The notary departed, but the exasperated lawyer
still conversed with himself. "I cannot decently
die," he said, "any more than I can devoutly live,
pricked through the very reins and kidneys with
that skewer. Alas! he is my goad, my thorn in the
flesh, the messenger of satan sent to buffet me. He
is the mosquitto that stings my knuckles; the little,
black, abominable fly that will insist to assail my
nose; he is my bruise, my blain, my blister, my
settled, ceaseless source of irritation: the cause,
the cause -- of what is he the cause? Alas! that
I should ever have been the cause of such a foul
effect! But let it be so; the whitest skins have
moles, the sun has spots; he is my mole, my spot;
and I, I am the father of the fool, Narcisse."

Narcisse was that moment at a tavern in the beau-
tiful village of Cote des Neiges, adjacent to Stilly-
side, and much resorted to by pleasure seekers from
Montreal. His companions, too, were there, bewail-
ing the loss of one of their fowling-pieces, and devis-
ing means for revenge on their interrupter and suc-
cessful assailant. There they remained, and, instead
of spending the day, as was their first intention, on
the side of the mountain, in popping at small birds
they passed many of its hours in quaffing large pota-
tions, the effects of which they in some degree slept
off by a long afternoon nap. It was now nightfall,
and they were returning homewards, conversing
in loud and angry tones on the humiliation of the
morning, and threatening retribution against its
cause, the gallant stranger. Narcisse, with the liti-
giousness of his maternal race, and prompted by his
inkling of law, was for launching an action for assault

[[24]]

p023 _ -chap- _ toc-1 _ p024w _ toc-2 _ +chap+ _ p025

v?