Richer, on the other side of those mountains. And I, as you do not
know, lived in the parish of Ste. Famille on the other side of the
Channel, in the Isle of Orleans--the Isle of Sorcerers, as they call it.
It was not an isle of sorcerers at all, but I will tell you what it
was--an isle of smugglers. Yes, smugglers. When the good people of
Chateau, there below, saw those lights on a dark night moving to and fro
on the long marsh, gleaming fitfully, like fireflies, they crossed
themselves, the simpletons, and muttered, 'will-o'-the-wisps,' 'devil's
fire,' 'sorcerers!' Ha! Ha! What foolishness! They were smugglers
with lanterns going to meet a bateau at high tide, carrying casks of
brandy and French wines, packages of tobacco, bales of silk, and all
that. Nobody came near them, you may be sure. Very convenient, the
Isle of Sorcerers, for smugglers, and there were fine hiding-places in
the long marsh and on the side of the hill. Caves? Oh, yes, here and
there. I wonder if I could find them now. Ah, those were days!"
"But you were no smuggler, Monsieur Gamache, nor my father either.
Impossible."
"Nothing is impossible, Jean. All good is possible and all bad. We
were smugglers, certainly, for fun at first, and afterwards for profit.
Talk of farming, cultivating the soil--that is a slow way of earning
one's living, not to speak of making a fortune. But free trade,
smuggling, if you like, going out of a dark night in a little boat,
slipping up the river with the tide, landing something on the quays of
the St. Charles, slipping down with the ebb, arriving in the early
morning to see the coming of the dawn, the lifting of the mist and the
first glow of sunrise on the top of Mount Ste. Anne--Jean, it was
glorious. I like to think of it. If only those days could come again!"
"And dangerous, Monsieur Gamache?"
"Dangerous? Certainly. That was the glory of it. But when one is found
out one goes to prison, perhaps, or one crosses the mountains to the
parish of St. Placide, where the past may be forgotten."
"Monsieur Gamache," said Jean, "I can well believe that my father was a
smuggler, for people had different ideas about such things in those
days, and the adventure of that life must have appealed to him, but as
to the profit--that is not quite so credible. He was a poor man when he
came to St. Placide, and the farm he created himself, cut all the trees
with his own axe, dug the ground with a spade, carried hay and oats on
his back up the hills. No, Monsieur, my father did not profit by the
trade of which you speak."
"That is true, Jean, he did it for fun, for adventure, for the beauty
and glory of it, and he would not touch one _sou_ of the profit. But he
took the punishment, the exile, just the same. Have I not said that he
was a valiant man?"
These were strange tales that Jean was hearing that night, beside that
weird pool, while the stars came out, and the new moon rose above the
circle of the trees and cast a trembling brightness on the water below.
The sound of the river filled the air as though trying to drown the
voice of Michel Gamache as he told of the lawless exploits of former
days, when Toussaint Giroux and he were young and sowing to the wind.
It was almost sacrilege in Jean to be hearing of such doings, yet he
could not but feel a thrill of pride as he thought of his father, in the
hey-day of life, high-spirited, strong and brave, going into danger with
a smile on his lips and a brightness in his eye, glorying in adventure
for itself alone, and scorning both the reward and the penalty. In his
heart Jean was wishing that he had been there and hoping that like
opportunities might come again. Evidently Michel Gamache was corrupting
the morals of the son as he had formerly corrupted those of the father.
Perhaps he was a sorcerer after all, a servant of Satan, the enemy of
souls.
"You are late, Jean," said Madame Giroux, as the fisherman finally
arrived at home. "You are very late, and I thought that you would never
come. The river is dangerous in places. You remember Hypolite Picard,
who was drowned last year. He could swim, too, but it is always the
swimmers who take the risks. I wish that you would be more careful.
Well, I am glad that you are safe at home. Sit down, now, and take some
of this hot soup. I will cook a trout for you, if you like. You got
some, of course."
"But certainly, my mother," said Jean, opening his pannier, "look at
these."
"Truly you have a lot, about ten dozen, I should say. At Beauport we
could get twenty cents a dozen for them, and at the Champlain market in
Quebec at least five cents more. Two dollars' worth of fish--not a bad
day's work. But what have you there, behind your backs? _Mon Dieu_!
What is that? A salmon, a whale! What a monster! You are a fisherman
indeed! How I wish that your father were here to see that trout! He
caught one once about the same size, but I have never since seen its
equal. That was when we first came to St. Placide, forty years ago. We
were young then. But where did you get it? In some deep hole, no
doubt."
"Yes, my mother, in the _Trou du Sorcier_."
"God guard us!" said Madame Giroux, crossing herself. "The _Trou du
Sorcier_, the very place where your father caught that other fish. And
the sorcerer himself, was he there, perhaps, as then?"
"Yes, my mother, he was there. That is curious, is it not? But he is
no sorcerer, only an old man, most obliging and interesting."
"The devil is always interesting, Jean, and obliging too, for a time.
But if this man is not a sorcerer he is a thief, certainly, and a miser.
Besides, he never goes to Mass--has not made his Easter confession in
forty years. If he should die suddenly Satan would surely take his
soul. Jean, I am not superstitious, not at all, but I think that we
should send the fish to the cure."
Thus it happened that Father Paradis had a good dinner on the next day,
which was Friday, and for several days thereafter the good cure and his
housekeeper made their breakfast, dinner and supper of baked trout.
*CHAPTER IV*
*THE LOUP GAROU*
"_Bon soir_, Jean Baptiste," said Mere Tabeau one evening, as the young
man passed her home on his way to visit his friend Michel Gamache.
"_Bon soir, Madame_," said Jean, politely, but not stopping, as he
sometimes did, to gossip with the old woman.
"Not so fast, Jean. Wait a minute. I have something to tell you. Come
here."
"Another time, Madame Tabeau, if you please. I must hasten this
evening."
"No time!" cackled the old crone in a shrill, querulous voice. "No time
to talk to a poor old woman; no time for that, oh, no! But time enough
for your friend the sorcerer, that servant of the devil."
"Madame Tabeau, take care what you say. You speak of Monsieur Gamache,
no doubt. He is old, perhaps, and not at all handsome, but he is no
sorcerer. On the contrary, I think him a good man. In any case, he is
my friend, as you say, and I do not wish to hear you give him evil
names."
"You do not wish it, your lordship? Very well, I will not say it. He
is a good man, a saint, perhaps, or possibly an angel in disguise. Who
knows? But what species of angel, eh? You are sure? You can tell?
What did the cure say in his sermon last Sunday? I go to Mass, as you
know, every Sunday, to confession also, at least once a year. But what
did the cure say? Satan can deceive the saints even, when he puts on his
best clothes. But not Jean Baptiste Giroux. Oh, no! Nobody could fool
him, not even a woman, certainly not a poor old woman like me."
Mere Tabeau relapsed into silence, puffing at her black pipe, but
steadily regarding Jean with her fish-like eyes. His curiosity was
aroused.
"Madame Tabeau," he said, in a conciliating tone, "do not be angry. I
was to blame. You may say what you please. You have something to tell
me, and I will gladly listen."
"Oh, he will listen; his grandeur will deign to hear what the old woman
has to say. But he will hear nothing."
"Madame Tabeau, I am a fool, as you have said, in effect, and I believe
everybody. It is quite possible that I may be deceived, as on some
former occasions. But you are a wise woman, Madame, and you know
something. Will you not tell it to me for my advantage? I shall be
grateful, even if you tell me what I do not wish to hear."
"Well, Jean, that is better. You have some sense left, in spite of your
studies, a little intelligence still, strange to say. Sit down here on
the step; no, not so far away; right here beside me. I will not hurt
you, and the young ladies will not be jealous. Forty years ago they
might have been annoyed, the vixens, but not now. Listen! There is a
story, certainly. You shall hear it, no one else.
"At that time they did not call me Mere Tabeau. Bonhomme Tabeau, the old
sot, had not yet come on the scene. He was rich, the old miser--that
was why I married him. Yes, and he died, as expected, in the course of
a few years. But can you believe it? The old beast did not leave me
one _sou_, not one sou--that was what I did not expect. All was for
masses for his soul. The old fool! His soul is in the pit, where no
masses can help him. I know theology, me. Masses can pull one out of
purgatory, of course; but from the pit, never. Ah, that was one who got
his deserts. His money goes to the priests, whom he did not love, and
his soul remains with Satan. _Cru-ru-ru de Dieu_!"
"But it was of your friend the sorcerer that I was speaking. That was
another who had sold himself to the evil one. At what price? Gold and
the love of woman. Was he handsome? By no means. But how strong he
was, how black his hair and his eyes! And how he would look at me and
say: 'Angel, my angel, if you love me, if you love me truly, kiss me on
both cheeks, and on the lips. Again! Once more!' And after that!
_Mon Dieu_, after that his ship came in with the tide and he sailed
away; while I, like a fool, stood on the shore and waved to him until he
was out of sight beyond the point. And then I cried like a baby. Can
you believe it?
"Did Michel Gamache not come back after the voyage? Ah, yes. When
summer was gone he came back, but not to me. I was expecting him, I who
had given him so much love; but he did not come that evening, nor the
next, nor ever again. Always he was at the house of Bonhomme Duval, the
rich trader, smuggler, thief. The old rascal had a daughter, of course.
Beautiful? Not at all. It was the dowry that Michel desired. For that
he perjured his soul, for the value of a hundred pounds, more or less.
It was all arranged. The wedding was to take place on the first day of
the year. They would begin the year together, those two. And I? They
had no thought for me. Every evening I looked from the window, hoping
that he would come, that he would wish to say good-bye, if nothing more;
but I saw only the bare trees and the dead leaves dancing in the autumn
wind.
"But listen, my friend. That is not the end of the story. No, only the
beginning. My brother Ovide, do you know him? But how could you? He
has been dead these thirty years. Since that night he was never the
same man."
"What night, Madame?" said Jean, much interested.
"Be silent, fool!" said the old hag. "If you interrupt me again you may
tell the story yourself. It was the eve of Christmas, of course, eight
days before the wedding that was to be. The wedding! Ha! Ha! The
sorcerer's wedding! He who had not made his Easter confession in seven
years, he who had sold his soul for gold. His wedding! _Nom de
diable_!
"'Sister,' said my brother Ovide, 'little sister, never mind; the
wedding will never take place. I will kill him, the traitor.'
"'Kill him, yes, yes, kill him!' I said. 'But no, that would be too
dangerous, for it is quite possible that he might kill you, Ovide, my
brother. You are strong, I know, but not like him. Think of that neck
of his, those hands, and that jaw, with teeth like a wolf. No, my
brother, you shall not. I would kill him myself, but I fear--I don't
know what I fear.'
"'Fear nothing, my sister, you shall see.'
"As I have said, it was still eight days before Christmas. No, two days
only. Christmas was on a Sunday that year, and it is Friday night that
I speak of. I am not likely to forget it, nor the following night
either. Michel used to visit the Duval place every evening at eight
o'clock, returning always before midnight and going across the river to
his home on the Island. The road was marked, as usual, by _balises_,
for the path was always being effaced by the drifting snow. _Mon Dieu_!
How the wind blew across the river, and how it carried the snow
along--the snow that covered everything like a winding-sheet! Yes, and
it would have covered Michel Gamache that night if my brother Ovide had
had his way.
"Ah, he was a fox, that Ovide. He did not wish to meet Michel face to
face, but to change the _balises_ so that the road led direct to an
air-hole, where the icy water ran along black and silent--that was not
at all dangerous for him. If Michel should fall in the water, that was
not his affair; but if he should try to climb out again, he would be
there to push him down under the ice. Yes, under the ice, to drift, to
roll along with the stream, to have his hair, his eyes, his ears, filled
with slime, to have his bones picked by the eels, to be buried in a heap
of sand and seaweed on some lonely shore--that would be a punishment
indeed for Michel Gamache, liar, traitor, cursed sorcerer.
"So my brother Ovide hid himself behind one of the branches and waited.
It was nearly midnight; the night was very cold; and Ovide was not at
all comfortable as he crouched behind the little tree. But he warmed
himself now and then from a flask of excellent brandy; soon his spirits
rose, and he was full of courage. Presently he heard a light patter as
of some one running with moccasins on his feet; and immediately there
appeared, not a man, but a gigantic wolf, that stopped at the open
water, and began to howl as though scenting danger. Then he took a leap
into the air, flying over an abyss of twenty feet, lit on the ice on the
other side, and disappeared in the distance, still howling frightfully.
"My brother Ovide escaped from that place as fast as possible, believing
himself chased by the devil; and when he staggered into the house, his
face pale as the snow, his jaw hanging, his eyes bloodshot and staring,
he was not a courageous object, I assure you.
"'What is the matter, Ovide,' said I, much frightened.
"'Lock the door, Celestine; it is following me. Quick, it is there.'
"'What is it, you fool?' said I.
"'The _loup garou_, Celestine! Ah! Ah! There it is at the window!
_Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!'
"Ovide fell in a heap on the floor, still pointing with trembling finger
at the window, and there I saw, I, Celestine Colomb, the flaming eyes of
some ferocious beast. It was terrifying. 'Jesus-Maria!' I cried,
making the holy sign, and saying all my prayers at once. The apparition
vanished, but I could not forget the fearful eyes, and all night long I
was seeing them in my dreams.
"On the next day, at half-past two in the afternoon, I put on my best
dress and my French shoes, and went to visit Annette Duval.
"'Annette,' I said, as politely as possible, 'you do not love me,
perhaps; and I, possibly, do not love you.'
"'Perhaps not,' said Annette, beginning to cry, 'but I do not hate you,
Celestine. I pray for you, even.'
"'That is not necessary, Annette,' said I, with scorn. 'I can make my
salvation myself, thank you. I do not love you, as I have said, but I
would not have you marry a sorcerer.'
"What is that you say? A sorcerer? Michel a sorcerer? Nonsense! If
you had nothing better to say why did you come?'
"'I came, Annette, to say that Michel is a sorcerer, one who has not
made his Easter confession in seven years, one who has sold his soul to
the devil. Not only so, but he becomes a _loup garou_ every evening at
midnight. My brother Ovide has seen him change into a _loup garou_ only
last night.'
"'Mademoiselle,' said Annette, becoming very pale, 'be so kind as to go
away.'
"'Annette,' said I, 'listen to me. Ask him why he leaves you every
evening before midnight. Ask him to stay with you for a few minutes
longer, and you will see.'
"'Mademoiselle Colomb,' said Annette, rising, 'permit me to show you the
door.'
"This time I went without a word. It was not necessary to say more.
Annette was troubled, and would certainly ask Michel for an explanation.
And so it turned out.
"Some time before midnight, Ovide and I--Ovide would not go alone--hid
ourselves in the bushes near the door of Bonhomme Duval, the door which
Annette had shown to me, not once only, but twice. But I was to show
her something; I, Celestine Colomb. Ovide had his gun loaded with a
silver bullet, a bullet which I had made with my own hands--for the
sorcerer, of course. Ovide had a knife also, long and sharp. Michel
does not forget that knife, I think.
"It lacked but a few minutes of midnight when the door opened and there
stood Michel and Annette on the threshold in the light of the fire.
Annette was angry, as we could see; and Michel, that giant who could
have strangled her with one hand, was trying to pacify her, to explain
what could not be explained.
"'So,' she said, 'you must go, it seems, although I have prayed you to
stay a few minutes longer, to spend the first moments of Christmas with
me--and you will not.'
"'Annette, my dear Annette, have I not said that I must go? It is an
important appointment.'
"'Important? Oh yes, more important than I, of course. I see. You do
not love me. No, it is money that you love, that only.'
"'Not at all, Annette, it is that I must meet a friend.'
"'A friend, Michel! What kind of a friend?'
"'Annette, I cannot tell you. It is a matter of life and death. I must
go. Good-bye, dear. A kiss, a single kiss.'
"No, no! Never again! Ah, can I believe it? It is true, then, what
Celestine has said. You are a sorcerer, and your friend, your friend,
Michel, is Satan. _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_!"
"At this word Michel began to laugh, but presently the laugh became very
strange, more like the cry of a wild animal than the voice of a man; he
began to lose the human shape; his coat became the skin of a beast; his
feet and hands became paws; long ears grew upon his head; the jaw was
thrust forth and the fangs protruded. _Nom de Dieu_! It was a wolf, a
_loup garou_, that, with a ferocious growl, precipitated itself upon
Annette, who fell unconscious on the ground.
"'Shoot, shoot, Ovide!' I screamed, but Ovide, stupefied by terror,
stood there groaning and muttering.
"'It is he! It is he! The _loup garou_! Child of the devil! He will
destroy me, body and soul! It is he! It is he! _Mon Dieu_! _Mon
Dieu_!'
"Hearing this, the wolf left Annette and rushed upon us. Then the
courage of Ovide returned; he seized the gun and aimed a terrible blow
at the head of the beast. But this ferocious animal, evading the blow,
in an instant was at my brother's throat. In another minute Ovide would
have been in Hell. It was I who saved him; I who came to the rescue
with the long knife; I who struck the blow that should have killed the
_loup garou_. By an unlucky chance the blade missed the neck but cut
off half of the ear. It drew blood, of course; the beast changed
instantly into the human form; and there stood the traitor, Michel
Gamache; his face streaming with blood; and there on the snow lay, not
the ear of a wolf, but that of a man. Would you like to see it, Jean
Baptiste? There it is! I keep it with me all the time, as a souvenir.
"The wedding--did it take place? Certainly not! Annette would have
married the sorcerer in spite of all, but her people would not hear of
it. Now she is 'Sister Sainte Anne' in the Convent of the Ursulines,
where she prays all the time for the soul of the sorcerer. Does she pray
also for her dear friend, Celestine Colomb? As to that, you may ask the
sorcerer. Go! Ask him, too, why he has lost his ear."
"Good evening, Jean," said Michel Gamache, a little later. "You have
been delayed, but no matter. There remains an hour of twilight and there
will be a clear moon to-night. You have been talking to that she-devil,
Mere Tabeau, I see."
"_Mon Dieu_! Monsieur Gamache, how do you know that?" said Jean,
astonished.
"Oh, my friend, I see many things," said the sorcerer, showing his teeth
and uttering a weird laugh. "So you have been making friends with La
Colomb. Fine company for a young man. And did she tell you that I was
a _loup garou_, and that she cut off a piece of my ear--hein?"
"_Sacre_, Monsieur Gamache, that is just what she said. But I did not
believe a word of it."
"Oh, believe it if you like, Jean, until I give you another version of
the story. But regard my ear. Does it look as though it had been sliced
with a knife?"
"No, Monsieur Gamache, not at all. Quite otherwise."
"Quite otherwise, I assure you," said the sorcerer, with a ferocious
smile. "Listen! she saved the life of that precious brother, Ovide, and
my ear--_sacre tonnerre!_--she bit it off!"
*CHAPTER V*
*CASTLES IN SPAIN*
It was the morning of the twenty-fourth of June, and Jean Baptiste,
having attended Mass in honour of his patron saint, was spending the
rest of the day by the river. The sun was high, and in all open places
the heat was intense, but where Jean lay at ease near the edge of a
cliff there was cool and pleasant shade. At his feet the river roared
through a deep gorge; on the farther side there was a wall of rock with
a fringe of trees; while beyond rose a long range of mountains,
forest-clad to the very top. Above, in the blue, floated light, silvery
clouds, lazily passing from tree-top to tree-top, slowly changing their
form, until they disappeared behind the mountains or melted away in the
depths of the sky.
On this day Jean was celebrating his twenty-third birthday, and the
completion of his college course. His college had been the forest, and
his book the book of Nature. He had read other books as well; all that
the seminarists had studied, and many more of which they had never
heard; but the knowledge that he valued most was obtained from the
trees, the rocks, the soil, the river, the birds, the beasts, the
fishes, the cycle of the seasons, the changes of the weather, and all
the panorama and procession of Nature that mean so much to the man with
the seeing eye and the understanding heart. The book was always open;
and in the light of Science, with Philosophy his interpreter and
Religion his inspiration, he read many difficult pages and discovered
many secrets.
To Jean Baptiste the study of the world in which he lived afforded not
merely satisfaction to the natural curiosity of youth, which makes
knowledge desirable for itself alone; but it gave him an insight into
the nature of things, and a power of control which he planned to use,
some day, for a higher end. The savages, by their knowledge of the
wilderness, had made their living there; the habitants, knowing more,
had secured many of the comforts of civilised life; and it was
reasonable to think that a fuller knowledge would yield results
undreamed of by those who never went below the surface of things to the
centre and source of power.
Since the time when he decided that he would not be a priest, a
religious leader of the conventional type, Jean had become possessed
with the thought that there was another work to which he was called, a
work more material in its character, but none the less for the good of
the parish, the honour of his patron saint and the glory of God. Of
that he had been thinking for many years; for that he had been
preparing; and now the day was at hand and the work about to begin.
Jean had many plans for the improvement of his little world, not the
least of which was the using of the river itself, an enormous source of
power going to waste in its mad rush through the gorge at his feet.
Looking up stream he could see, not a hundred yards distant, the deep,
still pool where the cataract began; and beyond, on both sides of the
river, a broad expanse of low-lying ground, stretching to the first rise
of hills and forming a perfect site for a dam and an immense lake which
should afford water-power equal to the strength of ten thousand horses.
With such energy at his command, what could he not do? Carry on
lumbering on a large scale, work the great deposits of iron sand along
the river, manufacture pottery out of the banks of fine clay, run a
tramway to Quebec, light and heat all the houses in the parish with
electricity, supply the people with motive power for machinery of every
kind--all this and more was possible. As he thought of the wonderful
possibilities it seemed to Jean Baptiste that he was a prophet, the
fore-runner of a mighty revolution in this remote valley, where for a
hundred years the habitants had desired nothing else than to walk in
peace and security in the ways of their fathers.
But it was not possible to leave them in peace. No, the new age was
come. Quebec and Montreal, Lorette and Chaudiere were advancing by
leaps and bounds, and the habitants of St. Placide must arise and join
the procession. Consider that fine river, the St. Ange, rising in a
hundred lakes on the height of land and descending in a thousand
cataracts to its final plunge into the St. Lawrence. Why had the good
God given this gift if not for use, that the people might be more
industrious, more prosperous and more happy in their little corner of
the great and beautiful world?