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Menard's face was less amiable once he was away from the house. He knew from experience the disagreeable task that lay before him. But there was nothing to be said, so he went to his quarters and took a last look at the orders. Then taking off his coat and his rough shirt, he placed the papers carefully in a buckskin bag, which he hung about his neck. Everything was ready at the wharf.
Sitting on a bundle, a rod away, was a girl, perhaps eighteen or nineteen years old, wearing a simple travelling dress. Her hands were clasped tightly in her lap, and she gazed steadily out over the water with an air that would have been haughty save for the slight upward tip of her nose. Menard's eyes sobered, and he handed his musket to one of the canoemen.
They ate in silence, in spite of Menard's efforts to arouse them. After the meal they hung about, each hesitating to wander away, and yet seeing no pleasure in gathering about the fire. But he said nothing of the episode that was in all their minds, preferring to await the priest's report.
"I do not think Monsieur Reece Zhone is for me," said Angélique, with intuitive avoidance of Colonel Menard's name; Peggy cared nothing for the fate of Colonel Menard. "Indeed, I believe his mind dwells more on his sister now than on any one else." "I hate people's relations!" cried Peggy brutally; "especially their sick relations. I couldn't run every evening to pet Maria Jones and feed her pap."
Menard's eyes rested on an obscure signature in a lower corner, "C. de C." "You certainly have reason to be proud of the work. But may I ask about the perspective? Should the maiden appear larger than the chapel?" The priest gazed at the painting with an unsettled expression. "Yes," he said, "perhaps you are right, M'sieu. At any rate I will give the matter thought and prayer."
After Menard's appeal to his gratitude he had shown a willingness to be friendly, and, though he dared do little openly, he had given the captives many a comfort on the hard journey southward. Later in the morning Menard and Mademoiselle St. Denis were sitting at the door of their hut.
They had been placed in the inner circle, next to the chiefs of the nations, where Menard's words would have the weight that, to the mind of the Big Throat, was due to a representative of the French Governor, even in time of war. Father Claude, sitting on the left of the maid, was looking quietly into the fire.
We spoke of it only once, that night on the river. She was confused, and she asked me not to speak. She does not know him. She has not seen him since she was a child." Menard said nothing. He was gripping the priest's arm, and gazing at the sleeping maid. "It was her father," added Father Claude. Menard's hand relaxed. "Good-night, Father." He walked slowly toward the bed on the knoll.
The maid stood again in the doorway, resting a hand on the post, and leaning forward with startled eyes. "He has found he has found him " she faltered. The Indian did not look at her. He drew something from the breast of his shirt, and threw it on the ground at Menard's feet. Then, with broken-hearted dignity, he strode away and disappeared in the night.
Carline abandoned her husband's automobile there. Of course, the shanty-boaters did not tell, if they knew; the River tells no tales. Certainly, of all the women in the world this casual visitor at Attorney Menard's need not attract attention.
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