trace out some parentage. Catherine
Defroy had gone from St. Malo, a single woman. Then by all the accounts
he could find she must have spent two years in Paris. Clearly she was
not mother of the child.

After all, what did it matter? Rose would probably spend her life in New
France. If it was never proven that she came of gentlefolks, Laurent
Giffard would hardly consent to his wife's mothering her. He had a good
deal of pride of birth.

The winter passed away and this year spring came early, unchaining the
streams and sending them headlong to the rivers; filling the air with
the fragrant new growth of the pines, hemlocks, and cedars, the young
grasses, and presently all blossoming things. The beauty touched Rose
deeply. No one understood, so she only talked of these strange things to
the trees and the stars at night. Often she was a merry romp, climbing
rocks, out in a canoe, which she had learned to manage perfectly, though
sometimes Pani accompanied her, sometimes Pierre Gaudrion, who was
growing fast and making himself very useful to Du Parc.

As for the Sieur, he found much to engross his attention. There was a
new trading company that had the privilege of eleven years. There was
another volume of voyages and discoveries, the maps and illustrations
finely engraved. Then he had laid before the secretary of the King the
urgent need of some religious instruction. Acadia had quite a thriving
Jesuit mission. This order was not in high favor with Champlain, who
deprecated their narrowness. The Sieur Houel recommended the Recollets,
and four willing missionaries were finally chosen. The company had
fitted up a large vessel and were taking all the stores they could
purchase or beg, and quite a number of emigrants of a better class than
heretofore.

They were all warmly welcomed, and found the colonists in very good
order. The enthusiastic priest startled them by kneeling on the soil and
devoutly consecrating it to God, and giving thanks that He had called
them to this new and arduous field of labor. The coarse gray cassock
girt at the waist with a bit of rope, the pointed hood, which often hung
around their necks and betrayed the shaven crown, their general air of
poverty and humility attracted attention, but did not so much appeal to
the colonists or the Indians. They were fearful of the new order of
things.

Quebec had enlarged her borders somewhat. The one-roomed hut had spread
out into two or three apartments. The gardens had increased. Some roads
had been made, the workmen taking the stone quarried to add to their own
houses. Still they received the fathers with a certain degree of
cordiality.

Champlain set aside ground for their convent, and they first erected an
altar and celebrated Mass. Pere Dolbeau was the officiating priest. The
people, most of whom came from curiosity, knelt around on the earth,
while cannon from the ramparts announced the mystic services. The
Giffards joined in them reverentially, but Rose was full of wonderment.
Indeed, her joy was so great at seeing Destournier again that she could
give thanks for nothing else.

Then they erected a rude hut and discussed the work that lay before
them. Le Caron would go to the Hurons, Dolbeau to the Montagnais, Jamay
and Du Plessis would take charge of Quebec and the outlying provinces,
and planned to build a chapel.

Destournier had been successful with his grant. He bad been made
seignior of a large tract outside of the town, which was destined one
day to be a part of it. Here he settled some friendly Indians, and
several of the new-comers, who were to till the soil under his
directions, and raise different crops to ward off the scarcity of
rations in the winter. He would build a house for himself and live among
them.

"But why not remain in the fort?" asked miladi. "What charm can you find
with those ignorant people? Though perhaps peas and beans, radishes and
cabbages may console one for more intellectual pursuits."

"I shall only spend the days with them at present," he returned, with a
smile.

And now again came the influx of the fur-traders. It had been a good
season and from the new settlement of Montreal to Tadoussac, vessels
were packing away the precious freight. Champlain had gone with a body
of soldiers to help defend a town the Iroquois had threatened to attack.
The missions thus far had borne no fruit. Indeed the new teaching of the
Recollets in its severity was not pleasant. The Hurons were seized with
a panic after losing several of their leaders and the Sieur was wounded.
All winter the people at Quebec waited anxiously for their leader, and
parties set out to see if they could find any tidings. At last they were
sighted, and great was the joy at finding their beloved chieftain well
and unharmed. But he was not allowed to remain long in his pet
settlement. There were disputes and altercations, and he was summoned to
France.

"Another year we shall go ourselves," announced Laurent Giffard to his
wife. "We have enough now to make ourselves comfortable, and I doubt if
the company can weather through. At all events I shall be glad to be
well out of it. Art thou glad of the prospect?"

"There is great commotion with the King and his mother, and between
Huguenot and Catholic," she made answer slowly. "Does the Sieur
Destournier throw up his schemes in disgust as well?"

"Ah, I think he is wedded to the soil. The Governor trusts everything to
him, and Du Parc, and both are capable men. But truth to tell I have
lost faith in the colony. I hear the Virginians and the Bostonnais are
doing much better. France cannot, or will not, spend the money, nor send
the men to put the place on a sure foundation. The Indians grow more
troublesome. They hate being meddled with by the priests. They take
wives when they want them, and send them away when they are tired of
them. They torture prisoners--some day the priests will have a taste of
it themselves."

"They are all horrible," she said, with a shiver.

"And we will go back to La Belle France. I fancy I can manage a sort of
preferment with Dubissay, who has the ear of the Queen mother at
present. At all events I am tired of this turmoil, and thou, _ma mie_,
art wasting thy beauty in this savage land."

He stooped and kissed her. If he had been ready last year, she would
have hailed the prospect with delight. Why did it not seem so attractive
now?

"And the child?" she asked presently, her eyes fixed on the floor.

Was the tone indifferent?

"How much dost thou love her, _ma mie_? At first thy heart was sore for
the loss of our own, but time heals all such wounds. Destournier left no
stone unturned to discover her parentage, and failed. I think she has
been some one's love child. True we could give her our name, and with a
good dowry she could marry well. But she will want some years of convent
training to tone her down."

"And if we should leave her here? Though they say Miladi de Champlain
comes over soon, and there may be a court with maids of honor."

He laughed. "What I fancy is this, though I am no seer. Destournier is
fond of her, fatherly now, but she is shooting up into a tall girl.
There will not be so many years between them as the Sieur and
Mademoiselle Boulle. And some day he will take her to wife. 'Twere a
pity to spoil the romance. She adores him."

Miladi bit her lip hard, and drew her brow into a sharp frown.

"What nonsense!" she made answer.

"Destournier is a fine fellow, and will be a rich one some day."

"The more need that he should marry in his own station."

"But there is talk of reproducing home titles in this new land. And
Baron Destournier can raise his wife to his own station. If the child
should not be amenable to training, or develop some waywardness, there
might be sorrow, rather than joy or satisfaction in thine heart."

"There will be time enough to consider," she returned.

He left the room. She went out on the shady side of the gallery, and
looked down over the town. The two under discussion a moment ago were
climbing the steep rocks instead of taking the path where steps were
cut. The wind blew her shining hair about, her face was filled with
ripples of laughter. He took her arm and she would have no help, but
sprang like a deer from point to point, then turned to throw her
merriment at him.

"Yes, miladi would take her to France. What if some day he should
follow?"

The Governor spent a month in intense satisfaction, enlarging the
borders of his pet garden, talking with M. Hebert, who had been watching
the growth of some fine fruit trees imported from northern France, that
had blossomed and were perfecting a few specimens of fruit. He thought
sometimes it would be a joy to give up all cares and rest in cultivating
the soil. If the summers were short everything grew abundantly. There
were several rare plants, also, that they had acclimated.

"Bring thy wife over and be content," advised M. Hebert, in a cordial
tone, "and enjoy the governorship."

M. de Champlain laughed. But presently he said: "Friend, you little know
the delights of an explorer who brings new countries to light, who
builds cities that may continue after him. The route to India has not
yet been located. The fields of gold and silver have not been
discovered. The lilies of France have not been planted over there,"
nodding his head. "We must go before the Spaniard gets a foothold. Yet
there are delights I must confess that even Horace longed for--a
garden."

But if he longed for it at times he found the restless current hurrying
him on. Some disaffected members of the company were bringing charges
against him, desiring to depose him from the governorship. But Conde,
who had again come into power, knew there was not another man who would
work so untiringly for the good of New France, or make it bring in such
rich returns.




CHAPTER VII

JOURNEYING TO A FAR COUNTRY


The colony passed a very fair winter. It was in the latter part of April
that one night an alarm was given and the big bell at the fort rang out
its call to arms.

The messenger had trudged through the snow and was breathless.

"An Indian attack. The Iroquois are burning the settlement, and
murdering our people. To arms! to arms!"

There had been no Indian raid for a long while. Destournier had tried to
fortify the back of his plantation. There were Montagnais and Algonquins
of the better type living there peaceably. It was not altogether
cupidity. An Iroquois woman had been found cruelly murdered, and the
wandering band laid it at once to the settlement. It took only a brief
while to work themselves up to a frenzy.

It did not take long to plan revenge. There was no chief at the head;
indeed, in these roving bands it was every brave for himself. And now
after a powwow, since they were not large enough in numbers to attack
the fort, and they found some of the Indian converts were in the new
settlement, they determined on an onslaught.

The barricade at the back was high and strong. It was not so well
fortified on the side toward the fort, and they pushed through a weak
place at the end, lighted their torches, and commenced a treacherous
assault. Roused from their slumbers, and terrified to the last degree,
the air was soon filled with shrieks, and bursting in doors, the houses
were set on fire. They were wary enough to guard their loop-hole for
escape, but they found themselves outnumbered, and in turn had to fight
for their own lives. The blazing huts lighted up the snow in a weird
fashion; the shrieks and cries and jargon of the Iroquois added to the
frightfulness. Yet the struggle was brief. The enemy, finding themselves
on the losing side, began to fly, pursued by the soldiers, and indeed,
many of the inhabitants.

Destournier roused at the first alarm, and Du Parc gave orders that were
speedily obeyed. The citadel was in a glow of light and wild commotion.

Giffard ran down the stone steps with his musket. Destournier barred his
way.

"Some of us have no wives," he said briefly. "Go back and keep guard
until we see what the dastardly attack means."

"There are wives and children in the settlement," was the reply, but he
paused while Destournier ran on. When he was out of sight, Giffard
followed.

The soldiers pursued the flying band, but they presently plunged into
the woods and crept on stealthily, while the pursuers returned. The gray
morning began to dawn on the smoking ruin and the fitful blazes that the
men were trying hard to extinguish with the snow. Destournier went from
one to another. A few huts had not been disturbed, and crying women and
children were crowding in them. Some bodies lay silent on the
blood-stained snow. Destournier had taken great pride in the surprise he
had thought to give the Governor on his return, and here lay most of his
hopes in ruins.

He gave orders that the wounded should be taken to the fort for
treatment. It was a gratification to find two Iroquois dead, and when a
soldier despatched a wounded one he made no comment. It was pitiful when
the sun rose over the scene of destruction.

"Still there could not have been a large body, or the carnage would have
been more complete," he said, with some comforting assurance.

"You had better come in for some breakfast," an officer remarked. "You
look ghastly, and you are blood-stained."

He glanced down at his garments. "Yes," he said, "I will take your
advice. I want something hot to drink. And we must send some food over
there."

Rose came flying in as he was demolishing a savory slice of venison.

"Where is M. Giffard?" she cried. "Miladi is so frightened. She wants
him at once. Oh, wasn't it dreadful! Thank the saints you are safe!"

"Giffard!" He had caught two or three glimpses of him in the melee. "He
may be attending to the wounded. He is a brave fellow in an emergency. I
must find him."

He swallowed the brandy and water and rushed down to the improvised
hospital. A dozen or more were being fed and nursed by Wanamee and two
other Indian women. The priest, too, was kindly exhorting courage and
patience. Giffard was not here. No one had seen him. He ran over the
crusty, but trodden-down snow, stained here and there with blood. The
sun had risen gorgeously, and there was a decided balminess in the air.
He glanced at the insides of the huts. The furry skins had not been good
conductors of flames, and the snow on the roofs had saved them. Beside
the two dead Iroquois there was an Abenaqui woman and her child. In the
huts that were intact, the frightened women and children had huddled.
Some of the men were already appraising possible repairs.

"They went this way," announced an Algonquin, in his broken French. He
had been employed about the fort and found trusty.

The path was marked with blood and fragments of clothing, bags of maize,
that they had dropped in their flight--finding them a burthen. Here lay
an Iroquois with a broken leg, who was twisting himself along. The
Algonquin hit him a blow over the head with the stout club he carried.

"He will not get much further," he commented, as the Indian dropped over
motionless.

"Have you seen M. Giffard?" Destournier asked.

"_Non, non_. The men came back."

"He is not at the fort."

"Shall we follow on?"

Destournier nodded.

They heard a step crunching over the snow and waited breathlessly.

It was Jacques Roleau they saw as he came in sight, one of the workmen
at the fort. He gestured to them that all was right.

"They have fled, what was left of them," he explained. "I despatched two
wounded Iroquois that they had left behind. There are two of our men
that they must have made prisoners, the M'sieu at the fort who has the
pretty wife, and young Chauvin"--and he paused, as if there was more to
say.

"Wounded?"

He shook his head sadly.

"Dead?" Destournier's breath came with a gasp.

"Both dead, M'sieu, but strange, neither has been scalped."

"Let us push on," exclaimed Destournier sadly.

They followed the trail. After a short distance a body had been dragged
evidently. Roleau led the way through a tortuous path until they came in
sight of a small vacant spot where sometime Indians had camped, as they
could tell by the scorched and blackened trees. A nearly nude body had
been fastened to one and a few dead branches gathered, evidently for a
fire.

Destournier stood speechless. The head hung down, the face was unmarred,
save for a few scratches, and he gave thanks for that. But his heart was
heavy within him. The poor body had been stabbed and cut, yet it had not
bled much, it seemed.

He would have felt relieved if he had known the whole story. Two
stalwart bucks had seized Giffard just beyond the settlement and hurried
him along at such a pace that he could hardly breathe. They fastened his
arms behind, each man grasping an elbow, and fairly galloped, until one
of them caught his foot in a fallen tree and went down. In the fall
Giffard's temple struck against a stone that knocked him senseless. He
might have revived, but he was hurried along by a stout leathern thong
slipped under the armpits, and was then dragged a dead weight. They had
stopped for a holocaust and bound him to a tree, while they despatched
the younger man. But there was difficulty in finding anything dry enough
to burn, so they had amused themselves by gashing the dead body. Then
suddenly alarmed they had plunged farther into the forest, leaving one
of their own wounded that Roleau had finished.

Giffard had been captured in a moment of incautiousness, but the sights
and the wantonness had fired his blood and roused a spirit of
retaliation.

They had nearly stripped both bodies, and carried off the garments.

"If you can manage, M'sieu," exclaimed their guide, "I will take the
young fellow." He stooped, picked him up, and threw him over his
shoulder.

"You will find him a heavy burthen," as the man staggered a little.

"I can carry. Do not fear," nodding assurance.

Destournier took off his fur coat and wrapped it about the poor body.
Each took hold of the improvised litter and they commenced their
melancholy journey. How could Madame Giffard stand it, for she really
did love him. The man's heart ached with the sincerest pity.

They laid down their burthens inside the settlement in one of the partly
destroyed cabins. Du Parc came thither to meet them.

"Ah," he exclaimed, "that fine young fellow who was going to be a great
success. The company wanted him back in France. And his poor wife! The
blow will kill her."

"I wished him to remain within for her sake. He was no coward, either. I
would give the whole settlement if it would restore him to life. The
Governor thought it an excellent, but venturesome plan. But we must have
colonists if ever we are to make a town that will be an honor to New
France."

"It is not such a complete ruin. We have lost two men, one woman, and
three children. Five Iroquois bodies have been found and two are badly
wounded."

"And two more out in the woods. They had better be buried, so as to stir
up no more strife. It could not have been a large party, or we would
have suffered more severely."

"The English have had many of these surprises. I think we have been
fortunate, even if we have fewer in numbers. And it would have been
worse if there had been growing crops."

"I shall have the fortifications strengthened. And perhaps it would be
well to keep guard."

They left Roleau in charge of the bodies and turned to the fort. The
wounded had been made comfortable.

Rose sprang down the steps to meet Destournier.

"Oh, have you found him? Miladi is almost dead with grief and anxiety.
She is sure they have killed M. Giffard."

"Poor wife! How will we tell her?"

"Oh, then he is dead?" The child's face was blanched with terror.

"Yes, he has been killed by the cruel savages. But we have brought home
his body. Who is with her?"

"Wanamee and Madawando, who is saying charms over her. She is the
medicine woman who brought back the Gaudrion baby when he was dead. Oh,
can you not make her bring back M. Giffard? Miladi will surely die of
grief. Couldn't they put some one in his place? Wouldn't the great God
listen to the priest's prayers?" and she raised her humid, beseeching
eyes.

"My child, you loved him dearly."

"Sometimes. Then he made me feel--well, as if I could run away. He was
never cross. Oh, I think it was because he loved Miladi so very much,
there was no room for any one else. And that is why I love you
so--because you have no one belonging to you."

"We are alike in that," he made answer.

He saw Wanamee presently.

"She goes from one dying fit to another. Madawando brings her back. But
if he is dead, M'sieu, why should they not let her join him?"

Would she be happier in that great unknown land with him. What was there
here for her?

And some way he felt in part responsible. He had risked his life to save
Destournier's property.

There were sad days in the fort. The weather came off comparatively
pleasant, and the half-ruined huts were repaired, the wounded healed,
the losses made good, as far as possible. The dead Iroquois were put in
a trench, but better sepulture was provided for the colonists, and the
services over the body of M. Giffard were in a degree military. The two
Recollet priests were kindness and devotion personified, and they said
prayers every hour in their rude little chapel, where a candle was kept
burning before the altar.

They frowned severely on what they termed the mummeries of Madawando.
Even the Indian converts, and they were few enough, lapsed into charms
and incantations in times of trouble. They willingly had their children
baptized, as if this was one of the charms to ward off danger. But the
priests labored with unabated courage.

Miladi seemed to hover a long while between the two worlds, it was
thought, but the real spring was coming on, and all nature was reviving.
She had never quite wanted to die, so at the lowest ebb she seemed to
will herself back to life by some occult power.

Rose meanwhile had run quite wild, but she had been Destournier's
companion in his walks, in his canoe journeys; sometimes with Marie
Gaudrion, she was in and out of the settlement, and as she understood a
little of the several Indian languages, she was quite a favorite; but
Destournier felt troubled about her at times. She was very fearless,
very upright, and detected the subterfuges of the children of the
wilderness, condemning them most severely. But they never seemed angry
with her.

Sometimes he thought he would send her to France and begin her education
in a convent. But could the wild little thing who skipped and danced and
sung, climbed rocks and trees, managed a canoe, tamed birds that came
and sang on her shoulder, endure the dull routine of convent life? She
could read French quite fluently. She had taken an immense fancy to
Latin, and caught the lines so easily when Destournier read them from
musical Horace, or the stirring scenes of the Odyssey, the only two
Latin books he owned. And her head was stuffed full of wild Indian
tales.

"I wonder," she said one day, as she sat on the rocks, leaning against
Destournier's knee, the soft wind playing through the silken tendrils of
her hair--"I wonder if you should die whether I could be like miladi,
and want the room dark and have every one go in the softest moccasins,
and have headaches and the sound of any one's voice pierce through you
like a knife. It would be terrible."

"Why do you think of that?"

"Because I love you best of everybody. The Governor is very nice, but he
is in France so much and you are here. Then we can climb rocks together
and sit in the forests and hear the trees talk. I go to M. Giffard's
grave and say over the spells Madawando taught me, to bring him back,
but he does not come. If he could, miladi would be bright and gay again,
and we would dance and sing, and have merry times. If you died I should
want to die, too."

He was touched by the child's simple devotion.

"I am not going to die. Your Madawando told me I should live to be very
old. There were some curious lines in my hand."

"I am so glad," she said simply.

"But you had better not tell the good priest that you are trying to
bring M. Giffard back to life in this Indian fashion. They think it a
sin."

"I do not like the priests, in their dirty gray gowns, and their heads
looking as if they had been scalped. Only when they read in their book.
It sounds like those great people in the wars of Troy."

And this was a little Christian girl. Were not the priests also praying
that the souls in purgatory might be lightened of their burden? and he
smiled.

But somehow miladi pressed heavily upon his conscience. M. Giffard had
come to _his_ assistance, to save his property, as well as to save human
lives. He lost sight of the great brotherhood of mankind, of the heroism
of a truly noble soul. Was there anything he could do to lighten her
burthen?

At last she expressed a desire to see him. He had looked to find her
wasted away with grief, changed so that it would be sorrow to look upon
her. She was pale, but, it seemed, more really beautiful than he had
ever known her. Her gown was white, and she had a thin black scarf
thrown around her shoulders which enhanced her fairness. There could be
no shopping for mourning in this benighted country.

"I thought I should go to him," she said in her soft, half-languid
voice. "But the good Pere believes there is something for me to do and
that I must be content to remain, and thankful to live. But all is so
changed. Sometimes I make myself believe that Laurent has gone back to
France to settle matters. He counted so on our return. And that he will
come again for me."

"You would like to go to friends?"

"Alas, there are not many. Some have gone to England, some to Holland,
not liking the new King's policy. And some are dead. I should have no
one to make a home for me. A woman's loneliness is intense. She cannot
turn to business, nor go out and find friends."

That was true enough. He pitied her profoundly.

"Is it true our Governor is bringing his new wife to Quebec?" she asked
presently.

"So the trading vessels have said. They are already loading up with
furs, and trade seems brisk. Of course it brings great confusion. I have
taken charge of M. Giffard's bales that came in last week. They had
better be sent as usual. The Paris firm is eager for them. They are a
fine lot. What is your pleasure?"

"Oh, relieve me of all care that you can. I am so helpless. Laurent did
everything. Women were never meant for business, he thought. I am no
wiser than a child."

She looked so helpless, so sweet, so dependent.

"I shall be glad to do what I can. Yes, it would be no place for a
woman. She could not manage matters. And if you like to trust me----"

"I would trust you in all things. Laurent thought your judgment
excellent. He cared so much for you. Oh, if you will take charge----"

She looked up with sweet, appealing eyes. Did he not owe her some
protection and care? He was pondering silently.

"You have relieved me of such a burthen. I think I shall get well now.
I hardly knew whether I wanted most to live or die."

"Life is best, sweetest." It would be for her. He uttered the sentence
involuntarily.

"You make it so." Her eyes were bewitchingly downcast and a faint color
fluttered over her face, while her pretty hands worked nervously.

He paced the gallery afterward in the twilight, when the stars were
slowly finding their way through the blue vault overhead, and the river
plashed by with its monotone of music. She might desire to return to
France; this life in the wilderness did not appeal to delicate women.
Yet she had taken it very cheerfully, he thought.

If she decided to stay--there was one way in which he could befriend
her, perhaps make her happy again. Marriage was hardly considered the
outcome of love in that period, many other considerations entered into
it. There were betrothals where the future husband and wife saw each
other for the first time. And they did very well. His ideas of married
life were a sort of good-fellowship and admiration, if the woman was
pretty; good cooking and a desire to please among the commoner ones. At
four and twenty he had not given the matter much consideration. Madame
Giffard was full thirty, but she looked like a girl in her lightness and
grace. And he owed the memory of M. Giffard something. This step would
make amends and allay a troublesome sort of conscience in the matter.




CHAPTER VIII

WHAT ROSE DID NOT LIKE


Eustache Boulle, the Governor's brother-in-law, had been not a little
surprised when his sister was helped off the vessel at Tadoussac. He
greeted her warmly.

"But I never believed you would come to this wild country," he
exclaimed, with a half-mischievous smile. "I am afraid the Sieur has let
his hopes of the future run riot in his brain. He can see great things
with that far gaze of his."

"But a good wife follows her husband. We have had a rather stormy and
tiresome passage, but praised be the saints, we have at last reached our
haven."

"I hope you will see some promise in it. We on the business side do not
look for pleasure alone."

"It is wild, but marvellously fine. The islands with their frowning
rocks and glowing verdure, the points, and headlands, the great gulf and
the river are really majestic. And you--you are a man. Two years have
made a wondrous change. I wish our mother could see you. She has
frightful dreams of your being captured by Indians."

He laughed at that.

"Are the Indians very fierce here?" she asked timidly.

"Some tribes are, the Hurons. And others are very easily managed if you
can keep fire-water away from them."

"Fire"--wonderingly.

"Rum or brandy. You will see strange sights. But you must not get
frightened. Now tell me about our parents."

The Sieur was quite angry when he heard some boats had been up the
river, and bartered firearms and ammunition for peltries. It was their
desire to keep the white man's weapons away from the savages.

Pontgrave had left a bark for the Governor, and Eustache joined them as
they went journeying on to Quebec. It was new and strange to the young
wife, whose lines so far had been cast in civilized places. The wide,
ever-changing river, the rough, unbroken country with here and there a
clearing, where parties of hunters had encamped and left their rude
stone fireplaces, the endless woods with high hills back of them, and
several groups of Indians with a wigwam for shelter, that interested her
very much. Braves were spread out on the carpet of dried leaves, playing
some kind of game with short knives and smoking leisurely. Squaws
gossiping and gesticulating with as much interest as their fairer
sisters, their attire new and strange, and papooses tumbling about. They
passed great tangles of wild grapes that scented the air, here and there
an island shimmering with the bloom of blueberries.

Then the great cliff of Quebec came in sight. Latterly it had taken on
an aspect of decay that caused the Governor to frown. The courtyard was
littered with rubbish from a building that had actually fallen down, and
a new one was being erected. And though some of the houses were quite
comfortable within, the exterior was very unattractive, from the
different materials, like patches put on to add warmth in winter.

The cannon rang out a salute, and the lilies of France floated in the
brilliant sunshine. Officers and men had formed a sort of cordon, and
from the gallery several ladies looked down and waved handkerchiefs. The
Heberts, with their son and daughter, a few other women, a little above
the peasant rank, had joined them and Madame Giffard, who still essayed
a role of delicacy.

The Sieur took formal possession again in the name of the new Governor
General, the Duke of Montmorency. Then they repaired to the little
chapel, where the priest held a service of thanksgiving for their safe
arrival.

The Recollets had chosen a site on the St. Charles river, some distance
from the post, and had begun the erection of a church and convent, for
headquarters. Madame Champlain was pleased to hear this and held quite a
lengthy talk with Pere Jamay, who was glad to find the new wife took a
fervent interest in religion, for even among the French women he had not
awakened the influence he had hoped for, in his enthusiasm.

Eustache began a tour of observation. Perched on a rock with a great
hemlock tree back of her, he saw a small human being that he was quite
sure was not an Indian girl. She was talking to something, and raised
her small forefinger to emphasize her words. What incantation was she
using?

As he came nearer he saw it was a flock of pigeons. She had been feeding
them berries and grains of rye. They arched their glossy necks and cooed
in answer. He watched in amaze, drawing nearer. What sprite of the
forest was this?

Did she feel the influence that invaded her solitude? She glanced up
with wide startled eyes at the intruder, and looked at first as if she
would fly.

"Do not be afraid, I will not harm you," said a clear, reassuring voice.
"Are you charming the wild things of the forest? Your incantation was in
French--do they understand the language?"

"They understand me."

There was a curious dignity in her reply.

"You are French, Mam'selle?"

"I came from France a long while ago, so long that I do not remember."

"Was it in another life? Are you human, or some forest nymph? For you
are not out of childhood."

"I do not understand."

"But you must belong to some one----"

"No," she said proudly. "I have never really belonged to any one. M'sieu
Destournier is my good friend, and miladi took me when the Dubrays went
to the fur country. But she has been ill, and she does not like me as
she used."

"But you must have a home----"

"I live at the post, mostly with Wanamee. Some days my lady sends for
me. But I like out-of-doors, and the birds, and the blue sky, and the
voice of the falling waters that are always going on, and the great gray
rocks, where I find mossy little caves with red bloom like tiny
papooses, and the tall grasses that shake their heads so wisely, as if
they knew secrets they would never tell. And the birds--even some of the
little lizards with their bright black eyes. They are dainty, not like
the snakes that go twisting along."

"Are you not afraid of them?"

"I do not molest them," calmly.

"You should have been down at the post. The Governor's wife has come."

"Yes, I saw her. And I did not like her. But the Sieur was always kind
to me. He used to show me journeys on the maps, and the great lakes he
has seen. He has been all over the world, I believe."

"Oh, no. But I think he would like to. Why do you not like Madame de
Champlain?"

She studied him with a thoughtful gaze.

"M'sieu Ralph told me when he went to France he was betrothed to a
pretty little French girl, and that some day he would bring her here to
be his wife. I was glad of the little girl. I like Marie Gaudrion, but
she has to care for the babies and--she does not understand why I love
the woods and the rocks. And I thought this other little _girl_----"

She was so naive that he smiled, but it was not the smile to hurt one.

"She was a little girl then. But every one grows. Some day you will be a
woman."

"No, I will not. I shall stay this way," and she patted the ground
decisively with her small foot, the moccasin being little more than a
sandal, and showed the high arch and shapely ankle that dimpled with the
motion.

"I am afraid you cannot. But I think you will like Madame when you know
her. I am her brother, though I have not seen her for over two years."

She studied him attentively. The birds began to grow restless and
circled about her as if to warn off the intruder. Then she suddenly
listened. There was a familiar step climbing the rock.

M'sieu Destournier parted the hemlock branches.

"I thought I should find you here. Why did you run away? Ah, M. Boulle,"
but the older man frowned a little.

"She left the company because my sister was grown up and not the little
girl she imagined. Is she a product of the forest? Her very ignorance is
charming."

"I am not ignorant!" she returned. "I can read a page in Latin, and that
miladi cannot do."

"She is a curious child," explained Destournier, "but a sweet and noble
nature, and innocent is the better word for it. The birds all know her,
and she has a tame doe that follows her about, except that it will not
venture inside the palisade. I'm not sure but she could charm a wolf."

"The Loup Garou," laughed the younger man. "I think nothing would dare
harm her. But I should like my sister to see her. Oh, I am sure you will
like her, even if she is a woman grown."

"Come," said Destournier, holding out his hand.

The pigeons had circled wider and wider, and were now purplish shadows
against the serene blue. Rose sprang up and clasped Destournier's hand.
But she was silent as they took their way down.

"Whatever bewitched my august brother-in-law about this place I cannot
see. Except that the new fort will sweep the river and render the town
impregnable from that side. It will be the key of the North. But
Montreal will be a finer town at much less cost."

Rose was fain to refuse at the last moment, but M'sieu Ralph persuaded.
The few women of any note were gathered in the room miladi had first
occupied. Rose looked curiously at the daughter of M. Hebert--she was so
much taller than she used to be, and her hair was put up on her head
with a big comb.

"Thou art a sweet child," said Madame de Champlain. "And whose daughter
may she be?"

It was an awkward question. Destournier flushed unconsciously.

"She is the Rose of Quebec," he made answer, with a smile. "Her parents
were dead before she came here."

"Ah, I remember hearing the Governor speak of her, and learned that
there were so few real citizens in Quebec who were to grow up with the
town as their birthright. It is but a dreary-looking place, yet the wild
river, the great gulf, the magnificent forests give one a sense of
grandeur, yet loneliness. And my husband says it is the same hundreds of
miles to the westward; that there are lakes like oceans in themselves.
And such furs! All Paris is wild with the beauty of them. Yet they lie
around here as if of no value."

"You would find that the traders appraise them pretty well," and he
raised his brows a trifle, while a rather amused expression played about
his eyes.

"Is there always such a turmoil of trade?"

"Oh, no. The traders scatter before mid-autumn. The cold weather sets in
and the snow and ice are our companions. The small streams freeze up.
But the Sieur has written of all these things in his book."

He looked inquiringly at her for a touch of enthusiasm, but her sweet
face was placid.

"Monsieur my husband desired that I should be educated in his religion
in the convent. We do not take up worldly matters, that is not
considered becoming to girls and women. We think more of the souls that
may be saved from perdition. The men go ahead to discover, the priests
come to teach these ignorant savages that they have souls that must be
returned to God, or suffer eternally."

There spoke the devotee. Destournier wondered a little how the Sieur had
come to choose a devote for a wife. For he was a born explorer, with a
body and a will of such strength that present defeat only spurred him
on. But where was there a woman to match him, to add to his courage and
resolve! Perhaps men did not need such women. Destournier was not an
enthusiast in religious matters. He had been here long enough to
understand the hold their almost childish superstitions had on the
Indians, their dull and brutish lack of any high motive, their brutal
and barbarous customs. They were ready to be baptized a dozen times over
just as they would use any of their own charms, or for the gain of some
trifle.

Madame seemed to study the frank face of the little girl. How beautiful
her eyes were; her eager, intelligent, spirited face; the fine skin that
was neither light nor dark, and withstood sun and wind alike, and lost
none of its attractive tints. But she was so different from the little
girls sent to the nuns for training. They never looked up at you with
these wide-open eyes that seemed to question you, to weigh you.

"There is no convent here where you can be taught?" addressing herself
to the child.

"The fathers are building one. But it is only for the men. The women
cook and learn to dress deerskins until they are like velvet. They must
make the clothing, for not a great deal comes from France. And it would
only do for ladies like you and Madame Giffard."

"But there must be some education, some training, some prayers," and the
lady looked rather helpless.

She was very sweet and beautiful in her soft silken dress of gray, that
was flowered in the same color, and trimmed with fur and velvet. From
her belt depended a chain of carved ivory beads and a crucifix, from
another chain a small oval looking-glass in a silver frame. Her flaring
collar of lace and the stomacher were worked in pearls. Many Parisians
had them sewn with jewels.

"I can read French very well," said Rose, after a pause. "And some
Latin."

"Oh, the prayers, and some of the old hymns----"

"No, it isn't prayers exactly--except to their gods. There are so many
gods. Jove was the great one."

"Oh, my child, this is heresy. There is but one God and the Holy Virgin,
and the saints to whom you can make invocation."

"Well, then I think you have a number of gods. Do you pray to them all?
And what do you pray for?"

"For the wicked world to be converted to God, for them to love Him, and
serve Him."

"And how do they serve Him?" inquired the child. "If He is the great God
Father Jamay teaches He can do everything, have everything. It is all
His. Then why does He not keep people well, so they can work, and not
blight the crops with fierce storms. Sometimes great fields of maize are
swept down. And the little children die; the Indians kill each other,
and at times the white men who serve them."

"Oh, child, you do not understand. There must be convents in this new
world for the training of girls. They must be taught to pray that God's
will may be done, not their own."

"How would I know it was God's will?" asked the irreverent child,
decisively, yet with a certain sweetness.

"The good Father would tell you."

"How would he know?"

"He lives a holy life in communion with God."

"What is the convent like?" suddenly changing her thoughts.

"It is a large house full of little ones, the sisters' cells, the
novices' cells----"

"There are some at the post. They put criminals in them. They are filthy
and dark," with a kind of protesting vehemence.

"These are clean, because they are whitewashed, and you scrub the floor
twice a week. There is a little pallet on which you sleep, a
_prie-dieu_----"

"What is that?" interrupted the child.

"A little altar, with a stone step on which you kneel. And a crucifix at
the top, a book of prayer and invocation. Many of the sisters pray an
hour at midnight. All pray an hour in the morning, then breakfast and
the chapel for another hour, with prayers and singing. After that the
classes. The little girls are taught the catechism and manners, if they
are to go out in the world, sewing and embroidery. At noon prayers again
and a little lunch, then work out of doors for an hour, and running
about for exercise, catechising again, singing, supper and a chapel
hour, and then to bed. But the nuns spend the evening in prayer, so do
the devout."

"Madame, I shall never go in a convent, if the Fathers build one for
girls. I like the big out-of-doors. And if God made the world He made it
for some purpose, that people should go out and enjoy it. I like the
wilderness, the great blue sky, the sun and the stars at night, the
trees and the river, and the birds and the deer and the beautiful wild
geese, as they sail in great flocks. If I was shut up in a cell I should
beat my head against the stones until it was a jelly, and then I should
be dead."

Madame de Champlain looked at the child in amaze. In her decorous life
she had known nothing like it.

"And I wish there were no women. I do not like women any more. Men are
better because they live out of doors and do not pray so much. Except
the priests. And they are dirty."

Then she turned away and went out on the gallery, with a curiously
swelling heart. Oh, why was not Marie Gaudrion different? What made
people so unlike. If there was some one----

"Ha, little maid, where are you running to so fast?" exclaimed a
laughing voice. "Have you seen my sister yet?"

Eustache Boulle caught her arm, but she shook him off, and stood up
squarely, facing him. What vigor and resolution there was in her small
bewitching face.

"Hi, hi! thou art a plucky little _fille_, ready for a quarrel by the
looks of thy flashing eyes. What have I done to thee, that thou shouldst
shake me off as a viper?"

"Nothing! I am not to be handled roughly. I am going my way, and I think
it will not interfere with thine."

A pleasant smile crossed his face which made him really attractive, and
half disarmed her fierceness.

"My way is set in no special lines until I return to Tadoussac. Hast
thou seen my sister?"

She nodded.

"Every one loves her. She is as good as she is beautiful. And she will
charm thee," in a triumphant tone, gathering that the interview had not
already done this.

"I am not to be charmed in that fashion. Yes, she is beautiful, but she
would like me to be put in a convent. And I would throw myself in the
river first."

"There are no convents, little one. And but few people to put into them.
In a new country it is best that they marry and have families. When
there are too many women then convents play a useful part."

"Let me pass," she cried disdainfully, but not trying to push aside.

"Tell me where you go!"

"To Mere Gaudrion's to see that soft-headed Marie. I wish she had some
ideas, but she is good and cheerful, and does as she is told."

"You are not very complimentary to your friend."

"But if I said she had a bad temper, and told what was not true, and
slapped her little brothers and sisters, that would be a falsehood. And
if I said she understood the song of the birds and the sough of the wind
among the trees, and the running, tumbling little streams that are
always saying 'oh! let me get to the gulf as soon as possible, for I
want to see what a great ocean is like,' it would not be true either. I
like Marie," calmly.

"Thou art a curious little casuist. I am glad you like her. It shows
that you are human. There are strange creatures in the woods and wilds
of this new world."

"There is the Loup Garou, but I have not seen him. He gets changed from
a man to a fierce dog, and if you kill the dog, the man dies. There is
the Windigo, and the old medicine woman can call strange things out of a
sick person who has been bewitched, and then he gets well. But M.
Destournier laughs at these stories."

The young man had been backing slowly toward the steps and she had
followed without taking note.

Now he said--"Let me help you down."

"I am not lame, M'sieu, neither am I blind."

"Will you take me to see Marie Gaudrion?"

"You would laugh at her, I see it in your eyes."

"Are my eyes such telltales?"

He had not the placid fairness of his sister, and his chestnut hair
curled about his temples. His cheeks were red enough for a girl.

"Why should you want to see her?"

"I want to see all there is in Quebec. I want to know how the colony
progresses. I may put it in a book."

"Like the Governor. But you could not make maps out of people," with an
air of triumph.

"I'm not so sure. See here."

He drew from his pocket a roll and held one of the leaves before her
eyes.

"Oh, that is old Temekwisa sitting out by the hut. And, M'sieu, he looks
half drunken, as he nearly always is. And that is Jacques Barbeau
breaking stone. Why, it is wonderful. And who else have you?"

There were several Indians in a powwow around the fire, there was a
woman with a papoose on her back, and a few partly done.

"And the Sieur--and your sister?" eagerly.

"I have tried dozens of times and cannot please myself. The Indians have
about the same salient points, and that lack of expression when they are
tranquil. They are easy to do. And I can sometimes catch the fierce
anger. At home I would have a teacher. Here I have to go by myself, try,
and tear up. Then I am busy with many other things."

Her resentment had mostly subsided. His gift, if it could be called
that, fascinated her. She had reproduced wonderful pictures in her
brain, but to do them with her hand would be marvellous, like the Sieur
writing his books.

They had reached the garden of the Gaudrions. Pierre was employed
regularly now and was studying the plans of the new fort. Marie was
seated on the grass, cutting leather fringe for garments and leggings.
You could use up otherwise useless bits that way. The Mere was farther
down pulling weeds from the carrot bed, and directing the labors of two
children, at whom she shook a switch now and then. Marie had a baby on
each side of her, tumbling about in the grass.

She looked up and nodded, while a heavy sort of smile settled about her
lips, the upper one protruding a little, on account of two prominent
teeth. Eustache had seen the peasant type at home, the low forehead, the
deep-set eyes, the short nose, flattened at the base, the wide mouth and
rather broad, unmeaning countenance, the type of women who bear burthens
without complaining and do not resent when they are beaten. Marie had an
abundance of blue-black hair, a clear skin, and a soft color in her
cheeks.

Boulle glanced from one to the other, the lithe figure, the spirited
face, the eyes that could flash and soften and sparkle with mirth almost
in a minute, it seemed. What a distance lay between them.

"Marie, this is"--then Rose paused and flushed, and glanced at her
unbidden companion.

"I am Eustache Boulle and my sister is the wife of the Governor de
Champlain. And though I have been up and down the river I have never
really visited Quebec before."

Marie nodded and went on cutting fringe.

"And he has done pictures--Temekwisa, that you would know in a minute.
He did them with a pencil. Show them to her," she ordered, in a pretty
peremptory manner, as with a graceful gesture of the hand she invited
him to be seated on the grass, deftly rolling one baby over, who stared
an instant, and then fell to sucking his fist.

Marie's heavy face lighted up with a kind of cheerful surprise.

"Why did you not go up and see them come in? And after the service of
thanks, almost everybody went to see our dear Sieur's wife. She is
beautiful in the face and wears a silken gown, and a little cap so fine
you can see her hair through it. And she has small hands that look like
snow, but not many rings, like Madame Giffard."

"_Ma mere_ went to the prayers, but we could not both go. I saw the line
of boats and heard the salute. And your sister will live here with the
Governor?"

Eustache wanted to laugh, but commanded his countenance.

"Yes, though 'tis a dreary place to live in after gay France. I long to
go back."

"They are to build a new fort. My father will work on it, and my
brother, Pierre. And he wonders that you do not come oftener, Rose."

"There has not been a moonlight in a long while. I cannot come in the
dark. And now he wants his own way in all the plans and I like mine. He
has grown so big he is not amusing any more."

"But he likes you just as well," the girl said naively.

Eustache glanced. Rose did not change color at this frank admission.

Then the gun boomed out to announce the day's work for the government
was over.

Rose sprang up. "It will soon be supper time," she said.

"Stay and have it with us. There are some cold roasted pigeons, with
spiced gravy turned over them. You shall have a whole one."

"You are very good, Marie, but there are so many men about who have been
drinking too much, that M. Destournier would read me a long lecture."

"But Pierre would walk up with thee."

Eustache had gathered up his pictures. They had only been an excuse to
prolong his interview with Rose.

"I will see that no harm comes to your friend. Adieu, Mam'selle," and he
bowed politely, at which Marie only stared.

"We are very good friends, are we not?" as he was parting with the
pretty child.

"But I might not like you to-morrow," archly.




CHAPTER IX

ABOUT MARRIAGES


The new fort was begun on the summit of the cliff, almost two hundred
feet above the water, and the guns would command it up and down. A good
deal of stone was used. New houses were being reared in a much better
fashion, the crevices thickly plastered with mortar, the chimneys of
stone, with generous fireplaces. Destournier had repaired his small
settlement and added some ground to the cultivated area.

"The only way to colonize," declared the Sieur. "If we could rouse the
Indians into taking more interest. Civilization does not seem to attract
them, though the women make good wives, and they are a scarce commodity.
The English and the Dutch are wiser in this respect than we. When
children are born on the soil and marry with their neighbors, one may be
sure of good citizens."

The church, too, was progressing, and was called Notre Dame des Anges.
Madame de Champlain was intensely religious, and used her best efforts
to further the plans. She took a great interest in the Indian children,
and when she found many of the women were not really married to the
laborers around the fort, insisted that Pere Jamay should perform the
ceremony. The women were quite delighted with this, considering it a
great mark of respect.

She began to study the Algonquin language, which was the most prevalent.
She had brought three serving women from France, but they were not
heroic enough to be enamored of the hardships. There was so little
companionship for her that but for her religion she would have had a
lonely time. The Heberts were plain people and hardly felt themselves on
a par with the wife of their Governor, though Champlain himself, with
more democratic tastes, used often to drop in to consult the farmer and
take a meal.

Madame Giffard was not really religious. She was fond of pleasure and
games of cards, and really hated any self-denial, or long prayers,
though she went to Mass now and then. But between her and the earnest,
devoted Helene there was no sympathy.

The new house was ready by October. Helene would fain have had it made
less comfortable, but this the Governor would not permit. It would be
hung with furs when the bitter weather came in.

No one paid much attention to Rose, who came and went, and wandered
about at her own sweet will. Eustache Boulle was fairly fascinated with
her, and followed her like a shadow when he was not in attendance on his
sister. He persuaded her to sit for a picture, but it was quite
impossible to catch her elusive beauty. She would turn her head, change
the curve of her pretty lips, allow her eyes to rove about and then let
the lids drop decorously in a fashion he called a nun's face; but it was
adorable.

"I shall not be a nun," she would declare vehemently.

"No, Mam'selle, thou art the kind to dance on a man's heart and make him
most happy and most wretched. No nun's coif for that sunny, tangled mop
of thine."

He would fain have lingered through the winter, but a peremptory message
came for him.

"I shall be here another summer and thou wilt be older, and understand
better what life is like."

"It is good enough and pleasant enough now," she answered perversely.

"I wonder--if thou wilt miss me?"

"Why, yes, silly! The splendid canoeing and the races we run, and I may
be big enough next summer to go to Lachine. I would like to rush through
the rapids that Antoine the sailor tells about, where you feel as if you
were going down to the centre of the world."

"No woman would dare. It would not be safe," he objected.

"Men are not always lost, only a few clumsy ones. And I can swim with
the best of them."

"M. Destournier will not let you go."

"He is not my father. I belong just to myself, and I will do as I
like."

She stamped her foot on the ground, but she laughed as well. He was not
nineteen yet, but a man would be able to manage her.

She did miss him when he was gone. And it seemed as if Marie grew more
stupid and cared less for her. And that lout of a Jules Personeau would
sit by her on the grass, or help her pick berries or grapes and open
them skilfully, take out the seeds or the pits of plums, and place them
on the flat rocks to dry. He never seemed to talk. And Rose knew that M.
Destournier scolded because he was not breaking stone.

He was building a new house himself, and helping the Sieur plan out the
path from the fort up above to the settlement down below. They did not
dream that one day it would be the upper and the lower town, and that on
the plain would be fought one of the historic battles of the world,
where two of the bravest of men would give up their lives, and the
lilies of France go down for the last time. Quebec was beginning to look
quite a town.

Destournier's house commanded his settlement, which was more strongly
fortified with a higher palisade, over which curious thorn vines were
growing for protection. He had a fine wheat field, and some tobacco. Of
Indian corn a great waving regiment planted only two rows thick so as to
give no chance for skulking marauders.

The house of M. Giffard was falling into decay. Miladi had sent to
France early in the season for many new stuffs and trinkets, and the
settlement of some affairs, instead of turning all over to Destournier.
The goods had come at an exorbitant price, but there had been a great
tangle in money matters, and at his death his concessions had passed
into other hands.

"They always manage to rob a woman," he thought grimly.

"I supposed you were to leave things in my hands," he said, a little
upbraidingly, to her.

"I make you so much trouble. And you have so much to do for the Governor
and your settlement, and I am so weak and helpless. I have never been
strong since that dreadful night. I miss all the care and love. Oh, if
you were a woman you would know how heart-breaking it was. I wish I were
dead! I wish I were dead!"

"And you do not care to go back to France?"

"Do not torment me with that question. I should die on the voyage. And
to be there without friends would be horrible. I have no taste for a
convent."

A great many times the vague plan had entered his mind as a sort of
duty. Now he would put it into execution.

"Become my wife," he said. He leaned over and took her slim hands in his
and glanced earnestly into her eyes, and saw there were fine wrinkles
setting about them. What did it matter? She needed protection and care,
and there was no woman here that he could love as the romances
described. He was too busy a man, too practical.

She let her head drop on his broad breast. She had dreamed of this and
used many little arts, but had never been sure of their effect. There
were the years between, but she needed his strength and devotion more
than a younger woman.

"Oh, ought I be so happy again?" she murmured. "There is so much that is
strong and generous to you that a woman could rest content in giving her
whole life to you, her best love."

He wished she had not said that. He would have been content that her
best love should lie softly in the grave, like an atmosphere around the
sleeping body of Laurent Giffard, whom he had admired very much, and who
had loved his wife with the fervor of youth. He drew a long breath of
pity for the man. It seemed as if he was taking something away from him.

"Is it true?" she asked, in a long silence.

"That I shall care for you, yes. That you will be my wife." Then he
kissed her tenderly.

"I am so happy. Oh, you cannot think how sad I have been for months,
with no one to care for me," and her voice was exquisitely pathetic.

"I have cared for you all this while," he said. "You were like a sister
to whom I owed a duty."

"Duty is not quite love," in her soft murmurous tone, touching his cheek
caressingly.

He wondered a little what love was like, if this tranquil half pity was
all. Madame de Champlain was like a child to her husband, the women
emigrants thus far had not been of a high order, and the marriages had
been mostly for the sake of a helpmeet and possible children. The
Governor had really encouraged the mixed marriages, where the Indian
women were of the better sort. A few of them were taking kindly to
religion, and had many really useful arts in the way of making garments
out of dressed deerskins. He chose rather some of those who had been
taken prisoners and had no real affiliation with the tribes. They felt
honored by marrying a white man, and now Pere Jamay performed a legal
and religious ceremony, so that no man could put away his wife.

"Oh, what do you think!" and Rose sprang eagerly to Destournier,
catching him by the arm with both hands and giving a swing, as he was
pacing the gallery, deep in his new plans. "It is so full of amusement
for me. And I can't understand how she can do it. Jules Personeau is
such a stupid! And that great shock of hair that keeps tumbling into his
eyes. It is such a queer color, almost as if much sitting in the sun was
turning it red."

"What about Jules? He is very absent-minded nowadays, and does not
attend to his work. The summer will soon be gone."

"Oh, it isn't so much about Jules. Marie Gaudrion is going to marry
him."

"Why, then I think it is half about Jules," laughing down into the eager
face. "A girl can't be married alone."

"Well, I suppose you would have to go and live with some one," in a
puzzled tone. "But Jules has such rough, dirty hands. He caught me a few
days ago and patted my cheek, and I slapped him. I will not have rough
hands touch me! And Marie laughs. She is only thirteen, but she says she
is a woman. I don't want to be a woman. I won't have a husband, and be
taken off to a hut, and cook, and work in the garden. M'sieu, I should
fly to the woods and hide."

"And the poor fellow would get no dinner." He laughed at her vehemence.
"I suppose Jules is in love and we must excuse his absent-mindedness.
Will it be soon?"

"Why, yes, Jules is getting his house ready. Barbe is to help her mother
and care for the babies. I like Marie some," nodding indecisively, "but
I wish there was a girl who liked to run and play, and climb trees, and
talk to the birds, and oh, do a hundred things, all different from the
other."

She gave a little hop and a laugh of exquisite freedom. She was full of
restless grace, as the birds themselves; her blooming cheeks and shining
eyes, the way she carried her head, the face breaking into dimples with
every motion, the mouth tempting in its rosy sweetness. He bent and
kissed her. She held him a moment by the shoulders.

"Oh, I like you, I like you," she cried. "You are above them all, you
have something,"--her pretty brow knit,--"yet you are better than the
Sieur even, the best of them all. If you will wait a long while I might
marry you, but no other, no other," shaking her curls.

He laughed, yet it was not from her naive confession. She did not
realize what she was saying.

"How old am I?" insistently.

"About ten, I think."

"Ten. And ten more would be twenty. Is that old?"

"Oh, no."

"And Madame de Champlain was twelve when she was married in France.
Well, I suppose that is right. And--two years more! No, M'sieu, I shall
wait until I am twenty. Maybe I shall not want to climb trees then, nor
scramble over rocks, nor chase the squirrels, and pelt them with nuts."

"Thou wilt be a decorous little lady then."

"That is a long way off."

"Yes. And Wanamee is calling thee."

"The priest says we must call her Jolette, that is her Christian name.
Must I have another name? Well, I will not. Good-night," and away she
ran.

He fell into rumination again. What would she say to his marriage? He
had a misgiving she would take it rather hardly. She had not been so
rapturously in love with miladi of late, but since the death of her
husband, the rather noisy glee of the child had annoyed her. She would
be better now. Of course they would keep the child, she had no other
friends, nor home.

Marie Gaudrion's marriage was quite a mystery to Rose. That any one
could love such an uncouth fellow as Jules, that a girl could leave the
comfortable home and pretty garden, for now the fruit trees had grown
and were full of fragrant bloom in the early season, and the ripening
fruit later on, and go to that dismal little place under the rocks.

"You see it will be much warmer," Jules had said. It was built against
the rock. "This will shield us from the north wind and the heavy snows,
and another year we will take a place further down in the allotment. I
will lay in a store of things, and we will be as happy as the squirrels
in their hollow tree."

Marie and her mother cleared it up a bit. The floor was of rough planks
filled in with mortar, and skins were laid down for carpet. There was
but one window looking toward the south, and the door was on that side
also. Then a few steps and a sort of plateau. Inside there was a box
bunk, where the household goods were piled away inside. A few shelves
with dishes, a table, and several stools completed the furnishing.

So on Sunday they went up to the unfinished chapel on the St. Charles,
where a Mass was said, and the young couple were united. It was a lovely
day, and they rowed down in the canoes to the Gaudrions, where a feast
was given and healths drank to the newly-wedded couple, in which they
were wished much happiness and many children. The table was spread
luxuriously; the Mere had been two days cooking. Roasts and broils, game
and fish, and many of the early fruits in preserve and just ripened.
Sunday was a day for gorging in this primitive land, while summer
lasted. No one need starve then.

Afterward the young couple were escorted home.

Rose sat out in the moonlight thinking of the strangeness of it all. How
could Marie like it? Mere Gaudrion had said, "Jules will make a good
husband, if he is clumsy and not handsome. He will never beat Marie

Showing first 200,000 characters. Full text: gutenberg.org/ebooks/23779