Nearing "Les Voyageurs" the young officer paused at a sudden burst of
sound that came from the inn. In place of the usual chorus, one voice,
a slovenly but powerful one, was bellowing forth a ribald song,
remarkable only for its noisy coarseness. Reaching the hostelry,
Campbell hammered at the door, which was opened by mine host himself.
"Ah!" he gesticulated eloquently, "Monsieur Cam-pell?" (Pierre
Generaud, like all French-Canadians, invariably reversed his accents on
English words.) "For why you come, eh?"
"My dear Generaud, must I give reason for visiting the famous 'Les
Voyageurs'?"
"Ah! By gosh, no!" He beamed welcome in every pore--then struck an
attitude of despair. "You come, is it not, as an officier, perhaps
no--yes?"
"Correct. I want to speak just for a minute to the men inside."
"Oh, _mais non_!" The good host's gesture was a masterpiece, even
among a race of gesticulators. "Not to-night, monsieur."
"And why not?"
"By Gar! Who you theenk is inside now? Listen--she sing!"
Campbell was too well acquainted with the universal French-Canadian use
of the feminine pronoun to express any surprise when "she" proved to be
the possessor of the aforesaid raucous, bass voice, which had broken
into some song anent the passion of a sailor for a Portuguese young
lady of great charm but doubtful modesty.
"Who is our friend?" asked the officer.
"What--you know not? She is the terrible Des Rosiers!"
"Well, I don't like Mr. Des Rosiers's voice."
"You nevair hear her name, monsieur? Sometime she is called 'Jacque
Noir.' _Mon Dieu!_--she sleep with _le diable_."
The landlord's eyes grew wide with horror; his shoulders contracted
until they touched his ears.
"Look here, my friend," said Campbell, with a tinge of impatience,
"Jacque Noir or Jacque Rouge or Jacque Blanc is not going to keep me
out here."
"But, monsieur, once she _keel_ a man."
"My dear fellow----"
"One winter, a man has insult Des Rosiers, and--_voilà!_ Jacque Noir
_burn_ her house--_keel_ her family--_murdair_ her"----
With a laugh, the newly created officer thrust the little man aside and
entered the sacred precincts of "Les Voyageurs." A big, dirty, bearded
fellow of about thirty years of age was leaning against the counter,
waving a mug and bellowing a song. He looked formidable enough, but
hardly justified the diabolical qualities attributed to him by Pierre
Generaud. In spite of his unshaven face with its bloodshot, inebriated
eyes, there was something not unpleasing about the fellow, and when his
lips parted they disclosed teeth that were gleaming white.
A group of villagers sat in open-mouthed admiration beneath the singer,
for Des Rosiers's reputation had gathered velocity like a snowball
rolling down the side of a hill, gaining in size every time it came
into contact with the drifts of rumor, until it had become almost a
legend of wickedness. His audience felt a timid pride in the event. It
was as if his Satanic Majesty himself had condescended to appear from
below and sing comic songs for their benefit.
On the entrance of the officer, the song ceased, and all eyes were
turned to the new-comer.
"_Holà_," said Des Rosiers, with extraordinary resonance. "You drink by
me, _eh bien_?"
"No, thanks. I must only stay a minute."
"You no drink?" roared the lumber-jack, whose hospitality was not
unlike the forcefulness of the muscular Christian in "Androcles and the
Lion." "You drink, or, by Gar, I brak your neck."
A hum of admiration rose from the villagers. They bore no possible
malice towards the officer, but it was gratifying to find Jacque Noir
living up to his reputation.
"_Messieurs_," said Campbell, ignoring the gentleman in question,
"there is a war. _La belle France_ fights for her life, and Canada
must help. She needs you--and you--and you."
With their meager knowledge of English, he was forced to a simplicity
of language that depended almost entirely on the personal appeal for
effect. "Come with me to the war. We pay you one dollar ten a day, and
your wife and _garçons_ get money too."
Mr. Des Rosiers laughed, scornfully and sonorously. "I laugh," he
said. "You theenk we go to war, and you English, by Gar, no leave
Canada, but steal all we leave behind. The French-Canadian--he go; the
English-Canadian, _non_." He roared a vile oath, and laid his hand on
Campbell's shoulder. "I brak your neck," he said comfortingly.
In a moment Campbell's tunic was off and he was facing Jacque Noir.
"You are a liar, Des Rosiers," he said. "You are the greatest liar and
the worst singer in the province of Quebec."
The Frenchman tore the red kerchief from his neck and hurled the mug to
the floor, where it broke into a hundred pieces. "By gosh, me!" he
bellowed in a voice that would have terrified a bull. "I _keel_ you!"
He advanced in windmill fashion, but his opponent, who had been one of
the best boxers of his year at Toronto 'Varsity, stopped him with a
blow known technically as a "straight left to the jaw." Des Rosiers
paused to collect his thoughts. He was wondering whether to kick with
one foot or with both, when something happened, and oblivion settled
over him like the curtain on the last act of a melodrama. Campbell had
stepped forward, and, putting his shoulder behind it, had delivered a
blow on the lower part of the jaw with force enough to fell an ox. For
Des Rosiers the rest was silence.
Concluding his recruiting speech to the dazed villagers, Campbell put
on his tunic and strode down the street.... But the fall of Mr.
Pecksniff in the eyes of Tom Pinch was not more complete than the
collapse of their idol, Jacque Noir, in the eyes of the inhabitants of
Ville Marie.