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Don't let her see you like this. Then there's Father Rielle." "Where?" Poussette rose, superstitious fears of the village curé giving him strength and aiding his resolution. "Nowhere at present. But he's coming to tea. The cook told me he was." "What cook? I'm the cook!" with great dignity. "No, no. You are cook extraordinary, when you wish it.
"Ah and that, of course, you do not believe!" "For the matter of that, I never believe anything you say. How can I, how can anyone? You promised me you know, what and here you coolly talk to me about this other man, this wreck of a man, this sot, this Crabbe! And he is not the only one, I daresay Poussette gets his pay sometimes, and perhaps the priest as well!" "Gets his pay!
Everything favoured his quiet withdrawal, for the heat of the fire, the stacks of celery, and the splendid cognac, smuggled from the islands of St. Pierre and Miquelon, and purchased by Poussette for twenty cents a bottle, were beginning to tell on both Mr. Abercorn and the doctor. "Twenty cents, did you say?" hastily inquired the former, "I never heard anything like that!
"The day is feex, and I am bes' man." "What do you think about it, though? Don't you think he'll break out again?" Ringfield's anxious bitter inflections could not escape Poussette. "Ah-ha! Mr. Ringfield, sir you remember that I wanted Miss Clairville for myself? Bigosh but I have got over that, fine! Sir, I tell you this, me, a common man you can get over anything if you make up the mind.
What Poussette had told him then was true, and it was this, that before his departure for Montreal the guide had purchased enough spirit to fill a large flask, and whether shallow subterfuge or not, Crabbe certainly had a standing temptation at his elbow which he must have forgotten when Ringfield entered, cold and shivering and plainly in need of a stimulant.
Poussette collapsed on the improvised balsam couch, but managed to remark that he would not get up on account of Father Rielle, nor give him anything good to eat. "Why, I thought you liked him! Liked his good opinion, anyway!" "Beeg liar! Beeg rascal! I like you, Mr. Ringfield, when you don' take away my girl. You leave my bes' girl alone and I like you first rate.
There were symptoms of thaw stirring in Poussette, and the minister did his best to encourage them, but on the Saturday afternoon following his return, when it was necessary to hold some sustained business conversation with his patron, the latter could not be found. The bar was a model of Saturday cleanliness, damp and tidy, smelling equally of lager beer and yellow soap.
Where is the fun, or glory, or enjoyment of this muddling and tippling I am ashamed of you! Come on, I say!" But Poussette was hard to move; Crabbe, on the other hand, rose and shuffled out of doors in the direction of the forest; Ringfield thought he saw Madame Poussette's skimp skirts behind a tree; presently she emerged and stood talking to the guide. "Come now, Poussette! There's your wife.
This brought him very close to Pauline's chamber, looking on the familiar balcony, but he could detect nothing wrong or unusual; Poussette was wrapped in sleep and even Martin, the Indian guide and choreman, had evidently long gone his rounds and entered the house.
How the old familiar lines come back to one here in this solitary place! I suppose I'll go down to Oxford some day and see my old rooms, take Pauline. We'd like to keep in touch with you, Ringfield, send you a line now and then after you leave St. Ignace, for I don't figure you remaining here all your life at the beck and call of Poussette."
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