Part 15

"God was merciful to her, Pamphile. He knew the circumstances of her life, her parentage, associations, temptations. He knows all, comprehends all, and is able to forgive when we could not. God is our creator, my son; do not forget that; and is disposed to overlook the sins of His creatures, poor insects that we are. We do not cheat Him, no, but He makes allowance."

"Well, that is a comfortable faith, Monsieur le cure. I hope that the good God will make allowance for me too, for the little sins of the past, and for some that I intend to commit before I die."

"Pamphile!" said the priest, in horror. "That is little short of blasphemy; and approaches the sin against the Holy Spirit, for which there is no forgiveness, neither in this world nor in the world to come. No, my son, one must have the good intention, else one cannot receive the grace of forgiveness, because the heart is closed. Pamphile, my son, repent of the sins of the past; cast away the bad intention for the future; and open your heart to the grace of God. Now, my son, without delay."

"Ah, Monsieur, I wish to do so. Indeed, I have already commenced by giving up a little scheme of mine, the St. Ange Gold Mining Company, Limited, to which so many of our good friends have subscribed. But I will not take their money, for they need it more than I."

"God will reward you, Pamphile."

"I hope so, Monsieur Paradis."

"And if you have any other bad intention, Pamphile, cast it from you and you will have peace in your soul."

"I will, Monsieur, I will; but first I must settle a little score with one of the good neighbours."

"Forgive him, my son, as you hope to be forgiven."

"Impossible, Monsieur le cure. I will settle the score; and afterwards I will come and tell you, for I have long desired to turn over a new leaf. I might have been a good man, Monsieur; but I was turned in the wrong direction. You shall turn me the other way, Monsieur le cure."

"Now, Pamphile."

"To-morrow, Monsieur le cure."

"There may be no to-morrow, Pamphile."

"Well, Monsieur Paradis, I will take the risk of that. I was always a gambler. One more chance; one more throw! Fortune, life, eternity I will risk once more; and after that we shall see. _Au revoir_, Monsieur le cure. Will you not say a little prayer for my intention?"

"Assuredly Pamphile, but I implore----"

"_Au revoir_, Monsieur. Until to-morrow or the day after."

*CHAPTER XXI*

*LOVE AND WAR*

It was early morning; and Jean Baptiste, before beginning the day's work, was walking slowly along the path where he had met Gabrielle and Pamphile, thinking of the beauty and joy that he had lost, and trying to reconstruct the pattern of his life out of the broken fragments that were left. His conversation with Michel Gamache had given him renewed hope and courage; but now that his friend and confessor was away, his thoughts went back to the day of calamity, and his feet turned to the path of disappointment and vain regret.

It was a lovely path; winding along through the woods in a little glen where the ground was all covered with ferns, the rocks with moss, and the trees with lichen; while a clear stream descended in a series of cascades, filling the air with the sound of falling water--a mournful accompaniment to the sad thoughts of Jean Baptiste. Had Gabrielle been there the music of the stream would have been gay as the morning song of love; but now it was like a dirge; and the lonely glen was as the valley of the shadow of death.

Few flowers were there: some white orchids; the green, rank arum with its bitter root; and the pale, dejected Indian pipe, the corpse-plant, smoked in ghostly pow-wows by Indians long since dead. In the spring the baneberry had been in flower; but now only the blood-red berries were left; and where the trillium had bloomed were only withered leaves, and a poisonous, purple fruit. The springtime of love was gone; and the fruition of summer brought nothing but disappointment and despair.

And yet, on the very spot where Jean had met and lost Gabrielle, he found a little plant with shining leaves, a delicate white flower, and long roots of golden thread running through the cool, black mould. The roots were bitter to the taste, but of a healing virtue, purifying to the blood; the trefoil was a holy sign, potent to drive away evil spirits; and the white flower was a symbol of hope, a promise of life and love. As Jean knelt to gather the little plant, its several virtues seemed to enter his body and soul, and he arose revived, purified, and encouraged, once more believing in himself, Gabrielle, the world, and God. He had drunk a bitter cup to the dregs, it seemed, yet he felt greatly strengthened. Dark clouds of doubt had hung over his soul; but now they were passing away; the silver lining was showing; the blue was appearing; and soon the bright sun would be shining in a clear sky. He had felt himself alone, deserted by lover and friend; but now it seemed as though all were returning, and Gabrielle herself could not be far away. He had been beset by foes, not knowing how to escape; but now he felt the glow of returning strength, the joy of coming victory; and he had it in his heart to thank his enemies for having set themselves against him. So Jean strode up the path, out of the dark valley of humiliation, toward the lookout point on the hill, into the light and warmth of the rising sun; and as he went he sang in a deep, resonant voice a brave song of life and death and war:

"Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre, Mironton, mironton, mirontaine; Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre Ne sait quand reviendra, Ne sait quand reviendra, Ne sait quand reviendra."

At the top of the hill Jean suddenly ceased to sing; and stood gazing in astonishment at the figure of a woman in a white dress, with a white sunbonnet on her head, standing by the fence and looking out over the valley as though expecting some one.

"Gabrielle!"

There was no reply, but the vision was still there.

"Gabrielle! Is it you, dear? Speak to me!"

"No, it is not your dear Gabrielle, and I am sorry." replied the apparition, turning. "But is it true that I resemble her? I should be much pleased to think so."

"No. Yes, Mademoiselle Laroche," stammered Jean. "All woman look alike more or less. There is a resemblance, certainly, and it was heightened by the sunlight. I was dazzled on coming out of the woods."

"Indeed!" said Blanchette, with a grim smile. "You are more truthful than complimentary, Monsieur Giroux. I know very well that I have not a pretty face. It was my figure, then, that reminded you of Mademoiselle Gabrielle?"

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

"Bah! Jean, why lie any more? You know very well that Mademoiselle Tache is tall and slender; while I, my friend, am short and plump, though not exactly stout, as yet. Confess, now, that it was a mere illusion created by the thought. That of which one is thinking all the time one sees everywhere. Good philosophy, is it not?"

"Mademoiselle Blanchette, you are always right. For penetration of thought there is none that can compare with you."

"Now, Jean, that is better. There you strike a true note which finds response in my intellect, if not in my heart. Yes, in my heart as well, for I am conscious of a certain superiority there also. As for mere beauty, that will disappear with time; but truth and love, the virtues of the intellect and of the heart, will endure for ever. Yes, for ever, Monsieur Jean."

"I know it, Mademoiselle."

"And those who have the least beauty, they often can love the most."

"Yes, Mademoiselle."

"Yes, you say 'yes, yes' like a parrot. Why do you not utter your own thoughts? Why do you not say that you have no wish to be loved; that you desire only to love; to find some object, some perfection of beauty that absorbs you wholly, in the contemplation of which you are lost, so that you forget all else; are blind, deaf, dumb, even, in the presence of all others. Can you deny it, Monsieur Giroux?"

"No, Mademoiselle."

"And if that object were taken away, to Heaven, perhaps, or to a nunnery, which is the same thing, it would be for ever enshrined in your heart, and you would worship it until the end of life."

"Yes, Blanchette."

"And no second object could ever take the place of the first. There could be no second, Jean Baptiste."

"Blanchette, all that you have said is true. I will not deny it."

"It would be useless, Jean. You do not lie with any conviction, my friend. You are a man of sincerity and truth, such as the good God seldom finds in man, and in woman, never. What constancy! Listen. I will tell you a secret. No woman is worth it. We are not like that, we others. We have our preferences, of course, but when it comes to choosing, the case is otherwise. To prefer is one thing; to choose is altogether different. Do you grasp the distinction, Monsieur the scholar? For example, if we cannot have our first preference we take the second, or the third; and as to the religious life, that is fourth or fifth, possibly, according to circumstances. To be the bride of Heaven, Monsieur, is highly desirable for the salvation of the soul, if one cannot be the bride of some good, brave, strong man. For me, I also will be the bride of Heaven, if I must."

"Blanchette, my friend, my sister, tell me--do you think that she will return?"

Blanchette did not speak, but nodded her head emphatically.

"Why do you think so, Blanchette?"

"What a question!" exclaimed Blanchette, with indignation. "The young Apollo wishes an enumeration of his virtues, evidently. Well, he shall not have it from me. I have given you my opinion, have I not? As for reasons, I will merely say, as other women do: because. Is that sufficient?"

"It must be, since you say so; and I thank you more than I can tell. And now I must leave you, I fear. There is work to do at the place--especially since the fire. We are making a new start, you know. Good-bye, Blanchette, I am glad that you were here."

"Must you go, Jean?"

"Yes. The sun is rising high, as you see. _Au revoir_, Blanchette."

"Wait a moment, Jean. Do not return by the path. Take the road, rather."

"Why then? It is much shorter by the path, and I must hasten. Good-bye again."

"Jean!"

"What is it, Blanchette?"

"Do not go that way."

"But why not!"

"Because."

"Because? You are laughing at me."

"No laughing matter, Jean. Do not go, I say."

"Blanchette, this is too foolish. I will go, of course."

"There may be danger."

"Danger?"

"Yes. Now I have said it. There is danger, Jean."

"That is interesting. Now I shall certainly go. I should like very much to find a little danger, to begin the day. Life was becoming too monotonous, altogether. Where is the danger, Blanchette?"

"In the glen, Jean, where the path crosses the little stream. Ah, now I have told you, and you will go. I do not wish you to be killed, Jean."

"Killed? Who would kill me, and why!"

"They do not wish to kill you, but merely to punish you."

"Punish me? That is good. But who, then?"

"Tom Sullivan and Paddy Brady."

"Ha! Ha! They have tried it before."

"And Pamphile."

"_Hein_? Three of them? Well, we must see about that. _Au revoir_, Blanchette. I shall be all right."

"Jean!"

"What then?"

"Do not kill him."

"Certainly not. Reassure yourself, Blanchette. Nobody will be killed."

"Jean! Jean!" called Blanchette, in distress; but he was already out of sight, hastening with eager steps toward the place of danger.

At the stream he stopped and looked about in all directions, but could see no one; and was passing along, disappointed but watchful, on the other side, where the path skirted a great rock, when two men stepped out and stood facing him in the middle of the way. They were Tom Sullivan and Pamphile Lareau.

"Good morning, gentlemen," said Jean, without slackening his pace, but turning aside to give them the path.

"Not so fast," said Pamphile, placing himself directly in front of Jean. "Stop a moment, if you please. We wish to talk to you."

"Certainly," replied Jean, stopping within arm's length of the two men, and measuring them with his eye. "But you will first throw away that pistol, my friend. You will not need it, I assure you."

"No, we shall not need it," said Pamphile, with a harsh laugh, throwing the weapon aside. "Two to one are odds enough, Jean Baptiste."

"Three to one would be still better, Pamphile--two in front and one behind, eh? Tell Paddy to come out where I can see him."

"He is a devil," said Tom, with an oath. "Pat, come around in front. He will not run away, I can see that."

"Run away, Tom?" said Jean, in mild surprise. "Why should I do that?"

"Damned if I know," said Tom.

"You never saw me do it, did you, Tom?"

"No, damn you! Not yet."

"Not yet, Tom? Why do you say that?"

"Oh, be silent, Tom," broke in Pamphile. "Why all this talk? Don't you see that he is mocking you. Jean Baptiste Giroux, listen to me. We have certain requests which we desire to make."

"Requests, Pamphile?"

"Yes, requests. Demands, if you like."

"Demands? That is interesting. I am curious to know what they are."

"You shall know soon enough. Begin, Tom."

"Jean Baptiste Giroux, damn you!" spluttered Tom Sullivan. "You know damn well what I want, and if you don't give it up, by God, I'll kill you, you cursed thief--kill you, I say."

"Give up what, Tom?"

"The mail contract, damn you!"

"And if not, Tom?"

"If not? You refuse? He refuses. Come on, boys! All together!"

But Pamphile laid his hand on Tom's shoulder.

"Wait, Tom. He has not yet refused. Give him a chance. Wait, I say. I also have a request to make of Monseigneur the Bishop."

Jean did not smile any more; but his lips were pressed close together, and a steely glitter was in his eye.

"What is it, then?"

"I ask, Monseigneur the Bishop that was to be; I demand, little priest, to be permitted to strike you four times across the face with this little whip; the same, you will notice, that was used the other day. It was with some difficulty that I obtained it, but here it is--the very same, I assure you."

"And if I refuse?"

"If you refuse, little priest, I propose, for myself alone, not knowing what the good Tom may wish: I propose to tie you to a tree, without clothes, of course, and to flog you within an inch of your life. For my part, I would not kill you, but I might leave you for the mosquitoes."

"That would be pleasant," said Jean, as though deliberating. "Unique, too, in this part of the world. I do not like it, at all. And you, Paddy, what would you do?"

"I?" said Pat, "I am sick of the whole damned business, but I stand with Tom. But I'll not see you killed, Jean, no, not that."

"I let you off easy last time, Paddy."

"So you did, Jean, damn well I know it. I'll not see you killed, Jean."

"Thank you for that, Paddy!"

With that Jean made a sudden spring across the path in front of Pamphile and Tom; made a feint at Pat's face with his left hand; and with his right dealt him a terrific blow at the corner of the jaw below the left ear. Pat fell to the ground, and lay unconscious among the ferns; while a struggle went on about him that he would have given his right arm to have seen.

Instantly Pamphile and Tom fastened upon Jean like mastiffs upon a bear at bay. Both were strong men; but Jean shook them off, and tried to close with one alone. More wary now, they circled about him, out of reach of his powerful hands; but presently he regained the path, stood with his back to the rock, and they feared to come near.

"Come on, boys!" said he, with a grim smile. "I am waiting for you."

"Come on yourself, damn you!" yelled Tom Sullivan.

"All right, Tom; I am coming. You first, my friend," said Jean, as he advanced slowly upon Tom; keeping an eye and an arm for Pamphile, who was about to take him in the rear. This time Tom, who was one of the best fighters in the parish, stood his ground; exchanged a feint or two with Jean; and then, nimbly evading a blow that should have felled him to the earth, he suddenly whirled; his body sank; his feet rose in the air, one after the other; and he delivered a furious kick at his enemy's head, the terrible savate, with which he had been known to split open an adversary's skull, and which, in the lumber woods, had won him the title of "Terror of the Gatineau." The fight would have ended then and there, but that Jean, who had been expecting the attack, swerved a trifle to one side; seized the lower foot, as it rose; and allowed Tom to fall by his own momentum on head and shoulders with such force as to drive the breath from his body and to leave him stunned upon the ground. Thus, frequently, the savate, if not successfully delivered, brings destruction to him who launches the blow.

As Tom fell, Jean received a blow at the back of the head that sent him to his knees; as he sprang to his feet he took another that made him reel; but the third blow he parried; also the fourth; and then he began to counter with such effect as to put Pamphile wholly on the defensive; and forced him back, step by step, now on the path, now trampling among the ferns, down to the stream and up the slope on the other side, until they stood upon the very spot where Pamphile, in the presence of Gabrielle, had been struck in the face and wounded in the soul.

"Here is the place. Well, Pamphile, have you had enough?"

Pamphile made no reply, but glared in futile rage, while his right hand still clutched the whip with which he had planned to take revenge.

"Ah, the little whip!" said Jean. "And you would like to strike me in the face? Well, you shall do so."

"What?" exclaimed Pamphile, in astonishment.

"I struck you in the face," said Jean, in a calm, even voice, "instead of killing you; and if it would be a satisfaction to you to strike me in return you may do it. Now--begin!"

A peculiar expression, as of a rat driven into a corner, came into the face of Pamphile, as he slowly raised the whip.

At this moment a shrill cry rang out through the woods--a woman's voice.

"Oh! Oh! Jean! Take care! Behind you! Look! Look!"

The warning came too late; for Pamphile, dropping the whip, sprang at Jean's throat; while Tom, who had crept up like a cat, seized him from behind; and together they bore him to the ground.

There they twisted, writhed and lashed about for moments that were like hours; but soon were still, for Jean was upon his knees; and then he rose, slowly, steadily, until he stood erect, with Pamphile still hanging to his throat, and Tom's strong arms clasped about his body. They were resting, as it seemed, taking breath for the final struggle; but presently nerve and muscle were tense again; the strain was on; they swayed to and fro, trampling the ferns, staggering against the trees, and all the while moving down the slope toward the stony bed of the stream. Pamphile and Tom, seeing this, and realizing that Jean meant to fall on them there, made a tremendous effort; and once more dragged him down. Then Jean, putting forth all of his great strength, rolled over and over down the slope; while his enemies, like bulldogs, hung on, now above, now beneath, until they all lay together in the stream, among the boulders and pebbles that in ages past had broken from the mountains and had been worn smooth by the incessant action of falling water. Pamphile lay beneath the weight of two men; but still his fingers clutched the throat of Jean, and slowly tightened until he could hardly breathe.

"Pamphile," he whispered, "let go, or I will kill you."

The grip tightened, Jean was being strangled to death.

With a last effort he rose to his knees, seized the head of Pamphile that was pressed against his breast, forced it back until it touched one of the large, smooth pebbles; and then, with a sudden jerk, cracked it like a nut against the rock. The head lay there with staring eyes and open mouth; the body relaxed; but still the fingers held their grip; and it was with difficulty that Jean released his throat from the dying grasp.

The fight was over. Jean staggered to his feet, in great distress of body and mind, his face all covered with blood and bruises; and turned to Tom, who still clung to him, looking up with expression of mingled hate and fear.

"Tom!"

"By God, I'll kill you yet," muttered Tom, making a last and futile effort.

"No!" said Jean, putting his hand on Tom's head, and pressing back the elastic curls of bright red hair. "No, Tom, old man, let us have no more killing. Oh, why did we do it, Tom, my friend?"

The terror fled from Tom's soul; the hate and anger too; and as he looked up at Jean's battered, sorrowful face, he broke down and wept like a child.

"Oh, my God, my God!" he moaned. "Why did we do it? Pamphile dead; Pat dead; and I, I might as well be dead too. My God! My God!"

"Pat is not dead, Tom. I hear him, I think. Yes, there he comes. Thank God. Pat is all right, Tom, and you are all right too. Brace up, old man. But Pamphile? _Mon Dieu_! What have I done? Tom, I am going away. You will look after Pamphile--you and Pat. There will be some expense--I will pay it. And the mail contract----"

"Damn the mail contract!"

"But no, Tom; it is yours now. You will drive the mail to-morrow, will you not? The mail must go--Her Majesty's Mail."

"Yes, I will do it, Jean; but it will be yours when you come back."

"I am not coming back, Tom. Good-bye."

"Jean Baptiste," said Tom, grasping the extended hand, "you have been damn good to us that have been damn mean to you, and it's damn sorry I am for all our damned cussedness. Come back soon, and we'll be good neighbours and friends, by God, we will."

As Jean strode along toward his home he saw Blanchette by the path, weeping bitterly.

"Ah, Blanchette, it is you. And you saw it all."

"Not all, Jean. I was too much afraid, and I hid behind the rock. Oh, why did I not stop it? _Mon Dieu_, but it was terrible! You are a hero, Jean Baptiste."

"No, Blanchette, far from it. A brute, rather, a species of tiger. At one time I would gladly have killed them all, and drunk their blood. _Mon Dieu_, what an uprising from the depths! But now that has passed; and the man, the Christian, is sorry for the deeds of the brute; But you do not understand such things, Blanchette."

"No? You think not? Ah, if it were only so. But I, too, have my struggles, my conflicts. But oh, Jean, you are hurt! Ah, my poor Jean, he can hardly walk. Lie down here, on the cool moss, and I will fetch some water from the stream. Ah, _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!"

"No, I am all right. A little dizziness--that was all. It is gone now, and I must go. No, Blanchette, it is not I who need you, but Pamphile down there. For me, I could not touch him. Ah, the poor fellow! A strong man and brave; yes, brave to the last. _Adieu_, Blanchette."

"_Adieu!_" said Blanchette, going away; and then she turned, suddenly, fiercely:

"Jean!"

"What is it, Blanchette?"

"Nothing," she said, as she turned away down the path. "There was something, but I have forgotten. _Adieu_, my friend. May God keep you."

*CHAPTER XXII*

*THE WILDERNESS*

"Misery loves company," they say. How true and yet how false! The miserable seek society as they take to drink, that they may forget their sorrow; but those who are sore hurt, with a pain that cannot be forgotten, a grief that will not be put aside, creep away to die, or to be alone, until the cruel wound is healed. They seek the solitary places, where they may have the silent sympathy of the stars, the unuttered consolation of the desert, the healing virtue of the wilderness; where they may renew their strength at the fountain of life, or return the worn-out body to Mother Earth, and the tired spirit to Father God.