"What did she do?" Pomfrette's hands clinched.

"What's in my own noddle, and not for any one else," he answered sulkily.

"Tiens, tiens, what a close mouth! What did she do? Who knows? What
you think she do, it's this. You think she pretends to love you, and you
leave all your money with her. She is to buy masses for your father's
soul; she is to pay money to the Cure for the good of the Church; she is
to buy a little here, a little there, for the house you and she are going
to live in, the wedding and the dancing over. Very well. Ah, my
Pomfrette, what is the end you think? She run away with Dicey the
Protestant, and take your money with her. Eh, is that so?"

For answer there came a sob, and then a terrible burst of weeping and
anger and passionate denunciations--against Junie Gauloir, against
Pontiac, against the world.

Parpon held his peace.

The days, weeks, and months went by; and the months stretched to three
years.

In all that time Pomfrette came and went through Pontiac, shunned and
unrepentant. His silent, gloomy endurance was almost an affront to
Pontiac; and if the wiser ones, the Cure, the Avocat, the Little Chemist,
and Medallion, were more sorry than offended, they stood aloof till the
man should in some manner redeem himself, and repent of his horrid
blasphemy. But one person persistently defied Church and people, Cure
and voyageur. Parpon openly and boldly walked with Pomfrette, talked
with him, and occasionally visited his house.