'I buried him, as he wished,' continued Father Piret, 'in his old
uniform, with the picture of Napoleon laid on his breast, the sabre by
his side, and the withered sprig in his lifeless hand. He lies in our
little cemetery on the height, near the shadow of the great cross; the
low white board tablet at the head of the mound once bore the words
Grenadier Jacques, but the rains and the snows have washed away the
painted letters. It is as well.'
The priest paused, and we both looked toward the empty bench, as
though we saw a figure seated there, staff in hand. After a time my
little hostess came out on to the piazza, and we all talked together
of the island and its past. 'My boat is waiting,' said Father Piret at
length; 'the wind is fair, and I must return to the Chenaux to-night.
This near departure is my excuse for coming twice in one day to see
you, madame.'
'Stay over, my dear sir,' I urged. 'I too shall leave in another day.
We may not meet again.'
'Not on earth; but in another world we may,' answered the priest
rising as he spoke.
'Father, your blessing,' said the little hostess in a low tone, after
a quick glance toward the many windows through which the bulwarks of
Protestantism might be gazing. But all was dark, both without and
within, and the Father gave his blessing to both of us, fervently, but
with an apostolic simplicity. Then he left us, and I watched his tall
form, crowned with silvery hair, as he passed down the cherry-tree
avenue. Later in the evening the moon came out, and I saw a Mackinac
boat skimming by the house, its white sails swelling full in the fresh
breeze.
'That is Father Piret's boat,' said my hostess. 'The wind is fair; he
will reach the Chenaux before midnight.'
A day later, and I too sailed away. As the steamer bore me southward,
I looked back toward the island with a sigh. Half hidden in its wild
green garden I saw the old Agency; first I could distinguish its whole
rambling length; then I lost the roofless piazza, then the
dormer-windows, and finally I could only discern the white chimneys,
with their crumbling crooked tops. The sun sank into the Strait off
Wangoschance, the evening gun flashed from the little fort on the
height, the shadows grew dark and darker, the island turned into green
foliage, then a blue outline, and finally there was nothing but the
dusky water.