"
"I'd look sharp if Felix Marchand followed me," remarked Christine.
"There are more papooses at the Reservation since he come back, and over
in Lebanon--!" She whispered darkly to her friend, and they nodded
knowingly.
"If he plays pranks in Manitou he'll get his throat cut, for sure. Even
with Protes'ants and Injuns it's bad enough," remarked Dame Thibadeau,
panting with the thought of it.
"He doesn't even leave the Doukhobors alone. There's--" Again Christine
whispered, and again that ugly look came to their faces which belongs to
the thought of forbidden things.
"Felix Marchand'll have much money--bad penny as he is," continued
Christine in her normal voice. "He'll have more money than he can put in
all the trouser legs he has. Old Hector, his father, has enough for a
gover'ment. But that M'sieu' Felix will get his throat cut if he follows
Ma'm'selle Druse about too much. She hates him--I've seen when they met.
Old man Druse'll make trouble. He don't look as he does for nothing."
"Ah, that's so. One day, we shall see what we shall see," murmured
Christine, and waved a hand to a friend in the street.
This conversation happened on the evening of the day that Fleda Druse
shot the Carillon Rapids alone. An hour after the two gossips had had
their say Gabriel Druse paced up and down the veranda of his house,
stopping now and then to view the tumbling, hurrying Sagalac, or to dwell
upon the sunset which crimsoned and bronzed the western sky.
Pages:
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59
60