JEAN BAPTISTE (continued 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

CHAPTER VII

HER MAJESTY'S MAIL

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

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

"'MAIL CONTRACT.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The morning was dark, but as Jean drove along the road the sky brightened, the stars went out one by one, and a rosy glow appeared in the East, chasing the shadows down the mountain-side, until the whole valley was filled with the clear light of day. As he reached the summit of the last hill he saw the sun rise over the mountains of Notre Dame. It touched all the circle of the hills with a tinge of gold, gleamed on the tin roofs and spires of Quebec, illuminated the slopes of Beauport, the Isle of Orleans and the cliffs of Levis, while the great river shone like burnished silver, and the ships, with their white sails, moved up stream with the rising tide. The heart of Jean Baptiste rose to greet the rising sun; his soul exulted in the glorious view; and his strong voice broke into song as he descended the long slope that led to the historic Beauport Road.

"A Saint-Malo beau port de mer,

A Saint-Malo, beau port de mer,

Trois gros navir's sout arrivés.

Nous irons sur l'eau

Nous y prom' promener

Nous irons jouer dans l'île.

"Trois gros navir's sont arrivés,

Trois gros navir's sont arrivés,

Charges d'avoin', chargés de bled.

Nous irons sur l'eau

Nous y prom' promener,

Nous irons jouer dans l'île.

Jean sang the dear, foolish old song to the very end, and sang it again and again until he came to the main road and joined the stream of vehicles of every description that were carrying hay and grain, butter and eggs, potatoes and onions, strawberries and currants, and all the produce of the Côte de Beaupré to the markets of Quebec. He was not well known in those parts, but had a cheerful greeting for all as he passed, and by the time he reached the bridge over the St. Charles it was known to half of the inhabitants of Beauport and many people from the more distant parishes that there was a new mail carrier from St. Placide, a gay, dare-devil of a fellow, a reckless driver, but withal a young man whom it was a pleasure to meet along the way, so debonair, so joyous, a good fellow in every sense of the word. There were those, even, who knew his name, who remembered his father, pronounced him a chip of the old block, and prophesied for him a brilliant career if he did not break his neck before he got well started on the road to fame and fortune.

In the afternoon, as Jean was returning by the same road, he was not so cheerful, and he did not sing, for the day had not fulfilled the promise of the morning hours. Soon after he crossed the toll bridge his horse cast a shoe, and he was obliged to return to a blacksmith's shop in the city, where he spent an hour of his time and a considerable part of his day's wages. Besides, he had to pay another toll at the bridge, which was irritating. A little later, as he was driving along at a rapid pace, trying to make up for lost time, a wheel came off the cart, and he narrowly escaped a bad fall. There was another hour's delay, and further expense.

Jean's reflections, as he toiled up the long, sandy hill toward the mountains, were anything but agreeable. He had given a whole day's work for nothing and less than nothing. He would arrive late with the mail, receive a reprimand from the postmaster, and hear the sneering remarks of the impatient neighbours. Worst of all, he had been outwitted by Tom and Paddy, for there could be little doubt that both accidents had been brought about by some trickery of theirs, and it was impossible to tell what they would do next. Certainly, there was less profit in the contract than he had thought, and little prospect of improvement; but give it up because of opposition he would not, not if all the Sullivans and Bradys of the Irish settlement were to set upon him.

The sun was sinking behind the mountain as Jean reached the summit of the long hill, and it was almost dark when he came to the "Forks," about a mile from the first house. The main road led direct to St. Placide, about five miles away, while the road to the left went up over the mountain in the direction of Lake Beauport, and reached St. Placide by a route circuitous and difficult, especially after dark. Jean's horse was accustomed to the main road, but stopped at the "Forks," and then quickly turned to climb the hill on the left.

"Sacré fou de cheval," said Jean, with a laugh, "where are you going? You are not hungry, then. You don't want to get home before midnight. There now, come about. It was a mistake. This way, old fellow. Marche donc!"

The horse came about, though unwillingly, but just as he had begun to trot along in response to a sharp cut of the whip, Jean heard a voice that seemed to come from some one standing directly in front of him:

"Take the other road!"

"Who's there?" said Jean, looking to see who could be on the lonely road so late in the evening, but was surprised to find that nobody was in sight, while the horse began to rear and to back in sheer terror, and nearly upset the cart.

"There now, there now, old fool," said Jean, in a reassuring voice. "You thought you heard something, did you? But nothing is there. Gently, now. It is nothing. Go on, then. We could go by the mountain, to be sure, but when should we arrive? No, my friend, we must take the usual way. Go along, now, softly, if you like, but go along. There is nothing to fear. Go along."

Jean drove on, in some little trepidation, it must be confessed, and was not a little relieved when he heard the familiar sound of chopping, some distance ahead. Turning a corner he saw, about a hundred yards away, a man in the act of felling a large tree.

"Holloa, there!" he called. "Don't fell that tree. It will block the road. Don't fell it, I say! Ah, you idiot, you did it. Now, stupid, will you tell me how I shall get home."

"You can walk, damn you!" said Tom Sullivan, for it was he; and beside him stood his cousin, Paddy Brady, also with an axe in his hand.

"Oh, it is you, Tom," said Jean, with a friendly smile. "You are cutting some firewood, I see. Will you please take it out of the way as soon as possible."

"Take it away yourself, you damned Frenchman," said Tom, with a sneer. "What business have you coming along at this time o' night? A fine mail driver you are. You should have been at the office two hours ago. By the powers, it'll take you two hours more to get there on shank's mare. Ha! Ha! The new driver will be late, and it's not long he'll be carrying Her Majesty's Mail. Her Majesty'll be getting rid of him damn quick, I be thinking."

"Tom," said Jean, in a conciliatory but firm tone, "will you take that timber away, or will you not?"

"I will not," said Tom, defiantly.

"Then, Tom," said Jean, getting out of the cart and advancing deliberately, "will you lend me your axe for a minute?"

"Lend you my axe, you damned thief!" roared Tom, with a volley of curses. "I'll lend it to you. Yes! Take that!"

At the word Tom aimed a blow at Jean that would have split his head open, but that he, stepping nimbly aside, let the axe swing harmlessly by, and before Tom could recover, closed with him, wrenched the weapon from his hands and flung him violently to the ground.

"Help, Paddy, help!" yelled Tom. "Kill him, Paddy! For the love of God, kill him, I say!"

But Paddy had no stomach for a fight, and stood aside with mingled amazement and admiration as Jean, turning his back on both his enemies, began to cut the branches of the tree, close to the bark, with great rapidity, until finally he cut away the top and only the bare trunk remained to block the way.

"Now, Paddy," said Jean, throwing down the axe, "if you will help me we'll throw this log out of the way. There, take hold of that end. Now, Paddy, heave!"

Paddy put forth all his strength, but could not lift the end of the log, while Jean lifted his end about three feet, and then let it drop.

"What's the matter, Paddy? Why don't you lift?"

"Cut it in two and I'll lift my end," said Paddy. "Why, man, it weighs a ton at the very least."

"A ton, Paddy, is that all? We can lift it, then. Come--another try."

"Not for me," said Paddy, standing back. "I know what I can do."

"Well," said Jean, "you surprise me, Paddy Brady. I am disappointed in you. But the log must go. Saint Jean to my aid. Watch me, Paddy."

With that Jean bent down, his arms between his knees, his fingers gripping the log like a vice, and as he rose the log rose, slowly, steadily, until Jean stood erect holding the great trunk in his iron grip. Taking a long breath he put forth a mighty effort and lifted the log by the strength of his arms alone, inch by inch, until it reached the height of a man and rested for a moment on his shoulder. Then, taking hold lower down, Jean raised the log with ease until it stood upright, when, with a slight push, he sent it crashing down the cliff to the rocks below.

"My God!" said Paddy, with a gasp. "What a lift! I feel as though all my bones were cracked. Jean Baptiste, my bully boy, it's the strong man of the world you are. Give me your hand, man alive. From now on I'm your friend, and it's sorry I am for what has happened. Forgive me, Jean, and Tom too. He meant you no harm."

"Say nothing, Paddy," said Jean, with a smile. "I am well content to have a friend like you. But your cousin--I fear that I have hurt him. Tom, my friend, I was too rough and I am sorry. Forgive me."

Tom Sullivan made no reply, but glared at his enemy like a wounded bear.

"Tom," persisted Jean, "will you not let me drive you home? As to the contract, you shall have it. I will give it up."

"Give it up, you damned thief? Yes, when I kill you. Forgive you? Yes, when you are in Hell!"

"But, Tom----"

"The curse o' Crummle on you!" snarled Tom, turning his face away in bitterness of soul.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CITY MAN

It was a midsummer evening soon after Jean's first experience as mail-carrier, when he drove up to the house with a passenger, the first of a long procession of summer tourists that were to be the beginnings of prosperity to St. Placide.

"Dieu merci!" said the City Man, as the spring cart stopped at the Giroux door. "God be thanked that we are here at last! Let us descend. Ah, but I have cramps in my legs. What a drive! Four hours over those infernal roads, up and down those everlasting hills. But in the end we arrive; as the evening shadows fall we come to our destination. Behold a house in the wilderness. Regard the light in the window. See, the door opens and Madame the hostess appears on the threshold. Are we invited to enter?"

"Certainly," said Jean. "Come in, Monsieur. Let me present you to my mother, Monsieur, who will take care of you while I put my horse in the stable. My mother, this is Monsieur Trudel, a gentleman from Quebec who wishes to have a day's fishing in the St. Ange."

"Come in, Monsieur," said Madame Giroux, with a smile of welcome. "It is but a poor house, but we will give you of our best. See, you were expected, and the supper is on the table. Take a place, Monsieur; we will serve you immediately."

"With great pleasure, Madame. Ah, how good it is to have arrived somewhere! This is not the Hotel St. Louis, to be sure, nor even the Chien d'Or, but it is a comfortable habitant home, very proper in every way, as one sees. What a fine, solid old table! How cosy those rag carpets! How gay the blue china on the dresser--genuine willow pattern, too! How cheery that bright fire! It was getting cold outside. Ah, Madame, you bring me soup--purée of green peas. This is soup indeed. What flavour! What genial warmth! Madame, it goes to my heart. Never have I tasted anything so appetising, so nourishing, so consoling. Believe me, it is not in Quebec that one eats such soup."

"Monsieur," said Madame Giroux, beaming upon the stranger. "I am pleased to know that you like the soup. Now try a little of the ragout, if you please. You will find it tasty, I hope."

"Madame, you will not need to ask me twice, I assure you. Such a ragout after such a soup! I have no words. I am silenced. I can only ask for more of that ragout, and then a little more. Madame Giroux, this is the place I have been dreaming about all the year, all through the long winter, and now for two days I escape from the heat and dust of the city, and here I am--in Paradise. Here I would stay for the rest of my life. Ah, how I love the peace, the solitude of this place, where one has such an appetite and where one is regaled with such delicacies! Some more ragout? Ah, no, Madame, it is enough. Never do I eat to the point of surfeit. Wild strawberries and cream, you say? Yes, I accept willingly. And a cup of hot tea? Certainly. And after that my pipe, with your permission. Truly, I am content. It is a good world, is it not?"

"But yes, Monsieur, it is the world of the good God."

"Ah! I had not thought of that. On the contrary, I have often thought it the world of the devil. Back there in the city it is surely so, but in these mountains it may be that the good God still resides. Who can tell? At least, there are good people here. That son of yours, Madame--he is a brave lad, and quite intelligent. He is no stupid habitant, not he. Quite different from the others--one sees that. He has studied, even, has he not, Madame?"

"But yes, Monsieur, he has studied, very much. We were going to make a priest of him, but he would not. It was a pity, was it not?"

"A pity? Yes, a pity that you ever thought of it. To make a priest of Hector! To put a soutane on Achilles! To make him sit in a little box while young ladies come to confess their sins, their most grievous sins! Ha! Ha! No, that is not for him. For others, perhaps, but for him work and war and love. That is his vocation. But there he comes. Look at him. Have you ever seen a more perfect model of a man; a true Greek of the heroic age?"

"Well, my friend, you are coming to supper at last, and you have an appetite like a wolf. I also had an appetite, but it is gone, because of a certain soup of green peas and a certain ragout, besides other dainties. But do not fear, I have left something for you. Fall to, my brave one. Enjoy the good things of life. Meanwhile I will show you my tackle, the apparatus with which I shall catch your trout. Look, my brave habitant, have you ever seen a collection like this?"

The City Man thereupon unrolled his kit, and displayed before the astonished eyes of Madame Giroux and Jean the most complete assemblage of fishing tackle ever seen in St. Placide. There were lance-wood rods of the finest stock, with delicate tips so slender that one would think they could not hold a minnow, and yet so tough that, in the hands of a skilful angler, they might draw in a salmon, though not without a long struggle. There were reels of gun-metal and oxidized silver, thin lines of the finest silk, casting-lines of gut and horse-hair, and a book of choice flies of every kind, from the modest March Brown and the plain Grey Hackle to the handsome Silver Doctor and the gaudy Jock Scott.

"Mon Dieu, Monsieur," said Jean, "you have all that is necessary, certainly. There is not a trout in the St. Ange that will be able to resist you."

"That is what I think," said the City Man, with a confident smile. "We shall catch fish to-morrow, you may be sure. And here is a little steelyard for weighing the big ones. It goes up to five pounds. We shall not take a trout bigger than that in this stream."

"I think not," said Jean. "It is very seldom that so large a fish is caught. If we get one of two pounds we shall do well. In former times there were plenty of big trout, and there are some left, but it is not easy to catch them. It demands skill and patience."

"If that is all," said the City Man, "we shall get them. You will see, my brave Jean. Look, for example, at this little book, a record of my achievements for the past four years. See! Stoneham, June 17th, 1895, 54 trout; June 18th, 55; June 19th, 68, of which the smallest was 8 inches in length and the largest, 16 inches. Again, Metabetchouan, Lac St. Jean, June 10th, 1896, 33 ouananiche, running from 1 to 5 pounds. Once more, Restigouche, July 5th, 1897, two salmon of 15 pounds each, one of 19 pounds, and one of 25 pounds. I could go on, but that is enough to show you that I have caught fish in my day, thousands of trout, hundreds of salmon, besides black bass innumerable, pike, too, and maskinonge, that tiger of the Canadian rivers. Yes, I claim to be an angler, a faithful disciple of the good Sir Isaac.

"You smile, my rural friend? Well, to-morrow I will show you. You will take your bamboo pole, your clothes line and your fat worms, while I will take one of my light rods, a thin silk line, a delicate cast, and those flies, as many as may be necessary, and at the end of the day we shall see. Yes, we shall see, my little demigod, my Ajax of the parish. If I do not take two trout for every one of yours, and the biggest fish of the day, I will give you my best rod and my book of flies, and I will eat my boots by way of penance. What do you say? Shall we have a contest for the championship of the St. Ange?"

"Willingly," said Jean, "but with your permission I will not use the bamboo pole of which you speak, nor the fat worms. I also have a liking for fly-fishing, and I should like to enter the contest on equal terms. If you win, Monsieur, which is more than likely, I shall be glad to have you take as the spoils of war the arms of the vanquished. But as for eating boots, you will excuse me, Monsieur, if I have no appetite for that."

"Mon Dieu, Monsieur Jean de St. Placide de St. Ange, but you have the true spirit of the olden time. And he fishes with a fly; the little habitant of the mountains uses the weapons of chivalry. Good! We shall have a tourney for trout, for glory, for the love of ladies. And I will overthrow you, so to speak, carry away your sword, your spear, your coat of mail, and put your name in my little book. Ha! ha! It will be sport indeed, and war--yes, war to the death.

"But meanwhile, my good Jean, we are the best of friends, are we not? You do not mind my innocent persiflage, I am sure. It is but the effervescence of spirits too long confined in the narrow conventions of city life, a little bubbling over of froth on the top of good liquor. Were it not for that I should burst, I think, at the heart. Ah, the blessed country! What relief, what freedom, what recreation! But it occurs to me that a good sleep would be the best preparation for the struggle of the coming day. Is it not so, Jean? Madame, with your permission I will take my candle. Madame, I retire. I bid you good-night. Until four o'clock, Jean, my dear enemy."

At four o'clock Jean aroused the City Man from a dreamless sleep; at half-past four they had breakfast; and an hour later they were setting up their rods by the St. Ange, at a place where the river was broad and a strong man could ford the stream.

"This is where I usually begin," said Jean, "for it is a good place to cross. If you will take the other side you will find good fishing."

"No doubt," said the City Man, "the fishing must be good over there since few men could cross that current. But I will take no advantage, my friend. You shall cross and I will fish on this side."

"But no, Monsieur, you do not know the stream, as I do. Pass over, if you please."

"Not at all, Jean, I will not. But wait. Let us toss a coin. Heads, you go across, tails, I go."

"Tails," said Jean.

"It is tails, Jean, so you have your way, after all. Well, here goes, my brave one. I will take the other side according to the hazard, and meet you somewhere above, later in the day. Au revoir, Jean."

"Au revoir, Monsieur, and good luck to you."

The City Man waded into the stream, and when he reached the middle, standing in three feet of swift water, he made a dexterous cast and immediately hooked a fine, half-pound trout. After a brief struggle he brought the fish to hand, and held it up with a shout of triumph.

"There, Jean," he called, above the noise of the water. "First blood! Begin, my brave one, you have no time to lose. Begin, begin."

Thus the contest began, and all day the rivals fished up the stream, trying their best to outdo each other both in numbers and size. The day was perfect, with alternating sun and shade, and a light breeze that raised a ripple on the pools, and in both pools and rapids the hungry trout rose eagerly to the fly. Jean passed quickly along, contenting himself with taking one or two fish in every good place, while the City Man patiently whipped every foot of the stream. In some pools he took four or five trout, and there was not a likely place where he did not catch at least one fish.

Soon Jean was far ahead, but the City Man paid no attention to him. Enjoying the solitude, the sound of the water, the voice of the breeze, the delicious mountain air, he took keen delight in examining with a practised eye every pool and riffle, every possible lurking-place for the agile, wary trout. In this swift water he would take an eight-inch fish, behind that rock in mid-stream he would hook a ten-inch trout that would fight like a veteran; in that deep pool beneath the shade of an overhanging pine he might hope to take a trout weighing at least a pound, with a chance of capturing a big fish, the prize of the day.

It was glorious sport, the best that the City Man had ever known, and it had for him an added zest in the thought of the contest with his rustic adversary, the triumph that would be his, and the trophy that he was going to win. It was not a very fine rod, that of Jean Baptiste, but it would be an interesting memento of his visit to St. Placide, and a further proof of his claim to the title of champion angler of the Province. So the City Man went on fishing all the day, never once relaxing his efforts, not even stopping to eat the good luncheon that Madame Giroux had provided. The morning passed; the afternoon wore away; while the City Man's pannier was gradually filled, until there was not room for another trout. Then he noticed that the sun was sinking, and the shadows creeping down the mountainside.

"Mon Dieu," he said to himself, "I had no idea that it was so late. And we must be at least four miles from the house. How heavy that pannier! A good catch, certainly. But where is my poor Jean Baptiste? I have not seen him since the early morning. Ah, there he is on the other side, sitting on a big rock and smoking his pipe as though at peace with himself and all the world. He has given up the contest, that is clear. Well, the poor devil must have some consolation. But I wonder how long he has been there."

"Holà, Jean! Holà, there! Can one cross at this place?"

"Yes, Monsieur," called Jean. "This is the best ford on the river. Come right over. The water is not at all deep."

"Well, my brave one," said the City Man, as he stepped out of the water. "Well, my noble angler, and did you catch some fish? Did they take worms to-day?"

"You forget, Monsieur, that we were to fish with flies."

"Oh, yes, very true. And you have done it? It was hard work, was it not? It demands skill, as you have discovered. But do not be discouraged. Cheer up. You will learn in the course of time. A young man of your intelligence can learn anything. Come now, how many did you take?"

"I have not counted them, Monsieur," said Jean, "but I see that you have made a good catch, a very good catch."

"A good catch? Well, I may say so," said the City Man, a little nettled. "It is the catch of my life. See! I will pour them out on the pebbles. Yes, a nice pile of trout. Let us count them. One--two--three ... seventy-two--seventy-three--seventy-four--all good fish--and this two-pounder makes seventy-five. A good day's work. Yes, Jean, there are trout in this river, but it takes skill to catch them. It is all in a little turn of the wrist. I will teach you. But show your fish. If you have thirty-eight trout, I lose."

"Well," said Jean, with a smile, getting his pannier from the cool shade of the rock, "I think that I have at least thirty-eight. Let us see. One--two--three--four ... thirty-seven--thirty-eight--thirty-nine ... seventy-four--seventy-five--seventy-six ... eighty-eight--eighty-nine--ninety. There, Monsieur, that is not bad--ninety good trout; and this one, the brother of yours; and this other, the grandfather of both. There, that is all."

The City Man was speechless. He gasped in astonishment, grew pale for a moment, then red in the face; but presently, as he gazed on the wonderful catch, his equanimity returned, and with it a glow of enthusiasm for the angler who had shown a prowess so unexpected, so utterly admirable. Turning to Jean with an air of new and profound respect, he said:

"Monsieur Giroux, I salute you as the most perfect angler of the Province. More than that, I say, I, Gaspard Trudel, that there is not your equal in the whole of Canada. Accept, I beg of you, this rod of mine. It was a trophy, and I have used it with pride, but now it will be in more worthy hands. Monsieur Giroux, once more I salute you."

Two days later, as Jean was driving Monsieur Trudel back to the city, they talked much of the future industrial development of St. Placide. Monsieur Trudel was a man of vision, and entered with enthusiasm into Jean's plans and ambitions, declaring that an angler of such eminence could attain the same distinction in other fields of effort and would succeed in anything that he might undertake. But the sportsman was also an astute lawyer and man of affairs, and wisely counselled Jean to make haste slowly, step by step, overcoming minor obstacles as they were encountered and gaining strength and experience by which he should remove mountains in the course of time. Meanwhile, there was the farm to manage, the mail contract to fulfil, and if bed and board could be provided for sportsmen such as he, it would be easy to find many tired men from the city who would gladly spend their holidays in such a paradise. So it was Monsieur Trudel who, for good or ill, first suggested to Jean the exploitation of the summer tourist.

CHAPTER IX

THE LOAN

"If I am not mistaken," said Monsieur Trembly, the notary, with a shrewd smile, "it is, in effect, a hotel that you would be building at St. Placide, a house of twelve rooms, by far the largest in the parish. Your good friend Monsieur Trudel has told me all about it. A great sportsman, he. A good advocate, of course, a Q.C., in line for the bench, and all that, but a sportsman above all, and an angler, the most skilful in the Province. He has discovered St. Placide, it seems, and would like you to build a hotel for himself and his brother anglers. Not a bad idea. But it will cost money to build a place like that--as much as five thousand dollars, perhaps."

"No, Monsieur Trembly," said Jean, with assurance, "not half of that sum. The logs I will cut myself, during the winter; in the spring the neighbours will help me to raise the frame; for a couple of months we shall need carpenters, and then, before the end of June, at the beginning of the tourist season, the house will be completed at a cost of less than two thousand dollars, including furniture. Certainly, two thousand dollars will be more than sufficient."

"Well," said the notary, "we can obtain the money, I think. A certain client of mine will let us have it. If not, Monsieur Trudel will advance the amount, or I will do so myself, if necessary. The enterprise is most promising, certainly, and you have other plans, I am told. You will build a dam, a mill, a factory, in the course of time. It may be that you are running some risk, but if all goes well you will be a rich man, and at the same time a benefactor to the whole parish. That is what I call true success, Monsieur Giroux."

"And the security will be ample. It is your mother's farm that you would hypothecate, a good property, indeed, one hundred acres of arable land, a hundred of pasture, two hundred of forest--a fief of the Seminary, subject to the usual dues, which are a mere bagatelle. It is a fine property, not very saleable, perhaps, in these times, but should fetch five thousand dollars, possibly six, at a forced sale. Yes, certainly, you shall have the money--two thousand dollars for three years, interest at eight per cent., payable half-yearly. I will have the papers drawn at once. Come again in a few days, Monsieur Giroux, and all will be arranged."

Jean was not altogether happy about mortgaging his mother's farm, but the projects which he had in mind could be realized in no other way. Since the visit of the City Man there had been a constant stream of visitors, chiefly fishermen; and when, at the close of the season, he cast up his accounts, he discovered a profit of a hundred dollars from this source alone, besides the allowance from the Government and the enhanced revenue from farm produce sold in the Quebec markets. It was a veritable mine of wealth that he had discovered, and a vista of unlimited possibilities opened before him.

At first there would be the new house of twelve rooms, providing accommodation for twenty or thirty guests; but presently the building would be enlarged; cottages for whole families would be built; there would be grassy courts for tennis and croquet, horses for riding and driving, canoes for the river, guides for excursions to distant lakes and streams, and even provision for the winter, when stalwart hunters would come to chase moose and caribou. The valley of the St. Ange, too long neglected, with its beautiful mountains, grand forests, clear air, and pure water, its hunting and fishing, would become one of the most celebrated resorts in the Province, frequented by rich citizens of Quebec and Montreal, wealthy English tourists, and American millionaires. Jean himself, the originator of the movement, would be the first to share in the profits, but the influx of tourists would bring prosperity to the whole parish and lay the foundations for still greater things in the years to come.

But the neighbours, for whose benefit the great work was to be done, did not look upon it with kindly eyes. On the contrary, they were filled with envy, and their gossip about the doings of Jean Baptiste was far from charitable. That a young man should aspire to become a priest was in the order of nature, an ambition to be respected and encouraged. As such, he would be an honour to the family and a credit to the parish; but that he should attempt to set up a new industry, to forsake the traditions of the fathers, to walk in untrodden paths, was an innovation unheard of and most disquieting, a defiance of sacred custom, a rebellion, indeed, against religion and the Holy Church.

Moreover, the effects of such changes upon the morals of the people, especially the young, would be sad indeed. One had but to consider the ways of city people to see that they were frivolous in their behaviour, light in their conversation and worldly in their dress. Their influence was altogether bad, as could be seen in places like Malbaie and Cacouna, where the young maidens, even, once so industrious and pious, were filling their minds with the foolish notions of the city. No longer would they wear the modest costumes of their mothers and grandmothers, but were imitating the dress of high society, made, it was said, according to fashions devised by men tailors in the great and wicked city of Paris. Once the summer tourists established themselves in St. Placide, the simplicity and contentment of former days would be gone; religion and virtue would be no more; and the young people would enter the mad race for wealth, fashion, and all the follies and vanities of the world.

Besides, the tourist business was not profitable after all. More revenue was taken in, to be sure, but one's expenses increased in still greater degree, and in the end one stood face to face with ruin and bankruptcy. Such would be the fate of Jean Baptiste and of all who were carried away by his plausible schemes. No, he must not be allowed to ruin the people, to corrupt their morals, to endanger their immortal souls. Something should be done; some one should interfere, to put Jean Baptiste in his proper place or to drive him away from the parish.

The good neighbours did not at first see the matter in that light, but when it was brought to their notice by certain malicious spirits, they were not slow to recognize the danger of the proposed innovations and to condemn unheard one whom they did not understand. Even the best friends of Jean Baptiste were somewhat influenced by this talk, and their minds were poisoned by the insidious gossip.

Gabrielle, also, within the sacred precincts of the Ursuline Convent, heard rumours of the doings of Jean Baptiste. There was no other girl from St. Placide at the convent, but Adèle Couture of L'Ange Gardien was there, who now and then received letters from her cousin and bosom friend Mélanie Couture, containing not only fragments of gossip about Jean, but whole pages of news, telling of all his doings during the past summer, of the great house that he was going to build, and the innovations that he was about to introduce into the once peaceful and happy parish. So busy was he with his work in the woods, where he was preparing logs for his new house, that one scarcely caught a glimpse of him except on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when he carried the mail; but on those occasions he would always smile and bow and give a cheerful good-day to any of the neighbours whom he might see as he passed along. Certainly, he seemed to be in high spirits, well pleased with himself and all the world, as a young man of such gifts might well be, with all the world at his feet, not excepting the girls of the parish, not one of whom would say him nay. But it was impossible to discover that Jean showed preference for any, unless it were Blanchette Laroche, that old creature with the speckled face, twenty-six years of age at the very least, but of an amiable temper, of great capacity as a housekeeper, and with the expectation of an ample dowry. Not that Jean had ever paid her any special attention, beyond what might be expected of a good neighbour, but there were signs that showed how the wind blew, and developments might be expected at any time.

All this and more Adèle read to her friend Gabrielle, and together they talked and laughed about the backwoods hero as young girls do who are fancy free and who take pleasure in idealizing a common man by making of him a hero in disguise, riding forth to do battle for the two-fold prize of glory and his lady's love. But, strange to say, Gabrielle did not tell her friend that Jean was other than a former schoolfellow and casual acquaintance; nor did she give the watchful Adèle the slightest cause to suspect that her "habitant," "mail-driver," and "inn-keeper" was more often in her thoughts than a certain brave officer of artillery, or a certain young teller in the Banque Nationale.

But the rumours that came to Gabrielle were disquieting, and interfered with her studies in art and literature more than she would have dared to confess, even to herself. She was happy in the convent, in the companionship of her fellow-pupils and under the direction of the sweet-faced sisters; she loved the Mother Superior and applied herself with devotion to her religious duties; but her thoughts often wandered to St. Placide, where one who had loved her long was proving by manly deeds his right to claim that she should love him in return.

She did not love him, no, not yet; but it was pleasant to think of that young man, her hero and knight, girding on his armour, taking a noble part in the battle of life, overcoming all obstacles, casting down all enemies, making a place in the world and an honourable name--and all for her. Poor Jean! He had been faithful for a long time and deserved some little encouragement, some slight reward. Gabrielle blushed as she thought of that, and wished that she had not been so cruel to Jean when last they met. It would be necessary to atone, but when and how?

Gabrielle was sure of Jean's devotion, and yet there were times when she thought him altogether too gay and debonair in the absence of his lady-love, too free with his smiles, too ready to greet the young women of the parish as he drove by, too confident altogether, considering the slight encouragement that he had received. It almost seemed as though he had never loved her with his whole heart, else why was he not more cast down and why so easily consoled? But to whom could he go for consolation? Surely not to Blanchette Laroche. That would be too absurd. Doubtless, it was in his work that Jean found consolation, because it brought him nearer to his heart's desire. But Blanchette was clever and capable, a perfect housekeeper, a charming companion--if one could forget her face. Yet there was a strange sweetness about that face. Yes, it might be well to return to St. Placide for the Christmas vacation, just to be at home again for a little while, to get a glimpse of the old friends, and to have a little change from the monotony of convent life.

It was a glorious winter morning, on the Sunday after Gabrielle's return; and although she might have driven to church in the family berline, she preferred to walk, and started early, that she might fully enjoy the beauty of the winter landscape, breathe the clear, cold mountain air, and feel the life blood tingling in all her veins. As she came near the cottage of Mère Tabeau she quickened her pace, thinking to escape notice, but the old crone, like a spider, was lying in wait, and came forth just as Gabrielle, with face averted, was passing by.

"Wait a minute, Gabrielle--Mademoiselle Taché," she called. "Can you not wait, my dear? I, too, am going to Mass, although you may think it strange. Yes, I go to Mass every Sunday, and to confession too, when necessary. There are often little sins, you know. But how fast you walk, Gabrielle--Mademoiselle! A little slower, if you please. I like the company of the young and beautiful. They do not like my company, perhaps, those proud ones, those rich ones with the fine moccasins and the expensive furs, because they forget, the gay creatures, that one day they too may be old and poor and lame. Yes, and they don't know that misfortune may come to them at any time, and very soon--yes, indeed."

"Mon Dieu, Madame Tabeau!" said Gabrielle, a little frightened, "I did not intend to walk so fast. It is the frosty air, Madame, that makes the feet move. But I shall be glad to walk more slowly, for the pleasure of your company."

"The pleasure of my company! Ha! Ha! Sacrée petite vierge! That was well said. A lie, of course, but pleasing to hear, for all that. You have learned manners, it would seem, at the convent. The Ursuline ladies are nothing if not polite. I knew one of them myself, long ago, who could stab you to the heart and smile sweetly all the time. And she lives still, the assassin! Ah, serpent! What a pleasure it would be to crush thee in the dust!"

"But, Madame----"

"Yes, my dear. Yes, Mademoiselle Gabrielle. I forgot that you were there. Strange words for the ears of innocence. Strange tales for a Sunday morning on the way to Mass. Yes, let us change the subject. Let us talk of something more interesting--of Jean Baptiste Giroux, for example."

At this shaft Gabrielle flushed a little, almost imperceptibly, but said, with an assumption of indifference:

"Why of him, Madame Tabeau? I am not at all interested."

"She is not interested, the young lady, not at all. Why then does she blush, and why does her voice tremble at the mention of his name? Not interested, Mademoiselle Innocent? Then you do not dislike him, of course?"

"No, Madame Tabeau. It is a fine morning, is it not? How beautiful the snow and the blue shadows of the trees!"

"Yes, yes, of course. But why, I wonder, does Jean Baptiste spend every day in the woods, cutting down trees, making logs of every size, shaping them for the frame of a great house, hauling them to a certain place? Why all this preparation, Gabrielle, my dear?"

"How should I know, Madame Tabeau? He does not tell me of his plans."

"No? Not even that he borrowed two thousand dollars for the hotel that he is to build as soon as the snow is gone? He did not borrow it, then, from Monsieur your father?"

"Certainly not, Madame, I do not wish to discuss the question. What Monsieur Giroux does is nothing to me."

"Nothing to you? Of course not. Then he did not get the money from Monsieur Taché. And there are but two rich men in the parish. Ah, now we have it. From Monsieur Laroche, of course. That is what I thought at the first. Now all is clear, clear as day. A young man of marriageable age wishes to advance himself in the world; the daughter of a rich habitant is not unwilling; the good, wise young man proposes an alliance; secures the money and a housekeeper at the same time; kills two birds with one stone. Ha! Ha! The good, wise young man of marriageable age!

"He is a deep thinker, Jean Baptiste, a young man of prudence, foresight, strategy--all that. Yes, for such a house one must have a housekeeper, a cook and a maid of all work. See! He secures them all at one stroke. A stroke of genius, that. No matter that she is no beauty, that her face has been spoiled by the small-pox. She is capable, good-tempered, affectionate, and has an ample dowry--the best in the parish. What more could one desire? That explains those visits to the house of Bonhomme Laroche. Yes, it explains everything. The wedding will be in June, no doubt, before the beginning of the tourist season. It will be a great affair, with a feast and a grand dance. You will dance at the wedding, Mademoiselle Taché, will you not?"

Gabrielle's face was as white as the snow.

"Madame Tabeau," she said, scarcely maintaining her composure, "I have to say to you that these are vile lies which you are telling about Jean Baptiste. He may be foolish, as they say, but he is incapable of such baseness. Madame, this conversation is distasteful to me. Pass on, if you please, or stay behind. I wish to be alone."

The vicious old woman, abashed before the loyal courage of Gabrielle, turned aside, muttering maledictions, and went to visit one of her cronies in the village, to learn the most recent gossip, and to tell of the significant discoveries she had made on the way to Church.

As for Gabrielle, she entered the Church alone, and as she knelt before the image of the Mother of God her body was shaken with sobs, and she could scarcely whisper the prayers that for two thousand years have brought consolation and courage to so many souls. But as the young girl prayed the peace of God descended into her soul; and when the congregation assembled and the service began, her voice, calm and clear, arose with theirs in humble confession, wistful supplication and joyous praise.

When the sacrifice of the Mass was over and the congregation had dispersed, Gabrielle remained kneeling for a long time, striving to forget the world, to fix her attention upon the Cross, to think only of her divine Redeemer. But this she could not do, for the thought of Jean filled her mind and heart; and she felt, with mingled pride and shame, that she loved him more than aught else in the world, and that the Kingdom of Heaven was as nothing to her compared with the kingdom of earthly love.

And Jean loved her in return. Had he not told her so? Yes, but she had sent him away in anger, and now it was another that he loved. Impossible! No, for who could tell what love might do? Yet his first love she would always have. Always! And this also was possible, in all the chance and caprice of love, that he might come back to her, penitent, asking forgiveness. It would not be hard to forgive Jean, if only he would come; but what if it were too late, and the day of love were gone forever?

Ah, that lovely morning so long ago, when she did not love, or loved all the world, and no one had taken her love away! The pity, the cruelty of it! The moment love was found enshrined in the heart, that moment it was snatched away. The bright vision appeared, was gone, and would not return. Oh, it could not be, must not be, not even if it were the will of God. No, she could not give him up, would not. She would fight for him against all the world--to the death. Ah, Lord Jesus! It was He who had gone to the death for the world, for her. What sin, what mortal sin to love mortal man more than the Redeemer of the world! And the sacrifice--was it not the law of life and death, of time and eternity?

Gabrielle was rebellious no more, but bowed her head in humiliation and sorrow, with chastened spirit and sincere repentance repeating the morning prayer:

"Holy Virgin, Mother of God, my mother and my friend, I place myself under your protection and implore your pity. Be, O Mother of Kindness, my refuge in my need, my consolation in my troubles, and my advocate with your dear Son, all the days of my life, and especially in the hour of death.

"Angel of Heaven, my faithful and charitable guide, obtain for me the grace to be so docile and teachable that my footsteps may never stray from the way of the commandments of my God.

"Yes, my God, I love you with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my spirit, with all my power, and I promise to love my neighbour as myself for the love of you."

When Gabrielle left the Church and came out again into the clear light of day, the agony and struggle of the past hour seemed like an evil dream. The snow was as white and pure as ever, the sky as blue, and the bright sunlight streamed all about like a radiance from God. She took long breaths of the delicious, frosty air that went tingling through her veins like wine, and along the crisp surface of road she went tripping on light moccasined feet, while her eyes shone and her face glowed with the joy of living. What could it be that had troubled her so? Who was that old witch with the evil eye that had put such thoughts into her head? Jean was hers, without a doubt. He was not one to change or be discouraged because of a girl's saucy words. When he was ready he would ask, and take no refusal. But if not, what matter? There were others--a certain young officer of the Garrison, for example. Jean was not indispensable, by any means. Blanchette might have him at any time. No, not Blanchette, but any other girl in the parish--Suzette Gagnon, for example, with her coal-black hair, her pale complexion, her green eyes, and no dowry at all. Yes, Suzette it should be, for punishment.

As Gabrielle was disposing of her lover in this summary way, she became aware of footsteps behind her, and in a moment a tall, stalwart form was walking by her side, and she knew, without looking, that it was Jean himself, aggressive as ever and very much the master of his own destiny.

"Good morning, Gabrielle," he said, as if they had always been the best of friends. "Is it permitted that one walk along with you for a distance?"

"The road is free, Monsieur Giroux, and you have overtaken me. You walk too fast."

"Oh, no, Gabrielle, but I am glad that you walk so slowly. Of what were you thinking, I wonder?"

Gabrielle blushed at the too pointed question, but laughed at her own confusion.

"There is an inquisitive man, I must say; and a conceited man too. Perhaps he believes that I was thinking of him."

"Ah! if you only were, Gabrielle! For me, I certainly was thinking of you. I saw you in Church, and heard you too. Mon Dieu, but you sing like an angel."

"Monsieur Giroux," said Gabrielle, reprovingly, "you should go to Church to pray, to worship, and not to look at the neighbours."

"The neighbours, Gabrielle--were they there? I saw but one. And I worship, I pray--this is what I pray: 'God give me the beautiful angel whom I adore!'"

"Jean!" said Gabrielle, with a radiant smile, "you must not talk like that--it is wicked. But tell me what is it that you do in the woods every day. Why all this industry, I wonder? Why is the mighty hunter not on the hills chasing the moose, the caribou, the bear?"

"Gabrielle, the bear sleeps all winter, and I have been asleep for many years. Now, I am awaking, and I begin to see the opportunities of life. I see and seize them as they come along. First I become habitant, then mail driver, then I build a house for tourists, and after that--well, after that we shall see. Gabrielle, it is not true that I am a good-for-nothing. Say that it is not true."

"Jean, my friend, forgive me. I did not mean it, as you know. You are a hero, my hero, since the day when you saved me from the river. You remember, do you not? But walk on the other side of the road, if you please. I have only one question to ask, one little question. Jean Baptiste, why did you borrow the money from Bonhomme Laroche? Answer me--quick, quick! Oh, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! he did it!"

"But, Gabrielle, I do not understand."

"Monsieur Giroux," said Gabrielle, her eyes flaming with indignation, "do not lie to me. You understand very well. Please to step out of the way."

"Gabrielle, my dear Gabrielle, it was a mistake, a blunder. I can explain."

"Will Monsieur Giroux step out of the way, or shall I call my father?"

"Sacré!" said Jean, in a burst of anger, turning his back on Gabrielle, and striding rapidly down the hill, exploding imprecations as he went. "Sacré tonnerre! Fool of a woman! Little fool! But what a dear little fool! What perversity, what unreason! But what dear perversity, what charming unreason! Angel of Heaven! Give her up? Ah, not yet, not for that. I will win her--I swear it. This also I will accomplish with the help of God and Saint Jean Baptiste."

CHAPTER X

BLANCHETTE

"Bonjour, Jean Baptiste," said Bonhomme Laroche, one spring morning, approaching the place where Jean was working on the frame of his new house, now almost ready for the raising. "The work moves along, I see."

"Bonjour, Monsieur Laroche," said Jean, as pleasantly as possible, wishing to be polite to the old man. "Yes, the work is well along. Next week we shall have the raising, and in ten weeks more all will be finished."

"Very good, Jean, very good indeed. And how is the money holding out? Two thousand dollars is not a great sum for a work of such magnitude."

"I have not touched it, Monsieur Laroche. That is for the carpenters, for furniture, for horses, carts, and the like. Never fear, Monsieur. It will be more than sufficient."

"You have not touched it yet? What economy! And you pay interest all the time, merely to make sure of the loan. What prudence, what foresight! Well, money is not so easy to get in St. Placide, where all the people are poor, but in Quebec there are rich men, bankers, capitalists. Ha! Ha! So one gets a loan of two thousand dollars in Quebec, and one pays interest to a poor habitant of St. Placide--as an act of charity, merely. Mon Dieu, it is to laugh."

"Monsieur Laroche," said Jean, with some asperity, "it was a trick that you played on me, and I do not appreciate the humour of it. I had no idea that Monsieur Trembly was an agent of yours. But you have your security, and as to the money, I do not intend to give it back to you at present."

"Do not think of it, my friend. The money is yours for the time, so long as you pay the interest when due--eight per cent., payable half-yearly. And do not be grateful, either. It was not for gratitude that I made the loan, but for a first mortgage on one of the best farms in the parish. I should like well to add that farm to mine. What a fine block I should have--an estate of some magnitude! Be careful to pay the interest on the day, my friend.

"But do not let us quarrel, Jean. Perhaps you may be my son-in-law some day--who knows? Stranger things have happened in this strange world. And I do not hesitate to tell you that it would please me well. As to Blanchette, she would make no objection. It is a dutiful child, that. I say to her: 'Marry Jean Baptiste, my daughter,' and she replies: 'I cannot disobey you, my dear father, although I have no special fancy for the young man.' Jean, my lad, would it not be a good arrangement?"

"Monsieur Laroche," said Jean, earnestly, "you are pleased to be facetious, but I have to tell you that I do not like your proposals, which would be as distasteful to Mademoiselle Blanchette as to myself. I am not thinking of marriage for the present, but when I do it will not be for land, nor houses, nor the loan of two thousand dollars. Your interest, Monsieur Laroche you shall have upon the day; and when the principal is due I will pay you with the greatest pleasure."

"Oh, my dear Jean, not so fiery, if you please. No offence was intended--only the proposal of an honourable alliance, honourable and advantageous. The Laroches are of a good family, my friend, respectable cultivators for ten generations. Blanchette will not take offence, I am sure, and why should you? No, Jean, let us be good neighbours, as always. As to the interest, do not be too particular. What is that between friends? You may even need the accommodation of a further loan. That also we can arrange. We are old neighbours, you know. I had a high regard for your good father, and I have always looked upon you as a promising young man, a youth who will go far, with the backing of friends and money. Such things are not to be despised."

"Monsieur Laroche," said Jean, somewhat ashamed of his hasty words, "you mean well, I am sure, and I thank you. Forgive my impatience. I dare say that I did not understand."

"Say no more, Jean. We understand each other pretty well, after all. You are a young man of ideas, and I also have some ideas, strange to say. We might exchange views, might we not, to our mutual advantage? We must have a talk, many talks. Come to see me, Jean, this very evening. We shall have a good dinner and a good talk. Blanchette will be there, of course, but do not fear--she will not bite you."

Jean could not well refuse the proffered courtesy of the old fox, and thus it came about that he paid his second visit to the Maison Laroche, and at dinner found himself seated at the hospitable board with the old man and Blanchette, surprisingly contented and hugely entertained by the conversation of the shrewd old miser and his clever daughter.

"And so, Monsieur Jean Baptiste Giroux," said Blanchette, with a smile of amusement, "you are the young man whom my father wishes me to marry, are you not?"

"Mademoiselle," stammered Jean, taken aback, "Monsieur your father is very kind, I am sure."

"Not at all, Jean my lad," broke in Bonhomme Laroche, rubbing his hands in delight. "It is what I have always wished. A young man of your talents is not so easy to find in these days. In my day it was different. Then there were tall, handsome youths in plenty, and beautiful girls as well. Your mother, Blanchette, was the most beautiful of all. Ah, those were days! But now, my friend, it seems to me that you are the only youth in the parish who compares with those of former times. Is it not so, Blanchette?"

"It may well be, my father, although I have no memory of that time. Truly, Monsieur Giroux, I am still quite young--on the sunny side of thirty, I assure you. Your mother will tell you that I have the advantage of you by only a year and a day. But without flattery I will say that you compare very well with the other young men of the parish, even those who have gone away. Pamphile was tall and strong, but he had not your intelligence. Monsieur Giroux, Jean, I have a mind to accept you."

"You do me too much honour, Mademoiselle," murmured Jean, much embarrassed, and wondering how he was going to escape from a situation so difficult.

"Not so fast, Jean, not so fast. Look before you leap, my friend. I am not beautiful, as you see."

"Mademoiselle," said Jean, insincerely, "it is the beauty of the spirit that counts."

"You do not mean that, Jean, and yet I like to hear you say it. Moreover, it is more true than you think. I have read; I have travelled; I have thought much upon the vanities of the world. Oh, yes, I have cultivated the graces of the spirit to make up for my lack in other respects. And I was beautiful once, before the smallpox. Can you believe it?"

"She is beautiful still, Jean," broke in the old man. "For me, I find her just the same, the very image of her mother."

"Ah, my good father, if all the young men were like you I should not die an old maid."

"You shall not, Blanchette, you shall not. Notice, Jean Baptiste, only notice what a fine housekeeper she is. Look at the table, the chairs, the windows, the curtains, the stove, even, how proper they are; and the floor--one could eat off it. And what a cook! Confess, Jean, that you have never tasted roast chicken better than that which you are now eating."

"It is true, Monsieur," said Jean, with enthusiasm. "The chicken is perfect, of a tenderness unequalled, of a flavour incomparable."

"But wait," continued the old man, with an air of mystery. "There is better still to come. Blanchette, the dessert. We will surprise our guest. Madame Giroux is a famous cook, but not in the same class with you, my dear."

"There, my father, you have said enough," laughed Blanchette, stopping his mouth with her open palm. "Be still, now, or you will frighten Monsieur Giroux, and he will never come again. Never mind him, Jean; he is only a foolish old man who is blinded by love. You could not be thus blinded, could you, my friend?"

"But the dessert, Blanchette, the dessert. I will say no more if only you will bring it in, instantly."

"Ah, I had forgotten," said Blanchette, going to the cupboard and bringing thence an immense plate of croquignoles of all sizes and shapes, delicately powdered with white sugar.

"There, Messieurs; there is the tour de force. If you have not eaten too much chicken, perhaps you will enjoy the croquignoles. And I have a little bottle of currant wine, too, to finish. Monsieur Giroux, I drink to our better acquaintance."

"And I," said Jean, quite disarmed by the kindness of those whom he had thought to be his enemies, "to your health, Mademoiselle Blanchette! To yours, Monsieur Laroche! Permit me to say that I have never tasted currant wine so delicious, and that the croquignoles are beyond all praise."

"They are not so bad, Jean, and I am glad that you like them. As you see, my friend, I have made a study of human nature, and I know how to please men by good food and drink--and a little flattery."

"Well, Mademoiselle, you succeed marvellously, I must confess."

"Yes, Jean; but, as you may have observed, I have this time omitted the flattery."

"Mademoiselle, it is lucky for me that you have omitted something, else I should have surrendered without the honours of war."

"That would not do at all, Jean. He who gives to me his hand gives his heart also, and must be able to say, with a certain king: 'All is lost save honour.' Could you say that?"

"Mademoiselle, what shall I say? You are a sorceress, I think."

"But no, Jean, only one who observes. It is like walking through the forest where there are signs that one may read if one has eyes to see. And there are little birds, too, that tell one things. But tell me; how does your house advance? It will soon be finished, will it not?"

"Very soon, Mademoiselle--in ten weeks, or less."

"Good. I am delighted to hear it. See, I will give you a toast, neighbour Jean. To your health, to the health of all whom you love. To your success in everything--everything. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Blanchette, I understand, and I thank you."

"What are you saying, you two?" said the old man. "Why all this mysterious talk? For me, I do not understand at all. Yet you have your secrets, I suppose."

"Naturally," said Blanchette, smiling. "We have at least one great secret. Shall I tell him, Jean? Shall I tell you, my father? As to this Jean Baptiste, I like him very much, and we are going to be the best of friends, but I will not marry him. Say nothing--I will not."

The old man stared at his daughter for some moments in mingled anger and amazement; but presently, his reason getting the better of his rage, he replied, in the tone of an indulgent parent to a wayward child:

"There, Blanchette, my dear, no one is asking you to marry anybody. What have I done? I have merely asked the young man to dine with us, to eat of our roast chicken and croquignoles, to see what a fine housekeeper you are, to perceive how happy one can be in a home of one's own--that is all. Do not trouble yourself. You shall marry or not, just as you please. Yes, you shall stay with your old father, little one, until the very end. But after that it will be lonely for you, will it not?"

"My good father," said Blanchette, gently caressing his grizzled hair, "do not talk like that. You are still a young man, as any one can see, and I shall be with you for many years. Let us not consider a future so remote. But in the worst case there is always the convent for old maids like me."

"The convent? Holy Virgin! What would you do in a convent, Blanchette, with your beauty, your accomplishments? Cut off your long hair, hide your lovely face behind a black veil, pray at midnight on the cold stones? No, no, Mignonne. Leave that to the old, the ugly, the disappointed. For you the fireside, a loving husband, beautiful children, the management of the house--all that makes life worth while. Besides, you are not pious enough for the religious life. You have no vocation. No, it is not for you."

"My father," said Blanchette, "have you finished at last? Monsieur Giroux wishes to go, I think. Au revoir, Monsieur Jean. It has been a great pleasure to have seen you. Come again soon. Good neighbours should meet often, should they not?"

"Yes, Jean," assented the old man, "Come often--every day if you like. I shall be glad to see you. As for Blanchette, never mind what she says. Women are changeable, as you know. But if not, if not, Jean Baptiste Giroux, take care; keep out of my way; for I will crush you like a snake."

Jean laughed. "Do not trouble yourself, Monsieur Laroche; I shall be safe enough, never fear. But I thank you for your hospitality; and you, Mademoiselle Blanchette, for all that and for your good wishes as well."

As Jean took the road toward his own home the night was dark, with lowering clouds on the hills, and a chill April wind blew from patches of unmelted snow. He was stumbling along, uncertain of the way, when a beam of light shone out from a lamp set in the window of the Maison Laroche.

"It is Blanchette," said Jean to himself, "and the light which she throws on the path will guide me for some distance yet. One can take a good many steps on a dark night, if one sees a friendly gleam in a window here and there."

CHAPTER XI

LA FOLIE

"Is it possible?" said Father Paradis to Jean Baptiste on a fine afternoon in June. "Can it be that your great house is finished and ready for the tourists so early in the season? It is incredible, marvellous, but there it stands, and one must believe one's own eyes, I suppose. Truly, Jean, my son, you have accomplished a great work."

"Yes, Monsieur," said Jean, with a glow of pride. "It is finished at last, thank God, and I am well content. But will you not come in to see the place, Monsieur le curé?"

"Yes, indeed," said the curé, "I must see it all, from cellar to attic, for you are as a son to me and I am interested in everything that you do. Let us begin with the cellar, the foundation of things."

"This way, Monsieur le curé. It is not far underground, as you see, and the windows are large, for the sake of light and air. But it is always cool in summer and sufficiently warm in winter, and dry as well. Here is our dairy. There is the cream separator, of which we are very proud, and there is the churn, of an improved pattern. It is not much work, in these days, to take care of the milk of a dozen cows."

"But where, Jean, are the potatoes, turnips, onions, and all that? In my day we used to keep them in the cellar; and the ham, the bacon, the sausages, the dried apples and the tobacco we used to hang to the beams of the kitchen, where they were well smoked and dried, you may be sure. Yes, and well covered with dust and flies. But now all that is changed, no doubt. This scientific housekeeping is truly wonderful."

"Yes," said Jean, with a smile, "we have now different arrangements. Vegetables are excellent, in their place, but they do not improve the flavour of the butter; so we keep them in another part of the cellar, well isolated, as you will see."

Father Paradis was greatly interested in exploring every part of the cellar, but when he ascended to the first floor he was much impressed by the spacious living-room, large enough, it seemed, to hold all the people of the parish. He admired the long table, with its massive legs, the substantial chairs, the great box-stove, a three-decker, the handsome dresser, with its rows of blue and white crockery; but most of all the great copper kettle that stood upon the stove and occupied fully half of the lower oven.

"Mon Dieu, Jean!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get that kettle? Solid copper, as I live, and polished like a mirror. Truly, it is a treasure. They do not make such kettles now-a-days. An heirloom, no doubt."

"I am glad that you like it," said Jean, "for you are a judge of such things. The first Giroux brought it from Normandy in the days of Frontenac. Yes, it is an historic relic, I am told."

"No doubt, Jean, no doubt. The Giroux were notables in their day. My great-grandmother was of that family, and I am proud of it. We are cousins, you see. But that kettle--what changes it has seen! How many generations have come and gone since first it hung above the hearth-stone of the family Giroux! Think, my son, how much it has contributed to the happiness of all these generations. What potatoes, what soup, what ragout, what compôte of strawberries, raspberries, currants, what cherry cordial, what good things of every description have been prepared in that kettle! Times and customs change, but the old copper kettle goes on for ever. Ah, Jean, if I had served my generation like that I should not have lived in vain. Permit me to bless the ancient heir-loom and to wish that it may serve the family Giroux for many generations to come. There, my friend, was not that a good sermon upon a kettle?"

"Truly, Monsieur Paradis, you are a poet, who sees in the common things of life a meaning hidden to the vulgar eye. I shall love the old kettle more than ever after what you have said. But let us go up to the second floor, Monsieur, and after that to the roof. From that point one gets a view that is well worth the climb."

"What a view!" exclaimed Father Paradis, as he stood at last on the railed terrace that crowned the roof. "Your house, Jean, is very fine, one of the grandest that I have seen, but this panorama is magnificent, superb. How lovely the river, there below, winding through the valley like a thread of silver! How beautiful the cultivated fields, the rich meadows, the upland pastures, the peaceful homes beside the pleasant country road! How far-away everything looks, and how the lines and colours blend in the mellow evening light! How wonderful the forest surrounding all, and the mountains rising peak beyond peak to the very sky! The shadows cover the lower hills, but the high summits still glow in the last radiance of the setting sun. And those clouds that float far above in the blue ether, what robes of glory they wear, like angels doing homage before Him that sitteth upon the throne! Jean, Jean! It is the work of the good God. 'All thy works shall praise thee, O God, and thy saints shall bless thee!'"

Jean made no reply, and for a long time the two friends stood there in silence, the old man with the frail body and the silver hair, and the tall, strong, dark-haired man in all the pride and confidence of youth, their eyes filled with the glory of the sunset and their hearts with the beauty of the world. Presently the brightness faded from the mountain-top, the gold and crimson from the sky, and a white mist, stealing up the valley, covered everything as with a shroud. Father Paradis shuddered, as at the approach of death.

"There, Jean," he said with a sigh, "the day is done, dead, one might say. A blaze of light, a moment of brightness, and then the shadow. Ah, my son, 'thus passeth away the glory of the world!'"

"But, my father," said the young man, "to-morrow will be a new day, and meanwhile we shall have the moon and the stars. It is the first quarter of the moon now, and you will see her, a thin crescent over the western hill, when the mist has passed. There, look! How beautiful! Encouraging, is it not, to see the light again, though it be only a reflection? The sun, at least, is not extinguished, my father."

"No, Jean, that is true; yet I had almost forgotten it, I who should always hear the voice of God. Ah, my son, why did you not become a priest? How gladly would I have seen you stand in my place, between the living God and dying men! Jean, I think, as I have always thought, that you have a vocation and a message."

"It may be so," said Jean, after a pause. "But what is the vocation? What is the message? Not that which you think, my father, not at all. Look! I have seen my people, the habitants, toiling from morning to night, summer and winter, from year to year, like their fathers for many generations, and for what reward? Food and clothes and shelter, the bare necessaries of life, and all of the poorest kind. It is a living, perhaps, but it is not to live; and I say--it is my message, if you like--that for all their toil there should be more reward. The young men, my old playmates, say the same, and go away, to the States, to the North-West, and leave this land, this good land, to the old people and those without ambition, without enterprise. Monsieur Paradis, it is not well; it is not right. Some must go, no doubt, for the desire to wander is in the blood, but there should be place for those who would be glad to stay. Yes, here in St. Placide, in these beautiful mountains, by that lovely river. See, how it shines down there, in the light of the moon. It is a river to love, is it not, my father?"

"Jean," said the old man, in a sorrowful voice, "you also are an orator, a poet. There was a time when I, too, could talk like that. The enthusiasm of youth, how fine it is! But with age comes wisdom, born of experience. Now I know that poverty, which you deplore, is a good, and not an evil; and that wealth, which you desire for all, is a snare, a delusion. The poor are close to God, but the rich are often far from Him. It is the last thing that I would desire for the people of St. Placide, that they should increase in riches, for they would forget God. Yes, Jean, the good God loves the poor, and they cling to Him as their only hope. Our divine Saviour Himself was one of the very poor, and it is well to be like Him."

"Monsieur Paradis," said Jean, earnestly, "will you permit me to confess to you, not as to a priest, but as to an old and dear friend? I confess, my father, with sorrow but without repentance, that I disagree with you profoundly, absolutely. The Lord Jesus was poor, as you have said, but He had friends among the rich, who gave Him food and shelter, and, at the last, provided Him a tomb. No, my father, poverty in itself is not a good but an evil, one of the worst, and the cause of many others. Poverty, disease, ignorance, vice, crime--they all go together very often, yes, generally. It is not among the very rich, perhaps, that one finds the best citizens, but certainly not among the very poor. It is not great riches that I demand for the habitants of St. Placide, but better food and shelter, more suitable clothes, education, books, newspapers, art, science, amusement. At last we are awaking from our mediæval slumber. Civilization we must have, through the Church, if possible, but if not we must look elsewhere for the guidance, the leadership that we need. There, Monsieur, I have said more than I should, perhaps, but it was from the heart."

"Ah, Jean," said the old priest, with a sigh, "you have gone far. I had no idea that you were thinking such things during all the years since I first noticed you at the parish school. Education, civilization, prosperity--what can they do for us? It is not by prosperity, so-called, that you can make the people willing to stay on the land, to endure the hardships of habitant life. It is poverty, aided by religion, that can accomplish this miracle. Jean, you are too far advanced for St. Placide. Education, which you glorify, has unfitted you for our simple life, and that which you plan, with all the enthusiasm and ignorance of youth, can only end in failure and disaster. The revolutionist can do nothing here. Jean, my son, I had high hopes for you, but now I fear that you have not only strayed from the ways of the fathers, but that you have become alienated from the Holy Church, that you have forsaken God. It is some weeks since you have assisted at the Mass, and you have not come to confession for a long time. My son, there is to be a retreat of three days, beginning to-morrow, in honour of the Precious Blood. Will you not come with us, to meditate, to pray? You are busy, I know, but three days are not long compared with eternity, and the affairs of this life are trivial, after all. Say that you will come, Jean, my son."

"I cannot, Monsieur, for I have engagements that I must not break. Later I will come, for I am still a true son of the Church, and I have faith in God. But I have also faith in man, and believe----"

"Have faith in God, Jean. The heart of man is not to be trusted. Look to God, my son."

"I will," said Jean, with humility, "and for that reason I ask the blessing of God, and yours, my father, upon me and my poor house. Your blessing, Father Paradis. You cannot deny me."

"Jean," said the old man, "I fear for you; yet I know that you desire to do good, and I wish that you may have peace in your soul. 'Except the Lord build the house they labour in vain that build it.' May God bless you, my son, and may the work of your hands be established and be for the glory of God. Amen!"

Thus Father Paradis blessed the new house, although with misgivings, but many of the neighbours bore Jean no good will and freely expressed their disapproval of the hazardous and presumptuous undertaking. They came to the house-warming, as a matter of course, ate and drank of the abundant refreshments provided by Jean and his good mother, enjoyed the dance on the great kitchen floor, and then went home to criticize and prophesy evil. Even the best friends of the family allowed themselves to gossip on the subject, and did not disdain to stop at the crossroads to hear the latest news from Mère Tabeau, and her spicy comments thereon.

"Certainly, I was there," said she to one of the passers-by. "I was invited with the rest, of course. They do not love me, those Giroux, but they would not offer me an open insult. They would not dare. And I went, of course, to show my appreciation of the courtesy. I understand the art of politeness, as you know.

"What did I see? Why, Monsieur Gagnon, you were there yourself. I saw what you saw, my friend. For example, I saw a certain neighbour of mine drink fifteen cups of spruce beer and consume an equal number of croquignoles, one to each cup of beer, the right proportion, exactly. No, my good neighbour, I did not say it was you, but if the cap fits----

"What did I think of it all? Well, I have my thoughts, naturally. Shall I tell you, or are you in a hurry to go to market? No, for you have started an hour earlier than usual. Well, if you have patience to listen to an old woman, I will tell you. As to the affair of last evening, it was pleasant for the neighbours to be thus entertained. The money of Bonhomme Laroche was well spent. The Giroux will pay later, in the course of time; yes, sooner than you think, perhaps.

"The house? Oh, it is wonderful, by far the finest in the parish. Indeed, there is not the like in all Beauport. Only in the great city of Quebec can one see hotels like that. Twelve rooms! Mon Dieu! Where are all the people who will occupy them? How long will they stay? How much will they pay? These are important questions, as you can see. Figure to yourself. If there were twenty tourists in the house for two months, that is, for the whole summer, and if the foolish people paid as much as four dollars a week, a great sum for these parts, that would be only a little more than six hundred dollars. There is no great fortune in that. A considerable sum in the gross, but the net revenue will be very small. When you have taken interest on the loan, the cost of food, the wages of Pauline La Chance, the hired girl, and all the other expenses, what will be left to pay for the work of Madame Giroux and Jean himself, not to mention a thousand little items, of no account in themselves but great in the aggregate. Oh, I know arithmetic, I assure you, as well as many other things. It is useful, at times, to be able to count. Figures, at least, do not lie.