Part 29 (1/2)

”Well, then,” said Agapit, sullenly, ”I surrender. Tell you this stranger; let him have part in an unusual shame of our people.”

”I tell him!” and she drew back, hurt and startled. ”No, Agapit, that confession comes better from thee. Adieu, adieu,” and she turned, in a paroxysm of tenderness, to Vesper, and in her anguish burst into her native language. ”After this minute, I must put thee far from my thoughts,--thou, so good, so kind, that I had hoped to walk with through life. But purgatory does not last forever; the blessed saints also suffered. After we die, perhaps--” and she buried her face in her hands, and wept violently.

”But do not thou remember,” she said at last, checking her tears. ”Go out into the world and find another, better wife. I release thee, go, go--”

Vesper said nothing, but he gave Agapit a terrible glance, and that young man, although biting his lip and scowling fiercely, discreetly stepped into the hall.

For half a minute Rose lay unresistingly in Vesper's arms, then she gently forced him from the room, and with a low and bitter cry, ”For this I must atone,” she opened her prayer-book, and again dropped on her knees.

Once more the two young men found themselves in the smoking-room.

”Now, what is it?” asked Vesper, sternly.

Agapit hung his head. In accents of deepest shame he murmured, ”Charlitte yet lives.”

”Charlitte--what, Rose's husband?”

A miserable nod from Agapit answered his question.

”It is rumor,” stammered Vesper; ”it cannot be. You said that he was dead.”

”He has been seen,--the miserable man lives with another woman.”

Vesper had received the worst blow of his life, yet his black eyes fixed themselves steadily on Agapit's face. ”What proof have you?”

Agapit stumbled through some brief sentences. ”An Acadien--Michel Amireau--came home to die. He was a sailor. He had seen Charlitte in New Orleans. He had changed his name, yet Michel knew him, and went to the uncle of Rose, on the Bayou Vermilion. The uncle promised to watch him.

That is why he is so kind to Rose, this good uncle, and sends her so much. But Charlitte goes no more to sea, but lives with this woman. He is happy; such a devil should die.”

Vesper was stunned and bewildered, yet his mind had never worked more clearly. ”Does any other person know?” he asked, sharply.

”No one; Michel would not tell, and he is dead.”

Vesper leaned on a chair-back, and convulsively clasped his fingers until every drop of blood seemed to have left them. ”Why did he leave Rose?”

”Who can tell?” said Agapit, drearily. ”Rose is beautiful; this other woman unbeautiful and older, much older. But Charlitte was always gross like a pig,--but good-natured. Rose was too fine, too spiritual. She smiled at him, she did not drink, nor dance, nor laugh loudly. These are the women he likes.”

”How old is he?”

”Not old,--fifty, perhaps. If our Lord would only let him die! But those men live forever. He is strong, very strong.”

”Would Rose consent to a divorce?”

”A divorce! _Mon Dieu_, she is a good Catholic.”

Vesper sank into a chair and dropped his head on his hand. Hot, rebellious thoughts leaped into his heart. Yesterday he had been so happy; to-day--

”My friend,” said Agapit, softly, ”do not give way.”