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René.
    â€œWhat do you observe?”
    â€œAh. I observe a heap of snow.”
    â€œIf you go close to it you will see more.”
    They walked together toward the mound. Elphège pointed to a small hole near the top. A feathery rime surrounded it.
    â€œYou see? Frozen breath of a bear.” He explained in great detail the ways the bear could be killed and extracted from its den. He continued to talk of ways to lure geese into a deep ditch so they could not open their wings and fly away, explained how to read the age of a moose track, to know the animal’s sex, its size and even its condition. René was astonished at the boy’s knowledge. He was an Indian hunter, and he was, as Trépagny had prophesied, well versed in trickery and deceit.
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    René’s free days exploring the forest gave him pleasure. Sometimes he went back to the deadfall region near the west trail, where the snow was mounded in fantastic heaps. He did not go near Monsieur Trépagny’s elaborate house.
    A few days after Mari returned from the mission, Monsieur Bouchard, who, in addition to his duties as government deputy, was captain of the militia, came up from the river, moving easily on snowshoes.
    â€œWhat brings you here, Captain Bouchard? It’s a long way,” said Monsieur Trépagny. “Is there a corvée or a militia mustering? Are the Iroquois advancing?”
    â€œOn the ship, a letter for you from France. It looked pressing important, red wax seals, a coat of arms. So I bring it to you.”
    They went up to the house. “The river is a shorter road by half than through the forest,” said Monsieur Bouchard as they climbed the slope to the house. “I wonder you don’t use your canoe in the pleasant weather.”
    â€œFighting the current is more arduous than walking.”
    Monsieur Trépagny examined the letter, his sallow skin suddenly scarlet, and put it unopened on the shelf near the door. The men sat at the table drinking hot water with a little whiskey in it.
    â€œWe have a sad story in Wobik,” said Monsieur Bouchard. “François Poignet—do you know him?”
    â€œBy sight only. Tall and with a cast in one eye? A farmer.”
    â€œThe same, but a good man. He went into the forest on his land during the recent cold to continue clearing. His wife died in childbed the summer past and their only living child is a girl of ten, Léonardette. The unfortunate father’s ax glanced off the frozen tree as off a block of granite and cut his left leg to the bone.”
    â€œZut,” said Monsieur Trépagny.
    â€œHe struggled to get back to his house. The blood trail marked his effort. Perhaps he called out. If so, no one heard him. He exsanguinated and froze. He was lying on his bier of frozen blood, more frozen than the ax, when we found him.”
    â€œIt is a hard country,” said Monsieur Trépagny.
    â€œIn addition to bringing you that letter I came to ask if you would take the girl into your household—she is young but strong. You know girls are valuable in this womanless land.” He winked.
    â€œAh,” said Monsieur Trépagny. “Now I see why you made such a long trip. Why does not someone in Wobik take this girl? Why not Père Perreault? Why me? What is wrong with the child?”
    Monsieur Bouchard lifted his eyes to the smoky ceiling and rolled his head a little.
    â€œIt’s true that she is not perfect in form.” There was a long silence.
    â€œIn what way is she not perfect in form?”
    â€œWell, in form she is perfect enough, but she has a birthmark— tache de vin —on her neck.”
    â€œAnd what does the tache de vin signify that it repels the citizens of Wobik and the holy priest?”
    â€œIt is, in fact, oh ah”—Monsieur Bouchard was sweating with the heat of the fire and the discomfort of his errand—“it is a perfect