The Seats Of The Mighty, Volume 1.

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THE SEATS OF THE MIGHTY

BEING THE MEMOIRS OF CAPTAIN ROBERT MORAY,
SOMETIME AN OFFICER IN THE VIRGINIA REGIMENT,
AND AFTERWARDS OF AMHERST'S REGIMENT

By Gilbert Parker

To the Memory of Madge Henley.

CONTENTS

Volume 1.
Introduction to the Imperial Edition
Prefatory note to First Edition
I An escort to the citadel
II The master of the King's magazine
III The wager and the sword
IV The rat in the trap
V The device of the dormouse
VI Moray tells the story of his life

Volume 2.
VII "Quoth little Garaine"
VIII As vain as Absalom
IX A little concerning the Chevalier de la Darante
X An officer of marines
XI The coming of Doltaire
XII "The point envenomed too!"
XIII A little boast

Volume 3.
XIV Argand Cournal
XV In the chamber of torture
XVI Be saint or imp
XVII Through the bars of the cage
XVIII The steep path of conquest
XIX A Danseuse and the Bastile

Volume 4.
XX Upon the ramparts
XXI La Jongleuse
XXII The lord of Kamaraska
XXIII With Wolfe at Montmorenci
XXIV The sacred countersign

Volume 5.
XXV In the cathedral
XXVI The secret of the tapestry
XXVII A side-wind of revenge
XXVIII "To cheat the Devil yet"
XXIX "Master Devil" Doltaire
XXX "Where all the lovers can hide"
Appendix--Excerpt from 'The Scot in New France'

INTRODUCTION TO THE IMPERIAL EDITION

It was in the winter of 1892, when on a visit to French Canada, that I
made up my mind I would write the volume which the public knows as 'The
Seats of the Mighty,' but I did not begin the composition until early in
1894. It was finished by the beginning of February, 1895, and began to
appear in 'The Atlantic Monthly' in March of that year. It was not my
first attempt at historical fiction, because I had written 'The Trail of
the Sword' in the year 1893, but it was the first effort on an ambitious
scale, and the writing of it was attended with as much searching of
heart as enthusiasm. I had long been saturated by the early history of
French Canada, as perhaps 'The Trail of the Sword' bore witness, and
particularly of the period of the Conquest, and I longed for a subject
which would, in effect, compel me to write; for I have strong views
upon this business of compulsion in the mind of the writer. Unless a
thing has seized a man, has obsessed him, and he feels that it excludes
all other temptations to his talent or his genius, his book will
not convince. Before all else he must himself be overpowered by the
insistence of his subject, then intoxicated with his idea, and, being
still possessed, become master of his material while remaining the
slave of his subject. I believe that every book which has taken hold of
the public has represented a kind of self-hypnotism on the part of the
writer. I am further convinced that the book which absorbs the author,
which possesses him as he writes it, has the effect of isolating him into
an atmosphere which is not sleep, and which is not absolute wakefulness,
but a place between the two, where the working world is indistinct and
the mind is swept along a flood submerging the self-conscious but not
drowning into unconsciousness.

Such, at any rate, is my own experience. I am convinced that the books
of mine which have had so many friends as this book, 'The Seats of the
Mighty', has had in the English-speaking world were written in just such
conditions of temperamental isolation or absorption. First the subject,
which must of itself have driving power, then the main character, which
becomes a law working out its own destiny; and the subject in my own work
has always been translatable into a phrase. Nearly every one of my books
has always been reducible to its title.

For years I had wished to write an historical novel of the conquest
of Canada or the settlement of the United Empire loyalists and the
subsequent War of 1812, but the central idea and the central character
had not come to me; and without both and the driving power of a big idea
and of a big character, a book did not seem to me possible. The human
thing with the grip of real life was necessary. At last, as pointed out
in the prefatory note of the first edition, published in the spring of
1896 by Messrs. D. Appleton & Co., of New York, and Messrs. Methuen &
Co., of London, I ran across a tiny little volume in the library of Mr.
George M. Fairchild, Jr., of Quebec, called the Memoirs of Major Robert
Stobo. It was published by John S. Davidson, of Market Street,
Pittsburgh, with an introduction by an editor who signed himself
"N. B.C."

The Memoirs proper contained about seventeen thousand words, the
remaining three thousand words being made up of abstracts and appendices
collected by the editor. The narrative was written in a very ornate and
grandiloquent style, but the hero of the memoirs was so evidently a man
of remarkable character, enterprise and adventure, that I saw in the
few scattered bones of the story which he unfolded the skeleton of an
ample historical romance. There was necessary to offset this buoyant and
courageous Scotsman, adventurous and experienced, a character of the race
which captured him and held him in leash till just before the taking of
Quebec. I therefore found in the character of Doltaire--which was the
character of Voltaire spelled with a big D--purely a creature of the
imagination, one who, as the son of a peasant woman and Louis XV, should
be an effective offset to Major Stobo. There was no hint of Doltaire
in the Memoirs. There could not be, nor of the plot on which the story
was based, because it was all imagination. Likewise, there was no
mention of Alixe Duvarney in the Memoirs, nor of Bigot or Madame Cournal
and all the others. They too, when not characters of the imagination,
were lifted out of the history of the time; but the first germ of the
story came from 'The Memoirs of Robert Stobo', and when 'The Seats of
the Mighty' was first published in 'The Atlantic Monthly' the subtitle
contained these words: "Being the Memoirs of Captain Robert Stobo,
sometime an officer in the Virginia Regiment, and afterwards of
Amherst's Regiment."

When the book was published, however, I changed the name of Robert Stobo
to Robert Moray, because I felt I had no right to saddle Robert Stobo's
name with all the incidents and experiences and strange enterprises
which the novel contained. I did not know then that perhaps it might be
considered an honour by Robert Stobo's descendants to have his name
retained. I could not foresee the extraordinary popularity of 'The
Seats of the Mighty', but with what I thought was a sense of honour I
eliminated his name and changed it to Robert Moray. 'The Seats of the
Mighty' goes on, I am happy to say, with an ever-increasing number of
friends. It has a position perhaps not wholly deserved, but it has
crystallised some elements in the life of the continent of America,
the history of France and England, and of the British Empire which may
serve here and there to inspire the love of things done for the sake
of a nation rather than for the welfare of an individual.

I began this introduction by saying that the book was started in the
summer of 1894. That was at a little place called Mablethorpe in
Lincolnshire, on the east coast of England. For several months I worked
in absolute seclusion in that out-of-the-way spot which had not then
become a Mecca for trippers, and on the wonderful sands, stretching for
miles upon miles coastwise and here and there as much as a mile out to
the sea, I tried to live over again the days of Wolfe and Montcalm.
Appropriately enough the book was begun in a hotel at Mablethorpe called
"The Book in Hand." The name was got, I believe, from the fact that, in
a far-off day, a ship was wrecked upon the coast at Mablethorpe, and the
only person saved was the captain, who came ashore with a Bible in his
hands. During the writing now and again a friend would come to me from
London or elsewhere, and there would be a day off, full of literary
tattle, but immediately my friends were gone I was lost again in the
atmosphere of the middle of the eighteenth century.

I stayed at Mablethorpe until the late autumn, and then I went to
Harrogate, exchanging the sea for the moors, and there, still living the
open-air life, I remained for several months until I had finished the
book. The writing of it knew no interruption and was happily set. It
was a thing apart, and not a single untoward invasion of other interests
affected its course.

The title of the book was for long a trouble to me. Months went by
before I could find what I wanted. Scores of titles occurred to me,
but each was rejected. At last, one day when I was being visited by Mr.
Grant Richards, since then a London publisher, but at that time a writer,
who had come to interview me for 'Great Thoughts', I told him of my
difficulties regarding the title. I was saying that I felt the title
should be, as it were, the kernel of a book. I said: "You see, it is a
struggle of one simple girl against principalities and powers; it is the
final conquest of the good over the great. In other words, the book will
be an illustration of the text, 'He has put down the mighty from their
seats, and has exalted the humble and meek.'" Then, like a flash, the
title came 'The Seats of the Mighty'.

Since the phrase has gone into the language and was from the very
first a popular title, it seems strange that the literary director
of the American firm that published the book should take strong
exception to it on the ground that it was grandiloquent. I like to
think that I was firm, and that I declined to change the title.

I need say no more save that the book was dramatised by myself, and
produced, first at Washington by Herbert (now Sir Herbert) Beerbohm
Tree in the winter of 1897 and 1898, and in the spring of 1898 it
opened his new theatre in London.

PREFATORY NOTE TO FIRST EDITION

This tale would never have been written had it not been for the
kindness of my distinguished friend Dr. John George Bourinot,
C.M.G., of Ottawa, whose studies in parliamentary procedure, the
English and Canadian Constitutions, and the history and development
of Canada have been of singular benefit to the Dominion and to the
Empire. Through Dr. Bourinot's good offices I came to know Mr.
James Lemoine, of Quebec, the gifted antiquarian, and President of
the Royal Society of Canada. Mr. Lemoine placed in my hands certain
historical facts suggestive of romance. Subsequently, Mr. George
M. Fairchild, Jr., of Cap Rouge, Quebec, whose library contains a
valuable collection of antique Canadian books, maps, and prints,
gave me generous assistance and counsel, allowing me "the run"
of all his charts, prints, histories, and memoirs. Many of these
prints, and a rare and authentic map of Wolfe's operations against
Quebec are now reproduced in this novel, and may be considered
accurate illustrations of places, people, and events. By the
insertion of these faithful historical elements it is hoped to
give more vividness to the atmosphere of the time, and to
strengthen the verisimilitude of a piece of fiction which is
not, I believe, out of harmony with fact.

Gilbert Parker

PRELUDE

To Sir Edward Seaforth, Bart., of Sangley Hope in Derbyshire, and
Seaforth House in Hanover Square.

Dear Ned: You will have them written, or I shall be pestered to my
grave! Is that the voice of a friend of so long standing? And yet
it seems but yesterday since we had good hours in Virginia together,
or met among the ruins of Quebec. My memoirs--these only will
content you? And to flatter or cajole me, you tell me Mr. Pitt still
urges on the matter. In truth, when he touched first upon this, I
thought it but the courtesy of a great and generous man. But indeed
I am proud that he is curious to know more of my long captivity at
Quebec, of Monsieur Doltaire and all his dealings with me, and the
motions he made to serve La Pompadour on one hand, and, on the
other, to win from me that most perfect of ladies, Mademoiselle
Alixe Duvarney.

Our bright conquest of Quebec is now heroic memory, and honour and
fame and reward have been parcelled out. So I shall but briefly, in
these memoirs (ay, they shall be written, and with a good heart),
travel the trail of history, or discourse upon campaigns and sieges,
diplomacies and treaties. I shall keep close to my own story; for
that, it would seem, yourself and the illustrious minister of the
King most wish to hear. Yet you will find figuring in it great men
like our flaming hero General Wolfe, and also General Montcalm, who,
I shall ever keep on saying, might have held Quebec against us, had
he not been balked by the vain Governor, the Marquis de Vaudreuil;
together with such notorious men as the Intendant Bigot, civil
governor of New France, and such noble gentlemen as the Seigneur
Duvarney, father of Alixe.

I shall never view again the citadel on those tall heights where
I was detained so barbarously, nor the gracious Manor House at
Beauport, sacred to me because of her who dwelt therein--how long
ago, how long! Of all the pictures that flash before my mind when
I think on those times, one is most with me: that of the fine
guest-room in the Manor House, where I see moving the benign maid
whose life and deeds alone can make this story worth telling. And
with one scene therein, and it the most momentous in all my days,
I shall begin my tale.

I beg you convey to Mr. Pitt my most obedient compliments,
and say that I take his polite wish as my command.

With every token of my regard, I am, dear Ned, affectionately
your friend,

Robert Moray

I

AN ESCORT TO THE CITADEL

When Monsieur Doltaire entered the salon, and, dropping lazily
into a chair beside Madame Duvarney and her daughter, drawled out,
"England's Braddock--fool and general--has gone to heaven, Captain
Moray, and your papers send you there also," I did not shift a jot,
but looked over at him gravely--for, God knows, I was startled--and
I said,

"The General is dead?"

I did not dare to ask, Is he defeated? though from Doltaire's
look I was sure it was so, and a sickness crept through me, for
at the moment that seemed the end of our cause. But I made as if
I had not heard his words about my papers.

"Dead as a last years courtier, shifted from the scene," he
replied; "and having little now to do, we'll go play with the rat
in our trap."

I would not have dared look towards Alixe, standing beside her
mother then, for the song in my blood was pitched too high, were it
not that a little sound broke from her. At that, I glanced, and saw
that her face was still and quiet, but her eyes were shining, and
her whole body seemed listening. I dared not give my glance meaning,
though I wished to do so. She had served me much, had been a good
friend to me, since I was brought a hostage to Quebec from Fort
Necessity. There, at that little post on the Ohio, France threw
down the gauntlet, and gave us the great Seven Years War. And though
it may be thought I speak rashly, the lever to spring that trouble
had been within my grasp. Had France sat still while Austria and
Prussia quarreled, that long fighting had never been. The game of
war had lain with the Grande Marquise--or La Pompadour, as she was
called--and later it may be seen how I, unwillingly, moved her to
set it going.

Answering Monsieur Doltaire, I said stoutly, "I am sure he made
a good fight; he had gallant men."

"Truly gallant," he returned--"your own Virginians among others"
(I bowed); "but he was a blunderer, as were you also, monsieur, or
you had not sent him plans of our forts and letters of such candour.
They have gone to France, my captain."

Madame Duvarney seemed to stiffen in her chair, for what did
this mean but that I was a spy? and the young lady behind them now
put her handkerchief to her mouth as if to stop a word. To make
light of the charges against myself was the only thing, and yet I
had little heart to do so. There was that between Monsieur Doltaire
and myself--a matter I shall come to by-and-bye--which well might
make me apprehensive.

"My sketch and my gossip with my friends," said I, "can have
little interest in France."

"My faith, the Grande Marquise will find a relish for them," he
said pointedly at me. He, the natural son of King Louis, had played
the part between La Pompadour and myself in the grave matter of
which I spoke. "She loves deciding knotty points of morality," he
added.

"She has had chance and will enough," said I boldly, "but what
point of morality is here?"

"The most vital--to you," he rejoined, flicking his handkerchief a
little, and drawling so that I could have stopped his mouth with my
hand. "Shall a hostage on parole make sketches of a fort and send
them to his friends, who in turn pass them on to a foolish general?"

"When one party to an Article of War brutally breaks his sworn
promise, shall the other be held to his?" I asked quietly.

I was glad that, at this moment, the Seigneur Duvarney entered,
for I could feel the air now growing colder about Madame his wife.
He, at least, was a good friend; but as I glanced at him, I saw his
face was troubled and his manner distant. He looked at Monsieur
Doltaire a moment steadily, stooped to his wife's hand, and then
offered me his own without a word; which done, he went to where
his daughter stood. She kissed him, and, as she did so, whispered
something in his ear, to which he nodded assent. I knew afterwards
that she had asked him to keep me to dinner with them.

Presently turning to Monsieur Doltaire, he said inquiringly,
"You have a squad of men outside my house, Doltaire?"

Doltaire nodded in a languid way, and answered, "An escort--for
Captain Moray--to the citadel."

I knew now, as he had said, that I was in the trap; that he had
begun the long sport which came near to giving me the white
shroud of death, as it turned white the hair upon my head ere
I was thirty-two. Do I not know, the indignities, the miseries
I suffered, I owed mostly to him, and that at the last he
nearly robbed England of her greatest pride, the taking of New
France?--For chance sometimes lets humble men like me balance
the scales of fate; and I was humble enough in rank, if in
spirit always something above my place.

I was standing as he spoke these words, and I turned to him and
said, "Monsieur, I am at your service."

"I have sometimes wished," he said instantly, and with a courteous
if ironical gesture, "that you were in my service--that is, the King's."

I bowed as to a compliment, for I would not see the insolence,
and I retorted, "Would I could offer you a company in my Virginia
regiment!"

"Delightful! delightful!" he rejoined. "I should make as good a
Briton as you a Frenchman, every whit."

I suppose he would have kept leading to such silly play, had I
not turned to Madame Duvarney and said, "I am most sorry that
this mishap falls here; but it is not of my doing, and in colder
comfort, Madame, I shall recall the good hours spent in your
home."

I think I said it with a general courtesy, yet, feeling the eyes
of the young lady on me, perhaps a little extra warmth came into
my voice, and worked upon Madame, or it may be she was glad of my
removal from contact with her daughter; but kindness showed in her
face, and she replied gently, "I am sure it is only for a few days
till we see you again."

Yet I think in her heart she knew my life was perilled: those
were rough and hasty times, when the axe or the rope was the surest
way to deal with troubles. Three years before, at Fort Necessity, I
had handed my sword to my lieutenant, bidding him make healthy use
of it, and, travelling to Quebec on parole, had come in and out of
this house with great freedom. Yet since Alixe had grown towards
womanhood there had been strong change in Madame's manner.

"The days, however few, will be too long until I tax your
courtesy again," I said. "I bid you adieu, Madame."

"Nay, not so," spoke up my host; "not one step: dinner is nearly
served, and you must both dine with us. Nay, but I insist," he
added, as he saw me shake my head. "Monsieur Doltaire will grant
you this courtesy, and me the great kindness. Eh, Doltaire?"

Doltaire rose, glancing from Madame to her daughter. Madame was
smiling, as if begging his consent; for, profligate though he was,
his position, and more than all, his personal distinction, made him
a welcome guest at most homes in Quebec. Alixe met his look without
a yes or no in her eyes--so young, yet having such control and
wisdom, as I have had reason beyond all men to know. Something,
however, in the temper of the scene had filled her with a kind of
glow, which added to her beauty and gave her dignity. The spirit of
her look caught the admiration of this expatriated courtier, and I
knew that a deeper cause than all our past conflicts--and they were
great--would now, or soon, set him fatally against me.

"I shall be happy to wait Captain Moray's pleasure," he said
presently, "and to serve my own by sitting at your table. I was
to have dined with the Intendant this afternoon, but a messenger
shall tell him duty stays me.... If you will excuse me!" he added,
going to the door to find a man of his company. He looked back
for an instant, as if it struck him I might seek escape, for he
believed in no man's truth; but he only said, "I may fetch my men
to your kitchen, Duvarney? 'Tis raw outside."

"Surely. I shall see they have some comfort," was the reply.

Doltaire then left the room, and Duvarney came to me. "This is a
bad business, Moray," he said sadly. "There is some mistake, is
there not?"

I looked him fair in the face. "There is a mistake," I answered.
"I am no spy, and I do not fear that I shall lose my life, my
honour, or my friends by offensive acts of mine."

"I believe you," he responded, "as I have believed since you came,
though there has been gabble of your doings. I do not forget you
bought my life back from those wild Mohawks five years ago. You
have my hand in trouble or out of it."

Upon my soul, I could have fallen on his neck, for the blow to
our cause and the shadow on my own fate oppressed me for the
moment.

At this point the ladies left the room to make some little
toilette before dinner, and as they passed me the sleeve of Alixe's
dress touched my arm. I caught her fingers for an instant, and to
this day I can feel that warm, rich current of life coursing from
finger-tips to heart. She did not look at me at all, but passed on
after her mother. Never till that moment had there been any open
show of heart between us. When I first came to Quebec (I own it to
my shame) I was inclined to use her youthful friendship for private
and patriotic ends; but that soon passed, and then I wished her
companionship for true love of her. Also, I had been held back
because when I first knew her she seemed but a child. Yet how
quickly and how wisely did she grow out of her childhood! She had a
playful wit, and her talents were far beyond her years. It amazed
me often to hear her sum up a thing in some pregnant sentence
which, when you came to think, was the one word to be said. She had
such a deep look out of her blue eyes that you scarcely glanced
from them to see the warm sweet colour of her face, the fair broad
forehead, the brown hair, the delicate richness of her lips, which
ever were full of humour and of seriousness--both running together,
as you may see a laughing brook steal into the quiet of a
river.

Duvarney and I were thus alone for a moment, and he straightway
dropped a hand upon my shoulder. "Let me advise you," he said,
"be friendly with Doltaire. He has great influence at the Court
and elsewhere. He can make your bed hard or soft at the citadel."

I smiled at him, and replied, "I shall sleep no less sound because
of Monsieur Doltaire."

"You are bitter in your trouble," said he.

I made haste to answer, "No, no, my own troubles do not weigh so
heavy--but our General's death!"

"You are a patriot, my friend," he added warmly. "I could well
have been content with our success against your English army
without this deep danger to your person."

I put out my hand to him, but I did not speak, for just then
Doltaire entered. He was smiling at something in his thought.

"The fortunes are with the Intendant always," said he. "When
things are at their worst, and the King's storehouse, the dear
La Friponne, is to be ripped by our rebel peasants like a sawdust
doll, here comes this gay news of our success on the Ohio; and in
that Braddock's death the whining beggars will forget their empty
bellies, and bless where they meant to curse. What fools, to be
sure! They had better loot La Friponne. Lord, how we love fighting,
we French! And 'tis so much easier to dance, or drink, or love."
He stretched out his shapely legs as he sat musing.

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