In the cafes of Saint Pierre there is every variety of French wine. In all the general shops, on shelves, neighbouring dress material, sardines-in-oil, or petits pois in tins, Vin ordinaire, Cassia, Eau de Vie, Ginebvre, Anisette and Noyeaux appear as a matter of course.
During the war, trade came almost to a stand-still in Saint Pierre. The shops, usually so overflowing with good things, had their stock entirely depleted, and the women storekeepers were reduced to tears, as they lamented “La guerre, la guerre, Madame”, as the cause of their inability to supply this or that.
But now all this is changed. The Sun of Trade once more has sent its enlivening rays along this foreign, island-waterfront. Gallic spirits have recovered themselves in the forests of masts springing up in the harbour.
CHAPTER X.
QUEBEC.
T is in Quebec, the Old World city so curiously transplanted from sixteenth century France, and set down here on its commanding bluff, above the Saint Lawrence, that one takes the road of romantic history.
Driving through the steep, narrow streets, our two-wheeled Caleche, itself the voiture of other centuries, seems a talisman, unlocking the gray, steep-roofed, admirably-preserved houses, churches, monasteries, convents, colleges, public buildings, tiny shops, all of them of unmistakably French aspect, which flank our goings up or down the steep ascents, which are the Quebec streets.
Romance clings to the old in architecture. Nowhere does she more frankly look out upon the Canadian world roundabout, than from the casement windows of Old Quebec.
But, if she only leaned from the windows, she must be a creature to worship afar off. But Romance believes in “close-ups”. In Quebec she draws near, takes you by the hand, and leads you over the threshold of La Basilique—the French Cathedral.