The
stalwart
figure strode on under the stars, the white night.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v19 - Oli to Phi
The bron-
cho was, like himself, wasteful of neither action nor affection.
The sergeant had caught him wild and independent, had brought
him in, broken him, and taught him obedience. They understood
each other; perhaps they loved each other. But about that, even
Private Gellatly had views in common with the general sentiment
as to the character of Sergeant Fones. The private remarked
once on this point, "Sarpints alive! the heels of the one and the
law of the other is the love of them. They'll weather together
like the Divil and Death. "
The sergeant was brooding; that was not like him.
He was
hesitating; that was less like him. He turned his broncho round
as if to cross the Big Divide and to go back to Windsor's store;
but he changed his mind again, and rode on toward David Hum-
phrey's ranch. He sat as if he had been born in the saddle.
His was a face for the artist,-strong and clear, and having
a dominant expression of force. The eyes were deep-set and
watchful. A kind of disdain might be traced in the curve of the
short upper lip, to which the mustache was clipped close-a
good fit, like his coat. The disdain was more marked this morn-
ing.
The first part of his ride had been seen by Young Aleck, the
second part by Mab Humphrey. Her first thought on seeing him
was one of apprehension for Young Aleck and those of Young
Aleck's name. She knew that people spoke of her lover as a
ne'er-do-weel; and that they associated his name freely with that
of Pretty Pierre and his gang. She had a dread of Pierre; and
only the night before, she had determined to make one last great
effort to save Aleck, and if he would not be saved-strange that,
thinking it all over again, as she watched the figure on horse-
back coming nearer, her mind should swerve to what she had
## p. 11056 (#268) ##########################################
11056
GILBERT PARKER
heard of Sergeant Fones's expected promotion. Then she fell to
wondering if any one had ever given him a real Christmas pres-
ent; if he had any friends at all; if life meant anything more to
him than carrying the law of the land across his saddle. Again
he suddenly came to her in a new thought, free from apprehen-
sion, and as the champion of her cause to defeat the half-breed
and his gang, and save Aleck from present danger or future
perils.
She was such a woman as prairies nurture,- in spirit broad
and thoughtful and full of energy; not so deep as the mount-
ain woman, not so imaginative, but with more persistency, more
daring. Youth to her was a warmth, a glory. She hated excess
and lawlessness, but she could understand it. She felt some-
times as if she must go far away into the unpeopled spaces, and
shriek out her soul to the stars from the fullness of too much
life. She supposed men had feelings of that kind too, but that
they fell to playing cards and drinking instead of crying to the
stars. Still, she preferred her way.
Once Sergeant Fones, on leaving the house, said grimly
after his fashion, "Not Mab but Ariadne — excuse a soldier's
bluntness. . . . Good-by! " and with a brusque salute he had
ridden away.
What he meant she did not know and could
not ask. The thought instantly came to her mind: Not Sergeant
Fones; but-who? She wondered if Ariadne was born on the
prairie. What knew she of the girl who helped Theseus, her
lover, to slay the Minotaur? What guessed she of the Slopes of
Naxos ? How old was Ariadne? Twenty? For that was Mab's
age. Was Ariadne beautiful? - She ran her fingers loosely
through her short brown hair, waving softly about her Greek-
shaped head, and reasoned that Ariadne must have been present-
able or Sergeant Fones would not have made the comparison.
She hoped Ariadne could ride well, for she could.
But how white the world looked this morning! and how proud
and brilliant the sky! Nothing in the plane of vision but waves
of snow stretching to the Cypress Hills; far to the left a solitary
house, with its tin roof flashing back the sun, and to the right
the Big Divide. It was an old-fashioned winter, not one in
which bare ground and sharp winds make life outdoors inhos-
pitable. Snow is hospitable-clean, impacted snow; restful and
silent. But there is one spot in the area of white, on which
Mab's eyes are fixed now, with something different in them
## p. 11057 (#269) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11057
from what had been there. Again it was a memory with which
Sergeant Fones was associated. One day in the summer just
past she had watched him and his company put away to rest,
under the cool sod where many another lay in silent company,
a prairie wanderer,- some outcast from a better life gone by.
Afterwards, in her home, she saw the sergeant stand at the
window, looking out toward the spot where the waves in the
sea of grass were more regular and greener than elsewhere, and
were surmounted by a high cross. She said to him,- for she of
all was never shy of his stern ways,-
"Why is the grass always greenest there, Sergeant Fones? "
He knew what she meant, and slowly said, "It is the Bar-
racks of the Free. "
She had no views of life save those of duty and work and
natural joy and loving a ne'er-do-weel, and she said, "I do not
understand that. "
And the sergeant replied, "Free among the Dead, like unto
them that are wounded and lie in the grave, who are out of re-
membrance. "
But Mab said again, "I do not understand that either. "
The sergeant did not at once reply. He stepped to the door
and gave a short command to some one without, and in a mo-
ment his company was mounted in line: handsome, dashing fel-
lows; one the son of an English nobleman, one the brother of an
eminent Canadian politician, one related to a celebrated English
dramatist. He ran his eye along the line, then turned to Mab,
raised his cap with machine-like precision, and said, "No, I sup-
pose you do not understand that. Keep Aleck Windsor from
Pretty Pierre and his gang. Good-by. "
Then he mounted and rode away. Every other man in the
company looked back to where the girl stood in the doorway; he
did not. Private Gellatly said with a shake of the head, as she
was lost to view, "Devils bestir me, what a widdy she'll make! "
It was understood that Aleck Windsor and Mab Humphrey were
to be married on the coming New Year's Day. What connection.
was there between the words of Sergeant Fones and those of
Private Gellatly? None, perhaps.
Mab thinks upon that day as she looks out, this December
morning, and sees Sergeant Fones dismounting at the door.
David Humphrey, who is outside, offers to put up the sergeant's
horse; but he says, "No, if you'll hold him just a moment, Mr.
XIX-692
## p. 11058 (#270) ##########################################
11058
GILBERT PARKER
Humphrey, I'll ask for a drink of something warm, and move on.
Miss Mab is inside, I suppose? "
"She'll give you a drink of the best to be had on your patrol,
sergeant," was the laughing reply.
"Thanks for that, but tea or coffee is good enough for me,"
said the sergeant. Entering, the coffee was soon in the hand of
the hardy soldier. Once he paused in his drinking and scanned
Mab's face closely. Most people would have said the sergeant
had an affair of the law in hand, and was searching the face of
a criminal; but most people are not good at interpretation. Mab
was speaking to the chore-girl at the same time and did not see
the look. If she could have defined her thoughts when she, in
turn, glanced into the sergeant's face a moment afterwards, she
would have said, "Austerity fills this man. Isolation marks him
for its own. " In the eyes were only purpose, decision, and com-
mand. Was that the look that had been fixed upon her face a
moment ago? It must have been. His features had not changed
a breath. Mab began their talk.
"They say you are to get a Christmas present of promotion,
Sergeant Fones. "
"I have not seen it gazetted," he answered enigmatically.
"You and your friends will be glad of it. "
"I like the service. "
"You will have more freedom with a commission. "
He made no reply, but rose and walked to the window, and
looked out across the snow, drawing on his gauntlets as he
did so.
She saw that he was looking where the grass in summer was
the greenest!
He turned and said:
:-
"I am going to barracks now. I suppose young Aleck will
be in quarters here on Christmas Day, Miss Mab?
>>
"I think so," and she blushed.
"Did he say he would be here? "
"Yes. "
"Exactly. "
He looked toward the coffee. Then:-
"Thank you.
. . Good-by. "
Sergeant->
((
"Miss Mab-»
་་
"Will you not come to us on Christmas Day? ”
## p. 11059 (#271) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11059
His eyelids closed swiftly and opened again.
"I shall be on duty. "
"And promoted? "
"Perhaps. "
"And merry and happy? "-she smiled to herself to think of
Sergeant Fones being merry and happy.
"Exactly. "
The word suited him.
He paused a moment with his fingers on the latch, and turned
round as if to speak; pulled off his gauntlet, and then as quickly
put it on again. Had he meant to offer his hand in good-by?
He had never been seen to take the hand of any one except with
the might of the law visible in steel.
He opened the door with the right hand, but turned round as
he stepped out, so that the left held it while he faced the warmth
of the room and the face of the girl.
The door closed.
Mounted, and having said good-by to Mr. Humphrey, he
turned toward the house, raised his cap with soldierly brusque-
ness, and rode away in the direction of the barracks.
The girl did not watch him. She was thinking of Young
Aleck, and of Christmas Day, now near. The sergeant did not
look back.
Meantime the party at Windsor's store was broken up. Pretty
Pierre and Young Aleck had talked together, and the old man
had heard his son say:
"Remember, Pierre, it is for the last time. "
Then they talked after this fashion:-
"Ah, I know, mon ami; for the last time! Eh, bien! You
will spend Christmas Day with us too—
No! You surely will
not leave us on the day of good fortune? Where better can you
take your pleasure-for the last time? One day is not enough
for farewell. Two, three; that is the magic number. You will,
eh? no? Well, well, you will come to-morrow-and- eh, mon
ami, where do you go the next day? Oh, pardon, I forgot, you
spend the Christmas Day-I know. And the day of the New
Year? Ah, Young Aleck, that is what they say,-the Devil for
the Devil's luck. So! "
"Stop that, Pierre. There was fierceness in the tone. « I
spend the Christmas Day where you don't, and as I like, and the
rest doesn't concern you. I drink with you, I play with you-
bien! As you say yourself, bien! isn't that enough? »
## p. 11060 (#272) ##########################################
11060
GILBERT PARKER
"Pardon! We will not quarrel. No: we spend not the
Christmas Day after the same fashion, quite; then, to-morrow at
Pardon's Drive! Adieu! "
Pretty Pierre went out of one door, a malediction between
his white teeth, and Aleck went out of another door with a male-
diction upon his gloomy lips. But both maledictions were leveled
at the same person. Poor Aleck!
«< Poor Aleck! " That is the way we sometimes think of a
good nature gone awry; one that has learned to say cruel male-
dictions to itself, and against which demons hurl their maledic-
tions too. Alas for the ne'er-do-weel!
That night a stalwart figure passed from David Humphrey's
door, carrying with him the warm atmosphere of a good woman's
love. The chilly outer air of the world seemed not to touch
him, Love's curtains were drawn so close. Had one stood within
"the Hunter's Room," as it was called, a little while before, one
would have seen a man's head bowed before a woman, and her
hand smoothing back the hair from the handsome brow where
dissipation had drawn some deep lines. Presently the hand
raised the head until the eyes of the woman looked full into the
eyes of the man.
"You will not go to Pardon's Drive again, will you, Aleck? "
"Never again after Christmas Day, Mab. But I must go
to-morrow. I have given my word. "
"I know. To meet Pretty Pierre and all the rest, and for
what? O Aleck, isn't the suspicion about your father enough,
but you must put this on me as well? "
"My father must suffer for his wrong-doing if he does wrong,
and I for mine. "
There was a moment's silence. He bowed his head again.
"And I have done wrong to us both. Forgive me, Mab. "
She leaned over and fondled his hair. "I forgive you, Aleck. "
A thousand new thoughts were thrilling through him. Yet
this man had given his word to do that for which he must ask
forgiveness of the woman he loved. But to Pretty Pierre, for-
given or unforgiven, he would keep his word. She understood
it better than most of those who read this brief record can.
Every sphere has its code of honor and duty peculiar to itself.
"You will come to me on Christmas morning, Aleck? "
"I will come on Christmas morning. "
"And no more after that of Pretty Pierre ? »
"And no more of Pretty Pierre. "
## p. 11061 (#273) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11061
She trusted him; but neither could reckon with unknown
forces.
Sergeant Fones, sitting in the barracks in talk with Private
Gellatly, said at that moment in a swift silence:--
"Exactly. "
Pretty Pierre, at Pardon's Drive, drinking a glass of brandy
at that moment, said to the ceiling:-
"No more of Pretty Pierre after to-morrow night, monsieur!
Bien! If it is for the last time, then it is for the last time.
So . . . so! "
He smiled. His teeth were amazingly white.
The stalwart figure strode on under the stars, the white night.
a lens for visions of days of rejoicing to come. All evil was far
from him. The dolorous tide rolled back in this hour from his
life, and he reveled in the light of a new day.
"When I've played my last card to-morrow night with Pretty
Pierre, I'll begin the world again," he whispered.
And Sergeant Fones in the barracks said just then, in response
to a further remark of Private Gellatly:-
"Exactly. "
Young Aleck is singing now:—
"Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,-
Father, mother, and child;
Come, my love, to our home,—
Father, mother, and child,
Father, mother, and
He fell to thinking again-"and child—and child,”—it was in
his ears and in his heart.
But Pretty Pierre was singing softly to himself in the room
at Pardon's Drive:-
"Three good friends with the wine at night —
Vive la compagnie!
Two good friends when the sun grows bright—
Vive la compagnie!
Vive la, vive la, vive la mort!
Vive la, vive la, vive la mort!
Three good friends, two good friends—
Vive la compagnie! "
## p. 11062 (#274) ##########################################
11062
GILBERT PARKER
What did it mean?
Private Gellatly was cousin to Idaho Jack, and Idaho Jack
disliked Pretty Pierre, though he had been one of the gang.
The cousins had seen each other lately, and Private Gellatly had
had a talk with the man who was ha'sh. It may be that others
besides Pierre had an idea of what it meant.
In the house at Pardon's Drive the next night sat eight men,
of whom three were Pretty Pierre, Young Aleck, and Idaho
Jack. Young Aleck's face was flushed with bad liquor and
the worse excitement of play. This was one of the unreckoned
forces. Was this the man that sang the tender song under the
stars last night? Pretty Pierre's face was less pretty than usual:
the cheeks were pallid, the eyes were hard and cold. Once he
looked at his partner as if to say, "Not yet. " Idaho Jack saw
the look: he glanced at his watch; it was eleven o'clock. At that
moment the door opened, and Sergeant Fones entered. All started
to their feet, most with curses on their lips; but Sergeant Fones
never seemed to hear anything that could make a feature of his
face alter. Pierre's hand was on his hip, as if feeling for some-
thing. Sergeant Fones saw that; but he walked to where Aleck
stood, with his unplayed cards still in his hand, and laying a
hand on his shoulder, said, "Come with me. "
"Why should I go with you? " this with a drunken man's
bravado.
"You are my prisoner. "
Pierre stepped forward. "What is his crime? " he exclaimed.
"How does that concern you, Pretty Pierre ? »
――――
"He is my friend. "
"Is he your friend, Aleck? "
What was there in the eyes of Sergeant Fones that forced
the reply, "To-night, yes; to-morrow, no"?
"Exactly.
It is near to-morrow; come. "
Aleck was led towards the door. Once more Pierre's hand
went to his hip; but he was looking at the prisoner, not at the
sergeant. The sergeant saw, and his fingers were at his belt.
He opened the door. Aleck passed out. He followed. Two
horses were tied to a post. With difficulty Aleck was mounted.
Once on the way, his brain began slowly to clear; but he grew
painfully cold. It was a bitter night.
It was a bitter night. How bitter it might have
been for the ne'er-do-weel let the words of Idaho Jack, spoken
in a long hour's talk next day with Old Brown Windsor, show.
## p. 11063 (#275) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11063
Pretty Pierre, after the two were gone, said, with a shiver of
curses, 'Another hour and it would have been done and no one
to blame. He was ready for trouble. His money was nearly
finished. A little quarrel easily made, the door would open, and
he would pass out. His horse would be gone, he could not come
back; he would walk. The air is cold, quite, quite cold; and the
snow is a soft bed. He would sleep well and sound, having seen.
Pretty Pierre for the last time. And now! " The rest was
French and furtive.
From that hour Idaho Jack and Pretty Pierre parted com-
pany.
Riding from Pardon's Drive, Young Aleck noticed at last that
they were not going toward the barracks.
He said, "Why do you arrest me? "
The sergeant replied: "You will know that soon enough.
You are now going to your own home. To-morrow you will
keep your word and go to David Humphrey's place; the next
day I will come for you. Which do you choose: to ride with
me to-night to the barracks and know why you are arrested,
or go unknowing, as I bid you, and keep your word with the
girl? "
«<
-
―――
Through Aleck's fevered brain there ran the words of the
song he sang before:
"Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,-
Father, mother, and child. "
He could have but one answer.
At the door of his home the sergeant left him with the words,
"Remember you are on parole. "
Aleck noticed, as the sergeant rode away, that the face of the
sky had changed, and slight gusts of wind had come up.
At any
other time his mind would have dwelt upon the fact. It did not
do so now.
Christmas Day came. People said that the fiercest night since
the blizzard day of 1863 had been passed. But the morning
was clear and beautiful. The sun came up like a great flower
expanding. First the yellow, then the purple, then the red, and
then a mighty shield of roses. The world was a blanket of drift,
and down, and glistening silver.
## p. 11064 (#276) ##########################################
11064
GILBERT PARKER
·
Mab Humphrey greeted her lover with such a smile as only
springs to a thankful woman's lips. He had given his word and
had kept it; and the path of the future seemed surer.
He was a prisoner on parole; still that did not depress him.
Plans for coming days were talked of, and the laughter of many
voices filled the house. The ne'er-do-weel was clothed and in his
right mind. In the Hunter's Room the noblest trophy was the
heart of a repentant prodigal.
In the barracks that morning a gazetted notice was posted,
announcing, with such technical language as is the custom, that
Sergeant Fones was promoted to be a lieutenant in the Mounted
Police Force of the Northwest Territory. When the officer in
command sent for him he could not be found. But he was
found that morning; and when Private Gellatly, with a warm
hand, touching the glove of "iron and ice," that, indeed, now,-
said, "Sergeant Fones, you are promoted, God help you! " he
gave no sign. Motionless, stern, erect, he sat there upon his
horse, beside a stunted larch-tree. The broncho seemed to un-
derstand, for he did not stir, and had not done so for hours;
they could tell that. The bridle rein was still in the frigid fin-
gers, and a smile was upon the face.
A smile upon the face of Sergeant Fones.
Perhaps he smiled because he was going to the Barracks of
the Free.
"Free among the Dead, like unto them that are wounded and
lie in the grave, that are out of remembrance. "
In the wild night he had lost his way, though but a few
miles from the barracks.
He had done his duty rigidly in that sphere of life where he
had lived so much alone among his many comrades. Had he
exceeded his duty once in arresting Young Aleck?
When, the next day, Sergeant Fones lay in the barracks, over
him the flag for which he had sworn to do honest service, and
his promotion papers in his quiet hand, the two who loved each
other stood beside him for many a throbbing minute. And one
said to herself silently, "I felt sometimes-" but no more words
did she say even to herself.
Old Aleck came in, and walked to where the sergeant slept,
wrapped close in that white frosted coverlet which man wears
but once. He stood for a moment silent, his fingers numbly
clasped.
## p. 11065 (#277) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11065
Private Gellatly spoke softly: "Angels betide me, it's little
we knew the great of him till he wint away; the pride, and the
law-and the love of him. "
In the tragedy that faced them this Christmas morning, one
at least had seen "the love of him. " Perhaps the broncho had
known it before.
Old Aleck laid a palm upon the hand he had never touched
when it had life. "He's-too-ha'sh," he said, slowly.
Private Gellatly looked up wonderingly.
But the old man's eyes were wet.
VALMOND
From When Valmond Came to Pontiac. ' Copyright 1895, by Stone &
Kimball
ON
N ONE Corner stood the house of Monsieur Garon the avocat;
on another, the shop of the Little Chemist; on another,
the office of Medallion the auctioneer; and on the last,
the Hotel Louis Quinze. The chief characteristics of Monsieur
Garon's house were its brass door-knobs, and the verdant luxuri-
ance of the vines that climbed its sides; of the Little Chemist's
shop, the perfect whiteness of the building, the rolls of sober
wall-paper, and the bottles of colored water in the shop windows;
of Medallion's, the stoop that surrounded three sides of the build-
ing, and the notices of sales tacked up, pasted up, on the front;
of the Hotel Louis Quinze, the deep dormer windows, its solid
timbers, and the veranda that gave its front distinction;- for this
veranda had been the pride of several generations of landlords,
and its heavy carving and bulky grace were worth even more
admiration than Pontiac gave to it.
The square which the two roads and the four corners made
was on week-days the rendezvous of Pontiac and the whole par-
ish; on Sunday mornings the rendezvous was shifted to the
large church on the hillside, beside which was the house of the
curé, Monsieur Fabre. Traveling towards the south, out of
the silken haze of a midsummer day, you would come in time
to the hills of Maine; north, to the city of Quebec and the River
St. Lawrence; east, to the ocean; and west, to the Great Lakes
and the land of the English. Over this bright province Britain
## p. 11066 (#278) ##########################################
11066
GILBERT PARKER
raised her flag; but only Medallion and a few others loved it for
its own sake, or saluted it in the English tongue.
In the drab velvet dust of these four corners were gathered,
one night of July a generation ago, the children of the village
and many of their elders. All the events of that epoch were
dated from the evening of this day. Another day of note the
parish cherished, but it was merely a grave fulfillment of the
first.
Upon the veranda stoop of the Louis Quinze stood a man
of apparently about twenty-eight years of age. When you came
to study him closely, some sense of time and experience in his
look told you that he might be thirty-eight, though his few gray
hairs seemed but to emphasize a certain youthfulness in him.
His eye was full, singularly clear, almost benign; at one mo-
ment it gave the impression of resolution, at another it suggested
the wayward abstraction of the dreamer. He was well figured,
with a hand of peculiar whiteness, suggesting in its breadth more
the man of action than of meditation. But it was a contradic-
tion, for as you saw it rise and fall, you were struck by its
dramatic delicacy; as it rested on the railing of the veranda, by
its latent power.
You faced incongruity everywhere. His dress
was bizarre, his face almost classical, the brow clear and strong,
the profile good to the mouth, where there showed a combina-
tion of sensuousness and adventure. Yet in the face there was
an elusive sadness, strangely out of keeping with the long linen
coat, frilled shirt, the flowered waistcoat, lavender trousers, boots
of enameled leather, and straw hat with white linen streamers.
It was a whimsical picture.
At the moment that the curé and Medallion the auctioneer
came down the street together towards the Louis Quinze, talking
amiably, this singular gentleman was throwing out hot pennies
with a large spoon from a tray in his hand, calling on the child-
ren to gather them, in French which was not the French of
Pontiac-or Quebec; and this fact the curé was quick to detect,
as Monsieur Garon the avocat, standing on the outskirts of the
crowd, had done some moments before. The stranger seemed
only conscious of his act of liberality and the children before
him. There was a naturalness in his enjoyment which was almost
boy-like; a naïve sort of exultation seemed to possess him.
He laughed softly to see the children toss the pennies from
hand to hand, blowing to cool them; the riotous yet half timorous
## p. 11067 (#279) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11067
scramble for them, and burnt fingers thrust into hot blithe
mouths. And when he saw a fat little lad of five crowded out
of the way by his elders, he stepped down with a quick word of
sympathy, put a half-dozen pennies in the child's pocket, snatched
him up and kissed him, and then returned to the veranda, where
were gathered the landlord, the miller, and Monsieur De la Ri-
vière the young Seigneur. But the most intent spectator of the
scene was Parpon the dwarf, who sat grotesquely crouched upon
the wide ledge of a window.
Tray after tray of pennies was brought out and emptied, till
at last the stranger paused, handed the spoon to the landlord,
drew out a fine white handkerchief, dusted his fingers, standing
silent for a moment and smiling upon the crowd.
It was at this point that some young villager called, in pro-
fuse compliment, "Three cheers for the Prince! "
The stranger threw an accent of pose into his manner, his
eye lighted, his chin came up, he dropped one hand negligently
on his hip, and waved the other in acknowledgment. Presently
he beckoned, and from the hotel were brought out four great
pitchers of wine and a dozen tin cups; and sending the garçon
around with one, the landlord with another, he motioned Parpon
the dwarf to bear a hand. Parpon shot out a quick, half resent-
ful look at him; but meeting a warm, friendly eye, he took the
pitcher and went among the elders, while the stranger himself
courteously drank with the young men of the village, who, like
many wiser folk, thus yielded to the charm of mystery. To
every one he said a hearty thing, and sometimes touched his
greeting off with a bit of poetry or a rhetorical phrase. These
dramatic extravagances served him well, for he was among a
race of story-tellers and crude poets.
Parpon, uncouth and furtive, moved through the crowd, dis-
pensing as much irony as wine:-
―
"Three bucks we come to a pretty inn:
'Hostess,' say we, 'have you red wine? '
Brave! Brave!
'Hostess,' say we, have you red wine ? >
Bravement!
Our feet are sore and our crops are dry,
Bravement! »
This he hummed to Monsieur Garon the avocat, in a tone all
silver; for he had that one gift of Heaven as recompense for his
## p. 11068 (#280) ##########################################
11068
GILBERT PARKER
It
deformity, his long arms, big head, and short stature, - a voice
which gave you a shiver of delight and pain all at once.
had in it mystery and the incomprehensible. This drinking song,
lilted just above his breath, touched some antique memory in the
avocat; and he nodded kindly at the dwarf, though he refused.
the wine.
"Ah, M'sieu' le Curé," said Parpon, ducking his head to avoid
the hand that Medallion would have laid on it, "we're going to
be somebody now in Pontiac, bless the Lord! We're simple folk,
but we're not neglected. He wears a king's ribbon on his breast,
M'sieu' le Curé! »
This was true. Fastened by a gold bar to the stranger's
breast was the crimson ribbon of an order.
The Curé smiled at Parpon's words, and looked curiously and
gravely at the stranger. Tall Medallion, the auctioneer, took a
glass of the wine, and lifting it, said, "Who shall I drink to,
Parpon, my dear? What is he? "
"Ten to one, a dauphin or a fool," answered Parpon with a
laugh like the note of an organ.
"Drink to both, long legs. "
Then he trotted away to the Little Chemist.
"Hush, my brother," said he, and he drew the other's ear
down to his mouth. "Now there'll be plenty of work for you.
We're going to be gay in Pontiac, We'll come to you with our
spoiled stomachs. "
He edged round the circle, and back to where the miller his
master, and the young Seigneur stood.
"Make more fine flour, old man," said he to the miller:
pâtés are the thing now. " Then, to Monsieur De la Rivière,
"There's nothing like hot pennies and wine to make the world
love you.
But it's too late, too late for my young Seigneur! "
he added in mockery, and again he began to hum in a sort of
amiable derision:
"My little tender heart,
O gai, vive le roi!
My little tender heart,
O gai, vive le roi!
'Tis for a grand baron,
Vive le roi, la reine;
'Tis for a grand baron,
Vive Napoléon! »
With the last two lines the words swelled out far louder than
was the dwarf's intention; for few save Medallion and Monsieur
## p. 11069 (#281) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11069
De la Rivière had ever heard him sing. His concert house was
the Rock of Red Pigeons, his favorite haunt, his other home,
where, it was said, he met the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet
Hills, and had gay hours with them. And this was a matter of
awe to the timid habitants.
At the words "Vive Napoléon! " a hand touched him on the
shoulder. He turned and saw the stranger looking at him in-
tently, his eyes alight.
"Sing it," he said softly, yet with an air of command.
pon hesitated, shrank back.
_
ear.
"Sing it," he persisted; and the request was taken up by
others, til Parpon's face flushed with a sort of pleasurable de-
fiance. The stranger stooped and whispered something in his
There was a moment's pause, in which the dwarf looked
into the other's eyes with an intense curiosity, or incredulity,-
and then Medallion lifted the little man onto the railing of the
veranda, and over the heads and into the hearts of the people
there passed, in a divine voice, a song known to many, yet com-
ing as a new revelation to them all.
1
"My mother promised it,
O gai, vive le roi!
My mother promised it,
O gai, vive le roi!
To a gentleman of the king,
Vive le roi, la reine;
To a gentleman of the king,
Vive Napoléon! »
This was chanted lightly, airily, with a sweetness almost
absurd, coming as it did from so uncouth a musician.
verses had a touch of pathos, droll yet searching:-
The last
"Oh, say, where goes your love.
O gai, vive le roi?
Par-
Oh, say, where goes your love,
O gai, vive le roi?
He rides on a white horse,
Vive le roi, la reine;
He wears a silver sword,
Vive Napoléon!
"Oh, grand to the war he goes,
O gai, vive le roi!
cho was, like himself, wasteful of neither action nor affection.
The sergeant had caught him wild and independent, had brought
him in, broken him, and taught him obedience. They understood
each other; perhaps they loved each other. But about that, even
Private Gellatly had views in common with the general sentiment
as to the character of Sergeant Fones. The private remarked
once on this point, "Sarpints alive! the heels of the one and the
law of the other is the love of them. They'll weather together
like the Divil and Death. "
The sergeant was brooding; that was not like him.
He was
hesitating; that was less like him. He turned his broncho round
as if to cross the Big Divide and to go back to Windsor's store;
but he changed his mind again, and rode on toward David Hum-
phrey's ranch. He sat as if he had been born in the saddle.
His was a face for the artist,-strong and clear, and having
a dominant expression of force. The eyes were deep-set and
watchful. A kind of disdain might be traced in the curve of the
short upper lip, to which the mustache was clipped close-a
good fit, like his coat. The disdain was more marked this morn-
ing.
The first part of his ride had been seen by Young Aleck, the
second part by Mab Humphrey. Her first thought on seeing him
was one of apprehension for Young Aleck and those of Young
Aleck's name. She knew that people spoke of her lover as a
ne'er-do-weel; and that they associated his name freely with that
of Pretty Pierre and his gang. She had a dread of Pierre; and
only the night before, she had determined to make one last great
effort to save Aleck, and if he would not be saved-strange that,
thinking it all over again, as she watched the figure on horse-
back coming nearer, her mind should swerve to what she had
## p. 11056 (#268) ##########################################
11056
GILBERT PARKER
heard of Sergeant Fones's expected promotion. Then she fell to
wondering if any one had ever given him a real Christmas pres-
ent; if he had any friends at all; if life meant anything more to
him than carrying the law of the land across his saddle. Again
he suddenly came to her in a new thought, free from apprehen-
sion, and as the champion of her cause to defeat the half-breed
and his gang, and save Aleck from present danger or future
perils.
She was such a woman as prairies nurture,- in spirit broad
and thoughtful and full of energy; not so deep as the mount-
ain woman, not so imaginative, but with more persistency, more
daring. Youth to her was a warmth, a glory. She hated excess
and lawlessness, but she could understand it. She felt some-
times as if she must go far away into the unpeopled spaces, and
shriek out her soul to the stars from the fullness of too much
life. She supposed men had feelings of that kind too, but that
they fell to playing cards and drinking instead of crying to the
stars. Still, she preferred her way.
Once Sergeant Fones, on leaving the house, said grimly
after his fashion, "Not Mab but Ariadne — excuse a soldier's
bluntness. . . . Good-by! " and with a brusque salute he had
ridden away.
What he meant she did not know and could
not ask. The thought instantly came to her mind: Not Sergeant
Fones; but-who? She wondered if Ariadne was born on the
prairie. What knew she of the girl who helped Theseus, her
lover, to slay the Minotaur? What guessed she of the Slopes of
Naxos ? How old was Ariadne? Twenty? For that was Mab's
age. Was Ariadne beautiful? - She ran her fingers loosely
through her short brown hair, waving softly about her Greek-
shaped head, and reasoned that Ariadne must have been present-
able or Sergeant Fones would not have made the comparison.
She hoped Ariadne could ride well, for she could.
But how white the world looked this morning! and how proud
and brilliant the sky! Nothing in the plane of vision but waves
of snow stretching to the Cypress Hills; far to the left a solitary
house, with its tin roof flashing back the sun, and to the right
the Big Divide. It was an old-fashioned winter, not one in
which bare ground and sharp winds make life outdoors inhos-
pitable. Snow is hospitable-clean, impacted snow; restful and
silent. But there is one spot in the area of white, on which
Mab's eyes are fixed now, with something different in them
## p. 11057 (#269) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11057
from what had been there. Again it was a memory with which
Sergeant Fones was associated. One day in the summer just
past she had watched him and his company put away to rest,
under the cool sod where many another lay in silent company,
a prairie wanderer,- some outcast from a better life gone by.
Afterwards, in her home, she saw the sergeant stand at the
window, looking out toward the spot where the waves in the
sea of grass were more regular and greener than elsewhere, and
were surmounted by a high cross. She said to him,- for she of
all was never shy of his stern ways,-
"Why is the grass always greenest there, Sergeant Fones? "
He knew what she meant, and slowly said, "It is the Bar-
racks of the Free. "
She had no views of life save those of duty and work and
natural joy and loving a ne'er-do-weel, and she said, "I do not
understand that. "
And the sergeant replied, "Free among the Dead, like unto
them that are wounded and lie in the grave, who are out of re-
membrance. "
But Mab said again, "I do not understand that either. "
The sergeant did not at once reply. He stepped to the door
and gave a short command to some one without, and in a mo-
ment his company was mounted in line: handsome, dashing fel-
lows; one the son of an English nobleman, one the brother of an
eminent Canadian politician, one related to a celebrated English
dramatist. He ran his eye along the line, then turned to Mab,
raised his cap with machine-like precision, and said, "No, I sup-
pose you do not understand that. Keep Aleck Windsor from
Pretty Pierre and his gang. Good-by. "
Then he mounted and rode away. Every other man in the
company looked back to where the girl stood in the doorway; he
did not. Private Gellatly said with a shake of the head, as she
was lost to view, "Devils bestir me, what a widdy she'll make! "
It was understood that Aleck Windsor and Mab Humphrey were
to be married on the coming New Year's Day. What connection.
was there between the words of Sergeant Fones and those of
Private Gellatly? None, perhaps.
Mab thinks upon that day as she looks out, this December
morning, and sees Sergeant Fones dismounting at the door.
David Humphrey, who is outside, offers to put up the sergeant's
horse; but he says, "No, if you'll hold him just a moment, Mr.
XIX-692
## p. 11058 (#270) ##########################################
11058
GILBERT PARKER
Humphrey, I'll ask for a drink of something warm, and move on.
Miss Mab is inside, I suppose? "
"She'll give you a drink of the best to be had on your patrol,
sergeant," was the laughing reply.
"Thanks for that, but tea or coffee is good enough for me,"
said the sergeant. Entering, the coffee was soon in the hand of
the hardy soldier. Once he paused in his drinking and scanned
Mab's face closely. Most people would have said the sergeant
had an affair of the law in hand, and was searching the face of
a criminal; but most people are not good at interpretation. Mab
was speaking to the chore-girl at the same time and did not see
the look. If she could have defined her thoughts when she, in
turn, glanced into the sergeant's face a moment afterwards, she
would have said, "Austerity fills this man. Isolation marks him
for its own. " In the eyes were only purpose, decision, and com-
mand. Was that the look that had been fixed upon her face a
moment ago? It must have been. His features had not changed
a breath. Mab began their talk.
"They say you are to get a Christmas present of promotion,
Sergeant Fones. "
"I have not seen it gazetted," he answered enigmatically.
"You and your friends will be glad of it. "
"I like the service. "
"You will have more freedom with a commission. "
He made no reply, but rose and walked to the window, and
looked out across the snow, drawing on his gauntlets as he
did so.
She saw that he was looking where the grass in summer was
the greenest!
He turned and said:
:-
"I am going to barracks now. I suppose young Aleck will
be in quarters here on Christmas Day, Miss Mab?
>>
"I think so," and she blushed.
"Did he say he would be here? "
"Yes. "
"Exactly. "
He looked toward the coffee. Then:-
"Thank you.
. . Good-by. "
Sergeant->
((
"Miss Mab-»
་་
"Will you not come to us on Christmas Day? ”
## p. 11059 (#271) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11059
His eyelids closed swiftly and opened again.
"I shall be on duty. "
"And promoted? "
"Perhaps. "
"And merry and happy? "-she smiled to herself to think of
Sergeant Fones being merry and happy.
"Exactly. "
The word suited him.
He paused a moment with his fingers on the latch, and turned
round as if to speak; pulled off his gauntlet, and then as quickly
put it on again. Had he meant to offer his hand in good-by?
He had never been seen to take the hand of any one except with
the might of the law visible in steel.
He opened the door with the right hand, but turned round as
he stepped out, so that the left held it while he faced the warmth
of the room and the face of the girl.
The door closed.
Mounted, and having said good-by to Mr. Humphrey, he
turned toward the house, raised his cap with soldierly brusque-
ness, and rode away in the direction of the barracks.
The girl did not watch him. She was thinking of Young
Aleck, and of Christmas Day, now near. The sergeant did not
look back.
Meantime the party at Windsor's store was broken up. Pretty
Pierre and Young Aleck had talked together, and the old man
had heard his son say:
"Remember, Pierre, it is for the last time. "
Then they talked after this fashion:-
"Ah, I know, mon ami; for the last time! Eh, bien! You
will spend Christmas Day with us too—
No! You surely will
not leave us on the day of good fortune? Where better can you
take your pleasure-for the last time? One day is not enough
for farewell. Two, three; that is the magic number. You will,
eh? no? Well, well, you will come to-morrow-and- eh, mon
ami, where do you go the next day? Oh, pardon, I forgot, you
spend the Christmas Day-I know. And the day of the New
Year? Ah, Young Aleck, that is what they say,-the Devil for
the Devil's luck. So! "
"Stop that, Pierre. There was fierceness in the tone. « I
spend the Christmas Day where you don't, and as I like, and the
rest doesn't concern you. I drink with you, I play with you-
bien! As you say yourself, bien! isn't that enough? »
## p. 11060 (#272) ##########################################
11060
GILBERT PARKER
"Pardon! We will not quarrel. No: we spend not the
Christmas Day after the same fashion, quite; then, to-morrow at
Pardon's Drive! Adieu! "
Pretty Pierre went out of one door, a malediction between
his white teeth, and Aleck went out of another door with a male-
diction upon his gloomy lips. But both maledictions were leveled
at the same person. Poor Aleck!
«< Poor Aleck! " That is the way we sometimes think of a
good nature gone awry; one that has learned to say cruel male-
dictions to itself, and against which demons hurl their maledic-
tions too. Alas for the ne'er-do-weel!
That night a stalwart figure passed from David Humphrey's
door, carrying with him the warm atmosphere of a good woman's
love. The chilly outer air of the world seemed not to touch
him, Love's curtains were drawn so close. Had one stood within
"the Hunter's Room," as it was called, a little while before, one
would have seen a man's head bowed before a woman, and her
hand smoothing back the hair from the handsome brow where
dissipation had drawn some deep lines. Presently the hand
raised the head until the eyes of the woman looked full into the
eyes of the man.
"You will not go to Pardon's Drive again, will you, Aleck? "
"Never again after Christmas Day, Mab. But I must go
to-morrow. I have given my word. "
"I know. To meet Pretty Pierre and all the rest, and for
what? O Aleck, isn't the suspicion about your father enough,
but you must put this on me as well? "
"My father must suffer for his wrong-doing if he does wrong,
and I for mine. "
There was a moment's silence. He bowed his head again.
"And I have done wrong to us both. Forgive me, Mab. "
She leaned over and fondled his hair. "I forgive you, Aleck. "
A thousand new thoughts were thrilling through him. Yet
this man had given his word to do that for which he must ask
forgiveness of the woman he loved. But to Pretty Pierre, for-
given or unforgiven, he would keep his word. She understood
it better than most of those who read this brief record can.
Every sphere has its code of honor and duty peculiar to itself.
"You will come to me on Christmas morning, Aleck? "
"I will come on Christmas morning. "
"And no more after that of Pretty Pierre ? »
"And no more of Pretty Pierre. "
## p. 11061 (#273) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11061
She trusted him; but neither could reckon with unknown
forces.
Sergeant Fones, sitting in the barracks in talk with Private
Gellatly, said at that moment in a swift silence:--
"Exactly. "
Pretty Pierre, at Pardon's Drive, drinking a glass of brandy
at that moment, said to the ceiling:-
"No more of Pretty Pierre after to-morrow night, monsieur!
Bien! If it is for the last time, then it is for the last time.
So . . . so! "
He smiled. His teeth were amazingly white.
The stalwart figure strode on under the stars, the white night.
a lens for visions of days of rejoicing to come. All evil was far
from him. The dolorous tide rolled back in this hour from his
life, and he reveled in the light of a new day.
"When I've played my last card to-morrow night with Pretty
Pierre, I'll begin the world again," he whispered.
And Sergeant Fones in the barracks said just then, in response
to a further remark of Private Gellatly:-
"Exactly. "
Young Aleck is singing now:—
"Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,-
Father, mother, and child;
Come, my love, to our home,—
Father, mother, and child,
Father, mother, and
He fell to thinking again-"and child—and child,”—it was in
his ears and in his heart.
But Pretty Pierre was singing softly to himself in the room
at Pardon's Drive:-
"Three good friends with the wine at night —
Vive la compagnie!
Two good friends when the sun grows bright—
Vive la compagnie!
Vive la, vive la, vive la mort!
Vive la, vive la, vive la mort!
Three good friends, two good friends—
Vive la compagnie! "
## p. 11062 (#274) ##########################################
11062
GILBERT PARKER
What did it mean?
Private Gellatly was cousin to Idaho Jack, and Idaho Jack
disliked Pretty Pierre, though he had been one of the gang.
The cousins had seen each other lately, and Private Gellatly had
had a talk with the man who was ha'sh. It may be that others
besides Pierre had an idea of what it meant.
In the house at Pardon's Drive the next night sat eight men,
of whom three were Pretty Pierre, Young Aleck, and Idaho
Jack. Young Aleck's face was flushed with bad liquor and
the worse excitement of play. This was one of the unreckoned
forces. Was this the man that sang the tender song under the
stars last night? Pretty Pierre's face was less pretty than usual:
the cheeks were pallid, the eyes were hard and cold. Once he
looked at his partner as if to say, "Not yet. " Idaho Jack saw
the look: he glanced at his watch; it was eleven o'clock. At that
moment the door opened, and Sergeant Fones entered. All started
to their feet, most with curses on their lips; but Sergeant Fones
never seemed to hear anything that could make a feature of his
face alter. Pierre's hand was on his hip, as if feeling for some-
thing. Sergeant Fones saw that; but he walked to where Aleck
stood, with his unplayed cards still in his hand, and laying a
hand on his shoulder, said, "Come with me. "
"Why should I go with you? " this with a drunken man's
bravado.
"You are my prisoner. "
Pierre stepped forward. "What is his crime? " he exclaimed.
"How does that concern you, Pretty Pierre ? »
――――
"He is my friend. "
"Is he your friend, Aleck? "
What was there in the eyes of Sergeant Fones that forced
the reply, "To-night, yes; to-morrow, no"?
"Exactly.
It is near to-morrow; come. "
Aleck was led towards the door. Once more Pierre's hand
went to his hip; but he was looking at the prisoner, not at the
sergeant. The sergeant saw, and his fingers were at his belt.
He opened the door. Aleck passed out. He followed. Two
horses were tied to a post. With difficulty Aleck was mounted.
Once on the way, his brain began slowly to clear; but he grew
painfully cold. It was a bitter night.
It was a bitter night. How bitter it might have
been for the ne'er-do-weel let the words of Idaho Jack, spoken
in a long hour's talk next day with Old Brown Windsor, show.
## p. 11063 (#275) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11063
Pretty Pierre, after the two were gone, said, with a shiver of
curses, 'Another hour and it would have been done and no one
to blame. He was ready for trouble. His money was nearly
finished. A little quarrel easily made, the door would open, and
he would pass out. His horse would be gone, he could not come
back; he would walk. The air is cold, quite, quite cold; and the
snow is a soft bed. He would sleep well and sound, having seen.
Pretty Pierre for the last time. And now! " The rest was
French and furtive.
From that hour Idaho Jack and Pretty Pierre parted com-
pany.
Riding from Pardon's Drive, Young Aleck noticed at last that
they were not going toward the barracks.
He said, "Why do you arrest me? "
The sergeant replied: "You will know that soon enough.
You are now going to your own home. To-morrow you will
keep your word and go to David Humphrey's place; the next
day I will come for you. Which do you choose: to ride with
me to-night to the barracks and know why you are arrested,
or go unknowing, as I bid you, and keep your word with the
girl? "
«<
-
―――
Through Aleck's fevered brain there ran the words of the
song he sang before:
"Out from your vineland come
Into the prairies wild;
Here will we make our home,-
Father, mother, and child. "
He could have but one answer.
At the door of his home the sergeant left him with the words,
"Remember you are on parole. "
Aleck noticed, as the sergeant rode away, that the face of the
sky had changed, and slight gusts of wind had come up.
At any
other time his mind would have dwelt upon the fact. It did not
do so now.
Christmas Day came. People said that the fiercest night since
the blizzard day of 1863 had been passed. But the morning
was clear and beautiful. The sun came up like a great flower
expanding. First the yellow, then the purple, then the red, and
then a mighty shield of roses. The world was a blanket of drift,
and down, and glistening silver.
## p. 11064 (#276) ##########################################
11064
GILBERT PARKER
·
Mab Humphrey greeted her lover with such a smile as only
springs to a thankful woman's lips. He had given his word and
had kept it; and the path of the future seemed surer.
He was a prisoner on parole; still that did not depress him.
Plans for coming days were talked of, and the laughter of many
voices filled the house. The ne'er-do-weel was clothed and in his
right mind. In the Hunter's Room the noblest trophy was the
heart of a repentant prodigal.
In the barracks that morning a gazetted notice was posted,
announcing, with such technical language as is the custom, that
Sergeant Fones was promoted to be a lieutenant in the Mounted
Police Force of the Northwest Territory. When the officer in
command sent for him he could not be found. But he was
found that morning; and when Private Gellatly, with a warm
hand, touching the glove of "iron and ice," that, indeed, now,-
said, "Sergeant Fones, you are promoted, God help you! " he
gave no sign. Motionless, stern, erect, he sat there upon his
horse, beside a stunted larch-tree. The broncho seemed to un-
derstand, for he did not stir, and had not done so for hours;
they could tell that. The bridle rein was still in the frigid fin-
gers, and a smile was upon the face.
A smile upon the face of Sergeant Fones.
Perhaps he smiled because he was going to the Barracks of
the Free.
"Free among the Dead, like unto them that are wounded and
lie in the grave, that are out of remembrance. "
In the wild night he had lost his way, though but a few
miles from the barracks.
He had done his duty rigidly in that sphere of life where he
had lived so much alone among his many comrades. Had he
exceeded his duty once in arresting Young Aleck?
When, the next day, Sergeant Fones lay in the barracks, over
him the flag for which he had sworn to do honest service, and
his promotion papers in his quiet hand, the two who loved each
other stood beside him for many a throbbing minute. And one
said to herself silently, "I felt sometimes-" but no more words
did she say even to herself.
Old Aleck came in, and walked to where the sergeant slept,
wrapped close in that white frosted coverlet which man wears
but once. He stood for a moment silent, his fingers numbly
clasped.
## p. 11065 (#277) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11065
Private Gellatly spoke softly: "Angels betide me, it's little
we knew the great of him till he wint away; the pride, and the
law-and the love of him. "
In the tragedy that faced them this Christmas morning, one
at least had seen "the love of him. " Perhaps the broncho had
known it before.
Old Aleck laid a palm upon the hand he had never touched
when it had life. "He's-too-ha'sh," he said, slowly.
Private Gellatly looked up wonderingly.
But the old man's eyes were wet.
VALMOND
From When Valmond Came to Pontiac. ' Copyright 1895, by Stone &
Kimball
ON
N ONE Corner stood the house of Monsieur Garon the avocat;
on another, the shop of the Little Chemist; on another,
the office of Medallion the auctioneer; and on the last,
the Hotel Louis Quinze. The chief characteristics of Monsieur
Garon's house were its brass door-knobs, and the verdant luxuri-
ance of the vines that climbed its sides; of the Little Chemist's
shop, the perfect whiteness of the building, the rolls of sober
wall-paper, and the bottles of colored water in the shop windows;
of Medallion's, the stoop that surrounded three sides of the build-
ing, and the notices of sales tacked up, pasted up, on the front;
of the Hotel Louis Quinze, the deep dormer windows, its solid
timbers, and the veranda that gave its front distinction;- for this
veranda had been the pride of several generations of landlords,
and its heavy carving and bulky grace were worth even more
admiration than Pontiac gave to it.
The square which the two roads and the four corners made
was on week-days the rendezvous of Pontiac and the whole par-
ish; on Sunday mornings the rendezvous was shifted to the
large church on the hillside, beside which was the house of the
curé, Monsieur Fabre. Traveling towards the south, out of
the silken haze of a midsummer day, you would come in time
to the hills of Maine; north, to the city of Quebec and the River
St. Lawrence; east, to the ocean; and west, to the Great Lakes
and the land of the English. Over this bright province Britain
## p. 11066 (#278) ##########################################
11066
GILBERT PARKER
raised her flag; but only Medallion and a few others loved it for
its own sake, or saluted it in the English tongue.
In the drab velvet dust of these four corners were gathered,
one night of July a generation ago, the children of the village
and many of their elders. All the events of that epoch were
dated from the evening of this day. Another day of note the
parish cherished, but it was merely a grave fulfillment of the
first.
Upon the veranda stoop of the Louis Quinze stood a man
of apparently about twenty-eight years of age. When you came
to study him closely, some sense of time and experience in his
look told you that he might be thirty-eight, though his few gray
hairs seemed but to emphasize a certain youthfulness in him.
His eye was full, singularly clear, almost benign; at one mo-
ment it gave the impression of resolution, at another it suggested
the wayward abstraction of the dreamer. He was well figured,
with a hand of peculiar whiteness, suggesting in its breadth more
the man of action than of meditation. But it was a contradic-
tion, for as you saw it rise and fall, you were struck by its
dramatic delicacy; as it rested on the railing of the veranda, by
its latent power.
You faced incongruity everywhere. His dress
was bizarre, his face almost classical, the brow clear and strong,
the profile good to the mouth, where there showed a combina-
tion of sensuousness and adventure. Yet in the face there was
an elusive sadness, strangely out of keeping with the long linen
coat, frilled shirt, the flowered waistcoat, lavender trousers, boots
of enameled leather, and straw hat with white linen streamers.
It was a whimsical picture.
At the moment that the curé and Medallion the auctioneer
came down the street together towards the Louis Quinze, talking
amiably, this singular gentleman was throwing out hot pennies
with a large spoon from a tray in his hand, calling on the child-
ren to gather them, in French which was not the French of
Pontiac-or Quebec; and this fact the curé was quick to detect,
as Monsieur Garon the avocat, standing on the outskirts of the
crowd, had done some moments before. The stranger seemed
only conscious of his act of liberality and the children before
him. There was a naturalness in his enjoyment which was almost
boy-like; a naïve sort of exultation seemed to possess him.
He laughed softly to see the children toss the pennies from
hand to hand, blowing to cool them; the riotous yet half timorous
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GILBERT PARKER
11067
scramble for them, and burnt fingers thrust into hot blithe
mouths. And when he saw a fat little lad of five crowded out
of the way by his elders, he stepped down with a quick word of
sympathy, put a half-dozen pennies in the child's pocket, snatched
him up and kissed him, and then returned to the veranda, where
were gathered the landlord, the miller, and Monsieur De la Ri-
vière the young Seigneur. But the most intent spectator of the
scene was Parpon the dwarf, who sat grotesquely crouched upon
the wide ledge of a window.
Tray after tray of pennies was brought out and emptied, till
at last the stranger paused, handed the spoon to the landlord,
drew out a fine white handkerchief, dusted his fingers, standing
silent for a moment and smiling upon the crowd.
It was at this point that some young villager called, in pro-
fuse compliment, "Three cheers for the Prince! "
The stranger threw an accent of pose into his manner, his
eye lighted, his chin came up, he dropped one hand negligently
on his hip, and waved the other in acknowledgment. Presently
he beckoned, and from the hotel were brought out four great
pitchers of wine and a dozen tin cups; and sending the garçon
around with one, the landlord with another, he motioned Parpon
the dwarf to bear a hand. Parpon shot out a quick, half resent-
ful look at him; but meeting a warm, friendly eye, he took the
pitcher and went among the elders, while the stranger himself
courteously drank with the young men of the village, who, like
many wiser folk, thus yielded to the charm of mystery. To
every one he said a hearty thing, and sometimes touched his
greeting off with a bit of poetry or a rhetorical phrase. These
dramatic extravagances served him well, for he was among a
race of story-tellers and crude poets.
Parpon, uncouth and furtive, moved through the crowd, dis-
pensing as much irony as wine:-
―
"Three bucks we come to a pretty inn:
'Hostess,' say we, 'have you red wine? '
Brave! Brave!
'Hostess,' say we, have you red wine ? >
Bravement!
Our feet are sore and our crops are dry,
Bravement! »
This he hummed to Monsieur Garon the avocat, in a tone all
silver; for he had that one gift of Heaven as recompense for his
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11068
GILBERT PARKER
It
deformity, his long arms, big head, and short stature, - a voice
which gave you a shiver of delight and pain all at once.
had in it mystery and the incomprehensible. This drinking song,
lilted just above his breath, touched some antique memory in the
avocat; and he nodded kindly at the dwarf, though he refused.
the wine.
"Ah, M'sieu' le Curé," said Parpon, ducking his head to avoid
the hand that Medallion would have laid on it, "we're going to
be somebody now in Pontiac, bless the Lord! We're simple folk,
but we're not neglected. He wears a king's ribbon on his breast,
M'sieu' le Curé! »
This was true. Fastened by a gold bar to the stranger's
breast was the crimson ribbon of an order.
The Curé smiled at Parpon's words, and looked curiously and
gravely at the stranger. Tall Medallion, the auctioneer, took a
glass of the wine, and lifting it, said, "Who shall I drink to,
Parpon, my dear? What is he? "
"Ten to one, a dauphin or a fool," answered Parpon with a
laugh like the note of an organ.
"Drink to both, long legs. "
Then he trotted away to the Little Chemist.
"Hush, my brother," said he, and he drew the other's ear
down to his mouth. "Now there'll be plenty of work for you.
We're going to be gay in Pontiac, We'll come to you with our
spoiled stomachs. "
He edged round the circle, and back to where the miller his
master, and the young Seigneur stood.
"Make more fine flour, old man," said he to the miller:
pâtés are the thing now. " Then, to Monsieur De la Rivière,
"There's nothing like hot pennies and wine to make the world
love you.
But it's too late, too late for my young Seigneur! "
he added in mockery, and again he began to hum in a sort of
amiable derision:
"My little tender heart,
O gai, vive le roi!
My little tender heart,
O gai, vive le roi!
'Tis for a grand baron,
Vive le roi, la reine;
'Tis for a grand baron,
Vive Napoléon! »
With the last two lines the words swelled out far louder than
was the dwarf's intention; for few save Medallion and Monsieur
## p. 11069 (#281) ##########################################
GILBERT PARKER
11069
De la Rivière had ever heard him sing. His concert house was
the Rock of Red Pigeons, his favorite haunt, his other home,
where, it was said, he met the Little Good Folk of the Scarlet
Hills, and had gay hours with them. And this was a matter of
awe to the timid habitants.
At the words "Vive Napoléon! " a hand touched him on the
shoulder. He turned and saw the stranger looking at him in-
tently, his eyes alight.
"Sing it," he said softly, yet with an air of command.
pon hesitated, shrank back.
_
ear.
"Sing it," he persisted; and the request was taken up by
others, til Parpon's face flushed with a sort of pleasurable de-
fiance. The stranger stooped and whispered something in his
There was a moment's pause, in which the dwarf looked
into the other's eyes with an intense curiosity, or incredulity,-
and then Medallion lifted the little man onto the railing of the
veranda, and over the heads and into the hearts of the people
there passed, in a divine voice, a song known to many, yet com-
ing as a new revelation to them all.
1
"My mother promised it,
O gai, vive le roi!
My mother promised it,
O gai, vive le roi!
To a gentleman of the king,
Vive le roi, la reine;
To a gentleman of the king,
Vive Napoléon! »
This was chanted lightly, airily, with a sweetness almost
absurd, coming as it did from so uncouth a musician.
verses had a touch of pathos, droll yet searching:-
The last
"Oh, say, where goes your love.
O gai, vive le roi?
Par-
Oh, say, where goes your love,
O gai, vive le roi?
He rides on a white horse,
Vive le roi, la reine;
He wears a silver sword,
Vive Napoléon!
"Oh, grand to the war he goes,
O gai, vive le roi!
