"My son," said Chaumonot, speaking slowly in French, "the white chief

says that you are a man."

The Iroquois expanded under this flattery. "The white chief has the

proud eye of the eagle."

"Devil take me!" cried the marquis; "but it seems that he talks very

good French!"

"It took some labor," replied Chaumonot; "but he was quick to learn,

and he is of great assistance to me."

"Is he a Catholic?" curiously.

"Aye, and proud to be."

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The marquis signified his astonishment by wagging his head. "I should

like to see this Indian at mass; it must be very droll."

"Monsieur," said Chaumonot, passing over the marquis's questionable

irony, "will you permit me to tell you a short story before approaching

the subject of my visit?"

"Rabelaisian?" maliciously.

"No; not a monstrous story, but one relative to an act of kindness

which took place many years ago."

"Well, if I am not interested I shall interrupt you," said the marquis.

He swept his hand toward the wine, but the priests and the Iroquois

respectfully declined. "Proceed."

"Once upon a time," began Chaumonot, his eyes directed toward the

bronze console which supported the mantel, "there lived a lad whose

father was a humble vine-dresser. At the age of ten he was sent to

Châtillon, where he lived with his uncle, a priest, who taught him

Latin and Holy history. This did not prevent him from yielding to the

persuasion of one of his companions to run off to Beaune, where the two

proposed to study music under the Fathers of Oratory. To provide funds

for the journey, he stole a dozen livres from his uncle, the priest.

Arriving at Beaune, he became speedily destitute. He wrote home to his

mother for money. She showed the letter to his father, who ordered him

home. Stung by the thought of being branded a thief in his native

town, he resolved not to return, but in expiation to set out forthwith

on a pilgrimage to Rome. Tattered and penniless, he took the road to

Rome. He was proud, this boy, and at first refused to beg; but misery

finally forced his pride to its knees, and his hand stretched forth

from door to door. He slept in open fields, in cowsheds, in haystacks,

occasionally finding lodging in a convent. Thus, sometimes alone,

sometimes in the company of wandering vagabonds, he made his way

through Savoy and Lombardy in a pitiable condition of destitution and

disease. At length he arrived at Ancona, where the thought occurred to

him of visiting the Holy House of Loretto, and of applying for succor

of the Holy Virgin. Patience, Monsieur; only a moment more."

The marquis, leaning on his cane, was distorting his lips and wrinkling

his eyebrows.

"The lad's hopes were not disappointed. He had reached the renowned

shrine, knelt, paid his devotions, when, as he issued from the chapel

door, he was accosted by an elegant cavalier, who was having some

difficulty with a stirrup. He asked the wretched boy to hold the

horse, and for this service gave him five Spanish pistoles of gold."




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