Cameron of Lochiel 9+The Feast of St. Jean-Baptiste+
18
Literature · Romance
Cameron of Lochiel 9
+The Feast of St. Jean-Baptiste+
RobertsEnglish
Every parish used to keep holiday on the feast of its patron saint. The feast of St. John the Baptist, the patron of the parish of St. Jean-Port-Joli, falling in the most delightful season of the year, never failed to attract a host of pilgrims, even from the remotest parishes. The habitant, kept very busy with his farm-work, was ready by this time for a little rest, and the fine weather was an invitation to the road. In every family grand preparations were made for this important occasion. Within doors there was great cleaning up; the whitewash brush went everywhere; the floors were scrubbed and strewed with pine-needles; the fatted calf was killed, and the shopkeepers drove a thriving trade in drinks. Thus by the twenty-third day of June, the eve of the feast, every house was thronged with pilgrims from the manor and the presbytery down.
The seigneur used to present the consecrated bread; while the collection at the high mass was taken up by two young gentlemen and two young ladies, friends of the seigneur, invited down from Quebec long beforehand. For the consecrated bread and for the little cakes (cousins) which accompanied it there was no small need in that multitude which thronged not only the church, but the surrounding yard. All the doors of the church stood wide open, that everybody might have his share in the service.
It was an understood thing that the seigneur and his friends should dine that day at the presbytery, and that the curé and his friends should take supper at the manor house. Very many of the habitants, too far away from home to go and come between mass and vespers, took lunch in the little wood of cedars, pines, and firs which covered the valley between the church and the St. Lawrence. Nothing can be imagined more picturesque and bright than the groups scattered over the mossy green, and gathered merrily around their snowy tablecloths. The curé and his guests never failed to visit the picnickers and exchange a few words with the men.
On all sides rose rude booths, after the fashion of wigwams, covered with branches of maple and spruce, wherein refreshments were sold. In a monotonous voice, with strong emphasis on the first and last words, the proprietors kept crying incessantly, "Good beer for sale here!" And all the papas and the amorous gallants, coaxed up for the occasion, would fumble dubiously in the depths of their wallets for the wherewith to treat youngster or sweetheart.
The habitants had preserved an impressive ceremony handed down from their Norman ancestors. This ceremony consisted of a huge bonfire at sunset of the eve of St. Jean-Baptiste. An octagonal pyramid, about ten feet high, was constructed before the main entrance of the church. Covered with branches of fir interwoven amid the strips of cedar which formed its surface, this structure was eminently ornamental. The curé, accompanied by his assistants, marched out and recited certain prayers belonging to the occasion; then, after having blessed the structure, he set a torch to the little piles of straw arranged at the eight corners of the pyramid. Straightway the whole pile burst crackling into flame, amid the shouts and gun-firing of the crowd which remained in attendance till the pyramid was burned to ashes.
At this joyous ceremony, Blanche D'Haberville did not fail to assist, in company with Jules, Lochiel, and Uncle Raoul. A malicious critic, observing Uncle Raoul as he stood leaning on his sword a little in advance of the throng, might have been reminded of the late lamented Vulcan of game-legged memory, so lurid and grotesque an effect was cast upon his figure; which by no means prevented Uncle Raoul from considering himself the most important personage present.
Uncle Raoul had a very good and sufficient reason for taking part in the bonfire. It was the day of the salmon sale. Every habitant who stretched a net came to sell his first salmon at the church door for the benefit of the souls in purgatory; in other words, with the money obtained for the fish he would pay for a mass to be said for the souls about which he was most concerned. The auctioneer announcing the object of the sale, all strove to outbid each other. Nothing could be more touching than this closeness of communion between friends and relations beyond the grave, this anxious concern extending even to the invisible world. Our brethren of other creeds shed, indeed, as we do, the bitterest of tears over the tomb which covers away their dearest, but there they cease their solicitude and their devotion.
When I was a child my mother taught me to conclude all my prayers with this appeal: "Receive, O Lord, soon into thy blessed paradise the souls of my grandfather and grandmother." My prayers were then for kinsfolk few in number and unknown to me. Now, alas, in my old age, how many names would have to pass my lips were I to enumerate in my prayers all the loved ones who have left me!
It was some time after dark when Uncle Raoul, Blanche, Jules, and Archie quitted the presbytery where they had taken supper. Uncle Raoul, who had a smattering of astronomy, explained to his niece, as they drove along, the mysteries of the starry vault, marvels of which, for all the efforts of their professor in astronomy, our young men knew but little.
The young men were in high spirits, and, excited by the splendor of the night in mid-forest, they laid aside their decorum and began a host of antics, in spite of the frowns of Blanche, who dreaded lest they should displease her uncle.
The road followed the banks of the St. Lawrence. It was bordered by thick woods, with here and there a clearing through which was commanded a perfect view of the giant stream. Coming to one of these clearings, where they could sweep the whole river from Cape Tourmente to Malbaie, Archie was unable to repress a cry of surprise, and, turning to Uncle Raoul, he said:
"You, sir who explain so well the marvels of the heaven, might I beg you to lower your gaze to earth a moment and tell me the meaning of all those lights which are flashing along the north shore as far as eye can see? Verily, I begin to believe José's story. Canada appears to be that land of goblins, imps, and witches of which my nurse used to tell me amid my Scottish hills."
"Ah," said Uncle Raoul, "let us stop here a moment. That is the people of the north shore sending messages to their friends and relations on this side, according to their custom on the eve of St. Jean-Baptiste. They need neither pen nor ink for their communications. Let us begin at Eboulements: Eleven adults have died in that parish since autumn, three of them in one house, that of my friend Dufour. The family must have been visited by small-pox or some malignant fever, for those Dufours are vigorous and all in the prime of life. The Tremblays are well, which I am glad to perceive; they are worthy people. At Bonneau's somebody is sick, probably the grandmother, who is getting well on in years. There is a child dead at Bélair's house. I fear it is their only child, as theirs is a young household."
Thus Uncle Raoul ran on for some time gathering news of his friends at Eboulements, at Isle aux Coudres, and at Petite-Rivière.
"I understand without having the key," said Lochiel. "Those are certain prearranged signals which are exchanged between the dwellers on the opposite shores in order to communicate matters of personal interest."
"Yes," answered Uncle Raoul; "and if we were on the north shore we should observe similar signals on this side. If a fire burns long and steadily, that is good news; if it sinks gradually, that is a sign of sickness; if it is extinguished suddenly, that means death; if it is so extinguished more than once, that signifies so many deaths. For a grown person, a strong blaze; for a child, a feeble one. The means of intercourse being scanty enough even in summer, and entirely cut off during winter, the habitants, made ingenious by necessity, have invented this simple expedient.
"The same signals," continued Uncle Raoul, "are understood by all the sailors, who use them in time of wreck to convey information of their distress. Only last year five of our best huntsmen would have starved to death but for this on the shoals of the Loups-Marins. Toward the middle of March there was a sudden change in the weather. The ice went out all at once and the ducks, geese, and brant made their appearance in astonishing numbers. Five of our hunters, well supplied with provisions--for the weather is treacherous in Canada--set out at once for the Loups-Marins; but the birds were so numerous that they left their provisions in the canoe (which they tied carelessly in front of their hut), and ran to take their places in the ditch which they had to get scooped out before the return of the tide. This ditch, you must know, is a trough dug in the mud to a depth of three or four feet, wherein the hunter lies in wait for his game, which are very wary, the geese and brant particularly. It is a wretchedly uncomfortable kind of hunting, for you have to crouch in these holes, with your dog, often for seven or eight hours at a stretch. You have no lack of occupation to kill time, however, for you have to keep bailing out the muddy water which threatens to drown you.
"All was in proper shape, and our hunters were expecting with the rising tide an ample reward for their pains, when suddenly there came up a frightful storm. The sleet was driven by the wind in such dense clouds that the birds could not be seen six feet away. Our hunters, having waited patiently until flood tide, which drove them from their posts, returned to their hut, where a dreadful surprise awaited them; their canoe had been carried away by the storm, and there remained, to feed five men, only one loaf of bread and one bottle of brandy, which they had taken into the hut on their arrival, that they might indulge in a snack before getting to work. They went to bed without supper, for the snow-storm might last three days, and, being about three leagues from either shore, it would be impossible, in such weather, for their signals of distress to be seen. But their calculations fell far short of the fact. A second winter had set in. The cold became very severe, the snow continued falling for eight days, and the river was once more filled with ice as in January.
Then they began to make their signals, which could be seen from both shores; but it was impossible to go to their aid. The signals of distress were followed by those of death. The fire was lighted every evening and immediately extinguished. When three of the party were reported dead, some habitants, at the imminent risk of their lives, did all that could be expected of the bravest men; but in vain, for the river was so thick with ice cakes that the canoes were carried up and down with the ebb and flow of the tide, and could not get near the scene of the disaster. It was not until the seventeenth day that they were rescued by a canoe from Isle aux Coudres. When the rescuing party arrived they heard no sound in the hut, and feared they were too late. The sufferers were still alive, however, and after a few weeks of care were quite themselves again; but they had learned a lesson they were not likely to forget, and the next time they go hunting on the Loups-Marins they will haul their canoe up out of reach of high tide."
At last Uncle Raoul came to an end, just as anybody else would.
"Dear uncle," said Blanche, "do you not know a song appropriate to so delicious a night as this, and so enchanting a scene?"
"Hear! hear!" exclaimed the young men, "a song from Uncle Raoul!"
This was assailing the chevalier on his weak point. He was a singer, and very proud of it. Without further pressing he began, in a splendid tenor voice, the following song, which he sang with peculiar feeling as a brave hunter adorned with his scars. While acknowledging that his verses took many a liberty with the rules of rhyme, he declared that these defects were redeemed by the vividness and originality of the composition.
UNCLE RAOUL'S SONG.
As I was walking, somewhat late,
A-through a lonely wood and great,
Hunting partridge, snipe, and cock,
And careless of the clock,
I raised my gun to drop a bird,
When in the bushes something stirred;
I heard a cry--and saw the game
That love alone can tame.
I saw a fair one all alone,
Lamenting on a mossy stone,
Her hair about so fair a face
As lightened that dark place.
I called my dog to heel, and there
I fired my gun into the air.
So loud with fear the lady cried,
I hastened to her side.
I said to her, I said, "Sweet heart,
Be comforted, whoe'er thou art.
I am a valiant cavalier,
Have thou of me no fear.
Beholding thee, my lovely one,
Thus left lamenting and alone,
I fain would be thy knight-at-arms,
And shield thee from alarms."
"Oh, succor me, fair sir," she saith,
"My heart with fear was nigh to death.
I am benighted and astray,
Oh, show me, sir, my way!
Oh, show me, gentle sir, the road,
For Mary's sake, to mine abode.
My heart, fair sir, but for your grace,
Had died in this dark place."
"Now, lady, give thy hand to me.
Not far the way--not far with thee.
Right glad am I to do thee pleasure,
And I have the leisure.
But might I crave before we part,
Oh, lady dear, oh, fair sweet heart--
Might I dare to beg the bliss
Of one small kiss?"
Saith she, "I can not say thee nay;
Thy service can I ne'er repay.
Take one, or even two, or three,
If so it pleaseth thee.
More gallant sir was never seen;
Much honored have my kisses been."
(This was the last I heard of her)
"And now farewell, kind sir."
"The devil," said Jules, "I perceive, dear sir, that you did not waste any time. I will wager, now, that you have been a terrible gallant in your younger days, and can count your victims by the score. It is so, eh, uncle mine? Do tell us some of your conquests."
"Ugly, my dear boy," replied Uncle Raoul, with a gratified air, "ugly I certainly am, but very agreeable to the ladies."
Jules was going on in the same vein, but seeing the way his sister was frowning at him, he bit his lips to keep from laughing, and repeated the last four lines:
"'More gallant sir was never seen;
Much honored have my kisses been'
(This was the last I heard of her)
'And now farewell, kind sir.'"
The young men continued the singing till they reached a clearing, where they saw a fire in the woods a little way from the road.
"That is the witch of the manor," said Uncle Raoul.
"I have always forgotten to ask why she was called the witch of the manor," said Archie.
"Because she has established herself in this wood, which formerly belonged to the D'Haberville estate," said Uncle Raoul. "My brother exchanged it for a part of his present domain, in order to get nearer his mill at Trois Saumons."
"Let us go and see poor old Marie," said Blanche. "When I was a child she used to bring me the first spring flowers and the first strawberries of the season."
Uncle Raoul made some objections on account of the lateness of the hour, but he could refuse Blanche nothing, and presently the horses were hitched on the edge of the wood and our party were on their way to the witch's abode.
The dwelling of old Marie by no means resembled that of the Cumæan sybil, or of any other sorceress, ancient or modern. It was a sort of patchwork hut, built of logs and unquarried stones, and carpeted within with many colored mosses. The roof was cone-shaped and covered with birch-bark and spruce branches.
Old Marie was seated on a log at the door of her hut, cooking something in a frying-pan over a fire which was surrounded with stones to keep it from spreading. She paid no attention to her visitors, but maintained a conversation with some invisible being behind her. She kept waving first one hand and then the other behind her back, as if attempting to drive away this being, and the burden of her utterance was: "Avaunt, avaunt! it is you that bring the English here to eat up the French!"
"Oh, ho, my prophetess of evil," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, "when you get done talking to the devil, would you be kind enough to tell me what you mean by that threat?"
"Come, Marie," interposed Jules, "tell us if you really think you are talking to the devil? You can fool the habitants, but you must know that we put no faith in such delusions."
"Avaunt! Avaunt!" continued the witch with the same gestures, "you that are bringing the English to eat up the French."
"I am going to speak to her," said Blanche; "she loves me, and I am sure she will answer me."
Approaching the old woman, she laid her hand on her shoulder and said gently:
"Do you not know me, my good Marie? Do you not recognize la petite seigneuresse, as you used to call me?"
The old woman interrupted her monologue and looked tenderly at the girl. A tear even gathered in her eyes, but could not overflow, so few such were there in her burning brain.
"Why, dear Marie, do you lead this wild and vagabond life?" exclaimed Blanche. "Why do you live in the woods, you who are the wife of a rich habitant, the mother of a numerous family? Your poor children, brought up by strangers, are crying for their dear mother. Mamma and I were looking for you at your house after the feast. We were talking to your husband who loves you. How unhappy you must be!"
The poor woman sprang upon her seat and her eyes shot flames, as she cried, pale with anger:
"Who is it dare speak of my misfortunes? Is it the fair young girl, the darling of her parents, who will never be wife and mother? Is it the rich and noble lady, brought up in silk and fine linen, who will soon, like me, have but a hut to shelter her? Woe! Woe! Woe!"
She was about to retire into the forest, but seeing Jules much moved, she cried again:
"Is it Jules D'Haberville who is so concerned at my wretchedness? Is it, indeed, Jules D'Haberville, bravest of the brave, whose bleeding body I see them dragging over the Plains of Abraham? Is it, indeed, his blood that crimsons the last glorious field of my country? Woe! Woe! Woe!"
"This poor woman moves my heart strangely," said Lochiel, as she was disappearing in the thicket.
The creature heard him. She returned once more, folded her arms, turned upon him a gaze of calm bitterness, and said:
"Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald de Lochiel. The family fool has no need of your pity! Keep your pity for yourself and for your friends! Keep it for yourself on that day when, forced to execute a cruel order, you shall tear with your nails that breast that hides a noble and generous heart! Keep it for your friends, Archibald de Lochiel, on that day when you shall set the torch to their peaceful dwellings, that day when the old and feeble, the women and the children, shall flee before you as sheep before the wolf! Keep your pity! You will need it all when you carry in your arms the bleeding body of him you call your brother! I have but one grief at this hour, Archibald de Lochiel, it is that I have no curse to utter against you. Woe! Woe! Woe!" And she disappeared into the forest.
"May I be choked by an Englishman," said Uncle Raoul, "if poor silly Marie has not shown herself tonight a sorceress of the approved type, the type which has been celebrated by poets ancient and modern. I wonder what mad weed she has been rubbing against, she who is always so polite and gentle with us."
All agreed that they had never heard anything like it before. The rest of the drive was passed in silence; for, though attaching no credence to the witch's words, they could not at once throw off their ominous influence.
On their arrival at the manor house, however, where they found a number of friends awaiting them, this little cloud was soon scattered.
The joyous laughter of the party could be heard even to the highway, and the echoes of the bluff were kept busy repeating the refrain:
"Ramenez vos moutons, bergère,
Belle bergère, vos moutons."
The dancers had broken one of the chains of their dance, and were running everywhere, one behind the other, around the vast court-yard. They surrounded the chevalier's carriage, the chain reunited, and they began dancing round and round, crying to Mademoiselle D'Haberville, "Descend, fair shepherdess."
Blanche sprang lightly out of the carriage. The leader of the dance at once whisked her off, and began to sing:
"Hail to the fairest in the land!
(Hail to the fairest in the land!)
"Now I take you by the hand.
(Now I take you by the hand.)
I lead you here, I lead you there;
Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair.
Bring back your sheep and with care them keep,
Shepherdess fair, bring back your sheep.
Bring back, bring back, bring back with care,
Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair!"
After making several more rounds, with the chevalier's carriage in the middle, and all the time singing:
"Ramenez, ramenez, ramenez donc,
Belle bergère, vos moutons."
They at length broke up the chain, and all danced merrily into the house.
Uncle Raoul, at last set at liberty by the inexorable dancers, descended as he could from the carriage and hastened to join the party at the supper-table.
