How it rained that day! The dark clouds had collapsed upon the hills in shapeless folds.The waves of the lake were beaten flat by the lashing strokes of the storm.Quivering sheets of watery gray were driven before the wind; and broad curves of silver bullets danced before them as they swept over the surface.All around the homeless shores the evergreen trees seemed to hunch their backs and crowd closer together in patient misery.Not a bird had the heart to sing; only the loon--storm-lover--laughed his crazy challenge to the elements, and mocked us with his long-drawn maniac scream.
It seemed as if we were a thousand miles from everywhere and everybody.Cities, factories, libraries, colleges, law-courts, theatres, palaces,--what had we dreamed of these things? They were far off, in another world.We had slipped back into a primitive life.Ferdinand was telling me the naked story of human love and human hate, even as it has been told from the beginning.
I cannot tell it just as he did.There was a charm in his speech too quick for the pen: a woodland savour not to be found in any ink for sale in the shops.I must tell it in my way, as he told it in his.
But at all events, nothing that makes any difference shall go into the translation unless it was in the original.This is Ferdinand's story.If you care for the real thing, here it is.
I
There were two young men in Abbeville who were easily the cocks of the woodland walk.Their standing rested on the fact that they were the strongest men in the parish.Strength is the thing that counts, when people live on the edge of the wilderness.These two were well known all through the country between Lake St.John and Chicoutimi as men of great capacity.Either of them could shoulder a barrel of flour and walk off with it as lightly as a common man would carry a side of bacon.There was not a half-pound of difference between them in ability.But there was a great difference in their looks and in their way of doing things.
Raoul Vaillantcoeur was the biggest and the handsomest man in the village; nearly six feet tall, straight as a fir tree, and black as a bull-moose in December.He had natural force enough and to spare.
Whatever he did was done by sheer power of back and arm.He could send a canoe up against the heaviest water, provided he did not get mad and break his paddle--which he often did.He had more muscle than he knew how to use.
Prosper Leclere did not have so much, but he knew better how to handle it.He never broke his paddle--unless it happened to be a bad one, and then he generally had another all ready in the canoe.
He was at least four inches shorter than Vaillantcoeur; broad shoulders, long arms, light hair, gray eyes; not a handsome fellow, but pleasant-looking and very quiet.What he did was done more than half with his head.
He was the kind of a man that never needs more than one match to light a fire.
But Vaillantcoeur--well, if the wood was wet he might use a dozen, and when the blaze was kindled, as like as not he would throw in the rest of the box.
Now, these two men had been friends and were changed into rivals.
At least that was the way that one of them looked at it.And most of the people in the parish seemed to think that was the right view.
It was a strange thing, and not altogether satisfactory to the public mind, to have two strongest men in the village.The question of comparative standing in the community ought to be raised and settled in the usual way.Raoul was perfectly willing, and at times (commonly on Saturday nights) very eager.But Prosper was not.
"No," he said, one March night, when he was boiling maple-sap in the sugar-bush with little Ovide Rossignol (who had a lyric passion for holding the coat while another man was fighting)--"no, for what shall I fight with Raoul? As boys we have played together.Once, in the rapids of the Belle Riviere, when I have fallen in the water, I think he has saved my life.He was stronger, then, than me.I am always a friend to him.If I beat him now, am I stronger? No, but weaker.And if he beats me, what is the sense of that? Certainly Ishall not like it.What is to gain?"
Down in the store of old Girard, that night, Vaillantcoeur was holding forth after a different fashion.He stood among the cracker-boxes and flour-barrels, with a background of shelves laden with bright-coloured calicoes, and a line of tin pails hanging overhead, and stated his view of the case with vigour.He even pulled off his coat and rolled up his shirt-sleeve to show the knotty arguments with which he proposed to clinch his opinion.
"That Leclere," said he, "that little Prosper Leclere! He thinks himself one of the strongest--a fine fellow! But I tell you he is a coward.If he is clever? Yes.But he is a poltroon.He knows well that I can flatten him out like a crepe in the frying-pan.But he is afraid.He has not as much courage as the musk-rat.You stamp on the bank.He dives.He swims away.Bah!""How about that time he cut loose the jam of logs in the Rapide des Cedres?" said old Girard from his corner.
Vaillantcoeur's black eyes sparkled and he twirled his mustache fiercely."SAPRIE!" he cried, "that was nothing! Any man with an axe can cut a log.But to fight--that is another affair.That demands the brave heart.The strong man who will not fight is a coward.Some day I will put him through the mill--you shall see what that small Leclere is made of.SACREDAM!"Of course, affairs had not come to this pass all at once.It was a long history, beginning with the time when the two boys had played together, and Raoul was twice as strong as the other, and was very proud of it.Prosper did not care; it was all right so long as they had a good time.But then Prosper began to do things better and better.Raoul did not understand it; he was jealous.Why should he not always be the leader? He had more force.Why should Prosper get ahead? Why should he have better luck at the fishing and the hunting and the farming? It was by some trick.There was no justice in it.
