Jean Baptiste: A Story of French Canada

by James Edward Le Rossignol

The summer tourist, more than other men, is a confirmed egoist. Sincerely believing himself the centre of the universe and the chief end of all creation, he views with satisfaction the successful efforts of men and things to minister unto him. Hotels and boarding-houses exist for him; for him horses and carriages of every kind, with their obliging drivers, move to and fro; for him spring chickens cheerfully die; for him the sun shines by day, the moon by night, and the Aurora shimmers in the northern sky. How good God is to the summer tourist!

But there is the point of view of another egoist, the pious habitant of Murray Bay, Cacouna, Tadoussac, and all the other watering-places below Quebec. The good God loves the faithful. He sends rain in summer, snow in winter, and all the changes of weather in their season. He sends the birds of the air--the partridge, the wild duck and the brant. He sends the fishes of the great river--the eel, the sturgeon and the salmon; the trout, also, of the smaller lakes and rivers. He provides game in the forest--the red deer, the caribou, the moose, and all fur-bearing animals. He gives the strawberry, the raspberry, the blueberry, spruce gum, balsam, sarsaparilla and gold-thread. All these the good God provides, but, best of all, he sends the summer tourist to pour the wealth of the city into the lap of the habitant. Truly, it would be ungrateful and impious not to make the most of such an opportunity, not to exploit and cultivate in the most approved way that most profitable of crops--the summer tourist.

Jean Baptiste was a habitant by ten generations of thrifty ancestors, and could see, as well as any man, the possibilities of the summer tourist. He loved the genial egoist for his own sake, but more for the golden harvest that he should yield. For him he had built the great house; for him he had provided bed and board, horses and vehicles, canoes and guides, both indoor and outdoor games--all at great cost and no little risk--but to what end? Surely not for the good of the tourist alone, but that he might lay deep and broad the foundations of his own fortune, that he might begin and carry on the great works of which he dreamed by night and day.

Was it a vocation, as Father Paradis had said, and had he a message to deliver? Yes, there was a call, both loud and clear, and a message had been given him--to proclaim the gospel of the new era, to be the forerunner of the economic salvation of his people. A voice, he was, in the wilderness, crying: "Prepare ye the way of the Lord!"--along the valley, by the river, over the mountain, to make the crooked ways straight, the rough places plain, to overcome every obstacle, every stumbling-block, until all men should get a vision of the future that was theirs, and rise up and possess the land. "It is my work," said Jean to himself. "It is also the work of God."

Jean was a prophet, like his great patron saint, a dreamer, one who had heard the voice of God in the silence of the wilderness, and was going forth to declare the vision and proclaim the word to those who had eyes to see and ears to hear. The great idea filled his mind, and he believed himself devoted heart and soul to the cause which he had espoused, for the good of man and the glory of God. Yet as he looked into the depths of his own heart, as one gazing into a crystal, he saw there another image enshrined, and he began to doubt and to wonder whether he were the servant of a divine ideal or the slave of an alluring earthly love. Was it possible that he had not yet seen the vision that compels, had not yet heard the silence that takes control?

Jean freely admitted to himself that he loved Gabrielle. Who could help it? Who would not admire that lithe, graceful figure, with the springing step and free toss of the head, like a wild deer of the forest? Who would not rejoice to see that glorious hair? Who could gaze unmoved upon that lovely face and form? Who would not desire to take her to his arms--his very own? But how proud and cold at times! How those blue eyes could glitter like steel! How those laughing, tantalizing lips could curve in bitter scorn! How that beautiful creature, with all the charms of woman since the days of Eve, could with every glance, every tone, every gesture flaunt the flag of no-surrender! The challenge must be accepted; the defiance could not be endured.

More than that--in all Jean's work, in all his thoughts and plans Gabrielle was a part. When he crossed the little bridge over La Branche--it was there that he first noticed Gabrielle's reddish-golden hair. When he was by the river--it was there that he had met her tripping over the stones in her short skirt and high boots, with rod and creel, a fisher-maiden whom more than fish might fear. When he passed through the woods, he saw her sitting under the trees amid patches of golden sunshine. When he was in church, she was kneeling there in prayer; and when he gazed at the high altar it was a glorified vision of Gabrielle that he saw, and not the Mother of God. When he thought of his great house, Gabrielle was there; on the day of triumph she would be his wife, his queen; and if ever misfortune came, he would go forth joyously to face the world, if only she were by his side.

Yet Jean believed that Gabrielle was not first in his heart. His work, his vocation, commanded obedience above all. War first; then love. Achievement, victory; then the crown and the reward. True, she might not consent to take the second place in his scheme of life. Women were by nature jealous, unreasonable, demanding more than man could give. She might be angry when she discovered the order of precedence. Poor little Gabrielle! She might go to a nunnery, even, as many young girls did when they could not have their own way, or when they saw the vanity of the world. That would be a pity. No, he would never allow that. What were the stone walls of a convent compared with the power of love? But she might love another man. Ah, that was different. Where was that other who dared to raise his eyes to Gabrielle? Where? Who?

At the very thought Jean's eyes flashed beneath his lowered eyebrows; his jaw set; his hands clenched; and his figure rose to its full height, bending forward with such menace as would have given pause to any rival who dared to contend for the prize of love with Jean Baptiste Giroux.

But it was only a girl that met him at the turn of the road, a girl with waving hair and laughing eyes--the girl of his dreams.