Chapter XVI The Temptation of Jean Baptiste
“Jean! Jean! To me! To me!”
The cry seemed but an echo in the recesses of the woods, yet Jean could not rid himself of the feeling that Gabrielle was still in danger and in need of help. The same vague sense of danger had come to him a little while before, as he stood on the doorstep of his house, smoking his pipe, watching the sunrise, and planning the day’s work, and had brought him running along the road to the Taché place and thence down the woodland path to meet her whom he loved best and him whom he most hated. They had met; the danger was past; and now it seemed to Jean that he was totally indifferent to Pamphile and that he hated Gabrielle more than any other being in all the world. Answer her cry for help? Never again!
“Jean! Jean!”
The call was fainter now, with a note of reproach and the suggestion of a sob, but Jean gave no heed. He only stood there, his heart full of jealousy and anger, thinking evil thoughts. A strange meeting, surely, on that lonely path at such an hour. A coincidence? Hardly. Pre-arranged? Doubtless. To what end? Who can understand the heart of a woman? To meet a stranger by accident on a Sunday morning, after Mass, to have one visit and another, a game of croquet, and then——. Love at first sight, it would seem, and after that a rapid career, a swift descent into the depths. Inconceivable? Yes. Impossible? Nothing is impossible. Even the holy angels could fall from Heaven, and the Son of God might have bowed down to Satan.
But the whip? Jean held it up in his clenched hand, a short but heavy raw-hide with a knotted tail and loaded head, a dangerous weapon in strong and determined hands. She had come alone, but not unprotected. And those marks on the face of Pamphile? Inflicted by the selfsame whip, evidently. By whose hand? The hand of Gabrielle. Jean’s heart gave a leap at the thought, and he almost smiled. She had struck Pamphile twice with the knotted tail, and if Jean had not come to the rescue she would have turned at bay and felled her assailant to the ground with the leaden head. Brave Gabrielle! A girl of spirit, that, a girl worthy of any man.
How then could she be ensnared by that spider, be fascinated by that serpent? But she had broken the spider’s net; she had escaped the wiles of the serpent. A lover’s quarrel? Only lovers quarrel; the indifferent never. But do they strike each other with a whip? No, thank God, Gabrielle did not love Pamphile. Impossible. As for the rest, what matter? Strange, certainly, that meeting in the woods, but not more strange than his own arrival in the nick of time. The world itself is strange, and the combinations, the possibilities, infinite. All is strange, mysterious, improbable. Nothing can be explained. One must have faith in one’s friends, in oneself, in God. No; she cared nothing for that reptile. A passing fancy, perhaps, but even that was over—else why the blow, the flight, the cry for help? On whom does one call in the hour of danger? On one’s friends, first of all, and then, in the last extremity, on God.
“Jean! Jean!”
A low voice seemed to call to him from the hill, a voice as of one in tears.
Jean awoke from his reverie, and ran up the path.
“Gabrielle!” he called. “I am coming, dear. No danger. I am here. Gabrielle! Gabrielle! where are you?”
The voice of Jean awoke the echoes of the hills, but there was no other reply. On he ran with fear in his heart, peering into the woods on either side, and calling incessantly, until he reached the place where the path left the forest, and he could see the home of Gabrielle nestling in a hollow in the midst of green fields, with its white walls, its spacious verandah, its black roof with dormer windows, and its massive stone chimney from which a wisp of yellow smoke rose in the morning air. It was a picture of comfort and security; and, as Jean looked upon the peaceful scene, he assured himself that his fears were groundless and that all was well.
There was, however, a slight commotion about the place, such as one might expect to see on a market day or on the departure of some member of the family for a visit to the city. A large valise lay on the verandah, and at intervals Madame Taché or a maid appeared with a parcel or two, a parasol, a cloak, a basket. Monsieur Taché and one of the men hurried to the barn; presently the great doors were flung open and a prancing pair of bays came out with a carriage, as though the family were going to Mass, to a wedding, or some other notable celebration. Jean could hear the wheels crunch on the gravel as they drove around to the front steps, where the valise and the parcels were put on in front with the driver, while Madame Taché and Gabrielle came out of the house all ready to depart.
It was Gabrielle herself, dressed all in white, like a bride, a white cloak on her shoulders and a white hat with a single white plume above her golden hair. Jean could not see her face in the distance, but she seemed loth to go, for she ran hither and thither saying good-bye to everybody, even to the chickens and geese, patted Boule, the dog, on the head with a lingering caress, and then threw her arms about her father’s neck, sobbing bitterly.
Jean turned away with tears in his eyes, and when he looked again the bays were prancing along the road, strong and proud, as though carrying a queen and a princess to a wedding feast. Never was princess more beautiful and more sad, for she had the air of one who was forsaking all that she held most dear, and going away never to return. As she passed near the place where Jean was standing she looked up once with an appealing glance, but made no sign of recognition or farewell. It was as if she did not see him, but was looking beyond into the depths of the woods. As the carriage came to the turn of the road Gabrielle turned and waved her handkerchief toward her old home. Perhaps Jean was included in the farewell. At any rate, he waved back, and as the carriage disappeared from sight he thought he caught a flutter of white meant for him alone.
Jean took a long breath, and then another, to keep down the tide of emotion that was surging up from the depths of his soul. Then, pulling himself together with a mighty effort, he sprang over the fence and strode down the road toward his own home at a terrific pace, as though to escape as fast as possible from the place where he had seen the vanishing of all his hopes. For Jean did not deceive himself; he understood it all; could see it all, as in a vision. Gabrielle, that angel in the white robes, was leaving St. Placide—for ever. She was going to a wedding—her own—in the chapel of the Ursulines, before a congregation of black-robed sisters. She would be a bride—the bride of Christ. They would cut off her golden hair, dress her in black from head to foot, and make her say infinite prayers by night and day on the cold, stone floor. Did Christ demand that?
“I do not believe that He will have that,” said Jean, aloud. “But if so, I protest. It is not just. By Heaven, it is not! Ah, why did I not answer at the first call? Why did I not follow? Fool that I was! Yes, fool, fool!”
“Not so fast, Jean Baptiste,” said a voice directly in front of him. “Stop! You are running me down! Stop, I say! There you have done it! Sacré diable! Fool! Yes, fool, fool!”
Jean stopped at last in his mad career, looked about in a dazed manner, and saw a little old man picking himself up from the dusty road, while filling the air with curses.
“Why, Monsieur Laroche, is it you? What is the matter? You fell down? I ran over you? Surely not. Mon Dieu, Monsieur, if I did I am sorry. Forgive me, I beg of you. It was an accident, I assure you. I was not thinking; that is to say, I was thinking of something else. There, Monsieur, allow me to brush off the dust, and to hand you your hat. Oh, but I am sorry. What can I say?”
“Nothing!” said the old man, with a vicious snap of the jaws. “Say nothing! Don’t speak to me! I will get even with you. Yes, I will punish you for this, Monsieur the Proprietor, Monseigneur the Millionaire that is to be. Yes, I will show you.”
“Well, Monsieur Laroche, if you feel like that I can do no more. Good-day, Monsieur.”
“Not so fast, Jean Baptiste Giroux,” said the old man, with malicious deliberation. “Not so fast, my enterprising friend. Remember, if you please, the little payment that is coming to me, the half-yearly interest that will be due next week.”
“Well, what of it?” said Jean.
“You will pay it,” said the money-lender, with a leer, “on the very day.”
“Of course,” said Jean, with contempt. “Is that all you wished to say?”
“Yes. No,” said the old man, taken by surprise, for he had expected Jean to ask for an extension. “You will pay it when due—on the very day? Well, I like that. It pleases me. It is not often that one finds a young man of such a talent for affairs, of such promptitude. It is a good sign, Jean Baptiste. You will succeed, no doubt, if you have good luck. Yes, a promising young man. If only I had a partner like you, a son-in-law. What? It could be arranged, could it not? The little daughter has refused, of course, but might change her mind. Who can tell? Women are variable, as you know. What do you say, Jean, my lad—shall we have a try?”
“Monsieur Laroche,” said Jean, earnestly, “I have the greatest respect for Mademoiselle Blanchette, and I would not for the world have you persuade her to change her mind. These marriages of convenience are generally unsuitable and often terrible. It is a dreadful thing—marriage without love.”
Bonhomme Laroche laughed aloud.
“Jean Baptiste Giroux, you talk like a fool. Marriage of convenience? And why not? The union of two good farms, with buildings, implements, cattle, horses, and all that, appears to me very convenient and suitable. Moreover, on one side a fine hotel, on the other an ample dowry—what better could you desire? Marriage without love? It is to laugh. Go home, Jean; regard yourself in the glass, and consider. Six feet in your stockings, straight as a tamarack, broad shouldered, strong as an ox, a great chief, a leader of men. What girl could not love a man like you? They have eyes, those creatures, you may believe. And my Blanchette—what beauty, what good temper, what capacity! Jean, my lad, it is all right; it will go, it is a match made, I will say, in Heaven. Yes, say nothing; it is to be.”
Jean was speechless, for the little old man, pouring forth a torrent of words, fairly danced with excitement and finally flung his arms about the young man’s neck in token of complete reconciliation.
“Jean, Jean, my son. It will arrange itself. Say nothing. I will not hear. Go. That little payment—forget about it. What is that among friends; yes, relations. There, not a word. All is forgotten. Go home, I say, for the present. Adieu! Adieu!”
It was still early in the morning, for Jean had been away from home scarcely an hour—an hour that seemed an immeasurable time, during which he had seen his past life unroll before him like a writing in a foreign language, dark and meaningless. During that time he had seen his ideals, his plans, his dream-castles melt away into nothing, and all his future become a blank. The sun was still shining, the clouds still floating in the sky, the grass still green, the birds still singing, the air still fragrant with the odours of pine and balsam, of crushed strawberries and new-mown hay—but not for him. The world to him seemed colourless, odourless, silent as the tomb, because the light and joy had gone out of his life when a young girl with blue eyes and golden hair had passed down the road clad all in white as a bride adorned for her husband. She had vanished at the turn of the road, and immediately the world was changed.
The glory of the world had departed; the beauty was gone; love had flown away; and life was no longer worth while. Even the great house, the work of his hands, his castle and seat of pride, was like a broken toy, a thing to be thrown aside. It had ceased to interest him, but still the force of habit led him thither. He pressed the latch, and entered the great kitchen where his good mother was preparing breakfast.
“Good morning, Jean,” she said, looking up with a smile, which immediately changed to a look of alarm, “Oh, Jean, what is it? What is the matter? Where have you been? What is it, Jean, my son?”
“It is nothing, my mother,” he said, with a fugitive smile. “Nothing at all. That is, I am a little tired, perhaps.”
“Tired? A great man like you, and at this time of the day! Six o’clock on a fine summer morning—and tired! Very strange, that. No, Jean, you are putting me off. What is it, then? Tell me, my son.”
“It is Bonhomme Laroche, my mother.”
“That old miser. What does he want?”
“His money.”
“His money? We have not had it six months, and the loan was for three years.”
“It is the interest that he wants, my mother, the half-yearly interest.”
“Well, that is not much, a matter of sixty dollars or so. We will pay him.”
“Yes, we will pay him, of course, but we shall not have much left.”
“Nonsense, Jean! We shall have still a nice little deposit in the bank; the tourists owe us a good sum; and to-morrow we shall send butter and eggs to the market—five dollars worth at the very least. No, there is no cause for worry. The business is going well. It will come out all right, with the help of the good God. Have courage, my son. The time of sowing will soon be over, and you will see the golden harvest, the fruit of all your planning, your work. If that is all—no!”
“He wishes to buy a husband for his daughter.”
“For his daughter—for Blanchette? Yes, I know. All the rest are married—long ago. Only the little Blanchette is left. Not so very little now, nor so very young. Let us see—ten, twenty, twenty-five, yes, twenty-six years this summer. I remember well—fourteen years after we came to the parish. They were sufficiently poor then, those Laroches, poor and not at all proud. But they are not so very proud even now, although quite rich. And the little Blanchette was pretty, too, before the smallpox. A clever girl, and excellent housekeeper, a manager from the bottom, a worker, too. No, it is not a bad suggestion, not at all.
“Yes, she would be a fine partner for one who owns a hotel. No fear of failure after that. All anxiety gone, all concern for the future. The dowry would be considerable. She would have that fine farm, with cattle, horses, pigs, sheep, implements, furniture, linen, and all that, not to speak of money in the bank. Bonhomme Laroche has explained it to me many times. A strange man, that. A miser, true, but a just miser. He will have his money always, to the last sou, but no more. I hope that we may be able to pay him all, when due. There are great risks in an enterprise like this, and great responsibilities. The alliance would settle everything, remove all difficulties, dispel all clouds. Think of it, Jean. The two farms united—a veritable estate, a seigniory, almost. Ah, my son, if your father were alive, how pleased he would be!”
“My father,” said Jean, thinking aloud, “would he have sold himself in this way, I wonder?”
“Your father, Jean, would be pleased to see your prosperity, as I have said, but for himself he did not regard such things. They had no power over him. He did not know the value of money, that man. For him truth, honour, a good name, were the true values, more precious than rubies, more desirable than all the gold of the world. And love? Yes, love above all. He also could have married an heiress, the daughter of a rich merchant, a ship-owner. Beautiful she was, I must confess, beautiful and accomplished. Yet he preferred me, me. I never knew why. Ah, Mon Dieu, what devotion! Did he ever regret it? He never said so. On the contrary, he assured me many times—— And I, did I regret the poverty, the work, the long years? No, it was my glory. And you, Jean, my son, are like him, and I know what you will do. Yes, and you are right, both of you. Land, cattle, money, are very fine, all right in their place, but in comparison with love they do not count for much. Ah, selfish old woman that I am to wish you to give up so much for the sake of a dowry. Jean, my son, you shall not, you could not.”
“No, my mother, it would be impossible.”
“Well, let us say no more about it. Let us think of something else. There are still good fish in the sea, although they are often hard to catch. That little Gabrielle, for example, the most beautiful girl, they say, in all the parishes. Even in Quebec, there is not her equal. They are rare, you know, blondes of that type, with hair like a sunset cloud, not red, not gold, but something of both, and changing with the light. And such a complexion, such a lovely face, and a smile that touches the heart. A sufficiently good temper, also, not meek, but high-spirited, polite and altogether charming. An ample dowry, too, which is not to be despised when all the rest is there. It contributes to independence and harmony.
“A most independent young lady, not easily caught, I should say, but a prize for any fisherman. I have heard of several young men who have aspirations—a brave young officer of the Artillery, for one. They are dangerous rivals, those young soldiers, with their fine clothes, their noble bearing, their self-confidence. I remember them well. They are irresistible, almost. And Gabrielle is no ordinary habitant girl, but one who would be at home in any society, high or low. She will fly away some day, I fear. I don’t like to think of that, for the parish will be different without her. Yes, very different.
“But, Jean, what is the matter? Where are you going? Sit down again, please. Your breakfast is just ready. See, I have something that you like, a nice piece of ham, some eggs, and the most delicious pancakes.”
“Thank you, dear,” said Jean, wearily, “but I have no appetite this morning.”
“No appetite? That is serious. What is wrong? Work to do? Nonsense! How can one work if one does not eat? Do not go, my son. At least, come back soon, soon. There, I have driven him away. Talkative old woman! Stupid old creature! My poor Jean!”