To Alaine it seemed years ago that all those strange things had happened. In a year she had travelled far, had suffered the sorrows of a lifetime, yet here she was again in this quiet corner of the world. The twittering birds, the soft tinkling of some musical instrument, treasured by a neighbor and brought over from France with great care, the old familiar sounds came in through the open window. Here was rest for brain and body, for all but her aching heart. And strange, in the midst of her prayers that night arose a thought of François. “Lord have mercy,” she again faltered.
And François? Only his iron will took him safely through the fatigues of the next few days. After a night’s rest he had demanded that Adriaen should see certain officials for him. “I will receive them here,” he said. “You will explain why I do not present myself in person.”
His message was received courteously, and following Adriaen’s account of him came a visit from two of the dignitaries of the place. The courage with which François faced them, his Spartan-like endurance, and his compelling presence won their attention and they found themselves interested, so that before they left they had promised to make immediate efforts to arrange for an exchange.
Then François dismissed Adriaen. “Go to your sweetheart,” he said. “I will get you to hire me a man, and then I will do.” He took the young man’s hand in his. “You have been a good friend, Adriaen, and I wish you all the happiness that I have missed. Tell your little Trynje that I thank her for lending you to me. I should not have been able to get through without you. And say to her that for what I have made her friend suffer I have no words in which to ask forgiveness. I remember now; the old priest said it: ‘Forgiveness is sweeter than revenge.’ I have come to see it. It was Alaine herself who showed me that. Now get me a good man, and then adieu, Adriaen.”
There were real tears in the young Dutchman’s eyes when he finally took his leave of his friend, and after he had gone François, with a deep sigh, shut his eyes. Then he set his mind upon what was to be done next.
What it was transpired not long after. For in exchange for a wounded Englishman François’s paralyzed body was sent on to Montreal. Here he was not long in setting his friends about his business. “I want to find,” he said, “a coureur de bois called Ricard le Nez. If he cannot be found, then one Edouard le Gros will do.”
And in due time it came to pass that Jeanne Crepin in her lodge in the wilderness saw borne past her door on a rude stretcher the body of a man. “Hold, Ricard!” she cried; “whom have you there?”
The bearers stopped. “A man who is all head and no body,” Ricard replied.
“I will see him.” She came and stood over the man. “Who are you? What do you here?” she asked.
“One question at a time, good sir or madam, I know not which,” replied François. “I am François Dupont, or what is left of that once lively individual.”