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No matter at what hour Gaston returned, he found Jacques waiting; and when he woke he found him ready, as now, on this morning, after a strange night. "What is it, Jacques?" he repeated. The old name! Jacques shivered a little with pleasure. Presently he broke out with: "Monsieur, when do we go back?" "Go back where?" "To the North, monsieur." "What's in your noddle now, Brillon?"
An hour later, he said to her, as they parted for the night: "I hope, with all my heart, that you will never repent of it, Delia." "You can make me not repent of it. It rests with you, Gaston; indeed, indeed, all with you." "Poor girl!" he said, unconsciously, as he entered his room. He could not have told why he said it. "Why will you always sit up for me, Brillon?" he asked a moment afterwards.
They are out of place in the landscape, Brillon; for it is all luxury and lush, and they are crumples crumples! But yet there isn't any use being sorry for them, for they don't grasp anything outside the life they are living. Can't you guess how they live? Look at the doors of the houses shut, and the windows sealed; yet they've been up these three hours!
No matter at what hour Gaston returned, he found Jacques waiting; and when he woke he found him ready, as now, on this morning, after a strange night. "What is it, Jacques?" he repeated. The old name! Jacques shivered a little with pleasure. Presently he broke out with: "Monsieur, when do we go back?" "Go back where?" "To the North, monsieur." "What's in your noddle now, Brillon?"
To Madame Brillon, a wealthy and amiable lady of the neighborhood, he wrote a number of those clever sketches which might well find a place in the "Spectator," such as The Ephemera, The Petition of the Left Hand, The Whistle, The Dialogue between Franklin and the Gout, and others almost as well known.
He did not know whether, in his new position, he was expected to suggest. Belward understood, and it pleased him. "If we had lost the track of a buck moose, or were nosing a cache of furs, you'd find a way, Brillon." "Voila," said Jacques; "then, why not wear the buckskin vest, the red- silk sash, and the boots like these?" tapping his own leathers. "You look a grand seigneur so."
Again I drifted back to the Rockies and over into the plains; found Jacques Brillon, my servant, had a couple of years' work and play, gathered together some money, as good a horse and outfit as the North could give, and started with Brillon and his broncho having got both sense and experience, I hope for Ridley Court. And here I am.
Now, Jacques had been in his young days in Quebec the village story-teller; one who, by inheritance or competency, becomes semi- officially a raconteur for the parish; filling in winter evenings, nourishing summer afternoons, with tales, weird, childlike, daring. Now Gaston turned and said to Jacques: "Well, Brillon, I've forgotten, as you see; tell them how it was."
So saying, Gaston nodded Jacques away with him, leaving the huntsman sick with apprehension. "You see how it is to be done, Brillon?" said Gaston. Jacques's brown eyes twinkled. "You have the grand trick, sir." "I enjoy the game; and so shall you, if you will. You've begun well.
Presently they came over a hill, and down upon a little bridge. Belward drew rein, and looked up the valley. About two miles beyond the roofs and turrets of the Court showed above the trees. A whimsical smile came to his lips. "Brillon," he said, "I'm in sight of home." The half-breed cocked his head. It was the first time that Belward had called him "Brillon" he had ever been "Jacques."
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