CHAPTER VIII.

THE FEAST OF ST. JEAN-BAPTISTE.

Every parish used to keep holiday on the feast of its patron saint.

The feast of St. John the Baptist, the patron of the parish of St.

Jean-Port-Joli, falling in the most delightful season of the year,

never failed to attract a host of pilgrims, even from the remotest

parishes. The _habitant_, kept very busy with his farm-work, was ready

by this time for a little rest, and the fine weather was an invitation

to the road. In every family grand preparations were made for this

important occasion. Within doors there was great cleaning up; the

whitewash brush went everywhere; the floors were scrubbed and strewed

with pine-needles; the fatted calf was killed, and the shopkeepers

drove a thriving trade in drinks. Thus by the twenty-third day of June,

the eve of the feast, every house was thronged with pilgrims from the

manor and the presbytery down.

The seigneur used to present the consecrated bread; while the

collection at the high mass was taken up by two young gentlemen and

two young ladies, friends of the seigneur, invited down from Quebec

long beforehand. For the consecrated bread and for the little cakes

(_cousins_) which accompanied it there was no small need in that

multitude which thronged not only the church, but the surrounding yard.

All the doors of the church stood wide open, that everybody might have

his share in the service.

It was an understood thing that the seigneur and his friends should

dine that day at the presbytery, and that the curé and his friends

should take supper at the manor house. Very many of the _habitants_,

too far away from home to go and come between mass and vespers, took

lunch in the little wood of cedars, pines, and firs which covered the

valley between the church and the St. Lawrence. Nothing can be imagined

more picturesque and bright than the groups scattered over the mossy

green, and gathered merrily around their snowy tablecloths. The curé

and his guests never failed to visit the picnickers and exchange a few

words with the men.

On all sides rose rude booths, after the fashion of wigwams, covered

with branches of maple and spruce, wherein refreshments were sold. In a

monotonous voice, with strong emphasis on the first and last words, the

proprietors kept crying incessantly, "Good beer for sale here!" And all

the papas and the amorous gallants, coaxed up for the occasion, would

fumble dubiously in the depths of their wallets for the wherewith to

treat youngster or sweetheart.

The _habitants_ had preserved an impressive ceremony handed down from

their Norman ancestors. This ceremony consisted of a huge bonfire at

sunset of the eve of St. Jean-Baptiste. An octagonal pyramid, about

ten feet high, was constructed before the main entrance of the church.

Covered with branches of fir interwoven amid the strips of cedar which

formed its surface, this structure was eminently ornamental. The curé,

accompanied by his assistants, marched out and recited certain prayers

belonging to the occasion; then, after having blessed the structure,

he set a torch to the little piles of straw arranged at the eight

corners of the pyramid. Straightway the whole pile burst crackling into

flame, amid the shouts and gun-firing of the crowd which remained in

attendance till the pyramid was burned to ashes.

At this joyous ceremony, Blanche D'Haberville did not fail to assist,

in company with Jules, Lochiel, and Uncle Raoul. A malicious critic,

observing Uncle Raoul as he stood leaning on his sword a little in

advance of the throng, might have been reminded of the late lamented

Vulcan of game-legged memory, so lurid and grotesque an effect was

cast upon his figure; which by no means prevented Uncle Raoul from

considering himself the most important personage present.

Uncle Raoul had a very good and sufficient reason for taking part

in the bonfire. It was the day of the salmon sale. Every _habitant_

who stretched a net came to sell his first salmon at the church door

for the benefit of the souls in purgatory; in other words, with the

money obtained for the fish he would pay for a mass to be said for the

souls about which he was most concerned. The auctioneer announcing the

object of the sale, all strove to outbid each other. Nothing could be

more touching than this closeness of communion between friends and

relations beyond the grave, this anxious concern extending even to the

invisible world. Our brethren of other creeds shed, indeed, as we do,

the bitterest of tears over the tomb which covers away their dearest,

but there they cease their solicitude and their devotion.

When I was a child my mother taught me to conclude all my prayers with

this appeal: "Receive, O Lord, soon into thy blessed paradise the souls

of my grandfather and grandmother." My prayers were then for kinsfolk

few in number and unknown to me. Now, alas, in my old age, how many

names would have to pass my lips were I to enumerate in my prayers all

the loved ones who have left me!

It was some time after dark when Uncle Raoul, Blanche, Jules, and

Archie quitted the presbytery where they had taken supper. Uncle Raoul,

who had a smattering of astronomy, explained to his niece, as they

drove along, the mysteries of the starry vault, marvels of which, for

all the efforts of their professor in astronomy, our young men knew but

little.

The young men were in high spirits, and, excited by the splendor of the

night in mid-forest, they laid aside their decorum and began a host of

antics, in spite of the frowns of Blanche, who dreaded lest they should

displease her uncle.

The road followed the banks of the St. Lawrence. It was bordered by

thick woods, with here and there a clearing through which was commanded

a perfect view of the giant stream. Coming to one of these clearings,

where they could sweep the whole river from Cape Tourmente to Malbaie,

Archie was unable to repress a cry of surprise, and, turning to Uncle

Raoul, he said:

"You, sir who explain so well the marvels of the heaven, might I beg

you to lower your gaze to earth a moment and tell me the meaning of all

those lights which are flashing along the north shore as far as eye can

see? Verily, I begin to believe José's story. Canada appears to be that

land of goblins, imps, and witches of which my nurse used to tell me

amid my Scottish hills."

"Ah," said Uncle Raoul, "let us stop here a moment. That is the people

of the north shore sending messages to their friends and relations on

this side, according to their custom on the eve of St. Jean-Baptiste.

They need neither pen nor ink for their communications. Let us begin

at Eboulements: Eleven adults have died in that parish since autumn,

three of them in one house, that of my friend Dufour. The family must

have been visited by small-pox or some malignant fever, for those

Dufours are vigorous and all in the prime of life. The Tremblays are

well, which I am glad to perceive; they are worthy people. At Bonneau's

somebody is sick, probably the grandmother, who is getting well on in

years. There is a child dead at Bélair's house. I fear it is their only

child, as theirs is a young household."

Thus Uncle Raoul ran on for some time gathering news of his friends at

Eboulements, at Isle aux Coudres, and at Petite-Rivière.

"I understand without having the key," said Lochiel. "Those are certain

prearranged signals which are exchanged between the dwellers on the

opposite shores in order to communicate matters of personal interest."

"Yes," answered Uncle Raoul; "and if we were on the north shore we

should observe similar signals on this side. If a fire burns long and

steadily, that is good news; if it sinks gradually, that is a sign of

sickness; if it is extinguished suddenly, that means death; if it is

so extinguished more than once, that signifies so many deaths. For a

grown person, a strong blaze; for a child, a feeble one. The means

of intercourse being scanty enough even in summer, and entirely cut

off during winter, the _habitants_, made ingenious by necessity, have

invented this simple expedient.

"The same signals," continued Uncle Raoul, "are understood by all the

sailors, who use them in time of wreck to convey information of their

distress. Only last year five of our best huntsmen would have starved

to death but for this on the shoals of the Loups-Marins. Toward the

middle of March there was a sudden change in the weather. The ice went

out all at once and the ducks, geese, and brant made their appearance

in astonishing numbers. Five of our hunters, well supplied with

provisions--for the weather is treacherous in Canada--set out at once

for the Loups-Marins; but the birds were so numerous that they left

their provisions in the canoe (which they tied carelessly in front of

their hut), and ran to take their places in the ditch which they had

to get scooped out before the return of the tide. This ditch, you must

know, is a trough dug in the mud to a depth of three or four feet,

wherein the hunter lies in wait for his game, which are very wary, the

geese and brant particularly. It is a wretchedly uncomfortable kind of

hunting, for you have to crouch in these holes, with your dog, often

for seven or eight hours at a stretch. You have no lack of occupation

to kill time, however, for you have to keep bailing out the muddy water

which threatens to drown you.

"All was in proper shape, and our hunters were expecting with the

rising tide an ample reward for their pains, when suddenly there came

up a frightful storm. The sleet was driven by the wind in such dense

clouds that the birds could not be seen six feet away. Our hunters,

having waited patiently until flood tide, which drove them from their

posts, returned to their hut, where a dreadful surprise awaited them;

their canoe had been carried away by the storm, and there remained, to

feed five men, only one loaf of bread and one bottle of brandy, which

they had taken into the hut on their arrival, that they might indulge

in a snack before getting to work. They went to bed without supper, for

the snow-storm might last three days, and, being about three leagues

from either shore, it would be impossible, in such weather, for their

signals of distress to be seen. But their calculations fell far short

of the fact. A second winter had set in. The cold became very severe,

the snow continued falling for eight days, and the river was once more

filled with ice as in January.

Then they began to make their signals, which could be seen from both

shores; but it was impossible to go to their aid. The signals of

distress were followed by those of death. The fire was lighted every

evening and immediately extinguished. When three of the party were

reported dead, some _habitants_, at the imminent risk of their lives,

did all that could be expected of the bravest men; but in vain, for

the river was so thick with ice cakes that the canoes were carried up

and down with the ebb and flow of the tide, and could not get near

the scene of the disaster. It was not until the seventeenth day that

they were rescued by a canoe from Isle aux Coudres. When the rescuing

party arrived they heard no sound in the hut, and feared they were too

late. The sufferers were still alive, however, and after a few weeks of

care were quite themselves again; but they had learned a lesson they

were not likely to forget, and the next time they go hunting on the

Loups-Marins they will haul their canoe up out of reach of high tide."

At last Uncle Raoul came to an end, just as anybody else would.

"Dear uncle," said Blanche, "do you not know a song appropriate to so

delicious a night as this, and so enchanting a scene?"

"Hear! hear!" exclaimed the young men, "a song from Uncle Raoul!"

This was assailing the chevalier on his weak point. He was a singer,

and very proud of it. Without further pressing he began, in a splendid

tenor voice, the following song, which he sang with peculiar feeling

as a brave hunter adorned with his scars. While acknowledging that his

verses took many a liberty with the rules of rhyme, he declared that

these defects were redeemed by the vividness and originality of the

composition.

UNCLE RAOUL'S SONG.

As I was walking, somewhat late,

A-through a lonely wood and great,

Hunting partridge, snipe, and cock,

And careless of the clock,

I raised my gun to drop a bird,

When in the bushes something stirred;

I heard a cry--and saw the game

That love alone can tame.

I saw a fair one all alone,

Lamenting on a mossy stone,

Her hair about so fair a face

As lightened that dark place.

I called my dog to heel, and there

I fired my gun into the air.

So loud with fear the lady cried,

I hastened to her side.

I said to her, I said, "Sweet heart,

Be comforted, whoe'er thou art.

I am a valiant cavalier,

Have thou of me no fear.

Beholding thee, my lovely one,

Thus left lamenting and alone,

I fain would be thy knight-at-arms,

And shield thee from alarms."

"Oh, succor me, fair sir," she saith,

"My heart with fear was nigh to death.

I am benighted and astray,

Oh, show me, sir, my way!

Oh, show me, gentle sir, the road,

For Mary's sake, to mine abode.

My heart, fair sir, but for your grace,

Had died in this dark place."

"Now, lady, give thy hand to me.

Not far the way--not far with thee.

Right glad am I to do thee pleasure,

And I have the leisure.

But might I crave before we part,

Oh, lady dear, oh, fair sweet heart--

Might I dare to beg the bliss

Of one small kiss?"

Saith she, "I can not say thee nay;

Thy service can I ne'er repay.

Take one, or even two, or three,

If so it pleaseth thee.

More gallant sir was never seen;

Much honored have my kisses been."

(This was the last I heard of her)

"And now farewell, kind sir."

"The devil," said Jules, "I perceive, dear sir, that you did not waste

any time. I will wager, now, that you have been a terrible gallant in

your younger days, and can count your victims by the score. It is so,

eh, uncle mine? Do tell us some of your conquests."

"Ugly, my dear boy," replied Uncle Raoul, with a gratified air, "ugly I

certainly am, but very agreeable to the ladies."

Jules was going on in the same vein, but seeing the way his sister was

frowning at him, he bit his lips to keep from laughing, and repeated

the last four lines:

"'More gallant sir was never seen;

Much honored have my kisses been'

(This was the last I heard of her)

'And now farewell, kind sir.'"

The young men continued the singing till they reached a clearing, where

they saw a fire in the woods a little way from the road.

"That is the witch of the manor," said Uncle Raoul.

"I have always forgotten to ask why she was called the witch of the

manor," said Archie.

"Because she has established herself in this wood, which formerly

belonged to the D'Haberville estate," said Uncle Raoul. "My brother

exchanged it for a part of his present domain, in order to get nearer

his mill at Trois Saumons."

"Let us go and see poor old Marie," said Blanche. "When I was a

child she used to bring me the first spring flowers and the first

strawberries of the season."

Uncle Raoul made some objections on account of the lateness of the

hour, but he could refuse Blanche nothing, and presently the horses

were hitched on the edge of the wood and our party were on their way to

the witch's abode.

The dwelling of old Marie by no means resembled that of the Cumæan

sybil, or of any other sorceress, ancient or modern. It was a sort of

patchwork hut, built of logs and unquarried stones, and carpeted within

with many colored mosses. The roof was cone-shaped and covered with

birch-bark and spruce branches.

Old Marie was seated on a log at the door of her hut, cooking something

in a frying-pan over a fire which was surrounded with stones to keep it

from spreading. She paid no attention to her visitors, but maintained

a conversation with some invisible being behind her. She kept waving

first one hand and then the other behind her back, as if attempting to

drive away this being, and the burden of her utterance was: "Avaunt,

avaunt! it is you that bring the English here to eat up the French!"

"Oh, ho, my prophetess of evil," exclaimed Uncle Raoul, "when you get

done talking to the devil, would you be kind enough to tell me what you

mean by that threat?"

"Come, Marie," interposed Jules, "tell us if you really think you are

talking to the devil? You can fool the _habitants_, but you must know

that we put no faith in such delusions."

"Avaunt! Avaunt!" continued the witch with the same gestures, "you that

are bringing the English to eat up the French."

"I am going to speak to her," said Blanche; "she loves me, and I am

sure she will answer me."

Approaching the old woman, she laid her hand on her shoulder and said

gently:

"Do you not know me, my good Marie? Do you not recognize _la petite

seigneuresse_, as you used to call me?"

The old woman interrupted her monologue and looked tenderly at the

girl. A tear even gathered in her eyes, but could not overflow, so few

such were there in her burning brain.

"Why, dear Marie, do you lead this wild and vagabond life?" exclaimed

Blanche. "Why do you live in the woods, you who are the wife of a

rich _habitant_, the mother of a numerous family? Your poor children,

brought up by strangers, are crying for their dear mother. Mamma and I

were looking for you at your house after the feast. We were talking to

your husband who loves you. How unhappy you must be!"

The poor woman sprang upon her seat and her eyes shot flames, as she

cried, pale with anger:

"Who is it dare speak of my misfortunes? Is it the fair young girl, the

darling of her parents, who will never be wife and mother? Is it the

rich and noble lady, brought up in silk and fine linen, who will soon,

like me, have but a hut to shelter her? Woe! Woe! Woe!"

She was about to retire into the forest, but seeing Jules much moved,

she cried again:

"Is it Jules D'Haberville who is so concerned at my wretchedness? Is

it, indeed, Jules D'Haberville, bravest of the brave, whose bleeding

body I see them dragging over the Plains of Abraham? Is it, indeed, his

blood that crimsons the last glorious field of my country? Woe! Woe!

Woe!"

"This poor woman moves my heart strangely," said Lochiel, as she was

disappearing in the thicket.

The creature heard him. She returned once more, folded her arms, turned

upon him a gaze of calm bitterness, and said:

"Keep your pity for yourself, Archibald de Lochiel. The family fool has

no need of your pity! Keep your pity for yourself and for your friends!

Keep it for yourself on that day when, forced to execute a cruel order,

you shall tear with your nails that breast that hides a noble and

generous heart! Keep it for your friends, Archibald de Lochiel, on that

day when you shall set the torch to their peaceful dwellings, that day

when the old and feeble, the women and the children, shall flee before

you as sheep before the wolf! Keep your pity! You will need it all when

you carry in your arms the bleeding body of him you call your brother!

I have but one grief at this hour, Archibald de Lochiel, it is that I

have no curse to utter against you. Woe! Woe! Woe!" And she disappeared

into the forest.

"May I be choked by an Englishman," said Uncle Raoul, "if poor silly

Marie has not shown herself tonight a sorceress of the approved type,

the type which has been celebrated by poets ancient and modern. I

wonder what mad weed she has been rubbing against, she who is always so

polite and gentle with us."

All agreed that they had never heard anything like it before. The rest

of the drive was passed in silence; for, though attaching no credence

to the witch's words, they could not at once throw off their ominous

influence.

On their arrival at the manor house, however, where they found a number

of friends awaiting them, this little cloud was soon scattered.

The joyous laughter of the party could be heard even to the highway,

and the echoes of the bluff were kept busy repeating the refrain:

"Ramenez vos moutons, bergère,

Belle bergère, vos moutons."

The dancers had broken one of the chains of their dance, and were

running everywhere, one behind the other, around the vast court-yard.

They surrounded the chevalier's carriage, the chain reunited, and they

began dancing round and round, crying to Mademoiselle D'Haberville,

"Descend, fair shepherdess."

Blanche sprang lightly out of the carriage. The leader of the dance at

once whisked her off, and began to sing:

"Hail to the fairest in the land!

(Hail to the fairest in the land!)

"Now I take you by the hand.

(Now I take you by the hand.)

I lead you here, I lead you there;

Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair.

Bring back your sheep and with care them keep,

Shepherdess fair, bring back your sheep.

Bring back, bring back, bring back with care,

Bring back your sheep, O shepherdess fair!"

After making several more rounds, with the chevalier's carriage in the

middle, and all the time singing:

"Ramenez, ramenez, ramenez donc,

Belle bergère, vos moutons."

They at length broke up the chain, and all danced merrily into the

house.

Uncle Raoul, at last set at liberty by the inexorable dancers,

descended as he could from the carriage and hastened to join the party

at the supper-table.