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:

"'A St. Malo, beau port de mer, Trois navires sont arrives, Charges d'avoine, charges de bled; Trois dames s'en vont les merchander!'"

"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 Amelie 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 Amelie 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 Amelie 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, Amelie," 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, Amelie, 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, Amelie! 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.

CHAPTER XXV. BETWIXT THE LAST VIOLET AND THE EARLIEST ROSE.

"Do not go out to-day, brother, I want you so particularly to stay with me to-day," said Amelie de Repentigny, with a gentle, pleading voice.

"Aunt has resolved to return to Tilly to-morrow; I need your help to arrange these papers, and anyway, I want your company, brother," added she, smiling.

Le Gardeur sat feverish, nervous, and ill after his wild night spent at the Taverne de Menut. He started and reddened as his sister's eyes rested on him. He looked through the open window like a wild animal ready to spring out of it and escape.

A raging thirst was on him, which Amelie sought to assuage by draughts of water, milk, and tea--a sisterly attention which he more than once acknowledged by kissing the loving fingers which waited upon him so tenderly.

"I cannot stay in the house, Amelie," said he; "I shall go mad if I do!

You know how it has fared with me, sweet sister! I yesterday built up a tower of glass, high as heaven, my heaven--a woman's love; to-day I am crushed under the ruins of it."

"Say not so, brother! you were not made to be crushed by the nay of any faithless woman. Oh! why will men think more of our sex than we deserve?