The Young Seigneur Part 26

but the baking had apparently pa.s.sed away with the paint. While he was curiously surveying this antique bit, a loud voice sounded through the open door, and the heavy form of the "Yankee from Longueuil"

precipitated itself proudly, though a trifle unsteadily, forward down the steps and along the middle of the street, swearing, boasting and heading a swarm of men and boys, and loudly drawling a line of Connecticut notions in blasphemy.

It could be seen that Spoon was some kind of a hero in the eyes of Misericorde. Rich,--for he had paid the drinks; travelled,--they had his a.s.sertion for it; courageous,--he could anathematize the Archbishop; Misericorde had seldom such a novelty all to itself.

"Sacre! To blazes wit' you; set 'em up all roun', you blas' Canaydjin n.i.g.g.e.r! Du gin, vite done! John Collins' pour le crowd! I'm a white man, j'sht un homme blanc, j'sht Americain; I'm from the Unyted States, I am!

Sacre bleu! Health to all!"

"Health, monsieur!"

"Health, monsieur!"

"A thousand thanks."

"Set 'em up again, bapteme, you blas' Canayjin n.i.g.g.e.r!"

"What does he say!" inquired the landlord, on the verge of being offended.

"Shut up, Potdevin!" said the only man who understood English, fearful lest the second treat should go astray.

"Take!" cried Spoon, in a at of reconciliation, throwing down a five dollar bill; and at the sight of the money, Potdevin, true landlord, proceeded with the pouring out of the beverages into very small gla.s.ses with very thick bottoms.

It was funny, when he had precipitated himself from the door, as above said, to contemplate the fellow with his low hat on one side and far down on his nose, his swelling s.h.i.+rt-front, striped breeches, and mighty bra.s.s chain, leading the trooping crowd like some travelling juggler.

All this, however, was election work.

Was it the kind of method Chamilly would approve? There was a short and certain answer.

Which then of Haviland's friends supplied Spoon with money for these only too obvious processes of vote-obtaining. It was not the Honorable, it was not De La Lande, it would not be penurious Benoit?

"Ah, well," Chrysler thought, "I am here but to observe. Am I not under obligations to Zotique, if it be he, which prevent my interfering?"

Another of Chrysler's theories too was exploded. He had long revolved a suspicion that it was Cuiller who had stolen Francois' $750. "Where else," thought he, "does he get these liberal sums to spend?" Once he had ventured to ask Spoon himself about Le Brun's loss but was plumply faced with the growl, "Do you suppose _I_ stole it?" and, ashamed of himself, withdrew the theory almost from his own mind. How he could explain even the American's expenditure.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII.

BLEUS.

The Haviland party were not the only people alive to the necessities of the contest. It was not seldom that in the Ontarian's walks during those few days, the steady, inscrutable bust of Grandmoulin pa.s.sed him, driven in one direction or another by Libergent; and sometimes Picault accompanied.

Grandmoulin, indeed, made herculean efforts. His grand _chefs d'oeuvre_ of oratory--soul stirring appeals, in the name of all that was sacred in honor and religion, for his hypocritical and corrupt purposes, were lifted in n.o.ble structures of eloquence before the people, till it seemed as if the lavishness of his genius and labor could only be explained by the desire of challenging the other great orator of the race. The young energies of Haviland responded readily. Their speeches were reported in full for the journals of the cities and watched for everywhere. It was the battle of Cataline and Cicero.

The back parishes were not so soundly "Red" as Dormilliere: they usually polled a considerable Blue vote, and were very unstable. Here were concentrated the efforts of Grandmoulin to cajole and Picault to buy.

Once thus Chrysler met Libergent driving Grandmoulin in a "buck-board,"

while another person sat in the back seat.

"Chrysler! Chrysler!--Listen!" exclaimed the person in the back seat.

Chrysler recognized an Ottawa acquaintance.

"De Bleury! how do you do!"

De Bleury put his hand on the reins to stop the vehicle:

"Come up here, Chrysler, we go past the Manoir."

"Thank you, I enjoy walking."

"Come along, come along; we don't hear excuses in the country. Come, Chrysler, the road is long."

In order not to offend, Chrysler, in spite of his objection to the company, took the unoccupied place behind Grandmoulin.

With Libergent, Chrysler did not reap much in conversation. He was conciliatory in his solitary-like way, and had indulged for once in too much liquor.

"Right Hon'ble Premier,--Sec' State.--Hon'ble Mr. Grandm'lin--all my fren's. You know dose gen'lmen? All my fren's. Da's all. My fren's goin'

make it all right, eh? I re'spect'ble 'nough." The half-seas-confidential style.

Grandmoulin acknowledged the stranger but gravely, and was at once immutable--oppressed with thought for the country's welfare! As he sat before Chrysler, and the latter felt the nearness of his broad shoulders and coa.r.s.e black ma.s.s of hair, he could not but picture the man within sinking into littleness and self-contempt at the debased uses of his great talent.

CHAPTER x.x.xIV.

THE FREEMASON.

Ross de Bleury, the hospitable pa.s.senger, was a character. A man of immense physical strength and abounding spirits, soundly and stoutly built, of medium height, brown hair, full eyes and large nostrils, and strong merry lips, always devising some ingenious adventure.

One of his schemes, a quarter joke, three-quarters half-serious, was to band together all persons in the Dominion bearing the Ross name into one Canadian clan, he to be chief! His own surname had first of all been simply Bleury, but energetic genealogical researches having discovered to him that the founder of his line in France was a Scotch adventurer, he made bold to resurrect the original name, and add to it what was already a "Charles Rene Marie-Auguste-Raoul-St. Cyr-de Bleury."

Jest, quip and lively saying shortened his route to the doorway of the Circuit Court, and he insisted on Chrysler's pa.s.sing to his quarters upstairs. The court-room was stocked with dusty benches and tables, on and about which a small but noisy company were postured. One reckless fellow swinging an ale-mug was singing:--

"Tant qu'on le pourra, larirette, On se d.a.m.nera, larira!"

Two girls stood together near the door laughing brazen giggles.

They were the Jalberts, daughters of the innkeeper, who himself with two young politicians from Montreal were impressing on a _habitant_: "If you don't vote for Libergent, you can't go to heaven;" Jalbert being an adherent of the Blues in the hope of "running" Dormilliere, if they succeeded, for his license had been taken away by the new movement. The bailiff, a wolfish-looking creature, who was always to be had for drink, also sat there trailing his vast loose moustache over a table. When Grandmoulin entered, a little crowd, like the tail of a comet, followed him into the room. As he pa.s.sed through he said no word, but drew his cloak about him and moved forward sphinx-like to the bar of the court, where he sat down and commenced to converse with Libergent.

Chrysler mounted the stairs with his entertainer and came upon an entirely different scene. De Bleury's s.p.a.cious attic was appropriated to the rough and ready convenience of himself alone, and there was something quizzical about its expanses of brown dimnesses and darknesses, the cobwebby light that struggled in through the one high dormer window, the closet-like part.i.tion in the middle with a ticket-selling orifice, and the three or four rough chairs, which, with table, newspaper, and a basket of bottles, formed the furniture of this apartment. What work was done here, and how any one could choose such a spot to do work in were questions asked you mysteriously by every object about. As soon as he had waved Chrysler to one of the chairs and sank back upon another into a shadow, he stretched out his hand and pulled the basket of bottles towards him.

"Now, sir, the question of fortune to every good man as he enters the world: 'What will you have.' I don't believe in fate: I believe in fortune: good things for everybody; let him choose. It's the man who won't accept good mouthfuls who is miserable. My Lord, what will you have?"

"I never take anything, thank you!"