Pierre’s father, a soldier of fortune from Languedoc, had done well in the fur trade and built himself a comfortable dwelling in Montreal, on Saint Paul street, next the house of Jacques Le Ber. Pierre was almost exactly the same age as Le Ber’s daughter, Jeanne; the two children had been playmates and had learned their catechism together. After Pierre’s father was drowned in a storm on Lake Ontario, Jacques Le Ber took the son into his employ to train him for the fur business. Of all the suitors for Mademoiselle Le Ber’s hand Pierre was thought to have the best chance of success, and the merchant would have liked him for a son-in-law. At the time when Mademoiselle Le Ber, then fifteen, came home from her schooling in Quebec, Pierre was her father’s clerk and was often at the house. She had seemed favourably disposed toward him. It was an old story in Montreal that after Jeanne took her first vow and immured herself in her father’s house, disappointment had driven young Charron into the woods. He had learned the Indian languages as a child, and the Indians liked and trusted him, as they had liked his father. All along the Great Lakes, as far as Michilimackinac, he had a name among them for courage and fair dealing, for a loyal friend and a relentless enemy. Every year he gave half the profits of his ventures to his mother; the rest he squandered on drink and women and new guns, as his comrades did. But in Montreal his behaviour was always exemplary, out of respect to his mother.

  After accepting Auclair’s invitation to come to supper that evening, Charron said he must go to Noël Pommier to order a pair of hard boots, — he was wearing moccasins. “And will you come along, little monkey?” he asked, making a face. When Cécile was little, he had always called her his petit singe.

  She glanced eagerly at her father. He nodded. “Run along, and give my respects to Madame Pommier.”

  Cécile slipped her hand into Charron’s, and they went out into the street. Across the way, they saw Monseigneur de Saint-Vallier in his garden, directing some workmen who were apparently building an arbour for him.

  “I see your grand neighbour has come home,” Pierre observed.

  “Oh yes, last September. But you must have heard? People say he brought such beautiful things for his house; furniture and paintings and tapestry and silver dishes. Wouldn’t you love to see the inside of his Palace?”

  “Not a bit! He is too French for me.” Charron threw up his chin.

  Cécile laughed. “But my father is French, and so is Father Hector; you like them.”

  “Oh, that is different. But the man over there goes against me. He smells of Versailles. The old man is my Bishop. But I could do without any of them.”

  “Hush, Pierre Charron! You are foolish to quarrel with the priests. I love Father Hector. You can’t say he isn’t a brave man.”

  Pierre shrugged. “Oh, he is brave enough. All the same, he’s a little too Frenchified for me. You and I are Canadians, monkey. We were born here.”

  “Why, I wasn’t at all! You know that.”

  “Well, if you weren’t, you couldn’t help it. You got here early. You were very little when I first saw you with your mother. Cécile, every autumn, before I start for the woods, I have a mass said at the paroisse in Ville-Marie for madame your mother.”

  Cécile pressed his hand softly and drew closer to him. Whenever Charron spoke of her mother, or of his own, his voice lost its tone of banter; he became respectful, serious, simple. It was clear enough that for him the family was the first and final thing in the human lot; and it was so engrafted with religion that he could only say: “Very well; religion for the fireside, freedom for the woods.”

  As they passed the end of the long Seminary building, the door of the garden stood open, and within they saw Bishop Laval, walking up and down the sanded paths, his breviary open in his hand. It was a very small garden; a grass plot in the centre, a row of Lombardy poplars along the wall, some lilac bushes, now in bloom, a wooden seat with no back under a crooked quince-tree. The old man caught sight of Pierre, though he walked so noiselessly, — beckoned to him and called out his name. The Bishop knew everyone along the river so well that it was said he could recognize a lost child by the family look in its face.

  Pierre snatched off his cap and they went inside the garden door. Monseigneur inquired after the health of Madame Charron, and of the aged nun Marguerite Bourgeoys. And had Pierre heard whether Mademoiselle Le Ber was in health?

  Not directly. He supposed she was as usual; he had heard nothing to the contrary.

  The Bishop breathed heavily, like a tired horse. “All the sinners of Ville-Marie may yet be saved by the prayers of that devoted girl,” he said with a certain meaning in his tone. “And you, my son, have you been to your confessor since your return from the woods?”

  Pierre said respectfully that he had. The Bishop then turned to Cécile and placed his hand upon her head, with the rare smile which always seemed a little sad on his grim features.

  “And here we have a child who borrows money, — and of a poor priest, too! Why did you never come to pay me back my twenty sous?”

  “But Monseigneur l’Ancien, I gave them to Houssart, the very day after!”

  “I know you did, my child, but I should have liked it better if you had come to me when you paid your debt. You are not afraid of me?”

  “Oh, no, Monseigneur! But you are always occupied, and I did not know whether you liked to have children come.”

  “I do. I like it very much. Make me a visit here in my garden some morning at this hour, and I will share my lilacs with you; they are coming on now. Bring the little boy, if you like. I hear from the Pommiers that you and your father are making a good boy of him, and that is very commendable in you.”

  During the rest of the short walk to the cobbler’s, Pierre asked what the Bishop meant by the twenty sous, but he seemed to pay little attention to the story; he was rather overcast, indeed. It was not until he greeted Madame Pommier that he recovered his high spirits.

  II

  FOR CHARRON, THAT evening, the apothecary brought up from his cellar some fiery Bordeaux, proper for a son of Languedoc, and the hours flew by. After Cécile had said good-night and gone upstairs to her summer bed-room, the two men talked on until after midnight; of the woods, of the state of the fur trade, of the results of the Count’s last Indian campaign, and the ingratitude of the King, who had rewarded his services so inadequately.

  Pierre lost his reserve after a bottle or two of fine Gaillac, and the conversation presently took a very personal turn. Auclair, in speaking of Madame Charron’s illness, remarked that it was fortunate she had such nurses at hand as the Sisters of the Congregation.

  “Oh, yes, they took good care of her, to be sure,” Pierre admitted. “And why not? By Heaven, they owe me something, those women! Fifty thousand gold écus, perhaps!”

  “Charron,” said his host reprovingly, “you do yourself wrong to pretend that you are chagrined at having lost that dowry. You are not a mean-spirited man. You have never cared much about money.”

  “Perhaps not, but I care about defeat. If the venerable Bourgeoys had not got hold of that girl in her childhood and overstrained her with fasts and penances, she would be a happy mother today, not sleeping in a stone cell like a prisoner. There are plenty of girls, ugly, poor, stupid, awkward, who are made for such a life. It was bad enough when she was shut up in her father’s house; but now she is no better than dead. Worse.”

  “Still, if it is the life she desires, and if her father can bear it—”

  “Oh, her father, poor man! I do not like to meet him on the street, — and he does not like to meet me. I recall to him the days when she first came home from Quebec and used to be at her mother’s side, at the head of a long table full of good company, always looking out for everyone, saying the right thing to everyone. It did his eyes good to look at her. He was never the same man after she shut herself away. I was in his employ then, and I know. He used to talk to me and say: ‘It is like a fever; it will burn itself out in time. We shall all be happy again.’ This went on three years, and he was always hoping. But not I. I saw her before I broke away to the woods, though. I made sure.”

  Pierre took out a pouch of strong Indian tobacco, pulverized it in his brown palm, and put it into his pipe. He drew the smoke in deep, like a man overwrought. Auclair had meant to bring out some old brandy to flavour their talk, but he thought: “No, better not.” Aloud he said:

  “You mean that you had an interview with Mademoiselle Le Ber after she went into retreat?”

  “Call it an interview. I made sure.” Charron took the pipe out of his mouth and spoke rapidly. “It was in the fourth year of her retreat. I had lost hope, but I wanted to know. She always went out of the house to early mass. One morning in the spring, when it gets light early, I went to the narrow allée between her garden and the church and waited there under an apple-tree that hung over the wall. When she came along with her old servant, I stepped out in front of her and spoke. Ah, that was a beautiful moment for me! She had not changed. She did not shrink away from me or reproach me. She was gracious and gentle, as always, and at her ease. She put back her grey veil as we talked, and looked me in the eyes. There was still colour in her cheeks, — not rosy as she used to be, but her face was fresh and soft, like the apple blossoms on that tree where we stood. She had no hard word for me. She said she was glad of a chance to see me again and to bid me farewell; she meant to renew her vows when the five years were over, and we should never meet again. When I began to cry, — I was young then, — and knelt down before her, she put her hand on my head; she did not fear me or the few people who hurried past us into the church, — they seemed frightened enough at such a sight, but she was calm. She told me it would be better if I left her father, and that I must marry. I will always pray for you, she said, and when you have children, I will pray for them. As long as we are both in this world, you may know I pray for you every day; that God may preserve you from sudden death without repentance, and that we may meet in heaven.”

  Charron sat silent for a moment, then bent over the candle and lit his pipe, which had gone out. “You know, monsieur, three times in the woods my comrades have thought it was all over with me; a powder explosion, my canoe going down under me in the rapids, and then the gunshot wound I had in the Count’s last campaign. I have remembered that promise; for I have certainly been delivered from sudden death. I remember, too, her voice when she said those words, — it was still her own voice, which made people love to go to her father’s house, and one felt gay if she but spoke one’s name. And now it is harsh and hollow like an old crow’s — terrible to hear!”

  Auclair began to wonder whether Pierre might have had anything to drink before he came to dinner. “Now you are talking wildly, my boy. We cannot know what her voice is like now.”

  “I know,” said Charron sullenly. He crossed the room to the door of the enclosed staircase, and examined it to see that it was shut. “The little one cannot hear, up there? No?” He sat down and leaned forward, his elbows on the table. “I know. I have heard her. I have seen her.”

  “Pierre, you have not done anything irreverent, that the nuns will never forgive?” Auclair was alarmed by the very thought that the sad solitaire, who asked for nothing on this earth but solitude, had perhaps been startled.

  Charron was too much excited and too sorry for himself at that moment to notice his friend’s apprehensions.

  “It was like this,” he went on presently. “You know, because of my mother, this year I got back to Montreal early, months before my time. There is not much to do there, God knows, except to be a pig, and I never behave like dirt in my mother’s town. We live so near the chapel of the Congregation that I can never get the recluse out of my mind. You remember there were two weeks of terrible cold in March, and it made me wretched to think of her walled up there. No, don’t misunderstand me!” Charron’s eyes came back from their far-away point of vision and fixed intently, distrustfully, on his friend’s face. “All that is over; one does not love a woman who has been dead for nearly twenty years. But there is such a thing as kindness; one wouldn’t like to think of a dog that had been one’s playfellow, much less a little girl, suffering from cold those bitter nights. You see, there are all those early memories; one cannot get another set; one has but those.” Pierre’s voice choked, because something had come out by chance, thus, that he had never said to himself before. The candles blurred before Auclair a little, too. God was a witness, he murmured, that he knew the truth of Pierre’s remark only too well.

  After he had relit his pipe and smoked a little, Charron continued. “You know she goes into the church to pray before the altar at midnight. Well, I hid myself in the church and saw her. It is not difficult for a man who has lived among the Indians; you slide into the chapel when an old sacristan is locking up after vespers, and stay there behind a pillar as long as you choose. It was a long wait. I had my fur jacket on and a flask of brandy in my pocket, and I needed both. God’s Name, is there any place so cold as churches? I had to move about to keep from aching all over, — but, of course, I made no noise. There was only the sanctuary lamp burning, until the moon came round and threw some light in at the windows. I knew when it must be near midnight, you get to have a sense of time in the woods. I hid myself behind a pillar at the back of the church. I felt a little nervous, sorry I had come, perhaps. — At last I heard a latch lift, — you could have heard a rabbit breathe in that place. The iron grille beside the altar began to move outward. She came in, carrying a candle. She wore a grey gown, and a black scarf on her head, but no veil. The candle shone up into her face. It was like a stone face; it had been through every sorrow.” Charron stopped and crossed himself. He shut his eyes and dropped his head in his hands. “My friend, I could remember a face! — I could remember Jeanne in her little white furs, when I used to pull her on my sled. Jacques Le Ber would have burned Montreal down to keep her warm. He meant to give her every joy in the world, and she has thrown the world away. . . . She put down her candle and went toward the high altar. She walked very slowly, with great dignity. At first she prayed aloud, but I scarcely understood her. My mind was confused; her voice was so changed, — hoarse, hollow, with the sound of despair in it. Why is she unhappy, I ask you? She is, I know it! When she prayed in silence, such sighs broke from her. And once a groan, such as I have never heard; such despair — such resignation and despair! It froze everything in me. I felt that I would never be the same man again. I only wanted to die and forget that I had ever hoped for anything in this world.

  “After she had bowed herself for the last time, she took up her candle and walked toward that door, standing open. I lost my head and betrayed myself. I was well hidden, but she heard me sob.

  “She was not startled. She stood still, with her hand on the latch of the grille, and turned her head, half-facing me. After a moment she spoke.

  “Poor sinner, she said, poor sinner, whoever you are, may God have mercy upon you! I will pray for you. And do you pray for me also.

  “She walked on and shut the grille behind her. I turned the key in the church door and let myself out. No man was ever more miserable than I was that night.”

  III

  EVER SINCE CÉCILE could remember, she had longed to go over to the Île d’Orléans. It was only about four miles down the river, and from the slopes of Cap Diamant she could watch its fields and pastures come alive in the spring, and the bare trees change from purple-grey to green. Down the middle of the island ran a wooded ridge, like a backbone, and here and there along its flanks were cleared spaces, cultivated ground where the islanders raised wheat and rye. Seen from the high points of Quebec, the island landscape looked as if it had been arranged to please the eye, — full of folds and wrinkles like a crumpled table-cloth, with little fields twinkling above the dark tree-tops. The climate was said to be more salubrious than that of Quebec, and the soil richer. All the best vegetables and garden fruits in the market came from the Île, and the wild strawberries of which Cécile’s father was so fond. Giorgio, the drummer boy, had often told her how well the farmers lived over there; and about the great eel-fishings in the autumn, when the islanders went out at night with torches and seined eels by the thousand.

  Pierre Charron had a friend on the island, Jean Baptiste Harnois, the smith of Saint-Laurent, and he meant to go over and pay him a visit this summer, before he went back to Montreal. He had promised to take Cécile along, — every time he came to the shop, he reminded her that they were to make this excursion. One fine morning in the last week of June he dropped in to say that the wind was right, and he would start for the island in about an hour, to be gone for three days.

  Very well, Auclair told him, Cécile would be ready.

  “But three days, father!” she exclaimed; “can you manage for yourself so long? You bought so many things at the market for me to cook.”

  “I can manage. You must go by all means. You may not have such a chance again.”

  “Good,” said Pierre. “I will be back in an hour. And she must bring a warm coat; it will be cold out on the water.”

  Cécile had never gone on a voyage before, — had never slept a night away from home, except during the Phips bombardment, when she and her mother had taken refuge at the Ursuline convent, along with the other women and children from the Lower Town.

  “What shall I take with me, Father? I am so distracted I cannot think!”

  “The little valise that was your mother’s will hold your things. You will need a night-gown, and a pair of stockings, and a clean cotton blouse, and some handkerchiefs; I should think that would be all. And I will give you a package of raisins as a present for Madame Harnois.”

  She ran upstairs and began to pack her mother’s bag, finding it hard to assemble her few things in her excitement.