o 
 
 B 3 3E 
 
B E P c . ( r : Y 
 
 [ LIBRARY 
 
 1 UNIVERSITY OF 
 \CALIFORNIA 
 
LITTLE STORIES OF QUEBEC. 
 

 MADAME LEPINE, 
 
LITTLE STORIES 
 OF QUEBEC 
 
 By 
 
 JAMES EDWARD LE ROSSIGNOL 
 
 DECORATIONS AND ILLUSTRATIONS 
 BY LAURA MILLER 
 
 CINCINNATI: JENNINGS AND GRAHAM 
 NEW YORK: EATON AND MAINS 
 
COPYRIGHT 1908 
 
 BY 
 JENNINGS & GRAHAM 
 
TO MY FRIEND, 
 JOHN LEWIS DAY. 
 
 581 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 I. THE POOR OF THIS WORLD, 13 
 
 II. FATHER GRANDMAISON, - 27 
 
 III. THE PEACEMAKER, 51 
 
 IV. THEOPHILE, 71 
 V. THE EXILE, 115 
 
 VI. THE MISER, ----- 143 
 
I. 
 
 THE POOR OF THIS WORLD. 
 
THE POOR OF THIS WORLD. 
 
 1. 
 
 MADAME LEPINE sat alone at the window of 
 No. 62 Rue du Bon Secours in the suburb of 
 St. Sauveur de Quebec, knitting industriously, 
 but at the same time gazing intently down the 
 street. It was near the hour of eight in the 
 evening, but the long northern twilight had not 
 yet begun to darken the little room. At eight 
 o clock precisely Philippe would come. For 
 had they not been married the week before, 
 and was not Philippe since three days foreman 
 in the great shipyard of Thibeaudeau Freres, and 
 was it not his privilege to leave the yard at half- 
 
past seven every evening 
 during this whole month 
 of June? It was two miles, 
 the distance, but he would 
 be with his dear Belvine at 
 eight o clock without fail. 
 She would have dinner 
 ready for him. It was 
 ready now. After that 
 they would go to walk on 
 the Esplanade. 
 
 Her fair face lighted up 
 as his step sounded in the 
 distance. Her dark eyes 
 brightened, they even glis 
 tened as she saw him com 
 ing round the corner. She 
 met him at the door. They 
 greeted one another with 
 a kiss. Together they sat 
 down to their frugal meal. 
 There was only soupe aux 
 pois and bread for the 
 
first course, and wild strawberries and bread 
 for the second, but it was enough. They were 
 not rich. They had nothing but Philippe s 
 daily wage. They had no relations living. 
 They were alone, they two, in the world. 
 But that was no trouble. It was enough that 
 they were together. So Belvine said and so 
 said also Father Grandmaison, the little cure of 
 St. Sauveur. St. Sauveur was not a rich par 
 ish as it is now, and Father Grandmaison lived 
 in a very little house. He, too, was poor, but 
 he was their friend. He had gotten Philippe 
 his place at the shipyard. He would also find 
 sale for all the stockings and sashes and tuques 
 that Belvine might knit. For each piece she 
 would get two sous more than any other 
 woman in Quebec, she could knit so well. 
 
 All was prosperous. There was no trouble ; 
 that is, there was only one. There is always 
 one little trouble to keep us from being too 
 happy. It was a debt. It was not a large 
 debt; only three pounds and five shillings. It 
 had been more than that, but Belvine had 
 
-, 
 
 paid already two pounds and ten shillings, her 
 savings for three years, while she had been 
 domestic at the house of one of the rich men 
 of St. Sauveur. It was for her trousseau, of 
 course. That was necessary. Also Philippe 
 had bought a new coat for the ceremony. It 
 was the debt of both and both would pay it. 
 The great house of Laviolette et Fils would 
 wait. M. Laviolette himself had said so. "I 
 trust you, mademoiselle, " he had said. " I knew 
 your father. He was a good man. And Phil 
 ippe, too, he has the heart of gold." Ah, those 
 words ! How they did cheer the soul ! Yes, 
 they would pay very soon, perhaps in two 
 months. 
 
 At dinner they talked it all over, but when 
 they went to walk on the Esplanade they forgot 
 all but the happiness of being together. The 
 band played so beautifully. The soldiers 
 looked so fine in their red coats and tall bea 
 vers. The neighbors smiled on them and 
 wished them good luck. What could be bet 
 ter in this world? Ah, the happiness of that 
 
hour ! Could they ever for 
 get it? They never did 
 forget it. 
 
 2. 
 
 "Belvine," said Father 
 Grandmaison, "we must 
 be reconciled to the will 
 of God. My child, he is 
 a God of love. The good 
 God brings sorrow, but it 
 is for our good." 
 
 Thus spoke the little 
 cure, with trembling voice, 
 while Belvine knelt at the 
 bedside in grief too deep 
 for tears. Something had 
 happened at the shipyard, 
 some accident, it was hard 
 to tell what, but Philippe 
 had been brought home 
 
 O 
 
 unable to move. Even so 
 his father and his grand- 
 

 II 
 
 7 
 
 father had been brought 
 home to die. But Philippe 
 was not to die; so said the 
 apothecary, M. Leclair. 
 
 "He will live," said M. 
 Leclair, " but he will never 
 walk again. It is paraly 
 sis, my dear M. le Cure. 
 That is all I can say. 
 There is nothing to do. 
 
 Ah, the sinking of the 
 heart when such a sorrow 
 comes ! Philippe would 
 not die, but would he ever 
 speak to her again? would 
 his eyes ever shine again 
 with the light of love? 
 She could not think. The 
 shadow of a great dark 
 ness had come upon the 
 little home. No. 62 Rue du 
 Bon Secours would never 
 be the same again. 
 
M- 
 
 Day after day she watched by the bedside 
 of the man she loved. Day after day came 
 the good cure with words of comfort. Phil 
 ippe would not die, no indeed. She could see 
 him improve from day to day. Back to his 
 great brown eyes came the love-light she had 
 so longed to see. For many days he could 
 only look his love and gratitude, for he could 
 not speak. Then after many days he began 
 to speak. Philippe then could tell Belvine 
 what he had been thinking all these long days. 
 There was joy in No. 62 Rue du Bon Secours. 
 The good God had not forgotten them. From 
 the face of the dear Christ above the fireplace 
 a smile of benediction seemed to come. 
 
 By and by Philippe could crawl about the 
 house, just a little, that was all. There was 
 never any more improvement. There never 
 would be any, said M. Leclair. So they gave 
 up that hope. But there was love in their 
 lives and they were happy. 
 
 It is true Philippe could not work, and 
 poverty was to be their lot for many years. 
 
It is also true that they did not need much. 
 There was no rent; M. Thibeaudeau had seen 
 to that. Then Belvine was always knitting, 
 and there was always a good price for those 
 thick, warm stockings and sashes and tuques. 
 The good cure had seen to that. So they were 
 happy, more happy than they had thought 
 possible. 
 
 Thus the years passed away, many years. 
 For such lives the present is more than the 
 past, and the future is nothing. Three 
 memories only remained ever with them. 
 There was the memory of the day when they 
 stood before the altar and Father Grandmaison 
 pronounced the words that made them man 
 and wife before the world and before God. Then 
 there was the dreadful memory of that day of 
 sadness, when to Belvine it seemed as though 
 the light of life had gone out forever. And 
 last, and every day present, was the memory 
 of that debt. Every year was begun in the 
 expectation that the end of twelve months 
 would see all paid. Every day commenced 
 
with the hope of an ex 
 tra sou toward the final 
 liquidation. But it was 
 not possible. Something 
 would always swallow up 
 the cherished savings of 
 the past. Day after day 
 and year after year came 
 and went, and still the 
 one great hope remained 
 unfulfilled. Yet it was a 
 hope, and one that gave 
 to Belvine and to Philippe 
 great comfort in the hour 
 of darkness. 
 
 Thus they lived in peace 
 ful simplicity for thirty- 
 five years. Then the end 
 came. Philippe lay dying. 
 Father Grandmaison, now 
 an aged man and feeble, 
 held his hand and adminis 
 tered to him the bread of 
 
life. Belvine, gray-haired 
 now, but beautiful still, 
 even with the calm beauty 
 of a long and peaceful 
 life, knelt at the bedside. 
 Stricken she was with 
 grief, sad at heart she was, 
 but amid the sorrow there 
 was hope. The separation 
 would not be long. She 
 would see Philippe again 
 when all was over. 
 
 "My son," said the 
 priest, " think of the good 
 God." 
 
 " Father," said Philippe, 
 "if that debt were only 
 paid." 
 
 Belvine rose from her 
 knees and left the room. 
 Immediately she returned 
 and laid on the table a 
 parcel in brown paper. 
 
Inside of this there were smaller parcels of 
 little silver coins threepences and sixpences, 
 with five and ten-cent pieces of the new 
 coinage. There lay her savings for thirty- 
 five years. Not a word had she said about it 
 to Philippe in all that time, hoping for a 
 grand surprise. 
 
 "And now! Philippe," she said, "it is all 
 there, all but one shilling, twenty cents in the 
 new money." 
 
 It was twenty years since the new money 
 had been introduced. 
 
 " You see, dear, it will soon be paid, perhaps 
 in one month." Philippe s eyes glistened. 
 Father Grandmaison was a man of judgment 
 and did not offer to make up, the balance of 
 that heroic account. 
 
 "Let us thank God, my children," he said, 
 and it was not in Latin that the good cure 
 prayed. While he prayed, the good God re 
 ceived the soul of poor, no, of rich Philippe. 
 Beholding the translation the two friends re 
 joiced through their tears. 
 
The debt was paid; that is, Belvine now 
 holds a receipt in full from the heirs of M. 
 Laviolette, long since gone to the rest of the 
 faithful. With much trouble at last Belvine 
 found one of the heirs and thus communicated 
 with the rest, now scattered far and wide. 
 They retained the honorable spirit of their 
 father. 
 
 "Why did you not tell him," they wrote, 
 " that he might have canceled the debt before 
 he died? We will do as our father would 
 have done." And this is the quittance they 
 sent to Belvine: 
 
 "The heirs of the estate Laviolette recog 
 nize with great satisfaction the honorable 
 conduct of M. and Mme. Lepine in regard to 
 the debt of three pounds and five shillings, 
 contracted so many years ago, and hereby 
 declare the obligation discharged in full." 
 
II. 
 
 FATHER GRANDMAISON. 
 

 
\ 
 
 
 ^ 
 
 FATHER GRANDMAISON, 
 
FATHER GRANDMAISON. 
 
 1. 
 
 FATHER GRANDMAISON was a good man and a 
 faithful priest, yet he was possessed by a worldly 
 ambition, an ambition that for many years had 
 taken away his peace, and at times seemed to 
 obscure the face of God. This ambition belonged 
 not to the good father as an individual, but as a 
 member of a family, which, though bearing a 
 great name and justly claiming an honorable 
 history, had for three hundred years inhabited 
 the dwellings of the humble. It had not always 
 been thus, for tradition had it that in former 
 times, in far-away Brittany, the family of Grand- 
 

 maison had derived their 
 name from a manor-house 
 of noble proportions, where 
 for untold centuries had 
 dwelt in feudal splendor 
 the distinguished ances 
 tors of the obscure cure of 
 St. Sauveur de Quebec. 
 Throughout ten genera 
 tions, from father to son, 
 the memory of departed 
 grandeur was handed 
 down, in the hope and ex 
 pectation of better things. 
 Long they waited, but in 
 vain, and the consuming 
 pride and ambition of 
 successive generations of 
 Grandmaisons, habitants 
 all, found hard to bear 
 the incongruity of their 
 condition, the thoughtless 
 witticisms of their neigh- 
 
bors, the pain of hope deferred, and the con 
 sciousness of destiny unfulfilled. 
 
 Pierre Grandmaison was born in a log cabin, 
 and when he became cure of the parish St. 
 Sauveur, the presbytery, his residence, was a 
 little stone house of two rooms, adjoining the 
 little church. But he was a young man and 
 courageous, and, without regard to past failure 
 or present disappointment, even in the day 
 of small things he continued to cherish the 
 hope of one time dwelling in a house be 
 coming his name and the tradition of his an 
 cestors. When this hope should be fulfilled, 
 then would harmony be restored between 
 name and fact, between tradition and destiny ; 
 then would that which was fitting be accom 
 plished ; the great name would be joined to 
 the great house ; all the parish would approve ; 
 all the Grandmaisons of the Province, and they 
 were many, would point with pride to their true 
 and only representative, and even the departed 
 ancestors would look down from heaven with 
 satisfaction upon so desirable a consummation. 
 
Thus thought Father Grandmaison in his 
 moments of worldly pride and selfish ambition. 
 In his secret heart the cure felt that the 
 thought was sin, and that he, who had de 
 voted himself to the service of Christ and Hi s 
 Church, had no right to cherish, as the desire 
 of his heart, any worldly ambition , any earthly 
 hope. Therefore the good priest, in his mo 
 ments of faith and consecration, fiercely 
 repudiated the ambition of his lower self, 
 violently dismissed the earthly ideal from 
 the threshold of thought, earnestly fixed his 
 attention upon the cross of Christ, and yet, 
 even in the hour of purest devotion, the cure 
 knew, in his inmost soul, that if the Master 
 should come to him and ask in wistful tones 
 "Pierre Grandmaison, lovest thou Me?" he 
 would be obliged to confess with tears that 
 his most ardent hope concerned not the com 
 ing of the kingdom of his Lord, but the erec 
 tion of a visible monument to a weak and fool 
 ish earthly pride. 
 
 But Father Grandmaison was a man of 
 
character, and, however 
 much he might desire the 
 unattainable, he did not 
 allow any vain wish to in 
 terfere with the work of 
 life. Because of the rest 
 less ambition which pos 
 sessed his soul, he threw 
 himself with more energy 
 into the manifold duties 
 of his parish. Never was 
 more faithful priest. Nev 
 er did servant of God more 
 truly represent the Master 
 he professed to serve. Be 
 cause he knew that his was 
 at best a half-hearted serv 
 ice, for this very reason 
 he determined that, in so 
 far as externals are con 
 cerned, there should be no 
 failure in fulfilling the last 
 letter of the law. 
 
\ 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 Therefore he went in 
 and out among his people 
 as one who was their 
 friend, bearing their sor 
 rows and their sins, weep 
 ing with those who wept, 
 rejoicing with those to 
 whom God had given joy, 
 present at baptisms, mar 
 riages, burials, administer 
 ing all the offices of the 
 Church as one who must 
 give account. The people 
 whom he served judged 
 him according to his works, 
 and there was not a priest 
 in the whole diocese more 
 beloved, nor one with a 
 greater reputation for holi 
 ness of life and singleness 
 of purpose. 
 
 By no act or word did he 
 betray to any man, save 
 
to his confessor, the secret wish of his heart. 
 That wish, like a smoldering fire, glowed ever 
 in his breast, inextinguishable, but never blaz 
 ing forth to the light of day ; on the one hand 
 a motive and source of holy life and activity, 
 on the other a spirit of inward condemnation. 
 
 2. 
 
 When Father Grandmaison first came to 
 the parish of St. Sauveur the parish was poor 
 and there was little prospect of improvement 
 in material things. But the cure had come 
 prepared to wait. He waited, and the years 
 passed away, one after the other, very swiftly. 
 His dark hair turned to silver-gray, then to 
 silver-white. Children he had baptized had 
 children and grandchildren of their own, but 
 the parish church and the presbytery re 
 mained unchanged. So also the river and the 
 mountains. 
 
 Then came a change, and because of vari 
 ous circumstances, the parish received a sud 
 den influx of population. Prosperity began, 
 
Soon the little church was too small for the 
 congregations and it was necessary to build an 
 other. Thus it came to pass that St. Sauveur 
 rejoiced in the possession of a fine new edifice 
 of stone, where a thousand worshipers might 
 together kneel in prayer, while from the lofty 
 steeple pealed forth in solemn tones the largest 
 bell in the whole diocese. Without doubt the 
 work accomplished was creditable to the cure, 
 worthy of the parish, and pleasing to God. 
 
 At last came the hour when the little cure 
 felt that surely now the hope of his life might 
 be fulfilled, and without sin. Silent he had 
 waited these many years. The parish at last 
 had prospered. The people, many of them, 
 were rich, and could well afford to contribute 
 liberally to the building of a presbytery the 
 like of which was not to be found in ten par 
 ishes. At last the ancestral ambition of the 
 Grandmaisons would be fulfilled. In the per 
 son of the once insignificant parish priest they 
 would come to their own again and once more 
 sit upon their throne of pride. From this 
 
serene elevation how he 
 would look down with 
 scorn upon the injurious 
 scoffers of former days, 
 who had dared to make 
 light of the just pretensions 
 of a family descended from 
 the ancienne noblesse ! Ah, 
 the canaille, how he de 
 spised them ! And the 
 little old man stamped his 
 feet as he thought of the 
 miserable offenders, long 
 since gone to that place 
 where rich and poor meet 
 together. But the cure 
 stamped his feet, clenched 
 his hands, and uttered 
 words the like of which had 
 never passed his lips be 
 fore. A slumbering demon 
 was awakened in the bosom 
 of Pierre Grandmaison. 
 
Three hours later Father 
 Grandmaison knelt in the 
 little stall at the Basilica, 
 pouring into the ear of 
 Father Felix, of the Semi 
 nary, the tale of his most 
 grievous sin. 
 
 " Father Felix," he said, 
 " is there forgiveness for 
 me? Have I not com 
 mitted a mortal sin in that 
 I have cherished all my 
 life this devil that has con 
 quered me at last ? Tell 
 me, Father Felix, shall I 
 not resign my flock into 
 the care of a more faith 
 ful shepherd, and go to 
 some holy retreat, where 
 I may expiate my sin by 
 prayer and penance until 
 the end of life?" Father 
 Grandmaison wept bit- 
 
terly and tears of sympathy glistened in the 
 eyes of Father Felix. 
 
 "My dear friend," said the confessor, "let 
 me ask you a few questions. Have you ever 
 deliberately consented to the desire ? Have 
 you ever, except in thought, preferred for a 
 moment this wish of yours to the welfare of our 
 holy Church ? Have you ever caused a single 
 penny of the funds of the parish to be diverted 
 from lawful ends for the sake of securing the 
 fulfillment of your desire ? Have you ever 
 publicly or privately spoken of this ambition 
 of your life ?" 
 
 Father Grandmaison was obliged to say, 
 somewhat reluctantly, that he had never done 
 any of these things. 
 
 " Then," said Father Felix, " I declare to 
 you that your thought has been no sin, since 
 it has not partaken in the least degree of the 
 nature of intention. You have never intended 
 to sacrifice the welfare of the Church to your 
 carnal desire, and, therefore, I repeat, you 
 have done no wrong. As for the nervous out- 
 

 break of which you tell me, my dear brother, 
 I prescribe, as penance, a month s sojourn at 
 our beautiful retreat, Chateau Bellevue, where, 
 amid the pines, you shall rest and pray and 
 breathe the pure air and look upon God s 
 green hills, and may God give you peace as He 
 this hour forgives your sin." 
 
 3. 
 
 Father Grandmaison s sojourn at Chateau 
 Bellevue was prolonged. When he went 
 to the retreat the maples were red with 
 the frosts of October. While the leaves 
 fell and the autumn winds blew and the snows 
 of winter descended upon field and river and 
 mountain, the little cure lay prostrate and un 
 conscious, between life and death. At the 
 close of winter he sat at the window and saw 
 the snow melt from the mountain side and 
 great masses of ice float down the river until 
 the stream was clear and the first ships came 
 up with the early birds. Toward the end of 
 May he gathered the trillium and the blood- 
 
root in the woods around 
 the chateau, and all sum 
 mer long he rested in that 
 quiet and beautiful place, 
 until the color came back 
 to his cheeks and the 
 brightness to his eyes and 
 he could walk without the 
 aid of a cane, almost as 
 well as before. Then a 
 deputation from the parish 
 came to escort him back 
 to his people and his 
 church. They came with 
 carriages and bore him 
 away in triumph. 
 
 It is not necessary to 
 tell of the multitudes that 
 met the beloved cure at 
 the Rue du Pont, nor how 
 they carried him to his 
 home amid universal re 
 joicing, nor how surprised 
 
Mr 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 and glad he was when 
 they showed him the new 
 house they had built for 
 him while he was away, nor 
 how they presented him 
 the keys with much eclat, 
 begging him to accept 
 them as a slight token of 
 their regard and affection. 
 It is sufficient to say that 
 the people, rich and poor, 
 had combined to create a 
 presbytery such as did not 
 exist elsewhere in the 
 whole diocese, perhaps not 
 in the whole Province. 
 
 There it stood, with its 
 solid stone walls, its spa 
 cious piazza, its magnifi 
 cent tin roof, its tall chim 
 neys, and the railed terrace 
 above all, whence one 
 could command a view of 
 

 art 
 
 river, plain and mountain unsurpassed in ; 
 the world. And the interior, how splendid it 
 was, every room with new rag carpets on the 
 floor and holy pictures on the walls ! Then 
 there was a box stove in every room, to secure 
 comfort throughout the long winter. Also 
 the kitchen was a masterpiece of its kind, 
 large enough, it seemed, to contain half the 
 parish. Altogether, the people were proud 
 of what they had done, and delighted to be 
 able to give the good cure such a surprise on 
 returning from his long absence. 
 
 Father Grandmaison was overcome. As 
 he stood on the piazza with bared head, his 
 white hair shining in the sunlight, he was 
 unable to find words suitable for the occasion. 
 He could only say : 
 
 " My friends, it is a long time that I have 
 desired to live in a house like this. I had 
 hoped, but I had also ceased to hope. But 
 you have to-day given me great happiness, and, 
 my friends, I thank you. You are too good to 
 me. I have not deserved it. May God bless you! 5 
 
Having attained the summit of his ambi 
 tion, Father Grandmaison was surprised to 
 find himself sad at heart. Seated upon an 
 eminence far above the majority of his fel 
 low-men, he longed for the companionship 
 of the poor and lowly, and his heart still 
 vibrated in unison with the heart-throbs of 
 the common people. What booted after all 
 the strain of noble blood of the race of Grand 
 maison, when diluted with ninety-nine parts 
 of Gagnon, Hebert, Trembly, Boucher and 
 the rest ? How melodious the sound of these 
 names ! How the rich habitant blood coursed 
 through his veins as he thought of the log 
 cabins of his ancestors, their homely fare, 
 their songs and jests around the evening 
 fire, the warm clasp of the hand, the tear-drop 
 of the eye ! 
 
 And this grand new house, with its massive 
 walls, its shining roof, its broad spaces, its 
 
 range furniture, what comfort did it bring 
 
to the heart ? How could 
 things like these fill up the 
 emptiness of the soul? 
 When he said to himself, 
 "This is happiness," a 
 voice within him seemed 
 to reply, "Thou fool!" 
 When he tried to feast on 
 the grandeur about him, 
 it seemed to him like the 
 husks of the parable, fit 
 only for swine. Then, like 
 the lost prodigal, he said 
 aloud, " I will arise and 
 go to my father s house, to 
 the place where I was born, 
 to the humble people 
 whom I have loved and 
 among whom I must live 
 and die." 
 
 Thus it came to pass 
 that Father Grandmaison 
 went out among the very 
 
**w^ 
 
 poor of the parish, and 
 there were many, and 
 brought to his great house 
 all the poor orphans who 
 had no friends, until the 
 place was filled with the 
 voices of happy children. 
 Soon there was not a room 
 left for the good father 
 himself. Then he went 
 back to the little dwelling 
 where he had spent the 
 best years of his life. 
 
 The best years, did I 
 say? The best were yet 
 to come. Back in the 
 dear little place, with the 
 benediction of God resting 
 upon all that he did, he 
 was happier than ever 
 before, more active, more 
 joyous, while his bodily 
 and mental powers seemed 
 

 rejuvenated every day. People who had 
 feared that the cure would soon die began to 
 think that he would live forever. Only the 
 very old people remembered the time when 
 Father Grandmaison first came to St. Sauveur. 
 To all others it seemed as though he had 
 always been with them, and none thought of 
 his going away s for he was to them like the 
 ever-flowing St. Lawrence or the everlasting 
 Laurentian Mountains. Thus passed his days 
 like the steady flowing of a strong, peaceful 
 river, without any fear of the end, or any 
 thought but of work to be done and service 
 to be rendered. 
 
 One summer evening, as the sun was sink 
 ing behind the mountains, Father Grand 
 maison sat in the little garden reading his 
 favorite chapter from the Holy Evangel. But 
 his eyes wandered from the sacred page, across 
 the pleasant valley of the St. Charles, up to 
 where the twin spires of Charlesbourg shone 
 blood-red in the gleam of the setting sun. 
 Beyond were the dark-blue, fir-clad mountains, 
 
and above them a mass of silver-gray clouds 
 edged with ruddy gold. Suddenly, through 
 an opening in the clouds, the broad beams of 
 the sun shot forth, painting the whole sky in 
 crimson and gold, and to the beholder it 
 seemed as though a flaming archangel stood 
 waiting for him at the open gate of the 
 celestial city. 
 
 The light of that glory shone in the face of 
 the old cure and gilded his silver hair. Look 
 ing once more on the page of the book, he 
 read aloud the words of comfort, for years 
 graven on his heart: "In domo mei Patris 
 mansiones multae sunt. " Looking up again at 
 the glorious shining gateway, with face aglow 
 and eyes that saw a vision, he rose to his feet, 
 stretched out his hands, and said, in a strong 
 and joyous voice, " My God, it is for me !" 
 Then he sank back into the chair, and before 
 the glory had faded from river and moun 
 tain and sky, the soul of Father Grandmaison 
 had entered the house of God. 
 
III. 
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 

 1 \ 
 
 THE PEACEMAKER. 
 
THE PEACEMAKER. 
 1. 
 
 IT was all because of the plans of the pious 
 zeal of Francois Xavier Lachapelle, the new 
 priest of the newly created parish of Ste. Brig- 
 itte de Laval. All things were new in the 
 mountain parish, even the name, given by the 
 good fathers of the Seminary, with the advice 
 and consent of cure and people, in order to con 
 ciliate the strangers from beyond the sea, to 
 make them feel at home in the land of their 
 adoption, that by-and-by they might forget, if 
 possible, the hills and valleys, the streams and 
 lakes of Cork and Bantry and Killarney. 
 
On the part of the Cana 
 dians the naming of the 
 parish was a veritable act 
 of charity and sacrifice, for 
 they would have felt more 
 secure under the benign 
 protection of St. Lazare, 
 Ste. Therese or Notre 
 Dame. But it was right, 
 as the cure said, to make 
 some concession to the 
 feelings of strangers in a 
 strange land, and for the 
 love of God they were 
 willing to revere saints 
 hitherto unfamiliar, if not 
 unknown, in the seigniory 
 of the Cote de Beaupre. 
 
 The Canadians flattered 
 themselves that they had 
 done a meritorious work, 
 but the ardent young cure, 
 having tasted the blessed- 
 
ness of making peace, conceived the thought 
 that still more could be done, to the end 
 that Canadians and Irish might dwell together 
 in love and harmony, one in spirit, as they 
 were already one in faith and baptism. 
 
 It was indeed a question of baptism in the 
 mind of Father Lachepelle, and his cherished 
 plan came to sudden maturity on the eve of 
 Christmas, in the year of grace one thousand 
 eight hundred and forty-nine. 
 
 The storm of that night is still remembered 
 by the oldest inhabitant, who delights to tell 
 of uprooted trees, blockaded roads and houses 
 buried deep beneath drifts of snow. It was a 
 tempestuous night, with much snow and wind. 
 The cure, in his little cabin, was not sorry to 
 have plenty of wood for the fire and good 
 buffalo robes for his bed. With satisfaction 
 he was thinking of the night s repose, when 
 suddenly there came a loud knocking at the 
 door, and the sound of a man s voice in trouble 
 and alarm. 
 
 "It is I, Phileas Lafontaine," said the voice, 
 
" But open quick, M sieu le Cure ; there is no 
 time to lose." 
 
 "What s the matter?" said the priest, "Is 
 it Madame or the little one who has need of 
 me?" 
 
 "Madame is well, M sieu Lachepelle, but 
 O ! M sieu le Cure, the little one, perhaps 
 she will not live, and you will at least give 
 her the sacrament, in case, to make sure." 
 
 The young priest, ever ready to do his duty, 
 and above all in the extremity of death, set 
 out in the storm, and, after a long struggle 
 with the drifting snow, arrived at the cabin 
 of Phileas Lafontaine. 
 
 "What name?" said the cure, as he made 
 ready to administer the sacred rite. 
 
 " Ah, M sieu le Cure," said Phileas, " if you 
 would only choose the name it would be 
 an honor indeed. The mother has set her 
 heart upon it, and the little one might per 
 haps live. Who can tell ? If you only would, 
 M sieu 1 le Cure." 
 
 "With pleasure," said the young priest, 
 
and, quickly taking the 
 holy water, he said in 
 solemn tones: "Brigitte 
 Lafontaine, I baptize thee 
 in the name of the Father 
 and of the Son and of the 
 Holy Spirit. Amen !" 
 
 Phileas Lafontaine gave 
 a gasp, but not a word of 
 protest. It was too late. 
 "Brigitte is a very pretty 
 name," he murmured, and 
 it was good of you to come, 
 M sieu le Cure." 
 
 It was past midnight 
 when Father Lachapelle 
 found himself once more in 
 his little home, very tired, 
 and beginning to suffer 
 from the reaction which 
 inevitably follows a special 
 exaltation of the soul. 
 Stooping to remove the 
 
 \ 
 
\ 
 
 heavy snowshoes from his 
 aching feet, he thought, 
 with self pity, of his diffi 
 cult mission in the moun 
 tains, and with envy of 
 the sleek cure of Beauport, 
 with the rich tithes and 
 comfortable presbytery. 
 
 When, therefore, an 
 other loud and hideous 
 knocking disturbed his 
 peace, is it any wonder 
 that the young cure s 
 temper was by no means 
 serene ? 
 
 "Who s there?" he 
 called, in a tone of irrita 
 tion. 
 
 "It s Phelim, Father," 
 said a well-known voice. 
 
 "Phelim what?" said 
 the cure. 
 
 "Why, Phelim O Brian, 
 
 .... ., .. , ^^J^l^JTIIIZlS 
 
Father ; and for God s sake come to my house 
 and baptize my little boy before he dies, 
 Father." 
 
 "What now, Phelim?" said the priest, as 
 the Irishman s scared face appeared at the 
 door. 
 
 "Father Lachapelle, as sure as you live, 
 Father, I woke up in the night, with a start, 
 and the death-watch was ticking in the wall 
 above the baby s cradle, and it never was 
 known to tick like that except when some 
 body was about to die. It was so, Father, the 
 night before the battle of Clontarf , when my 
 ancestor " 
 
 "Never mind about your ancestors," said 
 the angry priest ; " I do n t believe in death- 
 watches, nor banshees, nor any such foolish 
 ness and I ll not go any fool s errand with 
 you this night, I can tell you that, Phelim 
 O Brian." 
 
 "For God s sake don t talk like that, 
 Father," said Phelim, falling on his knees on 
 the cabin floor. "For the love of God, come 
 
my house, Father. The child will die, and 
 his soul is in your care ; his soul, Father, his 
 his immortal soul. Come this time, Father, 
 and I 11 be a better man. I 11 not drink ; I 11 
 not swear ; I 11 not tell another lie as long as 
 I live. I ll do anything you say, Father, 
 I 11" 
 
 "O, will you?" said the young priest, re 
 covering his composure. " Then I 11 go with 
 you on one condition; and that is that you 
 allow me to name the child, to give him any 
 name I please." 
 
 " Surely, Father, that s easy," said Phelim, 
 already repenting his hasty words. "Let s 
 go, Father, or it will be too late." 
 
 In the wind that howled through the pines, 
 and shrieked in the balsam tops, the ignorant 
 layman thought he heard the cry of the ban 
 shee, and even the enlightened priest could 
 hardly escape the conviction that, in the form 
 of a loup-garou, Satan himself was making 
 vain outcry against the holy work about to 
 be accomplished, which should open the gate 
 
of heaven to an immortal 
 soul, and effect a blessed 
 reconciliation among the 
 members of the Church on 
 earth. 
 
 "What name, Phelim?" 
 said the priest, as he pre 
 pared to baptize the 
 healthiest Irish baby he 
 had ever seen. 
 
 "Phelim and Patrick 
 have been our family 
 names since the world be 
 gan, but you are to name 
 the child, Father. Any 
 way, his ancestors in 
 heaven will know him by 
 the color of his hair, name 
 or no name, so it s all 
 right, Father." 
 
 " Jean Baptiste O Brian, 
 I baptize thee in the 
 name of the Father and 
 
!* 
 
 
 of the Son and of the Holy 
 Spirit. Amen!" 
 
 Father Lac hapelle s 
 scheme of mediation was 
 well meant, but it was not 
 well received by the par 
 ishioners of Ste. Brigitte 
 de Laval. The young priest 
 was an idealist, whose 
 message of peace the com 
 mon people were unable 
 to receive. Canadians and 
 Irish united to protest 
 against his absurd and 
 premature plan of union. 
 
 The bells of Christmas 
 had not ceased to peal, 
 and the storm was still 
 raging throughout the val 
 ley, when a solemn dep 
 utation on snowshoes ap 
 peared at the presbytery, 
 to request, and, if neces- 
 
sary, to demand of the young cure some def 
 inite assurance of a change of policy. On the 
 part of the ancient inhabitants were Isidore 
 Turcotte, Pamphile Garneau, and Theodule 
 Plamondon. Representing the Irish settlers 
 were Patrick Dawson, Denis Driscoll, and 
 Michael Lafferty. 
 
 "M sieu le Cure," said Isidore Turcotte, 
 when the young priest desired to know for 
 what reason they had come, " we have come 
 to you on behalf of those not yet born, but 
 whom the good God will send to us in time to 
 come. We hope, M sieu 1 le Cure, that it will 
 not be necessary for them to bear names 
 strange to our ears, the names of saints un 
 known to us until recently, whom we have 
 not been accustomed to venerate, and who, 
 perhaps, take but little interest in us and our 
 children. Our fathers have not found it diffi 
 cult to find guardian saints for families large 
 and small, without borrowing from Ireland or 
 any other foreign country. M sieu le Cure, 
 we desire to follow the examples of our fathers. 
 
We are willing to live in peace with these 
 Irish, but we do not wish to be like them in 
 any way. We prefer to remain Canadians, 
 as our fathers for many generations." 
 
 " Father Lachapelle," said Patrick Dawson, 
 resenting the insults of Isidore Turcotte, "I 
 speak on behalf of the holy saints of Ireland, 
 our native land. Who has not heard of Saint 
 Bridget, Saint Denis, Saint Michael, and Saint 
 Patrick ? They are known all over the world, 
 even in this God-forsaken country of Canada. 
 Their names are good enough for any habitant 
 that ever was born, but they needn t take 
 them if they do n t want them ; only we will 
 not have our children called after obscure 
 Frenchmen like Damase, Ignace, Theophile, 
 or Zacharie. Besides, Father, it s ridiculous 
 to give a French name to an Irish child. Jean 
 Baptiste O Brian is bad enough, but Theophile 
 Kelly, Zotique Driscoll, Petronille Laf- 
 ferty ! Lord ! Father, it would n t sound 
 right at all, at all. Anyway, Father Lacha 
 pelle, we 11 have none of this foolishness. 
 
Irish we were born and 
 Irish we will die, and the 
 curse o Crummle on any 
 child of ours that dares to 
 say otherwise," 
 
 Much more was said by 
 the representatives of both 
 parties, and it was con 
 fidently expected that 
 Father Lachapelle would 
 bow to the storm. The 
 young priest, however, had 
 the spirit of a martyr, 
 coupled with a profound 
 contempt for the preju 
 dices and obstinacy of the 
 common people. He abso 
 lutely refused to make the 
 promises required. O n 
 the contrary, he declared 
 that he would use every 
 means in his power to 
 bring about Christian 
 
 i *! ..^ 
 
peace and unity between 
 the two races, even if it 
 were necessary to refuse 
 the sacraments of the 
 Church to those who re 
 sisted the power of God 
 and the authority of His 
 chosen servant. 
 
 The case was taken to 
 the bishop, who speedily 
 removed the young fanatic, 
 sending him to the In 
 dian tribes of the upper 
 Saguenay, while Father 
 John Horan became the 
 cure of the mountain par 
 ish. 
 
 Father John Horan was 
 born in Ireland and educa 
 ted in France, and no 
 man could tell by word 
 or deed whether he was 
 French or Irish. Pos- 
 
J 
 
 JL 
 
 I 
 
 sessed of a sense of humor and a spirit of com 
 promise, he did much to establish good rela 
 tions between the rival factions. 
 
 " Be on good terms with all the saints," said 
 Father Horan on the occasion of his first ser 
 mon to the congregation. " Pray to them all, 
 for you do n t know when you may need their 
 influence. But in giving names to your chil 
 dren, many though they be, it is not possible 
 to remember all the saints in the calendar. 
 Select those whose names you love and in 
 whom you have the greatest confidence. St. 
 Patrick doubtless loves the Irish, although he 
 was born in Britain and educated in France, 
 like myself. St. John the Baptist, although 
 he was a wandering Jew, has a special affec 
 tion for those who live in the Canadian wilder 
 ness. St. Denis, beloved in Ireland, was born 
 in France, and we may all unite in devotion 
 to him. Bridget, sure, was Irish, nothing else. 
 But the saints, whether French or Irish, Ger 
 man or Italian, never quarrel among them 
 selves. They have no time for that. T 
 
pray incessantly for all the world, especially for 
 those committed to their care. My friends, let 
 us be like them. 
 
 "As for Brigitte Lafontaine 
 and Jean Baptiste O Brian," 
 said Father Horan, " they shall 
 be our little angels of peace and 
 good will in the parish of Ste. 
 Brigitte de Laval." 
 
IV. 
 THEOPHILE. 
 
THEOPHILE. 
 
THEOPHILE. 
 1. 
 
 IT was not that Theophile Beaurepaire was 
 rich, nor that he was tall and strong, nor that 
 at times a wicked gleam lit up his black eyes, so 
 that the young men called him a " deuce of a 
 fellow," and the young women smiled and 
 blushed at the mention of his name. It was for 
 none of these reasons that the good people of 
 L Ange Gardien, the ancients and the sober 
 middle-aged people, looked askance at Theophile, 
 crossed themselves and whispered, " Infidel," 
 " Atheist," " Sacrilegious one," as he passed by. 
 
 It was because the good people of L Ange 
 
Gardien, dwelling in peace, 
 as their fathers had done 
 for a hundred and fifty 
 years, beneath the shadow 
 of mountains which they 
 never wished to climb, be 
 side the flow of a mighty 
 stream on whose waters 
 they never cared to sail, 
 desired to continue in the 
 ancient ways, and bitterly 
 resisted the efforts of one 
 who strove to awaken 
 them from their long re 
 pose. 
 
 The ancestral customs, 
 the time-honored usages, 
 were as nothing to that 
 young man, descendant of 
 seven generations of peace 
 ful habitants, but heir to 
 the restless spirit of some 
 remote ancestor, some Bre- 
 
ton pirate or some Norman viking. For he 
 had departed from the trodden paths, removed 
 the old landmarks, despised the tradition of the 
 fathers, and, to those who loved to think of 
 former days, he was a profane person, a 
 breaker of images, a setter-up of strange gods. 
 
 Let us tell some of the changes Theophile 
 sought to bring into the parish of L Ange 
 Gardien. 
 
 The ancient haycart, dear to the memory 
 of young and old, with its stout wheels, its 
 strong shafts, its rack and roller, he had set 
 aside in favor of a four-wheeled monster that 
 two horses could hardly draw. 
 
 Finding the Canadian horses, finest in the 
 world, unequal to the task, he replaced them 
 with a pair of Clydesdales, with feet like an 
 elephant s and stomachs insatiable. 
 
 Discovering that the barn doors were too 
 low and narrow for the great wagon with its 
 enormous load, he tore down the venerable 
 roof, with its graceful curving eaves, raising 
 in its place a huge and hideous structure of 
 
the Mansard type. French it might be, but 
 Canadian never ! 
 
 But the guardian angel himself must have 
 shed tears as he beheld the consolidation of 
 five beautiful farms, each two arpents wide 
 and two miles long, extending from the river 
 to the forest slope of the northern mountains. 
 The old boundaries were removed and three 
 new farms created, unlovely blocks of land, 
 almost as broad as long, while, from the fences 
 that were torn up, the thrifty Theophile ob 
 tained a vast quantity of firewood, more than 
 a hundred cords, which he sold in Quebec for 
 money enough to build a new barn on each of 
 the more distant farms. These farms, too, he 
 managed to sell at a price sufficient to pay the 
 cost of all three, and this to strangers from a 
 distant parish, who, though they might be 
 good Catholics, had little in common with the 
 long-established families of L Ange Gardien. 
 
 And what of the five little farm-houses, 
 close to the main road, where five prosperous 
 habitant families for many years had lived? 
 
Alas! These good fami 
 lies were gone, and in 
 their place, for three 
 months of the year, were 
 rich people from Quebec, 
 aliens, who came to spend 
 the summer in the country 
 parish, while during the 
 long winter the little 
 homes were desolate, for 
 saken, half buried in drifts 
 of snow. 
 
 Nor was this all. It was 
 said that Theophile had 
 friends among Protestants 
 at Quebec, and it was 
 whispered that his new 
 stone house, with its spa 
 cious piazza, its flower- 
 garden, and its gravel 
 walks, bordered with large 
 white pebbles, was being 
 prepared to receive the 
 

 \ 
 
 
 \ 
 
 red-haired daughter of a 
 Scotch farmer of Ste. Foye. 
 Ah, what treachery ! 
 Was it not an unpardon 
 able affront to all the mar 
 riageable girls of the par 
 ish ? True, they had never 
 thought of being married 
 to Theophile, and their 
 parents would never per 
 mit it, but the offense ex 
 isted just the same. And 
 think of the little Philo- 
 mene Duhamel, for whom 
 Theophile had, until re 
 cently, shown a decided 
 preference ! Indeed, he 
 had often been seen at her 
 home, and every Sunday, 
 after Mass, would walk be 
 side her as far as her 
 father s door. But the old 
 man, because of Theo- 
 
1 
 
 phile s evil ways, had forbidden her ever to 
 speak to him again. Philomene had wept and 
 Theophile had looked sad for many days. 
 But now there was that heretic at Quebec! 
 Theophile was cheerful arid Philomene proud. 
 They did not meet, while the stone house was 
 finished and Theophile went often to Quebec. 
 
 2. 
 
 It was a fine morning, about the middle of 
 July, as Theophile drove up the road toward 
 Montmorency, Beauport, and Quebec. The 
 sun was rising above the Island of Orleans 
 and the gleam on the water of the North 
 Channel was like the sparkle of diamonds, 
 while the dew glistened on purpling fields of 
 hay and the scent of clover blossoms filled the 
 air. It was good to live, to breathe the fresh 
 morning air, and to be driving rapidly toward 
 the shining roofs and spires of the fair city of 
 Quebec. 
 
 Yet the muttered maledictions of the neigh 
 bors followed him as he drove by. Surely. 
 
, the bones of the fathers must have turned 
 in their graves as the gayly-painted buggy 
 rattled past the quiet churchyard, where noth 
 ing more frivolous than a Norman eart had 
 ever been seen before. But the freshness of 
 the morning was in the heart of Theophile 
 and the glow of sunrise in his eyes why, then, 
 should he concern himself with the harmless 
 dust of former generations? So he drove on 
 and quickly disappeared in the distance. 
 
 Toward evening he returned with less speed 
 but more noise, dragging behind his buggy an 
 infernal machine that made a fearful din, 
 alarming the passers-by and causing the horses 
 to bolt in sheer terror. 
 
 " Mon Dieu, Theophile," said Isidore Gag- 
 iion, " what will you do with that ? Is it for 
 searing the crows or is it a rattle for the baby ? 
 But pardon, there is not yet need for that." 
 
 Theophile laughed, and good-naturedly de- 
 seribed the new mowing-machine. 
 
 "Take a good look at it, Isidore. It is the 
 t of its kind in the parish, but surely not 
 
the last. We shall see 
 changes in L Ange (Jar- 
 dien. I tell you, it will 
 do the work of ten men, 
 and I have a rake, also, 
 which will save much time 
 and expense. Truly, in 
 three days you will see 
 me cut all my hay, and in 
 three more it will he in my 
 new harn. Get one of 
 these machines, Isidore; 
 you will pay for it in one 
 week. If you like I will 
 lend you mine for trial. 
 What do you say?" 
 
 Hut Isidore; shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "It may he as you say, 
 but what would the neigh 
 bors think ? For me, I 
 say it is all right. The 
 world must move, no 
 
doubt, but it is a bad 
 thing to offend the neigh 
 bors, such as that pig 
 headed Ignace Corbeau or 
 that old miser Bonhomme 
 Duhamel. Besides, Theo- 
 phile, I will tell you, in 
 confidence, that I have a 
 mind to marry the little 
 \/l Philomene, and it will be 
 necessary to please the old 
 man, for a time, at least." 
 With that, Isidore went 
 away to tell the neighbors 
 that it was high time to 
 put a stop to some things, 
 or there would soon be a 
 veritable revolution in the 
 peaceful parish of L Ange 
 Gardien. 
 
 There was much indig 
 nation and excitement in 
 the parish, but nothing 
 
would have been done had it not been for the 
 arrival of the hay-makers on the very next 
 day. They came with scythes, grindstones 
 and frying-pans, from the lower parishes, from 
 St. Tite des Caps, Les Eboulements, Baie St. 
 Paul and places still more remote, where the 
 harvest was several weeks later than at 
 L Ange Gardien. They came in bands of ten 
 and twenty, singing as they trooped along. 
 
 "Ah, good morning, M sieu Beaurepaire," 
 said the leader of the first contingent ; " you 
 remember me, do you not? Damase Trembly 
 from Malbaie there below. I worked for you 
 last year, did I not ? Glad to cut your hay 
 this year also, if it please you." 
 
 Damase grinned as he thought of thirty 
 good dollars he had earned in less than two 
 weeks, hoping once more to make as good a 
 bargain for himself and his associates. 
 
 "Very sorry, Damase," said Theophile, "but 
 I have a machine that will do all the work I 
 need, with the help of myself and the regular 
 hands. But you will find plenty of work 
 
farther on. Bonhomme Duhamel has a large 
 crop this year. So have all the rest." 
 
 But Damase was not content, and passed on 
 grumbling about " damnable inventions " that 
 took the bread out of the poor man s mouth 
 and out of the mouth of his wife and children. 
 Later comers were even less pleased and went 
 so far as to threaten the "cursed heretic." 
 
 But the Canadian habitant, though suffi 
 ciently courageous, is just and peace-loving, 
 preferring methods of conciliation to the fury 
 and violence of open war. Therefore it was 
 not a mob breathing vengeance that came 
 after sunset to the house of Theophile Beaure- 
 paire, but a simple deputation of three per 
 sons, consisting of the respected cure, M. 
 Perrault, the influential habitant, Bon 
 homme Duhamel, and the leader of the hay 
 makers. Damase Trembly. 
 
 "My son," said the cure, "we are here to 
 ask you, on behalf of your friends and neigh 
 bors, to refrain from using the new machine 
 which you have brought to the parish L Ange 
 ~^ - ** 
 

 Gardien. Believe me, it 
 is not so much the ma 
 chine itself that I fear as 
 the spirit of change that 
 animates you and bids you 
 depart from the ancient 
 ways. It is with profound 
 sorrow that I have seen 
 you abandon, little by 
 little, the hallowed usages 
 of many generations, un 
 til you are ready, it would 
 seem, to trample upon 
 everything that your 
 fathers have held dear, 
 perhaps even the blessed 
 religion itself, the Holy 
 Church, the Sacred Heart 
 of Christ. Return, my 
 son, to the beaten path, 
 trod by the feet of many 
 generations. Unite with 
 us and let us make this 
 
 r- 
 
^ !* 
 
 T 
 
 quiet country parish a 
 sacred retreat, far from 
 the trouble and evil of the 
 world, protected by a holy 
 angel, calm under the 
 shadow of Mount Ste. 
 Anne, pure beside the 
 clear-flowing St. Lawrence 
 River." 
 
 "Father Perrault," said 
 the young man, " I can not 
 share your fears, and your 
 thought of a happy country 
 parish does not appeal to 
 me. Satan would come 
 even into a Garden of 
 Eden. But, truly, I am 
 not an atheist, nor even a 
 Protestant. I believe and 
 hope in God, and that is 
 why I do not fear the new 
 gifts that come from Him. 
 Our fathers, surely, must 
 

 I 
 
 have desired a change, or they would never 
 have come to L Ange Gardien." 
 
 "You talk nonsense, Theophile," broke in 
 Bonhomme Duhamel. " Our ancestors, it is 
 true, came to L Ange Gardien, but they 
 brought with them customs old as the hills, 
 and it is for us to preserve them while we live. 
 Ah, how I remember the good old times ! 
 The thought of them brings tears to the eyes. 
 Then were cherished the ancient solid virtues : 
 reverence for the Church, respect for the 
 priest, obedience to the seigneur, love for the 
 neighbor, no discontent, no unrest, all calm, 
 peaceful, like the river at high tide. Theo 
 phile, we want no changes in L Ange Gar 
 dien. As our fathers have done, so will we 
 do and our children forever. Besides, my 
 friend, with these new inventions you are 
 bringing ruin upon yourself and all these poor 
 laborers who have come so far expecting 
 work." 
 
 "That s just it," said Damase Trembly, the 
 third member of the deputation. "Here I 
 
have come all the way from Malbaie, seventy 
 miles over the hills. Ah, what hills! And 
 there are my wife and the children, six of 
 them, all little, not able to work. But they can 
 eat. Mon Dieu, M sieu Beaurepaire, but you 
 should see them eat potatoes, bread, soup, 
 fish, it is astonishing ! Also they must have 
 clothes, not in summer, perhaps, but when the 
 cold weather comes it is absolutely necessary. 
 They will be looking for me when the haying 
 is over and when they see me coming along 
 the road they will run to meet me. But 
 what shall I say to them when I come with 
 empty hands no money, no warm clothes, 
 nothing to eat ? Ah ! M sieu Beaurepaire, 
 you will think of us. You will not use that 
 machine. You will give work to ten, fifteen 
 good habitants, and they will bless you 
 while they live. They will also pray for you, 
 they and their families. Think of it, M sieu 
 Beaurepaire, the prayers of so many poor peo 
 ple, they will be good for you." 
 
 " It is true, Damase," said Theophile, rising 
 
as he spoke, "but the 
 workmen who made the 
 mowing-machine and the 
 rake, shall I not have the 
 benefit of their prayers ? 
 Besides, if I save my 
 money I will spend it in 
 building a new barn or 
 a sawmill, and there will 
 be other people who will 
 bless me for that. Also 
 yourself, Damase, if you 
 will leave your little stony 
 farm at Malbaie and come 
 to L Ange Gardien, you 
 shall work for me all the 
 year. I will give you a 
 house and good wages, and 
 you shall see that farming 
 by the new method is 
 good for everybody. 
 
 "It is not only this, my 
 good friends, but some- 
 
~ , V 
 
 " 
 
 ng within me that com 
 pels me to do these things. 
 I go to Quebec and I find 
 that the world moves. I 
 come back to L Ange Gar- 
 dien and am no longer the 
 same man. No longer can 
 I live in the same way. I 
 must have new barns. I 
 must cut my hay with my 
 new mower and rake it 
 with my new rake. My 
 friends, it is the will of 
 God. To-morrow you 
 shall see how the plan 
 works, and next summer 
 all the farmers in L Ange 
 Gardien will have ma 
 chines like mine." 
 
 "Let us go, M. Du- 
 hamel," said the cure, "it 
 is no use to talk any 
 more. Let us go, Damase. 
 
Good-bye, Theophile, I am sorry that you 
 can not see as we do. Perhaps some day you 
 may change your mind." 
 
 So the cure and the laborer went away, but 
 Bonhomme Duhamel remained behind. He 
 had something more to say, some faint hope 
 that all would yet be well. 
 
 "Theophile," he said, when they were 
 alone, " I have always thought well of you. I 
 was a friend to your father and I have always 
 thought of you as a son. Always have I ex 
 pected you to return to the ways of your 
 fathers. If there be anything I can do to in 
 duce you to do this, I shall be very glad. 
 Theophile, my son, I have had ambitions for 
 you. My daughter, too, I am sure that she 
 does not dislike you. Who can tell but that 
 we might arrange? You have spoken of it 
 before, but I would not listen. Now, for the 
 good of the parish, for my own sake, I ask you 
 to consider. We shall yet be happy and I 
 shall live in peace in my old age." 
 
 "M. Duhamel," said Theophile, looking 
 
.X 
 
 > 
 
 very serious, " it is true that I have wished to 
 marry Philomene, and it is still the desire of 
 my heart. But would she be glad to marry 
 one who had given up the ambition of youth 
 and the set purpose of manhood for the sake 
 of a life of ease and stupid content ? M. Du 
 hamel, I will not believe it. If Philomene 
 would do this she is not what I -think and I 
 will not marry her. But if she thinks with 
 me I will carry out my plan of life and marry 
 Philomene as well, in spite of everybody." 
 
 " Theophile," said the old man, " you have 
 great courage, but I think you are making a 
 sad mistake. If you find it to be so, remem 
 ber what I have said." 
 
 From this moment ill luck seemed to fall 
 upon Theophile and everything that he did. 
 The neighbors agreed that he had exhausted 
 the patience of the good God and provoked 
 the vengeance of heaven. Perhaps it was not 
 so, but it is certain that misfortune followed 
 
him, and that, like Pharaoh 
 of Egypt, he did not re 
 pent, but only hardened 
 his heart. 
 
 On the morning after 
 the visit of the deputation, 
 Theophile began to mow 
 his hay with the new ma 
 chine. Scarcely had he 
 driven twice around the 
 field when the teeth were 
 broken against a jagged 
 rock. It was necessary to 
 send to Quebec for an 
 other set, so that nothing 
 could be done that day. 
 
 On the following morn 
 ing the machine was 
 started again, but presently 
 it ceased to move, and 
 Theophile was obliged to 
 spend most of the day, 
 with the aid of the parish 
 
A 
 
 M 
 
 \\ 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 , 
 
 blacksmith, in replacing 
 certain little bolts and 
 screws that were for some 
 reason missing. About 
 sunset all was in order, 
 and Theophile had the 
 pleasure of cutting an ar- 
 pent or two before dark, 
 promising himself many 
 hours of work on the fol 
 lowing day. 
 
 That night, in the midst 
 of a terrific thunder-storm, 
 a bolt from heaven fell 
 upon the new barn, which in 
 a moment, with all its con 
 tents, including the mower 
 and the horse-rake, was a 
 mass of flames. The neigh 
 bors came from far and near 
 to see the bonfire and to talk 
 with complacency of the 
 vengeance of the good God. 
 

 But Theophile was not yet subdued, for he 
 sent immediately to Quebec for new machines, 
 and it was not until he found that there 
 were no more for sale that he determined to 
 give up the struggle for that year. With a 
 smile on his face he approached Damase 
 Trembly. 
 
 "Damase," he said, "I am beaten for this 
 time. Will you be so kind as to cut my hay 
 as you did last year?" 
 
 " With pleasure, M sieu Beaurepaire, and I 
 am sorry, also, that you have had such bad 
 luck." 
 
 So Damase, with ten assistants, went to 
 work at once, cutting with scythes, raking 
 with long hand rakes, and binding into bundles 
 in the time-honored way. Soon Theophile s 
 hay was as far advanced as any of his neigh 
 bors , and, if all had gone well, his losses 
 would have been made good by the profits of 
 that one summer. The neighbors, too, had 
 the finest hay that had ever been seen in 
 L Ange Gardien, so that they had it in their 
 
heart to forgive Theophile, and to rejoice at 
 the prodigal s return. 
 
 But now occurred a calamity involving 
 the whole parish, a disaster such as had not 
 been known within the memory of man. 
 Upon the fragrant heaps of hay, dry and 
 ready for binding, there fell a drenching rain, 
 rendering it necessary to spread out over the 
 fields all that had been so laboriously gath 
 ered, that it might dry again and again be 
 made ready for bundling. No sooner was 
 this done than all the work was spoiled by 
 another day of cold and dismal rain. It is 
 hard to believe, but nevertheless true, that, in 
 spite of the prayers of Father Perrault, the 
 same evil succession continued for more than 
 six weeks, until summer was gone and the 
 good hay was mildewed and rotten on the 
 ground. 
 
 The disappointed haymakers returned to 
 the poverty of their neglected farms, while the 
 discouraged habitants of L Ange Gardien re 
 mained to struggle through the long winter. 
 
striving, by means of mi 
 nute economies, to avoid 
 touching the little hoards 
 laid up for a rainy day. 
 
 Theophile suffered with 
 the rest, but he was not 
 slow to point out that 
 several farmers of Beau- 
 port, by use of the new 
 machines, had saved nearly 
 all their hay before the rains 
 began. This was a fact 
 that the neighbors could 
 not deny, but it was not 
 pleasant to think of it, and 
 Theophile was unkind to 
 remind them of it at such 
 a time. To have lost per 
 haps five hundred dollars 
 was bad enough, but to be 
 told that an expenditure 
 of fifty dollars might have 
 saved it all was even 
 

 harder to bear. So their 
 dislike of Theophile 
 ripened into hatred, and 
 no longer did they mutter 
 imprecations as he passed 
 by, but turned from him 
 in silence and bitterness of 
 heart. 
 
 Only Damase Trembly 
 remained a friend to Theo 
 phile, for he had left his 
 farm at Malbaie and had 
 come with his family to 
 live in one of Theophile s 
 little houses, so that under 
 one roof, at least, in 
 L Ange Gardien, were con 
 tented parents and happy 
 children. 
 
 Often during the long 
 winter did Theophile sit 
 by the fire in his great 
 kitchen, thinking of his 
 
failures in the past and dreaming of the suc 
 cess which would surely be his in the coming 
 summer. Always he thought of the little 
 Philomene. At one time her rogueish face 
 smiled at him from the rising flames ; at an 
 other her graceful form, shadowy yet irresistible, 
 was at his side, only to melt away into 
 thin air as he reached out to touch her hand. 
 It was a consolation to think that a real, bright- 
 eyed Philomene was not so far away, and that, 
 perhaps, before another winter, she would be 
 with him, his dear companion and friend for 
 all time to come. 
 
 But never did Theophile visit the home of 
 Philomene, and not once did she give him the 
 slightest encouragement. Even when they 
 met on the public road she would have passed 
 without a sign of recognition, but that Theo 
 phile always said, " Good day, Philomene," 
 in a loud and cheerful voice, so that Philo 
 mene could not avoid returning the greet 
 ing, as politely as possible, with the feel 
 ing that a young man of such agreeable 
 
manners could not be so very wicked after 
 all. 
 
 On a certain bright winter s day it seemed 
 impossible to pass by in this unfriendly way. 
 The sky was blue and deep blue were the 
 shadows of the maples on the white snow, 
 while from the heart of every snow-crystal 
 there shone a beam of sunlight and reflected 
 love. The beaten road creaked under foot, 
 and the frosty air caused the blood to tingle, 
 the cheeks to glow, and the eyes to shine with 
 the joy of living. 
 
 "What a fine day, Philomene!" said the 
 young man, as they met at the corner of the 
 road. "It is good to live, is it not?" 
 
 "Truly it is, M sieu Beaurepaire," said 
 Philomene, pausing a moment as she spoke. 
 
 " Mon Dieu, Philomene ! how beautiful you 
 are! And those furs! It is not in Quebec 
 that one sees the like." 
 
 " You flatter me, M sieu ," said Philomene, 
 a gleam of mischief in her eyes, "is it possible 
 that you do not always think of mowing- 
 
machines, as I have been 
 told?" 
 
 " Bah ! the mowing ma 
 chine, it is for you, Philo 
 mene, also the rake and 
 the new barn, the house 
 too, if you will have it. 
 I give them all to you, 
 Philomene." 
 
 " O ! you are too gener 
 ous, M sieu , I could not 
 think of taking away the 
 idols which you love so 
 much." 
 
 "Philomene, it is you 
 that I love, and these 
 things, they are all for 
 you." 
 
 "How can you say 
 that ? " said Philomene, 
 with an impatient stamp 
 of a little moccasined foot. 
 " You love yourself only, 
 
X, 
 
 MM 
 
 \-:\ 
 r: 
 
 \ 
 
 and you will give up noth 
 ing. Ah ! I am sorry for 
 the young lady at Quebec. 
 I think I shall tell her 
 what you are like." 
 
 "Philomene," said the 
 incorrigible one, " there is 
 no young lady at Quebec ; 
 she is in L Ange Gardien. 
 And tell me, Philomene, 
 when you will marry me. 
 Shall it be next June, or 
 perhaps in October?" 
 
 "I will never marry 
 you," said the angry little 
 Philomene. With that 
 she walked away with 
 head erect, not once look 
 ing back, and when she re 
 turned home she wept all 
 the rest of the day and said 
 she would enter the Ursu- 
 line Convent at Quebec. 
 
3 
 
 ft 
 
 "Wf 
 
 I 
 
 In a few days, however, Philomene was as 
 bright and smiling as ever. Isidore Gagnon 
 came often to the house, and it was reported 
 that he would marry the daughter of Bon- 
 homme Duhamel in the early autumn. 
 
 This was the last and greatest of Theo- 
 phile s misfortunes and he came very near to 
 losing heart. But every day he went about 
 his daily work, and every evening he sat alone 
 by the fire, smoking his pipe and thinking of 
 what might have been, though not without a 
 hope of what might yet be, when the day of 
 adversity should pass away. 
 
 Thus the winter passed, and spring blos 
 somed into summer, until the harvest season 
 came again and once more the purpling fields 
 awaited the coming of the haymakers. But 
 Theophile did not wait, and on a fine morn 
 ing in July the rattle of his mowing-machine 
 filled the air. All the birds and beasts of the 
 farm ceased their morning songs, pausing to 
 listen to the unfamiliar discord. Then the 
 cheerful orchestra began again, louder than 
 
ever, as if to welcome the new member into 
 the happy, noisy country family, 
 
 All day Theophile drove up and down the 
 broad field, until the tasseled hay no longer 
 waved in the breeze, but lay prostrate in 
 fragrant rows, soon to dry in the sun, then to 
 be raked into heaps, piled upon the great 
 wagons and stored away in the spacious barns. 
 In the course of ten days the entire crop of 
 nearly two hundred tons, or, in the language 
 of the habitant, about twenty-five thousand 
 bundles, was saved in fine condition. At the 
 high prices then current it was a fortune for 
 Theophile. The success for which he had 
 worked and waited was his at last. 
 
 4. 
 
 One evening after sunset, Theophile sat on 
 his doorstep watching the play of lightning on 
 the gathering clouds. The coming storm he 
 had no reason to fear. It might, perhaps, do 
 a little damage to his neighbors hay, but 
 that was no fault of his. By-and-by they 
 
would come to his way of 
 thinking and in the end 
 would lose nothing. Mean 
 while it was a satisfaction 
 to see them suffer a little 
 for their stupidity. 
 
 As for himself, Theo- 
 phile rejoiced to think of 
 his well -filled barns. 
 Twenty-five thousand 
 bundles! It was magnifi 
 cent ! Then there was the 
 farm of nearly two hun 
 dred arpents, the horses 
 and cattle, the money in 
 the bank, the new stone 
 house. "Truly," he 
 thought, "I am a very 
 happy man, since I possess 
 all this wealth. Is it not 
 so?" 
 
 At this moment a flash, 
 as of lightning, illumina- 
 

 ted the dark recesses of 
 Theophile s soul. 
 
 He perceived himself as 
 he was, the most miserable 
 of men, pitied by the cure, 
 hated by the neighbors, 
 forsaken by the girl he 
 loved, solitary and desti 
 tute in the cursed pride 
 and hardness of his heart. 
 
 "O, Mon Dieu, I am 
 poor, very poor. There is 
 not a soul in the world who 
 is my friend. And all my 
 success, of what good is 
 it? And all this wealth, 
 to whom shall I give it? 
 Philomene, Philomene, 
 have I not said it is all for 
 you?" 
 
 Was it that the good 
 God heard the cry of re 
 pentance that rose from 
 
lijii 
 
 _^. 
 
 the heart of Theophile, or was it by accident 
 that the answer came ? Who can tell ? But 
 it is certain that gentle hands pressed the 
 latch of the garden gate, and soft footsteps ad 
 vanced along the gravel walk, until Theophile 
 knew that his good angel stood by his side in 
 the hour of darkness. In a low voice he said : 
 
 "Is it you, Philomene? Is it really you?" 
 
 "Yes, M sieu Beaurepaire, it is I, and I 
 have something to tell you." 
 
 "Tell me that you love me, Philomene. 
 Say that you will marry me in October, if it 
 please God." 
 
 "But no, Theophile, it is about Isidore 
 that I wish to speak. He is a wicked man, 
 and it was he who spoiled your machine last 
 summer. It was he, also, who set fire to your 
 barn, and not the lightning as we supposed." 
 
 " I know it," said Theophile, quietly. 
 
 "You knew it and said nothing?" 
 
 " To what end, Philomene. Besides, Isidore 
 was once my friend." 
 
 " Your friend, Theophile ! He is your worst 
 
enemy, and mine too. He is very angry with 
 me, also, for a certain reason. But that is not 
 all. He will come again to-night, as soon as 
 the storm begins. I am sure of it. You will 
 watch, will you not, Theophile?" 
 
 "Yes dear," said Theophile, as he kissed 
 her, " and you are a brave girl to come so far 
 on such a night as this." 
 
 "O no, Theophile, it was nothing. And 
 now I must go. Do not come with me. My 
 father is back there by the gate. Good-bye, 
 Theophile." 
 
 "Good-bye, dearest," said Theophile, as he 
 kissed her, without protest, for the second 
 time. "And it will be in October after all, 
 will it not?" 
 
 About midnight the storm broke, and 
 from the black clouds overhanging L Ange 
 Gardien there fell great bolts of fire, in 
 stantly followed by crashing thunder and 
 heavy drops of rain. People rose from their 
 beds in fear and crossed themselves repeatedly 
 and mutterd infinite prayers, scarcely hop- 
 
ing to see the morning 
 light. 
 
 "It is because of Theo- 
 phile Beaurepaire," said 
 many a pious habitant. 
 " His barns will be burned 
 again, without doubt. It 
 is the good will of God, 
 and we shall have no more 
 mowing-machines in 
 L Ange Gardien." 
 
 So also thought Isidore 
 Gagnon, as he knelt on 
 the floor of Theophile s 
 barn, trying to kindle 
 some loose hay with the 
 aid of a box of matches 
 and a piece of cotton wool. 
 Already two matches had 
 spluttered out, but the 
 third burned well and Isi 
 dore applied it to the little 
 pile. The cotton was 
 

 / 
 
 % 
 
 \ 
 
 stsLT 
 
 \ 
 
 y 
 
 damp and would not 
 ignite. 
 
 " Sacre !" said Isidore, 
 " I must use the turpen 
 tine after all." 
 
 Turning to reach for it 
 he saw the tall form of 
 Theophile standing near 
 the door, lantern in hand. 
 
 " Good evening, Isidore," 
 said the young man in a 
 quiet voice. 
 
 Isidore did not reply; 
 there was nothing to say. 
 
 "Well, Isidore, do you 
 wish to be sent to prison, 
 or shall I let you go 
 home?" 
 
 "You can not send me 
 to prison, Theophile, for 
 you have no evidence. 
 Besides, what have I done ? 
 Nothing." 
 
"Nothing, Isidore? Not to-night, perhaps, 
 but what of last year ? Damase Trembly re 
 members something, also M. Duhamel and 
 even Pbilomene. The evidence is sufficient, I 
 think." 
 
 At the mention of Philomene s name Isidore 
 grew pale. 
 
 "It is all over, then," he said. "It was 
 for her sake that I did it. Do what you like 
 with me, Theophile. Yet I was once your 
 friend." 
 
 " That is true, Isidore, and I can not forget 
 it. Perhaps we shall be friends again, if God 
 will. But you will not try to burn my barn 
 again, Isidore?" 
 
 " Mon Dieu, no !" said Isidore, as he turned 
 away. "I have not deserved your considera 
 tion, Theophile." 
 
 The next morning at sunrise Bonhomme 
 Duhamel came to see Theophile Beaurepaire. 
 
 " Theophile," he said, "it is impossible 
 for me to cut my hay this year. I am not 
 so young as formerly, and I can get no 
 
laborers. Your work is all finished. Can 
 you not come to help me?" 
 
 "With great pleasure, M sieu Duhamel," 
 said Theophile, " and shall I bring the mow 
 ing-machine?" 
 
 "As you wish, Theophile. I have been to 
 blame. You must forgive me." 
 
 "I will come, M sieu Duhamel, and the 
 horse-rake I will bring also. The small hay- 
 cart will be better, since the barn doors are 
 small. Will you not in time enlarge them 
 and make use of the large wagons?" 
 
 "I will do whatever you say, Theophile. 
 You shall have your own way in everything." 
 
 "And Philomene?" pursued the inexorable 
 Theophile. "Philomene also, my son," said 
 the old man, embracing Theophile. "Philo 
 mene shall drive the horse-rake, my father. It 
 will be a fine arrangement, and there are yet 
 many days of good weather. The hay will all 
 be saved, without a doubt. And after that " 
 
 " After that we will celebrate," said Bon- 
 homme Duhamel. 
 
V. 
 THE EXILE. 
 

 
 
 
 MADELEINE. 
 

THE EXILE. 
 1. 
 
 " No, BROTHER Louis, it will not be possible to 
 prolong my visit. Gladly would I stay with you 
 all summer, but there are matters of business 
 that call me back. Who knows ? Another ten 
 years will soon pass, and then, perhaps, I shall 
 come again. But to-morrow will be the last 
 day for the present, at least. And it will 
 be a long day. What shall we do to pass the 
 time?" 
 
 "Let us try the river. Since yesterday the 
 water has fallen and there will be good fishing. 
 We shall take some fine trout, Poleon." 
 

 "" 
 
 " Good, Louis, we 11 do 
 it. It will be something 
 to remember for many a 
 day. Wake me in good 
 time, about four o clock, 
 I should say. Good night, 
 old man." 
 
 At the point of dawn, 
 Napoleon and Louis left 
 the house and started 
 down the hill toward the 
 river. Over the mountain 
 the last pale star flickered 
 in the growing light. The 
 grass was wet with dew. 
 The white mist of the val 
 ley rolled upward, carry 
 ing to the god of the morn 
 ing the odor of white clo 
 ver and the incense of 
 spruce and balsam. 
 
 "There, Toleon," said 
 the gay Louis, " what fine 
 
fresh air, how sweet and clear and cool ! 
 Where in all your travels have you breathed 
 the like?" 
 
 " Bah, Louis ! why speak of it ? The air is 
 good and refreshing, but you have not tasted 
 the strong air of the plains, in comparison 
 with which the air of Laval is moist, soft, with 
 out vigor. I who have traveled in the far 
 West know what it is to fill the lungs with 
 ozone as one rides chasing the buffalo and the 
 antelope. Ah, Louis, those were days, that 
 was air!" 
 
 Louis gave an incredulous look at his 
 brother, but could read nothing in his sphinx- 
 like face, and turned away with a shrug, as 
 much as to say: "How is that possible?" 
 
 Presently, as they were crossing the long 
 meadow below the hill, with the eager haste 
 that only anglers know, the sky began to 
 brighten, passing imperceptibly through all 
 the changes of color, from pearly gray to 
 blue and red and gold. Then, as the 
 first rays of the sun touched the moun- 
 
tain tops, Louis could remain silent no 
 longer. 
 
 " Look, Poleon ! look at those mountains as 
 they shine in the sunlight. See how the dark- 
 green hills wear a tuque of gold. They are 
 the true habitants, always faithful, our good 
 old friends. How fine they are! You have 
 never seen mountains like these in any foreign 
 land. Is it not so Poeon?" 
 
 " You are a fool, Louis, to talk like that to 
 me who has seen the rockies. I tell you, 
 what you call mountains are nothing but foot 
 hills, I who have seen the canyon of the Colo 
 rado, five thousand feet from the river-bed to 
 the summit of the rocks above. And those 
 rocks, yellow and red and purple, all the col 
 ors. Mon Dieu ! What folly to compare 
 these stupid ant-hills with those temples of 
 the gods. Louis, be silent." 
 
 "Surely," thought Louis, "something is 
 the matter with Brother Poleon. It is 
 not often that he talks like that. He will 
 feel better, perhaps, when he sees the river 
 
and begins 
 trout." 
 
 So Louis kept silent as 
 they entered the cool, dark 
 woods, and strode rapidly 
 along a winding path, 
 while the sound of the 
 s w i f t-fl owing Montmo- 
 rency grew louder on their 
 ears. In the rich soil be 
 neath the shade of birch and 
 maple grew the flowers of 
 June, the oxalis, the pyrola, 
 the dog- wood, the gold 
 thread, and the twin-flower 
 beloved by the good Lin 
 naeus. Napoleon looked at 
 them in silence as he passed 
 along, and Louis knew that 
 no words of his were needed 
 to praise the wild-flowers 
 of his native land. 
 
 Suddenly the path came 
 
\ 
 
 \ 
 
 to an end, the prospect 
 widened, and there was 
 the river, glistening in the 
 morning sunlight, dancing 
 along over its pebbly bed, 
 forming little rapids, swirl 
 ing eddies, and clear pools 
 flecked with white bits of 
 foam. 
 
 " There now, Poleon, 
 
 \j there is the old river, our 
 river, just as she was ten 
 years ago, when you and I 
 went fishing together for 
 the last time. Look at 
 that fine stretch of water 
 up there. How green the 
 
 M t r e e s along the bank ! 
 How blue the sky and how 
 white the clouds! And 
 see that kingfisher as he 
 flies along, the thief. But 
 observe that ledge of rock 
 
 * * "" x XJ 
 
there below, with the deep pool and the 
 back-eddy. It is there that you will take a 
 trout such as you have not seen in years. 
 Now, Poleon, confess; there is nothing like 
 that in foreign lands." 
 
 "Louis, stop your idiotic chatter. This 
 river, I have seen it before, many a time. I 
 know all about it. It is a pretty stream, a 
 pleasant brook. Certainly. But, Louis, you 
 fatigue me with your boasting. Talk about 
 the Yankee and his blow. Mon Dieu, Louis, 
 you also have some blow. And you talk thus 
 to me, to me who has seen the Missouri. Ah, 
 that was a strong river, broad, long, perhaps 
 four thousand miles from the mountains to 
 the sea. Yes, that was a great river. This Mont- 
 morency, it is a pretty brook, good enough in 
 its way, not bad for Laval, good enough for 
 the people who live in this little place. O 
 yes, good enough for them, quite good enough. 
 Confound this line, it s tangled ! Louis, do n t 
 make me talk. I 11 not listen to you." 
 
 Thereupon Napoleon set up his rod, reeled 
 
 
out his line, attached a leader, then a Coach 
 man and a Brown Hackle, waded out into the 
 river as far as he could go, and, after a few 
 preliminary flourishes of rod and line, dexter 
 ously cast his flies into the swirling water at 
 the head of the pool. 
 
 The response was sudden, and the taciturn 
 Napoleon could not conceal his surprise and 
 delight. 
 
 " See, Louis, he is there, the big fellow. I 
 have him! Ah, missed! Once more. An 
 other try." 
 
 This time, as the fly lightly touched the 
 water, a dark form rose and sank and made 
 away with hook and line as fast as the strong, 
 lithe tail could move. 
 
 " There, Poleon, you have him, the old fel 
 low. Not too much line! Here he comes! 
 Take in, take in ! There he goes ! No fear, 
 he is well hooked. Sapre, see him jump! 
 Gently now. He s tired. No, off again. 
 Back once more. He s swimming up. I see 
 him. Caution, Poleon. I 11 take him in my 
 
hands. Here he comes. 
 There, my good fellow, I 
 have you." 
 
 Louis held up the prize, 
 gleaming, dripping, flop 
 ping his big tail, a magnifi 
 cent fish, the king of the 
 river. 
 
 "See there, Poleon, see 
 there! Have you ever 
 seen such a trout ? Long ? 
 Twenty-two inches at the 
 very least. And thick. 
 Ah, a big fellow! Look 
 at those spots, red, blue, 
 yellow. And see those 
 fins and that tail. Poleon, 
 he weighs not less than 
 six pounds. What luck! 
 Now tell the truth, Poleon, 
 have you ever before seen 
 such a trout, such a 
 speckled brook trout ? 
 

 
 :\ 
 
 
 Twenty-two inches and six 
 ?:ounds? No fish story!" 
 " Louis," said Napoleon, 
 regaining his composure, 
 "it is not a bad fish, not 
 bad for a trout. No, I 
 have not taken a trout 
 like this except in a lake. 
 But the trout is a small 
 fish, very small. I who 
 have caught catfish in the 
 Ohio . Yes, c a t fi s h , 
 Louis. Do not smile. Cat 
 fish, I say, fifty pounds, 
 yes, eighty pounds, at the 
 very least. I caught him, 
 I, Napoleon Vaillantcoeur, 
 and with this very rod. 
 Yes, it demands a struggle. 
 Nearly half a day did he 
 swim about in that river, 
 the Ohio, before I could 
 get him near the gaff. 
 
Talk to me of trout. This is a good trout, 
 but one must not begin to compare. You 
 should have seen that catfish. Truly, that 
 was a fish." 
 
 Louis was crushed. He had nothing more 
 to say, and for a long time he did not speak a 
 word. Yet gradually his spirits rose, for the 
 day was fine, the water clear, and the hungry 
 trout rose eagerly to the fly from every pool 
 and every long shining riffle. For a mile or 
 more they fished up the stream, then down 
 again, and when, toward evening, they 
 climbed the long hill on the way home, each 
 bore a heavy creel filled with speckled beau 
 ties, besides the six-pounder that Louis carried 
 on a forked willow-branch. It was the catch 
 of the season. Louis was overjoyed, and the 
 imperturbable Napoleon could not conceal his 
 satisfaction at the outcome of the day s sport. 
 It was Louis last chance to entice his brother 
 into some admission of the superiority of the 
 old home. 
 
 "But, Poleon, Laval is not such a bad 
 

 place. One is comfortable here. One does 
 not work too hard, and now and then one has 
 time to enjoy life as we have done to-day. 
 There is always enough to eat, plenty of 
 clothes to wear, and a roof over one s head. In 
 summer it is not too hot and in winter there 
 is wood for the fire. There are no paupers in 
 this parish. We are not rich, but we have 
 good health, kind friends, a school, a church, 
 a good priest. What more could one ask of 
 the good God ? One could be contented here, 
 could one not?" 
 
 "There you go again, Louis, with your 
 stupid talk. Ah, bah ! What do you know 
 of the world, you who have traveled no farther 
 than Quebec ? I who have seen Chicago, with 
 its great buildings, its churches and theaters, 
 its streets and parks, I tell you, Louis, there is 
 nothing here, nothing. Talk of paupers, they 
 are all paupers here, every one. Enough to 
 eat ? Enough of black bread, pea-soup, and 
 fat pork. Too much, Louis, far too much. 
 How glad I am to have some fresh trout for 
 
supper ! Come, Louis, 
 come with me to-morrow 
 morning. You have staid 
 here long enough. Now 
 you shall see the world. 
 After that you may come 
 back to Laval, if you wish. 
 But you will not wish it. 
 No, it will be impossible, 
 forever. Forever ! One 
 might think of that, per 
 haps. Yes, it is to be con 
 sidered." 
 
 Arriving at the house 
 they changed their clothes 
 and sat down to supper 
 with a good appetite. A 
 good appetite and a good 
 meal, what could be better 
 than that? They ate of the 
 trout they had just caught, 
 the smaller ones, fried with 
 eggs, a dish for a king. 
 
^ 
 
 \ 
 
 \ 
 
 After that they had wild 
 strawberries and cream, 
 and finally a bowl of hot 
 tea. The soul of Napoleon 
 was refreshed, his heart 
 was softened. 
 
 After supper the neigh 
 bors came in to bid him 
 good-bye, his old school 
 fellows. They sat together 
 on the door-step, smoking 
 their pipes, while they 
 talked of old times and re 
 newed the memories of for 
 mer days. At last they 
 went away with many 
 expressions of good- will. 
 "Come again, Toleon," 
 they said, " you are always 
 welcome." 
 
 Napoleon and Louis sat 
 together in the dim star 
 light, smoking vigorously. 
 
For a long time they sat thus, silent, thinking 
 their own thoughts. At last Louis said : "Well, 
 Poleon, I am going with you to-morrow 
 morning." 
 
 " What, Louis, what is that you say ? You 
 are going to leave Laval, the river, the moun 
 tains, the church of our fathers, the little vil 
 lage, the friends that you love ? How can you 
 doit, Brother Louis?" 
 
 " Yes, Poleon, there is nothing here. I am 
 tired of it all. There, now! Don t you re 
 member what you said this morning? Our 
 mountains, for example, what are they in com 
 parison with the great Rockies?" 
 
 "The Rockies! Louis, you amuse me. If 
 you had seen them you would not talk like 
 that. No trees, no verdure, nothing but rough 
 masses of rock, bare, cheerless, painful to the 
 eye. Your mountains, Louis, they are wonder 
 fully beautiful in comparison with those for 
 lorn pyramids of stone. Rocky, stony, yes, 
 they are well named." 
 
 " Poleon, it is curious to hear you sp 
 
thus after what you said this very day. You 
 have surely not forgotten the opinion you had 
 about our miserable little river and the grand, 
 beautiful Missouri !" 
 
 "The Missouri River! Heavens! If you 
 could see it. It is a river of mud, a mad tor 
 rent of turbulent, swirling mud. You have 
 seen the Montmorency at the time of spring 
 floods. Well, the Missouri is like that all the 
 time. But the water of your river, it is a pleas 
 ure to drink it as it flows clear and cool over 
 the great pebbles. And the rapids, the white 
 foam, the pools, the bending trees, the shadows. 
 Louis, it is Paradise and the river of God. 
 Do not think that you will see the like in any 
 foreign country. The Missouri! Sapre ton- 
 nerre !" 
 
 " You are a strange man, Toleon. And the 
 catfish of the Ohio, what have you to say to 
 that now?" 
 
 "Catfish, you credulous fool. Louis, have 
 you ever seen a catfish ? Name of a pig ! As 
 well catch a sunken log. Call it sport to take 
 
a catfish. But that trout 
 of this morning, Louis, I 
 tell you, it was the event 
 of a lifetime, the taking of 
 it. Mon Dieu, how it came 
 at my fly, how it started 
 down the pool, how it 
 leaped from the water and 
 circled round and round! 
 I shall remember it till I 
 die. It is the glory of my 
 life to have caught it. 
 Sport! Ah, Louis, that 
 was true pleasure. And 
 to think that I must leave 
 it all, perhaps never to re 
 turn. Catfish ! Name of 
 the devil ! You poor idiot. 
 To compare a miserable 
 catfish to the beauty, the 
 agility of the trout ! Mon 
 Dieu, Louis, do not leave 
 Laval because of a catfish." 
 
1 
 
 
 
 
 
 "But Chicago, Toleon, 
 with its great buildings, its 
 wonderful churches, its 
 fine theaters, and all that. 
 That s what I want to 
 see/ 
 
 "Louis, I tell you, you 
 are insane, a raving luna 
 tic. Don t talk to me of 
 Chicago. It is a city I 
 detest. The air? Yes, 
 like that of purgatory. 
 The churches ? I have not 
 seen them. The great 
 buildings ? Hideous ! The 
 winds? They pierce one 
 to the bone. Stand by 
 your mountains, Louis, 
 your beautiful valley, your 
 clear air, your pure water. 
 Remain where you are 
 well, with your relations, 
 your friends, that girl of 
 
yours. Ah, Louis, that was a home thrust. 
 I see you blush by the light of the stars. 
 Surely you would not leave her, the one that 
 you love." 
 
 "O no, Poleon, I will come back, after a 
 time, and she will go with me to the far West, 
 where we shall make our fortune. After that 
 we will return to live in Laval for the rest of 
 our days." 
 
 " No, no, Louis, I have seen enough of that. 
 There where one was born and has grown up, 
 there one should stay, and the women above 
 all. Your little girl, do not take her away 
 from Laval. She will sigh for the mountains, 
 the valleys, the clear air, the blue sky, the song 
 of the birds, the friends who remain behind. 
 I know what I say. It is for that reason that 
 I leave Laval, the home of my early years. 
 There is also one that I love yes, here in this 
 parish a girl with blue eyes and golden hair, 
 a true blonde, such as one seldom sees among 
 the Canadians, cheeks red as a strawberry, lips 
 such as one would like to kiss. When I went 
 
away she was a mere child of eight years, and 
 I said to myself, "In ten years I will return 
 for her." To this I have looked forward for 
 many years, and here I am at last and I shall 
 go away without her. But she is more beauti 
 ful than ever. She fills my heart. Her smile 
 is like the ripple of the Montmorency. Her 
 laughter is like the sound of a little golden 
 bell. Mon Dieu, how I love that little girl! 
 And yet I leave her. And why? Because I 
 will not take her to that mining camp in Ne 
 vada, where I must live, since all that I have in 
 the world is there. To-morrow morning I go 
 away alone and this dear place I may never 
 see again. Louis, it is not easy to do this." 
 
 " Poleon," said Louis, growing very pale, 
 " who is this girl ? There can be only one such 
 in Laval." 
 
 "There is only one, Louis, only one in all 
 the world, my brother." 
 
 "Then it is Madeleine, Toleon, is it not?" 
 
 " Yes, Louis, it is she. And now it is your 
 turn. I have confessed. Who is it, Louis?" 
 
" The same, Poleon, 
 there is no other. Poleon, 
 I will leave Laval in the 
 morning and you shall 
 stay with Madeleine." 
 
 "Bah! Louis, Laval is 
 a stupid hole, no good at 
 all. Hurrah for Chicago! 
 Hurrah for Nevada ! It is 
 there that one finds life 
 worth living. Live in La 
 val? Louis, you laugh at 
 me. What should I do in 
 Laval ? Marry a little hab 
 itant girl ? Ridiculous ! 
 See me at the age of fifty, 
 an old habitant with a 
 wife and ten children* 
 more or less. Grandchil 
 dren also ! Morbleu ! It 
 is not alluring, the pro 
 spect. Better Nevada and 
 the gold mines. Better a 
 
short life ana a merry one. Mon Dieu, how late 
 it is ! We have talked foolishness, Louis. Good 
 night, old man. Wake me before sunrise. Laval 
 is the place for you, that is not | 
 hard to see." 
 
 The next morning, as Louis I/ 
 and Napoleon passed the house 
 where Madeleine lived, there was 
 the flutter of a white handker 
 chief at the window. Napoleon 
 saw it, but passed on without 
 sign. Half an hour later, as the 
 cart rattled over the slope of a 
 distant hill, looking back Na- J 
 poleon still could see the flutter 
 of white where Madeleine lived, 
 queen of his heart. 
 
VI. 
 THE MISER. 
 
fj^ 
 
 
 THE MISER. 
 
THE MISER. 
 
 1. 
 
 IT was very curious, the life of Louis Vaillant- 
 coeur after the departure of his Brother Napo 
 leon. The farm was left to him, also the girl, 
 and surely he had every reason to be happy. 
 As to the farm, that was all right; but as to 
 Madeleine, that was quite another thing. One 
 might think that she consented to marry him on 
 the first time of asking, but not at all. She 
 would not consider him for a moment, and even 
 accused him of being unfaithful to his brother, 
 of trying to supplant him in his property and in 
 the affection of his friends. 
 10 
 
Nor did Madeleine appreciate the sacrifice of 
 Napoleon in giving her up. On the contrary, 
 she could not forgive him for having gone 
 away without a word, and all for the sake of 
 his much loved but unworthy brother. A fig 
 for such brotherly love, so regardless of the 
 feelings of others. The brothers Vaillantcoeur 
 were nothing to her, nor ever could be, and 
 whether they went to Nevada or staid in 
 Laval was quite their own affair. So Made 
 leine shed no tears, in so far as any one knew, 
 and appeared to be as gay and happy as ever, 
 but presently she went away to visit some 
 cousins at Chateau Richer and to acquire ac 
 complishments at the convent in that parish. 
 
 Of Napoleon not a single word was heard 
 from the day of his departure, neither letter 
 nor news of any kind. It was as though the 
 vast outer world, like a great monster, had 
 swallowed him up the moment that he left 
 the quiet shelter of Ste. Brigitte de Laval. 
 He had disappeared utterly, and, as it seemed, 
 forever. The neighbors said that he must be 
 
dead, else he would have 
 written, for he was a fine 
 scholar and always used to 
 write home at frequent in 
 tervals. But Louis clung 
 to the belief that he was 
 alive, probably unsuccessful 
 in his ventures, unwilling 
 to confess defeat and 
 ashamed to return to his 
 old home with the stigma 
 of failure upon his name. 
 Is it any wonder that 
 Louis, abandoned by his 
 brother, rejected by the 
 girl he loved, living alone 
 upon the farm, remote 
 from the neighbors, at 
 some distance, also, from 
 the public road, developed 
 some of the worst charac 
 teristics of the Canadian 
 habitants, and began to 
 
Mil 
 
 - 
 
 lose that vivacity of dispo 
 sition and politeness of 
 manner which makes their 
 life, sordid though it may 
 be, harmonious and beau 
 tiful. Thus Louis Vail- 
 lantcoeur, once so gay and 
 debonair, became in an un 
 due degree morose and tac 
 iturn, and, worse than all, 
 he became an inveterate 
 and outrageous miser. 
 
 It is not by earning a 
 large income that a habi 
 tant can become rich, but 
 by incessant industry, uni 
 ted to the most rigorous 
 and persistent economy. 
 Louis had tho roughly 
 grasped this important 
 truth, and set himself to 
 the practice of it with all 
 energy and tenacity of 
 

 his being. Not one source of revenue, however 
 insignificant, was overlooked, and the needless 
 expenditure of a single sou was as painful to 
 him as the loss of an old and valued friend. 
 
 Many were the tales that the neighbors told 
 of Louis and his penurious ways. In winter, 
 when the roads were good, all the habitants 
 used to haul wood on sleighs to Beauport, 
 twelve or fifteen miles away, but Louis, for the 
 sake of a better price, would go on five miles 
 further, to Quebec, although, after paying toll 
 at the bridge, the extra money was hardly 
 sufficient to buy a meal at the cheapest hotel 
 in town, not to speak of a little drink of 
 whisky to keep out the cold on the way home. 
 Louis, however, never spent any money for 
 drink, nor did he pay anything for food at 
 Quebec, for in St. Roch, not far from the mar 
 ket, dwelt a distant cousin, one Boulanger, at 
 whose house Louis always arrived at the hour of 
 dinner, and where he was never refused a bowl 
 of hot pea-soup, with all the bread and bacon 
 that he could eat. This was wonderful gen- 
 
erosity, for Louis had by nature a great appe 
 tite, and, if one may believe the neighbors, he 
 left home on market days without his break 
 fast, and did not eat another meal until the 
 middle of the following day. 
 
 Cousin Boulanger thought to get even with 
 Louis by sending his two boys every summer 
 to spend the vacation at Laval, but Louis knew 
 how to make use of them, for, when there was 
 no work to do in the fields, he would send 
 them to gather strawberries, raspberries or 
 blueberries, according to the season, and these 
 always brought a good price in the city mar 
 kets. When there were no berries, Louis sent 
 the lads to the woods to gather balsam and 
 spruce gum, sarsaparilla, gold-thread, moss, 
 and birch-bark for causeaux in which to pack 
 maple sugar in the following spring. Even 
 when the young Boulangers were permitted to 
 go fishing, it was for the sake of profit to 
 Louis, for they frequently returned with ten 
 or twelve dozen of fine trout, for which Louis 
 could obtain as much as twenty cents a dozen 
 
at the Hotel St. Louis at 
 Quebec. 
 
 Strange to say, the 
 young citizens did not 
 think it any hardship to 
 be obliged to do these 
 things. On the contrary, 
 they regarded it as play, 
 and since they had plenty 
 of good bread and butter 
 to eat, besides berries and 
 cream, eggs and trout, with 
 now and then a taste of 
 wild-fowl, squirrel, ground 
 hog or bear, for Louis un 
 derstood the importance of 
 feeding them well, they 
 prospered exceedingly, and 
 in the month of September 
 returned to the Seminary 
 strong and fat, a joy to 
 their parents and a terror 
 to all the petty tyrants 
 

 of the school, not except 
 ing the young ecclesiastics, 
 their teachers. But Louis 
 Vaillantcoeur rejoiced in 
 the addition of many dol- 
 1 a r s to his increasing 
 hoard, and gloated, like the 
 miser he was, over his cun 
 ning exploitation of the 
 family Boulanger. 
 
 Not only did Louis thus 
 deceive and plunder his 
 own relatives, but all with 
 whom he had any dealings 
 were treated in a similar 
 way, and frequently with 
 out being conscious of the 
 deception. So debased did 
 he become, as the neigh 
 bors said, that he would 
 cheat even the Holy 
 Church, in the person of 
 the cure, to whom every 
 
year tithes were due from all the faithful, 
 every twenty-sixth bushel of oats and bundle 
 of hay, every tenth pig, besides other contri 
 butions, according to the prosperity of the par 
 ishioners and the abundance of the harvest. 
 Louis could not altogether avoid these pay 
 ments, for it was not possible to conceal his 
 fields of hay, oats and potatoes, and the arrival 
 of a litter of pigs was a matter of notoriety in 
 the community, but there was always a mys 
 terious shrinkage when it came to the payment 
 of tithes, causing disappointment to the cure 
 and scandal among the parishioners. The cure 
 could not detect the fraud, but it was a satis 
 faction to think that the good God knew all 
 about it, and, sooner or later, would bring ven 
 geance upon the head of the sacrilegious 
 miser. 
 
 Meanwhile, the miser was well content to 
 lay up treasure on earth, while the good cure 
 acquired merit in heaven, for he never went 
 to mass, nor confession, lest he should put him 
 self in the way of receiving the condemnation 
 
which he deserved, and which the cure was at 
 all times ready to give. Sad penance would 
 Louis have to do when the time came, as come 
 it must, when he should require the services of 
 the Church in the hour of trouble. In that 
 day of wrath he would have to restore four 
 fold, and afflict his body by fastings, vigils, and 
 prayers innumerable. 
 
 Thus Louis Vaillantcoeur led a godless, love 
 less life, and his soul, deprived of the spiritual 
 light and air whereby it lived, became small 
 and feeble, withered and dry, a mere remnant 
 and vestige of its former self. But the avari 
 cious part of Louis grew and expanded until 
 it filled his being, and every thought, every 
 wish, had to do with the getting of money, 
 and the safe-keeping of his rapidly increasing 
 hoard. For his yearly savings, though small, 
 in the course of time amounted to a consider 
 able sum, a treasure such as no other habitant 
 of Laval had ever been able to accumulate. 
 He kept it, the neighbors said, in a hole in the 
 floor under his bed, and often, in the dead of 
 
night, a gleam of light 
 could be seen through the 
 window, by which, no 
 doubt, the miser, seated in 
 the midst of piles of gold, 
 was counting and recount 
 ing the savings of many 
 years. 
 
 Thus the years passed 
 away, until ten years had 
 gone since the departure of 
 Brother Napoleon. Louis 
 remembered, what he had 
 never forgotten, that Na 
 poleon had said, in part 
 ing : "In ten years, if pos 
 sible, I will come again." 
 And now, on the tenth an 
 niversary of that day, he 
 waited and watched for the 
 fulfillment of that promise. 
 
 All day he staid about 
 the house, frequently 
 
ing to the door and look 
 ing wistfully down the 
 valley for one who did not 
 come. 
 
 "This is the last day," 
 he said. "If Napoleon is 
 alive he will be here ; if he 
 does not come he must be 
 dead." 
 
 So he waited, as one who 
 looks for a miracle, expect 
 ing yet doubting, hoping 
 yet fearful, confident and 
 yet near to despair. When 
 night fell, and the valley 
 was shrouded in mist, he 
 listened for the coming of 
 his brother, but heard only 
 the cry of the owl and the 
 croak of the frogs in the 
 marsh near the river. At 
 midnight he said : " Napo 
 leon is dead. This is the 
 
end." Then he went about his usual work of 
 preparation for market, got ready his horse 
 and cart, with a load of potatoes, cabbages, 
 onions, and other vegetables, and, long before 
 daybreak, took the road for Quebec, as he had 
 done so many times before. 
 
 But underneath the pile of vegetables was a 
 bag of gold, containing, it is said, at least two 
 thousand dollars, the result of Louis extreme 
 industry and frugality during the previous ten 
 years. He was taking it to Quebec, some say, 
 to put it in the bank ; others declare that he 
 intended to give it to Madeleine ; while others, 
 with greater probability, assert that the entire 
 amount was to be spent in masses for the 
 soul of Brother Napoleon. However that 
 may be, the bag of gold reposed in the bottom 
 of the cart, and Louis drove on through the 
 night, up and down the long sandy hills, now 
 on the shoulder of a dark, forest-clad moun 
 tain, now along the banks of the Montmorency 
 River, now down the long slope which stretches 
 from the hills to the great St. Lawrence, until, 
 
at the first glimmer of dawn, he turned upon 
 the broad, well-kept Beauport road. 
 
 A dense fog hung over the Beauport flats, 
 concealing not only the twin spires of the par 
 ish church and the gray walls of the ruined 
 mill, but even the white cottages on either 
 side of the road, while in front nothing could 
 be seen but the bank of fog, which opened to 
 allow Louis to drive through, and immediately 
 closed in behind, as though to hide him and 
 his treasure from the prying eyes of a too 
 curious world. 
 
 Suddenly, out of the fog came the sound of 
 a strong tenor voice, singing a song once dear 
 to the heart of Louis, an ancient lay of a 
 lover and his rejected love : 
 
 "A la claire fontaine 
 M en allant promener, 
 J ai trouv<3 1 eau si belle, 
 Que je m y suis baigner." 
 
 Louis stopped to listen. The song was long 
 and sad, but the singer went on to the very 
 end, telling how his lady had forsaken him be- 
 
cause of a rose which he 
 refused to give to her: 
 
 "Je voudrais que la rose 
 Fut encore ail rosier, 
 Et que le rosier m6me 
 Fut dans la mer jete. 
 Y a longtemps que je t aime ; 
 Jamais je ne t oublirai." 
 
 And then it came to 
 Louis that he had heard 
 his brother, Napoleon, sing 
 that very song on the oc 
 casion of his last visit to 
 Laval. Not only so, but 
 the voice, it was the same ; 
 yes, it was his brother s 
 voice; he had come back, 
 and there he was, there on 
 the Beauport road near the 
 bridge. Quickly he urged 
 forward his horse. 
 
 " Hola ! Napoleon. 
 Hola! my brother. It is 
 I, Louis. Poleon, my 
 
 \ 
 

 [fT 
 
 _ . 
 
 \ 
 
 brother, I am here. Po- 
 leon! Toleon!" 
 
 The voice ceased sud 
 denly; a sound of loud 
 barking filled the air ; and 
 out of the fog emerged 
 the form of a beggar in a 
 d o g-cart, a long-haired, 
 ragged beggar, driving a 
 big Newfoundland dog as 
 shaggy as himself. 
 
 "Sacre," said Louis, 
 "what have we here? A 
 beggar, as I live. Ho! 
 beggar, have you seen my 
 brother, my Brother Po- 
 leon, Napoleon Vaillant- 
 coeur, he who was singing 
 a moment since?" 
 
 " It was I who sang, my 
 friend," replied the beg 
 gar, in a whining voice, 
 it was I who sang for 
 
 I - ^ k ^ 
 
bread. Charity, charity, if you plaese, for the 
 love of God ! Charity, charity, I am dying of 
 hunger." 
 
 "Bah!" said Louis in disgust. "Bah! you 
 fat thief, you lazy rascal! Rascal, I say!" 
 And Louis in his anger struck at the beggar 
 with his whip, not hurting him much, perhaps, 
 but certainly arousing his temper, and a ter 
 rible temper it was. It was a fine rage, a mag 
 nificent passion. The beggar s face grew pur 
 ple, his eyes seemed to jump out of his head, 
 his hair to stand on end, while his hands were 
 lifted to heaven and his mouth opened to dis 
 gorge a volley of curses such as were seldom 
 heard along the Beauport road. 
 
 "Rascal, I! I a rascal! Name of a pig! 
 Rascal yourself, you cursed habitant, miserable 
 soup-eater, miser, blood-sucker, beast, devil!" 
 
 With these and many more words of vio 
 lence, the beggar and his dog, both furious, 
 precipitated themselves upon Louis, as though 
 to tear him limb from limb. 
 
 Louis himself was sufficiently alarmed, but 
 
the horse, a quiet country animal, bolted in 
 sheer terror, galloping at fearful speed along 
 the road toward Quebec, and did not cease his 
 mad career until he arrived, panting and ex 
 hausted, at the bridge over the St. Charles, 
 where travelers from all the northern parishes 
 pay toll as they enter the ancient capital. 
 
 But Louis Vaillantcoeur paid no toll on this 
 occasion. On the contrary, he returned, as 
 quickly as possible, by the way he had come, 
 for all the vegetables that he was bringing to 
 market had disappeared from the cart, and the 
 bag of gold, that gold which he had loved 
 more than life, more even than his eternal 
 salvation, was gone. 
 
 Near the place of his encounter with the 
 beggar he found the vegetables lying on the 
 ground where they had fallen, but the bag 
 of gold was not there. The beggar, too, had 
 disappeared, 
 
 All was quiet on the Beauport road, for it was 
 still an hour before sunrise and darker than 
 usual because of the fog, so that the good 
 
people of Beauport, usually 
 early risers, still slept the 
 sleep of the righteous, the 
 blessed reward of honest 
 toil. Not even the curses 
 of the beggar had dis 
 turbed their repose. But 
 now Louis, thinking only 
 of his terrible loss, aroused 
 them by loud knocking, 
 and they were not pleased 
 to be thus rudely awak 
 ened. 
 
 Had they seen a beggar 
 with a dog ? 
 
 Certainly not ! How 
 could they see him when 
 they were fast asleep ? 
 
 Had they ever seen a 
 beggar like the one Louis 
 had met ? 
 
 Of course ! Assuredly ! 
 There were many beggars 
 
in Beauport and they all 
 had carts, the lazy vaga 
 bonds. 
 
 M sieu had lost a bag of 
 gold, two thousand dollars, 
 he said? Mon Dieu! 
 What rich habitants those 
 people of Laval! Was 
 M sieu de Laval sure that 
 it was not twenty thousand 
 dollars? What a loss! 
 What a calamity ! 
 
 Thus the citizens of 
 Beauport, those at least 
 who were awakened, as 
 they thought, at an un 
 seemly hour, were disposed 
 to ridicule Louis, to look 
 upon him with pity and 
 contempt, as though he 
 were a harmless lunatic, a 
 fit candidate for the neigh 
 boring asylum, where 
 
there were many who imagined themselves 
 kings, emperors, popes, and millionaires. 
 
 Not all the people of Beauport treated Louis 
 in this cavalier fashion, but nowhere did he 
 get any satisfaction, or any information that 
 might lead to the recovery of his treasure, 
 though he received some sympathy and much 
 advice. Nobody had seen a beggar such as he 
 described. Indeed, it was the general opinion 
 that he must have been a vagabond from some 
 distant parish or from the city, from Quebec 
 or even Montreal. It might be well to apply to 
 the police of those cities ; perhaps they might 
 be able to accomplish something. Assuredly, 
 no inhabitant of Beauport would dare to steal 
 in this barefaced way. Besides, most of the 
 beggars of the parish had homes of their own 
 and were good Catholics, who went to mass 
 and to confession from time to time, and, as 
 was well known, they could not do this and re 
 tain stolen goods, for no priest would grant 
 absolution without restitution. 
 
 This is what Louis should do. He should 
 
go to the priest, and, if the thief were a resi 
 dent of the parish, he would be found and 
 compelled to restore the money. The money 
 would be found, without a doubt. The beg 
 gar would be seen. He could not disappear 
 into the earth, nor vanish into the air. Cer 
 tainly, a person such as M sieu had described 
 was too remarkable to escape notice. But a 
 reward should be offered, a good, substantial 
 reward, something to arouse the conscience 
 and encourage honesty. For was not a small 
 sum honestly earned better than a vast amount 
 acquired by theft ? Money may be lost, but 
 the treasures of the soul could never be taken 
 away. 
 
 The simple words of these good people were 
 as daggers to the heart of Louis Vaillantcoeur, 
 he who had sacrificed everything in the getting 
 of money, and now that also was gone. Words 
 could not describe the penury of his soul. 
 His soul ? It was a question whether he had 
 a soul, whether he had not sold that, also, to 
 the evil one. It was Louis and not Napoleon 
 
who would need the ben 
 efit of masses and the in 
 tercession of the saints. 
 But of what use were 
 masses to a lost soul? 
 What prayers could reach 
 the infernal depths when 
 the soul of a miser went to 
 his own place? He who 
 would give nothing, what 
 could he receive ? 
 
 At the close of a long 
 day of calamity and bitter 
 disappointment, Louis ar 
 rived, tired out and utterly 
 discouraged, at the little 
 cluster of dwellings that 
 surround the church of 
 Ste. Brigitte de Laval. It 
 was a dark night, so dark 
 that Louis thought that the 
 black clouds would never 
 pass away and the stars 
 
 mm 
 
. - -j.^w 
 
 T 
 
 - 
 
 never shine again. The 
 little world was asleep, but 
 from the presbytery a 
 bright light shone out 
 upon the night, and Louis 
 knew that the priest was 
 there, one who could throw 
 light upon dark places, and 
 would gladly turn the wan 
 derer into the way of God. 
 An inexplicable longing 
 came upon him to confess, 
 as he had not done for 
 many years, to pour into 
 the ear of some human be 
 ing the story of his failure 
 and his sin, and to receive, 
 if not the forgiveness of 
 God, at least the sym 
 pathy of man and the 
 counsel that he needed so 
 much. So he went up to 
 the house, but before he 
 
HI 
 
 I ::iKM:M^ 
 
 I 
 
 could knock the door was opened by the cure 
 himself. 
 
 "Come in, Louis," he said, "I have heard 
 of your misfortune and I thought that you 
 would come." 
 
 To this good man Louis told the story of his 
 life for the past ten years, without palliation or 
 excuse, and, as he confessed, a heavy weight was 
 lifted from his heart, and a gleam of hope illu 
 mined his beclouded spirit. The priest no longer 
 seemed like a minister of vengeance, but an an 
 gel of forgiveness, bringing peace to the soul. 
 
 "But," said the cure, when Louis had fin 
 ished, "why did you do all this? For what 
 purpose was all this wealth which you accumu 
 lated at such a cost?" 
 
 "Did I not mention it, M sieu le Cure ? It 
 was for Brother Napoleon, of course. He was 
 to have it upon his return, and the farm also, 
 that he might marry Madeleine and live in 
 Laval all his life. 
 
 "And you," said the cure, "what would 
 you have done?" 
 
"I also would have remained," said Louis, 
 "to see their happiness. That would have 
 been enough for me." 
 
 "My son," said the good priest, "the sin of 
 avarice is a mortal sin. It is the love of 
 money for its own sake, or for the sake of 
 selfish enjoyment. But when a man engages 
 in the pursuit of wealth for the glory of God, 
 or for the good of others, we do not call it 
 avarice, we call it sublime devotion." 
 
 Tears came to the eyes of the cure as he 
 pronounced the absolution and inflicted light 
 penance for certain venal sins, and the stony 
 heart of Louis was melted and became a heart 
 of flesh. 
 
 "Louis," said the cure, as the young habi 
 tant rose to go, "there is another penitent 
 here whom I should like you to meet. You 
 have seen him before, I think." 
 
 They went into the kitchen, and there stood 
 the beggar of the morning, the same, yet not 
 the same, for, though still clad in rags, he had 
 an air of independence and prosperity quite 
 
unprofessional for a beg 
 gar. Also he smiled pleas 
 antly as he held out a 
 heavy bag of gold. 
 
 "There," he said, "there 
 is the gold that M sieu has 
 lost. And I am sorry that 
 I was the cause of so much 
 trouble." 
 
 Louis stared at him. 
 "It is you," he said, "and 
 I was unkind to you. For 
 give me. Ah, the gold! 
 Will you not keep it in 
 memory of one whom I 
 loved, but whom I shall 
 never see again?" 
 
 "Louis," said the beg 
 gar, in the old familiar 
 voice, " do you not know 
 me? Is it possible that I 
 have changed so much?" 
 
 16 Poleon," said Louis, 
 
 
.Wti Ir i 
 
 " it is you. It is indeed 
 yourself, my brother, after 
 all these years. Poleon, I 
 ask you to forgive me." 
 
 "For what, Louis? It 
 is I who ask to be for 
 given." 
 
 And the brothers, parted 
 so long, embraced one an 
 other with tears of joy. 
 
 " But why, Toleon," said 
 Louis, as they drove home 
 together under the stars, 
 "why do you come like 
 this? A beggar? You 
 are no beggar. What is 
 the matter?" 
 
 " Ah ! Louis, I was in 
 deed a beggar, a veritable 
 beggar, until the luck 
 turned only a few weeks 
 ago. And I thought that 
 I would see, 1 am ashamed 
 
to confess it, how you would receive your 
 brother as he was, a beggar. And when you 
 struck me, there on the bridge, I thought, for 
 a moment, that you were casting me off. And 
 I was angry. Ah, how angry I was ! But you 
 have forgiven me, my brother. Louis, you 
 are a better man than I. It is you who have 
 the faithful heart." 
 
 Louis made no reply, but from the valley 
 beneath came the voice of the river speaking 
 to Napoleon in the old, familiar language, 
 while far above in the dark fir-trees a summer 
 breeze made music such as he loved to hear. 
 Napoleon was glad that he had come back, 
 after long wanderings, to his native land. 
 
 Presently, w^hen they had climbed the last of 
 the hills, there stood the old home, at the end of 
 the lane, among the trees, and the sky was clear 
 overhead, with thousands of stars, and the 
 silver crescent of the new moon stood over the 
 mountain, as on many a night in the long ago. 
 
 Napoleon took a deep breath of the clear, 
 cool air, the air of his native hills. 
 
"Here we are, Louis. The old place, it is 
 fine, is it not ? And you were expecting me, 
 old man?" 
 
 4 Yes, Poleon, I was expecting 
 you every day for all these years. 
 And you have come ; you are 
 here. It is good to be at home 
 again, is it not?" 
 
 "And Madeleine?" said Na 
 poleon. 
 
 "Madeleine, my brother, she 
 also has been expecting you, I 
 think."