She must have been beautiful. And her
husband, Andre Beauvais, worshipped her, and the ground she trod on. And
he had the faith in her that a mother has in her child. It was a sublime
love, and Joseph Brecht told us about it as he lay there, dying, as he
supposed. In that faith of his Andre went unsuspectingly to his
trap-lines and his poison-trails, and Marie and Joseph were for many
hours at a time alone, sometimes for a day, sometimes for two days, and
occasionally for three, for even after his limb had regained its strength
Joseph feigned that it was bad. It was a hard fight, he said--a hard
fight for him to win her; but win her he did, utterly, absolutely, heart,
body and soul. Remember, he was from the South, with all its power of
language, all its tricks of love, all its furtiveness of argument, a
strong man with a strong mind--and she had lived all her life in the
wilderness. She was no match for him. She surrendered. He told us how,
after that, he would unbind her wonderful hair and pillow his face in it;
how he lived in a heaven of transport, how utterly she gave herself to
him in those times when Andre, was away.
Did he love her?
Yes, in that mad passion of the brute. But not as you and I might love a
woman, gentlemen. Not as Andre loved her. Whether she had a heart or a
soul it did not matter. His eyes were blind with an insensate joy when he
shrouded himself in her wonderful hair.
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