ear before. The
compliments he paid to Toby's Madeira wine fairly conquered the old man,
for he opened a second bottle and he told this Monsieur Peringuey all
about our great stove dispute in the church. I remember Pastor Meder and
Brother Adam Goos dropped 'in, and although they and Toby were direct
opposite sides regarding stoves, yet this Monsieur Peringuey he made 'em
feel as if he thought each one was in the right of it. He said he had
been a clergyman before he had to leave France. He admired at Toby's
fiddling, and he asked if Red Jacket, sitting by the spinet, was a
simple Huron. Senecas aren't Hurons, they're Iroquois, of course, and
Toby told him so. Well, then, in due time he arose and left in a style
which made us feel he'd been favouring us, instead of us feeding him.
I've never seen that so strong before--in a man. We all talked him over
but couldn't make head or tail of him, and Red Jacket come out to walk
with me to the French quarter where I was due to fiddle at a party.
Passing Drinker's Alley again we saw a naked window with a light in it,
and there sat our button-selling Monsieur Peringuey throwing dice all
alone, right hand against left.

'Says Red Jacket, keeping back in the dark, "Look at his face!"

'I was looking. I protest to you I wasn't frightened like I was when Big
Hand talked to his gentlemen. I--I only looked, and I wondered that
even those dead dumb dice 'ud dare to fall different from what that face
wished. It--it was a face!

'"He is bad," says Red Jacket. "But he is a great chief. The French have
sent away a great chief. I thought so when he told us his lies. Now I
know."

'I had to go on to the party, so I asked him to call round for me
afterwards and we'd have hymn-singing at Toby's as usual. "No," he says.
"Tell Toby I am not Christian tonight. All Indian." He had those fits
sometimes. I wanted to know more about Monsieur Peringuey, and the
emigre party was the very place to find out. It's neither here nor
there, of course, but those French emigre parties they almost make you
cry. The men that you bought fruit of in Market Street, the hairdressers
and fencing-masters and French teachers, they turn back again by
candlelight to what they used to be at home, and you catch their real
names. There wasn't much room in the washhouse, so I sat on top of the
copper and played 'em the tunes they called for--"Si le Roi m'avait
donne," and such nursery stuff. They cried sometimes. It hurt