The Black Wolf's Breed - A Story of France in the Old World and the New, happening - in the Reign of Louis XIV

Harris Dickson

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• Publié par: urro
• Publié le: 08 décembre 2010
• Nombre de lectures: 30
• Langue: English

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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Black Wolf's Breed, by Harris Dickson
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Title: The Black Wolf's Breed
A Story of France in the Old World and the New, happening
in the Reign of Louis XIV
Author: Harris Dickson
Illustrator: C. M. Relyea
Release Date: January 11, 2007 [EBook #20330]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE BLACK WOLF'S BREED ***
Produced by Al Haines"Come, fellow, thou art trapped; give me up
my purse."
The Black Wolf's Breed
A Story of France
In the Old World and the New, happening
in the Reign of Louis XIV
BYHARRIS DICKSON
ILLUSTRATIONS BY C. M. RELYEA
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Publishers -:- New York
Copyright 1899
by
The Bowen-Merrill Company
All rights reserved
TO THE MEMORY OF
BIENVILLE
THE SOLDIER-GOVERNOR OF LOUISIANA
OUT OF WHOSE
MIGHTY PROVINCE HAS GROWN NEARLY ONE-HALF
OF THE
WORLD'S GREATEST
REPUBLIC
CONTENTS
FOREWORD
I The Master
II Bienville
III Aboard Le Dauphin
IV The Road to Versailles
V The Decadence of Versailles
VI Louis XIV
VII At the Austrian ArmsVIII A New Friend
IX Mademoiselle
X In the House of Bertrand
XI The Dawn and the Dusk
XII Florine to the Rescue
XIII The Girl of the Wine Shop
XIV The Secretary and the Duke
XV New Hopes
XVI The Unexpected
XVII The Flight From Sceaux
XVIII Serigny's Departure
XIX The Castle of Cartillon
XX From the Path of Duty
XXI The Fall of Pensacola
XXII The Contents of the Box
XXIII A Note Which Went Astray
XXIV The Children of the Black Wolf's Breed
APPENDIX
ILLUSTRATIONS
"Come, fellow, thou art trapped; give me up my purse." . . Frontispiece
"What is it; what device is there?"
"The old man gazed steadily at me for some moments."
FRANCE—In the old world and in the new!
The France of romance and glory under Henry of Navarre; of pride and glitter under
Louis XIV, in whose reign was builded, under the silver lilies, that empire—Louisiana—in the
vague, dim valley of the Mississippi across the sea: these are the scenes wherein this drama
shall be played. Through these times shall run the tale which follows. Times when a man's
good sword was ever his truest friend, when he who fought best commanded most respect. It
was the era of lusty men——the weak went to the wall.
King and courtier; soldier and diplomat; lass and lady; these are the people with whom
this story deals. If, therefore, you find brave fighting and swords hanging too loosely in their
sheaths; if honor clings round an empty shadow and the women seem more fair than honest, I
pray you remember when these things did happen, who were the actors, and the stage
whereon they played.
THE AUTHOR.THE AUTHOR.
THE BLACK WOLF'S BREED
FOREWORD
It is fitting that old men, even those whose trade is war, should end their days in peace, yet
it galls me grievously to sit idly here by the fire, in this year of grace 1746, while great things
go on in the world about me.
The feeble hound at my feet, stretching his crippled limbs to the blaze, dreams of the
chase, and bays delighted in his sleep. Nor can I do more than dream and meditate and
brood.
News of Fontenoy and the glory of Prince Maurice thrills my sluggish blood; again I taste
the wild joys of conflict; the clashing steel, the battle shouts, the cries of dying men—-yea,
even the death scream of those sorely stricken comes as a balm to soothe my droning age. But
the youthful vigor is gone. This arm could scarcely wield a bodkin; the old friend of many
campaigns rusts in its scabbard, and God knows France had never more urgent need of keen
and honest swords.
Thus run my thoughts while I sit here like some decrepit priest, bending over my task, for
though but an indifferent clerk I desire to leave this narrative for my children's children.
My early life was spent, as my children already know, for the most part in the American
Colonies. Of my father I knew little, he being stationed at such remote frontier posts in the
savage country that he would not allow my mother and myself to accompany him. So we led a
secluded life in the garrison at Quebec. After the news came of his death somewhere out in
the wilderness, my brave mother and I were left entirely alone. I was far too young then to
realize my loss, and the memory of those peaceful years in America with my patient,
accomplished mother remains to me now the very happiest of my life.
From her I learned to note and love the beauties of mountain and of stream. The broad
blue St. Lawrence and the mighty forests on its banks were a constant source of delight to my
childish fancy, and those memories cling to me, ineffaceable even by all these years of war
and tumult.
When she died I drifted to our newer stations in the south, down the great river, and it is of
that last year in Louisiana, while I was yet Captain de Mouret of Bienville's Guards, that I
would have my children know.
Along the shore of Back Bay, on the southern coast of our Province of Louisiana, the
dense marsh grass grows far out into the water, trembling and throbbing with the ebb and
flow of every tide.
Thicker than men at arms, it stands awhile erect where the shallow sea waves foam and
fret; then climbing higher ground, it straggles away, thinner and thinner, in oaken-shaded
solitudes long innocent of sun.
Beginning on the slopes, a vast mysterious forest, without village, path, or white
inhabitant, stretches inland far and away beyond the utmost ken of man. There the toweringpines range themselves in ever-receding colonnades upon a carpet smooth and soft as ever
hushed the tread of Sultan's foot. Dripping from their topmost boughs the sunlight's splendor
flickers on the floor, as if it stole through chancel window of some cool cathedral where
Nature in proud humility worshiped at the foot of Nature's God.
It was in those wilds, somewhere, the fabled El Dorado lay; there bubbled the fountain of
eternal youth: through that endless wilderness of forest, plain and hill flowed on in turbid
majesty the waters of De Soto's mighty grave.
CHAPTER I
THE MASTER
It was late one clear moonlight night in the spring of 17—, when three silent figures
emerged from the woodland darkness and struck across the wide extent of rank grass which
yet separated us from the bay. Tuskahoma led the way, a tall grim Choctaw chieftain, my
companion on many a hunt, his streaming plumes fluttering behind him as he strode. I
followed, and after me, Le Corbeau Rouge, a runner of the Choctaws. We were returning to
Biloxi from a reconnaissance in the Chickasaw country.
Each straight behind the other, dumb and soundless shadows, we passed along the way,
hardly bruising a leaf or brushing the rustling reeds aside.
"See, there is the light," grunted Tuskahoma, pointing to a glimmer through the trees.
"Yes, the White Prophet never sleeps," assented Le Corbeau Rouge.
The light which marked our almost ended journey came from a window in one of those
low, square log houses, fortress-dwellings, so common in the provinces.
Here, however, the strong pine palisades were broken down in many places; the iron-
studded gate hung unhinged and open, the accumulated sand at its base showed it had not
been closed in many years.
But the decay and neglect everywhere manifest in its defenses extended no further, for
inside the enclosure was a garden carefully tended; a trailing vine clung lovingly to a corner of
the wide gallery, and even a few of the bright roses of France lent their sweetness to a place it
seemed impossible to associate with a thought of barbaric warfare.
I loved this humble home, for in such a one my mother and I had spent those last years of
sweet good-comradeship before her death—the roses, the rude house, all reminded me of her,
of peace, of gentler things.
The character of its lone occupant protected this lowly abode far better than the armies of
France, the chivalry of Spain, or the Choctaw's ceaseless vigilance could possibly have done.
He came there it was said, some fifteen years before, a Huguenot exile, seemingly a man of
education and birth. He built his castle of refuge on a knoll overlooking the sheltered bay,
hoping there to find the toleration denied him in his native land. The edict of Nantes had been
revoked by King Louis, and thousands of exiled Frenchmen of high and low degree sought
new fortunes in newer lands.
Many had reached America, and strove with energetic swords and rapacious wallets to
wrest blood and gold and fame from whatsoever source they might.This man alone of all those first explorers had shown no disposition to search out the
hidden treasures of the wilderness, to prey upon the natives. He became their friend and not
their plunderer.
His quiet life, his kindness, his charity, his knowledge of the simple arts of healing, so
endeared him to every warring faction that at his house the Choctaw and th