Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 10

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he heat was more intense the next day. No sounds could be heard in the wooded country where the great rivers met, no evidences of human activity were to be seen in the narrow farms. If the Iroquois, who had wiped out the settlement of Lachine in a thunderstorm, had chosen this time to strike again, they would have found the inhabitants of the seigneuries sleeping defenselessly in the shade of their fruit trees or plying drowsy needles in the repair of harness.

The only person at Longueuil who did not seem to be minding the heat was the Sieur de Bienville. The eighth of the Le Moyne brothers had arrived at the château the evening before and had gone immediately to the tower room used by the seigneur for the transaction of business. The talk between them had been a long one and Jean-Baptiste had emerged from it with an unhappy face and a dejected air. A bed had been provided for him in one of the other towers in the hope that it would prove cool. This, as it happened, had been unnecessary. He had been so full of his troubles that he had been unaware of the heat. Sleep being impossible, he had spent the hours of darkness pacing up and down or writing in his small and precise hand in a book which he always carried with him. A dozen times he had reached a decision. “I’ll throw everything to the winds!” he said to himself each time. “I’ll follow her to France where I’ll have a chance, perhaps, to make her change her mind about me.” Each time, however, he had realized that to leave now was impossible. He was a Le Moyne and must do his share in the Great Plan (as the younger brothers called it among themselves) to which all of them were committed. Personal considerations could not be allowed to count. He had his own part of the work to do and must persevere to the end, no matter what it might cost him.

He left his room early and was very much surprised to find that Gabriel was down before him. Gabriel was the ninth of the brothers. He was nearly sixteen and he carried himself with great dignity.

Gabriel was sitting in the darkened salon of the apartment that the family occupied on their rare visits to Longueuil and was rattling the dice on the trictrac board with an impatient hand.

“You’re up early,” said Jean-Baptiste.

“I couldn’t sleep. I don’t think I slept one minute all night. Do you want to play me a game?” He changed his mind immediately on that point. “No, you always beat me. Charles says you’re the clever one of the family. He’s always saying things like that, drawing comparisons and finding fault.”

“Is Claude-Elizabeth up?”

Gabriel nodded. “She’s in her room, writing letters.” The ninth brother gave the dice an impatient flip. “Now why does Claude-Elizabeth go to such trouble to write letters to people? Does she forget she was lady in waiting to Madame de France^[1] before Charles saw her and brought her back? Why should she write letters?” He scowled importantly. “Of course it’s proper for people to write to her.”

[1]	The eldest daughter of King Louis XIV.

Jean-Baptiste decided to give the young man a piece of advice. “You should never say things like that, Gabriel. I’ve been keeping an eye on you lately and I must tell you now that you’re much too proud. You never care what you say or how much you hurt people’s feelings.”

“St. John-before-the-Latin-Gate!” exclaimed Gabriel. He opened his mouth and emitted a resounding guffaw. “You’re daring to lecture me, you bookworm! So! You’re the sagacious one, the Ulysses of the family! To me you would look perfect in the white cap of the Captain of the Head.” After this reference to sanitary arrangements on seagoing vessels, he broke off and with the most complete friendliness gave his brother a clump on the back. “Have you heard the news? Pierre is coming here today!”

The face of the Sieur de Bienville became suffused with joy. “I heard a hint of it last night!” he exclaimed. “Charles told me of the rumor he’d heard in Montreal that Pierre was due to arrive. It seemed too good to be true. Gabriel, are you sure about it?”

The younger brother nodded excitedly. “A messenger came with the news before daybreak. Pierre got to Montreal at midnight. He was going to get a few hours’ sleep before crossing the river.” He indulged in a dance step, twirling one toe high in the air. “Jean-Baptiste! He has conquered Newfoundland! Every village in the Isle of Fogs had surrendered before he left. All the church bells in Montreal will be ringing now to announce the victory. Donc-donc! How I wish I was there! The streets will be jammed with people and all the women will be out in their best and the taverns will be filled——”

A sudden hurry took possession of Jean-Baptiste. “I must see Claude-Elizabeth at once,” he said.

Gabriel paused in his gyrations. “I can’t understand why the wife of the Seigneur of Longueuil, with a great man from France in the house as a guest, and Pierre coming this morning, should be staying in her room to write letters. Well, my wise Jean-Baptiste, run along and talk to her. She’ll be glad to see you. She seems to like you.” After a pause he added, “We all have our tastes.”

The Sieur de Bienville walked up a handsome stone staircase to the second floor. His knock on the door of his sister-in-law’s bedroom was answered by a prompt and pleasant “Come in.” Nevertheless he turned the knob with some hesitation and did not at first venture to put a foot inside.

Claude-Elizabeth, the wife of the seigneur, was so completely French in the eyes of the family (although she had been sent out from France as a girl to attend the Filles de la Congrégation) that they were always a little diffident in their relations with her. Jean-Baptiste had never been inside this much discussed room, which was furnished entirely with beautiful things from Paris. He had seen some of them when they arrived and were taken out of their crates but they had not seemed as fine then. This room, he decided, glancing about him with a feeling of awe, must be the most perfect thing in the world. Certainly there could be nothing finer than the low ivory-colored bed with scenes painted on the headboard (no gloomy four-poster with cobwebs on the tester for the chatelaine of Longueuil) or the commode of the same shade which she used as a dressing table and which sparkled with costly toilet articles. The room was carpeted softly and luxuriantly and there were hangings of lutestring, a glossy silk material, at all the windows. He was surprised to see the curtains because he knew that the windows were filled with what was called “jealous glass.” It admitted light but made it impossible for anyone to see into the room.

“Well, Jean-Baptiste?” said his sister-in-law, turning her head to look at him.

“Claude-Elizabeth,” he said in a hesitant tone, “I’m hoping you’ll say a word to Charles for me.”

She smiled at him affectionately. “I’ll do anything I can for you but I’m afraid it will be of no use to speak to Charles. It’s about the girl, of course——”

He interrupted, shaking his head dismally. “No, not that. That’s all settled. I’m not to see her again. I thought you knew.”

“I’ve had no chance to talk with Charles since this”—she dropped her voice—“this dreadful person came. Jean-Baptiste, this Monsieur de Mariat makes my flesh creep.” She reached out a hand and patted his arm. “I’m very sorry about this sad ending to your romance. But I must tell you that I think Charles was right about it. I’m glad you’re being so sensible.”

“I can claim no credit for common sense.” A flush spread over his thin, sensitive face. “Marie made the decision. She wanted to go back to France so much that nothing else counted. She talked to Charles and—and made her own terms.” He had been keeping his head bent but now he looked up and she saw that his face wore a new expression, one of determination. “Since this has happened to me I should be allowed some say as to what I’m to do now. I must go this time to Mort Bay^[2] with Pierre. It may be the last chance to have a hand in the fighting. Everywhere now you hear it said that the King will soon make peace with the English. I must go this time! I must!”

[2]	A term sometimes applied to Hudson’s Bay by the French who resented the name bestowed on it by the English.

His sister-in-law had gone on scratching at the paper in front of her as they talked. Now she swung around in her chair, surprised at his sudden vehemence. Her dark eyes regarded him with grave concern.

“There are two reasons why Charles doesn’t think you should go,” she said. “And they sound like very good reasons to me. In the first place you’re not overly strong. To fight under Pierre—well, it’s not work for boys.”

The eighth brother began to argue his case in an eager voice. “I’ve had my term in the navy. I’m stronger than any of you think. I’ve been training myself all year—running, swimming, fencing. I could stand a campaign under Pierre.”

“But Charles says you’re better fitted for more important things. You are a scholar, Jean-Baptiste, and there will be so much for you to do that none of the others can. I suppose it would have something to do with administration. Your older brothers feel they can’t risk you, Jean-Baptiste.”

A change came over the boy. The diffidence with which he had begun the conversation left him completely. He began to speak clearly and vigorously.

“Claude-Elizabeth, you probably have heard of a man in Montreal named Laurent Guillet. He’s a merchant in hides and leather. Laurent Guillet is the unhappiest man in all of New France. I’m mentioning him because I don’t want to find myself another Laurent Guillet later on.”

“It was this way. When Adam Dollard saw the chance to save Montreal by going out to meet the Iroquois at the Long Sault, Laurent Guillet was one of the first to volunteer. But he didn’t go. He got the smallpox and he was unconscious when the party left. By the time he recovered, Adam Dollard and all his men were dead. But they had saved the country! He felt so badly that he began to call himself the Man Who Stayed Home. Everyone knew he had meant to go and naturally no one blamed him—but that name stuck to him. He’s an old man now but he’s been called it ever since.... None of the Le Moynes have ever stayed home! When there’s been fighting to do, anywhere, on land or water, they’ve taken the lead. Am I to be the first to stay home?”

Claude-Elizabeth, who was blessed with understanding, made no effort to meet this argument. She regarded him solicitously for several moments and then said she would speak to her husband. “You’re being wise about the girl and very brave about this other matter,” she said. “You must be allowed to go with Pierre. I can see that. You must have a chance to win your spurs like the rest. I’ll have a word with Charles. Run along now, dear boy, and don’t worry about it any more.”

Jean-Baptiste took one of her hands and kissed it fervently. “You’re wonderful, Claude-Elizabeth!” he exclaimed. “I’ve always looked up to you and admired you. I think I fell in love with Marie because she looked like you—when you were younger.”

“Thanks for the modified compliment,” she said, smiling at him. “I’m glad you like me. Some of the others don’t. Gabriel always looks at me as though he considers me completely worthless. He’s very young and brash but he frightens me.” She gave his shoulder a pat and turned back to her correspondence. When he reached the door, however, she looked up again. “Were you very much in love with your Marie, Jean-Baptiste?”

He became instantly again the uncertain hobbledehoy who had entered the room. He blushed and stammered as he replied: “Yes, Claude-Elizabeth. Charles says I’ll get over it but I—I’m sure I never shall.”

“You will, my dear Jean-Baptiste. Everyone does. You see, there are very few people who haven’t made a great renunciation at some time in their lives. It will surprise you how quickly this wound will heal.”

Gabriel was still loitering about downstairs. “You were a long time,” he said accusingly. “If I didn’t know what a frozen stump of a fellow you are, all brains and book learning, I might think you were making love to your brother’s wife.” He began to shuffle his feet excitedly. “We’re getting ready to give Pierre a big reception. Twelve-and-One-More is preparing food for a hundred people. Charles, that prigging miser, will have to dig down into his purse to pay for this. There will be a mass on the common because the chapel holds so few. Charles, the old money-bags, ought to build a larger chapel.”

Jean-Baptiste nodded his head with equal delight in the prospects. “Pierre will be pleased. He likes it when people pay him attention. Won’t it be grand, Gabriel, to see him like this, coming back a victor and with a laurel wreath in his hair!”

“What’s that, poetry?” demanded Gabriel contemptuously.