Novel
 

Translated from the French
by Ann Marie Staples
 
 

Original Title: LES DEUX TESTAMENTS
"L'Indépendant," Fall River, Massachusetts, 1888

Translated with permission of the Franco-American Center in Manchester, New Hampshire, repository for the books and materials produced by the National Materials Development Center for French and Créole, formerly located in Bedford, New Hampshire.  "Les Deux Testaments" in Santerre, Richard, "Littérature Franco-américaine de la Nouvelle Angleterre," Tome II Ed. Renaud S. Albert. Distributed by Dept. of Media Services, University of New Hampshire, 1980-81.
 
 

Preface

When Anna Duval-Thibault was publishing her installments of "A Widow's Wills" in the weekly Franco-American newspaper "L'Indépendant," she was 26 and had lived in the United States since the age of three.  Her voice was tuned for speaking to the Franco-American population in the booming cultural melting-pot of Fall River, Massachusetts.  The storyline of "A Widow's Wills" was meant to amuse and entertain French-speaking, American readers who identified with the joys and perils of the characters.  In "A Widow's Wills" Anna Duval-Thibault documents the essence of an era in Franco-American history.

The young modern will also question the probability of the events unfolding in the drama.  They should be advised that the story paints a true and stunning portrait of the condition of the American bourgeoise at the end of the 19th century.  In these pages it becomes clear that the young Franco-American woman of the era was not only subject to her own ancient French culture's norms, but also to the rules imposed on her by Victorian idealism.  And, remarkably, the misfortune she endured was in direct proportion to the fortune she possessed.  For women, including French-Canadian women of property, America was hardly "the land of the free."

The novice student of Franco-American culture may be perplexed by the author's overwhelming inclusion of God, church and religion in her storytelling.  They are forewarned that as they progress in learning about this people, they will encounter thoughts of holiness and sinfulness in abundance and in the most unlikely places.  They are about to study a people molded by Faith and fired by Morality - who really enjoy a good party.
 
 

Ann Marie Staples
July 2000
 
 

 The story begins in Montréal around 1860.  The first chapter introduces Maria Renaud, daughter of a prosperous St. Laurent Street grocer, and Xavier Leclerc, a young employee.
 "So, Maria, thereís no hope at all for us, is there?"
 The one who spoke these words was a handsome young man with an honest, sensitive face.  His voice sounded troubled and discouragement masked his face.
 The young lady he'd addressed remained silent.  She, too, appeared sad and disheartened.
 Cheery rays of June sunshine slid through the half-closed shutters, dancing on the furniture and rugs in the room occupied by the two young people.  A fresh, softly caressing breeze -- one of those springtime breezes that triggers dreams of who knows what, blew in from time to time through the open window.  A darling canary flitted happily about in his cage singing a hymn to the springtime just as sweetly as do the free wild birds of the forest.  The lively voices of children playing in the street drifted in.  Generally, it seemed everything rejoiced on that day -- everything except the two young people who maintained a somber silence, preoccupied as they were with their heartache.
 Xavier Leclerc, that was the young man's name, finally raising his eyes to the girl he loved, saw two heavy tears running slowly down her rosy cheeks.  At the sight of this, he could no longer contain himself.
 "Maria," he said, taking her hands and pressing them gently in his, "Maria, my love, I beg you, calm yourself.  It breaks my heart to see you weep."
 After a pause, he continued.
 "I'll take a new approach with your father.  I'll tell him that I'm willing to wait two or three years, if I must.  During that time, I'll do my best to improve my situation.  I'll economize and save. I could even go try my luck in the United States if I'm not successful enough here.
 "But my boss is fair and honest.  He thinks highly of me and has promised me a raise next year.  Even more opportunities might come up while I'm waiting.  If two or three of my co-workers with longevity should leave for any reason, it would make room for a promotion.  Then I'd earn a salary sufficient to set us up comfortably, if not luxuriously.  I'm young and hard working.  I'm in good health.  I belong to a respectable family.  I have all that in my favor.  Your father will think twice before breaking us up."
 "Yes," replied the young lady sadly, "That would be fine if Papa didn't have his heart set on marrying me to that horrible widower that he thinks is such a great prospect.  He's so serious and so religious that papa thinks he's the most perfect man in the world.  Me, I hate him."
 "And me, do you hate me?" asked Xavier bringing his face closer to the young lady's.
 "Silly!" whispered Maria, "you know very well that I love you."
 "Give me a kiss then!"
 Without waiting for a reply, which might have been unfavorable, he placed a long kiss on her lips.
 Unnerved and confused, Maria hid her face against the young man's shoulder while he whispered passionately in her ear.
 "Promise you'll be my wife.  Promise you won't marry another!"
 Maria was probably about to make the awaited promise, when footsteps were heard in the stairway.  Frightened, she escaped Xavier's arms and an instant later, her mother who was returning from vespers (it was Sunday) entered the room.
 Seeing the young man, she took on a stiff, haughty air and greeted him coldly, for she was hardly leaning in his favor.
 After a half-hour of dry, reserved conversation, Xavier took his leave of the mother and daughter, throwing a long look of love and regret on the latter.
 He went away with a heart full of sad premonitions.
 Mr. Renaud, Maria's father, had started his family life without a cent, but, blessed with uncommon energy and considerable talent, he had mastered his own fate and created his place in the sun.
 In 1860, the time when our story begins, he had a lovely grocery store on St. Laurent Street in Montréal, and his business enjoyed steady prosperity.
 He was a man of high morals and strong reputation, but vanity and stubbornness were major faults of his.
 When he had an idea in his head, it was difficult to get around it, especially because it was nearly impossible to make him see him that his logic might be wrong.
 On the outside he seemed in pretty good form, even though he was approaching 50 years of age and balding.
 He had average features, and a fairly long gray beard that lent him a venerable air.  His blue eyes were expressive enough, and his skin kept its rosy tone.
 He loved his daughter very much, but in his own tyrannical way.
 For some time, he'd had a son-in-law in mind.  It was a widower, a very stern man of about thirty-six years who gave the impression of being well-off.  Very religious, with an excellent reputation, in the eyes of Mr. Renaud he must have appeared the most qualified for making any woman happy.  Heíd resolved to make him his son-in-law.
 In the meantime, Xavier Leclerc had respectfully asked Mr. Renaud's daughter's hand in marriage.  Xavier had more love than fortune since he was nothing but a clerk in the shops of suburban Québec 
 What Xavier lacked in wealth, he made up for in character and looks for he had the most friendly demeanor and honest work ethic.  When added to his youthful vigor it made him a potentially successful man.
 But the old man had reddened in rage and sharply refused.  Xavier had left deeply discouraged.
 The following Sunday, he'd gone, as usual, to the home of his beloved, and had been delighted to find himself alone in the house with her where he'd had the conversation we heard earlier.
 Having left the house, he walked briskly homeward.
 He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice a man coming from the opposite direction.  This man was none other than the widower Bernier himself.  He didnít fail to notice Xavier and his face took on a hateful expression, which would have astonished his friends who considered him practically a saint.
 He passed by Xavier as though he hadn't seen him and pressed onward toward the Renaud residence, where he soon arrived and where the father and mother gave him a most warm welcome.  But the young lady offered him very little attention.
 When evening fell and the widower was still lingering, he was cordially invited to stay for supper.  He accepted without having to be asked twice.  From time to time during the meal, his stony gray eyes fixed on Maria's face with an intensity that would have frightened her if she'd been paying attention.  But her mind was elsewhere, thinking only of Xavier.
 The widower wanted this lovely young lady with all the fervor of a first passion because he'd never loved his deceased wife, but had wed only as a matter of good business.
 He said to himself while watching Maria:
 "Thereís no doubt she has no feelings for me whatsoever.
 "She loves no one but that young fool I met this afternoon and thinks of nothing but him.
 "Yet, Iëll have her!  Yes, I shall have her!
 "Whether she loves me or not, sheíll be my wife!"
 He chatted with Mr. & Mrs. Renaud, mulling over these thoughts all the while.  He talked about the procession of the Blessed Sacrament to be held on the following Sunday.  He discussed a pastor's illness -- he had connections with several priests.  He talked about the pilgrimage to St. Anne's Basilica that a certain congregation was arranging.  His conversation literally flowed with sacred or religious topics of this nature.
 Mr. Renaud weighed sober conversations like this one against the light, spontaneous chatter of ordinary young people.
 When talking about the widower, he often mentioned to his wife:
 "Do you see, old girl, that good man there is devout; he doesn't have the faults of so many other men and a woman couldnít help but be perfectly happy with him.  He's well-positioned, has some cash and along with that, he most probably will inherit a portion of his mother-in-law's estate, and she loves him like her own son.  What I like the most about him, is that he has temperance.
 Mr. Renaud had an aversion to drunkenness.  In this he had a point, and it would be a better world if more people agreed with him.  The worst thing one could tell him about a man was to tell him that he liked to drink, even just a bit.
 The widower knew this, and while gluttonously gobbling the raspberry preserves that Mrs. Renaud prepared to perfection, he offered quite naturally:
 "I met Xavier Leclerc on Mignonne Street this afternoon."
 Maria raised her eyes, finally becoming attentive.
 The widower continued, "He was near old man Picard's house, and my word, I believe he was going toward it."
 "Why, he's nothing but an old good-for-nothing," trilled Mrs. Renaud pompously.
 "There is no doubt that heís one proud old drunkard," added the father with conviction, " and I donít understand why a good boy like Xavier Leclerc should like going to such a house."
 "Ah! as for that," said the widower coyly, "he has lovely girls, the old man Picard, even though they are pretty wild, and well, there is always a band of young fellows there looking for a good time.  Youth, you know, they like having a good time."
 "That's no excuse," said Mr. Renaud who was becoming quite agitated.  If I had known that Xavier fraternized with that type of folk, I would never had allowed him into my home."
 "But, Papa!" dared Maria, "Mr. Bernier didn't say that he'd seen Xavier go into the Picard home.  He only saw him in that area.  How can you be sure that he went there?"
 "And you," replied the father in a surly tone, "how can you be sure he didn't go into the house?"
 Maria didn't know what to say and kept indignantly silent.
 When the meal was over, all went to the bishop's church to attend the diocesan steering committeeís devotional service.
 The bishop's old church was destroyed by fire in 1851, and while awaiting construction of the new cathedral, the unimaginative building that still stands today was erected.
 Maria would have preferred to stay at home, but didn't dare, for fear of irritating her parents.
 Mr. Renaud gave his wife his arm and the widower offering his to Maria, left her no choice but to accept it, even though she did so with an instinctive repugnance.
 Arriving at the church, she completely forgot about the widower by thinking about Xavier for whom she prayed fervently with head bowed and eyes filled with tears.
 Xavier was in the church also, and had seen Maria entering on the arm of his despised rival.  The sight had filled his heart with cruel jealousy.
 "Ah! If he could have read Maria's mind, how his fears would have vanished!  How much grief would have been spared the two of them!
 Bernier's mother-in-law, the widow Champagne, lives with her orphaned grand-son Joseph Allard.  Bernier, in hopes of inheriting his mother-in-law's real estate, showers her with care, but without successfully hiding his hypocrisy from the young boy, Joseph, who feels an instinctive distrust for his uncle.  One day, the widow suffers a near-fatal fall and Bernier convinces her to sign a will in which she bequeaths him her property, and gives him a $10,000 trust fund for Joseph.  Jubilant, he withholds the widow's medicine to hasten her death.  At the same time, he continues to slander Xavier's reputation in hopes of winning Maria's hand.
 On a dreary, cold autumn night, a young pale and grief stricken man, paced back and forth on St. Laurent Street before the Renaud residence.
 It was Xavier Leclerc.
 From time to time, he looked up at the first story windows, where a cheerful light shone.  From time to time he stopped in front of the house for a few moments, then resumed his hopeless march, his heart shattered by a thousand cruel regrets.
 In his mind, he retraced all those moments when he'd been happy in the presence of his beloved.  He recalled the hopes that filled his heart each time he received some sign of love from her.  He saw her as he had so often, happy, lovable and smiling.  He thought he could still feel the gentle touch of the dainty hand so often folded in his.  Then, all at once, the gloomy, hopeless reality hit him and he remembered that Maria was beyond his reach.
 One evening while returning from the shop, he had met Maria's father, who had flatly ignored him and had intimated the order to stay away from his house, with the understanding that he didn't want to entertain a young man who patronized cabarets and got drunk with his equally foul companions.
 Xavier who had never set foot in a cabaret, and whose friends were but two or three young men as straight laced as himself, was more offended than he would have been if he had been capable of committing the deeds for which he was accused.  Shock and indignation left him speechless, and before he could regain his composure and defend himself, Mr. Renaud had quickly fled the scene.
 After reflecting at length, Xavier concluded that surely the widower had invented these slanderous stories, because no one else but him had any reason to mar his reputation with Maria's father.
 This deeply discouraged him because he knew that Mr. Renaud held the widower in such high esteem that there'd be no way to make him understand he'd been fooled.
 He had good reason.  All efforts toward this cause would have been useless, because Edmond Bernier knew how to slander so deftly and knew so well the art of adding "a grain of truth to a pound of lies" that it would have been difficult to prove the falseness of his stories, especially to a man as full of prejudices as Maria's father.
 One day, several young men of questionable character who knew Xavier casually met him on the street and stopped to chat, despite his obvious signs of impatience.  Unfortunately, the widower passed there at that very moment and made a great urgency of  rushing to Maria's father to report he'd seen Xavier loitering in the streets in the company of ill-reputed young men.
 Another time, Xavier was passing by an inn when he saw a man stagger out and fall seriously injuring his head right in front of him.
 Putting aside his disgust, Xavier charitably helped the man home.
 Having learned of this event, the widower let it be known Xavier had rescued one of his rowdy friends.
 Also, Mr. Renaud now looked with aversion and contempt upon the young man whom he had once respected.
 His wife shared his opinion, and even Maria started to feel her faith in him waver because even though she still showed the same antipathy for the widower, she was not aware of his underhandedness.  Still a naive girl, it had not yet occurred to her to doubt his credibility.
 However, she never stopped loving Xavier and the poor child was very unhappy.
 The evening when he was pacing before her house, his soul full of sadness and regret, Maria was not in the parlor.
 While her father and the widower played dominos, and her mother knitted, chatting with a relative whoíd come to visit that evening, Maria, feigning a head ache, had closed herself in her room to weep freely because she was feeling more desperate than ever.
 Did she sense Xavier's presence nearby?
 Was her pain an echo of her lover's?
 After shedding many tears, instead of feeling better her desperation doubled.
 Finally, broken and exhausted, she fell asleep only to dream fitfully.
 During this time, Xavier continued to pace, falling deeper and deeper into despair.
 It wasn't the first time that he snooped around the house of girl he loved; he'd taken on the habit some time ago.  But that night, he was even more miserable than usual.  Feeling worse than ever since he'd seen the widower go in with a happy, satisfied air about him, a stabbing jealousy had taken hold.
 His good mother, who'd become aware of his problem, guessed the cause.  She preached him the value of resignation and submission to the will of God.  She told him that this world was but a place for expiation and that we must not expect to go through life without suffering.  She spoke to him of the Savior who had suffered so much to redeem men; of the martyrs who had given their lives for their faith; of the saints who had sacrificed all their lives to please God and asked him after giving these examples if he could not also resign himself to suffer without complaining against Providence.
 But, these wise remonstrances only made the young man impatient and although he was faithful enough to his religious obligations, had never quite attained that high degree of devotion that soothes sorrows and strengthens against temptation.
 Never having tasted divine consolation, his soul was incapable of understanding its sweetness. The time had come when these consolations would have been most helpful.
 The trial had arrived, temptation was near.
 Where would he find the strength needed to resist it?  Around nine o'clock a few young fellows walked along St. Laurent Street, talking and laughing loudly.
 They were the same fellows who'd stopped Xavier on the street before.
 They'd never been his friends, but he known them since childhood because they'd always lived in the same neighborhood.  They treated him like a chum without recognizing the obvious disdain Xavier was showing for them.
 "Say there! what are you doing here?" they asked him.
 "You see quite well that I'm strolling," said Xavier dryly.
 "It must be mighty cheery to stroll down the street like that all by yourself," remarked one of them.
 "I don't think so," quipped another. "But, if he had his girl with him."
 "Yeah, his girl!" said a third, "don't you know she's giving him a tough time right now?"
 "That's right," replied the first, "she planted him out here and took in the widower St. Creepo.  That girl has no taste."
 "You know, in your place, I wouldn't give her the satisfaction of being miserable."
 "Darn right! Just the opposite, I'd show her that I was just as carefree as ever," said the gang leader.
 "You're spewing words of wisdom, Big Pierre!  Let's bring this poor boy with us so he can forget all his troubles."
 "Yeah! Yeah! We know how to take his mind off them," the others shouted.
 How will they succeed in getting Xavier to go with them?
 The Devil who inspires them will know how!
 That night, the old mother awaited her son in vain.
 How she was worried, the poor old woman, and how she wept reciting her rosary for her son, believing him the victim of some accident.
 She stayed up night keeping watch, making sure the light stayed on.
 But the hours passed and Xavier didn't return.
 On a lovely May morning in 1861, a man slowly stepped down from the train at Bonaventure Station and briskly strode toward one of the area hotels.  He looked rather elderly but his agility and vigor contrasted with his graying hair.
 On the way he looked about him with a keep interest.  From time to time his eyes turned lovingly toward the beautiful blue sky where a few light clouds floated peacefully.  When two men engaged in discussion passed by, he turned quickly to look at them even though the words they had spoken had no significant meaning to him.
 It's that this man was a Canadian returning to the country after a 35-year absence.
 Those who've never left their mother land couldn't understand the joy and delight one feels when returning to her.
 It's one of those feelings difficult to describe in words.
 The sky so blue, the air so clean seem to give new life; and the wonderful French language striking the ear from every angle fills the soul with pleasure.
 It was so with our traveler and pure joy painted his tired face.
 Having been away from Montréal since the age of 25, Charles LeCompte had traveled the United States from north to south and east to west for many years.  Finally he'd settled in New York where he'd found a good job and married a Canadian woman -- a good and worthy wife, who'd made him happy to this day.  He had several children, now all married.
 Even though he'd been separated from his native land for a long time, heíd kept its memory alive and his greatest ambition had always been to save enough money to return to live out his days peacefully.
 Through hard work and frugal living he accomplished his goal and accumulated a considerable amount.  He was coming to Montréal aiming to purchase some property where he could spend his last years with his dear wife.
 His children, in whom he had instilled his love for Canada, planned on joining him sooner or later.
 Even though this was the main goal of his voyage, he had a strong urge to locate some of his relatives and old friends not seen since five years ago.
 His father and mother had died before he'd left for the United States.  Since then he'd received word of his only brother's death.  Only a few cousins remained, and he wasn't certain that they were still living, since he'd had no news in a long time.
 As far as his old friends, he didn't have much hope of finding any of them either.
 First, he set out to locate some cousins.  Alas! They were all dead, and their children, however sympathetic and hospitable toward their long lost relative, were but strangers to him.
 It was the same case with his friends.
 Not a single one remained, except for the old widow of one of his childhood friends.
 This widow was Mrs. Champagne.
 If he was disappointed to find only this one lady out of all the people he'd known and loved, as far removed as she was, she was someone he could talk to about the old times and her dear departed husband, and somebody to whom he could tell all his worries and woes.
 Little by little the communication problems resulting from her paralysis lessened and she began understanding more clearly what was going on around her.
 Alas! The poor woman had become more and more miserable during the last year.
 Her son-in-law, so good and devoted, seemed to have changed personalities during that time.  He wasn't as attentive and caring toward her.  He was rough with the little orphan.  He often refused to allow her or the little boy some of the necessities and other things they'd never lacked before.  It had come to a point where the widow didn't have a cent available, and that she had to ask her son-in-law for everything she needed.  He always seemed ready to accuse her of being extravagant -- she who had always economized.
 Finally, he was acting like the master of the house.  He alone handled the affairs of the other properties, supervised the rents, made (or didn't make) repairs, and on one pretext or another, found the way to pocket all the money he received from the tenants without making any accounting to the widow.
 The poor woman became more and more alarmed and wept frequently, especially when thinking about her little grandson's future.  But she lacked the courage to stand up to her son-in-law's audacity.
 Her spirit, never very strong, had grown weaker with age.
 She began to understand her sorry situation, but could neither see nor imagine any solution.  Before the arrival of Charles LeCompte, her old friend, she'd had no one from whom to ask advice.
 All these astonishing details outraged the good old man who couldn't comprehend this excessive, perverse boldness, especially by a man who looked so honest and god-fearing.
 From his first visit with the widow, he thought he understood that Mrs. Champagne had made a last will and testament in favor of her son-in-law.  This had upset him.
 But after she'd explained things more clearly and precisely, and after she had spoken of the will, he bolstered his courage and started thinking about what he could do to help her out of this bind.
 The thing to do was to prepare a new will, and the sooner the better in case things got worse.
 Then, that would mean inspiring the widow to summon the strength needed to make herself tell her son-in-law that his presence in her home was no longer required.
 Right there, that was the most difficult, because Edmond Bernier, little by little, had empowered himself over the woman so that she never dared speak to him first, always treating him like her superior.
 However, time was running out, and the good old man having concluded his business satisfactorily, was eager to return to New York to gather his wife and bring her back.
 "She and Mrs. Champagne will make good friends," he thought.  "However, we never know what can happen.  The old woman could well be dead when I return and if so, woe is her grandson!"
 It would take too long to describe how he managed to influence the widow.  He spoke of her duty as the only relative and protector of the child that the Lord had left to her care; he talked about her worthy husband who would certainly have advised her to listen to his old friend's counsel if he could have appeared and spoken to her himself.
 But the widow still hesitated.
 Fortunately, an unforeseen event came to his aide at the very moment he was beginning to lose hope of succeeding in his benevolent project.  Upon his departure for Montréal, one of his friends from New York had asked him to pay a call and bring news to one of his relatives who lived on St. Laurent Street.
 As he began planning his departure, he thought about doing his errand.
 He made his way to the said relative and was received with grand Canadian courtesy.
 Having sat down by the window, he noticed all at once the widower Bernier (he'd seen him once at Mrs. Champagne's house) walking along across the street toward a nice grocery store.
 "There!" he couldn't help but exclaim, "Mrs. Champagne's son-in-law!"
 "What, you know him?" asked his host.
 "Why, yes! He's my oldest friend's son-in-law.  Do you know him, too?"
 "Only by sight.  I know that soon, according to what they say, he should be marrying Renaud's daughter.  He owns the grocery Bernier just entered.  They say that he'll inherit from his very wealthy mother-in-law.  That's the reason Renaud refused his daughter's first suitor.  He was a nice boy, but with no money.
 At least, thatís what the word is around here.  In any event, the young girl's suitor who was, like I said, a nice boy and his mother's pride and joy, has since become a drunken bum.  Renaud says that he always was, but I know better.  It's heartbreak that made him like that, Iím certain.
 ìBut youíll think Iím an old gossip, Sir.î
 ìNot at all.  On the contrary, what you're telling me is very interesting.î
 "That young man seemed interesting to me," continued the old fellow.  "He looked honest and good.  He looked radiant when standing at Mr. Renaud's door on Sunday afternoons."
 The conversation having continued on this tone for some time, Charles LeCompte went away quite happy with his discovery, because he felt that this situation would weigh more heavily with the widow than any solid reasoning.
 He rushed to her home and told her the story noting the seriousness of the circumstances.
 He had not erred in judgment.  In learning that her son-in-law was planning to remarry, and that he was engaged to a young girl, she went into a fit of anger and resolved to rewrite her will immediately.
 Taking advantage of her good state of mind, her friend sought out a good notary to whom he explained the situation.  On a fine day, he brought him in triumph to the widow.
 Two hours later, the kind old man seeing the notary to the door muttered to himself, "There you're defeated, my good Mr. Bernier!"
 With the will that Mrs. Champagne had just signed, she bequeathed all her worldly goods to her grand-son; and named her old friend Charles LeCompte  his guardian, which was quite convenient, since he'd be returning to Montréal permanently.
 As for Edmond Bernier?  His name wasn't even mentioned.  In the event of the young boy's death, the inheritance would be distributed among several of the widow's favorite charities.
 She had momentarily held the notion of leaving a small legacy to her son-in-law as a reward for the services he'd rendered.
 But her old friend talked her out of it.
 "He doesn't deserve another reward, the scoundrel!" said he. "In fact, what services did he render to you?  He moved in with you after his wife's death, yes, but it was to his advantage, it seems to me.  He handed you hypocritical warmth and sympathy, and in your presence he pretended to be mourning his wife while he already had another one in mind.
 "He collected the rent money but kept it all, according to what you have told me.  That paid him well.  Finally, he holds all your money and never gives you an accounting.  All that is suspicious, very suspicious.  What I think is that he must have made great financial progress while he was here, and at your expense.
 "There won't be much left for your grandson, you can be assured."
 And the widow, not being able to argue the justice in his reasoning, finally decided to leave nothing to her son-in-law.
 The will being signed and sealed, she expressed her preference to keep it in her possession.
 Suspecting and stubborn like so many old persons, it seemed that this precious document would be safer with her than with the notary and that it could be found more readily when it was needed.
 But the notary had already gone when she changed her mind again, and she was suddenly terribly frightened at the thought of the important act she'd just executed.
 The feeling of submission that her son-in-law had created in her resurfaced and she felt that she wouldn't be able to withstand his anger and chastising if he ever found the new will.
 She thought that it would be better if he never knew anything about it before her death.  Like the great monarch, she said to herself "après moi le déluge."
 She asked Charles LeCompte just as he was leaving, to take the will to the notary on his way back.
 He took the document and slid it into his coat pocket.  Having bid the widow goodbye, along with many words of encouragement, he left, promising to go immediately to the notary.  On the way, he passed the hotel where he'd been staying since arriving in Montréal and decided to go in to see if the letter from home that he'd been awaiting impatiently for several days had arrived.  One of the staff immediately handed him a letter addressed to him but in a stranger's handwriting.
 Seeing it was a telegram, he felt his heart seize.
 He tore open the envelop with trembling hands and read these words,
 "Come quickly, mother is very ill."
 That was all, but it was enough.
 Even though he felt wobbly and about to lose his breath, he maintained his composure because he was blessed with a firm character and strong will power.
 He paid his bill to the clerk and ordered his luggage sent to the station where he arrived just moments before the train departed for New York.
 What he suffered during the early part of the trip is indescribable.
 The minutes seemed like hours.  The train, although traveling at top speed, seemed to be creeping hopelessly.  Tormented by the dread eating at him and the worst premonitions, he thought sometimes that he would go insane.
 Finally, some sort of calm followed this nervous state and the rest of the trip seemed like a fitful dream.
 Something strange and mysterious had taken place in him.
 In New York, he mechanically stepped from the train and aimed his feet toward home.
 The weather was gloomy and gray; a fine, gentle rain glistened on the sidewalks.  Raindrops ran down the old man's cheeks like tears; but he didn't feel them.  A passing friend greeted him, but he didn't even notice.
 Finally, he arrived at home.
 A long black crepe swayed in the wind.
 But this sight didn't phase him.  On the contrary, it seemed part of his dream.
 His children, who had expected his arrival from one moment to the next, threw themselves into his arms weeping.  But without speaking to them, he freed himself from their grasp and walked toward the bedroom, where instinct told him he would find the woman he sought.
 There she was, colorless and cold, this life-long companion, the person he'd loved the most in the world.
 The lovely features that the years had been unsuccessful in facing were calm and gentle.
 Her slightly parted lips seemed to be smiling.
 But her eyes, closed by death, would never again open to look at the one she had loved so.  Her cold hands folded on her breast would never again respond to the touch of her husband's.
 The soft voice that had whispered so sweetly, so often in his ear and that had uttered so many words of consolation during life's sorrows would never be heard again.
 He knelt near the bed and rested his feverish forehead on the cold, deathly still bosom.
 After a few moments, his children who were more frightened by his silence and dreadful calm than they would have been of intense lamenting, approached him each speaking in turn, trying every means possible to remove him from this alarming state.
 Finally, his eldest son, terrified by his stillness, gently lifted his head from its place on his dead spouse.
 From his breast unleashed a terrible cry.  His father was dead!
 The husband and wife who had so loved each other during life, would not be separated in death!
 One day, Maria Renaud was sitting near the window absorbed in her embroidery.
 From time to time her mother tossed her an inquisitive look, forming a deep wrinkle between her thick dark eyebrows.
 The widower had worked at becoming more and more pleasing and gallant, making great efforts at giving the young girl beautiful things.  Obstinate, she was not encouraging him.  She didn't respond to his questions with anything but monosyllables, and her face showed her boredom each time he visited.
 However, he couldn't be discouraged.
 On the contrary, he doubled his attentiveness and thoughtfulness.
 Yet, her parents who held firmly to the idea of having Edmond Bernier as a son-in-law, began worrying that he might become discouraged and decide to take his attentions elsewhere.
 The mother had promised herself to have a serious talk with her daughter on the subject, and she found that afternoon a suitable occasion.
 "What ever are you thinking, Maria?" said she suddenly. "You look very serious."
 "Nothing, Maman."
 "That is not very profitable, my dear child.  You would be better to consider something more important than that."
 Seeing her daughter remained silent, she continued after a pause.
 "Listen, Maria, there is something I've wanted to discuss with you for some time. It's about the widower Bernier.  I'd like to know why you are so disagreeable toward him."
 "But, Maman, how can I be disagreeable toward him?  I never say a word to him."
 "It's just that.  You treat him with unparalleled contempt."
 "I don't scorn him, but he bores me when he comes here."
 "Do not be a hypocrite!" said the mother becoming agitated. "You hate the poor man, and it doesnít embarrass you to let him know.
 "What wrong has he done to you to deserve being treated with such insolence?  He must have an unusually gentle nature to endure your disdain without complaining, he who's been so generous, he who's given you so many lovely gifts.
 "It's that he loves you madly, the poor man, and you're too stupid see it.  And I see very well why.  You still love that miserable Xavier Leclerc, that drunkard, that good-for-nothing who'll make his poor old mother die of grief."
 Alas! The epithets that Mrs. Renaud applied to poor Xavier Leclerc were with merit.
 Since that cold, gloomy autumn night when giving in to temptation, he'd sought comfort by going astray, he'd sunken lower and lower, and Mrs. Renaud was not lying in saying that he was driving his grieving mother to her death.
 The mere name of the boy she still loved, despite her efforts to forget him, made Maria's brow blush.  Still, she was humiliated by her mothers reproach, and replied proudly even though her voice trembled with emotion:
 "I no longer love Xavier, Maman."
 "Yes, you still love him, hypocrite!  If you didn't love him, you wouldn't refuse to see poor Mr. Bernier's good qualities, you wouldn't be angry every time your father urges you to accept him for your husband; and, finally, if you didn't still love him, you'd love Mr. Bernier, because a girl in her right mind couldn't help but love him, that excellent man, especially a girl he loves in return, like you.
 Mrs. Renaud spoke lengthily on that note, and with as much energy, that she was convinced that the marriage between the widower and Maria would be the greatest source of happiness for her daughter.
 But the poor child was destined never to taste the sweetness of peace.
 This conversation was followed by a great number of the same nature, all during winter her parents never stopped preaching and scolding her, begging her and threatening her, and finally doing everything in their power to make her decide to marry the man she hated.
 On a cold and snowy day in January, Maria went to one of her friends who lived on St. Marguerite Street, in the St. Antoine neighborhood.
 The latter who was ill, had asked for her and Maria had not been able to avoid going to visit her.
 They were bonded by a strong friendship and told each other everything.
 Maria, who had plenty of worries and woes to confide, lost track of time.  When she left her friend's home, evening darkness had veiled the streets.  She went out courageously, however even though she didn't feel very safe.  But, after having walked a few moments, she realized she was being followed.  Very alarmed, she walked faster, but to no avail.  The man following her was gaining and would catch her in no time.
 Unfortunately, she realized she was in one of the most deserted areas of St. Marguerite Street, as it was sparsely populated at that time.
 Having quickly caught up with her and seizing her by the arm he spoke to her with a voice mixing tender passion, anger and bitterness all together:
 "So now you're very much afraid of me?"
 At the sound of this familiar voice, Maria having nearly fainted, lifted her eyes to face the person who had so terrified her.
 It was none other than poor Xavier Leclerc before her very eyes.
 Her fears subsided a moment, but suddenly returned when looking closer at the young man because she noticed he was drunk.  He wasn't drunk enough, however, to have lost his ability to speak clearly.
 He began by reproaching her for the infidelity she'd shown by accepting the widower's attentions, and in consenting to her father banishing him from his home -- he whom she'd professed loving.
 Maria wanted to justify her actions but he didn't give her the chance because changing tone suddenly he started telling her about his love in the most exaggerated and fiery language.
 He ended by proposing that she elope with him to the United States.
 While he spoke, Maria felt a strange, painful sensation.
 It seemed to her that he was the prey in a horrible nightmare.
 Was that in fact her beloved Xavier, her handsome Xavier, noble and true, this staggering young man with a swollen face and wild, bloodshot eyes, who was neatly proposing that she should let herself be swept away by him?
 "If this is a dream, I really would very much like to wake up," thought she.
 But, alas! This was reality.
 The icy damp wind struck her face and pulled her from her trance.
 "Don't touch me!" said she firmly and with dignity to the young man who wanted right then to press her to his heart. "Don't touch me, I forbid you!"
 Giving in, despite himself, to the proud young girl's command, Xavier retreated several steps and satisfied himself to look at Maria with eyes that expressed so well his hopeless love, to which she, conquered by compassion, softened her voice, and spoke to him in these terms.
 "Listen to me, Xavier, and try to understand my words.
 "I truly loved you faithfully as you were good and honest.  I loved you like I can never love another, I feel.
 ìBut, you yourself killed the love I had for you.  And even though I would still love you, my parents would never consent to our union.
 ìWe have to resign ourselves and accept the will of God.
 ìBut if you still love me, I beg you, change your ways, reform yourself; become again what you were, honest and good; stop breaking your mother's heart and the heart of everyone who loves you.
 ìOh! I beg you, change your ways, so that I might at least have the joy of meeting you in heaven!î
 Unfortunately, these words failed to have the desired effect on Xavier.
 Flying into a rage, he cried: "No!"
 "I will not resign myself!
 "I do not want to wait until the next life to have the happiness that I deserve on this earth! I sense that you still love me, despite your cold words, and I want you, do you understand? 
 "You have to consent to follow me to the United States.  There, we can be married without any problems and you'll be happy, I swear to you.
 "Maria, tell me you will."
 "No, never! You'll have to kill me," said the young girl firmly.
 "I won't kill you, but I'll bring you by force, since you don't want to follow me," and seizing the young girl he tried to drag her away.
 Maria resisted violently, but began losing strength.
 "Good Blessed Virgin, save me!" she murmured, ready to faint.
 Just then came the sound of voices from further down the street.
 "Here comes help," said Maria, regaining strength. "If you don't let me go quietly, Iíll scream."
 Taking advantage of the young man's hesitation while he listened to the approaching voices, Maria tore away from his grasp and lunged, light as a bird in front of the people coming in her direction.
 Her first move was to place herself in their protection, but, no longer in imminent danger having distanced herself from Xavier's reach, she got herself to St. Antoine Street, where there were several people passing by.
 She arrived at last at home and guarded well against mentioning her adventure to her mother, who scolded her for having returned so late.  She preferred listening to all the reprimands rather than having to prove her innocence.
 The encounter had made such a strong impression that she didn't dare go out alone again.
 Furthermore, she felt the need for strong protection against Xavier's influence, influence that she very much feared because despite the feelings of disgust and disdain that he invoked in her now, she felt that she couldn't help but to love him again, and regret it.
 Still, she understood more than ever that her marriage with him was woefully impossible.
 She was still facing this dilemma, troubled with anxiety and fear and crushed in despair, when one day her father put on a most violent scene at the end of an evening during which she had seemingly treated the widower with more disdain and indifference than usual.
 Maria had often seen her father enraged, but never as much as this.
 The old man was starting to worry that his potential son-in-law would give up on winning the young girl's hand, and this idea upset him more than if his own business were in trouble and losing money.
 Maria was so frightened by her father's violence that she ended by letting her defenses drop, and promising to marry the widower she so despised.
 Making this promise, she had said to herself:
 "Xavier will no longer think about taking me away me when I'm married to someone else."
 Maria had consented to marriage and Bernier congratulated himself on his shrewdness and good fortune, all the while continuing to watch the widow Champagne's health.  Impeded by the presence of the little orphan who despised his uncle more and more, Bernier succeeded in convincing the widow to let him place the boy in a boarding school run by teaching monks.
 A few days after her grandson's departure, Mrs. Champagne fell seriously ill and was forced to stay in bed for several weeks.
 Only because of this did the widower find it necessary to bring a maid into the house.
 But he kept the exclusive responsibility of caring for his mother-in-law and administering her medications.
 He had his reasons.
 He deemed it better that his mother-in-law not take too much medicine, especially that she take no stimulants whatsoever, even though the doctor prescribed a daily dose of them.
 "As a member of the temperance league," he said to himself, "I cannot tolerate intoxicating liquors in my house (he always said "my houses" nowadays) and I know that you are too Christian to argue with me on this point.  Only, you mustn't tell the doctor because he would treat us, you and me, as temperance fanatics."
 The widow was too broken and disheartened to even think about resisting to her son-in-law's wishes, and the notion of complaining to the doctor had never occurred to her.
 However, to the great disappointment of her son-in-law, she recovered somewhat and was able to walk and sit in her rocking chair near the window.
 "She'll never die, that old fool!," said Edmond Bernier to himself angrily.
 And seeing that she was no longer forced to stay in bed, he hastened to fire the maid on some pretext or other.
 The poor woman returned to passing her days alone in her rooms that felt so empty since her grandson's departure.
 The end of winter had come and the once intense cold became more moderate.
 "Here comes the springtime," thought the poor old lady."  Vacations will come soon and I'll be able to see my poor little Joseph again."
 These thoughts consoled her a bit, sometimes, but at other times she was still in the grip of despair.
 The mother Champagne was truly Christian.  She had confidence in God and she was always unquestionably submissive to his will.
 "The good Lord wants it," she told those who pitied her.  But her resignation and confidence didn't stop her from feeling cruelly isolated.
 Since the day when the young orphan left, the poor grandmother had not enjoyed a single moment of tranquility.  In her troubled mind there flashed images of the poor child enduring cruel treatment from wicked classmates, or severe punishments from the schoolmasters.
 These thoughts made her so unhappy that she regretted having let him leave, more so now as she realized sheíd been pressed to send her last, and only, source of joy so far away.
 She wallowed in the grief that continued to deepen, for alone and isolated as she was, there was nothing to distract her from her painful thoughts.
 What might seem odd, is that her tenants and neighbors didn't visit her.
 The widower, who constantly feared that the neighbors might know too much about the widow's affairs, and his, too, had taken care long ago to warn the tenants when he picked up the rent that his mother-in-law didn't like to be bothered, and that she didn't like company.
 The tenants and neighbors, from the most sympathetic to the most nosy, had in the end practically forgotten the old lady existed, and for them like for everybody else the real landlord was the widower.
 Now, the poor woman prayed.
 Abandoned by everyone, she turned with more fervor towards her Creator and his divine Mother, the "consoler of the afflicted."
 Suddenly, a strange lassitude took over her mind and body.
 Her stiffened fingers refused to continue the rosary beads and closed up with nervous tension.
 She tried uselessly to lift up her weighted head from its position against the rocking chair back.
 She wanted to try to get up, she wanted to try to shake off this frightening numbness, but her limbs refused to obey and her body stayed frozen in the chair.
 "It's death!" thought she finally.
 "My God, have pity on me!"
 The poor woman had awaited death for a long time; her clear conscience had nothing to reproach, and she had the great faith, hope and love that make one feel the peace of death even while living.  But the thought of dying like this, alone and abandoned, without seeing her grandson one last time to say goodbye, without seeing a priest and receiving the last sacraments and the comfort they bring, without a friend to close her eyes, felt terrible.
 She tried again to get up, but uselessly, she tried to scream, to cry out, in the hope of being heard by one of the tenants, but her mouth couldn't utter a sound.
 The numbness she felt all over was beginning to invade her mental faculties.  She felt herself dying and started praying with all her soul.  Then her thoughts went to the young boy who was being left alone in the world.
 "May the good Lord and his patron saint watch over him!
 "My God, take my soul! . . . Jesus! . . . Mary!"
 It was over.  The widow was dead.
 The day ended.  The clouds in the west scattered a bit and let in the last rays of sunshine.
 These golden rays formed a halo around the lovely, noble brow with its calm, serene features of death.
 In death's repose, an expression of happiness had replaced the worry and suffering that had tensed her face before.
 When the widower returned at the usual time, he was first astonished to see the lamp not yet lighted.
 Troubled by some unknown feeling, he crept slowly into the room saying in a voice somewhat trembling:
 "Mrs. Champagne, what ever are you doing? Are you sick?"
 Receiving no response, in the darkness he walked toward the outline of the widow in her chair.
 He bent toward her and took her hand.  Its cold touch hand chilled him through to the heart.
 Seized by a horror that he couldn't overcome, he hastened to get the lamp and light it.  Then he approached his mother-in-law again.
 There was no doubt.  She was quite dead.
 He dropped into another chair and stayed motionless for a long time, haunted by a mass of conflicting emotions.
 Finally, pulling himself together, he hastened to inform the tenants and neighbors and went himself to fetch the pastor and doctor.  The latter pronounced Mrs. Champagne had succumbed to an attack of the paralysis from which she'd suffered for several years.
 Two days later, the funeral was held with all the appropriate pomp, and Mrs. Champagne's body was placed in the Côte-des-Neiges cemetery near her two daughters.
The day after her will was read, her first will, in which she left her properties to Edmond Bernier and her money to her grand-son.
 While everyone was busy with the reading of the will, the notary who'd prepared the second will, the one the widow had confided to her only friend, suddenly came forth declaring that there must be another, more recent, will in the house.
 At these words, the widower whitened like a corpse, but summoning up great nerve, he declared that he had no knowledge of such a will, but a search, if one was necessary, should be conducted at once.
 But the investigation turned up nothing and the unanimous opinion of those present was that Mrs. Champagne had destroyed the second will herself.
 All the obstacles have vanished.  The wedding day so long awaited arrives.
 Spring had returned again, and nature glowed with joy and hope.
 How happy you are, Nature, to have no memory of the past and the dead!
 When buds appear on the trees, let the flowers bloom.  Let the sun, gentle and ardent at once, scatter the dark clouds that blemished the blue sky.  Let the singing birds return to build their nests.  You don't dwell on the trees felled by storms or the leaves crumpled and scattered by the wind, or the birds killed by the hunter's arrow, or a cruel child's pitiless hand.
 Proud and glad from the praises of the living, you don't give a thought to the poor dead who sleep in the cemetery, cold and unmoving, despite the warmth coaxing the world to life. They too, somehow, should be covered with praises and love, but you forget them like you will forget us too, one day.
 You are beautiful, oh Nature! but you are callous.  And even so, senseless men would rather adore you than God.
 On a lovely sunny morning in May, several groups of curious gapers stood around in front of Notre Dame Church, obviously waiting for something impatiently.
 Finally, a line of carriages exited St. Laurent Street and started down Notre Dame Street.
 "There they are, there they are, at last!" was murmured from here and there as the crowds formed rows according to the directives of the Swiss Guard opening the door where they stood.
 Proud and pompous in his new, elegant suit, the father Renaud descended from the carriage with his daughter following, beautiful and gracious despite her pallor.
 A superb blue silk dress and graceful hat with a long white feather brought out the milky whiteness of her complexion and the gold of her yellow hair.
 She held a magnificent bouquet of white roses exuding a delicious perfume.
 "How she is beautiful!  How she's well dressed!  How happy she must be!" was murmured among the spectators.
 The young girls, especially, envied the beautiful bride and more than one of them would have loved to be in her place.
 They couldnít understand.  They weren't detecting the depth of the sadness and despair into which poor Maria had now fallen.
 Haunted by her parents and Bernier himself, she had finally consented to give her hand to the one for whom she bore, now more than ever, an insurmountable aversion.
 So she wasn't as happy as the envious young spectators thought.
 There was one in particular who had absolutely no reason to be jealous of Maria Renaud's destiny.
 It was little Rosanna Michon, a perky brunette with rich dark brown eyes, wearing a pink calico dress which to be honest, suited her marvelously.
 This little Rosanna was to be married next to the best and most handsome, if not the most well-off, boy in her neighborhood.  This boy loved her with all his heart and had no other goal than to make her happy.  She very much loved him, too, that sweet, lovable and eager to please young man.  She loved him "in a big way" and felt very happy making the simple light brown wool dress that would be her wedding gown, for the pretty brunette was to be married in fifteen days.
 But the sight of Maria's silk dress made her think of her simple wool dress with contempt.
 Oh! If she had a silk dress, too.
 Nowadays, silk has become vulgar.
 Everybody wears it.
 Laborer's wives as well as banker's wives, servants as well as their mistresses, the lowest little shop girls as well as the well-bred ladies; but twenty five years ago, it wasn't so.
 Nevertheless, folks weren't any unhappier.  Even Rosanna Michon, who upon seeing the bridegroom, was quickly relieved that she wasn't Maria Renaud as the groom appeared even more unimpressive and much less personable in his wedding attire.
 "I much prefer my Tony to that ugly groom," thought she.  And Maria's dress no longer made her envious.
 The wedding party entered the church and the ceremony began at once.
 The happy widower was triumphant.
 "Iíve won the spoils," he gloated silently.
 "Mrs. Champagne's houses are finally mine; I have the little one's inheritance and according to the will's stipulations nobody has the right to ask me for an accounting; I'll be able to use it at liberty while waiting for him attain majority.
 And to top it all off, the only person whom I ever loved will become my wife in a few moments.
 "Why is it they say that there's no happiness on earth?" he said to himself.
 Happiness exists.  It's for those who have enough talent and determination to know how to reach it, overcoming all the obstacles in their path, like I've done, and how I well intend on doing it in the future.
 It was in this most Christian state of heart that he received the solemn nuptial blessing.
 As far as Maria goes, she was paler than she'd been before coming into the church.  She would have liked to run now, run far from this despised man who was about to become her master.
 She would have like to say no instead of yes when the priest asked her if she accepted Bernier for her husband.
 Too late.  Alas!
 "May my destiny be fulfilled," said she to herself, hopeless and bitter, and the fatal "yes" escaped from her lips whitened from emotion.
 During the whole length of the nuptial mass the new wife let herself go in her misery and beaten state; but when the time came to leave the church, she had to make frantic efforts to maintain her dignity and did so quite successfully.  She was very proud and the thought of making a scene in front of the crowd who would undoubtedly have been amused by the spectacle helped her keep her composure.
 But the final blow was yet to come.
 As she descended the last step holding her husband's arm she found herself practically face to face with a miserably dressed young man whose pale, drawn features were painful to look at.
 Instinctively, she looked up and recognized Xavier Leclerc, or rather his ghost, because the poor wretch standing there two feet before her, looked rather like someone just out of his grave.  The fixed gaze had something supernatural about it and left her chilled.
 She muffled the cry that escaped from her lips, but she started trembling violently and whitened so that the spectators thought she would faint, even though they didn't guess the cause for this sudden condition.
 Seeing the pain that his presence was causing to the girl he loved so much, Xavier looked at her one last, long time, full of regret, full of despair; a look expressing better than words an eternal goodbye, and disappeared into the crowd.
 The wedding party rode off in carriages to the Renaud home where a sumptuous meal was waiting.  And all day long, the rejoicing went on with as much momentum as if the bride wasn't the most unhappy woman on earth.
 Sixteen years later, Maria, Bernier and their daughter Marie-Louise live in Beauport, near Québec.
 Sinking softly into its bed of clouds between curtains of scarlet and gold, the sun 
poured out its last splendid rays on the hills and fields of Beauport, that beautiful, graceful village nestled on the slope of the old city of Cartier.
 The somber blue mountains of Laval stood, proud and serene, at attention against a backdrop of exploding sunset.
 A soft pink lighted the air and lent a magical charm to the beauty of the countryside, softening even the darkness of the wide gray river passing calmly and majestically at the foot of the cliffs bordering the north bank.  Just visible far in the distance, sits Québec high and sublime, on a steep throne from where he sends his eternal defiance over the waters to Leviathan.
 From time to time, a breeze rises and races lightly down the road. 
 In passing it stirs the foliage, both up in the trees and down in the brush, carrying the smooth, sweet fragrance of flowers opening up in the gardens of homes along the street.
 Among these houses, there was one that stood out for its elegant perfection and well kept grounds.
 It was built on the south side of the road in the section of the village called the Sault, because of its proximity to the Montmorency waterfalls.
 A well manicured lawn offered onlookers several beds where the stuff of daydreams bloomed: the delicately scented columbine, soft, melancholic marigolds, carnations atop their long coquette stems, bees balm with dark blue stems -- in short, the flowers on which the beautiful Canadian sun smiles.
 But the prettiest flower there was Marie-Louise Bernier, daughter of the house's owner.
 At the moment she was posing gracefully, but quite naturally, in deep thought leaning her elbows on the gate.
 She was of average height with a slender, supple figure.  That night she wore a simple, yet stylish white muslin dress with tiny blue flowers that brought out her fresh, creamy complexion.
 Her features were classically beautiful, like those of a Madonna, and her big sky-blue eyes softened by the half-veils of her long brown lashes expressed her candor and goodness.
 Her warm brown hair with golden flecks was woven into a long braid ribbonned in blue.  Silky, softly curled bangs covered half of her clear white forehead and lent her face which otherwise might be a little too serious, a perky, flirtatious quality, but not too flirtatious, perhaps, that suited her marvelously.
 Her hands were white, well-shaped and plump, and through the transparent muslin sleeves was seen the roundness of her rosy white arms.
 The radiant clarity that made the sky, the land and the river so beautiful right then added to her charm, accentuating the golden highlights in her hair.
 In her floating white dress, she looked like a fairy, or an angel from heaven.
 At the time, the omnibus from Beauport was coming through, returning to their homes passengers whose business or pleasure had transpired that day in Québec.
 This transportation system is an inhuman invention that seems out of the dark ages.
 But it's especially so at night that it seems impractical and dangerous.  It returns from Québec crammed full of passengers looking like sardines in a can, while carrying a number carefree nature lovers on its roof.
 It's that it never refuses passengers; on the contrary, it lures them in even should it already be carrying a hundred.
 Parked an hour or two on DuPont Street, it slowly stuffs itself with men, women, children, baggage, and baskets right up to the time of departure.
 So, woefully wobbling with sinister creaks that seem to be portend an eventual catapulting, the heavy mass gets itself going and follows its route, jolting importantly, and cruelly tossing its unfortunate passengers of whom a good number are stricken with sea sickness within a half-hour on this charming projectile.
 However, for those lucky enough to not feel convoluted by this crude balancing act, the trip isn't too unattractive.
 First of all, the countryside is fabulous.  The road follows, sometimes closer, sometimes further away, the edge of the river whose opposite bank looks gracefully green and fertile from a distance.
 Pretty soon, a tip of the Island of Orleans, that fresh oasis of the waters, shows itself to enchanted eyes and puts the finishing touch on this captivating painting.
 Adjacent to this picturesque panorama is the beauty of the wide prairies in the distance.  Massive green trees and pretty white houses, surrounded with flowers and greenery appear and reappear along the route.  In springtime, marvelous fragrances from the clover in blossom; or in fall the sultry aromas from ripening hay combine to fill the heart and soul with a feeling of thankfulness and joy.  It could be expressed as:
 My God, how the land you've given us is magnificent and noble, and how we must be proud and joyful to be Canadians.
 The poetry of Crémazie:
 "How it's good to be Canadian" comes to mind and one feels full of pity for that poor sorry poet, condemned by his sad destiny to die far away from the banks of the beautiful Canadian river.
 In addition to the pleasure of viewing the wonders of the scenery, the journey offers yet another feature that certainly can't be overlooked, and that's listening to the totally unrestrained conversations of the regular passengers who represent every single social class in Beauport.
 Here's an sampling of the omnibus' load:
 In the corner near the door sits a hearty farmer with a round, lit-up but somewhat wily face.  He's dressed like he was headed for the fields, but he's no longer humble because he's aware of his self-worth and that all the passengers know him.
 Next to him a skinny tobacconist looking somewhat starved eyes him with a queer mix of respect and disdain.  The two men chat about politics, and by gosh, the farmer isn't debating the worst of the two.
 Two fine farm wives have just picked up their provisions in Québec.  Their laps are buried under piles of packages of all shapes and sizes.  Theíre discussing happenings in the village in general, and the little LaPlante girl's wedding in particular.
 When these good women will have finished their conversation, there'll be no one in the vehicle who doesn't know not only even the minute details, but the entire genealogy of the LaPlante family including their link to the LaPlante's and Grenier-du-Chateau's etc., etc. and the good or bad things that will come of it, and how the grandfather came from Carlebourg, etc., etc., etc.
 It's always about history, and even about tradition.
 Three young girls who went to Québec for the same reason as the two farm wives had, are chatting too, but with hushed voices.  However a few words uttered more loudly and reach the curious ear.
 "Yes, he went there last Sunday."
 "Impossible!"
 And other similar phrases, but from that angle, one can't get the whole story.
 Two other farmers, made from the same mold as the first, discussed the care of young apple trees with a doctor.
 It's most instructional, if one wants to take the trouble to listen.
 The notary sitting near them doesn't say much that night.
 Like several other passengers, he's made a place for a seat-less passenger on his lap.  One has to believe that this is causing him considerable distraction, because he's silent enough.
 Three or four boys, sitting one on top of the other aren't the least noisy of the group.  They're telling each other stories that make them burst into laughter from time to time.
 There's also a little dog aboard.  He barks, jumps, goes snooping under the seats, sticks his little pointed muzzle in a few baskets within in his reach, and generally makes a nuisance of himself, as dogs on a trip know how to do so well.
 Finally, to top it all off, there's a gentle mother and her one-year-old, a chubby little chap with a care-free look about him.  He's amusing himself drawing arabesque designs his mother's shoulder with the half-sucked barley candy glued in his hand.
 A charming portrait of maternal bliss!
 The bus continues on its route leaving a cloud of dust behind and stopping now and then to drop a passenger at his or her home.
 It was thus that it stopped in front of the house we spoke of earlier, and a man of about 60-years of age, but still spry, descended carrying several packages.
 "Goodnight, Mr. Bernier!" called passengers and conductor; and the bus took up its habitual trot while the one called Mr. Bernier headed for his house.
 "There, it's you, Marie-Louise!" said he joyously upon noticing his daughter waiting at the gate.  "Guess what I've brought you from the city!"
 Instead of answering, the young girl wrapped her pretty arms around her father and kissed him affectionately, then she assumed her duty of helping him with his packages.
 "Hurry and come in, supper must have been ready ages ago."
 Father and daughter entered the house and headed toward the dining room where an appetizing meal was waiting for them.
 Mrs. Bernier was already in the room.
 Her daughter ran quickly to show her the gifts her father had brought back from the city.  The mother smiled at the excitement, but found only a few bland words to thank her husband when he presented her with the splendid lace shawl he'd bought especially for her.
 Did Edmond Bernier notice this lack of enthusiasm?
 Still when taking his place at the table, he stifled a long sigh.  But that was probably due to the relief of being back home after the long tiring day.
 Some time after his wedding to Maria Renaud, Edmond Bernier had  advantageously sold the properties on Papineau Road and set up residence in Beauport.
 Not finding himself wealthy enough yet to live off the sales, he had formed a partnership with a tanner in Québec and had enjoyed prosperity for fifteen years, after which, feeling his age, he retired to enjoy the fruit of his labor in his graciously comfortable house in Beauport.
 He was considered among the wealthiest and happiest of the village.  Consequently, he was highly esteemed and praised.
 Truly, all had gone his way since his marriage. But one thing especially had cinched his happiness, even though he let on that it was a source of sorrow at the time.
 It was the disappearance of his nephew Joseph Allard whoíd never been found after running away from school two years following Bernier's marriage.
 The uncle had make plenty of noise about the affair, talking of nothing but all the searching he was having done.  All the searches, real or fictitious, had amounted to nothing and the good uncle had to resign himself to the loss of his nephew.
 But one thought must have contributed greatly toward consoling him.
 It had been several months since he'd drawn the little boy's ten thousand dollars from the bank of Montréal under the pretext of investing it more advantageously.  The truth was, he did it to help establish himself in Beauport and go into business with the tanner we talked about.
 The child having disappeared, Bernier had nothing more to fear about accounting for the way he'd spent the inheritance, and even less to fear if it should turn out that the boy had died.
 Now, he had Mrs. Champagne's entire estate sheltered safely.  Only one thing was missing to make him totally happy, and that was his wife's love.  However, in his customary manner, he didn't give up.
 On the contrary, he became twice as attentive and thoughtful and showed himself to be the most lovable and most indulgent of husbands, but up until now his efforts had not resulted in glorious achievements.
 "It doesn't matter" he told himself, "I've always succeeded in my endeavors and I'll succeed in this one, too.  I swear it."
 Leaving Beauport, the action moves to New York City.
 The bitter, penetrating March wind ruled over the streets of New York where it was hurling dust around with a terrible force and threatening to topple pedestrians.
 It was one of those days when one prefers to huddle near the fire rather than go for a leisurely stroll.
 So thought a young girl sewing at the window watching the fantastic acrobatics of a stray hat and its owner.
 Though no great beauty, this young girl was pretty enough.
 A small figure of a girl but well proportioned, she has a creamy fresh complexion, even though a little pale.  Dark strands seemed compelled to unravel from her hairstyle to curl as they pleased.  She had sharp features if not totally proportioned and magnificent brown eyes glistening with gold.  They were expressive eyes reflecting all the lively emotions in her soul.
 At the time, they expressed lightheartedness and mischief.  When the man in the hat took a tumble trying heroically to reclaim his property and the hat flew even further, a clean, spirited smile revealed the girlís even pearly teeth.
 But the expression in her eyes changed suddenly when recognized a woman crossing the street with considerable difficulty, encumbered as she was with her huge knitted shawl recently transformed into a sail by the wind that threatened to set her adrift.
 "Maman, Maman!" said she turning quickly. "Mrs. Prévost is coming to see us, but we should go rescue her because surely the wind will take her away before she makes it to the door."
 "Good heavens!" cried the mother awakening in a jolt because she'd been dozing in a big rocking chair near the stove.  "She really must be courageous to come out in weather like this."
 Already standing, the girl had kept watch at the window and thought Mrs. Prévost had safely docked.  An instant later a discrete knock at the door announced the visitor who was welcomed eagerly by mother and daughter.  She was an old and intimate friend.
 She was still out of breath from the battle sheíd waged with the wind.
 "Hello, Mrs. Bonneville! Hello, my pretty Emma! I thought the wind would take me to the river just now. 'It's windy enough to knock the horns off the bullsí as my grandfather used to say.  Here I am, finally."
 "And why come out in such weather, Mrs. Prévost?  It isn't that we aren't delighted you've come to see us, it's just that I think you're taking chances coming out in such terrible wind.  There's always the chance of learning a lesson with a knock on the head.  (Mrs. Bonneville was a very high-strung woman.)
 "It's just that I had news to tell you," said Mrs. Prévost getting rid of her shawl and hat.  "And I was to impatient to wait until tomorrow."
 "But I'll tell you all about it," she added settling in to the rocking chair which she filled completely for she was a very well set woman weighing in at 205 pounds as she often pointed out with pride.
 "Picture this," she began alternating glances at Mrs. Bonneville and her daughter who'd attentively sat down near her, "picture this.  This morning while I was washing my dishes, I all of a sudden hear the doorbell then the postman's whistle.
 "That startled me.  I hadn't received a letter from anyone since the one from my brother last year telling me about the death of my dear departed mother.  All of a sudden I expected of bad news.
 But I ran quickly still wiping my hands on my apron and with trembling fingers took the letter the man handed me.  But what reassured me on looking at it closely was that the envelope didn't have a black border like a letter of mourning.  It's not a death anyway, I said to myself.î
 While Mrs. Prévost talked, Emma bored by all the details, stopped listening and started thinking about other things.
 On the subject of thought "L'Imitation" says "I am where my thoughts are and my thoughts are usually in a place I like."
 Emma was letting herself go in a sweet daydream when Mrs. Prévost spoke directly to her and snapped her back to reality.
 The old lady was telling her:
 "It's on you that I'm counting the most to entertain my little cousin.  You'll be good for her, right, my pretty, and you'll show her around?"
 "The companionship of young lady like you will be more agreeable, no doubt, than having an old lady like me around; plus she doesn't really know me from any other old lady because we've never met.
 With her feminine intuition, Emma caught on to what was being asked of her, and she promised to do it in good will because she was likeable and liked to please by nature, and furthermore, she was truly fond of Mrs. Prévost.
 "What did you say your young cousin's name was?" she asked innocently.
 "Marie-Louise Bernier, but that's about all I know about her except that she's my first cousin Maria Renaud's daughter, and that she's eighteen.
 If she looks like her mother, she must be lovely because her mother was a very pretty girl before her marriage.  Now, I don't know because I haven't seen her since then.
 Poor child, she went through plenty of suffering before resolving herself to wed Edmond Bernier.  She hadnít liked him from the beginning.
 The one she loved was a fellow named Leclerc . . . Xavier Leclerc, I believe.  Now that was a handsome boy, and a good one, while he was courting her.
 But he was poor and the old man Renaud didn't want to consent to his marrying Maria.
 Leclerc, who loved Maria madly turned to drink and became one of the most wayward boys in Montréal.  After five or six years, he died in the hospital, from the DT's they say.
 It was after Maria's wedding.  I'd already left Montréal then, but I learned the whole story from one of my cousins who knew the young man well.  I don't know if Maria ever learned of her former lover's death.  I think it would have hurt her, because after all, it was her fault.  She should have been more faithful than that.
 But I'm still jabbering here and I'll never get back home in time to make my old man's supper.
 "Goodnight, then. Come see me!" and she left hastily.
 The Prévosts and the Bonnevilleís live in an area called Yorkville.
 Canadians have always been particularly fond of this section of New York.  Their luck, whether good or bad, has brought them here to establish a new life in the city.
 The section that we call Yorkville, extends from 59th Street to 99th on one side and from the East River to Fifth Avenue, that is, all the way to Central Park, on the other side.
 Yorkville is a striking example of the rapid growth of New York City and the extraordinary mix of its cultures.
 Twenty years ago it was but an insignificant little village, separated from the city by vast uncultivated fields.
 Over the course of ten years, changes gradually took place that would make this one of the most densely populated areas of the city.
 There were but a few totally constructed buildings in 1877.
 From either side one could still see open fields, low lying areas and green slopes, a good number of which were adorned with miserable shacks referred to as shanties, dwellings of a certain common class of Irish.
 These shanties were grouped together, forming miniature villages.
 For a nominal sum, their residents had obtained the right to build them on property owned either by the city or private land owners; in general they cherished them and were happier in them than kings in their castles.
 But their happiness, like that of the kings, wasn't eternal.  The day came when they received the order to evacuate the land, taking along remnants of their shanties if they wanted.  These unfortunate areas displayed scenes of wrenching desolation.
 A few years ago, we actually saw an old woman come daily to weep on the ruins of her shanty while it was being demolished along with several others to make room for those tall apartment buildings on 84th Street near Fourth Avenue.
 It was an odd spectacle, but distressing.
 Sitting on a boulder near her former abode, the old lady cried and lamented in a sort of psalmist tone that made one think of Beushee's incantations, sort of a ghost or Irish witch who for all the terror she instilled in her countrymen is definitely equal to the werewolf tales of France and Canada.
 Every day, she returned to sit in the same place, uttering the same moans, right up until the last traces of her hovel disappeared to make way for the new building's massive foundation.
 Then, and only then did she cease her daily pilgrimage.
 We always liked to believe that she had found a similar hovel to relocate her gods of the hearth.
 But shanties have become rare enough since then.
 In 1879 after the Third Avenue L train was built, rapid change swept through Yorkville.
 New York's population feeling crowded from rapid growth, a large number immigrated towards the upper side of the city, especially to Yorkville.
 Construction companies came onto the scene.
 The green slopes were flattened, the picturesque rocks where light footed goats once grazed were blasted away.  Some of the low lands were filled with street rubble and others with unhealthy soil excavated from the depths of the Fourth Avenue Tunnel construction.  It probably explains the intermittent fever terrorizing so many areas that apparently had been healthy before.
 For a while you couldn't see anything but buildings under construction and Yorkville soon lost its scenic greenery.
 Even the beautiful old houses surrounded by shady grounds gracing the banks of the East River weren't respected.  Soon with triumphant brutality, from every angle rose those monotonous apartment buildings.  Those immense, vulgarly square houses that make you think of prisons, and they are in a way, since the long narrow apartments they usually contain are generally as gloomy (as if they're lighted by square conduits) and as lugubrious as prison cells.
 However, a few streets kept their gracefulness a little longer.
 One of those is 83rd Street.  It kept its pretty cottages with flowered lawns and  beautiful trees shading it nearly the whole length.
 Alas! the pretty cottages are going one after the other today to be replaced by the invading apartment buildings.
 But in 1882 the destructive deed hadn't started yet.
 Mrs. Prévost, Mrs. Bernier's cousin, lived in one of these attractive cottages, and it was there that she was headed after leaving the Bonnevilleís who lived on 81st Street.
 Despite the wind that hampered her progress, she made good time covering the distance that separated her from her home, where she arrived somewhat winded but cheerful and happy.
 Her husband, a plasterer foreman who was as tall and thin as she was round and fat, was already home and somewhat indignantly asked his wife where she'd been and whether she planned on making him fast that night.
 Mrs. Prévost, knowing her husband's personality well, answered his questions with a loveable smile and while hastily preparing supper she told him about what she referred to as the event of the day.
 Suddenly interested, Mr. Prévost forgot he was hungry and stopped dwelling on his late supper until his wife having finished preparing it, invited him to come to the table.
 Mrs. Prévost's house was clean and comfortable.  Without being luxurious, her furniture was tasteful and attractive.
 A golden canary flitted about in its cage.  A little gray cat stretched lazily under the dining room stove.
 Everything in this house represented cleanliness and order.
 The husband and wife had just sat down at the table when Mrs. Prévost said suddenly,
 "But where's Mr. Allard?  Hasn't he returned yet?"
 "No, not yet," replied her husband, "but he won't be too late."
 Mr. Allard was a young man who had roomed at the Prévost's for a few months.
 A likeable, congenial fellow, he'd known how to capture the friendship and admiration of the couple who treated him like a relative rather than a roomer.
 Actually, he came in moments later.  Without being exactly handsome, he was interesting and gracious.
 Of medium height, but slender and straight, his easy going manner contrasted with Mrs. Prévost's husband's clumsy stiffness.
 His dark complexion was usually pale, even though right then his skin was flushed from the cold and wind whipping him face first.
 His expression was sober but not lacking gentleness.
 His eyes were big, dark and dreamy; however, they could light up sometimes and completely change his expression.
 A silky black moustache shadowed his upper lip.
 His softly curling hair was also black.
 What was most agreeable about him was his cheerful, honest smile with just a hint of good-natured mischief.
 He looked to be between 25 and 30-years-old.
 After having eaten his fill and joining Mr. Prévost for a cigar, he put his overcoat back on, took his hat and got ready to go out.
 "Where ever are you going on a night like this, Mr. Allard?" asked Mrs. Prévost.
 "I'm going to visit with the Bonnevilleís for a while.  Wouldnít you like to come along with me?"
 "Why thanks, but I've been there today, and the wind is just to bothersome.  And you, old boy, do you feel like going to the Bonnevilleís?"
 "I don't think so," solemnly proclaimed Mr. Prévost.  "I've been pushed around enough in that abominable wind.  I'm sleepy and plan on going to bed early tonight."
 "That's OK, I'll go by myself.  Goodnight, then!" And he left, apparently undaunted by the wind reeking havoc in the dark street below.
 At the Bonnevilleís, supper was over.  Everything was neatly put away, and a hearty fire reddened the stovetop, filling the kitchen and dining room with a glow of comfort and well being.  Thatís where the whole Bonneville family was assembled, surrounded by a warm feeling that you could search for fruitlessly in a much more elegant house.
 Mrs. Bonneville, her daughter Emma, and two of her sons sat around the big table on which rested the lamp that lit this modest home.
 The mother read a romance novel installment from the newspaper that her good friend Mrs. Prévost had cut out for her.
 Oh my! It was breathtakingly interesting!  The hero, leader of a band of Parisian bandits, had just committed his 13th murder (ominous number), and had just kidnapped the extraordinarily beautiful heiress for the third time while her father and fiancé searched for her in the mysterious Paris underground, and while the hero, a brilliant man with a keen sense of smell, had just realized that he'd been promenading through the sewers in a daze.  A handkerchief, dropped from the young girl's hand, had been a signal for those who were searching for her.
 Mrs. Bonneville was truly absorbed and wouldn't have thought to lift her eyes from the page, even if the wind still unleashing its furor, had lifted the roof off the house.
 The lace Emma was tatting grew longer and longer in her skillful fingers.
 She said to herself, "The weather's really too foul, he won't come tonight."
 But her heart hoped the opposite.
 Georges, her 24-year-old big brother with fresh cheerful looks was reading a newspaper.  Occasionally, he reported the more interesting news to his father seated further away in one of the big rocking chairs.
 François, the 13-year-old, worked on his assignments for class tomorrow.
 Little Fonse, baby of the family, a rambunctious 10-year-old, teased his faithful companion.  The smart and docile little black mutt was warming himself under the stove, all tired out from running around all afternoon with his young master.
 Suddenly, a light step was heard coming up the stairs and everyone's ears perked up.  Emma felt her heart beating.  A second later came the knock at the door and Emma wasted no time opening it.
 Joseph Allard came in , pretty much chilled to the bone, but jolly nevertheless.
 Everyone seemed glad to see the young man who was a favorite visitor.
 "But how ever did you make yourself come out on a night like this?" he was asked.
 "It's just that I felt like playing a couple hands to avenge the defeat I suffered last week," he replied cheerfully.
 "Great" said the father.  "Where you're warmed up, we can get started."
 "Oh, don't worry about that, I'm already warmed up."
 "Well, then, let's start right away.  Quick, Emma, get the cards, my girl."
 The mother, postponing her reading, gathered up her romance clippings into a pile and moved over to make room for the players at the table where each took his place.
 The father played with his eldest son, and the visitor with the young girl.
 Now and then, the hand was interrupted for a few minutes of cheerful conversation, then it was resumed even more fervently.
 Except, Emma and Joseph Allard always won, which irked the old man.
 "You're certainly avenging yourself," he said to the young man now and then.
 "It's because of my partner," he replied, smiling amicably at Emma.
 ìLast week, if you remember, I was playing with Charles Rivard.  I think he was bringing me bad luck.î
 This compliment, which was nothing but a kind pleasantry among many others, made a strong impression on naive little Emma's active imagination.
 Loving Joseph Allard, Joe to his friends, with all her carried-away heart, she couldn't help but imagine that he loved her as much as she loved him.
 The truth was that he was always pleasant toward the young girl he found to be kind and charming.  He was happy surrounded by these good people -- happy and together -- this poor orphan who'd never known the joy of having a family.
 He often pondered that life would have been so much better having a devoted mother, a good and wise father, happy brothers and a sweet, gentle sister.
 Then, turning towards the future, his mind painted a smiling picture full of hope.
 He saw himself a loving, loved husband, and proud, father in the warm environment that would be his home.
 How he'd have courage to work hard.  How he'd soon forget the miseries of his unhappy childhood.
 But he wasn't in a hurry to live out his dreams because until then he'd known many nice or pretty girls, but so far not one about whom he'd been serious.
 Of all the girls he'd known, Emma was the one who'd most inspired feelings of friendship, but it wasn't love and Joseph wanted to love.
 He said to himself that in his future wife, he hoped to find the qualities and grace he saw in Emma, but that's where the similarities between the young girl and the ideal woman stopped.  His ideal woman he always pictured as a sort of blond haired, blue eyed angel who would appear one day to light up his lonely life.
 If Emma had been able to read his mind, she certainly would have not cradled any hopes like she'd been doing for some time.
 But she could only go by what she saw, and appearances are so often deceiving.  She thought Joe liked her since he seemed to enjoy her company so much that he came to the house often.
 However, she was too shy and reserved for the young man to detect the impression he'd made on her.
 If that had happened, it certainly would have changed the way he acted toward her, and he would have done everything in his power to gently erase her illusions without letting her know that he knew her secret.  Joseph Allard was a young man of honor.
 But, unfortunately, he was far from knowing the truth.
 Joe tells the Bonneville's his eventful life story -- his childhood in Montréal, his escape from the brothers' boarding school, his frequent relocations in the United States -- and meets Marie-Louise Bernier, arrived in New York on vacation.  Unaware that Marie-Louise is the daughter of the despised uncle whose name he doesn't even remember, Joe falls in love with the young girl, much to the chagrin of Emma Bonneville who suffers in silence.
 Towards the end of a lovely day in May, Joe and Marie-Louise sit on the rustic bench deep in Mrs. Prévost's garden, as this good woman kept a garden.
 In those days, all the cottages had gardens, but like the cottages, the fragrantly blooming gardens have disappeared forever.
 The month had just begun and there were but a few flowers opening.  Yet, the lilacs, and there was a huge bush near the bench, were already open, and their delightful fragrance spread all around.
 Supper just finished, Mrs. Prévost was still busy in her kitchen.  Mr. Prévost smoked quietly on the porch looking at, without actually seeing, the blue spirals of smoke escaping from his cherished pipe.
 The two young people could then talk freely, however they both kept a melancholic silence.
 Joe finally broke the quiet.
 "So, you're leaving the day after tomorrow, Miss Bernier?"
 "Yes, I have to," sighed the young girl. "I would have liked to stay a while longer, but Papa writes that Maman's very lonely."
 "They aren't as lonely as I'm going to be when you're gone," said Joe sadly.
 Seeing the young girl didn't respond, he continued:
 "Time passes quickly with you here.  Itís hard to believe that itís been a month since you arrived."
 "It's true," replied Marie-Louise innocently, "time has passed quickly."
 A few moments of silence followed these words, then Joe started again:
 "Won't you miss some of those folks you're leaving behind when you're back home?"
 "That goes without saying, because everybody has been good to me here, but Mrs. Prévost and her husband will probably come to see us during the summer, that is if Mr. Prévost manages to take a vacation."
 "How happy they will be!"
 "Do you really think so?"
 "Who could think otherwise!  Won't they enjoy being in your company?"
 Marie-Louise didn't answer, but she was wracking her brain thinking up a way to invite Joe to take the trip with the Prévost's without looking too daring.
 But a notion stopped her.  Would it be appropriate for her to do so?  And then what would her parents say?  But, yet, if she was sure Joe loved her, but how could she know for sure, since he'd never told her?  Maybe she'd fooled herself since the beginning into thinking that this young man had serious intentions toward her.
 Maybe he'd only wanted to amuse himself a little in passing.  How could she know otherwise?
 While she was absorbed with these thoughts, Joe pondered a few of his own.  Oh! If I only knew she loved me, he thought.  "It would give me the courage to declare my affection.  But how do I know she isn't just a flirt amusing herself by being charming to me during her visit here?
 How do I know she doesn't have a fiancé up there, and that it's not for him that she's decided to go back.
 If she was from my own social class, then Iíd be more daring.
 But, how do I know she wouldn't be indignant at my asking.
 Sheíd be justified since who am I to dare look upon her, me the poor boy without any family or fortune who has nothing but poverty to offer her. While she, beautiful, young and wealthy, she can aspire to marry into one of the better families of her hometown.
 Mrs. Prévost joined them and jumped right into the conversation in her habitual way.
 After having spoken for some time, she exclaimed suddenly:
 "I just thought of it, since you're leaving the day after tomorrow, my little one, you should go say goodbye to the Bonneville's tonight, because you won't have time to go tomorrow."
 "You're right, cousin.  Let's go tonight then, as I wouldn't want to go without seeing them once more.  They've been so kind to me, especially the girl who's been such a friend."
 "That doesn't surprise me, because Emma is one girl everybody likes, but we'd better go right away because it's nearly eight o'clock.  Are you coming, old boy?" she asked approaching her husband who was still smoking on the porch.
 "On no, old girl!" he replied stretching his arms lazily. "I'd rather stay right where I am.  Go ahead without me."
 If Joe had dared speak his mind right then and there he would have avowed that Mr. Prévost was the laziest, most self-centered man on earth, but he contented himself scorning him under his breath, and set out to the Bonneville's with a lady on each arm.  He had to be satisfied with Mrs. Prévost's endless chatter instead of the intimate talk he so longed for.
 That night, Emma was alone at home as the rest of the family had gone to the chapel for the Month of Mary services.
 The news of Marie-Louise's departure delighted her, even though she knew enough to express her regrets politely.
 The poor child thought that once Marie-Louise was gone, Joe would probably forget about her, and the hope of seeing her beloved come back made her heart leap.
 However the other members of the family returned from church.  Before long, Mrs. Prévost announced that it was time to go because she and Marie-Louise had to get up early the next morning to prepare for her departure.
 Getting back to the house, Joe felt himself getting progressively sadder realizing that this was probably the last time he'd be walking with Marie-Louise like this, feeling her soft little hand rest so gently on his arm.
 The following morning, he awoke with the gloomy thought that this was the last day Marie-Louise would spend in New York.  This thought preoccupied him all day at the store.
 He would have loved to find an excuse to go back to the house to bask in the presence of his beloved as long as possible.
 He hoped he'd have another chance to spend some time with her on the rustic bench deep in the garden that night, and he promised himself to not miss the chance to declare his love.  "It's better that I know what to expect," he thought.
 But disappointment was in store.
 Towards evening it started raining in torrents, and he had to resign himself to spending the evening with Mr. & Mrs. Prévost.
 The latter monopolized Marie-Louise's attention so that he barely had a chance to speak to her.
 But the evening was coming to a close and Mrs. Prévost announced that soon it would be time to think about retiring.
 While she was down in the basement making sure everything was in order for the night, Marie-Louise exclaimed suddenly:
 "How dizzy I am!  I left my woolen shawl on the bench this morning.
 It must be soaking wet, but I'll have time to make it dry by tomorrow noon.  I have to go get it.î
 "I'll go get it for you," said Joe.  "Just wait a minute."
 It had stopped raining, but the sky was still overcast and the young man couldn't see a thing.
 "Did you find it?" asked the girl who'd come out onto the porch.
 "No, not yet, Miss, but I won't have any trouble retrieving it.  Tell me about where you left it."
 "I guess I'd better go myself.  I know exactly where I left it,î and in an instant the girl had reached the far end of the garden without a second thought.
 "Here it is," she said placing a hand affectionately on the shawl.  "My God, how it's soaked!"
 "Let me carry it then, it'll drip all over your dress," and he reached to out take the shawl from her hands.
 Right then he realized he was finally alone with her, alone under the night's cover.
 His heart started pounding violently.  He wanted to speak.  He wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to declare his love, and to ask her to have mercy on him, but he seemed choked with emotion.
 Right then, Mrs. Prévost's voice echoed loud and clear into the night:
 "Marie-Louise!  Marie-Louise! come on back and leave your shawl if you can't find it.  It's cold and damp and you'll surely catch cold."
 So, for just an instant, Joe forgot everything, except that he was there alone with Marie-Louise, that he adored her, that she was leaving the next day, and that he'd probably never see her again.  Losing control, he drew her close and placed a long burning kiss on her lips while whispering softly.
 "Marie-Louise, my angel, my treasure, I worship you, I love you!"
 "Don't forget me!"
 "Marie-Louise!" cried out Mrs. Prévost's voice again.
 As if in a dream, he followed Marie-Louise automatically as she hastened back trembling and in a tangle of confusion.
 When Marie-Louise was back in her room, instead of going to bed right away as her cousin had recommended, she threw herself into a chair, hiding her face in her hands in a terrible state.
 Her heart pounded violently.  Her cheeks burned.
 Torn between virtue, fear, and indignation, an other even more powerful feeling dominated for a moment, causing her heart to beat even faster.
 She thought she could still feel Joe's sudden embrace and the fire of his kiss on her lips.  She was horrified to remember that her first impulse had been to hide her face against the young man's shoulder, and anxiously wondered if he'd noticed this reaction.
 First, she accused herself of having been imprudently daring to have gone deep into the darkened garden as she had done.
 "He'll have taken me for a girl with no scruples, accustomed to things like that," she said to herself while shedding tears of rage and shame.
 Then her anger turned suddenly toward the young man.
 "He has to be wicked and very bold to have dared do that.  A respectable boy would never have acted that way.  Had I encouraged him?  I should have slapped him right across the face.  Yes, that would have taught him how to behave more appropriately."
 "The louse! Taking advantage of my ignorance.  Louse! Louse! Oh why didn't I call him that to his face?  He would have understood that I didn't like it, at least, while just the opposite, my silence will seem to be a sort of consent.  Oh, the louse, the louse!"
 The horror then took over again.  She thought she'd have to bring this incident up in confession and the thought of it made her tremble, she who'd never had anything extraordinary to tell her old confessor since her first communion.
 "If he was my fiancé, well," she thought bitterly, "but a stranger that I'll probably never see again." And her tears started all over.
 She decided finally to say her prayers, her soul torn between remorse and hopelessness, and she went to bed.
 Crushed by so many different emotions, she soon fell into a deep sleep and didn't awaken until very late the next morning.
 She got right up and dressed in a hurry, and came downstairs without being sure what her motive was for hastening.  But she understood only too well just a moment later when Mrs. Prévost, whom she found alone in the dining room told her that Mr. Allard, seeing s