The bloody Guiteau, however, did not consider the pardon a very great act of liberality.  On the contrary, he was inclined to regard the discussion of his guilt, the guilt of the president of an independent colony! who was law-maker and law-dispenser in himself, as somewhat of an impertinence.  He still continued to administer the government, and to live sumptuously in the house of Governor McTavish.  About him here he had gathered some of his most powerful followers, one of which was the big fenian, O’Donoghue.  These ate and drank to their heart’s content, but from their wallowing and disgusting habits the residence soon resembled a filthy lair where pigs lie down.  Yet the Rebel Chief had spared no pains to make it luxurious; conveying thither, with other plunder, the effects of the house of Dr. Schultz.

When it was at first told Riel that Sir Garnet Wolseley, at the head of a large force, was marching against him, he refused to believe it.  It was not till he actually with his own eyes, saw the troops that he was convinced.  Then with hysterical precipitation the greasy murderer scurried out of the Fort, mounted a horse, and rode away in mortal terror.  Later, he was reduced to the necessity of walking, and when his boots were worn off his feet, there was blood in his foot-prints.  In this plight he met a follower who used to tremble before him in the days of his power, and to be like unto Caius Marius, he said to this man: 

“Go back and tell your friends that you have met Louis Riel, a fugitive, barefooted, without a roof above his head, and no where to go.”  This beastly, murderous tyrant did actually imagine himself to be a hero!

Later on he was supplied with money by Sir John Macdonald to keep out of the country.  The amount was not paid to him in a lump, but his good friend, the whilome bishop, and now archbishop, paid it out whenever the worthless, vagabond rascal came and represented himself as being very needy.

He often, in his fallen days, would go about sighing for Marie, and declaring that, with all his vengeful feelings towards her, she was the only maiden whom he had ever really loved.  Old Jean came back and settled with a sad heart, in the little cottage where had grown up his sweet Marie.  It was very desolate for his old heart now.  The ivy wreathed itself about the little wicker house, as was its wont, but Marie was not there.  The cows came as usual to the bars to be milked, but there was a lamenting in their lowing call.  They missed the small, soft hand that used to milk them, and never more heard the blithe, glad voice singing from La Claire Fontaine.  Paul worked bravely and strove to cheer his father; and Violette, with her bright, quick eyes, just a little like Marie’s, would come down and sing to him, and bring him cool, pink, dew-bathed roses.  He thanked them all; but their love was not sufficient.  His heart was across the prairies by a grave upon which the violets were growing.  Before the leaves fell he was lying by her side.  A cypress marks the graves, and the little brook goes by all the summer.