He says that he will never leave
Quebec until he goes to his home above--ah!"
The way in which M. Roussillon closed his little speech, his large
eyes upturned, his huge hands clasped in front of him, was very
effective.
"I am under many obligations, my son," said Father Beret, "for
what you tell me. It was good of you to remember my dear old
friend and go to him for his loving messages to me. I am very,
very thankful. Help me to another drop of wine, please."
Now the extraordinary feature of the situation was that Father
Beret had known positively for nearly five years that Father
Sebastien was dead and buried.
"Ah, yes," M. Roussillon continued, pouring the claret with one
hand and making a pious gesture with the other; "the dear old man
loves you and prays for you; his voice quavers whenever he speaks
of you."
"Doubtless he made his old joke to you about the birth-mark on my
shoulder," said Father Beret after a moment of apparently
thoughtful silence. "He may have said something about it in a
playful way, eh?"
"True, true, why yes, he surely mentioned the same," assented M.
Roussillon, his face assuming an expression of confused memory;
"it was something sly and humorous, I mind; but it just escapes my
recollection. A right jolly old boy is Father Sebastien; indeed
very amusing at times.
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