# Tales of the Home Folks in Peace and War/A Belle of St. Valerien
### A BELLE OF ST. VALERIEN

You will flit through on the steam cars, or rush along the great winding river, and say, "It is a very fine life here in New France." You will look to the right, you will look to the left, and, as far as the eye can see, the roofs and steeples of the little churches will be sparkling in the sun, and you will say, "How beautiful! How full of peace and repose!" and if you go away from the river and the railway you will say, "What simplicity! What contentment!" When you come to St. Valerien, you will say, "The life here is the most beautiful of all." Yes; that is because you want to get away from the noise and confusion. It is very beautiful at St. Valerien. The gentle cure, smiling always, moves slowly along the board walk to the little church. The bright-eyed boys who attend the school of the Frères Maristes, close by, are not boisterous at their play. The ​neighbors do not talk loudly when they gossip together, and the cattle lie down in the fields long before noon. Everything has the air of repose; contentment seems to brood everywhere.
Very well. But suppose you were compelled to remain in St. Valerien, and partake of its peace and contentment from year's end to year's end? A few weeks in the summer, when the children are picking wild raspberries in the fields near by, and singing their songs,—that is not much. But a whole lifetime! Well, yes, that is another matter. Look at Monsieur Phaneuf. Seventy-seven years here at St. Valerien, and every hour of them spent within sight of the shining church steeple. You think he is contented? Well, then, keep away from him, if you do not want to hear your funeral preached. Look at Madame Delima Benoit. Born here at St. Valerien; married three husbands here, and buried two. You think she ought to be happy and contented? Well, then, don't pass her doors without putting your fingers in your ears. You see Aimé Joutras, the tall shoemaker; Aimé, but yes, it is a friendly name. You see him there on the corner—tap, tap, ​ stitch, stitch,—all day long, and humming a tune; you see him cut out the sabot, you see him fashion the soulier-de-bœuf, and you think, "Here is a man who ought to glow with happiness." But good! Wait till you hear him railing at his little ones, and growling at the belle-mère who is at once his slave and his benefactress. Wait till you see him jostle rudely against the old pepère who sits drooling and dribbling in the corner, and then tell me whether he is happy and contented. Look, yonder is Euphemie Toupin, running lightly across the fields, the roses blooming in her face, her eyes sparkling with youth and hope, and her beautiful hair flying loose in the wind. Presently you will hear her calling the cows,—"Come thou! Come thou on!" and the echo will fall softly and sweetly on her own ears,—"Come thou! Come thou on!" And then the memory of another voice calling thus in a neighboring field will rise in her heart, and she will clasp her hands together and give way to her misery.
No, no, messieurs, the peace and contentment at St. Valerien, as elsewhere, are found in the deep skies, in the purple mists that ​settle over the far-lying fields, and in the little garden of the dead. There is life here, and where there is life there you will find trouble and passion, doubt and despair, and, whirling in and around these, the stinging swarm of worries and vexations that belong to human experience. Is it not so, Caderet? Is it not so, Desmoulins? Where men and women meet and look at each other, and smile and take hold of hands, there is much to be forgotten and forgiven.
There was Euphrasie Charette. Is it true, then, that you have never heard of her? I wonder at that, for it was a fine piece of gossip she set going about here. The men shrugged their shoulders and lifted their eyebrows, and the women put their heads together over the palings and in the chimney corners. Pouah! to hear the chatter was sickening, and it was kept up until, one Sunday, Père Archambault stood up in his pulpit and looked at the people a long time. Then he hung his head and sighed, saying, "My friends, to-day I shall preach you two sermons. My first sermon is this: What is bolder than innocence?" Then he paused again, turned over the leaves of the Book, read from the ​gospel, and preached his second sermon, on charity.
Well, the gossip soon died out, and no wonder; for, with all her beauty and wild impulsiveness, where could be found a purer or a tenderer-hearted girl than Euphrasie Charette? It will be very many years before another such as she will be running and romping and singing through the village, laughing with the young and sympathizing with the old. This was when the great world beyond St. Valerien was a dream as vague to her as the story of le loup-garou. Then, when she was a little older and more beautiful than ever, she was sent to the convent at St. Hyacinthe, and there she heard larger rumors of the great world. She had not much to learn in music,—her whole nature was tuned to melody; but while she was learning her English and her other lessons, she was also learning something of the world she had barely caught a glimpse of. Not much, no, but something,—just a little. Two of her school friends were from the States. French, yes; their families belonged near Montreal, but had gone to the States, where work is easy and wages are good. Euphrasie, inquis​itive as a weasel, found out everything her school friends knew; how their mothers worked in the big cotton-mills, and how their older sisters clerked in the stores. She saw some photographs of these sisters, and oh, how lovely they looked, with their lace and finery, and their hair frisé! And she saw some of the letters the girls wrote, telling of the gay times the young people had in the mill town.
All this in the ears of a child of St. Valerien. She was not young,—seventeen is neither old nor young,—but she was at the turning-point. Take it to yourself! Would you prefer the life in St. Valerien to that in the mill town in the States, where everything is gay? Think of it! All the summer long, calling the cows and milking them, cooking, scrubbing, working, raking hay; all the winter long, mending, scrubbing, washing, spinning, weaving, and attending to the sheep and cattle. It is very nice, you think. Yes, for a little while, but wait until you have tried it for a whole lifetime, and then tell me what you think.
Well, Ma'm'selle Charette was old enough to look at these things, and she made up her ​mind. She liked St. Valerien, and she was fond of the people here; and she was so fond of Joi Billette, her little cavalier, that the children had long ago run their names together in some nonsense rhymes. Euphrasie Charette, little Joi Billette,—you see how they go? She made up her mind that she would see something of those gay times in the mill town in the States, and so when she came home from the convent there was no longer any peace among the Charettes. Euphrasie could not go to the mill town in the States; that was settled. Madame Charette said so, and madame had a quick temper and a sharp tongue. "And you!" she would say to Euphrasie,—"how would you look, a young girl like you, running away to the States? Have you any shame?" But Pierre Charette, the father, sat in the corner and smiled to himself. He had been in the States, and he knew it was no great journey. "Would you then go away and leave Joi and St. Valerien?" madame would say.
"What, then," Euphrasie would reply, "is Joi a stick that he can no longer walk? And what storm is to blow St. Valerien away?"
Then letters came to Euphrasie from her ​school friends; and finally her sister, the wife of Victor Donais, made up her mind to go to the States. As for Victor, he said that where the tongs went the shovel must go, and that was all. Madame Charette made a fine quarrel,—the sheep in the fields could hear her; but Pierre Charette sat in the corner smoking his black pipe and smiling to himself; and when madame could quarrel no more, he rubbed his knees, and said that Euphrasie would find much benefit in traveling in the States.
"Oho! a fine lady! traveling in the States! But yes, a fine lady! She will have money,—oh, a great pocketful! Oh, certainly!" Madame Charette made a grand gesture.
"Well, then," remarked Joi Billette, who was sitting near Euphrasie, his head leaning on his hands, "she can have some money from me."
"Yes? Then you would do well to keep it for yourself."
"It is hers," Joi said. "I can make more."
There was nothing to do but for Madame Charette to give her consent; and though her tongue was sharp her heart was tender, ​for she wept more than any one when Euphrasie was going, and in the long nights afterwards she lay awake to weep. But there was so much to do nobody could sit and grieve. Joi Billette worked harder than ever, and he found time to help the madame. He cut wood and carried water, and she told him he was handier about the house than Euphrasie, who had too many ideas from books.
It was not such a long year, after all. In the spring and summer there was the farm work to do, the milk to be carried to the cheese factory, and the bark to be gathered for the tannery. Everybody was busy, and Joi Billette was busiest of all. For a little while Euphrasie wrote to him every week, and then she wrote no more. Joi said nothing. He could hear of her through Madame Charette, and that was enough. Perhaps she was too busy,—perhaps everything, except that she had forgotten him. So the year went on, and at last Euphrasie wrote that she was coming home for the fête of Jour de l'An. It is the custom here for the absent ones to return home on the first day of the year, to ask their father's blessing; and there is often a friendly contest among ​the members of the family as to which shall get the blessing first.
Euphrasie came on the Day of the New Year, and she was dressed very fine,—oh, ever so much finer than any girl you see here in St. Valerien. When her father had given her his blessing, he sat and watched her curiously a long time without smiling. Then he said in English, speaking slowly:—
"I ting you toss you' 'ead too much."
"Me toss my 'ead too much!" replied Euphrasie. "Well, you should see dem girl of Fall River. If you can see dem girl toss 'er 'ead, I ting you won't say I toss my 'ead too much."
"I ting you 'ave too much feader on de 'at," suggested the father, not without some display of diffidence. His daughter had developed into a beautiful young woman, and her finery was not unbecoming.
"Well, now!" Euphrasie retorted triumphantly, "if you only can see how much feader dem oder girl 'ave, I ting you will say dere is not one feader on my 'at."
"What is it, then?" cried the madame sharply. She could not understand English.
"C'est rien, ma bonne femme," the old man sighed.
​"I ting I give you good 'ug for dat." Euphrasie put her arms around her father's neck.
He shook his head slowly as he filled his pipe, and said no more.
Joi Billette sat in the corner, watching everything and listening. He was restless and uneasy. He was quick to see the great change that had come over Euphrasie. She was no longer his little girl of St. Valerien. The change meant more to him than it did to the others. More than once it seemed to him that some other girl had donned Euphrasie's face and voice for a New Year's masquerade. He had heard of such things in the fireside folk tales. Would Euphrasie look at him scornfully or speak to him mockingly, as this vision of beauty did? No, it could not be so. He looked at his hard and horny hands, at his coarse and dirty shoes, at his rough clothes, and then at the trim, neat figure of Euphrasie, her white hands and dainty feet. He rose, playing with his hat nervously, and would have slipped away, but Pierre Charette laid a detaining hand on his arm.
"Wouldst thou go, then? Thy place is here. Let the women talk."
​At that moment Euphrasie was busy telling Suzette Benoit about a Monsieur Sam Pettingill, who had come all the way from Fall River to Montreal, and who was coming to St. Valerien. Pierre Charette was carrying his pipe to his mouth, but he paused, with his hand suspended in the air.
"'Ow you call 'is name?" he asked in English.
"M'sieu Sam Pattangeel," said Euphrasie, reddening a little.
"You know 'im, you?"
"Oh, yes; 'e was clerk in de mill store."
"'E clerk dere no more; no?"
"Of course, yes. 'E is taking his recess. 'E belong at de store." Euphrasie continued to redden. English was not often heard in that house, and the women were vainly straining their ears to catch the meaning.
"Aha-a-a!" exclaimed the old man. There was the faintest trace of contempt in his tone.
"'E say 'e come to see de country, if 'e like it or not," explained Euphrasie.
"If 'e like it, den 'e carry it back to 'is 'ouse?" Pierre Charette suggested.
"'Ow 'e can do dat? " asked Euphrasie.
"I 'ave seen dem clerk, me," said the old ​man. "Dey de mos' pow'ful of all. If dis one like de country so 'e mus' take it back, what we goin' do? If 'e don't like it so 'e mus' take 'is scissor to cut it off, what we goin' do?"
Euphrasie could not misunderstand the sarcasm that seasoned the old man's tongue. It touched her temper.
"If 'e come visitin' de country, 'ow I can 'elp 'im? If you can 'elp 'im, den go 'elp 'im." Her tone was sharper than her words.
"Ah-h-h! " cried Pierre Charette, "dat is 'ow you fine ladies talk to old man!"
"No, no," said the girl impulsively, "I mean not dat. No, no." She went to her father and would have embraced him, but he pushed her away and resumed his pipe, while Euphrasie threw herself on a chair and began to cry.
But it was a small storm, more wind than rain, as the farmers say, and it soon passed over, but not until the madame had made some vigorous remarks, aimed at those who forget themselves sufficiently to quarrel in the English tongue. It was a queer father who would abuse his daughter the instant she set foot in the house, and it was a queer ​daughter who would be disrespectful to the father she had not seen for a year, and all in English, too. Well, madame knew men, large and small, and she knew girls, old and young, but never did she know such a man as this, never did she see such a girl. As for the English,—bah! C'est la blague!

### II

Around the corner from Pierre Charette's and not very far up the street is the little auberge, kept by Toussaint Chicoine. There Joi Billette went when he could slip out of the family storm, and there he found some of his village comrades sitting around the huge stove in the public room, listening to the famous stories told by Chicoine. Of course you will think Chicoine is nobody, because he can do nothing but keep this tavern, with his mother and his sisters and his old father. But good! You wait! Before long you will see that man in the Parliament at Quebec. When he is not telling stories he is talking politics. Some people are quick to forget. Chicoine is fifty, and remembers. A Liberal? Yes, and better,—a Red; le Rouge written in his glowing eyes and in his quick gestures. ​No sooner had Joi Billette settled himself to listen to Chicoine's tremendous yarns than the sound of sleighbells was heard coming over the snow.
"One dollar it is Barie's horse," said Chicoine,—"Barie of Upton."
"How then can you know?" asked Joi Billette.
"Hard-head! It is by the sound of the bells. Listen!"
"It is even so," said Pierre Charette, who had followed Joi.
At that moment the sleigh paused at the door, and Barie himself called out:—
"Hey, Chicoine! Hey! Are you deaf, then?"
"Good-day, Barie," said Chicoine, opening the door. "Good-day, m'sieu. Within you will find it warmer."
"It is to be hoped," replied Barie dryly. "1 have brought you a customer, Chicoine," he continued. "Lift your feet; make some stir."
The customer Barie had brought was Mr. Sam Pettingill, of Fall River. He was nice looking, yes, but you would not say he was fine. He had yellow hair and gray eyes, and ​one of his front teeth was gone. He was smoking a cigarette, and he had a look on his face as if he knew a great deal more than older people. He kept trying to twist his little mustache, which was too thin to be twisted.
"Great Scott!" he exclaimed, as he got out of the sleigh; "is this the Hotel Imperial?"
"'Ow you please," replied Chicoine gravely. "'Otel, auberge, 'ouse,—it all de same when you git col' an' 'ungry. You spik French?^ No?"
"Rats!" cried young Mr. Pettingill. "How can I speak French in this weather? It freezes everything except American cuss-words. You ask his Nibs, here, if it don't." Barie shrugged his shoulders and threw the sleigh robe over his horse. "You may n't have much of a hotel," said Pettingill, "but maybe you 've got a fire. It 's colder 'n Flujens."
With his hat on the side of his head, and his red cravat creeping from under his overcoat, Pettingill swaggered into the little tavern and stood close to the big stove. Joi Billette looked at the new-comer, and then at ​Pierre Charette. Pierre Charette looked at the new-comer, and then at Joi Billette. Each, by an almost imperceptible shrug of the shoulders, telegraphed his comment. You know how the shoulders and the eyebrows can talk here in St. Valerien: a word, a glance, a little movement of the shoulders, and much more than a long story is told.
"Say!" said Pettingill, removing his overcoat, "I don't see no hotel register around here, but I guess that 's all skewvee. My name 's Pettingill, and it would be the same if it was wrote down in a book."
"Hall ri', m'sieu," returned Toussaint Chicoine, bowing. "You 'ear dat, Joutras? You 'ear dat, Billette? You 'ear dat, everybody? M'sieu Pattungeel."
"Kee-rect," said Pettingill approvingly. "You flatten it a little too much in the middle, and pull it out too much at the end, but that 's my maiden name." He shook himself, and strode around the room, looking at the cheap prints pasted on the wall. The little company looked at each other somewhat sheepishly, all save Charette and Chicoine. Charette stood gloomily by the stove, while Chicoine, with his arms akimbo and his chin ​drawn in until it was hid by the muscles of his neck, watched Pettingill closely.
At one end of the room, above a worn and battered sofa, hung a faded tintype. It was the picture of a very old man. He was leaning forward on a stout cane, and a weak and trembling smile had been caught and fastened on his face.
"What old duck is this?" asked Pettingill, after studying the picture. Receiving no answer, he turned and looked at Chicoine.
"'Ow you call it, m'sieu?" Surely there was no menace in the sweetly spoken accent. Yet something that he heard or felt caused Pettingill to change his question.
"What old gent is this?" he asked.
"Dat my fader," replied Chicoine.
"Is he still kicking?"
"'Ow, m'sieu?"
"Is he dead?"
"No, no, m'sieu. 'E right in dis 'ouse."
"Well, I wanter know!" Pettingill exclaimed, with genuine admiration. "I thought old uncle Cy Pettingill, down to Pittsfield, was the oldest inhabitant, but the colonel here can give him odds and beat him thirteen laps in a mile."
​"'Ow you say, m'sieu?" asked Chicoine.
"I was lettin' out a family secret. Uncle Cy Pettingill is so old he can't see nothin' but a silver dollar, but the colonel here lays a long ways over him. I 'd like to see them two old coons git together and jabber about the landin' of Christopher Columbus."
"Yes, yes, m'sieu, pair'aps dat would be nice." Chicoine spoke so seriously that Pettingill had to lean against the wall to laugh.
"Just have my grip sent up to my room," he said, after a while. "I 'll hang out here a day or two, and see how the climate suits my complexion. And while you 're about it, you might jest as well show me where I am to roost."
"You want fin' you' room? Well, I show you."
He led Monsieur Pettingill up a narrow stairway into a snug little attic.
"It ain't bigger 'n a squirrel cage," said the American.
"It 'ave comfort." Chicoine stretched his hand toward the stovepipe, which ran through a sheet-iron drum; then he went down.
Charette, Billette, Joutras, and the rest sat just as he had left them. They had neither ​moved nor spoken. Chicoine stood and glared at them, his arms akimbo, his chin drawn into his neck, and his under lip stuck out ominously. Suddenly he raised his right arm, and brought down his clenched fist in the palm of the other hand with a tremendous whack.
"Pig! beast! that he should strut in this place! But that I had pity on him I would have crushed him with my hand." Toussaint Chicoine's eyes gleamed.
"Softly, softly!" Pierre Charette raised his hand.
"Ah-h-h! Softly, yes, softly. Good! But I have seen my old father take off his hat and bend his knee to just such a man as that. Yes, me! I have seen that. I am old enough. When the lord of the land came where his slaves could see him—off hat! bend knee! Well, yes, I have seen that." The veins in Chicoine's neck stood out angrily.
"But those days, they are no more." Charette spoke gently.
"No?" Chicoine made a hideous grimace. "Well, they are here!" With that he struck his broad breast a tremendous blow. "For what does he come?"
​Joi Billette rose and shook himself viciously, and turned his back to the stove. "This ugly beast is detestable!"
"But wait, then!" It was Joutras who spoke. "What the thunder! Are we all taking leave of ourselves? Let this pig alone. Is he stealing corn from our pen? Well, then, show it to me."
Pierre Charette chuckled to himself, and Joi Billette shrugged his shoulders.
It was not long before Monsieur Pettingill came down from his room. He found only Chicoine and Joi Billette. As if to refresh his memory or to confirm some afterthought, he went again to the portrait of old Anthime Chicoine. He looked at it a little while, and then shook his head.
"That lays over uncle Cy Pettingill," he repeated, with admiration. "He 's mighty nigh too old to make a shadder." He paused a moment, and then, with just the faintest trace of embarrassment, remarked: "Say! can any of you chaps tell me where Miss Euphrasie Charette lives? As long as I 'm in town, with nothin' much to prey on my mind, I might as well drop in an' tell her I 'm still her humble-come-tumble. See?"
​"I dunno if I can show you," said Chicoine; "pair'aps M'sieu Billette will show you de 'ouse. He been dere some time befo' now. Is not that so, M'sieu Billette?" he went on, switching off into French. "I have told m'sieu that you would have much pleasure to show him the house of Charette. Is it not so, then? Ah, little boy! make not your face to wrinkle so. At forty you will laugh at the physic of this kind."
Billette shrugged his shoulders, but he did not smile.
"'E spik only French," said Chicoine to Pettingill, by way of explanation, "but dat make no diffrance. 'E can show you de 'ouse."
"All skewvee," said Pettingill. "If he can walk in English, that 's enough for me."
Joi Billette, coiled in the chair, had seemed to be an insignificant creature, but when he rose, glancing furtively at Chicoine, it was seen that he was taller than Pettingill,—taller and stronger, and much handsomer. The innocence of youth shone in his face. Without a word, he went out at the door, followed by Pettingill. Billette's slouching gait carried him forward swiftly, and in a few moments ​he paused, waved his hand toward Charette's house, from which the blue smoke cheerfully curled, and stood watching Pettingill as he made his way to the door. He saw the door open, and heard Euphrasie's exclamation:—
"Ah, 't is you. I di' n' ting you come so soon."
When the door was closed, Billette went forward to the house, and passed through the yard and into the kitchen. There he found Pierre Charette enjoying his pipe. As Joi entered, Charette nodded his head toward the inner room and shrugged his shoulders.
"Yes," said Joi, "it is the stranger. Euphrasie was glad to see him, then?"
"How can I know?" responded Charette. "Of the women we know nothing. They pet the pig and scald it. Go see for yourself if she is glad. The man cannot comprehend."
"No, no," said Joi, the blood mounting to his face.
"You have fear, then? Yes?"
For reply Joi laughed loudly, and the sound was so harsh and unnatural that those in the next room paused to listen, and madame put her head in the door to make inquiry.
​"Prutt! prutt!" exclaimed Pierre Charette, mimicking the inquisitive turkey hen. "Allez-vo us-en! Back to the pig."
Then there was silence in the kitchen. The old man and the young man sat smoking. Each had his own thoughts. One was thinking how much money his grain and hay would fetch; the other was thinking bitterly of the day, a year ago, when he and Euphrasie, with their village companions, sang their holiday songs together. Ah! they were happy then, but now—
Madame Charette was surely at her best this day. She rattled away at Pettingill in French, and Euphrasie interpreted the words the best she knew how; but she could not keep up, madame was so jolly and hearty. Pettingill had never been in such a storm of French and broken English, and he wished himself well out of it. All he could do was to sit and grin helplessly, and mop his face aimlessly with his gorgeous silk handkerchief. Euphrasie, too, was jolly, or pretended to be, and she carried on her interpretations with a great deal of laughter.
"Ma mère say if you like dis country?" she remarked.
​"Just tell her," said Pettingill, "that if she will give me the daughter she may keep the country."
"'Ush up, you!" said Euphrasie, blushing; "you too bad." To her mother, "He is very fond of the country, oh,—much."
This caught the ear of Pierre Charette, and it recalled him from his mental grain speculation. He turned in his chair and looked at Billette with half-closed eyes. At this moment there was a shuffling of feet and a moving of chairs in the next room. Some of the girls and boys of the village had come in to see Euphrasie. Presently, madame, glowing with hospitality, came into the kitchen for more chairs.
"It is the whole village," she explained. "And Joi hiding like a thief! Shame upon him! Take these chairs, then, and cease to be a stick. Leave dozing to the gray cat."
Joi Billette took the chairs, but with no good grace. He was not himself. He placed them around the room mechanically, and stood in the midst of his friends, awkward and ill at ease. Some wanted to laugh at him, while others tried to tease him, but his air of preoccupation restrained them; they ​were already somewhat subdued by the presence of a stranger. In this diffident company Pettingill sat serene, smiling and confident. He was even patronizing. When an embarrassing silence was about to fall on all, he was superior to circumstances.
"Rats!" he exclaimed. "Don't set here moping. Can't we have some play-songs?"
"Oh," said Euphrasie, trying to understand, "some play-song,—yes."
"Something like 'Here 's a young man set down to sleep'"—
"Oh, to sleep! I know," said Euphrasie.
"'He needs a young girl to keep him awake.'"
"Oh, yes,—to kip 'im 'wake!" Then she rattled away in French to the rest. The result was that all the young men chose partners, except Joi,—there was no partner for him to choose,—and proceeded to promenade slowly around the small room, singing as they went. The song was about a maiden and her bashful lover, and the clear voice of Euphrasie carried the tune. The cavalier sees his sweetheart laughing; then runs the song:—
"Qu'avez-vous, belle? Qu'avez-vous, belle? Qu'avez-vous à tant rire?"
​Whereupon the girl replies:
"Je ris de moi, je ris de toi,
De nos fortes entreprises:
C'est d'avoir passé le bois
Sans un petit mot me dire!"
The maiden is going away from the lover, who is too bashful to speak the little word. She is supposed to be waving her hand in the distance. Then the lover is aroused.
"Revenez, belle! Revenez, belle!
Je vous donnerai cent livres!"
But the girl does n't want his fortune. She has had a glimpse of a larger world.
"Ni pour un cent, ni pour deux cent,
Ni pour cinq cent mille livres:
Il fallait mangé la perdrix
Tandis qu'elle était prise!"
And the pretty little partridge will never come back. The girl, still going, cries:—
"La perdrix a pris sa volée,
Elle se mit en ville;
Je vois mes amants promener
Dans le pare de la ville!"
All through the singing Joi Billette kept his eyes on Euphrasie, and he thought she was singing at him. The motions of her pretty head, the glances of her bright eyes,—in every way she seemed to be saying that ​she would not return, but would promenade with other lovers. Joi understood it so, too, for by the time the song was ended he had disappeared, and the small company saw him no more that day. But they heard of him,—oh, yes!
He went into the kitchen, and sat with his face in his hands. No one could say whether his attitude was one of laziness or despair, so little do we know of what is going on before our very eyes. For a while he sat still as death; then he rose and went about the room, searching for something. On the wall hung a piece of looking-glass. He looked into it as he passed, and saw that his face was very white. He shook his head; he did not know the man that looked back at him from the glass. He went about the room, hunting in the corners, on the shelves, and under the pans. At last a long knife lay under his hand. He picked it up, looked at it curiously, and hid it under his jacket. Then he seated himself again, his face hid in his hands, and waited. Euphrasie came for a drink of water; he knew the rustle of her dress, the sound of her footsteps, but he did not stir. She looked at him and tossed her head. She ​said to herself, "Now he is angry; to-morrow he will feel better." He sat and waited, his face in his hands. Some one went away,—that was Hélène Joutras; he knew her voice. One by one they all went away, except the serene and smiling stranger. Then, too, after a while, he was ready to go. Euphrasie went to the door with him. Her broken English seemed very queer to Joi Billette, and very beautiful, too. The door was closed, and then Joi heard the stranger's feet crunching in the snow. He rose from his chair, feeling strangely oppressed. He was so weak he was compelled to steady himself. It was not fear; it was pity. He heard Pettingill going along whistling a gay tune, and he pitied him. But what was pity? There are other things more important than pity. He went out at the back door, and the cold air stung his face and made him feel stronger.
Once out of the gate, he pressed forward rapidly. Just ahead of him Pettingill was sauntering along, still whistling. The stranger was in no hurry, then? So much the better. Joi Billette was so intent on carrying out the purpose he had formed that he did not hear heavy footsteps behind him, nor ​did he hear a strong voice call his name. He had eyes and ears for no one but Pettingill. As he went forward, he drew the knife from beneath his jacket and held it firmly in his hand, quickening his pace. Pettingill's careless swagger whetted his anger. The wretch! Would he come here, then, and lord it over the village?
Pettingill, hearing footsteps behind him, paused and looked around. He saw Joi Billette coming swiftly towards him, followed as swiftly by a tall, black-robed figure. Like a flash his mind recurred to the stories he had read of Roman Catholics, and now, here before his eyes, as he imagined, was an emissary of the Pope about to administer discipline.
"Run, buster! he 's gainin' on you!" he called out gayly. He had no opportunity to say more. At that moment Joi Billette seized him by the arm and swung him around violently.
"Beast! devil!" the Canadian hissed through his clenched teeth. "Take that!" He made an effort to plunge the knife into the American, but a powerful hand was laid on his arm. He turned, looked into the eyes ​of the frère directeur of the Maristes, and then sank trembling on the snow. The Mariste stood over him, tall and severe.
"What, then, have I taught thee to assassinate?" There was grief in his voice and supreme pity.
"Say!" exclaimed Pettingill, who had been too much astonished to speak, "what kinder game is he up to? Ain't he off his kerzip?"
"Go!" The Mariste waved his hand imperiously.
"Come off!" Pettingill spoke roughly. "Wait till I give you a pointer. Don't you let that chap rush after me. Because if you do"—he drew a shining pistol from his overcoat pocket—"I 'll give him a tetch of the United States that 'll last him."
"Go!" the Mariste repeated.
"So long," said Pettingill, whereupon he turned on his heel and went away.
"GO!" THE MARISTE REPEATED
When Pettingill returned to the little auberge, he found Barie still there, tasting and testing Chicoine's la p'tite bière, and it was not long before he was seated in the grizzled habitant's sleigh, on his way to Upton. One day passed, then two days, then three. Pettingill could be accounted for,—he had gone ​away; but where was Joi Billette? The times were not so gay at Charette's as before. Euphrasie ceased to toss her head and forgot to put on her fine airs. She was continually looking up the street for Joi, but no Joi came. She went to see Andre Billette, Joi's father, but Andre looked at her coldly and shook his head. He had no information to give. Joi was of age: he could take care of himself.
"You know where he is?" said Euphrasie.
"I know where I am, ma'm'selle," said Andre. "I bother nobody."
There was no comfort for the girl in such talk as that. Then there was the story that Joutras told of seeing Joi with the frère directeur of the Mariste school. To the school Euphrasie went. One of the pupils opened the door, and in a little while the frère directeur came. He was very grave, but there was a twinkle of fun in his eyes when he saw Euphrasie. The girl was excited and defiant. Her face was very white, and her hands trembled. She made no salutation.
"Where is Joi Billette?" she asked bluntly.
The Mariste regarded her curiously.
​"Why do you come to me for Joi Billette?" he asked gently. "If he is here, why disturb him? He asks to see no one. He is content."
"I ask you, where is Joi Billette?" the girl repeated. Her attitude was almost threatening.
"Why come to me?" the Mariste insisted. "What am I?"
"For you," exclaimed Euphrasie, "I do not care that!" She raised her hand and snapped her fingers. "Where is Joi Billette?"
Her voice rang through the hallway, and at that moment Joi appeared behind the Mariste, his face pale and his eyes full of wonder. When Euphrasie saw him she turned away from the door and began to weep. Joi looked at the Mariste for an explanation, but, without waiting for it, he ran to Euphrasie, as she was going away, and threw his arms around her.
The Mariste nodded his head approvingly, and closed the door.