It was my lot to have once done service for the king in that country,
since which time every Canadian is my brother. And you live in
Repentigny? That is near Montreal?"

"Eight leagues below, on the River of L'Assomption, Monsieur."

"Nearly thirty years ago I left your land. To hear fresh news of it
would give me the greatest satisfaction of my life. Are you at one of
the inns here at Fontainebleau? Yes? Let me offer you the shelter of my
house, Eaux Tranquilles, which is less that a league forward. My name is
the Chevalier de Bailleul, sir. If you permit it I shall send
immediately for your luggage."

The horseman, blushing, protested that the honour was too great.

"The honour and favour are to me," replied the Chevalier.

Lecour gave in with visible joy and named his inn. The two lifted their
hats and parted with the profoundest bows. The Chevalier, as his
carriage once more sped forward, found himself no less pleased than the
other. The embroidered sword-strap and overshadowing trees conjure up
for him an hour of the past where he, a young lieutenant, is leading a
little column of white-coats through a forest defile in America. The
Indian scouts suddenly come gliding in, the fire of an enemy is heard,
little spots of smoke burst on the mountain side and dissolve again.
Shrill yells resound on every hand, brown arms brandish flashes of
brightness. The young commander rises to the emergency. His white-coats
are rapidly placed in position behind trees, and a battle is
proceeding.

CHAPTER III

THE INNKEEPER'S LESSON

The chief inn of Fontainebleau town was a rambling galleried quadrangle
of semi-deserted buildings situated on the Rue Basse, and bearing the
sign of "The Holy Ghost."

This town, in the heart of the woods, had no other sources of livelihood
than a vegetable market for the Palace, the small wants of the
wooden-shoed foresters and of the workmen employed by the Master of
Woods and Waters in planting new trees, and those of the crowd of
strangers who flocked to the place during five or six weeks in the
autumn of each year, when the king and Court arrived for the pleasures
of the hunt.

The host of the inn--formerly an assistant butler in Madame du Barry's
hotel at Versailles, was a sharp, sour-natured old fellow, truculent and
avaricious. The spine of this man was a sort of social barometer; by its
exact degree of curvature or stiffness in the presence of a guest the
stable-boys and hou