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Updated: June 4, 2025
He remembered a painting which he had seen a long time ago in Montreal. It was L'Esprit de la Solitude The Spirit of the Wild painted by Conné, the picturesque French-Canadian friend of Lord Strathcona and Mount Royal, and a genius of the far backwoods who had drawn his inspiration from the heart of the wilderness itself.
Wessel, the steward, died suddenly of heart failure. He was Tom's immediate superior and in a way his friend. He, and he alone, had received Tom's recommendation from Mr. Conne, and knew something of him. He had given Tom that enviable place as captain's boy, and throughout these few days had treated him with a kind of pleasant familiarity.
He would rather be off with Uncle Sam, riding along the French roads, with the French children calling to him. For the first time in his life he was nervous and afraid not of being caught but of catching someone; of the danger of suspecting and being mistaken. Mr. Conne, who never missed anything, noticed his perturbation and patted him on the shoulder saying,
He caught himself up and thought of Mr. Conne. But this was his time off and he had the right to think about anything he pleased. He could not be reprimanded for just thinking. Nothing would tempt him to run the risk of another encounter with one of those stern, brisk-speaking officers, but he could think. And he wondered whether that black spot had been made by a match-end.
Tom shifted from one foot to the other, waiting. Mr. Conne worked his cigar over to the opposite corner of his mouth and observed to an American officer that the day was going to be warm. Then he glanced up and smiled pleasantly at the boys crowding at the rail. He might have been waiting on a street corner for a car. "Not nervous, are you?" he smiled at Tom.
Nobody seemed to have noticed what had happened. "Keep your mind on your part, Tommy," said Mr. Conne warningly. Tom saw that of all those in sight only one wore glasses a black-haired youth who kept his hands on the shoulders of the man before him.
"Oh, Père Jerome! mo pas conné, I dunno. You know w'ere's dad 'ouse of Michè Jean Tomkin? Mo courri 'ci, mo courri l
Let them be, all such things as are these: silence and speaking, fasting and eating, onliness and company, and all such other, and take no keep to them; thou wotest not what they mean, and, I pray thee, covet not to wit; and if thou shall at any time think or speak of them, think then and say that they are so high and so worthy things of perfection, for to conne speak, or for to conne be still, for to conne fast, and for to conne eat, for to conne be only, and to conne be in company, that it were but a folly and a foul presumption to such a frail wretch as thou art, for to meddle thee of so great perfection.
Both the ear and the piercing eagle gaze set him all agog. Should he speak? The lieutenant was gazing steadfastly down at Mr. Conne and coming nearer with every step. Of course, Mr. Conne would stop him anyway, but To mention that piercing stare and that ear after the man had been stopped for the more tangible reason there would be no triumph in that.
There seemed to be no end of them. There came now a fellow whom he watched closely. He had blond hair and blue eyes, but no glasses. He looked something like something like oh, who? Fritzie Schmitt, whom he used to know in Bridgeboro. No, he didn't not so much. But his blond hair and blue eyes did not escape Mr. Conne. Nothing. "Watching, Tommy?" "Yes, sir."
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