The hermit lived of fishing and knew the language of the lake better than anyone else. He spent most of his time, day and night, watching the sleeping lines. He would sell his fishes to people from the village and crossed the lake once a week, on Thursdays, to sell his fish in Lac-Mégantic. We chose, we paid and we went away: the hermit was not very talkative.
Yet he spoke well and was highly respected by everyone. He looked like a good boy, but with the look of someone who distrusts everyone. From time to time, he would look at you sneakily, and if it were not for his small size, this look would be embarrassing for the one to whom he is addressed.
It is said that during his outings, if he saw a woman walking in his direction, he would turn back and walk away growling.
The only one to whom he opened himself was the parish priest. The hermit attended mass every Sunday, he had his right chair and kneeling at the back of the church.
The hermit was an inexhaustible subject, but his breath ran out on June 1st, 1919. He was not at the Sunday mass: he was found lying in bed, a cauldron of soup sleeping on the stove turned off. He was laid on boards placed on the seats of a boat, and he was mounted to exhibit him in the presbytery of the village. The priest J.A. Robidas celebrated his service, and his body was brought to the cemetery.
At the time of the centenary of Piopolis, the old people still remembered this man esteemed by all. Their testimonies can be found in the centenary book of Piopolis.