The novitiate of Jean Baptiste was at an end; and now he was about to renounce all that he had held dear in his past life; and to take the final vows of the wilderness. It was as though the spirit of some remote ancestor had taken possession of him, body and soul, and was leading him back and down to the primitive savagery out of which the race, by long effort and much pain, had gradually ascended. He was a willing captive, feeling neither surprise nor regret; and it was with a sigh of relief that he cast the burden of civilisation away; and laid him down to sleep upon his bed of fragrant balsam; to dream of the green trees, clear streams, placid lakes and purple hills of that pleasant summer land.
But in his dreams the former self of Jean Baptiste awoke, and came unto his own. He had wandered far; and was almost lost in the wilderness; but suddenly he found himself walking along the familiar valley road, passing the old landmarks, and approaching the old home. The night was dark; but the house was lighted; and as he entered by the open door, he saw a company of neighbours and friends sitting in a circle around the spacious kitchen; the men smoking, and the women knitting, as they often used to do in the good old days. But now there was no telling of stories; and neither song nor jest nor laughter; but a subdued and orderly conversation, like a memorial service in honour of one who was dead. No one looked up as Jean entered, walked across the room and took the vacant chair; and there he sat as a ghost, seeing and hearing everything, but himself an unseen and unbidden guest.
His mother rose to pass the spruce-beer and cakes; and when she came to Jean's place she paused and smiled as though she saw him sitting there and smiling in return.
"Oh!" she said, "I think that Jean is not very far away. We shall see him soon, I am sure."
"Let us hope so," said Father Paradis, gently, "but I fear that he will never return. He is a disappointed man. He has missed his vocation, he who might have become a bishop, an archbishop, a cardinal, even, in the course of time. What a pity!"
"Yes," said Michel Gamache, "to miss the path like that, he who might have been a great man in the parish, a seigneur, a member of Parliament--anything. And now he is a failure, a coureur des bois, like me."
"And all for the sake of a girl!" broke in Blanchette. "As though there were only one girl in the parish, in the Province. What folly! No woman is worth it. He is a fool, that Jean Baptiste."
"He is more than that!" cried Pamphile, who sat by the fire, pale and haggard, his head bound up in a shawl. "He is a coward, that little priest. A coward, I say; and he fears the law. The law, yes, and this little whip across the face. Sacré! If he returns he shall suffer. I say it; I, his ancient enemy."
"And I," said Bonhomme Laroche, shaking his fist, "I wish to see him too, that proprietor, debtor, thief. He will not pay me? Well, I have the mortgage. See! There it is, Madame, the mother of a thief. My mortgage! My property! My farm!"
"No, you old miser!" shouted Brother Nicholas. "You shall have your money, but no farm of ours. Do not cry, my mother. Do not think of the old miser, nor of Jean, the deserter. He was to have stayed at home; he, the youngest; but now I have returned. Fear nothing. I am with you, I, Nicholas."
"Yes," said Bonhomme Gagnon, rising in his place. "Yes, Madame Giroux, we will assume the responsibility--I, Telesphore Gagnon; you, Nicholas; you other children; you neighbours; everybody. As to Jean Baptiste, forget him, the good-for-nothing. He was too proud, he, and the good God could not endure it. It is the good God who has driven him away, and he is lost, lost."
At this Madame Giroux began to weep, while Father Paradis tried to comfort her, and Brother Nicholas was sending all the people home; when suddenly at the open door appeared a sturdy figure in a brown fishing suit, with a pannier on his back and a lance-wood rod in his hand. It was Monsieur Trudel, the City Man.
"What is this?" he exclaimed. "Is it a funeral, a wake, or what, in the name of God? My brave Jean, where is he? Dead? Gone away? A fugitive, he? Deserter, you say? Failure? Good-for-nothing? Thief? Murderer? Ha! Ha! It is to laugh! Reassure yourself, Madame. It is not in Jean Baptiste to be like that, he who conquered me, the champion of the Province. He will return, most certainly, and soon. Mon Dieu! He is here now. There, do you not see him? There, in the chair! Jean, my brave one! Arise! Show yourself!"
During all that time Jean had sat there speechless, immovable; but now, with a mighty effort, he rose in his place; stretched out his arms and cried, in a strong and joyous voice: "Monsieur, my friends, my mother, I am here!"
Jean advanced with outstretched hands toward his friends; but they shrunk back, pale and terrified, into the dark corners of the room and out of the door; until there was only one left, a slight figure in a brown fishing suit, with pannier, and rod, reddish-golden hair, violet-blue eyes, and a radiant smile.
"Monsieur Trudel," he began, "you have changed much since, since---- Mon Dieu! Gabrielle! It is you, you! Come to me, dear."
But the vision melted away, and Jean awoke to find himself standing alone on the cabin floor in the glimmering dawn of a new day.
"Mon Dieu!" he said to himself. "Was it a dream? I can see them still, when I close my eyes--and hear them, too. They think of me, talk of me, those good friends, whom I had forgotten--almost. They are disappointed in me, it would seem, and with reason. But they had expected too much--more than I could do. What? More than I could do? Oh, Jean Baptiste, it was not that you could not, but that you would not! What is that one cannot do? 'Good-for-nothing? Too proud? The good God does not like it?' How does Bonhomme Gagnon know that? I should like to show him, the old rascal, that the good God will aid me to resume my former work. By Heaven, I will resume!
"I am a dreamer, it would seem. Yes. A coward? No! Afraid of the law? I had not thought of it. The law? Why then? For the killing of Pamphile. But I did it in self-defence. Tom and Paddy will witness. Will they? Dieu! Possibly not. And what then? A trial, a judge, a jury, and I, the accused at the bar. It might be well to remain here, or to go to the Indians of Mistassini or Hudson's Bay. Then I should be a coureur des bois indeed; an exile, fugitive, outlaw. What then could I say to the abuse of Bonhomme Gagnon, Monsieur Laroche, and the rest? Coward--thief--deserter--good-for-nothing--fool--all that and more! Yes, I should deserve it all.
"'And all for the sake of a girl?' Blanchette, that was unjust. It was a combination of circumstances, an accumulation of misfortunes, that drove me away--for a time. O, Blanchette! I have many good excuses, as you must know; yet I will excuse myself no more, for I think I hear you say: 'Qui s'excuse s'accuse!'
"But Gabrielle was there, and oh, what a lovely smile! To see her again I would return, in spite of everything. But where was the garb of the Ursulines--the black robe, the hood, the veil, the rosary, the cross, the pale face of the novice, the nun that is to be? There was none of that. No, it was only the City Man after all. Gabrielle was not there, for she was not thinking of me, but of Jesus and Mary and the glories of Heaven. But if she gave a thought to me, and a single call, I would enter the convent and take her away--from the altar, even--and who should hinder me? An adventure that, worthy of a knight of the olden time. Yes, worthy of those times, perhaps; but for a penniless habitant, a trapper, a discredited fugitive, not quite so suitable. To steal a novice from the convent, an heiress--a noble deed, surely. Ah, Gabrielle, why so much haste? Why bury the heart before the love is dead? A little more time, a year, two years at most--that is all I ask. Could you not grant me this, Gabrielle?"
As Jean thought of the situation from every point of view, the difficulty and perplexity of it seemed to increase, and no way of escape appeared. He walked up and down the narrow cabin like a wild beast in a cage, raging and wondering at his fate, wildly longing to break away and be free. At last, unable to disentangle the coil, he threw it from him, flung open the door, and went out into the open air.
It was like going into another world. The clouds of yesterday, the gloom of night, the ghostly dawn, all had passed away; and the summer morning, fresh and lovely, opened like a flower. It was good to breathe the pure, fragrant air; to see the earth, the grass and the trees in all their brightest colours, washed by the rain; to hear the sweet voices of the forest; and to feel, in every nerve and muscle, the strength and courage of returning day. In the lake Jean took his morning plunge, and a long swim far out in the deep water; and when, an hour later, he returned to the cabin, refreshed in body and soul, with a keen appetite and a joyous heart, he was ready to face the world, to receive its hardest buffets, and to deliver his most telling blows in return. The soldier was himself again; his furlough was over; and he was going back to the front.
Jean was now ready to do battle with the enemy, for he was at peace with himself. The long struggle within him was at an end; for his nobler self had obtained the victory, and taken complete control. The strange, weird voices that had well-nigh led him astray for ever were heard no more. The voice of fear, too, was stilled; for he was so completely possessed with the thought of his work and the joy of devotion to his cherished ideal, that there was neither fear nor doubt in his soul; but strong courage and sublime faith that the work of his hands would be established, and that the day of small things would have a great and satisfying fruition.
Jean's attitude toward the world was changed. No longer did he despise the opinions of the neighbours, but found himself wondering what they would think and say when they saw him take up his former work. His mother, the curé, his friend Michel, and a few others would be glad; and he was glad to think that he could please them in any way. His enemies would be disconcerted; and he took a malicious pleasure in thinking of their confusion, and in guessing what their next move would be. As for the rest, they might find fault for a time, but sooner or later the benefits of his work would appear; all the good people of the parish would approve; and his reputation would spread far and wide--to Beauport, Quebec and the greater world beyond. A good name--that was something worth while; a prize to be won, a possession to be kept, an heirloom to be handed down to future generations. But if not, if in the end he should fail, he would still have the satisfaction of attempting a noble task; a few friends would understand, and the good God would know that he had done his best.
And Gabrielle? Jean could no longer think of her as a novice of the Ursulines preparing to take the veil, to renounce all human love and devote her young life to prayer and penance within convent walls. On the contrary, she now resumed her former place in his scheme of life; the golden-haired châtelaine of his Castle in Spain; for whose love he would fight unto the death; at whose feet he would lay all the trophies of war; and from whom he would ask, in the hour of victory, his greatest earthly reward--herself.
As Jean was preparing to depart, putting away the canoe, setting the cabin in order, taking a last look at the lake, he was sorry to leave the beautiful place; but his heart was full of an abiding joy; for he was thinking all the time of Gabrielle; and when at last he turned his back upon his hermitage, and set himself to climb the southern hill, his joyous voice woke again the echoes of the forest, as he sang the brave song of a crusader who prayed for victory and love:
"Partant pour la Syrie, Le jeune et beau Dunois, Alla prier Marie De benir ses exploits. 'Donne, reine immortelle,' Lui dit-il en partant, 'Que j'aime la plus belle, Et sois le plus vaillant.'"