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Updated: May 23, 2025
When you went away to the woods you never left a penny for candles, nor for Masses to be said for your father's soul; yet you sold his horse and his little house, and spent the money in drink. Not a cent for a candle, but " "It's a lie," cried Pomfrette, shaking with rage from head to foot. A long horror-stricken "Ah!" broke from the crowd. The Cure's face became graver and colder.
There was not a stick of fire-wood in the shed, not a thing to eat or drink in cellar or cupboard. The door of the shed at the back was open, and the dog-chains lay covered with frost and half embedded in mud. With a shiver of misery Pomfrette raised the brandy to his mouth, drank every drop, and threw the bottle on the floor. Then he went to the front door, opened it, and stepped outside.
The dog sprang into the room, went straight to the fireplace, lay down, and with tongue lolling and body panting looked at Pomfrette with blinking, uncomprehending eyes.
"You loved Junie?" the Cure said to Pomfrette. "I could have killed her, but I've always loved her," answered Luc. Then he raised his voice excitedly: "I love her, love her, love her but what's the good! She'd never 've been happy with me. Look what my love drove her to! What's the good, at all!" "She said she did not love you then, Luc Michee," said Parpon, interrupting.
He left all his money with me: some to pay for Masses for his father's soul, some to buy things for for our home; and the rest to keep till he came back." "Yes, yes," said Pomfrette, his eyes fixed painfully on her face "yes, yes." "The day after Luc went away John Dicey the Protestant come to me. I'd always liked him; he could talk as Luc couldn't, and it sounded nice. I listened and listened.
From a distant corner of the gallery a deeply veiled woman also looked down at Pomfrette, and her hand trembled on the desk before her. At last the Cure came forward to the chancel steps. "What is it, Parpon?" he asked gravely. "It is Luc Pomfrette, M'sieu' le Cure." Pomfrette's eyes were closed. "He swore that he would never come to Mass again," answered the good priest.
For answer there came a sob, and then a terrible burst of weeping and anger and passionate denunciations against Junie Gauloir, against Pontiac, against the world. Parpon held his peace. The days, weeks, and months went by; and the months stretched to three years. In all that time Pomfrette came and went through Pontiac, shunned and unrepentant.
It was still while he was only a bundle of bones that one Sunday morning, Parpon, without a word, lifted him up in his arms and carried him out of the house. Pomfrette did not speak at first: it seemed scarcely worth while; he was so weak he did not care. "Where are you going?" he said at last, as they came well into the village. The bell in St.
He looked Pomfrette in the face. "Foul-mouthed and wicked man, it is two years since you took the Blessed Sacrament. Last Easter day you were in a drunken sleep while Mass was being said; after the funeral of your own father you were drunk again.
Saviour's had stopped ringing for Mass, and the streets were almost empty. "I'm taking you to Mass," said Parpon, puffing under his load, for Pomfrette made an ungainly burden. "Hand of a little devil, no!" cried Pomfrette, startled. "I said I'd never go to Mass again, and I never will. "You said you'd never go to Mass till you were carried; so it's all right."
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