Читать книгу High Towers - Thomas B. Costain - Страница 9

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Hippolyte Girard, the builder and carpenter of Longueuil, sat at the head of his table and supped up his soup with an angry air. Because of the heat he had stripped off his clothes on returning from work and had put on a dirty cotton nightgown in which he looked like a rather unhealthy and quite unhappy monkey. In contrast with the cheapness of his shift, a new cap of braided velvet with a gay tassel perched jauntily on his long and knobby head, and his feet had been thrust into the finest of embroidered moccasins.

“We are ruined!” he announced, glancing about the supper table with his dark and beady eyes. “Why do we sit here filling ourselves with costly food when blows of adversity rain upon us? Soon we’ll have nothing left, no money, no house, no business. And all”—he turned and glared at a boy of about ten years who sat on his left—“and all because of this greedy fellow here, who lives on my bounty and who’ll never be able to pay me back a sou of all the money I lavish on him!”

His son-in-law, Prosper Viau, paid no attention but went on spooning in his soup with the noisy haste of a huge appetite. His daughter looked at the boy and flushed uncomfortably.

“Father!” she protested. “What has Philippe done now?”

“Philippe! There you go again, Cécile. Calling that boy Philippe!” The old man’s eyes were snapping angrily. “You know I call him Thomas. You know Thomas is the patron saint of architects and you know I want to make an architect of that boy.” He went back to his soup. “You and your Philippe! You’re like all women, Cécile. You haven’t a patch of sense in you.”

“I call him Philippe because that was the name he was given. Was he christened Thomas, Father? You and your Thomas!” Cécile reached out and took hold of his arm. “Wait! The soup is hot anyway. Now you will tell us what is wrong.”

The old builder’s nostrils flared with the struggle of emotions inside him. “It’s the land!” he cried in a piteous voice and putting down his spoon. “The papers were signed and filed today. Jules Carré brought me the news from across the river. And that boy—that boy who has lived with me for nine years, who has been stuffed with the richest food——” There was nothing rich about the platter of soup and the knob of bread which constituted the boy’s supper. Life, in fact, had been rather plain and hard for him at every stage of the nine years. “—that boy, to whom I have even given my name——”

“Well, Father, out with it! Don’t keep us in suspense in this way. What does Philippe get?”

“He gets nothing!” cried the old man. He picked up his spoon again and began to beat on the table with it. “Nothing! I tell you I’ve been robbed by those cheating, thieving officials of the court in Montreal. I’m of a mind to enter a suit against them. I’ll go to M’sieur Charles tonight——”

Cécile looked up at that. “Is M’sieur Charles at the château?”

Prosper spoke for the first time since the meal began. “Yes. He came this afternoon. There was a man with him. A big man. As big as me.”

“Did you see them?” asked his wife anxiously. She knew how bitterly her father objected to his men leaving their work. The mill, on which they were now engaged, was some distance from the château.

“I saw them.” Prosper’s mouth was full of bread and he spoke indistinctly as a result. “I’d gone to the château to ask about the supplies we need. I saw M’sieur Charles. I saw the big man. He was dressed”—Prosper’s dull mind struggled vainly for words to describe the grandeur of the visitor—“he was dressed fine.”

“It was that man from Versailles,” put in the old builder. “He’s up to no good, that one! They say he’s going to put a stop to the fur trade. What will happen to M’sieur Charles then, hein?” An idea occurred to him suddenly. “This M’sieur de Mariat returns to Quebec in two days. I’ll write a letter to His Majesty and demand that justice be done me about this land. I’ll make it strong. And I’ll give it to this M’sieur de Mariat and tell him he must place it himself in the hands of the King.” He got up from the table. “I’m going to write the letter now.”

He turned and shuffled across the room to a door which opened into the other half of the ground floor of the little house. With a hand on the knob, he turned and said to the boy: “You’ve had your supper. Go and get your book and start on your studies. I’m going to make an architect of you.” He paused and then barked at the boy, “Why do we paint rooms blue inside?”

Philippe, who had given up eating long before, answered in a low voice, “Because it keeps the flies out, m’sieur.”

“That is right.” The old man, obviously, was disappointed that the proper answer had been forthcoming. “Well, then, tell me this, what do you use in building under the coping of walls?”

“Cogging bricks, m’sieur.”

“How did you know I was going to ask you those questions?” demanded the old man. He gave the boy the benefit of a final glare and then disappeared into the room, slamming the door after him.

Cécile looked at the empty plate in front of the boy and asked in a kindly voice, “Would you like more soup, Philippe?”

The boy shook his head. “No, thank you, Cécile. I’ve had enough.”

Cécile, who was a plump and comfortable-looking young woman without any trace of physical resemblance to her father, looked across the table at the steadily munching Prosper. “Well, he’ll be busy now for the rest of the evening and we’ll see nothing more of him. Writing a letter to the King! Did you ever hear of such nonsense! Prosper, would you like a slice of cake?”

Before her husband could respond with the expected affirmative a knock sounded on the door. A man put his head in without waiting for permission and demanded, “Where’s Old Kirkinhead?”

“If you mean my father——” began Cécile, tossing her head angrily.

“I mean your father. Does anyone call him anything else but Old Kirkinhead? Where is he?”

“He’s gone to bed. You can’t see him tonight, Jacques Simon.”

The visitor looked carefully about the room to make sure she had told him the truth. Then he gave his head a surly shake. “So! I can’t see him tonight! Well, my girl, you tell him I’ll be here in the morning. You tell him that I’m missing that silver harness clasp of mine and that I wonder—that I’m wondering if he knows anything about it!”