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But do not imagine that because the sun is so important he is of greater influence than M. Jean-Baptiste Godefroy, millionaire banker, director of the Comptoir Général de Crédit, administrator of several big companies, deputy and member of the General Counsel of the Eure, officer of the Legion of Honor, etc., etc.
"We tied the squealing pig at the door for sentinel, broke ice with our muskets, launched the canoe, and never stopped paddling till we reached Three Rivers." At that comes a loud sally of laughter from the sailors at the far end of the hall. Godefroy, the English trader, is singing a rhyme of All Souls' Day, and Allemand, the French pilot, protests. "Soul! Soul! For a soul-cake!
A wind of sighs swept across the white wastes. Short, sharp barkings rose from the shadowy depth of the ravine. Then the silence of desolation . . . then the moaning night-wind . . . then the shivering cry of the wolf-pack scouring on nightly hunt. For a moment neither Godefroy nor I spoke. Then the sinews, cutting deep, wakened consciousness. "Are they gone?" asked Godefroy hoarsely.
He could not openly favor Radisson; but he winked at the expedition by granting passports to the explorers, and the three men who were to accompany him, Jean Baptiste, son of Groseillers, Pierre Allemand, the pilot who was afterward given a commission to explore the Eskimo country, and Jean Godefroy, an interpreter. Jean Baptiste, Radisson's nephew, invested 500 pounds in goods for barter.
And when the fort guns boomed out the noon hour M. Radisson sprang up all impatience. "I'll wait no man's time," he vowed. "Losing time is losing the game! Launch out!" Chittering something about our throats being cut, Godefroy shrank back. With a quick stride M. Radisson was towering above him.
"He's lady enough to faint at first shot." "There'll be no first shot. Come, La Chesnaye! Three. Go on! Go on, Ben! Your wits work slow!" "Allemand, the pilot! He is drunk most of the time." "Four," counts M. Radisson. "Come over here, Allemand! You're drunk most of the time, like Ben. Go on!" "Godefroy, the English trader he sulks he's English he'll do!" "Five," laughs M. Radisson.
Besides Pierre Leroux, Balzac, Pauline Viardot-Garcia, and others who have already been mentioned in the foregoing chapters, she numbered among her most intimate friends the Republican politician and historian Louis Blanc, the Republican litterateur Godefroy Cavaignac, the historian Henri Martin, and the litterateur Louis Viardot, the husband of Pauline Garcia. I knew Chopin.
Jack Battle and I looked at each other, but the Indian fellow, who was our guard, emitted a harsh, rasping laugh. As for Godefroy, he was marching abreast of the braves gabbling a mumble-jumble of pleadings and threats, which, I know very well, ignored poor Jack. Godefroy would make a scapegoat of the weak to save his own neck, and small good his cowardice did him!
Then, with the lieutenant and two New Englanders to witness capitulation, he marched from the gates to do the same with the ship. Allemand and Godefroy kept sentinel duty at the gates. La Chesnaye, Forêt, and Jack Battle held the bastions, and the rest stood guard in front of the main building. From my place I saw how it happened.
I would have drawn Godefroy aside to inform him of my adventure, but Le Borgne stuck to us like a burr. Jean was busy helping M. de Radisson at the trade, or what was called "trade," when white men gave an awl for forty beaver-skins. "Godefroy," I said, "keep an eye on this Indian till I speak to M. de Radisson." And I turned to the group. 'Twas as pretty a bit of colour as I have ever seen.
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