Chapter IX The Loan
“If I am not mistaken,” said Monsieur Trembly, the notary, with a shrewd smile, “it is, in effect, a hotel that you would be building at St. Placide, a house of twelve rooms, by far the largest in the parish. Your good friend Monsieur Trudel has told me all about it. A great sportsman, he. A good advocate, of course, a Q.C., in line for the bench, and all that, but a sportsman above all, and an angler, the most skilful in the Province. He has discovered St. Placide, it seems, and would like you to build a hotel for himself and his brother anglers. Not a bad idea. But it will cost money to build a place like that—as much as five thousand dollars, perhaps.”
“No, Monsieur Trembly,” said Jean, with assurance, “not half of that sum. The logs I will cut myself, during the winter; in the spring the neighbours will help me to raise the frame; for a couple of months we shall need carpenters, and then, before the end of June, at the beginning of the tourist season, the house will be completed at a cost of less than two thousand dollars, including furniture. Certainly, two thousand dollars will be more than sufficient.”
“Well,” said the notary, “we can obtain the money, I think. A certain client of mine will let us have it. If not, Monsieur Trudel will advance the amount, or I will do so myself, if necessary. The enterprise is most promising, certainly, and you have other plans, I am told. You will build a dam, a mill, a factory, in the course of time. It may be that you are running some risk, but if all goes well you will be a rich man, and at the same time a benefactor to the whole parish. That is what I call true success, Monsieur Giroux.”
“And the security will be ample. It is your mother’s farm that you would hypothecate, a good property, indeed, one hundred acres of arable land, a hundred of pasture, two hundred of forest—a fief of the Seminary, subject to the usual dues, which are a mere bagatelle. It is a fine property, not very saleable, perhaps, in these times, but should fetch five thousand dollars, possibly six, at a forced sale. Yes, certainly, you shall have the money—two thousand dollars for three years, interest at eight per cent., payable half-yearly. I will have the papers drawn at once. Come again in a few days, Monsieur Giroux, and all will be arranged.”
Jean was not altogether happy about mortgaging his mother’s farm, but the projects which he had in mind could be realized in no other way. Since the visit of the City Man there had been a constant stream of visitors, chiefly fishermen; and when, at the close of the season, he cast up his accounts, he discovered a profit of a hundred dollars from this source alone, besides the allowance from the Government and the enhanced revenue from farm produce sold in the Quebec markets. It was a veritable mine of wealth that he had discovered, and a vista of unlimited possibilities opened before him.
At first there would be the new house of twelve rooms, providing accommodation for twenty or thirty guests; but presently the building would be enlarged; cottages for whole families would be built; there would be grassy courts for tennis and croquet, horses for riding and driving, canoes for the river, guides for excursions to distant lakes and streams, and even provision for the winter, when stalwart hunters would come to chase moose and caribou. The valley of the St. Ange, too long neglected, with its beautiful mountains, grand forests, clear air, and pure water, its hunting and fishing, would become one of the most celebrated resorts in the Province, frequented by rich citizens of Quebec and Montreal, wealthy English tourists, and American millionaires. Jean himself, the originator of the movement, would be the first to share in the profits, but the influx of tourists would bring prosperity to the whole parish and lay the foundations for still greater things in the years to come.
But the neighbours, for whose benefit the great work was to be done, did not look upon it with kindly eyes. On the contrary, they were filled with envy, and their gossip about the doings of Jean Baptiste was far from charitable. That a young man should aspire to become a priest was in the order of nature, an ambition to be respected and encouraged. As such, he would be an honour to the family and a credit to the parish; but that he should attempt to set up a new industry, to forsake the traditions of the fathers, to walk in untrodden paths, was an innovation unheard of and most disquieting, a defiance of sacred custom, a rebellion, indeed, against religion and the Holy Church.
Moreover, the effects of such changes upon the morals of the people, especially the young, would be sad indeed. One had but to consider the ways of city people to see that they were frivolous in their behaviour, light in their conversation and worldly in their dress. Their influence was altogether bad, as could be seen in places like Malbaie and Cacouna, where the young maidens, even, once so industrious and pious, were filling their minds with the foolish notions of the city. No longer would they wear the modest costumes of their mothers and grandmothers, but were imitating the dress of high society, made, it was said, according to fashions devised by men tailors in the great and wicked city of Paris. Once the summer tourists established themselves in St. Placide, the simplicity and contentment of former days would be gone; religion and virtue would be no more; and the young people would enter the mad race for wealth, fashion, and all the follies and vanities of the world.
Besides, the tourist business was not profitable after all. More revenue was taken in, to be sure, but one’s expenses increased in still greater degree, and in the end one stood face to face with ruin and bankruptcy. Such would be the fate of Jean Baptiste and of all who were carried away by his plausible schemes. No, he must not be allowed to ruin the people, to corrupt their morals, to endanger their immortal souls. Something should be done; some one should interfere, to put Jean Baptiste in his proper place or to drive him away from the parish.
The good neighbours did not at first see the matter in that light, but when it was brought to their notice by certain malicious spirits, they were not slow to recognize the danger of the proposed innovations and to condemn unheard one whom they did not understand. Even the best friends of Jean Baptiste were somewhat influenced by this talk, and their minds were poisoned by the insidious gossip.
Gabrielle, also, within the sacred precincts of the Ursuline Convent, heard rumours of the doings of Jean Baptiste. There was no other girl from St. Placide at the convent, but Adèle Couture of L’Ange Gardien was there, who now and then received letters from her cousin and bosom friend Mélanie Couture, containing not only fragments of gossip about Jean, but whole pages of news, telling of all his doings during the past summer, of the great house that he was going to build, and the innovations that he was about to introduce into the once peaceful and happy parish. So busy was he with his work in the woods, where he was preparing logs for his new house, that one scarcely caught a glimpse of him except on Wednesdays and Saturdays, when he carried the mail; but on those occasions he would always smile and bow and give a cheerful good-day to any of the neighbours whom he might see as he passed along. Certainly, he seemed to be in high spirits, well pleased with himself and all the world, as a young man of such gifts might well be, with all the world at his feet, not excepting the girls of the parish, not one of whom would say him nay. But it was impossible to discover that Jean showed preference for any, unless it were Blanchette Laroche, that old creature with the speckled face, twenty-six years of age at the very least, but of an amiable temper, of great capacity as a housekeeper, and with the expectation of an ample dowry. Not that Jean had ever paid her any special attention, beyond what might be expected of a good neighbour, but there were signs that showed how the wind blew, and developments might be expected at any time.
All this and more Adèle read to her friend Gabrielle, and together they talked and laughed about the backwoods hero as young girls do who are fancy free and who take pleasure in idealizing a common man by making of him a hero in disguise, riding forth to do battle for the two-fold prize of glory and his lady’s love. But, strange to say, Gabrielle did not tell her friend that Jean was other than a former schoolfellow and casual acquaintance; nor did she give the watchful Adèle the slightest cause to suspect that her “habitant,” “mail-driver,” and “inn-keeper” was more often in her thoughts than a certain brave officer of artillery, or a certain young teller in the Banque Nationale.
But the rumours that came to Gabrielle were disquieting, and interfered with her studies in art and literature more than she would have dared to confess, even to herself. She was happy in the convent, in the companionship of her fellow-pupils and under the direction of the sweet-faced sisters; she loved the Mother Superior and applied herself with devotion to her religious duties; but her thoughts often wandered to St. Placide, where one who had loved her long was proving by manly deeds his right to claim that she should love him in return.
She did not love him, no, not yet; but it was pleasant to think of that young man, her hero and knight, girding on his armour, taking a noble part in the battle of life, overcoming all obstacles, casting down all enemies, making a place in the world and an honourable name—and all for her. Poor Jean! He had been faithful for a long time and deserved some little encouragement, some slight reward. Gabrielle blushed as she thought of that, and wished that she had not been so cruel to Jean when last they met. It would be necessary to atone, but when and how?
Gabrielle was sure of Jean’s devotion, and yet there were times when she thought him altogether too gay and debonair in the absence of his lady-love, too free with his smiles, too ready to greet the young women of the parish as he drove by, too confident altogether, considering the slight encouragement that he had received. It almost seemed as though he had never loved her with his whole heart, else why was he not more cast down and why so easily consoled? But to whom could he go for consolation? Surely not to Blanchette Laroche. That would be too absurd. Doubtless, it was in his work that Jean found consolation, because it brought him nearer to his heart’s desire. But Blanchette was clever and capable, a perfect housekeeper, a charming companion—if one could forget her face. Yet there was a strange sweetness about that face. Yes, it might be well to return to St. Placide for the Christmas vacation, just to be at home again for a little while, to get a glimpse of the old friends, and to have a little change from the monotony of convent life.
It was a glorious winter morning, on the Sunday after Gabrielle’s return; and although she might have driven to church in the family berline, she preferred to walk, and started early, that she might fully enjoy the beauty of the winter landscape, breathe the clear, cold mountain air, and feel the life blood tingling in all her veins. As she came near the cottage of Mère Tabeau she quickened her pace, thinking to escape notice, but the old crone, like a spider, was lying in wait, and came forth just as Gabrielle, with face averted, was passing by.
“Wait a minute, Gabrielle—Mademoiselle Taché,” she called. “Can you not wait, my dear? I, too, am going to Mass, although you may think it strange. Yes, I go to Mass every Sunday, and to confession too, when necessary. There are often little sins, you know. But how fast you walk, Gabrielle—Mademoiselle! A little slower, if you please. I like the company of the young and beautiful. They do not like my company, perhaps, those proud ones, those rich ones with the fine moccasins and the expensive furs, because they forget, the gay creatures, that one day they too may be old and poor and lame. Yes, and they don’t know that misfortune may come to them at any time, and very soon—yes, indeed.”
“Mon Dieu, Madame Tabeau!” said Gabrielle, a little frightened, “I did not intend to walk so fast. It is the frosty air, Madame, that makes the feet move. But I shall be glad to walk more slowly, for the pleasure of your company.”
“The pleasure of my company! Ha! Ha! Sacrée petite vierge! That was well said. A lie, of course, but pleasing to hear, for all that. You have learned manners, it would seem, at the convent. The Ursuline ladies are nothing if not polite. I knew one of them myself, long ago, who could stab you to the heart and smile sweetly all the time. And she lives still, the assassin! Ah, serpent! What a pleasure it would be to crush thee in the dust!”
“But, Madame——”
“Yes, my dear. Yes, Mademoiselle Gabrielle. I forgot that you were there. Strange words for the ears of innocence. Strange tales for a Sunday morning on the way to Mass. Yes, let us change the subject. Let us talk of something more interesting—of Jean Baptiste Giroux, for example.”
At this shaft Gabrielle flushed a little, almost imperceptibly, but said, with an assumption of indifference:
“Why of him, Madame Tabeau? I am not at all interested.”
“She is not interested, the young lady, not at all. Why then does she blush, and why does her voice tremble at the mention of his name? Not interested, Mademoiselle Innocent? Then you do not dislike him, of course?”
“No, Madame Tabeau. It is a fine morning, is it not? How beautiful the snow and the blue shadows of the trees!”
“Yes, yes, of course. But why, I wonder, does Jean Baptiste spend every day in the woods, cutting down trees, making logs of every size, shaping them for the frame of a great house, hauling them to a certain place? Why all this preparation, Gabrielle, my dear?”
“How should I know, Madame Tabeau? He does not tell me of his plans.”
“No? Not even that he borrowed two thousand dollars for the hotel that he is to build as soon as the snow is gone? He did not borrow it, then, from Monsieur your father?”
“Certainly not, Madame, I do not wish to discuss the question. What Monsieur Giroux does is nothing to me.”
“Nothing to you? Of course not. Then he did not get the money from Monsieur Taché. And there are but two rich men in the parish. Ah, now we have it. From Monsieur Laroche, of course. That is what I thought at the first. Now all is clear, clear as day. A young man of marriageable age wishes to advance himself in the world; the daughter of a rich habitant is not unwilling; the good, wise young man proposes an alliance; secures the money and a housekeeper at the same time; kills two birds with one stone. Ha! Ha! The good, wise young man of marriageable age!
“He is a deep thinker, Jean Baptiste, a young man of prudence, foresight, strategy—all that. Yes, for such a house one must have a housekeeper, a cook and a maid of all work. See! He secures them all at one stroke. A stroke of genius, that. No matter that she is no beauty, that her face has been spoiled by the small-pox. She is capable, good-tempered, affectionate, and has an ample dowry—the best in the parish. What more could one desire? That explains those visits to the house of Bonhomme Laroche. Yes, it explains everything. The wedding will be in June, no doubt, before the beginning of the tourist season. It will be a great affair, with a feast and a grand dance. You will dance at the wedding, Mademoiselle Taché, will you not?”
Gabrielle’s face was as white as the snow.
“Madame Tabeau,” she said, scarcely maintaining her composure, “I have to say to you that these are vile lies which you are telling about Jean Baptiste. He may be foolish, as they say, but he is incapable of such baseness. Madame, this conversation is distasteful to me. Pass on, if you please, or stay behind. I wish to be alone.”
The vicious old woman, abashed before the loyal courage of Gabrielle, turned aside, muttering maledictions, and went to visit one of her cronies in the village, to learn the most recent gossip, and to tell of the significant discoveries she had made on the way to Church.
As for Gabrielle, she entered the Church alone, and as she knelt before the image of the Mother of God her body was shaken with sobs, and she could scarcely whisper the prayers that for two thousand years have brought consolation and courage to so many souls. But as the young girl prayed the peace of God descended into her soul; and when the congregation assembled and the service began, her voice, calm and clear, arose with theirs in humble confession, wistful supplication and joyous praise.
When the sacrifice of the Mass was over and the congregation had dispersed, Gabrielle remained kneeling for a long time, striving to forget the world, to fix her attention upon the Cross, to think only of her divine Redeemer. But this she could not do, for the thought of Jean filled her mind and heart; and she felt, with mingled pride and shame, that she loved him more than aught else in the world, and that the Kingdom of Heaven was as nothing to her compared with the kingdom of earthly love.
And Jean loved her in return. Had he not told her so? Yes, but she had sent him away in anger, and now it was another that he loved. Impossible! No, for who could tell what love might do? Yet his first love she would always have. Always! And this also was possible, in all the chance and caprice of love, that he might come back to her, penitent, asking forgiveness. It would not be hard to forgive Jean, if only he would come; but what if it were too late, and the day of love were gone forever?
Ah, that lovely morning so long ago, when she did not love, or loved all the world, and no one had taken her love away! The pity, the cruelty of it! The moment love was found enshrined in the heart, that moment it was snatched away. The bright vision appeared, was gone, and would not return. Oh, it could not be, must not be, not even if it were the will of God. No, she could not give him up, would not. She would fight for him against all the world—to the death. Ah, Lord Jesus! It was He who had gone to the death for the world, for her. What sin, what mortal sin to love mortal man more than the Redeemer of the world! And the sacrifice—was it not the law of life and death, of time and eternity?
Gabrielle was rebellious no more, but bowed her head in humiliation and sorrow, with chastened spirit and sincere repentance repeating the morning prayer:
“Holy Virgin, Mother of God, my mother and my friend, I place myself under your protection and implore your pity. Be, O Mother of Kindness, my refuge in my need, my consolation in my troubles, and my advocate with your dear Son, all the days of my life, and especially in the hour of death.
“Angel of Heaven, my faithful and charitable guide, obtain for me the grace to be so docile and teachable that my footsteps may never stray from the way of the commandments of my God.
“Yes, my God, I love you with all my heart, with all my soul, with all my spirit, with all my power, and I promise to love my neighbour as myself for the love of you.”
When Gabrielle left the Church and came out again into the clear light of day, the agony and struggle of the past hour seemed like an evil dream. The snow was as white and pure as ever, the sky as blue, and the bright sunlight streamed all about like a radiance from God. She took long breaths of the delicious, frosty air that went tingling through her veins like wine, and along the crisp surface of road she went tripping on light moccasined feet, while her eyes shone and her face glowed with the joy of living. What could it be that had troubled her so? Who was that old witch with the evil eye that had put such thoughts into her head? Jean was hers, without a doubt. He was not one to change or be discouraged because of a girl’s saucy words. When he was ready he would ask, and take no refusal. But if not, what matter? There were others—a certain young officer of the Garrison, for example. Jean was not indispensable, by any means. Blanchette might have him at any time. No, not Blanchette, but any other girl in the parish—Suzette Gagnon, for example, with her coal-black hair, her pale complexion, her green eyes, and no dowry at all. Yes, Suzette it should be, for punishment.
As Gabrielle was disposing of her lover in this summary way, she became aware of footsteps behind her, and in a moment a tall, stalwart form was walking by her side, and she knew, without looking, that it was Jean himself, aggressive as ever and very much the master of his own destiny.
“Good morning, Gabrielle,” he said, as if they had always been the best of friends. “Is it permitted that one walk along with you for a distance?”
“The road is free, Monsieur Giroux, and you have overtaken me. You walk too fast.”
“Oh, no, Gabrielle, but I am glad that you walk so slowly. Of what were you thinking, I wonder?”
Gabrielle blushed at the too pointed question, but laughed at her own confusion.
“There is an inquisitive man, I must say; and a conceited man too. Perhaps he believes that I was thinking of him.”
“Ah! if you only were, Gabrielle! For me, I certainly was thinking of you. I saw you in Church, and heard you too. Mon Dieu, but you sing like an angel.”
“Monsieur Giroux,” said Gabrielle, reprovingly, “you should go to Church to pray, to worship, and not to look at the neighbours.”
“The neighbours, Gabrielle—were they there? I saw but one. And I worship, I pray—this is what I pray: ‘God give me the beautiful angel whom I adore!’”
“Jean!” said Gabrielle, with a radiant smile, “you must not talk like that—it is wicked. But tell me what is it that you do in the woods every day. Why all this industry, I wonder? Why is the mighty hunter not on the hills chasing the moose, the caribou, the bear?”
“Gabrielle, the bear sleeps all winter, and I have been asleep for many years. Now, I am awaking, and I begin to see the opportunities of life. I see and seize them as they come along. First I become habitant, then mail driver, then I build a house for tourists, and after that—well, after that we shall see. Gabrielle, it is not true that I am a good-for-nothing. Say that it is not true.”
“Jean, my friend, forgive me. I did not mean it, as you know. You are a hero, my hero, since the day when you saved me from the river. You remember, do you not? But walk on the other side of the road, if you please. I have only one question to ask, one little question. Jean Baptiste, why did you borrow the money from Bonhomme Laroche? Answer me—quick, quick! Oh, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! he did it!”
“But, Gabrielle, I do not understand.”
“Monsieur Giroux,” said Gabrielle, her eyes flaming with indignation, “do not lie to me. You understand very well. Please to step out of the way.”
“Gabrielle, my dear Gabrielle, it was a mistake, a blunder. I can explain.”
“Will Monsieur Giroux step out of the way, or shall I call my father?”
“Sacré!” said Jean, in a burst of anger, turning his back on Gabrielle, and striding rapidly down the hill, exploding imprecations as he went. “Sacré tonnerre! Fool of a woman! Little fool! But what a dear little fool! What perversity, what unreason! But what dear perversity, what charming unreason! Angel of Heaven! Give her up? Ah, not yet, not for that. I will win her—I swear it. This also I will accomplish with the help of God and Saint Jean Baptiste.”