Зображення сторінки
PDF
ePub
[graphic][merged small][merged small]

"Pamphile said they bought the liquor 'chez Pascal Rochette,' he said at last, with a shiver. "Alas, my sermon, my sermon!"

The next morning dawned fair. first the steel-blue sky with the morning star swinging clear over the great river, then the trem bling, uncertain light of new-born day, and finally the red shoulder of the sun, pushed. slowly above the low-lying South shore. The Curé was early astir; all night he had tossed sleepless on his bed, tormented by remembrances of the evening's scandal; slowly but surely anger had given place to selfrecrimination. Was he not, after all, responsible for the men's behavior? This was the question he asked over and over again, and over and over again his sensitive conscience answered yes. He was getting old, unfit for his position, he had not sufficiently fought the growing power of Pete Tremblay and his party, he had dilly-dallied with the evils of Pascal's bar, and finally, in his unwarranted satisfaction with his Sunday sermon, he had been guilty of the sin of pride. The old man, as he fastened the last button of his soutane, hung his head.

"Mea culpa," he murmured, culpa."

mea

He was deaf to the white-throat's morning song, he was blind to the nodding orange lilies beneath the presbytère windows, and he said his mass mechanically, if reverently. At breakfast François Lavoie noticed his master's depression, but, though he guessed its source, he tactfully omitted any reference to last night's scandal.

[ocr errors]

'Come, Monsieur le Curé," he said, as one might speak to an ailing child, "take a little food. To eat, Monsieur, is the will of God as well as a temptation of the devil."

But the old priest silently shook his head, for, slowly but surely, he had arrived at a painful conclusion which sapped his appetite and depressed his spirits. That he himself was the most guilty he did not attempt to deny, and perhaps, on the whole, it would be wiser and better give up his parish; nevertheless, before taking such a step, and for the good of his flock, he must make an example of Pascal Rochette, the man who had flaunted a disregard for his brothers' welfare and a depraved sense of his own independence in the very face of the church's

disapproval. Much as the Curé shrank from such measures, he felt he must not falte. He would make one more effort to reclaim Pascal, and if that failed he would aunch against the sinner the dreaded thunder of excommunication.

Immediately after breakfast the Curé went to his room. He took off his rusty, weekly soutane and replaced it by his newer Sunday garment. He put his best hat on his head, his buckled shoes on his feet. The Curé, like his far-off ancestors of France, was going forth to do battle dressed in his finest.

François Lavoie, with open mouth, watched the old priest pick his way across the muddy road and walk in the direction of the newly built saloon.

"Seigneur," he exclaimed, rubbing his knotted hands together, "Monsieur le Curé has his clothes of Sunday. Pascal Rochette is in danger!"

There was no visible life before the rude, unpainted building which was, at one and the same time, Pascal Rochette's house and place of business. Slowly but firmly the Curé mounted the rough steps and, lifting the latch, stepped into the low-raftered, empty bar. Here there was ample evidence of the night's orgy; broken bottles, some empty, some half full, covered the unplaned floor and counter, window panes were shattered, chairs legless. The old man's brows drew sharply together and his mouth closed convulsively. Probably both Pascal and his wife were sleeping off the effects of their excesses. Disgusted and angry, he strode across the room and flung open the door leading to the Rochettes' living apartments. "Thank God, they have no children," he murmured.

The Rochettes' kitchen was no more sordid than those of their neighbors, the faded rag carpet no dirtier, the glowing stove no more dilapidated, but to the Curé's highly wrought nerves its lack of order seemed this morning a many-tongued testimony to the degradation of the liquor trade. It therefore surprised him to get a glimpse of Madame Rochette in the adjoining shed, standing thus early before her wash-tub, skirts pinned carefully behind, soapsuds to the elbow. She was so intent on her work that at first she did not see him.

"Good day, my child," he said, taking off his hat, and little Madame Rochette, with a

scream of surprise, raised her head, made a vain, embarrassed effort to wipe the soapsuds from her hands and to straighten her rumpled hair.

"Good day, Monsieur le Curé," she gasped; she entered the kitchen and hurriedly placed a yellow wooden chair by the stove. "It will be a fine day."

The old priest faltered, but finally seated himself. There was no doubt in his mind on one subject: whatever little Madame Rochette's share in the past scandal, she was at present quite her unoriginal self.

"I wish to speak with thy husband," he said at last, rather awkwardly. "Where is

he?"

"In an instant," replied the little woman, winking her near-sighted brown eyes. "I will call him for Monsieur; he washes his planche at the stable," and she whisked herself out of the kitchen.

In St. Fidèle, Pascal Rochette's planche was not noted for its cleanliness; this excess of neatness was, therefore, somewhat puzzling to the Curé. Was this Pascal's new form of intoxication, he mused, as he sat upright in the wooden chair, his feet close together, his hands on his knees, waiting patiently.

Before many minutes had passed there was a murmur of voices, a scuffle of feet, and the huge form of Pascal Rochette filled the doorway. The big, red-bearded fellow pulled at his forelock in embarrassed silence, and the old priest, with growing wonder in his eyes, examined him slowly from head to foot. Pascal, contrary to his usual custom, was as sober as the priest himself.

"You wish to see me, Monsieur le Curé," he murmured, turning his great head from side to side like a bashful child.

The Curé cleared his throat. He had come prepared to meet a half drunken and rebellious publican, and the man's sober, if awkward, docility troubled him.

"Yes, my son," he said. "I wish to speak with thee, to tell thee-" and then he paused, uncertain of his ground.

"Ah, Monsieur le Curé," said Pascal, stepping within the threshold and flushing with pleasure, "it is, I see, as Claudia says, you come to tell us you are content with what we did last night, to give us your blessing."

pelled, continued breathlessly: "Ah, Monsieur, that was a great sermon, a sermon of first-class. At first I say what is it of which Monsieur le Curé and the good St. Paul talk; they know nothing of such matters; for a curé or a saint it is not convenable to be en boisson, but for the rest of the world from time to time it is the custom. And then, Monsieur, little by little, I begin to listen; what you say has the air to be of good sense, and I see, too, that the good St. Paul is a man of certain talent. I remember Ernest Dufour, who is drowned at the logging camp because he go to the drive when he is en fêtë; he leave, I know, five little children and a sick wife. I remember Napoleon Gagné, whose horse run away from him, when he is un peu exalté, and throw him from his planche with a broken leg. Dame, I say to myself, Monsieur le Ferrière has reason, too much whiskey blanc is not good, and I promise to myself that I will only take quelques petits coups from time to time. Monsieur le Curé, then you say it is not good that a man should tempt his brother. Eh bien, what is that to me? I think my brothers are all at Lac St. Jean; but you contend that all the village is my brother. Seigneur, I say that is a big family that Monsieur le Ferrière gives. I listen not to such words, they are bad for the business. Then, Monsieur le Curé, you talk, you talk so long, so well, that I begin to find the seat hard; I look around, I like to get out of the church, but every one looks at me, and I have fear to go. You, Monsieur le Curé, your eyes they grow big, you shake your hand at me; when a hare feels the noose round his neck and kicks with his legs he feels not worse than I: Pascal Rochette. Mon gars, I say to my self, at the last day of judgment le bon Dieu will speak like that, then it will be too late. All at once, Monsieur, my heart grow big, the tears come to my eyes. Monsieur, it is with difficulty that I sit still. I wish to get up and tell you that I have shame.

"When mass is over I speak to no one I go straight to my house and then I tell my wife how I feel. She, too, has the heavy heart. 'What shall I do?' I say, 'to show Monsieur le Curé and the bon Dieu that we repent?'

"Claudia has the head, Monsieur, that I have always said. Monsieur le Curé is The priest's jaw dropped. right, she tell me, and Pete Tremblay is one Pascal, his former embarrassment dis- big rascal when he makes thee take the li

cense; it is dangerous for thee to keep it. Thou must sell no more whiskey blanc, thou must become temperance, and we will go back to the farm. But,' says my wife, 'thou hast done much wrong and to make peace with Monsieur le Curé and the bon Dieu, this penance has come into my head: the two hundred dollars that thou hast gained this month, thou shalt rend them to Monsieur le Curé, and the whiskey in the house thou shalt ask nothing for it, thou shalt give it away.""

Here Pascal, assured of admiration, paused and looked proudly at Monsieur le Ferrière, but the Curé, his hand before his twitching lips, turned abruptly to an open window and became absorbed in contemplation of the disordered barnyard.

Pascal, with a sigh of disappointment, continued his narrative. "At first, Monsieur, I say no. I have earned the two hundred dollars and there remains much whiskey, for at least fifty dollars, Monsieur. It is enough that I give up the license, become temperance and go back to the farm. But Claudia is obstinate like a pig. A penance, she says, is not a penance if it costs nothing. What would you, Monsieur," pleaded Pascal, shrugging his shoulders, "those who are married know it is better to agree with one's wife. I go to the village in the afternoon and tell everybody that I have done wrong, that I give up the license, that I give away for nothing the remainder of the whiskey blanc. They are good fellow in the village, Monsieur, they say Claudia is right, that she has good ideas. They all shake me by the hand and promise to help me. So when I come to my house Claudia and I open the door of the bar, we leave the bottles on the counter, he who comes helps himself. My wife and I go early to bed, but, I assure Monsieur, not to sleep. The noise those fellows made was une affaire terrible. I wish to send them away; but Claudia, she say 'No, it is part of the penance.'

The Curé, still studying the barnyard, lifted his shoulders ever so slightly, but Pascal, intent on the fulfilment of his promises, was unsuspicious. He plunged a huge hand into a sagging vest-pocket and drew out a roll of dirty bills. "Here are the two hundred dollars, Monsieur," he said. His tone of voice, though regretful, was firm.

"H'm," murmured the Curé, with an assumed gravity, as he faced about and looked

intently at Pascal, "h'm," and he passed a long, slim hand across his lined brow. He was humorously convinced that the Rochettes knew nothing of the last night's serenade.

"Pascal, my son," he said finally, dropping his eyes and motioning the money away from him, "wilt thou not need the two hundred dollars for the farm?" The possibility of excommunication had melted into thin air.

The man's heavy face lighted with pleasure. "Ah, Monsieur le Curé," he said, quickly pocketing the bills, "what goodness. You think, then, that the bon Dieu will be satisfied with less?"

The Cure's lips quivered as he rose to his feet, but he nodded his head reassuringly. He smoothed down his soutane, he put on his hat.

"Tell Claudia," he said finally, forming his words with slow precision, "that I am very happy. As thou sayest: she has the head, she is a good wife to thee, Pascal. It is well that thou shouldst go back to the farm; it is well that thou shouldst give up the license, but perhaps another time it would be wiser to come to me. I would not interfere with Claudia, but a priest of my age has, after all, a certain experience in penances." The Cure's face was set in grave lines and his broad-brimmed hat hid his eyes. "Au revoir, my son," he said, as he pushed open the door of the bar. He threaded his way through the broken bottles and stepped out into the village street.

"My children, my children," he murmured, "and I dreamed of leaving you." The clear sunshine was dazzling, the sky cloudless, and the narrow, lonely road lay white and straight between the hip-roofed houses. In the shed behind the kitchen Madame Rochette stood like a priestess before her wash-tub.

"Ah, Pascal," she said, plunging her hands in the soapsuds, "what did I say? Didst thou no see Monsieur le Curé's face? it shone like the moon of August; he and the bon Dieu are full of admiration."

Pascal, submissive and convinced, bowed his head to the marital yoke and only the swaying green willow before Pascal's door, as it stooped low to shelter the priest from the blazing sun, knew that, though there were tears of relief and tenderness in his faded eyes, Monsieur le Curé was laughing.

[graphic][subsumed][subsumed][subsumed]
« НазадПродовжити »