"A parish priest was of the pilgrim train;
An awful reverend and religious man.
His eyes diffused a venerable grace,
And charity itself was in his face.
Rich was his soul, though his attire was poor
(As God hath clothed his own ambassador),
For such, on earth, his bless'd Redeemer bore."
Dryden.
Réné Bois-le-Duc, curé of Father Point, had just come home, and was
preparing to take his ease after a hard day's toil, anticipating the
arrival of the pilgrims, who were about to visit the church of the Good
St. Anne.
The curé was a man of some sixty years of age, though looking older, for
his had been a hard and toilsome life. Though secluded from the busy
world, he had had heavy responsibilities forced upon him, and there was
no one of his own class and education in these parts to cheer and
sympathize with him in his rare moments of leisure.
Belonging to one of the oldest families in Brittany, Réné Bois-le-Duc
had, in spite of the strong attractions of worldly society, early
conceived a high ideal of what life ought to be.
This ideal was fostered by the influence of his instructors at college.
His enthusiastic temperament and ascetic leanings led him to think
seriously of entering holy orders when quite young, but this idea met
with strong opposition from his parents; so, for a time, he abandoned it.
In Paris for one short winter with his elder brother Octave, he was
much sought after for his rare musical talents, as well as his personal
attractiveness, which charmed all with whom he came in contact. Madame
la Marquise was proud of both her sons, but Réné she idolized, and he
returned her affection with a devotion rare even in the best of children.
Like a sudden clap of thunder, there came on the gay world of Paris one
spring morning the news that Réné Bois-le-Duc had joined the great
Dominican order, and had been hurriedly sent off at a moment's notice on
a mission to America. At first it could not be believed possible; but at
length, after a year when he did not return, the fact could not be
doubted. But what was the reason for this sudden step? Why had he not
told his friends? Why did he leave in this way? There was a mystery about
it, and his former friends were not slow in inventing evil reports about
the absent one. Octave Bois-le-Duc never mentioned his brother, nor was
the mystery ever cleared up.
All this, of course, happened many years before my story opens; and
though at first Réné Bois-le-Duc found his new life hard, exiled as he
was from all his former associates, he had never returned to France. At
times he had been sorely tempted to do so, but he knew that none could
replace him in his work at Father Point, and he had grown to love his
people--to be, indeed, a father unto them, mindful both of their
spiritual and temporal well-being.
Nor can it be said that his talents were entirely thrown away, for from
time to time some highly polished poem or literary critique would find
its way from the lonely little house on the banks of the St. Lawrence
to a standard French magazine; and old schoolmates of the curé would
shrug their shoulders and say, "Oh, here is a capital thing by Réné
Bois-le-Duc. I thought he was dead and buried long ago."
And he was, indeed, so far as men of his own standing and education were
concerned. Except for an annual visit from his bishop, and occasionally
one from a pilot or sea captain, M. Bois le-Duc seldom heard news of the
outer world. On the whole, his life was not an unhappy one, and certainly
not idle. Most of the hours not spent in parish work were occupied in
perfecting the education of several of the young men in whom he was
interested. With Noël McAllister he took special pains. Whether the
results were satisfactory in this particular case may be doubted; still
he did what he considered best, and left the issue to Providence.
In Marie Gourdon, too, he took a great interest. Her mother had died when
she was scarcely six months old. Her father had never troubled his dull
head about her; and, after she left the convent at Rimouski, she led a
very lonely life for so young a girl.
There was much to interest even such a cultivated man as M. Bois-le-Duc
in Marie Gourdon. She had inherited from her mother a remarkable talent
for music, such as many of the French Canadians have strongly developed.
Her soprano voice was powerful, clear and flexible, and her ear was very
correct. The good curé judged that, if given proper training, and the
advantages Paris alone could afford, the little Canadian girl might
become an artist of the first rank. But how send her to Paris? The thing
seemed impossible. Where was the money to come from? True, M. le curé had
been well paid for his last review in the Catholic Journal, but he had
exhausted this money in sending Eugène Lacroix, another _protégé_, to
Laval for a twelvemonth. Alas now his treasury was empty; his cupboard
was bare!
This evening he was thinking all these matters over, when suddenly he was
roused from his meditations by the voice of Julie, his old housekeeper,
calling out:
"M. le curé, there is a gentleman asking for you at the door."
"For me, Julie, at this hour? Who is he?"
"Not a Frenchman, that is very certain, monsieur; I should think not,
indeed; his accent is execrable;" and the good woman lifted her hands
with a gesture of despair.
"Could you not understand what he wanted?" asked the priest.
"No, monsieur; the only word I could make out was '_la cooré_,' so I
thought that might mean you."
"Well, well," said M. Bois-le-Duc, laughing, "the best thing is for me to
see him myself."
He went out into the tiny dark passage where Mr. Webster and his clerk
were standing.
"Good-evening," he said, in his polished courtly manner. "I must
apologize for having kept you waiting so long. Pray come into my study.
I fear Julie was somewhat brusque and rude to you. She is a good soul,
though. Please be seated, gentlemen."
"M. _la cooré_," said Webster, struggling hard with his one French word,
and breaking down lamentably.
"I can speak English," said the priest, "if that will help you."
"Oh, yes," replied Webster, drawing a deep sigh of relief; "thank Heaven
for that."
M. le curé smiled benignly.
"Well, sir," went on the lawyer, "I've come to ask you whether you knew a
family called McAllister, supposed to be living in these parts."
"McAllister! Why, of course I do. I have known them for years."
"Oh, my good sir, you have relieved my mind of a heavy burden. For the
last three weeks my clerk and I have been searching every churchyard
round about here for the name, and have hitherto failed to find it.
To-night the idea entered my head that you might know."
"My head, if you please," murmured young Brown _sotto voce_.
"I shall be most happy to be of any service to you," said M. Bois-le-Duc.
"Madame McAllister, with her son Noël, lives about three miles down the
road. You cannot mistake the cottage. It is a plain white one with a
red-tiled roof--the only red-roofed cottage on the road."
"Thank you very much, sir," said Webster.
"You will like Noël McAllister," went on the curé; "he is a fine manly
young fellow, and was my pupil for many years, so I know him well."
"I am infinitely obliged to you, sir," said Webster, gratefully. "I
suppose we may call at the cottage the first thing in the morning. The
only house on the road with a red-tiled roof you said? Thanks. We shall
not detain you longer. Good-evening, sir, good-evening."
And Webster, having obtained the desired information, marched off with
his clerk, leaving the curé in wondering perplexity as to his relations
with the McAllisters.