Yes, of course they got off--the next day. At the foot of the island,
two miles below, there is a place where the water runs quieter, and a
BATEAU can cross from the main shore. Francois was frightened when the
others did not come back in the evening. He made his way around to St.
Joseph d'Alma, and got a boat to come up and look for their bodies. He
found them on the shore, alive and very hungry. But all that has nothing
to do with the story.
Nor does it make any difference how Alden spent the rest of his summer
in the woods, what kind of fishing he had, or what moved him to leave
five hundred dollars with Jean when he went away. That is all padding:
leave it out. The first point of interest is what Jean did with the
money. A suit of clothes, a new stove, and a set of kitchen utensils for
the log house opposite Grosse Ile, a trip to Quebec, a little game of
“Blof Americain” in the back room of the Hotel du Nord,--that was the
end of the money.
This is not a Sunday-school story. Jean was no saint. Even as a hero he
had his weak points. But after his own fashion he was a pretty good
kind of a marquis. He took his headache the next morning as a matter of
course, and his empty pocket as a trick of fortune. With the nobility,
he knew very well, such things often happen; but the nobility do not
complain about it. They go ahead, as if it was a bagatelle.
Before the week was out Jean was on his way to a lumber-shanty on the
St. Maurice River, to cook for a crew of thirty men all winter.
The cook's position in camp is curious,--half menial, half superior. It
is no place for a feeble man. But a cook who is strong in the back and
quick with his fists can make his office much respected. Wages, forty
dollars a month; duties, to keep the pea-soup kettle always hot and the
bread-pan always full, to stand the jokes of the camp up to a
certain point, and after that to whip two or three of the most active
humourists.
Jean performed all his duties to perfect satisfaction. Naturally most of
the jokes turned upon his great expectations. With two of the
principal jokers he had exchanged the usual and conclusive form of
repartee,--flattened them out literally. The ordinary BADINAGE he did
not mind in the least; it rather pleased him.
But about the first of January a new hand came into the camp,--a big,
black-haired fellow from Three Rivers, Pierre Lamotte DIT Theophile.
With him it was different. There seemed to be something serious in his
jests about “the marquis.” It was not fun; it was mockery; always on the
edge of anger. He acted as if he would be glad to make Jean ridiculous
in any way.
Finally the matter came to a head. Something happened to the soup one
Sunday morning--tobacco probably. Certainly it was very bad, only fit
to throw away; and the whole camp was mad. It was not really Pierre
who played the trick; but it was he who sneered that the camp would be
better off if the cook knew less about castles and more about cooking.
Jean answered that what the camp needed was to get rid of a badreux who
thought it was a joke to poison the soup. Pierre took this as a personal
allusion and requested him to discuss the question outside. But before
the discussion began he made some general remarks about the character
and pretensions of Jean.
“A marquis!” said he. “This bagoulard gives himself out for a marquis!
He is nothing of the kind,--a rank humbug. There is a title in the
family, an estate in France, it is true. But it is mine. I have seen
the papers. I have paid money to the lawyer. I am waiting now for him
to arrange the matter. This man knows nothing about it. He is a fraud. I
will fight him now and settle the matter.”
If a bucket of ice-water had been thrown over Jean he could not have
cooled off more suddenly. He was dazed. Another marquis? This was
a complication he had never dreamed of. It overwhelmed him like an
avalanche. He must have time to dig himself out of this difficulty.
“But stop,” he cried; “you go too fast. This is more serious than a
pot of soup. I must hear about this. Let us talk first, Pierre, and
afterwards--”
The camp was delighted. It was a fine comedy,--two fools instead of one.
The men pricked up their ears and clamoured for a full explanation, a
debate in open court.
But that was not Jean's way. He had made no secret of his expectations,
but he did not care to confide all the details of his family history to
a crowd of fellows who would probably not understand and would certainly
laugh. Pierre was wrong of course, but at least he was in earnest. That
was something.
“This affair is between Pierre and me,” said Jean. “We shall speak of it
by ourselves.”
In the snow-muffled forest, that afternoon, where the great tree-trunks
rose like pillars of black granite from a marble floor, and the branches
of spruce and fir wove a dark green roof above their heads, these two
stray shoots of a noble stock tried to untangle their family history.
It was little that they knew about it. They could get back to their
grandfathers, but beyond that the trail was rather blind. Where they
crossed neither Jean nor Pierre could tell. In fact, both of their minds
had been empty vessels for the plausible lawyer to fill, and he had
filled them with various and windy stuff. There were discrepancies and
contradictions, denials and disputes, flashes of anger and clouds of
suspicion.
But through all the voluble talk, somehow or other, the two men were
drawing closer together. Pierre felt Jean's force of character, his air
of natural leadership, his bonhommie. He thought, “It was a shame for
that lawyer to trick such a fine fellow with the story that he was
the heir of the family.” Jean, for his part, was impressed by Pierre's
simplicity and firmness of conviction. He thought, “What a mean thing
for that lawyer to fool such an innocent as this into supposing himself
the inheritor of the title.” What never occurred to either of them was
the idea that the lawyer had deceived them both. That was not to be
dreamed of. To admit such a thought would have seemed to them like
throwing away something of great value which they had just found. The
family name, the papers, the links of the genealogy which had been
so convincingly set forth,--all this had made an impression on their
imagination, stronger than any logical argument. But which was the
marquis? That was the question.
“Look here,” said Jean at last, “of what value is it that we fight? We
are cousins. You think I am wrong. I think you are wrong. But one of us
must be right. Who can tell? There will certainly be something for both
of us. Blood is stronger than currant juice. Let us work together and
help each other. You come home with me when this job is done. The
lawyer returns to St. Gedeon in the spring. He will know. We can see
him together. If he has fooled you, you can do what you like to him.
When--PARDON, I mean if--I get the title, I will do the fair thing by
you. You shall do the same by me. Is it a bargain?”
On this basis the compact was made. The camp was much amazed, not to say
disgusted, because there was no fight. Well-meaning efforts were made at
intervals through the winter to bring on a crisis. But nothing came of
it. The rival claimants had pooled their stock. They acknowledged the
tie of blood, and ignored the clash of interests. Together they
faced the fire of jokes and stood off the crowd; Pierre frowning and
belligerent, Jean smiling and scornful. Practically, they bossed the
camp. They were the only men who always shaved on Sunday morning. This
was regarded as foppish.
The popular disappointment deepened into a general sense of injury. In
March, when the cut of timber was finished and the logs were all hauled
to the edge of the river, to lie there until the ice should break and
the “drive” begin, the time arrived for the camp to close. The last
night, under the inspiration drawn from sundry bottles which had been
smuggled in to celebrate the occasion, a plan was concocted in the
stables to humble “the nobility” with a grand display of humour. Jean
was to be crowned as marquis with a bridle and blinders:
Pierre was to be anointed as count, with a dipperful of harness-oil;
after that the fun would be impromptu.
The impromptu part of the programme began earlier than it was
advertised. Some whisper of the plan had leaked through the chinks
of the wall between the shanty and the stable. When the crowd came
shambling into the cabin, snickering and nudging one another, Jean and
Pierre were standing by the stove at the upper end of the long table.
“Down with the canaille!” shouted Jean.
“Clean out the gang!” responded Pierre.
Brandishing long-handled frying-pans, they charged down the sides of the
table. The mob wavered, turned, and were lost! Helter-skelter they
fled, tumbling over one another in their haste to escape. The lamp
was smashed. The benches were upset. In the smoky hall a furious din
arose,--as if Sir Galahad and Sir Percivale were once more hewing their
way through the castle of Carteloise. Fear fell upon the multitude, and
they cried aloud grievously in their dismay. The blows of the weapons
echoed mightily in the darkness, and the two knights laid about them
grimly and with great joy. The door was too narrow for the flight. Some
of the men crept under the lowest berths; others hid beneath the table.
Two, endeavouring to escape by the windows, stuck fast, exposing a
broad and undefended mark to the pursuers. Here the last strokes of the
conflict were delivered.
“One for the marquis!” cried Jean, bringing down his weapon with a
sounding whack.
“Two for the count!” cried Pierre, making his pan crack like the blow of
a beaver's tail when he dives.
Then they went out into the snowy night, and sat down together on the
sill of the stable-door, and laughed until the tears ran down their
cheeks.
“My faith!” said Jean. “That was like the ancient time. It is from the
good wood that strong paddles are made,--eh, cousin?” And after that
there was a friendship between the two men that could not have been cut
with the sharpest axe in Quebec.