



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."

"Bayard, Jean, what do you know of him?"

"He also was a hero, Monsieur.  Mademoiselle Angers has told us about
him."

"Without doubt.  But Jean, Jean Baptiste, would you not like to be a
hero like your patron saint?"

"Oui, Monsieur."

"Forerunner of the true God?  Tell me that, Jean."

"Ah, Monsieur, as to that I do not know."

"You shall be, Jean, you shall be.  Come, Jean, come with me this
instant.  We will go to see your parents, that is to say, your mother.
Your father, Jean, was a good man; he rests in God.  Pardon us,
Mademoiselle.  I fear that we have transgressed.  But it is a very
important matter and I wish to speak to Madame Giroux without delay.
Permit us, if you please, to go now.  Will you not grant us this favour,
Mademoiselle?"

"With pleasure, Monsieur le cure," said the teacher. "And I hope that
you will find something suitable for Jean.  He is a boy of great force
of character, one who might be very good or very bad."

"True, Mademoiselle; it is always thus.  Adieu, Mademoiselle.  Adieu, my
children."

"Jean," said the cure, as they walked along the winding valley road, "I
have known you for a long time, since you were a very small child; and I
think, yes, I quite think that you have the vocation, the divine call to
the service of God and His Church.  Yes, it seems to me that you have
all the marks.  See!  _Probitas vitae_, innocence of life.  I have not
heard of any real wickedness that you have done.  Faults, perhaps, like
all boys; transgressions even, but nothing serious; venial sins, merely,
like all mortals.

"Again, _scientia conveniens_, scholarship.  In that you are very strong
for your age, assuredly. Mademoiselle Angers has told me that you are by
far the most promising pupil in the school.  Do not be proud, Jean; all
that comes from God.  Be glad and humble.

"Finally, _recta intentio_, sincere desire, pure and holy zeal for the
glory of God, and the salvation of souls. Jean, Jean Baptiste, have you
really these desires, these aspirations?  Are you willing to give
yourself to this holy work?  Will you renounce the world, the flesh and
the devil, and consecrate yourself to the service of God?  Tell me, my
son."

"My father," said Jean, hesitating and embarrassed, "I wish--I do not
know what I wish.  I would do something, I know not what.  For the glory
of God? Yes.  For the good of man?  Ah, yes.  At least, for my
relations, the neighbours, the parish.  But to be a priest?  No,
Monsieur le cure, I cannot."

"But, Jean, you wish to attain the highest possible, do you not?  I am
sure that you do."

"Mais oui, Monsieur."

"Good, Jean, that is good.  Then you shall be a priest.  It is the only
way to the excellence which you desire, unless you would follow the
religious life.  But you have no vocation in that direction, as I
think."

"Monsieur!"

"Say no more, Jean.  It is decided.  Do not trouble.  Here we are at
your place, and we shall see Madame, your mother.  Ah, there she is.
Bonjour, Madame Giroux.  We are making an early visit, are we not?"

"Mais non, Monsieur, you are always welcome.  Be so good as to enter.
Your blessing, Monsieur le cure, on us and our poor house.  It is a
great honour to have such a visit.  Jean, place the armchair for
Monsieur Paradis.  Marie, bring a glass of cordial for Monsieur; also
some of the cakes which you made yesterday. Monsieur Paradis, it is a
cordial which I made myself last summer of wild cherries, and it is
excellent for the stomach."

"Madame, the cordial is a veritable nectar, and the cakes are as the
bread of angels."

"It is Marie, Monsieur, who made the cakes.  She is a treasure, that
girl.  I wish that all mothers could have such a daughter in their old
age."

"You are indeed fortunate, Madame.  And you have other
daughters--Marguerite, Sophie, Therese, Agathe--I remember them well."

"What a memory you have, Monsieur le cure! Yes, five daughters, all
married but this little Marie, and she will be going soon.  Thus the
young birds leave us, Monsieur, and begin to build nests of their own."

"But what a fine family, Madame!  Five daughters and six sons."

"Pardon, Monsieur, seven in all.  Little Jean, here, is the baby, the
seventh."

"The seventh, Madame!  That is lucky."

"Yes, Monsieur, the seventh son of a seventh.  His father also was a
seventh son, of a family of Chateau Richer."

"Madame, that is most extraordinary.  It is truly propitious.  The
family Giroux, too, of Chateau--a well-known family in that parish,
distinguished, even, of a most honourable history.  But the younger
sons, of course, must make their own way.

"Madame," continued Father Paradis, "this boy, Jean Baptiste, this
seventh son of a seventh, was born, I