After
a word or two more, with Stevens's assurance that the British had
recovered from Braddock's defeat and would soon be knocking at the
portals of the Chateau St. Louis, we parted, and soon Doltaire and
I got out at the high stone steps of the palace.
Standing there a moment, I looked round. In this space
surrounding the Intendance was gathered the history of New France.
This palace, large enough for the king of a European country with
a population of a million, was the official residence of the
commercial ruler of a province. It was the house of the miller, and
across the way was the King's storehouse, La Friponne, where poor
folk were ground between the stones. The great square was already
filling with people who had come to trade. Here were barrels of
malt being unloaded; there, great sacks of grain, bags of dried
fruits, bales of home-made cloth, and loads of fine-sawn boards and
timber. Moving about among the peasants were the regular soldiers
in their white uniforms faced with blue, red, yellow, or violet,
with black three-cornered hats, and black gaiters from foot to
knee, and the militia in coats of white with black facings. Behind
a great collar of dogskin a pair of jet-black eyes flashed out from
under a pretty forehead; and presently one saw these same eyes
grown sorrowful or dull under heavy knotted brows, which told of a
life too vexed by care and labour to keep alive a spark of youth's
romance.
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