“JE SUIS CONTENT!”
AT the little lean-to he gathered up his food and the canoe and
travelled on down the mountain through the dense green forests. In three
hours he came to the bottom, and a long lake stretched away, mirror-like
and reflecting, at his feet. He pushed in the canoe and paddled out.
From its centre he looked back.
High above him, and seemingly far away, was the top of Mont d’Ours; he
waved his hand toward it again, and as he watched with sorrow-laden
eyes, a great white cloud rolled down on the peak, hiding it from his
sight; in a moment it lifted again.
“Le Grand he gone au bon Dieu!” Jules said solemnly and sadly, turned
his back, and paddled on round a bend that shut out the mountain
entirely.
He saw nothing of the forest scenes, and worked on automatically.
“Mon vieux, mon pauvre Le Grand!” was the only thought that faded the
lustre of his hopes to see Marie so soon.
When he reached the foot of the lake and the last of his water trails he
dragged the canoe into the underbrush, then went back to the lake edge
and let his eyes wander over the green distances and focus themselves on
Mont d’Ours, that lifted its heights proudly above its timbered base. He
imagined that he could see a black dot which marked the grave of his
friend, and strained his eyes in vain, trying to distinguish the cross.
“Au revoir, Le Grand!” he called loudly, and entered the forest. The
trail was good, and he hastened on at a half-lope, hurrying to Her. He
forded a wide stream, leaping agilely from rock to rock.
“Onlee feeft’en mile’ an’ den Ah see Marie!” he murmured, and kept on.
The blazed path widened; here and there were side tracks where the men
from the post came for wood. Then he reached Rivière des Sauvages. Two
trees lashed together in the middle afforded the chance of a dry
crossing, and Jules ran along them nimbly; he was three-quarters of the
way over when he stumbled on a knot that stuck sharp and tripping from
the trunk, and he fell. The water was shallow, as he was near the shore,
and he struck the bottom heavily. He lay there an instant, shocked into
numbness, while the cold water rippled round him.
“Oh, dat jambe!” he cried as he struggled to stand up. A thrust of pain
ran through his body; he tried to rise again, but the violent surge of
physical suffering overcame him and he tumbled back in the water,
sickened and weak.
The chill strength of the liquid flow restored him somewhat in a few
minutes. He felt of his left leg and found that it was broken below the
knee.
“Par dam’, dat ver’ bad!” he moaned, dragged himself ashore, and sat
there suffering. His leg was numb below the knee; but above, it throbbed
and caused him piercing pain.
“No stay ici lak’ dees!” he grunted stoically; “mus’ see Marie!” Inch by
inch he worked his way to an alder clump and cut long sticks from it;
these, with cloth as bandages, he used as rough splints and tied up the
broken leg securely.
“Ah go jus’ sam’!” he said, and started on the trail again on his hands
and one knee, dragging the useless leg. It was slow, racking work, but
Jules forced himself, though the maimed leg staggered him with its
thrusts of pain. In a little while the palms of his hands were raw and
his one good knee ached and bled, but he kept on.
The darkness was still and hot; summer insects burned his skin and
tortured his face; the unevenness of the trail made him slip and fall
flat often, forcing groans from him, but he pushed ahead slowly and
resolutely. He was exhausted and throbbed from head to foot.
“Marie, Ah comme!” he whispered, spoke, then called, and struggled
forward on the dimly visible trail.
All through the summer darkness he fought on, finally but worming his
way. The light of day stole through the forest and found him creeping
on.
At sunrise he dropped on the edge of the post clearing, and looked with
half-opened eyes that but vaguely saw the habitations before them.
“Leetle furdaire,” he articulated, and dragged himself ahead.
The post was awake; smoke curled from the chimneys and floated off on
the light morning breeze; figures moved about at the gates.
“Qu’est-ça?” a trapper asked as he saw the low crooked shape creeping in
the clearing.
A shrill cry, and a woman leaped past him into the open.
“Jules! Jules!” she screamed in ecstasy, and ran to the form that had
fallen helpless.
“Marie—oh, Marie, dat toi h’at las’?” Verbaux whispered as he felt warm
arms about his neck and saw the longed-for face, as in a dream, looking
into his.
“Mon Jules!” the woman sobbed, and pillowed the weary head in her lap.
The others that had come out from the post disappeared quietly, and the
two were alone.
The sun rose glorious and bright, gilding everything and casting warm
lights over all; the air was still, the silence was absolute. Verbaux
opened his eyes.
“C’est b’en toi, Marie?” He groped for her hand.
The woman kissed his bleeding lips for answer.
“Tu loove me encore?”
She sank her face against his and her tears trickled over his shoulders.
“Ah attend so long pour toi!” she murmured softly.
Jules sighed.
“Le Grand, v’ere ees he?” Marie asked.
“Mort!” he answered huskily.
“An’ dat Annaotaha?” she asked again.
“Keel!” and his voice thrilled with anger.
“An’—an’ toi, Jules?” Her voice trembled, and she gazed steadily into
the deep gray eyes.
Verbaux smiled, and kissed the thin hand that caressed his forehead.
“Moi? Je suis content!”