For the first time in its history Chaudiere was becoming notable in the
eyes of the outside world.
“We’ll have more girth after this,” said Filion Lacasse the saddler
to the wife of the Notary, as, in front of the post-office, they stood
watching a little cavalcade of habitants going up the road towards Four
Mountains to rehearse the Passion Play.
“If Dauphin’s advice had been taken long ago, we’d have had a hotel at
Four Mountains, and the city folk would be coming here for the summer,”
said Madame Dauphin, with a superior air.
“Pish!” said a voice behind them. It was the Seigneur’s groom, with a
straw in his mouth. He had a gloomy mind.
“There isn’t a house but has two or three boarders. I’ve got three,”
said Filion Lacasse. “They come tomorrow.”
“We’ll have ten at the Manor. But no good will come of it,” said the
groom.
“No good! Look at the infidel tailor!” said Madame Dauphin. “He
translated all the writing. He drew all the dresses, and made a hundred
pictures--there they are at the Cure’s house.”
“He should have played Judas,” said the groom malevolently. “That’d be
right for him.”
“Perhaps you don’t like the Passion Play,” said Madame Dauphin
disdainfully.
“We ain’t through with it yet,” said the death’s-head groom.
“It is a pious and holy mission,” said Madame Dauphin. “Even that Jo
Portugais worked night and day till he went away to Montreal, and he
always goes to Mass now. He’s to take Pontius Pilate when he comes
back. Then look at Virginie Morrissette, that put her brother’s eyes out
quarrelling--she’s to play Mary Magdalene.”
“I could fit the parts better,” said the groom.
“Of course. You’d have played St. John,” said the saddler--“or, maybe,
Christus himself!”
“I’d have Paulette Dubois play Mary the sinner.”
“Magdalene repented, and knelt at the foot of the cross. She was sorry
and sinned no more,” said the Notary’s wife in querulous reprimand.
“Well, Paulette does all that,” said the stolid, dark-visaged groom.
Filion Lacasse’s ears pricked up. “How do you know--she hasn’t come
back?”
“Hasn’t she, though! And with her child too--last night.”
“Her child!” Madame Dauphin was scandalised and amazed.
The groom nodded. “And doesn’t care who knows it. Seven years old, and
as fine a child as ever was!”
“Narcisse--Narcisse!” called Madame Dauphin to her husband, who was
coming up the street. She hastily repeated the groom’s news to him.
The Notary stuck his hand between the buttons of his waistcoat. “Well,
well, my dear Madame,” he said consequentially, “it is quite true.”
“What do you know about it--whose child is it?” she asked, with curdling
scorn.
“‘Sh-’sh!” said the Notary. Then, with an oratorical wave of his free
hand: “The Church opens her arms to all--even to her who sinned much
because she loved much, who, through woful years, searched the world for
her child and found it not--hidden away, as it was, by the duplicity
of sinful man”--and so on through tangled sentences, setting forth in
broken terms Paulette Dubois’s life.
“How do you know all about it?” asked the saddler. “I’ve known it for
years,” said the Notary grandly--stoutly too, for he would freely risk
his wife’s anger that the vain-glory of the moment might be enlarged.
“And you keep it even from madame!” said the saddler, with a smile too
broad to be sarcastic. “Tiens! if I did that, my wife’d pick my eyes out
with a bradawl.”
“It was a professional secret,” said the Notary, with a desperate
resolve to hold his position.
“I’m going home, Dauphin--are you coming?” questioned his wife, with an
air.
“You will remain, and hear what I’ve got to say. This Paulette
Dubois--she should play Mary Magdalene, for--”
“Look--look, what’s that?” said the saddler. He pointed to a wagon
coming slowly up the road. In front of it a team of dogs drew a cart.
It carried some thing covered with black. “It’s a funeral! There’s the
coffin. It’s on Jo Portugais’ little cart,” added Filion Lacasse.
“Ah, God be merciful, it’s Rosalie Evanturel and Mrs. Flynn! And M’sieu’
Evanturel in the coffin!” said Madame Dauphin, running to the door of
the postoffice to call the Cure’s sister.
“There’ll be use enough for the baker’s Dead March now,” remarked M.
Dauphin sadly, buttoning up his coat, taking off his hat, and going
forward to greet Rosalie. As he did so, Charley appeared in the doorway
of his shop.
“Look, Monsieur,” said the Notary. “This is the way Rosalie Evanturel
comes home with her father.”
“I will go for the Cure” Charley answered, turning white. He leaned
against the doorway for a moment to steady himself, then hurried up the
street. He did not dare meet Rosalie, or go near her yet. For her sake
it was better not.
“That tailor infidel has a heart. His eyes were leaking,” said the
Notary to Filion Lacasse, and went on to meet the mournful cavalcade.