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Updated: June 21, 2025
They sat forgetful of the passing of time, the Cure preening with pleasure because of Valmond's remarks upon the Church when quoting the First Napoleon's praise of religion. Suddenly a carriage came dashing up the hill, with four horses and a postilion. The avocat was in the house searching for a book.
The quietness, the alluring simplicity, the whole room filled with the rich presence of the girl, sent a flood of colour to Valmond's face, and his heart beat hard. Curiosity only had led him into the room, something more radical held him there. Elise seemed to read his thoughts, and, taking up her candle, she came on to the doorway. Neither had spoken.
"Nothing so stately," he answered, piqued by her tone: "a filibuster and his ragamuffins." "Ragamufins would be appreciated by Monsieur Valmond's followers, spoken at the four corners," she answered. "Then I'll change it," he said: "a ragamuffin and his filibusters." "The 'ragamuffin' always speaks of his enemies with courtesy, and the filibusters love their leader," was her pointed rejoinder.
She was but half-turned to Valmond, but he caught the pure outlines of her face and neck, her extreme delicacy of expression, which had a pathetic, subtle refinement, in acute contrast to the quick, abundant health, the warm energy, the half defiant look of Elise. It was a picture of labour and life. A dozen thoughts ran through Valmond's mind.
"I have the power to prevent arrest, and I will prevent it, monsieur. You alone of all this parish, I believe of all this province, turn a sour face, a sour heart, to me. I regret it, but I do not fear it." "I will have you in custody, or there is no law in Quebec," was the acrid set-out. Valmond's face was a feverish red now, and he made an impatient gesture.
Sixty of Valmond's recruits, under Lajeunesse the blacksmith, marched up and down the streets, firing salutes with a happy, casual intrepidity, and setting themselves off before the crowds with a good many airs and nods and simple vanities.
It is possible that these stories might have been traced to Parpon, but he had covered up his trail so well that no one followed him. On that Sunday night, young men and old flocked into Valmond's chambers at the Louis Quinze, shook hands with him, addressing him as "Your Excellency" or "Your Highness." He maintained towards them a mysterious yet kindly reserve, singularly effective.
"But tell me, tell me what your song had to do with Monsieur," she urged again. "It's a pretty song, but " "Think about it," he answered provokingly. "Adieu, my child!" he went on mockingly, using Valmond's words, and catching both her hands as he had done; then, springing upon a bench by the oven, he kissed her on both cheeks.
If he would but teach her those songs of his, give her that sound of an organ in her throat! Parpon guessed what she thought. Well, he would see what could be done, if the blacksmith joined Valmond's standard. He stopped singing. "That's as good as dear Caron, the vivandiere of the Third Corps. Blood o' my body, I believe it's better almost!" said Lagroin, nodding his head patronisingly.
Then he rode down in front of Lajeunesse's men, the others sprang from the drays and fell into place, and soon the little army was marching, four deep, through the village. This was the official beginning of Valmond's fanciful quest for empire. The people had a phrase, and they had a man; and they saw no further than the hour.
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