“It comes back on me like a fit of ague, this miserable thirst. If I were within sight of Jolicoeur’s saloon, I should be drinking hard this minute. But I’m here, and--” His hand felt his pocket, and he took out the powders the great surgeon had sent him.
“He knew--how did he know that I was a drunkard? Does a man carry in his face the tale he would not tell? Jo says I didn’t talk of the past, that I never had delirium, that I never said a word to suggest who I was, or where I came from. Then how did the doctor--man know? I suppose every particular habit carries its own signal, and the expert knows the ciphers.” He opened the paper containing the powders, and looked round for water, then paused, folded the paper up, and put it in his pocket again. He went over to the window and looked out. His shoulders set square. “No, no, no, not a speck on my tongue!” he said. “What I can’t do of my own will is not worth doing. It’s too foolish, to yield to the shadow of an old appetite. I play this game alone--here in Chaudiere.”
He looked out and down. The sweet sun of early spring was shining hard, and the snow was beginning to pack, to hang like a blanket on the branches, to lie like a soft coverlet over all the forest and the fields. Far away on the frozen river were saplings stuck up to show where the ice was safe--a long line of poles from shore to shore--and carioles were hurrying across to the village. Being market-day, the place was alive with the cheerful commerce of the habitant. The bell of the parish church was ringing. The sound of it came up distantly and peacefully. Charley drew a long breath, turned away to a pail of water, filled a dipper half full, and drank it off gaspingly. Then he returned to the window with a look of relief.
“That does it,” he said. “The horrible thing is gone again--out of my brain and out of my throat.”
As he stood there, Jo came up the hill with a bundle in his arms. Charley watched him for a moment, half whimsically, half curiously. Yet he sighed once too as Portugais opened the door and came into the room. “Well done, Jo!” said he. “You have ‘em?”
“Yes, M’sieu’. A good suit, and I believe they’ll fit. Old Trudel says it’s the best suit he’s made in a year. I’m afraid he’ll not make many more suits, old Trudel.