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| Introduction to The Isle Of Flowers |
{Tok 10; [CB 275; LG 167]} IT is well known that the attempts of the English to obtain possession of the Canadas were for a long time unavailing, and that when, after repeated efforts, success partially crowned their arms, and they became masters of Quebec, the French still maintained their claim to the unconquered parts of the colony, nor suffered their victorious enemy to remain unmolested in his newly acquired territory. M. De Levis a, the successor of the lamented Montcalm, made an effort, in the spring of 1760, to wrest the capital of Lower Canada from the English: he was b however repulsed and driven back to Montreal, where the Marquis de Vaudreuil, Governor General of the colony, had fixed his head-quarters, and, collecting all the military force of the country around him, resolved to make a determined stand against the further encroachments of the foe. He heard that they were approaching, and conquering as they came; that c Isle aux Noix, one of the most important {CB 275} keys to the province, was already theirs; that d their ranks were swollen by thousands of American provincials; and e that the red children of the forest had lent themselves, with all their horrid array and cruel blood-thirstiness, to assist in the subjugation of New France. Yet these tidings but strengthened his purpose to sell dearly, if he must sell them, the American possessions of his king; and, in silent expectation, he awaited the approach of the invaders. It was a period of excitement and anxiety, and, like every crisis of importance, it gave rise to numerous affecting incidents, which develope the character of individuals, and lend to that era a tinge of romantic interest, which sheds a mellow light over the dry and scanty {Tok 11} detail of the historian. Among the many traditions of this kind, which it has been our fortune to collect, we remember none more replete with interest, than the one which we now present to the reader. It was related to us, one beautiful summer evening, in view of that singular island, which is so frequently mentioned in the narrative; and f the pretty French girl, who repeated the legend, often crossed herself, as she pointed beyond the rapids to this isolated spot, whose shores no human foot invades, and whose slumbering echoes answer only to the music of the birds, or to the hoarser clamor of the elements.
{CB 276} Towards the close of a warm afternoon in the summer of 1760, a group of gay young men, whose lofty bearing and rich attire bespoke them of the higher order of those who at that time filled g the city of Montreal, issued from the church of Notre Dame h, and walked leisurely away, leaving one of their number, who voluntarily remained behind, to pursue his course alone. He, who was thus left by his more social companions, looked after them for an instant, as they crossed the Place d'Armes, then turned and sauntered slowly down the street, till, arriving before the walls of the Recollet i, he paused, and, folding his arms j, stood gazing, in a musing attitude, upon the sculptured emblems of mortality which surmount the doorway k of the chapel. Suddenly his reverie was broken by the unclosing of the gate. A monk, clothed in the long black garments of his order, girt with the cord of discipline, and wearing his cowl drawn closely over his face, issued from it, and passed him with the speed of one bound on some mission of importance. By accident he left the gate ajar l, and, tempted by the verdure of the spacious court-yard, and the grateful shade of those noble elms, which the sacrilegious hand of modern improvement has, within a few years, levelled with the dust, the young man, touching m his plumed hat, in token of reverence to thze ecclesiastic, passed {CB 277} on, and entered the precincts of {Tok 12} the monastery. The weather was oppressively warm, and, lifting n his hat from his brows, and unloosing the sword which hung idly at his side, he laid both upon the grass, and was in the act of throwing himself beside them, when Father Clement, the superior o, was seen appreaching, and with that habitual deference which all classes of catholics pay to their clergy, he remained standing in an attitude of respect, till the holy man should have passed. The monk, however, perceived him, and approached. “Heaven bless thee, my son, and have thee in its holy keeping!” he said in a tone of fervent sincerity, and with a countenance whose mild benignity seemed to promise the blessing which his tongue invoked.
“I thank you, father,” said the young man; “ but I fear I merit reproof rather than this kindly greeting, for my unauthorized intrusion here.”
“Thou art welcome to these quiet shades, my son; I know thee for one of the Marquis De Vaudreuil's suite — for a defender of the true faith and holy church — and p to thee, and such as thou q, these hallowed grounds and walls shall over offer refuge and repose. My duty calls me hence — but thou, perhaps, art r weary with the toils of council s or of war, and thou {CG 278} art freely welcome to remain and calm thy thoughts in this unbroken solitude.”
“Nay, holy father, I am neither weary nor disturbed;the tempting t coolness of these shades invited me to enter; but now I am refreshed, and will walk hence with you.”
“I must first await the return of Brother Ambrose, who just now departed to gather tidings of a dying man, to whom I, but an hour ago, administered the last rites of our religion.”
“You speak of young De Bougainville u, father?”
“I do, my son; knowest thou aught of his present state?”
“I have learned nothing since the morning, father, when it was supposed his last sands were well nigh run; but v I {Tok 13} feared, lest he might, even yet, recover to meet the fate which must then be his.”
“Heaven is more merciful than man,” replied the monk, “and it has kindly snatched him from the ignominious doom which has been decreed against him.”
“Perhaps, father, you believe him guiltless of the crimes laid to his charge?”
“He stands convicted of youthful folly and ungoverned passion,” returned the monk, “but of one treacherous thought or act {CB 279} towards his king or country I believe him innocent; nay more, I think him true to both — true as the brave Montcalm, who nobly welcomed death, when told that he was conquered.”
The lay brother at this moment returned with tidings that De Bougainville yet lived, but was fast approaching his last moments, and, within another hour at furthest, it was thought his mortal career must terminate. “God speed the parting soul, and receive it to the joys of heaven!” exclaimed Father Clement, devoutly crossing himself. There was a solemn pause of a few moments, when the young man, taking his hat and sword from the ground, replaced the latter in his belt, and respectfully addressing the superior, “Father, you seem to be familiar with the history of M. De Bougainville,” he said, “and if you deem me not impertinent, I would gladly learn a few particulars relating to him. I was with the army of M. de Levis, in wthe last unfortunate expedition against Quebec, and it is only since our return that l have been placed about the person of M. De Vaudreuil. Immediately after my appointment, I was sent by the Marquis upon a secret mission, and have been absent from the city till yesterday. So that all which I have heard of this most unhappy affair has been from the lips of prejudiced or ignorant {CB 280} persons; and I would fain hear the truth from one, whose knowledge of the circumstances enable him to tell it with simplicity and candor.”
{Tok 14} “Thou shalt know all that is known to me, my son, and I esteem myself happy in being able to exculpate the innocent from unjust suspicion. But I have a duty to perform elsewhere, and as the fervor of the heat has abated, I will invite thee to accompany me in my walks, that we may discourse of this matter on our way.”
The young man assented, and they issued together from the gate of the monastery. Passing down one of those narrow streets which every where intersect the city at right angles, they proceeded slowly along the irregular pavement of St. Paul street x, while Father Clement, without prelude or further solicitation, commenced the following recital of circumstances connected with the fate of a young man, whose unhappy destiny had rendered him an object of commiseration to some and of interest to all.
“Eugene De Bougainville had the misfortune to lose his parents, while yet in early infancy. They were people of rank and fortune, and distantly allied to M. De Vaudreuil, to whom, as a last bequest, they gave the care and direction of their orphan son. The {CB 281} Marquis received and promised to educate him as his own, and faithfully has he performed that promise — in y all things treating and regarding him with the tenderness of a father. Young De Bougainville repaid him with filial deference and affection, and enjoyed, without intermission, the smiles of his guardian's favor and protection, till, after a residence of some time in this country, he formed an unfortunate attachment, which M. De Vaudreuil disapproved and refused to sanction. The object of this attachment was the daughter of a French officer and a native Indian. The latter was z so richly gifted with beauty and sensibility, that our countryman, though nobly allied and aa master of an ample fortune, yielded himself a captive to her charms ab — educated her — converted her to his own religion, and married her. Soon after this event, he was sent on military duty to a distant part of the province, and during {Tok 15} his absence he placed his wife under the protection of the nuns of the H�tel Dieu. But he shortly fell a sacrifice to the barbarity of the savages: she, too, died ac after a residence in the convent of nearly three years, leaving a little girl to the care and affection of the nuns. For two years the child was an object of delight to the whole sisterhood — when suddenly she disappeared with her nurse, an old Indian, who had ever evinced a decided aversion to the habits of {CB 282} civilized life. Two years more passed on, when, prompted by caprice or ad by some motive which has never been developed, the squaw restored the girl — sending her unattended to the convent, but never appearing herself to answer the questions which she would doubtless have been asked. Aim�e ae La Voison, for so she was called, seemed not to have forgotten her former home; but af its restraints appeared irksome to her, and it was evident she had acquired a strong taste for the free and roving life which she had led with her nurse. She however remained with the nuns, till she attained her twelfth year, when she again disappeared, and never returned, till about ten months since, when the nuns found her one morning in the chapel dressing the altar with flowers, and prevailed on her once more to become an inmate of their house. It was soon after this period, that she attracted the attention of Eugene De Bougainville; and ag it was in vain that the abbess ah prohibited all intercourse between the lovers, or that M. De Vaudreuil forbade his young relative to cherish an attachment for one who, from her infancy, had ai been designed for the cloister. They continued frequently to see each other, and to exchange vows of unalterable fidelity. The abbess feared to exercise severity towards Aim�e, well aj knowing she would not hesitate to flee from her {CB 283} care to the wild haunts which she dearly loved, so soon as an undue restraint should be placed upon her person. She was therefore still permitted, as she had ever been, to spend many hours in the garden, and to sit with her work or book in the {Tok 16} abbess's parlor, rather than retire to join the daily tasks of the nuns in the interior of the convent. Here she beheld all the visiters who came to the H�tel Dieu, many of whom were attracted by the fame of her surpassing beauty — and here she often saw De Bougainville.
“It was here too that she was first seen by Augustin ak Du Plessis, the friend and bosom companion of De Bougainville. But from that hour their companionship was ended, their friendship al changed to hatred. Du Plessis, young and impetuous, conceived a violent passion for the fair Aim�e, and, a stranger to those principles of honor, those generous and manly feelings, which in similar circumstances would have governed the conduct of De Bougainville, he sedulously strove by every means to win her love, and, when am he found himself repulsed with scorn, still persecuted her with his importunate suit. He quarrelled also with his friend, and to gratify his revengeful feelings sought an to poison his peace by insinuating doubts of the fidelity of his mistress. De Bougainville endured these taunts, for some {CB 284} time, with tolerable forbearance; but when, at ao the table of the Marquis De Vaudreuil, Du Plessis one day uttered some unfeeling sarcasm reflecting on the fair fame of Aim�e La Voison, his indignation burst through all controul ap. He started from his seat, and, reckless of the presence of older and superior officers, approached the offender with anger flashing from his eyes, with words of bitter invective on his lips, and raising his arm would have struck the coward to the earth, had not his purpose been arrested by those around him. The voice of M. De Vaudreuil restored him to recollection, but, unable to command himself, he quitted the apartment, though it was only to summon Du Plessis to answer in single combat for the falsehood which he had dared to utter. They met, and M. Du Plessis received his adversary's sword in his heart, acknowledging, with his latest breath, that he had acted a traitor's and a slanderer's part. But his friends, {Tok 17} indignant at his death, demanded the blood of his murderer, and called upon M. De Vaudreuil, as the avenger of the injured and aq the dispenser of justice, to deliver up his ward to the penalties of the law. The Marquis, however, was spared this painful sacrifice. De Bougainville, aware of his danger, took a hasty farewell of Aim�e, and quitted the island. Whither he went no one could tell, but it was confidently believed by many that he ar {CB 285} had deserted his country, and joined the English. These reports were industriously circulated by the friends of M. Du Plessis; and as so many seeming proofs were brought forward to corroborate them, that even M. De Vaudreuil, who heard no tidings of the fugitive, was induced at last to credit the tale of De Bougainville's apostacy at. From Aim�e no intelligence could be obtained, as she au disappeared within a week after her lover's departure, and has not since been seen: but av a light canoe has been observed dancing over the tremendous rapids of La Chine, and approaching unharmed that lonely isle, which stands in the midst of their appalling breakers. It is believed to be hers, for aw that is known to be her dwelling-place ax, when absent from the convent; and ay to no other human being, except her Indian nurse, is this solitary spot accessible. But to return to De Bougainville. You know that he was lately rescued by a party of French soldiers from a bend of Mohawks on the opposite side of the river, and brought hither, wounded, dying, and a prisoner. They refused to give any other account of him than that he was wounded in an encounter between themselves and az some chiefs of a hostile tribe. But letters from the English commanders were found upon him, inviting him to join their victorious standard, and these unanswered papers, where not a hint of his acquiescence can be {CB 286} found, are declared by his enemies to stamp him with the seal of treachery. Neither are the asseverations of his servant, a faithful adherent to the fortunes of his master, permitted to have any weight. He {Tok 18} declares that, after ba quitting Montreal in their progress to join the French forces at Chambly, they were captured by a party of Indians, who had ever since detained them prisoners, with the daily declaration that they should shortly take them to the British general at Quebec.
“ M. De Vaudreuil, indeed, believes this statement; but he is overpowered by the voice of the multitude, and deterred from pronouncing an opinion which, under existing circumstances, would doubtless be attributed to undue partiality. He is stricken in heart by the misfortunes of one whom he has loved as a son, but he rejoices, as do I, that death is soon to set him free from all the evils of mortality. He has already seen him for the last time, but without being recognised by the unhappy young man, who, excepting for a few moments this morning, has discovered no symptoms of consciousness since his arrival. M. De Vaudreuil dared not even receive him to his residence within the city, and, as the only act of indulgence in his power to grant, permits him to die unattended except bb by his own servant, at Pr�s de Ville, his now deserted country-house. {CB 287} Thus, my son, I have given you a plain narrative of facts; and now that we have arrived at the chapel of the H�tel Dieu, enter with me, and offer a prayer for the forgiveness of De Bougainville's enemies, and for the peace of his departing so.”
The young man, sensibly affected by the melancholy recital to which he had just listened, assented with a silent inclination of the head, and turned to follow the monk through the low arched doorway of the chapel, when his attention was arrested by the appearance of a gentleman of M. De Vaudreuil's household, who came to summon his immediate attendance upon the Marquis. Compliance was a matter of course; but bc he first stepped hastily after Father Clement, explained the cause of his sudden departure, thanked him for the patience with which he had answered his inquiries, craved his blessing, and retired.
{Tok 19} It was a festival day, and the chapel was still filled with the odor of frankincense, mingled with the perfume of the fading flowers which decked the shrines of the saints, and were scattered among the wax lights that yet burned upon the altar. Father Clement approached the stone chalice, which held the consecrated water, and reverently signing himself with the holy symbol of the cross, he knelt with true humility of spirit, to implore the {CB 288} mercy of God upon the soul which was about passing into eternity. Deeply absorbed by his devotions, he was unconscious that another suppliant knelt beside him, till a low, half-stifled bd sigh stole faintly on his ear, when he rose, and cast around an eye of benevolent inquiry, to learn from whom proceeded this indication of an oppressed heart. A twilight obscurity reigned within the chapel; for the few windows which lighted it were high and narrow, and the feeble rays of the wax tapers illuminated only the pictures and images, around which they were placed. But, through be this deepening gloom, Father Clement espied a female figure, at a little distance from the spot whence bf he had just risen, prostrate on the steps of the altar; her forehead touching the ground, her face concealed in the folds of her garments, her attitude a profound abstraction, indicative of the most humble, heartfelt adoration. The priest was a true disciple of his divine master; he bg had all the mild and heavenly benignity of a Cheverus or a Fenelon, and his heart overflowed with tender compassion, as he marked the emotion which, at intervals, convulsed the frame of the kneeling suppliant, and thought, as his eye traced the rounded outline of her youthful and exquisitely proportioned figure, that he recognised one, in whom a concurrence of circumstances had increased his wonted interest, even {CB 259} to an intense and painful degree. Her costume bore no similitude to that worn by the peasantry of the country; neither bh did it resemble that of the religious orders; but bi consisted of a loose, black dress bj, confined about the waist {Tok 20} by a girdle richly wrought, after the manner of the Indians, though without the usual tawdriness which marks their taste; and fastened with a clasp of gold. From her shoulders flowed a long cloak or mantle of fine dark cloth, buttoned with a golden loop, and embroidered, in an Etruscan pattern bk, with scarlet moose hair around the edges. A transparent veil covered her head, and bl fell partly over her face, and from beneath it escaped a profusion of glossy hair, blacker than the plumage of the raven, and which rendered more striking the dazzling whiteness of the beautiful neck and throat around which it clustered. One small white hand, delicate as a snow-flake bm, grasped the railing which enclosed the altar, and on it sparkled the ring, which Father Clement had often seen upon the finger of Aim�e La Voison, and which he knew had been given as the pledge of De Bougainville's love. His doubts were ended, and he stood waiting only till she should rise from her devotions to address bn her. She had nearly finished them; and, as in the fervor of her soul the bo last words of her petition burst audibly from her lips, “Holy Father, {CB 290} thou canst save him! Blessed Virgin, intercede for me, and snatch him from the tomb, which opens to receive him!” she rose, and throwing back her veil, turned upon the priest a face, which, even in sorrow and in tears, was radiant with almost seraphic beauty. She had believed herself alone with her God; but, at bp the sight of Father Clement, she started, and a livid paleness overspread her features. But instantly the blood rushed back with overwhelming force: she bq beheld him who had been a father to herself and to br De Bougainville; she marked the tender compassion of his air, the pitying kindness of his eyes, and, bursting into a passion of hysteric sobs, she sunk again powerless upon the steps of the altar. Father Clement's heart bled for the anguish which he witnessed, and, hastily approaching the object of his sympathy, he bs strove gently to raise her from the ground.
{Tok 21} “Daughter,” he said, “thou hast cast thyself at the mercy-seat bt of God, and poured out thy soul in humble prayer and supplication; thou hast here uttered the language of a meek and lowly spirit; and beware now lest bu thou pollute this hallowed spot with the tears of earthly passion.”
“Father, reproach me not! bv” exclaimed the unhappy girl, in accents broken by her sobs. “Even God permits my tears; it is he who {CB 291} has afllicted me, and think you he will break with his anger the feeble reed which his hand has bruised?”
“His goodness is abundant, my daughter; and bw it is therefore I would have thee feel, if he has chastened thee, it has been done in mercy. Thou hast perhaps despised the privileges which he offered thee; thou hast forsaken the christian community, where thy dying mother placed thee, and hast chosen to thyself an idol, whom God has doubtless smitten, to remind you both of your mortality.”
“Father, God formed my heart for tender affections; wherefore, then, should bx he chastise me, because I have indulged the innocent emotions which he implanted in my nature.”
“We cannot fathom his designs, my child; but perhaps thou hast indulged these emotions to excess, and, in the pleasures of an earthly love, forgotten the higher and holier object of thy worship.”
“Never, father, have I been thus neglectful of my duty. To God, each morning, I have offered the earliest incense of praise; my latest prayer, at night, has been to him; and he has mingled with all my hopes and dreams of future happiness.”
“And yet, my daughter, thou didst voluntarily forsake the place where he is worshipped, with all the rites and ceremonies of our most {CB 292} holy faith; thou didst desert the altars where his image stands, renounce the offices and deeds of mercy, which, as a member of this blessed house, it was thy {Tok 22} duty to perform, and hide thee in those wild and savage haunts, where never temple rose to the Most High, nor holy chant of christian tongue awoke the echoes of that heathen solitude.”
“ Father, his temple is the universe ; why then should his service be confined to the narrow space enclosed by mortal hands? Think you, the humble offering of a contrite heart will not rise with equal acceptance to the throne of heaven, from the midst of his own matchless works, as from gorgeous altars, surrounded by adoring crowds?”
“My daughter,” said the priest, with somewhat of sternness in his accent, “who has taught thee to believe that our religion is encumbered with vain pumps, and idle ceremonies? Hast thou held communion with those heretics who by have come to overrun our colony, to profane our temples, and overturn our faith, that thou speakest thus lightly of the venerable worship which thy fathers have instituted, and thy God has condescended to accept?”
“Forgive me, father, if I have spoken with seeming irreverence of what I hold most sacred. I meant but to say that God is not confined to temples made with hands, and that, in my own {CB 293} sweet island-home, I have knelt and worshipped him with as pure and holy fervor, as ever warmed my heart before this blessed altar, and in presence of these consecrated objects.”
Father Clement gazed upon her for a moment in silence, then asked, in tones of sorrow rather bz than of anger, “It is true then, my daughter, that you have been dwelling in that lonely isle? You have tempted the fury of those frightful rapids, and preferred their hideous discord to the sublime peals of the organ, and the chant of those holy nuns, who have nurtured you in their own bosoms, as a daughter?”
“And I render to them, father, a daughter's love, and more than a daughter's gratitude; but my mother was a denizen of the woods, and with her milk I imbibed a love of {Tok 23} freedom and of nature. My ear is never wearied by the music of those restless rapids, of which you speak with such horror; my devotion kindles as I gaze upon the ample arch of heaven, at noonday, or at night, when glorious with its host of stars; and my eye dwells with unsated pleasure on the boundless landscape, with all its rich variety of garniture.”
“My daughter, this is the romantic enthusiasm of early youth; time and the sorrows of earth will chasten these feelings, and then thou wilt look back with regret to the peaceful {CB 294} asylum thou hast forsaken. Come then, and let me lead thee back to the fold from which thou hast been too long a wanderer; come, and fulfil the end of thy being. The ties which bound thee to earth, are broken; it has no longer any charms for thee: but remember that thou art a child of heaven, an heir of immortality, and here thou mayst wrestle for the prize of eternal bliss; here thou mayst fight the good fight of faith; with God's blessing, mayst come off conqueror, and leave thy name, with other sisters of this pious house, as a sweet savor to those who shall hereafter tread in thy steps.”
“Father, you have told me that God is present every where, and I have felt that he was with me in that island, which you deem so desolate. Every shady alcove there, has heard his praise, and witnessed my humble supplications for his mercy. My own hands have raised to him an altar of turf, like that on which pious Abel offered the firstlings of his flock, and on it fair flowers daily shed their fragrance, and wax tapers burn before the Virgin's shrine. When my nurse, in early childhood, took me with her from this convent, she conveyed me thither, and taught me to love each tree and flowery dingle of that silent spot; she taught me too to navigate my light canoe, to steer it safely through the breakers, and to {CB 295} guide it in the only practicable track by which the island is accessible.”
{Tok 24} “But wherefore, my daughter, when she again restored thee to us, and thou didst dwell, for so many years, in the midst of christian ordinances, and in communion with christian souls, wherefore didst thou again desert the altars of thy God, and voluntarily return to that remote abode?”
“Father,” she replied, and a vivid blush mingled with the tears which coursed freely down her cheeks, “when I first knew De Bougainville, I had begun to love the stillness of my cloister, and to think I might be happy in a life so unvaried and monotonous. But he changed my feelings and my views. I loved my God with greater fervor for bestowing on me this new source of happiness, and I felt that, to ca serve him as I ought, I must serve him in conjunction with De Bougainville. You know the progress of our affection, and the circumstances which occurred so cruelly to disunite us. When, after the death of Du Plessis, Eugene came to bid me a hurried adieu, I urged him to fly to my island retreat cb; but he chose rather to join the French forces at Chambly, and to continue an active defender of his country, till the appeal which he intended to make to his king should be answered, and he be again permitted to appear here in safety. In {CB 296} the mean time, I purposed retreating to my island. I was unhappy, and longed for its silence and its solitude, where, unmarked by any eye, I could indulge the sorrows of my heart. De Bougainville's return was to be notified to me by a certain signal raised upon the mainland shore; and cc for weary days and weeks I have watched in vain to behold it. But this morning, when despair had nearly seized me, it was the first object that greeted my waking eyes; my boat was quickly launched upon the waters, and I flew to meet — not De Bougainville, but his faithful servant, who informed me of all the sad circumstances which your sympathizing looks assure me, father, are already too well known to you.”
“And you have seen him then, my daughter?”
“I have; and I saw him dying, as I thought. He looked {Yok 25} upon me without knowing me, and the anguish of that moment was more bitter than death! But oh, the joy of the next! My nurse was with me; she examined the wound, and, skilled above her race in the powers of healing, she asserts that be may yet recover.”
“Impossible, my child! The arrow which pierced him is supposed to have been dipped in deadly poison, and thy foolish nurse but feeds thee with false hopes, to lull thy present fears.”
“Not so, father. She never yet deceived {CB 297} me, and she would not do so now. But I must be gone; the day is fast declining, and I must loiter here no longer.”
“Gone! and at this hour? Whither, my daughter, do you bend your course, or for what purpose quit the shelter of this sanctuary tonight cd?”
“Nay, father, I beseech you ask me nothing, and seek not to detain me. If Eugene lives, you shall know all; but now I would not involve you, nor any one, in danger, by making you a confidant in my purpose.”
At this instant, the low chant of female voices issuing from the inner chapel of the convent, announced the commencement of evening vespers, and Aim�e, starting at the sound, moved hastily towards the door. Father Clement followed her — “Daughter,” he said, “I am thy spiritual director, and to me even wilt thou not impart thy designs? Wilt thou, in defiance of my counsel, persist in going hence, and exposing thyself perhaps to insult and danger, and that too at the very moment when the holy sisterhood are offering their evening service to the Virgin?”
“Father, strive not to weaken the firmness of my courage. I must make one last effort to save him; and, if it prove in vain, I solemnly vow, in the presence of God, the Virgin, and all the blessed saints, to return hither, and {CB 298} take upon myself the vows of this holy house. Speak to me, father, for I dare not quit you in displeasure.”
{Tok 26} Father Clement looked fixedly upon her, and sorrow, affection, and reproof, were written on his brow; but the entrance of some peasants, for the purposes of devotion, forbade his reply, and, only waving his hand, he turned from her, and, passing up the chapel, disappeared through a private door which led into the interior of the convent.
Aim�e, for one moment, felt inclined to follow him; but this impulse died away with the last sound of his retreating footsteps, and, anxious to be gone, she quitted the chapel without longer delay. As she issued from the door, she saw with pleasure that the day had not so far declined as she supposed; the sun indeed was near his setting, but there yet remained time enough for her to leave the city before the gates were closed, and, with a fleet step she threaded the narrow streets till ce she reached the southern gate, through which she wished to pass. But, as she attempted to do so, the sentinel stepped before her, demanding roughly her name and purpose. She turned towards him a face of such pleading beauty, and answered him in tones so silvery, that his harshness was at once disarmed. “I pray you, good soldier, not to stay me; I come from the H�tel Dieu, {CB 299} and am bound on an errand of mercy to the dying.” “Go on then, maiden, and the Virgin be thy guide! cf” said the man, as he stepped respectfully aside to let her pass. With a look of silent gratitude, she slipped a small piece of gold into his hand, and bounded forward. Hurrying through part of the thinly scattered suburbs of St. Antoine, which now form a populous and extensive part of the city, she struck into a narrow foot-path, that wound deeper and deeper into the forests which then clothed that beautiful ridge, whose sloping gardens and orchards are now the first, after the long Canadian winter, to wake into life and beauty beneath the genial influence of spring. Gradually ascending Mount Royal, in the direction of that unfinished building, which, though commenced but a quarter of a century ago, the hand of Time cg, as if in mockery {Tok 27} of man's ambition, is already crumbling into ruins, she passed on to the romantic spot, where the projector of that stately mansion chose his last resting place, and now lies cold beneath the pompous marble which his heirs have reared to tell the living of the vanity of mortal hopes. Then, not even the ashes of the dead had invaded that sequestered spot; the area which is now opened around the costly monument was filled with trees, and the cliffs were clothed with lichens and wild flowers, which seldom human foot, save that of the {CB 300} Indian hunter, crushed beneath its tread. Aim�e climbed to the highest pinnacle of the rocks which rise behind the obelisk, and for a few moments seated herself upon a jutting crag, to recover the breath she had lost in her rapid ascent. The sun had set, but the long, delicious twilight of that climate was tinging every object with its golden hues, and diffusing over the landscape a serene and odorous calm peculiar to the hour. Aim�e gazed abroad with the rapt eye of an enthusiast, and felt its soothing influence sink into her heart. Beneath her stretched the city, with its long range of low grey houses, the walls of its convents rising above the rest, the venerable turrets of the Recollet visible through the gigantic elms that sheltered with ch their protecting arms, and, higher than all, the glittering spire of Notre Dame, surmounted with the holy cross, and pointing, like a beacon, towards heaven. The French flag, so soon to be displaced by the colors of England, waved from the citadel, that fortified eminence, which has recently been levelled to make way for new streets and buildings, and from various embattled points of minor consequence. Beyond, the noble St. Lawrence rolled its world of waters towards the Atlantic, its bosom purpled with the tints of parting day, and gemmed with lovely islands, that lay, like enchanted spots, upon its peaceful surface. {CB 301} Aim�e looked far up the river for her own dear Isle of Flowers, but it was hidden by intervening forests, though the music that she loved, the tossing of the restless {Tok 28} rapids, fell, in that solitary place, with mellowed cadence on her ear. The opposite shore was clothed with trees, or presented long tracts of prairie land, cheerless and uninhabited; save here and there arose the wigwam of a half-civilized ci Indian, or the mud cottage of some daring Canadian, whose friendly traffic with the natives protected him from their barbarity. Far off in the distance toward the mountain cj of Chambly, the purple summits of Belœil, and further still the eye could trace the faint outline of the mountains which intersect Vermont.
Aim�e's devotional fervor kindled as she gazed. It overflowed her heart, and burst forth from her lips, as in a subdued voice she warbled the evening service to the Virgin. A sudden rustling in the shrubbery disturbed her vespers. She turned quickly, and caught a glimpse of some one, shrouded in a large cloak, who leaped hastily down the opposite declivity, and disappeared in the thicket. She now remembered that, when she left the chapel of the H�tel Dieu, she had seen a man thus attired, standing on the outside of the door, and that once or twice, when she chanced to look back in her progress through the streets, she had observed {CB 302} him behind her. But in a crowded city this circumstance seemed nothing strange, and it would never have occurred to her again, had not the singular appearance of this person, at such a time, and in so remote a place, recalled it to her mind. She stood for a few moments, uncertain what to do, and unable, if the intruder intended her harm, to account for his hasty retreat, when that mystery was at once explained by the appearance of her nurse, accompanied by a tall athletic Indian, whom the stranger had doubtless seen and retreated to avoid. Aim�e, as she welcomed them, forgot the uneasiness which this incident had occasioned her. She threw her arm with affectionate endearment round the barbarously-attired ck person of her nurse, then turned to examine and praise a litter formed of the {Tok 29} flexile branches of the birch, which the Indian exultingly displayed to her. “See, my humming-bird,” said the old nurse, in tolerable French, and with a look of fond affection, “Yakoo and myself have woven twigs of the fragrant fern with the young shoots of the birch; we have lined it with moss gathered from the cool stones at the fountain head, and strewn water-lilies on the pillow, to revive him with their odor.”
“Thank you, kind mother,” said the girl, touching with her ruby lip the wrinkled forehead of her nurse — “And here, where his {CB 303} heart will rest, I place this relic of the true cross, to shield him from unholy spirits; and to the Virgin I vow two candlesticks of silver, if she will guide us safely over the rapids, and diffuse a healing power into the balsams which you shall pour upon his wound.”
“Daughter, there are plants of saving virtue growing around the Virgin's consecrated grot, upon our isle; these, when the moon rides high in the heavens, and the dew lies wet upon them, I will gather and distil, and every precious drop shall extract the venom from his blood and fill his veins with life.”
“The saints fulfil thy promise!” exclaimed Aim�e cl, fervently clasping her hands and raising her eyes with an imploring look towards heaven.
“Fear not, my daughter: but cm thou art faint and weary; thine eye is dim — it cn minds me of thy mother's, when thy father left her to meet our chiefs in battle; thy cheek is pale, and faded like the rose-leaves co which I have seen thee wear all day upon thy breast. Beyond this rock there gushes forth a cooling stream; come then, my drooping bird, and quench thy thirst with its limpid waters. Here are fresh fruits, which Yahoo has plucked for us; come, and I will spread them on its brink, and thou shalt lie there and rest thyself, while I feed thee with the ripest.”
{CB 304} “Nay, mother, leave me here; go you with Yakoo, but I {Tok 30} will sit upon this rock, and count the stars, as they appear one by one in the heavens, and pray to the Virgin, as I am wont to do in the bowers of my island-home cp. It will be time to depart, when the moon shall cast the shadows of those sycamores to the foot of this rock; then, if you do not come to me, I will call you.”
Maraka knew from experience that it was vain to oppose the will of her foster-child cq, and, too much accustomed to leave her in solitary haunts to fear any evil, she turned away, with a sign of assent, and followed Yahoo, to share their evening repast on the borders of the rivulet. Aim�e, left once more to herself, resumed her former seat on the projecting rock. She unclosed her cloak, and threw back the veil which shaded her features, to admit the cooling breeze of evening. Twilight had deepened fast around her, and already the tall tops of the forest trees were silvered with the beams of a full moon, that was each moment shining with brighter lustre in the east. Many thoughts crowded upon her heart; many hopes for the future, many fears for the present, which a few short hours were destined to confirm or dissipate. She was a wild, impassioned creature, full of feeling and romance, which her mode of life, the habits she had {CB 305} formed under the guidance of her untutored nurse, and the whole tenor of her existence had served to cherish and to heighten. While she thus sat, watching the moon as she climbed cr the heavens, now murmuring an Ave Maria, now, with a softened heart, recalling the tender anxiety which Father Clement had shown for her welfare, then, with streaming eyes, reverting to her wounded lover, or, with hope springing in her soul, bearing him in imagination to the silent bowers of her island, feeding him with the fairest fruits and reviving him with the odors of her flowers, she sunk gradually from her waking reverie into a deep and peaceful slumber. How long she slept she knew not; but when she awoke, the moon had gained the zenith, and its perpendicular {Tok 31} rays fell full upon the rock which she had chosen for her couch. She started up; a step sounded in her ear, and the shadow of some person moved from beside her. She believed it to be Yakoo cs or Maraka, and she turned quickly around; but, instead of those she expected to see, the same tall figure, which had followed her from the chapel of the H�tel Dieu, and which she had seen at twilight disappear in the forest, now stood regarding her with a fixed and earnest eye. Aim�e pressed her crucifix closely to her bosom — “Holy mother, shield me!” she ejaculated; and, at the sound of her {CB 306} voice, the stranger moved a step towards her. Terrified by the gesture, she darted from him, and, bounding over rock and, crag ran wildly towards the rivulet, calling aloud upon the names of Yakoo and Maraka. In an instant they were by her side; but, when she related the cause of her alarm, they believed that she had been dreaming, or had seen a spirit. Aim�e, however, was conscious that what she had witnessed was no delusion of the senses, and the incident gave a sadness to her heart, and infused into it a superstitious dread of some impending evil, which not even the immediate necessity for courage and exertion could entirely dissipate.
Midnight had arrived, the time appointed for the commencement of their enterprise, and Aim�e was impatient of delay. They therefore began silently to descend the mountain, Yakoo and Maraka carrying the litter, and Aim�e walking beside them. They would fain have persuaded her to occupy it, but she steadfastly refused, and thus, without molestation, and with a rapidity almost incredible, they traversed the ground which Aim�e had passed over alone in the beginning of the evening, till, changing their course to a northerly direction, they kept for some distance along the skirts of the forest, and paused at length before the gates of Pr�s de Ville ct. This ancient mansion, though still standing, exhibits scarcely a vestige of its {CB 307} former splendor. Not a trace is to be seen of the moat and drawbridge, with which, {Tok 32} after the manner of baronial castles, it was once defended. Only its size and form remain, to shew that it was vastly superior in importance to buildings of the same age; for even the extensive domains, and noble trees, with which it was formerly surrounded, have been included in the general ruin. The former are covered with the dwellings of sallow habitons, or Irish emigrants, and the latter have fallen before the axe of the spoiler, without even the exception of that princely avenue of elms which led to its entrance, and was long the sole remnant of its departed glory. Gaston, the attendant of De Bougainville, was anxiously expecting the arrival of Aimee and the Indians. At the first sound of their footsteps, he hailed them, and was answered by the preconcerted watchword. The drawbridge was hastily lowered, and the little cavalcade passed over it, preceded by Aim�e, who, with impatient steps, bounded forward, and was the next moment kneeling beside her lover's couch.
The house had been deserted by all, save an old female domestic, since the first moment that a general expectation of the enemy's approach prevailed; for all who could crowd into the city had sought their safety within its walls, and there was no superfluity of men to protect {CB 308} the vacant country-houses cu of the gentry. Gaston therefore felt himself at liberty to choose what apartment best suited his fancy or convenience; and, for the benefit of free and wholesome air, he had accordingly placed his master in the hall of entrance, and there he was now lying, wrapped in his cloak, ready for removal. He seemed to be asleep; but as Aim�e leaned over him, holding to his lips one of those fragrant lilies with which Maraka had strewn his litter, its spicy odor appeared to revive him. He strove to inhale its perfume: opened cv his eyes, fixed them for an instant on her face, and, softly repeating her name, again sunk into unconsciousness. Aim�e's heart glowed with hope and gratitude. She hailed the omen as an earnest of his restoration, and believed that Heaven cw had {Tok 33} interposed to comfort her. The Indians now entered. De Bougainville was placed in the litter, which Gaston and Yakoo raised and carried between them, while Maraka preceded it, and Aim�e, her eyes bent anxiously on the face of her lover, walked at its head. They crossed the bridge in safety, and were proceeding to gain the shelter of the woods, when three persons suddenly approached. Aim�e looked up, and, in him who stood foremost she recognised the same figure which had thrice before crossed her path. The drooping feathers of his cap shaded his features, but he {CB 309} lifted it from his brow, and gazed sternly upon her. It was the brother of Augustine Du Plessis! She knew him, and, with a faint shriek, she threw her arms across the litter, as if thus hoping to protect her lover, and leaned in silence over him.
“Thy love cannot shield him from the justice which pursues him,” exclaimed Du Plessis, with unfeeling harshness, “and shame be to her who can glory in her fondness for a murderer and apostate! cx Aim�e La Voison, have I not deep and deadly cause to hate thee? Woman as thou art, I tell thee so, and to thy face; I tell thee that thou art, and ever will be, an object cy of my utter detestation; that even thy beauty, angelic as it is, seems far more loathsome in my eyes than the most foul deformity; for it was that which lured my brother to his ruin; it was thou who caused his death, and for it I will be revenged.”
“Reproach me with all the bitterness of your most bitter hatred,” said Aim�e meekly, “and I will bear it quietly. But spare, at least, this helpless object of your anger; permit me to depart with him and go where he may die in peace.”
“Go you, I reck not where,” exclaimed Du Plessis. “I have followed you and frustrated your purpose, and now I care not to behold you longer. But for De Bougainville, he dies {CB 310} within those walls, or lives to meet the justice due to his offences.”
“Barbarous, unfeeling wretch!” cried Aim�e, roused from {Tok 34} her timidity by the brutal harshness of his hearing, and boldly addressing Gaston and the Indian, who stood paralyzed by this assault. “Move on,” she said; “we will defy him, and fly where he must need more aid than mortal man can lend him to pursue us. Gaston, as you love your master, hesitate no longer.”
“He moves one footstep at his peril!” said Du Plessis; when his followers, at his command, approached and strove to gain possession of the litter. Fired at this sight, Maraka interposed her aid to repulse them, and, in the struggle that ensued, De Bougainville, disturbed by the sound of violence, awoke and audibly repeated the name of Aim�e. “I am with thee, my beloved,” she cried; “in life or death we will henceforth be inseparable.” At the sound of that thrilling voice, De Bougainville raised himself upright; his countenance was suddenly irradiated as that of one awaking from the dead; he leaned forward, and, extending his arms, again called with tender emphasis upon the name of Aim�e. She threw herself within them. “I cz am here, dearest Eugene; I will not leave thee while thou hast life, and, when thou art dead, I will lie down and sleep in the {CB 311} tomb beside thee.” For a moment he strained her to his heart; then his arms relaxed their hold, his head fell back, he sunk from her embrace, and lay a cold, insensible, and lifeless being on the mossy pillow, from which, by a powerful effort of nature, he had risen, as if to bid a last and long adieu to the chosen object of his love. Aim�e's eyes were tearless, and her air that of a maniac, as she gazed in speechless anguish upon the marble features of her lover. But shortly turning to Du Plessis, “Behold thy work!” she cried. “It is thou who hast done this, who hast smitten me too with the shaft of death; and, when we both lie cold beneath the turf, thy vengeance may be satisfied. Mother,” she continued, sinking on Maraka's breast, “ dear mother, take me with you to our island home; there let we die, and there let him be carried, {Tok 35} that both of us may rest together in one grave.” The words had scarcely fallen from her lips, before her failing senses left her, and she lay motionless upon the bosom of her nurse, and pale and cold as he whom she deplored.
There was a breathless pause of a few moments, during which all seemed awed by the tragic issue of the night's adventure. But shortly casting off these unwelcome visitings of remorse, Du Plessis stepped forward and ordered his servants to lift the body of De {CB 312} Bougainville from the litter, and da convey it again to the house. They met with no resistance from the Indians, in obeying his commands. Gaston followed to deplore the premature fate of his master, and pay the last sad offices of affection to his cold remains; and Du Plessis, without waiting to witness the revival of Aim�e, left her to the care of her Indian friends, and pursued his way to the house. Maraka no sooner saw the retreat of the adverse party, and heard the drawbridge raised as a barrier between them, than, with the assistance of Yakoo, she placed Aim�e in the vacant litter, and bearing it between them, they immediately quitted the place. Seeking the covert of the forest, they pursued their way in perfect silence, still keeping a course parallel to the city, till they at length emerged, secure from human observation, at some distance above the suburbs of St. Antoine. The moon guided them with her unclouded light; and, continuing to choose the most obscure paths, they left the mountain behind them, and, crossing the intervening woods and prairies, pursued an easterly direction, till they reached the banks of the St. Lawrence. Here they paused and rested the litter on the ground. Maraka bent over it with anxious care, to learn if its pale and silent occupant yet breathed, or had followed her departed lover to the world of spirits. Aim�e's {CB 313} long black hair had fallen like a veil around her face and neck; and, as Maraka gently smoothed it back, she started at the coldness of the cheek and brow beneath. Plucking {Tok 26} with eager haste a handful of the thistle-down db which chanced to grow upon the spot, she held it to her darling's lips. She breathed; the winged seeds, wafted by her feeble respiration, rose from Maraka's hand and floated like glittering insects in the moonbeams dc. The old nurse was satisfied, and, carefully drawing the cloak around her senseless charge, she rose and stood for a few minutes in a listening attitude, bending forward to catch the slightest sound, and sending her penetrating gaze far back over the long, indistinct way which she had traversed. But the faint whispers of the night breeze, and the perpetual dashing of the rapids, as with unwearying restlessness they foamed and tumbled over their rocky bed, were the only sounds that broke upon the stillness of the midnight hour. In the distance appeared the city, calmly reposing in the moonlight, and behind it rose the mountain, clothed with dense forests, which towered, height above height, to its summit, whose dark irregular outline stood out in bold relief against the starry heavens. Here and there the low white-washed cottage of a Canadian gleamed through the obscurity; and on a declivity of the mountain were seen the grey {CB 314} walls of the country house belonging to the community of St. Sulpicius, with its formidable towers of defence, which still stand in undiminished strength, a memento of those perilous times, when this continent was the abode of savages, and the domestic hearth was so often deluged with the blood of those who had clustered in sweet companionship around it.
Maraka gazed a moment over this widely extended prospect; then, forcing dd her way through tangled copse-wood de down the steep bank to the river's brink, she drew forth, from among high reeds, a birch canoe, which had been carefully secreted there, and, speaking a few low words to Yakoo, took up the paddles and seated herself within it. Obedient to her mandate he approached the litter, and, taking Aim�e in his arms, bore her down the bank, and placed her in the bottom {Tok 37} of the boat, taking care to rest her head gently on her nurse's lap. A short dialogue in the language of the Iroquois then ensued, and, at its termination, Maraka struck her paddles into the water, and the frail bark shot swiftly from the shore, while Yakoo, re-ascending df the bank, took up the litter and plunged into the adjacent forests.
Opposite the point from which Maraka started, lie two small islands, at that time thickly-wooded, unsought by man, and wild in all the rude luxuriance of nature. One of them has {CB 315} since yielded to the empire of civilization. Human habitations, and fields smiling with fertility, reward the labors of the husbandman. But the other, lying in the midst of the tremendous rapids of La Chine, is never visited, save by the winged denizens of air, to whom alone it is still deemed accessible. Stately forest trees, the unmolested growth of ages, fringe it to the water's edge, and the songs of the birds, that build their nests among its impervious shades, is often heard from the opposite shore. The adventurous voyager, who trusts himself and his merchandise upon the raft, which is borne at will over these frightful rapids, turns a wondering look upon this silent spot, as he is hurried past it by the violence of the agitated waters. The simple Indian casts a longing eye towards it, and sighs as he pictures to himself the treasures of its hunting grounds. And the more enlightened traveller pauses to gaze in admiration upon its tenantless shores, smiling with luxuriance, and lying like some holy and enchanted thing in the midst of violence and fury — inaccessible to human foot, and unpolluted by the wantonness of human pride, surrounded as it is by boiling surges, which, like the watchful dragons of Fable dg, rear their crested heads to guard it from approach. Various traditions were, and still are current concerning it; but its perfect {CB 316} isolation, its silence and unbroken solitude, have obtained for it the name of the “Devil's Island.” Aim�e knew it as the “Isle of Flowers.” She was familiar with its secret haunts, and had {Tok 38} learned almost in infancy to guide her fairy skiff in safety through the angry breakers which environed it. In the days of savage power and dominion, Maraka's father had been renowned as a magician, a character held sacred by the Indian tribes. He had discovered an accessible passage to this forbidden island, but he communicated his knowledge to no one, and the apparent ease, with which he surmounted the formidable barrier, that had hitherto protected it, exalted him above mortality in the estimation of his untutored race. He was regarded by them as a god; and, to preserve his power and importance, he fixed his abode in the deepest recesses of the island, and only issued from his retreat to receive the gifts and homage which the simple natives left for him upon the mainland shore, or crowded round to offer at his approach. He died at length, and Maraka, his only child, became the depository of the secret. She imparted it to none, except her foster-child dh, and, though some persons strove to discover it, not one who undertook the perilous adventure escaped the fury of the rapids.
{CB 317} Towards this spot Maraka now steered her silent course. The bark canoe glided like a creature gifted with life and instinct, over the tossing billows — one di moment lost in their frightful gulfs, the next riding triumphant on their crested summits, darting onward with almost unimagined speed, reckless of the foaming waves and still more dreadful rocks which lay beneath them — till dj, at last, unhurt, it touched the strand, and Maraka, leaping ashore, fastened it in safety to its moorings. Bearing Aim�e in her arms, she struck into a tangled path, which wound beneath thick-matted boughs dk, impervious to the light of heaven, till she reached an open space in the centre of the island, where a fountain sparkled in the moonlight, beside a rustic dwelling, which Aim�e loved far better than the narrow cells of her convent. It was constructed much after the Indian fashion, only with a far greater regard to taste and comfort, than is observed by them. Four {Tok 39} young saplings, which stood at equal distances, forming a square of thirty feet, had been chosen as the main pillars of the habitation. These were enclosed, at the sides and at the top, by long strips of birch-bark dl, each strip laid over the other after the manner of tiles, in order to exclude the rain. The roof was thatched with moss, and the sides were covered with the sweet briar, the {CB 318} hawthorn, and other odorous shrubs, which interwove their flexile branches, and formed a verdant screen around it. The interior was divided into two apartments, one of which belonged exclusively to Aim�e. It was carpeted with moss. The couch, the seats, the tables, all were sylvan as the dwelling; but it wore an air of comfort and security, which one would scarce have looked for in so rude a habitation. Maraka stopped not here, but passed on to the fountain, and laid the still senseless Aim�e on its brink; then, stooping down dm, she scooped the gushing water in her hand, and, after plentifully sprinkling her with the cooling drops, she began to fan her with the large leaves of the sycamore, which she plucked from a tree that waved above her head. Her efforts were not unavailing. Aim�e opened her eyes, and sighed deeply; then, raising herself upon her elbow, she looked with a bewildered air around her, murmured an ejaculation to the Virgin, and, falling back upon the turf, threw her arm across her face, and remained profoundly silent. Maraka for some time forbore to address her; but, at length, impatient to express her feelings, she ventured to speak.
“My child, knowest thou not that we are again in our own isle? ” she said; “that dn it is the murmur of thy own fountain which thou {CB 319} hearest, and the odor of thy own flowers which perfumes this balmy air? Come, then do, my fair girl, and let me lay thee upon thy mossy couch, that thou mayst sleep, and be awakened in the morning by the song of thy birds, and the hum of thy bees, as they rove from blossom to blossom, rolling themselves in the golden dust, and sucking honey from the flower-cups dp. Rouse thee, my child, for {Tok 40} already the moon is travelling down the western sky, and the east is bright with the lustre of the morning star.”
Aim�e sat upright, and looked with a fixed but vacant eye upon her nurse, as in tones of the fondest endearment she thus strove to sooth and awaken her; but she made no reply, till Maraka repeated her solicitation.
“Didst thou not hear me, dearest, and wilt thou not come with me to the shelter of our dwelling, where I will watch beside thee, and fan thee with the flowers whose odor thou lovest best?”
“Mother, didst thou not say the birds would awaken me with matin songs? dq— but he will not hear them; the murmur of the wild bee will never sooth his slumbers, nor these gushing waters, nor these odorous flowers, regale him with their freshness and their perfume. Go, mother — his heart is cold, and mine will never more kindle with hope or pleasure. Go you, and rest; I will seek the Virgin's grot, {CB 320} and beseech her soon to re-unite dr me with him whom I have lost.”
She rose, as she finished speaking, and Maraka in silence led her to the recess of a rock, at no great distance from the fountain. It was lined with moss, and completely canopied with trees, that drooped their branches to the earth, enclosing a small area, which Aim�e's piety had dedicated to the purposes of devotion. At the farther end stood a rustic altar, adorned with flowers, and lighted by two wax tapers, that burned before an image of the Virgin. Here, where it was Aim�e's daily wont to seek for guidance and protection, she now prostrated herself, to pour forth the sorrows of her bursting heart; and here, when the morning sun arose, she still knelt, looking towards heaven, and longing to soar upward, now that the tie was severed which had bound her with so strong a charm to earth. She might have remained yet longer wrapt in her devotions ds, had not Maraka's step disturbed her. The anxious nurse had remained through all these weary hours, watching the kneeling figure of her child, till, afraid that {Tok 41} nature would be quite exhausted, she ventured to approach her. Aim�e, conscious of the motive, turned towards her, and when she met those kind and pitying eyes, which looked upon her with a mother's tender love, the tears sprang into her own. {CB 321} She rose, and leaning on Maraka's bosom, went with her to their dwelling, tasted the milk dt and fruits with which she sought to tempt her appetite, and then, at her solicitation, reclined upon her couch, where, wearied by fatigue and sorrow, she soon fell into a profound sleep, from which she did not awaken till the sun had gained his meridian height. She arose, pale, calm, and silent, the image of that hopeless grief which poisons the vital current of existence, and withers, in its fairest bloom, the rose upon the cheek of beauty.
Day after day passed on in lonely, dreary, solitary wo; no light flashed from Aim�e's drooping eye; no dawning hope colored the paleness of her cheek, or lent its wonted buoyancy to her languid step. In vain Maraka strove to beguile her griefs, by tender assiduities, and acts of never wearying kindness. She led her to those shady coverts, where the music of the birds was sweetest. She sought for her the rarest flowers and mosses of every various hue, and brought her curious pebbles from the shore, which were worn by the incessant motion of the water into a thousand differing forms of strange grotesqueness. She loved to strew her couch with the fragrant petals of the water-lily du, or sit beside her, as she lay upon the fountain's brink, and wreath amidst her soft dark hair the scarlet blossoms {CB 322} of the splendid cardinal flower. Or she would strive to surprise and tempt her with the sylvan dainties of their repast. She would deck her rustic board with flowers, and spread upon it all the riches which her island territory yielded — tne sweet red plums dv of Canada, delicious berries, the milk of her goats, and fresh honeycomb, taken from the clefts of a rock, or found in the hollow trunk of some decayed tree. Aim�e repaid her love {Tok 42} with mournful smiles; but there was a blight upon her, and she withered, like a tender flower beneath the scorching influence of a southern wind. Her eyes were bent upon the earth, her step was slow and feeble, and every wandering vein was visible through her transparent skin. She passed her days alone in the darkest recesses of the island, and at night she stole from her sleepless couch to prostrate herself till morning before dw the image of the holy Virgin. Thus wore away a month. Aim�e had spoken of her dissolution as near, and chosen her last resting place beneath the sycamore at the fountain's head. She already looked more like a beatified spirit than a mortal woman. She had lost none of the transcendent beauty which distinguished her; its character only was changed. The dazzling glow of health and happiness was gone, but there was an unearthly loveliness about her, far more touching and attractive — {CB 323} a seraphic charm, which even the stern Du Plessis, could he have seen her now, in all her meek and uncomplaining quietness, must have striven vainly to resist. Maraka saw, with grief, that all her care was unavailing to save her cherished blossom from the grave; but still she strove, as woman ever will for those she fondly loves, to comfort and sustain her, to the last.
One evening, when the sun was setting with unusual brightness, Aim�e rose from her couch, where, oppressed by the heat, she had reclined throughout the day, and expressed a wish to walk along the shore and dx view the western sky. Maraka, delighted at an inclination which betokened reviving interest in objects once so dear, was in an instant ready to accompany her. Supporting her enfeebled steps, she proceeded slowly with her along the winding path which led to the river's side, where they arrived in time to witness one of the most splendid sights that nature ever offered to her votaries. A momentary flush-passed over Aim�e's faded cheek, and her eyes kindled with a beam of its wonted radiance, as she sent her gaze abroad, and permitted it to revel in the {Tok 43} beauties of the scene before her. The sun's golden disk appeared as if resting on the verdant summit of the mountain, and the flood of glory which he poured around him seemed dy {CB 324} almost too refulgent for mortal vision to endure. Every object caught the reflection of his beams; and the foaming rapids which encircled the island were dz crested with rainbow hues that changed with every motion, and still each change was lovelier than the last. Aim�e, leaning on Maraka's arm, traversed the shore, till all this gorgeous pomp of light and color was fading fast away, when, wearied by her walk, she threw herself beneath a tuft of trees that laved their branches in the river, and was soon lulled, by the monotonous roar of the rapids, into a tranquil sleep. Maraka sat down beside her; and, as she marked her altered form, she naturally recalled the events of that fatal night which had witnessed the death of De Bougainville, and given the first blight to the life and happiness of Aim�e. But her thoughts were soon diverted from this melancholy subject by the appearance of two persons on the mainland shore, who seemed to be earnestly regarding the spot which she and Aim�e occupied. Maraka rose, and, walking from beneath the trees, stood for a few minutes close to the water's edge, so as plainly to be seen, if she was indeed the object of their attention. She had scarcely taken this station, when she saw a signal raised, and it was the same which, on the morning of Aim�e's unfortunate expedition, had notified her of De {CB 325} Bougainville's return. Maraka was astonished and perplexed. Yet it might be Gaston, who wished, for some reason, to speak with them, and she resolved to go to him. But then she feared to leave Aim�e. She hesitated, and approached her. Finding her sleeping quietly, and assured that no harm could assail her, she yielded to anxiety to learn the cause of this unexpected summons, unmoored her boat, and in a moment more, was speeding like a sea bird over the billows.
{Tok 44} When Aim�e awoke, she found herself alone. The west was still glowing with the crimson tints of twilight, and the evening song of the birds was echoing through the forest. She looked around for Maraka, but she was no where to be seen; and, believing she had wandered along the shore in search of flowers or pebbles, she rose, and walked forth to meet her. But her step was suddenly arrested by the appearance of a boat, that came bounding over the rapids as never stranger's bark had sped before. She looked earnestly upon it, and saw that it was Maraka's own canoe, and Maraka's skilful hand which directed its course. But whither had she been, and whom was she bringing with her to the island? For a tall dark figure sat motionless beside her, and Aim�e knew that no light motive would induce Maraka to permit, much less to aid a stranger's {CB 326} approach to her dominions. As Aimee continued to watch the progress of the little vessel, strange thoughts arose in her heart; its throbbings became audible; she trembled, and leaned against atree for support. At last the boat touched the shore; the stranger leaped upon the bank; he advanced a few steps hastily towards her; then paused and pressed his hands upon his temples; then again rushed forward, with extended arms, and Aim�e sunk fainting upon the bosom of De Bougainville.
Aim�e ea and her nurse, in their isolated island, had remained as ignorant of the changes and events which had occurred within the last few weeks, as though they were indeed inhabitants of a world which held no intercourse with this. They knew not that the French power was annihilated in Canada; that an English banner waved from the forts, and an English governor held rule over the colony. M. De Vaudreuil had deemed resistance vain, and made an unreserved surrender of the French possessions in Canada to his Britannic majesty. Those who chose to depart, received permission {Tok 45} to quit the country; but many remained, and all who did so were allowed the free exercise of their religion, and many other privileges, which their descendants, who form the great mass of Canadian population, still continue to enjoy. M. Du Plessis was one of the first to flee {CB 327} from a country where, by his brutal conduct, he had incurred an odium which rendered him an object of aversion and contempt. The history of Aim�e's adventure had taken wing, and all the circumstances attending it were soon noised abroad. The tender attachment and cruel destiny of the lovers excited sympathy in every breast; and, when it was known that De Bougainville's deathlike swoon, for such it proved, had passed away, and he had awakened, as it were, from the grave, many petitions for his pardon were addressed to the governor. Even the friends of Du Plessis, ashamed of his conduct, signified their willingness to bury the past in oblivion, and deem the sufferings of De Bougainville a sufficient atonement for his offences. The situation of public affairs was such as to render private wrongs, and individual crimes circumstances eb of minor consequence. Besides, M. De Vaudreuil regarded his adopted son as guilty only of youthful folly and imprudence, and his tongue gladly pronounced that forgiveness which his heart had long since accorded him.
When De Bougainvilie, after the lapse of many days, again revived to consciousness, he found himself in his own apartment at Pr�s de Ville, Gaston by his bed-side, and his pardon, under the governor's hand and seal, lying upon his pillow. Every thing was quickly explained {CB 328} by his faithful attendant. The city, the whole country was in possession of the English. Pr�s de Ville was at that moment occupied by the family of a British oflicer; many of his friends had already sailed for France, and he himself was at liberty, when he recovered, to go wherever he should choose. Of all that related to Aim�e, Gaston gave a circumstantial detail, and, {Tok 46} as De Bougainville, with a beating heart, listened to the relation, an indistinct remembrance of having seen and spoken with her possessed ec his mind, and persuaded him that he had been conscious of her presence on the night of her unfortunate attempt to rescue him from the malice of his enemies. The certainty of her continued love, the knowledge of all it had prompted her to adventure for his sake, the prospect of a speedy reunion with her, and the hope of future happiness which they should share together, acted with salutary power, and soon restored him to his wonted health and vigor. Not many days elapsed before he again walked forth beneath the free blue sky of heaven, and his first steps were directed to the bank of the St. Lawrence, opposite the Isle of Flowers. But in vain he watched to catch a glimpse of Aim�e's figure; in vain he waited to behold Maraka's boat cleaving the billows, or at least to see some answering signal raised, to tell him he was recognised. {CB 329} Day after day passed on, and still he came and went heartsick and disappointed, till, on the evening of the sixth, be hailed the light canoe, which came to bear him to his long lost, drooping Aim�e.
A week glided swiftly away, after the reunion of the lovers. Aim�e's step had regained its elasticity, the light of hope beamed from her eyes, and the rose's bloom was once more glowing on her cheek. She had seen Father Clement; she had opened to him her whole heart, and received his sanction to her love. In the presence of God, and at the foot of that altar where she had humbly and earnestly asked for resignation to the will of heaven, she and De Bougainville had plighted their marriage vows, and heard, from consecrated lips, a blessing on their union. She had consented to accompany her husband to France, and had bidden adieu to all that was dear to her in Canada. She had wandered for the last time through the sweet shades of her island-home — had drunk ed once more the gushing waters of her fountain, and {Tok 47} kneeled in adoration before the Virgin's solitary shrine, where, in her days of sorrow, she had found her only consolation. And now she stood with her husband and Maraka on the deck of the vessel, which was bearing them from the land of her birth, sending back her eager gaze to the spot {CB 330} which had been so long familiar to her eye and ee dear to her affections.
It ef is said that, after many years, she returned; and that some of her descendants are still dwelling in the province. There is also a tradition that her Indian nurse came back and took up her abode upon her favorite island; that a female figure was often observed, roving beneath the trees upon its brink, and abirch canoe sometimes seen bounding over the rapids, where none but hers would have adventured. At length the shores of the island looked silent and deserted as they now appear. The boat was seen no more; and it is believed she either perished in some unguarded moment among the furious billows, which she so rashly braved, or that she died alone upon the island, where she had so much loved to dwell. But since that time no daring foot has ever pressed the shore; no searching eye has ever looked for her remains, or traced the relics which might exist of those eg who once abode there; and now it is more than probable that, could the island be approached, those relics would be sought in vain. The lapse of more than sixty years has doubtless whelmed them all in undistinguishable ruin, and left no trace of grotto, fount, or dwelling.