Jean Baptiste: A Story of French Canada

by James Edward Le Rossignol

"Au revoir, Monsieur. Until to-morrow or the day after."

CHAPTER XXI

LOVE AND WAR

It was early morning; and Jean Baptiste, before beginning the day's work, was walking slowly along the path where he had met Gabrielle and Pamphile, thinking of the beauty and joy that he had lost, and trying to reconstruct the pattern of his life out of the broken fragments that were left. His conversation with Michel Gamache had given him renewed hope and courage; but now that his friend and confessor was away, his thoughts went back to the day of calamity, and his feet turned to the path of disappointment and vain regret.

It was a lovely path; winding along through the woods in a little glen where the ground was all covered with ferns, the rocks with moss, and the trees with lichen; while a clear stream descended in a series of cascades, filling the air with the sound of falling water--a mournful accompaniment to the sad thoughts of Jean Baptiste. Had Gabrielle been there the music of the stream would have been gay as the morning song of love; but now it was like a dirge; and the lonely glen was as the valley of the shadow of death.

Few flowers were there: some white orchids; the green, rank arum with its bitter root; and the pale, dejected Indian pipe, the corpse-plant, smoked in ghostly pow-wows by Indians long since dead. In the spring the baneberry had been in flower; but now only the blood-red berries were left; and where the trillium had bloomed were only withered leaves, and a poisonous, purple fruit. The springtime of love was gone; and the fruition of summer brought nothing but disappointment and despair.

And yet, on the very spot where Jean had met and lost Gabrielle, he found a little plant with shining leaves, a delicate white flower, and long roots of golden thread running through the cool, black mould. The roots were bitter to the taste, but of a healing virtue, purifying to the blood; the trefoil was a holy sign, potent to drive away evil spirits; and the white flower was a symbol of hope, a promise of life and love. As Jean knelt to gather the little plant, its several virtues seemed to enter his body and soul, and he arose revived, purified, and encouraged, once more believing in himself, Gabrielle, the world, and God. He had drunk a bitter cup to the dregs, it seemed, yet he felt greatly strengthened. Dark clouds of doubt had hung over his soul; but now they were passing away; the silver lining was showing; the blue was appearing; and soon the bright sun would be shining in a clear sky. He had felt himself alone, deserted by lover and friend; but now it seemed as though all were returning, and Gabrielle herself could not be far away. He had been beset by foes, not knowing how to escape; but now he felt the glow of returning strength, the joy of coming victory; and he had it in his heart to thank his enemies for having set themselves against him. So Jean strode up the path, out of the dark valley of humiliation, toward the lookout point on the hill, into the light and warmth of the rising sun; and as he went he sang in a deep, resonant voice a brave song of life and death and war:

"Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre,

Mironton, mironton, mirontaine;

Malbrough s'en va-t-en guerre

Ne sait quand reviendra,

Ne sait quand reviendra,

Ne sait quand reviendra."

At the top of the hill Jean suddenly ceased to sing; and stood gazing in astonishment at the figure of a woman in a white dress, with a white sunbonnet on her head, standing by the fence and looking out over the valley as though expecting some one.

"Gabrielle!"