CHAPTER IV
THE FIRST MAYOR OF VINCENNES
Governor Abbott probably never so much as heard of the dame jeanne
of French brandy sent to him by his creole friend in New Orleans.
He had been gone from Vincennes several months when the batteau
arrived, having been recalled to Detroit by the British authorities;
and he never returned. Meantime the little post with its quaint
cabins and its dilapidated block-house, called Fort Sackville,
lay sunning drowsily by the river in a blissful state of helplessness
from the military point of view. There was no garrison; the two
or three pieces of artillery, abandoned and exposed, gathered
rust and cobwebs, while the pickets of the stockade, decaying
and loosened in the ground by winter freezes and summer rains,
leaned in all directions, a picture of decay and inefficiency.
The inhabitants of the town, numbering about six hundred, lived
very much as pleased them, without any regular municipal government,
each family its own tribe, each man a law unto himself; yet for
mutual protection, they all kept in touch and had certain common
rights which were religiously respected and defended faithfully.
A large pasturing ground was fenced in where the goats and little
black cows of the villagers browsed as one herd, while the patches
of wheat, corn and vegetables were not inclosed at all. A few
of the thriftier and more important citizens, however, had separate
estates of some magnitude, surrounding their residences, kept
up with care and, if the time and place be taken into account,
with considerable show of taste.
Monsieur Gaspard Roussillon was looked upon as the aristocrat
par excellence of Vincennes, notwithstanding the fact that his
name bore no suggestion of noble or titled ancestry. He was rich
and in a measure educated; moreover the successful man's patent
of leadership, a commanding figure and a suave manner, came always
to his assistance when a crisis presented itself. He traded shrewdly,
much to his own profit, but invariably with the excellent result
that the man, white or Indian, with whom he did business felt
himself especially favored in the transaction. By the exercise
of firmness, prudence, vast assumption, florid eloquence and a
kindly liberality he had greatly endeared himself to the people;
so that in the absence of a military commander he came naturally
to be regarded as the chief of the town, Mo'sieu' le maire.
He returned from his extended trading expedition about the middle
of July, bringing, as was his invariable rule, a gift for Alice.
This time it was a small, thin disc of white flint, with a hole
in the center through which a beaded cord of sinew was looped.
The edge of the disc was beautifully notched and the whole surface
polished so that it shone like glass, while the beads, made of
very small segments of porcupine quills, were variously dyed,
making a curiously gaudy show of bright colors. "There now,
ma cherie, is something worth fifty times its weight in gold,"
said M. Roussillon when he presented the necklace to his foster
daughter with pardonable self-satisfaction. "It is a sacred
charm-string given me by an old heathen who would sell his soul
for a pint of cheap rum. He solemnly informed me that whoever
wore it could not by any possibility be killed by an enemy."
Alice kissed M. Roussillon.
"It's so curious and beautiful," she said, holding it
up and drawing the variegated string through her fingers. Then,
with her mischievous laugh, she added; "and I'm glad it is
so powerful against one's enemy; I'll wear it whenever I go where
Adrienne Bourcier is, see if I don't!"
"Is she your enemy? What's up between you and la petite Adrienne,
eh?" M. Roussillon lightly demanded. "You were always
the best of good friends, I thought. What's happened?"
"Oh, we are good friends," said Alice, quickly, "very
good friends, indeed; I was but chaffing."
"Good friends, but enemies; that's how it is with women.
Who's the young man that's caused the coolness? I could guess,
maybe!" He laughed and winked knowingly. "May I be so
bold as to name him at a venture?"
"Yes, if you'll be sure to mention Monsieur Rene de Ronville,"
she gayly answered. "Who but he could work Adrienne up into
a perfect green mist of jealousy?"
"He would need an accomplice, I should imagine; a young lady
of some beauty and a good deal of heartlessness."
"Like whom, for example?" and she tossed her bright
head. "Not me, I am sure."
"Poh! like every pretty maiden in the whole world, ma petite
coquette; they're all alike as peas, cruel as blue jays and as
sweet as apple-blossoms." He stroked her hair clumsily with
his large hand, as a heavy and roughly fond man is apt to do,
adding in an almost serious tone:
"But my little girl is better than most of them, not a foolish
mischief-maker, I hope."
Alice was putting her head through the string of beads and letting
the translucent white disc fall into her bosom.
"It's time to change the subject," she said; "tell
me what you have seen while away. I wish I could go far off and
see things. Have you been to Detroit, Quebec, Montreal?"
"Yes, I've been to all, a long, hard journey, but reasonably
profitable. You shall have a goodly dot when you get married,
my child."
"And did you attend any parties and balls?" she inquired
quickly, ignoring his concluding remark. "Tell me about them.
How do the fine ladies dress, and do they wear their hair high
with great big combs? Do they have long skirts and--"
"Hold up, you double-tongued chatterbox!" he interrupted;
"I can't answer forty questions at once. Yes, I danced till
my legs ached with women old and girls young; but how could I
remember how they were dressed and what their style of coiffure
was? I know that silk rustled and there was a perfume of eau de
Cologne and mignonette and my heart expanded and blazed while
I whirled like a top with a sweet lady in my arms."
"Yes, you must have cut a ravishing figure!" interpolated
Madame Roussillon with emphatic disapproval, her eyes snapping.
"A bull in a lace shop. How delighted the ladies must have
been!"
"Never saw such blushing faces and burning glances--such
fluttering breasts, such--"
"Big braggart," Madame Roussillon broke in contemptuously,
"it's a piastre to a sou that you stood gawping in through
a window while gentlemen and ladies did the dancing. I can imagine
how you looked --I can!" and with this she took her prodigious
bulk at a waddling gait out of the room. "I remember how
you danced even when you were not clumsy as a pig on ice!"
she shrieked back over her shoulder.
"Parbleu! true enough, my dear," he called after her,
"I should think you could--you mind how we used trip it together.
You were the prettiest dancer them all, and the young fellows
all went to the swords about you!"
"But tell me more," Alice insisted; "I want to
know about what you saw in the great towns--in the fine houses--how
the ladies looked, how they acted--what they said--the dresses
they wore--how--"
"Ciel! you will split my ears, child; can't you fill my pipe
and bring it to me with a coal on it? Then I'll try to tell you
what I can," he cried, assuming a humorously resigned air.
"Perhaps if I smoke I can remember everything."
Alice gladly ran to do what he asked. Meantime Jean was out on
the gallery blowing a flute that M. Roussillon had brought him
from Quebec.
The pipe well filled and lighted apparently did have the effect
to steady and encourage M. Roussillon's memory; or if not his
memory, then his imagination, which was of that fervid and liberal
sort common to natives of the Midi, and which has been exquisitely
depicted by the late Alphonse Daudet in Tartarin and Bompard.
He leaned far back in a strong chair, with his massive legs stretched
at full length, and gazed at the roof-poles while he talked.
He sympathized fully, in his crude way, with Alice's lively curiosity,
and his affection for her made him anxious to appease her longing
after news from the great outside world. If the sheer truth must
come out, however, he knew precious little about that world, especially
the polite part of it in which thrived those femininities so dear
to the heart of an isolated and imaginative girl. Still, as he,
too, lived in Arcadia, there was no great effort involved when
he undertook to blow a dreamer's flute.
In the first place he had not been in Quebec or Montreal during
his absence from home. Most of the time he had spent disposing
of pelts and furs at Detroit and in extending his trading relations
with other posts; but what mattered a trifling want of facts when
his meridional fancy once began to warm up? A smattering of social
knowledge gained at first hand in his youthful days in France
while he was a student whose parents fondly expected him to conquer
the world, came to his aid, and besides he had saturated himself
all his life with poetry and romance. Scudery, Scarron, Prevost,
Madame La Fayette and Calprenede were the chief sources of his
information touching the life and manners, morals and gayeties
of people who, as he supposed, stirred the surface of that resplendent
and far-off ocean called society. Nothing suited him better than
to smoke a pipe and talk about what he had seen and done; and
the less he had really seen and done the more he had to tell.
His broad, almost over-virile, kindly and contented face beamed
with the warmth of wholly imaginary recollections while he recounted
with minute circumstantiality to the delighted Alice his gallant
adventures in the crowded and brilliant ball-rooms of the French-Canadian
towns. The rolling burr of his bass voice, deep and resonant,
gave force to the improvised descriptions. Madame Roussillon heard
the heavy booming and presently came softly back into the door
from the kitchen to listen. She leaned against the facing in an
attitude of ponderous attention, a hand, on her bulging hip. She
could not suppress her unbounded admiration of her liege lord's
manly physique, and jealous to fierceness as she was of his experiences
so eloquently and picturesquely related, her woman's nature took
fire with enjoyment of the scenes described.
This is the mission of the poet and the romancer--to sponge out
of existence, for a time, the stiff, refractory, and unlovely
realities and give in their place a scene of ideal mobility and
charm. The two women reveled in Gaspard Roussillon's revelations.
They saw the brilliant companies, the luxurious surroundings,
heard the rustle of brocade and the fine flutter of laces, the
hum of sweet voices, breathed in the wafts of costly perfumeries,
looked on while the dancers whirled and flickered in the confusion
of lights; and over all and through all poured and vibrated such
ravishing music as only the southern imagination could have conjured
up out of nothing.
Alice was absolutely charmed. She sat on a low wooden stool and
gazed into Gaspard Roussillon's face with dilating eyes in which
burned that rich and radiant something we call a passionate soul.
She drank in his flamboyant stream of words with a thirst which
nothing but experience could ever quench. He felt her silent applause
and the admiring involuntary absorption that possessed his wife;
the consciousness of his elementary magnetism augmented the flow
of his fine descriptions, and he went on and on, until the arrival
of Father Beret put an end to it all.
The priest, hearing of M. Roussillon's return, had come to inquire
about some friends living at Detroit. He took luncheon with the
family, enjoying the downright refreshing collation of broiled
birds, onions, meal-cakes and claret, ending with a dish of blackberries
and cream.
M. Roussillon seized the first opportunity to resume his successful
romancing, and presently in the midst of the meal began to tell
Father Beret about what he had seen in Quebec.
"By the way," he said, with expansive casualness in
his voice, "I called upon your old-time friend and co-adjutor,
Father Sebastien, while up there. A noble old man. He sent you
a thousand good messages. Was mightily delighted when I told him
how happy and hale you have always been here. Ah, you should have
seen his dear old eyes full of loving tears. He would walk a hundred
miles to see you, he said, but never expected to in this world.
Blessings, blessings upon dear Father Beret, was what he murmured
in my ear when we were parting. He says that he will never leave
Quebec until he goes to his home above--ah!"
The way in which M. Roussillon closed his little speech, his large
eyes upturned, his huge hands clasped in front of him, was very
effective.
"I am under many obligations, my son," said Father Beret,
"for what you tell me. It was good of you to remember my
dear old friend and go to him for his loving messages to me. I
am very, very thankful. Help me to another drop of wine, please."
Now the extraordinary feature of the situation was that Father
Beret had known positively for nearly five years that Father Sebastien
was dead and buried.
"Ah, yes," M. Roussillon continued, pouring the claret
with one hand and making a pious gesture with the other; "the
dear old man loves you and prays for you; his voice quavers whenever
he speaks of you."
"Doubtless he made his old joke to you about the birth-mark
on my shoulder," said Father Beret after a moment of apparently
thoughtful silence. "He may have said something about it
in a playful way, eh?"
"True, true, why yes, he surely mentioned the same,"
assented M. Roussillon, his face assuming an expression of confused
memory; "it was something sly and humorous, I mind; but it
just escapes my recollection. A right jolly old boy is Father
Sebastien; indeed very amusing at times."
"At times, yes," said Father Beret, who had no birth-mark
on his shoulder, and had never had one there, or on any other
part of his person.
"How strange!" Alice remarked, "I, too, have a
mark on my shoulder--a pink spot, just like a small, five-petaled
flower. We must be of kin to each other, Father Beret."
The priest laughed.
"If our marks are alike, that would be some evidence of kinship,"
he said.
"But what shape is yours, Father?"
"I've never seen it," he responded.
"Never seen it! Why?"
"Well, it's absolutely invisible," and he chuckled heartily,
meantime glancing shrewdly at M. Roussillon out of the tail of
his eye.
"It's on the back part of his shoulder," quickly spoke
up M. Roussillon, "and you know priests never use looking-glasses.
The mark is quite invisible therefore, so far as Father Beret
is concerned!"
"You never told me of your birth-mark before, my daughter,"
said Father Beret, turning to Alice with sudden interest. "It
may some day be good fortune to you."
"Why so, Father?"
"If your family name is really Tarleton, as you suppose from
the inscription on your locket, the birth-mark, being of such
singular shape, would probably identify you. It is said that these
marks run regularly in families. With the miniature and the distinguishing
birth-mark you have enough to make a strong case should you once
find the right Tarleton family."
"You talk as they write in novels," said Alice. "I've
read about just such things in them. Wouldn't it be grand if I
should turn out to be some great personage in disguise!"
The mention of novels reminded Father Beret of that terrible book,
Manon Lescaut, which he last saw in Alice's possession, and he
could not refrain from mentioning it in a voice that shuddered.
"Rest easy, Father Beret," said Alice; "that is
one novel I have found wholly distasteful to me. I tried to read
it, but could not do it, I flung it aside in utter disgust. You
and mother Roussillon are welcome to hide it deep as a well, for
all I care. I don't enjoy reading about low, vile people and hopeless
unfortunates; I like sweet and lovely heroines and strong, high-
souled, brave heroes."
"Read about the blessed saints, then, my daughter; you will
find in them the true heroes and heroines of this world,"
said Father Beret.
M. Roussillon changed the subject, for he always somehow dreaded
to have the good priest fall into the strain of argument he was
about to begin. A stray sheep, no matter how refractory, feels
a touch of longing when it hears the shepherd's voice. M. Roussillon
was a Catholic, but a straying one, who avoided the confessional
and often forgot mass. Still, with all his reckless independence,
and with all his outward show of large and breezy self- sufficiency,
he was not altogether free from the hold that the church had laid
upon him in childhood and youth. Moreover, he was fond of Father
Beret and had done a great deal for the little church of St. Xavier
and the mission it represented; but he distinctly desired to be
let alone while he pursued his own course; and he had promised
the dying woman who gave Alice to him that the child should be
left as she was, a Protestant, without undue influence to change
her from the faith of her parents. This promise he had kept with
stubborn persistence and he meant to keep it as long as he lived.
Perhaps the very fact that his innermost conscience smote him
with vague yet telling blows at times for this departure from
the strict religion of his fathers, may have intensified his resistance
of the influence constantly exerted upon Alice by Father Beret
and Madame Roussillon, to bring her gently but surely to the church.
Perverseness is a force to be reckoned with in all original characters.
A few weeks had passed after M. Roussillon's return, when that
big-hearted man took it into his head to celebrate his successful
trading ventures with a moonlight dance given without reserve
to all the inhabitants of Vincennes. It was certainly a democratic
function that he contemplated, and motley to a most picturesque
extent.
Rene de Ronville called upon Alice a day or two previous to the
occasion and duly engaged her as his partenaire; but she insisted
upon having the engagement guarded in her behalf by a condition
so obviously fanciful that he accepted it without argument.
"If my wandering knight should arrive during the dance, you
promise to stand aside and give place to him," she stipulated.
"You promise that? You see I'm expecting him all the time.
I dreamed last night that he came on a great bay horse and, stooping,
whirled me up behind the saddle, and away we went!"
There was a childish, half bantering air in her look; but her
voice sounded earnest and serious, notwithstanding its delicious
timbre of suppressed playfulness.
"You promise me?" she insisted.
"Oh, I promise to slink away into a corner and chew my thumb,
the moment he comes," Rene eagerly assented. "Of course
I'm taking a great risk, I know; for lords and barons and knights
are very apt to appear Suddenly in a place like this."
"You may banter and make light if you want to," she
said, pouting admirably. "I don't care. All the same the
laugh will jump to the other corner of your mouth, see if it doesn't.
They say that what a person dreams about and wishes for and waits
for and believes in, will come true sooner or later."
"If that's so," said Rene, "you and I will get
married; for I've dreamed it every night of the year, wished for
it, waited for it and believed in it, and--"
It was a madly sudden rush. He made it on an impulse quite irresistible,
as hypnotized persons are said to do in response to the suggestion
of the hypnotist, and his heart was choking his throat before
he could end his speech. Alice interrupted him with a hearty burst
of laughter.
"A very pretty twist you give to my words, I must declare,"
she said; "but not new by any means. Little Adrienne Bourcier
could tell you that. She says that you have vowed to her over
and over that you dream about her, and wish for her, and wait
for her, precisely as you have just said to me,"
Rene's brown face flushed to the temples, partly with anger, partly
with the shock of mingled surprise and fear. He was guilty, and
the guilt showed in his eyes and paralyzed his tongue, so that
he sat there before Alice with his under jaw sagging ludicrously.
"Don't you rather think, Monsieur Rene de Ronville,"
she presently added in a calmly advisory tone, "that you
had better quit trying to say such foolish things to me, and just
be my very good friend? If you don't, I do, which comes to the
same thing. What's more, I won't be your partenaire at the dance
unless you promise me on your word of honor that you will dance
two dances with Adrienne to every one that you have with me. Do
you promise?"
He dared not oppose her outwardly, although in his heart resistance
amounted to furious revolt and riot.
"I promise anything you ask me to," he said resignedly,
almost sullenly; "anything for you."
"Well, I ask nothing whatever on my own account," Alice
quickly replied; "but I do tell you firmly that you shall
not maltreat little Adrienne Bourcier and remain a friend of mine.
She loves you, Rene de Ronville, and you have told her that you
love her. If you are a man worthy of respect you will not desert
her. Don't you think I am right?"
Like a singed and crippled moth vainly trying to rise once again
to the alluring yet deadly flame, Rene de Ronville essayed to
break out of his embarrassment and resume equal footing with the
girl so suddenly become his commanding superior; but the effort
disclosed to him as well as to her that he had fallen to rise
no more. In his abject defeat he accepted the terms dictated by
Alice and was glad when she adroitly changed her manner and tone
in going on to discuss the approaching dance.
"Now let me make one request of you," he demanded after
a while. "It's a small favor; may I ask it?"
"Yes, but I don't grant it in advance."
"I want you to wear, for my sake, the buff gown which they
say was your grandmother's."
"No, I won't wear it."
"But why, Alice?"
"None of the other girls have anything like such a dress;
it would not be right for me to put it on and make them all feel
that I had taken the advantage of them, just because I could;
that's why."
"But then none of them is beautiful and educated like you,"
he said; "you'll outshine them anyway."
"Save your compliments for poor pretty little Adrienne,"
she firmly responded, "I positively do not wish to hear them.
I have agreed to be your partenaire at this dance of Papa Roussillon's,
but it is understood between us that Adrienne is your sweet-heart.
I am not, and I'm not going to be, either. So for your sake and
Adrienne's, as well as out of consideration for the rest of the
girls who have no fine dresses, I am not going to wear the buff
brocade gown that belonged to Papa Roussillon's mother long ago.
I shall dress just as the rest do."
It is safe to say that Rene de Ronville went home with a troublesome
bee in his bonnet. He was not a bad-hearted fellow. Many a right
good young man, before him and since, has loved an Adrienne and
been dazzled by an Alice. A violet is sweet, but a rose is the
garden's queen. The poor youthful frontiersman ought to have been
stronger; but he was not, and what have we to say?
As for Alice, since having a confidential talk with Adrienne Bourcier
recently, she had come to realize what M. Roussillon meant when
he said; "But my little girl is better than most of them,
not a foolish mischief-maker, I hope." She saw through the
situation with a quick understanding of what Adrienne might suffer
should Rene prove permanently fickle. The thought of it aroused
all her natural honesty and serious nobleness of character, which
lay deep under the almost hoydenish levity usually observable
in her manner. Crude as her sense of life's larger significance
was, and meager as had been her experience in the things which
count for most in the sum of a young girl's existence under fair
circumstances, she grasped intuitively the gist of it all.
The dance did not come off; it had to be postponed indefinitely
on account of a grave change in the political relations of the
little post. A day or two before the time set for that function
a rumor ran through the town that something of importance was
about to happen. Father Gibault, at the head of a small party,
had arrived from Kaskaskia, far away on the Mississippi, with
the news that France and the American Colonies had made common
cause against the English in the great war of which the people
of Vincennes neither knew the cause nor cared a straw about the
outcome.
It was Oncle Jazon who came to the Roussillon place to tell M.
Roussillon that he was wanted at the river house. Alice met him
at the door.
"Come in, Oncle Jazon," she cheerily said, "you
are getting to be a stranger at our house lately. Come in; what
news do you bring? Take off your cap and rest your hair, Oncle
Jazon."
The scalpless old fighter chuckled raucously and bowed to the
best of his ability. He not only took off his queer cap, but looked
into it with a startled gaze, as if he expected something infinitely
dangerous to jump out and seize his nose.
"A thousand thanks, Ma'm'selle," he presently said,
"will ye please tell Mo'sieu' Roussillon that I would wish
to see 'im?"
"Yes, Oncle Jazon; but first be seated, and let me offer
you just a drop of eau de vie; some that Papa Roussillon brought
back with him from Quebec. He says it's old and fine."
She poured him a full glass, then setting the bottle on a little
stand, went to find M. Roussillon. While she was absent Oncle
Jazon improved his opportunity to the fullest extent. At least
three additional glasses of the brandy went the way of the first.
He grinned atrociously and smacked his corrugated lips; but when
Gaspard Roussillon came in, the old man was sitting at some distance
from the bottle and glass gazing indifferently out across the
veranda. He told his story curtly. Father Gibault, he said, had
sent him to ask M. Roussillon to come to the river house, as he
had news of great importance to communicate.
"Ah, well, Oncle Jazon, we'll have a nip of brandy together
before we go," said the host.
"Why, yes, jes" one agin' the broilin' weather,"
assented Oncle Jazon; "I don't mind jes' one."
"A very rich friend of mine in Quebec gave me this brandy,
Oncle Jazon," said M. Roussillon, pouring the liquor with
a grand flourish; "and I thought of you as soon as I got
it. Now, says I to myself, if any man knows good brandy when he
tastes it, it's Oncle Jazon, and I'll give him a good chance at
this bottle just the first of all my friends."
"It surely is delicious," said Oncle Jazon, "very
delicious." He spoke French with a curious accent, having
spent long years with English-speaking frontiersmen in the Carolinas
and Kentucky, so that their lingo had become his own.
As they walked side by side down the way to the river house they
looked like typical extremes of rough, sun-burned and weather-
tanned manhood; Oncle Jazon a wizened, diminutive scrap, wrinkled
and odd in every respect; Gaspard Roussillon towering six feet
two, wide shouldered, massive, lumbering, muscular, a giant with
long curling hair and a superb beard. They did not know that they
were going down to help dedicate the great Northwest to freedom.