that closet!” said the constable, as he levelled his pistol at the door.
Mademoiselle threw open the door and sprang away, with her hands over her ears. There was no one there; neither was there any one under the bed.
“Open that trunk!” eying the little leather-covered box.
“Monsieur, you will respect—but—as you will.” She stooped over the trunk and threw back the lid; on the top was a dainty white skirt, embroidered beautifully. The little milliner was blushing violently.
“That will do!” said the constable. “There is no one there.”
“Get out of the road!” he cried to the knot of people who had collected at the door. “I have been for my wife’s bonnet; it is not finished.” But the people looked at his pistol, which he had forgotten to put away. He went across to the widow’s.
“Look here!” he said, “you had better stop this or I’ll have the law on you—no words now! Making a fool of me before the people—getting me to put on my coat and bring my pistol to frighten a cat from under the stove. No words now!”
“Monsieur Cuerrier,” inquired Madame Laroque that night, “who is it that Mademoiselle Viau writes to?”
“I am an official of the government. I do not tell state secrets.”
“State secrets, indeed! Depend upon it, there are secrets in those letters which the state would like to know.”
“That is not my business. I only send the letters where they are posted, and refuse to tell amiable widows where they go.”
The hairdresser, forgetting his constant fear of disarranging his attire, threw back his head and laughed wildly.
“Trust a barber to laugh,” said the widow. Villeblanc sobered up and look sadly at Cuerrier; he could not bear to be called a barber.
“And you uphold her in this—a person who comes from no one knows where, and writes to no one knows who——”
“I know who she writes to——” The widow got furious.
“Yes, who she writes to—yes, of course you do—that person who comes out of her house without ever having gone into it, and who is visited by men who go in and never come out——”
“How do you know he went in?”
“I saw him.”
“How do you know he never came out?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“Ah! then you were watching?”
“Well, what if I was! The devil has a hand in it.”
“I have no doubt,” said Cuerrier, insinuatingly.
“Enough, fool!” exclaimed the widow—“but wait, I have not done yet!”
“You had better rest, or you will have the law on you.”
The widow was afraid of the law.
About six months after this, when the snow was coming on, a messenger came from the city with a telegram for Monsieur Cuerrier—at least, it was in his care. He very seldom went out, but he got his boots and went across to Mademoiselle Viau’s. The telegram was for her. When she had read it she crushed it in her hand and leaned against the wall. But she recovered herself.
“Monsieur Cuerrier, you have always been a good friend to me—help me! I must go away—you will watch my little place when I am gone!”
The postmaster was struck with pity, and he assisted her. She left that night.
“Accomplice!” the widow hissed in his ear the first chance she got.
About three weeks after this, when Madame Laroque asked for Le Monde, Cuerrier refused to give it to her.
“Where is it?”
“It has been lost.”
“Lost!” said the widow, derisively. “Well, I will find it.” In an hour she came back with the paper.
“There!” said she, thrusting it under the postmaster’s nose so that he could not get his pipe back to his mouth. Cuerrier looked consciously at the paragraph which she had pointed out. He had seen it before.
“Our readers will remember that the police, while attempting to arrest one Ellwell for the jewel-robbery which occurred in the city some time ago, were compelled to fire on the man in self-defence. He died last night in the arms of a female relative, who had been sent for at his request. He was known by various names—Durocher, Gillet, etc.—and the police have had much trouble with him.”
“There!” said the widow.
“Well, what of that?”
“He died in the arms of a female relative.”
“Well, were you the relative?”
“Indeed! my fine fellow, be careful! Do you think I would be the female relative of a convict? Do you not know any of these names?” The postmaster felt guilty; he did know one of the names.
“They are common enough,” he replied. “The name of my aunt’s second husband was Durocher.”
“It will not do!” said the widow. “Somebody builds a house, no one knows who; people come and go, no one knows how; and you, a stupid postmaster, shut your eyes and help things along.”
Three days after this, Mademoiselle Viau came home. She was no longer the little one in gray; she was the little one in black. She came straight to Monsieur Cuerrier to get her cat. Then she went home. The widow watched her go in. “Now,” she said, “we will not see her come out again.”
Mademoiselle Viau refused to take any more work. She was sick, she said; she wanted to rest. She rested for two weeks, and Monsieur Cuerrier brought her food ready cooked. Then he stopped; she was better. One evening Madame Laroque peeped in at the side window. She saw the little milliner quite distinctly. She was on her knees, her face was hidden in her arms. The fire was very bright, and the lamp was lighted.
Two days after that the widow said to Cuerrier: “It is very strange there is no smoke. Has Mademoiselle Viau gone away?”
“Yes, she has gone.”
“Did you see her go?”
“No.”
“It is as I said—no one has seen her go. But wait, she will come back; and no one will see her come.”
That was three years ago, and she has not come back. All the white curtains are pulled down. Between the one that covers the front window and the sash stands the pot in which grew the geranium. It only had one blossom all the time it was alive, and it is dead now and looks like a dry stick. No one knows what will become of the house. Madame Laroque thinks that Monsieur Cuerrier knows. She expects, some morning, to look across and see the little milliner cast down crumbs for the birds. In the meantime, in every corner of the house the spiders are weaving webs, and an enterprising caterpillar has blocked up the key-hole with his cocoon.
THE DESJARDINS.
JUST at the foot of the hill, where the bridge crossed the Blanche, stood one of the oldest houses in Viger. It was built of massive timbers. The roof curved and projected beyond the eaves, forming the top of a narrow veranda. The whole house was painted a dazzling white except the window-frames, which were green. There was a low stone fence between the road and the garden, where a few simple flowers grew. Beyond the fence was a row of Lombardy poplars, some of which had commenced to die out. On the opposite side of the road was a marshy field, where by day the marsh