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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6238.txt b/6238.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..84ac3c9 --- /dev/null +++ b/6238.txt @@ -0,0 +1,1930 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook Lane That Had No Turning, by Parker, v2 +#65 in our series by Gilbert Parker + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: The Lane That Had No Turning, Volume 2. + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6238] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 17, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANE HAD NO TURNING, PARKER, V2 *** + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 2. + + + +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS +A WORKER IN STONE + + + +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON + +The five brothers lived with Louison, three miles from Pontiac, and +Medallion came to know them first through having sold them, at an +auction, a slice of an adjoining farm. He had been invited to their +home, intimacy had grown, and afterwards, stricken with a severe illness, +he had been taken into the household and kept there till he was well +again. The night of his arrival, Louison, the sister, stood with a +brother on either hand--Octave and Florian--and received him with a +courtesy more stately than usual, an expression of the reserve and +modesty of her single state. This maidenly dignity was at all times +shielded by the five brothers, who treated her with a constant and +reverential courtesy. There was something signally suggestive in their +homage, and Medallion concluded at last that it was paid not only to the +sister, but to something that gave her great importance in their eyes. + +He puzzled long, and finally decided that Louison had a romance. There +was something which suggested it in the way they said "P'tite Louison"; +in the manner they avoided all gossip regarding marriages and marriage- +feasting; in the way they deferred to her on questions of etiquette (as, +for instance, Should the eldest child be given the family name of the +wife or a Christian name from her husband's family?). And P'tite +Louison's opinion was accepted instantly as final, with satisfied +nods on the part of all the brothers, and whispers of "How clever! +how adorable!" + +P'tite Louison affected never to hear these remarks, but looked +complacently straight before her, stirring the spoon in her cup, or +benignly passing the bread and butter. She was quite aware of the homage +paid to her, and she gracefully accepted the fact that she was an object +of interest. + +Medallion had not the heart to laugh at the adoration of the brothers, +or at the outlandish sister, for, though she was angular, and sallow, and +thin, and her hands were large and red, there was a something deep in her +eyes, a curious quality in her carriage commanding respect. She had +ruled these brothers, had been worshipped by them, for near half a +century, and the romance they had kept alive had produced a grotesque +sort of truth and beauty in the admiring "P'tite Louison"--an +affectionate name for her greatness, like "The Little Corporal" for +Napoleon. She was not little, either, but above the middle height, +and her hair was well streaked with grey. + +Her manner towards Medallion was not marked by any affectation. She was +friendly in a kind, impersonal way, much as a nurse cares for a patient, +and she never relaxed a sort of old-fashioned courtesy, which might have +been trying in such close quarters, were it not for the real simplicity +of the life and the spirit and lightness of their race. One night +Florian--there were Florian and Octave and Felix and Isidore and Emile +--the eldest, drew Medallion aside from the others, and they walked +together by the river. Florian's air suggested confidence and mystery, +and soon, with a voice of hushed suggestion, he told Medallion the +romance of P'tite Louison. And each of the brothers at different times +during the next fortnight did the same, differing scarcely at all in +details, or choice of phrase or meaning, and not at all in general facts +and essentials. But each, as he ended, made a different exclamation. + +"Voila, so sad, so wonderful! She keeps the ring--dear P'tite Louison!" +said Florian, the eldest. + +"Alors, she gives him a legacy in her will! Sweet P'tite Louison," said +Octave. + +"Mais, the governor and the archbishop admire her--P'tite Louison:" said +Felix, nodding confidently at Medallion. + +"Bien, you should see the linen and the petticoats!" said Isidore, the +humorous one of the family. "He was great--she was an angel, P'tite +Louison!" + +"Attends! what love--what history--what passion!--the perfect P'tite +Louison!" cried Emile, the youngest, the most sentimental. "Ah, +Moliere!" he added, as if calling on the master to rise and sing the +glories of this daughter of romance. + +Isidore's tale was after this fashion: + +"I ver' well remember the first of it; and the last of it--who can tell? +He was an actor--oh, so droll, that! Tall, ver' smart, and he play in +theatre at Montreal. It is in the winter. P'tite Louison visit +Montreal. She walk past the theatre and, as she go by, she slip on the +snow and fall. Out from a door with a jomp come M'sieu' Hadrian, and +pick her up. And when he see the purty face of P'tite Louison, his eyes +go all fire, and he clasp her hand to his breast. + +"'Ma'm'selle, Ma'm'selle,' he say, 'we must meet again!' + +"She thank him and hurry away queeck. Next day we are on the river, and +P'tite Louison try to do the Dance of the Blue Fox on the ice. While she +do it, some one come up swift, and catch her hand and say: 'Ma'm'selle, +let's do it together'--like that! It take her breath away. It is +M'sieu' Hadrian. He not seem like the other men she know; but he have a +sharp look, he is smooth in the face, and he smile kind like a woman. +P'tite Louison, she give him her hand, and they run away, and every one +stop to look. It is a gran' sight. M'sieu' Hadrian laugh, and his teeth +shine, and the ladies say things of him, and he tell P'tite Louison that +she look ver' fine, and walk like a queen. I am there that day, and I +see all, and I think it dam good. I say: 'That P'tite Louison, she beat +them all'--I am only twelve year old then. When M'sieu' Hadrian leave, +he give her two seats for the theatre, and we go. Bagosh! that is grand +thing that play, and M'sieu' Hadrian, he is a prince; and when he say to +his minister, 'But no, my lord, I will marry out of my star, and where my +heart go, not as the State wills,' he look down at P'tite Louison, and +she go all red, and some of the women look at her, and there is a whisper +all roun'. + +"Nex' day he come to the house where we stay, but the Cure come also +pretty soon and tell her she must go home--he say an actor is not good +company. Never mind. And so we come out home. Well, what you think? +Nex' day M'sieu' Hadrian come, too, and we have dam good time--Florian, +Octave, Felix, Emile, they all sit and say bully-good to him all the +time. Holy, what fine stories he tell! And he talk about P'tite +Louison, and his eyes get wet, and Emile he say his prayers to him-- +bagosh! yes, I think. Well, at last, what you guess? M'sieu' he come +and come, and at last one day, he say that he leave Montreal and go to +New York, where he get a good place in a big theatre--his time in +Montreal is finish. So he speak to Florian and say he want marry P'tite +Louison, and he say, of course, that he is not marry and he have money. +But he is a Protestan', and the Cure at first ver' mad, bagosh! + +"But at las' when he give a hunder' dollars to the Church, the Cure say +yes. All happy that way for while. P'tite Louison, she get ready quick- +sapre, what fine things had she--and it is all to be done in a week, +while the theatre in New York wait for M'sieu'. He sit there with us, +and play on the fiddle, and sing songs, and act plays, and help Florian +in the barn, and Octave to mend the fence, and the Cure to fix the grape- +vines on his wall. He show me and Emile how to play sword-sticks; and he +pick flowers and fetch them to P'tite Louison, and teach her how to make +an omelette and a salad like the chef of the Louis Quinze Hotel, so he +say. Bagosh, what a good time we have! But first one, then another, he +get a choke-throat when he think that P'tite Louison go to leave us, and +the more we try, the more we are bagosh fools. And that P'tite Louison, +she kiss us hevery one, and say to M'sieu' Hadrian, 'Charles, I love you, +but I cannot go.' He laugh at her, and say, 'Voila! we will take them +all with us:' and P'tite Louison she laugh. That night a thing happen. +The Cure come, and he look ver' mad, and he frown and he say to M'sieu' +Hadrian before us all, 'M'sieu', you are married.' + +"Sapre! that P'tite Louison get pale like snow, and we all stan' roun' +her close and say to her quick, 'Courage, P'tite Louison!' M'sieu' +Hadrian then look at the priest and say: 'No, M'sieu', I was married ten +years ago; my wife drink and go wrong, and I get divorce. I am free like +the wind.' + +"'You are not free,' the Cure say quick. 'Once married, married till +death. The Church cannot marry you again, and I command Louison to give +you up.' + +"P'tite Louison stan' like stone. M'sieu' turn to her. 'What shall it +be, Louison?' he say. 'You will come with me?' + +"'Kiss me, Charles,' she say, 'and tell me good-bye till--till you are +free.' + +"He look like a madman. 'Kiss me once, Charles,' she say, 'and let me +go.' + +"And he come to her and kiss her on the lips once, and he say, 'Louison, +come with me. I will never give you up.' + +"She draw back to Florian. 'Good-bye, Charles,' she say. 'I will wait +as long as you will. Mother of God, how hard it is to do right!' she +say, and then she turn and leave the room. + +"M'sieu' Hadrian, he give a long sigh. 'It was my one chance,' he say. +'Now the devil take it all!' Then he nod and say to the Cure: 'We'll +thrash this out at Judgment Day, M'sieu'. I'll meet you there--you and +the woman that spoiled me.' + +"He turn to Florian and the rest of us, and shake hands, and say: 'Take +care of Louison. Thank you. Good-bye.' Then he start towards the door, +but stumble, for he look sick. 'Give me a drink,' he say, and begin to +cough a little--a queer sort of rattle. Florian give him big drink, and +he toss it off-whiff! 'Thank you,' he say, and start again, and we see +him walk away over the hill ver' slow--an' he never come back. But every +year there come from New York a box of flowers, and every year P'tite +Louison send him a 'Merci, Charles, mille fois. Dieu to garde.' It is +so every year for twenty-five year." + +"Where is he now?" asked Medallion. + +Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes religiously. "Waiting for +Judgment Day and P'tite Louison," he answered. + +"Dead!" said Medallion. + +"How long?" + +"Twenty year." + +"But the flowers--the flowers?" + +"He left word for them to be sent just the same, and the money for it." + +Medallion turned and took off his hat reverently, as if a soul were +passing from the world; but it was only P'tite Louison going out into the +garden. + +"She thinks him living?" he asked gently as he watched Louison. + +"Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the +flowers kep' coming." + +"Why did he wish it so?" Isidore mused a while. + +"Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great actor--ah, yes, sublime!" +he said. + +Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to where P'tite Louison +was picking berries. His hat was still off. + +"Let me help you, Mademoiselle," he said softly. And henceforth he was +as foolish as her brothers. + + + + + + +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR + +"Sacre bapteme!" + +"What did he say?" asked the Little Chemist, stepping from his doorway. + +"He cursed his baptism," answered tall Medallion, the English auctioneer, +pushing his way farther into the crowd. + +"Ah, the pitiful vaurien!" said the Little Chemist's wife, shudderingly; +for that was an oath not to be endured by any one who called the Church +mother. + +The crowd that had gathered at the Four Corners were greatly disturbed, +for they also felt the repulsion that possessed the Little Chemist's +wife. They babbled, shook their heads, and waved their hands excitedly, +and swayed and craned their necks to see the offender. + +All at once his voice, mad with rage, was heard above the rest, shouting +frenziedly a curse which was a horribly grotesque blasphemy upon the name +of God. Men who had used that oath in their insane anger had been known +to commit suicide out of remorse afterwards. + +For a moment there was a painful hush. The crowd drew back involuntarily +and left a clear space, in which stood the blasphemer--a middle-sized, +athletic fellow, with black beard, thick, waving hair, and flashing brown +eyes. His white teeth were showing now in a snarl like a dog's, his cap +was on the ground, his hair was tumbled, his hands were twitching with +passion, his foot was stamping with fury, and every time it struck the +ground a little silver bell rang at his knee--a pretty sylvan sound, in +no keeping with the scene. It heightened the distress of the fellow's +blasphemy and ungovernable anger. For a man to curse his baptism was a +wicked thing; but the other oath was not fit for human ears, and horror +held the crowd moveless for a moment. + +Then, as suddenly as the stillness came, a low, threatening mumble of +voices rose, and a movement to close in on the man was made; but a figure +pushed through the crowd, and, standing in front of the man, waved the +people back. It was the Cure, the beloved M. Fabre, whose life had been +spent among them, whom they obeyed as well as they could, for they were +but frail humanity, after all--crude, simple folk, touched with +imagination. + +"Luc Pomfrette, why have you done this? What provocation had you?" + +The Cure's voice was stern and cold, his usually gentle face had become +severe, his soft eyes were piercing and determined. + +The foot of the man still beat the ground angrily, and the little bell +kept tinkling. He was gasping with passion, and he did not answer yet. + +"Luc Pomfrette, what have you to say?" asked the Cure again. He +motioned back Lacasse, the constable of the parish, who had suddenly +appeared with a rusty gun and a more rusty pair of handcuffs. + +Still the voyageur did not answer. + +The Cure glanced at Lajeunesse the blacksmith, who stood near. + +"There was no cause--no," sagely shaking his head said Lajeunesse, "Here +stand we at the door of the Louis Quinze in very good humour. Up come +the voyageurs, all laughing, and ahead of them is Luc Pomfrette, with the +little bell at his knee. Luc, he laugh the same as the rest, and they +stand in the door, and the garcon bring out the brandy--just a little, +but just enough too. I am talking to Henri Beauvin. I am telling him +Junie Gauloir have run away with Dicey the Protestant, when all very +quick Luc push between me and Henri, jump into the street, and speak like +that!" + +Lajeunesse looked around, as if for corroboration; Henri and others +nodded, and some one said: + +"That's true; that's true. There was no cause." + +"Maybe it was the drink," said a little hunchbacked man, pushing his way +in beside the Cure. "It must have been the drink; there was nothing +else--no." + +The speaker was Parpon the dwarf, the oddest, in some ways the most +foolish, in others the wisest man in Pontiac. + +"That is no excuse," said the Cure. + +"It is the only one he has, eh?" answered Parpon. His eyes were fixed +meaningly on those of Pomfrette. + +"It is no excuse," repeated the Cure sternly. "The blasphemy is +horrible, a shame and stigma upon Pontiac for ever." He looked Pomfrette +in the face. "Foul-mouthed and wicked man, it is two years since you +took the Blessed Sacrament. Last Easter day you were in a drunken sleep +while Mass was being said; after the funeral of your own father you were +drunk again. When you went away to the woods you never left a penny for +candles, nor for Masses to be said for your father's soul; yet you sold +his horse and his little house, and spent the money in drink. Not a cent +for a candle, but--" + +"It's a lie," cried Pomfrette, shaking with rage from head to foot. + +A long horror-stricken "Ah!" broke from the crowd. The Cure's face +became graver and colder. + +"You have a bad heart," he answered, "and you give Pontiac an evil name. +I command you to come to Mass next Sunday, to repent and to hear your +penance given from the altar. For until--" + +"I'll go to no Mass till I'm carried to it," was the sullen, malevolent +interruption. + +The Cure turned upon the people. + +"This is a blasphemer, an evil-hearted, shameless man," he said. "Until +he repents humbly, and bows his vicious spirit to holy Church, and his +heart to the mercy of God, I command you to avoid him as you would a +plague. I command that no door be opened to him; that no one offer him +comfort or friendship; that not even a bon jour or a bon soir pass +between you. He has blasphemed against our Father in heaven; to the +Church he is a leper." He turned to Pomfrette. "I pray God that you +have no peace in mind or body till your evil life is changed, and your +black heart is broken by sorrow and repentance." + +Then to the people he said again: "I have commanded you for your souls' +sake; see that you obey. Go to your homes. Let us leave the leper-- +alone." He waved the awed crowd back. + +"Shall we take off the little bell?" asked Lajeunesse of the Cure. + +Pomfrette heard, and he drew himself together, his jaws shutting with +ferocity, and his hand flying to the belt where his voyageur's case-knife +hung. The Cure did not see this. Without turning his head towards +Pomfrette, he said: + +"I have commanded you, my children. Leave the leper alone." + +Again he waved the crowd to be gone, and they scattered, whispering to +each other; for nothing like this had ever occurred in Pontiac before, +nor had they ever seen the Cure with this granite look in his face, or +heard his voice so bitterly hard. + +He did not move until he had seen them all started homewards from the +Four Corners. One person remained beside him--Parpon the dwarf. + +"I will not obey you, M'sieu' le Cure," said he. "I'll forgive him +before he repents." + +"You will share his sin," answered the Cure sternly. "No; his +punishment, M'sieu'," said the dwarf; and turning on his heel, he trotted +to where Pomfrette stood alone in the middle of the road, a dark, morose +figure, hatred and a wild trouble in his face. + +Already banishment, isolation, seemed to possess Pomfrette, to surround +him with loneliness. The very effort he made to be defiant of his fate +appeared to make him still more solitary. All at once he thrust a hand +inside his red shirt, and, giving a jerk which broke a string tied round +his neck, he drew forth a little pad--a flat bag of silk, called an Agnus +Dei, worn as a protection and a blessing by the pious, and threw it on +the ground. Another little parcel he drew from his belt, and ground it +into the dirt with his heel. It contained a woman's hair. Then, +muttering, his hands still twitching with savage feeling, he picked up +his cap, covered with dirt, put it on, and passed away down the road +towards the river, the little bell tinkling as he went. Those who heard +it had a strange feeling, for already to them the man was as if he had +some baleful disease, and this little bell told of the passing of a +leper. + +Yet some one man had worn just such a bell every year in Pontiac. It was +the mark of honour conferred upon a voyageur by his fellows, the token of +his prowess and his skill. This year Luc Pomfrette had won it, and that +very day it had been buckled round his leg with songs and toasts. + +For hours Pomfrette walked incessantly up and down the river-bank, +muttering and gesticulating, but at last came quietly to the cottage +which he shared with Henri Beauvin. Henri had removed himself and his +belongings: already the ostracising had begun. He went to the bedroom of +old Mme. Burgoyne, his cousin; she also was gone. He went to a little +outhouse and called. + +For reply there was a scratching at the door. He opened it, and a dog +leaped out and upon him. With a fierce fondness he snatched at the dog's +collar, and drew the shaggy head to his knee; then as suddenly shoved him +away with a smothered oath, and going into the house, shut the door. He +sat down in a chair in the middle of the room, and scarcely stirred for +half an-hour. At last, with a passionate jerk of the head, he got to his +feet, looking about the room in a half-distracted way. Outside, the dog +kept running round and round the house, silent, watchful, waiting for the +door to open. + +As time went by, Luc became quieter, but the look of his face was more +desolate. At last he almost ran to the door, threw it open, and called. +The dog sprang into the room, went straight to the fireplace, lay down, +and with tongue lolling and body panting looked at Pomfrette with +blinking, uncomprehending eyes. + +Pomfrette went to a cupboard, brought back a bone well covered with meat, +and gave it to the dog, which snatched it and began gnawing it, now and +again stopping to look up at his master, as one might look at a mountain +moving, be aware of something singular, yet not grasp the significance of +the phenomenon. At last, worn out, Pomfrette threw himself on his bed, +and fell into a sound sleep. When he awoke, it was far into the morning. +He lighted a fire in the kitchen, got a "spider," fried himself a piece +of pork, and made some tea. There was no milk in the cupboard; so he +took a pitcher and walked down the road a few rods to the next house, +where lived the village milkman. He knocked, and the door was opened by +the milkman's wife. A frightened look came upon her when she saw who it +was. + +"Non, non!" she said, and shut the door in his face. He stared blankly +at the door for a moment, then turned round and stood looking down into +the road, with the pitcher in his hand. The milkman's little boy, +Maxime, came running round the corner of the house. "Maxime," he said +involuntarily and half-eagerly, for he and the lad had been great +friends. + +Maxime's face brightened, then became clouded; he stood still an instant, +and presently, turning round and looking at Pomfrette askance, ran away +behind the house, saying: "Non, non!" + +Pomfrette drew his rough knuckles across his forehead in a dazed way; +then, as the significance of the thing came home to him, he broke out +with a fierce oath, and strode away down the yard and into the road. On +the way to his house he met Duclosse the mealman and Garotte the lime- +burner. He wondered what they would do. He could see the fat, wheezy +Duclosse hesitate, but the arid, alert Garotte had determination in every +motion and look. They came nearer; they were about to pass; there was no +sign. + +Pomfrette stopped short. "Good-day, lime-burner; good-day, Duclosse," he +said, looking straight at them. + +Garotte made no reply, but walked straight on. Pomfrette stepped swiftly +in front of the mealman. There was fury in his face-fury and danger; his +hair was disordered, his eyes afire. + +"Good-day, mealman," he said, and waited. "Duclosse," called Garotte +warningly, "remember!" Duclosse's knees shook, and his face became +mottled like a piece of soap; he pushed his fingers into his shirt and +touched the Agnus Dei that he carried there. That and Garotte's words +gave him courage. He scarcely knew what he said, but it had meaning. +"Good-bye-leper," he answered. + +Pomfrette's arm flew out to throw the pitcher at the mealman's head, but +Duclosse, with a grunt of terror, flung up in front of his face the small +bag of meal that he carried, the contents pouring over his waistcoat from +a loose corner. The picture was so ludicrous that Pomfrette laughed with +a devilish humour, and flinging the pitcher at the bag, he walked away +towards his own house. Duclosse, pale and frightened, stepped from among +the fragments of crockery, and with backward glances towards Pomfrette +joined his comrade. + +"Lime-burner," he said, sitting down on the bag of meal, and mechanically +twisting tight the loose, leaking corner, "the devil's in that leper." + +"He was a good enough fellow once," answered Garotte, watching Pomfrette. + +"I drank with him at five o'clock yesterday," said Duclosse +philosophically. "He was fit for any company then; now he's fit for +none." + +Garotte looked wise. "Mealman," said he, "it takes years to make folks +love you; you can make them hate you in an hour. La! La! it's easier +to hate than to love. Come along, m'sieu' dusty-belly." + +Pomfrette's life in Pontiac went on as it began that day. Not once a +day, and sometimes not once in twenty days, did any human being speak to +him. The village baker would not sell him bread; his groceries he had to +buy from the neighbouring parishes, for the grocer's flighty wife called +for the constable when he entered the bake-shop of Pontiac. He had to +bake his own bread, and do his own cooking, washing, cleaning, and +gardening. His hair grew long and his clothes became shabbier. At last, +when he needed a new suit--so torn had his others become at woodchopping +and many kinds of work--he went to the village tailor, and was promptly +told that nothing but Luc Pomfrette's grave-clothes would be cut and made +in that house. + +When he walked down to the Four Corners the street emptied at once, and +the lonely man with the tinkling bell of honour at his knee felt the +whole world falling away from sight and touch and sound of him. Once +when he went into the Louis Quinze every man present stole away in +silence, and the landlord himself, without a word, turned and left the +bar. At that, with a hoarse laugh, Pomfrette poured out a glass of +brandy, drank it off, and left a shilling on the counter. The next +morning he found the shilling, wrapped in a piece of paper, just inside +his door; it had been pushed underneath. On the paper was written: "It +is cursed." Presently his dog died, and the day afterwards he suddenly +disappeared from Pontiac, and wandered on to Ste. Gabrielle, Ribeaux, +and Ville Bambord. But his shame had gone before him, and people shunned +him everywhere, even the roughest. No one who knew him would shelter +him. He slept in barns and in the woods until the winter came and snow +lay thick upon the ground. Thin and haggard, and with nothing left of +his old self but his deep brown eyes and curling hair, and his unhappy +name and fame, he turned back again to Pontiac. His spirit was sullen +and hard, his heart closed against repentance. Had not the Church and +Pontiac and the world punished him beyond his deserts for a moment's +madness brought on by a great shock! + + + + +II + +One bright, sunshiny day of early winter, he trudged through the snow- +banked street of Pontiac back to his home. Men he once knew well, and +had worked with, passed him in a sled on their way to the great shanty in +the backwoods. They halted in their singing for a moment when they saw +him; then, turning their heads from him, dashed off, carolling lustily: + + "Ah, ah, Babette, + We go away; + But we will come + Again, Babette, + Again back home, + On Easter Day, + Back home to play + On Easter Day, + Babette! Babette!" + +"Babette! Babette!" The words followed him, ringing in his ears long +after the men had become a mere fading point in the white horizon behind +him. + + +This was not the same world that he had known, not the same Pontiac. +Suddenly he stopped short in the road. + +"Curse them! Curse them! Curse them all!" he cried in a cracked, +strange voice. A woman hurrying across the street heard him, and went +the faster, shutting her ears. A little boy stood still and looked at +him in wonder. Everything he saw maddened him. He turned sharp round +and hurried to the Louis Quinze. Throwing open the door, he stepped +inside. Half-a-dozen men were there with the landlord. When they saw +him, they started, confused and dismayed. He stood still for a moment, +looking at them with glowering brows. + +"Good-day," he said. "How goes it?" + +No one answered. A little apart from the others sat Medallion the +auctioneer. He was a Protestant, and the curse on his baptism uttered by +Pomfrette was not so heinous in his sight. For the other oath, it was +another matter. Still, he was sorry for the man. In any case, it was +not his cue to interfere; and Luc was being punished according to his +bringing up and to the standards familiar to him. Medallion had never +refused to speak to him, but he had done nothing more. There was no +reason why he should provoke the enmity of the parish unnecessarily; and +up to this-point Pomfrette had shifted for himself after a fashion, if a +hard fashion. + +With a bitter laugh, Pomfrette turned to the little bar. + +"Brandy," he said; "brandy, my Bourienne." + +The landlord shrugged his shoulder, and looked the other way. + +"Brandy," he repeated. Still there was no sign. + +There was a wicked look in his face, from which the landlord shrank back- +shrank so far that he carried himself among the others, and stood there, +half frightened, half dumfounded. + +Pomfrette pulled out a greasy dollar-bill from his pocket--the last he +owned in the world--and threw it on the counter. Then he reached over, +caught up a brandy-bottle from the shelf, knocked off the neck with a +knife, and, pouring a tumblerful, drank it off at a gasp. + +His head came up, his shoulders straightened out, his eyes snapped fire. +He laughed aloud, a sardonic, wild, coarse laugh, and he shivered once or +twice violently, in spite of the brandy he had drunk. + +"You won't speak to me, eh? Won't you? Curse you! Pass me on the other +side--so! Look at me. I am the worst man in the world, eh? Judas is +nothing--no! Ack, what are you, to turn your back on me? Listen to me! +You, there, Muroc, with your charcoal face, who was it walk thirty miles +in the dead of winter to bring a doctor to your wife, eh? She die, but +that is no matter--who was it? It was Luc Pomfrette. You, Alphonse +Durien, who was it drag you out of the bog at the Cote Chaudiere? It was +Luc Pomfrette. You, Jacques Baby, who was it that lied for you to the +Protestant girl at Faribeau? Just Luc Pomfrette. You two, Jean and +Nicolas Mariban, who was it lent you a hunderd dollars when you lose all +your money at cards? Ha, ha, ha! Only that beast Luc Pomfrette! Mother +of Heaven, such a beast is he--eh, Limon Rouge?--such a beast that used +to give your Victorine little silver things, and feed her with bread and +sugar and buttermilk pop. Ah, my dear Limon Rouge, how is it all +different now!" + +He raised the bottle and drank long from the ragged neck. When he took +it away from his mouth not much more than half remained in the quart +bottle. Blood was dripping upon his beard from a cut on his lip, and +from there to the ground. + +"And you, M'sieu' Bourienne," he cried hoarsely, "do I not remember that +dear M'sieu' Bourienne, when he beg me to leave Pontiac for a little +while that I not give evidence in court against him? Eh bien! you all +walk by me now, as if I was the father of smallpox, and not Luc +Pomfrette--only Luc Pomfrette, who spits at every one of you for a pack +of cowards and hypocrites." + +He thrust the bottle inside his coat, went to the door, flung it open +with a bang, and strode out into the street, muttering as he went. As +the landlord came to close the door Medallion said: + +"The leper has a memory, my friends." Then he also walked out, and went +to his office depressed, for the face of the man haunted him. + +Pomfrette reached his deserted, cheerless house. There was not a stick +of fire-wood in the shed, not a thing to eat or drink in cellar or +cupboard. The door of the shed at the back was open, and the dog-chains +lay covered with frost and half embedded in mud. With a shiver of misery +Pomfrette raised the brandy to his mouth, drank every drop, and threw the +bottle on the floor. Then he went to the front door, opened it, and +stepped outside. His foot slipped, and he tumbled head forward into the +snow. Once or twice he half raised himself, but fell back again, and +presently lay still. The frost caught his ears and iced them; it began +to creep over his cheeks; it made his fingers white, like a leper's. + +He would soon have stiffened for ever had not Parpon the dwarf, passing +along the road, seen the open door and the sprawling body, and come and +drawn Pomfrette inside the house. He rubbed the face and hands and ears +of the unconscious man with snow till the whiteness disappeared, and, +taking off the boots, did the same with the toes; after which he drew the +body to a piece of rag carpet beside the stove, threw some blankets over +it, and, hurrying out, cut up some fence rails, and soon had a fire going +in the stove. + +Then he trotted out of the house and away to the Little Chemist, who came +passively with him. All that day, and for many days, they fought to save +Pomfrette's life. The Cure came also; but Pomfrette was in fever and +delirium. Yet the good M. Fabre's presence, as it ever did, gave an air +of calm and comfort to the place. Parpon's hands alone cared for the +house; he did all that was to be done; no woman had entered the place +since Pomfrette's cousin, old Mme. Burgoyne, left it on the day of his +shame. + +When at last Pomfrette opened his eyes, and saw the Cure standing beside +him, he turned his face to the wall, and to the exhortation addressed to +him he answered nothing. At last the Cure left him, and came no more; +and he bade Parpon do the same as soon as Pomfrette was able to leave his +bed. + +But Parpon did as he willed. He had been in Pontiac only a few days +since the painful business in front of the Louis Quinze. Where he had +been and what doing no one asked, for he was mysterious in his movements, +and always uncommunicative, and people did not care to tempt his +inhospitable tongue. When Pomfrette was so far recovered that he might +be left alone, Parpon said to him one evening: + +"Pomfrette, you must go to Mass next Sunday." + +"I said I wouldn't go till I was carried there, and I mean it--that's +so," was the morose reply. + +"What made you curse like that--so damnable?" asked Parpon furtively. + +"That's my own business. It doesn't matter to anybody but me." + +"And you said the Cure lied--the good M'sieu' Fabre--him like a saint." + +"I said he lied, and I'd say it again, and tell the truth." + +"But if you went to Mass, and took your penance, and--" + +"Yes, I know; they'd forgive me, and I'd get absolution, and they'd all +speak to me again, and it would be, 'Good-day, Luc,' and 'Very good, +Luc,' and 'What a gay heart has Luc, the good fellow!' Ah, I know. They +curse in the heart when the whole world go wrong for them; no one hears. +I curse out loud. I'm not a hypocrite, and no one thinks me fit to live. +Ack, what is the good!" + +Parpon did not respond at once. At last, dropping his chin in his hand +and his elbow on his knee, as he squatted on the table, he said: + +"But if the girl got sorry--" + +For a time there was no sound save the whirring of the fire in the stove +and the hard breathing of the sick man. His eyes were staring hard at +Parpon. At last he said, slowly and fiercely: + +"What do you know?" + +"What others might know if they had eyes and sense; but they haven't. +What would you do if that Junie come back?" + +"I would kill her." His look was murderous. + +"Bah, you would kiss her first, just the same!" + +"What of that? I would kiss her because--because there is no face like +hers in the world; and I'd kill her for her bad heart." + +"What did she do?" Pomfrette's hands clinched. + +"What's in my own noddle, and not for any one else," he answered sulkily. + +"Tiens, tiens, what a close mouth! What did she do? Who knows? What +you think she do, it's this. You think she pretends to love you, and you +leave all your money with her. She is to buy masses for your father's +soul; she is to pay money to the Cure for the good of the Church; she is +to buy a little here, a little there, for the house you and she are going +to live in, the wedding and the dancing over. Very well. Ah, my +Pomfrette, what is the end you think? She run away with Dicey the +Protestant, and take your money with her. Eh, is that so?" + +For answer there came a sob, and then a terrible burst of weeping and +anger and passionate denunciations--against Junie Gauloir, against +Pontiac, against the world. + +Parpon held his peace. + +The days, weeks, and months went by; and the months stretched to three +years. + +In all that time Pomfrette came and went through Pontiac, shunned and +unrepentant. His silent, gloomy endurance was almost an affront to +Pontiac; and if the wiser ones, the Cure, the Avocat, the Little Chemist, +and Medallion, were more sorry than offended, they stood aloof till the +man should in some manner redeem himself, and repent of his horrid +blasphemy. But one person persistently defied Church and people, Cure +and voyageur. Parpon openly and boldly walked with Pomfrette, talked +with him, and occasionally visited his house. + +Luc made hard shifts to live. He grew everything that he ate, vegetables +and grains. Parpon showed him how to make his own flour in primitive +fashion, for no miller in any parish near would sell him flour, and he +had no money to buy it, nor would any one who knew him give him work. +And after his return to Pontiac he never asked for it. His mood was +defiant, morbid, stern. His wood he chopped from the common known as +No-Man's Land. His clothes he made himself out of the skins of deer that +he shot; when his powder and shot gave out, he killed the deer with bow +and arrow. + + + + +III + +The end came at last. Luc was taken ill. For four days, all alone, he +lay burning with fever and inflammation, and when Parpon found him he was +almost dead. Then began a fight for life again, in which Parpon was the +only physician; for Pomfrette would not allow the Little Chemist or a +doctor near him. Parpon at last gave up hope; but one night, when he +came back from the village, he saw, to his joy, old Mme. Degardy ("Crazy +Joan" she was called) sitting by Pomfrette's bedside. He did not disturb +her, for she had no love for him, and he waited till she had gone. When +he came into the room again he found Pomfrette in a sweet sleep, and a +jug of tincture, with a little tin cup, placed by the bed. Time and +again he had sent for Mme. Degardy, but she would not come. She had +answered that the dear Luc could go to the devil for all of her; he'd +find better company down below than in Pontiac. + +But for a whim, perhaps, she had come at last without asking, and as a +consequence Luc returned to the world, a mere bundle of bones. + +It was still while he was only a bundle of bones that one Sunday morning, +Parpon, without a word, lifted him up in his arms and carried him out of +the house. Pomfrette did not speak at first: it seemed scarcely worth +while; he was so weak he did not care. + +"Where are you going?" he said at last, as they came well into the +village. The bell in St. Saviour's had stopped ringing for Mass, and the +streets were almost empty. + +"I'm taking you to Mass," said Parpon, puffing under his load, for +Pomfrette made an ungainly burden. "Hand of a little devil, no!" cried +Pomfrette, startled. "I said I'd never go to Mass again, and I never +will. + +"You said you'd never go to Mass till you were carried; so it's all +right." + +Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held him tight, saying: + +"It's no use; you must come; we've had enough. Besides--" + +"Besides what?" asked Pomfrette faintly. "Never mind," answered Parpon. + +At a word from Parpon the shrivelled old sexton cleared a way through the +aisle, making a stir, through which the silver bell at Pomfrette's knee +tinkled, in answer, as it were, to the tinkling of the acolyte's bell in +the sanctuary. People turned at the sound, women stopped telling their +beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting. A strange feeling passed +through the church, and reached and startled the Cure as he recited the +Mass. He turned round and saw Parpon laying Pomfrette down at the +chancel steps. His voice shook a little as he intoned the ritual, and as +he raised the sacred elements tears rolled down his cheeks. + +From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked +down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her. + +At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. "What is it, +Parpon?" he asked gravely. + +"It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed. + +"He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good +priest. + +"Till he was carried, M'sieu' le Cure--and I've carried him." + +"Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc +Pomfrette?" asked the Cure. + +"I did not know I was coming--no." Pomfrette's brown eyes met the +priest's unflinchingly. + +"You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life." + +"I'd rather have died," answered the sick man simply. + +"Died, and been cast to perdition!" + +"I'm used to that; I've had a bad time here in Pontiac." + +His thin hands moved restlessly. His leg moved, and the little bell +tinkled--the bell that had been like the bell of a leper these years +past. + +"But you live, and you have years yet before you, in the providence of +God. Luc Pomfrette, you blasphemed against your baptism, and horribly +against God himself. Luc"--his voice got softer--"I knew your mother, +and she was almost too weak to hold you when you were baptised, for you +made a great to-do about coming into the world. She had a face like a +saint--so sweet, so patient. You were her only child, and your baptism +was more to her than her marriage even, or any other thing in this world. +The day after your baptism she died. What do you think were her last +words?" + +There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette's face, and his eyes were intense +and burning as they looked up fixedly at the Cure. + +"I can't think any more," answered Pomfrette slowly. "I've no head." + +"What she said is for your heart, not for your head, Luc," rejoined the +Cure gently. "She wandered in her mind, and at the last she raised +herself up in her bed, and lifting her finger like this"--he made the +gesture of benediction--" she said, 'Luc Michele, I baptise you in the +name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.' Then +she whispered softly: 'God bless my dear Luc Michee! Holy Mother pray +for him!' These were her last words, and I took you from her arms. What +have you to say, Luc Michee?" + +The woman in the gallery was weeping silently behind her thick veil, and +her worn hand clutched the desk in front of her convulsively. Presently +she arose and made her way down the stair, almost unnoticed. Two or +three times Luc tried to speak, but could not. "Lift me up," he said +brokenly, at last. + +Parpon and the Little Chemist raised him to his feet, and held him, his +shaking hands resting on their shoulders, his lank body tottering above +and between them. + +Looking at the congregation, he said slowly: "I'll suffer till I die for +cursing my baptism, and God will twist my neck in purgatory for--" + +"Luc," the Cure interrupted, "say that you repent." + +"I'm sorry, and I ask you all to forgive me, and I'll confess to the +Cure, and take my penance, and--" he paused, for breathing hurt him. + +At that moment the woman in black who had been in the gallery came +quickly forward. Parpon saw her, frowned, and waved her back; but she +came on. At the chancel steps she raised her veil, and a murmur of +recognition and wonder ran through the church. Pomfrette's face was +pitiful to see--drawn, staring. + +"Junie!" he said hoarsely. + +Her eyes were red with weeping, her face was very pale. "M'sieu' le +Cure" she said, "you must listen to me"--the Cure's face had become +forbidding--"sinner though I am. You want to be just, don't you? Ah, +listen! I was to be married to Luc Pomfrette, but I did not love him-- +then. He had loved me for years, and his father and my father wished it +--as you know, M'sieu' le Cure. So after a while I said I would; but I +begged him that he wouldn't say anything about it till he come back from +his next journey on the river. I did not love him enough--then. He left +all his money with me: some to pay for Masses for his father's soul, some +to buy things for--for our home; and the rest to keep till he came back." + +"Yes, yes," said Pomfrette, his eyes fixed painfully on her face--"yes, +yes." + +"The day after Luc went away John Dicey the Protestant come to me. +I'd always liked him; he could talk as Luc couldn't, and it sounded nice. +I listened and listened. He knew about Luc and about the money and all. +Then he talked to me. I was all wild in the head, and things went round +and round, and oh, how I hated to marry Luc--then! So after he had +talked a long while I said yes, I would go with him and marry him-- +a Protestant--for I loved him. I don't know why or how." + +Pomfrette trembled so that Parpon and the Little Chemist made him sit +down, and he leaned against their shoulders, while Junie went on: + +"I gave him Luc's money to go and give to Parpon here, for I was too +ashamed to go myself. And I wrote a little note to Luc, and sent it with +the money. I believed in John Dicey, of course. He came back, and said +that he had seen Parpon and had done it all right; then we went away to +Montreal and got married. The very first day at Montreal, I found out +that he had Luc's money. It was awful. I went mad, and he got angry and +left me alone, and didn't come back. A week afterwards he was killed, +and I didn't know it for a long time. But I began to work, for I wanted +to pay back Luc's money. It was very slow, and I worked hard. Will it +never be finished, I say. At last Parpon find me, and I tell him all-- +all except that John Dicey was dead; and I did not know that. I made him +promise to tell nobody; but he knows all about my life since then. Then +I find out one day that John Dicey is dead, and I get from the gover'ment +a hundred dollars of the money he stole. It was found on him when he was +killed. I work for six months longer, and now I come back--with Luc's +money." + +She drew from her pocket a packet of notes, and put it in Luc's hands. +He took it dazedly, then dropped it, and the Little Chemist picked it up; +he had no prescription like that in his pharmacopoeia. + +"That's how I've lived," she said, and she handed a letter to the Cure. + +It was from a priest in Montreal, setting forth the history of her career +in that city, her repentance for her elopement and the sin of marrying a +Protestant, and her good life. She had wished to do her penance in +Pontiac, and it remained to M'sieu' le Cure; to set it. + +The Cure's face relaxed, and a rare gentleness came into it. + +He read the letter aloud. Luc once more struggled to his feet, eagerly +listening. + +"You did not love Luc?" the Cure asked Junie, meaningly. + +"I did not love Luc--then," she answered, a flush going over her face. + +"You loved Junie?" the Cure said to Pomfrette. "I could have killed +her, but I've always loved her," answered Luc. Then he raised his voice +excitedly: "I love her, love her, love her--but what's the good! She'd +never 've been happy with me. Look what my love drove her to! What's +the good, at all!" + +"She said she did not love you then, Luc Michee," said Parpon, +interrupting. "Luc Michee, you're a fool as well as a sinner. +Speak up, Junie." + +"I used to tell him that I didn't love him; I only liked him. I was +honest. Well, I am honest still. I love him now." + +A sound of joy broke from Luc's lips, and he stretched out his arms to +her, but the Cure; stopped that. "Not here," he said. "Your sins must +first be considered. For penance--" He paused, looking at the two sad +yet happy beings before him. The deep knowledge of life that was in him +impelled him to continue gently: + +"For penance you shall bear the remembrance of each other's sins. And +now to God the Father--" He turned towards the altar, and raised his +hands in the ascription. + +As he knelt to pray before he entered the pulpit, he heard the tinkling +of the little bell of honour at the knee of Luc, as Junie and Parpon +helped him from the church. + + + + +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS + +Rachette told the story to Medallion and the Little Chemist's wife on +Sunday after Mass, and because he was vain of his English he forsook his +own tongue and paid tribute to the Anglo-Saxon. + +"Ah, she was so purty, that Norinne, when she drive through the parishes +all twelve days, after the wedding, a dance every night, and her eyes and +cheeks on fire all the time. And Bargon, bagosh! that Bargon, he have a +pair of shoulders like a wall, and five hunder' dollars and a horse and +wagon. Bagosh, I say that time: 'Bargon he have put a belt round the +world and buckle it tight to him--all right, ver' good.' I say to him: +'Bargon, what you do when you get ver' rich out on the Souris River in +the prairie west?' He laugh and throw up his hands, for he have not many +words any kind. And the dam little dwarf Parpon, he say: 'He will have +flowers on the table and ice on the butter, and a wheel in his head.' + +"And Bargon laugh and say: 'I will have plenty for my friends to eat and +drink and a ver' fine time.' "'Good,' we all say-'Bagosh!' So they make +the trip through twelve parish, and the fiddles go all the time, and I am +what you say 'best man' with Bargon. I go all the time, and Lucette +Dargois, she go with me and her brother--holy, what an eye had she in her +head, that Lucette! As we go we sing a song all right, and there is no +one sing so better as Norinne: + + "'C'est la belle Francoise, + Allons gai! + C'est la belle Francoise, + Qui veut se marier, + Ma luron lurette! + Qui veut se marier, + Ma luron lure!' + +"Ver' good, bagosh! Norinne and Bargon they go out to the Souris, and +Bargon have a hunder' acre, and he put up a house and a shed not ver' +big, and he carry his head high and his shoulders like a wall; yes, yes. +First year it is pretty good time, and Norinne's cheeks--ah, like an +apple they. Bimeby a baby laugh up at Bargon from Norinne's lap. I am +on the Souris at a saw-mill then, and on Sunday sometime I go up to see +Bargon and Norinne. I t'ink that baby is so dam funny; I laugh and pinch +his nose. His name is Marie, and I say I marry him pretty quick some +day. We have plenty hot cake, and beans and pork, and a little how-you- +are from a jar behin' the door. + +"Next year it is not so good. There is a bad crop and hard time, and +Bargon he owe two hunder' dollar, and he pay int'rest. Norinne, she do +all the work, and that little Marie, there is dam funny in him, and +Norinne, she keep go, go, all the time, early and late, and she get ver' +thin and quiet. So I go up from the mill more times, and I bring fol- +lols for that Marie, for you know I said I go to marry him some day. And +when I see how Bargon shoulders stoop and his eye get dull, and there is +nothing in the jar behin' the door, I fetch a horn with me, and my +fiddle, and, bagosh! there is happy sit-you-down. I make Bargon sing +'La Belle Francoise,' and then just before I go I make them laugh, for I +stand by the cradle and I sing to that Marie: + + "'Adieu, belle Frangoise; + Allons gai! + Adieu, belle Francoise! + Moi, je to marierai, + Ma luron lurette! Moi, + je to marierai, + Ma luron lure!' + +"So; and another year it go along, and Bargon he know that if there come +bad crop it is good-bye-my lover with himselves. He owe two hunder' and +fifty dollar. It is the spring at Easter, and I go up to him and +Norinne, for there is no Mass, and Pontiac is too far away off. We stan' +at the door and look out, and all the prairie is green, and the sun stan' +up high like a light on a pole, and the birds fly by ver' busy looking +for the summer and the prairie-flower. + +"'Bargon,' I say--and I give him a horn of old rye--'here's to le bon +Dieu!' + +"'Le bon Dieu, and a good harvest!' he say. + +"I hear some one give a long breath behin', and I look round; but, no, it +is Norinne with a smile--for she never grumble--bagosh! What purty eyes +she have in her head! She have that Marie in her arms, and I say to +Bargon it is like the Madonne in the Notre Dame at Montreal. He nod his +head. 'C'est le bon Dieu--it is the good God,' he say. + +"Before I go I take a piece of palm--it come from the Notre Dame; it is +all bless by the Pope--and I nail it to the door of the house. 'For +luck,' I say. Then I laugh, and I speak out to the prairie: 'Come along, +good summer; come along, good crop; come two hunder' and fifty dollars +for Gal Bargon.' Ver' quiet I give Norinne twenty dollar, but she will +not take him. 'For Marie,' then I say: 'I go to marry him, bimeby.' +But she say: 'Keep it and give it to Marie yourself some day.' + +"She smile at me, then she have a little tear in her eye, and she nod +to where Bargon stare' houtside, and she say: 'If this summer go wrong, +it will kill him. He work and work and fret and worry for me and Marie, +and sometimes he just sit and look at me and say not a word.' + +"I say to her that there will be good crop, and next year we will be +ver' happy. So, the time go on, and I send up a leetla snack of pork +and molass' and tabac, and sugar and tea, and I get a letter from Bargon +bimeby, and he say that heverything go right, he t'ink, this summer. He +say I must come up. It is not dam easy to go in the summer, when the +mill run night and day; but I say I will go. + +"When I get up to Bargon's I laugh, for all the hunder' acre is ver' +fine, and Bargon stan' hin the door, and stretch out his hand, and say: +'Rachette, there is six hunder' dollar for me.' I nod my head, and fetch +out a horn, and he have one, his eyes all bright like a lime-kiln. He is +thin and square, and his beard grow ver' thick and rough and long, and +his hands are like planks. Norinne, she is ver' happy, too, and Marie +bite on my finger, and I give him sugar-stick to suck. + +"Bimeby Norinne say to me, ver' soft: 'If a hailstorm or a hot wind come, +that is the end of it all, and of my poor Gal.' + +"What I do? I laugh and ketch Marie under the arms, and I sit down, and I +put him on my foot, and I sing that dam funny English song--'Here We Go +to Banbury Cross.' An' I say: 'It will be all as happy as Marie pretty +quick. Bargon he will have six hunder' dollar, and you a new dress and a +hired girl to help you.' + +"But all the time that day I think about a hail-storm or a hot wind +whenever I look out on that hunder' acre farm. It is so beautiful, as +you can guess--the wheat, the barley, the corn, the potatoes, the turnip, +all green like sea-water, and pigeons and wild ducks flying up and down, +and the horse and the ox standing in a field ver' comfer'ble. + +"We have good time that day, and go to bed all happy that night. I get +up at five o'clock, an' I go hout. Bargon stan' there looking hout on +his field with the horse-bridle in his hand. 'The air not feel right,' +he say to me. I t'ink the same, but I say to him: 'Your head not feel +right--him too sof'.' He shake his head and go down to the field for his +horse and ox, and hitch them up together, and go to work making a road. + +"It is about ten o'clock when the dam thing come. Piff! go a hot splash +of air in my face, and then I know that it is all up with Gal Bargon. +A month after it is no matter, for the grain is ripe then, but now, when +it is green, it is sure death to it all. I turn sick in my stomich, and +I turn round and see Norinne stan' hin the door, all white, and she make +her hand go as that, like she push back that hot wind. + +"'Where is Gal?' she say. 'I must go to him.' 'No,' I say, 'I will +fetch him. You stay with Marie.' Then I go ver' quick for Gal, and I +find him, his hands all shut like that! and he shake them at the sky, and +he say not a word, but his face, it go wild, and his eyes spin round in +his head. I put my hand on his arm and say: 'Come home, Gal. Come home, +and speak kind to Norinne and Marie.' + +"I can see that hot wind lean down and twist the grain about--a dam devil +thing from the Arzone desert down South. I take Gal back home, and we +sit there all day, and all the nex' day, and a leetla more, and when we +have look enough, there is no grain on that hunder' acre farm--only a +dry-up prairie, all grey and limp. My skin is bake and rough, but when +I look at Gal Bargon I know that his heart is dry like a bone, and, as +Parpon say that back time, he have a wheel in his head. Norinne she is +quiet, and she sit with her hand on his shoulder, and give him Marie to +hold. + +"But it is no good; it is all over. So I say: 'Let us go back to +Pontiac. What is the good for to be rich? Let us be poor and happy once +more.' + +"And Norinne she look glad, and get up and say: 'Yes, let us go back.' +But all at once she sit down with Marie in her arms, and cry--bagosh, I +never see a woman cry like that! + +"So we start back for Pontiac with the horse and the ox and some pork and +bread and molass'. But Gal Bargon never hold up his head, but go silent, +silent, and he not sleep at night. One night he walk away on the +prairie, and when he come back he have a great pain. So he lie down, and +we sit by him, an' he die. But once he whisper to me, and Norinne not +hear: 'You say you will marry him, Rachette?' and I say, 'I will.' + +"'C'est le bon Dieu!' he say at the last, but he say it with a little +laugh. I think he have a wheel in his head. But bimeby, yiste'day, +Norinne and Marie and I come to Pontiac." + +The Little Chemist's wife dried her eyes, and Medallion said in French: +"Poor Norinne! Poor Norinne! And so, Rachette, you are going to marry +Marie, by-and-bye?" There was a quizzical look in Medallion's eyes. + +Rachette threw up his chin a little. "I'm going to marry Norinne on New +Year's Day," he said. "Bagosh, poor Norinne!" said Medallion, in a +queer sort of tone. "It is the way of the world," he added. "I'll wait +for Marie myself." + +It looks as if he meant to, for she has no better friend. He talks to +her much of Gal Bargon; of which her mother is glad. + + + + + + +A WORKER IN STONE + +At the beginning he was only a tombstone-cutter. His name was Francois +Lagarre. He was but twenty years old when he stepped into the shop where +the old tombstone-cutter had worked for forty years. Picking up the +hammer and chisel which the old man had dropped when he fell dead at the +end of a long hot day's labour, he finished the half-carved tombstone, +and gave the price of it to the widow. Then, going to the Seigneur and +Cure, he asked them to buy the shop and tools for him, and let him pay +rent until he could take the place off their hands. + +They did as he asked, and in two years he had bought and paid for the +place, and had a few dollars to the good. During one of the two years +a small-pox epidemic passed over Pontiac, and he was busy night and day. +It was during this time that some good Catholics came to him with an +heretical Protestant suggestion to carve a couplet or verse of poetry on +the tombstones they ordered. They themselves, in most cases, knew none, +and they asked Francois to supply them--as though he kept them in stock +like marble and sand-paper. He had no collection of suitable epitaphs, +and, besides, he did not know whether it was right to use them. Like all +his race in New France he was jealous of any inroads of Protestantism, +or what the Little Chemist called "Englishness." The good M. Fabre, +the Cure, saw no harm in it, but said he could not speak for any one's +grief. What the bereaved folk felt they themselves must put in words +upon the stone. But still Francois might bring all the epitaphs to him +before they were carved, and he would approve or disapprove, correct or +reject, as the case might be. + +At first he rejected many, for they were mostly conventional couplets, +taken unknowingly from Protestant sources by mourning Catholics. But +presently all that was changed, and the Cure one day had laid before him +three epitaphs, each of which left his hand unrevised and untouched; and +when he passed them back to Francois his eyes were moist, for he was a +man truly after God's own heart, and full of humanity. + +"Will you read them to me, Francois?" he said, as the worker in stone +was about to put the paper back in his pocket. "Give the names of the +dead at the same time." + +So Francois read: + +"Gustave Narrois, aged seventy-two years-" + +"Yes, yes," interrupted the Cure, "the unhappy yet happy Gustave, hung by +the English, and cut down just in time to save him--an innocent man. For +thirty years my sexton. God rest his soul! Well now, the epitaph." + +Francois read it: + + "Poor as a sparrow was I, + Yet I was saved like a king; + I heard the death-bells ring, + Yet I saw a light in the sky: + And now to my Father I wing." + +The Cure nodded his head. "Go on; the next," he said. + +"Annette John, aged twenty years--" + +"So. The daughter of Chief John. When Queen Anne of England was on the +throne she sent Chief John's grandfather a gold cup and a hundred pounds. +The girl loved, but would not marry, that she might keep Chief John from +drinking. A saint, Francois! What have they said of her?" + +Francois smoothed out the paper and read: + + "A little while I saw the world go by + A little doorway that I called my own, + A loaf, a cup of water, and a bed had I, + A shrine of Jesus, where I knelt alone: + And now alone I bid the world good-bye." + +The Cure turned his head away. "Go on," he said sadly. "Chief John has +lost his right hand. Go on." + +"Henri Rouget" + +"Aged thirty years," again interrupted the Cure. "Henri Rouget, idiot; +as young as the morning. For man grows old only by what he suffers, and +what he forgives, and what he sins. What have you to say for Henri +Rouget, my Francois?" + +And Francois read: + + "I was a fool; nothing had I to know + Of men, and naught to men had I to give. + God gave me nothing; now to God I go, + Now ask for pain, for bread, + Life for my brain: dead, + By God's love I shall then begin to live." + +The priest rose to his feet and put a hand on the young man's shoulder. + +"Do you know, Francois," he said, half sadly, "do you know, you have the +true thing in you. Come often to me, my son, and bring all these things +--all you write." + +While the Cure troubled himself about his future, Francois began to work +upon a monument for the grave of a dozen soldiers of Pontiac who were +killed in the War of the Patriots. They had died for a mistaken cause, +and had been buried on the field of battle. Long ago something would +have been done to commemorate them but that three of them were +Protestants, and difficulties had been raised by the bigoted. But +Francois thought only of the young men in their common grave at St. +Eustache. He remembered when they went away one bright morning, full of +the joy of an erring patriotism, of the ardour of a weak but fascinating +cause: race against race, the conquered against the conquerors, the +usurped against the usurpers. + +In the space before the parish church it stands--a broken shaft, with an +unwound wreath straying down its sides; a monument of fine proportions, +a white figure of beaten valour and erring ardour of youth and beautiful +bad ambition. One Saturday night it was not there, and when next morning +the people came to Mass it was there. All night had Francois and his men +worked, and the first rays of the morning sun fell on the tall shivered +shaft set firmly in its place. Francois was a happy man. All else that +he had done had been wholly after a crude, staring convention, after rule +and measure--an artisan's, a tombstone-cutter's labour. This was the +work of a man with the heart and mind of an artist. When the people came +to Mass they gazed and gazed, and now and then the weeping of a woman was +heard, for among them were those whose sons and brothers were made +memorable by this stone. + +That day at the close of his sermon the Cure spoke of it, and said at the +last: "That white shaft, dear brethren, is for us a sign of remembrance +and a warning to our souls. In the name of race and for their love they +sinned. But yet they sinned; and this monument, the gift and work of one +young like them, ardent and desiring like them, is for ever in our eyes +the crucifixion of our wrong ambitions and our selfish aims. + +"Nay, let us be wise and let us be good. They who rule us speak with +foreign tongue, but their hearts desire our peace and a mutual regard. +Pray that this be. And pray for the young and the daring and the +foolish. And pray also that he who has given us here a good gift may +find his thanks in our better-ordered lives, and that he may consecrate +his parts and talents to the redeeming actions of this world." + +And so began the awakening of Francois Lagarre; and so began his ambition +and his peril. + +For, as he passed from the church, the Seigneur touched him on the +shoulder and introduced him to his English grandniece, come on a visit +for the summer, the daughter of a London baronet. She had but just +arrived, and she was feeling that first homesickness which succeeds +transplanting. The face of the young worker in stone interested her; the +idea of it all was romantic; the possibilities of the young man's life +opened out before her. Why should not she give him his real start, win +his gratitude, help him to his fame, and then, when it was won, be +pointed out as a discoverer and a patron? + +All these things flashed through her mind as they were introduced. The +young man did not read the look in her eyes, but there was one other +person in the crowd about the church steps who did read it, whose heart +beat furiously, whose foot tapped the ground angrily--a black-haired, +brown-eyed farmer's daughter, who instantly hated the yellow hair and +rosy and golden face of the blue-eyed London lady; who could, that +instant, have torn the silk gown from her graceful figure. + +She was not disturbed without reason. And for the moment, even when she +heard impertinent and incredulous fellows pooh-poohing the monument, and +sharpening their rather dull wits upon its corners, she did not open her +lips, when otherwise she would have spoken her mind with a vengeance; for +Jeanne Marchand had a reputation for spirit and temper, and she spared no +one when her blood was up. She had a touch of the vixen--an impetuous, +loving, forceful mademoiselle, in marked contrast to the rather ascetic +Francois, whose ways were more refined than his origin might seem to +warrant. + +"Sapre!" said Duclosse the mealman of the monument; "it's like a timber +of cheese stuck up. What's that to make a fuss about?" + +"Fig of Eden," muttered Jules Marmotte, with one eye on Jeanne, "any fool +could saw a better-looking thing out of ice!" + +"Fish," said fat Caroche the butcher, "that Francois has a rattle in his +capote. He'd spend his time better chipping bones on my meat-block." + +But Jeanne could not bear this--the greasy whopping butcher-man! + +"What, what, the messy stupid Caroche, who can't write his name," she +said in a fury; "the sausage-potted Caroche, who doesn't remember that +Francois Lagarre made his brother's tombstone, and charged him nothing +for the verses he wrote for it, nor for the Agnus Dei he carved on it! +No, Caroche does not remember his brother Ba'tiste the fighter, as brave +as Caroche is a coward! He doesn't remember the verse on Ba'tiste's +tombstone, does he?" + +Francois heard this speech, and his eyes lighted tenderly as he looked at +Jeanne: he loved this fury of defence and championship. Some one in the +crowd turned to him and asked him to say the verses. At first he would +not; but when Caroche said that it was only his fun, that he meant +nothing against Francois, the young man recited the words slowly--an +epitaph on one who was little better than a prize-fighter, a splendid +bully. + +Leaning a hand against the white shaft of the Patriot's Memory, he said: + + "Blows I have struck, and blows a-many taken, + Wrestling I've fallen, and I've rose up again; + Mostly I've stood-- + I've had good bone and blood; + Others went down, though fighting might and main. + Now death steps in-- + Death the price of sin. + The fall it will be his; and though I strive and strain, + One blow will close my eyes, and I shall never waken." + +"Good enough for Ba'tiste," said Duclosse the mealman. + +The wave of feeling was now altogether with Francois, and presently he +walked away with Jeanne Marchand and her mother, and the crowd dispersed. +Jeanne was very happy for a few hours, but in the evening she was +unhappy, for she saw Francois going towards the house of the Seigneur; +and during many weeks she was still more unhappy, for every three or four +days she saw the same thing. + +Meanwhile Francois worked as he had never before worked in his life. +Night and day he was shut in his shop, and for two months he came with +no epitaphs for the Cure, and no new tombstones were set up in the +graveyard. The influence of the lady at the Seigneury was upon him, and +he himself believed it was for his salvation. She had told him of great +pieces of sculpture she had seen, had sent and got from Quebec City, +where he had never been, pictures of some of the world's masterpieces in +sculpture, and he had lost himself in the study of them and in the depths +of the girl's eyes. She meant no harm; the man interested her beyond +what was reasonable in one of his station in life. That was all, and all +there ever was. + +Presently people began to gossip, and a story crept round that, in a new +shed which he had built behind his shop, Francois was chiselling out of +stone the nude figure of a woman. There were one or two who professed +they had seen it. The wildest gossip said that the figure was that of +the young lady at the Seigneury. Francois saw no more of Jeanne +Marchand; he thought of her sometimes, but that was all. A fever of work +was on him. Twice she came to the shed where he laboured, and knocked at +the door. The first time, he asked who was there. When she told him he +opened the door just a little way, smiled at her, caught her hand and +pressed it, and, when she would have entered, said: "No, no, another day, +Jeanne," and shut the door in her face. + +She almost hated him because he had looked so happy. Still another day +she came knocking. She called to him, and this time he opened the door +and admitted her. That very hour she had heard again the story of the +nude stone woman in the shed, and her heart was full of jealousy, fury, +and suspicion. He was very quiet, he seemed tired. She did not notice +that. Her heart had throbbed wildly as she stepped inside the shed. +She looked round, all delirious eagerness for the nude figure. + +There it was, covered up with a great canvas! Yes, there were the +outlines of the figure. How shapely it seemed, even inside the canvas! + +She stepped forward without a word, and snatched at the covering. He +swiftly interposed and stopped her hand. + +"I will see it," she said. + +"Not to-day," he answered. + +"I tell you I will." She wrenched her hand free and caught at the +canvas. A naked foot and ankle showed. He pinioned her wrists with one +hand and drew her towards the door, determination and anger in his face. + +"You beast, you liar!" she said. + +"You beast! beast! beast!" + +Then, with a burst of angry laughter, she opened the door herself. "You +ain't fit to know," she said; "they told the truth about you. Now you +can take the canvas off her. Good-bye!" With that she was gone. The +following day was Sunday. Francois did not attend Mass, and such strange +scandalous reports had reached the Cure that he was both disturbed and +indignant. That afternoon, after vespers (which Francois did not +attend), the Cure made his way to the sculptor's workshop, followed +by a number of parishioners. + +The crowd increased, and when the Cure knocked at the door it seemed as +if half the village was there. The chief witness against Francois had +been Jeanne Marchand. That very afternoon she had told the Cure, with +indignation and bitterness, that there was no doubt about it; all that +had been said was true. + +Francois, with wonder and some confusion, admitted the Cure. When M. +Fabre demanded that he be taken to the new workshop, Francois led the +way. The crowd pushed after, and presently the place was full. A +hundred eyes were fastened upon the canvas-covered statue, which had been +the means of the young man's undoing. + +Terrible things had been said--terrible things of Francois, and of the +girl at the Seigneury. They knew the girl for a Protestant and an +Englishwoman, and that in itself was a sort of sin. And now every ear +was alert to hear what the Cure should say, what denunciation should come +from his lips when the covering was removed. For that it should be +removed was the determination of every man present. Virtue was at its +supreme height in Pontiac that day. Lajeunesse the blacksmith, Muroc the +charcoal-man, and twenty others were as intent upon preserving a high +standard of morality, by force of arms, as if another Tarquin were +harbouring shame and crime in this cedar shed. + +The whole thing came home to Francois with a choking, smothering force. +Art, now in its very birth in his heart and life, was to be garroted. He +had been unconscious of all the wicked things said about him: now he knew +all! + +"Remove the canvas from the figure," said the Cure sternly. Stubbornness +and resentment filled Francois's breast. He did not stir. + +"Do you oppose the command of the Church?" said the Cure, still more +severely. "Remove the canvas." + +"It is my work--my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my hands," +said Francois doggedly. + +The Cure turned to Lajeunesse and made a motion towards the statue. +Lajeunesse, with a burning righteous joy, snatched off the canvas. +There was one instant of confusion in the faces of all-of absolute +silence. + +Then the crowd gasped. The Cure's hat came off, and every other hat +followed. The Cure made the sign of the cross upon his breast and +forehead, and every other man, woman, and child present did the same. +Then all knelt, save Francois and the Cure himself. + +What they saw was a statue of Christ, a beautiful benign figure; +barefooted, with a girdle about his waist: the very truth and semblance +of a man. The type was strong and yet delicate; vigorous and yet +refined; crude and yet noble; a leader of men--the God-man, not the +man-God. + +After a moment's silence the Cure spoke. "Francois, my son," said he, +"we have erred. 'All we like sheep have gone astray; we have followed +each after his own way, but God hath laid on Him'--he looked towards the +statue--'the iniquity of us all.'" + +Francois stood still a moment gazing at the Cure, doggedly, bitterly; +then he turned and looked scornfully at the crowd, now risen to their +feet again. Among them was a girl crying as if her heart would break. +It was Jeanne Marchand. He regarded her coldly. + +"You were so ready to suspect," he said. + +Then he turned once more to the Cure. "I meant it as my gift to the +Church, monsieur le Cure--to Pontiac, where I was born again. I waked +up here to what I might do in sculpture, and you--you all were so ready +to suspect! Take it, it is my last gift." + +He went to the statue, touched the hands of it lovingly, and stooped and +kissed the feet. Then, without more words, he turned and left the shed +and the house. + +Pouring out into the street the people watched him cross the bridge that +led into another parish--and into another world: for from that hour +Francois Lagarre was never seen in Pontiac. + +The statue that he made stands upon a little hill above the valley where +the beaters of flax come in the autumn, through which the woodsmen pass +in winter and in spring. But Francois Lagarre, under another name, works +in another land. + +While the Cure lived he heard of him and of his fame now and then, and to +the day of his death he always prayed for him. He was wont to say to the +little Avocat whenever Francois's name was mentioned: + +"The spirit of a man will support him, but a wounded spirit who can +bear?" + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +But a wounded spirit who can bear +Man grows old only by what he suffers, and what he forgives +You--you all were so ready to suspect + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANE HAD NO TURNING, PARKER, V2 *** + +********** This file should be named 6238.txt or 6238.zip ********** + +This eBook was produced by David Widger + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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