Good-bye,” she said.
And then again, “Good-bye.”
The voice of the young girl was choked with sobs, and tears rolled slowly down her cheeks.
“Good-bye, dear garden; good-bye, dear home”; and as she spoke she stopped and looked up at the old grey chateau which the warm afternoon sun had made glow with tints of rose and gold.
She made a pretty picture standing there, even though her eyes were red with weeping, for her clustering curls were drawn high on her graceful head with a great comb, the lack of powder letting their bright chestnut tones shine in the warm evening light. A gaily flowered gown of simple muslin, less ample in its cut than the style affected by those who lived nearer the court, was fashioned so as to show a slender white throat. The delicate ruffles at elbow and neck showed that even in the country Mechlin, the lace of the hour, had its wearers.
Looking about, eyes even less partial than hers would cease to be surprised that parting with so fair a scene should cause such grief. To Clemence Valvier the chateau was home. There she was born, had grown to girlhood, and though but seventeen was not only a wife, but the mother of a tiny child for whose sake she was preparing to leave parents, country, home, and friends, and seek that little known land across the sea where so many of her countrymen had gained a footing in the wilderness.
The pointed turrets of the chateau stood out sharply against the deep blue of the afternoon sky, and the glass panes in the small windows sparkled as the late sunbeams rested on them. On one side huge vines of ivy clambered up the rough stones till they reached the roof, and amid their hospitable leaves sheltered many a nest of linnet and of sparrow, whose cheerful songs made music at morning and at sunset.
Clemence stood in the garden looking sadly at the roses whose sweet profusion was due in no small measure to her care. There was the garden seat; here the sun-dial; yonder, above the wall which bounded the garden, rose the dove-cote, around which constantly hovered some of her feathered pets.
“How can I leave you all!” she cried, as each familiar object rose before her eyes. “My courage wellnigh fails me”; and she sank on her knees before the dial,—a grey veteran which gave no hint of time this afternoon, since it marked only sunny hours, and already the long shadows cast by the chateau fell across its face of stone.
Just at that moment, when she was almost willing to abandon the thought of the long and terrible journey, she heard a footstep on the gravel of the paths.
“Ah, Clemence, dear heart, it grieves me almost past endurance to see your grief. Say but one word, and I will go forth alone, and shall send back for you and the little one when a home is made ready and when I have some comforts for you.”
At the first sound of her husband’s voice Clemence had jumped to her feet, and running to him had laid her tear-stained face upon his shoulder. As he finished speaking, she had almost brought a smile to drive away the tears, and looking into his face she bravely made answer,—
“If it wrings my heart to leave dear France, Pierre, it would be a thousand times worse to have you go and leave me here, me and little Annette, for whose sake we undertake all these perils.”
“If I could think that this was really so”; and Pierre, scarce more than a youth himself, as he yet wanted several months of seeing twenty years, bore on his face a gravity that is rarely seen on one so young. His dark eyes were sad, and though he smiled when he comforted his youthful wife, it seemed as though it was but to cheer her. In truth, all his life he had comforted and protected her, for Pierre Valvier, like Clemence, had called the old chateau, the rose garden, the long straight terrace, and the fertile fields his home.
Left an orphan at an early age, under the guardianship of Monsieur Bienville, the father of Clemence, the two children had played together, studied together, and finally were wedded, and now were preparing to go forth to the New World together.
At this time Louis XV sat upon the throne of France. He was a weak monarch, devoted to his pleasures, and content to let his ministers rule, although he always took an active part in all the religious quarrels which disturbed and agitated France. Jealousy, which had long been smouldering between France and England on account of the various colonies in America to which each country laid claim, broke out into war in 1756, and its effects were felt over the whole world.
The brilliant victory of Admiral Galissonière at Fort St. Philip, the chief citadel of Port Mahon on the Minorca Islands, the most important naval victory which France had gained in fifty years, filled the whole French nation with joy. Yet the succeeding years brought little but ignominy and defeat, and The Seven Years War, as this struggle was ultimately called, lost France not only the greater part of her navy, but, what was even more galling, many of her possessions in the New World.
Disapproval of the King and his ministers drove to what was left of these colonies in America many Frenchmen of high character who foresaw nothing but disaster left for France herself. Among these was Pierre Valvier, who sought for himself and his little family a home in that new country where liberty of person and creed was assured. They were to start on the morrow for Calais, and thence take ship for New Orleans.
The old chateau—old even in 1756—stood upon a gentle slope looking down upon the little fishing village of Étaples. Such a tiny village it was, with its one-story huts,—you could scarcely call them more,—set upon the banks of the Canache, a broad shallow river so influenced by the ocean that when the tide was low the fisher-girls kilted up their scant skirts and waded across with their baskets of shrimps upon their strong young shoulders.
Such a little village, and so poor!
“Petit sou, petit sou, donnez-moi un petit sou!” That was the cry heard on every side. There was hardly a hand in the hamlet which would not be held out in expectation of a small copper coin, should anyone from the chateau chance to pass through its one ill-paved street.
Every year the poverty seemed to increase. Every year the revenues of the chateau grew less,—which was but another reason why Pierre, young and strong, should seek a home where those of gentle birth were made welcome, and where the Crown gave broad acres of land to each and all who would go and settle there.
Still, even with Hope and Courage beckoning, the parting was sad for all. Monsieur Bienville, the father of Clemence, was a soldier of the old régime. Tall, elegant, with the true air of grandeur which is born, not bred, he watched with sad eyes the preparations for departure. Madame his wife could not suppress her grief, and declared that never, never again should she see her loved ones.
“Ah,” cried she, “the poor children will be devoured by frightful beasts, I know it well,—if not by those that roam on land, by those more awful ones which dwell in the sea!”
The distant land was to her a wilderness, a desert; and, in truth, a few miles away from the city of New Orleans it was little else.