THE TRAGIC COMEDY OF ANNETTE.
THE chest of drawers, the bed, the bedding, the pieces of linen, and the pile of yarn had been ready for many months. Annette had made inventory of them every day since the dot was complete—at first with a great deal of pride, after a time more shyly and wistfully: Bénoit did not come. He had said he would be down with the first drive of logs in the summer, and at the little church of St. Saviour’s they would settle everything and get the Curé’s blessing. Almost anybody would have believed in Bénoit. He had the brightest scarf, the merriest laugh, the quickest eyes, and the blackest head in Pontiac; and no one among the river drivers could sing like him. That was, he said gaily, because his earrings were gold, and not brass like those of his comrades. Thus Bénoit was a little vain, and something more; but old ladies such as the Little Chemist’s wife said he was galant. Probably only Medallion the auctioneer and the Curé did not lose themselves in the general admiration; they thought he was to Annette like a farthing dip to a holy candle.
Annette was the youngest of twelve, and one of a family of thirty—for some of her married brothers and sisters and their children lived in her father’s long white house’ by the river. When Bénoit failed to come in the spring, they showed their pity for her by abusing him; and when she pleaded for him they said things which had an edge. They ended by offering to marry
