"Yah-oui. Ah mane so. She haf been seek—malade—how you say, petite vérole—so like de Père Honoré?" He made with his forefinger dents in his face and forehead.
"An' is it the shmall pox yer mane?"
"Yah-oui, shmall pookes. She was haf it, an' tout le monde—how you say?—efferybodyee was haf fear. She was haf nottin' to eat—nottin' to drrink; le Père Honoré was fin' her in de bois—forêt, an' was been tak' ma pauvre mère in hees ahrms, an' he place her in de sugair-house, an' il l'a soignée—how you say?" He appealed to the Italian whose interest was on the increase.
"Nurrsed?"
"Yah—oui, nurrsed her, an' moi aussi—lee'l bébé'—"
"D' yer mane his Riverince nursed you and yer mother through the shmall pox?" demanded McCann. Several of the workmen stopped short with hammers uplifted to hear Antoine's answer.
"Mais oui, il l'a soignée jusqu'à ce qu'elle was been dead; he l'a enterrée—place in de terre—airth, an' moi he haf place chez un farmyer à Mo'real. An' le Père Honoré was tak' la petite vérole—shmall pookes in de sugair-house, an' de farmyer was gif him to eat an' to drrink par la porte—de door; de farmyer haf non passé par de door. Le Père Honoré m'a sauvé—haf safe, hein? An' Ah was been work ten, twenty, dirty year, Ah tink. Ah gagne—gain, hein?—two hundert pièces. Ah been come to de quairries, pour l'amour de bon Père Honoré qui m'a safe, hein? Ah be très content; Ah gagne, gain two, tree pièces—dollaires—par jour."
He nodded at one and all, his gold half-moon earrings twinkling in his evident satisfaction with himself and "le bon Père Honoré."
The men were silent. Jim McCann's eyes were blurred with tears. The thought of his own six-months boy presented itself in contrast to the small waif in the Canada woods and the dying gypsy mother, nursed by the priest who had christened his own little Billy.
"It's a bad night for the lecture," said a Scotchman, and broke therewith the emotional spell that was holding the men who had made out the principal points of Antoine's story.