Part 7 (1/2)
”I am afraid I cannot agree with you, Delle Josephine,” said I. ”To me there is no country like England, but that may be because I am an Englishman. Tell me how long did you live in Quebec with this family?”
”I was there ten year _Monsieur_. Then one day, I had a great accidence--oh! a ver sad ting, ver sad!” The Frenchwoman laid down the ribbon and went on. ”A ver sad ting happen to me and the _bebe Catherine_. We were out _l'pt.i.te_ and me, for a valk, and we come to a part of the town ver slant, ver hilly. _L'pt.i.te Catherine_ was in her carridge and I let go, and she go all down, _Monsieur_, and I too over the hill--the cleef, you call it--but the _bebe_ was killed and I _Monsieur_, I was alive, but like this!” showing her shoulder. ”And what did they do?”
”At the _chateau_? Ah, _figure-toi, monsieur_, the agony of dat _pauvre dame_! I was sent away, she would not see me, and I left _Quebec_ at once. I was no more _bonne_, monsieur; Delle Josephine was enough dat.
I could make de hats and de bonnets for de ladees, so I come away out to Bonneroi, and I haf made de hats and de bonnets for the ladees of Bonneroi for twenty year.”
”Is it possible?” I said, much touched by the little story. ”And the ladies of Bonneroi, are they hard to please?”
Delle Josephine, who had spoken with the customary vim and gesture of the French while--telling her tale, resumed her quilling and said, with a shrug of one shoulder,
”They do not know much, and dat is true.” I laughed at the ironical tone.
”And you--you provide the _modes_?”
”I haf been to Quebec” she said quietly.
”Twenty years ago,” I thought, but had too much respect for the queer little soul to say it aloud.
”I see amongst other things,” I went on, ”a most--remarkable--a very pretty, I should say--hat in your window. The red one, you know, with the bird of paradise.”
Delle Josephine looked up quickly. ”Dat is not for sale, _monsieur_.”
”No? Why, I had some idea of perhaps purchasing it for a friend of mine.
Did you make that hat yourself?”
She nodded with a sort of conscious pride. Yet it was not for sale! I wondered why. The strange scene of the foregoing evening came into my mind, and I began to understand this singular--case of monomania. It must be that having lived so many years in almost solitary confinement, one might say, her mind had slightly given away, and she found her only excitement and relaxation in posing before the gla.s.s in that extraordinary manner. I hardly knew whether it would be an act of kindness to remove the hat; she talked quite rationally and cheerfully, and remembering the innate vanity of the French as a nation, I concluded to let the matter rest That night I heard no talking in the sitting-room. I slept profoundly, and woke up later than usual We were not dug out yet, though two snow-boys with their shovels were doing their best to unearth us. I waited some time for Delle Josephine to appear with the tray; but she too was late, evidently, for at ten o'clock she had not come. I dressed and went down stairs. As I pa.s.sed the sitting-room I saw her tricked out as before in the hat and the antimaca.s.sar seated on the ottoman in front of the looking-gla.s.s.
Heavens, she looked more frightful than ever! I made up my mind to speak to her at, once, and see if I could not stop such hideous mummery. But when I advanced I perceived that indeed I had come too late. The figure on the ottoman was rigid in death. How it ever held itself up at all I could never think, for I gave a loud cry, and rus.h.i.+ng from the room knocked against the open door and fell down senseless.
Outside, I suppose, the snow-boys shovelled away as hard as ever. When I came to myself I did not need to look around; I knew in a flash where I was, and remembered what had happened. I ran to the shop door and hammered with all my might.
”Let me out!” I cried. ”Open the door! open the door! for Heaven's sake!” Then I ran upstairs, and did the same at my window. It seemed years upon years of time till they were enabled to open the door and let me out. I rushed out bareheaded, forgetful of the intense cold, thinking first of all of the priest _Pere Le Jeune_, so strong is habit, so potent are traditions. I knew where he lived, up the first turning in a small red brick house next the church of St. Jean Baptiste. I told him the facts of the case as well as I could and he came back at once with me. There was nothing to be done. Visitation of G.o.d or whatever the cause of death Delle Josephine Boulanger was dead. The priest lifted his hands in horror when he saw the ghostly hat. I asked him what he knew about her, but he seemed ignorant of everything concerning the poor thing, except the _aves_ she repeated and the number of times she came to confession. But when we came to look over her personal effects in the drawers and boxes of the shop, there could be no doubt but that she had been thoroughly though harmlessly insane. We found I should think about one hundred and fifty boxes: from tiny little ones of pasteboard to large square ones of deal, full of rows and rows of white quilled ribbon, similar to the piece I had seen her working at on that last night of her life on earth. Some of the ribbon was yellow with age, others fresher looking, but in each box was a folded bit of paper with these words written inside,
_Pour l'pt.i.te Catherine_.
”What money there was, _Pere Le Jeune_ must have appropriated for I saw nothing of any. After the dismal funeral, to which I went, I gathered my effects together and went to the hotel. The first day I could proceed, I returned to Montreal and have not visited Bonneroi since. The family of _de la Corne de La Colombiere_ still reside somewhere near Quebec, I believe. The _chateau_ is called by the charming name of Port Joli, and perhaps some day I may feel called upon to tell them of the strange fate which befell their poor Josephine. Whether the melancholy accident which partly bereft her of her reason was the result of carelessness I cannot say but I shall be able, I think, to prove to them that she never forgot the circ.u.mstance, and was to the day of her death occupied in making ready for the little coffin and shroud of her '_p't.i.te Catherine_.' My sketch of the frost bound Montmorenci was never finished, and indeed my winter sketching fell through altogether after that unhappy visit to Bonneroy. I was for weeks haunted by that terrible sight, half ludicrous, half awful, and I have, now that I am married, a strong dislike to scarlet in the gowns or head-gear of my wife and daughter.”
The Story of Etienne Chezy D'Alencourt
CHAPTER I.
As my friends know, I was born an Englishman, spending the first twenty-four years of my life in England. On my twenty-fifth birthday I set foot on the sh.o.r.e of the great North American Continent, destined for a time to be my home. Two days afterwards I entered the office set apart for me in the handsome Government Buildings at Ottawa, and began my duties. A transfer had recently been effected between the Home and Canadian Civil Service, and I had been chosen to fill the vacant colonial post. Having no ties or obligations of any kind I had nothing to lose by the transaction except the pleasure and advantage of living in England, which, however, had ceased for one or two reasons to be dear to me.
I did not, however, remain very long in the Service. I found it pleasant work but monotonous, and receiving shortly after I went out a legacy bequeathed by a widowed aunt I had almost forgotten, determined to leave it and devote myself to study and travel. Like many Englishmen, I had taken no trouble to ascertain the real points of interest about me. I had been content with mastering and getting through my work, and with mingling out of hours with the small but thoroughly charming set I had found ready to welcome me on my arrival as the ”new Englishman.” On the whole, I was popular, though one great flaw--_i.e._--lack of high birth and desirable home connections, weighed to an alarming extent with the dowagers of the Capital.
I had, on leaving the Service, made up my mind to study the people of the Dominion. The English Canadians were easily disposed of in this way; most of them were Scotch, and the rest appeared to be Irish. I then began on the Indian population. But this was not so easy. It seemed impossible to find even a single Indian without going some distance.