Le Gardeur plunged headlong down the silent street, neither knowing nor caring whither. Half mad with grief, half with resentment, he vented curses upon himself, upon AngÉlique, upon the world, and looked upon Providence itself as in league with the evil powers to thwart his happiness,—not seeing that his happiness in the love of a woman like AngÉlique was a house built on sand, which the first storm of life would sweep away.

“Holla! Le Gardeur de Repentigny! Is that you?” exclaimed a voice in the night. “What lucky wind blows you out at this hour?” Le Gardeur stopped and recognized the Chevalier de Pean. “Where are you going in such a desperate hurry?”

“To the devil!” replied Le Gardeur, withdrawing his hand from De Pean's, who had seized it with an amazing show of friendship. “It is the only road left open to me, and I am going to march down it like a garde du corps of Satan! Do not hold me, De Pean! Let go my arm! I am going to the devil, I tell you!”

“Why, Le Gardeur,” was the reply, “that is a broad and well-travelled road—the king's highway, in fact. I am going upon it myself, as fast and merrily as any man in New France.”

“Well, go on it then! March either before or after me, only don't go with me, De Pean; I am taking the shortest cuts to get to the end of it, and want no one with me.” Le Gardeur walked doggedly on; but De Pean would not be shaken off. He suspected what had happened.

“The shortest cut I know is by the Taverne de Menut, where I am going now,” said he, “and I should like your company, Le Gardeur! Our set are having a gala night of it, and must be musical as the frogs of Beauport by this hour! Come along!” De Pean again took his arm. He was not repelled this time.

“I don't care where I go, De Pean!” replied he, forgetting his dislike to this man, and submitting to his guidance,—the Taverne de Menut was just the place for him to rush into and drown his disappointment in wine. The two moved on in silence for a few minutes.

“Why, what ails you, Le Gardeur?” asked his companion, as they walked on arm in arm. “Has fortune frowned upon the cards, or your mistress proved a fickle jade like all her sex?”

His words were irritating enough to Le Gardeur. “Look you, De Pean,” said he, stopping, “I shall quarrel with you if you repeat such remarks. But you mean no mischief I dare say, although I would not swear it!” Le Gardeur looked savage.

De Pean saw it would not be safe to rub that sore again. “Forgive me, Le Gardeur!” said he, with an air of sympathy well assumed. “I meant no harm. But you are suspicious of your friends to-night as a Turk of his harem.”

“I have reason to be! And as for friends, I find only such friends as you, De Pean! And I begin to think the world has no better!” The clock of the Recollets struck the hour as they passed under the shadow of its wall. The brothers of St. Francis slept quietly on their peaceful pillows, like sea birds who find in a rocky nook a refuge from the ocean storms. “Do you think the Recollets are happy, De Pean?” asked he, turning abruptly to his companion.

“Happy as oysters at high water, who are never crossed in love, except of their dinner! But that is neither your luck nor mine, Le Gardeur!” De Pean was itching to draw from his companion something with reference to what had passed with AngÉlique.

“Well, I would rather be an oyster than a man, and rather be dead than either!” was the reply of Le Gardeur. “How soon, think you, will brandy kill a man, De Pean?” asked he abruptly, after a pause of silence.

“It will never kill you, Le Gardeur, if you take it neat at Master Menut's. It will restore you to life, vigor, and independence of man and woman. I take mine there when I am hipped as you are, Le Gardeur. It is a specific for every kind of ill-fortune,—I warrant it will cure and never kill you.”

They crossed the Place d'Armes. Nothing in sight was moving except the sentries who paced slowly like shadows up and down the great gateway of the Castle of St. Louis.

“It is still and solemn as a church-yard here,” remarked De Pean; “all the life of the place is down at Menut's! I like the small hours,” added he as the chime of the Recollets ceased. “They are easily counted, and pass quickly, asleep or awake. Two o'clock in the morning is the meridian of the day for a man who has wit to wait for it at Menut's!—these small hours are all that are worth reckoning in a man's life!”

Without consenting to accompany De Pean, Le Gardeur suffered himself to be led by him. He knew the company that awaited him there—the wildest and most dissolute gallants of the city and garrison were usually assembled there at this hour.

The famous old hostelry was kept by Master Menut, a burly Breton who prided himself on keeping everything full and plenty about his house—tables full, tankards full, guests full, and himself very full. The house was to-night lit up with unusual brilliance, and was full of company—Cadet, Varin, Mercier, and a crowd of the friends and associates of the Grand Company. Gambling, drinking, and conversing in the loudest strain on such topics as interested their class, were the amusements of the night. The vilest thoughts, uttered in the low argot of Paris, were much affected by them. They felt a pleasure in this sort of protest against the extreme refinement of society, just as the collegians of Oxford, trained beyond their natural capacity in morals, love to fall into slang and, like Prince Hal, talk to every tinker in his own tongue.

De Pean and Le Gardeur were welcomed with open arms at the Taverne de Menut. A dozen brimming glasses were offered them on every side. De Pean drank moderately. “I have to win back my losses of last night,” said he, “and must keep my head clear.” Le Gardeur, however, refused nothing that was offered him. He drank with all, and drank every description of liquor. He was speedily led up into a large, well-furnished room, where tables were crowded with gentlemen playing cards and dice for piles of paper money, which was tossed from hand to hand with the greatest nonchalance as the game ended and was renewed.

Le Gardeur plunged headlong into the flood of dissipation. He played, drank, talked argot, and cast off every shred of reserve. He doubled his stakes, and threw his dice reckless and careless whether he lost or won. His voice overbore that of the stoutest of the revellers. He embraced De Pean as his friend, who returned his compliments by declaring Le Gardeur de Repentigny to be the king of good fellows, who had the “strongest head to carry wine and the stoutest heart to defy dull care of any man in Quebec.”

De Pean watched with malign satisfaction the progress of Le Gardeur's intoxication. If he seemed to flag, he challenged him afresh to drink to better fortune; and when he lost the stakes, to drink again to spite ill luck.

But let a veil be dropped over the wild doings of the Taverne de Menut. Le Gardeur lay insensible at last upon the floor, where he would have remained had not some of the servants of the inn who knew him lifted him up compassionately and placed him upon a couch, where he lay, breathing heavily like one dying. His eyes were fixed; his mouth, where the kisses of his sister still lingered, was partly opened, and his hands were clenched, rigid as a statue's.

“He is ours now!” said De Pean to Cadet. “He will not again put his head under the wing of the Philiberts!”

The two men looked at him, and laughed brutally.

“A fair lady whom you know, Cadet, has given him liberty to drink himself to death, and he will do it.”

“Who is that? AngÉlique?” asked Cadet.

“Of course; who else? and Le Gardeur won't be the first or last man she has put under stone sheets,” replied De Pean, with a shrug of his shoulders.

“Gloria patri filioque!” exclaimed Cadet, mockingly; “the HonnÊtes Gens will lose their trump card. How did you get him away from Belmont, De Pean?”

“Oh, it was not I! AngÉlique des Meloises set the trap and whistled the call that brought him,” replied De Pean.

“Like her, the incomparable witch!” exclaimed Cadet with a hearty laugh. “She would lure the very devil to play her tricks instead of his own. She would beat Satan at his best game to ruin a man.”

“It would be all the same, Cadet, I fancy—Satan or she! But where is Bigot? I expected him here.”

“Oh, he is in a tantrum to-night, and would not come. That piece of his at Beaumanoir is a thorn in his flesh, and a snow-ball on his spirits. She is taming him. By St. Cocufin! Bigot loves that woman!”

“I told you that before, Cadet. I saw it a month ago, and was sure of it on that night when he would not bring her up to show her to us.”

“Such a fool, De Pean, to care for any woman! What will Bigot do with her, think you?”

“How should I know? Send her adrift some fine day I suppose, down the RiviÈre du Loup. He will, if he is a sensible man. He dare not marry any woman without license from La Pompadour, you know. The jolly fish-woman holds a tight rein over her favorites. Bigot may keep as many women as Solomon—the more the merrier; but woe befall him if he marries without La Pompadour's consent! They say she herself dotes on Bigot,—that is the reason.” De Pean really believed that was the reason; and certainly there was reason for suspecting it.

“Cadet! Cadet!” exclaimed several voices. “You are fined a basket of champagne for leaving the table.”

“I'll pay it,” replied he, “and double it; but it is hot as Tartarus in here. I feel like a grilled salmon.” And indeed, Cadet's broad, sensual face was red and glowing as a harvest moon. He walked a little unsteady too, and his naturally coarse voice sounded thick, but his hard brain never gave way beyond a certain point under any quantity of liquor.

“I am going to get some fresh air,” said he. “I shall walk as far as the Fleur-de-Lis. They never go to bed at that jolly old inn.”

“I will go with you!” “And I!” exclaimed a dozen voices.

“Come on then; we will all go to the old dog-hole, where they keep the best brandy in Quebec. It is smuggled of course, but that makes it all the better.”

Mine host of the Taverne de Menut combatted this opinion of the goodness of the liquors at the Fleur-de-Lis. His brandy had paid the King's duties, and bore the stamp of the Grand Company, he said; and he appealed to every gentleman present on the goodness of his liquors.

Cadet and the rest took another round of it to please the landlord, and sallied out with no little noise and confusion. Some of them struck up the famous song which, beyond all others, best expressed the gay, rollicking spirit of the French nation and of the times of the old rÉgime:

When the noisy party arrived at the Fleur-de-Lis, they entered without ceremony into a spacious room—low, with heavy beams and with roughly plastered walls, which were stuck over with proclamations of governors and intendants and dingy ballads brought by sailors from French ports.

A long table in the middle of the room was surrounded by a lot of fellows, plainly of the baser sort,—sailors, boatmen, voyageurs,—in rough clothes, and tuques—red or blue,—upon their heads. Every one had a pipe in his mouth. Some were talking with loose, loquacious tongues; some were singing; their ugly, jolly visages—half illumined by the light of tallow candles stuck in iron sconces on the wall—were worthy of the vulgar but faithful Dutch pencils of Schalken and Teniers. They were singing a song as the new company came in.

At the head of the table sat Master Pothier, with a black earthen mug of Norman cider in one hand and a pipe in the other. His budget of law hung on a peg in the corner, as quite superfluous at a free-and-easy at the Fleur-de-Lis.

Max Grimeau and Blind Bartemy had arrived in good time for the eel pie. They sat one on each side of Master Pothier, full as ticks and merry as grigs; a jolly chorus was in progress as Cadet entered.

The company rose and bowed to the gentlemen who had honored them with a call. “Pray sit down, gentlemen; take our chairs!” exclaimed Master Pothier, officiously offering his to Cadet, who accepted it as well as the black mug, of which he drank heartily, declaring old Norman cider suited his taste better than the choicest wine.

“We are your most humble servitors, and highly esteem the honor of your visit,” said Master Pothier, as he refilled the black mug.

“Jolly fellows!” replied Cadet, stretching his legs refreshingly, “this does look comfortable. Do you drink cider because you like it, or because you cannot afford better?”

“There is nothing better than Norman cider, except Cognac brandy,” replied Master Pothier, grinning from ear to ear. “Norman cider is fit for a king, and with a lining of brandy is drink for a Pope! It will make a man see stars at noonday. Won't it, Bartemy?”

“What! old turn-penny! are you here?” cried Cadet, recognizing the old beggar of the gate of the Basse Ville.

“Oh, yes, your Honor!” replied Bartemy, with his professional whine, “pour l'amour de Dieu!”

“Gad! you are the jolliest beggar I know out of the Friponne,” replied Cadet, throwing him a crown.

“He is not a jollier beggar than I am, your Honor,” said Max Grimeau, grinning like an Alsatian over a Strasbourg pie. “It was I sang bass in the ballad as you came in—you might have heard me, your Honor?”

“To be sure I did; I will be sworn there is not a jollier beggar in Quebec than you, old Max! Here is a crown for you too, to drink the Intendant's health and another for you, you roving limb of the law, Master Pothier! Come, Master Pothier! I will fill your ragged gown full as a demijohn of brandy if you will go on with the song you were singing.”

“We were at the old ballad of the Pont d'Avignon, your Honor,” replied Master Pothier.

“And I was playing it,” interrupted Jean La Marche; “you might have heard my violin, it is a good one!” Jean would not hide his talent in a napkin on so auspicious an occasion as this. He ran his bow over the strings and played a few bars,—“that was the tune, your Honor.”

“Ay, that was it! I know the jolly old song! Now go on!” Cadet thrust his thumbs into the armholes of his laced waistcoat and listened attentively; rough as he was, he liked the old Canadian music.

Jean tuned his fiddle afresh, and placing it with a knowing jerk under his chin, and with an air of conceit worthy of Lulli, began to sing and play the old ballad:

“Tut!” exclaimed Varin, “who cares for things that have no more point in them than a dumpling! give us a madrigal, or one of the devil's ditties from the Quartier Latin!”

“I do not know a 'devil's ditty,' and would not sing one if I did,” replied Jean La Marche, jealous of the ballads of his own New France. “Indians cannot swear because they know no oaths, and habitans cannot sing devil's ditties because they never learned them; but 'St. Malo, beau port de mer,'—I will sing that with any man in the Colony!”

The popular songs of the French Canadians are simple, almost infantine, in their language, and as chaste in expression as the hymns of other countries. Impure songs originate in classes who know better, and revel from choice in musical slang and indecency.

“Sing what you like! and never mind Varin, my good fellow,” said Cadet, stretching himself in his chair; “I like the old Canadian ballads better than all the devil's ditties ever made in Paris! You must sing your devil's ditties yourself, Varin; our habitans won't,—that is sure!”

After an hour's roystering at the Fleur-de-Lis the party of gentlemen returned to the Taverne de Menut a good deal more unsteady and more obstreperous than when they came. They left Master Pothier seated in his chair, drunk as Bacchus, and every one of the rest of his companions blind as Bartemy.

The gentlemen, on their return to the Taverne de Menut, found De Pean in a rage. Pierre Philibert had followed AmÉlie to the city, and learning the cause of her anxiety and unconcealed tears, started off with the determination to find Le Gardeur.

The officer of the guard at the gate of the Basse Ville was able to direct him to the right quarter. He hastened to the Taverne de Menut, and in haughty defiance of De Pean, with whom he had high words, he got the unfortunate Le Gardeur away, placed him in a carriage, and took him home, receiving from AmÉlie such sweet and sincere thanks as he thought a life's service could scarcely have deserved.

“Par Dieu! that Philibert is a game-cock, De Pean,” exclaimed Cadet, to the savage annoyance of the Secretary. “He has pluck and impudence for ten gardes du corps. It was neater done than at Beaumanoir!” Cadet sat down to enjoy a broad laugh at the expense of his friend over the second carrying off of Le Gardeur.

“Curse him! I could have run him through, and am sorry I did not,” exclaimed De Pean.

“No, you could not have run him through, and you would have been sorry had you tried it, De Pean,” replied Cadet. “That Philibert is not as safe as the Bank of France to draw upon. I tell you it was well for yourself you did not try, De Pean. But never mind,” continued Cadet, “there is never so bad a day but there is a fair to-morrow after it, so make up a hand at cards with me and Colonel Trivio, and put money in your purse; it will salve your bruised feelings.” De Pean failed to laugh off his ill humor, but he took Cadet's advice, and sat down to play for the remainder of the night.

“Oh, Pierre Philibert, how can we sufficiently thank you for your kindness to my dear, unhappy brother?” said AmÉlie to him, her eyes tremulous with tears and her hand convulsively clasping his, as Pierre took leave of her at the door of the mansion of the Lady de Tilly.

“Le Gardeur claims our deepest commiseration, AmÉlie,” replied he; “you know how this has happened?”

“I do know, Pierre, and shame to know it. But you are so generous ever. Do not blame me for this agitation!” She strove to steady herself, as a ship will right up for a moment in veering.

“Blame you! what a thought! As soon blame the angels for being good! But I have a plan, AmÉlie, for Le Gardeur—we must get him out of the city and back to Tilly for a while. Your noble aunt has given me an invitation to visit the Manor House. What if I manage to accompany Le Gardeur to his dear old home?”

“A visit to Tilly in your company would, of all things, delight Le Gardeur,” said she, “and perhaps break those ties that bind him to the city.”

These were pleasing words to Philibert, and he thought how delightful would be her own fair presence also at Tilly.

“All the physicians in the world will not help Le Gardeur as will your company at Tilly!” exclaimed she, with a sudden access of hope. “Le Gardeur needs not medicine, only care, and—”

“The love he has set his heart on, AmÉlie! Men sometimes die when they fail in that.” He looked at her as he said this, but instantly withdrew his eyes, fearing he had been overbold.

She blushed, and only replied, with absolute indirection, “Oh, I am so thankful to you, Pierre Philibert!” But she gave him, as he left, a look of gratitude and love which never effaced itself from his memory. In after-years, when Pierre Philibert cared not for the light of the sun, nor for woman's love, nor for life itself, the tender, impassioned glance of those dark eyes wet with tears came back to him like a break in the dark clouds, disclosing the blue heaven beyond; and he longed to be there.