Part 13

"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."

"Yes, I have been away for some time, at Lac Desir, up there. I was arranging my camp for the winter. There will be good trapping this season, better than ever. Oh, the prospects are good, excellent. Come with me, Jean; we shall both become quite rich. A single skin of the silver fox, as you know, may be worth a thousand dollars, or more. There will be caribou without limit, and moose; not to mention hares and grouse, so that we shall not lack for food. With a few bags of flour and some sides of bacon we shall live like lords, better than the guests of the Hotel St. Louis, I assure you. And oh, the freedom, the glory of that life, far from the world, near to Nature and to God! It would be a good place for you, Jean, for a time--a retreat, you know. At times people need that, my son, for the soul's rest. But your house is gone, you say? Well, that was to be expected."

"Expected?"

"Assuredly, my son. Did I not warn you? No? Well, it could not have been prevented. Pamphile Lareau is here, is he not?"

"Pamphile? Do you know, Monsieur Gamache, that he saved my life at the risk of his own?"

"Yes, I know. Which proves, does it not, that he started the fire?"

"Started the fire? Impossible! It was the lightning."

"You think so, Jean, but you are mistaken. Listen. Last evening at midnight I was at my cabin at Lac Desir, thirty miles away, sitting on a log near the door and looking out on the lake--a mirror in which all the stars were reflected. Not a cloud was in the sky. Suddenly there was a flash, as of lightning, and there, in the middle of the lake, stood La Folie; and on the top of the roof lay Jean Baptiste Giroux, yourself, pale as one who is dead. Then the brightness was gone, but still the shadow of the house was on the lake, and would not go away. After a time a light appeared in the window, then a burst of flame; and I saw the people running out of the door, climbing from the windows, the neighbours arriving, with much excitement and confusion and wild gesticulation. But still the body of Jean Baptiste, your body, lay upon the roof, until Pamphile arrived and you were saved. Yes, I saw it all, as in the depths of a crystal. Did I see Pamphile kindle the fire? No, for it was quite dark, you know; but that he did it I have no doubt. It was not the lightning; therefore it was Pamphile. So I knew that you would need me, and I came. Thirty miles through the forest would be a good walk even for a young fellow like you, would it not?"

"Indeed it would, Monsieur Gamache, and I thank you for coming. It does me good to talk with you. Already I begin to take courage, to make new plans, to see light ahead. But as to Pamphile, surely you are mistaken. At great risk he led me down from the burning roof. It was the act of a hero, and I have a mind to forgive him for everything--for burning the house, even, if he really did it."

"Forgive him if you like, Jean, but watch him all the same. Yes, it will be worth while to watch Pamphile and that witch, Mere Tabeau. They have other plans, without doubt. The fire was only a beginning. Pamphile would kill you, Jean, if he could."

"This is interesting, Monsieur Gamache. You make me forget, almost, the loss of my house, and my other troubles."

"Other troubles, Jean? What are they, my son? But I know without asking, and I tell you that there is no cause for trouble. She loves you."

"No, Monsieur Gamache. On the contrary, she has gone to the convent; for she does not love me, nor anything in the kingdom of earth. It is the heavenly kingdom that she desires, and the good God whom she loves."

"Do not believe it, Jean," said the old man, with an inscrutable smile. "It is you only that she loves; and if she thinks of the religious life it is because of love--and pride. But love is stronger than pride. To what convent, Jean?"

"The Ursulines, Monsieur Gamache."

"The Ursulines. Well, that is not so bad. Teaching sisters. That is not to throw away one's life altogether. They are good ladies, those sisters of Ste. Ursule. She will be happy there, after a time, after she has forgotten. But to forget--there is the difficulty. Has Mother Sainte Anne forgotten, I wonder?"

"Mother Sainte Anne?"

"Only an acquaintance of former days, Jean, a friend of forty years ago. But have courage, my son. Gabrielle has not yet taken the veil, has not even begun the novitiate. The bride of Heaven? No, no! For a young girl of such accomplishments, of a beauty so rare, of an affection so tender, it was a sad mistake. How I would have cherished her! How she would have adorned the home, brightened the fireside! And the children that might have played about, sat upon one's knee, thrown their arms about one's neck! _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! What a mistake!"

"Monsieur!"

"Jean!"

"You are not speaking of Gabrielle."

"Of Gabrielle? No. Yes. She will be all this to you, and more. Have courage, my friend."

"Monsieur Gamache, you are a true friend, one who stands by in the hour of need. Those dark clouds are passing away now, and the sky is clearing, with the promise of a fine day to-morrow. Good night, Monsieur, and thank you a thousand times."

"Wait, Jean. You have not spoken of the house."

"The house? Oh, I had forgotten that. It is not of much consequence, by comparison. Indeed, I am almost glad that it is gone. Yet it is a great loss, a calamity."

"And the debt, Jean!"

"The debt. Yes, that is still worse. Bonhomme Laroche will try to take the farm, I fear--the old place where we have lived for so many years. For myself I should not care, but for the good mother it would be terrible."

"You are right, Jean. To the young such a calamity is nothing. They have good health, the strong arm, the cheerful spirit, the high courage, the undaunted will. Nothing can subdue them. They are downcast, for a time; but presently they rise again, stronger than ever, more eager for the struggle, the test of manhood. But with the old it is different. They have not the vigour, the joy of living any more; nor the elasticity of spirit that gives the rebound, the recovery. They fall, and remain on the ground; they are injured, and the wound does not heal; they are sick, and do not recover. No, Jean, the old are afflicted with an incurable disease. The joy of battle is not for them. For them sleep and rest--the sleep of death, the rest of the grave. Jean, the good mother must not leave the old home."

"No, Monsieur Gamache; it must not be. I will see to that."

"But how, Jean?"

"Oh, Monsieur, I will find a way, you may be sure. For one thing, Bonhomme the miser cannot claim his principal--that will not be due for two years. He can demand only the interest, a trifling sum, after all. Meanwhile the farm is there, and I shall have the mail contract and some tourists. In winter there will be lumbering or the trapping of which you speak. When I think of silver foxes at a thousand dollars apiece I see the debt vanish in a single season. Oh, we are not ready to die yet, by any means. A man of my size and strength can surely earn a living for the good mother and pay the debt off as well. Do not fear, Monsieur Gamache."

"I have no fear for you, Jean, no fear at all. But come with me--I have something to show you."

Michel led the way into the cabin, a habitation of a single long room, with a fireplace and the apparatus of a kitchen at one end, and the furniture of a bedroom at the other. It was the abode of a hunter and fisherman, yet everything was neat and proper as though cared for by the hand of a woman. On the walls were guns, fishing-rods, and snowshoes; the antlers of caribou, moose, and red deer; a snowy owl; a golden eagle; with various quaint decorations in shells and porcupine quills after the manner of the Montaignais Indians. On the floor were the tanned skins of bear, wolves, and lynxes; while over the fireplace, like the holy picture of a shrine, hung a water-colour by a famous artist--the portrait of a young and beautiful woman.

"There, Jean, my son, son of my old friend Toussaint Giroux, behold that picture! You have seen it before, but do you know who it is? No; but I will tell you. It is Mademoiselle Annette Duval, formerly of the parish of Chateau Richer, now Mother Sainte Anne of the Ursulines, the patron saint of this retreat, the holy angel who protects this place, who presides over this home. You have said that Mademoiselle Gabrielle is with her. Well, she is in good company, and will receive the best of advice. Have courage, my friend. Mother Sainte Anne is religious, without doubt, but something more than that. Beneath the robe of religion there beats still a woman's heart. I have not seen her in forty years, but I know that those eyes have the same gentle gaze, those lips the same lovely smile, and that day and night she prays for one whom once she loved."

Michel stood in silence for some moments as one who prayed, and then turned suddenly to Jean with a dramatic gesture and an air of cheerfulness, almost of gaiety.

"Well, Jean Baptiste, did I bring you here to worship at the shrine of a bygone generation? By no means. It was to solve the problem of your life, to untangle the complication of your affairs, to put you on the road to fortune, fame, and love. To that end I will reveal to you the secret which I have guarded for forty years. You look incredulous, my friend, but you shall see and believe. Remove that bearskin, if you please. Yes, the big one in the centre of the room. You see that trap-door with the iron ring? Take hold and lift. Heavy? Only a hundred pounds or so--a mere trifle for a man like you. Now let us descend. We will take one of the candles from the altar--no sacrilege in a cause like this. Come on, Jean. Now we can see better, as our eyes become accustomed to the gloom. Do you see the old iron box in the corner over there--there where it has rested so many years? It is ten years since I examined it, but there is no reason to think that it has been disturbed in all that time. Dieu, if it has been touched! But no, it is covered with the dust of many years. Lift the lid. You cannot? No, for it is locked. Do not be impatient--it was only a little joke of mine. Here is the key. Turn it once--twice. There, you have it. Open now, and look--look!"

"_Mon Dieu!_" said Jean, as he knelt by the box, and eagerly scanned the contents. "What a quantity of gold! Napoleons, sovereigns, and some Spanish coins of fifty years ago. A treasure, a great treasure! The box is not large, but heavy. Let us try. _Sapre_, but it weighs four or five hundred pounds, at the very least. It would take a strong man to carry it away, but a burglar might pick the lock. Lucky that there are no such people in St. Placide. Still, Monsieur Gamache, I recommend that you place this money in the bank at Quebec. It has been safe for forty years, but I should fear to leave it here for a single night. But what a treasure! I begin to believe that you are a sorcerer after all, and that these piles of yellow coin are devil's gold."

"Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed the old man, in high glee. "It is all good money of the mints of France and England, good yellow gold, receivable anywhere in the world. And what is more, Jean, my son, it belongs to you."

"To me, Monsieur Gamache? Impossible! Certainly not!"

"But yes, Jean, it was your father's, and now it is yours."

"My father's? How can that be? He was always a poor man."

"His own fault, Jean, when he had a treasure like this. You, I hope, will not be so foolish. It is yours, as I have said. Be so good as to take it away."

"But why did not my father take it?"

"Why? Why? How do I know? Because, because your father was the biggest damn fool that I have ever known. He was a fool, I say, and I was another. We were two fools, two drivelling idiots. Be wise, Jean, and ask no more questions. It is good gold, yellow gold, coin of the realm, receivable for all debts, bankable anywhere in the world, of unquestioned value. What more do you want?"

"Only one question, Monsieur Gamache. Why then did my father refuse to take it?"

"_Peste!_" exclaimed Michel, stamping his foot. "This is the old man again, a chip from the old block; yes, the old blockhead himself. Well, if you will have it, I will tell you. It was a treasure that we found in the hulk of a ship half-buried in the sands of Anticosti. There were no names, no papers, only the bones of some men along the shore with some fragments of clothing--that was all. The wreck we burned; the bones we buried in the sand; and the gold we took to Ste. Famille on the Isle of Orleans--that is to say, it was I who took it?"

"And my father?"

"Refused to take it--would not touch a single piece."

"No?"

"No! Because, as he said, they were smugglers or pirates, those men who had been cast away; and the gold was the reward of robbery, or the price of blood. Yes, he said, in the very words that you have used, that it was devil's gold. He would have given it to the Church, that the altar might sanctify the gift, as he said; but I would not. No, and I left it buried for forty years. Devil's gold? What folly! Yes, he was a valiant man, that Toussaint Giroux, a valiant man and a trusty friend; but obstinate as a mule."

"Devil's gold!" repeated Jean, slowly. "The reward of robbery. The price of blood. Yes, that was it, a treasure acquired by fraud or force, jetsam that one may not own, but may dedicate to a holy purpose. He was a valiant man, that good father, as you have said. He would not touch the treasure, and I, his son, I will not touch it either."

Michel held up the candle and passed it slowly before the face of Jean Baptiste, but could find in the firm mouth and steady eye no sign of relenting. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he said, as though reciting an oft-repeated formula:

"It would be useless, no doubt, to remind you that you are throwing away a fortune, that you are allowing a mass of wealth to lie idle that might start a great enterprise and give work to a thousand men. It would be in vain to tell you that you are giving up all your plans for the improvement of the parish; that you are sacrificing your mother and the girl you love; that you are blighting your life, blasting your prospects, and shutting the door of opportunity in your face. That is, in substance, what I said to Toussaint Giroux; that is what I say to Jean Baptiste, his youngest son--and with the same effect."

"The same," said Jean Baptiste.

"Then I have to tell you, Jean, that you are the same species of fool as your father. What a damn fool he was, that man! I rejoice to think of it. What courage! What determination! What resolve! A hero, a knight without fear and without reproach. Such a man was your father, Jean, my son. Never forget it! Jean Baptiste, son of Toussaint Giroux, I salute you!"

*CHAPTER XIX*

*MOTHER SAINTE ANNE*

It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the shadows of the tall houses of the Rue des Jardins reached already the middle of the narrow street, as an old gentleman in the garb of half a century ago passed along the shady side and entered the open gate of the Ursuline Convent. He was a tall man, not handsome, but of an erect bearing and distinguished appearance; and the fashion of his frock coat of fine homespun, his beaver hat and black stock, together with his carefully trimmed grey hair and whiskers, proclaimed him a country dandy of a former generation, dressed for Church, or to pay a visit of importance to his lady love.