Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 6

Table of Contents

o words can convey an adequate impression of the small settlement known as Ville Marie de Montréal as it was in the final years of the seventeenth century. It was a town of contrasts. Lying near the mouth of the Richelieu River, which spewed out the hostile Indian war parties, Montreal (as everyone was beginning to call it then) lived its days in suspense and fear. With such a precarious hold on mere existence, it was deeply moved to religion and at the same time gay in all its moods. The fur trade had made this town under the mountain its center and countinghouse, and so Montreal had grown lusty and rich and colorful beyond compare. Grave-faced priests in black or brown habit walked its streets, and long files of devout girls wearing curiously shaped gray cloaks and with wicker baskets in their hands in which they carried to school their books and their daily allowance of wine; but in perhaps greater number were the swaggering coureurs de bois and Indians in meager moosehide and beads (when not actually naked); and soldiers in buff jackets and with bandoleers of bleached leather and black hats with metallic galloon. There were plenty of minor characters to lend liveliness to the narrow streets along the river—quacks with wondrous remedies found in the woods, travelers with tall tales of adventure, and proud officials with four-cornered hats and much lace at neck and wrist.

It could easily be conceived that the spirit of Adam Dollard, brooding over the Place d’Armes, would ask, “What manner of town are ye making of this Montreal which my companions and I gave up our lives to save?”

Perhaps similar thoughts filled the mind of Dollier de Casson one very warm day in mid-July in the year 1697 as he paced about the fine gardens of the Seminary and talked to a companion who pattered with short steps after him. Before becoming the head of the Sulpician Order in Montreal, and thereby lord of the whole island and the lands adjoining, this bent old man had been a soldier, and one of his particular cares had been to improve the defenses. The main object of his stroll this morning was to cast an appraising eye over the completed condition of two stone towers which had been three years in the building. He sighed as he turned back through an avenue of young plum trees.

“We are free of Indian attacks now,” he said to his companion, “but I promise you that a brace of English cannon would reduce these walls in an hour’s time—and so make an end to all this money changing and this selling of brandy to the poor wild fellows of the woods!”

The Sulpicians were all gentlemen but so unassuming that they dressed in the plain garb of the parish priest with its white rabat and navy-blue cuffs and they were addressed simply as “monsieur.” The pudgy little member, who had long before given up the effort to match steps with the tall Superior, did not seem much disturbed. “But first, monsieur,” he puffed, “they would have to make a landing and mount their cannon. It’s nothing to lose sleep over.”

The Superior, who had been the strongest man in France in his campaigning days, smiled down over his gaunt shoulder. “It would take a very great calamity to make you lose sleep, Monsieur Ambrose.”

“There will soon be peace.” The priest made this pronouncement with a cheerful nod of the head. “Every letter we have from France speaks of the ending of the war with the English.”

The smile left the deep-sunken eyes of the old man. “There will never be an ending to the wars with the English,” he declared. He gave vent to a second sigh. “Not until one of us has prevailed.”

The small priest began to laugh. “Monsieur le Supérieur, there is this matter of prevailing to be considered in all things. Consider first the groaning of the sick in the Infirmerie and the snores from the Salle des Lits next door. Which will prevail there? It’s a seesaw which keeps many of us awake at nights.”

“It was a mistake in planning to have them side by side. That I grant you.”

“Last night,” went on the priest, making the most of this opportunity to pour a grievance into the ears of the head of the order, “there was so much groaning and wheezing and blowing of breath and calling for this and that and praying in feeble supplication that not one of us who were well could catch a wink of sleep. And so we fell to discussing among ourselves such questions as, Who is the bravest man in New France?”

“It surely took little talk to settle that.”

“You are right, Monsieur le Supérieur. We were in quick accord there. Our great D’Iberville, of course.”

“Of course, monsieur. No one can compare with that fine captain of ours.”

“And then we fell to asking, Who is the holiest man? There is no need to ask me this time. The answer, monsieur, was you.”

The old man indulged in a dry smile. “Could they have arrived at any other conclusion when I happen to be the head of their own order?”

“And then we set ourselves to a problem which led to much disputing and backbiting and spitting out of contempt. Who, we asked ourselves, is the worst man in Montreal?”

The Superior paused. “I confess to some curiosity in this matter. What decision was reached?”

The priest wagged his head vigorously. “I prevailed this time, monsieur. It was my candidate who was awarded the palm for wickedness and meanness and lechery. Who, monsieur, but that sly snooper into the affairs of other men, that tabellion who fawns on the rich and robs the poor, that practitioner of evil, Jules Alcide Benoit!”

The old man sighed more deeply than before. “I concede it is hard not to think ill of Jules Benoit and yet we should strive to be charitable. This craving for money is a fault in so many. How much meanness and avarice can be shown in the smallest matters of property! This morning, Monsieur Ambrose, I went over the final papers on the Lachine settlement claims. The disputed lands are being portioned out at last. And none of the claimants will yield as much as an inch of land to the boy.”

“What boy, monsieur?”

“I forget sometimes that you are a new arrival and not familiar with all that has happened. After the massacre at Lachine a baby was found, a boy. He was never identified, Monsieur Ambrose. Clearly he’s entitled to the lands of one of the families which perished that terrible night. But which? I’ve made the suggestion that all the claimants give a small slice of what they are to receive and so make up a fair portion for this poor lad. But no, all four contend that he’s no relation of theirs and that they shouldn’t be expected to suffer loss for him.”

The priest nodded. “I can see much justice in what they say.”

“Justice, perhaps. But,” with a worried shake of the head, “it is very hard on this poor young fellow whose parents labored to clear their land with the intent that he would someday reap the benefit.”

They had reached the end of the walk and were turning in under an archway of gray stone when another member of the order came out to meet them, his soutane rustling in his haste. “Monsieur,” he said, “the Seigneur of Longueuil is here to see you.”

The head of the institution paused to catch his breath. The walk up through the gardens had been a hard one and his heart was showing the effects. “Bring Monsieur le Moyne here,” he said, seating himself on a stone bench. His eyes turned toward the east. “If we were just a little higher here, we might see the towers of that great château he has built.”

Charles le Moyne proved to be a man in the middle forties, a little inclined to stoutness and rather more elegantly dressed than was usual among the landowners of New France. He had been wearing a fine hat of the kind known as a tapabord, with a turned-up brim and scarlet silk lining, and he carried it now in his hands as he bowed respectfully to the head of the order. His gray coat was well tailored and his sleek silk stockings were of a matching color. Despite the unusual heat of the day, he was wearing gloves trimmed with ribbon. He was a handsome man and seemed amiable as well as shrewd.

“Monsieur le Supérieur,” he said, “I’ve come to beg some information. About a—a certain lady.”

The head of the institution motioned him to take a seat on the bench. “It will be, I think, about the lady who lives in the house—well, not actually on the wall like Rahab, as is being said, but quite close to it.”

Charles le Moyne nodded in assent. “Yes, it’s about Madame Halay. I hear conflicting stories about her.”

“This much I may tell you at once. She doesn’t make her living as the harlot did on the walls of Jericho.”

The Seigneur of Longueuil asked quickly, “Are you sure of that, monsieur?”

“Quite sure. The morals of this community are our responsibility and when a strange woman—a young woman, moreover, and a most attractive one who dresses with much richness and style—when she comes to Montreal alone, save for an infant daughter, we see to it that her movements are watched. Madame Halay has been under our eyes from the day of her arrival. I may tell you as fact that she has earned nothing that hasn’t come from her diligent needle.”

“She would be easier to deal with if she were the other kind.” Charles le Moyne frowned thoughtfully. “All I know about her is this. She was coming out with her husband and the ship got into difficulties off Little Miquelon. Her husband was drowned.”

“She was brought on to Quebec.” Dollier de Casson took up the explanation. “At Quebec they didn’t know what to do with her and after a time they conceived a most convenient way to handle the matter. They would send her on to Montreal, where there were many men in need of wives. And so—she became our problem.”

“There are many men hereabouts in need of wives. Why does Madame Halay persist in refusing to consider candidates?”

The multitude of wrinkles about the fine dark eyes of Dollier de Casson drew together in a smile. “There are two reasons. First, the young woman professes herself undesirous of marrying any of the young men who have offered. Her first experience, it seems, didn’t leave her enamored of the institution of matrimony. They were sent to New France by her husband’s family, who considered her an unsuitable wife for him.”

Charles le Moyne looked up with surprise. “That is very interesting. I hadn’t heard that part of her story.”

“She was in charge of his younger brothers and sisters. A second marriage, you understand. She wasn’t well enough educated to be a governess, so I assume she was a nursemaid. The family was furious when he married her, particularly when the child arrived to complicate the matter of property succession. I sometimes wonder, monsieur, if the world would not be better off without property!”

“You said there were two reasons for her remaining unmarried. May I ask what the other is?”

“The other reason is that fine young brother of yours. He has always been a favorite with me, that Jean-Baptiste, and I am not surprised the young woman displays a preference for his company.”

“De Bienville is barely eighteen.” The seigneur used the title which their father had selected for the younger brother. There had been ten sons and so it had been necessary to draw on the names of villages in Normandy where old Charles le Moyne had been born. “He’s of a romantic turn of mind. What can you expect at that age? He saw her at church and liked her looks so much he followed her home. It’s certain she encouraged him because I hear he has been to see her many times since——”

“Four times in all. We have been keeping an eye on things. Your brother has been attentive but also most respectful toward the fair stranger in our midst.”

“He wants to marry her.” The seigneur spoke brusquely. “He has stated his intention to me most emphatically. Naturally, it can’t be allowed.”

“No,” said the old man. “It wouldn’t be a suitable match for one of the Le Moynes. I’m sorry I must agree with you, because it’s going to be a blow for poor Jean-Baptiste.”

“He’s a favorite of mine also, monsieur. He’s young but I think he has much promise. I foresee the day when the Sieur de Bienville will play a big part in the empire we propose to create for His Majesty the King on this new continent. When he marries it must be a match in keeping with his prospects. He mustn’t be allowed to throw himself away.”

Dollier de Casson asked quietly, “Is there anything you desire me to do?”

“Can she be sent back to France?”

“You must know that the King thinks only of sending people out here and that he frowns on any suggestion of allowing them to return. I question if the necessary permit could be obtained in this case.”

“Then,” said Charles le Moyne, “there’s only one course open to me. I must see this young woman and make some arrangement with her.”

A look of distress had settled on the old priest’s face. “It is too bad, Charles, but I suppose it must be done. But please, in speaking with her be as considerate as you can. I’m convinced she’s of gentle intent and that she’s doing her best in a difficult situation.”

He had spoken with so much solicitude that Charles le Moyne asked, “Have you seen her yourself?”

“I have seen her twice. Once at church and once in the room she has taken.”

“And what is your opinion of her?”

Dollier de Casson smiled warmly. “I liked her, Charles. She has a tongue in her head and she didn’t hesitate to tell me what she thought. And she’s so pretty, so very pretty. Have you seen her?”

“No. But I hope to within the next hour. I—I will heed what you’ve said and spare her feelings as much as possible. May I encroach on your time again later to let you know the result?”

A hint of authority showed itself in the voice of the old priest. “I must stipulate that you acquaint me with everything which is said between you. This unfortunate young woman has become a charge, a responsibility. I feel most well disposed to her.”

Le Moyne rose to leave but the priest made a gesture to restrain him. “I hear there have been further successes in Newfoundland,” he said eagerly. “That great man, your brother, is winning everywhere! What a leader he is! God has given him to us for a purpose.... Have you heard directly from him?”

The Seigneur of Longueuil gave a quick nod of his head. His eyes had begun to shine. “I had a letter a week ago. He, D’Iberville, expected to have the whole island in his hands soon. He hadn’t encountered a single setback.”

Dollier de Casson’s face had lost all trace of the fatigue and disillusion of age. “Perhaps,” he exclaimed, “this is a sign that we shall be the ones to prevail!”

He saw his visitor to the gate and waved him on his way with an admonitory “Remember your promise, Charles, and be gentle with her.” Turning back, he walked slowly up the hard clay path between the two wings of the gray stone building. In his prime he had been known to set the wheels of a mired cannon to turning without any help; but now he walked with stiff knees and seemed dependent on a knobby cane. He was so bent that he did not notice there was another visitor awaiting him in the entrance. This one was a very tall and stout man with a great round face like an uncured cheese and a pair of sharp eyes set rather closely together in its dead white expanse.

“Good morning—ah—monsieur,” said the other man in a voice which carried a suggestion of water sloshed in a jug. “I’m informed that you’ve had a caller. Monsieur Charles le Moyne.”

The old man painfully straightened his back until his eyes were on a level with the visitor’s. He did not like this official from the court of Versailles who had been in Montreal now for the better part of two weeks and had preferred to stay at the Seminary rather than at any of the inns of the town. Some of this feeling could be read in his manner.

“Good morning, Monsieur de Mariat,” he said. The many speculations in which all Montreal had indulged about the mission of the stranger came flocking back into his mind. He frowned uneasily. “Yes, Charles le Moyne has been here. He has just left.”

“That is too bad.” The official rubbed a finger along the flattened ridge of his nose. “I must see the wealthy and influential Seigneur of Longueuil today. I have—ah—saved him for the last.” He began to laugh and the convolutions of his lower face shook like jelly. “For the dessert, you might say.”

The movements of any visitor, particularly one as conspicuous as this massive member of the King’s secretarial staff, could not be kept secret in a place as restricted as Montreal. Everyone knew that Joseph de Mariat had been closeted for long talks with many of the merchants of the town, all of whom were connected with the fur trade. He had made the rounds of the fur stores and had poked his nose into countinghouses and had talked to the captains of river craft, not neglecting the humblest members of the crews. He had not wasted a single moment of his stay.

It was evident that Dollier de Casson knew all this and found it hard to be polite to his inquisitive guest. His eyes ran over the portly form of De Mariat, noting that the latter, who was always arrayed rather resplendently, had outdone himself this morning, particularly in the matter of buttons. It took many years for a new fashion to penetrate as far as this distant colony but Canadians had known that in France men were discontinuing the use of the time-honored aiguillettes for holding their clothes together and were using a novel device. De Mariat was carrying the idea to such an extreme that he seemed to be literally festooned with buttons. They were not modest buttons, displaying themselves with a fit diffidence as though saying, “Bear with us now while we seem wrong and absurd and in time you’ll discover there’s good sense to us after all.” These particular buttons were gaudy things of Florentine point and in a variety of glaring colors.

The old man began to count them but gave up in despair when he reached thirty. His eye then turned to the De Mariat coat, which was a handsome garment of Levantine cloth, most elaborately damasked.

“Can it be,” he asked himself, observing the stiffness of the tails, “that he uses whalebone like a woman in her stays? Good St. Homobonus, what are we coming to!”

“I fear you will have difficulty in seeing the seigneur today,” said Dollier de Casson after what had been a long pause. “He leaves for Longueuil at noon and in the meantime he is very much engaged.”

“Excellent!” said the visitor. “I shall go with him. It may be that the air across the river will have less of this pestilent heat. I presume”—the sharp black eyes displayed a sudden trace of uneasiness—“there’s no danger of—of Indians being out on the warpath?”

“No, Monsieur de Mariat.” The old man’s face did not change but deep inside himself he was indulging in a smile. “There will be no danger from the Indians. In any event, the château at Longueuil is like the strong places the Maccabees built, a fort of stout walls and high towers. You will be safer there even than here, behind the shaky palisades of Montreal.”