The Chien d’Or
On the Rue Buade, a street commemorative of the gallant Frontenac—says Kirby, in his “Romance of the Days of Louis Quinze in Quebec”—stood the large imposing edifice newly built by the Bourgeois Philibert, as the people of the colony fondly called Nicholas Jaquin Philibert, the great and wealthy merchant of Quebec, and their champion against the odious monopolies of the Grand Company favored by the Intendant. The edifice was of stone, spacious and lofty; it comprised the city residence of the Bourgeois, as well as suites of offices and ware-rooms connected with his immense business. On its façade, blazing in the sun, was the gilded sculpture that so much piqued the curiosity of every seigniory in the land. The tablet of the Chien d’Or—the Golden Dog—with its enigmatical inscription, looked down defiantly upon the busy street beneath, where it is still to be seen, perplexing the beholder to guess its meaning, and exciting our deepest sympathies over the tragedy of which it remains the sole, sad memorial.
Above and beneath the figure of a couchant dog, gnawing the thigh bone of a man, is graven the weird inscription, cut deeply in the stone, as if for all future generations to read and ponder over its meaning,—
Je suis un chien qui ronge l’os,
En le rongeant je prends mon repos;
Un temps viendra, qui n’est pas venu,
Que je mordrai qui m’aura mordu.
1736.
Or in English,—
I am a dog that gnaws a bone,
I couch and gnaw it all alone;
A time will come, which is not yet,
When I’ll bite him by whom I’m bit.
1736.