Marie Gourdon | Page 6

a bright-colored mat spread on it; the brown
roughly-hewn bedstead was covered with a quilt of palest pink and blue

patchwork, the patient result of the old lady's years of industrious toil.
Madame McAllister busied herself getting supper ready, all the while
talking to her son.
"Well, Noël, my son, what did you get this time? I trust a great
quantity."
"Yes, my mother, we did very well. The first day we captured a fine
porpoise, and after that six large seals."
"Ah! that was good," replied madame.
Both mother and son spoke French in the Lower Canadian patois,
rather puzzling to English ears trained to understand only Parisian
French. For, not only is the pronunciation different, but several Scotch
words are used by the inhabitants of this district, and one puzzles
hopelessly over their derivation, until remembering the origin of the
people.
"Where did you leave your boat?" questioned madame.
"At Father Point light-house with Jean Gourdon. He is to drive up with
the pilot to-morrow, and by that time will have skinned the seals."
"Surely the steamer is late this week?"
"Yes, but she will pass Father Point early to-morrow morning; she was
telegraphed from Matane, where there has been a dense fog."
"I am glad, Noël, you had such good luck this time."
"Yes, the porpoise will keep us in oil all winter, and as for the
seal-skins, I can sell them at Quebec for a good round price. So far so
good. But this is the first stroke of luck this year. It has been a poor
season. Have you any news, my mother?"
"No, nothing much, my son. There is to be a great pilgrimage to the
shrine of the Good St. Anne next week. Hundreds of lame, blind and

sick folk are coming from all parts of the country--from Quebec, and
even from Gaspé. Oh, my son, it is wonderful what the Good St. Anne
does for her children."
"Yes, yes," said Noël, impatiently, "but I want to hear the news of the
people here. How is Marie Gourdon?"
"Marie Gourdon? Oh! much as usual--always singing or playing the
organ at the church, and M. Bois-le-Duc encourages her. I call it
nonsense myself," and the old lady shrugged her shoulders
deprecatingly.
"But, my mother, she sings like an angel."
"Yes, yes, Noël; so Eugène Lacroix says too."
"Eugène Lacroix!" said Noël, starting; "I thought he was in Montreal."
"He has been here for the last week. He came down for a holiday, and
is always with Marie Gourdon."
"Yes, yes, they are old friends. I do not care much for Eugène Lacroix.
He seems to me a dreamy, impractical sort of person, and only thinks
of his books and those absurd pictures he is always making."
"You think them absurd?" replied madame.
"M. Bois-le-Duc told me he had great talent. You know that, for a time
the curé sent him to Laval at his own expense, and now talks of sending
him to Paris."
"To Paris! and for what purpose?"
"Oh! the curé thinks he will make a great painter. He is always painting
during his holidays. I'm sure I can't see the good of it."
"Well, my mother, M. Bois-le-Duc is a very clever man, and whatever
he does is good, but I, for one, have no very high opinion of Eugène
Lacroix."

While this conversation had been going on, Noël McAllister did ample
justice to the good fare his mother set before him. Madame McAllister
was nothing if not practical, and cooking was one of her strong points.
Her bouillon, a sort of hotch-potch, was so good that a hungry Esau
might well have bartered his birthright for it. Her pancakes and galettes
were marvels of culinary skill.
Noël, having appeased his appetite, sharpened by the salt sea breezes,
and after enjoying a pipe, said, "Now, my mother, I think I shall go out
for a walk and hear the news. I shall not be late."
"Very well, my son. Come back soon," said the old lady, and, as she
heard the door close on Noël, she smiled grimly to herself and
muttered,
"The news, eh? The news! That is to say in plain words, Marie
Gourdon."
CHAPTER III.
"Il y a longtemps qui je t'aime, Jamais je ne t'oublierai."
French Canadian Song.
It is a beautiful evening. The tide is rushing in over the crisp yellow
sands of the beach at Father Point. The sun is setting slowly, as if loath
to leave this part of the world, and, as he departs, touches with his rays
the gold and crimson tops of the maple and sumach trees, which border
the road leading into the churchyard of the Good St. Anne.
The clouds are scudding over the sky in great masses of copper color
and