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diff --git a/old/gp68w10.txt b/old/gp68w10.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ac1dd3a --- /dev/null +++ b/old/gp68w10.txt @@ -0,0 +1,9160 @@ +The Project Gutenberg EBook Lane That Had No Turning, by Parker, Entire +#68 in our series by Gilbert Parker + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**EBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These EBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers***** + + +Title: The Lane That Had No Turning, Complete. + +Author: Gilbert Parker + +Release Date: August, 2004 [EBook #6241] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on October 17, 2002] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ASCII + + + + + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANE HAD NO TURNING, PARKER *** + + + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + + + +CONTENTS + +Volume 1. +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +Volume 2. +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS +A WORKER IN STONE + +Volume 3. +THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE +THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER +MATHURIN +THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER +THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF +UNCLE JIM +THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH +PARPON THE DWARF + +Volume 4. +TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC +MEDALLION'S WHIM +THE PRISONER +AN UPSET PRICE +A FRAGMENT OF LIVES +THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA +THE BARON OF BEAUGARD +THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + + + + +The Right Hon. Sir Wilfrid Laurier G.C.M.G. + +Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier, Since I first began to write these tales in +1892, I have had it in my mind to dedicate to you the "bundle of life" +when it should be complete. It seemed to me--and it seems so still--that +to put your name upon the covering of my parcel, as one should say, "In +care of," when it went forth, was to secure its safe and considerate +delivery to that public of the Empire which is so much in your debt. + +But with other feelings also do I dedicate this volume to yourself. For +many years your name has stood for a high and noble compromise between +the temperaments and the intellectual and social habits of two races; and +I am not singular in thinking that you have done more than most other men +to make the English and French of the Dominion understand each other +better. There are somewhat awkward limits to true understanding as yet, +but that sympathetic service which you render to both peoples, with a +conscientious striving for impartiality, tempers even the wind of party +warfare to the shorn lamb of political opposition. + +In a sincere sympathy with French life and character, as exhibited in the +democratic yet monarchical province of Quebec, or Lower Canada (as, +historically, I still love to think of it), moved by friendly +observation, and seeking to be truthful and impartial, I have made this +book and others dealing with the life of the proud province, which a +century and a half of English governance has not Anglicised. This series +of more or less connected stories, however, has been the most cherished +of all my labours, covering, as it has done, so many years, and being the +accepted of my anxious judgment out of a much larger gathering, so many +numbers of which are retired to the seclusion of copyright, while +reserved from publication. In passing, I need hardly say that the +"Pontiac" of this book is an imaginary place, and has no association with +the real Pontiac of the Province. + +I had meant to call the volume, "Born with a Golden Spoon," a title +stolen from the old phrase, "Born with a golden spoon in the mouth"; but +at the last moment I have given the book the name of the tale which is, +chronologically, the climax of the series, and the end of my narratives +of French Canadian life and character. I had chosen the former title +because of an inherent meaning in it relation to my subject. A man born +in the purple--in comfort wealth, and secure estate--is said to have the +golden spoon in his mouth. In the eyes of the world, however, the phrase +has a some what ironical suggestiveness, and to have luxury, wealth, and +place as a birthright is not thought to be the most fortunate incident of +mortality. My application of the phrase is, therefore, different. + +I have, as you know, travelled far and wide during the past seventeen +years, and though I have seen people as frugal and industrious as the +French Canadians, I have never seen frugality and industry associated +with so much domestic virtue, so much education and intelligence, and so +deep and simple a religious life; nor have I ever seen a priesthood at +once so devoted and high-minded in all the concerns the home life of +their people, as in French Canada. A land without poverty and yet +without riches, French Canada stands alone, too well educated to have a +peasantry, too poor to have an aristocracy; as though in her the ancient +prayer had been answered "Give me neither poverty nor riches, but feed me +with food convenient for me." And it is of the habitant of Quebec, +before a men else, I should say, "Born with the golden spoon in his +mouth." + +To you I come with this book, which contains the first thing I ever wrote +out of the life of the Province so dear to you, and the last things also +that I shall ever write about it. I beg you to receive it as the loving +recreation of one who sympathises with the people of who you come, and +honours their virtues, and who has no fear for the unity, and no doubt as +to the splendid future, of the nation, whose fibre is got of the two +great civilising races of Europe. + +Lastly, you will know with what admiration and regard I place your name +on the fore page of my book, and greet in you the statesman, the +litterateur, and the personal friend. + + Believe me, + Dear Sir Wilfrid Laurier, + Yours very sincerely, + GILBERT PARKER. + +20 CARLTON HOUSE TERRACE, + LONDON, S. W., + 14th August, 1900. + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +The story with which this book opens, 'The Lane That Had No Turning', +gives the title to a collection which has a large share in whatever +importance my work may possess. Cotemporaneous with the Pierre series, +which deal with the Far West and the Far North, I began in the +'Illustrated London News', at the request of the then editor, Mr. Clement +K. Shorter, a series of French Canadian sketches of which the first was +'The Tragic Comedy of Annette'. It was followed by 'The Marriage of the +Miller, The House with the Tall Porch, The Absurd Romance of P'tite +Louison, and The Woodsman's Story of the Great White Chief'. They were +begun and finished in the autumn of 1892 in lodgings which I had taken on +Hampstead Heath. Each--for they were all very short--was written at a +sitting, and all had their origin in true stories which had been told me +in the heart of Quebec itself. They were all beautifully illustrated in +the Illustrated London News, and in their almost monosyllabic narrative, +and their almost domestic simplicity, they were in marked contrast to the +more strenuous episodes of the Pierre series. They were indeed in +keeping with the happily simple and uncomplicated life of French Canada +as I knew it then; and I had perhaps greater joy in writing them and the +purely French Canadian stories that followed them, such as 'Parpon the +Dwarf, A Worker in Stone, The Little Bell of Honour, and The Prisoner', +than in almost anything else I have written, except perhaps 'The Right of +Way and Valmond', so far as Canada is concerned. + +I think the book has harmony, although the first story in it covers +eighty-two pages, while some of the others, like 'The Marriage of the +Miller', are less than four pages in length. At the end also there are +nine fantasies or stories which I called 'Parables of Provinces'. All of +these, I think, possessed the spirit of French Canada, though all are +more or less mystical in nature. They have nothing of the simple realism +of 'The Tragic Comedy of Annette', and the earlier series. These nine +stories could not be called popular, and they were the only stories I +have ever written which did not have an immediate welcome from the +editors to whom they were sent. In the United States I offered them to +'Harper's Magazine', but the editor, Henry M. Alden, while, as I know, +caring for them personally, still hesitated to publish them. He thought +them too symbolic for the every-day reader. He had been offered four of +them at once because I declined to dispose of them separately, though the +editor of another magazine was willing to publish two of them. Messrs. +Stone & Kimball, however, who had plenty of fearlessness where literature +was concerned, immediately bought the series for The Chap Book, long +since dead, and they were published in that wonderful little short-lived +magazine, which contained some things of permanent value to literature. +They published four of the series, namely: 'The Golden Pipes, The +Guardian of the Fire, By that Place Called Peradventure, The Singing of +the Bees, and The Tent of the Purple Mat'. In England, because I would +not separate the first five, and publish them individually, two or three +of the editors who were taking the Pierre series and other stories +appearing in this volume would not publish them. They, also, were +frightened by the mystery and allusiveness of the tales, and had an +apprehension that they would not be popular. + +Perhaps they were right. They were all fantasies, but I do not wish them +other than they are. One has to write according to the impulse that +seizes one and after the fashion of one's own mind. This at least can be +said of all my books, that not a page of them has ever been written to +order, and there is not a story published in all the pages bearing my +name which does not represent one or two other stories rejected by +myself. The art of rejection is the hardest art which an author has to +learn; but I have never had a doubt as to my being justified in +publishing these little symbolic things. + +Eventually the whole series was published in England. W. E. Henley gave +'There Was a Little City' a home in 'The New Review', and expressed +himself as happy in having it. 'The Forge in the Valley' was published +by Sir Wemyss Reid in the weekly paper called 'The Speaker', now known as +'The Nation', in which 'Sir Arthur Quiller-Couch' made his name and +helped the fame of others. 'There Was a Little City' was published in +'The Chap Book' in the United States, but 'The Forge in the Valley' had +(I think) no American public until it appeared within the pages of 'The +Lane That Had No Turning'. The rest of the series were published in the +'English Illustrated Magazine', which was such a good friend to my work +at the start. As was perhaps natural, there was some criticism, but very +little, in French Canada itself, upon the stories in this volume. It +soon died away, however, and almost as I write these words there has come +to me an appreciation which I value as much as anything that has befallen +me in my career, and that is, the degree of Doctor of Letters from the +French Catholic University of Laval at Quebec. It is the seal of French +Canada upon the work which I have tried to do for her and for the whole +Dominion. + + + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +CHAPTER I + +THE RETURN OF MADELINETTE + +His Excellency the Governor--the English Governor of French Canada--was +come to Pontiac, accompanied by a goodly retinue; by private secretary, +military secretary, aide-de-camp, cabinet minister, and all that. He was +making a tour of the Province, but it was obvious that he had gone out of +his way to visit Pontiac, for there were disquieting rumours in the air +concerning the loyalty of the district. Indeed, the Governor had arrived +but twenty-four hours after a meeting had been held under the presidency +of the Seigneur, at which resolutions easily translatable into sedition +were presented. The Cure and the Avocat, arriving in the nick of time, +had both spoken against these resolutions; with the result that the new- +born ardour in the minds of the simple habitants had died down, and the +Seigneur had parted from the Cure and the Avocat in anger. + +Pontiac had been involved in an illegal demonstration once before. +Valmond, the bizarre but popular Napoleonic pretender, had raised his +standard there; the stones before the parish church had been stained with +his blood; and he lay in the churchyard of St. Saviour's forgiven and +unforgotten. How was it possible for Pontiac to forget him? Had he not +left his little fortune to the parish? and had he not also left twenty +thousand francs for the musical education of Madelinette Lajeunesse, the +daughter of the village forgeron, to learn singing of the best masters in +Paris? Pontiac's wrong-doings had brought it more profit than penalty, +more praise than punishment: for, after five years in France in the care +of the Little Chemist's widow, Madelinette Lajeunesse had become the +greatest singer of her day. But what had put the severest strain upon +the modesty of Pontiac was the fact that, on the morrow of Madelinette's +first triumph in Paris, she had married M. Louis Racine, the new Seigneur +of Pontiac. + +What more could Pontiac wish? It had been rewarded for its mistakes; it +had not even been chastened, save that it was marked Suspicious as to its +loyalty, at the headquarters of the English Government in Quebec. It +should have worn a crown of thorns, but it flaunted a crown of roses. A +most unreasonable good fortune seemed to pursue it. It had been led to +expect that its new Seigneur would be an Englishman, one George Fournel, +to whom, as the late Seigneur had more than once declared, the property +was devised by will; but at his death no will had been found, and Louis +Racine, the direct heir in blood, had succeeded to the property and the +title. + +Brilliant, enthusiastic, fanatically French, the new Seigneur had set +himself to revive certain old traditions, customs, and privileges of +the Seigneurial position. He was reactionary, seductive, generous, +and at first he captivated the hearts of Pontiac. He did more than that. +He captivated Madelinette Lajeunesse. In spite of her years in Paris-- +severe, studious years, which shut out the social world and the +temptations of Bohemian life--Madelinette retained a strange simplicity +of heart and mind, a desperate love for her old home which would not be +gainsaid, a passionate loyalty to her past, which was an illusory attempt +to arrest the inevitable changes that come with growth; and, with a +sudden impulse, she had sealed herself to her past at the very outset of +her great career by marriage with Louis Racine. + +On the very day of their marriage Louis Racine had made a painful +discovery. A heritage of his fathers, which had skipped two generations, +suddenly appeared in himself: he was becoming a hunchback. + +Terror, despair, gloom, anxiety had settled upon him. Three months later +Madelinette had gone to Paris alone. The Seigneur had invented excuses +for not accompanying her, so she went instead in the care of the Little +Chemist's widow, as of old Louis had promised to follow within another +three months, but had not done so. The surgical operation performed upon +him was unsuccessful; the strange growth increased. Sensitive, fearful, +and morose, he would not go to Europe to be known as the hunchback +husband of Lajeunesse, the great singer. He dreaded the hour when +Madelinette and he should meet again. A thousand times he pictured her +as turning from him in loathing and contempt. He had married her because +he loved her, but he knew well enough that ten thousand other men could +love her just as well, and be something more than a deformed Seigneur of +an obscure manor in Quebec. + +As his gloomy imagination pictured the future, when Madelinette should +return and see him as he was and cease to love him--to build up his +Seigneurial honour to an undue importance, to give his position a +fictitious splendour, became a mania with him. No ruler of a +Grand Duchy ever cherished his honour dearer or exacted homage more +persistently than did Louis Racine in the Seigneury of Pontiac. +Coincident with the increase of these futile extravagances was the +increase of his fanatical patriotism, which at last found vent in +seditious writings, agitations, the purchase of rifles, incitement to +rebellion, and the formation of an armed, liveried troop of dependants at +the Manor. On the very eve of the Governor's coming, despite the Cure's +and the Avocat's warnings, he had held a patriotic meeting intended to +foster a stubborn, if silent, disregard of the Governor's presence +amongst them. + +The speech of the Cure, who had given guarantee for the good behaviour of +his people to the Government, had been so tinged with sorrowful appeal, +had recalled to them so acutely the foolish demonstration which had ended +in the death of Valmond; that the people had turned from the exasperated +Seigneur with the fire of monomania in his eyes, and had left him alone +in the hall, passionately protesting that the souls of Frenchmen were not +in them. + +Next day, upon the church, upon the Louis Quinze Hotel, and elsewhere, +the Union Jack flew--the British colours flaunted it in Pontiac with +welcome to the Governor. But upon the Seigneury was another flag--it of +the golden-lilies. Within the Manor House M. Louis Racine sat in the +great Seigneurial chair, returned from the gates of death. As he had +come home from the futile public meeting, galloping through the streets +and out upon the Seigneury road in the dusk, his horse had shied upon a +bridge, where mischievous lads waylaid travellers with ghostly heads made +of lighted candles in hollowed pumpkins, and horse and man had been +plunged into the stream beneath. His faithful servant Havel had seen the +accident and dragged his insensible master from the water. + +Now the Seigneur sat in the great arm-chair glowering out upon the +cheerful day. As he brooded, shaken and weak and bitter--all his +thoughts were bitter now--a flash of scarlet, a glint of white plumes +crossed his line of vision, disappeared, then again came into view, and +horses' hoofs rang out on the hard road below. He started to his feet, +but fell back again, so feeble was he, then rang the bell at his side +with nervous insistence. A door opened quickly behind him, and his voice +said imperiously: + +"Quick, Havel--to the door. The Governor and his suite have come. Call +Tardif, and have wine and cake brought at once. When the Governor +enters, let Tardif stand at the door, and you beside my chair. Have the +men-at-arms get into livery, and make a guard of honour for the Governor +when he leaves. Their new rifles too--and let old Fashode wear his +medal! See that Lucre is not filthy--ha! ha! very good. I must let the +Governor hear that. Quick--quick, Havel. They are entering the grounds. +Let the Manor bell be rung, and every one mustered. He shall see that to +be a Seigneur is not an empty honour. I am something in the state, +something by my own right." His lips moved restlessly; he frowned; his +hands nervously clasped the arms of the chair. "Madelinette too shall +see that I am to be reckoned with, that I am not a nobody. By God, then, +but she shall see it!" he added, bringing his clasped hand down hard +upon the wood. + +There was a stir outside, a clanking of chains, a champing of bits, and +the murmurs of the crowd who were gathering fast in the grounds. +Presently the door was thrown open and Havel announced the Governor. +Louis Racine got to his feet, but the Governor hastened forward, and, +taking both his hands, forced him gently back into the chair. + +"No, no, my dear Seigneur. You must not rise. This is no state visit, +but a friendly call to offer congratulations on your happy escape, and +to inquire how you are." + +The Governor said his sentences easily, but he suddenly flushed and was +embarrassed, for Louis Racine's deformity, of which he had not known-- +Pontiac kept its troubles to itself--stared him in the face; and he felt +the Seigneur's eyes fastened on him with strange intensity. + +"I have to thank your Excellency," the Seigneur said in a hasty nervous +voice. "I fell on my shoulders--that saved me. If I had fallen on my +head I should have been killed, no doubt. My shoulders saved me!" he +added, with a petulant insistence in his voice, a morbid anxiety in his +face. + +"Most providential," responded the Governor. "It grieves me that it +should have happened on the occasion of my visit. I missed the +Seigneur's loyal public welcome. But I am happy," he continued, with +smooth deliberation, "to have it here in this old Manor House, where +other loyal French subjects of England have done honour to their +Sovereign's representative." + +"This place is sacred to hospitality and patriotism, your Excellency," +said Louis Racine, nervousness passing from his voice and a curious hard +look coming into his face. + +The Governor was determined not to see the double meaning. "It is a +privilege to hear you say so. I shall recall the fact to her Majesty's +Government in the report I shall make upon my tour of the province. +I have a feeling that the Queen's pleasure in the devotion of her +distinguished French subjects may take some concrete form." + +The Governor's suite looked at each other significantly, for never before +in his journeys had his Excellency hinted so strongly that an honour +might be conferred. Veiled as it was, it was still patent as the sun. +Spots of colour shot into the Seigneur's cheeks. An honour from the +young English Queen--that would mate with Madelinette's fame. After all, +it was only his due. He suddenly found it hard to be consistent. His +mind was in a whirl. The Governor continued: + +"It must have given you great pleasure to know that at Windsor her +Majesty has given tokens of honour to the famous singer, the wife of a +notable French subject, who, while passionately eager to keep alive +French sentiment, has, as we believe, a deep loyalty to England." + +The Governor had said too much. He had thought to give the Seigneur an +opportunity to recede from his seditious position there and then, and to +win his future loyalty. M. Racine's situation had peril, and the +Governor had here shown him the way of escape. But he had said one thing +that drove Louis Racine mad. He had given him unknown information about +his own wife. Louis did not know that Madelinette had been received by +the Queen, or that she had received "tokens of honour." Wild with +resentment, he saw in the Governor's words a consideration for himself +based only on the fact that he was the husband of the great singer. He +trembled to his feet. + +At that moment there was a cheering outside--great cheering--but +he did not heed it; he was scarcely aware of it. If it touched his +understanding at all, it only meant to him a demonstration in honour of +the Governor. + +"Loyalty to the flag of England, your Excellency!" he said, in a hoarse +acrid voice--"you speak of loyalty to us whose lives for two centuries--" +He paused, for he heard a voice calling his name. + +"Louis! Louis! Louis!" + +The fierce words he had been about to utter died on his lips, his eyes +stared at the open window, bewildered and even frightened. + +"Louis! Louis!" + +Now the voice was inside the house. He stood trembling, both hands +grasping the arms of the chair. Every eye in the room was now turned +towards the door. As it opened, the Seigneur sank back in the chair, a +look of helpless misery, touched by a fierce pride, covering his face. + +"Louis!" + +It was Madelinette, who, disregarding the assembled company, ran forward +to him and caught both his hands in hers. + +"O Louis, I have heard of your accident, and--" she stopped suddenly +short. The Governor turned away his head. Every person in the room did +the same. For as she bent over him--she saw. She saw for the first +time; for the first time knew! + +A look of horrified amazement, of shrinking anguish, crossed over her +face. He felt the lightning-like silence, he knew that she had seen; +he struggled to his feet, staring fiercely at her. + +That one torturing instant had taken all the colour from her face, but +there was a strange brightness in her eyes, a new power in her bearing. +She gently forced him into the seat again. + +"You are not strong enough, Louis. You must be tranquil." + +She turned now to the Governor. He made a sign to his suite, who, +bowing, slowly left the room. "Permit me to welcome you to your native +land again, Madame," he said. "You have won for it a distinction it +could never have earned, and the world gives you many honours." + +She was smiling and still, and with one hand clasping her husband's, she +said: + +"The honour I value most my native land has given me: I am lady of the +Manor here, and wife of the Seigneur Racine." + +Agitated triumph came upon Louis Racine's face; a weird painful vanity +entered into him. He stood up beside his wife, as she turned and looked +at him, showing not a sign that what she saw disturbed her. + +"It is no mushroom honour to be Seigneur of Pontiac, your Excellency," he +said, in a tone that jarred. "The barony is two hundred years old. By +rights granted from the crown of France, I am Baron of Pontiac." + +"I think England has not yet recognised the title," said the Governor +suggestively, for he was here to make peace, and in the presence of this +man, whose mental torture was extreme, he would not allow himself to be +irritated. + +"Our baronies have never been recognised," said the Seigneur harshly. +"And yet we are asked to love the flag of England and--" + +"And to show that we are too proud to ask for a right that none can take +away," interposed Madelinette graciously and eagerly, as though to +prevent Louis from saying what he intended. All at once she had had to +order her life anew, to replace old thoughts by new ones. "We honour and +obey the rulers of our land, and fly the English flag, and welcome the +English Governor gladly when he comes to us--will your Excellency have +some refreshment?" she added quickly, for she saw the cloud on the +Seigneur's brow. "Louis," she added quickly, "will you--" + +"I have ordered refreshment," said the Seigneur excitedly, the storm +passing from his face, however. "Havel, Tardif--where are you, fellows!" +He stamped his foot imperiously. + +Havel entered with a tray of wine and glasses, followed by Tardif loaded +with cakes and comfits, and set them on the table. + +Ten minutes later the Governor took his leave. At the front door he +stopped surprised, for a guard of honour of twenty men were drawn up. +He turned to the Seigneur. + +"What soldiers are these?" he asked. + +"The Seigneury company, your Excellency," replied Louis. + +"What uniform is it they wear?" he asked in an even tone, but with a +black look in his eye, which did not escape Madelinette. + +"The livery of the Barony of Pontiac," answered the Seigneur. + +The Governor looked at them a moment without speaking. "It is French +uniform of the time of Louis Quinze," he said. "Picturesque, but +informal," he added. + +He went over, and taking a carbine from one of the men, examined it. +"Your carbines are not so unconventional and antique," he said meaningly, +and with a frosty smile. "The compromise of the centuries--hein?" he +added to the Cure, who, with the Avocat, was now looking on with some +trepidation. "I am wondering if it is quite legal. It is charming to +have such a guard of honour, but I am wondering--wondering--eh, monsieur +l'avocat, is it legal?" + +The Avocat made no reply, but the Cure's face was greatly troubled. The +Seigneur's momentary placidity passed. + +"I answer for their legality, your Excellency," he said, in a high, +assertive voice. + +"Of course, of course, you will answer for it," said the Governor, +smiling enigmatically. He came forward and held out his hand to +Madelinette. + +"Madame, I shall remember your kindness, and I appreciate the simple +honours done me here. Your arrival at the moment of my visit is a happy +circumstance." + +There was a meaning in his eye--not in his voice--which went straight to +Madelinette's understanding. She murmured something in reply, and a +moment afterwards the Governor, his suite, and the crowd were gone; and +the men-at-arms-the fantastic body of men in their antique livery-armed +with the latest modern weapons, had gone back to civic life again. + +Inside the house once more, Madelinette laid her hand upon Louis' arm +with a smile that wholly deceived him for a moment. He thought now that +she must have known of his deformity before she came--the world was so +full of tale-bearers--and no doubt had long since reconciled herself to +the painful fact. She had shown no surprise, no shrinking. There had +been only the one lightning instant in which he had felt a kind of +suspension of her breath and being, but when he had looked her in the +face, she was composed and smiling. After all his frightened +anticipation the great moment had come and gone without tragedy. With +satisfaction he looked in the mirror in the hall as they passed inside +the house. He saw no reason to quarrel with his face. Was it possible +that the deformity did not matter after all? + +He felt Madelinette's hand on his arm. He turned and clasped her to his +breast. + +He did not notice that she kept her hands under her chin as he drew her +to him, that she did not, as had been her wont, put them on his +shoulders. He did not feel her shrink, and no one, seeing, could have +said that she shrank from him in ever so little. + +"How beautiful you are!" he said, as he looked into her face. + +"How glad I am to be here again, and how tired I am, Louis!" she said. +"I've driven thirty miles since daylight." She disengaged herself. "I +am going to sleep now," she added. "I am going to turn the key in my +door till evening. Please tell Madame Marie so, Louis." + +Inside her room alone she flung herself on her bed in agony and despair. + +"Louis--Oh, my God!" she cried, and sobbed and sobbed her strength away. + + + + +CHAPTER II + +WHEN THE RED-COATS CAME + +A month later there was a sale of the household effects, the horses and +general possessions of Medallion the auctioneer, who, though a Protestant +and an Englishman, had, by his wits and goodness of heart, endeared +himself to the parish. Therefore the notables among the habitants had +gathered in his empty house for a last drink of good-fellowship--Muroc +the charcoalman, Duclosse the mealman, Benoit the ne'er-do-weel, Gingras +the one-eyed shoemaker, and a few others. They had drunk the health of +Medallion, they had drunk the health of the Cure, and now Duclosse the +mealman raised his glass. "Here's to--" + +"Wait a minute, porridge-pot," cried Muroc. "The best man here should +raise the glass first and say the votre sante. 'Tis M'sieu' Medallion +should speak and sip now." + +Medallion was half-sitting on the window-sill, abstractedly listening. +He had been thinking that his ships were burned behind him, and that in +middle-age he was starting out to make another camp for himself in the +world, all because of the new Seigneur of Pontiac. Time was when he had +been successful here, but Louis Racine had changed all that. His hand +was against the English, and he had brought a French auctioneer to +Pontiac. Medallion might have divided the parish as to patronage, but he +had other views. + +So he was going. Madelinette had urged him to stay, but he had replied +that it was too late. The harm was not to be undone. + +As Muroc spoke, every one turned towards Medallion. He came over and +filled a glass at the table, and raised it. + +"I drink to Madelinette, daughter of that fine old puffing forgeron +Lajeunesse," he added, as the big blacksmith now entered the room. +Lajeunesse grinned and ducked his head. "I knew Madelinette, as did you +all, when I could take her on my knee and tell her English stories, and +listen to her sing French chansons--the best in the world. She has gone +on; we stay where we were. But she proves her love to us, by taking her +husband from Pontiac and coming back to us. May she never find a spot so +good to come to and so hard to leave as Pontiac!" + +He drank, and they all did the same. Draining his glass, Medallion let +it fall on the stone floor. It broke into a score of pieces. + +He came and shook hands with Lajeunesse. "Give her my love," he said. +"Tell her the highest bidder on earth could not buy one of the kisses +she gave me when she was five and I was twenty." + +Then he shook hands with them all and went into the next room. + +"Why did he drop his glass?" asked Gingras the shoemaker. + +"That's the way of the aristocrats when it's the damnedest toast that +ever was," said Duclosse the mealman. "Eh, Lajeunesse, that's so, isn't +it?" + +"What the devil do I know about aristocrats!" said Lajeunesse. + +"You're among the best of the land, now that Madelinette's married to the +Seigneur. You ought to wear a collar every day." + +"Bah!" answered the blacksmith. "I'm only old Lajeunesse the +blacksmith, though she's my girl, dear lads. I was Joe Lajeunesse +yesterday, and I'll be Joe Lajeunesse to-morrow, and I'll die Joe +Lajeunesse the forgeron--bagosh! So you take me as you find me. M'sieu' +Racine doesn't marry me. And Madelinette doesn't take me to Paris and +lead me round the stage and say, 'This is M'sieu' Lajeunesse, my father.' +No. I'm myself, and a damn good blacksmith and nothing else am I" + +"Tut, tut, old leather-belly," said Gingras the shoemaker, whose liquor +had mounted high, "you'll not need to work now. Madelinette's got double +fortune. She gets thousands for a song, and she's lady of the Manor +here. What's too good for you, tell me that, my forgeron?" + +"Not working between meals--that's too good for me, Gingras. I'm here to +earn my bread with the hands I was born with, and to eat what they earn, +and live by it. Let a man live according to his gifts--bagosh! Till I'm +sent for, that's what I'll do; and when time's up I'll take my hand off +the bellows, and my leather apron can go to you, Gingras, for boots for a +bigger fool than me." + +"There's only one," said Benolt, the ne'er-do-weel, who had been to +college as a boy. + +"Who's that?" said Muroc. + +"You wouldn't know his name. He's trying to find eggs in last year's +nest," answered Benolt with a leer. + +"He means the Seigneur," said Muroc. "Look to your son-in-law, +Lajeunesse. He's kicking up a dust that'll choke Pontiac yet. +It's as if there was an imp in him driving him on." + +"We've had enough of the devil's dust here," said Lajeunesse. "Has he +been talking to you, Muroc?" + +Muroc nodded. "Treason, or thereabouts. Once, with him that's dead in +the graveyard yonder, it was France we were to save and bring back the +Napoleons--I have my sword yet. Now it's save Quebec. It's stand alone +and have our own flag, and shout, and fight, maybe, to be free of +England. Independence--that's it! One by one the English have had +to go from Pontiac. Now it's M'sieu' Medallion." + +"There's Shandon the Irishman gone too. M'sieu' sold him up and shipped +him off," said Gingras the shoemaker. + +"Tiens! the Seigneur gave him fifty dollars when he left, to help him +along. He smacks and then kisses, does M'sieu' Racine." + +"We've to pay tribute to the Seigneur every year, as they did in the days +of Vaudreuil and Louis the Saint," said Duclosse. "I've got my notice--a +bag of meal under the big tree at the Manor door." + +"I've to bring a pullet and a bag of charcoal," said Muroc. "'Tis the +rights of the Seigneur as of old." + +"Tiens! it is my mind," said Benoit, "that a man that nature twists in +back, or leg, or body anywhere, gets a twist in's brain too. There's +Parpon the dwarf--God knows, Parpon is a nut to crack!" + +"But Parpon isn't married to the greatest singer in the world, though +she's only the daughter of old leather-belly there," said Gingras. + +"Something doesn't come of nothing, snub-nose," said Lajeunesse. "Mark +you, I was born a man of fame, walking bloody paths to glory; but, by the +grace of Heaven and my baptism, I became a forgeron. Let others ride to +glory, I'll shoe their horses for the gallop." + +"You'll be in Parliament yet, Lajeunesse," said Duclosse the mealman, who +had been dozing on a pile of untired cart-wheels. + +"I'll be hanged first, comrade." + +"One in the family at a time," said Muroc. "There's the Seigneur. He's +going into Parliament." + +"He's a magistrate--that's enough," said Duclosse. "He's started the +court under the big tree, as the Seigneurs did two hundred years ago. +He'll want a gibbet and a gallows next." + +"I should think he'd stay at home and not take more on his shoulders!" +said the one-eyed shoemaker. Without a word, Lajeunesse threw a dish of +water in Gingras's face. This reference to the Seigneur's deformity was +unpalatable. + +Gingras had not recovered from his discomfiture when all were startled by +the distant blare of a bugle. They rushed to the door, and were met by +Parpon the dwarf, who announced that a regiment of soldiers was marching +on the village. + +"'Tis what I expected after that meeting, and the Governor's visit, and +the lily-flag of France on the Manor, and the body-guard and the +carbines," said Muroc nervously. + +"We're all in trouble again-sure," said Benoit, and drained his glass to +the last drop. "Some of us will go to gaol." + +The coming of the militia had been wholly unexpected by the people of +Pontiac, but the cause was not far to seek. Ever since the Governor's +visit there had been sinister rumours abroad concerning Louis Racine, +which the Cure and the Avocat and others had taken pains to contradict. +It was known that the Seigneur had been requested to disband his +so-called company of soldiers with their ancient livery and their modern +arms, and to give them up. He had disbanded the corps, but he had not +given up the arms, and, for reasons unknown, the Government had not +pressed the point, so far as the world knew. But it had decided to hold +a district drill in this far-off portion of the Province; and this summer +morning two thousand men marched 'upon the town and through it, horse, +foot, and commissariat, and Pontiac was roused out of the last-century +romance the Seigneur had sought to continue, to face the actual presence +of modern force and the machinery of war. Twice before had British +soldiers marched into the town, the last time but a few years agone, when +blood had been shed on the stones in front of the parish church. But +here were large numbers of well-armed men from the Eastern parishes, +English and French, with four hundred regulars to leaven the mass. +Lajeunesse knew only too well what this demonstration meant. + +Before the last soldier had passed through the street, he was on his way +to the Seigneury. + +He found Madelinette alone in the great dining-room, mending a rent in +the British flag, which she was preparing for a flag-staff. When she saw +him, she dropped the flag, as if startled, came quickly to him, took both +his hands in hers, and kissed his cheek. + +"Wonder of wonders!" she said. + +"It's these soldiers," he replied shortly. "What of them?" she asked +brightly. + +"Do you mean to say you don't know what their coming here means?" he +asked. + +"They must drill somewhere, and they are honouring Pontiac," she replied +gaily, but her face flushed as she bent over the flag again. + +He came and stood in front of her. "I don't know what's in your mind; +I don't know what you mean to do; but I do know that M'sieu' Racine is +making trouble here, and out of it you'll come more hurt than anybody." + +"What has Louis done?" + +"What has he done! He's been stirring up feeling against the British. +What has he done!--Look at the silly customs he's got out of old coffins, +to make us believe they're alive. Why did he ever try to marry you? Why +did you ever marry him? You are the great singer of the world. He's a +mad hunchback habitant seigneur!" + +She stamped her foot indignantly, but presently she ruled herself to +composure, and said quietly: "He is my husband. He is a brave man, with +foolish dreams." Then with a sudden burst of tender feeling, she said: +"Oh, father, father, can't you see, I loved him--that is why I married +him. You ask me what I am going to do? I am going to give the rest of +my life to him. I am going to stay with him, and be to him all that he +may never have in this world, never--never. I am going to be to him what +my mother was to you, a slave to the end--a slave who loved you, and who +gave you a daughter who will do the same for her husband--" + +"No matter what he does or is--eh?" + +"No matter what he is." + +Lajeunesse gasped. "You will give up singing! Not sing again before +kings and courts, and not earn ten thousand dollars a month--more than +I've earned in twenty years? You don't mean that, Madelinette." + +He was hoarse with feeling, and he held out his hand pleadingly. To him +it seemed that his daughter was mad; that she was throwing her life away. + +"I mean that, father," she answered quietly. "There are things worth +more than money." + +"You don't mean to say that you can love him as he is. It isn't natural. +But no, it isn't." + +"What would you have said, if any one had asked you if you loved my +mother that last year of her life, when she was a cripple, and we wheeled +her about in a chair you made for her?" + +"Don't say any more," he said slowly, and took up his hat, and kept +turning it round in his hand. "But you'll prevent him getting into +trouble with the Gover'ment?" he urged at last. + +"I have done what I could," she answered. Then with a little gasp: "They +came to arrest him a fortnight ago, but I said they should not enter the +house. Havel and I prevented them--refused to let them enter. The men +did not know what to do, and so they went back. And now this--!" she +pointed to where the soldiers were pitching their tents in the valley +below. "Since then Louis has done nothing to give trouble. He only +writes and dreams. If he would but dream and no more--!" she added, +half under her breath. + +"We've dreamt too much in Pontiac already," said Lajeunesse, shaking his +head. + +Madelinette reached up her hand and laid it on his shaggy black hair. +"You are a good little father, big smithy-man," she said lovingly. "You +make me think of the strong men in the Niebelungen legends. It must be a +big horse that will take you to Walhalla with the heroes," she added. + +"Such notions--there in your head," he laughed. "Try to frighten me with +your big names-hein?" There was a new look in the face of father and of +daughter. No mist or cloud was between them. The things they had long +wished to say were uttered at last. A new faith was established between +them. Since her return they had laughed and talked as of old when they +had met, though her own heart was aching, and he was bitter against the +Seigneur. She had kept him and the whole parish in good humour by her +unconventional ways, as though people were not beginning to make +pilgrimages to Pontiac to see her--people who stared at the name over +the blacksmith's door, and eyed her curiously, or lay in wait about the +Seigneury, that they might get a glimpse of Madame and her deformed +husband. Out in the world where she was now so important, the newspapers +told strange romantic tales of the great singer, wove wild and wonderful +legends of her life. To her it did not matter. If she knew, she did not +heed. If she heeded it--even in her heart--she showed nothing of it +before the world. She knew that soon there would be wilder tales still +when it was announced that she was bidding farewell to the great working +world, and would live on in retirement. She had made up her mind quite +how the announcement should read, and, once it was given out, nothing +would induce her to change her mind. Her life was now the life of the +Seigneur. + +A struggle in her heart went on, but she fought it down. The lure of a +great temptation from that far-off outside world was before her, but she +had resolved her heart against it. In his rough but tender way her +father now understood, and that was a comfort to her. He felt what he +could not reason upon or put into adequate words. But the confidence +made him happy, and his eyes said so to her now. + +"See, big smithy-man," she said gaily, "soon will be the fete of St. Jean +Baptiste, and we shall all be happy then. Louis has promised me to make +a speech that will not be against the English, but only words which will +tell how dear the old land is to us." + +"Ten to one against it!" said Lajeunesse anxiously. Then he brightened +as he saw a shadow cross her face. "But you can make him do anything--as +you always made me," he added, shaking his tousled head and taking with a +droll eagerness the glass of wine she offered him. + + + + +CHAPTER III + +"MAN TO MAN AND STEEL TO STEEL" + +One evening a fortnight later Louis Racine and George Fournel, the +Englishman, stood face to face in the library of the Manor House. There +was antagonism and animosity in the attitude of both. Apart from the +fact that Louis had succeeded to the Seigneury promised to Fournel, and +sealed to him by a reputed will which had never been found, there was +cause for hatred on the Englishman's part. Fournel had been an +incredibly successful man. Things had come his way--wealth, and the +power that wealth brings. He had but two set-backs, and the man before +him in the Manor House of Pontiac was the cause of both. The last rebuff +had been the succession to the Seigneury, which, curious as it might +seem, had been the cherished dream of the rich man's retirement. It had +been his fancy to play the Seigneur, the lord magnificent and bountiful, +and he had determined to use wealth and all manner of influence to have +the title of Baron of Pontiac revived--it had been obsolete for a hundred +years. He leaned towards the grace of an hereditary dignity, as other +retired millionaires cultivate art and letters, vainly imagining that +they can wheedle civilisation and the humanities into giving them what +they do not possess by nature, and fool the world at the same time. + +The loss of the Seigneury had therefore cut deep, but there had been a +more hateful affront still. Four years before, Louis Racine, when +spasmodically practising law in Quebec, had been approached by two poor +Frenchmen, who laid claim to thousands of acres of land which a Land +Company, whereof George Fournel was president, was publicly exploiting +for the woods and valuable minerals discovered on it. The Land Company +had been composed of Englishmen only. Louis Racine, reactionary and +imaginative, brilliant and free from sordidness, and openly hating the +English, had taken up the case, and for two years fought it tooth and +nail without pay or reward. The matter had become a cause celebre, the +Land Company engaging the greatest lawyers in both the English and French +province. In the Supreme Court the case was lost to Louis' clients. +Louis took it over to the Privy Council in London, and carried it +through triumphantly and alone, proving his clients' title. His two poor +Frenchmen regained their land. In payment he would accept nothing save +the ordinary fees, as though it were some petty case in a county court. +He had, however, made a reputation, which he had seemed not to value, +save as a means of showing hostility to the governing race, and the +Seigneury of Pontiac, when it fell to him, had more charms for him than +any celebrity to be won at the bar. His love of the history of his +country was a mania with him, and he looked forward, on arriving at +Pontiac, to being the apostle of French independence on the continent. +Madelinette had crossed his path in his most enthusiastic moment, when +his brilliant tongue and great dreams surrounded him with a kind of +glamour. He had caught her to himself out of the girl's first triumph, +when her nature, tried by the strain of her first challenge to the +judgment of the world, cried out for rest, for Pontiac and home, +and all that was of the old life among her people. + +Fournel's antipathy had only been increased by the fact that Louis Racine +had married the now famous Madelinette, and his animosity extended to +her. + +It was not in him to understand the nature of the Frenchman, volatile, +moody, chivalrous, unreasonable, the slave of ideas, the victim of +sentiment. Not understanding, when he began to see that he could not +attain the object of his visit, which was to secure some relics of the +late Seigneur's household, he chose to be disdainful. + +"You are bound to give me these things I ask for, as a matter of justice +--if you know what justice means," he said at last. + +"You should be aware of that," answered the Seigneur, with a kindling +look. He felt every glance of Fournel's eye a contemptuous comment upon +his deformity, now so egregious and humiliating. "I taught you justice +once." + +Fournel was not to be moved from his phlegm. He knew he could torture +the man before him, and he was determined to do so, if he did not get his +way upon the matter of his visit. + +"You can teach me justice twice and be thanked once," he answered. +"These things I ask for were much prized by my friend, the late Seigneur. +I was led to expect that this Seigneury and all in it and on it should be +mine. I know it was intended so. The law gives it you instead. Your +technical claim has overridden my rights--you have a gift for making +successful technical claims. But these old personal relics, of no +monetary value--you should waive your avaricious and indelicate claim to +them." He added the last words with a malicious smile, for the hardening +look in Racine's face told him his request was hopeless, and he could not +resist the temptation to put the matter with cutting force. Racine rose +to the bait with a jump. + +"Not one single thing--not one single solitary thing--!" + +"The sentiment is strong if the grammar is bad," interrupted Fournel, +meaning to wound wherever he found an opportunity, for the Seigneur's +deformity excited in him no pity; it rather incensed him against the man, +as an affront to decency and to his own just claims to the honours the +Frenchman enjoyed. It was a petty resentment, but George Fournel had set +his heart upon playing the grand-seigneur over the Frenchmen of Pontiac, +and of ultimately leaving his fortune to the parish, if they all fell +down and worshipped him and his "golden calf." + +"The grammar is suitable to the case," retorted the Seigneur, his voice +rising. "Everything is mine by law, and everything I will keep. If you +think different, produce a will--produce a will!" + +Truth was, Louis Racine would rather have parted with the Seigneury +itself than with these relics asked for. They were reminiscent of the +time when France and her golden-lilies brooded over his land, of the +days when Louis Quatorze was king. He cherished everything that had +association with the days of the old regime, as a miner hugs his gold, +or a woman her jewels. The request to give them up to this unsympathetic +Englishman, who valued them because they had belonged to his friend the +late Seigneur, only exasperated him. + +"I am ready to pay the highest possible price for them, as I have said," +urged the Englishman, realising as he spoke that it was futile to urge +the sale upon that basis. + +"Money cannot buy the things that Frenchmen love. We are not a race of +hucksters," retorted the Seigneur. + +"That accounts for your envious dispositions then. You can't buy what +you want--you love such curious things, I assume. So you play the dog in +the manger, and won't let other decent folk buy what they want." He +wilfully distorted the other's meaning, and was delighted to see the +Seigneur's fingers twitch with fury. "But since you can't buy the things +you love--and you seem to think you should--how do you get them? Do you +come by them honestly? or do you work miracles? When a spider makes +love to his lady he dances before her to infatuate her, and then in a +moment of her delighted aberration snatches at her affections. Is it the +way of the spider then?" + +With a snarl as of a wild beast, Louis Racine sprang forward and struck +Fournel in the face with his clinched fist. Then, as Fournel, blinded, +staggered back upon the book-shelves, he snatched two antique swords from +the wall. Throwing one on the floor in front of the Englishman, he ran +to the door and locked it, and turned round, the sword grasped firmly in +his hand, and white with rage. + +"Spider! Spider! By Heaven, you shall have the spider dance before +you!" he said hoarsely. He had mistaken Fournel's meaning. He had put +the most horrible construction upon it. He thought that Fournel referred +to his deformity, and had ruthlessly dragged in Madelinette as well. + +He was like a being distraught. His long brown hair was tossed over his +blanched forehead and piercing black eyes. His head was thrown forward +even more than his deformity compelled, his white teeth showed in a +grimace of hatred; he was half-crouched, like an animal ready to spring. + +"Take up the sword, or I'll run you through the heart where you stand," +he continued, in a hoarse whisper. "I will give you till I can count +three. Then by the God in Heaven--!" + +Fournel felt that he had to deal with a man demented. The blow he had +received had laid open the flesh on his cheek-bone, and blood was flowing +from the wound. Never in his life before had he been so humiliated. And +by a Frenchman--it roused every instinct of race-hatred in him. Yet he +wanted not to go at him with a sword, but with his two honest hands, +and beat him into a whining submission. But the man was deformed, +he had none of his own robust strength--he was not to be struck, +but to be tossed out of the way like an offending child. + +He staunched the blood from his face and made a step forward without a +word, determined not to fight, but to take the weapon from the other's +hands. "Coward!" said the Seigneur. "You dare not fight with the +sword. With the sword we are even. I am as strong as you there-- +stronger, and I will have your blood. Coward! Coward! Coward! I will +give you till I count three. One! . . . Two! . . ." + +Fournel did not stir. He could not make up his mind what to do. Cry +out? No one could come in time to prevent the onslaught--and onslaught +there would be, he knew. There was a merciless hatred in the Seigneur's +face, a deadly purpose in his eyes; the wild determination of a man who +did not care whether he lived or died, ready to throw himself upon a +hundred in his hungry rage. It seemed so mad, so monstrous, that the +beautiful summer day through which came the sharp whetting of the scythe, +the song of the birds, and the smell of ripening fruit and grain, should +be invaded by this tragic absurdity, this human fury which must spend +itself in blood. + +Fournel's mind was conscious of this feeling, this sense of futile, +foolish waste and disfigurement, even as the Seigneur said "Three!" +and, rushing forward, thrust. + +As Fournel saw the blade spring at him, he dropped on one knee, caught it +with his left hand as it came, and wrenched it aside. The blade +lacerated his fingers and his palm, but he did not let go till he had +seized the sword at his feet with his right hand. Then, springing up +with it, he stepped back quickly and grasped his weapon fiercely enough +now. + +Yet, enraged as he was, he had no wish to fight; to involve himself in a +fracas which might end in tragedy and the courts of the land. It was a +high price to pay for any satisfaction he might have in this affair. If +the Seigneur were killed in the encounter--he must defend himself now-- +what a miserable notoriety and possible legal penalty and public +punishment! For who could vouch for the truth of his story? Even if +he wounded Racine only, what a wretched story to go abroad: that he had +fought with a hunchback--a hunchback who knew the use of the sword, +which he did not, but still a hunchback! + +"Stop this nonsense," he said, as Louis Racine prepared to attack again. +"Don't be a fool. The game isn't worth the candle." + +"One of us does not leave this room alive," said the Seigneur. "You care +for life. You love it, and you can't buy what you love from me. I don't +care for life, and I would gladly die, to see your blood flow. Look, +it's flowing down your face; it's dripping from your hand, and there +shall be more dripping soon. On guard!" + +He suddenly attacked with a fierce energy, forcing Fournel back upon the +wall. He was not a first-class swordsman, but he had far more knowledge +of the weapon than his opponent, and he had no scruple about using his +knowledge. Fournel fought with desperate alertness, yet awkwardly, and +he could not attack; it was all that he could do, all that he knew how +to do, to defend himself. Twice again did the Seigneur's weapon draw +blood, once from the shoulder and once from the leg of his opponent, and +the blood was flowing from each wound. After the second injury they +stood panting for a moment. Now the outside world was shut out from +Fournel's senses as it was from Louis Racine's. The only world they knew +was this cool room, whose oak floors were browned by the slow searching +stains of Time, and darkened by the footsteps of six generations that had +come and gone through the old house. The books along the walls seemed to +cry out against the unseemly and unholy strife. But now both men were in +that atmosphere of supreme egoism where only their two selves moved, and +where the only thing that mattered on earth was the issue of this strife. +Fournel could only think of how to save his life, and to do that he must +become the aggressor, for his wounds were bleeding hard, and he must have +more wounds, if the fight went on without harm to the Seigneur. + +"You know now what it is to insult a Frenchman--On guard!" again cried +the Seigneur, in a shriller voice, for everything in him was pitched to +the highest note. + +He again attacked, and the sound of the large swords meeting clashed on +the soft air. As they struggled, a voice came ringing through the +passages, singing a bar from an opera: + + "Oh eager golden day, Oh happy evening hour, + Behold my lover cometh from fields of wrath and hate! + Sheathed is his sword; he cometh to my bower; + In war he findeth honour, and love within the gate." + +The voice came nearer and nearer. It pierced the tragic separateness of +the scene of blood. It reached the ears of the Seigneur, and a look of +pain shot across his face. Fournel was only dimly aware of the voice, +for he was hard pressed, and it seemed to come from infinite distances. +Presently the voice stopped, and some one tried the door of the room. + +It was Madelinette. Astonished at finding it locked, she stood still a +moment uncertain what to do. Then the sounds of the struggle within came +to her ears. She shook the door, leaned her shoulders against it, and +called, "Louis! Louis!" Suddenly she darted away, found Havel the +faithful servant in the passage, and brought him swiftly to the door. +The man sprang upon it, striking with his shoulder. The lock gave, the +door flew open, and Madelinette stepped swiftly into the room, in time to +see George Fournel sway and fall, his sword rattling on the hard oak +floor. + +"Oh, what have you done, Louis!" she cried, then added hurriedly to +Havel: "Draw the blind there, shut the door, and tell Madame Marie to +bring some water quickly." + +The silent servant vanished, and she dropped on her knees beside the +bleeding and insensible man, and lifted his head. + +"He insulted you and me, and I've killed him, Madelinette," said Louis +hoarsely. + +A horrified look came to her face, and she hurriedly and tremblingly +opened Fournel's waistcoat and shirt, and felt his heart. + +She was freshly startled by a struggle behind her, and, turning quickly, +she saw Madame Marie holding the Seigneur's arm to prevent him from +ending his own life. + +She sprang up and laid her hand upon her husband's arm. "He is not dead- +-you need not do it, Louis," she said quietly. There was no alarm, no +undue excitement in her face now. She was acting with good presence of +mind. A new sense was working in her. Something had gone from her +suddenly where her husband was concerned, and something else had taken +its place. An infinite pity, a bitter sorrow, and a gentle command were +in her eyes all at once--new vistas of life opened before her, all in +an instant. + +"He is not dead, and there is no need to kill yourself, Louis," she +repeated, and her voice had a command in it that was not to be gainsaid. +"Since you have vindicated your honour, you will now help me to set this +business right." + +Madame Marie was on her knees beside the insensible man. "No, he is not +dead, thank God!" she murmured, and while Havel stripped the arm and +leg, she poured some water between Fournel's lips. Her long experience +as the Little Chemist's wife served her well now. + +Now that the excitement was over, Louis collapsed. He swayed and would +have fallen, but Madelinette caught him, helped him to the sofa, and, +forcing him gently down on his side, adjusted a pillow for him, and +turned to the wounded man again. + +An hour went busily by in the closely-curtained room, and at last George +Fournel, conscious, and with wounds well bandaged, sat in a big arm- +chair, glowering round him. At his first coming-to, Louis Racine, at his +wife's insistence, had come and offered his hand, and made apology for +assaulting him in his own house. + +Fournel's reply had been that he wanted to hear no more fool's talk and +to have no more fool's doings, and that one day he hoped to take his pay +for the day's business in a satisfactory way. + +Madelinette made no apology, said nothing, save that she hoped he would +remain for a few days till he was recovered enough to be moved. He +replied that he would leave as soon as his horses were ready, and refused +to take food or drink from their hands. His servant was brought from +the Louis Quinze Hotel, and through him he got what was needed for +refreshment, and requested that no one of the household should come near +him. At night, in the darkness, he took his departure, no servant of the +household in attendance. But as he got into the carriage, Madelinette +came quickly to him, and said: + +"I would give ten years of my life to undo to-day's work." + +"I have no quarrel with you, Madame," he said gloomily, raised his hat, +and was driven away. + + + + +CHAPTER IV + +MADELINETTE MAKES A DISCOVERY + +The national fete of the summer was over. The day had been successful, +more successful indeed than any within the memory of the inhabitants; +for the English and French soldiers joined in the festivities without +any intrusion of racial spirit, but in the very essence and soul of good- +fellowship. The General had called at the Manor, and paid his respects +to the Seigneur, who received him abstractedly if not coolly, but +Madelinette had captured his imagination and his sympathies. He was fond +of music for an Englishman, and with a ravishing charm she sang for him a +bergerette of the eighteenth century and then a ballad of Shakespeare's +set to her own music. She was so anxious that the great holiday should +pass off without one untoward incident, that she would have resorted to +any fair device to attain the desired end. The General could help her +by his influence and instructions, and if the soldiers--regulars and +militia--joined in the celebrations harmoniously, and with goodwill, +a long step would be made towards undoing the harm that Louis had done, +and maybe influencing him towards a saner, wiser view of things. He had +changed much since the fateful day when he had forced George Fournel to +fight him; had grown more silent, and had turned grey. His eyes had +become by turns watchful and suspicious, gloomy and abstracted; and his +speech knew the same variations; now bitter and cynical, now sad and +distant, and all the time his eyes seemed to grow darker and his face +paler. But however moody and variable and irascible he might be with +others, however unappeasable, with Madelinette he struggled to be gentle, +and his petulance gave way under the intangible persuasiveness of her +words and will, which had the effect of command. Under this influence +he had prepared the words which he was to deliver at the Fete. They were +full of veneration for past traditions, but were not at variance with a +proper loyalty to the flag under which they lived, and if the English +soldiery met the speech with genial appreciation the day might end in a +blessing--and surely blessings were overdue in Madelinette's life in +Pontiac. + +It had been as she worked for and desired, thanks to herself and the +English General's sympathetic help. Perhaps his love of music made him +better understand what she wanted, made him even forgiving of the +Seigneur's strained manner; but certain it is that the day, begun with +uneasiness on the part of the people of Pontiac, who felt themselves +under surveillance, ended in great good-feeling and harmless revelry; +and it was also certain that the Seigneur's speech gained him an applause +that surprised him and momentarily appeased his vanity. The General gave +him a guard of honour of the French Militia in keeping with his position +as Seigneur; and this, with Madelinette's presence at his elbow, +restrained him in his speech when he would have broken from the limits +of propriety in the intoxication of his eager eloquence. But he spoke +with moderation, standing under the British Flag on the platform, and at +the last he said: + +"A flag not our own floats over us now; guarantees us against the +malice of the world and assures us in our laws and religion; but there is +another flag which in our tearful memories is as dear to us now as it was +at Carillon and Levis. It is the flag of memory--of language and of +race, the emblem of our past upon our hearthstones; and the great country +that rules us does not deny us reverence to it. Seeing it, we see the +history of our race from Charlemagne to this day, and we have a pride in +that history which England does not rebuke, a pride which is just and +right. It is fitting that we should have a day of commemoration. Far +off in France burns the light our fathers saw and were glad. And we in +Pontiac have a link that binds us to the old home. We have ever given +her proud remembrance--we now give her art and song." + +With these words, and turning to his wife, he ended, and cries of "Madame +Madelinette! Madame Madelinette!" were heard everywhere. Even the +English soldiers cheered, and Madelinette sang a la Claire Fontaine, +three verses in French and one in English, and the whole valley rang +with the refrain sung at the topmost pitch by five thousand voices: + +"I'ya longtemps que je t'aime, +Jamais je ne t'oublierai." + +The day of pleasure done and dusk settled on Pontiac and on the +encampment of soldiers in the valley, a light still burned in the library +at the Manor House long after midnight. Madelinette had gone to bed, +but, excited by the events of the day, she could not sleep, and she went +down to the library to read. But her mind wandered still, and she sat +mechanically looking before her at a picture of the father of the late +Seigneur, which was let into the moulding of the oak wall. As she looked +abstractedly and yet with the intensity of the preoccupied mind, her eye +became aware of a little piece of wood let into the moulding of the +frame. The light of the hanging lamp was full on it. + +This irregularity began to perplex her eye. Presently it intruded on her +reverie. Still busy with her thoughts, she knelt upon the table beneath +the picture and pressed the irregular piece of wood. A spring gave, the +picture came slowly away from the frame, and disclosed a small cupboard +behind. In this cupboard were a few books, an old silver-handled pistol, +and a packet. Madelinette's reverie was broken now. She was face to +face with discovery and mystery. Her heart stood still with fear. After +an instant of suspense, she took out the packet and held it to the light. +She gave a smothered cry. + +It was the will of the late Seigneur. + + + + +CHAPTER V + +WHAT WILL SHE DO WITH IT? + +George Fournel was the heir to the Seigneury of Pontiac, not Louis +Racine. There it was in the will of Monsieur de la Riviere, duly signed +and attested. + +Madelinette's heart stood still. Louis was no longer--indeed, never had +been--Seigneur of Pontiac, and they had no right there, had never had any +right there. They must leave this place which was to Louis the fetich of +his soul, the small compensation fate had made him for the trouble nature +had cynically laid upon him. He had clung to it as a drowning man clings +to a spar. To him it was the charter from which he could appeal to the +world as the husband of Madelinette Lajeunesse. To him it was the name, +the dignity, and the fortune he brought her. It was the one thing that +saved him from a dire humiliation; it was the vantage-ground from which +he appealed to her respect, the flaming testimony of his own self-esteem. +Every hour since his trouble had come upon him, since Madelinette's great +fame had come to her, he had protested to himself that it was honour for +honour; and every day he had laboured, sometimes how fantastically, how +futilely! to dignify his position, to enhance his importance in her eyes. +She had understood it all, had read him to the last letter in the +alphabet of his mind and heart. She had realised the consternation of +the people, and she knew that, for her sake, and because the Cure had +commanded, all the obsolete claims he had made were responded to by the +people. Certainly he had affected them by his eloquence and his fiery +kindness, but at the same time they had shrewdly smelt the treason +underneath his ardour. There was a definite limit to their loyalty to +him; and, deprived of the Seigneury, he would count for nothing. + +A hundred thoughts like these went through her mind as she stood by the +table under the hanging lamp, her face white as the loose robe she wore, +her eyes hot and staring, her figure rigid as stone. + +To-morrow--how could she face to-morrow, and Louis! How could she tell +him this! How could she say to him, "Louis, you are no longer Seigneur. +The man you hate, he who is your inveterate enemy, who has every reason +to exact from you the last tribute of humiliation, is Seigneur here!" +How could she face the despair of the man whose life was one inward +fever, one long illusion, which was yet only half an illusion, since +he was forever tortured by suspicion; whose body was wearing itself out, +and spirit was destroying itself in the struggle of a vexed imagination! + +She knew that Louis' years were numbered. She knew that this blow would +break him body and soul. He could never survive the humiliation. His +sensitiveness was a disease, his pride was the only thing that kept him +going; his love of her, strong as it was, would be drowned in an imagined +shame! + +It was midnight. She was alone with this secret. She held the paper in +her hand, which was at once Louis' sentence or his charter of liberty. +A candle was at her hand, the doors were shut, the blinds drawn, the +house a frozen silence--how cold she was, though it was the deep of +summer! She shivered from head to foot, and yet all day the harvest sun +had drenched the room in its heat. + +Yet her blood might run warm again, her cold cheeks might regain their +colour, her heart beat quietly, if this paper were no more! The thought +made her shrink away from herself, as it were, yet she caught up the +candle and lighted it. + +For Louis. For Louis, though she would rather have died than do it for +herself. To save to Louis what was, to his imagination, the one claim +he had upon her respect and the world's. After all, how little was it in +value or in dignity! How little she cared for it! One year of her voice +could earn two such Seigneuries as this. And the honour--save that it +was Pontiac-it was naught to her. In all her life she had never done or +said a dishonourable thing. She had never lied, she had never deceived, +she had never done aught that might not have been written down and +published to all the world. Yet here, all at once, she was faced with +a vast temptation, to do a deed, the penalty of which was an indelible +shame. + +What injury would it do to George Fournel! He was used now to his +disappointment; he was rich; he had no claims upon Pontiac; there was no +one but himself to whom it mattered, this little Seigneury. What he did +not know did not exist, so far as himself was concerned. How easily +could it all be made right some day! She felt as though she were +suffocating, and she opened the window a little very softly. Then she +lit the candle tremblingly, watched the flame gather strength, and opened +out the will. As she did so, however, the smell of a clover field, which +is as honey, came stealing through the room, and all at once a strange +association of ideas flashed into her brain. + +She recalled one summer day long ago, when, in the church of St. +Saviour's, the smell of the clover fields came through the open doors +and windows, and her mind had kept repeating mechanically, till she fell +asleep, the text of the Curb's sermon--"As ye sow, so also shall ye +reap." + +That placid hour which had no problems, no cares, no fears, no penalties +in view, which was filled with the richness of a blessed harvest and the +plenitude of innocent youth, came back on her now in the moment of her +fierce temptation. + +She folded up the paper slowly, a sob came in her throat, she blew out +the candle, and put the will back in the cupboard. The faint click of +the spring as she closed the panel seemed terribly loud to her. She +started and looked timorously round. The blood came back to her face-- +she flushed crimson with guilt. Then she turned out the lighted lamp +and crept away up the stairs to her room. + +She paused beside Louis' bed. He was moving restlessly in his sleep; +he was murmuring her name. With a breaking sigh she crept into bed +slowly and lay like one who had been beaten, bruised, and shamed. + +At last, before the dawn, she fell asleep. She dreamed that she was +in prison and that George Fournel was her jailor. + +She waked to find Louis at her bedside. + +"I am holding my seigneurial court to-day," he said. + + + + +CHAPTER VI + +THE ONE WHO SAW + +All day and every day Madelinette's mind kept fastening itself upon one +theme, kept turning to one spot. In her dreams she saw the hanging lamp, +the moving panel, the little cupboard, the fatal paper. Waking and +restlessly busy, she sometimes forgot it for a moment, but remembrance +would come back with painful force, and her will must govern her hurt +spirit into quiet resolution. She had such a sense of humiliation as +though some one dear to her had committed a crime against herself. Two +persons were in her--Madelinette Lajeunesse, the daughter of the village +blacksmith, brought up in the peaceful discipline of her religion, +shunning falsehood and dishonour with a simple proud self-respect; and +Madame Racine, the great singer, who had touched at last the heart of +things; and, with the knowledge, had thrown aside past principles and +convictions to save her stricken husband from misery and humiliation-- +to save his health, his mind, his life maybe. + +The struggle of conscience and expediency, of principle and womanliness +wore upon her, taking away the colour from her cheeks, but spiritualising +her face, giving the large black eyes an expression of rare intensity, so +that the Avocat in his admiration called her Madonna, and the Cure came +oftener to the Manor House with a fear in his heart that all was not +well. Yet he was met by her cheerful smile, by her quiet sense of +humour, by the touching yet not demonstrative devotion of the wife +to the husband, and a varying and impulsive adoration of the wife by +the husband. One day when the Cure was with the Seigneur, Madelinette +entered upon them. Her face was pale though composed, yet her eyes had a +look of abstraction or detachment. The Cure's face brightened at her +approach. She wore a simple white gown with a bunch of roses at the +belt, and a broad hat lined with red that shaded her face and gave it a +warmth it did not possess. + +"Dear Madame!" said the Cure, rising to his feet and coming towards her. + +"I have told you before that I will have nothing but 'Madelinette,' dear +Cure," she replied, with a smile, and gave him her hand. She turned to +Louis, who had risen also, and putting a hand on his arm pressed him +gently into his chair, then, with a swift, almost casual, caress of his +hair, placed on the table the basket of flowers she was carrying, and +began to arrange them. + +"Dear Louis," she said presently, and as though en passant, "I have +dismissed Tardif to-day--I hope you won't mind these dull domestic +details, Cure," she added. + +The Cure nodded and turned his head towards the window musingly. He was +thinking that she had done a wise thing in dismissing Tardif, for the man +had evil qualities, and he was hoping that he would leave the parish now. + +The Seigneur nodded. "Then he will go. I have dismissed him--I have +a temper--many times, but he never went. It is foolish to dismiss a man +in a temper. He thinks you do not mean it. But our Madelinette there"-- +he turned towards the Cure now--"she is never in a temper, and every one +always knows she means what she says; and she says it as even as a +clock." Then the egoist in him added: "I have power and imagination +and the faculty for great things; but Madelinette has serene judgment +--a tribute to you, Cure, who taught her in the old days." + +"In any case, Tardif is going," she repeated quietly. "What did he do?" +said the Seigneur. "What was your grievance, beautiful Madame?" + +He was looking at her with unfeigned admiration--with just such a look +as was in his face the first day they met in the Avocat's house on his +arrival in Pontiac. She turned and saw it, and remembered. The scene +flashed before her mind. The thought of herself then, with the flush of +a sunrise love suddenly rising in her heart, roused a torrent of feeling +now, and it required every bit of strength she had to prevent her +bursting into a passion of tears. In imagination she saw him there, +a straight, slim, handsome figure, with the very vanity of proud health +upon him, and ambition and passionate purpose in every line of his +figure, every glance of his eyes. Now--there he was, bent, frail, and +thin, with restless eyes and deep discontent in voice and manner; the +curved shoulder and the head grown suddenly old; the only thing, speaking +of the past, the graceful hand, filled with the illusory courage of a +declining vitality. But for the nervous force in him, the latent +vitality which renewed with stubborn persistence the failing forces, he +was dead. The brain kept commanding the body back to life and manhood +daily. + +"What did Tardif do?" the Seigneur again questioned, holding out a hand +to her. + +She did not dare to take his hand lest her feelings should overcome her; +so with an assumed gaiety she put in it a rose from her basket and said: + +"He has been pilfering. Also he was insolent. I suppose he could not +help remembering that I lived at the smithy once--the dear smithy," she +added softly. + +"I will go at once and pay the scoundrel his wages," said the Seigneur, +rising, and with a nod to the Cure and his wife opened the door. + +"Do not see him yourself, Louis," said Madelinette. "Not I. Havel shall +pay him and he shall take himself off to-morrow morning." + +The door closed, and Madelinette was left alone with the Cure. She came +to him and said with a quivering in her voice: + +"He mocked Louis." + +"It is well that he should go. He is a bad man and a bad servant. I +know him too well." + +"You see, he keeps saying"--she spoke very slowly--"that he witnessed +a will the Seigneur made in favour of Monsieur Fournel. He thinks us +interlopers, I suppose." + +The Cure put a hand on hers gently. "There was a time when I felt that +Monsieur Fournel was the legal heir to the Seigneury, for Monsieur de la +Riviere had told me there was such a will; but since then I have changed +my mind. Your husband is the natural heir, and it is only just that the +Seigneury should go on in the direct line. It is best." + +"Even with all Louis' mistakes?" + +"Even with them. You have set them right, and you will keep him within +the bounds of wisdom and prudence. You are his guardian angel, +Madelinette." + +She looked up at him with a pensive smile and a glance of gratitude. + +"But suppose that will--if there is one--exists, see how false our +position!" + +"Do you think it is mere accident that the will has never been found--if +it was not destroyed by the Seigneur himself before he died? No, there +is purpose behind it, with which neither you or I or Louis have anything +to do. Ah, it is good to have you here in this Seigneury, my child! +What you give us will return to you a thousandfold. Do not regret the +world and your work there. You will go back all too soon." + +She was about to reply when the Seigneur again entered the room. + +"I made up my mind that he should go at once, and so I've sent him word +--the rat!" + +"I will leave you two to be drowned in the depths of your own +intelligence," said Madelinette; and taking her empty basket left the +room. + +A strange compelling feeling drove her to the library where the fateful +panel was. With a strange sense that her wrong-doing was modified by the +fact, she had left the will where she had found it. She had a +superstition that fate would deal less harshly with her if +she did. It was not her way to temporise. She had concealed the +discovery of the will with an unswerving determination. It was for +Louis, it was for his peace, for the ease of his fading life, and she had +no repentance. Yet there it was, that curious, useless concession to old +prejudices, the little touch of hypocrisy--she left the will where she +had found it. She had never looked at it since, no matter how great the +temptation, and sometimes this was overpowering. + +To-day it overpowered her. The house was very still and the blinds were +drawn to shut out the heat, but the soft din of the locusts came through +the windows. Her household were all engaged elsewhere. She shut the +doors of the little room, and kneeling on the table touched the spring. +The panel came back and disclosed the cupboard. There lay the will. She +took it up and opened it. Her eyes went dim on the instant, and she +leaned her forehead against the wall sick at heart. + +As she did so a sudden gust of wind drove in the blind of the window. +She started, but saw what it was, and hastily putting the will back, +closed the panel, and with a fast-beating heart, left the room. + +Late that evening she found a letter on her table addressed to herself. +It ran: + + You've shipped me off like dirt. You'll be shipped off, Madame, + double quick. I've got what'll bring the right owner here. You'll + soon hear from + Tardif. + +In terror she hastened to the library and sprung the panel. The will was +gone. + +Tardif was on his way with it to George Fournel. + + + + +CHAPTER VII + +THE PURSUIT + +There was but one thing to do. She must go straight to George Fournel at +Quebec. She knew only too well that Tardif was speeding thither as fast +as horses could carry him. He had had several hours' start, but there +was still a chance of overtaking him. And suppose she overtook him? +She could not decide definitely what she should do, but she would do +anything, sacrifice anything, to secure again that fatal document which, +in George Fournel's hands, must bring a collapse worse than death. A +dozen plans flashed before her, and now that her mind was set upon the +thing, compunction would not stay her. She had gone so far, she was +prepared to go further to save this Seigneury to Louis. She put in her +pocket the silver-handled pistol from the fatal cupboard. + +In an hour from the time she found the note, the horses and coach were at +the door, and the faithful Havel, cloaked and armed, was ready for the +journey. A note to Louis, with the excuse of a sudden and important call +to Quebec, which he was to construe into business concerning her +profession; hurried yet careful arrangements for his comfort during her +absence; a letter to the Cure begging of him a daily visit to the Manor +House; and then, with the flurried Madame Marie, she entered the coach +with Havel on the box, and they were off. + +The coach rattled through the village and stopped for a moment at the +smithy. A few words of cheerful good-bye to her father--she carried the +spring in her face and the summer of gaiety in her face however sore her +heart was--and they were once more upon the road. + +Their first stage was twenty-five miles, and it led through the ravine +where Parpon and his comrades had once sought to frighten George Fournel. +As they passed the place Madelinette shuddered, and she remembered +Fournel's cynical face as he left the house three months ago. She felt +that it would not easily soften to mercy or look upon her trouble with a +human eye, if once the will were in his hands. It was a silent journey, +but Madame Marie asked no questions, and there was comfort in her +unspoken sympathy. + +Five hours, and at midnight they arrived at the end of the first stage +of their journey, at the village tavern of St. Stanislaus. Here Madame +Marie urged Madelinette to stay and sleep, but this she refused to do, +if horses could be got to go forward. The sight of two gold pieces made +the thing possible in the landlord's eyes, and Madame Marie urged no +more, but found some refreshment, of which she gently insisted that +Madelinette should partake. In another hour from their arrival they were +on the road again, with the knowledge that Tardif had changed horses and +gone forward four hours before, boasting as he went that when the +bombshell he was carrying should burst, the country would stay awake +o' nights for a year. + +Madelinette herself had made the inquiries of the landlord, whose easily- +bought obsequiousness now knew no bounds, and he gave a letter to Havel +to hand to his cousin the landlord at the next change, which, he said, +would be sure to secure them the best of accommodation and good horses. + +As the night grew to morning, Madelinette drooped a little, and Madame +Marie, who had, to her own anger and disgust, slept three hours or more, +quietly drew Madelinette towards her. With a little sob the girl--for +what was she but a girl--let her head drop on the old woman's shoulder, +and she fell into a troubled sleep, which lasted till, in the flush of +sunrise, they drew up at the solitary inn on the outskirts of the village +of Beaugard. They had come fifty miles since the evening before. + +Here Madelinette took Havel into her confidence, in so far as to tell him +that Tardif had stolen a valuable paper from her, the loss of which might +bring most serious consequences. + +Whatever Havel had suspected he was the last man in the world to show or +tell. But before leaving the Manor House of Pontiac he had armed himself +with pistols, in the grim hope that he might be required to use them. +Havel had been used hard in the world, Madelinette had been kind to him, +and he was ready to show his gratitude--and he little recked what form it +might take. When he found that they were following Tardif, and for what +purpose, an ugly joy filled his heart, and he determined on revenge-- +so long delayed--on the scoundrel who had once tried to turn the parish +against him by evil means. He saw that his pistols were duly primed, he +learned that Tardif had passed but two hours before, boasting again that +Europe would have gossip for a year, once he reached Quebec. Tardif too +had paid liberally for his refreshment and his horses, for here he had +taken a carriage, and had swaggered like a trooper in a conquered +country. + +Havel had every hope of overtaking Tardif, and so he told Madelinette, +adding that he would secure the paper for her at any cost. She did not +quite know what Havel meant, but she read purpose in his eye, and when +Havel said: "I won't say 'Stop thief' many times," she turned away +without speaking--she was choked with anxiety. Yet in her own pocket was +a little silver-handled pistol. + +It was true that Tardif was a thief, but she knew that his theft would be +counted a virtue before the world. This she could not tell Havel, but +when the critical moment came--if it did come--she would then act upon +the moment's inspiration. If Tardif was a thief, what was she!--But this +she could not tell Havel or the world. Even as she thought it for this +thousandth time, her face flushed deeply, and a mist came before her +eyes. But she hardened her heart and gave orders to proceed as soon as +the horses were ready. After a hasty breakfast they were again on their +way, and reached the third stage of their journey by eleven o'clock. +Tardif had passed two hours before. + +So, for two days they travelled, with no sleep save what they could catch +as the coach rolled on. They were delayed three hours at one inn because +of the trouble in getting horses, since it appeared that Tardif had taken +the only available pair in the place; but a few gold pieces brought +another pair galloping from a farm two miles away, and they were again on +the road. Fifty miles to go, and Tardif with three hours' start of them! +Unless he had an accident there was faint chance of overtaking him, for +at this stage he had taken to the saddle again. As time had gone on, and +the distance between them and Quebec had decreased, Madelinette had grown +paler and stiller. Yet she was considerate of Madame Marie, and more +than once insisted on Havel lying down for a couple of hours, and herself +made him a strengthening bowl of soup at the kitchen fire of the inn. +Meanwhile she inquired whether it might be possible to get four horses at +the next change, and she offered five gold pieces to a man who would ride +on ahead of them and secure the team. + +Some magic seemed to bring her the accomplishment of the impossible, for +even as she made the offer, and the downcast looks of the landlord were +assuring her that her request was futile, there was the rattle of hoofs +without, and a petty Government official rode up. He had come a journey +of three miles only, and his horse was fresh. Agitated, yet ruling +herself to composure, Madelinette approached him and made her proposal +to him. He was suspicious, as became a petty Government official, and +replied sullenly. She offered him money--before the landlord, unhappily +--and his refusal was now unnecessarily bitter. She turned away sadly, +but Madame Marie had been roused by the official's churlishness, and for +once the placid little body spoke in that vulgar tongue which needs no +interpretation. She asked the fellow if he knew to whom he had been +impolite, to whom he had refused a kindly act. + +"You--you, a habitant road-watcher, a pound-keeper, a village tax- +collector, or something less!" she said. "You to refuse the great +singer Madelinette Lajeunesse, the wife of the Seigneur of Pontiac, the +greatest patriot in the land; to refuse her whom princes are glad to +serve--" She stopped and gasped her indignation. + +A hundred speeches and a hundred pounds could not have done so much. The +habitant official stared in blank amazement, the landlord took a glass of +brandy to steady himself. + +"The Lajeunesse--the Lajeunesse, the singer of all the world--ah, why did +she not say so then!" said the churl. "What would I not do for her! +Money--no, it is nothing, but the Lajeunesse, I myself would give my +horse to hear her sing." + +"Tell her she can have M'sieu's horse," said the landlord, excitedly +interposing. + +"Tiens, who the devil--the horse is mine! If Madame--if she will but let +me offer it to her myself!" said the agitated official. "I sing myself +--I know what singing is. I have sung in an opera--a sentinel in armour +I was. Ah, but bring me to her, and you shall see what I will do, by +grace of heaven! I will marry you if you haven't a husband," he added +with ardour to the dumfounded Madame Marie, who hurried to the adjoining +room. + +An instant afterwards the official was making an oration in tangled +sentences which brought him a grateful smile and a hand-clasp from +Madelinette. She could not prevent him from kissing her hand, she could +not refrain from laughing when, outside the room, he tried to kiss Madame +Marie. She was astounded, however, an hour later, to see him still at +the inn door, marching up and down, a whip in his hand. She looked at +him reproachfully, indignantly. + +"Why are you not on the way?" she asked. + +"Your man, that M'sieu' Havel, has rode on; I am to drive," he said. +"Yes, Madame, it is my everlasting honour that I am to drive you. Havel +has a good horse, the horse has a good rider, you have a good servant in +me. I, Madame, have a good mistress in you--I am content. I am +overjoyed--I am proud--I am ready, I, Pierre Lapierre." + +The churlish official had gone back to the natural state of an excitable +habitant, ready to give away his heart or lose his head at an instant's +notice, the temptation being sufficient. Madelinette was frightened. +She knew well why Havel had ridden on ahead without her permission, and +shaking hands with the landlord and getting into the coach, she said +hastily to her new coachman: "Lose not an instant. Drive hard." + +They reached the next change by noon, and here they found four horses +awaiting them. Tardif, and Havel also, had come and gone. An hour's +rest, and they were away again upon the last stage of the journey. They +should reach Quebec soon after dusk, all being well. At first, Lapierre +the official had been inclined to babble, but at last he relieved his +mind by interjections only. He kept shaking his head wisely, as though +debating on great problems, and he drove his horses with a master-hand-- +he had once been a coach driver on that long river-road, which in summer +makes a narrow ribbon of white, mile for mile with the St. Lawrence from +east to west. This was the proudest moment of his life. He knew great +things were at stake, and they had to do with the famous singer, +Lajeunesse; and what tales for his grandchildren in years to come! + +The flushed and comfortable Madame Marie sat upright in the coach, +holding the hand of her mistress, and Madelinette grew paler as the miles +diminished between her and Quebec. Yet she was quiet and unmoving, now +and then saying an encouraging word to Lapierre, who smacked his lips for +miles afterwards, and took out of his horses their strength and paces by +masterly degrees. So that when, at last, on the hill they saw far off +the spires of Quebec, the team was swinging as steadily on as though they +had not come twenty-five miles already. This was a moment of pride for +Lapierre, but of apprehension for Madelinette. At the last two inns on +the road she had got news of both Tardif and Havel. Tardif had had the +final start of half-an-hour. A half-hour's start, and fifteen miles to +go! But one thing was sure, Havel, the wiry Havel, was the better man, +with sounder nerve and a fostered strength. + +Yet, as they descended the hill and plunged into the wild wooded valley, +untenanted and uncivilised, where the road wound and curved among giant +boulders and twisted through ravines and gorges, her heart fell within +her. Evening was at hand, and in the thick forest the shadows were +heavy, and night was settling upon them before its time. + +They had not gone a mile, however, when, as they swung creaking round a +great boulder, Lapierre pulled up his horses with a loud exclamation, for +almost under his horses' feet lay a man apparently dead, his horse dead +beside him. + +It was Havel. In an instant Madelinette and Ma dame Marie were bending +over him. The widow of the Little Chemist had skill and presence of +mind. + +"He is not dead, dear mine," said she in a low voice, feeling Havel's +heart. + +"Thank God," was all that Madelinette could say. "Let us lift him into +the coach." + +Now Lapierre was standing beside them, the reins in his hand. "Leave +that to me," he said, and passed the reins into Madame Marie's hands, +then with muttered imprecations on persons unmentioned he lifted up the +slight form of Havel, and carried him to the coach. Meanwhile +Madelinette had stooped to a little stream at the side of the road, and +filled her silver drinking-cup with water. + +As she bent over Havel and sprinkled his face, Lapierre examined the +insensible man. + +"He is but stunned," he said. "He will come to in a moment." + +Then he went to the spot where Havel had lain, and found a pistol lying +at the side of the road. Examining it, he found it had been discharged- +both barrels. Rustling with importance he brought it to Madelinette, +nodding and looking wise, yet half timorous too in sharing in so +remarkable a business. Madelinette glanced at the pistol, her lips +tightened, and she shuddered. Havel had evidently failed, and she must +face the worst. Yet now that it had come, she was none the less +determined to fight on. + +Havel opened his eyes and looked round in a startled way. He saw +Madelinette. + +"Ah, Madame, Madame, pardon! He got away. I fired twice and winged him, +but he shot my horse and I fell on my head. He has got away. What time +is it, Madame?" he suddenly asked. She told him. "Ah, it is too late," +he added. "It happened over half-an-hour ago. Unless he is badly hurt +and has fallen by the way, he is now in the city. Madame, I have failed +you--pardon, Madame!" + +She helped him to sit up, and made a cushion of her cloak for his head, +in a corner of the coach. "There is nothing to ask pardon for, Havel," +she said; "you did your best. It was to be--that's all. Drink the +brandy now." + +A moment afterwards Lapierre was on the box, Madame Marie was inside, and +Madelinette said to the coachman: + +"Drive hard--the White Calvary by the church of St. Mary Magdalene." + +In another hour the coach drew up by the White Calvary, where a soft +light burned in memory of some departed soul. + +The three alighted. Madelinette whispered to Havel, he got up on the box +beside Lapierre, and the coach rattled away to a tavern, as the two women +disappeared swiftly into the darkness. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII + +FACE TO FACE + +As the two approached the mansion where George Fournel lived, they saw +the door open and a man come hurriedly out into the street. He wore his +wrist in a sling. + +Madelinette caught Madame Marie's arm. She did not speak, but her heart +sank within her. The man was Tardif. + +He saw them and shuffled over. + +"Ha, Madame," he said, "he has the will, and I've not done with you yet +--you'll see." Then, shaking a fist in Madelinette's face, he clattered +off into the darkness. + +They crossed the street, and Madame Marie knocked at Fournel's door. It +was at once opened, and Madelinette announced herself. The servant +stared stonily at first, then, as she mentioned her name and he saw her +face, he suddenly became servile, and asked them into a small waiting- +room. Monsieur Fournel was at home, and should be informed at once of +Madame's arrival. + +A few moments later the servant, somewhat graver, but as courteous still, +came to say that Monsieur would receive her in his library. Madelinette +turned towards Madame Marie. The servant understood. + +"I shall see that the lady has refreshment," he said. "Will Madame +perhaps care for refreshment--and a mirror, before Monsieur has the +honour?--Madame has travelled far." + +In spite of the anxiety of the moment and the great matters at stake, +Madelinette could not but smile. "Thank you," she said, "I hope I'm not +so unpresentable." + +"A little dust here and there perhaps, Madame," he said, with humble +courtesy. + +Madelinette was not so heroical as to undervalue the suggestion. Lives +perhaps were in the balance, but she was a woman, and who could tell what +slight influences might turn the scale! + +The servant saw her hesitation. "If Madame will but remain here, I will +bring what is necessary," he said, and was gone. In a moment he appeared +again with a silver basin, a mirror, and a few necessaries of the toilet. + +"I suppose, Madame," said the servant, with fluttered anxiety, to show +that he knew who she was, "I suppose you have had sometimes to make rough +shifts, even in palaces." + +She gave him a gold piece. It cheered her in the moment to think that in +this forbidding house, on a forbidding mission, to a forbidding man, she +had one friend. She made a hasty toilet, and but for the great paleness +of her cheeks, no traces remained of the three days' travel with their +hardship and anxiety. Presently, as the servant ushered her into the +presence of George Fournel, even the paleness was warmed a little by the +excitement of the moment. + +Fournel was standing with his back to the door, looking out into the +moonlit night. As she entered he quickly drew the curtains of the +windows and turned towards his visitor, a curious, hard, disdainful look +in his face. In his hands he held a paper which she knew only too well. + +"Madame," he said, and bowed. Then he motioned her to a chair. He took +one himself and sat down beside the great oak writing-desk and waited for +her to speak--waited with a look which sent the blood from her heart to +colour her cheeks and forehead. + +She did not speak, however, but looked at him fearlessly. It was +impossible for her to humble herself before the latent insolence of his +look. It seemed to degrade her out of all consideration. He felt the +courage of her defiance, and it moved him. Yet he could but speak in +cynical suggestion. + +"You had a long, hard, and adventurous journey," he said. He rose +suddenly and drew a tray towards him. "Will you not have some +refreshment?" he added, in an even voice. "I fear you have not had time +to seek it at an inn. Your messenger has but just gone." + +It was impossible for him to do justice to himself, or to let his +hospitality rest upon its basis of natural courtesy. It was clear that +he was moved with accumulated malice, and he could not hide it. + +"Your servant has been hospitable," she said, her voice trembling a +little. She plunged at once into the business of her visit. + +"Monsieur, that paper you hold--" she stopped for an instant, able to go +no further. + +"Ah, this--this document you have sent me," he said, opening it with an +assumed carelessness. "Your servant had an accident--I suppose we may +call it that privately--as he came. He was fired at--was wounded. You +will share with me the hope that the highwayman who stopped him may be +brought to justice, though, indeed, your man Tardif left him behind in +the dust. Perhaps you came upon him, Madame--hein?" + +She steeled herself. Too much was at stake; she could not resent his +hateful implications now. + +"Tardif was not my messenger, Monsieur, as you know. Tardif was the +thief of that document in your hands." + +"Yes, this--will!" he said musingly, an evil glitter in his eyes. "Its +delivery has been long delayed. Posts and messengers are slow from +Pontiac." + +"Monsieur will hear what I have to say? You have the will, your rights +are in your hands. Is not that enough?" + +"It is not enough," he answered, in a grating voice. "Let us be plain +then, Madame, and as simple as you please. You concealed this will. +Not Tardif but yourself is open to the law." + +She shrank under the brutality of his manner, but she ruled herself to +outward composure. She was about to reply when he added, with a sneer: +"Avarice is a debasing vice--Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house! +Thou shalt not steal!" + +"Monsieur," she said calmly, "it would have been easy to destroy the +will. Have you not thought of that?" + +For a moment he was taken aback, but he said harshly: "If crime were +always intelligent, it would have fewer penalties." + +She shrank again under the roughness of his words. But she was fighting +for an end that was dear to her soul, and she answered: + +"It was not lack of intelligence, but a sense of honour--yes, a sense of +honour," she insisted, as he threw back his head and laughed. "What do +you think might be my reason for concealing the will--if I did conceal +it?" + +"The answer seems obvious. Why does the wild ass forage with a strange +herd, or the pig put his feet in the trough? Not for his neighbour's +gain, Madame, not in a thousand years." + +"Monsieur, I have never been spoken to so coarsely. I am a blacksmith's +daughter, and I have heard rough men talk in my day, but I have never +heard a man--of my own race at least--so rude to a woman. But I am here +not for my own sake; I will not go till I have said and done all I have +come to say and do. Will you listen to me, Monsieur?" + +"I have made my charges--answer them. Disprove this theft"--he held up +the will--"of concealment, and enjoyment of property not your own, and +then ask of me that politeness which makes so beautiful stable and forge +at Pontiac." + +"Monsieur, you cannot think that the will was concealed for profit, for +the value of the Seigneury of Pontiac. I can earn two such seigneuries +in one year, Monsieur." + +"Nevertheless you do not." + +"For the same reason that I did not bring or send that will to you when I +found it, Monsieur. And for that same reason I have come to ask you not +to take advantage of that will." + +He was about to interpose angrily, but she continued: "Whatever the +rental may be that you in justice feel should be put upon the Seigneury, +I will pay--from the hour my husband entered on the property, its heir as +he believed. Put such rental on the property, do not disturb Monsieur +Racine in his position as it is, and I will double that rental." + +"Do not think, Madame, that I am as avaricious as you." + +"Is it avaricious to offer double the worth of the rental?" + +"There is the title and distinction. You married a mad nobody; you wish +to retain an honour that belongs to me." + +"I am asking it for my husband's sake, not my own, believe me, Monsieur." + +"And what do you expect me to do for his sake, Madame?" + +"What humanity would suggest. Ah, I know what you would say: he tried to +kill you; he made you fight him. But, Monsieur, he has repented of that. +He is ill, he is--crippled, he cherishes the Seigneury beyond its worth a +thousand times." + +"He cherishes it at my expense. So, you must not disturb the man who +robs you of house and land, and tries to murder you, lest he should be +disturbed and not sleep o' nights. Come, Madame, that is too thin." + +"He might kill you, but he would not rob you, Monsieur. Do you think +that if he knew that will existed, he would be now at the Seigneury, +or I here? I know you hate Louis Racine." + +"With ample reason." + +"You hate him more because he defeated you than because he once tried to +kill you. Oh, I do not know the rights or wrongs of that great case at +law; I only know that Louis Racine was not the judge or jury, but the +avocat only, whose duty it was to do as he did. That he did it the more +gladly because he was a Frenchman and you an Englishman, is not his fault +or yours either. Louis Racine's people came here two hundred years ago, +yours not sixty years ago. You, the great business man, have had +practical power which gave you riches. You have sacrificed all for +power. Louis Racine has only genius, and no practical power." + +"A dangerous fanatic and dreamer," he interjected. "A dreamer, if you +will, with no practical power, for he never thought of himself, and +'practical power' is usually all self. He dreamed--he gave his heart and +soul up for ideas. Englishmen do not understand that. Do you not know-- +you do know--that, had he chosen, he might have been rich too, for his +brains would have been of great use to men of practical power like +yourself." + +She paused; Fournel did not answer, but sat as though reading the will +intently. + +"Was it strange that he should dream of a French sovereign state here, +where his people came and first possessed the land? Can you wonder that +this dreamer, when the Seigneury of Pontiac came to him, felt as if a new +life were opened up to him, and saw a way to some of his ambitions. They +were sad, mistaken ambitions, doomed to failure, but they were also his +very heart, which he would empty out gladly for an idea. The Seigneury +of Pontiac came to him, and I married him." + +"Evidently bent upon wrecking the chances of a great career," interrupted +Fournel over the paper. + +"But no; I also cared more for ideas than for the sordid things of life. +It is in our blood, you see" she was talking with less restraint now, +for she saw he was listening, despite assumed indifference--"and Pontiac +was dearer to me than all else in the world. Louis Racine belonged +there. You--what sort of place would you, an Englishman, have occupied +at the Seigneury of Pontiac! What kind--" + +He got suddenly to his feet. He was a man of strange whims and vanities, +and his resentment at his exclusion from the Seigneury of Pontiac had +become a fixed idea. He had hugged the thought of its possession before +M. de la Riviere died, as a man humbly born prides himself on the +distinguished lineage of his wife. His great schemes were completed, he +was a rich man, and he had pictured himself retiring to this Seigneury, +a peaceful and practical figure, living out his days in a refined repose +which his earlier life had never known. She had touched the raw nerves +of his secret vanity. + +"What kind of Seigneur would I make, eh? What sort of figure would I +cut in Pontiac!" He laughed loudly. "By heaven, Madame, you shall see! +I did not move against his outrage and assault, but I will move to +purpose now. For you and he shall leave there in disgrace before another +week goes round. I have you both in my 'practical power,' and I will +squeeze satisfaction out of you. He is a ruffianly interloper, and you, +Madame, the law would call by another name." + +She got quickly to her feet and came a step nearer to him. Leaning a +hand on the table, she bent towards him slightly. Something seemed to +possess her that transfigured her face, and gave it a sense of power and +confidence. Her eyes fixed themselves steadily on him. + +"Monsieur," she said, "you may call me what you will, and I will bear it, +for you have been sorely injured. You are angry because I seemed to +think an Englishman was not fitted to be Seigneur of Pontiac. We French +are a people of sentiments and ideas; we make idols of trifles, and we +die for fancies. We dream, we have shrines for memories. These things +you despise. You would give us justice and make us rich by what you call +progress. Monsieur, that is not enough. We are not born to appreciate +you. Our hearts are higher than our heads, and, under a flag that +conquered us, they cling together. Was it strange that I should think +Louis Racine better suited to be Seigneur at Pontiac?" + +She paused as though expecting him to answer, but he only looked +inquiringly at her, and she continued "My husband used you ill, but he +is no interloper. He took what the law gave him, what has been in his +family for over two hundred years. Monsieur, it has meant more to him +than a hundred times greater honour could to you. When his trouble came, +when--" she paused, as though it was difficult to speak--"when the other +--legacy--of his family descended on him, that Seigneury became to him +the one compensation of his life. By right of it only could he look the +world in the face--or me." + +She stopped suddenly, for her voice choked her. "Will you please +continue?" said Fournel, opening and shutting the will in his hand, +and looking at her with a curious new consideration. + +"Fame came to me as his trouble came to him. It was hard for him to go +among men, but, ah, can you think how he dreaded the day when I should +return to Pontiac ! . . . I will tell you the whole truth, Monsieur." +She drew herself up proudly. "I loved--Louis. He came into my heart +with its first great dream, and before life--the business of life--really +began. He was one with the best part of me, the girlhood in me which is +dead." + +Fournel rose and in a low voice said: "Will you not sit down?" He +motioned to a chair. + +She shook her head. "Ah no, please! Let me say all quickly and while +I have the courage. I loved him, and he loved and loves me. I love +that love in which I married him, and I love his love for me. It is +indestructible, because it is in the fibre of my life. It has nothing +to do with ugliness or beauty, or fortune or misfortune, or shame or +happiness, or sin or holiness. When it becomes part of us, it must go on +in one form or another, but it cannot die. It lives in breath and song +and thought and work and words. That is the wonder of it, the pity of +it, and the joy of it. Because it is so, because love would shield the +beloved from itself if need be, and from all the terrors of the world at +any cost, I have done what I have done. I did it at cost of my honour, +but it was for his sake; at the price of my peace, but to spare him. Ah, +Monsieur, the days of life are not many for him: his shame and his futile +aims are killing him. The clouds will soon close over, and his vexed +brain and body will be still. To spare him the last turn of the wheel of +torture, to give him the one bare honour left him yet a little while, I +have given up my work of life to comfort him. I concealed, I stole, if +you will, the document you hold. And, God help me! I would do it again +and yet again, if I lost my soul for ever, Monsieur. Monsieur, I know +that in his madness he would have killed you, but it was his suffering, +not a bad heart, that made him do it. Do a sorrowful woman a great +kindness and spare him, Monsieur." + +She had held the man motionless and staring. When she ended, he got to +his feet and came near to her. There was a curious look in his face, +half struggle, half mysterious purpose. "The way is easy to a hundred +times as much," he said, in a low meaning voice, and his eyes boldly held +hers. "You are doing a chivalrous sort of thing that only a woman would +do--for duty; do something for another reason: for what a woman would do +--for the blood of youth that is in her." He reached out a hand to lay +it on her arm. "Ask of me what you will, if you but put your hand in +mine and--" + +"Monsieur," she said, pale and gasping, "do you think so ill of me then? +Do I seem to you like--!" She turned away, her eyes dry and burning, her +body trembling with shame. + +"You are here alone with me at night," he persisted. "It would not be +easy to--" + +"Death would be easy, Monsieur," she said calmly and coldly. "My husband +tried to kill you. You would do--ah, but let me pass!" she said, with a +sudden fury. "You--if you were a million times richer, if you could ruin +me for ever, do you think--" + +"Hush, Madame," he said, with a sudden change of voice and a manner all +reverence. "I do not think. I spoke only to hear you speak in reply: +only to know to the uttermost what you were. Madame," he added, in a +shaking voice, "I did not know that such a woman lived. Madame, I could +have sworn there was none in the world." Then in a quicker, huskier note +he added: "Eighteen years ago a woman nearly spoiled my life. She was +as beautiful as you, but her heart was tainted. Since then I have never +believed in any woman--never till now. I have said that all were +purchasable--at a price. I unsay that now. I have not believed +in any one--" + +"Oh, Monsieur!" she said, with a quick impulsive gesture towards him, +and her face lighting with sympathy. + +"I was struck too hard--" + +She touched his arm and said gently: "Some are hurt in one way and some +in another; all are hurt some time, but--" + +"You shall have your way," he interrupted, and moved apart. + +"Ah, Monsieur, Monsieur, it is a noble act!--" she hurriedly rejoined, +then with a sudden cry rushed towards him, for he was lighting the will +at the flame of a candle near him. + +"But no, no, no, you shall not do it," she cried. "I only asked it for +while he lives--ah!" + +She collapsed with a cry of despair, for he had held the flaming paper +above her reach, and its ashes were now scattering on the floor. + +"You will let me give you some wine?" he said quietly, and poured out a +glassful. + + + + +CHAPTER IX + +THE BITER BITTEN + +Madelinette was faint, and, sitting down, she drank the wine feebly, then +leaned her head against the back of the chair, her face turned from +Fournel. + +"Forgive me, if you can," he said. "You have this to comfort you, that +if friendship is a boon in this world you have an honest friend in George +Fournel." + +She made a gesture of assent with her hand, but she did not speak. Tears +were stealing quietly down her cold face. For a moment so, in silence, +and then she rose to her feet, and pulled down over her face the veil she +wore. She was about to hold out her hand to him to say good-bye, when +there was a noise without, a knocking at the door, then it was flung +open, and Tardif, intoxicated, entered followed by two constables, with +Fournel's servant vainly protesting. + +"Here she is," Tardif said to the officers of the law, pointing to +Madelinette. "It was her set the fellow on to shoot me. I had the will +she stole from him," he added, pointing to Fournel. + +Distressed as Madelinette was, she was composed and ready. + +"The man was dismissed my employ--" she began, but Fournel interposed. + +"What is this I hear about shooting and a will?" he said sternly. + +"What will!" cried Tardif. "The will I brought you from Pontiac, and +Madame there followed, and her servant shot me. The will I brought you, +M'sieu'. The will leaving the Manor of Pontiac to you!" + +Fournel turned as though with sudden anger to the officers. "You come +here--you enter my house to interfere with a guest of mine, on the charge +of a drunken scoundrel like this! What is this talk of wills! The +vapourings of his drunken brain. The Seigneury of Pontiac belongs to +Monsieur Racine, and but three days since Madame here dismissed this +fellow for pilfering and other misdemeanours. As for shooting--the man +is a liar, and--" + +"Ah, do you deny that I came to you?--" began Tardif. + +"Constables," said Fournel, "I give this fellow in charge. Take him to +gaol, and I will appear at court against him when called upon." + +Tardif's rage choked him. He tried to speak once or twice, then began to +shriek an imprecation at Fournel; but the constables clapped hands on his +mouth, and dragged him out of the room and out of the house. + +Fournel saw him safely out, then returned to Madelinette. "Do not fear +for the fellow. A little gaol will do him good. I will see to it that +he gives no trouble, Madame," he said. "You may trust me." + +"I do trust you, Monsieur," Madelinette answered quietly. "I pray that +you may be right, and that--" "It will all come out right," he firmly +insisted. "Will you ask for Madame Marie?" she said. Then with a +smile: "We will go happier than we came." + +As she and Madame Marie passed from the house, Fournel shook +Madelinette's hand warmly, and said: "'All's well that ends well.'" + +"That ends well," answered Madelinette, with a sorrowful questioning in +her voice. + +"We will make it so," he rejoined, and then they parted. + + + + +CHAPTER X + +THE DOOR THAT WOULD NOT OPEN + +The old Manor House of Pontiac was alive with light and merriment. It +was the early autumn; not cool enough for the doors and windows to be +shut, but cool enough to make dancing a pleasure, and to give spirit to +the gaiety that filled the old house. The occasion was a notable one for +Pontiac. An address of congratulation and appreciation and a splendid +gift of silver had been brought to the Manor from the capital by certain +high officials of the Government and the Army, representing the people of +the Province. At first Madelinette had shrunk from the honour to be done +her, and had so written to certain quarters whence the movement had +proceeded; but a letter had come to her which had changed her mind. This +letter was signed George Fournel. Fournel had a right to ask a favour of +her; and one that was to do her honour seemed the least that she might +grant. He had suffered much at Louis' hands; he had forborne much; and +by an act of noble forgiveness and generosity, had left Louis undisturbed +in an honour which was not his, and the enjoyment of an estate to which +he had no claim. He had given much, suffered much, and had had nothing +in return save her measureless and voiceless gratitude. Friendship she +could give him; but it was a silent friendship, an incompanionable +friendship, founded upon a secret and chivalrous act. He was in Quebec +and she in Pontiac; and since that day when he had burned the will before +her eyes she had not seen him. She had heard from him but twice; once to +tell her that she need have no fear of Tardif, and again, when he urged +her to accept the testimonial and the gift to be offered by her grateful +fellow-citizens. + +The deputation, distinguished and important, had been received by the +people of Pontiac with the flaunting of flags, playing of bands, and +every demonstration of delight. The honour done to Madelinette was an +honour done to Pontiac, and Pontiac had never felt itself so important. +It realised that this kind of demonstration was less expensive, and less +dangerous, than sedition, privy conspiracy, and rebellion. The vanity of +the habitants could be better exercised in applauding Madelinette and in +show of welcome to the great men of the land, than in cultivating a +dangerous patriotism under the leadership of Louis Racine. Temptations +to conspiracy had been few since the day George Fournel, wounded and +morose, left the Manor House secretly one night, and carried back to +Quebec his resentment and his injuries. Treasonable gossip filtered no +longer from doorway to doorway; carbines were not to be had for a song; +no more nightly drills and weekly meetings gave a spice of great +expectations to their life. Their Seigneur, silent, and pale, and +stooped, lived a life apart. If he walked through the town, it was with +bitter, abstracted eyes that took little heed of their presence. If he +drove, his horses travelled like the wind. At Mass, he looked at no one, +saw no one, and, as it would seem, heard no one. + +But Madelinette--she was the Madelinette of old, simple, gracious, kind, +with a smile here and a kind word there: a little child to be caressed or +an old woman to be comforted; the sick to be fed and doctored; the poor +to be helped; the idle to be rebuked with a persuasive smile; the angry +to be coaxed by a humorous word; the evil to be reproved by a fearless +friendliness; the spiteful to be hushed by a still, commanding presence. +She never seemed to remember that she was the daughter of old Joe +Lajeunesse the blacksmith, yet she never seemed to forget it. She was +the wife of the Seigneur, and she was the daughter of the smithy-man too. +She sat in the smithy-man's doorway with her hand in his; and she sat at +the Manor table with its silver glitter, and its antique garnishings, +with as real an unconsciousness. + +Her influence seemed to pierce far and wide. The Cure and the Avocat +adored her; and the proudest, happiest moment of their lives was when +they sat at the Manor table, or, in the sombre drawing-room, watched her +give it light and grace and charm, and fill their hearts with the +piercing delight of her song. So her life had gone on; to the outward +world serene and happy, full of simplicity, charity, and good works. +What it was in reality no one could know, not even herself. Since the +day when Louis had tried to kill George Fournel, life had been a +different thing for them both. On her part she had been deeply hurt; +wounded beyond repair. He had failed her from every vital stand-point, +he had not fulfilled one hope she had ever had of him. But she laid the +blame not at his door; she rather shrank with inner bitterness from the +cynical cruelty of nature, which, in deforming the body, with a merciless +cruelty had deformed a noble mind. These things were between her and her +inmost soul. + +To Louis she was ever the same, affectionate, gentle, and unselfish; +but her stronger soul ruled him without his knowledge, commanded his +perturbed spirit into the abstracted quiet and bitter silence wherein he +lived, and which she sought to cheer by a thousand happy devices. She +did not let him think that she was giving up anything for him; no word or +act of hers could have suggested to him the sacrifices she had made. He +knew them, still he did not know them in their fulness; he was grateful, +but his gratitude did not compass the splendid self-effacing devotion +with which she denied herself the glorious career that had lain before +her. Morbid and self-centred, he could not understand. Since her return +from Quebec she had sought to give a little touch of gaiety to their +life, and she had not the heart to interfere with his constant insistence +on the little dignities of the position of Seigneur, ironical as they all +were in her eyes. She had sacrificed everything; and since another also +had sacrificed himself to give her husband the honours and estate he +possessed, the game should be delicately played to the unseen end. + +So it had gone on until the coming of the deputation with the testimonial +and the gift. She had proposed the gaieties of the occasion to Louis +with so simple a cheerfulness, that he had no idea of the torture it +meant to her; no realisation of how she would be brought face to face +with the life that she had given up for his sake. But neither he nor she +was aware of one thing, that the beautiful embossed address contained an +appeal to her to return to the world of song which she had renounced, +to go forth once more and contribute to the happiness of humanity. + +When, therefore, in the drawing-room of the Manor, the address was read +to her, and this appeal rang upon her ears, she felt herself turn dizzy +and faint: her whole life seemed to reel backwards to all she had lost, +and the tyranny of the present bore down upon her with a cruel weight. +It needed all her courage and all her innate strength to rule herself to +composure. For an instant the people in the room were a confused mass, +floating away into a blind distance. She heard, however, the quick +breathing of the Seigneur beside her, and it called her back to an active +and necessary confidence. + +With a smile she received the address, and, turning, handed it to Louis, +smiling at him too with a winning duplicity, for which she might never +have to ask forgiveness in this world or the next. Then she turned and +spoke. Eloquently, simply, she gave out her thanks for the gift of +silver and the greater gift of kind words; and said that in her quiet +life, apart from that active world of the stage, where sorrow and sordid +experience went hand in hand with song, where the delights of home were +sacrificed to the applause of the world, she would cherish their gift as +a reward that she might have earned, had she chosen the public instead +of the private way of life. They had told her of the paths of glory, +but she was walking the homeward way. + +Thus deftly, and without strain, and with an air of happiness even, did +she set aside the words and the appeal which had created a storm in her +soul. A few moments afterwards, as the old house rang to the laughter of +old and young, with dancing well begun, no one would have thought that +the Manor of Pontiac was not the home of peace and joy. Even Louis +himself, who had had his moments of torture and suspicion when the appeal +was read, was now in a kind of happy reaction. He moved about among the +guests with less abstraction and more cheerfulness than he had shown for +months. He carried in his hand the address which Madelinette had handed +him. Again and again he showed it to eager guests. + +Suddenly, as he was about to fold it up for the last time and carry it to +the library, he saw the name of George Fournel among the signatures. +Stunned, dumfounded, he left the room. George Fournel, whom he had tried +to kill, had signed this address of congratulation to his wife! Was it +Fournel's intention thus to show that he had forgiven and forgotten? It +was not like the man to either forgive or forget. What did it mean? He +left the house buried in morbid speculation, and involuntarily made his +way to a little hut of two rooms which he had built in the Seigneury +grounds. Here it was he read and wrote, here he had spent moody hours +alone, day after day, for months past. He was not aware that some one +left the crowd about the house and followed him. Arrived at the hut, he +entered and shut the door; lighted candles, and spread the embossed +parchment out before him upon the table. As he stood looking at it, he +heard the door open behind him. Tardif stood before him. + +The face of Tardif had an evil hunted look. Before the astonished and +suspicious Seigneur had chance to challenge him, he said in a low +insolent tone: + +"Good evening, M'sieu'! Fine doings at the Manor--eh? + +"What are you doing at the Manor, and what are you doing here?" asked +the Seigneur, scanning the face of the man closely; for there was a look +in it he did not understand. + +"I have as much right to be here as you, M'sieu'." + +"You have no right at all to be here. You were dismissed your place by +the mistress of this Manor." + +"There is no mistress of this Manor." + +"Madame Racine dismissed you." + +"And I dismissed Madame Racine," answered the man with a sneer. + +"You are training for the horsewhip. You forget that, as Seigneur, +I have power to give you summary punishment." + +"You haven't power to do anything at all, M'sieu'!" The Seigneur +started. He thought the remark had reference to his physical disability. +His fingers itched to take the creature by the throat, and choke the +tongue from his mouth. Before he could speak, the man continued with a +half-drunken grimace: + +"You, with your tributes, and your courts, and your body-guards! Bah! +You'd have a gibbet if you could, wouldn't you? You with your rebellion +and your tinpot honours! A puling baby could conspire as well as you. +And all the world laughing at you--v'la!" + +"Get out of this room and take your feet from my Manor, Tardif," said the +Seigneur with a deadly quietness, "or it will be the worse for you." + +"Your Manor--pish!" The man laughed a hateful laugh. "Your Manor? You +haven't any Manor. You haven't anything but what you carry on your +back." + +A flush passed swiftly over the Seigneur's face, then left it cold and +white, and the eyes shone fiery in his head. He felt some shameful +meaning in the man's words, beyond this gross reference to his deformity. + +"I am Seigneur of this Manor, and you have taken wages from me, and eaten +my bread, slept under my roof, and--" + +"I've no more eaten your bread and slept under your roof than you have. +Pish! You were living then on another man's fortune, now you're living +on what your wife earns." + +The Seigneur did not understand yet. But there was a strange light of +suspicion in his eyes, a nervous rage knotting his forehead. + +"My land and my earnings are my own, and I have never lived on another +man's fortune. If you mean that the late Seigneur made a will--that +canard--" + +"It was no canard." Tardif laughed hatefully. "There was a will right +enough." + +"Where is it? I've heard that fool's gossip before." + +"Where is it? Ask your wife; she knows. Ask your loving Tardif, he +knows." + +"Where is the will, Tardif?" asked the Seigneur in a voice that, in his +own ears, seemed to come from an infinite distance; to Tardif's ears it +was merely tuneless and harsh. + +"In M'sieu' Fournel's pocket, or Madame's. What's the difference? The +price is the same, and you keep your eyes shut and play the Seigneur, and +eat and drink what they give you just the same." + +Now the Seigneur understood. His eyes went blind for a moment, and his +hands twitched convulsively on the embossed address he had been rolling +and unrolling. A terror, a shame, a dreadful cruelty entered into him, +but he was still and numb, and his tongue was thick. He spoke heavily. + +"Tell me all," he said. "You shall be well paid." + +"I don't want your money. I want to see you squirm. I want to see her +put where she deserves. Bah! Do you think Fournel forgave you for +putting his feet in his shoes, and for that case at law, for nothing? +Why should he? He hated you, and you hated him. His name's on that +paper in your hand among all the rest. Do you think he eats humble pie +and crawls to Madame and lets you stay here for nothing?" + +The Seigneur was painfully quiet and intent, yet his brain was like some +great lens, refracting and magnifying things to monstrous proportions. + +"A will was found?" he asked. + +"By Madame in the library. She left it where she found it--behind the +picture over the Louis Seize table. The day you dismissed me, I saw her +at the cupboard. I found the will and started with it to M'sieu' +Fournel. She followed. You remember when she went--eh? On business-- +and such business! she and Havel and the old slut Marie. You remember, +eh; Louis?" he added with unnamable insolence. The Seigneur inclined +his head. "V'la! they followed me, overtook me, and Havel shot me in +the wrist. See there!"--he held out his wrist. The Seigneur nodded. +"But I got to Fournel's first. I put the will into his hands. + +"I told him Madame Madelinette was following. Then I went to bring the +constables to his house to arrest her when he had finished with her." +He laughed a brutal laugh, which deepened the strange glittering look in +Louis' eyes. "When I came an hour later, she was there. But--now you +shall see what stuff they are both made of! He laughed at me, said I had +lied; that there was no will; that I was a thief; and had me locked up in +gaol. For a month I was in gaol without trial. Then one day I was let +out without trial. His servant met me and brought me to his house. He +gave me money and told me to leave the country. If I didn't, I would be +arrested again for trying to shoot Havel, and for blackmail. They could +all swear me off my feet and into prison--what was I to do! I took the +money and went. But I came back to have my revenge. I could cut their +hearts out and eat them." + +"You are drunk," said the Seigneur quietly. "You don't know what you're +saying." + +"I'm not drunk. I'm always trying to get drunk now. I couldn't have +come here if I hadn't been drinking. I couldn't have told you the truth, +if I hadn't been drinking. But I'm sober enough to know that I've done +for him and for her! And I'm even with you too--bah! Did you think she +cared a fig for you? She's only waiting till you die. Then she'll go to +her lover. He's a man of life and limb. Youpish! a hunchback, that all +the world laughs at, a worm--" he turned towards the door laughing +hideously, his evil face gloating. "You've not got a stick or stone. +She"--jerking a finger towards the house--"she earns what you eat, she--" + +It was the last word he ever spoke, for, with a low terrible cry, the +Seigneur snatched up a knife from the table and sprang upon him, catching +him by the throat. Once, twice, thrice, the knife went home, and the +ruffian collapsed under it with one loud cry. Not letting go his grasp +of the dying man's collar, the Seigneur dragged him across the floor, +and, opening the door of the small inner room, pulled him inside. For a +moment he stood beside the body, panting, then he went to the other room +and, bringing a candle, looked at the dead thing in silence. Presently +he stooped, held the candle to the wide-staring eyes, then felt the +heart. "He is gone," he said in an even voice. Stooping for the knife +he had dropped on the floor, he laid it on the body. He looked at his +hands. There was one spot of blood on his fingers. He wiped it off with +his handkerchief, then blowing out the light, he calmly opened the door +of the hut, locked it, went out, and moved on slowly towards the house. + +As he left the hut he was conscious that some one was moving under the +trees by the window, but his mind was not concerned with things outside +himself and the one other thing left for him to do. + +He entered the house and went in search of Madelinette. When he reached +the drawing-room, surrounded by eager listeners, she was beginning to +sing. Her bearing was eager and almost tremulous, for, with this crowd +round her and in the flush of this gaiety and excitement, there was +something of that exhilarating air that greets the singer upon the stage. +Her eyes were shining with a look, half-sorrowful, half-triumphant. +Within the past half-hour she had overcome herself; she had fought down +the blind, wild rebellion that, for one moment as it were, had surged up +in her heart. She was proud and glad, and piteous and triumphant and +deeply womanly all at once. + +Going to the piano she had looked round for Louis, but he was not +visible. She smiled to herself, however, for she knew that her singing +would bring him--he worshipped it. Her heart was warm towards him, +because of that moment when she rebelled and was hard at soul. She +played her own accompaniment, and he was hidden from her by the piano +as she sang--sang more touchingly and more humanly, if not more +artistically, than she had ever done in her life. The old art was not so +perfect, perhaps, but there was in the voice all that she had learned and +loved and suffered and hoped. When she rose from the piano to a storm of +applause, and saw the shining faces and tearful eyes round her, her own +eyes filled with tears. These people--most of them--had known and loved +her since she was a child, and loved her still without envy or any taint. +Her father was standing near, and with smiling face she caught from his +hand the handkerchief with which he was mopping his eyes, and kissed him, +saying: + +"I learned that from the tunes you played on your anvil, dear smithy- +man." + +Then she turned again to look for Louis. Near the door she saw him, and +with so strange a face, so wild a look, that, unheeding eager requests to +sing again, she responded to the gesture he made, made her way through +the crowd to the hall-way, and followed him up the stairs, and to the +little boudoir beside her bedroom. As she entered and shut the door, +a low sound like a moan broke from him. She went quickly to lay a hand +upon his arm, but he waved her back. "What is it, Louis?" she asked, in +a bewildered voice. "Where is the will?" he said. + +"Where is the will, Louis," she repeated after him mechanically, staring +at his face, ghostly in the moonlight. + +"The will you found behind the picture in the library." + +"O Louis!" she cried, and made a gesture of despair. "O Louis!" + +"You found it, and Tardif stole it and took it to Quebec." + +"Yes, Louis, but Louis--ah, what is the matter, dear! I cannot bear that +look in your face. What is the matter, Louis?" + +"Tardif took it to Fournel, and you followed. And I have been living in +another man's house, on another's bread--" + +"O Louis, no--no--no! Our money has paid for all." + +"Your money, Madelinette!" His voice rose. + +"Ah, don't speak like that! See, Louis. It can make no difference. How +you have found out I do not know, but it can make no difference. I did +not want you to know--you loved the Seigneury so. I concealed the will; +Tardif found it, as you say. But, Louis, dear, it is all right. +Monsieur Fournel would not take the place, and--and I have bought it." + +She told her falsehood fearlessly. This man's trouble, this man's peace, +if she might but win it, was the purpose of her life. + +"Tardif said that--he said that you--that you and Fournel--" + +She read his meaning in his tone, and shrank back in terror, then with a +flush, straightened herself, and took a step towards him. + +"It was natural that you should not care for a hunchback like me," he +continued, "but--" + +"Louis!" she cried, in a voice of anguish and reproach. + +"But I did not doubt you. I believed in you when he said it, as I +believe in you now when you stand there like that. I know what you have +done for me--" + +"I pleaded with Monsieur Fournel, knowing how you loved the Seigneury-- +pleaded and offered to pay three times the price--" + +"Yourself would have been a hundred million times the price. Ah, I know +you, Madelinette--I know you now! I have been selfish, but I see all +now. Now when all is over--" he seemed listening to noises with out-- +"I see what you have done for me. I know how you have sacrificed all for +me--all but honour--all but honour," he added, a wild fire in his eyes, +a trembling seizing him. "Your honour is yours forever. I say so. +I say so, and I have proved it. Kiss me, Madelinette--kiss me once," he +added, in a quick whisper. + +"My poor, poor Louis!" she said, laid a soothing hand upon his arm, and +leaned towards him. He snatched her to his breast, and kissed her twice +in a very agony of joy, then let her go. He listened for an instant to +the growing noise without, then said in a hoarse voice: + +"Now, I will tell you, Madelinette. They are coming for me--don't you +hear them? They are coming to take me; but they shall not have me. They +shall not have me--" he glanced to a little door that led into a bath- +room at his right. + +"Louis-Louis!" she said in a sudden fright, for though his words seemed +mad, a strange quiet sanity was in all he did. "What have you done? Who +are coming?" she asked in agony, and caught him by the arm. + +"I killed Tardif. He is there in the hut in the garden--dead! I was +seen, and they are coming to take me." + +With a cry she ran to the door that led into the hall, and locked it. +She listened, then turned her face to Louis. + +"You killed him!" she gasped. "Louis! Louis!" Her face was like +ashes. + +"I stabbed him to death. It was all I could do, and I did it. He +slandered you. I went mad, and did it. Now--" + +There was a knocking at the door, and a voice calling--a peremptory +voice. + +"There is only one way," he said. "They shall not take me. I will not +be dragged to gaol for crowds to jeer at. I will not be sent to the +scaffold, to your shame." + +He ran to the door of the bath-room and flung it open. "If my life is to +pay the price, then--!" + +She came blindly towards him, stretching out her hands. + +"Louis! Louis!" was all that she could say. + +He caught her hands and kissed them, then stepped swiftly back into the +little bath-room, and locked the door, as the door of the room she was in +was burst open, and two constables and a half-dozen men crowded into the +room. + +She stood with her back to the bath-room door, panting, and white, and +anguished, and her ears strained to the terrible thing inside the place +behind her. + +The men understood, and came towards her. "Stand back," she said. "You +shall not have him. You shall not have him. Ah, don't you hear? He is +dying--O God, O God!" she cried, with tearless eyes and upturned face-- +"Ah, let it be soon! Ah, let him die soon!" + +The men stood abashed before her agony. Behind the little door where +she stood there was a muffled groaning. She trembled, but her arms were +spread out before the door as though on a cross, and her lips kept +murmuring: "O God, let him die! Let him die! Oh spare him agony!" + +Suddenly she stood still and listened-listened, with staring eyes that +saw nothing. In the room men shrank back, for they knew that death was +behind the little door, and that they were in the presence of a sorrow +greater than death. + +Suddenly she turned upon them with a gesture of piteous triumph and said: + +"You cannot have him now." + +Then she swayed and fell forward to the floor as the Cure and George +Fournel entered the room. The Cure hastened to her side and lifted up +her head. + +George Fournel pushed the men back who would have entered the bath-room, +and himself, bursting the door open, entered. Louis lay dead upon the +floor. He turned to the constables. + +"As she said, you cannot have him now. You have no right here. Go. +I had a warning from the man he killed. I knew there would be trouble. +But I have come too late," he added bitterly. + +An hour later the house was as still as the grave. Madame Marie sat with +the doctor beside the bed of her dear mistress, and in another room, +George Fournel, with the Avocat, kept watch beside the body of the +Seigneur of Pontiac. The face of the dead man was as peaceful as that of +a little child. + + ......................... + +At ninety years of age, the present Seigneur of Pontiac, one Baron +Fournel, lives in the Manor House left him by Madelinette Lajeunesse the +great singer, when she died a quarter of a century ago. For thirty years +he followed her from capital to capital of Europe and America to hear her +sing; and to this day he talks of her in language more French than +English in its ardour. Perhaps that is because his heart beats in +sympathy with the Frenchmen he once disdained. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Ah, let it be soon! Ah, let him die soon! +All are hurt some time +Did not let him think that she was giving up anything for him +Duplicity, for which she might never have to ask forgiveness +Frenchman, slave of ideas, the victim of sentiment +Frenchman, volatile, moody, chivalrous, unreasonable +Her stronger soul ruled him without his knowledge +I love that love in which I married him +Let others ride to glory, I'll shoe their horses for the gallop +Lighted candles in hollowed pumpkins +Love has nothing to do with ugliness or beauty, or fortune +Nature twists in back, or anywhere, gets a twist in's brain too +Rewarded for its mistakes +Some are hurt in one way and some in another +Struggle of conscience and expediency + + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 2. + + + +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS +A WORKER IN STONE + + + +THE ABSURD ROMANCE OF P'TITE LOUISON + +The five brothers lived with Louison, three miles from Pontiac, and +Medallion came to know them first through having sold them, at an +auction, a slice of an adjoining farm. He had been invited to their +home, intimacy had grown, and afterwards, stricken with a severe illness, +he had been taken into the household and kept there till he was well +again. The night of his arrival, Louison, the sister, stood with a +brother on either hand--Octave and Florian--and received him with a +courtesy more stately than usual, an expression of the reserve and +modesty of her single state. This maidenly dignity was at all times +shielded by the five brothers, who treated her with a constant and +reverential courtesy. There was something signally suggestive in their +homage, and Medallion concluded at last that it was paid not only to the +sister, but to something that gave her great importance in their eyes. + +He puzzled long, and finally decided that Louison had a romance. There +was something which suggested it in the way they said "P'tite Louison"; +in the manner they avoided all gossip regarding marriages and marriage- +feasting; in the way they deferred to her on questions of etiquette (as, +for instance, Should the eldest child be given the family name of the +wife or a Christian name from her husband's family?). And P'tite +Louison's opinion was accepted instantly as final, with satisfied +nods on the part of all the brothers, and whispers of "How clever! +how adorable!" + +P'tite Louison affected never to hear these remarks, but looked +complacently straight before her, stirring the spoon in her cup, or +benignly passing the bread and butter. She was quite aware of the homage +paid to her, and she gracefully accepted the fact that she was an object +of interest. + +Medallion had not the heart to laugh at the adoration of the brothers, +or at the outlandish sister, for, though she was angular, and sallow, and +thin, and her hands were large and red, there was a something deep in her +eyes, a curious quality in her carriage commanding respect. She had +ruled these brothers, had been worshipped by them, for near half a +century, and the romance they had kept alive had produced a grotesque +sort of truth and beauty in the admiring "P'tite Louison"--an +affectionate name for her greatness, like "The Little Corporal" for +Napoleon. She was not little, either, but above the middle height, +and her hair was well streaked with grey. + +Her manner towards Medallion was not marked by any affectation. She was +friendly in a kind, impersonal way, much as a nurse cares for a patient, +and she never relaxed a sort of old-fashioned courtesy, which might have +been trying in such close quarters, were it not for the real simplicity +of the life and the spirit and lightness of their race. One night +Florian--there were Florian and Octave and Felix and Isidore and Emile +--the eldest, drew Medallion aside from the others, and they walked +together by the river. Florian's air suggested confidence and mystery, +and soon, with a voice of hushed suggestion, he told Medallion the +romance of P'tite Louison. And each of the brothers at different times +during the next fortnight did the same, differing scarcely at all in +details, or choice of phrase or meaning, and not at all in general facts +and essentials. But each, as he ended, made a different exclamation. + +"Voila, so sad, so wonderful! She keeps the ring--dear P'tite Louison!" +said Florian, the eldest. + +"Alors, she gives him a legacy in her will! Sweet P'tite Louison," said +Octave. + +"Mais, the governor and the archbishop admire her--P'tite Louison:" said +Felix, nodding confidently at Medallion. + +"Bien, you should see the linen and the petticoats!" said Isidore, the +humorous one of the family. "He was great--she was an angel, P'tite +Louison!" + +"Attends! what love--what history--what passion!--the perfect P'tite +Louison!" cried Emile, the youngest, the most sentimental. "Ah, +Moliere!" he added, as if calling on the master to rise and sing the +glories of this daughter of romance. + +Isidore's tale was after this fashion: + +"I ver' well remember the first of it; and the last of it--who can tell? +He was an actor--oh, so droll, that! Tall, ver' smart, and he play in +theatre at Montreal. It is in the winter. P'tite Louison visit +Montreal. She walk past the theatre and, as she go by, she slip on the +snow and fall. Out from a door with a jomp come M'sieu' Hadrian, and +pick her up. And when he see the purty face of P'tite Louison, his eyes +go all fire, and he clasp her hand to his breast. + +"'Ma'm'selle, Ma'm'selle,' he say, 'we must meet again!' + +"She thank him and hurry away queeck. Next day we are on the river, and +P'tite Louison try to do the Dance of the Blue Fox on the ice. While she +do it, some one come up swift, and catch her hand and say: 'Ma'm'selle, +let's do it together'--like that! It take her breath away. It is +M'sieu' Hadrian. He not seem like the other men she know; but he have a +sharp look, he is smooth in the face, and he smile kind like a woman. +P'tite Louison, she give him her hand, and they run away, and every one +stop to look. It is a gran' sight. M'sieu' Hadrian laugh, and his teeth +shine, and the ladies say things of him, and he tell P'tite Louison that +she look ver' fine, and walk like a queen. I am there that day, and I +see all, and I think it dam good. I say: 'That P'tite Louison, she beat +them all'--I am only twelve year old then. When M'sieu' Hadrian leave, +he give her two seats for the theatre, and we go. Bagosh! that is grand +thing that play, and M'sieu' Hadrian, he is a prince; and when he say to +his minister, 'But no, my lord, I will marry out of my star, and where my +heart go, not as the State wills,' he look down at P'tite Louison, and +she go all red, and some of the women look at her, and there is a whisper +all roun'. + +"Nex' day he come to the house where we stay, but the Cure come also +pretty soon and tell her she must go home--he say an actor is not good +company. Never mind. And so we come out home. Well, what you think? +Nex' day M'sieu' Hadrian come, too, and we have dam good time--Florian, +Octave, Felix, Emile, they all sit and say bully-good to him all the +time. Holy, what fine stories he tell! And he talk about P'tite +Louison, and his eyes get wet, and Emile he say his prayers to him-- +bagosh! yes, I think. Well, at last, what you guess? M'sieu' he come +and come, and at last one day, he say that he leave Montreal and go to +New York, where he get a good place in a big theatre--his time in +Montreal is finish. So he speak to Florian and say he want marry P'tite +Louison, and he say, of course, that he is not marry and he have money. +But he is a Protestan', and the Cure at first ver' mad, bagosh! + +"But at las' when he give a hunder' dollars to the Church, the Cure say +yes. All happy that way for while. P'tite Louison, she get ready quick- +sapre, what fine things had she--and it is all to be done in a week, +while the theatre in New York wait for M'sieu'. He sit there with us, +and play on the fiddle, and sing songs, and act plays, and help Florian +in the barn, and Octave to mend the fence, and the Cure to fix the grape- +vines on his wall. He show me and Emile how to play sword-sticks; and he +pick flowers and fetch them to P'tite Louison, and teach her how to make +an omelette and a salad like the chef of the Louis Quinze Hotel, so he +say. Bagosh, what a good time we have! But first one, then another, he +get a choke-throat when he think that P'tite Louison go to leave us, and +the more we try, the more we are bagosh fools. And that P'tite Louison, +she kiss us hevery one, and say to M'sieu' Hadrian, 'Charles, I love you, +but I cannot go.' He laugh at her, and say, 'Voila! we will take them +all with us:' and P'tite Louison she laugh. That night a thing happen. +The Cure come, and he look ver' mad, and he frown and he say to M'sieu' +Hadrian before us all, 'M'sieu', you are married.' + +"Sapre! that P'tite Louison get pale like snow, and we all stan' roun' +her close and say to her quick, 'Courage, P'tite Louison!' M'sieu' +Hadrian then look at the priest and say: 'No, M'sieu', I was married ten +years ago; my wife drink and go wrong, and I get divorce. I am free like +the wind.' + +"'You are not free,' the Cure say quick. 'Once married, married till +death. The Church cannot marry you again, and I command Louison to give +you up.' + +"P'tite Louison stan' like stone. M'sieu' turn to her. 'What shall it +be, Louison?' he say. 'You will come with me?' + +"'Kiss me, Charles,' she say, 'and tell me good-bye till--till you are +free.' + +"He look like a madman. 'Kiss me once, Charles,' she say, 'and let me +go.' + +"And he come to her and kiss her on the lips once, and he say, 'Louison, +come with me. I will never give you up.' + +"She draw back to Florian. 'Good-bye, Charles,' she say. 'I will wait +as long as you will. Mother of God, how hard it is to do right!' she +say, and then she turn and leave the room. + +"M'sieu' Hadrian, he give a long sigh. 'It was my one chance,' he say. +'Now the devil take it all!' Then he nod and say to the Cure: 'We'll +thrash this out at Judgment Day, M'sieu'. I'll meet you there--you and +the woman that spoiled me.' + +"He turn to Florian and the rest of us, and shake hands, and say: 'Take +care of Louison. Thank you. Good-bye.' Then he start towards the door, +but stumble, for he look sick. 'Give me a drink,' he say, and begin to +cough a little--a queer sort of rattle. Florian give him big drink, and +he toss it off-whiff! 'Thank you,' he say, and start again, and we see +him walk away over the hill ver' slow--an' he never come back. But every +year there come from New York a box of flowers, and every year P'tite +Louison send him a 'Merci, Charles, mille fois. Dieu to garde.' It is +so every year for twenty-five year." + +"Where is he now?" asked Medallion. + +Isidore shook his head, then lifted his eyes religiously. "Waiting for +Judgment Day and P'tite Louison," he answered. + +"Dead!" said Medallion. + +"How long?" + +"Twenty year." + +"But the flowers--the flowers?" + +"He left word for them to be sent just the same, and the money for it." + +Medallion turned and took off his hat reverently, as if a soul were +passing from the world; but it was only P'tite Louison going out into the +garden. + +"She thinks him living?" he asked gently as he watched Louison. + +"Yes; we have no heart to tell her. And then he wish it so. And the +flowers kep' coming." + +"Why did he wish it so?" Isidore mused a while. + +"Who can tell? Perhaps a whim. He was a great actor--ah, yes, sublime!" +he said. + +Medallion did not reply, but walked slowly down to where P'tite Louison +was picking berries. His hat was still off. + +"Let me help you, Mademoiselle," he said softly. And henceforth he was +as foolish as her brothers. + + + + + + +THE LITTLE BELL OF HONOUR + +"Sacre bapteme!" + +"What did he say?" asked the Little Chemist, stepping from his doorway. + +"He cursed his baptism," answered tall Medallion, the English auctioneer, +pushing his way farther into the crowd. + +"Ah, the pitiful vaurien!" said the Little Chemist's wife, shudderingly; +for that was an oath not to be endured by any one who called the Church +mother. + +The crowd that had gathered at the Four Corners were greatly disturbed, +for they also felt the repulsion that possessed the Little Chemist's +wife. They babbled, shook their heads, and waved their hands excitedly, +and swayed and craned their necks to see the offender. + +All at once his voice, mad with rage, was heard above the rest, shouting +frenziedly a curse which was a horribly grotesque blasphemy upon the name +of God. Men who had used that oath in their insane anger had been known +to commit suicide out of remorse afterwards. + +For a moment there was a painful hush. The crowd drew back involuntarily +and left a clear space, in which stood the blasphemer--a middle-sized, +athletic fellow, with black beard, thick, waving hair, and flashing brown +eyes. His white teeth were showing now in a snarl like a dog's, his cap +was on the ground, his hair was tumbled, his hands were twitching with +passion, his foot was stamping with fury, and every time it struck the +ground a little silver bell rang at his knee--a pretty sylvan sound, in +no keeping with the scene. It heightened the distress of the fellow's +blasphemy and ungovernable anger. For a man to curse his baptism was a +wicked thing; but the other oath was not fit for human ears, and horror +held the crowd moveless for a moment. + +Then, as suddenly as the stillness came, a low, threatening mumble of +voices rose, and a movement to close in on the man was made; but a figure +pushed through the crowd, and, standing in front of the man, waved the +people back. It was the Cure, the beloved M. Fabre, whose life had been +spent among them, whom they obeyed as well as they could, for they were +but frail humanity, after all--crude, simple folk, touched with +imagination. + +"Luc Pomfrette, why have you done this? What provocation had you?" + +The Cure's voice was stern and cold, his usually gentle face had become +severe, his soft eyes were piercing and determined. + +The foot of the man still beat the ground angrily, and the little bell +kept tinkling. He was gasping with passion, and he did not answer yet. + +"Luc Pomfrette, what have you to say?" asked the Cure again. He +motioned back Lacasse, the constable of the parish, who had suddenly +appeared with a rusty gun and a more rusty pair of handcuffs. + +Still the voyageur did not answer. + +The Cure glanced at Lajeunesse the blacksmith, who stood near. + +"There was no cause--no," sagely shaking his head said Lajeunesse, "Here +stand we at the door of the Louis Quinze in very good humour. Up come +the voyageurs, all laughing, and ahead of them is Luc Pomfrette, with the +little bell at his knee. Luc, he laugh the same as the rest, and they +stand in the door, and the garcon bring out the brandy--just a little, +but just enough too. I am talking to Henri Beauvin. I am telling him +Junie Gauloir have run away with Dicey the Protestant, when all very +quick Luc push between me and Henri, jump into the street, and speak like +that!" + +Lajeunesse looked around, as if for corroboration; Henri and others +nodded, and some one said: + +"That's true; that's true. There was no cause." + +"Maybe it was the drink," said a little hunchbacked man, pushing his way +in beside the Cure. "It must have been the drink; there was nothing +else--no." + +The speaker was Parpon the dwarf, the oddest, in some ways the most +foolish, in others the wisest man in Pontiac. + +"That is no excuse," said the Cure. + +"It is the only one he has, eh?" answered Parpon. His eyes were fixed +meaningly on those of Pomfrette. + +"It is no excuse," repeated the Cure sternly. "The blasphemy is +horrible, a shame and stigma upon Pontiac for ever." He looked Pomfrette +in the face. "Foul-mouthed and wicked man, it is two years since you +took the Blessed Sacrament. Last Easter day you were in a drunken sleep +while Mass was being said; after the funeral of your own father you were +drunk again. When you went away to the woods you never left a penny for +candles, nor for Masses to be said for your father's soul; yet you sold +his horse and his little house, and spent the money in drink. Not a cent +for a candle, but--" + +"It's a lie," cried Pomfrette, shaking with rage from head to foot. + +A long horror-stricken "Ah!" broke from the crowd. The Cure's face +became graver and colder. + +"You have a bad heart," he answered, "and you give Pontiac an evil name. +I command you to come to Mass next Sunday, to repent and to hear your +penance given from the altar. For until--" + +"I'll go to no Mass till I'm carried to it," was the sullen, malevolent +interruption. + +The Cure turned upon the people. + +"This is a blasphemer, an evil-hearted, shameless man," he said. "Until +he repents humbly, and bows his vicious spirit to holy Church, and his +heart to the mercy of God, I command you to avoid him as you would a +plague. I command that no door be opened to him; that no one offer him +comfort or friendship; that not even a bon jour or a bon soir pass +between you. He has blasphemed against our Father in heaven; to the +Church he is a leper." He turned to Pomfrette. "I pray God that you +have no peace in mind or body till your evil life is changed, and your +black heart is broken by sorrow and repentance." + +Then to the people he said again: "I have commanded you for your souls' +sake; see that you obey. Go to your homes. Let us leave the leper-- +alone." He waved the awed crowd back. + +"Shall we take off the little bell?" asked Lajeunesse of the Cure. + +Pomfrette heard, and he drew himself together, his jaws shutting with +ferocity, and his hand flying to the belt where his voyageur's case-knife +hung. The Cure did not see this. Without turning his head towards +Pomfrette, he said: + +"I have commanded you, my children. Leave the leper alone." + +Again he waved the crowd to be gone, and they scattered, whispering to +each other; for nothing like this had ever occurred in Pontiac before, +nor had they ever seen the Cure with this granite look in his face, or +heard his voice so bitterly hard. + +He did not move until he had seen them all started homewards from the +Four Corners. One person remained beside him--Parpon the dwarf. + +"I will not obey you, M'sieu' le Cure," said he. "I'll forgive him +before he repents." + +"You will share his sin," answered the Cure sternly. "No; his +punishment, M'sieu'," said the dwarf; and turning on his heel, he trotted +to where Pomfrette stood alone in the middle of the road, a dark, morose +figure, hatred and a wild trouble in his face. + +Already banishment, isolation, seemed to possess Pomfrette, to surround +him with loneliness. The very effort he made to be defiant of his fate +appeared to make him still more solitary. All at once he thrust a hand +inside his red shirt, and, giving a jerk which broke a string tied round +his neck, he drew forth a little pad--a flat bag of silk, called an Agnus +Dei, worn as a protection and a blessing by the pious, and threw it on +the ground. Another little parcel he drew from his belt, and ground it +into the dirt with his heel. It contained a woman's hair. Then, +muttering, his hands still twitching with savage feeling, he picked up +his cap, covered with dirt, put it on, and passed away down the road +towards the river, the little bell tinkling as he went. Those who heard +it had a strange feeling, for already to them the man was as if he had +some baleful disease, and this little bell told of the passing of a +leper. + +Yet some one man had worn just such a bell every year in Pontiac. It was +the mark of honour conferred upon a voyageur by his fellows, the token of +his prowess and his skill. This year Luc Pomfrette had won it, and that +very day it had been buckled round his leg with songs and toasts. + +For hours Pomfrette walked incessantly up and down the river-bank, +muttering and gesticulating, but at last came quietly to the cottage +which he shared with Henri Beauvin. Henri had removed himself and his +belongings: already the ostracising had begun. He went to the bedroom of +old Mme. Burgoyne, his cousin; she also was gone. He went to a little +outhouse and called. + +For reply there was a scratching at the door. He opened it, and a dog +leaped out and upon him. With a fierce fondness he snatched at the dog's +collar, and drew the shaggy head to his knee; then as suddenly shoved him +away with a smothered oath, and going into the house, shut the door. He +sat down in a chair in the middle of the room, and scarcely stirred for +half an-hour. At last, with a passionate jerk of the head, he got to his +feet, looking about the room in a half-distracted way. Outside, the dog +kept running round and round the house, silent, watchful, waiting for the +door to open. + +As time went by, Luc became quieter, but the look of his face was more +desolate. At last he almost ran to the door, threw it open, and called. +The dog sprang into the room, went straight to the fireplace, lay down, +and with tongue lolling and body panting looked at Pomfrette with +blinking, uncomprehending eyes. + +Pomfrette went to a cupboard, brought back a bone well covered with meat, +and gave it to the dog, which snatched it and began gnawing it, now and +again stopping to look up at his master, as one might look at a mountain +moving, be aware of something singular, yet not grasp the significance of +the phenomenon. At last, worn out, Pomfrette threw himself on his bed, +and fell into a sound sleep. When he awoke, it was far into the morning. +He lighted a fire in the kitchen, got a "spider," fried himself a piece +of pork, and made some tea. There was no milk in the cupboard; so he +took a pitcher and walked down the road a few rods to the next house, +where lived the village milkman. He knocked, and the door was opened by +the milkman's wife. A frightened look came upon her when she saw who it +was. + +"Non, non!" she said, and shut the door in his face. He stared blankly +at the door for a moment, then turned round and stood looking down into +the road, with the pitcher in his hand. The milkman's little boy, +Maxime, came running round the corner of the house. "Maxime," he said +involuntarily and half-eagerly, for he and the lad had been great +friends. + +Maxime's face brightened, then became clouded; he stood still an instant, +and presently, turning round and looking at Pomfrette askance, ran away +behind the house, saying: "Non, non!" + +Pomfrette drew his rough knuckles across his forehead in a dazed way; +then, as the significance of the thing came home to him, he broke out +with a fierce oath, and strode away down the yard and into the road. On +the way to his house he met Duclosse the mealman and Garotte the lime- +burner. He wondered what they would do. He could see the fat, wheezy +Duclosse hesitate, but the arid, alert Garotte had determination in every +motion and look. They came nearer; they were about to pass; there was no +sign. + +Pomfrette stopped short. "Good-day, lime-burner; good-day, Duclosse," he +said, looking straight at them. + +Garotte made no reply, but walked straight on. Pomfrette stepped swiftly +in front of the mealman. There was fury in his face-fury and danger; his +hair was disordered, his eyes afire. + +"Good-day, mealman," he said, and waited. "Duclosse," called Garotte +warningly, "remember!" Duclosse's knees shook, and his face became +mottled like a piece of soap; he pushed his fingers into his shirt and +touched the Agnus Dei that he carried there. That and Garotte's words +gave him courage. He scarcely knew what he said, but it had meaning. +"Good-bye-leper," he answered. + +Pomfrette's arm flew out to throw the pitcher at the mealman's head, but +Duclosse, with a grunt of terror, flung up in front of his face the small +bag of meal that he carried, the contents pouring over his waistcoat from +a loose corner. The picture was so ludicrous that Pomfrette laughed with +a devilish humour, and flinging the pitcher at the bag, he walked away +towards his own house. Duclosse, pale and frightened, stepped from among +the fragments of crockery, and with backward glances towards Pomfrette +joined his comrade. + +"Lime-burner," he said, sitting down on the bag of meal, and mechanically +twisting tight the loose, leaking corner, "the devil's in that leper." + +"He was a good enough fellow once," answered Garotte, watching Pomfrette. + +"I drank with him at five o'clock yesterday," said Duclosse +philosophically. "He was fit for any company then; now he's fit for +none." + +Garotte looked wise. "Mealman," said he, "it takes years to make folks +love you; you can make them hate you in an hour. La! La! it's easier +to hate than to love. Come along, m'sieu' dusty-belly." + +Pomfrette's life in Pontiac went on as it began that day. Not once a +day, and sometimes not once in twenty days, did any human being speak to +him. The village baker would not sell him bread; his groceries he had to +buy from the neighbouring parishes, for the grocer's flighty wife called +for the constable when he entered the bake-shop of Pontiac. He had to +bake his own bread, and do his own cooking, washing, cleaning, and +gardening. His hair grew long and his clothes became shabbier. At last, +when he needed a new suit--so torn had his others become at woodchopping +and many kinds of work--he went to the village tailor, and was promptly +told that nothing but Luc Pomfrette's grave-clothes would be cut and made +in that house. + +When he walked down to the Four Corners the street emptied at once, and +the lonely man with the tinkling bell of honour at his knee felt the +whole world falling away from sight and touch and sound of him. Once +when he went into the Louis Quinze every man present stole away in +silence, and the landlord himself, without a word, turned and left the +bar. At that, with a hoarse laugh, Pomfrette poured out a glass of +brandy, drank it off, and left a shilling on the counter. The next +morning he found the shilling, wrapped in a piece of paper, just inside +his door; it had been pushed underneath. On the paper was written: "It +is cursed." Presently his dog died, and the day afterwards he suddenly +disappeared from Pontiac, and wandered on to Ste. Gabrielle, Ribeaux, +and Ville Bambord. But his shame had gone before him, and people shunned +him everywhere, even the roughest. No one who knew him would shelter +him. He slept in barns and in the woods until the winter came and snow +lay thick upon the ground. Thin and haggard, and with nothing left of +his old self but his deep brown eyes and curling hair, and his unhappy +name and fame, he turned back again to Pontiac. His spirit was sullen +and hard, his heart closed against repentance. Had not the Church and +Pontiac and the world punished him beyond his deserts for a moment's +madness brought on by a great shock! + + + + +II + +One bright, sunshiny day of early winter, he trudged through the snow- +banked street of Pontiac back to his home. Men he once knew well, and +had worked with, passed him in a sled on their way to the great shanty in +the backwoods. They halted in their singing for a moment when they saw +him; then, turning their heads from him, dashed off, carolling lustily: + + "Ah, ah, Babette, + We go away; + But we will come + Again, Babette, + Again back home, + On Easter Day, + Back home to play + On Easter Day, + Babette! Babette!" + +"Babette! Babette!" The words followed him, ringing in his ears long +after the men had become a mere fading point in the white horizon behind +him. + + +This was not the same world that he had known, not the same Pontiac. +Suddenly he stopped short in the road. + +"Curse them! Curse them! Curse them all!" he cried in a cracked, +strange voice. A woman hurrying across the street heard him, and went +the faster, shutting her ears. A little boy stood still and looked at +him in wonder. Everything he saw maddened him. He turned sharp round +and hurried to the Louis Quinze. Throwing open the door, he stepped +inside. Half-a-dozen men were there with the landlord. When they saw +him, they started, confused and dismayed. He stood still for a moment, +looking at them with glowering brows. + +"Good-day," he said. "How goes it?" + +No one answered. A little apart from the others sat Medallion the +auctioneer. He was a Protestant, and the curse on his baptism uttered by +Pomfrette was not so heinous in his sight. For the other oath, it was +another matter. Still, he was sorry for the man. In any case, it was +not his cue to interfere; and Luc was being punished according to his +bringing up and to the standards familiar to him. Medallion had never +refused to speak to him, but he had done nothing more. There was no +reason why he should provoke the enmity of the parish unnecessarily; and +up to this-point Pomfrette had shifted for himself after a fashion, if a +hard fashion. + +With a bitter laugh, Pomfrette turned to the little bar. + +"Brandy," he said; "brandy, my Bourienne." + +The landlord shrugged his shoulder, and looked the other way. + +"Brandy," he repeated. Still there was no sign. + +There was a wicked look in his face, from which the landlord shrank back- +shrank so far that he carried himself among the others, and stood there, +half frightened, half dumfounded. + +Pomfrette pulled out a greasy dollar-bill from his pocket--the last he +owned in the world--and threw it on the counter. Then he reached over, +caught up a brandy-bottle from the shelf, knocked off the neck with a +knife, and, pouring a tumblerful, drank it off at a gasp. + +His head came up, his shoulders straightened out, his eyes snapped fire. +He laughed aloud, a sardonic, wild, coarse laugh, and he shivered once or +twice violently, in spite of the brandy he had drunk. + +"You won't speak to me, eh? Won't you? Curse you! Pass me on the other +side--so! Look at me. I am the worst man in the world, eh? Judas is +nothing--no! Ack, what are you, to turn your back on me? Listen to me! +You, there, Muroc, with your charcoal face, who was it walk thirty miles +in the dead of winter to bring a doctor to your wife, eh? She die, but +that is no matter--who was it? It was Luc Pomfrette. You, Alphonse +Durien, who was it drag you out of the bog at the Cote Chaudiere? It was +Luc Pomfrette. You, Jacques Baby, who was it that lied for you to the +Protestant girl at Faribeau? Just Luc Pomfrette. You two, Jean and +Nicolas Mariban, who was it lent you a hunderd dollars when you lose all +your money at cards? Ha, ha, ha! Only that beast Luc Pomfrette! Mother +of Heaven, such a beast is he--eh, Limon Rouge?--such a beast that used +to give your Victorine little silver things, and feed her with bread and +sugar and buttermilk pop. Ah, my dear Limon Rouge, how is it all +different now!" + +He raised the bottle and drank long from the ragged neck. When he took +it away from his mouth not much more than half remained in the quart +bottle. Blood was dripping upon his beard from a cut on his lip, and +from there to the ground. + +"And you, M'sieu' Bourienne," he cried hoarsely, "do I not remember that +dear M'sieu' Bourienne, when he beg me to leave Pontiac for a little +while that I not give evidence in court against him? Eh bien! you all +walk by me now, as if I was the father of smallpox, and not Luc +Pomfrette--only Luc Pomfrette, who spits at every one of you for a pack +of cowards and hypocrites." + +He thrust the bottle inside his coat, went to the door, flung it open +with a bang, and strode out into the street, muttering as he went. As +the landlord came to close the door Medallion said: + +"The leper has a memory, my friends." Then he also walked out, and went +to his office depressed, for the face of the man haunted him. + +Pomfrette reached his deserted, cheerless house. There was not a stick +of fire-wood in the shed, not a thing to eat or drink in cellar or +cupboard. The door of the shed at the back was open, and the dog-chains +lay covered with frost and half embedded in mud. With a shiver of misery +Pomfrette raised the brandy to his mouth, drank every drop, and threw the +bottle on the floor. Then he went to the front door, opened it, and +stepped outside. His foot slipped, and he tumbled head forward into the +snow. Once or twice he half raised himself, but fell back again, and +presently lay still. The frost caught his ears and iced them; it began +to creep over his cheeks; it made his fingers white, like a leper's. + +He would soon have stiffened for ever had not Parpon the dwarf, passing +along the road, seen the open door and the sprawling body, and come and +drawn Pomfrette inside the house. He rubbed the face and hands and ears +of the unconscious man with snow till the whiteness disappeared, and, +taking off the boots, did the same with the toes; after which he drew the +body to a piece of rag carpet beside the stove, threw some blankets over +it, and, hurrying out, cut up some fence rails, and soon had a fire going +in the stove. + +Then he trotted out of the house and away to the Little Chemist, who came +passively with him. All that day, and for many days, they fought to save +Pomfrette's life. The Cure came also; but Pomfrette was in fever and +delirium. Yet the good M. Fabre's presence, as it ever did, gave an air +of calm and comfort to the place. Parpon's hands alone cared for the +house; he did all that was to be done; no woman had entered the place +since Pomfrette's cousin, old Mme. Burgoyne, left it on the day of his +shame. + +When at last Pomfrette opened his eyes, and saw the Cure standing beside +him, he turned his face to the wall, and to the exhortation addressed to +him he answered nothing. At last the Cure left him, and came no more; +and he bade Parpon do the same as soon as Pomfrette was able to leave his +bed. + +But Parpon did as he willed. He had been in Pontiac only a few days +since the painful business in front of the Louis Quinze. Where he had +been and what doing no one asked, for he was mysterious in his movements, +and always uncommunicative, and people did not care to tempt his +inhospitable tongue. When Pomfrette was so far recovered that he might +be left alone, Parpon said to him one evening: + +"Pomfrette, you must go to Mass next Sunday." + +"I said I wouldn't go till I was carried there, and I mean it--that's +so," was the morose reply. + +"What made you curse like that--so damnable?" asked Parpon furtively. + +"That's my own business. It doesn't matter to anybody but me." + +"And you said the Cure lied--the good M'sieu' Fabre--him like a saint." + +"I said he lied, and I'd say it again, and tell the truth." + +"But if you went to Mass, and took your penance, and--" + +"Yes, I know; they'd forgive me, and I'd get absolution, and they'd all +speak to me again, and it would be, 'Good-day, Luc,' and 'Very good, +Luc,' and 'What a gay heart has Luc, the good fellow!' Ah, I know. They +curse in the heart when the whole world go wrong for them; no one hears. +I curse out loud. I'm not a hypocrite, and no one thinks me fit to live. +Ack, what is the good!" + +Parpon did not respond at once. At last, dropping his chin in his hand +and his elbow on his knee, as he squatted on the table, he said: + +"But if the girl got sorry--" + +For a time there was no sound save the whirring of the fire in the stove +and the hard breathing of the sick man. His eyes were staring hard at +Parpon. At last he said, slowly and fiercely: + +"What do you know?" + +"What others might know if they had eyes and sense; but they haven't. +What would you do if that Junie come back?" + +"I would kill her." His look was murderous. + +"Bah, you would kiss her first, just the same!" + +"What of that? I would kiss her because--because there is no face like +hers in the world; and I'd kill her for her bad heart." + +"What did she do?" Pomfrette's hands clinched. + +"What's in my own noddle, and not for any one else," he answered sulkily. + +"Tiens, tiens, what a close mouth! What did she do? Who knows? What +you think she do, it's this. You think she pretends to love you, and you +leave all your money with her. She is to buy masses for your father's +soul; she is to pay money to the Cure for the good of the Church; she is +to buy a little here, a little there, for the house you and she are going +to live in, the wedding and the dancing over. Very well. Ah, my +Pomfrette, what is the end you think? She run away with Dicey the +Protestant, and take your money with her. Eh, is that so?" + +For answer there came a sob, and then a terrible burst of weeping and +anger and passionate denunciations--against Junie Gauloir, against +Pontiac, against the world. + +Parpon held his peace. + +The days, weeks, and months went by; and the months stretched to three +years. + +In all that time Pomfrette came and went through Pontiac, shunned and +unrepentant. His silent, gloomy endurance was almost an affront to +Pontiac; and if the wiser ones, the Cure, the Avocat, the Little Chemist, +and Medallion, were more sorry than offended, they stood aloof till the +man should in some manner redeem himself, and repent of his horrid +blasphemy. But one person persistently defied Church and people, Cure +and voyageur. Parpon openly and boldly walked with Pomfrette, talked +with him, and occasionally visited his house. + +Luc made hard shifts to live. He grew everything that he ate, vegetables +and grains. Parpon showed him how to make his own flour in primitive +fashion, for no miller in any parish near would sell him flour, and he +had no money to buy it, nor would any one who knew him give him work. +And after his return to Pontiac he never asked for it. His mood was +defiant, morbid, stern. His wood he chopped from the common known as +No-Man's Land. His clothes he made himself out of the skins of deer that +he shot; when his powder and shot gave out, he killed the deer with bow +and arrow. + + + + +III + +The end came at last. Luc was taken ill. For four days, all alone, he +lay burning with fever and inflammation, and when Parpon found him he was +almost dead. Then began a fight for life again, in which Parpon was the +only physician; for Pomfrette would not allow the Little Chemist or a +doctor near him. Parpon at last gave up hope; but one night, when he +came back from the village, he saw, to his joy, old Mme. Degardy ("Crazy +Joan" she was called) sitting by Pomfrette's bedside. He did not disturb +her, for she had no love for him, and he waited till she had gone. When +he came into the room again he found Pomfrette in a sweet sleep, and a +jug of tincture, with a little tin cup, placed by the bed. Time and +again he had sent for Mme. Degardy, but she would not come. She had +answered that the dear Luc could go to the devil for all of her; he'd +find better company down below than in Pontiac. + +But for a whim, perhaps, she had come at last without asking, and as a +consequence Luc returned to the world, a mere bundle of bones. + +It was still while he was only a bundle of bones that one Sunday morning, +Parpon, without a word, lifted him up in his arms and carried him out of +the house. Pomfrette did not speak at first: it seemed scarcely worth +while; he was so weak he did not care. + +"Where are you going?" he said at last, as they came well into the +village. The bell in St. Saviour's had stopped ringing for Mass, and the +streets were almost empty. + +"I'm taking you to Mass," said Parpon, puffing under his load, for +Pomfrette made an ungainly burden. "Hand of a little devil, no!" cried +Pomfrette, startled. "I said I'd never go to Mass again, and I never +will. + +"You said you'd never go to Mass till you were carried; so it's all +right." + +Once or twice Pomfrette struggled, but Parpon held him tight, saying: + +"It's no use; you must come; we've had enough. Besides--" + +"Besides what?" asked Pomfrette faintly. "Never mind," answered Parpon. + +At a word from Parpon the shrivelled old sexton cleared a way through the +aisle, making a stir, through which the silver bell at Pomfrette's knee +tinkled, in answer, as it were, to the tinkling of the acolyte's bell in +the sanctuary. People turned at the sound, women stopped telling their +beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting. A strange feeling passed +through the church, and reached and startled the Cure as he recited the +Mass. He turned round and saw Parpon laying Pomfrette down at the +chancel steps. His voice shook a little as he intoned the ritual, and as +he raised the sacred elements tears rolled down his cheeks. + +From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked +down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her. + +At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. "What is it, +Parpon?" he asked gravely. + +"It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed. + +"He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good +priest. + +"Till he was carried, M'sieu' le Cure--and I've carried him." + +"Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc +Pomfrette?" asked the Cure. + +"I did not know I was coming--no." Pomfrette's brown eyes met the +priest's unflinchingly. + +"You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life." + +"I'd rather have died," answered the sick man simply. + +"Died, and been cast to perdition!" + +"I'm used to that; I've had a bad time here in Pontiac." + +His thin hands moved restlessly. His leg moved, and the little bell +tinkled--the bell that had been like the bell of a leper these years +past. + +"But you live, and you have years yet before you, in the providence of +God. Luc Pomfrette, you blasphemed against your baptism, and horribly +against God himself. Luc"--his voice got softer--"I knew your mother, +and she was almost too weak to hold you when you were baptised, for you +made a great to-do about coming into the world. She had a face like a +saint--so sweet, so patient. You were her only child, and your baptism +was more to her than her marriage even, or any other thing in this world. +The day after your baptism she died. What do you think were her last +words?" + +There was a hectic flush on Pomfrette's face, and his eyes were intense +and burning as they looked up fixedly at the Cure. + +"I can't think any more," answered Pomfrette slowly. "I've no head." + +"What she said is for your heart, not for your head, Luc," rejoined the +Cure gently. "She wandered in her mind, and at the last she raised +herself up in her bed, and lifting her finger like this"--he made the +gesture of benediction--" she said, 'Luc Michele, I baptise you in the +name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.' Then +she whispered softly: 'God bless my dear Luc Michee! Holy Mother pray +for him!' These were her last words, and I took you from her arms. What +have you to say, Luc Michee?" + +The woman in the gallery was weeping silently behind her thick veil, and +her worn hand clutched the desk in front of her convulsively. Presently +she arose and made her way down the stair, almost unnoticed. Two or +three times Luc tried to speak, but could not. "Lift me up," he said +brokenly, at last. + +Parpon and the Little Chemist raised him to his feet, and held him, his +shaking hands resting on their shoulders, his lank body tottering above +and between them. + +Looking at the congregation, he said slowly: "I'll suffer till I die for +cursing my baptism, and God will twist my neck in purgatory for--" + +"Luc," the Cure interrupted, "say that you repent." + +"I'm sorry, and I ask you all to forgive me, and I'll confess to the +Cure, and take my penance, and--" he paused, for breathing hurt him. + +At that moment the woman in black who had been in the gallery came +quickly forward. Parpon saw her, frowned, and waved her back; but she +came on. At the chancel steps she raised her veil, and a murmur of +recognition and wonder ran through the church. Pomfrette's face was +pitiful to see--drawn, staring. + +"Junie!" he said hoarsely. + +Her eyes were red with weeping, her face was very pale. "M'sieu' le +Cure" she said, "you must listen to me"--the Cure's face had become +forbidding--"sinner though I am. You want to be just, don't you? Ah, +listen! I was to be married to Luc Pomfrette, but I did not love him-- +then. He had loved me for years, and his father and my father wished it +--as you know, M'sieu' le Cure. So after a while I said I would; but I +begged him that he wouldn't say anything about it till he come back from +his next journey on the river. I did not love him enough--then. He left +all his money with me: some to pay for Masses for his father's soul, some +to buy things for--for our home; and the rest to keep till he came back." + +"Yes, yes," said Pomfrette, his eyes fixed painfully on her face--"yes, +yes." + +"The day after Luc went away John Dicey the Protestant come to me. +I'd always liked him; he could talk as Luc couldn't, and it sounded nice. +I listened and listened. He knew about Luc and about the money and all. +Then he talked to me. I was all wild in the head, and things went round +and round, and oh, how I hated to marry Luc--then! So after he had +talked a long while I said yes, I would go with him and marry him-- +a Protestant--for I loved him. I don't know why or how." + +Pomfrette trembled so that Parpon and the Little Chemist made him sit +down, and he leaned against their shoulders, while Junie went on: + +"I gave him Luc's money to go and give to Parpon here, for I was too +ashamed to go myself. And I wrote a little note to Luc, and sent it with +the money. I believed in John Dicey, of course. He came back, and said +that he had seen Parpon and had done it all right; then we went away to +Montreal and got married. The very first day at Montreal, I found out +that he had Luc's money. It was awful. I went mad, and he got angry and +left me alone, and didn't come back. A week afterwards he was killed, +and I didn't know it for a long time. But I began to work, for I wanted +to pay back Luc's money. It was very slow, and I worked hard. Will it +never be finished, I say. At last Parpon find me, and I tell him all-- +all except that John Dicey was dead; and I did not know that. I made him +promise to tell nobody; but he knows all about my life since then. Then +I find out one day that John Dicey is dead, and I get from the gover'ment +a hundred dollars of the money he stole. It was found on him when he was +killed. I work for six months longer, and now I come back--with Luc's +money." + +She drew from her pocket a packet of notes, and put it in Luc's hands. +He took it dazedly, then dropped it, and the Little Chemist picked it up; +he had no prescription like that in his pharmacopoeia. + +"That's how I've lived," she said, and she handed a letter to the Cure. + +It was from a priest in Montreal, setting forth the history of her career +in that city, her repentance for her elopement and the sin of marrying a +Protestant, and her good life. She had wished to do her penance in +Pontiac, and it remained to M'sieu' le Cure; to set it. + +The Cure's face relaxed, and a rare gentleness came into it. + +He read the letter aloud. Luc once more struggled to his feet, eagerly +listening. + +"You did not love Luc?" the Cure asked Junie, meaningly. + +"I did not love Luc--then," she answered, a flush going over her face. + +"You loved Junie?" the Cure said to Pomfrette. "I could have killed +her, but I've always loved her," answered Luc. Then he raised his voice +excitedly: "I love her, love her, love her--but what's the good! She'd +never 've been happy with me. Look what my love drove her to! What's +the good, at all!" + +"She said she did not love you then, Luc Michee," said Parpon, +interrupting. "Luc Michee, you're a fool as well as a sinner. +Speak up, Junie." + +"I used to tell him that I didn't love him; I only liked him. I was +honest. Well, I am honest still. I love him now." + +A sound of joy broke from Luc's lips, and he stretched out his arms to +her, but the Cure; stopped that. "Not here," he said. "Your sins must +first be considered. For penance--" He paused, looking at the two sad +yet happy beings before him. The deep knowledge of life that was in him +impelled him to continue gently: + +"For penance you shall bear the remembrance of each other's sins. And +now to God the Father--" He turned towards the altar, and raised his +hands in the ascription. + +As he knelt to pray before he entered the pulpit, he heard the tinkling +of the little bell of honour at the knee of Luc, as Junie and Parpon +helped him from the church. + + + + +A SON OF THE WILDERNESS + +Rachette told the story to Medallion and the Little Chemist's wife on +Sunday after Mass, and because he was vain of his English he forsook his +own tongue and paid tribute to the Anglo-Saxon. + +"Ah, she was so purty, that Norinne, when she drive through the parishes +all twelve days, after the wedding, a dance every night, and her eyes and +cheeks on fire all the time. And Bargon, bagosh! that Bargon, he have a +pair of shoulders like a wall, and five hunder' dollars and a horse and +wagon. Bagosh, I say that time: 'Bargon he have put a belt round the +world and buckle it tight to him--all right, ver' good.' I say to him: +'Bargon, what you do when you get ver' rich out on the Souris River in +the prairie west?' He laugh and throw up his hands, for he have not many +words any kind. And the dam little dwarf Parpon, he say: 'He will have +flowers on the table and ice on the butter, and a wheel in his head.' + +"And Bargon laugh and say: 'I will have plenty for my friends to eat and +drink and a ver' fine time.' "'Good,' we all say-'Bagosh!' So they make +the trip through twelve parish, and the fiddles go all the time, and I am +what you say 'best man' with Bargon. I go all the time, and Lucette +Dargois, she go with me and her brother--holy, what an eye had she in her +head, that Lucette! As we go we sing a song all right, and there is no +one sing so better as Norinne: + + "'C'est la belle Francoise, + Allons gai! + C'est la belle Francoise, + Qui veut se marier, + Ma luron lurette! + Qui veut se marier, + Ma luron lure!' + +"Ver' good, bagosh! Norinne and Bargon they go out to the Souris, and +Bargon have a hunder' acre, and he put up a house and a shed not ver' +big, and he carry his head high and his shoulders like a wall; yes, yes. +First year it is pretty good time, and Norinne's cheeks--ah, like an +apple they. Bimeby a baby laugh up at Bargon from Norinne's lap. I am +on the Souris at a saw-mill then, and on Sunday sometime I go up to see +Bargon and Norinne. I t'ink that baby is so dam funny; I laugh and pinch +his nose. His name is Marie, and I say I marry him pretty quick some +day. We have plenty hot cake, and beans and pork, and a little how-you- +are from a jar behin' the door. + +"Next year it is not so good. There is a bad crop and hard time, and +Bargon he owe two hunder' dollar, and he pay int'rest. Norinne, she do +all the work, and that little Marie, there is dam funny in him, and +Norinne, she keep go, go, all the time, early and late, and she get ver' +thin and quiet. So I go up from the mill more times, and I bring fol- +lols for that Marie, for you know I said I go to marry him some day. And +when I see how Bargon shoulders stoop and his eye get dull, and there is +nothing in the jar behin' the door, I fetch a horn with me, and my +fiddle, and, bagosh! there is happy sit-you-down. I make Bargon sing +'La Belle Francoise,' and then just before I go I make them laugh, for I +stand by the cradle and I sing to that Marie: + + "'Adieu, belle Frangoise; + Allons gai! + Adieu, belle Francoise! + Moi, je to marierai, + Ma luron lurette! Moi, + je to marierai, + Ma luron lure!' + +"So; and another year it go along, and Bargon he know that if there come +bad crop it is good-bye-my lover with himselves. He owe two hunder' and +fifty dollar. It is the spring at Easter, and I go up to him and +Norinne, for there is no Mass, and Pontiac is too far away off. We stan' +at the door and look out, and all the prairie is green, and the sun stan' +up high like a light on a pole, and the birds fly by ver' busy looking +for the summer and the prairie-flower. + +"'Bargon,' I say--and I give him a horn of old rye--'here's to le bon +Dieu!' + +"'Le bon Dieu, and a good harvest!' he say. + +"I hear some one give a long breath behin', and I look round; but, no, it +is Norinne with a smile--for she never grumble--bagosh! What purty eyes +she have in her head! She have that Marie in her arms, and I say to +Bargon it is like the Madonne in the Notre Dame at Montreal. He nod his +head. 'C'est le bon Dieu--it is the good God,' he say. + +"Before I go I take a piece of palm--it come from the Notre Dame; it is +all bless by the Pope--and I nail it to the door of the house. 'For +luck,' I say. Then I laugh, and I speak out to the prairie: 'Come along, +good summer; come along, good crop; come two hunder' and fifty dollars +for Gal Bargon.' Ver' quiet I give Norinne twenty dollar, but she will +not take him. 'For Marie,' then I say: 'I go to marry him, bimeby.' +But she say: 'Keep it and give it to Marie yourself some day.' + +"She smile at me, then she have a little tear in her eye, and she nod +to where Bargon stare' houtside, and she say: 'If this summer go wrong, +it will kill him. He work and work and fret and worry for me and Marie, +and sometimes he just sit and look at me and say not a word.' + +"I say to her that there will be good crop, and next year we will be +ver' happy. So, the time go on, and I send up a leetla snack of pork +and molass' and tabac, and sugar and tea, and I get a letter from Bargon +bimeby, and he say that heverything go right, he t'ink, this summer. He +say I must come up. It is not dam easy to go in the summer, when the +mill run night and day; but I say I will go. + +"When I get up to Bargon's I laugh, for all the hunder' acre is ver' +fine, and Bargon stan' hin the door, and stretch out his hand, and say: +'Rachette, there is six hunder' dollar for me.' I nod my head, and fetch +out a horn, and he have one, his eyes all bright like a lime-kiln. He is +thin and square, and his beard grow ver' thick and rough and long, and +his hands are like planks. Norinne, she is ver' happy, too, and Marie +bite on my finger, and I give him sugar-stick to suck. + +"Bimeby Norinne say to me, ver' soft: 'If a hailstorm or a hot wind come, +that is the end of it all, and of my poor Gal.' + +"What I do? I laugh and ketch Marie under the arms, and I sit down, and I +put him on my foot, and I sing that dam funny English song--'Here We Go +to Banbury Cross.' An' I say: 'It will be all as happy as Marie pretty +quick. Bargon he will have six hunder' dollar, and you a new dress and a +hired girl to help you.' + +"But all the time that day I think about a hail-storm or a hot wind +whenever I look out on that hunder' acre farm. It is so beautiful, as +you can guess--the wheat, the barley, the corn, the potatoes, the turnip, +all green like sea-water, and pigeons and wild ducks flying up and down, +and the horse and the ox standing in a field ver' comfer'ble. + +"We have good time that day, and go to bed all happy that night. I get +up at five o'clock, an' I go hout. Bargon stan' there looking hout on +his field with the horse-bridle in his hand. 'The air not feel right,' +he say to me. I t'ink the same, but I say to him: 'Your head not feel +right--him too sof'.' He shake his head and go down to the field for his +horse and ox, and hitch them up together, and go to work making a road. + +"It is about ten o'clock when the dam thing come. Piff! go a hot splash +of air in my face, and then I know that it is all up with Gal Bargon. +A month after it is no matter, for the grain is ripe then, but now, when +it is green, it is sure death to it all. I turn sick in my stomich, and +I turn round and see Norinne stan' hin the door, all white, and she make +her hand go as that, like she push back that hot wind. + +"'Where is Gal?' she say. 'I must go to him.' 'No,' I say, 'I will +fetch him. You stay with Marie.' Then I go ver' quick for Gal, and I +find him, his hands all shut like that! and he shake them at the sky, and +he say not a word, but his face, it go wild, and his eyes spin round in +his head. I put my hand on his arm and say: 'Come home, Gal. Come home, +and speak kind to Norinne and Marie.' + +"I can see that hot wind lean down and twist the grain about--a dam devil +thing from the Arzone desert down South. I take Gal back home, and we +sit there all day, and all the nex' day, and a leetla more, and when we +have look enough, there is no grain on that hunder' acre farm--only a +dry-up prairie, all grey and limp. My skin is bake and rough, but when +I look at Gal Bargon I know that his heart is dry like a bone, and, as +Parpon say that back time, he have a wheel in his head. Norinne she is +quiet, and she sit with her hand on his shoulder, and give him Marie to +hold. + +"But it is no good; it is all over. So I say: 'Let us go back to +Pontiac. What is the good for to be rich? Let us be poor and happy once +more.' + +"And Norinne she look glad, and get up and say: 'Yes, let us go back.' +But all at once she sit down with Marie in her arms, and cry--bagosh, I +never see a woman cry like that! + +"So we start back for Pontiac with the horse and the ox and some pork and +bread and molass'. But Gal Bargon never hold up his head, but go silent, +silent, and he not sleep at night. One night he walk away on the +prairie, and when he come back he have a great pain. So he lie down, and +we sit by him, an' he die. But once he whisper to me, and Norinne not +hear: 'You say you will marry him, Rachette?' and I say, 'I will.' + +"'C'est le bon Dieu!' he say at the last, but he say it with a little +laugh. I think he have a wheel in his head. But bimeby, yiste'day, +Norinne and Marie and I come to Pontiac." + +The Little Chemist's wife dried her eyes, and Medallion said in French: +"Poor Norinne! Poor Norinne! And so, Rachette, you are going to marry +Marie, by-and-bye?" There was a quizzical look in Medallion's eyes. + +Rachette threw up his chin a little. "I'm going to marry Norinne on New +Year's Day," he said. "Bagosh, poor Norinne!" said Medallion, in a +queer sort of tone. "It is the way of the world," he added. "I'll wait +for Marie myself." + +It looks as if he meant to, for she has no better friend. He talks to +her much of Gal Bargon; of which her mother is glad. + + + + + + +A WORKER IN STONE + +At the beginning he was only a tombstone-cutter. His name was Francois +Lagarre. He was but twenty years old when he stepped into the shop where +the old tombstone-cutter had worked for forty years. Picking up the +hammer and chisel which the old man had dropped when he fell dead at the +end of a long hot day's labour, he finished the half-carved tombstone, +and gave the price of it to the widow. Then, going to the Seigneur and +Cure, he asked them to buy the shop and tools for him, and let him pay +rent until he could take the place off their hands. + +They did as he asked, and in two years he had bought and paid for the +place, and had a few dollars to the good. During one of the two years +a small-pox epidemic passed over Pontiac, and he was busy night and day. +It was during this time that some good Catholics came to him with an +heretical Protestant suggestion to carve a couplet or verse of poetry on +the tombstones they ordered. They themselves, in most cases, knew none, +and they asked Francois to supply them--as though he kept them in stock +like marble and sand-paper. He had no collection of suitable epitaphs, +and, besides, he did not know whether it was right to use them. Like all +his race in New France he was jealous of any inroads of Protestantism, +or what the Little Chemist called "Englishness." The good M. Fabre, +the Cure, saw no harm in it, but said he could not speak for any one's +grief. What the bereaved folk felt they themselves must put in words +upon the stone. But still Francois might bring all the epitaphs to him +before they were carved, and he would approve or disapprove, correct or +reject, as the case might be. + +At first he rejected many, for they were mostly conventional couplets, +taken unknowingly from Protestant sources by mourning Catholics. But +presently all that was changed, and the Cure one day had laid before him +three epitaphs, each of which left his hand unrevised and untouched; and +when he passed them back to Francois his eyes were moist, for he was a +man truly after God's own heart, and full of humanity. + +"Will you read them to me, Francois?" he said, as the worker in stone +was about to put the paper back in his pocket. "Give the names of the +dead at the same time." + +So Francois read: + +"Gustave Narrois, aged seventy-two years-" + +"Yes, yes," interrupted the Cure, "the unhappy yet happy Gustave, hung by +the English, and cut down just in time to save him--an innocent man. For +thirty years my sexton. God rest his soul! Well now, the epitaph." + +Francois read it: + + "Poor as a sparrow was I, + Yet I was saved like a king; + I heard the death-bells ring, + Yet I saw a light in the sky: + And now to my Father I wing." + +The Cure nodded his head. "Go on; the next," he said. + +"Annette John, aged twenty years--" + +"So. The daughter of Chief John. When Queen Anne of England was on the +throne she sent Chief John's grandfather a gold cup and a hundred pounds. +The girl loved, but would not marry, that she might keep Chief John from +drinking. A saint, Francois! What have they said of her?" + +Francois smoothed out the paper and read: + + "A little while I saw the world go by + A little doorway that I called my own, + A loaf, a cup of water, and a bed had I, + A shrine of Jesus, where I knelt alone: + And now alone I bid the world good-bye." + +The Cure turned his head away. "Go on," he said sadly. "Chief John has +lost his right hand. Go on." + +"Henri Rouget" + +"Aged thirty years," again interrupted the Cure. "Henri Rouget, idiot; +as young as the morning. For man grows old only by what he suffers, and +what he forgives, and what he sins. What have you to say for Henri +Rouget, my Francois?" + +And Francois read: + + "I was a fool; nothing had I to know + Of men, and naught to men had I to give. + God gave me nothing; now to God I go, + Now ask for pain, for bread, + Life for my brain: dead, + By God's love I shall then begin to live." + +The priest rose to his feet and put a hand on the young man's shoulder. + +"Do you know, Francois," he said, half sadly, "do you know, you have the +true thing in you. Come often to me, my son, and bring all these things +--all you write." + +While the Cure troubled himself about his future, Francois began to work +upon a monument for the grave of a dozen soldiers of Pontiac who were +killed in the War of the Patriots. They had died for a mistaken cause, +and had been buried on the field of battle. Long ago something would +have been done to commemorate them but that three of them were +Protestants, and difficulties had been raised by the bigoted. But +Francois thought only of the young men in their common grave at St. +Eustache. He remembered when they went away one bright morning, full of +the joy of an erring patriotism, of the ardour of a weak but fascinating +cause: race against race, the conquered against the conquerors, the +usurped against the usurpers. + +In the space before the parish church it stands--a broken shaft, with an +unwound wreath straying down its sides; a monument of fine proportions, +a white figure of beaten valour and erring ardour of youth and beautiful +bad ambition. One Saturday night it was not there, and when next morning +the people came to Mass it was there. All night had Francois and his men +worked, and the first rays of the morning sun fell on the tall shivered +shaft set firmly in its place. Francois was a happy man. All else that +he had done had been wholly after a crude, staring convention, after rule +and measure--an artisan's, a tombstone-cutter's labour. This was the +work of a man with the heart and mind of an artist. When the people came +to Mass they gazed and gazed, and now and then the weeping of a woman was +heard, for among them were those whose sons and brothers were made +memorable by this stone. + +That day at the close of his sermon the Cure spoke of it, and said at the +last: "That white shaft, dear brethren, is for us a sign of remembrance +and a warning to our souls. In the name of race and for their love they +sinned. But yet they sinned; and this monument, the gift and work of one +young like them, ardent and desiring like them, is for ever in our eyes +the crucifixion of our wrong ambitions and our selfish aims. + +"Nay, let us be wise and let us be good. They who rule us speak with +foreign tongue, but their hearts desire our peace and a mutual regard. +Pray that this be. And pray for the young and the daring and the +foolish. And pray also that he who has given us here a good gift may +find his thanks in our better-ordered lives, and that he may consecrate +his parts and talents to the redeeming actions of this world." + +And so began the awakening of Francois Lagarre; and so began his ambition +and his peril. + +For, as he passed from the church, the Seigneur touched him on the +shoulder and introduced him to his English grandniece, come on a visit +for the summer, the daughter of a London baronet. She had but just +arrived, and she was feeling that first homesickness which succeeds +transplanting. The face of the young worker in stone interested her; the +idea of it all was romantic; the possibilities of the young man's life +opened out before her. Why should not she give him his real start, win +his gratitude, help him to his fame, and then, when it was won, be +pointed out as a discoverer and a patron? + +All these things flashed through her mind as they were introduced. The +young man did not read the look in her eyes, but there was one other +person in the crowd about the church steps who did read it, whose heart +beat furiously, whose foot tapped the ground angrily--a black-haired, +brown-eyed farmer's daughter, who instantly hated the yellow hair and +rosy and golden face of the blue-eyed London lady; who could, that +instant, have torn the silk gown from her graceful figure. + +She was not disturbed without reason. And for the moment, even when she +heard impertinent and incredulous fellows pooh-poohing the monument, and +sharpening their rather dull wits upon its corners, she did not open her +lips, when otherwise she would have spoken her mind with a vengeance; for +Jeanne Marchand had a reputation for spirit and temper, and she spared no +one when her blood was up. She had a touch of the vixen--an impetuous, +loving, forceful mademoiselle, in marked contrast to the rather ascetic +Francois, whose ways were more refined than his origin might seem to +warrant. + +"Sapre!" said Duclosse the mealman of the monument; "it's like a timber +of cheese stuck up. What's that to make a fuss about?" + +"Fig of Eden," muttered Jules Marmotte, with one eye on Jeanne, "any fool +could saw a better-looking thing out of ice!" + +"Fish," said fat Caroche the butcher, "that Francois has a rattle in his +capote. He'd spend his time better chipping bones on my meat-block." + +But Jeanne could not bear this--the greasy whopping butcher-man! + +"What, what, the messy stupid Caroche, who can't write his name," she +said in a fury; "the sausage-potted Caroche, who doesn't remember that +Francois Lagarre made his brother's tombstone, and charged him nothing +for the verses he wrote for it, nor for the Agnus Dei he carved on it! +No, Caroche does not remember his brother Ba'tiste the fighter, as brave +as Caroche is a coward! He doesn't remember the verse on Ba'tiste's +tombstone, does he?" + +Francois heard this speech, and his eyes lighted tenderly as he looked at +Jeanne: he loved this fury of defence and championship. Some one in the +crowd turned to him and asked him to say the verses. At first he would +not; but when Caroche said that it was only his fun, that he meant +nothing against Francois, the young man recited the words slowly--an +epitaph on one who was little better than a prize-fighter, a splendid +bully. + +Leaning a hand against the white shaft of the Patriot's Memory, he said: + + "Blows I have struck, and blows a-many taken, + Wrestling I've fallen, and I've rose up again; + Mostly I've stood-- + I've had good bone and blood; + Others went down, though fighting might and main. + Now death steps in-- + Death the price of sin. + The fall it will be his; and though I strive and strain, + One blow will close my eyes, and I shall never waken." + +"Good enough for Ba'tiste," said Duclosse the mealman. + +The wave of feeling was now altogether with Francois, and presently he +walked away with Jeanne Marchand and her mother, and the crowd dispersed. +Jeanne was very happy for a few hours, but in the evening she was +unhappy, for she saw Francois going towards the house of the Seigneur; +and during many weeks she was still more unhappy, for every three or four +days she saw the same thing. + +Meanwhile Francois worked as he had never before worked in his life. +Night and day he was shut in his shop, and for two months he came with +no epitaphs for the Cure, and no new tombstones were set up in the +graveyard. The influence of the lady at the Seigneury was upon him, and +he himself believed it was for his salvation. She had told him of great +pieces of sculpture she had seen, had sent and got from Quebec City, +where he had never been, pictures of some of the world's masterpieces in +sculpture, and he had lost himself in the study of them and in the depths +of the girl's eyes. She meant no harm; the man interested her beyond +what was reasonable in one of his station in life. That was all, and all +there ever was. + +Presently people began to gossip, and a story crept round that, in a new +shed which he had built behind his shop, Francois was chiselling out of +stone the nude figure of a woman. There were one or two who professed +they had seen it. The wildest gossip said that the figure was that of +the young lady at the Seigneury. Francois saw no more of Jeanne +Marchand; he thought of her sometimes, but that was all. A fever of work +was on him. Twice she came to the shed where he laboured, and knocked at +the door. The first time, he asked who was there. When she told him he +opened the door just a little way, smiled at her, caught her hand and +pressed it, and, when she would have entered, said: "No, no, another day, +Jeanne," and shut the door in her face. + +She almost hated him because he had looked so happy. Still another day +she came knocking. She called to him, and this time he opened the door +and admitted her. That very hour she had heard again the story of the +nude stone woman in the shed, and her heart was full of jealousy, fury, +and suspicion. He was very quiet, he seemed tired. She did not notice +that. Her heart had throbbed wildly as she stepped inside the shed. +She looked round, all delirious eagerness for the nude figure. + +There it was, covered up with a great canvas! Yes, there were the +outlines of the figure. How shapely it seemed, even inside the canvas! + +She stepped forward without a word, and snatched at the covering. He +swiftly interposed and stopped her hand. + +"I will see it," she said. + +"Not to-day," he answered. + +"I tell you I will." She wrenched her hand free and caught at the +canvas. A naked foot and ankle showed. He pinioned her wrists with one +hand and drew her towards the door, determination and anger in his face. + +"You beast, you liar!" she said. + +"You beast! beast! beast!" + +Then, with a burst of angry laughter, she opened the door herself. "You +ain't fit to know," she said; "they told the truth about you. Now you +can take the canvas off her. Good-bye!" With that she was gone. The +following day was Sunday. Francois did not attend Mass, and such strange +scandalous reports had reached the Cure that he was both disturbed and +indignant. That afternoon, after vespers (which Francois did not +attend), the Cure made his way to the sculptor's workshop, followed +by a number of parishioners. + +The crowd increased, and when the Cure knocked at the door it seemed as +if half the village was there. The chief witness against Francois had +been Jeanne Marchand. That very afternoon she had told the Cure, with +indignation and bitterness, that there was no doubt about it; all that +had been said was true. + +Francois, with wonder and some confusion, admitted the Cure. When M. +Fabre demanded that he be taken to the new workshop, Francois led the +way. The crowd pushed after, and presently the place was full. A +hundred eyes were fastened upon the canvas-covered statue, which had been +the means of the young man's undoing. + +Terrible things had been said--terrible things of Francois, and of the +girl at the Seigneury. They knew the girl for a Protestant and an +Englishwoman, and that in itself was a sort of sin. And now every ear +was alert to hear what the Cure should say, what denunciation should come +from his lips when the covering was removed. For that it should be +removed was the determination of every man present. Virtue was at its +supreme height in Pontiac that day. Lajeunesse the blacksmith, Muroc the +charcoal-man, and twenty others were as intent upon preserving a high +standard of morality, by force of arms, as if another Tarquin were +harbouring shame and crime in this cedar shed. + +The whole thing came home to Francois with a choking, smothering force. +Art, now in its very birth in his heart and life, was to be garroted. He +had been unconscious of all the wicked things said about him: now he knew +all! + +"Remove the canvas from the figure," said the Cure sternly. Stubbornness +and resentment filled Francois's breast. He did not stir. + +"Do you oppose the command of the Church?" said the Cure, still more +severely. "Remove the canvas." + +"It is my work--my own: my idea, my stone, and the labour of my hands," +said Francois doggedly. + +The Cure turned to Lajeunesse and made a motion towards the statue. +Lajeunesse, with a burning righteous joy, snatched off the canvas. +There was one instant of confusion in the faces of all-of absolute +silence. + +Then the crowd gasped. The Cure's hat came off, and every other hat +followed. The Cure made the sign of the cross upon his breast and +forehead, and every other man, woman, and child present did the same. +Then all knelt, save Francois and the Cure himself. + +What they saw was a statue of Christ, a beautiful benign figure; +barefooted, with a girdle about his waist: the very truth and semblance +of a man. The type was strong and yet delicate; vigorous and yet +refined; crude and yet noble; a leader of men--the God-man, not the +man-God. + +After a moment's silence the Cure spoke. "Francois, my son," said he, +"we have erred. 'All we like sheep have gone astray; we have followed +each after his own way, but God hath laid on Him'--he looked towards the +statue--'the iniquity of us all.'" + +Francois stood still a moment gazing at the Cure, doggedly, bitterly; +then he turned and looked scornfully at the crowd, now risen to their +feet again. Among them was a girl crying as if her heart would break. +It was Jeanne Marchand. He regarded her coldly. + +"You were so ready to suspect," he said. + +Then he turned once more to the Cure. "I meant it as my gift to the +Church, monsieur le Cure--to Pontiac, where I was born again. I waked +up here to what I might do in sculpture, and you--you all were so ready +to suspect! Take it, it is my last gift." + +He went to the statue, touched the hands of it lovingly, and stooped and +kissed the feet. Then, without more words, he turned and left the shed +and the house. + +Pouring out into the street the people watched him cross the bridge that +led into another parish--and into another world: for from that hour +Francois Lagarre was never seen in Pontiac. + +The statue that he made stands upon a little hill above the valley where +the beaters of flax come in the autumn, through which the woodsmen pass +in winter and in spring. But Francois Lagarre, under another name, works +in another land. + +While the Cure lived he heard of him and of his fame now and then, and to +the day of his death he always prayed for him. He was wont to say to the +little Avocat whenever Francois's name was mentioned: + +"The spirit of a man will support him, but a wounded spirit who can +bear?" + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +But a wounded spirit who can bear +Man grows old only by what he suffers, and what he forgives +You--you all were so ready to suspect + + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 3. + + +THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE +THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER +MATHURIN +THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER +THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF +UNCLE JIM +THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH +PARPON THE DWARF + + + +THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE + +The chest of drawers, the bed, the bedding, the pieces of linen, and the +pile of yarn had been ready for many months. Annette had made inventory +of them every day since the dot was complete--at first with a great deal +of pride, after a time more shyly and wistfully: Benoit did not come. He +had said he would be down with the first drive of logs in the summer, and +at the little church of St. Saviour's they would settle everything and +get the Cure's blessing. Almost anybody would have believed in Benoit. +He had the brightest scarf, the merriest laugh, the quickest eyes, and +the blackest head in Pontiac; and no one among the river drivers could +sing like him. That was, he said gaily, because his earrings were gold, +and not brass like those of his comrades. Thus Benoit was a little vain, +and something more; but old ladies such as the Little Chemist's wife said +he was galant. Probably only Medallion the auctioneer and the Cure did +not lose themselves in the general admiration; they thought he was to +Annette like a farthing dip to a holy candle. + +Annette was the youngest of twelve, and one of a family of thirty-for +some of her married brothers and sisters and their children lived in her +father's long white house' by the river. When Benoit failed to come in +the spring, they showed their pity for her by abusing him; and when she +pleaded for him they said things which had an edge. They ended by +offering to marry her to Farette, the old miller, to whom they owed money +for flour. They brought Farette to the house at last, and she was +patient while he ogled her, and smoked his strong tabac, and tried to +sing. She was kind to him, and said nothing until, one day, urged by her +brother Solime, he mumbled the childish chanson Benoit sang the day he +left, as he passed their house going up the river: + + "High in a nest of the tam'rac tree, + Swing under, so free, and swing over; + Swing under the sun and swing over the world, + My snow-bird, my gay little lover + My gay little lover, don, don! . . . don, don! + + "When the winter is done I will come back home, + To the nest swinging under and over, + Swinging under and over and waiting for me, + Your rover, my snow-bird, your rover-- + Your lover and rover, don, don! . . . don, don!" + +It was all very well in the mouth of the sprightly, sentimental Benoit; +it was hateful foolishness in Farette. Annette now came to her feet +suddenly, her pale face showing defiance, and her big brown eyes flicking +anger. She walked up to the miller and said: "You are old and ugly and a +fool. But I do not hate you; I hate Solime, my brother, for bringing you +here. There is the bill for the flour? Well, I will pay it myself--and +you can go as soon as you like." + +Then she put on her coat and capote and mittens, and went to the door. +"Where are you going, Ma'm'selle?" cried Solime, in high rage. + +"I am going to M'sieu' Medallion," she said. + +Hard profane words followed her, but she ran, and never stopped till she +came to Medallion's house. He was not there. She found him at the +Little Chemist's. That night a pony and cart took away from the house +of Annette's father the chest of drawers, the bed, the bedding, the +pieces of linen, and the pile of yarn which had been made ready so long +against Benoit's coming. Medallion had said he could sell them at once, +and he gave her the money that night; but this was after he had had a +talk with the Cure, to whom Annette had told all. Medallion said he had +been able to sell the things at once; but he did not tell her that they +were stored in a loft of the Little Chemist's house, and that the Little +Chemist's wife had wept over them and carried the case to the shrine of +the Blessed Virgin. + +It did not matter that the father and brothers stormed. Annette was +firm; the dot was hers, and she would do as she wished. She carried the +money to the miller. He took it grimly and gave her a receipt, grossly +mis-spelled, and, as she was about to go, brought his fist heavily down +on his leg and said: "Mon Dieu, it is brave--it is grand--it is an +angel." Then he chuckled: "So, so! It was true. I am old, ugly, and a +fool. Eh, well, I have my money!" Then he took to counting it over in +his hand, forgetting her, and she left him growling gleefully over it. + +She had not a happy life, but her people left her alone, for the Cure had +said stern things to them. All during the winter she went out fishing +every day at a great hole in the ice--bitter cold work, and fit only for +a man; but she caught many fish, and little by little laid aside pennies +to buy things to replace what she had sold. It had been a hard trial to +her to sell them. But for the kind-hearted Cure she would have repined. +The worst thing happened, however, when the ring Benoit had given her +dropped from her thin finger into the water where she was fishing. Then +a shadow descended on her, and she grew almost unearthly in the anxious +patience of her face. The Little Chemist's wife declared that the look +was death. Perhaps it would have been if Medallion had not sent a lad +down to the bottom of the river and got the ring. He gave it to the +Cure, who put it on her finger one day after confession. Then she +brightened, and waited on and on patiently. + +She waited for seven years. Then the deceitful Benoit came pensively +back to her, a cripple from a timber accident. She believed what he told +her; and that was where her comedy ended and her tragedy began. + + + + + + +THE MARRIAGE OF THE MILLER + +Medallion put it into his head on the day that Benoit and Annette were +married. "See," said Medallion, "Annette wouldn't have you--and quite +right--and she took what was left of that Benoit, who'll laugh at you +over his mush-and-milk." + +"Benoit will want flour some day, with no money." The old man chuckled +and rubbed his hands. "That's nothing; he has the girl--an angel!" +"Good enough, that is what I said of her--an angel!" + +"Get married yourself, Farette." + +For reply Farette thrust a bag of native tabac into Medallion's hands. +Then they went over the names of the girls in the village. Medallion +objected to those for whom he wished a better future, but they decided at +last on Julie Lachance, who, Medallion thought, would in time profoundly +increase Farette's respect for the memory of his first wife; for Julie +was not an angel. Then the details were ponderously thought out by the +miller, and ponderously acted upon, with the dry approval of Medallion, +who dared not tell the Cure of his complicity, though he was without +compunction. He had a sense of humour, and knew there could be no +tragedy in the thing--for Julie. But the miller was a careful man and +original in his methods. He still possessed the wardrobe of the first +wife, thoughtfully preserved by his sister, even to the wonderful grey +watered-poplin which had been her wedding-dress. These he had taken out, +shaken free of cayenne, camphor, and lavender, and sent upon the back of +Parpon, the dwarf, to the house where Julie lodged (she was an orphan), +following himself with a statement on brown paper, showing the extent of +his wealth, and a parcel of very fine flour from the new stones in his +mill. All was spread out, and then he made a speech, describing his +virtues, and condoning his one offence of age by assuring her that every +tooth in his head was sound. This was merely the concession of +politeness, for he thought his offer handsome. + +Julie slyly eyed the wardrobe and as slyly smiled, and then, imitating +Farette's manner--though Farette could not see it, and Parpon spluttered +with laughter--said: + +"M'sieu', you are a great man. The grey poplin is noble, also the flour, +and the writing on the brown paper. M'sieu', you go to Mass, and all +your teeth are sound; you have a dog-churn, also three feather-beds, and +five rag carpets; you have sat on the grand jury. + +"M'sieu', I have a dot; I accept you. M'sieu', I will keep the brown +paper, and the grey poplin, and the flour." Then with a grave elaborate +bow, "M'sieu'!" + +That was the beginning and end of the courtship. For though Farette came +every Sunday evening and smoked by the fire, and looked at Julie as she +arranged the details of her dowry, he only chuckled, and now and again +struck his thigh and said: + +"Mon Dieu, the ankle, the eye, the good child, Julie, there!" + +Then he would fall to thinking and chuckling again. One day he asked her +to make him some potato-cakes of the flour he had given her. Her answer +was a catastrophe. She could not cook; she was even ignorant of +buttermilk-pudding. He went away overwhelmed, but came back some days +afterwards and made another speech. He had laid his plans before +Medallion, who approved of them. He prefaced the speech by placing the +blank marriage certificate on the table. Then he said that his first +wife was such a cook, that when she died he paid for an extra Mass and +twelve very fine candles. He called upon Parpon to endorse his words, +and Parpon nodded to all he said, but, catching Julie's eye, went off +into gurgles of laughter, which he pretended were tears, by smothering +his face in his capote. "Ma'm'selle," said the miller, "I have thought. +Some men go to the Avocat or the Cure with great things; but I have been +a pilgrimage, I have sat on the grand jury. There, Ma'm'selle!" His +chest swelled, he blew out his cheeks, he pulled Parpon's ear as Napoleon +pulled Murat's. "Ma'm'selle, allons! Babette, the sister of my first +wife-ah! she is a great cook also--well, she was pouring into my plate +the soup--there is nothing like pea-soup with a fine lump of pork, and +thick molasses for the buckwheat cakes. Ma'm'selle, allons! Just then +I thought. It is very good; you shall see; you shall learn how to cook. +Babette will teach you. Babette said many things. I got mad and spilt +the soup. Ma'm'selle--eh, holy, what a turn has your waist!" + +At length he made it clear to her what his plans were, and to each and +all she consented; but when he had gone she sat and laughed till she +cried, and for the hundredth time took out the brown paper and studied +the list of Farette's worldly possessions. + +The wedding-day came. Julie performed her last real act of renunciation +when, in spite of the protests of her friends, she wore the grey watered- +poplin, made modern by her own hands. The wedding-day was the +anniversary of Farette's first marriage, and the Cure faltered in the +exhortation when he saw that Farette was dressed in complete mourning, +even to the crape hat-streamers, as he said, out of respect for the +memory of his first wife, and as a kind of tribute to his second. At the +wedding-breakfast, where Medallion and Parpon were in high glee, Farette +announced that he would take the honeymoon himself, and leave his wife to +learn cooking from old Babette. + +So he went away alone cheerfully, with hymeneal rice falling in showers +on his mourning garments; and his new wife was as cheerful as he, and +threw rice also. + +She learned how to cook, and in time Farette learned that he had his one +true inspiration when he wore mourning at his second marriage. + + + + + + +MATHURIN + +The tale was told to me in the little valley beneath Dalgrothe Mountain +one September morning. Far and near one could see the swinging of the +flail, and the laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land. There was a +little Calvary down by the riverside, where the flax-beaters used to say +their prayers in the intervals of their work; and it was just at the foot +of this that Angele Rouvier, having finished her prayer, put her rosary +in her pocket, wiped her eyes with the hem of her petticoat, and said to +me: + +"Ah, dat poor Mathurin, I wipe my tears for him!" + +"Tell me all about him, won't you, Madame Angele? I want to hear you +tell it," I added hastily, for I saw that she would despise me if I +showed ignorance of Mathurin's story. Her sympathy with Mathurin's +memory was real, but her pleasure at the compliment I paid her was also +real. + +"Ah! It was ver' longtime ago--yes. My gran'mudder she remember dat +Mathurin ver' well. He is not ver' big man. He has a face-oh, not ver' +handsome, not so more handsome as yours--non. His clothes, dey hang on +him all loose; his hair, it is all some grey, and it blow about him head. +He is clean to de face, no beard--no, nosing like dat. But his eye--la, +M'sieu', his eye! It is like a coal which you blow in your hand, whew! +--all bright. My gran'mudder, she say, 'Voila, you can light your pipe +with de eyes of dat Mathurin!' She know. She say dat M'sieu' Mathurin's +eyes dey shine in de dark. My gran'fadder he say he not need any lights +on his cariole when Mathurin ride with him in de night. + +"Ah, sure! it is ver' true what I tell you all de time. If you cut off +Mathurin at de chin, all de way up, you will say de top of him it is a +priest. All de way down from his neck, oh, he is just no better as +yoursel' or my Jean--non. He is a ver' good man. Only one bad ting he +do. Dat is why I pray for him; dat is why everybody pray for him--only +one bad ting. Sapristi!--if I have only one ting to say God-have-mercy +for, I tink dat ver' good; I do my penance happy. Well, dat Mathurin him +use to teach de school. De Cure he ver' fond of him. All de leetla +children, boys and girls, dey all say: 'C'est bon Mathurin!' He is not +ver' cross--non. He have no wife, no child; jes live by himself all +alone. But he is ver' good friends with everybody in Pontiac. When he +go 'long de street, everybody say, 'Ah, dere go de good Mathurin!' He +laugh, he tell story, he smoke leetla tabac, he take leetla white wine +behin' de door; dat is nosing--non. + +"He have in de parish five, ten, twenty children all call Mathurin; he is +godfadder with dem--yes. So he go about with plenty of sugar and sticks +of candy in his pocket. He never forget once de age of every leetla +child dat call him godfadder. He have a brain dat work like a clock. My +gran'fadder he say dat Mathurin have a machine in his head. It make de +words, make de thoughts, make de fine speech like de Cure, make de gran' +poetry--oh, yes! + +"When de King of Englan' go to sit on de throne, Mathurin write ver' nice +verse to him. And by-and-by dere come to Mathurin a letter--voila, dat +is a letter! It have one, two, three, twenty seals; and de King he say +to Mathurin: 'Merci mille fois, m'sieu'; you are ver' polite. I tank +you. I will keep your verses to tell me dat my French subjects are all +loyal like M. Mathurin.' Dat is ver' nice, but Mathurin is not proud-- +non. He write six verses for my granmudder--hein? Dat is something. +He write two verses for de King of Englan' and he write six verses for +my granmudder--you see! He go on so, dis week, dat week, dis year, dat +year, all de time. + +"Well, by-and-by dere is trouble on Pontiac. It is ver' great trouble. +You see dere is a fight 'gainst de King of Englan', and dat is too bad. +It is not his fault; he is ver' nice man; it is de bad men who make de +laws for de King in Quebec. Well, one day all over de country everybody +take him gun, and de leetla bullets, and say, I will fight de soldier of +de King of Englan'--like dat. Ver' well, dere was twenty men in Pontiac, +ver' nice men--you will find de names cut in a stone on de church; and +den, three times as big, you will find Mathurin's name. Ah, dat is de +ting! You see, dat rebellion you English call it, we call it de War of +de Patriot--de first War of de Patriot, not de second-well, call it what +you like, quelle difference? The King of Englan' smash him Patriot War +all to pieces. Den dere is ten men of de twenty come back to Pontiac +ver' sorry. Dey are not happy, nobody are happy. All de wives, dey cry; +all de children, dey are afraid. Some people say, What fools you are; +others say, You are no good; but everybody in him heart is ver' sorry all +de time. + +"Ver' well, by-and-by dere come to Pontiac what you call a colonel with a +dozen men--what for, you tink? To try de patriots. He will stan' dem +against de wall and shoot dem to death--kill dem dead. When dey come, de +Cure he is not in Pontiac--non, not dat day; he is gone to anudder +village. De English soldier he has de ten men drew up before de church. +All de children and all de wives dey cry and cry, and dey feel so bad. +Certainlee, it is a pity. But de English soldier he say he will march +dem off to Quebec, and everybody know dat is de end of de patriots. + +"All at once de colonel's horse it grow ver' wild, it rise up high, and +dance on him hind feet, and--voila! he topple him over backwards, and de +horse fall on de colonel and smaish him--smaish him till he go to die. +Ver' well; de colonel, what does he do? Dey lay him on de steps of de +church. Den he say: 'Bring me a priest, quick, for I go to die.' Nobody +answer. De colonel he say: 'I have a hunder sins all on my mind; dey are +on my heart like a hill. Bring to me de priest,'--he groan like dat. +Nobody speak at first; den somebody say de priest is not here. 'Find me +a priest,' say de colonel; 'find me a priest.' For he tink de priest +will not come, becos' he go to kill de patriots. 'Bring me a priest,' +he say again, 'and all de ten shall go free.' He say it over and over. +He is smaish to pieces, but his head is all right. All at once de doors +of de church open behin' him--what you tink! Everybody's heart it stan' +still, for dere is Mathurin dress as de priest, with a leetla boy to +swing de censer. Everybody say to himself, What is dis? Mathurin is +dress as de priest-ah! dat is a sin. It is what you call blaspheme. + +"The English soldier he look up at Mathurin and say: 'Ah, a priest at +last--ah, M'sieu' le Cure, comfort me!' "Mathurin look down on him and +say: 'M'sieu', it is for you to confess your sins, and to have de office +of de Church. But first, as you have promise just now, you must give up +dese poor men, who have fight for what dey tink is right. You will let +dem go free dis women'?'" 'Yes, yes,' say de English colonel; 'dey shall +go free. Only give me de help of de Church at my last.' "Mathurin turn +to de other soldiers and say: 'Unloose de men.' + +"De colonel nod his head and say: 'Unloose de men.' Den de men are +unloose, and dey all go away, for Mathurin tell dem to go quick. + +"Everybody is ver' 'fraid becos' of what Mathurin do. Mathurin he say to +de soldiers: 'Lift him up and bring him in de church.' Dey bring him up +to de steps of de altar. Mathurin look at de man for a while, and it +seem as if he cannot speak to him; but de colonel say: 'I have give you +my word. Give me comfort of de Church before I die.' He is in ver' +great pain, so Mathurin he turn roun' to everybody dat stan' by, and tell +dem to say de prayers for de sick. Everybody get him down on his knees +and say de prayer. Everybody say: 'Lord have mercy. Spare him, O Lord; +deliver him, O Lord, from Thy wrath!' And Mathurin he pray all de same +as a priest, ver' soft and gentle. He pray on and on, and de face of de +English soldier it get ver; quiet and still, and de tear drop down his +cheek. And just as Mathurin say at de last his sins dey are forgive, he +die. Den Mathurin, as he go away to take off his robes, he say to +himself: 'Miserere mei Deus! miserere mei Deus!' + +"So dat is de ting dat Mathurin do to save de patriots from de bullets. +Ver' well, de men dey go free, and when de Governor at Quebec he hear de +truth, he say it is all right. Also de English soldier die in peace and +happy, becos' he tink his sins are forgive. But den--dere is Mathurin +and his sin to pretend he is a priest! The Cure he come back, and dere +is a great trouble. + +"Mathurin he is ver' quiet and still. Nobody come near him in him house; +nobody go near to de school. But he sit alone all day in de school, and +he work on de blackboar' and he write on de slate; but dere is no child +come, becos' de Cure has forbid any one to speak to Mathurin. Not till +de next Sunday, den de Cure send for Mathurin to come to de church. +Mathurin come to de steps of de altar; den de Cure say to him: + +"'Mathurin, you have sin a great sin. If it was two hunderd years ago +you would be put to death for dat.' + +"Mathurin he say ver' soft: 'Dat is no matter. I am ready to die now. +I did it to save de fadders of de children and de husbands of de wives. +I do it to make a poor sinner happy as he go from de world. De sin is +mine.' + +"Den de Cure he say: 'De men are free, dat is good; de wives have dere +husbands and de children dere fadders. Also de man who confess his sins +--de English soldier--to whom you say de words of a priest of God, he is +forgive. De Spirit of God it was upon him when he die, becos' you speak +in de name of de Church. But for you, blasphemer, who take upon you de +holy ting, you shall suffer! For penance, all your life you shall teach +a chile no more.' + +"Voila, M'sieu' le Cure he know dat is de greatest penance for de poor +Mathurin! Den he set him other tings to do; and every month for a whole +year Mathurin come on his knees all de way to de church, but de Cure say: +'Not yet are you forgive.' At de end of de year Mathurin he look so +thin, so white, you can blow through him. Every day he go to him school +and write on de blackboar', and mark on de slate, and call de roll of de +school. But dere is no answer, for dere is no children. But all de time +de wives of de men dat he have save, and de children, dey pray for him. +And by-and-by all de village pray for him, so sorry. + +"It is so for two years; and den dey say dat Mathurin he go to die. He +cannot come on his knees to de church; and de men whose life he save, dey +come to de Cure and ask him to take de penance from Mathurin. De Cure +say: 'Wait till nex' Sunday.' So nex' Sunday Mathurin is carry to de +church--he is too weak to walk on his knees. De Cure he stan' at de +altar, and he read a letter from de Pope, which say dat Mathurin his +penance is over, and he is forgive; dat de Pope himself pray for +Mathurin, to save his soul. So "Mathurin, all at once he stan' up, and +his face it smile and smile, and he stretch out his arms as if dey are on +a cross, and he say, 'Lord, I am ready to go,' and he fall down. But de +Cure catch him as he fall, and Mathurin say: 'De children--let dem come +to me dat I teach dem before I die.' And all de children in de church +dey come close to him, and he sit up and smile at dem, and he say: + +"'It is de class in 'rithmetic. How much is three times four?' And dem +all answer: 'T'ree times four is twelve.' And he say: 'May de Twelve +Apostles pray for me!' Den he ask: 'Class in geography--how far is it +roun' de world?' And dey answer: 'Twenty-four t'ousand miles.' He say: +'Good; it is not so far to God! De school is over all de time,' he say. +And dat is only everything of poor Mathurin. He is dead. + +"When de Cure lay him down, after he make de Sign upon him, he kiss his +face and say: 'Mathurin, now you are a priest unto God.'" + +That was Angele Rouvier's story of Mathurin, the Master of the School, +for whom the women and the children pray in the parish of Pontiac, though +the school has been dismissed these hundred years and more. + + + + + + +THE STORY OF THE LIME-BURNER + +For a man in whose life there had been tragedy he was cheerful. He had a +habit of humming vague notes in the silence of conversation, as if to put +you at your ease. His body and face were lean and arid, his eyes oblique +and small, his hair straight and dry and straw-coloured; and it flew out +crackling with electricity, to meet his cap as he put it on. He lived +alone in a little but near his lime-kiln by the river, with no near +neighbours, and few companions save his four dogs; and these he fed +sometimes at expense of his own stomach. He had just enough crude poetry +in his nature to enjoy his surroundings. For he was well placed. Behind +the lime-kiln rose knoll on knoll, and beyond these the verdant hills, +all converging to Dalgrothe Mountain. In front of it was the river, with +its banks dropping forty feet, and below, the rapids, always troubled and +sportive. On the farther side of the river lay peaceful areas of meadow +and corn land, and low-roofed, hovering farm-houses, with one larger than +the rest, having a wind-mill and a flag-staff. This building was almost +large enough for a manor, and indeed it was said that it had been built +for one just before the conquest in 1759, but the war had destroyed the +ambitious owner, and it had become a farm-house. Paradis always knew the +time of the day by the way the light fell on the wind-mill. He had owned +this farm once, he and his brother Fabian, and he had loved it as he +loved Fabian, and he loved it now as he loved Fabian's memory. In spite +of all, they were cheerful memories, both of brother and house. + +At twenty-three they had become orphans, with two hundred acres of land, +some cash, horses and cattle, and plenty of credit in the parish, or in +the county, for that matter. Both were of hearty dispositions, but +Fabian had a taste for liquor, and Henri for pretty faces and shapely +ankles. Yet no one thought the worse of them for that, especially at +first. An old servant kept house for them and cared for them in her +honest way, both physically and morally. She lectured them when at first +there was little to lecture about. It is no wonder that when there came +a vast deal to reprove, the bonne desisted altogether, overwhelmed by the +weight of it. + +Henri got a shock the day before their father died when he saw Fabian +lift the brandy used to mix with the milk of the dying man, and pouring +out the third of a tumbler, drink it off, smacking his lips as he did so, +as though it were a cordial. That gave him a cue to his future and to +Fabian's. After their father died Fabian gave way to the vice. He drank +in the taverns, he was at once the despair and the joy of the parish; +for, wild as he was, he had a gay temper, a humorous mind, a strong arm, +and was the universal lover. The Cure, who did not, of course, know one- +fourth of his wildness, had a warm spot for him in his heart. But there +was a vicious strain in him somewhere, and it came out one day in a +perilous fashion. + +There was in the hotel of the Louis Quinze an English servant from the +west, called Nell Barraway. She had been in a hotel in Montreal, and it +was there Fabian had seen her as she waited at table. She was a +splendid-looking creature--all life and energy, tall, fair-haired, and +with a charm above her kind. She was also an excellent servant, could do +as much as any two women in any house, and was capable of more airy +diablerie than any ten of her sex in Pontiac. When Fabian had said to +her in Montreal that he would come to see her again, he told her where he +lived. She came to see him instead, for she wrote to the landlord of the +Louis Quinze, enclosed fine testimonials, and was at once engaged. +Fabian was stunned when he entered the Louis Quinze and saw her waiting +at table, alert, busy, good to behold. She nodded at him with a quick +smile as he stood bewildered just inside the door, then said in English: +"This way, m'sieu'." + +As he sat down he said in English also, with a laugh and with snapping +eyes: "Good Lord, what brings you here, lady-bird?" + +As she pushed a chair under him she whispered through his hair: "You!" +and then was gone away to fetch pea-soup for six hungry men. + +The Louis Quinze did more business now in three months than it had done +before in six. But it became known among a few in Pontiac that Nell was +notorious. How it had crept up from Montreal no one guessed, and, when +it did come, her name was very intimately associated with Fabian's. No +one could say that she was not the most perfect of servants, and also no +one could say that her life in Pontiac had not been exemplary. Yet wise +people had made up their minds that she was determined to marry Fabian, +and the wisest declared that she would do so in spite of everything-- +religion (she was a Protestant), character, race. She was clever, as the +young Seigneur found, as the little Avocat was forced to admit, as the +Cure allowed with a sigh, and she had no airs of badness at all and very +little of usual coquetry. Fabian was enamoured, and it was clear that he +intended to bring the woman to the Manor one way or another. + +Henri admitted the fascination of the woman, felt it, despaired, went to +Montreal, got proof of her career, came back, and made his final and only +effort to turn his brother from the girl. + +He had waited an hour outside the hotel for his brother, and when Fabian +got in, he drove on without a word. After a while, Fabian, who was in +high spirits, said: + +"Open your mouth, Henri. Come along, sleepyhead." + +Straightway he began to sing a rollicking song, and Henri joined in with +him heartily, for the spirit of Fabian's humour was contagious: + + "There was a little man, + The foolish Guilleri + Carabi. + He went unto the chase, + Of partridges the chase. + Carabi. + Titi Carabi, + Toto Carabo, + You're going to break your neck, + My lovely Guilleri!" + +He was about to begin another verse when Henri stopped him, saying: + +"You're going to break your neck, Fabian." + +"What's up, Henri?" was the reply. + +"You're drinking hard, and you don't keep good company." + +Fabian laughed. "Can't get the company I want, so what I can get I have, +Henri, my lad." + +"Don't drink." Henri laid his freehand on Fabian's knee. + +"Whiskey-wine is meat and drink to me--I was born on New Year's Day, old +coffin-face. Whiskey-wine day, they ought to call it. Holy! the empty +jars that day." Henri sighed. "That's the drink, Fabian," he said +patiently. "Give up the company. I'll be better company for you than +that girl, Fabian." + +"Girl? What the devil do you mean!" + +"She, Nell Barraway, was the company I meant, Fabian." + +"Nell Barraway--you mean her? Bosh! I'm going to marry her, Henri." + +"You mustn't, Fabian," said Henri, eagerly clutching Fabian's sleeve. + +"But I must, my Henri. She's the best-looking, wittiest girl I ever saw +--splendid. Never lonely with her." + +"Looks and brains isn't everything, Fabian." + +"Isn't it, though? Isn't it? Tiens, you try it!" + +"Not without goodness." Henri's voice weakened. + +"That's bosh. Of course it is, Henri, my dear. If you love a woman, if +she gets hold of you, gets into your blood, loves you so that the touch +of her fingers sets your pulses going pom-pom, you don't care a sou +whether she is good or not." + +"You mean whether she was good or not?" + +"No, I don't. I mean is good or not. For if she loves you she'll travel +straight for your sake. Pshaw, you don't know anything about it!" + +"I know all about it." + +"Know all about it! You're in love--you?" + +"Yes." + +Fabian sat open-mouthed for a minute. "Godam!" he said. It was his one +English oath. + +"Is she good company?" he asked after a minute. + +"She's the same as you keep--voila, the same." + +"You mean Nell--Nell?" asked Fabian, in a dry, choking voice. + +"Yes, Nell. From the first time I saw her. But I'd cut my hand off +first. I'd think of you; of our people that have been here for two +hundred years; of the rooms in the old house where mother used to be." + +Fabian laughed nervously. "Holy heaven, and you've got her in your +blood, too!" + +"Yes, but I'd never marry her. Fabian, at Montreal I found out all about +her. She was as bad--" + +"That's nothing to me, Henri," said Fabian, "but something else is. Here +you are now. I'll make a bargain." His face showed pale in the +moonlight. "If you'll drink with me, do as I do, go where I go, play the +devil when I play it, and never squeal, never hang back, I'll give her +up. But I've got to have you--got to have you all the time, everywhere, +hunting, drinking, or letting alone. You'll see me out, for you're +stronger, had less of it. I'm soon for the little low house in the +grass. Stop the horses." + +Henri stopped them and they got out. They were just opposite the lime- +kiln, and they had to go a few hundred yards before they came to the +bridge to cross the river to their home. The light of the fire shone in +their faces as Fabian handed the flask to Henri, and said: "Let's drink +to it, Henri. You half, and me half." He was deadly pale. + +Henri drank to the finger-mark set, and then Fabian lifted the flask to +his lips. + +"Good-bye, Nell!" he said. "Here's to the good times we've had!" He +emptied the flask, and threw it over the bank into the burning lime, and +Garotte, the old lime-burner, being half asleep, did not see or hear. + +The next day the two went on a long hunting expedition, and the following +month Nell Barraway left for Montreal. + +Henri kept to his compact, drink for drink, sport for sport. One year +the crops were sold before they were reaped, horses and cattle went +little by little, then came mortgage, and still Henri never wavered, +never weakened, in spite of the Cure and all others. The brothers were +always together, and never from first to last did Henri lose his temper, +or openly lament that ruin was coming surely on them. What money Fabian +wanted he got. The Cure's admonitions availed nothing, for Fabian would +go his gait. The end came on the very spot where the compact had been +made; for, passing the lime-kiln one dark night, as the two rode home +together, Fabian's horse shied, the bank of the river gave way, and with +a startled "Ah, Henri!" the profligate and his horse were gone into the +river below. + +Next month the farm and all were sold, Henri Paradis succeeded the old +lime-burner at his post, drank no more ever, and lived his life in sight +of the old home. + + + + + + +THE WOODSMAN'S STORY OF THE GREAT WHITE CHIEF + +The old woodsman shifted the knife with which he was mending his fishing- +rod from one hand to the other, and looked at it musingly, before he +replied to Medallion. "Yes, m'sieu', I knew the White Chief, as they +called him: this was his"--holding up the knife; "and this"--taking a +watch from his pocket. "He gave them to me; I was with him in the Circle +on the great journey." + +"Tell us about him, then," Medallion urged; "for there are many tales, +and who knows which is the right one?" + +"The right one is mine. Holy, he was to me like a father then! I know +more of the truth than any one." He paused a moment, looking out on the +river where the hot sun was playing with all its might, then took off his +cap with deliberation, laid it beside him, and speaking as it were into +the distance, began: + +"He once was a trader of the Hudson's Bay Company. Of his birth some +said one thing, some another; I know he was beaucoup gentil, and his +heart, it was a lion's! Once, when there was trouble with the +Chipp'ways, he went alone to their camp, and say he will fight their +strongest man, to stop the trouble. He twist the neck of the great +fighting man of the tribe, so that it go with a snap, and that ends it, +and he was made a chief, for, you see, in their hearts they all hated +their strong man. Well, one winter there come down to Fort o' God two +Esquimaux, and they say that three white men are wintering by the +Coppermine River; they had travel down from the frozen seas when their +ship was lock in the ice, but can get no farther. They were sick with +the evil skin, and starving. The White Chief say to me: 'Galloir, will +you go to rescue them?' I would have gone with him to the ends of the +world--and this was near one end." + +The old man laughed to himself, tossed his jet-black hair from his +wrinkled face, and after a moment, went on: "There never was such a +winter as that. The air was so still by times that you can hear the +rustle of the stars and the shifting of the northern lights; but the cold +at night caught you by the heart and clamp it--Mon Dieu, how it clamp! +We crawl under the snow and lay in our bags of fur and wool, and the dogs +hug close to us. We were sorry for the dogs; and one died, and then +another, and there is nothing so dreadful as to hear the dogs howl in the +long night--it is like ghosts crying in an empty world. The circle of +the sun get smaller and smaller, till he only tramp along the high edge +of the north-west. We got to the river at last and found the camp. +There is one man dead--only one; but there were bones--ah, m'sieu', you +not guess what a thing it is to look upon the bones of men, and know +that--!" + +Medallion put his hand on the old man's arm. "Wait a minute," he said. +Then he poured out coffee for both, and they drank before the rest was +told. + +"It's a creepy story," said Medallion, "but go on." + +"Well, the White Chief look at the dead man as he sit there in the snow, +with a book and a piece of paper beside him, and the pencil in the book. +The face is bent forward to the knees. The White Chief pick up the book +and pencil, and then kneel down and gaze up in the dead man's face, all +hard like stone and crusted with frost. I thought he would never stir +again, he look so long. I think he was puzzle. Then he turn and say to +me: 'So quiet, so awful, Galloir!' and got up. Well, but it was cold +then, and my head seemed big and running about like a ball of air. But +I light a spirit-lamp, and make some coffee, and he open the dead man's +book--it is what they call a diary--and begin to read. All at once I +hear a cry, and I see him drop the book on the ground, and go to the dead +man, and jerk his fist as if to strike him in the face. But he did not +strike." + +Galloir stopped, and lighted his pipe, and was so long silent that +Medallion had to jog him into speaking. He puffed the smoke so that his +face was in the cloud, and he said through it: "No, he did not strike. +He get to his feet and spoke: 'God forgive her!' like that, and come and +take up the book again, and read. He eat and drunk, and read the book +again, and I know by his face that something more than cold was clamp his +heart. + +"'Shall we bury him in the snow?' I say. 'No,' he spoke, 'let him sit +there till the Judgmen'. This is a wonderful book, Galloir,' he went on. +'He was a brave man, but the rest--the rest!'--then under his breath +almost: 'She was so young--but a child.' I not understand that. We start +away soon, leaving the thing there. For four days, and then I see that +the White Chief will never get back to Fort Pentecost; but he read the +dead man's book much. . . ." + +"I cannot forget that one day. He lies down looking at the world-- +nothing but the waves of snow, shining blue and white, on and on. The +sun lift an eye of blood in the north, winking like a devil as I try to +drive Death away by calling in his ear. He wake all at once; but his +eyes seem asleep. He tell me to take the book to a great man in +Montreal--he give me the name. Then he take out his watch--it is stop-- +and this knife, and put them into my hands, and then he pat my shoulder. +He motion to have the bag drawn over his head. I do it. . . . Of +course that was the end!" + +"But what about the book?" Medallion asked. + +"That book? It is strange. I took it to the man in Montreal--tonnerre, +what a fine house and good wine had he!--and told him all. He whip out a +scarf, and blow his nose loud, and say very angry: 'So, she's lost both +now! What a scoundrel he was! . . .' Which one did he mean? I not +understan' ever since." + + + + + + +UNCLE JIM + +He was no uncle of mine, but it pleased me that he let me call him Uncle +Jim. + +It seems only yesterday that, for the first time, on a farm "over the +border," from the French province, I saw him standing by a log outside +the wood-house door, splitting maple knots. He was all bent by years and +hard work, with muscles of iron, hands gnarled and lumpy, but clinching +like a vise; grey head thrust forward on shoulders which had carried +forkfuls of hay and grain, and leaned to the cradle and the scythe, and +been heaped with cordwood till they were like hide and metal; white +straggling beard and red watery eyes, which, to me, were always hung with +an intangible veil of mystery--though that, maybe, was my boyish fancy. +Added to all this he was so very deaf that you had to speak clear and +loud into his ear; and many people he could not hear at all, if their +words were not sharp-cut, no matter how loud. A silent, withdrawn man +he was, living close to Mother Earth, twin-brother of Labour, to whom +Morning and Daytime were sounding-boards for his axe, scythe, saw, flail, +and milking-pail, and Night a round hollow of darkness into which he +crept, shutting the doors called Silence behind him, till the impish page +of Toil came tapping again, and he stepped awkwardly into the working +world once more. Winter and summer saw him putting the kettle on the +fire a few minutes after four o'clock, in winter issuing with lantern +from the kitchen door to the stable and barn to feed the stock; in summer +sniffing the grey dawn and looking out on his fields of rye and barley, +before he went to gather the cows for milking and take the horses to +water. + +For forty years he and his worn-faced wife bowed themselves beneath the +yoke, first to pay for the hundred-acre farm, and then to bring up and +educate their seven children. Something noble in them gave them +ambitions for their boys and girls which they had never had for +themselves; but when had gone the forty years, in which the little farm +had twice been mortgaged to put the eldest son through college as a +doctor, they faced the bitter fact that the farm had passed from them to +Rodney, the second son, who had come at last to keep a hotel in a town +fifty miles away. Generous-hearted people would think that these grown- +up sons and daughters should have returned the old people's long toil and +care by buying up the farm and handing it back to them, their rightful +refuge in the decline of life. But it was not so. They were tenants +where they had been owners, dependants where they had been givers, slaves +where once they were, masters. The old mother toiled without a servant, +the old man without a helper, save in harvest time. + +But the great blow came when Rodney married the designing milliner who +flaunted her wares opposite his bar-room; and, somehow, from the date +of that marriage, Rodney's good fortune and the hotel declined. When he +and his wife first visited the little farm after their marriage the old +mother shrank away from the young woman's painted face, and ever +afterwards an added sadness showed in her bearing and in her patient +smile. But she took Rodney's wife through the house, showing her all +there was to show, though that was not much. There was the little +parlour with its hair-cloth chairs, rag carpet, centre table, and iron +stove with black pipes, all gaily varnished. There was the parlour +bedroom off it, with the one feather-bed of the house bountifully piled +up with coarse home-made blankets, topped by a silk patchwork quilt, the +artistic labour of the old wife's evening hours while Uncle Jim peeled +apples and strung them to dry from the rafters. There was a room, +dining-room in summer, and kitchen dining-room in winter, as clean as +aged hands could scrub and dust it, hung about with stray pictures from +illustrated papers, and a good old clock in the corner "ticking" life, +and youth, and hope away. There was the buttery off that, with its +meagre china and crockery, its window looking out on the field of rye, +the little orchard of winter apples, and the hedge of cranberry bushes. +Upstairs were rooms with no ceilings, where, lying on a corn-husk bed, +you reached up and touched the sloping roof, with windows at the end +only, facing the buckwheat field, and looking down two miles towards the +main road--for the farm was on a concession or side-road, dusty in +summer, and in winter sometimes impassable for weeks together. It was +not much of a home, as any one with the mind's eye can see, but four +stalwart men and three fine women had been born, raised, and quartered +there, until, with good clothes, and speaking decent English and +tolerable French, and with money in their pockets, hardly got by the old +people, one by one they issued forth into the world. + +The old mother showed Rodney's wife what there was for eyes to see, not +forgetting the three hives of bees on the south side, beneath the parlour +window. She showed it with a kind of pride, for it all seemed good to +her, and every dish, and every chair, and every corner in the little +house had to her a glory of its own, because of those who had come and +gone--the firstlings of her flock, the roses of her little garden of +love, blooming now in a rougher air than ranged over the little house on +the hill. She had looked out upon the pine woods to the east and the +meadow-land to the north, the sweet valley between the rye-field and the +orchard, and the good honest air that had blown there for forty years, +bracing her heart and body for the battle of love and life, and she had +said through all, Behold it is very good. + +But the pert milliner saw nothing of all this; she did not stand abashed +in the sacred precincts of a home where seven times the Angel of Death +had hovered over a birth-bed. She looked into the face which Time's +finger had anointed, and motherhood had etched with trouble, and said: + +"'Tisn't much, is it? Only a clap-board house, and no ceilings upstairs, +and rag carpets-pshaw!" + +And when she came to wash her hands for dinner, she threw aside the +unscented, common bar-soap, and, shrugging her narrow shoulders at the +coarse towel, wiped her fingers on her cambric handkerchief. Any other +kind of a woman, when she saw the old mother going about with her twisted +wrist--a doctor's bad work with a fracture--would have tucked up her +dress, and tied on an apron to help. But no, she sat and preened herself +with the tissue-paper sort of pride of a vain milliner, or nervously +shifted about, lifting up this and that, curiously supercilious, her +tongue rattling on to her husband and to his mother in a shallow, foolish +way. She couldn't say, however, that any thing was out of order or ill- +kept about the place. The old woman's rheumatic fingers made corners +clean, and wood as white as snow, the stove was polished, the tins were +bright, and her own dress, no matter what her work, neat as a girl's, +although the old graceful poise of the body had twisted out of drawing. + +But the real crisis came when Rodney, having stood at the wood-house door +and blown the dinner-horn as he used to do when a boy, the sound floating +and crying away across the rye-field, the old man came--for, strange to +say, that was the one sound he could hear easily, though, as he said to +himself, it seemed as small as a pin, coming from ever so far away. He +came heavily up from the barn-yard, mopping his red face and forehead, +and now and again raising his hand to shade his eyes, concerned to see +the unknown visitors, whose horse and buggy were in the stable-yard. He +and Rodney greeted outside warmly enough, but there was some trepidation +too in Uncle Jim's face--he felt trouble brewing; and there is no trouble +like that which comes between parent and child. Silent as he was, +however, he had a large and cheerful heart, and nodding his head he +laughed the deep, quaint laugh which Rodney himself of all his sons had-- +and he was fonder of Rodney than any. He washed his hands in the little +basin outside the wood-house door, combed out his white beard, rubbed his +red, watery eyes, tied a clean handkerchief round his neck, put on a +rusty but clean old coat, and a minute afterwards was shaking hands for +the first time with Rodney's wife. He had lived much apart from his +kind, but he had a mind that fastened upon a thought and worked it down +until it was an axiom. He felt how shallow was this thin, flaunting +woman of flounces and cheap rouge; he saw her sniff at the brown sugar- +she had always had white at the hotel; and he noted that she let Rodney's +mother clear away and wash the dinner things herself. He felt the little +crack of doom before it came. + +It came about three o'clock. He did not return to the rye-field after +dinner, but stayed and waited to hear what Rodney had to say. Rodney did +not tell his little story well, for he foresaw trouble in the old home; +but he had to face this and all coming dilemmas as best he might. With a +kind of shamefacedness, yet with an attempt to carry the thing off +lightly, he told Uncle Jim, while, inside, his wife told the old mother, +that the business of the hotel had gone to pot (he did not say who was +the cause of that), and they were selling out to his partner and coming +to live on the farm. + +"I'm tired anyway of the hotel job," said Rodney. "Farming's a better +life. Don't you think so, dad?" + +"It's better for me, Rod," answered Uncle Jim, "it's better for me." + +Rodney was a little uneasy. "But won't it be better for me?" he asked. + +"Mebbe," was the slow answer, "mebbe, mebbe so." + +"And then there's mother, she's getting too old for the work, ain't she?" + +"She's done it straight along," answered the old man, "straight along +till now." + +"But Millie can help her, and we'll have a hired girl, eh?" + +"I dunno, I dunno," was the brooding answer; "the place ain't going to +stand it." + +"We'll get more out of it," answered Rodney. "I'll stock it up, I'll put +more under barley. All the thing wants is working, dad. Put more in, +get more out. Now ain't that right?" + +The other was looking off towards the rye-field, where, for forty years, +up and down the hillside, he had travelled with the cradle and the +scythe, putting all there was in him into it, and he answered, blinking +along the avenue of the past: + +"Mebbe, mebbe!" + +Rodney fretted under the old man's vague replies, and said: "But darn it +all, can't you tell us what you think?" + +His father did not take his eyes off the rye-field. "I'm thinking," he +answered, in the same old-fashioned way, "that I've been working here +since you were born, Rod. I've blundered along, somehow, just boggling +my way through. I ain't got anything more to say. The farm ain't mine +any more, but I'll keep my scythe sharp and my axe ground just as I +always did, and I'm for workin' as I've always worked as long as I'm let +to stay." + +"Good Lord, dad, don't talk that way! Things ain't going to be any +different for you and mother than they are now. Only, of course--" +He paused. + +The old man pieced out the sentence: "Only, of course, there can't be two +women rulin' one house, Rod, and you know it as well as I do." + +Exactly how Rodney's wife told the old mother of the great change Rodney +never'knew; but when he went back to the house the grey look in his +mother's face told him more than her words ever told. Before they left +that night the pink milliner had already planned the changes which were +to celebrate her coming and her ruling. + +So Rodney and his wife came, all the old man prophesied in a few brief +sentences to his wife proving true. There was no great struggle on the +mother's part; she stepped aside from governing, and became as like a +servant as could be. An insolent servant-girl came, and she and Rodney's +wife started a little drama of incompetency, which should end as the +hotel-keeping ended. Wastefulness, cheap luxury, tawdry living, took the +place of the old, frugal, simple life. But the mother went about with +that unchanging sweetness of face, and a body withering about a fretted +soul. She had no bitterness, only a miserable distress. But every +slight that was put upon her, every change, every new-fangled idea, from +the white sugar to the scented soap and the yellow buggy, rankled in the +old man's heart. He had resentment both for the old wife and himself, +and he hated the pink milliner for the humiliation that she heaped upon +them both. Rodney did not see one-fifth of it, and what he did see lost +its force, because, strangely enough, he loved the gaudy wife who wore +gloves on her bloodless hands as she did the house-work and spent +numberless afternoons in trimming her own bonnets. Her peevishness grew +apace as the newness of the experience wore off. Uncle Jim seldom spoke +to her, as he seldom spoke to anybody, but she had an inkling of the +rancour in his heart, and many a time she put blame upon his shoulders to +her husband, when some unavoidable friction came. + +A year, two years, passed, which were as ten upon the shoulders of the +old people, and then, in the dead of winter, an important thing happened. +About the month of March Rodney's first child was expected. At the end +of January Rodney had to go away, expecting to return in less than a +month. But, in the middle of February, the woman's sacred trouble came +before its time. And on that day there fell such a storm as had not been +seen for many a year. The concession road was blocked before day had +well set in; no horse could go ten yards in it. The nearest doctor was +miles away at Pontiac, and for any man to face the journey was to connive +with death. The old mother came to Uncle Jim, and, as she looked out of +a little unfrosted spot on the window at the blinding storm, told him +that the pink milliner would die. There seemed to be no other end to it, +for the chances were a hundred to one against the strongest man making a +journey for the doctor, and another hundred to one against the doctor's +coming. + +No one knows whether Uncle Jim could hear the cries from the torture- +chamber, but, after standing for a time mumbling to himself, he wrapped +himself in a heavy coat, tied a muffler about his face, and went out. +If they missed him they must have thought him gone to the barn, or in the +drive-shed sharpening his axe. But the day went on and the old mother +forgot all the wrongs that she had suffered, and yearned over the trivial +woman who was hurrying out into the Great Space. Her hours seemed +numbered at noon, her moments measured as it came towards sundown, but +with the passing of the sun the storm stopped, and a beautiful white +peace fell on the world of snow, and suddenly out of that peace came six +men; and the first that opened the door was the doctor. After him came +Uncle Jim, supported between two others. + +Uncle Jim had made the terrible journey, falling at last in the streets +of the county town with frozen hands and feet, not a dozen rods from the +doctor's door. They brought him to, he told his story, and, with the +abating of the storm, the doctor and the villagers drove down to the +concession road, and then made their way slowly up across the fields, +carrying the old man with them, for he would not be left behind. + +An hour after the doctor entered the parlour bedroom the old mother came +out to where the old man sat, bundled up beside the fire with bandaged +hands and feet. + +"She's safe, Jim, and the child too," she said softly. The old man +twisted in his chair, and blinked into the fire. "Dang my soul!" he +said. + +The old woman stooped and kissed his grey tangled hair. She did not +speak, and she did not ask him what he meant; but there and then they +took up their lives again and lived them out. + + + + + + +THE HOUSE WITH THE TALL PORCH + +No one ever visited the House except the Little Chemist, the Avocat, +and Medallion; and Medallion, though merely an auctioneer, was the only +person on terms of intimacy with its owner, the old Seigneur, who for +many years had never stirred beyond the limits of his little garden. At +rare intervals he might be seen sitting in the large stone porch which +gave overweighted dignity to the house, itself not very large. + +An air of mystery surrounded the place: in summer the grass was rank, +the trees seemed huddled together in gloom about the houses, the vines +appeared to ooze on the walls, and at one end, where the window-shutters +were always closed and barred, a great willow drooped and shivered; in +winter the stone walls showed naked and grim among the gaunt trees and +furtive shrubs. + +None who ever saw the Seigneur could forget him--a tall figure with +stooping shoulders; a pale, deeply lined, clean-shaven face, and a +forehead painfully white, with blue veins showing; the eyes handsome, +penetrative, brooding, and made indescribably sorrowful by the dark skin +around them. There were those in Pontiac, such as the Cure, who +remembered when the Seigneur was constantly to be seen in the village; +and then another person was with him always, a tall, handsome youth, his +son. They were fond and proud of each other, and were religious and good +citizens in a highbred, punctilious way. + +At that time the Seigneur was all health and stalwart strength. But one +day a rumour went abroad that he had quarrelled with his son because of +the wife of Farette the miller. No one outside knew if the thing was +true, but Julie, the miller's wife, seemed rather to plume herself that +she had made a stir in her little world. Yet the curious habitants came +to know that the young man had gone, and after a few years his having +once lived there had become a mere memory. But whenever the Little +Chemist set foot inside the tall porch he remembered; the Avocat was kept +in mind by papers which he was called upon to read and alter from time to +time; the Cure never forgot, because when the young man went he lost not +one of his flock but two; and Medallion, knowing something of the story, +had wormed a deal of truth out of the miller's wife. Medallion knew that +the closed, barred rooms were the young man's; and he knew also that the +old man was waiting, waiting, in a hope which he never even named to +himself. + +One day the silent old housekeeper came rapping at Medallion's door, and +simply said to him: "Come--the Seigneur!" + +Medallion went, and for hours sat beside the Seigneur's chair, while the +Little Chemist watched and sighed softly in a corner, now and again +rising to feel the sick man's pulse or to prepare a cordial. The +housekeeper hovered behind the high-backed chair, and when the Seigneur +dropped his handkerchief--now, as always, of the exquisite fashion of a +past century--she put it gently in his hand. + +Once when the Little Chemist touched his wrist, his dark eyes rested on +him with inquiry, and he said: "Soon?" + +It was useless trying to shirk the persistency of that look. "Eight +hours, perhaps, sir," the Little Chemist answered, with painful shyness. + +The Seigneur seemed to draw himself up a little, and his hand grasped his +handkerchief tightly for an instant; then he said: "Soon. Thank you." + +After a little, his eyes turned to Medallion and he seemed about to +speak, but still kept silent. His chin dropped on his breast, and for a +time he was motionless and shrunken; but still there was a strange little +curl of pride--or disdain--on his lips. At last he drew up his head, his +shoulders came erect, heavily, to the carved back of the chair, where, +strange to say, the Stations of the Cross were figured, and he said, in a +cold, ironical voice: "The Angel of Patience has lied!" + +The evening wore on, and there was no sound, save the ticking of the +clock, the beat of rain upon the windows, and the deep breathing of the +Seigneur. Presently he started, his eyes opened wide, and his whole body +seemed to listen. + +"I heard a voice," he said. + +"No one spoke, my master," said the housekeeper. + +"It was a voice without," he said. + +"Monsieur," said the Little Chemist, "it was the wind in the eaves." + +His face was almost painfully eager and sensitively alert. + +"Hush!" he said; "I hear a voice in the tall porch." + +"Sir," said Medallion, laying a hand respectfully on his arm, "it is +nothing." + +With a light on his face and a proud, trembling energy, he got to his +feet. "It is the voice of my son," he said. "Go--go, and bring him in." + +No one moved. But he was not to be disobeyed. + +His ears had been growing keener as he neared the subtle atmosphere of +that Brink where man strips himself to the soul for a lonely voyaging, +and he waved the woman to the door. + +"Wait," he said, as her hand fluttered at the handle. "Take him to +another room. Prepare a supper such as we used to have. When it is +ready I will come. But, listen, and obey. Tell him not that I have +but four hours of life. Go, good woman, and bring him in." + +It was as he said. They found the son weak and fainting, fallen within +the porch--a worn, bearded man, returned from failure and suffering and +the husks of evil. They clothed him and cared for him, and strengthened +him with wine, while the woman wept over him and at last set him at the +loaded, well-lighted table. Then the Seigneur came in, leaning his arm +very lightly on that of Medallion with a kind of kingly air; and, +greeting his son before them all, as if they had parted yesterday, sat +down. For an hour they sat there, and the Seigneur talked gaily with a +colour to his face, and his great eyes glowing. At last he rose, lifted +his glass, and said: "The Angel of Patience is wise. I drink to my son!" + +He was about to say something more, but a sudden whiteness passed over +his face. He drank off the wine, and as he put the glass down, shivered, +and fell back in his chair. + +"Two hours short, Chemist!" he said, and smiled, and was Still. + + + + + + +PARPON THE DWARF + +Parpon perched in a room at the top of the mill. He could see every +house in the village, and he knew people a long distance off. He was a +droll dwarf, and, in his way, had good times in the world. He turned the +misery of the world into a game, and grinned at it from his high little +eyrie with the dormer window. He had lived with Farette the miller for +some years, serving him with a kind of humble insolence. + +It was not a joyful day for Farette when he married Julie. She led him a +pretty travel. He had started as her master; he ended by being her slave +and victim. + +She was a wilful wife. She had made the Seigneur de la Riviere, of the +House with the Tall Porch, to quarrel with his son Armand, so that Armand +disappeared from Pontiac for years. + +When that happened she had already stopped confessing to the good Cure; +so it may be guessed there were things she did not care to tell, and for +which she had no repentance. But Parpon knew, and Medallion the +auctioneer guessed; and the Little Chemist's wife hoped that it was not +so. When Julie looked at Parpon, as he perched on a chest of drawers, +with his head cocked and his eyes blinking, she knew that he read the +truth. But she did not know all that was in his head; so she said sharp +things to him, as she did to everybody, for she had a very poor opinion +of the world, and thought all as flippant as herself. She took nothing +seriously; she was too vain. Except that she was sorry Armand was gone, +she rather plumed herself on having separated the Seigneur and his son-- +it was something to have been the pivot in a tragedy. There came others +to the village, as, for instance, a series of clerks to the Avocat; but +she would not decline from Armand upon them. She merely made them +miserable. + +But she did not grow prettier as time went on. Even Annette, the sad +wife of the drunken Benoit, kept her fine looks; but then, Annette's life +was a thing for a book, and she had a beautiful child. You cannot keep +this from the face of a woman. Nor can you keep the other: when the +heart rusts the rust shows. + +After a good many years, Armand de la Riviere came back in time to see +his father die. Then Julie picked out her smartest ribbons, capered at +the mirror, and dusted her face with oatmeal, because she thought that he +would ask her to meet him at the Bois Noir, as he had done long ago. The +days passed, and he did not come. When she saw Armand at the funeral-- +a tall man with a dark beard and a grave face, not like the Armand she +had known, he seemed a great distance from her, though she could almost +have touched him once as he turned from the grave. She would have liked +to throw herself into his arms, and cry before them all: "Mon Armand!" +and go away with him to the House with the Tall Porch. She did not care +about Farette, the mumbling old man who hungered for money, having ceased +to hunger for anything else--even for Julie, who laughed and shut her +door in his face, and cowed him. + +After the funeral Julie had a strange feeling. She had not much brains, +but she had some shrewdness, and she felt her romance askew. She stood +before the mirror, rubbing her face with oatmeal and frowning hard. +Presently a voice behind her said: "Madame Julie, shall I bring another +bag of meal?" + +She turned quickly, and saw Parpon on a table in the corner, his legs +drawn up to his chin, his black eyes twinkling. + +"Idiot!" she cried, and threw the meal at him. He had a very long, +quick arm. He caught the basin as it came, but the meal covered him. He +blew it from his beard, laughing softly, and twirled the basin on a +finger-point. + +"Like that, there will need two bags!" he said. + +"Imbecile!" she cried, standing angry in the centre of the room. + +"Ho, ho, what a big word! See what it is to have the tongue of fashion!" + +She looked helplessly round the room. "I will kill you!" + +"Let us die together," answered Parpon; "we are both sad." + +She snatched the poker from the fire, and ran at him. He caught her +wrists with his great hands, big enough for tall Medallion, and held her. + +"I said 'together,"' he chuckled; "not one before the other. We might +jump into the flume at the mill, or go over the dam at the Bois Noir; or, +there is Farette's musket which he is cleaning--gracious, but it will +kick when it fires, it is so old!" + +She sank to the floor. "Why does he clean the musket?" she asked; fear, +and something wicked too, in her eye. Her fingers ran forgetfully +through the hair on her forehead, pushing it back, and the marks of +small-pox showed. The contrast with her smooth cheeks gave her a weird +look. Parpon got quickly on the table again and sat like a Turk, with a +furtive eye on her. "Who can tell!" he said at last. "That musket has +not been fired for years. It would not kill a bird; the shot would +scatter: but it might kill a man--a man is bigger." + +"Kill a man!" She showed her white teeth with a savage little smile. + +"Of course it is all guess. I asked Farette what he would shoot, and he +said, 'Nothing good to eat.' I said I would eat what he killed. Then he +got pretty mad, and said I couldn't eat my own head. Holy! that was +funny for Farette. Then I told him there was no good going to the Bois +Noir, for there would be nothing to shoot. Well, did I speak true, +Madame Julie?" + +She was conscious of something new in Parpon. She could not define it. +Presently she got to her feet and said: "I don't believe you--you're a +monkey." + +"A monkey can climb a tree quick; a man has to take the shot as it +comes." He stretched up his powerful arms, with a swift motion as of +climbing, laughed, and added: "Madame Julie, Farette has poor eyes; he +could not see a hole in a ladder. But he has a kink in his head about +the Bois Noir. People have talked--" + +"Pshaw!" Julie said, crumpling her apron and throwing it out; "he is a +child and a coward. He should not play with a gun; it might go off and +hit him." + +Parpon hopped down and trotted to the door. Then he turned and said, +with a sly gurgle: "Farette keeps at that gun. What is the good! There +will be nobody at the Bois Noir any more. I will go and tell him." + +She rushed at him with fury, but seeing Annette Benoit in the road, she +stood still and beat her foot angrily on the doorstep. She was ripe for +a quarrel, and she would say something hateful to Annette; for she never +forgot that Farette had asked Annette to be his wife before herself was +considered. She smoothed out her wrinkled apron and waited. + +"Good day, Annette," she said loftily. + +"Good day, Julie," was the quiet reply. + +"Will you come in?" + +"I am going to the mill for flax-seed. Benoit has rheumatism." + +"Poor Benoit!" said Julie, with a meaning toss of her head. + +"Poor Benoit," responded Annette gently. Her voice was always sweet. +One would never have known that Benoit was a drunken idler. + +"Come in. I will give you the meal from my own. Then it will cost you +nothing," said Julie, with an air. + +"Thank you, Julie, but I would rather pay." + +"I do not sell my meal," answered Julie. "What's a few pounds of meal to +the wife of Farette? I will get it for you. Come in, Annette." + +She turned towards the door, then stopped all at once. There was the +oatmeal which she had thrown at Parpon, the basin, and the poker. She +wished she had not asked Annette in. But in some things she had a quick +wit, and she hurried to say: "It was that yellow cat of Parpon's. It +spilt the meal, and I went at it with the poker." + +Perhaps Annette believed her. She did not think about it one way or the +other; her mind was with the sick Benoit. She nodded and said nothing, +hoping that the flax-seed would be got at once. But when she saw that +Julie expected an answer, she said: "Cecilia, my little girl, has a black +cat-so handsome. It came from the house of the poor Seigneur de la +Riviere a year ago. We took it back, but it would not stay." + +Annette spoke simply and frankly, but her words cut like a knife. + +Julie responded, with a click of malice: "Look out that the black cat +doesn't kill the dear Cecilia." Annette started, but she did not believe +that cats sucked the life from children's lungs, and she replied calmly: +"I am not afraid; the good God keeps my child." She then got up and came +to Julie, and said: "It is a pity, Julie, that you have not a child. A +child makes all right." + +Julie was wild to say a fierce thing, for it seemed that Annette was +setting off Benoit against Farette; but the next moment she grew hot, +her eyes smarted, and there was a hint of trouble at her throat. +She had lived very fast in the last few hours, and it was telling on her. +She could not rule herself--she could not play a part so well as she +wished. She had not before felt the thing that gave a new pulse to her +body and a joyful pain at her breasts. Her eyes got thickly blurred so +that she could not see Annette, and, without a word, she hurried to get +the meal. She was silent when she came back. She put the meal into +Annette's hands. She felt that she would like to talk of Armand. She +knew now there was no evil thought in Annette. She did not like her more +for that, but she felt she must talk, and Annette was safe. So she took +her arm. "Sit down, Annette," she said. "You come so seldom." + +"But there is Benoit, and the child--" + +"The child has the black cat from the House!" There was again a sly ring +to Julie's voice, and she almost pressed Annette into a chair. + +"Well, it must only be a minute." + +"Were you at the funeral to-day?" Julie began. + +"No; I was nursing Benoit. But the poor Seigneur! They say he died +without confession. No one was there except M'sieu' Medallion, the +Little Chemist, Old Sylvie, and M'sieu' Armand. But, of course, you +have heard everything." + +"Is that all you know?" queried Julie. + +"Not much more. I go out little, and no one comes to me except the +Little Chemist's wife--she is a good woman." + +"What did she say?" + +"Only something of the night the Seigneur died. He was sitting in his +chair, not afraid, but very sad, we can guess. By-and-by he raised his +head quickly. 'I hear a voice in the Tall Porch,' he said. They thought +he was dreaming. But he said other things, and cried again that he heard +his son's voice in the Porch. They went and found M'sieu' Armand. Then +a great supper was got ready, and he sat very grand at the head of the +table, but died quickly, when making a grand speech. It was strange he +was so happy, for he did not confess-he hadn't absolution." + +This was more than Julie had heard. She showed excitement. + +"The Seigneur and M'sieu' Armand were good friends when he died?" she +asked. + +"Quite." + +All at once Annette remembered the old talk about Armand and Julie. She +was confused. She wished she could get up and run away; but haste would +look strange. + +"You were at the funeral?" she added, after a minute. + +"Everybody was there." + +"I suppose M'sieu' Armand looks very fine and strange after his long +travel," said Annette shyly, rising to go. + +"He was always the grandest gentleman in the province," answered Julie, +in her old vain manner. "You should have seen the women look at him +to-day! But they are nothing to him--he is not easy to please." + +"Good day," said Annette, shocked and sad, moving from the door. +Suddenly she turned, and laid a hand on Julie's arm. "Come and see my +sweet Cecilia," she said. "She is gay; she will amuse you." + +She was thinking again what a pity it was that Julie had no child. + +"To see Cecilia and the black cat? Very well--some day." + +You could not have told what she meant. But, as Annette turned away +again, she glanced at the mill; and there, high up in the dormer window, +sat Parpon, his yellow cat on his shoulder, grinning down at her. She +wheeled and went into the house. + + + + +II + +Parpon sat in the dormer window for a long time, the cat purring against +his head, and not seeming the least afraid of falling, though its master +was well out on the window-ledge. He kept mumbling to himself: + +"Ho, ho, Farette is below there with the gun, rubbing and rubbing at the +rust! Holy mother, how it will kick! But he will only meddle. If she +set her eye at him and come up bold and said: 'Farette, go and have your +whiskey-wine, and then to bed,' he would sneak away. But he has heard +something. Some fool, perhaps that Benoit--no, he is sick--perhaps the +herb-woman has been talking, and he thinks he will make a fuss. But it +will be nothing. And M'sieu' Armand, will he look at her?" He chuckled +at the cat, which set its head back and hissed in reply. Then he sang +something to himself. + +Parpon was a poor little dwarf with a big head, but he had one thing +which made up for all, though no one knew it--or, at least, he thought +so. The Cure himself did not know. He had a beautiful voice. Even in +speaking it was pleasant to hear, though he roughened it in a way. It +pleased him that he had something of which the finest man or woman would +be glad. He had said to himself many times that even Armand de la +Riviere would envy him. + +Sometimes Parpon went off away into the Bois Noir, and, perched there in +a tree, sang away--a man, shaped something like an animal, with a voice +like a muffled silver bell. + +Some of his songs he had made himself: wild things, broken thoughts, not +altogether human; the language of a world between man and the spirits. +But it was all pleasant to hear, even when, at times, there ran a weird, +dark thread through the woof. No one in the valley had ever heard the +thing he sang softly as he sat looking down at Julie: + + "The little white smoke blows there, blows here, + The little blue wolf comes down-- + C'est la! + And the hill-dwarf laughs in the young wife's ear, + When the devil comes back to town-- + C'est la!" + +It was crooned quietly, but it was distinct and melodious, and the cat +purred an accompaniment, its head thrust into his thick black hair. From +where Parpon sat he could see the House with the Tall Porch, and, as he +sang, his eyes ran from the miller's doorway to it. + +Off in the grounds of the dead Seigneur's manor he could see a man push +the pebbles with his foot, or twist the branch of a shrub thoughtfully as +he walked. At last another man entered the garden. The two greeted +warmly, and passed up and down together. + + + +III + +"My good friend," said the Cure, "it is too late to mourn for those lost +years. Nothing can give them back. As Parpon the dwarf said--you +remember him, a wise little man, that Parpon--as he said one day, 'For +everything you lose you get something, if only how to laugh at +yourself."' + +Armand nodded thoughtfully and answered: "You are right--you and Parpon. +But I cannot forgive myself; he was so fine a man: tall, with a grand +look, and a tongue like a book. Yes, yes, I can laugh at myself--for a +fool." + +He thrust his hands into his pockets, and tapped the ground nervously +with his foot, shrugging his shoulders a little. The priest took off his +hat and made the sacred gesture, his lips moving. Armand caught off his +hat also, and said: "You pray--for him?" + +"For the peace of a good man's soul." + +"He did not confess; he had no rites of the Church; he had refused you +many years." + +"My son, he had a confessor." + +Armand raised his eyebrows. "They told me of no one." + +"It was the Angel of Patience." + +They walked on again for a time without a word. At last the Cure said: +"You will remain here?" + +"I cannot tell. This 'here' is a small world, and the little life may +fret me. Nor do I know what I have of this,"--he waved his hands towards +the house,--"or of my father's property. I may need to be a wanderer +again." + +"God forbid! Have you not seen the will?" + +"I have got no farther than his grave," was the sombre reply. + +The priest sighed. They paced the walk again in silence. At last the +Cure said: "You will make the place cheerful, as it once was." + +"You are persistent," replied the young man, smiling. "Whoever lives +here should make it less gloomy." + +"We shall soon know who is to live here. See, there is Monsieur Garon, +and Monsieur Medallion also." + +"The Avocat to tell secrets, the auctioneer to sell them--eh?" Armand +went forward to the gate. Like most people, he found Medallion +interesting, and the Avocat and he were old friends. + +"You did not send for me, monsieur," said the Avocat timidly, "but I +thought it well to come, that you might know how things are; and Monsieur +Medallion came because he is a witness to the will, and, in a case--"here +the little man coughed nervously--"joint executor with Monsieur le Cure." + +They entered the house. In a business-like way Armand motioned them to +chairs, opened the curtains, and rang the bell. The old housekeeper +appeared, a sorrowful joy in her face, and Armand said: "Give us a bottle +of the white-top, Sylvie, if there is any left." + +"There is plenty, monsieur," she said; "none has been drunk these twelve +years." + +The Avocat coughed, and said hesitatingly to Armand: "I asked Parpon the +dwarf to come, monsieur. There is a reason." + +Armand raised his eyebrows in surprise. "Very good," he said. "When +will he be here?" + +"He is waiting at the Louis Quinze hotel." + +"I will send for him," said Armand, and gave the message to Sylvie, who +was entering the room. + +After they had drunk the wine placed before them, there was silence for a +moment, for all were wondering why Parpon should be remembered in the +Seigneur's Will. + +"Well," said Medallion at last, "a strange little dog is Parpon. I could +surprise you about him--and there isn't any reason why I should keep the +thing to myself. One day I was up among the rocks, looking for a strayed +horse. I got tired, and lay down in the shade of the Rock of Red +Pigeons--you know it. I fell asleep. Something waked me. I got up and +heard the finest singing you can guess: not like any I ever heard; a +wild, beautiful, shivery sort of thing. I listened for a long time. At +last it stopped. Then something slid down the rock. I peeped out, and +saw Parpon toddling away." + +The Cure stared incredulously, the Avocat took off his glasses and tapped +his lips musingly, Armand whistled softly. + +"So," said Armand at last, "we have the jewel in the toad's head. The +clever imp hid it all these years--even from you, Monsieur le Cure." + +"Even from me," said the Cure, smiling. Then, gravely: "It is strange, +the angel in the stunted body." "Are you sure it's an angel?" said +Armand. + +"Who ever knew Parpon do any harm?" queried the Cure. + +"He has always been kind to the poor," put in the Avocat. + +"With the miller's flour," laughed Medallion: "a pardonable sin." He +sent a quizzical look at the Cure. "Do you remember the words of +Parpon's song?" asked Armand. + +"Only a few lines; and those not easy to understand, unless one had an +inkling." + +"Had you the inkling?" + +"Perhaps, monsieur," replied Medallion seriously. They eyed each other. + +"We will have Parpon in after the will is read," said Armand suddenly, +looking at the Avocat. The Avocat drew the deed from his pocket. He +looked up hesitatingly, and then said to Armand: "You insist on it being +read now?" + +Armand nodded coolly, after a quick glance at Medallion. Then the Avocat +began, and read to that point where the Seigneur bequeathed all his +property to his son, should he return--on a condition. When the Avocat +came to the condition Armand stopped him. + +"I do not know in the least what it may be," he said, "but there is only +one by which I could feel bound. I will tell you. My father and I +quarrelled"--here he paused for a moment, clinching his hands before him +on the table--"about a woman; and years of misery came. I was to blame +in not obeying him. I ought not to have given any cause for gossip. +Whatever the condition as to that matter may be, I will fulfil it. My +father is more to me than any woman in the world; his love of me was +greater than that of any woman. I know the world--and women." + +There was a silence. He waved his hand to the Avocat to go on, and as he +did so the Cure caught his arm with a quick, affectionate gesture. Then +Monsieur Garon read the conditions: "That Farette the miller should have +a deed of the land on which his mill was built, with the dam of the mill +--provided that Armand should never so much as by a word again address +Julie, the miller's wife. If he agreed to the condition, with solemn +oath before the Cure, his blessing would rest upon his dear son, whom he +still hoped to see before he died." + +When the reading ceased there was silence for a moment, then Armand stood +up, and took the will from the Avocat; but instantly, without looking at +it, handed it back. "The reading is not finished," he said. "And if I +do not accept the condition, what then?" + +Again Monsieur Garon read, his voice trembling a little. The words of +the will ran: "But if this condition be not satisfied, I bequeath to my +son Armand the house known as the House with the Tall Porch, and the +land, according to the deed thereof; and the residue of my property--with +the exception of two thousand dollars, which I leave to the Cure of the +parish, the good Monsieur Fabre--I bequeath to Parpon the dwarf." + +Then followed a clause providing that, in any case, Parpon should have in +fee simple the land known as the Bois Noir, and the hut thereon. + +Armand sprang to his feet in surprise, blurting out something, then sat +down, quietly took the will, and read it through carefully. When he had +finished he looked inquiringly, first at Monsieur Garon, then at the +Cure. "Why Parpon?" he said searchingly. + +The Cure, amazed, spread out his hands in a helpless way. At that moment +Sylvie announced Parpon. Armand asked that he should be sent in. "We'll +talk of the will afterwards," he added. + +Parpon trotted in, the door closed, and he stood blinking at them. +Armand put a stool on the table. "Sit here, Parpon," he said. Medallion +caught the dwarf under the arms and lifted him on the table. + +Parpon looked at Armand furtively. "The wild hawk comes back to its +nest," he said. "Well, well, what is it you want with the poor Parpon?" + +He sat down and dropped his chin in his hands, looking round keenly. +Armand nodded to Medallion, and Medallion to the priest, but the priest +nodded back again. Then Medallion said: "You and I know the Rock of Red +Pigeons, Parpon. It is a good place to perch. One's voice is all to +one's self there, as you know. Well, sing us the song of the little +brown diver." + +Parpon's hands twitched in his beard. He looked fixedly at Medallion. +Presently he turned towards the Cure, and shrank so that he looked +smaller still. + +"It's all right, little son," said the Cure kindly. Turning sharply on +Medallion, Parpon said: "When was it you heard?" + +Medallion told him. He nodded, then sat very still. They said nothing, +but watched him. They saw his eyes grow distant and absorbed, and his +face took on a shining look, so that its ugliness was almost beautiful. +All at once he slid from the stool and crouched on his knees. Then he +sent out a low long note, like the toll of the bell-bird. From that time +no one stirred as he sang, but sat and watched him. They did not even +hear Sylvie steal in gently and stand in the curtains at the door. + +The song was weird, with a strange thrilling charm; it had the slow +dignity of a chant, the roll of an epic, the delight of wild beauty. It +told of the little good Folk of the Scarlet Hills, in vague allusive +phrases: their noiseless wanderings; their sojourning with the eagle, the +wolf, and the deer; their triumph over the winds, the whirlpools, and the +spirits of evil fame. It filled the room with the cry of the west wind; +it called out of the frozen seas ghosts of forgotten worlds; it coaxed +the soft breezes out of the South; it made them all to be at the whistle +of the Scarlet Hunter who ruled the North. + +Then, passing through veil after veil of mystery, it told of a grand +Seigneur whose boat was overturned in a whirlpool, and was saved by a +little brown diver. And the end of it all, and the heart of it all, was +in the last few lines, clear of allegory: + +"And the wheel goes round in the village mill, And the little brown diver +he tells the grain. . . And the grand Seigneur he has gone to meet The +little good Folk of the Scarlet Hills!" + +At first, all were so impressed by the strange power of Parpon's voice, +that they were hardly conscious of the story he was telling. But when he +sang of the Seigneur they began to read his parable. Their hearts +throbbed painfully. + +As the last notes died away Armand got up, and standing by the table, +said: "Parpon, you saved my father's life once?" + +Parpon did not answer. + +"Will you not tell him, my son?" said the Cure, rising. Still Parpon +was silent. + +"The son of your grand Seigneur asks you a question, Parpon," said +Medallion soothingly. + +"Oh, my grand Seigneur!" said Parpon, throwing up his hands. "Once he +said to me, 'Come, my brown diver, and live with me.' But I said, 'No, +I am not fit. I will never go to you at the House with the Tall Porch.' +And I made him promise that he would never tell of it. And so I have +lived sometimes with old Farette." Then he laughed strangely again, and +sent a furtive look at Armand. + +"Parpon," said Armand gently, "our grand Seigneur has left you the Bois +Noir for your own. So the hills and the Rock of Red Pigeons are for you +--and the little good people, if you like." + +Parpon, with fiery eyes, gathered himself up with a quick movement, then +broke out: "Oh, my grand Seigneur--my grand Seigneur!" and fell forward, +his head in his arms, laughing and sobbing together. + +Armand touched his shoulder. "Parpon!" But Parpon shrank away. + +Armand turned to the rest. "I do not understand it, gentlemen. Parpon +does not like the young Seigneur as he liked the old." + +Medallion, sitting in the shadow, smiled. He understood. Armand +continued: "As for this 'testament, gentlemen, I will fulfil its +conditions; though I swear, were I otherwise minded regarding the woman" +--here Parpon raised his head swiftly--"I would not hang my hat for an +hour in the Tall Porch." + +They rose and shook hands, then the wine was poured out, and they drank +it off in silence. Parpon, however, sat with his head in his hands. + +"Come, little comrade, drink," said Medallion, offering him a glass. + +Parpon made no reply, but caught up the will, kissed it, put it into +Armand's hand, and then, jumping down from the table, ran to the door and +disappeared through it. + + + + +IV + +The next afternoon the Avocat visited old Farette. Farette was polishing +a gun, mumbling the while. Sitting on some bags of meal was Parpon, with +a fierce twinkle in his eye. Monsieur Garon told Farette briefly what +the Seigneur had left him. With a quick, greedy chuckle Farette threw +the gun away. + +"Man alive!" said he; "tell me all about it. Ah, the good news!" + +"There is nothing to tell: he left it; that is all." + +"Oh, the good Seigneur," cried Farette, "the grand Seigneur!" + +Some one laughed scornfully in the doorway. It was Julie. + +"Look there," she cried; "he gets the land, and throws away the gun! +Brag and coward, miller! It is for me to say 'the grand Seigneur!'" + +She tossed her head: she thought the old Seigneur had relented towards +her. She turned away to the house with a flaunting air, and got her hat. +At first she thought she would go to the House with the Tall Porch, but +she changed her mind, and went to the Bois Noir instead. Parpon followed +her a distance off. Behind, in the mill, Farette was chuckling and +rubbing his hands. + +Meanwhile, Armand was making his way towards the Bois Noir. All at once, +in the shade of a great pine, he stopped. He looked about him +astonished. + +"This is the old place. What a fool I was, then!" he said. + +At that moment Julie came quickly, and lifted her hands towards him. +"Armand--beloved Armand!" she said. + +Armand looked at her sternly, from her feet to her pitted forehead, then +wheeled, and left her without a word. + +She sank in a heap on the ground. There was a sudden burst of tears, and +then she clinched her hands with fury. + +Some one laughed in the trees above her--a shrill, wild laugh. She +looked up frightened. Parpon presently dropped down beside her. + +"It was as I said," whispered the dwarf, and he touched her shoulder. +This was the full cup of shame. She was silent. + +"There are others," he whispered again. She could not see his strange +smile; but she noticed that his voice was not as usual. "Listen," he +urged, and he sang softly over her shoulder for quite a minute. She was +amazed. + +"Sing again," she said. + +"I have wanted to sing to you like that for many years," he replied; and +he sang a little more. "He cannot sing like that," he wheedled, and he +stretched his arm around her shoulder. + +She hung her head, then flung it back again as she thought of Armand. + +"I hate him!" she cried; "I hate him!" + +"You will not throw meal on me any more, or call me idiot?" he pleaded. + +"No, Parpon," she said. + +He kissed her on the cheek. She did not resent it. But now he drew +away, smiled wickedly at her, and said: "See, we are even now, poor +Julie!" Then he laughed, holding his little sides with huge hands. +"Imbecile!" he added, and, turning, trotted away towards the Rock of Red +Pigeons. + +She threw herself, face forward, in the dusty needles of the pines. + +When she rose from her humiliation, her face was as one who has seen the +rags of harlequinade stripped from that mummer Life, leaving only naked +being. She had touched the limits of the endurable; her sordid little +hopes had split into fragments. But when a human soul faces upon its +past, and sees a gargoyle at every milestone where an angel should be, +and in one flash of illumination--the touch of genius to the smallest +mind--understands the pitiless comedy, there comes the still stoic +outlook. + +Julie was transformed. All the possible years of her life were gathered +into the force of one dreadful moment--dreadful and wonderful. Her mean +vanity was lost behind the pale sincerity of her face--she was sincere at +last. The trivial commonness was gone from her coquetting shoulders and +drooping eyelids; and from her body had passed its flexuous softness. +She was a woman; suffering, human, paying the price. + +She walked slowly the way that Parpon had gone. Looking neither to right +nor left, she climbed the long hillside, and at last reached the summit, +where, bundled in a steep corner, was the Rock of Red Pigeons. As she +emerged from the pines, she stood for a moment, and leaned with +outstretched hand against a tree, looking into the sunlight. Slowly her +eyes shifted from the Rock to the great ravine, to whose farther side the +sun was giving bastions of gold. She was quiet. Presently she stepped +into the light and came softly to the Rock. She walked slowly round it +as though looking for some one. At the lowest side of the Rock, rude +narrow hollows were cut for the feet. With a singular ease she climbed +to the top of it. It had a kind of hollow, in which was a rude seat, +carved out of the stone. Seeing this, a set look came to her face: she +was thinking of Parpon, the master of this place. Her business was with +him. + +She got down slowly, and came over to the edge of the precipice. +Steadying herself against a sapling, she looked over. Down below was a +whirlpool, rising and falling-a hungry funnel of death. She drew back. +Presently she peered again, and once more withdrew. She gazed round, and +then made another tour of the hill, searching. She returned to the +precipice. As she did so she heard a voice. She looked and saw Parpon +seated upon a ledge of rock not far below. A mocking laugh floated up to +her. But there was trouble in the laugh too--a bitter sickness. She did +not notice that. She looked about her. Not far away was a stone, too +heavy to carry but perhaps not too heavy to roll! + +Foot by foot she rolled it over. She looked. He was still there. She +stepped back. As she did so a few pebbles crumbled away from her feet +and fell where Parpon perched. She did not see or hear them fall. He +looked up, and saw the stone creeping upon the edge. Like a flash he was +on his feet, and, springing into the air to the right, caught a tree +steadfast in the rock. The stone fell upon the ledge, and bounded off +again. The look of the woman did not follow the stone. She ran to the +spot above the whirlpool, and sprang out and down. + +From Parpon there came a wail such as the hills of the north never heard +before. Dropping upon a ledge beneath, and from that to a jutting tree, +which gave way, he shot down into the whirlpool. He caught Julie's body +as it was churned from life to death: and then he fought. There was a +demon in the whirlpool, but God and demon were working in the man. +Nothing on earth could have unloosed that long, brown arm from Julie's +drenched body. The sun lifted an eyelid over the yellow bastions of +rock, and saw the fight. Once, twice, the shaggy head was caught beneath +the surface--but at last the man conquered. + +Inch by inch, foot by foot, Parpon, with the lifeless Julie clamped in +one arm, climbed the rough wall, on, on, up to the Rock of Red Pigeons. +He bore her to the top of it. Then he laid her down, and pillowed her +head on his wet coat. + +The huge hands came slowly down Julie's soaked hair, along her blanched +cheek and shoulders, caught her arms and held them. He peered into her +face. The eyes had the film which veils Here from Hereafter. On the +lips was a mocking smile. He stooped as if to kiss her. The smile +stopped him. He drew back for a time, then he leaned forward, shut his +eyes, and her cold lips were his. + +Twilight-dusk-night came upon Parpon and his dead--the woman whom an +impish fate had put into his heart with mockery and futile pain. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +Can't get the company I want, so what I can get I have +Capered at the mirror, and dusted her face with oatmeal +For everything you lose you get something +No trouble like that which comes between parent and child +Old clock in the corner "ticking" life, and youth, and hope away +She had not much brains, but she had some shrewdness +Take the honeymoon himself, and leave his wife to learn cooking +The laughter of a ripe summer was upon the land +Thought all as flippant as herself +Turned the misery of the world into a game, and grinned at it +When the heart rusts the rust shows + + + + + + +THE LANE THAT HAD NO TURNING + +By Gilbert Parker + +Volume 4. + + + +TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC +MEDALLION'S WHIM +THE PRISONER +AN UPSET PRICE +A FRAGMENT OF LIVES +THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA +THE BARON OF BEAUGARD +THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + + + + +TIMES WERE HARD IN PONTIAC + +It was soon after the Rebellion, and there was little food to be had +and less money, and winter was at hand. Pontiac, ever most loyal to old +France, though obedient to the English, had herself sent few recruits to +be shot down by Colborne; but she had emptied her pockets in sending to +the front the fulness of her barns and the best cattle of her fields. +She gave her all; she was frank in giving, hid nothing; and when her own +trouble came there was no voice calling on her behalf. And Pontiac would +rather starve than beg. So, as the winter went on, she starved in +silence, and no one had more than sour milk and bread and a potato now +and then. The Cure, the Avocat, and the Little Chemist fared no better +than the habitants; for they gave all they had right and left, and +themselves often went hungry to bed. And the truth is that few outside +Pontiac knew of her suffering; she kept the secret of it close. + +It seemed at last, however, to the Cure that he must, after all, write +to the world outside for help. That was when he saw the faces of the +children get pale and drawn. There never was a time when there were so +few fish in the river and so little game in the woods. At last, from the +altar steps one Sunday, the Cure, with a calm, sad voice, told the people +that, for "the dear children's sake," they must sink their pride and ask +help from without. He would write first to the Bishop of Quebec; "for," +said he, "Mother Church will help us; she will give us food, and money to +buy seed in the spring; and, please God, we will pay all back in a year +or two!" He paused a minute, then continued: "Some one must go, to speak +plainly and wisely of our trouble, that there be no mistake--we are not +beggars, we are only borrowers. Who will go? I may not myself, for who +would give the Blessed Sacrament, and speak to the sick, or say Mass and +comfort you?" + +There was silence in the church for a moment, and many faces meanwhile +turned instinctively to M. Garon the Avocat, and some to the Little +Chemist. + +"Who will go?" asked the Cure again. "It is a bitter journey, but our +pride must not be our shame in the end. Who will go?" + +Every one expected that the Avocat or the Little Chemist would rise; but +while they looked at each other, waiting and sorrowful, and the Avocat's +fingers fluttered to the seat in front of him, to draw himself up, a +voice came from the corner opposite, saying: "M'sieu' le Cure, I will +go." + +A strange, painful silence fell on the people for a moment, and then went +round an almost incredulous whisper: "Parpon the dwarf!" + +Parpon's deep eyes were fixed on the Cure, his hunched body leaning on +the railing in front of him, his long, strong arms stretched out as if he +were begging for some good thing. The murmur among the people increased, +but the Cure raised his hand to command silence, and his eyes gazed +steadily at the dwarf. It might seem that he was noting the huge head, +the shaggy hair, the overhanging brows, the weird face of this distortion +of a thing made in God's own image. But he was thinking instead of how +the angel and the devil may live side by side in a man, and neither be +entirely driven out--and the angel conquer in great times and seasons. + +He beckoned to Parpon to come over, and the dwarf trotted with a sidelong +motion to the chancel steps. Every face in the congregation was eager, +and some were mystified, even anxious. They all knew the singular power +of the little man--his knowledge, his deep wit, his judgment, his +occasional fierceness, his infrequent malice; but he was kind to children +and the sick, and the Cure and the Avocat and their little coterie +respected him. Once everybody had worshipped him: that was when he had +sung in the Mass, the day of the funeral of the wife of Farette the +miller, for whom he worked. It had been rumoured that in his hut by the +Rock of Red Pigeons, up at Dalgrothe Mountain, a voice of most wonderful +power and sweetness had been heard singing; but this was only rumour. +Yet when the body of the miller's wife lay in the church, he had sung so +that men and women wept and held each other's hands for joy. He had +never sung since, however; his voice of silver was locked away in the +cabinet of secret purposes which every man has somewhere in his own soul. + +"What will you say to the Bishop, Parpon?" asked the Cure. + +The congregation stirred in their seats, for they saw that the Cure +intended Parpon to go. + +Parpon went up two steps of the chancel quietly and caught the arm of the +Cure, drawing him down to whisper in his ear. + +A flush and then a peculiar soft light passed over the Cure's face, and +he raised his hand over Parpon's head in benediction and said: "Go, my +son, and the blessing of God and of His dear Son be with you." + +Then suddenly he turned to the altar, and, raising his hands, he tried to +speak, but only said: "O Lord, Thou knowest our pride and our vanity, +hear us, and--" + +Soon afterwards, with tearful eyes, he preached from the text: + +"And the Light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it +not." + + ....................... + +Five days later a little, uncouth man took off his hat in the chief +street of Quebec, and began to sing a song of Picardy to an air which no +man in French Canada had ever heard. Little farmers on their way to the +market by the Place de Cathedral stopped, listening, though every +moment's delay lessened their chances of getting a stand in the market- +place. Butchers and milkmen loitered, regardless of waiting customers; +a little company of soldiers caught up the chorus, and, to avoid +involuntary revolt, their sergeant halted them, that they might listen. +Gentlemen strolling by--doctor, lawyer, officer, idler--paused and forgot +the raw climate, for this marvellous voice in the unshapely body warmed +them, and they pushed in among the fast-gathering crowd. Ladies hurrying +by in their sleighs lost their hearts to the thrilling notes of: + + "Little grey fisherman, + Where is your daughter? + Where is your daughter so sweet? + Little grey man who comes Over the water, + I have knelt down at her feet, + Knelt at your Gabrielle's feet---ci ci!" + +Presently the wife of the governor stepped out from her sleigh, and, +coming over, quickly took Parpon's cap from his hand and went round among +the crowd with it, gathering money. + +"He is hungry, he is poor," she said, with tears in her eyes. She had +known the song in her childhood, and he who used to sing it to her was in +her sight no more. In vain the gentlemen would have taken the cap from +her; she gathered the money herself, and others followed, and Parpon sang +on. + +A night later a crowd gathered in the great hall of the city, filling it +to the doors, to hear the dwarf sing. He came on the platform dressed as +he had entered the city, with heavy, home-made coat and trousers, and +moccasins, and a red woollen comforter about his neck--but this comforter +he took off when he began to sing. Old France and New France, and the +loves and hates and joys and sorrows of all lands, met that night in the +soul of this dwarf with the divine voice, who did not give them his name, +so that they called him, for want of a better title, the Provencal. And +again two nights afterwards it was the same, and yet again a third night +and a fourth, and the simple folk, and wise folk also, went mad after +Parpon the dwarf. + +Then, suddenly, he disappeared from Quebec City, and the next Sunday +morning, while the Cure was saying the last words of the Mass, he entered +the Church of St. Saviour's at Pontiac. Going up to the chancel steps he +waited. The murmuring of the people drew the Cure's attention, and then, +seeing Parpon, he came forward. + +Parpon drew from his breast a bag, and put it in his hands, and beckoning +down the Cure's head, he whispered. + +The Cure turned to the altar and raised the bag towards it in ascription +and thanksgiving, then he turned to Parpon again, but the dwarf was +trotting away down the aisle and from the church. + +"Dear children," said the Cure, "we are saved, and we are not shamed." +He held up the bag. "Parpon has brought us two thousand dollars: we +shall have food to eat, and there shall be more money against seed-time. +The giver of this good gift demands that his name be not known. Such is +all true charity. Let us pray." + +So hard times passed from Pontiac as the months went on; but none save +the Cure and the Avocat knew who had helped her in her hour of need. + + + + + + +MEDALLION'S WHIM + +When the Avocat began to lose his health and spirits, and there crept +through his shrewd gravity and kindliness a petulance and dejection, +Medallion was the only person who had an inspiriting effect upon him. +The Little Chemist had decided that the change in him was due to bad +circulation and failing powers: which was only partially true. + +Medallion made a deeper guess. "Want to know what's the matter with +him?" he said. "Ha, I'll tell you! Woman." + +"Woman--God bless me!" said the Little Chemist, in a frightened way. + +"Woman, little man; I mean the want of a woman," said Medallion. + +The Cure, who was present, shrugged his shoulders. "He has an excellent +cook, and his bed and jackets are well aired; I see them constantly at +the windows." + +A laugh gurgled in Medallion's throat. He loved these innocent folk; but +himself went twice a year to Quebec City and had more expanded views. + +"Woman, Padre"--nodding to the priest, and rubbing his chin so that it +rasped like sand-paper--"Woman, my druggist"--throwing a sly look at the +Chemist----"woman, neither as cook nor bottle-washer, is what he needs. +Every man-out of holy orders"--this in deference to his good friend the +Cure--"arrives at the time when his youth must be renewed or he becomes +as dry bones--like an empty house--furniture sold off. Can only be +renewed one way--Woman. Well, here's our Avocat, and there's his remedy. +He's got the cooking and the clean fresh linen; he must have a wife, the +very best." + +"Ah, my friend, you are droll," said the Cure, arching his long fingers +at his lips and blowing gently through them, but not smiling in the +least; rather serious, almost reproving. + +"It is such a whim, such a whim!" said the Little Chemist, shaking his +head and looking through his glasses sideways like a wise bird. + +"Ha--you shall see! The man must be saved; our Cure shall have his fees; +our druggist shall provide the finest essences for the feast--no more +pills. And we shall dine with our Avocat once a week--with asparagus in +season for the Cure, and a little good wine for all. Ha!" + +His Ha! was never a laugh; it was unctuous, abrupt, an ejaculation of +satisfaction, knowledge, solid enjoyment, final solution. + +The Cure shook his head doubtfully; he did not see the need; he did not +believe in Medallion's whim; still he knew that the man's judgment was +shrewd in most things, and he would be silent and wait. But he shrank +from any new phase of life likely to alter the conditions of that old +companionship, which included themselves, the Avocat, and the young +Doctor, who, like the Little Chemist, was married. + +The Chemist sharply said: "Well, well, perhaps. I hope. There is a +poetry (his English was not perfect, and at times he mixed it with French +in an amusing manner), a little chanson, which runs: + + "'Sorrowful is the little house, + The little house by the winding stream; + All the laughter has died away + Out of the little house. + But down there come from the lofty hills + Footsteps and eyes agleam, + Bringing the laughter of yesterday + Into the little house, + By the winding stream and the hills. + Di ron, di ron, di ron, di ron-don!'" + +The Little Chemist blushed faintly at the silence that followed his +timid, quaint recital. The Cure looked calm and kind, and drawn away as +if in thought; but Medallion presently got up, stooped, and laid his long +fingers on the shoulder of the apothecary. + +"Exactly, little man," he said; "we've both got the same idea in our +heads. I've put it hard fact, you've put it soft sentiment; and it's +God's truth either way." + +Presently the Cure asked, as if from a great distance, so meditative was +his voice: "Who will be the woman, Medallion?" + +"I've got one in my eye--the very right one for our Avocat; not here, not +out of Pontiac, but from St. Jean in the hills--fulfilling your verses, +gentle apothecary. She must bring what is fresh--he must feel that the +hills have come to him, she that the valley is hers for the first time. +A new world for them both. Ha!" + +"Regardez Ca! you are a great man," said the Little Chemist. + +There was a strange, inscrutable look in the kind priest's eyes. The +Avocat had confessed to him in his time. + +Medallion took up his hat. + +"Where are you going?" said the Little Chemist. "To our Avocat, and +then to St. Jean." + +He opened the door and vanished. The two that were left shook their +heads and wondered. + +Chuckling softly to himself, Medallion strode away through the lane of +white-board houses and the smoke of strong tabac from these houses, now +and then pulling suddenly up to avoid stumbling over a child, where +children are numbered by the dozen to every house. He came at last to a +house unlike the others, in that it was of stone and larger. He leaned +for a moment over the gate, and looked through a window into a room where +the Avocat sat propped up with cushions in a great chair, staring +gloomily at two candles burning on the table before him. Medallion +watched him for a long time. The Avocat never changed his position; he +only stared at the candle, and once or twice his lips moved. A woman +came in and put a steaming bowl before him, and laid a pipe and matches +beside the bowl. She was a very little, thin old woman, quick and quiet +and watchful--his housekeeper. The Avocat took no notice of her. She +looked at him several times anxiously, and passed backwards and forwards +behind him as a hen moves upon the flank of her brood. All at once she +stopped. Her small, white fingers, with their large rheumatic knuckles, +lay flat on her lips as she stood for an instant musing; then she trotted +lightly to a bureau, got pen and paper and ink, reached down a bunch of +keys from the mantel, and came and put them all beside the bowl and the +pipe. Still the Avocat did not stir, or show that he recognised her. +She went to the door, turned, and looked back, her fingers again at her +lips, then slowly sidled out of the room. It was long before the Avocat +moved. His eyes had not wavered from the space between the candles. At +last, however, he glanced down. His eye caught the bowl, then the pipe. +He reached out a slow hand for the pipe, and was taking it up, when his +glance fell on the keys and the writing material. He put the pipe down, +looked up at the door through which the little old woman had gone, gazed +round the room, took up the keys, but soon put them down again with a +sigh, and settled back in his chair. Now his gaze alternated between +that long lane, sloping into shadow between the candles, and the keys. + +Medallion threw a leg over the fence and came in a few steps to the door. +He opened it quietly and entered. In the dark he felt his way along the +wall to the door of the Avocat's room, opened it, and thrust in his +ungainly, whimsical face. + +"Ha!" he laughed with quick-winking eyes. "Evening, Garon. Live the +Code Napoleon! Pipes for two." A change came slowly over the Avocat. +His eyes drew away from that vista between the candles, and the strange +distant look faded out of them. + +"Great is the Code Napoleon!" he said mechanically. Then, presently: +"Ah, my friend, Medallion!" + +His first words were the answer to a formula which always passed between +them on meeting. As soon as Garon had said them, Medallion's lanky body +followed his face, and in a moment he had the Avocat's hand in his, +swallowing it, of purpose crushing it, so that Monsieur Garon waked up +smartly and gave his visitor a pensive smile. Medallion's cheerful +nervous vitality seldom failed to inspire whom he chose to inspire with +Something of his own life and cheerfulness. In a few moments both the +Avocat and himself were smoking, and the contents of the steaming bowl +were divided between them. Medallion talked on many things. The little +old housekeeper came in, chirped a soft good-evening, flashed a small +thankful smile at Medallion, and, after renewing the bowl and lighting +two more tall candles, disappeared. Medallion began with the parish, +passed to the law, from the law to Napoleon, from Napoleon to France, +and from France to the world, drawing out from the Avocat something of +his old vivacity and fire. At last Medallion, seeing that the time was +ripe, turned his glass round musingly in his fingers before him and said: + +"Benoit, Annette's husband, died to-day, Garon. You knew him. +He went singing--gone in the head, but singing as he used to do before he +married--or got drunk! Perhaps his youth came back to him when he was +going to die, just for a minute." + +The Avocat's eye gazed at Medallion earnestly now, and Medallion went on: + +"As good singing as you want to hear. You've heard the words of the +song--the river drivers sing it: + + "'What is there like to the cry of the bird + That sings in its nest in the lilac tree? + A voice the sweetest you ever have heard; + It is there, it is here, ci ci! + It is there, it is here, it must roam and roam, + And wander from shore to shore, + Till I go forth and bring it home, + And enter and close my door + Row along, row along home, ci ci!'" + +When Medallion had finished saying the first verse he waited, but the +Avocat said nothing; his eyes were now fastened again on that avenue +between the candles leading out into the immortal part of him--his past; +he was busy with a life that had once been spent in the fields of +Fontainebleau and in the shadow of the Pantheon. + +Medallion went on: + + "'What is there like to the laughing star, + Far up from the lilac tree? + A face that's brighter and finer far; + It laughs and it shines, ci, ci! + It laughs and it shines, it must roam and roam, + And travel from shore to shore, + Till I go forth and bring it home, + And house it within my door + Row along, row along home, ci, ci!'" + +When Medallion had finished he raised his glass and said: "Garon, I drink +to home and woman!" + +He waited. The Avocat's eyes drew away from the candles again, and he +came to his feet suddenly, swaying slightly as he did so. He caught up +a glass and, lifting it, said: "I drink to home and--" a little cold +burst of laughter came from him, he threw his head back with something +like disdain--"and the Code Napoleon!" he added abruptly. + +Then he put the glass down without drinking, wheeled back, and dropped +into his chair. Presently he got up, took his keys, went over, opened +the bureau, and brought back a well-worn note-book which looked like a +diary. He seemed to have forgotten Medallion's presence, but it was not +so; he had reached the moment of disclosure which comes to every man, no +matter how secretive, when he must tell what is on his mind or die. He +opened the book with trembling fingers, took a pen and wrote, at first +slowly, while Medallion smoked: + +"September 13th.--It is five-and-twenty years ago to-day--Mon Dieu, how +we danced that night on the flags before the Sorbonne! How gay we were +in the Maison Bleu! We were gay and happy--Lulie and I--two rooms and a +few francs ahead every week. That night we danced and poured out the +light wine, because we were to be married to-morrow. Perhaps there would +be a child, if the priest blessed us, she whispered to me as we watched +the soft-travelling moon in the gardens of the Luxembourg. Well, we +danced. There was an artist with us. I saw him catch Lulie about the +waist, and kiss her on the neck. She was angry, but I did not think of +that; I was mad with wine. I quarrelled with her, and said to her a +shameful thing. Then I rushed away. We were not married the next day; +I could not find her. One night, soon after, there was a revolution of +students at Mont Parnasse. I was hurt. I remember that she came to me +then and nursed me, but when I got well she was gone. Then came the +secret word from the Government that I must leave the country or go to +prison. I came here. Alas! it is long since we danced before the +Sorbonne, and supped at the Maison Bleu. I shall never see again the +gardens of the Luxembourg. Well, that was a mad night five-and-twenty +years ago!" + +His pen went faster and faster. His eyes lighted up, he seemed quite +forgetful of Medallion's presence. When he finished, a fresh change came +over him. He gathered his thin fingers in a bunch at his lips, and made +an airy salute to the warm space between the candles. He drew himself +together with a youthful air, and held his grey head gallantly. Youth +and age in him seemed almost grotesquely mingled. Sprightly notes from +the song of a cafe chantant hovered on his thin, dry lips. Medallion, +amused, yet with a hushed kind of feeling through all his nerves, pushed +the Avocat's tumbler till it touched his fingers. The thin fingers +twined round it, and once more he came to his feet. He raised the glass. +"To--" for a minute he got no further--"To the wedding-eve!" he said, +and sipped the hot wine. Presently he pushed the little well-worn book +over to Medallion. "I have known you fifteen years--read!" he said. He +gave Medallion a meaning look out of his now flashing eyes. Medallion's +bony face responded cordially. "Of course," he answered, picked up the +book, and read what the Avocat had written. It was on the last page. +When he had finished reading, he held the book musingly. His whim had +suddenly taken on a new colour. The Avocat, who had been walking up and +down the room, with the quick step of a young man, stopped before him, +took the book from him, turned to the first page, and handed it back +silently. Medallion read: + +Quebec, September 13th, 18-. It is one year since. I shall learn to +laugh some day. + +Medallion looked up at him. The old man threw back his head, spread out +the last page in the book which he had just written, and said defiantly, +as though expecting contradiction to his self-deception--"I have +learned." + +Then he laughed, but the laugh was dry and hollow and painful. It +suddenly passed from his wrinkled lips, and he sat down again; but now +with an air as of shy ness and shame. "Let us talk," he said, "of-- +of the Code Napoleon." + +The next morning Medallion visited St. Jean in the hills. Five years +before he had sold to a new-comer at St. Jean-Madame Lecyr--the furniture +of a little house, and there had sprung up between them a quiet +friendship, not the less admiring on Medallion's part because Madame +Lecyr was a good friend to the poor and sick. She never tired, when they +met, of hearing him talk of the Cure, the Little Chemist, and the Avocat; +and in the Avocat she seemed to take the most interest, making countless +inquiries--countless when spread over many conversations--upon his life +during the time Medallion had known him. He knew also that she came to +Pontiac, occasionally, but only in the evening; and once of a moonlight +night he had seen her standing before the window of the Avocat's house. +Once also he had seen her veiled in the little crowded court-room of +Pontiac when an interesting case was being tried, and noticed how she +watched Monsieur Garon, standing so very still that she seemed lifeless; +and how she stole out as soon as he had done speaking. + +Medallion had acute instincts, and was supremely a man of self-counsel. +What he thought he kept to him self until there seemed necessity to +speak. A few days before the momentous one herebefore described he had +called at Madame Lecyr's house, and, in course of conversation, told her +that the Avocat's health was breaking; that the day before he had got +completely fogged in court over the simplest business, and was quite +unlike his old, shrewd, kindly self. By this time he was almost prepared +to see her turn pale and her fingers flutter at the knitting-needles she +held. She made an excuse to leave the room for a moment. He saw a +little book lying near the chair from which she had risen. Perhaps it +had dropped from her pocket. He picked it up. It was a book of French +songs--Beranger's and others less notable. On the fly-leaf was written: +"From Victor to Lulie, September 13th, 18-." Presently she came back to +him quite recovered and calm, inquired how the Avocat was cared for, and +hoped he would have every comfort and care. Medallion grew on the +instant bold. He was now certain that Victor was the Avocat, and Lulie +was Madame Lecyr. He said abruptly to her: "Why not come and cheer him +up--such old friends as you are?" + +At that she rose with a little cry, and stared anxiously at him. He +pointed to the book of songs. "Don't be angry--I looked," he said. + +She breathed quick and hard, and said nothing, but her fingers laced and +interlaced nervously in her lap. "If you were friends why don't you go +to him?" he said. + +She shook her head mournfully. "We were more than friends, and that is +different." + +"You were his wife?" said Medallion gently. + +"It was different," she replied, flushing. "France is not the same as +here. We were to be married, but on the eve of our wedding-day there was +an end to it all. Only five years ago I found out he was here." + +Then she became silent, and would, or could, speak no more; only, she +said at last before he went: "You will not tell him, or any one?" + +She need not have asked Medallion. He knew many secrets and kept them; +which is not the usual way of good-humoured people. + +But now, with the story told by the Avocat himself in his mind, he saw +the end of the long romance. He came once more to the house of Madame +Lecyr, and being admitted, said to her: "You must come at once with me." + +She trembled towards him. "He is worse--he is dying!" + +He smiled. "Not dying at all. He needs you; come along. I'll tell you +as we go." + +But she hung back. Then he told her all he had seen and heard the +evening before. Without a word further she prepared to go. On the way +he turned to her and said: "You are Madame Lecyr?" + +"I am as he left me," she replied timidly, but with a kind of pride, too. + +"Don't mistake me," he said. "I thought perhaps you had been married +since." + +The Avocat sat in his little office, feebly fumbling among his papers, +as Medallion entered on him and called to him cheerily: "We are coming to +see you to-night, Garon--the Cure, our Little Chemist, and the Seigneur; +coming to supper." + +The Avocat put out his hand courteously; but he said in a shrinking, +pained voice: "No, no, not to-night, Medallion. I would wish no visitors +this night--of all." + +Medallion stooped over him, and caught him by both arms gently. "We +shall see," he said. "It is the anniversary," he whispered. + +"Ah, pardon!" said the Avocat, with a reproving pride, and shrank back +as if all his nerves had been laid bare. But Medallion turned, opened +the door, went out, and let in a woman, who came forward and timidly +raised her veil. + +"Victor!" Medallion heard, then "Lulie!" and then he shut the door, +and, with supper in his mind, went into the kitchen to see the +housekeeper, who, in this new joy, had her own tragedy--humming to +himself: + + "But down there come from the lofty hills + Footsteps and eyes agleam, + Bringing the laughter of yesterday + Into the little house." + + + + + + +THE PRISONER + +His chief occupation in the daytime was to stand on the bench by the +small barred window and watch the pigeons on the roof and in the eaves of +the house opposite. For five years he had done this. In the summer a +great fire seemed to burn beneath the tin of the roof, for a quivering +hot air rose from them, and the pigeons never alighted on them, save in +the early morning or in the evening. Just over the peak could be seen +the topmost branch of a maple, too slight to bear the weight of the +pigeons, but the eaves were dark and cool, and there his eyes rested when +he tired of the hard blue sky and the glare of the slates. + +In winter the roof was covered for weeks and months by a blanket of snow +which looked like a shawl of impacted wool, white and restful, and the +windows of the house were spread with frost. But the pigeons were always +gay, walking on the ledges or crowding on the shelves of the lead pipes. +He studied them much, but he loved them more. His prison was less a +prison because of them, and during those long five years he found himself +more in touch with them than with the wardens of the prison or with any +of his fellow-prisoners. To the former he was respectful, and he gave +them no trouble at all; with the latter he had nothing in common, for +they were criminals, and he--so wild and mad with drink and anger was he +at the time, that he had no remembrance, absolutely none, of how Jean +Gamache lost his life. + +He remembered that they had played cards far into the night; that they +had quarrelled, then made their peace; that the others had left; that +they had begun gaming and drinking and quarrelling again--and then +everything was blurred, save for a vague recollection that he had won +all Gamache's money and had pocketed it. Afterwards came a blank. + +He waked to find two officers of the law beside him, and the body of Jean +Gamache, stark and dreadful, a few feet away. + +When the officers put their hands upon him he shook them off; when they +did it again he would have fought them to the death, had it not been for +his friend, tall Medallion the auctioneer, who laid a strong hand on his +arm and said, "Steady, Turgeon, steady!" and he had yielded to the firm +friendly pressure. + +Medallion had left no stone unturned to clear him at the trial, had +himself played detective unceasingly. But the hard facts remained, and +on a chain of circumstantial evidence Blaze Turgeon was convicted of +manslaughter and sent to prison for ten years. Blaze himself had said +that he did not remember, but he could not believe that he had committed +the crime. Robbery? He shrugged his shoulders at that, he insisted that +his lawyer should not reply to the foolish and insulting suggestion. But +the evidence went to show that Gamache had all the winnings when the +other members of the party retired, and this very money had been found in +Blaze's pocket. There was only Blaze's word that they had played cards +again. Anger? Possibly. Blaze could not recall, though he knew they +had quarrelled. The judge himself, charging the jury, said that he never +before had seen a prisoner so frank, so outwardly honest, but he warned +them that they must not lose sight of the crime itself, the taking of a +human life, whereby a woman was made a widow and a child fatherless. The +jury found him guilty. + +With few remarks the judge delivered his sentence, and then himself, +shaken and pale, left the court-room hurriedly, for Blaze Turgeon's +father had been his friend from boyhood. + +Blaze took his sentence calmly, looking the jury squarely in the eyes, +and when the judge stopped, he bowed to him, and then turned to the jury +and said: + +"Gentlemen, you have ruined my life. You don't know, and I don't know, +who killed the man. You have guessed, and I take the penalty. Suppose +I'm innocent--how will you feel when the truth comes out? You've known +me more or less these twenty years, and you've said, with evidently no +more knowledge than I've got, that I did this horrible thing. I don't +know but that one of you did it. But you are safe, and I take my ten +years!" + +He turned from them, and, as he did so, he saw a woman looking at him +from a corner of the court-room, with a strange, wild expression. At the +moment he saw no more than an excited, bewildered face, but afterwards +this face came and went before him, flashing in and out of dark places in +a kind of mockery. + +As he went from the court-room another woman made her way to him in spite +of the guards. It was the Little Chemist's wife, who, years before, had +been his father's housekeeper, who knew him when his eyes first opened on +the world. + +"My poor Blaze! my poor Blaze!" she said, clasping his manacled hands. + +In prison he refused to see all visitors, even Medallion, the Little +Chemist's wife, and the good Father Fabre. Letters, too, he refused to +accept and read. He had no contact, wished no contact with the outer +world, but lived his hard, lonely life by himself, silent, studious-- +for now books were a pleasure to him. He had entered his prison a wild, +excitable, dissipated youth, and he had become a mature brooding man. +Five years had done the work of twenty. + +The face of the woman who looked at him so strangely in the court-room +haunted him so that at last it became a part of his real life, lived +largely at the window where he looked out at the pigeons on the roof of +the hospital. + +"She was sorry for me," he said many a time to himself. He was shaken +with misery often, so that he rocked to and fro as he sat on his bed, +and a warder heard him cry out even in the last days of his imprisonment: + +"O God, canst Thou do everything but speak!" And again: "That hour--the +memory of that hour, in exchange for my ruined life!" + +One day the gaoler came to him and said: "Monsieur Turgeon, you are free. +The Governor has cut off five years from your sentence." + +Then he was told that people were waiting without--Medallion, the Little +Chemist and his wife, and others more important. But he would not go to +meet them, and he stepped into the open world alone at dawn the next +morning, and looked out upon a still sleeping village. Suddenly there +stood before him a woman, who had watched by the prison gates all night; +and she put out her hand in entreaty, and said with a breaking voice: +"You are free at last!" + +He remembered her--the woman who had looked at him so anxiously and +sorrowfully in the court-room. "Why did you come to meet me?" he asked. + +"I was sorry for you." + +"But that is no reason." + +"I once committed a crime," she whispered, with shrinking bitterness. + +"That's bad," he said. "Were you punished?" He looked at her keenly, +almost fiercely, for a curious suspicion shot into his mind. + +She shook her head and answered no. + +"That's worse!" + +"I let some one else take my crime upon him and be punished for it," she +said, an agony in her eyes. "Why was that?" + +"I had a little child," was her reply. + +"And the man who was punished instead?" + +"He was alone in the world," she said. + +A bitter smile crept to his lips, and his face was afire. He shut his +eyes, and when they opened again discovery was in them. + +"I remember you now," he said. "I remember now. + +"I waked and saw you looking at me that night! Who was the father of your +child?" + +"Jean Gamache," she replied. "He ruined me and left me to starve." + +"I am innocent of his death!" he said quietly and gladly. + +She nodded. He was silent for a moment. "The child still lives?" he +asked. She nodded again. "Well, let it be so," he said. "But you owe +me five years--and a good name." + +"I wish to God I could give them back!" she cried, tears streaming down +her cheeks. "It was for my child; he was so young." + +"It can't be helped now," he said sighing, and he turned away from her. + +"Won't you forgive me?" she asked bitterly. + +"Won't you give me back those five years?" + +"If the child did not need me I would give my life," she answered. "I +owe it to you." + +Her haggard, hunted face made him sorry; he, too, had suffered. + +"It's all right," he answered gently. "Take care of your child." + +Again he moved away from her, and went down the little hill, with a cloud +gone from his face that had rested there five years. Once he turned to +look back. The woman was gone, but over the prison a flock of pigeons +were flying. He took off his hat to them. + +Then he went through the town, looking neither to right nor left, and +came to his own house, where the summer morning was already entering the +open windows, though he had thought to find the place closed and dark. + +The Little Chemist's wife met him in the doorway. She could not speak, +nor could he, but he kissed her as he had done when he went condemned to +prison. Then he passed on to his own room, and entering, sat down before +the open window, and peacefully drank in the glory of a new world. But +more than once he choked down a sob rising in his throat. + + + + + + +AN UPSET PRICE + +Once Secord was as fine a man to look at as you would care to see: with a +large intelligent eye, a clear, healthy skin, and a full, brown beard. +He walked with a spring, had a gift of conversation, and took life as he +found it, never too seriously, yet never carelessly. That was before he +left the village of Pontiac in Quebec to offer himself as a surgeon to +the American Army. When he came back there was a change in him. He was +still handsome, but something of the spring had gone from his walk, the +quick light of his eyes had given place to a dark, dreamy expression, his +skin became a little dulled, and his talk slower, though not less musical +or pleasant. Indeed, his conversation had distinctly improved. +Previously there was an undercurrent of self-consciousness; it was all +gone now. He talked as one knowing his audience. His office became +again, as it had been before, a rendezvous for the few interesting men +of the place, including the Avocat, the Cure, the Little Chemist, and +Medallion. They played chess and ecarte for certain hours of certain +evenings in the week at Secord's house. Medallion was the first to +notice that the wife--whom Secord had married soon after he came back +from the war--occasionally put down her work and looked with a curious +inquiring expression at her husband as he talked. It struck Medallion +that she was puzzled by some change in Secord. + +Secord was a brilliant surgeon and physician. With the knife or beside a +sick-bed, he was admirable. His intuitive perception, so necessary in +his work, was very fine: he appeared to get at the core of a patient's +trouble, and to decide upon necessary action with instant and absolute +confidence. Some delicate operation performed by him was recorded and +praised in the Lancet; and he was offered a responsible post in a medical +college, and, at the same time, the good-will of a valuable practice. He +declined both, to the lasting astonishment, yet personal joy, of the Cure +and the Avocat; but, as time went on, not so much to the surprise of the +Little Chemist and Medallion. After three years, the sleepy Little +Chemist waked up suddenly in his chair one day, and said: "Parbleu, God +bless me!" (he loved to mix his native language with English) got up and +went over to Secord's office, adjusted his glasses, looked at Secord +closely, caught his hand with both of his own, shook it with shy +abruptness, came back to his shop, sat down, and said: "God bless my +soul! Regardez ca!" + +Medallion made his discovery sooner. Watching closely he had seen a +pronounced deliberation infused through all Secord's indolence of manner, +and noticed that often, before doing anything, the big eyes debated +steadfastly, and the long, slender fingers ran down the beard softly. +At times there was a deep meditativeness in the eye, again a dusky fire. +But there was a certain charm through it all--a languid precision, +a slumbering look in the face, a vague undercurrent in the voice, +a fantastical flavour to the thought. The change had come so gradually +that only Medallion and the wife had a real conception of how great it +was. Medallion had studied Secord from every stand-point. At the very +first he wondered if there was a woman in it. Much thinking on a woman, +whose influence on his life was evil or disturbing, might account +somewhat for the change in Secord. But, seeing how fond the man was of +his wife, Medallion gave up that idea. It was not liquor, for Secord +never touched it. One day, however, when Medallion was selling the +furniture of a house, he put up a feather bed, and, as was his custom-- +for he was a whimsical fellow--let his humour have play. He used many +metaphors as to the virtue of the bed, crowning them with the statement +that you slept in it dreaming as delicious dreams as though you had eaten +poppy, or mandragora, or--He stopped short, said, "By jingo, that's it!" +knocked the bed down instantly, and was an utter failure for the rest of +the day. + +The wife was longer in discovering the truth, but a certain morning, as +her husband lay sleeping after an all-night sitting with a patient, she +saw lying beside him--it had dropped from his waistcoat pocket--a little +bottle full of a dark liquid. She knew that he always carried his +medicine-phials in a pocket-case. She got the case, and saw that none +was missing. She noticed that the cork of the phial was well worn. She +took it out and smelled the liquid. Then she understood. She waited and +watched. She saw him after he waked look watchfully round, quietly take +a wine-glass, and let the liquid come drop by drop into it from the point +of his forefinger. Henceforth she read with understanding the changes in +his manner, and saw behind the mingled abstraction and fanciful +meditation of his talk. + +She had not yet made up her mind what to do. She saw that he hid it from +her assiduously. He did so more because he wished not to pain her than +from furtiveness. By nature he was open and brave, and had always had a +reputation for plainness and sincerity. She was in no sense his equal in +intelligence or judgment, nor even in instinct. She was a woman of more +impulse and constitutional good-nature than depth. It is probable that +he knew that, and refrained from letting her into the knowledge of this +vice, contracted in the war when, seriously ill, he was able to drag +himself about from patient to patient only by the help of opium. He was +alive to his position and its consequences, and faced it. He had no +children, and he was glad of this for one reason. He could do nothing +now without the drug; it was as necessary as light to him. The little +bottle had been his friend so long, that, with his finger on its smooth- +edged cork, it was as though he held the tap of life. + +The Little Chemist and Medallion kept the thing to themselves, but they +understood each other in the matter, and wondered what they could do to +cure him. The Little Chemist only shrank back, and said, "No, no, +pardon, my friend!" when Medallion suggested that he should speak to +Secord. But the Little Chemist was greatly concerned--for had not Secord +saved his beloved wife by a clever operation? and was it not her custom +to devote a certain hour every week to the welfare of Secord's soul and +body, before the shrine of the Virgin? Her husband told her now that +Secord was in trouble, and though he was far from being devout himself, +he had a shy faith in the great sincerity of his wife. She did her best, +and increased her offerings of flowers to the shrine; also, in her +simplicity, she sent Secord's wife little jars of jam to comfort him. + +One evening the little coterie met by arrangement at the doctor's house. +After waiting an hour or two for Secord, who had been called away to a +critical case, the Avocat and the Cure went home, leaving polite old- +fashioned messages for their absent host; but the Little Chemist and +Medallion remained. For a time Mrs. Secord remained with them, then +retired, begging them to await her husband, who, she knew, would be +grateful if they stayed. The Little Chemist, with timid courtesy, showed +her out of the room, then came back and sat down. They were very silent. +The Little Chemist took off his glasses a half-dozen times, wiped them, +and put them back. Then suddenly turned on Medallion. "You mean to +speak to-night?" + +"Yes, that's it." + +"Regardez ca--well, well!" + +Medallion never smoked harder than he did then. The Little Chemist +looked at him nervously again and again, listened towards the door, +fingered with his tumbler, and at last hearing the sound of sleigh-bells, +suddenly came to his feet, and said: "Voila, I will go to my wife." And +catching up his cap, and forgetting his overcoat, he trotted away home in +a fright. + +What Medallion did or said to Secord that night neither ever told. +But it must have been a singular scene, for when the humourist pleads or +prays there is no pathos like it; and certainly Medallion's eyes were red +when he rapped up the Little Chemist at dawn, caught him by the +shoulders, turned him round several times, thumped him on the back, and +called him a bully old boy; and then, seeing the old wife in her quaint +padded night-gown, suddenly hugged her, threw himself into a chair, and +almost shouted for a cup of coffee. + +At the same time Mrs. Secord was alternately crying and laughing in her +husband's arms, and he was saying to her: "I'll make a fight for it, +Lesley, a big fight; but you must be patient, for I expect I'll be a +devil sometimes without it. Why, I've eaten a drachm a day of the stuff, +or drunk its equivalent in the tincture. No, never mind praying; be a +brick and fight with me that's the game, my girl." + +He did make a fight for it, such an one as few men have made and come +out safely. For those who dwell in the Pit never suffer as do they who +struggle with this appetite. He was too wise to give it up all at once. +He diminished the dose gradually, but still very perceptibly. As it was, +it made a marked change in him. The necessary effort of the will gave a +kind of hard coldness to his face, and he used to walk his garden for +hours at night in conflict with his enemy. His nerves were uncertain, +but, strange to say, when (it was not often) any serious case of illness +came under his hands, he was somehow able to pull himself together and do +his task gallantly enough. But he had had no important surgical case +since he began his cure. In his heart he lived in fear of one; for he +was not quite sure of himself. In spite of effort to the contrary he +became irritable, and his old pleasant fantasies changed to gloomy and +bizarre imaginings. + +The wife never knew what it cost her husband thus, day by day, to take a +foe by the throat and hold him in check. She did not guess that he knew +if he dropped back even once he could not regain himself: this was his +idiosyncrasy. He did not find her a great help to him in his trouble. +She was affectionate, but she had not much penetration even where he was +concerned, and she did not grasp how much was at stake. She thought +indeed that he should be able to give it up all at once. He was tender +with her, but he wished often that she could understand him without +explanation on his part. Many a time he took out the little bottle with +a reckless hand, but conquered himself. He got most help, perhaps, from +the honest, cheerful eye of Medallion and the stumbling timorous +affection of the Little Chemist. They were perfectly disinterested +friends--his wife at times made him aware that he had done her a wrong, +for he had married her with thus appetite on him. He did not defend +himself, but he wished she would--even if she had to act it--make him +believe in himself more. One morning against his will he was irritable +with her, and she said something that burnt like caustic. He smiled +ironically, and pushed his newspaper over to her, pointing to a +paragraph. It was the announcement that an old admirer of hers whom she +had passed by for her husband, had come into a fortune. "Perhaps you've +made a mistake," he said. + +She answered nothing, but the look she gave was unfortunate for both. +He muffled his mouth in his long silken beard as if to smother what he +felt impelled to say, then suddenly rose and left the table. + +At this time he had reduced his dose of the drug to eight drops twice a +day. With a grim courage he resolved to make it five all at once. He +did so, and held to it. Medallion was much with him in these days. One +morning in the spring he got up, went out in his garden, drew in the +fresh, sweet air with a great gulp, picked some lovely crab-apple +blossoms, and, with a strange glowing look in his eyes, came in to his +wife, put them into her hands, and kissed her. It was the anniversary of +their wedding-day. Then, without a word, he took from his pocket the +little phial that he had carried so long, rolled it for an instant in his +palm, felt its worn, discoloured cork musingly, and threw it out of the +window. + +"Now, my dear," he whispered, "we will be happy again." + +He held to his determination with a stern anxiety. He took a month's +vacation, and came back better. He was not so happy as he hoped to be; +yet he would not whisper to himself the reason why. He felt that +something had failed him somewhere. + +One day a man came riding swiftly up to his door to say that his wife's +father had met with a bad accident in his great mill. Secord told his +wife. A peculiar troubled look came into his face as he glanced +carefully over his instruments and through his medicine case. "God, I +must do it alone!" he said. + +The old man's injury was a dangerous one: a skilful operation was +necessary. As Secord stood beside the sufferer, he felt his nerves +suddenly go--just as they did in the war before he first took the drug. +His wife was in the next room--he could hear her; he wished she would +make no sound at all. Unless this operation was performed successfully +the sufferer would die--he might die anyhow. Secord tried to gather +himself up to his task, but he felt it was of no use. A month later when +he was more recovered physically he would be able to perform the +operation, but the old man was dying now, while he stood helplessly +stroking his big brown beard. He took up his pocket medicine-case, and +went out where his wife was. + +Excited and tearful, she started up to meet him, painfully inquiring. +"Can you save him?" she said. "Oh, James, what is the matter? You are +trembling." + +"It's just this way, Lesley: my nerve is broken; I can't perform the +operation as I am, and he will die in an hour if I don't." + +She caught him by the arm. "Can you not be strong? You have a will. +Will you not try to save my father, James? Is there no way?" + +"Yes, there is one way," he said. He opened the pocket-case and took out +a phial of laudanum. "This is the way. I can pull myself together with +it. It will save his life." There was a dogged look in his face. + +"Well? well?" she said. "Oh, my dear father, will you not keep him +here?" + +A peculiar cold smile hovered about his lips. "But there is danger to me +in this . . . and remember, he is very old!" + +"Oh," she cried, "how can you be so shocking, so cruel!" She rocked +herself to and fro. "If it will save him--and you need not take it +again, ever!" + +"But, I tell you--" + +"Do you not hear him--he is dying!" She was mad with grief; she hardly +knew what she said. + +Without a word he dropped the tincture swiftly in a wine-glass of water, +drank it off, shivered, drew himself up with a start, gave a sigh as if +some huge struggle was over, and went in to where the old man was. Three +hours after he told his wife that her father was safe. + +When, after a hasty kiss, she left him and went into the room of +sickness, and the door closed after her, standing where she had left him +he laughed a hard crackling laugh, and said between his teeth: + +"An upset price!" + +Then he poured out another portion of the dark tincture--the largest he +had ever taken--and tossed it off. That night he might have been seen +feeling about the grass in a moon-lit garden. At last he put something +in his pocket with a quick, harsh chuckle of satisfaction. It was a +little black bottle with a well-worn cork. + + + + + + +A FRAGMENT OF LIVES + +They met at last, Dubarre, and Villiard, the man who had stolen from him +the woman he loved. Both had wronged the woman, but Villiard most, for +he had let her die because of jealousy. + +They were now in a room alone in the forest of St. Sebastian. Both were +quiet, and both knew that the end of their feud was near. + +Going to a cupboard Dubarre brought out four glasses and put them on the +table. Then from two bottles he poured out what looked like red wine, +two glasses from each bottle. Putting the bottles back he returned to +the table. + +"Do you dare to drink with me?" Dubarre asked, nodding towards the +glasses. "Two of the glasses have poison in them, two have good red wine +only. We will move them about and then drink. Both may die, or only one +of us." + +Villiard looked at the other with contracting, questioning eyes. + +"You would play that game with me?" he asked, in a mechanical voice. + +"It would give me great pleasure." The voice had a strange, ironical +tone. "It is a grand sport--as one would take a run at a crevasse and +clear it, or fall. If we both fall, we are in good company; if you fall, +I have the greater joy of escape; if I fall, you have the same joy." + +"I am ready," was the answer. "But let us eat first." + +A great fire burned in the chimney, for the night was cool. It filled +the room with a gracious heat and with huge, comfortable shadows. Here +and there on the wall a tin cup flashed back the radiance of the fire, +the barrel of a gun glistened soberly along a rafter, and the long, wiry +hair of an otter-skin in the corner sent out little needles of light. +Upon the fire a pot was simmering, and a good savour came from it. A +wind went lilting by outside the but in tune with the singing of the +kettle. The ticking of a huge, old-fashioned repeating-watch on the wall +was in unison with these. + +Dubarre rose from the table, threw himself upon the little pile of otter- +skins, and lay watching Villiard and mechanically studying the little +room. + +Villiard took the four glasses filled with the wine and laid them on a +shelf against the wall, then began to put the table in order for their +supper, and to take the pot from the fire. + +Dubarre noticed that just above where the glasses stood on the shelf a +crucifix was hanging, and that red crystal sparkled in the hands and feet +where the nails should be driven in. There was a painful humour in the +association. He smiled, then turned his head away, for old memories +flashed through his brain--he had been an acolyte once; he had served at +the altar. + +Suddenly Dubarre rose, took the glasses from the shelf and placed them in +the middle of the table--the death's head for the feast. + +As they sat down to eat, the eyes of both men unconsciously wandered to +the crucifix, attracted by the red sparkle of the rubies. They drank +water with the well-cooked meat of the wapiti, though red wine faced them +on the table. Each ate heartily; as though a long day were before them +and not the shadow of the Long Night. There was no speech save that of +the usual courtesies of the table. The fire, and the wind, and the watch +seemed the only living things besides themselves, perched there between +heaven and earth. + +At length the meal was finished, and the two turned in their chairs +towards the fire. There was no other light in the room, and on the faces +of the two, still and cold, the flame played idly. + +"When?" said Dubarre at last. "Not yet," was the quiet reply. + +"I was thinking of my first theft--an apple from my brother's plate," +said Dubarre, with a dry smile. "You?" + +"I, of my first lie." + +"That apple was the sweetest fruit I ever tasted." + +"And I took the penalty of the lie, but I had no sorrow." + +Again there was silence. + +"Now?" asked Villiard, after an hour had passed. "I am ready." + +They came to the table. + +"Shall we bind our eyes?" asked Dubarre. "I do not know the glasses +that hold the poison." + +"Nor I the bottle that held it. I will turn my back, and do you change +about the glasses." + +Villiard turned his face towards the timepiece on the wall. As he did so +it began to strike--a clear, silvery chime: "One! two! three--!" + +Before it had finished striking both men were facing the glasses again. + +"Take one," said Dubarre. + +Villiard took the one nearest himself. Dubarre took one also. Without a +word they lifted the glasses and drank. + +"Again," said Dubarre. + +"You choose," responded Villiard. + +Dubarre lifted the one nearest himself, and Villiard picked up the other. +Raising their glasses again, they bowed to each other and drank. + +The watch struck twelve, and stopped its silvery chiming. + +They both sat down, looking at each other, the light of an enormous +chance in their eyes, the tragedy of a great stake in their clinched +hands; but the deeper, intenser power was in the face of Dubarre, the +explorer. + +There was more than power; malice drew down the brows and curled the +sensitive upper lip. Each man watched the other for knowledge of his own +fate. The glasses lay straggling along the table, emptied of death and +life. + +All at once a horrible pallor spread over the face of Villiard, and his +head jerked forward. He grasped the table with both hands, twitching and +trembling. His eyes stared wildly at Dubarre, to whose face the flush of +wine had come, whose look was now maliciously triumphant. + +Villiard had drunk both glasses of the poison! + +"I win!" Dubarre stood up. Then, leaning over the table towards the +dying man, he added: "You let her die-well! Would you know the truth? +She loved you--always." + +Villiard gasped, and his look wandered vaguely along the opposite wall. + +Dubarre went on. "I played the game with you honestly, because--because +it was the greatest man could play. And I, too, sinned against her. Now +die! She loved you--murderer!" + +The man's look still wandered distractedly along the wall. The sweat of +death was on his face; his lips were moving spasmodically. + +Suddenly his look became fixed; he found voice. "Pardon--Jesu!" he +said, and stiffened where he sat. His eyes were fixed on the jewelled +crucifix. Dubarre snatched it from the wall, and hastening to him held +it to his lips: but the warm sparkle of the rubies fell on eyes that were +cold as frosted glass. Dubarre saw that he was dead. + +"Because the woman loved him!" he said, gazing curiously at the dead +man. + +He turned, went to the door and opened it, for his breath choked him. + +All was still on the wooded heights and in the wide valley. + +"Because the woman loved him he repented," said Dubarre again with a +half-cynical gentleness as he placed the crucifix on the dead man's +breast. + + + + + + +THE MAN THAT DIED AT ALMA + +The man who died at Alma had a Kilkenny brogue that you could not cut +with a knife, but he was called Kilquhanity, a name as Scotch as +McGregor. Kilquhanity was a retired soldier, on pension, and Pontiac was +a place of peace and poverty. The only gentry were the Cure, the Avocat, +and the young Seigneur, but of the three the only one with a private +income was the young Seigneur. + +What should such a common man as Kilquhanity do with a private income! +It seemed almost suspicious, instead of creditable, to the minds of the +simple folk at Pontiac; for they were French, and poor, and laborious, +and Kilquhanity drew his pension from the headquarters of the English +Government, which they only knew by legends wafted to them over great +tracts of country from the city of Quebec. + +When Kilquhanity first came with his wife, it was without introductions +from anywhere--unlike everybody else in Pontiac, whose family history +could be instantly reduced to an exact record by the Cure. He had a +smattering of French, which he turned off with oily brusqueness; he was +not close-mouthed, he talked freely of events in his past life; and he +told some really wonderful tales of his experiences in the British army. +He was no braggart, however, and his one great story which gave him the +nickname by which he was called at Pontiac, was told far more in a spirit +of laughter at himself than in praise of his own part in the incident. + +The first time he told the story was in the house of Medallion the +auctioneer. + +"Aw the night it was," said Kilquhanity, after a pause, blowing a cloud +of tobacco smoke into the air, "the night it was, me darlin's! Bitther +cowld in that Roosian counthry, though but late summer, and nothin' to +ate but a lump of bread, no bigger than a dickybird's skull; nothin' to +drink but wather. Turrible, turrible, and for clothes to wear--Mother of +Moses! that was a bad day for clothes! We got betune no barrick quilts +that night. No stockin' had I insoide me boots, no shirt had I but a +harse's quilt sewed an to me; no heart I had insoide me body; nothin' at +all but duty an' shtandin' to orders, me b'ys! + +"Says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick to me, 'Kilquhanity,' says he, 'there's +betther places than River Alma to live by,' says he. 'Faith, an' by the +Liffey I wish I was this moment'--Liffey's in ould Ireland, Frenchies! +'But, Kilquhanity,' says he, 'faith, an' it's the Liffey we'll never see +again, an' put that in yer pipe an' smoke it!' And thrue for him. + +"But that night, aw that night! Ivery bone in me body was achin', and +shure me heart was achin' too, for the poor b'ys that were fightin' hard +an' gettin' little for it. Bitther cowld it was, aw, bitther cowld, and +the b'ys droppin' down, droppin', droppin', droppin', wid the Roosian +bullets in thim! + +"'Kilquhanity,' says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick to me, 'it's this +shtandin' still, while we do be droppin', droppin', that girds the soul +av yer.' Aw, the sight it was, the sight it was! The b'ys of the +rigimint shtandin' shoulder to shoulder, an' the faces av 'm blue wid +powder, an' red wid blood, an' the bits o' b'ys droppin' round me loike +twigs of an' ould tree in a shtorm. Just a cry an' a bit av a gurgle tru +the teeth, an' divil the wan o' thim would see the Liffey side anny more. +"'The Roosians are chargin'!' shouts Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick. 'The +Roosians are chargin'--here they come!' Shtandin' besoide me was a bit +of a lump of a b'y, as foine a lad as ever shtood in the boots of me +rigimint--aw! the look of his face was the look o' the dead. 'The +Roosians are comin'--they're chargin'!' says Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick, +and the bit av a b'y, that had nothin' to eat all day, throws down his +gun and turns round to run. Eighteen years old he was, only eighteen-- +just a straight slip of a lad from Malahide. 'Hould on! Teddie,' says +I, 'hould on! How'll yer face yer mother if yer turn yer back on the +inimy of yer counthry?' The b'y looks me in the eyes long enough to wink +three times, picks up his gun, an' shtood loike a rock, he did, till the +Roosians charged us, roared on us, an' I saw me slip of a b'y go down +under the sabre of a damned Cossack. 'Mother!' I heard him say, +'Mother!' an' that's all I heard him say--and the mother waitin' away aff +there by the Liffey soide. Aw, wurra, wurra, the b'ys go down to battle +and the mothers wait at home! Some of the b'ys come back, but the most +of thim shtay where the battle laves 'em. Wurra, wurra, many's the b'y +wint down that day by Alma River, an' niver come back! "There I was +shtandin', when hell broke loose on the b'ys of me rigimint, and divil +the wan o' me knows if I killed a Roosian that day or not. But Sergeant- +Major Kilpatrick--a bit of a liar was the Sergeant-Major--says he: 'It +was tin ye killed, Kilquhanity.' He says that to me the noight that I +left the rigimint for ever, and all the b'ys shtandin' round and liftin' +lasses an' saying, 'Kilquhanity! Kilquhanity! Kilquhanity!' +as if it was sugar and honey in their mouths. Aw, the sound of it! +'Kilquhanity,' says he, 'it was tin ye killed;' but aw, b'ys, the +Sergeant-Major was an awful liar. If he could be doin' annybody anny +good by lyin', shure he would be lyin' all the time. + +"But it's little I know how many I killed, for I was killed meself that +day. A Roosian sabre claved the shoulder and neck of me, an' down I +wint, and over me trampled a squadron of Roosian harses, an' I stopped +thinkin'. Aw, so aisy, so aisy, I slipped away out av the fight! The +shriekin' and roarin' kept dwindlin' and dwindlin', and I dropped all +into a foine shlape, so quiet, so aisy. An' I thought that slip av a lad +from the Liffey soide was houlding me hand, and sayin' 'Mother! Mother!' +and we both wint ashlape; an' the b'ys of the rigimint when Alma was +over, they said to each other, the b'ys they said: 'Kilquhanity's dead.' +An' the trinches was dug, an' all we foine dead b'ys was laid in long +rows loike candles in the trinches. An' I was laid in among thim, and +Sergeant-Major Kilpatrick shtandin' there an' looking at me an' sayin': +'Poor b'y--poor b'y!' + +"But when they threw another man on tap of me, I waked up out o' that +beautiful shlape, and give him a kick. 'Yer not polite,' says I to +mesilf. Shure, I couldn't shpake--there was no strength in me. An' they +threw another man on, an' I kicked again, and the Sergeant-Major he sees +it, an' shouts out. 'Kilquhan ity's leg is kickin'!' says he. An' they +pulled aff the two poor divils that had been thrown o' tap o' me, and the +Sergeant-Major lifts me head, an' he says 'Yer not killed, Kilquhanity?' +says he. + +"Divil a word could I shpake, but I winked at him, and Captain Masham +shtandin' by whips out a flask. + +"'Put that betune his teeth,' says he. Whin I got it there, trust me fur +not lettin' it go. An' the Sergeant-Major says to me: 'I have hopes of +you, Kilquhanity, when you do be drinkin' loike that.' + +"'A foine healthy corpse I am; an' a foine thirsty, healthy corpse I am,' +says I." + +A dozen hands stretched out to give Kilquhanity a drink, for even the +best story-teller of Pontiac could not have told his tale so well. + +Yet the success achieved by Kilquhanity at such moments was discounted +through long months of mingled suspicion and doubtful tolerance. +Although both he and his wife were Catholics (so they said, and so it +seemed), Kilquhanity never went to Confession or took the Blessed +Sacrament. The Cure spoke to Kilquhanity's wife about it, and she said +she could do nothing with her husband. Her tongue once loosed, she spoke +freely, and what she said was little to the credit of Kilquhanity. Not +that she could urge any horrible things against him; but she railed at +minor faults till the Cure dismissed her with some good advice upon wives +rehearsing their husband's faults, even to the parish priest. + +Mrs. Kilquhanity could not get the Cure to listen to her, but she was +more successful elsewhere. One day she came to get Kilquhanity's +pension, which was sent every three months through M. Garon, the Avocat. +After she had handed over the receipt prepared beforehand by Kilquhanity, +she replied to M. Garon's inquiry concerning her husband in these words: +"Misther Garon, sir, such a man it is--enough to break the heart of anny +woman. And the timper of him--Misther Garon, the timper of him's that +awful, awful! No conshideration, and that ugly-hearted, got whin a +soldier b'y! The things he does--my, my, the things be does!" She threw +up her hands with an air of distraction. + +"Well, and what does he do, Madame?" asked the Avocat simply. + +"An' what he says, too--the awful of it! Ah, the bad sour heart in him! +What's he lyin' in his bed for now--an' the New Year comin' on, whin we +ought to be praisin' God an' enjoyin' each other's company in this +blessed wurruld? What's he lying betune the quilts now fur, but by token +of the bad heart in him! It's a wicked could he has, an' how did he come +by it? I'll tell ye, Misther Garon. So wild was he, yesterday it was a +week, so black mad wid somethin' I'd said to him and somethin' that +shlipped from me hand at his head, that he turns his back on me, throws +opin the dure, shteps out into the shnow, and shtandin' there alone, he +curses the wide wurruld--oh, dear Misther Garon, he cursed the wide +wurruld, shtandin' there in the snow! God forgive the black heart of +him, shtandin' out there cursin' the wide wurruld!" + +The Avocat looked at the Sergeant's wife musingly, the fingers of his +hands tapping together, but he did not speak: he was becoming wiser all +in a moment as to the ways of women. + +"An' now he's in bed, the shtrappin' blasphemer, fur the could he got +shtandin' there in the snow cursin' the wide wurruld. Ah, Misther Garon, +pity a poor woman that has to live wid the loikes o' that!" + +The Avocat still did not speak. He turned his face away and looked out +of the window, where his eyes could see the little house on the hill, +which to-day had the Union Jack flying in honour of some battle or +victory, dear to Kilquhanity's heart. It looked peaceful enough, the +little house lying there in the waste of snow, banked up with earth, and +sheltered on the northwest by a little grove of pines. At last M. Garon +rose, and lifting himself up and down on his toes as if about to deliver +a legal opinion, he coughed slightly, and then said in a dry little +voice: + +"Madame, I shall have pleasure in calling on your husband. You have not +seen the matter in the true light. Madame, I bid you good-day." + +That night the Avocat, true to his promise, called on Sergeant +Kilquhanity. Kilquhanity was alone in the house. His wife had gone to +the village for the Little Chemist. She had been roused at last to the +serious nature of Kilquhanity's illness. + +M. Garon knocked. There was no answer. He knocked again more loudly, +and still no answer. He opened the door and entered into a clean, warm +living-room, so hot that the heat came to him in waves, buffeting his +face. Dining, sitting, and drawing-room, it was also a sort of winter +kitchen; and side by side with relics of Kilquhanity's soldier-life were +clean, bright tins, black saucepans, strings of dried fruit, and well- +cured hams. Certainly the place had the air of home; it spoke for the +absent termagant. + +M. Garon looked round and saw a half-opened door, through which presently +came a voice speaking in a laboured whisper. The Avocat knocked gently +at the door. "May I come in, Sergeant?" he asked, and entered. There +was no light in the room, but the fire in the kitchen stove threw a glow +over the bed where the sick man lay. The big hands of the soldier moved +restlessly on the quilt. + +"Aw, it's the koind av ye!" said Kilquhanity, with difficulty, out of +the half shadows. + +The Avocat took one burning hand in both of his, held it for a moment, +and pressed it two or three times. He did not know what to say. + +"We must have a light," said he at last, and taking a candle from the +shelf he lighted it at the stove and came into the bedroom again. This +time he was startled. Even in this short illness, Kilquhanity's flesh +had dropped away from him, leaving him but a bundle of bones, on which +the skin quivered with fever. Every word the sick man tried to speak cut +his chest like a knife, and his eyes half started from his head with the +agony of it. The Avocat's heart sank within him, for he saw that a life +was hanging in the balance. Not knowing what to do, he tucked in the +bedclothes gently. + +"I do be thinkin'," said the strained, whispering voice--"I do be +thinkin' I could shmoke." + +The Avocat looked round the room, saw the pipe on the window, and cutting +some tobacco from a "plug," he tenderly filled the old black corn-cob. +Then he put the stem in Kilquhanity's mouth and held the candle to the +bowl. Kilquhanity smiled, drew a long breath, and blew out a cloud of +thick smoke. For a moment he puffed vigorously, then, all at once, the +pleasure of it seemed to die away, and presently the bowl dropped down on +his chin. M. Garon lifted it away. Kilquhanity did not speak, but kept +saying something over and over again to himself, looking beyond M. Garon +abstractedly. + +At that moment the front door of the house opened, and presently a shrill +voice came through the door: "Shmokin', shmokin', are ye, Kilquhanity? +As soon as me back's turned, it's playin' the fool--" She stopped short, +seeing the Avocat. + +"Beggin' yer pardon, Misther Garon," she said, "I thought it was only +Kilquhanity here, an' he wid no more sense than a babby." + +Kilquhanity's eyes closed, and he buried one side of his head in the +pillow, that her shrill voice should not pierce his ears. + +"The Little Chemist 'll be comin' in a minit, dear Misther Garon," said +the wife presently, and she began to fuss with the bedclothes and to be +nervously and uselessly busy. + +"Aw, lave thim alone, darlin'," whispered Kilquhanity, tossing. Her +officiousness seemed to hurt him more than the pain in his chest. + +M. Garon did not wait for the Little Chemist to arrive, but after +pressing the Sergeant's hand he left the house and went straight to the +house of the Cure, and told him in what condition was the black sheep of +his flock. + +When M. Garon returned to his own home he found a visitor in his library. +It was a woman, between forty and fifty years of age, who rose slowly to +her feet as the Avocat entered, and, without preliminary, put into his +hands a document. + +"That is who I am," she said. "Mary Muddock that was, Mary Kilquhanity +that is." + +The Avocat held in his hands the marriage lines of Matthew Kilquhanity of +the parish of Malahide and Mary Muddock of the parish of St. Giles, +London. The Avocat was completely taken aback. He blew nervously +through his pale fingers, raised himself up and down on his toes, and +grew pale through suppressed excitement. He examined the certificate +carefully, though from the first he had no doubt of its accuracy and +correctness. + +"Well?" said the woman, with a hard look in her face and a hard note in +her voice. "Well?" + +The Avocat looked at her musingly for a moment. All at once there had +been unfolded to him Kilquhanity's story. In his younger days +Kilquhanity had married this woman with a face of tin and a heart of +leather. It needed no confession from Kilquhanity's own lips to explain +by what hard paths he had come to the reckless hour when, at Blackpool, +he had left her for ever, as he thought. In the flush of his criminal +freedom he had married again--with the woman who shared his home on the +little hillside, behind the Parish Church, she believing him a widower. +Mary Muddock, with the stupidity of her class, had never gone to the +right quarters to discover his whereabouts until a year before this day +when she stood in the Avocat's library. At last, through the War Office, +she had found the whereabouts of her missing Matthew. She had gathered +her little savings together, and, after due preparation, had sailed away +to Canada to find the soldier boy whom she had never given anything but +bad hours in all the days of his life with her. + +"Well," said the woman, "you're a lawyer--have you nothing to say? You +pay his pension--next time you'll pay it to me. I'll teach him to leave +me and my kid and go off with an Irish cook!" + +The Avocat looked her steadily in the eyes, and then delivered the +strongest blow that was possible from the opposite side of the case. +"Madame," said he, "Madame, I regret to inform you that Matthew +Kilquhanity is dying." + +"Dying, is he?" said the woman, with a sudden change of voice and +manner, but her whine did not ring true. "The poor darlin', and only +that Irish hag to care for him! Has he made a will?" she added eagerly. + +Kilquhanity had made no will, and the little house on the hillside, +and all that he had, belonged to this woman who had spoiled the first +part of his life, and had come now to spoil the last part. + +An hour later the Avocat, the Cure, and the two women stood in the chief +room of the little house on the hillside. The door was shut between the +two rooms, and the Little Chemist was with Kilquhanity. The Cure's hand +was on the arm of the first wife and the Avocat's upon the arm of the +second. The two women were glaring eye to eye, having just finished as +fine a torrent of abuse of each other and of Kilquhanity as can be +imagined. Kilquhanity himself, with the sorrow of death upon him, though +he knew it not, had listened to the brawl, his chickens come home to +roost at last. The first Mrs. Kilquhanity had sworn, with an oath that +took no account of the Cure's presence, that not a stick nor a stone nor +a rag nor a penny should that Irish slattern have of Matthew +Kilquhanity's! + +The Cure and the Avocat had quieted them at last, and the Cure spoke +sternly now to both women. + +"In the presence of death," said he, "have done with your sinful clatter. +Stop quarrelling over a dying man. Let him go in peace--let him go in +peace! If I hear one word more," he added sternly, "I will turn you both +out of the house into the night. I will have the man die in peace." + +Opening the door of the bedroom, the Cure went in and shut the door, +bolting it quietly behind him. The Little Chemist sat by the bedside, +and Kilquhanity lay as still as a babe upon the bed. His eyes were half +closed, for the Little Chemist had given him an opiate to quiet the +terrible pain. + +The Cure saw that the end was near. He touched Kilquhanity's arm: "My +son," said he, "look up. You have sinned; you must confess your sins, +and repent." + +Kilquhanity looked up at him with dazed but half smiling eyes. "Are they +gone? Are the women gone?" The Cure nodded his head. Kilquhanity's +eyes closed and opened again. "They're gone, thin! Oh, the foine of it, +the foine of it!" he whispered. "So quiet, so aisy, so quiet! Faith, +I'll just be shlaping! I'll be shlaping now." + +His eyes closed, but the Cure touched his arm again. "My son," said he, +"look up. Do you thoroughly and earnestly repent you of your sins?" + +His eyes opened again. "Yis, father, oh yis! There's been a dale o' +noise--there's been a dale o' noise in the wurruld, father," said he. +"Oh, so quiet, so quiet now! I do be shlaping." + +A smile came upon his face. "Oh, the foine of it! I do be shlaping- +shlaping." + +And he fell into a noiseless Sleep. + + + + + + +THE BARON OF BEAUGARD + +"The Manor House at Beaugard, monsieur? Ah, certainlee, I mind it very +well. It was the first in Quebec, and there are many tales. It had a +chapel and a gallows. Its baron, he had the power of life and death, and +the right of the seigneur--you understand?--which he used only once; and +then what trouble it made for him and the woman, and the barony, and the +parish, and all the country!" + +"What is the whole story, Larue?" said Medallion, who had spent months +in the seigneur's company, stalking game, and tales, and legends of the +St. Lawrence. + +Larue spoke English very well--his mother was English. + +"Mais, I do not know for sure; but the Abbe Frontone, he and I were +snowed up together in that same house which now belongs to the Church, +and in the big fireplace, where we sat on a bench, toasting our knees and +our bacon, he told me the tale as he knew it. He was a great scholar-- +there is none greater. He had found papers in the wall of the house, and +from the Gover'ment chest he got more. Then there were the tales handed +down, and the records of the Church--for she knows the true story of +every man that has come to New France from first to last. So, because I +have a taste for tales, and gave him some, he told me of the Baron of +Beaugard, and that time he took the right of the seigneur, and the end of +it all. + +"Of course it was a hundred and fifty years ago, when Bigot was +Intendant-ah, what a rascal was that Bigot, robber and deceiver! He +never stood by a friend, and never fought fair a foe--so the Abbe said. +Well, Beaugard was no longer young. He had built the Manor House, he had +put up his gallows, he had his vassals, he had been made a lord. He had +quarrelled with Bigot, and had conquered, but at great cost; for Bigot +had such power, and the Governor had trouble enough to care for himself +against Bigot, though he was Beaugard's friend. + +"Well, there was a good lump of a fellow who had been a soldier, and he +picked out a girl in the Seigneury of Beaugard to make his wife. It is +said the girl herself was not set for the man, for she was of finer stuff +than the peasants about her, and showed it. But her father and mother +had a dozen other children, and what was this girl, this Falise, to do? +She said yes to the man, the time was fixed for the marriage, and it came +along. + +"So. At the very hour of the wedding Beaugard came by, for, the church +was in mending, and he had given leave it should be in his own chapel. +Well, he rode by just as the bride was coming out with the man--Garoche. +When Beaugard saw Falise, he gave a whistle, then spoke in his throat, +reined up his horse, and got down. He fastened his eyes on the girl's. +A strange look passed between them--he had never seen her before, but she +had seen him often, and when he was gone had helped the housekeeper with +his rooms. She had carried away with her a stray glove of his. Of +course it sounds droll, and they said of her when all came out that it +was wicked; but evil is according to a man's own heart, and the girl had +hid this glove as she hid whatever was in her soul--hid it even from the +priest. + +"Well, the Baron looked and she looked, and he took off his hat, stepped +forward, and kissed her on the cheek. She turned pale as a ghost, and +her eyes took the colour that her cheeks lost. When he stepped back he +looked close at the husband. 'What is your name?' he said. 'Garoche, +M'sieu' le Baron,' was the reply. 'Garoche, Garoche,' he said, eyeing +him up and down. 'You have been a soldier?' 'Yes, M'sieu' le Baron.' +'You have served with me?' 'Against you, M'sieu' le Baron . . . when +Bigot came fighting.' 'Better against me than for me,' said the Baron, +speaking to himself, though he had so strong a voice that what he said +could be heard by those near him-that is, those who were tall, for he was +six and a half feet, with legs and shoulders like a bull. + +"He stooped and stroked the head of his hound for a moment, and all the +people stood and watched him, wondering what next. At last he said: 'And +what part played you in that siege, Garoche?' Garoche looked troubled, +but answered: 'It was in the way of duty, M'sieu' le Baron--I with five +others captured the relief-party sent from your cousin the Seigneur of +Vadrome.' 'Oh,' said the Baron, looking sharp, 'you were in that, were +you? Then you know what happened to the young Marmette?' Garoche +trembled a little, but drew himself up and said: 'M'sieu' le Baron, he +tried to kill the Intendant--there was no other way.' 'What part played +you in that, Garoche?' Some trembled, for they knew the truth, and they +feared the mad will of the Baron. 'I ordered the firing-party, M'sieu' +le Baron,' he answered. + +"The Baron's eyes got fierce and his face hardened, but he stooped and +drew the ears of the hound through his hand softly. 'Marmette was my +cousin's son, and had lived with me,' he said. 'A brave lad, and he had +a nice hatred of vileness--else he had not died.' A strange smile played +on his lips for a moment, then he looked at Falise steadily. Who can +tell what was working in his mind! 'War is war,' he went on, 'and Bigot +was your master, Garoche; but the man pays for his master's sins this way +or that. Yet I would not have it different, no, not a jot.' Then he +turned round to the crowd, raised his hat to the Cure, who stood on the +chapel steps, once more looked steadily at Falise, and said: 'You shall +all come to the Manor House, and have your feastings there, and we will +drink to the home-coming of the fairest woman in my barony.' With that +he turned round, bowed to Falise, put on his hat, caught the bridle +through his arm, and led his horse to the Manor House. + +"This was in the afternoon. Of course, whether they wished or not, +Garoche and Falise could not refuse, and the people were glad enough, for +they would have a free hand at meat and wine, the Baron being liberal of +table. And it was as they guessed, for though the time was so short, the +people at Beaugard soon had the tables heavy with food and drink. It was +just at the time of candle-lighting the Baron came in and gave a toast. +'To the dwellers in Eden to-night,' he said--'Eden against the time of +the Angel and the Sword.' I do not think that any except the Cure and +the woman understood, and she, maybe, only because a woman feels the +truth about a thing, even when her brain does not. After they had done +shouting to his toast, he said a good-night to all, and they began to +leave, the Cure among the first to go, with a troubled look in his face. + +"As the people left, the Baron said to Garoche and Falise: 'A moment with +me before you go.' The woman started, for she thought of one thing, and +Garoche started, for he thought of another--the siege of Beaugard and the +killing of young Marmette. But they followed the Baron to his chamber. +Coming in, he shut the door on them. Then he turned to Garoche. 'You +will accept the roof and bed of Beaugard to-night, my man,' he said, 'and +come to me here at nine tomorrow morning.' Garoche stared hard for an +instant. 'Stay here!' said Garoche, 'Falise and me stay here in the +Manor, M'sieu' le Baron!' 'Here, even here, Garoche; so good-night to +you,' said the Baron. Garoche turned towards the girl. 'Then come, +Falise,' he said, and reached out his hand. 'Your room, Garoche, shall +be shown you at once,' the Baron added softly, 'the lady's at her +pleasure.' + +"Then a cry burst from Garoche, and he sprang forward, but the Baron +waved him back. 'Stand off,' he said, 'and let the lady choose between +us.' 'She is my wife,' said Garoche. 'I am your Seigneur,' said the +other. 'And there is more than that,' he went on; 'for, damn me, she +is too fine stuff for you, and the Church shall untie what she has tied +to-day!' At that Falise fainted, and the Baron caught her as she fell. +He laid her on a couch, keeping an eye on Garoche the while. 'Loose her +gown,' he said, 'while I get brandy.' Then he turned to a cupboard, +poured liquor, and came over. Garoche had her dress open at the neck and +bosom, and was staring at something on her breast. The Baron saw also, +stooped with a strange sound in his throat, and picked it up. 'My +glove!' he said. 'And on her wedding-day!' He pointed. 'There on the +table is its mate, fished this morning from my hunting-coat--a pair the +Governor gave me. You see, man, you see her choice!' + +"At that he stooped and put some brandy to her lips. Garoche drew back +sick and numb, and did nothing, only stared. Falise came to herself +soon, and when she felt her dress open, gave a cry. Garoche could have +killed her then, when he saw her shudder from him, as if afraid, over +towards the Baron, who held the glove in his hand, and said: 'See, +Garoche, you had better go. In the next room they will tell you where to +sleep. To-morrow, as I said, you will meet me here. We shall have +things to say, you and I.' Ah, that Baron, he had a queer mind, but in +truth he loved the woman, as you shall see! + +"Garoche got up without a word, went to the door and opened it, the look +of the Baron and the woman following him, for there was a devil in his +eye. In the other room there were men waiting, and he was taken to a +chamber and locked in. You can guess what that night must have been to +him!" + +"What was it to the Baron and Falise?" asked Medallion. + +"M'sieu', what do you think? Beaugard had never had an eye for women; +loving his hounds, fighting, quarrelling, doing wild, strong things. So, +all at once, he was face to face with a woman who has the look of love in +her face, who was young, and fine of body--so the Abbe said--and was +walking to marriage at her father's will and against her own, carrying +the Baron's glove in her bosom. What should Beaugard do? But no, ah no, +m'sieu', not as you think, not quite! Wild, with the bit in his teeth, +yes; but at heart-well, here was the one woman for him. He knew it all +in a minute, and he would have her once and for all, and till death +should come their way. And so he said to her, as he raised her, she +drawing back afraid, her heart hungering for him, yet fear in her eyes, +and her fingers trembling as she softly pushed him from her. You see, +she did not know quite what was in his heart. She was the daughter of a +tenant vassal, who had lived in the family of a grand seigneur in her +youth, the friend of his child--that was all, and that was where she got +her manners and her mind. + +"She got on her feet and said: 'M'sieu' le Baron, you will let me go-- +to my husband. I cannot stay here. Oh, you are great, you are noble, +you would not make me sorry, make me to hate myself--and you! I have +only one thing in the world of any price--you would not steal my +happiness?' He looked at her steadily in the eyes, and said: 'Will it +make you happy to go to Garoche?' She raised her hands and wrung them. +'God knows, God knows, I am his wife,' she said helplessly, 'and he loves +me.' 'And God knows, God knows,' said the Baron, 'it is all a question +of whether one shall feed and two go hungry, or two gather and one have +the stubble! Shall not he stand in the stubble? What has he done to +merit you? + +"What would he do? You are for the master, not the man; for love, not the +feeding on; for the Manor House and the hunt, not the cottage and the +loom.' + +"She broke into tears, her heart thumping in her throat. 'I am for what +the Church did for me this day,' she said. 'O sir, I pray you, forgive +me and let me go. Do not punish me, but forgive me--and let me go. +I was wicked to wear your glove-wicked, wicked.' 'But no,' was his +reply, 'I shall not forgive you so good a deed, and you shall not go. +And what the Church did for you this day she shall undo--by all the +saints, she shall! You came sailing into my heart this hour past on a +strong wind, and you shall not slide out on an ebb-tide. I have you +here, as your Seigneur, but I have you here as a man who will--' + +"He sat down by her at that point, and whispered softly in her ear; at +which she gave a cry which had both gladness and pain. 'Surely, even +that,' he said, catching her to his breast. 'And the Baron of Beaugard +never broke his word.' What should be her reply? Does not a woman when +she truly loves always believe? That is the great sign. She slid to her +knees and dropped her head into the hollow of his arm. 'I do not +understand these things,' she said, 'but I know that the other was death, +and this is life. And yet I know, too, for my heart says so, that the +end--the end, will be death.' + +"'Tut, tut, my flower, my wild-rose!' he said. 'Of course the end of all +is death, but we will go a-Maying first, come October, and let the world +break over us when it must. We are for Maying now, my rose of all the +world!' It was as if he meant more than he said, as if he saw what would +come in that October which all New France never forgot, when, as he said, +the world broke over them. + +"The next morning the Baron called Garoche to him. The man was like some +mad buck harried by the hounds, and he gnashed his teeth behind his shut +lips. The Baron eyed him curiously, yet kindly, too, as well he might, +for when was ever man to hear such a speech as came to Garoche the +morning after his marriage? 'Garoche,' the Baron said, having waved his +men away, 'as you see, the lady made her choice--and for ever. You and +she have said your last farewell in this world--for the wife of the Baron +of Beaugard can have nothing to say to Garoche the soldier.' At that +Garoche snarled out, 'The wife of the Baron of Beaugard, that is a lie to +shame all hell.' The Baron wound the lash of a riding-whip round and +round his fingers quietly and said: 'It is no lie, my man, but the +truth.' Garoche eyed him savagely, and growled: 'The Church made her my +wife yesterday; and you--you--you--ah, you who had all--you with your +money and place, which could get all easy, you take the one thing I have! +You, the grand seigneur, are only a common robber! Ah, Jesu--if you +would but fight me!' + +"The Baron, very calm, said: 'First, Garoche, the lady was only your wife +by a form which the Church shall set aside--it could never have been a +true marriage. Second, it is no stealing to take from you what you did +not have. I took what was mine--remember the glove! For the rest--to +fight you? No, my churl, you know that's impossible. You may shoot me +from behind a tree or a rock, but swording with you--come, come, a pretty +gossip for the Court! Then, why wish a fight? Where would you be, as +you stood before me--you!' The Baron stretched himself up, and smiled +down at Garoche. 'You have your life, man; take it and go--to the +farthest corner of New France, and show not your face here again. If I +find you ever again in Beaugard I will have you whipped from parish to +parish. Here is money for you--good gold coins. Take them, and go.' + +"Garoche got still and cold as stone. He said in a low, harsh voice: +'M'sieu' le Baron, you are a common thief, a wolf, a snake. Such men as +you come lower than Judas. As God has an eye to see, you shall pay all +one day. I do not fear you nor your men nor your gallows. You are a +jackal, and the woman has a filthy heart--a ditch of shame.' + +"The Baron drew up his arm like lightning, and the lash of his whip came +singing across Garoche's pale face. Where it passed, a red welt rose, +but the man never stirred. The arm came up again, but a voice' behind +the Baron said: 'Ah no, no, not again!' There stood Falise. Both men +looked at her. 'I have heard Garoche,' she said. 'He does not judge me +right. My heart is no filthy ditch of shame; but it was breaking when I +came from the altar with him yesterday. Yet I would have been a true +wife to him after all. A ditch of shame--ah, Garoche--Garoche! And you +said you loved me, and that nothing could change you!' + +"The Baron said to her: 'Why have you come, Falise? I forbade you.' 'Oh, +my lord,' she answered, 'I feared--for you both! When men go mad because +of women a devil enters into them.' The Baron, taking her by the hand, +said: 'Permit me,' and he led her to the door for her to pass out. She +looked back sadly at Garoche, standing for a minute very still. Then +Garoche said: 'I command you, come with me; you are my wife.' She did +not reply, but shook her head at him. Then he spoke out high and fierce: +'May no child be born to you. May a curse fall on you. May your fields +be barren, and your horses and cattle die. May you never see nor hear +good things. May the waters leave their courses to drown you, and the +hills their bases to bury you, and no hand lay you in decent graves!' + +"The woman put her hands to her ears and gave a little cry, and the Baron +pushed her gently on, and closed the door after her. Then he turned on +Garoche. 'Have you said all you wish?' he asked. 'For, if not, say on, +and then go; and go so far you cannot see the sky that covers Beaugard. +We are even now--we can cry quits. But that I have a little injured you, +you should be done for instantly. But hear me: if I ever see you again, +my gallows shall end you straight. Your tongue has been gross before the +mistress of this Manor; I will have it torn out if it so much as +syllables her name to me or to the world again. She is dead to you. Go, +and go for ever!' + +"He put a bag of money on the table, but Garoche turned away from it, and +without a word left the room, and the house, and the parish, and said +nothing to any man of the evil that had come to him. + +"But what talk was there, and what dreadful things were said at first- +that Garoche had sold his wife to the Baron; that he had been killed and +his wife taken; that the Baron kept him a prisoner in a cellar under the +Manor House! And all the time there was Falise with the Baron--very +quiet and sweet and fine to see, and going to Chapel every day, and to +Mass on Sundays--which no one could understand, any more than they could +see why she should be called the Baroness of Beaugard; for had they all +not seen her married to Garoche? And there were many people who thought +her vile. Yet truly, at heart, she was not so--not at all. Then it was +said that there was to be a new marriage; that the Church would let it be +so, doing and undoing, and doing again. But the weeks and the months +went by, and it was never done. For, powerful as the Baron was, Bigot +the Intendant was powerful also, and fought the thing with all his might. +The Baron went to Quebec to see the Bishop and the Governor, and though +promises were made, nothing was done. It must go to the King and then to +the Pope, and from the Pope to the King again, and so on. And the months +and the years went by as they waited, and with them came no child to the +Manor House of Beaugard. That was the only sad thing--that and the +waiting, so far as man could see. For never were man and woman truer to +each other than these, and never was a lady of the Manor kinder to the +poor, or a lord freer of hand to his vassals. He would bluster +sometimes, and string a peasant up by the heels, but his gallows was +never used; and, what was much in the minds of the people, the Cure did +not refuse the woman the sacrament. + +"At last the Baron, fierce because he knew that Bigot was the cause of +the great delay, so that he might not call Falise his wife, seized a +transport on the river, which had been sent to brutally levy upon a poor +gentleman, and when Bigot's men resisted, shot them down. Then Bigot +sent against Beaugard a company of artillery and some soldiers of the +line. The guns were placed on a hill looking down on the Manor House +across the little river. In the evening the cannons arrived, and in the +morning the fight was to begin. The guns were loaded and everything was +ready. At the Manor all was making ready also, and the Baron had no +fear. + +"But Falise's heart was heavy, she knew not why. 'Eugene,' she said, 'if +anything should happen!' 'Nonsense, my Falise,' he answered; 'what +should happen?' 'If--if you were taken--were killed!' she said. +'Nonsense, my rose,' he said again, 'I shall not be killed. But if I +were, you should be at peace here.' 'Ah, no, no!' said she. 'Never. +Life to me is only possible with you. I have had nothing but you--none +of those things which give peace to other women--none. But I have been +happy-yes, very happy. And, God forgive me, Eugene, I cannot regret, and +I never have! But it has been always and always my prayer that, when you +die, I may die with you--at the same moment. For I cannot live without +you, and, besides, I would like to go to the good God with you to speak +for us both; for oh, I loved you, I loved you, and I love you still, my +husband, my adored!' + +"He stooped--he was so big, and she but of middle height--kissed her, and +said: 'See, my Falise, I am of the same mind. We have been happy in +life, and we could well be happy in death together.' So they sat long, +long into the night and talked to each other--of the days they had passed +together, of cheerful things, she trying to comfort herself, and he +trying to bring smiles to her lips. At last they said good-night, and he +lay down in his clothes; and after a few moments she was sleeping like a +child. But he could not sleep, for he lay thinking of her and of her +life--how she had come from humble things and fitted in with the highest. +At last, at break of day, he arose and went outside. He looked up at the +hill where Bigot's two guns were. Men were already stirring there. One +man was standing beside the gun, and another not far behind. Of course +the Baron could not know that the man behind the gunner said: 'Yes, you +may open the dance with an early salute;' and he smiled up boldly at the +hill and went into the house, and stole to the bed of his wife to kiss +her before he began the day's fighting. He looked at her a moment, +standing over her, and then stooped and softly put his lips to hers. + +"At that moment the gunner up on the hill used the match, and an awful +thing happened. With the loud roar the whole hillside of rock and gravel +and sand split down, not ten feet in front of the gun, moved with +horrible swiftness upon the river, filled its bed, turned it from its +course, and, sweeping on, swallowed the Manor House of Beaugard. There +had been a crack in the hill, the water of the river had sapped its +foundations, and it needed only this shock to send it down. + +"And so, as the woman wished: the same hour for herself and the man! And +when at last their prison was opened by the hands of Bigot's men, they +were found cheek by cheek, bound in the sacred marriage of Death. + +"But another had gone the same road, for, at the awful moment, beside the +bursted gun, the dying gunner, Garoche, lifted up his head, saw the loose +travelling hill, and said with his last breath: 'The waters drown them, +and the hills bury them, and--' + +"He had his way with them, and after that perhaps the great God had His +way with him perhaps." + + + + + + +THE TUNE McGILVERAY PLAYED + +McGilveray has been dead for over a hundred years, but there is a parish +in Quebec where his tawny-haired descendants still live. They have the +same sort of freckles on their faces as had their ancestor, the +bandmaster of Anstruther's regiment, and some of them have his taste for +music, yet none of them speak his language or with his brogue, and the +name of McGilveray has been gallicised to Magille. + +In Pontiac, one of the Magilles, the fiddler of the parish, made the +following verse in English as a tribute of admiration for an heroic deed +of his ancestor, of which the Cure of the parish, the good M. Santonge, +had told him: + + "Piff! poem! ka-zoon, ka-zoon! + That is the way of the organ tune-- + And the ships are safe that day! + Piff! poum! kazoon, kazoon! + And the Admiral light his pipe and say: + 'Bully for us, we are not kill! + Who is to make the organ play + Make it say zoon-kazoon? + You with the corunet come this way-- + You are the man, Magillel + Piff! poum! kazoon, kazoon!'" + +Now, this is the story of McGilveray the bandmaster of Anstruther's +regiment: + +It was at the time of the taking of Quebec, the summer of 1759. The +English army had lain at Montmorenci, at the Island of Orleans, and at +Point Levis; the English fleet in the basin opposite the town, since June +of that great year, attacking and retreating, bombarding and besieging, +to no great purpose. For within the walls of the city, and on the shore +of Beauport, protected by its mud flats--a splendid moat--the French more +than held their own. + +In all the hot months of that summer, when parishes were ravaged with +fire and sword, and the heat was an excuse for almost any lapse of +virtue, McGilveray had not been drunk once--not once. It was almost +unnatural. Previous to that, McGilveray's career had been chequered. +No man had received so many punishments in the whole army, none had risen +so superior to them as had he, none had ever been shielded from wrath +present and to come as had this bandmaster of Anstruther's regiment. He +had no rivals for promotion in the regiment--perhaps that was one reason; +he had a good temper and an overwhelming spirit of fun--perhaps that was +another. + +He was not remarkable to the vision--scarcely more than five feet four; +with an eye like a gimlet, red hair tied in a queue, a big mouth, and a +chest thrown out like the breast of a partridge--as fine a figure of a +man in miniature as you should see. When intoxicated, his tongue rapped +out fun and fury like a triphammer. Alert-minded drunk or sober, drunk, +he was lightning-tongued, and he could play as well drunk as sober, too; +but more than once a sympathetic officer altered the tactics that +McGilveray might not be compelled to march, and so expose his condition. +Standing still he was quite fit for duty. He never got really drunk "at +the top." His brain was always clear, no matter how useless were his +legs. + +But the wonderful thing was that for six months McGilveray's legs were as +steady as his head was right. At first the regiment was unbelieving, and +his resolution to drink no more was scoffed at in the non-com mess. He +stuck to it, however, and then the cause was searched for--and not found. +He had not turned religious, he was not fanatical, he was of sound mind-- +what was it? When the sergeant-major suggested a woman, they howled him +down, for they said McGilveray had not made love to women since the day +of his weaning, and had drunk consistently all the time. + +Yet it was a woman. + +A fortnight or so after Wolfe's army and Saunders's fleet had sat down +before Quebec, McGilveray, having been told by a sentry at Montmorenci +where Anstruther's regiment was camped, that a French girl on the other +side of the stream had kissed her hand to him and sung across in laughing +insolence: + + "Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre," + +he had forthwith set out to hail this daughter of Gaul, if perchance she +might be seen again. + +At more than ordinary peril he crossed the river on a couple of logs, +lashed together, some distance above the spot where the picket had seen +Mademoiselle. It was a moonlight night, and he might easily have been +picked off by a bullet, if a wary sentry had been alert and malicious. +But the truth was that many of these pickets on both sides were in no +wise unfriendly to each other, and more than once exchanged tobacco and +liquor across the stream. As it chanced, however, no sentry saw +McGilveray, and presently, safely landed, he made his way down the +stream. Even at the distance he was from the falls, the rumble of them +came up the long walls of firs and maples with a strange, half-moaning +sound--all else was still. He came down until he was opposite the spot +where his English picket was posted, and then he halted and surveyed his +ground. + +Nothing human in sight, no sound of life, no sign of habitation. At this +moment, however, his stupidity in thus rushing into danger, the +foolishness of pursuing a woman whom he had never seen, and a French +woman at that, the punishment that would be meted out to him if his +adventure was discovered--all these came to him. + +They stunned him for a moment, and then presently, as if in defiance of +his own thoughts, he began to sing softly: + +"Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre." + +Suddenly, in one confused moment, he was seized, and a hand was clapped +over his mouth. Three French soldiers had him in their grip-stalwart +fellows they were, of the Regiment of Bearn. He had no strength to cope +with them, he at once saw the futility of crying out, so he played the +eel, and tried to slip from the grasp of his captors. But though he gave +the trio an awkward five minutes he was at last entirely overcome, and +was carried away in triumph through the woods. More than once they +passed a sentry, and more than once campfires round which soldiers slept +or dozed. Now and again one would raise his head, and with a laugh, or a +"Sapristi!" or a "Sacre bleu!" drop back into comfort again. + +After about ten minutes' walk he was brought to a small wooden house, the +door was thrown open, he was tossed inside, and the soldiers entered +after. The room was empty save for a bench, some shelves, a table, on +which a lantern burned, and a rude crucifix on the wall. McGilveray sat +down on the bench, and in five minutes his feet were shackled, while a +chain fastened to a staple in the wall held him in secure captivity. + +"How you like yourself now?" asked a huge French corporal who had +learned English from an English girl at St. Malo years before. + +"If you'd tie a bit o' pink ribbon round me neck, I'd die wid pride," +said McGilveray, spitting on the ground in defiance at the same time. + +The big soldier laughed, and told his comrades what the bandmaster had +said. One of them grinned, but the other frowned sullenly, and said: + +"Avez vous tabac?" + +"Havey you to-ba-co?" said the big soldier instantly--interpreting. + +"Not for a Johnny Crapaud like you, and put that in your pipe and shmoke +it!" said McGilveray, winking at the big fellow, and spitting on the +ground before the surly one, who made a motion as if he would bayonet +McGilveray where he sat. + +"He shall die--the cursed English soldier," said Johnny Crapaud. + +"Some other day will do," said McGilveray. "What does he say?" asked +Johnny Crapaud. + +"He says he'll give each of us three pounds of tobacco, if we let him +go," answered the corporal. McGilveray knew by the corporal's voice that +he was lying, and he also knew that, somehow, he had made a friend. + +"Y'are lyin', me darlin', me bloody beauty!" interposed McGilveray. + +"If we don't take him to headquarters now he'll send across and get the +tobacco," interpreted the corporal to Johnny Crapaud. + +"If he doesn't get the tobacco he'll be hung for a spy," said Johnny +Crapaud, turning on his heel. "Do we all agree?" said the corporal. + +The others nodded their heads, and, as they went out, McGilveray said +after them: + +"I'll dance a jig on yer sepulchrees, ye swobs!" he roared, and he spat +on the ground again in defiance. Johnny Crapaud turned to the corporal. + +"I'll kill him very dead," said he, "if that tobacco doesn't come. You +tell him so," he added, jerking a thumb towards McGilveray. "You tell +him so." + +The corporal stayed when the others went out, and, in broken English, +told McGilveray so. + +"I'll play a hornpipe, an' his gory shroud is round him," said +McGilveray. + +The corporal grinned from ear to ear. "You like a chew tabac?" said he, +pulling out a dirty knob of a black plug. + +McGilveray had found a man after his own heart. "Sing a song +a-sixpence," said he, "what sort's that for a gintleman an' a corporal, +too? Feel in me trousies pocket," said he, "which is fur me frinds for +iver." McGilveray had now hopes of getting free, but if he had not taken +a fancy to "me baby corporal," as he called the Frenchman, he would have +made escape or release impossible, by insulting him and every one of them +as quick as winking. + +After the corporal had emptied one pocket, "Now the other, man-o-wee- +wee!" said McGilveray, and presently the two were drinking what the +flask from the "trousies pocket" contained. So well did McGilveray work +upon the Frenchman's bonhomie that the corporal promised he should +escape. He explained how McGilveray should be freed--that at midnight +some one would come and release him, while he, the corporal, was with his +companions, so avoiding suspicion as to his own complicity. McGilveray +and the corporal were to meet again and exchange courtesies after the +manner of brothers--if the fortunes of war permitted. + +McGilveray was left alone. To while away the time he began to whistle to +himself, and what with whistling, and what with winking and talking to +the lantern on the table, and calling himself painful names, he endured +his captivity well enough. + +It was near midnight when the lock turned in the door and presently +stepped inside--a girl. + +"Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre," said she, and nodded her head to him +humorously. + +By this McGilveray knew that this was the maid that had got him into all +this trouble. At first he was inclined to say so, but she came nearer, +and one look of her black eyes changed all that. + +"You've a way wid you, me darlin'," said McGilveray, not thinking that +she might understand. + +"A leetla way of my own," she answered in broken English. + +McGilveray started. "Where did you learn it?" he asked, for he had had +two surprises that night. + +"Of my mother--at St. Malo," she replied. "She was half English--of +Jersey. You are a naughty boy," she added, with a little gurgle of +laughter in her throat. "You are not a good soldier to go a-chase of the +French girls 'cross of the river." + +"Shure I am not a good soldier thin. Music's me game. An' the band of +Anstruther's rigimint's mine." + +"You can play tunes on a drum?" she asked, mischievously. + +"There's wan I'd play to the voice av you," he said, in his softest +brogue. "You'll be unloosin' me, darlin'?" he added. + +She stooped to undo the shackles on his ankles. As she did so he leaned +over as if to kiss her. She threw back her head in disgust. + +"You have been drink," she said, and she stopped her work of freeing him. + +"What'd wet your eye--no more," he answered. She stood up. "I will +not," she said, pointing to the shackles, "if you drink some more--nevare +some more--nevare!" + +"Divil a drop thin, darlin', till we fly our flag yander," pointing +towards where he supposed the town to be. + +"Not till then?" she asked, with a merry little sneer. "Ver' well, it +is comme ca!" She held out her hand. Then she burst into a soft laugh, +for his hands were tied. "Let me kiss it," he said, bending forward. + +"No, no, no," she said. "We will shake our hands after," and she +stooped, took off the shackles, and freed his arms. + +"Now if you like," she said, and they shook hands as McGilveray stood up +and threw out his chest. But, try as he would to look important, she was +still an inch taller than he. + +A few moments later they were hurrying quietly through the woods, to the +river. There was no speaking. There was only the escaping prisoner and +the gay-hearted girl speeding along in the night, the mumbling of the +quiet cascade in their ears, the shifting moon playing hide-and-seek with +the clouds. They came out on the bank a distance above where McGilveray +had landed, and the girl paused and spoke in a whisper. "It is more hard +now," she said. "Here is a boat, and I must paddle--you would go to +splash. Sit still and be good." + +She loosed the boat into the current gently, and, holding it, motioned to +him to enter. + +"You're goin' to row me over?" he asked, incredulously. + +"'Sh! get in," she said. + +"Shtrike me crazy, no!" said McGilveray. "Divil a step will I go. Let +me that sowed the storm take the whirlwind." He threw out his chest. + +"What is it you came here for?" she asked, with meaning. + +"Yourself an' the mockin' bird in yer voice," he answered. + +"Then that is enough," she said. "You come for me, I go for you. Get +in." + +A moment afterwards, taking advantage of the obscured moon, they were +carried out on the current diagonally down the stream, and came quickly +to that point on the shore where an English picket was placed. They had +scarcely touched the shore when the click of a musket was heard, and a +"Qui-va-la?" came from the thicket. + +McGilveray gave the pass-word, and presently he was on the bank saluting +the sentry he had left three hours before. + +"Malbrouk s'en va t'en guerre!" said the girl again with a gay +insolence, and pushed the boat out into the stream. + +"A minnit, a minnit, me darlin'," said McGilveray. + +"Keep your promise," came back, softly. + +"Ah, come back wan minnit!" + +"A flirt!" said the sentry. + +"You will pay for that," said the girl to the sentry, with quick anger. + +"Do you love me, Irishman?" she added, to McGilveray. + +"I do--aw, wurra, wurra, I do!" said McGilveray. "Then you come and get +me by ze front door of ze city," said she, and a couple of quick strokes +sent her canoe out into the dusky middle of the stream; and she was soon +lost to view. + +"Aw, the loike o' that! Aw, the foine av her-the tip-top lass o' the +wide world!" said he. + +"You're a fool, an' there'll be trouble from this," said the sentry. + +There was trouble, for two hours later the sentry was found dead; picked +off by a bullet from the other shore when he showed himself in the +moonlight; and from that hour all friendliness between the pickets of the +English and the French ceased on the Montmorenci. + +But the one witness to McGilveray's adventure was dead, and that was why +no man knew wherefore it was that McGilveray took an oath to drink no +more till they captured Quebec. + +From May to September McGilveray kept to his resolution. But for all +that time he never saw "the tip-top lass o' the wide world." A time +came, however, when McGilveray's last state was worse than his first, and +that was the evening before the day Quebec was taken. A dozen prisoners +had been captured in a sortie from the Isle of Orleans to the mouth of +the St. Charles River. Among these prisoners was the grinning corporal +who had captured McGilveray and then released him. + +Two strange things happened. The big, grinning corporal escaped from +captivity the same night, and McGilveray, as a non-com said, "Got +shameful drunk." This is one explanation of the two things. McGilveray +had assisted the grinning corporal to escape. The other explanation +belongs to the end of the story. In any case, McGilveray "got shameful +drunk," and "was going large" through the camp. The end of it was his +arrest for assisting a prisoner to escape and for being drunk and +disorderly. The band of Anstruther's regiment boarded H.M.S. Leostaf +without him, to proceed up the river stealthily with the rest of the +fleet to Cap Rouge, from whence the last great effort of the heroic Wolfe +to effect a landing was to be made. McGilveray, still intoxicated but +intelligent, watched them go in silence. + +As General Wolfe was about to enter the boat which was to convey him to +the flag-ship, he saw McGilveray, who was waiting under guard to be taken +to Major Hardy's post at Point Levis. The General knew him well, and +looked at him half sadly, half sternly. + +"I knew you were free with drink, McGilveray," he said, "but I did not +think you were a traitor to your country too." + +McGilveray saluted, and did not answer. + +"You might have waited till after to-morrow, man," said the General, his +eyes flashing. "My soldiers should have good music to-morrow." + +McGilveray saluted again, but made no answer. + +As if with a sudden thought the General waved off the officers and men +near him, and betkcned McGilveray to him. + +"I can understand the drink in a bad soldier," he said, "but you helped a +prisoner to escape. Come, man, we may both be dead to-morrow, and I'd +like to feel that no soldier in my army is wilfully a foe of his +country." + +"He did the same for me, whin I was taken prisoner, yer Excillincy, an' +--an', yer Excillincy, 'twas a matter of a woman, too." + +The General's face relaxed a little. "Tell me the whole truth," said he; +and McGilveray told him all. "Ah, yer Excillincy," he burst out, at +last, "I was no traitor at heart, but a fool I always was! Yer +Excillincy, court-martial and death's no matter to me; but I'd like to +play wan toon agin, to lead the byes tomorrow. Wan toon, Gineral, an' +I'll be dacintly shot before the day's over-ah, yer Excillincy, wan toon +more, and to be wid the byes followin' the Gineral!" + +The General's face relaxed still more. + +"I take you at your word," said he. He gave orders that McGilveray +should proceed at once aboard the flag-ship, from whence he should join +Anstruther's regiment at Cap Rouge. + +The General entered the boat, and McGilveray followed with some non-com. +officers in another. It was now quite dark, and their motions, or the +motions of the vessels of war, could not be seen from the French +encampment or the citadel. They neared the flag-ship, and the General, +followed by his officers, climbed up. Then the men in McGilveray's boat +climbed up also, until only himself and another were left. + +At that moment the General, looking down from the side of the ship, said +sharply to an officer beside him: "What's that?" + +He pointed to a dark object floating near the ship, from which presently +came a small light with a hissing sound. + +"It's a fire-organ, sir," was the reply. + +A fire-organ was a raft, carrying long tubes like the pipes of an organ, +and filled with explosives. They were used by the French to send among +the vessels of the British fleet to disorganise and destroy them. The +little light which the General saw was the burning fuse. The raft had +been brought out into the current by French sailors, the fuse had been +lighted, and it was headed to drift towards the British ships. The fleet +was now in motion, and apart from the havoc which the bursting fire-organ +might make, the light from the explosion would reveal the fact that the +English men-o'-war were now moving towards Cap Rouge. This knowledge +would enable Montcalm to detect Wolfe's purpose, and he would at once +move his army in that direction. The west side of the town had meagre +military defenses, the great cliffs being thought impregnable. But at +this point Wolfe had discovered a narrow path up a steep cliff. + +McGilveray had seen the fire-organ at the same moment as the General. +"Get up the side," he said to the remaining soldier in his boat. The +soldier began climbing, and McGilveray caught the oars and was instantly +away towards the raft. The General, looking over the ship's side, +understood his daring purpose. In the shadow, they saw him near it, they +saw him throw a boat-hook and catch it, and then attach a rope; they saw +him sit down, and, taking the oars, laboriously row up-stream toward the +opposite shore, the fuse burning softly, somewhere among the great pipes +of explosives. McGilveray knew that it might be impossible to reach the +fuse--there was no time to spare, and he had set about to row the +devilish machine out of range of the vessels which were carrying Wolfe's +army to a forlorn hope. + +For minutes those on board the man-o'-war watched and listened. +Presently nothing could be seen, not even the small glimmer from the +burning fuse. + +Then, all at once, there was a terrible report, and the organ pipes +belched their hellish music upon the sea. Within the circle of light +that the explosion made, there was no sign of any ship; but, strangely +tall in the red glare, stood McGilveray in his boat. An instant he stood +so, then he fell, and presently darkness covered the scene. The furious +music of death and war was over. There was silence on the ship for a +time as all watched and waited. Presently an officer said to the +General: "I'm afraid he's gone, sir." + +"Send a boat to search," was the reply. "If he is dead"--the General +took off his hat "we will, please God, bury him within the French citadel +to-morrow." + +But McGilveray was alive, and in half-an-hour he was brought aboard the +flag-ship, safe and sober. The General praised him for his courage, and +told him that the charge against him should be withdrawn. + +"You've wiped all out, McGilveray," said Wolfe. "We see you are no +traitor." + +"Only a fool of a bandmaster who wanted wan toon more, yer Excillincy," +said McGilveray. + +"Beware drink, beware women," answered the General. + +But advice of that sort is thrown away on such as McGilveray. The next +evening after Quebec was taken, and McGilveray went in at the head of his +men playing "The Men of Harlech," he met in the streets the woman that +had nearly been the cause of his undoing. Indignation threw out his +chest. + +"It's you, thin," he said, and he tried to look scornfully at her. + +"Have you keep your promise?" she said, hardly above her breath. + +"What's that to you?" he asked, his eyes firing up. "I got drunk last +night--afther I set your husband free--afther he tould me you was his +wife. We're aven now, decaver! I saved him, and the divil give you joy +of that salvation--and that husband, say I." + +"Hoosban'--" she exclaimed, "who was my hoosban'?" + +"The big grinning corporal," he answered. + +"He is shot this morning," she said, her face darkening, "and, besides, +he was--nevare--my hoosban'." + +"He said he was," replied McGilveray, eagerly. + +"He was awway a liar," she answered. + +"He decaved you too, thin?" asked McGilveray, his face growing red. + +She did not answer, but all at once a change came over her, the half- +mocking smile left her lips, tears suddenly ran down her cheeks, and +without a word she turned and hurried into a little alley, and was lost +to view, leaving McGilveray amazed and confounded. + +It was days before he found her again, and three things only that they +said are of any moment here. "We'll lave the past behind us," he said- +"an' the pit below for me, if I'm not a good husband t' ye!" + +"You will not drink no more?" she asked, putting a hand on his shoulder. + +"Not till the Frenchies take Quebec again," he answered. + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS: + +We'll lave the past behind us +The furious music of death and war was over + + + + + + +ETEXT EDITOR'S BOOKMARKS FOR THE ENTIRE "LANE HAD NO TURNING": + +Ah, let it be soon! Ah, let him die soon! +All are hurt some time +But a wounded spirit who can bear +Did not let him think that she was giving up anything for him +Duplicity, for which she might never have to ask forgiveness +Frenchman, slave of ideas, the victim of sentiment +Frenchman, volatile, moody, chivalrous, unreasonable +Her stronger soul ruled him without his knowledge +I love that love in which I married him +Let others ride to glory, I'll shoe their horses for the gallop +Lighted candles in hollowed pumpkins +Love has nothing to do with ugliness or beauty, or fortune +Man grows old only by what he suffers, and what he forgives +Nature twists in back, or anywhere, gets a twist in's brain too +Rewarded for its mistakes +Some are hurt in one way and some in another +Struggle of conscience and expediency +The furious music of death and war was over +We'll lave the past behind us +You--you all were so ready to suspect + + + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LANE HAD NO TURNING, PARKER *** + +******** This file should be named gp68w10.txt or gp68w10.zip ******** + +Corrected EDITIONS of our eBooks get a new NUMBER, gp68w11.txt +VERSIONS based on separate sources get new LETTER, gp68w10a.txt + +This eBook was produced by David Widger <widger@cecomet.net> + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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