Besides, the success for which he was working might never come. Jean was a visionary person, a dreamer, a builder of cloud-castles. Presently they would fade away, those golden fancies, leaving nothing but a colourless, empty world, a desert, an aching desolation. Then, in the cold night of adversity, he would seek for love, but should not find it; he would ask, but should not receive; he would knock, but no door would be opened. Yes, he should be well punished for all his sins, and should spend many days in purgatory, without benefit of indulgence or intercession. After a time, perhaps, there would be forgiveness and reconciliation, but not until the whole debt, principal and interest, had been paid in full. So Jean was going to fail. Who had said so? How could that be? Consider that tall, powerful frame, those broad shoulders, the massive head, the determined mouth and chin, the piercing eyes, the air of confidence and cheerful assurance that carried all before him. No, it was not in Jean Baptiste to fail. That which he began he would carry through to the end, in spite of everything. Every obstacle he would overcome; every enemy he would trample upon; every hindrance he would cast aside--yes, even the loving arms that would embrace him, the tender heart that would be his alone. And after all, when success had arrived, with riches, honour, power, and the crown of noble achievement, he would throw it all at the feet of another--at the feet of Blanchette Laroche. And why Blanchette? Because she was not proud; because she did not ask much, and would be satisfied with little. He had only to call, to beckon, and she would follow him like a lamb--yes, like a poodle dog. So there was a way--the way of humility. That was what Jean demanded--submission, the surrender of the will, the abasement of the spirit. It was too much. Never should he have that--never! On the contrary, it was Jean who should make the surrender. There was a man capable of a great passion, a passion not yet awakened, slumbering in the depths of his soul. For him love was a gentle emotion which he could subdue and forget at any time, a pastime which was never allowed to interfere with the more serious affairs of life. But what would he be when stirred to the depths of his being by a tempest of love? What would he do when the master passion was aroused and assumed control? Forget himself? Surely. Forget his plans, his ambitions, his cruel pride. Yes, he would forget all but love, and be willing to sacrifice all for love. And demand all? That also. And if he gave all and demanded all, who could resist, who could refuse? Not Gabrielle Taché. Would she go with this man to the end of the world? Yes, to the end of the world. "Gabrielle, Gabrielle! Where are you, Mignonne? Where are you, Gabrielle?" "Here, Mama," answered Gabrielle from the corner of the garden where she was sitting in the shade of an old apple-tree.