FullReads

Perhaps Annette believed her. She did not think about it one way or the other; her mind was with the sick Benoit. She nodded and said nothing, hoping that the flax-seed would be got at once. But when she saw that Julie expected an answer, she said: “Cecilia, my little girl, has a black cat-so handsome. It came from the house of the poor Seigneur de la Riviere a year ago. We took it back, but it would not stay.”

Annette spoke simply and frankly, but her words cut like a knife.

Julie responded, with a click of malice: “Look out that the black cat doesn’t kill the dear Cecilia.” Annette started, but she did not believe that cats sucked the life from children’s lungs, and she replied calmly: “I am not afraid; the good God keeps my child.” She then got up and came to Julie, and said: “It is a pity, Julie, that you have not a child. A child makes all right.”

Julie was wild to say a fierce thing, for it seemed that Annette was setting off Benoit against Farette; but the next moment she grew hot, her eyes smarted, and there was a hint of trouble at her throat. She had lived very fast in the last few hours, and it was telling on her. She could not rule herself–she could not play a part so well as she wished. She had not before felt the thing that gave a new pulse to her body and a joyful pain at her breasts. Her eyes got thickly blurred so that she could not see Annette, and, without a word, she hurried to get the meal. She was silent when she came back. She put the meal into Annette’s hands. She felt that she would like to talk of Armand. She knew now there was no evil thought in Annette. She did not like her more for that, but she felt she must talk, and Annette was safe. So she took her arm. “Sit down, Annette,” she said. “You come so seldom.”

“But there is Benoit, and the child–“

“The child has the black cat from the House!” There was again a sly ring to Julie’s voice, and she almost pressed Annette into a chair.

“Well, it must only be a minute.”

“Were you at the funeral to-day?” Julie began.

“No; I was nursing Benoit. But the poor Seigneur! They say he died without confession. No one was there except M’sieu’ Medallion, the Little Chemist, Old Sylvie, and M’sieu’ Armand. But, of course, you have heard everything.”

“Is that all you know?” queried Julie.

“Not much more. I go out little, and no one comes to me except the Little Chemist’s wife–she is a good woman.”

“What did she say?”

“Only something of the night the Seigneur died. He was sitting in his chair, not afraid, but very sad, we can guess. By-and-by he raised his head quickly. ‘I hear a voice in the Tall Porch,’ he said. They thought he was dreaming. But he said other things, and cried again that he heard his son’s voice in the Porch. They went and found M’sieu’ Armand. Then a great supper was got ready, and he sat very grand at the head of the table, but died quickly, when making a grand speech. It was strange he was so happy, for he did not confess-he hadn’t absolution.”

This was more than Julie had heard. She showed excitement.

“The Seigneur and M’sieu’ Armand were good friends when he died?” she asked.

“Quite.”

All at once Annette remembered the old talk about Armand and Julie. She was confused. She wished she could get up and run away; but haste would look strange.

“You were at the funeral?” she added, after a minute.

“Everybody was there.”

“I suppose M’sieu’ Armand looks very fine and strange after his long travel,” said Annette shyly, rising to go.

“He was always the grandest gentleman in the province,” answered Julie, in her old vain manner. “You should have seen the women look at him to-day! But they are nothing to him–he is not easy to please.”