not rid himself of the feeling that Gabrielle was still in danger and in
need of help. The same vague sense of danger had come to him a little
while before, as he stood on the doorstep of his house, smoking his
pipe, watching the sunrise, and planning the day's work, and had brought
him running along the road to the Tache place and thence down the
woodland path to meet her whom he loved best and him whom he most hated.
They had met; the danger was past; and now it seemed to Jean that he was
totally indifferent to Pamphile and that he hated Gabrielle more than
any other being in all the world. Answer her cry for help? Never
again!
"Jean! Jean!"
The call was fainter now, with a note of reproach and the suggestion of
a sob, but Jean gave no heed. He only stood there, his heart full of
jealousy and anger, thinking evil thoughts. A strange meeting, surely,
on that lonely path at such an hour. A coincidence? Hardly.
Pre-arranged? Doubtless. To what end? Who can understand the heart of
a woman? To meet a stranger by accident on a Sunday morning, after
Mass, to have one visit and another, a game of croquet, and then----.
Love at first sight, it would seem, and after that a rapid career, a
swift descent into the depths. Inconceivable? Yes. Impossible?
Nothing is impossible. Even the holy angels could fall from Heaven, and
the Son of God might have bowed down to Satan.
But the whip? Jean held it up in his clenched hand, a short but heavy
raw-hide with a knotted tail and loaded head, a dangerous weapon in
strong and determined hands. She had come alone, but not unprotected.
And those marks on the face of Pamphile? Inflicted by the selfsame
whip, evidently. By whose hand? The hand of Gabrielle. Jean's heart
gave a leap at the thought, and he almost smiled. She had struck
Pamphile twice with the knotted tail, and if Jean had not come to the
rescue she would have turned at bay and felled her assailant to the
ground with the leaden head. Brave Gabrielle! A girl of spirit, that,
a girl worthy of any man.
How then could she be ensnared by that spider, be fascinated by that
serpent? But she had broken the spider's net; she had escaped the wiles
of the serpent. A lover's quarrel? Only lovers quarrel; the indifferent
never. But do they strike each other with a whip? No, thank God,
Gabrielle did not love Pamphile. Impossible. As for the rest, what
matter? Strange, certainly, that meeting in the woods, but not more
strange than his own arrival in the nick of time. The world itself is
strange, and the combinations, the possibilities, infinite. All is
strange, mysterious, improbable. Nothing can be explained. One must
have faith in one's friends, in oneself, in God. No; she cared nothing
for that reptile. A passing fancy, perhaps, but even that was
over--else why the blow, the flight, the cry for help? On whom does one
call in the hour of danger? On one's friends, first of all, and then,
in the last extremity, on God.
"Jean! Jean!"
A low voice seemed to call to him from the hill, a voice as of one in
tears.
Jean awoke from his reverie, and ran up the path.
"Gabrielle!" he called. "I am coming, dear. No danger. I am here.
Gabrielle! Gabrielle! where are you?"
The voice of Jean awoke the echoes of the hills, but there was no other
reply. On he ran with fear in his heart, peering into the woods on
either side, and calling incessantly, until he reached the place where
the path left the forest, and he could see the home of Gabrielle
nestling in a hollow in the midst of green fields, with its white walls,
its spacious verandah, its black roof with dormer windows, and its
massive stone chimney from which a wisp of yellow smoke rose in the
morning air. It was a picture of comfort and security; and, as Jean
looked upon the peaceful scene, he assured himself that his fears were
groundless and that all was well.
There was, however, a slight commotion about the place, such as one
might expect to see on a market day or on the departure of some member
of the family for a visit to the city. A large valise lay on the
verandah, and at intervals Madame Tache or a maid appeared with a parcel
or two, a parasol, a cloak, a basket. Monsieur Tache and one of the men
hurried to the barn; presently the great doors were flung open and a
prancing pair of bays came out with a carriage, as though the family
were going to Mass, to a wedding, or some other notable celebration.
Jean could hear the wheels crunch on the gravel as they drove around to
the front steps, where the valise and the parcels were put on in front
with the driver, while Madame Tache and Gabrielle came out of the house
all ready to depart.
It was Gabrielle herself, dressed all in white, like a bride, a white
cloak on her shoulders and a white hat with a single white plume above
her golden hair. Jean could not see her face in the distance, but she
seemed loth to go, for she ran hither and thither saying good-bye to
everybody, even to the chickens and geese, patted Boule, the dog, on the
head with a lingering caress, and then threw her arms about her father's
neck, sobbing bitterly.
Jean turned away with tears in his eyes, and when he looked again the
bays were prancing along the road, strong and proud, as though carrying
a queen and a princess to a wedding feast. Never was princess more
beautiful and more sad, for she had the air of one who was forsaking all
that she held most dear, and going away never to return. As she passed
near the place where Jean was standing she looked up once with an
appealing glance, but made no sign of recognition or farewell. It was
as if she did not see him, but was looking beyond into the depths of the
woods. As the carriage came to the turn of the road Gabrielle turned
and waved her handkerchief toward her old home. Perhaps Jean was
included in the farewell. At any rate, he waved back, and as the
carriage disappeared from sight he thought he caught a flutter of white
meant for him alone.
Jean took a long breath, and then another, to keep down the tide of
emotion that was surging up from the depths of his soul. Then, pulling
himself together with a mighty effort, he sprang over the fence and
strode down the road toward his own home at a terrific pace, as though
to escape as fast as possible from the place where he had seen the
vanishing of all his hopes. For Jean did not deceive himself; he
understood it all; could see it all, as in a vision. Gabrielle, that
angel in the white robes, was leaving St. Placide--for ever. She was
going to a wedding--her own--in the chapel of the Ursulines, before a
congregation of black-robed sisters. She would be a bride--the bride of
Christ. They would cut off her golden hair, dress her in black from
head to foot, and make her say infinite prayers by night and day on the
cold, stone floor. Did Christ demand that?
"I do not believe that He will have that," said Jean, aloud. "But if
so, I protest. It is not just. By Heaven, it is not! Ah, why did I
not answer at the first call? Why did I not follow? Fool that I was!
Yes, fool, fool!"
"Not so fast, Jean Baptiste," said a voice directly in front of him.
"Stop! You are running me down! Stop, I say! There you have done it!
_Sacre diable_! Fool! Yes, fool, fool!"
Jean stopped at last in his mad career, looked about in a dazed manner,
and saw a little old man picking himself up from the dusty road, while
filling the air with curses.
"Why, Monsieur Laroche, is it you? What is the matter? You fell down?
I ran over you? Surely not. Mon Dieu, Monsieur, if I did I am sorry.
Forgive me, I beg of you. It was an accident, I assure you. I was not
thinking; that is to say, I was thinking of something else. There,
Monsieur, allow me to brush off the dust, and to hand you your hat. Oh,
but I am sorry. What can I say?"
"Nothing!" said the old man, with a vicious snap of the jaws. "Say
nothing! Don't speak to me! I will get even with you. Yes, I will
punish you for this, Monsieur the Proprietor, Monseigneur the
Millionaire that is to be. Yes, I will show you."
"Well, Monsieur Laroche, if you feel like that I can do no more.
Good-day, Monsieur."
"Not so fast, Jean Baptiste Giroux," said the old man, with malicious
deliberation. "Not so fast, my enterprising friend. Remember, if you
please, the little payment that is coming to me, the half-yearly
interest that will be due next week."
"Well, what of it?" said Jean.
"You will pay it," said the money-lender, with a leer, "on the very
day."
"Of course," said Jean, with contempt. "Is that all you wished to say?"
"Yes. No," said the old man, taken by surprise, for he had expected
Jean to ask for an extension. "You will pay it when due--on the very
day? Well, I like that. It pleases me. It is not often that one finds
a young man of such a talent for affairs, of such promptitude. It is a
good sign, Jean Baptiste. You will succeed, no doubt, if you have good
luck. Yes, a promising young man. If only I had a partner like you, a
son-in-law. What? It could be arranged, could it not? The little
daughter has refused, of course, but might change her mind. Who can
tell? Women are variable, as you know. What do you say, Jean, my
lad--shall we have a try?"
"Monsieur Laroche," said Jean, earnestly, "I have the greatest respect
for Mademoiselle Blanchette, and I would not for the world have you
persuade her to change her mind. These marriages of convenience are
generally unsuitable and often terrible. It is a dreadful
thing--marriage without love."
Bonhomme Laroche laughed aloud.
"Jean Baptiste Giroux, you talk like a fool. Marriage of convenience?
And why not? The union of two good farms, with buildings, implements,
cattle, horses, and all that, appears to me very convenient and
suitable. Moreover, on one side a fine hotel, on the other an ample
dowry--what better could you desire? Marriage without love? It is to
laugh. Go home, Jean; regard yourself in the glass, and consider. Six
feet in your stockings, straight as a tamarack, broad shouldered, strong
as an ox, a great chief, a leader of men. What girl could not love a
man like you? They have eyes, those creatures, you may believe. And my
Blanchette--what beauty, what good temper, what capacity! Jean, my lad,
it is all right; it will go, it is a match made, I will say, in Heaven.
Yes, say nothing; it is to be."
Jean was speechless, for the little old man, pouring forth a torrent of
words, fairly danced with excitement and finally flung his arms about
the young man's neck in token of complete reconciliation.
"Jean, Jean, my son. It will arrange itself. Say nothing. I will not
hear. Go. That little payment--forget about it. What is that among
friends; yes, relations. There, not a word. All is forgotten. Go
home, I say, for the present. Adieu! Adieu!"
It was still early in the morning, for Jean had been away from home
scarcely an hour--an hour that seemed an immeasurable time, during which
he had seen his past life unroll before him like a writing in a foreign
language, dark and meaningless. During that time he had seen his
ideals, his plans, his dream-castles melt away into nothing, and all his
future become a blank. The sun was still shining, the clouds still
floating in the sky, the grass still green, the birds still singing, the
air still fragrant with the odours of pine and balsam, of crushed
strawberries and new-mown hay--but not for him. The world to him seemed
colourless, odourless, silent as the tomb, because the light and joy had
gone out of his life when a young girl with blue eyes and golden hair
had passed down the road clad all in white as a bride adorned for her
husband. She had vanished at the turn of the road, and immediately the
world was changed.
The glory of the world had departed; the beauty was gone; love had flown
away; and life was no longer worth while. Even the great house, the
work of his hands, his castle and seat of pride, was like a broken toy,
a thing to be thrown aside. It had ceased to interest him, but still
the force of habit led him thither. He pressed the latch, and entered
the great kitchen where his good mother was preparing breakfast.
"Good morning, Jean," she said, looking up with a smile, which
immediately changed to a look of alarm, "Oh, Jean, what is it? What is
the matter? Where have you been? What is it, Jean, my son?"
"It is nothing, my mother," he said, with a fugitive smile. "Nothing at
all. That is, I am a little tired, perhaps."
"Tired? A great man like you, and at this time of the day! Six o'clock
on a fine summer morning--and tired! Very strange, that. No, Jean, you
are putting me off. What is it, then? Tell me, my son."
"It is Bonhomme Laroche, my mother."
"That old miser. What does he want?"
"His money."
"His money? We have not had it six months, and the loan was for three
years."
"It is the interest that he wants, my mother, the half-yearly interest."
"Well, that is not much, a matter of sixty dollars or so. We will pay
him."
"Yes, we will pay him, of course, but we shall not have much left."
"Nonsense, Jean! We shall have still a nice little deposit in the bank;
the tourists owe us a good sum; and to-morrow we shall send butter and
eggs to the market--five dollars worth at the very least. No, there is
no cause for worry. The business is going well. It will come out all
right, with the help of the good God. Have courage, my son. The time
of sowing will soon be over, and you will see the golden harvest, the
fruit of all your planning, your work. If that is all--no!"
"He wishes to buy a husband for his daughter."
"For his daughter--for Blanchette? Yes, I know. All the rest are
married--long ago. Only the little Blanchette is left. Not so very
little now, nor so very young. Let us see--ten, twenty, twenty-five,
yes, twenty-six years this summer. I remember well--fourteen years
after we came to the parish. They were sufficiently poor then, those
Laroches, poor and not at all proud. But they are not so very proud
even now, although quite rich. And the little Blanchette was pretty,
too, before the smallpox. A clever girl, and excellent housekeeper, a
manager from the bottom, a worker, too. No, it is not a bad suggestion,
not at all.
"Yes, she would be a fine partner for one who owns a hotel. No fear of
failure after that. All anxiety gone, all concern for the future. The
dowry would be considerable. She would have that fine farm, with
cattle, horses, pigs, sheep, implements, furniture, linen, and all that,
not to speak of money in the bank. Bonhomme Laroche has explained it to
me many times. A strange man, that. A miser, true, but a just miser.
He will have his money always, to the last _sou_, but no more. I hope
that we may be able to pay him all, when due. There are great risks in
an enterprise like this, and great responsibilities. The alliance would
settle everything, remove all difficulties, dispel all clouds. Think of
it, Jean. The two farms united--a veritable estate, a seigniory,
almost. Ah, my son, if your father were alive, how pleased he would
be!"
"My father," said Jean, thinking aloud, "would he have sold himself in
this way, I wonder?"
"Your father, Jean, would be pleased to see your prosperity, as I have
said, but for himself he did not regard such things. They had no power
over him. He did not know the value of money, that man. For him truth,
honour, a good name, were the true values, more precious than rubies,
more desirable than all the gold of the world. And love? Yes, love
above all. He also could have married an heiress, the daughter of a rich
merchant, a ship-owner. Beautiful she was, I must confess, beautiful
and accomplished. Yet he preferred me, me. I never knew why. Ah, _Mon
Dieu_, what devotion! Did he ever regret it? He never said so. On the
contrary, he assured me many times---- And I, did I regret the poverty,
the work, the long years? No, it was my glory. And you, Jean, my son,
are like him, and I know what you will do. Yes, and you are right, both
of you. Land, cattle, money, are very fine, all right in their place,
but in comparison with love they do not count for much. Ah, selfish old
woman that I am to wish you to give up so much for the sake of a dowry.
Jean, my son, you shall not, you could not."
"No, my mother, it would be impossible."
"Well, let us say no more about it. Let us think of something else.
There are still good fish in the sea, although they are often hard to
catch. That little Gabrielle, for example, the most beautiful girl,
they say, in all the parishes. Even in Quebec, there is not her equal.
They are rare, you know, blondes of that type, with hair like a sunset
cloud, not red, not gold, but something of both, and changing with the
light. And such a complexion, such a lovely face, and a smile that
touches the heart. A sufficiently good temper, also, not meek, but
high-spirited, polite and altogether charming. An ample dowry, too,
which is not to be despised when all the rest is there. It contributes
to independence and harmony.
"A most independent young lady, not easily caught, I should say, but a
prize for any fisherman. I have heard of several young men who have
aspirations--a brave young officer of the Artillery, for one. They are
dangerous rivals, those young soldiers, with their fine clothes, their
noble bearing, their self-confidence. I remember them well. They are
irresistible, almost. And Gabrielle is no ordinary habitant girl, but
one who would be at home in any society, high or low. She will fly away
some day, I fear. I don't like to think of that, for the parish will be
different without her. Yes, very different.
"But, Jean, what is the matter? Where are you going? Sit down again,
please. Your breakfast is just ready. See, I have something that you
like, a nice piece of ham, some eggs, and the most delicious pancakes."
"Thank you, dear," said Jean, wearily, "but I have no appetite this
morning."
"No appetite? That is serious. What is wrong? Work to do? Nonsense!
How can one work if one does not eat? Do not go, my son. At least,
come back soon, soon. There, I have driven him away. Talkative old
woman! Stupid old creature! My poor Jean!"
*CHAPTER XVII*
*VENGEANCE*
The brief summers are warm in St. Placide--how else could the crops of
hay, oats, and potatoes come to maturity?--but usually the nights are
cool, that the habitants, who have toiled many hours in the hot sun, may
enjoy refreshing sleep and be ready at the point of dawn for the work of
another day. But now and then, in the dog days, there comes a
blistering day, followed by a hot and sultry night, when tired people
lie awake for hours, longing in vain for rest.
The night following the departure of Gabrielle was such a night as this,
and Jean Baptiste, finding the heat of his attic insupportable, went out
on the railed terrace that crowned the roof, and lay down under the
stars. There was not a breath of air, and no sound to be heard but the
steady murmur of the river in the valley below. The beasts that prowl
by night made no noise; the bats flitted silently to and fro; now and
then an owl passed like a shadow; here and there the lamp of a firefly
glimmered and went out; and the stars twinkled wearily as though they
would fain close their eyes in sleep.
Jean did not sleep, but lay thinking of his past life, his ambitions and
struggles, his hopes and fears, his successes and failures, as though
trying to strike a balance of profit and loss that should give value to
his life or show how empty it was of all worth and meaning. He had
always assumed that life was worth living--but why? In God's name, why?
To know, to understand? He had read much in printed books and in the
book of nature; he had tried to think, to guess, to imagine the answer
to the riddle of existence, but with what result? All was mystery,
shrouded in darkness, silent, speechless, with only a twinkling light
here and there to lead--or mislead. To know? That could not be the end
of life, for what could one know? Nothing.
To love? Ah, there was something to fill the heart with joy--and pain.
When one finds a human being so beautiful that one would gaze on her for
ever, so sympathetic that in her company one has an enduring sense of
harmony and peace, so dear that one would fain be with her until the end
of time and afterwards in the eternal world--when one finds such
perfection of loveliness, surely it is the perfection of existence to
love and to be loved. Yes, but if one were not loved. If in the early
morning she went away, of her own free will, to be the bride of another,
what could one do with that consuming love but tear it from the heart,
that one might give oneself heart and soul to the work of life?
The work of life? There at last was something for the strong hand and
brain, something to occupy the thought, to drive out the spirit of
despair, to fill the life with action, to cause one to forget the
mystery of existence and the shipwreck of love. To work, to build, to
create, to find the expression of oneself in the work of one's hands,
and, finally, like God, to pronounce it good--there was achievement to
satisfy the soul. If only the works of man, like the works of God,
could last for ever! Yet even these would pass away. Out of the
darkness of primeval chaos all had come; back to chaos and darkness all
would go. Yes, even the works of God. And God Himself? What was He
but the creator of a vain show, the spirit of deceit and futility? It is
written that He repented that He had made Man. What wonder?
Jean Baptiste, as he lay there in the gloom of night, was wandering, in
thought, away from the realities of daily life, far from the trodden
paths, beyond all landmarks, into the confused and misty regions where
no reason dwells, but doubt, madness, and fell despair, and where there
is a downward path that plunges the lost soul into the abyss.
From these evil dreams he was awakened by the rumbling of thunder, and
the falling of great drops of rain from a black cloud that passed, like
a curtain, across the sky. Flashes of lightning lit up the valley,
showing the trees of the forest bending before the wind, while here and
there a broken trunk stood erect with naked limbs from which the
branches had been torn by the fury of the gale. Presently the storm
arrived, shaking the house to its foundations; the rain came down in
torrents; and from the inky sky there fell lurid forks of lightning
followed by crashing thunder, the sound of falling trees, and the cries
of terrified beasts and men. It was a terrific, a sublime spectacle, a
display of power before which the timid soul cowers and shrinks and
seeks a place of refuge, a hole wherein to creep, if by any chance it
may escape the vengeance of the awful power against which it cannot
contend. Not so Jean Baptiste, who enjoyed the refreshing bath of rain
and the brilliant display of colour, and to whom thunder claps were
reassuring, since he knew that he who hears the thunder has not yet been
touched by the lightning. But suddenly there appeared a great blaze of
violet light, with a little crackling noise, and for Jean Baptiste the
show was ended. The bolt of God had fallen upon La Folie, and the
master of the house was very close to death.
Immediately after this, as it seemed to Jean--it was more than an
hour--he felt himself roughly shaken, and heard a voice calling, as from
a great distance.
"Wake up! Wake up, Jean! _Mon Dieu_, will he never hear? Wake up, I
say. We must get down out of this."
"Get down?" said Jean, drowsily, without opening his eyes. "Get down?
But no, it is comfortable here. Let me alone, please. I am sleepy,
sleepy."
"There, you are all right, I see," said the voice, louder now. "But get
up, quick, quick! Get up, or I will throw you down. _Sacre fou_! Take
that!"
"Don't kick me," said Jean. Then, opening his eyes, he stared at his
assailant.
"Oh, it is you, Pamphile, and you kick me? Well, I don't wonder. Do it
again, my friend, and after that I will throw you off the roof. But how
black your face is! And where is your hair? _Mon Dieu_! What has
happened?"
"Happened? _Sacre bleu_! Your house is on fire. I tell you. Fire!
Fire! Get up, you cursed idiot, and save yourself. For the last
time--get up!"
As Jean rose to his feet black volumes of smoke were rolling up from the
stairway, and he could hear the roar of flames below. He started down
the stairs.
"Not there, you fool!" yelled Pamphile. "I passed that way two minutes
ago, and see me now. This way! We can slip down the roof on this side
and then jump to the ground. Are you ready?"
"Yes," said Jean, slowly, "and I am sorry that I struck you with the
whip. It would have been better----"