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When the French arrived in Canada with Chauvin, in the year 1600, they began to monopolize the fur trade of all the Indian nations, but some years later the English established themselves on the shores of Hudson Bay, and prosecuted the trade for their own benefit.
Chauvin was there with Madame Rilette, the human geranium, and Hammett; Wildrake, editor of the Quartre d'Arts revue and the Baronne G., Paris's smartest and most up-to-date lady novelist. The Baronne had been married four times. Her latest hobby was libel actions.
When Don is home I have no fear, but when he is away there is really no one to study your interests, and, after all, Flamby, you are only a girl." "There is Mrs. Chumley and Mr. Hammett and Claude Chauvin." "Three quite delightful people, Flamby, I admit. But Hammett and Chauvin cannot always be with you, and Mrs.
Don replaced the drawing in the official envelope, smiling happily. "Old Chauvin is not exactly chatty," he remarked; "but he knows." "I should say that he was a man of very extraordinary talent," said Thessaly, "even if I were unacquainted with his work. His choice of a companion alone marks him as no ordinary mortal." Don laughed outright, fitting the envelope into his pocket again.
"Everybody goes on at me," said Flamby tremulously. "I haven't done any harm." "Who has been 'going on' at you, little Flamby?" "You have, and Chauvin, and everybody." "But what have they said? What have I said?" "That I am no good an absolute rotter!" "Flamby! Who has said such a thing? Not Chauvin, I'll swear, and not I. You are wilfully misjudging your real friends, little girl.
In a few hours we reached Elizabeth Lake. I pointed out the very spot at which Chauvin and myself camped thirty-five years before. Ah, the fleeting years! How quickly they have sped! What experiences we have had! What pleasures we have enjoyed! What sorrows endured in thirty-five years!
"Yet you seem to have quite a number of girl friends come to see you as well as boys." "Yes. You see I make allowances for them and then they are quite good friends." "Who was that fair man who took you to the theatre last night, and brought you home in a lovely car?" "Orlando James. He has the next studio to Mr. Chauvin. I hate him." Mrs. Chumley's blue eyes became even more circular than usual.
He despised the modern breech-loading rifle, and insisted on shooting an old-fashioned, muzzle-loading, single-barrel rifle, made by a fellow townsman, Henry Slaughterbach. It was an exceedingly accurate and powerful shooting gun. Chauvin was a thorough hunter, well versed in woodcraft, up in camp equipage and the requirements of men on a two or three weeks' hunting trip. Off in the Dust.
Chauvin had just died, after wasting the lives of a score or more of men in a second and a third attempt to establish the fur-trade at Tadoussac.
I drank great quantities of the sulphur water, and bathed my face in it continuously. The morning after the yellow-jacket incident, Chauvin and the roustabout, the latter taking my gun, left me in bed and went out after deer. They left without breakfast, about daylight. Shortly afterwards, two of the horses broke loose and ran through camp terror stricken.
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