At last we came to the mouth of the river, where it empties into Lake Kenogami, in a comparatively civilized country, with several farm-houses in full view on the opposite bank.It was not a promising place for the chase; but the river ran down with a little fall and a lively, cheerful rapid into the lake, and it was a capital spot for fishing.So we left the rifle in the case, and took a canoe and a rod, and went down, on the last afternoon, to stand on the point of rocks at the foot of the rapid, and cast the fly.
We caught half a dozen good trout; but the sun was still hot, and we concluded to wait awhile for the evening fishing.So we turned the canoe bottom up among the bushes on the shore, stored the trout away in the shade beneath it, and sat down in a convenient place among the stones to have another chat about Quebec.We had just passed the jewelry shops, and were preparing to go to the asylum of the orphans, when Patrick put his hand on my shoulder with a convulsive grip, and pointed up the stream.
There was a huge bear, like a very big, wicked, black sheep with a pointed nose, ****** his way down the shore.He shambled along lazily and unconcernedly, as if his bones were loosely tied together in a bag of fur.It was the most indifferent and disconnected gait that I ever saw.Nearer and nearer he sauntered, while we sat as still as if we had been paralyzed.And the gun was in its case at the tent!
How the bear knew this I cannot tell; but know it he certainly did, for he kept on until he reached the canoe, sniffed at it suspiciously, thrust his sharp nose under it, and turned it over with a crash that knocked two holes in the bottom, ate the fish, licked his chops, stared at us for a few moments without the slightest appearance of gratitude, made up his mind that he did not like our personal appearance, and then loped leisurely up the mountain-side.We could hear him cracking the underbrush long after he was lost to sight.
Patrick looked at me and sighed.I said nothing.The French language, as far as I knew it, seemed trifling and inadequate.It was a moment when nothing could do any good except the consolations of philosophy, or a pipe.Patrick pulled the brier-wood from his pocket; then he took out the cake of Virginia leaf, looked at it, smelled it, shook his head, and put it back again.His face was as long as his arm.He stuck the cold pipe into his mouth, and pulled away at it for a while in silence.Then his countenance began to clear, his mouth relaxed, he broke into a laugh.
"Sacred bear!" he cried, slapping his knee; "sacred beast of the world! What a day of the good chance for her, HE! But she was glad, I suppose.Perhaps she has some cubs, HE? BAJETTE!"III
This was the end of our hunting and fishing for that year.We spent the next two days in voyaging through a half-dozen small lakes and streams, in a farming country, on our way home.I observed that Patrick kept his souvenir pipe between his lips a good deal of the time, and puffed at vacancy.It seemed to soothe him.In his conversation he dwelt with peculiar satisfaction on the thought of the money in the cigar-box on the mantel-piece at St.Gerome.
Eighteen piastres and twenty sous already! And with the addition to be made from the tobacco not smoked during the past month, it would amount to more than twenty-three piastres; and all as safe in the cigar-box as if it were in the bank at Chicoutimi! That reflection seemed to fill the empty pipe with fragrance.It was a Barmecide smoke; but the fumes of it were potent, and their invisible wreaths framed the most enchanting visions of tall towers, gray walls, glittering windows, crowds of people, regiments of soldiers, and the laughing eyes of a little boy--or was it a little girl?
When we came out of the mouth of La Belle Riviere, the broad blue expanse of Lake St.John spread before us, calm and bright in the radiance of the sinking sun.In a curve on the left, eight miles away, sparkled the slender steeple of the church of St.Gerome.Athick column of smoke rose from somewhere in its neighbourhood."It is on the beach," said the men; "the boys of the village accustom themselves to burn the rubbish there for a bonfire." But as our canoes danced lightly forward over the waves and came nearer to the place, it was evident that the smoke came from the village itself.
It was a conflagration, but not a general one; the houses were too scattered and the day too still for a fire to spread.What could it be? Perhaps the blacksmith shop, perhaps the bakery, perhaps the old tumble-down barn of the little Tremblay? It was not a large fire, that was certain.But where was it precisely?
The question, becoming more and more anxious, was answered when we arrived at the beach.A handful of boys, eager to be the bearers of news, had spied us far off, and ran down to the shore to meet us.
"Patrique! Patrique!" they shouted in English, to make their importance as great as possible in my eyes."Come 'ome kveek; yo'
'ouse ees hall burn'!"
"W'at!" cried Patrick."MONJEE!" And he drove the canoe ashore, leaped out, and ran up the bank toward the village as if he were mad.The other men followed him, leaving me with the boys to unload the canoes and pull them up on the sand, where the waves would not chafe them.
This took some time, and the boys helped me willingly."Eet ees not need to 'urry, m'sieu'," they assured me; "dat 'ouse to Patrique Moullarque ees hall burn' seence t'ree hour.Not'ing lef' bot de hash."As soon as possible, however, I piled up the stuff, covered it with one of the tents, and leaving it in charge of the steadiest of the boys, took the road to the village and the site of the Maison Mullarkey.
It had vanished completely: the walls of squared logs were gone; the low, curved roof had fallen; the door-step with the morning-glory vines climbing up beside it had sunken out of sight; nothing remained but the dome of the clay oven at the back of the house, and a heap of smouldering embers.
