CHAPTER XXV.
THE CAMPAIGN PLAN.
On Saturday evening of Chrysler's first week at the Manoir, they went to the Institute. It was a house down the Dormillière Street, that held its head somewhat higher, and tipped it back a little more proudly than the rest,—a long old fashioned wooden cottage, of many windows, and some faded pretensions to the ornamental: still elegant in the light curve of its capacious grey roof, the slender turned pillars of its gallery, separated by horizontal oval arches, its row of peaked and moulded dormer windows, its ornaments, its broad staircase climbing up to the doorway, and the provincial-aristocratic look of its high set-back position in its garden. The name of a rich money-lender, who had been feared in days gone by—"Cletus the Ingrate,"—was mentioned under breath in the stories about it. But ever since his death, many years before, it had been the faded outer shell into which the intellectual kernel of Dormillière life withdrew itself, and in the passage as one entered, the sign "INSTITUT CANADIEN," which had once had its place on the front, might be seen resting on the floor,—a beehive and the motto "Altius Tendimus," occupying the space between the two words.
The interior was a very great contrast to the outside. Its fittings were in the pleasantest of light-hued paints and varnished pine: maps, casts, and pictures enlivened the walls and corners; a handsome library and nucleus of a museum, with reading tables, opened to the left, and a large debating hall to the right—together occupying the whole of the principal floor.
That evening the row of front windows shone with particular illumination for a meeting of Chamilly's supporters, and as Chrysler entered with Haviland and Zotique, they caught from De La Lande the fragmentary assertion, "It is France that must be preached!"
"Aux armes, citoyens!" roared Zotique, entering like a captain on the stage. "Give me my battalion! Write me my letters of marque:" Then throwing one hand in air: "Allons! what has been done?"
The audience sitting around on tables and windowsills, as well as on groups of chairs, laughed boisterously and thumped the floor, and recalled to the proper work of the meeting, commenced a cry of "l'Honorable!"
"The Honorable presides!" intoned Benoit, like a crier; and Genest, accustomed to understand their wishes, seated himself in the chair, while a momentary lull fell over the noisiness.
"A Secretary!"
"De La Lande!"
"Calixte Lefebvre!"
"Le Brun, Le Brun, Le Brun, Le Brun!"
"I nominate our good friend Descarries," smilingly spoke the Chairman.
"Does the meeting agree?"
"Yes!" "Yes!" "Maitre Descarries for Secretary!" "Maitre Descarries!"
"Carried!" were the responses shouted together from all sides.
"We have to consider this evening," continued the Chairman, after the white-wigged official had seated himself in his place as Secretary, "our general organization and appointment of districts. The aim is to work hard for Monsieur during the times coming. The people's meeting to take place to-morrow, is to be addressed for Libergent by Grandmoulin himself, and Picault will be in the county with them till the election. So you see our task is not less than to defeat the whole strength of the Cave. As we fight with men of stature, there is need of valor and address."
"We'll have to pull the devil by the tail!" cried one. The words were those of a common proverb referring to "close shaving."
The Chairman added: "Mr. De La Lande, the floor seems to be already yours."
"I have heard," began De La Lande, "that Grandmoulin has commenced to raise the issue of French patriotism."
"You are right," said Zotique.
"Well, then, why can we not use a like word, that shall go to the heart of the people? Give us a national cry! Let the struggle rest on our fundamental emotions of race! Why can we not"—The face of the impetuous schoolmaster began to flame into eagerness and fire.
"Because," interrupted Haviland, firmly, "we are in this particular country. Would you have us enter upon a campaign of injustice and ill-will? Leave that, and the glory of it, to Grandmoulin and to Picault!"
"But, my chief, the positions of the French and the English!—We who were first, are becoming last!"
"Come here if you please, sir," Haviland said, turning to Chrysler, who rose and advanced to him surprised. Haviland took him, and passing over to De La Lande, placed the hand of the Ontario gentleman in that of the high-spirited schoolmaster, who accepted it, puzzled. "There!" cried Haviland, raising his voice to a pitch of solemnity. "Say whatever you can in that position. That is the position of the Canadian races?"
A shout rose in the hall, and every man sprang to his feet. Cheer rose upon cheer, while De La Lande shook the hand in his with feeling; and the cheering, smiling, and hand shaking, lasted nearly a minute.
It ended at a story by Zotique.
"When I was a boy,"—he began, in a deep, exaggerated voice, and whirling his two arms so as to include the whole of those present in the circle of his address. The cheers and confusion broke into a roar of laughter for a moment, that stifled itself almost as quickly, as they listened.
"We lived for a year in the Village Ste. Aldegonde, near to Montreal. In the Village Ste. Aldegonde there was a nation of boys. All these boys marched in daily to town to the great School of the Blessed Brothers. Along the way to the School of the Blessed Brothers, many English boys lay in wait between us and learning, and we passed certain streets like Hurons passing through the forests of Iroquois. Often we went in large war parties, and repeated the charges of Waterloo for hours up and down streets."
"One afternoon I passed there alone—accompanied by a great boaster. We behold three big English boys. We cross the street. They come after:—get before us:—command us to stop!"
The audience were worked up into suppressed fits, for Zotique's gestures were inimitable.
"My friend the boaster steps forward with the air Napoleonic! He sticks out his breast like this; he shortens his neck, like this; he frowns his brows; he glares at them a terrible look; he cries: 'I am of the Canadian blood!'"
"And what does he do next, gentlemen?" Zotique paused a moment.
—"Runs for his life!"
The roar that followed shook the apartment. Zotique stopped it.
"But what did I do, gentlemen?"
No one ventured to guess.
"I—perhaps because I was of the Dormillière blood—did not run, but looked at the English.—We laughed all together.—And I passed along unmolested."
"Messieurs,—with the exception of our excellent De La Lande, I am afraid it is too often those who lack the virtues of their race who make most cry of it."
The meeting now resumed its discussions.
"We require strategy!" asserted a burly, red-haired lawyer from the
City.
"I confess myself in favor of strategy," admitted Zotique also;
"I am always in favor," said Chamilly, "of the strategy of organized tactics, of the avoidance of useless by-questions, and of spirit and intelligence in attack and defence."
"But you will not let us lie a little in protection of you," retorted
Zotique. "To me the moral law is to beat Picault."
"Assuredly!" the red-haired lawyer said indignantly, looking a half air of patronage towards Chamilly, and breathing in for a steady blast of eloquence: "It is time these ridiculous ideas which forbid us so many successes were sent back to Paradise, and that such elections as the present were governed upon rational principles. We cannot offer the people directly what is good for them; because it is not what they want. What they want, is what we must first of all assume to provide. Once in power we can persuade them afterwards. Gentlemen, to get into power is the first absolute necessity. We cannot defeat the enemy except by opposing to them some of their own methods. Revive the courage of the young men by offering what they deserve—good places in case of success! Replenish the coffers by having our army of contractors to oppose to the ranks of theirs. If they lie, we have a right to lie. If they spend money, we must spend it. If they cajole with figures, surely our advantage as to the facts would enable us to produce others still more astonishing. Human nature is not angelic—and you can never make it otherwise."
"My friend," answered Chamilly, raising his strong frame deliberately, "these are the very principles that I am resolutely determined to battle with all my forces, I care not whether among my foes or my friends. Must our young Liberals learn over again what Liberalism is? The true way to enter polities is none other at any time than to deliberately choose a higher stand and methods. Trickeries are easier and sometimes lead to a kind of success: if our objects were sordid, we might descend to demeaning hypocrisies, we might cheat, we might thieve, perjure, and be puppets, and perhaps so win our way to power; we might think we could use these to better ends, though that doctrine succeeds but rarely;—and perhaps what we might achieve may appear to you of some value, even of great value to you."
"Yet, no, my friends of Dormillière, your very work is to lay the foundations of sincerity deep in this sphere, and to withstand and eradicate the existing political evils. 'One must determine,' said a very great man, 'to serve the people and not to please them.' If some youth replies, 'This is a laborious, troublesome, hopeless occupation, in which there is not reward enough to make it worth my while,' I tell him but 'Attack it: rejoice to see something so near to challenge your mettle, and if you meet the battle boldly so, and ennoble yourself, you will immediately understand how to think of the ennoblement of your people and your country as glorious.' 'Altius tendimus! We move towards a higher!'—The country reads our motto, and is watching what we practise. Give it an answer in all your acts!"
Chamilly's manner of uttering these words produced the only perfect stillness the meeting observed during the evening, for the French-Canadians have a custom of talking among themselves throughout any ordinary debate. Their respect for Chamilly was striking. L'Honorable listened with a smile of pleasure; Zotique looked all loyalty: and the young men beamed their over-flowing flowing endorsation of sentiments worthy of the Vigers, Dorions, and Papineaus, those grand men whose portraits hung upon their walls.
As he stopped, there was a sudden movement all about. A spirit of energy took hold on all. Zotique, posing at the head of a large table in front of the Chair, almost at once had installed De La Lande assistant-secretary, to do the real work of which punctilious old Maître Descarries could only make a courageous show; had swept towards him an inkstand, shaken open a drawer and whipped out some foolscap, and darting his cadaverous eyes from one to another around, despotically appointed them to places of various service, now sharply answering, now ignoring a question by the appointee, while De La Lande scribbled his directions; and everyone was so anxious to find some post that there was no grumbling at his heedless good generalship. In a trice they were all being called for at various tables and corners, which he fixed for the operations of the Committees.
The most zealous and loquacious of those who pressed forward to be given positions of trust was Jean Benoit.
"What pig will you shear?" demanded Zotique, (looking for an instant, as he turned to shout towards another quarter, "En'oyez done; en'oyez!")
"I take the Reveillière."
"The Reveillère is parted among three."—("Be quiet there!")
"Well then,"—grandiloquently,—"I take from St. Jean de Dieu to the parish Church of Dormillière."
"Too much for four?" pronounced Zotique.
Spoon pressed heavily behind Benoit, and whispered something.
"La Misericoide then," said Benoit, hastily.
Zotique shouted to the Secretary: "Jean Benoit the countryside of La
Misericorde!" And to Benoit again:
"There is your committee."
But Jean would have a hand in shoving forward his admired bar-tender:
"Give monsieur something near my own."
"Cuiller—the village of La Misericorde," directed Zotique. "Now, both of you, the chief thing you have to do is to report to us if the Bleus commence to work there. Go; go!"
"Salut, Benoit; how goes it; how is the wife? and the father?—the children also? I hope you are well. Comment ça-va-t-il Cuiller?"—asked Chamilly.
Spoon took the proffered hand with his sleepy grin. Benoit responded by an obsequiously graceful shaking and deliberative loquacity:
"Well; well, Monsieur the Seigneur,—We are very well. The wife is well, the father, the children also. And how is Madame the Seigneuresse? and yourself? The crisis approaches, does it not? Eh bien, at that point you will find Jean Benoit strong enough. I have a good heart, Monseigneur. Once Xiste Brin said to me, 'Monsieur the Director, you have a good heart.' Deign to accept my professions, monseigneur, of a loyalty the most solemn, of a breast for ever faithful."
"I have always accepted your friendship, Benoit, and trusted you," smiled generous Haviland. "See here, Zotique, give Benoit a responsible post.—How different must be our feelings at this priceless service of personal affection from those of our opponents, served only for money."
"No money!" blurted Spoon. "Taurieu! An election without money?"
Chamilly, with one quiet glance, turned away to L'Honorable. "Without 'tin,'—St. Christophe, I say!—St. Laurent!"
"Keep quiet—silence, I pray thee," returned Benoit, and drew his companion aside.
"Why did Benoit call himself Director?" Chrysler asked.
Haviland and the Honorable smiled. Chamilly answered:
"It is a weakness of his ever since he was put on the Board of our Agricultural Society. Do not laugh, unless at the common vanity of mankind."