"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.
"Most sure, madame, most sure," answered the Judge. "It will be all right among the English, and it is all right among the French so far as the law is concerned. As for the Church, that is another matter. But— but see," he added addressing Louis Charron, "does the station-master say what place they took tickets for?"
"Montreal and Winnipeg," was the reply. "Here it is in the telegram.
Winnipeg—that's as English as London."
"Winnipeg—a thousand miles!" moaned Jean Jacques.