Part 14

It was more than forty years since he had last paid such a visit, and the costume of that occasion had reposed in the bottom of an old cedar box during all those years. But now he wore it with pride and dignity; and carried his light malacca cane with something of the swagger of former days, when he had thought himself as good as any of the young bloods of Quebec, not excepting the army officers, who trusted overmuch in the grandeur of their red uniforms to win the ladies' hearts. Was he not a cadet of a good family; son of the seigneur of Ste. Famille on the Island; and had he not the right to hold up his head among the best? Indeed, whether he had the right or not, he was accustomed to do so by virtue of his consciousness of personal merit and his strong right hand. Evidently, the old gentleman had been a force to be reckoned with; and even now the memory of a bygone glory seemed to linger about him, commanding the respect and deference of all the passers-by.

Crossing the paved courtyard with an active stride remarkable in one of his years, he pulled the door-bell and waited until the portress came, a sister of mature age and sober mien.

"May I have the honour of an interview with the Reverend Mother Superior?"

The sister hesitated.

"It is somewhat unusual," she began, but immediately added: "I dare say that the Reverend Mother will see you. Will Monsieur be so kind as to give his name?"

The old gentleman presented a thin visiting-card, and was shown into the waiting-room with the intimation that the Reverend Mother would soon appear. The room was plainly furnished; with a carpet of dull colours, a few straight-backed chairs, and a plain walnut table on which were some religious books--the _Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignace_, the _Imitation of Christ_, a _Roman Breviary_ in four volumes, and a life of Angele de Brescia. On the bare walls was a large crucifix, and a number of holy pictures representing the Lord Jesus, the Holy Mother, Sainte Ursule, and other saints and martyrs, both men and women; who for the love of God had forsaken parents and friends, abjured the world, crucified the flesh, and given themselves a living sacrifice unto God. It was an exhibition of piety such as might well make one regret the struggles and sins of the outer world, admire the sincerity and devotion of those who had chosen the way of the Cross, and rejoice in the thought that they were now singing the eternal song around the throne of God.

As the old man stood looking at the ascetic and courageous faces, the spirit of the place came stealing upon him; and he saw that there was a way of life in which the lonely, the loveless, the defeated and disappointed, as well as men and women of high ideals and lofty purposes, might find refuge, shelter, companionship, and peace, and have at the same time work to do that would give scope to all their powers and absorb all their thoughts. They would suffer, no doubt, but not more than others; while they would have great satisfaction in the success of their work and the triumph of their cause. It was a good life in itself for those who had the vocation; and as for the final reward there was a wonderful hope, a glorious chance, for which sane people might well throw down the vain baubles and frivolities of the world. Yes, the religious life was not to be despised. Only human love was lacking, but what was that? A passing fancy, the pastime of an hour.

"Monsieur Gamache."

The old gentleman turned from the holy pictures to find the Reverend Mother Superior standing before him, a little old lady clad in the garb of the Ursulines, with a rosary of plain jet beads about her neck, from which hung an ivory crucifix, yellow with age. Her sweet, wistful face was pale, but she smiled, and her eyes glistened as she held out her hand to the old friend.

He bent over the frail little hand and raised it to his lips in the old courtly way. As for words, he could find none.

"Be seated, Monsieur," said Mother Sainte Anne, taking up the thread of conversation dropped so many years ago. "It is a great pleasure to see you again, and all the more so because quite unexpected. 'Until to-morrow,' you said, as we parted that day. I remember it well. A good many to-morrows have come and gone since that time. Yet I should have known you anywhere. It is I who have changed the more."

"But no, Annette--pardon me, Reverend Mother--I do not find that you have changed in the least."

The Mother Superior smiled, and a faint blush appeared on her pale cheeks.

"In one respect you have not changed, Monsieur Gamache--you were always able to turn a compliment in a very pleasant way, though without much regard to fact, perhaps. It is sinful; yet one likes to hear those charming little untruths, which flatter but do not deceive. You shall confess to Father Felix, Monsieur, and he will give you a suitable penance."

"Confess, Reverend Mother? To what end? That is what I have not done in forty years. There, I am confessing now, and already I feel better. You have power to grant absolution, have you not?"

Mother Sainte Anne held up her hands in amazement and horror.

"Forty years! You have not confessed once in all that time, since, since---- _Bon Dieu_, what neglect! What a sin against the soul, against the spirit of God! If you had died thus, would any prayers, my prayers, or those of your guardian angel, even, have been able to deliver you? Oh, Monsieur Gamache, Michel, my old friend, delay no longer, not a single day. The grace of God is everlasting, inextinguishable. It still pursues you; and by my voice it once more asks you to confess, to demand forgiveness, to receive absolution."

The Reverend Mother was weeping, and Michel Gamache was not unmoved. Yet he could not at once rid himself of the cynicism of years, but allowed himself to doubt his best friend.

"Is it that you ask this as a personal request, Reverend Mother, or merely to save another soul from Hell?"

"Michel," said the old lady, in a low voice, "I have not seen you once since the day we parted, but during every day in all those years I have wished, yes, I have prayed that we might meet again in the eternal world."

"Why then, Annette, did you leave me at that time, without a word?"

"Michel," she replied, in a broken voice, "they told me that you had gone away in anger, and afterwards that you were dead. It was not for years, when it was too late, that I learned the truth."

"Annette," said the old man, "I was always sure that there was some mistake; and always have I thought of you with the same regard, a love that will last until the end of life, and afterwards, whether in Heaven or Hell, will remain the same."

"Michel, it is good to hear you talk like that, for now I know that we shall meet again in the homeland of the soul. You will go to Father Felix, will you not, this very day? You will find him in the Basilica an hour before sunset, in the little box to the right as you enter the main door. You will see him?"

"At least I will visit Father Paradis at St. Placide immediately after my return."

"No, Michel, do not delay. You will find Father Felix to-day, will you not, for my sake?"

"Yes, Annette, I will do it for your sake--and my own."

"Michel, you make me very happy," said Annette, in words that Michel had heard before, in the old days. "I have transgressed, I fear, the rules of the convent, and I also shall have confessions to make. But I am glad that you have come, and Father Felix will understand."

"Yes, he will understand, no doubt, if he is still a man. The priests, fortunately, are human beings like ourselves; and have the same temptations, the same sufferings. Who could confess to an angel who has never passed through the human life? But the priests, the saints, the Holy Mother, the Lord Jesus--they know, they understand. And you, Reverend Mother, will understand when I present a petition in favour of my friend, my son, I may say--Jean Baptiste Giroux, of our parish."

"Jean Baptiste Giroux? I do not know of him. He is a son, perhaps, of your ancient friend Toussaint Giroux, of Chateau Richer, whom I have seen in former times. He was a noble young man, I have heard."

"Yes, Reverend Mother, and the son is like his father, tall, strong, courageous, with all the virtues, all the abilities. But for all that, one whom he loves has left him, and will give herself to the religious life."

"And why not, Monsieur Gamache?"

"Why not, you say? How can you say that, Annette? Will it not be a mistake, a sad mistake, as in our case?"

"Oh!" exclaimed Mother Sainte Anne, with a catch in her voice. "Was it for this you came? Well, it will be useless, I fear. Mademoiselle Tache will take the first vows very soon, and after that it is not likely that she will change her mind. She will be a notable addition to our Congregation--a young lady of good family, beautiful, accomplished, vivacious, of a charming disposition, of a most ardent devotion, and with a considerable dowry. Yes, that is not to be despised, the dowry which the bride of Heaven brings to her Lord and Master, a gift to lay at His feet, a contribution to the great work of the Church through the humble sisters of Sainte Ursule. Yes, Monsieur, Mademoiselle Tache will be happy and useful with us. She is in every way fitted for the religious vocation, and as a teaching sister will be one of the best. Many heretics are won to the true fold through teachers such as she. Yes, I foretell great things for her. A true vocation."

"A vocation? Reverend Mother, can you believe it?"

"But certainly. Who could doubt it? She has all the qualities, all the marks, and she wishes it sincerely."

"Are you certain, quite certain?"

"Of course," replied the old lady, with some asperity. "Has she not said so?"

"But, Reverend Mother, permit a single question. Does she know that Jean Baptiste loves her, with his whole heart, without reserve? Does she know this, or does she think that he has forsaken her, that he despises her, that he is in love with another?"

"How should I know, Monsieur? Mademoiselle Tache has been very reserved on this point. There has been some affair of the heart--that is all that I know."

"Reverend Mother," said the old man, rising. "Grant me but one favour for the sake of old times. Be so kind as to tell Mademoiselle Gabrielle what I have said."

"I will tell her, of course, but it will make no difference. Those who are called to the religious life are inspired by a love that is higher than any mere human emotion. It is a live coal from the altar of God, a spark of that love which brought the divine Saviour to earth to live and die for a lost world. And when one thus gives oneself in the spirit of true devotion, one finds a peace and rest which the world cannot give, and bliss ineffable on the bosom of the divine Redeemer. In our love for Him and for His cause all human loves are embraced and glorified--we give them up that we may receive them again, purified and transfigured, in the beauty of holiness. Ah, Monsieur, the religious life is a good life; and afterwards, in the eternal world, the faithful will live with God unto the ages of the ages. Amen!"

"Amen!" said the old man, solemnly. "Give unto them eternal rest, O God; and may perpetual light illumine them!"

"Adieu, Annette," said Michel, a moment later. "It has been good to see you again."

"Yes, and for me also," said Mother Sainte Anne. "But tell me, Michel. Did you come for the sake of your young friend only, or for Gabrielle?"

"No, Annette. It was for your sake most of all. I have been on the point of coming for many years, and the other motive was the occasion, the pretext, merely."

Mother Sainte Anne's face lighted up with a radiant smile; and through a mist of tears Michel Gamache saw again the youth and loveliness of former years, and was satisfied.

*CHAPTER XX*

*THE ROBBERY*

"There, my nephew," said Mere Tabeau, as the two emerged from the forest surrounding the log castle of Michel Gamache. "Behold the den of the beast. He has gone away for a day or two, permitting us to make a little exploration. Very considerate of him, was it not?"

"But there is nobody here--no dog, even."

"No, my good nephew, not even a dog. It is a sorcerer, the inhabitant of this place, a species of wolf, you know; and wolves have no love for dogs. There are no domestic animals of any kind; and no wild beasts either, except the sorcerer himself and some of his cousins, who come from the forest now and then."

"Wolves?" exclaimed Pamphile.

"Even so," she sneered. "But do not fear, my brave nephew; they spend the day in the recesses of the forest, and do not come out until the evening twilight. Fear nothing."

"Bah!" said Pamphile. "I have no fear of people, nor dogs, nor even wolves. If they were here there would be something to kill. No, my aunt, it is not wolves that I fear, but this damned silence. There is not the call of a bird, the chatter of a squirrel, nor the chirp of an insect. Even the leaves of the trees are still. It is a silence that one can hear. It is as though it were a place of the dead. My aunt, it would be better, I think, to go away."

The old crone laughed in scorn, a shrill, cackling laugh that woke the echoes of the forest.

"There!" she said. "You hear something, do you not? Bah! You surprise me, Monsieur the bravo of Nevada. One who carries a pistol, one who has fought with savages, cowboys, cattle-thieves, gamblers, one who has saved his enemy from a burning house--to be afraid of a silence, and in broad daylight! It is to laugh. Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Well, let us go away. Let us leave the treasure, and the old miser will give it to Jean Baptiste. _Hein_? You don't like that?"

"_Sacre_!" said Pamphile. "He shall not have it, that proud one, that peasant with the swagger of a grand seigneur, that bishop that was to be. He despises me, does he? He strikes me with a whip, like a dog. Sacred pig's head! I will see him crawl in the dust, and then I will crush him with my foot. Obtain the treasure, he? Come on, my aunt; let us storm the castle. Shall we break down the door or cut out a window? The door is on the latch, you say--not barred? _Mon Dieu_! Is it possible? A treasure in such a place, and no bolt, no bar, no guard? My aunt, it is a trap. You shall press the latch; you shall open the door; and then you shall receive a charge of buckshot in the body. No, the game is not worth the candle."

"Coward!" snarled the old hag. "Good-for-nothing! Call yourself a man! Get out of my way, you chicken-liver, you who have not the spirit of a mouse! There! I open the door; I enter the den; the beast is not there; there is no gun, no trap, no weapon of any kind but what you see on the walls, in full view. Now you can arm yourself to the teeth, if you like; but there is no need. Oh yes, I have been here before, to make a reconnaissance, so to speak; and I would have taken the treasure myself, but that it is too heavy. You will have trouble to lift it, my nephew. But you are strong, Pamphile, as strong as Jean Baptiste himself, if you would believe it. You could kill him--you. I say it, I, your mother."

"What? What are you saying, my aunt?"

"No aunt at all, Pamphile--your mother, sure enough, your dear mother. Kiss me, my son."

"Wait, my aunt; this is too sudden. My mother? Is it possible? A most affectionate mother, I must say--a species of ostrich, or alligator. Well, since you say it, you who should know, I must believe, I suppose; but I confess that I am not so very proud of the relationship. And my father, what of him? Perhaps you can reveal this also, since you are telling things."

"Well, that is not so easy to determine; but there is reason to think that it is Monsieur the lord of this castle, the owner of the treasure that we are to take."

"Michel Gamache?"

"No other."

"Then, my aunt, my mother, if you will, the treasure is ours, in a sense."

"That is what I have been trying to say."

"Well, my sainted parent; let us take what is ours before the old man returns. He is a miser, as is well known; an unnatural father, as you have intimated; a rascal in any case. That he is a sorcerer I no longer believe, for the species of sorcery which he practises is no mystery to me. I have used it, many a time, back there in Nevada. No, my dear parents, let us not fool one another any more, for we are all sorcerers together. Dog does not eat dog, as you know. Curious, that fear that I had a moment since. It is all gone now; driven away by the power of reason and a revelation concerning family ties. Come, my lovely mother; let us find the treasure and take it away without delay."

"Pamphile, you are a strange mixture of philosopher and fool, coward and hero; but that is what one should expect from the events connected with your birth. Some time I will tell you the story, but now we have other fish to fry. Kick away those skins. There is the trap-door. Lift it. Let us descend. A candle? I have it. Follow me. Now we are in the cave, and over there in the corner we should find the box. There it is. _Dieu merci_! You can lift it, of course. Take it up, now, and carry it out. I will help you, if necessary. I am not very strong, but for a treasure like this I could put forth some effort yet. Think of it, Pamphile, the pleasure of counting all that gold, of feeling the weight of every piece, of seeing the glimmer of it by the light of a candle. I, too, must have a cave, a dark cave with no windows; and every night I will descend to look, and feel and count. It will cost something for candles, but one cannot have pleasure without expense. As for you, Pamphile, you will want to spend your share, to gamble it away; and soon you will have nothing, nothing. What a pity! Better leave it all with me."

"When you are tired of talking, my dear mother, will you be so good as to give me the key?"

"The key? I have no key. That is what I have not been able to find. But you can carry the box, I know."

"There is no need for that, my precious mother. If I had a piece of strong wire. Ah, here it is in my pocket. A happy accident, is it not? How useful pockets are! Possibly we might find some other useful articles there, if the lock should prove refractory--a stick of dynamite, for example. It is an interesting trade, the locksmith's, one of the accomplishments that I have learned in the course of my wanderings. But this is not a difficult combination. There goes one bolt; and there goes the other. Now the hasp is loose, and the lid is ready to open. If there is to be an explosion it will come at this stage. My cherished parent, you shall have the pleasure of opening the treasure chest, since you have desired it for so many years. The old can be spared, you know, but the future of the world is with the young."

"Bah!" said the old woman. "You make a great fuss about nothing, my brave son; you with the long legs, the broad shoulders, the fierce look, the big words. Bah! You are a poor excuse for a man. I will lift the lid, of course, and you shall see what we have come to find. There! Look now! Look! Oh, _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! What is this? _Sacre diable_! _Millecochons_! _Sacre_! _Sacre_! _Cru-ru-ru-ru-de Dieu_!"

"What is the matter?" cried Pamphile. "What the deuce is here? No gold, eh? I thought as much. Stones from the river? Yes, better than I expected. Oh, be still, you old fool. Stop your yelling. Who is making a fuss now, I should like to know? Be still, I say!"

"Oh, Pamphile! Oh! Oh! You do not know, you cannot imagine the disappointment, the sorrow, after all these years, to see all my hopes, all my plans, come to an end like this. No treasure, no revenge! Ah, the miserable one, to rob a poor woman, a poor old woman who had but one hope, one ambition, one thing to make life worth while! Now all is gone. No money, no revenge! Nothing, nothing! _Sacre_! _Sacre_! Pamphile, I am finished. Let us go, my nephew."

"Nephew?" said Pamphile, as they slowly mounted the steps to the floor above. "I was your son a moment since, although I did not believe it for a moment."

"It was a lie, Pamphile. You are my nephew, truly, the son of my sister Cecile. She was a fool, Cecile, and I could not abide her. Oh, we were two doves--Cecile and Celestine--two angels with downy wings. Your father? He also was a fool. What he could see in Cecile I could not guess. They went away without my blessing, you may be sure, and soon after he got himself drowned in the Gatineau. Oh, they were married with all regularity in the church, by a priest--Father Gibaut of Chateau Richer. No, you are no son of Michel Gamache, that traitor, that thief! Ah, if I had him here I would stab him to the heart, that he might be damned for ever, body and soul. I would go to Hell myself, to see him burn. A thousand devils take him, stick him on forks, tear his eyes out, his tongue, his liver, roast him in the fire! Ha, you damned one, squirm, wriggle, writhe in the fire that never shall be quenched--for ever, for ever, unto the ages of the ages! Ah, that is revenge, revenge at last--sweet, sweet!"

Mere Tabeau was raving; and when she saw the picture of Annette Duval, serene and calm like a holy saint above an altar, she tore it from its place; spat upon it; stamped upon it; and then raged about the room like a wild beast, tearing and breaking, scratching and biting and foaming at the mouth; until at last she fell unconscious to the floor, and Pamphile carried her home.

Toward evening Mere Tabeau recovered consciousness, and asked for the priest, knowing that she had but a little while to live. Father Paradis came in haste, carrying the _Bon Dieu_; while Pamphile, who drove, kept ringing the warning bell; whereat all who heard fell on their knees to pray for the departing soul. The priest remained with the dying woman for a long time, hearing her last confession, administering the holy wafer, anointing with the holy oil, and offering prayers of intercession until the last breath was expired, the heart had ceased to beat, and the soul had passed away from the mortal body.

When Father Paradis came from the chamber of death there was upon his face an expression of ineffable peace, as of one in communion with the eternal world; and his eyes had the far-away look of one who gazes upon things unseen. Even Pamphile felt a sense of awe and mystery, and for some time drove on in silence. Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he broke out suddenly:

"She was a bad woman, Monsieur le cure."

"What? What is that you say, Pamphile?"

"She was a wicked old woman, and is now in Hell, no doubt."

"Ah, Pamphile, how do I know? I am not her judge. She is in the hands of God."

"Yes, Monsieur le cure, but if there is a mortal sin which she has not committed I do not know what it is. I understand that any one of these is enough to damn the soul. Is it not so?"

"Yes, Pamphile, if unforgiven. But who shall limit the mercy of God? Even Judas, if he had repented, might have been forgiven. This poor old woman, who has sinned and suffered, comes, like Magdalen, to the feet of Jesus; in repentance and with tears, confesses her sins and receives absolution. The thief on the cross----"

"Oh yes, I know," said Pamphile, "but is it possible to cheat God like that? The old reprobate lives in sin to the very last; and then, to crown all, performs an act of sublime hypocrisy, cheating herself, the priest, and Almighty God. If she had died in the fit--what then?"