Chapter CCLXXI: Epilogue

St. John's Eve had passed. In the fields at Bonne-Nuit Bay the "Brow- brow! ben-ben!" of the Song of the Cauldron had affrighted the night; riotous horns, shaming the blare of a Witches' Sabbath, had been blown by those who, as old Jean Touzel said, carried little lead under their noses. The meadows had been full of the childlike islanders welcoming in the longest day of the year. Mid-summer Day had also come and gone, but with less noise and clamour, for St. John's Fair had been carried on with an orderly gaiety--as the same Jean Touzel said, like a sheet of music. Even the French singers and dancers from St. Malo had been approved in Norman phrases by the Bailly and the Jurats, for now there was no longer war between England and France, Napoleon was at St. Helena, and the Bourbons were come again to their own.

It had been a great day, and the roads were cloudy with the dust of Mid- summer revellers going to their homes. But though some went many stayed, camping among the booths, since the Fair was for tomorrow and for other to-morrows after. And now, the day's sport being over, the superstitious were making the circle of the rock called William's Horse in Boulay Bay, singing the song of William, who, with the fabled sprig of sacred mistletoe, turned into a rock the kelpie horse carrying him to death.

There was one boat, however, which putting out into the Bay did not bear towards William's Horse, but, catching the easterly breeze, bore away westward towards the point of Plemont. Upon the stern of the boat was painted in bright colours, Hardi Biaou. "We'll be there soon after sunset," said the grizzled helmsman, Jean Touzel, as he glanced from the full sail to the setting sun.

Neither of his fellow-voyagers made reply, and for a time there was silence, save for the swish of the gunwale through the water. But at last Jean said:

"Su' m'n ame, but it is good this, after that!" and he jerked his head back towards the Fair-ground on the hill. "Even you will sleep to-night, Dormy Jamais, and you, my wife of all."

Maitresse Aimable shook her great head slowly on the vast shoulders, and shut her heavy eyelids. "Dame, but I think you are sleeping now--you," Jean went on.

Maitresse Aimable's eyes opened wide, and again she shook her head.

Jean looked a laugh at her through his great brass-rimmed spectacles and added:

"Ba su, then I know. It is because we go to sleep in my hut at Plemont where She live so long. I know, you never sleep there."

Maitresse Aimable shook her head once more, and drew from her pocket a letter.

At sight of it Dormy Jamais crawled quickly over to where the Femme de Ballast sat, and, 'reaching out, he touched it with both hands.

"Princess of all the world--bidemme," he said, and he threw out his arms and laughed.

Two great tears were rolling down Maitresse Aimable's cheeks.

"How to remember she, ma fuifre!" said Jean Touzel. "But go on to the news of her."

Maitresse Aimable spread the letter out and looked at it lovingly. Her voice rose slowly up like a bubble from the bottom of a well, and she spoke.

"Ah man pethe benin, when it come, you are not here, my Jean. I take it to the Greffier to read for me. It is great news, but the way he read so sour I do not like, ba su! I see Maitre Damian the schoolmaster pass my door. I beckon, and he come. I take my letter here, I hold it close to his eyes. 'Read on that for me, Maitre Damian--you,' I say. O my good, when he read it, it sing sweet like a song, pergui! Once, two, three times I make him read it out--he has the voice so soft and round, Maitre Damian there."

"Glad and good!" interrupted Jean. "What is the news, my wife? What is the news of highnesss--he?"

Maitresse Aimable smiled, then she tried to speak, but her voice broke.

"The son--the son--at last he is the Duke of Bercy. E'fin, it is all here. The new King of France, he is there at the palace when the child which it have sleep on my breast, which its mother I have love all the years, kiss her son as the Duke of Bercy."

"Ch'est ben," said Jean, "you can trust the good God in the end."

Dormy Jamais did not speak. His eyes were fastened upon the north, where lay the Paternoster Rocks. The sun had gone down, the dusk was creeping on, and against the dark of the north there was a shimmer of fire--a fire that leapt and quivered about the Paternoster Rocks.

Dormy pointed with his finger. Ghostly lights or miracle of Nature, these fitful flames had come and gone at times these many years, and now again the wonder of the unearthly radiance held their eyes.

"Gatd'en'ale, I don't understand you--you!" said Jean, speaking to the fantastic fires as though they were human.

"There's plenty things we see we can't understand, and there's plenty we understand we can't never see. Ah bah, so it goes!" said Maitresse Aimable, and she put Guida's letter in her bosom.

.......................

Upon the hill of Plemont above them, a stone taken from the chimney of the hut where Guida used to live, stood upright beside a little grave. Upon it was carved:

BIRIBI,
Fidele ami
De quels jours!

In the words of Maitresse Aimable, "Ah bah, so it goes."

FINIS

NOTE: IT is possible that students of English naval history may find in the life of Philip d'Avranche, as set forth in this book, certain resemblances to the singular and long forgotten career of the young Jerseyman, Philip d'Auvergne of the "Arethusa," who in good time became Vice-Admiral of the White and His Serene Highness the Duke of Bouillon.

Because all the relatives and direct descendants of Admiral Prince Philip d'Auvergne are dead, I am the more anxious to state that, apart from one main incident, the story here-before written is not taken from the life of that remarkable man. Yet I will say also that I have drawn upon the eloquence, courage, and ability of Philip d'Auvergne to make the better part of Philip d'Avranche, whose great natural fault, an overleaping ambition, was the same fault that brought the famous Prince Admiral to a piteous death in the end.

In any case, this tale has no claim to be called a historical novel.

JERSEY WORDS AND PHRASES

WITH THEIR EQUIVALENTS IN ENGLISH OR FRENCH

A bi'tot = a bientot. Achocre = dolt, ass. Ah bah! (Difficult to render in English, but meaning much the same as "Well! well!") Ah be! = eh bien. Alles kedainne = to go quickly, to skedaddle. Bachouar = a fool. Ba su! = bien sur. Bashin = large copper-lined stew-pan. Batd'lagoule = chatterbox. Bedgone = shortgown or deep bodice of print. Beganne = daft fellow. Biaou = beau. Bidemme! = exclamation of astonishment. Bouchi = mouthful. Bilzard = idiot. Chelin = shilling. Ch'est ben = c'est bien. Cotil = slope of a dale. Coum est qu'on etes? } Coum est qu'ou vos portest? } Comment vous portez-vous! Couzain or couzaine = cousin. Crasset = metal oil-lamp of classic shape. Critchett = cricket. Diantre = diable. Dreschiaux = dresser. E'fant = enfant. E'fin = enfin. Eh ben = eh bien. Esmanus = scarecrow. Es-tu gentiment? = are you well? Et ben = and now. Gache-a-penn! = misery me! Gaderabotin! = deuce take it! Garche = lass. Gatd'en'ale! = God be with us! Grandpethe = grandpere. Han = kind of grass for the making of ropes, baskets, etc. Hanap = drinking-cup. Hardi = very. Hus = lower half of a door. (Doors of many old Jersey houses were divided horizontally, for protection against cattle, to let out the smoke, etc.) Je me crais; je to crais; je crais ben! = I believe it; true for you; I well believe it! Ma fe! } Ma fistre! }= ma foi! Ma fuifre! } Mai grand doux! = but goodness gracious! Man doux! = my good, oh dear! (Originally man Dieu!) Man doux d'la vie! = upon my life! Man gui, mon pethe! = mon Dieu, mon pere! Man pethe benin! = my good father! Marchi = marche. Mogue = drinking-cup. Nannin; nannin-gia! = no; no indeed! Ni bouf ni baf } Expression of absolute negation, untranslatable. Ni fiche ni bran } Oui-gia! = yes indeed! Par made = par mon Dieu. Pardi! } Pardingue! }= old forms of par Dieul Pergui! } Pend'loque = ragamuffin. Queminzolle = overcoat. Racllyi = hanging rack from the rafters of a kitchen. Respe d'la compagnie! = with all respect for present company. Shale ben = very well. Simnel = a sort of biscuit, cup-shaped, supposed to represent unleavened bread, specially eaten at Easter. Soupe a la graisse = very thin soup, chiefly made of water, with a few vegetables and some dripping. Su' m'n ame = sur mon ame! Tcheche? = what's that you say? Trejous = toujours. Tres-ba = tres bien. Veille = a wide low settle. (Probably from lit de fouaille.) Also applied to evening gatherings, when, sitting cross-legged on the veille, the neighbours sang, talked, and told stories. Verges = the land measure of Jersey, equal to forty perches. Two and a quarter vergees are equivalent to the English acre. Vier = vieux. Vraic = a kind of sea-weed.

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS:

It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride

ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE "BATTLE OF THE STRONG":

A sort of chuckle not entirely pleasant Adaptability was his greatest weapon in life Being tired you can sleep, and in sleep you can forget Cling to beliefs long after conviction has been shattered Egotism with which all are diseased Egregious egotism of young love there are only two identities Follow me; if I retreat, kill me; if I fall, avenge me Futility of goodness, the futility of all He felt things, he did not study them Her voice had the steadiness of despair If women hadn't memory, she answered, they wouldn't have much It is not the broken heart that kills, but broken pride It is easy to repent when our pleasures have palled It's the people who try to be clever who never are Joy of a confessional which relieves the sick heart Kissed her twice on the cheek--the first time in fifteen years Knew the lie of silence to be as evil as the lie of speech Lilt of existence lulling to sleep wisdom and tried experience Lonely we come into the world, and lonely we go out of it Never to be content with superficial reasons and the obvious No news--no trouble Often, we would rather be hurt than hurt People who are clever never think of trying to be Queer that things which hurt most can't be punished by law Rack of secrecy, the cruelest inquisition of life Sacrifice to the god of the pin-hole Sardonic pleasure in the miseries of the world Sympathy, with curiousness in their eyes and as much inhumanity Thanked him in her heart for the things he had left unsaid There was never a grey wind but there's a greyer There is something humiliating in even an undeserved injury Uses up your misery and makes you tired (Work) War is cruelty, and none can make it gentle We care so little for real justice What fools there are in the world

THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING

By Gilbert Parker

CONTENTS

Volume 1. THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING

Volume 2. THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR A SON OF THE WILDERNESS A WORKER IN STONE

Volume 3. THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER MATHURIN THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF UNCLE JIM THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH PARPON THE DWARF

Volume 4. TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC MEDALLION'S WHIM THE PRISONER AN UPSET PRICE A FRAGMENT OF LIVES THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA THE BARON OF BEAUGARD THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED

The Right Hon. Sir Wilfrid Laurier G.C.M.G.

Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier, Since I first began to write these tales in 1892, I have had it in my mind to dedicate to you the "bundle of life" when it should be complete. It seemed to me--and it seems so still--that to put your name upon the covering of my parcel, as one should say, "In care of," when it went forth, was to secure its safe and considerate delivery to that public of the Empire which is so much in your debt.

But with other feelings also do I dedicate this volume to yourself. For many years your name has stood for a high and noble compromise between the temperaments and the intellectual and social habits of two races; and I am not singular in thinking that you have done more than most other men to make the English and French of the Dominion understand each other better. There are somewhat awkward limits to true understanding as yet, but that sympathetic service which you render to both peoples, with a conscientious striving for impartiality, tempers even the wind of party warfare to the shorn lamb of political opposition.

In a sincere sympathy with French life and character, as exhibited in the democratic yet monarchical province of Quebec, or Lower Canada (as, historically, I still love to think of it), moved by friendly observation, and seeking to be truthful and impartial, I have made this book and others dealing with the life of the proud province, which a century and a half of English governance has not Anglicised. This series of more or less connected stories, however, has been the most cherished of all my labours, covering, as it has done, so many years, and being the accepted of my anxious judgment out of a much larger gathering, so many numbers of which are retired to the seclusion of copyright, while reserved from publication. In passing, I need hardly say that the "Pontiac" of this book is an imaginary place, and has no association with the real Pontiac of the Province.

I had meant to call the volume, "Born with a Golden Spoon," a title stolen from the old phrase, "Born with a golden spoon in the mouth"; but at the last moment I have given the book the name of the tale which is, chronologically, the climax of the series, and the end of my narratives of French Canadian life and character. I had chosen the former title because of an inherent meaning in it relation to my subject. A man born in the purple--in comfort wealth, and secure estate--is said to have the golden spoon in his mouth. In the eyes of the world, however, the phrase has a some what ironical suggestiveness, and to have luxury, wealth, and place as a birthright is not thought to be the most fortunate incident of mortality. My application of the phrase is, therefore, different.

I have, as you know, travelled far and wide during the past seventeen years, and though I have seen people as frugal and industrious as the French Canadians, I have never seen frugality and industry associated with so much domestic virtue, so much education and intelligence, and so deep and simple a religious life; nor have I ever seen a priesthood at once so devoted and high-minded in all the concerns the home life of their people, as in French Canada. A land without poverty and yet without riches, French Canada stands alone, too well educated to have a peasantry, too poor to have an aristocracy; as though in her the ancient prayer had been answered "Give me neither poverty nor riches, but feed me with food convenient for me." And it is of the habitant of Quebec, before a men else, I should say, "Born with the golden spoon in his mouth."

To you I come with this book, which contains the first thing I ever wrote out of the life of the Province so dear to you, and the last things also that I shall ever write about it. I beg you to receive it as the loving recreation of one who sympathises with the people of who you come, and honours their virtues, and who has no fear for the unity, and no doubt as to the splendid future, of the nation, whose fibre is got of the two great civilising races of Europe.

Lastly, you will know with what admiration and regard I place your name on the fore page of my book, and greet in you the statesman, the litterateur, and the personal friend.

Believe me,
Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier,
Yours very sincerely,
GILBERT PARKER.

20 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE,
LONDON, S. W.,
14th August, 1900.