The Young Seigneur Part 7

I glanced at her, the moonlight still falling brokenly-upon the Venus head, and could see a crimson blush sweep over her countenance and her eyelids droop.

"Grace," I said--agitatedly, "Will you give me more of your evening after the next dance you promised?"

"Take from then to the end!--three dances that I have kept for you especially; I wish they were longer. But I am ashamed to sit here after what I have happened to say."

CHAPTER XI.

THE "CAVE."

A whirl of rapid thoughts made it some time till I could regain presence of mind, and I found my eyes following her feverishly into the weavings of another waltz, and was roused by the "Salut, Monsieur," of a quiet man who did not know me, but turned out from his remarks, to be Picault, the owner of the mansion. His observations were general and of a kind of a conciliatory tone, and seemed to be each uttered after grave deliberation. There was a prudence and respectability and an air of inoffensiveness about his manner which indicated the quiet merchant of means. He spoke of Madame De Rheims with great respect, and drew my attention to quondam Mlle. Alvarez, the New Orleans beauty, as though her presence was a marked honor to his house; and hearing that I was not acquainted with her, he insisted on an introduction and I found myself leading her into the alcove Grace and I had left. She spoke first of New Orleans, where English, she said, was taking the place of our language, and I gathered that the latter was becoming gradually confined to a limited circle. There was a French quarter apart from the American city, though in its midst.

"The fate of your people should make you intensely French," said I.

"Monsieur has an English descent, to judge by his name. Well then, I will say something I say at home. I do not admire Frenchmen."

"But Mlle.--your patriotism!"

"I am not very French," she said haughtily, "My father is the son of a Spanish Minister."

"But why do you disapprove of the French? As to me, I find them excessively attractive."

"It is because I know them well," she said gaily. "My husband is the only Frenchman I would have married. Their quest is self-gratification, to which they sacrifice no matter what. I despise them."--She laughed mock-heroically,--"Take now your Englishman! Let him love a Frenchwoman, for it is only a Frenchwoman who can return such love! Domestic, silent, energetic,--he adores, protects, provides, and yet accomplishes ambitions. This is because he sacrifices none of such things to the Myself, who is the G.o.d of Frenchmen!"

These words seemed of more importance to me than the beautiful speaker could have thought. I had almost committed my soul; was it to a cup of Comus, to a fatal household of Circe?

The lady smilingly glided away with her husband.

Then new characteristics seemed in face of race patriotism, to dawn as I looked at those pa.s.sing around. I imagined each facial expression thoughtless, heartless, jaded or disgusted. I had taken the beautiful Creole's cynical words seriously, and thought I saw the search for self-gratification everywhere.

Instead of striking a balance of impressions, I pa.s.sed for the time from the extreme of admiration to the extreme of criticism, and at last turned into the supper room to think. A dapper man of sanguine complexion and grey moustache and hair, a cynical gentleman-of-leisure and old-established visitor at my grandmother's, was taking wine there, and he addressed me familiarly. I began to question him about several people:

"Who is that man with the ma.s.s of locks and the queer beard?"

"That," replied he like a showman, "is the Honorable Grandmoulin, the National Liar, Premier Minister of the Province, and First Juggler of its finances:--a profligate in public in the name of the Church--in secret in the name of Free-Thought--_beau diseur_--demagogue of the rabble and chieftain of the Cave."

"The Cave?"

He lifted his gla.s.s of ruby liquid and faced me across it. "You may not know, my simple Ali Baba, that the Government of this Province is the private property of Forty Thieves."

"What are these thieves--this Cave?--I do not understand what you mean, sir."

"Chevaliers of the highway my child," (he had just enough in him to make him free of speech), "who obtain office through the credulity of Jean Baptiste the industrious Beaver, who, like Jacques in France, bears everything. Jean Baptiste labors. It is the duty of Jean Baptiste to believe everything he is told. Monsieur of the Forty and Company must live upon something. Tsha! The Beavers were created to sweat--to load up their pack mules and be plundered. Quebec is the cave of the Forty,--and plunder is their sesame."

"But how does such a man come to be received into society?" exclaimed I, disturbed.

The answer was prompt.

"He is successful."

Reason only too obvious. It staggered me to watch the man receiving and being greeted.

Presently I asked again: "Are more of them present?" "a.s.suredly. Like devils they fly in swarms: like the Apostles they never travel less than two--one to preach you the relics and the other to pick the pocket in the tails of your coat. The man with the Oriental beard there looks respectable, does he not? Tell me,--does he not?"

"It is true."

"He is the honest-man-figure-head and book-keeper of the Cave. This fellow near us," (gesturing towards a scraggy-looking little man), "has got himself appointed a judge and once securely off the raft, poses as a little tyrant to young advocates, on the Kamouraska Bench."

"What does our host, Mr. Picault do?" I said, to change the subject.

What was my surprise when he answered:

"Picault is the Arch Devil--the organizer of the Cave--the man who manipulates the Government for the profit of his accomplices. When they require money the Province calls a loan; it is members of the Cave who negociate it, exacting a secret commission which is itself a fortune.

The loan is expended," he went on, marking each step of his narration by appropriate gestures of his right forefinger, as one who is expounding a science, "on salaries to the Cave supporters, who are appointed to ingenious sinecures. Vast contracts are given at extravagant prices to persons who pay a large share to our friends. Then the works, such as railways, are sold,--if possible to Picault, or through him in the same manner. And finally, by this system no burden is left upon the Treasury except the loan to be paid. Between this and all sorts of minor applications of the principle, though they have not long begun, the end is clear;--yet the electorate persists in being duped by these ruffians.

Men cherish their prejudices," he closed oracularly. "Men cherish their prejudices with more care than their interests."

"Until, he began to control the politicans," he immediately resumed, "Picault was a bankrupt financier. Now he is nominally a banker with millions. Once bribed or scandalized, your politician is broken in; and Picault's favourite maxim is 'You can buy the Pope, and pay less for a Cardinal.'"

"I want to get out of this house!" I cried, no longer able to retain my indignation, "Am I a thief to a.s.sociate with these criminals?"

"My young man," said he, holding me quiet by the shoulder. "Accept the good points of Picault and drink your lemonade. The chieftain of fools is ever a knave; he has been tempted by the ignorance of the people."

Such feelings of contempt and determination nevertheless took possession of me that the relish of Picault's magnificence and the charms of his a.s.sembly soured to very repulsion.

Indignation above all with my own self took possession of me; for this circle was what I was to have exchanged for the world of Alexandra.

Must I endure to be detained here till the time of my appointment with Grace? I went up to her to tell her abruptly I must go--what reason to give I knew not--and as I looked into those trustful, believing eyes and flushed face, feelings of desperate abandon for an instant almost overcame me. But natural resolution increased with the antagonism, "I must leave, Grace," said I, shortly and fiercely. "I cannot tell you the reason. Good night."

Next morning my father sent me to France with Quinet.

CHAPTER XII.

LA MERE PATRIE.

"Et pour la France un chant sacre s'eleve; Qu'il brille pur, le ciel de nos aieux!"

--F.X. GARNEAU.

"Chamilly! Chamilly! This is the soil of our forefathers!" Quinet and I stood at last on the sh.o.r.es of France. We trod it with veneration, and looked around with joy. It was the sea-port of Dieppe, whose picturesque mediaeval Gothic houses ranged their tall gables before us. Hence my ancestor had sailed to the wild new Canada two centuries before.--O enchanted land!

"Behold the Middle Ages!"--cried Quinet again, looking at the Gothic houses--"of which we have heard and read."