Jean Baptiste A Story of French Canada

JEAN BAPTISTE

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Title: Jean Baptiste

A Story of French Canada

Author: J. E. Le Rossignol

Release Date: July 22, 2013 [EBook #43280]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

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Produced by Al Haines.

ALL DAY THE RIVALS FISHED UP THE STREAM

JEAN BAPTISTE

A STORY OF FRENCH CANADA

BY

J. E. LE ROSSIGNOL

Author of Little Stories of Quebec

LONDON & TORONTO

J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.

MCMXV

To

MY MOTHER

LA RIVE NATALE

O patrie! ô rive natale.

Pleine d'harmonieuses voix!

Chants étranges que la rafale

Nous apporte du fond des bois!

O souvenirs de la jeunesse,

Frais comme un rayon du printemps!

O fleuve, témoin de l'ivresse

De nos jeunes coeurs de vingt ans!

O vieilles forêts ondoyantes,

Teinte du sang de nos aïeux!

O lacs! ô plaines odorantes

Dont le parfum s'éleve aux cieux!

Bords, où les tombeaux de nos pères

Nous racontent, le temps ancien,

Vous seuls possédez ces voix chères

Qui font battre un coeur canadien!

OCTAVE CRÉMAZIE.

CONTENTS

CHAP.

The Vocation of Jean Baptiste

The Migration

The Sorcerer

The Loup Garou

Castles in Spain

The Habitant

Her Majesty's Mail

The City Man

The Loan

Blanchette

La Folie

Profit and Loss

The Return of Pamphile

The Triumph of Pamphile

The Pastime of Love

The Temptation of Jean Baptiste

Vengeance

Michel

Mother Sainte Anne

The Robbery

Love and War

The Wilderness

The Cure

The Relapse

Treasure Trove

JEAN BAPTISTE

CHAPTER I

THE VOCATION OF JEAN BAPTISTE

You may read, Jean, said Mademoiselle Angers; whereupon a breath of renewed interest passed through the schoolroom, as Jean Baptiste Giroux rose in his place and began to read, in a clear and resonant voice, the story of that other Jean Baptiste, his patron saint.

Saint John, dwelling alone in the wilderness beyond the Dead Sea, prepared himself by self discipline and by constant communion with God, for the wonderful office to which he had been divinely called. The very appearance of the holy Baptist was of itself a lesson to his countrymen. His dress was that of the old prophets--a garment of camel's hair attached to his body by a leathern girdle. His food was such as the desert afforded--locusts and wild honey. Because of his exalted sanctity a great multitude came to him from every quarter. Brief and startling was his final exhortation to them: 'Repent ye, for the Kingdom of Heaven is at hand.'

It was a simple and oft-repeated story, but there was something in the voice and manner of Jean that compelled attention. All the children listened; also the teacher; and the visitor, M. Paradis, curé of the parish, was visibly impressed. He brought his horn-rimmed spectacles down from the top of his head, set them firmly on the bridge of his nose, and regarded Jean for some moments without saying a word.

Jean returned the gaze with a steady, respectful glance; then let his eyes fall until they were looking at the floor just below the curé's feet. It was not polite to stare at visitors, but one might look at their boots. The boots of M. Paradis were covered with dust. He had walked all the way from the presbytery, two miles or more--that was evident.

Ah, it is you, Jean, said the curé.

Oui, Monsieur, said Jean,

How old are you, Jean?

Sixteen years, Monsieur.

Sixteen years! It seems like yesterday since you were baptized. How the time goes! Sixteen years, you say? You are no longer a child, Jean, no indeed. Well, it is high time to decide what we are going to make of you, certainly. Tell me, Jean; you admire the character of your patron saint, do you not?

Mais oui, Monsieur.

In what respect, my son?

Oh, Monsieur, he was a hero, without fear and without reproach, like Bayard.

Bayard, Jean, what do you know of him?

He also was a hero, Monsieur. Mademoiselle Angers has told us about him.

Without doubt. But Jean, Jean Baptiste, would you not like to be a hero like your patron saint?

Oui, Monsieur.

Forerunner of the true God? Tell me that, Jean.

Ah, Monsieur, as to that I do not know.

You shall be, Jean, you shall be. Come, Jean, come with me this instant. We will go to see your parents, that is to say, your mother. Your father, Jean, was a good man; he rests in God. Pardon us, Mademoiselle. I fear that we have transgressed. But it is a very important matter and I wish to speak to Madame Giroux without delay. Permit us, if you please, to go now. Will you not grant us this favour, Mademoiselle?

With pleasure, Monsieur le curé, said the teacher. And I hope that you will find something suitable for Jean. He is a boy of great force of character, one who might be very good or very bad.

True, Mademoiselle; it is always thus. Adieu, Mademoiselle. Adieu, my children.

Jean, said the curé, as they walked along the winding valley road, "I have known you for a long time, since you were a very small child; and I think, yes, I quite think that you have the vocation, the divine call to the service of God and His Church. Yes, it seems to me that you have all the marks. See! Probitas vitæ, innocence of life. I have not heard of any real wickedness that you have done. Faults, perhaps, like all boys; transgressions even, but nothing serious; venial sins, merely, like all mortals.

"Again, scientia conveniens, scholarship. In that you are very strong for your age, assuredly. Mademoiselle Angers has told me that you are by far the most promising pupil in the school. Do not be proud, Jean; all that comes from God. Be glad and humble.

"Finally, recta intentio, sincere desire, pure and holy zeal for the glory of God, and the salvation of souls. Jean, Jean Baptiste, have you really these desires, these aspirations? Are you willing to give yourself to this holy work? Will you renounce the world, the flesh and the devil, and consecrate yourself to the service of God? Tell me, my son."

My father, said Jean, hesitating and embarrassed, I wish--I do not know what I wish. I would do something, I know not what. For the glory of God? Yes. For the good of man? Ah, yes. At least, for my relations, the neighbours, the parish. But to be a priest? No, Monsieur le curé, I cannot.

But, Jean, you wish to attain the highest possible, do you not? I am sure that you do.

Mais oui, Monsieur.

Good, Jean, that is good. Then you shall be a priest. It is the only way to the excellence which you desire, unless you would follow the religious life. But you have no vocation in that direction, as I think.

Monsieur!

Say no more, Jean. It is decided. Do not trouble. Here we are at your place, and we shall see Madame, your mother. Ah, there she is. Bonjour, Madame Giroux. We are making an early visit, are we not?

Mais non, Monsieur, you are always welcome. Be so good as to enter. Your blessing, Monsieur le curé, on us and our poor house. It is a great honour to have such a visit. Jean, place the armchair for Monsieur Paradis. Marie, bring a glass of cordial for Monsieur; also some of the cakes which you made yesterday. Monsieur Paradis, it is a cordial which I made myself last summer of wild cherries, and it is excellent for the stomach.

Madame, the cordial is a veritable nectar, and the cakes are as the bread of angels.

It is Marie, Monsieur, who made the cakes. She is a treasure, that girl. I wish that all mothers could have such a daughter in their old age.

You are indeed fortunate, Madame. And you have other daughters--Marguerite, Sophie, Therese, Agathe--I remember them well.

What a memory you have, Monsieur le curé! Yes, five daughters, all married but this little Marie, and she will be going soon. Thus the young birds leave us, Monsieur, and begin to build nests of their own.

But what a fine family, Madame! Five daughters and six sons.

Pardon, Monsieur, seven in all. Little Jean, here, is the baby, the seventh.

The seventh, Madame! That is lucky.

Yes, Monsieur, the seventh son of a seventh. His father also was a seventh son, of a family of Chateau Richer.

"Madame, that is most extraordinary. It is truly propitious. The family Giroux, too, of Chateau--a well-known family in that parish, distinguished, even, of a most honourable history. But the younger sons, of course, must make their own way.

Madame, continued Father Paradis, this boy, Jean Baptiste, this seventh son of a seventh, was born, I am sure, to a notable career. Madame, I have visited the school, where I have heard him read in a marvellous way, while all the children listened with open mouth, and I said to myself, 'He should be a priest. I will go at once to obtain the consent of his good mother, for he shows all the marks of a true vocation to the ecclesiastical life. It is God who calls him.' Madame, you are happy in having such a son. I congratulate you, and I ask permission to send him to the college at Quebec and afterwards to the Seminary, that he may become a priest in the course of time, after ten years, perhaps.

For some moments Madame Giroux was unable to speak. Tears of joy coursed down her cheeks. Finally she said:

This is a great honour, Monsieur le curé, for Jean, for me, for the whole family. How I wish that his father were alive to hear what you have said! I have prayed, Monsieur, to the Holy Mother, and I have asked this, but I have not dared to hope. Now I could sing, even in my old age, when my voice is gone. But do not fear, Monsieur Paradis, I will not. But truly, Monsieur, I could sing once, long ago. There was a time--but what am I saying? Ah, vain, foolish old woman, selfish too, to talk like that without regard to my poor Jean, who, perhaps, does not wish to become a priest. It demands a sacrifice to follow such a vocation. Jean, my son, do you really wish it? Are you content?

If you are content, my mother, I am content.

Thus it was arranged that Jean Baptiste should prepare for the priesthood and that he should go to college at Quebec in the month of September. It was a nine-days' wonder throughout the valley. On the following Sunday, after Mass, the neighbours stopped on the way home to congratulate the family Giroux, to ask questions, to criticise, to give advice. All the equipages in the parish were tied to the fence near the house, from the two-seated carriage of the rich farmer, Monsieur Taché, to the ancient haycart of Zotique Bédard, the last inhabitant on the valley road.

Not since the funeral of Monsieur Giroux, five years before, had the family enjoyed such popularity. This time it was Madame Giroux who was the centre of interest; the mother, blessed among women, whose son had been chosen by the good God Himself to be His servant and priest. It was a great occasion. All of the cherry cordial was poured forth, and when that was gone, a barrel of spruce beer was opened, excellent and harmless beverage, which was drunk with joy to the health of Madame, of the young priest that was to be, and of all the members of the family Giroux.

Jean Baptiste had his turn on the following day at school, and for several days he was a personage among his associates. The teacher and the older pupils treated him with respect, while the younger children worshipped him like a god. Jean was exalted. He thought it a fine thing, like Joseph of old, to have the sun, moon and eleven stars bow down before him. Already he saw himself in the streets of Quebec, a full-fledged priest, in black hat and cassock, graciously returning the salutations of the leading citizens as he passed along. Now he was curé of his native parish, a man of power in the community, to whom all the inhabitants paid tithes, and before whom they all, from time to time, confessed their sins. Now he stood at the high altar, clad in gorgeous vestments, changing the bread and wine into the true body and blood of the Lord, elevating the Host, while all the people prostrated themselves before the good God and before his priest, Jean Baptiste Giroux. Truly, Jean had forgotten, or had never known, that pride goeth before destruction, and a haughty spirit before a fall.

The dominion of Jean over his fellow pupils was not complete. Pamphile Lareau did not join in the worship of the new divinity, but scoffed at the whole performance. Pamphile was one of the emancipated. Had he not often visited his uncle, the cab driver, at Quebec, to whom priests, and even bishops were very ordinary persons? As for collegians, they were of no account at all. Had he not seen hundreds, yes, thousands of collegians, in their blue coats, green caps and sashes, promenading the streets like girls from a nunnery, two by two, a pair of ecclesiastics in front and a pair behind? Had he not thrown stones at the precious saints, and even mud; the nice sticky mud of the Rue Champlain? And what did they do, the holy ones? They wept, because their new clothes were stained with mud. Ah, bah! What was a collegian? And what was this Jean Baptiste, this sprig of divinity, this budding bishop, this little pope?

The children were fascinated by the conversation of Pamphile, though shocked at his levity in making mock of sacred things. He was jealous, evidently, since Jean could read so much better than he, and was in every way a better scholar, though nearly two years younger. It was a pity that Pamphile was so wicked, for he was certainly a fine young man, tall and handsome. But what would happen if Jean heard him talk? Jean was no coward, by any means, but of a fiery temper and very strong for his age.

While this discussion was going on Jean approached, and Pamphile began again, more violently than before.

There he comes, the angel of whom we have been speaking. You will see, you others, what I will do to him.

Ah, good morning, Monseigneur, said the young scoffer, with mock humility, bowing low before Jean. Deign to inform us, if you please, why a priest wears a tonsure, why he has a bald spot on his head like an old man.

At the word tonsure the face of Jean Baptiste became suddenly pale. He had not yet thought of this aspect of his future career. The honour, the glory of it had appealed to him, but not the sacrifice, the renunciation. Unconsciously he passed his fingers through his luxuriant black hair.

The tonsure, Pamphile, the tonsure? Truly, I cannot say. I do not know. I will ask Monsieur Paradis.

You do not know, Monsieur the savant, Monseigneur the bishop, great fool, sacred sheep's head? Then I will tell you, simpleton. One wears the tonsure for the same reason that one has no beard, that one wears skirts, because one is no longer a man. Ah, Jean Baptiste Giroux, Girouette, you don't like that, eh? Ah, young priest! Ah, little saint! Ah, bah! I despise you. I spit upon you. There!

Pamphile in his rage struck Jean in the face with his open hand.

In this Pamphile made a sad mistake, for Jean, usually of a peaceful disposition, was a lion when aroused. Forgetting his new dignity and all his holy aspirations, he flung himself upon his tormentor, seized him by the throat with both hands and shook him as a dog might shake a rat. Pamphile, in the fear of death, cried for mercy, and Jean, his anger giving way to contempt, threw him to the ground and walked away.

Presently, coming to himself, Jean ran back to Pamphile, helped him to rise, and said in a voice of great distress:

Pamphile, I am a villain. I am sorry for this. You will forgive me, will you not, Pamphile, my friend?

Forgive you? said Pamphile, with astonishing composure. "Oh yes, certainly. Say no more. It was all a mistake, my fault altogether. Sacré bleu! You are no longer a child. One must remember that."

It was thus that Jean Baptiste made his first enemy.

At the same time Jean discovered that he had another enemy--himself. For some days he had smothered his misgivings under his pious desires, his respect for the priest, his love for his mother, the pride of his own heart and the force of will that attaches itself to a decision; but now these misgivings arose with renewed power, and would not be put down. To be a priest, to wear the soutane, the tonsure, to be separated from the world, to hear confessions, to stand between God and man--all this seemed to him terrible and impossible. Better than his fellows he might be, but he would like to prove his superiority man to man, as in the struggle with Pamphile, and not by wearing a holy garment and an affectation of sanctity. And the vocation--what was it after all? Because he had a strong desire to do some good in the world, must he separate himself from his fellows? Was there no other way?

But when Jean thought of Father Paradis, all his doubts seemed to dissolve like the mist of the valley in the light and warmth of the rising sun. There was a good man, a noble character. What piety, what amiability, what wisdom! How useful to the parish, to the world, a priest like this! To be like Father Paradis--that were an ambition worthy of any man, sufficient, surely, for a mere boy like himself.

Thus was Jean Baptiste, like thistle-down, blown about by every breeze, now rising, now falling, now suspended in mid-air, able neither to rise to the heavens nor to sink to rest on solid ground. It was a most unsatisfactory condition, and Jean found no peace for his soul. The decision that finally came to him is a curious example of the trifles that frequently determine the course of human life.

One afternoon, on his way home from school, where Mademoiselle Angers had been giving him advanced lessons in preparation for college, Jean was crossing the bridge of logs over the mountain torrent called La Branche, when he saw a little girl seated on the end of one of the logs, her feet dangling over the stream.

Holloa, there, little red-head! he called. You will fall in the river if you don't take care. It is dangerous.

The little red-head made no reply, but gazed on the stream as though fascinated by the swirling water.

Gabrielle, my little one, persisted Jean, come away from that place. Are you not afraid of being drowned?

You know, Jean, you know very well that my hair is not red, said Gabrielle, looking up with a smile of mischief.

Maybe not, Gabrielle. It is yellow, if you like, though it changes often. But come away at once. You frighten me.

And I am not a 'little one' either, for I shall be ten years old to-morrow.

True, Gabrielle, you are a young lady, almost. But do not fall in there, for the love of God.

You are very strong and brave, Jean, said the little imp.

It may be so, Gabrielle, but what of that?

You would save me if I fell in the river, would you not?

Gabrielle, you would not be so silly.

Oh, I don't know. See me! One--two--three--away! And Gabrielle was on the point of jumping into the stream, when Jean caught her, just in time.

Little fool! he said, pulling her up somewhat roughly and placing her in safety in the middle of the bridge. Don't you know that it is dangerous, that place? See the deep pool and the big stones down there. It is not at all certain that I could have saved you. Never do that again. There now, don't cry. Run home to your mother, little one.

You are rough, Jean, and cruel. Great beast! Leave me alone. I hate you. And Gabrielle turned away, weeping and sobbing.

But, Gabrielle, what is the matter? What have I done? Poor little Gabrielle, do not cry. I am indeed a beast. Do not cry, Gabrielle.

But Gabrielle continued to cry, while Jean tried to console her in his stupid way. Finally she said, between her sobs:

You are going away, Jean. You are going to college. You will be a priest.

Well, and why not, little one?

I, I don't like that at all. Do not be a priest, Jean. Please.

But, Gabrielle, it is a great vocation, that. See! I shall be curé of this parish, perhaps, and I will give you a lovely cross of gold, a pretty prayer-book and a rosary with beads of real pearls. And I will pardon all your sins, Gabrielle, if you have any, and not make you do any penance. Won't that be fine?

No, no, Jean. I don't want any of those things. What good would they be to me if you were not here? Whereupon Gabrielle began to cry, more than ever, and would not stop until Jean promised, half in jest, half in earnest, that he would never be a priest, never in his life.

Then Gabrielle's tears disappeared, and she began to dance, and danced all the way home and into the house, chanting in joyful tones:

Jean will not be a priest! Jean will not be a priest! He will stay with us! He will stay with us! Always! Always!

What is that you say, Gabrielle, mignonne? said Madame Taché.

Jean told me so, truly. He doesn't want to be a priest, any more. And I, I am so happy.

Be still, Gabrielle, said her mother, seriously. That is too foolish. Jean will be a priest, of course, a bishop, too, perhaps, some day. Who can tell?

Meanwhile Jean went along the road toward his home with brisker step and lighter heart than he had known for some days. He saw the blue sky, the fleecy clouds, the dancing water of the river, the greens and purples of the mountains, the greens and reds and yellows of the fields. He heard the sound of the rapids, the song of the birds, the rustling of the leaves, the joyous chirping of many insects. He took long breaths of the pure mountain air, faintly scented with the fragrance of sweet-brier and wild strawberry. The very dust of the road seemed pleasant underfoot. The joy of living was his once more, and as he went he sang a song of life and youth,