If De Lamourie had noted4 any excitement on Yvonne’s part, or any abstraction on mine, he said nothing of it. With simple kindness he set down the candle on my dressing-table and wished me good sleep. But at the door he turned.
“Are you well assured that the abbé will not attempt to carry out his threat?” he asked, with a tinge5 of anxiety in his voice.
“I am confident of it,” I answered boldly. “That worthy6 ecclesiastic7 will not try issues with me, when I hold the king’s commission.”
Just why I should have been so overweeningly 59secure is not clear to me now that I look back upon it. That I should have expected the terrible La Garne to bow so pliantly8 to my command appears to me now the most fatuous9 of vain follies10. In truth I was thinking only of Yvonne. But De Lamourie seemed to take my assurance as final, and went away in blither mood.
My room was lighted by a narrow, high-peaked dormer window, through which I could look out across the moonlit orchards12, the level dyke13 lands, the wide and winding14 mouth of the Gaspereau, and the far-glimmering breast of Minas. Upon these my eyes rested long—but the eyes of my soul saw quite another loveliness than that of the moon-flooded landscape. They brooded upon Yvonne’s face—the troubled, changing, pleading look in her eyes—her sharp and strange emotion at the last. Over and over it all I went, reliving each moment, each word, each look, each breath. Then, being deeply wearied by my long day’s tramp, but with no hint of sleep coming to my eyes, I threw myself down upon the bed to deliciously think it all over yet again. I had grown sure that Yvonne loved me. Yet once more, in a still ecstasy15 of reverence16 and love, I fell at her feet and kissed them. Then I thought about the stone which Mother Pêche had given me, and its mystic virtues17, which I would explain to Yvonne on the morrow in the apple-orchard11. Then I found myself 60fancying that it was Yvonne who had given me the talisman18, bidding me guard it well if I would ever hope to win her from my English rival. And then—the sunlight lay in a white streak19 across my bed-foot, the morning sky was blue over the dyke lands, and the robins20 were joyous21 in the apple-blooms under my window. What a marvellous air blew in upon my face, sweet with all freshness and cleanness and wholesome22 strength! I sprang up, deriding23 myself. I had slept all night in my clothes.
At breakfast I found myself in plain favour; I had made good my boast and shielded the house from the Black Abbé. Yvonne met my eager looks with a baffling lightness. She was all gay courtesy to me, but there was that in her face which well dashed my hopes. Some faint encouragement, indeed, I drew from the thought that her pallor (which became her wonderfully) seemed to tell the tale of a sleepless24 night. Had she, then, lain awake, wearily reproaching herself, while I slept like a clod? If so, my punishment was not long delayed. Before the breakfast was over I was in a fever of despairing solicitude25. At last I achieved a moment’s speech with Yvonne while the others were out of earshot.
“This morning,” said I, “in the apple-orchard, by an old tree which I shall all my life remember, 61I am to read you those verses, am I not? That was your decree.”
She faced me with laughter in her eyes, but the eyes dropped in spite of her, and the colour came a little back to her cheeks.
“I decree otherwise this morning,” she said, in a voice whose lightness was not perfect. “I am busy to-day, and shall not hear your poems at all, unless you read them to us this evening.”
“I will read them to you alone,” I muttered, “who alone are the source of them, or I will burn them at once!”
“Don’t burn them,” she said, flashing one radiant glance at me.
“Then when may I read them to you?” I begged.
“When you are older, and a little wiser, and a great deal better,” she laughed, turning away with a finality in her air that convinced me my day was lost.
Putting my bravest face on my defeat, I said to Madame de Lamourie:
“If you will pardon me, Madame, I shall constrain26 myself and attend to certain duties in and about Grand Pré to-day. I must see the curé; and I have a commission to execute for the Sieur de Briart, which will take me perhaps as far as Pereau. In such case I shall not be back here before to-morrow noon.”
62“If our pleasure concerns you,” said Madame very graciously, “make your absence as brief as you can.”
“I was born with a nice regard for self,” I replied. “You may be sure I shall return as quickly as possible.”
“And what if the Black Abbé should come while you are away?” questioned Yvonne, in mock alarm.
“If that extraordinary priest makes my presence here a long necessity I shall come to regard him as my best friend,” said I, laughing, as I bowed myself out to join De Lamourie in a stroll over the farm.
During this walk I learned much of the state of unrest and painful dread27 under which Acadie was laboring28. De Lamourie told me how the English governor at Halifax was bringing a mighty29 pressure to bear upon all the Acadian householders, urging them to swear allegiance to King George. This, he said, very many were willing to do, as the English had governed them with justice and a most patient indulgence. For his own part, while he regretted to go counter to opinions which I held well-nigh sacred, he declared that, in his judgment30, the cause of France was forever lost in Acadie, if not in all Canada. He felt it his duty to give in his allegiance to the English throne, under whose protection he had prospered31 these 63many years. But strong as the English were, he said, the prospect32 was not reassuring33; for many of those who had taken the oath had been brought to swift repentance34 by the Black Abbé’s painted and yelling pack, the very Christian35 Micmacs of Shubenacadie; while others had been pillaged36, maltreated, and even in some cases murdered, by the band of masquerading cut-throats who served the will of the infamous37 Vaurin.
At this I grew hot within, realizing as I had not done before the vile38 connection into which the Commandant Vergor had cast me. But I said nothing, being unwilling39 to interrupt De Lamourie’s impassioned story. He told of horrid40 treacheries on the part of the Micmacs, disavowed, indeed, by La Garne, but unquestionably winked41 at by him as a means of keeping the Acadians in hand. He told of whole villages wiped out by the Black Abbé’s order, the houses burned, the trembling villagers removed to Ile St. Jean or across the isthmus42, that they might be beyond the reach of English seductions. He told, too, of the hideous43 massacre44 at Dartmouth, the infant English settlement across the harbor from Halifax. This had come to my ears, but he gave me the reeking45 particulars.
“And this, too,” I asked in horror, “is it La Garne’s work?”
“He is accused of it by the English,” said 64he, “but for once he is accused unjustly, I do believe. It was Vaurin who planned it; Vaurin and his cut-throats, disguised as Indians and with a few of La Garne’s flock to help, who carried it out. It was too purposeless for La Garne. He rules his savages46 with a rod of iron, and it is said that his displeasure lay heavy for a time upon the braves who had taken part in that outrage47. They went without pay or booty for many months. But at length he forgave them—he had work for them to do.”
When the tale was done, and it was a tale that filled me with shame for my country’s cause, I said:
“It is well my word carried such weight with the good abbé last night. It is well indeed, and it is wonderful!”
“I cannot even yet quite understand it,” said De Lamourie, “but the essential part is the highly satisfactory result. I am going to Halifax next Monday, Paul, with a half score followers48 who feel as I do; and though I cannot expect you to sympathize with my course, I dare to hope you may be able to prolong your visit so as to keep my wife and daughter under your effective protection.”
I think I must have let the eagerness with which I accepted this trust betray itself in voice or face, for Monsieur de Lamourie looked at me 65curiously. But I really cared little what his suspicions might be. If I could win Yvonne I thought I might be sure of Yvonne’s father.
Having well admired the orchard, and tried to distinguish the “pippin” trees from the “belle-fleurs,” the “Jeannetons” from the “Pride of Normandie;” having praised the rich and even growth of the flax field; having talked with an excellent assumption of wisdom on the well-bred and well-fed cattle which were a hobby with this courtier farmer, this Versailles Acadian, I stepped forth50 into the main street of Grand Pré and turned toward the house of Father Fafard. I was curiously49 troubled by an uneasiness as to the Black Abbé, and I knew no better antidote51 to a bad priest than a good one.
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1
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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gentry
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| n.绅士阶级，上层阶级 | |
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mansions
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| n.宅第，公馆，大厦( mansion的名词复数 ) | |
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noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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6
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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ecclesiastic
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| n.教士，基督教会；adj.神职者的，牧师的，教会的 | |
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8
pliantly
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fatuous
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| adj.愚昧的；昏庸的 | |
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10
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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11
orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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dyke
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| n.堤，水坝，排水沟 | |
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14
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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ecstasy
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| n.狂喜，心醉神怡，入迷 | |
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reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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talisman
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| n.避邪物，护身符 | |
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streak
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| n.条理，斑纹，倾向，少许，痕迹；v.加条纹，变成条纹，奔驰，快速移动 | |
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20
robins
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| n.知更鸟，鸫( robin的名词复数 )；（签名者不分先后，以避免受责的）圆形签名抗议书（或请愿书） | |
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21
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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wholesome
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| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
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deriding
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的现在分词 ) | |
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24
sleepless
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| adj.不睡眠的，睡不著的，不休息的 | |
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solicitude
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| n.焦虑 | |
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constrain
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| vt.限制，约束；克制，抑制 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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28
laboring
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| n.劳动，操劳v.努力争取(for)( labor的现在分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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29
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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30
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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prospered
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| 成功，兴旺( prosper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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repentance
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| n.懊悔 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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36
pillaged
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| v.抢劫，掠夺( pillage的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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37
infamous
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| adj.声名狼藉的，臭名昭著的，邪恶的 | |
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38
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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39
unwilling
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| adj.不情愿的 | |
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40
horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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41
winked
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| v.使眼色( wink的过去式和过去分词 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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42
isthmus
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| n.地峡 | |
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43
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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44
massacre
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| n.残杀，大屠杀；v.残杀，集体屠杀 | |
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45
reeking
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| v.发出浓烈的臭气( reek的现在分词 )；散发臭气；发出难闻的气味 (of sth)；明显带有（令人不快或生疑的跡象） | |
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46
savages
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| 未开化的人，野蛮人( savage的名词复数 ) | |
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47
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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48
followers
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| 追随者( follower的名词复数 )； 用户； 契据的附面； 从动件 | |
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49
curiously
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| adv.有求知欲地；好问地；奇特地 | |
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50
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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51
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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