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Updated: May 16, 2025
Truly it is no other than our friend Jean Baptiste Boulanger, who is just hot from a visit to Quebec on some business pertaining to his craft, and whose fond and faithful Bibi has come to meet him by the way. Isidore and his quondam guide were both glad to meet again.
It was consequently not without hesitation that he made his way to the house of Madame de Rocheval, the lady with whom the daughter of Captain Lacroix was staying. Isidore had never seen Marguerite Lacroix, but he took it for granted that it was she who, on his being shown into the drawing-room, rose from her embroidery frame to receive him.
Well, if men put on that dismal face when their lady-loves accept them, I shall certainly always say 'no' for their sakes, if not for my own." "Nay, but, my dear, sweet cousin," said Isidore, "I entreat you to be serious for half an hour, or even for a few minutes, if you can. Has not Marguerite told you?"
Dark as it was, he managed to find his way, after many inquiries, to the Hotel Turenne. As he reached the door two mounted men with a led horse came up; the master of the house and two or three of the hotel servants with lights were standing in the hall. "Is the Marquis de Beaujardin staying here?" asked Isidore, abruptly.
Beaujardin!" answered the Indian, with increasing amazement. "There is one of that name in the camp. Who is this Beaujardin?" "His father his father!" exclaimed Perigord. "Have you seen him? Is he at Quebec? My poor Isidore! He was lost, and we have come out here to seek him.
His father's capture by the Viennese in the war against Hungary, where the father lived, and his subsequent compulsory connection with the Viennese army made the son, Isidore, long for the freedom of America. He came to America as a boy, living in Chicago. He exhibited at the Chicago Exposition in 1893, and later attracted much favorable comment at the Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo.
"And this place is within reach of my hand," said Isidore to himself, quivering with hope and expectation. "My father is waiting for me to rescue him at ten or fifteen leagues from here. He is close by. He is breathing the same air as I." He set to work at once.
The winter of 1756 consequently afforded Isidore de Beaujardin, in his comfortable quarters at Montreal, complete leisure to reflect upon the incidents that had occurred during the last few months of his life, amongst which his short visit to Quebec occupied a prominent place in his reveries and meditations.
He was now standing straight up on his legs, his body squared, in a formidable attitude, and he grinned as he looked at the three petrified footmen and the dumbfounded baron: "Isidore, you've missed the chance of a lifetime. If you hadn't told them I was Lupin, they'd have jumped on me. And, with fellows like that, what would have become of me, by Jove, with four to one against me?"
And for the very reason that they have been hurled from a great height, they often fall down into the lowest depths of infamy. "If morning would only come," sighed M. Isidore Fortunat, as he tossed restlessly to and fro. "As soon as morning comes I will set to work!"
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