Alice of Old Vincennes

								

wrestled before the cross for a long time, until at last he seemed to
receive the calmness and strength he prayed for so fervently; then he
rose, tore the letter into pieces so small that not a word remained
whole, and squeezed them so firmly together that they were compressed
into a tiny, solid ball, which he let fall through a crack between the
floor puncheons. After waiting twenty years for that letter, hungry as
his heart was, he did not even open it when at last it arrived. He
would never know what message it bore. The link between him and the old
sweet days was broken forever. Now with God's help he could do his work
to the end.
He went and stood in his doorway, leaning against the side. Was it a
mere coincidence that the meadowlark flew up just then from its
grass-tuft, and came to the roof's comb overhead, where it lit with a
light yet audible stroke of its feet and began fluting its tender,
lonesome-sounding strain? If Father Beret heard it he gave no sign of
recognition; very likely he was thinking about the cargo of liquor and
how he could best counteract its baleful influence. He looked toward
the "river house," as the inhabitants had named a large shanty, which
stood on a bluff of the Wabash not far from where the road-bridge at
present crosses, and saw men gathering there.
Meantime Rene de Ronville had delivered Madame Roussillon's letter with
due promptness. Of course such a service demanded pie and claret. What
still better pleased him, Alice chose to be more amiable than was
usually her custom when he called. They sat together in the main room
of the house where M. Roussillon kept his books, his curiosities of
Indian manufacture collected here and there, and his surplus firearms,
swords, pistols, and knives, ranged not unpleasingly around the walls.
Of course, along with the letter, Rene bore the news, so interesting to
himself, of the boat's tempting cargo just discharged at the river
house. Alice understood her friend's danger--felt it in the intense
enthusiasm of his voice and manner. She had once seen the men carousing
on a similar occasion when she was but a child, and the impression then
made still remained in her memory. Instinctively she resolved to hold
Rene by one means or another away from the river house if possible. So
she managed to keep him occupied eating pie, sipping watered claret and
chatting until night came on and Madame Roussillon brought in a lamp.
Then he hurriedly snatched his cap from the floor beside him and got up
to go.
"Come and look at my handiwork," Alice quickly said; "my shelf of pies,
I mean." She led him to the pantry, where a dozen or more of the cherry
pates were ranged in order. "I made every one of them this morning and
baked them; had them all out of the oven before the rain came up. Don't
you think me a wonder of cleverness and industry? Father Beret was
polite enough to flatter me; but you--you just eat what you want and
say nothing! You are not polite, Monsieur Rene de Ronville."