CHAPTER V. THE ITINERANT NOTARY.
Master Jean Le Nocher the sturdy ferryman's patience had been severelytried for a few days back, passing the troops of habitans over the St.Charles to the city of Quebec. Being on the King's corvee, they claimedthe privilege of all persons in the royal service: they travelledtoll-free, and paid Jean with a nod or a jest in place of the small coinwhich that worthy used to exact on ordinary occasions.
This morning had begun auspiciously for Jean's temper however. A King'sofficer, on a gray charger, had just crossed the ferry; and withoutclaiming the exemption from toll which was the right of all wearing theKing's uniform, the officer had paid Jean more than his fee in solidcoin and rode on his way, after a few kind words to the ferryman and apolite salute to his wife Babet, who stood courtesying at the door oftheir cottage.
"A noble gentleman that, and a real one!" exclaimed Jean, to his buxom,pretty wife, "and as generous as a prince! See what he has given me."Jean flipped up a piece of silver admiringly, and then threw it into theapron of Babet, which she spread out to catch it.
Babet rubbed the silver piece caressingly between her fingers and uponher cheek. "It is easy to see that handsome officer is from the Castle,"said Babet, "and not from the Palace--and so nice-looking he is too,with such a sparkle in his eye and a pleasant smile on his mouth. He isas good as he looks, or I am no judge of men."
"And you are an excellent judge of men, I know, Babet," he replied, "oryou would never have taken me!" Jean chuckled richly over his ownwit, which Babet nodded lively approval to. "Yes, I know a hawk from ahandsaw," replied Babet, "and a woman who is as wise as that will nevermistake a gentleman, Jean! I have not seen a handsomer officer than thatin seven years!"
"He is a pretty fellow enough, I dare say, Babet; who can he be? Herides like a field-marshal too, and that gray horse has ginger in hisheels!" remarked Jean, as the officer was riding at a rapid gallop upthe long, white road of Charlebourg. "He is going to Beaumanoir, belike,to see the Royal Intendant, who has not returned yet from his huntingparty."
"Whither they went three days ago, to enjoy themselves in the chase anddrink themselves blind in the Chateau while everybody else is summonedto the city to work upon the walls!" replied Babet, scornfully. "I'llbe bound that officer has gone to order the gay gallants of the Friponneback to the city to take their share of work with honest people."
"Ah! the Friponne! The Friponne!" ejaculated Jean. "The foul fiend flyaway with the Friponne! My ferryboat is laden every day with the cursesof the habitans returning from the Friponne, where they cheat worse thana Basque pedler, and without a grain of his politeness!"
The Friponne, as it was styled in popular parlance, was the immensemagazine established by the Grand Company of Traders in New France. Itclaimed a monopoly in the purchase and sale of all imports and exportsin the Colony. Its privileges were based upon royal ordinances anddecrees of the Intendant, and its rights enforced in the most arbitrarymanner--and to the prejudice of every other mercantile interest in theColony. As a natural consequence it was cordially hated, and richlydeserved the maledictions which generally accompanied the mention ofthe Friponne--the swindle--a rough and ready epithet which sufficientlyindicated the feeling of the people whom it at once cheated andoppressed.
"They say, Jean," continued Babet, her mind running in a very practicaland womanly way upon the price of commodities and good bargains, "theysay, Jean, that the Bourgeois Philibert will not give in like the othermerchants. He sets the Intendant at defiance, and continues to buyand sell in his own comptoir as he has always done, in spite of theFriponne."
"Yes, Babet! that is what they say. But I would rather he stood in hisown shoes than I in them if he is to fight this Intendant--who is aTartar, they say."
"Pshaw, Jean! you have less courage than a woman. All the women are onthe side of the good Bourgeois: he is an honest merchant--sells cheap,and cheats nobody!" Babet looked down very complacently upon her newgown, which had been purchased at a great bargain at the magazine of theBourgeois. She felt rather the more inclined to take this view of thequestion inasmuch as Jean had grumbled, just a little--he would not domore--at his wife's vanity in buying a gay dress of French fabric,like a city dame, while all the women of the parish were wearinghomespun,--grogram, or linsey-woolsey,--whether at church or market.
Jean had not the heart to say another word to Babet about the Frenchgown. In truth, he thought she looked very pretty in it, better thanin grogram or in linsey-woolsey, although at double the cost. He onlywinked knowingly at Babet, and went on to speaking of the Bourgeois.
"They say the King has long hands, but this Intendant has claws longerthan Satan. There will be trouble by and by at the Golden Dog--markthat, Babet! It was only the other day the Intendant was conversing withthe Sieur Cadet as they crossed the ferry. They forgot me, or thoughtI did not hear them; but I had my ears open, as I always have. I heardsomething said, and I hope no harm, will come to the good Bourgeois,that is all!"
"I don't know where Christian folk would deal if anything happened him,"said Babet, reflectively. "We always get civility and good pennyworthsat the Golden Dog. Some of the lying cheats of the Friponne talked in myhearing one day about his being a Huguenot. But how can that be, Jean,when he gives the best weight and the longest measure of any merchant inQuebec? Religion is a just yard wand, that is my belief, Jean!"
Jean rubbed his head with a perplexed air. "I do not know whether hebe a Huguenot, nor what a Huguenot is. The Cure one day said he was aJansenist on all fours, which I suppose is the same thing, Babet--and itdoes not concern either you or me. But a merchant who is a gentlemanand kind to poor folk, and gives just measure and honest weight, speakstruth and harms nobody, is Christian enough for me. A bishop could nottrade more honestly; and the word of the Bourgeois is as reliable as aking's."
"The Cure may call the Bourgeois what he likes," replied Babet, "butthere is not another Christian in the city if the good Bourgeois be notone; and next the Church there is not a house in Quebec better known orbetter liked by all the habitans, than the Golden Dog; and such bargainstoo, as one gets there!"
"Ay, Babet! a good bargain settles many a knotty point with a woman."
"And with a man too, if he is wise enough to let his wife do hismarketing, as you do, Jean! But whom have we here?" Babet set her armsakimbo and gazed.
A number of hardy fellows came down towards the ferry to seek a passage.
"They are honest habitans of St. Anne," replied Jean. "I know them; theytoo are on the King's corvee, and travel free, every man of them! SoI must cry Vive le Roi! and pass them over to the city. It is like aholiday when one works for nothing!"
Jean stepped nimbly into his boat, followed by the rough countryfellows, who amused themselves by joking at Jean Le Nocher's increasingtrade and the need of putting on an extra boat these stirring times.Jean put a good face upon it, laughed, and retorted their quips, andplying his oars, stoutly performed his part in the King's corvee bysafely landing them on the other shore.
Meantime the officer who had lately crossed the ferry rode rapidly upthe long, straight highway that led up on the side of the mountain toa cluster of white cottages and an old church, surmounted by a belfrywhose sweet bells were ringing melodiously in the fresh air of themorning.
The sun was pouring a flood of golden light over the landscape. Thestill glittering dewdrops hung upon the trees, shrubs, and long pointsof grass by the wayside. All were dressed with jewels to greet therising king of day.
The wide, open fields of meadow, and corn-fields, ripening for harvest,stretched far away, unbroken by hedge or fence. Slight ditches or banksof turf, covered with nests of violets, ferns, and wild flowers of everyhue, separated contiguous fields. No other division seemed necessary inthe mutual good neighborhood that prevailed among the colonists, whosefashion of agriculture had been brought, with many hardy virtues, fromthe old plains of Normandy.
White-walled, red-roofed cottages, or more substantial farmhous
es, stoodconspicuously in the green fields, or peered out of embowering orchards.Their casements were open to catch the balmy air, while in not a few thesound of clattering hoofs on the hard road drew fair faces to the windowor door, to look inquisitively after the officer wearing the white plumein his military chapeau, as he dashed by on the gallant gray.
Those who caught sight of him saw a man worth seeing--tall,deep-chested, and erect. His Norman features, without being perfect,were handsome and manly. Steel-blue eyes, solidly set under a broadforehead, looked out searchingly yet kindly, while his well-formed chinand firm lips gave an air of resolution to his whole look that accordedperfectly with the brave, loyal character of Colonel Philibert. He worethe royal uniform. His auburn hair he wore tied with a black ribbon. Hisgood taste discarded perukes and powder, although very much in fashionin those days.
It was long since he had travelled on the highway of Charlebourg, and hethoroughly enjoyed the beauty of the road he traversed. But behindhim, as he knew, lay a magnificent spectacle, the sight of the greatpromontory of Quebec, crowned with its glorious fortifications andreplete with the proudest memories of North America. More than once theyoung soldier turned his steed, and halted a moment or two to surveythe scene with enthusiastic admiration. It was his native city, and thethought that it was threatened by the national enemy roused, like aninsult offered to the mother that bore him. He rode onward, more thanever impatient of delay, and not till he passed a cluster of elm treeswhich reminded him of an adventure of his youth, did the sudden heatpass away, caused by the thought of the threatened invasion.
Under these trees he remembered that he and his school companion, LeGardeur de Repentigny, had once taken refuge during a violent storm.The tree they stood under was shattered by a thunderbolt. They were bothstunned for a few minutes, and knew they had had a narrow escape fromdeath. Neither of them ever forgot it.
A train of thoughts never long absent from the mind of Philibert startedup vividly at the sight of these trees. His memory flew back to LeGardeur and the Manor House of Tilly, and the fair young girl whocaptivated his boyish fancy and filled his youth with dreams of gloriousachievements to win her smiles and do her honor. Among a thousandpictures of her hung up in his mind and secretly worshipped he lovedthat which presented her likeness on that day when he saved herbrother's life and she kissed him in a passion of joy and gratitude,vowing she would pray for him to the end of her life.
The imagination of Pierre Philibert had revelled in the romantic visionsthat haunt every boy destined to prominence, visions kindled by the eyeof woman and the hope of love.
The world is ruled by such dreams, dreams of impassioned hearts, andimprovisations of warm lips, not by cold words linked in chains of ironsequence,--by love, not by logic. The heart with its passions, not theunderstanding with its reasoning, sways, in the long run, the actions ofmankind.
Pierre Philibert possessed that rich gift of nature, a creativeimagination, in addition to the solid judgment of a man ofsense, schooled by experience and used to the considerations andresponsibilities of weighty affairs.
His love for Amelie de Repentigny had grown in secret. Its rootsreached down to the very depths of his being. It mingled, consciously orunconsciously, with all his motives and plans of life, and yet his hopeswere not sanguine. Years of absence, he remembered, work forgetfulness.New ties and associations might have wiped out the memory of him in themind of a young girl fresh to society and its delights. He experienced adisappointment in not finding her in the city upon his return a few daysago, and the state of the Colony and the stress of military duty hadso far prevented his renewing his acquaintance with the Manor House ofTilly.
The old-fashioned hostelry of the Couronne de France, with itshigh-pitched roof, pointed gables, and broad gallery, stood directlyopposite the rustic church and tall belfry of Charlebourg, not as arival, but as a sort of adjunct to the sacred edifice. The sign of thecrown, bright with gilding, swung from the low, projecting arm of amaple-tree, thick with shade and rustling with the beautiful leavesof the emblem of Canada. A few rustic seats under the cool maple wereusually occupied, toward the close of the day, or about the ringing ofthe Angelus, by a little gathering of parishioners from the village,talking over the news of the day, the progress of the war, theordinances of the Intendant, or the exactions of the Friponne.
On Sundays, after Mass and Vespers, the habitans of all parts ofthe extended parish naturally met and talked over the affairs of theFabrique--the value of tithes for the year, the abundance of Eastereggs, and the weight of the first salmon of the season, which was alwayspresented to the Cure with the first-fruits of the field, to ensure theblessing of plenty for the rest of the year.
The Reverend Cure frequently mingled in these discussions. Seated inhis accustomed armchair, under the shade of the maple in summer, and inwinter by the warm fireside, he defended, ex cathedra, the rights ofthe Church, and good-humoredly decided all controversies. He found hisparishioners more amenable to good advice over a mug of Norman cider anda pipe of native tobacco, under the sign of the Crown of France, thanwhen he lectured them in his best and most learned style from thepulpit.
This morning, however, all was very quiet round the old inn. The birdswere singing, and the bees humming in the pleasant sunshine. The houselooked clean and tidy, and no one was to be seen except three personsbending over a table, with their heads close together, deeply absorbedin whatever business they were engaged in. Two of these persons wereDame Bedard, the sharp landlady of the Crown of France, and her no lesssharp and pretty daughter, Zoe. The third person of the trio was an old,alert-looking little man, writing at the table as if for very life.He wore a tattered black robe, shortened at the knees to facilitatewalking, a frizzled wig, looking as if it had been dressed with acurrycomb, a pair of black breeches, well-patched with various colors;and gamaches of brown leather, such as the habitans wore, completed hisodd attire, and formed the professional costume of Master Pothierdit Robin, the travelling notary, one of that not unuseful order ofitinerants of the law which flourished under the old regime in NewFrance.
Upon the table near him stood a black bottle, an empty trencher, and athick scatter of crumbs, showing that the old notary had despatched ahearty breakfast before commencing his present work of the pen.
A hairy knapsack lay open upon the table near his elbow, disclosing somebundles of dirty papers tied up with red tape, a tattered volume or twoof the "Coutume de Paris," and little more than the covers of an oddtome of Pothier, his great namesake and prime authority in the law. Somelinen, dirty and ragged as his law papers, was crammed into his knapsackwith them. But that was neither here nor there in the estimation ofthe habitans, so long as his law smelt strong in the nostrils oftheir opponents in litigation. They rather prided themselves upon theroughness of their travelling notary.
The reputation of Master Pothier dit Robin was, of course, very greatamong the habitans, as he travelled from parish to parish and fromseigniory to seigniory, drawing bills and hypothecations, marriagecontracts and last wills and testaments, for the peasantry, who hada genuine Norman predilection for law and chicanery, and a respectamounting to veneration for written documents, red tape, andsealing-wax. Master Pothier's acuteness in picking holes in the actes ofa rival notary was only surpassed by the elaborate intricacy of his own,which he boasted, not without reason, would puzzle the Parliament ofParis, and confound the ingenuity of the sharpest advocates of Rouen.Master Pothier's actes were as full of embryo disputes as a fig is fullof seeds, and usually kept all parties in hot water and litigationfor the rest of their days. If he did happen now and then to settle adispute between neighbors, he made ample amends for it by setting halfthe rest of the parish by the ears.
Master Pothier's nose, sharp and fiery as if dipped in red ink, almosttouched the sheet of paper on the table before him, as he wrote downfrom the dictation of Dame Bedard the articles of a marriage contractbetween her pretty daughter, Zoe, and Antoine La Chance, the son of acomfortable but
keen widow of Beauport.
Dame Bedard had shrewdly availed herself of the presence of MasterPothier, and in payment of a night's lodging at the Crown of France, tohave him write out the contract of marriage in the absence of DameLa Chance, the mother of Antoine, who would, of course, object to theinsertion of certain conditions in the contract which Dame Bedard wasquite determined upon as the price of Zoe's hand and fortune.
"There! Dame Bedard!" cried Master Pothier, sticking the pen behind hisear, after a magnificent flourish at the last word, "there is a marriagecontract fit to espouse King Solomon to the Queen of Sheba! A dowry ofa hundred livres tournoises, two cows, and a feather bed, bedstead, andchest of linen! A donation entre vifs!"
"A what? Master Pothier, now mind! are you sure that is the right wordof the grimoire?" cried Dame Bedard, instinctively perceiving that herelay the very point of the contract. "You know I only give on condition,Master Pothier."
"Oh, yes! trust me, Dame Bedard. I have made it a donation entre vifs,revocable pour cause d'ingratitude, if your future son-in-law, Antoinela Chance, should fail in his duty to you and to Zoe."
"And he won't do his duty to Zoe, unless he does it to me, MasterPothier. But are you sure it is strong enough? Will it hold Dame LaChance by the foot, so that she cannot revoke her gifts although I mayrevoke mine?"
"Hold Dame La Chance by the foot? It will hold her as fast as asnapping-turtle does a frog. In proof of it, see what Ricard says, page970; here is the book." Master Pothier opened his tattered volume, andheld it up to the dame. She shook her head.
"Thanks, I have mislaid my glasses. Do you read, please!"
"Most cheerfully, good dame! A notary must have eyes for everybody--eyeslike a cat's, to see in the dark, and power to draw them in like aturtle, so that he may see nothing that he does not want to see."
"Oh, bless the eyes of the notary!" Dame Bedard grew impatient. "Tell mewhat the book says about gifts revocable--that is what concerns me andZoe."
"Well, here it is, dame: 'Donations stipulated revocable at the pleasureof the donor are null. But this condition does not apply to donations bycontract of marriage.' Bourdon also says--"
"A fig for Bourdon, and all such drones! I want my gift made revocable,and Dame La Chance's not! I know by long experience with my dear feuBedard how necessary it is to hold the reins tight over the men.Antoine is a good boy, but he will be all the better for a carefulmother-in-law's supervision."
Master Pothier rubbed the top of his wig with his forefinger.
"Are you sure, dame, that Antoine La Chance will wear the bridleeasily?"
"Assuredly! I should like to see son-in-law of mine who would not!Besides, Antoine is in the humor just now to refuse nothing for sake ofZoe. Have you mentioned the children, Master Pothier? I do not intend tolet Dame La Chance control the children any more than Zoe and Antoine."
"I have made you tutrice perpetuelle, as we say in the court, and hereit is," said he, placing the tip of his finger on a certain line in thedocument.
Zoe looked down and blushed to her finger-ends. She presently rallied,and said with some spirit,--"Never mind them, Master Pothier! Don't putthem in the contract! Let Antoine have something to say about them. Hewould take me without a dower, I know, and time enough to remind himabout children when they come."
"Take you without dower! Zoe Bedard! you must be mad!" exclaimed thedame, in great heat. "No girl in New France can marry without a dower,if it be only a pot and a bedstead! You forget, too, that the dower isgiven, not so much for you, as to keep up the credit of the family. Aswell be married without a ring! Without a dower, indeed!"
"Or without a contract written by a notary, signed, sealed, anddelivered!" chimed in Master Pothier.
"Yes, Master Pothier, and I have promised Zoe a three-days wedding,which will make her the envy of all the parish of Charlebourg. Theseigneur has consented to give her away in place of her poor defunctfather; and when he does that he is sure to stand godfather for all thechildren, with a present for every one of them! I shall invite you too,Master Pothier!"
Zoe affected not to hear her mother's remark, although she knew it allby heart, for it had been dinned into her ears twenty times a day forweeks, and sooth to say, she liked to hear it, and fully appreciated thehonors to come from the patronage of the seigneur.
Master Pothier pricked up his ears till they fairly raised his wig, atthe prospect of a three days wedding at the Crown of France. He beganan elaborate reply, when a horse's tramp broke in upon them and ColonelPhilibert wheeled up to the door of the hostelry.
Master Pothier, seeing an officer in the King's uniform, rose on theinstant and saluted him with a profound bow, while Dame Bedard and Zoe,standing side by side, dropped their lowest courtesy to the handsomegentleman, as, with woman's glance, they saw in a moment he was.
Philibert returned their salute courteously, as he halted his horse infront of Dame Bedard. "Madame!" said he, "I thought I knew all roadsabout Charlebourg, but I have either forgotten or they have changed theroad through the forest to Beaumanoir. It is surely altered from what itwas."
"Your Honor is right," answered Dame Bedard, "the Intendant has openeda new road through the forest." Zoe took the opportunity, while theofficer looked at her mother, to examine his features, dress, andequipments, from head to foot, and thought him the handsomest officershe had ever seen.
"I thought it must be so," replied Philibert; "you are the landlady ofthe Crown of France, I presume?" Dame Bedard carried it on her face asplainly marked as the royal emblem on the sign over her head.
"Yes, your Honor, I am Widow Bedard, at your service, and, I hope, keepas good a hostelry as your Honor will find in the Colony. Will yourHonor alight and take a cup of wine, such as I keep for guests ofquality?"
"Thanks, Madame Bedard, I am in haste: I must find the way toBeaumanoir. Can you not furnish me a guide, for I like not to lose timeby missing my way?"
"A guide, sir! The men are all in the city on the King's corvee; Zoecould show you the way easily enough." Zoe twitched her mother'sarm nervously, as a hint not to say too much. She felt flattered andfluttered too, at the thought of guiding the strange, handsome gentlemanthrough the forest, and already the question shot through her fancy,"What might come of it? Such things have happened in stories!" Poor Zoe!she was for a few seconds unfaithful to the memory of Antoine La Chance.But Dame Bedard settled all surmises by turning to Master Pothier, whostood stiff and upright as became a limb of the law. "Here isMaster Pothier, your Honor, who knows every highway and byway in tenseigniories. He will guide your Honor to Beaumanoir."
"As easy as take a fee or enter a process, your Honor," remarked MasterPothier, whose odd figure had several times drawn the criticizing eye ofColonel Philibert.
"A fee! ah! you belong to the law, then, my good friend? I have knownmany advocates--" but Philibert stopped; he was too good-natured tofinish his sentence.
"You never saw one like me, your Honor was going to say? True, you neverdid. I am Master Pothier dit Robin, the poor travelling notary, at yourHonor's service, ready to draw you a bond, frame an acte of conventionmatrimoniale, or write your last will and testament, with any notary inNew France. I can, moreover, guide your Honor to Beaumanoir as easy asdrink your health in a cup of Cognac."
Philibert could not but smile at the travelling notary, and thinking tohimself, "too much Cognac at the end of that nose of yours, my friend!"which, indeed, looked fiery as Bardolph's, with hardly a spot for a flyto rest his foot upon without burning.
"But how will you go, friend?" asked Philibert, looking down at MasterPothier's gamaches; "you don't look like a fast walker."
"Oh, your Honor," interrupted Dame Bedard, impatiently, for Zoe hadbeen twitching her hard to let her go. "Master Pothier can ride the oldsorrel nag that stands in the stable eating his head off for want ofhire. Of course your Honor will pay livery?"
"Why, certainly, Madame, and glad to do so! So Master Pothier makehaste, get the sorrel nag, and let us be
off."
"I will be back in the snap of a pen, or in the time Dame Bedard candraw that cup of Cognac, your Honor."
"Master Pothier is quite a personage, I see," remarked Philibert, as theold notary shuffled off to saddle the nag.
"Oh, quite, your Honor. He is the sharpest notary, they say, thattravels the road. When he gets people into law they never can getout. He is so clever, everybody says! Why, he assures me that even theIntendant consults him sometimes as they sit eating and drinking halfthe night together in the buttery at the Chateau!"
"Really! I must be careful what I say," replied Philibert, laughing, "orI shall get into hot water! But here he comes."
As he spoke, Master Pothier came up, mounted on a raw-boned nag, lank asthe remains of a twenty-years lawsuit. Zoe, at a hint from the Colonel,handed him a cup of Cognac, which he quaffed without breathing, smackinghis lips emphatically after it. He called out to the landlady,--"Takecare of my knapsack, dame! You had better burn the house than lose mypapers! Adieu, Zoe! study over the marriage contract till I return, andI shall be sure of a good dinner from your pretty hands."
They set off at a round trot. Colonel Philibert, impatient to reachBeaumanoir, spurred on for a while, hardly noticing the absurd figureof his guide, whose legs stuck out like a pair of compasses beneath histattered gown, his shaking head threatening dislodgment to hat and wig,while his elbows churned at every jolt, making play with the shufflinggait of his spavined and wall-eyed nag.