At noon we landed in a sheltered cove, brilliant with 128 wild flowers, and partook of food, the rearward canoes joining us, but De Artigny was still ahead, perhaps under orders to keep away. To escape Cassion, I clambered up the front of the cliff, and had view from the summit, marking the sweep of the river for many a league, a scene of wild beauty never to be forgotten. I lingered there at the edge until the voice of the Commissaire recalled me to my place in the canoe.
It is of no consequence now what we conversed about during that long afternoon, as we pushed steadily on against the current. Cassion endeavored to be entertaining and I made every effort to encourage him, although my secret thoughts were not pleasant ones. Where was all this to lead? Where was to be the end? There was an expression in the man’s face, a glow in his eyes, which troubled me. Already some instinct told me that his carelessness was a thing of the past. He was in earnest now, his vague desire stimulated by my antagonism.
He had set out to overcome my scruples, to conquer my will, and was merely biding his time, seeking to learn the best point of attack. It was with this end in view that he kept me to himself, banishing Chevet, and compelling De Artigny to remain well in advance. He was testing me now by his tales of Quebec, his boasting of friendship with the Governor, his stories of army adventure, and the wealth he expected to amass 129 through his official connections. Yet the very tone he assumed, the conceit shown in his narratives, only served to add to my dislike. This creature was my husband, yet I shrank from him, and once, when he dared to touch my hand, I drew it away as though it were contamination. It was then that hot anger leaped into his eyes, and his true nature found expression before he could restrain the words:
“Mon Dieu! What do you mean, you chit?”
“Only that I am not won by a few soft words, Monsieur,” I answered coldly.
“But you are my wife; ’twill be well for you to remember that.”
“Nor am I likely to forget, yet because a priest has mumbled words over us does not make me love you.”
“Sacre!” he burst forth, yet careful to keep his voice pitched to my ears alone, “you think me a plaything, but you shall learn yet that I have claws. Bah! do you imagine I fear the coxcomb ahead?”
“To whom do you refer, Monsieur?”
“Such innocence! to that boot-licker of La Salle’s to whom you give your smiles, and pretty words.”