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"My father died in that faith, Monsieur, but Chevet called me a beggar." "Chevet! no doubt he knows all, and has a dirty hand in the mess. He called you beggar, hey! hush, the fellow comes." He was a picture of insolent servility, as he stood there bowing, his gay dress fluttering with ribbons, his face smiling, yet utterly expressionless. La Barre lifted his eyes, and surveyed him coldly.
A new distribution had been arranged, Chevet accompanying the sergeant, leaving the Commissaire and me alone, except for the père, who had position in the bow. I observed this new arrangement from underneath lowered lashes, but without comment, quietly taking the place assigned me, and shading my face from the first rays of the sun.
The grouping of the chevet of the choir with the low roofs of the town lying at its base, and the gardens of the ducal chateau in the immediate foreground, forms an unusually varied combination of the picturesque. The wealth of Nevers in architectural monuments would be notable in a town many times its size.
Monsieur de la Salle found different reception in Quebec than when Frontenac ruled this colony. Where went the fur-stealer?" "To whom do you refer?" "To whom? Heaven help us, Chevet, the man would play nice with words. Well, let it go, my young cock, and answer me." "You mean the Sieur de la Salle?" "To be sure; I called him no worse than I have heard La Barre speak.
And so this Hugo Chevet threatened me! I am not of the blood, Mademoiselle, to take such things lightly. Yet wait why came you to me with such a tale? Have you no friends?" "None, Monsieur," I answered gravely, and regretfully, "other than the nuns to whom I went to school, and they are useless in such a case.
No doubt it was best, as the men soon forgot the tragedy of Hugo Chevet's death, and after the first day I do not recall hearing the murder discussed. Such deeds were not uncommon, and Chevet had made no friends to cherish his memory.
"There can nothing injure me here, Monsieur, not with Cassion traveling to the Illinois. No doubt he will leave behind him those who will observe my movements that cannot harm." "It is Hugo Chevet, I fear." "Chevet! my uncle I do not understand." "No, for he is your uncle, and you know him only in such relationship. He may have been to you kind and indulgent. I do not ask.
Chevet did not return to the house after Monsieur Cassion's canoe had disappeared. I saw him walking back and forth along the river bank, smoking, and seemingly thinking out some problem. Nor did he appear until I had the evening meal ready, and called to him down the arbor.
"Only the priests about the table talking, and Cassion seemingly sound asleep. Could there be any reason why he should desire the death of Chevet?" "I know of none. My uncle felt bitter over the concealment of my fortune, and no doubt the two had exchanged words, but there was no open quarrel. Chevet was rough and headstrong, yet he was not killed in fight, for the knife thrust was from behind."
It was a child I thought of under that name a slender, brown-eyed girl, as blithesome as a bird. No, I had not forgotten; only the magic of three years has made of you a woman. Again and again have I questioned in Montreal and Quebec, but no one seemed to know. At the convent they said your father fell in Indian skirmish." "Yes; ever since then I have lived here, with my uncle, Hugo Chevet."
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