Lady de Tilly listened uneasily, and said,--"Don't quarrel with him at all, Pierre Philibert! Judge him and avoid him, as a Christian man should do. God will deal with Bigot as he deserves: the crafty man will be caught in his own devices some day."
"Oh, Bigot is a gentleman, aunt, too polite to insult any one," remarked Le Gardeur, impatient to defend one whom he regarded as a friend. "He is the prince of good fellows, and not crafty, I think, but all surface and sunshine."
"You never explored the depths of him, Le Gardeur," remarked La Corne. "I grant he is a gay, jesting, drinking, and gambling fellow in company; but, trust me, he is deep and dark as the Devil's cave that I have seen in the Ottawa country. It goes story under story, deeper and deeper, until the imagination loses itself in contemplating the bottomless pit of it--that is Bigot, Le Gardeur."
"My censitaires report to me," remarked the Lady de Tilly, "that his commissaries are seizing the very seed-corn of the country. Heaven knows what will become of my poor people next year if the war continue!"
"What will become of the Province in the hands of Francois Bigot?" replied La Corne St. Luc. "They say, Philibert, that a certain great lady at Court, who is his partner or patroness, or both, has obtained a grant of your father's sequestered estate in Normandy, for her relative, the Count de Marville. Had you heard of that, Philibert? It is the latest news from France."
"Oh, yes, Chevalier! Ill news like that never misses the mark it is aimed at. The news soon reached my father!"
"And how does your father take it?"
"My father is a true philosopher; he takes it as Socrates might have taken it; he laughs at the Count de Marville, who will, he says, want to sell the estate before the year is out, to pay his debts of honor--the only debts he ever does pay."
"If Bigot had anything to do with such an outrage," exclaimed Le Gardeur warmly, "I would renounce him on the spot. I have heard Bigot speak of this gift to De Marville, whom he hates. He says it was all La Pompadour's doing from first to last, and I believe it."
"Well," remarked La Corne, "Bigot has plenty of sins of his own to answer for to the Sieur Philibert, on the day of account, without reckoning this among them."
The loud report of a cannon shook the windows of the room, and died away in long-repeated echoes among the distant hills.
"That is the signal for the Council of War, my Lady," said La Corne.
"A soldier's luck! just as we were going to have music and heaven, we are summoned to field, camp, or council."
The gentlemen rose and accompanied the ladies to the drawing-room, and prepared to depart. Colonel Philibert took a courteous leave of the ladies of Tilly, looking in the eyes of Amelie for something which, had she not turned them quickly upon a vase of flowers, he might have found there. She plucked a few sprays from the bouquet, and handed them to him as a token of pleasure at meeting him again in his own land.
"Recollect, Pierre Philibert!" said the Lady de Tilly, holding him cordially by the hand, "the Manor House of Tilly is your second home, where you are ever welcome."
Philibert was deeply touched by the genuine and stately courtesy of the lady. He kissed her hand with grateful reverence, and bowing to both the ladies, accompanied La Corne St. Luc and Le Gardeur to the castle of St. Louis.
Amelie sat in the recess of the window, resting her cheek upon her tremulous hand as she watched the gentlemen proceed on their way to the castle. Her mind was overflowing with thoughts and fancies, new, enigmatical, yet delightful. Her nervous manner did not escape the loving eye of her aunt; but she spoke not--she was silent under the burden of a secret joy that found not vent in words.
Suddenly Amelie rose from the window, and seated herself, in her impulsive way, at the organ. Her fingers touched the keys timidly at first as she began a trembling prelude of her own fantasy. In music her pent-up feelings found congenial expression. The fire kindled, and she presently burst out with the voice of a seraph in that glorious psalm, the 116th:
"'Toto pectore diligam Unice et Dominum colam, Qui lenis mihi supplici Non duram appulit aurem.
Aurem qui mihi supplici, Non duram dedit; hunc ego Donec pectora spiritus Pulset semper, amabo.'"
The Lady de Tilly, half guessing the truth, would not wound the susceptibilities of her niece by appearing to do so; so rose quietly from her seat and placed her arms gently round Amelie when she finished the psalm. She pressed her to her bosom, kissed her fondly, and without a word, left her to find in music relief from her high-wrought feelings. Her voice rose in sweeter and loftier harmonies to the pealing of the organ as she sang to the end the joyful yet solemn psalm, in a version made for Queen Mary of France and Scotland when life was good, hope all brightness, and dark days as if they would never come.
