“We but stopped to give you thanks for the acceptable addition to our feast, Madame Mercier,” said Jacob Therolde. “Truly, madame distinguishes herself in the baking of excellent bread. Not a fragment was left; the good wives even saved the crusts, nor would let the dogs have them. You have changed places, eh, my children? Come, M. Dupont, we are promised at home.”
“It was an ill-timed call,” complained Michelle, when the guests had departed. “I saw that young man view you with all too familiar eyes, Alaine. I wish he might never be seen here again. I do not like him, nor ever did.”
“There, maman, there,” began Papa Louis, “do not discompose yourself; we must be merry to-night. Your little bird will not hop so far out of your sight that she will be snared. A beaker of wine will we drink in health to us all, and then Gerard and I must see to our chores, for it is later than it would seem; the long day was over an hour ago.”
CHAPTER III
THE WAY TO CHURCH
“It is a long walk, my child,” Papa Louis was saying; “you should not think of taking it.”
“But try me, papa,” Alaine persisted, “and if I tire myself there may be cars to take me in. Is it not so, Mother Michelle? Surely the Bonneaux or the Allaires or the Sicards are no stronger than I; and even if there be no room, or no cars going in the morning, I can walk.”
“She must have her will at all times, the little one,” Papa Louis said, with a sigh of resignation. “See you, then, Gerard, that maman does not over-fatigue herself, and so you will go ahead, Michelle, and we follow in the morning. We shall needs be up by break of day, Alaine.”
Already the sound of the low-wheeled wagons could be heard rumbling down the one street of the town; these “cars” with their canvas tops, their deep felloes and turned spokes, were thoroughly French in appearance; they were filled with women and children, only the very little ones being left at home with some care-taker. By the side of the wagons walked the men in sabots, and carrying their shoes and stockings in their hands. Each man was well armed, for the way through the deep forests was full of possible dangers. Upon the soft silence of the summer evening arose the plaintive strains of a hymn. The march to church had begun, although it was still Saturday evening. “O Lord, Thou didst us clean forsake,” chimed in the voices of Gerard and Michelle as they, too, joined the company, dressed in their Sunday clothes, a touch of color giving evidence of the fact that, sober and earnest as were these people, they were still truly French.
Down the street the troop went, their hymn, which they invariably sang upon starting, echoing along the way. They were always singing, these Huguenots, as if they could never make up for those days when their psalms were denied them. Alaine watched till the last figure became hidden by the trees, then she turned to say, “The poor little cow, it would scarce be right to leave her, and you well know, Papa Louis, that I would be wretched to know you were here alone. I do not mind the long walk nor the early start, and by morning I hope our Petite Etoile will have regained her health; she would be a sore loss.”
Papa Louis looked grave. It had been a struggle to acquire even the little they had, though it was of the plainest. Theirs was a long, low-pitched house, with a big living-room below and two loft chambers above. In the former could be seen two beds with blue linen curtains, a couple of chests, a small table octagonal in form, a little mirror in gilded frame. By the huge fireplace hung the warming-pan, and there was a brass candlestick upon the shelf above it. A gun and powder-horn were hung within easy reach of Papa Louis’s arm. In the fireplace swung two iron pots on long cranes, and at the side hung a bright kettle. Two spinning-wheels, of course, held their places, but now their drowsy hum was hushed, for Alaine, stepping briskly back and forth, prepared the supper. From time to time she looked out of the open door toward the barn just beyond the garden, now brave in summer blossoms. The pretty young cow had been joyously welcomed, and now a wicked wolf had torn her sleek skin so that Papa Louis must needs doctor her. “He is so skilful, that Papa Louis,” said Alaine to herself, pausing, wooden tankard in hand; “he knows herbs and simples well; his book knowledge has served him more than once, the dear little papa. And how he loved his garden! It is well that Gerard has a strong arm for the furrows, else the corn would not look as well as the flowers. Mère Michelle can guide a plough and handle a scythe better than her husband. How we laughed, Gerard and I, when she first taught papa to follow the plough! the poor little papa, he was so determined and so patient, while big Mère Michelle scolded and encouraged and laughed.” She took her tankard out to the well, which stood in front of the door. Guiding the long sweep till the bucket touched the clear water below, she waited till it filled and then drew it up, balanced it on the curb, and poured the water into the trough. At this instant Papa Louis appeared leading the cow. “Good!” cried Alaine. “He brings her for a drink, poor pretty Etoile. It was fortunate that she was not far off when Gerard heard her cry, else she would have fed the wicked wolf ere now.” Over the orderly rows of vegetables she looked to see Papa Louis advance.