Chapter II: Part 2

"Your father, Jean, as you know, was a native of the parish of Chateau Richer, on the other side of those mountains. And I, as you do not know, lived in the parish of Ste. Famille on the other side of the Channel, in the Isle of Orleans--the Isle of Sorcerers, as they call it. It was not an isle of sorcerers at all, but I will tell you what it was--an isle of smugglers. Yes, smugglers. When the good people of Chateau, there below, saw those lights on a dark night moving to and fro on the long marsh, gleaming fitfully, like fireflies, they crossed themselves, the simpletons, and muttered, 'will-o'-the-wisps,' 'devil's fire,' 'sorcerers!' Ha! Ha! What foolishness! They were smugglers with lanterns going to meet a bateau at high tide, carrying casks of brandy and French wines, packages of tobacco, bales of silk, and all that. Nobody came near them, you may be sure. Very convenient, the Isle of Sorcerers, for smugglers, and there were fine hiding-places in the long marsh and on the side of the hill. Caves? Oh, yes, here and there. I wonder if I could find them now. Ah, those were days!"

"But you were no smuggler, Monsieur Gamache, nor my father either. Impossible."

"Nothing is impossible, Jean. All good is possible and all bad. We were smugglers, certainly, for fun at first, and afterwards for profit. Talk of farming, cultivating the soil--that is a slow way of earning one's living, not to speak of making a fortune. But free trade, smuggling, if you like, going out of a dark night in a little boat, slipping up the river with the tide, landing something on the quays of the St. Charles, slipping down with the ebb, arriving in the early morning to see the coming of the dawn, the lifting of the mist and the first glow of sunrise on the top of Mount Ste. Anne--Jean, it was glorious. I like to think of it. If only those days could come again!"

"And dangerous, Monsieur Gamache?"

"Dangerous? Certainly. That was the glory of it. But when one is found out one goes to prison, perhaps, or one crosses the mountains to the parish of St. Placide, where the past may be forgotten."

"Monsieur Gamache," said Jean, "I can well believe that my father was a smuggler, for people had different ideas about such things in those days, and the adventure of that life must have appealed to him, but as to the profit--that is not quite so credible. He was a poor man when he came to St. Placide, and the farm he created himself, cut all the trees with his own axe, dug the ground with a spade, carried hay and oats on his back up the hills. No, Monsieur, my father did not profit by the trade of which you speak."

"That is true, Jean, he did it for fun, for adventure, for the beauty and glory of it, and he would not touch one _sou_ of the profit. But he took the punishment, the exile, just the same. Have I not said that he was a valiant man?"

These were strange tales that Jean was hearing that night, beside that weird pool, while the stars came out, and the new moon rose above the circle of the trees and cast a trembling brightness on the water below. The sound of the river filled the air as though trying to drown the voice of Michel Gamache as he told of the lawless exploits of former days, when Toussaint Giroux and he were young and sowing to the wind. It was almost sacrilege in Jean to be hearing of such doings, yet he could not but feel a thrill of pride as he thought of his father, in the hey-day of life, high-spirited, strong and brave, going into danger with a smile on his lips and a brightness in his eye, glorying in adventure for itself alone, and scorning both the reward and the penalty. In his heart Jean was wishing that he had been there and hoping that like opportunities might come again. Evidently Michel Gamache was corrupting the morals of the son as he had formerly corrupted those of the father. Perhaps he was a sorcerer after all, a servant of Satan, the enemy of souls.

"You are late, Jean," said Madame Giroux, as the fisherman finally arrived at home. "You are very late, and I thought that you would never come. The river is dangerous in places. You remember Hypolite Picard, who was drowned last year. He could swim, too, but it is always the swimmers who take the risks. I wish that you would be more careful. Well, I am glad that you are safe at home. Sit down, now, and take some of this hot soup. I will cook a trout for you, if you like. You got some, of course."

"But certainly, my mother," said Jean, opening his pannier, "look at these."

"Truly you have a lot, about ten dozen, I should say. At Beauport we could get twenty cents a dozen for them, and at the Champlain market in Quebec at least five cents more. Two dollars' worth of fish--not a bad day's work. But what have you there, behind your backs? _Mon Dieu_! What is that? A salmon, a whale! What a monster! You are a fisherman indeed! How I wish that your father were here to see that trout! He caught one once about the same size, but I have never since seen its equal. That was when we first came to St. Placide, forty years ago. We were young then. But where did you get it? In some deep hole, no doubt."

"Yes, my mother, in the _Trou du Sorcier_."

"God guard us!" said Madame Giroux, crossing herself. "The _Trou du Sorcier_, the very place where your father caught that other fish. And the sorcerer himself, was he there, perhaps, as then?"

"Yes, my mother, he was there. That is curious, is it not? But he is no sorcerer, only an old man, most obliging and interesting."

"The devil is always interesting, Jean, and obliging too, for a time. But if this man is not a sorcerer he is a thief, certainly, and a miser. Besides, he never goes to Mass--has not made his Easter confession in forty years. If he should die suddenly Satan would surely take his soul. Jean, I am not superstitious, not at all, but I think that we should send the fish to the cure."

Thus it happened that Father Paradis had a good dinner on the next day, which was Friday, and for several days thereafter the good cure and his housekeeper made their breakfast, dinner and supper of baked trout.

*CHAPTER IV*

*THE LOUP GAROU*

"_Bon soir_, Jean Baptiste," said Mere Tabeau one evening, as the young man passed her home on his way to visit his friend Michel Gamache.

"_Bon soir, Madame_," said Jean, politely, but not stopping, as he sometimes did, to gossip with the old woman.

"Not so fast, Jean. Wait a minute. I have something to tell you. Come here."

"Another time, Madame Tabeau, if you please. I must hasten this evening."

"No time!" cackled the old crone in a shrill, querulous voice. "No time to talk to a poor old woman; no time for that, oh, no! But time enough for your friend the sorcerer, that servant of the devil."

"Madame Tabeau, take care what you say. You speak of Monsieur Gamache, no doubt. He is old, perhaps, and not at all handsome, but he is no sorcerer. On the contrary, I think him a good man. In any case, he is my friend, as you say, and I do not wish to hear you give him evil names."

"You do not wish it, your lordship? Very well, I will not say it. He is a good man, a saint, perhaps, or possibly an angel in disguise. Who knows? But what species of angel, eh? You are sure? You can tell? What did the cure say in his sermon last Sunday? I go to Mass, as you know, every Sunday, to confession also, at least once a year. But what did the cure say? Satan can deceive the saints even, when he puts on his best clothes. But not Jean Baptiste Giroux. Oh, no! Nobody could fool him, not even a woman, certainly not a poor old woman like me."

Mere Tabeau relapsed into silence, puffing at her black pipe, but steadily regarding Jean with her fish-like eyes. His curiosity was aroused.

"Madame Tabeau," he said, in a conciliating tone, "do not be angry. I was to blame. You may say what you please. You have something to tell me, and I will gladly listen."

"Oh, he will listen; his grandeur will deign to hear what the old woman has to say. But he will hear nothing."

"Madame Tabeau, I am a fool, as you have said, in effect, and I believe everybody. It is quite possible that I may be deceived, as on some former occasions. But you are a wise woman, Madame, and you know something. Will you not tell it to me for my advantage? I shall be grateful, even if you tell me what I do not wish to hear."

"Well, Jean, that is better. You have some sense left, in spite of your studies, a little intelligence still, strange to say. Sit down here on the step; no, not so far away; right here beside me. I will not hurt you, and the young ladies will not be jealous. Forty years ago they might have been annoyed, the vixens, but not now. Listen! There is a story, certainly. You shall hear it, no one else.

"At that time they did not call me Mere Tabeau. Bonhomme Tabeau, the old sot, had not yet come on the scene. He was rich, the old miser--that was why I married him. Yes, and he died, as expected, in the course of a few years. But can you believe it? The old beast did not leave me one _sou_, not one sou--that was what I did not expect. All was for masses for his soul. The old fool! His soul is in the pit, where no masses can help him. I know theology, me. Masses can pull one out of purgatory, of course; but from the pit, never. Ah, that was one who got his deserts. His money goes to the priests, whom he did not love, and his soul remains with Satan. _Cru-ru-ru de Dieu_!"

"But it was of your friend the sorcerer that I was speaking. That was another who had sold himself to the evil one. At what price? Gold and the love of woman. Was he handsome? By no means. But how strong he was, how black his hair and his eyes! And how he would look at me and say: 'Angel, my angel, if you love me, if you love me truly, kiss me on both cheeks, and on the lips. Again! Once more!' And after that! _Mon Dieu_, after that his ship came in with the tide and he sailed away; while I, like a fool, stood on the shore and waved to him until he was out of sight beyond the point. And then I cried like a baby. Can you believe it?

"Did Michel Gamache not come back after the voyage? Ah, yes. When summer was gone he came back, but not to me. I was expecting him, I who had given him so much love; but he did not come that evening, nor the next, nor ever again. Always he was at the house of Bonhomme Duval, the rich trader, smuggler, thief. The old rascal had a daughter, of course. Beautiful? Not at all. It was the dowry that Michel desired. For that he perjured his soul, for the value of a hundred pounds, more or less. It was all arranged. The wedding was to take place on the first day of the year. They would begin the year together, those two. And I? They had no thought for me. Every evening I looked from the window, hoping that he would come, that he would wish to say good-bye, if nothing more; but I saw only the bare trees and the dead leaves dancing in the autumn wind.

"But listen, my friend. That is not the end of the story. No, only the beginning. My brother Ovide, do you know him? But how could you? He has been dead these thirty years. Since that night he was never the same man."

"What night, Madame?" said Jean, much interested.

"Be silent, fool!" said the old hag. "If you interrupt me again you may tell the story yourself. It was the eve of Christmas, of course, eight days before the wedding that was to be. The wedding! Ha! Ha! The sorcerer's wedding! He who had not made his Easter confession in seven years, he who had sold his soul for gold. His wedding! _Nom de diable_!

"'Sister,' said my brother Ovide, 'little sister, never mind; the wedding will never take place. I will kill him, the traitor.'

"'Kill him, yes, yes, kill him!' I said. 'But no, that would be too dangerous, for it is quite possible that he might kill you, Ovide, my brother. You are strong, I know, but not like him. Think of that neck of his, those hands, and that jaw, with teeth like a wolf. No, my brother, you shall not. I would kill him myself, but I fear--I don't know what I fear.'

"'Fear nothing, my sister, you shall see.'

"As I have said, it was still eight days before Christmas. No, two days only. Christmas was on a Sunday that year, and it is Friday night that I speak of. I am not likely to forget it, nor the following night either. Michel used to visit the Duval place every evening at eight o'clock, returning always before midnight and going across the river to his home on the Island. The road was marked, as usual, by _balises_, for the path was always being effaced by the drifting snow. _Mon Dieu_! How the wind blew across the river, and how it carried the snow along--the snow that covered everything like a winding-sheet! Yes, and it would have covered Michel Gamache that night if my brother Ovide had had his way.

"Ah, he was a fox, that Ovide. He did not wish to meet Michel face to face, but to change the _balises_ so that the road led direct to an air-hole, where the icy water ran along black and silent--that was not at all dangerous for him. If Michel should fall in the water, that was not his affair; but if he should try to climb out again, he would be there to push him down under the ice. Yes, under the ice, to drift, to roll along with the stream, to have his hair, his eyes, his ears, filled with slime, to have his bones picked by the eels, to be buried in a heap of sand and seaweed on some lonely shore--that would be a punishment indeed for Michel Gamache, liar, traitor, cursed sorcerer.

"So my brother Ovide hid himself behind one of the branches and waited. It was nearly midnight; the night was very cold; and Ovide was not at all comfortable as he crouched behind the little tree. But he warmed himself now and then from a flask of excellent brandy; soon his spirits rose, and he was full of courage. Presently he heard a light patter as of some one running with moccasins on his feet; and immediately there appeared, not a man, but a gigantic wolf, that stopped at the open water, and began to howl as though scenting danger. Then he took a leap into the air, flying over an abyss of twenty feet, lit on the ice on the other side, and disappeared in the distance, still howling frightfully.

"My brother Ovide escaped from that place as fast as possible, believing himself chased by the devil; and when he staggered into the house, his face pale as the snow, his jaw hanging, his eyes bloodshot and staring, he was not a courageous object, I assure you.

"'What is the matter, Ovide,' said I, much frightened.

"'Lock the door, Celestine; it is following me. Quick, it is there.'

"'What is it, you fool?' said I.

"'The _loup garou_, Celestine! Ah! Ah! There it is at the window! _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!'

"Ovide fell in a heap on the floor, still pointing with trembling finger at the window, and there I saw, I, Celestine Colomb, the flaming eyes of some ferocious beast. It was terrifying. 'Jesus-Maria!' I cried, making the holy sign, and saying all my prayers at once. The apparition vanished, but I could not forget the fearful eyes, and all night long I was seeing them in my dreams.

"On the next day, at half-past two in the afternoon, I put on my best dress and my French shoes, and went to visit Annette Duval.

"'Annette,' I said, as politely as possible, 'you do not love me, perhaps; and I, possibly, do not love you.'

"'Perhaps not,' said Annette, beginning to cry, 'but I do not hate you, Celestine. I pray for you, even.'

"'That is not necessary, Annette,' said I, with scorn. 'I can make my salvation myself, thank you. I do not love you, as I have said, but I would not have you marry a sorcerer.'

"What is that you say? A sorcerer? Michel a sorcerer? Nonsense! If you had nothing better to say why did you come?'

"'I came, Annette, to say that Michel is a sorcerer, one who has not made his Easter confession in seven years, one who has sold his soul to the devil. Not only so, but he becomes a _loup garou_ every evening at midnight. My brother Ovide has seen him change into a _loup garou_ only last night.'

"'Mademoiselle,' said Annette, becoming very pale, 'be so kind as to go away.'

"'Annette,' said I, 'listen to me. Ask him why he leaves you every evening before midnight. Ask him to stay with you for a few minutes longer, and you will see.'

"'Mademoiselle Colomb,' said Annette, rising, 'permit me to show you the door.'

"This time I went without a word. It was not necessary to say more. Annette was troubled, and would certainly ask Michel for an explanation. And so it turned out.

"Some time before midnight, Ovide and I--Ovide would not go alone--hid ourselves in the bushes near the door of Bonhomme Duval, the door which Annette had shown to me, not once only, but twice. But I was to show her something; I, Celestine Colomb. Ovide had his gun loaded with a silver bullet, a bullet which I had made with my own hands--for the sorcerer, of course. Ovide had a knife also, long and sharp. Michel does not forget that knife, I think.

"It lacked but a few minutes of midnight when the door opened and there stood Michel and Annette on the threshold in the light of the fire. Annette was angry, as we could see; and Michel, that giant who could have strangled her with one hand, was trying to pacify her, to explain what could not be explained.

"'So,' she said, 'you must go, it seems, although I have prayed you to stay a few minutes longer, to spend the first moments of Christmas with me--and you will not.'

"'Annette, my dear Annette, have I not said that I must go? It is an important appointment.'

"'Important? Oh yes, more important than I, of course. I see. You do not love me. No, it is money that you love, that only.'

"'Not at all, Annette, it is that I must meet a friend.'

"'A friend, Michel! What kind of a friend?'

"'Annette, I cannot tell you. It is a matter of life and death. I must go. Good-bye, dear. A kiss, a single kiss.'

"No, no! Never again! Ah, can I believe it? It is true, then, what Celestine has said. You are a sorcerer, and your friend, your friend, Michel, is Satan. _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!"

"At this word Michel began to laugh, but presently the laugh became very strange, more like the cry of a wild animal than the voice of a man; he began to lose the human shape; his coat became the skin of a beast; his feet and hands became paws; long ears grew upon his head; the jaw was thrust forth and the fangs protruded. _Nom de Dieu_! It was a wolf, a _loup garou_, that, with a ferocious growl, precipitated itself upon Annette, who fell unconscious on the ground.

"'Shoot, shoot, Ovide!' I screamed, but Ovide, stupefied by terror, stood there groaning and muttering.

"'It is he! It is he! The _loup garou_! Child of the devil! He will destroy me, body and soul! It is he! It is he! _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!'

"Hearing this, the wolf left Annette and rushed upon us. Then the courage of Ovide returned; he seized the gun and aimed a terrible blow at the head of the beast. But this ferocious animal, evading the blow, in an instant was at my brother's throat. In another minute Ovide would have been in Hell. It was I who saved him; I who came to the rescue with the long knife; I who struck the blow that should have killed the _loup garou_. By an unlucky chance the blade missed the neck but cut off half of the ear. It drew blood, of course; the beast changed instantly into the human form; and there stood the traitor, Michel Gamache; his face streaming with blood; and there on the snow lay, not the ear of a wolf, but that of a man. Would you like to see it, Jean Baptiste? There it is! I keep it with me all the time, as a souvenir.

"The wedding--did it take place? Certainly not! Annette would have married the sorcerer in spite of all, but her people would not hear of it. Now she is 'Sister Sainte Anne' in the Convent of the Ursulines, where she prays all the time for the soul of the sorcerer. Does she pray also for her dear friend, Celestine Colomb? As to that, you may ask the sorcerer. Go! Ask him, too, why he has lost his ear."

"Good evening, Jean," said Michel Gamache, a little later. "You have been delayed, but no matter. There remains an hour of twilight and there will be a clear moon to-night. You have been talking to that she-devil, Mere Tabeau, I see."

"_Mon Dieu_! Monsieur Gamache, how do you know that?" said Jean, astonished.

"Oh, my friend, I see many things," said the sorcerer, showing his teeth and uttering a weird laugh. "So you have been making friends with La Colomb. Fine company for a young man. And did she tell you that I was a _loup garou_, and that she cut off a piece of my ear--hein?"

"_Sacre_, Monsieur Gamache, that is just what she said. But I did not believe a word of it."

"Oh, believe it if you like, Jean, until I give you another version of the story. But regard my ear. Does it look as though it had been sliced with a knife?"

"No, Monsieur Gamache, not at all. Quite otherwise."

"Quite otherwise, I assure you," said the sorcerer, with a ferocious smile. "Listen! she saved the life of that precious brother, Ovide, and my ear--_sacre tonnerre!_--she bit it off!"

*CHAPTER V*

*CASTLES IN SPAIN*

It was the morning of the twenty-fourth of June, and Jean Baptiste, having attended Mass in honour of his patron saint, was spending the rest of the day by the river. The sun was high, and in all open places the heat was intense, but where Jean lay at ease near the edge of a cliff there was cool and pleasant shade. At his feet the river roared through a deep gorge; on the farther side there was a wall of rock with a fringe of trees; while beyond rose a long range of mountains, forest-clad to the very top. Above, in the blue, floated light, silvery clouds, lazily passing from tree-top to tree-top, slowly changing their form, until they disappeared behind the mountains or melted away in the depths of the sky.

On this day Jean was celebrating his twenty-third birthday, and the completion of his college course. His college had been the forest, and his book the book of Nature. He had read other books as well; all that the seminarists had studied, and many more of which they had never heard; but the knowledge that he valued most was obtained from the trees, the rocks, the soil, the river, the birds, the beasts, the fishes, the cycle of the seasons, the changes of the weather, and all the panorama and procession of Nature that mean so much to the man with the seeing eye and the understanding heart. The book was always open; and in the light of Science, with Philosophy his interpreter and Religion his inspiration, he read many difficult pages and discovered many secrets.

To Jean Baptiste the study of the world in which he lived afforded not merely satisfaction to the natural curiosity of youth, which makes knowledge desirable for itself alone; but it gave him an insight into the nature of things, and a power of control which he planned to use, some day, for a higher end. The savages, by their knowledge of the wilderness, had made their living there; the habitants, knowing more, had secured many of the comforts of civilised life; and it was reasonable to think that a fuller knowledge would yield results undreamed of by those who never went below the surface of things to the centre and source of power.

Since the time when he decided that he would not be a priest, a religious leader of the conventional type, Jean had become possessed with the thought that there was another work to which he was called, a work more material in its character, but none the less for the good of the parish, the honour of his patron saint and the glory of God. Of that he had been thinking for many years; for that he had been preparing; and now the day was at hand and the work about to begin.

Jean had many plans for the improvement of his little world, not the least of which was the using of the river itself, an enormous source of power going to waste in its mad rush through the gorge at his feet. Looking up stream he could see, not a hundred yards distant, the deep, still pool where the cataract began; and beyond, on both sides of the river, a broad expanse of low-lying ground, stretching to the first rise of hills and forming a perfect site for a dam and an immense lake which should afford water-power equal to the strength of ten thousand horses.

With such energy at his command, what could he not do? Carry on lumbering on a large scale, work the great deposits of iron sand along the river, manufacture pottery out of the banks of fine clay, run a tramway to Quebec, light and heat all the houses in the parish with electricity, supply the people with motive power for machinery of every kind--all this and more was possible. As he thought of the wonderful possibilities it seemed to Jean Baptiste that he was a prophet, the fore-runner of a mighty revolution in this remote valley, where for a hundred years the habitants had desired nothing else than to walk in peace and security in the ways of their fathers.

But it was not possible to leave them in peace. No, the new age was come. Quebec and Montreal, Lorette and Chaudiere were advancing by leaps and bounds, and the habitants of St. Placide must arise and join the procession. Consider that fine river, the St. Ange, rising in a hundred lakes on the height of land and descending in a thousand cataracts to its final plunge into the St. Lawrence. Why had the good God given this gift if not for use, that the people might be more industrious, more prosperous and more happy in their little corner of the great and beautiful world?

True, it would be necessary to have capital for the beginning of any of these enterprises, and that was the chief hindrance in the way of the realization of Jean's dreams. He had no property of his own; and his mother's farm, with houses, barns, cattle, horses and all, was worth only a few thousand dollars. There were two or three rich habitants in the parish, like M. Tache and M. Laroche, but would they be willing to risk their hard-earned wealth in the launching of schemes that must seem to them visionary and impracticable? There was great wealth among the merchants and bankers of Quebec, but how the owners of it could be induced to embark in the enterprise was a problem that Jean, with all his learning, had not been able to solve.

He had not yet worked out the financial details, but if only he could make a beginning, everything else would come in the course of time. "It is the first step that costs," says the proverb, and Jean was determined to take that step at any cost. After that he would take the second, the third and all the other steps, until he arrived at the summit of his ambition.

The summit--what was that? When one arrived at the summit of yonder mountain that seemed to touch the clouds, there was a higher peak beyond; and when one came to that elevation there was a peak still higher, until in the end one stood upon the height of land that divides the waters flowing South into the St. Lawrence from those that go North and East into the abyss of the Saguenay. Then one could rest, perhaps, unless one wished to explore and climb other peaks, beyond the Saguenay and Lake St. John, or in distant lands. But it was not necessary to go so far, for there was great satisfaction to be had in climbing for the mere love of the sport, even if one did not reach the top of everything.

At least, Jean would be a great man in the parish, greater than M. Tache, as great, almost, as the cure himself, and that was something. M. Paradis would always be the spiritual power, but Jean would be the temporal power, like the Pope and the Emperor of former times, and they would work together in perfect harmony for the good of the parish. Jean had no desire to be Pope, but Emperor he would be--Emperor of St. Placide, the Emperor Jean Baptiste.

Jean laughed at the absurdity of his day-dream--but was it so absurd after all? What is the world but a collection of empires; and what is an empire but a number of parishes? Why could not the great man of a parish be as happy as an emperor, as the lord of a world? If he had congenial work, free scope for his activities, wealth sufficient for the simple wants, a good name in the parish, and a few loving friends--what more could he desire? What more could he ask of the good God?

Yet there was one thing that he had forgotten, although he had been thinking of it all the time. When one was building castles in Spain how could one forget the chatelaine? What was the use of a castle, of riches, of a great name, with nobody to share one's happiness? It would be too lonely, too discouraging. Yes, there must be a chatelaine, a tall, lovely lady with dark-blue eyes and golden hair--no, not just golden, but of a ruddy tinge like a sunrise cloud, bronze-coloured with a glint of gold. It would be bound with a fillet of blue and would fall in wavy iridescent masses down her back. She would be clad in a long garment of purple velvet with a border of golden braid and a golden girdle about her waist.

"But yes," said Jean to himself, "there must be a chatelaine, but what is her name? _Mon Dieu_, what is her name?"

"_Mon Dieu_, what is her name? I should very much like to know," said a laughing voice behind the trees. "Will you not tell me her name, where you have met her, what she is like, and all that? I am dying to know."

Startled and speechless, Jean turned suddenly, and from behind the trees came tripping an apparition the like of which had surely never before been seen on the banks of the St. Ange. It was tall for a girl, a lithe, graceful figure clad in fishing costume, with small rubber boots, a short skirt of brown cotton, a waist and jacket of the same material, and a jaunty cap set above a mass of reddish-golden hair. There were dark-blue eyes, almost black, dancing with merriment, a laughing mouth set with pearly teeth, a dimpled chin and a dainty nose, the least bit retrousse. The vision carried a light rod in her hand and a pannier slung across her shoulder. She advanced rapidly, as though expecting a joyous greeting, but suddenly stopped, poised as though for flight, and said, with an injured air:

"So, Jean, you have forgotten me. You don't know your old friends any more. Well, I will leave you; I will go down to the river and catch another fish. Good-bye, Monsieur the Hermit, I leave you to your meditations."

"Don't go, Gabrielle!" exclaimed Jean, quite alarmed. "I know you very well, although I have seen you only once or twice in seven years. But how you have changed! You are much better looking than formerly."

"Oh, thank you, Monsieur Giroux. From you that is a compliment indeed. What an ugly little beast I must have been!"

"No, Gabrielle, not at all. On the contrary, you were always charming, but now you are enchanting, of a beauty altogether----"

"Stop, stop, Jean. That is enough. I am not used to such talk. At the convent it is not permitted, and when one sees the young men of Quebec, which is not often, they do not dare. What would the Mother Superior say, or Sister Ste. Marthe? No, you must not. You are impertinent, yes, impertinent, I say."

"No, Gabrielle, not that; only an old friend. But tell me, how many fish have you caught?"

"Three, Jean, three beauties. Look!"

As Jean bent down to look into the open basket, it was not of the trout that he was thinking, but of the lovely fisherwoman by his side, whose golden head was so close to his own, and whose rosy cheek he would so much like to kiss. Yes, he would like to take her in his arms and bestow a kiss upon those laughing lips and those dancing eyes. Truly--and the thought came to him like a flash of lightning--this was the chatelaine of his castle in Spain, the golden lady of his dreams.

"Well," said Gabrielle, with a provoking smile that made an alluring dimple in her cheek, "have you lost your tongue, or is it another meditation that you have begun, Monsieur the Hermit? But tell me what you think of my fish? I caught them myself--will you believe it?--and with this fly. See! Queen of the Waters."

"Queen of the Waters," repeated Jean. "What a lovely creature! A sort of water nymph, with golden hair, blue eyes like the sky, a brown dress and rubber boots. _Mon Dieu_! What boots for a water nymph!"

Gabrielle shut the basket with a snap.

"Stupid!" she said. "I will not talk to you. You have lost your head."

"Yes, Gabrielle, that is it. Lost, absolutely, and my heart as well."

"Your heart, Jean, that is interesting. I did not know that you had a heart. And you have lost it? What a pity! Who has found it, I wonder? Who has it? What is her name? _Mon Dieu_, what is her name?"

"Gabrielle!"

"Well, go on, confess. It will do you good. You need it."

"True," said Jean, very seriously. "That is just what I have done, and to you. Her name, it is Gabrielle. Do you, can you understand?"

Gabrielle grew pale.

"That will do, Jean. That goes too far. I will not allow jests of that sort. Good-bye. I must go home now to cook these trout for dinner."

"But it is no jest--far from it. I love you, Gabrielle, to distraction; more than I can tell. Could you not----?"

"No, Monsieur Giroux, I could not. And I beg of you never to speak to me like that again."

"But why, Gabrielle, what reason?"

"Do you wish to know, Monsieur Giroux? Do you really wish to know?"

"Yes, certainly, Mademoiselle Tache."

"Then you shall have it. Do you know what the neighbours say, what my father says, what I say? It is that you are a good-for-nothing, Jean Baptiste Giroux. Do you understand? A good-for-nothing! There, I have said it, and it is true."

"Is that all, Gabrielle?" said Jean, in a steady voice.

"All?" exclaimed Gabrielle, turning on him in a blaze of anger. "All? _Mon Dieu_! It is enough, I should think."

With that she went away up the path, carrying her head very high, never once looking back to see the effect of this last crushing blow.

But, strange to say, Jean did not seem to be crushed.

"Well, that was brave of me," he said to himself. "I did not think I could do it. I am rejected, of course, and in despair. 'Good-for-nothing!' That is bad, but it is a defect that may be corrected. If that were all! Ah, if that were all! But what a vision of loveliness! What spirit! What courage! Gabrielle! Name of an Angel! Now at last I know her name. It is she, no other."

*CHAPTER VI*

*THE HABITANT*

After what had happened Jean could not ask Monsieur Tache for help in his great enterprise. He therefore applied to Monsieur Laroche, the only other rich man in the parish, and was received with scorn.

"So," said Bonhomme Laroche, "you wish to build a dam across the St. Ange, to inundate the best land on your mother's farm, to make a pond for ducks. A great work, truly! And I am to lend you a small sum of money--ten thousand dollars, only. Why not ask for a hundred thousand? That would be nothing at all for me--a mere bagatelle. We are rich, we habitants of St. Placide, men of high finance, millionaires, and we love to encourage hare-brained enthusiasts by small loans. And on what security? A dam of logs that the first spring flood will take away. You are a fool, a dam fool. Ha! Ha! Yes, a dam fool. My little joke, you see.

"But, Jean, do not go, do not be angry at my little pleasantry. I have yet a piece of advice which I will give you for nothing, although it will be worth much to you if you have the sense to take it. Listen! You have a good farm; that is to say, your mother has it, which is the same thing, since all your brothers and sisters, the whole tribe, have gone away. Go home, Jean, to the farm; raise hay, potatoes, cattle, pigs, chickens--all that. Be an honest cultivator, like your fathers for many generations. It was good enough for them; it will be good enough for you. You will wish to make some improvements, no doubt--a new barn, a stable, a house, possibly. Good! I might be able to lend you a small sum, a thousand dollars, perhaps, or even two thousand, if necessary. The rate of interest? What is that between friends? We will arrange all that.

"Now, Jean," and here the old man assumed a confidential air, "to be a good habitant one must have a good wife. Do not blush, my lad, it is only a matter of business. Without that no habitant can succeed. One's marriage should help one along, should it not? Assuredly. That goes without saying. Well, there is my daughter Blanchette, for example. I do not say that she is very young, nor more beautiful than others, but how capable, how accomplished! And she will have a dowry, of course, something generous, you may be sure. All the other children are well provided for, and I am not yet a pauper, no indeed. There. I have said it. Consider it well, at your leisure. There is no haste to decide. I will see your mother and all can be arranged without embarrassment. _Au revoir_, Jean. Come to see us when you can."

Jean did not like the advice of Bonhomme Laroche, but part of it, at least, he was obliged to take, for there was no alternative, and at sunrise on the following day he was in the fields with the hired man, dexterously swinging a long scythe and laying low great swathes of timothy and red clover. He was in perfect physical condition, with every nerve and muscle surging with energy, so that the work did not tire him, but only served to release the pent-up emotion of his soul. For the soul of Jean Baptiste was full of wrath, and as he gripped the handles of the scythe and swung the keen blade through the grass with a venomous hiss, he seemed to be cutting down an army of enemies and mercilessly trampling them underfoot.

The neighbours, those ignorant, spiteful people with their vicious gossip--how he despised them all! They hated to see a person rise above them in the slightest degree, and were always reaching out envious hands to pull him down. They wanted to make a habitant of him? Well, a habitant he would be, and beat them at their own game. Of what good was all his education if he could not use it in the growing of potatoes and the raising of pigs? Yes, pigs. The neighbours were well satisfied with a yearling hog that weighed a hundred and fifty pounds, when it might as well be two hundred pounds or three hundred even. It was a question of breed and care, as it was with cattle, horses, sheep, fowl, and every other animal on the farm. As to chickens, for example, they laid eggs in plenty all summer, at fifteen cents a dozen, but laid none at all in winter when the price rose to sixty cents and more. Why such stupidity? A question of management, merely, of knowledge and attention to business. In fact, the more Jean thought of habitant life the greater seemed the possibilities of improvement in every direction. Besides, it was a life not to be despised, that of a successful cultivator, the happiest, most independent man on earth.

Certainly the advice of Bonhomme Laroche was not to be despised. But borrow money from the old miser he would not, nor marry his daughter Blanchette if she were as beautiful as an angel from Heaven. The dowry? Did the old miser think that he could buy the hearts, the souls of men? Who would barter love for gold? Who would give that which was beyond all price for all the land, the barns, the cattle of the parish--of the world? Yet there were those who would gladly make such an exchange, the poor, deluded fools.

As to Gabrielle, that was different. There was a girl of a beauty most rare, with her tall, lithe figure, her springing step, her dainty little head with its wealth of golden hair, those laughing eyes like the depths of the sky, that tantalizing, alluring smile. It was as though an angel had descended to earth to show to mortal man the perfection of beauty of the heavenly world. But what pride, what scorn, what contempt! And how unfair, how cruel! Not a thought of justice, not a word of excuse, no chance to explain. Mademoiselle Tache was too far above Jean Baptiste Giroux. In what way? In intellect? By no means. In education? Not at all. In manners? Far from it. In wealth? Ah, that was it, the pride of purse, the base contempt for all merit that had not the stamp of gold. "Good-for-nothing! _Sacree petite vierge!_"

But wait--a year, two years, three at most--and he would show the little vixen whom it was that she had attacked with an insult so contemptible, so injurious. Then, when she would be only too glad to receive the attentions of the chief man in the parish, he would turn away and devote himself to another. But what other? Blanchette Laroche? Not for a thousand dowries. Who then? Well, there would be time enough to arrange that little detail. There were still good fish in the sea, though scarce and very wary. But in any case it would be necessary to humble the pride of that scornful beauty. "Good-for-nothing! _Sacres milles tonnerres!_"

Jean was certainly in an unhappy state of mind. Of all the neighbours he could not think of one who was his friend. Not Mere Tabeau, certainly; that old witch with the bleared eyes and the yellow teeth. She liked to talk with him now and then, but only to spit out venom. Not Michel Gamache, who was not to be trusted, a sorcerer, and no friend of man. Not Father Paradis, even; that good old priest who had been for so many years his teacher, his Mentor. Not even he, for he was disappointed in Jean because he had not taken up some useful work. Even his mother had lost faith in him. Had he not seen her looking at him with wistful, sorrowful eyes, because he was not fulfilling the promise of his early years? She also was against him, and he would have to fight the battle alone. Give it up? No, with the help of God and Saint Jean he would do battle to the very end, and would show them all what it was to fight and to win.

Thus Jean, as he toiled in the field, under the hot sun, poured forth all the bitterness of his soul, until the bitterness was gone, the wrath evaporated, and the strong man began to rejoice once more in the work of his hands. At high noon he sat down in the shade of a moss-covered rock, beside a bubbling spring, and ate the dinner that his mother had provided with gladness of heart. Never had bread and butter tasted so sweet, with fresh eggs, tasty sausage, and the jam of wild strawberries that the good mother had made with her own hands. It was an excellent meal, nourishing to body and soul; and when, after an hour's rest in the cool shade, Jean resumed his work, refreshed and strengthened, the troubles that had come into his life took their proper place in the order and scheme of things, not as incurable evils but as obstacles to be overcome by unswerving determination and persistent effort.

So Jean wrought hard all through the long day, doing the work of two men; and when, after sunset, he hung his scythe in the crook of a tree and began to climb the long hill toward home, he had put his troubles behind his back, and set his face toward the future with strong courage and a spirit of charity toward all mankind.

The life of a habitant, he thought, was not all hardship. There was work, to be sure, plenty of it; but what was that to a strong man? There was little money to be had, but one had all the necessaries of life and some of the luxuries as well. At night, how one could sleep, and in the morning how one arose with a rested body and a cheerful heart!

The neighbours? They were true friends, after all, kind-hearted, well-meaning, with all their little gossip, and their advice was good, excellent. One must have a footing in the world, else how could one accomplish anything? One must take the first step before one takes the second. One must humble oneself in the day of small things, and bide one's time, if one was to be ready when the great opportunity came which only a man of experience could seize and control. Sooner or later he would win, for the dice were loaded in his favour; but win or lose it was a great thing to live and to bear a part in the interesting and wonderful world, where every morning was a new day and every evening a new surprise.

*CHAPTER VII*

*HER MAJESTY'S MAIL*

"Ah, there you are at last," said Madame Giroux, who was lighting the lamp for the evening meal as Jean entered. "You have worked hard to-day, my son. At this rate the hay will soon be cut, will it not? But sit down and take your soup, while I tell you something.

"You knew, of course, that Tom Sullivan was likely to lose the mail contract. Well, he has lost it, or will lose it very soon, as you will see from this paper which Monsieur Laroche has given me. It is whisky again, it seems. As Monsieur Laroche says, the good Canadians can drink in moderation, but the Irish do not know when to stop. For me, I would have them all stop before they begin. What a waste of good money! And to lose the mail contract as well--what folly! But listen:

"'MAIL CONTRACT.

"'Sealed applications addressed to the Minister of Posts will be received at Ottawa up to noon of Wednesday, the first of July, 1899, for carrying Her Majesty's Mails under the conditions of a contract covering a term of four years, twice a week, going and returning, between Quebec and St. Placide, to commence on the fifteenth of July following.'

"There, Jean, what do you think of that?"

"It is an opportunity," said Jean, "and I will make application at once; but I wish that it had not been suggested by Bonhomme Laroche."

"Why not, Jean? He is a rich man, and has influence with the Government. He will help you, I am sure, if you ask him to do so."

"I will not ask him, my mother, but I think that I shall win just the same. The Irish have had the contract for some years, and it is our turn now. Tom received a hundred dollars, did he not? One dollar for a drive of thirty miles, regardless of the weather. The Government is not liberal, certainly; but there will be passengers to carry now and then, and I can take butter and eggs to market in Quebec, where I shall receive better prices than at Beauport. Oh, I can see a clear profit of two hundred dollars a year, at the very least. My mother, we shall soon be as rich as Bonhomme Laroche, the old miser. Yes, I will apply to-morrow morning. There will be other applicants, no doubt."

"Yes, Jean. Tom's cousin, Paddy Brady, will try for it, to keep it in the family, you see."

"That begins to be interesting," said Jean, with a smile. "A little conflict of races, it seems. The Irish settlement will be up in arms."

"Yes, Jean, and I am afraid of Tom Sullivan. He is big and strong and has a terrible temper, I am told. He might do you harm, Jean."

"Do not fear, my mother. We have a good understanding, Tom and I, for we have had some little affairs already, you see. No, there is no danger at all. Well, in three weeks I shall be carrying Her Majesty's Mails. That is not the summit of my ambition, by any means, but it is a step. Who can tell to what it may lead?"

On the very next day Jean sent his application to headquarters in Ottawa, and in about ten days received official notice of his appointment. At the same time Tom Sullivan and Paddy Brady heard the news, and their expressions of rage can better be imagined than described. They exhausted the resources of the English language in cursing Jean Baptiste and all his ancestors, and uttered imprecations in the old Erse tongue that were fearsome to hear. The bystanders were alarmed, and came to Jean to urge him to surrender the contract if he wished to save his life.

But Jean was not to be deterred from his purpose by any threats, and before dawn on the fifteenth of July he took the road for Quebec in his spring cart, with the light mail-bag under the seat and a supply of butter and eggs for the Champlain market. He was in high spirits, for all his work was going well, and he was making a fair start along the road to success. The years of preparation were over, and he was beginning to carry out his plans, to realize his dreams. The time of deliberation was at an end; the time for action had begun.