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Updated: June 20, 2025
There was no more carousing along the river, no drunken men wrangling in the booths, no affrays. Rose could ramble about as she liked, and she felt like a prisoner set free. Madame Destournier was better, and each day took a sail upon the river, which seemed to strengthen her greatly. Presently they would spend a fortnight at the new settlement, Mont Réal.
And if they went to France, she would rouse herself and go. M. Destournier was so occupied with the matters of the town that he had grown indifferent, and seldom played the lover. But how was Eustache to propose to a girl who could not, or would not understand, who never allowed any endearments or softened to sentiment.
I could not believe it at first, and I am afraid now it is a trick. You cannot trust an Indian." Rose drew a long breath. Then her fate was sealed. Or, if they were attacked in the night, it would be some compensation to die together. They came in at last, with Destournier on an improvised hemlock litter. The fire blazed up brightly, making a striking picture of the eager faces.
The Algonquin hit him a blow over the head with the stout club he carried. "He will not get much further," he commented, as the Indian dropped over motionless. "Have you seen M. Giffard?" Destournier asked. "Non, non. The men came back." "He is not at the fort." "Shall we follow on?" Destournier nodded. They heard a step crunching over the snow and waited breathlessly.
How fragrant the fresh balsam of fir was, and the tired girl soon fell asleep. M. Destournier had been quite engrossed with a few forgotten things that had to go to Tadoussac. Then the vessel pushed off and he turned to the storehouse. Presently a load would go to France. Though he was mechanically busy, his thoughts turned to Rose. She must have another home.
After that moonlight battle with himself, Destournier allowed his soul no further thought of the present Rose, but dreamed over the frank child-charm she had possessed for him. He grew grave and silent, and spent much of his time with the Sieur. Spring was very late. It seemed as if old Quebec would never throw off her ermine mantle.
Miladi was neither better nor worse, some days so irritable that nothing could please her. "She would keep M. Destournier beside her all the time," said Wanamee, "but a man has business. He is not meant for a nurse, and to yield to every whim. She is not a happy woman, miladi, and one hardly knows how much of her illness is imaginary.
Ralph Destournier went gayly along, whistling a merry French song that was nearly all chorus, climbing, slipping, springing, wondering in his heart as many a man did then what had induced Samuel de Champlain to dream out a city on this craggy, rocky spot. Yet its wildness had an impressive grandeur.
"If you will go," she began hoarsely, and she seemed to strain her very soul to utter the words, "and bring back M. Destournier, and the others, I will marry you not now, but months hence, when I can resolve upon the step. I shall have to learn no, you must not touch me, nor kiss me, until I give you leave." "But you must let me take your hand once, and promise by the Holy Mother of God."
There spoke the devotee. Destournier wondered a little how the Sieur had come to choose a dévote for a wife. For he was a born explorer, with a body and a will of such strength that present defeat only spurred him on. But where was there a woman to match him, to add to his courage and resolve! Perhaps men did not need such women. Destournier was not an enthusiast in religious matters.
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