The King's Warrant: A Story of Old and New France

by Alfred H. Engelbach

Of all the glories of nature on this earth there is perhaps not one so gorgeous as that expanse of wooded plain and slope and mountain, clad in the magnificently varied tints of the Canadian fall of the year, which met the eyes of Isidore when, towards the end of his journey, he reined up his horse upon an elevated spot on the banks of the St. Lawrence, a few miles above Quebec. Some three hundred feet below, the broad and noble river glided along between precipitous heights, the red-brown tint of which, interspersed with masses of clustering shrubs, glowed in the yet warm autumn sun, whilst beyond it to the south, and away for miles to the north, were spread out great undulating tracts, bounded by picturesque ranges of lofty mountains, whose waving lines no pen or pencil can adequately describe. The maple, the sumach, and many other forest trees, all changing their hues in the warm dry atmosphere peculiar to the climate, presented everywhere a combination of bright colour beyond the most fantastic flight of imagination, in which every tint, from pale sea-green to dusky olive, from palest primrose through orange and scarlet to deepest crimson, were blended together with a harmony which the hand of nature can alone produce. The utter stillness that reigned around, and the marvellous distinctness with which the most distant objects stood out through the transparent atmosphere, gave a strange and dream-like character to the scene that insensibly led him who looked upon it into that mysterious phase of mind in which we seem to be living over again some moments of a former life. Even the voice of yonder sturdy woodsman, who has just appeared above the brow of the hill, seems to set in vibration the slumbering chord of some memory of things past; yes, and he is vehemently declaiming to the comely matron who trudges beside him about the rascality of that fellow Cadet, the most rapacious of the greedy underlings of Monsieur the Intendant! Truly it is no other than our friend Jean Baptiste Boulanger, who is just hot from a visit to Quebec on some business pertaining to his craft, and whose fond and faithful Bibi has come to meet him by the way.

Isidore and his quondam guide were both glad to meet again. Cadet and his doings were instantly and utterly forgotten, and de Beaujardin could not help being pleased to find that the Canadian had taken so much interest in him that he already knew from the inquiries he had made all about the young soldier's movements, his wound, and other incidents of the past year. His request that Isidore would honour his humble dwelling with a visit was so pressing that the latter consented to do so, and, sending his servant forward to prepare for his arrival somewhat later at Quebec, he accompanied Boulanger and his wife to their cottage, which stood at some little distance from the road. Great was Bibi's anxiety to do honour to their noble guest, and not less great her delight at the commendations he bestowed, not only on the order and tidiness of her little ménage, but also on her three chubby little children, who, notwithstanding divers and sundry private injunctions to the contrary, would occasionally come to the front and gaze open-mouthed and awestruck at so uncommon a visitor. At length Isidore rose to pursue his journey; Boulanger would fain have accompanied him, but this he would not permit, and, after taking the Canadian's directions for regaining the road by a bridle path through the wood in which the cottage was situated, he bade adieu to the honest couple and galloped away.

The ground was more broken than he had expected, and he was soon obliged to rein up his horse. As he did so he thought he heard a rustling in the underwood at no great distance, but it was not until the same thing had occurred two or three times that the thought crossed his mind that some one might be following him. Yet, after all, it might be nothing more than a stray lynx or some such animal, though it seemed strange that it should move when he moved and stop when he stopped. At length he gained the road, and would probably have forgotten the incident altogether had he not accidentally cast a look behind him, when he saw a dark figure amongst the trees just at the point where he had quitted the wood. It disappeared, however, almost instantly, leaving Isidore in some doubt whether it might not have been Boulanger, who, notwithstanding his expressed wish, might possibly have desired to see him safely on the road. At all events he saw no more of it, and riding on soon found himself once more within the great Canadian fortress.

In the evening he paid a visit to Madame de Rocheval, when he learned that that lady intended to embark for France in about a fortnight, taking Marguerite with her, and there was some talk of the possibility of his going by the same vessel. He did not remain long, however, but promised to call again the next day. On the following afternoon he paid his friends a more lengthened visit, and, at his request, Marguerite presently sat down to the harpsichord, as she had been used to do of old, to play to him some music she had recently received from France, and amongst these were some canzonets and other vocal pieces which she begged Isidore to sing.

Those who should best understand these matters say that the tenor is the most common voice with men. It may be so, but certainly the rarest of all voices met with in perfection is the tenor of that marvellous enchanting quality that thrills the very soul of the listener with its heavenly vibrations. Such a voice was that of Isidore de Beaujardin, and the instruction he had received from the best masters at Paris enabled him to use it with uncommon taste and skill. He was just concluding an air of Stradella's, in which the melody and instrumentation alike were perfect, and in which a simple yet stately grandeur alternated with the most touching plaintiveness, when he became aware that some one near to him was sobbing violently. It was not Marguerite, that was certain, though a tear did just then drop on the hand that touched the harpsichord so charmingly. He turned in some surprise, and there kneeling beside him, with her face buried in her hands, he beheld a young girl whom, although her features were concealed from him, he recognised at once; it was Amoahmeh. Even as Isidore ceased, the girl's emotion utterly overpowered her, and she burst into an uncontrollable flood of tears. Marguerite rose hastily, while at the same moment Madame de Rocheval entered the room, and with the assistance of a domestic they carried Amoahmeh to an adjoining apartment, where, as Isidore could plainly hear, the strange and distressing paroxysm continued unabated notwithstanding every effort to soothe and calm the troubled spirit.

Presently Marguerite returned. "It is a most singular thing," said she. "This poor Indian girl was found in an exhausted and fainting state on the steps of our house last evening some time after you had left. Madame de Rocheval had her brought in and attended to, but when she revived and had somewhat recovered we found that she had evidently lost her reason. 'Some one,' she said, 'had told her where they were, but that she had forgotten, and had come to pray of him to tell her once again.' We could not understand what she meant. Madame de Rocheval sent for the doctor to consult him as to what could be done for her, but we suddenly missed her, and saw no more of her until she reappeared just now in this strange way."

"Poor child!" exclaimed Isidore, greatly moved. "She is no stranger to me; indeed, once at least, if not twice, I have owed my life to her. But it is a long story, and I must not keep you from a holy duty. To-morrow you shall hear all. In the meantime I know it is not needful for me to commend this unfortunate and afflicted one to your compassionate care."

On reaching his apartments, Isidore found that a courier had just arrived from Montreal with despatches, accompanied by the most urgent orders that he should carry them to Paris without delay. A ship appointed to sail from Quebec on the following morning was even indicated to him as the one in which he was to take his passage without fail. This was particularly annoying under all circumstances, and at first Isidore was inclined to demur, or even to refuse compliance; but on a little reflection he saw that for many reasons this was not to be thought of, and he accordingly decided to carry out his orders. On the following morning he was an early visitor at Madame de Rocheval's, and his first inquiry was after poor Amoahmeh. To his amazement he learnt that the doctor who had been sent for on the preceding day had succeeded, though with much difficulty and after a long time, in allaying the girl's excitement, and that she had then dropped into a deep sleep, apparently from sheer exhaustion. She had awoke that morning calm and quiet, and the doctor, who was with her at the time, had gradually, and to his extreme astonishment, discovered that her reason, which had in fact given way two or three years previously amid the horrors of an Indian raid, had partially if not entirely returned. The strangeness of all around her and her inability to recollect any recent events had, however, plainly begun to distress her, and the doctor, fearing a relapse, had given the strictest injunctions that only one person, namely, Madame de Rocheval, should on any account be permitted to see her. With this and other precautions he was not without hope that her recovery might be ultimately insured, and he attributed it entirely to the strong emotion and subsequent revulsion of feeling caused by the power and pathos with which the young soldier had given the soul-stirring and touching melody of the great master.

It was a source of the liveliest satisfaction to young de Beaujardin to be able to look forward to Amoahmeh's complete restoration to reason, and he could only regret that he could not be allowed to see her and express his good wishes. His last hours at Quebec, however, were devoted to making arrangements with Boulanger to receive her under his roof as soon as she should be well enough to be removed, which the doctor hoped would be the case before Madame de Rocheval's departure. Finally Isidore took leave of his friends, and with the warmly expressed wish that he and Marguerite might soon meet again in Old France—a wish which she echoed with her heart, if not with her lips—he bade adieu once more to Quebec.