THE HEART OF POUSSETTE
"Yet is the creature rational--endowed
With foresight, hears too, every Sabbath day,
The Christian promise with attentive ear,
Nor disbelieves the tidings which he hears, ..."
About a week later, Ringfield was descending the hilly road behind
Poussette's at four o'clock in the afternoon, when he discerned a new
arrival at the wharf, and as the tourist season was over, the boat only
making a few occasional trips, he was curious concerning the lady who,
showily if neither correctly nor expensively attired, was looking about
her in disappointment and consternation. Poussette himself hurried out
in his character of host; his manner was more than usually warm and
familiar as he took her bag and umbrella, and Ringfield soon learnt
that she was Miss Sadie Cordova from Montreal, although originally from
New York, a member of the Theatre of Novelties, who had come to pay
Miss Clairville a visit. This new acquisition to St. Ignace society
was more consistently lively than Pauline, not being troubled with
moods, and she brightened the place up very considerably in various
directions; she did not share Pauline's room, for Poussette gallantly
led her to the apartment vacated by Mme. Poussette, but the two friends
were constantly together, and Ringfield at first rejoiced in the advent
of the gay Cordova, as it intimated a sensible enjoyment of life on
Pauline's part in place of moping and brooding, and as it also appeared
to keep Edmund Crabbe off the premises. But these two good ends were
gained at the expense of a third, for the constant and animated, even
tender attentions of the host were altogether too obvious, although at
first no complaint could be made, since so much feminine society served
to keep Poussette also steady and sober. Still, card-playing in the
mornings, noisy operatic music in the afternoons (there was no piano,
only an old American organ, in the house) and coquettish scufflings,
dancing, and conscious giggling _tête-à-têtes_ in the hall every long,
lamp-lit evening soon became wearisome, and Ringfield, made vaguely
uneasy, took on himself to reprove Poussette.
The place was the bar--always the most attractive spot in the house,
for the Indian guide, a sober, worthy man, kept it absolutely clean and
tidy, and there were comfortable _habitant_ chairs and a wide hearth
for logs. These were burning brightly now, as the first November snows
were falling, and while Ringfield expostulated with Poussette, the
latter spread out his fat hands to the blaze. Upon the little finger
of the left hand sat a square seal ring of pale cornelian, and as
Ringfield looked he clearly saw the capital letter "C" picked out in
red upon the white. New and hateful pangs, suspicions, jealousies,
assailed him; he was sure that this must be Pauline's ring, although he
had never noticed her wearing it, and the thoughts thereby engendered
did not tend to make him listen calmly to Poussette's line of defence.
So far from being offended at the clerical interest in his affairs, the
Frenchman was immensely flattered and encouraged to speak out.
"And are you quite sure," said Ringfield in conclusion, "are you
perfectly certain that Miss Cordova knows you are a married man? In my
opinion there is small harm in the lady! the poor, thoughtless creature
is too much occupied with her silly clothes and music and trivial
passing of the time to work lasting mischief, but I remember that she
follows a godless calling--she is an actress and has been one longer
than Miss Clairville. You must be careful. It is time Mme. Poussette
was relieved from her charge and came home."
"But how--come home? Come at this place again? Bigosh--but that will
not do, Mr. Ringfield--at all, sir! Beeg fuss, sure--my wife come at
this place so soon after leave nurse Henry Clairville! Dr. Renaud will
tell you that. No, sir,--Madame is come no more on me, on St. Ignace
at all. When she leave me, go nurse seeck man down with the 'Pic,' she
is no more for me. _Voyez_--m'sieu, I am tired of my wife. I shall
try get a divorce."
Ringfield was astounded. "You, Poussette! A divorce! From that poor,
unhappy woman who has done you no harm, and will have nothing to live
upon? How can you do such a thing? Why, you must not let your mind
dwell on such a thing for an instant! I do not believe in divorce, or
at least only in rare and exceptional cases, and yours is not one of
these. You understand me--your wife may be delicate, even afflicted,
but no man puts his wife away for these reasons. All the more you must
cherish her, comfort her, keep her by you. If she grew worse you would
be justified in putting her, as we say, under restraint, or in the care
of those best fitted to look after her, but even then you would remain
her husband. That is the unwritten law of our and of all true
religion."
Poussette spat into the fire and considered. Father Rielle had told
him this in almost the same words many times over; he had left the
Catholic communion for that reason, and had hoped for better things
from the young minister.
"Don't Methodists divorce?" said this nineteenth-century rural Henry
the Eighth.
Ringfield moved uneasily in his chair. "They may--they can--they
do--but as I have told you, the causes must be exceptional ones.
Bitter tragedy--abhorrent false conduct, you understand me?"
The other nodded. "My wife--nothing like that the matter with her.
All the contree, all the reever know Mme. Natalie Poussette--good
woman, sure. No--but see now, m'sieu, now I am talking, and I tell you
my trouble. I'm not so bad _garçon_, you know; kind of fond of drink
now and then--I 'pologize, 'pologize, m'sieu, for you see me a leetle
bit dhrunk. Now--understand. I'm by nature a most loving kind of man,
and I'm fond of leetle children. Yes, sir, bigosh, _excusez_ a leetle
bit of swear--but that is my nature, that is me, and I would like, sir,
some leetle babee of my own. I make quite a bit of monee, m'sieu, with
the 'otel and the mill, and a leetle bet and a leetle horses.
_Bien_--what you say? Very well. What must I do with this
monee--while I live, and if I die? 'Give it to the Church,' Father
Rielle, he say. 'No, sir,' I say!"
And Poussette jammed a couple of smouldering logs with his heel; they
instantly knit together and sent out a big crackling shower of sparks
that caused both men to retire their chairs farther from the hearth.
A suspicion crossed Ringfield's mind. "Did you send your wife to nurse
Henry Clairville or did she go of her own accord?"
"_Certainement_--my wife go herself. Dr. Renaud--come for her. She
will not take the 'pic'. She will take nothing. She will nevaire die,
that woman!"
The remark was saved from being distasteful to the listener by the fact
that it was given with a melancholy despairing gesture, which to a less
serious person than Ringfield might have been amusing. But his sense
of humour, originally meagre, was not developing at St. Ignace as fast
as it might, and he saw nothing humorous in this view of madame's
immunity from disease. Before he could frame a reply, Poussette went
on:--
"So you see, I like you, Mr. Ringfield, and I'm going to pay you good
monee, and I believe you--good Christian man, and I want you to help me
get a divorce. Mme. Poussette (you can say like this to the
Government)--Mme. Natalie Poussette, poor woman--she is so delicate, so
fonny, so--so ill, she cannot have any leetle babee; no leetle children
play round their fader--that's me, Amable Poussette, beeg man, rich
man, good Methodist, built a fine church on top of the Fall. So this
Mister Poussette after many years live with his wife, after long time
he wants to marry another woman and have plenty small babee, play round
in the summertime (here Poussette hushed his voice) under the beeg
trees, and in the water, learn to swim in the reever, splash like old
duck, old feesh! Many a time I feel like go on the dhrunk. Well sir,
nice, bright, young wife, sing, act, dance--we'd have beeg tam
together, and I'd dhrink nothing but tea, sure! Go to Morréall, buy
_tiquette_ on the theatre, ride on the street car, make transfer to
Hochelaga Park, get out, have nice glass beer--just one, m'sieu--go on
the _boutiques_, buy nice bonnett, eh? I have monee to do like that,
but [with the national shrug] I have no wife. I am tole there is
everything very fonny there all year round, but me--I have only been
there two, three tam; no good go alone, meet bad company, get on the
dhrunk then, sure. Bigosh--_excusez_, Mr. Ringfield, there's nothing
like young, handsome wife and plenty babee keep their father straight.
Eh? So I tell you what I want to do. I will be for selling this
place; get three thousand dollar for it; go to Morréall every winter;
perhaps go on that Hotel Champlain or some other nice _maison pension_
and have big tam--what do you say? That's no bad thing--" Poussette
was very earnest here--"for me--to wish young wife, clever wife, and
leetle babee play round! Before I have the hairs gray, or lose what I
have. _Regardez un peu, m'sieu_!"
And Ringfield could not refuse to examine the fine head of black hair
thrust towards him. He was touched in spite of clerical scruples.
"No, no, certainly not a bad thing," he said gently, "not at all an
unnatural thing. I think I understand, Poussette, I can see----" and
Ringfield seemed to feel something in his throat, at any rate he
coughed and hesitated. "I can see that your position has its
difficulties and its--its trials. But, Poussette, we all have those.
We all have to deny ourselves in some way, in some unexpected quarter.
We cannot always have what we want, that is, in fact, at the root of
all religious feeling, and, if I am not mistaken, at the root of all
religious belief as well. If the great Creator of the universe has had
to suffer and deny Himself, as we know, in the past, has He not still
to suffer as He looks on at the wickedness and sinful passions of the
sons of men? The universe is not absolutely happy, perfect--would that
it were! And so this law of suffering runs through everything and
assails everybody. None can hope to escape. We--ministers of the
Gospel--we do not question this; we recognize that it is so, and all we
can do is to impress it upon you who listen to us. I have tried to do
this; I have preached upon this--that to each individual man, woman and
child, there comes--there must and will come a time, when material
success, health, wealth and happiness are non-important, and when moral
issues, when duty, character and conduct are the great essential facts
of life to be met and grappled with. You--Poussette--have been no
exception to this rule in the past--you know the habit of life to which
I refer--and now here is this new trial, this new difficulty about your
wife. Even were I able to do anything for you--because it is a lawyer,
a notary you require, not a minister--I could have nothing to do with
your marrying again. That--I must tell you plainly--is out of the
question. It is not good for man--some men--to live alone; my Church,
my Bible tell me this, and may be I am learning to know it from
experience of such cases as yours; but once married, and married to one
in whom there is no fault, you must not seek to lightly undo what God
and the sacraments of the Church in which you were united have wrought.
I fear, Poussette, that in leaving Father Rielle and coming to me, you
were not acting honestly, openly."
Poussette, in admiration of his hero's beautiful pastoral diction, felt
no resentment and exhibited no temper. "No fault!" he exclaimed. "Ah,
but there--that is not so, Mr. Ringfield. Look, sir, look now, there
is fault enough--beeg fault--what I have said. That is enough, and I
have plenty monee to make it more than enough."
"Money--money!" Ringfield exclaimed in his turn, "The root of many
kinds of evil. How much money have you, my friend? You are accounted
rich, as it goes in St. Ignace, at Bois Clair, in Hawthorne, but in
Quebec, in Three Rivers, in Montreal--no! You would soon find the
difference. The rich man of the country might easily become the poor
man of the town; living is expensive there--you might find your
business here--I mean the mill--not pay so well with you absent; in
short, Poussette, you would be foolish to change your way of life! It
is not worth your while to leave St. Ignace, but I know who ought to
go, to be sent to the right about pretty quickly too, and that is--this
man, Edmund Crabbe. What do you think of helping me to get him away?
He's a public nuisance in spite of his education, and we should all do
better without him."
Ringfield was always torn by painful, shameful jealousy when he thought
of the Englishman, and his entire nature appeared to change. He could
not have called him "Hawtree" or "Mr." for his life; that savoured of
gentility and the fervid past when the man was perhaps a picturesque
figure, quoting the English classics in the guise of an unfortunate
exile. Besides, if he fathomed Poussette's feelings correctly, the
latter in his own jealousy of Crabbe might be found a powerful ally.
The plain truth was--three men wanted the same woman; and vaguely, it
seemed to Ringfield as if he--the worthiest--had chief right to her; he
feared not Poussette, the married and the marred, the uneducated, the
inferior one of her own race, but he still feared the perversely
cultured, doubtlessly gifted, decadent "Oxford man," the social
superior of every one in the village.
Poussette again reflected. Any latent jealousy he had entertained of
the minister tended to disappear under the fire of these inquisitorial
interviews, and Ringfield might always be credited with having fine
command over his features.
"Ah, well, m'sieu," said the Frenchman, sagaciously nodding, "Crabbe is
no harm. You get me my divorce; let me marry Ma'amselle Pauline, live
with her at the beeg house, and I'll promise--_parole d'honneur_,
m'sieu--to see no more that man."
"The Manor House! It will be a long time before any one can live
there, I should think!" said Ringfield impatiently, concealing the
spasm of tortured pride that passed over him as he heard Poussette's
tactics defined. "And what if she will not marry you? Mlle.
Clairville is wedded to the theatre, she tells me, and although of that
I cannot approve, it would not be so bad as marrying a divorced person."
"But we are great friends, sir! Many a tam I have kept that house,
many, many months, m'sieu, supply well with food--the meat and the
dhrink, the chickenne and the wine. Her brother is _fou_--mad, he has
not one cent monee. How then shall mademoiselle fare? I am good
tenant of her brother, the Sieur, Seigneur of St. Ignace, and I send my
peep there with good things to eat; he will tell you, sir, of the old
tam and all about the _corvée_ when every one in the _paroisse_ do same
thing; one man feesh, another man beeg chickenne or turkey, another
patackes, another flour from the mill. Why, sir, if it was not that I,
Amable Poussette, was good friend there, I don't know, I don't _know_,
m'sieu, how they get along 'tall! Those Archambault--all bad peep--all
bad together; the old woman, the old man, the girl, the boy--all the
same, sure."
"Who pays them?--You?"
"No, m'sieu; do better things with my monee."
"But they don't believe in the _corvée_, surely?"
"It is like this." And Poussette tapped the other's knee with his fat
fingers, thereby displaying the cornelian ring to much advantage, and
Ringfield saw with satisfaction that on top of the large "C" was cut a
little "S". Had the relations between Poussette and Miss Cordova so
quickly progressed and of what nature were they? The eye of the
Frenchman gave a comprehensive wink. "It is all right, Mr. Ringfield,
all right, sir, Mees Cordova--she put the ring on my finger herself;
she was just fooling last night and I like to be good friends with her;
then she speak for me to Mees Clairville, and so--_vous comprenez_,
sir. But no--I pay no money to these Archambault. It is like this.
There have been Clairville many years at St. Ignace; there have also
been Archambault too a long tam. They say once one was married with
another, but I do not know; I would not ask M'sieu Clairville, and I
would not ask Ma'amselle Pauline. This is a long tam ago, I only speak
of what I hear. I know this, m'sieu--it is not a nice place, not a
nice life for a lady like Mees Clairville. Have you not seen her on
the theatre? You would like to see her at that?"
"No, decidedly not. I have never seen a play. I do not approve of the
life she leads, and trust that when her brother is better she will not
return to her vocation."
"But how--she must make some leetle monee of her own, and it is for why
she goes on the theatre. I have seen her act and sing."
"Can she sing?"
"Ah, you shall hear. She will sing for me, m'sieu, and
bigosh--_excusez_, Mr. Ringfield--I'll get her sing to-night. And if I
do that, will you, sir, do one great thing for me?"
Ringfield smiled. "I won't promise, Poussette. You're a deeper
character than I thought you were. At any rate, I'll do nothing about
a divorce--make sure of that, man!"
Poussette, with large, noble gestures, waved the divorce away.
"I say nothing. I will do nothing. But if you will be so kind, sir,
as to speak of me to Mees Clairville, should my wife, Mme.
Natalie--die! Tell her, sir, how I am good man, _au fond_, sir, by my
nature; how I love the leetle babee, plenty small babee; how I am kind,
jolly man, by my nature, sir; how I would like to marry with her, give
her good tam. You tell her this, Mr. Ringfield, for me, and make me
your best friend, sure?"
Half-laughing, half-shocked, and for the moment forgetting his own
views and dreams concerning her, Ringfield acceded to the unusual
request.
"And remember, m'sieu--tell her I go no more on the dhrunk after I
marry with her--no, sir, go no more 'tall. If we live in Morréall,
tell her I'll go no more on that Hotel Champlain neither; a friend of
mine, Napoleon Legendre, he has a temperance 'otel in Craig Street; I
go there, sir, and never touch even one glass of beer. Tell her that.
And tell her I am for selling this place, and p'raps buy Clairville
Château. Tell her----"
"Enough, enough, my good Poussette!" cried Ringfield, jumping up as he
heard feminine voices nearing their retreat. "Your virtuous
resolutions do you credit, and may you be enabled to perform and carry
them through--if not to the letter at least in the spirit."
"And you don't think me _bad, low_ kind of _garçon_, eh?"
"I do not, indeed."
"Say"--and Poussette's hand instinctively moved towards the
counter--"you will dhrink a leetle glass beer, just one, sir, on that
with me?"
"Poussette!"
With an injured expression, and a rapidity amazing for so fat a man,
Poussette slipped round behind the counter and brought out two bottles
of ginger ale; in a twinkling the tall tumblers were ready and he
offered one to Ringfield with a deep and exaggerated bow.
"Ah--I see. I beg your pardon, Poussette. I thought you meant the
other kind. Of course I will drink with you and with pleasure."
The glasses were placed side by side, each taking one and looking
intently at one another. In that moment all selfishness died out of
Ringfield; he felt the importance of the opportunity.
"Will you shake hands first, Poussette?"
"_Mais oui_, m'sieu! _Certainement_, but wait, sir, one moment!"
With repeated rubbings on the clean roller-towel behind him, turning
back of cuffs and a general straightening of the person and freshening
of the attire, the Frenchman at length proffered his fat hand, and
Ringfield clasped it with a firm, bold grasp; his muscles were twice as
strong as those of the Frenchman, for while the one had been chiefly
employed in the kitchen, at a rude desk, and had rusted in long loafing
and idling intervals, the other had maintained his rowing and paddling
and his interest in other athletic pursuits; even a half-dozen lessons
in boxing had he laid to his credit.
"Now I've got you," said he, smiling, as the fat hand lay tightly
imprisoned in the lean one, "and I'm not going to let you go till you
make me a promise. See here--Poussette--promise me now--not to touch a
drop of liquor again for a whole year. We'll let it go at that; I
won't say anything about beer. By degrees, man, we'll fight the Devil
and all his works. By degrees, and by prayer, and by every argument in
favour of right living that I can bring before you--we'll fight this
thing out together, you and I. Don't wait for some hysterical
occasion, but do your plain duty now, while I hold your hand in mine.
If you should marry again, Poussette, and should ever have those little
children playing about you--what then? You'd want to lead a straight
life then--and before, I know you would. Come--make me the promise
now--and if you break it, as you may do, come to me and tell me of it;
make it a second time and so--each interval may be longer, do you
see--if you 'take the pledge' as it is called, it is likely to be in
public, and your friends and fellow-drinkers hear about it, and
ridicule you and laugh at the idea, and so you are driven to drink
again. What do you say, Poussette?"
"It is then--just between you and me, sir?"
"That's the idea. Of course I shall say nothing about it to a third
person. Come--you promise!"
Poussette seemed uneasy.
"But--m'sieu--just you and me? That seems, sir, just same thing as go
confess to Father Rielle. Beg pardon, Mr. Ringfield, but bigosh,
sir--that is same sure as go on the confession."
Ringfield saw the point.
"I understand, Poussette. You are right. We must not be ashamed of
trying to be good. Nothing done in the corner, eh? Well, then, you
tell--anybody you like."
"The new lady--Mees Cordova! Will that be all right, sir?"
"Why Miss Cordova? Oh, well--never mind! So long as I've got your
word, Poussette, the word of an honest man, eh?"
"I'll thry, sir."
"That's good. That's all right. You're a _man_, Poussette."
The Frenchman wiped the tumblers thoughtfully and gazed intently into
space. Perhaps he saw there the future small Poussettes playing out of
doors; perhaps too, he saw the faded, weary woman who bore his name,
still watching the sick man in the old manor house.
"You see, m'sieu," he said impressively, "if Mme. Poussette was to come
right, if she come again on me here, feex up things around the house,
be well and jolly, I would not send her away, I would not thry get this
divorce. Fonny things happens--but I don't know about my wife. Dr.
Renaud think she will always be the same. It is hard for me, Mr.
Ringfield, sir--me, jolly kind of man--have a wife go like silly person
all over the place, sing and walk by herself, make up songs, fonny
_chansons_. Ah, you don't know how I have hard tam with that one!
But, I'll wait till I see how she is in two, three weeks; the
doctor--he say Henry Clairville almost well now."
"And it is understood you will leave Miss Clairville alone--and Miss
Cordova. Remember, Poussette, you have engaged me to preach in your
church and to minister here in this parish. I must refuse to do either
if you offend against common decency and morality. Besides--Miss
Clairville will never, I am positive, listen to you. You must see as
well as I do, her pride in her family connexions, however worthless
these are to-day."
"_Bien_," said Poussette jauntily, "if not Mees Clairville, then Mees
Cordova. That is for why I wear her ring. I can persuade,
sir--bigosh, _excusez_ m'sieu, I can persuade!"
"So it seems," said the other drily, and would have continued his
lecture had not the two ladies, who had been in the hall laughing and
smiling around the bar door, now appeared boldly on the scene, and
Ringfield made his escape, not before he had promised to look in that
evening during an improvised concert at which Miss Sadie Cordova would
dance, and Miss Clairville act and sing.