diff options
| -rw-r--r-- | .gitattributes | 3 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6241-0.txt | 9034 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6241-0.zip | bin | 0 -> 179142 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6241-h.zip | bin | 0 -> 188796 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6241-h/6241-h.htm | 11002 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6241.txt | 9034 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | 6241.zip | bin | 0 -> 177990 bytes | |||
| -rw-r--r-- | LICENSE.txt | 11 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | README.md | 2 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/gp68w10.txt | 9160 | ||||
| -rw-r--r-- | old/gp68w10.zip | bin | 0 -> 182837 bytes |
11 files changed, 38246 insertions, 0 deletions
diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/6241-0.txt b/6241-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4858f75 --- /dev/null +++ b/6241-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9034 @@ +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 + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + + + +CONTENTS + + Volume 1. + THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + + Volume 2. + THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P’TITE LOUISON + THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR + A SON OF THE WILDERNESS + A WORKER IN STONE + + Volume 3. + THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE + THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER + MATHURIN + THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER + THE WOODSMAN’S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF + UNCLE JIM + THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH + PARPON THE DWARF + + Volume 4. + TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC + MEDALLION’S WHIM + THE PRISONER + AN UPSET PRICE + A FRAGMENT OF LIVES + THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA + THE BARON OF BEAUGARD + THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + + + + +The Right Hon. Sir Wilfrid Laurier G.C.M.G. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + + Believe me, + Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier, + Yours very sincerely, + GILBERT PARKER. + +20 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE, LONDON, S. W., + 14th August, 1900. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + + + + +CHAPTER I. THE RETURN OF MADELINETTE + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +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.” + +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: + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Louis! Louis! Louis!” + +The fierce words he had been about to utter died on his lips, his eyes +stared at the open window, bewildered and even frightened. + +“Louis! Louis!” + +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. + +“Louis!” + +It was Madelinette, who, disregarding the assembled company, ran forward +to him and caught both his hands in hers. + +“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! + +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. + +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. + +“You are not strong enough, Louis. You must be tranquil.” + +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.” + +She was smiling and still, and with one hand clasping her husband’s, she +said: + +“The honour I value most my native land has given me: I am lady of the +Manor here, and wife of the Seigneur Racine.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“Our baronies have never been recognised,” said the Seigneur harshly. +“And yet we are asked to love the flag of England and--” + +“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--” + +“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. + +Havel entered with a tray of wine and glasses, followed by Tardif loaded +with cakes and comfits, and set them on the table. + +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. + +“What soldiers are these?” he asked. + +“The Seigneury company, your Excellency,” replied Louis. + +“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. + +“The livery of the Barony of Pontiac,” answered the Seigneur. + +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. + +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?” + +The Avocat made no reply, but the Cure’s face was greatly troubled. The +Seigneur’s momentary placidity passed. + +“I answer for their legality, your Excellency,” he said, in a high, +assertive voice. + +“Of course, of course, you will answer for it,” said the Governor, +smiling enigmatically. He came forward and held out his hand to +Madelinette. + +“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.” + +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. + +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? + +He felt Madelinette’s hand on his arm. He turned and clasped her to his +breast. + +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. + +“How beautiful you are!” he said, as he looked into her face. + +“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.” + +Inside her room alone she flung herself on her bed in agony and despair. + +“Louis--Oh, my God!” she cried, and sobbed and sobbed her strength away. + + + + +CHAPTER II. WHEN THE RED-COATS CAME + +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--” + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +As Muroc spoke, every one turned towards Medallion. He came over and +filled a glass at the table, and raised it. + +“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!” + +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. + +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.” + +Then he shook hands with them all and went into the next room. + +“Why did he drop his glass?” asked Gingras the shoemaker. + +“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?” + +“What the devil do I know about aristocrats!” said Lajeunesse. + +“You’re among the best of the land, now that Madelinette’s married to +the Seigneur. You ought to wear a collar every day.” + +“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!” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“There’s only one,” said Benolt, the ne’er-do-weel, who had been to +college as a boy. + +“Who’s that?” said Muroc. + +“You wouldn’t know his name. He’s trying to find eggs in last year’s +nest,” answered Benolt with a leer. + +“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.” + +“We’ve had enough of the devil’s dust here,” said Lajeunesse. “Has he +been talking to you, Muroc?” + +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.” + +“There’s Shandon the Irishman gone too. M’sieu’ sold him up and shipped +him off,” said Gingras the shoemaker. + +“Tiens! the Seigneur gave him fifty dollars when he left, to help him +along. He smacks and then kisses, does M’sieu’ Racine.” + +“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.” + +“I’ve to bring a pullet and a bag of charcoal,” said Muroc. “‘Tis the +rights of the Seigneur as of old.” + +“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!” + +“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. + +“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.” + +“You’ll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse,” said Duclosse the mealman, +who had been dozing on a pile of untired cart-wheels. + +“I’ll be hanged first, comrade.” + +“One in the family at a time,” said Muroc. “There’s the Seigneur. He’s +going into Parliament.” + +“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.” + +“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. + +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. + +“‘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. + +“We’re all in trouble again-sure,” said Benoit, and drained his glass to +the last drop. “Some of us will go to gaol.” + +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. + +Before the last soldier had passed through the street, he was on his way +to the Seigneury. + +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. + +“Wonder of wonders!” she said. + +“It’s these soldiers,” he replied shortly. “What of them?” she asked +brightly. + +“Do you mean to say you don’t know what their coming here means?” he +asked. + +“They must drill somewhere, and they are honouring Pontiac,” she replied +gaily, but her face flushed as she bent over the flag again. + +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.” + +“What has Louis done?” + +“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!” + +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--” + +“No matter what he does or is--eh?” + +“No matter what he is.” + +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.” + +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. + +“I mean that, father,” she answered quietly. “There are things worth +more than money.” + +“You don’t mean to say that you can love him as he is. It isn’t natural. +But no, it isn’t.” + +“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?” + +“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. + +“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. + +“We’ve dreamt too much in Pontiac already,” said Lajeunesse, shaking his +head. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. “MAN TO MAN AND STEEL TO STEEL” + +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. + +The loss of the Seigneury had therefore cut deep, but there had been +a more hateful affront still. Four years before, Louis Racine, when +spasmodically practising law in Quebec, had been approached by two poor +Frenchmen, who laid claim to thousands of acres of land which a Land +Company, whereof George Fournel was president, was publicly exploiting +for the woods and valuable minerals discovered on it. The Land Company +had been composed of Englishmen only. Louis Racine, reactionary and +imaginative, brilliant and free from sordidness, and openly hating the +English, had taken up the case, and for two years fought it tooth and +nail without pay or reward. The matter had become a cause celebre, +the Land Company engaging the greatest lawyers in both the English +and French province. In the Supreme Court the case was lost to Louis’ +clients. Louis took it over to the Privy Council in London, and carried +it through triumphantly and alone, proving his clients’ title. His two +poor Frenchmen regained their land. In payment he would accept nothing +save the ordinary fees, as though it were some petty case in a county +court. He had, however, made a reputation, which he had seemed not to +value, save as a means of showing hostility to the governing race, and +the Seigneury of Pontiac, when it fell to him, had more charms for him +than any celebrity to be won at the bar. His love of the history of +his country was a mania with him, and he looked forward, on arriving at +Pontiac, to being the apostle of French independence on the continent. +Madelinette had crossed his path in his most enthusiastic moment, when +his brilliant tongue and great dreams surrounded him with a kind of +glamour. He had caught her to himself out of the girl’s first triumph, +when her nature, tried by the strain of her first challenge to the +judgment of the world, cried out for rest, for Pontiac and home, and all +that was of the old life among her people. + +Fournel’s antipathy had only been increased by the fact that Louis +Racine had married the now famous Madelinette, and his animosity +extended to her. + +It was not in him to understand the nature of the Frenchman, volatile, +moody, chivalrous, unreasonable, the slave of ideas, the victim of +sentiment. Not understanding, when he began to see that he could not +attain the object of his visit, which was to secure some relics of the +late Seigneur’s household, he chose to be disdainful. + +“You are bound to give me these things I ask for, as a matter of +justice--if you know what justice means,” he said at last. + +“You should be aware of that,” answered the Seigneur, with a kindling +look. He felt every glance of Fournel’s eye a contemptuous comment upon +his deformity, now so egregious and humiliating. “I taught you justice +once.” + +Fournel was not to be moved from his phlegm. He knew he could torture +the man before him, and he was determined to do so, if he did not get +his way upon the matter of his visit. + +“You can teach me justice twice and be thanked once,” he answered. +“These things I ask for were much prized by my friend, the late +Seigneur. I was led to expect that this Seigneury and all in it and +on it should be mine. I know it was intended so. The law gives it you +instead. Your technical claim has overridden my rights--you have a gift +for making successful technical claims. But these old personal relics, +of no monetary value--you should waive your avaricious and indelicate +claim to them.” He added the last words with a malicious smile, for the +hardening look in Racine’s face told him his request was hopeless, and +he could not resist the temptation to put the matter with cutting force. +Racine rose to the bait with a jump. + +“Not one single thing--not one single solitary thing--!” + +“The sentiment is strong if the grammar is bad,” interrupted Fournel, +meaning to wound wherever he found an opportunity, for the Seigneur’s +deformity excited in him no pity; it rather incensed him against the +man, as an affront to decency and to his own just claims to the honours +the Frenchman enjoyed. It was a petty resentment, but George Fournel +had set his heart upon playing the grand-seigneur over the Frenchmen of +Pontiac, and of ultimately leaving his fortune to the parish, if they +all fell down and worshipped him and his “golden calf.” + +“The grammar is suitable to the case,” retorted the Seigneur, his voice +rising. “Everything is mine by law, and everything I will keep. If you +think different, produce a will--produce a will!” + +Truth was, Louis Racine would rather have parted with the Seigneury +itself than with these relics asked for. They were reminiscent of the +time when France and her golden-lilies brooded over his land, of the +days when Louis Quatorze was king. He cherished everything that had +association with the days of the old regime, as a miner hugs his gold, +or a woman her jewels. The request to give them up to this unsympathetic +Englishman, who valued them because they had belonged to his friend the +late Seigneur, only exasperated him. + +“I am ready to pay the highest possible price for them, as I have said,” + urged the Englishman, realising as he spoke that it was futile to urge +the sale upon that basis. + +“Money cannot buy the things that Frenchmen love. We are not a race of +hucksters,” retorted the Seigneur. + +“That accounts for your envious dispositions then. You can’t buy what +you want--you love such curious things, I assume. So you play the dog +in the manger, and won’t let other decent folk buy what they want.” He +wilfully distorted the other’s meaning, and was delighted to see the +Seigneur’s fingers twitch with fury. “But since you can’t buy the things +you love--and you seem to think you should--how do you get them? Do you +come by them honestly? or do you work miracles? When a spider makes love +to his lady he dances before her to infatuate her, and then in a moment +of her delighted aberration snatches at her affections. Is it the way of +the spider then?” + +With a snarl as of a wild beast, Louis Racine sprang forward and struck +Fournel in the face with his clinched fist. Then, as Fournel, blinded, +staggered back upon the book-shelves, he snatched two antique swords +from the wall. Throwing one on the floor in front of the Englishman, +he ran to the door and locked it, and turned round, the sword grasped +firmly in his hand, and white with rage. + +“Spider! Spider! By Heaven, you shall have the spider dance before you!” + he said hoarsely. He had mistaken Fournel’s meaning. He had put the most +horrible construction upon it. He thought that Fournel referred to his +deformity, and had ruthlessly dragged in Madelinette as well. + +He was like a being distraught. His long brown hair was tossed over his +blanched forehead and piercing black eyes. His head was thrown forward +even more than his deformity compelled, his white teeth showed in a +grimace of hatred; he was half-crouched, like an animal ready to spring. + +“Take up the sword, or I’ll run you through the heart where you stand,” + he continued, in a hoarse whisper. “I will give you till I can count +three. Then by the God in Heaven--!” + +Fournel felt that he had to deal with a man demented. The blow he +had received had laid open the flesh on his cheek-bone, and blood +was flowing from the wound. Never in his life before had he been so +humiliated. And by a Frenchman--it roused every instinct of race-hatred +in him. Yet he wanted not to go at him with a sword, but with his two +honest hands, and beat him into a whining submission. But the man was +deformed, he had none of his own robust strength--he was not to be +struck, but to be tossed out of the way like an offending child. + +He staunched the blood from his face and made a step forward without a +word, determined not to fight, but to take the weapon from the other’s +hands. “Coward!” said the Seigneur. “You dare not fight with the sword. +With the sword we are even. I am as strong as you there--stronger, and +I will have your blood. Coward! Coward! Coward! I will give you till I +count three. One!... Two!...” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +“Stop this nonsense,” he said, as Louis Racine prepared to attack again. +“Don’t be a fool. The game isn’t worth the candle.” + +“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!” + +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. + +“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. + +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: + + “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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +The silent servant vanished, and she dropped on her knees beside the +bleeding and insensible man, and lifted his head. + +“He insulted you and me, and I’ve killed him, Madelinette,” said Louis +hoarsely. + +A horrified look came to her face, and she hurriedly and tremblingly +opened Fournel’s waistcoat and shirt, and felt his heart. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“I would give ten years of my life to undo to-day’s work.” + +“I have no quarrel with you, Madame,” he said gloomily, raised his hat, +and was driven away. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. MADELINETTE MAKES A DISCOVERY + +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. + +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: + +“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.” + +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: + +“I’ya longtemps que je t’aime, Jamais je ne t’oublierai.” + +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. + +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. + +It was the will of the late Seigneur. + + + + +CHAPTER V. WHAT WILL SHE DO WITH IT? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +At last, before the dawn, she fell asleep. She dreamed that she was in +prison and that George Fournel was her jailor. + +She waked to find Louis at her bedside. + +“I am holding my seigneurial court to-day,” he said. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. THE ONE WHO SAW + +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. + +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. + +“Dear Madame!” said the Cure, rising to his feet and coming towards her. + +“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. + +“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. + +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. + +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.” + +“In any case, Tardif is going,” she repeated quietly. “What did he do?” + said the Seigneur. “What was your grievance, beautiful Madame?” + +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. + +“What did Tardif do?” the Seigneur again questioned, holding out a hand +to her. + +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: + +“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. + +“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. + +“Do not see him yourself, Louis,” said Madelinette. “Not I. Havel shall +pay him and he shall take himself off to-morrow morning.” + +The door closed, and Madelinette was left alone with the Cure. She came +to him and said with a quivering in her voice: + +“He mocked Louis.” + +“It is well that he should go. He is a bad man and a bad servant. I know +him too well.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Even with all Louis’ mistakes?” + +“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.” + +She looked up at him with a pensive smile and a glance of gratitude. + +“But suppose that will--if there is one--exists, see how false our +position!” + +“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.” + +She was about to reply when the Seigneur again entered the room. + +“I made up my mind that he should go at once, and so I’ve sent him +word--the rat!” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Late that evening she found a letter on her table addressed to herself. +It ran: + + 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. + +In terror she hastened to the library and sprung the panel. The will was +gone. + +Tardif was on his way with it to George Fournel. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. THE PURSUIT + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“Tell her she can have M’sieu’s horse,” said the landlord, excitedly +interposing. + +“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. + +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. + +“Why are you not on the way?” she asked. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“He is not dead, dear mine,” said she in a low voice, feeling Havel’s +heart. + +“Thank God,” was all that Madelinette could say. “Let us lift him into +the coach.” + +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. + +As she bent over Havel and sprinkled his face, Lapierre examined the +insensible man. + +“He is but stunned,” he said. “He will come to in a moment.” + +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. + +Havel opened his eyes and looked round in a startled way. He saw +Madelinette. + +“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!” + +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.” + +A moment afterwards Lapierre was on the box, Madame Marie was inside, +and Madelinette said to the coachman: + +“Drive hard--the White Calvary by the church of St. Mary Magdalene.” + +In another hour the coach drew up by the White Calvary, where a soft +light burned in memory of some departed soul. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. FACE TO FACE + +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. + +Madelinette caught Madame Marie’s arm. She did not speak, but her heart +sank within her. The man was Tardif. + +He saw them and shuffled over. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“A little dust here and there perhaps, Madame,” he said, with humble +courtesy. + +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! + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Your servant has been hospitable,” she said, her voice trembling a +little. She plunged at once into the business of her visit. + +“Monsieur, that paper you hold--” she stopped for an instant, able to go +no further. + +“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?” + +She steeled herself. Too much was at stake; she could not resent his +hateful implications now. + +“Tardif was not my messenger, Monsieur, as you know. Tardif was the +thief of that document in your hands.” + +“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.” + +“Monsieur will hear what I have to say? You have the will, your rights +are in your hands. Is not that enough?” + +“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.” + +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!” + +“Monsieur,” she said calmly, “it would have been easy to destroy the +will. Have you not thought of that?” + +For a moment he was taken aback, but he said harshly: “If crime were +always intelligent, it would have fewer penalties.” + +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: + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“Nevertheless you do not.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +“Do not think, Madame, that I am as avaricious as you.” + +“Is it avaricious to offer double the worth of the rental?” + +“There is the title and distinction. You married a mad nobody; you wish +to retain an honour that belongs to me.” + +“I am asking it for my husband’s sake, not my own, believe me, +Monsieur.” + +“And what do you expect me to do for his sake, Madame?” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +“With ample reason.” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +She paused; Fournel did not answer, but sat as though reading the will +intently. + +“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.” + +“Evidently bent upon wrecking the chances of a great career,” + interrupted Fournel over the paper. + +“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--” + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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?” + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +Fournel rose and in a low voice said: “Will you not sit down?” He +motioned to a chair. + +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.” + +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--” + +“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. + +“You are here alone with me at night,” he persisted. “It would not be +easy to--” + +“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--” + +“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--” + +“Oh, Monsieur!” she said, with a quick impulsive gesture towards him, +and her face lighting with sympathy. + +“I was struck too hard--” + +She touched his arm and said gently: “Some are hurt in one way and some +in another; all are hurt some time, but--” + +“You shall have your way,” he interrupted, and moved apart. + +“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. + +“But no, no, no, you shall not do it,” she cried. “I only asked it for +while he lives--ah!” + +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. + +“You will let me give you some wine?” he said quietly, and poured out a +glassful. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. THE BITER BITTEN + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“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. + +Distressed as Madelinette was, she was composed and ready. + +“The man was dismissed my employ--” she began, but Fournel interposed. + +“What is this I hear about shooting and a will?” he said sternly. + +“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!” + +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--” + +“Ah, do you deny that I came to you?--” began Tardif. + +“Constables,” said Fournel, “I give this fellow in charge. Take him to +gaol, and I will appear at court against him when called upon.” + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +As she and Madame Marie passed from the house, Fournel shook +Madelinette’s hand warmly, and said: “‘All’s well that ends well.’” + +“That ends well,” answered Madelinette, with a sorrowful questioning in +her voice. + +“We will make it so,” he rejoined, and then they parted. + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE DOOR THAT WOULD NOT OPEN + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Good evening, M’sieu’! Fine doings at the Manor--eh? + +“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. + +“I have as much right to be here as you, M’sieu’.” + +“You have no right at all to be here. You were dismissed your place by +the mistress of this Manor.” + +“There is no mistress of this Manor.” + +“Madame Racine dismissed you.” + +“And I dismissed Madame Racine,” answered the man with a sneer. + +“You are training for the horsewhip. You forget that, as Seigneur, I +have power to give you summary punishment.” + +“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: + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“I am Seigneur of this Manor, and you have taken wages from me, and +eaten my bread, slept under my roof, and--” + +“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.” + +The Seigneur did not understand yet. But there was a strange light of +suspicion in his eyes, a nervous rage knotting his forehead. + +“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--” + +“It was no canard.” Tardif laughed hatefully. “There was a will right +enough.” + +“Where is it? I’ve heard that fool’s gossip before.” + +“Where is it? Ask your wife; she knows. Ask your loving Tardif, he +knows.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Tell me all,” he said. “You shall be well paid.” + +“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?” + +The Seigneur was painfully quiet and intent, yet his brain was like some +great lens, refracting and magnifying things to monstrous proportions. + +“A will was found?” he asked. + +“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. + +“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.” + +“You are drunk,” said the Seigneur quietly. “You don’t know what you’re +saying.” + +“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--” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“I learned that from the tunes you played on your anvil, dear +smithy-man.” + +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. + +“Where is the will, Louis,” she repeated after him mechanically, staring +at his face, ghostly in the moonlight. + +“The will you found behind the picture in the library.” + +“O Louis!” she cried, and made a gesture of despair. “O Louis!” + +“You found it, and Tardif stole it and took it to Quebec.” + +“Yes, Louis, but Louis--ah, what is the matter, dear! I cannot bear that +look in your face. What is the matter, Louis?” + +“Tardif took it to Fournel, and you followed. And I have been living in +another man’s house, on another’s bread--” + +“O Louis, no--no--no! Our money has paid for all.” + +“Your money, Madelinette!” His voice rose. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Tardif said that--he said that you--that you and Fournel--” + +She read his meaning in his tone, and shrank back in terror, then with a +flush, straightened herself, and took a step towards him. + +“It was natural that you should not care for a hunchback like me,” he +continued, “but--” + +“Louis!” she cried, in a voice of anguish and reproach. + +“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--” + +“I pleaded with Monsieur Fournel, knowing how you loved the +Seigneury--pleaded and offered to pay three times the price--” + +“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. + +“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: + +“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. + +“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. + +“I killed Tardif. He is there in the hut in the garden--dead! I was +seen, and they are coming to take me.” + +With a cry she ran to the door that led into the hall, and locked it. +She listened, then turned her face to Louis. + +“You killed him!” she gasped. “Louis! Louis!” Her face was like ashes. + +“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--” + +There was a knocking at the door, and a voice calling--a peremptory +voice. + +“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.” + +He ran to the door of the bath-room and flung it open. “If my life is to +pay the price, then--!” + +She came blindly towards him, stretching out her hands. + +“Louis! Louis!” was all that she could say. + +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. + +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. + +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!” + +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!” + +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. + +Suddenly she turned upon them with a gesture of piteous triumph and +said: + +“You cannot have him now.” + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + + ......................... + +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. + + + + +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P’TITE LOUISON + +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. + +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’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. + +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. + +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. + +“Voila, so sad, so wonderful! She keeps the ring--dear P’tite Louison!” + said Florian, the eldest. + +“Alors, she gives him a legacy in her will! Sweet P’tite Louison,” said +Octave. + +“Mais, the governor and the archbishop admire her--P’tite Louison:” said +Felix, nodding confidently at Medallion. + +“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!” + +“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. + +Isidore’s tale was after this fashion: + +“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. + +“‘Ma’m’selle, Ma’m’selle,’ he say, ‘we must meet again!’ + +“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’. + +“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! + +“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.’ + +“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.’ + +“‘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’tite Louison stan’ like stone. M’sieu’ turn to her. ‘What shall it +be, Louison?’ he say. ‘You will come with me?’ + +“‘Kiss me, Charles,’ she say, ‘and tell me good-bye till--till you are +free.’ + +“He look like a madman. ‘Kiss me once, Charles,’ she say, ‘and let me +go.’ + +“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.’ + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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.” + +“Where is he now?” asked Medallion. + +Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes religiously. “Waiting for +Judgment Day and P’tite Louison,” he answered. + +“Dead!” said Medallion. + +“How long?” + +“Twenty year.” + +“But the flowers--the flowers?” + +“He left word for them to be sent just the same, and the money for it.” + +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. + +“She thinks him living?” he asked gently as he watched Louison. + +“Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the +flowers kep’ coming.” + +“Why did he wish it so?” Isidore mused a while. + +“Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great actor--ah, yes, sublime!” + he said. + +Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to where P’tite Louison +was picking berries. His hat was still off. + +“Let me help you, Mademoiselle,” he said softly. And henceforth he was +as foolish as her brothers. + + + + +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR + +“Sacre bapteme!” + +“What did he say?” asked the Little Chemist, stepping from his doorway. + +“He cursed his baptism,” answered tall Medallion, the English +auctioneer, pushing his way farther into the crowd. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Luc Pomfrette, why have you done this? What provocation had you?” + +The Cure’s voice was stern and cold, his usually gentle face had become +severe, his soft eyes were piercing and determined. + +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. + +“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. + +Still the voyageur did not answer. + +The Cure glanced at Lajeunesse the blacksmith, who stood near. + +“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!” + +Lajeunesse looked around, as if for corroboration; Henri and others +nodded, and some one said: + +“That’s true; that’s true. There was no cause.” + +“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.” + +The speaker was Parpon the dwarf, the oddest, in some ways the most +foolish, in others the wisest man in Pontiac. + +“That is no excuse,” said the Cure. + +“It is the only one he has, eh?” answered Parpon. His eyes were fixed +meaningly on those of Pomfrette. + +“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--” + +“It’s a lie,” cried Pomfrette, shaking with rage from head to foot. + +A long horror-stricken “Ah!” broke from the crowd. The Cure’s face +became graver and colder. + +“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--” + +“I’ll go to no Mass till I’m carried to it,” was the sullen, malevolent +interruption. + +The Cure turned upon the people. + +“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.” + +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. + +“Shall we take off the little bell?” asked Lajeunesse of the Cure. + +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: + +“I have commanded you, my children. Leave the leper alone.” + +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. + +He did not move until he had seen them all started homewards from the +Four Corners. One person remained beside him--Parpon the dwarf. + +“I will not obey you, M’sieu’ le Cure,” said he. “I’ll forgive him +before he repents.” + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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!” + +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. + +Pomfrette stopped short. “Good-day, lime-burner; good-day, Duclosse,” he +said, looking straight at them. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +“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.” + +“He was a good enough fellow once,” answered Garotte, watching +Pomfrette. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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! + + +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: + + “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!” + +“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. + +This was not the same world that he had known, not the same Pontiac. +Suddenly he stopped short in the road. + +“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. + +“Good-day,” he said. “How goes it?” + +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. + +With a bitter laugh, Pomfrette turned to the little bar. + +“Brandy,” he said; “brandy, my Bourienne.” + +The landlord shrugged his shoulder, and looked the other way. + +“Brandy,” he repeated. Still there was no sign. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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.” + +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: + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Pomfrette, you must go to Mass next Sunday.” + +“I said I wouldn’t go till I was carried there, and I mean it--that’s +so,” was the morose reply. + +“What made you curse like that--so damnable?” asked Parpon furtively. + +“That’s my own business. It doesn’t matter to anybody but me.” + +“And you said the Cure lied--the good M’sieu’ Fabre--him like a saint.” + +“I said he lied, and I’d say it again, and tell the truth.” + +“But if you went to Mass, and took your penance, and--” + +“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!” + +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: + +“But if the girl got sorry--” + +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: + +“What do you know?” + +“What others might know if they had eyes and sense; but they haven’t. +What would you do if that Junie come back?” + +“I would kill her.” His look was murderous. + +“Bah, you would kiss her first, just the same!” + +“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.” + +“What did she do?” Pomfrette’s hands clinched. + +“What’s in my own noddle, and not for any one else,” he answered +sulkily. + +“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?” + +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. + +Parpon held his peace. + +The days, weeks, and months went by; and the months stretched to three +years. + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“You said you’d never go to Mass till you were carried; so it’s all +right.” + +Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held him tight, saying: + +“It’s no use; you must come; we’ve had enough. Besides--” + +“Besides what?” asked Pomfrette faintly. “Never mind,” answered Parpon. + +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. + +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. + +At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. “What is it, +Parpon?” he asked gravely. + +“It is Luc Pomfrette, M’sieu’ le Cure.” Pomfrette’s eyes were closed. + +“He swore that he would never come to Mass again,” answered the good +priest. + +“Till he was carried, M’sieu’ le Cure--and I’ve carried him.” + +“Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc +Pomfrette?” asked the Cure. + +“I did not know I was coming--no.” Pomfrette’s brown eyes met the +priest’s unflinchingly. + +“You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life.” + +“I’d rather have died,” answered the sick man simply. + +“Died, and been cast to perdition!” + +“I’m used to that; I’ve had a bad time here in Pontiac.” + +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. + +“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?” + +There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette’s face, and his eyes were intense +and burning as they looked up fixedly at the Cure. + +“I can’t think any more,” answered Pomfrette slowly. “I’ve no head.” + +“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?” + +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. + +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. + +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--” + +“Luc,” the Cure interrupted, “say that you repent.” + +“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. + +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. + +“Junie!” he said hoarsely. + +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.” + +“Yes, yes,” said Pomfrette, his eyes fixed painfully on her face--“yes, +yes.” + +“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.” + +Pomfrette trembled so that Parpon and the Little Chemist made him sit +down, and he leaned against their shoulders, while Junie went on: + +“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.” + +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. + +“That’s how I’ve lived,” she said, and she handed a letter to the Cure. + +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. + +The Cure’s face relaxed, and a rare gentleness came into it. + +He read the letter aloud. Luc once more struggled to his feet, eagerly +listening. + +“You did not love Luc?” the Cure asked Junie, meaningly. + +“I did not love Luc--then,” she answered, a flush going over her face. + +“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!” + +“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.” + +“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.” + +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: + +“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. + +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. + + + + +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS + +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. + +“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.’ + +“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: + + “‘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!’ + +“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. + +“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: + + “‘Adieu, belle Francoise; + Allons gai! + Adieu, belle Francoise! + Moi, je to marierai, + Ma luron lurette! Moi, + je to marierai, + Ma luron lure!’ + +“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. + +“‘Bargon,’ I say--and I give him a horn of old rye--‘here’s to le bon +Dieu!’ + +“‘Le bon Dieu, and a good harvest!’ he say. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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.’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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.’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“‘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.’ + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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! + +“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.’ + +“‘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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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. + + + + +A WORKER IN STONE + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +So Francois read: + +“Gustave Narrois, aged seventy-two years-” + +“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.” + +Francois read it: + + “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.” + +The Cure nodded his head. “Go on; the next,” he said. + +“Annette John, aged twenty years--” + +“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?” + +Francois smoothed out the paper and read: + + “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.” + +The Cure turned his head away. “Go on,” he said sadly. “Chief John has +lost his right hand. Go on.” + +“Henri Rouget” + +“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?” + +And Francois read: + + “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.” + +The priest rose to his feet and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +And so began the awakening of Francois Lagarre; and so began his +ambition and his peril. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +“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?” + +“Fig of Eden,” muttered Jules Marmotte, with one eye on Jeanne, “any +fool could saw a better-looking thing out of ice!” + +“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.” + +But Jeanne could not bear this--the greasy whopping butcher-man! + +“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?” + +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. + +Leaning a hand against the white shaft of the Patriot’s Memory, he said: + + “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.” + +“Good enough for Ba’tiste,” said Duclosse the mealman. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +She stepped forward without a word, and snatched at the covering. He +swiftly interposed and stopped her hand. + +“I will see it,” she said. + +“Not to-day,” he answered. + +“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. + +“You beast, you liar!” she said. + +“You beast! beast! beast!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +“Remove the canvas from the figure,” said the Cure sternly. Stubbornness +and resentment filled Francois’s breast. He did not stir. + +“Do you oppose the command of the Church?” said the Cure, still more +severely. “Remove the canvas.” + +“It is my work--my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my hands,” + said Francois doggedly. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.’” + +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. + +“You were so ready to suspect,” he said. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“The spirit of a man will support him, but a wounded spirit who can +bear?” + + + + +THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE + +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. + +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: + + “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!” + +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.” + +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. + +“I am going to M’sieu’ Medallion,” she said. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER + +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.” + +“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!” + +“Get married yourself, Farette.” + +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. + +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: + +“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. + +“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’!” + +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: + +“Mon Dieu, the ankle, the eye, the good child, Julie, there!” + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +MATHURIN + +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: + +“Ah, dat poor Mathurin, I wipe my tears for him!” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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! + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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. + +“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!’ + +“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. + +“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: + +“‘Mathurin, you have sin a great sin. If it was two hunderd years ago +you would be put to death for dat.’ + +“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.’ + +“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.’ + +“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. + +“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: + +“‘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. + +“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.’” + +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. + + + + +THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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’.” + +As he sat down he said in English also, with a laugh and with snapping +eyes: “Good Lord, what brings you here, lady-bird?” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“Open your mouth, Henri. Come along, sleepyhead.” + +Straightway he began to sing a rollicking song, and Henri joined in with +him heartily, for the spirit of Fabian’s humour was contagious: + + “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!” + +He was about to begin another verse when Henri stopped him, saying: + +“You’re going to break your neck, Fabian.” + +“What’s up, Henri?” was the reply. + +“You’re drinking hard, and you don’t keep good company.” + +Fabian laughed. “Can’t get the company I want, so what I can get I have, +Henri, my lad.” + +“Don’t drink.” Henri laid his freehand on Fabian’s knee. + +“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.” + +“Girl? What the devil do you mean!” + +“She, Nell Barraway, was the company I meant, Fabian.” + +“Nell Barraway--you mean her? Bosh! I’m going to marry her, Henri.” + +“You mustn’t, Fabian,” said Henri, eagerly clutching Fabian’s sleeve. + +“But I must, my Henri. She’s the best-looking, wittiest girl I ever +saw--splendid. Never lonely with her.” + +“Looks and brains isn’t everything, Fabian.” + +“Isn’t it, though? Isn’t it? Tiens, you try it!” + +“Not without goodness.” Henri’s voice weakened. + +“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.” + +“You mean whether she was good or not?” + +“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!” + +“I know all about it.” + +“Know all about it! You’re in love--you?” + +“Yes.” + +Fabian sat open-mouthed for a minute. “Godam!” he said. It was his one +English oath. + +“Is she good company?” he asked after a minute. + +“She’s the same as you keep--voila, the same.” + +“You mean Nell--Nell?” asked Fabian, in a dry, choking voice. + +“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.” + +Fabian laughed nervously. “Holy heaven, and you’ve got her in your +blood, too!” + +“Yes, but I’d never marry her. Fabian, at Montreal I found out all about +her. She was as bad--” + +“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.” + +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. + +Henri drank to the finger-mark set, and then Fabian lifted the flask to +his lips. + +“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. + +The next day the two went on a long hunting expedition, and the +following month Nell Barraway left for Montreal. + +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. + +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. + + + + +THE WOODSMAN’S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF + +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.” + +“Tell us about him, then,” Medallion urged; “for there are many tales, +and who knows which is the right one?” + +“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: + +“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.” + +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--!” + +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. + +“It’s a creepy story,” said Medallion, “but go on.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“‘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....” + +“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!” + +“But what about the book?” Medallion asked. + +“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.” + + + + +UNCLE JIM + +He was no uncle of mine, but it pleased me that he let me call him Uncle +Jim. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“‘Tisn’t much, is it? Only a clap-board house, and no ceilings upstairs, +and rag carpets-pshaw!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I’m tired anyway of the hotel job,” said Rodney. “Farming’s a better +life. Don’t you think so, dad?” + +“It’s better for me, Rod,” answered Uncle Jim, “it’s better for me.” + +Rodney was a little uneasy. “But won’t it be better for me?” he asked. + +“Mebbe,” was the slow answer, “mebbe, mebbe so.” + +“And then there’s mother, she’s getting too old for the work, ain’t +she?” + +“She’s done it straight along,” answered the old man, “straight along +till now.” + +“But Millie can help her, and we’ll have a hired girl, eh?” + +“I dunno, I dunno,” was the brooding answer; “the place ain’t going to +stand it.” + +“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?” + +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: + +“Mebbe, mebbe!” + +Rodney fretted under the old man’s vague replies, and said: “But darn it +all, can’t you tell us what you think?” + +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.” + +“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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +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. + + + + +THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +One day the silent old housekeeper came rapping at Medallion’s door, and +simply said to him: “Come--the Seigneur!” + +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. + +Once when the Little Chemist touched his wrist, his dark eyes rested on +him with inquiry, and he said: “Soon?” + +It was useless trying to shirk the persistency of that look. “Eight +hours, perhaps, sir,” the Little Chemist answered, with painful shyness. + +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.” + +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!” + +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. + +“I heard a voice,” he said. + +“No one spoke, my master,” said the housekeeper. + +“It was a voice without,” he said. + +“Monsieur,” said the Little Chemist, “it was the wind in the eaves.” + +His face was almost painfully eager and sensitively alert. + +“Hush!” he said; “I hear a voice in the tall porch.” + +“Sir,” said Medallion, laying a hand respectfully on his arm, “it is +nothing.” + +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.” + +No one moved. But he was not to be disobeyed. + +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. + +“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.” + +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!” + +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. + +“Two hours short, Chemist!” he said, and smiled, and was Still. + + + + +PARPON THE DWARF + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +She turned quickly, and saw Parpon on a table in the corner, his legs +drawn up to his chin, his black eyes twinkling. + +“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. + +“Like that, there will need two bags!” he said. + +“Imbecile!” she cried, standing angry in the centre of the room. + +“Ho, ho, what a big word! See what it is to have the tongue of fashion!” + +She looked helplessly round the room. “I will kill you!” + +“Let us die together,” answered Parpon; “we are both sad.” + +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. + +“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!” + +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.” + +“Kill a man!” She showed her white teeth with a savage little smile. + +“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?” + +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.” + +“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--” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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. + +“Good day, Annette,” she said loftily. + +“Good day, Julie,” was the quiet reply. + +“Will you come in?” + +“I am going to the mill for flax-seed. Benoit has rheumatism.” + +“Poor Benoit!” said Julie, with a meaning toss of her head. + +“Poor Benoit,” responded Annette gently. Her voice was always sweet. One +would never have known that Benoit was a drunken idler. + +“Come in. I will give you the meal from my own. Then it will cost you +nothing,” said Julie, with an air. + +“Thank you, Julie, but I would rather pay.” + +“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.” + +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.” + +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.” + +Annette spoke simply and frankly, but her words cut like a knife. + +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.” + +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.” + +“But there is Benoit, and the child--” + +“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. + +“Well, it must only be a minute.” + +“Were you at the funeral to-day?” Julie began. + +“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.” + +“Is that all you know?” queried Julie. + +“Not much more. I go out little, and no one comes to me except the +Little Chemist’s wife--she is a good woman.” + +“What did she say?” + +“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.” + +This was more than Julie had heard. She showed excitement. + +“The Seigneur and M’sieu’ Armand were good friends when he died?” she +asked. + +“Quite.” + +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. + +“You were at the funeral?” she added, after a minute. + +“Everybody was there.” + +“I suppose M’sieu’ Armand looks very fine and strange after his long +travel,” said Annette shyly, rising to go. + +“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.” + +“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.” + +She was thinking again what a pity it was that Julie had no child. + +“To see Cecilia and the black cat? Very well--some day.” + +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. + + + +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: + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + “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!” + +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. + +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. + + + +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.”’ + +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.” + +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?” + +“For the peace of a good man’s soul.” + +“He did not confess; he had no rites of the Church; he had refused you +many years.” + +“My son, he had a confessor.” + +Armand raised his eyebrows. “They told me of no one.” + +“It was the Angel of Patience.” + +They walked on again for a time without a word. At last the Cure said: +“You will remain here?” + +“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.” + +“God forbid! Have you not seen the will?” + +“I have got no farther than his grave,” was the sombre reply. + +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.” + +“You are persistent,” replied the young man, smiling. “Whoever lives +here should make it less gloomy.” + +“We shall soon know who is to live here. See, there is Monsieur Garon, +and Monsieur Medallion also.” + +“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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +“There is plenty, monsieur,” she said; “none has been drunk these twelve +years.” + +The Avocat coughed, and said hesitatingly to Armand: “I asked Parpon the +dwarf to come, monsieur. There is a reason.” + +Armand raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Very good,” he said. “When will +he be here?” + +“He is waiting at the Louis Quinze hotel.” + +“I will send for him,” said Armand, and gave the message to Sylvie, who +was entering the room. + +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. + +“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.” + +The Cure stared incredulously, the Avocat took off his glasses and +tapped his lips musingly, Armand whistled softly. + +“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.” + +“Even from me,” said the Cure, smiling. Then, gravely: “It is strange, +the angel in the stunted body.” + +“Are you sure it’s an angel?” said Armand. + +“Who ever knew Parpon do any harm?” queried the Cure. + +“He has always been kind to the poor,” put in the Avocat. + +“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. + +“Only a few lines; and those not easy to understand, unless one had an +inkling.” + +“Had you the inkling?” + +“Perhaps, monsieur,” replied Medallion seriously. They eyed each other. + +“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?” + +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. + +“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.” + +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.” + +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?” + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +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.” + +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. + +“It’s all right, little son,” said the Cure kindly. Turning sharply on +Medallion, Parpon said: “When was it you heard?” + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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!” + +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. + +As the last notes died away Armand got up, and standing by the table, +said: “Parpon, you saved my father’s life once?” + +Parpon did not answer. + +“Will you not tell him, my son?” said the Cure, rising. Still Parpon was +silent. + +“The son of your grand Seigneur asks you a question, Parpon,” said +Medallion soothingly. + +“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. + +“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.” + +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. + +Armand touched his shoulder. “Parpon!” But Parpon shrank away. + +Armand turned to the rest. “I do not understand it, gentlemen. Parpon +does not like the young Seigneur as he liked the old.” + +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.” + +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. + +“Come, little comrade, drink,” said Medallion, offering him a glass. + +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. + + + +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. + +“Man alive!” said he; “tell me all about it. Ah, the good news!” + +“There is nothing to tell: he left it; that is all.” + +“Oh, the good Seigneur,” cried Farette, “the grand Seigneur!” + +Some one laughed scornfully in the doorway. It was Julie. + +“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!’” + +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. + +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. + +“This is the old place. What a fool I was, then!” he said. + +At that moment Julie came quickly, and lifted her hands towards him. +“Armand--beloved Armand!” she said. + +Armand looked at her sternly, from her feet to her pitted forehead, then +wheeled, and left her without a word. + +She sank in a heap on the ground. There was a sudden burst of tears, and +then she clinched her hands with fury. + +Some one laughed in the trees above her--a shrill, wild laugh. She +looked up frightened. Parpon presently dropped down beside her. + +“It was as I said,” whispered the dwarf, and he touched her shoulder. +This was the full cup of shame. She was silent. + +“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. + +“Sing again,” she said. + +“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. + +She hung her head, then flung it back again as she thought of Armand. + +“I hate him!” she cried; “I hate him!” + +“You will not throw meal on me any more, or call me idiot?” he pleaded. + +“No, Parpon,” she said. + +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. + +She threw herself, face forward, in the dusty needles of the pines. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +“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?” + +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.” + +A strange, painful silence fell on the people for a moment, and then +went round an almost incredulous whisper: “Parpon the dwarf!” + +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. + +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. + +“What will you say to the Bishop, Parpon?” asked the Cure. + +The congregation stirred in their seats, for they saw that the Cure +intended Parpon to go. + +Parpon went up two steps of the chancel quietly and caught the arm of +the Cure, drawing him down to whisper in his ear. + +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.” + +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--” + +Soon afterwards, with tearful eyes, he preached from the text: + +“And the Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it +not.” + + ....................... + +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: + + “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!” + +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. + +“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. + +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. + +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. + +Parpon drew from his breast a bag, and put it in his hands, and +beckoning down the Cure’s head, he whispered. + +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. + +“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.” + +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. + + + + +MEDALLION’S WHIM + +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. + +Medallion made a deeper guess. “Want to know what’s the matter with +him?” he said. “Ha, I’ll tell you! Woman.” + +“Woman--God bless me!” said the Little Chemist, in a frightened way. + +“Woman, little man; I mean the want of a woman,” said Medallion. + +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.” + +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. + +“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.” + +“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. + +“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. + +“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!” + +His Ha! was never a laugh; it was unctuous, abrupt, an ejaculation of +satisfaction, knowledge, solid enjoyment, final solution. + +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. + +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: + + “‘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!’” + +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. + +“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.” + +Presently the Cure asked, as if from a great distance, so meditative was +his voice: “Who will be the woman, Medallion?” + +“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!” + +“Regardez Ca! you are a great man,” said the Little Chemist. + +There was a strange, inscrutable look in the kind priest’s eyes. The +Avocat had confessed to him in his time. + +Medallion took up his hat. + +“Where are you going?” said the Little Chemist. “To our Avocat, and then +to St. Jean.” + +He opened the door and vanished. The two that were left shook their +heads and wondered. + +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. + +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. + +“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. + +“Great is the Code Napoleon!” he said mechanically. Then, presently: +“Ah, my friend, Medallion!” + +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: + +“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.” + +The Avocat’s eye gazed at Medallion earnestly now, and Medallion went +on: + +“As good singing as you want to hear. You’ve heard the words of the +song--the river drivers sing it: + + “‘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!’” + +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. + +Medallion went on: + + “‘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!’” + +When Medallion had finished he raised his glass and said: “Garon, I +drink to home and woman!” + +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. + +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: + +“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!” + +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: + +Quebec, September 13th, 18-. It is one year since. I shall learn to +laugh some day. + +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.” + +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.” + +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. + +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?” + +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. + +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. + +She shook her head mournfully. “We were more than friends, and that is +different.” + +“You were his wife?” said Medallion gently. + +“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.” + +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?” + +She need not have asked Medallion. He knew many secrets and kept them; +which is not the usual way of good-humoured people. + +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.” + +She trembled towards him. “He is worse--he is dying!” + +He smiled. “Not dying at all. He needs you; come along. I’ll tell you as +we go.” + +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?” + +“I am as he left me,” she replied timidly, but with a kind of pride, +too. + +“Don’t mistake me,” he said. “I thought perhaps you had been married +since.” + +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.” + +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.” + +Medallion stooped over him, and caught him by both arms gently. “We +shall see,” he said. “It is the anniversary,” he whispered. + +“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. + +“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: + + “But down there come from the lofty hills + Footsteps and eyes agleam, + Bringing the laughter of yesterday + Into the little house.” + + + + +THE PRISONER + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He waked to find two officers of the law beside him, and the body of +Jean Gamache, stark and dreadful, a few feet away. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +“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!” + +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. + +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. + +“My poor Blaze! my poor Blaze!” she said, clasping his manacled hands. + +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. + +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. + +“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: + +“O God, canst Thou do everything but speak!” And again: “That hour--the +memory of that hour, in exchange for my ruined life!” + +One day the gaoler came to him and said: “Monsieur Turgeon, you are +free. The Governor has cut off five years from your sentence.” + +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!” + +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. + +“I was sorry for you.” + +“But that is no reason.” + +“I once committed a crime,” she whispered, with shrinking bitterness. + +“That’s bad,” he said. “Were you punished?” He looked at her keenly, +almost fiercely, for a curious suspicion shot into his mind. + +She shook her head and answered no. + +“That’s worse!” + +“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?” + +“I had a little child,” was her reply. + +“And the man who was punished instead?” + +“He was alone in the world,” she said. + +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. + +“I remember you now,” he said. “I remember now. + +“I waked and saw you looking at me that night! Who was the father of +your child?” + +“Jean Gamache,” she replied. “He ruined me and left me to starve.” + +“I am innocent of his death!” he said quietly and gladly. + +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.” + +“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.” + +“It can’t be helped now,” he said sighing, and he turned away from her. + +“Won’t you forgive me?” she asked bitterly. + +“Won’t you give me back those five years?” + +“If the child did not need me I would give my life,” she answered. “I +owe it to you.” + +Her haggard, hunted face made him sorry; he, too, had suffered. + +“It’s all right,” he answered gently. “Take care of your child.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +AN UPSET PRICE + +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. + +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!” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?” + +“Yes, that’s it.” + +“Regardez ca--well, well!” + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Now, my dear,” he whispered, “we will be happy again.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +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?” + +“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. + +“Well? well?” she said. “Oh, my dear father, will you not keep him +here?” + +A peculiar cold smile hovered about his lips. “But there is danger to me +in this... and remember, he is very old!” + +“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!” + +“But, I tell you--” + +“Do you not hear him--he is dying!” She was mad with grief; she hardly +knew what she said. + +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. + +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: + +“An upset price!” + +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. + + + + +A FRAGMENT OF LIVES + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“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.” + +Villiard looked at the other with contracting, questioning eyes. + +“You would play that game with me?” he asked, in a mechanical voice. + +“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.” + +“I am ready,” was the answer. “But let us eat first.” + +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. + +Dubarre rose from the table, threw himself upon the little pile of +otter-skins, and lay watching Villiard and mechanically studying the +little room. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“When?” said Dubarre at last. “Not yet,” was the quiet reply. + +“I was thinking of my first theft--an apple from my brother’s plate,” + said Dubarre, with a dry smile. “You?” + +“I, of my first lie.” + +“That apple was the sweetest fruit I ever tasted.” + +“And I took the penalty of the lie, but I had no sorrow.” + +Again there was silence. + +“Now?” asked Villiard, after an hour had passed. “I am ready.” + +They came to the table. + +“Shall we bind our eyes?” asked Dubarre. “I do not know the glasses that +hold the poison.” + +“Nor I the bottle that held it. I will turn my back, and do you change +about the glasses.” + +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--!” + +Before it had finished striking both men were facing the glasses again. + +“Take one,” said Dubarre. + +Villiard took the one nearest himself. Dubarre took one also. Without a +word they lifted the glasses and drank. + +“Again,” said Dubarre. + +“You choose,” responded Villiard. + +Dubarre lifted the one nearest himself, and Villiard picked up the +other. Raising their glasses again, they bowed to each other and drank. + +The watch struck twelve, and stopped its silvery chiming. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Villiard had drunk both glasses of the poison! + +“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.” + +Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely along the opposite wall. + +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!” + +The man’s look still wandered distractedly along the wall. The sweat of +death was on his face; his lips were moving spasmodically. + +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. + +“Because the woman loved him!” he said, gazing curiously at the dead +man. + +He turned, went to the door and opened it, for his breath choked him. + +All was still on the wooded heights and in the wide valley. + +“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. + + + + +THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The first time he told the story was in the house of Medallion the +auctioneer. + +“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! + +“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. + +“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! + +“‘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. + +“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!’ + +“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. + +“Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, and Captain Masham +shtandin’ by whips out a flask. + +“‘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.’ + +“‘A foine healthy corpse I am; an’ a foine thirsty, healthy corpse I +am,’ says I.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Well, and what does he do, Madame?” asked the Avocat simply. + +“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!” + +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. + +“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!” + +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: + +“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.” + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“Aw, it’s the koind av ye!” said Kilquhanity, with difficulty, out of +the half shadows. + +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. + +“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. + +“I do be thinkin’,” said the strained, whispering voice--“I do be +thinkin’ I could shmoke.” + +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. + +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. + +“Beggin’ yer pardon, Misther Garon,” she said, “I thought it was only +Kilquhanity here, an’ he wid no more sense than a babby.” + +Kilquhanity’s eyes closed, and he buried one side of his head in the +pillow, that her shrill voice should not pierce his ears. + +“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. + +“Aw, lave thim alone, darlin’,” whispered Kilquhanity, tossing. Her +officiousness seemed to hurt him more than the pain in his chest. + +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. + +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. + +“That is who I am,” she said. “Mary Muddock that was, Mary Kilquhanity +that is.” + +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. + +“Well?” said the woman, with a hard look in her face and a hard note in +her voice. “Well?” + +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. + +“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!” + +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.” + +“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. + +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. + +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! + +The Cure and the Avocat had quieted them at last, and the Cure spoke +sternly now to both women. + +“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.” + +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. + +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.” + +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.” + +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?” + +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.” + +A smile came upon his face. “Oh, the foine of it! I do be +shlaping-shlaping.” + +And he fell into a noiseless Sleep. + + + + +THE BARON OF BEAUGARD + +“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!” + +“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. + +Larue spoke English very well--his mother was English. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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.’ + +“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!’ + +“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! + +“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!” + +“What was it to the Baron and Falise?” asked Medallion. + +“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. + +“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? + +“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.’ + +“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--’ + +“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.’ + +“‘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. + +“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!’ + +“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.’ + +“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.’ + +“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!’ + +“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!’ + +“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!’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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!’ + +“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. + +“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. + +“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. + +“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--’ + +“He had his way with them, and after that perhaps the great God had His +way with him perhaps.” + + + + +THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + +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. + +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: + + “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!’” + +Now, this is the story of McGilveray the bandmaster of Anstruther’s +regiment: + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Yet it was a woman. + +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: + + “Malbrouk s’en va t’en guerre,” + +he had forthwith set out to hail this daughter of Gaul, if perchance she +might be seen again. + +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. + +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. + +They stunned him for a moment, and then presently, as if in defiance of +his own thoughts, he began to sing softly: + +“Malbrouk s’en va t’en guerre.” + +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. + +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. + +“How you like yourself now?” asked a huge French corporal who had +learned English from an English girl at St. Malo years before. + +“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. + +The big soldier laughed, and told his comrades what the bandmaster had +said. One of them grinned, but the other frowned sullenly, and said: + +“Avez vous tabac?” + +“Havey you to-ba-co?” said the big soldier instantly--interpreting. + +“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. + +“He shall die--the cursed English soldier,” said Johnny Crapaud. + +“Some other day will do,” said McGilveray. “What does he say?” asked +Johnny Crapaud. + +“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. + +“Y’are lyin’, me darlin’, me bloody beauty!” interposed McGilveray. + +“If we don’t take him to headquarters now he’ll send across and get the +tobacco,” interpreted the corporal to Johnny Crapaud. + +“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. + +The others nodded their heads, and, as they went out, McGilveray said +after them: + +“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. + +“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.” + +The corporal stayed when the others went out, and, in broken English, +told McGilveray so. + +“I’ll play a hornpipe, an’ his gory shroud is round him,” said +McGilveray. + +The corporal grinned from ear to ear. “You like a chew tabac?” said he, +pulling out a dirty knob of a black plug. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It was near midnight when the lock turned in the door and presently +stepped inside--a girl. + +“Malbrouk s’en va t’en guerre,” said she, and nodded her head to him +humorously. + +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. + +“You’ve a way wid you, me darlin’,” said McGilveray, not thinking that +she might understand. + +“A leetla way of my own,” she answered in broken English. + +McGilveray started. “Where did you learn it?” he asked, for he had had +two surprises that night. + +“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.” + +“Shure I am not a good soldier thin. Music’s me game. An’ the band of +Anstruther’s rigimint’s mine.” + +“You can play tunes on a drum?” she asked, mischievously. + +“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. + +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. + +“You have been drink,” she said, and she stopped her work of freeing +him. + +“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!” + +“Divil a drop thin, darlin’, till we fly our flag yander,” pointing +towards where he supposed the town to be. + +“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. + +“No, no, no,” she said. “We will shake our hands after,” and she +stooped, took off the shackles, and freed his arms. + +“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. + +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.” + +She loosed the boat into the current gently, and, holding it, motioned +to him to enter. + +“You’re goin’ to row me over?” he asked, incredulously. + +“‘Sh! get in,” she said. + +“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. + +“What is it you came here for?” she asked, with meaning. + +“Yourself an’ the mockin’ bird in yer voice,” he answered. + +“Then that is enough,” she said. “You come for me, I go for you. Get +in.” + +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. + +McGilveray gave the pass-word, and presently he was on the bank saluting +the sentry he had left three hours before. + +“Malbrouk s’en va t’en guerre!” said the girl again with a gay +insolence, and pushed the boat out into the stream. + +“A minnit, a minnit, me darlin’,” said McGilveray. + +“Keep your promise,” came back, softly. + +“Ah, come back wan minnit!” + +“A flirt!” said the sentry. + +“You will pay for that,” said the girl to the sentry, with quick anger. + +“Do you love me, Irishman?” she added, to McGilveray. + +“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. + +“Aw, the loike o’ that! Aw, the foine av her-the tip-top lass o’ the +wide world!” said he. + +“You’re a fool, an’ there’ll be trouble from this,” said the sentry. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +“I knew you were free with drink, McGilveray,” he said, “but I did not +think you were a traitor to your country too.” + +McGilveray saluted, and did not answer. + +“You might have waited till after to-morrow, man,” said the General, his +eyes flashing. “My soldiers should have good music to-morrow.” + +McGilveray saluted again, but made no answer. + +As if with a sudden thought the General waved off the officers and men +near him, and betkcned McGilveray to him. + +“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.” + +“He did the same for me, whin I was taken prisoner, yer Excillincy, +an’--an’, yer Excillincy, ‘twas a matter of a woman, too.” + +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!” + +The General’s face relaxed still more. + +“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. + +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. + +At that moment the General, looking down from the side of the ship, said +sharply to an officer beside him: “What’s that?” + +He pointed to a dark object floating near the ship, from which presently +came a small light with a hissing sound. + +“It’s a fire-organ, sir,” was the reply. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.” + +“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.” + +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. + +“You’ve wiped all out, McGilveray,” said Wolfe. “We see you are no +traitor.” + +“Only a fool of a bandmaster who wanted wan toon more, yer Excillincy,” + said McGilveray. + +“Beware drink, beware women,” answered the General. + +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. + +“It’s you, thin,” he said, and he tried to look scornfully at her. + +“Have you keep your promise?” she said, hardly above her breath. + +“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.” + +“Hoosban’--” she exclaimed, “who was my hoosban’?” + +“The big grinning corporal,” he answered. + +“He is shot this morning,” she said, her face darkening, “and, besides, +he was--nevare--my hoosban’.” + +“He said he was,” replied McGilveray, eagerly. + +“He was alway a liar,” she answered. + +“He decaved you too, thin?” asked McGilveray, his face growing red. + +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. + +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!” + +“You will not drink no more?” she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. + +“Not till the Frenchies take Quebec again,” he answered. + + + 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 + + + + + + +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 6241-0.txt or 6241-0.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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/6241-0.zip b/6241-0.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b17ecba --- /dev/null +++ b/6241-0.zip diff --git a/6241-h.zip b/6241-h.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..5cdd5f8 --- /dev/null +++ b/6241-h.zip 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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase “Project +Gutenberg”), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. “Project Gutenberg” is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation (“the Foundation” + or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase “Project Gutenberg” appears, or with which the phrase “Project +Gutenberg” is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase “Project Gutenberg” associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +“Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original “Plain Vanilla ASCII” or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, “Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation.” + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +“Defects,” such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the “Right +of Replacement or Refund” described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you ‘AS-IS’ WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm’s +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation’s EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state’s laws. + +The Foundation’s principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation’s web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. + +</pre> + <p> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </p> + </body> +</html> diff --git a/6241.txt b/6241.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..003c199 --- /dev/null +++ b/6241.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9034 @@ +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 + +Last Updated: March 13,2009 +Release Date: October 18, 2006 [EBook #6241] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANE OF NO TURNING *** + + + +Produced by David Widger + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + + + +CONTENTS + + Volume 1. + THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + + Volume 2. + THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON + THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR + A SON OF THE WILDERNESS + A WORKER IN STONE + + Volume 3. + THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE + THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER + MATHURIN + THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER + THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF + UNCLE JIM + THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH + PARPON THE DWARF + + Volume 4. + TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC + MEDALLION'S WHIM + THE PRISONER + AN UPSET PRICE + A FRAGMENT OF LIVES + THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA + THE BARON OF BEAUGARD + THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + + + + +The Right Hon. Sir Wilfrid Laurier G.C.M.G. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + + Believe me, + Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier, + Yours very sincerely, + GILBERT PARKER. + +20 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE, LONDON, S. W., + 14th August, 1900. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + + + + +CHAPTER I. THE RETURN OF MADELINETTE + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +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." + +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: + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Louis! Louis! Louis!" + +The fierce words he had been about to utter died on his lips, his eyes +stared at the open window, bewildered and even frightened. + +"Louis! Louis!" + +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. + +"Louis!" + +It was Madelinette, who, disregarding the assembled company, ran forward +to him and caught both his hands in hers. + +"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! + +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. + +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. + +"You are not strong enough, Louis. You must be tranquil." + +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." + +She was smiling and still, and with one hand clasping her husband's, she +said: + +"The honour I value most my native land has given me: I am lady of the +Manor here, and wife of the Seigneur Racine." + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Our baronies have never been recognised," said the Seigneur harshly. +"And yet we are asked to love the flag of England and--" + +"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--" + +"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. + +Havel entered with a tray of wine and glasses, followed by Tardif loaded +with cakes and comfits, and set them on the table. + +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. + +"What soldiers are these?" he asked. + +"The Seigneury company, your Excellency," replied Louis. + +"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. + +"The livery of the Barony of Pontiac," answered the Seigneur. + +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. + +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?" + +The Avocat made no reply, but the Cure's face was greatly troubled. The +Seigneur's momentary placidity passed. + +"I answer for their legality, your Excellency," he said, in a high, +assertive voice. + +"Of course, of course, you will answer for it," said the Governor, +smiling enigmatically. He came forward and held out his hand to +Madelinette. + +"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." + +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. + +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? + +He felt Madelinette's hand on his arm. He turned and clasped her to his +breast. + +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. + +"How beautiful you are!" he said, as he looked into her face. + +"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." + +Inside her room alone she flung herself on her bed in agony and despair. + +"Louis--Oh, my God!" she cried, and sobbed and sobbed her strength away. + + + + +CHAPTER II. WHEN THE RED-COATS CAME + +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--" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +As Muroc spoke, every one turned towards Medallion. He came over and +filled a glass at the table, and raised it. + +"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!" + +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. + +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." + +Then he shook hands with them all and went into the next room. + +"Why did he drop his glass?" asked Gingras the shoemaker. + +"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?" + +"What the devil do I know about aristocrats!" said Lajeunesse. + +"You're among the best of the land, now that Madelinette's married to +the Seigneur. You ought to wear a collar every day." + +"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!" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"There's only one," said Benolt, the ne'er-do-weel, who had been to +college as a boy. + +"Who's that?" said Muroc. + +"You wouldn't know his name. He's trying to find eggs in last year's +nest," answered Benolt with a leer. + +"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." + +"We've had enough of the devil's dust here," said Lajeunesse. "Has he +been talking to you, Muroc?" + +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." + +"There's Shandon the Irishman gone too. M'sieu' sold him up and shipped +him off," said Gingras the shoemaker. + +"Tiens! the Seigneur gave him fifty dollars when he left, to help him +along. He smacks and then kisses, does M'sieu' Racine." + +"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." + +"I've to bring a pullet and a bag of charcoal," said Muroc. "'Tis the +rights of the Seigneur as of old." + +"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!" + +"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. + +"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." + +"You'll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse," said Duclosse the mealman, +who had been dozing on a pile of untired cart-wheels. + +"I'll be hanged first, comrade." + +"One in the family at a time," said Muroc. "There's the Seigneur. He's +going into Parliament." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"'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. + +"We're all in trouble again-sure," said Benoit, and drained his glass to +the last drop. "Some of us will go to gaol." + +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. + +Before the last soldier had passed through the street, he was on his way +to the Seigneury. + +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. + +"Wonder of wonders!" she said. + +"It's these soldiers," he replied shortly. "What of them?" she asked +brightly. + +"Do you mean to say you don't know what their coming here means?" he +asked. + +"They must drill somewhere, and they are honouring Pontiac," she replied +gaily, but her face flushed as she bent over the flag again. + +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." + +"What has Louis done?" + +"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!" + +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--" + +"No matter what he does or is--eh?" + +"No matter what he is." + +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." + +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. + +"I mean that, father," she answered quietly. "There are things worth +more than money." + +"You don't mean to say that you can love him as he is. It isn't natural. +But no, it isn't." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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. + +"We've dreamt too much in Pontiac already," said Lajeunesse, shaking his +head. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER III. "MAN TO MAN AND STEEL TO STEEL" + +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. + +The loss of the Seigneury had therefore cut deep, but there had been +a more hateful affront still. Four years before, Louis Racine, when +spasmodically practising law in Quebec, had been approached by two poor +Frenchmen, who laid claim to thousands of acres of land which a Land +Company, whereof George Fournel was president, was publicly exploiting +for the woods and valuable minerals discovered on it. The Land Company +had been composed of Englishmen only. Louis Racine, reactionary and +imaginative, brilliant and free from sordidness, and openly hating the +English, had taken up the case, and for two years fought it tooth and +nail without pay or reward. The matter had become a cause celebre, +the Land Company engaging the greatest lawyers in both the English +and French province. In the Supreme Court the case was lost to Louis' +clients. Louis took it over to the Privy Council in London, and carried +it through triumphantly and alone, proving his clients' title. His two +poor Frenchmen regained their land. In payment he would accept nothing +save the ordinary fees, as though it were some petty case in a county +court. He had, however, made a reputation, which he had seemed not to +value, save as a means of showing hostility to the governing race, and +the Seigneury of Pontiac, when it fell to him, had more charms for him +than any celebrity to be won at the bar. His love of the history of +his country was a mania with him, and he looked forward, on arriving at +Pontiac, to being the apostle of French independence on the continent. +Madelinette had crossed his path in his most enthusiastic moment, when +his brilliant tongue and great dreams surrounded him with a kind of +glamour. He had caught her to himself out of the girl's first triumph, +when her nature, tried by the strain of her first challenge to the +judgment of the world, cried out for rest, for Pontiac and home, and all +that was of the old life among her people. + +Fournel's antipathy had only been increased by the fact that Louis +Racine had married the now famous Madelinette, and his animosity +extended to her. + +It was not in him to understand the nature of the Frenchman, volatile, +moody, chivalrous, unreasonable, the slave of ideas, the victim of +sentiment. Not understanding, when he began to see that he could not +attain the object of his visit, which was to secure some relics of the +late Seigneur's household, he chose to be disdainful. + +"You are bound to give me these things I ask for, as a matter of +justice--if you know what justice means," he said at last. + +"You should be aware of that," answered the Seigneur, with a kindling +look. He felt every glance of Fournel's eye a contemptuous comment upon +his deformity, now so egregious and humiliating. "I taught you justice +once." + +Fournel was not to be moved from his phlegm. He knew he could torture +the man before him, and he was determined to do so, if he did not get +his way upon the matter of his visit. + +"You can teach me justice twice and be thanked once," he answered. +"These things I ask for were much prized by my friend, the late +Seigneur. I was led to expect that this Seigneury and all in it and +on it should be mine. I know it was intended so. The law gives it you +instead. Your technical claim has overridden my rights--you have a gift +for making successful technical claims. But these old personal relics, +of no monetary value--you should waive your avaricious and indelicate +claim to them." He added the last words with a malicious smile, for the +hardening look in Racine's face told him his request was hopeless, and +he could not resist the temptation to put the matter with cutting force. +Racine rose to the bait with a jump. + +"Not one single thing--not one single solitary thing--!" + +"The sentiment is strong if the grammar is bad," interrupted Fournel, +meaning to wound wherever he found an opportunity, for the Seigneur's +deformity excited in him no pity; it rather incensed him against the +man, as an affront to decency and to his own just claims to the honours +the Frenchman enjoyed. It was a petty resentment, but George Fournel +had set his heart upon playing the grand-seigneur over the Frenchmen of +Pontiac, and of ultimately leaving his fortune to the parish, if they +all fell down and worshipped him and his "golden calf." + +"The grammar is suitable to the case," retorted the Seigneur, his voice +rising. "Everything is mine by law, and everything I will keep. If you +think different, produce a will--produce a will!" + +Truth was, Louis Racine would rather have parted with the Seigneury +itself than with these relics asked for. They were reminiscent of the +time when France and her golden-lilies brooded over his land, of the +days when Louis Quatorze was king. He cherished everything that had +association with the days of the old regime, as a miner hugs his gold, +or a woman her jewels. The request to give them up to this unsympathetic +Englishman, who valued them because they had belonged to his friend the +late Seigneur, only exasperated him. + +"I am ready to pay the highest possible price for them, as I have said," +urged the Englishman, realising as he spoke that it was futile to urge +the sale upon that basis. + +"Money cannot buy the things that Frenchmen love. We are not a race of +hucksters," retorted the Seigneur. + +"That accounts for your envious dispositions then. You can't buy what +you want--you love such curious things, I assume. So you play the dog +in the manger, and won't let other decent folk buy what they want." He +wilfully distorted the other's meaning, and was delighted to see the +Seigneur's fingers twitch with fury. "But since you can't buy the things +you love--and you seem to think you should--how do you get them? Do you +come by them honestly? or do you work miracles? When a spider makes love +to his lady he dances before her to infatuate her, and then in a moment +of her delighted aberration snatches at her affections. Is it the way of +the spider then?" + +With a snarl as of a wild beast, Louis Racine sprang forward and struck +Fournel in the face with his clinched fist. Then, as Fournel, blinded, +staggered back upon the book-shelves, he snatched two antique swords +from the wall. Throwing one on the floor in front of the Englishman, +he ran to the door and locked it, and turned round, the sword grasped +firmly in his hand, and white with rage. + +"Spider! Spider! By Heaven, you shall have the spider dance before you!" +he said hoarsely. He had mistaken Fournel's meaning. He had put the most +horrible construction upon it. He thought that Fournel referred to his +deformity, and had ruthlessly dragged in Madelinette as well. + +He was like a being distraught. His long brown hair was tossed over his +blanched forehead and piercing black eyes. His head was thrown forward +even more than his deformity compelled, his white teeth showed in a +grimace of hatred; he was half-crouched, like an animal ready to spring. + +"Take up the sword, or I'll run you through the heart where you stand," +he continued, in a hoarse whisper. "I will give you till I can count +three. Then by the God in Heaven--!" + +Fournel felt that he had to deal with a man demented. The blow he +had received had laid open the flesh on his cheek-bone, and blood +was flowing from the wound. Never in his life before had he been so +humiliated. And by a Frenchman--it roused every instinct of race-hatred +in him. Yet he wanted not to go at him with a sword, but with his two +honest hands, and beat him into a whining submission. But the man was +deformed, he had none of his own robust strength--he was not to be +struck, but to be tossed out of the way like an offending child. + +He staunched the blood from his face and made a step forward without a +word, determined not to fight, but to take the weapon from the other's +hands. "Coward!" said the Seigneur. "You dare not fight with the sword. +With the sword we are even. I am as strong as you there--stronger, and +I will have your blood. Coward! Coward! Coward! I will give you till I +count three. One!... Two!..." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +"Stop this nonsense," he said, as Louis Racine prepared to attack again. +"Don't be a fool. The game isn't worth the candle." + +"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!" + +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. + +"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. + +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: + + "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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +The silent servant vanished, and she dropped on her knees beside the +bleeding and insensible man, and lifted his head. + +"He insulted you and me, and I've killed him, Madelinette," said Louis +hoarsely. + +A horrified look came to her face, and she hurriedly and tremblingly +opened Fournel's waistcoat and shirt, and felt his heart. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"I would give ten years of my life to undo to-day's work." + +"I have no quarrel with you, Madame," he said gloomily, raised his hat, +and was driven away. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. MADELINETTE MAKES A DISCOVERY + +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. + +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: + +"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." + +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: + +"I'ya longtemps que je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai." + +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. + +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. + +It was the will of the late Seigneur. + + + + +CHAPTER V. WHAT WILL SHE DO WITH IT? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +At last, before the dawn, she fell asleep. She dreamed that she was in +prison and that George Fournel was her jailor. + +She waked to find Louis at her bedside. + +"I am holding my seigneurial court to-day," he said. + + + + +CHAPTER VI. THE ONE WHO SAW + +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. + +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. + +"Dear Madame!" said the Cure, rising to his feet and coming towards her. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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." + +"In any case, Tardif is going," she repeated quietly. "What did he do?" +said the Seigneur. "What was your grievance, beautiful Madame?" + +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. + +"What did Tardif do?" the Seigneur again questioned, holding out a hand +to her. + +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: + +"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. + +"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. + +"Do not see him yourself, Louis," said Madelinette. "Not I. Havel shall +pay him and he shall take himself off to-morrow morning." + +The door closed, and Madelinette was left alone with the Cure. She came +to him and said with a quivering in her voice: + +"He mocked Louis." + +"It is well that he should go. He is a bad man and a bad servant. I know +him too well." + +"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." + +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." + +"Even with all Louis' mistakes?" + +"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." + +She looked up at him with a pensive smile and a glance of gratitude. + +"But suppose that will--if there is one--exists, see how false our +position!" + +"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." + +She was about to reply when the Seigneur again entered the room. + +"I made up my mind that he should go at once, and so I've sent him +word--the rat!" + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Late that evening she found a letter on her table addressed to herself. +It ran: + + 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. + +In terror she hastened to the library and sprung the panel. The will was +gone. + +Tardif was on his way with it to George Fournel. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. THE PURSUIT + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Tell her she can have M'sieu's horse," said the landlord, excitedly +interposing. + +"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. + +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. + +"Why are you not on the way?" she asked. + +"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." + +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." + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"He is not dead, dear mine," said she in a low voice, feeling Havel's +heart. + +"Thank God," was all that Madelinette could say. "Let us lift him into +the coach." + +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. + +As she bent over Havel and sprinkled his face, Lapierre examined the +insensible man. + +"He is but stunned," he said. "He will come to in a moment." + +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. + +Havel opened his eyes and looked round in a startled way. He saw +Madelinette. + +"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!" + +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." + +A moment afterwards Lapierre was on the box, Madame Marie was inside, +and Madelinette said to the coachman: + +"Drive hard--the White Calvary by the church of St. Mary Magdalene." + +In another hour the coach drew up by the White Calvary, where a soft +light burned in memory of some departed soul. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. FACE TO FACE + +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. + +Madelinette caught Madame Marie's arm. She did not speak, but her heart +sank within her. The man was Tardif. + +He saw them and shuffled over. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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." + +"A little dust here and there perhaps, Madame," he said, with humble +courtesy. + +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! + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Your servant has been hospitable," she said, her voice trembling a +little. She plunged at once into the business of her visit. + +"Monsieur, that paper you hold--" she stopped for an instant, able to go +no further. + +"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?" + +She steeled herself. Too much was at stake; she could not resent his +hateful implications now. + +"Tardif was not my messenger, Monsieur, as you know. Tardif was the +thief of that document in your hands." + +"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." + +"Monsieur will hear what I have to say? You have the will, your rights +are in your hands. Is not that enough?" + +"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." + +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!" + +"Monsieur," she said calmly, "it would have been easy to destroy the +will. Have you not thought of that?" + +For a moment he was taken aback, but he said harshly: "If crime were +always intelligent, it would have fewer penalties." + +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: + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Nevertheless you do not." + +"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." + +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." + +"Do not think, Madame, that I am as avaricious as you." + +"Is it avaricious to offer double the worth of the rental?" + +"There is the title and distinction. You married a mad nobody; you wish +to retain an honour that belongs to me." + +"I am asking it for my husband's sake, not my own, believe me, +Monsieur." + +"And what do you expect me to do for his sake, Madame?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"With ample reason." + +"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." + +"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." + +She paused; Fournel did not answer, but sat as though reading the will +intently. + +"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." + +"Evidently bent upon wrecking the chances of a great career," +interrupted Fournel over the paper. + +"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--" + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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?" + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +Fournel rose and in a low voice said: "Will you not sit down?" He +motioned to a chair. + +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." + +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--" + +"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. + +"You are here alone with me at night," he persisted. "It would not be +easy to--" + +"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--" + +"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--" + +"Oh, Monsieur!" she said, with a quick impulsive gesture towards him, +and her face lighting with sympathy. + +"I was struck too hard--" + +She touched his arm and said gently: "Some are hurt in one way and some +in another; all are hurt some time, but--" + +"You shall have your way," he interrupted, and moved apart. + +"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. + +"But no, no, no, you shall not do it," she cried. "I only asked it for +while he lives--ah!" + +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. + +"You will let me give you some wine?" he said quietly, and poured out a +glassful. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. THE BITER BITTEN + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +Distressed as Madelinette was, she was composed and ready. + +"The man was dismissed my employ--" she began, but Fournel interposed. + +"What is this I hear about shooting and a will?" he said sternly. + +"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!" + +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--" + +"Ah, do you deny that I came to you?--" began Tardif. + +"Constables," said Fournel, "I give this fellow in charge. Take him to +gaol, and I will appear at court against him when called upon." + +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. + +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." + +"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." + +As she and Madame Marie passed from the house, Fournel shook +Madelinette's hand warmly, and said: "'All's well that ends well.'" + +"That ends well," answered Madelinette, with a sorrowful questioning in +her voice. + +"We will make it so," he rejoined, and then they parted. + + + + +CHAPTER X. THE DOOR THAT WOULD NOT OPEN + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Good evening, M'sieu'! Fine doings at the Manor--eh? + +"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. + +"I have as much right to be here as you, M'sieu'." + +"You have no right at all to be here. You were dismissed your place by +the mistress of this Manor." + +"There is no mistress of this Manor." + +"Madame Racine dismissed you." + +"And I dismissed Madame Racine," answered the man with a sneer. + +"You are training for the horsewhip. You forget that, as Seigneur, I +have power to give you summary punishment." + +"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: + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"I am Seigneur of this Manor, and you have taken wages from me, and +eaten my bread, slept under my roof, and--" + +"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." + +The Seigneur did not understand yet. But there was a strange light of +suspicion in his eyes, a nervous rage knotting his forehead. + +"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--" + +"It was no canard." Tardif laughed hatefully. "There was a will right +enough." + +"Where is it? I've heard that fool's gossip before." + +"Where is it? Ask your wife; she knows. Ask your loving Tardif, he +knows." + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Tell me all," he said. "You shall be well paid." + +"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?" + +The Seigneur was painfully quiet and intent, yet his brain was like some +great lens, refracting and magnifying things to monstrous proportions. + +"A will was found?" he asked. + +"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. + +"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." + +"You are drunk," said the Seigneur quietly. "You don't know what you're +saying." + +"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--" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"I learned that from the tunes you played on your anvil, dear +smithy-man." + +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. + +"Where is the will, Louis," she repeated after him mechanically, staring +at his face, ghostly in the moonlight. + +"The will you found behind the picture in the library." + +"O Louis!" she cried, and made a gesture of despair. "O Louis!" + +"You found it, and Tardif stole it and took it to Quebec." + +"Yes, Louis, but Louis--ah, what is the matter, dear! I cannot bear that +look in your face. What is the matter, Louis?" + +"Tardif took it to Fournel, and you followed. And I have been living in +another man's house, on another's bread--" + +"O Louis, no--no--no! Our money has paid for all." + +"Your money, Madelinette!" His voice rose. + +"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." + +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. + +"Tardif said that--he said that you--that you and Fournel--" + +She read his meaning in his tone, and shrank back in terror, then with a +flush, straightened herself, and took a step towards him. + +"It was natural that you should not care for a hunchback like me," he +continued, "but--" + +"Louis!" she cried, in a voice of anguish and reproach. + +"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--" + +"I pleaded with Monsieur Fournel, knowing how you loved the +Seigneury--pleaded and offered to pay three times the price--" + +"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. + +"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: + +"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. + +"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. + +"I killed Tardif. He is there in the hut in the garden--dead! I was +seen, and they are coming to take me." + +With a cry she ran to the door that led into the hall, and locked it. +She listened, then turned her face to Louis. + +"You killed him!" she gasped. "Louis! Louis!" Her face was like ashes. + +"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--" + +There was a knocking at the door, and a voice calling--a peremptory +voice. + +"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." + +He ran to the door of the bath-room and flung it open. "If my life is to +pay the price, then--!" + +She came blindly towards him, stretching out her hands. + +"Louis! Louis!" was all that she could say. + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +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!" + +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. + +Suddenly she turned upon them with a gesture of piteous triumph and +said: + +"You cannot have him now." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + + ......................... + +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. + + + + +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON + +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. + +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'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. + +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. + +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. + +"Voila, so sad, so wonderful! She keeps the ring--dear P'tite Louison!" +said Florian, the eldest. + +"Alors, she gives him a legacy in her will! Sweet P'tite Louison," said +Octave. + +"Mais, the governor and the archbishop admire her--P'tite Louison:" said +Felix, nodding confidently at Medallion. + +"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!" + +"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. + +Isidore's tale was after this fashion: + +"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. + +"'Ma'm'selle, Ma'm'selle,' he say, 'we must meet again!' + +"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'. + +"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! + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"'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'tite Louison stan' like stone. M'sieu' turn to her. 'What shall it +be, Louison?' he say. 'You will come with me?' + +"'Kiss me, Charles,' she say, 'and tell me good-bye till--till you are +free.' + +"He look like a madman. 'Kiss me once, Charles,' she say, 'and let me +go.' + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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." + +"Where is he now?" asked Medallion. + +Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes religiously. "Waiting for +Judgment Day and P'tite Louison," he answered. + +"Dead!" said Medallion. + +"How long?" + +"Twenty year." + +"But the flowers--the flowers?" + +"He left word for them to be sent just the same, and the money for it." + +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. + +"She thinks him living?" he asked gently as he watched Louison. + +"Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the +flowers kep' coming." + +"Why did he wish it so?" Isidore mused a while. + +"Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great actor--ah, yes, sublime!" +he said. + +Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to where P'tite Louison +was picking berries. His hat was still off. + +"Let me help you, Mademoiselle," he said softly. And henceforth he was +as foolish as her brothers. + + + + +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR + +"Sacre bapteme!" + +"What did he say?" asked the Little Chemist, stepping from his doorway. + +"He cursed his baptism," answered tall Medallion, the English +auctioneer, pushing his way farther into the crowd. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Luc Pomfrette, why have you done this? What provocation had you?" + +The Cure's voice was stern and cold, his usually gentle face had become +severe, his soft eyes were piercing and determined. + +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. + +"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. + +Still the voyageur did not answer. + +The Cure glanced at Lajeunesse the blacksmith, who stood near. + +"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!" + +Lajeunesse looked around, as if for corroboration; Henri and others +nodded, and some one said: + +"That's true; that's true. There was no cause." + +"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." + +The speaker was Parpon the dwarf, the oddest, in some ways the most +foolish, in others the wisest man in Pontiac. + +"That is no excuse," said the Cure. + +"It is the only one he has, eh?" answered Parpon. His eyes were fixed +meaningly on those of Pomfrette. + +"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--" + +"It's a lie," cried Pomfrette, shaking with rage from head to foot. + +A long horror-stricken "Ah!" broke from the crowd. The Cure's face +became graver and colder. + +"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--" + +"I'll go to no Mass till I'm carried to it," was the sullen, malevolent +interruption. + +The Cure turned upon the people. + +"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." + +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. + +"Shall we take off the little bell?" asked Lajeunesse of the Cure. + +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: + +"I have commanded you, my children. Leave the leper alone." + +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. + +He did not move until he had seen them all started homewards from the +Four Corners. One person remained beside him--Parpon the dwarf. + +"I will not obey you, M'sieu' le Cure," said he. "I'll forgive him +before he repents." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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!" + +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. + +Pomfrette stopped short. "Good-day, lime-burner; good-day, Duclosse," he +said, looking straight at them. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"He was a good enough fellow once," answered Garotte, watching +Pomfrette. + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +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! + + +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: + + "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!" + +"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. + +This was not the same world that he had known, not the same Pontiac. +Suddenly he stopped short in the road. + +"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. + +"Good-day," he said. "How goes it?" + +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. + +With a bitter laugh, Pomfrette turned to the little bar. + +"Brandy," he said; "brandy, my Bourienne." + +The landlord shrugged his shoulder, and looked the other way. + +"Brandy," he repeated. Still there was no sign. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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." + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Pomfrette, you must go to Mass next Sunday." + +"I said I wouldn't go till I was carried there, and I mean it--that's +so," was the morose reply. + +"What made you curse like that--so damnable?" asked Parpon furtively. + +"That's my own business. It doesn't matter to anybody but me." + +"And you said the Cure lied--the good M'sieu' Fabre--him like a saint." + +"I said he lied, and I'd say it again, and tell the truth." + +"But if you went to Mass, and took your penance, and--" + +"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!" + +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: + +"But if the girl got sorry--" + +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: + +"What do you know?" + +"What others might know if they had eyes and sense; but they haven't. +What would you do if that Junie come back?" + +"I would kill her." His look was murderous. + +"Bah, you would kiss her first, just the same!" + +"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." + +"What did she do?" Pomfrette's hands clinched. + +"What's in my own noddle, and not for any one else," he answered +sulkily. + +"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?" + +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. + +Parpon held his peace. + +The days, weeks, and months went by; and the months stretched to three +years. + +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. + +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. + + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"You said you'd never go to Mass till you were carried; so it's all +right." + +Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held him tight, saying: + +"It's no use; you must come; we've had enough. Besides--" + +"Besides what?" asked Pomfrette faintly. "Never mind," answered Parpon. + +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. + +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. + +At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. "What is it, +Parpon?" he asked gravely. + +"It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed. + +"He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good +priest. + +"Till he was carried, M'sieu' le Cure--and I've carried him." + +"Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc +Pomfrette?" asked the Cure. + +"I did not know I was coming--no." Pomfrette's brown eyes met the +priest's unflinchingly. + +"You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life." + +"I'd rather have died," answered the sick man simply. + +"Died, and been cast to perdition!" + +"I'm used to that; I've had a bad time here in Pontiac." + +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. + +"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?" + +There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette's face, and his eyes were intense +and burning as they looked up fixedly at the Cure. + +"I can't think any more," answered Pomfrette slowly. "I've no head." + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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--" + +"Luc," the Cure interrupted, "say that you repent." + +"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. + +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. + +"Junie!" he said hoarsely. + +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." + +"Yes, yes," said Pomfrette, his eyes fixed painfully on her face--"yes, +yes." + +"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." + +Pomfrette trembled so that Parpon and the Little Chemist made him sit +down, and he leaned against their shoulders, while Junie went on: + +"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." + +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. + +"That's how I've lived," she said, and she handed a letter to the Cure. + +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. + +The Cure's face relaxed, and a rare gentleness came into it. + +He read the letter aloud. Luc once more struggled to his feet, eagerly +listening. + +"You did not love Luc?" the Cure asked Junie, meaningly. + +"I did not love Luc--then," she answered, a flush going over her face. + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +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: + +"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. + +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. + + + + +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS + +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. + +"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.' + +"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: + + "'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!' + +"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. + +"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: + + "'Adieu, belle Francoise; + Allons gai! + Adieu, belle Francoise! + Moi, je to marierai, + Ma luron lurette! Moi, + je to marierai, + Ma luron lure!' + +"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. + +"'Bargon,' I say--and I give him a horn of old rye--'here's to le bon +Dieu!' + +"'Le bon Dieu, and a good harvest!' he say. + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"'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.' + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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! + +"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.' + +"'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." + +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. + +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." + +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. + + + + +A WORKER IN STONE + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +So Francois read: + +"Gustave Narrois, aged seventy-two years-" + +"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." + +Francois read it: + + "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." + +The Cure nodded his head. "Go on; the next," he said. + +"Annette John, aged twenty years--" + +"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?" + +Francois smoothed out the paper and read: + + "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." + +The Cure turned his head away. "Go on," he said sadly. "Chief John has +lost his right hand. Go on." + +"Henri Rouget" + +"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?" + +And Francois read: + + "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." + +The priest rose to his feet and put a hand on the young man's shoulder. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +And so began the awakening of Francois Lagarre; and so began his +ambition and his peril. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Fig of Eden," muttered Jules Marmotte, with one eye on Jeanne, "any +fool could saw a better-looking thing out of ice!" + +"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." + +But Jeanne could not bear this--the greasy whopping butcher-man! + +"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?" + +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. + +Leaning a hand against the white shaft of the Patriot's Memory, he said: + + "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." + +"Good enough for Ba'tiste," said Duclosse the mealman. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +She stepped forward without a word, and snatched at the covering. He +swiftly interposed and stopped her hand. + +"I will see it," she said. + +"Not to-day," he answered. + +"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. + +"You beast, you liar!" she said. + +"You beast! beast! beast!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +"Remove the canvas from the figure," said the Cure sternly. Stubbornness +and resentment filled Francois's breast. He did not stir. + +"Do you oppose the command of the Church?" said the Cure, still more +severely. "Remove the canvas." + +"It is my work--my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my hands," +said Francois doggedly. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.'" + +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. + +"You were so ready to suspect," he said. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"The spirit of a man will support him, but a wounded spirit who can +bear?" + + + + +THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE + +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. + +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: + + "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!" + +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." + +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. + +"I am going to M'sieu' Medallion," she said. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER + +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." + +"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!" + +"Get married yourself, Farette." + +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. + +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: + +"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. + +"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'!" + +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: + +"Mon Dieu, the ankle, the eye, the good child, Julie, there!" + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +MATHURIN + +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: + +"Ah, dat poor Mathurin, I wipe my tears for him!" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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! + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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!' + +"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. + +"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: + +"'Mathurin, you have sin a great sin. If it was two hunderd years ago +you would be put to death for dat.' + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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: + +"'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. + +"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.'" + +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. + + + + +THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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'." + +As he sat down he said in English also, with a laugh and with snapping +eyes: "Good Lord, what brings you here, lady-bird?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Open your mouth, Henri. Come along, sleepyhead." + +Straightway he began to sing a rollicking song, and Henri joined in with +him heartily, for the spirit of Fabian's humour was contagious: + + "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!" + +He was about to begin another verse when Henri stopped him, saying: + +"You're going to break your neck, Fabian." + +"What's up, Henri?" was the reply. + +"You're drinking hard, and you don't keep good company." + +Fabian laughed. "Can't get the company I want, so what I can get I have, +Henri, my lad." + +"Don't drink." Henri laid his freehand on Fabian's knee. + +"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." + +"Girl? What the devil do you mean!" + +"She, Nell Barraway, was the company I meant, Fabian." + +"Nell Barraway--you mean her? Bosh! I'm going to marry her, Henri." + +"You mustn't, Fabian," said Henri, eagerly clutching Fabian's sleeve. + +"But I must, my Henri. She's the best-looking, wittiest girl I ever +saw--splendid. Never lonely with her." + +"Looks and brains isn't everything, Fabian." + +"Isn't it, though? Isn't it? Tiens, you try it!" + +"Not without goodness." Henri's voice weakened. + +"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." + +"You mean whether she was good or not?" + +"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!" + +"I know all about it." + +"Know all about it! You're in love--you?" + +"Yes." + +Fabian sat open-mouthed for a minute. "Godam!" he said. It was his one +English oath. + +"Is she good company?" he asked after a minute. + +"She's the same as you keep--voila, the same." + +"You mean Nell--Nell?" asked Fabian, in a dry, choking voice. + +"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." + +Fabian laughed nervously. "Holy heaven, and you've got her in your +blood, too!" + +"Yes, but I'd never marry her. Fabian, at Montreal I found out all about +her. She was as bad--" + +"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." + +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. + +Henri drank to the finger-mark set, and then Fabian lifted the flask to +his lips. + +"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. + +The next day the two went on a long hunting expedition, and the +following month Nell Barraway left for Montreal. + +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. + +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. + + + + +THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF + +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." + +"Tell us about him, then," Medallion urged; "for there are many tales, +and who knows which is the right one?" + +"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: + +"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." + +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--!" + +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. + +"It's a creepy story," said Medallion, "but go on." + +"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." + +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. + +"'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...." + +"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!" + +"But what about the book?" Medallion asked. + +"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." + + + + +UNCLE JIM + +He was no uncle of mine, but it pleased me that he let me call him Uncle +Jim. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"'Tisn't much, is it? Only a clap-board house, and no ceilings upstairs, +and rag carpets-pshaw!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I'm tired anyway of the hotel job," said Rodney. "Farming's a better +life. Don't you think so, dad?" + +"It's better for me, Rod," answered Uncle Jim, "it's better for me." + +Rodney was a little uneasy. "But won't it be better for me?" he asked. + +"Mebbe," was the slow answer, "mebbe, mebbe so." + +"And then there's mother, she's getting too old for the work, ain't +she?" + +"She's done it straight along," answered the old man, "straight along +till now." + +"But Millie can help her, and we'll have a hired girl, eh?" + +"I dunno, I dunno," was the brooding answer; "the place ain't going to +stand it." + +"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?" + +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: + +"Mebbe, mebbe!" + +Rodney fretted under the old man's vague replies, and said: "But darn it +all, can't you tell us what you think?" + +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." + +"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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + + + + +THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +One day the silent old housekeeper came rapping at Medallion's door, and +simply said to him: "Come--the Seigneur!" + +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. + +Once when the Little Chemist touched his wrist, his dark eyes rested on +him with inquiry, and he said: "Soon?" + +It was useless trying to shirk the persistency of that look. "Eight +hours, perhaps, sir," the Little Chemist answered, with painful shyness. + +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." + +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!" + +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. + +"I heard a voice," he said. + +"No one spoke, my master," said the housekeeper. + +"It was a voice without," he said. + +"Monsieur," said the Little Chemist, "it was the wind in the eaves." + +His face was almost painfully eager and sensitively alert. + +"Hush!" he said; "I hear a voice in the tall porch." + +"Sir," said Medallion, laying a hand respectfully on his arm, "it is +nothing." + +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." + +No one moved. But he was not to be disobeyed. + +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. + +"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." + +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!" + +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. + +"Two hours short, Chemist!" he said, and smiled, and was Still. + + + + +PARPON THE DWARF + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?" + +She turned quickly, and saw Parpon on a table in the corner, his legs +drawn up to his chin, his black eyes twinkling. + +"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. + +"Like that, there will need two bags!" he said. + +"Imbecile!" she cried, standing angry in the centre of the room. + +"Ho, ho, what a big word! See what it is to have the tongue of fashion!" + +She looked helplessly round the room. "I will kill you!" + +"Let us die together," answered Parpon; "we are both sad." + +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. + +"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!" + +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." + +"Kill a man!" She showed her white teeth with a savage little smile. + +"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?" + +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." + +"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--" + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"Good day, Annette," she said loftily. + +"Good day, Julie," was the quiet reply. + +"Will you come in?" + +"I am going to the mill for flax-seed. Benoit has rheumatism." + +"Poor Benoit!" said Julie, with a meaning toss of her head. + +"Poor Benoit," responded Annette gently. Her voice was always sweet. One +would never have known that Benoit was a drunken idler. + +"Come in. I will give you the meal from my own. Then it will cost you +nothing," said Julie, with an air. + +"Thank you, Julie, but I would rather pay." + +"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." + +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." + +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." + +Annette spoke simply and frankly, but her words cut like a knife. + +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." + +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." + +"But there is Benoit, and the child--" + +"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. + +"Well, it must only be a minute." + +"Were you at the funeral to-day?" Julie began. + +"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." + +"Is that all you know?" queried Julie. + +"Not much more. I go out little, and no one comes to me except the +Little Chemist's wife--she is a good woman." + +"What did she say?" + +"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." + +This was more than Julie had heard. She showed excitement. + +"The Seigneur and M'sieu' Armand were good friends when he died?" she +asked. + +"Quite." + +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. + +"You were at the funeral?" she added, after a minute. + +"Everybody was there." + +"I suppose M'sieu' Armand looks very fine and strange after his long +travel," said Annette shyly, rising to go. + +"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." + +"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." + +She was thinking again what a pity it was that Julie had no child. + +"To see Cecilia and the black cat? Very well--some day." + +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. + + + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + "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!" + +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. + +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. + + + +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."' + +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." + +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?" + +"For the peace of a good man's soul." + +"He did not confess; he had no rites of the Church; he had refused you +many years." + +"My son, he had a confessor." + +Armand raised his eyebrows. "They told me of no one." + +"It was the Angel of Patience." + +They walked on again for a time without a word. At last the Cure said: +"You will remain here?" + +"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." + +"God forbid! Have you not seen the will?" + +"I have got no farther than his grave," was the sombre reply. + +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." + +"You are persistent," replied the young man, smiling. "Whoever lives +here should make it less gloomy." + +"We shall soon know who is to live here. See, there is Monsieur Garon, +and Monsieur Medallion also." + +"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. + +"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." + +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." + +"There is plenty, monsieur," she said; "none has been drunk these twelve +years." + +The Avocat coughed, and said hesitatingly to Armand: "I asked Parpon the +dwarf to come, monsieur. There is a reason." + +Armand raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Very good," he said. "When will +he be here?" + +"He is waiting at the Louis Quinze hotel." + +"I will send for him," said Armand, and gave the message to Sylvie, who +was entering the room. + +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. + +"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." + +The Cure stared incredulously, the Avocat took off his glasses and +tapped his lips musingly, Armand whistled softly. + +"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." + +"Even from me," said the Cure, smiling. Then, gravely: "It is strange, +the angel in the stunted body." + +"Are you sure it's an angel?" said Armand. + +"Who ever knew Parpon do any harm?" queried the Cure. + +"He has always been kind to the poor," put in the Avocat. + +"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. + +"Only a few lines; and those not easy to understand, unless one had an +inkling." + +"Had you the inkling?" + +"Perhaps, monsieur," replied Medallion seriously. They eyed each other. + +"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?" + +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. + +"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." + +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." + +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?" + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?" + +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." + +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. + +"It's all right, little son," said the Cure kindly. Turning sharply on +Medallion, Parpon said: "When was it you heard?" + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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!" + +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. + +As the last notes died away Armand got up, and standing by the table, +said: "Parpon, you saved my father's life once?" + +Parpon did not answer. + +"Will you not tell him, my son?" said the Cure, rising. Still Parpon was +silent. + +"The son of your grand Seigneur asks you a question, Parpon," said +Medallion soothingly. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +Armand touched his shoulder. "Parpon!" But Parpon shrank away. + +Armand turned to the rest. "I do not understand it, gentlemen. Parpon +does not like the young Seigneur as he liked the old." + +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." + +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. + +"Come, little comrade, drink," said Medallion, offering him a glass. + +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. + + + +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. + +"Man alive!" said he; "tell me all about it. Ah, the good news!" + +"There is nothing to tell: he left it; that is all." + +"Oh, the good Seigneur," cried Farette, "the grand Seigneur!" + +Some one laughed scornfully in the doorway. It was Julie. + +"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!'" + +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. + +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. + +"This is the old place. What a fool I was, then!" he said. + +At that moment Julie came quickly, and lifted her hands towards him. +"Armand--beloved Armand!" she said. + +Armand looked at her sternly, from her feet to her pitted forehead, then +wheeled, and left her without a word. + +She sank in a heap on the ground. There was a sudden burst of tears, and +then she clinched her hands with fury. + +Some one laughed in the trees above her--a shrill, wild laugh. She +looked up frightened. Parpon presently dropped down beside her. + +"It was as I said," whispered the dwarf, and he touched her shoulder. +This was the full cup of shame. She was silent. + +"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. + +"Sing again," she said. + +"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. + +She hung her head, then flung it back again as she thought of Armand. + +"I hate him!" she cried; "I hate him!" + +"You will not throw meal on me any more, or call me idiot?" he pleaded. + +"No, Parpon," she said. + +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. + +She threw herself, face forward, in the dusty needles of the pines. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC + +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. + +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?" + +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. + +"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?" + +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." + +A strange, painful silence fell on the people for a moment, and then +went round an almost incredulous whisper: "Parpon the dwarf!" + +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. + +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. + +"What will you say to the Bishop, Parpon?" asked the Cure. + +The congregation stirred in their seats, for they saw that the Cure +intended Parpon to go. + +Parpon went up two steps of the chancel quietly and caught the arm of +the Cure, drawing him down to whisper in his ear. + +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." + +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--" + +Soon afterwards, with tearful eyes, he preached from the text: + +"And the Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it +not." + + ....................... + +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: + + "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!" + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Parpon drew from his breast a bag, and put it in his hands, and +beckoning down the Cure's head, he whispered. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + + + + +MEDALLION'S WHIM + +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. + +Medallion made a deeper guess. "Want to know what's the matter with +him?" he said. "Ha, I'll tell you! Woman." + +"Woman--God bless me!" said the Little Chemist, in a frightened way. + +"Woman, little man; I mean the want of a woman," said Medallion. + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +His Ha! was never a laugh; it was unctuous, abrupt, an ejaculation of +satisfaction, knowledge, solid enjoyment, final solution. + +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. + +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: + + "'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!'" + +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. + +"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." + +Presently the Cure asked, as if from a great distance, so meditative was +his voice: "Who will be the woman, Medallion?" + +"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!" + +"Regardez Ca! you are a great man," said the Little Chemist. + +There was a strange, inscrutable look in the kind priest's eyes. The +Avocat had confessed to him in his time. + +Medallion took up his hat. + +"Where are you going?" said the Little Chemist. "To our Avocat, and then +to St. Jean." + +He opened the door and vanished. The two that were left shook their +heads and wondered. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Great is the Code Napoleon!" he said mechanically. Then, presently: +"Ah, my friend, Medallion!" + +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: + +"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." + +The Avocat's eye gazed at Medallion earnestly now, and Medallion went +on: + +"As good singing as you want to hear. You've heard the words of the +song--the river drivers sing it: + + "'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!'" + +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. + +Medallion went on: + + "'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!'" + +When Medallion had finished he raised his glass and said: "Garon, I +drink to home and woman!" + +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. + +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: + +"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!" + +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: + +Quebec, September 13th, 18-. It is one year since. I shall learn to +laugh some day. + +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." + +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." + +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. + +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?" + +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. + +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. + +She shook her head mournfully. "We were more than friends, and that is +different." + +"You were his wife?" said Medallion gently. + +"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." + +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?" + +She need not have asked Medallion. He knew many secrets and kept them; +which is not the usual way of good-humoured people. + +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." + +She trembled towards him. "He is worse--he is dying!" + +He smiled. "Not dying at all. He needs you; come along. I'll tell you as +we go." + +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?" + +"I am as he left me," she replied timidly, but with a kind of pride, +too. + +"Don't mistake me," he said. "I thought perhaps you had been married +since." + +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." + +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." + +Medallion stooped over him, and caught him by both arms gently. "We +shall see," he said. "It is the anniversary," he whispered. + +"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. + +"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: + + "But down there come from the lofty hills + Footsteps and eyes agleam, + Bringing the laughter of yesterday + Into the little house." + + + + +THE PRISONER + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He waked to find two officers of the law beside him, and the body of +Jean Gamache, stark and dreadful, a few feet away. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +"My poor Blaze! my poor Blaze!" she said, clasping his manacled hands. + +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. + +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. + +"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: + +"O God, canst Thou do everything but speak!" And again: "That hour--the +memory of that hour, in exchange for my ruined life!" + +One day the gaoler came to him and said: "Monsieur Turgeon, you are +free. The Governor has cut off five years from your sentence." + +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!" + +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. + +"I was sorry for you." + +"But that is no reason." + +"I once committed a crime," she whispered, with shrinking bitterness. + +"That's bad," he said. "Were you punished?" He looked at her keenly, +almost fiercely, for a curious suspicion shot into his mind. + +She shook her head and answered no. + +"That's worse!" + +"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?" + +"I had a little child," was her reply. + +"And the man who was punished instead?" + +"He was alone in the world," she said. + +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. + +"I remember you now," he said. "I remember now. + +"I waked and saw you looking at me that night! Who was the father of +your child?" + +"Jean Gamache," she replied. "He ruined me and left me to starve." + +"I am innocent of his death!" he said quietly and gladly. + +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." + +"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." + +"It can't be helped now," he said sighing, and he turned away from her. + +"Won't you forgive me?" she asked bitterly. + +"Won't you give me back those five years?" + +"If the child did not need me I would give my life," she answered. "I +owe it to you." + +Her haggard, hunted face made him sorry; he, too, had suffered. + +"It's all right," he answered gently. "Take care of your child." + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +AN UPSET PRICE + +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. + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?" + +"Yes, that's it." + +"Regardez ca--well, well!" + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Now, my dear," he whispered, "we will be happy again." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"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." + +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?" + +"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. + +"Well? well?" she said. "Oh, my dear father, will you not keep him +here?" + +A peculiar cold smile hovered about his lips. "But there is danger to me +in this... and remember, he is very old!" + +"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!" + +"But, I tell you--" + +"Do you not hear him--he is dying!" She was mad with grief; she hardly +knew what she said. + +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. + +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: + +"An upset price!" + +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. + + + + +A FRAGMENT OF LIVES + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +Villiard looked at the other with contracting, questioning eyes. + +"You would play that game with me?" he asked, in a mechanical voice. + +"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." + +"I am ready," was the answer. "But let us eat first." + +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. + +Dubarre rose from the table, threw himself upon the little pile of +otter-skins, and lay watching Villiard and mechanically studying the +little room. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"When?" said Dubarre at last. "Not yet," was the quiet reply. + +"I was thinking of my first theft--an apple from my brother's plate," +said Dubarre, with a dry smile. "You?" + +"I, of my first lie." + +"That apple was the sweetest fruit I ever tasted." + +"And I took the penalty of the lie, but I had no sorrow." + +Again there was silence. + +"Now?" asked Villiard, after an hour had passed. "I am ready." + +They came to the table. + +"Shall we bind our eyes?" asked Dubarre. "I do not know the glasses that +hold the poison." + +"Nor I the bottle that held it. I will turn my back, and do you change +about the glasses." + +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--!" + +Before it had finished striking both men were facing the glasses again. + +"Take one," said Dubarre. + +Villiard took the one nearest himself. Dubarre took one also. Without a +word they lifted the glasses and drank. + +"Again," said Dubarre. + +"You choose," responded Villiard. + +Dubarre lifted the one nearest himself, and Villiard picked up the +other. Raising their glasses again, they bowed to each other and drank. + +The watch struck twelve, and stopped its silvery chiming. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Villiard had drunk both glasses of the poison! + +"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." + +Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely along the opposite wall. + +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!" + +The man's look still wandered distractedly along the wall. The sweat of +death was on his face; his lips were moving spasmodically. + +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. + +"Because the woman loved him!" he said, gazing curiously at the dead +man. + +He turned, went to the door and opened it, for his breath choked him. + +All was still on the wooded heights and in the wide valley. + +"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. + + + + +THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The first time he told the story was in the house of Medallion the +auctioneer. + +"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! + +"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. + +"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! + +"'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. + +"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!' + +"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. + +"Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, and Captain Masham +shtandin' by whips out a flask. + +"'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.' + +"'A foine healthy corpse I am; an' a foine thirsty, healthy corpse I +am,' says I." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Well, and what does he do, Madame?" asked the Avocat simply. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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!" + +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: + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Aw, it's the koind av ye!" said Kilquhanity, with difficulty, out of +the half shadows. + +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. + +"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. + +"I do be thinkin'," said the strained, whispering voice--"I do be +thinkin' I could shmoke." + +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. + +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. + +"Beggin' yer pardon, Misther Garon," she said, "I thought it was only +Kilquhanity here, an' he wid no more sense than a babby." + +Kilquhanity's eyes closed, and he buried one side of his head in the +pillow, that her shrill voice should not pierce his ears. + +"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. + +"Aw, lave thim alone, darlin'," whispered Kilquhanity, tossing. Her +officiousness seemed to hurt him more than the pain in his chest. + +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. + +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. + +"That is who I am," she said. "Mary Muddock that was, Mary Kilquhanity +that is." + +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. + +"Well?" said the woman, with a hard look in her face and a hard note in +her voice. "Well?" + +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. + +"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!" + +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." + +"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. + +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. + +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! + +The Cure and the Avocat had quieted them at last, and the Cure spoke +sternly now to both women. + +"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." + +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. + +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." + +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." + +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?" + +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." + +A smile came upon his face. "Oh, the foine of it! I do be +shlaping-shlaping." + +And he fell into a noiseless Sleep. + + + + +THE BARON OF BEAUGARD + +"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!" + +"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. + +Larue spoke English very well--his mother was English. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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!' + +"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! + +"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!" + +"What was it to the Baron and Falise?" asked Medallion. + +"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. + +"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? + +"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.' + +"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--' + +"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.' + +"'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. + +"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!' + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"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!' + +"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!' + +"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!' + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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!' + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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--' + +"He had his way with them, and after that perhaps the great God had His +way with him perhaps." + + + + +THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + +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. + +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: + + "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!'" + +Now, this is the story of McGilveray the bandmaster of Anstruther's +regiment: + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Yet it was a woman. + +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: + + "Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre," + +he had forthwith set out to hail this daughter of Gaul, if perchance she +might be seen again. + +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. + +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. + +They stunned him for a moment, and then presently, as if in defiance of +his own thoughts, he began to sing softly: + +"Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre." + +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. + +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. + +"How you like yourself now?" asked a huge French corporal who had +learned English from an English girl at St. Malo years before. + +"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. + +The big soldier laughed, and told his comrades what the bandmaster had +said. One of them grinned, but the other frowned sullenly, and said: + +"Avez vous tabac?" + +"Havey you to-ba-co?" said the big soldier instantly--interpreting. + +"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. + +"He shall die--the cursed English soldier," said Johnny Crapaud. + +"Some other day will do," said McGilveray. "What does he say?" asked +Johnny Crapaud. + +"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. + +"Y'are lyin', me darlin', me bloody beauty!" interposed McGilveray. + +"If we don't take him to headquarters now he'll send across and get the +tobacco," interpreted the corporal to Johnny Crapaud. + +"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. + +The others nodded their heads, and, as they went out, McGilveray said +after them: + +"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. + +"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." + +The corporal stayed when the others went out, and, in broken English, +told McGilveray so. + +"I'll play a hornpipe, an' his gory shroud is round him," said +McGilveray. + +The corporal grinned from ear to ear. "You like a chew tabac?" said he, +pulling out a dirty knob of a black plug. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It was near midnight when the lock turned in the door and presently +stepped inside--a girl. + +"Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre," said she, and nodded her head to him +humorously. + +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. + +"You've a way wid you, me darlin'," said McGilveray, not thinking that +she might understand. + +"A leetla way of my own," she answered in broken English. + +McGilveray started. "Where did you learn it?" he asked, for he had had +two surprises that night. + +"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." + +"Shure I am not a good soldier thin. Music's me game. An' the band of +Anstruther's rigimint's mine." + +"You can play tunes on a drum?" she asked, mischievously. + +"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. + +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. + +"You have been drink," she said, and she stopped her work of freeing +him. + +"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!" + +"Divil a drop thin, darlin', till we fly our flag yander," pointing +towards where he supposed the town to be. + +"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. + +"No, no, no," she said. "We will shake our hands after," and she +stooped, took off the shackles, and freed his arms. + +"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. + +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." + +She loosed the boat into the current gently, and, holding it, motioned +to him to enter. + +"You're goin' to row me over?" he asked, incredulously. + +"'Sh! get in," she said. + +"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. + +"What is it you came here for?" she asked, with meaning. + +"Yourself an' the mockin' bird in yer voice," he answered. + +"Then that is enough," she said. "You come for me, I go for you. Get +in." + +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. + +McGilveray gave the pass-word, and presently he was on the bank saluting +the sentry he had left three hours before. + +"Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre!" said the girl again with a gay +insolence, and pushed the boat out into the stream. + +"A minnit, a minnit, me darlin'," said McGilveray. + +"Keep your promise," came back, softly. + +"Ah, come back wan minnit!" + +"A flirt!" said the sentry. + +"You will pay for that," said the girl to the sentry, with quick anger. + +"Do you love me, Irishman?" she added, to McGilveray. + +"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. + +"Aw, the loike o' that! Aw, the foine av her-the tip-top lass o' the +wide world!" said he. + +"You're a fool, an' there'll be trouble from this," said the sentry. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I knew you were free with drink, McGilveray," he said, "but I did not +think you were a traitor to your country too." + +McGilveray saluted, and did not answer. + +"You might have waited till after to-morrow, man," said the General, his +eyes flashing. "My soldiers should have good music to-morrow." + +McGilveray saluted again, but made no answer. + +As if with a sudden thought the General waved off the officers and men +near him, and betkcned McGilveray to him. + +"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." + +"He did the same for me, whin I was taken prisoner, yer Excillincy, +an'--an', yer Excillincy, 'twas a matter of a woman, too." + +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!" + +The General's face relaxed still more. + +"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. + +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. + +At that moment the General, looking down from the side of the ship, said +sharply to an officer beside him: "What's that?" + +He pointed to a dark object floating near the ship, from which presently +came a small light with a hissing sound. + +"It's a fire-organ, sir," was the reply. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"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." + +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. + +"You've wiped all out, McGilveray," said Wolfe. "We see you are no +traitor." + +"Only a fool of a bandmaster who wanted wan toon more, yer Excillincy," +said McGilveray. + +"Beware drink, beware women," answered the General. + +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. + +"It's you, thin," he said, and he tried to look scornfully at her. + +"Have you keep your promise?" she said, hardly above her breath. + +"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." + +"Hoosban'--" she exclaimed, "who was my hoosban'?" + +"The big grinning corporal," he answered. + +"He is shot this morning," she said, her face darkening, "and, besides, +he was--nevare--my hoosban'." + +"He said he was," replied McGilveray, eagerly. + +"He was alway a liar," she answered. + +"He decaved you too, thin?" asked McGilveray, his face growing red. + +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. + +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!" + +"You will not drink no more?" she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. + +"Not till the Frenchies take Quebec again," he answered. + + + 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 + + + + + + +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.txt or 6241.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. Special rules, +set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to +copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to +protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project +Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you +charge for the eBooks, unless you receive specific permission. If you +do not charge anything for copies of this eBook, complying with the +rules is very easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose +such as creation of derivative works, reports, performances and +research. They may be modified and printed and given away--you may do +practically ANYTHING with public domain eBooks. Redistribution is +subject to the trademark license, especially commercial +redistribution. + + + +*** START: FULL LICENSE *** + +THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE +PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK + +To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free +distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work +(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project +Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full Project +Gutenberg-tm License (available with this file or online at +https://gutenberg.org/license). + + +Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic works + +1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to +and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property +(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all +the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or destroy +all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your possession. +If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound by the +terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the person or +entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph 1.E.8. + +1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be +used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who +agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few +things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works +even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See +paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this agreement +and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. See paragraph 1.E below. + +1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the Foundation" +or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection of Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual works in the +collection are in the public domain in the United States. If an +individual work is in the public domain in the United States and you are +located in the United States, we do not claim a right to prevent you from +copying, distributing, performing, displaying or creating derivative +works based on the work as long as all references to Project Gutenberg +are removed. Of course, we hope that you will support the Project +Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting free access to electronic works by +freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm works in compliance with the terms of +this agreement for keeping the Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with +the work. You can easily comply with the terms of this agreement by +keeping this work in the same format with its attached full Project +Gutenberg-tm License when you share it without charge with others. + +1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern +what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are in +a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, check +the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this agreement +before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, distributing or +creating derivative works based on this work or any other Project +Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no representations concerning +the copyright status of any work in any country outside the United +States. + +1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: + +1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other immediate +access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear prominently +whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work on which the +phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the phrase "Project +Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, performed, viewed, +copied or distributed: + +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 + +1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is derived +from the public domain (does not contain a notice indicating that it is +posted with permission of the copyright holder), the work can be copied +and distributed to anyone in the United States without paying any fees +or charges. If you are redistributing or providing access to a work +with the phrase "Project Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the +work, you must comply either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 +through 1.E.7 or obtain permission for the use of the work and the +Project Gutenberg-tm trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or +1.E.9. + +1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted +with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution +must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any additional +terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms will be linked +to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works posted with the +permission of the copyright holder found at the beginning of this work. + +1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this +work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. + +1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this +electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without +prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with +active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project +Gutenberg-tm License. + +1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, +compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including any +word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access to or +distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format other than +"Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official version +posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm web site (www.gutenberg.org), +you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense to the user, provide a +copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means of obtaining a copy upon +request, of the work in its original "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other +form. Any alternate format must include the full Project Gutenberg-tm +License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. + +1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, +performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works +unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. + +1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing +access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works provided +that + +- You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from + the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method + you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is + owed to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he + has agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the + Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments + must be paid within 60 days following each date on which you + prepare (or are legally required to prepare) your periodic tax + returns. Royalty payments should be clearly marked as such and + sent to the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the + address specified in Section 4, "Information about donations to + the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +- You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies + you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he + does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm + License. You must require such a user to return or + destroy all copies of the works possessed in a physical medium + and discontinue all use of and all access to other copies of + Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +- You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of any + money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the + electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days + of receipt of the work. + +- You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free + distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. + +1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project Gutenberg-tm +electronic work or group of works on different terms than are set +forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing from +both the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation and Michael +Hart, the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the +Foundation as set forth in Section 3 below. + +1.F. + +1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable +effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread +public domain works in creating the Project Gutenberg-tm +collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may contain +"Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other intellectual +property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or other medium, a +computer virus, or computer codes that damage or cannot be read by +your equipment. + +1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right +of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project +Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project +Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all +liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal +fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT +LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE +PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH F3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE +TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE +LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR +INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH +DAMAGE. + +1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a +defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can +receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a +written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you +received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium with +your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you with +the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in lieu of a +refund. If you received the work electronically, the person or entity +providing it to you may choose to give you a second opportunity to +receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If the second copy +is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing without further +opportunities to fix the problem. + +1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth +in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS' WITH NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO +WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTIBILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. + +1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied +warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of damages. +If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement violates the +law of the state applicable to this agreement, the agreement shall be +interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or limitation permitted by +the applicable state law. The invalidity or unenforceability of any +provision of this agreement shall not void the remaining provisions. + +1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the +trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone +providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in accordance +with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the production, +promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works, +harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, including legal fees, +that arise directly or indirectly from any of the following which you do +or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this or any Project Gutenberg-tm +work, (b) alteration, modification, or additions or deletions to any +Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any Defect you cause. + + +Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm + +Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of +electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of computers +including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It exists +because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations from +people in all walks of life. + +Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the +assistance they need, is critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's +goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will +remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project +Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure +and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future generations. +To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +and how your efforts and donations can help, see Sections 3 and 4 +and the Foundation web page at https://www.pglaf.org. + + +Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive +Foundation + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non profit +501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the +state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal +Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification +number is 64-6221541. Its 501(c)(3) letter is posted at +https://pglaf.org/fundraising. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent +permitted by U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. + +The Foundation's principal office is located at 4557 Melan Dr. S. +Fairbanks, AK, 99712., but its volunteers and employees are scattered +throughout numerous locations. Its business office is located at +809 North 1500 West, Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887, email +business@pglaf.org. Email contact links and up to date contact +information can be found at the Foundation's web site and official +page at https://pglaf.org + +For additional contact information: + Dr. Gregory B. Newby + Chief Executive and Director + gbnewby@pglaf.org + + +Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg +Literary Archive Foundation + +Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without wide +spread public support and donations to carry out its mission of +increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be +freely distributed in machine readable form accessible by the widest +array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations +($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt +status with the IRS. + +The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating +charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United +States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a +considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up +with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations +where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To +SEND DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any +particular state visit https://pglaf.org + +While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we +have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition +against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who +approach us with offers to donate. + +International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make +any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from +outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. + +Please check the Project Gutenberg Web pages for current donation +methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other +ways including including checks, online payments and credit card +donations. To donate, please visit: https://pglaf.org/donate + + +Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic +works. + +Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project Gutenberg-tm +concept of a library of electronic works that could be freely shared +with anyone. For thirty years, he produced and distributed Project +Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of volunteer support. + + +Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the U.S. +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not necessarily +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + + +Most people start at our Web site which has the main PG search facility: + + https://www.gutenberg.org + +This Web site includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, +including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary +Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to +subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. diff --git a/6241.zip b/6241.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..df5c4a8 --- /dev/null +++ b/6241.zip diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..2afe0c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #6241 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/6241) diff --git a/old/gp68w10.txt b/old/gp68w10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac1dd3a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/gp68w10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9160 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook Lane That Had No Turning, by Parker, Entire +#68 in our series by Gilbert Parker + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete. + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6241] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 17, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANE HAD NO TURNING, PARKER *** + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + + + +CONTENTS + +Volume 1. +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +Volume 2. +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS +A WORKER IN STONE + +Volume 3. +THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE +THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER +MATHURIN +THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER +THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF +UNCLE JIM +THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH +PARPON THE DWARF + +Volume 4. +TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC +MEDALLION'S WHIM +THE PRISONER +AN UPSET PRICE +A FRAGMENT OF LIVES +THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA +THE BARON OF BEAUGARD +THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + + + + +The Right Hon. Sir Wilfrid Laurier G.C.M.G. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + + Believe me, + Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier, + Yours very sincerely, + GILBERT PARKER. + +20 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE, + LONDON, S. W., + 14th August, 1900. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +CHAPTER I + +THE RETURN OF MADELINETTE + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +"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." + +"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. + +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." + +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: + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Louis! Louis! Louis!" + +The fierce words he had been about to utter died on his lips, his eyes +stared at the open window, bewildered and even frightened. + +"Louis! Louis!" + +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. + +"Louis!" + +It was Madelinette, who, disregarding the assembled company, ran forward +to him and caught both his hands in hers. + +"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! + +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. + +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. + +"You are not strong enough, Louis. You must be tranquil." + +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." + +She was smiling and still, and with one hand clasping her husband's, she +said: + +"The honour I value most my native land has given me: I am lady of the +Manor here, and wife of the Seigneur Racine." + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"Our baronies have never been recognised," said the Seigneur harshly. +"And yet we are asked to love the flag of England and--" + +"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--" + +"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. + +Havel entered with a tray of wine and glasses, followed by Tardif loaded +with cakes and comfits, and set them on the table. + +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. + +"What soldiers are these?" he asked. + +"The Seigneury company, your Excellency," replied Louis. + +"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. + +"The livery of the Barony of Pontiac," answered the Seigneur. + +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. + +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?" + +The Avocat made no reply, but the Cure's face was greatly troubled. The +Seigneur's momentary placidity passed. + +"I answer for their legality, your Excellency," he said, in a high, +assertive voice. + +"Of course, of course, you will answer for it," said the Governor, +smiling enigmatically. He came forward and held out his hand to +Madelinette. + +"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." + +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. + +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? + +He felt Madelinette's hand on his arm. He turned and clasped her to his +breast. + +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. + +"How beautiful you are!" he said, as he looked into her face. + +"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." + +Inside her room alone she flung herself on her bed in agony and despair. + +"Louis--Oh, my God!" she cried, and sobbed and sobbed her strength away. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +WHEN THE RED-COATS CAME + +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--" + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +As Muroc spoke, every one turned towards Medallion. He came over and +filled a glass at the table, and raised it. + +"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!" + +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. + +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." + +Then he shook hands with them all and went into the next room. + +"Why did he drop his glass?" asked Gingras the shoemaker. + +"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?" + +"What the devil do I know about aristocrats!" said Lajeunesse. + +"You're among the best of the land, now that Madelinette's married to the +Seigneur. You ought to wear a collar every day." + +"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" + +"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?" + +"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." + +"There's only one," said Benolt, the ne'er-do-weel, who had been to +college as a boy. + +"Who's that?" said Muroc. + +"You wouldn't know his name. He's trying to find eggs in last year's +nest," answered Benolt with a leer. + +"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." + +"We've had enough of the devil's dust here," said Lajeunesse. "Has he +been talking to you, Muroc?" + +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." + +"There's Shandon the Irishman gone too. M'sieu' sold him up and shipped +him off," said Gingras the shoemaker. + +"Tiens! the Seigneur gave him fifty dollars when he left, to help him +along. He smacks and then kisses, does M'sieu' Racine." + +"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." + +"I've to bring a pullet and a bag of charcoal," said Muroc. "'Tis the +rights of the Seigneur as of old." + +"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!" + +"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. + +"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." + +"You'll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse," said Duclosse the mealman, who +had been dozing on a pile of untired cart-wheels. + +"I'll be hanged first, comrade." + +"One in the family at a time," said Muroc. "There's the Seigneur. He's +going into Parliament." + +"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." + +"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. + +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. + +"'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. + +"We're all in trouble again-sure," said Benoit, and drained his glass to +the last drop. "Some of us will go to gaol." + +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. + +Before the last soldier had passed through the street, he was on his way +to the Seigneury. + +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. + +"Wonder of wonders!" she said. + +"It's these soldiers," he replied shortly. "What of them?" she asked +brightly. + +"Do you mean to say you don't know what their coming here means?" he +asked. + +"They must drill somewhere, and they are honouring Pontiac," she replied +gaily, but her face flushed as she bent over the flag again. + +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." + +"What has Louis done?" + +"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!" + +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--" + +"No matter what he does or is--eh?" + +"No matter what he is." + +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." + +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. + +"I mean that, father," she answered quietly. "There are things worth +more than money." + +"You don't mean to say that you can love him as he is. It isn't natural. +But no, it isn't." + +"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?" + +"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. + +"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. + +"We've dreamt too much in Pontiac already," said Lajeunesse, shaking his +head. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +"MAN TO MAN AND STEEL TO STEEL" + +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. + +The loss of the Seigneury had therefore cut deep, but there had been a +more hateful affront still. Four years before, Louis Racine, when +spasmodically practising law in Quebec, had been approached by two poor +Frenchmen, who laid claim to thousands of acres of land which a Land +Company, whereof George Fournel was president, was publicly exploiting +for the woods and valuable minerals discovered on it. The Land Company +had been composed of Englishmen only. Louis Racine, reactionary and +imaginative, brilliant and free from sordidness, and openly hating the +English, had taken up the case, and for two years fought it tooth and +nail without pay or reward. The matter had become a cause celebre, the +Land Company engaging the greatest lawyers in both the English and French +province. In the Supreme Court the case was lost to Louis' clients. +Louis took it over to the Privy Council in London, and carried it +through triumphantly and alone, proving his clients' title. His two poor +Frenchmen regained their land. In payment he would accept nothing save +the ordinary fees, as though it were some petty case in a county court. +He had, however, made a reputation, which he had seemed not to value, +save as a means of showing hostility to the governing race, and the +Seigneury of Pontiac, when it fell to him, had more charms for him than +any celebrity to be won at the bar. His love of the history of his +country was a mania with him, and he looked forward, on arriving at +Pontiac, to being the apostle of French independence on the continent. +Madelinette had crossed his path in his most enthusiastic moment, when +his brilliant tongue and great dreams surrounded him with a kind of +glamour. He had caught her to himself out of the girl's first triumph, +when her nature, tried by the strain of her first challenge to the +judgment of the world, cried out for rest, for Pontiac and home, +and all that was of the old life among her people. + +Fournel's antipathy had only been increased by the fact that Louis Racine +had married the now famous Madelinette, and his animosity extended to +her. + +It was not in him to understand the nature of the Frenchman, volatile, +moody, chivalrous, unreasonable, the slave of ideas, the victim of +sentiment. Not understanding, when he began to see that he could not +attain the object of his visit, which was to secure some relics of the +late Seigneur's household, he chose to be disdainful. + +"You are bound to give me these things I ask for, as a matter of justice +--if you know what justice means," he said at last. + +"You should be aware of that," answered the Seigneur, with a kindling +look. He felt every glance of Fournel's eye a contemptuous comment upon +his deformity, now so egregious and humiliating. "I taught you justice +once." + +Fournel was not to be moved from his phlegm. He knew he could torture +the man before him, and he was determined to do so, if he did not get his +way upon the matter of his visit. + +"You can teach me justice twice and be thanked once," he answered. +"These things I ask for were much prized by my friend, the late Seigneur. +I was led to expect that this Seigneury and all in it and on it should be +mine. I know it was intended so. The law gives it you instead. Your +technical claim has overridden my rights--you have a gift for making +successful technical claims. But these old personal relics, of no +monetary value--you should waive your avaricious and indelicate claim to +them." He added the last words with a malicious smile, for the hardening +look in Racine's face told him his request was hopeless, and he could not +resist the temptation to put the matter with cutting force. Racine rose +to the bait with a jump. + +"Not one single thing--not one single solitary thing--!" + +"The sentiment is strong if the grammar is bad," interrupted Fournel, +meaning to wound wherever he found an opportunity, for the Seigneur's +deformity excited in him no pity; it rather incensed him against the man, +as an affront to decency and to his own just claims to the honours the +Frenchman enjoyed. It was a petty resentment, but George Fournel had set +his heart upon playing the grand-seigneur over the Frenchmen of Pontiac, +and of ultimately leaving his fortune to the parish, if they all fell +down and worshipped him and his "golden calf." + +"The grammar is suitable to the case," retorted the Seigneur, his voice +rising. "Everything is mine by law, and everything I will keep. If you +think different, produce a will--produce a will!" + +Truth was, Louis Racine would rather have parted with the Seigneury +itself than with these relics asked for. They were reminiscent of the +time when France and her golden-lilies brooded over his land, of the +days when Louis Quatorze was king. He cherished everything that had +association with the days of the old regime, as a miner hugs his gold, +or a woman her jewels. The request to give them up to this unsympathetic +Englishman, who valued them because they had belonged to his friend the +late Seigneur, only exasperated him. + +"I am ready to pay the highest possible price for them, as I have said," +urged the Englishman, realising as he spoke that it was futile to urge +the sale upon that basis. + +"Money cannot buy the things that Frenchmen love. We are not a race of +hucksters," retorted the Seigneur. + +"That accounts for your envious dispositions then. You can't buy what +you want--you love such curious things, I assume. So you play the dog in +the manger, and won't let other decent folk buy what they want." He +wilfully distorted the other's meaning, and was delighted to see the +Seigneur's fingers twitch with fury. "But since you can't buy the things +you love--and you seem to think you should--how do you get them? Do you +come by them honestly? or do you work miracles? When a spider makes +love to his lady he dances before her to infatuate her, and then in a +moment of her delighted aberration snatches at her affections. Is it the +way of the spider then?" + +With a snarl as of a wild beast, Louis Racine sprang forward and struck +Fournel in the face with his clinched fist. Then, as Fournel, blinded, +staggered back upon the book-shelves, he snatched two antique swords from +the wall. Throwing one on the floor in front of the Englishman, he ran +to the door and locked it, and turned round, the sword grasped firmly in +his hand, and white with rage. + +"Spider! Spider! By Heaven, you shall have the spider dance before +you!" he said hoarsely. He had mistaken Fournel's meaning. He had put +the most horrible construction upon it. He thought that Fournel referred +to his deformity, and had ruthlessly dragged in Madelinette as well. + +He was like a being distraught. His long brown hair was tossed over his +blanched forehead and piercing black eyes. His head was thrown forward +even more than his deformity compelled, his white teeth showed in a +grimace of hatred; he was half-crouched, like an animal ready to spring. + +"Take up the sword, or I'll run you through the heart where you stand," +he continued, in a hoarse whisper. "I will give you till I can count +three. Then by the God in Heaven--!" + +Fournel felt that he had to deal with a man demented. The blow he had +received had laid open the flesh on his cheek-bone, and blood was flowing +from the wound. Never in his life before had he been so humiliated. And +by a Frenchman--it roused every instinct of race-hatred in him. Yet he +wanted not to go at him with a sword, but with his two honest hands, +and beat him into a whining submission. But the man was deformed, +he had none of his own robust strength--he was not to be struck, +but to be tossed out of the way like an offending child. + +He staunched the blood from his face and made a step forward without a +word, determined not to fight, but to take the weapon from the other's +hands. "Coward!" said the Seigneur. "You dare not fight with the +sword. With the sword we are even. I am as strong as you there-- +stronger, and I will have your blood. Coward! Coward! Coward! I will +give you till I count three. One! . . . Two! . . ." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +"Stop this nonsense," he said, as Louis Racine prepared to attack again. +"Don't be a fool. The game isn't worth the candle." + +"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!" + +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. + +"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. + +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: + + "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." + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +The silent servant vanished, and she dropped on her knees beside the +bleeding and insensible man, and lifted his head. + +"He insulted you and me, and I've killed him, Madelinette," said Louis +hoarsely. + +A horrified look came to her face, and she hurriedly and tremblingly +opened Fournel's waistcoat and shirt, and felt his heart. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"I would give ten years of my life to undo to-day's work." + +"I have no quarrel with you, Madame," he said gloomily, raised his hat, +and was driven away. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +MADELINETTE MAKES A DISCOVERY + +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. + +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: + +"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." + +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: + +"I'ya longtemps que je t'aime, +Jamais je ne t'oublierai." + +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. + +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. + +It was the will of the late Seigneur. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +WHAT WILL SHE DO WITH IT? + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +At last, before the dawn, she fell asleep. She dreamed that she was +in prison and that George Fournel was her jailor. + +She waked to find Louis at her bedside. + +"I am holding my seigneurial court to-day," he said. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE ONE WHO SAW + +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. + +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. + +"Dear Madame!" said the Cure, rising to his feet and coming towards her. + +"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. + +"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. + +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. + +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." + +"In any case, Tardif is going," she repeated quietly. "What did he do?" +said the Seigneur. "What was your grievance, beautiful Madame?" + +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. + +"What did Tardif do?" the Seigneur again questioned, holding out a hand +to her. + +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: + +"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. + +"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. + +"Do not see him yourself, Louis," said Madelinette. "Not I. Havel shall +pay him and he shall take himself off to-morrow morning." + +The door closed, and Madelinette was left alone with the Cure. She came +to him and said with a quivering in her voice: + +"He mocked Louis." + +"It is well that he should go. He is a bad man and a bad servant. I +know him too well." + +"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." + +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." + +"Even with all Louis' mistakes?" + +"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." + +She looked up at him with a pensive smile and a glance of gratitude. + +"But suppose that will--if there is one--exists, see how false our +position!" + +"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." + +She was about to reply when the Seigneur again entered the room. + +"I made up my mind that he should go at once, and so I've sent him word +--the rat!" + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Late that evening she found a letter on her table addressed to herself. +It ran: + + 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. + +In terror she hastened to the library and sprung the panel. The will was +gone. + +Tardif was on his way with it to George Fournel. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE PURSUIT + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"Tell her she can have M'sieu's horse," said the landlord, excitedly +interposing. + +"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. + +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. + +"Why are you not on the way?" she asked. + +"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." + +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." + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"He is not dead, dear mine," said she in a low voice, feeling Havel's +heart. + +"Thank God," was all that Madelinette could say. "Let us lift him into +the coach." + +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. + +As she bent over Havel and sprinkled his face, Lapierre examined the +insensible man. + +"He is but stunned," he said. "He will come to in a moment." + +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. + +Havel opened his eyes and looked round in a startled way. He saw +Madelinette. + +"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!" + +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." + +A moment afterwards Lapierre was on the box, Madame Marie was inside, and +Madelinette said to the coachman: + +"Drive hard--the White Calvary by the church of St. Mary Magdalene." + +In another hour the coach drew up by the White Calvary, where a soft +light burned in memory of some departed soul. + +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. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +FACE TO FACE + +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. + +Madelinette caught Madame Marie's arm. She did not speak, but her heart +sank within her. The man was Tardif. + +He saw them and shuffled over. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +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." + +"A little dust here and there perhaps, Madame," he said, with humble +courtesy. + +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! + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Your servant has been hospitable," she said, her voice trembling a +little. She plunged at once into the business of her visit. + +"Monsieur, that paper you hold--" she stopped for an instant, able to go +no further. + +"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?" + +She steeled herself. Too much was at stake; she could not resent his +hateful implications now. + +"Tardif was not my messenger, Monsieur, as you know. Tardif was the +thief of that document in your hands." + +"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." + +"Monsieur will hear what I have to say? You have the will, your rights +are in your hands. Is not that enough?" + +"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." + +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!" + +"Monsieur," she said calmly, "it would have been easy to destroy the +will. Have you not thought of that?" + +For a moment he was taken aback, but he said harshly: "If crime were +always intelligent, it would have fewer penalties." + +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: + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"Nevertheless you do not." + +"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." + +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." + +"Do not think, Madame, that I am as avaricious as you." + +"Is it avaricious to offer double the worth of the rental?" + +"There is the title and distinction. You married a mad nobody; you wish +to retain an honour that belongs to me." + +"I am asking it for my husband's sake, not my own, believe me, Monsieur." + +"And what do you expect me to do for his sake, Madame?" + +"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." + +"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." + +"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." + +"With ample reason." + +"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." + +"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." + +She paused; Fournel did not answer, but sat as though reading the will +intently. + +"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." + +"Evidently bent upon wrecking the chances of a great career," interrupted +Fournel over the paper. + +"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--" + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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?" + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +Fournel rose and in a low voice said: "Will you not sit down?" He +motioned to a chair. + +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." + +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--" + +"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. + +"You are here alone with me at night," he persisted. "It would not be +easy to--" + +"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--" + +"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--" + +"Oh, Monsieur!" she said, with a quick impulsive gesture towards him, +and her face lighting with sympathy. + +"I was struck too hard--" + +She touched his arm and said gently: "Some are hurt in one way and some +in another; all are hurt some time, but--" + +"You shall have your way," he interrupted, and moved apart. + +"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. + +"But no, no, no, you shall not do it," she cried. "I only asked it for +while he lives--ah!" + +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. + +"You will let me give you some wine?" he said quietly, and poured out a +glassful. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE BITER BITTEN + +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. + +"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." + +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. + +"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. + +Distressed as Madelinette was, she was composed and ready. + +"The man was dismissed my employ--" she began, but Fournel interposed. + +"What is this I hear about shooting and a will?" he said sternly. + +"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!" + +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--" + +"Ah, do you deny that I came to you?--" began Tardif. + +"Constables," said Fournel, "I give this fellow in charge. Take him to +gaol, and I will appear at court against him when called upon." + +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. + +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." + +"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." + +As she and Madame Marie passed from the house, Fournel shook +Madelinette's hand warmly, and said: "'All's well that ends well.'" + +"That ends well," answered Madelinette, with a sorrowful questioning in +her voice. + +"We will make it so," he rejoined, and then they parted. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE DOOR THAT WOULD NOT OPEN + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Good evening, M'sieu'! Fine doings at the Manor--eh? + +"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. + +"I have as much right to be here as you, M'sieu'." + +"You have no right at all to be here. You were dismissed your place by +the mistress of this Manor." + +"There is no mistress of this Manor." + +"Madame Racine dismissed you." + +"And I dismissed Madame Racine," answered the man with a sneer. + +"You are training for the horsewhip. You forget that, as Seigneur, +I have power to give you summary punishment." + +"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: + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +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. + +"I am Seigneur of this Manor, and you have taken wages from me, and eaten +my bread, slept under my roof, and--" + +"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." + +The Seigneur did not understand yet. But there was a strange light of +suspicion in his eyes, a nervous rage knotting his forehead. + +"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--" + +"It was no canard." Tardif laughed hatefully. "There was a will right +enough." + +"Where is it? I've heard that fool's gossip before." + +"Where is it? Ask your wife; she knows. Ask your loving Tardif, he +knows." + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +"Tell me all," he said. "You shall be well paid." + +"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?" + +The Seigneur was painfully quiet and intent, yet his brain was like some +great lens, refracting and magnifying things to monstrous proportions. + +"A will was found?" he asked. + +"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. + +"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." + +"You are drunk," said the Seigneur quietly. "You don't know what you're +saying." + +"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--" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"I learned that from the tunes you played on your anvil, dear smithy- +man." + +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. + +"Where is the will, Louis," she repeated after him mechanically, staring +at his face, ghostly in the moonlight. + +"The will you found behind the picture in the library." + +"O Louis!" she cried, and made a gesture of despair. "O Louis!" + +"You found it, and Tardif stole it and took it to Quebec." + +"Yes, Louis, but Louis--ah, what is the matter, dear! I cannot bear that +look in your face. What is the matter, Louis?" + +"Tardif took it to Fournel, and you followed. And I have been living in +another man's house, on another's bread--" + +"O Louis, no--no--no! Our money has paid for all." + +"Your money, Madelinette!" His voice rose. + +"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." + +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. + +"Tardif said that--he said that you--that you and Fournel--" + +She read his meaning in his tone, and shrank back in terror, then with a +flush, straightened herself, and took a step towards him. + +"It was natural that you should not care for a hunchback like me," he +continued, "but--" + +"Louis!" she cried, in a voice of anguish and reproach. + +"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--" + +"I pleaded with Monsieur Fournel, knowing how you loved the Seigneury-- +pleaded and offered to pay three times the price--" + +"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. + +"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: + +"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. + +"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. + +"I killed Tardif. He is there in the hut in the garden--dead! I was +seen, and they are coming to take me." + +With a cry she ran to the door that led into the hall, and locked it. +She listened, then turned her face to Louis. + +"You killed him!" she gasped. "Louis! Louis!" Her face was like +ashes. + +"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--" + +There was a knocking at the door, and a voice calling--a peremptory +voice. + +"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." + +He ran to the door of the bath-room and flung it open. "If my life is to +pay the price, then--!" + +She came blindly towards him, stretching out her hands. + +"Louis! Louis!" was all that she could say. + +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. + +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. + +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!" + +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!" + +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. + +Suddenly she turned upon them with a gesture of piteous triumph and said: + +"You cannot have him now." + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + + ......................... + +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. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Ah, let it be soon! Ah, let him die soon! +All are hurt some time +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 +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 LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 2. + + + +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS +A WORKER IN STONE + + + +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON + +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. + +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'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. + +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. + +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. + +"Voila, so sad, so wonderful! She keeps the ring--dear P'tite Louison!" +said Florian, the eldest. + +"Alors, she gives him a legacy in her will! Sweet P'tite Louison," said +Octave. + +"Mais, the governor and the archbishop admire her--P'tite Louison:" said +Felix, nodding confidently at Medallion. + +"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!" + +"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. + +Isidore's tale was after this fashion: + +"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. + +"'Ma'm'selle, Ma'm'selle,' he say, 'we must meet again!' + +"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'. + +"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! + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"'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'tite Louison stan' like stone. M'sieu' turn to her. 'What shall it +be, Louison?' he say. 'You will come with me?' + +"'Kiss me, Charles,' she say, 'and tell me good-bye till--till you are +free.' + +"He look like a madman. 'Kiss me once, Charles,' she say, 'and let me +go.' + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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." + +"Where is he now?" asked Medallion. + +Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes religiously. "Waiting for +Judgment Day and P'tite Louison," he answered. + +"Dead!" said Medallion. + +"How long?" + +"Twenty year." + +"But the flowers--the flowers?" + +"He left word for them to be sent just the same, and the money for it." + +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. + +"She thinks him living?" he asked gently as he watched Louison. + +"Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the +flowers kep' coming." + +"Why did he wish it so?" Isidore mused a while. + +"Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great actor--ah, yes, sublime!" +he said. + +Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to where P'tite Louison +was picking berries. His hat was still off. + +"Let me help you, Mademoiselle," he said softly. And henceforth he was +as foolish as her brothers. + + + + + + +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR + +"Sacre bapteme!" + +"What did he say?" asked the Little Chemist, stepping from his doorway. + +"He cursed his baptism," answered tall Medallion, the English auctioneer, +pushing his way farther into the crowd. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Luc Pomfrette, why have you done this? What provocation had you?" + +The Cure's voice was stern and cold, his usually gentle face had become +severe, his soft eyes were piercing and determined. + +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. + +"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. + +Still the voyageur did not answer. + +The Cure glanced at Lajeunesse the blacksmith, who stood near. + +"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!" + +Lajeunesse looked around, as if for corroboration; Henri and others +nodded, and some one said: + +"That's true; that's true. There was no cause." + +"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." + +The speaker was Parpon the dwarf, the oddest, in some ways the most +foolish, in others the wisest man in Pontiac. + +"That is no excuse," said the Cure. + +"It is the only one he has, eh?" answered Parpon. His eyes were fixed +meaningly on those of Pomfrette. + +"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--" + +"It's a lie," cried Pomfrette, shaking with rage from head to foot. + +A long horror-stricken "Ah!" broke from the crowd. The Cure's face +became graver and colder. + +"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--" + +"I'll go to no Mass till I'm carried to it," was the sullen, malevolent +interruption. + +The Cure turned upon the people. + +"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." + +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. + +"Shall we take off the little bell?" asked Lajeunesse of the Cure. + +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: + +"I have commanded you, my children. Leave the leper alone." + +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. + +He did not move until he had seen them all started homewards from the +Four Corners. One person remained beside him--Parpon the dwarf. + +"I will not obey you, M'sieu' le Cure," said he. "I'll forgive him +before he repents." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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!" + +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. + +Pomfrette stopped short. "Good-day, lime-burner; good-day, Duclosse," he +said, looking straight at them. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +"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." + +"He was a good enough fellow once," answered Garotte, watching Pomfrette. + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +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! + + + + +II + +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: + + "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!" + +"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. + + +This was not the same world that he had known, not the same Pontiac. +Suddenly he stopped short in the road. + +"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. + +"Good-day," he said. "How goes it?" + +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. + +With a bitter laugh, Pomfrette turned to the little bar. + +"Brandy," he said; "brandy, my Bourienne." + +The landlord shrugged his shoulder, and looked the other way. + +"Brandy," he repeated. Still there was no sign. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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." + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Pomfrette, you must go to Mass next Sunday." + +"I said I wouldn't go till I was carried there, and I mean it--that's +so," was the morose reply. + +"What made you curse like that--so damnable?" asked Parpon furtively. + +"That's my own business. It doesn't matter to anybody but me." + +"And you said the Cure lied--the good M'sieu' Fabre--him like a saint." + +"I said he lied, and I'd say it again, and tell the truth." + +"But if you went to Mass, and took your penance, and--" + +"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!" + +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: + +"But if the girl got sorry--" + +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: + +"What do you know?" + +"What others might know if they had eyes and sense; but they haven't. +What would you do if that Junie come back?" + +"I would kill her." His look was murderous. + +"Bah, you would kiss her first, just the same!" + +"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." + +"What did she do?" Pomfrette's hands clinched. + +"What's in my own noddle, and not for any one else," he answered sulkily. + +"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?" + +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. + +Parpon held his peace. + +The days, weeks, and months went by; and the months stretched to three +years. + +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. + +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. + + + + +III + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"You said you'd never go to Mass till you were carried; so it's all +right." + +Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held him tight, saying: + +"It's no use; you must come; we've had enough. Besides--" + +"Besides what?" asked Pomfrette faintly. "Never mind," answered Parpon. + +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. + +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. + +At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. "What is it, +Parpon?" he asked gravely. + +"It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed. + +"He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good +priest. + +"Till he was carried, M'sieu' le Cure--and I've carried him." + +"Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc +Pomfrette?" asked the Cure. + +"I did not know I was coming--no." Pomfrette's brown eyes met the +priest's unflinchingly. + +"You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life." + +"I'd rather have died," answered the sick man simply. + +"Died, and been cast to perdition!" + +"I'm used to that; I've had a bad time here in Pontiac." + +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. + +"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?" + +There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette's face, and his eyes were intense +and burning as they looked up fixedly at the Cure. + +"I can't think any more," answered Pomfrette slowly. "I've no head." + +"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?" + +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. + +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. + +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--" + +"Luc," the Cure interrupted, "say that you repent." + +"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. + +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. + +"Junie!" he said hoarsely. + +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." + +"Yes, yes," said Pomfrette, his eyes fixed painfully on her face--"yes, +yes." + +"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." + +Pomfrette trembled so that Parpon and the Little Chemist made him sit +down, and he leaned against their shoulders, while Junie went on: + +"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." + +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. + +"That's how I've lived," she said, and she handed a letter to the Cure. + +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. + +The Cure's face relaxed, and a rare gentleness came into it. + +He read the letter aloud. Luc once more struggled to his feet, eagerly +listening. + +"You did not love Luc?" the Cure asked Junie, meaningly. + +"I did not love Luc--then," she answered, a flush going over her face. + +"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!" + +"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." + +"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." + +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: + +"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. + +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. + + + + +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS + +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. + +"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.' + +"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: + + "'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!' + +"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. + +"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: + + "'Adieu, belle Frangoise; + Allons gai! + Adieu, belle Francoise! + Moi, je to marierai, + Ma luron lurette! Moi, + je to marierai, + Ma luron lure!' + +"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. + +"'Bargon,' I say--and I give him a horn of old rye--'here's to le bon +Dieu!' + +"'Le bon Dieu, and a good harvest!' he say. + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"'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.' + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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! + +"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.' + +"'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." + +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. + +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." + +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. + + + + + + +A WORKER IN STONE + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +So Francois read: + +"Gustave Narrois, aged seventy-two years-" + +"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." + +Francois read it: + + "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." + +The Cure nodded his head. "Go on; the next," he said. + +"Annette John, aged twenty years--" + +"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?" + +Francois smoothed out the paper and read: + + "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." + +The Cure turned his head away. "Go on," he said sadly. "Chief John has +lost his right hand. Go on." + +"Henri Rouget" + +"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?" + +And Francois read: + + "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." + +The priest rose to his feet and put a hand on the young man's shoulder. + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +And so began the awakening of Francois Lagarre; and so began his ambition +and his peril. + +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? + +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. + +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. + +"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?" + +"Fig of Eden," muttered Jules Marmotte, with one eye on Jeanne, "any fool +could saw a better-looking thing out of ice!" + +"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." + +But Jeanne could not bear this--the greasy whopping butcher-man! + +"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?" + +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. + +Leaning a hand against the white shaft of the Patriot's Memory, he said: + + "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." + +"Good enough for Ba'tiste," said Duclosse the mealman. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +She stepped forward without a word, and snatched at the covering. He +swiftly interposed and stopped her hand. + +"I will see it," she said. + +"Not to-day," he answered. + +"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. + +"You beast, you liar!" she said. + +"You beast! beast! beast!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +"Remove the canvas from the figure," said the Cure sternly. Stubbornness +and resentment filled Francois's breast. He did not stir. + +"Do you oppose the command of the Church?" said the Cure, still more +severely. "Remove the canvas." + +"It is my work--my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my hands," +said Francois doggedly. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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.'" + +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. + +"You were so ready to suspect," he said. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"The spirit of a man will support him, but a wounded spirit who can +bear?" + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +But a wounded spirit who can bear +Man grows old only by what he suffers, and what he forgives +You--you all were so ready to suspect + + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 3. + + +THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE +THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER +MATHURIN +THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER +THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF +UNCLE JIM +THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH +PARPON THE DWARF + + + +THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE + +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. + +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: + + "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!" + +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." + +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. + +"I am going to M'sieu' Medallion," she said. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + + +THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER + +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." + +"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!" + +"Get married yourself, Farette." + +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. + +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: + +"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. + +"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'!" + +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: + +"Mon Dieu, the ankle, the eye, the good child, Julie, there!" + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + + +MATHURIN + +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: + +"Ah, dat poor Mathurin, I wipe my tears for him!" + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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! + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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!' + +"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. + +"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: + +"'Mathurin, you have sin a great sin. If it was two hunderd years ago +you would be put to death for dat.' + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"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. + +"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: + +"'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. + +"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.'" + +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. + + + + + + +THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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'." + +As he sat down he said in English also, with a laugh and with snapping +eyes: "Good Lord, what brings you here, lady-bird?" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"Open your mouth, Henri. Come along, sleepyhead." + +Straightway he began to sing a rollicking song, and Henri joined in with +him heartily, for the spirit of Fabian's humour was contagious: + + "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!" + +He was about to begin another verse when Henri stopped him, saying: + +"You're going to break your neck, Fabian." + +"What's up, Henri?" was the reply. + +"You're drinking hard, and you don't keep good company." + +Fabian laughed. "Can't get the company I want, so what I can get I have, +Henri, my lad." + +"Don't drink." Henri laid his freehand on Fabian's knee. + +"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." + +"Girl? What the devil do you mean!" + +"She, Nell Barraway, was the company I meant, Fabian." + +"Nell Barraway--you mean her? Bosh! I'm going to marry her, Henri." + +"You mustn't, Fabian," said Henri, eagerly clutching Fabian's sleeve. + +"But I must, my Henri. She's the best-looking, wittiest girl I ever saw +--splendid. Never lonely with her." + +"Looks and brains isn't everything, Fabian." + +"Isn't it, though? Isn't it? Tiens, you try it!" + +"Not without goodness." Henri's voice weakened. + +"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." + +"You mean whether she was good or not?" + +"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!" + +"I know all about it." + +"Know all about it! You're in love--you?" + +"Yes." + +Fabian sat open-mouthed for a minute. "Godam!" he said. It was his one +English oath. + +"Is she good company?" he asked after a minute. + +"She's the same as you keep--voila, the same." + +"You mean Nell--Nell?" asked Fabian, in a dry, choking voice. + +"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." + +Fabian laughed nervously. "Holy heaven, and you've got her in your +blood, too!" + +"Yes, but I'd never marry her. Fabian, at Montreal I found out all about +her. She was as bad--" + +"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." + +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. + +Henri drank to the finger-mark set, and then Fabian lifted the flask to +his lips. + +"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. + +The next day the two went on a long hunting expedition, and the following +month Nell Barraway left for Montreal. + +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. + +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. + + + + + + +THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF + +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." + +"Tell us about him, then," Medallion urged; "for there are many tales, +and who knows which is the right one?" + +"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: + +"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." + +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--!" + +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. + +"It's a creepy story," said Medallion, "but go on." + +"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." + +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. + +"'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. . . ." + +"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!" + +"But what about the book?" Medallion asked. + +"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." + + + + + + +UNCLE JIM + +He was no uncle of mine, but it pleased me that he let me call him Uncle +Jim. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"'Tisn't much, is it? Only a clap-board house, and no ceilings upstairs, +and rag carpets-pshaw!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I'm tired anyway of the hotel job," said Rodney. "Farming's a better +life. Don't you think so, dad?" + +"It's better for me, Rod," answered Uncle Jim, "it's better for me." + +Rodney was a little uneasy. "But won't it be better for me?" he asked. + +"Mebbe," was the slow answer, "mebbe, mebbe so." + +"And then there's mother, she's getting too old for the work, ain't she?" + +"She's done it straight along," answered the old man, "straight along +till now." + +"But Millie can help her, and we'll have a hired girl, eh?" + +"I dunno, I dunno," was the brooding answer; "the place ain't going to +stand it." + +"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?" + +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: + +"Mebbe, mebbe!" + +Rodney fretted under the old man's vague replies, and said: "But darn it +all, can't you tell us what you think?" + +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." + +"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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +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. + + + + + + +THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +One day the silent old housekeeper came rapping at Medallion's door, and +simply said to him: "Come--the Seigneur!" + +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. + +Once when the Little Chemist touched his wrist, his dark eyes rested on +him with inquiry, and he said: "Soon?" + +It was useless trying to shirk the persistency of that look. "Eight +hours, perhaps, sir," the Little Chemist answered, with painful shyness. + +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." + +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!" + +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. + +"I heard a voice," he said. + +"No one spoke, my master," said the housekeeper. + +"It was a voice without," he said. + +"Monsieur," said the Little Chemist, "it was the wind in the eaves." + +His face was almost painfully eager and sensitively alert. + +"Hush!" he said; "I hear a voice in the tall porch." + +"Sir," said Medallion, laying a hand respectfully on his arm, "it is +nothing." + +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." + +No one moved. But he was not to be disobeyed. + +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. + +"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." + +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!" + +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. + +"Two hours short, Chemist!" he said, and smiled, and was Still. + + + + + + +PARPON THE DWARF + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?" + +She turned quickly, and saw Parpon on a table in the corner, his legs +drawn up to his chin, his black eyes twinkling. + +"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. + +"Like that, there will need two bags!" he said. + +"Imbecile!" she cried, standing angry in the centre of the room. + +"Ho, ho, what a big word! See what it is to have the tongue of fashion!" + +She looked helplessly round the room. "I will kill you!" + +"Let us die together," answered Parpon; "we are both sad." + +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. + +"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!" + +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." + +"Kill a man!" She showed her white teeth with a savage little smile. + +"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?" + +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." + +"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--" + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +"Good day, Annette," she said loftily. + +"Good day, Julie," was the quiet reply. + +"Will you come in?" + +"I am going to the mill for flax-seed. Benoit has rheumatism." + +"Poor Benoit!" said Julie, with a meaning toss of her head. + +"Poor Benoit," responded Annette gently. Her voice was always sweet. +One would never have known that Benoit was a drunken idler. + +"Come in. I will give you the meal from my own. Then it will cost you +nothing," said Julie, with an air. + +"Thank you, Julie, but I would rather pay." + +"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." + +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." + +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." + +Annette spoke simply and frankly, but her words cut like a knife. + +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." + +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." + +"But there is Benoit, and the child--" + +"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. + +"Well, it must only be a minute." + +"Were you at the funeral to-day?" Julie began. + +"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." + +"Is that all you know?" queried Julie. + +"Not much more. I go out little, and no one comes to me except the +Little Chemist's wife--she is a good woman." + +"What did she say?" + +"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." + +This was more than Julie had heard. She showed excitement. + +"The Seigneur and M'sieu' Armand were good friends when he died?" she +asked. + +"Quite." + +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. + +"You were at the funeral?" she added, after a minute. + +"Everybody was there." + +"I suppose M'sieu' Armand looks very fine and strange after his long +travel," said Annette shyly, rising to go. + +"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." + +"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." + +She was thinking again what a pity it was that Julie had no child. + +"To see Cecilia and the black cat? Very well--some day." + +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. + + + + +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: + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + + "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!" + +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. + +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. + + + +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."' + +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." + +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?" + +"For the peace of a good man's soul." + +"He did not confess; he had no rites of the Church; he had refused you +many years." + +"My son, he had a confessor." + +Armand raised his eyebrows. "They told me of no one." + +"It was the Angel of Patience." + +They walked on again for a time without a word. At last the Cure said: +"You will remain here?" + +"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." + +"God forbid! Have you not seen the will?" + +"I have got no farther than his grave," was the sombre reply. + +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." + +"You are persistent," replied the young man, smiling. "Whoever lives +here should make it less gloomy." + +"We shall soon know who is to live here. See, there is Monsieur Garon, +and Monsieur Medallion also." + +"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. + +"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." + +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." + +"There is plenty, monsieur," she said; "none has been drunk these twelve +years." + +The Avocat coughed, and said hesitatingly to Armand: "I asked Parpon the +dwarf to come, monsieur. There is a reason." + +Armand raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Very good," he said. "When +will he be here?" + +"He is waiting at the Louis Quinze hotel." + +"I will send for him," said Armand, and gave the message to Sylvie, who +was entering the room. + +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. + +"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." + +The Cure stared incredulously, the Avocat took off his glasses and tapped +his lips musingly, Armand whistled softly. + +"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." + +"Even from me," said the Cure, smiling. Then, gravely: "It is strange, +the angel in the stunted body." "Are you sure it's an angel?" said +Armand. + +"Who ever knew Parpon do any harm?" queried the Cure. + +"He has always been kind to the poor," put in the Avocat. + +"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. + +"Only a few lines; and those not easy to understand, unless one had an +inkling." + +"Had you the inkling?" + +"Perhaps, monsieur," replied Medallion seriously. They eyed each other. + +"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?" + +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. + +"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." + +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." + +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?" + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?" + +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." + +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. + +"It's all right, little son," said the Cure kindly. Turning sharply on +Medallion, Parpon said: "When was it you heard?" + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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!" + +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. + +As the last notes died away Armand got up, and standing by the table, +said: "Parpon, you saved my father's life once?" + +Parpon did not answer. + +"Will you not tell him, my son?" said the Cure, rising. Still Parpon +was silent. + +"The son of your grand Seigneur asks you a question, Parpon," said +Medallion soothingly. + +"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. + +"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." + +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. + +Armand touched his shoulder. "Parpon!" But Parpon shrank away. + +Armand turned to the rest. "I do not understand it, gentlemen. Parpon +does not like the young Seigneur as he liked the old." + +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." + +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. + +"Come, little comrade, drink," said Medallion, offering him a glass. + +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. + + + + +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. + +"Man alive!" said he; "tell me all about it. Ah, the good news!" + +"There is nothing to tell: he left it; that is all." + +"Oh, the good Seigneur," cried Farette, "the grand Seigneur!" + +Some one laughed scornfully in the doorway. It was Julie. + +"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!'" + +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. + +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. + +"This is the old place. What a fool I was, then!" he said. + +At that moment Julie came quickly, and lifted her hands towards him. +"Armand--beloved Armand!" she said. + +Armand looked at her sternly, from her feet to her pitted forehead, then +wheeled, and left her without a word. + +She sank in a heap on the ground. There was a sudden burst of tears, and +then she clinched her hands with fury. + +Some one laughed in the trees above her--a shrill, wild laugh. She +looked up frightened. Parpon presently dropped down beside her. + +"It was as I said," whispered the dwarf, and he touched her shoulder. +This was the full cup of shame. She was silent. + +"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. + +"Sing again," she said. + +"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. + +She hung her head, then flung it back again as she thought of Armand. + +"I hate him!" she cried; "I hate him!" + +"You will not throw meal on me any more, or call me idiot?" he pleaded. + +"No, Parpon," she said. + +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. + +She threw herself, face forward, in the dusty needles of the pines. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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! + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Can't get the company I want, so what I can get I have +Capered at the mirror, and dusted her face with oatmeal +For everything you lose you get something +No trouble like that which comes between parent and child +Old clock in the corner "ticking" life, and youth, and hope away +She had not much brains, but she had some shrewdness +Take the honeymoon himself, and leave his wife to learn cooking +The laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land +Thought all as flippant as herself +Turned the misery of the world into a game, and grinned at it +When the heart rusts the rust shows + + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 4. + + + +TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC +MEDALLION'S WHIM +THE PRISONER +AN UPSET PRICE +A FRAGMENT OF LIVES +THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA +THE BARON OF BEAUGARD +THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + + + + +TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC + +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. + +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?" + +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. + +"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?" + +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." + +A strange, painful silence fell on the people for a moment, and then went +round an almost incredulous whisper: "Parpon the dwarf!" + +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. + +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. + +"What will you say to the Bishop, Parpon?" asked the Cure. + +The congregation stirred in their seats, for they saw that the Cure +intended Parpon to go. + +Parpon went up two steps of the chancel quietly and caught the arm of the +Cure, drawing him down to whisper in his ear. + +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." + +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--" + +Soon afterwards, with tearful eyes, he preached from the text: + +"And the Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it +not." + + ....................... + +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: + + "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!" + +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. + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Parpon drew from his breast a bag, and put it in his hands, and beckoning +down the Cure's head, he whispered. + +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. + +"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." + +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. + + + + + + +MEDALLION'S WHIM + +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. + +Medallion made a deeper guess. "Want to know what's the matter with +him?" he said. "Ha, I'll tell you! Woman." + +"Woman--God bless me!" said the Little Chemist, in a frightened way. + +"Woman, little man; I mean the want of a woman," said Medallion. + +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." + +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. + +"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." + +"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. + +"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. + +"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!" + +His Ha! was never a laugh; it was unctuous, abrupt, an ejaculation of +satisfaction, knowledge, solid enjoyment, final solution. + +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. + +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: + + "'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!'" + +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. + +"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." + +Presently the Cure asked, as if from a great distance, so meditative was +his voice: "Who will be the woman, Medallion?" + +"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!" + +"Regardez Ca! you are a great man," said the Little Chemist. + +There was a strange, inscrutable look in the kind priest's eyes. The +Avocat had confessed to him in his time. + +Medallion took up his hat. + +"Where are you going?" said the Little Chemist. "To our Avocat, and +then to St. Jean." + +He opened the door and vanished. The two that were left shook their +heads and wondered. + +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. + +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. + +"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. + +"Great is the Code Napoleon!" he said mechanically. Then, presently: +"Ah, my friend, Medallion!" + +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: + +"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." + +The Avocat's eye gazed at Medallion earnestly now, and Medallion went on: + +"As good singing as you want to hear. You've heard the words of the +song--the river drivers sing it: + + "'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!'" + +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. + +Medallion went on: + + "'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!'" + +When Medallion had finished he raised his glass and said: "Garon, I drink +to home and woman!" + +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. + +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: + +"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!" + +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: + +Quebec, September 13th, 18-. It is one year since. I shall learn to +laugh some day. + +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." + +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." + +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. + +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?" + +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. + +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. + +She shook her head mournfully. "We were more than friends, and that is +different." + +"You were his wife?" said Medallion gently. + +"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." + +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?" + +She need not have asked Medallion. He knew many secrets and kept them; +which is not the usual way of good-humoured people. + +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." + +She trembled towards him. "He is worse--he is dying!" + +He smiled. "Not dying at all. He needs you; come along. I'll tell you +as we go." + +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?" + +"I am as he left me," she replied timidly, but with a kind of pride, too. + +"Don't mistake me," he said. "I thought perhaps you had been married +since." + +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." + +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." + +Medallion stooped over him, and caught him by both arms gently. "We +shall see," he said. "It is the anniversary," he whispered. + +"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. + +"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: + + "But down there come from the lofty hills + Footsteps and eyes agleam, + Bringing the laughter of yesterday + Into the little house." + + + + + + +THE PRISONER + +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. + +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. + +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. + +He waked to find two officers of the law beside him, and the body of Jean +Gamache, stark and dreadful, a few feet away. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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: + +"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!" + +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. + +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. + +"My poor Blaze! my poor Blaze!" she said, clasping his manacled hands. + +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. + +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. + +"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: + +"O God, canst Thou do everything but speak!" And again: "That hour--the +memory of that hour, in exchange for my ruined life!" + +One day the gaoler came to him and said: "Monsieur Turgeon, you are free. +The Governor has cut off five years from your sentence." + +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!" + +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. + +"I was sorry for you." + +"But that is no reason." + +"I once committed a crime," she whispered, with shrinking bitterness. + +"That's bad," he said. "Were you punished?" He looked at her keenly, +almost fiercely, for a curious suspicion shot into his mind. + +She shook her head and answered no. + +"That's worse!" + +"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?" + +"I had a little child," was her reply. + +"And the man who was punished instead?" + +"He was alone in the world," she said. + +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. + +"I remember you now," he said. "I remember now. + +"I waked and saw you looking at me that night! Who was the father of your +child?" + +"Jean Gamache," she replied. "He ruined me and left me to starve." + +"I am innocent of his death!" he said quietly and gladly. + +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." + +"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." + +"It can't be helped now," he said sighing, and he turned away from her. + +"Won't you forgive me?" she asked bitterly. + +"Won't you give me back those five years?" + +"If the child did not need me I would give my life," she answered. "I +owe it to you." + +Her haggard, hunted face made him sorry; he, too, had suffered. + +"It's all right," he answered gently. "Take care of your child." + +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. + +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. + +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. + + + + + + +AN UPSET PRICE + +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. + +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!" + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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?" + +"Yes, that's it." + +"Regardez ca--well, well!" + +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. + +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. + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Now, my dear," he whispered, "we will be happy again." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"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." + +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?" + +"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. + +"Well? well?" she said. "Oh, my dear father, will you not keep him +here?" + +A peculiar cold smile hovered about his lips. "But there is danger to me +in this . . . and remember, he is very old!" + +"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!" + +"But, I tell you--" + +"Do you not hear him--he is dying!" She was mad with grief; she hardly +knew what she said. + +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. + +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: + +"An upset price!" + +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. + + + + + + +A FRAGMENT OF LIVES + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"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." + +Villiard looked at the other with contracting, questioning eyes. + +"You would play that game with me?" he asked, in a mechanical voice. + +"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." + +"I am ready," was the answer. "But let us eat first." + +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. + +Dubarre rose from the table, threw himself upon the little pile of otter- +skins, and lay watching Villiard and mechanically studying the little +room. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"When?" said Dubarre at last. "Not yet," was the quiet reply. + +"I was thinking of my first theft--an apple from my brother's plate," +said Dubarre, with a dry smile. "You?" + +"I, of my first lie." + +"That apple was the sweetest fruit I ever tasted." + +"And I took the penalty of the lie, but I had no sorrow." + +Again there was silence. + +"Now?" asked Villiard, after an hour had passed. "I am ready." + +They came to the table. + +"Shall we bind our eyes?" asked Dubarre. "I do not know the glasses +that hold the poison." + +"Nor I the bottle that held it. I will turn my back, and do you change +about the glasses." + +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--!" + +Before it had finished striking both men were facing the glasses again. + +"Take one," said Dubarre. + +Villiard took the one nearest himself. Dubarre took one also. Without a +word they lifted the glasses and drank. + +"Again," said Dubarre. + +"You choose," responded Villiard. + +Dubarre lifted the one nearest himself, and Villiard picked up the other. +Raising their glasses again, they bowed to each other and drank. + +The watch struck twelve, and stopped its silvery chiming. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Villiard had drunk both glasses of the poison! + +"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." + +Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely along the opposite wall. + +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!" + +The man's look still wandered distractedly along the wall. The sweat of +death was on his face; his lips were moving spasmodically. + +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. + +"Because the woman loved him!" he said, gazing curiously at the dead +man. + +He turned, went to the door and opened it, for his breath choked him. + +All was still on the wooded heights and in the wide valley. + +"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. + + + + + + +THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA + +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. + +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. + +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. + +The first time he told the story was in the house of Medallion the +auctioneer. + +"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! + +"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. + +"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! + +"'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. + +"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!' + +"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. + +"Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, and Captain Masham +shtandin' by whips out a flask. + +"'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.' + +"'A foine healthy corpse I am; an' a foine thirsty, healthy corpse I am,' +says I." + +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. + +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. + +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 be does!" She threw +up her hands with an air of distraction. + +"Well, and what does he do, Madame?" asked the Avocat simply. + +"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!" + +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. + +"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!" + +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: + +"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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Aw, it's the koind av ye!" said Kilquhanity, with difficulty, out of +the half shadows. + +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. + +"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. + +"I do be thinkin'," said the strained, whispering voice--"I do be +thinkin' I could shmoke." + +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. + +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. + +"Beggin' yer pardon, Misther Garon," she said, "I thought it was only +Kilquhanity here, an' he wid no more sense than a babby." + +Kilquhanity's eyes closed, and he buried one side of his head in the +pillow, that her shrill voice should not pierce his ears. + +"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. + +"Aw, lave thim alone, darlin'," whispered Kilquhanity, tossing. Her +officiousness seemed to hurt him more than the pain in his chest. + +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. + +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. + +"That is who I am," she said. "Mary Muddock that was, Mary Kilquhanity +that is." + +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. + +"Well?" said the woman, with a hard look in her face and a hard note in +her voice. "Well?" + +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. + +"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!" + +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." + +"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. + +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. + +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! + +The Cure and the Avocat had quieted them at last, and the Cure spoke +sternly now to both women. + +"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." + +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. + +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." + +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." + +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?" + +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." + +A smile came upon his face. "Oh, the foine of it! I do be shlaping- +shlaping." + +And he fell into a noiseless Sleep. + + + + + + +THE BARON OF BEAUGARD + +"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!" + +"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. + +Larue spoke English very well--his mother was English. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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.' + +"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!' + +"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! + +"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!" + +"What was it to the Baron and Falise?" asked Medallion. + +"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. + +"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? + +"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.' + +"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--' + +"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.' + +"'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. + +"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!' + +"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.' + +"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.' + +"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!' + +"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!' + +"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!' + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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!' + +"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. + +"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. + +"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. + +"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--' + +"He had his way with them, and after that perhaps the great God had His +way with him perhaps." + + + + + + +THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + +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. + +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: + + "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!'" + +Now, this is the story of McGilveray the bandmaster of Anstruther's +regiment: + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +Yet it was a woman. + +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: + + "Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre," + +he had forthwith set out to hail this daughter of Gaul, if perchance she +might be seen again. + +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. + +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. + +They stunned him for a moment, and then presently, as if in defiance of +his own thoughts, he began to sing softly: + +"Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre." + +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. + +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. + +"How you like yourself now?" asked a huge French corporal who had +learned English from an English girl at St. Malo years before. + +"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. + +The big soldier laughed, and told his comrades what the bandmaster had +said. One of them grinned, but the other frowned sullenly, and said: + +"Avez vous tabac?" + +"Havey you to-ba-co?" said the big soldier instantly--interpreting. + +"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. + +"He shall die--the cursed English soldier," said Johnny Crapaud. + +"Some other day will do," said McGilveray. "What does he say?" asked +Johnny Crapaud. + +"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. + +"Y'are lyin', me darlin', me bloody beauty!" interposed McGilveray. + +"If we don't take him to headquarters now he'll send across and get the +tobacco," interpreted the corporal to Johnny Crapaud. + +"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. + +The others nodded their heads, and, as they went out, McGilveray said +after them: + +"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. + +"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." + +The corporal stayed when the others went out, and, in broken English, +told McGilveray so. + +"I'll play a hornpipe, an' his gory shroud is round him," said +McGilveray. + +The corporal grinned from ear to ear. "You like a chew tabac?" said he, +pulling out a dirty knob of a black plug. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +It was near midnight when the lock turned in the door and presently +stepped inside--a girl. + +"Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre," said she, and nodded her head to him +humorously. + +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. + +"You've a way wid you, me darlin'," said McGilveray, not thinking that +she might understand. + +"A leetla way of my own," she answered in broken English. + +McGilveray started. "Where did you learn it?" he asked, for he had had +two surprises that night. + +"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." + +"Shure I am not a good soldier thin. Music's me game. An' the band of +Anstruther's rigimint's mine." + +"You can play tunes on a drum?" she asked, mischievously. + +"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. + +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. + +"You have been drink," she said, and she stopped her work of freeing him. + +"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!" + +"Divil a drop thin, darlin', till we fly our flag yander," pointing +towards where he supposed the town to be. + +"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. + +"No, no, no," she said. "We will shake our hands after," and she +stooped, took off the shackles, and freed his arms. + +"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. + +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." + +She loosed the boat into the current gently, and, holding it, motioned to +him to enter. + +"You're goin' to row me over?" he asked, incredulously. + +"'Sh! get in," she said. + +"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. + +"What is it you came here for?" she asked, with meaning. + +"Yourself an' the mockin' bird in yer voice," he answered. + +"Then that is enough," she said. "You come for me, I go for you. Get +in." + +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. + +McGilveray gave the pass-word, and presently he was on the bank saluting +the sentry he had left three hours before. + +"Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre!" said the girl again with a gay +insolence, and pushed the boat out into the stream. + +"A minnit, a minnit, me darlin'," said McGilveray. + +"Keep your promise," came back, softly. + +"Ah, come back wan minnit!" + +"A flirt!" said the sentry. + +"You will pay for that," said the girl to the sentry, with quick anger. + +"Do you love me, Irishman?" she added, to McGilveray. + +"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. + +"Aw, the loike o' that! Aw, the foine av her-the tip-top lass o' the +wide world!" said he. + +"You're a fool, an' there'll be trouble from this," said the sentry. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"I knew you were free with drink, McGilveray," he said, "but I did not +think you were a traitor to your country too." + +McGilveray saluted, and did not answer. + +"You might have waited till after to-morrow, man," said the General, his +eyes flashing. "My soldiers should have good music to-morrow." + +McGilveray saluted again, but made no answer. + +As if with a sudden thought the General waved off the officers and men +near him, and betkcned McGilveray to him. + +"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." + +"He did the same for me, whin I was taken prisoner, yer Excillincy, an' +--an', yer Excillincy, 'twas a matter of a woman, too." + +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!" + +The General's face relaxed still more. + +"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. + +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. + +At that moment the General, looking down from the side of the ship, said +sharply to an officer beside him: "What's that?" + +He pointed to a dark object floating near the ship, from which presently +came a small light with a hissing sound. + +"It's a fire-organ, sir," was the reply. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + +"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." + +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. + +"You've wiped all out, McGilveray," said Wolfe. "We see you are no +traitor." + +"Only a fool of a bandmaster who wanted wan toon more, yer Excillincy," +said McGilveray. + +"Beware drink, beware women," answered the General. + +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. + +"It's you, thin," he said, and he tried to look scornfully at her. + +"Have you keep your promise?" she said, hardly above her breath. + +"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." + +"Hoosban'--" she exclaimed, "who was my hoosban'?" + +"The big grinning corporal," he answered. + +"He is shot this morning," she said, her face darkening, "and, besides, +he was--nevare--my hoosban'." + +"He said he was," replied McGilveray, eagerly. + +"He was awway a liar," she answered. + +"He decaved you too, thin?" asked McGilveray, his face growing red. + +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. + +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!" + +"You will not drink no more?" she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. + +"Not till the Frenchies take Quebec again," he answered. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +We'll lave the past behind us +The furious music of death and war was over + + + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE "LANE HAD NO TURNING": + +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 + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANE HAD NO TURNING, PARKER *** + +******** This file should be named gp68w10.txt or gp68w10.zip ******** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, gp68w11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gp68w10a.txt + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we usually do not +keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper edition. + +We are now trying to release all our eBooks one year in advance +of the official release dates, leaving time for better editing. +Please be encouraged to tell us about any error or corrections, +even years after the official publication date. + +Please note neither this listing nor its contents are final til +midnight of the last day of the month of any such announcement. +The official release date of all Project Gutenberg eBooks is at +Midnight, Central Time, of the last day of the stated month. A +preliminary version may often be posted for suggestion, comment +and editing by those who wish to do so. + +Most people start at our Web sites at: +http://gutenberg.net or +http://promo.net/pg + +These Web sites include award-winning information about Project +Gutenberg, including how to donate, how to help produce our new +eBooks, and how to subscribe to our email newsletter (free!). + + +Those of you who want to download any eBook before announcement +can get to them as follows, and just download by date. This is +also a good way to get them instantly upon announcement, as the +indexes our cataloguers produce obviously take a while after an +announcement goes out in the Project Gutenberg Newsletter. + +http://www.ibiblio.org/gutenberg/etext03 or +ftp://ftp.ibiblio.org/pub/docs/books/gutenberg/etext03 + +Or /etext02, 01, 00, 99, 98, 97, 96, 95, 94, 93, 92, 92, 91 or 90 + +Just search by the first five letters of the filename you want, +as it appears in our Newsletters. + + +Information about Project Gutenberg (one page) + +We produce about two million dollars for each hour we work. The +time it takes us, a rather conservative estimate, is fifty hours +to get any eBook selected, entered, proofread, edited, copyright +searched and analyzed, the copyright letters written, etc. Our +projected audience is one hundred million readers. If the value +per text is nominally estimated at one dollar then we produce $2 +million dollars per hour in 2002 as we release over 100 new text +files per month: 1240 more eBooks in 2001 for a total of 4000+ +We are already on our way to trying for 2000 more eBooks in 2002 +If they reach just 1-2% of the world's population then the total +will reach over half a trillion eBooks given away by year's end. + +The Goal of Project Gutenberg is to Give Away 1 Trillion eBooks! +This is ten thousand titles each to one hundred million readers, +which is only about 4% of the present number of computer users. + +Here is the briefest record of our progress (* means estimated): + +eBooks Year Month + + 1 1971 July + 10 1991 January + 100 1994 January + 1000 1997 August + 1500 1998 October + 2000 1999 December + 2500 2000 December + 3000 2001 November + 4000 2001 October/November + 6000 2002 December* + 9000 2003 November* +10000 2004 January* + + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been created +to secure a future for Project Gutenberg into the next millennium. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +As of February, 2002, contributions are being solicited from people +and organizations in: Alabama, Alaska, Arkansas, Connecticut, +Delaware, District of Columbia, Florida, Georgia, Hawaii, Illinois, +Indiana, Iowa, Kansas, Kentucky, Louisiana, Maine, Massachusetts, +Michigan, Mississippi, Missouri, Montana, Nebraska, Nevada, New +Hampshire, New Jersey, New Mexico, New York, North Carolina, Ohio, +Oklahoma, Oregon, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island, South Carolina, South +Dakota, Tennessee, Texas, Utah, Vermont, Virginia, Washington, West +Virginia, Wisconsin, and Wyoming. + +We have filed in all 50 states now, but these are the only ones +that have responded. + +As the requirements for other states are met, additions to this list +will be made and fund raising will begin in the additional states. +Please feel free to ask to check the status of your state. + +In answer to various questions we have received on this: + +We are constantly working on finishing the paperwork to legally +request donations in all 50 states. If your state is not listed and +you would like to know if we have added it since the list you have, +just ask. + +While we cannot solicit donations from people in states where we are +not yet registered, we know of no prohibition against accepting +donations from donors in these states who approach us with an offer to +donate. + +International donations are accepted, but we don't know ANYTHING about +how to make them tax-deductible, or even if they CAN be made +deductible, and don't have the staff to handle it even if there are +ways. + +Donations by check or money order may be sent to: + +Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation +PMB 113 +1739 University Ave. +Oxford, MS 38655-4109 + +Contact us if you want to arrange for a wire transfer or payment +method other than by check or money order. + +The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation has been approved by +the US Internal Revenue Service as a 501(c)(3) organization with EIN +[Employee Identification Number] 64-622154. Donations are +tax-deductible to the maximum extent permitted by law. As fund-raising +requirements for other states are met, additions to this list will be +made and fund-raising will begin in the additional states. + +We need your donations more than ever! + +You can get up to date donation information online at: + +http://www.gutenberg.net/donation.html + + +*** + +If you can't reach Project Gutenberg, +you can always email directly to: + +Michael S. Hart <hart@pobox.com> + +Prof. Hart will answer or forward your message. + +We would prefer to send you information by email. + + +**The Legal Small Print** + + +(Three Pages) + +***START**THE SMALL PRINT!**FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS**START*** +Why is this "Small Print!" statement here? You know: lawyers. +They tell us you might sue us if there is something wrong with +your copy of this eBook, even if you got it for free from +someone other than us, and even if what's wrong is not our +fault. So, among other things, this "Small Print!" statement +disclaims most of our liability to you. It also tells you how +you may distribute copies of this eBook if you want to. + +*BEFORE!* YOU USE OR READ THIS EBOOK +By using or reading any part of this PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm +eBook, you indicate that you understand, agree to and accept +this "Small Print!" statement. If you do not, you can receive +a refund of the money (if any) you paid for this eBook by +sending a request within 30 days of receiving it to the person +you got it from. If you received this eBook on a physical +medium (such as a disk), you must return it with your request. + +ABOUT PROJECT GUTENBERG-TM EBOOKS +This PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook, like most PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBooks, +is a "public domain" work distributed by Professor Michael S. Hart +through the Project Gutenberg Association (the "Project"). +Among other things, this means that no one owns a United States copyright +on or for this work, so the Project (and you!) can copy and +distribute it in the United States without permission and +without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth +below, apply if you wish to copy and distribute this eBook +under the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark. + +Please do not use the "PROJECT GUTENBERG" trademark to market +any commercial products without permission. + +To create these eBooks, the Project expends considerable +efforts to identify, transcribe and proofread public domain +works. Despite these efforts, the Project's eBooks and any +medium they may be on may contain "Defects". Among other +things, Defects may take the form of incomplete, inaccurate or +corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other +intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged +disk or other eBook medium, a computer virus, or computer +codes that damage or cannot be read by your equipment. + +LIMITED WARRANTY; DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES +But for the "Right of Replacement or Refund" described below, +[1] Michael Hart and the Foundation (and any other party you may +receive this eBook from as a PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm eBook) disclaims +all liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including +legal fees, and [2] YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE OR +UNDER STRICT LIABILITY, OR FOR BREACH OF WARRANTY OR CONTRACT, +INCLUDING BUT NOT LIMITED TO INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE +OR INCIDENTAL DAMAGES, EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE +POSSIBILITY OF SUCH DAMAGES. + +If you discover a Defect in this eBook within 90 days of +receiving it, you can receive a refund of the money (if any) +you paid for it by sending an explanatory note within that +time to the person you received it from. If you received it +on a physical medium, you must return it with your note, and +such person may choose to alternatively give you a replacement +copy. If you received it electronically, such person may +choose to alternatively give you a second opportunity to +receive it electronically. + +THIS EBOOK IS OTHERWISE PROVIDED TO YOU "AS-IS". NO OTHER +WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, ARE MADE TO YOU AS +TO THE EBOOK OR ANY MEDIUM IT MAY BE ON, INCLUDING BUT NOT +LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR A +PARTICULAR PURPOSE. + +Some states do not allow disclaimers of implied warranties or +the exclusion or limitation of consequential damages, so the +above disclaimers and exclusions may not apply to you, and you +may have other legal rights. + +INDEMNITY +You will indemnify and hold Michael Hart, the Foundation, +and its trustees and agents, and any volunteers associated +with the production and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm +texts harmless, from all liability, cost and expense, including +legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of the +following that you do or cause: [1] distribution of this eBook, +[2] alteration, modification, or addition to the eBook, +or [3] any Defect. + +DISTRIBUTION UNDER "PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm" +You may distribute copies of this eBook electronically, or by +disk, book or any other medium if you either delete this +"Small Print!" and all other references to Project Gutenberg, +or: + +[1] Only give exact copies of it. Among other things, this + requires that you do not remove, alter or modify the + eBook or this "small print!" statement. You may however, + if you wish, distribute this eBook in machine readable + binary, compressed, mark-up, or proprietary form, + including any form resulting from conversion by word + processing or hypertext software, but only so long as + *EITHER*: + + [*] The eBook, when displayed, is clearly readable, and + does *not* contain characters other than those + intended by the author of the work, although tilde + (~), asterisk (*) and underline (_) characters may + be used to convey punctuation intended by the + author, and additional characters may be used to + indicate hypertext links; OR + + [*] The eBook may be readily converted by the reader at + no expense into plain ASCII, EBCDIC or equivalent + form by the program that displays the eBook (as is + the case, for instance, with most word processors); + OR + + [*] You provide, or agree to also provide on request at + no additional cost, fee or expense, a copy of the + eBook in its original plain ASCII form (or in EBCDIC + or other equivalent proprietary form). + +[2] Honor the eBook refund and replacement provisions of this + "Small Print!" statement. + +[3] Pay a trademark license fee to the Foundation of 20% of the + gross profits you derive calculated using the method you + already use to calculate your applicable taxes. If you + don't derive profits, no royalty is due. Royalties are + payable to "Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation" + the 60 days following each date you prepare (or were + legally required to prepare) your annual (or equivalent + periodic) tax return. Please contact us beforehand to + let us know your plans and to work out the details. + +WHAT IF YOU *WANT* TO SEND MONEY EVEN IF YOU DON'T HAVE TO? +Project Gutenberg is dedicated to increasing the number of +public domain and licensed works that can be freely distributed +in machine readable form. + +The Project gratefully accepts contributions of money, time, +public domain materials, or royalty free copyright licenses. +Money should be paid to the: +"Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation." + +If you are interested in contributing scanning equipment or +software or other items, please contact Michael Hart at: +hart@pobox.com + +[Portions of this eBook's header and trailer may be reprinted only +when distributed free of all fees. Copyright (C) 2001, 2002 by +Michael S. Hart. Project Gutenberg is a TradeMark and may not be +used in any sales of Project Gutenberg eBooks or other materials be +they hardware or software or any other related product without +express permission.] + +*END THE SMALL PRINT! FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN EBOOKS*Ver.02/11/02*END* + + diff --git a/old/gp68w10.zip b/old/gp68w10.zip Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..50fdd64 --- /dev/null +++ b/old/gp68w10.zip |