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FOf

/r'"^

If.

THE

FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

s. FRANCES 'Harrison

AUTHOR OF

• PINK,

SERANUS)

ROSE, AND FLEUR-DE-LIS,'

ETC.

■7-^^
?//^^ .

/'r?'^^

/i9<i,^

TORONTO

GEORGE N. MORANG

1898

Property of the Library
University of Waterloo

CHAPTER
I. AI

II. MJ

III. Ml

IV. TF
V. AT

VI. ' T

VII. SE

VIII. «w

IX. A !

X. NIC

XI. A I

XII. A F

XIII. th:

XIV. THl
XV. THI

XVI. wa:

XVII. A S
IXVIII. STO

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I. ALL ABOUT MAGLOIRE

II. MAGLOIRE HIMSELF -

III. MR. MURRAY CARSON -

IV. THE OLD MANOIR
V. AT DELORMe's

VI. 'THE BIZ-NESS '

VII. SEDITION

VIII. 'WITHOUT A tear' -

IX. A SUNDAY AT HOME -

X. NICOLAS LAURlfeRE

XI. A BEAR HUNT

XII. A FELLED TREE

XIII. THE cure's GARDEN -

XIV. THE CURE HAS A DREAM
XV. THE SLAVES OF THE RING

XVI. WATERS OF A FULL CUP

XVII. A SIGN FROM HEAVEN

IXVIII. STONES OF EMPTINESS

PACK

91
106

125
136

159

177

205
219

239

244
268

282

291

* A man
Ipon the 1

JORDERIl

lere are

itrodder
[tlas, loni
flutonian

id voya^
tighlande
^cesses ra
-asantry,
itting, tre

strange
bdows, s
io open a

HE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

CHAPTER I.

9
»

ALL ABOUT MAGLOIRE.

A man was famous according as he had lifted up axes
[pen the thick trees.'

{ordering the mighty river of the Yamachiche

lere are three notable forests, dark, uncleared,

itrodden, and unfrequented by man, lofty as

[tlas, lonely as Lethe, sombre as Hades. In their

[lutonian shades stalk spectral shapes of trapper

id voyageur, Algonquin and Iroquois, Breton and

[ighlander, Saxon and Celt. Through their inmost

^cesses range spirits who revisit, say the imaginative

jasantry, the scene of their former labours, wood-

itting, tree-felling, bark-tapping, bait-setting — a race

strange and sturdy men, afraid of nothing except

ladows, strongly and deeply religious, drinkers of

^e open air, silent, inscrutable, wary. The three

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

forests are, respectively, the Forest of Lafontaine,
the Forest of Fournier, and the Forest of Hourg-
Marie, and upon their outskirts dwell the descendants!
of the hardy trappers, the dashing voyageurs, the I
slim, refined Frenchmen from the Breton coast, and I
mixed British — phlegmatic Scotch, impulsive Irish,!
grotesque Welsh — with an occasional Teutonic orj
Hungarian contribution,

The Forest of Bourg- Marie is the darkest, the]
deepest, the most impenetrable, the most forbidding
of the three. The stars of spring that light up otherj
woods seem here rarely to pierce through the cold,
hard ground to the sun : the sun itself seldornj
penetrates the thick branches of fir and pine and!
hemlock. The tints of autumn that beautify thel
death of the year in other places are absent froml
its partially-cleared fringe of pine-tasselled ground;!
there seems no colour, no motion, no warmth any-]
where. Fitting soil for fable and legend, for the talej
of Dead Man's Tree, for the livelier story of ill-fated
Rose Latulippe, for countless minor myths that th^
old women and the old men, even the young meij
and maidens, have at their fingers' ends, and whichj
once started, they will recount all day and half thj
night for the interested traveller. Fitting haunt foj
the famous beast or bogey known as the Loup-Garou
a thing so hateful, so terrible, that for all the countr)|
side the name is fraught with curious yet awful fea
Fitting habitation — the entire valley — for bear anJ

ALL ABOUT MAGLOIRE

snake and salmon and deer — for all things that court
the solitude and exclusion of the almost primeval,
the undisturbed, the unfrequented.

Mikel Caron, forest - ranger for the County of
Yamachiche, was, in all probability, the only man
who, within the memory of those living, had
thoroughly explored these haunted arches, and
pressed towards the crescent of light that bounded
them on the other side. This Mikel Caron, un-
usually tall, painfully thin, with furrowed brown face,
ferret's eyes, and slouching gait, is the walking
observatory, the weather-prophet of his county.
He knows every tree by name and by sight on the
outskirts and well into the middle of the three great
forests. He knows every sign of peeling bark, of
shifting soil, of running or drying sap, of outgoing
bird, of ingoing skunk and squirrel, of fading or
budding flower, of unset blossom, of hardening
fruit, of ice-scratched boulder, of drifting leaf, of
sodden hoof-mark, of lofty nest, of lowly burrow.
This Mikel Caron is the great-grandson of a son of
Messire Jules-Gaspard-Noel-Ovide Delaunay-Colom-
biere Caron, who held at one time the Seigniory of
Bourg- Marie, extending along the western bank of
the Yamachiche for 900 arpents — a fief granted,
according to the mouldy and rat-gnawed parchment
of the * Actes du Foy et Hommage,' to its first
holder in the year 1668. The fief has slowly but
surely dwindled, till, in the hands of Mikel Caron,

I — 2

I
i

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MAKIE

shorn of his long array of high-sounding names as
well as of glebe and wood and river, it is represented
chiefly by the immense Forest of Bourg-Marie.

This fact rarely troubled Mikel. Of what use was
land to an old and childless man like himself, and
such land — acres of bog, acres of forest, miles of,
river, ranges of mountains !

If Magloire had come back, then — but Magloire
would never come back. That Eldorado, the States,
had attracted him. See how the quick lad early
learns to hate the inconceivable dulness, slowness, J
inclemency, roughness, misery of the life ! From
his tenth year he had actually dared to array his
little person and his childish opinions against the
cure, who lived at Yamachiche, his uncle, and the |
rustic minds of his native countryside. Mikel had
helped too — Mikel who had slapped Magloire on the |
back, and cried that he would be a great man some
day and go up to Quebec and speak in the Council ;
Mikel, who now would give all his ancient lineage
and his right to Plutonian Bourg-Marie for a glimpse
of Magloire's sleek little black head and the sound
of his sharp falsetto voice. No ; it was certain
Magloire would never come back. So Mikel's
philosophy — learnt from Nature, from brooding
twilight glooms, from diamonded midnight vigils
spent in eluding heavy-breathing bear or sly russet
fox, from hot, sleepy noons in a canoe on the
sparkling river, from cool, dewy dawns in the lumber-

men s
furred
jcrcatur
stump
Ihis lon(
lin.L,' to t
Ihardly
pluck, \
ever aff
the hab
:ioii ; t
notion,
md witl
lis lips
ilccp in
)lankets
)uffetin^
inurdero
^v.'is cas^
Kitted hi
icvcr dr
life had
raspard
:rown ol
And tl
'hen Mi
[he press
[he leave
[he valle

ALL AHOUT MAGLOIRE

men's camp or shanty ; such wisdom, borrowed from

furred and plumed, erect, .creepinj^ and prowling;

Icrcaturcs, and from stone and sap and soil and

stump as well — upheld him and comforted him in

his lonely life. From the eagle he got his easy soar-

lin.L,' to thoujjfhts as to heights the cure himself could

Ihardly follow ; from the bear his indomitable dogged

pluck, which neither Arctic blasts nor torrid waves

ncr affected ; from fish and snake and small birds

the habits of attention, minute and accurate observa-

Uou ; the alert eye, the sensitive ear, the rapid

notion. To go without food for four or five days,

Lud without drink for three, content with moistening

lis lips with snow or sucking occasional icicles ; to

;lcep in a hole in the snow, with more snow for

blankets and quilt; to face blinding storms and

)uffeting winds, hail, rain and frost, wild beasts,

murderous half-breeds, suspicious Indians — all this

^v.'is easy to Mikel, because his early training had

ntted him to endure, and even to enjoy, what he

icver dreamed of designating as hardship. In this

life had the great-grandson of the son of Jules-

raspard - Noel - O vide Delaunay - Colombiere Caron
^rown old.
And there were two seasons in that lonely land

^hen Mikel, and with him all other old men, felt
[he pressure of years most bitterly. One was when
Ihe leaves of sudden spring made green waves in
[he valley, flooding with verdure, sunshine, and

»
9

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

melody the dismal banks of the half-frozen river,
when birds returned, and cascades leapt, and the
waxen pyrola gleamed at the foot of the tallest tree.
Again, when the leaves of brilliant autumn have
floated to the ground, floated, shrivelled, and been
caught up in a whirlwind of fire, which consumes
their beautiful souls and consigns them again to the
dry dust by the wayside. Not that Mikel was
troubled by poetic apprehensions and fanciful
analogies, the comparing of human life and perish-
ing mortality to withered leaf and flying dust, but
that his sense of coming impotence, perhaps depen-
dence on others, inability to cope with Joncas* and
Lauriere, powerlessness in face of the axe, the saw.
the gun, the knife, fear when confronted with slow-
moving bear or lithe brown fox, impressed hirr
deeply with aversion of the approaching winter
Stoical, like the Russian, the old-time Greek, tht
Highlander, the well-born EngHshman, Mikel hac
more than a passing trace of the voluptuous French
nursed, not in hardy Basque province, or by the short
of sea-washed Normandy, but in the rich, plentiful
vine-clad, corn-gilded inland meadows and valleys cijj
the Haut Campagne.

It was on an autumn evening, about six o'clock
and very dark indeed for even a dark October, tha"
old Mikel, returning from an extended examination c|
more than twenty-five bear-traps, set in the obscur:]

■-''■ Pronounced * Joncasse.'

ALL ABOUT MAGLOIRE

shadow of Bourg- Marie, found Nicolas* Lauriere
Lwaiting him — Nicolas Lauriere, straight, slim, pale,
'oung, with broad shoulders, brown eyes, and a
landsome moustache ; Nicolas Lauriere, twenty-
Ive, only a stripling, yet the bravest, most intrepid,
ind most skilful of all the Yamachiche trappers.

Mikel, hastening moodily home, almost walked
[into Lauriere, as the latter stood leaning against
the low fence surrounding Mikel's house and
[clearing.

* It is I — Lauriere,' said the younger man, moving
I aside and opening the little gate for Mikel, that the
latter, weighed down as he was by tools and pieces
of wood, might pass through the more easily. ' It
grows cold, dark, and at home I am not wanted. I
can help you perhaps, Mikel, you who work always,
even when other men sleep.'

Mikel was displeased, and swung the gate to
behind him, forgetting the friendly purpose of his
visitor for a moment ; then, with an effort to sink
the touchy feeling in one less selfish, opened it again
and motioned to Lauriere to enter.

' There is work — yes, there is work, if you are so
ready for it. Certainly, one can always find work
near Bourg-Marie. So enter ; find it ; do your will.
There is supper enough for two.'

Lauriere silently followed Caron into the kitchen,
already illuminated by the glowing logs, that revealed

* Pronounced ' Nicolasse.'

1.;

¥k

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

a grateful warmth and radiance when the older man]
opened the end door of the long black stove.

Mikel was unmistakably sullen. He grumbled!
at the bad wick of his one lamp. He shot inquiring]
yet moody glances at Lauriere.

*Say, you,' he said, getting out some cracked'
cups and plates, bread, tobacco, a dish of cold beans i
and cabbage, and some whisky, * why do you come
to-night — you, Lauriere ? Is there news ?'

Lauriere sat down and warmed his hands well
before he spoke.

' Well,' he said at length, * there is — a little, a
very little — in the village.'

There was an immediate change in the old man
which might have manifested itself in a more vulgar
nature by the smashing of delf or other clumsy self-
betrayal. In Mikel, however, such was his power of
self-control and stoical command or suppression of
the emotions, that this change was confined to a
lighting up of the wrinkled visage, and a correspond-
ing improvement in his voice. He grew almost
gracious.

* I thought you would not come for nothing. There
is nothing else that need bring you, eh, Lauriere ?'

The younger man laughed deprecatingly. He
would have to humour old Caron.

* No, no,' he said ; and very politely he half rose
from his chair.

Mikel was a recognised person in his neighbour-

ALL ABOUT MAGLOIRE

[hood, and it was well known that he was in truth a
seigneur, and, as such, worthy of the respect and
|courtesy of the valley.

' Well, now,' said Mikel, sitting down in front of
Ithe stove and regarding his visitor shrewdly, * what
is this news ? Is it, now, of bears, or of foxes, or of
squirrels ? Is it, now, of smuggled spirits, or weather
omens, or dances up at Madame Delorme's ? Ah-h-h,
|you will all be found out some day — smuggling,
jesting, dancing, drinking ! Keep cool and quiet,
[like me — like me ! Come, the news !'

* How well he acted !' thought Lauriere admiringly.
I* With his heart beating as if it would burst beneath
that shaggy fur waistcoat, and his yellow teeth
anxiously biting his blackened lips — old fox, old
man -of- the -woods, old bird of prey, still wary,
cautious, controlled!' But Lauriere was made of
|much the same stuff — Mikel's pupil he called himself.

* I thought,' said Lauriere timidly, slowly, and
Iraising his eyes deferentially to Caron's inquiring,
yet not over-eager face, *that you would guess the
news, for it is of something better than bears, or dogs,

lor foxes ; of something nearer than Mother Delorme
[and Rene the smuggler. It is news of Magloire.'

Mikel lowered his eyes, but did not move.
[Lauriere, divining he had permission to speak, con-
tinued in a more natural and sprightly tone, warm-
|ing with his subject :

' Yes, of Magloire. There are those who have

"1 1
I

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

seen him, spoken with him, over where he is gone,
in these States. They say he has grown very tall— i
taller than I am — as tall as Jules Blondeau, who |
married the sister of Joncas; he who caught the
fifty bears last winter.'

Little need to remind Mikel of this fact.

* I remember,' he said with unmoved face. * Speak
on — of Magloire. He has been seen and spoken;
with ? By whom ? This Blondeau ?'

* No,' said Lauriere, always carefully, but more!
familiarly than at first. * By two men who left^
Bourg-Marie. It is four years since they will havel
left and gone to Milwaukee.' He accented the finai|
syllable. * These men, they were the sons of la vetivd
Peron. The brothers, Louis and Jack, they were in|
Milwaukee, without work, and without anything tcJ
eat. They were saying how much better it was in|
Bourg-Marie, how the potatoes, and beans, and]
whisky were there all the year round, and how kindl
the neighbours always were to one another; andf
they spoke of many things as we did them here.^
and of Joncas, and of the Mother Peron, Madame
Marie -Louise, and the church, and of you. Ohi
yes, it was of you they spoke often, wondering whatl
the winter was going to be like that year, and hov|
you could tell them in a minute if you were onlvl
there by just seeing a bird wheel across the sky, o|
the bark and moss on the outside of the great logij
of wood going on the carts to rich men's houses.'

ALL ABOUT MAGLOIRE

' Quiet, thou !' growled Mikel impatiently. * Speak
)n, but of Magloire, and not of these, thy friends —

rools ! Of Magloire, speak !'

' Well, Louis and Jack, they will have been
lungry for a long time, and sorry they ever left
lourg- Marie. The people of that town are all
English, and speak only their own tongue ; and it

is all strange to these men, who are called " Canuck "
ind ** Frenchy." This would displease anyone but
.ouis and Jack. Everyone knows they do not like

names at all, and this day that they were most tired
ind hungry, all at once, driving past them in a
igh of the handsomest, with fine dashing horses,
they heard the man who was driving them singing

laloud one of our own songs, " C'est Fran9ois Mar-

Icotte." '

Undeniably excited, and worked upon by Lauriere's

Iperverse slowness of recital and delay in coming to
the point, Mikel allowed an exclamation to escape

|his quivering lips.

* That was he ! That was Magloire ?'
Lauriere inclined his head.

* It was himself — Magloire. But they — Louis and
I Jack — did not know it was he. See, then, how long
I since he was at home, here, with you, amongst his

friends. No, they could not tell that it was Magloire.
But when they heard the voice and the song,
they knew it was someone from the county, or at
least from here, from Canada, and they waited, day

ft ,

y
m

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

after day, till they saw him again, and then thej]
stopped him. It was Magloire Caron, of Bourg]
Marie, and your grandson. He was tall, as I havej
said, healthy, well-dressed, and amiable ; gave hijl
name at once, had forgotten nothing, nor — nor any-
body, and promised to do all he could for Louis and!
Jack. But that was four years ago.' Lauriere.j
feeling himself drawing near the end of his simple!^
narrative, stole a look at Mikel, and concluded in aj
tone which would have rung false to anyone less
absorbed than the old and often disappointed trapper,
so laconic was the inflection. * He has prospered,!
for sure, Magloire.'

* Prospered ! Magloire ! You are certain it was]
himself? These are true men, this Louis and
Jack ? Prospered, and he has never written !—
prospered, and I have had to toil and drudge !—
prospered, and not even remembered the good
father, and the church of the holy St. Anne !' The
old man was entirely off his guard now, and clutched I
at his waistcoat with trembling hands. * Driving,!
you say — driving — his own horses — Magloire ! WellJ
it is as it should be, were he only dutiful enough toj
remember me and — and Father Labelle. Well, but|
it is a wonderful country, that States.'

Between wrath and importunity, delight and wild I
reproach, jealousy and parental affection, Mikel was
beside himself and ill-prepared for Lauriere's next
statement. The younger man, playing nervously

ALL ABOUT MAGLOIRE

rith his knitted tuque between his hands, had no
lea of sparing his co-worker and patron, however
luch he might admire and respect him. The instinct
the hunter, the trapper, pursued him even more
lan he was aware.

Well,' he said, in that deliberate, laconic half-
)ice which should have warned the older man —
^ell, he has prospered, otiai* — yes, much, but not
much as that. Those horses, they were not his
m, not Magloire's. No ; they belonged to his
laster, to a — gentleman. Magloire, he was the
river, the coachman, when Louis and Jack Peron
;e him there in Milwaukee — the coachman. Ah
lai, he has prospered, that one; but you will
jcollect we always said he would prosper. Bien
lai, that is all about Magloire.'
Lauriere was no coward; his life had surely
roved his prowess. But in face of Mikel Caron,
is elder and superior, torn and distorted, rent
sunder by stern, awful and conflicting pains, he
ssuredly quailed, although he sat outwardly quiet
his chair by the big black stove, for Mikel was
)rribly angry, embittered, disappointed. Magloire,
\s grandson, heir of the Colombiere Carons of Bourg-
[arie, a coachman in the employ of some well-to-do
kdesman or pork-packer of the West — Magloire,
[aiting on other men, instead of having other men
wait on him, servile, dependent, debased.

* For oui.

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Lauriere rose to go.

' If he were to come back — back to Bourg-Marie— |
you would see him, would you not ?'
Mikel drew a deep breath.

* Do they say that he will come back ?'

* Louis and Jack P6ron ? Well — yes. They have]
heard that he is likely to come back some day.'

* Why should he do so ?' said old Mikel stolidly.
His transport of rage over, he disdained expressing!
emotion or even interest. 'There are no carriages|
here. He would be nobody here, not even a coach-
man, in Bourg-Marie.'

' That is true,' said Lauriere politely ; ' and nowl
I will bid you good-evening ; and when I see these|
Perons — they are with their mother for a holiday-
I will tell them I have seen you, and that you kno\\|
all about Magloire.'

* Bien ouai ! All about Magloire !'
Mikel was quite himself — cold, collected, a triflel

satirical, and very authoritative. Lauriere hadi
reached the door, when the older man called himj
back.

' Stop, Nicolas Lauriere !' he said. * You are going]
without your supper.'

Lauriere opened his hands, and gave a slightl
shrug of the shoulders ; but Mikel insisted, and the!
two men sat down together and supped in almost!
total silence, for Lauriere, not very lively among!
men of his own age, became abnormally taciturn!

ALL ABOUT MAGLOIRE

land reticent in the presence of the leathern-visaged,
:rusty, aristocratic and venerable Caron. A magnate

lis another being, and one easier to meet ; but an

lequal who is yet more than an equal, for he knows

lyour business better than you know it yourself, is

Isometimes difficult to encounter.

Lauriere stayed only to eat his share of the meal,

land left. It was about eight o'clock, and a fine
web of moonbeams began to spread over the dark

[autumnal skies. Both men scanned the night.

* No bear to-night,' said Caron.

* Well, no,' replied Lauriere. * Wait awhile ;
I there will come plenty, eh ?'

The owner of Bourg- Marie nodded, and shut the
I door. In a few moments Lauriere was out of sight
and hearing, and the most profound silence prevailed.

\ t6 1

rv-^'". ' »/t<J

CHAPTER II.

MAGLOIRE HIMSELF.

* The simple inherit folly.'

(The little narrative which the young man Nicolas I
Lauriere had told old Caron was quite true. He
himself rather envied Magloire. Two or three times
he had been on the point of relinquishing the plain
fare, the hard work, the inclement climate, to try
for a living somewhere else. He was not the
enthusiast Mikel was. j He and Joncas were trappers
because their father«/had been trappers — they had
to be ; there was nothing else for them to be. Yes,
he quite envied Magloire, though he understood
fully that whereas at Bourg-Marie one was one's |
own master, that would be all very different in
another place. About the same age as Magloire,
at the time of the latter's disappearance the same
temptations attracted him, for tidings, of the great
world outside were slowly colouring the life and|
minds of his native countryside. Here and there

In ambit
|p to th

wait res

}tiirn at

imily tal

ition of

^apcr wo I

ntncss of

('ho had

|*rovince (

landed ab

[terary tre

/ertook L

l^alk away

10 flat du!

[ad Dog (

On this

Ithough n(

irode awa;

16 hard ^

Ither side <

)le, yet nc

fith Caron

its cavei
Iraight for
fosing the
', so black
limmering

MAGLOIRE HIMSELF

In ambitious maiden of eighteen, who found her way
p to the large Enghsh-speaking towns and became

waitress, a nursemaid, a maid-of-all-work, would

3turn at rare intervals and pour into the ears of her

imily tales of the opulence, the size, and the popu-

ition of Three Rivers or St. John's.* Sometimes a

lapcr would arrive bearing in rough-marked edges

atness of a young stripling from a farm or * shanty '

/ho had found friends and fortune in the Upper

Province or in the States, and this paper would be

landed about from house to house as the rarest of

[terary treasures. And whenever this kind of thing

/ertook Lauriere he would grow restive and moody,

iralk away from the company, and, staring blankly at

le flat dull landscape, go for a walk of ten miles to

[ad Dog Creek, and return hungry and cured.

On this cold night Nicolas was discontented,
^though no distinctions of caste troubled him. He
trode away from the ranger's little dwelling along
le hard gray rutted road at a great pace. On
fther side of him stretched the forest, dark, inscrut-
)le, yet not forbidding to one who so often, both
[ith Caron and by himself, had threaded the edge
its cavernous recesses. The road lay perfectly
Iraight for a mile, then turned sharply round, dis-
[osing the sullen river, not yet frozen, but soon to
3, so black and opaque it lay beneath the faintly
[immering stars. A dog appeared, running swiftly.

* St. John's, P. q.

9
t

r
r

THE FOREST OF liOU KG- MARIE

It approached Lauriere, smelt him, sc(>med t|
approve, wagged his tail, and returned whence hj
came, followed by the trapper. In a few momenii
the red light of one window appeared sharply in thj
gloom, and Nicolas, vaulting over the low snakd
fence, rapped upon the door of the cabin belongirj
to the widow Peron, the mother of Louis and Jaclj
the travellers who were now home for a holid;
from the high pressure and other modern disabilitiJ
of life in Milwaukee. The door was opened ij
Pacifique, the third and youngest son. He hJ
never left his mother nor his native valley, and bo:|
with Nicolas a striking contrast to the other thrtj
young men who were lounging in the small kitchcj
The shortest of these was Jack Peron, fat, oliv
skinned almost to lividness, with podgy hands arj
a laughing mouth. The next to him was his broth^
Louis, thinner, slightly gaunt and weird, with
suggestion of the traditional stage Lucifer in
pointed eyebrows, beard, and chin. The tallest
the three, however, Magloire Caron himself, exceedc]
his companions in appointments, dress, and gener
bearing, as much as in height. He was, indeeJ
unusually and exceptionally tall. His hair, of thl
harsh jet-black stiff kind so frequently found amod
his countrymen, was parted in the middle, and, aftj
being drawn away to either side in two well-markj
horns, was plastered down everywhere else with t|
newest thing in pomatum, a preparation of caste

MAGLOIRE HIMSELF

il, bay-rum, and attar of roses. His costume was
Encjlish tweed of not unprepossessing pattern,
)nsidered alongside the preposterous gray and
).'uet check that Louis and Jack had both chosen
best calculated to display their knowledge of
)rrcct fashion, and to please their devoted mother.
[is cravat (Magloire's) was of pale pink linen, wf)rn
,cr a striped navy-blue and white cotton shirt. His
jwclicry was very much en evidence, and a silk hand-
jrchief, in which purple figured on a saffron ground,
)rnpleted the iridescent nature of his apparel. And
(though this quasi-picturesque garb did not offend
keenly in his case as it would have done in that
a more purely prosaic type, still, on comparing
is pretentious vulgarity with the admirably careless
id characteristic appearance of Lauriere, it seemed
pity that his magnificent proportions, his glistening
^cth, his night-black hair, and his sombre but
faithful complexion, were lost, if not indeed made
liculous, by his affectation of a foreign style. In
le sombrero and cloak of the Mexican, in the
[cket and cap of the Spaniard, in the ample linen
id glowing sash of the Greek, or even in the high-
downed hat wound round by a scarlet ribbon, the
uinel shirt and earrings of his own despised
)untrymen, he had been handsome. In his imported
|n;,^lish cheviot, his cheap jewellery, and his ill-
-sorted colours, he narrowly escaped being absurd.
Yet he was very much admired. Louis and Jack,

2 — 2

9
$

p
p

1 'I

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

who had done well in Milwaukee, but not as well as
Magloirc himself, admired him intensely, and, it
might be added, despairingly. In fact, after that!
meeting on the main street, when the vision of thcirl
old friend and playmate flashed past them, clothecj
in black bearskins and importance, the brothers made
an idol of him, and formed themselves upon him ir|
every respect.

Pacifique admired him. So tall, and Pacifiquel
was short ; so regular-featured, and Pacifique wa;
crooked ; so self - possessed and graceful, ancl
Pacifique was stunted, crippled, worn, and shy
The veiivc Peron admired him. Had he not bceEl
the means of setting up her own boys ? and, although
they did not appear to have brought home vcn]
much ready - money, still they were beautifullJ
dressed, and altogether different from the youiia
men in the village, and spoke about an account irl
the savings-bank. What more could the widovl
ask ? Admire Magloire ? Bien oiiai — for a splendicj
fellow !

Nicolas Lauriere admired him perhaps most of alij
As Magloire was, so he, Lauriere, should be sonw
day. He had no grandfather with medieval notionj
to threaten his peace or interfere with his projects
He would leave this place, come what might. Anij
just as he reached this decision — for the hundredtlj
time — Magloire, seeing him enter, beckoned him
his side by the fire, around which the little circle vvt

:h.,t

MAGLOIRE HIMSELF

Mthered. His manner was nonchalant, yet asser-
tive, and impressed Laurierc more than ever with its
lovelty and importance.

' Say, then, you,' he said, ' Nicolas Lauriere,'
l-elapsing into his native Franco-Canadian, for he
Ipoke English all the time when in Milwaukee, * have
,'ou seen the grandfather ?'

Lauriere recounted in the same tongue the outlines
)f the conversation. Delicacy for, and admiration of,
^lagloire prevented him from disclosing the whole
[tate of the old man's feehngs. But Magloire was
[uick, and able to see through a simple type like
.auriere at once. He laughed, and his laugh was
^ot altogether pleasant to hear. He crossed his
)ng legs in evident comfort before the widow's fire,
[nd taking from his pocket a penknife, commenced
cut and clean his nails. He had been reminded
|f a little dirt in them by the sight of the aggregate
lontained in those of Lauriere. * Speak English,'
le said to the latter.
'We don't hear much French out West, do we,
ick? So my grandfather knows I was a coach-
lan that time. Well, I tell him myself yet as well
you tell him for me. He was angry, eh ?'
Lauriere nodded. He watched his friend clean,
ire, file, and polish his finger-nails without it ever
:curring to him similarly to treat his own. A law
ito himself is every man in Bourg- Marie.
' Why,' said Magloire, finishing his nail-toilet, and

*
ft

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

beginning on a cigar, which he produced with al
grand air from an inner mysterious pocket, and lit]
with a perfumed match, *you are all behind here,
and that is the truth. Me and other fellows thatl
goes to the States, we see life, we see the world, we]
grow, we improve, we watch, we find out how things
are done. We do not care to stop in Bourg-Mariej
all our lives, nor even in Three Rivers. Ah ! — bah I
that is a small place, that Three Rivers, anyhow !'

Rank heresy in the ears of Widow Peron andl
Nicolas Lauriere; yet, only half comprehending thel
foreign tongue, they listen respectfully, timidly
Pacifique squats by the corner of the fireplace. Hel
does not understand the English at all, but is think-
ing what present he can make Magloire when h\
leaves them. Snowshoes — raqnettcs ? — no ; a carveij
pipe ? — no, that young gentleman buys cigars
Well, it will come into his head, his stupid head]
presently.

* Me and other fellows,' continues Magloire, con]
scious of his admiring audience, * well, such as Jad]
and Louis. And there was one Amable Blondeau-

e cousin

* Ah, oiiai!' exclaimed the widow hurriedly; ^\\
cousin de notre Blondeau.'

She stopped apologetically, and Magloire con]
descendingly went on :

* The cousin of this Blondeau the trapper. WellJ
we have learnt a great deal since we go to the States

MAGLOIRE HIMSELF

There every man is free ! You understand that.
There is no man that is not free. That is, he can
do, he can go, just as he likes, just where he hkes.
That is a fine country, and there are many places
to go to. There is lots of fun. And the hizness — ah!
that is the place for the biz;^^ss.'

* What you do all de time ?' asked Lauriere un-
easily. * Dhrive all de time. Well — sure, I like
dat too well, for a little. I get cold — me. I — custom
— walk — much — all de time.'

Magloire laughed again.

* Cold ! — when you are all dressed in fur ! Get
out, you, Lauriere ! Ask Louis and Jack if they ever
seen me cold, eh ? — nose red, eyes water — no, no. I
have nice coat — real bear — like the ones you shoot
yourself. Look here, Nicolas Lauriere, how old are
you ? As old as I am almost. Well, I sit on top a
handsome sleigh ; I wear black bearskin. I am a
member of two societies — yes, certain, I go to the
races. I have fine time. You — you walk about day
after day ; you watch till you sleep, night after night ;
you shoot or you trap plenty fine bear. What do
you with him, eh ?'

Lauriere was silent. The picture was too true.

* Well, I tell you what you do : You sell them to
the traders, to the fur-merchants en haut. They
travel up, up, and up, change hands, cross the
frontier, till they are on my back, keeping me warm
—so-so.'

t
l

r ;

F '

*• ;

►•

» ;.

■t 1

¥■

•f 1

1 !

THE FOREST OF EOURG-MARIE

* You make much money ?' queried Lauriere.

* What do you think ?' I wear good suit, hand-
some overcoat ; I have a watch and two rings. The
watch — well, that is not finished to be paid for yet.
There is a way they have there in these States that
I will tell you. The stores, they have each a man
who is honest, and wants much something to do.
So they give him a large box, full of watches, or I
books, or images, or perhaps coats and furs, and
they tell him to take this box to every house and to
every person on certain streets, and to get them to
promise to buy one watch, or one book, or one
image. I was one of these men when I first got
work in Milwaukee — yes, sir, I was with a picture-
store, and carried round large painting — so — all
framed in gold, like those you have seen in the
church at the side of the altar.'

Lauriere and the brothers Peron looked at one
another in dismay, but admiration. The widow had
stopped knitting, and moved her lips from time to
time in speechless ecstasy. Pacifique was still hunt-
ing in his clouded mind for a suitable present for
Magloire.

* So I know all about that kind of bizness,' con-
tinued the latter. * Yes, these men they leave the
watch or book at your house, if you will pay a little
of the price, and then they call again whenever
you like for the rest. That is easy and nice all
round.'

*Wh(
who tho
' Well
will be fc
be away
you go ?'
But M;
'Oh
jare afraic
iunderstan
I the old m
Laurier
[garrulous,
more self-(
[country.

* Then y

* My un(
nm. I th
'hat is the

'And t]
.auriere.
^lagloire — i
Straight, so

His admi
land for a ;
le mentally
lome-comir
* Will you
isked.

MAGLOIRE HIMSELF

* When you have de money !' said the fat Peron,
who thought this very clever, and began to laugh.

' Well,' said Lauriere cautiously, ' I suppose you
will be for seeing Mikel as soon as you can. He will
be away soon — two week, three week. When will
you go ?'

But Magloire was not uneasy.

* Oh ! Well, there, you, Nicolas Lauriere, you
are afraid of my grandfather. Yes, yes, I see, I
understand, you are all afraid of him — the old fox,

I the old man-of-the-woods !'

Lauriere did not protest. His race, though
Igarrulous, noisy, and eager in towns, is quieter,
more self-contained, more absolutely truthful in the
jcountry.

* Then you will go see Joncas ?'

* My uncle ?' said Magloire. * I will see about
11m. I think he should come and see me hrst.
'hat is the way we do it in these States.'

And the whole of the village,' continued
.auriere. * Everyone glad to see you back,
^lagloire — sure. Rich man — in bizness — so tall, so
Straight, so handsome.'

His admiration was genuine, and Magloire laid his
land for a second lightly on the other's shoulder, as
le mentally considered the various aspects of his
lome-coming.

* Will you go with me to see old Mikel again ?' he
isked.

V-"

'■

*«

1^ ■
* -
» ■

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Lauriere shook his head.

* Mikel — he not fond of me. Well, he is old man ;
soon he hunt and catch bears no more. I, all my
life yet to catch him. Well, I can't help dat. Dat
is right, dat is naturelle.'

* All your life before you yet, and you're going to
waste it in these woods going after bears ! Look
now, Nicolas Lauriere' — and seductively Magloire's
arm stole around the latter's neck — 'you don't knowj
what you say. Look at me, and Jack and Louis
Peron ! We arc going back to Milwaukee in a little j
while — few days. See ! You come with us. Eh
Make rich man of you, marry you to pretty
American girl, go to the races with me, learn to I
speak fine English, wear fine new clothes. Well, |
now, there's a chance for you, Nicolas Lauriere.'

The circle had broken up by this time, the widow
being engaged in building up the fire for the night,!
and the three brothers talking quietly in French
apart from Magloire, although still about him and|
his varied accomplishments.

Now that a chance seemed to offer itself, Lauriere!
felt peculiarly embarrassed. Unaccustomed to any
introspection or analysis of the emotions, he did not
know that what filled him with hesitation was the
fact that he was being tempted to forfeit his
nationality and forego his country. Too ignorant]
to estimate accurately the correct and actual status
of Magloire as an American citizen or as an English-

li,,

MAGLOIRE HIMSELF

born subject of Franco-Canadian descent, he yet
experienced something which, subtly, but stupidly,
seemed to confuse and cloud his power of will, to
bias his preferences. He had longed passionately
to go until Magloire had asked him, and then a
something struck at his heart and his mental vision
so that he could not place, nor could he answer even
at random its solemn questionings.

He grew sheepish, shuffled his feet, picked at the
tassel of the tuque, and faltered in his reply.

* Well, I don't know,' he said. * I have ver' little
money to take me to dat place. I would — oh, I
don't see how I could go. There is work here, and
Mikel and Joncas cannot do it all. There was
ninety bear killed last year — Mikel and Joncas.
Well, when old bear come out and smell around,
they will want me too. No, I don't know. I will
sec. You are ver' good. Well, Magloire, I will
see.'

Magloire was all fire and attention.

* Ninety bears killed in one season ! That was
pretty good work, wasn't it ? Say, where are those
skins ? Do you know ?'

'The skins? Well, Mikel; he will know. Yes,
Mikel ; he send them to the Government. I don't
know. But, ninety ; dat was not many bear. One
man alone year before dat, he kill fifty by himself.'

Magloire whistled.

' I guess that isn't so bad if he got the money

>■

€

> ,

«'

;.;■

t .

')■

THE FOREST OF liOURG-MARIE

for the skins. How much does one skin get in
Quebec ?'

Lauriere scarcely understood him. He did not
know the value of fur m the least.

* I don't know,' he said stupidly. ' But Mikel,
he know. Ask him when you go see him.'

Magloire regarded Lauriere thoughtfully.

' I will,' he said, ' and I will go to-morrow.' He
stood in the middle of the kitchen, the others all
regarding him with latent awe and much affection
as his handsome face broke into a good-humoured
smile, and the firelight travelled over his highly-
glazed linen and gaudy jewellery. * I have only a
little while to stay, perhaps, and I must sec my
grandfather — eh ? Will he be surprised, think you,
at the little Magloire grown so tall, and wearing fine
clothes and a watch ?' And he swung it aloft as he
spoke. * Then I will go to the village, and make
some presents to the people. To you, Louis and
Jack, I give nothing, since we are arrived together.
To you, Madame Marie-Louise P^ron, I will give —
well, you shall see. Perhaps a picture of the Virgin
in a car drawn by angels, roses at her feet, framed
in gold — bien, madame, you can hang it over the
fire. To you, Nicolas Lauriere, a little book of the
views of Milwaukee, and a pair of studs. Here, stay !
look ! these very ones — on the condition that when
I go back, you shall go with me. And to my grand-
father, why, a picture like yours, madame. And so

the rett
be altog

With
on the b
had thrc
leaving i

Had ]
cxpcctan

Only I

ll;. '

MAGLOIRE HIMSELF

the return of Magloire to his native village will not
be altogether an empty-handed one.'

With that the young man clapped Lauriere heartily
on the back, and wished him good-night, for Nicolas
had three miles yet to walk home, and was about
leaving in great trouble and perplexity of mind.

Had Magloire forgotten anybody in his list of
expectant and delighted acquaintances ?

Only Pacifique.

•r

[3o]

CHAPTER III.

MR. MURRAY CARSON.
* A foolish son is tlie calamity of his father.'

Magloire, being accommodated by the widow Peron
with a paillasse, had chosen to remain at her house
until he had seen his grandfather. The prospect of|
the interview did not trouble him in the least, and
he set forth, clad in his irreproachable tweeds, swing-
ing a cane, whistling, not a habitant song, minor and
true and tender, but the vulgar refrain of a chorus
he had heard in a Milwaukee-oyster bar, where a|
female orchestra enlivened the tedium of the pro-
ceedings.

Had he had keener susceptibilities, or, in fact, any|
susceptibilities at all, he would have felt dimly that
this refrain ill-suited the primeval majesty and
beauty of the solitude of Bourg-Marie. The hour
was ten. A warm October sun caught the rich
colours of the still leafy trees, and threw strange
glories around on road, and stump, and stone.

MR. MURRAY CARSON

Magloire, however, thought it all intensely lonely
and gloomy. The continual contemplation of Nature
drives some men to commit crimes ; of others it
makes poets and gentle thinkers. Magloire belonged
to the first class. Nature could never do anything
for him. So he walked along quickly, regretting the
lively streets of Milwaukee, the oyster-saloons, the
election carts, the polling-booths, the gay windows
of the harness shops, the hotel steps crowded with
drovers — men of all kinds smoking, chewing ; the
beautiful young ladies, to marry one of whom he
aspired in his secret heart ; the girls who sold
tlowers — tubs of hothouse roses and marguerites at
the corners — and who were good enough to wink at
and buy from ; the music-hall with the half-moon
of gas-lamps over the entrance, like false gigantic
pearls on the forehead of an abandoned beauty.

All these things were in his mind as he quickly
made the two miles between his grandfather's cabin
land that of Madame Peron. A slight beating of the
heart would not be set aside or controlled as he
approached the gate, and as he walked up the little
path, and knocked at the one red door, he recognised
the fact that, spite of previous unbroken courage and
confidence in himself, he was horribly nervous. His
|hand shook, and his knees almost gave way.

* It is nine years,' he said to himself. 'It is a
[long time. Will he know me ?' He brought forth
Ian embroidered card-case from an outer pocket of

I
i

f \

;li

THF. FORICST OF IJOURGMARII-:

his lif^ht overcoat, and drew from it a card, which
read:

Mr. Murray Carson,

IJallain House.
Expert in llovsejlesh.

And this he held in his hand, which, since he had
thouf^ht of this coup to gain time, gradually ceased
shaking. But he knocked twice, thrice, four or five
times in vain, for the elder Caron was absent about
a quarter of a mile in the direction of an old and
untenanted stone house in a lonely and almost |
inaccessible part of the high rocky ground over-
looking Bourg-Marie, known as the Manoir, and]
belonging to himself.

Magloire waited some time, then, turning, half in|
relief, half in disappointment, back towards the gate,
perceived his grandfather coming along the road.
The delay had reinstated the younger man in I
courage. Holding the card out, he drew a long
breath as Mikel approached, nearer, nearer, now at
the gate, lifting up furry and angry brows at the]
intruder, reading him all over, trying to place him,
to make him out, wondering one minute if it couldl
be Magloire, then resolving the next that Magloirel
could never look like that, till, as the gate swung to.|
and the men faced each other, Magloire presented
the card with a bow, partly to hide a smile, and|
partly in recognition of the age and bearing of the

MR. MURH.W CARSON

)ld trapper. Any doubts which the latter had liad
)n first view of the stranger vanished on readini,' the
;ard, for Mikel would be at any time a difficult man
^o deceive, and there is always something in blood
^hat speaks through many a disguise. He read the
:ard aloud in stumbling English accents, and again
looked his grandson over. It was a searching look,
)ut Magloire was now quite at ease. Yet he hesi-
tated to speak, knowing his voice must betray him,
ind for reasons of his own he preferred to maintain
lis incognito. Mikel noted with amazement the
latty suit, the sparkling ornaments, the perfume,
[he polished nails, the mixture of colours, the in-
Icscribably jaunty, slightly trivial, and impertinent
lir that country-bred people very frequently acquire
Ifter a limited experience of life in cities. At least,
^likel felt all this, although he could not have put it
ito words, chiefly because he had no words to put
into. But if his vocabulary was limited, his con-
fictions were unalterable. It struck him at once
lat this person was not of the village. Though he
ildom went into it, he knew, and had known, all
types, and this was not one. The word * expert '
[assed his comprehension entirely ; he had, perhaps,
lever seen it before. * Horseflesh ' was almost as
jad. The name was English, and the bearer of it,
be supposed, an Englishman, or, more correctly,
English - Canadian. And Mikel did not greatly
livour the English-Canadians, and would never

r
■J

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

speak more than was absolutely necessary in the;
foreign and difficult tongue. In French he now
addressed the interloper with the glaring pink cravat]
and mother-of-pearl studs, size of a half-dollar,
whom his heart yearned to welcome as the truant]
Magloire, but whom his mind half rejected on
account of his appearance and his name. Being
asked what he was doing there, Magloire had nothing
for it but to reply, and the very first word he let
drop, his grandfather knew him — knew him, even
in the ridiculous garb and the western veneer ofl
cheap culture, even though the pasteboard he heldl
in his hand belied his name and descent ; knew himj
even while something, a shadow of distrust, of re-
pugnance, of hostility, crept between him and hi:|
own kin, the prodigal who had been absent so long:
But he gave no sign of recognition. The venerablel
trapper was a better actor than the youthful * expert]
in horseflesh.'

' Well,' said the latter, still swinging his cane in acj
easy manner, and opening his overcoat for air ai|
well as to display his pink cravat to perfection, 'i
have come to this part of the country almost entirekj
about horses. I am staying in the village; but
hear you have plenty other animals round here, anil
I am also buying furs. Ah, yes ! I am a horsel
trader. I buy whenever I see a good horse ; that i\
my trade, my occupation — and furs. Well, sha
we go in ?'

MR. MURRAY CARSON

inatl
ir a-i

tirel\|

)Ut

anci
lorsej
latij
Ishs

Old Mikel showed no sign of resenting the fact

that an impertinent and preposterously - dressed

youngster was inviting him to enter his own house.

He silently led the way. Presently they were seated,

Magloire now occupying the same chair that Lauriere

had sat in the night before.

• You want something of me ?' said the old man.

Well, that is all right. If it is horses, I have none.

I do all my work without horses. I am my own

I horse. See, you — you have come to the wrong place,

then, for horses. There is Messire Jean Thibideau,

or le docteur Pligny, in the village, they will have

horses to sell, not me. No, I have never owned a

Ihorse, and yet I am, or should be, seigneur of

IBourg-Marie — of the whole valley. That is strange,

,'ou think ? Well, yes, it is a little strange.'

There was small discomfiture on Magloire's part,
)ecause he was not one to be easily discomfited, to be
It a loss, to be worsted in conversation, in business,
[n anything. He smiled and took off his overcoat,
sitting down again and spreading out his long legs
[ill they appeared, together with those of the elder
lan, completely to fill the small kitchen. He hesi-
lated, however, a good deal in his speech, for
Although his English was still imperfect and broken,
was more fluent than his French. He began to
/ish that his grandfather had recognised him. He
^d hoped to impress the old man very much with
^is clothes, and his appearance, and his general

3—2

*■

r- •

•I 1

, <

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

important and prosperous self. But Mikel betrayed
no admiration. The others — Lauriere, Pacitique,
his mother, the simple twins, Louis and Jack —
admired him. He was even intensely admired out
West by the waitresses at the Hallam House, and
the chorus-girls at the Opera Comique ; but here,
among the primitive and forbidding glooms of the
arching pine - forest, and the rush and roar of
shimmering torrents, here he was somehow at fault
in Mikel's eyes, though not in his own. And he
never dreamt but that Mikel did admire him, but
was too ignorant to know why, and too ill-natured to
say so.

* Well,' he began again, * it is clear I get no
horses here. Well, that is all right. I can go and
see Messire Thibideau in the village, and le dodeur
as well. But now as to furs.'

* Well, then, as to furs,' repeated Mikel.

* You have, I believe, many kinds of fur ? You
have bear-skins, for example ?'

* For example, I have bear-skins.'

* A large number, without doubt ?'
' More than I can count.'

* Undoubtedly fine, handsome, glossy?'

* As you have said.'

* Black or brown ?'
' Both.'

* The black are considered the most handsome and|
the most valuable ?'

MR. MURRAY CARSON

Mikel appeared to be considering.

* Not always. There is a brown skin, with an
under layer of bronze, as it were, in the colour, that
will always fetch a large sum, for it is rare. But the
black is most in use.'

* I myself,' said Magloire, with superb yet studied
carelessness, ' have a fine cape and gauntlets of black
bear. I wear them driving.'

* Messire Carson is rich, without doubt ?'

* I have made some money. It is in a bank. I
have very little with me here. I should be afraid to
bring a large amount here.' And Magloire pointed
with his thumb in the direction of the road and
forest.

* And why ?'

* Why ? Because no man can be safe here in a
wilderness like this — rocks, and stones, and trees,
and a very desert of snow, I suppose, after a while.
What a country ! What a place to live in, to die in !
Bah ! I shiver already all down my back. I see
the dark mornings, the white dazzling noons, the
haunted nights, the frost-bound panes, all the horrible
winter. I live in better place ' (here he relapsed into
English), 'in Milwaukee.'

*Ah!' said Mikel calmly. 'Then you may have
heard of my grandson, Magloire Caron, who, I
believe, is in the same town, and doing very well too.
Magloire — yes ; let me see, it will have been seven
years that he has been away — seven.'

IT
J*-

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THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

i i

Magloire lost presence of mind. * Nine !' he
said, half jumping from his chair. Intolerable to
think this old man had actually forgotten the number
of years he had voluntarily absented himself!

* Well — you know him, I see — perhaps nine. I
am old — I am likely to forget. What is he like
— Magloire ?'

* Ah ! like — he resembles such a one as me,' said
Magloire, tapping his chest, sticking his thumbs in
his waistcoat, and crossing one leg over the other.
' He is a fine fellow — in fact, he is now a gentleman,
a man of importance, of business. He is a free man,
and the citizen of a free country. He is a good
Americain.'

* Well,' said Mikel, quite gravely, * when you see
him, Messire Murray Carson, you may tell him you
have seen his grandfather, old Mikel Caron, forest-
ranger for the County of Yamachiche and seigneur
of the valley. Say he is grown old in years, ini
mind, and in knowledge, but that his arm is still
strong to fell a tree, to mark a bear in an ugly way
that lasts him till he die, and that his eye and ear
and legs and nose haven't failed him yet. Nor his
appetite; nor his temper — he is ugly when he is I
crossed. Nor his candour ; for, to be candid,
Messire Carson, if my grandson Magloire be such a I
one as you, if he dress like you, if he talk like you—
a bad French, which is not made better by a frequent
bad English, as I understand it is likely to be — I care|

pe see therr

MR. MURRAY CARSON

not if I never see him again, and he is better to
remain in his Milwaukee and his States than to
return here to Bourg-Marie. It will be, doubtless,
that he too would find the winters horrible, the
summers stifling, the forests gloomy, the houses poor
and uncomfortable, and the people — common. As
for gentlemen — ma foi ! — there have been no gentle-
men here since Champlain died. But as for freedom,
we are quite free. Make no mistake, the Canadicn
is no serf, no slave, no prisoner. We live, it is true,
under English rule. Well, it is comfortable. I — I
myself do not like these English, but I have nothing
to do with them. I leave them alone. I know three
I words of their language — Government, bear, and damn.
I They do not molest me, and I ignore them. How
I are you free, and how is my grandson Magloire free,
that / am not free — you cannot show me, for there is
nothing to show. Well, you can tell Magloire.
[Perhaps he will laugh.'

But Magloire did not laugh. He was angry.

'What!' he said, in an insulting way that fired

leven Mikel's grave and self-contained temper. * You,

an old man, grown old in the depth of this frightful

forest, in this hole of a hut, fed on bear's meat and

lonions, and saying your prayers to a sly dog of a

priest, why, you are no better than a savage, let alone

la serf ! You are mad to talk to me like that ! Come,

labout these skins — I want to purchase some. Let

Ime see them.'

I
i

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

ii-i'

* They are not here,' said the imperturbable Mikel,

* Where are they, then ?'

* I do not tell where they are. It is not my custom.' |
' Will you tell me the price of one ?*

* They are not for sale.'

* Not to anyone ?'

* They might be to someone.'

* And that one ?'
Mikel remained silent.

* It will be to the Government you sell, I see,' saic|
Magloire composedly.

He still had the grand coup left. Were a sight ofl
a share of the furs denied him as an American trader,
as a Government emissary, as an interested indil
vidual, all he had to do was to stand up, proclaiiil
his origin, extend his arms, and clasp his loving|
grandfather in them, and the furs were his.

* I do not intend to buy alone for myself,' he wen;|
on. * I have a partner, who will be equally anxioiiil
that I should procure some of these rich skins iJ
which your country abounds. Without doubt ll
must write to my friends at Quebec, who are in tlii
Government offices, for an order to see your funi
I do not wish to leave the country without a chanct|
of seeing and perhaps buying some. I have seven
friends who are of the Government. That will
easy.'

* At least, it will not be difficult,' said Mikel.

* When I hear from these friends then I sha

MR. MURRAY CARSON

come again, pay you another visit, and you will
show me the furs, eh ?'

* I have not said so.'

* But you are of that intention ?'

* Of a certainty, no. I have already told you,
Mcssire Murray Carson, that it is not my custom to
sell or show my furs to anyone.'

' Unless of the Government ?'

* Have I said so ?'

A moment's silence, then Magloirc chose to make
his grand coup. He rose, and turned his really hand-
some and engaging countenance towards the old
man, and said in his sweetest tones, and with all the
oratory natural to the French, which it takes a very
long domestication abroad to eradicate :

* Mon pere ' (my father), ' look at me. Regard
well thou thy son, le pHit Magloire. It will have
been better, perhaps, that I spoke at first. But I
thought — the trouble, the misery of the heart, the
sorrow— and caused by me ! Mon pere, forgive me !
In truth, 'tis I, le pHit Magloire, your grandson.'

There was every symptom of joy, every sign of
genuineness, every indication of filial love and rever-
ence in the glowing countenance, the smiling mouth,
the glistening eyes, the outstretched arms. These
French are the finest natural comedians in the world,
and can play more than two parts at once. But
where was the trembling, grateful, appalled, and
overjoyed recipient of these oratorical favours ?

^^^

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Mikel simply cast up the whites of his eyes to the
smoke-blackened ceiling, and brought his pipe out of
his pocket.

* You were a foolish child always,' he said, * and
you are no wiser now. Did you carry away with
you nothing more of my character than to suppose
for a moment that I could be deluded into thinking
Messire Murray Carson a different person from
Magloire Caron, coachman ? If so, you should have
known better. You were fourteen when you ran
away. That is a good age for a boy. He ought to |
be able to judge a little — well, of those with whom
he has lived, those who have fed and housed and
educated him — well, it was not a school, but it was
better than a school, perhaps — who would have
educated him.'

Magloire, surprised, defeated, though not in the
least humiliated, succumbed to defeat as gracefully
as he had thought to conquer, and simply shrugging
his shoulders, sat down again, having not folded his
aged relative in his long and sinewy arms as he had|
expected to do.

* Well,' he said, * I was away so long — it will bel
nine years that I have been in those States — and I
thought — Mikel, he will not know me again, and that
will be funny. I can talk to him as if I were anotherl
man, perhaps about myself — funny too — and therel
will be no trouble. And I thought, it will be thel
more easy and pleasant way for both after so long anl

MR. MURRAY CARSON

absence. Well, all that, there was nothing wrong
in that.'

' No,' said his grandfather, who was by this time
I placidly smoking, though still furtively engaged in
noting the extraordinary attire and appearance of
the prodigal. ' I have not said that there was any-
thing wrong. One is quite free at your age — you
should be no longer a child — to do as he wishes.
For example, your business, your affairs. You have
[prospered, Lauriere has said. I am glad of that ;
[that cannot fail to give me joy, as it renders me no
longer responsible for you. For instance, when I
thought of your coming home at all, I thought some-
times of you as coming home poor.'

* In that case ?' said Magloire.

* In that case, I could do nothing for you. I am
lot a rich man.'

'These furs, skins, these forests, rivers — they are
ill yours.'

* They do not make me rich. They do not
:onstitute wealth.'

'They should.'

'They might in the hands of another man ; not in
Uiine. And if I were a rich man, I should do nothing
)r you if you were poor.'

' Because I ran away ?'

'Of a truth, because you ran away. It is true

lat I care little for companions. My companions

Ire the stars, the streams, the trees in the forest, the

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

boulders in the valley. Under these I sometimes i
sleep; against them I lean. I look up at them asl
at old and trusted friends. I weide through them,
loving their clear and cold sparkling depths. Whcni
I have these, then I want no man. And should i
want a man, I have him. There is your uncle
Joncas ; there are one or two others. Yes, I havtl
companions. Therefore I do not want you ; nor die
I ever want you. But you did wrong, all the sanK,|
to run away, for you were my heir.'

' Your what ?' said Magloire, in astonishment, aniil
he added, in English, * This is too much ! Well,
bet you I make him tell me what I get when htl
die. There will be, it is likely, more than furs an(i|
skins.'

The old man caught the sense of this remark.

* Yes,' he said ; * without a single skin you woulcl
still inherit something : the forest itself, the valley
the banks of the Yamachiche — well, the village, the
old Manoir, the cleared acre and a half, and all thai
lives and roams in and throughout this districll
Think well ; that is what you have lost, and with i;|
the title of seigneur.'

*A fine title!' said Magloire, though satiricalh]
yet without bitterness. It was inconceivable that:
young man who had aspired to be a bar-tender
Minneapolis, a waiter in Chicago, a barber's assistarJ
in Kalamazoo, and a coachman in Milwaukee, shoulj
entertain any dream of becoming seigneur of

MR. MURRAY CARSON

[desolate, gloomy, bear -haunted tract of uncleared
forest and lonely river in Lower Canada. * A pretty
title !' repeated Magloire. * Why, I would rather
Iblack boots and run messages in the States ! I
[should be freer than call myself seigneur of this
[miserable hole.'

That is to your own taste,' said Mikel. * It would
Inot be to mine.'

' Because, of a truth, you have never known any-
Ithing else,' said the grandson. * Because you know
|rothing of the world. I, now, I have seen a good
leal. You live in Canada, in this place, all your life.
^ou see nothing, you hear nothing, you meet nobody.
'he cur6 is your oracle ; you do not even read a
)aper. You and your race — even the English
enow this — are priest-ridden, chained, made slaves,
)risoners. Nothing you have is your own ; it is all
for the Government or the priest. Well, I, now, I
lyself when I left here, I was like that, too. When
went first from here I stop at Quebec. There was
[he money you gave me to pay Joncas in the village
-that little debt, you remember — and I did not pay,
)ut took the money and went to Quebec. There I,
|oo, sought out a priest, and told him I was alone
lind without work or place in the world, and was
lired of Bourg-Marie. And he was very kind, as
juch men can be, and found me where I could board.
ht he took the rest of my money — ma foi, yes, he
fid that, and said it would be in trust for me when

c
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THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

I came back, safe in the Church's care ; for I had
met with a party of Americans, young men from
the shanties who were going out to Michigan. Yes,
sir. Well, I make friends quick — they call me fool
for staying in Canada — and I went with them. But
I never got that money back from the priest.'

* And this card, this name of Messire Murray
Carson. This will be your partner, without doubt ?'

* Ah no,' replied Magloire. * Of a truth, that is
my own name, the name I have just lately taken out
in Milwaukee. My affairs — see — well, the English
name serves me better.'

* Possibly, your own not being good enough.'

* It is French, it is French. And I have found
lately that it was against me, my being French.'

* That is a pity.'
' But I shall soon correct that. You will perceive |

that already I do not speak so good French as you, I
although, indeed, it is but poor French anyone |
speaks here. It is not French at all.'

* How do you call it, then ? It is the language!
bequeathed us by our ancestors. I speak as spoke |
Champlain, as spoke my great-great-grandfather,
It satisfies me, and I have heard a traveller say that I
it is very pure, though, without doubt, very ol(l|
French, and free from intrusions of English idiom.'

But these remarks of the old man were total!) I
beyond the comprehension of Magloire, as might be
expected. While his grandfather spoke, upholding

MR. MURRAY CARSON

the tradition of his mother-tongiio, Magloire was
surveying the room and wondering where the skins,
if they really existed, and were not the figment of
a dream evolved from Lauricrc's luxiiri(nis fancy,
could be hidden. Although he did not (juit his
chair, old Mikel followed his gaze, comprehending
perfectly its intent.
' They are not here,' he said.
* Well, is it kind to treat me so like a stranger
whom you cannot trust ? I only want to see them.'
' You have said that your partner has required of
you to purchase some. You are not truthful. Nor
do I yet understand what your affairs are. Lauriere,
he has told me, Nicolas Lauriere, that you were a
1 coachman. You show me this card, you speak of
[trading in horses, then you wish to purchase furs.'

' It is all true ;' and Magloire nodded. * I am
Inot of one thing, but of many. That is the way one
prospers in these States. One has to try many
things, prove one's self, find what one can do best,
[refuse nothing, accept anything, fail often, begin
[over again. Enfin — one hits the right nail. Yes,
[sir, I have much business, I am in demand, every-
|one knows me ; I belong to two societies, I walk
in their processions, I speak in a crowded hall. I
lave brains, ideas ; I am not afraid to speak out ;
khey all listen to me. I shall speak here. I wish
[o take the large room at Delorme's next Friday,
ind address there the village.'

;

:.*■

i; j»^

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

English,

or in French, this

'Will it
address ?'

Magloire stared. His grandfather's sarcasm was
too quiet for him to resent, too subtle for him to fully
grasp.

' It will be in French, without doubt.'

* And the subject ?'

' L' emancipation r Magloire flourished his right
hand in the air, while with the other he produced
from his coat a thick packet of newspapers tied with
a string. * At least you will attend there ? You will
assist with your presence ?'

* It is possible.'

Magloire laughed in secret. The old fox, old
weasel, old man-of-the-woods, was jealous. He,
Magloire, had come back well, gaily dressed, a
gentleman — or as good as one — able to read, and
write, and speak in public, address and move his
fellow-countrymen, and the old man was jealous of|
his ability, his education, his appearance. Magloire
laughed aloud and rose to depart.

' Since you do not show me the furs to-day, I will
go,' said he. ' Some other time, eh ?'

Mikel gave no answer whatever at first.

' When do you leave ?' he said finally.

* Well, I do not know. I shall wait for that order I
from Quebec, for other things. My partner, he ma)|
join me here. I cannot tell when I go. I walk,
now when I leave you, to see my Uncle Joncas and

MR. MURRAY CARSON 49

the rest in the village. I shall find it just the
same ?'

* There will be no change.'

' Of that there is no fear. It waits for me,
Magloirc Caron, does it not, to change it ?'

Old Mikel rose and drew himself up. He was
fully as tall as his grandson, when not laden with
weapons or tools, and the two men faced each other.

* It waits for no such person, for no such person
exists. There is no Magloire Caron. It waits, say
you yourself, for Mcssire Murray Carson.'

An angry look crept in Magloire's keen eyes.
' You cannot rob me of my name.'
' You have robbed yourself.'

* Even if I choose to take an English name, I may
yet require to use my French one.'

* You may indeed.'

' Then, if so, I shall use it.'

* Good. I have no objection. There may easily
be more than one Magloire Caron in the world.'

' You will then disown me ?'

* You shall see.'

Upon this, Magloire, with a final shrug — a habit
his residence in a foreign country had not yet
counteracted — lit a cigar and took his leave. There
did not seem to offer any excuse for his remaining.
His grandfather was old, foolish, out of his head a
little, obstinate, angry, jealous— jealous ! Very well ;
I there was plenty of time. He would try again. All

i 'A

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

would come in time. Old people were all like
that.

Mikel waited till Magloire had entirely dis-
appeared in the direction of the village, straight
along the road that led back from where he had
started — the widow Peron's cabin — waited silently,
with listening ear and bated breath, as so often his
mode of life led him to wait for stealthy, gliding
animal, or swift fish, or wheeling bird, until he told
himself Magloire had certainly gone to the village.
So keen already was his sense of hostility, and so
small his belief in the straightforwardness of his
grandson, so true was his perception, not blunted by
use nor at fault through myriad daily abuses, and so
rapid his conclusions, formed maybe hastily, but
founded on impulses which were natural, simple, and
untainted. Such a life and occupation as Mikel's
made and left him simple, but sound. No multitude
of daily trivial complexities had ever crossed and
recrossed the clear sky of his life as the modern
net-works of electric lines obscure the daylight
in crowded city thoroughfares. All about him was
open in reality, although much of it had to do with
a system of ambush, decoy, and destruction that
might have perverted a nature less rigidly virtuous,
truthful, and consistent. But, nevertheless, he had
one secret.

[ 51 1

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1th
at

CHAPTER IV.

THE OLD MANOIR.

* Mine age is departed, and is removed from me as a
shepherd's tent. I have cut off, like a weaver, my life.'

Magloire, then, had returned, and his grandfather
[pondered long over the singular alteration in him,
not sharing with the others in their admiration of
Ihis arrogant manner and gaudy attire. He con-
demned his jewellery, hischoice of colours, his pungent
fcigar, as much as he condemned his opinions.

Waiting till Magloire was out of sight, he care-
jfully locked his door, and, going out of the back
enclosure, proceeded stealthily through a fir planta-
tion to the old and deserted stone building known
15 the Manoir. There were two ways of approach-

^s, Kng it, and he had now chosen the one most in-
i(i Blccessible to others, the path being rarely trodden
[)y anyone but himself, and completely hidden from
|he frequenters of the ordinary highroad that led
|)efore his front-door to the village on one hand,

4—2

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THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

and through the forest on the other. Along this
footpath — it was no wider — Mikel walked with a
heavier weight upon his heart and brain than he
had ever borne upon back and shoulders up that
ever-increasing declivity. For the path, growing
steeper and steeper, though still cut through thick-
growing firs and hemlocks, emerged at length upon
a triangular garden — a kind of 'close,' in fact, shut
in on two sides by trees sloping almost imperceptibly
in the direction of the third side, which was bounded
by the long, irregular low stone mansion built about
the year of our Lord 1670, and called the Manoir.

In this stone house had the Chevalier Jules-
Gaspard - Noel - Ovide Delaunay - Colombiere Caron |
lived for fifty-five scorching summers and Arctic]
winters, sudden and magical springs, and luminous
hazy, and golden autumns. Here had he witnessed I
the slow but steady decline of all the prerogativej
and prejudices dear to the aristocratic French mind
of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Here|
had he struggled in spite of inclement climatic forces
of few and suspicious neighbours, and of a constant!} I
changing and unsettled country, to maintain the
dignity and state due to the person of a Frencli
gentleman, well born, town bred — for the ancieni
family seat in France was inside the famous city
of Rouen, and is still to be seen, a feudal manor, ond
half in ruins, the other half turned into a charity
school — and possessed of much of the varied aniil

THE OLD MANOIR

quaint learning, and all the airs and graces of the
time. A friend of that M. D'Avaugour who wrote
from Canada, ' La Nouvelle France,' in 1661, * I
have seen nothing to equal the beauty of the River
St. Lawrence,' he, in company with many other
enthusiasts, emigrated partly to soothe the wounded
feelings which Colbert, * cet homme de marbre,' as
he was called by Gui Patin, * avec des yeux creux,
scs sourcils epais et noirs, esprit solide mais pesant,'
had, to do him justice, unwittingly outraged by a
presentation of a financial post at Rheims to Le
Caron's elder brother, and partly from a desire to
distinguish himself in a new and not overcrowded
land. Even in 1668 the world — at least, that part
of it that surged and strove and whined and cajoled
and fought and elbowed and cursed and smiled and
intrigued and blasphemed and prayed — all in the
same breath — around that Court of Louis XIV. —
began to find itself in its own way and its own
sphere all too small. Of the delights, the tempta-
|tions, the pains, the shames of such a life, had
IColombiere Caron already tasted. The young King
very soon recognised his character and abilities,
land, judging correctl}^ that he was at heart dis-
inclined to the dangerous pleasures of a Court, and
[by a simple seriousness of mind and disposition
[quite as unfitted for the perilous posts within the
'M of that Court, held out promises of fortune, land,
ind distinction in the new France across the water.

1 ,

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■IBK

Oi.

If.

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%. l;

SI.-.' i«. t

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THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

In reality, however cruel the deception may have
proved to be in one or two ways, the action of Louis
was a kind one. Le Caron embarked not without
misgivings, but with more than a tincture of hope.
He knew well that he was not the first French
gentleman of a noble house and distinguished line
to settle in the primeval glooms and snowy fast-
nesses of * La Nouvelle France.'

Sleur D'Avaugour's opinion weighed much with
him. No country so exquisitely beautiful as he had
depicted in his letters home (Baron Pierre Dubois
D'Avaugour, Governor of New France from i66i-
1663) could hold discomforts so great as those
sketched, say, in the relations of the Jesuits and
other missionary records. The illustrious Champlain's
memory survived even in the melee of those latter
days under the Great Louis. What he had borne
another French gentleman could.

Le Caron, yielding to pressure of many kinds,
sailed at last for the land of snow and pines, to be
followed by many another scion of the haute noblesse-
witness the names that constantly recur in the docu-
ments relating to the old French regime on from
that time up to the taking of Quebec in 1759-
Le Gardeur de St. Pierre, Le Baron de Longueuil,
Le Chevalier St. Ours, Le Chevalier de Niverville,
De Ramezay, D'Argenteuille Daillesbout, Le Verrier,
Livaudiere Pean, and scores of others of varying]
rank, age, celebrity, ability, and fortune. But at

THE OLD MANOIR

the time when Mikel's ancestor arrived one stormy
March in a vessel called Le Chameau — though not
the vessel of that name which was wrecked in 1725
with the Intendant de Chazel on board — he was one
of a very small number indeed of cultivated and
courtly gentlemen grafted with all the French virtues
and not a few of the French vices upon the new and
struggling colony. Le Caron, however, was singularly
destitute of vices, and, quickly resigning himself to
his future abode and surroundings, and calling upon
his family to preserve the like equanimity, he took
possession according to letters patent recently
delivered to him by permission of His Most Gracious
Majesty of the fief and grant of land consisting of
the Plutonian realms of forest, and the half-frozen
river of the Yamachiche, just stirring beneath its
icy hood to life and conscious beauty. Like all
pioneers, the sudden change to a green and lustrous
spring enchanted him. The fresh untired, untried
earth took on for him a truly celestial hue. Nothing
came amiss, not even the heat of July and August.
The only thing he and his family and servants
dreaded was the cold, and so, wintering in military
quarters at Quebec, they escaped the tortures of the
first year's frost, while by the time the second winter
was upon them, behold, the Manoir was sufficiently
advanced to permit of occupation.

No wonder that old Mikel, the forest-ranger of
the nineteenth century, should so reverence and

■iT

II r

. *

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

adore the habitation of his ancestors, built in the
seventeenth. The triangular garden was sodded,
carefully swept clean of fallen leaves, in itself no
light task, inasmuch as the October winds were
playing sad havoc with maple and oak and brown
pine tassel, and bore in its centre a kind of piled-up
grotto of most beautiful rough blocks of serpentine
and native marble that only required polishing to
render them highly lustrous, smooth, and of the
richest colours. Upon the top of this cairn, or
grotto — it was neither the one nor the other, yet
something like both — stood an image of a Cupid,
rudely carved from the same gray stone that com-
posed the dwelling-house and offices. The Cupid
was sadly out of place in this remote and lonely
region. But he doubtless served to carry the
memory back to the gay gardens of the luxurious
France from which his creator had come. This
was no less a person than Pere Chaletot, the
chaplain and confidential friend of Messire Jules-
Gaspard-Noel-Ovide Delaunay-Colombiere Caron, a
character whose fame had reached old Mikel by-
word of mouth and document, who had been
steward, priest, carver, dispenser, tutor, purveyor,
overseer, draughtsman, gamekeeper, and physician,
all in one. Carved seats that had originally been
stumps of gigantic trees surrounded the grotto, also
the work of the accomplished Pere Chaletot, and
the greatest care anci wealth of imagination had

THE OLD MANOIR

evidently been spent on their production. One was
an armchair, deep, capacious, luxurious, and, in
place of cushions, large growths of moss, emerald
green, brown, and gray, filled in all its corners.
Another was a sentry-box open at the roof ; this one
having clearly been adapted from the hollow trunk
of a decaying tree, and furnished now with a seat
inside, and more cushions of moss for the back and
shoulders. A third was as much as possible like a
box at the opera, having a horseshoe-shaped ledge
in front, upon which it used doubtless to please the
Reverend Father and his pupils and proteges to
lean, under the impression that they were about to
witness a performance of a new comedy or an airy
ballet du cour. Whitened, some of them, by rain
and storm and old age, ant-eaten and mouldering
the others, these strange carven seats seemed always
waiting for the arrival of guests who never came, guests
who, when they did appear, might prove but ghosts.
The Cupid, wan and cold and wizened, gazed
ruefully — or so it seemed — upon the circle of fast-
decaying seats that had not been occupied for so
long, not since the grandson of Sieur Jules-Gaspard
le Caron celebrated his coming of ago by trying to
work a fountain under the grotto, and inducing all
the household to come down and give the invention
welcome. Alas ! the birthday was in November, and
[the water froze while the guests sat around shivering,
waiting for the first glittering drops to fall, catching

of.

m
p.

5«

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

the light as they fell, and reminding them of the
sparkling jets some of the older ones had seen in
the country of the fleur-de-lis, now receding further
and further into oblivion. The birthday was in
November, and Cupid looked as he felt, intensely
cold, and would have been glad of some straw tied
about him as they tied up the urns and flowers in
France, but nobody thought of it.

At the apex of the triangle of sward, just where
Mikel's footpath came to an end, stood a little
shrine or raised crucifix, with a rudely-carved figure
of the Saviour upon it, also the work of the gifted
Chaletot. At one time the crucifix had been gilded,
and some touches of colour had been added to the
face of the suffering Christ ; but in Mikel's time,
though he had looked often and carefully, he had
never been able to detect either gold-leaf or carmine
upon its wasted and unsymmetrical proportions. A
gravel-walk bordered the sward, separating it from
the thick plantation and the long terrace that swept
from one end to the other of the Manoir itself.
Three flower-beds cut in the shape of the royal
lilies of France — beloved France ! according to Sir
William Temple, ' Ce noble et fertile royaume, le
plus favorise par la nature de tous ceux qui soit au j
monde ' — and a fourth representing a crown, testified |
to the unimpeached loyalty of the high-bred gentle-
man under whose supervision they had probablvj
been cut out in Canadian turf.

But
and JiJ;
mind t\
long M
end to
seventy
a Frenc
after alj,
of the C
feudal til
or the mj
by the c
smaller C
Albert de
over the
of his val
were feed
to his bui
rounded h
^^ similar
small wind
roof that o
hithful rep
dotted the
h'Jis, and ne
the seventec
fhe plan w,
evidently hi
quarrying,

V^-l

THE OLD MANOIR

But neither curious carven seat, nor desipjn of crown

and lily, nor shape of stone crucifix, recalled to the

mind the fair country seats of France so much as the

long Manoir itself; nearly two hundred feet from

end to end, and its two tall towers at either side

seventy feet in height. The exact miniature of many

a French chateau in style, it was only a miniature

after all, its dimensions being far inferior to those

of the Chateau of Pierrefonds, for example, built in

feudal times and restored by the late Napoleon III.,

or the magnificent Chateau of Vincennes, surrounded

by the orthodox towered wall and moat, or the

smaller Chateau of Luynes, in which died its owner,

Albert de Luynes, in the year 162 1, of fever. It was

over the body of this Albert de Luynes that two

of his valets de chambre fought at cards while they

were feeding the horses which were carrying him

to his burial. The terrace, the two end towers,

rounded in true feudal fashion, the central cluster

of similar turrets or towers, and the innumerable

small windows, doors, steps and pointed rods on the

roof that once had borne flags, were all more or less

faithful reproductions of the country chateaux that

dotted the beautiful plains, and crowned the wooded

hills, and nestled in the corn-clad valleys of France in

the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. But while

the plan was correct, the building itself had been

evidently far from satisfactory in the matter of duly

quarrying, laying, cementing and piling the stone.

f.'

•^

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

and in details of measurement, allowance for shrink-
age, and proportion. Gaps in the cold gray stone
were frequent, and the whole building had sunk a
foot or more beneath the original level of the turf.
The walls, though enormously thick in some places,
had all fallen away from the perpendicular, and but
little glass, and that, of course, of a rude description,
could be found in the windows. The upper portion
was the best preserved, and if a line had been drawn
cutting off the ten feet at the top, the lower part
would have passed for some vacated farm or battered
grange, so ordinary was that section of the building
where the long windows opened on the wooden
terrace.

The result of the inefficient architectural ability
of the builders and masons who emigrated with
Mikel's ancestor was that the present ruin, for
practically it was little more, presented an older
appearance than many of the chateaux in France
built seventy or a hundred years before. The
absence of friendly green, too, debarred it from ever
assuming the softened and venerable aspect of the
ivy-clad ruins of France. Like the old age of
poverty, there were here none of the caressing and
becoming laces of Nature which resemble the soft
gems and placid satins attendant on age in riches, i
The house was like a hag, shorn of youth, and
without old age's charms. Despite the human
sentiment that clung around it, one could hardly

THE OLD MANOIR

deem it haunted, for few spirits would care to
revisit a spot so desolate, so open, so barren, so
forbidding'. Yet there may have been occasions
when the spirit of Sieur Jules-Gaspard-Noel-Ovide
Dclaiinay-Colombicrc Caron revisited in j^liinpses
of a cold, relentless, bitter Canadian moon, the place
where so many dreams had been lived down, so
many plans overruled, so many hardships endured,
so much quiet heroism displayed, so much tender-
ness, chivalry, honour, true courtesy and loyal senti-
ment shown to women, to children, to old age, to
voyageur, to coureuv du hois, to missionary, to trader,
to soldier, to peasant ; and so much honest religion
practised, from Sunday morning at half-past six,
when Pere Chaletot rang a bell himself, summoning
the family and servants to early Mass in a room
commonly called the chapel, till Saturday night,
when a kind of valedictory service for the entire
week was held at seven o'clock in the same place.
Every morning the good father roused his colony in
like manner, and many and fervent were the prayers
offered up for ships at sea, for friends and retainers
many miles distant in wood or upon water, against
fever, against Iroquois, against famine, against war,
and thanksgiving hearty for the daily food that,
killed by gun and rod and ready knife and net, made
[up in quantity what the epicurean tastes of the whole
[household demanded in quality.

To this exceptionally interesting structure, then,

lift

I*"

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

did old Mikel now turn his steps, his head bowed on
his breast, and his entire appearance characterized
by deep dejection and misery. He walked across
from the footpath to the central door opening on the
mouldering terrace, and unlocking it with a huge
key, the largest that hung on a bunch of old and
rusty keys he held in his hand, entered a hall, quite
destitute of furniture or other tokens of whilom
human habitation. Where the trophies of chase
and hunt, many-hued tapestry, and glass and oaken
settles and chairs all should have combined to render
the interior at once imposing and satisfactory, there
were only cobwebs and cracked plaster, stains of
mildew and discoloration, cold and empty silences ;
yet all was scrupulously clean. No staircase was
visible, standing in the hall, and the doors of the
apartments on either side were locked. But Mikel,
the owner of all this dubious and shattered masonry,
the rightful seigneur of the whole fertile, though
remote, valley, knew the ways of the curious old
mansion, and, after standing a few moments in the
desolate entrance-hall, thinking still of Magloire, he
opened with a key the room on the right-hand side
and entered, closing and locking the door carefully.

This room contained Mikel's secret.

For, long and lofty, and lighted by live windows,
covered now with double sheets of thick brown
paper, it was strewn with numerous skins of various
fur-bearing animals. The glossy black and the rich

brown

gray an

two or 1

hare, ai

covered

deeper £

middle o

luxurious

the most

from the

to the siJv

duck. A

. windows,

these rare

on by in vis

in every p

A'iossiness j
Czar, that

semi-barbar

o'lJy some s

'jfren met A

(-^er witness

i^oftskin of

I profusion ov(

jandtheaccu

I these handsc

r^'as damagec

houldy, wouJ

|%"re m the

THE OLD MANOIR

brown of bear, the golden russet-red of fox, the
gray and mottled brownish-gray of the Canada lynx,
two or three superb buffalo hides, and beaver, otter,
hare, and other small skins in bewildering variety
covered every inch of the floor. The foot sank
deeper and deeper at each advancing step in the
middle of these rich warm furs, softer than the most
luxurious carpet, yielding as moss, and displaying
the most perfect gamut of colour and glossiness,
from the black of the bear and brown of the skunk
to the silver-white of the shining breast of the eider-
duck. And not only the floor, but the walls,
windows, and the ceiling were also covered with
these rare and beautiful products, nailed or tacked
on by invisible means, and merging one into another
in every possible gradation of lustrous, luminous
glossiness and colour. The effect was worthy of a
Czar, that is, worthy of a mind regally Russian,
semi-barbaric, yet given to artistic impulses, that
only some such characteristic display as this, which
often met Mikel's eyes, but which no one else had
ever witnessed, could satisfy. Even the seductively
soft skin of the seal was present, strewn in careless
profusion over that of weasel, marten, and squirrel ;
; and the accumulated value of the whole number of
[these handsome and perfect furs, not one of which
was damaged, imperfect in any way, moth-eaten or
[mouldy, would doubtless have reached a very high
Ifigiire in the hands of an expert. Not an inch of

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

plaster, or of stone, or of wood could be seen. The
furs covered every point of floor, walls, and ceiling,
and a cleverly-stuffed lynx and a red-eyed fox kept
watch at the corners of the room opposite the door
through which Mikel had entered. Giving now but
a hasty glance around at his wealth, to assure him-
self that it was all there, he gently slid one of the
hanging brown bear-skins along the wall (it was
sewn to rings passed over a common rod, very
much like ordinary draperies), and disappeared into
another and inner room, this containing no windows
at all, but where three blocked-up recesses told of
the windows that had been included in the original
design of the chateau. This, too, was hung,
carpeted, and curtained close and warm with furs of
every description, the ceiling here being partly
covered with the snowy skin of a polar bear, forming
an unexpected and startling foil to the surrounding
and prevailing hues of brown, gray, and black.
Mikel's rude lantern threw strange shadows in this
strange apartment, in the centre of which, directly
beneath the skin of the once savage Arctic bear, was
placed a table, capable of holding about twenty
people, and covered with delicate fine damask, the
pattern of which was the royal lily of France, inter-
twined with the monogram of the illustrious Sieur
Le Caron — Jules-Gaspard-Noel-Ovide. This damask
may have once rivalled in whiteness the curious ceil-
ing above, but was now yellow with age.

Strang

withoL

vessel (

being f;

of bror

some c

great va

around,

iiandson

sat a gr

at the 01
delicate j
silent an(
spirit of
^\'^o, Jon^
have pres
over the
coffee, the
savage co
hqueur. J
one at the
^'^S^t hand
honoured
^^om oaks
' chy of V(

their

owner

^othin

^'■e

THE OLD MANOIR

In this lonely region, in this remote ruin, in this
strange fur-draped salon, without light, without air,
without fire, a dinner-table was laid. An antique
vessel of gold, silver, and glass occupied the middle,
being Hanked by four tall and branching candelabra
of bronze. Various small dishes of foreign glass,
some cracked, others without handles, but all of
great value and interest, were set at proper intervals
around, while the plate was solid silver, antique, and
handsome in design. Where the host might have
sat a great dish of Florentine enamel ware stood,
something like a wassail-bowl in shape and size, and
at the other end two little cracked cups of most
delicate pale-green china, without saucers, bore a
silent and pathetic testimony to the presence in
spirit of the lady of the Manoir, the gentle genius
who, long before the days of afternoon tea, may
have presided with ineffable and high-bred grace
over the cup that contained, if not chocolate or
coffee, the greatest of all luxuries in a new and semi-
savage colony, at least bouillon or home-made
liqueur. There were but two chairs in the room,
one at the head of the table, and the other at the
right hand of the host, as if in expectation of an
honoured guest ; but they were magnificently carved
from oaks that had grown in the forests of the
' chy of Vendome, for they, too, had emigrated with
their owner in the Chameau from Havre in 1668.
Nothing else did the room contain, if the thickly-

I i

00''

I-

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

hanging curtains of fur might be depended on for
not obscuring more than wall and ceiling and floor.
Mikel, drawing out the chair at the head of the
richly-appointed table, sat down wearily, and leant
back, closing his eyes upon the strange but familiar
spectacle, his lantern being set on the floor beside
him.

This display of fur and plate, and the remaining
relics of an age of feudalism, chivalry, and petty
state, constituted his secret. The inhabitants of the
valley knew of the existence of the ruined Manoir;
but not a soul beside himself had any conception of
the curious treasure shut up within its walls.

Feudalism was now long since banished, the
seignorial system abolished, chivalry a dream of
the past, military exploits no longer possible ; all
glories tarnished, all affections dead, all hopes
blighted, all resolutions in vain. Old Mikel, by
turns staring at the monogram of his illustrious
sires, and dreaming of the recreant Magloire, felt
indeed a bitterness akin to death. Outside, the
warm October sun flooded the windy valley. The
habitant felled his trees, or busied himself in pro-
viding against the inclemency of the coming month
in his own frugal and thrifty ways. Magloire,
despising every inch of the ground he trod on
strode down to Delorme's and engaged the room for
his lecture. And noon passed ; three, four o'clock
came, and still Mikel sat in the black oak chair.

THE OLD MANOIR

Strange shadows swarmed before h.U' ^
around him. Once hp r^, ^ , ' behmd, aJJ

only to take froran Ue/l'd "''' ""' " ^^
in his vest of shaggy h de a rin 7' ""'" P°^''^'
and workmanship and con^.'' ""*""''' ^°™
Wlliancy and L rZZnl ' ^'°"' °' ^^^^
brought from the Ea,t h, '^''' =' diamond,

and withered finger o'thefraj"' "'°" "^"^ ''^°-"

It needed but the presence of t^'
<he singular picture of tt H . ^"" '° '=°'"P'ote

line absorbed in the c nt?' ■ '"' °' =^" '""^W°-
*s; while outside ."mouH"" "l,''' '^^"^
'he fresh, strong wind of .r^^ ^^'"'°'' "^'^^
"rough the hairterlir r 'T"""' '"'^ ^'"'^d
the primeval forest ^' '"""'^^'""S '^^ves of

his'lrelrThe' LttJ" 'T'''' ''' ^^'^^^ °n
yeilowand'aWysVCl^ ^^^^'^^"^ -^

^"ddenly, and gem go d and "■' ""'" ''' ^^P'^^^

-r«ed into blfck ^nrtlallrtl-'^ ''"'''' ^"

((*•

'0^'
m-

,,.'r~

5—2

[68]

CHAPTER V.

AT DELORME'S.

' As the bird by wandering, as the swallow by flying,
so the curse causeless shall not come.'

Magloire received a grand welcome *down at
Delorme's.' His gaudy attire and general in-
souciance were thoroughly admired there. Louis
and Jack were at the door when he arrived, and,
communicating the fact to the men within, Magloire
was received with a degree of ecstasy and apprecia-
tion that in nowise can be said to have flattered
him, as he simply took it as his due, having expected
it before he came. Pacifique limped in the back-
ground. Magloire was altogether too glorious a
being for him to address. Lauriere, who had tossed
half the night on his hard bed, thinking over Magloire's
tempting offer, was there too, glancing in wonder
and dismay at Magloire and Magloire's hat. For,
the morning being bright and sunny, and not so cold
as the previous day had been — his first day in Bourg-

--^^i- are I

^e^^- conceit

^^ey might

f^^'s must be

^°"? and rfg(

As perfec

AT DELORME'S
Marie after nine venrc:' ok

^ '^" -ik hat, vh h lhr~^-'*^'°'" '''■''' '^°"-<l
"e and cane, ompLtel J, . '"""^ °^"'=°^»' «-=h
wore the ha jusfa TiJ '"^'"^'' ^^'°™'='=- He

as possible, the meeting with old Mit' Tu "' '' ^'^^
forgotten in the jov of nTnl '^'''<'^' ''^'"8 speedily

"'e gaping habital ' ' '"^ ''"P-^-^n on

The day was a fine onp xi, . .
which sometin,es precedes' thJl^-^''^ intoxication
"-■ luahty of latent fo „!"'"" ^"'"'"-' -'h
lassitude and fatigue nnH , """' P'''^'^l"des all

- Elysian pilSarfitr^ °'''^=''°«-'--'k
'> a» an old trouverc puts it,

'Carils6te„tIenoirpe„ser,
Deuil et ennui font oublier.'

'^ut little of this pm„.-

'"-gers at Delorl?"'"" T "'"""'^<^'' "^^ '"e

727, Hocquart, Intendant , ? l^° ^' "'^ ^-^^^^

'he following correct ', ''"'"^ '° ^^^^^^

'TheylovetobedLtL, rr °' '''= ^^"'^'J-" •■

^'--lysensitile ?on ;:? ^t """"'^' ^"<^ ^^
'"-'• • • • They are araTr^'"'""'^'P""'=''-
^f- are but few iif ^^ '° '"'^'^ ^^"•^'•°"-
f- conceited, and hen el H '' "' '^'■^'''>' ^'"d
'^^y might in the arts T ' T "°' ="^^'^^ -s
f- --t be adde IZ^T.- '"' '"'^^- ^°
'°"(r and rigorous winter " '"'^"<^^'' "^y '^e

€

1 ;

ifl*

i":

««S'

t« ;

■m>

jpr

!'■' ,

' i',: '

; 1,'

J»^''-

■'i

THE FOREST OF BOURGMARIE

.\ '

might be taken now the men grouped outside the
door at Delorme's, and occupied with Magloire.
In every village there are some idle people, but it is
only in such a village as that of Bourg- Marie that
those who have the highest reputation for order,
system, sobriety, and hard-working habits of frugality
and neatness can be induced to leave whatever they
are at and gather at such a place as Delorme's.
They will assemble at any hour, in any weather, in
any costume, and for any cause. Paul Ladislasky
and his fat yellow brute of a dancing-bear will bring
them, so will a * strayed reveller ' with a French
piano. They will swarm in hordes to view a passing
bicycle or a party of tourists on foot, or another
wandering minstrel from the land that boasts the
fatal gift of beauty, carrying a basket of gilded
images on his head. The social instinct is the one
which prevails over all others among this people, so
cursed by Fate as to have been sphered where
Nature is all in all, and society a dead-letter. We
have seen how totally foreign to Magloire le Caron's
temperament were any impulses of religion, of
emotion, of affection, of longing after higher and
better things, suggested by contact with the grand
though gloomy forests and the eternal golden silence
around him as he walked over to old Mikel's dwell-
ing earlier that morning; and as it was with him, so
was it with many of the inhabitants of Bourg-Marie,
though in a different form.

AT DELORME'S

The men who leaned in the doorway and lounged
in the room that was kitchen and bar in one were
nearly all labourers from the fields and from the
three great forests of Lafontaine, Fournier, and
Bourg-Marie, clad in strange but picturesque mix-
tures of flannel, leather, and fur. Two men sported
earrings — large hoops of brass that bobbed against
their cheeks when they walked ; and Lauriere dis-
played a brilliant dash of scarlet at the edge of his
dark trousers, where they were turned up with a
lining of red morocco. This splash of colour made
him unspeakably happy, though he could not have
told you why.

Magloire saluted his compatriots with a careless
bow. For the labourers he affected a slight disdain.
He looked to see the ctiltivatenrs, the farmers — there
were three in that district ; the epicier ; his uncle
Joncas, the veteran trapper ; the dodeur, Pligny ;
the rich M. Thibideau, who owned a mine; Prevost,
the cobbler, known to be wealthy, and a great
character ; Palissier, the flour-merchant ; Brandeau
— Messire Jules Brandeau, notary ; Father Labelle
himself. He strode past the labourers up to the bar
and asked in English for a glass of whisky.

Meanwhile many comments were made on his
return and his appearance. Old Prevost, grown
enormously fat, toddled over from his shop, almost
directly opposite, and embraced him, ordering
another glass of whisky in honour of the occasion.

1 I

i !

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

The notary did not present himself, neither did the
priest ; and rich M. Thibideau was absent in Three
Rivers. Magloire's audience was therefore slimmer
and less distinguished than he would have liked.
But his uncle, Emile-Sylvestre Joncas, M. Palissier,
and young Docteur Pligny assembled in grand style
and greeted him with effusive hilarity and increasingly
rapid tongues. Indeed, the flow of Canadian-French
was at first alarming to Magloire, who found that he
had forgotten much of it. When the uproar was
somewhat subsided, he mounted a chair — a proceed-
ing which brought his head almost to the top of the
room — and implored silence.

* My friends,' he began, * it is true I am come
back. Je suis de retotir. I am a great man. I am
no longer Ic p'tit Magloire. I have made a success-
yes, this is all true. Yet I am come back. I am
come back that I may see my relations. There is
my grandfather '

* Ah ouai ! His grandfather, old Le Caron, well,
he is good, that child ; he will not forget anyone.
Vive Magloire !'

* Vive Magloire !' and the interruption and the
answering shout amused Magloire extremely, though
still he was not flattered. Nothing they could do in
this wretched hole of a village could be interpreted
as flattery of one so distinguished, so great a man in
his own right.

' And I am come back that I may see another—
my uncle !'

'lernl
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H'ith joy.

niy frienc
see them
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a cheer.

'See nov^
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AT DELORME'S

He was again interrupted.

* His uncle ! Ref:^ard thou the good child. He
forgets not his uncle. Joncas, 'tis thou ! Press
through — advance ! Make way there for his uncle —
for Joncas ! Ah ! a pity ! He grows to look old !
See there, le hrav' enfant ! Vive Magloire, Magloire
le Caron !'

' I embrace you, my uncle. I weep, but not with
mourning, not with regret. No. It is with joy —
with joy. Then, as well as my uncle, there will be
my friends in the village. Louis and Jack, well, I
see them in my new country, in Milwaukee ; it will
not be of them I speak. Dame Delorme, I salute
you. M. le docteur Pligny, I salute you ; and you,
M. Palissier. You are all my compatriots, my
brothers, my friends.'

This climax of patriotic affection was received with
a cheer. Magloire's position seemed now secure.

'See now,' he went on, * Pm going to tell you all
about things. I shall speak here next Friday, if I
may have the large room — well, that is all right —
that goes well, and you will all come and hear
me.'

The excitement changed. It became interest, and
therefore moderated.

'What things?'

' He is Americain.'

' Not he. He is Magloire le Caron. He is clever ;
[has been away for nine years. Let us listen.'

* For why must he speak ? It is no election.*

4tf'

IllftV

HI'

THE FOREST OF BOURGMARIE

* That is all the better. He will speak of himself;
tell us what he has seen. I shall go — I.*

' Will Pere Dominique come ?'

' Yes, yes, of a truth he will. He is the great
friend of old Mikel. Why, he has said that Mikel is
the seigneur of all the valley. If so, then we should
hearken Magloire.'

* He is Americain, I tell you.'

* He is English, a little. He will have forgotten
his language here and there, yet the brave child, to
remember his grandfather ! How old is he?'

Such was the buzz of wonder and interested ejacu-
lations that surrounded Magloire on his improvised
platform. M. Ic dodettr Pligny and Palissier had
not joined in the last outburst of clamour. They
had been questioning Louis and Jack P6ron as to
their life in Milwaukee, and Magloire's prosperity.
Being partly educated men, and d ^sirous of pro-
gressing in the world, they appreciated the move
made by the brothers in removing to the States ; but
Magloire's flash appearance had not altogether im-
posed upon them ; they found it dubious, although
they hesitated to pronounce it spurious. Pligny
himself was a thinker. He had formed a plan for
moving to Three Rivers, and becoming a Member
of Parliament. He had in his youth edited a small
rouge journal in Montreal when completing his
college course. It was difficult, he found, to place |
Magloire, whom he did not remember.

AT DELORME'S

' Grandson of old Lc Caron,' he was saying to
Palissicr. * That will be the forest-ranger, who
keeps the old Manoir in order. Are you sure ?'

Palissier, a red-faced, sturdy type of Frenchman,
always more or less floury about the ears and
shoulders, was, on the contrary, thoroughly imbued
with a sense of Magloire's striking resemblance to
his grandfather.

• Sure ?' he repeated scornfully. ' Why, regard
him — you — sceptic, unbeliever in all things. Look
at his height, his long figure — rack-stretched, like
the pictures in the old books chcz M. le Cure — look
at the eye, the way the hair lies on the forehead,
even the fall of the lip. Yes, 'tis Mikel himself
grown young. One can doubt no longer. Listen !
He is a funny child — he is a rascal, that Magloire !
How he speaks ! That is what I want to hear.
Now, what is it he says ?'

And Palissier, leaving the young doctor at the
door, bustled forward till he reached the front of the
ring of fifteen or twenty men who had surrounded
Magloire. But the latter had descended from his
rostrum, finding the strain of so much French begin-
ning to tell upon his oratorical powers. Palissier
seized him by the hand — a Pumblechook in flour,
brown * duck,' and eighteenth-century French.

* 'Tis Magloire, le p'tit Magloire, grandson of old
Mii<el ! There is no doubt of that. Come ! You
|are welcome once more to Bourg-Marie. Via boys,

II*

It''

til-

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

this is old Mikel's grandson — Mikel, who owns the old
Manoir, and is, in truth, seigneur for all the valley.'

Any doubts the crowd had were now set at rest.

'There is M. Palissier. Hear him. He is a brave
one. He knows what he says. Vive Magloire !'

And once more the cry of ' Long live Magloire !'
resounded through the shabby hotel.

Magloire himself had found that one of his
audience, Platte, a horse-trader, smelling strongly
of vile tobacco, and carrying one arm in a red cotton
sling, spoke English, and in sheer relief fastened
upon him.

* Say ! I bet you I get out of this place quick-
soon. This is the worst bizness yet.'

Platte answered in a similar drawl. He was
flattered by Magloire's recognition. The latter had
made friends with him on the train which brought
him East a few days before, and had kept him in his
mind as a convenient 'partner' should old ^Hkcl
prove too curious.

* Get out of this ? You bet I do, as soon as ever I
can. I am your man every time. Well, come,
drink another glass of whisky. Let's treat the boys,
as we say in Milwaukee.'

Magloire's speech was more fluent, but not so
correct. Platte had been born and * raised ' in the
States, whereas Magloire, after all, had lived the first
fourteen years of his life in almost utter unconscious-
ness of the English tongue.

AT DELORME'S

' Say, you, Jim Platte ! you've got to come hear
me speak next Friday. Do you hear ? I'll give
them boss speech. Down with the Jesuits, down
with the Pope, down with all religion ! '* Bob " him-
self won't speak it better. Down with the Govern-
ment, down with class, down with monopolies of all
kinds ! Pll speak out. I'm not afraid. Platte, did
I ever tell you that I was secretary — yes, sir— of the
Universal Leveller Society, headquarters Chicago ?
Well, I am. That post was offered me when I was
driving Colonel Swabey's horses first month, in Mil-
waukee. I learnt a lot through being that. I'm not
afraid of no man. I'll speak to the cure. There is
no one I am afraid of. Say, you, Jim Platte, how
quiet you are !'

Platte, who had good reasons of his own for hang-
ing around Magloire, and who divined that the
villainous whisky or high wines were mounting to
his head, for in common Magloire drank very little,
managed adroitly to draw him outside after this
dangerous speech, which was, however, not under-
stood by the enthusiastic crowd. The latter made
way for the newly-discovered hero, a few becoming
thoroughly drunk on the premises, and having to be
ejected by the widow Delorme.

Among the crowd were two who did not fall
victims to the bad whisky, probably because they
were well seasoned to it already — Pacifique, the
stunted cripple, and Nicolas Lauriere. Not com-

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THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

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prehending in the least the manner of Magloire's
sudden disappearance, they instinctively turned an
inquiring gaze upon each other. Lauriere, tall, firm,
sinewy-chested, and a trapper by profession, had
never noticed till lately the third son of the widow
Peron. But now some strange bond seemed to
bring them together. Lauriere's gaze, directed to
Pacifique, divined that the latter was thinking only
of Magloire. He drew nearer, and half put out his
large, lean, strong brown hand ; then he let it fall.

* Ah !' he said, ' Louis and Jack, they are good
fellows. You will be glad to see them at home
again. But they are not Magloire.'

* No, no,' eagerly repeated Pacifique, his whole
frame trembling, and his small dark eyes dilating
with pleasure and longing. * Magloire is — oh ! there
is none to be named with him. He is a great man,
and we shall never be like him — at least, I shall
never be ; you might.'

* He has asked me to go back with him when he
goes.'

' You, Nicolas Lauriere ! Ah ! how proud you
must be ! You will go, without a doubt. Oh yes,
I see you will go, and be coming home, too, some
day, dressed like him, only, not like him.'

Lauriere's simplicity was greater than his sensi-
tiveness, otherwise he might have found this remark
embarrassing.

* I shall never be like him, of course. But then, I

should

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end in

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Messirc le

AT DELORME'S

should be something better than I am now. At
least, I have often thought so. Still, it is a great
step to take. I have always thought that I would
end in going somewhere away from Bourg- Marie,
yet, now that Magloire has come back and speaks of
it, I am puzzled ; I am always thinking, thinking ; I
do not know how to settle it.'

To his surprise, Paciiique broko out with passionate
words to the same effect.

* To sit in the house — it is not the country for
people to sit in the house, it is too cold. And I
cannot walk in the fields, nor sleep all night in the
forests, like other men. It is Louis and Jack who
can do all that. It is they who should have remained
here, and I — I should have gone. For there are
things that I can do, and they cannot, and things
that are of no use to me here.'

Lauriere understood at once. He had often heard
the exquisite voice of the cripple raised in the parish
church of Yamachiche, Bourg-Marie having no church
of its own yet.

'You, too ?' he said. * But it would be hard for
one like you, perhaps. It might be some time before
you got your voice heard, and in the meantime, what
would you do ?'

Pacifique flashed into rapid speech.

* I should do very well. It is not every day they
hear a voice like mine. I know that well, for it is
Messirc le Cure who has told me. And to be ugly

•I.'
ir

1 1'

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

like me docs not matter, he has said, for in the big
churches in the towns up the river they put the
singers up over the heads of the people, where they
cannot be seen ; and the voice of a man may be
found to be more like the voice of an angel that way
than if they saw him and knew for certain that he
was a man singing. Nicolas Lauriere, all that is
true ; and if I could go with you and Magloire
le Caron to these places I should fare very well, as
well as Louis and Jack. They have not brought
back too much money. It will be last night that
they were telling our mother about these things.
They had put — it is true, this that I say — a little
money into the bank — there is a bank in that town,
that Milwaukee ; but that they might travel all the
way from there to Bourg-Marie they took it nearly
all out, and now, when they go back, they must
work hard again to make more.'

Lauriere knit his fine black brows, and gazed at
the stunted figure.

' But they returned that they might see the good
mother, and Pere Dominique, the holy man, and
say their prayers once more in their own church.'

Pacifique broke in with excited gestures.

' Which is their own church ? It is that they
have no longer any church, neither they nor Magloire.
I have found that out, but they do not know, and
if they did, they would but call me " Little fool !" and
** Blast Canuck !" Oh yes, they have no lor^^er any

church,
of a chi
Lauri
and broi
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lauriere tha

AT DELORME'S

8 1

church. They have found out that there is no need
of a church, nor of the priest, nor of tiie Sacrament.'

Lauriere clapped his hand over the other's mouth,
and brought him by the arm out of Dclorme's into
the deserted street, just as Jim Platte had marched
Magloirc a few moments before away from danger.

' What have you heard them say ?'

'All that I have said, and more.'

'The rest ! What was it?'

* Well, it is true they are no longer good Catholics.'
Lauriere had dimly understood in his youth when

he went to the cure's school that there were other
beliefs.

' They may be good — other people.'

It was now Pacifique's turn to regard with wonder
the perplexed visage of the mild Lauriere.

* That is impossible, Nicolas Lauriere. Do you
think what they say is true ?'

Lauriere noted a party of smoking, semi-drunken
men coming along the road. The hour was noon,
and others would soon be issuing from the small
and straggling shops and houses. He put an arm
through Pacifique's, and together they entered a
little wood that bordered the highroad on one side —
a kind of outpost of the gigantic forest that towered
further on. Lauriere's one object was to get from
Pacifique everything about Magloire, while Pacifique's
desire was so to conciliate himself with Nicolas
Lauriere that should the latter actually return with

.US-

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

his brothers and Magloire to Milwaukee, he would
consent to let him — Pacifique — bear him company.
Both men were warm, although more than a hint
of frost was in the air. Lauriere threw himself
down on some bronze and purple mats of fern and
vetch, and lay full length on his face for a few
seconds. Pacifique, seated on a stone, plucked
blossoms of the vivid golden-rod — plucked them,
smelt at them, then, disappointed, began rubbing
them to powder between his hands. Lauriere, look-
ing up, saw him.

* Say, Pacifique, why do you do that ?'

* I do not like any flower that has no smell.'

* Well, that is funny. I like all blue flowers ; I
don't like the yellow ones at all. If you go out to
Milwaukee, you will see very few flowers, Pacifique.'

The cripple laughed.

* That is all you know, " Mister " Lauriere. I have
heard of such things as a barrel of red roses — like
the ones on the altar — and tubs of white ones. I
have heard — they have told me — that when people
die, their friends pay much money — large sums—
for flowers to bury with them. As if the dead knew
the flowers were there ! That is a strange thing,
that.'

* And where is this ?'

* In those States — in Milwaukee.'

* It is Magloire who will have told you that, and
Louis and Jack ?'

Pacif

'Mag

sell flov

who ma

Lauri(

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AT DELORME'S

Pacifique grinned.

* Magloire most. He has lots of friends there who
sell flowers. Nicolas Lauriere, if there is no God,
who made these flowers ?'

Lauriere sat up, and his face was very awful to
see. He crossed himself, and prayed inwardly for
the erring soul of the recreant Pacifique. The latter
was still grinding to pollen-like dust the once waving
blossoms of the graceful golden-rod. To Lauriere,
on whose calm brow and in whose sedate eyes
' Believer ' was undeniably written, there was some-
thing fatal, horrible, significant of death and doom
in this action of his companion.

* Stop, Pacifique Peron !' he said ; and his tone
reminded one of old Mikel's in its authority and its
resonant ring.

Lauriere's voice was a voice that suited best the
open air, a voice to resound and re-echo and com-
mand, a voice to summon and to silence at once.

'Stop, Pacifique Peron!' it said; and the cripple
stopped, regarded Lauriere's stern gaze a moment,
and from that time put himself on his guard.

' Is it that you no longer believe in God ?' said
the thunderstruck Lauriere. ' Leave the flowers
alone — they would have pleased some children or
Bonhomme Peter — and answer me.'

'There is nothing to say. I have thought of
these things, that is all. I do not wish to live just
like a cat or a child — be given my food, be told what

6—2

,,,,,,
w

THE FOREST OF HOURG-MARIE

is ^ood and bad, and never act for myself. One may
act for one's self, surely.'

* One may do nothing of the kind. It is not right.
Who has told you all this lie ? If it is Magloirc—
but, of course, it can be no one else — he has heard
all that in this new country. What else has he told
you?'

* I tell you, Nicolas Lauricre, there is nothing else.
Magloire has talked — why would he not ? — and he
has read a great deal, and he is to be believed over
such as — you, ** Mister " Lauriere, and even, they
say, over the cure, who has lived in Bourg-Marie all
his life. Are we not always cold in the winter and
too hot in the summer ? Have we not coarse, ugly
clothes, and some of us wooden shoes ? Is not our
food sometimes frozen ? and is not our whole life a
miserable one, compared to that which my brothers
and Magloire will lead when they return to those
States ? Bah ! Nicolas Lauriere, you know what
I say is true ; and every man in Bourg-Marie knows
the same thing, if he thinks, if he is not a moitiefou.'

Lauriere heard all this, and recognised his own
sentiments. Just in this manner had he thought
and felt for four long years, ever since Louis and
Jack Peron left the countryside. But now, when it
escaped, all this flood of pent-up longing and con-
viction, from the lips of another, it struck him as
horrible, diseased, morbid, and blasphemous.

* Does Magloire dare to say that there is no God?'

AT DELORME'S

PaciHque had grown cunning.

* No, no ! Look, Lauricre, it is not so bad as
that. There may be a God, and it may be wise and
pKasant to keep up the churches and to go to them
sometimes— I, for one, I myself, who sing, would be
sorry to find no churches to sing in, look thou — but
what one hears there one is not bound to believe.'

So the * tall twin towers of the grim eglisc,'
piercing the dull opaque gray or the brilliant blue
of an over-arching sky, the blazing gold of the cross
shining afar off for all the valley, the open doors,
from which sounded the musical intonations of the
priest's veiled voice, the crowd of eager, fervent,
joyous, humble worshippers — all this a dream !
Inside, the well-worn pews, the eau bcnic, the poor
old men and women in rags, the neat, awestruck
children, the dim roof peopled in the imagination of
the young by choirs of angel faces, wings dropping
azure and rose, brows breathing amaranth and
myrrh, the pictures of virgins, martyrs, prophets,
saints, the glowing recess where the altar, divine,
effulgent, iridescent, bathed in glories of light and
lluwers and flame, represents God drawn near to
man ; upon the steps man, in positive and actual
torture of abnegation, drawing near to God — all this
a dream ! The service beginning, the hush, the
suspense, the wonder, the fear, the forgetfulness of
self, the abandonment of the human, the dim realiza-
tion of the Divine, the supreme moment when the

I IB'

Ml*

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

fragrant incense is wafted over the kneeling crowd-
all this a dream !

God of hearts, of souls, of life, and death, and
judgment, by the side of these dread realities. Sin,
Conscience, Strife, Lust, Pain, there is only, to some
minds, one Church which is a reality, too, and that
is the Church of Rome !

Lauriere's heart beats with a dull, yet excited,
boom, his eyes stare vacantly at the leaves blowing
down from the trees, fluttering absently to the
ground, covering by degrees his large straw hat
beside him. All that a dream ! Those trees and
leaves a dream ! The freshening breeze, the amber
airs, the flushing maples, the cawing crows, the
dark-blue kingfisher darting like a jewelled arrow to
its nest in the river-bank, the road just a yard or
two behind them resounding now with the sound of
men's voices returning from work — Bonhoinme
Peter, the village * wag ' Dorien, Lafitte, Archam-
bault, Joncas, all the rest, singing good-humourcdly,
though in semi-drunken bursts, ' Je sais un paysan'
— all these a dream, if you will ; the very heart
bursting in his body, the very blood coursing through
his veins, anything you like — fiction, figment, fancy,
poetry, make-believe, sham, counterfeit, delusion,
hallucination — so long as the Church, the priest, the
Sacrament, and God are left real.

Pacifique had committed a crime — or, rather,
Magloire. Both had slain the Ideal. But Lauriere's

faith, 1
shaken
L'Asso
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St. Am;
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Laurien

AT DELORME'S

faitli, though dismayed and perturbed, was not
shaken. Was it not his sister, living now at
L'Assomption, and mother of a largo family, who for
years had suffered with her spine, but was at last
cured by making the pilgrimage to the shrine of
St. Anne, leaving her crutch behind her, to join the
pyramid of sticks, canes, crutches of all kinds, that
is kept there as a witness through the centuries ?
Witness to what ? To the miracles yet done on
earth, despite modern tongues and pens to the
contrary. The thought of that sister calmed him
directly.

'You do not answer, Nicolas Lauriere,' said the
cripple.

' I was thinking,' said Lauriere slowly, and bring-
ing his stern, dark gaze to bear straight upon
Pacifique's rather narrow and cold gray eyes, * of
my sister, Aspasie, she who married Levizac at
L'Assomption. There was a long time she was a
sufferer ; she had a bad back and could not lie down.
Never did my sister Aspasie lie down as we all do to
go to sleep, but she would have to sit up in her
cushions, till she went with the pilgrims to the shrine
of the holy St. Anne seven years ago. A cripple she
went, and nothing was done to her, and nothing was
given to her, save the grace that is from Mary and
the infant Jesus above, and straight and well and
sound she came back.'
Lauriere's voice was sepulchral. Pacifique's

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(716) 872-4503

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

emotional nature yielded to its solemn force. He
shivered and grew pale. Fear fell upon him. He
had blasphemed, perhaps.

* Don't look at me that way, Nicolas Lauriere,' he
said. * Your sister Aspasie is one, and I am another.
I have said nothing against her, nothing against the
holy St. Anne. That may be all as you say. I do
not know. I cannot tell or understand any of those
things.'

' And you would seek to lift your voice in a church,
you who boast that you do not believe in God ?'

' I did not boast. I was but saying that all that
was as Magloire had said, how they talked of those
things in that other country.'

' All might be well with you yet, if you would but
go too, as my sister Aspasie did, with the pilgrims next
spring to the holy St. Anne. Do you not believe that ?'

Pacifique had recovered his assurance.

' You have no right to ask me that question,
Nicolas Lauriere. There is only the father who has
that right.'

* Do you believe that ?'

Lauriere extended a long arm and grasped
Pacifique's shoulder. The cripple started up and
flung the arm off. He was defiant now.

* No !' he cried, * I do not believe it ! Your sister
Aspasie, Madame Levizac of L'Assomption, may
believe it — you, Nicolas Lauriere, may believe it—
but I do not. See here, look ! Go you yourself to

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AT DELORME'S

Father Labelle and ask him how it is done ; tell
him that the whole world outside talks of it and
says it cannot be true, that it is well known there
is some trick, that only in such ignorant places
as Bourg-Marie and the village of St. Anne itself is
the thing believed in. Urge him to tell you the
truth, and hear what he has to say. Bah ! he will
say nothing. I might go there year after year,
humble myself, eat dust, and wear the stones out
kneeling, and I would never be cured — never ! Your
sister had a bad back, but it was only bad in feeling,
not in shape. Tell me that, Lauriere, was not her
back straight ?'

Lauriere assented, pained and shocked to a degree
of which he had had no conception.

* I said so ; her back was straight. Therefore was
she cured, and that easily. The journey, the excite-
ment, the fresh air, the strangeness of it all, the
effort, the resolution, cured her. But I, once crooked,
always crooked. Not all the priests in the Church,
not all the churches in the land, could make my
back straight, being crooked. And this I knew
before Magloire ever came back. This I knew of
myself, Nicolas Lauriere, and this is why I am tired
of this place, with nothing but hard work and few
holidays, no money, and too much church. I shall
go back with Magloire or with you when you go,
and get money with my voice. Listen, now!' and
he sang in a clear, vibrating tenor the melody of a

ill,:

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Mozart Mass he had heard on one occasion only —
but, then, he had an unerring ear — in the parish
church at Yamachiche.

Lauriere loathed him as he sang. As the voice
soared higher and sweeter and more powerfully
among the drifting leaves of the October wood, so
did Lauriere's fear and contempt for the daring
cripple increase every moment.

* Go away !' he cried, * you, Pacifique Peron, son
of the devil ! Go, or stop singing. It is accursed,
vile, infamous ! for you mock at what you sing. I
tell you now — go !'

And Pacifique went, half scared, half amused,
wholly defiant and roused.

Lauriere threw himself down on his face among
the drifted red and brown leaves. At one o'clock
Bonhomme Peter, Archambault, and the rest re-
turned along the road. This time they were singing
* Pimpanipole,' and had their hats decked out with
golden -rod and crimson Virginia -creeper. They
passed very close to Lauriere, but their progress did
not arouse him. It was not that he was sleeping.
It was that his heart still kept beating as if it would
break, and hot tears occasionally welled from his
eyes. Something had happened to him, pained him,
shocked him. He was suffering. And he was to
suffer more.

'I d

unders
corner,
twilighi

It was

would

to who

in findi

day, all

and his

had rec

both ca

^fagloin

have mi

making,

able tha

and sati

absolutel

[91 ]

CHAPTER VI.

' THE BIZNESS.'

' I discerned among the youths a young man void of
understanding. Passing through the street near her
corner, and he went the way to her house. In the
twilight, in the evening, in the black and dark night.'

It was by a curious coincidence, or, at least, so it
would be considered in the eyes of the unthinking,
to whom only the real is fictitious, and who persist
in finding fiction truer than truth, that on the same
day, almost at the same hour, old Mikel le Caron
and his associate and companion, Nicolas Lauriere,
had received that species of moral shock which, in
both cases, proceeded, directly and indirectly, from
Magloire. Had the latter realized this fact, it would
have much amused him. As it was, confident of
making, sooner or later, an impression more favour-
able than he had already done on his grandfather,
and satisfied that the village, so to speak, was
absolutely at his beck and call, he wisely refrained

• Jim*

111*

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

from seeing the old seigneur again till his lecture on

* Emancipation ' at Delorme's was over, and his
abilities proclaimed throughout the valley, * When,'
thought Magloire, * he will be proud of me.'

Mikel, old and simple in some things as he was,
had yet been the only one who had penetrated into
the real heart of his grandson, and divined the im-
portant fact that the latter was in want of money.
Magloire's description of himself as one who was

* of many things ' was true, but if he had gone a
little further, and pronounced himself as one who
had taken up one thing too many, he would have
been more strictly veracious. That thing was
gambling. Everything by turns, and witnessing
all kinds of society and all forms of civilization, it
was not surprising that the susceptible Gallic tempera-
ment, aided by the national love of money and pride
of acquisition, had led Magloire far from the path of
virtue and a fairly long way along another path —
that of speculation, restless, feverish, often painful,
but oftener enthralling. To pay for flash clothes,
lodgings, opera - tickets, lunches for flower - girls,
ballet-dancers, and milliners, sporting papers, cabs
to the races, cigars and whisky, he had conceived
the idea of visiting his grandfather, and getting from
him adequate funds for those humane and charming
purposes. Louis and Jack P^ron had brought him
many a tale of old Mikel's parsimony, thrift, stealthy,
cautious, exclusive mode of life, his success in

trap

fur-t

and '

whet

from

mean

lay.

They,

and af

his mc

him a<

Colone

sufferec

his bus

out of e

not his

Irishma
hardly J

ground-f
on a m
Magloire
man ran
howling,
'office,' ir
revolving
^egs very
^Js button
^he name
door and ij

'THE BIZNESS'

trapping, his occasional bargains with the Quebec
fur-traders, and he well remembered the remoteness
and wildness of the district. Money he must have,
whether he made it, or found it, or gambled it up
from unholy depths, or forced it from old Mikel's
mean dwelling, in some crevice of which it surely
lay. Louis and Jack had no suspicion of this.
They, regarding Magloire as an entirely prosperous
and affluent man, drew their simple conclusions from
his mode of living, dress, and amusements, and rated
him accordingly. He was no longer a coachman.
Colonel Swabey, a millionaire in pork, had suddenly
suffered eclipse — there were trichinae in the pork —
his business had collapsed, and Magloire, thrown
out of employment the fourth time, by accident and
not his own fault, entered into partnership with an
Irishman ; and what their business was they could
hardly have told themselves. They occupied the
ground-floor under one of the hotels, and carried
on a mixture of trades in the front-room, while
Magloire slept in the one at the back. The Irish-
man ran a shooting-gallery across the way and a
bowling-alley next door, while Magloire had an
'office,' in which he sat at a small desk in a large
revolving chair, always with his hat on one side, his
legs very wide apart, some kind of showy flower in
his buttonhole, and an expensive cigar in his mouth.
The name of Mr. Murray Carson appeared over the
door and in china letters on the window, which was

nil.''.
W

■')■
•111 '

'.ii.' ■'■

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

partly filled with race-posters, photographs of pets
of the turf, spurious dollar-bills posted on paper,
bills of houses to let, theatrical pictures, and a
couple of revolvers. But no matter how many
interesting relics filled the window, it was always
possible to see Mr. Murray Carson inside, waiting
for 'bizness' to turn up, or picking his teeth with
his pen and pocket-knife, an elegant habit he had
acquired in his adopted country.

That was the life he liked, and he looked back to
it now, in the middle of the dense glooms of Bourg-
Marie, with love and longing. His partner's wife,
once upon a time a raw Irish girl, fair-haired, freckled,
unformed, bony and ignorant, had developed under
the influences of the New World into a well-built,
showily - dressed woman of thirty -five, with hair
elaborately frizzed and coiled and puffed, its colour
deepened and enhanced by cautious applications of
* blondine,' and with a fine blooming complexion,
also artificially attained. This pretty Mrs. Rylands
(Ryan her husband's name, her own Kitty Maguire)
lived in sumptuous quarters in the hotel above the
office, and did nothing but dress herself, eat, *go
shopping,' spend Rylands' money (and Magloire's),
sleep, yawn, walk down Main Street twice a day,
read Sunday papers, then dress herself again. Her
accent was the purest American imaginable, every
trace of brogue having been carefully obliterated,
along with the freckles and the bones and a few other

thing!

and ^

sac(]U(

and a

When

did. (

little pi

out the

not any

had to f

and Ry]

Maglo
was too
woman ;
and foun
The shop
^irls, anc
egotism a
esthetic
what a h{
garments,
outside th
waukee, o
who had
allowed thi
for a year a
evident to .
^ne ever
oppressive,

'THE BIZNESS'

sacjue cut in the laL f u ' "'"■ " "^''^'^'"

When Rylands could not '""^ ^'■•^'"' '^'■=*-

dy. One foolish ZTIo7T'""' '"' ''''^'°'-
''"'epresentofadian,L;sotar;;-'^«''-a

out there wear them, therefore th l^" '''°""'"

"0. anything to make a f^s abou/ V °' ""'' ""=
had to pay for it out of the Lo. ^' /' "' ^'^^^'^'^
and Rylands handled hetp^Ttr^*'^'''^"^

Ma..oire did not fa„ in o've^^MStt '^ """'■'
«a» too fond of himself to fTin ^ '''' ""^
-man ; but he rendered hTmse n. ' ""'^ "">-
and found her presence at tW "'^ '° '"=^'

Theshop.gir,s_or,shal w st sal'Tr^ '° "'■"•
Sirls, and ballet-dancers serL,''''"-«°^^'-
egotism alive, while K^*; R I . °"'^ '° ^''P Ws
-thetic purpose. w£ £ It T'''' ' •"-
what a handsome pair they US t f""' '"""^'
garments, diamond studs .n7 , ^"^-'"mmed

« the glove, beS the f:s1r: ""'' ^°-
«aiikee, on bright Sunrf,! i ''°'''^ '" Mil-

'^ho had been The mea„T f "°°"= ' '^^'^^'J^.
*wed the iattertl p ; o° is^oS" '"^°" "^'
'"' a year and a half, at the end of t 1"'°''"''"'^^

r- .'

'iii.i '■

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

formance of light opera at the Vaudeville, and after-
wards to a lager-beer garden they were in the habit
of frequenting. Magloire went. The theatre was
stifling, and Kitty Rylands, even in a rich dress of
India muslin and Valenciennes edging, grew faint
with the bad air. Long before the second act was
over they rose and made their way out to Reichen-
burg and Jonas's little tables under the electric light,
where Kitty presently ordered lager-beer and plenty
of ice for herself and companion. The tables were
on a veranda at the back of a large dining-room, and
looked on a square of turf called garden, where there
were more tables, all occupied with hot, thirsty,
garrulous Germans and Western Americans. It was
interesting to observe how carefully Kitty chose her
table, the one nearest the wall and most in shadow,
and how she placed Magloire with his back to that
wall, and herself opposite the large saloon, so that
she might see who entered and who passed out.

Mr. Reichenburg, a swarthy little American-Dutch-
Jew, born in Montreal, but raised in Minneapolis,
regarded Kitty with admiration as she swept past
the counter in muslin skirts, diamonds, and a cloak
of red silk covered with black lace, and made her a
profound bow. Mr. Jonas, in apron, and with exactly
twenty-six tall lager-beer glasses held between his
ten thin, dirty fingers, bowed to her too, and so did
many of the men at the little tables. One lady in
pale-blue satin, bare head and arms, and dirty

"arrow

«THE BIZNESS*

opera-cloak, stared at her contemptuously, and then
whispered to her companion, a man in a long linen
(luster of bright yellow, who kept his hat on all the
time, and, while he waited for his share of the
Teutonic beverage, cleaned his nails with the prongs
of his fork. This couple had ordered viands with
their lager-beer, for they were hungry, both being
country journalists who were in doing the town.
Mrs. Virginia E. Corbett-Smith recognised Kitty
Rylands at once as the person who had opened a
milliner's shop in West Rapids several years ago,
got into debt and left hurriedly, though not igno-
miniously, since Corbett-Smith and three other
gentlemen had seen her to the train, kissed their
hands to her, and paid some of her creditors. It was
after this that Mrs. Virginia E. Corbett-Smith took
to journalism and to Horace Y. Chandler, with whom
she edited a paper, and travelled around the State.

Another lady, very fat, and dressed in thin black
satin that looked like paper, seemed to regard Kitty
as an old and favourite acquaintance, for she got as
far as, * Well ! My! Why, ef it tain't Kitty Maguire !
And dressed jusc splendid !' when Mrs. Kate Rylands
[nee Maguire) gave her a glance that silenced her —
not too soon, for the history of this fat lady was one
which could not be touched upon in this narrative.

Magloire keenly appreciated the pleasures of his
position. Something like passion began to kindle in
his narrow and self-enslaved breast as he watched

0i»

Tin-: FOREST Ol IU)UI<(, MAKIli

the adinirinK kI^^^^^'cs of the iiicn aiul the rfintcmp-
tuous cncs of tlic wutncn. lie thnuKht he knew why
Kitty should Ih: dishked by her own Bi?x ; nhc wuk
too beautiful.

Certainly she was a remarkable and liandKonir
woman, |>ossessinf,' an almost perfect contour, and a
j;reat variety of expression. Her mouth was lri>li
and larj;e, but sweet and mobile, her eyes larj;e and
full, her manner at times imperious, yet always
fascinating. While the self-made men of the \V( si
arc often vulgar, uninteresting, pretentious, heavy
and common, the women are mostly singularly
seductive and winning, bright and facile, ({uick to
understand and perceive, and making up for what
they lacked in early education in general aptitudi ,
tact, and power of pleasing. No profounder fjuali-
ties than these have gained for American women
their reputation of cleverness, versatility and charm.

As Magloire watched his solitaire sparkle on Mrs.
Rylands' finger, and saw her round arm throu/;h
the filmy lace of her hanging sleeve, and inhaltd
the heavy perfumes of Lubin, Kimmel and Co. that
emanated from her person, he distinctly experienced
something akin to a thrill of passion, and when he
spoke, felt a huskincss in his throat that was new to
him ; and Kitty understood and smiled.

* Shall you pay the bill, or shall I ?' said she, as
she swept her skirts down beside her, and gave
Magloire her cloak to hang over a chair.

M.I

hiirrii

it em
Ix'en
he hnc
•Da
;>«K:kct
K') thci
at I he
U'.H. I
MrM.
• U'he
i( you u

tf> be n

'^<' keo|]
recalled
'nuch fai
I he rr

'fnpatient

'land upo

'he dark v

' ' don

shouldn't

^'fjcrc's ni(

' ' gues}

'^'tty; 'an

•^'■' Jonas
^^er here, j

TIIK U\/.Nh:SS*

iiui .1
Irish
> ami

Wrsl

heavy

;v»larly

lick U)

r what

ititudi',
quah-

iwoincn
(harm,
n Mr^.
hrounh
inhaled
o. thai
ricnccil
hen he
new to

she, as
id gave

Mafflnirp, nr Mr. Murrny rurnnn, hiitiK iHr rlnitk
hiirrirdly over hix own rhnir nnd divrd into hiii
|MM'krt. ('(M»l nH hr wnfi, hr wnn dinnmyrd to And
it empty, nwcpt and ^iirninht'd, thotif^h there hnd
Ixen ten dftllnrn and f^ninr l(M)fic chanf^r in it nftcr
he had paid for the theatre ticketN an hour iH'forc.

•I)amn!' naid he, • nonicone han j;one pick my
|M)ckct. That Va>)devilli*, it in a low place. I nhatl
go there no more. Hut how — nvv, I was next you
at the end of the seat — how cuidd it hap|>cn ?
Wtll. Tmd d!*

Mrit. KylandH HrHt looked increduloun, then amused.

' Where do you carry your money ? My dear man,
if you will keep it in your coat-pocket, you are sure
to be fleeced. I ^juess Kylands never docs that.
He keeps his in his pants.' And a rippling lau^jh
recalled Ma^^loirc to a sense of his proximity to so
much fairness.

The money was fori;otten ; he moved his chair
impatiently nearer his companion's, and laid his
hand upon her arm, where it showed fairest upon
the dark wood of the table.

' I don't care about the money,' he said. ' I
shouldn't care even if you yourself had taken it.
There's more where that came from.'

' I guess I wouldn't make so sure of that,' said
Kitty; 'and I'd rather you'd take your hand away.
Mr. Jonas and Mr. Keichenburg are both looking
over here, and Rylands will hear/

7— -i

It*

loo THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

III

* Will hear what ?' said Magloire, respecting her
wish, but twirling his moustache and bending his
brilliant eyes at her. * Say, Mis' Rylands, you must
learn to speak French. Then we have a good time
together. But you won't try.*

* No,' said Kitty, laughing again — and she was
irresistible when she laughed — * it seems as if my
French would have to wait. It might be useful,
though. When it's cooler some day, I'll try again.
Rylands is going to hire me a new piano next week,
and you can teach me some of your songs — those
funny ones you used to sing in Canada. Speaking
of Rylands, there he is !'

Magloire started and asked where.

* I saw him passing a moment ago in the street.
He didn't look in, and if he did, he couldn't see me.
Why, no, indeed. He could see you, though, but
that wouldn't matter. He's awful busy these days ;
and kind of cut up, too. I guess, Mr. Carson, you
and him has had some words ?'

* No,' said Carson. * For why ? About you ?'

* Goodness, no !' said Kitty ; * Rylands isn't such
a fool. But about money : he says — and I brought
you here to-night to tell you what he says — he says,
says he, that he's going to have it out with you;
that you promised to bring some money into the
business, and so far from that you have been using
up his capital and even ready cash, and that he can
do without you, and that he'll expose you ; and I

teiJ
despe
'D
fnipo!
out tl
office
He is
I had-
to my 1

theatre,
money <
-I wiJJ
Kitty
sisters.

' WeJJ,

^^utyou'^

%iands
IS not as
•^^r. Carso
Carson
^'oice stopi
of that ind
fo preserve
'Ain't th.
to-night ?
"ovv, hain't
Carson
' '"^'■e than .,
P^ discJaime

'THE BIZNESS'

lOI

tell you, Murray Carson, Rylands can be awful
desperate.'

* Do without me ?' said Carson. * In the bizness ?
Impossible ! The bizness cannot be kept going with-
out the office, and there must be someone in that
office while your husband is to the other places.
He is mad, that Rylands. See — my money — what
I had — it was very leetle — I have to send it away
to my mother, to my sisters. I spend a lot on the
theatre, on clothes, on — you. Besides, I have much
money coming to me. Wait a leetle longer. Wait
—I will not keep him long.'

Kitty laughed in secret about the mother and
sisters. She didn't believe in them a bit.

* Well, you're real eloquent, I do say, Mr. Carson.
But you've got a woman to deal with this time, not
Rylands ; and though he is head of the Order, he
is not as sharp as I am in some things. Say,
Mr. Carson, hain't you been gambling ?'

Carson started, almost to his feet, but Kitty's
voice stopped a passing waiter, and at the approach
of that individual he sank down again and managed
to preserve his presence of mind.

* Ain't this lager-beer too cunning for all the world
to-night ? Take some more, Mr. Carson. Come,
now, hain't you ?'

Carson meditated no escape. Mrs. Rylands was
more than his match, and he admired her for it. If
he disclaimed the fact of his gambling, he robbed

*:'■

I02 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

her of her cleverness and insight, and thereby lost
an opportunity of complimenting and accordingly
pleasing her. At twenty-three, Carson's age, one
is apt to be influenced by thirty-five. Where a
young and innocent girl could not have driven him,
this middle-aged and precarious woman led him
easily. He gave a kind of uneasy, hollow laugh,
and then clutched her hand under the table.

* How you know that? Well, I play — ^jes' a
leetle. Sometime — my friends come and ask me—
I go with them to Foy's — yes, I play a leetle. Mis'
Rylands '

' Well,' said Kitty, who kept a close watch on the
side-walk and the saloon.

* Does Rylands know ?'

' Why, no. I would never tell him, you see, and
he is so awful busy. But I guess he'd find out some
day, for though he never goes himself to Foy's, he
knows the men who do. And you're his partner, you
see. And he wouldn't like you to be seen there,
I'm sure, on account of the Order.'

* That's why I go — half de time !* said Carson.
* There are men I follow. They go in there. I go
too. Well — say — there is no harm in that — I go
in, I see those cards. When they play, I play too.
Sometimes I win — it is at faro we play.'

* Yes, and sometimes you lose, and lose to those
men. And if you continue going there you will
hear, not from Rylands, but from the Order. I

wan
pron

he d
RyJa:
'If
to th(
there
'Yc
find tl
can.
but no
Cars
and sw
French
credit t
was mc
seen wi
prove a
standing
through
to the H
into his
and testi
Jack Per
%Iands
'aces and
fnade him
with cigar

'THE BIZNESS'

103

want you should understand this, Mr. Carson —
promise me you'll stop going there, going to Foy's.'

Carson hesitated to promise. A law unto himself,
he disliked tyranny even on the part of pretty Mrs.
Rylands.

* If I promise,' he said slowly, * I cannot take you
to the theatre — well, no more the Vaudeville ; but
there are others. You will not like that.'

' You must promise,' said Kitty, ' and you must
find the money in some other way. Make it, if you
can. If you can't, I guess you'll be able to find it,
but not — at Foy's.'

Carson drained his lager-beer to the last drop,

and swore under his breath a mixture of oaths,

French, English, American, that would have done

credit to a Colorado miner. His passion for Kitty

was momentarily growing, and it remained to be

seen whether it would last, or whether it would

prove a gourd of no growth, of not even a night's

standing. As they left the garden and walked back

through the flaring, noisy, panting midnight streets

to the Hallam House, there came for the first time

into his head the idea of revisiting Bourg-Marie

and testing for himself the assertions of Louis and

Jack Peron with respect to his grandfather. Mrs.

Rylands hung on his arm, with her perfumes and

laces and jewels, and when they arrived at the hotel

made him finish the night in her own parlour, where,

with cigars, sherry cobblers, and the Sunday papers,

12)1111'

HP'

;lil)i'J

lltiV

104 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

they made merry till two o'clock in the morning,
when Rylands entered. He was tired out, he said ;
moody, cross. Carson departed, and as soon as he
went the pretty Mrs. Rylands drew something gray
and crumpled from her pocket and gave it to her
husband.

' Ten dollars !' he said angrily. * What good will
this do? Ten hundred is more the figure. You
must drop him, Kitty.'

* I wonder at your saying that,' said Kitty. * Why,
you'll never get such a man again. With his looks
and his way of speaking, and his lack of relations,
he's the very man you want. Let the Order pay
him a bigger salary.'

* I don't see as how the Order can,' grumbled
Rylands, who, with his feet on a plush and onyx
table, was puffing away at a monstrous cigar.
* Bigger salary ! Why, Lordy, what are you talking
about, old girl ? Ain't he a poor Canuck that's jes'
drifted up here, and glad at first to get anything?
Salary ! Why, the Order's in difficulties itself—
hain't got too much to spare. And branches yet to
start and keep running in two or three States and
all over Canada.'

Pretty Mrs. Rylands said no more on the subject
of Murray Carson, though she pondered in her
heart over the prospect of establishing the Order
in Canada, and getting Carson to help in it. Carson,
or Magloire, who became preternaturally careful of

his p

final]}

birth,

that V

magna

and C,

control

workini

real est

shooting

MagJoir

startle -,

ciiiate h

known t

and enn(

society

fhe medii

From
of the gr(

Bourg-Ma
of" a true
'fwas sho
unsullied s
^^'icoias L
'ntriguing :

c'^'iJi^ations
Carson.

'THE BIZNESS'

105

his pockets after that night at the Vaudeville, was
finally sent on a secret mission to the land of his
birth, charged with several grave offices and services
that were only partially paid for in advance by the
magnates of the Order — Headquarters : London
and Chicago. While he was away Rylands had to
control the entire * bizness,' consisting of the secret
workings of the Order, transactions in horseflesh,
real estate, counterfeit paper, the bowling-alley, the
shooting-gallery, and his wife's appearances in public.
Magloire, or Carson, set himself in the first place to
startle and impress his native village and to con-
ciliate his grandfather, and, in the second, to make
known to the countryside some of those pleasant
and ennobling ideas which he had picked up in the
society of people like Rylands and Mrs. R., through
the medium of a lecture delivered at Delorme's.

From the tainted, gas-lit, poisoned atmosphere
of the great Western town to the pure solitudes of
Bourg-Marie, set under the cold and sparkling stars
of a true though frigid north, is a long step. But
it was short compared to the distance between the
unsullied soul and the childlike heart of a man like
Nicolas Lauriere, and the utter selfishness, the
intriguing iniquities of the hybrid product of three
civilizations — Magloire le Caron or Mr. Murray
Carson.

(It*

..->f'

j.i'-

[ io6]

CHAPTER VII.

SEDITION.

* They are corrupt, and speak wickedly concerning
oppression : they speak loftily.'

It was not easily possible to procure posters or bill-
stickers in Bourg- Marie, else Magloire had ordered a
hundred or so of the former, and commissioned one
or two of the latter to paste new bills over the circus-
bills which flared on all the fences and barns avail-
able.

The ' show ' had passed through in June, the
advance agent, as customary, having placarded every
village on the route, though the canvas itself was
not set up nearer than Three Rivers, and nothing
had occurred to supersede the placards. There they
were still, along with St. Jacob's Oil and Mrs.
Winslow, profaning with their gaudy colours and
vulgar suggestion the primitive aspect of the peaceful
village. On the way down Magloire had thought
out his lecture pretty carefully, having a bundle of

note
tion<

to C(

Irish

existi

adopt

Su(

not Si

first s
such i
open!)
centre
action,
deeply

immedl

peasan;

was to

and rus

larger U

underm:

out in c

governm

Marie w;

Final!;

brilliant

and a sn

boys of t

or twelve

^'"0. gestic

SEDITION

107

notes, newspaper extracts and secret communica-
tions from the Order, out of which it was fairly easy
to construct a sort of running commentary on the
Irish question, the Jesuit Bill, the narrowness of
existing British Institutions, the supremacy of his
adopted country, and general socialistic assertions.

Such a secluded place as his native village might
not seem the best place to begin operations in at
first sight, but he had his instructions, and whereas
such ideas as he proposed to disseminate would be
openly dangerous to himself and his cause in a large
centre of life, where thought could rapidly turn to
action, they would not necessarily, while sinking
deeply into the minds of the habitants, cause any
immediate upheaval of either class — priest or
peasant. The end to which he addressed himself
was to stir up a dissatisfaction among the farming
and rustic classes first, then gradually to attack the
larger towns, and so on, till anarchy and lawlessness,
undermining the entire dominion, should finally flash
out in open rebellion against organized systems of
government. Viewed in this light, then, Bourg-
Marie was not so insignificant and obscure, after all.

Finally, the evening arrived. Delorme's was
brilliant for the occasion with coal-oil, tallow candles,
and a small bonfire outside the door, built by the
boys of the neighbourhood, and surrounded by ten
or twelve of them all madly excited, running to and
fro, gesticulating, entreating, exhorting. What was

I'll''

.<(!:'

ISIf

lit-'
lilt*

.:■,!>■''
iilfi--

io8 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

it, then, to be done chez Delorme that night ? Why,
did you not hear ? There will be a grand perform-
ance of a private actor, tableaux finer than the
Christmas Babe in the Manger, with the straw all
around Him, and the black men from the East on
their knees in the straw, a cow and her calf at their
elbow ; or it will be a grand concert, the performers
all the way from Quebec, with harp and violin, and
a iiute ; or bah, it will be only old Ladislasky and his
yellow bear. He passed through yesterday. Who
cares to see them ? Or there is some who say it is
a preacher, not a priest, but the man in scarlet
flannel, who sings hymns in English, and persists in
waylaying this village, full of good Catholics, to
throw his fire and brimstone at our heads. Well,
here is old Prt^vost ; he will tell us.

* Say, Bonhomme Prevost, what is all this affair ?
What is to be done to-night ? We have made the
bonfire — oh yes, it is a fine one ; but we don't know
for why.'

* It is only that there is a star fallen in Bourg-
Marie.'

* A star ! Who has seen the star ? But it is not
time yet for Noel. What star, Bonhomme Prevost ?'

* It is rather, I should say, only a fish, very bright
and shining, swimming on the top of the river.'

' A fish ! All those candles for a fish, Bonhomme
Provost — a fish and a star ?'

* It is — let me think ' and Provost tantalizingly

laid
at th
Lonj

to Be
'T

fathei

Bonh(

The

'Bu

my ch:

—that

man, o

with a

ago, wl

but bol

straight

eyed, in

lent, wi

see him.

The n

two Ame

PaJissier

Lagarder

capable c

^^'ere nine

'ligh, anc

twins, Lo

rustling ar

SEDITION

109

laid his finger to his nose. ' It is for to please, and
at the same time keep off — whom do you think ? —
Loup Garou !'

The voices ceased instantly ; every boy crept close
to Bonhomme Prevost and felt of his clothes.

' Take us to the father — take us to the good
father ! Let the bonfire stay ! We will be quiet,
Bonhomme Prevost !'

The cobbler enjoyed his joke. Then he said :

' But we must not frighten the good father. No,
my children. M'sieur L'Etoile, M'sieur Le Poisson
— that will be the same person. He is a young
man, one of yourselves, such as you may all be yet,
with care and diligence. He left here nine years
ago, when he is fourteen, small, shy with other boys,
but bold enough with his elders. He returns, tall,
straight, a young pine, smooth, silky-haired, keen-
eyed, intelligent. He returns rich, gracious, benevo-
lent, with a gold watch of his own. Wait till you
see him. I speak the truth. You shall see.'

The room was rapidly filling. Jim Platte brought
two American friends, the notary turned up, so did
Palissier and Docteur Pligny. The entire family of
Lagardere-Lemaitre, from Fournier, came in a cart
capable of holding about six comfortably. There
were nineteen, however, in the cart. Curiosity ran
high, and at eight o'clock, when Magloire and the
twins, Louis and Jack, walked into the room, the
rustling and sensation and general commotion were

iiii:

•iUlt"

ill"*'

■iU-'

1,1 •■■

no THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

intensified by the presence of Paul Ladislasky, and
Satellite the bear, and three village musicians, who
were giving an impromptu entertainment in a corner,
Paul singing in guttural Gregorians the following
incoherent doggerel :

* Je sais un pay-y-y-san,
Oop-oop-oop~trala-la-la !
Oop-oop-oop-tra-la-la-la-la !*

To which seductive strain the bear stood on its hind-
legs, waved its paws about and described a rolling,
drunken circle, being a very old and impotent animal,
and incapable of harming anyone. Genest, Lavallee,
and Giraud, the three musicians, fiddled and piped
away in high glee, and clouds of tobacco-smoke
obscured the already murky air. Dame Delorme
ran here and there, counting and naming over the
guests. There were nine ladies present, and any
number of children ; and Nicolas Lauriere sat by
himself down by the door. He had not seen
Magloire for two days, having stuck resolutely to
work and resisted all temptations to walk over and
waste his time at Widow P^ron's.

As Lauriere sat, with his cap off, his well-shaped
head, his broad, high, moody, but noble brows, his
deep-set, thoughtful eyes, his stern mouth — a line of
sadness untouched by a softer curve — his strong
arms folded on his chest, and his steady, penetrating
gaze, suggested more the ideal speaker or lecturer

than

that I

nou'h(

Laurit

make i

share i

stoppei

made a

FinaJ

^^c par

rostrum

^i chair

his asser

audience

' FeJIo

manner <

^s, indeed

' feJJow-cc

salute yoi

and there

friend. £

of you.

'"y comrac

much chai

Jiad you rr

DeJorme's.

^^at. And

^""ends hen

SEDITION

III

than the flashy nimbleness and adroit mediocrity
that distinguished Magloire. Pacifique Peron was
nowhere to be seen. Since the encounter with
Lauriere, he had, so to speak, lain low, fearing to
make known his inmost wishes to one who did not
share in them. Upon Magloire's entrance, the fiddling
stopped, and Ladislasky withdrew his bear. He had
made a few cents, and was content.

Finally the address commenced. Magloire, satis-
fying himself that his grandfather was absent, and
the parish clergy likewise, ascended the improvised
rostrum, consisting of a couple of wooden benches,
a cliair and a ewer of cold water, and, bowing to
his assembled fellow-countrymen, opened fire on his
audience :

' Fellow-countrymen,' said he, the Marc-Antonian

manner of speaking coming naturally to his help,

as, indeed, it has done to many an unfledged orator —

'fellow-countrymen, Canadians, you grand million, I

salute you. I am myself one of you. Yes. Here

and there I see a face I know ; I recognise an old

friend. Do not treat me as a stranger ; that I beg

of you. Make me as one of yourselves. It is true,

my comrades, my good friends — it is true that I am

much changed. Scarcely had you known me, eh,

had you met me on the road, or seen me here at

Delorme's. Well, that is natural, to be expected,

that. And I am glad to see so many of these old

friends here to-night. I speak to all the valley. I

II'

J»*

112 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MAKIE

speak to the fanner, the cultivator, tlie hibourer, as well
as to the lawyer, the merchant, the doctor, the priest.'

A sensation pervaded the assembly. Heads were
chucked forward and wa^'j^'ed, shoulders were elevated,
pipes lowered, dull eyes Hashed, slouched figures
straightened, tongues clattered, hands waved.

' Ah-ha, the brave one ! He speaks to the priest.
What does he say ?'

The cry was caught up.

* What can he say to the priest, this Magloire V
Carson was not slow to hear the (juestion. He

advanced a step forward, and lifted his right hand.

* Yes, I speak to the priest. I begin there, I end
there. All 1 say is not about him. No, but he may
hear it all, he may listen. I do not fear him.
Friends, I have here some figures, some statistics '—
and he consulted his bundle of papers with a teliinj;
air — * which describe you to me, you and your
beautiful country. Yes, beautiful, as it might be,
not as it is. See, you million of Frenchmen. But.
stay ; perhaps you do not know that you are a
million. A million ? You number over a million.
In this province you are 1,082,787 souls ; in Ontario
you are 100,000 ; in Manitoba 10,000 ; in the North-
West 3,000. Come, that is a fair number. You arc
all united, too ; you are all brothers. You have one
language, one faith. That is pleasant, charming,
all right. You should be happy, then, fortunate,
rich, prosperous. But are you ?'

SEDITION

'»3

•What is " content '•?• said MaKlt)irc,\vitha maRnift-

cent note of interrogation. ' Who ifi this asscnibiy

can tell nic what " content " is ? Is it possible that

you, fanners, toiling three months of a long and

inclement year; you, labourers, bnrnin;^' in the t<»rrid

sun, and freezing next moment in the Arctic blasts;

you, shanty-men, diggers, miners, trappers, living

the \'\(v. of savages — well, yes, a little better, perhaps,

when the hddle is scraped, and the viskcy hlattc goes

round, but still barbarous, more like animals than

men, with coarse food and poor lodging and rough

clothing; you, gentlemen, the merchants, with little

dark windows scantily tilled with pipes, tobacco,

apples, eight-cent print, straw hats, and spades?

Ah-ha ! you laugh. You find that amusing. Oh,

I can amuse you ; I can speak. You shall see. I

am only beginning. Well, gentlemen, the merchants,

arc yoH satisfied with this little commerce ? Is this

enough foryou? You, M. le mt'dicin,you, M.lenotaire,

f^oes It well also with you ? You keep each a little

horse, it is true, and a little chariot, and you have

each a little house with a little garden at the back,

and you have a little — a very little this time, mark —

money to your credit in the bank. Ah, yes, you

are frugal. You do not spend much ; you are wise

there. But if you had it, would you not spend it,

being Frenchmen ? Yes, yes, you would. You

would build larger villages, finer towns, handsomer

houses, big theatres, palace hotels, steamboats, rail-

ill

ifn-
II

114 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

ways, bridges. You would be better educated ; read
the papers. See, now, here is a copy of the Detroit
Free Press.'

Those in the front row clamoured further to the
front to examine the novel thing.

' See, now, the amount of reading in that ! See
the poetry, the stories, the little sketches about dress
and politique and the police-court ! Where I live
there are dozens of papers like this. I read them.
I learn a great deal by them. Here is another.'

This one was the Burlington Hawkeye.

* Now, all this comes by living in a fine town, by
being a citizen of a free country. That is what I
am. Here nobody is free, not even the priest.
Well, now, you look as if you did not believe that.
Well, it is true. You, the farmers, labourers, and
trappers — you are the worst off in existence. You
live in a species of slavery. Lower Canada and
Russia, they are the same. Both hold serfs — serfs
and slaves, wretched dependents of a tyrannical
Government and a despotic Church.'

The audience no longer clamoured. It was grow-
ing serious. The more educated thought Magloire
was speaking satirically, the ignorant simply did not
follow him at all.

Bah ! this lecture was a failure, it was dull.
Many present, though constrained to behave politely
and pay enforced attention to these enigmatical
assertions, had much rather have seen Ladislasky

put

Lau

were

that

outsii

town<

wauk(

you, 1

resolu

this b

hemm(

His sli^

ceive 3

come h

It wa

been so

on some

he proc

bolder, z

had inte

^vocatioi

polite.

Catholic

His reve

The Iris!

once; wit

fiut as C

to some

SEDITION

115

put his bear through his paces on the platform.
Lauriere sat and listened attentively. The ideas
were not positively new to him.

* But,' said Carson, continuing, ' do you know
that you are slaves ? Are you aware of it ? The
outside world, the world of these States, of the great
towns of Chicago, New York, Minneapolis, Mil-
waukee, looks at you and wonders. It wonders how
you. Frenchmen, you, grand million of clever, hardy,
resolute people, can live in this restraint, under
this bondage, legislated for, robbed right and left,
hemmed in by emissaries of the Pope, creatures of
his slightest wish or lightest whim ! Bah ! I per-
ceive you do not know your condition ! I have
come here, then, my friends, to enlighten you.'

It was marvellous that such a speech as this had
been so long heard in silence. Carson had counted
on some slight disturbance in the beginning, but as
he proceeded without being interrupted, he grew
bolder, and spoke his mind even more freely than he
had intended to do. The habitant is patient. His
avocation and his climate make him so. He is also
polite. His descent shows in this. The French
Catholic can hear his Church abused in silence.
His revenge will show later — in deeds, not words.
The Irish Catholic lashes himself into a frenzy at
once ; with him there can be no freedom of speech.
But as Carson now paused for a moment to refer
to some of his notes, a slight stir was perceptible

8—2

I'lll."'

<m^' '

imiii"

ii(j'»;

1 '

'1 'V

JJl ,.

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1 .:- *''• '

•

' I i

ii6 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

among the devout who had graced Delorme's with
their presence. He perceived that he might have
gone too far. With a flashing smile he dexterously
retrieved his position.

' Who talks of bondage,' he cried, * to us Canadiens,
owners of our own soil, healthy, hardy, vigorous, a
little poor, but contented to be thus devout, virtuous,
respectable ? That is how your hearts speak. Ah !
Yes, I follow well your thought, your reasoning.
You do not like that I speak against your Church,
your parish priest, the Pope himself, and all the
rites so dear to you. You do not wish your children,
your wives, should be told of these things. Ah,
yes, I follow you there too. See, the Church is not
everything. There is the Government as well.
Both can be reformed, both can be altered to suit
you. I, in your place, speaking as your voice, com-
plain of both. Now, tell me, do any of you know
what kind of things taxes are ? Of course you do.
Your faces fall. I repeat, your faces fall, yoiir eyes
lower themselves. How many kinds of taxes do you
know ? More than you can count, for their number
is far over ten ; and some of you can only count that
far by your fingers. Well, then, taxes — taxes, tithes,
first-fruits, what of all those ? The cereal-tax, the
land-tax, the fabrique-tsix — ah ! ha ! we hit every-
body alike now, there is no one that escapes. Now,
some of these are Government taxes, some are
Church taxes. You pay them blindly, just because

SEDITION

117

you are obliged to. Do you know that there are
countries where such a system would not be allowed
for a moment, tolerated for a minute's space ? It is
true. Those countries are free. Your country is
not free. My arguments are strict, logical, can be
proved. Why should one-half your honest wealth,
decently acquired, go to the Church ? why should
the other half go to the Government ? Now, there
are my two points. I leave those with you. I ask,
Is not the Church already rich enough, the Govern-
ment rich enough, without robbing the habitant and
plundering the farmer ?'

A dramatic pause here followed, the audience
being still quiet.

* Now, you think I am here as the enemy of the
Roman Catholic Church. I am not. That is, I do
not oppose it more than any other Church in other
countries, only here, among you, where its power is
so omnipotent, I speak out perhaps a little louder,
that is all. No. I divide the world into two great
sections. One section includes all the countries
ruined by the Church, mostly Roman Catholic
countries ; the other includes all those ruined by
Government, mostly Protestant countries. Under
these heads one groups all lands. Is it Spain ?
The Church, the Jesuit, the monk, the Inquisition,
the cell, the nun, the convent, have ruined her. Is
it Russia ? Frederick the Great instituted an in-
famous system of serfdom and feudalism from which

'I'll"
ami-

im I''

US'"

J. •

:i-^'

ii8 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

she has never recovered. But his descendants shall
yet suffer on their throne — the Czar of all the
Russias, and his wife, Princess of England.* Is it
England ? Look at the monopoly of wealth, the
vicious aristocracy, the bloated merchant, the
languishing rustic population — ignorant, debased,
half-starved ! Her day of reckoning is not far off.
Already plans have been matured to carry off that
surplus wealth, to exile that merchant, to elevate
that languishing population. In America alone, at the
present time, is there any hope for us, proud leaders
of our land to victory. To crush all churches, and
to subvert all governments, in the interests of the
common good — is not that a glorious purpose ? My
brothers, I invite you all to question these things,
to aid in overthrowing all systems of tyranny, to
establish, each man for himself, his own law, his
own morals, his own rule of conduct.'

The sensation had subsided. Carson was cer-
tainly a fluent speaker, though his French accent
had suffered from long disuse, and he held his
ignorant audience spellbound. His pauses were
made purposely, that he might learn by the remarks
and gestures of those before him what result had
followed these startling opinions. Bonhomme
Prevost was cautious in his admiration, and looked
warily at the patrons of the entertainment, Docteur
Pligny, Palissier, the notary, and the family of

* Magloire's historical information is limited.

SEDITION

119

Lagardere-Lemaitre, who all sat near one another
about five rows from the front. The doctor thought
Carson's utterances highly treasonable, and yet some
of them touched him on his frugal side keenly.

* Come, now,' said Magloire, resuming, ' this tithe
question. Many of you are getting tired of it, dis-
contented ; you are not lending cheerfully any more
that one — what is it ? — twenty-sixth of your produce.
Some of you pay out yearly half of what you make
for masses, lotteries, fees of all kinds. I have here a
paper which is authentic. I': tells me that these
tithes annually paid by you in this province of
Quebec alone amount to over three million dollars.
Three million dollars ! Well, then, I call that a big
sum, a lot of money.'

A voice from the back : * How much is that a
head ?'

' Twenty dollars, eighteen, fifteen, twelve,'
answered Carson, ' according to your pockets.
Listen now : The entire income of the Church in the
province of Quebec eleven million dollars and over —
yes, well over, too.'

The audience began to grow excited. Murmurings
and mutterings were heard on every side. Jim
Platte and his American friends clapped furiously
and struck up * For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!'
This ditty being sung in the States, and, indeed, all
over the world, to the same tune as the Franco-
Canadian and Frenchman have long put to * Mal-

!51f"

; I

I20 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

brouck,' came in as a marked diversion, for the
good-humoured shanty-men, fiddlers, miners, and
labourers caught it up in a moment, and away they
went in the wildest hubbub imaginable. Genest and
Lavallee tuned their fiddles, and scraped and sang
at the same time. Dame Delorme, seeing her
chance, sent two of her sons around with drinks,
and the noise and confusion became almost unbear-
able. To add to the uproar, a small party of
habitants — raftsmen mostly from the Richelieu—
who knew a different tune to the same words, struck
promptly in with their own version, and Ladislasky,
certain that the lecture was finished, walked in with
his bear and commenced his refrain :

• Je sais un pay-y-y-san-n-n,
Oop-oop-oop-tra-la-la-la !
Oop-oop-oop-tra-la-la-la !'

In this scene of uncontrollable tumult there were
yet some quiet auditors. The young doctor and the
notary both looked and felt very uneasy. The senti-
ments they had listened to were blasphemous in the
extreme, and it would clearly be their duty to report
on the morrow to Father Dominique Labelle touch-
ing the entire performance. Bonhomme Provost
looked across to Joncas, Magloire's uncle, and
vigorously shook his head in protest. No one
knew exactly what to do, when Carson, making his
strident voice ring out over the disorder, attempted
to finish.

you

tfon-
am t

shoui

was I

speaki

the Ja(

'Lo

—here

Res|

family

't must

by the i

costum(

Lemai ti

HeJJ-to-c

dist pej

advised

relig'ious

Carsor

reference

—topics '

sense of-

f'ranco-C
country,
with gJove

SEDITION

121

' I have not much more to say,' he said. * Will
you be quiet, now, and let me say it ? Emancipa-
tion — freedom — light for darkness — that is what I
am trying to tell you about.'

'Then tell about it. Leave the Church alone!'
shouted one man. Another caught him by the arm.

* He is old Mikel's grandson. His father — he that
was killed by a falling tree — was like this, always
speaking against the priest and religion. It is not
the lad's fault.'

* Look ! there is his uncle. Well, let him speak
—here, more whisky, B'ptiste /'

Respect for old Mikel kept the Lagardere-Lemaitre
family and the notary and doctor in their seats, and
it must be owned that they were much impressed
by the appearance of their fellow- villager in his new
costume. Besides, a sister of Dame Lagardere-
Lemaitre, at present living in Three Rivers and
well-to-do, had married a Protestant of the Metho-
dist persuasion, which apparently singularly ill-
advised alliance had lent a little breadth to the
religious views of the family.

Carson, beginning with a few more statistics,
references to Jesuit aggression and Ultramontanism
—topics which about three in his audience knew the
sense of — finally grew to a point. He lauded the
Franco-Canadian, he lauded the resources of the
country, he handled the Church again, this time
with gloves, with regard to its encroachments on the

I'll''"

!iV
.,1' "

,:«»■

) . '

122 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

personal liberty of the subject, and he ended by a
grand peroration in favour of ' Equality for all Men
on Earth.'

* In that day,' said he, ' there will be no poor man.
Every man will be rich. There will be no organized
Church, no organized Government. The family will
rule the State. The State, Napoleon Buonaparte
said, was himself.* Well, in that day, that will be
true for each of you. This wealth — locked up for
years in the coffers of the churches — shall be shared
among you. Your lives will be made gay, pleasant,
charming. No more the forge, the raft, the field,
the forest, but the theatre, the concert, the drive, the
music. Ah, ah ! how you, my countrymen, descend-
ants of merry Frenchmen, will enjoy that ! That is
how I live when I am at home among my friends.
I, have many friends. I lead a pleasant life; gay,
brilliant — I am in demand. Well, all that I just
tell you about myself. I see my friends here of the
village, and that makes me talk. I hope many more
will follow where I and Louis and Jack Peron, my
distinguished comrades, go. Emigrate, push, move
on, up. Bourg- Marie, Nicolet, Yamachiche, all these
places — well, they are good for a little while. Not
long. One tires always of trees and water and pork
and beans. What is your destiny ? I proclaim to
you your only sensible one. Language, creed, exist-
ing institutions, prejudice, pride, sentiment — all must

* Magloire is again a little mixed.

be r

do r

Eng

born

seive

SEDITION

123

be rooted out. I do not ask you to be American. I
do not ask you to be English. I ask you to speak
Enf^lish, but to be — Citizens of the World, Free-
born, Free-living, Independent Creators of your-
selves 1'

* 4» « « «

On the whole, this vague conclusion was not un-
favourably received. The notary and the doctor
left at once without speaking to Magloire, but the
Laf,'ardere-Lemaitre contingent stiffly expressed their
appreciation of the evening's entertainment to the
lecturer. As for the rest of the audience, it dispersed
in various stages of disorder — singing, shouting,
fiddling, dancing, smoking, chattering, and laughing.

Nicolas Lauriere alone took his silent way through
the vast arches of the forest to his meagre home.
Many of his companions lived in fear of its dark
shades and its savage denizens, and avoided it for
those reasons as much as for a more practical one
—the numerous traps and snares which were set
towards its centre. But for Lauriere nothing of this
awe existed. Magloire's utterances left him with
a curious sense of their impropriety. He suddenly
found and felt a beauty in the solemn wood, in the
starlit night, in the roar of the distant fall, that he
thought he should sadly miss in the glaring streets
of the towns Magloire had attempted to depict so
vividly. His soul spoke very clearly to him as he
halted beneath one of the tallest trees. It was an

r.H"''

124 THE FOREST OF BOURGMARIE

old beech, with a gigantic hollow in its scarred brown
trunk, and Lauriere, leaning sadly yet contentedly
against it, did not dream of the time when it should
preserve, hidden in that leaf-piled hollow, a relic of
the confusion and tumult which Magloire was yet to
cause in the Valley of the Yamachiche.

':ifiHi

[ 125 ]

CHAPTER VI II.

' WITHOUT A TEAR.'

♦ For this our heart is faint,
For these things our eyes are dim.*

When the elder Caron awoke from the stupor — for
it could hardly be designated as slumber — into which
he had voluntarily fallen on the day of his meeting
with his grandson, his first impression was naturally
that of intense shivering and discomfort. Hurriedly
replacing the peerless diamond in its inside secret
resting-place — a tiny wallet secured to an obscurely
situated pocket — he groped for his lantern, and with
difficulty relighting it, appeared to pull himself
together at the same time that he took a melancholy
survey of the apartment. In the latter there was no
change, for, where night was the same as day, and
day even as night, few changes could come. But a
change had come over Mikel. He rose and traversed
the room with less of his usual long-striding activity
and more of old age's disability distinctly noticeable

Kit''

13 til.

126 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

^fflv

in his pait and countenance. Sweeping aside a
second time the sombre hangings of shaggy fur, he
turned a key — one of those on his colossal bunch-
in a door completely hidden by its thick canopy, and
entered a third apartment. In this, at least, was no
display made of the costly furs that formed Mikul's
chief personal property, but in the place of fur there
gleamed shield and sabre, rapier and sword, cuirass
and headpiece, all affixed in symmetrical forms upon
wall and door, and alternating with banners or small
flags on which the emblem of the house of Colom-
biere Caron was imprinted in various degrees of skill
and shades of fidelity — a wolf rampant, black on
yellow, and a motto, * Quy crains ?' Here hung
also two or three of those finely reticulated shirts of
mail that in all probability had been brought from
the East by that Crusading ancestor, and many
ordinary weapons of later years, arquebuses, bows
and arrows, both Continental and North American,
and two immense tomahawks. The room was in
fact nothing more nor less than an armoury, the floor
bare, the two windows undraped, though pasted over
with thick paper, and its whole appearance terribly
martial and una^sthetic.

Mikel stopped not to look at banner or sword,
rapier or helmet, but unlocking still another door,
opening directly on a sort of balustrade in carven,
mouldering wood that ran along the side of the
Manoir, passed out into the open air, or inner

•WITHOUT A TEAR'

127

precinct of the chief courtyard. In its stone-paved
centre, prass-f,'rown, sini<in{^' and stained, its lar^'e
extent flanked on all sides by dull, cold, windowless
buildinjjfs of gray stone, and its diaf^'onal rows of
cverj^'reens — unsightly, distorted and monstrous now,
thouf^'h once cut and carved by that clever Pere
Chaletot into shapes of tower and turret, lyre, bird
and beast — this courtyard, as part o( the ferme orncc,
must have impressed the dullest beholder with a
melancholy sense of the efforts put forth by that
same worthy father and his illustrious patron, the
Sieur Jules-Gaspard-Noel-Ovide Delaunay-Colom-
biere Caron, to import the customs and implant the
sentiments of feudal France in foreign, and, it must
be owned, difficult soil. On yonder pavement had
the entire strength of the household often mustered —
serving-man and son, chevalier, father and kinsmen,
in time of frightful uncertainty, when Iroquois were
reported in the neighbourhood, or wolves or black
bears, and madame and her young niece, and the
stout Norman nurse and the children watched them
parade and drill from the terrace. On yonder pave-
ment were always unpacked the precious things that
slowly, very slowly, reached the exiled family from
France; the imported fruit and shade trees, the
hangings and pictures for the little chapel, the arms
and clothing, the breviaries and relics, and all the
thousand and one priceless articles that at long
intervals, and sometimes in only very small quan-

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128

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

tities, arrived at their singular destination. On that
pavement, too, had Pere Chaletot, in fine weather,
done most of his hewing, shaping, cutting, and
carving of tree, rock, stone, and wood, always sur-
rounded with a merry but respectful group, admiring
the skilful touch, the vivid imagination, and more
than all, the excellent memory. Whether he carved,
or painted, or drew, or shaped, the general wish of
the delighted assembly was that he should ever
bring to their remembrance the land they had left.
Urn, basket, chair, stool, plate, statue, grotto, cave
— whatever it was, it must be made to resemble-
never anything which lay immediately around them,
but something that belonged to their former life.

All this, then, was part of old Mikel's wasted
heritage; and looking at it in the bright October
sunlight, he felt, dimly, indeed, but bitterly, how
totally uninteresting, nay, how despicable, might all
this decayed splendour appear to his grandson, while
sacred as church and altar to himself. Surveying
in this disappointed mood the Manoir proper, the
courtyard and the offices that flanked the latter, he
next withdrew through a gap in the stonework to an
outer court or yard, overgrown with rank grass and
weeds and myriad small maples and other shrubs,
and which merged almost imperceptibly into the
vast, towering recesses of Bourg- Marie — that side
or edge of the forest which no man ever dreamed of
penetrating. It might be that an occasional surveyor I

or J
due
upo
othe
and
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curio
thirti
prepa
everla
either
divine
lay hi(
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the fac
They c
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they wc
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ever pic
in the v(
trilJium
and, at J
the coun
a lad of t(
^'^e priest
'n such
'"tensely,

'WITHOUT A TEAR'

129

or pertinacious coureur de bois had penetrated as far
due north of the vast forest as to emerge unexpectedly
upon the outer court or enclosure of the old Manoir ;
others might even have gained the inner paved yard,
and viewed with interest and amazement the detailed
work of balustrade and rounded turret, slab and
curious tree ; but it is safe to say that since Mikel's
thirtieth year, when he had first begun his course of
preparation for an enchanted chateau, fixed in the
everlasting darkness of a primeval forest, no one,
either a resident of the valley or a stranger, had ever
divined the rare treasure of honour and wealth that
lay hidden there. His thirtieth year had been the
year of the icy wave, that winter, memorable all
over the country, when snow and ice lay spread over
the face of the land as did once the mythic waters.
They came so early, they deepened and hardened so
fast, they remained so late, who was to know when
they would go ? Who dared to hope for one scarlet
sunrise more or one purple sunset again ? Who
ever pictured feeling anew the intoxication of spring
in the veins, and the ecstasy of finding the first tall
trillium in the wood ? Men's hearts failed them,
and, at least to the superstitious minds of the valley,
the course of Nature had failed. Mikel's eldest son,
aladof ten — who believed in his father, after God, and
the priest, only as a young Catholic can believe, and
'H such a wilderness as Bourg-Marie — watched him,
intensely, wistfully, unceasingly.

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130 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

* When will the snow melt, my father ?'

' Alas ! I cannot tell you, my child. But you are
right to ask. If any, surely I, Mikel le Caron, ought
to know. I watch all day ; I listen half the night.
The other half I dream strange dreams of altar roses,
bed on bed, and lakes of violets, blue as those you
pulled last April for your dead bird's grave, and
glowing noons with you and me, Octave, out upon
the dazzling river. Well, that for fire and flower
and fruit — oh yes, I should have said bunches of
crimson fruit — in dreams, should come but more
snow and ice is strange, Octave.'

And Octave would nod his head knowingly, smack
his lips, and dream of the scarlet fruits and sheets of
violets. Octave's brother, Magloire, a little fellow of
five, loved the snow, however. It seemed never too
cold for him.

Living, as Mikel at this period of his life did live,
in two or three small rooms in the minor part of the
Manoir, across the courtyard from those three rare
chambers, not yet so richly decked out, madame the
mother, and the two little boys waited long and
wearily for that winter to pass. Mikel brought them
their only comfort. Strong and young, and by nature
a trapper, reliant, vigorous, loving the keen, silent
air and the drifted arches of dazzling snow, he would
tramp many a mile through forest and by riverside,
but always return warm, happy, buoyant, gay. There
was one time, though, that he did not return as soon

'WITHOUT A TEAR'

131

as his wife had expected, and Octave in particular
was in despair. The third night coming on, and the
father not bacl^ ! Yet he was often known to stop
out all night, even in cold weather like this, making
a hole for himself in the snow, caching himself —
indeed, yes. Wait, Octave ; the father will come as
he said. By eight o'clock you shall see him and
hear him too, singing, while the pendant icicles of
his moustache make a strange canopy for the voice,

' Dans les prisons de Nantes — pris-on-n-n — Tra-la !
Las belles filles ont garouch sh-sh-a — Tra-la !'

If you are not patient, mon Octave, this is the
weather that the great wolf stalks in the forest ; so
look out. But when nine o'clock came, madame
herself was anxious. Shut up in their sequestered
dwelling, they could see little. Wrapping a stout
shawl about her head and neck, she ventured into
the yard, to find a beautiful moon rising, although
it was bitterly, quietly cold. At ten her agitation
was terrible. Her husband had now been away
two days and a half. Both children were awake :
Magloire sitting in an antique cot of dark wood.
Octave, silent, dreamy, frightened, brooding over
the fire.

Mikel's supper had been ready, warmed over and
warmed over twice since, and everything had that
air of perturbed preoccupation which betokens a
belated arrival. At eleven the wife hesitated no

9—2

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132 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

longer. She put whisky and bread into her pocket,
made up the fire, kissed the children, gave Magloire,
who could not sleep, a picture she always wore at
her neck of a kneeling child intent upon the Sacred
Heart, suspended above him in ether, bade Octave
look after the Manoir and his brother and await her
return, then departed.

* It may be that I meet with him directly ; or it
may be that I go far before I see him. He is safe;
do not fear. Octave, but it will cheer him to have me
part of the way, so keep awake and watch. It does
not seem so very cold.'

Alas ! that degree of cold that does not seem so
intense yet is so all the same. Octave clung to his
mother, but let her go without a tear. Yet his
nature was supposed to be weak, unreliant, the
reverse of vigorous. Their friends in the village
always said Octave would never weather the storms
of Bourg- Marie and grow into manhood. But his
courage was moral if not physical, and he let his
mother go without a tear. Magloire — little scamp !
clever and strong — grinned at the Sacred Heart, and
blew his mother a kiss.

Outside, the dame wrapped herself up well, and
marched ahead. In those days the little clearing
at the back through which lay the bridle-path to
Mikel's modern dwelling was not in existence, and
the shortest way to the road was through the dense
forest for a quarter of a mile — pretty enough in

•WITHOUT A TEAR'

133

summer and in spring, but melancholy in autumn,
and terrible in winter — and then out along a sudden
high hill that sloped down to the river for six or
seven hundred yards, and finally through a sheltered
plantation down by gentle degrees to the level of
everyday life — carts, vans, dogs, and peasants,
Bonhomme Peter, Ladislasky and the bear, and all
the rest of the jolly, simple, innocent life. Dame
Caron flew like the wind through the forest, for it
held a world of fearful spirits for her mind, and its
cold dark recesses held what might be death for her
body. The trees around her, bitten to their cores,
cracked with deafening reports which her super-
stitious fancy deemed the shots of infernal artillery,
and as she ran she kept shouting her husband's
name, fearing she might pass him at any moment,
though within the forest there was little fear of his
being covered in the snow. It was not until she
left Bourg-Marie behind her and emerged upon the
drift-piled plateau that she experienced any sense
of the cold ; but when it caught her, it held her fast.
I And now she realized her foolish pride, her want
of patience, her lack of confidence, her unreasoning
land inconsequent action. She began to see that
IMikel, in his calm and superior wisdom, had probably
foreseen the bitter cold of the hours when the sun
iiad gone down, and, making or finding a bed for
Hmself somewhere, had decided not to attempt to
return home till morning. What, then, might have

134 THE FOREST OF BOURGMARIE

proved fatal to a strong man was reserved for her,

and Dame Caron was no longer young. She had

been a widow of thirty-five when Mikel married her

eleven years ago, and one's blood is a little poor

as one nears fifty. She stopped a few moments,

irresolutely considering where Mikel could be, what

she had better do or what she could do, and in those

few minutes one cold dart crept like a snake stealthily

into her feet, up through her limbs, and then another

entered her wrist and her poor red fingers, and a

third wound itself around her brow, and then she

began to stumble and to cry out, sometimes for

Octave, sometimes for Mikel, and thus was her

whole body bound in living bands and fetters of

frost, and she powerless now to retrieve herself.

How quickly it beset her, attacked, assaulted, and

won her for its own ! how in her clouded mind she

fought with all her might against it, tried to collect

her senses, tried to think of Octave and Magloire

and Mikel — Mikel who must be found, Mikel whom

she had come out to save, and yet knew quite well I

what a foolish woman she had been, and how she

must be gradually freezing to death ! All this time

there was not a breath of wind, and a bright fair

moon was high in the violet sky, and galaxies oi

stars were rising in myriad points of silver. There

could not be a more beautiful picture than ttiej

shining river lying down at the foot of the soK

white hills, flowing away to the south in a curvtl

'WITHOUT A TEAR*

135

of polished silver, and the trees all draped and

fringed with icicles and snow, a midnight bright as

noon, gleaming, brilliant, but cruel, because so cold.

Dame Caron saw no beauty in river and road,

however. It was close upon twelve now, and her

heart grew weak. Her feet stumbled — once, twice.

She laughed giddily, her pulses flagged, the last

cold devil, or snake, wriggled close to both pulses

and heart, and, sinking down a helpless frozen lump

on the plateau, exposed to the relentless temper of

that keen living axe of frost which had sent its

emissaries before, Dame Madeleine - Josephe-

Virginie Amable Colombiere Caron saw, in place of

Bourg-Marie and river and tree, the most beautiful

and wonderful and magnificent rose, larger than any

rose that had ever grown in the cure's garden, and

larger than the paper ones on the altar ; and as she

looked, it grew larger and larger and redder and

redder, till it seemed to take the entire universe into

its broad sweet petals, and her along with it, and

then, cradled there, the atmosphere grew warm,

because above her swung a great heart of living fire,

from which swept to feed her frozen form the most

blessed and warming of rays, pure yet ardent, and

it was then that the poor woman knew for certain

she was dead. And although she was not so very

sorry for herself or Mikel or Magloire, she was sorry

for Octave — Octave, who had let his mother go

without a tear.

;i:W!|I.

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Jill

[ 136 ]

CHAPTER IX.

A SUNDAY AT HOME.

* There is nothing better for a man than that he should
eat and drink.'

When little Octave saw that dead mother the
principle of life died within him too. It only took
three weeks to slay it, for on his way to her funeral
he contracted some desperate throat disease, and
nothing kills at the last so quickly as the throat.
Thus was Mikel left with the child Magloire, to
whom he devoted all the time he could spare, and
who grew up in the feudal surroundings of the old
Manoir. And looking back upon the result of that
education, old Mikel realized afresh on this bright
October day that such as the son was, such had the
father been. Octave, perhaps, gentle, high-bred,
dreamy, religious — Octave might have helped him
to consummate his ideal, the restoration of the
honourable house and estates of Caron, or in like
planner Octave's son ; but Magloire the first, shrewd,

A SUNDAY AT HOME

137

grinning, implacable and narrow, or Magloire the
second, alias Mr. Murray Carson — Mikel laughed
aloud at the fancy.

It was at this moment that Pacifique Peron, who
had leapt into the wood when his conversation with
Lauriere came to an end, suddenly appeared in a
small cleared space that Mikel had now gained, and
the two men, taken by surprise, stopped short, and
exchanged no very pleasant looks. Pacifique, still
ruffled, forgot his politeness.

* Good-day, Caron,' he said, not removing a small
sumach twig he carried between his teeth as he
spoke. He also put his arms on his hips, and stared
straight before him when he had made the salutation.
Mikel was incensed. 'This, then,' thought he, Ms
some more of that rascal my grandson's doing.'

* You there, you hunchback ! speak properly to
me. I am not Caron to anyone, least of all to you.
You must remember better. What are you looking
for here ? I rarely meet anyone so far into the
middle of the wood.'

Pacifique grew politic, and answered truthfully :

* It will be Magloire that I was seeking, sir. I
thought he might be with you.'

'But this is not the way to my house,' said Mikel
gravely. * You have often been there ; you know
how to find it. It is simple and straight enough,
a mile and a quarter from your mother's cabane,
mostly on the wide highroad, and no need to walk

i,;ilti'''
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1,1 "I

138 THE FOREST OF DOURG-MARIE

^ •!

across the forest, frightening the game, upsetting
traps. Well, look that I do not set another trap
for another kind of game.'

* And that, sir ?' inquired Pacifique, spreading out
his hands and bowing very low, so that one saw the
crown of his queer hat, a large flat felt, with only
the rim remaining, and a handkerchief of orange
and white plaited in instead. * I ask what kind of
game ?'

* It will be found,' said Caron, ' make sure of that.
The kind does not matter. But what will you re-
quire of Magloire — by whom I understand you mean
my grandson — when you meet with him ? I had
not thought that he was likely to be a comrade of
yours.'

* And why not ?' asked Pacifique, trying to read
the secrets that lay enshrined in those scoixhing,
searching eyes, in the stern and sinister mouth, and
in the perturbed and frowning forehead of the vener-
able trapper.

* Because he, Magloire, is a gentleman, well
dressed, well-shod, well-bonneted. He is, though
self-made, still a young fellow of some wit, educa-
tion, manner. He has not lived in Bourg-Marie all
his life. No. It is easy to see that. He smokes a
big cigar, has a watch, is a great man — does not,
perhaps, any longer care to speak French. English,
look you, is so much more convenient. Is not that
how he is spoken of in the village ?'

A SUNDAY AT HOME

139

* Truly,' replied Pacifiqiie.

' Well, then,' said old Mikel, enjoying in a bitter
kind of way his own dismal pleasantry, ' they can
never say that about you. You will live in Bourg-
Marie till the end of your days ; you will never see
as far as the end of the Lac Calvaire ; you will never
wear a watch, nor give lectures, nor drink anything
more delicate than old Delorme's whisky ; you will
live and die a habitant, and what is a habitant but a
simple fool, and a fool is no companion for my grand-
son, Magloire. You, Pacifique Peron, keep out of
his way and stay at home. There is safety at the
forge, at the fire, in the fields. Work, and plenty of
it, saves every man. Leave them alone at Delorme's.
Why should yoti go there ? You cannot dance.
You do not play the fiddle. You are made to stay
at home, do quiet work — women's work, if you will.
There are three widowers, and myself four, in the
parish, and the cure often wants help with his wine
and his hens. Choose the quiet path, and clear it
from the fallen logs, then others will bless you.
But, by the good St. Hubert, leave this forest alone
in your roamings. I like not to think that there
is anyone, besides Nicolas Lauriere, Joncas, and
myself, who dares to walk abroad in this wood,
where at present are thirty baited bear-traps alone,
besides countless other snares for smaller pests.
Remember this, hunchback, and so — turn about
and walk on in front of me, and quickly.'

I rill J" "

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13 v'

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I40 THE FOREST OF DOURG-MARIE

The cripple was madly stunff, enraged.

' Women's work !' he yelled. ' It will be that you
will be thinking' of for me ! Women's work ! To
cook, did you say, and sweep and mend fires ? Ay,
the fires of purp^atory — purgatory ; that place yoii all
believe in, and I, too, for your sake ! Because I am
crooked — tctc-hleu — damn — Caron, I will pass — I k'UI
^o, whence you have come. I will see what it is you
keep there in the forest, hidden away like a miser.
I will watch ; I will steal around, gently, quietly ;
I will lay my eye to every chink, my ear to every
stone ; I will run off with it when I find it, be it
ji^old, or wine, or woman '

Mikel, exasperated at the meeting, and fearinj^ the
cripple's frenzy might be heard outside the little
circle in which they found themselves, had recourse
to violence. He laid two heavy hands on Pacifique's
bent shoulders and pressed, it seemed, with his entire
weight upon them, till slowly, painfully, but surely,
the cripple was forced to bend lower and lower until
a crack in his poor deformed back apprised the old
seigneur that he was punished sufficiently. He
whimpered, and his teeth ground on each other with
a terrible sound.

* Do you go my way out of the wood ?' asked
Mikel, with his hands still on the other's shoulders.

* I go, surely. Messire Caron, you hurt. You are
not fair, not kind. Have mercy, messire. I go.'

' Do you go quietly, or do you make a noise that

A SUNDAi AT HOME

141

is like the cry of the animals I snare in those traps
here in Bourpf-Maric ?'

' I go quietly, messire. Have pity. My back —
my poor back ! Oh that you had been crooked for
on ] minute of your life, and you would know what I
suffer !'

' You suffer no more being crooked. Not so much,
since you are already more than bent double. Now

go.'
And Pacifique swung himself free, sulkily turning

about in an opposite direction to that in which he
had been going when he met Mikel. He attempted
to lead.

• No, follow !' said Mikel in a voice of thunder that
one had not expected to issue from so shrivelled and
weather-wrinkled a man. ' I have an eye at the
back of my head. I watch you just as I watch the
old 'coon, the snake, the squirrel.' And Pacifique,
despite his tendencies to unbelief in matters clerical,
allowed himself to place unbounded confidence in
the secular fact of Mikel's extra eye. He slunk along
behind him, cowed, but cunning, and in this way the
old fox, russet, wrinkled, reliant, leading, the younger
man reluctantly following, afraid even to shake his
fist or make a face, they reached the outskirts of the
wood, and Mikel, bestowing a look upon his com-
panion that bespoke contempt unmixed with any
generous tincture of pity for one formed so unkindly
by Nature, took his silent way to his shabby dwelling,

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142 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

thus describing an almost perfect circle of five or six
miles.

This encounter, which produced a great and
peculiar impression upon the mind of the cripple,
had taken place two days before the memorable
Friday on which Magloire had put forth so much
rubbish, cant, and fustian under the name of ' Eman-
cipation.' Pacifique, lying low and apparently quiet
and stupid as ever, stayed with his mother or lounged
at Delorme's, hearing all and saying nothing. The
lecture had not produced any dangerous result.
The cure had heard about it, laughed, shrugged his
shoulders, said he feared Magloire was no longer as
good a Catholic as he might be, but he was young,
he must make a little noise — well, the village was
quiet again, we will forgive him this time. The
young doctor was greatly puzzled. Knowing Mag-
loire's style and appearance to be slightly loud and
inclined to fastness, he hesitated about believing
anything he said or in any way regarding him as an
authority ; yet, on some points, the statements were
exactly those he might have made himself. But
Pacifique, not troubling to comprehend Magloire's
real sentiments, and only cultivating him in order to
advance his own interests, bent his admiring gaze
upon him continually, till the pseudo-American or
the pseudo-Frenchman became the god of an un-
complaining and easily-satisfied idolatry.

On the Sunday which followed the lecture the

A SUNDAY AT HOME

143

widow Peron wished to go to church. Dressed in
her best black gown, red woollen shawl and hood,
she appeared in the kitchen and insisted that her
three sons should accompany her. Louis and Jack,
who were playing euchre with Magloire on the
kitchen-table, looked uneasy. They muttered some-
thing about Magloire, how they could not leave him.
Magloire laughed. He had a good mind to go to
church himself. He used often to take Kitty Rylands
to church in Milwaukee. She went regularly in the
evening, but never very long to the same church ;
behaved beautifully throughout the service, and
always carried away the text with her, and some-
times the books, if any handsome ones happened
to be left in the seat. Magloire considered for a
moment. It would be a splendid chance to be
seen, and to show off his clothes. Perhaps his
grandfather would be there, and it might be useful
to pretend to be once more a good Catholic. Then
he saw the Chicago Sunday paper (last week's) lying
on the floor, where he had tossed it after breakfast,
with an account of a divorce suit in it, and the
details of a dog-fight, and his cigar was only just
begun, and it was too far to walk. And Pacifique
said :

* I will sit in the house with Magloire, and then
you, Louis and Jack may go to church. I have the
dinner to watch. Magloire will perhaps be so kind
as to teach me to play the game. I can learn.'

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144 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

And Magloire looked at him almost for the first
time.

* Come, Louis and Jack, to church — quick ! It is
too far away to hear the bell, but it may be ringing
all the same. The good cure expects you, and all
the village waits to see you. We have not too much
time, but we have enough.'

The twins stood irresolute for a moment.
Magloire made it suddenly easy for them. He got
up, tired of euchre — they didn't play well enough for
him — and took his paper to the fire, looked all over
Pacifique, and established himself in the only com-
fortable chair, a primitive rocker of light wood,
black with age and grease. At this Louis and Jack
gave in, and accompanied their mother to the parish
church, four miles away, v/earing their claret check
suits, * nobby ' light overcoats, and plug hats.

As for Pacifique, he struggled hard to hide his
delight, stealing to and fro, putting more wood on
the fire, rubbing the potatoes till they were smooth
like bark or brown satin, and humming snatches
of tunes underneath his breath. Magloire — or
Mr. Murray Carson — surveyed his companion from
time to time with a keen sense of his ugliness, his
uselessness, and his stupidity. Mr. Carson was very
fond of beauty, either in human beings, horses,
clothes, or furniture. His bedroom and little sitting-
room at the Hotel Hallam were fitted up very hand-
somely — Grand Rapids furniture, chromos, a pot or

A SUNDAY AT HOME

145

first

It is

d all
nuch

two of flowers, a musical-box — indeed, it was a great
trial for a person of Mr. Murray Carson's attain-
ments to have to endure the close cabin and the
greasy chair of the widow Peron and the company
of her deformed son.

When Pacifique had completed his domestic
duties he stood by Magloire's side as if waiting for a
command. The latter was amused and not dis-
pleased, for he saw how he was regarded.

' You do not go to church, eh ?' he said, lighting a
fresh cigar. * Are you not as good as the rest of
your family ? or are you afraid of being seen ?'

He spoke English, and Pacifique only dimly
divined his meaning. He lifted his hands and then
let them fall, a favourite action of his.

' I don't know,' he said. * De church so far away
—four miles de church.'
' Ain't you a good walker, then ?'
Pacifique began to chatter.

*Ouai, I walk, just like all — like de rest. No, I
do not walk ; I creep, I steal along, I fly ; I show
you, but I do not walk. Walk, dat is slow some-
time for me. Straight man he walk ; crooked man
he fly.'

His action was hurried, feverish, uncertain.
Magloire looked at him with a faint interest. Then
of a sudden he bethought him of Nicolas Lauriere.
Jim Platte had not been near him since the first
night at Delorme's, and his absence, combined with

iil III

Ijl'''"

i iiii I

146 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

that of Nicolas, struck him as sufficiently peculiar to
warrant inquiring into. The admiration of the
Peron family did not suffice ; he wanted more, and
always more.

* Lauriere !' said Pacifique, with a start. * Oh, dat
Lauriere, he is no good ; he is slow. He is not like
you, Magloire. He is just fit for Bourg-Marie, and
nowhere else.'

* I ain't so sure of that,' replied Magloire.
* Lauriere, a handsome one him. I guess he'll go
back when I go to the States. He'll be a rich
fellow yet, Nicolas Lauriere.'

* I don't think Lauriere will go,' said the cripple.

* You don't, eh ? And why not ? It's a chance, I
tell you. Why, see what I can do for him ! I've
got friends all over the States, and right in Mil-
waukee ; I can just set him up in any way he likes.
Make him a barber in three weeks, a hackman in
two. So why shouldn't Lauriere go back with
me ? Now, tell me, if you know. Are you a friend
of his?'

* Well, I know Lauriere — yes, pretty well. He is
a kind fella, Nicolas Lauriere, good fella; fond ofde
church, quiet — yes, friend of mine, I guess that.'

* He is a trapper, too, like my grandfather. He
must have money, then.'

* Ah no, not much money, Lauriere.'
' Furs, then ?'

* Well, yes, a little furs.'

11,1. 1."

A SUNDAY AT HOME

147

' He lives — where, this Nicolas, who is fond of
church? I suppose he is saying his prayers now
this moment ;' and Mr. Murray Carson laughed.

* He live one mile from here, alone. His mother
die last year. Yes, he will be saying his prayer now.*

Magloire looked full at Pacifique as the latter
spoke.

' You don't seem to be saying yours. I guess if
you prayed a little oftener that back of yours would
grow straighter. Don't you forget it.'

Pacifique stole very close to his elbow.

* You don't believe dat yourself. I say all dat to
Nicolas Lauriere — all dat you say de oder night to
Louis and Jack when ma mere was asleep — about de
church.'

' And what does Lauriere say ? Here, leave me
room to breathe, you, P^ron — Pacifique P^ron, if
that is your name.'

' He think you very bad, very wicked. Well, for
sure, in Bourg- Marie everyone must obey the cure ;
no one must think for himself.'

' Exactly,' said Mr. Murray Carson, who began to
have a respect for the cripple, and offered him his
half-smoked cigar, which was eagerly snapped at,
lighted, and partaken of, Pacifique crouching down
beside Magloire on the hearth, his dark-gray eyes
fixed upon the latter's fresh and smiling countenance,

'It is a d d pity you're crooked !' said Magloire

presently. * I wouldn't mind taking you back with

10 — 2

III:

,:'):l,
'>»'

III',

'I i

148

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

me in place of Lauridre, if you was straight ; but
you ain't.'

Pacifique, in his eagerness, forgot his cigar-stump,
and suffered it to lie upon the hearth, where it went
out.

* But I would not be a trouble,' he said. * Every
man — well, everyone has something they can do.'

' What can you do ?' said Magloire contemptu-
ously.

The fellow might prove of use, being a gossip, but
as for encouraging him to go to Milwaukee, it was
absurd.

* I can sing,' said the cripple ; and to Caron's
astonishment, placing his hands on the latter's knee
as if to insist upon permission and attention, he
actually began to sing, in that beautiful, clear, and
rare tenor, which had won for him the admiration of
the valley, a portion of a * Salutaris Hostia ' he had
learnt by ear in the choir of the parish church he
had only left a month before, and that because they
did not pay him. ' I will only sing for money,' he
remarked doggedly to the others, who reported it to
the priests ; and he kept his word, for they could
not pay him.

Caron, half fascinated, half alarmed, allowed this |
strange being to consummate his wild chant, during |
which his rough countenance softened, and his ugly
form seemed to dissolve and melt out of sight.
Ignorant of art as Magloire was, he yet knew that

A SUNDAY AT HOME

149

but

ump,
went

Every

lo.'

:mptu-

ip, but
, it was

Caron's

r's knee

;ion, he

5ar, and

■ation of
he had

^urch he
Lse they
>ney,' he
;ed it to

ly could

/ed this '
, during
his ugly I
)f sigbt.
Inew that]

there must be something vastly different in this soar-
ing, untried, unspoiled, penetrating, exquisite voice
from the voices he had so often heard in theatres,
music-halls, concert-rooms, and choirs in Milwaukee.
He waited till the strain was done, calculating how
it would be possible for him to retain a hold on the
cripple should he consent to endeavour to launch
him on the turbulent ocean of modern Western
American life. Suddenly Pacifique stopped, all the
music fading out of his sullen face. He was again
the common, distorted cripple, sneak, scavenger of
other men's thoughts and words, deceitful, rebellious,
superstitious, and vindictive.

' You sing well enough,' remarked Magloire care-
lessly. ' You are an angel while you sing, and a
devil before and after. But I am not so fond of it
as you. I guess you needn't to sing me any more.
You're real smart, hain't you ?'

Pacifique nodded. He did not quite understand
the phrase, but gathered he was being praised, and
praise to him was as dear as the Wine of God to
such a one as Lauriere — Lauriere, who even then
was kneeling in deep abasement in the parish
church, four miles away, waiting for the service to
begin.

Magloire rose and put his paper down. He took
several turns around the small kitchen, and, picking
his teeth still with the omnipresent penknife,
appeared to be thinking more deeply than was his

Ill"

'?'< ,

ii;;

></•

150 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

wont. In reality, Magloire was finding himself in
difificulties, caused by his lack of ready cash. He
expected daily a messenger from Yamachiche with
a message which would probably demand an instant
reply. Beyond the lecture at Delorme's and mis-
cellaneous flighty statements, he had so far done
very little in the interests of the Order, and he
might have to move on up the river at once, or as
soon as instructions came, without having gauged
his grandfather again, or made any advance in his
regard. The more he saw of Pacifique, the more
it seemed to him as if in him he might find a
colleague, and not in Nicolas Lauriere.

* Lauriere,' he said, half aloud — * Lauriere, bigot,
Catholic, fool, sentimental, yielding, contented with
this vile forest — no, Lauriere is not fit !'

Pacifique heard him, and bounded to his feet.
When erect, his head, a little too large for his neck
and shoulders, came to about the other's waist, so
different was their height and formation. Like a
serf or willing slave, Pacifique bowed his hot fore-
head till it touched Magloire's belt, that confined a
loose dressing-gown he affected on Sunday mornings,
and whispered :

* Take me ; not Lauriere. You have said so
yourself. I will — oh, I will do all you ask. See,
I will go lie in de trees, in de snow, kill, steal, lie-|
all you want ! Me, not Nicolas Lauriere. Then,
go away when you go ?'

A SUNDAY AT HOME

151

If in
He

with
slant
mis-
done
id he
or as
;auged
in his
; more
find a

Magloire instinctively drew back. The theatrical
air that heightened the commonest phrase his fellow-
countrymen used amused yet half startled him. He
was no longer accustomed to it, and Pacifique's
manner was dangerous. He called him off like a
dog, shook himself free, and smoothed his dressing-
gown.

* I never make a promise,' he said. ' But if you
will help me — there is a thing I have to try and
manage while I am here — I guess 1 can help you
out West, if you care to come. What do you
want money for, eh ? You are not like me, at the
mercy of the Order, bound to collect so much
and send it over the way, or else be put in a private
prison.'

Pacifique controlled his delight with evident diffi-
culty, and awaited Magloire's explanation. The
latter seated himself, and, taking those papers from
his pocket which appeared to cause him so much
grave reflection, began sorting and reading them
over and over.

* You wouldn't see me in Quebec or Montreal with
these papers loose like this. No, indeed. There's
no police in this place. Why, even in Three Rivers,
I tell you, I wouldn't be safe for ten minutes if they
saw the end of these papers sticking up in my
pocket. No, sir. Nor would you be safe if you
was seen talking to Mr. Murray Carson. Yes, that
is my real name now. The boys, they don't know

152 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

'in;

•'*;

ii|i

'U\i

out in Milwaukee who Magloire Caron is ; it is all
Mr. Murray Carson. I have an office, and a real
splendid lady lives in the hotel just over it, and I
take her out every day. I guess she's just wild
now while I'm away. I was always to her room
every evening, with music — she plays the piano—
or else we went to the theatre. There is some living
in all that. Better than Bourg-Marie.'

* Ah, ouai,' said Pacifique, who devoured his vola-
tile companion with his hot evil eyes. He did not
understand any but the last sentence.

* Now you, Peron, can you follow this, what I am
going to ask you ?'

* Well, I vill thry.'

Magloire motioned to a seat at the opposite side
of the table, and kept his eyes upon Pacifique, who
took the seat without another word.

' This lady,' said Magloire, revelling in the lies he
was about telling, ' cette dame, you understand, she
is to send me always the money — that is, whenever
I want it. But look, there are times when she is
away or ill, or the money, coming through the Post
Office, gets stolen, and then I do not get it. I am
left without, except what I have in my pocket — see !'
And Magloire made as loud a jingle as he could out
of a very little silver and less copper, and tossed
over a nickel to Pacifique.

* Well, all this is bad for me. I have to live well
— like a gentleman, you will say — treat my friends in

A SUNDAY AT HOME

153

sail
real
nd I
wild
room
ino—
living

i vola-
id not

Lt 1 am

ite side
e, wbo

lies he
Ind, she
jhenever
she is
le Post
1 am
-seel'
Duld out
tossed

live well
liends in

the village, make my grandfather fine presents —

come, is that not difficult for me, when this lady,

who manages for me my office, does not send me my

money, my own money, in time ? Ah ! bien, you

see it is so, you understand this at least. Well, what

am I to do, so far from my friends, from my bizness

from the bank ? Why, if there was a bank in the

village I would go to it and draw all I want. I can

do that, yes, all over the world, wherever I am, it

makes no difference. And why ? Because I am no

longer Magloire Caron, but Mr. Murray Carson.

Yes, that is my new name, and you must learn it.

Well, where am I to go for this money ? You can

see I must not ask it of anyone in the village, for

they would say it was strange, for sure, so big a man

com J away without enough money. No; I cannot

ask it of those in the village, nor anywhere in the

valley ; not of Nicolas Lauricrc, not of your mother,

nor of Dame Delorme, nor of old Palissier ; all these

would talk, would say bad things. Ah ! you see

Well, there is only one of whom I can ask, and that
is my grandfather. Why do you smile, you fool ?'
For Pacifique grinned with a horrible delight. He
foresaw that he might find ample opportunity of
revenge.

' I smile — why ? I don' know why. I think
I perhaps of old Caron, den I smile. He shoke me —
so ; take me by de troat — push — push ! Ah ! damn !
[but I do hate that one, that old Caron 1'

154 THE FOREST OF BOURGMARIE

i Ifl).

m>^''^

Magloire was delighted.

* So do I,' he said, not fearing to be frank. ' Come,
what did he do to you ? When do you see him ?'
And Pacifique told him the story of the encounter in
the wood.

* For sure, he hides something in his house. But
it is so very small.'

* No, no,' cried Pacifique ; * it is so very big.
You don' know. I know. Many time I lay out in
dc snow, watch, listen, look. Many time old Mikel
he go in arms full ; come out empty. It is large
house. Why, yes, de old Manoir very big ; many
room — top — roof — all. Everyone know le vieux
Manoir.'

Magloire gazed upon him as if he were mad.

' The old Manoir ! What old Manoir ? It must
be that I have forgotten that place. I was young
when I go away. Mikel was already old, and always
sullen, quiet. Then he has two houses — has another
besides that little hut I found him in ?'

The cripple nodded.

* And you know where it is ?'

* Everyone know dat. Well, I can take you there
— yes, when the old man is away. You can go two I
ways.'

* One way will do,' said Magloire excitedly. 'Why,
what else do you know — you, Peron — Pacifiqiic|
Peron ? You're the very fellow I want. See, H
make you rich man — gentleman, like me — if you ij

vil

A SUNDAY AT HOME

155

ne,
n?'

;r in

But

big.
)ut in
Mike!
; large

many
e vicux

It must

young

always

another

^ou there

go two 1

•WhyJ

Ipacifiq^*'
See, l't|

[if yo^ ^

as I want you should. How do you pet to the
Manoir — the shortest way, remember? Well, it is
not that I wish to rob my grandfather — no ; but if I
see what he has got I shall know better what to ask
for. He will do great things for me yet. But then
—well, I may as well see the place.'

' Yes, yes — see de place,' said Pacifique. * Old
place — fall soon ; no one live in it.*

' Is that so ?' said Magloire. * I guess that's some
of the property the old man spoke to me about the
other day. Property ! Well, I'll take it before the
time comes. Anyhow, I'll see the place. Why,
Peron, I'm cleared out — I'm desperate. If you go to
Milwaukee, mind you don't gamble, or if you do,
don't come to me to help you out. But I guess you
don't understand me half the time. When I'm here
in Bourg-Marie, I want to talk English — I imist talk
it all the time — yet when I was in Milwaukee I
kind of liked to speak French to Mis' Rylands. Say,
Pacifique, what kind of things did Mikel used to
carry into this old house when you seen him ? Say,
how often did you seen him ?'

'There was,' said Pacifique readily, and gazing
beyond Magloire, as if he now saw the same things
again, 'much tings, like bags, and a big box, a
thrunk, and many fur. Well, I don' know all de
tings I seen.'

Magloire, making a careful but hurried note of
these remarks, quickly came to a decision in his

ll.K

r:|

.«

156 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

mind. Satisfy his curiosity he must, and as soon as
possible, with regard to Mikel's wealth.

' Now, P6ron,' he said, with an authority which
faintly reminded the cripple of the violence offered
him by the old but hardy trapper, * whenever you
are ready, I am. My grandfather and I — well, we
are not very good friends yet ; so, as I cannot walk
up to his front-door and enter as a guest, I shall go
round to the back and get in as I may. But if you
tell your brothers or that fool Lauriere, by God, I'll
break your crooked back for you in two pieces, and

send them to the d 1 for a present ! And there's

another thing. You hear me speak of the Order,
eh?'

Pacifique understood, and nodded.

* Keep to yourself what I say. It's something you
can't make out, or else I'd tell you. Come, now,
when will you take me to the old Manoir ? I tell
you I've no time to lose. You're not afraid, I
suppose, thinking of what the old priest will say ?'

The cripple sneered, and came close to Magloire,
who recoiled from his evil eyes and garlic-tainted
breath.

* Afraid ! Magloire, it was me — me who stole de
wine from de holy altar ; me who broke all de banes
in de glass house, made dem soft, and dhrank them
off in whisky — ah, bah 1 Afraid ! Not me — not
Pacifique Peron 1 I go any time — to-day, to-night.'

* To-night !' said Carson thoughtfully, knocking

A SUNDAY AT HOME

157

n as

rhich
fered
: you
U, we

walk
rail go

if you

Dd, I'll
2S, and
there's
Order,

ing you

e, no^^'
1 tell

fraid, I

■2'
say r

agloire,
-tainted

[stole de
le banes
ik theiB
^Q — not

-night.'
:nocking

the ash of his cigar upon the table, and reflect-
ing upon the promises made to Kitty Rylands of
numberless solitaires and silk dresses. * What if we
went to-night — Sunday ? All will be at church — eh ?
Not bad.'

Pacifique reflected.

' Too soon,' he said. * Next Sunday, thry. I do
dis week see over de place, make ready, watch old
Mikel. That better.'

* As you like,' returned Magloire. * Old Mikel —
old fool, say you — do you know what he calls him-
self? Seigneur of the valley, seigneur, lord and
master of that infernal forest full of wild beasts, and
that road lying out there in front of your door.
Seigneur ! Then you are a slave, Pacifique ; you
belong to old Mikel. You should obey him, crawl
to him, kneel down to him, pray to him, as they do
in Russia.'

Pacifique stepped back.

' Seigneur ?' he said. * Well, dat is for de rest
if dey like dat — Seigneur. For me, I have no master
over me. I do as I like ; go where I will. Magloire,
it is true what you say — there is no God.'

Magloire, tired of the interview, went back again
to his comfortable chair, and closed his eyes for a
morning nap before he answered :

* Yes, it is all settled about that. You come with
me ; you shall learn — there is no God.'

' But the cure '

111' '.

Ilili.

158 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

* D n the cur6 ! He knows all the time. He's

just fooling you. Don't listen, that's all.'

* Mais, Magloire '

The cripple's face assumed an awful expression.
' What now ?'

* Is there, then, no Devil neither ?'

* No, I tell you, neither God nor Devil. Leave
me alone ; I wish to sleep.'

A fearful joy shone in Pacifique's sunken eyes.

■^^i'.

[ 159]

CHAPTER X.

NICOLAS LAURIERE.

* His word was in mine heart, as a burning fire shut up
in my bones, and I was weary with forbearing, and I
could not stay.*

Nicolas LAURifeRE, on his knees in the old parish
church that bright October Sunday, could not forget
Pacifique P€ron and his disjointed blasphemies.
Since the arrival of Magloire, he had not been the
same man. His ambitions remained the same, but
a powerful check had been administered in the shape
of the defiant and rebellious speeches of the un-
fortunate cripple. He was assailed by a thousand
doubts, and tortured in a thousand ways. That
Magloire was wrong, grievously, horribly, fatally
wrong, he felt, and the contamination suffered by
Pacifique in being so much in his company caused
a profound sensation of pity for the unhappy boy.
Lauriere emerged from the service weary, and not
refreshed. For the first time itjappeared long and

111'.'

i6o

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

' W:

" II'

perfunctory. The flowers were tawdry, and covered
with dust ; the priests snuffled, and looked too closely
at the congregation to be in earnest in their prayers.
The music frightened, disgusted him, for it recalled
the air that Pacifique had sung in the forest on that
awful day. He shuddered, and crossed himself.

* Mother of God, have pity ! I, too — I, unworthy
sinner that I am, to feel so, to doubt — I, Nicolas
Lauriere !'

He would have quickly strode along the street,
and walked home alone; but no, there were the
veuve Peron, and Louis and Jack.

* Here is Nicolas, here is Lauriere. Well, my
child, how goes it ? Are you here alone ? Walk
along with us, and taste a little whisky at home.
There will be fine potatoes, too, and beans and eggs.
Come along ; you will see Magloire. Ah, that is a
lazy one, that Magloire. See him sit by the fire,
smoke, be so kind as to talk with Pacifique, teach
him many things '

How Lauriere winced ! Then there appeared
Anna - Catharine - Adelaide, youngest daughter of
old Prevost : he had seven. The women of Bourg-
Marie are talkative, forward, self-possessed, jocular.

* Here, Nicolas ! Here, Nicolas Becjaune (yellow
beak), baby, young bird, stripling, whence comest
thou, and with such a long face ? Mafoi ! but it is
long like the day your mother died. That is over a j
year ago. Good soul ! she is out of purgatory by this

NICOLAS LAURIERE

i6i

time, I should think. Nicolas, listen thou, and walk
along with me. I have had a letter from Blanche
Durocher, who is at Three Rivers until Noel, and I
am to follow her there in a week. There will be a
wedding. It is that young man Platte — Jim Platte's
brother. Jim, you will know him, for he is a friend
of our Magloire. Say, is not Magloire handsome ?
Reply thou, Nicolas of the long face. Oh, there,
patience, Lauriere ! You do not yet know of what
wood to make an arrow, or in what hollow tree to
look for the honey. Adieu, Lauriere, that is if you
will not walk with me. My companions wait. But
Rosalie and Emma, come, we wait no longer.
Say your prayers, becjanne, brav' enfant V

And here was another old friend, Joncas ; Emile-
Sylvestre Joncas, the uncle of Magloire, whose sister.
Demoiselle Cordelie-Marie-Louise, had married his
father, that Magloire the first who was a cunning
little lad in his cradle, and an idle scamp in his
youth. Joncas was also full of Magloire.

^ Mais, Lauriere, mon gar^on, where art thou all
these days ? Do you complain ? or do you carry
yourself well ? See, I haste to join the veuve Peron
and her sons. We go to see Magloire, my nephew,
your old playmate ; you recollect, he was of all that
was drole, funny, and clever in those days ; and now
he returns, laden with honours. Yes, it is true.
Hast thou seen his watch, felt of his clothes ? Is
he not handsome, clean, shining, fair ? But a word,

162 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

''I

Nicolas Lauriere,' and the uncle laid his finger to his
nose, and looked behind him cautiously ; * is it also
true that he is no longer a good Catholic ? Why
was he not here this morning?'

' I cannot tell you,' said Lauriere, with some con-
fusion. * I do not see Magloire every day. I am
busy building a shed at the back of my house, and
looking after the field before the frosts come. I
have enough to do. I suppose you will be going to
work soon ?'

Joncas was, in some sense, ranger for the neigh-
bouring forests of Fournier and Lafontaine, as Mikel
was of Bourg-Marie. He was a burly man of forty-
five or fifty, with a comical face, reddish hair, and
extremely bowed legs, so that the sobriquet of
* Jambe-Archet ' was given him all over the country-
side.

'Ah! Yes, when the frost comes, as you say.
The shed : is it a barn ? For the animals, or for
the wood ? You have heard the news ? It is that
R6n6 Laframboise has been arrested. He had
smuggled four kegs of whisky across the river;
indeed yes. The cure is to preach about it this
evening. Shall you be here, and with you my
nephew ? What ! No ? Yes, yes, go you along
now with me. I go there to dinner. It is all right
that you should come too.'

* I think not,' replied Lauriere, who pushed his
tuque back on his head, feeling warm. * Magloire-

NICOLAS LAURIERE

163

:o his

t also
Why

well, I am his friend, if he care for that, but I don't
think he does. Magloire, he is fine gargon, but he
says strange things — things that are not going to
do good to Bourg-Marie and Yamachiche. I am
old Mikel's friend : I cannot be Magloire's.'

Joncas's laugh startled even the garrulous crowd
around them.

'You make me laugh, Nicolas Lauriere. Do you,
then, share with old Mikel his dream of restoring the
ancient house and line of Caron ? Are you anxious
to play the serf, the slave, harness his horses, run at
the sound of a bell, wear a uniform, wave a whip ?
Do you see the valley fertile, blooming, peopled ?
The notary, the docteur, the cure all attached to
the maison; he, old Mikel, their head, chef, souverain?
You believe in all that — you, Lauriere ? Where is
your cool brain, your square head ? That will never
be. It is, look you, a beautiful dream, a grand idea.
I myself should like to see it accomplished ; but no,
never will it happen thus. Malavise ! you and Mikel,
you are dreamers both. Your life is made up of
chansons, bagatelles ; you are not men at all : you are
children. Come, what is this about my nephew ?
Is he, in truth, no longer a good Catholic — son of
the Church ?'

'Why do you ask me?' muttered Lauriere. 'I
have little business with him. T'e was — yes,
certainly — my friend in childhood; but now all is
different. I have seen him but three times since his

II — 2

, ''UK.

41.

t^k.

164 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

return. I only know that what he says, both in his
address the other night and in the widow's cabanc, is
contrary to our religion, and against the express
commands of the priest. I have thought, I myself,
somewhat about these matters, too.'

* What things ? What affairs ? You have thought ?
What comes of all the thinking ? That is for the
cure. Working is for you and me, Lauriere. Allons!
here is Anna-Catharine-Adelaide back again ! She
will not go without you.'

'Then I will show her that I go without her.
Come, Joncas, walk along with me, and I will
speak, if you wish it, of Magloire. Bon jour, Anna-
Catharine 1 Bonjotir, Rosalie-Suzanne!'

* We offer you a seat, ** Mister " Lauriere. Be so
good as to ride with us.'

The three girls had jumped into a cart driven
by one of their brothers, and had dashed up to
Nicolas, the handsomest young fellow in the parish.
He held his tuque in his hands, and his dark hair
lay black and dank on his brown forehead. His
shirt, slightly open at the neck, showed his vast and
splendid throat, a column of ruddy bronze. His
teeth were exquisite, regular and white, and his
firm chin, broad brow, and melancholy dark eyes,
all denoted a purity and strength of character rare,
not alone among the habitants, but among wiser and
more ably- trained communities of men. The colours
of his costume were all quiet and neutral, with the

NICOLAS LAURIERE

165

n his
nc, is
:press
lyself,

exception of the dash of red morocco at the base
of his trousers, and the tuque and scarlet woollen
sash. Type of the unconscious picturesque, he
afforded a more striking contrast than ever to the
cheap vulgarities of Louis and Jack, Rosalie-Suzanne
and Anna-Catharine, for the women of Bourg-Marie
have less natural taste than the men in the matter
of apparel, and mix their colours and spoil their
materials whenever they get the chance. Thus,
Anna-Catharine had a black gown trimmed with jet
embroidery — a wonderful novelty for the valley — a
brown cloth jacket extending to the knees, a hat
of navy-blue straw trimmed with red ribbon, and a
feather of vivid green ; while Rosalie-Suzanne wore
a skirt of purple merino, made with panels of cotton
velvet of a lighter shade, and ulster of cinnamon-
brown with a lemon-coloured silk hood, a knitted
hood of garnet wool, and a * cloud ' of palest blue.
They were undersized girls, merry, with sparkling
black eyes, much-frizzed black hair, good-natured
expressions, coarse complexion, and Rosalie already
had the beginning of a tiny moustache. Lauriere
admired Anna-Catharine the most, for she was the
better-looking, but Rosalie, despite the moustache,
bore the best character, and in Bourg-Marie virtue
is the chief ornament. The young girls work hard
in the house, out in the fields, attend church
punctiliously, are in bed by eight and nine o'clock,
and up by four and five. Work, virtue, religious

i66 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

I »■

' V"'

' «

n
■•im

devotion, all this is the rule, and the exceptions are
few and far between.

So Lauriere, intimate with both these girls, found
it hard to decide upon which one he preferred. P'or
example, now, after church, Rosalie was quiet,
inclined to be serious, thoughtful, self-contained.
Nicolas would have liked to have the cart to him-
self, put Rosalie into it, drive away from all the
chattering throng out to Mad Dog Creek, tie the
horse, wander up and down with Rosalie, tell her
about his troubles, watch for her sympathetic, ' Mais
ouai, I understand. Go on, tell me more, Nicolas;
thou wilt not tire me ; so continue, Lauriere.'
But Anna-Catharine, though she talked too much
bavardage, gossip, nonsense, scandal, yet how pretty
she was with her arching, blowing, bright green
feather, her small feet, the little brown mole near
her pretty mouth, and her coaxing ways. Then she
was only nineteen, and Rosalie was the same age as
Nicolas, unaccountable in Bourg-Marie, as the girls
mostly marry off from fourteen to twenty. But
these two were both in love with Lauriere, and were
for being loyal to him, and sneering at every other
young man.

So Lauriere refused point-blank to drive alonjj
the road with the girls. He would rather talk to
Joncas to-day, he said, about the coming frost, and
the bear season, and the dimensions of his shed,
and the truth about R6n€ Laframboise. And Anna-

NICOLAS LAURlfeRE

167

5 are

;ound
For

quiet,

lined,
him-

Al the

ie the

ell her |

' Mais

icolas ;

uriere.'

) much

I pretty

; green

»le near

len she
age as
le girls
But
id were
hy other

along
talk to
)st, and
IS shed,

Anna-

Catharine gave a bitter laugh and tossed her head
—everyone was looking, for sure, at the green feather
—and Rosalie bit her lip and wondered what could
be the matter with Nicolas, and in a moment the
cart was off and away, and Joncas and Lauriere
were left almost solitary in front of the gray church
door. With a gesture of relief, the younger man
turned eagerly to his companion :
* You go, then, now to Magloire ?'
' I am bound to appear,' replied Joncas. * The
widow has walked ahead, but you and I will speedily
overtake her. Come, as we go along relate to me
what this is, this difficulty with Magloire. Were
you anyone else in the village, or in the valley, I
should say, *' 'Tis jealousy ; leave it alone." But
you, Lauriere, are, I believe, the worthiest, most
virtuous, most respectable young man in the parish.
Sucre ! I ought to know — I, who see you all the
time in the forest, on the river, in the camp, at the
dance, at the threshing, at funerals, at weddings.
You know what you are talking about usually,
although, as regards old Mikel and his dream, you
are too credulous, too simple. Otherwise, I know
no better fellow, no truer man.'

Lauriere flushed and walked very rapidly, almost
beyond Joncas for a moment. * All that is kind, but
we know well one thing, that we are all sinners.
There is not one of us who does all he might — even
you, Joncas, and L And it is because of this that I

i68 THE FOREST OF BOUKG-MAKIE

'■m

■♦■■

♦''•
• .'*

««.
if

dislike to speak so of Maj^loire, knowing not what
his life is. But this much is true, that he ridicules
the Church and our religion ; he is teaching Pacifique,
the cripple, who but for him might yet go to the
shrine of the holy St. Anne and be made straight-
teaching Pacifique to rebel against the cure and the
holy Church, saying it is not true — the person of
Christ, the Mother of God, the Sacrament and the
Mass.'

Both men crossed themselves, and Joncas became
suddenly serious.

' I put it into few words,' continued Lauriere,

* what I have heard about from Pacifique ; but doubt-
less he is for ever talking it into the ears of those he
meets.'

* But it is idle talk — idle talk !' said Joncas hur-
riedly. * It is a boy's vision. The cure has some-
times preached to us of the dangers of unbelief.
There are other religions besides ours. Magloire
will be a Protestant, perhaps.'

* I tell you he is nothing at all,' persisted Lauriere.

* Pacifique has told me, as if in pride, how that Mag-
loire has learnt for certain that there is no God,
that there are no miracles any more, that the bread
is but bread, and the wine but wine.'

Joncas stole a look sideways at the perplexed and
melancholy countenance beside him, and winked at
the landscape on his other side.

* My son,' he said soberly, * you must take your

NICOLAS LAURI^RE

ifio

;hat
ulfs
(lue,
the
;ht-
d the
Dn of
d the

,'came

Lirierc,
donbt-
lose he

.s hur-
some-
ibelief.
agloire

Luriere.

It Mag-
God,
bread

[ed and
iked at

-e your

trouble to Father LabcUe. You have fallen into

evil hands, you and Paciftquc. Maj^doirc is tempting

you, certainly, but he believes more than he says.

You will find he is a good Protestant. Oh yes,

there arc many such — Father Labelle will tell you

that. Wc have the better faith ; but still, they have

a faith too, such as it is. These English that stroll

through the village sometimes in summer, they walk

in at the open door of the cglisc, they look at the

dish of holy water, they bend down, they smell it,

dip their fingers in, laugh to one another, and say,

Perhaps it will do us good, bring us a blessing.

Ah ! I have seen them at that often. And why do

they do that ? Because something speaks to them

and says, Our faith is better than theirs, our priests

are more devout, our churches more suitable for

worship. Still, some of them are very virtuous,

respectable people, and it will be that M agloire has

met some of these English and so been corrupted,

changed from the sonship of the holy Church to a

citizenship in another. Yes, these others, you have

not met them so often as I have. That is what has

happened to Magloire.'

' I do not think so,' protested Lauriere. * Besides,
he is no longer Canadien — vyai Canadien.'

* Ah-ha-a-a-a ! there I agree with you !' said Joncas
eagerly. * (^a fait mal. That is what is going to
make matters worse, make the soup stronger. There
is much in that. Yet he is not like these others —

170 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Mi.

'■•I,

''I

the English, either. But, sacre-e-e, he will do no
harm. The cure has said so. " Leave him alone,"
he has said ; *' it is but talk — idle talk. For a day
and a night he will make a little noise. After that,
he will go to another place, and our people will forget
what he has told them." Besides, all this is partly
old Caron's fault. When my nephew, that is, Mag-
loire, was small, the old man was always praising
him, teaching him, talking to him. Magloire was to
be this, and Magloire was to be the other. Magloire
would go to the S^minaire, study, take a degree,
become a great man, live in Quebec or Montreal, be
in the Government, perhaps travel and see the world.
Bah ! the old fool, the old dreamer ! Better to have
taught the lad his own woodcraft, or how to follow a
plough or manage a farm, or conduct a shop in the
village. For Magloire, growing up very much alone,
as you remember, Lauriere, with only yourself for a
companion, and that very seldom, since old Mikel
was so particular, grew up at last into that youth of
fourteen whom we all remember, that ran away and
has now returned, as they say, a gent' nan. That
is to say, Nicolas Lauriere, he is no longer I'pctii
Magloire, your equal and my nephew, but a dis-
tinguished person, travelled, clever, rich, fortunate,
handsome. Eh bien, it is not I, his uncle, who will
say anything to him about his religion ; I leave that
to the grandfather and the cure, and as for his politique,
look you, it is best to leave that alone, too. Though

NICOLAS LAURI^RE

171

no
ne,"
day
hat,
.rRct
ai-tly
MaK-
dsing
/as to
gloire
egree,
sal, be
world,
o have
ollow a
in the
alone,
If for a
Mikel
outh of
ay and
That
rpdil
a dis-
rtunatc,
/ho Nvil^
ive that

iThougli

t-i

I consider his principles dangerous, I do not mind
confessing all the same.'

The two men walked along in silence for a while
after this. It was clear they were slowly gaining
upon Dame Angelique P6ron and the twins.

* Will you do anything about it ?' inquired Lauriere
hurriedly. He would be compelled to pass the cabane,
perhaps enter, see Magloire, talk, loiter, drink a glass
of viskey blanc.

' Nothing at all,' rejoined Joncas coolly. * What
could be done ? Father Labelle will tell you the
same as I, if you go to him : that is, there are some
who cannot be kept in the Church — some minds,
some spirits, who must for ever be hesitating, doubt-
ing, questioning. With these men one must be
patient. They are like children who, one knows,
one must be continually fooling, deceiving kindly
with caresses and sweetmeats. One cannot force
such minds. One must bear with them. Yet, I
suppose, one might yet speak a little to Magloire of
this, if one wished. Perhaps, then, it will be you,
Nicolas Lauriere, that will thus speak.'

' No, no,' said Lauriere, * it is not for me ; I am
too ignorant. Perhaps I am simple, as you say,
easily made to believe, myself a doubting, yielding
spirit. It may be so. I have no wish to speak to

Magloire on this subject. Old Mikel '

' Ah, ouai ! old Mikel should be the one. A good
Catholic, although he rarely goes to church. A

172

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

! TJ1.

ff-'v

'I1 «r^

pious man, old Mikel, steady, no drunkard, no
gossip. And he is the lad's grandfather. Then,
who shall tell him ? You, Nicolas Lauriere ?'

* Well, I do not mind that much. I can, I think,
see him, talk to him at any time. Already he is
displeased with Magloire. Rethinks it shameful that
his grandson should have been nothing better than
another man's coachman all this time ; and other
things. A barber at one time, and a pedlar of
pictures at another. At first I, too, like the rest of
the village, thought much of all that, but now it
seems to me that I would rather stay in Bourg-Marie
all my life, if but to be my own master, cut and
carry and pile my own faggots, and lay my own
fires.'

' Then you are a fool, Nicolas Lauriere. Look
you, Magloire has made money. I do not know
how much, but see how he dresses, how neat and
shining he is ; see the ring on the little finger, the
watch, the bright shoes ! I tell you, Lauriere, that is
all good and nice and pleasant — pleasanter than
homespun and coarse wool, and sabots, and clumsy
tuques. The money — ah-ha-a-a-a ! — the money,
that is everything in this world. Come, tell me, is
it not money that we all strive for — you, Lauriere,
and I, Joncas, in our bargains with fur and skin;
the cure, in masses for the dead and tithes for the
living ; the docteur and the notary, who cunningly
create disease and law for their own pockets ; old

NICOLAS LAURIERE

^73

ben,

link,
le is
that
than
other
ar of
est of
LOW it
•Marie
it and
y own

Delornie in his whisky, and Rene Laframboisc in
his ? Bah ! there is nothing to be compared to
money ! Make all you can and put it away, and
when you marry, marry neither Anna-Catharine-
Adelaide, nor her cousin Rosalie-Suzanne, who have
no money ; but cast your eyes upon my sister, the
widow of Noel Duquette, who has the finest farm on
the other side of the river, and is handsome still,
though over forty. Dame Adele Duquette — you have
seen her ? She was behind you in church this morn-
ing, and is looking for a husband. It must be a
young man, too, that she will be wanting — someone
to help her in maintaining the farm. There is an
orchard of the most magnificent, and the house was
a manor-house belonging to the seigniory of De
Lotbiniere, till her husband bought it upon their
marriage. The house alone is a dowry ; 'tis as fine
as the old Manoir itself, which Mikel keeps in such
order, and doubtless has intended as a marriage-gift
to Magloire. But we may talk of all this no longer.
See, here are the friends ! Dame Peron, I salute
you. Louis — Jack ! Good fellows ! but I demand
pardon ; you are doubtless so improved, so fine, so
neat, old Joncas may not address you as formerly.
Still, welcome to Bourg-Marie once again, and I
entreat of you to persuade this lad Lauriere that he
may remain and take dinner with us. I make bold
to ask him.'
'And I too insist that he does,' said Dame Peron.

174 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

■m

* Remain with us, Nicolas. Thou wilt see Magloire,
and that is a fine thing. He will not long be here.
And Louis and Jack, they will all soon be for going.
We have potatoes to-day, and hot beans, with a
piece of pork in the middle, and stewed crab-apples
the colour of the leaves yonder.'

* And whisky, my friend, and a good song and
story,' continued Joncas. * And Dame Peron will,
no doubt, ask a pretty girl, too, if you wish it. This
Rosalie-Suzanne, or her cousin '

* Whom I must not marry,' said Lauriere grimly.

* You are merry, Father Joncas ; but I cannot go
along with you.'

* Ah ! the great pity 1 You are sick, Nicolas
Lauriere ?'

It was Louis who spoke, with something like a
sneer. They despised the country clothes, the
habitant air, the simplicity of his manner, the primi-
tive French he used.

* No, I am not sick,' replied Lauriere doggedly.
The others were all looking at him more or less

stiffly. He was an impertinent this Sunday, for
sure, to refuse a good dinner — a man who lived by
himself, too, scvuptdeux, rigoriste, faquin.

* Diantre take thee, Nicolas Lauriere ! Come, we
go, then, without thee !' said Joncas. * Bon jour, bebe!
Bon jour, *' Mister" Lauriere! Go thou and spend
thy evening with old Mikel chez le vieux Manoir .''

* I will,' said the young man quickly. ' And, Joncas,

NICOLAS LAURIERE

175

nre,
lere.

'ft'

th a
pples

and
will,
This

;rimly.
not go

t^icolas

like a
IS, the
primi-

pdly.
or less

[ay,

for

lived by
)me, Nve

spend

\ir /'

ioncas,

one word alone : see, I shall tell him — old Mikel, as
you have said.'

* As I have said !' repeated Joncas furiously. ' I
have said nothing, and what I did say I take back.
I am going now to eat with my nephew, wi^h
Magloire ; and I will not join a cabale, a faction,
against him. Do you hear ?'

* I hear,' said Lauriere quietly, * but I shall go all
the same. So good-day. Father Joncas, and good-
day. Dame Peron, with many thanks for your kind-
ness.'

And when they reached the cahane, it was Nicolas
who was left to walk to his lonely dwelling by
himself with his mind full of solemn fancies, in none
of which did Dame Adele Duquette play any part.
No ; they were for the most part fancies of great
and solemn things, such as the crowded church he
had just left, the mysterious nature of the services,
the miracle by which his sister Aspasie had been
cured, and the beauty of the glowing forest draped
in the colours of stained glass, each fallen, drifted
leaf itself a window of flashing hues, through which
one could look at the sun in all its glory.

* I shall never marry,' said Nicolas aloud, opening
his mouth, and expanding his rugged chest, thus
inhaling the intoxicating air latent in the keen yet
warm October breeze, * for I love all this too much.
1 should love it, this wood and road and the river
and the trees and the leaves like gems, more than

176

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

4 "f'

my wife, and I suppose that next to our religion we
should love our wives. Therefore I will not marry
— neither Rosalie - Suzanne, nor Anna- Catharine-
Adelaide, and certainly not Dame Adele Duquette,
who is handsome still, though over forty.'

At eight o'clock that evening he put on his tuque
and walked over to see old Mikel, who sat smoking
in his narrow kitchen, morose, defiant, taciturn, and
self-contained.

i #*

[ '77 ]

CHAPTER XI.

A BEAR-HUNT.

* He that earneth wages, earneth wages to put it into a
bag with holes.'

Since parting with his estimable grandson, and
surveying in his own morbid peculiar manner the
old Manoir of Colombiere Caron, Mikel had en-
deavoured to pursue his accustomed avocations, but
with little success. He had made no effort to see
Magloire a second time, or to discover what were
the plans of this favoured individual. He had felled
and pruned, and trapped and baited, and slept and
walked, as all in a dream. For above and through
all else came that one thought — ' Magloire is come
back, and come back so changed, that you yourself
did not know him till he spoke. Then that intense
quality of the voice betrayed him ' — a high voice,
clear and shrill, yet not effeminate, and with the
slightest quaver in it — that vibration which belongs

f K^

i ft.'

178 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

to all Franco-Canadian sinj^inj; voices, and some-
times is noticeable, as in the case of Magloire, in the
speaking voice as well.

There is, after all, no estrangement more bitter
than that which arises between kith and kin. While
we may be more prone to make excuses and create
contingencies for those of our own blood who have
disappointed or injured us, there is always the con-
viction that, since these were of our own blood, they
might have been, they should have been, more loyal.
Mikel, aristocrat to his finger-tips, scorned anything,'
like a scene, confession of weakness, humiliation or
failure. For nine years he had mourned for his
grandson, thought of him sometimes as dead and
sometimes as living, dreamed of him famous, and
dreamed of him poor, dug his grave for him, dandled
his children for him, bent low over the hand of his
wife, watched him die, come to life again, stand
before him firm, healthy, reckless, fortunate. And
stray papers had been eagerly scanned, and traveller:
accosted, and brain-splitting letters concocted to
officials in Quebec, Three Rivers, and Montreal, and
all to no purpose. But he had come back at last,
and for what ?

* Of a truth,' said old Mikel aloud to himself. in|
the solitude of his murky kitchen, * I do not know
Many a time have I dreamed of his coming back,
but never in the strangest dream did I see him as
is — cold, harsh, affected, insincere, a stranger tothl

you, Ni

A BEAR-HUNT

179

1 the

bitter
A' hilt
create
D have
ic con-
d, they
e loyal,
nythini;
ation or

for his
.ead and
ous, and

dandled

:id of hi=
in, stand

,te. Ai^^'
traveller: I

octed 10]
treal, anal

,k at lastJ

1imself.1l

lot UnoNVJ

ling hac^l

him as M

iger

to till

beautiful sights of his native Bourg- Marie, a stranger
to my hearth and to myself.'

Lauriere knocked and was admitted. The younger
man, awkwardly returning Mikel's quiet salutation,
took a seat by the long stove. Only six days since
he had occupied it last, and he fancied a change
already had crept over the elder Caron — a more
decided stoop in the shoulders, a deeper furrow
between the eyes, and a more cynical line around
the mouth.

' Well,' said Mikel, * you are here again, Nicolas
Lauriere, and with much the same story as you
brought last week. Sit down, be comfortable —
smoke. It is cold enough for a drink of whisky
before you go. But what fine weather ! It is a
magnificent October.'

' I have never known such a month,' rejoined
Lauriere. * Have you seen the trees in the valley
from the top of the hill, bville, where it is clear, to
the edge, and one can look for miles up and down
the angry river ? For yesterday the strong wind
ruffled it into spray, and had it frozen later when
the stars were out and the sunshine gone, it would
have seemed full of little stiff arches, round and
crested, and silver like the backs of fish. Fish ! ah,
I wonder that they do live so long in that cold water,
those fish.'

' What is that you say ? Fish — ah ! — no fear that
|you, Nicolas Lauriere, or I will dive as far down into

12 — 2

180 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

that cold water as the fish. Mais ! but it was cold
this morning at four o'clock. And yet I have
known a man — but he was no Canadian — who would
bathe as late in the year as the Hfteenth day of
November.'

* Break the ice ?' suggested Lauriere.

* Ah ! otiai, without doubt, break the ice, plunge far
down in that black water ! Well, that was a crazy
thing, it seems to me. One is clean enough.'

'Clean enough !' said Nicolas. * Why, yes — it is
not everything to be clean. It is far more to be
warm.'

* In a few weeks,' said Mikel impressively, * it will
be everything to be warm. It is setting in already
for a long and a cold winter.'

Lauriere inclined his head. His melancholy wa?
not unobserved by Mikel.

' Say, then, what you have come to say, Nicolas
Lauriere. You look sad. Ah, you make yourself
straight, you shake your head, you open your eyes-
but you do not deceive me, nor are you changed for
all that. What should make you sad — you, healthy,
strong, living for yourself, and in yourself, and with
yourself, and young — young. Sacre ! but all is said
in that word '* young." Lauriere ' — and Mikel laid a
heavy brown hand on the younger man's knee, 3n<iBijndersf
looked wistfully in his eyes — * to think that I shallB yj^ ,
never be young again !' Bdied avva

* But youth, it may have its troubles. Think J . -^^

cured
Hho d
it is

i'eeps

self

^mcttct
)ou ard
^'•^per-r-

A liEAR-IIUNT

i8i

Mikcl — when you were yoiin^, were you always
happy ?'

* I was,' said Mikcl solemnly, * only I did not know
it. And therefore you, althouf^h you think yourself
sad, I tell you you are happy. And chietly because
you are youn^. When one is younj^ anything may
happen. When one is old everything; has happened.
That is all the difference. Come, tell me, how is
my |:,'randson, Magloire, or, as he calls himself, Mr.
Murray Carson ? You see him daily.'

' Not at all,' said Lauriere. * I see him but seldom.
Look, I am busy. He is busy too — has lots of
friends, and letters to write, and '

' And you are but a habitant, Nicolas Lauriere, son
of the old courcur de boh, and grandson of Lauriere
the pedlar. It was your sister Aspasie that was
cured at La Bonne Ste. Anne, it was your mother
who died last year, poor, very poor, in your cabane ;
it is your elder brother, Max-Simon Lauriere, who
keeps the public-house at Point Laclaire ; it is your-
self who wears coarse wooden shoes or clumsy
mqudtcs and earrings on Sundays. Bah ! Lauriere,
you are no companion for Mr. Murray Carson,
exper-r-r-r-t in horseflesh, Milwaukee. You are
{(n^ourdi, stupid, blind, you do not see, you do not
[understand.'

Nicolas flushed with sudden anger, that paled and
|<lied away as rapidly as it had come.

That is not so about Magloire,' he said. ' I think

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182 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Magloire would have been pleased to have seen me
oftener, but I have not cared to go. There were
enough there in that cahane without me. When I
did see him he was kind. He has spoken to me
about leaving Bourg-Marie, about my going back
with him. There is a great deal of opportunity
there, in those States, for a young man, for one like
me. I am steady, I can work. And it has long been
my dream.'

'Your dream! What! To leave Bourg-Marie?
I have never guessed that. You kept it quiet.'

' What else was I to do ? I have few friends. I
am not a talker. I mention this to-day, and I may
never mention it again.'

* Because, then, you are going back with him, with
Magloire ?'

* No ; because I shall stay here — I feel it — all my
life. I shall be just what I am — Nicolas Lauriere-
tiU I die.'

* And what else should you be ? Sacr^ dame, but
these young men are amazing. Why, they must all j
leave home, run away, be impolite, unreasoning.]
piggish. You are all cabbages, and nothing more;
and cabbages that grow up all sprout and no heart.
It is a madness, this dream of every boy to leave hisj
native village and his friends, and carry his rightl
arm and his strong shoulder and his straight leg into!
a foreign country. And that it should allure yooj
Nicolas Lauriere, of all men !'

A BEAR-HUNT

183

* Be still !' and Lauriere smiled. * I am not going
away. Believe me myself until I myself shall tell
you the contrary. I see the folly of it.'

' Ah-ha ! You see the folly ! You are right — you
are sensible — you are no cabbage. How, then, do
you cheat Magloire ? Do you tell him you will go,
and then look aside at that ugly putois of a Pacifique,
that caribou — ah, pestc ! you are a smart one, Lauriere,
to do that.'

' But I do not,' said Lauriere. * I have no mind
for going. And yet I have always thought that,
when the time came, I should go. Now my mother
is dead, I could easier go, and I could still send the
money for the Mass — it is not much — to you from
these other places, and you would give it to the
priest for me ; but there is her grave to leave behind,
and that is worse.'

Mikel started. He thought of his own dreary
deathbed — there would be no children, no grand-
children, hardly any relatives or friends around it,
and he felt strongly drawn towards his companion
after hearing him assert his intention of remaining
in his native vl lage. He had often regarded him
with a stealthy jealousy, mostly on account of his
youth, but now a softer feeling seemed to leaven the
interest he naturally felt in one who was really his
pupil, and over whose career he had involuntarily
watched for some years. Several times he began to
speak, then broke off suddenly, as if unable to com-

i84 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

mand his emotions. Nicolas, absorbed in his own
sombre reflections, did not heed these moments of
wild abstraction, in which the coolness and intrepidity
of the old trapper seemed merged in a spasm or con-
vulsion of feeling, which at length mastered him
entirely. Nicolas, turning to reach his pipe from the
table, encountered suddenly the sad and questioning
gaze of his friend.

* What is it ails thee, Mikel le Caron ?' he ex-
claimed, in great perplexity. ' There is a great
trouble in the eyes, a terrible line upon the forehead.
Speak — I am not one that tattles again. If it is any
secret, you can trust it with me. Come, I will wear
a new name : Nico\3.s-qm-ne-parle-pas, like the rapide
that empties into Lac Calvaire.'

* Thou dost forget that the Parle pas rapide does
speak in some seasons.'

' Nay, then,' said Nicolas, bending forward earnestly
and looking at Mikel with all his honest soul in his
melancholy brown eyes, * in all seasons you may
depend upon me. When the winds ruffle the pools
roughest, when the snows flood the babbling streams,
when the crows fill the air with calling, and when the
forest drips with warm May rains, I at least will keep
silence. Mikel, I mean it. I will swear, if you
wish it.'

' Lauriere,' said Mikel, much moved, and a radiant
softness illumining his hard old face — * Lauriere, thou
art a good child. But you need not swear, neither

A BEAR-HUNT

185

own
ts of
(idity

con-

him
mthe
oning

le ex-
great

ehead.
is any

11 wear

e rapide

ide doci

irnestly
il in his
)U may
le pools
streams,
/hen the
all keep
if you

radiant

|ere,thou

neither

is my secret worth the name. I have already told
you, or you have already guessed. I have been
foolish, and now I am old. There are two bad
things : to be old, and to have been foolish. That
is what I meant when I said a moment since it was
sad to be old. Nothing can be done any more. Life
does itself. One learns to suffer.'

* To suffer !* and Lauriere repeated the words softly
under his breath.

' Once, no man was afraid to suffer. Now we try
to smooth out every wrinkle, roll away every stone,
cut down every tree, lay snares for every passion,
every appetite. Well, are we any the better for it ?
For the latter, a little. My ancestors were gentle-
men, but they were not ashamed of being seen
drunk. I am a labouring man — forest-ranger for
the county of Yamachiche, an office destitute of
uniform, of honour, respect, and importance — yet
I never drink to excess. Well, if not for sin, one
must suffer for something. And, after all, one suffers
for what one has set in motion one's self.'
' Well, that is sad,* said Nicolas.
An intense sympathy seemed to be manifesting
itself in his heart with all that Mikel spoke of, and
he longed to find suitable words that might convey
that sympathy to a bleeding heart. Yet he felt
inexpressibly stupid, slow, and wandering, as he
followed, from under drooping lids, the motions
that Caron made from time to time.

i86 THE FOREST OF DOURG-MARIE

* It would have been better if he had never come
back,' said the trapper moodily, beating one brown
hand upon the other. And Nicolas knew that he
meant Magloire.

* Ah, not that,' said he gently. ' Magloire is kind
in his heart. He is too clever to be lost to the world,
living here in Bourg- Marie. You yourself would be
proud of him if you saw him in his new home, with
his new friends and all his proper surroundings.
One cannot tell here what he is really : it is all so
different.'

* Let it be as different as you will,' growled the
trapper, * there are a few things that are the same all
the world over. And these things my grandson,
Magloire, has forgotten, if he ever knew. But I will
not allow him to disturb my last years. I have dis-
owned him, Lauriere.'

Lauriere's melancholy dark eyes looked their pity.

* That is bad ; it will make him so very angry,
so bitter.'

* Not so angry nor so bitter as his conduct has
made me. The law of love for you and such as you
— you are just like your father : he was only half a
trapper, afraid of seeing the animals caught, or
hearing their cry of pain — but another law for me,
Mikel le Caron. I tell you I have disowned him.
For the present I choose to ignore him. Let him
stay as long as he may, I will not seek him, and
should he seek me, I will receive him as a stranger,

A BEAR-HUNT

187

come
)ro\vn
at he

s kind
world,
uld be
e, with
ndings.
s all so

duct has
:h as you
ily half a
LUght, or
for me,
ned him.
Let him
him, and I

en vcrite as Mr. Murr-r-r-ay Carson. Voild tin bel
nom ! C*est un nom infdme t Out-da, and when he
goes, I make no comment, no inquiry. I write no
letters, I receive his politely if signed Mr. Murr-r-r-ay
Carson ; if not, I burn them unread. When I die,
it will be seen that what I own is not for him.
Cadedis, no, I should think not. I shall give it to
the Church — the proper receptacle for wealth.'

Mikel caught his breath and looked hard at
Lauriere, a look that gave the latter pain. He
turned away his head and rose from his chair.

' It will be better that I say good-evening, Mikel,
and leave you. Another time. It is true I had
something to say, but it will do another time. You
are disturbed, unquiet, distrait ; you say things
perhaps you do not want me to hear '

' What things have I said that you might not
hear, quel diantre ? Lauriere, moti enfant — Lauriere,
Nicolas, tot — listen ! Let me only speak — let me
only speak, tell these things to some ear beside that
of the cur6 ; let me be assured of someone's friend-
ship, someone's love. My God ! I have said it.'

• Said what ?' queried Lauriere, his heart bursting
with every beat, and a hunger rising in that heart
that now could only be appeased one way.

Mikel, rising, looked from his superior height
upon Nicolas as upon some favourite child with the
counterpart of Nicolas's hunger in his straining eyes
and his faltering voice. He locked Lauriere's hands

1 88

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

between his own as tears — rare, rare tears — pjathered
in his sunken eyes.

* Said that I needed friendship, solace, love — said
that my heart was dry for the lack of it, caking like
the old brown earth which looks so hard and cold
although there is plenty of soft living green under-
neath that cracking crust. Say, Nicolas, thou too
— thou didst have this feeling ? Thou wert not
satisfied to live alone — thou too, enfant j mon fils ?'

The force of his passion had swept over Lauriere's
already awakened and easily stimulated nature, and
he stood trembling before the revelation that came
to him in those word?.

* I may have been,' he stammered — * yes, I was.
And, Mikel, I will do anything for you — to help you,
Mikel, or to please you. You have done so much
for me.'

* Ah,' exclaimed Le Caron, with swimming eyes
and softened mouth, ' it is thou, Lauriere, a stranger,
who sayest thus, and not my own flesh and blood,
not my grandson, Magloire ! And thou, too — thou
wert dull and lonely and cold, and I never guessed
it. Thou hast had thy dreams, too, though thou
art young enough, Lauriere, still to dream again.
Yet thou art old enough to understand another's
grief. And thou art a good Catholic, a true son of
the Church, and all that thou doest is to the glory
of God and the Mother of the Holy Saviour. I
have watched you, Lauriere. I knew your worth,

A BEAR-HUNT

>89

lered

-said
; like
cold
inder-
lU too
:t not

5?'

yet because of your youth I refused to court you.
Ah, yes ! I was jealous of that young arm, of that
fleet foot, of that undimmed eye, of that most ex-
cellent ear and unfailing memory. Well, without
doubt what I said you will keep to yourself.'

He released Lauriere as he spoke, and pointed
gently to the chair the latter had quitted a moment
before.

* You cannot doubt me,' answered Nicolas earnestly.
* I came to-night that I might speak to you about
your grandson, but if you would rather not hear I
will pledge myself to talk of him to no one else.'

* He is not wise, eh ? Mixing himself with
politique — he, Magloire ! Foolish boy — young wood,
unfeathered bird ! But that will soon pass.'

* Not so soon perhaps as you think. He is to be
listened to, Magloire. He also says strange things
about the Church.'

Nicolas spoke in a lower tone, almost a whisper,
and as he spoke Mikel's face also took on a horrified
and perturbed expression.

* It is Pacifique, the cripple, who has told me. I
—I have not spoken myself about it to him — to
Magloire, but he has told Pacifique that none of
this, our religion, is true ; that men can live without
it ; that they can even die without it. And Pacifique
believes him.'

'Unhappy boy!' cried Mikel bitterly. 'Un-
natural son of a forgiving Church ! That he should

I90 THE FOREST OF DOURG-MARIE

have come to this ! Lauriere, you must not listen,
else you also come to grief. Through what has this
come to pass, that my grandson should dare to
renounce his Church ? It is infamous, dishonest,
altogether terrible !'

* Lest I also disbelieve?' said Nicolas, in a gentle
surprise. * Alas, Mikel ! that you should know me
so little. I desire only that all men shall believe
with me in the holiness and sanctity of our precious
Church, and lead as pious a life as their occupations
permit them. For you and me, that should be
easy, for though we assist at many a funeral of our
own making, it is for the general good, and accord-
ing to the orders of those above us in authority and
station. In truth, Mikel, it is well for our peace
that beasts have no souls.'

* Else were we condemned for ever to purgatory,
my son, with — in my own case — no one to say a
Mass for me, unless you, Lauriere, or Emile Joncas.
Well, so thou dost fear for the future of my grand-
son, Magloire. Thou doest him too great a kind-
ness. He is already bound for the domains of the
enemy of mankind. Does he, then, refuse the
blessed Sacrament ?'

*I think that he must,' said Lauriere, 'since he j
has told Pacifique it is all make-belief. Idees extrava-
gantes of the priests, he calls them, these things. |
these rites of the Church. Ah, but that is horrible I
I do wonder how he can say such things ! Once|

A BEAK-HUNT

lyi

isten,
s this
irc to
lonest,

gentle
ow nie
believe
precious
ipations
ould be
l1 of our
i accord-
ority and
^ur peace

.urgatory,
to say a
ie Joncas.
ly grand-
it a kind-
[ins of the
[efuse the

since he
]^es extrava-
jse things.
ks horrible'
gsl Once|

there were upon a small image of St. Catharine and
her wheel, upon my mother's shelf, some spots that
I did try to wash off with a cloth and water. I took
it to the window to see better ; it was a hot day,
very hot, and the clouds were rolling swiftly over-
head, and although my mother had told me never to
disturb the image, I disobeyed her. And, Mikel, out
of those purple clouds the lightning came and darted
in at the window, and I fell to the floor.'

'Ah! ouai,' said Mikel, smoking placidly again.
' And there was thy sister, Aspasie. Think how her
prayers were answered ! As straight and healthy a
young woman now as can be found in the valley.'

' And there was Alexis Ducharme '

' Ah, otiai, Alexis Ducharme ! Mais, but that was
a horrible story. You mean, how that he spit out

the holy ' Mikel crossed himself.

' Yes, yes, and fell dead on his way home the
same morning. And so it is, everyone who is a good
Catholic can tell some such tale of the vengeance of
the true God. Was it not last year at St. Barthelemi
that the week of prayer and the pilgrimage on bare
feet brought the rain, after we had waited ten weeks
for it ? Ma foi, these things are true, and no man
can explain them.'

' Explain them, Nicolas Lauriere ? They need no
explanation. They are the will of God.'

' You are right, Mikel le Caron ; and therefore is
it blasphemy to question these things. Let them

192

THE FOREST OF HOURGMARIE

•f 1

-I

alone. As for us, there is work and duty — plenty of
that, at all times.' And Lauriere sighed wearily.

At the sigh the elder man turned upon his com-
panion a look full of tenderness. * My son,' he said,
it is right that I should finish what I have begun.
No one can say I ever left a tree half felled, standing'
where it might easily fall and crush a traveller under
it, or disdained the cry of a wounded animal snared
in the cruel trap that God ordains to complete His
ends. You, Nicolas Lauridre, shall be my son, inherit
all I have, ail I will leave to you. For, Nicolas, it
is worth leaving, worth inheriting. Nicolas, I am
rich.'

Lauriere turned a startled gaze upon the trapper.
Riches were things he had never thought of. When
he had dreamed of leaving Bourg- Marie he had
thought of comfort, a little ease, friends, amusements,
but hardly of riches.

* Rich 1' he gasped.

* Ah ! ouai, I expect I am richer, were it all told
off by the notary and sworn to by myself and Father
Labelle, than Provost himself, or even M. Thibideau.
You are surprised ? Well, why should I speak of my
affairs ? Of what good were my riches to me, a
childless old man wrapped up in the past, and think-
ing always of the years that are for ever gone ? Say,
Nicolas, my son, but what ails thee ? Thou hearest
something, seest someone ?'

For Lauriere had risen, and with a stride reached

A BEARHUNT

»93

le re£

the one window of the small kitchen. A common
blind of green paper extended almost to the window-
ledge, but not quite, leaving a hiatus of an inch or
two through which it was perfectly possible to see
either into or outside the room. Laurierc had dis-
tinctly caught the eye of someone on the other side
of that dangerous gap, but when he reached the spot,
as usual in such cases, nothing was to be seen.
Quickly turning to reassure Mikel, he gave a gasp of
horror, for shining in the trapper's grasp was the
diamond of former days, fatally conspicuous in the
sombre dwelling by reason of its brilliancy, making
Hashing points of radiance and tremulous shimmering
colour in the midst of dull neutral tints and shabby
surroundings. Nicolas, excited, suspicious, troubled,
saw all the danger.

* Put it down !' he cried. * Put your hand away,
and that ring on it. Mikel — for your own sake,
Mikel, I saw someone — an eye — that ring — put it
away !'

Le Caron leisurely replaced the stone, which, in its
antique and elaborate setting, he had been about dis-
playing as a sample of his belongings to Nicolas, in
, the inner pocket where he usually kept it, but no fear
I crossed his intrepid spirit.

* Thou, Nicolas, thou are frightened at a bat ! It
Iwas no more. They wheel and beat at my window

many a night just like that. They are ugly things,
|but harmless. Come, draw the blind as far down as

194

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

IS
'u

it will go, and I will show thee this bauble once
more. But 'tis much more than a bauble, nwn
en/ant.' And Mikel, despite the protest of Lauriea.
drew the diamond forth again.

Nicolas, with many a backward glance, came near
and stared at the brilliant thing, unconscious of its
value. He knew nothing of precious stones, although
he knew something in a general way of minerals and
the various surface rocks of his native valley.

* What is it now, Lauriere, think you ?' said Mikel
smilingly. ' What do you see in it ?'

* Colour — plenty of that. The sunrise as it flared
this morning ; the sunset as it glowed last night ; the
trees in the wood as I passed them on my way from
church this morning ; the drops of the Parle-pai
Rapide ' I

* The Parle-pas Rapide ? No such vision ! You
are a child still, Lauriere. I tell you what I see:
The old Manoir of Colombiere Caron remodelled.
rebuilt ; a donjon added, for the terror of Bonhomme j
Peter and Paul Ladislasky ; the ancient fountain |
playing, drip, drip, all the summer days ; great firei
lighted in the hall every day in winter; an army oil
servants — a neat, orderly, obedient brigade ; portrait-
and hangings on the walls; dogs in the kennels;!
horses in the stables. One might even establisl!|
hawking again among us.' And Mikel dreamily letj
his thoughts wander far from Lauriere and the old
black stove in front of which he was seated. ' Therej

A BEAR-HUNT

195

Ls it flared
light ; the

loni ^0^
hat 1 see;
modelled.
3onhomme
t fountain
great fire:
n army^^'
; portrait:
e kennel:;
establi^l'-!
reamily ^
nd the ol;

d. 'T^^^*

would be a new chapel with carven seats, over which
a new Pere Chaletot should preside. One might
tind such a one, I think, at home in France again if
one could cross the ocean, travel, see men and women.
That, as you know, has been my dream, Lauriere :
to restore the once distinguished and honourable line
of Colombiere Caron to its original dignity ; make
of the ancient fief something of which my great
grandsires might be proud, and something which
should show to the valley the true principles of self-
government. Lauriere,' said the old man, growing
interested in his favourite theme, and occasionally
lapping the other's shoulder with an impatient yet
gentle left hand, ' there is much trouble out in the
great world, of which you, and such as you, know
little. There is lawlessness, revolt, the spirit of
rebellion manifesting itself; not in great wars like
those that convulsed the France of my forefathers,
noble in their way, grand, impassioned, heroic move-
ments, episodes of the most tragic, full of death, and
solemnity, and force, but in the family, between man
and wife, brother and sister, father and child, master
and servant, the employer and the employed. Evil
IS no longer beautiful, distant, lurid ; it is small, ugly,
near, personal. Men have forgotten how to suffer ;
[they have also forgotten how to serve. They cannot
wait, they cannot hope, these men of to-day. They
have no reasonableness, no patience ; they must ha ve
[everything just when they want it. There is a loss

13—2

196 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

of character, while there is an increase of education.
See thou, even in our parish this trouble creeps in !
It will be for this that our priests are so careful to
instruct us safely as to our souls, and leave our minds
alone. What is a man better that has read a few
books, for example, than you or me ? Yet out in
that world he is accounted better and wiser.
Tr/dame ! but I am as wise as any among them. I
wish to say that there is a great folly in this con-
fidence in books, in education. Father Labelle will
tell you the same as me : how that it is of little use,
this reading of many books, in making the character,
in forming the will. Well, there is Magloire. He
is impious, you tell me, blasphemous, vile, believing
in nothing. Whence comes it ? Had he lived here
with me, this would not have happened. It has come
of too much haste, too much folly, the wish to be
better than he was accounted — better, when he is
nobly descended, gently sprung ! He is, I tell you,
ashamed of his origin, of his country, of me, of him-
self. Mon Dieu I but it is cruel.' And Mikel drew
a long shuddering breath.

Lauriere did not speak. Presently his friend
resumed :

* That is where lies this grand mistake. Father
Labelle has often told me. One may cultivate, work,
make much of the soul and of the body ; but, except i
in very few cases, the mind must be left alone. The
Church includes everything necessary for the body

A BEAR-HUNT

197

ication.

eps in!

reful to

ir minds

,d a few

t out in

1 wiser.

:hem. I

this con-
belle will

little use,

:haracter,

oire. He

, believing

lived here
has come
rish to be
■hen he is
|l tell you,
,e, of him-
ikel drew

Ihis friend

Father

^ate, work,
)ut. except'
lone. The I
the body'

and for the soul ; therefore can we learn to be
Christians and pious well-living men without the
exercise of our minds at all. The mind is separate
from the soul, Nicolas Lauriere. This is a great
truth. But there are some who will not let it be so,
who teach the mind along with the soul, or try to,
and the result is pain, discomfiture, annoyance, the
impiety you describe, the horrors you shrink from,
in my grandson Magloire.'

' But if one were to be a priest ' said Nicolas

hurriedly.

* Ah, ouai / then it would be necessary. Were you
a priest, you would train your mind to see and
confront everything. You would read everything
you could find ; you would probe and cut aside, and
fell and dig, and turn up all the boulders in the way,
with how many ugly, squirming, but necessary worms
underneath ! Then, having confronted all these
spectres — shapes of sin, and doubt, and ignorance,
and temptation — ^you would be fit to be a priest ; not
before, and not otherwise. And the first thing you
would preach to your flock would be : an absolute
reliance on simplicity of mind ; the importance of
the great truths of sin and death and judgment.
Those are enough — ma foi, I should think so ! —
enough for any man to carry about with him in his
j brain. Let him keep his body pure and his soul
pious, and his mind will take care of itself. Now,
that is the greatest truth any priest can tell you.

•fi 1'

198 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Ah, ha! Look! let me read to you. This Pere
Chaletot — you have heard me speak of him ? He
was, two hundred years ago, Nicolas Lauriere, the
Chapelain, Aum6nier, priest, on duty in the old
Manoir. Wait here a moment, and I will procure
for you the greatest curiosity of the valley — nay, for
all I know, of the whole country. You do not mind
that you wait, eh, alone ? It will but be for a few
moments. In the next room, at the back, I have
this rare thing — a piece of writing in Pere Chaletot's
own hand. Agree you, then, my son, to wait but a
moment ?'

Lauriere, not knowing what else to say, hastily
agreed. It was absurd of Mikel to make the sug-
gestion in the form of a request at all, and his man-
hood revolted at the notion of his appearing a coward
in the eyes of this man, so many as four decades
older than himself. With a laugh and charac-
teristic shrug, and at the same time a passing look
fraught with much tenderness for Lauriere, Mikel
rose and passed across a narrow hall into another
room.

Nicolas, fascinated by that gaping hiatus of I
window, slowly turned around in his chair until hej
could see it. He watched during five minutes,
listening to old Mikel moving drawers and chairs inj
the other room, and nothing being visible at the!
window, he got up and quietly strolled to the frontl
door. Opening it, he looked on the star-sown beautyl

A BEAR-HUNT

199

5 Pere
? He
ire, the
the old
procure
-nay, for
lot mind
or a few
;, I have
:haletot's
ait but a

y, hastily

J the sug-

1 his man-

a coward

X decades

,d charac-

.ssing loo^
ere, Mikel
o another

of an October night, clear and keen and quiet.
There was no moonlight, but a soft glow from the
stars over all the majesty of Bourg- Marie. In front
stretched the highroad bordered by immense firs,
hemlocks and pines. Nicolas opened his aiouth and
drew in long breaths of that delicious night air.
After the confinement of Mikel's kitchen, this other
atmosphere seemed singularly pure, and with his
eyes directed up to the gleaming stars, burning with
silver, martial red and blue of steel and sapphire, he
listened all the while intently both for Mikel's voice
from behind him and for any suspicious noises in
front.

As for Le Caron, he was busily employed in
making search for the seventeenth-century document
that formed one of his chief treasures. Inability to
place his hand at once upon it rendered him irritable,
flurried. He fancied he was rapidly, momentarily
dwindling, growing old and helpless. He swore a
good deal ; tumbled the contents of drawers — seeds,
stones, feathers, odd bundles of paper. Government
documents and receipts — about, till the confusion
grew almost hopeless.

All of a sudden Lauriere heard, no such noise as
he half expected to hear, such as hurrying footsteps
or crashing branches, but a strange, husky, portentous
breathing, more like a snuffle, and accompanied by
an uncertain, heavy tread that suggested only one
living thing to his mind. The sound appeared to

■^

200 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

come from the trees at one side of the road, and
Lauriere, before moving, bent his keen eyes upon
those dark arches in front of him. The creature,
whatever it was, stopped instantly, as if it could see
Lauriere, and knew that his gaze was directed toward
it. Lauriere, noticing this, drew cautiously inside
the door and pretended to close it upon the visitor
and the cold, keen air. But from behind the partially-
closed door he held his breath and listened, and in a
few moments he heard the sound recommence. Then
his mind was made up.

' Mikel,' he said politely, going into the room
where the old trapper had strewn the floor with
stuffed birds, papers, dried herbs and grasses, tools,
pencils and string, * I will come back and finish the
evening with you, if you will allow me ; but for the
present I am going for a little stroll in the fresh night
air. There is something alive in the wood yonder,
Mikel, and I must find out what it is. Mikel, it
sounds like a bear.'

* Then distrust it,' said Le Caron, with a grim but
interested smile. 'You are a youngster, after all.
There is no bear that will come so near my house as
that. There is no bear out at all so far down as
this. They know me too well. Why should you
go after a.feufollet on a Sunday night at ten o'clock?
Bah ! Nicolas, you are a coward to-night.'

* It is no feu follet, I can assure you. There is
something in that wood, and I must see what it is,

A BEAR-HUNT

20 1

, and

upon
lature,
lid see
toward

inside

visitor
irtially-
ind in a
2. Then

\e room
3or with
,es, tools,

inisb the
it for the
|esh night
yonder,

Mikel, it

, grim but
1 after all.
house as
down as
^ould you
o'clock?

There is
/hat it is,

but I think it will be a bear. It has a heavy walk ;
it is a nasillard.*

* No bear, I tell you,' said Mikel angrily. ' Well,
then, go, and come back soon, for I will not wait
long for you. I can tell you, Nicolas Lauriere, you
are a fool! But, there — no, I mean you are too
easily taken in. A bear ! CaMdk ! but you will find
something else behind the tree.'

' I am not afraid,' said Nicolas, lightly closing the
door and striding out into the night.

He scanned the road up and down, but there was

no vehicle or person visible in either direction.

Crossing it — the hard, rutted road that ran straight

before Mikel's house and clearing — he entered the

pine-fringed edge of mighty Bourg - Marie, and

exercising all his trapper's tact, gentleness and wit,

began cautiously threading the dark intricacies of

the forest. The sound still existed, but it was quite

distant now. Lauriere stole on, from tree to tree,

from log to log; sometimes crawling, sometimes

gliding, but always managing to carry his body and

stout, lithe limbs noiselessly over brushwood and

stump and boulder, for towards the middle of the

forest the rocky stratum that covered the entire

valley often protruded, and being clad with many

Icinds of moss and lichen, formed a specially safe

footing for one anxious to make little sound, as he

undoubtedly was. In this manner he followed the

sound that surely belonged to some living, breathing

202 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

beast or animal, till it ceased with one tremendous
crash of wood and shattered timber, and Lauriere
thought the bear must have fallen into one of
Mikel's many traps. After the crash came a pro-
found silence, however; there was no noise as of
wounded bear or surprised human being, and he
was all the surer. Moving, still cautiously, towards
the direction of the crash, Lauriere, hot, tremulous,
and excited, began to wish that he had had his knife
with him, or, at least, some tool or weapon which
might be of use in case he came face to face with
another foe. For now, away to the left, and in an
opposite direction from that of the crash or tumuh
of split and scattered boughs, he heard the mysterious
noise again.

* Another,' said Lauriere to himself, and he
promptly set his teeth. * There will be, then, two of
a kind.' And he turned to the left in stealthy pursuit
of that heavy breathing and that clumsy tread.

He was enabled, by reason of the very thickness
and number of the trees in this spot, so different
from the half-cleared spaces obstructed by fallen logs
and rotting stumps that intervened nearer the edge
of the wood, to walk still more softly than before,
and, by dint of extraordinary precaution and agility,
he found himself gaining upon the suspicious visitant,
whom he still strongly asserted to himself must be a
bear. Nicolas had no glimmer of light. All was
dark, only that the trunks and branches of the trees

A BEAR-HUNT

203

idous
ariere
ne of
L pro-
as of
nd he
awards
nulous,
is knife
I which
,ce with
d in an
: tumult
^sterious

were blacker than all else. The sound grew nearer,
clearer, and with some difficulty he made out a shape
that was dark enough to be that of a bear, and that
crawled along the ground apparently in an aimless
and puzzled manner. The noise the creature made
was now easily distinguishable, and was something
between a pant and a snore. Nicolas, perplexed and
nervous, yet with all the instinct of the hunter keenly
alive within inciting him to his prey, bore down softly
upon the mysterious animal.

' 'Tis a bear,' said he to himself at one moment ;
' Mikel is wrong.' The next : * It is some strange
new animal, perhaps new even to Mikel. Ah ! sec
where he goes. He is puzzled ; he has lost his way;
he stops, smells, looks about him, returns, goes the
other way. I go too.'

Thus did the singular nocturnal traveller lead
Lauriere in and out, backward and forward, sometimes
panting, growling, or breathing heavily, and some-
times remaining perfectly quiet. The creature acted
as if it had lost its way, as Nicolas had thought to
himself, and this idea rendered him peculiarly watch-
ful. There was more system in its movements than
animals ordinarily display, and coming to a place
where a quantity of broken branches and faggots
made an obstacle in his path, Nicolas conceived the
bold plan of walking, or, rather, crashing, through it,
in order to alarm the bear or whatever it might be.
He did so, making the forest ring again, and the

204 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

dark shape he had been following so long stopped
short as if to think, but emitted no sound, nor
essayed to go for\vard or back. Nicolas, ready for
any encounter, sprang upon it, and clutched at a
furry skin or covering of some kind of hide, which
came off in his grasp, leaving behind the real object
of his pursuit. For a moment he fought with some-
thing that stood, upright now, though short, half
inside and half without the coat of rough fur, tore,
pinched, strove with all his might, till his nails were
broken and bleeding, and he caught his feet in a net-
work of branches, and so lost his hold of the creature
while he clung to the covering, and went sprawling
down upon his face in the thick darkness, humiliated,
enraged, defeated.

Later on, a small distorted shape stood panting
and laughing and grimacing on the edge of the
shadowy wood. It was the cripple, Pacifique P6ron,
who cursed the eyes of the stars above him as he
looked up at their soft and luminous splendour,
because they gave too much light.

[ 205 ]

CHAPTER XII.

A FELLED TREE.

[ panting
\e of the
[ue P^ro"'
lim as he
iplendour,

' As if a man did flee from a lion, and a bear met him ;
or went into the house, and leaned his hand on the wall,
and a serpent bit him.'

MiKEL, intent in his dwelling a mile away from the
spot where Nicolas lay tangled in the mesh-like
branches and forks of felled and scattered coniferae,
with a sharp pain cleaving his left ankle, and a sharper,
bitterer pain surging in his bosom, heard and divined
nothing of the chase and its results. He searched
long and earnestly for the document which he in-
tended for Lauriere's guidance, but it did not appear.
More than once he called across to Nicolas, sup-
posing him to be still in the room where he had left
him, and wondered perhaps that he received no
[answer ; yet he was not disturbed.

' It grows a cold night,' said he half aloud. * The
lyoungster, he sits by the fire, he hugs his arms, he
[dreams of the nights to come when one must dig a

II {

2o6 THE FOREST OF BOURGMARIE

■I

>*.

'W;

hole in the diifts of snow, nose about like a bear —
ah ! that is Nicolas. He said he was |<oin{< after a
bear.*

At the remembrance Mikel jumped hastily up,
crossed the passage, and, having satisfied himself
that Lauriere was no longer in the kitchen, went to
the door and looked out. The beauty — luminous,
cold, quiet, perfect — of the October night tempted
him sorely to follow. Not a sound reached his ear.
The blue and crimson and silver of the midnight sky
revealed only an eternal silence, a bland but Divine
plan, an inch or so of the true and distant Infinite.
Mikel listened as only a veteran hunter and trapper
can listen, the body bent forward, the eye, ear, nose
all alert, the breath kept back, the whole living
throbbing organism in abeyance, the nervous centres
held in control, rendered torpid, passive, pliant.
Once a sound of revelry from the direction of the
village was blown faintly along the road, and
Le Caron, who had learnt from Indians many secrets
of their forest magic, laid his ear to the ground, and
knew what the sound was. It was unlikely that
Lauriere had wandered in that direction, and Mikel,
locking his house, entered Bourg-Marie with a con-
viction that Nicolas was within the wood, and that
he must be found. The grinning shape of Pacifique
did not arrest him on his route, else some partial
conception of the truth might have helped him to
discover his friend sooner than he did, which was not

A FELLED TREE

207

ear —
iter a

ly up.
\imscU

vent to
ninous,
cmpted
his ear.
ight sky
Divine
lr\fii^itc.

I trapper

car, r^osc

pie living

is centres
pliant.
n of the

load, and

|ny secrets
lund, and
ikely thai
nd Mikel
ith a con-
1, and thai
Pacifiqu'^ •
e partial

,ed him to
[chwasnoi

until two hours had passed in calling, whistling,
retracing weary steps to and fro through the inter-
stices of the forest, and listening for bear or other
prey in the blackness of the night. A small lantern
cautiously carried in the left hand, the right one
being constantly occupied in putting back branches
and protruding twigs, finally revealed the prostrate
figure of Lauriere, pale as so brown a man could
^'row under pressure of faintness, pain, and the sense
of degrading defeat. Mikel's newly-awakened senti-
ments of friendliness and attachment were freshly
alive at the sight.

' I have found my son only to lose him !' he cried.
* Holy Mother of Jesus, have mercy and save !
Nicolas, canst thou hear? Well is it that I never
went so far as openly to grudge thee that keen eye,
that strong arm, those supple limbs. No ; I stopped
in time. Nicolas, I may have been impatient,
perhaps, of my own weakness ; despairing as to the
next ten years ; not anxious to see you and Joncas —
old Jambarchet — taking my place among you and
casting lots for Mikel le Caron's property, but I was
ever just to your prowess, Lauriere. I spared no
blame, perhaps, but likewise I spared no praise.
Canst thou hear me, Lauriere, mon fits ? But no, of
a truth, he is in the arms of death. And pale — the
colour of the leaves that stay all winter on many a
sapless branch — a yellow white — sacre-e ! — that
matches not with any pietty hues of spring, nor yet

208

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

'(Ski

with the brave ones of autumn. The wood-brown
all is gone from his cheeks, the oak-red from his hps.
Mais ! he hears — he tries to sit up — he looks at me !
— his eyes open ; they regard me, and their look is
as the look of many a beast I have caught in the
trap. Mon Dieu, Nicolas ! 'tis only I — Mikel. Look
not so strange, my child, upon one thou knowest so
long and so well.'

Lauriere, dazed with the sickly glare of the
lantern and the unexpected appearance of Mikel,
came out of his swoon with a low groan.

* It is, then, nothing, Mikel — nothing at all, that
is, but a sprain. One could, though, more easily
bear with a limb sawn off at once than this living,
throbbing pain, like a worm in the ankle that turns
when I turn, and eats and bites, and grinds its teeth
if I but breathe a little vdeep. Its teeth grind so that
you can hear them.'

' What was it brought you here ? I told you it
would prove but difeufollet. You were wise, Nicolas,
to have taken an old man's advice and stayed with
him.'

' I could never have done that. But that it was
no bear, though a shape that looked most like one, I
grant you now, MikeL'

The older man set down his lantern, and proceeded
to examine the injury sustained by Lauriere, who lay
now with closed eyes, and now with eyes tenderly
regarding his friend, or else gazing up into the black I

A FELLED TREE

209

)ro\vn
s lips.
Lt me 1
LOok is
in the
Look
west so

of the
: Mikel,

all, that
re easily
lis living,
:hat turns
i its teeth

id so that

)ld you it
;, "Nicolas,

^ayed witl^
lat it Nvas

hike one

proceeded
re, who lay
5 tenderly
the black

arches overhead. Midnight in the glooms of Bourg-
Marie brought no terrors to his contented mind, for
he had nothing on his conscience, and the legendary
shapes that haunt those three forests of Lafontaine,
Fournier, and Bourg-Marie, for coarser and more
faulty spirits, recurred to him only as phantasms of a
nurse's tale. He lay still, silent, but inwardly em-
bittered while Mikel took his hurried survey and
prepared to assist him to rise. The stoicism of their
calling prevented any doubts as to Lauriere's ability
to reach the highroad. Reach it he must, and with
no more aid than Mikel's still strong arm and
cautious tread might give him, since he was Nicolas
Lauriere, son of Polikarp-Jacques Lauzon Lauriere,
a trapper by choice, education, and destiny. Mikel
raised him by painful degrees, indulging the while
in incoherent exclamations and rapid transitions of
emotion. Step by step, his brown lips bleeding
where the white teeth cut through, and old Mikel's
blackened dried lips firmly set in an effort to main-
tain presence of mind allied to physical strength,
they proceeded through the avenues of vast trees
that, one so like another, might easily cause that
curious possession known as folie dn bois. Mikel,
I warier than Nicolas from longer experience, guided
their footsteps without seeing where he went, his
instinct being so unfailing, his wood -magic so
[accurate ; and when the road and clearing were finally
[reached, he prevailed upon his friend to enter the

2IO THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

I;
k

•m

house, at least for a time, till the true nature of the
sprain should be ascertained. Lauriere, still blanched
to the lips, staggered into Mikel's kitchen, from
whence he had gone forth a couple of hours before,
strong, supple, and vigorous.

' But I am only fit to die !' he exclaimed. * Mikel,
all the time I have been with you in and out of the
wood, and nothing has harmed me — bear, wild-cat,
lynx, holes, traps, smugglers — well, I am at last to
be beaten by a thing dressed up in fur — a bear ! A
pretty bear ! Mikel, you must watch, you must take
care. I tell you, Mikel, there was someone to-night
at that window and in the wood, and it was the same
person, of that I am assured.'

' But when for fifty years I have lived in safety, in
seclusion, and no one has guessed '

* Perhaps there was no one to guess.'

* Ah ! that was, you are thinking, before the return
of Magloire.'

* I must say the truth, Mikel. I am afraid for you.
That jewel, this secret wealth you speak of, your
circumstances, Mikel — it is no longer safe to live so,
And I — I, who would do so much for you — I am
useless, helpless, a tree felled before it counts twenty-
six rings '

' Say, then, rather, a sapling that, frightened as it j
is by the first blast of November or of March, wii
never live to be an oak for very fear. What! is it I
thou, Nicolas, that will give up on the strength ofa

A FELLED TREE

211

of the
inched
, from
before,

' Mikel,
t of the
wild-cat,
,t last to
Dear 1 A
nust take
2 to-night
5 the same

safety, in

, the return

lid for you.

ik of, your

to hve so.

70U— 1 am

its twenty-

^tened as it
[arch, Nvi^^l
^vVhatl is it I
trengthofa]

mere twist of the ankle-bone ? I would be ashamed
for you did I not know something myself of that
same sensation. 'Tis worse, as you say, than a le^
or arm blown off, because the pain is ever there,
and eats and grinds, and will not away. Lauriere,
I follow mostly my own will, and I wait only till
morning, when I can the better see if any lurk
behind trees or lie in the leaf-strewn ravines, to carry
thee to the old Manoir. There I can tend thee in
quiet, and there too shalt thou see these things of
which I have spoken.'

Lauriere, forced to comply, swallowed some whisky
and watched the preparations made for his comfort.
When the dawn arrived, Mikel went forth to meet it,
making a thorough search among the trees at the
back of the house, and when he was completely
satisfied that the most absolute silence and safety
prevailed, he assisted Lauriere out into the planta-
tion behind and up the gentle, wooded slope that led
to the quaint triangular close of green that faced
the long, low pile of the old and weather-beaten
Manoir. Mikel, supporting the other on his left
arm, pointed to the fires of dawn that surged in
orange and rosy flames over the cool, gray sky, and
together the two men looked at that vast blush
of colour that called into sad contrast the bald,
shattered walls and glassless windows of Mikel's
ancestral home.
* Seest thou, Lauriere,' he said falteringly, * how

14 — 2

212 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

the old towers flame, and the dark red tiles show
black against the brilliant sky? There it is — the
Manoir of Colombiere le Caron. Many a gentle-
man in France might glow with pride and call it his.
See, the crucifix with its image, the post with the
iron bell at the top, the grotto of curious stones,
the Cupid, the carven seats, the long, low terrace,
half sun, half shade, the rows upon rows of windows,
the turrets from which the flags should fly — all this,
Lauriere, is mine, and nightly in my dreams, and
daily in my walks, I see it peopled, the windows
hung with cloths, the terrace gay with dogs and
children, the fountain playing, the bell ringing, the
sound of an organ, the music of a horn — anything,
everything, that betokens life, health, prosperity.
Lauriere, had Magloire stayed at home, all this
might have come to pass. A seat in Parliament '

* A seat in Parliament ! Ah !' exclaimed Nicolas,
for the moment oblivious of his pain ; * but how
could he get that ?'

* Mon Dieu ! But you are stupid. And I forget—
you are sick — faint. But look : it would have been
easy. I give my grandson a good education ; I am
myself respectable. Eh ! I do not keep a public-
house, or peddle images and clocks ; so I send him
to the Seminaire. He is clever, black-eyed, shrill-
voiced, a quick speaker. The Fathers all say the
lad is a genius ; there is no one like him. They are
always on the watch for such ; he will be a glory to

A FELLED TREE

213

show
s— the
gentle-
i it his.
ith the
stones,
terrace,
indows,
all this,
ms, and
windows

.ogs and
ging, the
tny thing,
osperity.
all this

ent '

Nicolas,
but how

forget—
lave been
)n ; I am
|a public-
send him
^d, shrill-
say the
[They are
glory to

our race. Well, then, it happens I have property,
money, plate — plate, Nicolas — silver plate, argcnterie
— look you — and with such I am powerful ; I can do
what I like for my grandson Magloire. I keep myself
back ; no one need know me — old Caron, old man of
the woods, old hawk — and so I help him to become
a great man, Enfin, he will be offered a seat in the
Parliament, and at last becomes the great leader
of his party. Ah ! Bah ! it was but a dream. For
look : we stand, you and I, on the threshold of
a noble home, feeling that all is not right with
Magloire, that he is not as one of us, that what he
has learnt and heard and seen in these nine years is
not going to make him the proper man to represent
that line — distinguished, honourable, virtuous — and
perhaps rebuild that home, straightening its crooked
walls, draping its blind, black windows, and legis-
lating for all the happy valley. Why, Lauriere,'
said Mikel, still talking as they passed along the
gravel walk and finally gained the terraces and
central door, * half the trouble the present world
complains of is that, under God and the priests,
men are not willing to own any masters except
themselves. And very few men, Nicolas Lauriere,
are born and reared fit to become their own masters.
The priests and God in the first place, and in the next
a wise owner or seigneur, or a discriminating parent,
or a faithful friend, and thus would be saved much
loss of character. This restlessness in your young

r 1

It i

In- -■

f •

214 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

men, this unreasonableness, this hatred of a yoke —
cordedis ! it might be better for them to work the
fever out in six months' hard labour under a severe
taskmaster, and so be grateful hereafter for frozen
potatoes and smuggled whisky. Now, my son, we
enter the once hospitable manoir of Colombiere le
Caron. You are my guest. I bid you welcome,
then, and here I promise you quiet and repose
undisturbed.'

Lauriere, despite his suffering, threw a startled
glance at the rich apartment in which he found him-
self. Mikel, rolling one soft skin into a pillow for
his head, laid him comfortably upon another, and as
the last rose of dawn faded from the sky the old
trapper watched his charge sink into a sound, though
troubled, slumber. There was no daylight visible,
but by the familiar light of his lantern he marked the
drawn mouth and the clutching hands of his com-
panion, and great and grave thoughts soared within
him. Accustomed to such deeds of healing learnt in
the course of his long and lonely life, he had already
done all he could to allay the pain, and now sat look-
ing with infinite tenderness upon the muscular frame
and splendid proportions that lay so helpless before
him.

* Would he were my son in truth,' thought he—
* my grandson ! Ah ! there is much in blood, but
there is more in spontaneous affection. I feel for
this lad as I never yet felt for anyone.'

A FELLED TREE

215

yToke —

,rk the

severe

frozen
;on, we
biere le
'clcome,

repose

startled
and bim-
>illow for
r, and as
y the old
d, though
it visible,
tarked the
his corn-
ed within
^ learnt in
A already
sat look-
[ular frame
less before

lught he-

Iblood, but

1 feel for

Mikel knelt by Lauriere's side, and locked his hand
between his own.

* My grandson — Magloire !' he said, and a bitter
smile accompanied the reiteration of the once beloved
name. * There is no more that one. In his place I
take this one.'

And moved by a curious sentiment of exaggerated
kindhness that belonged to his racial characteristics,
though foreign to long self-imposed habits of repres-
sion, Mikel placed the antique jewel which he had
carried with him so many years upon Lauriere's
finger. It was a pledge of his new attachment, and
a proof of his confidence in the fidelity of the man
whose increasing prowess and strength had once
occasioned him pangs of jealousy and spasms of a
feeling akin to that of a morbid hate and distrust.

When Nicolas awoke, he again gazed in mild
astonishment at the strange fur-draped walls and
ceiling, the absence of doors and windows, and the
gleaming lantern on the fur-strewn floor ; and when
he felt the heavy ring upon his finger, and noted
with wonder and awe its gleams of colour and its
setting of massive gold, he literally relapsed once
more into unconsciousness at the thought of this
buried treasure of Mikel's, the existence of which he
had never contemplated even in fancy.

Meantime Pacifique, triumphing in his successful
ruse, had crept, half stealthily, half gleefully, along
the highroad home, and made a barn and pile of hay

'i..

4**

2i6 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

serve as a sleeping-place for the remainder of the
night. The following morning he caught Magloire
alone, who in his character of Mr. Murray Carson
was adorning himself with a view to going into the
village and inquiring at Delorme's for letters. Find-
ing that his company would be tolerated at least
during this expedition, Pacifique told Magloire in a
few words the affair of the night before.

* But you are a noisy fellow,' said Murray Carson,
with a shrug, * and a clumsy fellow. Supposing
Lauriere is dead — what then ? You say he fell ; you
heard him fall crash among the branches ; you ran
away without learning what happened. What if he
is dead ? You will have to go in the box — swear-
sure, you do him no harm.'

Pacifique did not share in these apprehensions.

* He not dead ; he fall twice as far, and not die.
He and old Mikel and Joncas all like : take much to
kill them.'

' And for why do you quarrel with Lauriere at all ?'
continued Magloire. * This bizness, it is between
you and me and my grandfather. There need be no
one else in it. Lauriere, if he gets well, he will find
you out, going about in a bearskin. Ah well, you
are a queer fellow, for sure. And this ring you saw-
come, what was it like ? A gold ring ?' He fixed
his eyes upon the cripple's evil face. * By G — d ! if
you tell me lies, I'll take you to the cure, and have
you sent to prison ! This ring — it was gold ?'

A FELLED TREE

217

of the
iagloire
Carson
nto the
Find-
at least
)ire in a

Carson,
upposing
fell ; you
; you ran
hat if he
—swear—

Pacifique nodded.

' And the stone — what colour was the stone ?'
' No colour at all — that is, all colours at once.'
*A diamond!' exclaimed Magloire incredulously.
' My grandfather living in this forest and carrying a
diamond ! How big was it ? As big as this ?' and
Mr. Murray Carson carelessly indicated a seal ring
of a vulgar red that he bore on his left little finger.
Pacifique nodded, then said :

* A little larger, and it shine much, much more.'

' Larger than this ?' And Magloire caught the
cripple by the arm. ' Shine ! I should bet your
sweet life it was bound to shine if it was larger than

this. D n it ! I'm in luck, I guess, if it is a

diamond, and I can only get hold of it. And what
else did you see?'

* Nothing else,' said Pacifique truthfully.

* What ! no furs, no skins, nothing of that kind ?'
'AH those,' said Pacifique cunningly, 'are in de

old Manoir; de oder I see in Mikel's leetle house-
cabane.'

' See here,' said Magloire impressively, * I can wait
no longer. I am clever with my tongue. Leave me
to arrange with Louis and Jack and with your mother.
To-night we will visit this old Manoir — to-night or
never. Ah, ha ! I snap my finger at you. Grand-
father, Old Man of the Woods, as we used to call
you, I laugh at your fears, your haughtiness, your
precautions. I shall change my plan : I shall go,

2i8 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Pacifique, alone, although you may wait outside, and
call upon my grandfather as a gentleman. He will
not dare to refuse me, and thus shall I make him
show me over the place, and anything I take a fancy
to I think he will not refuse me ; I have a persuader
here.'

And Mr. Murray Carson drew from his pocket a
neat little revolver, mounted with silver, and alto-
gether an article quite in keeping with the dress and
appearance of its owner. His white teeth were
whiter than ever this morning, his plastered black
hair blacker, his long sinewy frame undulating and
rapid in its motion, his smile more caressing than
usual, his air — le bel air, air du gentilhommc — more
pronounced. Pacifique shivered with joy at the near
prospect of revenge, and glanced from time to time
at his friend, superior in tweeds, blacked boots, a
cigar and ring, watch, and cuff-studs.

[ 219 ]

ide, and
He will
ike him
I a fancy
ersuader

pocket a
ind alto-
dress and
•eth were
red black
ating and
3sing than
ijuc— more
at the near
ne to time
d boots, a

CHAPTER Xni.

THE CURES GARDEN.

* For I know your manifold transgressions and your
mighty sins ; they afflict the just, they take a bribe.'

They soon entered the village. The hour was early,
and Magloire regretted that his desire to know if any
mail awaited him necessitated his walking abroad at
a season when nearly everyone was at work or so
employed that his arrival could not be telegraphed
from one end of the straggling street to the other.
However, one person, walking in his front garden
with his hands crossed at his back — Cure Labelle —
saw Magloire as he slowly came down the village
street with Pacitique following at his shining heels,
wished him good-morning, and went suddenly to the
gate and accosted him.

Cure Labelle was one of the short, rotund order of
priests. The other class is tall, thin, ascetic. He
was pink-faced, comfortable, prosperous ; seemingly
very sweet, amiable, gentle, with a pleasant eye and

220 THE FOREST OF BOURGMARIE

a secular manner that put everyone at ease. But
beneath this honeyed exterior, graced with actual
virtue and no suspicion of cant, lay a fund of mental
keenness, penetration, subtlety, and a remarkable gift
of logic. He did not wear his cassock nor shave his
head for nothing. Gay and simple, adroit and evenly
tempered, he was the idol of the parisli, and a clever
man of business as well as a good speaker and
charming companion. He leant over his gate and
offered one hand to Magloire ; in the other was a
glowing bunch of yellow and white hollyhocks.

Mr. Carson returned the salutation with a more
awkward air than was usual with him, and gave a
half-sneer at the flowers. The priest's skilled eye
read him correctly.

* You admire my garden,' he said smilingly, and
opening the gate. * Be so good as to walk inside,
and you will see it better — you and your friend.
How do you do, Pacifique ? You will also wish to
walk through my little park ; see the hollyhocks,
smell the vines, taste a grape or two.'

The men were irresolute for a moment, Magloire's
predilections naturally unfitting him for such an
encounter ; but the priest was so civil, who could
resist ?

* I am on my way to Delorme's,' he said, * and I
wish to get there at a certain time. But since yo;i
are so good, I will walk in. I am not sure, however, |
if you remember me — if you know who I am.'

THE CURI^VS GARDEN

99X

e. But
I actual
f mental
able gift
ihave his
id evenly
I a clever
aker and
gate and
^er was a
tcks.

:h a more
nd gave a
skilled eye

lingly, and
alk inside,
3ur friend,
so wish to
ollyhocks.

Magloire's
ir such an
1-who could

laid, * and 1
it since yO'i
[e, however,
am.'

The priest simulated lively interest.

' Not at first, my son — not at first. But, come,
walk in, walk in. This is the yellow hollyhock bush,
yonder is the white, and at the back there is a red
one I wish to show you. But though I knew you
not at first — the air was so different, the person so
changed — I asked of some in the village, and they
told me, " Old Carson's grandson, the boy who ran
away, has come home, and that will be the young
man yon mean." It is easy to know you ; faith 1
there is no other youth like you in the valley — so
tall, so straight, so much a gentleman. But walk
along ; proceed. Here is a summer-house I have
built myself. In it you shall taste of my home-
made wine. I make it myself. Well, it will be
nothing for you, Magloire ; still, you will perhaps do
me the honour.'

The cure, still talking as he led the way and in-
dicated various points of interest, did not fail to
notice the gradual change in Mr. Carson's counte-
nance. With an easy manner the priest went to
and fro, bringing a carafe and three tumblers, and
presently sat down with a guest on either hand,
happy, smiling, a model host, and surely a model
pastor. But he divined that Pacifique would be in
i the way.

* You are anxious to get to Delorme's by a certain
hour,' he said frankly to his chief guest. * Doubtless
you will be expecting letters.' Carson flushed. * Why

'Mh

■1)

<•'

Am.

W 1;

222 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

not, then, send our friend Pacifique for them? Then
you can sit here until he returns. Come, that is a
good idea. I pour you a glass of wine, my son.
You drink it — good — it is not too warming, too
enlivening this October morning ? It goes down
well ? Ha ha ! Now then, you, Pacifique, may go
on to Delorme's, and inquire for this gentleman's
letters. They will be directed to Mr. Magloire

le Caron '

' No,' interposed Carson, and gave his English
patronymic.

The cur6, as if gently but agreeably surprised,
repeated the name carefully over to the cripple, and
Pacifique had nothing to do but accept the situation
thus adroitly thrust upon him and leave the summer-
house.

The little garden was a mass of autumnal colour-
ing. Flowers, crimson Virginia creeper, the purple
and red of grapes, the bronze flush of ash and
sumach, preparing the way for more brilliant hues,
all contrasted strikingly with the graystone house
and offices and the black-robed figure of Cure Labelle.
Magloire contemplated the scene with pride at finding
himself the honoured guest of the parish priest, and
reflected how his appearance and manners must have
commended him to so distinguished a person.

'There is little change, you will find, in Bourg-
Marie,' began the cur6, with a pleasant shrug. * Vow
are now fortunate, favoured indeed to have seenl

THE CURE!'S garden

223

Then
lat is a
ny son.
ing, too
is down
may go
itleman's
Magloire

nal colour-
the purple
f ash and
liant hues,
;one house
ire Labelle.
at finding
priest, and
must have

[son.

in Bourg-
irug. 'Yo«l

have seen I

something better than the monotony of our little
village. How long is it that you have been away ?
It is, I believe, nine years. You are rejoiced to see
your grandfather and uncle, I make no doubt. Old
Mikel, he is tough, he wears well. You resemble
him. You are the same height, you have the same
complexion, the same carriage ; but, mon Dieu ! how
improved, how well-dressed, how much a gentleman !
Ah, but it is wonderful, this travel, this education !'

Magloire grew complacently satisfied that he was
making the best of impressions.

' It is wonderful, as you say, but it is not everyone
who shows so much change, so great an improve-
ment. Some — they do not change at all.'

* I suppose not,' said the cure ruefully, as if he
also deplored the ignorance of such as were blind to
the gentle influences of Milwaukee society, summed
up in bars, oyster-rooms, hotel rotundas, and the
races. * Louis and Jack, now, your companions *

' Louis and Jack ! Well, they are my companions
here, but not in Milwaukee. They are good fellows,
Louis and Jack ; but then they are slow ; they do
not improve, learn new things, ideas Hke me.'

* I understand ;' and the priest sagely nodded his
head. * Now you, Magloire, you are different ; you
are clever.'

Carson languidly admitted the truth of this state-
ment.

* You are, I doubt not, a rich young fellow, pros-

224 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

S!»-

perous, contented, popular. Yes, yes, it was wise
of you to run away from such a place as this. Trees,
stumps, frost and ice, work in the fields, or sleep in
the woods — what had you to do with that ? Tut,
tut ! it was not to be endured. And the grand-
father, he did his best, perhaps ; but he was so
old, he did not understand a young fellow — clever,
a natural speaker, witty, handsome ; well, I do
not blame you, my son.' And he gravely patted
Magloire's bare head.

As for Magloire, he was delighted to find the
priest a man of so much sense, sympathy and
penetration. He drank off his first glass of wine,
and the cure, quite deftly and hospitably, filled him
a second.

* I drink to your success, my child. What is your
line of business, by the way? You would have
made a fine soldier, and not a bad priest. And
though soldiers are seldom needed in our modern
communities, priests always are. There is always
room for a clever priest, look you, one capable of
interesting his people, assisting them, comforting
them '

The cure appeared to hesitate, and Magloire took
the sentence up and finished it.

* Leading them his own way, robbing them, per-
suading them? Well, you are right, M. le Cure;
you priests have all the power in this part of the
country. 'Tis as you say, of a truth.'

THE CURE'S GARDEN

225

LS Wise
Trees,

jleep in

? Tut,
grand-
was so

—clever,

11, I do
yr patted

* Pardon me,' said the cure quickly, with a pleasant
but, nevertheless, amused smile ; * I said nothing of
the kind, but if you think so — well, there is some
truth in what you say. And you — you do not
approve, perhaps ?'

' Oh, I,' said Magloire, with a return of his sneer
and superior manner — * of course I cannot approve.
You may have heard that I spoke in the village, at
Delorme's, last Friday.'

'You spoke! You mean, you gave there an
address — an oration. Yes, yes, I heard something
of it. They say in the village great things of you —
that you will yet be in Parliament, that you have
returned to Bourg-Marie for that purpose. Then
we shall be very proud of you — indeed, yes. In
Parliament — that goes well ; that will be an honour
for old Mikel's illustrious house.'

Magloire, incapable of seeing the true sentiments
of the priest, grew more communicative, and while
he lost his reverence for the gown, manifested more
interest in the mental attitude of one whom he had
deemed a mortal enemy. Conceit so blinded him,
and he was so given up to visions of success, and so
haunted by spectres of failure, that he forgot the
true position of this smiling, ruddy, comfortable,
sensible servant of the Church.

* Why,' he said, crossing his long legs easily, and
tapping with one hand on the small rustic table that
held their glasses upon it, its rude carving the work

226 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

of the industrious cure, * you are as bad as my grand-
father, old Mikel of the woods, old hawk, weasel,
fox. He will be always for making of me this, or
that, and the other. See, now, I have no notion
of going to Parliament, or staying in this accursed
country any longer than I can help. Do you
suppose I love it — land of forests, and frozen rivers
and desolate lakes ; and then the other extreme —
burning summers that scorch your feet up, and
coarse food — at least, in this place — barring your
wine. Father Labelle, and the widow's whisky — do
you suppose that I am come back to stay ? I am
here on business only — see the old man, of course ;
see all my friends, make them fine presents, see the
country, tell them all about myself lest they mourn
too much for me and make themselves ill, give them
some of my ideas, so amuse them, interest them,
and improve their condition. All that fills up my
time. I go back soon. Thank you — no Parliament
for me. I am no fool ; I do better in Milwaukee.
I intend to stay there — have a good time.'

* Still, is it not a pity ?' asked the priest, as if
disappointed, and gravely weighing the situation,
while he kept Magloire's glass filled to the brim
and occasionally sipped from his own ; ' is it not a
mistake not to embrace such an opportunity, my
son, of together making a name for yourself and for
your native land ? I quite agree with you that
here the field is very small. The habitant is

THE CURE'S GARDEN

227

grand-
weasel,
this, or
notion
.ccursed
Do you
;n rivers
:treme—
up, and
ing your
lisky— do
^? I am
,f course;
ts, see the
ley mourn
give them
■est them,
[Us up my
•arUament
flilwaukee.

slow. Generations of tedious winters, of enervating
summers, of forced idleness, of natural limitations,
have made him slow. Give us credit — we in the
Church — for doing all we can. We teach, we scold,
we impart, we work, we blame, we praise, we
chastise, we implore from morning till night, from
week to week, from year to year, but slow he is,
this habitant, and slow he must remain. You, now,
might be of so much use to our country, to your
Church.'

The priest calmly regarded Magloire as he spoke,
taking it as a matter of course that his visitor
was in harmony with his opinions, and a devoted
and faithful follower of the Roman Church. Mr.
Murray Carson, on the other hand, somewhat lost
his accustomed self-command. He still retained
enough original fear for the personal authority
invested in the parish priest to wish to be cautious,
while old habit impelled him to confess all and
demand forgiveness.

'Well,' he stammered, but slowly recovering his
wonted air of sangfroid, *I don't think that would
suit me. Money is a very great thing — no one is
fonder of money than I would be if I had much.
You are wrong there to think me rich ; I am not,
indeed, but I do not care for a name. No ; I would
rather Hve in Milwaukee, and trade in horses and
go to the theatre, than have a seat in your Parlia-
ment — be the Premier, even. And about the Church,

15—2

228 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

what would you say if I told you I did not even
care very much about that ? I don't know how it
is, out there one goes to church ' — and Magloire's
pallid face flushed a deep crimson, and he evaded
the priest's eye — * one goes to church, listens to the
music, but that is about all there is of it — at least,
with me. Yes,' suddenly defiant, 'and with many
others as well.'

To his surprise and relief, the priest simply lifted
his glass to his lips and drank its contents off.

* Certainly, my son, certainly ; I understand all
that. That is a phase, a feature, an episode with
which I am well acquainted. Yours is a mind
worthy of being considered, of being waited on ; it
must not be driven, forced, battered in with the
ram of dogma. Terrorism, despotism, tyranny, are
not for you. You can walk alone, you can guide
yourself, you need no priest over you. I was nearly
going to say you needed no God either ; for see, you
are different from these ignorant sons of the forge,
the shanty, the raft, the fields, the forests. These—
what would they be without the Church and with-
out the priest ?'

'What indeed!' stammered Magloire, bewildered
by the easy manner and disposal of the question.

' Remember that, if you please, my child,' con-
tinued Father Labelle. * For such as you, a
pleasant condition of doubt very likely suffices
There have been great minds, rare intelligences,

THE CURli:'S GARDEN

229

t even
how it
gloire's
evaded
to the
Lt least,
ti many

•ly lifted

Ff.

tand all
3de with
a mind
;d on; it
|With the
inny, are
an guide
as nearly
: see, you
:he forge,
These—
,nd with-

lewildered

stion.

lild,' con-
you, a
suffices
illigences,

powerful thinkers whom the Church has, with all
her charm and breadth, been unable to retain inside
her fold. You are no doubt one of these. No
one seeks to inconvenience you. We only ask
that you refrain from associating your valuable
thought and conclusions too openly and vulgarly
with these ignorant ones around you. They would
not, in the first place, comprehend you ; and in the
second, they could never appreciate you. You must
see that yourself.'

Carson grew easy again under this generous
patronage, and quaffed his wine leisurely, like a
man of the world.

*We think much alike. There are not many
priests, sure, like you. Father Labelle.'

* Why not ? You left Bourg-Marie too soon, too
young, to be able to tell. You cannot have met
many priests. If you had, you would understand
them better, and measure their influence more at its
proper worth. Be not hasty in forming conclusions.
Weigh your thoughts carefully, and spread them
only before the appreciative and the wise. I should
grieve to hear of your excellent gifts wasted. The
subject of your address the other night, for example
—I have not heard it.'

Magloire grew perhaps a shade less confident.

* Well, there was no special subject,' he said
hastily. ' I am interested in my countrymen ; I
wish to help to make them wiser, more comfortable,

230 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

better off. I hear a great many new things out in
those States. I bring them back with me, I tell
them to the village and to the valley. I do not do
this for money, you understand.'

* Certainly not,' said the priest, * nor yet for fame.
I wonder, then, why you do do it. But have some
more wine. Yes, yes, my son, it will not harm, will
not mount to the brain. 'Tis mere vinegar, made
from some of this year's grapes. It hath not had
time to grow dangerous. What, then, are some of
these ideas ? Equality will be one, doubtless. It is
a grand word, equality, and means in these days
much it never meant before. To be actual equals
men have long endeavoured. In rank, in possessions,

in health and wealth, in religion Ah, let me give

you a little more wine, or vinegar, call it which you
will. I was saying '

* That we had long endeavoured to prove all men
naturally equal,' said Magloire. ' And that would be
a fine thing. See now. You're a priest, but a sen-
sible one. Think of the money you have, my grand-
father has, the Church has, locked away in coffers !
Think what might be done with that towards helping
the poor, the wretched, the ignorant, building schools,
educating the children ! Well, it is a funny thing
that these people do not see for themselves how
unjust it is, this locking up of their hard-earned
money in the coffers of Mother Church ! Bah ! the
habitant is more than slow. He is a fool.'

the pi
'But
sow tl
that
truths
have 1
nothin
And
made v
inordin
'Wh
confidei
be care
sham, a
He p
vvilderec
'The
'Yes,
and jub

'niraculc
and almj
its saintf
its rosari
thing, I
don't be
Labelle,
good of i
t^ie good

THE CURB'S GARDEN

231

i out in
;, I tell
> not do

or fame.
Lve some
arm, will
ar, made
not had
; some of
3SS. It is
hese days
ual equals
Dssessions,
et me give
which you

all men
would be
but a sen-
I my grand-
coffers !
|rds helping
schools,
inny thing
selves hoNV
^ard-earned
Bah 1 the

* Douccment, mon fils, mais doucement,' returned
the priest, with his pleasant smile not a whit relaxed.
' But you will prove an enemy to the Church if you
sow these truths among the people. You see, I hint
that they are truths — partial, approximate, half-
truths only. Ma foi ! but you are a clever lad. You
have not lived in the great world nine years for
nothing. Go on. Talk to me of this again.'

And Carson, continually sipping the cure's home-
made wine, drank in the simulated praise with greedy
inordinate vanity.

* Why, the whole thing,' said he, leaning over
confidentially to the priest, just drunk enough not to
be careful of what he said, *the whole thing is a
sham, a hoax, a fabrication.'

He paused dramatically. The priest, as if be-
wildered, repeated his phrase.

* The whole thing ?' said he.

' Yes, the Church. Its fetes, processions, triumphs,
and jubilees ; its pilgrimages, shrines, cures, and
miraculous interventions ; its tithes, masses, prayers,
and alms ; its altars, crucifixes, pictures, and statues;
its saints and saints' days, purgatory, and paradise ;
its rosaries, bells, cassocks, and incense. The whole
thing, I tell you, is sham, fabrication, rubbish. I

don't believe any longer in it. D n ! Father

Labelle, how can anyone believe in it ? What's the
good of it ? — that's what I want to know ! Tell me
the good of it.'

^1 i

232 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

The priest sadly shook his head. It cost him an
effort not to rise and arrest the proj^jress of the
blasphemer, but he was a finished actor, and main-
tained a sad composure.

' You can't tell me,' rejoined Carson, * I knew you
couldn't. And yet you call yourself a priest. And
the Confessional and the Sacrament, what can you
make of these ? They are the worst of all. "Well,
some day the people will wake up. They will not
sleep always. There will be a great war, a revolu-
tion. The people will come forth from a land of
darkness and follow a new light.'

This was a quotation from the lecture, being an
application of a well-known Bible verse. The priest
affected despair.

* It will come,' said Carson. ' Not very long, either,
before it comes.'

* And you will help, doubtless, to bring it quickly.
You would fain be the herald of a fair dawn. Worthy
usher of a worthy regime. My son, you are an orna-
ment wasted, an instrument neglected, unless, indeed,
it fall out as you say, and our religion be dethroned.
But within the Church itself, what a head, what a
power, what gifts ! Ah ! had you stayed in Bourg-
Marie you should have been a priest. I might have
had the honour of fitting you for your post. Alas !
it is my misfortune and the Church's loss. You do
not tell one, however, my child, what it is you do all
the days in this city where you live. You have, I

expec

one.
as yoi
Maf
gratiti
for Fr
He toe
and hi
quench
'Thii
La belie
Speakin
not in i
content
'Ah, 1
"~-a poss
'Yes,
always, (
—in my
have an
friends, a
^ am a vv(
?o to the
as you see
With a
•^^agloire
indicated
appendage
of awe anc

THE CURB'S GARDEN

233

iim an
of the
L main-

lew you
t. And
:an you
Well,
will not
revolu-
land of

being an
^hc priest

expect, taken up some profession, perhaps a learned
one. Good Heaven ! I cannot bear to think of such
as you in trade.'

Magloire was positively electrified with joy,
gratitude and wine. Wine, after all, is the drink
for Frenchmen, for Italians, Corsicans, Spaniards.
He took little of it in Milwaukee, for it was scarce
and high, and lager was infectious, cheap, a good
quencher.

* This wine,' cried he, ' is no vinegar. Father
Labelle, you ought to know your own wares better.
Speaking of wares, you have guessed aright. I am
not in trade. I am — many things. One does not
content me.'

' Ah, the clever lad ! He is a potential Richelieu
—a possible Machiavelli ! A credit to his village.'

* Yes, I should be tired of a pen beside my ear
always, or a whip in my hand, or a tray carried — so
—in my left hand aloft. I deal largely in horses. I
have an office. I am much in demand ; have many
friends, all Americans. Well, I suppose I may say
I am a well-known young fellow, have plenty friends,
go to the theatre three or four times a week, dress
as you see.'

With a gesture sublime in its fatuous self-conceit
Magloire opened his coat, uncrossed his legs, and
indicated his matchless suit of tweed and other
appendages. The cure made every demonstration
of awe and delight.

234 THE FOREST OF nOURG-MAUIE

* Thut I have only this wine to offer you, Magloirc!
'Tis a shame. But if you will do me the honour a
second time to enter my garden, you shall taste of
something better, stronger ; a sip of lif|iieur, home-
made, too — everything is home-made in my modest
house — but clear and amber and honeyed fire. The
celebrated cli.xiy clonic, eau don'c, gilded water, made
with goldbeaters' leaf in it and oils of cinnamon and
roses. Ah ha ! that is something to taste — to take the
bad humours away : the frost in winter, the languor
in summer. And this business of yours, it pays
well; you are prospering, without doubt, and, like all
your frugal countrymen, endeavouring to put some-
thing by ? Be sure you do that.'

* My grandfather, he will have done that for me,"
replied Magloire. * Say, Father Labelle, how much
money has he hid away in the old Manoir ?'

The cure laughed.

' You are not so clever, after all. Mikel has very
little money. It is possible he has a few skins — bear-
skins, sealskins — but nothing remarkable. You should
go to see him.'

* I have been — once, but I shall go again. I
wish to tell him that I do not care for his ideas, hif
opinions. I am no longer Magloire le Caron, but aCj
American citizen, a gentleman, man of business. I
am no dreamer.'

* And Mikel is ?' said the priest. * I see, you del
not sympathize. Now, with me you are perfectly

darker,
frown ofl

'No,'
whom I
without
^ny reas(
time I te

THK CURI^rS GARDEN

235

[igloirc!
onour ;i
tiistc (if
•, home-
f modest
re. The
er, made
.mon and
take the
c lanf^uor
;, it pay?
id, like all
put some-
it for me,"
how much

Icl has very
:ins— bear-
Iyou should

again. ^
IS ideas, hi^
Iron, but an

kisiness.

see, you <i^
re perfectly

at ease, ch? Not afraid to tell ine anything? Well,
now, here is an important question : Are you married ?
Who will these letters be from?'
' Letters ?' repeated Maj^doire, in a confused way.
• These letters you sent Pacifujue for. Ah ha ! you
had forgotten. Say, then, perhaps you had better take
no more wine. Do you generally drink so much ?'

There was a fine show of reluctant surprise in the
cure's voice as he removed the empty bottle that
completely shook Magloire's confidence in himself.
He buttoned his coat with a shaking hand, and
endeavoured to be as sober as possible.

'That's the second time since I've been here,' he
said, in English, ' that I have taken one glass too

long — too much. D n ! Father Labelle, but I

am sorry. Wait a moment. My head will be quite
clear immediately.'

*As long as you like, my son,' replied the cure.
'I see Pacifique approach, however. Pull yourself
up ; that is the way. Never let your inferior see
your weakness. There is, then, no Madame Carson?'
Magloire's dark face suddenly grew serious but
darker, darker, till it was condensed into one black
frown of fear.

' No,' he whispered ; * but there is a lady of
whom I am very fond, and she — she will go nowhere
without me. I have said to myself often, ** Is there
any reason why I should not love her ?" and every
time I tell myself no. But yet I do not speak to her

236 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

nor tell her. I am not afraid. I do not, like you,
believe in punishment, or in a God, or in purgatory.
Therefore, why should I fear ?'

* Why, indeed ?' The cur6 was profoundly in-
terested. * She is perhaps too young. Take courage,
monfils. Woman was made for man. She is beau-
tiful, I doubt not. Frenchmen were ever great
judges of women.'

* After all,' said Magloire, suddenly calm and con-
fident, 'there is no great difficulty. There is one
place, I am told, where one can get a divorce in a
very little while — in an hour, they tell me. I have
thought that will be what we must do. And again I
have thought — well, it is not necessary.'

How the cure enjoyed the joke ! Ah, the clever,
funny, delightful, surprising, charming joke !

*A divorce!' he cried, actually digging his fat
fingers into his visitor's distinguished side. * And I
said, Take courage, mon fils ! Take courage ! Ha,
ha ! The good joke ! The clever lad ! A divorce
already, and he not twenty-four ! Bravo, mon enfant !
Tiens, c'est pour la divorce !'

And the good man drew a second bottle of home-
made wine from a vine-trellised recess in the summer-
house (pavilion), and insisted on a final glass being
quaffed in honour of the occasion, while another was
poured for Pacifique, who presently arrived, looking
stealthily from under furry and lowering brows at
the priest.

one.

Paci]
newJy.j
priest,
from th
silence.
' Tien,
l^\ Yc
Confide
^dante,
""indeed
you retui
He st
slapped
'?lass of
three waJ]
[priest pre;

THE CURE'S GARDEN

237

ike you,
irgatory.

indly in-

courage,

e is beau-

ver great

and con-
ere is one
vorce in a
,e. I have
Liid again 1

the clever,
icel

Carson rose up steadily enough and took his mail :
one letter from Rylands, another from the head-
quarters of the Order, bearing a Chicago postmark.
He dared not break the seal of either before the cure.
The latter had divined enough.

* Well, we part, my son. I invite you whenever
you are passing. Make a good long visit. I will
myself attend your second meeting. I may not
sympathize with all you say, that is impossible.
But I will not attempt to refute one so gifted, so
learned. Farewell, thou, and farewell, Pacitique.
Thou dost not come to Mass often enough, thou idle
one. I must speak to your mother about it.'

Pacifique trembled. He was still, in spite of his
newly-acquired opinions, very much in awe of the
priest. The latter looked gaily but yet searchingly
from the cripple to Magloire. There was a moment's
silence. Finally it was the priest who broke it.

* Tiens ! but you two are in a hurry. My children,
go! You behold in me a man as well as a priest.
Confide in me. Am I not professionally your con-
fidante, the ear, the eye, the mind for all the village
-indeed, all the valley ? I bid you go, but see that
I you return.'

He shook hands warmly with Magloire. He

[slapped Pacifique on the shoulder. He forced a

?lass of wine upon the latter. Together they all

[three walked to the garden gate. Arrived there, the

Ipriest presented each with a rich handful of flowers.

238 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Magloire had hollyhocks and zinnias, Paciiique
petunias. His manner was soothing, contented,
cheerful. Carson, bewildered, but half sober, con-
fused and constrained to politeness, walked off as in
a dream. Pacifique, crushing and flattening the
stems of his flowers to green pulp in his hand, stole
moodily along. In the presence of the priest he
could not be natural, comfortable, blasphemous,
revolting, base. Yet, when the check upon his
nature was removed, he refrained from speaking to
Magloire, who began reading his letters as soon as
the road was reached.

[ 239 ]

aciftque
itented,
er, con-
Dff as in
ling the
.nd, stole
priest he
phemous,
upon his
leaking to
,s soon as

CHAPTER XIV.

THE CURE HAS A DREAM.

' We see not our signs ; there is no more any prophet.'

The priest went back to his summer-house and
apostrophized his visitor. His house, though on the
highroad to the village and only a few yards away
from that main artery of life for the valley of the
Yamachiche, gave at the back upon the more beau-
tiful and sweeping crescents of green tinged with
October bronze that formed the valley itself. The
pavilion, draped in grape-vines, faced this delightful
prospect. With all the fervour of his race and all
the yearning of a strong and noble nature, he threw
his arms widely upon the air and almost wept as he
regarded the peaceful landscape.

'Mother of God!' he cried, 'what an iniquity,

what a shame, what eternal pity, that all the work

I of years, the prayers of a constant and much-enduring

manhood, should be useless, ineffectual, in face of

this blasphemous conceit, this maudhn machination,

240 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Ste..

I*.-.

this phrasemongering — it is no more ! This coward
— for he is a coward as well as other things — this
coward has no real education, no real polish, no real
impulses, beyond those of his own advancement and
comfort and safety. It is infamous that he must
return here to the innocent fields in which my
people work uncomplainingly, to the majestic forests
clothed in matchless hues, to the bright, broad river
of his youth, bearing upon its bosom the mighty rafts
that my people have made for workshop, hearth, and
fane, to all the simple, virtuous plan of our primitive
village life ! It is monstrous that our nationality, so
unaccountably precious to us, should be as nothing
to him, that our very language is partly foreign and
partly hateful, that the Church itself, even, is not
sacred, but perhaps misunderstood and maltreated
worse than all !'

He stopped, and looked even more wistfully than
before upon all the beauty of the scene. The river
ran in sparkling lacy froth of beaten silver to the left,
where a series of small rapids kept up a perpetual
seething and bubbling and foaming over, and in
smooth oily circles of purest gold to the right, where
it disappeared in the strips of pine forest, that showed
straight and serried ranks of blackness against the
pervading amber of the maples beyond. From the
pine strips floated pearly spirals of smoke, and thcj
sound of a minor chanson drew gradually nearer.
The cur6 watched a long raft with two huts upon it I

THE CURI^: HAS A DREAM

241

coward
:ys— this
, no real
lent and
he must
lich it^y
ic forests
oad river
ghty rafts
-arth, and
• primitive
onality, so
IS nothing
oreign and
^en, is not
maltreated

itfuUy than
The river
to the left,

a perpetual

■er, and m
light, where
^hat showed
against the
From the
.e, and the
Lily nearer-
luts upon It

slowly emerge from the dark edges of the pine-fringed
banks and gleam yellow in the sunshine. A dozen
men in blue and brown shirts were lying about,
talking, fiddling, working, singing. How they en-
joyed the air, thinking how soon the long winter
would be upon them ! The cur6 did not recognise
them, but he could almost tell without looking who
they were. He knew to whom the raft belonged,
where it was going, what would become of it.

Across the river, just where the fleecy silver flashed
into ardent gold, reposed the snug Norman farm of
Blaise Aubert — man, wife, sixteen children, grand-
mother, aunt, a man, and a maid. The old grand-
mother was now at work among the vegetables in
the front garden, pipe in mouth, old straw hat over
a tightly-drawn cap. With her were six small chil-
dren and a dog. The cure knew all their names,
ages, faults, and habits; had baptized them all,
including the dog, for when one day he had encoun-
tered a toddler of five leading the great black beast to
the river to swim, he had, to please the child, to take
the good-natured animal by the paws and throw him
in, and gaily pronounce him Dominique after himself.
Pare Dominique Labelle, guide, counsellor, and friend
I for all the valley of the Yamachiche.

These sights, so domestic, so gentle, so familiar,
ho dear, were too much for the offended priest. His
pood changed.

'I am angry. A righteous anger inflames me.

242 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

t 5

'li':

Mais c'est un enfant terrible — that one, that Magloire,
with his detestable English name, and his vulgar
scents, oils, and his declaration of independence!
He would like to doom us, to call us a doomed race ;
he would wish to see our language supplanted, our
emotions suppressed, our traditions ridiculed, our
true sentiments ignored ! It is hardly possible to
credit that he is indeed the grandson of so true an
aristocrat, so fine a gentleman at heart, as old
Le Caron ! And his lack of moral character — how
despicable a position, to believe neither in God nor
in hell, and yet for ever to be afraid of some Being
akin to the first and some state similar to the second I
Ah, Magloire !' exclaimed the good man, his angry
mood again leaving him, melted almost to tears.
* how much sorrow, humility, and mischief you mayl
already have created, and how much more of the]
peace, innocence, and comfort of Bourg-Marie is
endangered in the future, by your unlucky sojourn
here !'

Later in the day, the cur6, having finished hii
simple dinner, cooked by himself, and accompaniej
by a small glass of that excellent wine, establishe
himself in the green pavilion to take all the sunshin
he could, and folding his arms on the little carvf
table, gradually dropped asleep. And while he slej
he had a curious dream or vision. Down from t]
hazy golden heaven floated a celestial shape t\
stopped not, stayed not in the amber airs until!

THE CURI^: HAS A DREAM

243

agloire,
; vulgar
ndence 1
ed race ;
ated, our
uled, our
Dssible to
o true an
:t, as old
Lcter-hoNV
n God nor
some Being
the second'.
^, his angry
1st to tears.

lief yo^ "^^•
imore of the]
urg-Marie li
]ucky sojouri

finished Kij
acconapat^4
g, establlsbej
\ the sunsM
Uttle carv^
[while he slej
own fro"^ 1
lal shape tW
jr airs until

rested over the grim gray towers of the parish church.
The priest, gifted with the power in his sleeping
hours of piercing the thickest walls, scaling the
giddiest heights, and opening the most impregnable
doors, glided down on a shaft of streaming light to
the door of the sacristy, and passed through to the
altar. There he found the vision pendant in mid-air
directly over the images, pictures, and scarlet roses.
Mystic sounds, pungent and aromatic odours, trailing
films of cloud, all surrounded him. He passed
swiftly along by the railing, entered the holy en-
closure, and fell upon his knees.

16 — 2

[ 244 ]

CHAPTER XV.

THE SLAVES OF THE RING.

' With the point of a diamond — it is graven upon the
table of their heart.'

Lauriere, an irritable prisoner, confined against
his will in that strange room, draped and carpeted
with fur, had abundant leisure to think of many
things. Chief of these was perhaps his instinc-
tive distrust of the cripple, Pacifique Peron, and I
his companion Magloire. Thrust it away as he
would, it came continually back, that lingering,]
loitering, abiding fear of men so impious, so un-
regenerate, blind, and unreasoning. And recalling
so much of Magloire's easy impertinence — at first!
actually precious and admirable in itself — and Paci|
fique's brazen defiance of laws both natural and
enforced, his contempt for ritual, and his recklesii
audacity of purpose, he recalled also that singulaJ
encounter in the shades of Bourg-Marie till it becamj
perfectly clear to him that the thing of fur m

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

245

in upon tn(

led against
pd carpeted
li of many
his instinc-
Peron, and
.way as be
,t lingering,
.ous, so un-
.nd recalling|
.ce— at fir5t|
If— and Paci-
natural anc
his reckles;
:hat singula!
till it becamf
of fur ani

gliding yet misshapen presence had been Pacifique
himself and none other. But what he could not
fathom was the motive which had induced the
cripple to pry upon the well-known seclusion in
which Mikel lived ; and whatever this impelling
motive had been, it was clear that now another and
stronger one existed. Avarice looked forth from the
sunken eyes of the cripple if it ever looked forth at
all, thought Lauriere. The vision of the ring would
doubtless recur again and again, and should he not
rob, he must at least burn with curiosity and wonder,
sure to be imparted to Magloire. Thus Lauriere
reasoned, lying prone on those luxurious skins, with
no knowledge of time or the mutation of the brilliant
October day. From morn to noon he lay, from
noon to amber eve, Mikel thrice entering with food
and many solicitous offers for his comfort. Lauriere
showed his bewilderment in his melancholy and
questioning gaze, and Le Caron told him as much
of his story as he had ever told to his only confidant,
the parish priest.

And Nicolas heard with increasing wonder. He
viewed with astonishment the treasures of fur that
lay under, over, around him. He watched the
spectral light of the lantern illuminating the red
eyes of the stuffed fox in the corner, the soft rich-
[Hess of the many hued skins, the prismatic beauties
I of the antique ring on his finger. A heat that was
electrical, potent, all-encircling, wound him from head

^f. .

246

THE FOREST OF I30URG-MARIE

to foot. He lay at times almost without breathing;, so
marvellous was the spell cast over him in this lonely
chamber of the north. His was a noble body, though
ignorant of all the arts that luxury devises for thu
improvement and sweet maintenance of the ignoble
flesh. And as he lay there in the body, his soul took
higher flights than it had ever taken before, and his
mind expanded from a crumpled immature bud of
starved promise to a perfect flower of consciousness.
He felt his soul within him. He could close his
eyes, abstracting himself from the curious chamber,
from the forest which surrounded it, from everyday
thought and from everyday routine, and behold the
body was no more, and upon the wings of the soul
the mind floated away.

In this rare hour his faith was much to him, but it
came a great deal changed. It was hardly the same
faith, for all ritual being absent and the atmosphere
empty of impelling prejudices, the Church, with its
mystic yet actual odours, bells, roses, and images,
the calm face of Mary, the terrors of the damned,
the mental picture of the Pope, the horror of a
personal devil, all faded away and left but one
enthralling vision : the crucifix and wasted figure,
the sunken head, the thorn-bound brow, the Great,
Living, Eternal Sacrifice ! And as he fastened the
eyes of his soul upon that figure, he wished that
he too might emulate, repeat, some such sacrifice.
The dignity of the deed, the tenderness of it.

the p,

with n

certait

hcavin

But

in the

the cal

c\pect(

his ow

twenty

his war

— appej

readily ;

should 1

left the

visit, u

window:

he shou

the dwe

when he

fortable

abating,

resulted

envied

exquisite

an even y

Thus, ^

him, Nio

draped

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

247

ithinj^S so
nis lonely
y, thouf^h
;s for the
ic ignoble

soul took
e, and his
re bud of
;ciousncss.

close his
3 chamber,
1 everyday
behold the
of the soul

1
him, but it

y the same

tmosphere

h, with its

nd images,

damned,

orror of a

but one

ted figure,

the Great,

Istened the
ished that
h sacrifice.

the pathos of it, smote all at once upon his heart
with new force and passion, and a dim yet not un-
certain pulsation of gratitude and hope filled his
heaving breast.

Hut while the things spiritual were thus progressing
in the heart and brain, Lauriere did not cease to be
the calm, practical, frugal trapper, who could not be
expected to lie comfortably and at rest so far from
his own dwelling, which he had not seen for over
twenty-four hours. When Mikel — who waited upon
his wants as upon those of a dear and precious child
— appeared about seven o'clock in the evening, he
readily agreed to Lauriere's wish that some measures
should be taken towards securing the latter's house,
left the night before presumably for half an hour's
visit, unlocked, unbolted, and with a couple of
windows open. Le Caron acceded to a request that
he should walk over and do all in his power to make
the dwelling fast, and accordingly left the Manoir
when he had seen Lauriere fed and made as com-
fortable as possible. The sprain was in no way
abating, but the dogged intrepidity of the sufferer
resulted in a stoicism which old Mikel himself
envied and admired. To speak was a source of
exquisite pain, but he gave Mikel his directions in
an even voice that betrayed no suffering.

Thus, when Mikel carefully locked the door behind
him, Nicolas Lauriere was left alone in the first fur-
draped chamber, lighted only by the sickly yellow

248 THE FCJkEST OF BOUKG-MARIE

glare of the lantern, while on every side the gatherinj;
glooms that hung over Bourg-Marie grew denser and
denser as night approached. He slept — not at
first, but after a long hour of dreamy reflection, in
which was uppermost a great tenderness and solici-
tude for Mikel, who had hung over him, pressed his
lips to his brow, called him his son, confided in him,
hoped in him, trusted in him. He slept now at
eight o'clock, by which time it was quite dark outside.
At nine he was still sleeping. At ten Mikel returned,
having found Lauriere's little house all in order, and
threading his accustomed way from the back of his
own clearing up to the triangular close and the
venerable Manoir, looked in, and finding his guest
quietly sleeping, returned to his dwelling, and being
fatigued, wmt to bed, and was instantly asleep
himself. Meanwhile the darkness lifted a little, and
showed two figures that stealthily awaited their time
in the wood opposite Mikel's house.

The night wore on. A late moon, pearly and pale,
soared high in the midnight sky. Lauriere, who had
slept for four hours, dreamed as it neared twelve
o'clock that all the skins that lay on the floor and
hid the walls grew suddenly endowed with life, form,
bulk, and breath. They left the walls, they rose
from off the floor, they mustered thick and close,
panting, clawing, howling, growling ; their bristling
hides, their rolling eyes, their protruding tongues,
their gleaming teeth, all proclaiming a miraculous

retu

gasp

heari

to fii

van is

E.xha

when

escape

acute-

Manoi

sake ai

durinir
stoppc(

becomi.
the poi
return
a guess
him eiti
anight b
in dangi
tuenty.f
Iherc w
suffer in

curtainec

'ong to I

more tha

|'"S: inten

I thoughts
litseJf-^its

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

249

.thcriuK
iscr and
-not at
;tion, in
d soUci-
isscd his
1 in him,
: now at
t outside,
returned,
)rdcr, and
Lck of his
. and the

hi? Rucst
and being
tly asleep

little, and
itbeir time

and pale,
;, who had
red twelve
floor and
life, form,
they rose
land close,
[x bristling
tongues,
Imiraculous

return to life. Nicolas awoke with a spasmodic

fjasp and jerk of his entire body that wrenched his

heart with pitiful pain. He sat up, relieved, at least,

to find that the creatures of his dream had indeed

vanished with the celerity of midni/^^ht spectres.

Exhausted, he was about to carefully lie down aj;ain,

when he heard sounds which probably would have

escaped the ear of anyone whose senses were less

acute — sounds in the dark forest to the north of the

Manoir. Preternaturally on the alert, both for Mikel's

sake and his own, he listened for full half an hour,

during which the sounds stopped, began again,

stopped, ever drawing a little nearer, and, therefore,

becoming a little clearer. Lauriere saw in a flash

the possibilities that awaited him. Mikel would

return no more till morning. He could only make

a guess at the time, but what did the time matter to

him either way ? If it were near morning, Mikel

might be awake, stirring, on his way to the Manoir

in danger. If it were midnight, the core of the

twenty-four, it was the worse for himself. Help ?

There was no help ; he would have to submit, to

suffer indignity, assault, perhaps. Draped and

curtained as those thick walls were, the sound took

long to penetrate, and still he sat, unable to move

more than his head and arms, but listening, watch-

|ing intently, unerringly. Then it was that strange

thoughts entered into his brain of the Manoir

itself — its crumbling walls, its carven terraces, its

250 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

rude images, its papered windows, its gloomy
passages, haunted very likely by the restless,
chivalric, and martial spirits of the past century, of
whom Mikel had been telling him that afternoon.
If the sound came as a tap, it was, he fancied, a
lady's dainty shoe. If it came as a click, it was, he
deemed, the lid of some curious box opened and shut
by more delicate fingers than his own or old Mikel's.
If it resembled a clank, it was the sword or spur of
some gallant officer. And it came like all three of
these, accompanied by strange scratchings and
gratings.

Lauriere, bound to the floor, almost cursed aloud
at the thick hangings that shut out the true character
and location of these unusual and conflicting sounds,
while, between the remembrance of all old Mikel
had told him, in hushed and thrilling tones, of the
grandeur of his house and the distinction of the line,
and his own conviction of the rascality of Pacitique,
he was in a state of mental confusion and doubt
torturing enough at any time, but now, when added
to bodily pain, almost unbearable. The sounds had
now stopped getting nearer, and Lauriere, though
he exerted himself to the utmost, could not decide
whether they came from inside or outside. With a
sudden resolution, he dragged himself along about
a couple of feet till he reached the lantern and
extinguished it. Then he listened again, being now
somewhat nearer where he fancied the door of the

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

251

gloomy
estless,
tury, of
ernoon.
[icied, a
was, he
and shut
, Mikel's.
r spur of
[ three of
ings and

rsed aloud
; character
ng sounds,
old Mikel
|nes, of the
»f the line,
Pacifiqne,
and doubt
rhen added
jounds had
;re, though
not decide
With a
long about
[antern and
, being now
door of tlie I

chamber must be behind its covering of fur. He
Hstened and caught the complication of sounds
distinctly. They were on the outside, and Lauriere
gave a gasp of relief. Of the living or the dead,
he, like most men, much preferred encountering the
former. He lay, enduring sickening pain, but with
every trained sense on the alert. Presently the
sounds stopped. Voices, muffled, unrecognizable,
but still voices, made themselves faintly heard
through the walls and fur. Then the sounds recom-
menced with more energy than before. There was
a slight crash, a shiver seemed to run along the
Hoor, and Lauriere knew that an attempt had been
made on the entrance door. Another few minutes
and he would be discovered. There was evidently
sudden and increased caution on the part of those
who had entered, for they spoke no more and trod
carefully, so that a full minute might have elapsed
between the reluctant footfalls. Another moment,
and they were trying a door opposite to the one by
which Mikel had brought Lauriere into the fur-
draped chamber. It yielded, and for a little while
all was silent. They were doubtless searching for
what was not there, this apartment being a mere
empty shell, without any nut of riches for the
unregenerate hand and the selfish heart to rifle
and carry away. Then they returned, those careful
footsteps, and began at Lauriere's door. He thought
now, for one instant of madness, that he must scream.

252

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

I
t

shriek aloud in the darkness for Mikel, someone, any-
one, to help him fight this intruder, assert his courage,
maintain his prowess; but the very name of Mikel
rising to his lips brought sense and craft with it.
He looked at those curtains of fur. Ten minutes
ago he had cursed them, now he gladly welcomed
them, seeing one of their uses, which was to drag
himself still further along the floor — further, further
still, till he reached the edge of the wall, and here
to creep behind that hanging screen of fur, a gigantic
bear-skin, black and glossy as jet, and so ensconce
himself, half lying, half crouching, between the skins
that covered the floor and those which depended
from the side of the wall. Inch by inch, painfully,
breathlessly, he gained this hiding-place and found,
to his joy, that he had chosen a corner where a
window-recess afforded him room to lie at length.
With a groan he cast himself into this dark niche
just as the door was opened and a bright light flashed
into the room. A smothered ejaculation of wonder
and delight, uttered in English, did not escape his
ears, although he was almost fainting.

* 'Tis he — Magloire ! 'Tis thus he requites, he
would thank his grandfather. And with him who ?
If I might see! I think it must be Pacifique. I
hear the heavy, uneven tread — the tread I mistook
for a bear !'

The men advanced into the room almost dumb with
astonishment. Carson knew he had no time to lose.

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

253

3, any-
•urage,

Mikel
rith it.
fiinutes
Icomed
:o drag

further
nd here
gigantic
jnsconce
;he skins
lepended

painfully.
d found,
where a
t length.
Lrk niche
it flashed
f wonder
cape his

luites, he
11m who ?
jifique. 1
ll mistook

lumb witb
le to lose.

* Hold the light here, you fool !' he said under his
breath to the cripple. * Are you afraid ? There's
riches here to give a dead man courage. Look aloft,
and below, and all around !'

Pacifique seemed much impressed, for he uttered
no sound. His mind was full of the ring. Furs did
not appeal to him commercially.

* But how to carry them away,' said Carson, * I
do not know, I cannot tell. And the old fox — old
wolf — but he thought he had put me on the wrong
track. And I — I — with my friends in the Govern-
ment !'

* You laugh,' said Pacifique, with a shudder. ' I
don' laugh. This black room — I don' like it. I
tink perhaps Mikel behind that curtain.'

Magloire half started at the idea. They were cer-
tainly not impenetrable, those rich hangings, and
might easily conceal a whole band of trappers. But
his courage, what it was worth, did not easily for-
sake him. He had one answer ever ready for the
unfortunate Pacifique.

'You're a fool!' he said briefly. 'Get on with
that lantern. Where's this ring you talked about ?
If it's in Mikel's pocket still — well, it's got to come
out and go into mine. Do you see any boxes, bags
—any signs of a window or a door ?'

Lauriere slid Mikel's ring inside his pocket, and
awaited the result of an examination of the hangings.
Fortunately, as it proved for him, his retreat was

254 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

>4,

sufficiently near the door by which Carson had
entered to prevent the latter from discovering him.
Magloire went around the room, feeling, poking,
lifting where he could, and sometimes tearing with a
feverish hand at the skins where they were nailed to
the wall ; but when he was within an inch of Lauriere
he let the hangings fall, under the supposition that
the door occupied more space than it actually did.
This oversight occurred through his nervous anxiety
to clutch something portable and valuable, and from
inability to make a thorough search while devoured
with curiosity and excitement. Lauriere crossed
himself fervently, and told himself that his God was
with him.

From the walls Mr. Murray Carson proceeded to
examine the coverings of the floor, and here he was
equally unsuccessful. A second oversight ensued
when he stumbled against the lantern, for, only having
been extinguished a few moments, it was still warm
to the touch, and a moment's inspection might have
resulted in the speedy discovery of Nicolas Lauriere.
But a lantern was only a lantern to the excited
intelligence of Magloire, intent upon unearthing bags
and chests of money, trinkets, and plate, so that he
knocked it aside as an article of no importance or
value, supposing it to have been left behind by Mike!
at his last visit.

Lauriere, unable to see, followed the search with
unflagging interest, bewailing his impotence, and

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

255

n had
g him.
poking,
; with a
liled to
^auriere
[on that
ally did.
i anxiety
,nd from
devoured
crossed
God was

;eeded to

re he was

,t ensued

tly having

,till warm

ight have

Lauriere.

e excited

;hing bags

,0 that be

irtance or

by Mikel

jarch with
lence, and

fearing that at any moment old Le Caron would
enter, aroused by the noise. To give an alarm he
dared not, nor was he able to move again, so
exhaustive had been his efforts to hide himself.
After rigorous and rapid searching, he knew by the
exclamations that reached him that Carson had
found the other door leading to the second richly-
draped and furnished chamber. Of this still more
unique and costly salon Lauriere had no knowledge.
How, then, could he pretend to understand the
covetous delight with which Carson viewed the
superb table-equipage of silver, the delicate china,
and the spotless damask !

Pacifique had entered first, and spying the goodly
sight, stood with the lantern low, his coarse coun-
tenance transfigured with joy.

* Money !' he cried, * money for you, Magloire, and
for me. I will go back with you. I will sing, make
a fortune. What will you give me for my own out
of this, when we get it safely away from here, for
showing you the way, eh, Magloire ?'

Carson let his eyes wander for an instant only
from the silver. They rested upon the evil face of
the cripple, distorted and yellow in the light of the
lantern he held.

* I will give you that ring,' said he, * when I find
it. Say, you, do you see these curtained windows ?
Who is to tell from the outside when Mikel is here ?
No light can be seen through such thick skins, with

256

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

it.f

the windows — see here — all plastered over with paper
as well.'

He lowered his voice to a whisper, and Lauriere
heard no more.

* Are you sure you saw him enter his house, put
out his light, and then hear him carefully lock up ?
He did not go out again ?'

* I was at the back-door,' answered the cripple.
They had now reverted to French, and still spoke
in subdued tones. * I must have seen him leave,
and there was no one, Magloire, go out after I
watched.'

' And I was at the front,' muttered Carson. ' He
did not leave by that way. If he had, I would have
whipped the ring out of his pocket, perhaps, being
satisfied with it, ran off, and so missed seeing this
sight ; so I'm in luck, after all. Do you hear any-
thing?'

The silence was warm, brooding, intense.

* Nothing,' said Pacifique.
Carson drew a long breath.

* He is safe in bed asleep, dreaming of his grand-
son, of the old Manoir restored, renovated, with me
as its master. Come, wait upon me ; pass me these
dishes. I shall sit down, make myself at home,
being the rightful heir to all this tinsel. Tinsel •'

A thought struck him. It might not be genuine,
each massive plate, each chased cup, each heavy
fork, each elegant spoon, and quickly he scanned

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

257

1 paper

.auriere

cise, put
3ck up ?

cripple,
ill spoke
m leave,
t after I

Dn. 'He

Duld have

ips, being

eing this

hear any-

lis grand-

with me

me these

at home,

insel — "
genuine,

ch heavy
^ scanned

them as Pacifique brought them one after the other
to his side. He was no judge, yet the monogram
and crest, and the singular weight, richness, and
mellow tint, all proclaimed them genuine. He sank
into the oaken chair, the tall carved top of which
loomed high above his head.

At last Mikel's guest had arrived. For more than
thirty years had that table been set, laid for a
company of twenty that never appeared.

Carson, intoxicated with success, called for wine.
He wished to be intoxicated with drink as well. He
stretched his long legs under the table, he revelled
in anticipations of the sport which was to follow the
seizure of so much wealth. He wished to know all
about furs that he might begin to calculate his profits ;
this was while he thought of carrying away the skins.
Then he greedily piled the chased and massive plates
in front of him.

'These will do,' he said, * better than furs. Why,
one plate like this — look at it well, Pacifique — is
worth all these skins put together ! But I shall be a
rich man, work no more, snap my finger at Rylands,
and dress Kitty like a queen !'

The cripple did not share in these rhapsodies. He
I was ' occupied, thinking of the ring. He had not
forgotten Magloire's excitement on hearing his de-
scription of it, nor his later promise to make that
[his share of the booty.

'You do not attend, Pacifique ; you are wandering.

258

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Listen to me. This old rat-hole of a manor-house,

farmhouse, barn, or barracks was known to you lonf:^,

you say yourself — always, all your life, you knew of

this Manoir. Now, I — I do not remember it. I

understand now why Mikel kept me ignorant of it.

Never would he let me go through Bourg- Marie

from the back of his house, but always from the

front. Lauriere — he was my companion — he does

not, as I think, know of this place either. See how

well, how cleverly the secret has been kept. Well,

then, you — you alone perhaps in all the countryside,

find out this crumbling ruin, and watch old Mikel go

in and out of u. Long before I returned you knew

this, you might have found out these treasures, skins,

rings, jewels, plate, without my assistance, but you

did not. Bah ! you were, I tell you, a fool, an

ignorant, dull lout of a habitant, smirking to crosses

or bowing in the dust to priests. But it does amaze

me ! However, you told me of the Manoir, and then

I put my wits to work and so made this discovery.

You see ? It was my superior intelligence that did

this for myself, for both of us. I am not going to

say I shall give you nothing.'

And Mr. Murray Carson, with that ineffable air
that distinguished him, turned from the lowering
evil brows of his associate in the chase after riches
to renewed inspection of the plate, which he began
to feel certain was anything but clinquant, merej
modern alloy or counterfeit.

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

259

' You promised me the ring,' said Pacifique sullenly.

Carson, whose excitation was fast going down,
gave him a pleasant but sneering smile.

' And I will give it you, my friend, when I get it.
You cannot expect me to rob my grandfather in
person. If he v. ere here, I should do my best to
oblige you. Hold there, you, Pacifique, enough of
those sullen looks ! Sacvi-^ ! your frown is deep as
the ruts in yonder road. Clear your brow, I tell
you, and produce that sack you have to put some of
these things in. It is time.'

Pacifique clenched his hands behind him, and did
not move an inch.

* I will do nothing more for you,' he said between
his teeth, * unless you get that ring for me to-night,
or let me get it for myself. It is worth more than
all this room, I know by the look of it it is. And
you will wait till I am away with this sack full of
rubbish, and then you will take it from Mikel as he
sleeps and fool me.'

Carson had to do with animal pertinacity of
thought, reason being less powerful than instinct in
this brute nature, destitute of high intelligence. He
had a veneer of tact when sober, and exerted it
now.

* The ring is nothing to me,' he said, with a gentle
shrug. * If you find it, make it yours. I will not
say a word even if you — have to send the old man
sooner than he expects to that purgatory you all

17 — 2

26o THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

believe in down here. Oh, I forj^ot, you're con-
verted. I converted you. Hut I — I stop at murder
usually myself. You may please yourself.'

The directness of this speech virtually disarmed
the cripple for a moment. Lauriere, straininj^ ears
and energies, caught the last sentence, and dragged
himself out from behind the suffocating fringe of fur
that he might hear more.

' You don't believe in either a God or a devil,' said
Pacifique. * Why, then, are you afraid ? He is
strong for his age, able, quick, cunning; but, then,
once on his back in the dark, all the rest is easy.
Why, then, do you fear to — to — kill him ?'

* Because it is not convenient. It is an action
disapproved of by society. It is awkward always to
kill anybody, even in Texas. I prefer not to. About
the ring, get it if you can, and keep it, I will not
interfere. I have all I want here ;' and Carson in-
dicated the rich appointments of the table.

Pacifique appeared to consider, then to give in.
He silently approached with the sack. Lauriere
could only partially gather what was going on, but
as he lay there in extreme torture of mind and body,
he resolved — making the sign of the cross again,
and even more fervently than before — that he must
intervene in some way between old Mikel and the
assassinating hand of Pacifique. His blood boiled,
and then ran cold, to think of the words of Magloire,
who could thus endure to hear the subject broached.

Stc
did ^
true.
of his
surely
would
biighte
speJis a
than tl
healthy
fhat he
to think
regards
MikeJ.

Carson
^iir in th

aether

return.

Though

above h

"nfathom
out those
^^■'nd bega
^0 rise

through

^ared to

^'■'§:htened
'ts nest.

^he daw

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

261

re con-
murdcr

iisarined
inf^ eurs
dra^^ged

evil,' said
) He is
but, then,
;t is easy.

an action
always to

to. About
1 will not

,Caison in-

r *

Ito give in.
Lauriere

Ing on, but

and body,

|ross again,

li he must

eel and the

|ood boiled,

)f Magloire,

[t broached.

Stop at murder — he — Maploirc le Caron ? Well
did Nicolas Lauriere know that this was only half
true. Disappointed in his researches or plundered
of his gains, and the seed of murder, which was as
surely in his black heart as it was in the cripple's,
would burst forth in hateful and monstrous form — a
blighted, blasted growth that would seek midnight
spells and sable shadows to force it into life rather
than the pale gray of the luminous dawn or the
healthy glow of the broad daylight. The knowledge
that he held the ring in his pocket caused Lauriere
to think out a plan of action which, if it failed as
regards himself, might at least serve to protect
Mikel. He listened again, and could gather that
Carson had found another door behind the arras of
fur in the inner room. Now the voices were alto-
gether indistinct. He lay quietly awaiting their
return. All was silent for four or five minutes.
Though Lauriere did not know, the pearly moon
above him no longer shone pallidly on the vast
unfathomable depths of Bourg-Marie, and through-
out those bark-strewn, tassel-carpeted aisles a strong
wind began to blow. The dust of dead trees began
to rise and fume and whirl in eddying clouds
through columns of shivering trunks. No animal
I dared to venture abroad, no bird but lay, when its
frightened fluttering was over, safe at the bottom of
lits nest.

The dawn was three hours distant, and before it

262 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

could appear there was to come a storm, fearful out
on the plateau overhanging the river, terrible on that
river itself, but worse than all in the region of the
three great forests. The wind grew and grew.
Each instant it increased in chromatic fury, in
witch-like yells, in power, in volume. The tops
of the tallest trees were splintered like pieces of
deal. The storm was one of wind alone, not a
single drop of rain falling, no violent wire of light-
ning, no sheet of sudden flame illuminating the
darkness. At last the hurricane reached the old
Manoir.

Lauriere had once experienced an earthquake, and
as he felt the wind rush by and in passing shake and
stab the crumbling walls, he himself was seized with
a great fear, and, strange as it may seem, he felt
more anxiety for old Mikel, lying, perhaps, wide
awake in his lonely dwelling, than for himself.
Suddenly, in a lull of the surging wind, Lauriere,
always listening, heard a fearful cry. That it was
the voice of Pacifique he could not doubt, but
whether raised in fear or pain or rage he dared not
say. The wind rose again, and rocked the old
Manoir. A second cry was heard, and then Lauriere
felt all his reason reeling, as, bounding and leaping
from room to room, making anywhere for darkness,
freedom, and safety in the black forest he had so
often abused, came Magloire, in abject terror and
mad haste, fleeing from the embruted, infuriated

THE SLAVES OE THE RING

263

irful out

on that
1 of the
d f;rcw.
fury, in
fhe tops
pieces of
e, not a

of light-
ating the
I the old

[uake, and
shake and
eized with
m, he felt
aps, wide
himself.
Lauriere,
at it was
ioubt, but
dared not
Id the old
In Lauriere
id leaping
darkness,

he had so

terror and

infuriated

rripplc, who still held the lantern in one hand,
within the other a shining dagger, gently, lithcly
curved as any sickle !

Lauriere raised his voice. It would be his turn
now.

' Stop !' he cried from behind the heavy hangings
that concealed him. ' You are not alone here. If
you do murder, there is a witness.'

The two men, the pursuer and pursued, stopped
as if met by a Deity on the threshold. Neither was
proof against anything that savoured of the extra-
ordinary or supernatural. They confronted each
other with blanched lips, their feet being drawn
tight to the floor, off which they did not move for
several seconds. Pacifique's hand that held the
antique dagger slowly fell to his side. Carson,
coward though he was, assumed a spasmodic smile.

* Well,' he said in English, * show yourself, pard,
that's all. Where in h — 1 are you, anyhow ? I
guess we'll make it all right if you jes' come out of
that and let's see who you are.'

* It will be old Mikel himself,' whispered the
cripple.

The doors swung to with a deafening crash, and
then, in another pause of that unholy, desecrating
wind, Lauriere spoke again, and pushed the skins to
one side.

Carson seized the lantern, and peered down into
the remote niche where, with whitened lips and

264

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

It,-,

strained eyes, Lauriere was endeavouring to collect
strength to fight it out.

Pacifique stared at him with hateful surprise.
This was the man he had, as he hoped, half killed
the night before. His murderous assault on Carson
merged for the time in feelings of vindictiveness
towards Nicolas Lauriere, and as the three men
glared at each other in the fantastic and uncertain
light, it could be clearly seen that the game would
be as two to one.

Carson gave a sigh of relief. He divined what
had overtaken Lauriere, and saw that he could not
fight.

* You're a nice Catholic,' sneered Carson ; * after
old Mikel's treasure, I swear, as well as this ugly bear
of a hunchback. He plays bear well — eh, Lauriere?'

Pacifique suddenly remembered something.

* You,' he said frantically, pointing to Nicolas
— * you saw the ring ; he showed it to you — old
Mikel ? You saw how it shone and glittered and
made runibows in the room. You know where he
keeps it. Tell us, Nicolas Lauriere — tell me !
Magloire — he has enough already. The ring must
be mine !'

Carson, wiping his damp brow, kept his glance
upon the cripple. The unexpected appearance of
Lauriere had probably saved his life, for Pacifique,
in a moment of cunning frenzy, had whipped off the
wall of the third armour-decked chamber the sharp

and
Magic
Hega
'Fc
price t
he wilj
beyon(
once vv
for old
The
He bur
his flusj
contrast
nance.

Laurii
men tun
them.

'Abou

rouse old

* Here

involunta

'Yes,'
pocket.
Carson
'I thou
would be
see it'

Lauriere
ground of ;

THE SLAVES OF THE RING

265

3 collect

surprise,
alf killed
n Carson
.ctiveness
iree men
uncertain
me would

ined what
could not

ion; 'after
s ugly bear
Lauriere ?'

ing.
o Nicolas

you— old
[tiered and

where he

•tell me!

ring must

Ihis glance

iarancc of

Pacifiquc,

)ed off the

the sharp

and curious dagger with which he had pursued
Magloire, thinking to make all the treasure his own.
He gave a sickly, strained kind of a laugh.

* For God's sake, the ring is yours, if you pay the
price to get it ! Let's get out of this. This fellow —
he will tell the priest, but by that time we shall be
beyond reach. Say, Pacifique, FU share with you
once we get out of this. Run for the sack and then
for old Mikel.'

The cripple devoured him with his scorching gaze.
He burned to know whether he spoke the truth, and
his flushed face and dilated eyes presented a strong
contrast to the ashen hue of Carson's scared counte-
nance.

Lauriere now spoke for the third time, and both
men turned quickly as he raised himself up to address
them.

* About the ring,' he said : * there is no need to
rouse old Mikel. The ring is here.'

* Here !' ejaculated the cripple, and his fingers
involuntarily closed upon the dagger.

'Yes,' replied Lauriere carelessly, 'it is in my
pocket. I stole it.'
Carson saw that the cripple was puzzled.

* I thought as much,' he said. * I guessed one
would be as bad as the other round here. Let's
see it.'

Lauriere held up the stone against the black back-
ground of a glossy bearskin. As he did so, a gust of

266

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

wind seemed to penetrate the chamber, played around
the lantern for a second, making the already fitful
light still more uncertain, till, with a weak flicker, like
the dying breath of some unhappy thing, it trembled,
shuddered, shot up once luridly, then went out.
The men were now in total darkness, with that wild
wind lashing the walls and turrets outside. But they
had seen enough.

The darkness reacted upon them instantly. They
became as madmen, and threw themselves upon
Lauriere, weak, faint, helpless. They fought and
wrestled and tore and dug — Carson and Pacifique—
for the ring, the cripple plunging his dagger aimlessly
right and left, and both regardless of the imploring
cries of Nicolas Lauriere, who had thrown the ring
far from him at the same moment that they fell upon
him. The dagger had scratched him twice, but lying
as he was, half beneath the thick covering of skins,
its sharp edge glanced harmlessly aside. His strength
was fast failing, however, through pain and sickness
at heart, and he knew he must swoon before many
minutes were over if this contest were kept up—
swoon or die, and Lauriere, as in a dream, recognised
that it might as easily be the latter.

Suddenly Pacifique, feeling something hard beneath
his feet, stooped down in the darkness and picked up
the ring where it lay imbedded in the soft long fur of
a handsome skin. Frantic with delight, acquisition,
and success, he dropped the dagger in the fur, and.

3d around
ady fitful
icker, like
trembled,
\fent out.
that wild
But they

ly. They
.ves upon
)ught and
*acifique—
r aimlessly
imploring
a the ring
y fell upon
3, but lying
y of skins,
:is strength
id sickness
ifore many
kept up-
recognised

ird beneath
i picked up
long fur of
acquisition,
he fur, and,

THE SLAVES OF THE RING 267

stumbh-ng past Carson, began all in the dark to feel
his way out. This some instinct enabled him to
hnd, and, meeting with small opposition from lock-
ess, forced, and useless doors, he rushed out into
he storm of that unhallowed night with his prize
heM aloft and his eyes fastened upon it as if its
brilliancy were actually visible. His tread was no
onger heavy, uneven, like that of a bear; but a
read like that belonged to a strange, ungainly shape
that followed him at no very great distance, gaining
slowly, slowly, but ever surely, upon him as he
encountered the many obstructions of Bourg-Marie
where he found himself recklessly fleeing from all he'
knew, hardly knowing how he came to be there

[ 268 ]

k':

e
t

CHAPTER XVI.

WATERS OF A FULL CUP.

* And this know, that if the good man of the house
had known in what hour the thief would come he would
have watched.'

MiKEL had slept through the early stages of the
storm. When he awoke, he was struck dumb with
astonishment, for there had been no indications of
anything unusual in the weather when he had gone
to rest, and in all his experience he had never known
a storm to occur without some premonition of it on
his own part. He sat up, and hearkened to the wind
as it roared in the forest. Thoughts of Lauriere
naturally crossed, and troubled in crossing, his active
mind, and he prepared to visit him, donning his warm
winter garb, and taking a stout staff in his hand, for
he knew the difficulty of a climb on a windy night.
Despite the rigor of the storm, a feeling of happiness
filled his breast. He had cast off his ungrateful
grandson, resolving to have nothing more to do with

WATERS OF A FULL CUP

269

es of the
umb with
cations of
had gone
^er known
m of it on
the wind
Lauriere
his active
his warm
hand, for
|ndy night,
happiness
ungrateful

to do with

him, and in his place he had found in Nicolas
Lauriere a companion, a dear friend who should
henceforth be to him as the apple of his eye, the
desire of his heart. It might not be for many years,
but for as long as his God allowed him to live, and
he took proper care of himself, Lauriere should be
his son, inherit the Manoir and all it contained. He
hurried his steps that he might reach Nicolas the
sooner, when his ear was all at once caught by a
sound all trappers know — that same heavy, stertorous
breathing ; that same unequal, shambling, shuffling
tread that Pacifique in his disguise of fur had counter-
feited so well. Mikel, however, was not to deceived.
This was a real bear. He turned aside and watched.
The brute was at one side of him, and was rendered
uneasy by the force and noise of the wind. It passed
within a yard of him, an indistinguishable mass,
rolling and snuffling its troubled way along. Mikel
thought it the largest beast of its kind he had ever
seen, and waited till its black hulk had vanished
in the distance before he ventured to go on.

Still not a drop of rain fell, and the peculiarity
lof the storm attracted his attention. Increasing
momentarily in fury, he feared to find much harm
done to the farms on the morrow, and thought of
the exposed terraces, seats, and images which sur-
rounded the Manoir. His entire strength was spent
m dragging painfully up the declivity that led to the
friangular close in the face of this buffeting wind.

270

THE FOREST OF BOURGMARIE

IK' '

r i

Whenever a lull occurred, the next visitation would
be more violent than the last, and Mikel, leaning
breathlessly on his staff, heard many a noble tree
die — crack, split to the core, and fall over, and saw
many a fertile branch sawn off as by an invisible axe
or knife before he reached the open space where the
gray and wizened figure of Cupid kept watch over
grotto and carven seat. Mikel, alarmed, cast anxious
looks at the old mansion itself. Some forecast of its
impending fate hung about him. He carried no light
with him, and, strange as it may seem, although no
moon floated in the heavens, it was not altogether
dark to his practised sense, but the Manoir and
surrounding trees loomed clear in the shadows of the
midnight sky. The distorted, grinning, ape-like
shape of Pacifique had just left the Manoir at the
moment when Mikel approached it, but they did not
meet, since the cripple shot into the wood at the
side, and was instantly lost to sight and sound as he
ran on, regardless of fallen trunks and depending
boughs, wild, defiant, inflamed with avarice, pride,
and ambition, lifting up his voice — which had beeni
given him in order that he should praise and adore
his God in the sanctuary — in a carnival of disjointed
echoing song. This improvisation first attracted the
bear that had passed so near to Mikel, and who nowl
turned, listened, smelt, and followed close upon]
Pacifique's heels.

Le Caron had gained the lower step leading to the

WATERS OF A FULL CUP

271

I would
leaning
ble tree
and saw
sible axe
rhere the
tcb over
t anxious
:ast of its
d no light
:hough no
altogether
anoir and
tows of the
y, ape-hke
loir at the
ley did not

ood at the

lound as he
depending

jice, pride.

h had been
and adore'

,f disjointed!

ttracted the
d who no\v|
close upon!

entrance-door without realizing that all was not right
within, when a perfect ocean of wind, advancing in
waves of aerial force to be likened only to tidal waves
of solid wall-like water, came out of the forest, and
broke upon the roof and turrets, towers and terraces,
of the old Manoir, and its owner, shrinking from so
pitiful a sight as the wholesale destruction of his
revered birthplace, saw that the structure was in
great peril. Tiles and shingles, stones and bricks,
whizzed past his head, fell at his feet. The noise
of fallen chimneys, mingling with the clap and roar
of the wind, resounded in his ears ; and out of that
womb of wind burst forth in relentless, vicious, but
superb play of electric forces, blue, violet, and amber,
the twin gods that recreated the storm — the thunder
and the lightning. Mikel had forgotten Lauriere ;
he had long since forgotten himself, and the certain
danger he was in ; he thought only of the gracious,
noble past, of the ill-fated Manoir, of the treasure
that lay therein. For even were the treasure un-
harmed, it would never suit any other resting-place
so well. It had been gradually growing and augment-
ing, that of it which consisted of furs, for thirty
years, and the rest — the massive plate, the enormous
candelabra, the enamelled bowl — had been part and
parcel of the original furnishings of the chateau,
placed there in the seventeenth century. As Mikel
looked and listened with his head falling on his
breast, the great crash came, and one side of the

272

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

building fell completely out. And this was neither
the beginning nor the end of the destruction ; for,
half an hour ago, the wind had carried off every
chimney and turret and outstanding bit of masonry
on the north side facing the forest, and long after
the wall fell out various other portions began to
weaken, totter, and finally succumb, while the light-
ning tore at the roof, and bit it away in a lurid flash.
Fire was now licking it on two sides, and overhead
the storm still raged — thunder and lightning and
wind, but no rain. Mikel had frequently crossed
himself as he made the ascent, and he now ex-
perienced such sensations as made him wonder if
indeed this visitation of wind and elemental fury
were normal or not. He looked into his life, and
saw there some selfishness, some smallness, some
coldness of heart, but no great sins, no criminalit}',
which merited the downfall of his house, of his line,
of his pride. If it were the work and the will of his
God, he bowed himself to it as such, but without
recognising it as just, as deserved, as a result, a
contingency, an effect which sprang from an apparent
and sufficient cause.

The manor house collapsed steadily, every minute
bringing some fresh devastation, some new assault,
in a weak quarter. The side which had fallen out,
disclosing empty floors and plain walls, was not the
side which contained his treasure, and it was not
until he noticed a tongue of fire creeping up the

WATERS OF A FULL CUP

273

neither
n; for,
f every
nasonry
ig after
egan to
\e light-
rid flash,
overhead
ling and
r crossed

now ex-
vvonder if
jntal fury

life, and
ess, some
■iminaUty,
^f his Une,
ill of his

t without

result, a
apparent

opposite side of the house, and not many yards
distant from him, that he bethought him of Lauriere,
perhaps crushed, flattened, mangled to death inside,
or awaiting in helpless swoon the slower enemy of
fire.

With a start and cry, old Mikel leaped into the
falling building. The shattered door escaped his
notice ; he may have thought it left so by the storm.
The hall was still intact, and now for the first time
he saw that the door of the fur-draped chamber was
shattered, too, the lock cut out, and splinters of wood
and rusty screws covering the ground at his feet.
The ruhng passion, strong even in that moment of
great peril, moved him to burst madly in, and com-
mence tearing at his precious skins in the hope that
he would preserve some of them from the impending
flames and fall of the entire roof. He looked for
Lauriere, but found no trace of him, though had he
not been so absorbed in the preservation of his life-
long treasures, he would have seen the torn hanging,
the tumbled furs, and the lantern kicked into a corner,
where the red-eyed, crafty fox still held his post un-
disturbed. He had not, however, plucked down with
feverish and trembling hands more than a couple of
skins from one side of the room, when a step, hardly
heard upon that luxurious and costly carpet, made
him drop all thought of the furs, and turn sharply
around to greet — not Lauriere, but his grandson
Magloire.

i74 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Magloire held a lantern, lighted, and he cast a
cunning look upon his grandfather.

* Mister Murray Carson !' said the latter, with no
abating of his habitual coldness and self-control.

Carson's lips twitched, and his head and hands
shook. It was no wonder. He was not a hardened
criminal ; and the mighty storm, the ruin impend-
ing over his head, and the sudden presence of
his grandfather, combined to develop his cowardly
instincts.

* Well, I don't wonder you seem anxious to disown

me,' he stammered. ' Mikel, I Now, see here:

I'm going to tell the truth about this affair. It was
that brute of a hunchback got me to come here—
Pacifique Peron. Ask him. He's run off now-
robbed you of your silver. It's true. I had very

little to do with it. I came because Well, you

know what passed between us. I was curious to see
this place.'

Mikel stood with a fixed glare in his glittering
eyes.

* What is this ?' he said, at length.
He strode to the inner room, catching up the

lantern from Magloire, and sweeping its yellow light:
high and low through the air. The table was covered j
with the snowy cloth of lilied damask as before, but
no vestige of antique plate remained on it. Mikell
groaned aloud, and, rushing to the hangings at the!
sides of the room began wildly to pull them aboutJ

WATERS OF A FULL CUP

275

cast a

with no

:rol.

td hands

tiardencd

impend-
jsence of

cowardly

to disown
, see here :
ir. It was
,me here—
off now-
had very
Well, you
ious to see

groping blindly, as if searching for his lost property
there.

* Well, it seems that you do not believe a word I
say,' said Carson. * Ask Lauriere, if you will not
take my word for it, although I think myself that
one is as bad as the other. Ask Ficolas Lauriere.'

Carson's trepidation as he said this was something
most remarkable. He steadied himself against the
table, having followed the old man there, and now
pointed into the other room, but with such a shaking
linger, such a frightened eye, such a clammy brow,
such actual coward's fear in his whole attitude, that
even Mikel, despite his contempt, felt something like
a superstitious thrill of terror as he followed his
pointing finger.

* Lauriere is not there,' he said. * Come, look
yourself. But you must know as well as I, or even
better. You were in that room a moment ago.'

* I have been in and out of that room for the last
ten minutes,' said Carson impressively, wiping his
livid brow. * All I know is, we three — Lauriere,
Pacifique Peron, and myself — were in the dark
struggling together — well, if you must know, for
that infernal ring of yours. Lauriere, he said he
had it in his pocket — that he had stolen it. Well,
of course I was your grandson, your representative ;
I could not stand still and hear of this — that you, my
grandfather, had been robbed ; so, after having a
hard time with Pacifique already over that show of

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IMAGE EVALUATION
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1.8

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Sciences
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1.25 1.4

1.6

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23 WEST MAIN STREET

WEBSTER, N.Y. 14580

(716) 872-4503

■^A

276 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

silver and all the rest of your hidden wealth, I had
to endeavour to get the ring from Lauriere. There
was Pacifique, too. I was, as you may say, one
against two — your grandson against a couple of low
habitants. Well, we did tight and struggle till
Pacifique, he did get away, and with him, as I

think, the ring ; but Lauriere ' And here Carson

began to shake once more, and cast fearful glances
around. ' As for Lauriere,' he said in desperation,
' one minute he was there — prostrate, helpless, un-
able to move ; his leg, I believe, was broken, or some-
thing like that, for he would groan with the pain of
it — then the next moment he was gone. I did but
make a step or two after Pacifique to wrest the ring
from him for — you, Mikel ; and the next instant, when
I go back, feel upon the furs, underneath them, all
around for Lauriere, he is gone.'

Mikel rushed to the sides of the room, and tore at
the furs until he was sure Lauriere was nowhere con-
cealed behind them.

' You have murdered him,' he cried with a frightful
voice to Carson, * and hidden his body !'

With that he searched again the two inner rooms,
but without success. He could not bring himself to
believe a single word his grandson said. As it
happened, the only true thing Carson had told him
was this disappearance of Nicolas Lauriere, which
had occurred exactly as he described it. Mikel noted
no trace of blood, though he picked up the dagger

and
the

*]
mur
couli

you 1

sary
devil
nothi
when
good I
I migl
you h
pose, a
looks 1
Mik(
couche
his he£
his hor
only th
Jncreasi
would
hence,
abated
card.

'The
'he ma
broken J

WATERS OF A FULL CUP

277

1, 1 had

There
iay, one
e of low
ggle till
m, as I
e Carson
1 glances
jperation,
pless, un-
, or some-
le pain of
1 did but
,t the ring
tant,when

them, all

nd tore at
vhere con-

and put it in his belt, watchinef Carson narrowly all
the while.

* It must be that you or the hunchback have
murdered him,' he said firmly. * No other end
could have overtaken him.*

* I swear to you,' said CarsoU; * that I have told
you the truth. See here : one may lie about neces-
sary things, but about a poor habitant — that poor
devil of a trapper — I won't lie. I say I know
nothing of his end. It makes me afraid, though,
when I think about it. Perhaps, if one of us was a
good Catholic now, and listened to all the priest said,
I might believe that he had been spirited away. If
you have celestial appearances, you can also, I sup-
pose, arrange for terrestrial disappearances. Well, it
looks like that, almost.'

Mikel vouchsafed no answer, though the idea,
couched less profanely and glibly, had also entered
his head. He stood and regarded the downfall of
his home. The storm was more distant now, and
only the cracking and creaking of timbers, and the
increasing hiss of flames, could be heard. They
would not be safe where they were ten minutes
hence. 'Larson, whose superstitious terrors quickly
abated in the company of another, played his last
card.

* There is another thing about Lauriere,' he said :
*he may have been shamming, counterfeiting a
broken leg, a sprained ankle, making believe. He

278 THE FOREST OF BOURG MARIE

may have got away when Pacifique did. It was so
dark, it would be impossible for me to tell if he
passed me quickly and quietly. That is what I am
beginning to think about that one, Nicolas Lauriere
— that he has run away. See, now, what has be-
come of the sack ?' And Carson looked eagerly
round.

* What sack ?' said Mikel, hating and fearing him
more every moment, yet beginning against his will
to listen to what he had to offer in explanation of the
whole scene.

* The sack that Pacifique produced to my horror
when he came to this inner room. I did not think he
was bad. I knew him curious, fond of money. Well,
he makes friends with me, sings songs for me, gets
me to promise to take him back with me to the
States ; then, immediately we are here, he becomes
a bad youth, a robber, has a sack into which he puts
your beautiful silver. I get up ; I fight — well, I have
told you all of that. Lauriere, who is here by
appointment with Pacifique, understands it all, and
only waits till all is dark to run away, he with the
sack, and Pacifique with the ring. Well, they have
deceived me finely, I am beginning to think.'

Mikel dropped helplessly into the carved oaken
chair. No revelation of infamy on Magloire's part
could have hurt him so nearly now as a breath raised
against the innate honesty and purity of Lauriere.
Momentarily the peril of their situation grew. Carson

WATERS OF A FULL CUP

279

lingered, as if loath to have his grandfather brand him
as the murderer of his friend ; but as the flames drew
nearer, and the crash and fall of the surrounding stones
grew louder, he started from his position near the
table, against which he had leant for strength while
talking to Mikel. He was not any too soon. Mikel
himself — sullen, savage, pained, and embittered
beyond measure — rose too, and made his way out
to the close of autumnal green, guarded by the wan
Cupid of the long dry fountain.

Here, if anywhere, must Mikel have realized the
failure and misery of his life. He stood with his
recreant grandson watching the Manoir burn, and
wishing that his own ashes might go to swell the
heap of useless cinders that to-morrow would cover
the ground. In that sight all other griefs were
drowned. The ingratitude, the impertinence, the
frowardness of Magloire, the sin of Pacifique, the
newly-awakened affection for Lauriere, the love of
hidden wealth — all gave away before the genuine and
noble grief, the sad tumult of soul with which he
observed each revered turret, step, and window
gradually succumb to the remorseless element. Like
other and smaller men in moments of peril, he seemed
sunk in a stupor, and incapable of doing the few
right and practical things that there was still time
enough left for him to do. He let the furs burn.
Carson, standing by, itched to spring in and tear
them down, but a look at Mikel's face illumined by

28o THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

the glow of the burning house, arrested him. He
did not consider that he had at all failed in his
mission. He intended to overtake Pacifique, and
claim his share ; but these superb skins of bear,
marten, and seal, how exasperating to see them lost
in such a manner ! Mikel held him in check by the
dull concentration of his manner. He was afraid to
move. There came at last a moment when, with
a sickening writhe of the entire structure, the old
Manoir of Colombiere le Caron oscillated, tottered,
trembled, was picked out in fire in front of the dark
midnight skies, then collapsed in strange shapeless
masses, a creature of parts no longer, or parts that
would never again serve to make a beautiful and
precious whole.

Mikel felt the oscillation in his own body, turned
faint and sick, and fell headlong to the ground.

Carson, not eager to renew any conversation with
his grandfather, disappeared in the trees that led
down to the latter's house and clearing, in search of
Pacifique. The way was an unaccustomed way to
him, and he progressed but slowly. The Manoir
had long been forgotten — old Mikel and Lauriere,
too — and all thought concentrated on his meeting
with the avaricious cripple, when he heard a succes-
sion of muffled shrieks issuing from the middle of
Bourg- Marie. They were sufficiently near to cause
him terror, and he awaited the result, whatever it
might be, in superstitious alarm. The ghost of

WATERS OF A FULL CUP

281

. He

in his
e, and
■ bear,
tm lost
by the
fraid to
n, with
the old
ottered,
he dark
hapcless
Ltts that
iful and

r, turned
id.

;ion with
that led
jearch of
way to
Manoir
.auriere,
meeting
succes-
liddle of
|to cause
itever it
[host of

Lauriere was what he half expected to see, and not
what he presently stumbled against — the sack full of
Mikel's long-hoarded wealth, the sack for which he
was bent on overtaking Pacifique, for which he was
ready to commit any crime. He had hardly clutched
it once more, shouldering its clinking weight, and
uncertain as to what direction he must take, both to
escape those shrieks and to get out of the wood,
when they came again, and nearer. Carson knew
now what they were, and turned and fled as rapidly
as he might with that burden upon his back.

Not far from him writhed Pacifique in the hot grip
of the huge black bear Mikel had observed in the
forest ; and the words he had shrieked out in mortal
fear and agony over and over again had been : ' I
believe in God ! I believe also in a devil !'

[ 282 J

CHAPTER XVII.

A SIGN FROM HEAVEN.

* Hear now this, O foolish people, and without under-
standing.'

P£:re Dominique Labelle, who was in constant,
lively, and comprehensive correspondence with his
superiors in the Church, wrote to Quebec the week
after the burning of the old Manoir of Colombiere
le Caron, and the departure for the Upper Province
of Mr. Murray Carson, of a most curious and in-
teresting episode in the history of the valley. It
appeared that one Ladislas Gouin, a habitant living
in the parish of Bourg-Marie, on returning to his
home a mile outside the village one evening about
dusk, was struck with a sense of something unusual
in the twilight sky in the direction of the tapering j
towers of the parish church. The appearance was I
altogether hazy, indefinite, peculiar, and he could
give it no name, rather fancying it to be some
phenomenon of the Indian summer glories, when all

A SIGN FROM HEAVEN

283

constant,
with his
the week
:olombiere
|r Province
IS and in-
[valley. It
^tant living
ling to his
Ining about
jng unusual
le tapering
trance was
he could!
be some I
5S, when all

the valley and the mountain-sides were transfigured
in habit of purple and gold. The appearance, how-
ever, continuing, he thought it his duty to com-
municate his knowledge of it to the parish priest —
that is, of course, to Pere Dominique Labelle himself.
The good Father in his letter went on to state his
reception of Ladislas Gouin's story, his humouring
of him, and his walking forth on the third evening —
a Friday — to inspect the atrial phenomenon, accom-
panied by M. femile Thibideau, Joncas, and two
brothers from the Nicolet S6minaire, who happened
to be in Bourg-Marie at the time.

' I would have you know,' writes Pere Dominique

Labelle, * that these four persons are well known and

to be respected. In view of many recent attempts

made upon the veracity of our people, and the honesty

of our purpose, I mention this, M. Thibideau and

Joncas being men of rare intelligence, high morality,

and scrupulously truthful. The brothers are even as

ourselves — the two Laframboises from Three Rivers.

* En passant, I regret to chronicle the stay among

us of another Laframboise — Rene, the smuggler.

Both by him and by another our village hath been

sadly troubled of late, of which more another time.

In company, then, with my brothers in the Church

and these two well-conducted and pious men, both

of whom are exact and considerate in all matters

pertaining to the Church's rights and tithes, I went

forth last Friday evening just before sunset. We

284 THE FOREST OF BOURGMARIE

walked straij:jht through the village, and, emerging
upon a small plateau overlooking the river, and
affording a fine view of the commanding towers of our
blessed church dedicated to the Holy Ste. Catharine,
I, at the suggestion of the rest, advanced to the
edge that I might better observe the appearance in
the sky or clouds of which the habitant, Ladislas
Gouin, had told me. I failed not to cause him to
stand out with me from the four others, inasmuch as
if a vision or celestial apparition were indeed about
to be accorded us, its discovery was undoubtedly
owing to the piety, the singular and innocent dis-
position, and the ready obedience to the whole com-
mands of the Church which have ever characterized
this simple Christian. It was a beautiful sight in
itself — that winding, shining river, those floating
golden clouds, the tints that met in tree and grass
and meadow ; and we stood there, the man Ladislas
Gouin and myself, until the colour faded out, and a
most peculiar but beautiful shade of blue — although
a blue, yet quite different from the everyday blue of
the vault of heaven — settled over the river and shining
landscape. And out of this blue, yet one with it,
lay, shaped in no form that one might dare recognise
or name, some shape that was not just a string of |
feathery cloudlets, or sheaf of film, or wheel of earth-
focussed rays. Ladislas Gouin touched me lightly on
the arm, though quite respectfully as usual — every- j
thing he does is ever reverent and in keeping witii

in our m

years, has

States, an

spreading

our simp](

nath been

[progress,

clearly def

only a her

KeJJgion aJo

A SIGN FROM HEAVEN

285

[nerginR

er, and

rs of our

itharine,

i to the

ranee in
Ladislas

e him to

smuch as

jed about

ioubtedly

Dcent dis-

hole com-

jacterized

1 sight in

e floating
and grass
Ladislas
out, and a
-although
Lay blue of
[nd shining
le with it,
recognise

string of
il of earth-
lightly on
|al— every-
jping with I

his attitude towards the Church — and I read in his
eyes that the moment had arrived.

' If you demand of me, Most Eminent and
Gracious, the exact impression left upon my mind
by witnessing that most singular spectacle of cloud
or mist or vapour which touched the tops of the
towers and melted into the fast dusking sky above
them, I must reply that the shape, as observed and
retained by me, was that of a form, lofty indeed, far
above even our ideas of angelic visitants, but still a
form human as to outline, though enveloped in a
blue film that precluded all hope of defining its pro-
portions, marking its symmetry or the reverse, or in
any way throwing light on what all present were
unanimous in considering one of those celestial
apparitions which it has pleased our Creator to send
among us at rare but ever crucial seasons. For I
had already a long letter written to you, Most
Eminent, describing the seditious and heretical talk
in our midst of a certain habitant, who, since nine
years, has lived in precarious fashion in the Western
States, and has lately returned to his native village,
spreading dissension and the spirit of revolt among
our simple-minded and contented people. His talk
hath been much of the Church's enmity towards
progress, though progress in what was never too
clearly defined or understood. Indeed, he was not
only a heretic, but a traitor as well, for he let no
religion alone, and hath even discussed the probability

286 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

of there arising a time when no religion need prevail
and all systems of Government be condemned as
unnecessary and superfluous. Dreading the effect
of such wild, disjointed, and blasphemous utterances
upon my people, I caused such inquiries to be set on
foot as have resulted in my discovery of the fact that
this young man is a Socialist, and, I think — though
of this I am not yet certain — a spy sent into our
Lower Province for purposes of which the order to
which he belongs hath great reason to be ashamed.
You will, then, easily understand how much I have
been troubled for the faith and the freedom of the
entire district. Up till now we have lived as one
family in unbroken harmony and constant union.
The evil-doers are few; the pious and considerate
and amiable are on the increase.

* To return, then, to the singular object as observed
by Ladislas Gouin and the others, as well as myself,
on last Friday evening at sundown. I experienced,
as I gazed upon it, a sensation like to that of infinite
gratitude for our preservation from the attacks of the
unrighteous and disobedient, and it was conveyed!
to me as I stood there that, by dint of unworldly
living and constant prayer, it might be vouchsafed
unto me to witness the vision in some more potent
and tangible form. Accordingly, that night I kept!
a vigil, and all day Saturday, turning aside fromj
everything else, I endeavoured to maintain the most
contrite spirit, together with ardent prayer for m>sell

A SIGN FROM HEAVEN

287

into our
; order to

ashamed,
ch I have
om of the
red as one
ant union.
;onskierate

and for all the denizens of the valley. Believe, then,
Most Eminent, that my cause hath prospered indeed,
so far that, early on the morning of Sunday, while I
was at the altar upon my knees, with eyes closed
and prayerful heart, I felt a hand, or touch similar
to a hand, laid softly but heavily on my eyes, and
while I continued kneeling, bound to the spot by
awe and love, I heard great rustling and sweeping
above me, as of innumerable angels in the church.
And presently, the touch of the hand being gone, I
took courage, and, raising my unworthy eyes, en-
countered the Blessed Vision itself, poised above
the altar — a saintly figure, blue-draped, gold-girdled,
with hair floating behind it of sunny hue, and hands
close locked and lifted to heaven. The Vision's eyes
did not meet mine, which perhaps is the reason that
I ventured to gaze so long upon the angelic loveliness
vouchsafed to my poor, earth-bound sight. Believe,
again, Most Eminent and Gracious, that at the time
I firmly held, and do so still, this apparition to be
sent to confirm us in our faith, strengthen us in our
weakness, comfort us in our trial, and prove to all
men the blessed consolations afforded by a life of
piety in accordance with the only true Church.

' I lost no time, be sure, in allowing the gracious

news to circulate freely in the valley, and Ladislas

Gouin is the hero of the hour. Would that all men

I believed like us, that the age of miracles is still with

lus, and that, in face of absolute reliance in the

288

THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

Church, nothing — in the hands of the Creator —
need be impossible. Would that our glorious
religion, our unequalled system of morality, our
beautiful language and our classic prayers, as well
as the minor rites of our precious service, were as
dear to the rest of the Dominion as to us, the
guardians of the only true and real Ritual ! For
the present, your wise counsel — how to deal with
this spirit of inquiry and progress so fatal to our
destinies as a Church and as a people, by de-
liberately checking both in their first stages-
remains for our comfort and better understanding
of the matter. These dangerous plans, from time
to time artfully concocted and aimed at our civil,
national, and religious liberties, need only to be met
in one way, and that is, through the reliance of our
people on the absolute power of the Church. Such
a revelation of the miraculous as this apparition,
which, in all humility and ignorance of the Deity's
designs, I venture to name our patron, Saint
Catharine, should indicate far beyond the limits of
the valley the indestructible elements out of which
the Holy Church of Rome is made.
• Deign to accept, Most Eminent,' etc.

The reception of this letter, and its subsequent
publication in every journal published in the
province, succeeded in restoring perfect calm and
unbroken confidence throughout Bourg- Marie and

those J

ledge i

cJusiom

at the

order, j

very sJo

while, ai

a choice

of value

Upper C

of great

g:entJema

'"iprisonr

Jnsufficiei

^im, he ,

relics stiJJ

and furnit

flowers, a;

Rylands.

thrift in t:

shrewd, ca

"as removi

soon to foj;

land always

^^ikel's inh€

I ^s an impor

^e Jives in j

^^e principle

"is niemora

A SIGN FROM HEAVEN

289

reator—
glorious
ity, our

as well

were as
, us, the

al \ Foi^
deal with
:al to our
e, by de-
; stages—
Lcrstanding
from time
t our civil,
to be met
,nce of our
irch. Such
apparition,
[the Deity's
^ron, Saint
te limits of
•J. of which

1 subsequent
.d in the
calm and
Marie and

those adjacent villages that were soon to acknow-
ledge the brilliant oratory and the dazzling con-
clusions of Mr. Murray Carson. The latter, while
at the same time fulfilling the commands of the
order, made his way up to Quebec and Montreal
very slowly, lecturing wherever he thought it worth
while, and carrying with him, in a brand-new trunk,
a choice supply of old family silver and other articles
of value and curiosity. His career was cut short in
Upper Canada by a circumstance which savoured
of great inconvenience to so fasitidious a young
gentleman — not, perhaps, to be vulgarly termed
imprisonment, but, more delicately, incarceration.
Insufficient evidence being forthcoming to criminate
him, he departed for Milwaukee with his family
relics still intact, turned afterwards into fine clothes
and furniture, horses and diamond rings, pictures,
flowers, and theatre tickets for himself and Mrs.
Rylands. Magloire has prospered. He has learned
thrift in the middle of extravagance, has become
shrewd, careful, while remaining unscrupulous, and
has removed to Kansas, where Mrs. Rylands is
soon to follow him. Once a member of the order,
and always a member. His cruse of wealth — old
Mikel's inheritance — never failing him, he is regarded
as an important man to conciliate and interest, and
he Hves in a style that is much at variance with
the principles inculcated in the bylaws of the order.
His niemorable visit to his native land, though it

290 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

r ■

cost him at the time some trouble and perplexity, is
rapidly fading into oblivion, while he has found a
worthy successor as an outpost of the order in Jim
Platte, the horse-trader, now living at St. John's,
Quebec, and occupied in silently spreading his
Socialistic nets all over the Dominion.

Carson will live on, destitute of a soul, a con-
science, or a heart. He grows stout, his sharp-
ness shows no more in his contour, though it is there
still in his eye. He is absolutely content. He has
prospered, is rich beyond his dreams. Women have
rarely troubled him, and the woman who had the
power to trouble him most is to join him at Topeka
in a few weeks. He looks back occasionally at the
little obscure French-Canadian village of his birth,
and when he passes some great Catholic church, and
hears the Gregorian interval of the chant, it carries
him for an instant, perhaps, to the one stone-paved
street, and the silent forest, and the broad river of
his youth, but always with the same unspeakable
contempt. He has almost forgotten French. He
never enters a sacred edifice, of course, being a
member of the order, and smokes and drinks and
eats more than is good for him. Still, his personal
nicety is unimpeached, and he has become Hj
strikingly handsome man, of unusual height, com-
manding presence, with night-black eyes and hair.

*0t

praisec
things
*We
all the

A DAY

near th

house.

ever bic

in spasr

traducer

explanat

honesty.

"P ere th

cent bloo

spirit, on(

^eged to

'louse, the

[ 291 ]

•lexity, is
found a
er in ]im
t. John's,
iding his

al, a con-

his sharp-

1 it is there

:. He has

omen have

lo had the

1 at Topeka

nally at the

)f his birth,

church, and

it, it carries

stone-paved

road river of
[unspeakable

rench. He
ise, being a

drinks and
|his personal

become a!
leight, com- 1

and hair.

CHAPTER XVIII.

STONES OF EMPTINESS.

* Our holy and our beautiful house where our fathers
praised Thee is burned up with fire ; and all our pleasant
things are laid waste.

• We are the clay, and Thou our potter ; and we are
all the work of Thy hand.'

A DAY and a night had flown, and Mikel remained
near the ruins of his once stately and revered manor-
house. The memory of his grandson was surely for
ever blotted out ; yet, if he remembered him at all,
in spasms of horror and indignation, it was as the
traducer of Nicolas Lauriere. He accepted Magloire's
explanation — made in half-scared sarcasm, in siniple
honesty. Nicolas had, indeed, been removed, caught
up ere the hands of wicked men, slayers of the inno-
cent blood, had touched him. He was now a purified
spirit, one with the favoured of the Almighty, privi-
leged to adore the face of Mary. The ruin of his
house, the loss of Lauriere, these were Mikel's con-

19 — 2

lb. .

292 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

flicting emotions that surged in his simple breast and
beat upon his weary brain. He cared no longer to
amuse and interest himself with dreams of the
restoration of his house and line, seeing himself a
venerable and important figure, the seigneur of the
district ; next to the cur6, the father and counsellor
of old and young, the friend of rich and poor,
ignorant and wise, cultured and simple. He saw no
longer the fertile valley, teeming with corn-bright
meadows, emerald pastures, tinkling with cattle and
sheep-bells, farmed by the willing tenants that
acknowledged him as lord and master. This Arcadia
of his waking and dreaming hours had passed with
the passing of his grandson, with the fall of the
Manoir, with the loss of Lauriere. For the destiny
of his country he had ever thought little. His code
was, that every man in authority, or every man of
education and gentle birth, should tend, as a shep-
herd tends his flock, as a pastor watches over his
congregation, those who come under his rule and
protection. The principle of self-government was
his one theme, and yet he, its advocate and high-
priest, had lately suffered loss and ruin at the hands
of his own flesh and blood. While the spectacle
did not appal him, it quieted him, and stilled those
dreams which for years had been his chief occupation
in leisure.

The burning Manoir had been suffered to collapse
in shapeless ruins without the valley knowing any-

STONES OF EMPTINESS

293

•east and
onger to
, of the
himself a
5ur of the
;ounsellor
ind poor,
le saw no
orn-bright
cattle and
lants that
tiis Arcadia
)assed with
fall of the
;he destiny
His code
ivy man of
as a shep-
;s over his
s rule and
Inment was
and high-
t the hands
|e spectacle
iUed those
occupation

to collapse
)wing any-

thing about its destruction. The storm which had
so perplexed and alarmed Mikel and the robbers of
the treasure had expended its chief fury over that
part of Bourg-Marie where stood the giant carven
seats, the wan Cupid and the seventeenth-century
chateau, and not even Joncas, Mikel's trusty friend
and colleague, had imagined anytb' \g seriously the
matter with the old trapper and his dwelling. As
for Lauriere, there was no one to inquire for him, or
to wonder at his absence, since he was without
relations in the village, while his avocation frequently
took him and kept him away from his little house
days at a time.

On the morning of the second day, Mikel, faint
with hunger, descended for the first time from the
elevation graced heretofore by the Manoir to the
level below where stood the house he generally
occupied. He crossed the triangle of sward, parted
the underbush, and began to descend the gently
sloping hill. About twenty yards down was an
ancient well or cistern, long disused, and grown
over with weeds and creeper. Never in Mikel's time
had it been used. Never had he heard his father
speak of using it. He had found it out by chance
several years before, and now, as he passed it, he
thought vaguely of the time when it too was useful
in its way, when the merry groups of French had
gathered around it, when the fountain had been
made, and the Cupid shaped, and the crucifix cut

294 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

out, and the carven seats filled. And just as he
passed it, being about five yards firom it, and wonder-
ing how and why they came to make a cistern on
the side of a hill, he heard a sound which immediately
fastened upon his ear, and was not to be shaken
away like the cry of an animal, or the whir of a
bird's wing, because it was a human sound — the
sound of a voice.

*A man's voice,' thought Mikel, standing stock-
still. * And from whence comes it ? That is what
I must know.'

From the well, the ancient cistern, Mikel, it comes
— that strange, weak, far-off voice.

Mikel hesitated but a moment, then, plunging past
tree and stump, he tore away the matted vetch and
creeper, brier and mullein and weed, till he could
see a dark cavity, and knew he was looking into
space, with something alive at the bottom. He
waited and listened for the sound, but it was a long
minute or two minutes before it recurred. When it
did, he could make little of it. It was not a cry ;
it was not a groan : it was rather a long, exhaus-
tive, almost expiring sigh, a sigh of such pathos,
of such agony, of such resignation, that Mikel's tears
started for the first time since the rapid destruction
of so many hopes. This sigh, so tender, so full of
exquisite and painful yearning, compounded, it would
seem, of human pain with more than human sorrow,
touched him deeply. Some unfortunate fellow-

creature,

the watei

could har

thick wer

it. Sudd

thought o

he could

had ever .

gifts to c

heart and

strange an

time it felj

it, to maJ<

Nicolas, b

was of the

both, had

hope that I

tale of rol

cistern beir

enabled to

downward

do, never r<

of his retui

was nearer £

lying flat u

formed the

steadily dov

and more at

^^11, of wh

STONES OF EMPTINESS

295

creature, he deemed, had fallen in the empty tank,
the waterless cave, during the storm. And yet this
could hardly have happened, seeing how matted and
thick were the branches and vines that overtopped
it. Suddenly Mikel grew straight, keen, alert. He
thought of Lauriere. The sound was so distant that
he could not hope to recognise it for any voice he
had ever known, but hope — that most blessed of all
gifts to disappointed age — spoke in his wounded
heart and said that it might be Lauriere's, that
strange and aching sigh. He listened while a third
time it fell upon his ear, then he essayed to answer
it, to make himself heard. Twice he called upon
Nicolas, but could not tell the result. He now
was of the firm belief that Pacifique, or Carson, or
both, had thrown him down this fearful hole in the
hope that he would die there and not live to tell the
tale of robbery and murder. The walls of the
cistern being sloping instead of straight, Mikel was
enabled to drag himself along a considerable distance
downward toward the voice, which he continued to
do, never reflecting upon the difficulties in the way
of his returning. When the sound came again, it
was nearer and louder and more like a groan. Mikel,
lying flat upon the damp and rotten planks that
formed the wall of the cistern, pushed himself down,
steadily down, while he mentally wondered more
and more at the construction of the curious tubular
well, of which he had had no conception all the

296 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

f •

t r

time he had passed and repassed it on the out-
side. When this had continued for some yards,
he began to comprehend that this was no cistern
at all. The slope had now stopped and the round
wall disappeared. The ground came into view
again, and presently Mikel found he could crawl
along on the level, in a passage which seemed to be
about four feet high and three wide. Now the path
took a slightly upward turn, and, stopping for breath
and strength — Mikel was over seventy — he heard the
sigh, the groan, quite distinctly, and not very far
away ; but whether it belonged to Lauriere he could
not tell. He took courage, however, from his
proximity to someone in distress — were it friend or
foe he hardly cared, so absorbed was he in the con-
templation of the remarkable spectacle of a sub-
terranean passage, perhaps two hundred years old,
totally unknown to himself, the owner of all the
surrounding forest. Gradually the road widened,
still gently sloping upwards, into a kind of cave or
grotto, as large as a moderate chamber, lighted by a
small aperture at one end, to which Mikel crept, the
ground over his head arching in the middle to only
six feet, and declining at the sides to meet the wall.
Arrived at this aperture, Mikel looked with amaze-
ment upon a larger cave than the one he was in,
strewn with rocks and portions of stony boulder, and
containing a curious shaft of plank, which appeared
to lead up to the ground above, and at the foot of

STONES OF EMPTINESS

297

he out-
I yards,
cistern
e round
to view
Id crawl
led to be
the path
Dr breath
leard the
very far
he could
from his
friend or
the con-
►f a sub-
rears old,
f all the
widened,
f cave or
hted by a
:rept, the
le to only
the wall.
|h amaze-
was in,
Ider, and
appeared
e foot of

which lay a man — say rather a body, so inert, so
helpless, so useless it looked, that poor, stunned heap
of swooning humanity. Mikel, who knew that from
this unfortunate being had been wafted the groan or
sigh that had gone to his inmost heart, so full had it
been of resigned and mortal agony, with difficulty
got through the aperture and bent over the huddled
form. The light was so meagre, coming from such
a distance, another aperture in the roof or ceiling,
through which had slanted for over a hundred years
a long inclined plane of rough boards, that only by
touch and instinct did he at first divine that it was
Lauriere. But the clothes told him, then his ear,
and he recognised the voice, although only wafted
on the air in that weak and despairing sigh. Mikel
looked up the giddy shaft of plank down which
Lauriere had slipped sheer to the ground and
marvelled. At the top it was daylight, and, though
he had no means of knowing it, Lauriere, in lying
under the displaced and tumbled skins in that
memorable apartment of the old Manoir, where
Carson and the cripple had fought against him for
the ring, had in his struggles displaced a plank in the
flooring. This plank, shooting from under him with
an elasticity which brought it back when his weight
was removed, so that under the heaped-up furs no
sign of anything unusual had been apparent, had
been the crowning delight of Pere Chaletot's in-
dustrious career. He had caused this plank or

298 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

sliding panel in the flooring to open directly over
the underground chamber in the rock — partly
natural and partly hewn out — where he had also set
the inclined plane or shaft, continuing for upwards
of sixty or seventy feet down into the very bowels of
the earth, as it seemed now to Mikel, looking up the
ancient shaft.

In the days of Pere Chaletot the panel was kept in
order, and many were the sacks of provisions and
ammunition sent sliding down to that underground
storage-room. In the days of Mikel's father, how-
ever, the panel got out of order, and its existence
was hushed up, Mikel himself never hearing of it.
Yet it had been there when he ran about as a boy,
learning to love the old Manoir, and drinking in
tales of chivalry, war, romance, and conquest. It
had been there when his father died, when he
brought his wife. Dame Madeleine-Josephte-Virginie-
Amable, home, when she died, and when Octave
died. It had been there when he built the little
common house on the roadway, and began accumu-
lating his store of splendid skins ; when Magloire
the first died, when Magloire the second climbed on
his knee, an orphan of seven or eight, intensely agile,
clever, cunning, and spirited ; and when he, old
Mikel, had clapped him on the back and prophesied
great things of him.

He bent low and listened. Lauriere was alive,
and gave now and then that half-groan which had

him.

STONES OF EMPTINESS

299

reached Mikel's ear at the other end of the sub-
terranean passage. The false cistern was also Pdre
Chaletot's invention, and, in face of the bands of
fierce Iroquois who ravaged the country in the time
of Mikel's grandfather and great-grandfather, may
perhaps have often served as a place of refuge for the
retainers of the family, and, in an emergency, for the
family itself.

The trapper bent lower still, finally knelt beside
his friend. Lauriere had shot down the plank at
terrific speed, and, broken in spirit and tortured by
pain as he had been, had evidently succumbed to
the shock, for he lay still the indescribable, inert,
huddled-up heap that Mikel had first observed. The
latter endeavoured to rouse him, or at least to move
him a little. After a few minutes Lauriere showed
some faint signs of life beyond that sickening groan.
He opened his eyes and knew Mikel.

A great cry of love and relief burst from the old
man's overwrought heart.

* I thought you were dead,' he said.

And Lauriere, hearing, smiled. He could not
speak just then ; but how he longed — how he longed
to die ! And yet there was something he must say
before he died.

Mikel looked closely at him. There was some-
thing wrong. He grew terribly nervous, afraid of
asking, afraid of giving pain, fearful even of touching
him. Lauriere dimly saw and understood. He

lit

300 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

might help his friend by a word. If he only could
make the sign of the cross even. But that was
denied hmi. He made a great effort and spoke :

' It is my back,' he sighed. * See, the back-
broken !'

Mikel hung over him, with large tears rolling
down his wrinkled brown face. He longed so
intensely to know how Nicolas had come in this
strange cave, but dared not ask. One word, how-
ever, escaped him.

* My grandson ?' he cried ; ' Magloire '

*No, no!' groaned Lauriere. 'Not through him
I lie here. All my own fault. Mikel, believe,
Magloire knows nothing of where I am. Do you
see that shaft, that faint light ? That is the old
Manoir.'

Mikel started and looked towards that speck of
light.

'Daylight!' he cried. 'And we are under what
was the old Manoir !*

' Daylight ?' repeated Lauriere, fast passing away,
but reinforced by a sad strength in his last moments.
' I cannot make out that light — why it should be.
I was in the darkened room— the room so richly
lined with furs. The cripple — he fought with me
for your ring, Mikel, and I had to struggle for my
life. He had a dagger — I am scratched with that.
Indeed, Mikel, I am not yet dead, but I am dying ;
for I kicked against a board in that room, and

STONES OF EMPTINESS

301

the next moment I hardly know Mikel, it all

swims; hold me, or — no, no, do not touch me,
Mikel !'

' My grandson, Magloire,' cried Mikel, full of pity
and awe, ' surely he knew of this ! He pushed you
down ?'

Lauriere seemed to pull his strength back from
the grave.

* Magloire,' he murmured — * Magloire had nothing
to do with it. He was theic, yes, to look for you —
to explore and visit the old Manoir. He came with
Pacifique. Perhaps — of that I am not sure. Mikel,
the light grows very strong.'

Mikel listened and looked on in awe. To him the
light seemed growing weaker.

' You were ever tender of him, the accursed heir
to all this forest and stream. For now, Lauriere,
there is nothing more. You see the daylight there
because the top of the shaft is open to the sky.
Lauriere, the old Manoir is gone — burnt, scattered
on the ground, blown afar to the winds. The furs,
they are burnt also. And my grandson, he has
robbed me of the rest of my wealth. Well, it is
the will of God.'

Lauridre half turned his dying eyes to Mikel.

* You are wrong,' he said, and with those words
stranger and beautiful flutterings mustered around
his head, and that light seemed to stretch up into
the sky and stream out in clouds of splendour. To

302 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

lay down his life for his friend, was that his dying
dream ?

' You cannot make me believe good of him,' cried
Mikel. * He was there to rob, perhaps to kill.'

* No, no!' said Lauriere. 'That was Pacifique.
Ah yes, that poor Pacifique who would not go
barefoot to the shrine of the holy St. Anne and be
made straight. I would go now, Mikel, if it were
not too late. For, even if I lived, I should never be
straight any more. For all time I should be the
same as Pacifique — or worse. No, no. Magloire,
you do him wrong. He was fond of you, Mikel, but
afraid to show his fondness. You had been cold,
hasty to him. Well, that chills one. I used to feel
that, too, with you, Mikel.'

Le Caron held his breath.

* How very strong the light still grows, Mikel. If
it did not shine out, dazzle so hard, I might speak
more clearly, think more harshly. No, you must
forgive Magloire. You must seek him out and tell
him that he has been wrong but so have you. You
would forgive me if I had done you an injury ? If
I had been the robber, and not Magloire — not
Magloire ?'

Mikel instinctively drew back, and his voice grew
hoarse and rough.

* But you could not — you, Nicolas Lauriere,
whom I had taken for my son ! Yet that was what
he said.'

his dying

lim,' cried
kill.'

Pacifique.
Id not go
ne and be

if it were

Id never be

uld be the

Magloire,

Mikel, but

been cold,
ised to feel

Mikel. If

light speak

you must

it and tell
I you. You
[njury ? If

2;loire— not

roice grew

Lauriere,
was what

STONES OF EMPTINESS

303

* Who said ? Magloire ?'

* Yes. I flung, I stamped, I wrung the thought
by the neck away. I would not listen.'

* Would not listen, Mikel ! To your own flesh
and blood, to your grandson, le p'tit Magloire, grown
tall and straight and handsome, and still a good
deal like you — the gait, the bright eye, the long
body !'

Mikel groaned.

* I love him not,' he cried, * be he just or unjust,
true or false ! He that told me you were in league
with Pacifique to rob me, how could I listen, how
could I confide, how could I trust in such an one ?
Lauriere, you are — you must be innocent ! And,
Lauriere, you must not die. You must live, because
I love you !'

* The dead talk not of loving,' said Nicolas,
with difficulty. ' There are those alive who will
gather up your love and bless you for a few daily
crumbs of it. I say to you, Mikel, find Magloire,
pray for him, watch over him, tend him — it may not
be too late. Mikel, this is a strange place to die in.'

The elder man had softened again. Magloire was
forgotten.

* One would think that under the ground it must
always be dark ; but look, Mikel, and see how bright
that far light shines ! It shines upon all the valley,
where soon the snow will lie. Mikel — if you can —
bury me under the snow. When I have watched

304 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

ii.!

Ik ■

9^ ,

the early flowers bursting, splitting their brown
hoods while the snow is still massed about their
roots, I have thought — I too shall lie warm under
the snow and earth some day, and rise like them.
You beHeve that, Mikel ?'

* God ! I do not know,' burst from old Mikel.
* How can I tell ? I am not in the light as you are,
my son. All that — it is dark, confused, mysterious
to me. But do not talk ; rest, be quiet, sleep.'

* Who could sleep for that strange light ? It is
strange because, although it is so powerful, it does
not hurt my sight. Mikel, all that is true ; Mikel, I
have suffered, thinking that perhaps it was not true.
I have prayed to Mary and to the blessed saints for
aid in those dark hours, and it came — but it came —
not through Mary. Mikel, the light shines upon the
valley, and upon the river of my youth — upon the
cross of the parish church, upon the grim gray
towers, and I seem to stand once more inside,
and see — no maze of lights and flowers, no image,
no priest, no pictures, but a Face, Mikel — the face of
Mary's Son, thorn-crowned, blood-stained ! Mikel,
turn to Him. Do you not see ? Do you not under-
stand ?'

Lauriere spoke in great gasps now. He had not
five minutes to live.

* Bury me,' he said presently, * in Bourg-Marie.
There can be no sweeter place, no nobler soil, to
lie in.'

STONES OF EMPTINESS

305

brown
It their
1 under
e them.

I Mikel.
you are,
ysterious

ep.'

t? It is
il, it does
; Mikel, I
not true,
saints for
it came —
upon the
upon the
;rim gray
ire inside,
|no image,
;he face of
1 Mikel,
Lot under-

le had not

lurg-Marie.
ler soil, to

* But thou art dying without the last rites !'
groaned Le Caron. * Thou canst not even make
the sign of the cross, my son, my poor Lauriere !'

' I do not think,' said Nicolas, turning his fast-
glazing eyes towards his old friend with almost a
smile in them, * that matters. Mikel — I die. Bury
me — in Bourg-Marie, where the light still shines on
the river — on the Cross — on that Face — Mikel.'

Le Caron broke into a passionate tempest of tears
over the body which had cast out the soul. Thus
was accomplished the death of Nicolas Lauriere, and
Mikel remained a moody, reticent, embittered old
man, betrayed by his kith and kin, and shorn of his
adopted son. Lauriere 's earnest request that he
should find Magloire he utterly neglected ; the youth
was dead to him.

One day — the first anniversary of Lauriere's death
— Mikel went up to the desolate Manoir, and calmly
set fire to the grotto, the ornamental trees, and the
curious carven se- '-.s. The Cupid he also took down
and buried, and nothing now remains but the cruci-
fix and weather-beaten image of our Lord upon it to
testify to the once noble proportions and medieval
appointments of the manor-house of Colombiere
Caron. He did not search for the ring, nor even
think of it, and perhaps one day it will be found
where it fell when Pacifique struggled with the bear,
in the hollow of a huge beech, where year after year
the autumn leaves pile themselves in the dark re-

o g^ 9, vie FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE

cesses of Bourg-Marie. His strength, his keenness,
and his trapper's wit are not yet impaired. Last
year, with Joncas, there were many bears caught—
the finest season for many years— and out of one
hundred and twenty-seven, old Mikel le Caron,
Forest Ranger for the County of Yamachiche,
caught fifty.

THE END.

' *

BILLING AND SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFOKI).

ienness,
. Last
lught —
of one
Caron,
ichiche,

-*?!>■