But at present we must save ourselves. _Dieu_, but it is hot! This
way. The roof will hold, I think. Prepare to jump in a moment. No,
that will not be necessary--they have placed a ladder. There is some
intelligence left, I see. Steady, now. Slowly. No danger. There, you
are on earth again. _Par Dieu_! It was a close shave. The roof has
fallen in. Madame, I have the honour to present to you Monseigneur de
la Folie, the biggest damn fool in St. Placide--yes, in all Canada."
"Listen to that," said one of the neighbours, who had hastened to the
scene at the first alarm. "That is what I have always said. Jean
Baptiste was a big fool to build a house like that--yes, a damn fool, as
Monsieur the millionaire has said. It is a brave man, that millionaire.
And Madame is glad to see her son again."
"Yes," said Bonhomme Gagnon, with an air of importance, "it was I, you
see, who was the first to arrive. Already the house was in flames. The
people were safe--that is to say, all but Jean, who sleeps in the attic.
Madame was distracted, frantic. 'Where is Jean? Oh, where is Jean?'
she screamed. 'Jean, my Jean! He will be burned to death.' She rushed
to the door, going to run upstairs through all the smoke and flame.
'No, no, Madame,' I said, 'you cannot. Wait a minute, Jean will waken,
no doubt, in a moment. If not, I will go myself.' But she would not
listen.
"Then comes along Monsieur Pamphile, his face white as a sheet, but all
marked with red stripes as though some one had struck him with a lash.
What was the cause of that, I wonder? 'Stop, Madame!' he cried. 'I
will find the little priest. I will bring him down to you.' He did not
go in by the door--that was impossible--but climbed up to one of the
windows of the second floor, and went in. 'There is a good man gone to
his death,' said I to myself. But presently he appeared on the roof, as
you have seen. It was lucky I thought of the ladder, was it not? It was
I who said: 'Bring the ladder.' You heard me, Damase."
"Yes," said Damase Gosselin, with a smile; "you were saving the life of
a tourist, I think."
"Naturally," said Bonhomme Gagnon, with some asperity, "I was assisting
everybody."
"And meanwhile," continued Damase, "the millionaire from Nevada ascends
to the rescue of Jean Baptiste. It is a hero, that millionaire. But
where is he? Disappeared, vanished! That is the way with heroes. They
are modest people. One never hears them blow their own horn."
"That is true," said Bonhomme Gagnon, nodding his head vigorously. "The
brave are always humble. That is the way with me, for example. I never
like to talk of myself, for fear somebody will laugh at me. It is
enough to have a good conscience, no matter what people think. But I
will tell you, in confidence, that it was I who first saw the fire, who
gave the alarm. Without me no Pamphile, no Jean Baptiste descending by
the ladder."
The neighbours crowded about Bonhomme Gagnon, who went on,
impressively:--
"Yes, I heard the clap of thunder, of course. Who could sleep on such a
night? 'There,' I said, 'something was struck. La Folie, perhaps,
standing alone on the hill, with no lightning-rods.' I went to look,
but could see nothing. At the next flash there was La Folie, the same
as ever. It was only a tree, I thought. Soon the rain ceased, and I sat
on the steps smoking my pipe, and looking at the clouds as they cleared
away. I thought to myself: 'La Folie will get it sooner or later. The
good God does not love a man like Jean Baptiste, so proud, so ambitious,
so avaricious, one who would change everything, overturn everything--an
atheist, almost. Yes, the good God will punish him some day.' It was
prophetic, that thought of mine, for after a while I saw a bright light
in one of the windows at La Folie, and then a great blaze that lit up
the whole house. I made a jump, you may be sure, called Marie,
Francois, Isidore, Suzette--all the family. 'Fire! Fire!' I called, and
ran as fast as I could up the hill. _Dieu_, but it was an excitement."
"What a pity that you cannot run fast, Monsieur Gagnon!" said Damase.
"If you had arrived sooner you might have saved Jean yourself."
"Very true," said Bonhomme Gagnon, "and I would have done it, you may be
sure, but for those tourists. When I arrived they were descending from
the windows, some in night-gowns, some with trousers on; and one, that
Englishman over there, with all his clothes, an eye-glass even. 'Here,
my man,' he said, 'if you will bring me a ladder I will step out of
this, for it is deuced hot.' I was carrying the ladder when Madame
appeared wringing her hands, and then came Pamphile, as you know."
"The Englishman offered to pay you well, no doubt," suggested Damase.
"Yes. No. That is to say, he mentioned a certain sum, but I could not
think of it. I was saving life, you see, human life, which is of more
value than money. Afterwards, if he had felt that his life was worth
five or ten dollars, I might have been persuaded---- But I could do
nothing for him. Madame wanted the ladder for her son, who, naturally,
seemed of great importance to her, and I placed it by the roof, just in
time."
"Monsieur Gagnon," said Damase, emphatically, "you also are a hero, that
is evident. What a pity that such heroes cannot receive a substantial
reward--five dollars, at least, for every life that they save! The life
of that Englishman must be worth at least that amount. Let us ask him
for it, Monsieur Gagnon."
"No, no!" spluttered Bonhomme Gagnon. "I would not for the world. He
has lost his eye-glass, and is in a bad temper."
"True," said Damase, "and when you took the ladder away he was in a fine
rage. It was a pleasure to see him. His bath-tub also was consumed,
and his sponge. But the good God let him off easy compared with poor
Jean. But tell us, Monsieur Gagnon, is it true Jean has said that the
good God did not cause the fire? Is he really an atheist, as they say?"
"Not so loud, Damase," whispered Bonhomme Gagnon. "He might hear you.
See him over there as he watches his fine house burn to ashes. He is
angry, as you may imagine. He has lost money--more than the farm is
worth. Insurance? None at all. He was a fool, as Pamphile has said,
one with too much confidence in himself and too little in the good God.
An atheist? Very likely. Who else would want to build an hotel in St.
Placide, to bring tourists to our peaceful parish, to introduce strange
fashions, to corrupt the youth, to overturn everything? And he wishes
to make a dam across the St. Ange, to build a factory, to create a city.
Yes, he would change all the old ways, the good customs, the holy
religion, even. An atheist? Very likely. But the good God was against
him, as we have seen, and Jean Baptiste is finished. He will be a
habitant, like the rest of us, or he will leave the parish. Well, let
him go. We were here before he was born, and shall be all right after
he is gone. St. Placide has no need of Jean Baptiste."
The mind of Bonhomme Gagnon had been poisoned against Jean by his
association with Pamphile and Mere Tabeau, and the rest of the
neighbours were strangely ready to think ill of him and to believe that
he had been justly punished for his pride and presumption. He had wished
to set himself upon an eminence far above the neighbours, and had tried
to make himself a great lord, a species of pope, in the parish of St.
Placide; but the good God, seeing that he held his head so high, had
brought him down and humbled him in the dust. His great house was a
heap of ashes; his plans were shattered, his prospects ruined; and he
who had thought himself the perfection of all the virtues, the sum of
all the talents, was finding by bitter experience that he was only a
common man. Every man must learn this lesson, sooner or later, that his
pride may be broken, his spirit chastened, that he may be able to bear
the yoke, to walk side by side with his fellows and to walk humbly
before his God. Thus the neighbours, by a strange mixture of piety and
hypocrisy, conspired to humble one who had dared to raise his head above
them, and deified the envy and malice of their own hearts.
Mere Tabeau was at the fire, to see and hear everything; but on this
occasion, strange to say, she kept in the background, and had little to
say beyond assenting, with nods and knowing looks, to all that was said
in disparagement of Jean Baptiste. Before the fire was quite burned
out, and before the neighbours had dispersed, she slipped away to her
little hut, where she found Pamphile seated before a cracked mirror,
carefully trimming, by the light of a candle, the remains of his once
flowing mane of glossy black hair.
"Eh, my nephew," she cackled. "Eh, Monsieur the millionaire, Monsieur
the hero, you have been singed a little, I see. What a pity!"
"Yes," drawled Pamphile, "it is a great loss to me. That chevelure was
part of my capital, you see--useful in my business, you understand. It
was part of the make-up, my dear aunt, like the white tie and the
diamond. It was to me what the silk hat is to the advocate, the tonsure
to the priest, the biretta to the cardinal, the tiara to the pope. I
was in good company, my dear aunt, but now I am shorn of my strength, a
common man."
"Nom de nom!" ejaculated Mere Tabeau. "You are a devil to talk like
that at such a time. You will be joking when you are going to the
gallows."
"Without doubt, my dear aunt. Life itself is a joke; and death is the
best joke of all. The only trouble is to see the point of it, whether
it is man, God, or the devil who is fooled. For me, I think it is the
devil who is the butt, and I laugh at him. Ha! Ha! Foolish old devil!
We make him think that we belong to him, and in the end we die in the
odour of sanctity. Ha! Ha! What a joke! You see it, my lovely aunt?"
"_Sacre!_" said Mere Tabeau. "_Sacre!_"
"If that is all you have to say I think that I will go to bed," drawled
Pamphile, with a yawn.
"No, no, my nephew, let us talk a while. Such a night of adventure we
have not had for many a year, not since the smugglers came across from
Chateau, with the military after them. That was excitement, if you
like. But this affair at La Folie was not so bad. You choose a good
night for the fire, my nephew. What?"
Pamphile stared at the old hag.
"I?" he said. "I choose? But no, my wise aunt, it was the good God.
That thunderbolt, you know."
"Bah!" she sneered. "It made a big noise, the thunder; knocked a few
stones off the chimney, put Jean Baptiste to sleep, but that was all.
No, my friend, the good God had nothing to do with it."
"But the fire----"
"Started an hour later, in the wood-pile near the stove."
"My dear aunt, you seem to be well informed."
"Informed? I was there and I saw. I am a light sleeper, you must know;
and when you, my dear guest and nephew, left my house in the dead of
night, I became curious, as any woman would, followed at a safe
distance, and saw everything--saw you strike the match, even. I tell
you, my western friend, that it is better to confide in people,
especially one's near relations. Too much secrecy is bad for the
health, leading to serious trouble, in which case one might have to call
in the physician, that is to say, the police. Eh, my dear nephew?"
"Ah, my lovely aunt, you have the advantage of me, I must confess, in
these days of enlightenment, of emancipation. If only the good old days
could come again I would know what to do. I would have you drowned as a
witch, or burned, perhaps. Yes, that would be better--a little taste of
Hell in advance, a sample, as it were, of what is to follow. Eh, my
angel aunt?"
"Pamphile," said the old witch, "you are a devil, and I love you for it.
In the old days at Chateau there were lovers like you, brave boys,
fearing neither God nor man. Usually man is more to be feared, but in
the end God and the devil. But the devil amuses one for a time. If
only I could be young again! But tell me, Pamphile, my friend--why did
you not let him die?"
"Well, my aunt, that is a hard question. Why did I not let him be
burned to a cinder? How do I know? I thought of it, to be sure; and I
said to myself: 'There, Pamphile, you are avenged. Be satisfied.' But
what revenge can one take on an enemy dead? No, it was better that
Monseigneur should see his castle burn to the ground. A good revenge,
my precious aunt. First you take away one's love, then one's property,
then the ambition that makes life worth living; and after that, to
finish, you give the _coup de grace_. That was one of my reasons,
perhaps.
"For another, I hear Madame Giroux scream, she who used to give me
_croquignoles_ years ago, when I was a boy, and I go to the rescue. I
save the life of Jean Baptiste because of a _croquignole_. Also, it is
a pity to let a strong man be choked in that black smoke, without a
struggle, without a chance. I prefer to see him die fighting, so I pull
him out of the fire that I may prolong the game. You understand, my
gentle aunt, the ways of the tiger, which are those of his first cousin,
the domestic cat?"
"Yes, I understand perfectly. The same family--a difference in size,
that is all. We will play with him for a while, and then we will make
an end. But first, my nephew, we have our little plan."
"Damn your little plan, you she-devil! We will speak of it to-morrow.
Good-night, my blessed aunt. Pleasant dreams."
*CHAPTER XVIII*
*MICHEL*
In St. Placide, as elsewhere, the habitants usually build their houses
quite near to the main road, with a background of green fields, but
scarcely a tree by the house to give shade in summer or to break the
force of the wind in winter. It is an ancestral custom, perhaps, coming
down from the time when there was danger from wild beasts, Indians and
forest fires; or it may be that the good habitants do not value trees
because they find them superfluous. City people love to surround their
homes with lawns and trees, a sort of make-believe country, but in the
true country they are in the way, occupying space that could be used for
other purposes, and giving shade injurious to potatoes, turnips, onions,
cabbages, and all the other useful products of the vegetable garden. In
the mountain valleys, above all, good land is scarce, and it is wasteful
to give it over to the growing of trees, which do well enough in the
hills above and the swamps below. For firewood, trees are necessary,
but for shade, what need? The warm, sunny days are all too few, in any
case. As for beauty, what could be finer than a broad expanse of
cultivated fields, sunny open spaces of green and yellow, with the dark
forest all about, a lovely picture in a handsome frame?
Michel Gamache was no cultivator, and his thoughts of trees were not
those of a grower of cabbages. To him the forest was a place of refuge,
and every tree a sentinel on guard. How faithful they were, those tall
sentinels, always standing in their places, always interposing their
bodies as a shield, always spreading their branches as a covering? He
loved them, every one, the maples, the poplars, the birches; but most of
all the pines, the spruces, the balsams, and all the tribe of
evergreens, that protected him against the summer's heat and the
winter's cold and were a barrier between him and the outer world. They
were good companions, too, for they talked with him in a language that
he well understood, music that caused his heart-strings to vibrate, and
awoke responsive echoes in his soul. In all the changing seasons, when
the wind blew and when the air was still, in sunshine and rain, by night
and by day, he loved to be in the forest, to see the varied forms,
colours, and movements of the trees, to hear their voices, to converse
with them without reserve, to be silent and to know that they were his
friends. Yet he was no misanthrope, this strange man, but a lonely
spirit whom the neighbours could not understand, and who felt most at
home in the company of trees.
The neighbours seldom visited Michel Gamache, for they feared him, and
it was a long and lonely path that led to his log castle in the forest.
He was known as a wise man, one who had insight into the ways of the
world and the hearts of men; could predict the weather and read the
signs of the times; understood the medicinal virtues of all plants; was
on friendly terms with all beasts, birds, and fishes; had sources of
information unknown to the generality of men; could give advice that
would heal the sick, discover lost property, unite estranged friends,
and lead the distressed and perplexed into the way of prosperity and
peace.
He was a sorcerer, who had sold his soul to Satan for a great treasure
of gold; who never went to Mass nor confessed to the priest; who was
often changed into a _loup garou_; who could cause cows to drop their
calves, to withhold their milk, to become frantic and run away into the
forest. He had the fatal gift of the evil eye; could bring the itch,
the measles, the smallpox, and disease of every other kind; in short, he
could command all the powers of darkness to torment and destroy his
enemies, if only he wished to do so. Fortunately he had seldom, if ever,
used this malignant power; and could usually be propitiated by a small
offering, which, strange to say, he always refused. It was part of his
contract with Satan, it would seem, that he should give his most
valuable advice for nothing; though why the evil one should have made a
stipulation so favourable to the neighbours it was hard to understand.
Possibly Michel thought to save himself some of the pains of Purgatory
by works of charity; but he should know that it was not a question of
Purgatory any more when one had sold oneself to Satan, who would come
some time, unexpected and unwelcome, and drag the lost soul down to the
bottomless pit, where works of charity were of no avail and indulgence
was unknown.
It was terrible, no doubt, the fate of a sorcerer, and dangerous to have
communications with him; but what was one to do when in great trouble
and all other means had failed, when the priest could not help and the
saints gave no heed? Surely the good God would forgive poor people who,
in their extremity, sought aid from such a source. Besides, some said
that Michel was no sorcerer at all, but a practiser of white magic, a
familiar of good spirits, and that they who consulted him were in no
sense tainted with the sin of witchcraft. Surely it was right to give
the old man the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, one could confess and
receive absolution, for Father Paradis had never accused Michel of
witchcraft, but only of neglecting his religious duties; and had always
let the penitents off with reproof and warning and a penance not too
severe.
Jean Baptiste laughed at all this idle talk; yet in the hour of loss and
disappointment he turned, not to the priest, the professional confessor,
but to his friend and his father's friend, the old man who had known
defeat and humiliation, but had gained wisdom and strength, a true
appreciation of the values of life, a high courage in danger, and a
joyful hope toward the future that rested in the good will of God. If
any man could give advice at such a time it was Michel Gamache; but in
any case he would understand, and it would be a great relief and
satisfaction to tell him everything, to show him the destruction and
ruin that had come, to consider what material should be cast away, and
what could be used again in making a new building out of the wreckage of
the past.
So Jean Baptiste, on the evening after the great fire, when the
benumbing effect of the calamity was over and he had come to realize the
full magnitude of the disaster, betook himself to the forest retreat of
Michel Gamache.
Michel, who was sitting on the doorstep, heard Jean coming along the
winding path, and rose to meet him as he came out into the open.
"Good evening, Jean," he said, "I was expecting you."
"Yes," said Jean, "I would come to you, of course."
"Of course," said Michel, nodding his head. "You are in trouble."
"Do you not know, Monsieur Gamache, that my house is gone, burned to the
ground? You have been away, then."
"Yes, I have been away for some time, at Lac Desir, up there. I was
arranging my camp for the winter. There will be good trapping this
season, better than ever. Oh, the prospects are good, excellent. Come
with me, Jean; we shall both become quite rich. A single skin of the
silver fox, as you know, may be worth a thousand dollars, or more.
There will be caribou without limit, and moose; not to mention hares and
grouse, so that we shall not lack for food. With a few bags of flour
and some sides of bacon we shall live like lords, better than the guests
of the Hotel St. Louis, I assure you. And oh, the freedom, the glory of
that life, far from the world, near to Nature and to God! It would be a
good place for you, Jean, for a time--a retreat, you know. At times
people need that, my son, for the soul's rest. But your house is gone,
you say? Well, that was to be expected."
"Expected?"
"Assuredly, my son. Did I not warn you? No? Well, it could not have
been prevented. Pamphile Lareau is here, is he not?"
"Pamphile? Do you know, Monsieur Gamache, that he saved my life at the
risk of his own?"
"Yes, I know. Which proves, does it not, that he started the fire?"
"Started the fire? Impossible! It was the lightning."
"You think so, Jean, but you are mistaken. Listen. Last evening at
midnight I was at my cabin at Lac Desir, thirty miles away, sitting on a
log near the door and looking out on the lake--a mirror in which all the
stars were reflected. Not a cloud was in the sky. Suddenly there was a
flash, as of lightning, and there, in the middle of the lake, stood La
Folie; and on the top of the roof lay Jean Baptiste Giroux, yourself,
pale as one who is dead. Then the brightness was gone, but still the
shadow of the house was on the lake, and would not go away. After a
time a light appeared in the window, then a burst of flame; and I saw
the people running out of the door, climbing from the windows, the
neighbours arriving, with much excitement and confusion and wild
gesticulation. But still the body of Jean Baptiste, your body, lay upon
the roof, until Pamphile arrived and you were saved. Yes, I saw it all,
as in the depths of a crystal. Did I see Pamphile kindle the fire? No,
for it was quite dark, you know; but that he did it I have no doubt. It
was not the lightning; therefore it was Pamphile. So I knew that you
would need me, and I came. Thirty miles through the forest would be a
good walk even for a young fellow like you, would it not?"
"Indeed it would, Monsieur Gamache, and I thank you for coming. It does
me good to talk with you. Already I begin to take courage, to make new
plans, to see light ahead. But as to Pamphile, surely you are mistaken.
At great risk he led me down from the burning roof. It was the act of a
hero, and I have a mind to forgive him for everything--for burning the
house, even, if he really did it."
"Forgive him if you like, Jean, but watch him all the same. Yes, it
will be worth while to watch Pamphile and that witch, Mere Tabeau. They
have other plans, without doubt. The fire was only a beginning.
Pamphile would kill you, Jean, if he could."
"This is interesting, Monsieur Gamache. You make me forget, almost, the
loss of my house, and my other troubles."
"Other troubles, Jean? What are they, my son? But I know without
asking, and I tell you that there is no cause for trouble. She loves
you."
"No, Monsieur Gamache. On the contrary, she has gone to the convent;
for she does not love me, nor anything in the kingdom of earth. It is
the heavenly kingdom that she desires, and the good God whom she loves."
"Do not believe it, Jean," said the old man, with an inscrutable smile.
"It is you only that she loves; and if she thinks of the religious life
it is because of love--and pride. But love is stronger than pride. To
what convent, Jean?"
"The Ursulines, Monsieur Gamache."
"The Ursulines. Well, that is not so bad. Teaching sisters. That is
not to throw away one's life altogether. They are good ladies, those
sisters of Ste. Ursule. She will be happy there, after a time, after
she has forgotten. But to forget--there is the difficulty. Has Mother
Sainte Anne forgotten, I wonder?"
"Mother Sainte Anne?"