“What is it, Jean Jacques?” asked the little Clerk of the Court gently, coming forward and laying a hand on the steaming flank of a spent and trembling pony.
As though he could not withdraw his gaze from Sebastian Dolores, Jean Jacques did not look at M. Fille; but he thrust out the long whip he carried towards the father of his vanished Carmen and his Zoe’s grandfather, and with the deliberation of one to whom speaking was like the laceration of a nerve he said: “Zoe’s run away—gone—gone!”
At that moment Louis Charron, his cousin, at whose house Gerard Fynes had lodged, came down the street galloping his horse. Seeing the red wagon, he made for it, and drew rein.
“It’s no good, Jean Jacques,” he called. “They’re married and gone to Montreal—married right under our noses by the Protestant minister at Terrebasse Junction. I’ve got the telegram here from the stationmaster at Terrebasse.... Ah, the villain to steal away like that—only a child—from her own father! Here it is—the telegram. But believe me, an actor, a Protestant and a foreigner—what a devil’s mess!”
He waved the telegram towards Jean Jacques.
“Did he owe you anything, Louis?” asked old Mere Langlois, whose practical mind was alert to find the material status of things.
“Not a sou. Well, but he was honest, I’ll say that for the rogue and seducer.”
“Seducer—ah, God choke you with your own tongue!” cried Jean Jacques, turning on Louis Charron with a savage jerk of the whip he held. “She is as pure—”
“It is no marriage, of course!” squeaked a voice from the crowd.
“It’ll be all right among the English, won’t it, monsieur le juge?” asked the gentle widow of Palass Poucette, whom the scene seemed to rouse out of her natural shyness.