And because Jean Jacques knew that, at the last, she
had been his, soul and body, he went down from the
mountain-side, the two black magpies fluttering mournfully
and yet hopefully behind him, with more warmth at
his heart than he had known for years. It never
occurred to him that the two elderly magpies would
jointly or severally have given the rest of their
lives and their scant fortunes to have him with them
either as husband, or as one who honourably hires
a home at so much a day.
Though Jean Jacques did not know this last fact, when
he fared forth again he left behind his canary with
Mme. Glozel; also all Carmen’s clothes,
except the dress she died in, he gave to Mme.
Popincourt, on condition that she did not wear them
till he had gone. The dress in which Carmen
died he wrapped up carefully, with her few jewels and
her wedding-ring, and gave the parcel to Mme.
Glozel to care for till he should send for it or come
again.
“The bird—take him on my birthday
to sing at her grave,” he said to Mme.
Glozel just before he went West. “It is
in summer, my birthday, and you shall hear how he
will sing there,” he added in a low voice at
the very door. Then he took out a ten-dollar
bill, and would have given it to her to do this thing
for him; but she would have none of his money.
She only wiped her eyes and deplored his going, and
said that if ever he wanted a home, and she was alive,
he would know where to find it. It sounded and
looked sentimental, yet Jean Jacques was never less
sentimental in a very sentimental life. This
particular morning he was very quiet and grave, and
not in the least agitated; he spoke like one from a
friendly, sun-bright distance to Mme. Glozel,
and also to Mme. Popincourt as he passed her
at the door of her house.
Jean Jacques had no elation as he took the Western
trail; there was not much hope in his voice; but there
was purpose and there was a little stream of peace
flowing through his being—and also, mark,
a stream of anger tumbling over rough places.
He had read two letters addressed to Carmen by the
man—Hugo Stolphe—who had left
her to her fate; and there was a grim devouring thing
in him which would break loose, if ever the man crossed
his path. He would not go hunting him, but if
he passed him or met him on the way—!
Still he would go hunting—to find his
Carmencita, his little Carmen, his Zoe whom he had
unwittingly, God knew! driven forth into the far world
of the millions of acres—a wide, wide hunting-ground
in good sooth.
So he left his beloved province where he no longer
had a home, and though no letters came to him from
St. Saviour’s, from Vilray or the Manor Cartier,
yet he heard the bells of memory when the Hand Invisible
arrested his footsteps. One day these bells rang
so loud that he would have heard them were he sunk
in the world’s deepest well of shame; but, as
it was, he now marched on hills far higher than the
passes through the mountains which his patchwork philosophy
had ever provided.
