I
"That was truly his name, M'sieu'—Raoul Vaillantcœur—a name of the
fine sound, is it not? But me—I think sometimes those grand names attach
themselves not to the proper men. It is like the time when the guide-post
of the four roads, beside Chicoutimi, blows down from the big storm, and
Telesphore Gauthier, he sets him up once more. That Telesphore there,
he knows not to read, not so much as the fool caribou. It is the mercy
of God, now, what road you take, unless you know him already."
Silence for a few moments, broken only by the ripple of water under
the bow of the canoe, the _slish_, _slish_ of the dripping paddle at
the stern, and the persistent patter of the rain all around us. I knew
there was a story on the way. But I must keep still to get it. A single
ill-advised question might switch it off the track into a morass of
politics or moralizing. Presently the voice behind me began again.
"You like that name, M'sieu', is it not? _Le cœur vaillant_—it pleases
you. But my faith! To me it seems that was given by one who knows not to
read. It was put upon the wrong man, without doubt. You shall judge for
yourself, M'sieu', when you hear what passed between this Vaillantcœur
and his friend Prosper Leclère at the building of the church of Abbéville.
You remind yourself of that grand stone church of the square tower—yes?
Well, I am going to tell you the story of that."
Thus Ferdinand, my brave _voyageur_, in his old-fashioned _patois_ of
French Canada, as he pushed the birch-bark down the lonely length of Lac
Moïse. How it rained that day! The surface of the lake was beaten flat,
and quivered under the storm of silver bullets. Waving sheets of watery
gray were driven before the wind; broad curves of dancing drops swept
along in front of them where they touched the lake. The dismal clouds had
collapsed on the mountains. All around the homeless shores the evergreen
trees seemed to hunch their backs and stand closer together in patient
misery. Not a bird dared to sing—not even a red-breasted crossbill.
It felt as if we were a thousand miles from everywhere and everybody.
Cities, factories, libraries, colleges, laws, palaces, theatres,
temples—what had we dreamed of these things? They were far off, in
another world. We had slipped back, who knows how many centuries, into
a primitive life, and Ferdinand was telling me the naked story of the
brave heart, even as it has been told from the beginning.
I cannot tell the story just as he did. There was a charm in his
speech too quick for the pen: a flavor of fresh-cut pine logs and clean
wood-smoke, that is not to be found in any ink for sale in the shops.
Perhaps he left out something that belongs to the tale, and that I may
be fool enough to put in. But it shall be as little as possible. The
spirit of the tale shall be his. It is Ferdinand's story. If you care
for the real thing, here it is. You shall hear the difference between
being called Vaillantcœur and having _le cœur vaillant_.