The Storyteller

New Zealand Tablet, 31 March 1910, Page 483

The Storyteller

AT THE ST. JEAN BAPTISTE I. That was a fine farm down upon the road past the sawmill, and it belonged rather to the parish of St. Jean Baptiste than to the mountain village. : Row upon row of acacia, maple, butternut, and hickory trees surrounded the substantial house of wood that stood but little back from the highroad, and wore an air of cheerfulness and prosperity unwonted even in that region of well-being. I he very sunlight seemed to flow down there in superabundant streams. The animals in their stalls, too, had a contented, well-cared-for appearance; and it accordingly alu ays came with something of a shock to strangers in the neighborhood when they heard that the name of the owner, by a very antithesis of ideas, was Death—All Saints’ Death —Toussaint La Mort. loussaint himself, who was often to be seen working about the place in blue blouse and overalls, his head covered by a straw hat of domestic manufacture, likewise supported that law of contrast. He was stalwart of build, healthy in coloring, and smiling and good-humored of countenance. ‘ Oui, c’est moi, qui est jours lien,' he said. 4 1 am always well.’ And he was well, not only in health, but, as has been seen, in all material necessities. Now, the majority of the damsels who lived in the small group of dwellings in the immediate environs of the parish church, or in the scattered cottages or farm-houses of the district, were not, as a rule, sentimental. In fact, they had been trained from childhood to regard marriage as a necssity, save for those whom the good God called to the cloister; and to consider as lucky those who procured in good season an establishment. They consequently gave little heed to the romantic side of the question; although even this might have had some justification in the case of the goodlooking farmer, who was already on the shady side of thirty and had not as yet made a choice. When on a Sunday he walked up the aisle of St. Jean Baptiste’s Church to a front pew, his appearance created a little flutter both in mothers of marriageable daughters and in the daughters themselves. The farm he possessed, the many cows, the maple trees which in the spring yielded an abundant and profitable sap, the large orchard, and the grain fields stretching away over so many acres—all these things were in the minds of matron and maid alike, and had to be put aside as distractions while the Holy Sacrifice proceeded. After Mass, on that broad wooden platform before the doors of the substantial edifice of grey stone, the girls lingered as long- as possible; while practical mothers detained more guileless fathers, who were concerned only with harnessing up the horse and driving off home again without further delay. Of course there were usually a variety of attractions in and about the church on Sunday mornings; for it was in all things, spiritual and even temporal, the centre of village life. Numberless announcements were made from an improvised rostrum close at hand, or political speakers made known their programmes for the ensuing week. Most of all, those gatherings on Sundays or feast-days gave the opportunity for a few moments’ pleasant social intercourse, or for a whispered conversation between the young men and girls. Of these opportunities Toussaint availed himself, going about from group to group, exchanging a compliment or a polite phrase with the best-looking girls. None of them, however, could claim him as her own. Despite; the cure’s objection to any excess of finery which - savored too much of the pomp and vanity of that wicked world lying out and beyond, the girls could not refrain from putting an extra ribbon in their hair or about their neck, or securing a bright-colored feather for their hats; always with a secret hope of attracting that hon parti, who was by common consent un ires beau gar fon. And it must be owned that mothers did not discourage them in this laudable desire. Toussaint himself, despite the general opinion to the contrary, was not so indifferent to attractions, as was commonly supposed; carelessly allowing it to be understood that his admiration was of too universal a character ever to become particular. ‘But I love them all,’ he would say to those who remonstrated with him upon his single blessedness. ‘Our girls, are the prettiest in the world.’ Nevertheless, in his heart he cherished a secret, and there his general admiration resolved itself into a particular liking. Its object wore no bright-colored ribbons or gaudy feathers, and hence was, to a certain extent, held to be out of the running. She had, in fact, been compelled to wear mourning for one or another of her kindred ever since she had grown to womanhood. She was considered by the older people as an excellent menagere, superintending her father’s establishments, together with a large family of brothers, with much skill and a praiseworthy economy. According to local ideas, this Aurore Destroismaisons was no beauty. She was fragile and slender, with scarcely a trace of color in her cheeks, her hair a dark brown running into black. Her eyes, which were grey, changed their hue every moment, growing darker with the stress of any emotion. The village verdict would not have been endorsed

had Aurore strayed from that rural solitude-into the world beyond. There she would have been considered —always supposing that she was properly dressedbeautiful. And Toussaint, who had ideas of his own, anticipated this opinion of the outer world. To him this pale and slender girl, with her speaking eyes and hair that was nut-brown in the sunlight, was beautiful. It would be difficult to determine , whether or not Aurore had any suspicion of her attraction for the best match in the parish. Even the most inexperienced girls, by a species of intuition, are commonly aware of an admiration that is expressed merely by a glance, a slight hesitation of speech in addressing them,: and a number of other little signs and tokens that the unobservant and the uninterested can not possibly perceive. But, in any case, Aurore was what most of the girls in the village were not : she was sentimental. Her thoughts and her ideas were quite distinct from the life about her. She saw the beauty in the pale blue flowers that gemmed the fields thereabouts, though to her companions they were only weeds she loved the wild roses upon the hedges, though she would have provoked ridicule amongst those around her by putting that love into words. She gazed with wonder and awe at the iridescent lights of the sunset skies, or felt the thrill of the moonlight shimmering on the distant mountain, or along the lanes, as she trod them with her brothers. Now, the young farmer, who was to all appearance prosaic, had more capacity for understanding the girl and her peculiar fancies than most of those around her and it is possible that he might have appealed favorably to her, save for one circumstance. This had its rise in her very sentimentality. She had an insuperable objection to the name of ‘ Death.’ She would have shuddered at the thought of being addressed as ‘ Madame La Mort.’ As her mother had been sleeping for many years in the little, cemetery hard by the church, and her father was a jovial easygoing man, not too anxious to lose his capable housekeeper, there was no one to bring the two together, or to induce Aurore to put aside her very impractical objection to a sterling fellow. n. On the 24th of June every year was celebrated the patronal feast of the parish church, St. Jean Baptiste, which was a gala day for all the parishioners. Within the edifice the high altar was ablaze with myriad colored lamps, accompanied with whatever other decoration was suggested by the primitive taste of the people. The choir was attuned to its highest pitch, and a strange priest, with a great reputation for oratory, had come all the way from the town of St. Hyacinth to deliver the sermon. Within the sanctuary stood the great cake, four storeys high, prepared for the feast _ according to the traditional receipt, and gaily adorned with ribbons. At a certain' time during the High Mass this St. John’s Bread was cut by the parish priest and placed in baskets; these were passed round by prominent young girls of the parish.* Aurore, having been chosen as one of these distributors, had discarded her black costume for once, and consequently appeared, to Toussaint’s mind, more than ever like an angel. Pompously preceded by the beadle in scarlet robe and cocked hat, Aurore passed the basket; and when she offered it to Toussaint, who sat upon her side of the aisle, the big fellow’s hand trembled so that he almost dropped the morsel of blessed bread. Aurore passed on; and Tous- - saint, reproaching himself for his profane thoughts, blessed himself, and, as was the quaint custom, ate the small portion of the traditional cake. Somehow, that touching little ceremony seemed to bind Toussaint more closely to the girl and establish a mysterious bond between them. He rejoiced that it was she who had given him the bread; though Aurore’s eyes had been modestly cast down as she glided along in the wake of the ponderous beadle. The choir was singing some of those familiar old hymns that he had heard from boyhood, and they seemed to fill his heart with joy. He felt even more than his wonted cheerfulness as he went forth after church, and saw the flags flying all around, not only from the facade of the edifice, but from all the dwellings in the neighborhood. He scarcely knew why he was emboldened to go up and speak to Aurore, who stood waiting for her father, surrounded by ‘ her boys,’ some of whom were a head and shoulders over her. When Toussaint La Mort hesitatingly approached, the boys fell back, and the farmer was permitted to stand beside the slender figure, so charming in the soft gown of white muslin. Toussaint had no thought for any one else. Ruddy cheeks, bright eyes, graceful figures remained unnoticed, even though the prettiest girls in the parish were out that day, in finery that must have caused their wise cure to shake his head, and in a variety of tints that set all rules of coloring at defiance. There was some tacit understanding, almost amounting to a custom, that bachelors in search of matrimonial partners took advantage of the great festival to make their choice; at least this had so often happened that it began to be expected. Astonished and resentful glances were accordingly cast in the direction of Aurore and the attendant swain, who looked his very best in Sunday garments, with a flower in his buttonhole. And that flower surprised the observers nearly as much as did, the farmer’s attention to the slender girl in white. For what should it be but that blue weed of the

field which rejoices in the poetic name of la belle marguerite ! They, of course, had no idea of his reason for choosing that common growth from all the variegated flora of his garden. But Toussaint knew; and it is possibly that Aurore, after one swift glance, knew also. ‘ Bonjour, Ma’amselle Aurore I’ he said. ' ‘ Bonjour, Monsieur V replied Aurore —failing to add the surname, which she had an insuperable objection to pronounce. The swain perceived the omission, and drew his own conclusions therefrom. There as a moment’s silence. All the pretty phrases and compliments which came readily to Toussaint’s lips when with the other girls took wing and fled away. And so he stood for a while in an unwontedly sheepish embarrassment. ' Ma’amselle Aurore,’ blurted out the young man, wiping his face with a fine cambric handkerchief which he had bought out of deference for Aurore’s fastidiousness, 1 would you take a little drive with me in my carriage this afternoon ?’ Aurore hesitated, and the farmer urged: ‘You know me well enough. It is not as if I were a stranger.’ She looked at him with her clear eyes. ‘I do not think I can go,’ she replied. The drive to church is quite enough for one day.’ ‘To-morrow, then?’ cried the farmer, eagerly. His voice trembled; he looked beseechingly at her. ‘ To-morrow ?’ exclaimed Aurore. She thought he must be crazy. Who would dream of going for a mere pleasure drive upon a working day, and in the haying season, tool ‘To-morrow,’ she said, you will be busy.’ 1 Not too busy for that,’ he answered. Aurore was not fertile in excuses, and she was too gentle to wish to offend an old acquaintance but she did not want to go. She feared that the whole parish would be talking; but such would be still more the case if they drove together upon a week-day. She forgot the significance of that special festival. Besides, she caught some glances which were levelled at her by various village beauties. She was human, and she compromised. . ' ‘ It would not do,’ she said gravely, ‘to go for such an outing on Monday. People would wonder.’ 1 Is it that you will not come with me at all ?’ murmured Toussaint, so miserably that even the blue flower in his buttonhole, at which he involuntarily glanced, seemed to express dejection. ‘ I might perhaps go to-day,’ she said, ‘ for a short—a very —drive.’ Toussaint fairly beamed, as he replied: ' Thank you a thousand times And Aurore, partly regretting her weakness, turned away and buried herself as it were amongst ‘ her boys.’ 111. After his interview with Aurore, Toussaint went about amongst the young girls in his usual manner, saying nicer things than ever. They were naturally triumphant, supposing that he had soon tired of that ‘pale and dowdy girl’ who had so little to say for herself, and who had grown old before her time with the care of all those big brothers. Aurore’s father, driving up with his horse and waggon the latter spacious enough to contain all the sons, who climbed up behind him and Aurore—espied Toussaint amongst a bevy of girls, and called out: Aha, my brave gar(,on, there you are amongst the girls! Your name should have been “ Amour ” [Love! instead of “La Mort ” [Death].’ ‘ ; At this witticism there was a boisterous laugh from the various groups of swains who lacked Toussaint’s advantages. When he had whipped up his horses and driven away, leaving a cloud of dust for the next vehicle, Aurore’s father remarked, with a shade of thought on his careless brow: ‘ He’s a good fellow, that Toussaint, and the girl will be lucky whom he chooses at the St. Jean Baptiste.’ Aurore said nothing, but looked straight in front of her. It was not until dinner was over, and her father sat smoking under the broad eaves covering their gallery, that she told him of Toussaint’s invitation, and asked leave to accept it. ‘How is that, my girl?’ he cried, laying down his pipe in his astonishment. 1 Toussaint has not been courting you?’ . - ; ‘ No, father,’ the girl truthfully replied. ‘And yet he asked you to drive upon the St. Jean Baptiste, when the people are sure to talk, and when a man does not do anything rashly He looked keenly at Aurore, though he scarcely suspected her of concealing anything from him. ‘ It would be a fine settlement for you, my girl,’ he said reflectively; ‘though I should be sorry to lose you.’ The tears rushed to Aurore’s eyes. ‘ Father,’ she said earnestly, ‘ it can not be. Never will I marry a man whose name causes me to shudder.’ The father laughed long and loud, though perhaps he was not altogether ill pleased with her decision. Awaking, however, to a sense of parental obligation, he remonstrated gravely: You are wrong, my child. It is not common-sense to refuse, for such a reason, a good man, and ope who has

wealth besides.. Anyway, if you are resolved not to marry him, you should not have promised to drive with him upon •the St. Jean Baptiste.’ Aurore had forgotten the significance locally attached to that festival. It had not occurred to her when, in her anxiety to avoid a more conspicuous occasion, she had so rashly accepted, the invitation. ' Then I will not go. When the carriage comes I will make an excuse.’ ‘I forbid you to do such a thing!’ cried the father, more sternly than he had ever before spoken to his idolised daughter. ‘ Toussaint is my friend; he has obliged me many times, and I will not permit him to be offended.’ Aurore, like nearly/ all the young people of that village, was accustomed to implicit obedience. ... She never even dreamed of disputing her father’s positively expressed command. .When, therefore, she came down a few minutes later, her costume completed by a very simple hat, and sat down meekly to wait for the carriage, her father exclaimed jestingly; ‘ If L’Amour has conquered La Mort, who knows but that he may be able to persuade you to take one with the other?’ . But Aurore obstinately set her lips, and vowed within herself that nothing would ever make her do so. A few seconds before the appointed hour, Toussaint drove up to the door in a handsome waggonette that he had bought from the seigneur, and Aurore’s father remarked upon the beauty of the horse. On pretence of making her take an extra wrap, for the sky began to look cloudy, the father got rid of Aurore for a moment; then he said to Toussaint: What is this, my boy? Why did you choose to-day to take my little girl for a drive?’ ‘Because it was to-day,’ said Toussaint, boldly (he had no fear at all of any man), ‘ and because I have long wished to make her my wife.’ ‘Did she know of that?’ asked the father, gravely. ‘ I have never spoken a word,’ answered the other; ‘ for, you see, I am more afraid of Aurore than of a battalion of soldiers.’ Again the father laughed. ‘You will soon get over that,’ he predicted. ‘But I think it as well to tell you that my girl will not consent.’ _ Poor Toussaint was all a-tremble, although he could scarcely bring himself to ask why. . ‘ls there some one else?’ he exclaimed at last. ‘ She has scarcely ever spoken to a man except her brothers,’ declared the father. ‘lt is because she is a fool, and does not like your name.’ Aurore appeared at that moment, and the conversation came to an end. There was nothing to be done but to help the girl into the carriage; and, with a nod to the father, Toussaint drove away down the dusty road, turning presently into one that was more shady. At many farmhouse doors people called out salutations, barely concealing their astonishment; while tongues were let loose almost before the pair had vanished out of sight. Aurore bitterly repented her complaisance. She realised what this outing must signify, since Toussaint had never been known to drive any girl before. She sat, therefore, pale, silent, and constrained: while Toussaint could not find a word to say. He drove her, of set purpose, past his own house, taking a short cut through the farm, past the. orchard and the manle trees, that yielded so many a dollar yearly. The sight of that fair domain gave its owner courage, especially as he knew that Aurore had been probably appraising everything as they passed ; for she was a proficient in household economy and wise in the lore of the country. ‘lt is a good property, is it not ?’ he ventured to inquire. Aurore briefly assented. ‘lt all belongs to me,’ the suitor continued, There is no mortgage. The house, too, as you see,’ and he waved his whip in that direction, ‘is a very comfortable one,. and it wants only one thing.’ ‘What is that?’ Aurore asked, abstractedly, feeling that she was expected to speak. ‘ A mistress.’ ■ V . ‘ And that will not be hard to find.’ she replied, with an uncomfortable laugh. ‘ln the parish there are many girls— — ’ • • . ■ ' ‘ Yes,’ interrupted Toussaint, ‘ there are many girls, and fine ones too; but there is one only whom I want.’ _ Aurore stiffened; and, in the face of her discouraging silence, Toussaint, who had now taken his courage in his hands, proceeded; . , . ‘Yon must know, Ma’amselle Aurore, that it is yourself, and no other, whom I adore and whom I wish to marry.’ _ For a moment the girl’s heart bounded with a curious exultation. All the damsels in the parish wanted this man, and hitherto he had been considered indifferent to them all. By saying one little monosyllable, she could have that house, those fertile meadows, that orchard and the maple grove, horses and cattle, and—and this man himself, who was not ill-looking, who bad a frank, open manner that was pleasing, and an excellent reputation. But, oh, there was that odious condition attached to it all! She would have to be called ‘ Madame La Mort,’ which was a thing not to be considered.

■ V Toussaint waited patiently for her answer, his honest face a shade or two paler than usual. At last Aurore spoke: ' k ■? ‘I am not thinking of marriage.’ ‘ But what, then?’ asked the suitor, in > dismay. You do not wish to_ enter the convent?’ , ~ f Aurore smiled, then answered demurely : ‘ The Sisters said I had no vocation.’ Toussaint breathed more freely. Then you do not wish to remain as you are?’ he went on. t , . ‘I have much to do at home. I have my father and the boys.’ ‘- . ‘ But do you not see that the boys are nearly, grown up, and will not be long in finding wives; and your father can not live always?’ - The tears came to Aurore’s eyes. You are cruel! she'cried. - v ‘ Cruel!’ exclaimed the poor suitor, in great distress. ‘ Why, Ma’amselle, I would go through fire and water rather than that you should hurt your little finger.’ father,’ said Aurore, with dignity, ‘why, then I shall see.’ ‘So it is that you do not wish to marry me said Toussaint. ‘Yet I love you so much, and would make you a good husband. Never have I been tipsy; I am not illtempered I know lam not worthy of you. You are an angel. You love all the beautiful things little flowers and the colors of the sky.’ . = . Aurore listened in amazement. How could he have known these things, since she had never spoken about them to any one? ‘You will be thrown away upon any man,’ Toussaint declared earnestly; ‘.but I, at least, will understand and will try to make you happy.’ Aurore was deeply touched; but the thought of that terrible name suddenly recurred to her mind, and she shut her lips together obstinately. ; Her brothers had learned that, when she assumed that particular expression, her determination was unalterable. My boys could tell you,’ she said, with a little laugh that thrilled Toussaint as if it had been music, ‘ that I am far from being an angel; and perhaps you, too, would discover that, if I consented to marry you. But it is impossible.’ (To be concluded.)