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Antoine And Angelique
by [?]

“The birds are going south, Antoine–see–and it is so early!”

“Yes, Angelique, the winter will be long.”

There was a pause, and then: “Antoine, I heard a child cry in the night, and I could not sleep.”

“It was a devil-bird, my wife; it flies slowly, and the summer is dead.”

“Antoine, there was a rushing of wings by my bed before the morn was breaking.”

“The wild-geese know their way in the night, Angelique; but they flew by the house and not near thy bed.”

“The two black squirrels have gone from the hickory tree.”

“They have hidden away with the bears in the earth; for the frost comes, and it is the time of sleep.”

“A cold hand was knocking at my heart when I said my aves last night, my Antoine.”

“The heart of a woman feels many strange things: I cannot answer, my wife.”

“Let us go also southward, Antoine, before the great winds and the wild frost come.”

“I love thee, Angelique, but I cannot go.”

“Is not love greater than all?”

“To keep a pledge is greater.”

“Yet if evil come?”

“There is the mine.”

“None travels hither; who should find it?”

“He said to me, my wife: ‘Antoine, will you stay and watch the mine until I come with the birds northward, again?’ and I said: ‘I will stay, and Angelique will stay; I will watch the mine.'”

“This is for his riches, but for our peril, Antoine.”

“Who can say whither a woman’s fancy goes? It is full of guessing. It is clouds and darkness to-day, and sunshine–so much–to-morrow. I cannot answer.”

“I have a fear; if my husband loved me–“

“There is the mine,” he interrupted firmly.

“When my heart aches so–“

“Angelique, there is the mine.”

“Ah, my Antoine!”

And so these two stayed on the island of St. Jean, in Lake Superior, through the purple haze of autumn, into the white brilliancy of winter, guarding the Rose Tree Mine, which Falding the Englishman and his companions had prospected and declared to be their Ophir.

But St. Jean was far from the ways of settlement, and there was little food and only one hut, and many things must be done for the Rose Tree Mine in the places where men sell their souls for money; and Antoine and Angelique, French peasants from the parish of Ste. Irene in Quebec, were left to guard the place of treasure, until, to the sound of the laughing spring, there should come many men and much machinery, and the sinking of shafts in the earth, and the making, of riches.

But when Antoine and Angelique were left alone in the waste, and God began to draw the pale coverlet of frost slowly across land and water, and to surround St. Jean with a stubborn moat of ice, the heart of the woman felt some coming danger, and at last broke forth in words of timid warning. When she once had spoken she said no more, but stayed and builded the heaps of earth about the house, and filled every crevice against the inhospitable Spirit of Winds, and drew her world closer and closer within those two rooms where they should live through many months.

The winter was harsh, but the hearts of the two were strong. They loved; and Love is the parent of endurance, the begetter of courage. And every day, because it seemed his duty, Antoine inspected the Rose Tree Mine; and every day also, because it seemed her duty, Angelique said many aves. And one prayer was much with her–for spring to come early that the child should not suffer: the child which the good God was to give to her and Antoine.

In the first hours of each evening Antoine smoked, and Angelique sang the old songs which their ancestors learned in Normandy. One night Antoine’s face was lighted with a fine fire as he talked of happy days in the parish of Ste. Irene; and with that romantic fervour of his race which the stern winters of Canada could not kill, he sang, ‘A la Claire Fontaine,’ the well-beloved song-child of the ‘voyageurs” hearts.