these enterprises, and that was the chief hindrance in the way of the
realization of Jean's dreams. He had no property of his own; and his
mother's farm, with houses, barns, cattle, horses and all, was worth
only a few thousand dollars. There were two or three rich habitants in
the parish, like M. Tache and M. Laroche, but would they be willing to
risk their hard-earned wealth in the launching of schemes that must seem
to them visionary and impracticable? There was great wealth among the
merchants and bankers of Quebec, but how the owners of it could be
induced to embark in the enterprise was a problem that Jean, with all
his learning, had not been able to solve.
He had not yet worked out the financial details, but if only he could
make a beginning, everything else would come in the course of time. "It
is the first step that costs," says the proverb, and Jean was determined
to take that step at any cost. After that he would take the second, the
third and all the other steps, until he arrived at the summit of his
ambition.
The summit--what was that? When one arrived at the summit of yonder
mountain that seemed to touch the clouds, there was a higher peak
beyond; and when one came to that elevation there was a peak still
higher, until in the end one stood upon the height of land that divides
the waters flowing South into the St. Lawrence from those that go North
and East into the abyss of the Saguenay. Then one could rest, perhaps,
unless one wished to explore and climb other peaks, beyond the Saguenay
and Lake St. John, or in distant lands. But it was not necessary to go
so far, for there was great satisfaction to be had in climbing for the
mere love of the sport, even if one did not reach the top of everything.
At least, Jean would be a great man in the parish, greater than M.
Tache, as great, almost, as the cure himself, and that was something.
M. Paradis would always be the spiritual power, but Jean would be the
temporal power, like the Pope and the Emperor of former times, and they
would work together in perfect harmony for the good of the parish. Jean
had no desire to be Pope, but Emperor he would be--Emperor of St.
Placide, the Emperor Jean Baptiste.
Jean laughed at the absurdity of his day-dream--but was it so absurd
after all? What is the world but a collection of empires; and what is
an empire but a number of parishes? Why could not the great man of a
parish be as happy as an emperor, as the lord of a world? If he had
congenial work, free scope for his activities, wealth sufficient for the
simple wants, a good name in the parish, and a few loving friends--what
more could he desire? What more could he ask of the good God?
Yet there was one thing that he had forgotten, although he had been
thinking of it all the time. When one was building castles in Spain how
could one forget the chatelaine? What was the use of a castle, of
riches, of a great name, with nobody to share one's happiness? It would
be too lonely, too discouraging. Yes, there must be a chatelaine, a
tall, lovely lady with dark-blue eyes and golden hair--no, not just
golden, but of a ruddy tinge like a sunrise cloud, bronze-coloured with
a glint of gold. It would be bound with a fillet of blue and would fall
in wavy iridescent masses down her back. She would be clad in a long
garment of purple velvet with a border of golden braid and a golden
girdle about her waist.
"But yes," said Jean to himself, "there must be a chatelaine, but what
is her name? _Mon Dieu_, what is her name?"
"_Mon Dieu_, what is her name? I should very much like to know," said a
laughing voice behind the trees. "Will you not tell me her name, where
you have met her, what she is like, and all that? I am dying to know."
Startled and speechless, Jean turned suddenly, and from behind the trees
came tripping an apparition the like of which had surely never before
been seen on the banks of the St. Ange. It was tall for a girl, a
lithe, graceful figure clad in fishing costume, with small rubber boots,
a short skirt of brown cotton, a waist and jacket of the same material,
and a jaunty cap set above a mass of reddish-golden hair. There were
dark-blue eyes, almost black, dancing with merriment, a laughing mouth
set with pearly teeth, a dimpled chin and a dainty nose, the least bit
retrousse. The vision carried a light rod in her hand and a pannier
slung across her shoulder. She advanced rapidly, as though expecting a
joyous greeting, but suddenly stopped, poised as though for flight, and
said, with an injured air:
"So, Jean, you have forgotten me. You don't know your old friends any
more. Well, I will leave you; I will go down to the river and catch
another fish. Good-bye, Monsieur the Hermit, I leave you to your
meditations."
"Don't go, Gabrielle!" exclaimed Jean, quite alarmed. "I know you very
well, although I have seen you only once or twice in seven years. But
how you have changed! You are much better looking than formerly."
"Oh, thank you, Monsieur Giroux. From you that is a compliment indeed.
What an ugly little beast I must have been!"
"No, Gabrielle, not at all. On the contrary, you were always charming,
but now you are enchanting, of a beauty altogether----"
"Stop, stop, Jean. That is enough. I am not used to such talk. At the
convent it is not permitted, and when one sees the young men of Quebec,
which is not often, they do not dare. What would the Mother Superior
say, or Sister Ste. Marthe? No, you must not. You are impertinent,
yes, impertinent, I say."
"No, Gabrielle, not that; only an old friend. But tell me, how many
fish have you caught?"
"Three, Jean, three beauties. Look!"
As Jean bent down to look into the open basket, it was not of the trout
that he was thinking, but of the lovely fisherwoman by his side, whose
golden head was so close to his own, and whose rosy cheek he would so
much like to kiss. Yes, he would like to take her in his arms and
bestow a kiss upon those laughing lips and those dancing eyes.
Truly--and the thought came to him like a flash of lightning--this was
the chatelaine of his castle in Spain, the golden lady of his dreams.
"Well," said Gabrielle, with a provoking smile that made an alluring
dimple in her cheek, "have you lost your tongue, or is it another
meditation that you have begun, Monsieur the Hermit? But tell me what
you think of my fish? I caught them myself--will you believe it?--and
with this fly. See! Queen of the Waters."
"Queen of the Waters," repeated Jean. "What a lovely creature! A sort
of water nymph, with golden hair, blue eyes like the sky, a brown dress
and rubber boots. _Mon Dieu_! What boots for a water nymph!"
Gabrielle shut the basket with a snap.
"Stupid!" she said. "I will not talk to you. You have lost your head."
"Yes, Gabrielle, that is it. Lost, absolutely, and my heart as well."
"Your heart, Jean, that is interesting. I did not know that you had a
heart. And you have lost it? What a pity! Who has found it, I wonder?
Who has it? What is her name? _Mon Dieu_, what is her name?"
"Gabrielle!"
"Well, go on, confess. It will do you good. You need it."
"True," said Jean, very seriously. "That is just what I have done, and
to you. Her name, it is Gabrielle. Do you, can you understand?"
Gabrielle grew pale.
"That will do, Jean. That goes too far. I will not allow jests of that
sort. Good-bye. I must go home now to cook these trout for dinner."
"But it is no jest--far from it. I love you, Gabrielle, to distraction;
more than I can tell. Could you not----?"
"No, Monsieur Giroux, I could not. And I beg of you never to speak to
me like that again."
"But why, Gabrielle, what reason?"
"Do you wish to know, Monsieur Giroux? Do you really wish to know?"
"Yes, certainly, Mademoiselle Tache."
"Then you shall have it. Do you know what the neighbours say, what my
father says, what I say? It is that you are a good-for-nothing, Jean
Baptiste Giroux. Do you understand? A good-for-nothing! There, I have
said it, and it is true."
"Is that all, Gabrielle?" said Jean, in a steady voice.
"All?" exclaimed Gabrielle, turning on him in a blaze of anger. "All?
_Mon Dieu_! It is enough, I should think."
With that she went away up the path, carrying her head very high, never
once looking back to see the effect of this last crushing blow.
But, strange to say, Jean did not seem to be crushed.
"Well, that was brave of me," he said to himself. "I did not think I
could do it. I am rejected, of course, and in despair.
'Good-for-nothing!' That is bad, but it is a defect that may be
corrected. If that were all! Ah, if that were all! But what a vision
of loveliness! What spirit! What courage! Gabrielle! Name of an
Angel! Now at last I know her name. It is she, no other."
*CHAPTER VI*
*THE HABITANT*
After what had happened Jean could not ask Monsieur Tache for help in
his great enterprise. He therefore applied to Monsieur Laroche, the
only other rich man in the parish, and was received with scorn.
"So," said Bonhomme Laroche, "you wish to build a dam across the St.
Ange, to inundate the best land on your mother's farm, to make a pond
for ducks. A great work, truly! And I am to lend you a small sum of
money--ten thousand dollars, only. Why not ask for a hundred thousand?
That would be nothing at all for me--a mere bagatelle. We are rich, we
habitants of St. Placide, men of high finance, millionaires, and we love
to encourage hare-brained enthusiasts by small loans. And on what
security? A dam of logs that the first spring flood will take away. You
are a fool, a dam fool. Ha! Ha! Yes, a dam fool. My little joke, you
see.
"But, Jean, do not go, do not be angry at my little pleasantry. I have
yet a piece of advice which I will give you for nothing, although it
will be worth much to you if you have the sense to take it. Listen!
You have a good farm; that is to say, your mother has it, which is the
same thing, since all your brothers and sisters, the whole tribe, have
gone away. Go home, Jean, to the farm; raise hay, potatoes, cattle,
pigs, chickens--all that. Be an honest cultivator, like your fathers
for many generations. It was good enough for them; it will be good
enough for you. You will wish to make some improvements, no doubt--a
new barn, a stable, a house, possibly. Good! I might be able to lend
you a small sum, a thousand dollars, perhaps, or even two thousand, if
necessary. The rate of interest? What is that between friends? We will
arrange all that.
"Now, Jean," and here the old man assumed a confidential air, "to be a
good habitant one must have a good wife. Do not blush, my lad, it is
only a matter of business. Without that no habitant can succeed. One's
marriage should help one along, should it not? Assuredly. That goes
without saying. Well, there is my daughter Blanchette, for example. I
do not say that she is very young, nor more beautiful than others, but
how capable, how accomplished! And she will have a dowry, of course,
something generous, you may be sure. All the other children are well
provided for, and I am not yet a pauper, no indeed. There. I have said
it. Consider it well, at your leisure. There is no haste to decide. I
will see your mother and all can be arranged without embarrassment. _Au
revoir_, Jean. Come to see us when you can."
Jean did not like the advice of Bonhomme Laroche, but part of it, at
least, he was obliged to take, for there was no alternative, and at
sunrise on the following day he was in the fields with the hired man,
dexterously swinging a long scythe and laying low great swathes of
timothy and red clover. He was in perfect physical condition, with
every nerve and muscle surging with energy, so that the work did not
tire him, but only served to release the pent-up emotion of his soul.
For the soul of Jean Baptiste was full of wrath, and as he gripped the
handles of the scythe and swung the keen blade through the grass with a
venomous hiss, he seemed to be cutting down an army of enemies and
mercilessly trampling them underfoot.
The neighbours, those ignorant, spiteful people with their vicious
gossip--how he despised them all! They hated to see a person rise above
them in the slightest degree, and were always reaching out envious hands
to pull him down. They wanted to make a habitant of him? Well, a
habitant he would be, and beat them at their own game. Of what good was
all his education if he could not use it in the growing of potatoes and
the raising of pigs? Yes, pigs. The neighbours were well satisfied
with a yearling hog that weighed a hundred and fifty pounds, when it
might as well be two hundred pounds or three hundred even. It was a
question of breed and care, as it was with cattle, horses, sheep, fowl,
and every other animal on the farm. As to chickens, for example, they
laid eggs in plenty all summer, at fifteen cents a dozen, but laid none
at all in winter when the price rose to sixty cents and more. Why such
stupidity? A question of management, merely, of knowledge and attention
to business. In fact, the more Jean thought of habitant life the
greater seemed the possibilities of improvement in every direction.
Besides, it was a life not to be despised, that of a successful
cultivator, the happiest, most independent man on earth.
Certainly the advice of Bonhomme Laroche was not to be despised. But
borrow money from the old miser he would not, nor marry his daughter
Blanchette if she were as beautiful as an angel from Heaven. The dowry?
Did the old miser think that he could buy the hearts, the souls of men?
Who would barter love for gold? Who would give that which was beyond
all price for all the land, the barns, the cattle of the parish--of the
world? Yet there were those who would gladly make such an exchange, the
poor, deluded fools.
As to Gabrielle, that was different. There was a girl of a beauty most
rare, with her tall, lithe figure, her springing step, her dainty little
head with its wealth of golden hair, those laughing eyes like the depths
of the sky, that tantalizing, alluring smile. It was as though an angel
had descended to earth to show to mortal man the perfection of beauty of
the heavenly world. But what pride, what scorn, what contempt! And how
unfair, how cruel! Not a thought of justice, not a word of excuse, no
chance to explain. Mademoiselle Tache was too far above Jean Baptiste
Giroux. In what way? In intellect? By no means. In education? Not at
all. In manners? Far from it. In wealth? Ah, that was it, the pride
of purse, the base contempt for all merit that had not the stamp of
gold. "Good-for-nothing! _Sacree petite vierge!_"
But wait--a year, two years, three at most--and he would show the little
vixen whom it was that she had attacked with an insult so contemptible,
so injurious. Then, when she would be only too glad to receive the
attentions of the chief man in the parish, he would turn away and devote
himself to another. But what other? Blanchette Laroche? Not for a
thousand dowries. Who then? Well, there would be time enough to arrange
that little detail. There were still good fish in the sea, though
scarce and very wary. But in any case it would be necessary to humble
the pride of that scornful beauty. "Good-for-nothing! _Sacres milles
tonnerres!_"
Jean was certainly in an unhappy state of mind. Of all the neighbours
he could not think of one who was his friend. Not Mere Tabeau,
certainly; that old witch with the bleared eyes and the yellow teeth.
She liked to talk with him now and then, but only to spit out venom.
Not Michel Gamache, who was not to be trusted, a sorcerer, and no friend
of man. Not Father Paradis, even; that good old priest who had been for
so many years his teacher, his Mentor. Not even he, for he was
disappointed in Jean because he had not taken up some useful work. Even
his mother had lost faith in him. Had he not seen her looking at him
with wistful, sorrowful eyes, because he was not fulfilling the promise
of his early years? She also was against him, and he would have to
fight the battle alone. Give it up? No, with the help of God and Saint
Jean he would do battle to the very end, and would show them all what it
was to fight and to win.
Thus Jean, as he toiled in the field, under the hot sun, poured forth
all the bitterness of his soul, until the bitterness was gone, the wrath
evaporated, and the strong man began to rejoice once more in the work of
his hands. At high noon he sat down in the shade of a moss-covered
rock, beside a bubbling spring, and ate the dinner that his mother had
provided with gladness of heart. Never had bread and butter tasted so
sweet, with fresh eggs, tasty sausage, and the jam of wild strawberries
that the good mother had made with her own hands. It was an excellent
meal, nourishing to body and soul; and when, after an hour's rest in the
cool shade, Jean resumed his work, refreshed and strengthened, the
troubles that had come into his life took their proper place in the
order and scheme of things, not as incurable evils but as obstacles to
be overcome by unswerving determination and persistent effort.
So Jean wrought hard all through the long day, doing the work of two
men; and when, after sunset, he hung his scythe in the crook of a tree
and began to climb the long hill toward home, he had put his troubles
behind his back, and set his face toward the future with strong courage
and a spirit of charity toward all mankind.
The life of a habitant, he thought, was not all hardship. There was
work, to be sure, plenty of it; but what was that to a strong man?
There was little money to be had, but one had all the necessaries of
life and some of the luxuries as well. At night, how one could sleep,
and in the morning how one arose with a rested body and a cheerful
heart!
The neighbours? They were true friends, after all, kind-hearted,
well-meaning, with all their little gossip, and their advice was good,
excellent. One must have a footing in the world, else how could one
accomplish anything? One must take the first step before one takes the
second. One must humble oneself in the day of small things, and bide
one's time, if one was to be ready when the great opportunity came which
only a man of experience could seize and control. Sooner or later he
would win, for the dice were loaded in his favour; but win or lose it
was a great thing to live and to bear a part in the interesting and
wonderful world, where every morning was a new day and every evening a
new surprise.
*CHAPTER VII*
*HER MAJESTY'S MAIL*
"Ah, there you are at last," said Madame Giroux, who was lighting the
lamp for the evening meal as Jean entered. "You have worked hard
to-day, my son. At this rate the hay will soon be cut, will it not?
But sit down and take your soup, while I tell you something.
"You knew, of course, that Tom Sullivan was likely to lose the mail
contract. Well, he has lost it, or will lose it very soon, as you will
see from this paper which Monsieur Laroche has given me. It is whisky
again, it seems. As Monsieur Laroche says, the good Canadians can drink
in moderation, but the Irish do not know when to stop. For me, I would
have them all stop before they begin. What a waste of good money! And
to lose the mail contract as well--what folly! But listen:
"'MAIL CONTRACT.
"'Sealed applications addressed to the Minister of Posts will be
received at Ottawa up to noon of Wednesday, the first of July, 1899, for
carrying Her Majesty's Mails under the conditions of a contract covering
a term of four years, twice a week, going and returning, between Quebec
and St. Placide, to commence on the fifteenth of July following.'
"There, Jean, what do you think of that?"
"It is an opportunity," said Jean, "and I will make application at once;
but I wish that it had not been suggested by Bonhomme Laroche."
"Why not, Jean? He is a rich man, and has influence with the
Government. He will help you, I am sure, if you ask him to do so."
"I will not ask him, my mother, but I think that I shall win just the
same. The Irish have had the contract for some years, and it is our
turn now. Tom received a hundred dollars, did he not? One dollar for a
drive of thirty miles, regardless of the weather. The Government is not
liberal, certainly; but there will be passengers to carry now and then,
and I can take butter and eggs to market in Quebec, where I shall
receive better prices than at Beauport. Oh, I can see a clear profit of
two hundred dollars a year, at the very least. My mother, we shall soon
be as rich as Bonhomme Laroche, the old miser. Yes, I will apply
to-morrow morning. There will be other applicants, no doubt."
"Yes, Jean. Tom's cousin, Paddy Brady, will try for it, to keep it in
the family, you see."
"That begins to be interesting," said Jean, with a smile. "A little
conflict of races, it seems. The Irish settlement will be up in arms."
"Yes, Jean, and I am afraid of Tom Sullivan. He is big and strong and
has a terrible temper, I am told. He might do you harm, Jean."
"Do not fear, my mother. We have a good understanding, Tom and I, for
we have had some little affairs already, you see. No, there is no
danger at all. Well, in three weeks I shall be carrying Her Majesty's
Mails. That is not the summit of my ambition, by any means, but it is a
step. Who can tell to what it may lead?"
On the very next day Jean sent his application to headquarters in
Ottawa, and in about ten days received official notice of his
appointment. At the same time Tom Sullivan and Paddy Brady heard the
news, and their expressions of rage can better be imagined than
described. They exhausted the resources of the English language in
cursing Jean Baptiste and all his ancestors, and uttered imprecations in
the old Erse tongue that were fearsome to hear. The bystanders were
alarmed, and came to Jean to urge him to surrender the contract if he
wished to save his life.
But Jean was not to be deterred from his purpose by any threats, and
before dawn on the fifteenth of July he took the road for Quebec in his
spring cart, with the light mail-bag under the seat and a supply of
butter and eggs for the Champlain market. He was in high spirits, for
all his work was going well, and he was making a fair start along the
road to success. The years of preparation were over, and he was
beginning to carry out his plans, to realize his dreams. The time of
deliberation was at an end; the time for action had begun.
The morning was dark, but as Jean drove along the road the sky
brightened, the stars went out one by one, and a rosy glow appeared in
the East, chasing the shadows down the mountain-side, until the whole
valley was filled with the clear light of day. As he reached the summit
of the last hill he saw the sun rise over the mountains of Notre Dame.
It touched all the circle of the hills with a tinge of gold, gleamed on
the tin roofs and spires of Quebec, illuminated the slopes of Beauport,
the Isle of Orleans and the cliffs of Levis, while the great river shone
like burnished silver, and the ships, with their white sails, moved up
stream with the rising tide. The heart of Jean Baptiste rose to greet
the rising sun; his soul exulted in the glorious view; and his strong
voice broke into song as he descended the long slope that led to the
historic Beauport Road.
"A Saint-Malo beau port de mer,
A Saint-Malo, beau port de mer,
Trois gros navir's sout arrives.
Nous irons sur l'eau
Nous y prom' promener
Nous irons jouer dans l'ile.
"Trois gros navir's sont arrives,
Trois gros navir's sont arrives,
Charges d'avoin', charges de bled.
Nous irons sur l'eau
Nous y prom' promener,
Nous irons jouer dans l'ile.