“It is said,” he told André in a whisper, “that far to the north there is a deserted village. When that village was full of people, there came to their doors a black dog, long and gaunt and wretched. They took pity on that dog-thing and fed it for three days, and then it went away. But it had left a gift for those people. La Picotte struck them, coming silently as is her wont. They died like flies those people that fed the black dog, and the few that were left ran away.”
André stared, his face growing gray with vague horror. He was slower than Telephore.
“If I were you,” said Telephore with a sort of frightened sneer, “I would change the name of Maxime’s La Tristesse. Maybe she is only biding her time.”
Two or three days afterward, Hypolite went to see Maxime. It was early evening and he moved through a golden world. “I have never forgotten anything of that evening,” he said long afterward. The sky was golden, the air was golden, and everywhere about the fields was the golden glow of mustard. But in front of Maxime’s cabin there was a black little crowd of people, and in the road stood Maxime, facing them fiercely, his hand upon Sorrow’s head. There were boys there, throwing stones, and one or two of the shouting men had old shotguns.
I ran to them, and I think I was screaming with anger. But Telephore was in the crowd, and he caught me in his arms gently, and made me keep still; though I kicked, and bit his hands, and my teeth were as sharp as a squirrel’s. When they saw me, the men who had the guns, lowered them as if ashamed, and the boys stopped throwing stones.
Josef, Gabrielle’s husband, was speaking. “We will not harm you,” he said, “but if you would stay among us, you must shoot that black brute you call your dog, there under your hand.”
“I will not shoot her for any of you cowards of Saint Jacques,” cried Maxime at that. The crowd growled threateningly.
“Then go!” cried Josef, “you and your dog-thing!”
“I shall never forget how Maxime looked, his head thrown back and his eyes like points of blue fire, facing the men who were casting him out of his home. I thought he was going to fight them all. He looked down at Sorrow, cowering beside him and trusting him, and I think he yielded for her sake. He laughed very bitterly.
“I will go,” he said, and they shrank from his eyes. “Sorrow has been my companion and my friend, she has shared my food and my fire, and with Sorrow will I go. She is more faithful to me than any other.”