Manotel would not have heard another voice than Jean
Jacques' if it had been as loud as the falls of the Saguenay. He was a
kind of poet in his way, was M. Manotel. He had been married four times,
and he would be married again if he had the chance; also he wrote verses
for tombstones in the churchyard at St. Saviour's, and couplets for fetes
and weddings.
He handed the cage to Jean Jacques, who put it down on the ground at his
feet, and in an instant had handed up five dollars for one of the idols
of his own altar. Anyone else than M. Manotel, or perhaps M. Fille or the
New Cure, would have hesitated to take the five dollars, or, if they had
done so, would have handed it back; but they had souls to understand this
Jean Jacques, and they would not deny him his insistent independence. And
so, in a moment, he was making his way out of the crowd with the cage in
his hand, the bird silent now.
As he went, some one touched his arm and slipped a book into his hand. It
was M. Fille, and the book was his little compendium of philosophy which
his friend had retrieved from his bedroom in the early morning.
"You weren't going to forget it, Jean Jacques?" M. Fille said
reproachfully. "It is an old friend. It would not be happy with any one
else."
Jean Jacques looked M. Fille in the eyes. "Moi--je suis philosophe," he
said without any of the old insistence and pride and egotism, but as one
would make an affirmation or repeat a creed.
Pages:
270
271
272
273
274
275
276
277
278
279
280
281
282
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294