"It is well that you enjoy yourself. Would you consider it uncivil if I
left you for a while?"
"Please do what you must."
She left, and Ramsay continued to work on the net. As he did, his skill
improved. Though he was still unable to knit as swiftly as Madame LeDou,
he could make a good net. And there was a feel, a tension, to the
thread. Within itself the thread had life and being. It was supple,
strong and would not fail a fisherman who depended upon it.
Madame LeDou returned, smiled at him and went unobtrusively about the
task of preparing a lunch. So absorbed was he in his net-making that he
scarcely tasted the food. All afternoon he worked on the net.
Madame LeDou said approvingly, "You make a good net, M'sieu. You have
knitted almost four pounds of thread into this one. The most skilled
net-makers, those who have had years of experience, cannot knit more
than six or seven pounds in one day."
Twilight shadows were lengthening when Pierre LeDou returned. The little
man, as always, was courteous. But behind his inherited Gallic grace and
manners lay a troubled under-current. Pierre spoke in rapid French to
his wife, and she turned worried eyes on their guest. Ramsay stopped
knitting the net.
All afternoon there had been growing upon him an awareness that he could
not continue indefinitely to accept the LeDou's hospitality, and now he
knew that he must go. The pattern had definite shape, and the reason
behind Pierre's uneasiness was not hard to fathom. Devil Chad was the
ruler, and Devil Chad must rule. Who harbored his enemy must be his
enemy, and Pierre LeDou needed the job in the tannery. Should he lose
it, the LeDous could not live.
With an air of spontaneity, anxious not to cause his host and hostess
any embarrassment, Ramsay rose and smiled. "It has been a most enjoyable
stay at your home," he said. "But of course it cannot continue. I have
work to find. If you will be kind enough to shelter me again tonight, I
will go tomorrow, and I shall never forget the LeDous."