542 RECREATION 
loved, in torment before her helpless, 
willing hands. 
“TI have found the silver in the West. 
You shall have a chateau, jardin, vot- 
ture, chevaux—all, if you only come, 
come with me. Let us go, Vivienne. 
He will die. I love you!” 
She laid the blanket over a protesting 
shoulder and smoothed back the way- 
ward locks that fell upon the broad 
forehead. “Mon amour,’ she cried,— 
but it was to the fever-racked man that 
prattled of laying nooses for hares back 
in his boyhood days with Henri, the bon 
camarade. 
Five birch-partridges, caught in their 
retreat beneath a huge fallen log, on 
the return to the cabin, lay upon the 
‘ hearth-stones. Victor listlessly plucked 
at one as his brain wildly tossed and 
turned. He must have her—he must! 
Here she was at his elbow! Long 
nights, with the stillness of the wilder- 
ness around him, he had watched his 
lonely campfire in far Ontario and in 
the flames there ever played the fair 
face of Vivienne. He had planned, it 
was all to be for her. And when the 
silver, the sacred silver, had smiled at 
him,—ah! it was for Vivienne, she 
should be a grand dame. He had 
come to overwhelm her with his love 
and prosperity and he had found— 
this ! 
Was that half-dead village youth to 
keep her from him? She had loved 
him first; Ontario was far to the 
west. | 3 
He begged, he threatened, he coaxed, 
pleaded, reasoned, implored. Vivienne 
answered but one word, “No.” She 
said it quietly, her eyes lingering upon 
Gaspard. 
He could force her to go, he would, 
now. He rose. The sick man rolled 
toward the fire-light, his errant tongue 
sighed, “Vivienne.” With a wave of 
love in her voice like a suppressed blast 
from furnace fire of passion, she clung 
to his breast, pressing her lips to his. 
“It is I, thy Vivienne, I,” she whis- 
pered. 
Forgotten was Victor’s presence; he 
stood irresolute, unnerved. No, he 
could not do it. She would never love 
him again. He must go. 
Victor Dion prepared another 
draught of diluted whisky and induced 
the delirious man to gulp it down. He 
turned to the woman. 
“Do you hear me, Vivienne? I am 
going, forever! I shall stop at Andre’s 
house, he will come. I will tell Pére 
Grinaud. Your man will live, though 
many days may pass thus. I, Victor, 
am a man of honor, lhonneur de 
France. I leave you. Adieu.” 
He stepped out into the moonlight, 
upon the enameled, glistening snow- 
crust. She followed, dumb with the 
wonder of it all. 
“You will remember Victor, you 
will?” he said pausing, rifle in hand. 
With a great effort, Vivienne drew 
herself up and met the situation. “You 
were dead to me once, Victor; it is best 
that you be always dead to Vivienne.” 
“Dead,” he slowly repeated. His 
bare hand caressed the rifle; he eyed 
the piece reflectively and thumbed the 
hammer. He glanced again at Vivi- 
enne. “Good-bye,” she said, extending 
her hand. “Yes,” softly continued her 
girlhood lover, “forever dead. Et mon 
coeur serait mort, ausst. Toujours, 
... toujours.’ His voice faltered, 
gently he kissed the brown curls that 
lay upon her forehead, and strode off, 
out of her life forever. 
“Vivienne,” called a querulous voice 
within the cabin. “Who is it? Who 
is come?” 
And Gaspard d’Autigne, once more 
conscious, but dizzy and weak and un- 
able to rise from his couch, gazed at 
his girl-wife, who now pillowed her 
pretty head on his breast and wept as 
though her little heart would break. 
It was.all very strange, and he won- 
dered and wondered. 



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