On the seventeenth day of August 1713, fifteen years after the death of Count Frontenac, the streets of Quebec and the
headland overlooking the St. Lawrence were thronged with people. By the waterside the Governor–General and Monsieur
Vaudreuil, the Intendant, with all the clergy, regular and secular, the magistrates, and the officers from the garrison,
stood waiting to receive a long-expected guest. Down the river lay a ship from France, La Manon, unable to come in against
the wind. A small boat had been sent out to bring in one of her passengers. As the little boat drew near the shore, all the
cannon on the fortifications, and the guns on the vessels anchored in the roadstead, thundered a salute of welcome to
Monseigneur de Saint–Vallier, at last returning to his people after an absence of thirteen years.
When the prelate put foot upon the shore of Quebec, the church-bells began to ring, and continued to ring while the
Governor–General, the Intendant, and the Archidiacre made addresses of welcome. The Intendant’s carriage stood ready to
convey the Bishop, but he preferred, characteristically, to ascend on foot to the Cathedral in the Upper Town, surrounded by
the clergy and preceded by drums and hautbois.
Euclide Auclair, the old apothecary, standing before his door on Mountain Hill to watch the procession, was shocked at
the change in Monseigneur de Saint–Vallier. When he sailed for France thirteen years ago, he was a very young man of
forty-seven; now he came back a very old man of sixty. Every physical trait by which Auclair remembered the handsome and
arrogant churchman had disappeared. He would never have recognized, in this heavy, stooped, lame old man going up the hill,
the slender and rather dramatic figure he had so often seen mounting the steps of the episcopal Palace across the way. The
narrow, restless shoulders were fat and bent; the Bishop carried his head like a man broken to the yoke.
Auclair watched the procession until the turn of the way shut Monseigneur de Saint–Vallier from sight, then went back to
his shop and sat down, overcome. The thirteen years which for him had passed quietly, happily, had been bitter ones for the
wandering Bishop. Nine years ago Saint–Vallier was on his way back to Canada after one of his long absences, when his ship,
La Seine, was captured by the English, taken into London, and sold at auction. The Bishop himself was declared a prisoner of
state, and was sequestered in a small English town near Farnham until the French King should ransom him.
Politics intervened: King Louis had lately seized and imprisoned the Baron of Méan, Dean of the Cathedral of Liege. The
German Emperor was much offended at this, and besought Queen Anne not to release the Bishop of Quebec under any other terms
than as an exchange for the Baron of Méan. For five years Saint–Vallier remained a prisoner of state in England, until King
Louis at last set the Baron of Méan at liberty and recalled the Bishop of Quebec to France. But this did not mean that he
was free to return to Canada. During his captivity his enemies in Quebec and Montreal had been busy, had repeatedly written
the Minister, Pontchartrain, that the affairs of the colony went better with the Bishop away; that the King would be
assisting his Canadian subjects by keeping Saint–Vallier in France. This the King did. He kept him, indeed, almost as long
as the Queen of England had done.
That period of detention in France had sobered and saddened the wilful Bishop. His captivity in England he could ascribe
to the hostilities of nations; to himself and to others he was able to put a very good face on it. But he could not pretend
that he was kept in France for any other reason than that he was not wanted in Quebec. He had to admit to the Minister that
he had made mistakes; that he had not taken the wise course with the Canadian colonists. Only by unceasing importunities,
and by working upon the sympathies of Madame de Maintenon, who had always befriended him, had he ever wrung from the King
permission to sail back to his diocese.
On this day of his return, even his enemies were softened at seeing how the man was changed. In place of his former
assurance he seemed to wear a leaden mantle of humility; he climbed heavily up the hill to the Cathedral as if he were
treading down the mistakes of the past.
Auclair, the apothecary, on the other hand, had scarcely changed at all. His delicate complexion had grown a trifle
sallow from staying indoors so much, but the years which had made the Bishop an old man had passed lightly over the
apothecary. Even his shop was still the same; perhaps a trifle dustier than it used to be, and opposite his counter there
was a new cabinet screwed fast to the wall, full of brilliant sea-shells, starfish and horseshoe crabs, dried seaweed and
branches of coral. Everyone looked at this case on entering the shop, — there was something surprising and unexpected about
such a collection. It suggested the South and blue seas far away.
On the third day after the Cathedral had welcomed its long absent shepherd, that prelate himself came to call upon the
apothecary, arriving at the door on foot and unattended. He greeted Auclair with friendliness and took the proffered chair,
admitting that he felt the summer heat in Quebec more than he used to do.
“But you yourself, Monsieur Auclair, are little altered. I rejoice to see that God has preserved you in excellent
health.”
Auclair hastened to bring out a glass of fortifying cordial, and the Bishop accepted it gratefully. While he drank it,
Auclair regarded him. It was unfortunate that Saint–Vallier, of all men, should have grown heavy — it took away his fine
carriage. His once luxuriant brown hair was thin and grey, his triangular cheeks had become full and soft, like an old
woman’s, and they were waxy white. Between them, the sharp chin had almost disappeared.
“I have been thinking how fortunate I shall be to have you for my neighbour once more, Monseigneur,” said Auclair. “Every
spring I have given some little advice to the workmen who were attending to your garden, and I have often wished you could
see your shrubs coming into bloom.”
The Bishop smiled faintly and shook his head.
“Ah, monsieur, I shall not live in the episcopal Palace again. Perhaps that was a mistake; I should have waited to
understand the designs of Providence more perfectly.”
“Not live in your own residence, Monseigneur? That will be a great disappointment to all of us. The building is in
excellent condition.”
The Bishop again shook his head. “I find myself too poor now to maintain such an establishment. I suppose you do not know
anyone who would care to rent the Palace? The rental would be very helpful to me in my present undertakings. No, I shall
reside at the Hôpital Général.* My good daughters there have arranged un petit appartement of two rooms which will meet my
needs very well. I shall reside with them for the remainder of my life, God willing. Their chaplain is old and must soon
retire, and I shall take his place. The office of chaplain will be quite compatible with my other duties.”
Auclair was amazed. “In a hospital the duties of a chaplain are considerable, are they not?”
“But very congenial to me — ” (the old man folded his hands over the kerchief he had taken out to wipe his brow) — “to
celebrate the morning mass for the sisters and to hear their confessions; to administer the consolations of the Church to
the sick and the dying. As chaplain I shall be in daily attendance upon the unfortunate, as is my wish.”
Auclair sat silent for some moments, stroking his short beard in perplexity. Evidently nothing in his former relations
with Monseigneur de Saint–Vallier was a guide for future intercourse. He changed the subject and began to speak of
happenings in Quebec during the Bishop’s absence, of common acquaintances who had died in that time, among them old
Monseigneur de Laval.
Saint–Vallier sighed. “Would it had been permitted me to return in time to thank him for the labours he underwent for my
flock during the years of my captivity, and to close his eyes at the last. I can never hope to be to this people all that my
venerable predecessor became, through his devotion and his long residence among them. But I shall be with them now for as
long as God spares me, and I hope to be deserving of their affection.”
At this moment a countrywoman appeared at the door. She was about to withdraw when she saw what visitor the apothecary
was entertaining, but the Bishop called her back and insisted that his host attend to her needs. He waited patiently in his
chair while she bought foxglove water for her dropsical father-inlaw, and liquorice for her baby’s cough. While he was
serving her, Auclair wondered how he could give a turn to the Bishop’s talk and learn from him what was going on at home.
When the farmer woman had gone, he took the liberty of questioning his visitor directly.
“You have been at Versailles lately, Monseigneur? And how are things there, pray tell me?”
“Very sad since the death of the young Duc and Duchesse de Bourgogne last year. The King will never recover from that
double loss. In the Duc, his grandson, he foresaw a wise and happy reign for France; and the young Duchesse had been the
idol of his heart ever since she first came to them from Savoie. She was the life of the Court, — as dear to Madame de
Maintenon as to the King. The official mourning is over, but the Court mourns, nevertheless.”
Auclair nodded. “And the King, I suppose, is an old man now.”
“Yes, the King is old. He still comes down to supper to the music of twenty-four violins, still works indefatigably with
his ministers; there is dancing and play and conversation in the Salle d’Apollon every evening. His Court remains the most
brilliant in Europe, — but his heart is not in it. There is no one left who can charm away his years and his cares as the
little Duchesse de Bourgogne did, and nothing can make him forget for one hour the death of the Duc de Bourgogne. All
Christendom, monsieur, has suffered an incalculable loss in the death of that pious prince.”
“They died within a few days of each other, we heard.”
Saint–Vallier bowed his head. “They were buried in the same tomb, and their little son with them.”
“There is still talk of poison?”
“Popular opinion accuses the Duc d’Orléans. Their second son, an infant in arms, showed the same symptoms of poisoning,
but he survived.”
“Ah,” said Auclair, “a bad situation! The King is seventy-seven, and the Dauphin a child in arms. That will mean a long
regency. I suppose the young Duc de Berry will fill that office?”
“God grant it, monsieur, God spare him!” exclaimed the Bishop fervently. “If any mischance were to befall the Duc de
Berry, then that arch-atheist and suspected poisoner the Duc d’Orléans would be regent of France!” Saint–Vallier’s voice
cracked at a high pitch.
Auclair crossed himself devoutly. “I should have liked to see my King once more. He has been a great King. Is he much
altered in person?”
“He is old. I had a private interview with His Majesty last November, late in the afternoon, when he was taking his
exercise in the Parc of Versailles. We had scarcely begun our conference when a wind arose, stripping the trees that were
already half-bare. The King invited me to go indoors to his cabinet, remarking that it distressed him now to hear the autumn
winds and to see the leaves fall. That seemed to me to indicate a change.”
“Yes,” said Auclair, “that tells a story.”
“Monsieur,” began the Bishop sadly, “we are in the beginning of a new century, but periods do not always correspond with
centuries. At home the old age is dying, but the new is still hidden. I felt the same condition in England, during my long
captivity there. There is now no figure in the world such as our King was thirty years ago. The changes in the nations are
all those of the old growing older. You have done well to remain here where nothing changes. Here with you I find everything
the same.” He glanced about the shop and peered into the salon. “And the little daughter, whom I used to see running in and
out?”
“She is married, to our old friend Pierre Charron of Ville–Marie. He has built a commodious house in the Upper Town,
beyond the Ursuline convent. They are well established in the world.”
“You live alone, then?”
“For part of the year. Perhaps you remember a little boy whom my daughter befriended, Jacques Gaux? His mother was a
loose woman — she died in your Hôpital Général, some years ago. The boy is now a sailor, and when he is in Quebec, between
voyages, he lives with me. He occupies my daughter’s little chamber upstairs.” Auclair pointed to the cabinet of shells and
corals. “He brings me these things back from his voyages; he is in the West India trade. I should like to keep him here all
the time; but his father was a sailor — it is natural.”
“No,” said the Bishop, “I do not recall him. But your daughter I remember with affection. Heaven has blessed her with
children?”
The apothecary’s eyes twinkled. “Four sons already, Monseigneur. She is bringing up four little boys, the Canadians of
the future.”
“Ah yes, the Canadians of the future, — the true Canadians.”
There was something in Saint–Vallier’s voice as he said this which touched Auclair’s heart; a note humble and wistful,
something sad and defeated. Sometimes a neighbour whom we have disliked a lifetime for his arrogance and conceit lets fall a
single commonplace remark that shows us another side, another man, really; a man uncertain, and puzzled, and in the dark
like ourselves. Had his visitor not been a Bishop, Auclair would have reached out and grasped his hand and murmured:
“Courage, mon bourgeois,” as he did to down-hearted patients. The two men sat together in a warm and friendly silence until
Saint–Vallier rose and said he must be going. “I shall have the pleasure of confirming your grandsons, I hope? They will
live to see better times than ours.”