“I have spoken of no woman, abbe.”
“Yet you have spoken.” He sighed and raised his hand. “The man—the men—down there would destroy our country. They are our enemies, and we do well to slay. But remember, Pierre—‘What God hath joined let no man put asunder!’ To fight him as an enemy of your country—well; to fight him that you may put asunder is not well.”
A look, half-pained, half-amused, crossed Iberville’s face.
“And yet heretics—heretics, abbe”
“Marriage is no heresy.”
“H’m-they say different at Versailles.”
“Since De Montespan went, and De Maintenon rules?”
Iberville laughed. “Well, well, perhaps not.”
They sat silent for a time, but presently Iberville rose, went to a cupboard, drew forth some wine and meat, and put the coffee on the fire. Then, with a gesture as of remembrance, he went to a box, drew forth his own violin, and placed it in the priest’s hands. It seemed strange that, in the midst of such great events, the loss or keeping of an empire, these men should thus devote the few hours granted them for sleep; but they did according to their natures. The priest took the instrument and tuned it softly. Iberville blew out the candle. There was only the light of the fire, with the gleam of the slow-coming dawn. Once again, even as years before in the little house at Montreal, De Casson played—now with a martial air. At last he struck the chords of a song which had been a favourite with the Carignan-Salieres regiment.
Instantly Iberville and Perrot responded, and there rang out from three strong throats the words: