Silence for a few moments, broken only by the ripple of water under the bow of the canoe, the slish, slish of the dripping paddle at the stern, and the persistent patter of the rain all around us. I knew there was a story on the way. But I must keep still to get it. A single ill-advised question might switch it off the track into a morass of politics or moralizing. Presently the voice behind me began again.
"You like that name, M'sieu', is it not? Le cœur vaillant—it pleases you. But my faith! To me it seems that was given by one who knows not to read. It was put upon the wrong man, without doubt. You shall judge for yourself, M'sieu', when you hear what passed between this Vaillantcœur and his friend Prosper Leclère at the building of the church of Abbéville. You remind yourself of that grand stone church of the square tower—yes? Well, I am going to tell you the story of that."
Thus Ferdinand, my brave voyageur, in his old-fashioned patois of French Canada, as he pushed the birch-bark down the lonely length of Lac Moïse. How it rained that day! The surface of the lake was beaten flat, and quivered under the storm of silver bullets. Waving sheets of watery gray were driven before the wind; broad curves of dancing drops swept along in front of them where they touched the lake. The dismal clouds had collapsed on the mountains. All around the homeless shores the evergreen trees seemed to hunch their backs and stand closer together in patient misery. Not a bird dared to sing—not even a red-breasted crossbill.
It felt as if we were a thousand miles from everywhere and everybody. Cities, factories, libraries, colleges, laws, palaces, theatres, temples—what had we dreamed of these things? They were far off, in another world. We had slipped back, who knows how many centuries, into a primitive life, and Ferdinand was telling me the naked story of the brave heart, even as it has been told from the beginning.
I cannot tell the story just as he did. There was a charm in his speech too quick for the pen: a flavor of fresh-cut pine logs and clean wood-smoke, that is not to be found in any ink for sale in the shops. Perhaps he left out something that belongs to the tale, and that I may be fool enough to put in. But it shall be as little as possible. The spirit of the tale shall be his. It is Ferdinand's story. If you care for the real thing, here it is. You shall hear the difference between being called Vaillantcœur and having le cœur vaillant.
II
There were two young men in Abbéville who were easily the cocks of the woodland walk. Their eminence rested on the fact that they were the strongest men in the parish. Strength is the thing that counts, when people live on the edge of the wilderness. These two were well known all through the country between Lake St. John and Chicoutimi as men of great capacity. Either of them could shoulder a barrel of flour and walk off with it as lightly as a common man would carry a side of bacon. There was not a half-pound of difference between them in ability. But there was a great difference in their looks and in their way of doing things.
"No, for what shall I fight with Raoul?"—[Page 156].