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Updated: May 23, 2025
Where he had been and what doing no one asked, for he was mysterious in his movements, and always uncommunicative, and people did not care to tempt his inhospitable tongue. When Pomfrette was so far recovered that he might be left alone, Parpon said to him one evening: "Pomfrette, you must go to Mass next Sunday."
"Maxime," he said involuntarily and half-eagerly, for he and the lad had been great friends. Maxime's face brightened, then became clouded; he stood still an instant, and presently, turning round and looking at Pomfrette askance, ran away behind the house, saying: "Non, non!"
Pomfrette heard, and he drew himself together, his jaws shutting with ferocity, and his hand flying to the belt where his voyageur's case-knife hung. The Cure did not see this. Without turning his head towards Pomfrette, he said: "I have commanded you, my children. Leave the leper alone."
You, there, Muroc, with your charcoal face, who was it walk thirty miles in the dead of winter to bring a doctor to your wife, eh? She die, but that is no matter who was it? It was Luc Pomfrette. You, Alphonse Durien, who was it drag you out of the bog at the Cote Chaudiere? It was Luc Pomfrette. You, Jacques Baby, who was it that lied for you to the Protestant girl at Faribeau?
The picture was so ludicrous that Pomfrette laughed with a devilish humour, and flinging the pitcher at the bag, he walked away towards his own house. Duclosse, pale and frightened, stepped from among the fragments of crockery, and with backward glances towards Pomfrette joined his comrade.
It was the Cure, the beloved M. Fabre, whose life had been spent among them, whom they obeyed as well as they could, for they were but frail humanity, after all crude, simple folk, touched with imagination. "Luc Pomfrette, why have you done this? What provocation had you?" The Cure's voice was stern and cold, his usually gentle face had become severe, his soft eyes were piercing and determined.
Pomfrette pulled out a greasy dollar-bill from his pocket the last he owned in the world and threw it on the counter. Then he reached over, caught up a brandy-bottle from the shelf, knocked off the neck with a knife, and, pouring a tumblerful, drank it off at a gasp. His head came up, his shoulders straightened out, his eyes snapped fire.
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.
At last the Cure left him, and came no more; and he bade Parpon do the same as soon as Pomfrette was able to leave his bed. But Parpon did as he willed. He had been in Pontiac only a few days since the painful business in front of the Louis Quinze.
It was the Cure, the beloved M. Fabre, whose life had been spent among them, whom they obeyed as well as they could, for they were but frail humanity, after all crude, simple folk, touched with imagination. "Luc Pomfrette, why have you done this? What provocation had you?" The Cure's voice was stern and cold, his usually gentle face had become severe, his soft eyes were piercing and determined.
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