“One,” she tallied.
“Nex',” proceeded Honoré, “poor Jules is involve' with de Chippewa woman.”
“Two,” clinched Clethera.
The Chippewa squaw was a sore theme. She had entered Jules's wigwam in good faith; but during one of his merry carouses, while both Honoré and the priest were absent, he traded her off to a North Shore man for a horse. Long after she tramped away across the frozen strait with her new possessor, and all trace of her was lost, Jules had the grace to be shamefaced about the scandal; but he got a good bargain in the horse.
“Then there is Lavelotte's widow,” continued Honoré.
“Three,” marked Clethera.
Yes, there was Lavelotte's widow, the worst of all. She whipped little Jules unmercifully, and if Honoré had not taken his part and stood before him, she might have ended by being Jules's widow. She stripped him of his whole fortune, four hundred dollars, when he finally obtained a separation from her. But instead of curing him, this experience only whetted his zest for another wife.
“And there is Therese.” Honoré did not say, “Last, Therese.” While Jules lived and his wives died, or were traded off or divorced, there would be no last.
“It is four,” declared Clethera; and the count was true. Honoré had taken Jules in hand like a father, after the adventure with Lavelotte's widow. He made his parent work hard at the boat, and in winter walked him to and from mass literally with hand on collar. He encouraged the little man, moreover, with a half interest in their house on the beach, which long-accumulated earnings of the boat paid for. But all this care was thrown away; though after Jules brought Therese home, and saw that Honoré was not appeased by a woman's cooking, he had qualms about the homestead, and secretly carried the deed back to the original owner.
“I want you keep my part of de deed,” he explained. “I not let some more women rob Honoré. My wife, if she get de deed in her han', she might sell de whole t'ing!”