Qu’on appelle la rivière enragé.
I gasped as if I had plunged suddenly into the cold rapids of a rushing little river. The crowded theatre, the heat, the glare, were gone; I lay in a canoe in misty moonlight, in deep peace of Canadian hills, and from the shore floated the bird-notes of Zoëtique’s whistling.
It took me a minute to get back to earth, and another to explain, and then I drifted again into the heart of the woods. Stillness, pure air, running water and rustling trees; brightness and shadow of long portages, starlight and firelight and sunny lengths of lakes, a thousand poignant memories, seized me and carried me into a quiet, keen world, with a joy that was almost pain, as I stared from the box at Zoëtique’s familiar figure standing back of the footlights.
There was a pause; the Gatineau song was finished, his winning smile flashed.
“Excusez-la,” said Zoëtique.
After the number was over I went back of the scenes and found him, and talked to him for an unsatisfactory five minutes. He was glad to see me, but some men whose air I did not like were waiting for him, and he was uneasy with me in their presence.
At that moment No. 5 began.
“Are you happy, Zoëtique?” I asked bluntly, as I told him good-by, and the blue eyes flashed to mine a second with an honest, half-tragic look. He shrugged his shoulders.
“’Sais pas, m’sieur. I am gaining much money. One is never too happy in this world, is it not? Or in any case, not for too long.”