after I had been on the island for about two months, I begged him to
return with me. I promised him that once there, I would not leave him
for a day, and would even consider the possibility of taking him
across the ocean. He still maintained his calm and perfect manners
and insisted upon paying his fare down the river which I let him do,
knowing that soon his stock of money would be exhausted and he would
then be at my mercy. No sign of cupidity was apparent in his demeanor,
yet I wondered how he ever thought to reach France unless I paid his
way. Like all consumptives, he had a trick of rallying now and then
and appearing better than he really was. This occurred on our
arrival in town. He took long walks with me again daily and seemed
so much stronger that I again dared to suggest the propriety of his
returning to the mill, but to no purpose. He drooped at the very
thought, and I perceived that his apparent recovery was but a
delusion, I soon saw he was weaker than ever. But whenever he was at
all able, he persisted in reading what he could understand and
really his progress was a marvel to me. So it came about that one
evening, towards the close of September where we had sometimes to
light the lamp as early as half-past six, I returned to my rooms
about that hour of the day (we shared rooms together, so fond had I
grown of him, and I trust, he of me) to find him poring over the
little Catholic Missal.
"In this light? This will never do. And you could not light the lamp
yourself, my poor Etienne!"
When it was lighted, I saw indeed from his weak and excited
appearance that he was unable to do anything for himself. Lying on
my sofa, he had in one hand the scarlet-edged missal, and in the
other the book I have referred to, which contained a short sketch of
Guy Chezy D'Alencourt the handsome and reckless lieutenant of
_La Nouvelle France_.
He could hardly speak but through his gasping I could gather that he
wished me to examine the words in the corner of fly-leaf I had once
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