M. LE CURÉ
The very obvious decision at which I arrived after a night of
cogitation in my berth was that Jacqueline was to pass as my sister. I
explained my plan to her at breakfast.
There had been the examination of baggage at the frontier and the
tiresome change to a rear car in the early morning, and most of us were
heavy-eyed, but she looked as fresh and charming as ever in her new
waist of black lace and the serge skirt which she had bought the day
before. It seemed impossible to realize that I was really seated
opposite her in the dining car, talking amid the punctuating chatter of
a party of red-cheeked French-Canadian school children who had come on
the train at Sherbrooke, bound for their home on the occasion of the
approaching Christmas holidays.
"You see, Jacqueline," I explained, "it will look strange our
travelling together, unless some close relationship is supposed to
exist between us. I might subject you to embarrassment--so I shall
call you my sister, Miss Hewlett, and you will call me your brother
Paul." And I handed her my visiting card, because she had never heard
my surname before.
"I shall be glad to think of you as my brother Paul," she answered,
looking at the card. She held it in her right hand, and it was not
until the middle of the meal that the left hand came into view.
Then I discovered that she had taken off her wedding ring.
I wondered what thought impelled her to do this, whether it was
coquetry or the same instinct which seemed to interpret the situation
at all times perfectly, though it never welled up into her
consciousness.
We sped northward all that morning, stopping at many little wayside
stations, and as we rushed along beside the ice-bound St. Francis the
air ever grew colder, and the land, deep in snow, and the tall pines,
white with frost, looked like a picture on a Christmas card.
At last the St. Lawrence appeared, covered with drifting floes; the
Isle of Orleans, with the Falls of Montmorency behind it; the ascending
heights which slope up to the Château Frontenac, the fort-crowned
citadel, the long parapet, bristling with guns.
Then, after the ferry had transferred us from Levis we stood in Lower
Quebec.
We had hardly gone on board the ferryboat when an incident occurred
that greatly disturbed me. A slightly built, well-dressed man, with a
small, upturned mustache and a face of notable pallor, passed and
repassed us several times, staring and smiling with cool effrontery at
both of us.
He wore a lambskin cap and a fur overcoat, and I could not help
associating him with the dead man, or avoiding the belief that he had
travelled north with us, and that Leroux had been to see him off at the
station.
I was a good deal troubled by this, but before I had decided to address
the fellow we landed, and a sleigh swept us up the hill toward the
château to the tune of jingling bells. It was a strange wintry
scene--the low sleighs, their drivers wrapped in furs and capped in
bearskin, the hooded nuns in the streets, the priests, soldiers, and
ancient houses. The air was keen and dry.
"This is Quebec, Jacqueline," I said.
I thought that she remembered unwillingly, but she said nothing.
I dared ask her no questions. I fancied that each scene brought back
its own memories, but not the ideas associated with the chain of scenes.
We secured adjacent rooms at the château, and leaving Jacqueline to
unpack her things, and under instructions not to leave her room and
promising to return as soon as possible, I started out at once to find
Maclay & Robitaille's.
This proved a task of no great difficulty. It was a little shop where
leather goods were sold, situated on St. Joseph Street. A young man
with a dark, clean-shaven face, was behind the counter. He came
forward courteously as I approached.
"I have come on an unusual mission," I began foolishly and stopped,
conscious of the inanity of this address. What a stupid thing to have
said! I must have aroused his suspicions immediately.
He begged my pardon and called a man from another part of the shop.
And that gave me my chance over again, for I realized that he had not
understood my English.
"Do you remember," I asked the newcomer, "selling a collar to a young
lady recently--no, some long time ago--a dog-collar, I mean?"
The proprietor shrugged his shoulders. "I sell a good many dog-collars
during the year," he answered.
I took the plate from my pocket and set it down on the counter. "The
collar was set with silver studs," I said. "This was the plate." Then
I remembered the name Leroux had used and flung it out at random. "I
think it was for a Mlle. Duchaine," I added.
The shot went home.
"Ah, _monsieur_, now I remember perfectly," answered the proprietor,
"both from the unusual nature of the collar and from the fact that
there was some difficulty in delivering it. There was no post-office
nearer the _seigniory_ than St. Boniface, where it lay unclaimed for a
long time. I think _madamoiselle_ had forgotten all about the order.
Or perhaps the dog had died!"
"Where is this _seigniory_?"
"The _seigniory_ of M. Charles Duchaine?" he answered, looking
curiously at me. "You are evidently a stranger, _monsieur_, or you
would have heard of it, especially now when people are saying that----"
He checked himself at this point. "It is the oldest of the
_seigniories_," he continued. "In fact, it has never passed out of the
hands of the original owners, because it is almost uninhabitable in
winter, except by Indians. I understand that M. Duchaine has built
himself a fine château there; but then he is a recluse _monsieur_, and
probably not ten men have ever visited it. But _mademoiselle_ is too
fine a woman to be imprisoned there long----"
"How could one reach the château?" I interpolated.
He looked at me inquiringly as though he wondered what my business
there could be.
"In summer," he replied, "one might ascend the Rivière d'Or in a canoe
for half the distance, until one reached the mountains, and then----"
He shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know. Possibly one would inquire
of the first trapper who passed in autumn. In winter one would fly.
It is strange that so little is known of the _seigniory_, for they say
the Rivière d'Or----"
"The Golden River?"
"Has vast wealth in it, and formerly the Indians would bring gold-dust
in quills to the traders. But many have sought the source of this
supply in past times and failed or died, and so----" He shrugged his
shoulders again.
"You see, M. Duchaine is a hermit," he continued. "Once, so my father
used to say, he was one of the gayest young men in Quebec. But he
became involved in the troubles of 1867--and then his wife died, and so
lie withdrew there with the little _mademoiselle_--what was her name?"
He called his clerk.
"Alphonse, what is the name of that pretty daughter of M. Charles
Duchaine, of Rivière d'Or?" he asked.
"Annette," answered the man. "No, Nanette. No Janette. I am sure it
ends with 'ette' or 'ine,' anyway."
"_Eh bien_, it makes no difference," said the proprietor, "because,
since she left the Convent of the Ursulines here in Quebec, where she
was educated, her father keeps her at the château, and you are not
likely to set eyes on M. Charles Duchaine's daughter."
A sudden stoppage in his flow of words, an almost guilty look upon his
face, as a new figure entered the little shop, directed my attention
toward the stranger.
He was an old man of medium size, very muscularly built, stout, and
with enormous shoulders. He wore a priest's _soutane_, but he did not
look like a priest--he looked like a man's head on a bull body. His
smooth face was tanned to the colour of an Indian's--his bright blue
eyes, almost concealed by their drooping, wrinkled lids, were piercing
in their scrutiny.
He wore a bearskin hat and furs of surprising quality. It was not so
much his strange appearance that attracted my interest as the singular
look of authority upon the face, which was yet deeply lined about the
mouth, as though he could relax upon occasion and become the jolliest
of companions.
And he spoke a pure French, interspersed with words of an uncouth
patois, which I ascribed to long residence in some remote parish.
"_Bo'jour_, Père Antoine," said the shopkeeper deferentially, fixing
his eyes rather timidly upon the old priest's face.
"_Eh bien_, who is this with whom thou gossipest concerning the
daughter of M. Duchaine?" inquired Father Antoine, looking at me keenly.
"Only a customer--a stranger, _monsieur_," answered the proprietor,
rubbing his hands together. "He wishes to see--a dog collar, was it
not?" he continued, turning nervously toward me.
"You talk too much," said Père Antoine roughly. "Now, _monsieur_," he
said, addressing me in fair English, "what is the nature of your
business that it can possibly concern either M. Duchaine or his
daughter? Perhaps I can inform you, since he is one of my
parishioners."
"My conversation was not with you, _monsieur le curé_," I answered
shortly, and left the shop. I had ascertained what I needed to know,
and had no desire to enter into a discussion of my business with the
old man.
I had not gone three paces from the door, however, when the priest,
coming up behind me, placed a huge hand upon my shoulder and swung me
around without the least apparent effort.
"I do not know what your business is, _monsieur_," he said, "but if it
were an honest one you would state it to me. If you wish to see M.
Duchaine I am best qualified to assist you to do so, since I visit his
château twice each year to carry the consolations of religion to him
and his people. But if your business is not honest it will fail. End
it then and return to your own country."
"I do not intend to discuss my business with you, _monsieur_," I
answered angrily. It is humiliating to be in the physical grip of
another man, even though he be a priest.
He let me go and stood eyeing me with his keen gaze. I jumped on a
passing car, but looking back, I saw him striding along behind it. He
seemed to walk as quickly as the car went through the crowded street,
and with no effort.
When I got off in the neighbourhood of the Place d'Armes it was nearly
dark; but though I could not see the old man, I was convinced that he
was still following me.
I found Jacqueline in her room looking over her purchases, and took her
down to dinner.
And here I had another disconcerting experience, for hardly were we
seated when the inquisitive stranger whom I had seen at the ferry came
into the dining-room, and after a careful survey which ended as his
eyes fell on us, he took his seat at an adjacent table.
I could not but connect him with our presence there.
Leroux was due to arrive at any moment. I realized that great issues
were at stake, that the man would never cease in his attempts to get
hold of Jacqueline. Only when I had returned her to her father's house
would I feel safe from him.
The château was the worst place to have made my headquarters. If I had
realized the man's persistence, perhaps I would have sought less
conspicuous lodgings. Leroux's behaviour at the railroad station had
betrayed both an ungovernable temper when he was crossed, and to a
certain extent, fearlessness.
Nevertheless I believed him to have also an elemental cunning which
would dissuade him from violent measures so long as we were in Quebec.
I resolved, therefore, not to avoid him, but to await his lead.
After dinner I had some conversation with one of the hotel clerks. I
discovered that the Rivière d'Or flowed into the Gulf of St. Lawrence
from the north, in the neighbourhood of Anticosti.
It was a small stream, and except for a postal station at its mouth
named St. Boniface, was little known, the only occupants of those parts
being trappers and Indians.
When I told the clerk that I had business at St. Boniface I think he
concluded that I represented an amalgamation of fishing interests, for
he became exceedingly communicative.
"You could hire dogs and a sleigh at St. Boniface for wherever your
final destination is," he said, "because the dog mail has been
suspended owing to the new government mail-boats, and the sleighs are
idle. I think Captain Dubois would take you on his boat as far as that
point, and I believe he makes his next trip in a couple of days."
He gave me the captain's address, and I resolved to call on him early
the following day and make arrangements.
I was just turning away when I saw the inquisitive stranger leave the
smoking-room. He crossed the hall and went out, not without bestowing
a long look on me.
"Who is that man?" I asked.
"Why, isn't he a friend of yours?" inquired the clerk.
"Only by the way he stares at me," I said.
"Well, he said he thought he knew you and asked me your name," the
clerk answered. "He didn't give me his, and I don't think he has been
in here before."
I took Jacqueline for a stroll on the Terrace, and while we walked I
pondered over the problem.
The night was too beautiful for my depression of mind to last. The
stars blazed brilliantly overhead; upon our left the faint outlines of
the Laurentians rose, in front of us the lights of Levis twinkled above
the frozen gulf. There was a flicker of Northern Lights in the sky.
We paced the Terrace, arm in arm, from the statue of Champlain that
overlooks the Place d'Armes to the base of the mighty citadel, and
back, till the cold drove us in.
Jacqueline was very quiet, and I wondered what she remembered. I
dreaded always awakening her memory lest, with that of her home, came
that other of the dead man.
Our rooms were on the side of the Château facing the town, and as we
passed beneath the arch I saw two men standing no great distance away,
and watching us, it seemed to me.
One wore the cassock of a priest, and I could have sworn that he was
Père Antoine; the other resembled the inquisitive stranger. As we drew
near they moved behind a pillar. Thus, inexorably, the chase drew near.
My suspicions received confirmation a few minutes later, for we had
hardly reached our rooms, and I was, in fact, standing at the door of
Jacqueline's, bidding her good night, when a bellboy came along the
passage and announced that the gentleman whom I was expecting was
coming up the stairs.
I said good-night to Jacqueline and went into my room and waited. I
had thought it would be the stranger, but it was the priest.
I invited him to enter, and he came in and stood with his fur cap on
his head, looking direfully at me.
"Well, _monsieur_, what is the purpose of this visit?" I asked.
"To tell you," he thundered, "that you must give up the unhappy woman
who has accompanied you here."
"That is precisely what I intend to do," I answered.
"To me," he said. "Her husband----"
I felt my brain whirling. I knew now that I had always cherished a
hope, despite the ring--what a fool I had been!
"I married them," continued Père Antoine.
"Where is he?" I demanded desperately.
He appeared disconcerted. I gathered from his stare that he had
supposed I knew.
"This is a Catholic country," he went on, more quietly. "There is no
divorce; there can be none. Marriage is a sacrament. Sinning as she
is----"
I placed my hand on his shoulder. "I will not hear any more," I said.
"Go!" I pointed toward the door.
"I am going to take her away with me," he said, and crossing the
threshold into the corridor, placed one hand on the door of
Jacqueline's room.
I got there first. I thrust him violently aside--it was like pushing a
monument; turned the key, which happily was still outside, and put it
in my pocket.
"I am ready to deal with her husband," I said. "I am not ready to deal
with you. Leave at once, or I will have you arrested, priest or no
priest."
He raised his arm threateningly. "In God's name--" he began.
"In God's name you shall not interfere with me," I cried. "Tell that
to your confederate, Simon Leroux. A pretty priest you are!" I raged.
"How do I know she has a husband? How do I know you are not in league
with her persecutors? How do I know you are a priest at all?"
He seemed amazed at the violence of my manner.
"This is the first time my priesthood has been denied," he said
quietly. "Well, I have offered you your chance. I cannot use
violence. If you refuse, you will bring your own punishment upon your
head, and hers on that of the unhappy woman whom you have led into sin."
"Go!" I shouted, pointing down the passage.
He turned and went, his _soutane_ sweeping against the door of
Jacqueline's room as he went by. At the entrance to the elevator he
turned again and looked back steadily at me. Then the door clanged and
the elevator went down.
I unlocked the door of Jacqueline's room. I saw her standing at the
foot of the bed. She was supporting herself by her hands on the brass
framework. Her face was white. As I entered she looked up piteously
at me.
"Who--was--that?" she asked in a frightened whisper.
"An impudent fellow--that is all, Jacqueline."
"I thought I knew his voice," she answered slowly. "It made
me--almost--remember. And I do not want to remember, Paul."
She put her arms about my neck and cried. I tried to comfort her, but
it was a long time before I succeeded.
I locked her door on the outside, and that night I slept with the key
beneath my pillow.