when he went into the Louis Quinze every man present stole away in
silence, and the landlord himself, without a word, turned and left the
bar. At that, with a hoarse laugh, Pomfrette poured out a glass of
brandy, drank it off, and left a shilling on the counter. The next
morning he found the shilling, wrapped in a piece of paper, just inside
his door; it had been pushed underneath. On the paper was written: "It
is cursed." Presently his dog died, and the day afterwards he suddenly
disappeared from Pontiac, and wandered on to Ste. Gabrielle, Ribeaux,
and Ville Bambord. But his shame had gone before him, and people shunned
him everywhere, even the roughest. No one who knew him would shelter
him. He slept in barns and in the woods until the winter came and snow
lay thick upon the ground. Thin and haggard, and with nothing left of
his old self but his deep brown eyes and curling hair, and his unhappy
name and fame, he turned back again to Pontiac. His spirit was sullen
and hard, his heart closed against repentance. Had not the Church and
Pontiac and the world punished him beyond his deserts for a moment's
madness brought on by a great shock!




II

One bright, sunshiny day of early winter, he trudged through the snow-
banked street of Pontiac back to his home. Men he once knew well, and
had worked with, passed him in a sled on their way to the great shanty in
the backwoods. They halted in their singing for a moment when they saw
him; then, turning their heads from him, dashed off, carolling lustily:

"Ah, ah, Babette,