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diff --git a/6241-h/6241-h.htm b/6241-h/6241-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..18685ad --- /dev/null +++ b/6241-h/6241-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,11002 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + The Lane That Had No Turning, by Gilbert Parker + </title> + +<style type="text/css"> + <!-- + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%; text-align: justify; font-size: 80%; font-style: italic;} + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + .xx-small {font-size: 60%;} + .x-small {font-size: 75%;} + .small {font-size: 85%;} + .large {font-size: 115%;} + .x-large {font-size: 130%;} + .indent5 { margin-left: 5%;} + .indent10 { margin-left: 10%;} + .indent15 { margin-left: 15%;} + .indent20 { margin-left: 20%;} + .indent30 { margin-left: 30%;} + .indent40 { margin-left: 40%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {position: absolute; right: 1%; font-size: 0.6em; + font-variant: normal; font-style: normal; + text-align: right; background-color: #FFFACD; + border: 1px solid; padding: 0.3em;text-indent: 0em;} + .side { float: left; font-size: 75%; width: 15%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + .head { float: left; font-size: 90%; width: 98%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; text-align: center; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + p.pfirst, p.noindent {text-indent: 0} + span.dropcap { float: left; margin: 0 0.1em 0 0; line-height: 0.8 } + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + --> +</style> + </head> + <body> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +Project Gutenberg's The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete, by Gilbert Parker + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6241] +Last Updated: August 27, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANE OF NO TURNING *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + <h1> + THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + </h1> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <h2> + By Gilbert Parker + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> <a href="#2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#2H_4_0003"> <b>THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING</b> </a><br /><br /> <a + href="#2HCH0001"> CHAPTER I. </a> THE RETURN OF MADELINETTE + <br /><br /> <a href="#2HCH0002"> CHAPTER II. </a> WHEN THE + RED-COATS CAME <br /><br /> <a href="#2HCH0003"> CHAPTER III. </a> "MAN + TO MAN AND STEEL TO STEEL” <br /><br /> <a href="#2HCH0004"> CHAPTER + IV. </a> MADELINETTE MAKES A DISCOVERY <br /><br /> <a + href="#2HCH0005"> CHAPTER V. </a> WHAT WILL SHE DO WITH IT? + <br /><br /> <a href="#2HCH0006"> CHAPTER VI. </a> THE ONE WHO + SAW <br /><br /> <a href="#2HCH0007"> CHAPTER VII. </a> THE + PURSUIT <br /><br /> <a href="#2HCH0008"> CHAPTER VIII. </a> FACE + TO FACE <br /><br /> <a href="#2HCH0009"> CHAPTER IX. </a> THE + BITER BITTEN <br /><br /> <a href="#2HCH0010"> CHAPTER X. </a> THE + DOOR THAT WOULD NOT OPEN <br /><br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0014"> THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P’TITE LOUISON </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0015"> THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0016"> A SON OF THE WILDERNESS </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0017"> A WORKER IN STONE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0018"> THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0019"> THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0020"> MATHURIN </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0021"> THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0022"> THE WOODSMAN’S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE + CHIEF </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0023"> UNCLE JIM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0024"> THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0025"> PARPON THE DWARF </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0026"> TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0027"> MEDALLION’S WHIM </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0028"> THE PRISONER </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0029"> AN UPSET PRICE </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0030"> A FRAGMENT OF LIVES </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0031"> THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0032"> THE BARON OF BEAUGARD </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#2H_4_0033"> THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED </a> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="2H_4_0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + The Right Hon. Sir Wilfrid Laurier G.C.M.G. + </h2> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Believe me, + Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier, + Yours very sincerely, + GILBERT PARKER. +</pre> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> +20 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE, LONDON, S. W., + 14th August, 1900. +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="2H_INTR"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + The story with which this book opens, ‘The Lane That Had No Turning’, + gives the title to a collection which has a large share in whatever + importance my work may possess. Cotemporaneous with the Pierre series, + which deal with the Far West and the Far North, I began in the ‘Illustrated + London News’, at the request of the then editor, Mr. Clement K. + Shorter, a series of French Canadian sketches of which the first was + ‘The Tragic Comedy of Annette’. It was followed by ‘The + Marriage of the Miller, The House with the Tall Porch, The Absurd Romance + of P’tite Louison, and The Woodsman’s Story of the Great White + Chief’. They were begun and finished in the autumn of 1892 in + lodgings which I had taken on Hampstead Heath. Each—for they were + all very short—was written at a sitting, and all had their origin in + true stories which had been told me in the heart of Quebec itself. They + were all beautifully illustrated in the Illustrated London News, and in + their almost monosyllabic narrative, and their almost domestic simplicity, + they were in marked contrast to the more strenuous episodes of the Pierre + series. They were indeed in keeping with the happily simple and + uncomplicated life of French Canada as I knew it then; and I had perhaps + greater joy in writing them and the purely French Canadian stories that + followed them, such as ‘Parpon the Dwarf, A Worker in Stone, The + Little Bell of Honour, and The Prisoner’, than in almost anything + else I have written, except perhaps ‘The Right of Way and Valmond’, + so far as Canada is concerned. + </p> + <p> + I think the book has harmony, although the first story in it covers + eighty-two pages, while some of the others, like ‘The Marriage of + the Miller’, are less than four pages in length. At the end also + there are nine fantasies or stories which I called ‘Parables of + Provinces’. All of these, I think, possessed the spirit of French + Canada, though all are more or less mystical in nature. They have nothing + of the simple realism of ‘The Tragic Comedy of Annette’, and + the earlier series. These nine stories could not be called popular, and + they were the only stories I have ever written which did not have an + immediate welcome from the editors to whom they were sent. In the United + States I offered them to 'Harper’s Magazine’, but the editor, + Henry M. Alden, while, as I know, caring for them personally, still + hesitated to publish them. He thought them too symbolic for the every-day + reader. He had been offered four of them at once because I declined to + dispose of them separately, though the editor of another magazine was + willing to publish two of them. Messrs. Stone & Kimball, however, who + had plenty of fearlessness where literature was concerned, immediately + bought the series for The Chap Book, long since dead, and they were + published in that wonderful little short-lived magazine, which contained + some things of permanent value to literature. They published four of the + series, namely: ‘The Golden Pipes, The Guardian of the Fire, By that + Place Called Peradventure, The Singing of the Bees, and The Tent of the + Purple Mat’. In England, because I would not separate the first + five, and publish them individually, two or three of the editors who were + taking the Pierre series and other stories appearing in this volume would + not publish them. They, also, were frightened by the mystery and + allusiveness of the tales, and had an apprehension that they would not be + popular. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps they were right. They were all fantasies, but I do not wish them + other than they are. One has to write according to the impulse that seizes + one and after the fashion of one’s own mind. This at least can be + said of all my books, that not a page of them has ever been written to + order, and there is not a story published in all the pages bearing my name + which does not represent one or two other stories rejected by myself. The + art of rejection is the hardest art which an author has to learn; but I + have never had a doubt as to my being justified in publishing these little + symbolic things. + </p> + <p> + Eventually the whole series was published in England. W. E. Henley gave + 'There Was a Little City’ a home in ‘The New Review’, + and expressed himself as happy in having it. ‘The Forge in the + Valley’ was published by Sir Wemyss Reid in the weekly paper called + ‘The Speaker’, now known as ‘The Nation’, in which + ‘Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch’ made his name and helped the fame + of others. ‘There Was a Little City’ was published in 'The + Chap Book’ in the United States, but ‘The Forge in the Valley’ + had (I think) no American public until it appeared within the pages of + ‘The Lane That Had No Turning’. The rest of the series were + published in the 'English Illustrated Magazine’, which was such a + good friend to my work at the start. As was perhaps natural, there was + some criticism, but very little, in French Canada itself, upon the stories + in this volume. It soon died away, however, and almost as I write these + words there has come to me an appreciation which I value as much as + anything that has befallen me in my career, and that is, the degree of + Doctor of Letters from the French Catholic University of Laval at Quebec. + It is the seal of French Canada upon the work which I have tried to do for + her and for the whole Dominion. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> <a name="2H_4_0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <h1> + THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + </h1> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /><br /> <br /> + </p> + <h2> + CHAPTER I. THE RETURN OF MADELINETTE + </h2> + <p> + His Excellency the Governor—the English Governor of French Canada—was + come to Pontiac, accompanied by a goodly retinue; by private secretary, + military secretary, aide-de-camp, cabinet minister, and all that. He was + making a tour of the Province, but it was obvious that he had gone out of + his way to visit Pontiac, for there were disquieting rumours in the air + concerning the loyalty of the district. Indeed, the Governor had arrived + but twenty-four hours after a meeting had been held under the presidency + of the Seigneur, at which resolutions easily translatable into sedition + were presented. The Cure and the Avocat, arriving in the nick of time, had + both spoken against these resolutions; with the result that the new-born + ardour in the minds of the simple habitants had died down, and the + Seigneur had parted from the Cure and the Avocat in anger. + </p> + <p> + Pontiac had been involved in an illegal demonstration once before. + Valmond, the bizarre but popular Napoleonic pretender, had raised his + standard there; the stones before the parish church had been stained with + his blood; and he lay in the churchyard of St. Saviour’s forgiven + and unforgotten. How was it possible for Pontiac to forget him? Had he not + left his little fortune to the parish? and had he not also left twenty + thousand francs for the musical education of Madelinette Lajeunesse, the + daughter of the village forgeron, to learn singing of the best masters in + Paris? Pontiac’s wrong-doings had brought it more profit than + penalty, more praise than punishment: for, after five years in France in + the care of the Little Chemist’s widow, Madelinette Lajeunesse had + become the greatest singer of her day. But what had put the severest + strain upon the modesty of Pontiac was the fact that, on the morrow of + Madelinette’s first triumph in Paris, she had married M. Louis + Racine, the new Seigneur of Pontiac. + </p> + <p> + What more could Pontiac wish? It had been rewarded for its mistakes; it + had not even been chastened, save that it was marked Suspicious as to its + loyalty, at the headquarters of the English Government in Quebec. It + should have worn a crown of thorns, but it flaunted a crown of roses. A + most unreasonable good fortune seemed to pursue it. It had been led to + expect that its new Seigneur would be an Englishman, one George Fournel, + to whom, as the late Seigneur had more than once declared, the property + was devised by will; but at his death no will had been found, and Louis + Racine, the direct heir in blood, had succeeded to the property and the + title. + </p> + <p> + Brilliant, enthusiastic, fanatically French, the new Seigneur had set + himself to revive certain old traditions, customs, and privileges of the + Seigneurial position. He was reactionary, seductive, generous, and at + first he captivated the hearts of Pontiac. He did more than that. He + captivated Madelinette Lajeunesse. In spite of her years in Paris—severe, + studious years, which shut out the social world and the temptations of + Bohemian life—Madelinette retained a strange simplicity of heart and + mind, a desperate love for her old home which would not be gainsaid, a + passionate loyalty to her past, which was an illusory attempt to arrest + the inevitable changes that come with growth; and, with a sudden impulse, + she had sealed herself to her past at the very outset of her great career + by marriage with Louis Racine. + </p> + <p> + On the very day of their marriage Louis Racine had made a painful + discovery. A heritage of his fathers, which had skipped two generations, + suddenly appeared in himself: he was becoming a hunchback. + </p> + <p> + Terror, despair, gloom, anxiety had settled upon him. Three months later + Madelinette had gone to Paris alone. The Seigneur had invented excuses for + not accompanying her, so she went instead in the care of the Little + Chemist’s widow, as of old Louis had promised to follow within + another three months, but had not done so. The surgical operation + performed upon him was unsuccessful; the strange growth increased. + Sensitive, fearful, and morose, he would not go to Europe to be known as + the hunchback husband of Lajeunesse, the great singer. He dreaded the hour + when Madelinette and he should meet again. A thousand times he pictured + her as turning from him in loathing and contempt. He had married her + because he loved her, but he knew well enough that ten thousand other men + could love her just as well, and be something more than a deformed + Seigneur of an obscure manor in Quebec. + </p> + <p> + As his gloomy imagination pictured the future, when Madelinette should + return and see him as he was and cease to love him—to build up his + Seigneurial honour to an undue importance, to give his position a + fictitious splendour, became a mania with him. No ruler of a Grand Duchy + ever cherished his honour dearer or exacted homage more persistently than + did Louis Racine in the Seigneury of Pontiac. Coincident with the increase + of these futile extravagances was the increase of his fanatical + patriotism, which at last found vent in seditious writings, agitations, + the purchase of rifles, incitement to rebellion, and the formation of an + armed, liveried troop of dependants at the Manor. On the very eve of the + Governor’s coming, despite the Cure’s and the Avocat’s + warnings, he had held a patriotic meeting intended to foster a stubborn, + if silent, disregard of the Governor’s presence amongst them. + </p> + <p> + The speech of the Cure, who had given guarantee for the good behaviour of + his people to the Government, had been so tinged with sorrowful appeal, + had recalled to them so acutely the foolish demonstration which had ended + in the death of Valmond; that the people had turned from the exasperated + Seigneur with the fire of monomania in his eyes, and had left him alone in + the hall, passionately protesting that the souls of Frenchmen were not in + them. + </p> + <p> + Next day, upon the church, upon the Louis Quinze Hotel, and elsewhere, the + Union Jack flew—the British colours flaunted it in Pontiac with + welcome to the Governor. But upon the Seigneury was another flag—it + of the golden-lilies. Within the Manor House M. Louis Racine sat in the + great Seigneurial chair, returned from the gates of death. As he had come + home from the futile public meeting, galloping through the streets and out + upon the Seigneury road in the dusk, his horse had shied upon a bridge, + where mischievous lads waylaid travellers with ghostly heads made of + lighted candles in hollowed pumpkins, and horse and man had been plunged + into the stream beneath. His faithful servant Havel had seen the accident + and dragged his insensible master from the water. + </p> + <p> + Now the Seigneur sat in the great arm-chair glowering out upon the + cheerful day. As he brooded, shaken and weak and bitter—all his + thoughts were bitter now—a flash of scarlet, a glint of white plumes + crossed his line of vision, disappeared, then again came into view, and + horses’ hoofs rang out on the hard road below. He started to his + feet, but fell back again, so feeble was he, then rang the bell at his + side with nervous insistence. A door opened quickly behind him, and his + voice said imperiously: + </p> + <p> + “Quick, Havel—to the door. The Governor and his suite have + come. Call Tardif, and have wine and cake brought at once. When the + Governor enters, let Tardif stand at the door, and you beside my chair. + Have the men-at-arms get into livery, and make a guard of honour for the + Governor when he leaves. Their new rifles too—and let old Fashode + wear his medal! See that Lucre is not filthy—ha! ha! very good. I + must let the Governor hear that. Quick—quick, Havel. They are + entering the grounds. Let the Manor bell be rung, and every one mustered. + He shall see that to be a Seigneur is not an empty honour. I am something + in the state, something by my own right.” His lips moved restlessly; + he frowned; his hands nervously clasped the arms of the chair. “Madelinette + too shall see that I am to be reckoned with, that I am not a nobody. By + God, then, but she shall see it!” he added, bringing his clasped + hand down hard upon the wood. + </p> + <p> + There was a stir outside, a clanking of chains, a champing of bits, and + the murmurs of the crowd who were gathering fast in the grounds. Presently + the door was thrown open and Havel announced the Governor. Louis Racine + got to his feet, but the Governor hastened forward, and, taking both his + hands, forced him gently back into the chair. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, my dear Seigneur. You must not rise. This is no state + visit, but a friendly call to offer congratulations on your happy escape, + and to inquire how you are.” + </p> + <p> + The Governor said his sentences easily, but he suddenly flushed and was + embarrassed, for Louis Racine’s deformity, of which he had not known—Pontiac + kept its troubles to itself—stared him in the face; and he felt the + Seigneur’s eyes fastened on him with strange intensity. + </p> + <p> + “I have to thank your Excellency,” the Seigneur said in a + hasty nervous voice. “I fell on my shoulders—that saved me. If + I had fallen on my head I should have been killed, no doubt. My shoulders + saved me!” he added, with a petulant insistence in his voice, a + morbid anxiety in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Most providential,” responded the Governor. “It grieves + me that it should have happened on the occasion of my visit. I missed the + Seigneur’s loyal public welcome. But I am happy,” he + continued, with smooth deliberation, “to have it here in this old + Manor House, where other loyal French subjects of England have done honour + to their Sovereign’s representative.” + </p> + <p> + “This place is sacred to hospitality and patriotism, your + Excellency,” said Louis Racine, nervousness passing from his voice + and a curious hard look coming into his face. + </p> + <p> + The Governor was determined not to see the double meaning. “It is a + privilege to hear you say so. I shall recall the fact to her Majesty’s + Government in the report I shall make upon my tour of the province. I have + a feeling that the Queen’s pleasure in the devotion of her + distinguished French subjects may take some concrete form.” + </p> + <p> + The Governor’s suite looked at each other significantly, for never + before in his journeys had his Excellency hinted so strongly that an + honour might be conferred. Veiled as it was, it was still patent as the + sun. Spots of colour shot into the Seigneur’s cheeks. An honour from + the young English Queen—that would mate with Madelinette’s + fame. After all, it was only his due. He suddenly found it hard to be + consistent. His mind was in a whirl. The Governor continued: + </p> + <p> + “It must have given you great pleasure to know that at Windsor her + Majesty has given tokens of honour to the famous singer, the wife of a + notable French subject, who, while passionately eager to keep alive French + sentiment, has, as we believe, a deep loyalty to England.” + </p> + <p> + The Governor had said too much. He had thought to give the Seigneur an + opportunity to recede from his seditious position there and then, and to + win his future loyalty. M. Racine’s situation had peril, and the + Governor had here shown him the way of escape. But he had said one thing + that drove Louis Racine mad. He had given him unknown information about + his own wife. Louis did not know that Madelinette had been received by the + Queen, or that she had received “tokens of honour.” Wild with + resentment, he saw in the Governor’s words a consideration for + himself based only on the fact that he was the husband of the great + singer. He trembled to his feet. + </p> + <p> + At that moment there was a cheering outside—great cheering—but + he did not heed it; he was scarcely aware of it. If it touched his + understanding at all, it only meant to him a demonstration in honour of + the Governor. + </p> + <p> + “Loyalty to the flag of England, your Excellency!” he said, in + a hoarse acrid voice—“you speak of loyalty to us whose lives + for two centuries—” He paused, for he heard a voice calling + his name. + </p> + <p> + “Louis! Louis! Louis!” + </p> + <p> + The fierce words he had been about to utter died on his lips, his eyes + stared at the open window, bewildered and even frightened. + </p> + <p> + “Louis! Louis!” + </p> + <p> + Now the voice was inside the house. He stood trembling, both hands + grasping the arms of the chair. Every eye in the room was now turned + towards the door. As it opened, the Seigneur sank back in the chair, a + look of helpless misery, touched by a fierce pride, covering his face. + </p> + <p> + “Louis!” + </p> + <p> + It was Madelinette, who, disregarding the assembled company, ran forward + to him and caught both his hands in hers. + </p> + <p> + “O Louis, I have heard of your accident, and—” she + stopped suddenly short. The Governor turned away his head. Every person in + the room did the same. For as she bent over him—she saw. She saw for + the first time; for the first time knew! + </p> + <p> + A look of horrified amazement, of shrinking anguish, crossed over her + face. He felt the lightning-like silence, he knew that she had seen; he + struggled to his feet, staring fiercely at her. + </p> + <p> + That one torturing instant had taken all the colour from her face, but + there was a strange brightness in her eyes, a new power in her bearing. + She gently forced him into the seat again. + </p> + <p> + “You are not strong enough, Louis. You must be tranquil.” + </p> + <p> + She turned now to the Governor. He made a sign to his suite, who, bowing, + slowly left the room. “Permit me to welcome you to your native land + again, Madame,” he said. “You have won for it a distinction it + could never have earned, and the world gives you many honours.” + </p> + <p> + She was smiling and still, and with one hand clasping her husband’s, + she said: + </p> + <p> + “The honour I value most my native land has given me: I am lady of + the Manor here, and wife of the Seigneur Racine.” + </p> + <p> + Agitated triumph came upon Louis Racine’s face; a weird painful + vanity entered into him. He stood up beside his wife, as she turned and + looked at him, showing not a sign that what she saw disturbed her. + </p> + <p> + “It is no mushroom honour to be Seigneur of Pontiac, your + Excellency,” he said, in a tone that jarred. “The barony is + two hundred years old. By rights granted from the crown of France, I am + Baron of Pontiac.” + </p> + <p> + “I think England has not yet recognised the title,” said the + Governor suggestively, for he was here to make peace, and in the presence + of this man, whose mental torture was extreme, he would not allow himself + to be irritated. + </p> + <p> + “Our baronies have never been recognised,” said the Seigneur + harshly. “And yet we are asked to love the flag of England and—” + </p> + <p> + “And to show that we are too proud to ask for a right that none can + take away,” interposed Madelinette graciously and eagerly, as though + to prevent Louis from saying what he intended. All at once she had had to + order her life anew, to replace old thoughts by new ones. “We honour + and obey the rulers of our land, and fly the English flag, and welcome the + English Governor gladly when he comes to us—will your Excellency + have some refreshment?” she added quickly, for she saw the cloud on + the Seigneur’s brow. “Louis,” she added quickly, “will + you—” + </p> + <p> + “I have ordered refreshment,” said the Seigneur excitedly, the + storm passing from his face, however. “Havel, Tardif—where are + you, fellows!” He stamped his foot imperiously. + </p> + <p> + Havel entered with a tray of wine and glasses, followed by Tardif loaded + with cakes and comfits, and set them on the table. + </p> + <p> + Ten minutes later the Governor took his leave. At the front door he + stopped surprised, for a guard of honour of twenty men were drawn up. He + turned to the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “What soldiers are these?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “The Seigneury company, your Excellency,” replied Louis. + </p> + <p> + “What uniform is it they wear?” he asked in an even tone, but + with a black look in his eye, which did not escape Madelinette. + </p> + <p> + “The livery of the Barony of Pontiac,” answered the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + The Governor looked at them a moment without speaking. “It is French + uniform of the time of Louis Quinze,” he said. “Picturesque, + but informal,” he added. + </p> + <p> + He went over, and taking a carbine from one of the men, examined it. + “Your carbines are not so unconventional and antique,” he said + meaningly, and with a frosty smile. “The compromise of the centuries—hein?” + he added to the Cure, who, with the Avocat, was now looking on with some + trepidation. “I am wondering if it is quite legal. It is charming to + have such a guard of honour, but I am wondering—wondering—eh, + monsieur l’avocat, is it legal?” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat made no reply, but the Cure’s face was greatly troubled. + The Seigneur’s momentary placidity passed. + </p> + <p> + “I answer for their legality, your Excellency,” he said, in a + high, assertive voice. + </p> + <p> + “Of course, of course, you will answer for it,” said the + Governor, smiling enigmatically. He came forward and held out his hand to + Madelinette. + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I shall remember your kindness, and I appreciate the simple + honours done me here. Your arrival at the moment of my visit is a happy + circumstance.” + </p> + <p> + There was a meaning in his eye—not in his voice—which went + straight to Madelinette’s understanding. She murmured something in + reply, and a moment afterwards the Governor, his suite, and the crowd were + gone; and the men-at-arms-the fantastic body of men in their antique + livery-armed with the latest modern weapons, had gone back to civic life + again. + </p> + <p> + Inside the house once more, Madelinette laid her hand upon Louis’ + arm with a smile that wholly deceived him for a moment. He thought now + that she must have known of his deformity before she came—the world + was so full of tale-bearers—and no doubt had long since reconciled + herself to the painful fact. She had shown no surprise, no shrinking. + There had been only the one lightning instant in which he had felt a kind + of suspension of her breath and being, but when he had looked her in the + face, she was composed and smiling. After all his frightened anticipation + the great moment had come and gone without tragedy. With satisfaction he + looked in the mirror in the hall as they passed inside the house. He saw + no reason to quarrel with his face. Was it possible that the deformity did + not matter after all? + </p> + <p> + He felt Madelinette’s hand on his arm. He turned and clasped her to + his breast. + </p> + <p> + He did not notice that she kept her hands under her chin as he drew her to + him, that she did not, as had been her wont, put them on his shoulders. He + did not feel her shrink, and no one, seeing, could have said that she + shrank from him in ever so little. + </p> + <p> + “How beautiful you are!” he said, as he looked into her face. + </p> + <p> + “How glad I am to be here again, and how tired I am, Louis!” + she said. “I’ve driven thirty miles since daylight.” She + disengaged herself. “I am going to sleep now,” she added. + “I am going to turn the key in my door till evening. Please tell + Madame Marie so, Louis.” + </p> + <p> + Inside her room alone she flung herself on her bed in agony and despair. + </p> + <p> + “Louis—Oh, my God!” she cried, and sobbed and sobbed her + strength away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER II. WHEN THE RED-COATS CAME + </h2> + <p> + A month later there was a sale of the household effects, the horses and + general possessions of Medallion the auctioneer, who, though a Protestant + and an Englishman, had, by his wits and goodness of heart, endeared + himself to the parish. Therefore the notables among the habitants had + gathered in his empty house for a last drink of good-fellowship—Muroc + the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, Benoit the ne’er-do-weel, + Gingras the one-eyed shoemaker, and a few others. They had drunk the + health of Medallion, they had drunk the health of the Cure, and now + Duclosse the mealman raised his glass. “Here’s to—” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute, porridge-pot,” cried Muroc. “The best + man here should raise the glass first and say the votre sante. ‘Tis + M’sieu’ Medallion should speak and sip now.” + </p> + <p> + Medallion was half-sitting on the window-sill, abstractedly listening. He + had been thinking that his ships were burned behind him, and that in + middle-age he was starting out to make another camp for himself in the + world, all because of the new Seigneur of Pontiac. Time was when he had + been successful here, but Louis Racine had changed all that. His hand was + against the English, and he had brought a French auctioneer to Pontiac. + Medallion might have divided the parish as to patronage, but he had other + views. + </p> + <p> + So he was going. Madelinette had urged him to stay, but he had replied + that it was too late. The harm was not to be undone. + </p> + <p> + As Muroc spoke, every one turned towards Medallion. He came over and + filled a glass at the table, and raised it. + </p> + <p> + “I drink to Madelinette, daughter of that fine old puffing forgeron + Lajeunesse,” he added, as the big blacksmith now entered the room. + Lajeunesse grinned and ducked his head. “I knew Madelinette, as did + you all, when I could take her on my knee and tell her English stories, + and listen to her sing French chansons—the best in the world. She + has gone on; we stay where we were. But she proves her love to us, by + taking her husband from Pontiac and coming back to us. May she never find + a spot so good to come to and so hard to leave as Pontiac!” + </p> + <p> + He drank, and they all did the same. Draining his glass, Medallion let it + fall on the stone floor. It broke into a score of pieces. + </p> + <p> + He came and shook hands with Lajeunesse. “Give her my love,” + he said. “Tell her the highest bidder on earth could not buy one of + the kisses she gave me when she was five and I was twenty.” + </p> + <p> + Then he shook hands with them all and went into the next room. + </p> + <p> + “Why did he drop his glass?” asked Gingras the shoemaker. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the way of the aristocrats when it’s the + damnedest toast that ever was,” said Duclosse the mealman. “Eh, + Lajeunesse, that’s so, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “What the devil do I know about aristocrats!” said Lajeunesse. + </p> + <p> + “You’re among the best of the land, now that Madelinette’s + married to the Seigneur. You ought to wear a collar every day.” + </p> + <p> + “Bah!” answered the blacksmith. “I’m only old + Lajeunesse the blacksmith, though she’s my girl, dear lads. I was + Joe Lajeunesse yesterday, and I’ll be Joe Lajeunesse to-morrow, and + I’ll die Joe Lajeunesse the forgeron—bagosh! So you take me as + you find me. M’sieu’ Racine doesn’t marry me. And + Madelinette doesn’t take me to Paris and lead me round the stage and + say, ‘This is M’sieu’ Lajeunesse, my father.’ No. + I’m myself, and a damn good blacksmith and nothing else am I!” + </p> + <p> + “Tut, tut, old leather-belly,” said Gingras the shoemaker, + whose liquor had mounted high, “you’ll not need to work now. + Madelinette’s got double fortune. She gets thousands for a song, and + she’s lady of the Manor here. What’s too good for you, tell me + that, my forgeron?” + </p> + <p> + “Not working between meals—that’s too good for me, + Gingras. I’m here to earn my bread with the hands I was born with, + and to eat what they earn, and live by it. Let a man live according to his + gifts—bagosh! Till I’m sent for, that’s what I’ll + do; and when time’s up I’ll take my hand off the bellows, and + my leather apron can go to you, Gingras, for boots for a bigger fool than + me.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s only one,” said Benolt, the ne’er-do-weel, + who had been to college as a boy. + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that?” said Muroc. + </p> + <p> + “You wouldn’t know his name. He’s trying to find eggs in + last year’s nest,” answered Benolt with a leer. + </p> + <p> + “He means the Seigneur,” said Muroc. “Look to your + son-in-law, Lajeunesse. He’s kicking up a dust that’ll choke + Pontiac yet. It’s as if there was an imp in him driving him on.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ve had enough of the devil’s dust here,” said + Lajeunesse. “Has he been talking to you, Muroc?” + </p> + <p> + Muroc nodded. “Treason, or thereabouts. Once, with him that’s + dead in the graveyard yonder, it was France we were to save and bring back + the Napoleons—I have my sword yet. Now it’s save Quebec. It’s + stand alone and have our own flag, and shout, and fight, maybe, to be free + of England. Independence—that’s it! One by one the English + have had to go from Pontiac. Now it’s M’sieu’ Medallion.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s Shandon the Irishman gone too. M’sieu’ + sold him up and shipped him off,” said Gingras the shoemaker. + </p> + <p> + “Tiens! the Seigneur gave him fifty dollars when he left, to help + him along. He smacks and then kisses, does M’sieu’ Racine.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ve to pay tribute to the Seigneur every year, as they did + in the days of Vaudreuil and Louis the Saint,” said Duclosse. + “I’ve got my notice—a bag of meal under the big tree at + the Manor door.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve to bring a pullet and a bag of charcoal,” said + Muroc. “‘Tis the rights of the Seigneur as of old.” + </p> + <p> + “Tiens! it is my mind,” said Benoit, “that a man that + nature twists in back, or leg, or body anywhere, gets a twist in’s + brain too. There’s Parpon the dwarf—God knows, Parpon is a nut + to crack!” + </p> + <p> + “But Parpon isn’t married to the greatest singer in the world, + though she’s only the daughter of old leather-belly there,” + said Gingras. + </p> + <p> + “Something doesn’t come of nothing, snub-nose,” said + Lajeunesse. “Mark you, I was born a man of fame, walking bloody + paths to glory; but, by the grace of Heaven and my baptism, I became a + forgeron. Let others ride to glory, I’ll shoe their horses for the + gallop.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse,” said Duclosse + the mealman, who had been dozing on a pile of untired cart-wheels. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll be hanged first, comrade.” + </p> + <p> + “One in the family at a time,” said Muroc. “There’s + the Seigneur. He’s going into Parliament.” + </p> + <p> + “He’s a magistrate—that’s enough,” said + Duclosse. “He’s started the court under the big tree, as the + Seigneurs did two hundred years ago. He’ll want a gibbet and a + gallows next.” + </p> + <p> + “I should think he’d stay at home and not take more on his + shoulders!” said the one-eyed shoemaker. Without a word, Lajeunesse + threw a dish of water in Gingras’s face. This reference to the + Seigneur’s deformity was unpalatable. + </p> + <p> + Gingras had not recovered from his discomfiture when all were startled by + the distant blare of a bugle. They rushed to the door, and were met by + Parpon the dwarf, who announced that a regiment of soldiers was marching + on the village. + </p> + <p> + “‘Tis what I expected after that meeting, and the Governor’s + visit, and the lily-flag of France on the Manor, and the body-guard and + the carbines,” said Muroc nervously. + </p> + <p> + “We’re all in trouble again-sure,” said Benoit, and + drained his glass to the last drop. “Some of us will go to gaol.” + </p> + <p> + The coming of the militia had been wholly unexpected by the people of + Pontiac, but the cause was not far to seek. Ever since the Governor’s + visit there had been sinister rumours abroad concerning Louis Racine, + which the Cure and the Avocat and others had taken pains to contradict. It + was known that the Seigneur had been requested to disband his so-called + company of soldiers with their ancient livery and their modern arms, and + to give them up. He had disbanded the corps, but he had not given up the + arms, and, for reasons unknown, the Government had not pressed the point, + so far as the world knew. But it had decided to hold a district drill in + this far-off portion of the Province; and this summer morning two thousand + men marched ‘upon the town and through it, horse, foot, and + commissariat, and Pontiac was roused out of the last-century romance the + Seigneur had sought to continue, to face the actual presence of modern + force and the machinery of war. Twice before had British soldiers marched + into the town, the last time but a few years agone, when blood had been + shed on the stones in front of the parish church. But here were large + numbers of well-armed men from the Eastern parishes, English and French, + with four hundred regulars to leaven the mass. Lajeunesse knew only too + well what this demonstration meant. + </p> + <p> + Before the last soldier had passed through the street, he was on his way + to the Seigneury. + </p> + <p> + He found Madelinette alone in the great dining-room, mending a rent in the + British flag, which she was preparing for a flag-staff. When she saw him, + she dropped the flag, as if startled, came quickly to him, took both his + hands in hers, and kissed his cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Wonder of wonders!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “It’s these soldiers,” he replied shortly. “What + of them?” she asked brightly. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say you don’t know what their coming here + means?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “They must drill somewhere, and they are honouring Pontiac,” + she replied gaily, but her face flushed as she bent over the flag again. + </p> + <p> + He came and stood in front of her. “I don’t know what’s + in your mind; I don’t know what you mean to do; but I do know that M’sieu’ + Racine is making trouble here, and out of it you’ll come more hurt + than anybody.” + </p> + <p> + “What has Louis done?” + </p> + <p> + “What has he done! He’s been stirring up feeling against the + British. What has he done!—Look at the silly customs he’s got + out of old coffins, to make us believe they’re alive. Why did he + ever try to marry you? Why did you ever marry him? You are the great + singer of the world. He’s a mad hunchback habitant seigneur!” + </p> + <p> + She stamped her foot indignantly, but presently she ruled herself to + composure, and said quietly: “He is my husband. He is a brave man, + with foolish dreams.” Then with a sudden burst of tender feeling, + she said: “Oh, father, father, can’t you see, I loved him—that + is why I married him. You ask me what I am going to do? I am going to give + the rest of my life to him. I am going to stay with him, and be to him all + that he may never have in this world, never—never. I am going to be + to him what my mother was to you, a slave to the end—a slave who + loved you, and who gave you a daughter who will do the same for her + husband—” + </p> + <p> + “No matter what he does or is—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “No matter what he is.” + </p> + <p> + Lajeunesse gasped. “You will give up singing! Not sing again before + kings and courts, and not earn ten thousand dollars a month—more + than I’ve earned in twenty years? You don’t mean that, + Madelinette.” + </p> + <p> + He was hoarse with feeling, and he held out his hand pleadingly. To him it + seemed that his daughter was mad; that she was throwing her life away. + </p> + <p> + “I mean that, father,” she answered quietly. “There are + things worth more than money.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to say that you can love him as he is. It isn’t + natural. But no, it isn’t.” + </p> + <p> + “What would you have said, if any one had asked you if you loved my + mother that last year of her life, when she was a cripple, and we wheeled + her about in a chair you made for her?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say any more,” he said slowly, and took up his + hat, and kept turning it round in his hand. “But you’ll + prevent him getting into trouble with the Gover’ment?” he + urged at last. + </p> + <p> + “I have done what I could,” she answered. Then with a little + gasp: “They came to arrest him a fortnight ago, but I said they + should not enter the house. Havel and I prevented them—refused to + let them enter. The men did not know what to do, and so they went back. + And now this—!” she pointed to where the soldiers were + pitching their tents in the valley below. “Since then Louis has done + nothing to give trouble. He only writes and dreams. If he would but dream + and no more—!” she added, half under her breath. + </p> + <p> + “We’ve dreamt too much in Pontiac already,” said + Lajeunesse, shaking his head. + </p> + <p> + Madelinette reached up her hand and laid it on his shaggy black hair. + “You are a good little father, big smithy-man,” she said + lovingly. “You make me think of the strong men in the Niebelungen + legends. It must be a big horse that will take you to Walhalla with the + heroes,” she added. + </p> + <p> + “Such notions—there in your head,” he laughed. “Try + to frighten me with your big names-hein?” There was a new look in + the face of father and of daughter. No mist or cloud was between them. The + things they had long wished to say were uttered at last. A new faith was + established between them. Since her return they had laughed and talked as + of old when they had met, though her own heart was aching, and he was + bitter against the Seigneur. She had kept him and the whole parish in good + humour by her unconventional ways, as though people were not beginning to + make pilgrimages to Pontiac to see her—people who stared at the name + over the blacksmith’s door, and eyed her curiously, or lay in wait + about the Seigneury, that they might get a glimpse of Madame and her + deformed husband. Out in the world where she was now so important, the + newspapers told strange romantic tales of the great singer, wove wild and + wonderful legends of her life. To her it did not matter. If she knew, she + did not heed. If she heeded it—even in her heart—she showed + nothing of it before the world. She knew that soon there would be wilder + tales still when it was announced that she was bidding farewell to the + great working world, and would live on in retirement. She had made up her + mind quite how the announcement should read, and, once it was given out, + nothing would induce her to change her mind. Her life was now the life of + the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + A struggle in her heart went on, but she fought it down. The lure of a + great temptation from that far-off outside world was before her, but she + had resolved her heart against it. In his rough but tender way her father + now understood, and that was a comfort to her. He felt what he could not + reason upon or put into adequate words. But the confidence made him happy, + and his eyes said so to her now. + </p> + <p> + “See, big smithy-man,” she said gaily, “soon will be the + fete of St. Jean Baptiste, and we shall all be happy then. Louis has + promised me to make a speech that will not be against the English, but + only words which will tell how dear the old land is to us.” + </p> + <p> + “Ten to one against it!” said Lajeunesse anxiously. Then he + brightened as he saw a shadow cross her face. “But you can make him + do anything—as you always made me,” he added, shaking his + tousled head and taking with a droll eagerness the glass of wine she + offered him. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER III. “MAN TO MAN AND STEEL TO STEEL” + </h2> + <p> + One evening a fortnight later Louis Racine and George Fournel, the + Englishman, stood face to face in the library of the Manor House. There + was antagonism and animosity in the attitude of both. Apart from the fact + that Louis had succeeded to the Seigneury promised to Fournel, and sealed + to him by a reputed will which had never been found, there was cause for + hatred on the Englishman’s part. Fournel had been an incredibly + successful 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Not one single thing—not one single solitary thing—!” + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “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!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + “Money cannot buy the things that Frenchmen love. We are not a race + of hucksters,” retorted the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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—!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! Coward! Coward! I will give you till I + count three. One!... Two!...” + </p> + <p> + Fournel did not stir. He could not make up his mind what to do. Cry out? + No one could come in time to prevent the onslaught—and onslaught + there would be, he knew. There was a merciless hatred in the Seigneur’s + face, a deadly purpose in his eyes; the wild determination of a man who + did not care whether he lived or died, ready to throw himself upon a + hundred in his hungry rage. It seemed so mad, so monstrous, that the + beautiful summer day through which came the sharp whetting of the scythe, + the song of the birds, and the smell of ripening fruit and grain, should + be invaded by this tragic absurdity, this human fury which must spend + itself in blood. + </p> + <p> + Fournel’s mind was conscious of this feeling, this sense of futile, + foolish waste and disfigurement, even as the Seigneur said “Three!” + and, rushing forward, thrust. + </p> + <p> + As Fournel saw the blade spring at him, he dropped on one knee, caught it + with his left hand as it came, and wrenched it aside. The blade lacerated + his fingers and his palm, but he did not let go till he had seized the + sword at his feet with his right hand. Then, springing up with it, he + stepped back quickly and grasped his weapon fiercely enough now. + </p> + <p> + Yet, enraged as he was, he had no wish to fight; to involve himself in a + fracas which might end in tragedy and the courts of the land. It was a + high price to pay for any satisfaction he might have in this affair. If + the Seigneur were killed in the encounter—he must defend himself now—what + a miserable notoriety and possible legal penalty and public punishment! + For who could vouch for the truth of his story? Even if he wounded Racine + only, what a wretched story to go abroad: that he had fought with a + hunchback—a hunchback who knew the use of the sword, which he did + not, but still a hunchback! + </p> + <p> + “Stop this nonsense,” he said, as Louis Racine prepared to + attack again. “Don’t be a fool. The game isn’t worth the + candle.” + </p> + <p> + “One of us does not leave this room alive,” said the Seigneur. + “You care for life. You love it, and you can’t buy what you + love from me. I don’t care for life, and I would gladly die, to see + your blood flow. Look, it’s flowing down your face; it’s + dripping from your hand, and there shall be more dripping soon. On guard!” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly attacked with a fierce energy, forcing Fournel back upon the + wall. He was not a first-class swordsman, but he had far more knowledge of + the weapon than his opponent, and he had no scruple about using his + knowledge. Fournel fought with desperate alertness, yet awkwardly, and he + could not attack; it was all that he could do, all that he knew how to do, + to defend himself. Twice again did the Seigneur’s weapon draw blood, + once from the shoulder and once from the leg of his opponent, and the + blood was flowing from each wound. After the second injury they stood + panting for a moment. Now the outside world was shut out from Fournel’s + senses as it was from Louis Racine’s. The only world they knew was + this cool room, whose oak floors were browned by the slow searching stains + of Time, and darkened by the footsteps of six generations that had come + and gone through the old house. The books along the walls seemed to cry + out against the unseemly and unholy strife. But now both men were in that + atmosphere of supreme egoism where only their two selves moved, and where + the only thing that mattered on earth was the issue of this strife. + Fournel could only think of how to save his life, and to do that he must + become the aggressor, for his wounds were bleeding hard, and he must have + more wounds, if the fight went on without harm to the Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + “You know now what it is to insult a Frenchman—On guard!” + again cried the Seigneur, in a shriller voice, for everything in him was + pitched to the highest note. + </p> + <p> + He again attacked, and the sound of the large swords meeting clashed on + the soft air. As they struggled, a voice came ringing through the + passages, singing a bar from an opera: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Oh eager golden day, Oh happy evening hour, + Behold my lover cometh from fields of wrath and hate! + Sheathed is his sword; he cometh to my bower; + In war he findeth honour, and love within the gate.” + </pre> + <p> + The voice came nearer and nearer. It pierced the tragic separateness of + the scene of blood. It reached the ears of the Seigneur, and a look of + pain shot across his face. Fournel was only dimly aware of the voice, for + he was hard pressed, and it seemed to come from infinite distances. + Presently the voice stopped, and some one tried the door of the room. + </p> + <p> + It was Madelinette. Astonished at finding it locked, she stood still a + moment uncertain what to do. Then the sounds of the struggle within came + to her ears. She shook the door, leaned her shoulders against it, and + called, “Louis! Louis!” Suddenly she darted away, found Havel + the faithful servant in the passage, and brought him swiftly to the door. + The man sprang upon it, striking with his shoulder. The lock gave, the + door flew open, and Madelinette stepped swiftly into the room, in time to + see George Fournel sway and fall, his sword rattling on the hard oak + floor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what have you done, Louis!” she cried, then added + hurriedly to Havel: “Draw the blind there, shut the door, and tell + Madame Marie to bring some water quickly.” + </p> + <p> + The silent servant vanished, and she dropped on her knees beside the + bleeding and insensible man, and lifted his head. + </p> + <p> + “He insulted you and me, and I’ve killed him, Madelinette,” + said Louis hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + A horrified look came to her face, and she hurriedly and tremblingly + opened Fournel’s waistcoat and shirt, and felt his heart. + </p> + <p> + She was freshly startled by a struggle behind her, and, turning quickly, + she saw Madame Marie holding the Seigneur’s arm to prevent him from + ending his own life. + </p> + <p> + She sprang up and laid her hand upon her husband’s arm. “He is + not dead—you need not do it, Louis,” she said quietly. There + was no alarm, no undue excitement in her face now. She was acting with + good presence of mind. A new sense was working in her. Something had gone + from her suddenly where her husband was concerned, and something else had + taken its place. An infinite pity, a bitter sorrow, and a gentle command + were in her eyes all at once—new vistas of life opened before her, + all in an instant. + </p> + <p> + “He is not dead, and there is no need to kill yourself, Louis,” + she repeated, and her voice had a command in it that was not to be + gainsaid. “Since you have vindicated your honour, you will now help + me to set this business right.” + </p> + <p> + Madame Marie was on her knees beside the insensible man. “No, he is + not dead, thank God!” she murmured, and while Havel stripped the arm + and leg, she poured some water between Fournel’s lips. Her long + experience as the Little Chemist’s wife served her well now. + </p> + <p> + Now that the excitement was over, Louis collapsed. He swayed and would + have fallen, but Madelinette caught him, helped him to the sofa, and, + forcing him gently down on his side, adjusted a pillow for him, and turned + to the wounded man again. + </p> + <p> + An hour went busily by in the closely-curtained room, and at last George + Fournel, conscious, and with wounds well bandaged, sat in a big arm-chair, + glowering round him. At his first coming-to, Louis Racine, at his wife’s + insistence, had come and offered his hand, and made apology for assaulting + him in his own house. + </p> + <p> + Fournel’s reply had been that he wanted to hear no more fool’s + talk and to have no more fool’s doings, and that one day he hoped to + take his pay for the day’s business in a satisfactory way. + </p> + <p> + Madelinette made no apology, said nothing, save that she hoped he would + remain for a few days till he was recovered enough to be moved. He replied + that he would leave as soon as his horses were ready, and refused to take + food or drink from their hands. His servant was brought from the Louis + Quinze Hotel, and through him he got what was needed for refreshment, and + requested that no one of the household should come near him. At night, in + the darkness, he took his departure, no servant of the household in + attendance. But as he got into the carriage, Madelinette came quickly to + him, and said: + </p> + <p> + “I would give ten years of my life to undo to-day’s work.” + </p> + <p> + “I have no quarrel with you, Madame,” he said gloomily, raised + his hat, and was driven away. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IV. MADELINETTE MAKES A DISCOVERY + </h2> + <p> + The national fete of the summer was over. The day had been successful, + more successful indeed than any within the memory of the inhabitants; for + the English and French soldiers joined in the festivities without any + intrusion of racial spirit, but in the very essence and soul of + good-fellowship. The General had called at the Manor, and paid his + respects to the Seigneur, who received him abstractedly if not coolly, but + Madelinette had captured his imagination and his sympathies. He was fond + of music for an Englishman, and with a ravishing charm she sang for him a + bergerette of the eighteenth century and then a ballad of Shakespeare’s + set to her own music. She was so anxious that the great holiday should + pass off without one untoward incident, that she would have resorted to + any fair device to attain the desired end. The General could help her by + his influence and instructions, and if the soldiers—regulars and + militia—joined in the celebrations harmoniously, and with goodwill, + a long step would be made towards undoing the harm that Louis had done, + and maybe influencing him towards a saner, wiser view of things. He had + changed much since the fateful day when he had forced George Fournel to + fight him; had grown more silent, and had turned grey. His eyes had become + by turns watchful and suspicious, gloomy and abstracted; and his speech + knew the same variations; now bitter and cynical, now sad and distant, and + all the time his eyes seemed to grow darker and his face paler. But + however moody and variable and irascible he might be with others, however + unappeasable, with Madelinette he struggled to be gentle, and his + petulance gave way under the intangible persuasiveness of her words and + will, which had the effect of command. Under this influence he had + prepared the words which he was to deliver at the Fete. They were full of + veneration for past traditions, but were not at variance with a proper + loyalty to the flag under which they lived, and if the English soldiery + met the speech with genial appreciation the day might end in a blessing—and + surely blessings were overdue in Madelinette’s life in Pontiac. + </p> + <p> + It had been as she worked for and desired, thanks to herself and the + English General’s sympathetic help. Perhaps his love of music made + him better understand what she wanted, made him even forgiving of the + Seigneur’s strained manner; but certain it is that the day, begun + with uneasiness on the part of the people of Pontiac, who felt themselves + under surveillance, ended in great good-feeling and harmless revelry; and + it was also certain that the Seigneur’s speech gained him an + applause that surprised him and momentarily appeased his vanity. The + General gave him a guard of honour of the French Militia in keeping with + his position as Seigneur; and this, with Madelinette’s presence at + his elbow, restrained him in his speech when he would have broken from the + limits of propriety in the intoxication of his eager eloquence. But he + spoke with moderation, standing under the British Flag on the platform, + and at the last he said: + </p> + <p> + “A flag not our own floats over us now; guarantees us against the + malice of the world and assures us in our laws and religion; but there is + another flag which in our tearful memories is as dear to us now as it was + at Carillon and Levis. It is the flag of memory—of language and of + race, the emblem of our past upon our hearthstones; and the great country + that rules us does not deny us reverence to it. Seeing it, we see the + history of our race from Charlemagne to this day, and we have a pride in + that history which England does not rebuke, a pride which is just and + right. It is fitting that we should have a day of commemoration. Far off + in France burns the light our fathers saw and were glad. And we in Pontiac + have a link that binds us to the old home. We have ever given her proud + remembrance—we now give her art and song.” + </p> + <p> + With these words, and turning to his wife, he ended, and cries of “Madame + Madelinette! Madame Madelinette!” were heard everywhere. Even the + English soldiers cheered, and Madelinette sang a la Claire Fontaine, three + verses in French and one in English, and the whole valley rang with the + refrain sung at the topmost pitch by five thousand voices: + </p> + <p> + “I’ya longtemps que je t’aime, Jamais je ne t’oublierai.” + </p> + <p> + The day of pleasure done and dusk settled on Pontiac and on the encampment + of soldiers in the valley, a light still burned in the library at the + Manor House long after midnight. Madelinette had gone to bed, but, excited + by the events of the day, she could not sleep, and she went down to the + library to read. But her mind wandered still, and she sat mechanically + looking before her at a picture of the father of the late Seigneur, which + was let into the moulding of the oak wall. As she looked abstractedly and + yet with the intensity of the preoccupied mind, her eye became aware of a + little piece of wood let into the moulding of the frame. The light of the + hanging lamp was full on it. + </p> + <p> + This irregularity began to perplex her eye. Presently it intruded on her + reverie. Still busy with her thoughts, she knelt upon the table beneath + the picture and pressed the irregular piece of wood. A spring gave, the + picture came slowly away from the frame, and disclosed a small cupboard + behind. In this cupboard were a few books, an old silver-handled pistol, + and a packet. Madelinette’s reverie was broken now. She was face to + face with discovery and mystery. Her heart stood still with fear. After an + instant of suspense, she took out the packet and held it to the light. She + gave a smothered cry. + </p> + <p> + It was the will of the late Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER V. WHAT WILL SHE DO WITH IT? + </h2> + <p> + George Fournel was the heir to the Seigneury of Pontiac, not Louis Racine. + There it was in the will of Monsieur de la Riviere, duly signed and + attested. + </p> + <p> + Madelinette’s heart stood still. Louis was no longer—indeed, + never had been—Seigneur of Pontiac, and they had no right there, had + never had any right there. They must leave this place which was to Louis + the fetich of his soul, the small compensation fate had made him for the + trouble nature had cynically laid upon him. He had clung to it as a + drowning man clings to a spar. To him it was the charter from which he + could appeal to the world as the husband of Madelinette Lajeunesse. To him + it was the name, the dignity, and the fortune he brought her. It was the + one thing that saved him from a dire humiliation; it was the + vantage-ground from which he appealed to her respect, the flaming + testimony of his own self-esteem. Every hour since his trouble had come + upon him, since Madelinette’s great fame had come to her, he had + protested to himself that it was honour for honour; and every day he had + laboured, sometimes how fantastically, how futilely! to dignify his + position, to enhance his importance in her eyes. She had understood it + all, had read him to the last letter in the alphabet of his mind and + heart. She had realised the consternation of the people, and she knew + that, for her sake, and because the Cure had commanded, all the obsolete + claims he had made were responded to by the people. Certainly he had + affected them by his eloquence and his fiery kindness, but at the same + time they had shrewdly smelt the treason underneath his ardour. There was + a definite limit to their loyalty to him; and, deprived of the Seigneury, + he would count for nothing. + </p> + <p> + A hundred thoughts like these went through her mind as she stood by the + table under the hanging lamp, her face white as the loose robe she wore, + her eyes hot and staring, her figure rigid as stone. + </p> + <p> + To-morrow—how could she face to-morrow, and Louis! How could she + tell him this! How could she say to him, “Louis, you are no longer + Seigneur. The man you hate, he who is your inveterate enemy, who has every + reason to exact from you the last tribute of humiliation, is Seigneur + here!” How could she face the despair of the man whose life was one + inward fever, one long illusion, which was yet only half an illusion, + since he was forever tortured by suspicion; whose body was wearing itself + out, and spirit was destroying itself in the struggle of a vexed + imagination! + </p> + <p> + She knew that Louis’ years were numbered. She knew that this blow + would break him body and soul. He could never survive the humiliation. His + sensitiveness was a disease, his pride was the only thing that kept him + going; his love of her, strong as it was, would be drowned in an imagined + shame! + </p> + <p> + It was midnight. She was alone with this secret. She held the paper in her + hand, which was at once Louis’ sentence or his charter of liberty. A + candle was at her hand, the doors were shut, the blinds drawn, the house a + frozen silence—how cold she was, though it was the deep of summer! + She shivered from head to foot, and yet all day the harvest sun had + drenched the room in its heat. + </p> + <p> + Yet her blood might run warm again, her cold cheeks might regain their + colour, her heart beat quietly, if this paper were no more! The thought + made her shrink away from herself, as it were, yet she caught up the + candle and lighted it. + </p> + <p> + For Louis. For Louis, though she would rather have died than do it for + herself. To save to Louis what was, to his imagination, the one claim he + had upon her respect and the world’s. After all, how little was it + in value or in dignity! How little she cared for it! One year of her voice + could earn two such Seigneuries as this. And the honour—save that it + was Pontiac-it was naught to her. In all her life she had never done or + said a dishonourable thing. She had never lied, she had never deceived, + she had never done aught that might not have been written down and + published to all the world. Yet here, all at once, she was faced with a + vast temptation, to do a deed, the penalty of which was an indelible + shame. + </p> + <p> + What injury would it do to George Fournel! He was used now to his + disappointment; he was rich; he had no claims upon Pontiac; there was no + one but himself to whom it mattered, this little Seigneury. What he did + not know did not exist, so far as himself was concerned. How easily could + it all be made right some day! She felt as though she were suffocating, + and she opened the window a little very softly. Then she lit the candle + tremblingly, watched the flame gather strength, and opened out the will. + As she did so, however, the smell of a clover field, which is as honey, + came stealing through the room, and all at once a strange association of + ideas flashed into her brain. + </p> + <p> + She recalled one summer day long ago, when, in the church of St. Saviour’s, + the smell of the clover fields came through the open doors and windows, + and her mind had kept repeating mechanically, till she fell asleep, the + text of the Curb’s sermon—“As ye sow, so also shall ye + reap.” + </p> + <p> + That placid hour which had no problems, no cares, no fears, no penalties + in view, which was filled with the richness of a blessed harvest and the + plenitude of innocent youth, came back on her now in the moment of her + fierce temptation. + </p> + <p> + She folded up the paper slowly, a sob came in her throat, she blew out the + candle, and put the will back in the cupboard. The faint click of the + spring as she closed the panel seemed terribly loud to her. She started + and looked timorously round. The blood came back to her face—she + flushed crimson with guilt. Then she turned out the lighted lamp and crept + away up the stairs to her room. + </p> + <p> + She paused beside Louis’ bed. He was moving restlessly in his sleep; + he was murmuring her name. With a breaking sigh she crept into bed slowly + and lay like one who had been beaten, bruised, and shamed. + </p> + <p> + At last, before the dawn, she fell asleep. She dreamed that she was in + prison and that George Fournel was her jailor. + </p> + <p> + She waked to find Louis at her bedside. + </p> + <p> + “I am holding my seigneurial court to-day,” he said. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VI. THE ONE WHO SAW + </h2> + <p> + All day and every day Madelinette’s mind kept fastening itself upon + one theme, kept turning to one spot. In her dreams she saw the hanging + lamp, the moving panel, the little cupboard, the fatal paper. Waking and + restlessly busy, she sometimes forgot it for a moment, but remembrance + would come back with painful force, and her will must govern her hurt + spirit into quiet resolution. She had such a sense of humiliation as + though some one dear to her had committed a crime against herself. Two + persons were in her—Madelinette Lajeunesse, the daughter of the + village blacksmith, brought up in the peaceful discipline of her religion, + shunning falsehood and dishonour with a simple proud self-respect; and + Madame Racine, the great singer, who had touched at last the heart of + things; and, with the knowledge, had thrown aside past principles and + convictions to save her stricken husband from misery and humiliation—to + save his health, his mind, his life maybe. + </p> + <p> + The struggle of conscience and expediency, of principle and womanliness + wore upon her, taking away the colour from her cheeks, but spiritualising + her face, giving the large black eyes an expression of rare intensity, so + that the Avocat in his admiration called her Madonna, and the Cure came + oftener to the Manor House with a fear in his heart that all was not well. + Yet he was met by her cheerful smile, by her quiet sense of humour, by the + touching yet not demonstrative devotion of the wife to the husband, and a + varying and impulsive adoration of the wife by the husband. One day when + the Cure was with the Seigneur, Madelinette entered upon them. Her face + was pale though composed, yet her eyes had a look of abstraction or + detachment. The Cure’s face brightened at her approach. She wore a + simple white gown with a bunch of roses at the belt, and a broad hat lined + with red that shaded her face and gave it a warmth it did not possess. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Madame!” said the Cure, rising to his feet and coming + towards her. + </p> + <p> + “I have told you before that I will have nothing but ‘Madelinette,’ + dear Cure,” she replied, with a smile, and gave him her hand. She + turned to Louis, who had risen also, and putting a hand on his arm pressed + him gently into his chair, then, with a swift, almost casual, caress of + his hair, placed on the table the basket of flowers she was carrying, and + began to arrange them. + </p> + <p> + “Dear Louis,” she said presently, and as though en passant, + “I have dismissed Tardif to-day—I hope you won’t mind + these dull domestic details, Cure,” she added. + </p> + <p> + The Cure nodded and turned his head towards the window musingly. He was + thinking that she had done a wise thing in dismissing Tardif, for the man + had evil qualities, and he was hoping that he would leave the parish now. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur nodded. “Then he will go. I have dismissed him—I + have a temper—many times, but he never went. It is foolish to + dismiss a man in a temper. He thinks you do not mean it. But our + Madelinette there”—he turned towards the Cure now—“she + is never in a temper, and every one always knows she means what she says; + and she says it as even as a clock.” Then the egoist in him added: + “I have power and imagination and the faculty for great things; but + Madelinette has serene judgment—a tribute to you, Cure, who taught + her in the old days.” + </p> + <p> + “In any case, Tardif is going,” she repeated quietly. “What + did he do?” said the Seigneur. “What was your grievance, + beautiful Madame?” + </p> + <p> + He was looking at her with unfeigned admiration—with just such a + look as was in his face the first day they met in the Avocat’s house + on his arrival in Pontiac. She turned and saw it, and remembered. The + scene flashed before her mind. The thought of herself then, with the flush + of a sunrise love suddenly rising in her heart, roused a torrent of + feeling now, and it required every bit of strength she had to prevent her + bursting into a passion of tears. In imagination she saw him there, a + straight, slim, handsome figure, with the very vanity of proud health upon + him, and ambition and passionate purpose in every line of his figure, + every glance of his eyes. Now—there he was, bent, frail, and thin, + with restless eyes and deep discontent in voice and manner; the curved + shoulder and the head grown suddenly old; the only thing, speaking of the + past, the graceful hand, filled with the illusory courage of a declining + vitality. But for the nervous force in him, the latent vitality which + renewed with stubborn persistence the failing forces, he was dead. The + brain kept commanding the body back to life and manhood daily. + </p> + <p> + “What did Tardif do?” the Seigneur again questioned, holding + out a hand to her. + </p> + <p> + She did not dare to take his hand lest her feelings should overcome her; + so with an assumed gaiety she put in it a rose from her basket and said: + </p> + <p> + “He has been pilfering. Also he was insolent. I suppose he could not + help remembering that I lived at the smithy once—the dear smithy,” + she added softly. + </p> + <p> + “I will go at once and pay the scoundrel his wages,” said the + Seigneur, rising, and with a nod to the Cure and his wife opened the door. + </p> + <p> + “Do not see him yourself, Louis,” said Madelinette. “Not + I. Havel shall pay him and he shall take himself off to-morrow morning.” + </p> + <p> + The door closed, and Madelinette was left alone with the Cure. She came to + him and said with a quivering in her voice: + </p> + <p> + “He mocked Louis.” + </p> + <p> + “It is well that he should go. He is a bad man and a bad servant. I + know him too well.” + </p> + <p> + “You see, he keeps saying”—she spoke very slowly—“that + he witnessed a will the Seigneur made in favour of Monsieur Fournel. He + thinks us interlopers, I suppose.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure put a hand on hers gently. “There was a time when I felt + that Monsieur Fournel was the legal heir to the Seigneury, for Monsieur de + la Riviere had told me there was such a will; but since then I have + changed my mind. Your husband is the natural heir, and it is only just + that the Seigneury should go on in the direct line. It is best.” + </p> + <p> + “Even with all Louis’ mistakes?” + </p> + <p> + “Even with them. You have set them right, and you will keep him + within the bounds of wisdom and prudence. You are his guardian angel, + Madelinette.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him with a pensive smile and a glance of gratitude. + </p> + <p> + “But suppose that will—if there is one—exists, see how + false our position!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it is mere accident that the will has never been found—if + it was not destroyed by the Seigneur himself before he died? No, there is + purpose behind it, with which neither you or I or Louis have anything to + do. Ah, it is good to have you here in this Seigneury, my child! What you + give us will return to you a thousandfold. Do not regret the world and + your work there. You will go back all too soon.” + </p> + <p> + She was about to reply when the Seigneur again entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “I made up my mind that he should go at once, and so I’ve sent + him word—the rat!” + </p> + <p> + “I will leave you two to be drowned in the depths of your own + intelligence,” said Madelinette; and taking her empty basket left + the room. + </p> + <p> + A strange compelling feeling drove her to the library where the fateful + panel was. With a strange sense that her wrong-doing was modified by the + fact, she had left the will where she had found it. She had a superstition + that fate would deal less harshly with her if she did. It was not her way + to temporise. She had concealed the discovery of the will with an + unswerving determination. It was for Louis, it was for his peace, for the + ease of his fading life, and she had no repentance. Yet there it was, that + curious, useless concession to old prejudices, the little touch of + hypocrisy—she left the will where she had found it. She had never + looked at it since, no matter how great the temptation, and sometimes this + was overpowering. + </p> + <p> + To-day it overpowered her. The house was very still and the blinds were + drawn to shut out the heat, but the soft din of the locusts came through + the windows. Her household were all engaged elsewhere. She shut the doors + of the little room, and kneeling on the table touched the spring. The + panel came back and disclosed the cupboard. There lay the will. She took + it up and opened it. Her eyes went dim on the instant, and she leaned her + forehead against the wall sick at heart. + </p> + <p> + As she did so a sudden gust of wind drove in the blind of the window. She + started, but saw what it was, and hastily putting the will back, closed + the panel, and with a fast-beating heart, left the room. + </p> + <p> + Late that evening she found a letter on her table addressed to herself. It + ran: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + You’ve shipped me off like dirt. You’ll be shipped off, Madame, + double quick. I’ve got what’ll bring the right owner here. You’ll + soon hear from + Tardif. +</pre> + <p> + In terror she hastened to the library and sprung the panel. The will was + gone. + </p> + <p> + Tardif was on his way with it to George Fournel. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VII. THE PURSUIT + </h2> + <p> + There was but one thing to do. She must go straight to George Fournel at + Quebec. She knew only too well that Tardif was speeding thither as fast as + horses could carry him. He had had several hours’ start, but there + was still a chance of overtaking him. And suppose she overtook him? She + could not decide definitely what she should do, but she would do anything, + sacrifice anything, to secure again that fatal document which, in George + Fournel’s hands, must bring a collapse worse than death. A dozen + plans flashed before her, and now that her mind was set upon the thing, + compunction would not stay her. She had gone so far, she was prepared to + go further to save this Seigneury to Louis. She put in her pocket the + silver-handled pistol from the fatal cupboard. + </p> + <p> + In an hour from the time she found the note, the horses and coach were at + the door, and the faithful Havel, cloaked and armed, was ready for the + journey. A note to Louis, with the excuse of a sudden and important call + to Quebec, which he was to construe into business concerning her + profession; hurried yet careful arrangements for his comfort during her + absence; a letter to the Cure begging of him a daily visit to the Manor + House; and then, with the flurried Madame Marie, she entered the coach + with Havel on the box, and they were off. + </p> + <p> + The coach rattled through the village and stopped for a moment at the + smithy. A few words of cheerful good-bye to her father—she carried + the spring in her face and the summer of gaiety in her face however sore + her heart was—and they were once more upon the road. + </p> + <p> + Their first stage was twenty-five miles, and it led through the ravine + where Parpon and his comrades had once sought to frighten George Fournel. + As they passed the place Madelinette shuddered, and she remembered Fournel’s + cynical face as he left the house three months ago. She felt that it would + not easily soften to mercy or look upon her trouble with a human eye, if + once the will were in his hands. It was a silent journey, but Madame Marie + asked no questions, and there was comfort in her unspoken sympathy. + </p> + <p> + Five hours, and at midnight they arrived at the end of the first stage of + their journey, at the village tavern of St. Stanislaus. Here Madame Marie + urged Madelinette to stay and sleep, but this she refused to do, if horses + could be got to go forward. The sight of two gold pieces made the thing + possible in the landlord’s eyes, and Madame Marie urged no more, but + found some refreshment, of which she gently insisted that Madelinette + should partake. In another hour from their arrival they were on the road + again, with the knowledge that Tardif had changed horses and gone forward + four hours before, boasting as he went that when the bombshell he was + carrying should burst, the country would stay awake o’ nights for a + year. + </p> + <p> + Madelinette herself had made the inquiries of the landlord, whose + easily-bought obsequiousness now knew no bounds, and he gave a letter to + Havel to hand to his cousin the landlord at the next change, which, he + said, would be sure to secure them the best of accommodation and good + horses. + </p> + <p> + As the night grew to morning, Madelinette drooped a little, and Madame + Marie, who had, to her own anger and disgust, slept three hours or more, + quietly drew Madelinette towards her. With a little sob the girl—for + what was she but a girl—let her head drop on the old woman’s + shoulder, and she fell into a troubled sleep, which lasted till, in the + flush of sunrise, they drew up at the solitary inn on the outskirts of the + village of Beaugard. They had come fifty miles since the evening before. + </p> + <p> + Here Madelinette took Havel into her confidence, in so far as to tell him + that Tardif had stolen a valuable paper from her, the loss of which might + bring most serious consequences. + </p> + <p> + Whatever Havel had suspected he was the last man in the world to show or + tell. But before leaving the Manor House of Pontiac he had armed himself + with pistols, in the grim hope that he might be required to use them. + Havel had been used hard in the world, Madelinette had been kind to him, + and he was ready to show his gratitude—and he little recked what + form it might take. When he found that they were following Tardif, and for + what purpose, an ugly joy filled his heart, and he determined on revenge—so + long delayed—on the scoundrel who had once tried to turn the parish + against him by evil means. He saw that his pistols were duly primed, he + learned that Tardif had passed but two hours before, boasting again that + Europe would have gossip for a year, once he reached Quebec. Tardif too + had paid liberally for his refreshment and his horses, for here he had + taken a carriage, and had swaggered like a trooper in a conquered country. + </p> + <p> + Havel had every hope of overtaking Tardif, and so he told Madelinette, + adding that he would secure the paper for her at any cost. She did not + quite know what Havel meant, but she read purpose in his eye, and when + Havel said: “I won’t say ‘Stop thief’ many times,” + she turned away without speaking—she was choked with anxiety. Yet in + her own pocket was a little silver-handled pistol. + </p> + <p> + It was true that Tardif was a thief, but she knew that his theft would be + counted a virtue before the world. This she could not tell Havel, but when + the critical moment came—if it did come—she would then act + upon the moment’s inspiration. If Tardif was a thief, what was she!—But + this she could not tell Havel or the world. Even as she thought it for + this thousandth time, her face flushed deeply, and a mist came before her + eyes. But she hardened her heart and gave orders to proceed as soon as the + horses were ready. After a hasty breakfast they were again on their way, + and reached the third stage of their journey by eleven o’clock. + Tardif had passed two hours before. + </p> + <p> + So, for two days they travelled, with no sleep save what they could catch + as the coach rolled on. They were delayed three hours at one inn because + of the trouble in getting horses, since it appeared that Tardif had taken + the only available pair in the place; but a few gold pieces brought + another pair galloping from a farm two miles away, and they were again on + the road. Fifty miles to go, and Tardif with three hours’ start of + them! Unless he had an accident there was faint chance of overtaking him, + for at this stage he had taken to the saddle again. As time had gone on, + and the distance between them and Quebec had decreased, Madelinette had + grown paler and stiller. Yet she was considerate of Madame Marie, and more + than once insisted on Havel lying down for a couple of hours, and herself + made him a strengthening bowl of soup at the kitchen fire of the inn. + Meanwhile she inquired whether it might be possible to get four horses at + the next change, and she offered five gold pieces to a man who would ride + on ahead of them and secure the team. + </p> + <p> + Some magic seemed to bring her the accomplishment of the impossible, for + even as she made the offer, and the downcast looks of the landlord were + assuring her that her request was futile, there was the rattle of hoofs + without, and a petty Government official rode up. He had come a journey of + three miles only, and his horse was fresh. Agitated, yet ruling herself to + composure, Madelinette approached him and made her proposal to him. He was + suspicious, as became a petty Government official, and replied sullenly. + She offered him money—before the landlord, unhappily—and his + refusal was now unnecessarily bitter. She turned away sadly, but Madame + Marie had been roused by the official’s churlishness, and for once + the placid little body spoke in that vulgar tongue which needs no + interpretation. She asked the fellow if he knew to whom he had been + impolite, to whom he had refused a kindly act. + </p> + <p> + “You—you, a habitant road-watcher, a pound-keeper, a village + tax-collector, or something less!” she said. “You to refuse + the great singer Madelinette Lajeunesse, the wife of the Seigneur of + Pontiac, the greatest patriot in the land; to refuse her whom princes are + glad to serve—” She stopped and gasped her indignation. + </p> + <p> + A hundred speeches and a hundred pounds could not have done so much. The + habitant official stared in blank amazement, the landlord took a glass of + brandy to steady himself. + </p> + <p> + “The Lajeunesse—the Lajeunesse, the singer of all the world—ah, + why did she not say so then!” said the churl. “What would I + not do for her! Money—no, it is nothing, but the Lajeunesse, I + myself would give my horse to hear her sing.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell her she can have M’sieu’s horse,” said the + landlord, excitedly interposing. + </p> + <p> + “Tiens, who the devil—the horse is mine! If Madame—if + she will but let me offer it to her myself!” said the agitated + official. “I sing myself—I know what singing is. I have sung + in an opera—a sentinel in armour I was. Ah, but bring me to her, and + you shall see what I will do, by grace of heaven! I will marry you if you + haven’t a husband,” he added with ardour to the dumfounded + Madame Marie, who hurried to the adjoining room. + </p> + <p> + An instant afterwards the official was making an oration in tangled + sentences which brought him a grateful smile and a hand-clasp from + Madelinette. She could not prevent him from kissing her hand, she could + not refrain from laughing when, outside the room, he tried to kiss Madame + Marie. She was astounded, however, an hour later, to see him still at the + inn door, marching up and down, a whip in his hand. She looked at him + reproachfully, indignantly. + </p> + <p> + “Why are you not on the way?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Your man, that M’sieu’ Havel, has rode on; I am to + drive,” he said. “Yes, Madame, it is my everlasting honour + that I am to drive you. Havel has a good horse, the horse has a good + rider, you have a good servant in me. I, Madame, have a good mistress in + you—I am content. I am overjoyed—I am proud—I am ready, + I, Pierre Lapierre.” + </p> + <p> + The churlish official had gone back to the natural state of an excitable + habitant, ready to give away his heart or lose his head at an instant’s + notice, the temptation being sufficient. Madelinette was frightened. She + knew well why Havel had ridden on ahead without her permission, and + shaking hands with the landlord and getting into the coach, she said + hastily to her new coachman: “Lose not an instant. Drive hard.” + </p> + <p> + They reached the next change by noon, and here they found four horses + awaiting them. Tardif, and Havel also, had come and gone. An hour’s + rest, and they were away again upon the last stage of the journey. They + should reach Quebec soon after dusk, all being well. At first, Lapierre + the official had been inclined to babble, but at last he relieved his mind + by interjections only. He kept shaking his head wisely, as though debating + on great problems, and he drove his horses with a master-hand—he had + once been a coach driver on that long river-road, which in summer makes a + narrow ribbon of white, mile for mile with the St. Lawrence from east to + west. This was the proudest moment of his life. He knew great things were + at stake, and they had to do with the famous singer, Lajeunesse; and what + tales for his grandchildren in years to come! + </p> + <p> + The flushed and comfortable Madame Marie sat upright in the coach, holding + the hand of her mistress, and Madelinette grew paler as the miles + diminished between her and Quebec. Yet she was quiet and unmoving, now and + then saying an encouraging word to Lapierre, who smacked his lips for + miles afterwards, and took out of his horses their strength and paces by + masterly degrees. So that when, at last, on the hill they saw far off the + spires of Quebec, the team was swinging as steadily on as though they had + not come twenty-five miles already. This was a moment of pride for + Lapierre, but of apprehension for Madelinette. At the last two inns on the + road she had got news of both Tardif and Havel. Tardif had had the final + start of half-an-hour. A half-hour’s start, and fifteen miles to go! + But one thing was sure, Havel, the wiry Havel, was the better man, with + sounder nerve and a fostered strength. + </p> + <p> + Yet, as they descended the hill and plunged into the wild wooded valley, + untenanted and uncivilised, where the road wound and curved among giant + boulders and twisted through ravines and gorges, her heart fell within + her. Evening was at hand, and in the thick forest the shadows were heavy, + and night was settling upon them before its time. + </p> + <p> + They had not gone a mile, however, when, as they swung creaking round a + great boulder, Lapierre pulled up his horses with a loud exclamation, for + almost under his horses’ feet lay a man apparently dead, his horse + dead beside him. + </p> + <p> + It was Havel. In an instant Madelinette and Ma dame Marie were bending + over him. The widow of the Little Chemist had skill and presence of mind. + </p> + <p> + “He is not dead, dear mine,” said she in a low voice, feeling + Havel’s heart. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God,” was all that Madelinette could say. “Let us + lift him into the coach.” + </p> + <p> + Now Lapierre was standing beside them, the reins in his hand. “Leave + that to me,” he said, and passed the reins into Madame Marie’s + hands, then with muttered imprecations on persons unmentioned he lifted up + the slight form of Havel, and carried him to the coach. Meanwhile + Madelinette had stooped to a little stream at the side of the road, and + filled her silver drinking-cup with water. + </p> + <p> + As she bent over Havel and sprinkled his face, Lapierre examined the + insensible man. + </p> + <p> + “He is but stunned,” he said. “He will come to in a + moment.” + </p> + <p> + Then he went to the spot where Havel had lain, and found a pistol lying at + the side of the road. Examining it, he found it had been discharged-both + barrels. Rustling with importance he brought it to Madelinette, nodding + and looking wise, yet half timorous too in sharing in so remarkable a + business. Madelinette glanced at the pistol, her lips tightened, and she + shuddered. Havel had evidently failed, and she must face the worst. Yet + now that it had come, she was none the less determined to fight on. + </p> + <p> + Havel opened his eyes and looked round in a startled way. He saw + Madelinette. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Madame, Madame, pardon! He got away. I fired twice and winged + him, but he shot my horse and I fell on my head. He has got away. What + time is it, Madame?” he suddenly asked. She told him. “Ah, it + is too late,” he added. “It happened over half-an-hour ago. + Unless he is badly hurt and has fallen by the way, he is now in the city. + Madame, I have failed you—pardon, Madame!” + </p> + <p> + She helped him to sit up, and made a cushion of her cloak for his head, in + a corner of the coach. “There is nothing to ask pardon for, Havel,” + she said; “you did your best. It was to be—that’s all. + Drink the brandy now.” + </p> + <p> + A moment afterwards Lapierre was on the box, Madame Marie was inside, and + Madelinette said to the coachman: + </p> + <p> + “Drive hard—the White Calvary by the church of St. Mary + Magdalene.” + </p> + <p> + In another hour the coach drew up by the White Calvary, where a soft light + burned in memory of some departed soul. + </p> + <p> + The three alighted. Madelinette whispered to Havel, he got up on the box + beside Lapierre, and the coach rattled away to a tavern, as the two women + disappeared swiftly into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER VIII. FACE TO FACE + </h2> + <p> + As the two approached the mansion where George Fournel lived, they saw the + door open and a man come hurriedly out into the street. He wore his wrist + in a sling. + </p> + <p> + Madelinette caught Madame Marie’s arm. She did not speak, but her + heart sank within her. The man was Tardif. + </p> + <p> + He saw them and shuffled over. + </p> + <p> + “Ha, Madame,” he said, “he has the will, and I’ve + not done with you yet—you’ll see.” Then, shaking a fist + in Madelinette’s face, he clattered off into the darkness. + </p> + <p> + They crossed the street, and Madame Marie knocked at Fournel’s door. + It was at once opened, and Madelinette announced herself. The servant + stared stonily at first, then, as she mentioned her name and he saw her + face, he suddenly became servile, and asked them into a small + waiting-room. Monsieur Fournel was at home, and should be informed at once + of Madame’s arrival. + </p> + <p> + A few moments later the servant, somewhat graver, but as courteous still, + came to say that Monsieur would receive her in his library. Madelinette + turned towards Madame Marie. The servant understood. + </p> + <p> + “I shall see that the lady has refreshment,” he said. “Will + Madame perhaps care for refreshment—and a mirror, before Monsieur + has the honour?—Madame has travelled far.” + </p> + <p> + In spite of the anxiety of the moment and the great matters at stake, + Madelinette could not but smile. “Thank you,” she said, + “I hope I’m not so unpresentable.” + </p> + <p> + “A little dust here and there perhaps, Madame,” he said, with + humble courtesy. + </p> + <p> + Madelinette was not so heroical as to undervalue the suggestion. Lives + perhaps were in the balance, but she was a woman, and who could tell what + slight influences might turn the scale! + </p> + <p> + The servant saw her hesitation. “If Madame will but remain here, I + will bring what is necessary,” he said, and was gone. In a moment he + appeared again with a silver basin, a mirror, and a few necessaries of the + toilet. + </p> + <p> + “I suppose, Madame,” said the servant, with fluttered anxiety, + to show that he knew who she was, “I suppose you have had sometimes + to make rough shifts, even in palaces.” + </p> + <p> + She gave him a gold piece. It cheered her in the moment to think that in + this forbidding house, on a forbidding mission, to a forbidding man, she + had one friend. She made a hasty toilet, and but for the great paleness of + her cheeks, no traces remained of the three days’ travel with their + hardship and anxiety. Presently, as the servant ushered her into the + presence of George Fournel, even the paleness was warmed a little by the + excitement of the moment. + </p> + <p> + Fournel was standing with his back to the door, looking out into the + moonlit night. As she entered he quickly drew the curtains of the windows + and turned towards his visitor, a curious, hard, disdainful look in his + face. In his hands he held a paper which she knew only too well. + </p> + <p> + “Madame,” he said, and bowed. Then he motioned her to a chair. + He took one himself and sat down beside the great oak writing-desk and + waited for her to speak—waited with a look which sent the blood from + her heart to colour her cheeks and forehead. + </p> + <p> + She did not speak, however, but looked at him fearlessly. It was + impossible for her to humble herself before the latent insolence of his + look. It seemed to degrade her out of all consideration. He felt the + courage of her defiance, and it moved him. Yet he could but speak in + cynical suggestion. + </p> + <p> + “You had a long, hard, and adventurous journey,” he said. He + rose suddenly and drew a tray towards him. “Will you not have some + refreshment?” he added, in an even voice. “I fear you have not + had time to seek it at an inn. Your messenger has but just gone.” + </p> + <p> + It was impossible for him to do justice to himself, or to let his + hospitality rest upon its basis of natural courtesy. It was clear that he + was moved with accumulated malice, and he could not hide it. + </p> + <p> + “Your servant has been hospitable,” she said, her voice + trembling a little. She plunged at once into the business of her visit. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, that paper you hold—” she stopped for an + instant, able to go no further. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, this—this document you have sent me,” he said, + opening it with an assumed carelessness. “Your servant had an + accident—I suppose we may call it that privately—as he came. + He was fired at—was wounded. You will share with me the hope that + the highwayman who stopped him may be brought to justice, though, indeed, + your man Tardif left him behind in the dust. Perhaps you came upon him, + Madame—hein?” + </p> + <p> + She steeled herself. Too much was at stake; she could not resent his + hateful implications now. + </p> + <p> + “Tardif was not my messenger, Monsieur, as you know. Tardif was the + thief of that document in your hands.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, this—will!” he said musingly, an evil glitter in + his eyes. “Its delivery has been long delayed. Posts and messengers + are slow from Pontiac.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur will hear what I have to say? You have the will, your + rights are in your hands. Is not that enough?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not enough,” he answered, in a grating voice. “Let + us be plain then, Madame, and as simple as you please. You concealed this + will. Not Tardif but yourself is open to the law.” + </p> + <p> + She shrank under the brutality of his manner, but she ruled herself to + outward composure. She was about to reply when he added, with a sneer: + “Avarice is a debasing vice—Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s + house! Thou shalt not steal!” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she said calmly, “it would have been easy to + destroy the will. Have you not thought of that?” + </p> + <p> + For a moment he was taken aback, but he said harshly: “If crime were + always intelligent, it would have fewer penalties.” + </p> + <p> + She shrank again under the roughness of his words. But she was fighting + for an end that was dear to her soul, and she answered: + </p> + <p> + “It was not lack of intelligence, but a sense of honour—yes, a + sense of honour,” she insisted, as he threw back his head and + laughed. “What do you think might be my reason for concealing the + will—if I did conceal it?” + </p> + <p> + “The answer seems obvious. Why does the wild ass forage with a + strange herd, or the pig put his feet in the trough? Not for his neighbour’s + gain, Madame, not in a thousand years.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, I have never been spoken to so coarsely. I am a + blacksmith’s daughter, and I have heard rough men talk in my day, + but I have never heard a man—of my own race at least—so rude + to a woman. But I am here not for my own sake; I will not go till I have + said and done all I have come to say and do. Will you listen to me, + Monsieur?” + </p> + <p> + “I have made my charges—answer them. Disprove this theft”—he + held up the will—“of concealment, and enjoyment of property + not your own, and then ask of me that politeness which makes so beautiful + stable and forge at Pontiac.” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur, you cannot think that the will was concealed for profit, + for the value of the Seigneury of Pontiac. I can earn two such seigneuries + in one year, Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “Nevertheless you do not.” + </p> + <p> + “For the same reason that I did not bring or send that will to you + when I found it, Monsieur. And for that same reason I have come to ask you + not to take advantage of that will.” + </p> + <p> + He was about to interpose angrily, but she continued: “Whatever the + rental may be that you in justice feel should be put upon the Seigneury, I + will pay—from the hour my husband entered on the property, its heir + as he believed. Put such rental on the property, do not disturb Monsieur + Racine in his position as it is, and I will double that rental.” + </p> + <p> + “Do not think, Madame, that I am as avaricious as you.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it avaricious to offer double the worth of the rental?” + </p> + <p> + “There is the title and distinction. You married a mad nobody; you + wish to retain an honour that belongs to me.” + </p> + <p> + “I am asking it for my husband’s sake, not my own, believe me, + Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + “And what do you expect me to do for his sake, Madame?” + </p> + <p> + “What humanity would suggest. Ah, I know what you would say: he + tried to kill you; he made you fight him. But, Monsieur, he has repented + of that. He is ill, he is—crippled, he cherishes the Seigneury + beyond its worth a thousand times.” + </p> + <p> + “He cherishes it at my expense. So, you must not disturb the man who + robs you of house and land, and tries to murder you, lest he should be + disturbed and not sleep o’ nights. Come, Madame, that is too thin.” + </p> + <p> + “He might kill you, but he would not rob you, Monsieur. Do you think + that if he knew that will existed, he would be now at the Seigneury, or I + here? I know you hate Louis Racine.” + </p> + <p> + “With ample reason.” + </p> + <p> + “You hate him more because he defeated you than because he once + tried to kill you. Oh, I do not know the rights or wrongs of that great + case at law; I only know that Louis Racine was not the judge or jury, but + the avocat only, whose duty it was to do as he did. That he did it the + more gladly because he was a Frenchman and you an Englishman, is not his + fault or yours either. Louis Racine’s people came here two hundred + years ago, yours not sixty years ago. You, the great business man, have + had practical power which gave you riches. You have sacrificed all for + power. Louis Racine has only genius, and no practical power.” + </p> + <p> + “A dangerous fanatic and dreamer,” he interjected. “A + dreamer, if you will, with no practical power, for he never thought of + himself, and 'practical power’ is usually all self. He dreamed—he + gave his heart and soul up for ideas. Englishmen do not understand that. + Do you not know—you do know—that, had he chosen, he might have + been rich too, for his brains would have been of great use to men of + practical power like yourself.” + </p> + <p> + She paused; Fournel did not answer, but sat as though reading the will + intently. + </p> + <p> + “Was it strange that he should dream of a French sovereign state + here, where his people came and first possessed the land? Can you wonder + that this dreamer, when the Seigneury of Pontiac came to him, felt as if a + new life were opened up to him, and saw a way to some of his ambitions. + They were sad, mistaken ambitions, doomed to failure, but they were also + his very heart, which he would empty out gladly for an idea. The Seigneury + of Pontiac came to him, and I married him.” + </p> + <p> + “Evidently bent upon wrecking the chances of a great career,” + interrupted Fournel over the paper. + </p> + <p> + “But no; I also cared more for ideas than for the sordid things of + life. It is in our blood, you see” she was talking with less + restraint now, for she saw he was listening, despite assumed indifference—“and + Pontiac was dearer to me than all else in the world. Louis Racine belonged + there. You—what sort of place would you, an Englishman, have + occupied at the Seigneury of Pontiac! What kind—” + </p> + <p> + He got suddenly to his feet. He was a man of strange whims and vanities, + and his resentment at his exclusion from the Seigneury of Pontiac had + become a fixed idea. He had hugged the thought of its possession before M. + de la Riviere died, as a man humbly born prides himself on the + distinguished lineage of his wife. His great schemes were completed, he + was a rich man, and he had pictured himself retiring to this Seigneury, a + peaceful and practical figure, living out his days in a refined repose + which his earlier life had never known. She had touched the raw nerves of + his secret vanity. + </p> + <p> + “What kind of Seigneur would I make, eh? What sort of figure would I + cut in Pontiac!” He laughed loudly. “By heaven, Madame, you + shall see! I did not move against his outrage and assault, but I will move + to purpose now. For you and he shall leave there in disgrace before + another week goes round. I have you both in my ‘practical power,’ + and I will squeeze satisfaction out of you. He is a ruffianly interloper, + and you, Madame, the law would call by another name.” + </p> + <p> + She got quickly to her feet and came a step nearer to him. Leaning a hand + on the table, she bent towards him slightly. Something seemed to possess + her that transfigured her face, and gave it a sense of power and + confidence. Her eyes fixed themselves steadily on him. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she said, “you may call me what you will, + and I will bear it, for you have been sorely injured. You are angry + because I seemed to think an Englishman was not fitted to be Seigneur of + Pontiac. We French are a people of sentiments and ideas; we make idols of + trifles, and we die for fancies. We dream, we have shrines for memories. + These things you despise. You would give us justice and make us rich by + what you call progress. Monsieur, that is not enough. We are not born to + appreciate you. Our hearts are higher than our heads, and, under a flag + that conquered us, they cling together. Was it strange that I should think + Louis Racine better suited to be Seigneur at Pontiac?” + </p> + <p> + She paused as though expecting him to answer, but he only looked + inquiringly at her, and she continued “My husband used you ill, but + he is no interloper. He took what the law gave him, what has been in his + family for over two hundred years. Monsieur, it has meant more to him than + a hundred times greater honour could to you. When his trouble came, when—” + she paused, as though it was difficult to speak—“when the + other—legacy—of his family descended on him, that Seigneury + became to him the one compensation of his life. By right of it only could + he look the world in the face—or me.” + </p> + <p> + She stopped suddenly, for her voice choked her. “Will you please + continue?” said Fournel, opening and shutting the will in his hand, + and looking at her with a curious new consideration. + </p> + <p> + “Fame came to me as his trouble came to him. It was hard for him to + go among men, but, ah, can you think how he dreaded the day when I should + return to Pontiac!... I will tell you the whole truth, Monsieur.” + She drew herself up proudly. “I loved—Louis. He came into my + heart with its first great dream, and before life—the business of + life—really began. He was one with the best part of me, the girlhood + in me which is dead.” + </p> + <p> + Fournel rose and in a low voice said: “Will you not sit down?” + He motioned to a chair. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. “Ah no, please! Let me say all quickly and while + I have the courage. I loved him, and he loved and loves me. I love that + love in which I married him, and I love his love for me. It is + indestructible, because it is in the fibre of my life. It has nothing to + do with ugliness or beauty, or fortune or misfortune, or shame or + happiness, or sin or holiness. When it becomes part of us, it must go on + in one form or another, but it cannot die. It lives in breath and song and + thought and work and words. That is the wonder of it, the pity of it, and + the joy of it. Because it is so, because love would shield the beloved + from itself if need be, and from all the terrors of the world at any cost, + I have done what I have done. I did it at cost of my honour, but it was + for his sake; at the price of my peace, but to spare him. Ah, Monsieur, + the days of life are not many for him: his shame and his futile aims are + killing him. The clouds will soon close over, and his vexed brain and body + will be still. To spare him the last turn of the wheel of torture, to give + him the one bare honour left him yet a little while, I have given up my + work of life to comfort him. I concealed, I stole, if you will, the + document you hold. And, God help me! I would do it again and yet again, if + I lost my soul for ever, Monsieur. Monsieur, I know that in his madness he + would have killed you, but it was his suffering, not a bad heart, that + made him do it. Do a sorrowful woman a great kindness and spare him, + Monsieur.” + </p> + <p> + She had held the man motionless and staring. When she ended, he got to his + feet and came near to her. There was a curious look in his face, half + struggle, half mysterious purpose. “The way is easy to a hundred + times as much,” he said, in a low meaning voice, and his eyes boldly + held hers. “You are doing a chivalrous sort of thing that only a + woman would do—for duty; do something for another reason: for what a + woman would do—for the blood of youth that is in her.” He + reached out a hand to lay it on her arm. “Ask of me what you will, + if you but put your hand in mine and—” + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” she said, pale and gasping, “do you think so + ill of me then? Do I seem to you like—!” She turned away, her + eyes dry and burning, her body trembling with shame. + </p> + <p> + “You are here alone with me at night,” he persisted. “It + would not be easy to—” + </p> + <p> + “Death would be easy, Monsieur,” she said calmly and coldly. + “My husband tried to kill you. You would do—ah, but let me + pass!” she said, with a sudden fury. “You—if you were a + million times richer, if you could ruin me for ever, do you think—” + </p> + <p> + “Hush, Madame,” he said, with a sudden change of voice and a + manner all reverence. “I do not think. I spoke only to hear you + speak in reply: only to know to the uttermost what you were. Madame,” + he added, in a shaking voice, “I did not know that such a woman + lived. Madame, I could have sworn there was none in the world.” Then + in a quicker, huskier note he added: “Eighteen years ago a woman + nearly spoiled my life. She was as beautiful as you, but her heart was + tainted. Since then I have never believed in any woman—never till + now. I have said that all were purchasable—at a price. I unsay that + now. I have not believed in any one—” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Monsieur!” she said, with a quick impulsive gesture + towards him, and her face lighting with sympathy. + </p> + <p> + “I was struck too hard—” + </p> + <p> + She touched his arm and said gently: “Some are hurt in one way and + some in another; all are hurt some time, but—” + </p> + <p> + “You shall have your way,” he interrupted, and moved apart. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, Monsieur, Monsieur, it is a noble act!—” she + hurriedly rejoined, then with a sudden cry rushed towards him, for he was + lighting the will at the flame of a candle near him. + </p> + <p> + “But no, no, no, you shall not do it,” she cried. “I + only asked it for while he lives—ah!” + </p> + <p> + She collapsed with a cry of despair, for he had held the flaming paper + above her reach, and its ashes were now scattering on the floor. + </p> + <p> + “You will let me give you some wine?” he said quietly, and + poured out a glassful. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER IX. THE BITER BITTEN + </h2> + <p> + Madelinette was faint, and, sitting down, she drank the wine feebly, then + leaned her head against the back of the chair, her face turned from + Fournel. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, if you can,” he said. “You have this to + comfort you, that if friendship is a boon in this world you have an honest + friend in George Fournel.” + </p> + <p> + She made a gesture of assent with her hand, but she did not speak. Tears + were stealing quietly down her cold face. For a moment so, in silence, and + then she rose to her feet, and pulled down over her face the veil she + wore. She was about to hold out her hand to him to say good-bye, when + there was a noise without, a knocking at the door, then it was flung open, + and Tardif, intoxicated, entered followed by two constables, with Fournel’s + servant vainly protesting. + </p> + <p> + “Here she is,” Tardif said to the officers of the law, + pointing to Madelinette. “It was her set the fellow on to shoot me. + I had the will she stole from him,” he added, pointing to Fournel. + </p> + <p> + Distressed as Madelinette was, she was composed and ready. + </p> + <p> + “The man was dismissed my employ—” she began, but + Fournel interposed. + </p> + <p> + “What is this I hear about shooting and a will?” he said + sternly. + </p> + <p> + “What will!” cried Tardif. “The will I brought you from + Pontiac, and Madame there followed, and her servant shot me. The will I + brought you, M’sieu’. The will leaving the Manor of Pontiac to + you!” + </p> + <p> + Fournel turned as though with sudden anger to the officers. “You + come here—you enter my house to interfere with a guest of mine, on + the charge of a drunken scoundrel like this! What is this talk of wills! + The vapourings of his drunken brain. The Seigneury of Pontiac belongs to + Monsieur Racine, and but three days since Madame here dismissed this + fellow for pilfering and other misdemeanours. As for shooting—the + man is a liar, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, do you deny that I came to you?—” began Tardif. + </p> + <p> + “Constables,” said Fournel, “I give this fellow in + charge. Take him to gaol, and I will appear at court against him when + called upon.” + </p> + <p> + Tardif’s rage choked him. He tried to speak once or twice, then + began to shriek an imprecation at Fournel; but the constables clapped + hands on his mouth, and dragged him out of the room and out of the house. + </p> + <p> + Fournel saw him safely out, then returned to Madelinette. “Do not + fear for the fellow. A little gaol will do him good. I will see to it that + he gives no trouble, Madame,” he said. “You may trust me.” + </p> + <p> + “I do trust you, Monsieur,” Madelinette answered quietly. + “I pray that you may be right, and that—” “It will + all come out right,” he firmly insisted. “Will you ask for + Madame Marie?” she said. Then with a smile: “We will go + happier than we came.” + </p> + <p> + As she and Madame Marie passed from the house, Fournel shook Madelinette’s + hand warmly, and said: “‘All’s well that ends well.’” + </p> + <p> + “That ends well,” answered Madelinette, with a sorrowful + questioning in her voice. + </p> + <p> + “We will make it so,” he rejoined, and then they parted. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER X. THE DOOR THAT WOULD NOT OPEN + </h2> + <p> + The old Manor House of Pontiac was alive with light and merriment. It was + the early autumn; not cool enough for the doors and windows to be shut, + but cool enough to make dancing a pleasure, and to give spirit to the + gaiety that filled the old house. The occasion was a notable one for + Pontiac. An address of congratulation and appreciation and a splendid gift + of silver had been brought to the Manor from the capital by certain high + officials of the Government and the Army, representing the people of the + Province. At first Madelinette had shrunk from the honour to be done her, + and had so written to certain quarters whence the movement had proceeded; + but a letter had come to her which had changed her mind. This letter was + signed George Fournel. Fournel had a right to ask a favour of her; and one + that was to do her honour seemed the least that she might grant. He had + suffered much at Louis’ hands; he had forborne much; and by an act + of noble forgiveness and generosity, had left Louis undisturbed in an + honour which was not his, and the enjoyment of an estate to which he had + no claim. He had given much, suffered much, and had had nothing in return + save her measureless and voiceless gratitude. Friendship she could give + him; but it was a silent friendship, an incompanionable friendship, + founded upon a secret and chivalrous act. He was in Quebec and she in + Pontiac; and since that day when he had burned the will before her eyes + she had not seen him. She had heard from him but twice; once to tell her + that she need have no fear of Tardif, and again, when he urged her to + accept the testimonial and the gift to be offered by her grateful + fellow-citizens. + </p> + <p> + The deputation, distinguished and important, had been received by the + people of Pontiac with the flaunting of flags, playing of bands, and every + demonstration of delight. The honour done to Madelinette was an honour + done to Pontiac, and Pontiac had never felt itself so important. It + realised that this kind of demonstration was less expensive, and less + dangerous, than sedition, privy conspiracy, and rebellion. The vanity of + the habitants could be better exercised in applauding Madelinette and in + show of welcome to the great men of the land, than in cultivating a + dangerous patriotism under the leadership of Louis Racine. Temptations to + conspiracy had been few since the day George Fournel, wounded and morose, + left the Manor House secretly one night, and carried back to Quebec his + resentment and his injuries. Treasonable gossip filtered no longer from + doorway to doorway; carbines were not to be had for a song; no more + nightly drills and weekly meetings gave a spice of great expectations to + their life. Their Seigneur, silent, and pale, and stooped, lived a life + apart. If he walked through the town, it was with bitter, abstracted eyes + that took little heed of their presence. If he drove, his horses travelled + like the wind. At Mass, he looked at no one, saw no one, and, as it would + seem, heard no one. + </p> + <p> + But Madelinette—she was the Madelinette of old, simple, gracious, + kind, with a smile here and a kind word there: a little child to be + caressed or an old woman to be comforted; the sick to be fed and doctored; + the poor to be helped; the idle to be rebuked with a persuasive smile; the + angry to be coaxed by a humorous word; the evil to be reproved by a + fearless friendliness; the spiteful to be hushed by a still, commanding + presence. She never seemed to remember that she was the daughter of old + Joe Lajeunesse the blacksmith, yet she never seemed to forget it. She was + the wife of the Seigneur, and she was the daughter of the smithy-man too. + She sat in the smithy-man’s doorway with her hand in his; and she + sat at the Manor table with its silver glitter, and its antique + garnishings, with as real an unconsciousness. + </p> + <p> + Her influence seemed to pierce far and wide. The Cure and the Avocat + adored her; and the proudest, happiest moment of their lives was when they + sat at the Manor table, or, in the sombre drawing-room, watched her give + it light and grace and charm, and fill their hearts with the piercing + delight of her song. So her life had gone on; to the outward world serene + and happy, full of simplicity, charity, and good works. What it was in + reality no one could know, not even herself. Since the day when Louis had + tried to kill George Fournel, life had been a different thing for them + both. On her part she had been deeply hurt; wounded beyond repair. He had + failed her from every vital stand-point, he had not fulfilled one hope she + had ever had of him. But she laid the blame not at his door; she rather + shrank with inner bitterness from the cynical cruelty of nature, which, in + deforming the body, with a merciless cruelty had deformed a noble mind. + These things were between her and her inmost soul. + </p> + <p> + To Louis she was ever the same, affectionate, gentle, and unselfish; but + her stronger soul ruled him without his knowledge, commanded his perturbed + spirit into the abstracted quiet and bitter silence wherein he lived, and + which she sought to cheer by a thousand happy devices. She did not let him + think that she was giving up anything for him; no word or act of hers + could have suggested to him the sacrifices she had made. He knew them, + still he did not know them in their fulness; he was grateful, but his + gratitude did not compass the splendid self-effacing devotion with which + she denied herself the glorious career that had lain before her. Morbid + and self-centred, he could not understand. Since her return from Quebec + she had sought to give a little touch of gaiety to their life, and she had + not the heart to interfere with his constant insistence on the little + dignities of the position of Seigneur, ironical as they all were in her + eyes. She had sacrificed everything; and since another also had sacrificed + himself to give her husband the honours and estate he possessed, the game + should be delicately played to the unseen end. + </p> + <p> + So it had gone on until the coming of the deputation with the testimonial + and the gift. She had proposed the gaieties of the occasion to Louis with + so simple a cheerfulness, that he had no idea of the torture it meant to + her; no realisation of how she would be brought face to face with the life + that she had given up for his sake. But neither he nor she was aware of + one thing, that the beautiful embossed address contained an appeal to her + to return to the world of song which she had renounced, to go forth once + more and contribute to the happiness of humanity. + </p> + <p> + When, therefore, in the drawing-room of the Manor, the address was read to + her, and this appeal rang upon her ears, she felt herself turn dizzy and + faint: her whole life seemed to reel backwards to all she had lost, and + the tyranny of the present bore down upon her with a cruel weight. It + needed all her courage and all her innate strength to rule herself to + composure. For an instant the people in the room were a confused mass, + floating away into a blind distance. She heard, however, the quick + breathing of the Seigneur beside her, and it called her back to an active + and necessary confidence. + </p> + <p> + With a smile she received the address, and, turning, handed it to Louis, + smiling at him too with a winning duplicity, for which she might never + have to ask forgiveness in this world or the next. Then she turned and + spoke. Eloquently, simply, she gave out her thanks for the gift of silver + and the greater gift of kind words; and said that in her quiet life, apart + from that active world of the stage, where sorrow and sordid experience + went hand in hand with song, where the delights of home were sacrificed to + the applause of the world, she would cherish their gift as a reward that + she might have earned, had she chosen the public instead of the private + way of life. They had told her of the paths of glory, but she was walking + the homeward way. + </p> + <p> + Thus deftly, and without strain, and with an air of happiness even, did + she set aside the words and the appeal which had created a storm in her + soul. A few moments afterwards, as the old house rang to the laughter of + old and young, with dancing well begun, no one would have thought that the + Manor of Pontiac was not the home of peace and joy. Even Louis himself, + who had had his moments of torture and suspicion when the appeal was read, + was now in a kind of happy reaction. He moved about among the guests with + less abstraction and more cheerfulness than he had shown for months. He + carried in his hand the address which Madelinette had handed him. Again + and again he showed it to eager guests. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, as he was about to fold it up for the last time and carry it to + the library, he saw the name of George Fournel among the signatures. + Stunned, dumfounded, he left the room. George Fournel, whom he had tried + to kill, had signed this address of congratulation to his wife! Was it + Fournel’s intention thus to show that he had forgiven and forgotten? + It was not like the man to either forgive or forget. What did it mean? He + left the house buried in morbid speculation, and involuntarily made his + way to a little hut of two rooms which he had built in the Seigneury + grounds. Here it was he read and wrote, here he had spent moody hours + alone, day after day, for months past. He was not aware that some one left + the crowd about the house and followed him. Arrived at the hut, he entered + and shut the door; lighted candles, and spread the embossed parchment out + before him upon the table. As he stood looking at it, he heard the door + open behind him. Tardif stood before him. + </p> + <p> + The face of Tardif had an evil hunted look. Before the astonished and + suspicious Seigneur had chance to challenge him, he said in a low insolent + tone: + </p> + <p> + “Good evening, M’sieu’! Fine doings at the Manor—eh? + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing at the Manor, and what are you doing here?” + asked the Seigneur, scanning the face of the man closely; for there was a + look in it he did not understand. + </p> + <p> + “I have as much right to be here as you, M’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + “You have no right at all to be here. You were dismissed your place + by the mistress of this Manor.” + </p> + <p> + “There is no mistress of this Manor.” + </p> + <p> + “Madame Racine dismissed you.” + </p> + <p> + “And I dismissed Madame Racine,” answered the man with a + sneer. + </p> + <p> + “You are training for the horsewhip. You forget that, as Seigneur, I + have power to give you summary punishment.” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t power to do anything at all, M’sieu’!” + The Seigneur started. He thought the remark had reference to his physical + disability. His fingers itched to take the creature by the throat, and + choke the tongue from his mouth. Before he could speak, the man continued + with a half-drunken grimace: + </p> + <p> + “You, with your tributes, and your courts, and your body-guards! + Bah! You’d have a gibbet if you could, wouldn’t you? You with + your rebellion and your tinpot honours! A puling baby could conspire as + well as you. And all the world laughing at you—v’la!” + </p> + <p> + “Get out of this room and take your feet from my Manor, Tardif,” + said the Seigneur with a deadly quietness, “or it will be the worse + for you.” + </p> + <p> + “Your Manor—pish!” The man laughed a hateful laugh. + “Your Manor? You haven’t any Manor. You haven’t anything + but what you carry on your back.” + </p> + <p> + A flush passed swiftly over the Seigneur’s face, then left it cold + and white, and the eyes shone fiery in his head. He felt some shameful + meaning in the man’s words, beyond this gross reference to his + deformity. + </p> + <p> + “I am Seigneur of this Manor, and you have taken wages from me, and + eaten my bread, slept under my roof, and—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve no more eaten your bread and slept under your roof than + you have. Pish! You were living then on another man’s fortune, now + you’re living on what your wife earns.” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur did not understand yet. But there was a strange light of + suspicion in his eyes, a nervous rage knotting his forehead. + </p> + <p> + “My land and my earnings are my own, and I have never lived on + another man’s fortune. If you mean that the late Seigneur made a + will—that canard—” + </p> + <p> + “It was no canard.” Tardif laughed hatefully. “There was + a will right enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is it? I’ve heard that fool’s gossip before.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is it? Ask your wife; she knows. Ask your loving Tardif, he + knows.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is the will, Tardif?” asked the Seigneur in a voice + that, in his own ears, seemed to come from an infinite distance; to Tardif’s + ears it was merely tuneless and harsh. + </p> + <p> + “In M’sieu’ Fournel’s pocket, or Madame’s. + What’s the difference? The price is the same, and you keep your eyes + shut and play the Seigneur, and eat and drink what they give you just the + same.” + </p> + <p> + Now the Seigneur understood. His eyes went blind for a moment, and his + hands twitched convulsively on the embossed address he had been rolling + and unrolling. A terror, a shame, a dreadful cruelty entered into him, but + he was still and numb, and his tongue was thick. He spoke heavily. + </p> + <p> + “Tell me all,” he said. “You shall be well paid.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want your money. I want to see you squirm. I want to + see her put where she deserves. Bah! Do you think Fournel forgave you for + putting his feet in his shoes, and for that case at law, for nothing? Why + should he? He hated you, and you hated him. His name’s on that paper + in your hand among all the rest. Do you think he eats humble pie and + crawls to Madame and lets you stay here for nothing?” + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur was painfully quiet and intent, yet his brain was like some + great lens, refracting and magnifying things to monstrous proportions. + </p> + <p> + “A will was found?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “By Madame in the library. She left it where she found it—behind + the picture over the Louis Seize table. The day you dismissed me, I saw + her at the cupboard. I found the will and started with it to M’sieu’ + Fournel. She followed. You remember when she went—eh? On business—and + such business! she and Havel and the old slut Marie. You remember, eh; + Louis?” he added with unnamable insolence. The Seigneur inclined his + head. “V’la! they followed me, overtook me, and Havel shot me + in the wrist. See there!”—he held out his wrist. The Seigneur + nodded. “But I got to Fournel’s first. I put the will into his + hands. + </p> + <p> + “I told him Madame Madelinette was following. Then I went to bring + the constables to his house to arrest her when he had finished with her.” + He laughed a brutal laugh, which deepened the strange glittering look in + Louis’ eyes. “When I came an hour later, she was there. But—now + you shall see what stuff they are both made of! He laughed at me, said I + had lied; that there was no will; that I was a thief; and had me locked up + in gaol. For a month I was in gaol without trial. Then one day I was let + out without trial. His servant met me and brought me to his house. He gave + me money and told me to leave the country. If I didn’t, I would be + arrested again for trying to shoot Havel, and for blackmail. They could + all swear me off my feet and into prison—what was I to do! I took + the money and went. But I came back to have my revenge. I could cut their + hearts out and eat them.” + </p> + <p> + “You are drunk,” said the Seigneur quietly. “You don’t + know what you’re saying.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not drunk. I’m always trying to get drunk now. I + couldn’t have come here if I hadn’t been drinking. I couldn’t + have told you the truth, if I hadn’t been drinking. But I’m + sober enough to know that I’ve done for him and for her! And I’m + even with you too—bah! Did you think she cared a fig for you? She’s + only waiting till you die. Then she’ll go to her lover. He’s a + man of life and limb. Youpish! a hunchback, that all the world laughs at, + a worm—” he turned towards the door laughing hideously, his + evil face gloating. “You’ve not got a stick or stone. She”—jerking + a finger towards the house—“she earns what you eat, she—” + </p> + <p> + It was the last word he ever spoke, for, with a low terrible cry, the + Seigneur snatched up a knife from the table and sprang upon him, catching + him by the throat. Once, twice, thrice, the knife went home, and the + ruffian collapsed under it with one loud cry. Not letting go his grasp of + the dying man’s collar, the Seigneur dragged him across the floor, + and, opening the door of the small inner room, pulled him inside. For a + moment he stood beside the body, panting, then he went to the other room + and, bringing a candle, looked at the dead thing in silence. Presently he + stooped, held the candle to the wide-staring eyes, then felt the heart. + “He is gone,” he said in an even voice. Stooping for the knife + he had dropped on the floor, he laid it on the body. He looked at his + hands. There was one spot of blood on his fingers. He wiped it off with + his handkerchief, then blowing out the light, he calmly opened the door of + the hut, locked it, went out, and moved on slowly towards the house. + </p> + <p> + As he left the hut he was conscious that some one was moving under the + trees by the window, but his mind was not concerned with things outside + himself and the one other thing left for him to do. + </p> + <p> + He entered the house and went in search of Madelinette. When he reached + the drawing-room, surrounded by eager listeners, she was beginning to + sing. Her bearing was eager and almost tremulous, for, with this crowd + round her and in the flush of this gaiety and excitement, there was + something of that exhilarating air that greets the singer upon the stage. + Her eyes were shining with a look, half-sorrowful, half-triumphant. Within + the past half-hour she had overcome herself; she had fought down the + blind, wild rebellion that, for one moment as it were, had surged up in + her heart. She was proud and glad, and piteous and triumphant and deeply + womanly all at once. + </p> + <p> + Going to the piano she had looked round for Louis, but he was not visible. + She smiled to herself, however, for she knew that her singing would bring + him—he worshipped it. Her heart was warm towards him, because of + that moment when she rebelled and was hard at soul. She played her own + accompaniment, and he was hidden from her by the piano as she sang—sang + more touchingly and more humanly, if not more artistically, than she had + ever done in her life. The old art was not so perfect, perhaps, but there + was in the voice all that she had learned and loved and suffered and + hoped. When she rose from the piano to a storm of applause, and saw the + shining faces and tearful eyes round her, her own eyes filled with tears. + These people—most of them—had known and loved her since she + was a child, and loved her still without envy or any taint. Her father was + standing near, and with smiling face she caught from his hand the + handkerchief with which he was mopping his eyes, and kissed him, saying: + </p> + <p> + “I learned that from the tunes you played on your anvil, dear + smithy-man.” + </p> + <p> + Then she turned again to look for Louis. Near the door she saw him, and + with so strange a face, so wild a look, that, unheeding eager requests to + sing again, she responded to the gesture he made, made her way through the + crowd to the hall-way, and followed him up the stairs, and to the little + boudoir beside her bedroom. As she entered and shut the door, a low sound + like a moan broke from him. She went quickly to lay a hand upon his arm, + but he waved her back. “What is it, Louis?” she asked, in a + bewildered voice. “Where is the will?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Where is the will, Louis,” she repeated after him + mechanically, staring at his face, ghostly in the moonlight. + </p> + <p> + “The will you found behind the picture in the library.” + </p> + <p> + “O Louis!” she cried, and made a gesture of despair. “O + Louis!” + </p> + <p> + “You found it, and Tardif stole it and took it to Quebec.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Louis, but Louis—ah, what is the matter, dear! I cannot + bear that look in your face. What is the matter, Louis?” + </p> + <p> + “Tardif took it to Fournel, and you followed. And I have been living + in another man’s house, on another’s bread—” + </p> + <p> + “O Louis, no—no—no! Our money has paid for all.” + </p> + <p> + “Your money, Madelinette!” His voice rose. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, don’t speak like that! See, Louis. It can make no + difference. How you have found out I do not know, but it can make no + difference. I did not want you to know—you loved the Seigneury so. I + concealed the will; Tardif found it, as you say. But, Louis, dear, it is + all right. Monsieur Fournel would not take the place, and—and I have + bought it.” + </p> + <p> + She told her falsehood fearlessly. This man’s trouble, this man’s + peace, if she might but win it, was the purpose of her life. + </p> + <p> + “Tardif said that—he said that you—that you and Fournel—” + </p> + <p> + She read his meaning in his tone, and shrank back in terror, then with a + flush, straightened herself, and took a step towards him. + </p> + <p> + “It was natural that you should not care for a hunchback like me,” + he continued, “but—” + </p> + <p> + “Louis!” she cried, in a voice of anguish and reproach. + </p> + <p> + “But I did not doubt you. I believed in you when he said it, as I + believe in you now when you stand there like that. I know what you have + done for me—” + </p> + <p> + “I pleaded with Monsieur Fournel, knowing how you loved the + Seigneury—pleaded and offered to pay three times the price—” + </p> + <p> + “Yourself would have been a hundred million times the price. Ah, I + know you, Madelinette—I know you now! I have been selfish, but I see + all now. Now when all is over—” he seemed listening to noises + with out—“I see what you have done for me. I know how you have + sacrificed all for me—all but honour—all but honour,” he + added, a wild fire in his eyes, a trembling seizing him. “Your + honour is yours forever. I say so. I say so, and I have proved it. Kiss + me, Madelinette—kiss me once,” he added, in a quick whisper. + </p> + <p> + “My poor, poor Louis!” she said, laid a soothing hand upon his + arm, and leaned towards him. He snatched her to his breast, and kissed her + twice in a very agony of joy, then let her go. He listened for an instant + to the growing noise without, then said in a hoarse voice: + </p> + <p> + “Now, I will tell you, Madelinette. They are coming for me—don’t + you hear them? They are coming to take me; but they shall not have me. + They shall not have me—” he glanced to a little door that led + into a bath-room at his right. + </p> + <p> + “Louis-Louis!” she said in a sudden fright, for though his + words seemed mad, a strange quiet sanity was in all he did. “What + have you done? Who are coming?” she asked in agony, and caught him + by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “I killed Tardif. He is there in the hut in the garden—dead! I + was seen, and they are coming to take me.” + </p> + <p> + With a cry she ran to the door that led into the hall, and locked it. She + listened, then turned her face to Louis. + </p> + <p> + “You killed him!” she gasped. “Louis! Louis!” Her + face was like ashes. + </p> + <p> + “I stabbed him to death. It was all I could do, and I did it. He + slandered you. I went mad, and did it. Now—” + </p> + <p> + There was a knocking at the door, and a voice calling—a peremptory + voice. + </p> + <p> + “There is only one way,” he said. “They shall not take + me. I will not be dragged to gaol for crowds to jeer at. I will not be + sent to the scaffold, to your shame.” + </p> + <p> + He ran to the door of the bath-room and flung it open. “If my life + is to pay the price, then—!” + </p> + <p> + She came blindly towards him, stretching out her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Louis! Louis!” was all that she could say. + </p> + <p> + He caught her hands and kissed them, then stepped swiftly back into the + little bath-room, and locked the door, as the door of the room she was in + was burst open, and two constables and a half-dozen men crowded into the + room. + </p> + <p> + She stood with her back to the bath-room door, panting, and white, and + anguished, and her ears strained to the terrible thing inside the place + behind her. + </p> + <p> + The men understood, and came towards her. “Stand back,” she + said. “You shall not have him. You shall not have him. Ah, don’t + you hear? He is dying—O God, O God!” she cried, with tearless + eyes and upturned face—“Ah, let it be soon! Ah, let him die + soon!” + </p> + <p> + The men stood abashed before her agony. Behind the little door where she + stood there was a muffled groaning. She trembled, but her arms were spread + out before the door as though on a cross, and her lips kept murmuring: + “O God, let him die! Let him die! Oh spare him agony!” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she stood still and listened-listened, with staring eyes that saw + nothing. In the room men shrank back, for they knew that death was behind + the little door, and that they were in the presence of a sorrow greater + than death. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly she turned upon them with a gesture of piteous triumph and said: + </p> + <p> + “You cannot have him now.” + </p> + <p> + Then she swayed and fell forward to the floor as the Cure and George + Fournel entered the room. The Cure hastened to her side and lifted up her + head. + </p> + <p> + George Fournel pushed the men back who would have entered the bath-room, + and himself, bursting the door open, entered. Louis lay dead upon the + floor. He turned to the constables. + </p> + <p> + “As she said, you cannot have him now. You have no right here. Go. I + had a warning from the man he killed. I knew there would be trouble. But I + have come too late,” he added bitterly. + </p> + <p> + An hour later the house was as still as the grave. Madame Marie sat with + the doctor beside the bed of her dear mistress, and in another room, + George Fournel, with the Avocat, kept watch beside the body of the + Seigneur of Pontiac. The face of the dead man was as peaceful as that of a + little child. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ......................... +</pre> + <p> + At ninety years of age, the present Seigneur of Pontiac, one Baron + Fournel, lives in the Manor House left him by Madelinette Lajeunesse the + great singer, when she died a quarter of a century ago. For thirty years + he followed her from capital to capital of Europe and America to hear her + sing; and to this day he talks of her in language more French than English + in its ardour. Perhaps that is because his heart beats in sympathy with + the Frenchmen he once disdained. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P’TITE LOUISON + </h2> + <p> + The five brothers lived with Louison, three miles from Pontiac, and + Medallion came to know them first through having sold them, at an auction, + a slice of an adjoining farm. He had been invited to their home, intimacy + had grown, and afterwards, stricken with a severe illness, he had been + taken into the household and kept there till he was well again. The night + of his arrival, Louison, the sister, stood with a brother on either hand—Octave + and Florian—and received him with a courtesy more stately than + usual, an expression of the reserve and modesty of her single state. This + maidenly dignity was at all times shielded by the five brothers, who + treated her with a constant and reverential courtesy. There was something + signally suggestive in their homage, and Medallion concluded at last that + it was paid not only to the sister, but to something that gave her great + importance in their eyes. + </p> + <p> + He puzzled long, and finally decided that Louison had a romance. There was + something which suggested it in the way they said “P’tite + Louison”; in the manner they avoided all gossip regarding marriages + and marriage-feasting; in the way they deferred to her on questions of + etiquette (as, for instance, Should the eldest child be given the family + name of the wife or a Christian name from her husband’s family?). + And P’tite Louison’s opinion was accepted instantly as final, + with satisfied nods on the part of all the brothers, and whispers of + “How clever! how adorable!” + </p> + <p> + P’tite Louison affected never to hear these remarks, but looked + complacently straight before her, stirring the spoon in her cup, or + benignly passing the bread and butter. She was quite aware of the homage + paid to her, and she gracefully accepted the fact that she was an object + of interest. + </p> + <p> + Medallion had not the heart to laugh at the adoration of the brothers, or + at the outlandish sister, for, though she was angular, and sallow, and + thin, and her hands were large and red, there was a something deep in her + eyes, a curious quality in her carriage commanding respect. She had ruled + these brothers, had been worshipped by them, for near half a century, and + the romance they had kept alive had produced a grotesque sort of truth and + beauty in the admiring “P’tite Louison”—an + affectionate name for her greatness, like “The Little Corporal” + for Napoleon. She was not little, either, but above the middle height, and + her hair was well streaked with grey. + </p> + <p> + Her manner towards Medallion was not marked by any affectation. She was + friendly in a kind, impersonal way, much as a nurse cares for a patient, + and she never relaxed a sort of old-fashioned courtesy, which might have + been trying in such close quarters, were it not for the real simplicity of + the life and the spirit and lightness of their race. One night Florian—there + were Florian and Octave and Felix and Isidore and Emile—the eldest, + drew Medallion aside from the others, and they walked together by the + river. Florian’s air suggested confidence and mystery, and soon, + with a voice of hushed suggestion, he told Medallion the romance of P’tite + Louison. And each of the brothers at different times during the next + fortnight did the same, differing scarcely at all in details, or choice of + phrase or meaning, and not at all in general facts and essentials. But + each, as he ended, made a different exclamation. + </p> + <p> + “Voila, so sad, so wonderful! She keeps the ring—dear P’tite + Louison!” said Florian, the eldest. + </p> + <p> + “Alors, she gives him a legacy in her will! Sweet P’tite + Louison,” said Octave. + </p> + <p> + “Mais, the governor and the archbishop admire her—P’tite + Louison:” said Felix, nodding confidently at Medallion. + </p> + <p> + “Bien, you should see the linen and the petticoats!” said + Isidore, the humorous one of the family. “He was great—she was + an angel, P’tite Louison!” + </p> + <p> + “Attends! what love—what history—what passion!—the + perfect P’tite Louison!” cried Emile, the youngest, the most + sentimental. “Ah, Moliere!” he added, as if calling on the + master to rise and sing the glories of this daughter of romance. + </p> + <p> + Isidore’s tale was after this fashion: + </p> + <p> + “I ver’ well remember the first of it; and the last of it—who + can tell? He was an actor—oh, so droll, that! Tall, ver’ + smart, and he play in theatre at Montreal. It is in the winter. P’tite + Louison visit Montreal. She walk past the theatre and, as she go by, she + slip on the snow and fall. Out from a door with a jomp come M’sieu’ + Hadrian, and pick her up. And when he see the purty face of P’tite + Louison, his eyes go all fire, and he clasp her hand to his breast. + </p> + <p> + “‘Ma’m’selle, Ma’m’selle,’ he + say, ‘we must meet again!’ + </p> + <p> + “She thank him and hurry away queeck. Next day we are on the river, + and P’tite Louison try to do the Dance of the Blue Fox on the ice. + While she do it, some one come up swift, and catch her hand and say: + ‘Ma’m’selle, let’s do it together’—like + that! It take her breath away. It is M’sieu’ Hadrian. He not + seem like the other men she know; but he have a sharp look, he is smooth + in the face, and he smile kind like a woman. P’tite Louison, she + give him her hand, and they run away, and every one stop to look. It is a + gran’ sight. M’sieu’ Hadrian laugh, and his teeth shine, + and the ladies say things of him, and he tell P’tite Louison that + she look ver’ fine, and walk like a queen. I am there that day, and + I see all, and I think it dam good. I say: ‘That P’tite + Louison, she beat them all’—I am only twelve year old then. + When M’sieu’ Hadrian leave, he give her two seats for the + theatre, and we go. Bagosh! that is grand thing that play, and M’sieu’ + Hadrian, he is a prince; and when he say to his minister, ‘But no, + my lord, I will marry out of my star, and where my heart go, not as the + State wills,’ he look down at P’tite Louison, and she go all + red, and some of the women look at her, and there is a whisper all roun’. + </p> + <p> + “Nex’ day he come to the house where we stay, but the Cure + come also pretty soon and tell her she must go home—he say an actor + is not good company. Never mind. And so we come out home. Well, what you + think? Nex’ day M’sieu’ Hadrian come, too, and we have + dam good time—Florian, Octave, Felix, Emile, they all sit and say + bully-good to him all the time. Holy, what fine stories he tell! And he + talk about P’tite Louison, and his eyes get wet, and Emile he say + his prayers to him—bagosh! yes, I think. Well, at last, what you + guess? M’sieu’ he come and come, and at last one day, he say + that he leave Montreal and go to New York, where he get a good place in a + big theatre—his time in Montreal is finish. So he speak to Florian + and say he want marry P’tite Louison, and he say, of course, that he + is not marry and he have money. But he is a Protestan’, and the Cure + at first ver’ mad, bagosh! + </p> + <p> + “But at las’ when he give a hunder’ dollars to the + Church, the Cure say yes. All happy that way for while. P’tite + Louison, she get ready quick-sapre, what fine things had she—and it + is all to be done in a week, while the theatre in New York wait for M’sieu’. + He sit there with us, and play on the fiddle, and sing songs, and act + plays, and help Florian in the barn, and Octave to mend the fence, and the + Cure to fix the grape-vines on his wall. He show me and Emile how to play + sword-sticks; and he pick flowers and fetch them to P’tite Louison, + and teach her how to make an omelette and a salad like the chef of the + Louis Quinze Hotel, so he say. Bagosh, what a good time we have! But first + one, then another, he get a choke-throat when he think that P’tite + Louison go to leave us, and the more we try, the more we are bagosh fools. + And that P’tite Louison, she kiss us hevery one, and say to M’sieu’ + Hadrian, ‘Charles, I love you, but I cannot go.’ He laugh at + her, and say, ‘Voila! we will take them all with us:’ and P’tite + Louison she laugh. That night a thing happen. The Cure come, and he look + ver’ mad, and he frown and he say to M’sieu’ Hadrian + before us all, ‘M’sieu’, you are married.’ + </p> + <p> + “Sapre! that P’tite Louison get pale like snow, and we all + stan’ roun’ her close and say to her quick, ‘Courage, P’tite + Louison!’ M’sieu’ Hadrian then look at the priest and + say: ‘No, M’sieu’, I was married ten years ago; my wife + drink and go wrong, and I get divorce. I am free like the wind.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘You are not free,’ the Cure say quick. ‘Once + married, married till death. The Church cannot marry you again, and I + command Louison to give you up.’ + </p> + <p> + “P’tite Louison stan’ like stone. M’sieu’ + turn to her. ‘What shall it be, Louison?’ he say. ‘You + will come with me?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Kiss me, Charles,’ she say, ‘and tell me + good-bye till—till you are free.’ + </p> + <p> + “He look like a madman. ‘Kiss me once, Charles,’ she + say, ‘and let me go.’ + </p> + <p> + “And he come to her and kiss her on the lips once, and he say, + ‘Louison, come with me. I will never give you up.’ + </p> + <p> + “She draw back to Florian. ‘Good-bye, Charles,’ she say. + ‘I will wait as long as you will. Mother of God, how hard it is to + do right!’ she say, and then she turn and leave the room. + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’ Hadrian, he give a long sigh. ‘It was my + one chance,’ he say. 'Now the devil take it all!’ Then he nod + and say to the Cure: ‘We’ll thrash this out at Judgment Day, M’sieu’. + I’ll meet you there—you and the woman that spoiled me.’ + </p> + <p> + “He turn to Florian and the rest of us, and shake hands, and say: + ‘Take care of Louison. Thank you. Good-bye.’ Then he start + towards the door, but stumble, for he look sick. ‘Give me a drink,’ + he say, and begin to cough a little—a queer sort of rattle. Florian + give him big drink, and he toss it off-whiff! ‘Thank you,’ he + say, and start again, and we see him walk away over the hill ver’ + slow—an’ he never come back. But every year there come from + New York a box of flowers, and every year P’tite Louison send him a + ‘Merci, Charles, mille fois. Dieu to garde.’ It is so every + year for twenty-five year.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he now?” asked Medallion. + </p> + <p> + Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes religiously. “Waiting + for Judgment Day and P’tite Louison,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Dead!” said Medallion. + </p> + <p> + “How long?” + </p> + <p> + “Twenty year.” + </p> + <p> + “But the flowers—the flowers?” + </p> + <p> + “He left word for them to be sent just the same, and the money for + it.” + </p> + <p> + Medallion turned and took off his hat reverently, as if a soul were + passing from the world; but it was only P’tite Louison going out + into the garden. + </p> + <p> + “She thinks him living?” he asked gently as he watched + Louison. + </p> + <p> + “Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the + flowers kep’ coming.” + </p> + <p> + “Why did he wish it so?” Isidore mused a while. + </p> + <p> + “Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great actor—ah, yes, + sublime!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to where P’tite + Louison was picking berries. His hat was still off. + </p> + <p> + “Let me help you, Mademoiselle,” he said softly. And + henceforth he was as foolish as her brothers. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR + </h2> + <h3> + “Sacre bapteme!” + </h3> + <p> + “What did he say?” asked the Little Chemist, stepping from his + doorway. + </p> + <p> + “He cursed his baptism,” answered tall Medallion, the English + auctioneer, pushing his way farther into the crowd. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, the pitiful vaurien!” said the Little Chemist’s + wife, shudderingly; for that was an oath not to be endured by any one who + called the Church mother. + </p> + <p> + The crowd that had gathered at the Four Corners were greatly disturbed, + for they also felt the repulsion that possessed the Little Chemist’s + wife. They babbled, shook their heads, and waved their hands excitedly, + and swayed and craned their necks to see the offender. + </p> + <p> + All at once his voice, mad with rage, was heard above the rest, shouting + frenziedly a curse which was a horribly grotesque blasphemy upon the name + of God. Men who had used that oath in their insane anger had been known to + commit suicide out of remorse afterwards. + </p> + <p> + For a moment there was a painful hush. The crowd drew back involuntarily + and left a clear space, in which stood the blasphemer—a + middle-sized, athletic fellow, with black beard, thick, waving hair, and + flashing brown eyes. His white teeth were showing now in a snarl like a + dog’s, his cap was on the ground, his hair was tumbled, his hands + were twitching with passion, his foot was stamping with fury, and every + time it struck the ground a little silver bell rang at his knee—a + pretty sylvan sound, in no keeping with the scene. It heightened the + distress of the fellow’s blasphemy and ungovernable anger. For a man + to curse his baptism was a wicked thing; but the other oath was not fit + for human ears, and horror held the crowd moveless for a moment. + </p> + <p> + Then, as suddenly as the stillness came, a low, threatening mumble of + voices rose, and a movement to close in on the man was made; but a figure + pushed through the crowd, and, standing in front of the man, waved the + people back. It was the Cure, the beloved M. Fabre, whose life had been + spent among them, whom they obeyed as well as they could, for they were + but frail humanity, after all—crude, simple folk, touched with + imagination. + </p> + <p> + “Luc Pomfrette, why have you done this? What provocation had you?” + </p> + <p> + The Cure’s voice was stern and cold, his usually gentle face had + become severe, his soft eyes were piercing and determined. + </p> + <p> + The foot of the man still beat the ground angrily, and the little bell + kept tinkling. He was gasping with passion, and he did not answer yet. + </p> + <p> + “Luc Pomfrette, what have you to say?” asked the Cure again. + He motioned back Lacasse, the constable of the parish, who had suddenly + appeared with a rusty gun and a more rusty pair of handcuffs. + </p> + <p> + Still the voyageur did not answer. + </p> + <p> + The Cure glanced at Lajeunesse the blacksmith, who stood near. + </p> + <p> + “There was no cause—no,” sagely shaking his head said + Lajeunesse, “Here stand we at the door of the Louis Quinze in very + good humour. Up come the voyageurs, all laughing, and ahead of them is Luc + Pomfrette, with the little bell at his knee. Luc, he laugh the same as the + rest, and they stand in the door, and the garcon bring out the brandy—just + a little, but just enough too. I am talking to Henri Beauvin. I am telling + him Junie Gauloir have run away with Dicey the Protestant, when all very + quick Luc push between me and Henri, jump into the street, and speak like + that!” + </p> + <p> + Lajeunesse looked around, as if for corroboration; Henri and others + nodded, and some one said: + </p> + <p> + “That’s true; that’s true. There was no cause.” + </p> + <p> + “Maybe it was the drink,” said a little hunchbacked man, + pushing his way in beside the Cure. “It must have been the drink; + there was nothing else—no.” + </p> + <p> + The speaker was Parpon the dwarf, the oddest, in some ways the most + foolish, in others the wisest man in Pontiac. + </p> + <p> + “That is no excuse,” said the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “It is the only one he has, eh?” answered Parpon. His eyes + were fixed meaningly on those of Pomfrette. + </p> + <p> + “It is no excuse,” repeated the Cure sternly. “The + blasphemy is horrible, a shame and stigma upon Pontiac for ever.” He + looked Pomfrette in the face. “Foul-mouthed and wicked man, it is + two years since you took the Blessed Sacrament. Last Easter day you were + in a drunken sleep while Mass was being said; after the funeral of your + own father you were drunk again. When you went away to the woods you never + left a penny for candles, nor for Masses to be said for your father’s + soul; yet you sold his horse and his little house, and spent the money in + drink. Not a cent for a candle, but—” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a lie,” cried Pomfrette, shaking with rage from + head to foot. + </p> + <p> + A long horror-stricken “Ah!” broke from the crowd. The Cure’s + face became graver and colder. + </p> + <p> + “You have a bad heart,” he answered, “and you give + Pontiac an evil name. I command you to come to Mass next Sunday, to repent + and to hear your penance given from the altar. For until—” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go to no Mass till I’m carried to it,” was + the sullen, malevolent interruption. + </p> + <p> + The Cure turned upon the people. + </p> + <p> + “This is a blasphemer, an evil-hearted, shameless man,” he + said. “Until he repents humbly, and bows his vicious spirit to holy + Church, and his heart to the mercy of God, I command you to avoid him as + you would a plague. I command that no door be opened to him; that no one + offer him comfort or friendship; that not even a bon jour or a bon soir + pass between you. He has blasphemed against our Father in heaven; to the + Church he is a leper.” He turned to Pomfrette. “I pray God + that you have no peace in mind or body till your evil life is changed, and + your black heart is broken by sorrow and repentance.” + </p> + <p> + Then to the people he said again: “I have commanded you for your + souls’ sake; see that you obey. Go to your homes. Let us leave the + leper—alone.” He waved the awed crowd back. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we take off the little bell?” asked Lajeunesse of the + Cure. + </p> + <p> + Pomfrette heard, and he drew himself together, his jaws shutting with + ferocity, and his hand flying to the belt where his voyageur’s + case-knife hung. The Cure did not see this. Without turning his head + towards Pomfrette, he said: + </p> + <p> + “I have commanded you, my children. Leave the leper alone.” + </p> + <p> + Again he waved the crowd to be gone, and they scattered, whispering to + each other; for nothing like this had ever occurred in Pontiac before, nor + had they ever seen the Cure with this granite look in his face, or heard + his voice so bitterly hard. + </p> + <p> + He did not move until he had seen them all started homewards from the Four + Corners. One person remained beside him—Parpon the dwarf. + </p> + <p> + “I will not obey you, M’sieu’ le Cure,” said he. + “I’ll forgive him before he repents.” + </p> + <p> + “You will share his sin,” answered the Cure sternly. “No; + his punishment, M’sieu’,” said the dwarf; and turning on + his heel, he trotted to where Pomfrette stood alone in the middle of the + road, a dark, morose figure, hatred and a wild trouble in his face. + </p> + <p> + Already banishment, isolation, seemed to possess Pomfrette, to surround + him with loneliness. The very effort he made to be defiant of his fate + appeared to make him still more solitary. All at once he thrust a hand + inside his red shirt, and, giving a jerk which broke a string tied round + his neck, he drew forth a little pad—a flat bag of silk, called an + Agnus Dei, worn as a protection and a blessing by the pious, and threw it + on the ground. Another little parcel he drew from his belt, and ground it + into the dirt with his heel. It contained a woman’s hair. Then, + muttering, his hands still twitching with savage feeling, he picked up his + cap, covered with dirt, put it on, and passed away down the road towards + the river, the little bell tinkling as he went. Those who heard it had a + strange feeling, for already to them the man was as if he had some baleful + disease, and this little bell told of the passing of a leper. + </p> + <p> + Yet some one man had worn just such a bell every year in Pontiac. It was + the mark of honour conferred upon a voyageur by his fellows, the token of + his prowess and his skill. This year Luc Pomfrette had won it, and that + very day it had been buckled round his leg with songs and toasts. + </p> + <p> + For hours Pomfrette walked incessantly up and down the river-bank, + muttering and gesticulating, but at last came quietly to the cottage which + he shared with Henri Beauvin. Henri had removed himself and his + belongings: already the ostracising had begun. He went to the bedroom of + old Mme. Burgoyne, his cousin; she also was gone. He went to a little + outhouse and called. + </p> + <p> + For reply there was a scratching at the door. He opened it, and a dog + leaped out and upon him. With a fierce fondness he snatched at the dog’s + collar, and drew the shaggy head to his knee; then as suddenly shoved him + away with a smothered oath, and going into the house, shut the door. He + sat down in a chair in the middle of the room, and scarcely stirred for + half an-hour. At last, with a passionate jerk of the head, he got to his + feet, looking about the room in a half-distracted way. Outside, the dog + kept running round and round the house, silent, watchful, waiting for the + door to open. + </p> + <p> + As time went by, Luc became quieter, but the look of his face was more + desolate. At last he almost ran to the door, threw it open, and called. + The dog sprang into the room, went straight to the fireplace, lay down, + and with tongue lolling and body panting looked at Pomfrette with + blinking, uncomprehending eyes. + </p> + <p> + Pomfrette went to a cupboard, brought back a bone well covered with meat, + and gave it to the dog, which snatched it and began gnawing it, now and + again stopping to look up at his master, as one might look at a mountain + moving, be aware of something singular, yet not grasp the significance of + the phenomenon. At last, worn out, Pomfrette threw himself on his bed, and + fell into a sound sleep. When he awoke, it was far into the morning. He + lighted a fire in the kitchen, got a “spider,” fried himself a + piece of pork, and made some tea. There was no milk in the cupboard; so he + took a pitcher and walked down the road a few rods to the next house, + where lived the village milkman. He knocked, and the door was opened by + the milkman’s wife. A frightened look came upon her when she saw who + it was. + </p> + <p> + “Non, non!” she said, and shut the door in his face. He stared + blankly at the door for a moment, then turned round and stood looking down + into the road, with the pitcher in his hand. The milkman’s little + boy, Maxime, came running round the corner of the house. “Maxime,” + he said involuntarily and half-eagerly, for he and the lad had been great + friends. + </p> + <p> + Maxime’s face brightened, then became clouded; he stood still an + instant, and presently, turning round and looking at Pomfrette askance, + ran away behind the house, saying: “Non, non!” + </p> + <p> + Pomfrette drew his rough knuckles across his forehead in a dazed way; + then, as the significance of the thing came home to him, he broke out with + a fierce oath, and strode away down the yard and into the road. On the way + to his house he met Duclosse the mealman and Garotte the lime-burner. He + wondered what they would do. He could see the fat, wheezy Duclosse + hesitate, but the arid, alert Garotte had determination in every motion + and look. They came nearer; they were about to pass; there was no sign. + </p> + <p> + Pomfrette stopped short. “Good-day, lime-burner; good-day, Duclosse,” + he said, looking straight at them. + </p> + <p> + Garotte made no reply, but walked straight on. Pomfrette stepped swiftly + in front of the mealman. There was fury in his face-fury and danger; his + hair was disordered, his eyes afire. + </p> + <p> + “Good-day, mealman,” he said, and waited. “Duclosse,” + called Garotte warningly, “remember!” Duclosse’s knees + shook, and his face became mottled like a piece of soap; he pushed his + fingers into his shirt and touched the Agnus Dei that he carried there. + That and Garotte’s words gave him courage. He scarcely knew what he + said, but it had meaning. “Good-bye-leper,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + Pomfrette’s arm flew out to throw the pitcher at the mealman’s + head, but Duclosse, with a grunt of terror, flung up in front of his face + the small bag of meal that he carried, the contents pouring over his + waistcoat from a loose corner. The picture was so ludicrous that Pomfrette + laughed with a devilish humour, and flinging the pitcher at the bag, he + walked away towards his own house. Duclosse, pale and frightened, stepped + from among the fragments of crockery, and with backward glances towards + Pomfrette joined his comrade. + </p> + <p> + “Lime-burner,” he said, sitting down on the bag of meal, and + mechanically twisting tight the loose, leaking corner, “the devil’s + in that leper.” + </p> + <p> + “He was a good enough fellow once,” answered Garotte, watching + Pomfrette. + </p> + <p> + “I drank with him at five o’clock yesterday,” said + Duclosse philosophically. “He was fit for any company then; now he’s + fit for none.” + </p> + <p> + Garotte looked wise. “Mealman,” said he, “it takes years + to make folks love you; you can make them hate you in an hour. La! La! it’s + easier to hate than to love. Come along, m’sieu’ dusty-belly.” + </p> + <p> + Pomfrette’s life in Pontiac went on as it began that day. Not once a + day, and sometimes not once in twenty days, did any human being speak to + him. The village baker would not sell him bread; his groceries he had to + buy from the neighbouring parishes, for the grocer’s flighty wife + called for the constable when he entered the bake-shop of Pontiac. He had + to bake his own bread, and do his own cooking, washing, cleaning, and + gardening. His hair grew long and his clothes became shabbier. At last, + when he needed a new suit—so torn had his others become at + woodchopping and many kinds of work—he went to the village tailor, + and was promptly told that nothing but Luc Pomfrette’s grave-clothes + would be cut and made in that house. + </p> + <p> + When he walked down to the Four Corners the street emptied at once, and + the lonely man with the tinkling bell of honour at his knee felt the whole + world falling away from sight and touch and sound of him. Once when he + went into the Louis Quinze every man present stole away in silence, and + the landlord himself, without a word, turned and left the bar. At that, + with a hoarse laugh, Pomfrette poured out a glass of brandy, drank it off, + and left a shilling on the counter. The next morning he found the + shilling, wrapped in a piece of paper, just inside his door; it had been + pushed underneath. On the paper was written: “It is cursed.” + Presently his dog died, and the day afterwards he suddenly disappeared + from Pontiac, and wandered on to Ste. Gabrielle, Ribeaux, and Ville + Bambord. But his shame had gone before him, and people shunned him + everywhere, even the roughest. No one who knew him would shelter him. He + slept in barns and in the woods until the winter came and snow lay thick + upon the ground. Thin and haggard, and with nothing left of his old self + but his deep brown eyes and curling hair, and his unhappy name and fame, + he turned back again to Pontiac. His spirit was sullen and hard, his heart + closed against repentance. Had not the Church and Pontiac and the world + punished him beyond his deserts for a moment’s madness brought on by + a great shock! + </p> + <p> + One bright, sunshiny day of early winter, he trudged through the + snow-banked street of Pontiac back to his home. Men he once knew well, and + had worked with, passed him in a sled on their way to the great shanty in + the backwoods. They halted in their singing for a moment when they saw + him; then, turning their heads from him, dashed off, carolling lustily: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ah, ah, Babette, + We go away; + But we will come + Again, Babette, + Again back home, + On Easter Day, + Back home to play + On Easter Day, + Babette! Babette!” + </pre> + <p> + “Babette! Babette!” The words followed him, ringing in his + ears long after the men had become a mere fading point in the white + horizon behind him. + </p> + <p> + This was not the same world that he had known, not the same Pontiac. + Suddenly he stopped short in the road. + </p> + <p> + “Curse them! Curse them! Curse them all!” he cried in a + cracked, strange voice. A woman hurrying across the street heard him, and + went the faster, shutting her ears. A little boy stood still and looked at + him in wonder. Everything he saw maddened him. He turned sharp round and + hurried to the Louis Quinze. Throwing open the door, he stepped inside. + Half-a-dozen men were there with the landlord. When they saw him, they + started, confused and dismayed. He stood still for a moment, looking at + them with glowering brows. + </p> + <p> + “Good-day,” he said. “How goes it?” + </p> + <p> + No one answered. A little apart from the others sat Medallion the + auctioneer. He was a Protestant, and the curse on his baptism uttered by + Pomfrette was not so heinous in his sight. For the other oath, it was + another matter. Still, he was sorry for the man. In any case, it was not + his cue to interfere; and Luc was being punished according to his bringing + up and to the standards familiar to him. Medallion had never refused to + speak to him, but he had done nothing more. There was no reason why he + should provoke the enmity of the parish unnecessarily; and up to + this-point Pomfrette had shifted for himself after a fashion, if a hard + fashion. + </p> + <p> + With a bitter laugh, Pomfrette turned to the little bar. + </p> + <p> + “Brandy,” he said; “brandy, my Bourienne.” + </p> + <p> + The landlord shrugged his shoulder, and looked the other way. + </p> + <p> + “Brandy,” he repeated. Still there was no sign. + </p> + <p> + There was a wicked look in his face, from which the landlord shrank + back-shrank so far that he carried himself among the others, and stood + there, half frightened, half dumfounded. + </p> + <p> + Pomfrette pulled out a greasy dollar-bill from his pocket—the last + he owned in the world—and threw it on the counter. Then he reached + over, caught up a brandy-bottle from the shelf, knocked off the neck with + a knife, and, pouring a tumblerful, drank it off at a gasp. + </p> + <p> + His head came up, his shoulders straightened out, his eyes snapped fire. + He laughed aloud, a sardonic, wild, coarse laugh, and he shivered once or + twice violently, in spite of the brandy he had drunk. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t speak to me, eh? Won’t you? Curse you! Pass + me on the other side—so! Look at me. I am the worst man in the + world, eh? Judas is nothing—no! Ack, what are you, to turn your back + on me? Listen to me! You, there, Muroc, with your charcoal face, who was + it walk thirty miles in the dead of winter to bring a doctor to your wife, + eh? She die, but that is no matter—who was it? It was Luc Pomfrette. + You, Alphonse Durien, who was it drag you out of the bog at the Cote + Chaudiere? It was Luc Pomfrette. You, Jacques Baby, who was it that lied + for you to the Protestant girl at Faribeau? Just Luc Pomfrette. You two, + Jean and Nicolas Mariban, who was it lent you a hunderd dollars when you + lose all your money at cards? Ha, ha, ha! Only that beast Luc Pomfrette! + Mother of Heaven, such a beast is he—eh, Limon Rouge?—such a + beast that used to give your Victorine little silver things, and feed her + with bread and sugar and buttermilk pop. Ah, my dear Limon Rouge, how is + it all different now!” + </p> + <p> + He raised the bottle and drank long from the ragged neck. When he took it + away from his mouth not much more than half remained in the quart bottle. + Blood was dripping upon his beard from a cut on his lip, and from there to + the ground. + </p> + <p> + “And you, M’sieu’ Bourienne,” he cried hoarsely, + “do I not remember that dear M’sieu’ Bourienne, when he + beg me to leave Pontiac for a little while that I not give evidence in + court against him? Eh bien! you all walk by me now, as if I was the father + of smallpox, and not Luc Pomfrette—only Luc Pomfrette, who spits at + every one of you for a pack of cowards and hypocrites.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust the bottle inside his coat, went to the door, flung it open with + a bang, and strode out into the street, muttering as he went. As the + landlord came to close the door Medallion said: + </p> + <p> + “The leper has a memory, my friends.” Then he also walked out, + and went to his office depressed, for the face of the man haunted him. + </p> + <p> + Pomfrette reached his deserted, cheerless house. There was not a stick of + fire-wood in the shed, not a thing to eat or drink in cellar or cupboard. + The door of the shed at the back was open, and the dog-chains lay covered + with frost and half embedded in mud. With a shiver of misery Pomfrette + raised the brandy to his mouth, drank every drop, and threw the bottle on + the floor. Then he went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside. + His foot slipped, and he tumbled head forward into the snow. Once or twice + he half raised himself, but fell back again, and presently lay still. The + frost caught his ears and iced them; it began to creep over his cheeks; it + made his fingers white, like a leper’s. + </p> + <p> + He would soon have stiffened for ever had not Parpon the dwarf, passing + along the road, seen the open door and the sprawling body, and come and + drawn Pomfrette inside the house. He rubbed the face and hands and ears of + the unconscious man with snow till the whiteness disappeared, and, taking + off the boots, did the same with the toes; after which he drew the body to + a piece of rag carpet beside the stove, threw some blankets over it, and, + hurrying out, cut up some fence rails, and soon had a fire going in the + stove. + </p> + <p> + Then he trotted out of the house and away to the Little Chemist, who came + passively with him. All that day, and for many days, they fought to save + Pomfrette’s life. The Cure came also; but Pomfrette was in fever and + delirium. Yet the good M. Fabre’s presence, as it ever did, gave an + air of calm and comfort to the place. Parpon’s hands alone cared for + the house; he did all that was to be done; no woman had entered the place + since Pomfrette’s cousin, old Mme. Burgoyne, left it on the day of + his shame. + </p> + <p> + When at last Pomfrette opened his eyes, and saw the Cure standing beside + him, he turned his face to the wall, and to the exhortation addressed to + him he answered nothing. At last the Cure left him, and came no more; and + he bade Parpon do the same as soon as Pomfrette was able to leave his bed. + </p> + <p> + But Parpon did as he willed. He had been in Pontiac only a few days since + the painful business in front of the Louis Quinze. Where he had been and + what doing no one asked, for he was mysterious in his movements, and + always uncommunicative, and people did not care to tempt his inhospitable + tongue. When Pomfrette was so far recovered that he might be left alone, + Parpon said to him one evening: + </p> + <p> + “Pomfrette, you must go to Mass next Sunday.” + </p> + <p> + “I said I wouldn’t go till I was carried there, and I mean it—that’s + so,” was the morose reply. + </p> + <p> + “What made you curse like that—so damnable?” asked + Parpon furtively. + </p> + <p> + “That’s my own business. It doesn’t matter to anybody + but me.” + </p> + <p> + “And you said the Cure lied—the good M’sieu’ Fabre—him + like a saint.” + </p> + <p> + “I said he lied, and I’d say it again, and tell the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “But if you went to Mass, and took your penance, and—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, I know; they’d forgive me, and I’d get absolution, + and they’d all speak to me again, and it would be, ‘Good-day, + Luc,’ and ‘Very good, Luc,’ and ‘What a gay heart + has Luc, the good fellow!’ Ah, I know. They curse in the heart when + the whole world go wrong for them; no one hears. I curse out loud. I’m + not a hypocrite, and no one thinks me fit to live. Ack, what is the good!” + </p> + <p> + Parpon did not respond at once. At last, dropping his chin in his hand and + his elbow on his knee, as he squatted on the table, he said: + </p> + <p> + “But if the girl got sorry—” + </p> + <p> + For a time there was no sound save the whirring of the fire in the stove + and the hard breathing of the sick man. His eyes were staring hard at + Parpon. At last he said, slowly and fiercely: + </p> + <p> + “What do you know?” + </p> + <p> + “What others might know if they had eyes and sense; but they haven’t. + What would you do if that Junie come back?” + </p> + <p> + “I would kill her.” His look was murderous. + </p> + <p> + “Bah, you would kiss her first, just the same!” + </p> + <p> + “What of that? I would kiss her because—because there is no + face like hers in the world; and I’d kill her for her bad heart.” + </p> + <p> + “What did she do?” Pomfrette’s hands clinched. + </p> + <p> + “What’s in my own noddle, and not for any one else,” he + answered sulkily. + </p> + <p> + “Tiens, tiens, what a close mouth! What did she do? Who knows? What + you think she do, it’s this. You think she pretends to love you, and + you leave all your money with her. She is to buy masses for your father’s + soul; she is to pay money to the Cure for the good of the Church; she is + to buy a little here, a little there, for the house you and she are going + to live in, the wedding and the dancing over. Very well. Ah, my Pomfrette, + what is the end you think? She run away with Dicey the Protestant, and + take your money with her. Eh, is that so?” + </p> + <p> + For answer there came a sob, and then a terrible burst of weeping and + anger and passionate denunciations—against Junie Gauloir, against + Pontiac, against the world. + </p> + <p> + Parpon held his peace. + </p> + <p> + The days, weeks, and months went by; and the months stretched to three + years. + </p> + <p> + In all that time Pomfrette came and went through Pontiac, shunned and + unrepentant. His silent, gloomy endurance was almost an affront to + Pontiac; and if the wiser ones, the Cure, the Avocat, the Little Chemist, + and Medallion, were more sorry than offended, they stood aloof till the + man should in some manner redeem himself, and repent of his horrid + blasphemy. But one person persistently defied Church and people, Cure and + voyageur. Parpon openly and boldly walked with Pomfrette, talked with him, + and occasionally visited his house. + </p> + <p> + Luc made hard shifts to live. He grew everything that he ate, vegetables + and grains. Parpon showed him how to make his own flour in primitive + fashion, for no miller in any parish near would sell him flour, and he had + no money to buy it, nor would any one who knew him give him work. And + after his return to Pontiac he never asked for it. His mood was defiant, + morbid, stern. His wood he chopped from the common known as No-Man’s + Land. His clothes he made himself out of the skins of deer that he shot; + when his powder and shot gave out, he killed the deer with bow and arrow. + </p> + <p> + The end came at last. Luc was taken ill. For four days, all alone, he lay + burning with fever and inflammation, and when Parpon found him he was + almost dead. Then began a fight for life again, in which Parpon was the + only physician; for Pomfrette would not allow the Little Chemist or a + doctor near him. Parpon at last gave up hope; but one night, when he came + back from the village, he saw, to his joy, old Mme. Degardy (“Crazy + Joan” she was called) sitting by Pomfrette’s bedside. He did + not disturb her, for she had no love for him, and he waited till she had + gone. When he came into the room again he found Pomfrette in a sweet + sleep, and a jug of tincture, with a little tin cup, placed by the bed. + Time and again he had sent for Mme. Degardy, but she would not come. She + had answered that the dear Luc could go to the devil for all of her; he’d + find better company down below than in Pontiac. + </p> + <p> + But for a whim, perhaps, she had come at last without asking, and as a + consequence Luc returned to the world, a mere bundle of bones. + </p> + <p> + It was still while he was only a bundle of bones that one Sunday morning, + Parpon, without a word, lifted him up in his arms and carried him out of + the house. Pomfrette did not speak at first: it seemed scarcely worth + while; he was so weak he did not care. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” he said at last, as they came well into + the village. The bell in St. Saviour’s had stopped ringing for Mass, + and the streets were almost empty. + </p> + <p> + “I’m taking you to Mass,” said Parpon, puffing under his + load, for Pomfrette made an ungainly burden. “Hand of a little + devil, no!” cried Pomfrette, startled. “I said I’d never + go to Mass again, and I never will. + </p> + <p> + “You said you’d never go to Mass till you were carried; so it’s + all right.” + </p> + <p> + Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held him tight, saying: + </p> + <p> + “It’s no use; you must come; we’ve had enough. Besides—” + </p> + <p> + “Besides what?” asked Pomfrette faintly. “Never mind,” + answered Parpon. + </p> + <p> + At a word from Parpon the shrivelled old sexton cleared a way through the + aisle, making a stir, through which the silver bell at Pomfrette’s + knee tinkled, in answer, as it were, to the tinkling of the acolyte’s + bell in the sanctuary. People turned at the sound, women stopped telling + their beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting. A strange feeling + passed through the church, and reached and startled the Cure as he recited + the Mass. He turned round and saw Parpon laying Pomfrette down at the + chancel steps. His voice shook a little as he intoned the ritual, and as + he raised the sacred elements tears rolled down his cheeks. + </p> + <p> + From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked + down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her. + </p> + <p> + At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. “What is it, + Parpon?” he asked gravely. + </p> + <p> + “It is Luc Pomfrette, M’sieu’ le Cure.” Pomfrette’s + eyes were closed. + </p> + <p> + “He swore that he would never come to Mass again,” answered + the good priest. + </p> + <p> + “Till he was carried, M’sieu’ le Cure—and I’ve + carried him.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc + Pomfrette?” asked the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “I did not know I was coming—no.” Pomfrette’s + brown eyes met the priest’s unflinchingly. + </p> + <p> + “You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life.” + </p> + <p> + “I’d rather have died,” answered the sick man simply. + </p> + <p> + “Died, and been cast to perdition!” + </p> + <p> + “I’m used to that; I’ve had a bad time here in Pontiac.” + </p> + <p> + His thin hands moved restlessly. His leg moved, and the little bell + tinkled—the bell that had been like the bell of a leper these years + past. + </p> + <p> + “But you live, and you have years yet before you, in the providence + of God. Luc Pomfrette, you blasphemed against your baptism, and horribly + against God himself. Luc”—his voice got softer—“I + knew your mother, and she was almost too weak to hold you when you were + baptised, for you made a great to-do about coming into the world. She had + a face like a saint—so sweet, so patient. You were her only child, + and your baptism was more to her than her marriage even, or any other + thing in this world. The day after your baptism she died. What do you + think were her last words?” + </p> + <p> + There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette’s face, and his eyes were + intense and burning as they looked up fixedly at the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t think any more,” answered Pomfrette slowly. + “I’ve no head.” + </p> + <p> + “What she said is for your heart, not for your head, Luc,” + rejoined the Cure gently. “She wandered in her mind, and at the last + she raised herself up in her bed, and lifting her finger like this”—he + made the gesture of benediction—“she said, ‘Luc Michele, + I baptise you in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy + Ghost. Amen.’ Then she whispered softly: ‘God bless my dear + Luc Michee! Holy Mother pray for him!’ These were her last words, + and I took you from her arms. What have you to say, Luc Michee?” + </p> + <p> + The woman in the gallery was weeping silently behind her thick veil, and + her worn hand clutched the desk in front of her convulsively. Presently + she arose and made her way down the stair, almost unnoticed. Two or three + times Luc tried to speak, but could not. “Lift me up,” he said + brokenly, at last. + </p> + <p> + Parpon and the Little Chemist raised him to his feet, and held him, his + shaking hands resting on their shoulders, his lank body tottering above + and between them. + </p> + <p> + Looking at the congregation, he said slowly: “I’ll suffer till + I die for cursing my baptism, and God will twist my neck in purgatory for—” + </p> + <p> + “Luc,” the Cure interrupted, “say that you repent.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sorry, and I ask you all to forgive me, and I’ll + confess to the Cure, and take my penance, and—” he paused, for + breathing hurt him. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the woman in black who had been in the gallery came quickly + forward. Parpon saw her, frowned, and waved her back; but she came on. At + the chancel steps she raised her veil, and a murmur of recognition and + wonder ran through the church. Pomfrette’s face was pitiful to see—drawn, + staring. + </p> + <p> + “Junie!” he said hoarsely. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes were red with weeping, her face was very pale. “M’sieu’ + le Cure” she said, “you must listen to me”—the + Cure’s face had become forbidding—“sinner though I am. + You want to be just, don’t you? Ah, listen! I was to be married to + Luc Pomfrette, but I did not love him—then. He had loved me for + years, and his father and my father wished it—as you know, M’sieu’ + le Cure. So after a while I said I would; but I begged him that he wouldn’t + say anything about it till he come back from his next journey on the + river. I did not love him enough—then. He left all his money with + me: some to pay for Masses for his father’s soul, some to buy things + for—for our home; and the rest to keep till he came back.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” said Pomfrette, his eyes fixed painfully on her + face—“yes, yes.” + </p> + <p> + “The day after Luc went away John Dicey the Protestant come to me. I’d + always liked him; he could talk as Luc couldn’t, and it sounded + nice. I listened and listened. He knew about Luc and about the money and + all. Then he talked to me. I was all wild in the head, and things went + round and round, and oh, how I hated to marry Luc—then! So after he + had talked a long while I said yes, I would go with him and marry him—a + Protestant—for I loved him. I don’t know why or how.” + </p> + <p> + Pomfrette trembled so that Parpon and the Little Chemist made him sit + down, and he leaned against their shoulders, while Junie went on: + </p> + <p> + “I gave him Luc’s money to go and give to Parpon here, for I + was too ashamed to go myself. And I wrote a little note to Luc, and sent + it with the money. I believed in John Dicey, of course. He came back, and + said that he had seen Parpon and had done it all right; then we went away + to Montreal and got married. The very first day at Montreal, I found out + that he had Luc’s money. It was awful. I went mad, and he got angry + and left me alone, and didn’t come back. A week afterwards he was + killed, and I didn’t know it for a long time. But I began to work, + for I wanted to pay back Luc’s money. It was very slow, and I worked + hard. Will it never be finished, I say. At last Parpon find me, and I tell + him all—all except that John Dicey was dead; and I did not know + that. I made him promise to tell nobody; but he knows all about my life + since then. Then I find out one day that John Dicey is dead, and I get + from the gover’ment a hundred dollars of the money he stole. It was + found on him when he was killed. I work for six months longer, and now I + come back—with Luc’s money.” + </p> + <p> + She drew from her pocket a packet of notes, and put it in Luc’s + hands. He took it dazedly, then dropped it, and the Little Chemist picked + it up; he had no prescription like that in his pharmacopoeia. + </p> + <p> + “That’s how I’ve lived,” she said, and she handed + a letter to the Cure. + </p> + <p> + It was from a priest in Montreal, setting forth the history of her career + in that city, her repentance for her elopement and the sin of marrying a + Protestant, and her good life. She had wished to do her penance in + Pontiac, and it remained to M’sieu’ le Cure; to set it. + </p> + <p> + The Cure’s face relaxed, and a rare gentleness came into it. + </p> + <p> + He read the letter aloud. Luc once more struggled to his feet, eagerly + listening. + </p> + <p> + “You did not love Luc?” the Cure asked Junie, meaningly. + </p> + <p> + “I did not love Luc—then,” she answered, a flush going + over her face. + </p> + <p> + “You loved Junie?” the Cure said to Pomfrette. “I could + have killed her, but I’ve always loved her,” answered Luc. + Then he raised his voice excitedly: “I love her, love her, love her—but + what’s the good! She’d never ‘ve been happy with me. + Look what my love drove her to! What’s the good, at all!” + </p> + <p> + “She said she did not love you then, Luc Michee,” said Parpon, + interrupting. “Luc Michee, you’re a fool as well as a sinner. + Speak up, Junie.” + </p> + <p> + “I used to tell him that I didn’t love him; I only liked him. + I was honest. Well, I am honest still. I love him now.” + </p> + <p> + A sound of joy broke from Luc’s lips, and he stretched out his arms + to her, but the Cure; stopped that. “Not here,” he said. + “Your sins must first be considered. For penance—” He + paused, looking at the two sad yet happy beings before him. The deep + knowledge of life that was in him impelled him to continue gently: + </p> + <p> + “For penance you shall bear the remembrance of each other’s + sins. And now to God the Father—” He turned towards the altar, + and raised his hands in the ascription. + </p> + <p> + As he knelt to pray before he entered the pulpit, he heard the tinkling of + the little bell of honour at the knee of Luc, as Junie and Parpon helped + him from the church. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A SON OF THE WILDERNESS + </h2> + <p> + Rachette told the story to Medallion and the Little Chemist’s wife + on Sunday after Mass, and because he was vain of his English he forsook + his own tongue and paid tribute to the Anglo-Saxon. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, she was so purty, that Norinne, when she drive through the + parishes all twelve days, after the wedding, a dance every night, and her + eyes and cheeks on fire all the time. And Bargon, bagosh! that Bargon, he + have a pair of shoulders like a wall, and five hunder’ dollars and a + horse and wagon. Bagosh, I say that time: ‘Bargon he have put a belt + round the world and buckle it tight to him—all right, ver’ + good.’ I say to him: ‘Bargon, what you do when you get ver’ + rich out on the Souris River in the prairie west?’ He laugh and + throw up his hands, for he have not many words any kind. And the dam + little dwarf Parpon, he say: ‘He will have flowers on the table and + ice on the butter, and a wheel in his head.’ + </p> + <p> + “And Bargon laugh and say: ‘I will have plenty for my friends + to eat and drink and a ver’ fine time.’ “‘Good,’ + we all say-’Bagosh!’ So they make the trip through twelve + parish, and the fiddles go all the time, and I am what you say ‘best + man’ with Bargon. I go all the time, and Lucette Dargois, she go + with me and her brother—holy, what an eye had she in her head, that + Lucette! As we go we sing a song all right, and there is no one sing so + better as Norinne: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘C’est la belle Francoise, + Allons gai! + C’est la belle Francoise, + Qui veut se marier, + Ma luron lurette! + Qui veut se marier, + Ma luron lure!’ +</pre> + <p> + “Ver’ good, bagosh! Norinne and Bargon they go out to the + Souris, and Bargon have a hunder’ acre, and he put up a house and a + shed not ver’ big, and he carry his head high and his shoulders like + a wall; yes, yes. First year it is pretty good time, and Norinne’s + cheeks—ah, like an apple they. Bimeby a baby laugh up at Bargon from + Norinne’s lap. I am on the Souris at a saw-mill then, and on Sunday + sometime I go up to see Bargon and Norinne. I t’ink that baby is so + dam funny; I laugh and pinch his nose. His name is Marie, and I say I + marry him pretty quick some day. We have plenty hot cake, and beans and + pork, and a little how-you-are from a jar behin’ the door. + </p> + <p> + “Next year it is not so good. There is a bad crop and hard time, and + Bargon he owe two hunder’ dollar, and he pay int’rest. + Norinne, she do all the work, and that little Marie, there is dam funny in + him, and Norinne, she keep go, go, all the time, early and late, and she + get ver’ thin and quiet. So I go up from the mill more times, and I + bring fol-lols for that Marie, for you know I said I go to marry him some + day. And when I see how Bargon shoulders stoop and his eye get dull, and + there is nothing in the jar behin’ the door, I fetch a horn with me, + and my fiddle, and, bagosh! there is happy sit-you-down. I make Bargon + sing 'La Belle Francoise,’ and then just before I go I make them + laugh, for I stand by the cradle and I sing to that Marie: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Adieu, belle Francoise; + Allons gai! + Adieu, belle Francoise! + Moi, je to marierai, + Ma luron lurette! Moi, + je to marierai, + Ma luron lure!’ +</pre> + <p> + “So; and another year it go along, and Bargon he know that if there + come bad crop it is good-bye-my lover with himselves. He owe two hunder’ + and fifty dollar. It is the spring at Easter, and I go up to him and + Norinne, for there is no Mass, and Pontiac is too far away off. We stan’ + at the door and look out, and all the prairie is green, and the sun stan’ + up high like a light on a pole, and the birds fly by ver’ busy + looking for the summer and the prairie-flower. + </p> + <p> + “‘Bargon,’ I say—and I give him a horn of old rye—‘here’s + to le bon Dieu!’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Le bon Dieu, and a good harvest!’ he say. + </p> + <p> + “I hear some one give a long breath behin’, and I look round; + but, no, it is Norinne with a smile—for she never grumble—bagosh! + What purty eyes she have in her head! She have that Marie in her arms, and + I say to Bargon it is like the Madonne in the Notre Dame at Montreal. He + nod his head. ‘C’est le bon Dieu—it is the good God,’ + he say. + </p> + <p> + “Before I go I take a piece of palm—it come from the Notre + Dame; it is all bless by the Pope—and I nail it to the door of the + house. ‘For luck,’ I say. Then I laugh, and I speak out to the + prairie: ‘Come along, good summer; come along, good crop; come two + hunder’ and fifty dollars for Gal Bargon.’ Ver’ quiet I + give Norinne twenty dollar, but she will not take him. ‘For Marie,’ + then I say: ‘I go to marry him, bimeby.’ But she say: ‘Keep + it and give it to Marie yourself some day.’ + </p> + <p> + “She smile at me, then she have a little tear in her eye, and she + nod to where Bargon stare’ houtside, and she say: ‘If this + summer go wrong, it will kill him. He work and work and fret and worry for + me and Marie, and sometimes he just sit and look at me and say not a word.’ + </p> + <p> + “I say to her that there will be good crop, and next year we will be + ver’ happy. So, the time go on, and I send up a leetla snack of pork + and molass’ and tabac, and sugar and tea, and I get a letter from + Bargon bimeby, and he say that heverything go right, he t’ink, this + summer. He say I must come up. It is not dam easy to go in the summer, + when the mill run night and day; but I say I will go. + </p> + <p> + “When I get up to Bargon’s I laugh, for all the hunder’ + acre is ver’ fine, and Bargon stan’ hin the door, and stretch + out his hand, and say: 'Rachette, there is six hunder’ dollar for + me.’ I nod my head, and fetch out a horn, and he have one, his eyes + all bright like a lime-kiln. He is thin and square, and his beard grow ver’ + thick and rough and long, and his hands are like planks. Norinne, she is + ver’ happy, too, and Marie bite on my finger, and I give him + sugar-stick to suck. + </p> + <p> + “Bimeby Norinne say to me, ver’ soft: ‘If a hailstorm or + a hot wind come, that is the end of it all, and of my poor Gal.’ + </p> + <p> + “What I do? I laugh and ketch Marie under the arms, and I sit down, + and I put him on my foot, and I sing that dam funny English song—‘Here + We Go to Banbury Cross.’ An’ I say: ‘It will be all as + happy as Marie pretty quick. Bargon he will have six hunder’ dollar, + and you a new dress and a hired girl to help you.’ + </p> + <p> + “But all the time that day I think about a hail-storm or a hot wind + whenever I look out on that hunder’ acre farm. It is so beautiful, + as you can guess—the wheat, the barley, the corn, the potatoes, the + turnip, all green like sea-water, and pigeons and wild ducks flying up and + down, and the horse and the ox standing in a field ver’ comfer’ble. + </p> + <p> + “We have good time that day, and go to bed all happy that night. I + get up at five o’clock, an’ I go hout. Bargon stan’ + there looking hout on his field with the horse-bridle in his hand. ‘The + air not feel right,’ he say to me. I t’ink the same, but I say + to him: ‘Your head not feel right—him too sof’.’ + He shake his head and go down to the field for his horse and ox, and hitch + them up together, and go to work making a road. + </p> + <p> + “It is about ten o’clock when the dam thing come. Piff! go a + hot splash of air in my face, and then I know that it is all up with Gal + Bargon. A month after it is no matter, for the grain is ripe then, but + now, when it is green, it is sure death to it all. I turn sick in my + stomich, and I turn round and see Norinne stan’ hin the door, all + white, and she make her hand go as that, like she push back that hot wind. + </p> + <p> + “‘Where is Gal?’ she say. ‘I must go to him.’ + ‘No,’ I say, ‘I will fetch him. You stay with Marie.’ + Then I go ver’ quick for Gal, and I find him, his hands all shut + like that! and he shake them at the sky, and he say not a word, but his + face, it go wild, and his eyes spin round in his head. I put my hand on + his arm and say: ‘Come home, Gal. Come home, and speak kind to + Norinne and Marie.’ + </p> + <p> + “I can see that hot wind lean down and twist the grain about—a + dam devil thing from the Arzone desert down South. I take Gal back home, + and we sit there all day, and all the nex’ day, and a leetla more, + and when we have look enough, there is no grain on that hunder’ acre + farm—only a dry-up prairie, all grey and limp. My skin is bake and + rough, but when I look at Gal Bargon I know that his heart is dry like a + bone, and, as Parpon say that back time, he have a wheel in his head. + Norinne she is quiet, and she sit with her hand on his shoulder, and give + him Marie to hold. + </p> + <p> + “But it is no good; it is all over. So I say: ‘Let us go back + to Pontiac. What is the good for to be rich? Let us be poor and happy once + more.’ + </p> + <p> + “And Norinne she look glad, and get up and say: ‘Yes, let us + go back.’ But all at once she sit down with Marie in her arms, and + cry—bagosh, I never see a woman cry like that! + </p> + <p> + “So we start back for Pontiac with the horse and the ox and some + pork and bread and molass’. But Gal Bargon never hold up his head, + but go silent, silent, and he not sleep at night. One night he walk away + on the prairie, and when he come back he have a great pain. So he lie + down, and we sit by him, an’ he die. But once he whisper to me, and + Norinne not hear: ‘You say you will marry him, Rachette?’ and + I say, ‘I will.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘C’est le bon Dieu!’ he say at the last, but he + say it with a little laugh. I think he have a wheel in his head. But + bimeby, yiste’day, Norinne and Marie and I come to Pontiac.” + </p> + <p> + The Little Chemist’s wife dried her eyes, and Medallion said in + French: “Poor Norinne! Poor Norinne! And so, Rachette, you are going + to marry Marie, by-and-bye?” There was a quizzical look in Medallion’s + eyes. + </p> + <p> + Rachette threw up his chin a little. “I’m going to marry + Norinne on New Year’s Day,” he said. “Bagosh, poor + Norinne!” said Medallion, in a queer sort of tone. “It is the + way of the world,” he added. “I’ll wait for Marie + myself.” + </p> + <p> + It looks as if he meant to, for she has no better friend. He talks to her + much of Gal Bargon; of which her mother is glad. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A WORKER IN STONE + </h2> + <p> + At the beginning he was only a tombstone-cutter. His name was Francois + Lagarre. He was but twenty years old when he stepped into the shop where + the old tombstone-cutter had worked for forty years. Picking up the hammer + and chisel which the old man had dropped when he fell dead at the end of a + long hot day’s labour, he finished the half-carved tombstone, and + gave the price of it to the widow. Then, going to the Seigneur and Cure, + he asked them to buy the shop and tools for him, and let him pay rent + until he could take the place off their hands. + </p> + <p> + They did as he asked, and in two years he had bought and paid for the + place, and had a few dollars to the good. During one of the two years a + small-pox epidemic passed over Pontiac, and he was busy night and day. It + was during this time that some good Catholics came to him with an + heretical Protestant suggestion to carve a couplet or verse of poetry on + the tombstones they ordered. They themselves, in most cases, knew none, + and they asked Francois to supply them—as though he kept them in + stock like marble and sand-paper. He had no collection of suitable + epitaphs, and, besides, he did not know whether it was right to use them. + Like all his race in New France he was jealous of any inroads of + Protestantism, or what the Little Chemist called “Englishness.” + The good M. Fabre, the Cure, saw no harm in it, but said he could not + speak for any one’s grief. What the bereaved folk felt they + themselves must put in words upon the stone. But still Francois might + bring all the epitaphs to him before they were carved, and he would + approve or disapprove, correct or reject, as the case might be. + </p> + <p> + At first he rejected many, for they were mostly conventional couplets, + taken unknowingly from Protestant sources by mourning Catholics. But + presently all that was changed, and the Cure one day had laid before him + three epitaphs, each of which left his hand unrevised and untouched; and + when he passed them back to Francois his eyes were moist, for he was a man + truly after God’s own heart, and full of humanity. + </p> + <p> + “Will you read them to me, Francois?” he said, as the worker + in stone was about to put the paper back in his pocket. “Give the + names of the dead at the same time.” + </p> + <p> + So Francois read: + </p> + <p> + “Gustave Narrois, aged seventy-two years-” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, yes,” interrupted the Cure, “the unhappy yet happy + Gustave, hung by the English, and cut down just in time to save him—an + innocent man. For thirty years my sexton. God rest his soul! Well now, the + epitaph.” + </p> + <p> + Francois read it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Poor as a sparrow was I, + Yet I was saved like a king; + I heard the death-bells ring, + Yet I saw a light in the sky: + And now to my Father I wing.” + </pre> + <p> + The Cure nodded his head. “Go on; the next,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Annette John, aged twenty years—” + </p> + <p> + “So. The daughter of Chief John. When Queen Anne of England was on + the throne she sent Chief John’s grandfather a gold cup and a + hundred pounds. The girl loved, but would not marry, that she might keep + Chief John from drinking. A saint, Francois! What have they said of her?” + </p> + <p> + Francois smoothed out the paper and read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “A little while I saw the world go by + A little doorway that I called my own, + A loaf, a cup of water, and a bed had I, + A shrine of Jesus, where I knelt alone: + And now alone I bid the world good-bye.” + </pre> + <p> + The Cure turned his head away. “Go on,” he said sadly. “Chief + John has lost his right hand. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Henri Rouget” + </p> + <p> + “Aged thirty years,” again interrupted the Cure. “Henri + Rouget, idiot; as young as the morning. For man grows old only by what he + suffers, and what he forgives, and what he sins. What have you to say for + Henri Rouget, my Francois?” + </p> + <p> + And Francois read: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “I was a fool; nothing had I to know + Of men, and naught to men had I to give. + God gave me nothing; now to God I go, + Now ask for pain, for bread, + Life for my brain: dead, + By God’s love I shall then begin to live.” + </pre> + <p> + The priest rose to his feet and put a hand on the young man’s + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know, Francois,” he said, half sadly, “do you + know, you have the true thing in you. Come often to me, my son, and bring + all these things—all you write.” + </p> + <p> + While the Cure troubled himself about his future, Francois began to work + upon a monument for the grave of a dozen soldiers of Pontiac who were + killed in the War of the Patriots. They had died for a mistaken cause, and + had been buried on the field of battle. Long ago something would have been + done to commemorate them but that three of them were Protestants, and + difficulties had been raised by the bigoted. But Francois thought only of + the young men in their common grave at St. Eustache. He remembered when + they went away one bright morning, full of the joy of an erring + patriotism, of the ardour of a weak but fascinating cause: race against + race, the conquered against the conquerors, the usurped against the + usurpers. + </p> + <p> + In the space before the parish church it stands—a broken shaft, with + an unwound wreath straying down its sides; a monument of fine proportions, + a white figure of beaten valour and erring ardour of youth and beautiful + bad ambition. One Saturday night it was not there, and when next morning + the people came to Mass it was there. All night had Francois and his men + worked, and the first rays of the morning sun fell on the tall shivered + shaft set firmly in its place. Francois was a happy man. All else that he + had done had been wholly after a crude, staring convention, after rule and + measure—an artisan’s, a tombstone-cutter’s labour. This + was the work of a man with the heart and mind of an artist. When the + people came to Mass they gazed and gazed, and now and then the weeping of + a woman was heard, for among them were those whose sons and brothers were + made memorable by this stone. + </p> + <p> + That day at the close of his sermon the Cure spoke of it, and said at the + last: “That white shaft, dear brethren, is for us a sign of + remembrance and a warning to our souls. In the name of race and for their + love they sinned. But yet they sinned; and this monument, the gift and + work of one young like them, ardent and desiring like them, is for ever in + our eyes the crucifixion of our wrong ambitions and our selfish aims. + </p> + <p> + “Nay, let us be wise and let us be good. They who rule us speak with + foreign tongue, but their hearts desire our peace and a mutual regard. + Pray that this be. And pray for the young and the daring and the foolish. + And pray also that he who has given us here a good gift may find his + thanks in our better-ordered lives, and that he may consecrate his parts + and talents to the redeeming actions of this world.” + </p> + <p> + And so began the awakening of Francois Lagarre; and so began his ambition + and his peril. + </p> + <p> + For, as he passed from the church, the Seigneur touched him on the + shoulder and introduced him to his English grandniece, come on a visit for + the summer, the daughter of a London baronet. She had but just arrived, + and she was feeling that first homesickness which succeeds transplanting. + The face of the young worker in stone interested her; the idea of it all + was romantic; the possibilities of the young man’s life opened out + before her. Why should not she give him his real start, win his gratitude, + help him to his fame, and then, when it was won, be pointed out as a + discoverer and a patron? + </p> + <p> + All these things flashed through her mind as they were introduced. The + young man did not read the look in her eyes, but there was one other + person in the crowd about the church steps who did read it, whose heart + beat furiously, whose foot tapped the ground angrily—a black-haired, + brown-eyed farmer’s daughter, who instantly hated the yellow hair + and rosy and golden face of the blue-eyed London lady; who could, that + instant, have torn the silk gown from her graceful figure. + </p> + <p> + She was not disturbed without reason. And for the moment, even when she + heard impertinent and incredulous fellows pooh-poohing the monument, and + sharpening their rather dull wits upon its corners, she did not open her + lips, when otherwise she would have spoken her mind with a vengeance; for + Jeanne Marchand had a reputation for spirit and temper, and she spared no + one when her blood was up. She had a touch of the vixen—an + impetuous, loving, forceful mademoiselle, in marked contrast to the rather + ascetic Francois, whose ways were more refined than his origin might seem + to warrant. + </p> + <p> + “Sapre!” said Duclosse the mealman of the monument; “it’s + like a timber of cheese stuck up. What’s that to make a fuss about?” + </p> + <p> + “Fig of Eden,” muttered Jules Marmotte, with one eye on + Jeanne, “any fool could saw a better-looking thing out of ice!” + </p> + <p> + “Fish,” said fat Caroche the butcher, “that Francois has + a rattle in his capote. He’d spend his time better chipping bones on + my meat-block.” + </p> + <p> + But Jeanne could not bear this—the greasy whopping butcher-man! + </p> + <p> + “What, what, the messy stupid Caroche, who can’t write his + name,” she said in a fury; “the sausage-potted Caroche, who + doesn’t remember that Francois Lagarre made his brother’s + tombstone, and charged him nothing for the verses he wrote for it, nor for + the Agnus Dei he carved on it! No, Caroche does not remember his brother + Ba’tiste the fighter, as brave as Caroche is a coward! He doesn’t + remember the verse on Ba’tiste’s tombstone, does he?” + </p> + <p> + Francois heard this speech, and his eyes lighted tenderly as he looked at + Jeanne: he loved this fury of defence and championship. Some one in the + crowd turned to him and asked him to say the verses. At first he would + not; but when Caroche said that it was only his fun, that he meant nothing + against Francois, the young man recited the words slowly—an epitaph + on one who was little better than a prize-fighter, a splendid bully. + </p> + <p> + Leaning a hand against the white shaft of the Patriot’s Memory, he + said: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Blows I have struck, and blows a-many taken, + Wrestling I’ve fallen, and I’ve rose up again; + Mostly I’ve stood— + I’ve had good bone and blood; + Others went down, though fighting might and main. + Now death steps in— + Death the price of sin. + The fall it will be his; and though I strive and strain, + One blow will close my eyes, and I shall never waken.” + </pre> + <p> + “Good enough for Ba’tiste,” said Duclosse the mealman. + </p> + <p> + The wave of feeling was now altogether with Francois, and presently he + walked away with Jeanne Marchand and her mother, and the crowd dispersed. + Jeanne was very happy for a few hours, but in the evening she was unhappy, + for she saw Francois going towards the house of the Seigneur; and during + many weeks she was still more unhappy, for every three or four days she + saw the same thing. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Francois worked as he had never before worked in his life. Night + and day he was shut in his shop, and for two months he came with no + epitaphs for the Cure, and no new tombstones were set up in the graveyard. + The influence of the lady at the Seigneury was upon him, and he himself + believed it was for his salvation. She had told him of great pieces of + sculpture she had seen, had sent and got from Quebec City, where he had + never been, pictures of some of the world’s masterpieces in + sculpture, and he had lost himself in the study of them and in the depths + of the girl’s eyes. She meant no harm; the man interested her beyond + what was reasonable in one of his station in life. That was all, and all + there ever was. + </p> + <p> + Presently people began to gossip, and a story crept round that, in a new + shed which he had built behind his shop, Francois was chiselling out of + stone the nude figure of a woman. There were one or two who professed they + had seen it. The wildest gossip said that the figure was that of the young + lady at the Seigneury. Francois saw no more of Jeanne Marchand; he thought + of her sometimes, but that was all. A fever of work was on him. Twice she + came to the shed where he laboured, and knocked at the door. The first + time, he asked who was there. When she told him he opened the door just a + little way, smiled at her, caught her hand and pressed it, and, when she + would have entered, said: “No, no, another day, Jeanne,” and + shut the door in her face. + </p> + <p> + She almost hated him because he had looked so happy. Still another day she + came knocking. She called to him, and this time he opened the door and + admitted her. That very hour she had heard again the story of the nude + stone woman in the shed, and her heart was full of jealousy, fury, and + suspicion. He was very quiet, he seemed tired. She did not notice that. + Her heart had throbbed wildly as she stepped inside the shed. She looked + round, all delirious eagerness for the nude figure. + </p> + <p> + There it was, covered up with a great canvas! Yes, there were the outlines + of the figure. How shapely it seemed, even inside the canvas! + </p> + <p> + She stepped forward without a word, and snatched at the covering. He + swiftly interposed and stopped her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I will see it,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Not to-day,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you I will.” She wrenched her hand free and caught at + the canvas. A naked foot and ankle showed. He pinioned her wrists with one + hand and drew her towards the door, determination and anger in his face. + </p> + <p> + “You beast, you liar!” she said. + </p> + <p> + “You beast! beast! beast!” + </p> + <p> + Then, with a burst of angry laughter, she opened the door herself. “You + ain’t fit to know,” she said; “they told the truth about + you. Now you can take the canvas off her. Good-bye!” With that she + was gone. The following day was Sunday. Francois did not attend Mass, and + such strange scandalous reports had reached the Cure that he was both + disturbed and indignant. That afternoon, after vespers (which Francois did + not attend), the Cure made his way to the sculptor’s workshop, + followed by a number of parishioners. + </p> + <p> + The crowd increased, and when the Cure knocked at the door it seemed as if + half the village was there. The chief witness against Francois had been + Jeanne Marchand. That very afternoon she had told the Cure, with + indignation and bitterness, that there was no doubt about it; all that had + been said was true. + </p> + <p> + Francois, with wonder and some confusion, admitted the Cure. When M. Fabre + demanded that he be taken to the new workshop, Francois led the way. The + crowd pushed after, and presently the place was full. A hundred eyes were + fastened upon the canvas-covered statue, which had been the means of the + young man’s undoing. + </p> + <p> + Terrible things had been said—terrible things of Francois, and of + the girl at the Seigneury. They knew the girl for a Protestant and an + Englishwoman, and that in itself was a sort of sin. And now every ear was + alert to hear what the Cure should say, what denunciation should come from + his lips when the covering was removed. For that it should be removed was + the determination of every man present. Virtue was at its supreme height + in Pontiac that day. Lajeunesse the blacksmith, Muroc the charcoal-man, + and twenty others were as intent upon preserving a high standard of + morality, by force of arms, as if another Tarquin were harbouring shame + and crime in this cedar shed. + </p> + <p> + The whole thing came home to Francois with a choking, smothering force. + Art, now in its very birth in his heart and life, was to be garroted. He + had been unconscious of all the wicked things said about him: now he knew + all! + </p> + <p> + “Remove the canvas from the figure,” said the Cure sternly. + Stubbornness and resentment filled Francois’s breast. He did not + stir. + </p> + <p> + “Do you oppose the command of the Church?” said the Cure, + still more severely. “Remove the canvas.” + </p> + <p> + “It is my work—my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my + hands,” said Francois doggedly. + </p> + <p> + The Cure turned to Lajeunesse and made a motion towards the statue. + Lajeunesse, with a burning righteous joy, snatched off the canvas. There + was one instant of confusion in the faces of all-of absolute silence. + </p> + <p> + Then the crowd gasped. The Cure’s hat came off, and every other hat + followed. The Cure made the sign of the cross upon his breast and + forehead, and every other man, woman, and child present did the same. Then + all knelt, save Francois and the Cure himself. + </p> + <p> + What they saw was a statue of Christ, a beautiful benign figure; + barefooted, with a girdle about his waist: the very truth and semblance of + a man. The type was strong and yet delicate; vigorous and yet refined; + crude and yet noble; a leader of men—the God-man, not the man-God. + </p> + <p> + After a moment’s silence the Cure spoke. “Francois, my son,” + said he, “we have erred. ‘All we like sheep have gone astray; + we have followed each after his own way, but God hath laid on Him’—he + looked towards the statue—‘the iniquity of us all.’” + </p> + <p> + Francois stood still a moment gazing at the Cure, doggedly, bitterly; then + he turned and looked scornfully at the crowd, now risen to their feet + again. Among them was a girl crying as if her heart would break. It was + Jeanne Marchand. He regarded her coldly. + </p> + <p> + “You were so ready to suspect,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Then he turned once more to the Cure. “I meant it as my gift to the + Church, monsieur le Cure—to Pontiac, where I was born again. I waked + up here to what I might do in sculpture, and you—you all were so + ready to suspect! Take it, it is my last gift.” + </p> + <p> + He went to the statue, touched the hands of it lovingly, and stooped and + kissed the feet. Then, without more words, he turned and left the shed and + the house. + </p> + <p> + Pouring out into the street the people watched him cross the bridge that + led into another parish—and into another world: for from that hour + Francois Lagarre was never seen in Pontiac. + </p> + <p> + The statue that he made stands upon a little hill above the valley where + the beaters of flax come in the autumn, through which the woodsmen pass in + winter and in spring. But Francois Lagarre, under another name, works in + another land. + </p> + <p> + While the Cure lived he heard of him and of his fame now and then, and to + the day of his death he always prayed for him. He was wont to say to the + little Avocat whenever Francois’s name was mentioned: + </p> + <p> + “The spirit of a man will support him, but a wounded spirit who can + bear?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE + </h2> + <p> + The chest of drawers, the bed, the bedding, the pieces of linen, and the + pile of yarn had been ready for many months. Annette had made inventory of + them every day since the dot was complete—at first with a great deal + of pride, after a time more shyly and wistfully: Benoit did not come. He + had said he would be down with the first drive of logs in the summer, and + at the little church of St. Saviour’s they would settle everything + and get the Cure’s blessing. Almost anybody would have believed in + Benoit. He had the brightest scarf, the merriest laugh, the quickest eyes, + and the blackest head in Pontiac; and no one among the river drivers could + sing like him. That was, he said gaily, because his earrings were gold, + and not brass like those of his comrades. Thus Benoit was a little vain, + and something more; but old ladies such as the Little Chemist’s wife + said he was galant. Probably only Medallion the auctioneer and the Cure + did not lose themselves in the general admiration; they thought he was to + Annette like a farthing dip to a holy candle. + </p> + <p> + Annette was the youngest of twelve, and one of a family of thirty-for some + of her married brothers and sisters and their children lived in her father’s + long white house’ by the river. When Benoit failed to come in the + spring, they showed their pity for her by abusing him; and when she + pleaded for him they said things which had an edge. They ended by offering + to marry her to Farette, the old miller, to whom they owed money for + flour. They brought Farette to the house at last, and she was patient + while he ogled her, and smoked his strong tabac, and tried to sing. She + was kind to him, and said nothing until, one day, urged by her brother + Solime, he mumbled the childish chanson Benoit sang the day he left, as he + passed their house going up the river: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “High in a nest of the tam’rac tree, + Swing under, so free, and swing over; + Swing under the sun and swing over the world, + My snow-bird, my gay little lover + My gay little lover, don, don!... don, don! + + “When the winter is done I will come back home, + To the nest swinging under and over, + Swinging under and over and waiting for me, + Your rover, my snow-bird, your rover— + Your lover and rover, don, don!... don, don!” + </pre> + <p> + It was all very well in the mouth of the sprightly, sentimental Benoit; it + was hateful foolishness in Farette. Annette now came to her feet suddenly, + her pale face showing defiance, and her big brown eyes flicking anger. She + walked up to the miller and said: “You are old and ugly and a fool. + But I do not hate you; I hate Solime, my brother, for bringing you here. + There is the bill for the flour? Well, I will pay it myself—and you + can go as soon as you like.” + </p> + <p> + Then she put on her coat and capote and mittens, and went to the door. + “Where are you going, Ma’m’selle?” cried Solime, + in high rage. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to M’sieu’ Medallion,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Hard profane words followed her, but she ran, and never stopped till she + came to Medallion’s house. He was not there. She found him at the + Little Chemist’s. That night a pony and cart took away from the + house of Annette’s father the chest of drawers, the bed, the + bedding, the pieces of linen, and the pile of yarn which had been made + ready so long against Benoit’s coming. Medallion had said he could + sell them at once, and he gave her the money that night; but this was + after he had had a talk with the Cure, to whom Annette had told all. + Medallion said he had been able to sell the things at once; but he did not + tell her that they were stored in a loft of the Little Chemist’s + house, and that the Little Chemist’s wife had wept over them and + carried the case to the shrine of the Blessed Virgin. + </p> + <p> + It did not matter that the father and brothers stormed. Annette was firm; + the dot was hers, and she would do as she wished. She carried the money to + the miller. He took it grimly and gave her a receipt, grossly mis-spelled, + and, as she was about to go, brought his fist heavily down on his leg and + said: “Mon Dieu, it is brave—it is grand—it is an angel.” + Then he chuckled: “So, so! It was true. I am old, ugly, and a fool. + Eh, well, I have my money!” Then he took to counting it over in his + hand, forgetting her, and she left him growling gleefully over it. + </p> + <p> + She had not a happy life, but her people left her alone, for the Cure had + said stern things to them. All during the winter she went out fishing + every day at a great hole in the ice—bitter cold work, and fit only + for a man; but she caught many fish, and little by little laid aside + pennies to buy things to replace what she had sold. It had been a hard + trial to her to sell them. But for the kind-hearted Cure she would have + repined. The worst thing happened, however, when the ring Benoit had given + her dropped from her thin finger into the water where she was fishing. + Then a shadow descended on her, and she grew almost unearthly in the + anxious patience of her face. The Little Chemist’s wife declared + that the look was death. Perhaps it would have been if Medallion had not + sent a lad down to the bottom of the river and got the ring. He gave it to + the Cure, who put it on her finger one day after confession. Then she + brightened, and waited on and on patiently. + </p> + <p> + She waited for seven years. Then the deceitful Benoit came pensively back + to her, a cripple from a timber accident. She believed what he told her; + and that was where her comedy ended and her tragedy began. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER + </h2> + <p> + Medallion put it into his head on the day that Benoit and Annette were + married. “See,” said Medallion, “Annette wouldn’t + have you—and quite right—and she took what was left of that + Benoit, who’ll laugh at you over his mush-and-milk.” + </p> + <p> + “Benoit will want flour some day, with no money.” The old man + chuckled and rubbed his hands. “That’s nothing; he has the + girl—an angel!” “Good enough, that is what I said of her—an + angel!” + </p> + <p> + “Get married yourself, Farette.” + </p> + <p> + For reply Farette thrust a bag of native tabac into Medallion’s + hands. Then they went over the names of the girls in the village. + Medallion objected to those for whom he wished a better future, but they + decided at last on Julie Lachance, who, Medallion thought, would in time + profoundly increase Farette’s respect for the memory of his first + wife; for Julie was not an angel. Then the details were ponderously + thought out by the miller, and ponderously acted upon, with the dry + approval of Medallion, who dared not tell the Cure of his complicity, + though he was without compunction. He had a sense of humour, and knew + there could be no tragedy in the thing—for Julie. But the miller was + a careful man and original in his methods. He still possessed the wardrobe + of the first wife, thoughtfully preserved by his sister, even to the + wonderful grey watered-poplin which had been her wedding-dress. These he + had taken out, shaken free of cayenne, camphor, and lavender, and sent + upon the back of Parpon, the dwarf, to the house where Julie lodged (she + was an orphan), following himself with a statement on brown paper, showing + the extent of his wealth, and a parcel of very fine flour from the new + stones in his mill. All was spread out, and then he made a speech, + describing his virtues, and condoning his one offence of age by assuring + her that every tooth in his head was sound. This was merely the concession + of politeness, for he thought his offer handsome. + </p> + <p> + Julie slyly eyed the wardrobe and as slyly smiled, and then, imitating + Farette’s manner—though Farette could not see it, and Parpon + spluttered with laughter—said: + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, you are a great man. The grey poplin is noble, + also the flour, and the writing on the brown paper. M’sieu’, + you go to Mass, and all your teeth are sound; you have a dog-churn, also + three feather-beds, and five rag carpets; you have sat on the grand jury. + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, I have a dot; I accept you. M’sieu’, + I will keep the brown paper, and the grey poplin, and the flour.” + Then with a grave elaborate bow, “M’sieu’!” + </p> + <p> + That was the beginning and end of the courtship. For though Farette came + every Sunday evening and smoked by the fire, and looked at Julie as she + arranged the details of her dowry, he only chuckled, and now and again + struck his thigh and said: + </p> + <p> + “Mon Dieu, the ankle, the eye, the good child, Julie, there!” + </p> + <p> + Then he would fall to thinking and chuckling again. One day he asked her + to make him some potato-cakes of the flour he had given her. Her answer + was a catastrophe. She could not cook; she was even ignorant of + buttermilk-pudding. He went away overwhelmed, but came back some days + afterwards and made another speech. He had laid his plans before + Medallion, who approved of them. He prefaced the speech by placing the + blank marriage certificate on the table. Then he said that his first wife + was such a cook, that when she died he paid for an extra Mass and twelve + very fine candles. He called upon Parpon to endorse his words, and Parpon + nodded to all he said, but, catching Julie’s eye, went off into + gurgles of laughter, which he pretended were tears, by smothering his face + in his capote. “Ma’m’selle,” said the miller, + “I have thought. Some men go to the Avocat or the Cure with great + things; but I have been a pilgrimage, I have sat on the grand jury. There, + Ma’m’selle!” His chest swelled, he blew out his cheeks, + he pulled Parpon’s ear as Napoleon pulled Murat’s. “Ma’m’selle, + allons! Babette, the sister of my first wife-ah! she is a great cook also—well, + she was pouring into my plate the soup—there is nothing like + pea-soup with a fine lump of pork, and thick molasses for the buckwheat + cakes. Ma’m’selle, allons! Just then I thought. It is very + good; you shall see; you shall learn how to cook. Babette will teach you. + Babette said many things. I got mad and spilt the soup. Ma’m’selle—eh, + holy, what a turn has your waist!” + </p> + <p> + At length he made it clear to her what his plans were, and to each and all + she consented; but when he had gone she sat and laughed till she cried, + and for the hundredth time took out the brown paper and studied the list + of Farette’s worldly possessions. + </p> + <p> + The wedding-day came. Julie performed her last real act of renunciation + when, in spite of the protests of her friends, she wore the grey + watered-poplin, made modern by her own hands. The wedding-day was the + anniversary of Farette’s first marriage, and the Cure faltered in + the exhortation when he saw that Farette was dressed in complete mourning, + even to the crape hat-streamers, as he said, out of respect for the memory + of his first wife, and as a kind of tribute to his second. At the + wedding-breakfast, where Medallion and Parpon were in high glee, Farette + announced that he would take the honeymoon himself, and leave his wife to + learn cooking from old Babette. + </p> + <p> + So he went away alone cheerfully, with hymeneal rice falling in showers on + his mourning garments; and his new wife was as cheerful as he, and threw + rice also. + </p> + <p> + She learned how to cook, and in time Farette learned that he had his one + true inspiration when he wore mourning at his second marriage. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MATHURIN + </h2> + <p> + The tale was told to me in the little valley beneath Dalgrothe Mountain + one September morning. Far and near one could see the swinging of the + flail, and the laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land. There was a + little Calvary down by the riverside, where the flax-beaters used to say + their prayers in the intervals of their work; and it was just at the foot + of this that Angele Rouvier, having finished her prayer, put her rosary in + her pocket, wiped her eyes with the hem of her petticoat, and said to me: + </p> + <p> + “Ah, dat poor Mathurin, I wipe my tears for him!” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me all about him, won’t you, Madame Angele? I want to + hear you tell it,” I added hastily, for I saw that she would despise + me if I showed ignorance of Mathurin’s story. Her sympathy with + Mathurin’s memory was real, but her pleasure at the compliment I + paid her was also real. + </p> + <p> + “Ah! It was ver’ longtime ago—yes. My gran’mudder + she remember dat Mathurin ver’ well. He is not ver’ big man. + He has a face-oh, not ver’ handsome, not so more handsome as yours—non. + His clothes, dey hang on him all loose; his hair, it is all some grey, and + it blow about him head. He is clean to de face, no beard—no, nosing + like dat. But his eye—la, M’sieu’, his eye! It is like a + coal which you blow in your hand, whew!—all bright. My gran’mudder, + she say, ‘Voila, you can light your pipe with de eyes of dat + Mathurin!’ She know. She say dat M’sieu’ Mathurin’s + eyes dey shine in de dark. My gran’fadder he say he not need any + lights on his cariole when Mathurin ride with him in de night. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, sure! it is ver’ true what I tell you all de time. If you + cut off Mathurin at de chin, all de way up, you will say de top of him it + is a priest. All de way down from his neck, oh, he is just no better as + yoursel’ or my Jean—non. He is a ver’ good man. Only one + bad ting he do. Dat is why I pray for him; dat is why everybody pray for + him—only one bad ting. Sapristi!—if I have only one ting to + say God-have-mercy for, I tink dat ver’ good; I do my penance happy. + Well, dat Mathurin him use to teach de school. De Cure he ver’ fond + of him. All de leetla children, boys and girls, dey all say: ‘C’est + bon Mathurin!’ He is not ver’ cross—non. He have no + wife, no child; jes live by himself all alone. But he is ver’ good + friends with everybody in Pontiac. When he go ‘long de street, + everybody say, ‘Ah, dere go de good Mathurin!’ He laugh, he + tell story, he smoke leetla tabac, he take leetla white wine behin’ + de door; dat is nosing—non. + </p> + <p> + “He have in de parish five, ten, twenty children all call Mathurin; + he is godfadder with dem—yes. So he go about with plenty of sugar + and sticks of candy in his pocket. He never forget once de age of every + leetla child dat call him godfadder. He have a brain dat work like a + clock. My gran’fadder he say dat Mathurin have a machine in his + head. It make de words, make de thoughts, make de fine speech like de + Cure, make de gran’ poetry—oh, yes! + </p> + <p> + “When de King of Englan’ go to sit on de throne, Mathurin + write ver’ nice verse to him. And by-and-by dere come to Mathurin a + letter—voila, dat is a letter! It have one, two, three, twenty + seals; and de King he say to Mathurin: ‘Merci mille fois, m’sieu’; + you are ver’ polite. I tank you. I will keep your verses to tell me + dat my French subjects are all loyal like M. Mathurin.’ Dat is ver’ + nice, but Mathurin is not proud—non. He write six verses for my + granmudder—hein? Dat is something. He write two verses for de King + of Englan’ and he write six verses for my granmudder—you see! + He go on so, dis week, dat week, dis year, dat year, all de time. + </p> + <p> + “Well, by-and-by dere is trouble on Pontiac. It is ver’ great + trouble. You see dere is a fight ‘gainst de King of Englan’, + and dat is too bad. It is not his fault; he is ver’ nice man; it is + de bad men who make de laws for de King in Quebec. Well, one day all over + de country everybody take him gun, and de leetla bullets, and say, I will + fight de soldier of de King of Englan’—like dat. Ver’ + well, dere was twenty men in Pontiac, ver’ nice men—you will + find de names cut in a stone on de church; and den, three times as big, + you will find Mathurin’s name. Ah, dat is de ting! You see, dat + rebellion you English call it, we call it de War of de Patriot—de + first War of de Patriot, not de second-well, call it what you like, quelle + difference? The King of Englan’ smash him Patriot War all to pieces. + Den dere is ten men of de twenty come back to Pontiac ver’ sorry. + Dey are not happy, nobody are happy. All de wives, dey cry; all de + children, dey are afraid. Some people say, What fools you are; others say, + You are no good; but everybody in him heart is ver’ sorry all de + time. + </p> + <p> + “Ver’ well, by-and-by dere come to Pontiac what you call a + colonel with a dozen men—what for, you tink? To try de patriots. He + will stan’ dem against de wall and shoot dem to death—kill dem + dead. When dey come, de Cure he is not in Pontiac—non, not dat day; + he is gone to anudder village. De English soldier he has de ten men drew + up before de church. All de children and all de wives dey cry and cry, and + dey feel so bad. Certainlee, it is a pity. But de English soldier he say + he will march dem off to Quebec, and everybody know dat is de end of de + patriots. + </p> + <p> + “All at once de colonel’s horse it grow ver’ wild, it + rise up high, and dance on him hind feet, and—voila! he topple him + over backwards, and de horse fall on de colonel and smaish him—smaish + him till he go to die. Ver’ well; de colonel, what does he do? Dey + lay him on de steps of de church. Den he say: ‘Bring me a priest, + quick, for I go to die.’ Nobody answer. De colonel he say: ‘I + have a hunder sins all on my mind; dey are on my heart like a hill. Bring + to me de priest,’—he groan like dat. Nobody speak at first; + den somebody say de priest is not here. ‘Find me a priest,’ + say de colonel; ‘find me a priest.’ For he tink de priest will + not come, becos’ he go to kill de patriots. ‘Bring me a + priest,’ he say again, ‘and all de ten shall go free.’ + He say it over and over. He is smaish to pieces, but his head is all + right. All at once de doors of de church open behin’ him—what + you tink! Everybody’s heart it stan’ still, for dere is + Mathurin dress as de priest, with a leetla boy to swing de censer. + Everybody say to himself, What is dis? Mathurin is dress as de priest-ah! + dat is a sin. It is what you call blaspheme. + </p> + <p> + “The English soldier he look up at Mathurin and say: ‘Ah, a + priest at last—ah, M’sieu’ le Cure, comfort me!’ + Mathurin look down on him and say: ‘M’sieu’, it is for + you to confess your sins, and to have de office of de Church. But first, + as you have promise just now, you must give up dese poor men, who have + fight for what dey tink is right. You will let dem go free dis women?’ + ‘Yes, yes,’ say de English colonel; ‘dey shall go free. + Only give me de help of de Church at my last.’ Mathurin turn to de + other soldiers and say: ‘Unloose de men.’ + </p> + <p> + “De colonel nod his head and say: ‘Unloose de men.’ Den + de men are unloose, and dey all go away, for Mathurin tell dem to go + quick. + </p> + <p> + “Everybody is ver’ ‘fraid becos’ of what Mathurin + do. Mathurin he say to de soldiers: ‘Lift him up and bring him in de + church.’ Dey bring him up to de steps of de altar. Mathurin look at + de man for a while, and it seem as if he cannot speak to him; but de + colonel say: ‘I have give you my word. Give me comfort of de Church + before I die.’ He is in ver’ great pain, so Mathurin he turn + roun’ to everybody dat stan’ by, and tell dem to say de + prayers for de sick. Everybody get him down on his knees and say de + prayer. Everybody say: ‘Lord have mercy. Spare him, O Lord; deliver + him, O Lord, from Thy wrath!’ And Mathurin he pray all de same as a + priest, ver’ soft and gentle. He pray on and on, and de face of de + English soldier it get ver; quiet and still, and de tear drop down his + cheek. And just as Mathurin say at de last his sins dey are forgive, he + die. Den Mathurin, as he go away to take off his robes, he say to himself: + ‘Miserere mei Deus! miserere mei Deus!’ + </p> + <p> + “So dat is de ting dat Mathurin do to save de patriots from de + bullets. Ver’ well, de men dey go free, and when de Governor at + Quebec he hear de truth, he say it is all right. Also de English soldier + die in peace and happy, becos’ he tink his sins are forgive. But den—dere + is Mathurin and his sin to pretend he is a priest! The Cure he come back, + and dere is a great trouble. + </p> + <p> + “Mathurin he is ver’ quiet and still. Nobody come near him in + him house; nobody go near to de school. But he sit alone all day in de + school, and he work on de blackboar’ and he write on de slate; but + dere is no child come, becos’ de Cure has forbid any one to speak to + Mathurin. Not till de next Sunday, den de Cure send for Mathurin to come + to de church. Mathurin come to de steps of de altar; den de Cure say to + him: + </p> + <p> + “‘Mathurin, you have sin a great sin. If it was two hunderd + years ago you would be put to death for dat.’ + </p> + <p> + “Mathurin he say ver’ soft: ‘Dat is no matter. I am + ready to die now. I did it to save de fadders of de children and de + husbands of de wives. I do it to make a poor sinner happy as he go from de + world. De sin is mine.’ + </p> + <p> + “Den de Cure he say: ‘De men are free, dat is good; de wives + have dere husbands and de children dere fadders. Also de man who confess + his sins—de English soldier—to whom you say de words of a + priest of God, he is forgive. De Spirit of God it was upon him when he + die, becos’ you speak in de name of de Church. But for you, + blasphemer, who take upon you de holy ting, you shall suffer! For penance, + all your life you shall teach a chile no more.’ + </p> + <p> + “Voila, M’sieu’ le Cure he know dat is de greatest + penance for de poor Mathurin! Den he set him other tings to do; and every + month for a whole year Mathurin come on his knees all de way to de church, + but de Cure say: ‘Not yet are you forgive.’ At de end of de + year Mathurin he look so thin, so white, you can blow through him. Every + day he go to him school and write on de blackboar’, and mark on de + slate, and call de roll of de school. But dere is no answer, for dere is + no children. But all de time de wives of de men dat he have save, and de + children, dey pray for him. And by-and-by all de village pray for him, so + sorry. + </p> + <p> + “It is so for two years; and den dey say dat Mathurin he go to die. + He cannot come on his knees to de church; and de men whose life he save, + dey come to de Cure and ask him to take de penance from Mathurin. De Cure + say: ‘Wait till nex’ Sunday.’ So nex’ Sunday + Mathurin is carry to de church—he is too weak to walk on his knees. + De Cure he stan’ at de altar, and he read a letter from de Pope, + which say dat Mathurin his penance is over, and he is forgive; dat de Pope + himself pray for Mathurin, to save his soul. So Mathurin, all at once he + stan’ up, and his face it smile and smile, and he stretch out his + arms as if dey are on a cross, and he say, ‘Lord, I am ready to go,’ + and he fall down. But de Cure catch him as he fall, and Mathurin say: + ‘De children—let dem come to me dat I teach dem before I die.’ + And all de children in de church dey come close to him, and he sit up and + smile at dem, and he say: + </p> + <p> + “‘It is de class in ‘rithmetic. How much is three times + four?’ And dem all answer: ‘T’ree times four is twelve.’ + And he say: ‘May de Twelve Apostles pray for me!’ Den he ask: + ‘Class in geography—how far is it roun’ de world?’ + And dey answer: ‘Twenty-four t’ousand miles.’ He say: + 'Good; it is not so far to God! De school is over all de time,’ he + say. And dat is only everything of poor Mathurin. He is dead. + </p> + <p> + “When de Cure lay him down, after he make de Sign upon him, he kiss + his face and say: ‘Mathurin, now you are a priest unto God.’” + </p> + <p> + That was Angele Rouvier’s story of Mathurin, the Master of the + School, for whom the women and the children pray in the parish of Pontiac, + though the school has been dismissed these hundred years and more. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER + </h2> + <p> + For a man in whose life there had been tragedy he was cheerful. He had a + habit of humming vague notes in the silence of conversation, as if to put + you at your ease. His body and face were lean and arid, his eyes oblique + and small, his hair straight and dry and straw-coloured; and it flew out + crackling with electricity, to meet his cap as he put it on. He lived + alone in a little but near his lime-kiln by the river, with no near + neighbours, and few companions save his four dogs; and these he fed + sometimes at expense of his own stomach. He had just enough crude poetry + in his nature to enjoy his surroundings. For he was well placed. Behind + the lime-kiln rose knoll on knoll, and beyond these the verdant hills, all + converging to Dalgrothe Mountain. In front of it was the river, with its + banks dropping forty feet, and below, the rapids, always troubled and + sportive. On the farther side of the river lay peaceful areas of meadow + and corn land, and low-roofed, hovering farm-houses, with one larger than + the rest, having a wind-mill and a flag-staff. This building was almost + large enough for a manor, and indeed it was said that it had been built + for one just before the conquest in 1759, but the war had destroyed the + ambitious owner, and it had become a farm-house. Paradis always knew the + time of the day by the way the light fell on the wind-mill. He had owned + this farm once, he and his brother Fabian, and he had loved it as he loved + Fabian, and he loved it now as he loved Fabian’s memory. In spite of + all, they were cheerful memories, both of brother and house. + </p> + <p> + At twenty-three they had become orphans, with two hundred acres of land, + some cash, horses and cattle, and plenty of credit in the parish, or in + the county, for that matter. Both were of hearty dispositions, but Fabian + had a taste for liquor, and Henri for pretty faces and shapely ankles. Yet + no one thought the worse of them for that, especially at first. An old + servant kept house for them and cared for them in her honest way, both + physically and morally. She lectured them when at first there was little + to lecture about. It is no wonder that when there came a vast deal to + reprove, the bonne desisted altogether, overwhelmed by the weight of it. + </p> + <p> + Henri got a shock the day before their father died when he saw Fabian lift + the brandy used to mix with the milk of the dying man, and pouring out the + third of a tumbler, drink it off, smacking his lips as he did so, as + though it were a cordial. That gave him a cue to his future and to Fabian’s. + After their father died Fabian gave way to the vice. He drank in the + taverns, he was at once the despair and the joy of the parish; for, wild + as he was, he had a gay temper, a humorous mind, a strong arm, and was the + universal lover. The Cure, who did not, of course, know one-fourth of his + wildness, had a warm spot for him in his heart. But there was a vicious + strain in him somewhere, and it came out one day in a perilous fashion. + </p> + <p> + There was in the hotel of the Louis Quinze an English servant from the + west, called Nell Barraway. She had been in a hotel in Montreal, and it + was there Fabian had seen her as she waited at table. She was a + splendid-looking creature—all life and energy, tall, fair-haired, + and with a charm above her kind. She was also an excellent servant, could + do as much as any two women in any house, and was capable of more airy + diablerie than any ten of her sex in Pontiac. When Fabian had said to her + in Montreal that he would come to see her again, he told her where he + lived. She came to see him instead, for she wrote to the landlord of the + Louis Quinze, enclosed fine testimonials, and was at once engaged. Fabian + was stunned when he entered the Louis Quinze and saw her waiting at table, + alert, busy, good to behold. She nodded at him with a quick smile as he + stood bewildered just inside the door, then said in English: “This + way, m’sieu’.” + </p> + <p> + As he sat down he said in English also, with a laugh and with snapping + eyes: “Good Lord, what brings you here, lady-bird?” + </p> + <p> + As she pushed a chair under him she whispered through his hair: “You!” + and then was gone away to fetch pea-soup for six hungry men. + </p> + <p> + The Louis Quinze did more business now in three months than it had done + before in six. But it became known among a few in Pontiac that Nell was + notorious. How it had crept up from Montreal no one guessed, and, when it + did come, her name was very intimately associated with Fabian’s. No + one could say that she was not the most perfect of servants, and also no + one could say that her life in Pontiac had not been exemplary. Yet wise + people had made up their minds that she was determined to marry Fabian, + and the wisest declared that she would do so in spite of everything—religion + (she was a Protestant), character, race. She was clever, as the young + Seigneur found, as the little Avocat was forced to admit, as the Cure + allowed with a sigh, and she had no airs of badness at all and very little + of usual coquetry. Fabian was enamoured, and it was clear that he intended + to bring the woman to the Manor one way or another. + </p> + <p> + Henri admitted the fascination of the woman, felt it, despaired, went to + Montreal, got proof of her career, came back, and made his final and only + effort to turn his brother from the girl. + </p> + <p> + He had waited an hour outside the hotel for his brother, and when Fabian + got in, he drove on without a word. After a while, Fabian, who was in high + spirits, said: + </p> + <p> + “Open your mouth, Henri. Come along, sleepyhead.” + </p> + <p> + Straightway he began to sing a rollicking song, and Henri joined in with + him heartily, for the spirit of Fabian’s humour was contagious: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “There was a little man, + The foolish Guilleri + Carabi. + He went unto the chase, + Of partridges the chase. + Carabi. + Titi Carabi, + Toto Carabo, + You’re going to break your neck, + My lovely Guilleri!” + </pre> + <p> + He was about to begin another verse when Henri stopped him, saying: + </p> + <p> + “You’re going to break your neck, Fabian.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s up, Henri?” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + “You’re drinking hard, and you don’t keep good company.” + </p> + <p> + Fabian laughed. “Can’t get the company I want, so what I can + get I have, Henri, my lad.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t drink.” Henri laid his freehand on Fabian’s + knee. + </p> + <p> + “Whiskey-wine is meat and drink to me—I was born on New Year’s + Day, old coffin-face. Whiskey-wine day, they ought to call it. Holy! the + empty jars that day.” Henri sighed. “That’s the drink, + Fabian,” he said patiently. “Give up the company. I’ll + be better company for you than that girl, Fabian.” + </p> + <p> + “Girl? What the devil do you mean!” + </p> + <p> + “She, Nell Barraway, was the company I meant, Fabian.” + </p> + <p> + “Nell Barraway—you mean her? Bosh! I’m going to marry + her, Henri.” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t, Fabian,” said Henri, eagerly clutching + Fabian’s sleeve. + </p> + <p> + “But I must, my Henri. She’s the best-looking, wittiest girl I + ever saw—splendid. Never lonely with her.” + </p> + <p> + “Looks and brains isn’t everything, Fabian.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it, though? Isn’t it? Tiens, you try it!” + </p> + <p> + “Not without goodness.” Henri’s voice weakened. + </p> + <p> + “That’s bosh. Of course it is, Henri, my dear. If you love a + woman, if she gets hold of you, gets into your blood, loves you so that + the touch of her fingers sets your pulses going pom-pom, you don’t + care a sou whether she is good or not.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean whether she was good or not?” + </p> + <p> + “No, I don’t. I mean is good or not. For if she loves you she’ll + travel straight for your sake. Pshaw, you don’t know anything about + it!” + </p> + <p> + “I know all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Know all about it! You’re in love—you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Fabian sat open-mouthed for a minute. “Godam!” he said. It was + his one English oath. + </p> + <p> + “Is she good company?” he asked after a minute. + </p> + <p> + “She’s the same as you keep—voila, the same.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean Nell—Nell?” asked Fabian, in a dry, choking + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Nell. From the first time I saw her. But I’d cut my hand + off first. I’d think of you; of our people that have been here for + two hundred years; of the rooms in the old house where mother used to be.” + </p> + <p> + Fabian laughed nervously. “Holy heaven, and you’ve got her in + your blood, too!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, but I’d never marry her. Fabian, at Montreal I found out + all about her. She was as bad—” + </p> + <p> + “That’s nothing to me, Henri,” said Fabian, “but + something else is. Here you are now. I’ll make a bargain.” His + face showed pale in the moonlight. “If you’ll drink with me, + do as I do, go where I go, play the devil when I play it, and never + squeal, never hang back, I’ll give her up. But I’ve got to + have you—got to have you all the time, everywhere, hunting, + drinking, or letting alone. You’ll see me out, for you’re + stronger, had less of it. I’m soon for the little low house in the + grass. Stop the horses.” + </p> + <p> + Henri stopped them and they got out. They were just opposite the + lime-kiln, and they had to go a few hundred yards before they came to the + bridge to cross the river to their home. The light of the fire shone in + their faces as Fabian handed the flask to Henri, and said: “Let’s + drink to it, Henri. You half, and me half.” He was deadly pale. + </p> + <p> + Henri drank to the finger-mark set, and then Fabian lifted the flask to + his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Good-bye, Nell!” he said. “Here’s to the good + times we’ve had!” He emptied the flask, and threw it over the + bank into the burning lime, and Garotte, the old lime-burner, being half + asleep, did not see or hear. + </p> + <p> + The next day the two went on a long hunting expedition, and the following + month Nell Barraway left for Montreal. + </p> + <p> + Henri kept to his compact, drink for drink, sport for sport. One year the + crops were sold before they were reaped, horses and cattle went little by + little, then came mortgage, and still Henri never wavered, never weakened, + in spite of the Cure and all others. The brothers were always together, + and never from first to last did Henri lose his temper, or openly lament + that ruin was coming surely on them. What money Fabian wanted he got. The + Cure’s admonitions availed nothing, for Fabian would go his gait. + The end came on the very spot where the compact had been made; for, + passing the lime-kiln one dark night, as the two rode home together, + Fabian’s horse shied, the bank of the river gave way, and with a + startled “Ah, Henri!” the profligate and his horse were gone + into the river below. + </p> + <p> + Next month the farm and all were sold, Henri Paradis succeeded the old + lime-burner at his post, drank no more ever, and lived his life in sight + of the old home. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE WOODSMAN’S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF + </h2> + <p> + The old woodsman shifted the knife with which he was mending his + fishing-rod from one hand to the other, and looked at it musingly, before + he replied to Medallion. “Yes, m’sieu’, I knew the White + Chief, as they called him: this was his”—holding up the knife; + “and this”—taking a watch from his pocket. “He + gave them to me; I was with him in the Circle on the great journey.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell us about him, then,” Medallion urged; “for there + are many tales, and who knows which is the right one?” + </p> + <p> + “The right one is mine. Holy, he was to me like a father then! I + know more of the truth than any one.” He paused a moment, looking + out on the river where the hot sun was playing with all its might, then + took off his cap with deliberation, laid it beside him, and speaking as it + were into the distance, began: + </p> + <p> + “He once was a trader of the Hudson’s Bay Company. Of his + birth some said one thing, some another; I know he was beaucoup gentil, + and his heart, it was a lion’s! Once, when there was trouble with + the Chipp’ways, he went alone to their camp, and say he will fight + their strongest man, to stop the trouble. He twist the neck of the great + fighting man of the tribe, so that it go with a snap, and that ends it, + and he was made a chief, for, you see, in their hearts they all hated + their strong man. Well, one winter there come down to Fort o’ God + two Esquimaux, and they say that three white men are wintering by the + Coppermine River; they had travel down from the frozen seas when their + ship was lock in the ice, but can get no farther. They were sick with the + evil skin, and starving. The White Chief say to me: ‘Galloir, will + you go to rescue them?’ I would have gone with him to the ends of + the world—and this was near one end.” + </p> + <p> + The old man laughed to himself, tossed his jet-black hair from his + wrinkled face, and after a moment, went on: “There never was such a + winter as that. The air was so still by times that you can hear the rustle + of the stars and the shifting of the northern lights; but the cold at + night caught you by the heart and clamp it—Mon Dieu, how it clamp! + We crawl under the snow and lay in our bags of fur and wool, and the dogs + hug close to us. We were sorry for the dogs; and one died, and then + another, and there is nothing so dreadful as to hear the dogs howl in the + long night—it is like ghosts crying in an empty world. The circle of + the sun get smaller and smaller, till he only tramp along the high edge of + the north-west. We got to the river at last and found the camp. There is + one man dead—only one; but there were bones—ah, m’sieu’, + you not guess what a thing it is to look upon the bones of men, and know + that—!” + </p> + <p> + Medallion put his hand on the old man’s arm. “Wait a minute,” + he said. Then he poured out coffee for both, and they drank before the + rest was told. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a creepy story,” said Medallion, “but go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, the White Chief look at the dead man as he sit there in the + snow, with a book and a piece of paper beside him, and the pencil in the + book. The face is bent forward to the knees. The White Chief pick up the + book and pencil, and then kneel down and gaze up in the dead man’s + face, all hard like stone and crusted with frost. I thought he would never + stir again, he look so long. I think he was puzzle. Then he turn and say + to me: ‘So quiet, so awful, Galloir!’ and got up. Well, but it + was cold then, and my head seemed big and running about like a ball of + air. But I light a spirit-lamp, and make some coffee, and he open the dead + man’s book—it is what they call a diary—and begin to + read. All at once I hear a cry, and I see him drop the book on the ground, + and go to the dead man, and jerk his fist as if to strike him in the face. + But he did not strike.” + </p> + <p> + Galloir stopped, and lighted his pipe, and was so long silent that + Medallion had to jog him into speaking. He puffed the smoke so that his + face was in the cloud, and he said through it: “No, he did not + strike. He get to his feet and spoke: ‘God forgive her!’ like + that, and come and take up the book again, and read. He eat and drunk, and + read the book again, and I know by his face that something more than cold + was clamp his heart. + </p> + <p> + “‘Shall we bury him in the snow?’ I say. ‘No,’ + he spoke, ‘let him sit there till the Judgmen’. This is a + wonderful book, Galloir,’ he went on. ‘He was a brave man, but + the rest—the rest!’—then under his breath almost: + ‘She was so young—but a child.’ I not understand that. + We start away soon, leaving the thing there. For four days, and then I see + that the White Chief will never get back to Fort Pentecost; but he read + the dead man’s book much....” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot forget that one day. He lies down looking at the world—nothing + but the waves of snow, shining blue and white, on and on. The sun lift an + eye of blood in the north, winking like a devil as I try to drive Death + away by calling in his ear. He wake all at once; but his eyes seem asleep. + He tell me to take the book to a great man in Montreal—he give me + the name. Then he take out his watch—it is stop—and this + knife, and put them into my hands, and then he pat my shoulder. He motion + to have the bag drawn over his head. I do it.... Of course that was the + end!” + </p> + <p> + “But what about the book?” Medallion asked. + </p> + <p> + “That book? It is strange. I took it to the man in Montreal—tonnerre, + what a fine house and good wine had he!—and told him all. He whip + out a scarf, and blow his nose loud, and say very angry: ‘So, she’s + lost both now! What a scoundrel he was!...’ Which one did he mean? I + not understan’ ever since.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + UNCLE JIM + </h2> + <p> + He was no uncle of mine, but it pleased me that he let me call him Uncle + Jim. + </p> + <p> + It seems only yesterday that, for the first time, on a farm “over + the border,” from the French province, I saw him standing by a log + outside the wood-house door, splitting maple knots. He was all bent by + years and hard work, with muscles of iron, hands gnarled and lumpy, but + clinching like a vise; grey head thrust forward on shoulders which had + carried forkfuls of hay and grain, and leaned to the cradle and the + scythe, and been heaped with cordwood till they were like hide and metal; + white straggling beard and red watery eyes, which, to me, were always hung + with an intangible veil of mystery—though that, maybe, was my boyish + fancy. Added to all this he was so very deaf that you had to speak clear + and loud into his ear; and many people he could not hear at all, if their + words were not sharp-cut, no matter how loud. A silent, withdrawn man he + was, living close to Mother Earth, twin-brother of Labour, to whom Morning + and Daytime were sounding-boards for his axe, scythe, saw, flail, and + milking-pail, and Night a round hollow of darkness into which he crept, + shutting the doors called Silence behind him, till the impish page of Toil + came tapping again, and he stepped awkwardly into the working world once + more. Winter and summer saw him putting the kettle on the fire a few + minutes after four o’clock, in winter issuing with lantern from the + kitchen door to the stable and barn to feed the stock; in summer sniffing + the grey dawn and looking out on his fields of rye and barley, before he + went to gather the cows for milking and take the horses to water. + </p> + <p> + For forty years he and his worn-faced wife bowed themselves beneath the + yoke, first to pay for the hundred-acre farm, and then to bring up and + educate their seven children. Something noble in them gave them ambitions + for their boys and girls which they had never had for themselves; but when + had gone the forty years, in which the little farm had twice been + mortgaged to put the eldest son through college as a doctor, they faced + the bitter fact that the farm had passed from them to Rodney, the second + son, who had come at last to keep a hotel in a town fifty miles away. + Generous-hearted people would think that these grown-up sons and daughters + should have returned the old people’s long toil and care by buying + up the farm and handing it back to them, their rightful refuge in the + decline of life. But it was not so. They were tenants where they had been + owners, dependants where they had been givers, slaves where once they + were, masters. The old mother toiled without a servant, the old man + without a helper, save in harvest time. + </p> + <p> + But the great blow came when Rodney married the designing milliner who + flaunted her wares opposite his bar-room; and, somehow, from the date of + that marriage, Rodney’s good fortune and the hotel declined. When he + and his wife first visited the little farm after their marriage the old + mother shrank away from the young woman’s painted face, and ever + afterwards an added sadness showed in her bearing and in her patient + smile. But she took Rodney’s wife through the house, showing her all + there was to show, though that was not much. There was the little parlour + with its hair-cloth chairs, rag carpet, centre table, and iron stove with + black pipes, all gaily varnished. There was the parlour bedroom off it, + with the one feather-bed of the house bountifully piled up with coarse + home-made blankets, topped by a silk patchwork quilt, the artistic labour + of the old wife’s evening hours while Uncle Jim peeled apples and + strung them to dry from the rafters. There was a room, dining-room in + summer, and kitchen dining-room in winter, as clean as aged hands could + scrub and dust it, hung about with stray pictures from illustrated papers, + and a good old clock in the corner “ticking” life, and youth, + and hope away. There was the buttery off that, with its meagre china and + crockery, its window looking out on the field of rye, the little orchard + of winter apples, and the hedge of cranberry bushes. Upstairs were rooms + with no ceilings, where, lying on a corn-husk bed, you reached up and + touched the sloping roof, with windows at the end only, facing the + buckwheat field, and looking down two miles towards the main road—for + the farm was on a concession or side-road, dusty in summer, and in winter + sometimes impassable for weeks together. It was not much of a home, as any + one with the mind’s eye can see, but four stalwart men and three + fine women had been born, raised, and quartered there, until, with good + clothes, and speaking decent English and tolerable French, and with money + in their pockets, hardly got by the old people, one by one they issued + forth into the world. + </p> + <p> + The old mother showed Rodney’s wife what there was for eyes to see, + not forgetting the three hives of bees on the south side, beneath the + parlour window. She showed it with a kind of pride, for it all seemed good + to her, and every dish, and every chair, and every corner in the little + house had to her a glory of its own, because of those who had come and + gone—the firstlings of her flock, the roses of her little garden of + love, blooming now in a rougher air than ranged over the little house on + the hill. She had looked out upon the pine woods to the east and the + meadow-land to the north, the sweet valley between the rye-field and the + orchard, and the good honest air that had blown there for forty years, + bracing her heart and body for the battle of love and life, and she had + said through all, Behold it is very good. + </p> + <p> + But the pert milliner saw nothing of all this; she did not stand abashed + in the sacred precincts of a home where seven times the Angel of Death had + hovered over a birth-bed. She looked into the face which Time’s + finger had anointed, and motherhood had etched with trouble, and said: + </p> + <p> + “‘Tisn’t much, is it? Only a clap-board house, and no + ceilings upstairs, and rag carpets-pshaw!” + </p> + <p> + And when she came to wash her hands for dinner, she threw aside the + unscented, common bar-soap, and, shrugging her narrow shoulders at the + coarse towel, wiped her fingers on her cambric handkerchief. Any other + kind of a woman, when she saw the old mother going about with her twisted + wrist—a doctor’s bad work with a fracture—would have + tucked up her dress, and tied on an apron to help. But no, she sat and + preened herself with the tissue-paper sort of pride of a vain milliner, or + nervously shifted about, lifting up this and that, curiously supercilious, + her tongue rattling on to her husband and to his mother in a shallow, + foolish way. She couldn’t say, however, that any thing was out of + order or ill-kept about the place. The old woman’s rheumatic fingers + made corners clean, and wood as white as snow, the stove was polished, the + tins were bright, and her own dress, no matter what her work, neat as a + girl’s, although the old graceful poise of the body had twisted out + of drawing. + </p> + <p> + But the real crisis came when Rodney, having stood at the wood-house door + and blown the dinner-horn as he used to do when a boy, the sound floating + and crying away across the rye-field, the old man came—for, strange + to say, that was the one sound he could hear easily, though, as he said to + himself, it seemed as small as a pin, coming from ever so far away. He + came heavily up from the barn-yard, mopping his red face and forehead, and + now and again raising his hand to shade his eyes, concerned to see the + unknown visitors, whose horse and buggy were in the stable-yard. He and + Rodney greeted outside warmly enough, but there was some trepidation too + in Uncle Jim’s face—he felt trouble brewing; and there is no + trouble like that which comes between parent and child. Silent as he was, + however, he had a large and cheerful heart, and nodding his head he + laughed the deep, quaint laugh which Rodney himself of all his sons had—and + he was fonder of Rodney than any. He washed his hands in the little basin + outside the wood-house door, combed out his white beard, rubbed his red, + watery eyes, tied a clean handkerchief round his neck, put on a rusty but + clean old coat, and a minute afterwards was shaking hands for the first + time with Rodney’s wife. He had lived much apart from his kind, but + he had a mind that fastened upon a thought and worked it down until it was + an axiom. He felt how shallow was this thin, flaunting woman of flounces + and cheap rouge; he saw her sniff at the brown sugar-she had always had + white at the hotel; and he noted that she let Rodney’s mother clear + away and wash the dinner things herself. He felt the little crack of doom + before it came. + </p> + <p> + It came about three o’clock. He did not return to the rye-field + after dinner, but stayed and waited to hear what Rodney had to say. Rodney + did not tell his little story well, for he foresaw trouble in the old + home; but he had to face this and all coming dilemmas as best he might. + With a kind of shamefacedness, yet with an attempt to carry the thing off + lightly, he told Uncle Jim, while, inside, his wife told the old mother, + that the business of the hotel had gone to pot (he did not say who was the + cause of that), and they were selling out to his partner and coming to + live on the farm. + </p> + <p> + “I’m tired anyway of the hotel job,” said Rodney. + “Farming’s a better life. Don’t you think so, dad?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s better for me, Rod,” answered Uncle Jim, “it’s + better for me.” + </p> + <p> + Rodney was a little uneasy. “But won’t it be better for me?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe,” was the slow answer, “mebbe, mebbe so.” + </p> + <p> + “And then there’s mother, she’s getting too old for the + work, ain’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s done it straight along,” answered the old man, + “straight along till now.” + </p> + <p> + “But Millie can help her, and we’ll have a hired girl, eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I dunno, I dunno,” was the brooding answer; “the place + ain’t going to stand it.” + </p> + <p> + “We’ll get more out of it,” answered Rodney. “I’ll + stock it up, I’ll put more under barley. All the thing wants is + working, dad. Put more in, get more out. Now ain’t that right?” + </p> + <p> + The other was looking off towards the rye-field, where, for forty years, + up and down the hillside, he had travelled with the cradle and the scythe, + putting all there was in him into it, and he answered, blinking along the + avenue of the past: + </p> + <p> + “Mebbe, mebbe!” + </p> + <p> + Rodney fretted under the old man’s vague replies, and said: “But + darn it all, can’t you tell us what you think?” + </p> + <p> + His father did not take his eyes off the rye-field. “I’m + thinking,” he answered, in the same old-fashioned way, “that I’ve + been working here since you were born, Rod. I’ve blundered along, + somehow, just boggling my way through. I ain’t got anything more to + say. The farm ain’t mine any more, but I’ll keep my scythe + sharp and my axe ground just as I always did, and I’m for workin’ + as I’ve always worked as long as I’m let to stay.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Lord, dad, don’t talk that way! Things ain’t going + to be any different for you and mother than they are now. Only, of course—” + He paused. + </p> + <p> + The old man pieced out the sentence: “Only, of course, there can’t + be two women rulin’ one house, Rod, and you know it as well as I do.” + </p> + <p> + Exactly how Rodney’s wife told the old mother of the great change + Rodney never knew; but when he went back to the house the grey look in his + mother’s face told him more than her words ever told. Before they + left that night the pink milliner had already planned the changes which + were to celebrate her coming and her ruling. + </p> + <p> + So Rodney and his wife came, all the old man prophesied in a few brief + sentences to his wife proving true. There was no great struggle on the + mother’s part; she stepped aside from governing, and became as like + a servant as could be. An insolent servant-girl came, and she and Rodney’s + wife started a little drama of incompetency, which should end as the + hotel-keeping ended. Wastefulness, cheap luxury, tawdry living, took the + place of the old, frugal, simple life. But the mother went about with that + unchanging sweetness of face, and a body withering about a fretted soul. + She had no bitterness, only a miserable distress. But every slight that + was put upon her, every change, every new-fangled idea, from the white + sugar to the scented soap and the yellow buggy, rankled in the old man’s + heart. He had resentment both for the old wife and himself, and he hated + the pink milliner for the humiliation that she heaped upon them both. + Rodney did not see one-fifth of it, and what he did see lost its force, + because, strangely enough, he loved the gaudy wife who wore gloves on her + bloodless hands as she did the house-work and spent numberless afternoons + in trimming her own bonnets. Her peevishness grew apace as the newness of + the experience wore off. Uncle Jim seldom spoke to her, as he seldom spoke + to anybody, but she had an inkling of the rancour in his heart, and many a + time she put blame upon his shoulders to her husband, when some + unavoidable friction came. + </p> + <p> + A year, two years, passed, which were as ten upon the shoulders of the old + people, and then, in the dead of winter, an important thing happened. + About the month of March Rodney’s first child was expected. At the + end of January Rodney had to go away, expecting to return in less than a + month. But, in the middle of February, the woman’s sacred trouble + came before its time. And on that day there fell such a storm as had not + been seen for many a year. The concession road was blocked before day had + well set in; no horse could go ten yards in it. The nearest doctor was + miles away at Pontiac, and for any man to face the journey was to connive + with death. The old mother came to Uncle Jim, and, as she looked out of a + little unfrosted spot on the window at the blinding storm, told him that + the pink milliner would die. There seemed to be no other end to it, for + the chances were a hundred to one against the strongest man making a + journey for the doctor, and another hundred to one against the doctor’s + coming. + </p> + <p> + No one knows whether Uncle Jim could hear the cries from the + torture-chamber, but, after standing for a time mumbling to himself, he + wrapped himself in a heavy coat, tied a muffler about his face, and went + out. If they missed him they must have thought him gone to the barn, or in + the drive-shed sharpening his axe. But the day went on and the old mother + forgot all the wrongs that she had suffered, and yearned over the trivial + woman who was hurrying out into the Great Space. Her hours seemed numbered + at noon, her moments measured as it came towards sundown, but with the + passing of the sun the storm stopped, and a beautiful white peace fell on + the world of snow, and suddenly out of that peace came six men; and the + first that opened the door was the doctor. After him came Uncle Jim, + supported between two others. + </p> + <p> + Uncle Jim had made the terrible journey, falling at last in the streets of + the county town with frozen hands and feet, not a dozen rods from the + doctor’s door. They brought him to, he told his story, and, with the + abating of the storm, the doctor and the villagers drove down to the + concession road, and then made their way slowly up across the fields, + carrying the old man with them, for he would not be left behind. + </p> + <p> + An hour after the doctor entered the parlour bedroom the old mother came + out to where the old man sat, bundled up beside the fire with bandaged + hands and feet. + </p> + <p> + “She’s safe, Jim, and the child too,” she said softly. + The old man twisted in his chair, and blinked into the fire. “Dang + my soul!” he said. + </p> + <p> + The old woman stooped and kissed his grey tangled hair. She did not speak, + and she did not ask him what he meant; but there and then they took up + their lives again and lived them out. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH + </h2> + <p> + No one ever visited the House except the Little Chemist, the Avocat, and + Medallion; and Medallion, though merely an auctioneer, was the only person + on terms of intimacy with its owner, the old Seigneur, who for many years + had never stirred beyond the limits of his little garden. At rare + intervals he might be seen sitting in the large stone porch which gave + overweighted dignity to the house, itself not very large. + </p> + <p> + An air of mystery surrounded the place: in summer the grass was rank, the + trees seemed huddled together in gloom about the houses, the vines + appeared to ooze on the walls, and at one end, where the window-shutters + were always closed and barred, a great willow drooped and shivered; in + winter the stone walls showed naked and grim among the gaunt trees and + furtive shrubs. + </p> + <p> + None who ever saw the Seigneur could forget him—a tall figure with + stooping shoulders; a pale, deeply lined, clean-shaven face, and a + forehead painfully white, with blue veins showing; the eyes handsome, + penetrative, brooding, and made indescribably sorrowful by the dark skin + around them. There were those in Pontiac, such as the Cure, who remembered + when the Seigneur was constantly to be seen in the village; and then + another person was with him always, a tall, handsome youth, his son. They + were fond and proud of each other, and were religious and good citizens in + a highbred, punctilious way. + </p> + <p> + At that time the Seigneur was all health and stalwart strength. But one + day a rumour went abroad that he had quarrelled with his son because of + the wife of Farette the miller. No one outside knew if the thing was true, + but Julie, the miller’s wife, seemed rather to plume herself that + she had made a stir in her little world. Yet the curious habitants came to + know that the young man had gone, and after a few years his having once + lived there had become a mere memory. But whenever the Little Chemist set + foot inside the tall porch he remembered; the Avocat was kept in mind by + papers which he was called upon to read and alter from time to time; the + Cure never forgot, because when the young man went he lost not one of his + flock but two; and Medallion, knowing something of the story, had wormed a + deal of truth out of the miller’s wife. Medallion knew that the + closed, barred rooms were the young man’s; and he knew also that the + old man was waiting, waiting, in a hope which he never even named to + himself. + </p> + <p> + One day the silent old housekeeper came rapping at Medallion’s door, + and simply said to him: “Come—the Seigneur!” + </p> + <p> + Medallion went, and for hours sat beside the Seigneur’s chair, while + the Little Chemist watched and sighed softly in a corner, now and again + rising to feel the sick man’s pulse or to prepare a cordial. The + housekeeper hovered behind the high-backed chair, and when the Seigneur + dropped his handkerchief—now, as always, of the exquisite fashion of + a past century—she put it gently in his hand. + </p> + <p> + Once when the Little Chemist touched his wrist, his dark eyes rested on + him with inquiry, and he said: “Soon?” + </p> + <p> + It was useless trying to shirk the persistency of that look. “Eight + hours, perhaps, sir,” the Little Chemist answered, with painful + shyness. + </p> + <p> + The Seigneur seemed to draw himself up a little, and his hand grasped his + handkerchief tightly for an instant; then he said: “Soon. Thank you.” + </p> + <p> + After a little, his eyes turned to Medallion and he seemed about to speak, + but still kept silent. His chin dropped on his breast, and for a time he + was motionless and shrunken; but still there was a strange little curl of + pride—or disdain—on his lips. At last he drew up his head, his + shoulders came erect, heavily, to the carved back of the chair, where, + strange to say, the Stations of the Cross were figured, and he said, in a + cold, ironical voice: “The Angel of Patience has lied!” + </p> + <p> + The evening wore on, and there was no sound, save the ticking of the + clock, the beat of rain upon the windows, and the deep breathing of the + Seigneur. Presently he started, his eyes opened wide, and his whole body + seemed to listen. + </p> + <p> + “I heard a voice,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No one spoke, my master,” said the housekeeper. + </p> + <p> + “It was a voice without,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Monsieur,” said the Little Chemist, “it was the wind in + the eaves.” + </p> + <p> + His face was almost painfully eager and sensitively alert. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” he said; “I hear a voice in the tall porch.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” said Medallion, laying a hand respectfully on his arm, + “it is nothing.” + </p> + <p> + With a light on his face and a proud, trembling energy, he got to his + feet. “It is the voice of my son,” he said. “Go—go, + and bring him in.” + </p> + <p> + No one moved. But he was not to be disobeyed. + </p> + <p> + His ears had been growing keener as he neared the subtle atmosphere of + that Brink where man strips himself to the soul for a lonely voyaging, and + he waved the woman to the door. + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” he said, as her hand fluttered at the handle. “Take + him to another room. Prepare a supper such as we used to have. When it is + ready I will come. But, listen, and obey. Tell him not that I have but + four hours of life. Go, good woman, and bring him in.” + </p> + <p> + It was as he said. They found the son weak and fainting, fallen within the + porch—a worn, bearded man, returned from failure and suffering and + the husks of evil. They clothed him and cared for him, and strengthened + him with wine, while the woman wept over him and at last set him at the + loaded, well-lighted table. Then the Seigneur came in, leaning his arm + very lightly on that of Medallion with a kind of kingly air; and, greeting + his son before them all, as if they had parted yesterday, sat down. For an + hour they sat there, and the Seigneur talked gaily with a colour to his + face, and his great eyes glowing. At last he rose, lifted his glass, and + said: “The Angel of Patience is wise. I drink to my son!” + </p> + <p> + He was about to say something more, but a sudden whiteness passed over his + face. He drank off the wine, and as he put the glass down, shivered, and + fell back in his chair. + </p> + <p> + “Two hours short, Chemist!” he said, and smiled, and was + Still. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PARPON THE DWARF + </h2> + <p> + Parpon perched in a room at the top of the mill. He could see every house + in the village, and he knew people a long distance off. He was a droll + dwarf, and, in his way, had good times in the world. He turned the misery + of the world into a game, and grinned at it from his high little eyrie + with the dormer window. He had lived with Farette the miller for some + years, serving him with a kind of humble insolence. + </p> + <p> + It was not a joyful day for Farette when he married Julie. She led him a + pretty travel. He had started as her master; he ended by being her slave + and victim. + </p> + <p> + She was a wilful wife. She had made the Seigneur de la Riviere, of the + House with the Tall Porch, to quarrel with his son Armand, so that Armand + disappeared from Pontiac for years. + </p> + <p> + When that happened she had already stopped confessing to the good Cure; so + it may be guessed there were things she did not care to tell, and for + which she had no repentance. But Parpon knew, and Medallion the auctioneer + guessed; and the Little Chemist’s wife hoped that it was not so. + When Julie looked at Parpon, as he perched on a chest of drawers, with his + head cocked and his eyes blinking, she knew that he read the truth. But + she did not know all that was in his head; so she said sharp things to + him, as she did to everybody, for she had a very poor opinion of the + world, and thought all as flippant as herself. She took nothing seriously; + she was too vain. Except that she was sorry Armand was gone, she rather + plumed herself on having separated the Seigneur and his son—it was + something to have been the pivot in a tragedy. There came others to the + village, as, for instance, a series of clerks to the Avocat; but she would + not decline from Armand upon them. She merely made them miserable. + </p> + <p> + But she did not grow prettier as time went on. Even Annette, the sad wife + of the drunken Benoit, kept her fine looks; but then, Annette’s life + was a thing for a book, and she had a beautiful child. You cannot keep + this from the face of a woman. Nor can you keep the other: when the heart + rusts the rust shows. + </p> + <p> + After a good many years, Armand de la Riviere came back in time to see his + father die. Then Julie picked out her smartest ribbons, capered at the + mirror, and dusted her face with oatmeal, because she thought that he + would ask her to meet him at the Bois Noir, as he had done long ago. The + days passed, and he did not come. When she saw Armand at the funeral—a + tall man with a dark beard and a grave face, not like the Armand she had + known, he seemed a great distance from her, though she could almost have + touched him once as he turned from the grave. She would have liked to + throw herself into his arms, and cry before them all: “Mon Armand!” + and go away with him to the House with the Tall Porch. She did not care + about Farette, the mumbling old man who hungered for money, having ceased + to hunger for anything else—even for Julie, who laughed and shut her + door in his face, and cowed him. + </p> + <p> + After the funeral Julie had a strange feeling. She had not much brains, + but she had some shrewdness, and she felt her romance askew. She stood + before the mirror, rubbing her face with oatmeal and frowning hard. + Presently a voice behind her said: “Madame Julie, shall I bring + another bag of meal?” + </p> + <p> + She turned quickly, and saw Parpon on a table in the corner, his legs + drawn up to his chin, his black eyes twinkling. + </p> + <p> + “Idiot!” she cried, and threw the meal at him. He had a very + long, quick arm. He caught the basin as it came, but the meal covered him. + He blew it from his beard, laughing softly, and twirled the basin on a + finger-point. + </p> + <p> + “Like that, there will need two bags!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Imbecile!” she cried, standing angry in the centre of the + room. + </p> + <p> + “Ho, ho, what a big word! See what it is to have the tongue of + fashion!” + </p> + <p> + She looked helplessly round the room. “I will kill you!” + </p> + <p> + “Let us die together,” answered Parpon; “we are both + sad.” + </p> + <p> + She snatched the poker from the fire, and ran at him. He caught her wrists + with his great hands, big enough for tall Medallion, and held her. + </p> + <p> + “I said ‘together,”’ he chuckled; “not one + before the other. We might jump into the flume at the mill, or go over the + dam at the Bois Noir; or, there is Farette’s musket which he is + cleaning—gracious, but it will kick when it fires, it is so old!” + </p> + <p> + She sank to the floor. “Why does he clean the musket?” she + asked; fear, and something wicked too, in her eye. Her fingers ran + forgetfully through the hair on her forehead, pushing it back, and the + marks of small-pox showed. The contrast with her smooth cheeks gave her a + weird look. Parpon got quickly on the table again and sat like a Turk, + with a furtive eye on her. “Who can tell!” he said at last. + “That musket has not been fired for years. It would not kill a bird; + the shot would scatter: but it might kill a man—a man is bigger.” + </p> + <p> + “Kill a man!” She showed her white teeth with a savage little + smile. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it is all guess. I asked Farette what he would shoot, and + he said, ‘Nothing good to eat.’ I said I would eat what he + killed. Then he got pretty mad, and said I couldn’t eat my own head. + Holy! that was funny for Farette. Then I told him there was no good going + to the Bois Noir, for there would be nothing to shoot. Well, did I speak + true, Madame Julie?” + </p> + <p> + She was conscious of something new in Parpon. She could not define it. + Presently she got to her feet and said: “I don’t believe you—you’re + a monkey.” + </p> + <p> + “A monkey can climb a tree quick; a man has to take the shot as it + comes.” He stretched up his powerful arms, with a swift motion as of + climbing, laughed, and added: “Madame Julie, Farette has poor eyes; + he could not see a hole in a ladder. But he has a kink in his head about + the Bois Noir. People have talked—” + </p> + <p> + “Pshaw!” Julie said, crumpling her apron and throwing it out; + “he is a child and a coward. He should not play with a gun; it might + go off and hit him.” + </p> + <p> + Parpon hopped down and trotted to the door. Then he turned and said, with + a sly gurgle: “Farette keeps at that gun. What is the good! There + will be nobody at the Bois Noir any more. I will go and tell him.” + </p> + <p> + She rushed at him with fury, but seeing Annette Benoit in the road, she + stood still and beat her foot angrily on the doorstep. She was ripe for a + quarrel, and she would say something hateful to Annette; for she never + forgot that Farette had asked Annette to be his wife before herself was + considered. She smoothed out her wrinkled apron and waited. + </p> + <p> + “Good day, Annette,” she said loftily. + </p> + <p> + “Good day, Julie,” was the quiet reply. + </p> + <p> + “Will you come in?” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to the mill for flax-seed. Benoit has rheumatism.” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Benoit!” said Julie, with a meaning toss of her head. + </p> + <p> + “Poor Benoit,” responded Annette gently. Her voice was always + sweet. One would never have known that Benoit was a drunken idler. + </p> + <p> + “Come in. I will give you the meal from my own. Then it will cost + you nothing,” said Julie, with an air. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Julie, but I would rather pay.” + </p> + <p> + “I do not sell my meal,” answered Julie. “What’s a + few pounds of meal to the wife of Farette? I will get it for you. Come in, + Annette.” + </p> + <p> + She turned towards the door, then stopped all at once. There was the + oatmeal which she had thrown at Parpon, the basin, and the poker. She + wished she had not asked Annette in. But in some things she had a quick + wit, and she hurried to say: “It was that yellow cat of Parpon’s. + It spilt the meal, and I went at it with the poker.” + </p> + <p> + Perhaps Annette believed her. She did not think about it one way or the + other; her mind was with the sick Benoit. She nodded and said nothing, + hoping that the flax-seed would be got at once. But when she saw that + Julie expected an answer, she said: “Cecilia, my little girl, has a + black cat-so handsome. It came from the house of the poor Seigneur de la + Riviere a year ago. We took it back, but it would not stay.” + </p> + <p> + Annette spoke simply and frankly, but her words cut like a knife. + </p> + <p> + Julie responded, with a click of malice: “Look out that the black + cat doesn’t kill the dear Cecilia.” Annette started, but she + did not believe that cats sucked the life from children’s lungs, and + she replied calmly: “I am not afraid; the good God keeps my child.” + She then got up and came to Julie, and said: “It is a pity, Julie, + that you have not a child. A child makes all right.” + </p> + <p> + Julie was wild to say a fierce thing, for it seemed that Annette was + setting off Benoit against Farette; but the next moment she grew hot, her + eyes smarted, and there was a hint of trouble at her throat. She had lived + very fast in the last few hours, and it was telling on her. She could not + rule herself—she could not play a part so well as she wished. She + had not before felt the thing that gave a new pulse to her body and a + joyful pain at her breasts. Her eyes got thickly blurred so that she could + not see Annette, and, without a word, she hurried to get the meal. She was + silent when she came back. She put the meal into Annette’s hands. + She felt that she would like to talk of Armand. She knew now there was no + evil thought in Annette. She did not like her more for that, but she felt + she must talk, and Annette was safe. So she took her arm. “Sit down, + Annette,” she said. “You come so seldom.” + </p> + <p> + “But there is Benoit, and the child—” + </p> + <p> + “The child has the black cat from the House!” There was again + a sly ring to Julie’s voice, and she almost pressed Annette into a + chair. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it must only be a minute.” + </p> + <p> + “Were you at the funeral to-day?” Julie began. + </p> + <p> + “No; I was nursing Benoit. But the poor Seigneur! They say he died + without confession. No one was there except M’sieu’ Medallion, + the Little Chemist, Old Sylvie, and M’sieu’ Armand. But, of + course, you have heard everything.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all you know?” queried Julie. + </p> + <p> + “Not much more. I go out little, and no one comes to me except the + Little Chemist’s wife—she is a good woman.” + </p> + <p> + “What did she say?” + </p> + <p> + “Only something of the night the Seigneur died. He was sitting in + his chair, not afraid, but very sad, we can guess. By-and-by he raised his + head quickly. ‘I hear a voice in the Tall Porch,’ he said. + They thought he was dreaming. But he said other things, and cried again + that he heard his son’s voice in the Porch. They went and found M’sieu’ + Armand. Then a great supper was got ready, and he sat very grand at the + head of the table, but died quickly, when making a grand speech. It was + strange he was so happy, for he did not confess-he hadn’t + absolution.” + </p> + <p> + This was more than Julie had heard. She showed excitement. + </p> + <p> + “The Seigneur and M’sieu’ Armand were good friends when + he died?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Quite.” + </p> + <p> + All at once Annette remembered the old talk about Armand and Julie. She + was confused. She wished she could get up and run away; but haste would + look strange. + </p> + <p> + “You were at the funeral?” she added, after a minute. + </p> + <p> + “Everybody was there.” + </p> + <p> + “I suppose M’sieu’ Armand looks very fine and strange + after his long travel,” said Annette shyly, rising to go. + </p> + <p> + “He was always the grandest gentleman in the province,” + answered Julie, in her old vain manner. “You should have seen the + women look at him to-day! But they are nothing to him—he is not easy + to please.” + </p> + <p> + “Good day,” said Annette, shocked and sad, moving from the + door. Suddenly she turned, and laid a hand on Julie’s arm. “Come + and see my sweet Cecilia,” she said. “She is gay; she will + amuse you.” + </p> + <p> + She was thinking again what a pity it was that Julie had no child. + </p> + <p> + “To see Cecilia and the black cat? Very well—some day.” + </p> + <p> + You could not have told what she meant. But, as Annette turned away again, + she glanced at the mill; and there, high up in the dormer window, sat + Parpon, his yellow cat on his shoulder, grinning down at her. She wheeled + and went into the house. + </p> + <p> + II. Parpon sat in the dormer window for a long time, the cat purring + against his head, and not seeming the least afraid of falling, though its + master was well out on the window-ledge. He kept mumbling to himself: + </p> + <p> + “Ho, ho, Farette is below there with the gun, rubbing and rubbing at + the rust! Holy mother, how it will kick! But he will only meddle. If she + set her eye at him and come up bold and said: ‘Farette, go and have + your whiskey-wine, and then to bed,’ he would sneak away. But he has + heard something. Some fool, perhaps that Benoit—no, he is sick—perhaps + the herb-woman has been talking, and he thinks he will make a fuss. But it + will be nothing. And M’sieu’ Armand, will he look at her?” + He chuckled at the cat, which set its head back and hissed in reply. Then + he sang something to himself. + </p> + <p> + Parpon was a poor little dwarf with a big head, but he had one thing which + made up for all, though no one knew it—or, at least, he thought so. + The Cure himself did not know. He had a beautiful voice. Even in speaking + it was pleasant to hear, though he roughened it in a way. It pleased him + that he had something of which the finest man or woman would be glad. He + had said to himself many times that even Armand de la Riviere would envy + him. + </p> + <p> + Sometimes Parpon went off away into the Bois Noir, and, perched there in a + tree, sang away—a man, shaped something like an animal, with a voice + like a muffled silver bell. + </p> + <p> + Some of his songs he had made himself: wild things, broken thoughts, not + altogether human; the language of a world between man and the spirits. But + it was all pleasant to hear, even when, at times, there ran a weird, dark + thread through the woof. No one in the valley had ever heard the thing he + sang softly as he sat looking down at Julie: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The little white smoke blows there, blows here, + The little blue wolf comes down— + C’est la! + And the hill-dwarf laughs in the young wife’s ear, + When the devil comes back to town— + C’est la!” + </pre> + <p> + It was crooned quietly, but it was distinct and melodious, and the cat + purred an accompaniment, its head thrust into his thick black hair. From + where Parpon sat he could see the House with the Tall Porch, and, as he + sang, his eyes ran from the miller’s doorway to it. + </p> + <p> + Off in the grounds of the dead Seigneur’s manor he could see a man + push the pebbles with his foot, or twist the branch of a shrub + thoughtfully as he walked. At last another man entered the garden. The two + greeted warmly, and passed up and down together. + </p> + <p> + III. “My good friend,” said the Cure, “it is too late to + mourn for those lost years. Nothing can give them back. As Parpon the + dwarf said—you remember him, a wise little man, that Parpon—as + he said one day, 'For everything you lose you get something, if only how + to laugh at yourself.”’ + </p> + <p> + Armand nodded thoughtfully and answered: “You are right—you + and Parpon. But I cannot forgive myself; he was so fine a man: tall, with + a grand look, and a tongue like a book. Yes, yes, I can laugh at myself—for + a fool.” + </p> + <p> + He thrust his hands into his pockets, and tapped the ground nervously with + his foot, shrugging his shoulders a little. The priest took off his hat + and made the sacred gesture, his lips moving. Armand caught off his hat + also, and said: “You pray—for him?” + </p> + <p> + “For the peace of a good man’s soul.” + </p> + <p> + “He did not confess; he had no rites of the Church; he had refused + you many years.” + </p> + <p> + “My son, he had a confessor.” + </p> + <p> + Armand raised his eyebrows. “They told me of no one.” + </p> + <p> + “It was the Angel of Patience.” + </p> + <p> + They walked on again for a time without a word. At last the Cure said: + “You will remain here?” + </p> + <p> + “I cannot tell. This ‘here’ is a small world, and the + little life may fret me. Nor do I know what I have of this,”—he + waved his hands towards the house,—“or of my father’s + property. I may need to be a wanderer again.” + </p> + <p> + “God forbid! Have you not seen the will?” + </p> + <p> + “I have got no farther than his grave,” was the sombre reply. + </p> + <p> + The priest sighed. They paced the walk again in silence. At last the Cure + said: “You will make the place cheerful, as it once was.” + </p> + <p> + “You are persistent,” replied the young man, smiling. “Whoever + lives here should make it less gloomy.” + </p> + <p> + “We shall soon know who is to live here. See, there is Monsieur + Garon, and Monsieur Medallion also.” + </p> + <p> + “The Avocat to tell secrets, the auctioneer to sell them—eh?” + Armand went forward to the gate. Like most people, he found Medallion + interesting, and the Avocat and he were old friends. + </p> + <p> + “You did not send for me, monsieur,” said the Avocat timidly, + “but I thought it well to come, that you might know how things are; + and Monsieur Medallion came because he is a witness to the will, and, in a + case”—here the little man coughed nervously—“joint + executor with Monsieur le Cure.” + </p> + <p> + They entered the house. In a business-like way Armand motioned them to + chairs, opened the curtains, and rang the bell. The old housekeeper + appeared, a sorrowful joy in her face, and Armand said: “Give us a + bottle of the white-top, Sylvie, if there is any left.” + </p> + <p> + “There is plenty, monsieur,” she said; “none has been + drunk these twelve years.” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat coughed, and said hesitatingly to Armand: “I asked Parpon + the dwarf to come, monsieur. There is a reason.” + </p> + <p> + Armand raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Very good,” he said. + “When will he be here?” + </p> + <p> + “He is waiting at the Louis Quinze hotel.” + </p> + <p> + “I will send for him,” said Armand, and gave the message to + Sylvie, who was entering the room. + </p> + <p> + After they had drunk the wine placed before them, there was silence for a + moment, for all were wondering why Parpon should be remembered in the + Seigneur’s Will. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Medallion at last, “a strange little dog is + Parpon. I could surprise you about him—and there isn’t any + reason why I should keep the thing to myself. One day I was up among the + rocks, looking for a strayed horse. I got tired, and lay down in the shade + of the Rock of Red Pigeons—you know it. I fell asleep. Something + waked me. I got up and heard the finest singing you can guess: not like + any I ever heard; a wild, beautiful, shivery sort of thing. I listened for + a long time. At last it stopped. Then something slid down the rock. I + peeped out, and saw Parpon toddling away.” + </p> + <p> + The Cure stared incredulously, the Avocat took off his glasses and tapped + his lips musingly, Armand whistled softly. + </p> + <p> + “So,” said Armand at last, “we have the jewel in the + toad’s head. The clever imp hid it all these years—even from + you, Monsieur le Cure.” + </p> + <p> + “Even from me,” said the Cure, smiling. Then, gravely: “It + is strange, the angel in the stunted body.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure it’s an angel?” said Armand. + </p> + <p> + “Who ever knew Parpon do any harm?” queried the Cure. + </p> + <p> + “He has always been kind to the poor,” put in the Avocat. + </p> + <p> + “With the miller’s flour,” laughed Medallion: “a + pardonable sin.” He sent a quizzical look at the Cure. “Do you + remember the words of Parpon’s song?” asked Armand. + </p> + <p> + “Only a few lines; and those not easy to understand, unless one had + an inkling.” + </p> + <p> + “Had you the inkling?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps, monsieur,” replied Medallion seriously. They eyed + each other. + </p> + <p> + “We will have Parpon in after the will is read,” said Armand + suddenly, looking at the Avocat. The Avocat drew the deed from his pocket. + He looked up hesitatingly, and then said to Armand: “You insist on + it being read now?” + </p> + <p> + Armand nodded coolly, after a quick glance at Medallion. Then the Avocat + began, and read to that point where the Seigneur bequeathed all his + property to his son, should he return—on a condition. When the + Avocat came to the condition Armand stopped him. + </p> + <p> + “I do not know in the least what it may be,” he said, “but + there is only one by which I could feel bound. I will tell you. My father + and I quarrelled”—here he paused for a moment, clinching his + hands before him on the table—“about a woman; and years of + misery came. I was to blame in not obeying him. I ought not to have given + any cause for gossip. Whatever the condition as to that matter may be, I + will fulfil it. My father is more to me than any woman in the world; his + love of me was greater than that of any woman. I know the world—and + women.” + </p> + <p> + There was a silence. He waved his hand to the Avocat to go on, and as he + did so the Cure caught his arm with a quick, affectionate gesture. Then + Monsieur Garon read the conditions: “That Farette the miller should + have a deed of the land on which his mill was built, with the dam of the + mill—provided that Armand should never so much as by a word again + address Julie, the miller’s wife. If he agreed to the condition, + with solemn oath before the Cure, his blessing would rest upon his dear + son, whom he still hoped to see before he died.” + </p> + <p> + When the reading ceased there was silence for a moment, then Armand stood + up, and took the will from the Avocat; but instantly, without looking at + it, handed it back. “The reading is not finished,” he said. + “And if I do not accept the condition, what then?” + </p> + <p> + Again Monsieur Garon read, his voice trembling a little. The words of the + will ran: “But if this condition be not satisfied, I bequeath to my + son Armand the house known as the House with the Tall Porch, and the land, + according to the deed thereof; and the residue of my property—with + the exception of two thousand dollars, which I leave to the Cure of the + parish, the good Monsieur Fabre—I bequeath to Parpon the dwarf.” + </p> + <p> + Then followed a clause providing that, in any case, Parpon should have in + fee simple the land known as the Bois Noir, and the hut thereon. + </p> + <p> + Armand sprang to his feet in surprise, blurting out something, then sat + down, quietly took the will, and read it through carefully. When he had + finished he looked inquiringly, first at Monsieur Garon, then at the Cure. + “Why Parpon?” he said searchingly. + </p> + <p> + The Cure, amazed, spread out his hands in a helpless way. At that moment + Sylvie announced Parpon. Armand asked that he should be sent in. “We’ll + talk of the will afterwards,” he added. + </p> + <p> + Parpon trotted in, the door closed, and he stood blinking at them. Armand + put a stool on the table. “Sit here, Parpon,” he said. + Medallion caught the dwarf under the arms and lifted him on the table. + </p> + <p> + Parpon looked at Armand furtively. “The wild hawk comes back to its + nest,” he said. “Well, well, what is it you want with the poor + Parpon?” + </p> + <p> + He sat down and dropped his chin in his hands, looking round keenly. + Armand nodded to Medallion, and Medallion to the priest, but the priest + nodded back again. Then Medallion said: “You and I know the Rock of + Red Pigeons, Parpon. It is a good place to perch. One’s voice is all + to one’s self there, as you know. Well, sing us the song of the + little brown diver.” + </p> + <p> + Parpon’s hands twitched in his beard. He looked fixedly at + Medallion. Presently he turned towards the Cure, and shrank so that he + looked smaller still. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right, little son,” said the Cure kindly. + Turning sharply on Medallion, Parpon said: “When was it you heard?” + </p> + <p> + Medallion told him. He nodded, then sat very still. They said nothing, but + watched him. They saw his eyes grow distant and absorbed, and his face + took on a shining look, so that its ugliness was almost beautiful. All at + once he slid from the stool and crouched on his knees. Then he sent out a + low long note, like the toll of the bell-bird. From that time no one + stirred as he sang, but sat and watched him. They did not even hear Sylvie + steal in gently and stand in the curtains at the door. + </p> + <p> + The song was weird, with a strange thrilling charm; it had the slow + dignity of a chant, the roll of an epic, the delight of wild beauty. It + told of the little good Folk of the Scarlet Hills, in vague allusive + phrases: their noiseless wanderings; their sojourning with the eagle, the + wolf, and the deer; their triumph over the winds, the whirlpools, and the + spirits of evil fame. It filled the room with the cry of the west wind; it + called out of the frozen seas ghosts of forgotten worlds; it coaxed the + soft breezes out of the South; it made them all to be at the whistle of + the Scarlet Hunter who ruled the North. + </p> + <p> + Then, passing through veil after veil of mystery, it told of a grand + Seigneur whose boat was overturned in a whirlpool, and was saved by a + little brown diver. And the end of it all, and the heart of it all, was in + the last few lines, clear of allegory: + </p> + <p> + “And the wheel goes round in the village mill, And the little brown + diver he tells the grain... And the grand Seigneur he has gone to meet The + little good Folk of the Scarlet Hills!” + </p> + <p> + At first, all were so impressed by the strange power of Parpon’s + voice, that they were hardly conscious of the story he was telling. But + when he sang of the Seigneur they began to read his parable. Their hearts + throbbed painfully. + </p> + <p> + As the last notes died away Armand got up, and standing by the table, + said: “Parpon, you saved my father’s life once?” + </p> + <p> + Parpon did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “Will you not tell him, my son?” said the Cure, rising. Still + Parpon was silent. + </p> + <p> + “The son of your grand Seigneur asks you a question, Parpon,” + said Medallion soothingly. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my grand Seigneur!” said Parpon, throwing up his hands. + “Once he said to me, ‘Come, my brown diver, and live with me.’ + But I said, ‘No, I am not fit. I will never go to you at the House + with the Tall Porch.’ And I made him promise that he would never + tell of it. And so I have lived sometimes with old Farette.” Then he + laughed strangely again, and sent a furtive look at Armand. + </p> + <p> + “Parpon,” said Armand gently, “our grand Seigneur has + left you the Bois Noir for your own. So the hills and the Rock of Red + Pigeons are for you—and the little good people, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + Parpon, with fiery eyes, gathered himself up with a quick movement, then + broke out: “Oh, my grand Seigneur—my grand Seigneur!” + and fell forward, his head in his arms, laughing and sobbing together. + </p> + <p> + Armand touched his shoulder. “Parpon!” But Parpon shrank away. + </p> + <p> + Armand turned to the rest. “I do not understand it, gentlemen. + Parpon does not like the young Seigneur as he liked the old.” + </p> + <p> + Medallion, sitting in the shadow, smiled. He understood. Armand continued: + “As for this ‘testament, gentlemen, I will fulfil its + conditions; though I swear, were I otherwise minded regarding the woman”—here + Parpon raised his head swiftly—“I would not hang my hat for an + hour in the Tall Porch.” + </p> + <p> + They rose and shook hands, then the wine was poured out, and they drank it + off in silence. Parpon, however, sat with his head in his hands. + </p> + <p> + “Come, little comrade, drink,” said Medallion, offering him a + glass. + </p> + <p> + Parpon made no reply, but caught up the will, kissed it, put it into + Armand’s hand, and then, jumping down from the table, ran to the + door and disappeared through it. + </p> + <p> + IV. The next afternoon the Avocat visited old Farette. Farette was + polishing a gun, mumbling the while. Sitting on some bags of meal was + Parpon, with a fierce twinkle in his eye. Monsieur Garon told Farette + briefly what the Seigneur had left him. With a quick, greedy chuckle + Farette threw the gun away. + </p> + <p> + “Man alive!” said he; “tell me all about it. Ah, the + good news!” + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing to tell: he left it; that is all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, the good Seigneur,” cried Farette, “the grand + Seigneur!” + </p> + <p> + Some one laughed scornfully in the doorway. It was Julie. + </p> + <p> + “Look there,” she cried; “he gets the land, and throws + away the gun! Brag and coward, miller! It is for me to say ‘the + grand Seigneur!’” + </p> + <p> + She tossed her head: she thought the old Seigneur had relented towards + her. She turned away to the house with a flaunting air, and got her hat. + At first she thought she would go to the House with the Tall Porch, but + she changed her mind, and went to the Bois Noir instead. Parpon followed + her a distance off. Behind, in the mill, Farette was chuckling and rubbing + his hands. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Armand was making his way towards the Bois Noir. All at once, + in the shade of a great pine, he stopped. He looked about him astonished. + </p> + <p> + “This is the old place. What a fool I was, then!” he said. + </p> + <p> + At that moment Julie came quickly, and lifted her hands towards him. + “Armand—beloved Armand!” she said. + </p> + <p> + Armand looked at her sternly, from her feet to her pitted forehead, then + wheeled, and left her without a word. + </p> + <p> + She sank in a heap on the ground. There was a sudden burst of tears, and + then she clinched her hands with fury. + </p> + <p> + Some one laughed in the trees above her—a shrill, wild laugh. She + looked up frightened. Parpon presently dropped down beside her. + </p> + <p> + “It was as I said,” whispered the dwarf, and he touched her + shoulder. This was the full cup of shame. She was silent. + </p> + <p> + “There are others,” he whispered again. She could not see his + strange smile; but she noticed that his voice was not as usual. “Listen,” + he urged, and he sang softly over her shoulder for quite a minute. She was + amazed. + </p> + <p> + “Sing again,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “I have wanted to sing to you like that for many years,” he + replied; and he sang a little more. “He cannot sing like that,” + he wheedled, and he stretched his arm around her shoulder. + </p> + <p> + She hung her head, then flung it back again as she thought of Armand. + </p> + <p> + “I hate him!” she cried; “I hate him!” + </p> + <p> + “You will not throw meal on me any more, or call me idiot?” he + pleaded. + </p> + <p> + “No, Parpon,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He kissed her on the cheek. She did not resent it. But now he drew away, + smiled wickedly at her, and said: “See, we are even now, poor Julie!” + Then he laughed, holding his little sides with huge hands. “Imbecile!” + he added, and, turning, trotted away towards the Rock of Red Pigeons. + </p> + <p> + She threw herself, face forward, in the dusty needles of the pines. + </p> + <p> + When she rose from her humiliation, her face was as one who has seen the + rags of harlequinade stripped from that mummer Life, leaving only naked + being. She had touched the limits of the endurable; her sordid little + hopes had split into fragments. But when a human soul faces upon its past, + and sees a gargoyle at every milestone where an angel should be, and in + one flash of illumination—the touch of genius to the smallest mind—understands + the pitiless comedy, there comes the still stoic outlook. + </p> + <p> + Julie was transformed. All the possible years of her life were gathered + into the force of one dreadful moment—dreadful and wonderful. Her + mean vanity was lost behind the pale sincerity of her face—she was + sincere at last. The trivial commonness was gone from her coquetting + shoulders and drooping eyelids; and from her body had passed its flexuous + softness. She was a woman; suffering, human, paying the price. + </p> + <p> + She walked slowly the way that Parpon had gone. Looking neither to right + nor left, she climbed the long hillside, and at last reached the summit, + where, bundled in a steep corner, was the Rock of Red Pigeons. As she + emerged from the pines, she stood for a moment, and leaned with + outstretched hand against a tree, looking into the sunlight. Slowly her + eyes shifted from the Rock to the great ravine, to whose farther side the + sun was giving bastions of gold. She was quiet. Presently she stepped into + the light and came softly to the Rock. She walked slowly round it as + though looking for some one. At the lowest side of the Rock, rude narrow + hollows were cut for the feet. With a singular ease she climbed to the top + of it. It had a kind of hollow, in which was a rude seat, carved out of + the stone. Seeing this, a set look came to her face: she was thinking of + Parpon, the master of this place. Her business was with him. + </p> + <p> + She got down slowly, and came over to the edge of the precipice. Steadying + herself against a sapling, she looked over. Down below was a whirlpool, + rising and falling-a hungry funnel of death. She drew back. Presently she + peered again, and once more withdrew. She gazed round, and then made + another tour of the hill, searching. She returned to the precipice. As she + did so she heard a voice. She looked and saw Parpon seated upon a ledge of + rock not far below. A mocking laugh floated up to her. But there was + trouble in the laugh too—a bitter sickness. She did not notice that. + She looked about her. Not far away was a stone, too heavy to carry but + perhaps not too heavy to roll! + </p> + <p> + Foot by foot she rolled it over. She looked. He was still there. She + stepped back. As she did so a few pebbles crumbled away from her feet and + fell where Parpon perched. She did not see or hear them fall. He looked + up, and saw the stone creeping upon the edge. Like a flash he was on his + feet, and, springing into the air to the right, caught a tree steadfast in + the rock. The stone fell upon the ledge, and bounded off again. The look + of the woman did not follow the stone. She ran to the spot above the + whirlpool, and sprang out and down. + </p> + <p> + From Parpon there came a wail such as the hills of the north never heard + before. Dropping upon a ledge beneath, and from that to a jutting tree, + which gave way, he shot down into the whirlpool. He caught Julie’s + body as it was churned from life to death: and then he fought. There was a + demon in the whirlpool, but God and demon were working in the man. Nothing + on earth could have unloosed that long, brown arm from Julie’s + drenched body. The sun lifted an eyelid over the yellow bastions of rock, + and saw the fight. Once, twice, the shaggy head was caught beneath the + surface—but at last the man conquered. + </p> + <p> + Inch by inch, foot by foot, Parpon, with the lifeless Julie clamped in one + arm, climbed the rough wall, on, on, up to the Rock of Red Pigeons. He + bore her to the top of it. Then he laid her down, and pillowed her head on + his wet coat. + </p> + <p> + The huge hands came slowly down Julie’s soaked hair, along her + blanched cheek and shoulders, caught her arms and held them. He peered + into her face. The eyes had the film which veils Here from Hereafter. On + the lips was a mocking smile. He stooped as if to kiss her. The smile + stopped him. He drew back for a time, then he leaned forward, shut his + eyes, and her cold lips were his. + </p> + <p> + Twilight-dusk-night came upon Parpon and his dead—the woman whom an + impish fate had put into his heart with mockery and futile pain. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC + </h2> + <p> + It was soon after the Rebellion, and there was little food to be had and + less money, and winter was at hand. Pontiac, ever most loyal to old + France, though obedient to the English, had herself sent few recruits to + be shot down by Colborne; but she had emptied her pockets in sending to + the front the fulness of her barns and the best cattle of her fields. She + gave her all; she was frank in giving, hid nothing; and when her own + trouble came there was no voice calling on her behalf. And Pontiac would + rather starve than beg. So, as the winter went on, she starved in silence, + and no one had more than sour milk and bread and a potato now and then. + The Cure, the Avocat, and the Little Chemist fared no better than the + habitants; for they gave all they had right and left, and themselves often + went hungry to bed. And the truth is that few outside Pontiac knew of her + suffering; she kept the secret of it close. + </p> + <p> + It seemed at last, however, to the Cure that he must, after all, write to + the world outside for help. That was when he saw the faces of the children + get pale and drawn. There never was a time when there were so few fish in + the river and so little game in the woods. At last, from the altar steps + one Sunday, the Cure, with a calm, sad voice, told the people that, for + “the dear children’s sake,” they must sink their pride + and ask help from without. He would write first to the Bishop of Quebec; + “for,” said he, “Mother Church will help us; she will + give us food, and money to buy seed in the spring; and, please God, we + will pay all back in a year or two!” He paused a minute, then + continued: “Some one must go, to speak plainly and wisely of our + trouble, that there be no mistake—we are not beggars, we are only + borrowers. Who will go? I may not myself, for who would give the Blessed + Sacrament, and speak to the sick, or say Mass and comfort you?” + </p> + <p> + There was silence in the church for a moment, and many faces meanwhile + turned instinctively to M. Garon the Avocat, and some to the Little + Chemist. + </p> + <p> + “Who will go?” asked the Cure again. “It is a bitter + journey, but our pride must not be our shame in the end. Who will go?” + </p> + <p> + Every one expected that the Avocat or the Little Chemist would rise; but + while they looked at each other, waiting and sorrowful, and the Avocat’s + fingers fluttered to the seat in front of him, to draw himself up, a voice + came from the corner opposite, saying: “M’sieu’ le Cure, + I will go.” + </p> + <p> + A strange, painful silence fell on the people for a moment, and then went + round an almost incredulous whisper: “Parpon the dwarf!” + </p> + <p> + Parpon’s deep eyes were fixed on the Cure, his hunched body leaning + on the railing in front of him, his long, strong arms stretched out as if + he were begging for some good thing. The murmur among the people + increased, but the Cure raised his hand to command silence, and his eyes + gazed steadily at the dwarf. It might seem that he was noting the huge + head, the shaggy hair, the overhanging brows, the weird face of this + distortion of a thing made in God’s own image. But he was thinking + instead of how the angel and the devil may live side by side in a man, and + neither be entirely driven out—and the angel conquer in great times + and seasons. + </p> + <p> + He beckoned to Parpon to come over, and the dwarf trotted with a sidelong + motion to the chancel steps. Every face in the congregation was eager, and + some were mystified, even anxious. They all knew the singular power of the + little man—his knowledge, his deep wit, his judgment, his occasional + fierceness, his infrequent malice; but he was kind to children and the + sick, and the Cure and the Avocat and their little coterie respected him. + Once everybody had worshipped him: that was when he had sung in the Mass, + the day of the funeral of the wife of Farette the miller, for whom he + worked. It had been rumoured that in his hut by the Rock of Red Pigeons, + up at Dalgrothe Mountain, a voice of most wonderful power and sweetness + had been heard singing; but this was only rumour. Yet when the body of the + miller’s wife lay in the church, he had sung so that men and women + wept and held each other’s hands for joy. He had never sung since, + however; his voice of silver was locked away in the cabinet of secret + purposes which every man has somewhere in his own soul. + </p> + <p> + “What will you say to the Bishop, Parpon?” asked the Cure. + </p> + <p> + The congregation stirred in their seats, for they saw that the Cure + intended Parpon to go. + </p> + <p> + Parpon went up two steps of the chancel quietly and caught the arm of the + Cure, drawing him down to whisper in his ear. + </p> + <p> + A flush and then a peculiar soft light passed over the Cure’s face, + and he raised his hand over Parpon’s head in benediction and said: + “Go, my son, and the blessing of God and of His dear Son be with + you.” + </p> + <p> + Then suddenly he turned to the altar, and, raising his hands, he tried to + speak, but only said: “O Lord, Thou knowest our pride and our + vanity, hear us, and—” + </p> + <p> + Soon afterwards, with tearful eyes, he preached from the text: + </p> + <p> + “And the Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth + it not.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ....................... +</pre> + <p> + Five days later a little, uncouth man took off his hat in the chief street + of Quebec, and began to sing a song of Picardy to an air which no man in + French Canada had ever heard. Little farmers on their way to the market by + the Place de Cathedral stopped, listening, though every moment’s + delay lessened their chances of getting a stand in the market-place. + Butchers and milkmen loitered, regardless of waiting customers; a little + company of soldiers caught up the chorus, and, to avoid involuntary + revolt, their sergeant halted them, that they might listen. Gentlemen + strolling by—doctor, lawyer, officer, idler—paused and forgot + the raw climate, for this marvellous voice in the unshapely body warmed + them, and they pushed in among the fast-gathering crowd. Ladies hurrying + by in their sleighs lost their hearts to the thrilling notes of: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Little grey fisherman, + Where is your daughter? + Where is your daughter so sweet? + Little grey man who comes Over the water, + I have knelt down at her feet, + Knelt at your Gabrielle’s feet—-ci ci!” + </pre> + <p> + Presently the wife of the governor stepped out from her sleigh, and, + coming over, quickly took Parpon’s cap from his hand and went round + among the crowd with it, gathering money. + </p> + <p> + “He is hungry, he is poor,” she said, with tears in her eyes. + She had known the song in her childhood, and he who used to sing it to her + was in her sight no more. In vain the gentlemen would have taken the cap + from her; she gathered the money herself, and others followed, and Parpon + sang on. + </p> + <p> + A night later a crowd gathered in the great hall of the city, filling it + to the doors, to hear the dwarf sing. He came on the platform dressed as + he had entered the city, with heavy, home-made coat and trousers, and + moccasins, and a red woollen comforter about his neck—but this + comforter he took off when he began to sing. Old France and New France, + and the loves and hates and joys and sorrows of all lands, met that night + in the soul of this dwarf with the divine voice, who did not give them his + name, so that they called him, for want of a better title, the Provencal. + And again two nights afterwards it was the same, and yet again a third + night and a fourth, and the simple folk, and wise folk also, went mad + after Parpon the dwarf. + </p> + <p> + Then, suddenly, he disappeared from Quebec City, and the next Sunday + morning, while the Cure was saying the last words of the Mass, he entered + the Church of St. Saviour’s at Pontiac. Going up to the chancel + steps he waited. The murmuring of the people drew the Cure’s + attention, and then, seeing Parpon, he came forward. + </p> + <p> + Parpon drew from his breast a bag, and put it in his hands, and beckoning + down the Cure’s head, he whispered. + </p> + <p> + The Cure turned to the altar and raised the bag towards it in ascription + and thanksgiving, then he turned to Parpon again, but the dwarf was + trotting away down the aisle and from the church. + </p> + <p> + “Dear children,” said the Cure, “we are saved, and we + are not shamed.” He held up the bag. “Parpon has brought us + two thousand dollars: we shall have food to eat, and there shall be more + money against seed-time. The giver of this good gift demands that his name + be not known. Such is all true charity. Let us pray.” + </p> + <p> + So hard times passed from Pontiac as the months went on; but none save the + Cure and the Avocat knew who had helped her in her hour of need. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + MEDALLION’S WHIM + </h2> + <p> + When the Avocat began to lose his health and spirits, and there crept + through his shrewd gravity and kindliness a petulance and dejection, + Medallion was the only person who had an inspiriting effect upon him. The + Little Chemist had decided that the change in him was due to bad + circulation and failing powers: which was only partially true. + </p> + <p> + Medallion made a deeper guess. “Want to know what’s the matter + with him?” he said. “Ha, I’ll tell you! Woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Woman—God bless me!” said the Little Chemist, in a + frightened way. + </p> + <p> + “Woman, little man; I mean the want of a woman,” said + Medallion. + </p> + <p> + The Cure, who was present, shrugged his shoulders. “He has an + excellent cook, and his bed and jackets are well aired; I see them + constantly at the windows.” + </p> + <p> + A laugh gurgled in Medallion’s throat. He loved these innocent folk; + but himself went twice a year to Quebec City and had more expanded views. + </p> + <p> + “Woman, Padre”—nodding to the priest, and rubbing his + chin so that it rasped like sand-paper—“Woman, my druggist”—throwing + a sly look at the Chemist——“woman, neither as cook nor + bottle-washer, is what he needs. Every man-out of holy orders”—this + in deference to his good friend the Cure—“arrives at the time + when his youth must be renewed or he becomes as dry bones—like an + empty house—furniture sold off. Can only be renewed one way—Woman. + Well, here’s our Avocat, and there’s his remedy. He’s + got the cooking and the clean fresh linen; he must have a wife, the very + best.” + </p> + <p> + “Ah, my friend, you are droll,” said the Cure, arching his + long fingers at his lips and blowing gently through them, but not smiling + in the least; rather serious, almost reproving. + </p> + <p> + “It is such a whim, such a whim!” said the Little Chemist, + shaking his head and looking through his glasses sideways like a wise + bird. + </p> + <p> + “Ha—you shall see! The man must be saved; our Cure shall have + his fees; our druggist shall provide the finest essences for the feast—no + more pills. And we shall dine with our Avocat once a week—with + asparagus in season for the Cure, and a little good wine for all. Ha!” + </p> + <p> + His Ha! was never a laugh; it was unctuous, abrupt, an ejaculation of + satisfaction, knowledge, solid enjoyment, final solution. + </p> + <p> + The Cure shook his head doubtfully; he did not see the need; he did not + believe in Medallion’s whim; still he knew that the man’s + judgment was shrewd in most things, and he would be silent and wait. But + he shrank from any new phase of life likely to alter the conditions of + that old companionship, which included themselves, the Avocat, and the + young Doctor, who, like the Little Chemist, was married. + </p> + <p> + The Chemist sharply said: “Well, well, perhaps. I hope. There is a + poetry (his English was not perfect, and at times he mixed it with French + in an amusing manner), a little chanson, which runs: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Sorrowful is the little house, + The little house by the winding stream; + All the laughter has died away + Out of the little house. + But down there come from the lofty hills + Footsteps and eyes agleam, + Bringing the laughter of yesterday + Into the little house, + By the winding stream and the hills. + Di ron, di ron, di ron, di ron-don!’” + </pre> + <p> + The Little Chemist blushed faintly at the silence that followed his timid, + quaint recital. The Cure looked calm and kind, and drawn away as if in + thought; but Medallion presently got up, stooped, and laid his long + fingers on the shoulder of the apothecary. + </p> + <p> + “Exactly, little man,” he said; “we’ve both got + the same idea in our heads. I’ve put it hard fact, you’ve put + it soft sentiment; and it’s God’s truth either way.” + </p> + <p> + Presently the Cure asked, as if from a great distance, so meditative was + his voice: “Who will be the woman, Medallion?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got one in my eye—the very right one for our + Avocat; not here, not out of Pontiac, but from St. Jean in the hills—fulfilling + your verses, gentle apothecary. She must bring what is fresh—he must + feel that the hills have come to him, she that the valley is hers for the + first time. A new world for them both. Ha!” + </p> + <p> + “Regardez Ca! you are a great man,” said the Little Chemist. + </p> + <p> + There was a strange, inscrutable look in the kind priest’s eyes. The + Avocat had confessed to him in his time. + </p> + <p> + Medallion took up his hat. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” said the Little Chemist. “To our + Avocat, and then to St. Jean.” + </p> + <p> + He opened the door and vanished. The two that were left shook their heads + and wondered. + </p> + <p> + Chuckling softly to himself, Medallion strode away through the lane of + white-board houses and the smoke of strong tabac from these houses, now + and then pulling suddenly up to avoid stumbling over a child, where + children are numbered by the dozen to every house. He came at last to a + house unlike the others, in that it was of stone and larger. He leaned for + a moment over the gate, and looked through a window into a room where the + Avocat sat propped up with cushions in a great chair, staring gloomily at + two candles burning on the table before him. Medallion watched him for a + long time. The Avocat never changed his position; he only stared at the + candle, and once or twice his lips moved. A woman came in and put a + steaming bowl before him, and laid a pipe and matches beside the bowl. She + was a very little, thin old woman, quick and quiet and watchful—his + housekeeper. The Avocat took no notice of her. She looked at him several + times anxiously, and passed backwards and forwards behind him as a hen + moves upon the flank of her brood. All at once she stopped. Her small, + white fingers, with their large rheumatic knuckles, lay flat on her lips + as she stood for an instant musing; then she trotted lightly to a bureau, + got pen and paper and ink, reached down a bunch of keys from the mantel, + and came and put them all beside the bowl and the pipe. Still the Avocat + did not stir, or show that he recognised her. She went to the door, + turned, and looked back, her fingers again at her lips, then slowly sidled + out of the room. It was long before the Avocat moved. His eyes had not + wavered from the space between the candles. At last, however, he glanced + down. His eye caught the bowl, then the pipe. He reached out a slow hand + for the pipe, and was taking it up, when his glance fell on the keys and + the writing material. He put the pipe down, looked up at the door through + which the little old woman had gone, gazed round the room, took up the + keys, but soon put them down again with a sigh, and settled back in his + chair. Now his gaze alternated between that long lane, sloping into shadow + between the candles, and the keys. + </p> + <p> + Medallion threw a leg over the fence and came in a few steps to the door. + He opened it quietly and entered. In the dark he felt his way along the + wall to the door of the Avocat’s room, opened it, and thrust in his + ungainly, whimsical face. + </p> + <p> + “Ha!” he laughed with quick-winking eyes. “Evening, + Garon. Live the Code Napoleon! Pipes for two.” A change came slowly + over the Avocat. His eyes drew away from that vista between the candles, + and the strange distant look faded out of them. + </p> + <p> + “Great is the Code Napoleon!” he said mechanically. Then, + presently: “Ah, my friend, Medallion!” + </p> + <p> + His first words were the answer to a formula which always passed between + them on meeting. As soon as Garon had said them, Medallion’s lanky + body followed his face, and in a moment he had the Avocat’s hand in + his, swallowing it, of purpose crushing it, so that Monsieur Garon waked + up smartly and gave his visitor a pensive smile. Medallion’s + cheerful nervous vitality seldom failed to inspire whom he chose to + inspire with Something of his own life and cheerfulness. In a few moments + both the Avocat and himself were smoking, and the contents of the steaming + bowl were divided between them. Medallion talked on many things. The + little old housekeeper came in, chirped a soft good-evening, flashed a + small thankful smile at Medallion, and, after renewing the bowl and + lighting two more tall candles, disappeared. Medallion began with the + parish, passed to the law, from the law to Napoleon, from Napoleon to + France, and from France to the world, drawing out from the Avocat + something of his old vivacity and fire. At last Medallion, seeing that the + time was ripe, turned his glass round musingly in his fingers before him + and said: + </p> + <p> + “Benoit, Annette’s husband, died to-day, Garon. You knew him. + He went singing—gone in the head, but singing as he used to do + before he married—or got drunk! Perhaps his youth came back to him + when he was going to die, just for a minute.” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat’s eye gazed at Medallion earnestly now, and Medallion + went on: + </p> + <p> + “As good singing as you want to hear. You’ve heard the words + of the song—the river drivers sing it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘What is there like to the cry of the bird + That sings in its nest in the lilac tree? + A voice the sweetest you ever have heard; + It is there, it is here, ci ci! + It is there, it is here, it must roam and roam, + And wander from shore to shore, + Till I go forth and bring it home, + And enter and close my door + Row along, row along home, ci ci!’” + </pre> + <p> + When Medallion had finished saying the first verse he waited, but the + Avocat said nothing; his eyes were now fastened again on that avenue + between the candles leading out into the immortal part of him—his + past; he was busy with a life that had once been spent in the fields of + Fontainebleau and in the shadow of the Pantheon. + </p> + <p> + Medallion went on: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘What is there like to the laughing star, + Far up from the lilac tree? + A face that’s brighter and finer far; + It laughs and it shines, ci, ci! + It laughs and it shines, it must roam and roam, + And travel from shore to shore, + Till I go forth and bring it home, + And house it within my door + Row along, row along home, ci, ci!’” + </pre> + <p> + When Medallion had finished he raised his glass and said: “Garon, I + drink to home and woman!” + </p> + <p> + He waited. The Avocat’s eyes drew away from the candles again, and + he came to his feet suddenly, swaying slightly as he did so. He caught up + a glass and, lifting it, said: “I drink to home and—” a + little cold burst of laughter came from him, he threw his head back with + something like disdain—“and the Code Napoleon!” he added + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + Then he put the glass down without drinking, wheeled back, and dropped + into his chair. Presently he got up, took his keys, went over, opened the + bureau, and brought back a well-worn note-book which looked like a diary. + He seemed to have forgotten Medallion’s presence, but it was not so; + he had reached the moment of disclosure which comes to every man, no + matter how secretive, when he must tell what is on his mind or die. He + opened the book with trembling fingers, took a pen and wrote, at first + slowly, while Medallion smoked: + </p> + <p> + “September 13th.—It is five-and-twenty years ago to-day—Mon + Dieu, how we danced that night on the flags before the Sorbonne! How gay + we were in the Maison Bleu! We were gay and happy—Lulie and I—two + rooms and a few francs ahead every week. That night we danced and poured + out the light wine, because we were to be married to-morrow. Perhaps there + would be a child, if the priest blessed us, she whispered to me as we + watched the soft-travelling moon in the gardens of the Luxembourg. Well, + we danced. There was an artist with us. I saw him catch Lulie about the + waist, and kiss her on the neck. She was angry, but I did not think of + that; I was mad with wine. I quarrelled with her, and said to her a + shameful thing. Then I rushed away. We were not married the next day; I + could not find her. One night, soon after, there was a revolution of + students at Mont Parnasse. I was hurt. I remember that she came to me then + and nursed me, but when I got well she was gone. Then came the secret word + from the Government that I must leave the country or go to prison. I came + here. Alas! it is long since we danced before the Sorbonne, and supped at + the Maison Bleu. I shall never see again the gardens of the Luxembourg. + Well, that was a mad night five-and-twenty years ago!” + </p> + <p> + His pen went faster and faster. His eyes lighted up, he seemed quite + forgetful of Medallion’s presence. When he finished, a fresh change + came over him. He gathered his thin fingers in a bunch at his lips, and + made an airy salute to the warm space between the candles. He drew himself + together with a youthful air, and held his grey head gallantly. Youth and + age in him seemed almost grotesquely mingled. Sprightly notes from the + song of a cafe chantant hovered on his thin, dry lips. Medallion, amused, + yet with a hushed kind of feeling through all his nerves, pushed the + Avocat’s tumbler till it touched his fingers. The thin fingers + twined round it, and once more he came to his feet. He raised the glass. + “To—” for a minute he got no further—“To the + wedding-eve!” he said, and sipped the hot wine. Presently he pushed + the little well-worn book over to Medallion. “I have known you + fifteen years—read!” he said. He gave Medallion a meaning look + out of his now flashing eyes. Medallion’s bony face responded + cordially. “Of course,” he answered, picked up the book, and + read what the Avocat had written. It was on the last page. When he had + finished reading, he held the book musingly. His whim had suddenly taken + on a new colour. The Avocat, who had been walking up and down the room, + with the quick step of a young man, stopped before him, took the book from + him, turned to the first page, and handed it back silently. Medallion + read: + </p> + <p> + Quebec, September 13th, 18-. It is one year since. I shall learn to laugh + some day. + </p> + <p> + Medallion looked up at him. The old man threw back his head, spread out + the last page in the book which he had just written, and said defiantly, + as though expecting contradiction to his self-deception—“I + have learned.” + </p> + <p> + Then he laughed, but the laugh was dry and hollow and painful. It suddenly + passed from his wrinkled lips, and he sat down again; but now with an air + as of shy ness and shame. “Let us talk,” he said, “of—of + the Code Napoleon.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning Medallion visited St. Jean in the hills. Five years + before he had sold to a new-comer at St. Jean-Madame Lecyr—the + furniture of a little house, and there had sprung up between them a quiet + friendship, not the less admiring on Medallion’s part because Madame + Lecyr was a good friend to the poor and sick. She never tired, when they + met, of hearing him talk of the Cure, the Little Chemist, and the Avocat; + and in the Avocat she seemed to take the most interest, making countless + inquiries—countless when spread over many conversations—upon + his life during the time Medallion had known him. He knew also that she + came to Pontiac, occasionally, but only in the evening; and once of a + moonlight night he had seen her standing before the window of the Avocat’s + house. Once also he had seen her veiled in the little crowded court-room + of Pontiac when an interesting case was being tried, and noticed how she + watched Monsieur Garon, standing so very still that she seemed lifeless; + and how she stole out as soon as he had done speaking. + </p> + <p> + Medallion had acute instincts, and was supremely a man of self-counsel. + What he thought he kept to him self until there seemed necessity to speak. + A few days before the momentous one herebefore described he had called at + Madame Lecyr’s house, and, in course of conversation, told her that + the Avocat’s health was breaking; that the day before he had got + completely fogged in court over the simplest business, and was quite + unlike his old, shrewd, kindly self. By this time he was almost prepared + to see her turn pale and her fingers flutter at the knitting-needles she + held. She made an excuse to leave the room for a moment. He saw a little + book lying near the chair from which she had risen. Perhaps it had dropped + from her pocket. He picked it up. It was a book of French songs—Beranger’s + and others less notable. On the fly-leaf was written: “From Victor + to Lulie, September 13th, 18-.” Presently she came back to him quite + recovered and calm, inquired how the Avocat was cared for, and hoped he + would have every comfort and care. Medallion grew on the instant bold. He + was now certain that Victor was the Avocat, and Lulie was Madame Lecyr. He + said abruptly to her: “Why not come and cheer him up—such old + friends as you are?” + </p> + <p> + At that she rose with a little cry, and stared anxiously at him. He + pointed to the book of songs. “Don’t be angry—I looked,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + She breathed quick and hard, and said nothing, but her fingers laced and + interlaced nervously in her lap. “If you were friends why don’t + you go to him?” he said. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head mournfully. “We were more than friends, and that + is different.” + </p> + <p> + “You were his wife?” said Medallion gently. + </p> + <p> + “It was different,” she replied, flushing. “France is + not the same as here. We were to be married, but on the eve of our + wedding-day there was an end to it all. Only five years ago I found out he + was here.” + </p> + <p> + Then she became silent, and would, or could, speak no more; only, she said + at last before he went: “You will not tell him, or any one?” + </p> + <p> + She need not have asked Medallion. He knew many secrets and kept them; + which is not the usual way of good-humoured people. + </p> + <p> + But now, with the story told by the Avocat himself in his mind, he saw the + end of the long romance. He came once more to the house of Madame Lecyr, + and being admitted, said to her: “You must come at once with me.” + </p> + <p> + She trembled towards him. “He is worse—he is dying!” + </p> + <p> + He smiled. “Not dying at all. He needs you; come along. I’ll + tell you as we go.” + </p> + <p> + But she hung back. Then he told her all he had seen and heard the evening + before. Without a word further she prepared to go. On the way he turned to + her and said: “You are Madame Lecyr?” + </p> + <p> + “I am as he left me,” she replied timidly, but with a kind of + pride, too. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t mistake me,” he said. “I thought perhaps + you had been married since.” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat sat in his little office, feebly fumbling among his papers, as + Medallion entered on him and called to him cheerily: “We are coming + to see you to-night, Garon—the Cure, our Little Chemist, and the + Seigneur; coming to supper.” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat put out his hand courteously; but he said in a shrinking, + pained voice: “No, no, not to-night, Medallion. I would wish no + visitors this night—of all.” + </p> + <p> + Medallion stooped over him, and caught him by both arms gently. “We + shall see,” he said. “It is the anniversary,” he + whispered. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, pardon!” said the Avocat, with a reproving pride, and + shrank back as if all his nerves had been laid bare. But Medallion turned, + opened the door, went out, and let in a woman, who came forward and + timidly raised her veil. + </p> + <p> + “Victor!” Medallion heard, then “Lulie!” and then + he shut the door, and, with supper in his mind, went into the kitchen to + see the housekeeper, who, in this new joy, had her own tragedy—humming + to himself: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “But down there come from the lofty hills + Footsteps and eyes agleam, + Bringing the laughter of yesterday + Into the little house.” + </pre> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE PRISONER + </h2> + <p> + His chief occupation in the daytime was to stand on the bench by the small + barred window and watch the pigeons on the roof and in the eaves of the + house opposite. For five years he had done this. In the summer a great + fire seemed to burn beneath the tin of the roof, for a quivering hot air + rose from them, and the pigeons never alighted on them, save in the early + morning or in the evening. Just over the peak could be seen the topmost + branch of a maple, too slight to bear the weight of the pigeons, but the + eaves were dark and cool, and there his eyes rested when he tired of the + hard blue sky and the glare of the slates. + </p> + <p> + In winter the roof was covered for weeks and months by a blanket of snow + which looked like a shawl of impacted wool, white and restful, and the + windows of the house were spread with frost. But the pigeons were always + gay, walking on the ledges or crowding on the shelves of the lead pipes. + He studied them much, but he loved them more. His prison was less a prison + because of them, and during those long five years he found himself more in + touch with them than with the wardens of the prison or with any of his + fellow-prisoners. To the former he was respectful, and he gave them no + trouble at all; with the latter he had nothing in common, for they were + criminals, and he—so wild and mad with drink and anger was he at the + time, that he had no remembrance, absolutely none, of how Jean Gamache + lost his life. + </p> + <p> + He remembered that they had played cards far into the night; that they had + quarrelled, then made their peace; that the others had left; that they had + begun gaming and drinking and quarrelling again—and then everything + was blurred, save for a vague recollection that he had won all Gamache’s + money and had pocketed it. Afterwards came a blank. + </p> + <p> + He waked to find two officers of the law beside him, and the body of Jean + Gamache, stark and dreadful, a few feet away. + </p> + <p> + When the officers put their hands upon him he shook them off; when they + did it again he would have fought them to the death, had it not been for + his friend, tall Medallion the auctioneer, who laid a strong hand on his + arm and said, “Steady, Turgeon, steady!” and he had yielded to + the firm friendly pressure. + </p> + <p> + Medallion had left no stone unturned to clear him at the trial, had + himself played detective unceasingly. But the hard facts remained, and on + a chain of circumstantial evidence Blaze Turgeon was convicted of + manslaughter and sent to prison for ten years. Blaze himself had said that + he did not remember, but he could not believe that he had committed the + crime. Robbery? He shrugged his shoulders at that, he insisted that his + lawyer should not reply to the foolish and insulting suggestion. But the + evidence went to show that Gamache had all the winnings when the other + members of the party retired, and this very money had been found in Blaze’s + pocket. There was only Blaze’s word that they had played cards + again. Anger? Possibly. Blaze could not recall, though he knew they had + quarrelled. The judge himself, charging the jury, said that he never + before had seen a prisoner so frank, so outwardly honest, but he warned + them that they must not lose sight of the crime itself, the taking of a + human life, whereby a woman was made a widow and a child fatherless. The + jury found him guilty. + </p> + <p> + With few remarks the judge delivered his sentence, and then himself, + shaken and pale, left the court-room hurriedly, for Blaze Turgeon’s + father had been his friend from boyhood. + </p> + <p> + Blaze took his sentence calmly, looking the jury squarely in the eyes, and + when the judge stopped, he bowed to him, and then turned to the jury and + said: + </p> + <p> + “Gentlemen, you have ruined my life. You don’t know, and I don’t + know, who killed the man. You have guessed, and I take the penalty. + Suppose I’m innocent—how will you feel when the truth comes + out? You’ve known me more or less these twenty years, and you’ve + said, with evidently no more knowledge than I’ve got, that I did + this horrible thing. I don’t know but that one of you did it. But + you are safe, and I take my ten years!” + </p> + <p> + He turned from them, and, as he did so, he saw a woman looking at him from + a corner of the court-room, with a strange, wild expression. At the moment + he saw no more than an excited, bewildered face, but afterwards this face + came and went before him, flashing in and out of dark places in a kind of + mockery. + </p> + <p> + As he went from the court-room another woman made her way to him in spite + of the guards. It was the Little Chemist’s wife, who, years before, + had been his father’s housekeeper, who knew him when his eyes first + opened on the world. + </p> + <p> + “My poor Blaze! my poor Blaze!” she said, clasping his + manacled hands. + </p> + <p> + In prison he refused to see all visitors, even Medallion, the Little + Chemist’s wife, and the good Father Fabre. Letters, too, he refused + to accept and read. He had no contact, wished no contact with the outer + world, but lived his hard, lonely life by himself, silent, studious—for + now books were a pleasure to him. He had entered his prison a wild, + excitable, dissipated youth, and he had become a mature brooding man. Five + years had done the work of twenty. + </p> + <p> + The face of the woman who looked at him so strangely in the court-room + haunted him so that at last it became a part of his real life, lived + largely at the window where he looked out at the pigeons on the roof of + the hospital. + </p> + <p> + “She was sorry for me,” he said many a time to himself. He was + shaken with misery often, so that he rocked to and fro as he sat on his + bed, and a warder heard him cry out even in the last days of his + imprisonment: + </p> + <p> + “O God, canst Thou do everything but speak!” And again: + “That hour—the memory of that hour, in exchange for my ruined + life!” + </p> + <p> + One day the gaoler came to him and said: “Monsieur Turgeon, you are + free. The Governor has cut off five years from your sentence.” + </p> + <p> + Then he was told that people were waiting without—Medallion, the + Little Chemist and his wife, and others more important. But he would not + go to meet them, and he stepped into the open world alone at dawn the next + morning, and looked out upon a still sleeping village. Suddenly there + stood before him a woman, who had watched by the prison gates all night; + and she put out her hand in entreaty, and said with a breaking voice: + “You are free at last!” + </p> + <p> + He remembered her—the woman who had looked at him so anxiously and + sorrowfully in the court-room. “Why did you come to meet me?” + he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I was sorry for you.” + </p> + <p> + “But that is no reason.” + </p> + <p> + “I once committed a crime,” she whispered, with shrinking + bitterness. + </p> + <p> + “That’s bad,” he said. “Were you punished?” + He looked at her keenly, almost fiercely, for a curious suspicion shot + into his mind. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head and answered no. + </p> + <p> + “That’s worse!” + </p> + <p> + “I let some one else take my crime upon him and be punished for it,” + she said, an agony in her eyes. “Why was that?” + </p> + <p> + “I had a little child,” was her reply. + </p> + <p> + “And the man who was punished instead?” + </p> + <p> + “He was alone in the world,” she said. + </p> + <p> + A bitter smile crept to his lips, and his face was afire. He shut his + eyes, and when they opened again discovery was in them. + </p> + <p> + “I remember you now,” he said. “I remember now. + </p> + <p> + “I waked and saw you looking at me that night! Who was the father of + your child?” + </p> + <p> + “Jean Gamache,” she replied. “He ruined me and left me + to starve.” + </p> + <p> + “I am innocent of his death!” he said quietly and gladly. + </p> + <p> + She nodded. He was silent for a moment. “The child still lives?” + he asked. She nodded again. “Well, let it be so,” he said. + “But you owe me five years—and a good name.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to God I could give them back!” she cried, tears + streaming down her cheeks. “It was for my child; he was so young.” + </p> + <p> + “It can’t be helped now,” he said sighing, and he turned + away from her. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you forgive me?” she asked bitterly. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you give me back those five years?” + </p> + <p> + “If the child did not need me I would give my life,” she + answered. “I owe it to you.” + </p> + <p> + Her haggard, hunted face made him sorry; he, too, had suffered. + </p> + <p> + “It’s all right,” he answered gently. “Take care + of your child.” + </p> + <p> + Again he moved away from her, and went down the little hill, with a cloud + gone from his face that had rested there five years. Once he turned to + look back. The woman was gone, but over the prison a flock of pigeons were + flying. He took off his hat to them. + </p> + <p> + Then he went through the town, looking neither to right nor left, and came + to his own house, where the summer morning was already entering the open + windows, though he had thought to find the place closed and dark. + </p> + <p> + The Little Chemist’s wife met him in the doorway. She could not + speak, nor could he, but he kissed her as he had done when he went + condemned to prison. Then he passed on to his own room, and entering, sat + down before the open window, and peacefully drank in the glory of a new + world. But more than once he choked down a sob rising in his throat. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AN UPSET PRICE + </h2> + <p> + Once Secord was as fine a man to look at as you would care to see: with a + large intelligent eye, a clear, healthy skin, and a full, brown beard. He + walked with a spring, had a gift of conversation, and took life as he + found it, never too seriously, yet never carelessly. That was before he + left the village of Pontiac in Quebec to offer himself as a surgeon to the + American Army. When he came back there was a change in him. He was still + handsome, but something of the spring had gone from his walk, the quick + light of his eyes had given place to a dark, dreamy expression, his skin + became a little dulled, and his talk slower, though not less musical or + pleasant. Indeed, his conversation had distinctly improved. Previously + there was an undercurrent of self-consciousness; it was all gone now. He + talked as one knowing his audience. His office became again, as it had + been before, a rendezvous for the few interesting men of the place, + including the Avocat, the Cure, the Little Chemist, and Medallion. They + played chess and ecarte for certain hours of certain evenings in the week + at Secord’s house. Medallion was the first to notice that the wife—whom + Secord had married soon after he came back from the war—occasionally + put down her work and looked with a curious inquiring expression at her + husband as he talked. It struck Medallion that she was puzzled by some + change in Secord. + </p> + <p> + Secord was a brilliant surgeon and physician. With the knife or beside a + sick-bed, he was admirable. His intuitive perception, so necessary in his + work, was very fine: he appeared to get at the core of a patient’s + trouble, and to decide upon necessary action with instant and absolute + confidence. Some delicate operation performed by him was recorded and + praised in the Lancet; and he was offered a responsible post in a medical + college, and, at the same time, the good-will of a valuable practice. He + declined both, to the lasting astonishment, yet personal joy, of the Cure + and the Avocat; but, as time went on, not so much to the surprise of the + Little Chemist and Medallion. After three years, the sleepy Little Chemist + waked up suddenly in his chair one day, and said: “Parbleu, God + bless me!” (he loved to mix his native language with English) got up + and went over to Secord’s office, adjusted his glasses, looked at + Secord closely, caught his hand with both of his own, shook it with shy + abruptness, came back to his shop, sat down, and said: “God bless my + soul! Regardez ca!” + </p> + <p> + Medallion made his discovery sooner. Watching closely he had seen a + pronounced deliberation infused through all Secord’s indolence of + manner, and noticed that often, before doing anything, the big eyes + debated steadfastly, and the long, slender fingers ran down the beard + softly. At times there was a deep meditativeness in the eye, again a dusky + fire. But there was a certain charm through it all—a languid + precision, a slumbering look in the face, a vague undercurrent in the + voice, a fantastical flavour to the thought. The change had come so + gradually that only Medallion and the wife had a real conception of how + great it was. Medallion had studied Secord from every stand-point. At the + very first he wondered if there was a woman in it. Much thinking on a + woman, whose influence on his life was evil or disturbing, might account + somewhat for the change in Secord. But, seeing how fond the man was of his + wife, Medallion gave up that idea. It was not liquor, for Secord never + touched it. One day, however, when Medallion was selling the furniture of + a house, he put up a feather bed, and, as was his custom—for he was + a whimsical fellow—let his humour have play. He used many metaphors + as to the virtue of the bed, crowning them with the statement that you + slept in it dreaming as delicious dreams as though you had eaten poppy, or + mandragora, or—He stopped short, said, “By jingo, that’s + it!” knocked the bed down instantly, and was an utter failure for + the rest of the day. + </p> + <p> + The wife was longer in discovering the truth, but a certain morning, as + her husband lay sleeping after an all-night sitting with a patient, she + saw lying beside him—it had dropped from his waistcoat pocket—a + little bottle full of a dark liquid. She knew that he always carried his + medicine-phials in a pocket-case. She got the case, and saw that none was + missing. She noticed that the cork of the phial was well worn. She took it + out and smelled the liquid. Then she understood. She waited and watched. + She saw him after he waked look watchfully round, quietly take a + wine-glass, and let the liquid come drop by drop into it from the point of + his forefinger. Henceforth she read with understanding the changes in his + manner, and saw behind the mingled abstraction and fanciful meditation of + his talk. + </p> + <p> + She had not yet made up her mind what to do. She saw that he hid it from + her assiduously. He did so more because he wished not to pain her than + from furtiveness. By nature he was open and brave, and had always had a + reputation for plainness and sincerity. She was in no sense his equal in + intelligence or judgment, nor even in instinct. She was a woman of more + impulse and constitutional good-nature than depth. It is probable that he + knew that, and refrained from letting her into the knowledge of this vice, + contracted in the war when, seriously ill, he was able to drag himself + about from patient to patient only by the help of opium. He was alive to + his position and its consequences, and faced it. He had no children, and + he was glad of this for one reason. He could do nothing now without the + drug; it was as necessary as light to him. The little bottle had been his + friend so long, that, with his finger on its smooth-edged cork, it was as + though he held the tap of life. + </p> + <p> + The Little Chemist and Medallion kept the thing to themselves, but they + understood each other in the matter, and wondered what they could do to + cure him. The Little Chemist only shrank back, and said, “No, no, + pardon, my friend!” when Medallion suggested that he should speak to + Secord. But the Little Chemist was greatly concerned—for had not + Secord saved his beloved wife by a clever operation? and was it not her + custom to devote a certain hour every week to the welfare of Secord’s + soul and body, before the shrine of the Virgin? Her husband told her now + that Secord was in trouble, and though he was far from being devout + himself, he had a shy faith in the great sincerity of his wife. She did + her best, and increased her offerings of flowers to the shrine; also, in + her simplicity, she sent Secord’s wife little jars of jam to comfort + him. + </p> + <p> + One evening the little coterie met by arrangement at the doctor’s + house. After waiting an hour or two for Secord, who had been called away + to a critical case, the Avocat and the Cure went home, leaving polite + old-fashioned messages for their absent host; but the Little Chemist and + Medallion remained. For a time Mrs. Secord remained with them, then + retired, begging them to await her husband, who, she knew, would be + grateful if they stayed. The Little Chemist, with timid courtesy, showed + her out of the room, then came back and sat down. They were very silent. + The Little Chemist took off his glasses a half-dozen times, wiped them, + and put them back. Then suddenly turned on Medallion. “You mean to + speak to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, that’s it.” + </p> + <p> + “Regardez ca—well, well!” + </p> + <p> + Medallion never smoked harder than he did then. The Little Chemist looked + at him nervously again and again, listened towards the door, fingered with + his tumbler, and at last hearing the sound of sleigh-bells, suddenly came + to his feet, and said: “Voila, I will go to my wife.” And + catching up his cap, and forgetting his overcoat, he trotted away home in + a fright. + </p> + <p> + What Medallion did or said to Secord that night neither ever told. But it + must have been a singular scene, for when the humourist pleads or prays + there is no pathos like it; and certainly Medallion’s eyes were red + when he rapped up the Little Chemist at dawn, caught him by the shoulders, + turned him round several times, thumped him on the back, and called him a + bully old boy; and then, seeing the old wife in her quaint padded + night-gown, suddenly hugged her, threw himself into a chair, and almost + shouted for a cup of coffee. + </p> + <p> + At the same time Mrs. Secord was alternately crying and laughing in her + husband’s arms, and he was saying to her: “I’ll make a + fight for it, Lesley, a big fight; but you must be patient, for I expect I’ll + be a devil sometimes without it. Why, I’ve eaten a drachm a day of + the stuff, or drunk its equivalent in the tincture. No, never mind + praying; be a brick and fight with me that’s the game, my girl.” + </p> + <p> + He did make a fight for it, such an one as few men have made and come out + safely. For those who dwell in the Pit never suffer as do they who + struggle with this appetite. He was too wise to give it up all at once. He + diminished the dose gradually, but still very perceptibly. As it was, it + made a marked change in him. The necessary effort of the will gave a kind + of hard coldness to his face, and he used to walk his garden for hours at + night in conflict with his enemy. His nerves were uncertain, but, strange + to say, when (it was not often) any serious case of illness came under his + hands, he was somehow able to pull himself together and do his task + gallantly enough. But he had had no important surgical case since he began + his cure. In his heart he lived in fear of one; for he was not quite sure + of himself. In spite of effort to the contrary he became irritable, and + his old pleasant fantasies changed to gloomy and bizarre imaginings. + </p> + <p> + The wife never knew what it cost her husband thus, day by day, to take a + foe by the throat and hold him in check. She did not guess that he knew if + he dropped back even once he could not regain himself: this was his + idiosyncrasy. He did not find her a great help to him in his trouble. She + was affectionate, but she had not much penetration even where he was + concerned, and she did not grasp how much was at stake. She thought indeed + that he should be able to give it up all at once. He was tender with her, + but he wished often that she could understand him without explanation on + his part. Many a time he took out the little bottle with a reckless hand, + but conquered himself. He got most help, perhaps, from the honest, + cheerful eye of Medallion and the stumbling timorous affection of the + Little Chemist. They were perfectly disinterested friends—his wife + at times made him aware that he had done her a wrong, for he had married + her with thus appetite on him. He did not defend himself, but he wished + she would—even if she had to act it—make him believe in + himself more. One morning against his will he was irritable with her, and + she said something that burnt like caustic. He smiled ironically, and + pushed his newspaper over to her, pointing to a paragraph. It was the + announcement that an old admirer of hers whom she had passed by for her + husband, had come into a fortune. “Perhaps you’ve made a + mistake,” he said. + </p> + <p> + She answered nothing, but the look she gave was unfortunate for both. He + muffled his mouth in his long silken beard as if to smother what he felt + impelled to say, then suddenly rose and left the table. + </p> + <p> + At this time he had reduced his dose of the drug to eight drops twice a + day. With a grim courage he resolved to make it five all at once. He did + so, and held to it. Medallion was much with him in these days. One morning + in the spring he got up, went out in his garden, drew in the fresh, sweet + air with a great gulp, picked some lovely crab-apple blossoms, and, with a + strange glowing look in his eyes, came in to his wife, put them into her + hands, and kissed her. It was the anniversary of their wedding-day. Then, + without a word, he took from his pocket the little phial that he had + carried so long, rolled it for an instant in his palm, felt its worn, + discoloured cork musingly, and threw it out of the window. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my dear,” he whispered, “we will be happy again.” + </p> + <p> + He held to his determination with a stern anxiety. He took a month’s + vacation, and came back better. He was not so happy as he hoped to be; yet + he would not whisper to himself the reason why. He felt that something had + failed him somewhere. + </p> + <p> + One day a man came riding swiftly up to his door to say that his wife’s + father had met with a bad accident in his great mill. Secord told his + wife. A peculiar troubled look came into his face as he glanced carefully + over his instruments and through his medicine case. “God, I must do + it alone!” he said. + </p> + <p> + The old man’s injury was a dangerous one: a skilful operation was + necessary. As Secord stood beside the sufferer, he felt his nerves + suddenly go—just as they did in the war before he first took the + drug. His wife was in the next room—he could hear her; he wished she + would make no sound at all. Unless this operation was performed + successfully the sufferer would die—he might die anyhow. Secord + tried to gather himself up to his task, but he felt it was of no use. A + month later when he was more recovered physically he would be able to + perform the operation, but the old man was dying now, while he stood + helplessly stroking his big brown beard. He took up his pocket + medicine-case, and went out where his wife was. + </p> + <p> + Excited and tearful, she started up to meet him, painfully inquiring. + “Can you save him?” she said. “Oh, James, what is the + matter? You are trembling.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s just this way, Lesley: my nerve is broken; I can’t + perform the operation as I am, and he will die in an hour if I don’t.” + </p> + <p> + She caught him by the arm. “Can you not be strong? You have a will. + Will you not try to save my father, James? Is there no way?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, there is one way,” he said. He opened the pocket-case + and took out a phial of laudanum. “This is the way. I can pull + myself together with it. It will save his life.” There was a dogged + look in his face. + </p> + <p> + “Well? well?” she said. “Oh, my dear father, will you + not keep him here?” + </p> + <p> + A peculiar cold smile hovered about his lips. “But there is danger + to me in this... and remember, he is very old!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh,” she cried, “how can you be so shocking, so cruel!” + She rocked herself to and fro. “If it will save him—and you + need not take it again, ever!” + </p> + <p> + “But, I tell you—” + </p> + <p> + “Do you not hear him—he is dying!” She was mad with + grief; she hardly knew what she said. + </p> + <p> + Without a word he dropped the tincture swiftly in a wine-glass of water, + drank it off, shivered, drew himself up with a start, gave a sigh as if + some huge struggle was over, and went in to where the old man was. Three + hours after he told his wife that her father was safe. + </p> + <p> + When, after a hasty kiss, she left him and went into the room of sickness, + and the door closed after her, standing where she had left him he laughed + a hard crackling laugh, and said between his teeth: + </p> + <p> + “An upset price!” + </p> + <p> + Then he poured out another portion of the dark tincture—the largest + he had ever taken—and tossed it off. That night he might have been + seen feeling about the grass in a moon-lit garden. At last he put + something in his pocket with a quick, harsh chuckle of satisfaction. It + was a little black bottle with a well-worn cork. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + A FRAGMENT OF LIVES + </h2> + <p> + They met at last, Dubarre, and Villiard, the man who had stolen from him + the woman he loved. Both had wronged the woman, but Villiard most, for he + had let her die because of jealousy. + </p> + <p> + They were now in a room alone in the forest of St. Sebastian. Both were + quiet, and both knew that the end of their feud was near. + </p> + <p> + Going to a cupboard Dubarre brought out four glasses and put them on the + table. Then from two bottles he poured out what looked like red wine, two + glasses from each bottle. Putting the bottles back he returned to the + table. + </p> + <p> + “Do you dare to drink with me?” Dubarre asked, nodding towards + the glasses. “Two of the glasses have poison in them, two have good + red wine only. We will move them about and then drink. Both may die, or + only one of us.” + </p> + <p> + Villiard looked at the other with contracting, questioning eyes. + </p> + <p> + “You would play that game with me?” he asked, in a mechanical + voice. + </p> + <p> + “It would give me great pleasure.” The voice had a strange, + ironical tone. “It is a grand sport—as one would take a run at + a crevasse and clear it, or fall. If we both fall, we are in good company; + if you fall, I have the greater joy of escape; if I fall, you have the + same joy.” + </p> + <p> + “I am ready,” was the answer. “But let us eat first.” + </p> + <p> + A great fire burned in the chimney, for the night was cool. It filled the + room with a gracious heat and with huge, comfortable shadows. Here and + there on the wall a tin cup flashed back the radiance of the fire, the + barrel of a gun glistened soberly along a rafter, and the long, wiry hair + of an otter-skin in the corner sent out little needles of light. Upon the + fire a pot was simmering, and a good savour came from it. A wind went + lilting by outside the but in tune with the singing of the kettle. The + ticking of a huge, old-fashioned repeating-watch on the wall was in unison + with these. + </p> + <p> + Dubarre rose from the table, threw himself upon the little pile of + otter-skins, and lay watching Villiard and mechanically studying the + little room. + </p> + <p> + Villiard took the four glasses filled with the wine and laid them on a + shelf against the wall, then began to put the table in order for their + supper, and to take the pot from the fire. + </p> + <p> + Dubarre noticed that just above where the glasses stood on the shelf a + crucifix was hanging, and that red crystal sparkled in the hands and feet + where the nails should be driven in. There was a painful humour in the + association. He smiled, then turned his head away, for old memories + flashed through his brain—he had been an acolyte once; he had served + at the altar. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly Dubarre rose, took the glasses from the shelf and placed them in + the middle of the table—the death’s head for the feast. + </p> + <p> + As they sat down to eat, the eyes of both men unconsciously wandered to + the crucifix, attracted by the red sparkle of the rubies. They drank water + with the well-cooked meat of the wapiti, though red wine faced them on the + table. Each ate heartily; as though a long day were before them and not + the shadow of the Long Night. There was no speech save that of the usual + courtesies of the table. The fire, and the wind, and the watch seemed the + only living things besides themselves, perched there between heaven and + earth. + </p> + <p> + At length the meal was finished, and the two turned in their chairs + towards the fire. There was no other light in the room, and on the faces + of the two, still and cold, the flame played idly. + </p> + <p> + “When?” said Dubarre at last. “Not yet,” was the + quiet reply. + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of my first theft—an apple from my brother’s + plate,” said Dubarre, with a dry smile. “You?” + </p> + <p> + “I, of my first lie.” + </p> + <p> + “That apple was the sweetest fruit I ever tasted.” + </p> + <p> + “And I took the penalty of the lie, but I had no sorrow.” + </p> + <p> + Again there was silence. + </p> + <p> + “Now?” asked Villiard, after an hour had passed. “I am + ready.” + </p> + <p> + They came to the table. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we bind our eyes?” asked Dubarre. “I do not know + the glasses that hold the poison.” + </p> + <p> + “Nor I the bottle that held it. I will turn my back, and do you + change about the glasses.” + </p> + <p> + Villiard turned his face towards the timepiece on the wall. As he did so + it began to strike—a clear, silvery chime: “One! two! three—!” + </p> + <p> + Before it had finished striking both men were facing the glasses again. + </p> + <p> + “Take one,” said Dubarre. + </p> + <p> + Villiard took the one nearest himself. Dubarre took one also. Without a + word they lifted the glasses and drank. + </p> + <p> + “Again,” said Dubarre. + </p> + <p> + “You choose,” responded Villiard. + </p> + <p> + Dubarre lifted the one nearest himself, and Villiard picked up the other. + Raising their glasses again, they bowed to each other and drank. + </p> + <p> + The watch struck twelve, and stopped its silvery chiming. + </p> + <p> + They both sat down, looking at each other, the light of an enormous chance + in their eyes, the tragedy of a great stake in their clinched hands; but + the deeper, intenser power was in the face of Dubarre, the explorer. + </p> + <p> + There was more than power; malice drew down the brows and curled the + sensitive upper lip. Each man watched the other for knowledge of his own + fate. The glasses lay straggling along the table, emptied of death and + life. + </p> + <p> + All at once a horrible pallor spread over the face of Villiard, and his + head jerked forward. He grasped the table with both hands, twitching and + trembling. His eyes stared wildly at Dubarre, to whose face the flush of + wine had come, whose look was now maliciously triumphant. + </p> + <p> + Villiard had drunk both glasses of the poison! + </p> + <p> + “I win!” Dubarre stood up. Then, leaning over the table + towards the dying man, he added: “You let her die-well! Would you + know the truth? She loved you—always.” + </p> + <p> + Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely along the opposite wall. + </p> + <p> + Dubarre went on. “I played the game with you honestly, because—because + it was the greatest man could play. And I, too, sinned against her. Now + die! She loved you—murderer!” + </p> + <p> + The man’s look still wandered distractedly along the wall. The sweat + of death was on his face; his lips were moving spasmodically. + </p> + <p> + Suddenly his look became fixed; he found voice. “Pardon—Jesu!” + he said, and stiffened where he sat. His eyes were fixed on the jewelled + crucifix. Dubarre snatched it from the wall, and hastening to him held it + to his lips: but the warm sparkle of the rubies fell on eyes that were + cold as frosted glass. Dubarre saw that he was dead. + </p> + <p> + “Because the woman loved him!” he said, gazing curiously at + the dead man. + </p> + <p> + He turned, went to the door and opened it, for his breath choked him. + </p> + <p> + All was still on the wooded heights and in the wide valley. + </p> + <p> + “Because the woman loved him he repented,” said Dubarre again + with a half-cynical gentleness as he placed the crucifix on the dead man’s + breast. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA + </h2> + <p> + The man who died at Alma had a Kilkenny brogue that you could not cut with + a knife, but he was called Kilquhanity, a name as Scotch as McGregor. + Kilquhanity was a retired soldier, on pension, and Pontiac was a place of + peace and poverty. The only gentry were the Cure, the Avocat, and the + young Seigneur, but of the three the only one with a private income was + the young Seigneur. + </p> + <p> + What should such a common man as Kilquhanity do with a private income! It + seemed almost suspicious, instead of creditable, to the minds of the + simple folk at Pontiac; for they were French, and poor, and laborious, and + Kilquhanity drew his pension from the headquarters of the English + Government, which they only knew by legends wafted to them over great + tracts of country from the city of Quebec. + </p> + <p> + When Kilquhanity first came with his wife, it was without introductions + from anywhere—unlike everybody else in Pontiac, whose family history + could be instantly reduced to an exact record by the Cure. He had a + smattering of French, which he turned off with oily brusqueness; he was + not close-mouthed, he talked freely of events in his past life; and he + told some really wonderful tales of his experiences in the British army. + He was no braggart, however, and his one great story which gave him the + nickname by which he was called at Pontiac, was told far more in a spirit + of laughter at himself than in praise of his own part in the incident. + </p> + <p> + The first time he told the story was in the house of Medallion the + auctioneer. + </p> + <p> + “Aw the night it was,” said Kilquhanity, after a pause, + blowing a cloud of tobacco smoke into the air, “the night it was, me + darlin’s! Bitther cowld in that Roosian counthry, though but late + summer, and nothin’ to ate but a lump of bread, no bigger than a + dickybird’s skull; nothin’ to drink but wather. Turrible, + turrible, and for clothes to wear—Mother of Moses! that was a bad + day for clothes! We got betune no barrick quilts that night. No stockin’ + had I insoide me boots, no shirt had I but a harse’s quilt sewed an + to me; no heart I had insoide me body; nothin’ at all but duty an’ + shtandin’ to orders, me b’ys! + </p> + <p> + “Says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick to me, ‘Kilquhanity,’ + says he, ‘there’s betther places than River Alma to live by,’ + says he. ‘Faith, an’ by the Liffey I wish I was this moment’—Liffey’s + in ould Ireland, Frenchies! 'But, Kilquhanity,’ says he, ‘faith, + an’ it’s the Liffey we’ll never see again, an’ put + that in yer pipe an’ smoke it!’ And thrue for him. + </p> + <p> + “But that night, aw that night! Ivery bone in me body was achin’, + and shure me heart was achin’ too, for the poor b’ys that were + fightin’ hard an’ gettin’ little for it. Bitther cowld + it was, aw, bitther cowld, and the b’ys droppin’ down, droppin’, + droppin’, droppin’, wid the Roosian bullets in thim! + </p> + <p> + “‘Kilquhanity,’ says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick to me, + ‘it’s this shtandin’ still, while we do be droppin’, + droppin’, that girds the soul av yer.’ Aw, the sight it was, + the sight it was! The b’ys of the rigimint shtandin’ shoulder + to shoulder, an’ the faces av ‘m blue wid powder, an’ + red wid blood, an’ the bits o’ b’ys droppin’ round + me loike twigs of an’ ould tree in a shtorm. Just a cry an’ a + bit av a gurgle tru the teeth, an’ divil the wan o’ thim would + see the Liffey side anny more. “‘The Roosians are chargin’!’ + shouts Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick. 'The Roosians are chargin’—here + they come!’ Shtandin’ besoide me was a bit of a lump of a b’y, + as foine a lad as ever shtood in the boots of me rigimint—aw! the + look of his face was the look o’ the dead. ‘The Roosians are + comin’—they’re chargin’!’ says + Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick, and the bit av a b’y, that had nothin’ + to eat all day, throws down his gun and turns round to run. Eighteen years + old he was, only eighteen—just a straight slip of a lad from + Malahide. ‘Hould on! Teddie,’ says I, ‘hould on! How’ll + yer face yer mother if yer turn yer back on the inimy of yer counthry?’ + The b’y looks me in the eyes long enough to wink three times, picks + up his gun, an’ shtood loike a rock, he did, till the Roosians + charged us, roared on us, an’ I saw me slip of a b’y go down + under the sabre of a damned Cossack. ‘Mother!’ I heard him + say, ‘Mother!’ an’ that’s all I heard him say—and + the mother waitin’ away aff there by the Liffey soide. Aw, wurra, + wurra, the b’ys go down to battle and the mothers wait at home! Some + of the b’ys come back, but the most of thim shtay where the battle + laves ‘em. Wurra, wurra, many’s the b’y wint down that + day by Alma River, an’ niver come back! “There I was shtandin’, + when hell broke loose on the b’ys of me rigimint, and divil the wan + o’ me knows if I killed a Roosian that day or not. But + Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick—a bit of a liar was the Sergeant-Major—says + he: ‘It was tin ye killed, Kilquhanity.’ He says that to me + the noight that I left the rigimint for ever, and all the b’ys + shtandin’ round and liftin’ lasses an’ saying, ‘Kilquhanity! + Kilquhanity! Kilquhanity!’ as if it was sugar and honey in their + mouths. Aw, the sound of it! 'Kilquhanity,’ says he, ‘it was + tin ye killed;’ but aw, b’ys, the Sergeant-Major was an awful + liar. If he could be doin’ annybody anny good by lyin’, shure + he would be lyin’ all the time. + </p> + <p> + “But it’s little I know how many I killed, for I was killed + meself that day. A Roosian sabre claved the shoulder and neck of me, an’ + down I wint, and over me trampled a squadron of Roosian harses, an’ + I stopped thinkin’. Aw, so aisy, so aisy, I slipped away out av the + fight! The shriekin’ and roarin’ kept dwindlin’ and + dwindlin’, and I dropped all into a foine shlape, so quiet, so aisy. + An’ I thought that slip av a lad from the Liffey soide was houlding + me hand, and sayin’ ‘Mother! Mother!’ and we both wint + ashlape; an’ the b’ys of the rigimint when Alma was over, they + said to each other, the b’ys they said: ‘Kilquhanity’s + dead.’ An’ the trinches was dug, an’ all we foine dead b’ys + was laid in long rows loike candles in the trinches. An’ I was laid + in among thim, and Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick shtandin’ there an’ + looking at me an’ sayin’: 'Poor b’y—poor b’y!’ + </p> + <p> + “But when they threw another man on tap of me, I waked up out o’ + that beautiful shlape, and give him a kick. ‘Yer not polite,’ + says I to mesilf. Shure, I couldn’t shpake—there was no + strength in me. An’ they threw another man on, an’ I kicked + again, and the Sergeant-Major he sees it, an’ shouts out. ‘Kilquhan + ity’s leg is kickin’!’ says he. An’ they pulled + aff the two poor divils that had been thrown o’ tap o’ me, and + the Sergeant-Major lifts me head, an’ he says ‘Yer not killed, + Kilquhanity?’ says he. + </p> + <p> + “Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, and Captain + Masham shtandin’ by whips out a flask. + </p> + <p> + “‘Put that betune his teeth,’ says he. Whin I got it + there, trust me fur not lettin’ it go. An’ the Sergeant-Major + says to me: ‘I have hopes of you, Kilquhanity, when you do be + drinkin’ loike that.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘A foine healthy corpse I am; an’ a foine thirsty, + healthy corpse I am,’ says I.” + </p> + <p> + A dozen hands stretched out to give Kilquhanity a drink, for even the best + story-teller of Pontiac could not have told his tale so well. + </p> + <p> + Yet the success achieved by Kilquhanity at such moments was discounted + through long months of mingled suspicion and doubtful tolerance. Although + both he and his wife were Catholics (so they said, and so it seemed), + Kilquhanity never went to Confession or took the Blessed Sacrament. The + Cure spoke to Kilquhanity’s wife about it, and she said she could do + nothing with her husband. Her tongue once loosed, she spoke freely, and + what she said was little to the credit of Kilquhanity. Not that she could + urge any horrible things against him; but she railed at minor faults till + the Cure dismissed her with some good advice upon wives rehearsing their + husband’s faults, even to the parish priest. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Kilquhanity could not get the Cure to listen to her, but she was more + successful elsewhere. One day she came to get Kilquhanity’s pension, + which was sent every three months through M. Garon, the Avocat. After she + had handed over the receipt prepared beforehand by Kilquhanity, she + replied to M. Garon’s inquiry concerning her husband in these words: + “Misther Garon, sir, such a man it is—enough to break the + heart of anny woman. And the timper of him—Misther Garon, the timper + of him’s that awful, awful! No conshideration, and that + ugly-hearted, got whin a soldier b’y! The things he does—my, + my, the things he does!” She threw up her hands with an air of + distraction. + </p> + <p> + “Well, and what does he do, Madame?” asked the Avocat simply. + </p> + <p> + “An’ what he says, too—the awful of it! Ah, the bad sour + heart in him! What’s he lyin’ in his bed for now—an’ + the New Year comin’ on, whin we ought to be praisin’ God an’ + enjoyin’ each other’s company in this blessed wurruld? What’s + he lying betune the quilts now fur, but by token of the bad heart in him! + It’s a wicked could he has, an’ how did he come by it? I’ll + tell ye, Misther Garon. So wild was he, yesterday it was a week, so black + mad wid somethin’ I’d said to him and somethin’ that + shlipped from me hand at his head, that he turns his back on me, throws + opin the dure, shteps out into the shnow, and shtandin’ there alone, + he curses the wide wurruld—oh, dear Misther Garon, he cursed the + wide wurruld, shtandin’ there in the snow! God forgive the black + heart of him, shtandin’ out there cursin’ the wide wurruld!” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat looked at the Sergeant’s wife musingly, the fingers of + his hands tapping together, but he did not speak: he was becoming wiser + all in a moment as to the ways of women. + </p> + <p> + “An’ now he’s in bed, the shtrappin’ blasphemer, + fur the could he got shtandin’ there in the snow cursin’ the + wide wurruld. Ah, Misther Garon, pity a poor woman that has to live wid + the loikes o’ that!” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat still did not speak. He turned his face away and looked out of + the window, where his eyes could see the little house on the hill, which + to-day had the Union Jack flying in honour of some battle or victory, dear + to Kilquhanity’s heart. It looked peaceful enough, the little house + lying there in the waste of snow, banked up with earth, and sheltered on + the northwest by a little grove of pines. At last M. Garon rose, and + lifting himself up and down on his toes as if about to deliver a legal + opinion, he coughed slightly, and then said in a dry little voice: + </p> + <p> + “Madame, I shall have pleasure in calling on your husband. You have + not seen the matter in the true light. Madame, I bid you good-day.” + </p> + <p> + That night the Avocat, true to his promise, called on Sergeant + Kilquhanity. Kilquhanity was alone in the house. His wife had gone to the + village for the Little Chemist. She had been roused at last to the serious + nature of Kilquhanity’s illness. + </p> + <p> + M. Garon knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again more loudly, and + still no answer. He opened the door and entered into a clean, warm + living-room, so hot that the heat came to him in waves, buffeting his + face. Dining, sitting, and drawing-room, it was also a sort of winter + kitchen; and side by side with relics of Kilquhanity’s soldier-life + were clean, bright tins, black saucepans, strings of dried fruit, and + well-cured hams. Certainly the place had the air of home; it spoke for the + absent termagant. + </p> + <p> + M. Garon looked round and saw a half-opened door, through which presently + came a voice speaking in a laboured whisper. The Avocat knocked gently at + the door. “May I come in, Sergeant?” he asked, and entered. + There was no light in the room, but the fire in the kitchen stove threw a + glow over the bed where the sick man lay. The big hands of the soldier + moved restlessly on the quilt. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, it’s the koind av ye!” said Kilquhanity, with + difficulty, out of the half shadows. + </p> + <p> + The Avocat took one burning hand in both of his, held it for a moment, and + pressed it two or three times. He did not know what to say. + </p> + <p> + “We must have a light,” said he at last, and taking a candle + from the shelf he lighted it at the stove and came into the bedroom again. + This time he was startled. Even in this short illness, Kilquhanity’s + flesh had dropped away from him, leaving him but a bundle of bones, on + which the skin quivered with fever. Every word the sick man tried to speak + cut his chest like a knife, and his eyes half started from his head with + the agony of it. The Avocat’s heart sank within him, for he saw that + a life was hanging in the balance. Not knowing what to do, he tucked in + the bedclothes gently. + </p> + <p> + “I do be thinkin’,” said the strained, whispering voice—“I + do be thinkin’ I could shmoke.” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat looked round the room, saw the pipe on the window, and cutting + some tobacco from a “plug,” he tenderly filled the old black + corn-cob. Then he put the stem in Kilquhanity’s mouth and held the + candle to the bowl. Kilquhanity smiled, drew a long breath, and blew out a + cloud of thick smoke. For a moment he puffed vigorously, then, all at + once, the pleasure of it seemed to die away, and presently the bowl + dropped down on his chin. M. Garon lifted it away. Kilquhanity did not + speak, but kept saying something over and over again to himself, looking + beyond M. Garon abstractedly. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the front door of the house opened, and presently a shrill + voice came through the door: “Shmokin’, shmokin’, are + ye, Kilquhanity? As soon as me back’s turned, it’s playin’ + the fool—” She stopped short, seeing the Avocat. + </p> + <p> + “Beggin’ yer pardon, Misther Garon,” she said, “I + thought it was only Kilquhanity here, an’ he wid no more sense than + a babby.” + </p> + <p> + Kilquhanity’s eyes closed, and he buried one side of his head in the + pillow, that her shrill voice should not pierce his ears. + </p> + <p> + “The Little Chemist ‘ll be comin’ in a minit, dear + Misther Garon,” said the wife presently, and she began to fuss with + the bedclothes and to be nervously and uselessly busy. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, lave thim alone, darlin’,” whispered Kilquhanity, + tossing. Her officiousness seemed to hurt him more than the pain in his + chest. + </p> + <p> + M. Garon did not wait for the Little Chemist to arrive, but after pressing + the Sergeant’s hand he left the house and went straight to the house + of the Cure, and told him in what condition was the black sheep of his + flock. + </p> + <p> + When M. Garon returned to his own home he found a visitor in his library. + It was a woman, between forty and fifty years of age, who rose slowly to + her feet as the Avocat entered, and, without preliminary, put into his + hands a document. + </p> + <p> + “That is who I am,” she said. “Mary Muddock that was, + Mary Kilquhanity that is.” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat held in his hands the marriage lines of Matthew Kilquhanity of + the parish of Malahide and Mary Muddock of the parish of St. Giles, + London. The Avocat was completely taken aback. He blew nervously through + his pale fingers, raised himself up and down on his toes, and grew pale + through suppressed excitement. He examined the certificate carefully, + though from the first he had no doubt of its accuracy and correctness. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said the woman, with a hard look in her face and a + hard note in her voice. “Well?” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat looked at her musingly for a moment. All at once there had been + unfolded to him Kilquhanity’s story. In his younger days Kilquhanity + had married this woman with a face of tin and a heart of leather. It + needed no confession from Kilquhanity’s own lips to explain by what + hard paths he had come to the reckless hour when, at Blackpool, he had + left her for ever, as he thought. In the flush of his criminal freedom he + had married again—with the woman who shared his home on the little + hillside, behind the Parish Church, she believing him a widower. Mary + Muddock, with the stupidity of her class, had never gone to the right + quarters to discover his whereabouts until a year before this day when she + stood in the Avocat’s library. At last, through the War Office, she + had found the whereabouts of her missing Matthew. She had gathered her + little savings together, and, after due preparation, had sailed away to + Canada to find the soldier boy whom she had never given anything but bad + hours in all the days of his life with her. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said the woman, “you’re a lawyer—have + you nothing to say? You pay his pension—next time you’ll pay + it to me. I’ll teach him to leave me and my kid and go off with an + Irish cook!” + </p> + <p> + The Avocat looked her steadily in the eyes, and then delivered the + strongest blow that was possible from the opposite side of the case. + “Madame,” said he, “Madame, I regret to inform you that + Matthew Kilquhanity is dying.” + </p> + <p> + “Dying, is he?” said the woman, with a sudden change of voice + and manner, but her whine did not ring true. “The poor darlin’, + and only that Irish hag to care for him! Has he made a will?” she + added eagerly. + </p> + <p> + Kilquhanity had made no will, and the little house on the hillside, and + all that he had, belonged to this woman who had spoiled the first part of + his life, and had come now to spoil the last part. + </p> + <p> + An hour later the Avocat, the Cure, and the two women stood in the chief + room of the little house on the hillside. The door was shut between the + two rooms, and the Little Chemist was with Kilquhanity. The Cure’s + hand was on the arm of the first wife and the Avocat’s upon the arm + of the second. The two women were glaring eye to eye, having just finished + as fine a torrent of abuse of each other and of Kilquhanity as can be + imagined. Kilquhanity himself, with the sorrow of death upon him, though + he knew it not, had listened to the brawl, his chickens come home to roost + at last. The first Mrs. Kilquhanity had sworn, with an oath that took no + account of the Cure’s presence, that not a stick nor a stone nor a + rag nor a penny should that Irish slattern have of Matthew Kilquhanity’s! + </p> + <p> + The Cure and the Avocat had quieted them at last, and the Cure spoke + sternly now to both women. + </p> + <p> + “In the presence of death,” said he, “have done with + your sinful clatter. Stop quarrelling over a dying man. Let him go in + peace—let him go in peace! If I hear one word more,” he added + sternly, “I will turn you both out of the house into the night. I + will have the man die in peace.” + </p> + <p> + Opening the door of the bedroom, the Cure went in and shut the door, + bolting it quietly behind him. The Little Chemist sat by the bedside, and + Kilquhanity lay as still as a babe upon the bed. His eyes were half + closed, for the Little Chemist had given him an opiate to quiet the + terrible pain. + </p> + <p> + The Cure saw that the end was near. He touched Kilquhanity’s arm: + “My son,” said he, “look up. You have sinned; you must + confess your sins, and repent.” + </p> + <p> + Kilquhanity looked up at him with dazed but half smiling eyes. “Are + they gone? Are the women gone?” The Cure nodded his head. + Kilquhanity’s eyes closed and opened again. “They’re + gone, thin! Oh, the foine of it, the foine of it!” he whispered. + “So quiet, so aisy, so quiet! Faith, I’ll just be shlaping! I’ll + be shlaping now.” + </p> + <p> + His eyes closed, but the Cure touched his arm again. “My son,” + said he, “look up. Do you thoroughly and earnestly repent you of + your sins?” + </p> + <p> + His eyes opened again. “Yis, father, oh yis! There’s been a + dale o’ noise—there’s been a dale o’ noise in the + wurruld, father,” said he. “Oh, so quiet, so quiet now! I do + be shlaping.” + </p> + <p> + A smile came upon his face. “Oh, the foine of it! I do be + shlaping-shlaping.” + </p> + <p> + And he fell into a noiseless Sleep. + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE BARON OF BEAUGARD + </h2> + <p> + “The Manor House at Beaugard, monsieur? Ah, certainlee, I mind it + very well. It was the first in Quebec, and there are many tales. It had a + chapel and a gallows. Its baron, he had the power of life and death, and + the right of the seigneur—you understand?—which he used only + once; and then what trouble it made for him and the woman, and the barony, + and the parish, and all the country!” + </p> + <p> + “What is the whole story, Larue?” said Medallion, who had + spent months in the seigneur’s company, stalking game, and tales, + and legends of the St. Lawrence. + </p> + <p> + Larue spoke English very well—his mother was English. + </p> + <p> + “Mais, I do not know for sure; but the Abbe Frontone, he and I were + snowed up together in that same house which now belongs to the Church, and + in the big fireplace, where we sat on a bench, toasting our knees and our + bacon, he told me the tale as he knew it. He was a great scholar—there + is none greater. He had found papers in the wall of the house, and from + the Gover’ment chest he got more. Then there were the tales handed + down, and the records of the Church—for she knows the true story of + every man that has come to New France from first to last. So, because I + have a taste for tales, and gave him some, he told me of the Baron of + Beaugard, and that time he took the right of the seigneur, and the end of + it all. + </p> + <p> + “Of course it was a hundred and fifty years ago, when Bigot was + Intendant-ah, what a rascal was that Bigot, robber and deceiver! He never + stood by a friend, and never fought fair a foe—so the Abbe said. + Well, Beaugard was no longer young. He had built the Manor House, he had + put up his gallows, he had his vassals, he had been made a lord. He had + quarrelled with Bigot, and had conquered, but at great cost; for Bigot had + such power, and the Governor had trouble enough to care for himself + against Bigot, though he was Beaugard’s friend. + </p> + <p> + “Well, there was a good lump of a fellow who had been a soldier, and + he picked out a girl in the Seigneury of Beaugard to make his wife. It is + said the girl herself was not set for the man, for she was of finer stuff + than the peasants about her, and showed it. But her father and mother had + a dozen other children, and what was this girl, this Falise, to do? She + said yes to the man, the time was fixed for the marriage, and it came + along. + </p> + <p> + “So. At the very hour of the wedding Beaugard came by, for, the + church was in mending, and he had given leave it should be in his own + chapel. Well, he rode by just as the bride was coming out with the man—Garoche. + When Beaugard saw Falise, he gave a whistle, then spoke in his throat, + reined up his horse, and got down. He fastened his eyes on the girl’s. + A strange look passed between them—he had never seen her before, but + she had seen him often, and when he was gone had helped the housekeeper + with his rooms. She had carried away with her a stray glove of his. Of + course it sounds droll, and they said of her when all came out that it was + wicked; but evil is according to a man’s own heart, and the girl had + hid this glove as she hid whatever was in her soul—hid it even from + the priest. + </p> + <p> + “Well, the Baron looked and she looked, and he took off his hat, + stepped forward, and kissed her on the cheek. She turned pale as a ghost, + and her eyes took the colour that her cheeks lost. When he stepped back he + looked close at the husband. ‘What is your name?’ he said. + ‘Garoche, M’sieu’ le Baron,’ was the reply. + ‘Garoche, Garoche,’ he said, eyeing him up and down. ‘You + have been a soldier?’ ‘Yes, M’sieu’ le Baron.’ + 'You have served with me?’ ‘Against you, M’sieu’ + le Baron... when Bigot came fighting.’ ‘Better against me than + for me,’ said the Baron, speaking to himself, though he had so + strong a voice that what he said could be heard by those near him-that is, + those who were tall, for he was six and a half feet, with legs and + shoulders like a bull. + </p> + <p> + “He stooped and stroked the head of his hound for a moment, and all + the people stood and watched him, wondering what next. At last he said: + ‘And what part played you in that siege, Garoche?’ Garoche + looked troubled, but answered: ‘It was in the way of duty, M’sieu’ + le Baron—I with five others captured the relief-party sent from your + cousin the Seigneur of Vadrome.’ ‘Oh,’ said the Baron, + looking sharp, ‘you were in that, were you? Then you know what + happened to the young Marmette?’ Garoche trembled a little, but drew + himself up and said: ‘M’sieu’ le Baron, he tried to kill + the Intendant—there was no other way.’ ‘What part played + you in that, Garoche?’ Some trembled, for they knew the truth, and + they feared the mad will of the Baron. ‘I ordered the firing-party, + M’sieu’ le Baron,’ he answered. + </p> + <p> + “The Baron’s eyes got fierce and his face hardened, but he + stooped and drew the ears of the hound through his hand softly. ‘Marmette + was my cousin’s son, and had lived with me,’ he said. ‘A + brave lad, and he had a nice hatred of vileness—else he had not + died.’ A strange smile played on his lips for a moment, then he + looked at Falise steadily. Who can tell what was working in his mind! + ‘War is war,’ he went on, ‘and Bigot was your master, + Garoche; but the man pays for his master’s sins this way or that. + Yet I would not have it different, no, not a jot.’ Then he turned + round to the crowd, raised his hat to the Cure, who stood on the chapel + steps, once more looked steadily at Falise, and said: ‘You shall all + come to the Manor House, and have your feastings there, and we will drink + to the home-coming of the fairest woman in my barony.’ With that he + turned round, bowed to Falise, put on his hat, caught the bridle through + his arm, and led his horse to the Manor House. + </p> + <p> + “This was in the afternoon. Of course, whether they wished or not, + Garoche and Falise could not refuse, and the people were glad enough, for + they would have a free hand at meat and wine, the Baron being liberal of + table. And it was as they guessed, for though the time was so short, the + people at Beaugard soon had the tables heavy with food and drink. It was + just at the time of candle-lighting the Baron came in and gave a toast. + ‘To the dwellers in Eden to-night,’ he said—‘Eden + against the time of the Angel and the Sword.’ I do not think that + any except the Cure and the woman understood, and she, maybe, only because + a woman feels the truth about a thing, even when her brain does not. After + they had done shouting to his toast, he said a good-night to all, and they + began to leave, the Cure among the first to go, with a troubled look in + his face. + </p> + <p> + “As the people left, the Baron said to Garoche and Falise: ‘A + moment with me before you go.’ The woman started, for she thought of + one thing, and Garoche started, for he thought of another—the siege + of Beaugard and the killing of young Marmette. But they followed the Baron + to his chamber. Coming in, he shut the door on them. Then he turned to + Garoche. 'You will accept the roof and bed of Beaugard to-night, my man,’ + he said, ‘and come to me here at nine tomorrow morning.’ + Garoche stared hard for an instant. ‘Stay here!’ said Garoche, + ‘Falise and me stay here in the Manor, M’sieu’ le Baron!’ + ‘Here, even here, Garoche; so good-night to you,’ said the + Baron. Garoche turned towards the girl. 'Then come, Falise,’ he + said, and reached out his hand. ‘Your room, Garoche, shall be shown + you at once,’ the Baron added softly, ‘the lady’s at her + pleasure.’ + </p> + <p> + “Then a cry burst from Garoche, and he sprang forward, but the Baron + waved him back. ‘Stand off,’ he said, ‘and let the lady + choose between us.’ ‘She is my wife,’ said Garoche. + ‘I am your Seigneur,’ said the other. ‘And there is more + than that,’ he went on; ‘for, damn me, she is too fine stuff + for you, and the Church shall untie what she has tied to-day!’ At + that Falise fainted, and the Baron caught her as she fell. He laid her on + a couch, keeping an eye on Garoche the while. ‘Loose her gown,’ + he said, ‘while I get brandy.’ Then he turned to a cupboard, + poured liquor, and came over. Garoche had her dress open at the neck and + bosom, and was staring at something on her breast. The Baron saw also, + stooped with a strange sound in his throat, and picked it up. ‘My + glove!’ he said. ‘And on her wedding-day!’ He pointed. + ‘There on the table is its mate, fished this morning from my + hunting-coat—a pair the Governor gave me. You see, man, you see her + choice!’ + </p> + <p> + “At that he stooped and put some brandy to her lips. Garoche drew + back sick and numb, and did nothing, only stared. Falise came to herself + soon, and when she felt her dress open, gave a cry. Garoche could have + killed her then, when he saw her shudder from him, as if afraid, over + towards the Baron, who held the glove in his hand, and said: ‘See, + Garoche, you had better go. In the next room they will tell you where to + sleep. To-morrow, as I said, you will meet me here. We shall have things + to say, you and I.’ Ah, that Baron, he had a queer mind, but in + truth he loved the woman, as you shall see! + </p> + <p> + “Garoche got up without a word, went to the door and opened it, the + look of the Baron and the woman following him, for there was a devil in + his eye. In the other room there were men waiting, and he was taken to a + chamber and locked in. You can guess what that night must have been to + him!” + </p> + <p> + “What was it to the Baron and Falise?” asked Medallion. + </p> + <p> + “M’sieu’, what do you think? Beaugard had never had an + eye for women; loving his hounds, fighting, quarrelling, doing wild, + strong things. So, all at once, he was face to face with a woman who has + the look of love in her face, who was young, and fine of body—so the + Abbe said—and was walking to marriage at her father’s will and + against her own, carrying the Baron’s glove in her bosom. What + should Beaugard do? But no, ah no, m’sieu’, not as you think, + not quite! Wild, with the bit in his teeth, yes; but at heart-well, here + was the one woman for him. He knew it all in a minute, and he would have + her once and for all, and till death should come their way. And so he said + to her, as he raised her, she drawing back afraid, her heart hungering for + him, yet fear in her eyes, and her fingers trembling as she softly pushed + him from her. You see, she did not know quite what was in his heart. She + was the daughter of a tenant vassal, who had lived in the family of a + grand seigneur in her youth, the friend of his child—that was all, + and that was where she got her manners and her mind. + </p> + <p> + “She got on her feet and said: ‘M’sieu’ le Baron, + you will let me go—to my husband. I cannot stay here. Oh, you are + great, you are noble, you would not make me sorry, make me to hate myself—and + you! I have only one thing in the world of any price—you would not + steal my happiness?’ He looked at her steadily in the eyes, and + said: ‘Will it make you happy to go to Garoche?’ She raised + her hands and wrung them. ‘God knows, God knows, I am his wife,’ + she said helplessly, ‘and he loves me.’ ‘And God knows, + God knows,’ said the Baron, ‘it is all a question of whether + one shall feed and two go hungry, or two gather and one have the stubble! + Shall not he stand in the stubble? What has he done to merit you? + </p> + <p> + “What would he do? You are for the master, not the man; for love, + not the feeding on; for the Manor House and the hunt, not the cottage and + the loom.’ + </p> + <p> + “She broke into tears, her heart thumping in her throat. ‘I am + for what the Church did for me this day,’ she said. ‘O sir, I + pray you, forgive me and let me go. Do not punish me, but forgive me—and + let me go. I was wicked to wear your glove-wicked, wicked.’ ‘But + no,’ was his reply, ‘I shall not forgive you so good a deed, + and you shall not go. And what the Church did for you this day she shall + undo—by all the saints, she shall! You came sailing into my heart + this hour past on a strong wind, and you shall not slide out on an + ebb-tide. I have you here, as your Seigneur, but I have you here as a man + who will—’ + </p> + <p> + “He sat down by her at that point, and whispered softly in her ear; + at which she gave a cry which had both gladness and pain. ‘Surely, + even that,’ he said, catching her to his breast. ‘And the + Baron of Beaugard never broke his word.’ What should be her reply? + Does not a woman when she truly loves always believe? That is the great + sign. She slid to her knees and dropped her head into the hollow of his + arm. ‘I do not understand these things,’ she said, ‘but + I know that the other was death, and this is life. And yet I know, too, + for my heart says so, that the end—the end, will be death.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘Tut, tut, my flower, my wild-rose!’ he said. ‘Of + course the end of all is death, but we will go a-Maying first, come + October, and let the world break over us when it must. We are for Maying + now, my rose of all the world!’ It was as if he meant more than he + said, as if he saw what would come in that October which all New France + never forgot, when, as he said, the world broke over them. + </p> + <p> + “The next morning the Baron called Garoche to him. The man was like + some mad buck harried by the hounds, and he gnashed his teeth behind his + shut lips. The Baron eyed him curiously, yet kindly, too, as well he + might, for when was ever man to hear such a speech as came to Garoche the + morning after his marriage? ‘Garoche,’ the Baron said, having + waved his men away, ‘as you see, the lady made her choice—and + for ever. You and she have said your last farewell in this world—for + the wife of the Baron of Beaugard can have nothing to say to Garoche the + soldier.’ At that Garoche snarled out, ‘The wife of the Baron + of Beaugard, that is a lie to shame all hell.’ The Baron wound the + lash of a riding-whip round and round his fingers quietly and said: + ‘It is no lie, my man, but the truth.’ Garoche eyed him + savagely, and growled: ‘The Church made her my wife yesterday; and + you—you—you—ah, you who had all—you with your + money and place, which could get all easy, you take the one thing I have! + You, the grand seigneur, are only a common robber! Ah, Jesu—if you + would but fight me!’ + </p> + <p> + “The Baron, very calm, said: ‘First, Garoche, the lady was + only your wife by a form which the Church shall set aside—it could + never have been a true marriage. Second, it is no stealing to take from + you what you did not have. I took what was mine—remember the glove! + For the rest—to fight you? No, my churl, you know that’s + impossible. You may shoot me from behind a tree or a rock, but swording + with you—come, come, a pretty gossip for the Court! Then, why wish a + fight? Where would you be, as you stood before me—you!’ The + Baron stretched himself up, and smiled down at Garoche. ‘You have + your life, man; take it and go—to the farthest corner of New France, + and show not your face here again. If I find you ever again in Beaugard I + will have you whipped from parish to parish. Here is money for you—good + gold coins. Take them, and go.’ + </p> + <p> + “Garoche got still and cold as stone. He said in a low, harsh voice: + 'M’sieu’ le Baron, you are a common thief, a wolf, a snake. + Such men as you come lower than Judas. As God has an eye to see, you shall + pay all one day. I do not fear you nor your men nor your gallows. You are + a jackal, and the woman has a filthy heart—a ditch of shame.’ + </p> + <p> + “The Baron drew up his arm like lightning, and the lash of his whip + came singing across Garoche’s pale face. Where it passed, a red welt + rose, but the man never stirred. The arm came up again, but a voice’ + behind the Baron said: ‘Ah no, no, not again!’ There stood + Falise. Both men looked at her. ‘I have heard Garoche,’ she + said. ‘He does not judge me right. My heart is no filthy ditch of + shame; but it was breaking when I came from the altar with him yesterday. + Yet I would have been a true wife to him after all. A ditch of shame—ah, + Garoche—Garoche! And you said you loved me, and that nothing could + change you!’ + </p> + <p> + “The Baron said to her: ‘Why have you come, Falise? I forbade + you.’ ‘Oh, my lord,’ she answered, ‘I feared—for + you both! When men go mad because of women a devil enters into them.’ + The Baron, taking her by the hand, said: ‘Permit me,’ and he + led her to the door for her to pass out. She looked back sadly at Garoche, + standing for a minute very still. Then Garoche said: ‘I command you, + come with me; you are my wife.’ She did not reply, but shook her + head at him. Then he spoke out high and fierce: 'May no child be born to + you. May a curse fall on you. May your fields be barren, and your horses + and cattle die. May you never see nor hear good things. May the waters + leave their courses to drown you, and the hills their bases to bury you, + and no hand lay you in decent graves!’ + </p> + <p> + “The woman put her hands to her ears and gave a little cry, and the + Baron pushed her gently on, and closed the door after her. Then he turned + on Garoche. ‘Have you said all you wish?’ he asked. ‘For, + if not, say on, and then go; and go so far you cannot see the sky that + covers Beaugard. We are even now—we can cry quits. But that I have a + little injured you, you should be done for instantly. But hear me: if I + ever see you again, my gallows shall end you straight. Your tongue has + been gross before the mistress of this Manor; I will have it torn out if + it so much as syllables her name to me or to the world again. She is dead + to you. Go, and go for ever!’ + </p> + <p> + “He put a bag of money on the table, but Garoche turned away from + it, and without a word left the room, and the house, and the parish, and + said nothing to any man of the evil that had come to him. + </p> + <p> + “But what talk was there, and what dreadful things were said at + first-that Garoche had sold his wife to the Baron; that he had been killed + and his wife taken; that the Baron kept him a prisoner in a cellar under + the Manor House! And all the time there was Falise with the Baron—very + quiet and sweet and fine to see, and going to Chapel every day, and to + Mass on Sundays—which no one could understand, any more than they + could see why she should be called the Baroness of Beaugard; for had they + all not seen her married to Garoche? And there were many people who + thought her vile. Yet truly, at heart, she was not so—not at all. + Then it was said that there was to be a new marriage; that the Church + would let it be so, doing and undoing, and doing again. But the weeks and + the months went by, and it was never done. For, powerful as the Baron was, + Bigot the Intendant was powerful also, and fought the thing with all his + might. The Baron went to Quebec to see the Bishop and the Governor, and + though promises were made, nothing was done. It must go to the King and + then to the Pope, and from the Pope to the King again, and so on. And the + months and the years went by as they waited, and with them came no child + to the Manor House of Beaugard. That was the only sad thing—that and + the waiting, so far as man could see. For never were man and woman truer + to each other than these, and never was a lady of the Manor kinder to the + poor, or a lord freer of hand to his vassals. He would bluster sometimes, + and string a peasant up by the heels, but his gallows was never used; and, + what was much in the minds of the people, the Cure did not refuse the + woman the sacrament. + </p> + <p> + “At last the Baron, fierce because he knew that Bigot was the cause + of the great delay, so that he might not call Falise his wife, seized a + transport on the river, which had been sent to brutally levy upon a poor + gentleman, and when Bigot’s men resisted, shot them down. Then Bigot + sent against Beaugard a company of artillery and some soldiers of the + line. The guns were placed on a hill looking down on the Manor House + across the little river. In the evening the cannons arrived, and in the + morning the fight was to begin. The guns were loaded and everything was + ready. At the Manor all was making ready also, and the Baron had no fear. + </p> + <p> + “But Falise’s heart was heavy, she knew not why. ‘Eugene,’ + she said, 'if anything should happen!’ ‘Nonsense, my Falise,’ + he answered; 'what should happen?’ ‘If—if you were taken—were + killed!’ she said. 'Nonsense, my rose,’ he said again, ‘I + shall not be killed. But if I were, you should be at peace here.’ + ‘Ah, no, no!’ said she. ‘Never. Life to me is only + possible with you. I have had nothing but you—none of those things + which give peace to other women—none. But I have been happy-yes, + very happy. And, God forgive me, Eugene, I cannot regret, and I never + have! But it has been always and always my prayer that, when you die, I + may die with you—at the same moment. For I cannot live without you, + and, besides, I would like to go to the good God with you to speak for us + both; for oh, I loved you, I loved you, and I love you still, my husband, + my adored!’ + </p> + <p> + “He stooped—he was so big, and she but of middle height—kissed + her, and said: ‘See, my Falise, I am of the same mind. We have been + happy in life, and we could well be happy in death together.’ So + they sat long, long into the night and talked to each other—of the + days they had passed together, of cheerful things, she trying to comfort + herself, and he trying to bring smiles to her lips. At last they said + good-night, and he lay down in his clothes; and after a few moments she + was sleeping like a child. But he could not sleep, for he lay thinking of + her and of her life—how she had come from humble things and fitted + in with the highest. At last, at break of day, he arose and went outside. + He looked up at the hill where Bigot’s two guns were. Men were + already stirring there. One man was standing beside the gun, and another + not far behind. Of course the Baron could not know that the man behind the + gunner said: 'Yes, you may open the dance with an early salute;’ and + he smiled up boldly at the hill and went into the house, and stole to the + bed of his wife to kiss her before he began the day’s fighting. He + looked at her a moment, standing over her, and then stooped and softly put + his lips to hers. + </p> + <p> + “At that moment the gunner up on the hill used the match, and an + awful thing happened. With the loud roar the whole hillside of rock and + gravel and sand split down, not ten feet in front of the gun, moved with + horrible swiftness upon the river, filled its bed, turned it from its + course, and, sweeping on, swallowed the Manor House of Beaugard. There had + been a crack in the hill, the water of the river had sapped its + foundations, and it needed only this shock to send it down. + </p> + <p> + “And so, as the woman wished: the same hour for herself and the man! + And when at last their prison was opened by the hands of Bigot’s + men, they were found cheek by cheek, bound in the sacred marriage of + Death. + </p> + <p> + “But another had gone the same road, for, at the awful moment, + beside the bursted gun, the dying gunner, Garoche, lifted up his head, saw + the loose travelling hill, and said with his last breath: ‘The + waters drown them, and the hills bury them, and—’ + </p> + <p> + “He had his way with them, and after that perhaps the great God had + His way with him perhaps.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="2H_4_0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + </h2> + <p> + McGilveray has been dead for over a hundred years, but there is a parish + in Quebec where his tawny-haired descendants still live. They have the + same sort of freckles on their faces as had their ancestor, the bandmaster + of Anstruther’s regiment, and some of them have his taste for music, + yet none of them speak his language or with his brogue, and the name of + McGilveray has been gallicised to Magille. + </p> + <p> + In Pontiac, one of the Magilles, the fiddler of the parish, made the + following verse in English as a tribute of admiration for an heroic deed + of his ancestor, of which the Cure of the parish, the good M. Santonge, + had told him: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Piff! poem! ka-zoon, ka-zoon! + That is the way of the organ tune— + And the ships are safe that day! + Piff! poum! kazoon, kazoon! + And the Admiral light his pipe and say: + ‘Bully for us, we are not kill! + Who is to make the organ play + Make it say zoon-kazoon? + You with the corunet come this way— + You are the man, Magillel + Piff! poum! kazoon, kazoon!’” + </pre> + <p> + Now, this is the story of McGilveray the bandmaster of Anstruther’s + regiment: + </p> + <p> + It was at the time of the taking of Quebec, the summer of 1759. The + English army had lain at Montmorenci, at the Island of Orleans, and at + Point Levis; the English fleet in the basin opposite the town, since June + of that great year, attacking and retreating, bombarding and besieging, to + no great purpose. For within the walls of the city, and on the shore of + Beauport, protected by its mud flats—a splendid moat—the + French more than held their own. + </p> + <p> + In all the hot months of that summer, when parishes were ravaged with fire + and sword, and the heat was an excuse for almost any lapse of virtue, + McGilveray had not been drunk once—not once. It was almost + unnatural. Previous to that, McGilveray’s career had been chequered. + No man had received so many punishments in the whole army, none had risen + so superior to them as had he, none had ever been shielded from wrath + present and to come as had this bandmaster of Anstruther’s regiment. + He had no rivals for promotion in the regiment—perhaps that was one + reason; he had a good temper and an overwhelming spirit of fun—perhaps + that was another. + </p> + <p> + He was not remarkable to the vision—scarcely more than five feet + four; with an eye like a gimlet, red hair tied in a queue, a big mouth, + and a chest thrown out like the breast of a partridge—as fine a + figure of a man in miniature as you should see. When intoxicated, his + tongue rapped out fun and fury like a triphammer. Alert-minded drunk or + sober, drunk, he was lightning-tongued, and he could play as well drunk as + sober, too; but more than once a sympathetic officer altered the tactics + that McGilveray might not be compelled to march, and so expose his + condition. Standing still he was quite fit for duty. He never got really + drunk “at the top.” His brain was always clear, no matter how + useless were his legs. + </p> + <p> + But the wonderful thing was that for six months McGilveray’s legs + were as steady as his head was right. At first the regiment was + unbelieving, and his resolution to drink no more was scoffed at in the + non-com mess. He stuck to it, however, and then the cause was searched for—and + not found. He had not turned religious, he was not fanatical, he was of + sound mind—what was it? When the sergeant-major suggested a woman, + they howled him down, for they said McGilveray had not made love to women + since the day of his weaning, and had drunk consistently all the time. + </p> + <p> + Yet it was a woman. + </p> + <p> + A fortnight or so after Wolfe’s army and Saunders’s fleet had + sat down before Quebec, McGilveray, having been told by a sentry at + Montmorenci where Anstruther’s regiment was camped, that a French + girl on the other side of the stream had kissed her hand to him and sung + across in laughing insolence: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Malbrouk s’en va t’en guerre,” + </pre> + <p> + he had forthwith set out to hail this daughter of Gaul, if perchance she + might be seen again. + </p> + <p> + At more than ordinary peril he crossed the river on a couple of logs, + lashed together, some distance above the spot where the picket had seen + Mademoiselle. It was a moonlight night, and he might easily have been + picked off by a bullet, if a wary sentry had been alert and malicious. But + the truth was that many of these pickets on both sides were in no wise + unfriendly to each other, and more than once exchanged tobacco and liquor + across the stream. As it chanced, however, no sentry saw McGilveray, and + presently, safely landed, he made his way down the stream. Even at the + distance he was from the falls, the rumble of them came up the long walls + of firs and maples with a strange, half-moaning sound—all else was + still. He came down until he was opposite the spot where his English + picket was posted, and then he halted and surveyed his ground. + </p> + <p> + Nothing human in sight, no sound of life, no sign of habitation. At this + moment, however, his stupidity in thus rushing into danger, the + foolishness of pursuing a woman whom he had never seen, and a French woman + at that, the punishment that would be meted out to him if his adventure + was discovered—all these came to him. + </p> + <p> + They stunned him for a moment, and then presently, as if in defiance of + his own thoughts, he began to sing softly: + </p> + <p> + “Malbrouk s’en va t’en guerre.” + </p> + <p> + Suddenly, in one confused moment, he was seized, and a hand was clapped + over his mouth. Three French soldiers had him in their grip-stalwart + fellows they were, of the Regiment of Bearn. He had no strength to cope + with them, he at once saw the futility of crying out, so he played the + eel, and tried to slip from the grasp of his captors. But though he gave + the trio an awkward five minutes he was at last entirely overcome, and was + carried away in triumph through the woods. More than once they passed a + sentry, and more than once campfires round which soldiers slept or dozed. + Now and again one would raise his head, and with a laugh, or a “Sapristi!” + or a “Sacre bleu!” drop back into comfort again. + </p> + <p> + After about ten minutes’ walk he was brought to a small wooden + house, the door was thrown open, he was tossed inside, and the soldiers + entered after. The room was empty save for a bench, some shelves, a table, + on which a lantern burned, and a rude crucifix on the wall. McGilveray sat + down on the bench, and in five minutes his feet were shackled, while a + chain fastened to a staple in the wall held him in secure captivity. + </p> + <p> + “How you like yourself now?” asked a huge French corporal who + had learned English from an English girl at St. Malo years before. + </p> + <p> + “If you’d tie a bit o’ pink ribbon round me neck, I’d + die wid pride,” said McGilveray, spitting on the ground in defiance + at the same time. + </p> + <p> + The big soldier laughed, and told his comrades what the bandmaster had + said. One of them grinned, but the other frowned sullenly, and said: + </p> + <p> + “Avez vous tabac?” + </p> + <p> + “Havey you to-ba-co?” said the big soldier instantly—interpreting. + </p> + <p> + “Not for a Johnny Crapaud like you, and put that in your pipe and + shmoke it!” said McGilveray, winking at the big fellow, and spitting + on the ground before the surly one, who made a motion as if he would + bayonet McGilveray where he sat. + </p> + <p> + “He shall die—the cursed English soldier,” said Johnny + Crapaud. + </p> + <p> + “Some other day will do,” said McGilveray. “What does he + say?” asked Johnny Crapaud. + </p> + <p> + “He says he’ll give each of us three pounds of tobacco, if we + let him go,” answered the corporal. McGilveray knew by the corporal’s + voice that he was lying, and he also knew that, somehow, he had made a + friend. + </p> + <p> + “Y’are lyin’, me darlin’, me bloody beauty!” + interposed McGilveray. + </p> + <p> + “If we don’t take him to headquarters now he’ll send + across and get the tobacco,” interpreted the corporal to Johnny + Crapaud. + </p> + <p> + “If he doesn’t get the tobacco he’ll be hung for a spy,” + said Johnny Crapaud, turning on his heel. “Do we all agree?” + said the corporal. + </p> + <p> + The others nodded their heads, and, as they went out, McGilveray said + after them: + </p> + <p> + “I’ll dance a jig on yer sepulchrees, ye swobs!” he + roared, and he spat on the ground again in defiance. Johnny Crapaud turned + to the corporal. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll kill him very dead,” said he, “if that + tobacco doesn’t come. You tell him so,” he added, jerking a + thumb towards McGilveray. “You tell him so.” + </p> + <p> + The corporal stayed when the others went out, and, in broken English, told + McGilveray so. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll play a hornpipe, an’ his gory shroud is round him,” + said McGilveray. + </p> + <p> + The corporal grinned from ear to ear. “You like a chew tabac?” + said he, pulling out a dirty knob of a black plug. + </p> + <p> + McGilveray had found a man after his own heart. “Sing a song + a-sixpence,” said he, “what sort’s that for a gintleman + an’ a corporal, too? Feel in me trousies pocket,” said he, + “which is fur me frinds for iver.” McGilveray had now hopes of + getting free, but if he had not taken a fancy to “me baby corporal,” + as he called the Frenchman, he would have made escape or release + impossible, by insulting him and every one of them as quick as winking. + </p> + <p> + After the corporal had emptied one pocket, “Now the other, + man-o-wee-wee!” said McGilveray, and presently the two were drinking + what the flask from the “trousies pocket” contained. So well + did McGilveray work upon the Frenchman’s bonhomie that the corporal + promised he should escape. He explained how McGilveray should be freed—that + at midnight some one would come and release him, while he, the corporal, + was with his companions, so avoiding suspicion as to his own complicity. + McGilveray and the corporal were to meet again and exchange courtesies + after the manner of brothers—if the fortunes of war permitted. + </p> + <p> + McGilveray was left alone. To while away the time he began to whistle to + himself, and what with whistling, and what with winking and talking to the + lantern on the table, and calling himself painful names, he endured his + captivity well enough. + </p> + <p> + It was near midnight when the lock turned in the door and presently + stepped inside—a girl. + </p> + <p> + “Malbrouk s’en va t’en guerre,” said she, and + nodded her head to him humorously. + </p> + <p> + By this McGilveray knew that this was the maid that had got him into all + this trouble. At first he was inclined to say so, but she came nearer, and + one look of her black eyes changed all that. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve a way wid you, me darlin’,” said + McGilveray, not thinking that she might understand. + </p> + <p> + “A leetla way of my own,” she answered in broken English. + </p> + <p> + McGilveray started. “Where did you learn it?” he asked, for he + had had two surprises that night. + </p> + <p> + “Of my mother—at St. Malo,” she replied. “She was + half English—of Jersey. You are a naughty boy,” she added, + with a little gurgle of laughter in her throat. “You are not a good + soldier to go a-chase of the French girls ‘cross of the river.” + </p> + <p> + “Shure I am not a good soldier thin. Music’s me game. An’ + the band of Anstruther’s rigimint’s mine.” + </p> + <p> + “You can play tunes on a drum?” she asked, mischievously. + </p> + <p> + “There’s wan I’d play to the voice av you,” he + said, in his softest brogue. “You’ll be unloosin’ me, + darlin’?” he added. + </p> + <p> + She stooped to undo the shackles on his ankles. As she did so he leaned + over as if to kiss her. She threw back her head in disgust. + </p> + <p> + “You have been drink,” she said, and she stopped her work of + freeing him. + </p> + <p> + “What’d wet your eye—no more,” he answered. She + stood up. “I will not,” she said, pointing to the shackles, + “if you drink some more—nevare some more—nevare!” + </p> + <p> + “Divil a drop thin, darlin’, till we fly our flag yander,” + pointing towards where he supposed the town to be. + </p> + <p> + “Not till then?” she asked, with a merry little sneer. “Ver’ + well, it is comme ca!” She held out her hand. Then she burst into a + soft laugh, for his hands were tied. “Let me kiss it,” he + said, bending forward. + </p> + <p> + “No, no, no,” she said. “We will shake our hands after,” + and she stooped, took off the shackles, and freed his arms. + </p> + <p> + “Now if you like,” she said, and they shook hands as + McGilveray stood up and threw out his chest. But, try as he would to look + important, she was still an inch taller than he. + </p> + <p> + A few moments later they were hurrying quietly through the woods, to the + river. There was no speaking. There was only the escaping prisoner and the + gay-hearted girl speeding along in the night, the mumbling of the quiet + cascade in their ears, the shifting moon playing hide-and-seek with the + clouds. They came out on the bank a distance above where McGilveray had + landed, and the girl paused and spoke in a whisper. “It is more hard + now,” she said. “Here is a boat, and I must paddle—you + would go to splash. Sit still and be good.” + </p> + <p> + She loosed the boat into the current gently, and, holding it, motioned to + him to enter. + </p> + <p> + “You’re goin’ to row me over?” he asked, + incredulously. + </p> + <p> + “‘Sh! get in,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Shtrike me crazy, no!” said McGilveray. “Divil a step + will I go. Let me that sowed the storm take the whirlwind.” He threw + out his chest. + </p> + <p> + “What is it you came here for?” she asked, with meaning. + </p> + <p> + “Yourself an’ the mockin’ bird in yer voice,” he + answered. + </p> + <p> + “Then that is enough,” she said. “You come for me, I go + for you. Get in.” + </p> + <p> + A moment afterwards, taking advantage of the obscured moon, they were + carried out on the current diagonally down the stream, and came quickly to + that point on the shore where an English picket was placed. They had + scarcely touched the shore when the click of a musket was heard, and a + “Qui-va-la?” came from the thicket. + </p> + <p> + McGilveray gave the pass-word, and presently he was on the bank saluting + the sentry he had left three hours before. + </p> + <p> + “Malbrouk s’en va t’en guerre!” said the girl + again with a gay insolence, and pushed the boat out into the stream. + </p> + <p> + “A minnit, a minnit, me darlin’,” said McGilveray. + </p> + <p> + “Keep your promise,” came back, softly. + </p> + <p> + “Ah, come back wan minnit!” + </p> + <p> + “A flirt!” said the sentry. + </p> + <p> + “You will pay for that,” said the girl to the sentry, with + quick anger. + </p> + <p> + “Do you love me, Irishman?” she added, to McGilveray. + </p> + <p> + “I do—aw, wurra, wurra, I do!” said McGilveray. “Then + you come and get me by ze front door of ze city,” said she, and a + couple of quick strokes sent her canoe out into the dusky middle of the + stream; and she was soon lost to view. + </p> + <p> + “Aw, the loike o’ that! Aw, the foine av her-the tip-top lass + o’ the wide world!” said he. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a fool, an’ there’ll be trouble from this,” + said the sentry. + </p> + <p> + There was trouble, for two hours later the sentry was found dead; picked + off by a bullet from the other shore when he showed himself in the + moonlight; and from that hour all friendliness between the pickets of the + English and the French ceased on the Montmorenci. + </p> + <p> + But the one witness to McGilveray’s adventure was dead, and that was + why no man knew wherefore it was that McGilveray took an oath to drink no + more till they captured Quebec. + </p> + <p> + From May to September McGilveray kept to his resolution. But for all that + time he never saw “the tip-top lass o’ the wide world.” + A time came, however, when McGilveray’s last state was worse than + his first, and that was the evening before the day Quebec was taken. A + dozen prisoners had been captured in a sortie from the Isle of Orleans to + the mouth of the St. Charles River. Among these prisoners was the grinning + corporal who had captured McGilveray and then released him. + </p> + <p> + Two strange things happened. The big, grinning corporal escaped from + captivity the same night, and McGilveray, as a non-com said, “Got + shameful drunk.” This is one explanation of the two things. + McGilveray had assisted the grinning corporal to escape. The other + explanation belongs to the end of the story. In any case, McGilveray + “got shameful drunk,” and “was going large” + through the camp. The end of it was his arrest for assisting a prisoner to + escape and for being drunk and disorderly. The band of Anstruther’s + regiment boarded H.M.S. Leostaf without him, to proceed up the river + stealthily with the rest of the fleet to Cap Rouge, from whence the last + great effort of the heroic Wolfe to effect a landing was to be made. + McGilveray, still intoxicated but intelligent, watched them go in silence. + </p> + <p> + As General Wolfe was about to enter the boat which was to convey him to + the flag-ship, he saw McGilveray, who was waiting under guard to be taken + to Major Hardy’s post at Point Levis. The General knew him well, and + looked at him half sadly, half sternly. + </p> + <p> + “I knew you were free with drink, McGilveray,” he said, + “but I did not think you were a traitor to your country too.” + </p> + <p> + McGilveray saluted, and did not answer. + </p> + <p> + “You might have waited till after to-morrow, man,” said the + General, his eyes flashing. “My soldiers should have good music + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + McGilveray saluted again, but made no answer. + </p> + <p> + As if with a sudden thought the General waved off the officers and men + near him, and betkcned McGilveray to him. + </p> + <p> + “I can understand the drink in a bad soldier,” he said, + “but you helped a prisoner to escape. Come, man, we may both be dead + to-morrow, and I’d like to feel that no soldier in my army is + wilfully a foe of his country.” + </p> + <p> + “He did the same for me, whin I was taken prisoner, yer Excillincy, + an’—an’, yer Excillincy, ‘twas a matter of a + woman, too.” + </p> + <p> + The General’s face relaxed a little. “Tell me the whole truth,” + said he; and McGilveray told him all. “Ah, yer Excillincy,” he + burst out, at last, “I was no traitor at heart, but a fool I always + was! Yer Excillincy, court-martial and death’s no matter to me; but + I’d like to play wan toon agin, to lead the byes tomorrow. Wan toon, + Gineral, an’ I’ll be dacintly shot before the day’s + over-ah, yer Excillincy, wan toon more, and to be wid the byes followin’ + the Gineral!” + </p> + <p> + The General’s face relaxed still more. + </p> + <p> + “I take you at your word,” said he. He gave orders that + McGilveray should proceed at once aboard the flag-ship, from whence he + should join Anstruther’s regiment at Cap Rouge. + </p> + <p> + The General entered the boat, and McGilveray followed with some non-com. + officers in another. It was now quite dark, and their motions, or the + motions of the vessels of war, could not be seen from the French + encampment or the citadel. They neared the flag-ship, and the General, + followed by his officers, climbed up. Then the men in McGilveray’s + boat climbed up also, until only himself and another were left. + </p> + <p> + At that moment the General, looking down from the side of the ship, said + sharply to an officer beside him: “What’s that?” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a dark object floating near the ship, from which presently + came a small light with a hissing sound. + </p> + <p> + “It’s a fire-organ, sir,” was the reply. + </p> + <p> + A fire-organ was a raft, carrying long tubes like the pipes of an organ, + and filled with explosives. They were used by the French to send among the + vessels of the British fleet to disorganise and destroy them. The little + light which the General saw was the burning fuse. The raft had been + brought out into the current by French sailors, the fuse had been lighted, + and it was headed to drift towards the British ships. The fleet was now in + motion, and apart from the havoc which the bursting fire-organ might make, + the light from the explosion would reveal the fact that the English men-o’-war + were now moving towards Cap Rouge. This knowledge would enable Montcalm to + detect Wolfe’s purpose, and he would at once move his army in that + direction. The west side of the town had meagre military defenses, the + great cliffs being thought impregnable. But at this point Wolfe had + discovered a narrow path up a steep cliff. + </p> + <p> + McGilveray had seen the fire-organ at the same moment as the General. + “Get up the side,” he said to the remaining soldier in his + boat. The soldier began climbing, and McGilveray caught the oars and was + instantly away towards the raft. The General, looking over the ship’s + side, understood his daring purpose. In the shadow, they saw him near it, + they saw him throw a boat-hook and catch it, and then attach a rope; they + saw him sit down, and, taking the oars, laboriously row up-stream toward + the opposite shore, the fuse burning softly, somewhere among the great + pipes of explosives. McGilveray knew that it might be impossible to reach + the fuse—there was no time to spare, and he had set about to row the + devilish machine out of range of the vessels which were carrying Wolfe’s + army to a forlorn hope. + </p> + <p> + For minutes those on board the man-o’-war watched and listened. + Presently nothing could be seen, not even the small glimmer from the + burning fuse. + </p> + <p> + Then, all at once, there was a terrible report, and the organ pipes + belched their hellish music upon the sea. Within the circle of light that + the explosion made, there was no sign of any ship; but, strangely tall in + the red glare, stood McGilveray in his boat. An instant he stood so, then + he fell, and presently darkness covered the scene. The furious music of + death and war was over. There was silence on the ship for a time as all + watched and waited. Presently an officer said to the General: “I’m + afraid he’s gone, sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Send a boat to search,” was the reply. “If he is dead”—the + General took off his hat “we will, please God, bury him within the + French citadel to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + But McGilveray was alive, and in half-an-hour he was brought aboard the + flag-ship, safe and sober. The General praised him for his courage, and + told him that the charge against him should be withdrawn. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve wiped all out, McGilveray,” said Wolfe. “We + see you are no traitor.” + </p> + <p> + “Only a fool of a bandmaster who wanted wan toon more, yer + Excillincy,” said McGilveray. + </p> + <p> + “Beware drink, beware women,” answered the General. + </p> + <p> + But advice of that sort is thrown away on such as McGilveray. The next + evening after Quebec was taken, and McGilveray went in at the head of his + men playing “The Men of Harlech,” he met in the streets the + woman that had nearly been the cause of his undoing. Indignation threw out + his chest. + </p> + <p> + “It’s you, thin,” he said, and he tried to look + scornfully at her. + </p> + <p> + “Have you keep your promise?” she said, hardly above her + breath. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that to you?” he asked, his eyes firing up. + “I got drunk last night—afther I set your husband free—afther + he tould me you was his wife. We’re aven now, decaver! I saved him, + and the divil give you joy of that salvation—and that husband, say + I.” + </p> + <p> + “Hoosban’—” she exclaimed, “who was my + hoosban’?” + </p> + <p> + “The big grinning corporal,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “He is shot this morning,” she said, her face darkening, + “and, besides, he was—nevare—my hoosban’.” + </p> + <p> + “He said he was,” replied McGilveray, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “He was alway a liar,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + “He decaved you too, thin?” asked McGilveray, his face growing + red. + </p> + <p> + She did not answer, but all at once a change came over her, the + half-mocking smile left her lips, tears suddenly ran down her cheeks, and + without a word she turned and hurried into a little alley, and was lost to + view, leaving McGilveray amazed and confounded. + </p> + <p> + It was days before he found her again, and three things only that they + said are of any moment here. “We’ll lave the past behind us,” + he said-“an’ the pit below for me, if I’m not a good + husband t’ ye!” + </p> + <p> + “You will not drink no more?” she asked, putting a hand on his + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Not till the Frenchies take Quebec again,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + ETEXT EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: + + Ah, let it be soon! Ah, let him die soon! + All are hurt some time + But a wounded spirit who can bear + Did not let him think that she was giving up anything for him + Duplicity, for which she might never have to ask forgiveness + Frenchman, slave of ideas, the victim of sentiment + Frenchman, volatile, moody, chivalrous, unreasonable + Her stronger soul ruled him without his knowledge + I love that love in which I married him + Let others ride to glory, I’ll shoe their horses for the gallop + Lighted candles in hollowed pumpkins + Love has nothing to do with ugliness or beauty, or fortune + Man grows old only by what he suffers, and what he forgives + Nature twists in back, or anywhere, gets a twist in’s brain too + Rewarded for its mistakes + Some are hurt in one way and some in another + Struggle of conscience and expediency + The furious music of death and war was over + We’ll lave the past behind us + You—you all were so ready to suspect +</pre> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete +by Gilbert Parker + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANE OF NO TURNING *** + +***** This file should be named 6241-h.htm or 6241-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/6/2/4/6241/ + +Produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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