Chapter X Blanchette
“Bonjour, Jean Baptiste,” said Bonhomme Laroche, one spring morning, approaching the place where Jean was working on the frame of his new house, now almost ready for the raising. “The work moves along, I see.”
“Bonjour, Monsieur Laroche,” said Jean, as pleasantly as possible, wishing to be polite to the old man. “Yes, the work is well along. Next week we shall have the raising, and in ten weeks more all will be finished.”
“Very good, Jean, very good indeed. And how is the money holding out? Two thousand dollars is not a great sum for a work of such magnitude.”
“I have not touched it, Monsieur Laroche. That is for the carpenters, for furniture, for horses, carts, and the like. Never fear, Monsieur. It will be more than sufficient.”
“You have not touched it yet? What economy! And you pay interest all the time, merely to make sure of the loan. What prudence, what foresight! Well, money is not so easy to get in St. Placide, where all the people are poor, but in Quebec there are rich men, bankers, capitalists. Ha! Ha! So one gets a loan of two thousand dollars in Quebec, and one pays interest to a poor habitant of St. Placide—as an act of charity, merely. Mon Dieu, it is to laugh.”
“Monsieur Laroche,” said Jean, with some asperity, “it was a trick that you played on me, and I do not appreciate the humour of it. I had no idea that Monsieur Trembly was an agent of yours. But you have your security, and as to the money, I do not intend to give it back to you at present.”
“Do not think of it, my friend. The money is yours for the time, so long as you pay the interest when due—eight per cent., payable half-yearly. And do not be grateful, either. It was not for gratitude that I made the loan, but for a first mortgage on one of the best farms in the parish. I should like well to add that farm to mine. What a fine block I should have—an estate of some magnitude! Be careful to pay the interest on the day, my friend.
“But do not let us quarrel, Jean. Perhaps you may be my son-in-law some day—who knows? Stranger things have happened in this strange world. And I do not hesitate to tell you that it would please me well. As to Blanchette, she would make no objection. It is a dutiful child, that. I say to her: ‘Marry Jean Baptiste, my daughter,’ and she replies: ‘I cannot disobey you, my dear father, although I have no special fancy for the young man.’ Jean, my lad, would it not be a good arrangement?”
“Monsieur Laroche,” said Jean, earnestly, “you are pleased to be facetious, but I have to tell you that I do not like your proposals, which would be as distasteful to Mademoiselle Blanchette as to myself. I am not thinking of marriage for the present, but when I do it will not be for land, nor houses, nor the loan of two thousand dollars. Your interest, Monsieur Laroche you shall have upon the day; and when the principal is due I will pay you with the greatest pleasure.”
“Oh, my dear Jean, not so fiery, if you please. No offence was intended—only the proposal of an honourable alliance, honourable and advantageous. The Laroches are of a good family, my friend, respectable cultivators for ten generations. Blanchette will not take offence, I am sure, and why should you? No, Jean, let us be good neighbours, as always. As to the interest, do not be too particular. What is that between friends? You may even need the accommodation of a further loan. That also we can arrange. We are old neighbours, you know. I had a high regard for your good father, and I have always looked upon you as a promising young man, a youth who will go far, with the backing of friends and money. Such things are not to be despised.”
“Monsieur Laroche,” said Jean, somewhat ashamed of his hasty words, “you mean well, I am sure, and I thank you. Forgive my impatience. I dare say that I did not understand.”
“Say no more, Jean. We understand each other pretty well, after all. You are a young man of ideas, and I also have some ideas, strange to say. We might exchange views, might we not, to our mutual advantage? We must have a talk, many talks. Come to see me, Jean, this very evening. We shall have a good dinner and a good talk. Blanchette will be there, of course, but do not fear—she will not bite you.”
Jean could not well refuse the proffered courtesy of the old fox, and thus it came about that he paid his second visit to the Maison Laroche, and at dinner found himself seated at the hospitable board with the old man and Blanchette, surprisingly contented and hugely entertained by the conversation of the shrewd old miser and his clever daughter.
“And so, Monsieur Jean Baptiste Giroux,” said Blanchette, with a smile of amusement, “you are the young man whom my father wishes me to marry, are you not?”
“Mademoiselle,” stammered Jean, taken aback, “Monsieur your father is very kind, I am sure.”
“Not at all, Jean my lad,” broke in Bonhomme Laroche, rubbing his hands in delight. “It is what I have always wished. A young man of your talents is not so easy to find in these days. In my day it was different. Then there were tall, handsome youths in plenty, and beautiful girls as well. Your mother, Blanchette, was the most beautiful of all. Ah, those were days! But now, my friend, it seems to me that you are the only youth in the parish who compares with those of former times. Is it not so, Blanchette?”
“It may well be, my father, although I have no memory of that time. Truly, Monsieur Giroux, I am still quite young—on the sunny side of thirty, I assure you. Your mother will tell you that I have the advantage of you by only a year and a day. But without flattery I will say that you compare very well with the other young men of the parish, even those who have gone away. Pamphile was tall and strong, but he had not your intelligence. Monsieur Giroux, Jean, I have a mind to accept you.”
“You do me too much honour, Mademoiselle,” murmured Jean, much embarrassed, and wondering how he was going to escape from a situation so difficult.
“Not so fast, Jean, not so fast. Look before you leap, my friend. I am not beautiful, as you see.”
“Mademoiselle,” said Jean, insincerely, “it is the beauty of the spirit that counts.”
“You do not mean that, Jean, and yet I like to hear you say it. Moreover, it is more true than you think. I have read; I have travelled; I have thought much upon the vanities of the world. Oh, yes, I have cultivated the graces of the spirit to make up for my lack in other respects. And I was beautiful once, before the smallpox. Can you believe it?”
“She is beautiful still, Jean,” broke in the old man. “For me, I find her just the same, the very image of her mother.”
“Ah, my good father, if all the young men were like you I should not die an old maid.”
“You shall not, Blanchette, you shall not. Notice, Jean Baptiste, only notice what a fine housekeeper she is. Look at the table, the chairs, the windows, the curtains, the stove, even, how proper they are; and the floor—one could eat off it. And what a cook! Confess, Jean, that you have never tasted roast chicken better than that which you are now eating.”
“It is true, Monsieur,” said Jean, with enthusiasm. “The chicken is perfect, of a tenderness unequalled, of a flavour incomparable.”
“But wait,” continued the old man, with an air of mystery. “There is better still to come. Blanchette, the dessert. We will surprise our guest. Madame Giroux is a famous cook, but not in the same class with you, my dear.”
“There, my father, you have said enough,” laughed Blanchette, stopping his mouth with her open palm. “Be still, now, or you will frighten Monsieur Giroux, and he will never come again. Never mind him, Jean; he is only a foolish old man who is blinded by love. You could not be thus blinded, could you, my friend?”
“But the dessert, Blanchette, the dessert. I will say no more if only you will bring it in, instantly.”
“Ah, I had forgotten,” said Blanchette, going to the cupboard and bringing thence an immense plate of croquignoles of all sizes and shapes, delicately powdered with white sugar.
“There, Messieurs; there is the tour de force. If you have not eaten too much chicken, perhaps you will enjoy the croquignoles. And I have a little bottle of currant wine, too, to finish. Monsieur Giroux, I drink to our better acquaintance.”
“And I,” said Jean, quite disarmed by the kindness of those whom he had thought to be his enemies, “to your health, Mademoiselle Blanchette! To yours, Monsieur Laroche! Permit me to say that I have never tasted currant wine so delicious, and that the croquignoles are beyond all praise.”
“They are not so bad, Jean, and I am glad that you like them. As you see, my friend, I have made a study of human nature, and I know how to please men by good food and drink—and a little flattery.”
“Well, Mademoiselle, you succeed marvellously, I must confess.”
“Yes, Jean; but, as you may have observed, I have this time omitted the flattery.”
“Mademoiselle, it is lucky for me that you have omitted something, else I should have surrendered without the honours of war.”
“That would not do at all, Jean. He who gives to me his hand gives his heart also, and must be able to say, with a certain king: ‘All is lost save honour.’ Could you say that?”
“Mademoiselle, what shall I say? You are a sorceress, I think.”
“But no, Jean, only one who observes. It is like walking through the forest where there are signs that one may read if one has eyes to see. And there are little birds, too, that tell one things. But tell me; how does your house advance? It will soon be finished, will it not?”
“Very soon, Mademoiselle—in ten weeks, or less.”
“Good. I am delighted to hear it. See, I will give you a toast, neighbour Jean. To your health, to the health of all whom you love. To your success in everything—everything. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Blanchette, I understand, and I thank you.”
“What are you saying, you two?” said the old man. “Why all this mysterious talk? For me, I do not understand at all. Yet you have your secrets, I suppose.”
“Naturally,” said Blanchette, smiling. “We have at least one great secret. Shall I tell him, Jean? Shall I tell you, my father? As to this Jean Baptiste, I like him very much, and we are going to be the best of friends, but I will not marry him. Say nothing—I will not.”
The old man stared at his daughter for some moments in mingled anger and amazement; but presently, his reason getting the better of his rage, he replied, in the tone of an indulgent parent to a wayward child:
“There, Blanchette, my dear, no one is asking you to marry anybody. What have I done? I have merely asked the young man to dine with us, to eat of our roast chicken and croquignoles, to see what a fine housekeeper you are, to perceive how happy one can be in a home of one’s own—that is all. Do not trouble yourself. You shall marry or not, just as you please. Yes, you shall stay with your old father, little one, until the very end. But after that it will be lonely for you, will it not?”
“My good father,” said Blanchette, gently caressing his grizzled hair, “do not talk like that. You are still a young man, as any one can see, and I shall be with you for many years. Let us not consider a future so remote. But in the worst case there is always the convent for old maids like me.”
“The convent? Holy Virgin! What would you do in a convent, Blanchette, with your beauty, your accomplishments? Cut off your long hair, hide your lovely face behind a black veil, pray at midnight on the cold stones? No, no, Mignonne. Leave that to the old, the ugly, the disappointed. For you the fireside, a loving husband, beautiful children, the management of the house—all that makes life worth while. Besides, you are not pious enough for the religious life. You have no vocation. No, it is not for you.”
“My father,” said Blanchette, “have you finished at last? Monsieur Giroux wishes to go, I think. Au revoir, Monsieur Jean. It has been a great pleasure to have seen you. Come again soon. Good neighbours should meet often, should they not?”
“Yes, Jean,” assented the old man, “Come often—every day if you like. I shall be glad to see you. As for Blanchette, never mind what she says. Women are changeable, as you know. But if not, if not, Jean Baptiste Giroux, take care; keep out of my way; for I will crush you like a snake.”
Jean laughed. “Do not trouble yourself, Monsieur Laroche; I shall be safe enough, never fear. But I thank you for your hospitality; and you, Mademoiselle Blanchette, for all that and for your good wishes as well.”
As Jean took the road toward his own home the night was dark, with lowering clouds on the hills, and a chill April wind blew from patches of unmelted snow. He was stumbling along, uncertain of the way, when a beam of light shone out from a lamp set in the window of the Maison Laroche.
“It is Blanchette,” said Jean to himself, “and the light which she throws on the path will guide me for some distance yet. One can take a good many steps on a dark night, if one sees a friendly gleam in a window here and there.”