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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. 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