Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 14

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hile the people of Longueuil were gathering to welcome D’Iberville the seigneur sat in his tower room with Joseph de Mariat. It was easy to see that Charles le Moyne felt some resentment at the confidence of his visitor’s manner, which came very close to condescension. He had been polite and complimentary but he had been on his guard. He had seldom taken his eyes from the large white face in which cupidity and guile lurked behind an outward suggestion of amiability.

The man from France extended a gold snuffbox. It was a handsome and costly specimen with a pearl-embroidered miniature of the King on the lid. Its owner raised his eyebrows when the seigneur refused. “It’s the very best from Brazil. You never take snuff? Odd. Odd, indeed.”

“We’re far removed from the luxuries of the world. We have simple habits, m’sieur.”

The visitor regarded the box with an eye of great pride. “A gift from His Majesty,” he said. “I prize it so much I never trust it out of my hands, M’sieur le Baron.”

His small shrewd eyes were fixed intently on his host as he said this. When the latter reacted to the form of salutation with a start of surprise he burst into a laugh which caused his fat sides to quiver. “Your pardon, if you please, for permitting my tongue, over which I generally have complete control, to wax prophetic. Still, my good friend Charles, if you will allow me to call you that, it was an understandable slip. I’ve a reputation at court as a prophet and I’m prepared to stake it on this: you will soon be the Baron of Longueuil, perhaps within a year. It’s written in—in the political stars.”

His host’s face flushed with excitement. No longer content with the ennoblement of the family, which had come in his father’s time, he felt that the Le Moynes had earned something more. This first indication that his efforts to secure a title seemed likely to succeed afforded him the most intense satisfaction.

“I shall be very happy, my good friend Joseph, if time proves you to be right in this matter,” he said.

De Mariat began to indulge in a habit of his, when engaged in conversation, of sharpening a quill point (which tended to make timorous people uneasy as it suggested he was about to set down dangerous evidence or draw up some damning legal document), taking great pains to get it sharp and even. Without looking up, he asked, “You would like this title very much, my good Charles?” Not waiting for an answer, he went on. “Brush all doubts from your mind. The King has promised. It’s his way to give his word and then delay in the fulfilling of it. A caprice of greatness, you understand. Although the title will be yours, it will come in his own good time. Six months, nine, a year perhaps. It may be that when the news of D’Iberville’s victories reaches him he will have the papers drawn at once. The royal ear catches and prizes every whisper of glory for France and himself.” He looked up and tapped his thumb with the quill. “I had a double purpose in coming to New France. To acquire a full understanding of the fur trade. And to propose an alliance with you, Charles le Moyne.”

The seigneur had sensed what was in his visitor’s mind from the first moment of his arrival and he had given much thought in advance to the expected suggestion. He knew that De Mariat, although he held no ministry, wielded power in the inner council at Versailles. Of all the royal officials with whom he dealt, De Mariat was the most prompt and satisfactory. He would be a valuable ally; on that score the seigneur had no doubts at all. But he was ambitious, greedy, an opportunist, not to be trusted entirely. It was a trying situation to face.

As their eyes met and held, for the first time since the discussion began, Charles le Moyne said to himself: “But, after all, there’s no one I can trust at Versailles. They’re all selfish and unscrupulous. This man can be depended on, at least, to carry through his part of our plans. He doesn’t allow letters to gather dust on his desk. He gets results.”

Finding that he had thus in a few seconds come closer to reaching a decision than he had been able to do the night before after hours of careful thought, the Seigneur of Longueuil leaned forward across the desk.

“I may tell you,” he said, “that the same idea has been in my own mind. But before we can come to any agreement you must know what we’re planning to do. It’s an ambitious idea. It may yield us more credit than wealth. And it may not be to your liking, m’sieur.”

The man from France fitted his penknife back into its leather sheaf. “Tell me about it, then,” he said.

“First, a question. Does it surprise you that of ten brothers not one has offered himself for service in the Church?”

“It is—somewhat unusual.”

“It was not because of any lack of religious feeling. That I assure you. It was because we are men of action. We knew we could better serve our heavenly Father in other ways. I want you to understand that with us our duty to the Church and to the King comes before any thought of reward for ourselves.”

Joseph de Mariat inclined his head to express his understanding of this.

“We Canadians see the dangers of our situation clearly. And even more clearly we see the great destiny which lies ahead of us. If we can grasp it, m’sieur, or rather if we are permitted to grasp it. The seaboard lands can’t be taken away from the English but all the rest of this great continent must be ours. There’s a way to win it. La Salle knew what that way was but he was hampered by neglect and carelessness. La Salle is dead. It’s for us to finish what he began, the men of New France, and most particularly the family of Le Moyne. There are seven of us left. Can seven Le Moynes finish what one La Salle began? I think so, m’sieur.”

The top of the desk was covered with articles of silver. The seigneur was a zealous patron of native art and he liked to have a few specimens about him. The collection before him now included a boldly executed silver cup of a singular purity of design, a small écuelle with a thimble handle which could be used as a dram cup, and a handsome platter on which the Le Moyne crest had been raised. All these pieces were the work of a young silversmith of Quebec, one of the graduates of the school Bishop Laval had established at Cap Tourmente.

Charles le Moyne was so absorbed in what he was saying that, for the first time perhaps, he was completely unaware of these prized items from his collection. When his hand touched the cup by mistake, and knocked it over, he did not realize what had happened.

“Much of what I’m going to say is an old story to you,” he went on. “But I must say it again. If we can take the Mississippi into our control, with a great port at its mouth and with forts placed at strategic points, we can lock the English in between the river and the sea. But no time is to be lost. The English are pouring across the sea. They outnumber us already. Say what you like about them, they make good settlers, these sons of shopkeepers. They’re clearing the land, building towns, spreading out like floodwater when a dam bursts.” He paused to study the face across the desk from him, wondering how frank he could afford to be. “We mustn’t mince words, my friend Joseph. Our King, generous though he is, hasn’t the right conception of this problem. He still restricts the number of settlers allowed to come out. He hampers us with laws. He wants to dictate to us how we are to live and work—even how we are to die.”

“His Majesty,” declared De Mariat with a throaty chuckle, “would fall into a great fury if he heard you say that. But rest easy, my good Charles. I am no talebearer. His Majesty aims to make New France the ideal feudal state. He doesn’t want you to think. He believes you Canadians should be content to stand on a rampart and hold a musket, and in your off hours cultivate a garden patch.”

“Here is the difference, as I see it,” declared Le Moyne. “The English decided from the start that America was to become a country for white men. We plan to keep it a country for red men—with settlements here and there from which Frenchmen may control them and save their souls.”

“I’ve never heard it put that way before,” said De Mariat. “But I believe, my good Charles, that you have stated the two policies accurately.”

Watching the face of his companion closely, Le Moyne said, “It’s a policy nevertheless which won’t change until—until a very sad event transpires at Versailles.”

There was a longer pause, the two men nodding slowly to each other in somber agreement. “Let us then talk about this openly and frankly,” said Le Moyne finally. “If we’re to make any move at all we must do it without delay. As there’s no chance to match the English in numbers, we must pit against the inexorable growth of our enemies the qualities in which we excel—our vision, our daring!”

“Yes!” exclaimed De Mariat, whose part would be to sit at a desk and write letters and keep the threads of petty intrigue in his hands. “St. Christophe, yes! We have imagination, we have verve, we have a—a sense of destiny!”

“There’s a great empire to be won,” declared Le Moyne, not pausing to think what it would mean in terms of hardship and suffering and bloodshed to the men who, like the Le Moynes, must see to the winning of it. His eyes began to gleam with a trace of fanaticism which surprised his companion, who knew him as a keen man of affairs and the builder of a fortune under difficult circumstances. “Never in the history of the world has there been such an opportunity! Here we have a continent many times larger than all of Europe, perhaps greater than all the rest of the world put together. It teems with riches—fur and fish and, somewhere, gold. It’s a greater opportunity, Joseph de Mariat, than you have ever realized.” He paused and brought his eyes back to a scrutiny of his guest’s face. “You’ve asked to be a partner. What can you bring to such an alliance?”

The man from Versailles straightened up in his chair. His manner became brisk. “I must tell you first that I’ll never be a member of the ministry as long as the King lives. The old woman^[3] will see to that. I’m not an appointee of hers and so she regards me as a potential enemy. She laughs at the size of me and calls me ce petit Mariat. Sometimes she calls me ce ladre-là, even to my face. There’s an advantage in having her call me a skunk. Those she likes are invited to talk to the King in her apartments. They meet there in the mornings and evenings. She listens, smiles, puts in her opinion. The decisions seem to be made by the King but this I tell you, they come from the old witch herself. Now I, ce petit Mariat, am in a much better position. I have an alliance with the Pen.^[4] I sit at a desk at the center of things. Letters pass through my hands, often before they reach the ministers. His Benign Majesty passes that desk several times a day. Always he stops and talks to me. Matters are settled between us—quick! Like that! Matters of which the old woman never hears. Sometimes I think I have more influence over him than anyone. My good Charles, I am a paradox. I am nothing, I am everything!” He smiled triumphantly. “What can I bring to the alliance? I will tell you. A chance to fill the ears of His Majesty with your accomplishments and your needs. The certainty that I can bring all matters to immediate consideration. The chance to influence him favorably about supplies and ships and soldiers. And”—he drew up one corner of his face in a wink—“an ear to hear what’s being said and done, to learn of opposition early. I offer you, my good Charles, the most useful pair of ears in all of France, a tongue which has learned how to persuade the King to any action, and a brain. The best brain in Versailles, as I have no hesitation in proclaiming.”

[3]	Madame de Maintenon, the King’s mistress and later his unacknowledged wife.

[4]	Louis XIV had a secretary who could imitate the royal handwriting and who attended to all his correspondence. The Pen, as this indispensable servant was called, exerted an influence over the King which even Madame de Maintenon could not shake.

The two men, as though by an unspoken agreement, allowed themselves to sink back into their chairs. For several moments they studied each other without a word being said. Then they smiled and nodded their heads. Le Moyne’s smile was a wry one, for he still felt a reluctance to this arrangement which necessity was forcing on him.

“Then it’s agreed?” demanded De Mariat.

“It’s agreed.”

The King’s officer set to work again on the point of the quill but kept his eyes to their task of watching the Seigneur of Longueuil. “Shall we discuss terms now?”

The seigneur shook his head. “Let the details wait for our next talk. There will be no difficulty about the terms, I assure you. Today there are other matters to be settled which are more pressing.”

“Very well. We’ll do things your way.”

“We have so much to do and so little time left. D’Iberville will leave again in a few days to meet the ships coming from France, and then he sails to attack the English in Hudson’s Bay. When the conquest of the bay has been accomplished, a second fleet must be ready to seize the mouth of the Mississippi. If this program is to move forward without hitch we must have every move planned in advance.”

De Mariat continued to scrape away at the pen point. “It’s clear,” he said, “that you’ve never been put to the necessity of getting the King’s consent to anything. This was what he said when the question of the Mississippi was last broached: ‘Haven’t I supplied ships for the Hudson’s Bay? Must I promise more before we know the results of the first? Am I made of ships?’ There is this to be said, he is hard pressed for funds at the moment.... Now allow me to explain how best it can be done. When D’Iberville has captured Fort Nelson he must sail at once to France and make the request for more ships himself.” The large man leaned back in his chair and crossed one gross leg over the other. “You see? It is perfect! The hero of New France, with the laurels of victory on his brow, comes to lay another conquest at the feet of his King and begs a chance to prove his devotion in another field. It’s the kind of thing our far from modest monarch has never been able to resist.”

The seigneur had listened with a startled air. “But have you thought what this would mean? If my brother is fortunate enough to finish the campaign before the ice closes the bay for the winter, he would have to turn his ships eastward as soon as the fighting was over. Can you conceive of the hardships? What would he do with his wounded? Leave them at Fort Nelson for the winter or carry them across the Atlantic? Either way they would die like flies.”

The court official raised his brows. “You know the danger of delay,” was his only comment.

Charles le Moyne pondered the matter with a worried frown. “We must discuss this with Pierre. After all, it’s for him to decide.”

De Mariat uncrossed his legs and got to his feet, thus calling attention to the fact that the canions on the ends of his breeches were so expertly tailored that they concealed the garters which held up his hose. This was a nicety the tailors of New France had not yet mastered. He was so richly attired, in fact, that the seigneur had been in a state of amazement ever since his arrival the evening before. “And yet to judge this man a fop,” said the latter to himself, “would be a very serious mistake. He has spun a web at court and sits in the center of it like a watchful spider.”

The visitor cleared his throat. “My grandfather,” he declared, “was a poverty-stricken merchant in Marseille. Your grandfather, my dear Charles, was an innkeeper at Dieppe.”

“That is true. My father was a remarkable man and I take pride in what he accomplished.”

“There’s an interesting speculation for us to share. Someday the grandson of the Dieppe innkeeper may be the greatest man in America. Someday the grandson of the ship chandler of Marseille may be ...” He paused and shook his head. “No, I mustn’t put into words the full scope of my ambitions. This much I’ll say, I aim high.” He reached out one of his great soft hands and placed it on the seigneur’s shoulder. “My very good Charles, what a splendid thing it would be if we could bind our interests more closely together by a matrimonial alliance. My fine little son is six years old. Now if you had a daughter ...”

The seigneur answered with a haste which might have suggested a sense of relief. “No, m’sieur. My only daughter has espoused Holy Church. She is with the order of the Augustines in Quebec.”

“But your wife—a woman of singular charm, my good Charles—might still supply the deficiency. Let us keep it in mind. I take the greatest pride in my small Auguste. You should have observed him killing ants, the little rascal, when he was less than a year old. With the heel of an old shoe. The sight of blood always made him fairly dance with excitement. Does that mean he will be a soldier? And what an instinct he has for acquisition! Before he was three he had filled the space under his bed with things which had caught his fancy. When anything was missed, one knew exactly where to look. Ah, what a promising boy!” He removed his hand from his host’s shoulder. “Keep what I’ve said in mind, Charles, keep it in mind.”