“My grandmother told me there was a man dreamed he had to eat seven persons.  He sat by the fire and shivered.  If his squaw wanted meat, he quarreled with her.  ’Squaw, take care.  Thou wilt drive me so far that I shall turn windigo.’”

People who did not give Archange the keen interest of fascinating them were a great weariness to her.  Humble or wretched human life filled her with disgust.  She could dance all night at the weekly dances, laughing in her sleeve at girls from whom she took the best partners.  But she never helped nurse a sick child, and it made her sleepy to hear of windigos and misery.  Michel wanted to squat by the chimney and listen until Louizon came in; but she drove him out early.  Louizon was kind to the orphan, who had been in some respects a failure, and occasionally let him sleep on blankets or skins by the hearth instead of groping to the dark attic.  And if Michel ever wanted to escape the attic, it was to-night, when a windigo was abroad.  But Louizon did not come.

It must have been midnight when Archange sat up in bed, startled out of sleep by her mother-in-law, who held a candle between the curtains.  Madame Cadotte’s features were of a mild Chippewa type, yet the restless aboriginal eye made Archange uncomfortable with its anxiety.

“Louizon is still away,” said his mother.

“Perhaps he went whitefishing after he had his supper.”  The young wife yawned and rubbed her eyes, beginning to notice that her husband might be doing something unusual.

“He did not come to his supper.”

“Yes, mama.  He came in with Monsieur de Repentigny.”

“I did not see him.  The seignior ate alone.”

Archange stared, fully awake.  “Where does the seignior say he is?”

“The seignior does not know.  They parted at the door.”

“Oh, he has gone to the lodges to watch the dancing.”

“I have been there.  No one has seen him since he set out to hunt this morning.”

“Where are Louizon’s canoemen?”

“Jean Boucher and his son are at the dancing.  They say he came into this house.”

Archange could not adjust her mind to anxiety without the suspicion that her mother-in-law might be acting as the instrument of Louizon’s resentment.  The huge feather bed was a tangible comfort interposed betwixt herself and calamity.

“He was sulky to-night,” she declared.  “He has gone up to sleep in Michel’s attic to frighten me.”

“I have been there.  I have searched the house.”

“But are you sure it was Michel in the bed?”

“There was no one.  Michel is here.”