HE used to come in the early spring-time, when, in sunny hollows,
banks of coarse snow lie thawing, shrinking with almost inaudible
tinklings, when the upper grass-banks are covered thickly with the film
left by the melted snow, when the old leaves about the gray trees are
wet and sodden, when the pools lie bare and clear, without grasses, very
limpid with snow-water, when the swollen streams rush insolently by,
when the grosbeaks try the cedar buds shyly, and a colony of little
birds take a sunny tree slope, and sing songs there.
He used to come with the awakening of life in the woods, with the
strange cohosh, and the dog-tooth violet, piercing the damp leaf which
it would wear as a ruff about its neck in blossom time. He used to come
up the road from St. Valérie, trudging heavily, bearing his packs. To
most of the Viger people he seemed to appear suddenly in the midst of
the street, clothed with power, and surrounded by an attentive crowd of
boys, and a whirling fringe of dogs, barking and throwing up dust.
I speak of what has become tradition, for the pedler walks no more up
the St. Valérie road, bearing those magical baskets of his.
There was something powerful, compelling, about him; his short, heavy
figure, his hair-covered, expressionless face, the quick hands in which
he seemed to weigh everything that he touched, his voluminous,
indescribable clothes, the great umbrella he carried strapped to his
back, the green spectacles that hid his eyes, all these commanded
attention. But his powers seemed to lie in those inscrutable guards to
his eyes. They were such goggles as are commonly used by threshers, and
were bound firmly about his face by a leather lace; with their setting
of iron they completely covered his eye-sockets, not permitting a
glimpse of those eyes that seemed to glare out of their depths. They
seemed never to have been removed, but to have grown there, rooted by
time in his cheek-bones.
He carried a large wicker-basket covered with oiled cloth, slung to his
shoulder by a strap; in one hand he carried a light stick, in the other
a large oval bandbox of black shiny cloth. From the initials “J. F.,”
which appeared in faded white letters on the bandbox, the village people
had christened him Jean-François.
Coming into the village, he stopped in the middle of the road, set his
bandbox between his feet, and took the oiled cloth from the basket. He
never went from house to house, his customers came to him. He stood
there and sold, almost without a word, as calm as a sphinx, and as
powerful. There was something compelling about him; the people bought
things they did not want, but they had to buy. The goods lay before
them, the handkerchiefs, the laces, the jewelry, the little sacred
pictures, matches in colored boxes, little cased looking-glasses, combs,
mouth-organs, pins, and hair-pins; and over all, this figure with the
inscrutable eyes. As he took in the money and made change, he uttered
the word, “Good,” continually, “good, good.” There was something
exciting in the way he pronounced that word, something that goaded the
hearers into extravagance.
It happened one day in April, when the weather was doubtful and moody,
and storms flew low, scattering cold rain, and after that day
Jean-François, the pedler, was a shape in memory, a fact no longer. He
was blown into the village unwetted by a shower that left the streets
untouched, and that went through the northern fields sharply, and lost
itself in the far woods. He stopped in front of the post-office. The
Widow Laroque slammed her door and went upstairs to peep through the
curtain; “these pedlers spoiled trade,” she said, and hated them in
consequence. Soon a crowd collected, and great talk arose, with laughter
and some jostling. Every one tried to see into the basket, those behind
stood on tiptoe and asked questions, those in front held the crowd back
and tried to look at the goods. The air was full of the staccato of
surprise and admiration. The late comers on the edge of the crowd
commenced to jostle, and somebody tossed a handful of dust into the air
over the group. “What a wretched wind,” cried some one, “it blows all
ways.”
The dust seemed to irritate the pedler, besides, no one had bought
anything. He called out sharply, “Buy—buy.” He sold two papers of
hair-pins, a little brass shrine of La Bonne St. Anne, a colored
handkerchief, a horn comb, and a mouth-organ. While these purchases were
going on, Henri Lamoureux was eying the little red purses, and fingering
a coin in his pocket. The coin was a doubtful one, and he was weighing
carefully the chances of passing it. At last he said, carelessly, “How
much?” touching the purses. The pedler’s answer called out the coin from
his pocket; it lay in the man’s hand. Henri took the purse and moved
hurriedly back. At once the pedler grasped after him, reaching as well
as his basket would allow; he caught him by the coat; but Henri’s dog
darted in, nipped the pedler’s leg, and got away, showing his teeth.
Lamoureux struggled, the pedler swore; in a moment every one was
jostling to get out of the way, wondering what was the matter. As Henri
swung his arm around he swept his hand across the pedler’s eyes; the
shoe-string gave way, and the green goggles fell into the basket. Then a
curious change came over the man. He let his enemy go, and stood dazed
for a moment; he passed his hand across his eyes, and in that interval
of quiet the people saw, where they expected to see flash the two
rapacious eyes of their imaginings, only the seared, fleshy seams where
those eyes should have been.
That was the vision of a moment, for the pedler, like a fiend in fury,
threw up his long arms and cursed in a voice so powerful and sudden that
the dismayed crowd shrunk away, clinging to one another and looking over
their shoulders at the violent figure. “God have mercy!—Holy St. Anne
protect us!—He curses his Baptism!” screamed the women. In a second he
was alone; the dog that had assailed him was snarling from under the
sidewalk, and the women were in the nearest houses. Henri Lamoureux, in
the nearest lane, stood pale, with a stone in his hand. It was only for
one moment; in the second, the pedler had gathered his things, blind as
he was, had turned his back, and was striding up the street; in the
third, one of the sudden storms had gathered the dust at the end of the
village and came down with it, driving every one indoors. It shrouded
the retreating figure, and a crack of unexpected thunder came like a
pistol shot, and then the pelting rain.
Some venturesome souls who looked out when the storm was nearly over,
declared they saw, large on the hills, the figure of the pedler, walking
enraged in the fringes of the storm. One of these was Henri Lamoureux,
who, to this day, has never found the little red purse.
“I would have sworn I had it in this hand when he caught me; but I felt
it fly away like a bird.”
“But what made the man curse every one so when you just bought that
little purse—say that?”
“Well, I know not, do you? Anyway he has my quarter, and he was
blind—blind as a stone fence.”
“Blind! Not he!” cried the Widow Laroque. “He was the Old Boy himself; I
told you—it is always as I say, you see now—it was the old Devil
himself.”
However that might be, there are yet people in Viger who, when the dust
blows, and a sharp storm comes up from the southeast, see the figure of
the enraged pedler, large upon the hills, striding violently along the
fringes of the storm.