“What shall we do when the King comes home?
What shall we do when he rides along
With his slaves of Greece and his serfs of Rome?
What shall we sing for a song—
When the King comes home?
“What shall we do when the King comes home?
What shall we do when he speaks so fair?
Shall we give him the house with the silver dome
And the maid with the crimson hair
When the King comes home?”
A long, heavy sigh filled the room, but it was not the breath of Vanne Castine. The sound came from the corner where the huge brown bear huddled in savage ease. When it stirred, as if in response to Shangois’s song, the chains rattled. He was fastened by two chains to a staple driven into the foundation timbers of the house. Castine’s bear might easily be allowed too much liberty!
Once he had killed a man in the open street of the City of Quebec, and once also he had nearly killed Castine. They had had a fight and struggle, out of which the man came with a lacerated chest; but since that time he had become the master of the bear. It feared him; yet, as he travelled with it, he scarcely ever took his eyes off it, and he never trusted it. That was why, although Michael was always near him, sleeping or waking, he kept him chained at night.
As Shangois sang, Castine’s brow knotted and twitched and his hand clinched on his pipe with a sudden ferocity.
“Name of a black cat, what do you sing that song for, notary?” he broke out peevishly. “Nose of a little god, are you making fun of me?”
Shangois handed him some tea. “There’s no one to laugh—why should I make fun of you?” he asked, jeeringly, in English, for his English was almost as good as his French, save in the turn of certain idioms. “Come, my little punchinello, tell me, now, why have you come back?”
Castine laughed bitterly.
“Ha, ha, why do I come back? I’ll tell you.” He sucked at his pipe. “Bon’venture is a good place to come to-yes. I have been to Quebec, to St. John, to Fort Garry, to Detroit, up in Maine and down to New York. I have ride a horse in a circus, I have drive a horse and sleigh in a shanty, I have play in a brass band, I have drink whiskey every night for a month—enough whiskey. I have drink water every night for a year—it is not enough. I have learn how to speak English; I have lose all my money when I go to play a game of cards. I go back to de circus; de circus smash; I have no pay. I take dat damn bear Michael as my share—yes. I walk trough de State of New York, all trough de State of Maine to Quebec, all de leetla village, all de big city—yes. I learn dat damn funny song to sing to Michael. Ha, why do I come to Bon’venture? What is there to Bon’venture? Ha! you ask that? I know and you know, M’sieu’ Shangois. There is nosing like Bon’venture in all de worl’.
“What is it you would have? Do you want nice warm house in winter, plenty pork, molass’, patat, leetla drop whiskey ‘hind de door in de morning? Ha! you come to Bon’venture. Where else you fin’ it? You want people say: ‘How you do, Vanne Castine—how you are? Adieu, Vanne Castine; to see you again ver’ happy, Vanne Castine.’ Ha, that is what you get in Bon’venture. Who say ‘God bless you’ in New York! They say ‘Damn you!’—yes, I know.
“Where have you a church so warm, so ver’ nice, and everybody say him mass and God-have-mercy? Where you fin’ it like that leetla place on de hill in Bon’venture? Yes. There is anoser place in Bon’venture, ver’ nice place—yes, ha! On de side of de hill. You have small-pox, scarlet fev’, difthere; you get smash your head, you get break your leg, you fall down, you go to die. Ha, who is there in all de worl’ like M’sieu’ Vallier, the Cure? Who will say to you like him: ‘Vanne Castine, you have break all de commandments: you have swear, you have steal, you have kill, you have drink. Ver’ well, now, you will be sorry for dat, and say your prayer. Perhaps, after hunder fifty tousen’ years of purgator’, you will be forgive and go to Heaven. But first, when you die, we will put you way down in de leetla warm house in de ground, on de side of de hill, in de Parish of Bon’venture, because it is de only place for a gipsy like Vanne Castine.’