Montreal and Quebec, dear to the fortunes of such men as Iberville, were
as cheerful in the still iron winter as any city under any more cordial
sky then or now: men loved, hated, made and broke bargains, lied to
women, kept a foolish honour with each other, and did deeds of valour for
a song, as ever they did from the beginning of the world. Through the
stern soul of Nature ran the temperament of men who had hearts of summer;
and if, on a certain notable day in Iberville's life, one could have
looked through the window of a low stone house in Notre Dame Street,
Montreal, one could have seen a priest joyously playing a violin; though
even in Europe, Maggini and Stradivarius were but little known, and the
instrument itself was often called an invention of the devil.

The room was not ornamented, save by a crucifix, a pleasant pencil-
drawing of Bishop Laval, a gun, a pair of snow-shoes, a sword, and a
little shrine in one corner, wherein were relics of a saint. Of
necessaries even there were few. They were unremarkable, save in the
case of two tall silver candlesticks, which, with their candles at an
angle from the musician, gave his face strange lights and shadows.

The priest was powerfully made; so powerful indeed, so tall was he, that
when, in one of the changes of the music, a kind of exaltation filled
him, and he came to his feet, his head almost touched the ceiling. His
shoulders were broad and strong, and though his limbs were hid by his
cassock, his arms showed almost huge, and the violin lay tucked under his
chin like a mere toy. In the eye was a penetrating but abstracted look,
and the countenance had the gravity of a priest lighted by a cheerful
soul within. It had been said of Dollier de Casson that once, attacked
by two renegade Frenchmen, he had broken the leg of one and the back of
the other, and had then picked them up and carried them for miles to