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Les diagrammes suivants illustrent la m^thode. 1 2 3 1 2 3 4 5 6 FOf /r'"^ If. THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE // BY s. FRANCES 'Harrison AUTHOR OF • PINK, SERANUS) ROSE, AND FLEUR-DE-LIS,' ETC. // ■7-^^ ?//^^ . /'r?'^^ /i9 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 t 9 » I t » 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 8 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 f "1 1 I y f lO 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 II ' 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 t ft , I! i y m 12 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 U 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. r » r % H 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 15 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. I p f I r i \ t6 1 rv-^'". ' »/tmed 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 '0 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 c 9 $ P r r i p p 1 'I 20 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 21 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 i * ft % x I V 9' r '4 \\ 22 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 23 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.' i t l r ; r F ' iv *• ; ►• M f; y' j! f » ;. ■t 1 ¥■ •f 1 5 1 ! 24 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 25 * 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. I V-" r V (5 r \ M '■ t V r 1 « .^ *« i 1^ ■ * - » ■ r; t r r 26 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 27 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 » * ? f- t i >■ m- ^i € > , «' W ;.;■ t . r f r c ')■ 4. 4 28 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 ag 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. c r % f t •r 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 31 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 9- f \ ;li 32 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 33 )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 I m r ■J ¥ r 34 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 ?' I '3 MR. MURRAY CARSON 35 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 *■ f r 't r' i- r I t r- • •I 1 , < 36 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 37 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*- r a- r It- h IT !v' r f 38 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE 'u 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 39 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 0^ 1 M 40 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 41 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 ? s r ^^^ 43 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 43 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 I IT r w I % 44 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 45 [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 s r % 46 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 47 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.' ; r :.*■ i; j»^ 48 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE be in 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 4 w t t r i 'A [I 50 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 I I las 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 Su- • i» i 11 * V > 52 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 53 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 , ■ ' i ' i » «f ■IBK Oi. If. tt I: « c %. l; SI.-.' i«. t i* f.' !■ ■ 54 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 55 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 t 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> t" mr hi r jpr !'■' , ' i',: ' ; 1,' J»^''- ■'i 70 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 71 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 ! c I 73 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 niournin^ H'ith joy. niy frienc see them "ot be of you. M. , Af- PaJissi brothers, n This clin a cheer. 'See nov^ ^bout thing "lay have t that goes me.' The excite I therefore mo 'Whatthii 'Heis^;;^ ' Not he. I^as been awa; * For why AT DELORME'S 73 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' it 74 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 75 ' 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 lit" IMAGE EVALUATION TEST TARGET (MT-3) fe / t/j % ^ 1.0 I.I fj^ IIIIIM '" "^ 1 2.2 1.8 1.25 1.4 1.6 ^ 6" - ► V] ^ //, ^l. '/ Photographic Sciences Corporation 23 WEST MAIN STREET WEBSTER, NY. 14580 (716) 872-4503 88 THE FOREST OF BOURG-MARIE i 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 Fath him says is so: as Bo the tl truth, say n( huinbl( kneelin sister h not in back sti Lauri o'" whic ' I sai she cure ment, tl effort, th always ci not alJ t back stn before M, myself, N of this pi; holidays, i ?o back M ^"d get n be sang in AT DELORME'S 89 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 m r ill,: am 90 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 m • Jim* 111* w 92 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' 93 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.' ■'■ 94 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 '■ 96 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* 97 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 7 ft 0i» 98 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 li 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 m '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 n 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" W" 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' f 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- 8 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 '1 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."'