The Young Seigneur Part 12

"The National Liar!" proposed another.

"The breach in our wall is the Cure," continued Zotique.

"Mais."

Qu'allons nous faire, Dans cette gallere?

"If we could only strap him up with, every mark of respect, like the sacred white elephant of the Indies!--But first, the Bishop's order!

Remark my brother, I am not advocating disobedience:--only coercion."

The laugh rose again. It was not so much anything he said, but his extraordinarily grotesque ways--a roll of his large eyes, or a drawing down of his long, thin mouth, with some quick action of the head, arms or shoulders, that amused them.

"Me, I say _sacre_ to the Cures," boasted a heavy, bleared fellow, stepping forward and looking round. His appearance indicated the cla.s.s of parodies on the American citizen, known vulgarly as "Yankees from Longueuil," and as he continued, "I say to them,"--he added a string of blasphemy in exaggerated Vermontese.

"Be moderate, Mr. Cuiller," Zotique interposed, "None of us have the honor of being ruffians."

"In the Unyted Staytes," continued Cuiller, however, jerking his heavy shoulder forward, "when a cure comes to them they say 'Go on, cursed rascal,'" More oaths in English. The hearers looked on without knowing how to act, some of them, without doubt, in that atmosphere, tremblingly admiring his hardihood.

"Cuiller,"--commenced the Honorable, easily.

"My name is Spoon," the Yankee from Longueuil drawled, "I've got a white man's name."

Cuiller, in fact, was of the host who have Anglicised their patronymics.

Many a man who goes as "White" in New England, is really Le Blanc; Desrochers translates himself "Stone," Monsieur Des Trois-Maisons calls himself "Mr. Three-Houses," and it is well authenticated that a certain Magloire Phaneuf exists who triumphs in the supreme ingenuity of "My-glory Makes-nine."

"There is a respect due," proceeded the Honorable, ignoring the correction "to what others consider sacred, even by those who themselves respect nothing. This gentleman, besides, sir, is an English gentleman, and your use of his tongue cannot but be a barbarism to his taste."

The big fellow shoved his hands into the hip pockets of his striped trousers; and putting on a leer of pretended indifference, turned to a man named Benoit, who was regarding him with admiration.

This was an orator and a Solomon. He was a farmer, middle-aged, and somewhat short, whose shaven lips were drawn so over-soberly as to express a complete self-conviction of his own profundity, while his unstable averted glance warned that his alliances were not to be depended on where he was likely to be a material loser. A particularly "fluent" man, accomplished in gestures such as form an ingredient in all French conversation, he was in Zotique's Sunday afternoons a zestful contestant. His clothes were of homespun, dyed a raw, light blue, and he was proud of his choice of the color, for its singularity.

"Monsieur Genest," he began, with oratorical impressiveness, coming forward, and bowing to Zotique, "Monsieur l'Honorable; Monsieur;" bowing low; "and Messieurs. I speak not against the clergy, whom the good G.o.d and His Pontifical Holiness have set over us for instruction and guidance. I am not speaking against those holy men. But it seems to me to-day that you, my friend, are a little rash--a very little severe--in reproaching my friend, Mr. Cuiller, upon the language which he uses, coming from a foreign country where neither the expressions, nor the customs, are the same as ours; and it seems to me that there is a point a little subtle which should have been noticed by you before commencing, and on which I dare to base my exception to the form; and this point is, I pretend, that Mr. Cuiller has said nothing directly himself against the clergy, but has simply told how they were treated in the United States."

This beginning, delivered with appropriate gestures--now a bow, now an ultra-crossing of the arms, only to throw them apart again, now a chopping down with both hands from the elbow, now again a graceful clasping of them in front, made a satisfactory impression on Benoit himself, who prepared to continue indefinitely had not Zotique interrupted.

"Benoit, you are too fine for good millstone. But respecting friend Cuiller, we are willingly converted to your delusion. He is honorably acquitted of his crime."

"And now," he cried, "Oyez! Let all who have not forgotten how to make their marks, sign the requisition which I observe in the hands of Maitre Descarries."

Maitre Descarries, Notary, an elderly, active little man, carefully attired and wearing his white hair brushed back from his forehead, in a manner resembling a halo, or some silvery kind of old-time wig, stood at the door holding a doc.u.ment,--a paper nominating Sieur Chamilly Haviland to represent the Electoral District of Argentenaye.

The Notary, advancing, laid it on the bar of the Court, and everybody crowded to look on and see those requested to sign do so.

The Honorable, the first to be called, went forward and affixed his name, and Maitre Descarries turned to a person who was apparently an old farmer, but a man with a face of conspicuous dignity.

"Will you sign, Mr. De La Lande?"

"Ah yes, Monsieur Descarries--'with both hands,'"--answered he, bowing quickly; and his signature read, to the Ontarian's astonishment: "De La Lande, Duke of St. Denis, Peer of France."

Thus, at this after-ma.s.s reception, Chrysler was introduced to a circle of whom he was to see much in the events to follow.

CHAPTER XVIII.

THE AMERICAN FRANCE.

Chrysler and Genest, after reaching the Manoir, sat conversing under the large triple tree on the side of the lawn.

"You have no idea of the simplicity of life here," l'Honorable philosophised. "We dwell as peacefully, in general, and almost as much in one spot as these great trees. After all, is there any condition in which mortal existence is happier than that of pure air and tranquility.

We have a proverb, 'Love G.o.d and go thy path.' To love G.o.d, to live, to die, are the complete circle."

Chamilly's entrance put an end to these idyllic observations. He was driven up in a cart by a country jehu, and leaping out, there followed him a couple of friends.

Haviland called Tardif, the head servant, who appeared at the door of the house, bareheaded, with an ap.r.o.n on:

"Bring the dinner out here, Tardif," he ordered; and a light table was set under the spreading boughs.

"Now tell us, De La Lande, about your trip to Montreal."

Of the two friends who drove up with their host in the cart, one was Breboeuf, a hunchback. This little creature on being introduced, bowed and shook hands with an aspect of hopeless resignation, and sitting down, relapsed into thought, telescoping his neck into his squarish shoulders. His companion was a young man of small build, but spirited, good-looking face--De La Lande, schoolmaster of the village, a son of the farmer "Duke."

"And where commence?" responded the schoolmaster to the request for an account of the trip to Montreal.

"In the middle, as I am doing," retorted Haviland, flouris.h.i.+ng the carving-knife over the joint.

"Ah well. The middle was the climax with me. It was the Fete of St. Jean Baptiste!"

"You saw Notre Dame, and the great procession?" inquired the Honorable.

"Yes, I saw that vast Cathedral fifteen thousand full! And the Cure of Colonization climbed up in the midst, and I heard the most glorious words that were ever spoken to French Canadians!"

"Was the procession like ours here?"

"At Dormilliere? Pah!--we have two Cures, a beadle and the choir-boys!

Theirs was a mile in length. There were nineteen bands playing music, all in fine uniforms, and there were all the Societies of St. Jean Baptiste walking, with their gold chains and their badges, and as many as forty magnificently decorated cars, bearing representations of the discovery of Canada by Jacques Cartier, and the workings of all the trades, and innumerable splendid banners, of white, and blue, and red and green, with gold inscriptions and pictures--and the Cure of Col----"

"Were the streets well decorated? How were the arches and flags?"

"They were good. The streets were full of flying tricolors and Union Jacks stretched across them. They were lined with green saplings as we do here. The crowd was enormous. There were thousands from the States.

And the Cathedral of Notre Dame was all excitement; for the Cure----,"

"Tell us about it! Every one speaks of it! What did he say?"

(A well-known priest had just electrified the people of the land with an extraordinary declaration.)

"But, to speak of his aims, I must recollect the numbers of our people."