The San Francisco Call. Newspaper, October 19, 1902, Page 2

2 great damage to you. You will maybe lose a good many cherry pies and dump- ings if I let Jean go. He was c'imbing pilfer the fruit; so 1 pulled you understand.” tal”” exclaimed the good man, his gray head; ‘“‘we must reason id. Let.go his leg, daughter; for him, eh, Jean?" leased the hunchback, then and tossed the cluster of his hand, whereupon he be- them voraciously and talk- * he boasted: * "He hopped aroun looking like & species of 1ll- formed monkey Pere Beret came and leaned on the low fence d»nu to She wase almost as as he to-day,” he said, be- furrowed face with n handkerchief; “‘and he sky yonder,” point- is going to brimg on adame Roussillon to- ning as she usually does extremely well,” sald v I had to take her place bake pies. I got hot o catch a bit of this needn’'t smile and ; the pies are not I am not a glutton. I t not two hours since— ng squirrels with cress, de Ronville. He never her.” forget you either, mon of you to-day every time nd filled it with cher- 1 took out a pie all brown e bubbling out of it and tempting, do you to myself krow, my child?” ht this: ‘Not books that 1 kill the taste “I tried very hard, o~ Lr g ‘ . . N ALICE ‘ll;" SAW WHAT PROVE FICKLE Your books are dull and stupidly heavy. What do 1 care abeut something that a queer lot of saints did reds of years ago in times of plague ts must have been poky oky people who care I think. I like read- roic men and beauti- var and love.” away with a curious face, his eyes half and it's no use 1 you now, Father Beret,” t on after a pause, “no more own sort of books back again as 1 please.” She stamped her shod foot with decided energy. into a _hearty s cap of grass scratched his bald him for a moment or two, and it ave been hard for the best phys- 1st how much of ap- how l'fi'r' ch of disapproval that s Father Beret had said, the olent, ceusing that gepn- pass his bundled handkerchief h & wiping circular motion over his bedewed pate, the wind was freshening, While up from be- the trees on the horizon beyond the rising blue-black, tum- nst the sky. e priest, evidently try- ge his laugh for a resignation, “you will my child, and—"" have ples galore and she interrupted, at the the withe-tied and yard and opening good father, be- begin, and sit with me ¥" (the creele word for ve- ran till the storm is over.” Father Beret seemed not loth to enter, k protest against e task he had in hand. Alice and pulled him in, then r little gate and pegged singly passed her arm cares it. She through his and looked into his weather- stained ¢lq face with childlike affection. There was not a photographer’'s camera to be bad in those days: but what if a tourist with one in band could have been there to take a snapshot at the priest &nd the maiden as they walked arm in arm to that squat lttle veranda! The picture to-day would be worth its weight in a first-water diamond. It would in- clude the cabin, the cherry tree, a glimpse of the raw, wild background and a sharp portrait group of Pere Beret, Alice and Jean the bunchback. To compare it with & photograph of the same spot now would give a perfect impression of the historic stmosphere, color and conditions which = } ADRIENNE (528 \' MIGHT SUFFER \q#& SHoUuLP = RENE cannot be set in words. But we must not belittle the power of verbal description. What if a thoroughly trained newspaper reporter had been given the freedom of old Vincennes on the Wabash during the first week of June, 1778, and we now had his printed story! What a supplement to the photographer's pictures! Well, we have neither photographs nor graphic re- port; yet there they are before us, the gowned and straw-capped priest. the fresh faced. coarsely clad and vigorous girl, the grotesque little hunchback, all just as real as life itself. Each of us can see them. even with closed eves. Led by that wonderful guide, imagination, we step back a century and more to look over a scene at once strangely attractive and unspeakably forlorn. What was it that drew people away from the old countries, from the cities, the villages and the vineyards of beauti- ful France, for example, to dwell in the wilderness, amid wild beasts and wilder savage Indians, with a rude cabin for a home and the exposures and hardships of pioneer life for their daily experience? Men like Gaspard Roussillon are of a distinct stamp. Take him as he was. Born in France, on the banks of the Rhone near Avignon, he came as a youth to Canada, whence he drifted on the tide of adventure this way and that, un- til at last he found himself, with a wife, at Post Vincennes, that lonely picket of religion and trade, which was to_become the center of civilizing energy for the great Northwestern Territory. M. Rous- sillon had no children of his own: so his kind heart opened freelv to *+wn fathar- less and motherless waifs. These were Alice. now called Alice ioussilion, uud the hunchback, Jean. The former was twelve years old when he adopted her, a child of Protestant parents, while Jean had been taken when a mere babe, after his parents had been killed and scalped by Indlans. Madame Roussillon, a pro- fessed invalld, whose appetite never failed and whose motherly kindness ex- pressed itself most often through strains of monotonous falsetto. scolding, was a woman of little. education and no refine- ment; while her husband clung tenacious- ly to his love of books, especially to the romances most In vogue when he took leave of France. M. Roussillon had been, iIn a way, Alice’s teacher, though not greatly in- clined to abet Father Beret in his kindly efforts to make a Catholic of the girl, and most treacherously disposed toward the good priest in the matter of his well- meant attempts to prevent her from read- ing and rereading the aforesaid romances. But for many weeks past Gaspard Rous- sillon had been absent from home, look- ing after his trading schemes with the Indjans; and Pere Beret, acting on the suggestion of the proverb about the ab- sent cat and the playing mouse, had form- “ A W& \FIFTY TIMES NN ed an alllance offensive and defensive with Madame Roussillon, in which it was strictly stipulated that all novels and ro- mances were to be forcibly taken and se- curely hidden away from Mademolse.le Alice; which, to the best of Madame Roussillon’s abllity, had accordingly been done. Now, while the wind strengthened and the softly booming summer shower came on apace, the heavy cloud lifting as it advanced and showing under it the dark gray sheet of the rain, Pere Beret and Alice sat under the clapboard roof be- hind the vines of the veranda and dis- cussed, what was generally uppermost in the priest’s mind upon such occasions, the good of Alice's immortal soul—a sub- Ject not absorbingly interesting to her at any time. It was a standing grief to the good old priest, this strange perversity of the girl in the matter of religious duty, as he saw it. True, she had a faithful guard- ian in Gaspard Roussillon; but, much as he had done to aid the church work in general, for he was always vigorous and liberal, he could not be looked upon as a yery good Catholic; and, of course ,his influence was not effective in the right direction. But, then, Pere Beret saw no reason why, in due time and_ with pa- ent work, alded by Madame Roussil.on ind notwithstanding Gaspard's treachery, he might not safely lead Alice, whom he loved as a dear child, into the arms of the holy church, to serve which faith- fully, at all hazards and in all places, his highest aim. “Ah, my child,” hé was saying, ‘“you are a sweet, good girl, after all, much better than you make yourself out to be. Your duty will control you; you will do it nobly at last, my child.” “True enough, Father Beret, true enough,” she responded, laughing, ‘“your perception is most excellent, which I will prove to you immediately.” K She rose while speaking and went into the house. “I'Jl return In & minute“or two,” she called ba¢k from a region which Pere Beret well knew was that of the pantry; “don’t get impatient and go away.” Pere Beret laughed softly at the pre- posterous suggestion that he would even dream. of going out in the rain, which was now roaring heavily on the loose board roof, and miss a cut of cherry pie —a cherry ple of Alice’'s making! “And the Roussilion claret, too, was excellent. h, child,” he thought, * old father is not going away.” ¥ She presently returned, bearing on a ‘wooden tray a ruby-stained ple and .a short, stout bottle flanked by two glasses. “‘Of course, I'm better than I sometimes appear to be,” she sald, almost humbly, but with mischief still in her voice and eyes, “and I shall get to be very good when I have grown old. The sweetness THERE, NOW , MA CHERIE . 18 SOME-. THING WORTH NIT2 WEIGHT: [N . GaLp ¥ of my present nature is in this ple.” Bhe set the tray on a three-legged stool which she pushed close to.him. “‘There now,” she said, ‘let the rain come; you'll be happy, rain or shine, while the pie and wine last, I'll be bound.” Pere Beret fell to_eating right heartily meantime harding Jean a liberal piece of the luscious pie. “It is good, my daughter, very geod, indeed,” the priest remarked with his mouth’ full, “Madame Roussillon has not neglected your culinary education.” Alce filled a glass' for him. It was Bordeaux and very fragrant, The bouquet remind- ed him of “his sunny boyhood in France, of his journey up to Paris and of his careless. foy-hrimmed youth in the gay city. How far away, how misty. yet how ‘thrillifigly sweet it all was! He sat with half closed eyes a while, sipping and dreaming. The rain lasted nearly two hours; but the sun was out again when Pere Beret took leave of his young friend. They had been having another good natured quarrel over' the: novels, and Madame Rousslon had come out on the veranda %0 join in. - “T've hidden every book of them,” said madame, a stout and swarthy woman whose pearl-white teeth were her only mark of heauty. Her volce indicated great stubbornness. “Good, good; you have done your very duty, madame,” sald Pere Beret, with immense approval in his charming voice. “But, father, you said a while ago that I should have my own way about this' Alice spoke up with spirit: “and on the strength of that.remark of yours I gave you the ple and wine. You've eaten my ple and swigged the wine, and now—' Pare Beret put on his straw cap, adjust- ing it cargfully’ over the shining dome out of which had come so many thoughts of wisdom, kindness and human sympa- thy. This' done, he gently laid a hand on_Alice’s bright crown of hair and said: “Blees you, my child. I will pray to the Prince pf Peace for you as long as I live, and I will never cedse to beg the Holy Virgin to intercede for you and lead you tn the holy-chureh.” He turned and went away, but when he was no farther than the gate, Alice called out: . “O Fathef Beret, T forgot to show you something! She ran forth to him and added in a low tone: “You know that Madame Roussillon has hidden all the novels from me.” She was fumbling to get something out of the loose front of her dress. “Well, just -take a glance at this, will you?” and she showed him a little leather bound volume, much cracked along the hinges of the bac! It was ‘““Manon Lescaut.” that dreadful romance by the famous Abbe Prevost. Pere Beret frowned and went his way shaking his head; but before he reached his little hut near the church he was laughing in spite of himself. “She’s not so bad, net se bad,” he thought aloud; “it's only her young, in- dependent spirit taking the bit for a wild run. In her sweet soul she is as good as she is pure."” CHAPTER IIL A LETTER FROM AFAR. Although Father Beret was for many years a missionary on the Wabash, mast of the time at Vincennes, the fact that no mention of him can be found in the records is not stranger than many other things connected with the old town’s his- tory. He was, llke nearly all the men of Kll calling in that day, a seif-effacing and modest hero, apparently quite un- aware that he deserved attention.. He and Father Gibault, whose name 'is so beautifully and nobly connected with the stirring’ achlevements of Colonel George Rogers Clark, were close friends and oft- en companions. Probably Father Gibault himself, whoge fame will never fade, would -have been to-day as obscure as Father Beret but for the opportunity given him by .Clark to fix his name in the list of heroic patriots who assisted in winning the great Northwest from the English. Vincennes, even in the earllest days of its history, somehow kept up communi- cation and, comldefl? the circumstances, close relations with New Orleans. It was much nearer Detroit; but the Louisiana colony stood next to France in the imagi- nation and longing of priests, voyageurs, coureurs de bols and reckless adventur- ers who _had Latin blood in their veins. Father Beret first came to Vincennes from New Orleans, the voyage up the Mississippl, Ohip and Wabash, In a pi- rogue, lasting through a whole' summer and far into the autumn. - Since his rival the post had expe; situdes, and the story = opens the British claimed right of domination over the great territory drained by the Wabash, and, indeed, over a large, indefinitely out- lined part of the North American eonti- xnt lgr(lnx n‘l':‘::e M?xlen: Ii clnmd fl:lnzt en being rously questioned, flint- Ix::lk in hand, by the ‘Zuaos{mnfleu col- es. o . < Of course, the handful of ch peo- ple at Vincennes, sa far away from every center ‘of information and wholly occu- pied with their trading, trapping and mis- slonary work, were late finding out that tween England and her Nor did it really matter much m, one way or another. They felt secure in their lonely situation, and 80 went on selli their trinkets, weap- ons, domestic implements, blankets and intoxicating liquors to the In ), Wl they he!d tound to thém with a power never possessed by any other white dwell- ers in the wilderness. Father Beret was probably subordinate to Father Gibault. At all events, the latter sgpenrs to have had nominal charge of Vincennes, and it can scarcely’ be doubted that he left Father Beret on the Wabash, while Le went to live and labor for a time at Kas- kaskia -beyond the plains of Tilinois. It is a curious fact that religion and the power of rum and brandy worked tokether successfully for a long time In giving the Freneh posts almost absolute influence over the wild and savage men by whom they were always surroundeg. ‘Ihe good wpriests deprecated the traihc in liguors and tried hard to control it, but soldiers of fortume and reckless traders were in the majority, their in- terests taking precedence of all spiritual demands and carrying everything along. What o the brave missionaries do but make the very best of a perilous sit- uation? In those days wine was drunk by al most everybody, its use at table and an article of ineidental refreshment and gocfal pleasure being practically univer- sal; wheretore the steps of reform in the matter of intemperance were but rud mentary and in all places besst by nigh insurmountable difficulties. In fact, the exigencies of frontier life demanded, perhaps, the very stimulus which, when overindulged in, caused so much evil Malaria loaded the air, and the most effi- caclous drugs now at command were then undiscovered or could not be had. In- toxicants were the only popular speeific. Men drank to prevent contracting ague, drank again, between rigors. to cure it, and yet again to brace themselves dur- ing convalescence. But if the effect of rum as a beverage had strong allurement for the white ma: it made an absolute slave of the Indian, who never hesitated for a moment to undertake any task, no matter how hard, bear any privation, even the most terri- ble, or brave any danger, although it might demand reckless desperation, if in the end a well filled bottle or jug ap- peared as his reward. Of course, the traders Ald not over- look such a source of power. Alcoholie liquor beecame their implement of almost magical work in controlling the lives, la- bors and resources of the Indians. Ths priests with their captivating story of the cross had a large ‘nfluence In softening savage natures and averting many an awful danger; but when everytaing else failed, rum always came to the rescue of a threatened French post. We need not wonder, then, when we are told that Father Beret made no sign of disfress or disapproval upon being in- formed of the arrival of a boat loaded with rum, brandy or gin. It was Rene de Ronville who brought the news, the sameé Rene already mentioned as having given the priest a plate of squirrels. He was sftting on the doorsill of Father Be- ret's hut, when the old man reached it after_his visit at the Roussillon home, and held in his hand ‘,"lenu which he appeared proud to deliver, ‘A batteau and seven men, with a cargo of liquor, came during the rain,"” he said, rising and taking off his curious cap, which, made of an animal’s skin, had a tall jauntily dangling from its crown ti; “a here is a letter for you, father. The batteau is from New Orleans. Eight men started with it; but one went ashore to_hunt and was killed by an Indian” Father Beret fook the letter without apparent interest and sald: “Thank you, my sSom; sit down agamn. The door log is not wetter than the stools ingide. I will sit ¥ou.” The wind had driven a flood of rain into the cabin through the open door and water twinkled in puddles here and there on the floor's puneheons. They =at down side by side. Father Berat fingering {ne letter in an absent-minded way. ‘“There’ll be a jolly time of it to-night,” Rene de Ronville remarked, “a roaring time."” “Why do you say that, m; . priczt demanded, © T Alspidl “The wine an e lquor,” was réply; “much drinking will be done. % men have all been dry here for some time, you know; and are as thirsty as sand. They are making ready to enjoy themselves down at the river house.” B“Al:. the knlom' souls sighed Father eret, speaking one who: wox;e";mgdar:ng far n\dmy. P gy & y don't you read yo - er?" Rene added. O M - ‘The Dr}es‘)t-puet:rted. :urr‘;ed the soiled square o over in thrast 1¢ inside his robe - hend. them “It can wait.” he said. Then, changin; his voice: “The squirrels you n'e‘lmg were excellent, my son. It wasayood of ou to think of me,” he added, 1a¥%ing his e T Flad i 1 “Oh,. I'm_ gla have pleased you, Father Beret, for you are .o’ kind teyx:a always, and to everybody.- When I killed the squirrels I sald fo myself: “These are young, juicy and tender; Father Beret must have these’ #Y e o along.” The young man tose & gor & somehow Impresse: : must -wish opportuaily is rewd bis ls ter, and would prefer to be left alone with it. But the priest pulled him down again. “Stay a while,” he sald: *T have not had a talk with you for some time.” Rene looked a trifle uneasy. “You will not drink any-to-night, my son,” Father Beret added “You must not: do you hear?” The young man’s eyes and mouth at once began to have a sullen expressfon. Hyldently he was not pleased and feit rebellious; but it was hard for him to resist Father Beret, whom he loved, as did every soul in the post. The priest’s voice was sweet and gentle, yet positt to a degree. Rene did not say a word. “Promise me that you will not taste liquor this night,” Father Beret went on, ping the young man’s arm more firm- “promise me, my son, promise me.” Still Rene was silent. The men did not look at each other, but gazed across the country beyond the Wabash to where & glory from the western sun flamed on the upper rim of a great cloud fragment creeping along the horizon. Warm as the day had been, a delicious coclness now began to temper the alr; for the wind had shifted into the northwest. A mead- owlark sang dreamily in the wild grass of the lowlands hard by, ever which two or thres prairfe hawks hovered with wings that beat rapidl “Eh bfen, I must go.,” sald Rene ently. getting to his feet nimbly and evad- ing Father Beret'’s hand whichk would have held him. “Not t6_the river house, my son?" sald the oriest appealingly. “No, pot there:.I have another letter, one-for M'sieu’ Roussillon. It eame by the boat, too. I go to give it te Madame Roussillon.” Rene de Ronville was a dark, weather- stained voung fellow, neither tall nor short, wearing bucksin moccasins, trous- ers and tunic. His eyes wers dark brown, keen, quick moving, set well under heavy brows. A razor had probably never touched his face, and his thim, curly heard crinkled over his strongly turned cheeks and chin, while his mustaches sorang out quite flercely above his full- Hoped, almost sensual mouth. He looked wiry and active, a man not to be lightly reckoned with in a trial of bodily strength and will power. Father Beret's face and volice chan on the instant. He laughed dryly an sald. with a sly gleam in his evest “You cov'd spend the evening pleasant- lv with Madame Roussillon an Jean. Jean, you know, is &'very am fel- low. Rene brought forth the letter of which he had _svoken and held it up defore Father Beret's face. *“Mavybe you think I haven't letter for M'siew’ Roussillon,” he blurted; “snd maybe you are quite certain that I am :\nt going to the house to take the let- er.” ‘“‘Monsisur Roussillon is absent, you know.” Father Beret sug=ssted. “But cherry ples are just as good while he's gone ‘when he's at home, and I pen fo know that thers are some Darthu- Jarly delicious ones in the pan of Ma- dame Roussillon. Mademoissils _Alice gave me a juicy sample; but, then, I dare say you do not care to have your ple served by her hand. It would Interfers with your appetite: eh. my son?™" Rene. turned short about wug{in his head and laughing. and so with his ok to the pri he strode away along the wet pafn leading to the Roussillon place. Father Beret gazed after him, his face relaxing to a serious expression in which 8 trace of sadness and gloom spread like an elusive twilight.” He took out his let- ter, but did not glance at it, simply hold- ing it tizhtly gripped In his sinewy right hand. Then his old eyes stared vacant- 1y, as eyes do when their sight is cast back many, many years into the past. The missive was from beyond the sea—hs knew the handwriting—a waft of the flowers of Avignon seemed to rise out of it, as if by the pressure of his grasp. A stoop-shouldered, burly man went by, Jeading a pair of goats, a kid followin He was making haste excitedly, keepin, the goats at a lively trot. “Bon jour, Pers Beret” he flung out breezily, and walked rapidly on. ““Ah, ah; his mind s busy with the new- ly arrived cargo,” thought the old priest, returning the salutation: “his throat aches for the liquor—the poor man.” Then he read azain the letter's super- seription and made a_faltering move, as if to break the seal. His hands trembled violently, his face looked gray and drawn. “Come on, you brutes’” cried the re- ceding man, jerking the thongs of skin by which he led the goats. Father Beret rose and turned into his damp little hut. where the light was 4im on the crucifix hanging opposite the door against the clav-daubed wall. It was a bare, unsightly, clammy room, a rude bed on one side. a shelf for table and two or three wooden stools constituting the furniture, while the un- even puncheons of the floor wabbled and clattered under the priest's feet. An unopened letter is always a myste- rlous thing. We who recefve three or four malls every day scan edch little pa- per square with a speculative eye. Most of us know what sweet uncertainty hangs on the opening of envelopes whose con- tents may be almost anything . emeept something important, and what a vagus yet delicious thrill comes with the snip of the paper knife; but if we ba fn a foreign land and long years absent from home, then is a letter subtly powerful to move us, even more before it Is opened than after it is read. It had been many years sfnce a letter from home had come to Father Beret. The last. before the ome mow in hand, had made him il of nostalgia, fatrly shaking his iron determination never to quit for a moment his Hfe work as a m{} sionary. Ever #ince that day he ha found it harder to meet the many a; stern demands of a most difficult and exacting duty. Now the mere touch of the paper in his hand gave him a sense of returning weakness, dissatfsfaction and longing. The home of his boyhood, the rushing of the Rhone, a seat in & shady nook of the garden, Madeline, his b 4 N