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Jacqueline of Golden River

<h3> CHAPTER V </h3> <h3> M. LE CURÉ </h3> The very obvious decision at which I arrived after a night of cogitation in my berth was that Jacqueline was to pass as my sister. I explained my plan to her at breakfast. There had been the examination of baggage at the frontier and the tiresome change to a rear car in the early morning, and most of us were heavy-eyed, but she looked as fresh and charming as ever in her new waist of black lace and the serge skirt which she had bought the day before. It seemed impossible to realize that I was really seated opposite her in the dining car, talking amid the punctuating chatter of a party of red-cheeked French-Canadian school children who had come on the train at Sherbrooke, bound for their home on the occasion of the approaching Christmas holidays. "You see, Jacqueline," I explained, "it will look strange our travelling together, unless some close relationship is supposed to exist between us. I might subject you to embarrassment—so I shall call you my sister, Miss Hewlett, and you will call me your brother Paul." And I handed her my visiting card, because she had never heard my surname before. "I shall be glad to think of you as my brother Paul," she answered, looking at the card. She held it in her right hand, and it was not until the middle of the meal that the left hand came into view. Then I discovered that she had taken off her wedding ring. I wondered what thought impelled her to do this, whether it was coquetry or the same instinct which seemed to interpret the situation at all times perfectly, though it never welled up into her consciousness. We sped northward all that morning, stopping at many little wayside stations, and as we rushed along beside the ice-bound St. Francis the air ever grew colder, and the land, deep in snow, and the tall pines, white with frost, looked like a picture on a Christmas card. At last the St. Lawrence appeared, covered with drifting floes; the Isle of Orleans, with the Falls of Montmorency behind it; the ascending heights which slope up to the Château Frontenac, the fort-crowned citadel, the long parapet, bristling with guns. Then, after the ferry had transferred us from Levis we stood in Lower Quebec. We had hardly gone on board the ferryboat when an incident occurred that greatly disturbed me. A slightly built, well-dressed man, with a small, upturned mustache and a face of notable pallor, passed and repassed us several times, staring and smiling with cool effrontery at both of us. He wore a lambskin cap and a fur overcoat, and I could not help associating him with the dead man, or avoiding the belief that he had travelled north with us, and that Leroux had been to see him off at the station. I was a good deal troubled by this, but before I had decided to address the fellow we landed, and a sleigh swept us up the hill toward the château to the tune of jingling bells. It was a strange wintry scene—the low sleighs, their drivers wrapped in furs and capped in bearskin, the hooded nuns in the streets, the priests, soldiers, and ancient houses. The air was keen and dry. "This is Quebec, Jacqueline," I said. I thought that she remembered unwillingly, but she said nothing. I dared ask her no questions. I fancied that each scene brought back its own memories, but not the ideas associated with the chain of scenes. We secured adjacent rooms at the château, and leaving Jacqueline to unpack her things, and under instructions not to leave her room and promising to return as soon as possible, I started out at once to find Maclay & Robitaille's. This proved a task of no great difficulty. It was a little shop where leather goods were sold, situated on St. Joseph Street. A young man with a dark, clean-shaven face, was behind the counter. He came forward courteously as I approached. "I have come on an unusual mission," I began foolishly and stopped, conscious of the inanity of this address. What a stupid thing to have said! I must have aroused his suspicions immediately. He begged my pardon and called a man from another part of the shop. And that gave me my chance over again, for I realized that he had not understood my English. "Do you remember," I asked the newcomer, "selling a collar to a young lady recently—no, some long time ago—a dog-collar, I mean?" The proprietor shrugged his shoulders. "I sell a good many dog-collars during the year," he answered. I took the plate from my pocket and set it down on the counter. "The collar was set with silver studs," I said. "This was the plate." Then I remembered the name Leroux had used and flung it out at random. "I think it was for a Mlle. Duchaine," I added. The shot went home. "Ah, monsieur, now I remember perfectly," answered the proprietor, "both from the unusual nature of the collar and from the fact that there was some difficulty in delivering it. There was no post-office nearer the seigniory than St. Boniface, where it lay unclaimed for a long time. I think madamoiselle had forgotten all about the order. Or perhaps the dog had died!" "Where is this seigniory?" "The seigniory of M. Charles Duchaine?" he answered, looking curiously at me. "You are evidently a stranger, monsieur, or you would have heard of it, especially now when people are saying that——" He checked himself at this point. "It is the oldest of the seigniories," he continued. "In fact, it has never passed out of the hands of the original owners, because it is almost uninhabitable in winter, except by Indians. I understand that M. Duchaine has built himself a fine château there; but then he is a recluse monsieur, and probably not ten men have ever visited it. But mademoiselle is too fine a woman to be imprisoned there long——" "How could one reach the château?" I interpolated. He looked at me inquiringly as though he wondered what my business there could be. "In summer," he replied, "one might ascend the Rivière d'Or in a canoe for half the distance, until one reached the mountains, and then——" He shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know. Possibly one would inquire of the first trapper who passed in autumn. In winter one would fly. It is strange that so little is known of the seigniory, for they say the Rivière d'Or——" "The Golden River?" "Has vast wealth in it, and formerly the Indians would bring gold-dust in quills to the traders. But many have sought the source of this supply in past times and failed or died, and so——" He shrugged his shoulders again. "You see, M. Duchaine is a hermit," he continued. "Once, so my father used to say, he was one of the gayest young men in Quebec. But he became involved in the troubles of 1867—and then his wife died, and so lie withdrew there with the little mademoiselle—what was her name?" He called his clerk. "Alphonse, what is the name of that pretty daughter of M. Charles Duchaine, of Rivière d'Or?" he asked. "Annette," answered the man. "No, Nanette. No Janette. I am sure it ends with 'ette' or 'ine,' anyway." "Eh bien, it makes no difference," said the proprietor, "because, since she left the Convent of the Ursulines here in Quebec, where she was educated, her father keeps her at the château, and you are not likely to set eyes on M. Charles Duchaine's daughter." A sudden stoppage in his flow of words, an almost guilty look upon his face, as a new figure entered the little shop, directed my attention toward the stranger. He was an old man of medium size, very muscularly built, stout, and with enormous shoulders. He wore a priest's soutane, but he did not look like a priest—he looked like a man's head on a bull body. His smooth face was tanned to the colour of an Indian's—his bright blue eyes, almost concealed by their drooping, wrinkled lids, were piercing in their scrutiny. He wore a bearskin hat and furs of surprising quality. It was not so much his strange appearance that attracted my interest as the singular look of authority upon the face, which was yet deeply lined about the mouth, as though he could relax upon occasion and become the jolliest of companions. And he spoke a pure French, interspersed with words of an uncouth patois, which I ascribed to long residence in some remote parish. "Bo'jour, Père Antoine," said the shopkeeper deferentially, fixing his eyes rather timidly upon the old priest's face. "Eh bien, who is this with whom thou gossipest concerning the daughter of M. Duchaine?" inquired Father Antoine, looking at me keenly. "Only a customer—a stranger, monsieur," answered the proprietor, rubbing his hands together. "He wishes to see—a dog collar, was it not?" he continued, turning nervously toward me. "You talk too much," said Père Antoine roughly. "Now, monsieur," he said, addressing me in fair English, "what is the nature of your business that it can possibly concern either M. Duchaine or his daughter? Perhaps I can inform you, since he is one of my parishioners." "My conversation was not with you, monsieur le curé," I answered shortly, and left the shop. I had ascertained what I needed to know, and had no desire to enter into a discussion of my business with the old man. I had not gone three paces from the door, however, when the priest, coming up behind me, placed a huge hand upon my shoulder and swung me around without the least apparent effort. "I do not know what your business is, monsieur," he said, "but if it were an honest one you would state it to me. If you wish to see M. Duchaine I am best qualified to assist you to do so, since I visit his château twice each year to carry the consolations of religion to him and his people. But if your business is not honest it will fail. End it then and return to your own country." "I do not intend to discuss my business with you, monsieur," I answered angrily. It is humiliating to be in the physical grip of another man, even though he be a priest. He let me go and stood eyeing me with his keen gaze. I jumped on a passing car, but looking back, I saw him striding along behind it. He seemed to walk as quickly as the car went through the crowded street, and with no effort. When I got off in the neighbourhood of the Place d'Armes it was nearly dark; but though I could not see the old man, I was convinced that he was still following me. I found Jacqueline in her room looking over her purchases, and took her down to dinner. And here I had another disconcerting experience, for hardly were we seated when the inquisitive stranger whom I had seen at the ferry came into the dining-room, and after a careful survey which ended as his eyes fell on us, he took his seat at an adjacent table. I could not but connect him with our presence there. Leroux was due to arrive at any moment. I realized that great issues were at stake, that the man would never cease in his attempts to get hold of Jacqueline. Only when I had returned her to her father's house would I feel safe from him. The château was the worst place to have made my headquarters. If I had realized the man's persistence, perhaps I would have sought less conspicuous lodgings. Leroux's behaviour at the railroad station had betrayed both an ungovernable temper when he was crossed, and to a certain extent, fearlessness. Nevertheless I believed him to have also an elemental cunning which would dissuade him from violent measures so long as we were in Quebec. I resolved, therefore, not to avoid him, but to await his lead. After dinner I had some conversation with one of the hotel clerks. I discovered that the Rivière d'Or flowed into the Gulf of St. Lawrence from the north, in the neighbourhood of Anticosti. It was a small stream, and except for a postal station at its mouth named St. Boniface, was little known, the only occupants of those parts being trappers and Indians. When I told the clerk that I had business at St. Boniface I think he concluded that I represented an amalgamation of fishing interests, for he became exceedingly communicative. "You could hire dogs and a sleigh at St. Boniface for wherever your final destination is," he said, "because the dog mail has been suspended owing to the new government mail-boats, and the sleighs are idle. I think Captain Dubois would take you on his boat as far as that point, and I believe he makes his next trip in a couple of days." He gave me the captain's address, and I resolved to call on him early the following day and make arrangements. I was just turning away when I saw the inquisitive stranger leave the smoking-room. He crossed the hall and went out, not without bestowing a long look on me. "Who is that man?" I asked. "Why, isn't he a friend of yours?" inquired the clerk. "Only by the way he stares at me," I said. "Well, he said he thought he knew you and asked me your name," the clerk answered. "He didn't give me his, and I don't think he has been in here before." I took Jacqueline for a stroll on the Terrace, and while we walked I pondered over the problem. The night was too beautiful for my depression of mind to last. The stars blazed brilliantly overhead; upon our left the faint outlines of the Laurentians rose, in front of us the lights of Levis twinkled above the frozen gulf. There was a flicker of Northern Lights in the sky. We paced the Terrace, arm in arm, from the statue of Champlain that overlooks the Place d'Armes to the base of the mighty citadel, and back, till the cold drove us in. Jacqueline was very quiet, and I wondered what she remembered. I dreaded always awakening her memory lest, with that of her home, came that other of the dead man. Our rooms were on the side of the Château facing the town, and as we passed beneath the arch I saw two men standing no great distance away, and watching us, it seemed to me. One wore the cassock of a priest, and I could have sworn that he was Père Antoine; the other resembled the inquisitive stranger. As we drew near they moved behind a pillar. Thus, inexorably, the chase drew near. My suspicions received confirmation a few minutes later, for we had hardly reached our rooms, and I was, in fact, standing at the door of Jacqueline's, bidding her good night, when a bellboy came along the passage and announced that the gentleman whom I was expecting was coming up the stairs. I said good-night to Jacqueline and went into my room and waited. I had thought it would be the stranger, but it was the priest. I invited him to enter, and he came in and stood with his fur cap on his head, looking direfully at me. "Well, monsieur, what is the purpose of this visit?" I asked. "To tell you," he thundered, "that you must give up the unhappy woman who has accompanied you here." "That is precisely what I intend to do," I answered. "To me," he said. "Her husband——" I felt my brain whirling. I knew now that I had always cherished a hope, despite the ring—what a fool I had been! "I married them," continued Père Antoine. "Where is he?" I demanded desperately. He appeared disconcerted. I gathered from his stare that he had supposed I knew. "This is a Catholic country," he went on, more quietly. "There is no divorce; there can be none. Marriage is a sacrament. Sinning as she is——" I placed my hand on his shoulder. "I will not hear any more," I said. "Go!" I pointed toward the door. "I am going to take her away with me," he said, and crossing the threshold into the corridor, placed one hand on the door of Jacqueline's room. I got there first. I thrust him violently aside—it was like pushing a monument; turned the key, which happily was still outside, and put it in my pocket. "I am ready to deal with her husband," I said. "I am not ready to deal with you. Leave at once, or I will have you arrested, priest or no priest." He raised his arm threateningly. "In God's name—" he began. "In God's name you shall not interfere with me," I cried. "Tell that to your confederate, Simon Leroux. A pretty priest you are!" I raged. "How do I know she has a husband? How do I know you are not in league with her persecutors? How do I know you are a priest at all?" He seemed amazed at the violence of my manner. "This is the first time my priesthood has been denied," he said quietly. "Well, I have offered you your chance. I cannot use violence. If you refuse, you will bring your own punishment upon your head, and hers on that of the unhappy woman whom you have led into sin." "Go!" I shouted, pointing down the passage. He turned and went, his soutane sweeping against the door of Jacqueline's room as he went by. At the entrance to the elevator he turned again and looked back steadily at me. Then the door clanged and the elevator went down. I unlocked the door of Jacqueline's room. I saw her standing at the foot of the bed. She was supporting herself by her hands on the brass framework. Her face was white. As I entered she looked up piteously at me. "Who—was—that?" she asked in a frightened whisper. "An impudent fellow—that is all, Jacqueline." "I thought I knew his voice," she answered slowly. "It made me—almost—remember. And I do not want to remember, Paul." She put her arms about my neck and cried. I tried to comfort her, but it was a long time before I succeeded. I locked her door on the outside, and that night I slept with the key beneath my pillow. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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