The Cursed Patois | Page 6

the clothes of the patois had hung.

"Now you lope out and find them--do you hear?"
Jim, crouching on his belly in acknowledgment that his apprehension
had been at fault during some late encounter, slunk across the camp and
took the path to the hotels.
Brown turned on Puttany following at his heels: "Frank, are you sure
Joe La France is dead?"
"Oh yes, he is det."
"Did you see him die? Were you there when he was buried? Was he put
underground with plenty of dirt on top of him, or did he merely drop in
the water?"
"I vas not there."
"Maybe the lazy hound has resurrected. I've seen these lumbermen
dropped into the water and drowned too often. You can never be sure
they won't be up drinking and fighting to-morrow unless you run a
knife through them."
"He is a det man," affirmed Puttany.
"Then somebody else has carried her off, and I'm going to know all
about it before I come back to camp. If I never come back, you may
have the stuff and land. I'm in this heels over head, and I don't care how
soon things end with me."
"But, Prowny, old poy, I vill help you--"
"You stay here. This is my hunt."
Jim passed the rustic guest-houses without turning aside from the trail.
Brown took no thought of inquiring at their doors, for throughout the
summer Françoise had not once been seen at the hotels. He did,
however, hastily borrow a horse from the stable where he was
privileged, and pursuing the blood-hound along the lake shore, he
cantered over a causeway of logs and earth which had been raised

above a swamp.
The trail was very fresh, for Jim, without swerving, followed the road
where it turned at right angles from the shore and wound inland among
stumps. They had nearly reached Allanville, a group of log huts beside
a north-shore railroad, when Jim uttered the bay of victory.
Brown dropped from the saddle and called him sternly back. To be
hunting Françoise with a blood-hound out of leash--how horrible was
this!
He tied his horse to a tree and took Jim by the collar, restraining the
creature's fierce joy of discovery. Françoise must be near, unless a
hound whose scent was unerring had become a fool.
What if she had left camp of her own will? She was so quiet, one could
not be sure of her thoughts. Brown was sure of his thoughts. He
grinned in the lonely landscape, seeing himself as he had appeared on
recent Sundays, in his best turtle-tail neck-tie mounted on velvet.
"I've got it bad," he confessed.
Stooping to Jim's collar while the dog whined and strained, he passed a
cabin. And there Jim relaxed in the search and turned around. The
moon stood high enough to make a wan fairy daylight. Gougou, like a
gnome, started from the ground to meet them, and the dog at once lay
down and fawned at his feet.
More slowly approaching from the cabin, Brown saw Françoise, still
carrying in her hand the bundle of her belongings brought from camp.
In the shadow of the house a man watched the encounter, and a sift of
rank tobacco smoke hinted the pipes of fathers and sons resting from
the day's labor on the cabin door-sill or the sward. Voices of children
could be heard, and other dogs gave mouth, so that Brown laid severe
commands on Jim before he could tremblingly speak to Françoise.
"Oh, M'sieu' Brownee, I t'ink maybe you come!"

"But, Françoise, what made you leave?"
"It is my husban's brudder. I not know what to do! He bring us to dese
folks to stay all night till de cars go."
"Why didn't he show himself to us, and take you like a man?"
"Oh, M'sieu' Brownee--he say de priest hexcommunicate me--to
live--so--in de camp! It is not my fault--and I t'ink about you and
M'sieu' Put-tanee--and Gougou he bite his honcle, and kick and
scream!"
"Damn the uncle!" swore Brown, deeply.
"Oh, I been so anxion!" sobbed Françoise.
"We must be married right off," said Brown. "I'll fix your
brother-in-law. Françoise, will yon have me for your husband?"
"Me, M'sieu' Brownee?"
"Yes, you--you cursed sweet patois!"
"M'sieu' Brownee, you may call me de cursed patois. I not know
anyt'ings. But when André La France take me away, oh, I t'ink I die!
Let me honly be Françoise to do your mend'! I be 'appier to honly look
at you dan some womans who 'ave 'usban'!"
"Françoise, kiss me--kiss me!" His voice broke with a sob. "If you
loved me you would have me!"
"M'sieu' Brownee, I ado' you!"
Suddenly giving way to passionate weeping, and to all the tenderness
which nature teaches even barbarians to repress,