Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 7

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Charles le Moyne had asked directions of a friendly Sulpician at the gate and had received a prompt reply which suggested to him that the affairs of the young widow were matters of general knowledge. “You must go to the shop of the gallipot”—it was not surprising to hear a colloquial term on the lips of the priest, for the Sulpicians were close to the life of the town—“the one above the Rue Notre Dame. She has rented a room over the shop.”

Walking down the sloping street, the Seigneur of Longueuil carried his hat in his hand and occasionally used it as a fan. The heat was becoming more intense and he thought regretfully of the distance he must walk to reach the chemist’s shop. There was not the faintest hint of a breeze, although below he could see the wide stretch of the river. The people he passed saluted him with the greatest respect.

A bell jangled when he opened the door of the shop and the proprietor, Damase Lafleur, came out from a back room. When Le Moyne stated his errand the chemist pointed to another door at the rear and said, “You will find her in, monsieur,” a superfluous piece of information as a light footstep could be heard on the floor above.

The head of the great family of Le Moyne, the wealthiest and most justly respected and talked-about family in all New France, climbed a dark staircase. His tap on the door above elicited a clear “Entrez!” which made him sure he had selected the right one, for the natives of Montreal were more inclined to say, “Ouvrez.” He turned the knob and found himself face to face with a young woman in a camisole of the high orange shade known as nacarat. She had a veil of the same color wrapped about her head and she had a broom in one hand.

“Good morning, monsieur,” she said with a rising inflection which turned the greeting into a question.

Charles le Moyne had been startled by her attractiveness. She had dark brown eyes which looked unusually large under the impromptu head covering, her nose was delicately and piquantly modeled, her mouth vivid both in color and shape. She was Parisienne in every line: the careless chic with which the camisole was wrapped about her (on closer inspection the garment seemed worn and in need of the needle with which she made her living), the fineness of the lace which showed briefly under the rolled-up sleeves, the trim and diminutive tip of a slipper seen at intervals under the frayed hem of the skirt.

“I apologize for intruding on you at such an early hour,” said the seigneur, bowing. “Perhaps the fact that I must leave Montreal at noon will seem to you an excuse.”

“You are forgiven, Monsieur le Moyne,” said the girl. He was so startled by her recognition of him that she laughed and added: “I’ve been expecting you. You will come in?”

He walked into the room, continuing to study her as he did so. She was tall and quite slender and she carried herself with an unmistakable air. “She’s no cocotte,” he said to himself. “One might easily be deceived into thinking her a lady.”

“You will take the chair, please,” she said. “There’s only one, as you see. This,” seating herself on the side of the bed, “will do for me. And now, monsieur, you have come, I think, to speak of your brother.”

“Yes.” Le Moyne nodded his head approvingly. He liked the directness of her attitude. “Jean-Baptiste has been coming to see you. It seems that he has become—I suppose ‘enamored’ is the word.”

The girl said with dignity, “He has done me the great honor of falling in love with me and has asked my hand in marriage.”

“Indeed? You will pardon me for betraying my surprise. You see, Jean-Baptiste is a boy. He’s barely eighteen. Hardly the age, you will agree, to be thinking of matrimony.”

The girl’s eyebrows went up. “A little early perhaps. But the Sieur de Bienville seems very mature for his age. And, m’sieur, he has property of his own.”

“Under the terms of his father’s will,” said the seigneur quickly, “he has no control over his inheritance yet. That is in my hands. Madame, do you care to tell me your age?”

“I am twenty,” she answered. Then she smiled. Her face became so lovely that her visitor wondered uneasily if he could maintain a proper degree of firmness in dealing with her. “You thought older, perhaps? I’m not surprised. I have been married and I am a mother. But I am being truthful, monsieur. I am twenty. Your brother is only eighteen. Is it an obstacle?”

Charles le Moyne saw no reason why he could not use the direct methods he found most useful in matters of trade. “Are you in love with my brother?” he asked.

“No.” The girl shook her head and then smiled again. “You see how truthful I am being? But, m’sieur, I am fond of Jean-Baptiste. I am very fond of him. I thought once I was in love but—but after a very short time I realized I had fallen out of love most completely. I don’t think, m’sieur, I shall ever find myself in love again.”

“You are being frank indeed. But under these circumstances what answer have you given my brother?”

“I’ve given him no answer. If I am to stay in this wild country I must marry again. Could I find a more congenial husband than my sweet and gentle Jean-Baptiste? That is what I have said to him. I have been most frank in all our talks.... But, m’sieur, I don’t want to stay here. This country, it frightens me! I hear stories of the Indians and of terrible dangers. I hear of the great cold and it makes me shudder, even on a warm day like this. I have one desire and only one. To return to France. To Paris. To go back on the very first boat!”

A sense of satisfaction had taken possession of her visitor. “I can arrange this,” he said to himself. “How deftly she puts her case! She threatens us but in a most agreeable way.”

As he was thus turning matters over in his mind his eyes had been fixed on a woolen robe thrown carelessly on the floor at the foot of the bed. Noticing the direction of his gaze, she gave her head a barely perceptible toss. “It’s not a covering of flax stalks, m’sieur,” she said. “And there are no men hidden under it.”

The seigneur was puzzled. He was a devout man, as were all the people of New France, but it was apparent that his devotion had not led him to much reading of the Vulgate.

The girl proceeded to explain. “You must have heard what I’m being called. The woman who lives on the wall.” She motioned toward the one window in the room and he became aware for the first time that it looked out directly on the palisade. “There was a woman once who lived on a wall and she hid the spies of Joshua under stalks of flax. Don’t you understand what I’m trying to tell you? Or is it that you don’t want to believe?”

“I don’t need to be convinced,” he declared. This was true. He had become sure since seeing her, and talking with her, that her morals were above question. “You seem to have been educated somewhat above the—the station in life in which you started.”

She shook her head. “No, m’sieur. I had no education at all. But I wanted to get above my station in life and so I watched and listened and asked questions.” She stopped and looked up at him with appeal in her eyes. “Have you any idea what it’s like to be a servant? No, m’sieur, you couldn’t know about it. It is—a most unpleasant life, I assure you.”

“Have you any money left?”

“No, m’sieur. When my husband’s family decided to send us here they gave him quite a lot of money. At least it looked a fortune to me. But Jacques was a quick spender. When we got on board the ship there was little of it left.” She hesitated. “He was a great drinker. I seem to remember him most when he was drunk. At the end I was—I think I was beginning to hate him.”

He studied her in silence for several moments, realizing that he had already begun to like her. Finally he said, “It would be unfortunate if a second marriage involved you in more family complications.”

The girl gave him a steady look. “Yes, m’sieur.”

“Perhaps it could be arranged to get you back to Paris.”

Before going any further the head of the Le Moyne family walked to the window to allow himself a chance to give the situation final consideration. He noticed as he crossed the room that the furniture was homemade and consisted of only the most necessary pieces. Although the bed and the table and the single chair were square and solid, they exhibited nevertheless a few characteristic touches which raised them above the level of the commonplace: a nicety of proportion, a care shown in the finishing of the wood, a suggestion of grace even in some of the simple detail. There was artistry in the work of the Norman peasants who had settled the new land.

There was a cradle at the foot of the bed and he became aware of a pair of solemn eyes peering at him from behind it. They vanished immediately.

His mind was made up when he returned from the window. “I see my way to meet your wishes,” he declared, resuming his seat in the chair. “It will be a matter of some difficulty and expense but the permit can be secured. I shall pay to you a sum adequate for the journey and to keep you two years after your arrival in Paris. In return I must have your promise not to see the Sieur de Bienville again.”

“This makes me feel a very mercenary person. Still!” She paused and then gestured resignedly with her hands. “I’m willing to have it this way. But naturally, m’sieur, we will have to find ourselves in agreement as to what is meant by ‘adequate.’ ”

He nodded briefly. “Naturally.”

A pause followed. It was clear she had something else to say and that she hesitated to do so. Finally she turned her head and called: “Félicité-Ann! Come to Mother, my child.”

The child emerged slowly and reluctantly from her place of concealment. She was barely able to balance herself by holding to the side of the cradle. She stopped and raised a pair of eyes which looked unnaturally large in her thin face. Frightened by his scrutiny, she dropped them immediately.

“It’s my desire that a home be found here for my little Félicité.”

The seigneur was so surprised that he swung around in his chair and stared at the child’s mother. “It’s hard to understand such a desire. A few moments ago you spoke of life here with fear and distaste. Why are you ready to leave the child to a way of living you shrink from yourself?”

“It’s different with children.” There was a trace of defiance in her tone and manner. “If she’s raised here she will never feel about it as I do. I hear children playing in the streets and laughing. They look so strong and healthy. It will be the same with my Félicité.” She leaned forward in her eagerness to justify herself. “M’sieur, there are the best of reasons for leaving her. If I take her back I am chained forever to my past. What will there be to do but go back to being a servant? She in her turn, my poor little girl, will become a servant. M’sieur! I beseech you to consider, to believe, it will be much better for her if she’s put in a home here.” She straightened up and looked at him with an air which had become completely defiant. “And there’s my own life to consider. I refuse to put myself again under the thumb of another woman, to live on scraps of food, to sleep in dark closets! I have a plan, m’sieur, to start my life all over again. And I have a story ready to account for myself. An imposture, yes, but a very clever story. I’ve thought it all out and know I can carry it through. But it’s not a story I could tell, and expect people to believe, if I had a child with me. I’ve explained to Monsieur le Supérieur about the child and he thinks it best to leave her.”

He found enough reason in what she said to overcome his first feeling. “Perhaps it would be better for the child if a fresh start could be provided for her.”

“I’ve been told,” said the mother quickly, “that many families have settled on your land at Longueuil.”

“There are nearly three hundred in the seigneury now,” said Charles le Moyne proudly. “And twenty-seven houses. It’s quite possible that a home could be found with one of the families. I’m willing to try.”

The child ventured another glance at the stranger, at the same time taking a timorous step forward. He smiled and held out his arms to her. “Come,” he said. “You see, Madame Halay, she likes me already.”

“My poor little Félicité!” said the girl. “She isn’t a pretty baby, as you can see, m’sieur. But it’s nothing to be concerned about. I was an ugly little creature until I was about eight years old. Then I changed.” She favored him with a sudden smile. “Would you say I turned out badly, m’sieur?”

“No,” answered the seigneur with a suggestion of haste in his voice. “You turned out so well that we must get you back to France as fast as we can.”