Part 1 (1/2)
A Little Girl in Old Quebec.
by Amanda Millie Douglas.
CHAPTER I
A WILD ROSE
Ralph Destournier went gayly along, whistling a merry French song that was nearly all chorus, climbing, slipping, springing, wondering in his heart as many a man did then what had induced Samuel de Champlain to dream out a city on this craggy, rocky spot. Yet its wildness had an impressive grandeur. Above the island of Orleans the channel narrowed, and there were the lovely green heights of what was to be Point Levis, more attractive, he thought, than these frowning cliffs. The angle between the St. Charles and St. Lawrence gave an impregnable site for a fortress, and Champlain was a born soldier with a quick eye to seize on the possibility of defence.
On the s.p.a.ce between the cliffs and the water a few wooden buildings, rough hewn, marked the site of the lower town. A wall had been erected, finished with a gallery, loopholed for musketry, and within this were the beginnings of a town that was to be famous for heroic deeds, for men of high courage, for quaintness that perpetuates old stories which are perfect romances yet to-day after the lapse of three centuries.
There was a storehouse quite well fortified, there was a courtyard with some fine walnut trees, and a few gardens stretching out with pleasant greenery, while doves were flying about in wide circles, a reminder of home. Ralph Destournier had a spirit of adventure and Champlain was a great hero to him. Coming partly of Huguenot stock he had fewer chances at home, and he believed there was more liberty in the new world, a better outlook for a restless, eager mind.
He went on climbing over the sun-baked cliffs, while here and there in a depression where rain could linger there were patches of verdure, trees that somehow maintained a footing. How unlike the level old seaport town where he had pa.s.sed a good part of his youth, considered his grandfather's heir, when in the turn of fortune's wheel the st.u.r.dy old Huguenot had been killed in battle and his estates confiscated.
Something stirred up above him, not any small animal either. It crackled the bushes and moved about with a certain agility. Could it be a deer?
He raised his gun.
Then a burst of song held him in amaze. It was not a bird, though it seemed to mock several of them. There were no especial words or rhymes, but the music thrilled him. He strode upward. Out of a leafy bower peered a face, child or woman, he could not tell at first, a crown of light, loose curling hair and two dark, soft merry eyes, a cherry-red mouth and dimpled chin.
”h.e.l.lo! How did you get up there?” he asked in his astonishment. Indians sometimes lurked about.
”I climbed. You did not suppose I flew?”
The tone was merry rather than saucy, and taking a few steps nearer, he saw she was quite a child. But she wore no cap and she shook the wind-blown hair aside with a dainty gesture. There was a fearlessness about her that charmed him.
”And you live--here?”
”Not here in the woods--no. But down in the town. Down there by the garden, M'sieu Hebert and the General. And Maman has one. But I hate working in it. So I ran away. Do you know what will happen to me when I go back?”
”No, what?” with a sense of amus.e.m.e.nt. ”Perhaps you will get no supper!”
”I shall be whipped. And to-morrow I shall not be let out of the garden.
When I get to be a woman I won't work in the garden. I won't even have a husband. They make you do just as they like. Why isn't one's way as good as another's?”
A line of perplexity settled between her eyes that were soft enough to melt the heart of a stone, he thought, if stones really had hearts.
”Older people are generally wiser. And mothers----”
”Oh, she isn't my mother,” interrupted the child. ”Even Catherine was not my mother. I was very sorry for that. She was good and tender, but she died. And Jean was very angry because she was not my real mother, and he would have nothing to do with me. So he brought me to Maman. Oh, it was a long while ago. Maman is good in some ways. She gives me plenty to eat when we have it and she does not beat me often, as she does Pani.”
”And who is Pani?”
”Oh, the little slave. His tribe was driven away after they had lost their battle, but some of the children were left behind and they are slaves. Do you suppose the Indians will ever conquer M. de Champlain?
Then we should be slaves--or killed.”
He shuddered. Already he had heard tales of awful cruelty in the treatment of prisoners.
”Are you not afraid some Indians may be prowling about?” and he glanced furtively around.