Chapter VI: Part 6

"But, Monsieur Lareau, can you not write?"

"Absolutely impossible. To-morrow morning at sunrise I shall be back there in the forest where the path crosses the little stream, and I shall wait ten minutes."

"Monsieur, this is too much. I have the honour to bid you good evening."

"Good evening, Mademoiselle, and many thanks for all your kindness. And I shall be there at the time appointed."

On the following morning, as the sun rose above the hill, peeping through the thick foliage he perceived Pamphile Lareau reclining upon a mossy bank beside the little brook that flowed through a shady glen to join the main river about half a league below. His broad-brimmed hat lay on the ground beside him, his long black mane fell on his neck and shoulders, and he was twisting the ends of his moustache as he smiled expectantly--a smile that was not good to see. In the clear morning light there was no illusion of romance or chivalry about Pamphile. The glamour of the evening twilight was gone, and he appeared as he was, a beast of prey, a panther ready to spring upon the passer-by. Suddenly he became aware of a presence, and glancing up he saw Gabrielle, pale and beautiful as the morning, looking at him with awakened and startled eyes. He saw no change in her, but smiled exultantly as he slowly rose and held out his arms.

"A fine morning, Gabrielle."

Gabrielle drew back.

"You presume, Monsieur Lareau," she said, coldly. "You presume upon a too slight acquaintance. But no matter. Will you have the kindness to give me your message?"

"Oh, time enough for that. The day is young. Let us talk a little. Let us look at the trees, listen to the birds, watch the clear stream as it flows along. Let us enjoy the beauty of the morning, the charm and seclusion of the woods. No? What?"

"I have no time for that," said Gabrielle, impatiently flicking her boot with the riding-whip which she carried in her hand. "If you please, Monsieur Lareau, give me the message."

"Message? There is no message," said Pamphile, with a leer. "That was understood, was it not? It was only to say good-bye."

"No message?"

"No. That is to say, yes. A moment, Mademoiselle. Come back, for the love of God. It is here, the message, the letter. Allow me to hand it to you. It will explain everything. There, I have you, little bird. Do not wriggle so. A kiss. One only. No? Then I take it--thus and thus. Ah! _Sacree diable de femme_! _Sacre_!"

Pamphile's note of triumph ended in a scream of rage and pain, for Gabrielle, wrenching herself free from his grasp, turned on him with flaming face and blazing eyes, and with the raw hide whip struck him twice across the face. Immediately she fled up the path, calling loudly for help.

"Jean! Jean! To me! To me! Ah, _Mon Dieu_! Jean! Jean!"

With sublime faith in the hour of danger Gabrielle was demanding a miracle; and lo! her cry was answered, for it was Jean himself who came running down the path in time to catch her in his arms as she was on the point of falling to the ground.

"Gabrielle, what is it? What is the matter, dear? Ah, I see. The whip--give it to me. So it is you--thief, dog! Stand there! A fine face you have. There, take that--and that! Shoot, would you? Drop it! Good. Take two more! There! And there! It is a wonder I do not kill you. Go!"

Pamphile slunk away like a whipped cur, but with murder in his heart. Jean watched him until he disappeared in the forest, and then turned slowly, as one in pain.

"Gabrielle!"

But Gabrielle was gone.

*CHAPTER XVI*

*THE TEMPTATION OF JEAN BAPTISTE*

"Jean! Jean! To me! To me!"

The cry seemed but an echo in the recesses of the woods, yet Jean could not rid himself of the feeling that Gabrielle was still in danger and in need of help. The same vague sense of danger had come to him a little while before, as he stood on the doorstep of his house, smoking his pipe, watching the sunrise, and planning the day's work, and had brought him running along the road to the Tache place and thence down the woodland path to meet her whom he loved best and him whom he most hated. They had met; the danger was past; and now it seemed to Jean that he was totally indifferent to Pamphile and that he hated Gabrielle more than any other being in all the world. Answer her cry for help? Never again!

"Jean! Jean!"

The call was fainter now, with a note of reproach and the suggestion of a sob, but Jean gave no heed. He only stood there, his heart full of jealousy and anger, thinking evil thoughts. A strange meeting, surely, on that lonely path at such an hour. A coincidence? Hardly. Pre-arranged? Doubtless. To what end? Who can understand the heart of a woman? To meet a stranger by accident on a Sunday morning, after Mass, to have one visit and another, a game of croquet, and then----. Love at first sight, it would seem, and after that a rapid career, a swift descent into the depths. Inconceivable? Yes. Impossible? Nothing is impossible. Even the holy angels could fall from Heaven, and the Son of God might have bowed down to Satan.

But the whip? Jean held it up in his clenched hand, a short but heavy raw-hide with a knotted tail and loaded head, a dangerous weapon in strong and determined hands. She had come alone, but not unprotected. And those marks on the face of Pamphile? Inflicted by the selfsame whip, evidently. By whose hand? The hand of Gabrielle. Jean's heart gave a leap at the thought, and he almost smiled. She had struck Pamphile twice with the knotted tail, and if Jean had not come to the rescue she would have turned at bay and felled her assailant to the ground with the leaden head. Brave Gabrielle! A girl of spirit, that, a girl worthy of any man.

How then could she be ensnared by that spider, be fascinated by that serpent? But she had broken the spider's net; she had escaped the wiles of the serpent. A lover's quarrel? Only lovers quarrel; the indifferent never. But do they strike each other with a whip? No, thank God, Gabrielle did not love Pamphile. Impossible. As for the rest, what matter? Strange, certainly, that meeting in the woods, but not more strange than his own arrival in the nick of time. The world itself is strange, and the combinations, the possibilities, infinite. All is strange, mysterious, improbable. Nothing can be explained. One must have faith in one's friends, in oneself, in God. No; she cared nothing for that reptile. A passing fancy, perhaps, but even that was over--else why the blow, the flight, the cry for help? On whom does one call in the hour of danger? On one's friends, first of all, and then, in the last extremity, on God.

"Jean! Jean!"

A low voice seemed to call to him from the hill, a voice as of one in tears.

Jean awoke from his reverie, and ran up the path.

"Gabrielle!" he called. "I am coming, dear. No danger. I am here. Gabrielle! Gabrielle! where are you?"

The voice of Jean awoke the echoes of the hills, but there was no other reply. On he ran with fear in his heart, peering into the woods on either side, and calling incessantly, until he reached the place where the path left the forest, and he could see the home of Gabrielle nestling in a hollow in the midst of green fields, with its white walls, its spacious verandah, its black roof with dormer windows, and its massive stone chimney from which a wisp of yellow smoke rose in the morning air. It was a picture of comfort and security; and, as Jean looked upon the peaceful scene, he assured himself that his fears were groundless and that all was well.

There was, however, a slight commotion about the place, such as one might expect to see on a market day or on the departure of some member of the family for a visit to the city. A large valise lay on the verandah, and at intervals Madame Tache or a maid appeared with a parcel or two, a parasol, a cloak, a basket. Monsieur Tache and one of the men hurried to the barn; presently the great doors were flung open and a prancing pair of bays came out with a carriage, as though the family were going to Mass, to a wedding, or some other notable celebration. Jean could hear the wheels crunch on the gravel as they drove around to the front steps, where the valise and the parcels were put on in front with the driver, while Madame Tache and Gabrielle came out of the house all ready to depart.

It was Gabrielle herself, dressed all in white, like a bride, a white cloak on her shoulders and a white hat with a single white plume above her golden hair. Jean could not see her face in the distance, but she seemed loth to go, for she ran hither and thither saying good-bye to everybody, even to the chickens and geese, patted Boule, the dog, on the head with a lingering caress, and then threw her arms about her father's neck, sobbing bitterly.

Jean turned away with tears in his eyes, and when he looked again the bays were prancing along the road, strong and proud, as though carrying a queen and a princess to a wedding feast. Never was princess more beautiful and more sad, for she had the air of one who was forsaking all that she held most dear, and going away never to return. As she passed near the place where Jean was standing she looked up once with an appealing glance, but made no sign of recognition or farewell. It was as if she did not see him, but was looking beyond into the depths of the woods. As the carriage came to the turn of the road Gabrielle turned and waved her handkerchief toward her old home. Perhaps Jean was included in the farewell. At any rate, he waved back, and as the carriage disappeared from sight he thought he caught a flutter of white meant for him alone.

Jean took a long breath, and then another, to keep down the tide of emotion that was surging up from the depths of his soul. Then, pulling himself together with a mighty effort, he sprang over the fence and strode down the road toward his own home at a terrific pace, as though to escape as fast as possible from the place where he had seen the vanishing of all his hopes. For Jean did not deceive himself; he understood it all; could see it all, as in a vision. Gabrielle, that angel in the white robes, was leaving St. Placide--for ever. She was going to a wedding--her own--in the chapel of the Ursulines, before a congregation of black-robed sisters. She would be a bride--the bride of Christ. They would cut off her golden hair, dress her in black from head to foot, and make her say infinite prayers by night and day on the cold, stone floor. Did Christ demand that?

"I do not believe that He will have that," said Jean, aloud. "But if so, I protest. It is not just. By Heaven, it is not! Ah, why did I not answer at the first call? Why did I not follow? Fool that I was! Yes, fool, fool!"

"Not so fast, Jean Baptiste," said a voice directly in front of him. "Stop! You are running me down! Stop, I say! There you have done it! _Sacre diable_! Fool! Yes, fool, fool!"

Jean stopped at last in his mad career, looked about in a dazed manner, and saw a little old man picking himself up from the dusty road, while filling the air with curses.

"Why, Monsieur Laroche, is it you? What is the matter? You fell down? I ran over you? Surely not. Mon Dieu, Monsieur, if I did I am sorry. Forgive me, I beg of you. It was an accident, I assure you. I was not thinking; that is to say, I was thinking of something else. There, Monsieur, allow me to brush off the dust, and to hand you your hat. Oh, but I am sorry. What can I say?"

"Nothing!" said the old man, with a vicious snap of the jaws. "Say nothing! Don't speak to me! I will get even with you. Yes, I will punish you for this, Monsieur the Proprietor, Monseigneur the Millionaire that is to be. Yes, I will show you."

"Well, Monsieur Laroche, if you feel like that I can do no more. Good-day, Monsieur."

"Not so fast, Jean Baptiste Giroux," said the old man, with malicious deliberation. "Not so fast, my enterprising friend. Remember, if you please, the little payment that is coming to me, the half-yearly interest that will be due next week."

"Well, what of it?" said Jean.

"You will pay it," said the money-lender, with a leer, "on the very day."

"Of course," said Jean, with contempt. "Is that all you wished to say?"

"Yes. No," said the old man, taken by surprise, for he had expected Jean to ask for an extension. "You will pay it when due--on the very day? Well, I like that. It pleases me. It is not often that one finds a young man of such a talent for affairs, of such promptitude. It is a good sign, Jean Baptiste. You will succeed, no doubt, if you have good luck. Yes, a promising young man. If only I had a partner like you, a son-in-law. What? It could be arranged, could it not? The little daughter has refused, of course, but might change her mind. Who can tell? Women are variable, as you know. What do you say, Jean, my lad--shall we have a try?"

"Monsieur Laroche," said Jean, earnestly, "I have the greatest respect for Mademoiselle Blanchette, and I would not for the world have you persuade her to change her mind. These marriages of convenience are generally unsuitable and often terrible. It is a dreadful thing--marriage without love."

Bonhomme Laroche laughed aloud.

"Jean Baptiste Giroux, you talk like a fool. Marriage of convenience? And why not? The union of two good farms, with buildings, implements, cattle, horses, and all that, appears to me very convenient and suitable. Moreover, on one side a fine hotel, on the other an ample dowry--what better could you desire? Marriage without love? It is to laugh. Go home, Jean; regard yourself in the glass, and consider. Six feet in your stockings, straight as a tamarack, broad shouldered, strong as an ox, a great chief, a leader of men. What girl could not love a man like you? They have eyes, those creatures, you may believe. And my Blanchette--what beauty, what good temper, what capacity! Jean, my lad, it is all right; it will go, it is a match made, I will say, in Heaven. Yes, say nothing; it is to be."

Jean was speechless, for the little old man, pouring forth a torrent of words, fairly danced with excitement and finally flung his arms about the young man's neck in token of complete reconciliation.

"Jean, Jean, my son. It will arrange itself. Say nothing. I will not hear. Go. That little payment--forget about it. What is that among friends; yes, relations. There, not a word. All is forgotten. Go home, I say, for the present. Adieu! Adieu!"

It was still early in the morning, for Jean had been away from home scarcely an hour--an hour that seemed an immeasurable time, during which he had seen his past life unroll before him like a writing in a foreign language, dark and meaningless. During that time he had seen his ideals, his plans, his dream-castles melt away into nothing, and all his future become a blank. The sun was still shining, the clouds still floating in the sky, the grass still green, the birds still singing, the air still fragrant with the odours of pine and balsam, of crushed strawberries and new-mown hay--but not for him. The world to him seemed colourless, odourless, silent as the tomb, because the light and joy had gone out of his life when a young girl with blue eyes and golden hair had passed down the road clad all in white as a bride adorned for her husband. She had vanished at the turn of the road, and immediately the world was changed.

The glory of the world had departed; the beauty was gone; love had flown away; and life was no longer worth while. Even the great house, the work of his hands, his castle and seat of pride, was like a broken toy, a thing to be thrown aside. It had ceased to interest him, but still the force of habit led him thither. He pressed the latch, and entered the great kitchen where his good mother was preparing breakfast.

"Good morning, Jean," she said, looking up with a smile, which immediately changed to a look of alarm, "Oh, Jean, what is it? What is the matter? Where have you been? What is it, Jean, my son?"

"It is nothing, my mother," he said, with a fugitive smile. "Nothing at all. That is, I am a little tired, perhaps."

"Tired? A great man like you, and at this time of the day! Six o'clock on a fine summer morning--and tired! Very strange, that. No, Jean, you are putting me off. What is it, then? Tell me, my son."

"It is Bonhomme Laroche, my mother."

"That old miser. What does he want?"

"His money."

"His money? We have not had it six months, and the loan was for three years."

"It is the interest that he wants, my mother, the half-yearly interest."

"Well, that is not much, a matter of sixty dollars or so. We will pay him."

"Yes, we will pay him, of course, but we shall not have much left."

"Nonsense, Jean! We shall have still a nice little deposit in the bank; the tourists owe us a good sum; and to-morrow we shall send butter and eggs to the market--five dollars worth at the very least. No, there is no cause for worry. The business is going well. It will come out all right, with the help of the good God. Have courage, my son. The time of sowing will soon be over, and you will see the golden harvest, the fruit of all your planning, your work. If that is all--no!"

"He wishes to buy a husband for his daughter."

"For his daughter--for Blanchette? Yes, I know. All the rest are married--long ago. Only the little Blanchette is left. Not so very little now, nor so very young. Let us see--ten, twenty, twenty-five, yes, twenty-six years this summer. I remember well--fourteen years after we came to the parish. They were sufficiently poor then, those Laroches, poor and not at all proud. But they are not so very proud even now, although quite rich. And the little Blanchette was pretty, too, before the smallpox. A clever girl, and excellent housekeeper, a manager from the bottom, a worker, too. No, it is not a bad suggestion, not at all.

"Yes, she would be a fine partner for one who owns a hotel. No fear of failure after that. All anxiety gone, all concern for the future. The dowry would be considerable. She would have that fine farm, with cattle, horses, pigs, sheep, implements, furniture, linen, and all that, not to speak of money in the bank. Bonhomme Laroche has explained it to me many times. A strange man, that. A miser, true, but a just miser. He will have his money always, to the last _sou_, but no more. I hope that we may be able to pay him all, when due. There are great risks in an enterprise like this, and great responsibilities. The alliance would settle everything, remove all difficulties, dispel all clouds. Think of it, Jean. The two farms united--a veritable estate, a seigniory, almost. Ah, my son, if your father were alive, how pleased he would be!"

"My father," said Jean, thinking aloud, "would he have sold himself in this way, I wonder?"

"Your father, Jean, would be pleased to see your prosperity, as I have said, but for himself he did not regard such things. They had no power over him. He did not know the value of money, that man. For him truth, honour, a good name, were the true values, more precious than rubies, more desirable than all the gold of the world. And love? Yes, love above all. He also could have married an heiress, the daughter of a rich merchant, a ship-owner. Beautiful she was, I must confess, beautiful and accomplished. Yet he preferred me, me. I never knew why. Ah, _Mon Dieu_, what devotion! Did he ever regret it? He never said so. On the contrary, he assured me many times---- And I, did I regret the poverty, the work, the long years? No, it was my glory. And you, Jean, my son, are like him, and I know what you will do. Yes, and you are right, both of you. Land, cattle, money, are very fine, all right in their place, but in comparison with love they do not count for much. Ah, selfish old woman that I am to wish you to give up so much for the sake of a dowry. Jean, my son, you shall not, you could not."

"No, my mother, it would be impossible."

"Well, let us say no more about it. Let us think of something else. There are still good fish in the sea, although they are often hard to catch. That little Gabrielle, for example, the most beautiful girl, they say, in all the parishes. Even in Quebec, there is not her equal. They are rare, you know, blondes of that type, with hair like a sunset cloud, not red, not gold, but something of both, and changing with the light. And such a complexion, such a lovely face, and a smile that touches the heart. A sufficiently good temper, also, not meek, but high-spirited, polite and altogether charming. An ample dowry, too, which is not to be despised when all the rest is there. It contributes to independence and harmony.

"A most independent young lady, not easily caught, I should say, but a prize for any fisherman. I have heard of several young men who have aspirations--a brave young officer of the Artillery, for one. They are dangerous rivals, those young soldiers, with their fine clothes, their noble bearing, their self-confidence. I remember them well. They are irresistible, almost. And Gabrielle is no ordinary habitant girl, but one who would be at home in any society, high or low. She will fly away some day, I fear. I don't like to think of that, for the parish will be different without her. Yes, very different.

"But, Jean, what is the matter? Where are you going? Sit down again, please. Your breakfast is just ready. See, I have something that you like, a nice piece of ham, some eggs, and the most delicious pancakes."

"Thank you, dear," said Jean, wearily, "but I have no appetite this morning."

"No appetite? That is serious. What is wrong? Work to do? Nonsense! How can one work if one does not eat? Do not go, my son. At least, come back soon, soon. There, I have driven him away. Talkative old woman! Stupid old creature! My poor Jean!"

*CHAPTER XVII*

*VENGEANCE*

The brief summers are warm in St. Placide--how else could the crops of hay, oats, and potatoes come to maturity?--but usually the nights are cool, that the habitants, who have toiled many hours in the hot sun, may enjoy refreshing sleep and be ready at the point of dawn for the work of another day. But now and then, in the dog days, there comes a blistering day, followed by a hot and sultry night, when tired people lie awake for hours, longing in vain for rest.

The night following the departure of Gabrielle was such a night as this, and Jean Baptiste, finding the heat of his attic insupportable, went out on the railed terrace that crowned the roof, and lay down under the stars. There was not a breath of air, and no sound to be heard but the steady murmur of the river in the valley below. The beasts that prowl by night made no noise; the bats flitted silently to and fro; now and then an owl passed like a shadow; here and there the lamp of a firefly glimmered and went out; and the stars twinkled wearily as though they would fain close their eyes in sleep.

Jean did not sleep, but lay thinking of his past life, his ambitions and struggles, his hopes and fears, his successes and failures, as though trying to strike a balance of profit and loss that should give value to his life or show how empty it was of all worth and meaning. He had always assumed that life was worth living--but why? In God's name, why?

To know, to understand? He had read much in printed books and in the book of nature; he had tried to think, to guess, to imagine the answer to the riddle of existence, but with what result? All was mystery, shrouded in darkness, silent, speechless, with only a twinkling light here and there to lead--or mislead. To know? That could not be the end of life, for what could one know? Nothing.

To love? Ah, there was something to fill the heart with joy--and pain. When one finds a human being so beautiful that one would gaze on her for ever, so sympathetic that in her company one has an enduring sense of harmony and peace, so dear that one would fain be with her until the end of time and afterwards in the eternal world--when one finds such perfection of loveliness, surely it is the perfection of existence to love and to be loved. Yes, but if one were not loved. If in the early morning she went away, of her own free will, to be the bride of another, what could one do with that consuming love but tear it from the heart, that one might give oneself heart and soul to the work of life?

The work of life? There at last was something for the strong hand and brain, something to occupy the thought, to drive out the spirit of despair, to fill the life with action, to cause one to forget the mystery of existence and the shipwreck of love. To work, to build, to create, to find the expression of oneself in the work of one's hands, and, finally, like God, to pronounce it good--there was achievement to satisfy the soul. If only the works of man, like the works of God, could last for ever! Yet even these would pass away. Out of the darkness of primeval chaos all had come; back to chaos and darkness all would go. Yes, even the works of God. And God Himself? What was He but the creator of a vain show, the spirit of deceit and futility? It is written that He repented that He had made Man. What wonder?

Jean Baptiste, as he lay there in the gloom of night, was wandering, in thought, away from the realities of daily life, far from the trodden paths, beyond all landmarks, into the confused and misty regions where no reason dwells, but doubt, madness, and fell despair, and where there is a downward path that plunges the lost soul into the abyss.

From these evil dreams he was awakened by the rumbling of thunder, and the falling of great drops of rain from a black cloud that passed, like a curtain, across the sky. Flashes of lightning lit up the valley, showing the trees of the forest bending before the wind, while here and there a broken trunk stood erect with naked limbs from which the branches had been torn by the fury of the gale. Presently the storm arrived, shaking the house to its foundations; the rain came down in torrents; and from the inky sky there fell lurid forks of lightning followed by crashing thunder, the sound of falling trees, and the cries of terrified beasts and men. It was a terrific, a sublime spectacle, a display of power before which the timid soul cowers and shrinks and seeks a place of refuge, a hole wherein to creep, if by any chance it may escape the vengeance of the awful power against which it cannot contend. Not so Jean Baptiste, who enjoyed the refreshing bath of rain and the brilliant display of colour, and to whom thunder claps were reassuring, since he knew that he who hears the thunder has not yet been touched by the lightning. But suddenly there appeared a great blaze of violet light, with a little crackling noise, and for Jean Baptiste the show was ended. The bolt of God had fallen upon La Folie, and the master of the house was very close to death.

Immediately after this, as it seemed to Jean--it was more than an hour--he felt himself roughly shaken, and heard a voice calling, as from a great distance.

"Wake up! Wake up, Jean! _Mon Dieu_, will he never hear? Wake up, I say. We must get down out of this."

"Get down?" said Jean, drowsily, without opening his eyes. "Get down? But no, it is comfortable here. Let me alone, please. I am sleepy, sleepy."

"There, you are all right, I see," said the voice, louder now. "But get up, quick, quick! Get up, or I will throw you down. _Sacre fou_! Take that!"

"Don't kick me," said Jean. Then, opening his eyes, he stared at his assailant.

"Oh, it is you, Pamphile, and you kick me? Well, I don't wonder. Do it again, my friend, and after that I will throw you off the roof. But how black your face is! And where is your hair? _Mon Dieu_! What has happened?"

"Happened? _Sacre bleu_! Your house is on fire. I tell you. Fire! Fire! Get up, you cursed idiot, and save yourself. For the last time--get up!"

As Jean rose to his feet black volumes of smoke were rolling up from the stairway, and he could hear the roar of flames below. He started down the stairs.

"Not there, you fool!" yelled Pamphile. "I passed that way two minutes ago, and see me now. This way! We can slip down the roof on this side and then jump to the ground. Are you ready?"

"Yes," said Jean, slowly, "and I am sorry that I struck you with the whip. It would have been better----"

"Shut up!" said Pamphile, savagely. "You shall pay for that, oh yes. But at present we must save ourselves. _Dieu_, but it is hot! This way. The roof will hold, I think. Prepare to jump in a moment. No, that will not be necessary--they have placed a ladder. There is some intelligence left, I see. Steady, now. Slowly. No danger. There, you are on earth again. _Par Dieu_! It was a close shave. The roof has fallen in. Madame, I have the honour to present to you Monseigneur de la Folie, the biggest damn fool in St. Placide--yes, in all Canada."

"Listen to that," said one of the neighbours, who had hastened to the scene at the first alarm. "That is what I have always said. Jean Baptiste was a big fool to build a house like that--yes, a damn fool, as Monsieur the millionaire has said. It is a brave man, that millionaire. And Madame is glad to see her son again."

"Yes," said Bonhomme Gagnon, with an air of importance, "it was I, you see, who was the first to arrive. Already the house was in flames. The people were safe--that is to say, all but Jean, who sleeps in the attic. Madame was distracted, frantic. 'Where is Jean? Oh, where is Jean?' she screamed. 'Jean, my Jean! He will be burned to death.' She rushed to the door, going to run upstairs through all the smoke and flame. 'No, no, Madame,' I said, 'you cannot. Wait a minute, Jean will waken, no doubt, in a moment. If not, I will go myself.' But she would not listen.

"Then comes along Monsieur Pamphile, his face white as a sheet, but all marked with red stripes as though some one had struck him with a lash. What was the cause of that, I wonder? 'Stop, Madame!' he cried. 'I will find the little priest. I will bring him down to you.' He did not go in by the door--that was impossible--but climbed up to one of the windows of the second floor, and went in. 'There is a good man gone to his death,' said I to myself. But presently he appeared on the roof, as you have seen. It was lucky I thought of the ladder, was it not? It was I who said: 'Bring the ladder.' You heard me, Damase."

"Yes," said Damase Gosselin, with a smile; "you were saving the life of a tourist, I think."

"Naturally," said Bonhomme Gagnon, with some asperity, "I was assisting everybody."

"And meanwhile," continued Damase, "the millionaire from Nevada ascends to the rescue of Jean Baptiste. It is a hero, that millionaire. But where is he? Disappeared, vanished! That is the way with heroes. They are modest people. One never hears them blow their own horn."

"That is true," said Bonhomme Gagnon, nodding his head vigorously. "The brave are always humble. That is the way with me, for example. I never like to talk of myself, for fear somebody will laugh at me. It is enough to have a good conscience, no matter what people think. But I will tell you, in confidence, that it was I who first saw the fire, who gave the alarm. Without me no Pamphile, no Jean Baptiste descending by the ladder."

The neighbours crowded about Bonhomme Gagnon, who went on, impressively:--

"Yes, I heard the clap of thunder, of course. Who could sleep on such a night? 'There,' I said, 'something was struck. La Folie, perhaps, standing alone on the hill, with no lightning-rods.' I went to look, but could see nothing. At the next flash there was La Folie, the same as ever. It was only a tree, I thought. Soon the rain ceased, and I sat on the steps smoking my pipe, and looking at the clouds as they cleared away. I thought to myself: 'La Folie will get it sooner or later. The good God does not love a man like Jean Baptiste, so proud, so ambitious, so avaricious, one who would change everything, overturn everything--an atheist, almost. Yes, the good God will punish him some day.' It was prophetic, that thought of mine, for after a while I saw a bright light in one of the windows at La Folie, and then a great blaze that lit up the whole house. I made a jump, you may be sure, called Marie, Francois, Isidore, Suzette--all the family. 'Fire! Fire!' I called, and ran as fast as I could up the hill. _Dieu_, but it was an excitement."

"What a pity that you cannot run fast, Monsieur Gagnon!" said Damase. "If you had arrived sooner you might have saved Jean yourself."

"Very true," said Bonhomme Gagnon, "and I would have done it, you may be sure, but for those tourists. When I arrived they were descending from the windows, some in night-gowns, some with trousers on; and one, that Englishman over there, with all his clothes, an eye-glass even. 'Here, my man,' he said, 'if you will bring me a ladder I will step out of this, for it is deuced hot.' I was carrying the ladder when Madame appeared wringing her hands, and then came Pamphile, as you know."

"The Englishman offered to pay you well, no doubt," suggested Damase.

"Yes. No. That is to say, he mentioned a certain sum, but I could not think of it. I was saving life, you see, human life, which is of more value than money. Afterwards, if he had felt that his life was worth five or ten dollars, I might have been persuaded---- But I could do nothing for him. Madame wanted the ladder for her son, who, naturally, seemed of great importance to her, and I placed it by the roof, just in time."

"Monsieur Gagnon," said Damase, emphatically, "you also are a hero, that is evident. What a pity that such heroes cannot receive a substantial reward--five dollars, at least, for every life that they save! The life of that Englishman must be worth at least that amount. Let us ask him for it, Monsieur Gagnon."

"No, no!" spluttered Bonhomme Gagnon. "I would not for the world. He has lost his eye-glass, and is in a bad temper."

"True," said Damase, "and when you took the ladder away he was in a fine rage. It was a pleasure to see him. His bath-tub also was consumed, and his sponge. But the good God let him off easy compared with poor Jean. But tell us, Monsieur Gagnon, is it true Jean has said that the good God did not cause the fire? Is he really an atheist, as they say?"

"Not so loud, Damase," whispered Bonhomme Gagnon. "He might hear you. See him over there as he watches his fine house burn to ashes. He is angry, as you may imagine. He has lost money--more than the farm is worth. Insurance? None at all. He was a fool, as Pamphile has said, one with too much confidence in himself and too little in the good God. An atheist? Very likely. Who else would want to build an hotel in St. Placide, to bring tourists to our peaceful parish, to introduce strange fashions, to corrupt the youth, to overturn everything? And he wishes to make a dam across the St. Ange, to build a factory, to create a city. Yes, he would change all the old ways, the good customs, the holy religion, even. An atheist? Very likely. But the good God was against him, as we have seen, and Jean Baptiste is finished. He will be a habitant, like the rest of us, or he will leave the parish. Well, let him go. We were here before he was born, and shall be all right after he is gone. St. Placide has no need of Jean Baptiste."

The mind of Bonhomme Gagnon had been poisoned against Jean by his association with Pamphile and Mere Tabeau, and the rest of the neighbours were strangely ready to think ill of him and to believe that he had been justly punished for his pride and presumption. He had wished to set himself upon an eminence far above the neighbours, and had tried to make himself a great lord, a species of pope, in the parish of St. Placide; but the good God, seeing that he held his head so high, had brought him down and humbled him in the dust. His great house was a heap of ashes; his plans were shattered, his prospects ruined; and he who had thought himself the perfection of all the virtues, the sum of all the talents, was finding by bitter experience that he was only a common man. Every man must learn this lesson, sooner or later, that his pride may be broken, his spirit chastened, that he may be able to bear the yoke, to walk side by side with his fellows and to walk humbly before his God. Thus the neighbours, by a strange mixture of piety and hypocrisy, conspired to humble one who had dared to raise his head above them, and deified the envy and malice of their own hearts.

Mere Tabeau was at the fire, to see and hear everything; but on this occasion, strange to say, she kept in the background, and had little to say beyond assenting, with nods and knowing looks, to all that was said in disparagement of Jean Baptiste. Before the fire was quite burned out, and before the neighbours had dispersed, she slipped away to her little hut, where she found Pamphile seated before a cracked mirror, carefully trimming, by the light of a candle, the remains of his once flowing mane of glossy black hair.

"Eh, my nephew," she cackled. "Eh, Monsieur the millionaire, Monsieur the hero, you have been singed a little, I see. What a pity!"

"Yes," drawled Pamphile, "it is a great loss to me. That chevelure was part of my capital, you see--useful in my business, you understand. It was part of the make-up, my dear aunt, like the white tie and the diamond. It was to me what the silk hat is to the advocate, the tonsure to the priest, the biretta to the cardinal, the tiara to the pope. I was in good company, my dear aunt, but now I am shorn of my strength, a common man."

"Nom de nom!" ejaculated Mere Tabeau. "You are a devil to talk like that at such a time. You will be joking when you are going to the gallows."

"Without doubt, my dear aunt. Life itself is a joke; and death is the best joke of all. The only trouble is to see the point of it, whether it is man, God, or the devil who is fooled. For me, I think it is the devil who is the butt, and I laugh at him. Ha! Ha! Foolish old devil! We make him think that we belong to him, and in the end we die in the odour of sanctity. Ha! Ha! What a joke! You see it, my lovely aunt?"

"_Sacre!_" said Mere Tabeau. "_Sacre!_"

"If that is all you have to say I think that I will go to bed," drawled Pamphile, with a yawn.

"No, no, my nephew, let us talk a while. Such a night of adventure we have not had for many a year, not since the smugglers came across from Chateau, with the military after them. That was excitement, if you like. But this affair at La Folie was not so bad. You choose a good night for the fire, my nephew. What?"

Pamphile stared at the old hag.

"I?" he said. "I choose? But no, my wise aunt, it was the good God. That thunderbolt, you know."

"Bah!" she sneered. "It made a big noise, the thunder; knocked a few stones off the chimney, put Jean Baptiste to sleep, but that was all. No, my friend, the good God had nothing to do with it."

"But the fire----"

"Started an hour later, in the wood-pile near the stove."

"My dear aunt, you seem to be well informed."

"Informed? I was there and I saw. I am a light sleeper, you must know; and when you, my dear guest and nephew, left my house in the dead of night, I became curious, as any woman would, followed at a safe distance, and saw everything--saw you strike the match, even. I tell you, my western friend, that it is better to confide in people, especially one's near relations. Too much secrecy is bad for the health, leading to serious trouble, in which case one might have to call in the physician, that is to say, the police. Eh, my dear nephew?"

"Ah, my lovely aunt, you have the advantage of me, I must confess, in these days of enlightenment, of emancipation. If only the good old days could come again I would know what to do. I would have you drowned as a witch, or burned, perhaps. Yes, that would be better--a little taste of Hell in advance, a sample, as it were, of what is to follow. Eh, my angel aunt?"

"Pamphile," said the old witch, "you are a devil, and I love you for it. In the old days at Chateau there were lovers like you, brave boys, fearing neither God nor man. Usually man is more to be feared, but in the end God and the devil. But the devil amuses one for a time. If only I could be young again! But tell me, Pamphile, my friend--why did you not let him die?"

"Well, my aunt, that is a hard question. Why did I not let him be burned to a cinder? How do I know? I thought of it, to be sure; and I said to myself: 'There, Pamphile, you are avenged. Be satisfied.' But what revenge can one take on an enemy dead? No, it was better that Monseigneur should see his castle burn to the ground. A good revenge, my precious aunt. First you take away one's love, then one's property, then the ambition that makes life worth living; and after that, to finish, you give the _coup de grace_. That was one of my reasons, perhaps.

"For another, I hear Madame Giroux scream, she who used to give me _croquignoles_ years ago, when I was a boy, and I go to the rescue. I save the life of Jean Baptiste because of a _croquignole_. Also, it is a pity to let a strong man be choked in that black smoke, without a struggle, without a chance. I prefer to see him die fighting, so I pull him out of the fire that I may prolong the game. You understand, my gentle aunt, the ways of the tiger, which are those of his first cousin, the domestic cat?"

"Yes, I understand perfectly. The same family--a difference in size, that is all. We will play with him for a while, and then we will make an end. But first, my nephew, we have our little plan."

"Damn your little plan, you she-devil! We will speak of it to-morrow. Good-night, my blessed aunt. Pleasant dreams."

*CHAPTER XVIII*

*MICHEL*

In St. Placide, as elsewhere, the habitants usually build their houses quite near to the main road, with a background of green fields, but scarcely a tree by the house to give shade in summer or to break the force of the wind in winter. It is an ancestral custom, perhaps, coming down from the time when there was danger from wild beasts, Indians and forest fires; or it may be that the good habitants do not value trees because they find them superfluous. City people love to surround their homes with lawns and trees, a sort of make-believe country, but in the true country they are in the way, occupying space that could be used for other purposes, and giving shade injurious to potatoes, turnips, onions, cabbages, and all the other useful products of the vegetable garden. In the mountain valleys, above all, good land is scarce, and it is wasteful to give it over to the growing of trees, which do well enough in the hills above and the swamps below. For firewood, trees are necessary, but for shade, what need? The warm, sunny days are all too few, in any case. As for beauty, what could be finer than a broad expanse of cultivated fields, sunny open spaces of green and yellow, with the dark forest all about, a lovely picture in a handsome frame?

Michel Gamache was no cultivator, and his thoughts of trees were not those of a grower of cabbages. To him the forest was a place of refuge, and every tree a sentinel on guard. How faithful they were, those tall sentinels, always standing in their places, always interposing their bodies as a shield, always spreading their branches as a covering? He loved them, every one, the maples, the poplars, the birches; but most of all the pines, the spruces, the balsams, and all the tribe of evergreens, that protected him against the summer's heat and the winter's cold and were a barrier between him and the outer world. They were good companions, too, for they talked with him in a language that he well understood, music that caused his heart-strings to vibrate, and awoke responsive echoes in his soul. In all the changing seasons, when the wind blew and when the air was still, in sunshine and rain, by night and by day, he loved to be in the forest, to see the varied forms, colours, and movements of the trees, to hear their voices, to converse with them without reserve, to be silent and to know that they were his friends. Yet he was no misanthrope, this strange man, but a lonely spirit whom the neighbours could not understand, and who felt most at home in the company of trees.

The neighbours seldom visited Michel Gamache, for they feared him, and it was a long and lonely path that led to his log castle in the forest. He was known as a wise man, one who had insight into the ways of the world and the hearts of men; could predict the weather and read the signs of the times; understood the medicinal virtues of all plants; was on friendly terms with all beasts, birds, and fishes; had sources of information unknown to the generality of men; could give advice that would heal the sick, discover lost property, unite estranged friends, and lead the distressed and perplexed into the way of prosperity and peace.

He was a sorcerer, who had sold his soul to Satan for a great treasure of gold; who never went to Mass nor confessed to the priest; who was often changed into a _loup garou_; who could cause cows to drop their calves, to withhold their milk, to become frantic and run away into the forest. He had the fatal gift of the evil eye; could bring the itch, the measles, the smallpox, and disease of every other kind; in short, he could command all the powers of darkness to torment and destroy his enemies, if only he wished to do so. Fortunately he had seldom, if ever, used this malignant power; and could usually be propitiated by a small offering, which, strange to say, he always refused. It was part of his contract with Satan, it would seem, that he should give his most valuable advice for nothing; though why the evil one should have made a stipulation so favourable to the neighbours it was hard to understand. Possibly Michel thought to save himself some of the pains of Purgatory by works of charity; but he should know that it was not a question of Purgatory any more when one had sold oneself to Satan, who would come some time, unexpected and unwelcome, and drag the lost soul down to the bottomless pit, where works of charity were of no avail and indulgence was unknown.

It was terrible, no doubt, the fate of a sorcerer, and dangerous to have communications with him; but what was one to do when in great trouble and all other means had failed, when the priest could not help and the saints gave no heed? Surely the good God would forgive poor people who, in their extremity, sought aid from such a source. Besides, some said that Michel was no sorcerer at all, but a practiser of white magic, a familiar of good spirits, and that they who consulted him were in no sense tainted with the sin of witchcraft. Surely it was right to give the old man the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, one could confess and receive absolution, for Father Paradis had never accused Michel of witchcraft, but only of neglecting his religious duties; and had always let the penitents off with reproof and warning and a penance not too severe.

Jean Baptiste laughed at all this idle talk; yet in the hour of loss and disappointment he turned, not to the priest, the professional confessor, but to his friend and his father's friend, the old man who had known defeat and humiliation, but had gained wisdom and strength, a true appreciation of the values of life, a high courage in danger, and a joyful hope toward the future that rested in the good will of God. If any man could give advice at such a time it was Michel Gamache; but in any case he would understand, and it would be a great relief and satisfaction to tell him everything, to show him the destruction and ruin that had come, to consider what material should be cast away, and what could be used again in making a new building out of the wreckage of the past.

So Jean Baptiste, on the evening after the great fire, when the benumbing effect of the calamity was over and he had come to realize the full magnitude of the disaster, betook himself to the forest retreat of Michel Gamache.

Michel, who was sitting on the doorstep, heard Jean coming along the winding path, and rose to meet him as he came out into the open.

"Good evening, Jean," he said, "I was expecting you."

"Yes," said Jean, "I would come to you, of course."

"Of course," said Michel, nodding his head. "You are in trouble."

"Do you not know, Monsieur Gamache, that my house is gone, burned to the ground? You have been away, then."