Part 8

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What will happen? That is not hard to tell. Even you, Monsieur Gagnon, could look into the future on those terms. When the expenses exceed the income, what takes place? One pays out all one's ready money, one borrows, sells a cow, a horse, a piece of land. But there comes an end to all that, and then the notice at the Church door, the sale, the farewell, the departure, the talk for a while, and after that all is forgotten. They are gone. Whither? Who knows? Who cares? Only old gossips like me remember. Only good friends like me know or care.

"The house has no name as yet. Well, I will give it one. I will call it _La Folie Giroux_. As you have heard, fools build houses, but wise men live in them. It is Bonhomme Laroche who is the wise man in this case. But it may be that Jean Baptiste will become wise. Who can tell? Bonhomme Laroche has a daughter, you know.

"But I must stop, neighbour Gagnon, or you will think that I must be paid for my talk. But I am only a poor old woman who likes to see the neighbours as they pass. It is my only pastime. And the good neighbours are very kind to me. Only yesterday Bonhomme Bedard gave me a fine bag of flour, enough to last for three months. He is not a rich man, by any means, but very generous. If only I had a few potatoes, now. Oh, no, Monsieur Gagnon, it is too charitable of you. A whole sack! It is too much. If you had given me a dozen of those fine trout it would have been enough. Those too? Monsieur Gagnon, God will prosper you. _Au revoir_, my dear friend. Good luck to you."

When Jean Baptiste heard that Mere Tabeau had given his new house a name, he laughed and said that she was very kind to save him the trouble, that all men were fools and all the works of man monuments of folly. So he painted the name in large black letters above the door--LA FOLIE. Most of the neighbours took it as a joke, but some shook their heads in dismay and crossed themselves repeatedly as they passed by. It was unlucky, they said, to give a bad name to a house or a child. One should invoke the protection of Heaven, rather, of the Holy Virgin or of one of the saints. As to the old witch, Mere Tabeau, one should have nothing to do with her, for she was in league with Satan.

*CHAPTER XII*

*PROFIT AND LOSS*

The summer tourist, more than other men, is a confirmed egoist. Sincerely believing himself the centre of the universe and the chief end of all creation, he views with satisfaction the successful efforts of men and things to minister unto him. Hotels and boarding-houses exist for him; for him horses and carriages of every kind, with their obliging drivers, move to and fro; for him spring chickens cheerfully die; for him the sun shines by day, the moon by night, and the Aurora shimmers in the northern sky. How good God is to the summer tourist!

But there is the point of view of another egoist, the pious habitant of Murray Bay, Cacouna, Tadoussac, and all the other watering-places below Quebec. The good God loves the faithful. He sends rain in summer, snow in winter, and all the changes of weather in their season. He sends the birds of the air--the partridge, the wild duck and the brant. He sends the fishes of the great river--the eel, the sturgeon and the salmon; the trout, also, of the smaller lakes and rivers. He provides game in the forest--the red deer, the caribou, the moose, and all fur-bearing animals. He gives the strawberry, the raspberry, the blueberry, spruce gum, balsam, sarsaparilla and gold-thread. All these the good God provides, but, best of all, he sends the summer tourist to pour the wealth of the city into the lap of the habitant. Truly, it would be ungrateful and impious not to make the most of such an opportunity, not to exploit and cultivate in the most approved way that most profitable of crops--the summer tourist.

Jean Baptiste was a habitant by ten generations of thrifty ancestors, and could see, as well as any man, the possibilities of the summer tourist. He loved the genial egoist for his own sake, but more for the golden harvest that he should yield. For him he had built the great house; for him he had provided bed and board, horses and vehicles, canoes and guides, both indoor and outdoor games--all at great cost and no little risk--but to what end? Surely not for the good of the tourist alone, but that he might lay deep and broad the foundations of his own fortune, that he might begin and carry on the great works of which he dreamed by night and day.

Was it a vocation, as Father Paradis had said, and had he a message to deliver? Yes, there was a call, both loud and clear, and a message had been given him--to proclaim the gospel of the new era, to be the forerunner of the economic salvation of his people. A voice, he was, in the wilderness, crying: "Prepare ye the way of the Lord!"--along the valley, by the river, over the mountain, to make the crooked ways straight, the rough places plain, to overcome every obstacle, every stumbling-block, until all men should get a vision of the future that was theirs, and rise up and possess the land. "It is my work," said Jean to himself. "It is also the work of God."

Jean was a prophet, like his great patron saint, a dreamer, one who had heard the voice of God in the silence of the wilderness, and was going forth to declare the vision and proclaim the word to those who had eyes to see and ears to hear. The great idea filled his mind, and he believed himself devoted heart and soul to the cause which he had espoused, for the good of man and the glory of God. Yet as he looked into the depths of his own heart, as one gazing into a crystal, he saw there another image enshrined, and he began to doubt and to wonder whether he were the servant of a divine ideal or the slave of an alluring earthly love. Was it possible that he had not yet seen the vision that compels, had not yet heard the silence that takes control?

Jean freely admitted to himself that he loved Gabrielle. Who could help it? Who would not admire that lithe, graceful figure, with the springing step and free toss of the head, like a wild deer of the forest? Who would not rejoice to see that glorious hair? Who could gaze unmoved upon that lovely face and form? Who would not desire to take her to his arms--his very own? But how proud and cold at times! How those blue eyes could glitter like steel! How those laughing, tantalizing lips could curve in bitter scorn! How that beautiful creature, with all the charms of woman since the days of Eve, could with every glance, every tone, every gesture flaunt the flag of no-surrender! The challenge must be accepted; the defiance could not be endured.

More than that--in all Jean's work, in all his thoughts and plans Gabrielle was a part. When he crossed the little bridge over La Branche--it was there that he first noticed Gabrielle's reddish-golden hair. When he was by the river--it was there that he had met her tripping over the stones in her short skirt and high boots, with rod and creel, a fisher-maiden whom more than fish might fear. When he passed through the woods, he saw her sitting under the trees amid patches of golden sunshine. When he was in church, she was kneeling there in prayer; and when he gazed at the high altar it was a glorified vision of Gabrielle that he saw, and not the Mother of God. When he thought of his great house, Gabrielle was there; on the day of triumph she would be his wife, his queen; and if ever misfortune came, he would go forth joyously to face the world, if only she were by his side.

Yet Jean believed that Gabrielle was not first in his heart. His work, his vocation, commanded obedience above all. War first; then love. Achievement, victory; then the crown and the reward. True, she might not consent to take the second place in his scheme of life. Women were by nature jealous, unreasonable, demanding more than man could give. She might be angry when she discovered the order of precedence. Poor little Gabrielle! She might go to a nunnery, even, as many young girls did when they could not have their own way, or when they saw the vanity of the world. That would be a pity. No, he would never allow that. What were the stone walls of a convent compared with the power of love? But she might love another man. Ah, that was different. Where was that other who dared to raise his eyes to Gabrielle? Where? Who?

At the very thought Jean's eyes flashed beneath his lowered eyebrows; his jaw set; his hands clenched; and his figure rose to its full height, bending forward with such menace as would have given pause to any rival who dared to contend for the prize of love with Jean Baptiste Giroux.

But it was only a girl that met him at the turn of the road, a girl with waving hair and laughing eyes--the girl of his dreams.

"Mon Dieu, Jean!" said Gabrielle, in a tantalizing voice, before he had time to speak. "How fierce you look! I am almost afraid to be walking here alone, on the king's highway. Is the thought of me so terrifying? I am quite harmless, I assure you. Or are you thinking of the last time we met, when I was so cross? I was provoked, you know, but I have got over it. It is hard to be cross with you, Jean."

"Is it?" said Jean, simply. "I thought it was quite easy, much too easy, in fact."

"Ah, stupid!" said Gabrielle, with a laugh. "All men are stupid, I think, and you more than others. How is it that you are so dull, Jean?"

"Gabrielle," said Jean, meditatively, "am I really dull? I did not know it. At school I was thought rather clever. As for books----"

"Ah, bah!" said Gabrielle, with scorn. "Talk to me of books--what does one learn from them? Mere stupidities, that is all."

"But," persisted Jean, "there are other things that I can do, where the stupidity of which you speak does not show itself so much. For example----"

"For example!" said Gabrielle, in a mocking voice. "For example! Tell me, do!"

"I forget," said Jean.

"Ha! Ha!" laughed Gabrielle, in glee. "What did I say? He forgets, the silly one, forgets all his reading, spelling, arithmetic, his Latin and Greek and Hebrew--all his knowledge. Well, let me remind you, Jean, that you are one of those paragons who can do everything. Not only have you all the knowledge of the world, but you have facilities which mere scholars do not possess. You hunt, you fish, you trap--like an Indian. You run like a deer, jump like a grasshopper, swim like a fish, fly like a bird, almost. Oh, I am sure that you could fly, if you tried. Try once; please do, just for my sake. But to forget all that, and more! How did you succeed in forgetting so much, Jean, my friend?"

"It was when I saw you, Gabrielle."

"Me!" gasped Gabrielle. "What have I done?"

"Nothing, Gabrielle. Yes, everything; for you have stolen my heart."

"Your heart, Jean? Impossible! That is what does not exist. A great strong body? Yes. A brain? Certainly. Capacity of every kind? Oh, yes. But a heart? Do not deceive yourself. You have no heart to lose. No, no! Do not touch me! Do not dare! But answer! Is it not as I have said?"

"It may be so, Gabrielle; but when will you marry me, dear?"

"What is that you say? Marry you? Oh, no; I could not."

"Why not, Gabrielle? Why not, little one?"

"Oh, there are many, many reasons. In the first place, I do not love you, Jean."

"That is because you will not let yourself love me, Gabrielle."

"Again, Jean, you do not love me."

"How do you know, Gabrielle?"

"You have never told me."

"Gabrielle, listen to me----"

"No, no; I will not. You would deceive me with your talk, great Jesuit that you are. Let me speak. I say that you love no one, Jean Baptiste Giroux. It is your great house that you love, your horses and cattle, your barns, your precious tourists. There is your treasure; there is your heart, Jean Baptiste."

"Oh, Gabrielle, what are those things compared with you? They are nothing, nothing."

"Jean, my friend, I like to hear you say that. Say it again, Jean."

"Gabrielle, what are houses, barns, lands, and all that, compared with my love for you? I love you, dear; and if I value those things it is for your sake. They are all for you. I lay them at your feet, and myself as well."

"Do you mean it? Do you really mean what you say?"

"Yes, Gabrielle."

"Well, Jean, I will take you at your word. That house of yours--I hate it. Those tourists, those people who walk about staring at everybody--I detest them. How could you bring them here to spoil the peace and joy of our lovely valley, to change our ancestral ways, to turn everything upside down? But we will send them away, back to Quebec, to Montreal, to Pittsburg, never to return, and everything will be as before. Yes, they shall go home, and the house we will dedicate to another purpose."

"Gabrielle," said Jean, earnestly, "why did you not tell me this before--a year ago? Now it is too late."

"Too late? Why, then, if you love me as you say!"

"Because I have embarked on this enterprise after much thought and long deliberation. I have put into it my strength of body and brain, my property, my life, my honour--and it is too late to turn back. The ship is laden, the anchor weighed, and we have put out to sea with a fair wind. Return to harbour? By no means. You do not ask it, Gabrielle."

"There," said Gabrielle, with a sob, "what did I tell you? You do not love me. It is yourself that you love, Jean, and all those stupid plans of yours."

"But no, Gabrielle, all are for you, as the means to the end. How can one have the end without the means?"

"Oh, I could tell you very well, but I will not. It is easy to see that you have made up your mind. Well, there is another who has a mind of her own. Adieu, Monsieur. Here our paths divide. Take the broad, dusty road, if you like. For me, I take this little path through the woods--alone. No, you shall not."

"Gabrielle, this is most unfair, cruel, heartless."

"It may be so, but I know another who is cruel, who has no heart--it is Monseigneur Jean Baptiste Giroux."

With this she went away through the woods, humming a song about a gay, inconstant lover, quite different from Jean Baptiste:

"Papillon, tu es volage! Tu ressembl' a mon amant. L'amour est un badinage, L'amour est un passe-temps, Quand j'ai mon amant J'ai le coeur content."

*CHAPTER XIII*

*THE RETURN OF PAMPHILE*

"Ah, there is mine host of La Folie," said Mere Tabeau, in a loud voice, as Jean, in a brown study, dead to the world, was passing her place on his way home.

"Jean, Jean Baptiste!" she called, but still he gave no heed.

"Monsieur Jean, Monsieur Jean Baptiste, Monsieur Giroux, Monseigneur! Why the deuce does not his lordship stop? I must run after him, I see."

The old woman, with surprising agility, ran after Jean, plucked him by the sleeve, and immediately resumed her cringing attitude, leaning heavily upon her staff.

"There he goes," she whined. "His lordship does not see his old friends, does not hear them, even, when they speak."