“Fond as ever of smoking, Louis?” said Peter Mactavish, as he handed him the coil.
“Oui, monsieur—very fond,” answered the guide, smelling the weed. “Ah, this is very good. I must take a good supply this voyage, because I lost the half of my roll last year;” and the guide gave a sigh as he thought of the overwhelming bereavement.
“Lost the half of it, Louis!” said Mactavish. “Why, how was that? You must have lost more than half your spirits with it!”
“Ah, oui, I lost all my spirits, and my comrade François at the same time!”
“Dear me!” exclaimed the clerk, bustling about the store while the guide continued to talk.
“Oui, monsieur, oui. I lost him, and my tabac, and my spirits, and very nearly my life, all in one moment!”
“Why, how came that about?” said Peter, pausing in his work, and laying a handful of pipes on the counter.
“Ah, monsieur, it was very sad (merci, monsieur, merci; thirty pipes, if you please), and I thought at the time that I should give up my voyageur life, and remain altogether in the settlement with my old woman. Mais, monsieur, that was not possible. When I spoke of it to my old woman, she called me an old woman; and you know, monsieur, that two old women never could live together in peace for twelve months under the same roof. So here I am, you see, ready again for the voyage.”
The voyageurs, who had drawn round Louis when he alluded to an anecdote which they had often heard before, but were never weary of hearing over again, laughed loudly at this sally, and urged the guide to relate the story to “monsieur,” who, nothing loath to suspend his operations for a little, leaned his arms on the counter and said,—“Tell us all about it, Louis; I am anxious to know how you managed to come by so many losses all at one time.”
“Bien, monsieur, I shall soon relate it, for the story is very short.”