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The moment was almost a solemn one. It seemed to mark an epoch in the tide of our year. Claude, Benôit, George and a decrepit gardener would abandon all work and prepare boats, guns and covers on the Marne. Oh, the wonderful still hours just before dawn! Ah, that indescribable, intense, yet harmonious silence that preceded the arrival of our prey! Alas, all is but memory now.
"I would tell you, readily, madame, but then, madame, you are so weak with monsieur!" "Come, go on, what is it?" "I know now, madame, why master wanted to show me the door: he has confidence in nobody but Benoit, and Benoit is playing the mum with me." "Well, what does that prove? Has anything been discovered?"
Benoit looked gravely attentive, and a little anxiously watchful of Daisy's. "The best way will be to tell you. Juanita, they are I mean, we are playing pictures at home." "What is that, Miss Daisy?"
Benoît, that Master Francis heard the bell of the Sorbonne ring out the Angelus while he was finishing his "Small Testament" at Christmastide in 1456. Towards this benefactor he usually gets credit for a respectable display of gratitude. But with his trap and pitfall style of writing, it is easy to make too sure.
Late as was the hour, improbable as was success, he would try the house of his adopted father, the chaplain of St. Benoit. He ran there all the way, and knocked timidly. There was no answer. He knocked again and again, taking heart with every stroke; and at last steps were heard approaching from within. A barred wicket fell open in the iron-studded door, and emitted a gush of yellow light.
Benoît was dejected and his lips were drawn and trembling. "He's killed a bear!" said he, with glittering eye; "you should have seen it, ah! a tame bear, of course. Listen he was coming back from hunting with the Marquis and Mademoiselle Berthe and some people behind. And he comes on a wandering showman with a performing bear.
Now there was no person whom she so much dreaded as Narcisse, and when Berenger spoke of him as a feeble fop, she shuddered as though she knew him to have something of the tiger. 'Do you remember Benoit? she said; 'poor Benoit, who came to Normandy as my laquais? When I went back to Anjou he married a girl from Leurre, and went to aid his father at the farm.
Now I'm beat to see you lie there. I don't see what is the use of being good, if it don't get none." "Oh, Mrs. Harbonner!" said Daisy, "I am glad my foot was broken." "Well, I'm beat!" was all Mrs. Harbonner could say. "You air, be you?" "It hasn't done me any harm at all; and it has done me a great deal of good." Mrs. Harbonner stood staring at Daisy. "The promise is sure," said Mrs. Benoit.
'You know, wrote an inhabitant of St Benoit to a friend in Montreal, 'where the younger Arnoldi got his supply of butter, or where another got the guitar he carried back with him from the expedition about the neck. And it is probable that the British officers, and perhaps Sir John Colborne himself, winked at some things which they could not officially recognize.
"Where is it in the foot?" "It's all over, I think; in my head and everywhere. Hush, Juanita; never mind." Mrs. Benoit, however, tried the soothing effect of a long gentle brushing of Daisy's head. This lasted till Daisy said she could bear it no longer. She was restless. "Will my love hear a hymn?" "It will wake papa." Mrs. Benoit cared nothing for that. Her care was her poor little charge.
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