Montreal and Quebec, dear to the fortunes of such men as Iberville, were as cheerful in the still iron winter as any city under any more cordial sky then or now: men loved, hated, made and broke bargains, lied to women, kept a foolish honour with each other, and did deeds of valour for a song, as ever they did from the beginning of the world. Through the stern soul of Nature ran the temperament of men who had hearts of summer; and if, on a certain notable day in Iberville’s life, one could have looked through the window of a low stone house in Notre Dame Street, Montreal, one could have seen a priest joyously playing a violin; though even in Europe, Maggini and Stradivarius were but little known, and the instrument itself was often called an invention of the devil.

The room was not ornamented, save by a crucifix, a pleasant pencil-drawing of Bishop Laval, a gun, a pair of snow-shoes, a sword, and a little shrine in one corner, wherein were relics of a saint. Of necessaries even there were few. They were unremarkable, save in the case of two tall silver candlesticks, which, with their candles at an angle from the musician, gave his face strange lights and shadows.

The priest was powerfully made; so powerful indeed, so tall was he, that when, in one of the changes of the music, a kind of exaltation filled him, and he came to his feet, his head almost touched the ceiling. His shoulders were broad and strong, and though his limbs were hid by his cassock, his arms showed almost huge, and the violin lay tucked under his chin like a mere toy. In the eye was a penetrating but abstracted look, and the countenance had the gravity of a priest lighted by a cheerful soul within. It had been said of Dollier de Casson that once, attacked by two renegade Frenchmen, he had broken the leg of one and the back of the other, and had then picked them up and carried them for miles to shelter and nursing. And it was also declared by the romantic that the man with the broken back recovered, while he with the shattered leg, recovering also, found that his foot, pointing backwards, “made a fool of his nose.”

The Abbe de Casson’s life had one affection, which had taken the place of others, now almost lost in the distance of youth, absence, and indifference. For France lay far from Montreal, and the priest-musician was infinitely farther off: the miles which the Church measures between the priest and his lay boyhood are not easily reckoned. But such as Dollier de Casson must have a field for affection to enrich. You cannot drive the sap of the tree in upon itself. It must come out or the tree must die-burst with the very misery of its richness.

This night he was crowding into the music four years of events: of memory, hope, pride, patience, and affection. He was waiting for some one whom he had not seen for these four years. Time passed. More and more did the broad sonorous notes fill the room. At length they ceased, and with a sigh he pressed the violin once, twice, thrice to his lips.

“My good Stradivarius,” he said, “my peerless one!” Once again he kissed it, and then, drawing his hand across his eyes, he slowly wrapped the violin in a velvet cloth, put it away in an iron box, and locked it up. But presently he changed his mind, took it out again, and put it on the table, shaking his head musingly.

“He will wish to see it, maybe to hear it,” he said half aloud.

Then he turned and went into another room. Here there was a prie-dieu in a corner, and above it a crucifix. He knelt and was soon absorbed.

For a time there was silence. At last there was a crunching of moccasined feet upon the crisp snow, then a slight tap at the outer door, and immediately it was opened. A stalwart young man stepped inside. He looked round, pleased, astonished, and glanced at the violin, then meaningly towards the nearly closed door of the other room. After which he pulled off his gloves, threw his cap down, and with a significant toss of the head, picked up the violin.

He was a strong, handsome man of about twenty-two, with a face at once open and inscrutable: the mouth with a trick of smiling, the eyes fearless, convincing, but having at the same time a look behind this—an alert, profound speculation, which gave his face singular force. He was not so tall as the priest in the next room, but still he was very tall, and every movement had a lithe, supple strength. His body was so firm that, as he bent or turned, it seemed as of soft flexible metal.

Despite his fine manliness, he looked very boylike as he picked up the violin, and with a silent eager laugh put it under his chin, nodding gaily, as he did so, towards the other room. He bent his cheek to the instrument—almost as brown as the wood itself—and made a pass or two in the air with the bow, as if to recall a former touch and tune. A satisfied look shot up in his face, and then with an almost impossible softness he drew the bow across the strings, getting a distant delicate note, which seemed to float and tenderly multiply upon itself—a variation, indeed, of the tune which De Casson had played. A rapt look came into his eyes. And all that look behind the general look of his face—the look which has to do with a man’s past or future—deepened and spread, till you saw, for once in a way, a strong soldier turned artist, yet only what was masculine and strong. The music deepened also, and, as the priest opened the door, swept against him like a wind so warm that a moisture came to his eyes. “Iberville!” he said, in a glad voice. “Pierre!”

The violin was down on the instant. “My dear abbe!” he cried. And then the two embraced.

“How do you like my entrance?” said the young man. “But I had to provide my own music!” He laughed, and ran his hands affectionately down the arms of the priest.

“I had been playing the same old chansonette—”

“With your original variations?”

“With my poor variations, just before you came in; and that done—”

“Yes, yes, abbe, I know the rest: prayers for the safe return of the sailor, who for four years or nearly has been learning war in King Louis’s ships, and forgetting the good old way of fighting by land, at which he once served his prentice time—with your blessing, my old tutor, my good fighting abbe! Do you remember when we stopped those Dutchmen on the Richelieu, and you—”

The priest interrupted with a laugh. “But, my dear Iberville—”

“It was ‘Pierre’ a minute gone; ‘twill be ‘Monsieur Pierre le Moyne of Iberville’ next,” the other said in mock reproach, as he went to the fire.

“No, no; I merely—”

“I understand. Pardon the wild youth who plagues his old friend and teacher, as he did long ago—so much has happened since.”

His face became grave and a look of trouble came. Presently the priest said: “I never had a pupil whose teasing was so pleasant, poor humourist that I am. But now, Pierre, tell me all, while I lay out what the pantry holds.”

The gay look came back into Iberville’s face. “Ahem,” he said—which is the way to begin a wonderful story: “Once upon a time a young man, longing to fight for his king by land alone, and with special fighting of his own to do hard by”—(here De Casson looked at him keenly and a singular light came into his eyes)—“was wheedled away upon the king’s ships to France, and so

       ‘Left the song of the spinning-wheel,
        The hawk and the lady fair,
        And sailed away—‘”
 

“But the song is old and so is the story, abbe; so here’s the brief note of it. After years of play and work,—play in France and stout work in the Spaniards’ country,—he was shipped away to

     ‘Those battle heights,
      Quebec heights, our own heights,
      The citadel our golden lily bears,
      And Frontenac—’

“But I babble again. And at Quebec he finds the old song changed. The heights and the lilies are there, but Frontenac, the great, brave Frontenac, is gone: confusion lives where only conquest and honest quarrelling were—”

“Frontenac will return—there is no other way!” interposed De Casson.

“Perhaps. And the young man looked round and lo! old faces and places had changed. Children had grown into women, with children at their breasts; young wives had become matronly; and the middle-aged were slaving servants and apothecaries to make them young again. And the young man turned from the world he used to know, and said: ‘There are but three things in the world worth doing—loving, roaming, and fighting.’ Therefore, after one day, he turned from the poor little Court-game at Quebec, travelled to Montreal, spent a few hours with his father and his brothers, Bienville, Longueil, Maricourt, and Sainte-Helene, and then, having sent word to his dearest friend, came to see him, and found him—his voice got softer—the same as of old: ready with music and wine and aves for the prodigal.”

He paused. The priest had placed meat and wine on the table, and now he came and put his hand on Iberville’s shoulder. “Pierre,” he said, “I welcome you as one brother might another, the elder foolishly fond.” Then he added: “I was glad you remembered our music.”

“My dear De Casson, as if I could forget! I have yet the Maggini you gave me. It was of the things for remembering. If we can’t be loyal to our first loves, why to anything?”

“Even so, Pierre; but few at your age arrive at that. Most people learn it when they have bartered away every dream. It is enough to have a few honest emotions—very few—and stand by them till all be done.”

“Even hating?” Iberville’s eyes were eager.

“There is such a thing as a noble hate.”

“How every inch of you is man!” answered the other, clasping the priest’s arms. Then he added: “Abbe, you know what I long to hear. You have been to New York twice; you were there within these three months—”

“And was asked to leave within these three months—banished, as it were.”

“I know. You said in your letter that you had news. You were kind to go—”

“Perrot went too.”

“My faithful Perrot! I was about to ask of him. I had a birch-bark letter from him, and he said he would come—Ah, here he is!”

He listened. There was a man’s voice singing near by. They could even hear the words:

       “‘O the young seigneur! O the young seigneur!
        A hundred bucks in a day he slew;
        And the lady gave him a ribbon to wear,
        And a shred of gold from her golden hair
        O the way of a maid was the way he knew;
        O the young seigneur! O the young seigneur!’”
 

“Shall we speak freely before him?” said the priest. “As freely as you will. Perrot is true. He was with me, too, at the beginning.”

At that moment there came a knock, and in an instant the coureur du bois had caught the hands of the young man, and was laughing up in his face.

“By the good Sainte Anne, but you make Nick Perrot a dwarf, dear monsieur!”

“Well, well, little man, I’ll wager neither the great abbe here nor myself could bring you lower than you stand, for all that. Comrade, ‘tis kind of you to come so prompt.”

“What is there so good as the face of an old friend!” said Perrot, with a little laugh. “You will drink with a new, and eat with a coming friend, and quarrel with either; but ‘tis only the old friend that knows the old trail, and there’s nothing to a man like the way he has come in the world.”

“The trail of the good comrade,” said the priest softly.

“Ah!” responded Perrot, “I remember, abbe, when we were at the Portneuf you made some verses of that—eh! eh! but they were good!”

“No fitter time,” said Iberville; “come, abbe, the verses!”

“No, no; another day,” answered the priest.

It was an interesting scene. Perrot, short, broad, swarthy, dressed in rude buckskin gaudily ornamented, bandoleer and belt garnished with silver,—a recent gift of some grateful merchant, standing between the powerful black-robed priest and this gallant sailor-soldier, richly dressed in fine skins and furs, with long waving hair, more like a Viking than a man of fashion, and carrying a courtly and yet sportive look, as though he could laugh at the miseries of the sinful world. Three strange comrades were these, who knew each other so far as one man can know another, yet each knowing from a different stand-point. Perrot knew certain traits of Iberville of which De Casson was ignorant, and the abbe knew many depths which Perrot never even vaguely plumbed. And yet all could meet and be free in speech, as though each read the other thoroughly.

“Let us begin,” said Iberville. “I want news of New York.”

“Let us eat as we talk,” urged the abbe.

They all sat and were soon eating and drinking with great relish.
............