[Footnote A: The old French gentry or _noblesse_] "Who lives in this one?" "The Havilands. An English name but considered French;--grandfather an officer, an English captain, who married the heiress of the old D'Argentenayes, of this place." "Mr. Haviland is the name of the person I am going to visit." "The M.P.?" "Yes, he is an M.P." "A fine young fellow, then. His first name is Chamilly. His father was a queer man--the Honorable Chateauguay--perhaps you've heard of _him_? He was of a sort of an antiquarian and genealogical turn, you know, and made a hobby of preserving old civilities and traditions, so that Dormilliere is said to be somewhat of a rum place." The Ontarian thanked his acquaintance and got ready for landing at the pier. CHAPTER II. THE YOUNG SEIGNEUR. A young man stepped forward and greeted him heartily. It was the "Chamilly" Haviland of whom they had been speaking. Mr. Chrysler and he were members together of the Dominion Parliament and the present visit was the outcome of a special purpose. "It is a pity the rest of the country does not know my people more closely," Haviland wrote in his invitation:--"If you will do my house the honor of your presence, I am sure there is much of their life to which we could introduce you." "I am delighted you arrive at this time;" he exclaimed. "My election is coming." And he talked cheerfully and busied himself making the visitor comfortable in his drag. As luck will have it, the enactment of one of the old local customs occurs as they sit waiting for room to drive off the pier. The rustic gathering of Lower-Canadian _habitants_ who are crowding it with their native ponies and hay-carts and their stuff-coated, deliberate persons, is beginning to break apart as the steamer swings heavily away. The pedestrians are already stringing off along the road and each jaunty Telesphore and Jacques, the driver of a horse, leaps jovially into his cart; but all the carts are halting a moment by some curious common accord. Why is this? Suddenly a loud voice shouts: "MALBROUCK IS DEAD!" A pause follows. "_It is not true_" one forcibly contradicts. "Yes, he is dead!" reiterates the first. "It is not true!" insists the other. "He is dead and in his bier!" The second is incredulous: "You but tell me that to jeer?" But the crowd who have been smiling gleefully over the proceedings, affect to resign themselves to the bad news of Malbrouck's death, and all altogether groan in hoarse bass mockery: "CA VA MA-A-A-L!!"[B] Every one immediately dashes off in all haste, whips crack, wheels fly, and shouting, racing and singing along all the roads, the country-folk rattle away to their homes. Our two turn their wheels towards the Manor-house, gleefully amused. [Footnote B: That is bad!] "Who is Malbrouck?" Chrysler enquired.