The year came to an end. There was no news of François, and Gaston, being still of the same mind, claimed his promise, and Marie came home with him.
But seven months later François was tramping along through the snow on his way to Chamtocé, and now he is sitting before the pine-wood fire in Monsieur le Curé’s parlor. He had not asked for Marie, and the curé had not named her. The dumb entreaty of François’ eyes smote him to the heart, and he had not the courage to tell the pilgrim that the light which had lured him on through the
smoke of the battle, in the dreary watches of the bivouac, in the many miseries of his soldier life, was a mirage that had tempted him along the desert path, only to mock him when he neared it, and fade out of the sky like a false and fickle star. No; he had not the courage to tell him that Marie was his brother’s wife.
When the curé entered the cottage, he found Gaston sitting down to his dinner alone. Marie had gone to nurse a sick neighbor’s child. The curé was glad of her absence. It made his mission easier. “Mon garçon,” he said at once, “I bring news that will startle you, and I am thankful to be able to break it to you before Marie hears it. Your brother is come back.” The curé expected his announcement to startle Gaston, as he had said, but he was not prepared for the effect it produced. The young man stood bolt upright, looked at the curé with wild, scared eyes, and dropped again into his chair without uttering a word.
“Have you told him?” he gasped, after an interval of silence that the old priest felt himself incapable of breaking.
“No; her name was not mentioned by either of us.”
“Ha!” Gaston drew a breath of relief; “then perhaps—who knows? He may take it less to heart than we fear?”
“I don’t know. At his age, four years is a long absence; still we cannot tell. But at any rate, my son, you must come and give him a brother’s welcome, and do what a brother’s love can do to lighten the disappointment to him.”
He took Gaston’s arm, and they went out to the presbytery together.
The curé’s heart belied his words when he held out the hope that François’ love might not have borne unchanged the test of absence. He