"Come in," he said.
The door opened, and in stepped Shangois, the notary. He carried a jug
under his arm, which, with a nod, he set down at the foot of the bed.
"M'sieu'," said he, "it is a thing that cured the bishop; and once, when
a prince of France was at Quebec, and had a bad cold, it cured him. The
whiskey in it I made myself--very good white wine." Ferrol looked at the
little man curiously. He had only spoken with him once or twice, but he
had heard the numberless legends about him, and the Cure had told him
many of his sayings, a little weird and sometimes maliciously true to the
facts of life.
Ferrol thanked the little man, and motioned to a chair. There was,
however, a huge chest against the wall near the window, and Shangois sat
down on this, with his legs hunched up to his chin, looking at Ferrol
with steady, inquisitive eyes. Ferrol laughed outright. A grotesque
thought occurred to him. This little black notary was exactly like the
weird imp which, he had always imagined, sat high up in his brain,
dropping down little ironies and devilries--his personified conscience;
or, perhaps, the truth left out of him at birth and given this form, to
be with him, yet not of him.
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