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Roads of Destiny

Roads Of Destiny
I go to seek on many roads
What is to be.
True heart and strong, with love to light—
Will they not bear me in the fight
To order, shun or wield or mould
My Destiny?
Unpublished Poems of David Mignot.
The song was over. The words were David's; the air, one of the countryside. The
company about the inn table applauded heartily, for the young poet paid for the wine.
Only the notary, M. Papineau, shook his head a little at the lines, for he was a man of
books, and he had not drunk with the rest.
David went out into the village street, where the night air drove the wine vapour from his
head. And then he remembered that he and Yvonne had quarrelled that day, and that he
had resolved to leave his home that night to seek fame and honour in the great world
outside.
"When my poems are on every man's tongue," he told himself, in a fine exhilaration, "she
will, perhaps, think of the hard words she spoke this day."
Except the roisterers in the tavern, the village folk were abed. David crept softly into his
room in the shed of his father's cottage and made a bundle of his small store of clothing.
With this upon a staff, he set his face outward upon the road that ran from Vernoy.
He passed his father's herd of sheep, huddled in their nightly pen—the sheep he herded
daily, leaving them to scatter while he wrote verses on scraps of paper. He saw a light yet
shining in Yvonne's window, and a weakness shook his purpose of a sudden. Perhaps that
light meant that she rued, sleepless, her anger, and that morning might—But, no! His
decision was made. Vernoy was no place for him. Not one soul there could share his
thoughts. Out along that road lay his fate and his future.
Three leagues across the dim, moonlit champaign ran the road, straight as a ploughman's
furrow. It was believed in the village that the road ran to Paris, at least; and this name the
poet whispered often to himself as he walked. Never so far from Vernoy had David
travelled before.
 
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