Breed of the Wolf/Chapter 18

Although it would have been pure suicide for any one to attempt to take Fleur from the stockade against her will, Marcel feared that some dark night those who wished his disgrace might loose their venom in an injury to his dog. So, refusing a room in the mission house, he pitched his tent on the grass inside the spruce pickets where Fleur might lie beside him.

Here his stanch friend Jules sought Jean out. It seemed that Inspector Wallace, had been up the coast at Christmas, had stayed a week, and, although no one knew exactly what had happened, or whether he had as yet become a Catholic, there was no doubt in the minds of the curious that the Scotchman would shortly remove this sole obstacle to his marriage to Julie Breton.

The loyal Jules’ crude attempt to console the broken-hearted hunter went unheard. Fate had made him its cat’s-paw. Not only had he lost his heart’s desire, but his name was now a byword at Whale River. There was nothing left to lose. He was indeed bankrupt.

During supper, Jean was plied with questions by Julie, who in his absence had had his story from her brother. To the half-breeds she never once alluded, seemingly interested solely in the long hunt for caribou on the barrens and in Fleur’s rescue of her master from the lake. Clearly, from the first, she had believed in the honor of Jean Marcel. And with what was evidently a forced gayety, the girl sought to banish from his mind thoughts of the cloud blackening the future.

“Come, Jean Marcel!” she said with a laugh, speaking as always in French. “Are you not glad to see us that you wear a face so dismal? You have not told me how you like this new muslin gown.” She pirouetted on her shapely moccasined feet, challenging his approval. “Henri says I’m growing thin. Is it not becoming? No? Then I shall eat and grow as fat as big Marie, the Montagnais cook at the Gillies’.”

The sober face of Jean Marcel lighted at her pleasantry. His brooding eyes softened as they followed the trim figure in the simple muslin gown. It was a rare picture indeed for a man who had but just finished seven months in the bush, half the time with the specter of starvation haunting his heels—this girl, the memory of whose face he had carried with him into the nameless barrens. But she belonged to another and he, Jean Marcel, was branded as a murderer at Whale River, even if he escaped the law.

Presently, when Père Breton was called from the room to minister to a Cree convert, Julie became serious.

“Jean Marcel, I have much to say to you; but it is hard—to begin.”

“I should think you would have little to say to Jean Marcel.”

“Why? Because some half-breeds have brought a story to Whale River which was not true?”

“Well, enough of it is true, Julie, to make the Indians believe, when they hear it, that Jean Marcel killed his partners to save himself from starvation.”

“Not if Père Breton and Monsieur Gillies have any influence with the Crees!”

Marcel smiled indulgently at the girl’s ignorance of Cree psychology.

“The harm is already done,” he said. “No matter what M’sieu Gillies and Père Henri tell them they will believe the man of those three who got out alive is guilty.”

“They will not believe these Lelacs, when they are shown to be liars,” she insisted, stamping her foot impatiently.

“They have lied about the rifle and fur only, Julie. They are telling the truth when they say they found Antoine and some of Piquet’s outfit. The rest does not matter except to make me a thief as well as murderer.”

“But it is all so unjust, so terrible—to be accused like this when, because of your good heart, you wished to bury Antoine decently in the spring instead of leaving him in the snow where they would never have found him. It is too” Through tears Julie’s dark eyes flashed in angry protest.

The girl’s tears roused his heart to a wild beating. Unable to speak, he faced her, his dark features illumined with the gratitude and love he could not voice. For a space he sat fighting for the mastery of his emotions.

“Julie Breton, you give me great happiness—when you-say you believe me—are still my friend,” he said huskily.

“Oh, là, là! Nonsense!” she cried, dabbing with a handkerchief at her wet eyes as she recovered her poise. “You are a boy, so foolish, Jean. Do you think that we, your friends who know you, will permit this thing? It is impossible!”

And she changed the subject, nor did she allow him to return to it.