Zabette and Suzanne hold their tongues. I think I know what the treasure of the box is; for I had the story directly from a very aged woman who knew both the "girls" when they were young; and she vouched for the truth of it by all the beads of her rosary. This is how it went.
Zabette Fuseau was eighteen, and she lived at the Grand Anse, two miles out of St. Esprit; and the procession of young fellows, going there to woo, was like a pilgrimage, exactly. Among them came one from far down the coast, a place called Rivière Bourgeoise. He was a deep sea fisherman, from off a vessel which had put in at St. Esprit for repairs, mid-course to the Grand Banks; and on his first shore leave Maxence had caught sight of la belle orgueilleuse, who had come into town with a basket of eggs; and he had followed her home, at a little distance, sighing, but without the courage to address her so long as they were in the village. He was a very handsome young fellow, with a brown, ruddy skin, and the most beautiful dark curly hair and crisp moustache imaginable.
Zabette knew he was behind her; but she would not turn; not she; only walked a little more proudly and gracefully, with that swinging movement of hers, like a vessel sailing in a head wind. At last, when they had reached the Calvaire at the end of the village, he managed to get out his first word.
"Oh!" he cried, haltingly. "Mademoiselle!"
She turned half about and fixed her dark proud eyes upon him, while her cheeks crimsoned.
"Well, m'sieur?"
He could not speak, and the two stared at each other for a long time in silence, while the thought came to her that this was the man for whom she was destined.
"Had you something to say to me?" she repeated, finally, in a tone that tried to be severe, but was really very soft.
He nodded his curly head, and licked his lips hard to moisten them.
"I cannot wait any longer," she protested, after a while. "They need me at home."