Le chien d'or. English

  CHAPTER XIII. THE CHIEN D'OR.

  On the Rue Buade, a street commemorative of the gallant Fontenac, stoodthe large, imposing edifice newly built by the Bourgeois Philibert, asthe people of the Colony fondly called Nicholas Jaquin Philibert, thegreat and wealthy merchant of Quebec and their champion against theodious monopolies of the Grand Company favored by the Intendant.

  The edifice was of stone, spacious and lofty, but in style solid, plain,and severe. It was a wonder of architecture in New France and the talkand admiration of the Colony from Tadousac to Ville Marie. It comprisedthe city residence of the Bourgeois, as well as suites of offices andware-rooms connected with his immense business.

  The house was bare of architectural adornments; but on its facade,blazing in the sun, was the gilded sculpture that so much piqued thecuriosity of both citizens and strangers and was the talk of everyseigniory in the land. The tablet of the Chien D'or,--the GoldenDog,--with its enigmatical inscription, looked down defiantly uponthe busy street beneath, where it is still to be seen, perplexing thebeholder to guess its meaning and exciting our deepest sympathies overthe tragedy of which it remains the sole sad memorial.

  Above and beneath the figure of a couchant dog gnawing the thigh boneof a man is graven the weird inscription, cut deeply in the stone, as iffor all future generations to read and ponder over its meaning:

  "Je suis un chien qui ronge l'os, En le rongeant je prends mon repos. Un temps viendra qui n'est pas venu Que je mordrai qui m'aura mordu." 1736.

  Or in English:

  "I am a dog that gnaws his bone, I couch and gnaw it all alone-- A time will come, which is not yet, When I'll bite him by whom I'm bit."

  The magazines of the Bourgeois Philibert presented not only an epitomebut a substantial portion of the commerce of New France. Bales of furs,which had been brought down in fleets of canoes from the wild, almostunknown regions of the Northwest, lay piled up to the beams--skins ofthe smooth beaver, the delicate otter, black and silver fox, so richto the eye and silky to the touch that the proudest beauties longed fortheir possession; sealskins to trim the gowns of portly burgomasters,and ermine to adorn the robes of nobles and kings. The spoils of thewolf, bear, and buffalo, worked to the softness of cloth by the hands ofIndian women, were stored for winter wear and to fill the sledges withwarmth and comfort when the northwest wind freezes the snow to fine dustand the aurora borealis moves in stately possession, like an army ofspear-men, across the northern sky. The harvests of the colonists, thecorn, the wool, the flax; the timber, enough to build whole navies,and mighty pines fit to mast the tallest admiral, were stored upon thewharves and in the warehouses of the Bourgeois upon the banks of the St.Lawrence, with iron from the royal forges of the Three Rivers and heapsof ginseng from the forests, a product worth its weight in gold andeagerly exchanged by the Chinese for their teas, silks, and syceesilver.

  The stately mansion of Belmont, overlooking the picturesque valley ofthe St. Charles, was the residence proper of the Bourgeois Philibert,but the shadow that in time falls over every hearth had fallen uponhis when the last of his children, his beloved son Pierre, left home topursue his military studies in France. During Pierre's absence the homeat Belmont, although kept up with the same strict attention which theBourgeois paid to everything under his rule, was not occupied by him.He preferred his city mansion, as more convenient for his affairs, andresided therein. His partner of many years of happy wedded life had beenlong dead; she left no void in his heart that another could fill, but hekept up a large household for friendship's sake, and was lavish in hishospitality. In secret he was a grave, solitary man, caring for thepresent only for the sake of the thousands dependent on him--living muchwith the memory of the dear dead, and much with the hope of the futurein his son Pierre.

  The Bourgeois was a man worth looking at and, at a glance, one totrust to, whether you sought the strong hand to help, the wise head tocounsel, or the feeling heart to sympathize with you. He was tall andstrongly knit, with features of a high patrician cast, a noble head,covered thick with grizzly hair--one of those heads so tenacious of lifethat they never grow bald, but carry to the grave the snows of a hundredyears. His quick gray eyes caught your meaning ere it was half spoken.A nose and chin, moulded with beauty and precision, accentuated hishandsome face. His lips were grave even in their smile, for gaiety wasrarely a guest in the heart of the Bourgeois--a man keenly susceptibleto kindness, but strong in resentments and not to be placated withoutthe fullest atonement.

  The Bourgeois sat by the table in his spacious, well-furnisheddrawing-room, which overlooked the Rue Buade and gave him a glimpse ofthe tall, new Cathedral and the trees and gardens of the Seminary. Hewas engaged in reading letters and papers just arrived from France bythe frigate, rapidly extracting their contents and pencilling on theirmargins memos, for further reference to his clerks.

  The only other occupant of the room was a very elderly lady, in a blackgown of rigid Huguenot fashion. A close white cap, tied under her chin,set off to the worst advantage her sharp, yet kindly, features. Not anend of ribbon or edge of lace could be seen to point to one hair-breadthof indulgence in the vanities of the world by this strict old Puritan,who, under this unpromising exterior, possessed the kindliest heart inChristendom. Her dress, if of rigid severity, was of saintly purity, andalmost pained the eye with its precision and neatness. So fond are we ofsome freedom from over-much care as from over-much righteousness, thata stray tress, a loose ribbon, a little rent even, will relieve theeye and hold it with a subtile charm. Under the snow white hair ofDame Rochelle--for she it was, the worthy old housekeeper and ancientgoverness of the House of Philibert--you saw a kind, intelligent face.Her dark eyes betrayed her Southern origin, confirmed by her speech,which, although refined by culture, still retained the soft intonationand melody of her native Languedoc.

  Dame Rochelle, the daughter of an ardent Calvinist minister, was born inthe fatal year of the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, when LouisXIV. undid the glorious work of Henri IV., and covered France withpersecution and civil war, filling foreign countries with the electof her population, her industry, and her wealth, exiled in the name ofreligion.

  Dame Rochelle's childhood had passed in the trying scenes of the greatpersecution, and in the succeeding civil wars of the Cevennes she lostall that was nearest and dearest to her--her father, her brothers, herkindred nearly all, and lastly, a gallant gentleman of Dauphiny to whomshe was betrothed. She knelt beside him at his place of execution--ormartyrdom, for he died for his faith--and holding his hands in hers,pledged her eternal fidelity to his memory, and faithfully kept it allher life.

  The Count de Philibert, elder brother of the Bourgeois, was an officerof the King; he witnessed this sad scene, took pity upon the haplessgirl, and gave her a home and protection with his family in the Chateauof Philibert, where she spent the rest of her life until the Bourgeoissucceeded to his childless brother. In the ruin of his house she wouldnot consent to leave them, but followed their fortunes to New France.She had been the faithful friend and companion of the wife of theBourgeois and the educator of his children, and was now, in her old age,the trusted friend and manager of his household. Her days were dividedbetween the exercises of religion and the practical duties of life. Thelight that illumined her, though flowing through the narrow window of anarrow creed, was still light of divine origin. It satisfied her faith,and filled her with resignation, hope, and comfort.

  Her three studies were the Bible, the hymns of Marot, and the sermons ofthe famous Jurieu. She had listened to the prophecies of Grande Marie,and had even herself been breathed upon on the top of Mount Peira by theHuguenot prophet, De Serre.

  Good Dame Rochelle was not without a feeling that at times the spiritualgift she had received when a girl made itself manifest by intuitionsof the future, which were, after all, perhaps only emanations of hernatural good sense and clear intellect--the foresight of a pure mind.

  The w
asting persecutions of the Calvinists in the mountains of theCevennes drove men and women wild with desperate fanaticism. De Serrehad an immense following. He assumed to impart the Holy Spirit and thegift of tongues by breathing upon the believers. The refugees carriedhis doctrines to England, and handed down their singular ideas to moderntimes; and a sect may still be found which believes in the gift oftongues and practises the power of prophesying, as taught originally inthe Cevennes.

  The good dame was not reading this morning, although the volume beforeher lay open. Her glasses lay upon the page, and she sat musing by theopen window, seldom looking out, however, for her thoughts were chieflyinward. The return of Pierre Philibert, her foster child, had filled herwith joy and thankfulness, and she was pondering in her mind the detailsof a festival which the Bourgeois intended to give in honor of thereturn of his only son.

  The Bourgeois had finished the reading of his packet of letters, and satmusing in silence. He too was intently thinking of his son. His facewas filled with the satisfaction of old Simeon when he cried, out of thefulness of his heart, "Domine! nunc dimittis!"

  "Dame Rochelle," said he. She turned promptly to the voice of hermaster, as she ever insisted on calling him. "Were I superstitious, Ishould fear that my great joy at Pierre's return might be the prelude tosome great sorrow."

  "God's blessing on Pierre!" said she, "he can only bring joy to thishouse. Thank the Lord for what He gives and what He takes! He tookPierre, a stripling from his home, and returns him a great man, fit toride at the King's right hand and to be over his host like Benaiah, theson of Jehoiada, over the host of Solomon."

  "Grand merci for the comparison, dame!" said the Bourgeois, smiling,as he leaned back in his chair. "But Pierre is a Frenchman, and wouldprefer commanding a brigade in the army of the Marshal de Saxe tobeing over the host of King Solomom. But," continued he, gravely, "I amstrangely happy to-day, Deborah,"--he was wont to call her Deborahwhen very earnest,--"and I will not anticipate any mischief to mar myhappiness. Pshaw! It is only the reaction of over-excited feelings. I amweak in the strength of my joy."

  "The still, small voice speaks to us in that way, master, to remind usto place our trust in Heaven, not on earth, where all is transitory anduncertain; for if a man live many years, and rejoice in them all,let him remember the days of darkness, for they are many! We are nostrangers to the vanity and shadows of human life, master! Pierre'sreturn is like sunshine breaking through the clouds. God is pleased ifwe bask in the sunshine when he sends it."

  "Right, dame! and so we will! The old walls of Belmont shall ring withrejoicing over the return of their heir and future owner."

  The dame looked up delightedly at the remark of the Bourgeois. Sheknew he had destined Belmont as a residence for Pierre; but the thoughtsuggested in her mind was, perhaps, the same which the Bourgeois hadmused upon when he gave expression to a certain anxiety.

  "Master," said she, "does Pierre know that the Chevalier Bigot wasconcerned in the false accusations against you, and that it was he,prompted by the Cardinal and the Princess de Carignan, who enforced theunjust decree of the Court?"

  "I think not, Deborah. I never told Pierre that Bigot was ever more thanthe avocat du Roi in my persecution. It is what troubles me amidst myjoy. If Pierre knew that the Intendant had been my false accuser on thepart of the Cardinal, his sword would not rest a day in its scabbardwithout calling Bigot to a bloody account. Indeed, it is all I myselfcan do to refrain. When I met him for the first time here, in the Palacegate, I knew him again and looked him full in the eyes, and he knewme. He is a bold hound, and glared back at me without shrinking. Had hesmiled I should have struck him; but we passed in silence, with a saluteas mortal as enemies ever gave each other. It is well, perhaps, I worenot my sword that day, for I felt my passion rising--a thing I abhor.Pierre's young blood would not remain still if he knew the Intendant asI know him. But I dare not tell him! There would be bloodshed at once,Deborah!"

  "I fear so, master! I trembled at Bigot in the old land! I tremble athim here, where he is more powerful than before. I saw him passing oneday. He stopped to read the inscription of the Golden Dog. His facewas the face of a fiend, as he rode hastily away. He knew well how tointerpret it."

  "Ha! you did not tell me that before, Deborah!" The Bourgeois rose,excitedly. "Bigot read it all, did he? I hope every letter of it wasbranded on his soul as with red-hot iron!"

  "Dear master, that is an unchristian saying, and nothing good can comeof it. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord!' Our worst enemies are bestleft in His hands."

  The dame was proceeding in a still more moralizing strain, when a noisearose in the street from a crowd of persons, habitans for the most part,congregated round the house. The noise increased to such a degree thatthey stopped their conversation, and both the dame and the Bourgeoislooked out of the window at the increasing multitude that had gatheredin the street.

  The crowd had come to the Rue Buade to see the famous tablet of theGolden Dog, which was talked of in every seigniory in New France;still more, perhaps, to see the Bourgeois Philibert himself--the greatmerchant who contended for the rights of the habitans, and who would notyield an inch to the Friponne.

  The Bourgeois looked down at the ever-increasing throng,--country peoplefor the most part, with their wives, with not a few citizens, whom hecould easily distinguish by their dress and manner. The Bourgeois stoodrather withdrawn from the front, so as not to be recognized, for hehated intensely anything like a demonstration, still less an ovation.He could hear many loud voices, however, in the crowd, and caught up thechief topics they discussed with each other.

  His eyes rested several times on a wiry, jerking little fellow, whom herecognized as Jean La Marche, the fiddler, a censitaire of the manor ofTilly. He was a well-known character, and had drawn a large circle ofthe crowd around himself.

  "I want to see the Bourgeois Philibert!" exclaimed Jean La Marche. "Heis the bravest merchant in New France--the people's friend. Bless theGolden Dog, and curse the Friponne!"

  "Hurrah for the Golden Dog, and curse the Friponne!" exclaimed a scoreof voices; "won't you sing, Jean?"

  "Not now; I have a new ballad ready on the Golden Dog, which I shallsing to-night--that is, if you will care to listen to me." Jean saidthis with a very demure air of mock modesty, knowing well that thereception of a new ballad from him would equal the furor for a new ariafrom the prima donna of the opera at Paris.

  "We will all come to hear it, Jean!" cried they: "but take care of yourfiddle or you will get it crushed in the crowd."

  "As if I did not know how to take care of my darling baby!" said Jean,holding his violin high above his head. "It is my only child; it willlaugh or cry, and love and scold as I bid it, and make everybody elsedo the same when I touch its heart-strings." Jean had brought his violinunder his arm, in place of a spade, to help build up the walls of thecity. He had never heard of Amphion, with his lyre, building up thewalls of Thebes; but Jean knew that in his violin lay a power of workby other hands, if he played while they labored. "It lightened toil, andmade work go merrily as the bells of Tilly at a wedding," said he.

  There was immense talk, with plenty of laughter and no thought ofmischief, among the crowd. The habitans of en haut and the habitansof en bas commingled, as they rarely did, in a friendly way. Nor wasanything to provoke a quarrel said even to the Acadians, whose rudepatois was a source of merry jest to the better-speaking Canadians.

  The Acadians had flocked in great numbers into Quebec on the seizure oftheir Province by the English, sturdy, robust, quarrelsome fellows, whowent about challenging people in their reckless way,--Etions pas monmaitre, monsieur?--but all were civil to-day, and tuques were pulledoff and bows exchanged in a style of easy politeness that would not haveshamed the streets of Paris.

  The crowd kept increasing in the Rue Buade. The two sturdy beggarswho vigorously kept their places on the stone steps of the barrier, orgateway, of the Basse Ville reaped an unusual harvest of the smallestcoin--Max G
rimau, an old, disabled soldier, in ragged uniform, which hehad worn at the defence of Prague under the Marshal de Belleisle,and blind Bartemy, a mendicant born--the former, loud-tongued andimportunate, the latter, silent and only holding out a shaking hand forcharity. No Finance Minister or Royal Intendant studied more earnestlythe problem how to tax the kingdom than Max and Blind Bartemy how totoll the passers-by, and with less success, perhaps.

  To-day was a red-letter day for the sturdy beggars, for the newsflew fast that an ovation of some popular kind was to be given tothe Bourgeois Philibert. The habitans came trooping up the roughmountain-road that leads from the Basse Ville to the Upper Town; andup the long stairs lined with the stalls of Basque pedlars--cheating,loquacious varlets--which formed a by-way from the lower regions of theRue de Champlain--a break-neck thoroughfare little liked by the oldand asthmatical, but nothing to the sturdy "climbers," as the habitanscalled the lads of Quebec, or the light-footed lasses who displayedtheir trim ankles as they flew up the breezy steps to church or market.

  Max Grimau and Blind Bartemy had ceased counting their coins. Thepassers-by came up in still increasing numbers, until the street, fromthe barrier of the Basse Ville to the Cathedral, was filled with anoisy, good-humored crowd, without an object except to stare at theGolden Dog and a desire to catch a glimpse of the Bourgeois Philibert.

  The crowd had become very dense, when a troop of gentlemen rode at fullspeed into the Rue Buade, and after trying recklessly to force their waythrough, came to a sudden halt in the midst of the surging mass.

  The Intendant, Cadet, and Varin had ridden from Beaumanoir, followed bya train of still flushed guests, who, after a hasty purification,had returned with their host to the city--a noisy troop, loquacious,laughing, shouting, as is the wont of men reckless at all times, andstill more defiant when under the influence of wine.

  "What is the meaning of this rabble, Cadet?" asked Bigot; "they seemto be no friends of yours. That fellow is wishing you in a hot place!"added Bigot, laughing, as he pointed out a habitan who was shouting "Abas Cadet!"

  "Nor friends of yours, either," replied Cadet. "They have not recognizedyou yet, Bigot. When they do, they will wish you in the hottest place ofall!"

  The Intendant was not known personally to the habitans as were Cadet,Varin, and the rest. Loud shouts and execrations were freely ventedagainst these as soon as they were recognized.

  "Has this rabble waylaid us to insult us?" asked Bigot. "But itcan hardly be that they knew of our return to the city to-day." TheIntendant began to jerk his horse round impatiently, but without avail.

  "Oh, no, your Excellency! it is the rabble which the Governor hassummoned to the King's corvee. They are paying their respects to theGolden Dog, which is the idol the mob worships just now. They did notexpect us to interrupt their devotions, I fancy."

  "The vile moutons! their fleece is not worth the shearing!" exclaimedBigot angrily, at the mention of the Golden Dog, which, as he glancedupwards, seemed to glare defiantly upon him.

  "Clear the way, villains!" cried Bigot loudly, while darting his horseinto the crowd. "Plunge that Flanders cart-horse of yours into them,Cadet, and do not spare their toes!"

  Cadet's rough disposition chimed well with the Intendant's wish. "Comeon, Varin, and the rest of you," cried he, "give spur, and fight yourway through the rabble."

  The whole troop plunged madly at the crowd, striking right and left withtheir heavy hunting-whips. A violent scuffle ensued; many habitans wereridden down, and some of the horsemen dismounted. The Intendant'sGascon blood got furious: he struck heavily, right and left, and many ableeding tuque marked his track in the crowd.

  The habitans recognized him at last, and a tremendous yell burst out."Long live the Golden Dog! Down with the Friponne!" while the more boldventured on the cry, "Down with the Intendant and the thieves of theGrand Company!"

  Fortunately for the troop of horsemen the habitans were utterly unarmed;but stones began to be thrown, and efforts were made by them, not alwaysunsuccessfully, to pull the riders off of their horses. Poor Jean LaMarche's darling child, his favorite violin, was crushed at the firstcharge. Jean rushed at the Intendant's bridle, and received a blow whichlevelled him.

  The Intendant and all the troop now drew their swords. A bloodycatastrophe seemed impending, when the Bourgeois Philibert, seeing thestate of affairs, despatched a messenger with tidings to the Castle ofSt. Louis, and rushed himself into the street amidst the surging crowd,imploring, threatening, and compelling them to give way.

  He was soon recognized and cheered by the people; but even his influencemight have failed to calm the fiery passions excited by the Intendant'sviolence, had not the drums of the approaching soldiery suddenlyresounded above the noise of the riot. In a few minutes long files ofglittering bayonets were seen streaming down the Rue du Fort. ColonelSt. Remi rode at their head, forming his troops in position to chargethe crowd. The colonel saw at once the state of affairs, and being a manof judgment, commanded peace before resorting to force. He was at onceobeyed. The people stood still and in silence. They fell backquietly before the troops. They had no purpose to resist theauthorities--indeed, had no purpose whatever. A way was made by thesoldiers, and the Intendant and his friends were extricated from theirdanger.

  They rode at once out of the mob amid a volley of execrations, whichwere replied to by angry oaths and threats of the cavaliers as theygalloped across the Place d'Armes and rode pell-mell into the gateway ofthe Chateau of St. Louis.

  The crowd, relieved of their presence, grew calm; and some of the moretimid of them got apprehensive of the consequences of this outrage uponthe Royal Intendant. They dispersed quietly, singly or in groups, eachone hoping that he might not be called upon to account for the day'sproceedings.

  The Intendant and his cortege of friends rode furiously into thecourtyard of the Chateau of St. Louis, dishevelled, bespattered, andsome of them hatless. They dismounted, and foaming with rage, rushedthrough the lobbies, and with heavy trampling of feet, clatteringof scabbards, and a bedlam of angry tongues, burst into the CouncilChamber.

  The Intendant's eyes shot fire. His Gascon blood was at fever heat,flushing his swarthy cheek like the purple hue of a hurricane. He rushedat once to the council-table, and seeing the Governor, saluted him, butspoke in tones forcibly kept under by a violent effort.

  "Your Excellency and gentlemen of the Council will excuse our delay,"shouted Bigot, "when I inform you that I, the Royal Intendant of NewFrance, have been insulted, pelted, and my very life threatened by aseditious mob congregated in the streets of Quebec."

  "I grieve much, and sympathize with your Excellency's indignation,"replied the Governor warmly; "I rejoice you have escaped unhurt. Idespatched the troops to your assistance, but have not yet learned thecause of the riot."

  "The cause of the riot was the popular hatred of myself for enforcingthe royal ordinances, and the seditious example set the rabble by thenotorious merchant, Philibert, who is at the bottom of all mischief inNew France."

  The Governor looked fixedly at the Intendant, as he repliedquietly,--"The Sieur Philibert, although a merchant, is a gentleman ofbirth and loyal principles, and would be the last man alive, I think, toexcite a riot. Did you see the Bourgeois, Chevalier?"

  "The crowd filled the street near his magazines, cheering for theBourgeois and the Golden Dog. We rode up and endeavored to force our waythrough. But I did not see the Bourgeois himself until the disturbancehad attained its full proportions."

  "And then, your Excellency? Surely the Bourgeois was not encouraging themob, or participating in the riot?"

  "No! I do not charge him with participating in the riot, although themob were all his friends and partisans. Moreover," said Bigot, frankly,for he felt he owed his safety to the interference of the Bourgeois, "itwould be unfair not to acknowledge that he did what he could to protectus from the rabble. I charge Philibert with sowing the sedition thatcaused the riot, not with rioting himself."

  "But I accuse h
im of both, and of all the mob has done!" thunderedVarin, enraged to hear the Intendant speak with moderation and justice."The house of the Golden Dog is a den of traitors; it ought to be pulleddown, and its stones built into a monument of infamy over its owner,hung like a dog in the market-place."

  "Silence, Varin!" exclaimed the Governor sternly. "I will not hear theSieur Philibert spoken of in these injurious terms. The Intendant doesnot charge him with this disturbance; neither shall you."

  "Par Dieu! you shall not, Varin!" burst in La Corne St. Luc, roused tounusual wrath by the opprobrium heaped upon his friend the Bourgeois;"and you shall answer to me for that you have said!"

  "La Corne! La Corne!" The Governor saw a challenge impending, andinterposed with vehemence. "This is a Council of War, and not a placefor recriminations. Sit down, dear old friend, and aid me to get onwith the business of the King and his Colony, which we are here met toconsider."

  The appeal went to the heart of La Corne. He sat down. "You have spokengenerously, Chevalier Bigot, respecting the Bourgeois Philibert,"continued the Governor. "I am pleased that you have done so. MyAide-de-Camp, Colonel Philibert, who is just entering the Council, willbe glad to hear that your Excellency does justice to his father in thismatter."

  "The blessing of St. Bennet's boots upon such justice," muttered Cadetto himself. "I was a fool not to run my sword through Philibert when Ihad the chance."

  The Governor repeated to Colonel Philibert what had been said by Bigot.

  Colonel Philibert bowed to the Intendant. "I am under obligation tothe Chevalier Bigot," said he, "but it astonishes me much that any oneshould dare implicate my father in such a disturbance. Certainly theIntendant does him but justice."

  This remark was not pleasing to Bigot, who hated Colonel Philibertequally with his father. "I merely said he had not participated in theriot, Colonel Philibert, which was true. I did not excuse your fatherfor being at the head of the party among whom these outrages arise. Isimply spoke truth, Colonel Philibert. I do not eke out by the inch myopinion of any man. I care not for the Bourgeois Philibert more than forthe meanest blue cap in his following."

  This was an ungracious speech. Bigot meant it to be such. He repentedalmost of the witness he had borne to the Bourgeois's endeavors toquell the mob. But he was too profoundly indifferent to men's opinionsrespecting himself to care to lie.

  Colonel Philibert resented the Intendant's sneer at his father. He facedBigot, saying to him,--"The Chevalier Bigot has done but simple justiceto my father with reference to his conduct in regard to the riot. Butlet the Intendant recollect that, although a merchant, my father isabove all things a Norman gentleman, who never swerved a hair-breadthfrom the path of honor--a gentleman whose ancient nobility would dignifyeven the Royal Intendant." Bigot looked daggers at this thrust at hisown comparatively humble origin. "And this I have further to say,"continued Philibert, looking straight in the eyes of Bigot, Varin, andCadet, "whoever impugns my father's honor impugns mine; and no man, highor low, shall do that and escape chastisement!"

  The greater part of the officers seated round the council-board listenedwith marks of approval to Philibert's vindication of his father. But noone challenged his words, although dark, ominous looks glanced from oneto another among the friends of the Intendant. Bigot smothered hisanger for the present, however; and to prevent further reply from hisfollowers he rose, and bowing to the Governor, begged His Excellency toopen the Council.

  "We have delayed the business of the King too long with these personalrecriminations," said he. "I shall leave this riot to be dealt with bythe King's courts, who will sharply punish both instigators and actorsin this outrage upon the royal authority."

  These words seemed to end the dispute for the present.