Philibert, with official courtesy, bade adieu to the Intendant and the company. A couple of valets waited upon Le Gardeur, whom they assisted to bathe and dress. In a short time he left the Château almost sobered, and wholly metamorphosed into a handsome, fresh chevalier. A perverse redness about the eyes alone remained, to tell the tale of the last night's debauch.
Master Pothier sat on a horse-block at the door with all the gravity of a judge, while he waited for the return of Colonel Philibert and listened to the lively noise in the Château, the music, song, and jingle of glass forming a sweet concert in the ears of the jolly old notary.
“I shall not need you to guide me back, Master Pothier,” said Philibert, as he put some silver pieces in his hollow palm; “take your fee. The cause is gained, is it not, Le Gardeur?” He glanced triumphantly at his friend.
“Good-by, Master Pothier,” said he, as he rode off with Le Gardeur. The old notary could not keep up with them, but came jolting on behind, well pleased to have leisure to count and jingle his coins. Master Pothier was in that state of joyful anticipation when hope outruns realization. He already saw himself seated in the old armchair in the snug parlor of Dame Bédard's inn, his back to the fire, his belly to the table, a smoking dish of roast in the middle, an ample trencher before him with a bottle of Cognac on one flank and a jug of Norman cider on the other, an old crony or two to eat and drink with him, and the light foot and deft hand of pretty Zoë Bédard to wait upon them.
This picture of perfect bliss floated before the winking eyes of Master Pothier, and his mouth watered in anticipation of his Eden, not of flowers and trees, but of tables, cups, and platters, with plenty to fill them, and to empty them as well.
“A worthy gentleman and a brave officer, I warrant!” said Pothier, as he jogged along. “He is generous as a prince, and considerate as a bishop, fit for a judge, nay, for a chief justice! What would you do for him, Master Pothier?” the old notary asked himself. “I answer the interrogatory of the Court: I would draw up his marriage contract, write his last will and testament with the greatest of pleasure and without a fee!—and no notary in New France could do more for him!” Pothier's imagination fell into a vision over a consideration of his favorite text—that of the great sheet, wherein was all manner of flesh and fowl good for food, but the tongue of the old notary would trip at the name of Peter, and perversely say, “Rise, Pothier; kill, and eat.”
CHAPTER IX. PIERRE PHILIBERT.
Colonel Philibert and Le Gardeur rode rapidly through the forest of Beaumanoir, pulling up occasionally in an eager and sympathetic exchange of questions and replies, as they recounted the events of their lives since their separation, or recalled their school-days and glorious holidays and rambles in the woods of Tilly—with frequent mention of their gentle, fair companion, Amélie de Repentigny, whose name on the lips of her brother sounded sweeter than the chime of the bells of Charlebourg to the ear of Pierre Philibert.
The bravest man in New France felt a tremor in his breast as he asked Le Gardeur a seemingly careless question—seemingly, for, in truth, it was vital in the last degree to his happiness, and he knew it. He expressed a fear that Amélie would have wholly forgotten him after so long an absence from New France.
His heart almost ceased beating as he waited the reply of Le Gardeur, which came impetuously: “Forgotten you, Pierre Philibert? She would forget me as soon! But for you she would have had no brother to-day, and in her prayers she ever remembers both of us—you by right of a sister's gratitude, me because I am unworthy of her saintly prayers and need them all the more! O Pierre Philibert, you do not know Amélie if you think she is one ever to forget a friend like you!”
The heart of Philibert gave a great leap for joy. Too happy for speech, he rode on a while in silence.
“Amélie will have changed much in appearance?” he asked, at last. A thousand questions were crowding upon his lips.
“Changed? Oh, yes!” replied Le Gardeur, gaily. “I scarcely recognize my little bright-eyed sister in the tall, perfect young lady that has taken her place. But the loving heart, the pure mind, the gentle ways, and winning smiles are the same as ever. She is somewhat more still and thoughtful, perhaps—more strict in the observances of religion. You will remember, I used to call her in jest our St. Amélie: I might call her that in earnest now, Pierre, and she would be worthy of the name!”
“God bless you, Le Gardeur!” burst out Colonel Philibert—his voice could not repress the emotion he felt—“and God bless Amélie! Think you she would care to see me to-day, Le Gardeur?” Philibert's thoughts flew far and fast, and his desire to know more of Amélie was a rack of suspense to him. She might, indeed, recollect the youth Pierre Philibert, thought he, as she did a sunbeam that gladdened long-past summers; but how could he expect her to regard him—the full-grown man—as the same? Nay, was he not nursing a fatal fancy in his breast that would sting him to death? for among the gay and gallant throng about the capital was it not more than possible that so lovely and amiable a woman had already been wooed, and given the priceless treasure of her love to another? It was, therefore, with no common feeling that Philibert said, “Think you she will care to see me to-day, Le Gardeur?”
“Care to see you, Pierre Philibert? What a question! She and Aunt de Tilly take every occasion to remind me of you, by way of example, to shame me of my faults—and they succeed, too! I could cut off my right hand this moment, Pierre, that it should never lift wine again to my lips—and to have been seen by you in such company! What must you think of me?”
“I think your regret could not surpass mine; but tell me how you have been drawn into these rapids and taken the wrong turn, Le Gardeur?”
Le Gardeur winced as he replied—“Oh, I do not know. I found myself there before I thought. It was the wit, wine, and enchantments of Bigot, I suppose—and the greatest temptation of all, a woman's smiles—that led me to take the wrong turn, as you call it. There, you have my confession!—and I would put my sword through any man but you, Pierre, who dared ask me to give such an account of myself. I am ashamed of it all, Pierre Philibert!”
“Thanks, Le Gardeur, for your confidence. I hope you will outride this storm!” He held out his hand, nervous and sinewy as that of Mars. Le Gardeur seized it, and pressed it hard in his. “Don't you think it is still able to rescue a friend from peril?” added Philibert smiling.
Le Gardeur caught his meaning, and gave him a look of unutterable gratitude. “Besides this hand of mine, are there not the gentler hands of Amélie to intercede for you with your better self?” said Philibert.
“My dear sister!” interjected Le Gardeur. “I am a coward when I think of her, and I shame to come into her pure presence.”
“Take courage, Le Gardeur! There is hope where there is shame of our faults. Be equally frank with your sister as with me, and she will win you, in spite of yourself, from the enchantments of Bigot, Cadet, and the still more potent smiles you speak of that led you to take the wrong turn in life.”
“I doubt it is too late, Pierre! although I know that, were every other friend in the world to forsake me, Amélie would not! She would not even reproach me, except by excess of affection.”
Philibert looked on his friend admiringly, at this panegyric of the woman he loved. Le Gardeur was in feature so like his sister that Philibert at the moment caught the very face of Amélie, as it were, looking at him through the face of her brother. “You will not resist her pleadings, Le Gardeur,”—Philibert thought it an impossible thing. “No guardian angel ever clung to the skirts of a sinner as Amélie will cling to you,” said he; “therefore I have every hope of my dear friend Le Gardeur Repentigny.”
The two riders emerged from the forest, and drew up