



Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: "ALL DAY THE RIVALS FISHED UP THE STREAM"]




                             JEAN BAPTISTE

                        A STORY OF FRENCH CANADA


                                   BY

                           J. E. LE ROSSIGNOL

                  Author of "Little Stories of Quebec"



                            LONDON & TORONTO
                         J. M. DENT & SONS LTD.
                                 MCMXV




                                   To
                               MY MOTHER




                             LA RIVE NATALE

    O patrie! o rive natale.
    Pleine d'harmonieuses voix!
    Chants etranges que la rafale
    Nous apporte du fond des bois!

    O souvenirs de la jeunesse,
    Frais comme un rayon du printemps!
    O fleuve, temoin de l'ivresse
    De nos jeunes coeurs de vingt ans!

    O vieilles forets ondoyantes,
    Teinte du sang de nos aieux!
    O lacs! o plaines odorantes
    Dont le parfum s'eleve aux cieux!

    Bords, ou les tombeaux de nos peres
    Nous racontent, le temps ancien,
    Vous seuls possedez ces voix cheres
    Qui font battre un coeur canadien!

    OCTAVE CREMAZIE.




                               *CONTENTS*

CHAP.

      I. The Vocation of Jean Baptiste
     II. The Migration
    III. The Sorcerer
     IV. The Loup Garou
      V. Castles in Spain
     VI. The Habitant
    VII. Her Majesty's Mail
   VIII. The City Man
     IX. The Loan
      X. Blanchette
     XI. La Folie
    XII. Profit and Loss
   XIII. The Return of Pamphile
    XIV. The Triumph of Pamphile
     XV. The Pastime of Love
    XVI. The Temptation of Jean Baptiste
   XVII. Vengeance
  XVIII. Michel
    XIX. Mother Sainte Anne
     XX. The Robbery
    XXI. Love and War
   XXII. The Wilderness
  XXIII. The Cure
   XXIV. The Relapse
    XXV. Treasure Trove




                            *JEAN BAPTISTE*



                              *CHAPTER I*

                    *THE VOCATION OF JEAN BAPTISTE*


"You may read, Jean," said Mademoiselle Angers; whereupon a breath of
renewed interest passed through the schoolroom, as Jean Baptiste Giroux
rose in his place and began to read, in a clear and resonant voice, the
story of that other Jean Baptiste, his patron saint.

"Saint John, dwelling alone in the wilderness beyond the Dead Sea,
prepared himself by self discipline and by constant communion with God,
for the wonderful office to which he had been divinely called.  The very
appearance of the holy Baptist was of itself a lesson to his countrymen.
His dress was that of the old prophets--a garment of camel's hair
attached to his body by a leathern girdle.  His food was such as the
desert afforded--locusts and wild honey.  Because of his exalted
sanctity a great multitude came to him from every quarter.  Brief and
startling was his final exhortation to them: 'Repent ye, for the Kingdom
of Heaven is at hand.'"

It was a simple and oft-repeated story, but there was something in the
voice and manner of Jean that compelled attention.  All the children
listened; also the teacher; and the visitor, M. Paradis, cure of the
parish, was visibly impressed.  He brought his horn-rimmed spectacles
down from the top of his head, set them firmly on the bridge of his
nose, and regarded Jean for some moments without saying a word.

Jean returned the gaze with a steady, respectful glance; then let his
eyes fall until they were looking at the floor just below the cure's
feet.  It was not polite to stare at visitors, but one might look at
their boots. The boots of M. Paradis were covered with dust.  He had
walked all the way from the presbytery, two miles or more--that was
evident.

"Ah, it is you, Jean," said the cure.

"Oui, Monsieur," said Jean,

"How old are you, Jean?"

"Sixteen years, Monsieur."

"Sixteen years!  It seems like yesterday since you were baptized.  How
the time goes!  Sixteen years, you say?  You are no longer a child,
Jean, no indeed. Well, it is high time to decide what we are going to
make of you, certainly.  Tell me, Jean; you admire the character of your
patron saint, do you not?"

"Mais oui, Monsieur."

"In what respect, my son?"

"Oh, Monsieur, he was a hero, without fear and without reproach, like
Bayard."

