peasant with the swagger of a grand seigneur, that bishop that was to
be. He despises me, does he? He strikes me with a whip, like a dog.
Sacred pig's head! I will see him crawl in the dust, and then I will
crush him with my foot. Obtain the treasure, he? Come on, my aunt; let
us storm the castle. Shall we break down the door or cut out a window?
The door is on the latch, you say--not barred? _Mon Dieu_! Is it
possible? A treasure in such a place, and no bolt, no bar, no guard?
My aunt, it is a trap. You shall press the latch; you shall open the
door; and then you shall receive a charge of buckshot in the body. No,
the game is not worth the candle."
"Coward!" snarled the old hag. "Good-for-nothing! Call yourself a man!
Get out of my way, you chicken-liver, you who have not the spirit of a
mouse! There! I open the door; I enter the den; the beast is not
there; there is no gun, no trap, no weapon of any kind but what you see
on the walls, in full view. Now you can arm yourself to the teeth, if
you like; but there is no need. Oh yes, I have been here before, to
make a reconnaissance, so to speak; and I would have taken the treasure
myself, but that it is too heavy. You will have trouble to lift it, my
nephew. But you are strong, Pamphile, as strong as Jean Baptiste
himself, if you would believe it. You could kill him--you. I say it,
I, your mother."
"What? What are you saying, my aunt?"
"No aunt at all, Pamphile--your mother, sure enough, your dear mother.
Kiss me, my son."
"Wait, my aunt; this is too sudden. My mother? Is it possible? A most
affectionate mother, I must say--a species of ostrich, or alligator.
Well, since you say it, you who should know, I must believe, I suppose;
but I confess that I am not so very proud of the relationship. And my
father, what of him? Perhaps you can reveal this also, since you are
telling things."
"Well, that is not so easy to determine; but there is reason to think
that it is Monsieur the lord of this castle, the owner of the treasure
that we are to take."
"Michel Gamache?"
"No other."
"Then, my aunt, my mother, if you will, the treasure is ours, in a
sense."
"That is what I have been trying to say."
"Well, my sainted parent; let us take what is ours before the old man
returns. He is a miser, as is well known; an unnatural father, as you
have intimated; a rascal in any case. That he is a sorcerer I no longer
believe, for the species of sorcery which he practises is no mystery to
me. I have used it, many a time, back there in Nevada. No, my dear
parents, let us not fool one another any more, for we are all sorcerers
together. Dog does not eat dog, as you know. Curious, that fear that I
had a moment since. It is all gone now; driven away by the power of
reason and a revelation concerning family ties. Come, my lovely mother;
let us find the treasure and take it away without delay."
"Pamphile, you are a strange mixture of philosopher and fool, coward and
hero; but that is what one should expect from the events connected with
your birth. Some time I will tell you the story, but now we have other
fish to fry. Kick away those skins. There is the trap-door. Lift it.
Let us descend. A candle? I have it. Follow me. Now we are in the
cave, and over there in the corner we should find the box. There it is.
_Dieu merci_! You can lift it, of course. Take it up, now, and carry
it out. I will help you, if necessary. I am not very strong, but for a
treasure like this I could put forth some effort yet. Think of it,
Pamphile, the pleasure of counting all that gold, of feeling the weight
of every piece, of seeing the glimmer of it by the light of a candle.
I, too, must have a cave, a dark cave with no windows; and every night I
will descend to look, and feel and count. It will cost something for
candles, but one cannot have pleasure without expense. As for you,
Pamphile, you will want to spend your share, to gamble it away; and soon
you will have nothing, nothing. What a pity! Better leave it all with
me."
"When you are tired of talking, my dear mother, will you be so good as
to give me the key?"
"The key? I have no key. That is what I have not been able to find.
But you can carry the box, I know."
"There is no need for that, my precious mother. If I had a piece of
strong wire. Ah, here it is in my pocket. A happy accident, is it not?
How useful pockets are! Possibly we might find some other useful
articles there, if the lock should prove refractory--a stick of
dynamite, for example. It is an interesting trade, the locksmith's, one
of the accomplishments that I have learned in the course of my
wanderings. But this is not a difficult combination. There goes one
bolt; and there goes the other. Now the hasp is loose, and the lid is
ready to open. If there is to be an explosion it will come at this
stage. My cherished parent, you shall have the pleasure of opening the
treasure chest, since you have desired it for so many years. The old
can be spared, you know, but the future of the world is with the young."
"Bah!" said the old woman. "You make a great fuss about nothing, my
brave son; you with the long legs, the broad shoulders, the fierce look,
the big words. Bah! You are a poor excuse for a man. I will lift the
lid, of course, and you shall see what we have come to find. There!
Look now! Look! Oh, _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! What is this? _Sacre
diable_! _Millecochons_! _Sacre_! _Sacre_! _Cru-ru-ru-ru-de Dieu_!"
"What is the matter?" cried Pamphile. "What the deuce is here? No
gold, eh? I thought as much. Stones from the river? Yes, better than I
expected. Oh, be still, you old fool. Stop your yelling. Who is making
a fuss now, I should like to know? Be still, I say!"
"Oh, Pamphile! Oh! Oh! You do not know, you cannot imagine the
disappointment, the sorrow, after all these years, to see all my hopes,
all my plans, come to an end like this. No treasure, no revenge! Ah,
the miserable one, to rob a poor woman, a poor old woman who had but one
hope, one ambition, one thing to make life worth while! Now all is
gone. No money, no revenge! Nothing, nothing! _Sacre_! _Sacre_!
Pamphile, I am finished. Let us go, my nephew."
"Nephew?" said Pamphile, as they slowly mounted the steps to the floor
above. "I was your son a moment since, although I did not believe it
for a moment."
"It was a lie, Pamphile. You are my nephew, truly, the son of my sister
Cecile. She was a fool, Cecile, and I could not abide her. Oh, we were
two doves--Cecile and Celestine--two angels with downy wings. Your
father? He also was a fool. What he could see in Cecile I could not
guess. They went away without my blessing, you may be sure, and soon
after he got himself drowned in the Gatineau. Oh, they were married
with all regularity in the church, by a priest--Father Gibaut of Chateau
Richer. No, you are no son of Michel Gamache, that traitor, that thief!
Ah, if I had him here I would stab him to the heart, that he might be
damned for ever, body and soul. I would go to Hell myself, to see him
burn. A thousand devils take him, stick him on forks, tear his eyes
out, his tongue, his liver, roast him in the fire! Ha, you damned one,
squirm, wriggle, writhe in the fire that never shall be quenched--for
ever, for ever, unto the ages of the ages! Ah, that is revenge, revenge
at last--sweet, sweet!"
Mere Tabeau was raving; and when she saw the picture of Annette Duval,
serene and calm like a holy saint above an altar, she tore it from its
place; spat upon it; stamped upon it; and then raged about the room like
a wild beast, tearing and breaking, scratching and biting and foaming at
the mouth; until at last she fell unconscious to the floor, and Pamphile
carried her home.
Toward evening Mere Tabeau recovered consciousness, and asked for the
priest, knowing that she had but a little while to live. Father Paradis
came in haste, carrying the _Bon Dieu_; while Pamphile, who drove, kept
ringing the warning bell; whereat all who heard fell on their knees to
pray for the departing soul. The priest remained with the dying woman
for a long time, hearing her last confession, administering the holy
wafer, anointing with the holy oil, and offering prayers of intercession
until the last breath was expired, the heart had ceased to beat, and the
soul had passed away from the mortal body.
When Father Paradis came from the chamber of death there was upon his
face an expression of ineffable peace, as of one in communion with the
eternal world; and his eyes had the far-away look of one who gazes upon
things unseen. Even Pamphile felt a sense of awe and mystery, and for
some time drove on in silence. Then, unable to contain himself any
longer, he broke out suddenly:
"She was a bad woman, Monsieur le cure."
"What? What is that you say, Pamphile?"
"She was a wicked old woman, and is now in Hell, no doubt."
"Ah, Pamphile, how do I know? I am not her judge. She is in the hands
of God."
"Yes, Monsieur le cure, but if there is a mortal sin which she has not
committed I do not know what it is. I understand that any one of these
is enough to damn the soul. Is it not so?"
"Yes, Pamphile, if unforgiven. But who shall limit the mercy of God?
Even Judas, if he had repented, might have been forgiven. This poor old
woman, who has sinned and suffered, comes, like Magdalen, to the feet of
Jesus; in repentance and with tears, confesses her sins and receives
absolution. The thief on the cross----"
"Oh yes, I know," said Pamphile, "but is it possible to cheat God like
that? The old reprobate lives in sin to the very last; and then, to
crown all, performs an act of sublime hypocrisy, cheating herself, the
priest, and Almighty God. If she had died in the fit--what then?"
"God was merciful to her, Pamphile. He knew the circumstances of her
life, her parentage, associations, temptations. He knows all,
comprehends all, and is able to forgive when we could not. God is our
creator, my son; do not forget that; and is disposed to overlook the
sins of His creatures, poor insects that we are. We do not cheat Him,
no, but He makes allowance."
"Well, that is a comfortable faith, Monsieur le cure. I hope that the
good God will make allowance for me too, for the little sins of the
past, and for some that I intend to commit before I die."
"Pamphile!" said the priest, in horror. "That is little short of
blasphemy; and approaches the sin against the Holy Spirit, for which
there is no forgiveness, neither in this world nor in the world to come.
No, my son, one must have the good intention, else one cannot receive
the grace of forgiveness, because the heart is closed. Pamphile, my
son, repent of the sins of the past; cast away the bad intention for the
future; and open your heart to the grace of God. Now, my son, without
delay."
"Ah, Monsieur, I wish to do so. Indeed, I have already commenced by
giving up a little scheme of mine, the St. Ange Gold Mining Company,
Limited, to which so many of our good friends have subscribed. But I
will not take their money, for they need it more than I."
"God will reward you, Pamphile."
"I hope so, Monsieur Paradis."
"And if you have any other bad intention, Pamphile, cast it from you and
you will have peace in your soul."
"I will, Monsieur, I will; but first I must settle a little score with
one of the good neighbours."
"Forgive him, my son, as you hope to be forgiven."
"Impossible, Monsieur le cure. I will settle the score; and afterwards
I will come and tell you, for I have long desired to turn over a new
leaf. I might have been a good man, Monsieur; but I was turned in the
wrong direction. You shall turn me the other way, Monsieur le cure."
"Now, Pamphile."
"To-morrow, Monsieur le cure."
"There may be no to-morrow, Pamphile."
"Well, Monsieur Paradis, I will take the risk of that. I was always a
gambler. One more chance; one more throw! Fortune, life, eternity I
will risk once more; and after that we shall see. _Au revoir_, Monsieur
le cure. Will you not say a little prayer for my intention?"
"Assuredly Pamphile, but I implore----"
"_Au revoir_, Monsieur. Until to-morrow or the day after."
*CHAPTER XXI*
*LOVE AND WAR*
It was early morning; and Jean Baptiste, before beginning the day's
work, was walking slowly along the path where he had met Gabrielle and
Pamphile, thinking of the beauty and joy that he had lost, and trying to
reconstruct the pattern of his life out of the broken fragments that
were left. His conversation with Michel Gamache had given him renewed
hope and courage; but now that his friend and confessor was away, his
thoughts went back to the day of calamity, and his feet turned to the
path of disappointment and vain regret.
It was a lovely path; winding along through the woods in a little glen
where the ground was all covered with ferns, the rocks with moss, and
the trees with lichen; while a clear stream descended in a series of
cascades, filling the air with the sound of falling water--a mournful
accompaniment to the sad thoughts of Jean Baptiste. Had Gabrielle been
there the music of the stream would have been gay as the morning song of
love; but now it was like a dirge; and the lonely glen was as the valley
of the shadow of death.
Few flowers were there: some white orchids; the green, rank arum with
its bitter root; and the pale, dejected Indian pipe, the corpse-plant,
smoked in ghostly pow-wows by Indians long since dead. In the spring
the baneberry had been in flower; but now only the blood-red berries
were left; and where the trillium had bloomed were only withered leaves,
and a poisonous, purple fruit. The springtime of love was gone; and the
fruition of summer brought nothing but disappointment and despair.
And yet, on the very spot where Jean had met and lost Gabrielle, he
found a little plant with shining leaves, a delicate white flower, and
long roots of golden thread running through the cool, black mould. The
roots were bitter to the taste, but of a healing virtue, purifying to
the blood; the trefoil was a holy sign, potent to drive away evil
spirits; and the white flower was a symbol of hope, a promise of life
and love. As Jean knelt to gather the little plant, its several virtues
seemed to enter his body and soul, and he arose revived, purified, and
encouraged, once more believing in himself, Gabrielle, the world, and
God. He had drunk a bitter cup to the dregs, it seemed, yet he felt
greatly strengthened. Dark clouds of doubt had hung over his soul; but
now they were passing away; the silver lining was showing; the blue was
appearing; and soon the bright sun would be shining in a clear sky. He
had felt himself alone, deserted by lover and friend; but now it seemed
as though all were returning, and Gabrielle herself could not be far
away. He had been beset by foes, not knowing how to escape; but now he
felt the glow of returning strength, the joy of coming victory; and he
had it in his heart to thank his enemies for having set themselves
against him. So Jean strode up the path, out of the dark valley of
humiliation, toward the lookout point on the hill, into the light and
warmth of the rising sun; and as he went he sang in a deep, resonant
voice a brave song of life and death and war:
"Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,
Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;
Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre
Ne sait quand reviendra,
Ne sait quand reviendra,
Ne sait quand reviendra."
At the top of the hill Jean suddenly ceased to sing; and stood gazing in
astonishment at the figure of a woman in a white dress, with a white
sunbonnet on her head, standing by the fence and looking out over the
valley as though expecting some one.
"Gabrielle!"
There was no reply, but the vision was still there.
"Gabrielle! Is it you, dear? Speak to me!"
"No, it is not your dear Gabrielle, and I am sorry." replied the
apparition, turning. "But is it true that I resemble her? I should be
much pleased to think so."
"No. Yes, Mademoiselle Laroche," stammered Jean. "All woman look alike
more or less. There is a resemblance, certainly, and it was heightened
by the sunlight. I was dazzled on coming out of the woods."
"Indeed!" said Blanchette, with a grim smile. "You are more truthful
than complimentary, Monsieur Giroux. I know very well that I have not a
pretty face. It was my figure, then, that reminded you of Mademoiselle
Gabrielle?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"Bah! Jean, why lie any more? You know very well that Mademoiselle
Tache is tall and slender; while I, my friend, am short and plump,
though not exactly stout, as yet. Confess, now, that it was a mere
illusion created by the thought. That of which one is thinking all the
time one sees everywhere. Good philosophy, is it not?"
"Mademoiselle Blanchette, you are always right. For penetration of
thought there is none that can compare with you."
"Now, Jean, that is better. There you strike a true note which finds
response in my intellect, if not in my heart. Yes, in my heart as well,
for I am conscious of a certain superiority there also. As for mere
beauty, that will disappear with time; but truth and love, the virtues
of the intellect and of the heart, will endure for ever. Yes, for ever,
Monsieur Jean."
"I know it, Mademoiselle."
"And those who have the least beauty, they often can love the most."
"Yes, Mademoiselle."
"Yes, you say 'yes, yes' like a parrot. Why do you not utter your own
thoughts? Why do you not say that you have no wish to be loved; that
you desire only to love; to find some object, some perfection of beauty
that absorbs you wholly, in the contemplation of which you are lost, so
that you forget all else; are blind, deaf, dumb, even, in the presence
of all others. Can you deny it, Monsieur Giroux?"
"No, Mademoiselle."
"And if that object were taken away, to Heaven, perhaps, or to a
nunnery, which is the same thing, it would be for ever enshrined in your
heart, and you would worship it until the end of life."
"Yes, Blanchette."
"And no second object could ever take the place of the first. There
could be no second, Jean Baptiste."
"Blanchette, all that you have said is true. I will not deny it."
"It would be useless, Jean. You do not lie with any conviction, my
friend. You are a man of sincerity and truth, such as the good God
seldom finds in man, and in woman, never. What constancy! Listen. I
will tell you a secret. No woman is worth it. We are not like that, we
others. We have our preferences, of course, but when it comes to
choosing, the case is otherwise. To prefer is one thing; to choose is
altogether different. Do you grasp the distinction, Monsieur the
scholar? For example, if we cannot have our first preference we take
the second, or the third; and as to the religious life, that is fourth
or fifth, possibly, according to circumstances. To be the bride of
Heaven, Monsieur, is highly desirable for the salvation of the soul, if
one cannot be the bride of some good, brave, strong man. For me, I also
will be the bride of Heaven, if I must."
"Blanchette, my friend, my sister, tell me--do you think that she will
return?"
Blanchette did not speak, but nodded her head emphatically.
"Why do you think so, Blanchette?"
"What a question!" exclaimed Blanchette, with indignation. "The young
Apollo wishes an enumeration of his virtues, evidently. Well, he shall
not have it from me. I have given you my opinion, have I not? As for
reasons, I will merely say, as other women do: because. Is that
sufficient?"
"It must be, since you say so; and I thank you more than I can tell.
And now I must leave you, I fear. There is work to do at the
place--especially since the fire. We are making a new start, you know.
Good-bye, Blanchette, I am glad that you were here."
"Must you go, Jean?"
"Yes. The sun is rising high, as you see. _Au revoir_, Blanchette."
"Wait a moment, Jean. Do not return by the path. Take the road,
rather."
"Why then? It is much shorter by the path, and I must hasten. Good-bye
again."
"Jean!"
"What is it, Blanchette?"
"Do not go that way."
"But why not!"
"Because."
"Because? You are laughing at me."
"No laughing matter, Jean. Do not go, I say."
"Blanchette, this is too foolish. I will go, of course."
"There may be danger."
"Danger?"
"Yes. Now I have said it. There is danger, Jean."
"That is interesting. Now I shall certainly go. I should like very
much to find a little danger, to begin the day. Life was becoming too
monotonous, altogether. Where is the danger, Blanchette?"
"In the glen, Jean, where the path crosses the little stream. Ah, now I
have told you, and you will go. I do not wish you to be killed, Jean."
"Killed? Who would kill me, and why!"
"They do not wish to kill you, but merely to punish you."
"Punish me? That is good. But who, then?"
"Tom Sullivan and Paddy Brady."
"Ha! Ha! They have tried it before."
"And Pamphile."
"_Hein_? Three of them? Well, we must see about that. _Au revoir_,
Blanchette. I shall be all right."
"Jean!"
"What then?"
"Do not kill him."
"Certainly not. Reassure yourself, Blanchette. Nobody will be killed."
"Jean! Jean!" called Blanchette, in distress; but he was already out of
sight, hastening with eager steps toward the place of danger.
At the stream he stopped and looked about in all directions, but could
see no one; and was passing along, disappointed but watchful, on the
other side, where the path skirted a great rock, when two men stepped
out and stood facing him in the middle of the way. They were Tom
Sullivan and Pamphile Lareau.
"Good morning, gentlemen," said Jean, without slackening his pace, but
turning aside to give them the path.
"Not so fast," said Pamphile, placing himself directly in front of Jean.
"Stop a moment, if you please. We wish to talk to you."
"Certainly," replied Jean, stopping within arm's length of the two men,
and measuring them with his eye. "But you will first throw away that
pistol, my friend. You will not need it, I assure you."
"No, we shall not need it," said Pamphile, with a harsh laugh, throwing
the weapon aside. "Two to one are odds enough, Jean Baptiste."
"Three to one would be still better, Pamphile--two in front and one
behind, eh? Tell Paddy to come out where I can see him."
"He is a devil," said Tom, with an oath. "Pat, come around in front.
He will not run away, I can see that."
"Run away, Tom?" said Jean, in mild surprise. "Why should I do that?"
"Damned if I know," said Tom.
"You never saw me do it, did you, Tom?"
"No, damn you! Not yet."
"Not yet, Tom? Why do you say that?"
"Oh, be silent, Tom," broke in Pamphile. "Why all this talk? Don't you
see that he is mocking you. Jean Baptiste Giroux, listen to me. We have
certain requests which we desire to make."
"Requests, Pamphile?"
"Yes, requests. Demands, if you like."
"Demands? That is interesting. I am curious to know what they are."
"You shall know soon enough. Begin, Tom."
"Jean Baptiste Giroux, damn you!" spluttered Tom Sullivan. "You know
damn well what I want, and if you don't give it up, by God, I'll kill
you, you cursed thief--kill you, I say."
"Give up what, Tom?"
"The mail contract, damn you!"
"And if not, Tom?"
"If not? You refuse? He refuses. Come on, boys! All together!"
But Pamphile laid his hand on Tom's shoulder.
"Wait, Tom. He has not yet refused. Give him a chance. Wait, I say.
I also have a request to make of Monseigneur the Bishop."
Jean did not smile any more; but his lips were pressed close together,
and a steely glitter was in his eye.
"What is it, then?"
"I ask, Monseigneur the Bishop that was to be; I demand, little priest,
to be permitted to strike you four times across the face with this
little whip; the same, you will notice, that was used the other day. It
was with some difficulty that I obtained it, but here it is--the very
same, I assure you."
"And if I refuse?"
"If you refuse, little priest, I propose, for myself alone, not knowing
what the good Tom may wish: I propose to tie you to a tree, without
clothes, of course, and to flog you within an inch of your life. For my
part, I would not kill you, but I might leave you for the mosquitoes."
"That would be pleasant," said Jean, as though deliberating. "Unique,
too, in this part of the world. I do not like it, at all. And you,
Paddy, what would you do?"
"I?" said Pat, "I am sick of the whole damned business, but I stand with
Tom. But I'll not see you killed, Jean, no, not that."
"I let you off easy last time, Paddy."
"So you did, Jean, damn well I know it. I'll not see you killed, Jean."
"Thank you for that, Paddy!"