“But, man, you’ll have money enough to build a dozen houses—you can build one ten times as fine—you can pay men to build it for you, think of that!”
Zoëtique smiled—his smile was winning, but very self-contained, and the tilt of his head was assured. “It would be another thing, m’sieur. Alixe-là, she would be disappointed.”
Esmond argued. Patiently, with amusement first, and then a bit hotly, but the guide never lost his gentle respectfulness of manner or his firmness. Walter Morgan put in another word.
“Think carefully before you decide to give up so much money as this means, Zoëtique. As the m’sieur says, it is a chance for all of your life.”
The young fellow’s alert, bright eyes flashed gratitude. “But yes, m’sieur. I understand. However, one knows that to make money is not always to be happy—is it not the truth, m’sieur? We are a poor people, we others, habitants, and yet we are content. I am afraid to lose the happiness that I have, in that great city which I do not know. Here—I know. I am strong”—he pushed his big shoulders forward and smiled proudly as he felt their muscles. “I am capable and can work hard—I have planned my life, and I have the things which I wish. Why should I risk all that for—I do not know what? I thank the m’sieur”—he turned his blue glance on Esmond with a self-possession which the cosmopolitan might not have bettered. “I thank also my m’sieur much for all his goodness to me.” He stood up, his shabby old hat crushed in his hand. “I thank madame and every one for their good wishes. I am content that madame and the messieurs found pleasure in my poor whistling. Good night, madame—good night, messieurs.”
He had made his bow, as his peasant ancestors had been taught to make theirs in old France two hundred years before, with deep respect, with hat in hand and head bent. Here was a man who knew when he had enough. The question was closed. He was gone.
The next year it was in September that the Morgans asked me to their camp. Air like cooled wine breathed life into me as my canoe flew down Lac Lumière to the double paddle-beat of Godin and Josef, who had been sent to the club to fetch me. Sunshine lay over the lake and laughed back at us from the hills, where flecks of gold through green tree-tops told that the birches had caught the frost. One peculiarity of the woods is that at whatever time you go to them they persuade you at once, with a wordless, answerless logic, that it is their best season.
“This is better than August,” I called out to Walter and Margaret Morgan, standing smiling on the quay, while Bob kicked chips toward me in welcome.
“A thousand times better,” they called back together, and Bob stopped his gattling to respond classically:
“Golly, you bet!”