“If our pleasure concerns you,” said Madame very graciously, “make your absence as brief as you can.”
“I was born with a nice regard for self,” I replied. “You may be sure I shall return as quickly as possible.”
“And what if the Black Abbé should come while you are away?” questioned Yvonne, in mock alarm.
“If that extraordinary priest makes my presence here a long necessity I shall come to regard him as my best friend,” said I, laughing, as I bowed myself out to join De Lamourie in a stroll over the farm.
During this walk I learned much of the state of unrest and painful dread under which Acadie was laboring. De Lamourie told me how the English governor at Halifax was bringing a mighty pressure to bear upon all the Acadian householders, urging them to swear allegiance to King George. This, he said, very many were willing to do, as the English had governed them with justice and a most patient indulgence. For his own part, while he regretted to go counter to opinions which I held well-nigh sacred, he declared that, in his judgment, the cause of France was forever lost in Acadie, if not in all Canada. He felt it his duty to give in his allegiance to the English throne, under whose protection he had prospered these many years. But strong as the English were, he said, the prospect was not reassuring; for many of those who had taken the oath had been brought to swift repentance by the Black Abbé’s painted and yelling pack, the very Christian Micmacs of Shubenacadie; while others had been pillaged, maltreated, and even in some cases murdered, by the band of masquerading cut-throats who served the will of the infamous Vaurin.
At this I grew hot within, realizing as I had not done before the vile connection into which the Commandant Vergor had cast me. But I said nothing, being unwilling to interrupt De Lamourie’s impassioned story. He told of horrid treacheries on the part of the Micmacs, disavowed, indeed, by La Garne, but unquestionably winked at by him as a means of keeping the Acadians in hand. He told of whole villages wiped out by the Black Abbé’s order, the houses burned, the trembling villagers removed to Ile St. Jean or across the isthmus, that they might be beyond the reach of English seductions. He told, too, of the hideous massacre at Dartmouth, the infant English settlement across the harbor from Halifax. This had come to my ears, but he gave me the reeking particulars.
“And this, too,” I asked in horror, “is it La Garne’s work?”
“He is accused of it by the English,” said he, “but for once he is accused unjustly, I do believe. It was Vaurin who planned it; Vaurin and his cut-throats, disguised as Indians and with a few of La Garne’s flock to help, who carried it out. It was too purposeless for La Garne. He rules his savages with a rod of iron, and it is said that his displeasure lay heavy for a time upon the braves who had taken part in that outrage. They went without pay or booty for many months. But at length he forgave them—he had work for them to do.”
When the tale was done, and it was a tale that filled me with shame for my country’s cause, I said:
“It is well my word carried such weight with the good abbé last night. It is well indeed, and it is wonderful!”