ANTOINE IN TROUBLE
Four nights later Pepin Quesnelle and his mother were
having their supper in the large common sitting-room,
which also did duty as kitchen and workshop. The tidy,
silver-haired old dame had set out a place for Pepin at
the well-scrubbed table, but the _petit maitre_, much to
her regret, would not sit down at it as was his wont He
insisted on having his supper placed on the long, low
bench, covered with tools and harness, at which he was
working. He had a Government job on hand, and knew that
if he sat down to the table in state, there would be much
good time wasted in useless formality. His mother therefore
brought some bread and a large steaming plate of some
kind of stew, and placed them within reach of his long
arms.
"Pepin," she said, with a hint of fond remonstrance, "it
is not like you to eat so. If any one should happen to
come and catch you, my sweet one, eating like a common
Indian, what would they think? Take care, apple of my
eye, it is ver' hot!"
She hastily put down the steaming bowl, from which a
savoury steam ascended, and Antoine the bear, who was
sitting on his haunches in evident meditation behind the
bench, deliberately looked in another direction. What
mattered the master's dinner to a bear of his high-class
principles!
"Thank you, my mother," said Pepin, without lifting his
eyes, and sewing away with both hands as if for dear
life. "What you say is true, ver' true, but the General
he will want this harness, and the troops go to-morrow
to catch Poundmaker. And, after all, what matters it
where I sit--am I not Pepin Quesnelle?"
Antoine, still looking vacantly in another direction,
moved meditatively nearer the steaming dish. Why had they
not given him his supper? He had been out for quite a
long walk that day, his appetite was excellent.
"Mother," said Pepin again, "that young female Douglas,
who was here some time ago, I wonder where she may be
now? Since then I have been many times think that, after
all, she was, what the soldier-officers call it, not
half-bad."
"Ah, Pepin!" and the old lady sighed, "she was a sweet
child, and some day might even have done as wife for you.
But you are so particular, my son. Of course, I do not
mean to say she was good enough for you, but at least
she was more better than those other women who would try
and steal you from me. _Mon Dieu_, how they do conspire!"
"So, that is so," commented Pepin resignedly, but at the
same time not without a hint of satisfaction in his voice;
"they _will_ do it, you know, mother. Bah! if the
shameless females only knew how Pepin Quesnelle sees
through their little ways, how they would be
confounded--astonished, and go hide themselves for the
shame of it! But this girl, that is the thing, she was
nice girl, I think, and if perhaps she had the airs of
a _grande dame_ and would expect much--well, after all,
there was myself to set against that Eh? What? Don't you
think that is so, my mother?"
"Yes, Pepin, yes, of course that is so, my sweet one,
and what more could any woman want? And that girl, I
think, she was took wid you, for I see her two, three
times look at you so out of the corners of the eyes."
While this conversation was proceeding, Antoine had more
than once glanced at his master without turning his head.
The plate of stew was now within easy reach of his short
grizzled snout, and really it looked as if it had been
put there on purpose for him to help himself.
When Pepin happened to look round, he thought his mother,
in a fit of absent-mindedness, must have put down an
empty plate--it was so clean, so beautifully clean. But
when he looked at Antoine, who was now sitting quite out
of reach of the plate, and observed the Sunday-school
expression on the bear's old-fashioned face, he understood
matters. He knew Antoine of old.
"Mother," he said, in his natural voice and quite quietly,
"my dear mother, don't let the old beast know that you
suspect anything. Take up that plate, and don't look at
him, or he will find out we have discovered all. What
have you got left in the pot, my mother?"
"Two pigeons, my sweet one, but--"
"That will do, mother. Do not excite yourself. Your
Pepin will be avenged. The b'ar shall have the lot, _ma
foi!_ the whole lot, and he will wish that he had waited
until his betters were finished. Take down the mustard
tin, and the pepper-pot, and yes, those little red peppers
that make the mouth as the heat of the pit below, and
put them all in the insides of one pigeon. Do you hear
me, my mother dear? Now, do not let him see you do it,
for his sense is as that of the Evil One himself, and he
would not eat that pigeon."
"Oh, my poor wronged one, and to think that that--"
"Hush hush, my mother! Can you not do as I have told you?
Pick up the plate quietly. _Bien_, that is right! Now,
do not look at him, but fill the pigeon up. So ... that
is so, mother dear. O, Antoine, you sweet, infernal b'ar,
but I will make you wish as how the whole Saskatchewan
were running down your crater of a throat in two, three
minutes more. But there will be no Saskatchewan--_non_,
not one leetle drop of water to cool your thieving tongue!"
And despite the lively state of affairs he predicted for
his four-footed friend, he never once looked at it, but
kept tinkering at the harness as if nothing particular
were exciting him.
The good old lady was filled with concern for Antoine,
for whom, as sharing the companionship of her well-beloved,
she had quite a friendly regard. Still, had not the
traitorous animal robbed her darling--her Pepin--of his
supper? It was a hard, a very hard thing to do, but he
must be taught a lesson. With many misgivings she stuffed
the cavernous fowl with the fiery condiments.
"Now, mother dear, just wipe it clean so that the fire
and brimstone does not show on the outside, and pour over
it some gravy. That is right, _ma mere_. I will reward
you--later. Now, just place it on the bench and take away
the other plate. Do not let the cunning malefactor think
you notice him at all. He will think it is the second
course. _Bien!_"
He turned his head sharply and looked at the bear with
one of his quick, bird-like movements, just at the same
moment as the bear looked at him. But there was nothing
on the artless Antoine's face but mild, sentimental
inquiry.
"Ha! he is cunning!" muttered Pepin. "Do you remember,
my mother, how--_Mon Dieu!_ he's got it!"
That was very apparent. Antoine had nipped up the fowl,
and with one or two silent crunches was in the act of
swallowing it. So pressed was he for time that at first
he did not detect the fiery horrors he was swallowing.
But in a minute or two he realised that something unlooked
for had occurred, that there was a young volcano in his
mouth that had to be quenched at any cost So he sprang
to his feet and rushed at a bucket of water that stood
in a corner of the room, and went so hastily that he
knocked the bucket over and then fell on it. The burning
pain inside him made him snap and growl and fall to
worrying the unfortunate bucket.
As for Pepin, he evinced the liveliest joy. He threw the
harness from him, leapt from the bench, and seizing his
long stick, danced out on the floor in front of the bear.
The good old dame stood with clasped hands in a far corner
of the room, looking with considerable apprehension upon
this fresh domestic development.
"Aha, Antoine, _mon enfant!_" cried the dwarf, "and so
my supper you will steal, will you? And how you like it,
_mon ami?_ Now, for to digest it, a dance, that is good.
So--get up, get up and dance, my sweet innocence! Houp-la!"
But just at that moment there came a knock at the door.
It was pushed open, and the unstable breed, Bastien
Lagrange, entered. Antoine, beside himself with internal
discomfort and rage, eyed the intruder with a fiery,
ominous light in his eyes. Here surely was a heaven-sent
opportunity for letting off steam. Before his master
could prevent him he had rushed open-mouthed at Lagrange
and thrown him upon his back. Quicker than it takes to
write it, he had ripped the clothing from his body with
his great claws and was at his victim's throat. The dwarf,
with a strange, hoarse cry, threw himself upon the bear.
With his powerful arms and huge hands he caught it by
the throat, and compressed the windpipe, until the
astonished animal loosed its hold and opened its mouth
to gasp for breath. Then, bracing himself, Pepin threw
it backwards with as much seeming ease as when, on one
occasion, he had strangled a young cinnamon in the woods.
Bastien Lagrange lay back with the blood oozing from his
mouth, the whites of his eyes turned upwards. He tried
to speak, but the words came indistinctly from his lips.
He put one hand to his breast, and a small packet fell
to the ground.
"From the daughter of Douglas," he gasped. And then he
lay still.