" This beastly, murderous tyrant
did actually imagine himself to be a hero!
Later on he was supplied with money by Sir John Macdonald
to keep out of the country. The amount was not paid to
him in a lump, but his good friend, the whilome bishop,
and now archbishop, paid it out whenever the worthless,
vagabond rascal came and represented himself as being
very needy.
He often, in his fallen days, would go about sighing for
Marie, and declaring that, with all his vengeful feelings
towards her, she was the only maiden whom he had ever
really loved. Old Jean came back and settled with a sad
heart, in the little cottage where had grown up his sweet
Marie. It was very desolate for his old heart now. The
ivy wreathed itself about the little wicker house, as
was its wont, but Marie was not there. The cows came as
usual to the bars to be milked, but there was a lamenting
in their lowing call. They missed the small, soft hand
that used to milk them, and never more heard the blithe,
glad voice singing from _La Claire Fontaine_. Paul worked
bravely and strove to cheer his father; and Violette,
with her bright, quick eyes, just a little like Marie's,
would come down and sing to him, and bring him cool,
pink, dew-bathed roses. He thanked them all; but their
love was not sufficient. His heart was across the prairies
by a grave upon which the violets were growing. Before
the leaves fell he was lying by her side. A cypress
marks the graves, and the little brook goes by all the
summer.
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