pleased at the glass fruit and at the
tapestries on the walls of the long room. They were from his estate at Île Savary and represented garden scenes. One could
study them for hours without seeing all the flowers and figures.
III
The next morning Auclair sent Cécile up to the Ursuline convent with some borax de Venise which the Mother Superior
required, and a bottle of asafoetida for one of the Sisters who was ailing. At this time of year Cécile always felt a little
homesick for the Sisters and her old life at the Ursuline school. She had left it so early, because of her mother’s illness,
and she never passed the garden walls without looking wistfully at the tree-tops which rose above them. From her walks on
Cap Diamant she could look down into the rectangular courts and see, through the leafless boughs, the rows of dormer windows
in the white roofs, each opening into a Sister’s bare little room. One teacher she loved better than any of the others:
Sister Anne de Sainte–Rose, who taught history and the French language. She was a niece of the Bishop of Tours, had been
happily married, and had led a brilliant life in the great world. Only after the death of her young husband and infant son
had she become a religious. She had charm and wit and the remains of great beauty — everything that would appeal to a little
girl brought up on a rude frontier. Cécile still saw her when she went to the convent on errands, and she was always invited
to the little miracle plays which Sister Anne had the pensionnaires give at Christmas-time, for the good of their French and
their deportment. But her little visits with her teacher were very short, — stolen pleasures. The nuns were always busy, and
if you once dropped out of the school life, you could not share it any more.
This morning she did not see Sister Anne at all; and after delivering her packages to Sister Agatha, the porteress, she
turned away to enjoy the weather. It was on days like this that she loved her town best. The autumn fog was rolling in from
the river so thick that she seemed to be walking through drifts of brown cloud. Only a few roofs and spires stood out in the
fog, detached and isolated: the flèche of the Récollet chapel, the slate roof of the Château, the long, grey outline of
Bishop Laval’s Seminary, floating in the sky. Everything else was blotted out by rolling vapours that were constantly
changing in density and colour; now brown, now amethyst, now reddish lavender, with sometimes a glow of orange overhead
where the sun was struggling behind the thick weather.
It was like walking in a dream. One could not see the people one passed, or the river, or one’s own house. Not even the
winter snows gave one such a feeling of being cut off from everything and living in a world of twilight and miracles. After
loitering on her way, she set off for the Lower Town to look for Jacques.
Cécile never on any account went to his mother’s house to find him. Sometimes, in searching for him, she went behind the
King’s warehouses, as far as the stone paving extended. Beyond the paving the strip of beach directly underneath Cap Diamant
grew so narrow that there was room for barely a dozen houses to sit in a straight line against the foot of the cliff, and
they were the slum of Quebec. Respectability stopped with the cobble-stones.
This morning she did not have to go so far; she found Jacques in a group of little boys who had kindled a fire of sticks
at the foot of Notre Dame street, behind the church. Before she came up to the children, a light sprinkle began to fall. In
a few seconds all the brownish-lilac masses of vapour melted away, leaving a lead-coloured sky, and the rain came down in
streams, like water poured from a great height. Cécile caught Jacques by the arm and ran with him into the church, which had
often been a refuge to them in winter. Not that the church was ever heated, but in there one was out of the wind, and
perhaps the bright colours
tapestries on the walls of the long room. They were from his estate at Île Savary and represented garden scenes. One could
study them for hours without seeing all the flowers and figures.
III
The next morning Auclair sent Cécile up to the Ursuline convent with some borax de Venise which the Mother Superior
required, and a bottle of asafoetida for one of the Sisters who was ailing. At this time of year Cécile always felt a little
homesick for the Sisters and her old life at the Ursuline school. She had left it so early, because of her mother’s illness,
and she never passed the garden walls without looking wistfully at the tree-tops which rose above them. From her walks on
Cap Diamant she could look down into the rectangular courts and see, through the leafless boughs, the rows of dormer windows
in the white roofs, each opening into a Sister’s bare little room. One teacher she loved better than any of the others:
Sister Anne de Sainte–Rose, who taught history and the French language. She was a niece of the Bishop of Tours, had been
happily married, and had led a brilliant life in the great world. Only after the death of her young husband and infant son
had she become a religious. She had charm and wit and the remains of great beauty — everything that would appeal to a little
girl brought up on a rude frontier. Cécile still saw her when she went to the convent on errands, and she was always invited
to the little miracle plays which Sister Anne had the pensionnaires give at Christmas-time, for the good of their French and
their deportment. But her little visits with her teacher were very short, — stolen pleasures. The nuns were always busy, and
if you once dropped out of the school life, you could not share it any more.
This morning she did not see Sister Anne at all; and after delivering her packages to Sister Agatha, the porteress, she
turned away to enjoy the weather. It was on days like this that she loved her town best. The autumn fog was rolling in from
the river so thick that she seemed to be walking through drifts of brown cloud. Only a few roofs and spires stood out in the
fog, detached and isolated: the flèche of the Récollet chapel, the slate roof of the Château, the long, grey outline of
Bishop Laval’s Seminary, floating in the sky. Everything else was blotted out by rolling vapours that were constantly
changing in density and colour; now brown, now amethyst, now reddish lavender, with sometimes a glow of orange overhead
where the sun was struggling behind the thick weather.
It was like walking in a dream. One could not see the people one passed, or the river, or one’s own house. Not even the
winter snows gave one such a feeling of being cut off from everything and living in a world of twilight and miracles. After
loitering on her way, she set off for the Lower Town to look for Jacques.
Cécile never on any account went to his mother’s house to find him. Sometimes, in searching for him, she went behind the
King’s warehouses, as far as the stone paving extended. Beyond the paving the strip of beach directly underneath Cap Diamant
grew so narrow that there was room for barely a dozen houses to sit in a straight line against the foot of the cliff, and
they were the slum of Quebec. Respectability stopped with the cobble-stones.
This morning she did not have to go so far; she found Jacques in a group of little boys who had kindled a fire of sticks
at the foot of Notre Dame street, behind the church. Before she came up to the children, a light sprinkle began to fall. In
a few seconds all the brownish-lilac masses of vapour melted away, leaving a lead-coloured sky, and the rain came down in
streams, like water poured from a great height. Cécile caught Jacques by the arm and ran with him into the church, which had
often been a refuge to them in winter. Not that the church was ever heated, but in there one was out of the wind, and
perhaps the bright colours
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