long as you pay the interest when due--eight per cent., payable
half-yearly. And do not be grateful, either. It was not for gratitude
that I made the loan, but for a first mortgage on one of the best farms
in the parish. I should like well to add that farm to mine. What a
fine block I should have--an estate of some magnitude! Be careful to
pay the interest on the day, my friend.
"But do not let us quarrel, Jean. Perhaps you may be my son-in-law some
day--who knows? Stranger things have happened in this strange world.
And I do not hesitate to tell you that it would please me well. As to
Blanchette, she would make no objection. It is a dutiful child, that.
I say to her: 'Marry Jean Baptiste, my daughter,' and she replies: 'I
cannot disobey you, my dear father, although I have no special fancy for
the young man.' Jean, my lad, would it not be a good arrangement?"
"Monsieur Laroche," said Jean, earnestly, "you are pleased to be
facetious, but I have to tell you that I do not like your proposals,
which would be as distasteful to Mademoiselle Blanchette as to myself.
I am not thinking of marriage for the present, but when I do it will not
be for land, nor houses, nor the loan of two thousand dollars. Your
interest, Monsieur Laroche you shall have upon the day; and when the
principal is due I will pay you with the greatest pleasure."
"Oh, my dear Jean, not so fiery, if you please. No offence was
intended--only the proposal of an honourable alliance, honourable and
advantageous. The Laroches are of a good family, my friend, respectable
cultivators for ten generations. Blanchette will not take offence, I am
sure, and why should you? No, Jean, let us be good neighbours, as
always. As to the interest, do not be too particular. What is that
between friends? You may even need the accommodation of a further loan.
That also we can arrange. We are old neighbours, you know. I had a
high regard for your good father, and I have always looked upon you as a
promising young man, a youth who will go far, with the backing of
friends and money. Such things are not to be despised."
"Monsieur Laroche," said Jean, somewhat ashamed of his hasty words, "you
mean well, I am sure, and I thank you. Forgive my impatience. I dare
say that I did not understand."
"Say no more, Jean. We understand each other pretty well, after all.
You are a young man of ideas, and I also have some ideas, strange to
say. We might exchange views, might we not, to our mutual advantage? We
must have a talk, many talks. Come to see me, Jean, this very evening.
We shall have a good dinner and a good talk. Blanchette will be there,
of course, but do not fear--she will not bite you."
Jean could not well refuse the proffered courtesy of the old fox, and
thus it came about that he paid his second visit to the Maison Laroche,
and at dinner found himself seated at the hospitable board with the old
man and Blanchette, surprisingly contented and hugely entertained by the
conversation of the shrewd old miser and his clever daughter.
"And so, Monsieur Jean Baptiste Giroux," said Blanchette, with a smile
of amusement, "you are the young man whom my father wishes me to marry,
are you not?"
"Mademoiselle," stammered Jean, taken aback, "Monsieur your father is
very kind, I am sure."
"Not at all, Jean my lad," broke in Bonhomme Laroche, rubbing his hands
in delight. "It is what I have always wished. A young man of your
talents is not so easy to find in these days. In my day it was
different. Then there were tall, handsome youths in plenty, and
beautiful girls as well. Your mother, Blanchette, was the most
beautiful of all. Ah, those were days! But now, my friend, it seems to
me that you are the only youth in the parish who compares with those of
former times. Is it not so, Blanchette?"
"It may well be, my father, although I have no memory of that time.
Truly, Monsieur Giroux, I am still quite young--on the sunny side of
thirty, I assure you. Your mother will tell you that I have the
advantage of you by only a year and a day. But without flattery I will
say that you compare very well with the other young men of the parish,
even those who have gone away. Pamphile was tall and strong, but he had
not your intelligence. Monsieur Giroux, Jean, I have a mind to accept
you."
"You do me too much honour, Mademoiselle," murmured Jean, much
embarrassed, and wondering how he was going to escape from a situation
so difficult.
"Not so fast, Jean, not so fast. Look before you leap, my friend. I am
not beautiful, as you see."
"Mademoiselle," said Jean, insincerely, "it is the beauty of the spirit
that counts."
"You do not mean that, Jean, and yet I like to hear you say it.
Moreover, it is more true than you think. I have read; I have travelled;
I have thought much upon the vanities of the world. Oh, yes, I have
cultivated the graces of the spirit to make up for my lack in other
respects. And I was beautiful once, before the smallpox. Can you
believe it?"
"She is beautiful still, Jean," broke in the old man. "For me, I find
her just the same, the very image of her mother."
"Ah, my good father, if all the young men were like you I should not die
an old maid."
"You shall not, Blanchette, you shall not. Notice, Jean Baptiste, only
notice what a fine housekeeper she is. Look at the table, the chairs,
the windows, the curtains, the stove, even, how proper they are; and the
floor--one could eat off it. And what a cook! Confess, Jean, that you
have never tasted roast chicken better than that which you are now
eating."
"It is true, Monsieur," said Jean, with enthusiasm. "The chicken is
perfect, of a tenderness unequalled, of a flavour incomparable."
"But wait," continued the old man, with an air of mystery. "There is
better still to come. Blanchette, the dessert. We will surprise our
guest. Madame Giroux is a famous cook, but not in the same class with
you, my dear."
"There, my father, you have said enough," laughed Blanchette, stopping
his mouth with her open palm. "Be still, now, or you will frighten
Monsieur Giroux, and he will never come again. Never mind him, Jean; he
is only a foolish old man who is blinded by love. You could not be thus
blinded, could you, my friend?"
"But the dessert, Blanchette, the dessert. I will say no more if only
you will bring it in, instantly."
"Ah, I had forgotten," said Blanchette, going to the cupboard and
bringing thence an immense plate of _croquignoles_ of all sizes and
shapes, delicately powdered with white sugar.
"There, Messieurs; there is the _tour de force_. If you have not eaten
too much chicken, perhaps you will enjoy the _croquignoles_. And I have
a little bottle of currant wine, too, to finish. Monsieur Giroux, I
drink to our better acquaintance."
"And I," said Jean, quite disarmed by the kindness of those whom he had
thought to be his enemies, "to your health, Mademoiselle Blanchette! To
yours, Monsieur Laroche! Permit me to say that I have never tasted
currant wine so delicious, and that the _croquignoles_ are beyond all
praise."
"They are not so bad, Jean, and I am glad that you like them. As you
see, my friend, I have made a study of human nature, and I know how to
please men by good food and drink--and a little flattery."
"Well, Mademoiselle, you succeed marvellously, I must confess."
"Yes, Jean; but, as you may have observed, I have this time omitted the
flattery."
"Mademoiselle, it is lucky for me that you have omitted something, else
I should have surrendered without the honours of war."
"That would not do at all, Jean. He who gives to me his hand gives his
heart also, and must be able to say, with a certain king: 'All is lost
save honour.' Could you say that?"
"Mademoiselle, what shall I say? You are a sorceress, I think."
"But no, Jean, only one who observes. It is like walking through the
forest where there are signs that one may read if one has eyes to see.
And there are little birds, too, that tell one things. But tell me; how
does your house advance? It will soon be finished, will it not?"
"Very soon, Mademoiselle--in ten weeks, or less."
"Good. I am delighted to hear it. See, I will give you a toast,
neighbour Jean. To your health, to the health of all whom you love. To
your success in everything--everything. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Blanchette, I understand, and I thank you."
"What are you saying, you two?" said the old man. "Why all this
mysterious talk? For me, I do not understand at all. Yet you have your
secrets, I suppose."
"Naturally," said Blanchette, smiling. "We have at least one great
secret. Shall I tell him, Jean? Shall I tell you, my father? As to
this Jean Baptiste, I like him very much, and we are going to be the
best of friends, but I will not marry him. Say nothing--I will not."
The old man stared at his daughter for some moments in mingled anger and
amazement; but presently, his reason getting the better of his rage, he
replied, in the tone of an indulgent parent to a wayward child:
"There, Blanchette, my dear, no one is asking you to marry anybody.
What have I done? I have merely asked the young man to dine with us, to
eat of our roast chicken and _croquignoles_, to see what a fine
housekeeper you are, to perceive how happy one can be in a home of one's
own--that is all. Do not trouble yourself. You shall marry or not,
just as you please. Yes, you shall stay with your old father, little
one, until the very end. But after that it will be lonely for you, will
it not?"
"My good father," said Blanchette, gently caressing his grizzled hair,
"do not talk like that. You are still a young man, as any one can see,
and I shall be with you for many years. Let us not consider a future so
remote. But in the worst case there is always the convent for old maids
like me."
"The convent? Holy Virgin! What would you do in a convent, Blanchette,
with your beauty, your accomplishments? Cut off your long hair, hide
your lovely face behind a black veil, pray at midnight on the cold
stones? No, no, Mignonne. Leave that to the old, the ugly, the
disappointed. For you the fireside, a loving husband, beautiful
children, the management of the house--all that makes life worth while.
Besides, you are not pious enough for the religious life. You have no
vocation. No, it is not for you."
"My father," said Blanchette, "have you finished at last? Monsieur
Giroux wishes to go, I think. _Au revoir_, Monsieur Jean. It has been a
great pleasure to have seen you. Come again soon. Good neighbours
should meet often, should they not?"
"Yes, Jean," assented the old man, "Come often--every day if you like.
I shall be glad to see you. As for Blanchette, never mind what she
says. Women are changeable, as you know. But if not, if not, Jean
Baptiste Giroux, take care; keep out of my way; for I will crush you
like a snake."
Jean laughed. "Do not trouble yourself, Monsieur Laroche; I shall be
safe enough, never fear. But I thank you for your hospitality; and you,
Mademoiselle Blanchette, for all that and for your good wishes as well."
As Jean took the road toward his own home the night was dark, with
lowering clouds on the hills, and a chill April wind blew from patches
of unmelted snow. He was stumbling along, uncertain of the way, when a
beam of light shone out from a lamp set in the window of the Maison
Laroche.
"It is Blanchette," said Jean to himself, "and the light which she
throws on the path will guide me for some distance yet. One can take a
good many steps on a dark night, if one sees a friendly gleam in a
window here and there."
*CHAPTER XI*
*LA FOLIE*
"Is it possible?" said Father Paradis to Jean Baptiste on a fine
afternoon in June. "Can it be that your great house is finished and
ready for the tourists so early in the season? It is incredible,
marvellous, but there it stands, and one must believe one's own eyes, I
suppose. Truly, Jean, my son, you have accomplished a great work."
"Yes, Monsieur," said Jean, with a glow of pride. "It is finished at
last, thank God, and I am well content. But will you not come in to see
the place, Monsieur le cure?"
"Yes, indeed," said the cure, "I must see it all, from cellar to attic,
for you are as a son to me and I am interested in everything that you
do. Let us begin with the cellar, the foundation of things."
"This way, Monsieur le cure. It is not far underground, as you see, and
the windows are large, for the sake of light and air. But it is always
cool in summer and sufficiently warm in winter, and dry as well. Here
is our dairy. There is the cream separator, of which we are very proud,
and there is the churn, of an improved pattern. It is not much work, in
these days, to take care of the milk of a dozen cows."
"But where, Jean, are the potatoes, turnips, onions, and all that? In
my day we used to keep them in the cellar; and the ham, the bacon, the
sausages, the dried apples and the tobacco we used to hang to the beams
of the kitchen, where they were well smoked and dried, you may be sure.
Yes, and well covered with dust and flies. But now all that is changed,
no doubt. This scientific housekeeping is truly wonderful."
"Yes," said Jean, with a smile, "we have now different arrangements.
Vegetables are excellent, in their place, but they do not improve the
flavour of the butter; so we keep them in another part of the cellar,
well isolated, as you will see."
Father Paradis was greatly interested in exploring every part of the
cellar, but when he ascended to the first floor he was much impressed by
the spacious living-room, large enough, it seemed, to hold all the
people of the parish. He admired the long table, with its massive legs,
the substantial chairs, the great box-stove, a three-decker, the
handsome dresser, with its rows of blue and white crockery; but most of
all the great copper kettle that stood upon the stove and occupied fully
half of the lower oven.
"_Mon Dieu_, Jean!" he exclaimed. "Where did you get that kettle?
Solid copper, as I live, and polished like a mirror. Truly, it is a
treasure. They do not make such kettles now-a-days. An heirloom, no
doubt."
"I am glad that you like it," said Jean, "for you are a judge of such
things. The first Giroux brought it from Normandy in the days of
Frontenac. Yes, it is an historic relic, I am told."
"No doubt, Jean, no doubt. The Giroux were notables in their day. My
great-grandmother was of that family, and I am proud of it. We are
cousins, you see. But that kettle--what changes it has seen! How many
generations have come and gone since first it hung above the
hearth-stone of the family Giroux! Think, my son, how much it has
contributed to the happiness of all these generations. What potatoes,
what soup, what ragout, what _compote_ of strawberries, raspberries,
currants, what cherry cordial, what good things of every description
have been prepared in that kettle! Times and customs change, but the
old copper kettle goes on for ever. Ah, Jean, if I had served my
generation like that I should not have lived in vain. Permit me to bless
the ancient heir-loom and to wish that it may serve the family Giroux
for many generations to come. There, my friend, was not that a good
sermon upon a kettle?"
"Truly, Monsieur Paradis, you are a poet, who sees in the common things
of life a meaning hidden to the vulgar eye. I shall love the old kettle
more than ever after what you have said. But let us go up to the second
floor, Monsieur, and after that to the roof. From that point one gets a
view that is well worth the climb."
"What a view!" exclaimed Father Paradis, as he stood at last on the
railed terrace that crowned the roof. "Your house, Jean, is very fine,
one of the grandest that I have seen, but this panorama is magnificent,
superb. How lovely the river, there below, winding through the valley
like a thread of silver! How beautiful the cultivated fields, the rich
meadows, the upland pastures, the peaceful homes beside the pleasant
country road! How far-away everything looks, and how the lines and
colours blend in the mellow evening light! How wonderful the forest
surrounding all, and the mountains rising peak beyond peak to the very
sky! The shadows cover the lower hills, but the high summits still glow
in the last radiance of the setting sun. And those clouds that float
far above in the blue ether, what robes of glory they wear, like angels
doing homage before Him that sitteth upon the throne! Jean, Jean! It
is the work of the good God. 'All thy works shall praise thee, O God,
and thy saints shall bless thee!'"
Jean made no reply, and for a long time the two friends stood there in
silence, the old man with the frail body and the silver hair, and the
tall, strong, dark-haired man in all the pride and confidence of youth,
their eyes filled with the glory of the sunset and their hearts with the
beauty of the world. Presently the brightness faded from the
mountain-top, the gold and crimson from the sky, and a white mist,
stealing up the valley, covered everything as with a shroud. Father
Paradis shuddered, as at the approach of death.
"There, Jean," he said with a sigh, "the day is done, dead, one might
say. A blaze of light, a moment of brightness, and then the shadow.
Ah, my son, 'thus passeth away the glory of the world!'"
"But, my father," said the young man, "to-morrow will be a new day, and
meanwhile we shall have the moon and the stars. It is the first quarter
of the moon now, and you will see her, a thin crescent over the western
hill, when the mist has passed. There, look! How beautiful!
Encouraging, is it not, to see the light again, though it be only a
reflection? The sun, at least, is not extinguished, my father."
"No, Jean, that is true; yet I had almost forgotten it, I who should
always hear the voice of God. Ah, my son, why did you not become a
priest? How gladly would I have seen you stand in my place, between the
living God and dying men! Jean, I think, as I have always thought, that
you have a vocation and a message."
"It may be so," said Jean, after a pause. "But what is the vocation?
What is the message? Not that which you think, my father, not at all.
Look! I have seen my people, the habitants, toiling from morning to
night, summer and winter, from year to year, like their fathers for many
generations, and for what reward? Food and clothes and shelter, the
bare necessaries of life, and all of the poorest kind. It is a living,
perhaps, but it is not to live; and I say--it is my message, if you
like--that for all their toil there should be more reward. The young
men, my old playmates, say the same, and go away, to the States, to the
North-West, and leave this land, this good land, to the old people and
those without ambition, without enterprise. Monsieur Paradis, it is not
well; it is not right. Some must go, no doubt, for the desire to wander
is in the blood, but there should be place for those who would be glad
to stay. Yes, here in St. Placide, in these beautiful mountains, by
that lovely river. See, how it shines down there, in the light of the
moon. It is a river to love, is it not, my father?"
"Jean," said the old man, in a sorrowful voice, "you also are an orator,
a poet. There was a time when I, too, could talk like that. The
enthusiasm of youth, how fine it is! But with age comes wisdom, born of
experience. Now I know that poverty, which you deplore, is a good, and
not an evil; and that wealth, which you desire for all, is a snare, a
delusion. The poor are close to God, but the rich are often far from
Him. It is the last thing that I would desire for the people of St.
Placide, that they should increase in riches, for they would forget God.
Yes, Jean, the good God loves the poor, and they cling to Him as their
only hope. Our divine Saviour Himself was one of the very poor, and it
is well to be like Him."
"Monsieur Paradis," said Jean, earnestly, "will you permit me to confess
to you, not as to a priest, but as to an old and dear friend? I
confess, my father, with sorrow but without repentance, that I disagree
with you profoundly, absolutely. The Lord Jesus was poor, as you have
said, but He had friends among the rich, who gave Him food and shelter,
and, at the last, provided Him a tomb. No, my father, poverty in itself
is not a good but an evil, one of the worst, and the cause of many
others. Poverty, disease, ignorance, vice, crime--they all go together
very often, yes, generally. It is not among the very rich, perhaps,
that one finds the best citizens, but certainly not among the very poor.
It is not great riches that I demand for the habitants of St. Placide,
but better food and shelter, more suitable clothes, education, books,
newspapers, art, science, amusement. At last we are awaking from our
mediaeval slumber. Civilization we must have, through the Church, if
possible, but if not we must look elsewhere for the guidance, the
leadership that we need. There, Monsieur, I have said more than I
should, perhaps, but it was from the heart."
"Ah, Jean," said the old priest, with a sigh, "you have gone far. I had
no idea that you were thinking such things during all the years since I
first noticed you at the parish school. Education, civilization,
prosperity--what can they do for us? It is not by prosperity,
so-called, that you can make the people willing to stay on the land, to
endure the hardships of habitant life. It is poverty, aided by
religion, that can accomplish this miracle. Jean, you are too far
advanced for St. Placide. Education, which you glorify, has unfitted you
for our simple life, and that which you plan, with all the enthusiasm
and ignorance of youth, can only end in failure and disaster. The
revolutionist can do nothing here. Jean, my son, I had high hopes for
you, but now I fear that you have not only strayed from the ways of the
fathers, but that you have become alienated from the Holy Church, that
you have forsaken God. It is some weeks since you have assisted at the
Mass, and you have not come to confession for a long time. My son,
there is to be a retreat of three days, beginning to-morrow, in honour
of the Precious Blood. Will you not come with us, to meditate, to pray?
You are busy, I know, but three days are not long compared with
eternity, and the affairs of this life are trivial, after all. Say that
you will come, Jean, my son."
"I cannot, Monsieur, for I have engagements that I must not break.
Later I will come, for I am still a true son of the Church, and I have
faith in God. But I have also faith in man, and believe----"
"Have faith in God, Jean. The heart of man is not to be trusted. Look
to God, my son."
"I will," said Jean, with humility, "and for that reason I ask the
blessing of God, and yours, my father, upon me and my poor house. Your
blessing, Father Paradis. You cannot deny me."
"Jean," said the old man, "I fear for you; yet I know that you desire to
do good, and I wish that you may have peace in your soul. 'Except the
Lord build the house they labour in vain that build it.' May God bless
you, my son, and may the work of your hands be established and be for
the glory of God. Amen!"
Thus Father Paradis blessed the new house, although with misgivings, but
many of the neighbours bore Jean no good will and freely expressed their
disapproval of the hazardous and presumptuous undertaking. They came to
the house-warming, as a matter of course, ate and drank of the abundant
refreshments provided by Jean and his good mother, enjoyed the dance on
the great kitchen floor, and then went home to criticize and prophesy
evil. Even the best friends of the family allowed themselves to gossip
on the subject, and did not disdain to stop at the crossroads to hear
the latest news from Mere Tabeau, and her spicy comments thereon.
"Certainly, I was there," said she to one of the passers-by. "I was
invited with the rest, of course. They do not love me, those Giroux, but
they would not offer me an open insult. They would not dare. And I
went, of course, to show my appreciation of the courtesy. I understand
the art of politeness, as you know.
"What did I see? Why, Monsieur Gagnon, you were there yourself. I saw
what you saw, my friend. For example, I saw a certain neighbour of mine
drink fifteen cups of spruce beer and consume an equal number of
_croquignoles_, one to each cup of beer, the right proportion, exactly.
No, my good neighbour, I did not say it was you, but if the cap fits----