“Marie, she h’ask for moi?” A note of eagerness, one of faint suspicion, but it was the voice of Jules’s big heart that spoke, trembling a little.
Le Grand laughed and put out his hand. “She h’ask many, many taime for toi, Jules, an’ Ah have comme to breeng toi to dat petite fille!” he said.
Verbaux shuddered, and his eyes grew soft and moist. “Ah go avec toi to-mor’!” he said simply.
“Bon!” Le Grand replied, and they were silent again, each thinking his own thoughts: the thoughts of two men, but of one woman whom each loved, but each in a different way.
The moon rose higher and higher until it cast no shadows; fleeting stars shot hither and thither, and were mirrored, flashing, in the black water. Owls hooted, loons called shrilly, things of the night stirred noisily, but the thoughts of the two men were always of one.
“Allons!” Le Grand spoke, “to-mor’ ve mus’ go far! You ronne ’vay f’om Facteur Donal’?”
“Oui.” Jules looked in surprise at his friend that guessed so well. “Non!” he added, “Ah no ronne ’vay; Ah tell to le facteur dat Ah go ’vay, an’ den Ah ronne—en canot!” and he laughed, so did Le Grand, and the two went back to where the rest had made camp. Most of the crowd were asleep in their blankets by the big fire; some still sat there talking.
“Dis Verbaux,” Le Grand said to Lefèvrier, who rested in the warm light, his back against a log, his feet to the heat. The big voyageur and Jules shook hands. They talked awhile, then slept with the rest.
A mink, drawn by the smell of pemmican, sneaked up from the shore, its wet body glistening in the dying firelight. It scuffled here and there, nosing about the supper remains, then vanished to the lake again with a bit of the dried meat. All night everything was silent, but when the birds began to flutter in the brush and the kingfisher called harshly on the shore, the men awakened and got up, one by one, to the work of another day.
“Toi go veet’ me to loook—see eef dose trap’ aire dere?” Jules asked of Le Grand at breakfast.