The rain was falling heavily as the old travelling carriage, drawn by four horses, lumbered up to the door of the chateau the next morning. Into it had been packed the necessaries for the journey to Calais, and two heavy wains had been sent off some days previously, laden with such goods as the young people were to take with them to the New World.
Within doors the daughter was taking leave of her parents, and as if to shorten the sad moment, her father took her hand, and placed within it a packet carefully bound in silk.
“Dear daughter,” said he, “see that this packet is carefully guarded. In it is thy heritance, the pearl necklace which my mother had from her mother, and which in its turn must go to thy daughter, the little Annette.”
“Oh, father, why give to me that most precious thing? Safeguard it till we come again, as, if God is willing, we shall.”
“It is yours, and then the daughter’s, and,” he whispered in her ear, “I have added all the jewels which were my mother’s portion. Keep them till time of need.”
The impatient stamping of the horses on the cobblestones of the court, warned them all that they must part, and Pierre led Clemence to the carriage, where little Annette was sleeping on the broad lap of old Marie, who had petted and scolded her mother through her babyhood and was now going with her on that long journey to the land of which they knew so little and feared so much.
As if desirous of making up for lost time, Jacques cracked his whip, and with the words, “Farewell, farewell,” ringing in the air, the coach passed quickly down the long drive and through the gates leading to the highroad, and turned in the direction of Boulogne, where they were to pass that night.
The familiar scenes of her childhood never seemed so fair to Clemence as at this moment when she was parting from them. Here was the little church nestling among the trees, where she had received her first communion, and there stood Père Joseph, waving adieux from the old grey porch, the unfamiliar tear stealing down his wrinkled cheek.
Farther along on the other side of the road was the Rose d’Or, the quaint old inn, before whose hospitable door the village yokels were wont to gather of a summer’s evening and play at bowls upon the green. The very signboard as it hung above the door and swung in the wind seemed to creak “farewell,” and as the travelling chariot rolled by, Clemence hid her face upon her husband’s shoulder.
At last her sobs grew less violent, and as if to call attention from her grief, little Annette awoke, and lying comfortable and rosy upon the lap of her nurse, cooed out her satisfaction as only a healthy, happy baby can. Pierre took the child in his arms, and the baby stretched out her hands towards her mother, who, turning to take her, found neglected in her own lap the parcel of jewels so carefully wrapped and handed to her by her father as a parting gift.
“See, Pierre, my father gave to me the pearl necklace which I wore on my wedding day, and it is to be the portion of little Annette, when she too marries.”
Hardly had the words passed her lips, when rude shouts were heard, and the coach gradually came to a standstill.
“Halt!” cried a voice almost beside the window, and old Jacques the coachman could be heard saying,—
“But, messieurs, my master and mistress—”
“Peace, knave, let thy betters speak for themselves.”
At this a rude leering face was thrust into the window, and a man pulled roughly at the carriage door and cried,—
“Step out, and quickly too, and bring out your valuables with you.”
“But we are travellers, and have with us barely enough to carry us to Calais, where our ship lies at anchor,” said Pierre, trying not to let his voice show his anger and disgust.
“What will serve you will serve us also at a pinch. Is it not so, Jean?” and he turned to a third ruffian who stood at hand, holding by the bridle some sorry-looking horses.
“Truth, if we take all they have, ’t will be enough, but do not wait too long,” answered the one named Jean, who wore a soldier’s cap with a soiled and broken feather trailing over one ear.
At the first appearance of the highwaymen at the carriage window, Clemence had handed little Annette to Marie, and in so doing had managed to slip among her clothes the precious packet of jewels. She gave Marie a warning look, and when they were commanded to step from the coach, she begged, for the sake of the child, that it and the nurse might sit within.
“You can see for yourselves that neither the infant nor the aged woman has aught of value,” said she.
After hurriedly searching through the coach and finding nothing more, the highwaymen contented themselves with carrying off Pierre’s sword and a fair pearl ring which Clemence wore upon her finger, and a small bag of golden doubloons which Pierre had in the pocket of his travelling coat. The villainous trio had scarcely got safely away, when the reason of their haste became apparent, for a captain and four men-at-arms came around a turn in the road, urging their horses to a smart trot, when they saw the travelling carriage drawn up by the side of the ditch.
“Have three renegadoes passed this way?” called the leader, as they drew rein.
“Truly, but a few moments since,” said Pierre, with a rueful face, as he thought of his bag of gold. “It would have pleased me much had you come this way but a few moments earlier, since I then had been the richer for a purse of doubloons.”
“Stole they aught beside?” asked the captain, as he put spurs to his horse and hardly waited for Pierre’s answer as they rode hastily away in the direction the robbers had taken.
When once more the coach was in motion, Clemence turned to Annette and clasped her in her arms, saying,—
“Of a truth, little one, ’twas fortunate indeed that you saved your inheritance this time,—you and Marie.”
“Let us hide the packet better, Madame,” said Marie. “Who can tell when another band of cutthroats may be upon us, and truly, as thou saidst, it was but chance that saved us this time.”
Without any delay the packet was carefully tied among the long skirts of little Annette, and Marie hardly ceased to tremble till the coach rolled into the yard of the inn at Boulogne, and the red light streaming from the open door showed them that warmth and shelter were to be had within.
Early astir the next morning, refreshed and cheered because the rain had ceased and the sun shone cheerfully abroad, our travellers during the late afternoon of the next day entered the grey old town of Calais, the little Annette unconsciously guarding the packet which held her inheritance as well as the jewels which Monsieur Bienville had given as a parting token to his daughter.
It was quite dark when the carriage was at last unpacked, and not till then did Pierre draw from behind a secret panel in the side of the coach the store of gold which was to suffice for their needs on board ship, and till they were established in the new home which awaited them on the other side of the ocean.