“Frowzy huzzies! not worth the keeping, or I would not have sent them; fit only for the bobtailed militia of New England!” exclaimed La Corne.
“Not so thought the New Englanders, who had a three days feast when they remarried their wives—and handsome they were, too,” said Philibert; “the healths they drank to the Chevalier were enough to make him immortal.”
La Corne always brushed aside compliments to himself: “Tut, my Lady! it was more Pierre's good-nature than mine—he out of kindness let the women rejoin their husbands; on my part it was policy and stratagem, of war. Hear the sequel! The wives spoiled the husbands, as I guessed they would do, taught them to be too late at reveille, too early at tattoo. They neglected guards and pickets, and when the long nights of winter set in, the men hugged their wives by the firesides instead of their muskets by their watch-fires. Then came destruction upon them! In a blinding storm, amid snow-drifts and darkness, Coulon de Villiers, with his troops on snow-shoes, marched into the New England camp, and made widows of the most of the poor wives, who fell into our hands the second time. Poor creatures! I saw that day how hard it was to be a soldier's wife.” La Corne's shaggy eyelash twinkled with moisture. “But it was the fortune of war!—the fortune of war, and a cruel fortune it is at the best!”
The Lady de Tilly pressed her hand to her bosom to suppress the rising emotion. “Alas, Chevalier! poor widows! I feel all they suffered. War is indeed a cruel fortune, as I too have had reason to learn.”
“And what became of the poor women, godfather?” Amélie's eyes were suffused with tears: it was in her heart, if ever in any mortal's, to love her enemies.
“Oh, we cared for them the best we could. The Baron de St. Castin sheltered them in his château for the winter, and his daughter devoted herself to them with the zeal and tenderness of a saint from Heaven—a noble, lovely girl, Amélie!” added La Corne, impressively; “the fairest flower in all Acadia, and most unfortunate, poor girl! God's blessing rest upon her, wherever she may be!” La Corne St. Luc spoke with a depth of emotion he rarely manifested.
“How was she unfortunate, godfather?” Philibert watched the cheek flush and the eyelid quiver of the fair girl as she spoke, carried away by her sympathy. His heart went with his looks.
“Alas!” replied La Corne, “I would fain not answer, lest I distrust the moral government of the universe. But we are blind creatures, and God's ways are not fashioned in our ways. Let no one boast that he stands, lest he fall! We need the help of the host of Heaven to keep us upright and maintain our integrity. I can scarcely think of that noble girl without tears. Oh, the pity of it! The pity of it!”
Lady de Tilly looked at him wonderingly. “I knew the Baron de St. Castin,” said she. “When he came to perform homage at the Castle of St. Louis, for the grant of some lands in Acadia, he was accompanied by his only daughter, a child perfect in goodness, grace, and loveliness. She was just the age of Amélie. The ladies of the city were in raptures over the pretty Mayflower, as they called her. What, in heaven's name, has happened to that dear child, Chevalier La Corne?”
La Corne St. Luc, half angry with himself for having broached the painful topic, and not used to pick his words, replied bluntly,—“Happened, my Lady! what is it happens worst to a woman? She loved a man unworthy of her love—a villain in spite of high rank and King's favor, who deceived this fond, confiding girl, and abandoned her to shame! Faugh! It is the way of the Court, they say; and the King has not withdrawn his favor, but heaped new honors upon him!” La Corne put a severe curb upon his utterance and turned impatiently away, lest he might curse the King as well as the favorite.