Chaudiere had made--and lost--a reputation. The Passion Play in the
valley had become known to a whole country--to the Cure’s and the
Seigneur’s unavailing regret. They had meant to revive the great story
for their own people and the Indians--a homely, beautiful object-lesson,
in an Eden--like innocence and quiet and repose; but behold the world
had invaded them! The vanity of the Notary had undone them. He had
written to the great papers of the province, telling of the advent of
the play, and pilgrimages had been organised, and excursions had been
made to the spot, where a simple people had achieved a crude but noble
picture of the life and death of the Hero of Christendom. The Cure
viewed with consternation the invasion of their quiet. It was no longer
his own Chaudiere; and when, on a Sunday, his dear people were jostled
from the church to make room for strangers, his gentle eloquence seemed
to forsake him, he spoke haltingly, and his intoning of the Mass lacked
the old soothing simplicity.
“Ah, my dear Seigneur!” he said, on the Sunday before the playing was to
end, “we have overshot the mark.”
The Seigneur nodded and turned his head away. “There is an English play
which says, ‘I have shot mine arrow o’er the house and hurt my brother.’
That’s it--that’s it! We began with religion, and we end with greed, and
pride, and notoriety.”
“What do we want of fame! The price is too high, Maurice. Fame is not
good for the hearts and minds of simple folk.”
“It will soon be over.”
“I dread a sordid reaction.”
The Seigneur stood thinking for a moment. “I have an idea,” he said at
last. “Let us have these last days to ourselves. The mission ends next
Saturday at five o’clock. We will announce that all strangers must leave
the valley by Wednesday night. Then, during those last three days, while
yet the influence of the play is on them, you can lead your own people
back to the old quiet feelings.”
“My dear Maurice--it is worthy of you! It is the way. We will announce
it to-day. And see now.... For those three days we will change the
principals; lest those who have taken the parts so long have lost the
pious awe which should be upon them. We will put new people in their
places. I will announce it at vespers presently. I have in my mind who
should play the Christ, and St. John, and St. Peter--the men are not
hard to find; but for Mary the Mother and Mary Magdalene--”
The eyes of the two men suddenly met, a look of understanding passed
between them.
“Will she do it?” said the Seigneur.
The Cure nodded. “Paulette Dubois has heard the word, ‘Go and sin no
more’; she will obey.”
Walking through the village as they talked, the Cure shrank back
painfully several times, for voices of strangers, singing festive songs,
rolled out upon the road. “Who can they be?” he said distressfully.
Without a word the Seigneur went to the door of the inn whence the
sounds proceeded, and, without knocking, entered. A moment afterwards
the voices stopped, but broke out again, quieted, then once more broke
out, and presently the Seigneur issued from the door, white with anger,
three strangers behind him. All were intoxicated.
One was violent. It was Billy Wantage, whom the years had not improved.
He had arrived that day with two companions--an excursion of curiosity
as an excuse for a “spree.”
“What’s the matter with you, old stick-in-the-mud?” he shouted. “Mass is
over, isn’t it? Can’t we have a little guzzle between prayers?”
By this time a crowd had gathered, among them Filion Lacasse. At a
motion from the Seigneur, and a whisper that went round quickly, a dozen
habitants swiftly sprang on the three men, pinioned their arms, and
carrying them bodily to the pump by the tavern, held them under it, one
by one, till each was soaked and sober. Then their horses and wagon were
brought, and they were given five minutes to leave the village.
With a devilish look in his eye, and drenched and furious, Billy
was disposed to resist the command, but the faces around him were
determined, and, muttering curses, the three drove away towards the next
parish.