Chapter V: Part 5

"By the sun I should call it six o'clock, at least," said Jean. "You see, Monsieur the stranger, that we do not carry gold watches in St. Placide."

"No, to be sure. I had forgotten. A primitive place, truly. Is it possible that I spent my early years in St. Placide? But six o'clock? Surely not. Ah, I have it. Ha! Ha! How curious! It is that I have not set my watch since I left Elko, and there is a difference of two hours--or is it three?"

"Two hours," said Jean, with confidence. "You have mountain time there, I believe, and here we have eastern time. Yes, two hours."

The stranger's eyes narrowed as he looked sharply at Jean.

"Eh, what? You know that? What the deuce? Who is this? The little priest, as I live! Monseigneur! And as learned as ever, always wishing to teach one something, always casting away pearls of knowledge. Well met, my ancient friend, after all these years. This is too much pleasure. Your hand, my brave one, for the sake of old times."

The stranger extended a long, slender hand that closed about Jean's fingers like a vice of steel; but Jean understood the trick of the thumb as well as he, and it was Pamphile's hand that was the first to relax.

"Enough, enough, my brave one. It is the same Jean Baptiste that I see and feel. _Dieu_, but you have a loving clasp of the hand. It brings tears to the eyes. Well, my friend the cabby, you seem impatient. What can I do for you?"

"My fare, if you please, Monsieur--the little five dollars that we spoke of."

"Ah, yes, assuredly," said Pamphile, drawing out of his pocket a roll of bills, not one of a lower denomination than twenty dollars. "You can change American money, no doubt."

"Certainly, Monsieur. Anything less than twenty dollars."

"Not twenty dollars, cabby? What a country! We are not in Nevada, evidently. Well, my friend, this is unfortunate. What are we to do?"

"I will take the twenty dollars, Monsieur."

"You will take it all, my friend? How good of you! _Sacre_! I have a mind to give it to you as a reward of merit. It is seldom that one meets a cabby so obliging, so resourceful. You will go far, my Jehu. Yes, I am thinking of giving you the twenty dollars. Do you still feel that you could accept it?"

"No, no, Monsieur," broke in Mere Tabeau. "_Mon Dieu_, what would you do? Give him twenty dollars? Two dollars and fifty cents would have been quite enough if only you had made a bargain. What can we do? Let us think. I could perhaps find the money. Yes, Monsieur Giroux, I have a little store laid by, even I, for my funeral. Wait a moment. I will get it at once."

In her excitement Mere Tabeau forgot both rheumatism and stick, as one who had been cured at the shrine of Bonne Ste. Anne, ran into the house and presently returned with a little leathern bag, out of which she counted silver and copper coins until the cabby had a handful of small change equal to the amount of his fare.

"That is a bad penny, Madame," said the cabby, returning a much-worn coin.

"But no, it is perfectly good, perfectly good," said the old woman, angrily. "It goes, I tell you. I received it, did I not? Well, you shall take it in your turn, and if you don't like it you may pass it on. No, not another _sou_. You are a shark, a robber!"

"Let him have another, Madame," drawled Pamphile with a grand air. "Give him his five dollars in full and a quarter for drink. The twenty-dollar bill? Oh, it is back in my pocket. To-morrow we will arrange all that. And you are Madame Tabeau, no doubt, the aunt whom I have never seen until this blessed moment. Well, my aunt, it is a pleasure to meet you. But where is the little priest who was here a moment since?"

"He is gone, Monsieur Lareau. His lordship has marched away. He would not wait the pleasure of any man. Rich habitants, notaries, priests, bishops, American millionaires--they are all the same to him. It is a great lord, that. One cannot but admire him for his strength, his capacity, but I should like, I should like to slap him in the face."

"And I," drawled Pamphile, "I should like to meet him in Elko, Nevada, in the middle of the street, at twenty paces, or forty, even. Cric! Crac! Jean Baptiste falls in the dust, and there is one monseigneur less in the world. But that would not do in St. Placide, perhaps."

"For the love of God, Monsieur, do not speak so loud. Come into the house, if you please, where we can talk. Enter, Monsieur. It is not a palace, nor is it a hovel, altogether. See, all is very proper--the dining-room and kitchen in one, the sleeping apartment of Monsieur over there in the corner, and my own little boudoir in the attic. No, Monsieur, do not fear to be alone with an old woman like me. There was a time--but let us not speak of it. It is past, the golden age, and now there is nothing but rheumatism, broken bones, and the hobble to the grave.

"But before that one may have some pleasure still. One may gossip with the neighbours as they pass, frighten the women and the children, tell a few lies now and then, and, best of all, one may have revenge. Yes, life is worth living yet. We will live for that, you and I. You also have your little scores to pay, it would seem. How glad I am that you have come! What luck! But how did it happen that you left Nevada, Monsieur my nephew?"

"Oh, a little unpleasantness," said Pamphile, evasively. "One cannot stay always in the same place. One outlives one's usefulness. So it occurred to me that I might visit the scenes of my childhood, and when your letter came I decided to take a change and a rest, for the good of my health."

"And a little adventure as well," said Mere Tabeau, significantly. "A little expedition in search of gold, perhaps."

"Possibly," said Pamphile, with a smile, "if it could easily be done and without danger."

"Monsieur my nephew, listen to me. Directly east from this spot, through the forest and beyond the mountain, ten miles as the crow flies but twenty by the road, lies the village of Chateau Richer, where I was born many years ago--yes, more than sixty years. It was there that I passed my early years, and when I arrived at the age of love I was there still, in my little house by the shore, where I could see the bateaux pass up the river with the rising tide and pass down again with the ebb.

"Did the sailors stop sometimes on the way? Possibly. At least the smugglers came to see my brother Ovide. They were brave people, those smugglers, and rich as well. There were two who had a great treasure, obtained from the trade, in part, but chiefly from a wreck. They were wreckers too, of course. When the good God sends a storm, when a ship runs on the rocks, when all on board are drowned, does not the wreck belong to those who find it? Assuredly. So Michel Gamache and Toussaint Giroux found the wreck and the treasure on Anticosti, there below. They burned the wreck, brought the treasure home to the island, and hid it in a cave in the side of the hill by the long marsh.

"How do I know? Did I not see it on that night when Michel rowed me across the river at high tide when the moon was full. What a night it was! How bright the moon shone in the sky and in the still water beneath! How the grass rustled under the keel of the boat as we ran up into the little cove! I can hear it still. How dark it was in that cave, but how the gold coins glistened! Yes, gold coins, Napoleons, sovereigns, hundreds of them, in an iron box. Heavy? I could not lift it. Of what value? How should I know? Ten, twenty, thirty thousand pounds, perhaps. Oh, a great treasure. See, there is one of those coins, a love token which he gave me, he, Michel Gamache, and which I keep until the day of reckoning. I have a grudge against him? Yes, a little grudge, a slight affair of the heart which I have nourished for some forty years, for which I would kill him if I could be sure that he would go to the place of eternal fire."

"Well, my aunt," said Pamphile, with a yawn, "it is a fine story, but to what purpose? Was it to tell me this that you brought me from Elko?"

"But no, my nephew. Do you not know that Michel Gamache lives in this parish?"

"No."

"And the treasure, I tell you, those Napoleons and sovereigns, all that gold, is here in St. Placide, in the same iron box, of a weight more than you could lift, my strong nephew. No, you could do it, with some assistance, and that is why I have asked you to come. Eh, Pamphile, would not an adventure like this be as good as gambling in Nevada? Not so amusing, perhaps, but quite as profitable."

"Quite so, my aunt. And where, if I may ask, is this wonderful treasure to be found?"

"All in good time, my nephew, when everything is arranged. You will help me, will you not? We will divide the spoils. You shall have two-thirds of the treasure. I shall have the rest, and my revenge. Are the terms satisfactory?"

"More than satisfactory, my dear aunt. And the little priest, what of him?"

"Oh, that will explain itself. You will get even with him very soon, never fear. It is my little secret for the present. Yes, a fine little secret. It will reveal itself before long. If not, I will tell you."

"My aunt," said Pamphile, impatiently, "I don't give a hoot for your little secret. Keep it to yourself as long as you like, but give me something to eat."

"Well! well! Such are men--always eating. Nothing can satisfy them, neither gold, nor love, nor revenge--only meat, potatoes, soup and all that. Well, my nephew, I was expecting you, and presently we shall have a little repast together--soup of peas, fried trout, strawberries, cream, tea. How will that do? Ah, Pamphile, what a fine, tall man you are! What arms, shoulders, legs! More than a match for that Jean Baptiste, surely."

"No, my aunt; he is a giant, that little priest. My fingers tingle still from that grip of his. No, but I shall punish him all the same. There are other ways."

"Ha! Ha!" cackled the old crone, in glee. "There are other ways. Yes, indeed. Ah, my little secret, my dear little secret."

*CHAPTER XIV*

*THE TRIUMPH OF PAMPHILE*

It was on a Saturday evening that Pamphile arrived in St. Placide, and before Mass on the following morning all the parish knew that the exile had returned, not in poverty and rags, like the prodigal son, but with fine clothes on his back, money in his pocket, and driving in a carriage like a great lord. Some of the neighbours had merely heard of his arrival; others had seen him as he drove by; while a very few, highly favoured, had actually spoken to him; but on the way to Mass all the details were pieced together, the knowledge of each became the common property of all, and a story of adventure and romance was woven that grew more wonderful and variegated with the telling.

The youth had left the parish eight years before without a _sou_. Zotique Bedard himself had taken him down to Beauport as an act of charity; and Elzear Buchon, the grocer's boy, had taken him the rest of the way to Quebec. From that place he had made his way, by walking, by getting a lift now and then, by riding in and under freight cars, to Chicago, and finally to the Far West, where for many years he had wandered about from one mining camp to another seeking for gold, now finding a glittering vein that promised a fortune, now losing all at a single blast. At last he had found it, a mine of fabulous riches, and now he was a capitalist, a millionaire, living on rents and royalties, travelling for pleasure all over the world, yet coming back, like a good patriot, to the home of his ancestors.

As to his wealth there could be no doubt whatever. One had but to look at the fine frock coat of grey cloth, the embroidered waistcoat, the striped trousers, the shiny buttoned shoes, and the jaunty grey hat of soft felt with the silken cord and tassel. Such style St. Placide had never seen before, and Quebec, even, could not approach it. The housewives marvelled at the whiteness of his shirt-bosom; the young men talked of the glittering diamond stud and the gold watch with its wonderful hunting-case and the little gong within that chimed the hours; while the young ladies raved over his drooping moustache and the black, glossy mane that came down almost to his shoulders.

Altogether, the verdict was highly favourable. Pamphile was a desirable young man, a credit to the parish. What a pity that he had not come back to stay! But it was not to be expected that he could be content to settle down in St. Placide, he who had travelled over the world and had attained such eminence among his fellow-men. No, but it might well be that he had returned to seek a bride among the fair maidens of the parish. Riches might be acquired abroad, but more loving companions, more faithful wives or better housekeepers than the Canadian girls were not to be found in foreign lands. Vive la Canadienne!

True, Pamphile had not left behind a perfect reputation when he went away, but one should not be too severe in judging the pranks and peccadilloes of youth. The worst boys often become the best men. In fact, some of the most respectable habitants had been sad rogues in their younger days. No, a boy without capacity for evil had little capacity for good. It is not enough to be good; one must be good for something.

Of the relatives of Pamphile little was known. His mother had been the sister of Mere Tabeau, but was now dead. His father had been a lumberman on the Gatineau, but was drowned on the drive. Of the dead one should say nothing but good. The family was by no means distinguished, but that was all the more to the credit of Pamphile, who had been able to rise so far above them. And Mere Tabeau? Well, after all she was a harmless creature, despite her bitter tongue. Certainly, she had a gift of language truly remarkable. If only she had a silk dress, a black cloak, and a bonnet tied with ribbons under her chin, she would look quite respectable. Indeed, the wives of some of the habitants had a loud voice and an offensive manner. One must not be unjust to people merely because they are poor.

So the neighbours, as they drove to Church, praised the achievements of Pamphile and said many charitable things of Mere Tabeau. More than one stopped at the cabin to invite the old woman and her distinguished nephew to drive to Church with them. The first to come was Bonhomme Gagnon, who, after some delay, captured the lion and the lioness and bore them away in triumph. It was indeed a triumph for Bonhomme Gagnon, and fully repaid him for the gifts of trout, game, berries, potatoes, black puddings and what not, the blackmail extorted for years by Mere Tabeau because of a slight indiscretion in the days of his youth. Even Madame Gagnon, who cordially hated the old woman, condescended to sit with her in the back seat for the pleasure of escorting the American millionaire and mining king to church.

It was a great day for Pamphile. Seated beside the eminently respectable cultivator, Bonhomme Gagnon, he found himself at the head of a long procession of neighbours, assembled, it would seem, to do him honour. He thoroughly enjoyed the attention he was receiving, he who had been so unimportant in his younger days that the neighbours could hardly remember his faults, much less his good points, such as they were. But now the insignificant past was obliterated, the way of virtue and honour lay before him, and the rising sun of popular favour shone upon him. The heart of Pamphile expanded in the genial warmth of the morning sun, and he chatted in a very friendly way with the worthy habitant by his side.

"Well, Monsieur Gagnon," he said, in a tone of appreciation, "this is without doubt a very fine day."

The good habitant beamed upon Pamphile.

"I am delighted to hear you say so, Monsieur Lareau. You find our weather pleasant? That is good. Yes, we have fine weather at times, not like that of the West, of course, but still quite satisfactory. Good for the hay, certainly."

"Ah, Monsieur Gagnon, my friend, not only is the day very fine, but the scenery, I will say, is charming. Not like that of Nevada, but equally pleasing in its way."

"Can it be?" exclaimed Bonhomme Gagnon, delighted. "It is a pleasure to hear you say so, Monsieur. The weather and the scenery--both equal to Nevada in their way. But that is gratifying. Do you hear that, Marie? The gentleman has seen the world, and he knows. What a wonderful thing is travel! To go to Beauport, that is interesting; to visit Quebec, that is very fine; but to sail up to Montreal, to explore the sources of the great river, to see Chicago, Nevada and all that--what a privilege! Ah, Monsieur Lareau, I envy you."

"Yes, it is interesting," said Pamphile, reflectively. "But it is interesting, also, to return. St. Placide has changed much in the past eight years. Those good neighbours back there have an air of prosperity. Almost every one has a covered buggy. Formerly they had carts only, and many walked to Church, five, six, seven miles, even. Yes, St. Placide must be a pretty good place."

"Not so bad, Monsieur Lareau," said Bonhomme Gagnon, with pride. "There are no millionaires in our parish, but neither are there any paupers. Yes, we have our cows and pigs, our horses and spring-carts, our houses and barns, and our money in the bank. It is the dairy business, you know, that has made the change of which you speak. I myself, for example, have my little five hundred dollars laid away."

"That is interesting," said Pamphile, with a keen glance at the simple habitant. "Very interesting indeed. And you are contented I am sure, as though you owned a gold mine."

"Contented? Yes. No. A gold mine? _Mon Dieu_, if I had that I should be a prince. Marie, do not talk all the time. Listen to Monsieur Lareau, who will tell us, perhaps, about the gold of Nevada. Tell us, Monsieur, if you please. Is it true that one finds a mine, now and then, with more than a million dollars in gold, pure gold?"

"Certainly, Monsieur Gagnon. Have I not seen with my own eyes that great mine, the Comstock, whence they have taken millions and millions of gold and silver, besides lead, copper, and many other metals of great value? Ah, that was a mine! Yes, there is gold in Nevada--quantities of it. Come with me, Monsieur Gagnon, on my return, and I will show you. My own little mine, for example, would be worth a visit. I could show you places on the wall of the tunnel where you could pick off pieces of gold as large as a pea--yes, as large as a marble. Native gold, pure, twenty dollars to the ounce."

"Monsieur Lareau, I will go with you. Marie, say nothing. Too old? Not at all. I was sixty last month, but what of that? I am strong still, as an ox. The farm? You will see to that. She is a most capable manager, Monsieur Lareau. Danger, you say? Indians? Highway robbers? I had not thought of that. I am no fighter, me, and I have no desire to lose my scalp. There is not much hair left, but I need it all. Tell us, Monsieur Lareau--is there really danger?"

"Oh, yes, a little danger, of course, enough to make life interesting, but we do not think of that. I carry a revolver, of course, and robbers do not often attack one who can hit a nail on the head at fifty yards. Yes, it demands a keen eye and a steady hand, such as one seldom has at the age of sixty. No, Monsieur Gagnon, perhaps you had better stay in St. Placide. But it is a pity, a great pity. A man with a little capital, like yourself, could make a fortune in a little while."

"But could not one send one's money?" inquired Bonhomme Gagnon, with great eagerness. "Could one not send it by a good friend like yourself, an old compatriot and neighbour? Marie, is it not the thing to do, to send that five hundred dollars by Monsieur Lareau, and to receive, say, half of the profits? A species of partnership, that. If only you would, Monsieur."

"No, no, Monsieur Gagnon, I could not. Five hundred dollars is a small sum in Nevada. In the mining of gold one requires ten times as much, and after that there may be need of more. No, let us not speak of it. It would not be worth while."

"But Monsieur Lareau," persisted the old man, now afire with the gold fever, "behold the neighbours back there, each with his little store in the bank, or in some other safe place, his two hundred, five hundred, one thousand dollars, even. Then there is that rich Bonhomme Laroche, to whom a thousand dollars is nothing; and Monsieur Tache, who is a lumber king, almost. Do not refuse us, Monsieur Lareau. Consider, if you please. We might easily raise as much as ten thousand dollars. That would be sufficient, would it not, to buy a little gold mine?"

"Monsieur Gagnon," said Pamphile, with an air of great sincerity, "I ask you to observe that I did not make the proposal, and that I advise you once more to be content with your little three per cent. in the Bank of Quebec. Still, if you insist, and if Madame approves, we may consider the matter. If you do not change your mind, come to see me during the week, and we will talk. Those who begin an enterprise like this, the promoters we call them, always have a certain advantage over the others whom we take into the company. We are on the ground floor, you know, at the beginning of things, and the others we take in above. Yourself, Monsieur Gagnon, to whom the idea first occurred, would have the precedence; then I; and after us the others in their turn. But as I have said, there is always the chance of loss. Yet the profits are alluring, and the search for gold, it draws one on. But let us not speak of it any more at present. Here we are at the church. What a crowd of people! Let us descend, Monsieur and Madame. Let us descend, my aunt. Yes, Monsieur Gagnon, we shall be charmed to drive back with you after Mass."

During the service, Pamphile and his aunt, who occupied a place well toward the front, were the centre of all eyes; and it is to be suspected that the thoughts, also, of the people were centred, not upon the worship of the good God, but upon the handsome stranger who was assisting at the service with a devotion that might have put even the churchwardens to shame. What would the neighbours have thought if they had known the thoughts of the pious stranger at the most solemn part of the office, when the priest was elevating the Host, and all the people bowed in awe and adoration? He was thinking of the last time that he had assisted at the holy sacrifice, when Jean Baptiste and he were acolytes, both eager to have the honour of ringing the little bell. It was Pamphile's turn on this occasion, but Jean twisted the bell out of his hand and robbed him of his sacred right. After this, as the acolytes knelt with folded hands behind the priest, Pamphile had said, through his clenched teeth: "For this I will kill you one day, Jean Baptiste Giroux."

Now, after many years, as the little bell announced the elevation of the Bon Dieu, Saviour of the world, Pamphile repeated with hate in his soul the same words: "For that I will kill you, Jean Baptiste Giroux."

After Mass the neighbours flocked about Pamphile: those who had known him to take him by the hand, to welcome him back to the parish, and to remind him of old times: those who had not known him to look at the distinguished stranger, to listen to his talk, and to have the honour of an introduction. With a grand and gracious manner he received them all.

"Yes, yes, Monsieur Bedard, I know you very well. And you, Monsieur Picard. And you, Monsieur Plamondon. What a pleasure! Too young to remember? Not at all. I was already eighteen years old when I left St. Placide, now eight years ago. There, Madame Pouliot, you have my age exactly, but I am not sensitive on that point. Old enough to be settling down, you think? Yes, I was thinking of that myself. And what of the little Delima whom I used to see at school? Married? I am sorry to hear it--desolated. Ah, Madame Poisson, is it you? Charmed, I am sure. Monsieur and Madame Gosselin, too. Remember you? Certainly. Mon Dieu, how everything comes back to me! Have I not seen you passing along to church and to market in your spring carts, or in carts without springs? But now you drive in covered carriages in great style. What grandeur! What magnificence! How glad I am to see that everybody prospers, thanks to the good God!

"As for me, I am doing passably well, Monsieur Lebel, much better than in those days. Did I really drive to Quebec in the cart of Elzear Buchon? Yes, certainly, and I shall not forget that good butcher's boy. I was not rich at that time, no indeed. The little money left by my good father had all been spent, excepting a small sum in the bank at Quebec. Did I arrive in Nevada by means of freight cars? Oh, no, Monsieur Trembly, I was not reduced to that. After Quebec all was easy. Expensive living out there, Madame Trembly? Well, you might think so. Bread, twenty cents the loaf; butter, fifty cents the pound; eggs, a dollar the dozen, and so on. If you could get such prices at Beauport you would soon be rich, would you not? But you are already rich enough, as I see. In my days the ladies did not wear those fashionable hats, those French shoes, nor those fine cloaks trimmed with lace and braid, so _chic_, so becoming. Creations of Paris, are they not, Madame?

"Is there gold in Nevada? Yes, Joseph, my friend, plenty of it, if you know where to find it. Does everybody become rich out there? No, I will not say that, but it is a good place for young men, if they have good health and some intelligence, if they work hard, if they do not drink nor gamble, nor keep loose company, nor steal horses, nor jump claims, nor look for trouble in any other way. Yes, Joseph, it is a good place for those who have luck, for those who survive.

"It would be a fine place for that son of yours, Madame Barbeau, that Napoleon with whom I used to play. What? Here? Is this my little Napoleon? _Mon Dieu_, how you have grown! What changes come while one is away! You must be twenty-four at the very least. Still with papa and mama? All the rest gone away? Well, somebody must stay behind to take care of the farm, the cows, the pigs. It is amusing, feeding pigs. What appetites they have, what sweet voices, what gratitude! And how they love to be scratched! Ha! Ha! The pleasures of country life! Nothing like that in Nevada.

"You would return with me, Napoleon? Well, old man, that will not be hard to arrange. I am going back, of course, yet since yesterday I have had other thoughts. I have allowed myself to dream. Yes, Madame, I am still unmarried, an old bachelor, almost. There, the cat is out of the bag. The young ladies of Nevada do not suit me exactly. They have their merits, no doubt, but as to the figure, as to the complexion, as to the temper, as to the accomplishments of the housekeeper, they are not in the same class, I will say, with the young ladies of Quebec, of Beauport, of St. Placide. But tell me, Napoleon, who is that fine-looking man over there in the carriage, he with the grey hair? Monsieur Tache? Ah, I thought so. And that glorious blonde? Mademoiselle Gabrielle? Gabrielle? I do not seem to remember. Ah, I have it. The little friend of Jean Baptiste. There, the events unfold, the secrets are revealed. It is fate, without a doubt. Napoleon, old man, present me. _Au revoir_, Monsieur, Madame, my friends."

"Monsieur Tache," said Napoleon Barbeau, as he and Pamphile, hat in hand, approached the carriage; "Monsieur and Mademoiselle, I have the honour to present to you an old schoolfellow, Monsieur Pamphile Lareau, of Elko, Nevada."

"Much pleased, I am sure," said Monsieur Tache. "I remember you, I think, on account of some boyish prank of former days. But what of that? The follies of that age are gone. Come to see us, Monsieur Lareau, during the week."

"I will come to-morrow, Monsieur Tache, with your permission and that of Mademoiselle."

Monsieur Tache smiled. "To-morrow if you wish, Monsieur the stranger. We shall be glad to see you. _Au revoir_, Monsieur."

A little later, as Pamphile drove past the Giroux place, he saw Jean Baptiste in the yard unharnessing his horse.

"_Hola_, Jean Baptiste! _Hola_, little priest!" he called, in a tone of elation.

Jean raised his hat and smiled as the buggy drove by. In that smile Bonhomme and Madame Gagnon observed only the friendly greeting of a good neighbour; Mere Tabeau perceived the good-humoured toleration of a superior being; but Pamphile saw the confidence of a declared enemy and the menace of a threat half-revealed.

"It is chilly at present," he murmured. "The sun has gone behind a cloud. Or was it the manner of Jean Baptiste--a little frigid, perhaps?"

"Did you think so?" said Bonhomme Gagnon. "It was a very friendly salutation, I thought. Strange that we did not see him at the church."

"He was there," said Pamphile. "I saw him approaching the carriage of Monsieur Tache as Napoleon and I came up, but immediately he turned away."

"We were all looking at you, Monsieur," said Bonhomme Gagnon. "Jean Baptiste is with us all the time, as you know. Yet he also is a fine young man. Some say that he is much interested in Mademoiselle Tache; others say that it is Mademoiselle Laroche whom he favours. Who knows? He confides in nobody. But take care that you do not get in his way, Monsieur Lareau. It would be too dangerous. He is fierce, at times, they say, and strong as a bear."

"Let him keep out of my way, then," said Pamphile, with a snarl, "for I am not accustomed to step aside for any man. I have lived too long in the West for that. I, too, might be dangerous, my good friend."

Bonhomme Gagnon made no reply, but surreptitiously crossed himself and muttered a prayer for protection against murder and sudden death.

*CHAPTER XV*

*THE PASTIME OF LOVE*

Gabrielle was much offended at the behaviour of Jean Baptiste, not because he had refused to make the sacrifice which she had demanded, but because he had taken her at her word and had not insisted that she change her mind. If he had given up his great enterprise at her bidding she would have loved him less, or not at all. The knight who shunned the battle because of his lady's tears could never receive the prize of love. But after the battle, or during the intermissions of the conflict, he might at least come to see whether she could not smile through her tears. It was not necessary to choose between love and war when a brave man might have both for the asking.

Gabrielle wondered whether all men were as obstinate and as stupid as Jean Baptiste. For his stupidity she could pity him; for his obstinacy she could love him--almost. What an absurd person he was--how foolish, how blind! Who else would have chosen the hot, dusty road, when he might have taken the quiet, wood-land path, a lover's walk, by her side? Since that afternoon he had been busy, so busy that he had found no time for friendship, no time for love, while the summer was slipping away and the golden days passing, never to return. When the day of love was gone, Jean would regret that he had trampled underfoot the precious jewels of the heart, the true values of life, in his blind pursuit of wealth and worldly success, vanities that could not satisfy the soul.

Besides, the success for which he was working might never come. Jean was a visionary person, a dreamer, a builder of cloud-castles. Presently they would fade away, those golden fancies, leaving nothing but a colourless, empty world, a desert, an aching desolation. Then, in the cold night of adversity, he would seek for love, but should not find it; he would ask, but should not receive; he would knock, but no door would be opened. Yes, he should be well punished for all his sins, and should spend many days in purgatory, without benefit of indulgence or intercession. After a time, perhaps, there would be forgiveness and reconciliation, but not until the whole debt, principal and interest, had been paid in full.

So Jean was going to fail. Who had said so? How could that be? Consider that tall, powerful frame, those broad shoulders, the massive head, the determined mouth and chin, the piercing eyes, the air of confidence and cheerful assurance that carried all before him. No, it was not in Jean Baptiste to fail. That which he began he would carry through to the end, in spite of everything. Every obstacle he would overcome; every enemy he would trample upon; every hindrance he would cast aside--yes, even the loving arms that would embrace him, the tender heart that would be his alone. And after all, when success had arrived, with riches, honour, power, and the crown of noble achievement, he would throw it all at the feet of another--at the feet of Blanchette Laroche.

And why Blanchette? Because she was not proud; because she did not ask much, and would be satisfied with little. He had only to call, to beckon, and she would follow him like a lamb--yes, like a poodle dog. So there was a way--the way of humility. That was what Jean demanded--submission, the surrender of the will, the abasement of the spirit. It was too much. Never should he have that--never!

On the contrary, it was Jean who should make the surrender. There was a man capable of a great passion, a passion not yet awakened, slumbering in the depths of his soul. For him love was a gentle emotion which he could subdue and forget at any time, a pastime which was never allowed to interfere with the more serious affairs of life. But what would he be when stirred to the depths of his being by a tempest of love? What would he do when the master passion was aroused and assumed control? Forget himself? Surely. Forget his plans, his ambitions, his cruel pride. Yes, he would forget all but love, and be willing to sacrifice all for love. And demand all? That also. And if he gave all and demanded all, who could resist, who could refuse? Not Gabrielle Tache. Would she go with this man to the end of the world? Yes, to the end of the world.

"Gabrielle, Gabrielle! Where are you, Mignonne? Where are you, Gabrielle?"

"Here, Mama," answered Gabrielle from the corner of the garden where she was sitting in the shade of an old apple-tree.

"Oh, there you are, day-dreaming, no doubt, while I have been looking for you high and low. And where are those flowers that you were to cut for the table an hour ago--yes, two hours? What have you been doing all this time? A fine wife you will make for an honest habitant. Eh, _Mignonne_?"

"No honest habitant for me," said Gabrielle, laughing gaily. "I should much prefer one of those brave officers of the Garrison."

"For shame, Gabrielle! A red-coat and a heretic."

"A red-coat, yes. I love red-coats, so bright, so gay. A heretic? Not at all. A good Catholic from the Highlands of Scotland, a brave, handsome soldier."

"Gabrielle, do not think of him. He is not for you. Presently his regiment will be transferred and he will go away to make new conquests. Oh, I know them of old, those gay soldiers. They come, they conquer, and they march away, leaving broken hearts. Do not think of him, Gabrielle."

"One must think of something, Mama. Who shall it be? Hormidas Vincent, perhaps? Or Isidore Bouchette? On the whole, I prefer Isidore--he has such glossy hair, so neatly parted in the middle, such adorable curls and such funny little silver rings in his ears. He has travelled, that one, in many parishes. I love peddlers--they have so many curious tales to tell, and so many that they do not tell. Such an air of mystery----"

"Gabrielle, be still. For mercy's sake stop your chatter. Do you know who is coming up the road?"

"Who, Mama, who? A young man? Isidore? What bliss!"

"Be tranquil, my dear, it is not Isidore."

"Who then? I am dying to know."

"It is monsieur the millionaire of Nevada."

"That snake!"

"Gabrielle, you are dreadful. Do not talk like that. It is a fine young man of an interesting type. His dress and manners are a little unusual, perhaps, but he is tall and handsome, with an air of melancholy quite engaging--like an artist or poet, I should say. And he is rich. Yes, a distinguished-looking young man, a personage. See, there he comes. Do not be rude to him, Gabrielle."

Gabrielle had no thought of being rude to Pamphile. On the contrary, she did her best to amuse him while her mother was preparing the dinner and her father was still in the hayfield. They played croquet on the lawn, walked about in the garden, sat on the green bench of the verandah looking out on the river and the mountains, and all the while they talked of this and that, of the scenery, the parish, the neighbours, the tourists, of Beauport, Quebec and Montreal, of Chicago and the Far West, of Nevada and the gold mines, of travel and adventure, of politics even, and religion. Pamphile was nothing if not interesting, for he had travelled much with his eyes open, was by nature of a ready wit and tongue, and knew how to tell of what he had seen and had not seen with a realistic abandon that was well-nigh irresistible.

At first Gabrielle could hardly conceal her aversion for Pamphile, who was, she felt, some evil genius of the underworld; but presently she forgot his outlandish dress, his gaudy jewellery, his long hair and his unctuous suavity, and saw only the tall, handsome, mysterious stranger who had descended upon the secluded valley from the great, unknown world beyond the mountains. It was a pleasure to hear him talk in an intimate way of people and things, to watch his animated gestures and changing expression, to wonder what had brought him to St. Placide and how long he would be able to stay.

Pamphile was a born story-teller, and, like most of his tribe, his talk was chiefly of himself. He was the centre of every incident, the hero of every adventure. He spoke of the river and the great lakes, of mighty cities, of distinguished men, of the buffalo of the plains, of Indians and bandits, of lofty mountains and precipitous canons, of cattle ranches and mining camps, of gamblers and shooting affrays; and always it was Pamphile who had been wise and generous, strong and brave, who had encountered all dangers, overcome all difficulties, and who had arrived at last at the summit of his ambition and was now enjoying a well-earned rest in the peaceful valley before plunging once more into the tumult and struggle of the outer world.

Gabrielle listened as one entranced, gazing in wonder at the mobile yet inscrutable face of Pamphile. Here certainly was a new type of man, such as she had not seen in St. Placide nor in Quebec, and certainly not within the walls of the Ursulines. She tried to imagine him in the garb of a priest, reading his breviary, hearing confession, giving consolation. Absurd! And how would he look in the uniform of the Garrison Artillery? Very funny, to be sure. He would certainly need to have his hair cut. What a pity he had not lived in the time of the Grand Monarch as an officer in a regiment of cavaliers--the Carignan Regiment, for example? There he would have been almost at home. But what a figure he would cut in the costume of a habitant! Ridiculous! No, Pamphile was a citizen of another world. In the West he was doubtless a great man, not at all out of place, and it was not fair to judge him by the standards of St. Placide. Why demand that he be exactly like other people? He was different. Not bad, only different.

"Gabrielle," said Madame Tache, after Pamphile had gone away, "you were right in your opinion of that man, after all. He is a species of serpent, as you said."

"Why, Mama!" exclaimed Gabrielle, "He is a fine young man, of an interesting type. His dress and manners are a little unusual, perhaps, but he is tall and handsome, with an air----"

"Be silent, Gabrielle. I have changed my mind since I have been able to observe him more closely. It is not his clothes, altogether, nor even his hair, nor that drooping moustache, but a certain expression of I know not what, an indefinable suggestion of evil. How glad I am that he has gone!"

"But, Mama, you were quite polite to him, and Papa, too, seemed to find him interesting."

"Naturally, one is polite to a guest. And he is interesting, far too interesting. He is fascinating, almost, like a serpent. Your father, of course, was glad to hear about the mines of Nevada. I hope he will not send any money there. No, Gabrielle, that man is not to be trusted, and I will not have him come again."

"But, Mama, he is to come to play a game of croquet to-morrow afternoon."

"Gabrielle, did you invite him?"

"No, Mama. Yes. That is, he asked if he might come; and I, what could I say?"

"That is a pity, my daughter. You should have spoken to me. What shall we do? We do not want to offend him. There, I have it. You shall go down to Quebec in the morning, and we will send a message of explanation to Monsieur Lareau. Mother Sainte Anne will be glad to see you."

"Oh, Mama, not that!" cried Gabrielle, with tears in her eyes. "Do not make me leave St. Placide just now, the lovely hills, the green fields, the leafy trees, the cool air. This is not the time to go to the city, so hot, so dusty. That little dark cell will be like a furnace, a veritable purgatory. No, Mama, you do not mean it. Do not send me away. It would be too cruel."

"Gabrielle, I am surprised at you. Usually you are glad to run down to Quebec for a few days, and Mother Sainte Anne is always kind. Nonsense, my dear child; you are too silly. You shall go, of course, and in a few days, possibly, you may return. We shall see."

"Well," said Gabrielle, with a sigh of resignation, "I will go, if you wish. You know best, Mama. As for that man from the West, he is nothing to me. Do you think that I should run away with him? Oh, it is to laugh. But he amuses me with his talk, I confess, like the quack-doctor whom we saw at the fair in Quebec. Could you not let me stay another day, one little day? One little afternoon's amusement, one little game of croquet--what is that? We must not offend people without reason, as you have said, even a man from the wild and woolly West. Say yes, Mama."

"Yes, yes, Gabrielle, if you will only stop your chatter. You make a person deaf. But remember--only one day, and you are not to see that young man after to-morrow. Do not say when you will return. That will remain undecided for the present."

"Mama, you are lovely. You are a saint, an angel, a bird of paradise. And I, too, am a species of bird, but very tame, I assure you. Do not worry about me. I will not fly away, but only flutter about for a few hours, and then hop meekly into the cage. It is a nice cage, and Mother Sainte Anne is a dear soul. I have often thought that I could be happy in that holy place for the rest of my life. Those who leave the world, and give themselves, body and soul, to the good God, find rest and peace on the bosom of infinite love, and the devotion which they give is returned to them a thousand-fold. Those are the words of Mother Sainte Anne herself. Oh, Mama, do not cry. You are not going to lose me. I have my moments of devotion, but they do not last long. I am too fond of you, of all my dear friends, of this brave world, and the glories of the religious life seem dim and far away. No, I have no vocation. There, dear, console yourself. Good-night. Sleep well."

It is a pleasant game, croquet, not only because it affords moderate exercise and demands a sufficient degree of skill, but also because it permits of frequent pauses, when the players may converse about the condition of the lawn, the position of balls and wickets, the ethics of various plays, the state of the weather, and what not, while they walk about on the soft grass, or rest, it may be, on rustic benches in the shade of trees. It is a game for lovers in the springtime of life, where there is no rivalry and where both may win. But when a third party comes there is a sudden change, the spirit of rivalry enters, and the innocent game becomes a form of war, a phase of the age-long struggle of life and death.

"Ah!" exclaimed Gabrielle, as Pamphile made a long hit, "that was a fine stroke. You play well, Monsieur Lareau, better than any one in our parish; that is, better than all but one."

"But one, you say, Mademoiselle Tache?" said Pamphile, affecting an air of indifference. "And who is that, if I may dare to ask?"

"Oh," said Gabrielle, wishing to recall her words, "perhaps I am mistaken, for it is a long time since I have seen him play, but I was thinking of our neighbour, Monsieur Giroux."

"He?" said Pamphile, with a sneer. "The youth who was to have been a priest? Yes, I remember him. He must be a man by this time. Strange that he is still here among the stay-at-homes. Did he not dare to venture out into the world, where he might meet with men?"

"Monsieur Lareau," said Gabrielle, seriously, "it is evident that you do not know Monsieur Giroux, or you would not speak thus. He is very brave and very determined, and it is for that reason that he will not leave St. Placide."

"Oh, I can well understand, Mademoiselle," said Pamphile, with a knowing smile. "While there are such attractions here it is no wonder that he cannot tear himself away. For me, I also should like to stay in St. Placide. Tell me to stay, Mademoiselle."

Gabrielle blushed furiously.

"Monsieur Lareau, you take liberties. As for Monsieur Giroux, I know nothing of his affairs, but it is said that he has plans for the improvement of the parish, for the exploitation of the forest, the waterpower and all that."

"Plans?" drawled Pamphile. "Designs? Intentions? Well, I also have plans, and I hope that the former candidate for holy orders will not interfere with them. So he plays croquet, it seems. A noble game, truly! I hope that he excels in other games demanding not less of skill, but more of intellect, of courage."

"He does," replied Gabrielle, now enlisted in defence of the local hero, "he knows how to play tennis, too, better than any of the tourists; and draughts and chess, like a master. He throws the hammer--oh, an enormous distance--and he can run like a deer, and leap like--like--a grasshopper."

"A grasshopper? Name of an insect! Ha! Ha! That is good. What a marvel, that priest that was to be! The sum of all the talents! But permit me to ask, Mademoiselle the defender, if the excellent youth knows how to shoot with the revolver, or with the rifle."

Gabrielle hesitated.

"Why do you ask, Monsieur Lareau?"

"Because," said Pamphile, between his teeth, "in the Far West that is the first thing that one thinks of, and the last."

Gabrielle grew pale.

"Monsieur Lareau," she begged, "please forget what I have said. I did not mean to offend you. Monsieur Giroux is nothing to me, but when you speak contemptuously of one of the neighbours, I wish, naturally, to defend him as much as possible. So please forgive me, Monsieur. It was discourteous in me, I know."

"Say no more, Mademoiselle Tache; it is I who have offended. I was perceiving a rival, that was all. If Jean Baptiste is not that he is my dear old schoolfellow, of whom I have often thought during my long years of exile. I should like to meet him again, for the sake of old times."

"That could be arranged," said Gabrielle, with animation. "But no, alas, I shall not be here, for I am going away to-morrow, to Quebec."

Pamphile was aghast.

"To-morrow! And I had promised myself the pleasure of another game of croquet. Not to-morrow, Mademoiselle--the day after to-morrow, let us say."

"It is not I who decides these affairs, Monsieur, but my mother; and she is inflexible."

"Ah, cruel parent! Yes, I see, I see. Because I am not an eligible _parti_. Cruel parent! But surely Mademoiselle will return."

"Oh, yes, certainly. St. Placide is my home to which I return frequently. Before the end of the summer, no doubt."

"The end of the summer! Alas, long before that time I shall be on my way to Nevada, never to return. But will Mademoiselle be so kind as to tell me where she will be staying at Quebec!"

"Certainly, Monsieur," said Gabrielle, pathetically. "At the Convent of the Ursulines."

"A convent! _Mon Dieu_! Not to take the veil, I hope."

"Oh no," laughed Gabrielle, "not that, although I have sometimes thought of it. No, only to stay a while to receive a little more instruction in music, painting, embroidery, and all that. To finish, to be finished, you know."

"Yes, I know," sighed Pamphile. "It is I who am finished. But such is life. Mademoiselle Tache, you cannot imagine what a pleasure it has been----"

"Yes, and for me also," said Gabrielle, with a sad little smile. "It is such a pleasure to meet strangers, people who are different, you know. No, I shall not forget you. But there is Mama calling me. I must go. Good-bye, Monsieur Lareau. Good luck."

"But Mademoiselle, I have something else to say."

"I cannot wait, Monsieur. Some one is coming."

"Mademoiselle, it is of great importance, a matter of life and death, concerning our friend Monsieur Giroux, something which I must tell to you, and you alone. Well, if you will not, it is all the same to me. Adieu, Mademoiselle. Much pleased, I am sure."