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Home My WebLink AboutThe Exeter Times-Advocate, 1934-01-04, Page 6THE EXETER TIMES-ADVOCATETHURSDAY, JANUARY 4th, 1934 SYNOPSIS Yvonne Caron, one of the most heautiful ladies of early French Quebec is being forced into mar riage with and by Simon Girard, an unscrupulous lawyer. Her brother Paul is deep in debt thro’ gambling with Girard, The cere mony, however, is interrupted by the notorious Catain Midnight, Robin Hood of the French colony, who marries Yvonne in order to save the girl’s vast estates. “Yes,” said Paul sulkily, “they know it. They will not though, I am sure, look askance at you, Yvon ne; they will rather feel sorry for you—” “Ceil; I do not want their sorrow. Had it been Simon Girard now, sym pathy were in order. One who mar ried Simon would know she had sel ected a rotten apple, but in the case of Captain Midnight one cannot tell —he is, for me. a sort of cadeau— a gift, well-wrapped, not opened yet —and, mon Dieu, what a surprise I shall get when he Is revealed to me!” “Yes,” agreed Paul. “What a sur prise, Yvonne.” “You are gloomy about it, mon frere, Can it be that you—know who Captain Midnight is? Tel] me—” “No! Oh, no, I do not know of his identity—some say he is the de vil, others—no matter. You will learn soon, doubtless. I must away now, my sister.” Paul was glad, for her sake, that she did not plan to go to the Gover nor’s levee the next night. It would not be good for her to go. Perhaps, 'before she learned the etory from cruel lips, he himself could summon up the courage requisite to telling her—but it would not be easy. Paul had not forsaken his dissi pated companions nor rid himself of his passion for gambling, his appe tite for wine. He went, some time after leaving Yvonne, content with her dreams, to solitude that somehow was not solitary, to the house of the Chevalier de Rennes. And there were de Pean, Guy Rozier, Jean Pierre Martel and Simon Girard, sitting by the great bow window, smoking with much enjoyment and watching the river under the waning moon. Paul was still, perforce, friendly with Simon Girard, despite the trick Simon had tried to play on Yvonne. He owed Simon a great deal of mon ey.—gambling debts; and each night’s play seemed to push the sum of those debts higher and higher. Too, the lawyer had always held for Paul Caron an evil sort of fascina tion which caused the boy to over look many things. And his common sense—not, alas, great—might have warned him away from this sauve and smiling soamp who professed to be his friend; “Welcome, dear Paul,” called Si mon. He went to Paul’s- side, put an affectionate arm about his- shoulders and smiled down at him in a fash ion that made Jean Pierre think of Leonardo da Vinci’s great loss in not having Simon to pose for Judas in his painting of the Last Supper. "And how,” continued Simon, lead ing Paul over to the group by the window, “is the bride of Captain Midnight? My faith, she must be rather worse off than a widow, for a widow is free to seek another hus band, but she has neither the joy of his presence nor the license of his absence. A sorry plight, in effect.” “She seems not to mind it,” said Paul. “I wonder at her and I feel bitterly sorry for her—wed to this unfortunate—” “Does your sister not know then —•?” It was Jean Pierre Martel’s low, clear voice; he spoke from the shadows—“who this man really is?” “She does not,” admitted Paul, seating himself on the window ledge and beoming a silhouette against the blue night Sky. “Nor could i tell het> Dr. Wood's Norway Pine Syrup the truth. She had made it harder for me, I tell you; for now she has woven a web of glamour about this man, had made a hero of him and is in love, I swear, not with Captain Midnight’s face and form,” He shiv ered—“Ugh!—but with the fine face of the unreal figure she has conjur ed up to her girlish dreaming. Mon dieu! you know what women are. I could not tell her, try as I would, who her lover is and what a ghastly masque lies under the black domino of a death’s head—It is hideaus to think it—To tell her tnat her dream lover is like something out of the tomb is a task beyond', me; much like asking me to strike her. For it would hurt as much. I shall keep rhe truth from her as long as pos sible. I was glad to- learn she would not be present at the assembly to morrow night. But one only post pones the inevitable.” “This man,” said Jean Pierre, “who calls himself Captain Midnight but who one tells me, was once a gallant member of your noblesse— what brought about the downfall? What put that jarring unearthly sound into his laughter and made of him the nocturnal bird of prey—” “What?” Guy Lauzier laughed softly, but there was no other answer in that room where little coals' of red glowered in the long pipee. There was a strained and potent sil ence. “Ah!” said Jean Pierre. “Let us play.” He could feel Girard’s eyes upon him; could sense their hostility and suspicion. For Jean Pierre knew very well what had brought about the terrible situation, the pathetic ruin, of Laurent Lemoine de St. Hil aire. He smiled—an cx*a, crooked smile, but when the candles were lighted and the men sat around the gaming-table, Jean Pierre’s face was serene, enigmatic, guileless. Over the rim of his goblet, the sword-points of his dark' eyes pointed at Simon Girard, who sensed the contemptuous challenge in them. | “You are enjoying your exile, J Monsieur Martel?” inquired Girard' with pretended graciousness. I “As I never enjoyed life before.” j returned Jean Pierre earnestly. "What a faecinating place this1 is, Monsieur Girard. Dame! Here one finds more of intrigue, more of un happy love, more fiddling while Rome burns—why the colony is a vast ensemble of fiddlers, meseems, as regards its administration,—for, wanting a miracle of Divine Provi dence, I do affirm that it would fall before a lone regiment of Scotsmen.’ The others laughed; but Simon Girard sicowled into his half-empty goblet and drained it before he said “For a newcomer, and one whose business is supposed to be pleasure, you are far too observant, monsieur. That is dangerous. One should not see too much—” “Unfortunately,” retorted Jean Pierre. I have a fine pair of eyes— unclouded by the wish to see only what pleases them.” “Bien ” cried their host, de Ren nes. “Let us see where luck is this night, mee amis. Tomorrow is an other day.” “Which must come,” saidi Jean. They played. Paul drank heavily and lost heavily. His head rolled with the weight of wine. He played foolishly. The others, Simon Girard excepted, were in much the same boat. Steadily the lawyer won; the pile of gold in front of him rose higher and higher. His confidence his arrogance grew likewise. He laughed contemptuously—especially at Jean Pierre, who seemed as; fud dled as the rest. “A stiffer game than you played in France, Monsieur, Martel, eh? You do not Seem to shine. You are Dry, Hacking Cough Nearly Choked Her Mrs. 0. C. Scheie, Duhamel, Alta., writes:-—“I had a terrible dry, hacking cough which would nearly choke me. I tried all kinds of medicine to get rid of it, but they never helped me and my cough still hung on, I then got a bottle of Dr. Wood’s Norway Pine Syrup and in a few days my cough was all gone, thanks to this valuable medicine. Now I always keep a bottle of ‘Dr. Wood’s’ on hand.” Price, 35c a bottle; largo family size, 65c, at all drug and general stores; put up only by The T. Mil* burn Co., Limited, Toronto, Ont. quite beyond your depth, it would appear. We play fast and for high stakes and—” “Dishonestly,” said Jean Pierre sharply. All the feigned heaviness’, the dullness, dropped from him, He shot up from his chair and Simon Girard moved nearly ae fast; the others awoke from their stupor in time to see Jean Pierre’s rapier flash from its sabbard and bridge the board, its point against the lawyer's heart, pinning him to the wall be hind him. The startled cries, the oaths ceas ed, “My sword point,” eaid Jean Pierre, “rests against a pack of cards in this man’s coat. They are the pack he substituted for the ones we started with and switched again a moment ago—after he had won. Those cards are marked. We have been cheated. Girard has done it before." iLauzier reached into the lawyer’s pocket, found the cards and spread them on the boards, backs up. “It is an old trick,” explained Jean Pierre, his index finger touching the cards. “Here you see a variation in the width of the boarders; here a dot, there a circle, there a cross. One must have keen eyes- to see. But you were a fool—Girara—did I not tell you ere we sat down that I have a fine pair of eyes. And I did not drink so much wine as- you thought. Take your money hack gentlemen. Ah—so you would—!” Simon Girard ducked clear of Jean Pierre’s sword point and drew his own rapier. Fury, chagrin, blinded him to every other consideration but that of evenging himself upon thi® man who had exposed his trick-' ery. But Jean Pierre met his at-; tack, cool and unperturbed. The blades clicked as they crossed; they clashed with glinting fires. Simon Girard was no swordsman. Jean Pierre was a master. It lasted only a minute; then Jean Pierre's blade seemed to glue itself to Girard’s and Jean Pierre’s wrist that seemed one piece of the same steel, with his sword bent down inexorably till the points of the locked swords touched the floor when with a lightning quick jerk, the lawyer’s sword was torn from hie fingers and fell clat tering to the floor. Jean Pierre smiled and stepped back. “You are fortgetful, monsieur,” he said to Girard, who could not speak so great was hie chagrin and so futile his anger. “First you ecorn my vaunted reputation with the cards, next with the sword; what else, pray?” “Perhaps your character of great lover, Jean Pierre,” smiled de Pean. And Jean Pierre, shrugging, smil ed back at him. The money was apportioned. Jean Pierre took young Paul Caron by the arm. “Come,” he said. “I am going your way, Paul.” Paul was flattered to be singled out by so- remarkable a man. Then, too, he was very unsteady on his feet and liked the strong, firm hold of Jean Pierre upon hie arm. To gether they left the house, strolled through the streets hushed with the quiet of midnight, the narrow moon- shadowy streets like lanes where goblins would walk, hilly, tortuous; and the spires and towers above were transformed from the gray drabness of day into elfin, lovely things. Paul chattered away about noth ing, but, receiving little encourage ment from his companion, he soon fell silent or muttered to himself. Jean Pierre guided him unerringly to the Caron home. “I mut go in by the gate in the wall-—into the garden,” announced Paul, “if I enter by the main door I may awaken Yvonne—” “Ah, I see,” said Jean Pierre and they walked to a heavy wooden door fastened with iron, that opened into the grey etone walk “Your key?” asked Jean Pierre in a whisper. “I have hone. You give me a leg over, monsieur. The gate is bolted on the inside—” “Permit me then—-” Jean Pierre had a notion Paul would break his nock if he tried to climb that wall. Lightly, then, Jean Pierre leaped up, grasping the coping with hie fingers pulling himself atop the wall, then vaulting to the ground, shadowed there by the wall and the laurels growing close to the door. There hidden in the shadows was Yvonne, of all people. He almost collided with her. Indeed, as he straighten ed, his shoulder touched Lei's. “Paul—” she said. “J waited—” Her face was upturned to Jean Pierre, she sotod so close that he could feel the warmth of her, see the whiteness of her throat and sense the pale allure of her form un der the fur-bordered robe she wore. And Jean Pierre could not help it. He caught her in his arms and rev elled for an instant in the stolen ecstasy of her lipa, iShe struggled free of his arms and the flat of her hand was surprisingly | hard against his cheek . “You—you will pay for that in sult, m’sieur,” she said coldly. “I have one now who will make you pay. And you will regret it.” “Never milady,” said Jean Pierre. “I do not doubt I shall pay for it, but I shall never regret it.” “Enough! Where is my brother?” “Oh! I had forgotten,” Jean Pierre slid the bolt back and she opened the door. Paul walked in with such steadiness, as would de- I ceive no one. Yvonne did not speak, but Jean Pierre felt the scornful look she gave j him. She blamed him, no doubt, for this. “I would not have you think,—” 'he began. “Good night, m’sieur,” she said. “What I think concerns you not at all. But I would advise you to leave I my brother and myself alone. Come, ! Paul.” Jean Pierre was left standing by the open gate, silent but unabashed. He touched his lips, and he smiled, touched his still stinging cheek, and he laughed softly. “Yvonne!” he said. “Little lovely spitfire—the bride of Captain Mid night—” CHAPTER III Jean Pierre might have regretted, just a little, that stolen kiss had he been able observe the after-effects. But he was back in the low, raftered room of his house at Sillery, sitting before a blazing fire of dry 'birch and more or less contentedly smok ing his pipe—while Yvonne lay wide awake in her bed, telling herself it was anger—anger against this man —that robbed her of sleep. Paul had stupidly explained to her how Jean Pierre had broken -up the card game and exposed Simon Gir ard’s dishonesty— “And you—when he good enough to walk home with me, just because you went through a marriage cere mony with a—with this highwayman Captain Midnight, you insult a gentleman like Martel and treat him as if he were just beneath your feet. It is not fair,” he insisted tipsily. “Im ashamed of you, Yvonne.” She smiled at Paul’s foolish grav ity and led him to his room. “You used to scold me because I could not see Simon Girard’s virtues too, dear Paul, if I remember well You would have had me marry him. Now you see what sort of man he is, though you would not admit him a scoundrel after his threatening to inform Bigot of your misdeeds*—And this Martel! One is ever judged by the company he keeps. I have beg ged you so often to stay away from these men. Why will you not heed me? Some day it will be your un doing, Paul.” “Martel is a gentleman,-’ insisted Paul. “I do not like him. I think he should understand it by now. He means nothing to me.” Despite that stout assertion, she could not sleep. Her mind, with that uncontrollable nimbleness that comes, with insomnia, recreated the two meetings she had had with Jean Pierre; the moonlight night in the Governor’s Garden among the silver roses and carnations, and this night, by the door in the wall of her own quiet garden. She had thought, when he vaulted over the wall that it wae her brother and not until he had taken her in his arm® and kissed her had she relized his identity. And she had elapped him. It was the thing to do with overly bold young men. .Sister Theresa, at the Ursuline Convent had recommended it as the very best treatment for those who would steal kisses off one’® lips. But there were so many angry crushing things she should have eaid to him. He knew she was wed, yet he did not respect that un ion, did not take it seriously any more than did Paul, Well, they would learn. Given the chance, she would go with Captain Midnight. Then they would know— But how go w’th a wtnsband who did not come near you? Four days had gone by and no word from him or about him had come to her. Or dinarily, it would have meant noth ing; Captain Midnight often lay low for weeks at a time, and, since this latest and boldest onslaught on the Intendant’s revenues and the consequent hue and cry, he would not likely be heard rrom for some time. But as her husband, he had no business to disappear from the scene. She could have scolded him, but her saving sense of humor came here to her rescue, at the picture of her, looking up into that masqued, unknowable face, into those keen searching eyes behind the masque— and scolding him. However, he should come to her, communicable with her in some way; he should not leave her alone and unprotected, at the mercy of men, like Jean Pierre Martel, who went about kissing every pretty girl they could lay their hand® on. Here sleep came to her and with it dreams huge and chimeric in which she struggled with a giant •card until she stood it against the ■wall and the King on the card be came Captain Midnight, who pres ently stepped down from the card and stood smiling at her. She beg ged him to take off the masique and, after much demur, he told her she might remove it. Eagerly, fearful ly, she did—but behind it was an other masque and she could' not re move that. From such weird imagining® she awakened into the sunlight and gaiety of early morning, to the mel low piping of the robins and chick- a-deee in the garden, to the memory of last night and Jean Pierre’s kiss- and the hours of wakefulness that had followed it. And she looked at the little band of gold that, shifted from right hand to left, had become her wedding-right She laughed rather wistfully, wondered what it was like to be a bride when one had one’s husband. Droll fancies, but sweet. She sang as she went about her dressing. Black eyes deeply black in the pallor of her race, stud ied her from the mirror as she brushed the sa'ble gleaming thick ness of her hair and piled it high upon her head. IShe donned a gray, ■billowy dress of blue, its collar high about her neck; and little blue slip pers. When Maryse came to awaken her she was fully attired. Paul rare ly tumbled from bed until noon. She breakfasted alone, making a pre tense of having someone to serve, someone to talk with. But she felt strangely like a widow, which did not please her. From her garden, that night, she could see the lights at the Caetle of St. Louis; hear the music of the harp and viol, wafted to her ear® on the night wind that muted it so softly. Almost, across the lighted squares of the window® she could see the danc ers pass in the minuet and madrigal. Paul was there; practically every body of note in Quebec would- be there. That did not bother Yvonne. Usually, at such gay parties, she had a wretched time. Perhaps her con ventual training had spoiled her for the frivolous and vapid pleasures they expected her to share; more likely it was that, deprived of her father and mother, sne had always considered life a rather serious busi ness. And when she did go to the castle, she invariably wandered off alone to the Governor’® Garden, where it was hard to have such un interrupted solitude as she had. there within her own walls of thick gray etone. Uninterrupted—she heard a light thud upon the firm sward by the wall, not far from where she sat. She rose startled, her hand to her lips, her eye® straining into the heavy mass of shadow cast by the wall. The moon had not yet risen, the stare’ light was dim and kindly. (Continued next week) HIBBERT TOWNSHIP PIONEER PASSES On Thursday evening death claim ed one of Hibbert’s most highly re spected citizens in the person of William Henry Gray in his 87th year The late Mr. Gray had been ailing for the past few months but it was only the last two weeks he was con fined to hie bed, death being due to an attack of pneumonia. In 1874 he married Mary Ahn Brown who pre deceased him by 2'5 years. He was later married to Rebecca Blazey who survives him together With four daughters and two sons. He lived in Hibbert Township virtually all hi® life until 22 years ago when he re tired and moved to Mitchell to live. Twenty-five dollars will be given in prizes to the readers of the Times- Aidvocate who renew their subsrip-1 tions this month. 'See advt. on an-1 other page, > Qtye Exeter ©tuwfi-Abnnnitr Established 1873 and 1887 Published every Thursday mornin* at Exeter, Ontario SUBSCRIPTION—?2.O0 per year Id advance. 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