“The shanty was not very far in the woods, only two days’ journey from the Transcontinental which passes La Tuque. But as the luck was, something had happened to the line and the trains were not running. I heard all this through Johnny Niquette of St. Henri, who arrived from La Tuque two days ago.”
“Yes.”
“When François found that he could not take the train he burst into a laugh, and in that sort of a humour said that as it was a case of walking he would walk all the way—reaching the lake by following the rivers, first the Croche and then the Ouatchouan which falls in near Roberval.”
“That is so,” said Chapdelaine. “It can be done. I have gone that way.”
“Not at this time of year, Mr. Chapdelaine, certainly not just at this time. Everyone there told François that it would be foolhardy to attempt such a trip in midwinter, about Christmas, with the cold as great as it was, some four feet of snow lying in the woods, and alone. But he only laughed and told them that he was used to the woods and that a little difficulty was not going to frighten him, because he was bound to get to the upper side of the lake for the holidays, and that where the Indians were able to cross he could make the crossing too. Only—you know it very well, Mr. Chapdelaine—when the Indians take that journey it is in company, and with their dogs. François set off alone, on snowshoes, pulling his blankets and provisions on a toboggan.” No one had uttered a word to hasten or check the speaker. They listened as to him whose story’s end stalks into view, before the eyes but darkly veiled, like a figure drawing near who hides his face.
“You will remember the weather a week before Christmas—the heavy snow that fell, and after it the nor’west gale. It happened that François was then in the great burnt lands, where the fine snow drives and drifts so terribly. In such a place the best of men have little chance when it is very cold and the storm lasts. And, if you recall it, the nor’wester was blowing for three days on end, stiff enough-to flay you.”
“Yes, and then?”
The narrative he had framed did not carry him further, or perhaps he could not bring himself to speak the final words, for it was some time before the low-voiced answer came—“He went astray …”
Those who have passed their lives within the shadow of the Canadian forests know the meaning but too well. The daring youths to whom this evil fortune happens in the woods, who go astray—are lost—but seldom return. Sometimes a search-party finds their bodies in the spring, after the melting of the snows. In Quebec, and above all in the far regions of the north, the very word, écarté, has taken on a new and sinister import, from the peril overhanging him who loses his way, for a short day only, in that limitless forest.
“He went astray … The storm caught him in the burnt country and he halted for a day. So much we know, for the Indians found a shelter of fir branches he had made for himself, and they saw his tracks. He set out again because his provisions were low and he was in haste to reach the end of his journey, as I suppose; but the weather did not mend, snow was falling, the nor’west wind never eased, and it is likely he caught no glimpse of the sun to guide him, for the Indians said that his tracks turned off from the river Croche which he had been following and wandered away, straight to the north.”
There was no further speech; neither from the two men who had listened with assenting motions of their heads while they followed every turn of Eutrope’s grim story; nor from the mother whose hands were clasped upon her knees—as in a belated supplication; nor from Maria …
“When they heard this, men from Ouatchouan set forth after the weather was a little better. But all his footsteps were covered, and they returned saying that they had found no trace; that was three days ago … He is lost …”
The listeners stirred, and broke the stillness with a sigh; the tale was told, nor was there a word that, anyone might speak. The fate of François Paradis was as mournfully sure as though he were buried in the cemetery at St. Michel de Mistassini to the sound of chants, with the blessing of a priest.
Silence fell upon the house and all within it. Chapdelaine was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, his face working—mechanically striking one fist upon the other. At length he spoke:—“It shows we are but little children in the hand of the good God. François was one of the best men of these parts in the woods, and at finding his way; people who came here used to take him as guide, and always did he bring them back without mishap. And now he himself is lost. We are but little children. Some there be who think themselves pretty strong—able to get on without God’s help in their houses and on their lands … but in the bush …” With solemn voice and slowly-moving head he repeated: “We are but little children.”
“A good man he was,” said Eutrope Gagnon, “in very truth a good man, strong and brave, with ill-will to none.’
“Indeed that is true. I am not saying that the good God had cause to send him to his death—him more than another. He was a fine fellow, hardworking, and I loved him well. But it shows you …”
“No one ever had a thing against him.” Eutrope’s generous insistence carried him on. “A man hard to match for work, afraid of
