Part 32 (1/2)

”Then I am sorry for you. But it cannot change my mind.”

The way was very narrow now. She made a quick motion and pa.s.sed him. But she might better have sent him on ahead, instead of giving him this study of her pliant grace. The exquisite curves of her figure in its thin, close gown, the fair neck gleaming through the soft curls, the beautiful shoulders, the slim waist with a ribbon for belt, the light, gliding step that scarcely moved her, held an enthralling charm. He had a pa.s.sionate longing to clasp his arms about her. All the hot blood within him was roused, and he was not used to being denied.

There was one little turn. Pani was not sitting before the door. Oh, where was she? A terror seized Jeanne, yet she commanded her voice and moved just a trifle, though she did not look at him. He saw that she had paled; she was afraid, and a cruel exultation filled him.

”Monsieur, I am at home,” she said. ”Your escort was not needed,” and she summoned a vague smile. ”There is little harm in our streets, except when the traders are in, and Pani is generally my guard. Then for us the soldiers are within call. Good day, Monsieur Marsac.”

”Nay, my pretty one, you must be gentler and not so severe to make it a good day for me. And I am resolved that it shall be. See, Jeanne, I have always loved you, and though there have been years between I have not forgotten. You shall be my wife yet. I will not give you up. I shall stay here in Detroit until I have won you. No other demoiselle would be so obdurate.”

”Because I do not love you, Monsieur,” and she gave the appellation its most formal sound. ”And soon I shall begin to hate you!”

Oh, how handsome she looked as she stood there in a kind of n.o.ble indignation, her heart swelling above her girdle, the child's sweetness still in the lines of her face and figure, as the bud when it is just about to burst into bloom. He longed to crush her in one eager embrace, and kiss the nectar of her lovely lips, even if he received a blow for it as before. That would pile up a double revenge.

Pani burst from the adjoining cottage.

”Oh,” she cried, studying one and the other. ”_Ma fille_, the poor tailor, Philippe! He had a fit come on, and his poor wife screamed for help, so I hurried in. And now the doctor says he is dying. O Monsieur Marsac, would you kindly find some one in the street to run for a priest?”

”I will go,” with a most obliging smile and inclination of the head.

Jeanne clasped her arms about Pani's neck, and, laying her head on the shrunken bosom, gave way to a flood of tears.

”_Ma pet.i.te_, has he dared--”

”He loves me, Pani, with a fierce, wicked pa.s.sion. I can see it in his eyes. Afterward, when things went wrong, he would remember and beat me.

He kissed me once on the mouth and I struck him. He will never forget.

But then, rather than be his wife, I would kill myself. I will not, will not do it.”

”No, _mon ange_, no, no. Pierre would be a hundred times better. And he would take thee away.”

”But I want no one. Keep me from him, Pani. Oh, if we could go away--”

”Dear--the good sisters would give us shelter.”

Jeanne shook her head. ”If Father Rameau were but here. Father Gilbert is sharp and called me a heretic. Perhaps I am. I cannot count beads any more. And when they brought two finger bones of some one long dead to St. Anne's, and all knelt down and prayed to them, and Father Gilbert blessed them, and said a touch would cure any disease and help a dying soul through purgatory, I could not believe it. Why did it not cure little Marie Faus when her hip was broken, and the great running sore never stopped and she died? And he said it was a judgment against Marie's mother because she would not live with her drunken brute of a husband. No, I do not think Pere Gilbert would take me in unless I recanted.”

”Oh, come, come,” cried Pani. ”Poor Margot is most crazed. And I cannot leave you here alone.”

They entered the adjoining cottage. There were but two rooms and overhead a great loft with a peaked roof where the children slept.

Philippe lay on the floor, his face ghastly and contorted. There were some hemlock cus.h.i.+ons under him, and his poor wife knelt chafing his hands.

”It is of no use,” said the doctor. ”Did some one summon the priest?”

”Immediately,” returned Pani.

”And there is poor Antoine on the Badeau farm, knowing nothing of this,”

cried the weeping mother.

The baby wailed a sorrowful cry as if in sympathy. It had been a puny little thing. Three other small ones stood around with frightened faces.