The Young Seigneur Part 15

"An official notification?"

"Not official!--No, sir, unofficial! ultra-official, contra-official, pseud-official! See, read it!"

He picked up and handed over the objectionable letter, which was headed with the stamp of the Attorney-General's Office:--"Dear Sir,--You are requested to grant Mr. Cletus Libergent the use of the Circuit Court edifice and rooms, which are in your charge, for whatever purpose he may desire, for the s.p.a.ce of three weeks from the present date."

T. OUAOUARON, Attorney-General.

Chrysler smiled to Zotique. Could a Government that openly granted the public buildings to partisans pretend to a sense of right or dignity?

As to the effects of the Cure's second vow, they remain matter for narration to come.

CHAPTER XX.

CHEZ NOUS.

"Bonjour le maitre et la maitresse Et tous les gens de la maison."

--THE GUIGNOLEE CAROL.

The crimson and gold of sunset were stained richly across the west.

Chrysler was walking leisurely out in the country. A mile from Dormilliere, a white stone farm-house stood forward near the road. In front, across the highway, the low cliff swelled out into the stump of a headland, which bore spreading on its gra.s.sy top three mighty and venerable oaks.

Chrysler, pondering as was his wont upon this and everything, noting the surges of color in the sky, the clear view, the procession of odd-looking homesteads down the road; their narrow fields running back indefinitely; the resting flocks and herds; here a group of thatched-roof barns, and there a wayside cross; pa.s.sed along and mused on the peace of life in this prairie country, and the goodness of the Almighty to His children of every tongue.

The strains of a violin in the farm-house struck his ear. Someone was fiddling the well-known sprightly air, "Vive la Canadienne:"

"Long live the fair Canadian girl, With her sweet, tender eyes."

The house was a large cottage, having around its door a slender gallery, at whose side went down a stair. Its chimnies were stout, and walls thick, its roof pitched very steep and clipped off short at the eaves; a garden of lilac-bushes and shrubs, some of which pressed their dark green against its spotless white-wash, surrounding it in front and on one side, while on the other lay the barn-yard, with a large wooden cross in its centre, protected by a railing. Two hundred years ago such houses were built in Brittany.

Chrysler's glances took in with curiosity the tiny window up in the gable, the quaint-cut iron bars of the cellar openings, the small-paned sashes of the four front windows.

Above the door, was the rude-cut inscription:

A DIEU LA GLOIRE J.B.

1768.

The fiddler drew his attention particularly, however, to the people on the gallery. There was one at least whom he had seen before. A _cavalier_ of much shirt-front and large mouth, and on whose make-up, Nature had printed "BAR-TENDER" in capitals--in short the "Spoon" of Zotique's reception--was sitting on the bal.u.s.trade of the little gallery, making courtship over the shoulder of a dark-eyed maid, whose mother--a square-waisted archetype of her--stood in the door.

Paterfamilias sat on the top step with his back to Chrysler, barring the stair rather awkwardly with his legs. A second young man slender, and dressed in a frock coat of black broad-cloth, and silk hat, and with face pale, but of undiscourageable obserfulness, though without doubt repulsed by the father's att.i.tude from a front attack on the position, was taking the three steps in the garden necessary to bring him alongside the gallery. And, un.o.bserved, down beside her dress, the maiden's fair hand was dropping him a sprig of lilac.

Within, the grandfather bent crooked over his violin.

Our traveller halted, there was a whisper, and the music stopped.

"Salut, Monsieur," cried the householder, stumbling down the steps and hurrying half-way across the garden, where he took up a position, "Monsieur is tired. Will he honour my roof? All here is yours, and I and my family are at your service. Enter, Monsieur."

A dramatic gesture of humility recalled at once the man in blue homespun, who had addressed the crowd at Zotique's.

"Good evening, Mr. Benoit," the Ontarian said, opening the gate and mustering his French, "I shall be charmed."

The air immediately bustled with hospitality.

"Come in, sir, come in," feebly rasped the voice of the old man from the door. "Josephte, bring a chair for Monsieur." "I will fetch one!" cried the good-wife. The girl Josephte, rose from her seat and followed her mother quickly into the house; the pale young man in the garden doubled his cheerful smile; and only the bar-tender endued himself in an aggressive grin of independence.

"I a.s.sure you, monsieur," p.r.o.nounced Jean Benoit, with his full armory of oratorical gestures, "that a friend of Monseigneur Chamilly will always have our best. Ascend, sir.--Josephte, place Monsieur the chair."

Never was there a greater occasion of state.

Their guest raised his hat to the young lady and her mother, who threw into her carriage all the dignity and suavity she could command. Then he ascended and sat gratefully down, for he was fatigued.

The grandfather had laid his instrument on a spinning-wheel within the door, and slowly lit a pipe with both hands. The bar-tender jumped from his perch and stood with a familiar leer, of which when Benoit said "Mr.

Cuiller, monsieur," Chrysler took trifling notice. On the other hand the pale lover remained modestly down the steps, and his cheerfulness redoubled when Chrysler nodded to him, pa.s.singly introduced as "Le Brun."

"Does the gentleman take white whiskey,[G] or well milk?" asked the old man. "Josephte, bring some milk."

[Footnote G: Highwines.]

The daughter darted into the house.--"There is tea on the stove, Josephte!" Madame called hurriedly inwards, "and bring out some cakes and apples, and perhaps Monsieur would like new honey.--Be comfortable, sir."

"Monsieur has come into the parish for the election?" the old man queried politely.

"Only to see what pa.s.ses," he replied, accepting the bowl of milk which Josephte tendered him, and a piece of raisin cake from a pile on a blue-pattern plate.--"What do you think of it?"

But a diversion occurred. The wife had retired a few moments, and a veteran piano commenced playing, while a spirited boy's voice struck up a hymn from the services of the Church,--"O Salutaris Hostia." It was her youngest son, whom she had not been able to resist showing off a little. Chrysler praised the voice, which was excellent, and the boy, attired in a neat, black, knee-breeches suit with white stockings, was proudly brought forward and presented.

The grandfather had the twinkle in his eye of a true country violinist.

"I was going to tell them a story of the old times, sir. Will you pardon me?" he said, with the twinkle sparkling.

Chrysler protested his own desire to listen.

"We always like to hear about the old times," said young Le Brun, apologetically.

"It's about a rascality of Zotique's, the droll boy, when we were young--the delectable history of Mouton. Mouton, the servant of Pere Galibert, who in those times was Cure, was a fat man, of the air of a tallow image. You know Legros--the butcher's son,--just like that. If he had had red hair there would have been spontaneous combustion."

"Someone stole the sacramental wine of Pere Galibert, and everyone except the Pere knew it was Mouton. Messire would never believe them, though it so angered him he preached fourteen discourses against the thief. They were eloquent sermons."

"One Sunday afternoon--it was about the Day of St. Michel, when we went in to pay the seigneur his rents--Zotique was at the presbytere with me and his brother the Honorable, and all of us playing cards with Pere Galibert. Zotique had come down from the city with a new keg of wine for the Sacrament, and they were discussing the disappearance. Mouton was there, and he says never a word. "Let it alone," says Zotique, and he looks around and takes up the inkbottle carelessly from the shelf and goes off to the kitchen and down into the cellar, where he puts away the wine, and then he comes back to us, upstairs. Mouton disappears in a moment. Zotique pretends to play,--but he is calculating the seconds.

Presently he says, "Monsieur le Cure, you and I are too good players.

Let Mouton take my place, and do you play against Benoit and my cousin,"

and without waiting for any answer he flies out to the kitchen, and cries sharply: "Mouton, Messire wants you!" adding, "Quick, quick, tete de Mouton!" Mouton rushes upstairs, brushing his mouth. There he stands before us, solid as the image of tallow; but his mouth was as black as an oven's, _and his features indistinguishable with ink_."

The circle, all eagerly listening, burst forth: