CHAPTER XVI.
A VICE-REGAL BANQUET.
THE Count de Frontenac entertained the dignitaries of the colony at one of those late suppers which had been so severely denounced by the clerical authorities, but which were so highly enjoyed by the more worldly portion of the community. The service of the table was arranged with elaborate magnificence. Clusters of lights flashed on gold and silver plate. The banquet consisted of four courses. Chicken soup was served first; then followed prime legs of mutton garnished with chops, and choice venison pies whose pale gold-colored crust was raised in fanciful shapes. Between the roasts were dishes of plover, woodcock and partridges roasted on the spit, and strings of larks served by the half-dozen on the little splinters of wood upon which they had been cooked. The third course consisted of entrées, salads, both sweet and salt, perfumed omelettes, blanc-manges, burnt creams, fritters and fruit pies. The fourth was dessert, for which there were fruits piled in pyramids, cakes, macaroons, march-paine and preserves of various kinds, the whole accompanied by the fashionable French wines of the day.
As a host, stately, brilliant, imposing, the Governor-General was at his best. The winning grace that tempered his strenuous will, the delicate condescension of his bearing, charmed his guests, as they had ever the power to bind his own party into devoted adherence.
“A last toast before we leave the table: ‘To the glory of our arms.’ Help yourselves, gentlemen, and here’s to you,” carrying to his lips a golden goblet engraved with the family arms, “To the glory of our arms.”
The guests bowed ceremoniously in acknowledgement, raising their goblets and repeating, “To the glory of our arms.”
The room to which the company adjourned was a long drawing-room with curtains of the finest Turkey red, embossed with a damask pattern. The high carved mantel-piece was painted white. There were rich fauteuils and couches, buhl cabinets and spindle-legged chairs. On rosewood cabinets, inlaid with ivory, stood dainty Japanese jars filled with spices and dried rose-leaves.
The company was as brilliant as beauty and wit could render it. The fascination and marked individuality which have made of Frenchwomen a power, and rendered them an inspiration to the men of their race, stamped on all around them the impress of their aptitudes, their graces, their charm. Card-tables were set out; the older guests played at lasquenet, hombre, piquet and brélan; the younger members of the party revelled in charades and boutrimés, or listened to the soft strains of the théobe. In this charmed circle Madame la Marquise reigned like an empress. Diane, thoroughly in touch with her surroundings, had never looked more beautiful. From the white and silver brocade of her robe rose a regal head and neck; beneath the powdered masses of hair her eyes burned deeply like violet stars.
“The fairest favorite of Versailles cannot compare with this peerless flower of New France!” declared the Governor-General, who was considered a connoisseur in feminine charms. “She has that in her face that would send men to death as to a banquet.”
“Mademoiselle, will you permit an old man whom your freshness has made young again to pay his devoirs? Your father was among my early friends, as Madame la Marquise will bear me witness.” Frontenac made a low bow, his palms steadying his sword, while his spurs clanked and his plumed hat, held in the right hand, swept the ground. He spoke the accepted language of gallantry, uttering the strained courtesies of the Court and high society; but the homage offered was palpably sincere, and carried with it a subtle flattery.
The Chevalier de Crisasi held his place at Mademoiselle de Monesthrol’s side. The Chevalier was owned body and soul by this girl; there was a pathetic dignity in his very hopelessness. Even to hint at his affection, under the present unfortunate circumstances, would have been so glaring a departure from French precedent that the courtly gentleman would have shrunk from attempting it. He could, however, express many varying meanings with his eyes, while the rest of his face remained blandly inexpressive; the most rigid propriety could not deny him that privilege. The slow veiling of his eyes was like a silent salutation. Regarding the Chevalier with attention, Diane, by the aid of that new intuition which vitalized all her faculties, perceived a change in the man with whom in high spirits of girlhood she had carelessly trifled. Is this the misery of sleepless nights and weary days—the sick craving of a heart at variance with itself? A swift thrill of misgiving crossed her mind. Was it possible that her witcheries had helped to crush one upon whom the hand of misfortune had already been laid heavily?
“But she is a Circe, the Demoiselle de Monesthrol, a superb, magnificent creature whose spells are irresistible; but, alas! without heart, without soul, like the coquettes of the Court,” complained d’Ordieux, who found himself secluded from the circle which surrounded Diane, and whose views of matters in general were in consequence somewhat embittered.
“Ah! softly, my friend, softly, but what a comparison! Women of the Circe type to me offer no attraction. I prefer something simple and natural.” Du Chesne laughed with easy frankness as his eyes turned to the spot where Lydia sat looking like a pale blush rose, childishly engrossed with all about her.
“ ‘Simple and natural,’ indeed. How you talk, my cousin. And who could be more simple and natural than our Diane? You are blind because you won’t see,” sharply interrupted Le Ber’s niece, Madame de St. Rochs.
Wife and mother at thirteen, the little lady wore her matronly dignity with exaggerated demureness, or sometimes in the wild exhilaration of youthful spirits forgot it altogether. Now, with her piquant, mutinous face, she looked in her rich costume like some pretty, mischievous child masquerading in the stately robes of a grown woman.
“Sainte Dame! who so sweet to the old and the sick as Diane? who so patient with the little ones? When my baby—”
“When that baby’s mother,” mischievously interrupted du Chesne, his eyes twinkling with fun, “heartlessly abandoned the poor infant in order to enjoy the amusement of sliding with the children, Diane, moved to pity by its desolate condition, doubtless took the marmot under her protection. Say, then, is it not so, cousin?”
“Not at all, du Chesne. Could you believe so wicked a falsehood? I went only to see that no harm befell the little ones, and—”
“And were tempted to join in the amusements. What a situation for a matron of experience!” The young Canadian delighted in provoking his quick-tempered cousin. “And the doll, Cecile, that remained so long hidden in the old oak chest that Armand, believing it a secret concealed from him, became wildly jealous. When the baby was ill, St. Rochs cradled the marmot on one knee and his wife on the other, singing soothing lullabies to the two babies at once. Was it not so, Cecile?” persisted her good-natured tormentor.
Madame de St. Rochs flushed angrily. Tears of vexation sprang to her eyes, though she made a determined effort to control herself.
“Say, then, Cecile, have you heard of the Indian witch who is camped at the foot of the mountain?” It was Diane de Monesthrol who came to the little mother’s relief. “Strange things are told of her. She is said to have attained a marvellous age, and to be possessed of extraordinary powers.”
“She foretold the disasters of the Sieur la Salle,” said Crisasi.
“Let us organize a promenade to visit her,” urged Madame de St. Rochs, who was immediately interested. “Baptiste Leroux can tell us all about her, and guide us to where she is to be found. He is as familiar with the Indian customs as with the five fingers of his hand. A genuine witch, and the sorcery practised by the natives is said to be of the worst possible kind. Ciel! let us go.”
“Oh, fie! then, Cecile; such vagaries are unfitting a dignified matron. Your destiny is already settled. What would you more? A second husband before you are twenty?” The glimmer of laughter was shining in du Chesne’s eyes, though his face was grave.
“Rest tranquil, cousin, it is about your fate I would concern myself. And, oh! there are a thousand things I would know. If Armand is soon to rise in the army?—we have indeed need of a larger income—and Diane? and the Chevalier? and the Sieur d’Ordieux?—yes, I would know what their fortunes are to be—and whether those wolves of Iroquois will end by devouring us all? I would know all.” Madame de St. Rochs would not include Lydia, whose beauty and tractability had never won her favor, and against whom she had conceived a blind and inveterate prejudice.
“Are you so determined to obtain a glance into futurity, Cecile?” Diane’s eyes sparkled with a glance of audacious fun. “Lydia will become a nun of the Congregation of Notre Dame. Cecile will be a great-grandmother before she is forty. The Chevalier will receive a command and win honor and renown. The Sieur d’Ordieux will regain his rights and appear as a great noble at the Court. Armand will be a General.”
“And my cousin du Chesne?”
“Du Chesne will be Governor-General of New France, and subdue the Iroquois and discover new countries for the King,” said Diane, with a momentary stirring of impatience, quick and vital.