Chapter XX The Robbery
“There, my nephew,” said Mère Tabeau, as the two emerged from the forest surrounding the log castle of Michel Gamache. “Behold the den of the beast. He has gone away for a day or two, permitting us to make a little exploration. Very considerate of him, was it not?”
“But there is nobody here—no dog, even.”
“No, my good nephew, not even a dog. It is a sorcerer, the inhabitant of this place, a species of wolf, you know; and wolves have no love for dogs. There are no domestic animals of any kind; and no wild beasts either, except the sorcerer himself and some of his cousins, who come from the forest now and then.”
“Wolves?” exclaimed Pamphile.
“Even so,” she sneered. “But do not fear, my brave nephew; they spend the day in the recesses of the forest, and do not come out until the evening twilight. Fear nothing.”
“Bah!” said Pamphile. “I have no fear of people, nor dogs, nor even wolves. If they were here there would be something to kill. No, my aunt, it is not wolves that I fear, but this damned silence. There is not the call of a bird, the chatter of a squirrel, nor the chirp of an insect. Even the leaves of the trees are still. It is a silence that one can hear. It is as though it were a place of the dead. My aunt, it would be better, I think, to go away.”
The old crone laughed in scorn, a shrill, cackling laugh that woke the echoes of the forest.
“There!” she said. “You hear something, do you not? Bah! You surprise me, Monsieur the bravo of Nevada. One who carries a pistol, one who has fought with savages, cowboys, cattle-thieves, gamblers, one who has saved his enemy from a burning house—to be afraid of a silence, and in broad daylight! It is to laugh. Ha! Ha! Ho! Ho! Well, let us go away. Let us leave the treasure, and the old miser will give it to Jean Baptiste. Hein? You don’t like that?”
“Sacré!” said Pamphile. “He shall not have it, that proud one, that peasant with the swagger of a grand seigneur, that bishop that was to be. He despises me, does he? He strikes me with a whip, like a dog. Sacred pig’s head! I will see him crawl in the dust, and then I will crush him with my foot. Obtain the treasure, he? Come on, my aunt; let us storm the castle. Shall we break down the door or cut out a window? The door is on the latch, you say—not barred? Mon Dieu! Is it possible? A treasure in such a place, and no bolt, no bar, no guard? My aunt, it is a trap. You shall press the latch; you shall open the door; and then you shall receive a charge of buckshot in the body. No, the game is not worth the candle.”
“Coward!” snarled the old hag. “Good-for-nothing! Call yourself a man! Get out of my way, you chicken-liver, you who have not the spirit of a mouse! There! I open the door; I enter the den; the beast is not there; there is no gun, no trap, no weapon of any kind but what you see on the walls, in full view. Now you can arm yourself to the teeth, if you like; but there is no need. Oh yes, I have been here before, to make a reconnaissance, so to speak; and I would have taken the treasure myself, but that it is too heavy. You will have trouble to lift it, my nephew. But you are strong, Pamphile, as strong as Jean Baptiste himself, if you would believe it. You could kill him—you. I say it, I, your mother.”
“What? What are you saying, my aunt?”
“No aunt at all, Pamphile—your mother, sure enough, your dear mother. Kiss me, my son.”
“Wait, my aunt; this is too sudden. My mother? Is it possible? A most affectionate mother, I must say—a species of ostrich, or alligator. Well, since you say it, you who should know, I must believe, I suppose; but I confess that I am not so very proud of the relationship. And my father, what of him? Perhaps you can reveal this also, since you are telling things.”
“Well, that is not so easy to determine; but there is reason to think that it is Monsieur the lord of this castle, the owner of the treasure that we are to take.”
“Michel Gamache?”
“No other.”
“Then, my aunt, my mother, if you will, the treasure is ours, in a sense.”
“That is what I have been trying to say.”
“Well, my sainted parent; let us take what is ours before the old man returns. He is a miser, as is well known; an unnatural father, as you have intimated; a rascal in any case. That he is a sorcerer I no longer believe, for the species of sorcery which he practises is no mystery to me. I have used it, many a time, back there in Nevada. No, my dear parents, let us not fool one another any more, for we are all sorcerers together. Dog does not eat dog, as you know. Curious, that fear that I had a moment since. It is all gone now; driven away by the power of reason and a revelation concerning family ties. Come, my lovely mother; let us find the treasure and take it away without delay.”
“Pamphile, you are a strange mixture of philosopher and fool, coward and hero; but that is what one should expect from the events connected with your birth. Some time I will tell you the story, but now we have other fish to fry. Kick away those skins. There is the trap-door. Lift it. Let us descend. A candle? I have it. Follow me. Now we are in the cave, and over there in the corner we should find the box. There it is. Dieu merci! You can lift it, of course. Take it up, now, and carry it out. I will help you, if necessary. I am not very strong, but for a treasure like this I could put forth some effort yet. Think of it, Pamphile, the pleasure of counting all that gold, of feeling the weight of every piece, of seeing the glimmer of it by the light of a candle. I, too, must have a cave, a dark cave with no windows; and every night I will descend to look, and feel and count. It will cost something for candles, but one cannot have pleasure without expense. As for you, Pamphile, you will want to spend your share, to gamble it away; and soon you will have nothing, nothing. What a pity! Better leave it all with me.”
“When you are tired of talking, my dear mother, will you be so good as to give me the key?”
“The key? I have no key. That is what I have not been able to find. But you can carry the box, I know.”
“There is no need for that, my precious mother. If I had a piece of strong wire. Ah, here it is in my pocket. A happy accident, is it not? How useful pockets are! Possibly we might find some other useful articles there, if the lock should prove refractory—a stick of dynamite, for example. It is an interesting trade, the locksmith’s, one of the accomplishments that I have learned in the course of my wanderings. But this is not a difficult combination. There goes one bolt; and there goes the other. Now the hasp is loose, and the lid is ready to open. If there is to be an explosion it will come at this stage. My cherished parent, you shall have the pleasure of opening the treasure chest, since you have desired it for so many years. The old can be spared, you know, but the future of the world is with the young.”
“Bah!” said the old woman. “You make a great fuss about nothing, my brave son; you with the long legs, the broad shoulders, the fierce look, the big words. Bah! You are a poor excuse for a man. I will lift the lid, of course, and you shall see what we have come to find. There! Look now! Look! Oh, Mon Dieu! Mon Dieu! What is this? Sacré diable! Millecochons! Sacré! Sacré! Cru-ru-ru-ru-de Dieu!”
“What is the matter?” cried Pamphile. “What the deuce is here? No gold, eh? I thought as much. Stones from the river? Yes, better than I expected. Oh, be still, you old fool. Stop your yelling. Who is making a fuss now, I should like to know? Be still, I say!”
“Oh, Pamphile! Oh! Oh! You do not know, you cannot imagine the disappointment, the sorrow, after all these years, to see all my hopes, all my plans, come to an end like this. No treasure, no revenge! Ah, the miserable one, to rob a poor woman, a poor old woman who had but one hope, one ambition, one thing to make life worth while! Now all is gone. No money, no revenge! Nothing, nothing! Sacré! Sacré! Pamphile, I am finished. Let us go, my nephew.”
“Nephew?” said Pamphile, as they slowly mounted the steps to the floor above. “I was your son a moment since, although I did not believe it for a moment.”
“It was a lie, Pamphile. You are my nephew, truly, the son of my sister Cécile. She was a fool, Cécile, and I could not abide her. Oh, we were two doves—Cécile and Celestine—two angels with downy wings. Your father? He also was a fool. What he could see in Cécile I could not guess. They went away without my blessing, you may be sure, and soon after he got himself drowned in the Gatineau. Oh, they were married with all regularity in the church, by a priest—Father Gibaut of Chateau Richer. No, you are no son of Michel Gamache, that traitor, that thief! Ah, if I had him here I would stab him to the heart, that he might be damned for ever, body and soul. I would go to Hell myself, to see him burn. A thousand devils take him, stick him on forks, tear his eyes out, his tongue, his liver, roast him in the fire! Ha, you damned one, squirm, wriggle, writhe in the fire that never shall be quenched—for ever, for ever, unto the ages of the ages! Ah, that is revenge, revenge at last—sweet, sweet!”
Mère Tabeau was raving; and when she saw the picture of Annette Duval, serene and calm like a holy saint above an altar, she tore it from its place; spat upon it; stamped upon it; and then raged about the room like a wild beast, tearing and breaking, scratching and biting and foaming at the mouth; until at last she fell unconscious to the floor, and Pamphile carried her home.
Toward evening Mère Tabeau recovered consciousness, and asked for the priest, knowing that she had but a little while to live. Father Paradis came in haste, carrying the Bon Dieu; while Pamphile, who drove, kept ringing the warning bell; whereat all who heard fell on their knees to pray for the departing soul. The priest remained with the dying woman for a long time, hearing her last confession, administering the holy wafer, anointing with the holy oil, and offering prayers of intercession until the last breath was expired, the heart had ceased to beat, and the soul had passed away from the mortal body.
When Father Paradis came from the chamber of death there was upon his face an expression of ineffable peace, as of one in communion with the eternal world; and his eyes had the far-away look of one who gazes upon things unseen. Even Pamphile felt a sense of awe and mystery, and for some time drove on in silence. Then, unable to contain himself any longer, he broke out suddenly:
“She was a bad woman, Monsieur le curé.”
“What? What is that you say, Pamphile?”
“She was a wicked old woman, and is now in Hell, no doubt.”
“Ah, Pamphile, how do I know? I am not her judge. She is in the hands of God.”
“Yes, Monsieur le curé, but if there is a mortal sin which she has not committed I do not know what it is. I understand that any one of these is enough to damn the soul. Is it not so?”
“Yes, Pamphile, if unforgiven. But who shall limit the mercy of God? Even Judas, if he had repented, might have been forgiven. This poor old woman, who has sinned and suffered, comes, like Magdalen, to the feet of Jesus; in repentance and with tears, confesses her sins and receives absolution. The thief on the cross——”
“Oh yes, I know,” said Pamphile, “but is it possible to cheat God like that? The old reprobate lives in sin to the very last; and then, to crown all, performs an act of sublime hypocrisy, cheating herself, the priest, and Almighty God. If she had died in the fit—what then?”
“God was merciful to her, Pamphile. He knew the circumstances of her life, her parentage, associations, temptations. He knows all, comprehends all, and is able to forgive when we could not. God is our creator, my son; do not forget that; and is disposed to overlook the sins of His creatures, poor insects that we are. We do not cheat Him, no, but He makes allowance.”
“Well, that is a comfortable faith, Monsieur le curé. I hope that the good God will make allowance for me too, for the little sins of the past, and for some that I intend to commit before I die.”
“Pamphile!” said the priest, in horror. “That is little short of blasphemy; and approaches the sin against the Holy Spirit, for which there is no forgiveness, neither in this world nor in the world to come. No, my son, one must have the good intention, else one cannot receive the grace of forgiveness, because the heart is closed. Pamphile, my son, repent of the sins of the past; cast away the bad intention for the future; and open your heart to the grace of God. Now, my son, without delay.”
“Ah, Monsieur, I wish to do so. Indeed, I have already commenced by giving up a little scheme of mine, the St. Ange Gold Mining Company, Limited, to which so many of our good friends have subscribed. But I will not take their money, for they need it more than I.”
“God will reward you, Pamphile.”
“I hope so, Monsieur Paradis.”
“And if you have any other bad intention, Pamphile, cast it from you and you will have peace in your soul.”
“I will, Monsieur, I will; but first I must settle a little score with one of the good neighbours.”
“Forgive him, my son, as you hope to be forgiven.”
“Impossible, Monsieur le curé. I will settle the score; and afterwards I will come and tell you, for I have long desired to turn over a new leaf. I might have been a good man, Monsieur; but I was turned in the wrong direction. You shall turn me the other way, Monsieur le curé.”
“Now, Pamphile.”
“To-morrow, Monsieur le curé.”
“There may be no to-morrow, Pamphile.”
“Well, Monsieur Paradis, I will take the risk of that. I was always a gambler. One more chance; one more throw! Fortune, life, eternity I will risk once more; and after that we shall see. Au revoir, Monsieur le curé. Will you not say a little prayer for my intention?”
“Assuredly Pamphile, but I implore——”
“Au revoir, Monsieur. Until to-morrow or the day after.”