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Authors: Willa Cather
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snow had frozen fast over roofs and spires and trees. Everything on the rock was sheathed in
glittering white ice. It was a sight to stir the dullest blood. Some trappers from Three Rivers were in town. They had
supper with La Grenouille, and afterwards persuaded her to go for a ride in their dog-sledges up the frozen St. Lawrence.
Jacques was in bed asleep. ‘Toinette threw an extra blanket over him and put an armful of wood in the stove, then went off
with the young men, taking L’Escargot with her. She meant to be out only an hour or two; but they had plenty of brandy along
to keep them warm, and so they made a night of it. Dog-sledging by moonlight on that broad marble highway, with no wind, was
fine sport.
After she had been gone a couple of hours, Jacques wakened up very cold and called for his mother. Presently he got up
and went to look for her. He went to L’Escargot’s bed, and that, too, was empty. The moonlight shone in brightly, but the
fire had gone out, and all about him things creaked with the cold. He found his shoes and an old shawl and went out into the
snow to look for his mother. The poor neighbour houses were silent. He went behind the King’s storehouse and up Notre Dame
street to the market square. The worthy merchants were long ago in bed, and all the houses were dark except one, where the
mother of the family was very sick. The statue of King Louis, with a cloak and helmet of snow, looked terrifying in the
moonlight. Jacques already knew better than to knock at that solid, comfortable house where he saw a lighted window; he knew
his mother wasn’t well thought of by these rich people. Not knowing where to turn, he took the only forward way there was,
up Mountain Hill.
Luckily, one other person was abroad that night. Old Bishop Laval, who never spared himself, had been down to the square
to sit with the sick woman. He came toiling up the hill in his fur cloak and his tall fur cap, which was almost as imposing
as his episcopal mitre, a cane in one hand, a lantern in the other. His valet followed behind. They were passing the new
Bishop’s Palace, now cold and empty, as Monseigneur de Saint–Vallier was in France. Just as they wound under the retaining
wall of the terrace, they heard a child crying. The Bishop stopped and flashed his lantern this way and that. On the flight
of stone steps that led up through the wall to the episcopal residence, he saw a little boy, almost a baby, sitting in the
snow, crouching back against the masonry.
“Where does he belong?” asked the Bishop of his donné.
“Ah, that I cannot tell, Monseigneur,” replied Houssart.
“Pick him up and bring him along,” said the Bishop.
“Unbutton your coat and hold him against your body.” The lantern moved on.
The old Bishop lived in the Priests’ House, built as a part of his Seminary. His private rooms were poor and small. All
his silver plate and velvet and linen he had given away little by little, to needy parishes, to needy persons. He had given
away the revenues of his abbeys in France, and had transferred his vast grants of Canadian land to the Seminary. He lived in
naked poverty.
When they reached home, he commanded Houssart to build a fire in the fireplace at once (had he been alone he would have
undressed and gone to bed in the cold) and to heat water, that he might give the child a warm bath.
“Is there any milk?” he asked.
Houssart hesitated. “A little, for your chocolate in the morning, Monseigneur.”
“Get it and put it to warm on the hearth. Pour a little cognac in it, and bring any bread there is in the house.”
One strange thing Jacques could remember afterwards. He was sitting on the edge of a narrow bed, wrapped in a blanket, in
the light of a blazing fire. He had just been washed in warm water; the basin was still on the floor. Beside it knelt a very
large old man with big eyes and a great drooping nose and a little black cap on his head, and he was rubbing Jacques’s feet
and
glittering white ice. It was a sight to stir the dullest blood. Some trappers from Three Rivers were in town. They had
supper with La Grenouille, and afterwards persuaded her to go for a ride in their dog-sledges up the frozen St. Lawrence.
Jacques was in bed asleep. ‘Toinette threw an extra blanket over him and put an armful of wood in the stove, then went off
with the young men, taking L’Escargot with her. She meant to be out only an hour or two; but they had plenty of brandy along
to keep them warm, and so they made a night of it. Dog-sledging by moonlight on that broad marble highway, with no wind, was
fine sport.
After she had been gone a couple of hours, Jacques wakened up very cold and called for his mother. Presently he got up
and went to look for her. He went to L’Escargot’s bed, and that, too, was empty. The moonlight shone in brightly, but the
fire had gone out, and all about him things creaked with the cold. He found his shoes and an old shawl and went out into the
snow to look for his mother. The poor neighbour houses were silent. He went behind the King’s storehouse and up Notre Dame
street to the market square. The worthy merchants were long ago in bed, and all the houses were dark except one, where the
mother of the family was very sick. The statue of King Louis, with a cloak and helmet of snow, looked terrifying in the
moonlight. Jacques already knew better than to knock at that solid, comfortable house where he saw a lighted window; he knew
his mother wasn’t well thought of by these rich people. Not knowing where to turn, he took the only forward way there was,
up Mountain Hill.
Luckily, one other person was abroad that night. Old Bishop Laval, who never spared himself, had been down to the square
to sit with the sick woman. He came toiling up the hill in his fur cloak and his tall fur cap, which was almost as imposing
as his episcopal mitre, a cane in one hand, a lantern in the other. His valet followed behind. They were passing the new
Bishop’s Palace, now cold and empty, as Monseigneur de Saint–Vallier was in France. Just as they wound under the retaining
wall of the terrace, they heard a child crying. The Bishop stopped and flashed his lantern this way and that. On the flight
of stone steps that led up through the wall to the episcopal residence, he saw a little boy, almost a baby, sitting in the
snow, crouching back against the masonry.
“Where does he belong?” asked the Bishop of his donné.
“Ah, that I cannot tell, Monseigneur,” replied Houssart.
“Pick him up and bring him along,” said the Bishop.
“Unbutton your coat and hold him against your body.” The lantern moved on.
The old Bishop lived in the Priests’ House, built as a part of his Seminary. His private rooms were poor and small. All
his silver plate and velvet and linen he had given away little by little, to needy parishes, to needy persons. He had given
away the revenues of his abbeys in France, and had transferred his vast grants of Canadian land to the Seminary. He lived in
naked poverty.
When they reached home, he commanded Houssart to build a fire in the fireplace at once (had he been alone he would have
undressed and gone to bed in the cold) and to heat water, that he might give the child a warm bath.
“Is there any milk?” he asked.
Houssart hesitated. “A little, for your chocolate in the morning, Monseigneur.”
“Get it and put it to warm on the hearth. Pour a little cognac in it, and bring any bread there is in the house.”
One strange thing Jacques could remember afterwards. He was sitting on the edge of a narrow bed, wrapped in a blanket, in
the light of a blazing fire. He had just been washed in warm water; the basin was still on the floor. Beside it knelt a very
large old man with big eyes and a great drooping nose and a little black cap on his head, and he was rubbing Jacques’s feet
and
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