“Maybe not. When one has Angelique Ricord for mére—U-m-m!”
But it was less for Pierre than for Adrian that Angelique was waiting, and her expression was kinder than common.
“Carry that salt to my kitchen cupboard, son, and get to bed. No; you’ve no call to tarry. What the master’s word is for his guest is nothin’ to you.”
Pierre’s curiosity was roused. Why had Adrian wanted to leave the island at nightfall, since there was neither hunting nor fishing to be done? Sport for sport’s sake—that was forbidden. And what could be the message he was not to hear? He meant to learn, and lingered, busying himself uselessly in beaching the canoes afresh, after he had once carefully turned them bottom side upwards: in brushing out imaginary dirt, readjusting his own clothing—a task he did not often bother with—and in general making himself a nuisance to his impatient parent.
But, so long as he remained, she kept silence, till, unable to hold back her rising anger, she stole up behind him, unperceived, and administered a sounding box upon his sizable ears.
“Would you? To the cupboard, miserable!” and Adrian could not repress a smile at the meekness with which the great woodlander submitted to the little woman’s authority.
“Xanthippé and Socrates!” he murmured, and Pierre heard him. So, grimacing at him from under the heavy sack, he called back “Fifty dollar. Tell her fifty—dollar.”
“What did he mean by fifty dollar?” demanded Angelique.
“I suppose something about that show business of his. It is his ambition, you know, and I must admit I believe he’d be a success at it.”
“Pouf! There is more better business than the showin’ one, of takin’ God’s beasties in the towns and lettin’ the fool people stare. The money comes that way is not good money.”