But have courage, my son. Gabrielle has not yet taken the veil, has not
even begun the novitiate. The bride of Heaven? No, no! For a young
girl of such accomplishments, of a beauty so rare, of an affection so
tender, it was a sad mistake. How I would have cherished her! How she
would have adorned the home, brightened the fireside! And the children
that might have played about, sat upon one's knee, thrown their arms
about one's neck! _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! What a mistake!"
"Monsieur!"
"Jean!"
"You are not speaking of Gabrielle."
"Of Gabrielle? No. Yes. She will be all this to you, and more. Have
courage, my friend."
"Monsieur Gamache, you are a true friend, one who stands by in the hour
of need. Those dark clouds are passing away now, and the sky is
clearing, with the promise of a fine day to-morrow. Good night,
Monsieur, and thank you a thousand times."
"Wait, Jean. You have not spoken of the house."
"The house? Oh, I had forgotten that. It is not of much consequence,
by comparison. Indeed, I am almost glad that it is gone. Yet it is a
great loss, a calamity."
"And the debt, Jean!"
"The debt. Yes, that is still worse. Bonhomme Laroche will try to take
the farm, I fear--the old place where we have lived for so many years.
For myself I should not care, but for the good mother it would be
terrible."
"You are right, Jean. To the young such a calamity is nothing. They
have good health, the strong arm, the cheerful spirit, the high courage,
the undaunted will. Nothing can subdue them. They are downcast, for a
time; but presently they rise again, stronger than ever, more eager for
the struggle, the test of manhood. But with the old it is different.
They have not the vigour, the joy of living any more; nor the elasticity
of spirit that gives the rebound, the recovery. They fall, and remain
on the ground; they are injured, and the wound does not heal; they are
sick, and do not recover. No, Jean, the old are afflicted with an
incurable disease. The joy of battle is not for them. For them sleep
and rest--the sleep of death, the rest of the grave. Jean, the good
mother must not leave the old home."
"No, Monsieur Gamache; it must not be. I will see to that."
"But how, Jean?"
"Oh, Monsieur, I will find a way, you may be sure. For one thing,
Bonhomme the miser cannot claim his principal--that will not be due for
two years. He can demand only the interest, a trifling sum, after all.
Meanwhile the farm is there, and I shall have the mail contract and some
tourists. In winter there will be lumbering or the trapping of which
you speak. When I think of silver foxes at a thousand dollars apiece I
see the debt vanish in a single season. Oh, we are not ready to die
yet, by any means. A man of my size and strength can surely earn a
living for the good mother and pay the debt off as well. Do not fear,
Monsieur Gamache."
"I have no fear for you, Jean, no fear at all. But come with me--I have
something to show you."
Michel led the way into the cabin, a habitation of a single long room,
with a fireplace and the apparatus of a kitchen at one end, and the
furniture of a bedroom at the other. It was the abode of a hunter and
fisherman, yet everything was neat and proper as though cared for by the
hand of a woman. On the walls were guns, fishing-rods, and snowshoes;
the antlers of caribou, moose, and red deer; a snowy owl; a golden
eagle; with various quaint decorations in shells and porcupine quills
after the manner of the Montaignais Indians. On the floor were the
tanned skins of bear, wolves, and lynxes; while over the fireplace, like
the holy picture of a shrine, hung a water-colour by a famous
artist--the portrait of a young and beautiful woman.
"There, Jean, my son, son of my old friend Toussaint Giroux, behold that
picture! You have seen it before, but do you know who it is? No; but I
will tell you. It is Mademoiselle Annette Duval, formerly of the parish
of Chateau Richer, now Mother Sainte Anne of the Ursulines, the patron
saint of this retreat, the holy angel who protects this place, who
presides over this home. You have said that Mademoiselle Gabrielle is
with her. Well, she is in good company, and will receive the best of
advice. Have courage, my friend. Mother Sainte Anne is religious,
without doubt, but something more than that. Beneath the robe of
religion there beats still a woman's heart. I have not seen her in
forty years, but I know that those eyes have the same gentle gaze, those
lips the same lovely smile, and that day and night she prays for one
whom once she loved."
Michel stood in silence for some moments as one who prayed, and then
turned suddenly to Jean with a dramatic gesture and an air of
cheerfulness, almost of gaiety.
"Well, Jean Baptiste, did I bring you here to worship at the shrine of a
bygone generation? By no means. It was to solve the problem of your
life, to untangle the complication of your affairs, to put you on the
road to fortune, fame, and love. To that end I will reveal to you the
secret which I have guarded for forty years. You look incredulous, my
friend, but you shall see and believe. Remove that bearskin, if you
please. Yes, the big one in the centre of the room. You see that
trap-door with the iron ring? Take hold and lift. Heavy? Only a
hundred pounds or so--a mere trifle for a man like you. Now let us
descend. We will take one of the candles from the altar--no sacrilege
in a cause like this. Come on, Jean. Now we can see better, as our
eyes become accustomed to the gloom. Do you see the old iron box in the
corner over there--there where it has rested so many years? It is ten
years since I examined it, but there is no reason to think that it has
been disturbed in all that time. Dieu, if it has been touched! But no,
it is covered with the dust of many years. Lift the lid. You cannot?
No, for it is locked. Do not be impatient--it was only a little joke of
mine. Here is the key. Turn it once--twice. There, you have it. Open
now, and look--look!"
"_Mon Dieu!_" said Jean, as he knelt by the box, and eagerly scanned the
contents. "What a quantity of gold! Napoleons, sovereigns, and some
Spanish coins of fifty years ago. A treasure, a great treasure! The box
is not large, but heavy. Let us try. _Sapre_, but it weighs four or
five hundred pounds, at the very least. It would take a strong man to
carry it away, but a burglar might pick the lock. Lucky that there are
no such people in St. Placide. Still, Monsieur Gamache, I recommend
that you place this money in the bank at Quebec. It has been safe for
forty years, but I should fear to leave it here for a single night. But
what a treasure! I begin to believe that you are a sorcerer after all,
and that these piles of yellow coin are devil's gold."
"Nothing of the sort!" exclaimed the old man, in high glee. "It is all
good money of the mints of France and England, good yellow gold,
receivable anywhere in the world. And what is more, Jean, my son, it
belongs to you."
"To me, Monsieur Gamache? Impossible! Certainly not!"
"But yes, Jean, it was your father's, and now it is yours."
"My father's? How can that be? He was always a poor man."
"His own fault, Jean, when he had a treasure like this. You, I hope,
will not be so foolish. It is yours, as I have said. Be so good as to
take it away."
"But why did not my father take it?"
"Why? Why? How do I know? Because, because your father was the
biggest damn fool that I have ever known. He was a fool, I say, and I
was another. We were two fools, two drivelling idiots. Be wise, Jean,
and ask no more questions. It is good gold, yellow gold, coin of the
realm, receivable for all debts, bankable anywhere in the world, of
unquestioned value. What more do you want?"
"Only one question, Monsieur Gamache. Why then did my father refuse to
take it?"
"_Peste!_" exclaimed Michel, stamping his foot. "This is the old man
again, a chip from the old block; yes, the old blockhead himself. Well,
if you will have it, I will tell you. It was a treasure that we found
in the hulk of a ship half-buried in the sands of Anticosti. There were
no names, no papers, only the bones of some men along the shore with
some fragments of clothing--that was all. The wreck we burned; the
bones we buried in the sand; and the gold we took to Ste. Famille on the
Isle of Orleans--that is to say, it was I who took it?"
"And my father?"
"Refused to take it--would not touch a single piece."
"No?"
"No! Because, as he said, they were smugglers or pirates, those men who
had been cast away; and the gold was the reward of robbery, or the price
of blood. Yes, he said, in the very words that you have used, that it
was devil's gold. He would have given it to the Church, that the altar
might sanctify the gift, as he said; but I would not. No, and I left it
buried for forty years. Devil's gold? What folly! Yes, he was a
valiant man, that Toussaint Giroux, a valiant man and a trusty friend;
but obstinate as a mule."
"Devil's gold!" repeated Jean, slowly. "The reward of robbery. The
price of blood. Yes, that was it, a treasure acquired by fraud or
force, jetsam that one may not own, but may dedicate to a holy purpose.
He was a valiant man, that good father, as you have said. He would not
touch the treasure, and I, his son, I will not touch it either."
Michel held up the candle and passed it slowly before the face of Jean
Baptiste, but could find in the firm mouth and steady eye no sign of
relenting. Then, with a shrug of the shoulders, he said, as though
reciting an oft-repeated formula:
"It would be useless, no doubt, to remind you that you are throwing away
a fortune, that you are allowing a mass of wealth to lie idle that might
start a great enterprise and give work to a thousand men. It would be
in vain to tell you that you are giving up all your plans for the
improvement of the parish; that you are sacrificing your mother and the
girl you love; that you are blighting your life, blasting your
prospects, and shutting the door of opportunity in your face. That is,
in substance, what I said to Toussaint Giroux; that is what I say to
Jean Baptiste, his youngest son--and with the same effect."
"The same," said Jean Baptiste.
"Then I have to tell you, Jean, that you are the same species of fool as
your father. What a damn fool he was, that man! I rejoice to think of
it. What courage! What determination! What resolve! A hero, a knight
without fear and without reproach. Such a man was your father, Jean, my
son. Never forget it! Jean Baptiste, son of Toussaint Giroux, I salute
you!"
*CHAPTER XIX*
*MOTHER SAINTE ANNE*
It was about four o'clock in the afternoon, and the shadows of the tall
houses of the Rue des Jardins reached already the middle of the narrow
street, as an old gentleman in the garb of half a century ago passed
along the shady side and entered the open gate of the Ursuline Convent.
He was a tall man, not handsome, but of an erect bearing and
distinguished appearance; and the fashion of his frock coat of fine
homespun, his beaver hat and black stock, together with his carefully
trimmed grey hair and whiskers, proclaimed him a country dandy of a
former generation, dressed for Church, or to pay a visit of importance
to his lady love.
It was more than forty years since he had last paid such a visit, and
the costume of that occasion had reposed in the bottom of an old cedar
box during all those years. But now he wore it with pride and dignity;
and carried his light malacca cane with something of the swagger of
former days, when he had thought himself as good as any of the young
bloods of Quebec, not excepting the army officers, who trusted overmuch
in the grandeur of their red uniforms to win the ladies' hearts. Was he
not a cadet of a good family; son of the seigneur of Ste. Famille on the
Island; and had he not the right to hold up his head among the best?
Indeed, whether he had the right or not, he was accustomed to do so by
virtue of his consciousness of personal merit and his strong right hand.
Evidently, the old gentleman had been a force to be reckoned with; and
even now the memory of a bygone glory seemed to linger about him,
commanding the respect and deference of all the passers-by.
Crossing the paved courtyard with an active stride remarkable in one of
his years, he pulled the door-bell and waited until the portress came, a
sister of mature age and sober mien.
"May I have the honour of an interview with the Reverend Mother
Superior?"
The sister hesitated.
"It is somewhat unusual," she began, but immediately added: "I dare say
that the Reverend Mother will see you. Will Monsieur be so kind as to
give his name?"
The old gentleman presented a thin visiting-card, and was shown into the
waiting-room with the intimation that the Reverend Mother would soon
appear. The room was plainly furnished; with a carpet of dull colours,
a few straight-backed chairs, and a plain walnut table on which were
some religious books--the _Spiritual Exercises of Saint Ignace_, the
_Imitation of Christ_, a _Roman Breviary_ in four volumes, and a life of
Angele de Brescia. On the bare walls was a large crucifix, and a number
of holy pictures representing the Lord Jesus, the Holy Mother, Sainte
Ursule, and other saints and martyrs, both men and women; who for the
love of God had forsaken parents and friends, abjured the world,
crucified the flesh, and given themselves a living sacrifice unto God.
It was an exhibition of piety such as might well make one regret the
struggles and sins of the outer world, admire the sincerity and devotion
of those who had chosen the way of the Cross, and rejoice in the thought
that they were now singing the eternal song around the throne of God.
As the old man stood looking at the ascetic and courageous faces, the
spirit of the place came stealing upon him; and he saw that there was a
way of life in which the lonely, the loveless, the defeated and
disappointed, as well as men and women of high ideals and lofty
purposes, might find refuge, shelter, companionship, and peace, and have
at the same time work to do that would give scope to all their powers
and absorb all their thoughts. They would suffer, no doubt, but not
more than others; while they would have great satisfaction in the
success of their work and the triumph of their cause. It was a good
life in itself for those who had the vocation; and as for the final
reward there was a wonderful hope, a glorious chance, for which sane
people might well throw down the vain baubles and frivolities of the
world. Yes, the religious life was not to be despised. Only human love
was lacking, but what was that? A passing fancy, the pastime of an
hour.
"Monsieur Gamache."
The old gentleman turned from the holy pictures to find the Reverend
Mother Superior standing before him, a little old lady clad in the garb
of the Ursulines, with a rosary of plain jet beads about her neck, from
which hung an ivory crucifix, yellow with age. Her sweet, wistful face
was pale, but she smiled, and her eyes glistened as she held out her
hand to the old friend.
He bent over the frail little hand and raised it to his lips in the old
courtly way. As for words, he could find none.
"Be seated, Monsieur," said Mother Sainte Anne, taking up the thread of
conversation dropped so many years ago. "It is a great pleasure to see
you again, and all the more so because quite unexpected. 'Until
to-morrow,' you said, as we parted that day. I remember it well. A
good many to-morrows have come and gone since that time. Yet I should
have known you anywhere. It is I who have changed the more."
"But no, Annette--pardon me, Reverend Mother--I do not find that you
have changed in the least."
The Mother Superior smiled, and a faint blush appeared on her pale
cheeks.
"In one respect you have not changed, Monsieur Gamache--you were always
able to turn a compliment in a very pleasant way, though without much
regard to fact, perhaps. It is sinful; yet one likes to hear those
charming little untruths, which flatter but do not deceive. You shall
confess to Father Felix, Monsieur, and he will give you a suitable
penance."
"Confess, Reverend Mother? To what end? That is what I have not done in
forty years. There, I am confessing now, and already I feel better.
You have power to grant absolution, have you not?"
Mother Sainte Anne held up her hands in amazement and horror.
"Forty years! You have not confessed once in all that time, since,
since---- _Bon Dieu_, what neglect! What a sin against the soul,
against the spirit of God! If you had died thus, would any prayers, my
prayers, or those of your guardian angel, even, have been able to
deliver you? Oh, Monsieur Gamache, Michel, my old friend, delay no
longer, not a single day. The grace of God is everlasting,
inextinguishable. It still pursues you; and by my voice it once more
asks you to confess, to demand forgiveness, to receive absolution."
The Reverend Mother was weeping, and Michel Gamache was not unmoved.
Yet he could not at once rid himself of the cynicism of years, but
allowed himself to doubt his best friend.
"Is it that you ask this as a personal request, Reverend Mother, or
merely to save another soul from Hell?"
"Michel," said the old lady, in a low voice, "I have not seen you once
since the day we parted, but during every day in all those years I have
wished, yes, I have prayed that we might meet again in the eternal
world."
"Why then, Annette, did you leave me at that time, without a word?"
"Michel," she replied, in a broken voice, "they told me that you had
gone away in anger, and afterwards that you were dead. It was not for
years, when it was too late, that I learned the truth."
"Annette," said the old man, "I was always sure that there was some
mistake; and always have I thought of you with the same regard, a love
that will last until the end of life, and afterwards, whether in Heaven
or Hell, will remain the same."
"Michel, it is good to hear you talk like that, for now I know that we
shall meet again in the homeland of the soul. You will go to Father
Felix, will you not, this very day? You will find him in the Basilica
an hour before sunset, in the little box to the right as you enter the
main door. You will see him?"
"At least I will visit Father Paradis at St. Placide immediately after
my return."
"No, Michel, do not delay. You will find Father Felix to-day, will you
not, for my sake?"
"Yes, Annette, I will do it for your sake--and my own."
"Michel, you make me very happy," said Annette, in words that Michel had
heard before, in the old days. "I have transgressed, I fear, the rules
of the convent, and I also shall have confessions to make. But I am
glad that you have come, and Father Felix will understand."
"Yes, he will understand, no doubt, if he is still a man. The priests,
fortunately, are human beings like ourselves; and have the same
temptations, the same sufferings. Who could confess to an angel who has
never passed through the human life? But the priests, the saints, the
Holy Mother, the Lord Jesus--they know, they understand. And you,
Reverend Mother, will understand when I present a petition in favour of
my friend, my son, I may say--Jean Baptiste Giroux, of our parish."
"Jean Baptiste Giroux? I do not know of him. He is a son, perhaps, of
your ancient friend Toussaint Giroux, of Chateau Richer, whom I have
seen in former times. He was a noble young man, I have heard."
"Yes, Reverend Mother, and the son is like his father, tall, strong,
courageous, with all the virtues, all the abilities. But for all that,
one whom he loves has left him, and will give herself to the religious
life."
"And why not, Monsieur Gamache?"
"Why not, you say? How can you say that, Annette? Will it not be a
mistake, a sad mistake, as in our case?"
"Oh!" exclaimed Mother Sainte Anne, with a catch in her voice. "Was it
for this you came? Well, it will be useless, I fear. Mademoiselle
Tache will take the first vows very soon, and after that it is not
likely that she will change her mind. She will be a notable addition to
our Congregation--a young lady of good family, beautiful, accomplished,
vivacious, of a charming disposition, of a most ardent devotion, and
with a considerable dowry. Yes, that is not to be despised, the dowry
which the bride of Heaven brings to her Lord and Master, a gift to lay
at His feet, a contribution to the great work of the Church through the
humble sisters of Sainte Ursule. Yes, Monsieur, Mademoiselle Tache will
be happy and useful with us. She is in every way fitted for the
religious vocation, and as a teaching sister will be one of the best.
Many heretics are won to the true fold through teachers such as she.
Yes, I foretell great things for her. A true vocation."
"A vocation? Reverend Mother, can you believe it?"
"But certainly. Who could doubt it? She has all the qualities, all the
marks, and she wishes it sincerely."
"Are you certain, quite certain?"
"Of course," replied the old lady, with some asperity. "Has she not said
so?"
"But, Reverend Mother, permit a single question. Does she know that Jean
Baptiste loves her, with his whole heart, without reserve? Does she
know this, or does she think that he has forsaken her, that he despises
her, that he is in love with another?"
"How should I know, Monsieur? Mademoiselle Tache has been very reserved
on this point. There has been some affair of the heart--that is all
that I know."
"Reverend Mother," said the old man, rising. "Grant me but one favour
for the sake of old times. Be so kind as to tell Mademoiselle Gabrielle
what I have said."
"I will tell her, of course, but it will make no difference. Those who
are called to the religious life are inspired by a love that is higher
than any mere human emotion. It is a live coal from the altar of God, a
spark of that love which brought the divine Saviour to earth to live and
die for a lost world. And when one thus gives oneself in the spirit of
true devotion, one finds a peace and rest which the world cannot give,
and bliss ineffable on the bosom of the divine Redeemer. In our love for
Him and for His cause all human loves are embraced and glorified--we
give them up that we may receive them again, purified and transfigured,
in the beauty of holiness. Ah, Monsieur, the religious life is a good
life; and afterwards, in the eternal world, the faithful will live with
God unto the ages of the ages. Amen!"
"Amen!" said the old man, solemnly. "Give unto them eternal rest, O
God; and may perpetual light illumine them!"
"Adieu, Annette," said Michel, a moment later. "It has been good to see
you again."
"Yes, and for me also," said Mother Sainte Anne. "But tell me, Michel.
Did you come for the sake of your young friend only, or for Gabrielle?"
"No, Annette. It was for your sake most of all. I have been on the
point of coming for many years, and the other motive was the occasion,
the pretext, merely."
Mother Sainte Anne's face lighted up with a radiant smile; and through a
mist of tears Michel Gamache saw again the youth and loveliness of
former years, and was satisfied.
*CHAPTER XX*
*THE ROBBERY*
"There, my nephew," said Mere Tabeau, as the two emerged from the forest
surrounding the log castle of Michel Gamache. "Behold the den of the
beast. He has gone away for a day or two, permitting us to make a little
exploration. Very considerate of him, was it not?"
"But there is nobody here--no dog, even."
"No, my good nephew, not even a dog. It is a sorcerer, the inhabitant
of this place, a species of wolf, you know; and wolves have no love for
dogs. There are no domestic animals of any kind; and no wild beasts
either, except the sorcerer himself and some of his cousins, who come
from the forest now and then."
"Wolves?" exclaimed Pamphile.
"Even so," she sneered. "But do not fear, my brave nephew; they spend
the day in the recesses of the forest, and do not come out until the
evening twilight. Fear nothing."
"Bah!" said Pamphile. "I have no fear of people, nor dogs, nor even
wolves. If they were here there would be something to kill. No, my
aunt, it is not wolves that I fear, but this damned silence. There is
not the call of a bird, the chatter of a squirrel, nor the chirp of an
insect. Even the leaves of the trees are still. It is a silence that
one can hear. It is as though it were a place of the dead. My aunt, it
would be better, I think, to go away."
The old crone laughed in scorn, a shrill, cackling laugh that woke the
echoes of the forest.
"There!" she said. "You hear something, do you not? Bah! You surprise
me, Monsieur the bravo of Nevada. One who carries a pistol, one who has
fought with savages, cowboys, cattle-thieves, gamblers, one who has
saved his enemy from a burning house--to be afraid of a silence, and in
broad daylight! It is to laugh. Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Well, let us go
away. Let us leave the treasure, and the old miser will give it to Jean
Baptiste. _Hein_? You don't like that?"