“Foolishness, is it?” muttered Telephore. “Then, little monsieur, there are many fools in Saint Jacques. As for the cochon d’Inde, that was different. Gabrielle has a little sucking-pig, and no one is troubled by it, though it visited every house in Saint Jacques. But this Sorrow of Maxime’s—foolishness, is it? Eh, well! Pray the good saints you may not be taught its wisdom.”
Telephore was cross and would not talk any more. André professed to have no opinion at all about La Tristesse. So, as was his way, Hypolite decided to go to headquarters for information.
He crossed one of Maxime’s thriftless fields, and went up the path to the cabin. Once the path led through a garden of flowers, but now garden and fields were all one, overrun with blossoms grown small and hardy and wild, which could not be found elsewhere in Saint Jacques. La Tristesse was lying by the door, in the sun, licking a long red scratch on her side. She put her lank paws on Hypolite’s shoulders and thrust her melancholy nose against his cheek.
“Are you come for more flowers?” asked Maxime, rising from among the wild raspberry canes. “There are pretty flowers in the field beyond the patch of barley. I shall grow oats there next year, they are prettier than the barley, but the flowers are best. My grandfather brought the seeds of some of them from the other side of the world, and a few braved our snows and frosts. Pick all you want, little monsieur.” He laughed at Hypolite, showing his white teeth, and yawned and stretched himself. He was tall and strong, with a fine tanned face and eyes of Breton blue softened by many dreams, and he was shabby to the point of rags.
“Thank you,” said Hypolite politely. “But I did not come for flowers to-day. I came to ask why you call your dog Sorrow? Pardon, m’sieur, if I am too curious.”
Maxime bowed, ready laughter in his eyes. “I am honoured with monsieur’s interest,” said he. “I call her Sorrow because she has the look of it, as any one of these—ganders of Saint Jacques would understand. I found her roaming in the woods, starved, all over of a tremble. I took her home and fed her. That is all there is about her. She would harm no one. Yet, because of her colour and her melancholy she is a witch and a loupgarou and I know not what besides.” He laughed angrily and touched Sorrow’s side gently. “Look you here!” he cried, “this was done last night. It is the mark of a bullet,—of a silver bullet, perhaps, they are such fools.” Hypolite touched the scratch too, with fingers light and tender, and Maxime’s face softened again.
“We have no friends, La Tristesse and I,” he said sadly. “I suppose it is because we do not work or go to church. But those stuffy saints—And why should I work? I have no one to work for, but myself.”
“I’m not very fond of work,” confessed Hypolite. “My uncle says I must go into an engineer’s office when I leave college, but I do not want to. I would rather paint pictures full of pretty colours.”
“And I,” said Maxime, “I also love pretty colours. When I want them, I look at the fields and the skies and the hills, and I am content.” They smiled at each other in perfect understanding.
“And I am a friend to you and La Tristesse if you will have me,” said Hypolite.