He had a good many clients in different parts of the country,--temporary clients, of course,--and it occurred to him that he might as well extract another fifty dollars from Pierre Lamotte DITTheophile, before going on a longer journey.On his way down from Montreal he stopped in several small towns and slept in beds of various quality.
Another of the little deities (the one that presides over unclean villages; decidedly a false god, but sufficiently powerful) arranged a surprise for the travelling lawyer.It came out at Three Rivers.
He arrived about nightfall, and slept at the hotel, feeling curiously depressed.The next morning he was worse; but he was a resolute and industrious dog, after his own fashion.So he hired a buggy and drove out through the mud to Pierre's place.They heard the wagon stop at the gate, and went out to see who it was.
The man was hardly recognizable: face pale, lips blue, eyes dull, teeth chattering.
"Get me out of this," he muttered."I am dying.God's sake, be quick!"They helped him to the house, and he immediately went into a convulsion.From this he passed into a raging fever.Pierre took the buggy and drove posthaste to town for a doctor.
The doctor's opinion was evidently serious, but his remarks were non-committal.
"Keep him in this room.Give him ten drops of this in water every hour.One of these powders if he becomes violent.One of you must stay with him all the time.Only one, you understand.The rest keep away.I will come back in the morning."In the morning the doctor's face was yet more grave.He examined the patient carefully.Then he turned to Jean, who had acted as nurse.
"I thought so," said he; "you must all be vaccinated immediately.
There is still time, I hope.But what to do with this gentleman, God knows.We can't send him back to the town.He has the small-pox."
That was a pretty prelude to a wedding festival.They were all at their wit's end.While the doctor scratched their arms, they discussed the situation, excitedly and with desperation.Jean was the first to stop chattering and begin to think.
"There is that old cabane of Poulin's up the road.It is empty these three years.But there is a good spring of water.One could patch the roof at one end and put up a stove.""Good!" said the doctor."But some one to take care of him? It will be a long job, and a bad one.""I am going to do that," said Jean; "it is my place.This gentleman cannot be left to die in the road.Le bon Dieu did not send him here for that.The head of the family"--here he stopped a moment and looked at Pierre, who was silent--"must take the heavy end of the job, and I am ready for it.""Good!" said the doctor again.But Alma was crying in the corner of the room.
Four weeks, five weeks, six weeks the vigil in the cabane lasted.
The last patches of snow disappeared from the fields one night, as if winter had picked up its rags and vanished.The willows along the brook turned yellow; the grass greened around the spring.
Scarlet buds flamed on the swamp maples.A tender mist of foliage spread over the woodlands.The chokecherries burst into a glory of white blossoms.The bluebirds came back, fluting love-songs; and the robins, carolling ballads of joy; and the blackbirds, creaking merrily.
