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The Chateau De Vaudreuil
A short distance to the south-west is the spot on which stood the
Chateau and famous gardens of the Marquis de Vaudreuil, the last French
Governor of Canada. Imagination can forget the miles of docks and
warehouses, the electricity and commerce with which we are entering the
twentieth century, and fancy it sees again the old vice-regal palace, a
miniature in Canadian forests of the gay court at the Tuilleries, with
its bewitchment of lace, silk and velvet, powdered wigs and the
exaggerated politeness and exquisite bows of la grande dame and le
chevalier of the time.
Let us step back to the winter of 1758 and '59. The mountain is
snow-capped and the St. Lawrence is frozen several feet thick, making
good roads for the shaggy Canadian pony and cariole, or heavy
traineau with wooden runners. In the early winter's evening, lights
gleam through the small windows of the earthen citadel which guards the
Porte St. Martin, and the clash of arms or halberds, and the pacing of
the sentries' footsteps, are heard at every closed gate of the little
walled town. Patches of warm light from candle and hearth checker the
snow which lies glistening on the sidewalks, for there are no street
lamps on the St. Paul, St. Mary or Notre Dame streets of these old days.
Under the night sky, the storehouses look like gloomy prisons, but
cheerful groups talk and laugh, as the beaux and belles bend their steps
along the narrow streets to the Governor's salon. As the guests of the
Marquis de Vaudreuil assemble, the brilliance of their costumes is
heightened in effect by the gorgeous livery of the attendants and the
blue and white of the soldiers' regimentals. Groups around the
spindle-legged card tables exchange bon-mots and play, while others
dance and promenade on the polished floors until the morning light
breaks over the river.
The gaiety and frivolity, feasting and gossip are in strange contrast to
the grey gown of the Jesuit priest hurrying from the monastery opposite,
to shrive some sinner, or to administer "Extreme Unction" to some dying
saint. Within the convent walls pious sisters, followers of Mademoiselle
Mance and Madame d'Youville, tend the sick and unfortunate, whom the
tide of life has cast upon this far away shore. From the taverns on the
corners and on the river front comes the sound of mirth and merriment,
as with the cup of good Gascon wine are passed around tales of the high
seas or of times gone by in the old-world towns of Brittany.
On the altars of the chapels lights burn dimly in a silence unbroken,
save by the murmuring of prayers and telling of beads by suppliants
driven hither by sin, sorrow or homesickness.
A narrow little street, named St. Amable, running west from the
Governor's mansion, has been subjected to so little change since those
days of long ago that the passer-by on its two feet of sidewalk sees it
just as it was when its vaulted warehouses held the cargoes of the
weather-beaten sailing craft that anchored at the shore below. Where now
the French habitant sits chattering with his confreres and smoking
his pipe filled with home-grown tabac were once the shady walks and
stiff parterres of the ancient garden. Here, under the summer moons,
were doubtless stolen meetings as sweet, vows as insincere, and
intrigues as foolish as those in the exquisite bowers of Le Petit
Trianon at Versailles. On its paths have fallen the martial tread of
"de Levis, de Beaujeu, and many a brave soldier and dainty courtier,
official guests at the Governor's Chateau." Among them was one who
eclipsed all others in sad interest, the courtly young commander, Louis
Joseph Saint Veran de Montcalm. Any spot associated with this ill-fated
general is of immortal memory. After his skillful manoeuvering at the
battle of Carillon, his march to Montreal was a triumph. At the close of
this engagement, as, accompanied by de Levis and his staff, he rode
along the ranks, thanking his troops, who idolized him, in the name of
their king, for their glorious display of French valour in a field where
thirty-six hundred men had for six hours withstood fifteen thousand, he
was in every particular a worthy and capable general. He spoke of his
own share in the glory of the day with simplicity and modesty, writing
the next day to Vaudreuil:--
"The only credit I can claim as accruing to me is the glory of
commanding troops so valorous."
On one occasion, the capture of Oswego, which is described as the most
brilliant military exploit then known in Canadian history, he with his
own hand snatched the colours from a British officer and sent the trophy
to Quebec, to adorn the walls of the Cathedral of that city; as many a
time before had been done for old-world Minsters by knights on the
battlefields of Europe, whose empty armour now hangs in the baronial
halls of England.
Montcalm had been summoned to Montreal to confer with the Governor on
the further conduct of the war, and, as he marched forth to take command
of the Citadel of Quebec, all hearts centred on him, saying, "Save for
France her fair dominion in the West;" but the gallant soldier, in his
endeavour to do so, met his tragic and untimely end.
Entrenched behind the ramparts of Quebec, he prepared for the great
struggle which was to decide the fortunes of the then two foremost
powers of Europe. He and de Levis, although a considerable distance from
each other, had seventeen thousand men under their command, with a
splendid line of fortifications running from Montmorenci to the St.
Charles, supplementing the granite defences of the Citadel. Montcalm
being in doubt for some time at what point to look for attack from the
enemy, sent orders along the whole line for his troops to be in perfect
readiness everywhere. He was several years older than Wolfe, and was an
old campaigner, having served his king with honour and distinction in
Germany, Italy and Bohemia.
Next: The Battle Of The Plains
Previous: The Massacre Of Lachine
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