The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete. Gilbert Parker

man. Things had come his way—wealth, and the power that wealth brings. He had but two set-backs, and the man before him in the Manor House of Pontiac was the cause of both. The last rebuff had been the succession to the Seigneury, which, curious as it might seem, had been the cherished dream of the rich man’s retirement. It had been his fancy to play the Seigneur, the lord magnificent and bountiful, and he had determined to use wealth and all manner of influence to have the title of Baron of Pontiac revived—it had been obsolete for a hundred years. He leaned towards the grace of an hereditary dignity, as other retired millionaires cultivate art and letters, vainly imagining that they can wheedle civilisation and the humanities into giving them what they do not possess by nature, and fool the world at the same time.

      The loss of the Seigneury had therefore cut deep, but there had been a more hateful affront still. Four years before, Louis Racine, when spasmodically practising law in Quebec, had been approached by two poor Frenchmen, who laid claim to thousands of acres of land which a Land Company, whereof George Fournel was president, was publicly exploiting for the woods and valuable minerals discovered on it. The Land Company had been composed of Englishmen only. Louis Racine, reactionary and imaginative, brilliant and free from sordidness, and openly hating the English, had taken up the case, and for two years fought it tooth and nail without pay or reward. The matter had become a cause celebre, the Land Company engaging the greatest lawyers in both the English and French province. In the Supreme Court the case was lost to Louis’ clients. Louis took it over to the Privy Council in London, and carried it through triumphantly and alone, proving his clients’ title. His two poor Frenchmen regained their land. In payment he would accept nothing save the ordinary fees, as though it were some petty case in a county court. He had, however, made a reputation, which he had seemed not to value, save as a means of showing hostility to the governing race, and the Seigneury of Pontiac, when it fell to him, had more charms for him than any celebrity to be won at the bar. His love of the history of his country was a mania with him, and he looked forward, on arriving at Pontiac, to being the apostle of French independence on the continent. Madelinette had crossed his path in his most enthusiastic moment, when his brilliant tongue and great dreams surrounded him with a kind of glamour. He had caught her to himself out of the girl’s first triumph, when her nature, tried by the strain of her first challenge to the judgment of the world, cried out for rest, for Pontiac and home, and all that was of the old life among her people.

      Fournel’s antipathy had only been increased by the fact that Louis Racine had married the now famous Madelinette, and his animosity extended to her.

      It was not in him to understand the nature of the Frenchman, volatile, moody, chivalrous, unreasonable, the slave of ideas, the victim of sentiment. Not understanding, when he began to see that he could not attain the object of his visit, which was to secure some relics of the late Seigneur’s household, he chose to be disdainful.

      “You are bound to give me these things I ask for, as a matter of justice—if you know what justice means,” he said at last.

      “You should be aware of that,” answered the Seigneur, with a kindling look. He felt every glance of Fournel’s eye a contemptuous comment upon his deformity, now so egregious and humiliating. “I taught you justice once.”

      Fournel was not to be moved from his phlegm. He knew he could torture the man before him, and he was determined to do so, if he did not get his way upon the matter of his visit.

      “You can teach me justice twice and be thanked once,” he answered. “These things I ask for were much prized by my friend, the late Seigneur. I was led to expect that this Seigneury and all in it and on it should be mine. I know it was intended so. The law gives it you instead. Your technical claim has overridden my rights—you have a gift for making successful technical claims. But these old personal relics, of no monetary value—you should waive your avaricious and indelicate claim to them.” He added the last words with a malicious smile, for the hardening look in Racine’s face told him his request was hopeless, and he could not resist the temptation to put the matter with cutting force. Racine rose to the bait with a jump.

      “Not one single thing—not one single solitary thing—!”

      “The sentiment is strong if the grammar is bad,” interrupted Fournel, meaning to wound wherever he found an opportunity, for the Seigneur’s deformity excited in him no pity; it rather incensed him against the man, as an affront to decency and to his own just claims to the honours the Frenchman enjoyed. It was a petty resentment, but George Fournel had set his heart upon playing the grand-seigneur over the Frenchmen of Pontiac, and of ultimately leaving his fortune to the parish, if they all fell down and worshipped him and his “golden calf.”

      “The grammar is suitable to the case,” retorted the Seigneur, his voice rising. “Everything is mine by law, and everything I will keep. If you think different, produce a will—produce a will!”

      Truth was, Louis Racine would rather have parted with the Seigneury itself than with these relics asked for. They were reminiscent of the time when France and her golden-lilies brooded over his land, of the days when Louis Quatorze was king. He cherished everything that had association with the days of the old regime, as a miner hugs his gold, or a woman her jewels. The request to give them up to this unsympathetic Englishman, who valued them because they had belonged to his friend the late Seigneur, only exasperated him.

      “I am ready to pay the highest possible price for them, as I have said,” urged the Englishman, realising as he spoke that it was futile to urge the sale upon that basis.

      “Money cannot buy the things that Frenchmen love. We are not a race of hucksters,” retorted the Seigneur.

      “That accounts for your envious dispositions then. You can’t buy what you want—you love such curious things, I assume. So you play the dog in the manger, and won’t let other decent folk buy what they want.” He wilfully distorted the other’s meaning, and was delighted to see the Seigneur’s fingers twitch with fury. “But since you can’t buy the things you love—and you seem to think you should—how do you get them? Do you come by them honestly? or do you work miracles? When a spider makes love to his lady he dances before her to infatuate her, and then in a moment of her delighted aberration snatches at her affections. Is it the way of the spider then?”

      With a snarl as of a wild beast, Louis Racine sprang forward and struck Fournel in the face with his clinched fist. Then, as Fournel, blinded, staggered back upon the book-shelves, he snatched two antique swords from the wall. Throwing one on the floor in front of the Englishman, he ran to the door and locked it, and turned round, the sword grasped firmly in his hand, and white with rage.

      “Spider! Spider! By Heaven, you shall have the spider dance before you!” he said hoarsely. He had mistaken Fournel’s meaning. He had put the most horrible construction upon it. He thought that Fournel referred to his deformity, and had ruthlessly dragged in Madelinette as well.

      He was like a being distraught. His long brown hair was tossed over his blanched forehead and piercing black eyes. His head was thrown forward even more than his deformity compelled, his white teeth showed in a grimace of hatred; he was half-crouched, like an animal ready to spring.

      “Take up the sword, or I’ll run you through the heart where you stand,” he continued, in a hoarse whisper. “I will give you till I can count three. Then by the God in Heaven—!”

      Fournel felt that he had to deal with a man demented. The blow he had received had laid open the flesh on his cheek-bone, and blood was flowing from the wound. Never in his life before had he been so humiliated. And by a Frenchman—it roused every instinct of race-hatred in him. Yet he wanted not to go at him with a sword, but with his two honest hands, and beat him into a whining submission. But the man was deformed, he had none of his own robust strength—he was not to be struck, but to be tossed out of the way like an offending child.

      He staunched the blood from his face and made a step forward without a word, determined not to fight, but to take the weapon from the other’s hands. “Coward!” said the Seigneur. “You dare not fight with the sword. With the sword we are even. I am as strong as you there—stronger, and I will have your blood. Coward!