Jean Baptiste: A Story of French Canada

by James Edward Le Rossignol

"But no, Jean; it is your fish, and I am glad that I had the honour of helping to catch him. But do not hurry, my young friend. Sit down a minute. I will tell you something."

Somewhat reluctantly, but without any fear of the old man, who was evidently disposed to be friendly, Jean sat beside him on the rock and listened to the story of former days before the family Giroux came to the parish of St. Placide.

"Your father, Jean, as you know, was a native of the parish of Chateau Richer, on the other side of those mountains. And I, as you do not know, lived in the parish of Ste. Famille on the other side of the Channel, in the Isle of Orleans--the Isle of Sorcerers, as they call it. It was not an isle of sorcerers at all, but I will tell you what it was--an isle of smugglers. Yes, smugglers. When the good people of Chateau, there below, saw those lights on a dark night moving to and fro on the long marsh, gleaming fitfully, like fireflies, they crossed themselves, the simpletons, and muttered, 'will-o'-the-wisps,' 'devil's fire,' 'sorcerers!' Ha! Ha! What foolishness! They were smugglers with lanterns going to meet a bateau at high tide, carrying casks of brandy and French wines, packages of tobacco, bales of silk, and all that. Nobody came near them, you may be sure. Very convenient, the Isle of Sorcerers, for smugglers, and there were fine hiding-places in the long marsh and on the side of the hill. Caves? Oh, yes, here and there. I wonder if I could find them now. Ah, those were days!"

"But you were no smuggler, Monsieur Gamache, nor my father either. Impossible."

"Nothing is impossible, Jean. All good is possible and all bad. We were smugglers, certainly, for fun at first, and afterwards for profit. Talk of farming, cultivating the soil--that is a slow way of earning one's living, not to speak of making a fortune. But free trade, smuggling, if you like, going out of a dark night in a little boat, slipping up the river with the tide, landing something on the quays of the St. Charles, slipping down with the ebb, arriving in the early morning to see the coming of the dawn, the lifting of the mist and the first glow of sunrise on the top of Mount Ste. Anne--Jean, it was glorious. I like to think of it. If only those days could come again!"

"And dangerous, Monsieur Gamache?"

"Dangerous? Certainly. That was the glory of it. But when one is found out one goes to prison, perhaps, or one crosses the mountains to the parish of St. Placide, where the past may be forgotten."

"Monsieur Gamache," said Jean, "I can well believe that my father was a smuggler, for people had different ideas about such things in those days, and the adventure of that life must have appealed to him, but as to the profit--that is not quite so credible. He was a poor man when he came to St. Placide, and the farm he created himself, cut all the trees with his own axe, dug the ground with a spade, carried hay and oats on his back up the hills. No, Monsieur, my father did not profit by the trade of which you speak."

"That is true, Jean, he did it for fun, for adventure, for the beauty and glory of it, and he would not touch one sou of the profit. But he took the punishment, the exile, just the same. Have I not said that he was a valiant man?"

These were strange tales that Jean was hearing that night, beside that weird pool, while the stars came out, and the new moon rose above the circle of the trees and cast a trembling brightness on the water below. The sound of the river filled the air as though trying to drown the voice of Michel Gamache as he told of the lawless exploits of former days, when Toussaint Giroux and he were young and sowing to the wind. It was almost sacrilege in Jean to be hearing of such doings, yet he could not but feel a thrill of pride as he thought of his father, in the hey-day of life, high-spirited, strong and brave, going into danger with a smile on his lips and a brightness in his eye, glorying in adventure for itself alone, and scorning both the reward and the penalty. In his heart Jean was wishing that he had been there and hoping that like opportunities might come again. Evidently Michel Gamache was corrupting the morals of the son as he had formerly corrupted those of the father. Perhaps he was a sorcerer after all, a servant of Satan, the enemy of souls.