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He looked blankly around, at the candles, at Brother Jacques, at the sheets which covered his strangely deadened limbs. "Ah! I have had only a bad dream, then? Pour me a glass of wine, and I shall sleep." Three days passed. At Orléans the settlers had had two or three brushes with marauding Mohawks. A letter from Father Chaumonot at the mission in Onondaga reported favorable progress.
I am neither a Catholic nor a Huguenot. Religion which seeks political domination is not a religion, but a party. And what are Catholicity and Huguenotism but political factions, with a different set of prayers? Next to a homely woman, there is nothing I detest so much as politics. I have no religion." "It would be a great joy," said Chaumonot, "to bring about your conversion."
Next appears a young man of about twenty-seven years, Joseph Marie Chaumonot. Unlike Brebeuf and Garnier, he was of humble origin, his father being a vine-dresser, and his mother the daughter of a poor village schoolmaster.
It mattered nothing that madame had said plainly that she loved none of them. The conceit of man is such that, like hope, it dies only when he dies. Perhaps the poet's heart was the most peaceful: he had bravely turned over the alluring page. The dance grew wilder and noisier. Chaumonot guilelessly pushed his inquiries regarding Monsieur le Marquis. Those thousand livres had done so much!
The great Jesuits were absent in the south, in Onondaga, where they had erected a mission: Father Superior le Mercier, and Fathers Dablon and Le Moyne. Immediately on landing, Father Chaumonot made a sign, and his sea-weary voyagers fell upon their knees and kissed the earth. New France! "Now," said Victor, shaking himself, "let us burn up the remaining herrings and salt codfish.
Brother Jacques's hands were attacked by a momentary spasm. Only the Indian witnessed this sign of agitation; but the conversation was far above his learning and linguistic resources, and he comprehended nothing. "Well, Monsieur Chaumonot," said the marquis, who was growing weary of this theological discussion, "Here are your livres in the sum of one thousand.
And this cunning Mazarin promises and promises us money and men, while those who reckon on his word struggle and die. Ah well, monseigneur has the gout; he will die of it." "And this Marquis de Périgny; will not Father Chaumonot waste his time?" asked the mariner. "Who can say? The marquis is a strange man. He is neither Catholic nor Huguenot; he fears neither God nor the devil.
It consisted of a prolonged call, followed by several short yells. The old chief rose, and putting his hands to his mouth, uttered a similar call. It was immediately answered; and a few minutes later three Indians and two Jesuit priests pushed aside the bearskin and entered the hut. "Chaumonot!" exclaimed the Chevalier.
"I am growing blind, besides." He braced himself against the jamb of the door. "My faith! it is a pretty world. . . . I regret to leave it." He stared across the lake, but he could see nothing. A page of his youth came back. "Monsieur," said Chaumonot, "you have many sins upon your soul. Shall I give you absolution?" "Absolution?"
He depended wholly upon Father Chaumonot's knowledge of the tongue and the legends; and daring the first three nights he and Chaumonot divided a table between them, the one to scribble his lore and the other to add a page to those remarkable memoirs, the Jesuit Relations. The Chevalier watched them both from a corner where he sat and gravely smoked a wooden pipe.
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