When Valmond came to Pontiac : the story of a lost Napoleon

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by

WHEN VALMOND

CAME

CHAPTER I N one corner stood the house of Monsieur

Garon the avocat ; on another, the shop of the Little Chemist ; on another, the office of Medallion the auctioneer; and on the last, the Hotel Louis Quinze. The chief characteristics of Monsieur Garon’s house were its brass door-knobs, and the verdant vines that climbed its sides ; of the Little Chemist’s shop, the perfect whiteness of the building, the rolls of sober wall-paper, and the bottles of coloured water in the shop windows ; of Medallion’s, the stoop that surrounded three sides of the building, and the notices of sales tacked up, pasted up, on the front ; of the Hotel Louis Quinze, the deep dormer windows, the solid timbers, and the verandah that gave its front distinction — for this verandah had been the pride of several generations of landlords, and its heavy carving and bulky grace were worth even more admiration than Pontiac gave to it.

The square which the two roads and the four corners made was, on week-days, the rendezvous of Pontiac, and the whole parish; on Sunday mornings the rendezvous was shifted . to the large church on the hill, beside which was the house of the Cur£, Monsieur Fabre. Travelling towards the south, out of the silken haze of a midsummer day, you would come in time to the hills of Maine ; north, to the city of Quebec and the river St. Lawrence ; east, to the ocean ; and west, to the Great Lakes and the land of the English. Over this bright province Britain raised her flag, but only Medallion and a few others loved it for its own sake, or saluted it in the English tongue.

In the drab velvety dust of these four corners, were gathered, one night of July a generation ago, the children of the village and many of their elders. All the events of that epoch were dated from the evening of this particular day. Another day of note the parish cherished, but it was merely a grave fulfilment of the first.

Upon the verandah-stoop of the Louis Quinze stood a man of apparently about twenty-eight years of age. When you came to study him closely, some sense of time and experience in his look told you that he might be thirty-eight, though his few grey hairs seemed but to emphasise a certain youthfulness in him. His eye was full, singularly clear, almost benign, and yet, at one moment it gave the impression of resolution, at another it suggested the wayward abstraction ol the dreamer. He was well-figured, with a hand of peculiar whiteness, suggesting in its breadth more the man of action than of meditation. But it was a contradiction ; for, as you saw it rise and fall, you were struck by its dramatic delicacy ; as it rested on the railing of the verandah, by its latent power. You faced incongruity everywhere. His dress was bizarre , his face almost classical, the brow clear and strong, the profile good to the mouth, where there showed a combination of sensuousness and adventure. Yet in the face there was an illusive sadness, strangely out of keeping with the long linen coat, frilled shirt, flowered waistcoat, lavender trousers, boots of enamelled leather, and straw hat with white linen streamers. It was a whimsical picture.

At the moment that the Cuie and Medallion the auctioneer came down the street together towards the Louis Quinze, talking amiably, this singular gentleman was throwing out hot pennies, with a large spoon, from a tray in his hand, calling on the children to gather them, in French which was not the French of Pontiac — or Quebec; and

WHEN VALMOND CAME TO PONTIAC u this refined accent the Cur6 was quick to detect, as Monsieur Garon, the avocat, standing on the outskirts of the crowd, had done, some moments before. The stranger seemed only conscious of his act of liberality and the children before him. There was a naturalness in his enjoyment which was almost boy-like; a naive sort of exultation possessed him.

He laughed softly to see the children toss the pennies from hand to hand, blowing to cool them ; the riotous yet half-timorous scramble for them, and burnt fingers thrust into hot blithe mouths. And when he saw a fat little lad of five crowded out of the way by his elders, he stepped down with a quick word of sympathy, put a half-dozen pennies in the child’s pocket, snatched him up and kissed him, and then returned to the stoop, where were gathered the landlord, the miller, and Monsieur De la Riviere, the young Seigneur. But the most intent spectator of the scene was Parpon the dwarf, who was grotesquely crouched upon the wide ledge of a window.

Tray after tray of pennies was brought out and emptied, till at last the stranger paused, handed the spoon to the landlord, drew out a fine white handkerchief and dusted his fingers, standing silent for a moment and smiling upon the crowd.

It was at this point that some young villager called, in profuse compliment, “Three cheers for the Prince ! ”

The stranger threw an accent of pose into his manner, his eye lighted, his chin came up, he dropped one hand negligently on his hip, and waved the other in acknowledgment. Presently he beckoned, and from the hotel were brought out four great pitchers of wine and a dozen tin cups, and, sending the gargon around with one, the landlord with another, he motioned Parpon the dwarf to bear a hand. Parpon shot out a quick, half-resentful look at him, but, meeting a warm, friendly eye, he took the pitcher and went round among the elders, while the stranger himself courteously drank with the young men of the village, who, like many wiser folk, thus yielded to the charm of mystery. To every one he said a hearty thing, and sometimes touched his greeting off with a bit of poetry or a rhetorical phrase. These dramatic extravagances served him well, for he was among a race of story-tellers and crude poets.

Parpon, uncouth and furtive, moved through the crowd, dispensing as much irony as wine •

•‘Three bucks we come to a pretty inn,

•Hostess/ say we, ‘have you red wine?'

Brave t Brave /

Hostess/ say we, ‘have you red wine?*

Bravement !

Our feet are sore and our crops are dry,

Bravement / ”

This he hummed to the avocat in a tone all silver, for he had that one gift of Heaven as recompense for his deformity, — his long arms, big head, and short stature, — a voice which gave you a shiver of delight and pain all at once. It had in it mystery and the incomprehensible. This drinking-song, hammed just above his breath, touched some antique memory in Monsieur Garon the avocat, and he nodded kindly at the dwarf, though he refused the wine.

“ Ah, M’sieu’ le Cur^,” said Parpon, ducking his head to avoid the hand that Medallion would have laid on it, " we're going to be somebody now in Pontiac, bless the Lord! We’re simple folk, but we’re not neglected. He wears a ribbon on his breast, M’sieu’ le Cure ! 99

This was true. Fastened by a gold bar to the stranger’s breast was the ribbon of an order.

The Cur6 smiled at Parpon s words, and looked curiously and gravely at the stranger. Tall Medallion the auctioneer took a glass of the wine, and, lifting it, said, * Who shall I drink to, Parpon, my dear ? What is he ? ”

“Ten to one, a dauphin or a fool,” answered Parpon, with a laugh like the note of an organ.

“ Drink to both, Long-legs,” Then he trotted away to the Little Chemist.

“Hush, my friend 1” said he, and he drew the other’s ear down to his mouth. “ Now there’ll be plenty of work for you. We’re going to be gay in Pontiac. We’ll come to you with our spoiled stomachs.” He edged round the circle, and back to where the miller his master and the young Seigneur stood.

“ Make more fine flour, old man,” said he to the miller ; " pates are the thing now.” Then, to Monsieur De la Riviere : “ There’s nothing like hot pennies and wine to make the world love you. But it’s too late, too late for my young Seigneur!” he added in mockery, and again he began to hum in a sort of amiable derision —

My little tender heart,

O gai vive le roi !

My little tender heart,

O gai, vive le roi !

*Tis for a grand baron,

Vive le roi, la reine /

*Tis for a grand baron,

Vive Napoli on l*9

The words of the last two lines swelled out fai louder than the dwarf meant, for few save Medallion and Monsieur De la Riviere had ever heard him sing. His concert-house was the Rock of Red Pigeons, his favourite haunt, his other home, where, it was said, he met the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills, and had gay hours with them. And this was a matter of awe to the timid habitants .

At the words, u Vive Napoleon ! ” a hand touched him on the shoulder. He turned and saw the stranger looking at him intently, his eyes alight.

“Sing it,” he said softly, yet with an air of command. Parpon hesitated, shrank back.

“ Sing it,” he insisted, and the request was taken up by others, till Parpon’s face flushed with a sort of pleasurable defiance. The stranger stooped and whispered something in his ear. There was a moment’s pause, in which the dwarf looked into the other’s eyes with an intense curiosity — or incredulity— and then Medallion lifted the little man on to the railing of the verandah, and over the heads and into the hearts of the people there passed, in a divine voice, a song known to many, yet coming as a new revelation to them all :

** My mother promised it,

0 gai, vive le roi !

My mother promised it,

O gai , vive le roi !

To a gentleman of the king,

Vive le roi , la reine!

To a gentleman of the king,

Vive Napoleon ! ”

This was chanted lightly, airily, with a sweetness almost absurd, coming as it did from so uncouth a musician. The last verses had a touch of pathos, droll yet searching —

“ Oh, say, where goes your love?

O gai, vive le roil Oh, say, where goes your love?

O gai, vive le roi !

He rides on a white horse,

Vive le roi , la reine l He wears a silver sword,

Vive Napoleon!

e* Oh, grand to the war he goes,

O gai , vive le roi !

Oh, grand to the war he goes,

O gai, vive le roil

Gold and silver he will bring,

Vive le roi , la reine ;

And eke the daughter of a king —

Vive Napoleon ! ”

The crowd — women and men, youths and maidens — enthusiastically repeated again and again the last lines and the refrain, “ Vive le roi , la i^eine ! Vive Napoleon ! ”

Meanwhile the stranger stood, now looking at the singer with eager eyes, now searching the faces of the people, keen to see the effect upon them. His glance found the faces of the Cure, the avocat, and the auctioneer ; and his eyes steadied to Medallion’s humorous look, to the Cure’s puzzled questioning, to the avocat’s birdlike curiosity. It was plain they were not antagonistic (why should they be ?) ; and he — was there any reason why he should care whether or no they were for him or against him ?

True, he had entered the village in the dead of night, with many packages and much luggage, had roused the people at the Louis Quinze, the driver who had brought him departing before daybreak gaily, because of the gifts of gold given him above his wage. True, this singular gentleman had taken three rooms in the Louis Quinze, had paid the landlord in advance, and had then gone to bed, leaving word that he was not to be waked till three o'clock the next afternoon. True, the landlord could not by any hint or indirection discover from whence his midnight visitor came. But if a gentleman paid his way, and was generous and polite, and minded his own business, wherefore should people busy themselves about him? When he appeared on the verandah of the inn with the hot pennies, not a half-dozen people in the village had known aught of his presence in Pontiac. The children came first, to scorch their fingers and fill their pockets, and after them the idle young men, and the habitants in general.

The stranger having warmly shaken Parpon by the hand and again whispered in his ear, stepped forward. The last light of the setting sun was reflected from the red roof of the Little Chemist’s shop upon the quaint figure and eloquent face, which had in it something of the gentleman, something of the comedian. The alert Medallion himself did not realise the touch of the comedian in him, till the white hand was waved grandiloquently over the heads of the crowd. Then something in the gesture corresponded with something in the face, and the auctioneer had a nut which he could not crack for many a day. The voice was musical, — as fine in speaking almost as the dwarfs in singing, — and the attention of the children was caught by the rich, vibrating tones. He addressed himself to them.

“ My children,” he said, “ my name is — Valmond ! We have begun well ; let us be better friends. I have come from far off to be one of you, to stay with you for awhile — who knows how long — how long?” He placed a finger meditatively on his lips, sending a sort of mystery into his look and bearing. “You are French, and so am I. You are playing on the shores of life, and so am I. You are beginning to think and dream, and so am I. We are only children till we begin to make our dreams our life. So I am one with you, for only now do I step from dream to action. My children, you shall be my brothers, and together we will sow the seed of action and reap the grain ; we will make a happy garden of flowers, and violets shall bloom everywhere out of our dream — everywhere. Violets, my children, pluck the wild violets, and bring them to me, and I will give you silver for them, and I will love you. Never forget,” he added, with a swelling voice, "that you owe your first duty to your mothers, and afterwards to your country, and to the spirit of France. I see afar” — he looked towards the setting sun, and stretched out his arm dramatically, yet such was the eloquence of his voice and person that not even the young Seigneur or Medallion smiled — “ I see afar,” he repeated, "the glory of our dreams fulfilled ; after toil and struggle and loss : and I call upon you now to unfurl the white banner of justice and liberty and the restoration ”

The women who listened guessed little of what he meant by the fantastic sermon ; but they wiped their eyes in sympathy, and gathered their children to them, and said, “ Poor gentleman, poor gentleman ! ” and took him instantly to their hearts. The men were mystified, but wine and rhetoric had fired them, and they cheered him — no one knew why. The Cure, as he turned to leave, with Monsieur Garon, shook his head in bewilderment ; but even he did not smile, for the man’s eloquence had impressed him ; and more than once he looked back at the dispersing crowd and the quaint figure posing on the verandah. The avocat was thinking deeply, and as, in the dusk, he left the Cure at his own door, all that he ventured was, “ Singular — a most singular person ! ”

“We shall see, we shall see,” said the Cure abstractedly, and they said good -night.

Medallion joined the Little Chemist in his shop door, and watched the habitants scatter, till only Parpon and the stranger were left, and these two faced each other, and, without a word, passed into the hotel together.

“ H’m, h’m ! ” said Medallion into space, drumming the door-jamb with his fingers; “which is it, my Parpon — a dauphin, or a fool ? ”

He and the Little Chemist talked long, their eyes upon the window opposite, inside which Monsieur Valmond and Parpon were in conference. Up the dusty street wandered fitfully the refrain —

M To a gentleman of the king,

Vive Napoleon ! ”

And once they dimly saw Monsieur Valmond come to the open window and stretch out his hand, as if in greeting to the song and the singer.

CHAPTER II HIS all happened on a Tuesday, and on

Wednesday, and for several days, Valmond went about making friends. His pockets were always full of pennies and silver pieces, and he gave them liberally to the children and to the poor, though, indeed, there were few suffering poor in Pontiac. All had food enough to keep them from misery, though often it got no further than sour milk and bread, with a dash of sugar in it of Sundays, and now and then a little pork and molasses. As for homes, every man and woman had a house of a kind, with its low, projecting roof and dormer windows, according to the ability and prosperity of the owner. These houses were whitewashed, or painted white and red, and had double glass in winter, after the same measure. There was no question of warmth, for in snow-time every house was banked up with earth above the foundations, the cracks and intersections of windows and doors filled with cloth from the village looms; and wood was for the chopping far and near. Within these air-tight cubes these simple folk baked and were happy, content if now and then the housewife opened the one pane of glass which hung on a hinge, or the slit in the sash, to let in the cold air. As a rule, the occasional opening of the outer door to admit someone sufficed, for out rushed the hot blast, and in came the dry, frosty air to brace to their tasks the cheerful story-teller and singer.

In summer the little fields were broken with wooden ploughs, followed by the limb of a tree for harrow, and the sickle, the scythe, and the flail to do their office in due course ; and if the man were well-to-do, he swung the cradle in his rye and wheat, rejoicing in the sweep of the knife and the fulness of the swathe. Then, too, there was the driving of the rivers, when, the young men ran the logs from the backwoods to the great mills near and far : red-shirted, sashed, knee-booted, with rings in their ears, and wide hats on their heads, and a song in their mouths, breaking a jamb, or steering a crib, or raft, down the rapids. And the voyageur also, who brought furs out of the North down the great lakes, came home again to Pontiac, singing in his patois —

Or, as he went forth —

Bartons, embarquons-nous, A-a-a-a-a-a-a-at”

And, as we know, it was summer when Valmond came to Pontiac. The river-drivers were just beginning to return, and by and by the flax swingeing would begin in the little secluded valley by the river ; and one would see, near and far, the bright sickle flashing across the gold and green area ; and all the pleasant furniture of summer set forth in pride, by the Mother of the House whom we call Nature.

Valmond was alive to it all, almost too alive, for at first the flamboyancy of his spirit touched him off with melodrama. Yet, on the whole, he seemed at first more natural than involved or obscure. His love for children was real, his politeness to women spontaneous. He was seen to carry the load of old Madame Degardy up the hill, and place it at her own door. He also had offered her a pinch of snuff, which she acknowledged by gravely offering a pinch of her own from a dirty twist of brown paper.

One day he sprang over a fence, took from the hands of coquettish £lise Malboir an axe, and split the knot which she in vain had tried to break. Not satisfied with this, he piled full of wood the stone oven outside the house, and carried water for her from the spring. This came from natural kindness, for he did not see the tempting look she gave him, nor the invitation in her eye, as he turned to leave her. He merely asked her name. But after he had gone, as though he had forgotten, or remembered, something, he leaped the fence again, came up to her with an air of half-abstraction, half-courtesy, took both her hands in his, and, before she could recover herself, kissed her on the cheeks in a paternal sort of way, saying, “ Adieu, adieu, my child ! ” and left her.

The act had condescension in it ; yet, too, something unconsciously simple and primitive. Parpon the dwarf, who that moment perched himself on the fence, could not decide which Valmond was just then — dauphin or fool. Valmond did not see the little man, but swung away down the dusty road, reciting to himself couplets from Le Vieux Drajpeau :

** Oh, come, my flag, come, hope of mine.

And thou shalt dry these fruitless tears ”| and apparently, without any connection, he passed complacently to an entirely different song —

“ She loved to laugh, she loved to drink,

I bought her jewels fine.”

Then he added, with a suddenness which seemed to astound himself, — for afterward he looked round quickly, as if to see if he had been heard, — “ Elise Malboir — h’m ! a pretty name, Elise ; but Malboir — tush! it should be Malbarre; the difference between Lombardy cider and wine of the Empire”

Parpon, left behind, sat on the fence with his legs drawn up to his chin, looking at Elise, till she turned and caught the provoking light of his eye. She flushed, then was cool again, for she was put upon her mettle by the suggestion of his glance.

“ Come, lazy-bones,” she said ; “ come fetch me currants from the garden.”

“Come, mocking-bird,” answered he; “come peck me on the cheek.”

She tossed her head and struck straight home. “ It isn’t a game of pass it on from gentleman to beetle.”

“ You think he’s a gentleman ?” he asked.

“ As sure as I think you’re a beetle.”

He laughed, took off his cap, and patted himself on the head. “ Parpon, Parpon ! ” said he ; “ if Jean Malboir could see you now, he’d put his foot on you and crush you — dirty beetle ! ”

At the mention of her father’s name a change passed over Elise ; for this same Parpon, when all men else were afraid, had saved Jean Malboir’s life at a log chute in the hills. When he died, Parpon was nearer to him than the priest, and he loved to hear the dwarf chant his wild rhythms of the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet Hills, more than to listen to holy prayers. Elise, who had a warm, impulsive nature, in keeping with her black eyes and tossing hair, who was all fire and sun and heart and temper, ran over and caught the dwarf round the neck, and kissed him on the cheek, dashing the tears out of her eyes, as she said —

“ Pm a cat, I’m a bad-tempered thing, Parpon ; I hate myself.”

He laughed, shook his shaggy head, and pushed her away the length of his long, strong arms. “ Bosh ! ” said he ; “ you're a puss and no cat, and I [ike you better for the claws. If you hate yourself, you'll get a big penance. Hate the ugly like Parpon, not the pretty like you. The one’s no sin, the other is.”

She was beside the open door of the oven ; and it would be hard to tell whether her face was suffering from heat or from blushes. However that might chance, her mouth was soft and sweet, and her eyes were still wet.

“Who is he, Parpon?” she asked, not looking at him.

“ Is he like Duclosse the mealman, or Lajeunesse the blacksmith, or Garotte the limeburner, — and

the rest ? "

“ Of course not,” she answered.

“ Is he like the Curd, or Monsieur De la Riviere, or Monsieur Garon, or Monsieur Medallion ? ”

“ He’s different,” she said hesitatingly.

“ Better or worse ? ”

“ More — more ” — she didn’t know what to say — “ more interesting.”

“Is he like the Judge Honourable that comes from Montreal, or the grand Governor, or the General that travels with the Governor ? ”

“Yes, but different — more — more like us in some things, like them in others, and more — splendid. He speaks such fine things! You mind the other night at the Louis Quinze. He is like—”

She paused. “ What is he like ? ” Parpon asked slyly, enjoying her difficulty.

“ Ah, I know ! ” she answered ; “ he is a little like Madame the American who came two years ago, There is something — something ! ”

Parpon laughed again. “ Like Madame Chalice Irom New York — fudge!0 Yet he eyed, her as if he admired her penetration. “How?” he urged.

“ I don’t know — quite,” she answered, a little pettishly. “ But I used to see Madame go off in the woods, and she would sit hour by hour, and listen to the waterfall, and talk to the birds, and at herself too ; and more than once I saw her shut her hands — like that! You remember what tiny hands she had?” (She glanced at her own brown ones unconsciously.) “ And she spoke out, her eyes running with tears — and she all in pretty silks, and a colour like a rose. She spoke out like this: ‘ Oh, if I could only do something, something, some big thing! What is all this silly coming and going to me, when I know, I know I might do it, if I had the chance! O Harry, Harry, can’t you see?’”

“Harry was her husband. Ah, what a fisherman was he!” said Parpon, nodding. “What 3 did she mean by doing 1 big things ’ ? '* he added.

“ How do I know ? ” she asked fretfully. “ But Monsieur Valmond seems to me like her, just the same.”

“Monsieur Wmond is a great man,” said Tarpon slowly.

“You know!” she cried ; “you know! Oh, tell me, what is he ? Who is he ? Where does he come from? Why is he here? How long will he stay? Tell me, how long will he stay?” She caught flutteringly at Parpon’s shoulder.

u You remember what I sang the other night ? ” he asked.

“Yes, yes,” she answered quickly. “Oh, how beautiful it was ! Ah, Parpon, why don’t you sing for us oftener, and all the world would love you, and — ”

“ I don’t love the world,” he retorted gruffly; “and I’ll sing for the devil” (she crossed herself) “ as soon as for silly gossips in Pontiac.”

“ Well, well ! ” she asked ; “ what had your song to do with him, with Monsieur Valmond?”

“ Think hard, my dear,” he said, with mystery in his look. Then, breaking off, " Madame Chalice is coming back to-day; the Manor House is open, and you should see how they fly round up there.” Pie nodded towards the hill beyond.

“ Pontiac ’ll be a fine place by and by,” she said, for she had village patriotism deep in her veins. Had not her people lived there long before the conquest by the English ?

u But tell me, tell me what your song had to do with Monsieur,” she urged again. “It’s a pretty song, but — ”

“Think about it,” he answered provokingly. “ Adieu, my child ! ” he went on mockingly, using Valmond’s words, and catching both her hands as he had done ; then, springing upon a bench by the oven, he kissed her on both cheeks. “ Adieu, my child!” he said again, and, jumping down, trotted away out into the road. Back to her, from the dust he made as he shuffled away, there came the words —

€t Gold and silver he will bring,

Vive le roi, la reine!

And eke the daughter of a king —

She went about her work, the song in her ears, and the words of the refrain beat in and out, out and in — “ Vive Napoleon? Iler brow was troubled, and she perched her head on this side and on that, as she tried to guess what the dwarf had meant. At last she sat down on a bench at the door of her home, and the summer afternoon spent its glories on her; for the sunflowers and the hollyhocks were round her, and the warmth gave her face a shining health and joyousness. There she brooded till she heard the voice of her mother calling across the meadow ; then she got up with a sigh, and softly repeated Tarpon's words, “ He is a great man l ”