An officer entered the room to report to the Governor that the troops had reached their assigned posts, and that there was no symptom of rioting among the people in any quarter of the city.

The Governor was greatly relieved by these tidings. "Now, La Corne,"

said he, "we have done what is needful for the public. I can spare you, for I know where your heart yearns most to go, to offer the consolations of a true friend."

"Alas, yes," replied La Corne sadly. "Men weep tears of water, but women tears of blood! What is our hardest grief compared with the overwhelming sorrow and desolation that will pass over my poor goddaughter, Amelie de Repentigny, and the noble Lady de Tilly at this doleful news?"

"Go comfort them, La Corne, and the angel of consolation go with you!"

The Governor shook him by the hand and wished him Godspeed.

La Corne St. Luc instantly left the house. The crowd uncovered and made way for him as they would have done for the Governor himself, as with hasty strides he passed up the Rue du Fort and on towards the Cape, where stood the mansion of the Lady de Tilly.

"Oh, Rigaud, what a day of sorrow this is!" exclaimed the Governor to De Vaudreuil, on their return to the Castle of St. Louis. "What a bloody and disgraceful event to record in the annals of New France!"

"I would give half I have in the world could it be forever blotted out,"

replied De Vaudreuil. "Your friend, Herr Kalm, has left us, fortunately, before he could record in his book, for all Europe to read, that men are murdered in New France to sate the vengeance of a Royal Intendant and fill the purses of the greatest company of thieves that ever plundered a nation."

"Hark, Rigaud! do not say such things," interrupted the Governor; "I trust it is not so bad as that; but it shall be seen into, if I remain Governor of New France. The blood of the noble Bourgeois shall be requited at the hands of all concerned in his assassination. The blame of it shall not rest wholly upon that unhappy Le Gardeur. We will trace it up to its very origin and fountain-head."

"Right, Count; you are true as steel. But mark me! if you begin to trace this assassination up to its origin and fountain-head, your letters of recall will be despatched by the first ship that leaves France after the news reaches Versailles." Rigaud looked fixedly at the Count as he said this.

"It may be so, Rigaud," replied the Count, sadly; "strange things take place under the regime of the strange women who now rule the Court.

Nevertheless, while I am here my whole duty shall be done. In this matter justice shall be meted out with a firm and impartial hand, no matter who shall be incriminated!"

The Count de la Galissoniere at once summoned a number of his most trusted and most sagacious councillors together--the Intendant was not one of those summoned--to consider what steps it behooved them to take to provide for the public safety and to ensure the ends of justice in this lamentable tragedy.

CHAPTER LI. EVIL NEWS RIDES POST.

The sunbeams never shone more golden through the casement of a lady's bower than on that same morning of St. Martin's through the window of the chamber of Amelie de Repentigny, as she sat in the midst of a group of young ladies holding earnest council over the dresses and adornments of herself and companions, who were to be her bridesmaids on her marriage with Pierre Philibert.

Amelie had risen from pleasant dreams. The tender flush of yesterday's walk on the banks of the Lairet lingered on her cheek all night long, like the rosy tint of a midsummer's sunset. The loving words of Pierre floated through her memory like a strain of divine music, with the sweet accompaniment of her own modest confessions of love, which she had so frankly expressed.

Amelie's chamber was vocal with gaiety and laughter; for with her to-day were the chosen friends and lifelong companions who had ever shared her love and confidence.

These were, Hortense Beauharnais, happy also in her recent betrothal to Jumonville de Villiers; Heloise de Lotbiniere, so tenderly attached to Amelie, and whom of all her friends Amelie wanted most to call by the name of sister; Agathe, the fair daughter of La Corne St. Luc, so like her father in looks and spirit; and Amelie's cousin, Marguerite de Repentigny, the reflection of herself in feature and manners.

There was rich material in that chamber for the conversation of such a group of happy girls. The bridal trousseau was spread out before them, and upon chairs and couches lay dresses of marvellous fabric and beauty,--muslins and shawls of India and Cashmere, and the finest products of the looms of France and Holland. It was a trousseau fit for a queen, and an evidence at once of the wealth of the Lady de Tilly and of her unbounded love for her niece, Amelie. The gifts of Pierre were not mingled with the rest, nor as yet had they been shown to her bridesmaids,--Amelie kept them for a pretty surprise upon another day.

Upon the table stood a golden casket of Venetian workmanship, the carvings of which represented the marriage at Cana in Galilee. It was stored with priceless jewels which dazzled the sight and presented a constellation of starry gems, the like of which had never been seen in the New World. It was the gift of the Bourgeois Philibert, who gave this splendid token of his affection and utter contentment with Amelie as the bride of his son and heir.

The girls were startled in the midst of their preparations by the sudden dashing past of a horseman, who rode in a cloud of dust, followed by a wild, strange cry, as of many people shouting together in lamentation and anger.

Amelie and Heloise looked at each other with a strange feeling, but sat still while the rest rushed to the balcony, where they leaned eagerly over to catch sight of the passing horseman and discover the meaning of the loud and still repeated cry.

The rider had disappeared round the angle of the Cape, but the cry from the city waxed still louder, as if more and more voices joined in it.

Presently men on horseback and on foot were seen hurrying towards the Castle of St. Louis, and one or two shot up the long slope of the Place d'Armes, galloping towards the mansion of the Lady de Tilly, talking and gesticulating in the wildest manner.

"In God's name, what is the matter, Monsieur La Force?" exclaimed Hortense as that gentleman rode furiously up and checked his horse violently at the sight of the ladies upon the balcony.

Hortense repeated her question. La Force took off his hat and looked up, puzzled and distressed. "Is the Lady de Tilly at home?" inquired he eagerly.

"Not just now, she has gone out; but what is the matter, in heaven's name?" repeated she, as another wild cry came up from the city.

"Is Mademoiselle Amelie home?" again asked La Force with agitated voice.

"She is home. Heavens! have you some bad news to tell her or the Lady de Tilly?" breathlessly inquired Hortense.

"Bad news for both of them; for all of us, Hortense. But I will not be the bearer of such terrible tidings,--others are following me; ask them.

Oh, Hortense, prepare poor Amelie for the worst news that ever came to her."

The Sieur La Force would not wait to be further questioned,--he rode off furiously.

The bridesmaids all turned pale with affright at these ominous words, and stood looking at each other and asking what they could mean.

Amelie and Heloise caught some of the conversation between Hortense and La Force. They sprang up and ran to the balcony just as two of the servants of the house came rushing up with open mouths, staring eyes, and trembling with excitement. They did not wait to be asked what was the matter, but as soon as they saw the ladies they shouted out the terrible news, as the manner of their kind is, without a thought of the consequences: that Le Gardeur had just killed the Bourgeois Philibert in the market-place, and was himself either killed or a prisoner, and the people were going to burn the Friponne and hang the Intendant under the tablet of the Golden Dog, and all the city was going to be destroyed.

The servants, having communicated this piece of wild intelligence, instantly rushed into the house and repeated it to the household, filling the mansion in a few moments with shrieks and confusion.

It was in vain Hortense and Agathe La Corne St. Luc strove to withhold the terrible truth from Amelie. Her friends endeavored with kindly force and eager exhortations to prevent her coming to the balcony, but she would not be stayed; in her excitement she had the strength of one of God's angels. She had caught enough of the speech of the servants to gather up its sense into a connected whole, and in a moment of terrible enlightenment, that came like a thunderbolt driven through her soul, she understood the whole significance of their tidings.

Her hapless brother, maddened with disappointment, drink, and desperation, had killed the father of Pierre, the father of her betrothed husband, his own friend and hers; why or how, was a mystery of amazement.

She saw at a glance all the ruin of it. Her brother a murderer, the Bourgeois a bleeding corpse. Pierre, her lover and her pride, lost,--lost to her forever! The blood of his father rising up between them calling for vengeance upon Le Gardeur and invoking a curse upon the whole house of Repentigny.

The heart of Amelie, but a few moments ago expanding with joy and overflowing with the tenderest emotions of a loving bride, suddenly collapsed and shrivelled like a leaf in the fire of this unlooked-for catastrophe.

She stared wildly and imploringly in the countenances of her trembling companions as if for help, but no human help could avail her. She spake not, but uttering one long, agonizing scream, fell senseless upon the bosom of Heloise de Lotbiniere, who, herself nigh fainting, bore Amelie with the assistance of her friends to a couch, where she lay unconscious of the tears and wailing that surrounded her.

Marguerite de Repentigny with her weeping companions remained in the chamber of Amelie, watching eagerly for some sign of returning consciousness, and assiduously administering such restoratives as were at hand.

Their patience and tenderness were at last rewarded,--Amelie gave a flutter of reviving life. Her dark eyes opened and stared wildly for a moment at her companions with a blank look, until they rested upon the veil and orange blossoms on the head of Agathe, who had put them on in such a merry mood and forgotten in the sudden catastrophe to take them off again.

The sight of the bridal veil and wreath seemed to rouse Amelie to consciousness. The terrible news of the murder of the Bourgeois by Le Gardeur flashed upon her mind, and she pressed her burning eyelids hard shut with her hands, as if not to see the hideous thought.

Her companions wept, but Amelie found no relief in tears as she murmured the name of the Bourgeois, Le Gardeur, and Pierre.

They spoke softly to her in tones of tenderest sympathy, but she scarcely heeded them, absorbed as she was in deepest despair, and still pressing her eyes shut as if she had done with day and cared no more to see the bright sunshine that streamed through the lattice. The past, present, and future of her whole life started up before her in terrible distinctness, and seemed concentrated in one present spot of mental anguish.

Amelie came of a heroic race, stern to endure pain as to inflict it, capable of unshrinking fortitude and of desperate resolves. A few moments of terrible contemplation decided her forever, changed the whole current of her life, and overthrew as with an earthquake the gorgeous palace of her maiden hopes and long-cherished anticipations of love and happiness as the wife of Pierre Philibert.

She saw it all; there was no room for hope, no chance of averting the fatal doom that had fallen upon her. Her life, as she had long pictured it to her imagination, was done and ended. Her projected marriage with Pierre Philibert? It was like sudden death! In one moment the hand of God had transported her from the living to the dead world of woman's love. A terrible crime had been perpetrated, and she, innocent as she was, must bear the burden of punishment. She had but one object now to live for: to put on sackcloth and ashes, and wear her knees out in prayer before God, imploring forgiveness and mercy upon her unhappy brother, and expiate the righteous blood of the just man who had been slain by him.

She rose hastily and stood up. Her face was beautiful as the face of a marble Niobe, but as pale and as full of anguish.

"My loving bridesmaids," said she, "it is now all over with poor Amelie de Repentigny; tell Pierre," and here she sobbed, almost choking in her grief, "tell Pierre not to hate me for this blood that lies on the threshold of our house! Tell him how truly and faithfully I was preparing to devote myself to his happiness as his bride and wife; tell him how I loved him, and I only forsake him because it is the inexorable decree of my sad fate; not my will, but my cruel misfortune. But I know his noble nature; he will pity, not hate me. Tell him it will even rejoice me where I am going to know that Pierre Philibert still loves me. I cannot, dare not ask him to pardon Le Gardeur! I dare not pardon him myself! But I know Pierre will be just and merciful to my poor brother, even in this hour of doom."