"You did a great wrong, Francois. You have killed me.

"Killed you, Lucy, my wife! Pardon! Never in those days did you look so
charming as now--never. But the great surprise of seeing your husband,
it has made you shy, quite shy. There will be much time now for you to
change all that. It is quite pleasant to think on, Lucy. . . . You
remember the song we used to sing on the Chaudiere at St. Antoine? See,
I have not forgotten it--

"'Nos amants sont en guerre,
Vole, mon coeur, vole.'"

He hummed the lines over and over, watching through his half-shut eyes
the torture he was inflicting.

"Oh, Mother of God," she whispered, "have mercy! Can you not see, do you
not know? I am not as you left me."

"Yes, my wife, you are just the same; not an hour older. I am glad that
you have come to me. But how they will envy Pretty Pierre!"

"Envy--Pretty-Pierre," she repeated, in distress; "are you Pretty Pierre?
Ah, I might have known, I might have known!"

"Yes, and so! Is not Pretty Pierre as good a name as Francois Rives?
Is it not as good as Shon McGann?"

"Oh, I see it all, I see it all now!" she said mournfully. "It was with
you he quarrelled, and about me. He would not tell me what it was. You