"I am afraid I cannot agree with you, Delle Josephine," said I. "To me there is no country like England, but that may be because I am an Englishman. Tell me how long did you live in Quebec with this family?"

"I was there ten year _Monsieur_. Then one day, I had a great accidence--oh! a ver sad ting, ver sad!" The Frenchwoman laid down the ribbon and went on. "A ver sad ting happen to me and the _bebe Catherine_. We were out _l'pt.i.te_ and me, for a valk, and we come to a part of the town ver slant, ver hilly. _L'pt.i.te Catherine_ was in her carridge and I let go, and she go all down, _Monsieur_, and I too over the hill--the cleef, you call it--but the _bebe_ was killed and I _Monsieur_, I was alive, but like this!" showing her shoulder. "And what did they do?"

"At the _chateau_? Ah, _figure-toi, monsieur_, the agony of dat _pauvre dame_! I was sent away, she would not see me, and I left _Quebec_ at once. I was no more _bonne_, monsieur; Delle Josephine was enough dat.

I could make de hats and de bonnets for de ladees, so I come away out to Bonneroi, and I haf made de hats and de bonnets for the ladees of Bonneroi for twenty year."

"Is it possible?" I said, much touched by the little story. "And the ladies of Bonneroi, are they hard to please?"

Delle Josephine, who had spoken with the customary vim and gesture of the French while--telling her tale, resumed her quilling and said, with a shrug of one shoulder,

"They do not know much, and dat is true." I laughed at the ironical tone.

"And you--you provide the _modes_?"

"I haf been to Quebec" she said quietly.

"Twenty years ago," I thought, but had too much respect for the queer little soul to say it aloud.

"I see amongst other things," I went on, "a most--remarkable--a very pretty, I should say--hat in your window. The red one, you know, with the bird of paradise."

Delle Josephine looked up quickly. "Dat is not for sale, _monsieur_."

"No? Why, I had some idea of perhaps purchasing it for a friend of mine.

Did you make that hat yourself?"

She nodded with a sort of conscious pride. Yet it was not for sale! I wondered why. The strange scene of the foregoing evening came into my mind, and I began to understand this singular--case of monomania. It must be that having lived so many years in almost solitary confinement, one might say, her mind had slightly given away, and she found her only excitement and relaxation in posing before the gla.s.s in that extraordinary manner. I hardly knew whether it would be an act of kindness to remove the hat; she talked quite rationally and cheerfully, and remembering the innate vanity of the French as a nation, I concluded to let the matter rest That night I heard no talking in the sitting-room. I slept profoundly, and woke up later than usual We were not dug out yet, though two snow-boys with their shovels were doing their best to unearth us. I waited some time for Delle Josephine to appear with the tray; but she too was late, evidently, for at ten o'clock she had not come. I dressed and went down stairs. As I pa.s.sed the sitting-room I saw her tricked out as before in the hat and the antimaca.s.sar seated on the ottoman in front of the looking-gla.s.s.

Heavens, she looked more frightful than ever! I made up my mind to speak to her at, once, and see if I could not stop such hideous mummery. But when I advanced I perceived that indeed I had come too late. The figure on the ottoman was rigid in death. How it ever held itself up at all I could never think, for I gave a loud cry, and rushing from the room knocked against the open door and fell down senseless.

Outside, I suppose, the snow-boys shovelled away as hard as ever. When I came to myself I did not need to look around; I knew in a flash where I was, and remembered what had happened. I ran to the shop door and hammered with all my might.

"Let me out!" I cried. "Open the door! open the door! for Heaven's sake!" Then I ran upstairs, and did the same at my window. It seemed years upon years of time till they were enabled to open the door and let me out. I rushed out bareheaded, forgetful of the intense cold, thinking first of all of the priest _Pere Le Jeune_, so strong is habit, so potent are traditions. I knew where he lived, up the first turning in a small red brick house next the church of St. Jean Baptiste. I told him the facts of the case as well as I could and he came back at once with me. There was nothing to be done. Visitation of G.o.d or whatever the cause of death Delle Josephine Boulanger was dead. The priest lifted his hands in horror when he saw the ghostly hat. I asked him what he knew about her, but he seemed ignorant of everything concerning the poor thing, except the _aves_ she repeated and the number of times she came to confession. But when we came to look over her personal effects in the drawers and boxes of the shop, there could be no doubt but that she had been thoroughly though harmlessly insane. We found I should think about one hundred and fifty boxes: from tiny little ones of pasteboard to large square ones of deal, full of rows and rows of white quilled ribbon, similar to the piece I had seen her working at on that last night of her life on earth. Some of the ribbon was yellow with age, others fresher looking, but in each box was a folded bit of paper with these words written inside,

_Pour l'pt.i.te Catherine_.

"What money there was, _Pere Le Jeune_ must have appropriated for I saw nothing of any. After the dismal funeral, to which I went, I gathered my effects together and went to the hotel. The first day I could proceed, I returned to Montreal and have not visited Bonneroi since. The family of _de la Corne de La Colombiere_ still reside somewhere near Quebec, I believe. The _chateau_ is called by the charming name of Port Joli, and perhaps some day I may feel called upon to tell them of the strange fate which befell their poor Josephine. Whether the melancholy accident which partly bereft her of her reason was the result of carelessness I cannot say but I shall be able, I think, to prove to them that she never forgot the circ.u.mstance, and was to the day of her death occupied in making ready for the little coffin and shroud of her '_p't.i.te Catherine_.' My sketch of the frost bound Montmorenci was never finished, and indeed my winter sketching fell through altogether after that unhappy visit to Bonneroy. I was for weeks haunted by that terrible sight, half ludicrous, half awful, and I have, now that I am married, a strong dislike to scarlet in the gowns or head-gear of my wife and daughter."

The Story of Etienne Chezy D'Alencourt

CHAPTER I.

As my friends know, I was born an Englishman, spending the first twenty-four years of my life in England. On my twenty-fifth birthday I set foot on the sh.o.r.e of the great North American Continent, destined for a time to be my home. Two days afterwards I entered the office set apart for me in the handsome Government Buildings at Ottawa, and began my duties. A transfer had recently been effected between the Home and Canadian Civil Service, and I had been chosen to fill the vacant colonial post. Having no ties or obligations of any kind I had nothing to lose by the transaction except the pleasure and advantage of living in England, which, however, had ceased for one or two reasons to be dear to me.

I did not, however, remain very long in the Service. I found it pleasant work but monotonous, and receiving shortly after I went out a legacy bequeathed by a widowed aunt I had almost forgotten, determined to leave it and devote myself to study and travel. Like many Englishmen, I had taken no trouble to ascertain the real points of interest about me. I had been content with mastering and getting through my work, and with mingling out of hours with the small but thoroughly charming set I had found ready to welcome me on my arrival as the "new Englishman." On the whole, I was popular, though one great flaw--_i.e._--lack of high birth and desirable home connections, weighed to an alarming extent with the dowagers of the Capital.

I had, on leaving the Service, made up my mind to study the people of the Dominion. The English Canadians were easily disposed of in this way; most of them were Scotch, and the rest appeared to be Irish. I then began on the Indian population. But this was not so easy. It seemed impossible to find even a single Indian without going some distance.

At last I unearthed one descendant of the Red man who kept a small tavern in the lower part of the town; a dirty frame tenement almost entirely hidden by an immense sign hanging outside, having the figure, heroic size of an Iroquois in full evening dress, feathers, bare legs and tomahawk.

This place was known as "Tommy's." But Tommy himself was only half an Indian, and swore such bad swears in excellent English, that I was forced to leave after a minute's inspection.

Then I began on the French-Canadians. There were plenty of them. In the Buildings, on the streets, in the markets, in shops, they were all over. Some of the most charming people I know were French-Canadians.

My landlady and her husband, quiet, sober devout people, were French-Canadians.

What I wanted to find, though, was a genuine unadulterated French-Canadian of the cla.s.s known as the _habitans_. I could recollect many dark-eyed, fierce-mustached men whom I had seen since my residence in Canada, and whom I conjectured must have been _habitans_. Up the Gatineau and down the St. Lawrence, it would be easy to find whom I wanted, but I preferred to wait on in town. I had many a disappointment.

One day it would be a cabman, another day a clerk. Though they all _looked_ French, they invariably turned out to be English or Scotch. My notions of hair and skin and eyes were being all turned upside down; my favorite predispositions annulled, my convictions changed to fallacies--in short I was thoroughly bewildered. I could not find my _habitant_. At the same time, when I did find him, he would have to know how to speak some English, for I could only speak very little French.

I read it well of course, wrote it quite easily, but on essaying conversation was always seized with that instinctive horror of making a fool of myself, which besets most Englishmen when they would attempt a foreign language. Besides, the _patois_ these people spoke was vastly different from ordinary French, as taught in schools and colleges, and what it might be like I had not in those days the faintest idea, not having read Rabelais.

The worst _desillusionnement_ I suffered I will recount. One day I noticed an elderly man clad in corduroy trousers, shabby brown velveteen coat, conical straw hat and dirty blue shirt, lounging about a wharf I sometimes frequented where, at one time, would lay from thirty to fifty barges laden with lumber. Bargetown it might have been called; it was a veritable floating colony of French and Swede, Irish and Scotch, jabbering and smoking by day and lying quietly at night under the stars, save for the occasional jig and sc.r.a.pe of the fiddle of some active Milesian. Here, had I fully known it, was my chance for observation, but I was ignorant at that time of the ways of these people and did not venture among them. But the man in the velvet coat interested me. He gesticulated the whole time most violently, waved his arms about and made great use of his pipe, which he used to point with. I could not hear what he was saying for his back was turned to me and the wind carried all he said to the bargemen, as he wished it to do I suppose.

How splendidly that coat becomes him, thought I. The descendant of some fine old French settler, how superbly he carries himself!

The conical becomes on him a c.o.c.ked hat and in place of ragged fringe and b.u.t.tons hanging by a single string, I see the buckles and bows, the sword and cane of a by-gone age!

I made up my mind to address him, when to my disgust he got into one of the barges, which moved off slowly, transporting him, as I supposed, to his northern home.

The next morning the bell of my front door attracted my attention by ringing three or four times. Evidently my landlady was out. I sauntered to the door and found my _habitant_ of the velveteen coat and duty blue shirt!

Gracious heaven! I was overcome! By what occult power had he been driven here to deliver himself into my hands? Before I could speak, he said:

"Av ye plaze, sorr, will yez be having any carrpets to bate? I'm taking orders against the sphring claning, sorr."

"Oh! are you?" said I. I began to feel very sorry for myself, very sorry, indeed, at this supreme instant. "Do you live near here?" I further inquired.

"Shure and I do, sorr. Jist beyant yez. I pa.s.s yez every day in the week. Me number's 415"--He was about handing me a greasy bit of paper, when I slammed the door in his face and retired to my own room to meditate on the strange accent and peculiar calling of this descendant of the "fine old French settler."

My next choice, however, proved a fortunate one. I got into a street-car one evening late in the month of March. It was the winter street-car, a great dark caravan, with a long narrow bench down either side and a ma.s.s of hay all along the middle, with a melancholy lamp at the conductor's end. Although fairly light outside, it was quite dark inside the caravan, so the conductor set about lighting the lamp. This is the way he did it. Opening the door he put his head in, looked all around, shut the door and stopped his horses. Then he opened the door again and put his head in again, keeping the door open this time that we might inhale the fresh March night air. I say we, because when I grew accustomed to the dark, I saw there was another occupant of the car, a man seated on the opposite seat a little way down. The conductor felt under the seat for something which I suppose was the can which, taken presently by him to the corner grocery before which we had stopped, came back replenished with coal oil. After he had filled the lamp, he lit in succession three matches, persistently holding them up so that they all went out one after the other. He felt in his pockets but he had no more. Then he asked me. I had none. Then he asked the other man. The other man laughed and replied in French. I did not understand what he said but saw him supply the conductor with a couple of matches. When the lamp was finally lighted I looked more closely at him. He was a working man from his attire: colored shirt, coat of a curious bronze colour much affected by the Canadian labourer, old fur cap with ears, and moccasins. At his feet stood a small tin pail with a cover. His face was pale and singularly well-cut. His hair was black and very smooth and shiny; a very slight moustache gave character to an otherwise effeminate countenance and his eyes were blue, very light blue indeed and mild in their expression. We smiled involuntarily as the conductor departed. The man was the first to speak:

"De conductor not smoke, surely," he said, showing me his pipe in one hand. "I always have the matches."

"So do I, as a general thing,". I rejoined. "One never knows when a match may be wanted in this country." I spoke rather surlily, for I had been getting dreadfully chilled while the conductor was opening and shutting the door. The man bent forward eagerly, though without a trace of rudeness in his manner.

"You do not live here, eh?"

"Oh! yes, I do now, but I was thinking of England when I spoke."

"That is far away from here, surely."

"Ah! yes," I sighed. So did the man opposite me. We were silent then for a few moments when he spoke again.

"There is a countree I should like to see and dat is France. I hear, sir, I hear my mother talk of dat countree, and I tink--I should like to go there. But that is far away from here, too far away, sure."