Chapter XIV The Triumph of Pamphile
It was on a Saturday evening that Pamphile arrived in St. Placide, and before Mass on the following morning all the parish knew that the exile had returned, not in poverty and rags, like the prodigal son, but with fine clothes on his back, money in his pocket, and driving in a carriage like a great lord. Some of the neighbours had merely heard of his arrival; others had seen him as he drove by; while a very few, highly favoured, had actually spoken to him; but on the way to Mass all the details were pieced together, the knowledge of each became the common property of all, and a story of adventure and romance was woven that grew more wonderful and variegated with the telling.
The youth had left the parish eight years before without a sou. Zotique Bédard himself had taken him down to Beauport as an act of charity; and Elzéar Buchon, the grocer’s boy, had taken him the rest of the way to Quebec. From that place he had made his way, by walking, by getting a lift now and then, by riding in and under freight cars, to Chicago, and finally to the Far West, where for many years he had wandered about from one mining camp to another seeking for gold, now finding a glittering vein that promised a fortune, now losing all at a single blast. At last he had found it, a mine of fabulous riches, and now he was a capitalist, a millionaire, living on rents and royalties, travelling for pleasure all over the world, yet coming back, like a good patriot, to the home of his ancestors.
As to his wealth there could be no doubt whatever. One had but to look at the fine frock coat of grey cloth, the embroidered waistcoat, the striped trousers, the shiny buttoned shoes, and the jaunty grey hat of soft felt with the silken cord and tassel. Such style St. Placide had never seen before, and Quebec, even, could not approach it. The housewives marvelled at the whiteness of his shirt-bosom; the young men talked of the glittering diamond stud and the gold watch with its wonderful hunting-case and the little gong within that chimed the hours; while the young ladies raved over his drooping moustache and the black, glossy mane that came down almost to his shoulders.
Altogether, the verdict was highly favourable. Pamphile was a desirable young man, a credit to the parish. What a pity that he had not come back to stay! But it was not to be expected that he could be content to settle down in St. Placide, he who had travelled over the world and had attained such eminence among his fellow-men. No, but it might well be that he had returned to seek a bride among the fair maidens of the parish. Riches might be acquired abroad, but more loving companions, more faithful wives or better housekeepers than the Canadian girls were not to be found in foreign lands. Vive la Canadienne!
True, Pamphile had not left behind a perfect reputation when he went away, but one should not be too severe in judging the pranks and peccadilloes of youth. The worst boys often become the best men. In fact, some of the most respectable habitants had been sad rogues in their younger days. No, a boy without capacity for evil had little capacity for good. It is not enough to be good; one must be good for something.
Of the relatives of Pamphile little was known. His mother had been the sister of Mère Tabeau, but was now dead. His father had been a lumberman on the Gatineau, but was drowned on the drive. Of the dead one should say nothing but good. The family was by no means distinguished, but that was all the more to the credit of Pamphile, who had been able to rise so far above them. And Mère Tabeau? Well, after all she was a harmless creature, despite her bitter tongue. Certainly, she had a gift of language truly remarkable. If only she had a silk dress, a black cloak, and a bonnet tied with ribbons under her chin, she would look quite respectable. Indeed, the wives of some of the habitants had a loud voice and an offensive manner. One must not be unjust to people merely because they are poor.
So the neighbours, as they drove to Church, praised the achievements of Pamphile and said many charitable things of Mère Tabeau. More than one stopped at the cabin to invite the old woman and her distinguished nephew to drive to Church with them. The first to come was Bonhomme Gagnon, who, after some delay, captured the lion and the lioness and bore them away in triumph. It was indeed a triumph for Bonhomme Gagnon, and fully repaid him for the gifts of trout, game, berries, potatoes, black puddings and what not, the blackmail extorted for years by Mère Tabeau because of a slight indiscretion in the days of his youth. Even Madame Gagnon, who cordially hated the old woman, condescended to sit with her in the back seat for the pleasure of escorting the American millionaire and mining king to church.
It was a great day for Pamphile. Seated beside the eminently respectable cultivator, Bonhomme Gagnon, he found himself at the head of a long procession of neighbours, assembled, it would seem, to do him honour. He thoroughly enjoyed the attention he was receiving, he who had been so unimportant in his younger days that the neighbours could hardly remember his faults, much less his good points, such as they were. But now the insignificant past was obliterated, the way of virtue and honour lay before him, and the rising sun of popular favour shone upon him. The heart of Pamphile expanded in the genial warmth of the morning sun, and he chatted in a very friendly way with the worthy habitant by his side.
“Well, Monsieur Gagnon,” he said, in a tone of appreciation, “this is without doubt a very fine day.”
The good habitant beamed upon Pamphile.
“I am delighted to hear you say so, Monsieur Lareau. You find our weather pleasant? That is good. Yes, we have fine weather at times, not like that of the West, of course, but still quite satisfactory. Good for the hay, certainly.”
“Ah, Monsieur Gagnon, my friend, not only is the day very fine, but the scenery, I will say, is charming. Not like that of Nevada, but equally pleasing in its way.”
“Can it be?” exclaimed Bonhomme Gagnon, delighted. “It is a pleasure to hear you say so, Monsieur. The weather and the scenery—both equal to Nevada in their way. But that is gratifying. Do you hear that, Marie? The gentleman has seen the world, and he knows. What a wonderful thing is travel! To go to Beauport, that is interesting; to visit Quebec, that is very fine; but to sail up to Montreal, to explore the sources of the great river, to see Chicago, Nevada and all that—what a privilege! Ah, Monsieur Lareau, I envy you.”
“Yes, it is interesting,” said Pamphile, reflectively. “But it is interesting, also, to return. St. Placide has changed much in the past eight years. Those good neighbours back there have an air of prosperity. Almost every one has a covered buggy. Formerly they had carts only, and many walked to Church, five, six, seven miles, even. Yes, St. Placide must be a pretty good place.”
“Not so bad, Monsieur Lareau,” said Bonhomme Gagnon, with pride. “There are no millionaires in our parish, but neither are there any paupers. Yes, we have our cows and pigs, our horses and spring-carts, our houses and barns, and our money in the bank. It is the dairy business, you know, that has made the change of which you speak. I myself, for example, have my little five hundred dollars laid away.”
“That is interesting,” said Pamphile, with a keen glance at the simple habitant. “Very interesting indeed. And you are contented I am sure, as though you owned a gold mine.”
“Contented? Yes. No. A gold mine? Mon Dieu, if I had that I should be a prince. Marie, do not talk all the time. Listen to Monsieur Lareau, who will tell us, perhaps, about the gold of Nevada. Tell us, Monsieur, if you please. Is it true that one finds a mine, now and then, with more than a million dollars in gold, pure gold?”
“Certainly, Monsieur Gagnon. Have I not seen with my own eyes that great mine, the Comstock, whence they have taken millions and millions of gold and silver, besides lead, copper, and many other metals of great value? Ah, that was a mine! Yes, there is gold in Nevada—quantities of it. Come with me, Monsieur Gagnon, on my return, and I will show you. My own little mine, for example, would be worth a visit. I could show you places on the wall of the tunnel where you could pick off pieces of gold as large as a pea—yes, as large as a marble. Native gold, pure, twenty dollars to the ounce.”
“Monsieur Lareau, I will go with you. Marie, say nothing. Too old? Not at all. I was sixty last month, but what of that? I am strong still, as an ox. The farm? You will see to that. She is a most capable manager, Monsieur Lareau. Danger, you say? Indians? Highway robbers? I had not thought of that. I am no fighter, me, and I have no desire to lose my scalp. There is not much hair left, but I need it all. Tell us, Monsieur Lareau—is there really danger?”
“Oh, yes, a little danger, of course, enough to make life interesting, but we do not think of that. I carry a revolver, of course, and robbers do not often attack one who can hit a nail on the head at fifty yards. Yes, it demands a keen eye and a steady hand, such as one seldom has at the age of sixty. No, Monsieur Gagnon, perhaps you had better stay in St. Placide. But it is a pity, a great pity. A man with a little capital, like yourself, could make a fortune in a little while.”
“But could not one send one’s money?” inquired Bonhomme Gagnon, with great eagerness. “Could one not send it by a good friend like yourself, an old compatriot and neighbour? Marie, is it not the thing to do, to send that five hundred dollars by Monsieur Lareau, and to receive, say, half of the profits? A species of partnership, that. If only you would, Monsieur.”
“No, no, Monsieur Gagnon, I could not. Five hundred dollars is a small sum in Nevada. In the mining of gold one requires ten times as much, and after that there may be need of more. No, let us not speak of it. It would not be worth while.”
“But Monsieur Lareau,” persisted the old man, now afire with the gold fever, “behold the neighbours back there, each with his little store in the bank, or in some other safe place, his two hundred, five hundred, one thousand dollars, even. Then there is that rich Bonhomme Laroche, to whom a thousand dollars is nothing; and Monsieur Taché, who is a lumber king, almost. Do not refuse us, Monsieur Lareau. Consider, if you please. We might easily raise as much as ten thousand dollars. That would be sufficient, would it not, to buy a little gold mine?”
“Monsieur Gagnon,” said Pamphile, with an air of great sincerity, “I ask you to observe that I did not make the proposal, and that I advise you once more to be content with your little three per cent. in the Bank of Quebec. Still, if you insist, and if Madame approves, we may consider the matter. If you do not change your mind, come to see me during the week, and we will talk. Those who begin an enterprise like this, the promoters we call them, always have a certain advantage over the others whom we take into the company. We are on the ground floor, you know, at the beginning of things, and the others we take in above. Yourself, Monsieur Gagnon, to whom the idea first occurred, would have the precedence; then I; and after us the others in their turn. But as I have said, there is always the chance of loss. Yet the profits are alluring, and the search for gold, it draws one on. But let us not speak of it any more at present. Here we are at the church. What a crowd of people! Let us descend, Monsieur and Madame. Let us descend, my aunt. Yes, Monsieur Gagnon, we shall be charmed to drive back with you after Mass.”
During the service, Pamphile and his aunt, who occupied a place well toward the front, were the centre of all eyes; and it is to be suspected that the thoughts, also, of the people were centred, not upon the worship of the good God, but upon the handsome stranger who was assisting at the service with a devotion that might have put even the churchwardens to shame. What would the neighbours have thought if they had known the thoughts of the pious stranger at the most solemn part of the office, when the priest was elevating the Host, and all the people bowed in awe and adoration? He was thinking of the last time that he had assisted at the holy sacrifice, when Jean Baptiste and he were acolytes, both eager to have the honour of ringing the little bell. It was Pamphile’s turn on this occasion, but Jean twisted the bell out of his hand and robbed him of his sacred right. After this, as the acolytes knelt with folded hands behind the priest, Pamphile had said, through his clenched teeth: “For this I will kill you one day, Jean Baptiste Giroux.”
Now, after many years, as the little bell announced the elevation of the Bon Dieu, Saviour of the world, Pamphile repeated with hate in his soul the same words: “For that I will kill you, Jean Baptiste Giroux.”
After Mass the neighbours flocked about Pamphile: those who had known him to take him by the hand, to welcome him back to the parish, and to remind him of old times: those who had not known him to look at the distinguished stranger, to listen to his talk, and to have the honour of an introduction. With a grand and gracious manner he received them all.
“Yes, yes, Monsieur Bédard, I know you very well. And you, Monsieur Picard. And you, Monsieur Plamondon. What a pleasure! Too young to remember? Not at all. I was already eighteen years old when I left St. Placide, now eight years ago. There, Madame Pouliot, you have my age exactly, but I am not sensitive on that point. Old enough to be settling down, you think? Yes, I was thinking of that myself. And what of the little Delima whom I used to see at school? Married? I am sorry to hear it—desolated. Ah, Madame Poisson, is it you? Charmed, I am sure. Monsieur and Madame Gosselin, too. Remember you? Certainly. Mon Dieu, how everything comes back to me! Have I not seen you passing along to church and to market in your spring carts, or in carts without springs? But now you drive in covered carriages in great style. What grandeur! What magnificence! How glad I am to see that everybody prospers, thanks to the good God!
“As for me, I am doing passably well, Monsieur Lebel, much better than in those days. Did I really drive to Quebec in the cart of Elzéar Buchon? Yes, certainly, and I shall not forget that good butcher’s boy. I was not rich at that time, no indeed. The little money left by my good father had all been spent, excepting a small sum in the bank at Quebec. Did I arrive in Nevada by means of freight cars? Oh, no, Monsieur Trembly, I was not reduced to that. After Quebec all was easy. Expensive living out there, Madame Trembly? Well, you might think so. Bread, twenty cents the loaf; butter, fifty cents the pound; eggs, a dollar the dozen, and so on. If you could get such prices at Beauport you would soon be rich, would you not? But you are already rich enough, as I see. In my days the ladies did not wear those fashionable hats, those French shoes, nor those fine cloaks trimmed with lace and braid, so chic, so becoming. Creations of Paris, are they not, Madame?
“Is there gold in Nevada? Yes, Joseph, my friend, plenty of it, if you know where to find it. Does everybody become rich out there? No, I will not say that, but it is a good place for young men, if they have good health and some intelligence, if they work hard, if they do not drink nor gamble, nor keep loose company, nor steal horses, nor jump claims, nor look for trouble in any other way. Yes, Joseph, it is a good place for those who have luck, for those who survive.
“It would be a fine place for that son of yours, Madame Barbeau, that Napoléon with whom I used to play. What? Here? Is this my little Napoléon? Mon Dieu, how you have grown! What changes come while one is away! You must be twenty-four at the very least. Still with papa and mama? All the rest gone away? Well, somebody must stay behind to take care of the farm, the cows, the pigs. It is amusing, feeding pigs. What appetites they have, what sweet voices, what gratitude! And how they love to be scratched! Ha! Ha! The pleasures of country life! Nothing like that in Nevada.
“You would return with me, Napoléon? Well, old man, that will not be hard to arrange. I am going back, of course, yet since yesterday I have had other thoughts. I have allowed myself to dream. Yes, Madame, I am still unmarried, an old bachelor, almost. There, the cat is out of the bag. The young ladies of Nevada do not suit me exactly. They have their merits, no doubt, but as to the figure, as to the complexion, as to the temper, as to the accomplishments of the housekeeper, they are not in the same class, I will say, with the young ladies of Quebec, of Beauport, of St. Placide. But tell me, Napoléon, who is that fine-looking man over there in the carriage, he with the grey hair? Monsieur Taché? Ah, I thought so. And that glorious blonde? Mademoiselle Gabrielle? Gabrielle? I do not seem to remember. Ah, I have it. The little friend of Jean Baptiste. There, the events unfold, the secrets are revealed. It is fate, without a doubt. Napoléon, old man, present me. Au revoir, Monsieur, Madame, my friends.”
“Monsieur Taché,” said Napoléon Barbeau, as he and Pamphile, hat in hand, approached the carriage; “Monsieur and Mademoiselle, I have the honour to present to you an old schoolfellow, Monsieur Pamphile Lareau, of Elko, Nevada.”
“Much pleased, I am sure,” said Monsieur Taché. “I remember you, I think, on account of some boyish prank of former days. But what of that? The follies of that age are gone. Come to see us, Monsieur Lareau, during the week.”
“I will come to-morrow, Monsieur Taché, with your permission and that of Mademoiselle.”
Monsieur Taché smiled. “To-morrow if you wish, Monsieur the stranger. We shall be glad to see you. Au revoir, Monsieur.”
A little later, as Pamphile drove past the Giroux place, he saw Jean Baptiste in the yard unharnessing his horse.
“Holà, Jean Baptiste! Holà, little priest!” he called, in a tone of elation.
Jean raised his hat and smiled as the buggy drove by. In that smile Bonhomme and Madame Gagnon observed only the friendly greeting of a good neighbour; Mère Tabeau perceived the good-humoured toleration of a superior being; but Pamphile saw the confidence of a declared enemy and the menace of a threat half-revealed.
“It is chilly at present,” he murmured. “The sun has gone behind a cloud. Or was it the manner of Jean Baptiste—a little frigid, perhaps?”
“Did you think so?” said Bonhomme Gagnon. “It was a very friendly salutation, I thought. Strange that we did not see him at the church.”
“He was there,” said Pamphile. “I saw him approaching the carriage of Monsieur Taché as Napoléon and I came up, but immediately he turned away.”
“We were all looking at you, Monsieur,” said Bonhomme Gagnon. “Jean Baptiste is with us all the time, as you know. Yet he also is a fine young man. Some say that he is much interested in Mademoiselle Taché; others say that it is Mademoiselle Laroche whom he favours. Who knows? He confides in nobody. But take care that you do not get in his way, Monsieur Lareau. It would be too dangerous. He is fierce, at times, they say, and strong as a bear.”
“Let him keep out of my way, then,” said Pamphile, with a snarl, “for I am not accustomed to step aside for any man. I have lived too long in the West for that. I, too, might be dangerous, my good friend.”
Bonhomme Gagnon made no reply, but surreptitiously crossed himself and muttered a prayer for protection against murder and sudden death.