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Updated: June 6, 2025
How could she have turned from the husband of her choice, and that husband so brave and tender a man as Sieur Angelot? For day by day it seemed to Jeanne that she found new graces and tenderness in him. Yet she knew she must pain him, too. Only for a brief while, perhaps. And there was a curious hesitation about the new home.
And twice a week you will go to the sisters, I have promised Father Rameau. There will be plenty of time to run and play besides." Jeanne Angelot looked steadily down on the ground. A caterpillar was dragging its length along and she touched it with her foot. "It was once a butterfly. It will spin itself up in a web and hang somewhere all winter, and in the spring turn to a butterfly again."
"A Christian, I hope. For several generations we have been on the other side. But I am not unmindful of good works or good lives." Père Rameau bowed his head. "What I wished to talk about was a little girl," St. Armand began, after a pause. "Jeanne Angelot, I have heard her called." "Ah, Monsieur, you know something about her, then?" returned the priest, eagerly. "No, I wish I did.
The blue, sunlit arch overhead, the waving trees that sent dancing shadows like troops of elfin sprites over the water, the fret in one place where a rock broke the murmurous lapping, the swish somewhere else, where grasses and weeds and water blooms rooted in the sedge rocked back and forth with the slow tide how peaceful it all was! Yet Jeanne Angelot was not at peace.
"Monsieur Angelot, I think you will not need us in the untangling of this strange incident, but we shall be glad to hear its ending. I shall expect you to dine with me as by previous arrangement. I wish you might bring your pretty daughter." The Commandant bowed to the company and turned, attended by his suite.
He may not be such a gallant dancing Jack as the young officer, or a marvelous fiddler like M. Loisel's nephew, who I hear has been paying court to you. Mam'selle Jeanne Angelot, you have made yourself the talk of the town, and you may be glad to have a respectable man marry you." "Oh, if I were the talk of the town I care too much for Pierre to give him such a wife.
"O Jeanne," whispered Marie, "how splendid you are! No husband would ever dare beat you." "I should tear out his eyes if he did." There were days when Jeanne Angelot thought she should smother in the stuffy school, and the din of the voices went through her head like the rushing noise of a whirlwind. She had stolen out of the room once or twice and had not been called to an account for it.
Sieur Angelot, who had been standing, now took a seat. "I should like to see the trinkets you spoke of and the clothes," he said with an air of authority. Father Rameau brought them. Father Gilbert and the sister retired to an adjoining room. "Yes," the Sieur remarked, "this is our miniature. It was done in Boston.
She fasted and prayed, she did penance in her convent cell, she prayed for the Sieur Angelot that he might be converted to the true faith. It was not as her husband, but as one might wrestle for any sinful soul. And that the child would be well brought up.
And then Jeanne Angelot went sailing up the beautiful lakes again, past shores in later summer bloom and beauty and islands that might be fairy haunts. They were enchanted bowers to her, but it was some time before she knew what had lent them such an exquisite charm.
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