The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, June 14, 1903, Page 3

THE SUNDAY CALL. have saved you! rescued you!" Breboeuf, thrusting "his of the lodge in remaining prisoners of 1, Jean door Jean the Breboeuf, who, outer edge of the the first to espy of visitors. Of any could have been prisoners. Too among arty none to the et welcome even now, the embassy New France among the Iroquois ve In an instant the village an uproar ier of this embassy from Que- we was Captain Joncaire, at that e French settlements, but in = ri »r among the Onon- P w lie to the muct ncaire v v a prie of es therhood, by a young L egiment Carignan, and ®wD or three ¥ Canad officials, well as a str retir f savages ke way between Lake re with not for ame us t be tatke the ents with w of New En and your g¢ Jists that older, tely more ¥ is France L ch Ki y Old ¥ o that new West wait, until after speaking, your f jeutenant, the ance where now must nd these coureur—his e need not ask. He ad little ris himself m the to meet 1 mply such ceremonies mly back mands that m s wil wt different white pris make ready back to the St take. Monsieur that same all Quebec by the My faith! The regi- cause to rejoice when er, even though you f the ready coin of the gentiemen of France hey will be glad as ever as may be in this po You have been far yubt not. You were. er somewhere below the of the tribe of Messasebe had thought no white for this surely in the season. the the great val- a born rtunate say that, since you than half a thousand safe and sound to-day? hall be to have you and for the winter, if, in- nger dwelling. T can- to the English settle- back to the Gov- dull enough Dutch of the Hud- t the blue-nosed psalmo- land. d lady news are the gayer J& of New France, or la belle France France. Monsieur, how it for a gentleman of than your dull England ng! Either New France let me advise you:; and as , let me counsel that you the Big Peace. And, in riend. Du Mesne, your fate, 1 sup- He was killed— Law recounted the division of his party st previous to t jded his return to spring and the find concern lest former station during the he Iroquois attack, and Du Mesne should with no but s ruins, news of the fate of his friends. Oh, 85 o that—"twould be but the old of the y are thousand miles or voyageurs,” said Joncaire. used egough to journeying a o, to find the trall end Much better for, in a heap of ashes, and to the tine of a sealp danc “ear not for your lieuten- ant, for, believe me, he has fended for himself if there has been need. Yet [ would warrant you, now that this word shall £ for the peace has gone out, we your friend Du Mesne as big as lif the mountain next summer, knowing much of your history as you yourself do, 2nd quite counting upon meeting you with us on the St. Lawrence, and madame as well. As to that, methinks madame will be better with us on the St. Lawrence than on the savage M sebe. We have none too many dames among us, and 1 need not state, what monsieur’s eyes have told him every morn that a fairer never set foot from from over sea Witness my lfeutenant yonder, Raoul ¢ Lig He is thus soon all devotior Mother of God! but we are all well met here in this wilderness among the sav- ages. Voila, monsieur! We take vou again captive, and 'tis madame enslaves us all! There had indee ensued conversation between the young French officer above named and Mary Connynge, vet prompt as might have been the former with gal- lant attention; to so fair a captive, it could not have » said that he was al lowed the first advances. Mary Con- nynge n after a monti. f starving foot travel and another month of. anxiety at the Iroquois villages, had lost neither “You see that man—the tall one, John Law? Listen! It is from him I ask you to save me. Oh, sir, there is my captiv- ity T “What! Your hushand ““He is not my husband. The child “Mais—a thousand pardons. your pardon.” “Pi: "Tis the child of an Indian wom= an. “Oh!” The blood again ‘came to the young gallant’s forehead. : “Listen, I tell you! I have been scarce better than a prisoner in this man's hands. He has abused me, threatened me, would have beaten me—" “‘Madame—mademoiselle!” is true. We have been far in the West and 1 could not escape. Good Prov- idence has now brought my rescue—and you, monsieur. Oh! tell me that it has brought me safety and also a friend— that it has brought me yo With every pulse a-tingle, every vein a-fire, what could the young gallant do? What but yield, but promise, but swear, but rage? “Hush!” said Mary Connynge, her own eves gleaming. *“Wait! The time will come. So soon as we reach the settle- ments 1 leave him, and forever! Then—'" Their hands met swiftly. ‘‘He has aban- doned me,” murmured Mary Connynge. “"He has not spoken to me for weeks oth- er than words of ‘Yes' or ‘No,” ‘Do this’ ‘Do that!” Wait! Wait! How soon. o shall we be at Montreal?” than Less age. I swea “Madam,” interrupted Law, “pardon, but Monsleur Joncaire bids us be ready. Come, help me arrange the packs for our journey. Perhaps Lieutenant de Ligny— for I think they name you, sir—will pardon us and will consent to resumg his conversation later.” a month. 'Twill seem an LS oM \\\U J her rounded body, her brilliance of cye and color nor her subtle magnetism of personality. had taken stronger head It than that of Raoul de Ligny to with- stand even her slight request. How, then, as to Mary Connynge supplicating, en- treating, craving of him protection? “Ah, you brave Frenchmen,” said she to De Ligny, advancing to him as he stood apart twisting his mustache and not unmindful of this%ery possibility of a conversation with the captive. ou brave Frenchmen, how can we thank you for our salvation? It was all so horrible.” “It is our duty to save all, madame,” rejoined De Lingy; “our happiness un- speakable to save such as madame. I swear by my word, I had as soon expect- ed to find an angel with the Iroquois as to meet there madame! Quebec—all Que- bec has told me who madame was and is. And T am your slave.” *Oh, sir, could you but mean that!” and there was turned upon him the full power of a gaze which few men had ever been able to withstand. The blood of De Ligny tingled as he bowed and replied: “If madame could but demand one proof.” Mary Connynge stepped closer to him. “Hush!” she said. “Speak low. Do not let it seem that we are interested. Keep your own counsel. Can you do this?” The eyes of the young officer gleamed. He was bold enough to respond. This his temptress noted. He nodded. il ’ “Assured]. said De Ligny. wait, monsieur.” “So, madam,” said .Law to Mary Con- nynge, as they at last found themselves alone in the lodge arranging their few belongings' for transport, ““we are at last 1o regain the settlements, and for a time at least must forego our home in the far- ther West. In time—" in time! What mean you?” Y, we may return.” “Never! I have had my fill of savaging. That we are left alive is mighty merci- ful. To go thither again—never!” “I shall “As you like, “Meaning, madam—*" “What you like." Law seated himself on the corded pack, bringing the tips of his fingers together. s what changed her fancy “I have no fancy left. What T was once to you I shall not recall more than I can avoid in my own mind. heard from that thur—' “Listen! Stop! Neither must you insult the dead nor the absent. I have never As to what you lying man, Sir Ar- BaAT AND THREW I JELF ACAINF T SoE-_Y - told you what T learned from Sir Arthur, though it was enough to set me well dis- traught.” N “I doubt not that he told -you'twas’I who befooled Lady Catharine; that ‘twas 1 who took the létter which you sent—-"" *'Stay! No. He told me not so much as “that. But he and you together have toid me enough to show me that I was the basest wretch on earth, the most gullible, the most ufispeakably false and cruel. How could ‘I :bave doubted the faith of Lady Catharine—how, but for you? Oh, Mary Connynge, Mary Connynge! Would God a man were so fashioned he might better ‘withstand the argument of soft flesh and: shining eves! I admit I be- lieved the disloyal one, who was loyalty itself.” “And you would go - back into the wil- derness with one who was as false as * replied John Law,. swiftly. as you yourself say. 'Tis all over. Hell itself hath followed me. Now lét. it all go, one with the other, little with big. T did not forget, nor should I though I tried again. Back to Europe, back to the gaming tavles, to the wheels and cards 1 go again, and plunge into it madder than ever did man before. Let us see if chance can bring John Law anything worse than what he has already known. But, madam, doubt not. So long as you claim my pro- tection, here or anywhere on earth—in the West, in France, in England—it is yours; for I pay for my folly like a man, be assured of that. The child is ours, and it must be considered. But once let me find you in unfaithfulness—once let me know that you resign me—then John Law ! I shall some time see Catharine again. I shall give her my heart’s and 1 shall have her heart's in return. And then, Mary Con- the cards, dice, perhaps drink-— scorn nynge, perhaps gold at the end. Madam, remem- ber! And now come!” CHAPTER XV, THE GREAT PEACE. Of the long and bitter journey from the Ircquois towns to Lake St. George, down the Richelieu and thence through the deep snows of the Canadian winter, it beots little to make mention; neither to tell of that devotion of kaoul de Ligny to the newly rescued lady, already reput- ed in camp rumor to be of noble English family. “That sous-lieutenant: he is tete montee regarding madame,” said Plerre Noir one evening to Jean Breboeuf. “As to that— well, you know Monsieur L'as. Pouf! So much for yon monkey, par eomparaison.” “He is a great capitaine, Monsieur L’as,” sald Jean Breboeuf. “Never a bet- ter went beyond the. straits," “But verw sad of late.” ““Oh, oui, since the death of his friend, Monsleur le Capitaine Pembroke—may Mary ald his spirit!"” “Monsieur 1/as goes not on the trail again,” said Pierre Noir. ‘“At least not and doubted her ‘while this look_is in his eye.” “The more the loss, Plerre Noir; but some day the woods will "call to him again., .I know not how long it may be, yet some day Mother Messasebe wili raise her finger and beckon to Monsieur 1’as, and say: ‘Come, my son! 'Tis lfl:l.!. as you know, Pierre Noir.” Yet at length ghe straggling settlements at Montreal were reached and here, affer ‘the fashion of the frontier, some sort dt menage was inaugurated for Law and his party. Here they lived through the rest. of the winter-and through the long, slow spring. . : And ‘then set‘on the heats of summer and there came apace the time agreed vpon, in the month of August, for the widely heralded assembling of the tribes for the Great Peace; one of the most pic- turesque, as it was one of the most re- markable and significant meetings of widely diverse human beings, that ever took place within the ken of history. “They came, ‘these savages, now first owning the strength of the invading white men, from all the far and un- known cqruers of the Western wilder- ness. They came afoot and with little trains of dogs, in single canoes, in little groups and growing flotillas and vast fieets of canges, pushing on and on, down stream, following the tide of the furs down this pathway of more than a thou- sand miles. Tkte Iroguois, for once mind- ful of a promise, came in a compact flest, a hundred cances strong, and they stalk- «d abovt the island for days, naked, stlark, gigantic, contempluous of white ‘and red men, of friend and foe alike! The scattered Algonquins, whose villages had Leen razed by these same savage war- riors, came down by scores out of the Northérn woods, along little, unknown ~.streams, and over paths with which none but themselves were acquainted. From the 'North, group joined group, and vil- lzge added liself to village, until a vast body of people hau 1ssembled, whose numbers would have been hard to esti- mate and who proved difficult to accom- modate. Yet from the farther West, add- ing their numbers to those already gath- cred, came the fleets of the driven Hu- rons and the Ojibways and the Miamis and the Outagamies and the Ottawas, the Menominees and the Mascoutins—even the Illin{, late objects of the wrath of the Five Nations. The whole Western wilder- ress poured forth its savage population, till "all the shores of the St. Lawrence seemed one vast aboriginal encampment. These massed at the rendezvous about the puny settlement of Montreal in such rumbers that, in comparison, the white population seemed insignificant. Then, had there been a Pontiac of a Tecu h, Lad there been one leader of the tribes able to_teach the strength of unity, the white settlements of upper America had indeed ;been utterly destroyed. Naught but ancient tribal jealousies held the sav- ages apart. : With these tribesmel were many pris- opers, captives taken in raids all along the:thin and straggling froutier; farmers and ‘artisans, peasants and soldiers, wom- en raped from the farms of the Riche- lleu censitaires, and wood rangers now BTown savage as their captors and loth to leavé the wild life into which they had #0 naturally grown. It was the first re- flex of the wave and even now the bits of flotsam and jetsam of wild fife were fain to_cling to the Western shore whith- €r they had been carried by the advanc- ing flood. This was the meeting of the ebb with the séa that sent it forward. the meeting of civilized and savage: and strange enough was the nature'of those confluent tides. Whether the red men were yielding to civilization or the whites turning savage—this question might well have arisen to an observer of this tre- mendous spectacle. The wigwams of the different tribes and clans and families were grouped apart, scattered along ail the narrow shore back of the great hili, and over the convent gardens; and among these stalked the native French, clad in coarse cloth of blue, with gaudy belt and buckskins and cap of fur and moccasins of hide, mingling fraternally with their tufted and bepainted visitors, as well as with those rangers, both envied and hated, the savage coureurs de bois of the far northern fur trade: men bearded, si- lent, stern, clad in breech clout and leg- gings like any savage. as silent, as stoi- cal, as hardy on the trail as on the nar- row thwart of the canoe. Savage feastings, riotings and drunken- pess and long debaucheries came with the great peace, when once the word had gone out that the fur trade was to be resumed. Henceforth tnere was te be peace. The French were no longer to raid_the little cabins along the Kenrebec and the Penobscot. The river Richelieu was to be no longer a red war trail. The "English were no longer to offer arms and blankets for the beaver, belonging by right of prior discovery to those who of- fered French brandy and French beads. The Iroquois were no longer to pursue a timid foe across the great prairies of the valley of the Messasebe. The Ojib- ways were not to ambush the scattered parties of tha Iroquois. The unambitious colonists of New England and New York were to be left to till their stony farms in quiet. Meantime the fur trade, waste- ful, licentious, unprofitable, was to extend onward and outward in all the marches of the West. From one end of the Great River of the West to the other the in- signia of France and of France's king were to be erécted, and ‘France's posts were to hold all the ancient trails. Even at’ the mouth of the Great River, fore- stalling these sullen English and these sluggish English coloniéts, far to the south In the somber forests and mias- matic marshes, there was to be estab- lished one more ruling point for the arms of Louis the Grand. It was a great game this, for which the continent of America was in preparation. Jt was a mighty thing. this gathering of .the great peace, this time when colonists and their king were seeing the first breaking of the wave on the shore of an empire alluring, won- derful, unparalleled. Into this wild rabble of savages and citizens, of priest and soldier and coureur, Law's friends, Plerre Noir and Jean Bre- boeuf, swiftly disappeared, naturally, fit- 1y and unavoidably. ‘‘The West is cal ing to us, monsieur,” said Pierre Noir one morning, as he stood looking out across’ the river. “I hear once more the spirits of the Messasebe. Monsieur, will you come?” Law shook his head. Yet two days later, as he stood at that very point, there came to him the silent feet of two coureurs instead of one. Once more he heard in his ear the question: “Monsieur L'as, will you come?” At this voice he started. In an instant his arms were about the neck of Du Mesne, and tears were falling from the eves of both in the welcome of that brotherhood which is admitted- only by those whe have known together arms and danger and hardship, the touch of the hard ground and the sight of the wide blue sky. “Du Mesne. my friend!" “‘Monsieur L’as “It is as though you came from the depths of the sea, Du Mesne!” said Law. “And as though you yourself arose from the grave, Monsjeu: “How did you know— “Why, ‘easily. You do not yet under- stand the ways of the wilderness, where the news travels as fast as in the cities. You were hardly below the foot of Michi- ganon before runners from the Illini had spread the news along the Chicagua, where 1 was then in camp. For the rest, the runners brought also. news of the big peace. I reasoned that the Iroquois would not dare to destroy their captives, that in time the agents of the Govern- ment would receive the captives of the Iroquois—that these captives would nat- urally come to the settlements on the St. lawrence, since it was the French against whom the Iroquois had been at war; that having come to Montreal, you would naturally remain here for a time, The rest was easy. I fared on to the stralts this spring, and then on down the Lakes." I have sold our furs, and am now ready to account to you with a sum quite as much as we should have expected. “Now, Monsieur,”” and Du Mesne stretched out his arm again, pointing to the down-coming flood of the St. Lawr- ence, “Monsfeur, will you come? I see not the St. Lawrence, but the Messasebe. I can hear her voices calling!” Law dashed his hand across his eyes and turned his head away. Vot yet, Du Mesne,” said he. “I do not know. Not yet. I must first go across the wa- ters. Perhaps some time—I ¢annot tell. But this, my comrades, my brothers, I do know; that never, until the last sod lies on my grave, will I forget the Mes- sasebe, or forget you. Go.back, If you will, my brothers; but at night, when you sit by your fireside, think of me, as I shall ‘think, of you, there in the great ‘valley. My friends, it is the heart of the world!"" “But, Monsieur—’ “There, Du Mesne—I would not talk to. day. At another time. Brothers, adies ‘‘Adieu, my brothe: said the coureur his own emotion showing in his eyes: and their hands met again. ““Monsieur is cast down,” said Du Mesne to Plerre Noir later, as they reached the beach. “Now, what think you?" “Usually ,as you know, Plerre, it is a question of some worgan. It reminds me, ‘Wabana was remiss enough when I left her among the Illini with you. Now, God bless my heart I find her—how think ‘You? With her erucifix lost, cooking for e a dirty Ojibwa *“Mary Mother!” said Pierre Noir, “if it be a matter of a woman—well, God help us all! At least 'tis something that will take Monsleur L'as over seas again.” “"Tis mostly a woman, mused Du Mesne; “but this passeth my wit."” ““True, they pass the wit of all. Now. did 1 ever tell thee about the mission girl ag Michilimackinac—but stay! That for another time. They tell me that our comrade, Gregselon dul/hut. is expected in to-morrow with a party from the far end of Superior. Come, let us have the news.” Tous les printemps, Tant des nouvelles. Hummed Du Mesne, as he flung his arm above the shoulder of the other; and the two so disappeared adown. the beach. Dully, apathetically? Law' lived on his life here at Moéntreal for yet a time, at the edge of that wilderness which bad proved ail else but Eden. Near to him, though in these guarted times guest by necessity of the good sisters of the con- vent, dwelt Mary Conynge. And as for these two it might be safd that each but bided the time. To Mer Law might as well have been one of the corded Sul- pician priests: and she e hing, for all he liked, one of the nuns ofithe convent garden. “What did it all mean, gvhere was it all to end he asked himself a thousand times; and a thousand times his mind failed him of any answer. He wait- ed, watching the great encampment dis- appear, first slowly, then swiftly and sud- denly, so that in a night the last of the lodges had gone and the last canoe had left the shore. There remained only the hurrying flood of the St. Lawrence, com~ ing from the West The autumn came on. vember the ships would leave for France. Yet before the beginning of November there came swiftly and sharply the set- tlement of the questions which racked Early in No- Law's mind. One morning Mary Con- nynge was missing from the convent, nor could any of the sisters, nor the mother superior, explain how or when she had departed! Yet, had there been close observers, there might have been seen a boat drop- ping down the river on the early morn- ing of that day. And at Quebec there was later reported in the books of the intendant the shipping. upon the good bark Dauphine, of Lieutenant Raoul de Ligny, sometime officer of the regiment Carignan, formerly stationed in New France; with him a lady recently from Montreal, known very well to. Lieutenant de Ligny and his family: and to be In his care en voyage to France: the name of said lady illegible upon the records, the spelling apparently not having suited the clerk who wrote it: and then forgot it in'the press of other things. Certain of the Governor's household, as well as two or three habitants from the lower town, witnessed the arrival of this lady, who came down from Montreal. They saw her take boat for ‘the bark Dauphine, one of the last ships to o down the river that fall.' Yes, it was easily to be established. Dark, with sin- gular, brown ey petite, yet not over small, of good figure—assuredly so much could be said; for obviously the king. kindly as he might feel toward the colony of New France, could not sead out among the young women supplied to the colonists as wives very many ich dem- oiselles as this; otherwise assuredly all France would have followed the King's ships to the St. Lawrence John Law, a grave and saddened man, vet one now no longer lacking in decision, stood alone one day at the parapet of the great rock of Quebec, gazing down the broad expanse of the stream below. He was alone except for a little child, a child too young to know her mothe had death or disaster at that time r moved the mother. Taw took the little one up in his arms and gazed hard upon the upturned face. “Catharine!” he sald to himself. “Cath- arine! Catharine!” “Pardon, Monsieu elbow. “Surely I this?™" Law turned. of peace. stood ing his hand. “Naturally, I could never forget you, sald Law. “Monsieur looks at the shipping.” said Joncaire, smiling. “Surely he would not be leaving New France, after so luckily escaping the worst of her dangers?” “Life might be the sama for me over there as here,” replied Law. “As for my luck, T must declare myself the most un- fortunate man on earth “Your wife, perhaps. is 17" “Pardon, I have noge.™ “Pardon. in turn, Monsleur—but, you see—the child?” “It is the child of a savage woman, said Law. oncaire pulled asid®™the in- fant's hood. He gave no sign, and a nice indifference sat in his query: “Une belle sauvage “Belle sauvage!” said a voice at his have seen you before Joncaire. by, the embassador smiling and extend- CHAPTER L THE GRAND MONARQUE. On a great bed of state, satin draped, flanked with ancient tapestries, piled sick- eningly soft with heaps of pilliows, thers lay a thin, withered little old man—old, old and very feeble. His face was shrunk- en and drawn with pain; his eyes, once bright, were dulled: his brow, formerly imperious, had lost its arrogance. Under the coverings which, in the unrest of fll- ness, he now pulled high about his face, now tossed restlessly aside, his figure lay an-elongated, shapeless blot, scarce show ing beneath the silks. One limb, twitched and drawn up ‘convulsively, told of a def- inite seat of pain. The hands, thin and wasted, lay out upon the coverlets; and the thumbs were creeping ever more in- sistently, under the'cover of the fingers, telling that the battle for life was lost, that the surrender had been made It was a death-bed, this great bed of state; a death-bed situated in the heart of the greatest temple of desire ever built in all the world. He who had been mas- ter, there, who had set in order those miles of stately columns, those seas of glittering gilt and crystal, he who had been magician, builder, creator, perverter, debaser—he, Louis of France, the Grand Monarque, now lay suffering like any or- dinary human being, like any common man. Last night the four and twenty vio- lins, under the King's command, had shrilled their chorus, as had been their wont for years while the master dined. This morning the cordon of drums and hautboys had pealed their high and mar- tial music. Useless. The one or. the other music fell upon ears too dull to hear. The formal tribute to the central soul for a time continued of its own inertia; for a time royalty had still its worship: yet the custom was but a lagging one. The musi- cians grimaced and made what discord they liked, openly, insolently, seorning this weak and withered figure on the silk- en bed. The cordon of the white and blus guards of the household still swept about the vast pleasure grounds of this fairy temple; yet the officers left their posts and conversed with one another. Musi- cians and guards, spectators and popu- lace, all were waiting, waiting until the end should come. Farther out and be- yond, where the peaked roofs of Paris rose, back of that line which this imperious mind had decreed should not be passed by the dwellings of Paris, which must not come tgo near this temple of luxury, nor disturb the King while he enjoyed himself—back of the perfunctorily loyal guards of the house- hold, there reached the ragged, shapeless masses of the people of Paris and of France, walting, smiling, as some animal licking its chops in expectation of some satisfying thing. They were waiting for news of the death of this shrunken man, this creature once so full of arrogant lust, then so full of somber repentance, now so full of the very taste of death. On the great tapestry that hung above the head of the curtained bed shome the double sun of Louis the Grand, which had meant death and devastation to so much of Europe. It blazed, mimicking the glory that was gome; but toward it there was rdised no sword nor scepter more in vow or exaltation. The race was run, the sun was sinking to its setting. Nothing but a man—a Weary, worn-out, dying man—was Louls, the Grand Mon- arque, King for seventy-two years of France, almost king of Europe. TRhis death-bed lay in the center of a land op- pressed, ground down, ‘mpoverished. The hearts and lives of thousands were in these colonnades. The people had paid for their King. They had fed him fat and kept him full of loves. In return, he had trampled the people into the very dust. He had robbed even their anclent nobles of honors and consideration. Black- ened, ruined, a vast graveyard, a monu- mental starving-ground, France lay about his death-bed, and its people were but waiting with grim impatience for their King to die. What France might do in