"Madame Tabeau, I am a fool, as you have said, in effect, and I believe everybody. It is quite possible that I may be deceived, as on some former occasions. But you are a wise woman, Madame, and you know something. Will you not tell it to me for my advantage? I shall be grateful, even if you tell me what I do not wish to hear."
"Well, Jean, that is better. You have some sense left, in spite of your studies, a little intelligence still, strange to say. Sit down here on the step; no, not so far away; right here beside me. I will not hurt you, and the young ladies will not be jealous. Forty years ago they might have been annoyed, the vixens, but not now. Listen! There is a story, certainly. You shall hear it, no one else.
"At that time they did not call me Mère Tabeau. Bonhomme Tabeau, the old sot, had not yet come on the scene. He was rich, the old miser--that was why I married him. Yes, and he died, as expected, in the course of a few years. But can you believe it? The old beast did not leave me one sou, not one sou--that was what I did not expect. All was for masses for his soul. The old fool! His soul is in the pit, where no masses can help him. I know theology, me. Masses can pull one out of purgatory, of course; but from the pit, never. Ah, that was one who got his deserts. His money goes to the priests, whom he did not love, and his soul remains with Satan. Cru-ru-ru de Dieu!"
"But it was of your friend the sorcerer that I was speaking. That was another who had sold himself to the evil one. At what price? Gold and the love of woman. Was he handsome? By no means. But how strong he was, how black his hair and his eyes! And how he would look at me and say: 'Angel, my angel, if you love me, if you love me truly, kiss me on both cheeks, and on the lips. Again! Once more!' And after that! Mon Dieu, after that his ship came in with the tide and he sailed away; while I, like a fool, stood on the shore and waved to him until he was out of sight beyond the point. And then I cried like a baby. Can you believe it?
"Did Michel Gamache not come back after the voyage? Ah, yes. When summer was gone he came back, but not to me. I was expecting him, I who had given him so much love; but he did not come that evening, nor the next, nor ever again. Always he was at the house of Bonhomme Duval, the rich trader, smuggler, thief. The old rascal had a daughter, of course. Beautiful? Not at all. It was the dowry that Michel desired. For that he perjured his soul, for the value of a hundred pounds, more or less. It was all arranged. The wedding was to take place on the first day of the year. They would begin the year together, those two. And I? They had no thought for me. Every evening I looked from the window, hoping that he would come, that he would wish to say good-bye, if nothing more; but I saw only the bare trees and the dead leaves dancing in the autumn wind.
"But listen, my friend. That is not the end of the story. No, only the beginning. My brother Ovide, do you know him? But how could you? He has been dead these thirty years. Since that night he was never the same man."
"What night, Madame?" said Jean, much interested.
"Be silent, fool!" said the old hag. "If you interrupt me again you may tell the story yourself. It was the eve of Christmas, of course, eight days before the wedding that was to be. The wedding! Ha! Ha! The sorcerer's wedding! He who had not made his Easter confession in seven years, he who had sold his soul for gold. His wedding! Nom de diable!
"'Sister,' said my brother Ovide, 'little sister, never mind; the wedding will never take place. I will kill him, the traitor.'
"'Kill him, yes, yes, kill him!' I said. 'But no, that would be too dangerous, for it is quite possible that he might kill you, Ovide, my brother. You are strong, I know, but not like him. Think of that neck of his, those hands, and that jaw, with teeth like a wolf. No, my brother, you shall not. I would kill him myself, but I fear--I don't know what I fear.'