"_Mon Dieu!_ What do you mean, you chit?"
"Only that I am not won by a few soft words, Monsieur," I answered coldly.
"But you are my wife; 'twill be well for you to remember that."
"Nor am I likely to forget, yet because a priest has mumbled words over us does not make me love you."
"_Sacre!_" he burst forth, yet careful to keep his voice pitched to my ears alone, "you think me a plaything, but you shall learn yet that I have claws. Bah! do you imagine I fear the coxcomb ahead?"
"Such innocence! to that boot-licker of La Salle's to whom you give your smiles, and pretty words."
"Rene de Artigny!" I exclaimed pleasantly, and then laughed. "Why how ridiculous you are, Monsieur. Better be jealous of Père Allouez yonder, for of him I see far the most. Why do you pick out De Artigny on whom to vent your anger?"
"I like not the way he eyes you, nor your secret meetings with him in Quebec."
"If he even sees me I know it not, and as for secret meetings, knew you not that Sister Celeste was with me while we talked."
"You accuse me of that then," indignantly. "Because I am your wife, you can insult, yet it was your hand that drew aside the curtain, and found me alone. Do you hope to gain my respect by such base charges as that, Monsieur?"
"I? Do I deny! It is not worthy my while. Why should I? We were not married then, nor like to be to my knowledge. Why, then, if I wished, was it not my privilege to speak with the Sieur de Artigny? I have found him a very pleasant, and polite young man."
"A pauper, his only fortune the sword at his side."
"Ah, I knew not even that he possessed one. Yet of what interest can all this be to me, Monsieur, now that I am married to you?"
That my words brought him no comfort was plain enough to be seen, yet I doubt if it ever occurred to his mind that I simply made sport, and sought to anger him. It was on his mind to say more, yet he choked the words back, and sat there in moody silence, scarce glancing at me again during the long afternoon. But when we finally made landing for the night, it was plain to be seen that his vigilance was in no wise relaxed, for, although he avoided me himself, the watchful Jesuit was ever at my side, no doubt in obedience to his orders. This second camp, as I recall, was on the shore of Lake St. Peter, in a noble grove, the broad stretch of waters before us silvered by the sinking sun. My tent was pitched on a high knoll, and the scene outspread beneath was one of marvelous beauty. Even the austere père was moved to admiration, as he pointed here and there, and conversed with me in his soft voice. Cassion kept to the men along the bank below, while Chevet lay motionless beside a fire, smoking steadily.