Shall I tell you, or are you in a hurry to go to market? No, for you
have started an hour earlier than usual. Well, if you have patience to
listen to an old woman, I will tell you. As to the affair of last
evening, it was pleasant for the neighbours to be thus entertained. The
money of Bonhomme Laroche was well spent. The Giroux will pay later, in
the course of time; yes, sooner than you think, perhaps.
"The house? Oh, it is wonderful, by far the finest in the parish.
Indeed, there is not the like in all Beauport. Only in the great city
of Quebec can one see hotels like that. Twelve rooms! _Mon Dieu_!
Where are all the people who will occupy them? How long will they stay?
How much will they pay? These are important questions, as you can see.
Figure to yourself. If there were twenty tourists in the house for two
months, that is, for the whole summer, and if the foolish people paid as
much as four dollars a week, a great sum for these parts, that would be
only a little more than six hundred dollars. There is no great fortune
in that. A considerable sum in the gross, but the net revenue will be
very small. When you have taken interest on the loan, the cost of food,
the wages of Pauline La Chance, the hired girl, and all the other
expenses, what will be left to pay for the work of Madame Giroux and
Jean himself, not to mention a thousand little items, of no account in
themselves but great in the aggregate. Oh, I know arithmetic, I assure
you, as well as many other things. It is useful, at times, to be able
to count. Figures, at least, do not lie.
"What will happen? That is not hard to tell. Even you, Monsieur Gagnon,
could look into the future on those terms. When the expenses exceed the
income, what takes place? One pays out all one's ready money, one
borrows, sells a cow, a horse, a piece of land. But there comes an end
to all that, and then the notice at the Church door, the sale, the
farewell, the departure, the talk for a while, and after that all is
forgotten. They are gone. Whither? Who knows? Who cares? Only old
gossips like me remember. Only good friends like me know or care.
"The house has no name as yet. Well, I will give it one. I will call
it _La Folie Giroux_. As you have heard, fools build houses, but wise
men live in them. It is Bonhomme Laroche who is the wise man in this
case. But it may be that Jean Baptiste will become wise. Who can tell?
Bonhomme Laroche has a daughter, you know.
"But I must stop, neighbour Gagnon, or you will think that I must be
paid for my talk. But I am only a poor old woman who likes to see the
neighbours as they pass. It is my only pastime. And the good
neighbours are very kind to me. Only yesterday Bonhomme Bedard gave me
a fine bag of flour, enough to last for three months. He is not a rich
man, by any means, but very generous. If only I had a few potatoes,
now. Oh, no, Monsieur Gagnon, it is too charitable of you. A whole
sack! It is too much. If you had given me a dozen of those fine trout
it would have been enough. Those too? Monsieur Gagnon, God will
prosper you. _Au revoir_, my dear friend. Good luck to you."
When Jean Baptiste heard that Mere Tabeau had given his new house a
name, he laughed and said that she was very kind to save him the
trouble, that all men were fools and all the works of man monuments of
folly. So he painted the name in large black letters above the door--LA
FOLIE. Most of the neighbours took it as a joke, but some shook their
heads in dismay and crossed themselves repeatedly as they passed by. It
was unlucky, they said, to give a bad name to a house or a child. One
should invoke the protection of Heaven, rather, of the Holy Virgin or of
one of the saints. As to the old witch, Mere Tabeau, one should have
nothing to do with her, for she was in league with Satan.
*CHAPTER XII*
*PROFIT AND LOSS*
The summer tourist, more than other men, is a confirmed egoist.
Sincerely believing himself the centre of the universe and the chief end
of all creation, he views with satisfaction the successful efforts of
men and things to minister unto him. Hotels and boarding-houses exist
for him; for him horses and carriages of every kind, with their obliging
drivers, move to and fro; for him spring chickens cheerfully die; for
him the sun shines by day, the moon by night, and the Aurora shimmers in
the northern sky. How good God is to the summer tourist!
But there is the point of view of another egoist, the pious habitant of
Murray Bay, Cacouna, Tadoussac, and all the other watering-places below
Quebec. The good God loves the faithful. He sends rain in summer, snow
in winter, and all the changes of weather in their season. He sends the
birds of the air--the partridge, the wild duck and the brant. He sends
the fishes of the great river--the eel, the sturgeon and the salmon; the
trout, also, of the smaller lakes and rivers. He provides game in the
forest--the red deer, the caribou, the moose, and all fur-bearing
animals. He gives the strawberry, the raspberry, the blueberry, spruce
gum, balsam, sarsaparilla and gold-thread. All these the good God
provides, but, best of all, he sends the summer tourist to pour the
wealth of the city into the lap of the habitant. Truly, it would be
ungrateful and impious not to make the most of such an opportunity, not
to exploit and cultivate in the most approved way that most profitable
of crops--the summer tourist.
Jean Baptiste was a habitant by ten generations of thrifty ancestors,
and could see, as well as any man, the possibilities of the summer
tourist. He loved the genial egoist for his own sake, but more for the
golden harvest that he should yield. For him he had built the great
house; for him he had provided bed and board, horses and vehicles,
canoes and guides, both indoor and outdoor games--all at great cost and
no little risk--but to what end? Surely not for the good of the tourist
alone, but that he might lay deep and broad the foundations of his own
fortune, that he might begin and carry on the great works of which he
dreamed by night and day.
Was it a vocation, as Father Paradis had said, and had he a message to
deliver? Yes, there was a call, both loud and clear, and a message had
been given him--to proclaim the gospel of the new era, to be the
forerunner of the economic salvation of his people. A voice, he was, in
the wilderness, crying: "Prepare ye the way of the Lord!"--along the
valley, by the river, over the mountain, to make the crooked ways
straight, the rough places plain, to overcome every obstacle, every
stumbling-block, until all men should get a vision of the future that
was theirs, and rise up and possess the land. "It is my work," said Jean
to himself. "It is also the work of God."
Jean was a prophet, like his great patron saint, a dreamer, one who had
heard the voice of God in the silence of the wilderness, and was going
forth to declare the vision and proclaim the word to those who had eyes
to see and ears to hear. The great idea filled his mind, and he
believed himself devoted heart and soul to the cause which he had
espoused, for the good of man and the glory of God. Yet as he looked
into the depths of his own heart, as one gazing into a crystal, he saw
there another image enshrined, and he began to doubt and to wonder
whether he were the servant of a divine ideal or the slave of an
alluring earthly love. Was it possible that he had not yet seen the
vision that compels, had not yet heard the silence that takes control?
Jean freely admitted to himself that he loved Gabrielle. Who could help
it? Who would not admire that lithe, graceful figure, with the
springing step and free toss of the head, like a wild deer of the
forest? Who would not rejoice to see that glorious hair? Who could
gaze unmoved upon that lovely face and form? Who would not desire to
take her to his arms--his very own? But how proud and cold at times!
How those blue eyes could glitter like steel! How those laughing,
tantalizing lips could curve in bitter scorn! How that beautiful
creature, with all the charms of woman since the days of Eve, could with
every glance, every tone, every gesture flaunt the flag of no-surrender!
The challenge must be accepted; the defiance could not be endured.
More than that--in all Jean's work, in all his thoughts and plans
Gabrielle was a part. When he crossed the little bridge over La
Branche--it was there that he first noticed Gabrielle's reddish-golden
hair. When he was by the river--it was there that he had met her
tripping over the stones in her short skirt and high boots, with rod and
creel, a fisher-maiden whom more than fish might fear. When he passed
through the woods, he saw her sitting under the trees amid patches of
golden sunshine. When he was in church, she was kneeling there in
prayer; and when he gazed at the high altar it was a glorified vision of
Gabrielle that he saw, and not the Mother of God. When he thought of
his great house, Gabrielle was there; on the day of triumph she would be
his wife, his queen; and if ever misfortune came, he would go forth
joyously to face the world, if only she were by his side.
Yet Jean believed that Gabrielle was not first in his heart. His work,
his vocation, commanded obedience above all. War first; then love.
Achievement, victory; then the crown and the reward. True, she might
not consent to take the second place in his scheme of life. Women were
by nature jealous, unreasonable, demanding more than man could give. She
might be angry when she discovered the order of precedence. Poor little
Gabrielle! She might go to a nunnery, even, as many young girls did
when they could not have their own way, or when they saw the vanity of
the world. That would be a pity. No, he would never allow that. What
were the stone walls of a convent compared with the power of love? But
she might love another man. Ah, that was different. Where was that
other who dared to raise his eyes to Gabrielle? Where? Who?
At the very thought Jean's eyes flashed beneath his lowered eyebrows;
his jaw set; his hands clenched; and his figure rose to its full height,
bending forward with such menace as would have given pause to any rival
who dared to contend for the prize of love with Jean Baptiste Giroux.
But it was only a girl that met him at the turn of the road, a girl with
waving hair and laughing eyes--the girl of his dreams.
"Mon Dieu, Jean!" said Gabrielle, in a tantalizing voice, before he had
time to speak. "How fierce you look! I am almost afraid to be walking
here alone, on the king's highway. Is the thought of me so terrifying?
I am quite harmless, I assure you. Or are you thinking of the last time
we met, when I was so cross? I was provoked, you know, but I have got
over it. It is hard to be cross with you, Jean."
"Is it?" said Jean, simply. "I thought it was quite easy, much too
easy, in fact."
"Ah, stupid!" said Gabrielle, with a laugh. "All men are stupid, I
think, and you more than others. How is it that you are so dull, Jean?"
"Gabrielle," said Jean, meditatively, "am I really dull? I did not know
it. At school I was thought rather clever. As for books----"
"Ah, bah!" said Gabrielle, with scorn. "Talk to me of books--what does
one learn from them? Mere stupidities, that is all."
"But," persisted Jean, "there are other things that I can do, where the
stupidity of which you speak does not show itself so much. For
example----"
"For example!" said Gabrielle, in a mocking voice. "For example! Tell
me, do!"
"I forget," said Jean.
"Ha! Ha!" laughed Gabrielle, in glee. "What did I say? He forgets,
the silly one, forgets all his reading, spelling, arithmetic, his Latin
and Greek and Hebrew--all his knowledge. Well, let me remind you, Jean,
that you are one of those paragons who can do everything. Not only have
you all the knowledge of the world, but you have facilities which mere
scholars do not possess. You hunt, you fish, you trap--like an Indian.
You run like a deer, jump like a grasshopper, swim like a fish, fly like
a bird, almost. Oh, I am sure that you could fly, if you tried. Try
once; please do, just for my sake. But to forget all that, and more!
How did you succeed in forgetting so much, Jean, my friend?"
"It was when I saw you, Gabrielle."
"Me!" gasped Gabrielle. "What have I done?"
"Nothing, Gabrielle. Yes, everything; for you have stolen my heart."
"Your heart, Jean? Impossible! That is what does not exist. A great
strong body? Yes. A brain? Certainly. Capacity of every kind? Oh,
yes. But a heart? Do not deceive yourself. You have no heart to lose.
No, no! Do not touch me! Do not dare! But answer! Is it not as I have
said?"
"It may be so, Gabrielle; but when will you marry me, dear?"
"What is that you say? Marry you? Oh, no; I could not."
"Why not, Gabrielle? Why not, little one?"
"Oh, there are many, many reasons. In the first place, I do not love
you, Jean."
"That is because you will not let yourself love me, Gabrielle."
"Again, Jean, you do not love me."
"How do you know, Gabrielle?"
"You have never told me."
"Gabrielle, listen to me----"
"No, no; I will not. You would deceive me with your talk, great Jesuit
that you are. Let me speak. I say that you love no one, Jean Baptiste
Giroux. It is your great house that you love, your horses and cattle,
your barns, your precious tourists. There is your treasure; there is
your heart, Jean Baptiste."
"Oh, Gabrielle, what are those things compared with you? They are
nothing, nothing."
"Jean, my friend, I like to hear you say that. Say it again, Jean."
"Gabrielle, what are houses, barns, lands, and all that, compared with
my love for you? I love you, dear; and if I value those things it is
for your sake. They are all for you. I lay them at your feet, and
myself as well."
"Do you mean it? Do you really mean what you say?"
"Yes, Gabrielle."
"Well, Jean, I will take you at your word. That house of yours--I hate
it. Those tourists, those people who walk about staring at everybody--I
detest them. How could you bring them here to spoil the peace and joy
of our lovely valley, to change our ancestral ways, to turn everything
upside down? But we will send them away, back to Quebec, to Montreal,
to Pittsburg, never to return, and everything will be as before. Yes,
they shall go home, and the house we will dedicate to another purpose."
"Gabrielle," said Jean, earnestly, "why did you not tell me this
before--a year ago? Now it is too late."
"Too late? Why, then, if you love me as you say!"
"Because I have embarked on this enterprise after much thought and long
deliberation. I have put into it my strength of body and brain, my
property, my life, my honour--and it is too late to turn back. The ship
is laden, the anchor weighed, and we have put out to sea with a fair
wind. Return to harbour? By no means. You do not ask it, Gabrielle."
"There," said Gabrielle, with a sob, "what did I tell you? You do not
love me. It is yourself that you love, Jean, and all those stupid plans
of yours."
"But no, Gabrielle, all are for you, as the means to the end. How can
one have the end without the means?"
"Oh, I could tell you very well, but I will not. It is easy to see that
you have made up your mind. Well, there is another who has a mind of
her own. Adieu, Monsieur. Here our paths divide. Take the broad,
dusty road, if you like. For me, I take this little path through the
woods--alone. No, you shall not."
"Gabrielle, this is most unfair, cruel, heartless."
"It may be so, but I know another who is cruel, who has no heart--it is
Monseigneur Jean Baptiste Giroux."
With this she went away through the woods, humming a song about a gay,
inconstant lover, quite different from Jean Baptiste:
"Papillon, tu es volage!
Tu ressembl' a mon amant.
L'amour est un badinage,
L'amour est un passe-temps,
Quand j'ai mon amant
J'ai le coeur content."
*CHAPTER XIII*
*THE RETURN OF PAMPHILE*
"Ah, there is mine host of La Folie," said Mere Tabeau, in a loud voice,
as Jean, in a brown study, dead to the world, was passing her place on
his way home.
"Jean, Jean Baptiste!" she called, but still he gave no heed.
"Monsieur Jean, Monsieur Jean Baptiste, Monsieur Giroux, Monseigneur!
Why the deuce does not his lordship stop? I must run after him, I see."
The old woman, with surprising agility, ran after Jean, plucked him by
the sleeve, and immediately resumed her cringing attitude, leaning
heavily upon her staff.
"There he goes," she whined. "His lordship does not see his old
friends, does not hear them, even, when they speak."
"Oh, pardon me, Madame Tabeau," said Jean, politely. "I was seeing
nothing, hearing nothing. Of late I have become absent-minded, I
think."
"Quite natural," said Mere Tabeau. "The very young are absent-minded,
and the very old, but also those who are immersed in affairs and those
who are in love. They are most absorbing, those affairs of the heart.
I remember well my last case, now many years ago. Some day I will tell
you the story. Perhaps you could listen to it now."
"But no, Madame, I am in haste this evening. Another time, if you
please. You had something else to say, had you not?"
"Not at all, Monseigneur. The poor old woman has nothing to
say--nothing. Another time, when his lordship has a few minutes to
spare for such trifles--his own affairs, moreover--I will wait upon
him."
"Oh, Madame, do not be angry. I will listen, to be sure, all the
afternoon, if I can be of service to you."
"Service to yourself, my friend. But no matter. I accept your
apologies. I am well disposed, as you will see, and I wish to help you
out of your troubles."
"My troubles?" said Jean, with a puzzled frown. "I do not understand.
You speak in mysterious language, it seems. All of us have our little
troubles, I suppose."
"Monsieur does not understand--will not, rather. Mysterious? Not at
all. Does not everybody know that Monsieur Giroux would effect an
alliance with one of the most prominent families in the parish? Is it
possible that he has not yet heard what is common report?"
"Madame Tabeau, if that is all I had better go. I am really very busy."
"But, but, Monsieur, these affairs can be arranged, no matter how
complicated, involved, entangled. I have charms, herbs, love potions,
and all that, and there are other means still more efficacious.
Besides, my charges are very moderate, a little commission, a mere
bagatelle when compared with a dowry so magnificent, a connection so
advantageous. If Mademoiselle----"
"Madame, that will do. The neighbours may gossip, if they please, but I
will not. Allow me to leave you at this time."
"Go then, stupid! _Sacree tete de mouton_! The fool will not listen.
Well, he will suffer, he will pay; and I will offer my services to some
one else. His lordship is not the only eligible young man in the parish
of St. Placide."
"If that is all, Madame, I bid you good evening."
"No, there is something else. My friend, do not mind the ravings of an
old woman, an old, old woman, poor and infirm. Old people like to talk,
as you know, and say more than they should, at times. But it is their
only pleasure. When one talks to a good listener like yourself one
forgets. It is good to forget, Jean, to extinguish the fires of memory,
if only for a moment. It is like a cup of cold water to a soul in
purgatory."
"Madame."
"Yes, yes, I know. You are sorry for me, but not as I am sorry for
myself. When I think of what I might have been and what I am, I could
cry--and curse. But let us change the subject. You remember my nephew,
Pamphile Lareau, do you not? A playmate of yours, I believe, some years
ago."
"Remember Pamphile? Certainly. But I did not know that he was your
nephew."
"You do not know everything, Jean, wise as you are. Pamphile is my
nephew, as I have said, although I have never seen him. His mother
thought herself more respectable than I. Can you believe it? After her
death I came to St. Placide. For what purpose? Ah, that is my affair.
You do not know that either, Monsieur the scholar. There is a lot of
useful information that you do not obtain from books, I assure you. But
Pamphile is coming to see me this very day. Do you see that little
cloud of dust down the road? It is he, I am sure. Wait a moment and
you will see him."
"That will be interesting," said Jean. "He has changed much, no doubt,
in all these years."
"No doubt. He also has become a great lord, evidently. See, he comes
in great style, in a carriage, all the way from Quebec. It will cost at
least five dollars, that equipage, for so long a drive. Where the deuce
did my nephew get all that money? He never sent me any of it. He will
give some to his poor old aunt before he leaves, let us hope. There, he
arrives. _Dieu_, what a dash! What grandeur! Speak to him, Jean, I
cannot."
"_Bonjour_, Madame. _Bonjour_, Monsieur," said an imposing personage,
as the carriage pulled up suddenly in a cloud of dust. "It is here, is
it not, that Madame Tabeau lives? They told me, there below, that I
should find the place at the crossroads."
"It is here, Monsieur," said Madame Tabeau, quite humbly. "If Monsieur
will be so kind as to alight."
"With the greatest pleasure, Madame. How good it is to come to the end
of a drive of four hours! Yes, four hours and ten minutes, by the
watch. It is now four o'clock, is it not, Monsieur?"
"By the sun I should call it six o'clock, at least," said Jean. "You
see, Monsieur the stranger, that we do not carry gold watches in St.
Placide."
"No, to be sure. I had forgotten. A primitive place, truly. Is it
possible that I spent my early years in St. Placide? But six o'clock?
Surely not. Ah, I have it. Ha! Ha! How curious! It is that I have
not set my watch since I left Elko, and there is a difference of two
hours--or is it three?"
"Two hours," said Jean, with confidence. "You have mountain time there,
I believe, and here we have eastern time. Yes, two hours."
The stranger's eyes narrowed as he looked sharply at Jean.
"Eh, what? You know that? What the deuce? Who is this? The little
priest, as I live! Monseigneur! And as learned as ever, always wishing
to teach one something, always casting away pearls of knowledge. Well
met, my ancient friend, after all these years. This is too much
pleasure. Your hand, my brave one, for the sake of old times."
The stranger extended a long, slender hand that closed about Jean's
fingers like a vice of steel; but Jean understood the trick of the thumb
as well as he, and it was Pamphile's hand that was the first to relax.
"Enough, enough, my brave one. It is the same Jean Baptiste that I see
and feel. _Dieu_, but you have a loving clasp of the hand. It brings
tears to the eyes. Well, my friend the cabby, you seem impatient. What
can I do for you?"
"My fare, if you please, Monsieur--the little five dollars that we spoke
of."
"Ah, yes, assuredly," said Pamphile, drawing out of his pocket a roll of
bills, not one of a lower denomination than twenty dollars. "You can
change American money, no doubt."
"Certainly, Monsieur. Anything less than twenty dollars."
"Not twenty dollars, cabby? What a country! We are not in Nevada,
evidently. Well, my friend, this is unfortunate. What are we to do?"
"I will take the twenty dollars, Monsieur."
"You will take it all, my friend? How good of you! _Sacre_! I have a
mind to give it to you as a reward of merit. It is seldom that one
meets a cabby so obliging, so resourceful. You will go far, my Jehu.
Yes, I am thinking of giving you the twenty dollars. Do you still feel
that you could accept it?"
"No, no, Monsieur," broke in Mere Tabeau. "_Mon Dieu_, what would you
do? Give him twenty dollars? Two dollars and fifty cents would have
been quite enough if only you had made a bargain. What can we do? Let
us think. I could perhaps find the money. Yes, Monsieur Giroux, I have
a little store laid by, even I, for my funeral. Wait a moment. I will
get it at once."
In her excitement Mere Tabeau forgot both rheumatism and stick, as one
who had been cured at the shrine of Bonne Ste. Anne, ran into the house
and presently returned with a little leathern bag, out of which she
counted silver and copper coins until the cabby had a handful of small
change equal to the amount of his fare.
"That is a bad penny, Madame," said the cabby, returning a much-worn
coin.
"But no, it is perfectly good, perfectly good," said the old woman,
angrily. "It goes, I tell you. I received it, did I not? Well, you
shall take it in your turn, and if you don't like it you may pass it on.
No, not another _sou_. You are a shark, a robber!"
"Let him have another, Madame," drawled Pamphile with a grand air.
"Give him his five dollars in full and a quarter for drink. The
twenty-dollar bill? Oh, it is back in my pocket. To-morrow we will
arrange all that. And you are Madame Tabeau, no doubt, the aunt whom I
have never seen until this blessed moment. Well, my aunt, it is a
pleasure to meet you. But where is the little priest who was here a
moment since?"