goes carelessly through the Laurentian woods sees few signs of life, and
hears few sounds; though many eyes watch him, and many creatures come
out of hiding when he has passed by. To Jean, trained in woodcraft from
his early years, the timid creatures showed themselves and spoke in many
tongues. Not only the bold blue jay and the camp-robber came about the
cabin; but the red-headed woodpecker, the chickadee, the wren and the
waxwing came; the crossbill, too, the linnet and the wood-thrush--all
curious to see the strange being that lived there, and eager to pick up
any crumbs that might be lying about. Chipmunks came every day;
sometimes red squirrels; now and then a marten; and often, in the
twilight, a porcupine came, shuffling along, rattling his quills, and
nosing about for scraps of fish and bacon to add to his meagre diet of
bark and roots.
Not far from the cabin was a pond where a colony of beavers played and
worked every night, diving, swimming and splashing about, slapping the
water with their tails, climbing about on the embankment, or venturing
into the woods to eat pieces of juicy bark or to gnaw patiently at the
trunks of young birches that were to be timber for building and a store
of food for the long winter. There were mink and otter, too, in various
places; and Jean would have made war on them as enemies of the trout,
but that he wished to leave them for trapping later in the year, when
the skins would be in prime condition and would fetch high prices in the
fur market at Quebec.
All the wild animals came, at one time or another, to the lake. Almost
every evening Jean saw red deer drinking there; occasionally a caribou;
and once a moose, with great branching horns and outstretched muzzle,
calling loudly to his mate, came to the end of the point, plunged into
the water, and swam over to the other side. There were lynx and
wild-cat in the forest that at times made a fearful noise by night.
There were foxes, too; a few lone wolves; and now and then a vagabond
bear, seeking for honey, nests of ants, raspberries and blueberries,
catching a hare or a marmot now and then, and glad to make a meal of
dead fish or carrion when he could find such dainties.
All these and many more, the hunter and the hunted, came and went; some
with rush and clamour; others silently and on tiptoe; but always leaving
some token of their presence by which Jean knew that they had been near.
In the evening and morning twilight he caught glimpses of them as they
passed; by night he knew them by the sounds they made, the odours they
exhaled, or their bright eyes glowing in the dark; by day he saw their
tracks in the soft earth, the marks of teeth and claws on the trees, the
remains of their feasts, and all the signs of life and death that tell
the joyous and fearful tragedy of the forest.
Jean had a mind to take part in the tragedy, to be one of the characters
of the play; and the more he thought of it the more alluring it seemed.
Not only could he lead an independent and enjoyable life in the woods;
but he could obtain a good income from the sale of skins; and even
accumulate a small fortune, if he had good luck. He had traversed the
forest in every direction for a distance of twenty miles or more, and
had carefully estimated the probable catch of a winter's work. There was
scarcely a pond in all that region where there were not scores of
muskrats; and although the price of a single skin was not high, they
would be worth a good sum in the aggregate. Of more valuable
fur-bearing animals there was that old stand-by, the beaver; with the
skunk, the mink and the otter; squirrel and weasel; wild-cat and lynx;
wolf and bear; red fox and hare--all of which were well worth taking for
the skins alone, not to mention the meat, which was excellent food in
the cold weather.
Then there was the marten, or Hudson Bay sable, a rare and valuable fur;
and finally, and most highly prized of all, the black or silver fox,
which often sold for fabulous sums; as much as a thousand dollars being
paid, at times, for a single skin. In his explorations Jean had seen
the marten several times; and knew of a place on a sandy hillside that
was the home of a whole family of silver foxes; for one morning he had
seen father, mother and four cubs playing, like kittens, on the carpet
of pine-needles near their hole. Yes, he could make a good living in
the wilderness, preying upon the beasts of prey.
Cruel? True; yet no man can say that without hypocrisy but the
vegetarian; he who eats neither meat nor fish; wears neither wool, silk,
leather, nor garments trimmed with fur. But if we must defend the
trapper, let us say that for every fox that he takes a hundred hares are
kept alive; and that by killing a single otter he saves the lives of a
thousand trout. Moreover, while the beasts resemble man in some
respects, they are by no means human. They suffer some pangs when they
come to die, but during their lifetime they are not continually haunted
by the thought of death. The king of terrors has no terror for them;
and at the end they lay down their life without regret, and with no fear
of torment in any life to come. It is as though the good God in pity
had given them compensation for having withheld the gift of reason: the
knowledge of good and evil which is at once the glory and the shame of
man, the source of his profoundest joy and sorrow, his salvation and
damnation. Which of them would not rather be one of the beasts that
perish, than a man, made in the image of God, fated to follow evermore
the gleam of an ideal that might lead to the heights of eternal glory,
or the bottomless abyss of eternal degradation and loss?
As for Jean Baptiste he accepted cheerfully the law of life and death as
it was in the wilderness. He would live there, as the others did,
according to his strength and cunning; and he would kill, too, not
wantonly, but for a purpose; and when his strength failed, through
sickness, accident or old age, he would lie down to die, as they did;
with a few moans, perhaps, but without any vain regrets. What is death,
after all, that men should fear it so? In the midst of the amenities of
civilised life it seems a dreadful thing to die; but in the forest it is
the merest incident. The good God cares for sparrows; gives them food
and drink and everything else that they need; and after a while takes
away their breath. So also He cares for man. The generations come and
go; the earth abides; and God lives. Life and death, both are good; for
living or dying we are the Lord's. Thus Jean Baptiste learned the
lesson of the wilderness.
At the same time Jean was learning another lesson; for he was getting a
distant view of himself and his past life; and seeing everything, as he
thought, in the true perspective. He was lifted up, at times, into a
kind of third heaven; where he had such a vision of eternal values, that
the world of men, with all their thoughts and feelings, their words and
deeds, seemed little and far away. The friends and neighbours seemed
like puppets in a show, and his own part in the play as vain and futile
as the rest. The work that he had done, the plans that he had made, the
ends for which he had striven, no longer seemed desirable or worth
while. He cared no longer for the opinion of men, whether good or bad;
for any help that they might give him, or any harm that they might do.
No longer did he hate his enemies or love his friends. The place where
he had lived and the people he had known had lost all power over him;
for the thought of them caused neither satisfaction nor regret, neither
joy nor sorrow, neither hope nor fear. His own personality, even, had
lost its value; for the memory of the past was fading away; the outlook
was narrowing; and he was living in the present only; borne along upon
the tide of time, his individuality lost in the great ocean of existence
of which he was so small a part. He was intoxicated by the thin air of
those altitudes, and deceived by the illusions of the mountain-top.
From this plane of thought Jean descended suddenly and with something of
a shock to solid earth, on one of those cold, grey days of August that
come to remind us that summer is passing, and that soon the snows of
winter will begin to fall. Instinctively he went about the cabin and
found many gaping chinks that should be filled with moss. He looked at
the wood-pile, and saw that it was almost gone. He examined his store
of provisions, and saw that it was running low. Firearms,
fishing-tackle, traps, snowshoes, traineau, clothes, moccasins--all
required attention, for the cold season was coming, and it was necessary
to be prepared. Already the beavers were preparing for the winter, and
the human animal knew that he must do the same; for the wilderness is
kind to those who keep her commandments, but implacably cruel to those
who will not live according to her law. So Jean determined to rest and
play no more; laid philosophy aside; spent the day in the forest,
chopping dry wood for fuel; and in the evening, by the light of a
blazing fire, he sat down to mend the traps of Michel Gamache.
*CHAPTER XXIV*
*THE RELAPSE*
The novitiate of Jean Baptiste was at an end; and now he was about to
renounce all that he had held dear in his past life; and to take the
final vows of the wilderness. It was as though the spirit of some remote
ancestor had taken possession of him, body and soul, and was leading him
back and down to the primitive savagery out of which the race, by long
effort and much pain, had gradually ascended. He was a willing captive,
feeling neither surprise nor regret; and it was with a sigh of relief
that he cast the burden of civilisation away; and laid him down to sleep
upon his bed of fragrant balsam; to dream of the green trees, clear
streams, placid lakes and purple hills of that pleasant summer land.
But in his dreams the former self of Jean Baptiste awoke, and came unto
his own. He had wandered far; and was almost lost in the wilderness;
but suddenly he found himself walking along the familiar valley road,
passing the old landmarks, and approaching the old home. The night was
dark; but the house was lighted; and as he entered by the open door, he
saw a company of neighbours and friends sitting in a circle around the
spacious kitchen; the men smoking, and the women knitting, as they often
used to do in the good old days. But now there was no telling of
stories; and neither song nor jest nor laughter; but a subdued and
orderly conversation, like a memorial service in honour of one who was
dead. No one looked up as Jean entered, walked across the room and took
the vacant chair; and there he sat as a ghost, seeing and hearing
everything, but himself an unseen and unbidden guest.
His mother rose to pass the spruce-beer and cakes; and when she came to
Jean's place she paused and smiled as though she saw him sitting there
and smiling in return.
"Oh!" she said, "I think that Jean is not very far away. We shall see
him soon, I am sure."
"Let us hope so," said Father Paradis, gently, "but I fear that he will
never return. He is a disappointed man. He has missed his vocation, he
who might have become a bishop, an archbishop, a cardinal, even, in the
course of time. What a pity!"
"Yes," said Michel Gamache, "to miss the path like that, he who might
have been a great man in the parish, a seigneur, a member of
Parliament--anything. And now he is a failure, a _coureur des bois_,
like me."
"And all for the sake of a girl!" broke in Blanchette. "As though there
were only one girl in the parish, in the Province. What folly! No
woman is worth it. He is a fool, that Jean Baptiste."
"He is more than that!" cried Pamphile, who sat by the fire, pale and
haggard, his head bound up in a shawl. "He is a coward, that little
priest. A coward, I say; and he fears the law. The law, yes, and this
little whip across the face. _Sacre_! If he returns he shall suffer.
I say it; I, his ancient enemy."
"And I," said Bonhomme Laroche, shaking his fist, "I wish to see him
too, that proprietor, debtor, thief. He will not pay me? Well, I have
the mortgage. See! There it is, Madame, the mother of a thief. My
mortgage! My property! My farm!"
"No, you old miser!" shouted Brother Nicholas. "You shall have your
money, but no farm of ours. Do not cry, my mother. Do not think of the
old miser, nor of Jean, the deserter. He was to have stayed at home;
he, the youngest; but now I have returned. Fear nothing. I am with you,
I, Nicholas."
"Yes," said Bonhomme Gagnon, rising in his place. "Yes, Madame Giroux,
we will assume the responsibility--I, Telesphore Gagnon; you, Nicholas;
you other children; you neighbours; everybody. As to Jean Baptiste,
forget him, the good-for-nothing. He was too proud, he, and the good
God could not endure it. It is the good God who has driven him away,
and he is lost, lost."
At this Madame Giroux began to weep, while Father Paradis tried to
comfort her, and Brother Nicholas was sending all the people home; when
suddenly at the open door appeared a sturdy figure in a brown fishing
suit, with a pannier on his back and a lance-wood rod in his hand. It
was Monsieur Trudel, the City Man.
"What is this?" he exclaimed. "Is it a funeral, a wake, or what, in the
name of God? My brave Jean, where is he? Dead? Gone away? A
fugitive, he? Deserter, you say? Failure? Good-for-nothing? Thief?
Murderer? Ha! Ha! It is to laugh! Reassure yourself, Madame. It is
not in Jean Baptiste to be like that, he who conquered me, the champion
of the Province. He will return, most certainly, and soon. _Mon Dieu_!
He is here now. There, do you not see him? There, in the chair! Jean,
my brave one! Arise! Show yourself!"
During all that time Jean had sat there speechless, immovable; but now,
with a mighty effort, he rose in his place; stretched out his arms and
cried, in a strong and joyous voice: "Monsieur, my friends, my mother, I
am here!"
Jean advanced with outstretched hands toward his friends; but they
shrunk back, pale and terrified, into the dark corners of the room and
out of the door; until there was only one left, a slight figure in a
brown fishing suit, with pannier, and rod, reddish-golden hair,
violet-blue eyes, and a radiant smile.
"Monsieur Trudel," he began, "you have changed much since, since----
_Mon Dieu_! Gabrielle! It is you, you! Come to me, dear."
But the vision melted away, and Jean awoke to find himself standing
alone on the cabin floor in the glimmering dawn of a new day.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he said to himself. "Was it a dream? I can see them
still, when I close my eyes--and hear them, too. They think of me, talk
of me, those good friends, whom I had forgotten--almost. They are
disappointed in me, it would seem, and with reason. But they had
expected too much--more than I could do. What? More than I could do?
Oh, Jean Baptiste, it was not that you could not, but that you would
not! What is that one cannot do? 'Good-for-nothing? Too proud? The
good God does not like it?' How does Bonhomme Gagnon know that? I
should like to show him, the old rascal, that the good God will aid me
to resume my former work. By Heaven, I will resume!
"I am a dreamer, it would seem. Yes. A coward? No! Afraid of the law?
I had not thought of it. The law? Why then? For the killing of
Pamphile. But I did it in self-defence. Tom and Paddy will witness.
Will they? _Dieu_! Possibly not. And what then? A trial, a judge, a
jury, and I, the accused at the bar. It might be well to remain here,
or to go to the Indians of Mistassini or Hudson's Bay. Then I should be
a coureur des bois indeed; an exile, fugitive, outlaw. What then could
I say to the abuse of Bonhomme Gagnon, Monsieur Laroche, and the rest?
Coward--thief--deserter--good-for-nothing--fool--all that and more!
Yes, I should deserve it all.
"'And all for the sake of a girl?' Blanchette, that was unjust. It was
a combination of circumstances, an accumulation of misfortunes, that
drove me away--for a time. O, Blanchette! I have many good excuses, as
you must know; yet I will excuse myself no more, for I think I hear you
say: '_Qui s'excuse s'accuse!_'
"But Gabrielle was there, and oh, what a lovely smile! To see her again
I would return, in spite of everything. But where was the garb of the
Ursulines--the black robe, the hood, the veil, the rosary, the cross,
the pale face of the novice, the nun that is to be? There was none of
that. No, it was only the City Man after all. Gabrielle was not there,
for she was not thinking of me, but of Jesus and Mary and the glories of
Heaven. But if she gave a thought to me, and a single call, I would
enter the convent and take her away--from the altar, even--and who
should hinder me? An adventure that, worthy of a knight of the olden
time. Yes, worthy of those times, perhaps; but for a penniless
habitant, a trapper, a discredited fugitive, not quite so suitable. To
steal a novice from the convent, an heiress--a noble deed, surely. Ah,
Gabrielle, why so much haste? Why bury the heart before the love is
dead? A little more time, a year, two years at most--that is all I ask.
Could you not grant me this, Gabrielle?"
As Jean thought of the situation from every point of view, the
difficulty and perplexity of it seemed to increase, and no way of escape
appeared. He walked up and down the narrow cabin like a wild beast in a
cage, raging and wondering at his fate, wildly longing to break away and
be free. At last, unable to disentangle the coil, he threw it from him,
flung open the door, and went out into the open air.
It was like going into another world. The clouds of yesterday, the
gloom of night, the ghostly dawn, all had passed away; and the summer
morning, fresh and lovely, opened like a flower. It was good to breathe
the pure, fragrant air; to see the earth, the grass and the trees in all
their brightest colours, washed by the rain; to hear the sweet voices of
the forest; and to feel, in every nerve and muscle, the strength and
courage of returning day. In the lake Jean took his morning plunge, and
a long swim far out in the deep water; and when, an hour later, he
returned to the cabin, refreshed in body and soul, with a keen appetite
and a joyous heart, he was ready to face the world, to receive its
hardest buffets, and to deliver his most telling blows in return. The
soldier was himself again; his furlough was over; and he was going back
to the front.
Jean was now ready to do battle with the enemy, for he was at peace with
himself. The long struggle within him was at an end; for his nobler
self had obtained the victory, and taken complete control. The strange,
weird voices that had well-nigh led him astray for ever were heard no
more. The voice of fear, too, was stilled; for he was so completely
possessed with the thought of his work and the joy of devotion to his
cherished ideal, that there was neither fear nor doubt in his soul; but
strong courage and sublime faith that the work of his hands would be
established, and that the day of small things would have a great and
satisfying fruition.
Jean's attitude toward the world was changed. No longer did he despise
the opinions of the neighbours, but found himself wondering what they
would think and say when they saw him take up his former work. His
mother, the cure, his friend Michel, and a few others would be glad; and
he was glad to think that he could please them in any way. His enemies
would be disconcerted; and he took a malicious pleasure in thinking of
their confusion, and in guessing what their next move would be. As for
the rest, they might find fault for a time, but sooner or later the
benefits of his work would appear; all the good people of the parish
would approve; and his reputation would spread far and wide--to
Beauport, Quebec and the greater world beyond. A good name--that was
something worth while; a prize to be won, a possession to be kept, an
heirloom to be handed down to future generations. But if not, if in the
end he should fail, he would still have the satisfaction of attempting a
noble task; a few friends would understand, and the good God would know
that he had done his best.
And Gabrielle? Jean could no longer think of her as a novice of the
Ursulines preparing to take the veil, to renounce all human love and
devote her young life to prayer and penance within convent walls. On
the contrary, she now resumed her former place in his scheme of life;
the golden-haired chatelaine of his Castle in Spain; for whose love he
would fight unto the death; at whose feet he would lay all the trophies
of war; and from whom he would ask, in the hour of victory, his greatest
earthly reward--herself.
As Jean was preparing to depart, putting away the canoe, setting the
cabin in order, taking a last look at the lake, he was sorry to leave
the beautiful place; but his heart was full of an abiding joy; for he
was thinking all the time of Gabrielle; and when at last he turned his
back upon his hermitage, and set himself to climb the southern hill, his
joyous voice woke again the echoes of the forest, as he sang the brave
song of a crusader who prayed for victory and love:
"Partant pour la Syrie,
Le jeune et beau Dunois,
Alla prier Marie
De benir ses exploits.
'Donne, reine immortelle,'
Lui dit-il en partant,
'Que j'aime la plus belle,
Et sois le plus vaillant.'"
*CHAPTER XXV*
*TREASURE TROVE*
"Where are you going, Jean Baptiste?"
Jean stopped instantly, and stared in dumb surprise; for there was
Gabrielle standing before him in a hunting suit of tanned buckskin, a
light rifle on her arm--a veritable Diana of the wilderness.
"Speak, Jean! Say something, for goodness' sake. I am not a ghost, nor
a holy picture descended from its frame. It is I, Gabrielle."
"As I see," said Jean, raising his cap and offering his hand. "Welcome
to Lac Desir, Gabrielle."
"Lac Desir! What a pretty name! Where is Lac Desir, Jean? Which way?"
"Come, Gabrielle; I will show you. It is only a step or two. I was
coming away, but now I will gladly return. This way, if you please. It
is a rough path, and steep. Take my hand, will you not? Now we are at
the foot of the hill, and there, under the trees, is the cabin--my
hermitage. It is not much like the Ursulines, I should say. You were
there, were you not?"
"Yes, certainly, I was there for a while; but I have escaped, as you
see. I could not say so many prayers--it was too fatiguing--and I had
to have a little vacation in the country. Soon I will return."
"Return?" exclaimed Jean, in dismay. "That would be a pity. Do not
return to the convent, Gabrielle."
"Why not, then? It is a pleasant place, the convent, so quiet, so
peaceful; and the sisters are so good, so dear. And it is a place where
one can make one's salvation."
"Salvation, you say, in a convent, in a little cell? How can one find
that between four walls? It is something that belongs to the open air,
Gabrielle; something that comes with the sunshine. No, it is here that
one finds true peace, rest for the soul--salvation, if you like."
"But you are going away, Jean. Is it possible that you are leaving your
salvation?"
"But no. I have found it here; and I am taking it back to St. Placide,
to the work that awaits me there. But now that you are here I forget all
that, and I could stay for ever. Stay here, Gabrielle."
"So I will, Jean, for a few moments, at least. It is a pretty place.
But where is the lake? Where is Lac Desir?"
"We are coming to it. Another turn of the path and you will get a
glimpse of it through the trees. There, there it is!"
Gabrielle clapped her hands.
"Beautiful! Charming! Like a picture--more lovely than any picture!
Certainly, the pictures at the convent are not like this. You have a
canoe, of course. Get it, Jean--quickly. You shall take me out on the
lake."
"With pleasure, Gabrielle. The ship is here, in this clump of spruces.
It would not be easy to find it if one did not know the place. I am
revealing all our secrets, as you see. Presently I will give you the
keys, and you shall be the sovereign lady of these dominions. Look! A
fine canoe, is it not? Of a single piece of bark. It is not often that
one sees a canoe like this--so light, so graceful, so strong, so perfect
in all its lines. One carries it like a feather. There, I will place
it in the water, by the rock. Have the goodness to take your place in
the bow, Mademoiselle the Passenger. A great honour for the canoe, for
me, I assure you, Mademoiselle."