Winter dragged on, like boredom spinning its black thread in the empty silence. Séraphin did not go into the village except to conduct important business with the notary public. He was not often seen in church; and the entire parish was scandalised to learn that, at the end of the day, he hadn’t even had the heart to pay for a High Mass for the soul of his departed wife.

He cared little about Donalda. He no longer thought about her. He had already forgotten her. He resumed his life as a solitary animal. He economised to the point that even he was surprised. He ate nothing but buckwheat pancakes, boiled potatoes and a foul soup which he prepared on a Monday and which lasted him the whole week. Made with a lamb bone, a little rice and water, he ate this soup cold in order to save fuel. Nothing gave him more pleasure. One evening when he mentally calculated how much he had saved since November by living alone, he was alarmed by the exorbitant figure: twelve dollars fifty! Also, the fire rarely burned and light never escaped from the windows. For some time he was thought to be dead or away travelling.

He was alive, however. He suffered from cold and hunger, but he inhaled his capital sin, he caressed it, he got drunk on it; and this made him happier than the most cosseted entertainer. At night he pulled rags, old coats and carriage blankets up over his head. They were heavy but he ended up getting warm and falling asleep, dreaming of the considerable savings he was making.

Every day of the winter, from dawn till dusk, he slaved away in the forest. All on his own he sawed and chopped forty loads of beautiful maple, sold in advance to Dr. Dupras for two dollars per load. Poudrier thought that the winter had passed without too much hardship and suffering. Naturally, if the cold had lasted longer, and if the snow had blocked the roads and hedges until the month of June, life would have been even more prosperous for him; but he was satisfied with his lot.

“It’s not too bad,” he had said in Lacour’s shop. “I can’t complain.”

And he thought about all the loans that he had accumulated at various rates of interest between eight and twenty five percent, and of the cash that was piling up in the three sacks of oats. And, best of all, Donalda was no longer wheedling quarters out of him to buy hairpins, ribbon, flannelette, bootlaces, cotton thread, all sorts of things which he himself could well do without. Now Séraphin found life was wonderful. He could not remember, in all his life as a miser, spending time more happily, more filled with joy, more perfect.

As day followed day, the weather was becoming more and more pleasant. You could still see, far away on the mountainside, squares of snow, spread like white tablecloths for a picnic on the grass; but on the lower slopes and in the fields the warm lips of spring had devoured them almost completely. One morning Séraphin Poudrier heard the cawing of crows above the woods and the river. And as he went out to make sure, a thrush flew out of the apple tree in front of he house.

“It’s certainly springtime,” he said. “No more heating. No more misery.”

Nothing in nature could move this man’s withered heart. Nothing. Not the soft breeze that glided through the skies like a caressing hand, nor the waterfalls on the North River which resonated, liberated and triumphant, at the edge of his land.

That the wood violet was offering its delicate head to the breeze which made it bend a little towards the stream; that the snapdragon was emerging through the dry brown leaves, free from the decay of last summer; that everywhere the green of the grass was spreading a sense of hopefulness, giving off a fragrance that inspired a joy of life in men, Séraphin Poudrier cared nothing at all of these things, remaining insensitive to the language of God. Rather, by a subconscious reaction to the symbols of nature, his happiness, focused more and more on his sin, began almost to approach madness.

One morning, he put his animals out to pasture because it cost him nothing.  That same day he heard the logs coming down the river. What a tremendous battle! There were some that launched themselves skywards before falling back with a crash down into the depths of the waterfall. Others slid and spun along the river banks. They passed by in their hundreds, in their thousands. Entire forests flowed by, carried by the currents towards the industrial towns that were going to feed off the sacrifice of their wild beauty. Séraphin stopped by the doorstep, listening for a moment to the carnage that could be heard for miles.

“It seems that Mothée Cabana’s three lads are logging this spring,” he thought. “He’ll surely repay his mortgage. That’s fine. At twelve percent guaranteed, it suited me well. But who knows? It only takes one little accident … and doctors, they’re expensive.”

Poudrier remained happy all the same, sustained day and night by his sin. And anyway, wasn’t springtime the beginning of the great market for two month non-renewable loans? He talked to himself about it, he daydreamed about it, he lost weight over it, to the point where he now couldn’t stay at home. He went out a lot. He even visited Alexis, whom he had only seen twice in the course of the winter. Alexis found him changed, sallow, old and decrepit.

“Come more often, if you’re that bored,” he had said.

But Séraphin wasn’t bored. He had just hardened himself around his obsession, both at home and elsewhere.

He was often seen in the village, at Lacour’s, at the blacksmith and at the notary. People wondered what poor devil was going to get his throat cut by Poudrier. A lot of business also took the loan shark to Saint-Jerome, Saint-Agatha and Saint-Damase.

Once the folk were intrigued to see him going into the hotel, immaculately dressed, in the company of two strangers who laughed, talked loudly, and bought several rounds, heartily slapping the miser’s bent back. What was happening? It was even stranger when they saw all three climb into the seat of Séraphin’s carriage and speed off in the direction of Saint-Agatha. The lender was obviously dabbling in serious business. Something unusual was certainly about to happen, and many villagers maintained that M. Poudrier had just invested everything he had in a gold mine, and that these two fine gents that had been seen with him were none other than his two associates in this enterprise, which was going to yield hundreds of thousands of dollars.

When Godmer, the hotel keeper, was asked about it, he declared with an air of mystery that he had heard word of something.

More than ever, Poudrier was a character, a powerful, terrible man, that the country people feared, hated thoroughly, and ended up respecting. All the simple folk came to admire the man and his sin.

But imagine the villagers’ surprise when, two days later, he was seen returning alone from Saint-Agatha, stopping once again at the hotel, and buying a glass of brandy in full view of everyone!

Astonishment soon reached the level of stupefaction.

Turning his back on the slim Rosina who was polishing glasses and arranging bottles on the shelves, Poudrier announced in a pompous tone, “Don’t you all know what’s just happened at Saint-Damase? I’ve been to Saint-Agatha to find out.”

And he downed his drink.

“I have to let you know,” he continued, “that the fellow they call Perdichaud, that nice Perdichaud from Saint-Damase who discovered a mine in the West, has just run off with everyone’s money, to the tune of eight thousand five hundred dollars. That’s all!”

Séraphin had got away scot-free: he ordered another glass of brandy, which he sipped with relish, while the terrible news spread astonishment throughout the villagers. Old Sirois, who was listening by the door, almost collapsed. He had lost four hundred dollars.

Séraphin began to laugh, a cynical laugh, a laugh of the damned.

“You’d have to be stupid to put your money into mining, especially into the hands of Perdichaud. No danger of me doing that. I prefer to lend money to you lot, at a reasonable rate of interest.”

Everyone, hypocrites that they were, nodded in agreement, while secretly cursing him.

Many of the regulars now surrounded old Sirois, asking him questions on the pretext of sympathising with him. The miser took the opportunity to leave.

“Goodnight, everyone,” he said.

“Goodnight, monsieur Poudrier,” the entire room replied, fuming.

And off he went, a little unsteadily.

“That’s the first time I’ve ever seen him like that,” said someone.

“It will be on account of his dead wife, I suppose,” concluded Rosina wryly.

A few minutes later, try as he might to make himself inconspicuous, Poudrier was spotted by the verger and the woman from Ticrousse Binette leaving the presbytery.

“That’s the second time he’s been to see the priest in a week,” they thought. “Do you think the poor woman is finally going to get her Mass?”

“Good God!” thought Séraphin. “This place is always full of nosy parkers!”

Poudrier whipped his old mare who limped off.

The wind bowed the grasses that were growing by the roadside. The scented air blew all around, and the thrushes flew from tree to tree, from gatepost to gatepost, emitting a low ‘teetch teetch teetch’ which was pleasing to the ear. From far off Poudrier could see his house, perched on the hillside, near the railway line. It looked like the dwellings of the old nobility of Quebec, while giving the impression of middle class comfort, which made Séraphin Poudrier very proud. He was even happier that he lived alone, in his own style, separated from the world, and that he could conceal his passion, his dreams, and his wealth.

After unharnessing his horse and taking a look at the animals in the pasture, he went inside. Although the sun was beaming down on the walls and floor, the miser felt cold. But instead of wasting firewood he had something to eat.

“You’ve spent two dollars seventy five,” he told himself. “You’re going to do penance now. It needs to be recovered. So you are going to do without right away. Cold soup, for a start.”

And standing by the open door he drank, with a grimace, the rancid brew.

Then he got down to his Sunday custom of dressing in cotton trousers, Donalda’s last work, and an old grey shirt, garments that seemed to be covered in tar, there was so much grime on them. He closed the door, hung over it an old patchwork cover which he always kept at hand to block the view, got out the leather purse, and laid it on the table with a thud that broke the silence in the house. The man leaned over, rubbing his hands, and gently untied the strings of the purse, emptying the contents all at once. There was a stream of gold and silver coins amidst a jumble of banknotes. The sound of this symphony lit up the miser’s face. His hands reaching out to these riches that he had saved from Perdichaud’s phoney mines,  Séraphin fell back onto the sheepskin on the rocking chair, in an ecstasy of lust. Then he leaned over the money, snuffling, smiling at it as if it were the most beloved of mistresses. He separated all the coins of the same size and the banknotes. He made three piles: gold, silver and paper. After that he began to count, taking his time. He repeated it several times in the course of two hours. Eventually he decided the total was four thousand, seven hundred and fifty seven dollars.

When Poudrier had learned that the mining people of Saint-Damase had run off with the money that had been invested in them, he was swift to withdraw his own money from the construction company in the parish, that being a sum of four thousand two hundred dollars which he had lent for a church to be built. He preferred not to take the risk.

“You never know,” he said.

And he went to hide his treasure in a sack of oats upstairs. He daydreamed for the rest of the afternoon, ate nothing at all, went to bed around nine, but didn’t go to sleep until dawn, when the birds were waking up.