Jean Baptiste: A Story of French CanadaLe Rossignol, James Edward
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Jean Baptiste: A Story of French Canada
Le Rossignol, James Edward
Canada -- Fiction; French Canadians -- Fiction
"There is no need for that, my precious mother. If I had a piece of
strong wire. Ah, here it is in my pocket. A happy accident, is it not?
How useful pockets are! Possibly we might find some other useful
articles there, if the lock should prove refractory--a stick of
dynamite, for example. It is an interesting trade, the locksmith’s, one
of the accomplishments that I have learned in the course of my
wanderings. But this is not a difficult combination. There goes one
bolt; and there goes the other. Now the hasp is loose, and the lid is
ready to open. If there is to be an explosion it will come at this
stage. My cherished parent, you shall have the pleasure of opening the
treasure chest, since you have desired it for so many years. The old
can be spared, you know, but the future of the world is with the young."
"Bah!" said the old woman. "You make a great fuss about nothing, my
brave son; you with the long legs, the broad shoulders, the fierce look,
the big words. Bah! You are a poor excuse for a man. I will lift the
lid, of course, and you shall see what we have come to find. There!
Look now! Look! Oh, _Mon Dieu_! _Mon Dieu_! What is this? _Sacré
diable_! _Millecochons_! _Sacré_! _Sacré_! _Cru-ru-ru-ru-de Dieu_!"
"What is the matter?" cried Pamphile. "What the deuce is here? No
gold, eh? I thought as much. Stones from the river? Yes, better than I
expected. Oh, be still, you old fool. Stop your yelling. Who is making
a fuss now, I should like to know? Be still, I say!"
"Oh, Pamphile! Oh! Oh! You do not know, you cannot imagine the
disappointment, the sorrow, after all these years, to see all my hopes,
all my plans, come to an end like this. No treasure, no revenge! Ah,
the miserable one, to rob a poor woman, a poor old woman who had but one
hope, one ambition, one thing to make life worth while! Now all is
gone. No money, no revenge! Nothing, nothing! _Sacré_! _Sacré_!
Pamphile, I am finished. Let us go, my nephew."
"Nephew?" said Pamphile, as they slowly mounted the steps to the floor
above. "I was your son a moment since, although I did not believe it
for a moment."
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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