It was the afternoon of All Saints’ Day, and Jacques had come up the hill through a driving sleet storm to put on his new
shoes for the first time. When he had carefully laced them, he stood up in them and, looking from one to the other of his
friends, smiled a glad, surprised, soft smile. He was certainly not a handsome child, but he had one beauty, — his baby
teeth. When his pale lips parted, his teeth showed like two rows of pearls, really; even, regular, all the same size,
lustrous like those pearls that have just a faint shimmer of lilac. The hard crusts, which were his fare for the most part,
kept them polished like veritable jewels. Cécile only hoped that when his second teeth came in, they would not be narrow and
pointed, of the squirrel kind, like his mother’s.
When M. Auclair asked Jacques if the shoes were comfortable, he looked up wonderingly and said: “Mais, oui, monsieur,” as
if they could not possibly be otherwise.
The apothecary went back into his shop, where he was boiling pine tops (bourgeons des pins) to make a cough-syrup. Cécile
told Jacques she had found in her Lives of the Saints the picture of a little boy who looked very much like him.
“I shall always keep it for a picture of you, Jacques. Look, it is little Saint Edmond. He was an English saint, and he
became Archbishop of Cantorbéry. But he died in France, at the monastery of Pontigny. Sit here beside me, and I will read
you what it says about him.
“Edmond était tout enfant un modèle de vertu, grâce aux tendres soins de sa pieuse mère. On ne le voyait qu’à l’école et
à l’église, partageant ses journées entre la prière et l’étude, et se privant des plaisirs les plus innocents pour
s’entretenir avec Jésus et sa divine Mère à laquelle il voua un culte tout spécial. Un jour qu’il fuyait ses compagnons de
jeu, pour se recueillir intimement, l’Enfant Jésus lui apparaît, rayonnant de beauté et le regarde avec amour en lui disant:
‘Je te salue, mon bien-aimé.’ Edmond tout éblouî n’ose répondre et le divin Sauveur reprend: ‘Vous ne me connaissez donc
pas? — Non, avoue l’enfant, je n’ai pas cet honneur et je crois que vous ne devez pas me connaître non plus, mais me prenez
pour un autre. — Comment, continue le petit Jésus, vous ne me reconnaissez pas, moi qui suis toujours à vos côtés et vous
accompagne partout. Regardez-moi; je suis Jésus, gravez toujours ce nom en votre coeur et imprimez-le sur votre front et je
vous préserverai de mort subite ainsi que tous ceux qui feront de même.’”
The little woodcut in Cécile’s old book showed the boy saint very like Jacques indeed; a clumsy little fellow, abashed at
the apparition, standing awkwardly with his finger in his mouth; his chin had no tip, because the old block from which he
was printed was worn away. Beside him stood the Heavenly Child, all surrounded by rays, just Edmond’s height, friendly like
a playfellow, and treading on the earth, not floating in the air as visions are wont to do. Jacques bent over the book, his
thumb on the page to keep it flat, and asked Cécile to read it over again, so that he could remember. When she finished, he
drew a long, happy sigh.
“I wish the little Jesus would appear to me like that, standing on the ground. Then I would not be frightened,” he
murmured.
“I don’t believe He ever does, in Canada, Jacques. Though perhaps He appears to the recluse in Montreal, she is so very
holy. I know angels come to her. But I expect He is often near you and keeps you from harm, as He said to Saint Edmond; moi
qui suis toujours à vos côtés et vous accompagne partout. Now you can look at the other pictures while I make our chocolate.
Since this is All Saints’ Day, we ought to think a great deal about the saints.”
Left in the corner of the red sofa, Jacques held the book, but he did not turn the pages. He sat looking at the logs
burning in the fireplace and making gleams on the china shepherd boy, the object of his especial admiration. He heard the
sleet pecking on the window-panes and thought how nice it was to have a place like this to come to. When the chocolate began
to give off its rich odour, his nostrils quivered like a puppy’s. Cécile carried her father’s cup to him in the shop, and
then she and Jacques sat down at one corner of the table, where she had spread a napkin over the cloth.
Much as Jacques loved chocolate (in so far as he knew, this was the only house in the world in which that comforting
drink was made), there was something he cared more about, something that gave him a kind of solemn satisfaction, — Cécile’s
cup. She had a silver cup with a handle; on the front was engraved a little wreath of roses, and inside that wreath was the
name, “Cécile” cut in the silver. Her Aunt Clothilde had given it to her when she was but a tiny baby, so it had been hers
all her life. That was what seemed so wonderful to Jacques. His clothes had always belonged to somebody else before they
were made over for him; he slept wherever there was room for him, sometimes with his mother, sometimes on a bench. He had
never had anything of his own except his toy beaver, — and now he would have his shoes, made just for him. But to have a
little cup, with your name on it . . . even if you died, it would still be there, with your name.
More than the shop with all the white jars and mysterious implements, more than the carpet and curtains and the red sofa,
that cup fixed Cécile as born to security and privileges. He regarded it with respectful, wistful admiration. Before the
milk or chocolate was poured, he liked to hold it and trace with his finger-tips the letters that made it so peculiarly and
almost sacredly hers. Since his attention was evidently fixed upon her cup, more than once Cécile had suggested that he
drink his chocolate from it, and she would use another. But he shook his head, unable to explain. That was not at all what
her cup meant to him. Indeed, Cécile could not know what it meant to him; she was too fortunate.
They had scarcely finished the last drop and the last crumb, when the shop door opened and they heard a woman’s voice.
Without a word Jacques slipped to the floor and began to take off his new shoes. Cécile sat still.
In the front shop Auclair was confronted by a vehement young woman, slightly out of breath, her head and shoulders
tightly wrapped in a shawl, her cheeks reddened by the wind, and her fair hair curling about her forehead and glistening
with water drops. The apothecary rose and said politely:
“Good day, ‘Toinette, what will you have?”
She tossed her head. “None of your poisons, thank you! I believe my son is here?”
“I think so. He is in very good hands when he is here.”
‘Toinette struck an attitude, her hand on her hip. “Je suis mère, vous savez! The care of my son is my affair.”
“Very true.”
“What is this I hear about your getting shoes for him? I am his mother. I will get him shoes when I think it necessary. I
am poor, it is true; but I want none of your money that is the price of poisons.”
“Bien. I will take care that you get none of it. But I did not pay for the shoes. They were bought with the Governor’s
money.”
‘Toinette looked interested. Sharp points showed in her eyes, like the points of her teeth. “The Governor? Ah, that is
different. The Governor is our protector, he owes us something. And the King owes something to the children of those poor
creatures, like my mother, whom he sent out here under false pretences.”
Auclair held up a warning finger. He was sorry for her, because he saw how ill at ease she was under her impertinence.
“Do not quarrel with the Government, my girl. That can do you no good, and it might get you into trouble.”
‘Toinette loosened her shawl and then wound it tight. She wished she had been more civil; perhaps they would have offered
her some chocolate. She called shrilly for Jacques. He came at once, without saying a word, his new shoes in his hands, his
old ones on his feet. His mother caught him by the shoulder with a jerk, — she could not cuff him in the apothecary’s
presence. “Au revoir, monsieur,” she snapped, as Auclair opened the door for her. She went down the hill with her defiant
stride, her head high, and Jacques walked after her as fast as he could, wearing an expression of intense gravity, blinking
against the sleet, and carrying his new shoes, soles up, out in front of him in a most unnatural way, as if he were carrying
a basin full of water and trying not to spill it.
Auclair thrust his head out and watched them round the turn, then closed the door. He looked in upon his daughter and
remarked:
“She has shown her teeth; now she will not make any more trouble for a while. She will let him wear his shoes. She was
pleased and was afraid of showing it.”
“He pulled off his new stockings and stuffed them inside his shirt, Papa!”
Auclair laughed. “How often I have seen children and dogs, and even brave men, take on quick sly ways to protect
themselves from an ill-tempered woman! I doubt whether she is very rough with him at home. When she is among people who look
down on her, she takes it out on him.”
That night after dinner they did not go for their usual walk, since the weather was so bleak, but sat by the fire
listening to the rattle of the sleet on the windows.
“Papa,” said Cécile, “shall you have a mass said for poor Bichet this year, as always?”
“Yes, on the tenth of November, the day on which he was hanged.”
This mass Auclair had said at the Récollets’ chapel where Count Frontenac heard mass every morning.
“Please tell me about Bichet again, and it will be fresh in my mind when I go to the mass.”
“It will not keep you awake, as it did the first time I told you? We must not grieve about these things that happened
long ago, — and this happened when the Count was in Canada the first time, while your grandfather and grandmother were both
living.
“Poor old Bichet had lodged in our cellar since I was a boy. He was a knife-grinder and used to go out every day with his
wheel on his back, and he picked up a few sous at his trade. But he could never have kept himself in shoes, having to walk
so much, if your grandfather had not given him his old ones. He paid us nothing for his lodging, of course. He had his bed
on the floor in a dry corner of our cellar, where the sirops and elixirs were kept. In very cold weather your grandmother
would put a couple of bricks among the coals when she was getting supper, and old Bichet would take these hot bricks down
and put them in his bed. And she often saved a cup of hot soup and a piece of bread for the old man and let him eat them in
the warm kitchen, for he was very neat and cleanly. When I had any spending-money, or when I was given a fee for carrying
medicines to some house in the neighbourhood, I always saved a little for the old knife-grinder. He was reserved and
uncomplaining and never inflicted his troubles upon us, though he must have had many. On Saturdays, when your grandmother
cooked a joint and had a big fire, she used to heat a kettle of water for him, and he carried it down to his corner and
washed himself. He was a Christian and went to mass. He was a kind man, gentle to creatures below him, — for there were
those even worse off.
“Now, on the rue du Figuier stood a house that had long been closed, for the family had gone to live at Fontainebleau,
and the empty coach-house was used as a store-room for old pieces of furniture. The caretaker was a careless fellow who went
out to drink with his cronies and left the place unguarded. In the coach-house were two brass kettles which had lain there
for many years, doing nobody any good. Bichet must have seen them often, as he went in and out to sharpen the caretaker’s
carving-knife.
“One night, when this fellow was carousing, Bichet carried off those two pots. He took them to an ironmonger and sold
them. Nobody would ever have missed them; but Bichet had an enemy. Near us there lived a degenerate, half-witted boy of a
cruel disposition. He tortured street cats, and even sparrows when he could catch them. Old Bichet had more than once caught
him at his tricks and reproved him and set his victims at liberty. That boy was cunning, and he used to spy on Bichet. He
saw him carrying off those brass kettles and reported him to the police. Bichet was seized in the street, when he was out
with his grindstone, and taken to the Châtelet. He confessed at once and told where he had sold the pots. But that was not
enough for the officers; they put him to torture and made him confess to a lifetime of crime; to having stolen from us and
from the Frontenac house — which he had never done.
“Your grandfather and I hurried to the prison to speak for him. Your grandfather told them that a man so old and infirm
would admit anything under fright and anguish, not knowing what he said; that a confession obtained under torture was not
true evidence. This infuriated the Judge. If we would take oath that the prisoner had never stolen anything from us, they
would put him into the strappado again and make him correct his confession. We saw that the only thing we could do for our
old lodger was to let him pass quickly. Luckily for Bichet, the prison was overcrowded, and he was hanged the next
morning.
“Your grandmother never got over it. She had for a long while struggled with asthma every winter, and that year when the
asthma came on, she ceased to struggle. She said she had no wish to live longer in a world where such cruelties could
happen.”
“And I am like my grandmother,” cried Cécile, catching her father’s hand. “I do not want to live there. I had rather stay
in Quebec always! Nobody is tortured here, except by the Indians, in the woods, and they know no better. But why does the
King allow such things, when they tell us he is a kind King?”
“It is not the King, my dear, it is the Law. The Law is to protect property, and it thinks too much of property. A couple
of brass pots, an old saddle, are reckoned worth more than a poor man’s life. Christ would have forgiven Bichet, as He did
the thief on the cross. We must think of him in paradise, where no law can touch him. I believe that harmless old man is in
paradise long ago, and when I have a mass said for him every year, it is more for my own satisfaction than for his. I should
like him to know, too, that our family remembers him.”