United States or Tonga ? Vote for the TOP Country of the Week !
Pomfrette's face was pitiful to see drawn, staring. "Junie!" he said hoarsely. Her eyes were red with weeping, her face was very pale. "M'sieu' le Cure" she said, "you must listen to me" the Cure's face had become forbidding "sinner though I am. You want to be just, don't you? Ah, listen! I was to be married to Luc Pomfrette, but I did not love him then.
At last, when he needed a new suit so torn had his others become at woodchopping and many kinds of work he went to the village tailor, and was promptly told that nothing but Luc Pomfrette's grave-clothes would be cut and made in that house.
"Till he was carried, M'sieu' le Cure and I've carried him." "Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc Pomfrette?" asked the Cure. "I did not know I was coming no." Pomfrette's brown eyes met the priest's unflinchingly. "You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life." "I'd rather have died," answered the sick man simply. "Died, and been cast to perdition!"
He scarcely knew what he said, but it had meaning. "Good-bye-leper," he answered. Pomfrette's arm flew out to throw the pitcher at the mealman's head, but Duclosse, with a grunt of terror, flung up in front of his face the small bag of meal that he carried, the contents pouring over his waistcoat from a loose corner.
"What did she do?" Pomfrette's hands clinched. "What's in my own noddle, and not for any one else," he answered sulkily. "Tiens, tiens, what a close mouth! What did she do? Who knows? What you think she do, it's this. You think she pretends to love you, and you leave all your money with her.
"Till he was carried, M'sieu' le Cure and I've carried him." "Did you come of your own free will, and with a repentant heart, Luc Pomfrette?" asked the Cure. "I did not know I was coming no." Pomfrette's brown eyes met the priest's unflinchingly. "You have defied God, and yet He has spared your life." "I'd rather have died," answered the sick man simply. "Died, and been cast to perdition!"
"Mealman," said he, "it takes years to make folks love you; you can make them hate you in an hour. La! La! it's easier to hate than to love. Come along, m'sieu' dusty-belly." Pomfrette's life in Pontiac went on as it began that day. Not once a day, and sometimes not once in twenty days, did any human being speak to him.
"Mealman," said he, "it takes years to make folks love you; you can make them hate you in an hour. La! La! it's easier to hate than to love. Come along, m'sieu' dusty-belly." Pomfrette's life in Pontiac went on as it began that day. Not once a day, and sometimes not once in twenty days, did any human being speak to him.
At a word from Parpon the shrivelled old sexton cleared a way through the aisle, making a stir, through which the silver bell at Pomfrette's knee tinkled, in answer, as it were, to the tinkling of the acolyte's bell in the sanctuary. People turned at the sound, women stopped telling their beads, some of the choir forgot their chanting.
Parpon's hands alone cared for the house; he did all that was to be done; no woman had entered the place since Pomfrette's cousin, old Mme. Burgoyne, left it on the day of his shame. When at last Pomfrette opened his eyes, and saw the Cure standing beside him, he turned his face to the wall, and to the exhortation addressed to him he answered nothing.
Word Of The Day