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They made short the weary miles on the rivers by their smoking "tabac" the time to smoke a pipe counting a mile and by their merry songs, the "Fairy Ducks" and "La Claire Fontaine," "Malbrouck has gone to the war," or "This is the beautiful French Girl" ballads that they still retained from the French of Louis XIV. They were a jolly crew, full of superstitions of the woods, and leaving behind them records of daring, their names remain upon the rivers, towns and cities of the Canadian and American Northwest.
"It is not true!" insists the other. "He is dead and in his bier!" The second is incredulous: "You but tell me that to jeer?" Every one immediately dashes off in all haste, whips crack, wheels fly, and shouting, racing and singing along all the roads, the country-folk rattle away to their homes. Our two turn their wheels towards the Manor-house, gleefully amused. "Who is Malbrouck?"
While in his bed he told me what he knew of the Malbroucks. "This is the fashion of it. John and Audrey Malbrouck had come to Quebec in the year 1865, and sojourned in the parish of St. Genevieve, in the house of the mother of Pretty Pierre.
It was impossible that John Malbrouck and his wife could have received him other than they did; his was the eloquent, conquering spirit.
I can feel it now the bound in the blood as I caught at Malbrouck's arm and said: 'By George, I must kill moose; that's sport for Vikings, and I was meant to be a Viking or a gladiator. Malbrouck at once replied that he would give me some moose- hunting in December if I would come up to Marigold Lake.
"The first shot belongs to you, Mr. Thorne," said Malbrouck. "In the shoulder, you know. You have him in good line. I'll take the heifer." Gregory showed all the coolness of an old hunter, though his lips twitched slightly with excitement. He took a short but steady aim, and fired. The beast plunged forward and then fell on his knees. The others broke away.
Though it afterwards struggled once or twice to be free, it became docile and was easily taught, when its anger and fear were over. And Gregory Thorne had his live moose. He had also, by that splendid shot, achieved with one arm, saved Malbrouck from peril, perhaps from death. They drew up before the house at Marigold Lake on the afternoon of the day before Christmas, a triumphal procession.
He was about to start briskly forward to join Malbrouck and his Indians, who were already on their way, when he heard his name called, and, turning, he saw Margaret in the doorway, her fingers held to the tips of her ears, as yet unused to the frost. He ran back to where she stood, and held out his hand.
À la Claire Fontaine has been claimed for Franche-Comté, Brittany, and Normandy, but the best authorities have come to the conclusion, from a comparison of the different versions, that it is Norman. In Malbrouck s'en va-t-en-guerre, we have a song which was sung in the time of the Grand Monarque.
But I found out nothing the next morning, and I left with a paternal benediction from Malbrouck, and a smile from his wife that sent my blood tingling as it hadn't tingled since a certain season in London, which began with my tuneful lyre sounding hopeful numbers and ended with it hanging on the willows.
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