Palass Poucette left behind him
seven sound horses, and cows and sheep, and a threshing-machine and a
fanning-mill, and no debts, and two thousand dollars in the bank. You
will never do anything away from here. You must stay here, where--where I
can look after you, Jean Jacques."
The light in his eyes flamed up, died down, flamed up again, and
presently it covered all his face, as he grasped what she meant.
"Wonder of God, do you forget?" he asked. "I am married--married still,
Virginie Poucette. There is no divorce in the Catholic Church--no, none
at all. It is for ever and ever."
"I said nothing about marriage," she said bravely, though her face
suffused.
"Hand of Heaven, what do you mean? You mean to say you would do that for
me in spite of the Cure and--and everybody and everything?"
"You ought to be taken care of," she protested. "You ought to have your
chance again. No one here is free to do it all but me. You are alone.
Your wife that was--maybe she is dead. I am alone, and I'm not afraid of
what the good God will say. I will settle with Him myself. Well, then, do
you think I'd care what--what Mere Langlois or the rest of the world
would say? . . . I can't bear to think of you going away with nothing,
with nobody, when here is something and somebody--somebody who would be
good to you. Everybody knows that you've been badly used--everybody.
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