Je bénis le soleil, je bénis la lune et les astres qui étoilent le ciel. Je bénis aussi les petits oiseaux qui gazouillent dans l'air.
+Henri Heine.+
+D'Haberville Manor House+ was situated at the foot of a bluff which covered about nine acres of the seigniory, on the south side of the highway. This bluff was about a hundred feet high and very picturesque. Its summit was clothed with pines and firs, whose perpetual green formed a cheerful contrast with the desolation of the winter landscape. Jules D'Haberville used to compare these trees, triumphing on their height and flaunting their fadeless green in the face of the harshest seasons, to the mighty ones of the earth whose strength and happiness are beyond the reach of vicissitude, however much the poor may shiver at their feet.
One might well believe that the brush of a Claude Lorraine had exercised itself in adorning the flanks and base of this hill, so endless was the variety of the trees which had gathered thither from all the neighboring woodlands. Elm, maple, birch, and beech, red thorn, cherry, ash, and cedar, sumach, and all the other native trees which are the glory of our forests, combined to throw a cloak of all imaginable greens over the rugged outlines of the bluff.
A wood of ancient maples covered the space between the foot of the bluff and the highway, which was bordered with hedges of hazel and cinnamon rose.
The first object to attract the eye on approaching the manor house was a brook, which, falling through the trees in a succession of foamy cascades down the southwest slope of the hill, mingled its clear current with that of a fountain which burst forth some distance below. After winding and loitering through a breadth of meadow country, the wedded streams slipped reluctantly into the St. Lawrence.
The spring, bubbling from the very heart of the hill into a basin cut from the living rock, preserves its icy coolness, its crystal purity, through the fiercest heats of summer. It was inclosed in those days in a little white-washed pavilion, thick shaded by a group of ancient trees. The seats arranged within and without this cool retreat, the cone-shaped drinking-cups of birch bark hanging on the wall, served as so many invitations from the nymph of the fount to wayfarers oppressed by the dog-star.
Fresh as of old, to this day the hill-top keeps its crown of emerald, the slope preserves its varied verdure; but of the ancient grove there remain but five gnarled maples. These trees, decaying little by little beneath the touch of time, like the closing years of the master of the domain, appear almost like a visible and ceaseless prophecy that his life will fade out with that of the last veteran of the grove. When the last log shall have been consumed in warming the old man's frozen limbs, its ashes will mingle with his own--a grim admonition, like that of the priest on Ash Wednesday: "Memento, homo, quia pulvis es, ut in pulverem reverteris."
The manor house, situated between the river St. Lawrence and the bluff, was divided from the water only by the highway, the grove, and a spacious yard. It was a one-storied structure with high gables, about a hundred feet long, with two wings of fifty feet. A bake-house, built into the northeast corner of the kitchen, served also the purpose of a laundry. A small attachment, adjoining the great drawing-room on the southwest, gave symmetry to the proportions of this piece of early Canadian architecture.
Two other small buildings at the southeast served, the one for a dairy, the other for a second wash-house. This wash-house stood over a well, which was connected by a long trough with the kitchen of the main building. Coach-houses, barns, stables, five small sheds (three of them standing in the grove), a kitchen garden to the southwest of the manor house, two orchards on the north and northeast, respectively--all these went to make up the establishment of one of the old French Canadian seigneurs. The habitants called the establishment "le village D'Haberville."
Sitting on the crest of the bluff, it mattered little in what direction one allowed his gaze to wander. Immediately below the little village, dazzlingly white, appeared to spring from the green bosom of the meadows. On all sides a panorama of splendid magnificence unrolled itself. There was the sovereign of streams, already seven leagues in width, confined on the north by the ancient barrier of Laurentians, whose feet it washes, and whose peopled slopes are in view from Cape Tourmente to Malbaie; yonder, to the west, Ile aux Oies and Ile aux Grues; right in front, the Piliers Islands, one of which is as arid as the Ægean rock of Circe, the other always green, like the Ogygian paradise of Calypso; northward, the reefs and shoals of the Loups-Marins, so dear to Canadian hunters; and, lastly, the hamlets of l'Islet and St. Jean-Port-Joli, crowned with their gleaming spires.
It was nearly nine in the evening when the young men arrived on the slope overlooking the manor. At the first glimpse of the scene which recalled the happiest days of his existence, Jules paused and exclaimed:
"Never have I approached this home of my ancestors without being deeply impressed. Let them boast as they will the scenes of beauty or sublimity which abound in our fair Canada, among them all there is but one for me, this spot where I was born, where I passed my childhood under such tender cherishing! I used to think the days too short for my childish sports. I rose at dawn, I dressed in haste, my thirst for my enjoyments was feverish and unfailing.
"I love everything about us. I love the moon which you see climbing over the wooded crest of the bluff; nowhere else does she appear to me so beautiful. I love yonder brook which used to turn my little water mills. I love the fountain which refreshed me in the August heats.
"Yonder my mother used to sit," continued Jules, pointing out a mossy rock in the shadow of two great beeches. "Thither I used to bring her in my little silver cup the ice-cool water from the spring. Ah! how often this tender mother, watching by my pillow, or awakened suddenly by my cries, brought me that same cup filled with sweet milk! And to think that I must leave all this--perhaps forever! O mother, mother!"
Jules burst into tears.
Lochiel, much moved, grasped his friend's hand and answered:
"You will come back again, my brother. You will come back, bringing glory and good fortune to your family."
"Thank you, dear old boy," said Jules, "but let us hurry on. The greetings of my parents will soon scatter this little cloud."
Archie, who had never before visited the country in spring-time, wished to know the meaning of those white objects which he saw at the dusky foot of every maple.
"Those are the three-cornered spouts," said Jules, "which catch the sap for making sugar. The sugar-maker cuts a notch in the tree and right beneath it he drives in one of these affairs."
"One might almost say," replied Archie, "that these trees were vast water-pipes, with their funnels ready to supply a crowded city."
He was interrupted by the barking of a great dog, which came running to meet them.
"Niger! Niger!" shouted Jules. At the sound of the well-loved voice the dog paused, then ran up and snuffed at his master to assure himself of his identity. He returned Jules's caresses with a howling half joyous, half plaintive, which expressed his love as well as words could have done.
"Ah, poor Niger," said Jules, "I understand your language perfectly. It is half a reproach to me for having stayed away from you so long, and it is half delight at seeing me again, with forgiveness of my neglect. Poor Niger, when I come again after my long, long journey, you will not even have the happiness that was granted to the faithful hound of Ulysses, of dying at your master's feet."
The reader is doubtless ready by this time to make the acquaintance of the D'Haberville family. Let me introduce them according to their rank in the domestic hierarchy:
The Seigneur D'Haberville was scarcely forty-five years old, but the toils of war had so told on his constitution that he looked a good ten years older. His duties as captain in the Colonial Marine kept him constantly under arms. The ceaseless forest warfare, with no shelter, according to the stern Canadian custom, except the vault of heaven, the expeditions of reconnoissance or surprise against the Iroquois or against the English settlements, carried on during the severest weather, produced their speedy effect on the strongest frames.
Captain D'Haberville might fairly have been called handsome. A little below the medium height, his regular features, his vivid complexion, his great black eyes which softened at will but whose intensity when aroused few men could face, the simple elegance of his manners, all combined to give him an air of extreme distinction. A severe critic might perhaps have found fault with the great length and thickness of his black eyebrows.
As to character, the Seigneur D'Haberville was possessed of all those qualities which distinguished the early Canadians of noble birth. It is true, on the other hand, that he might fairly have been charged with vindictiveness. An injury, real or supposed, he found it hard to forgive.
Madame D'Haberville, a devout and gentle woman of thirty-six, was endowed with that mature beauty which men often prefer to the freshness of youth. Blonde and of medium height, her countenance was of an angelic sweetness. Her sole object seemed to be the happiness of those about her. The habitants, in their simple way, used to call her "the perfect lady."
Mademoiselle Blanche D'Haberville, younger than her brother Jules, was the image of her mother, but of a somewhat graver temperament. Wise beyond her years, she had a great influence over her brother, whose outbursts she often checked with one imploring glance. While apparently absorbed in her own thoughts, the girl was capable, on occasion, of acting with energy and effect.
Madame Louise de Beaumont, younger sister of Madame D'Haberville, had lived with her ever since her marriage. Though rich and independent, she was altogether devoted to her sister's family. Sharing their happiness, she was equally ready to share, should need arise, the utmost that adversity could bring upon them.
Lieutenant Raoul D'Haberville, or rather the Chevalier D'Haberville, whom everybody called Uncle Raoul, was a younger brother of the captain by two years. He looked fully ten years his senior. A little man was Uncle Raoul, almost as broad as he was long, and walking with the assistance of a stick; he would have been remarkably ugly even if the small-pox could have been induced to spare his countenance. It is hard to say how he came by his nickname. One may say of a man, he has a paternal air, he is un petit père; but one accuses nobody of having an avuncular appearance. For all that, Lieutenant D'Haberville was everybody's uncle. Even his soldiers, unknown to him, used to call him Uncle Raoul. In like manner, to compare great things with small, Napoleon was to the grumblers merely "the little corporal."
Uncle Raoul was the littérateur of the D'Haberville family, and, therefore, something of a pedant, like almost all men who live in daily contact with people less learned than themselves. Uncle Raoul was the best fellow in the world when he had his own way; but he had one little defect. He held the profound conviction that he was always right, which made him very bad tempered with any who might dare to differ with him.
Uncle Raoul prided himself on his knowledge of Latin, fragments of which language he was wont to launch freely at the heads of cultured and ignorant alike. Endless were his discussions with the curé over some line of Horace, Ovid, or Virgil, who were his favorite authors. The curé, who was of a mild and peaceable humor, almost always grew weary of the contest and gave way before his fiery opponent. But Uncle Raoul also prided himself on being a profound theologian, which was the cause of much embarrassment to the poor curé. The latter was deeply concerned for the soul of his friend, who had been in his youth a rather risky subject, and whom he had had great difficulty in leading into better courses. He found it necessary, however, sometimes to give way on points not absolutely essential to the safety of Uncle Raoul's soul. When points were attacked which he durst not yield he was wont to call in the aid of Blanche, whom her uncle idolized.
"Dear uncle," she would say to him with a caress, "are you not already learned enough without encroaching on the field of our good pastor? You are victorious on all the other points under discussion," she would add, with a sly glance at the curé; "be generous, then, and suffer yourself to be convinced on those points which are the especial province of God's ministers."
Thereupon, as Uncle Raoul argued simply for the pleasure of argument, a peace would be concluded between the disputants.
Uncle Raoul was by no means the least important personage at D'Haberville manor. Since his retirement from the army, the captain, whom military service kept much away from home, left the management of affairs entirely in his hands. His occupations were very numerous. He kept account of the receipts and expenditures of the family; he collected the rents of the seigniory; he managed the farm; he betook himself every Sunday, rain or shine, to mass to receive the Easter water in the seigneur's absence; and, among other minor duties which devolved upon him, he presented for baptism all the first-born children of the tenants of the estate--an honor which belonged to his elder brother, but of which the latter had freed himself in favor of Raoul.
A little incident may be cited to show Uncle Raoul's importance. Let us imagine ourselves in the month of November, when the seigneurial rents fall due. Uncle Raoul, with a long quill pen behind his ear, sits in a great armchair as on a throne. Beside him is a table covered with green cloth, and on this table rests his sword. As the tenant appears, he assumes an expression of severity, which does not greatly alarm the debtor, for the Seigneur D'Haberville is an indulgent landlord, and his tenants pay when they please.
But Uncle Raoul is more deeply concerned for the form than for the substance; the appearance of power pleases him even as power itself. He will have everything done with due ceremony.
"How do you do, my--my--lieutenant?" says the censitaire, accustomed to call him uncle behind his back.
"Very well. And thyself? What wilt thou?" replies Uncle Raoul, with an air of great importance.
"I have come to pay the rent, my--my lieutenant; but the times are so hard that I have no money," says Jean Baptiste, ducking his head penitently.
"Nescio vos!" exclaims Uncle Raoul in a sonorous voice; "reddite quæ sunt Cæsaris Cæsari."
"That's fine what you say, my--my captain, so fine that I can't understand it at all," murmurs the censitaire.
"It's Latin, blockhead!" exclaims Uncle Raoul, "and this Latin means, pay your lawful rents to the Seigneur D'Haberville, on pain of being taken before the King's courts and of being condemned in first and second instance to pay all expense, damages, claims, and costs."
"It would go hard with me," murmurs the censitaire.
"Heavens, you may well say so!" exclaims Uncle Raoul, raising his eyes to the ceiling.
"I know very well my--my seigneur, that your Latin threatens me with all these punishments; but I had the misfortune to lose my filly of last spring."
"What, you rascal! On account of having lost a wretched brute of six months old you wish to evade the seigneurial claims, which have been established by your sovereign on a foundation as enduring as yonder mountains. Quos ego ...!"
"I believe," murmurs the habitant to himself, "that he is speaking Indian to frighten me."
Then he adds aloud: "You see, my filly, according to what all the best judges declared, would have been in four years' time the best trotter on all the south shore, and worth a hundred francs if a penny."
"Oh, to the devil with you!" replied Uncle Raoul. "Go and tell Lisette to give you a good drink of brandy, to console you for the loss of your filly. These scoundrels," adds Uncle Raoul, "drink more of our brandy than their rents will ever pay for."
The habitant, going into the kitchen, remarks to Lisette with a chuckle: "I've had a bad job with Uncle Raoul; he even threatened to haul me up before the courts."
As Uncle Raoul was very devout after his fashion, he failed not to tell his beads and read his primer daily. In singular contrast with this devotion, however, his leisure moments were occupied in cursing, with an edifying fervor, his enemies the English, who had broken a leg for him at the capture of Louisburg. It was this accident which had compelled him to relinquish the life of a soldier.
When the young men arrived before the manor-house, they were astonished at the sight that met their eyes. Not only were all the rooms lit up, but also some of the out-buildings. There was an unaccustomed stir, a strange hurrying to and fro. As the whole yard was illuminated by the blaze of lights, they could distinguish six men armed with guns and axes and seated on a log.
"I perceive," remarked Archie, "that the lord of the manor has called out his guard to give us a fitting reception, just as I predicted."
José, who did not understand this sort of chaffing, shifted his pipe from one corner of his mouth to the other, muttered something between his teeth, and began to smoke fiercely.
"I can not tell why my father's guards, as you do them the honor to call them, are under arms," answered Jules, laughing, "unless it is that they are expecting an attack from our friends the Iroquois. But, come on, we'll soon solve the problem."
As they entered the yard the six men rose simultaneously and came forward to welcome their young master and his friend.
"What, you here!" exclaimed Jules, grasping their hands cordially; "you, Father Chouinard! you, Julien! and Alexis Dubé, and Father Tontaine, and François Maurice, the incorrigible! Why, I thought the parish would have taken advantage of my absence to rise as one man and chuck you into the St. Lawrence, as a proper punishment for the infernal tricks you play on peaceable people."
"Our young seigneur," said Maurice, "always has his joke ready; but, if they were to drown all those who put other folk into a rage, I know some one who would have got his deserts long ago."
"You think so!" said Jules, laughing. "Perhaps that all comes from the bad milk on which I was nursed. Remember that it was at the breast of your own dear mother I was nourished. But, to change the subject, what in the mischief are you all doing here at this hour? Are you gaping at the stars and moon?"
"There are twelve of us," said Father Chouinard. "We are taking turns in guarding the May-pole which we are going to present to your honored father to-morrow. Six are in the house, having a good time, while we are taking the first watch."
"I should have thought that the May-pole might safely have been left to guard itself," said Jules. "I don't think there is anybody crazy enough to get out of his warm bed for the pleasure of breaking his back in dragging away this venerable timber, at least while there are May-poles on all sides to be had for the cutting."
"You are off there, young master," answered Chouinard. "You see there are always some folks jealous because they have not been invited to the May-feast. It was only last year some scoundrels who had been invited to stay at home had the audacity to saw up, during the night, the May-pole which the folks of Ste. Anne were going to present to Captain Besse. Think of the poor peoples' feelings when they gathered in the morning and saw that their fine tree was nothing more nor less than so much firewood!"
Jules burst out laughing at a trick which he could so well appreciate.
"Laugh as much as you like," said Father Tontaine, "but t'ain't hardly Christian to put up tricks like that. You understand," he added seriously, "we don't think no such trick is going to be played on our good master; but there be always some rascals everywhere, so we're taking our precautions."
"I am a poor man," interposed Alexis Dubé, "but not for all I own would I see such an insult put on our captain."
The others spoke to the same effect, but Jules was already in the arms of his family, while the worthy habitants went on muttering their imprecations against the imaginary, though improbable, wretches who would have the hardihood to cut up the good fir log which they were going to present to their seigneur on the morrow. It may be suspected that the liberal cups and ample supper of May-day eve, together with the sure anticipation of a toothsome breakfast, were not without their effect on the zeal of the honest habitants.
"Come," said Jules to his friend after supper, "let us go and see the preparations for the May-day feast. As neither of us has had the advantage of being present at those famous nuptials of the opulent Gamache, which so ravished the heart of Sancho Panza, the present occasion may give us some faint idea of that entertainment."
In the kitchen all was bustle and confusion. The laughing shrill voices of the women were mixed with those of the six men off guard, who were occupied in drinking, smoking, and chaffing. Three servants, armed each with a frying-pan, were making, or, to use the common expression, "turning" pancakes over the fire in an ample fireplace, whose flames threw ruddy lights and shadows, à la Rembrandt, over the merry faces thronging the great kitchen. Some of the neighbor women, armed with dish and spoon and seated at a long table, kept dropping into the frying-pans, as fast as they were emptied, the liquid paste of which the pancakes were made; while others sprinkled them with maple sugar as they were piled upon the plates. A great kettle, half full of boiling lard, received the doughnuts which two cooks kept incessantly dropping in and ladling out.
The faithful José, the right hand of the establishment, seemed to be everywhere at once on these solemn occasions.
Seated at the end of a table, coat thrown off, sleeves of his shirt rolled up to the elbows, his inseparable knife in hand, he was hacking fiercely at a great loaf of maple-sugar and at the same time urging on two servants who were engaged at the same task. The next moment he was running for fine flour and eggs, as the pancake paste got low in the bowls; nor did he forget to visit the refreshment table from time to time to assure himself that nothing was lacking, or to take a drink with his friends.
Jules and Archie passed from the kitchen to the bake-house, where the cooks were taking out of the oven a batch of pies, shaped like half-moons and about fourteen inches long; while quarters of veal and mutton, spare-ribs, and cutlets of fresh pork, ranged around in pans, waited to take their places in the oven. Their last visit was to the wash-house where, in a ten-gallon caldron, bubbled a stew of pork and mutton for the special delectation of the old folks whose jaws had grown feeble.
"Why!" exclaimed Archie, "it is a veritable feast of Sardanapalus--a feast to last six months!"
"But you have only seen a part of it," said Jules. "The dessert is yet ahead of us. I had imagined, however, that you knew more about the customs of our habitants. If at the end of the feast the table were not as well supplied as at the beginning, the host would be accused of stinginess. Whenever a dish even threatens to become empty, you will see the servants hasten to replace it."
"I am the more surprised at that," said Archie, "because your habitants are generally economical, even to the point of meanness. How do you reconcile this with the great waste which must take place after a feast?"
"Our habitants, scattered wide apart over all New France, and consequently deprived of markets during spring, summer, and autumn, live then on nothing but salt meat, bread, and milk, and, except in the infrequent case of a wedding, they rarely give a feast at either of those seasons. In winter, on the other hand, there is a lavish abundance of fresh meats of all kinds; there is a universal feasting, and hospitality is carried to an extreme from Christmas time to Lent; there is a perpetual interchange of visits. Four or five carrioles, containing a dozen people, drive up; the horses are unhitched, the visitors take off their wraps, the table is set, and in an hour or so it is loaded down with smoking dishes."
"Your habitants must possess Aladdin's lamp!" exclaimed Archie.
"You must understand," said Jules, "that if the habitants' wives had to make such preparations as are necessary in higher circles, their hospitality would be much restricted or even put a stop to, for few of them are able to keep a servant. As it is, however, their social diversions are little more trouble to them than to their husbands. Their method is very simple. From time to time, in their leisure moments, they cook three or four batches of various kinds of meat, which in our climate keeps without difficulty; when visitors come, all they have to do is to warm up these dishes in their ovens, which at this season of the year are kept hot enough to roast an ox. The habitants abhor cold meat. It is good to see our Canadian women, so gay at all times, making ready these hasty banquets--to see them tripping about, lilting a bit of a song, or mixing in the general chatter, and dancing backward and forward between the table and the stove. Josephte sits down among her guests, but jumps up to wait upon them twenty times during the meal. She keeps up her singing and her chaffing, and makes everybody as merry as herself.
"You will, doubtless, imagine that these warmed-up dishes lose a good deal of their flavor; but habit is second nature, and our habitants do not find fault. Moreover, as their taste is more wholesome and natural than ours, I imagine that these dinners, washed down with a few glasses of brandy, leave them little cause to envy us. But we shall return to this subject later on; let us now rejoin my father and mother, who are probably getting impatient at our absence. I merely wanted to initiate you a little beforehand in the customs of our habitants, whom you have never before observed in their winter life."
Everybody sat up late that night at D'Haberville Manor. There was so much to talk about. It was not till the small hours that the good-nights were said; and soon the watchers of the May-pole were the only ones left awake in the manor house of St. Jean-Port-Joli.
