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Updated: June 2, 2025
'I cannot to get enough." "Stop!" said Charley, in a strained, harsh voice. "Not yet, M'sieu'," said Portugais. "It is good for you to hear what I say." "'Come, Kat'leen! the man say, an' he blow hout the candle. I hear them walk away, an' the door shut behin' them. Then I hear anudder voice ah, that is a baby very young baby!" Charley quickly got to his feet. "Not another word!" he said.
"As you wish, M'sieu'," Jo answered, then looked inquiringly at the surgeon. "In about five days, Portugais. Have you a steady hand and a quick eye?" Jo spread out his hands in deprecation, and turned to the Curb, as though for him to answer. "Jo is something of a physician and surgeon too, Marcel. He has a gift.
But his heart yearned towards the man nevertheless. In his own world of the parish of Chaudiere Jo Portugais was counted a widely travelled man. He had adventured freely on the great rivers and in the forests, and had journeyed up towards Hudson's Bay farther than any man in seven parishes. Jo's father and mother had both died in one year when he was twenty- five.
She imagined M'sieu' to be at Vadrome Mountain, until, glancing round the crowd at the quack-doctor's wagon, she saw Jo Portugais gloomily watching the travelling tinker of human bodies. Evidently M'sieu' was not at Vadrome Mountain. He was not far from her.
"The Sick Man at Jo Portugais' House" came out of a mysterious distance. Something in his eyes said, "I have seen, I have known," told her that when he spoke she would answer freely, that they were kinsfolk in some hidden way.
The demeanour of the people had been so humble and rapt that the place and the plateau and the valley seemed alone in creation with the lofty drama of the ages. The Cure's eyes shone when he saw on a little knoll in the trees, apart from the worshippers and spectators, Charley and Jo Portugais. His cup of content was now full.
As he folded up the paper to put it into his pocket, Jo Portugais entered the room. He threw in a corner the wet bag which had protected his shoulders from the rain, hung his hat on a peg of the chimney-piece, nodded to Charley, and put a kettle on the little fire. "A big storm, M'sieu'," Jo said presently as he put some tea into a pot.
Then, bursting in and locking the door, she hurried to her room, undressed quickly, got into bed without saying her prayers, and buried her face in the pillow, shivering and overwrought. The footsteps she had heard were those of the Cure and Jo Portugais. The Cure had sent for Jo to do some last work upon a little altar, to be used the next day for the first time.
Within the house itself they were met by an old Irishwoman, who, in response to their wish "to see the brave man's body," showed them into a room where a man lay dead with a bullet through his heart. It was the body of Jo Portugais, whose master and friend lay in another room across the hallway. The lady turned back in disappointment the dead man was little like a hero.
"Perhaps you don't like the Passion Play," said Madame Dauphin disdainfully. "We ain't through with it yet," said the death's-head groom. "It is a pious and holy mission," said Madame Dauphin. "Even that Jo Portugais worked night and day till he went away to Montreal, and he always goes to Mass now. He's to take Pontius Pilate when he comes back.
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