The Refugees. Arthur Conan Doyle

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      Chapter 7.

       The New World and the Old

       Table of Contents

      The young American was soon ready for the expedition, but De Catinat lingered until the last possible minute. When at last he was able to tear himself away, he adjusted his cravat, brushed his brilliant coat, and looked very critically over the sombre suit of his companion.

      “Where got you those?” he asked.

      “In New York, ere I left.”

      “Hem! There is naught amiss with the cloth, and indeed the sombre colour is the mode, but the cut is strange to our eyes.”

      “I only know that I wish that I had my fringed hunting tunic and leggings on once more.”

      “This hat, now. We do not wear our brims flat like that. See if I cannot mend it.” He took the beaver, and looping up one side of the brim, he fastened it with a golden brooch taken from his own shirt front. “There is a martial cock,” said he, laughing, “and would do credit to the King’s Own Musketeers. The black broad-cloth and silk hose will pass, but why have you not a sword at your side?”

      “I carry a gun when I ride out.”

      “Mon Dieu, you will be laid by the heels as a bandit!”

      “I have a knife, too.”

      “Worse and worse! Well, we must dispense with the sword, and with the gun too, I pray! Let me retie your cravat. So! Now if you are in the mood for a ten-mile gallop, I am at your service.”

      They were indeed a singular contrast as they walked their horses together through the narrow and crowded causeways of the Parisian streets. De Catinat, who was the older by five years, with his delicate small-featured face, his sharply trimmed moustache, his small but well-set and dainty figure, and his brilliant dress, looked the very type of the great nation to which he belonged.

      His companion, however, large-limbed and strong, turning his bold and yet thoughtful face from side to side, and eagerly taking in all the strange, new life amidst which he found himself, was also a type, unfinished, it is true, but bidding fair to be the higher of the two. His close yellow hair, blue eyes, and heavy build showed that it was the blood of his father, rather than that of his mother, which ran in his veins; and even the sombre coat and swordless belt, if less pleasing to the eye, were true badges of a race which found its fiercest battles and its most glorious victories in bending nature to its will upon the seas and in the waste places of the earth.

      “What is yonder great building?” he asked, as they emerged into a broader square.

      “It is the Louvre, one of the palaces of the king.”

      “And is he there?”

      “Nay; he lives at Versailles.”

      “What! Fancy that a man should have two such houses!”

      “Two! He has many more—St. Germain, Marly, Fontainebleau, Clugny.”

      “But to what end? A man can but live at one at a time.”

      “Nay; he can now come or go as the fancy takes him.”

      “It is a wondrous building. I have seen the Seminary of St. Sulpice at Montreal, and thought that it was the greatest of all houses, and yet what is it beside this?”

      “You have been to Montreal, then? You remember the fort?”

      “Yes, and the Hotel Dieu, and the wooden houses in a row, and eastward the great mill with the wall; but what do you know of Montreal?”

      “I have soldiered there, and at Quebec, too. Why, my friend, you are not the only man of the woods in Paris, for I give you my word that I have worn the caribou mocassins, the leather jacket, and the fur cap with the eagle feather for six months at a stretch, and I care not how soon I do it again,”

      Amos Green’s eyes shone with delight at finding that his companion and he had so much in common, and he plunged into a series of questions which lasted until they had crossed the river and reached the south-westerly gate of the city. By the moat and walls long lines of men were busy at their drill.

      “Who are those, then?” he asked, gazing at them with curiosity.

      “They are some of the king’s soldiers.”

      “But why so many of them? Do they await some enemy?”

      “Nay; we are at peace with all the world. Worse luck!”

      “At peace. Why then all these men?”

      “That they may be ready.”

      The young man shook his head in bewilderment. “They might be as ready in their own homes surely. In our country every man has his musket in his chimney corner, and is ready enough, yet he does not waste his time when all is at peace.”

      “Our king is very great, and he has many enemies.”

      “And who made the enemies?”

      “Why, the king, to be sure.”

      “Then would it not be better to be without him?”

      The guardsman shrugged his epaulettes in despair. “We shall both wind up in the Bastille or Vincennes at this rate,” said he. “You must know that it is in serving the country that he has made these enemies. It is but five years since he made a peace at Nimeguen, by which he tore away sixteen fortresses from the Spanish Lowlands. Then, also, he had laid his hands upon Strassburg and upon Luxembourg, and has chastised the Genoans, so that there are many who would fall upon him if they thought that he was weak.”

      “And why has he done all this?”

      “Because he is a great king, and for the glory of France.”

      The stranger pondered over this answer for some time as they rode on between the high, thin poplars, which threw bars across the sunlit road.

      “There was a great man in Schenectady once,” said he at last. “They are simple folk up yonder, and they all had great trust in each СКАЧАТЬ