"But it was of your friend the sorcerer that I was speaking. That was another who had sold himself to the evil one. At what price? Gold and the love of woman. Was he handsome? By no means. But how strong he was, how black his hair and his eyes! And how he would look at me and say: ’Angel, my angel, if you love me, if you love me truly, kiss me on both cheeks, and on the lips. Again! Once more!’ And after that! _Mon Dieu_, after that his ship came in with the tide and he sailed away; while I, like a fool, stood on the shore and waved to him until he was out of sight beyond the point. And then I cried like a baby. Can you believe it? "Did Michel Gamache not come back after the voyage? Ah, yes. When summer was gone he came back, but not to me. I was expecting him, I who had given him so much love; but he did not come that evening, nor the next, nor ever again. Always he was at the house of Bonhomme Duval, the rich trader, smuggler, thief. The old rascal had a daughter, of course. Beautiful? Not at all. It was the dowry that Michel desired. For that he perjured his soul, for the value of a hundred pounds, more or less. It was all arranged. The wedding was to take place on the first day of the year. They would begin the year together, those two. And I? They had no thought for me. Every evening I looked from the window, hoping that he would come, that he would wish to say good-bye, if nothing more; but I saw only the bare trees and the dead leaves dancing in the autumn wind. "But listen, my friend. That is not the end of the story. No, only the beginning. My brother Ovide, do you know him? But how could you? He has been dead these thirty years. Since that night he was never the same man." "What night, Madame?" said Jean, much interested. "Be silent, fool!" said the old hag. "If you interrupt me again you may tell the story yourself. It was the eve of Christmas, of course, eight days before the wedding that was to be. The wedding! Ha! Ha! The sorcerer’s wedding! He who had not made his Easter confession in seven years, he who had sold his soul for gold. His wedding! _Nom de diable_! "’Sister,’ said my brother Ovide, ’little sister, never mind; the wedding will never take place. I will kill him, the traitor.’ "’Kill him, yes, yes, kill him!’ I said. ’But no, that would be too dangerous, for it is quite possible that he might kill you, Ovide, my brother. You are strong, I know, but not like him. Think of that neck of his, those hands, and that jaw, with teeth like a wolf. No, my brother, you shall not. I would kill him myself, but I fear--I don’t know what I fear.’ "’Fear nothing, my sister, you shall see.’