Part 2

"Que Dieu beniss' les filles, Qui Dieu beniss' les filles, Surtout cell' du geolier, gai, faluron, falurette, Surtout cell' du geolier, gai, faluron, donde.

"Si je retourne a Nantes, Si je retourne a Nantes, Oui, je l'epouserai! gai, faluron, falurette, Oui, je l'epouserai! gai, faluron, donde."

*CHAPTER II*

*THE MIGRATION*

"What a big fool, that Jean Baptiste Giroux!" said Mere Tabeau, gossip and wise woman, as she sat on the doorstep of her cabin at the crossroads, smoking a black pipe and talking volubly to all the passers-by.

"What a fool he is to let slip a chance like that! Such chances do not come every day. _Mon Dieu_, what folly! To be a priest, that is well worth while; to live in a large, comfortable house, to receive tithes, to have everything that one could wish, plenty of good bread and butter, pea soup every day, potatoes, onions--all that. _Sapre_, I should like that, me. And what does he do? How does he earn his living? He prays all the time. An easy life, that. If only I could have what I want by saying prayers! _No, de nom_! I say prayers, too, but what do I get? Some pieces of black bread, some morsels of fat pork, and this miserable hut."

"But that Jean Baptiste, what would he? He would like to be a great lord, to ride about on a high horse looking at his lands, his houses, his cattle, his people. Yes, it would be a pleasant life, a desirable existence. But those are dreams, imaginations, castles in Spain. In verity he will be a habitant like the rest of us, a cultivator who follows the plow, who feeds the pigs, who cleans out the stable. Ha! Ha! It is laughable. Those Giroux were always too proud, too far above us, too high, too mighty, and the good God did not like it. No, the good God does not love the proud, and He will bring them down--down to the dust. Already it has begun, the descent, but not yet finished. Wait, you will see."

At this point Mere Tabeau usually relapsed into silence, puffing away at her pipe until another neighbour came, when she would begin the same doleful song, with suitable variations. Thus public opinion was formed, by comment and discussion, until two conclusions were established: namely, that Jean Baptiste, though a great scholar, was a fool, with whom the good God would have nothing to do; and that the family Giroux were justly punished for having held their head too high.

Certainly Madame Giroux seemed determined to spoil her youngest son. All the other boys were obliged to work most of the time; but Jean, excepting in the busy season, had many hours for study, and was allowed to hunt and fish as much as he pleased. Father Paradis lent him scores of books from his library--books of theology, philosophy, history, science, belles-lettres--all of which he devoured with the greatest avidity. His appetite for books was insatiable, and often, during the long winter evenings, when the family sat about the big kitchen, the men smoking, the women knitting and chewing spruce gum, and all, as it seemed, talking at once, Jean would be seated at the end of the long deal table, reading by the light of a candle some leather-bound tome of which the very title was a mystery to the rest of the family. Naturally, Jean's brothers were sometimes piqued at the special privileges accorded to him.

"When is this going to end?" said brother Nicholas, one evening, to the assembled family. "What are we going to do with this book-worm? Is he going to be a priest? No. Then why does he want to read all the time? What is the use of that? For me, I call it foolishness. If he is to be a habitant let him work all day like the rest of us, and in the evening let him be sociable. Look at him, the lazy beggar, strong as an ox. Bah! What is the good of him!"

Jean made no reply, as became the youngest member of the family, but looked up from his book with a grim smile as though he would like to shake his brother Nicholas. But self-defence was unnecessary, for Madame Giroux took up the cudgels in his behalf.

"Let him alone, Nicholas," said the mother. "He does not wish to be a priest? Very well. That is his affair. But if he wants to have an education, he shall have it. Why not? It will cost nothing, and he will not need to spend ten years at Quebec. It may be well worth while--who knows? Perhaps he may become an advocate or a notary, but even if he remains a cultivator why should he not know something? I don't know much, myself, but I say that the habitants are too ignorant. Only the priests have knowledge. Jean, my lad, you shall read as much as you please, and if your brothers will not study they shall work. There!"

Yet Jean sometimes made notable contributions to the support of the family, for he was both hunter and fisherman, and when he brought in a bag of hares and grouse or a basket of trout his brothers had no complaint to make. He shot wild ducks and geese in the autumn, red deer and caribou in the winter; often he would trap a fox or a sable, and now and then he secured a wolf or a bear. The skins of these animals brought good prices at Quebec, and the meat was highly appreciated by the family and the neighbours as a pleasant change from the regular diet of fat pork. Certainly, Jean earned his living, and more, but got little credit because he did not do it in the usual way.

Thus six or seven years slipped away, while Jean led an existence free from care, like the grasshopper of the fable that sang all summer and thought not at all of the evil days that were to come. From the library of Father Paradis he got a knowledge of books such as few students obtain in all their years at college and seminary. From his work on the farm he acquired an extraordinary facility in the use of all the implements, especially the axe, the best friend of the backwoodsman. From his hunting and fishing expeditions he obtained a knowledge of woodcraft equal to that of an Indian, while he learned to know the beasts and the birds of the forest, the rocks, trees, wild flowers, and all the objects of Nature, as they are known to few naturalists. The growth of his body, too, kept pace with the development of his mind, until he was as fine a specimen of young manhood as one could wish to see, the like of whom could not be found in ten parishes. Truly, if education is the development of all the faculties, Jean Baptiste Giroux was a well-educated young man.

But, with all his talents, Jean was lacking in one thing, the desire to conform himself to the expectations of his friends, the will to fit himself to the scheme of things approved by them, sanctioned by long usage, hallowed by traditions handed down from father to son through many generations. He could have done it, but he would not. He had refused to become a priest, neglected to prepare himself for one of the other learned professions, and now there was but one career open to him--that of a habitant--unless, indeed, he left the parish altogether, as many of his friends had done. In the good old times a young man followed, as a matter of course, in the footsteps of his father. At the age of twenty he acquired a piece of forest land--there was always plenty of that--cleared a few acres, built a log cabin of one or two rooms, which he could enlarge when necessary, married a young girl of sixteen or eighteen, and devoted the rest of his life to the chopping of wood, the growing of hay, oats, and potatoes, and the raising of live-stock. At the age of sixty he was ancestor of a numerous progeny, a veritable tribe, destined to possess, in the course of time, a large part of Canada and a considerable footing in the United States. Thus the faithful did their duty by God and man, conquered the wilderness, possessed the land, and established themselves in the very gates of their enemies.

In some respects this was an ideal life, but the thought of it did not appeal to Jean Baptiste. He wished to do something different, he knew not what. In former times a youth of ambition and enterprise, such as he, would have turned _voyageur, coureur des bois_. Joining some band of Indians and trappers he would have plunged into the northern wilderness to make his way, in a birch canoe, by a chain of rivers and lakes, with portages short and long, to Lake St. John, Mistassini, Hudson's Bay, or even the Frozen Ocean. After many years, if he did not leave his bones in the wilderness, he might return, bronzed and battered, to his old home. With an Indian wife, perhaps, and money obtained from the sale of furs and fire-water, he would settle down among the scenes of his childhood and the friends of his youth to a life of ease, glorified by the memory of those years of travel and stirring adventure.

But times had changed. The Indian and the _voyageur_ had passed away, and now adventurous youths, when seized with the spirit of the old-time rovers, would spend a winter or two in the shanties, work for a while in the coves and lumber-yards of Quebec and Ottawa, whence they drifted southward and westward to the factories of New England, the lumber camps of Michigan, the wheat fields of Minnesota, or the gold mines of California and British Columbia.

Thus the young men of St. Placide, the relations and friends of Jean Baptiste, kept going away one by one, always promising to return, but never coming back to stay. The home circle grew less and less, and the mother mourned her absent sons. Narcisse, the eldest and the first to go, was a carpenter in Montreal; Toussaint had taken up land in Manitoba; Bazile was working in the copper mines of Lake Superior; Francois was the owner of a cattle ranch in Alberta; and Hilaire, the last to go, was the farthest away, being employed in the salmon fisheries of British Columbia. It was a roving generation, descended from the old vikings and pirates of northern Europe, and the love of wandering was in the blood. During their early years they would stay at home, contentedly enough, but sooner or later they would hear the call and would go forth, with glowing eyes and courageous heart, to explore new worlds, to conquer other lands.

"Jean," said brother Nicholas, one day, "I should like to go to the North-West, to brother Francois, who has found a place for me. Soon I should have a ranch of my own and a hundred head of cattle--a veritable fortune, such as one could not get in a lifetime here. But I cannot go."

"Why not, Nicholas?" said Jean.

"Why not? _Mon Dieu_, Jean, you know very well. How could I leave the mother alone, that is to say with you, which is the same thing?"

"You can leave her with me, Nicholas."

"Leave her with you, Jean Baptiste? You, scholar, hunter, fisherman, good-for-nothing--what could you do? _Mille tonnerres_! You shall go to Francois and I will stay at home. But it is a pity, yes, a thousand pities. What a chance! _Sacre_! But you shall go, yes, to-morrow. I will not have you here. Do you understand, idler?"

"I will not go, Nicholas."

"What is that you say? You will not go? Refuse a chance like that? You refuse everything, everything. What obstinacy! The boy is a fool, an utter fool, beyond all hope. _Nom de cauchon_!"

"Nicholas," said Jean, earnestly, "listen to me. This talk about going away--I have heard it before, many times, ever since I can remember anything. Fall River, Chicago, Manitoba, California--I am tired of hearing of them. Cotton mills, wheat fields, gold mines, cattle ranches--don't talk to me of all that. It is all very well to see the world, but why not try to do something at home? Why should all the young men go away, the best blood of the parish? Adventure, you say; enterprise? Why not have some of that here? See, Nicholas, the good land, the noble forest, the grand mountains, the lovely river! Where in all the world will you find a place more beautiful, more satisfying, where you would be more content to live and die? Are there no chances here, no possibilities? Perhaps not, but I will see, I will try. You others, all of you, may go, but I will stay. Yes, it is decided. Say no more, Nicholas, my brother. Fear nothing. Francois will be glad to see you, and the mother will be safe with me."

Nicholas was speechless. He had never heard talk like that, either from Jean Baptiste or any one else. The idea that distant fields were no more green than those at home was new to him and he could not receive it. Yet his brother's words inspired confidence, and he felt that he was going to have his way, as usual. As he well knew, Jean was strong and capable and always carried through what he began. Nicholas weakened, and referred the whole question to his mother, knowing well what she would say.

"Nicholas," said the mother, "you have a fine chance in the North-West, and I think that you ought to go. God knows that I would like to keep you all. But it is the way of life. The young birds leave the nest, and the mother with the broken heart--after a while she dies. But do not trouble about me. I am not going to die, no, not for many years. The good God and the Holy Virgin will watch over me. Go, Nicholas, with your mother's blessing. You have been a good son to me. There, I am not crying, not at all. I have still my baby, my little Jean. We shall not be lonely, shall we, Jean? But I shall never forget you, Nicholas, never. All the children have a place in my heart, and you, perhaps, more than the others."

"But, Jean," said the mother, when they were alone, "why do you wish to stay here? What can you do in this place, with all your talents, your education? I do not understand at all. Is it for my sake, or is there another whom you love? Jean, my lad, is it possible? Not Zephyrine Boucher, she is too old for you; nor Melanie Couture, she is not pretty at all; nor Blanchette Laroche--impossible. No, there is no one suitable in the parish, not one; not even the little Gabrielle Tache, who is much too young. But wait! The little Gabrielle grows older every year. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven--mon Dieu, how the time goes! She must be seventeen years old at the very least. And she is beautiful, of a good family, with a suitable dowry--no objection, none whatever. And did she not arrive from Quebec this very morning? Ah, Jean, you blush. I have found you out. It is for the sake of Gabrielle that you stay in St. Placide."

"My dear mother," said Jean, "you are laughing at me. Stay here for the sake of Gabrielle, that little imp with the red hair and freckles? Absurd! Besides, I have not seen her for years. She has been at the convent, I am told, learning music, painting, embroidery--all the accomplishments. She will be a great lady in the gay world of Quebec, quite out of my sphere, I assure you. No, my mother, there is no one whom I love half so much as you. Why do I stay in St. Placide? Truly, I do not know. For your sake? Certainly, most of all. Is there any other reason? Possibly. Who knows? All the others go away, and I, I will not. It is obstinacy, nothing else. There, my mother, I have confessed. Give me absolution now, and a kiss."

*CHAPTER III*

*THE SORCERER*

After the departure of brother Nicholas things went on much as before. It was hardly to be expected that Jean would suddenly change his ways and settle down to the routine of habitant life after so many years of idleness. Miracles may be possible, but they seldom happen. Even Mere Tabeau acknowledged this, and the neighbours fully agreed with her. This proud young man would come to it in the course of time, but his spirit must first be broken. And that would happen--poverty would do it. He who was now promenading the countryside with rod and gun like a gentleman and a great lord would soon be grubbing in the earth. By and by his back would be bent and his legs crooked like those of any common man.

But Jean shocked the old gossip and the whole parish by employing a hired man. What sinful extravagance and folly! It was not as in former times, when one could get an able-bodied man for a shilling a day. Now one had to pay at least twice as much, while the rascals did barely half as much work, and demanded the best of everything--white bread, butter, soup, pork, and even eggs. And they would not sleep in the stable, as formerly, but wished to have a room in the house, a straw mattress, blankets, sheets, a candle to light them to bed--all the luxuries of modern life. But those Giroux people--how could they afford all that? Surely they were on the road to ruin, on the very brink of it. Presently they would be in poverty, and the parish would have to support them. Yes, it was a matter of public concern and somebody ought to interfere.

Nevertheless, Jean Baptiste kept the hired man, and, while working on the farm somewhat more than formerly, still found time for hunting and fishing and the reading of books, while his mother, as though bewitched, smiled complacently at everything that he did.

But Jean sank lower still in the estimation of the neighbours, for he began to keep bad company, the very worst--that of a sorcerer. It came about in this way. Jean was having a day's fishing, and, although the trout were rising well, he was not content to stay in one place but kept moving on up the stream until he found himself, at sunset, standing on a rocky ledge beside a deep, dark pool, called the _trou du sorcier_. Precipitous cliffs, crowned with firs and pines, rose on all sides, enclosing a sort of amphitheatre into which the river plunged in a white cascade. Striking a granite ledge, the stream swirled around in a great eddy, a dark whirlpool, on the borders of which lurked giant trout, old warriors that had broken the tackle of many a luckless angler, wary fish that must be under the special protection of Satan himself--so often had they escaped the toils. It was a place of evil repute, little frequented by anglers. So much the better, as Jean knew, for the man of courage, and, although he had never taken a large fish in the place, he was determined to try his luck once more in the famous pool.

Looking into the deep water at his feet he saw a sight that made his heart leap to his throat. It was the head of an enormous fish, the biggest he had ever seen, now pushed out from beneath the rock until he could see the gills, and the lateral fins, now slowly withdrawn until only the snout was visible. On tiptoe Jean drew back; with grim haste attached a new fly; tested the casting-line and the supple rod; and then, with a dexterous turn of the wrist, launched the fly upon the foam-flecked surface of the pool, just beyond the hiding-place of the trout. It floated down stream in full view of the fish, but the ancient denizen of the pool made no response, nor did any of the lesser fry dare to rise, but kept at a respectful distance from the king of the river. Jean made several casts, tried another fly, and another, until he had gone through his book; then put on a grasshopper; and, finally, descended to worms, but without avail.

"_Sacre!_" said Jean to himself. "This is a devil of a trout. What sort of bait does he want!"

"I will show you, Jean Baptiste Giroux," said a voice.

With an involuntary start Jean turned to see who had spoken, and was surprised to find himself face to face with the redoubtable Michel Gamache, _dit le Sorcier_. Michel was a man of sixty or seventy years of age, but tall and very straight, with the frame of an athlete, and the face of an ascetic, in which ferocity and gentleness were strangely blended. The high arch of the nose and the straight line of the overhanging brow made one think of a bird of prey; the shaggy, grizzled hair and the vice-like jaw gave him the appearance of an ancient wolf; but there was an expression of friendliness about mouth and eyes that attracted more than the harsh features repelled. He was bare-headed, and wore a brown blouse with trousers of the same colour thrust into the legs of long leathern moccasins, and he carried the usual fisherman's rod and pannier.

"I will show you, Jean," he said again, with the shadow of a frown; "that is to say, after you have done staring at me. You find nothing extraordinary in my appearance, I hope."

"No, indeed, Monsieur Gamache. I was a bit startled, that was all. But there is a trout down there, the biggest I have ever seen, and I cannot get him to rise. I have tried everything--flies, grasshoppers, worms--but he will not look at them. Now it is your turn, Monsieur."

"No, Jean; it is your fish. See, here is something that will fetch him. Try this."

Out of his pocket Michel drew a black, worm-like beast about an inch and a half in length, with jointed body and innumerable legs, and handed it to Jean.

Jean's eyes sparkled as he attached the wriggler to a hook, for he knew it well--the larva of the dragon-fly, deadly bait for all fishes in streams where they are found.

"That is very kind of you, Monsieur Gamache. Now we shall see. Here goes!"

Scarcely had the bait touched the surface of the pool when there was a rush and a splash and the big fish started back toward his hiding-place to enjoy the toothsome morsel he had so cleverly captured. Feeling the sting of the hook and an unaccustomed pressure on the jaw, he darted out into the middle of the pool, where he leaped from the water, turned a somersault in the air and lashed about like a harpooned whale. Then he plunged to the bottom and zigzagged up stream toward a mass of jagged rocks through which the water poured like a mill-race. Finding his progress slow he made another leap in the air, and started down stream, drawing out yards of line, and then came back with a rush, so that Jean was hardly able to take in the slack. It was a great struggle, with the odds in favour of the fish, for the angler's sole weapon was a light rod and a slender line, and the strain of the strong fish charging to and fro in the rough water was terrific. But Jean held the tip of his rod well up and exerted a steady pull to which the fish had to yield in the end. Slowly, but surely, Jean reeled him in, still tugging and circling about, but gradually weakening, until he turned feebly on his side, and his last struggles served only to land him on the rock at the angler's feet.

But the game was not yet played to a finish, for just as the fish was well landed he gave a last flop of the tail and broke the gut above the shank of the hook. Jean looked on as though paralysed, while his prize was slipping down the shelving rock into the water. At this point Michel Gamache ceased to be a neutral spectator, for just as the trout was slipping away, the old man, with extraordinary agility, pounced upon it, as a cat upon a mouse, seized it with both hands, and held it up, flopping and dripping, before the eyes of Jean Baptiste, who, a moment before, had been plunged in the depths of despair.

"Ah, Monsieur Gamache!" said Jean, with emotion, "you are a friend, indeed. But look at that trout. I have never seen the like--thirty inches at the least, and eight pounds. Yes, eight pounds, or more. _Mon Dieu_! What a fish! Magnificent! I never thought that such trout existed outside of _Lac des Neiges_. But look at that tail, those fins, and those spots--red, blue, yellow. Ah, my good fellow! Ah, cannibal! You will eat no more of your poor relations, nor frogs, nor mice, nor grasshoppers. You would not touch the grasshopper, but we found a good bait for you. Yes, Monsieur Gamache, it was you who did it. Certainly, you must be a sorcerer, as they say."

"Sorcerer, Jean Baptiste! You say that to me; you, the son of my old friend, Toussaint Giroux! He at least knew better than that; he, my friend, your father. But the times have changed, and the young people of to-day----"