Renée was busy enough placing her little store of articles about, discovering new treasures, running to and fro, and visiting Mère Lunde, who had a word of welcome every time she came near.
“It will be a different house, petite,” she said, with her kindly smile.
The garden could not compare with the Renauds in the glory of its gay flower-beds. Two slaves of a neighbor—they were often borrowed for a trifle—were working at it. A swing had been put up for the little lady.
But somehow, when the afternoon began to lengthen, when Uncle Gaspard had gone up to the Government House on some business, and Mère Lunde was in a sound doze over the stocking she was knitting, Renée felt strangely solitary. She missed the gay chat of Madame Renaud and her sister and the merriment of the children. There seemed none immediately about here. She strolled around to the front of the store; the door was locked, and it looked rather dreary.
She was glad to-morrow was the day for the classes to meet. Why, it was almost as lonesome as at the old château!
That evening Uncle Gaspard brought out his flute, which filled her with delight. The violin was the great musical instrument in St. Louis—the favorite in all the French settlements. But the flute had such a tender tone, such a mysterious softness, that it filled her with an indescribable joy. And there was none of the dreadful tuning that rasped her nerves and made her feel as if she must scream.
Then, it was strange to sleep alone in the room when she had been with Ma’m’selle Barbe and the two girls. They were versed in Indian traditions, and some they told over were not pleasant bed-time visions. But the comfort was that all these terrible things had happened in Michigan, or a place away off, called New England; and Sophie did not care what the Indians did to the English who had driven them out of the settlements on the Illinois. So, why should she? She was still more of a French girl, because she was born in France.
But the world looked bright and cheery the next morning, and the breakfast was delightful, sitting on the side toward Uncle Gaspard, and having Mère Lunde opposite, with her gay coif and her red plaid kerchief instead of the dull gray one. Her small, wrinkled face was a pleasant one, though her eyes were faded, for her teeth were still white and even, and her short upper lip frequently betrayed them. She poured the coffee and passed the small cakes of bread, which were quite as good as Madame Renaud’s.
The lines were not strictly drawn in those days between masters and servants. And Mère Lunde had been her own mistress for so many years that she possessed the quiet dignity of independence.
Then Renée inspected her room afresh, ran out of doors and gathered a few flowers, as she had seen Ma’m’selle Barbe do. She ventured to peep into Uncle Gaspard’s abode.
“Come in, come in!” he cried cheerily. “There is no one to buy you up, like a bale of merchandise.”
“But—you wouldn’t sell me?” Her eyes had a laughing light in them, her voice a make-believe entreaty, and altogether she looked enchanting.
“Well, it would take a great deal of something to buy you. It would have to be more valuable than money. I don’t care so much for money myself.”
He put his arm about her and hugged her up close. He was sitting at a massive old desk that he had bought with the place. It seemed crowded full of various articles.
“But you love me better than any one else?”
“Any one else? Does that mean ever so many people love you? The Renaud children, and Ma’m’selle Barbe, and—perhaps—your grandfather?”
“Oh, you know I don’t mean that!” Her cheek flushed with a dainty bit of vexation. “The others like me well enough, but you—how much do you love me?”
“The best of any one. Child, I do not think you will ever understand how dear you are to me. There is no measurement for such love.”
That was the confession she wanted. Her face was radiant with delight—a child’s pleasure in the present satisfaction.
She glanced around. “Do you mean to sell all these things?” she asked wonderingly.
“Oh, yes and many more. I ought to be down on the Rue Royale, where people could find me easily. But I took a fancy to this old place, and the man was in my debt; so he paid me with it. It would not be so pleasant to live down there, on the lower side, by the levee. But I shall stay here and wait till the people come to me. After all, for a few years, if we get enough to eat and a little to wear, it will suffice.”
“And what then?” with captivating eagerness.
“Why, then—” he hesitated. Why should he think of this just now? He did not want her grown up into a charming mademoiselle, even if she resembled her mother still more strongly.
“Yes; what then? Isn’t it just the same afterward, or do people come to a time when they stop eating?” and a gleam of mischief crossed her face.
“That is at the end of life, child—sixty or eighty years.”
“No, I don’t mean that time,” with a shrug and a little curl of the lip. “Maybe—after a few years——”
“Well?” in amused inquiry.
“You might go to New Orleans and take me. Ma’m’selle Barbe has been, and she says it is so beautiful and gay.”
“And you have been half over the world. Ma’m’selle has not been to Quebec nor Detroit.”
“Oh, that is true enough,” laughingly. “Nor to France.”
Two customers paused at the door, and he said, “Run away, dear.” So she went obediently, watched Mère Lunde at her work awhile, then strolled out to the garden spot, where two hired slaves were working. What should make them so different from white people? Where was Africa and the Guinea Coast that she heard spoken of at the Renauds’? Their lips were so thick and red and their hair so woolly. But they seemed very merry, though she could not understand a word they said; it was a queer patois.
Uncle Gaspard came out presently. “Wouldn’t you like to have a flower garden?” he asked.
“What is here?” She put out her small moccasined toe toward a rather stiff-looking plot of green plants.
“Oh, that is Mère Lunde’s garden of herbs. All manner of things for potage, and the making of sundry remedies in which she has great faith. She will look after that.”
“And must I look after mine?”
“I will come and help you.”
“Oh, then, I will have a garden!” she cried joyfully.
It was only a short distance to the priest’s house, where the classes met. She ran off by herself. There was quite a throng of girls, though, as with most of the early Western settlers, education was not esteemed the one thing needful for girls. To make good wives was the greatest attainment they could achieve. Still, Father Lemoine labored with perseverance at the tillage of their brains on the two afternoons, and the tillage of their souls on Saturday.
After the two hours were over the restless children had a run up to the Fort. The Guions there were Madame Renaud’s relatives. There was a great thicket of roses that covered the line of palings, and some ladies were having refreshments under a sort of arbor, little cakes and glasses of wine much diluted with water.
“Oh, yes, come in,” exclaimed Sophie as Renée hung back. “You have been here before, you needn’t feel strange.”
That was true enough. Then she had been Sophie’s guest. Now she had a curious hesitation.
Elise was going around courtesying to the ladies, and answering their inquiries. Sophie stooped to play with the cat. An old lady nearest Renée handed her a plate of small spiced cakes.
“You have gone to Monsieur Denys,” she said in a soft tone. “He is—” raising her eyes in inquiry.
“He is my uncle.” Renée made a graceful little courtesy as she said this, and thanked the lady for the cake.
“I suppose M. Denys means to settle down now,” said another. “It is high time. He ought to marry. There is nothing like a good wife.”
“That will come along,” and another nodded with a mysterious but merry smile. “That is why he is smartening up so. And he has brought some elegant stuffs from Canada to dress her in when he gets her. Madame Aubrey was in yesterday and bought of him a gown for Genevieve. He was showing her some finery that would adorn a bride. I think we shall hear before long.”
They all nodded and glanced sidewise from Elise to Sophie as if they might have something to do with it.
“I must go,” exclaimed Renée, her face flushing.
“No, wait, I am not ready,” said Sophie.
But Renée courtesied to them all and flashed through the rose-hung entrance. She ran swiftly down the street, turned the corner to her own home, and entered the gate. Mère Lunde sat at the doorway knitting.
“Where is Uncle Gaspard?” she cried breathlessly.
“In the shop chaffering. They have found him out, you see, and I hope the good Father of all will send him prosperity,” crossing herself devoutly.
Renée dropped down on the doorstep. Her child’s heart was in a tumult. Had not the house been planned for her, and the pretty room made especially? Where would he put a wife? His small place in the corner of the shop, hung about with curtains, was not fit, since the wife would be Ma’m’selle Barbe, whose pretty white bed had fringed hangings that she had learned to knot while she was in New Orleans.
“Why do you sigh so, little one?”
Renée could not contain her anxiety.
“O ma mère, do you think Uncle Gaspard will marry?” she cried with passionate vehemence. “Will he bring a wife here to live with us?”
“What has put such a thing in thy head, child? Surely the good priest would not venture to suggest that to thee!”
“It was in the Guions’ garden. I went there with the girls. And some one said he had fixed the house for that, and they smiled and I knew who they meant.”
She wiped some tears from her hot cheek.
“Who was it?” the dame asked simply.
“Who should it be but Ma’m’selle Barbe! Oh, I could guess who they thought would come.”
“Ma’m’selle is a pretty girl and sweet tempered. She has a dot, too,” said the placid woman. “But then I think——”
Renée burst into a passion of tears, and springing up stamped on the ground.
“She shall not come here!” she cried vehemently. “She shall not have Uncle Gaspard! Oh, why did he go clear to Canada for me, why did he bring me here?”
“There was your gran’père——”
“But he doesn’t want me. No one wants me!”
“Chut! chut! little one. Do not get in such a passion. Surely a child could not help it if it was to be so. But now that I think the matter over, he said I must come, as there would be no one here to look after you, and that your gran’père’s was no place for you. Truly, it is not, if the whispers about him are well grounded. It is said the river pirates gather there. And he goes away for weeks at a time. No, I do not believe M. Denys means to marry.”
“Oh, truly? truly?” Renée flung her arms about the woman’s neck. “Say again you do not believe it.”
Every pulse was throbbing, and her breath came in tangled gasps. The woman’s tranquillity rasped her.
“Nay, he would have planned different. And Ma’m’selle Barbe has young admirers. Ah, you should have seen her at Christmas and Epiphany! She was chosen Queen, she had one of the lucky beans. She would hardly want so grave a man. All young things love pleasure, and it is right; care comes fast enough.”
And now Renée remembered that a young man had spent evenings with his violin, and they two had sat out on the gallery. But she could not divest her mind of the curious sort of suspicion that Barbe cared very much for Uncle Gaspard.
“No, no,” went on Mère Lunde. “People gossip. They often mate two who have no such intention. Dry thy eyes, petite, and laugh again. There has a robin built in the beech near thy window, and now I think there are young ones in the nest. I heard them cry for food. And the father bird goes singing about as if he wanted to tell the news. It is pleasanter than thine.”
Renée smiled then. Yes, if the young man loved, ma’m’selle. How they had laughed and talked. Perhaps—and yet she was not quite satisfied.
But she went out and glanced up at the tree. Yes, there was a nest, and a funny, peeping sound, a rustle in the branches.
The path had been packed clear down to the gate. Some garden beds were laid out, and the neglected grass trimmed up. It began to look quite pretty. If there was something to do, to keep away thoughts.
“Mère Lunde, will you teach me to knit?” she asked suddenly.
“And sew, child. A woman needs that.”
“I can sew a little. But I have nothing to sew.”
“That will be provided if you wish for it. I think your uncle will be glad. I have heard that where there are holy Sisters they teach girls, but we have none here. And now you may help me get the supper.”
That tended to divert her troubled thoughts. And then Uncle Gaspard came in with a guest and the meal was a very merry one. Afterward the two sat over the desk busy with writing and talking until she was sleepy and went to bed.
She studied Uncle Gaspard furtively the next morning. He asked about the school, and said in the afternoon they would take a walk, and this morning she had better go to market with Mère Lunde.
She found that quite an entertainment. The old market was not much, a little square with some stalls, all kept by old women, it seemed. One had cakes, the croquecignolles, the great favorite with everybody. A curious kind of dry candied fruit, and a sausage roll that the men and boys from the levees bought and devoured with hearty relish. Then there was a stall of meats and a portly butcher in a great white gown. Some of the stands were there only two or three days in the week. Most of the inhabitants looked out for their own stores, but there were the boatmen and the fur traders, and the voyageurs. There was but one bake shop, so the market stall was well patronized.
Some one called to Renée as she neared her own corner, and she turned. It was a little girl she had seen in the class at the priest’s house.
“I am glad you have come here to live,” she began. “Your name is Renée de Long——”
“Renée de Longueville,” with a touch of formality.
“And mine is Rosalie Pichou. I live just down in the street below. I have five brothers and not one sister. How many have you?”
“None at all.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like that. And I am always wishing for a sister. But one of my brothers will be married shortly, only he is not coming home to live.”
“Do you like him to marry?”
“Oh, yes, we shall have a gay time and a feast. And then there will be the new house to visit. Andre is just twenty-one, Pierre is eighteen, Jules sixteen, and I am twelve. I am larger and older than you.”
They had walked up to the gate. Mère Lunde stood by it. “Will you not come in and see Renée?” she asked, on the child’s behalf.
“Oh, yes,” was the frank answer. “I came to see the new room when M. Denys was building it. Oh, how pretty you have it!” in an almost envious tone.
“But then you can have all. At home, there are two little boys to provide for, and I think boys are always hungry. Jules gets lots of game, he is such a good shot. Oh, I have such a pretty cat and a kitten. I wonder if you would like the kitten?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mère Lunde. “A cat is a comfortable creature to have about, and a kitten full of play, merci! One never tires of her pranks. You will like it, Renée?”
The child’s eyes shone with delight.
“And your mother will let you bestow it?” the mère asked tentatively.
“Oh, yes. You see, there are two dogs and a tame squirrel, and Jules is always bringing home something. Ma mère scolds about it. And Jules is afraid the kitten may get at his birds. Oh, yes, you can have it without doubt. I’ll run and fetch it now.”
Rosalie was back before she had time to go even one way, Renée thought. A beautiful striped gray kitten, with a very cunning face. A fine black stripe went from the outer corner of the eyes to his ears, and gave him the appearance of wearing spectacles, which amused Renée very much. Then they talked about the class.
“I hate to study,” declared Rosalie. “And reading is such slow work when you don’t understand. But it is beginning to be the fashion, ma mère says, and presently people will be despised if they do not know how to read. I like the sums best. You can say them after the Father and not bother your brains. And that’s why I don’t mind the catechism. It isn’t like picking the words out of a page.”
“I can read quite well,” said Renée, with a little pride. “And I like it.”
“I can make netting and knit stockings and am learning to cook. Oh, I must go home at once and help ma mère with the dinner. She told me not to stay, and that I was to ask you to visit me. Come soon,” and she made a pretty gesture of farewell.
Renée picked up the kitten. It was very tame, and made believe bite her hand. Then it gave a sudden spring.
“Oh, it will run away!” cried Renée in alarm.
But one of the men in the garden caught it and gave it back to her.
“Let us make him eat something. Then he will wash his face and stay. And he will be excellent to catch mice in the shop. They destroy the skins so.”
The kitten enjoyed a bit of meat. Then he sat down very gravely and washed his face, which made Renée laugh.
Uncle Gaspard came home and expressed himself delighted with the kitten. He was fond of cats, and had been thinking of one. They had their dinner, and he said he knew the Pichous very well, and was glad Renée had a playmate so near.
Presently they went out for their walk. Already Denys had explained to Mère Lunde the prices of some of the ordinary articles, and where the powder and shot were kept, so that she might provide for a casual customer. But being a little out of the way, trade was not likely to be very brisk.
They went up the Rue de la Place and out at the side of the fort. There were no houses save here and there a few wigwams, and Indian children playing about in the front of them. Cultivated fields stretched out. The King’s Highway marked the western limit of the municipality; all the rest was the King’s domain, to be granted to future settlers. There was the wide prairie, and to the northward the great mound. They mounted this, and then they could see up the winding of the river to the chain of rocks, and the Missouri on its way to join the greater stream and be merged in it. Farther still, vague woodlands, until all was lost in dim outlines and seemed resting against the sky.
Gaspard Denys liked this far view. Sometimes he had thought of coming out here and losing himself in the wilds, turning hunter like Blanchette Chasseur, as a famous hunting friend of Pierre Laclede’s was called. North of the Missouri he had built a log cabin for himself, where any hunter or traveller was welcome to share his hospitality. Denys himself had partaken of it.
Now he wondered a little if he had been wise to choose the child instead, and give up his freedom. Blanchette had also established a post at Les Pettites Côtes, which was the headquarters for many rovers, and became the nucleus of another city. He was fond of adventures.
But if he, Denys, had married, as he had once dreamed! Then he would have given up the wild life long ago. Then there would have been home and love.
“O Uncle Gaspard,” Renée cried, “you squeeze my hand so tight. And you walk so fast.”
He paused suddenly and gazed down in the flushed face, the eyes humid under their curling lashes.
“My little dear!” and his heart smote him. “Let us sit down here in the shade of this clump of trees and rest. You see, I never had a little girl before, and forgot that she could not stride with my long legs.”
“And I am so thirsty.”
He glanced about. “We are only going a little farther,” he said, “and then we shall find a splendid spring and something to eat. Are you very tired?”
She drew a long breath and held up her little red hand.
“Poor hand!” he said tenderly, pressing it to his lips. “Poor little hand!”
She leaned her head down on his shoulder.
“You wouldn’t like to have me go away?” she murmured plaintively.
“Go away?” in surprise. “What put such an idea in your head?”
“You wouldn’t send me?”
Strange these thoughts should find entrance in her mind when he had just asked himself that curious question so akin to it.
“What do you mean, little one?”
“If—if you married—some one—who did not want me,” in so desolate a tone that it gave him a pang.
“But I am not going to marry any one.”
“Are you very, very sure?” with an indrawn breath.
He took her face between his hands suddenly and turned it upward. It was scarlet and tears beaded the long lashes.
“Come,” he said in soft persuasion, “what is behind all this? Who has been talking to you? If it is Mère Lunde——”
“No—she said it was not true.”
“Surely that little Pichou girl is not a mischief maker! If so, she must keep clear of us. I will not have you tormented.”
Then Renée began to cry softly and the truth came out with sobs.
He smiled, and yet he was deeply touched. The little thing was jealous. Yet was it not true that he was all she had in the world to love, and that no one had really loved her until he came into her life? How she had trusted him back there in Quebec after the first few hours!
Now he gathered her up in his arms as if she been a baby, and kissed the small hot face, tasting the salt tears.
“Little one,” he began in a tender, comforting tone, “set your heart at rest. If the good God spares us, there will be many pleasant years together, I hope. I am not going to marry any one, and Ma’m’selle Barbe has a fine young admirer. She doesn’t want an old fellow like me. You can’t understand now, but when you are older I will tell you the whole story. I loved your mother and your grandfather took her away, married her to some one else. That is why you are so dear to me.”
“Oh!” she cried, with a depth of feeling that surprised him. “Oh!” Then she dropped down on her knees and put her arms about his neck, and he could feel her heart beat against his breast. He was immeasurably impressed. Could she understand what that meant?
When he raised her face it was sweet and grave as that of an older person might have been. Then she said softly. “I shall love you my whole life long. I shall never love any one so dearly.”
How did she who had never had any one to love understand affection so well? Perhaps because it is natural to the sex to own something it can adore, and yet the little Renaud girls liked him very much, but there was no such absorption in their regard. Ah, he was her all. They had the natural ties of childhood on which to lavish their love. Barbe—he had never thought of marrying her, though he had seen her grow up to womanhood, and very charming at that. She was for some younger mate, and there were plenty of them. Pretty girls, nor scarcely any girls, went begging in the new countries. They were tempting enough without much dot.
And that her little heart should be torn by jealousy! He could have smiled, only it seemed pitiful. He pressed her closer, sorry any innuendoes should have been made before her.
“Come, dear,” he began tenderly, “we have not finished our walk. Or will I have to carry you?”
She sprang up lightly, her face all abloom, though her long lashes still glistened.
“Oh, no, no,” smilingly. “But you have carried me—over part of the long portage when I was so tired, and that night when it was dark. Oh, how big and strong you are. There was some one in a book in the old château—I have nearly forgotten, who was strong and brave. Uncle Gaspard, why haven’t you any books? The little ones at the Father’s are so queer, with their short sentences, and the children blunder so. I like best to know about some person. Oh, can’t we all tell that the dog barks and the kitten mews, the cock crows, without reading it in a primer! And—I would like to have a prayer book of my very own.”
“I think I have one somewhere about. But I will send to New Orleans for some books the next time the boats go down. People have not had much time for learning thus far.”
“And I had nothing to do in the old château but play and read. There was no one to play with,” sadly. “How funny that little girl was who brought me the kitten! Five brothers! Well, I have two at home, in Paris, I mean, but I never saw them only once. Rosalie! Isn’t it a pretty name? I wonder if you would like me to be called anything else?”
“No, dear. You are a queen, my little queen. I don’t want you changed in any way. I only want you to be happy and content.”
She was so thoroughly rested now that although she gave little skips occasionally and held his hand tightly, her heart seemed as light as the birds flying overhead. And now they were coming to a small Indian settlement, with a few wigwams, and long stretches of corn up high enough to make a beautiful waving green sea as the wind moved it in undulating billows. Women were cooking out of doors on little stone fireplaces. Children played about; two small papooses hung up to a tree branch were rocking to and fro. In the sun lay two braves asleep, too lazy to hunt or fish. Yet it was a pretty picture.
The tepees were in a semi-circular form. Denys passed the first one. At the second a woman sat beside the flap doing some beautiful bead and feather work. She raised her eyes and then sprang up with a glad smile, holding her work in a sort of apron.
“It is M’sieu Denys,” in broken French, that sounded soft for an Indian voice. “He has come back. He has taken a long journey to the Far East.” She glanced curiously at the stranger.
“And brought home a little girl,” smiling at the child. “She has come from the land of the great Onontio, and I am to care for her. I am not going to rove about any more, but trade with the residents and send goods up and down the river. And I shall want many articles of you, Mattawissa.”
She smiled and nodded. “I make not much for trade, but sometimes the hunters buy for their sweethearts as they return. And will you trade beads and silks? The threads we make are so troublesome to dye, and sometimes the color is rough, not pretty,” with a shrug. “I have heard it comes up from the great city down below.”
“New Orleans. Yes. But I brought it with me from Canada. They use it in the convents, where they do fine work. And the Spanish often take it home to show, and ornament their houses for the strangeness of it, and moccasins and bands, and the pretty things for real service. No one makes them quite as well as you.”
“Will not the child sit down?” She brought a bag stuffed with grass, much like the more modern hassock. Renée thanked her, and seated herself.
Mattawissa was proud of her French, and lame as it was, brought it out on every occasion when talking to the white people. Denys had a smattering of several Indian tongues, which most of the fur hunters and traders soon acquired.
Some of the little children of the forest crept up cautiously. Men they were used to seeing; white women rarely, as those at a distance seldom went into the settlements in their early youth. They were not strange to Renée, and she smiled a little, but they retained their natural gravity and evinced no disposition to make friends.
Then Renée’s attention was directed to the articles Mattawissa brought out. Beautiful strips of wampum, collars ornamented with bits of shells hanging by threads that made a soft, rhythmic sound as they were handled about, bits of deerskin that were like velvet, on which she had traced out delicate fancies that were really fascinating. Denys grew enthusiastic over them, and begged them all.
“This is for Talequah, the daughter of the Sioux who marries the son of a chief before the moon of roses ends. I cannot part with that. But I want beads, and if I could come in and choose?” inquiringly.
“Oh, yes, come in by all means,” Denys answered quickly. “I want to send down the river—in a fortnight perhaps, and will take whatever you can spare. You shall look over my store and select.”
“To-morrow if you like,” hesitatingly.
“Yes, the sooner the better.”
“I will bring these.”
“No, I will take them. It is not a heavy load,” with a pleasant smile. “And surely I am as able as you to carry the parcel. Then I am not a brave. A trapper is used to waiting on himself.”
“But—I have something for the child.”
“O Renée, you will like that. Ma’m’selle is getting her chamber furnished.”
“And you must eat.” She went in the wigwam and returned with a red earthen bowl decorated on the outside with a good deal of taste, not unlike Egyptian pottery, the yellow edge so burned in and rubbed by some process that it suggested dull gold burnished. Also a dainty boat made of birch bark embroidered and beaded, with compartments inside for trinkets, or it could be used for a work-box.
“Oh, how very pretty! Uncle Gaspard, I can keep the boat on my table, and the bowl on the little shelf you put up. And I shall fill it with flowers. Madame, I thank you with all my heart. I know it is because you like Uncle Gaspard so well, for an hour ago you did not know of me;” and she pressed the Indian woman’s hand.
“I am glad it pleases you. I may find some other article. And now be seated again. There is a long walk before you, and you must have something to eat.”
She went out to the old woman bending over her preparations, and brought for each a bowl of sagamity, a common Indian repast, oftener cooked with fish than bits of pork; and a plate of cakes made of Indian corn pounded fine in a rude mortar, or sometimes ground with one stone on top of another. For though there were mills that ground both corn and wheat, the Indians kept to their primitive methods. What did it matter so long as there were squaws to do the work?
Renée did not like the sagamity, but the cakes were good and the birch beer was fine she thought. In spite of protest she insisted on carrying her treasures home.
Then Mattawissa wove a few strands of grass together, and bringing the four ends up over the bowl knotted them into a bunch and made a kind of basket. A piece of bark was slipped under the joining and this wound around with a bit of deerskin so that it would not cut the fingers. Renée watched the process with much interest, and thought it very ingenious.
Then they started homeward quite fresh from their long rest, but at the last they had to hurry a little lest the gate at the fort should be closed.
The boats were coming up the river, a long line slow moving, and not with the usual shouts and songs. Half the town turned out to welcome them. Along the edge of the levee in the old days stretched a considerable bluff, washed and worn away long ago to the level of Market and Chestnut Streets. From here you had much of the river both up and down in clear sight.
It was thronged with men now in motley array, smoking their short pipes, exchanging a bit of badinage and telling each other what treasures they expected. For a few weeks there would be a rush of business until the boats were loaded again and everything dropped back to the olden inertia. There would be plenty of frolics too and a great warm welcome for Pierre Laclede.
A canoe was coming up swiftly, and yet there was no sign of gladness on the boats, no flags flying gayly.
“What does it all mean?” said some one perplexed.
The canoe was steered slowly, touched the rude wharf, and the cheer died in the throats of the throng.
“It is bad news we bring. Monsieur Laclede is not with us. M. Pierre Chouteau is heartbroken. Where is the colonel?” and the boat swung round.
“Here, here,” and the tall, soldierly man sprang down the steps. “What is it? What has happened to my brother?” and his tone was freighted with anxiety.
“Nothing to him but sorrow, Monsieur le Colonel. But our brave and true friend, our great man and leader in everything, M. Laclede, is lost to us forever. Monsieur, he is dead.”
The sailor bowed reverently. Colonel Chouteau clasped his hands together.
“Dead! dead! Our beloved M. Laclede.” It ran through the crowd like a knell.
A great wave of sorrow swept over St. Louis. True, the boats came in and there was bustle and business enough unloading. Some of them were to go farther up, but they paused in a reverent fashion. The merriment of welcome was hushed in reverent sadness. The little bell began to toll, the steps so eager a moment ago were slow enough now. Every one felt he had lost a friend.
“But when and how did this happen?” asked Colonel Chouteau, dazed by the unexpected sorrow, and still incredulous.
The captain of one of the boats on which indeed Pierre Laclede had taken his passage, stepped to the wharf and made a salute with his hand. Every one crowded around to hear the story.
It was melancholy enough and moved more than one to tears. M. Laclede had not been altogether well on leaving New Orleans, and was trusting to the exhilarating air of his loved town to restore him. But fever set in and he had grown rapidly worse. It was a long and tedious journey in those days, and medical lore was at a low ebb. Before they had reached the Arkansas River the brave soul had yielded up his life, still in the prime of a splendid manhood, not even attaining the privilege of sepulture in the town of his heart, for which he had worked and planned with a wisdom that was to remain long years afterward, like the fragrance of a high, unwearied soul.
They gathered in groups relating this and that to his praise. He had founded the town, his busy brain and far-reaching wisdom had seen and seized upon the points possible for a great entrepôt of trade. And in the years to come his wildest dreams would be more than realized, though the faint-hearted ones feared now that everything would stop.
Renée was aroused to a great interest in the tales of the intrepid explorers. Sitting in the door in the soft darkness, for now the moon did not rise until past midnight, she lingered, listening with a child’s eagerness to whom something new and wonderful is related, and Denys telling adventures that even now moved him deeply. De Soto marching with his little band across the Continent, suffering from perfidy and mutiny, resolved to find a westward passage and the gold that had rewarded other explorers in South America, and at last ill and wearied out, giving up his life, and at night pushing off on the longer journey where friendly hands rowed out silently as if to some unknown country, and softly dropped their burden in the river, partly it is said because they did not want the Indians to know that he was mortal and could die.
Marquette and Joliet, brave heroes of a faith they wished to establish everywhere, La Salle with his indomitable courage, being deserted and with but one guide pushing through dangers, then going to France to seek aid from the great king, convinced now that the Mississippi River was not a waterway to the western coast as some had predicted, but would open up a great river route to the Gulf of Mexico. There were wild guesses in those days. But this proved true. In the name of Louis XIV. he took possession of this splendid estate, that rendered France the greatest proprietor of the new country. Not content with all this glory he must essay another dangerous trip and lose his life by a perfidious follower.
Men made histories in those days and had but little time to write them. Priests’ journals and letters were to translate them later on. But stories and legends were told over, passed down in families, and treasured as sacred belongings.
Renée was deeply interested. The heroism stirred her. Nearly every story she wound in some way about Uncle Gaspard. It seemed as if he must have sailed in every boat, trudged through wildernesses, even explored the old cave with its shining walls and sides of lead that they mistook first for silver; and after getting over his disappointment how Sieur Renault opened the grand Valle mine that seems inexhaustible even to-day. Gaspard had a wonderful way of making all these old heroes live in the flesh again.
Renée was a very happy little girl now. It was quite true that Ma’m’selle Barbe had a lover, a handsome young fellow who was devoted, who came every night with his violin, and when he did not play sang charming French love songs. The Guions would much rather have had it Gaspard Denys. He was “settled.” And then he was a shrewd business fellow and would be sure to make a fortune. Already he was acquiring a good trade. Alphonse Maurice had no business of his very own, and was barely twenty-one. But youthful marriages were very much in vogue in those days, and most of them were happy. Life was so much more simple.
Madame Renaud had a great leaning toward Gaspard as well. But what could one do if he would not come, would not play the lover? She would have laughed at the idea of the little Renée in any sense being a rival.
The child had settled to a happy round. She went to the classes, but she could read very well, and Gaspard had a way of explaining figures to her. There was the business, too, that she was taking a great interest in, and this amused him very much.
Her kitten grew and was a great pet. There was a flower garden, though wild flowers grew all about and there were wild berries in profusion. She often went with Mère Lunde to gather them, sometimes with parties of children. She learned little housewifely tricks as well. When she found Mère Lunde had no end of memories and legends tucked under her cap, she often made the gentle old body bring them out, when Uncle Gaspard had to spend his evenings talking to the men.
She rather liked the Saturday lesson, though she soon had it all by heart. And she was quite a devout little church-goer. She had been very much impressed when Father Gibault, the vicar general, came up and delivered a funeral oration for Monsieur Pierre Laclede.
Meanwhile the Chouteau brothers stepped into M. Laclede’s business. Colonel Auguste Chouteau had been his lieutenant and right-hand man for years. He was very proud of the town, too, and resolved to improve the old Laclede house and make it quite a centre.
There was a new governor as well. Why a mild and judicious ruler like Francisco Cruzat should have been superseded by an avaricious, feeble-minded Spaniard, who was half the time incapable from drink, no one could explain.
Meanwhile some larger questions were coming to the fore that caused great uneasiness. There was war between the American colonies and the British, who had conquered a part of Canada. Spain avowed her sympathy with the colonies. The Indians of the great northwest had affiliated with the British. Then an American, Colonel Rogers Clark, had captured the British posts at Cahokia and Kaskaskia, but afterward gone to Vincennes.
Colonel Chouteau argued that the town should be put in a state of defence. The new palisades had not been finished. This was pushed forward now, the wall strengthened with logs and clay, and in some places rebuilt. The old cannon was replaced with new, and the gates made more secure. The governor even in his sober moments laughed at these precautions.
Sometimes on a Sunday or holiday Gaspard Denys took Renée to visit her grandfather. He made no effort to claim her. Indeed, he was away a good deal, and then his cabin was locked up.
Over beyond at the southern end was the great Chouteau pond, almost a lake where the mill was situated, then a kind of creek winding about and another lovely spot, broadening out, turning around again, and ending in a long point. Young people and older ones too went out to row, taking their dinner in picnic fashion. They were always full of pleasure, these merry French.
Christmas had delighted Renée, and brought a disappointment as well. It was a great season in old St. Louis. At twelve o’clock every one who possibly could went to midnight mass and the little church was crowded. The people were already outgrowing it. Father Meurin had come up from other visitations, there was good old white-haired Father Savigne, who had been a missionary to the Indians and several times barely escaped with his life. Father Valentine taught the children and was much younger.
The altar was decorated and illuminated with candles in front of the Virgin Mother and her baby Son. The solemn yet lovely sound of the Gregorian chants made waves of music through the chapel and stirred every heart. There was the solemn consecration, the kneeling, adoring multitude, the heartfelt responses.
They might not have understood the intricate, hair-splitting truths of to-day, and many no doubt came far short of the divine precepts, but they did worship with all their hearts and souls. And when the priest rang the bell on the hour of midnight it touched them all with deep reverence; and they were glad to join in the hymn, and the benediction descended like a blessing.
Ah, how beautiful it was out of doors! There was no moon, but myriad stars gleamed and glowed, and it seemed as if they were touched with all faint, delicate colors. The ground was white with snow, the peaked roofs were spires, and the river a dark, winding valley.
Outside the church everybody shook hands and gave good wishes. Children and old people were all together. No one would have missed the mass. But now they chatted gayly and talked of the coming day, the young men loitering to capture some pretty girl and walk home with her.
Mère Lunde stirred the fire and Denys put a great log on it, and on his own in the shop. The little girl’s window was hung with a fur curtain, for occasionally the wind found chinks to whistle through as it came from the great prairies beyond and brought the sound of writhing and sometimes crushed forests. But all was warmth within. Mère Lunde made a hot drink with wine and spices, and brought out her Christmas cake which she had not meant to cut until to-morrow.
“But see, it is to-morrow already,” she said with her cheery laugh. She had devoted several prayers for her poor son’s soul and she was quite sure he was safe with the Blessed Virgin and now understood what heavenly life was like.
“It was all so beautiful,” Renée said with a long breath of delight. “And the singing! I can hear it yet in the air.”
“Thou must to bed, little one, for to-morrow will be a gay day,” said Gaspard, kissing her. “Mère, see that she is well tucked in, for the night is cold.”
Alas! for all the precaution the little girl woke up with a strange hot feeling in her throat, and her head was heavy and seemed twice as large as ordinary. She tried to raise it, but everything in the room swam round. She gave a faint cry, but no one heard, for Mère Lunde was busy among pans and pots.
“Come, little laggard!” cried a cheery voice. “The children are here with their étrennes.”
These were little cakes with dried fruit dipped in maple syrup and thus coated over. The children carried them about to each other on Christmas morning.
The only answer was a low moan. Uncle Gaspard leaned over the small bed.
“Renée, Renée, what is it?” He raised her in his arms and was startled at her flushed face, her dulled eyes, her hot hands.
“O mère,” he cried. “Come, the little one is very ill.”
They looked at her, but she did not seem to know them, and moaned pitifully. “Something must be done. She has taken cold, I think, and has a hot fever.”
Very few people called in a doctor in those days. Indeed, it would have been difficult to find him this morning. There were many excellent home-made remedies that all housewives put up in the autumn, compounded of roots and barks, some of them learned from the Indian women.
“Poor child, poor petite, yes, she must be attended to at once. Get thy breakfast, m’sieu, while I make some comfort and aid for her. Yes, it is a fever.”
“But what shall I do for her?”
“Get me some ears of corn, good big ones.”
“And leave her?” aghast at the thought.
“Thou wilt not cure her by staring at her. She can take no harm for a few moments.”
There was always a big kettle standing on the coals with four short legs holding it up. Mère Lunde raked out the ashes and pushed the flaming brands under it. Gaspard exhumed an armful of corn from a big box in the shop.
“Drop them in,” she said. “A dozen or so.”
“Oh, yes, I know now.” He nodded in a satisfied fashion, for he had faith in the remedy.
Soon the water bubbled up and the fragrance of the steaming corn diffused itself about the room. Mère Lunde went to the bed and put a thick blanket under the child. Then the ears were laid about her and she was rolled up like a mummy. The woman raised her head a trifle and forced a potion down her throat that almost strangled her. Spreading blankets over her, she tucked her in securely, and, patting the top one, meant for love to the child, she turned away.
“Well people must eat for strength, and Christmas day is no time for fasting. Come.”
But Gaspard Denys was in no mood for eating. He had never thought of Renée being ill. He knew of some children who had died, and there was Monsieur Laclede who looked strong enough to live to a hundred years, who had gone out of life with a fever. Oh, he could not give up his little girl!
“Is that all?” he asked presently.
Mère Lunde understood.
“There’s no use running in and out like the mill stream, for it’s the flour that is getting ground,” she said sententiously. “Wait a bit.”
He had large patience with most events of life, but here was breathless with suspense. If she had been drooping for days, but she was so merry last night.
Rosalie came to the door. The children were going to Chouteau pond to skate and slide. Would not Renée join them?
“Alas! Renée was very ill.”
“But she must get better by to-morrow,” nodding hopefully and laughing.
After that Grandpère Freneau came up, which startled Gaspard, for he had never deigned to visit his grandchild. He was sober and comparatively well dressed, and had a little gift for her, a curious inlaid box, with a trinket a girl might like. She would be well again in a few days. Children were tough and sturdy, it was the old people who had to think about ills. As for him, he was strong enough yet.
Then he made a clumsy sort of bow and retreated.
“I hope it will bring no bad luck,” exclaimed Mère Lunde. “But he has not a good name. I should throw the gift into the fire!”
“I dare say it is of no great value.” He shook the box. “Some bits of silver with which he salves his conscience.”
Mère Lunde crossed herself.
He put it away in his desk. He was not superstitious, but he wished it had not happened this morning.
It was quite late, but he unbarred his shop door. There was no trade now. The fall business had lasted longer than usual on account of the fine, open weather. When the cold once set in it often lasted steadily for three months. But there was plenty of pleasure. The regular trappers had gone off, but hunting parties often sallied out and returned laden with game.
Mère Lunde stole in to look at her patient and shook her head, threw some more ears of corn in the kettle and answered the calls that came in a joyous mood and left in sorrow. For people were very sympathetic in those days, and cares were shared in true neighborly fashion.
Presently there was a little moisture about the edge of Renée’s hair, but the watcher did not like the dull purple of her cheeks nor the labored breathing. There might be a poultice for the throat; yes, she would make that. And if the good Father came and made a prayer! But that seemed as if one must be very ill indeed.
Gaspard had no mind for pleasure. He went in and stood by the child, who most of the time lay in a heavy sort of sleep. How strange she looked with her red, swollen face, quite unlike herself!
Yes, he would go for Dr. Montcrevier, though he had not much faith in him, for he seemed to think more of strange bugs and birds and fishes than human beings. However, his search was fruitless, perhaps it was as well.
“The fever is abating,” was Mère Lunde’s greeting in a joyous tone. “Great drops have come out on her forehead. Ah, I think we shall conquer with the good corn. And she has been awake.”
There was less pressure for breath, though the rattle in the throat was not a pleasant sound. But by mid-afternoon she was in a drench of perspiration, and then Mère Lunde rubbed her dry and rolled her in a fresh blanket.
“What is the matter? I feel so queer,” exclaimed the tremulous voice.
“You are ill, poor little child,” in a tender tone.
“Is it morning? The night was so long. It seemed as if the house was burning up.”
“It was the bad fever. Oh, yes, it is day, almost another night. Oh, little one, the good God be praised!”
Mère Lunde dropped down on her knees and repeated a short prayer.
Renée raised her head.
“Oh, it still feels queer. And I am so tired.”
She dropped off to sleep again. Mère Lunde had two potions, one for the fever, one for her general strength, but she would not disturb her now. Sleep was generally a good medicine.
“She has spoken. She is better,” was the mère’s greeting as Denys entered. “But she is asleep now. Do not disturb her.”
Yes, the dreadful purple was going out of her face. He took the limp little hand. It was cooler, though the pulse still beat hard and high. Ah, how much one could come to love and hardly know it until the threat of losing appeared. And he thought of her mother. He could never get it out of his mind but that she had died in cruel neglect, alone and heartbroken. He pressed the slim fingers to his lips, he studied the brow with its soft, light rings of hair, the almost transparent eyelids and long lashes, the dainty nose that had a piquant ending not quite retroussé but suggestive of it, and the small mouth, the lips wide in the middle that gave it a roundness often seen in childhood. She would be a pretty young girl, though it was her soft yet deep and wondering eyes that made her resemble her mother.
When she roused again Mère Lunde administered her potions. She made a very wry face over the bitter one. The good mère put another poultice on her throat and spread it well over her chest; rolling her up again like a mummy. She would have laughed if there had not been a great lump in her throat.
“I am like a papoose,” she said. “Uncle Gaspard, sit here and tell me some stories.”
He would not go away after she had fallen asleep, but wrapped himself in a blanket and leaned his head on the foot of her bed. Now and then she moaned a little, which gave him a pang, and after midnight she grew very restless. The fever was coming on again. Mère Lunde roused her and gave her another potion, and before daylight she had prepared the corn bath again. The fever did not seem to be as obstinate. By noon she was quite comfortable. Father Lemoine brought in the vicar general, who was going back to Ste. Genevieve. This was a great honor, and Mère Lunde brought out some wine that had come from the real vineyards of France.
Father Meurin heard the little girl’s story. He had known of Antoine Freneau, indeed, he had performed the first marriage and given the first baptism in the little town. That was in a tent, because there was no church. And the first services had been held in the fields, for the church had been built hardly ten years.
“She would be in poor hands if left to her grandfather,” he admitted. “And I hope she will be rightly brought up. If you had a wife, M. Denys.”
“I have rambled about so much I have had no time to marry,” he returned rather drily. “But now I shall settle down.”
“I hope so. It is what the towns need, steady occupancy. And you will deal rightly with the child and see that she is brought up as a daughter of the Church should be. You are quite sure her mother—” he finished the question with his eyes.
“I saw the marriage register in the cathedral at Quebec. Then her mother was taken to France, where she died,” Denys answered.
The vicar nodded, satisfied. He repeated the prayer for the recovery of the sick and gave them all a kindly blessing with his adieu.
Gaspard Denys fell into a brown study. She was not his child, to be sure. Would it make any difference any time in the future? Ought there to be some woman different from Mère Lunde—bah! it would be years before Renée was grown up. And the little one wanted no one to share his love. He was glad—that would always be an excuse to himself. He never could put any one in the place he had hoped to set Renée Freneau.
Renée mended slowly. She had indeed been very ill. She was so weak that it tired her to sit up among the pillows in her bed. And one day when she insisted upon getting up she dropped over into Mère Lunde’s arms.
“Where is all my strength gone to?” she inquired pettishly.
“Pauvre petite,” it was queer, and the good woman had no science to explain it.
But her throat improved and her voice cleared up, the fever grew lighter every day and she began to have some appetite. Friends came in to inquire and sympathize and bring delicacies. Madame Renaud offered her services, but no one was really needed, though the cordial, smiling face did Renée good. Ma’m’selle Barbe brought the two little girls, who looked awestricken at the pale face, where the eyes seemed bigger than ever.
Uncle Gaspard made a sort of settle on which they could put some cushions and blankets so that she could be brought out to the living room and watch Mère Lunde at her work. Then he improved upon it and made it into a kind of chair with a back that could be raised and lowered by an ingenious use of notches and wooden pins. He was getting so handy that he made various useful articles, for in those days in these upper settlements there were so few pieces of furniture that could be purchased, unless some one died and left no relatives, which was very seldom. Proud enough one was of owning an article or a bit of china or a gown that was a family heirloom.
“Oh,” he said one evening when she was comfortably fixed and the blaze of the great logs lighted up the room and made her pale face a little rosy, “I had almost forgotten—you have been so ill it drove most other things out of my mind. Your grandfather came up here on Christmas day and brought you a gift.”
“A gift! Oh, what was it?”
“Mère Lunde had not forgotten, but she had a superstitious feeling about it. I will get it for you,” Gaspard said.
He returned from the adjoining room with the box in his hand. It was very securely fastened with a twisted bit of deerskin, which was often used for cord.
“Open it,” she begged languidly.
He cut the cord but did not raise the cover. She held it some seconds in her hand.
“Uncle, do you remember you told me about a girl who opened a box and let troubles out all over the world?”
“But she was bidden not to. Grandpère Antoine did not leave any such word as that,” smilingly.
She raised the cover slowly. There was a bit of soft white fur in the bottom and on it lay a golden chain and a cross, with a pearl set where the arms and upright met. In the clasp was a smaller pearl. She held it up silently.
“The good saints must have touched his soul!” ejaculated Mère Lunde. “A beautiful cross! It is gold?” with a questioning glance at Denys.
Renée handed it to him.
“Oh, yes, gold of course. And your grandfather seemed quite moved with pity for you. I saw him again this morning, but he said, ‘Oh, I did not think she would die.’”
Renée’s eyes were wide open, with a startled light. “Did anybody think—that?” and her voice trembled.
“You may be sure I did not,” exclaimed Denys with spirit, almost with joyousness. “I would not have let you go.”
She held out both arms to him, and he clasped her to his heart.
“But people are compelled to sometimes,” said Mère Lunde gravely.
“We were not compelled. And now you are to get well as rapidly as possible. Everybody has been having a merry time with the king’s ball, and you have missed it. But there is next year.”
How far away next year seemed! Spring, and summer, and autumn.
“How long have I been ill? It is queer, but I don’t seem to remember clearly,” trying to think, and studying the leaping blaze that seemed like a group of children playing tag, or hide and seek.
“It is almost a month. First it was pretty bad,” and he compressed his lips with a queer expression and shook his head. Now he had let his hair grow quite long, as most of the men did, and the ends fell into a sort of curl.
“And then—Mère Lunde, the things you gave me were very bad and bitter, and my head used to go round, I remember. Sometimes things stood on the ceiling in such a funny position. And then to be like a baby, hardly able to walk.”
She gave a soft, languid ripple of a laugh. Ah, what if he had lost her!
“And when can I go out?”
“Oh, not in a long while. It is bitter cold, even the river is full of ice chunks. But you may dance at the next king’s ball.”
“The king’s ball?” inquiringly.
“Not the King of France,” with a gentle smile. “When the Christ was born three kings came to do Him honor. And the feast is always kept.”
“The blessed Epiphany,” explained Mère Lunde. “Though why it should be given over to all this merry-making I can’t see.”
“Did you ever go?” asked Renée.
“Oh, yes. But not last year—I had started for Canada. And the year before I was up with the hunters.”
“Tell me about it.”
He sat down beside her. She was twisting the chain about her fingers.
“There is not much to do for the people who stay here in the winter, though New Orleans is twice as gay. So they have the balls. There are four queens, pretty young girls, and they each choose a king and open the ball with him. Then they dance. But the old people and a good many of the children go as well. And there is dancing and jollity and a feast of good things to eat, and much laughing and jesting and falling in love, with the marrying at Easter. Next year we will go.”
“I will keep my chain to wear then.” She put it back in the box. “And when I am well I will go down and thank grandfather.”
“Yes, yes, that will be the right thing to do. I will take you.”
Then they were silent awhile. “Tell me some of the stories you know,” she entreated.
“I have told you so many.”
“But you can think of one more,” in her coaxing tone. “Away up in the north and the endless fields of snow, and where does it end?”
“At the North Pole, I believe.”
“And what is that?” eagerly.
“We will have to ask Dr. Montcrevier. I have never been farther than Hudson’s Bay.”
“But people can’t live in such endless cold!”
“I think not. Only polar bears and the white and silver fox, and they come down in the winter. And then there are islands hundreds of miles away below us, where it is always summer.”
“What a queer world!” She smiled absently as if she could hardly take it in. “Have you been there?”
“Only to New Orleans. Some day we will go there, too.”
“Oh, how much there is to do. Yes, one must live a long while to do it all,” and a thoughtful expression deepened her eyes.
“And you are tired, little one. You must go to bed.”
It was strange to get so tired. She had been tired many times on the long journey from Canada, but not like this. She was very glad she had not died, however, though she had no very clear idea about death, except that it meant going to another world. Uncle Gaspard was here, and that was one reason why she wanted to stay.
Presently she began to go about and take pleasure in having the children come in and tell her about their sports. The life was so simple, the main thing seemed to be the good times. No one troubled about education and there were no “higher branches” to vex one’s soul. There was much less dissipation here than in New Orleans or even Detroit, where people from other towns were continually mingling.
One day Uncle Gaspard took her out on his sledge. She had never dreamed of anything so splendid. Great fields of snowy white, as far as the eye could see, dotted here and there with a cluster of wigwam poles and brown skins stretched on the outside for warmth. A little blue-gray smoke curled lazily upward, and then the bluest sky over it all. The air was exhilarating and brought a color to her pale cheeks, and made her eyes glow like stars.
Then spring came. The white blanket melted away, the evergreens and spruces scented the air with their new growth; the little streams rushed hither and thither as if they were joyfully carolling, birds sang and built everywhere. Children were out for wild flowers, and raced around like deers. Some days the old mound was alive with them, then they were down to Chouteau’s pond. The boys and often some girls went up the river in canoes. There was the old rock of Fort St. Louis with its story of a hundred years agone, of how La Salle had built a fort and planted an Indian colony, that, when its leader had gone, dwindled and went back to its native tribes. How there had been a fierce quarrel between the Illinois and the Outgamies, and the Illinois had fled to the top of the rock and stayed there until starvation stared them in the face and French intervention came to their assistance.
Then business opened and Gaspard Denys found his hands full. His wide acquaintance with the hunters and his dealings with the Indians brought him in a great deal of trade. There was a continual loading and unloading of boats, the levee was thronged. Denys had to take in a clerk, and his evenings were devoted to straightening accounts and preparing for the next day, and it seemed to Renée as if he was always busy now, with no time for stories.
Easter brought a gay festival and several weddings. The young voyageurs were warmly welcomed home and there was always a feast or a ball given in their honor. When the houses were too small, they went out and danced on the green. Marriages seemed an especially social affair. The families on both sides made the agreement and were mutually pleased. It was seldom a young couple disregarded the respect universally paid to parents, and though there was much pioneer life there was a kind of elegance and refinement among the women with all their vivacious gayety. The admixture of Spanish blood was no bad element.
One of the young traders had brought home with him a beautiful Indian wife, lawfully wedded by one of the mission priests. These mixed marriages were not in much favor with the French. Now and then a trapper brought in one and stayed a few months, but she nearly always preferred to share his hunting expeditions. Still, there were some comfortably settled, whose families years afterward were very proud of their Indian descent.
François Marchand found an old friend in Gaspard Denys. It does not take a decade to cement a friendship made over camp-fires and days filled with adventures and dangers. They had not met in two years, and the youth, who seemed but a stripling to Gaspard then, was now a fine young fellow, his slim figure filled out, his thin face rounded with certain lines of energy, determination, and good health. His clear blue eyes were resolute and undaunted; his chestnut hair was cropped close, which made him less of an object for an Indian’s scalping knife.
“How the town has grown!” he exclaimed with great earnestness. New St. Louis would have laughed at the idea that twenty or thirty families could add much importance. But there had been a few new houses built, sundry additions made to older ones where families had increased. Colonel Chouteau was beautifying the house and grounds where his lamented chief and dear friend had lived. The government house had been repaired, though the new occupant seemed much more indifferent than his people, and cared very little for the interest of the town in general.
“We shall have a fine place by and by,” returned Denys. “True, New Orleans has the mouth of the great river, but if no boats come down, what then? And we are the half-way house, the north and the south both need us. If it were not for these troublesome restrictions on trade, and the fear of the British.”
“France, it seems, has sided with the colonies, and Spain has given them a certain sympathy,” returned Marchand. “You hear a good deal of talk up north. The fur dealers of New Amsterdam are quite sure the colonies will win in the end, though by my faith it doesn’t look very promising now,” and he gave a doubtful laugh.
“Almost five years of losing and winning! Well, they are plucky not to be discouraged. But what troubles me a little are the English over there!” nodding to the eastward. “If some fine day they descend upon us—well, we shall be wiped out, that is all about it! The government at New Orleans does not seem to care, and sends us this drunken, insolent fellow for commandant, who is as set in his own ways as a mule.”
“The English will be kept busy enough on the eastern coast defending their ports and trying to capture the cities. Faith! it is a great and glorious country, and I hardly know which has the best, the east or the west. If some day the way is cleared to the Pacific coast, and then, presto! India!”
India was still a dream of the advancement of commerce. The western empire was to turn more than one brain.
Denys studied the young face in the glow of youthful enthusiasm.
“Marchand, you should have been a soldier,” he said.
“Well, which side shall I take?” mockingly. “I am French. Those cursed English have driven us out of Canada. Thank Heaven we have left some graves of heroes there. But I wonder what Louis le Grand could have been thinking of to allow himself to be despoiled of such a magnificent estate! And here we were all turned over to Spain without even a chance to fight for our homes in the New World,” and Marchand gave a strong, scornful laugh. “There are still the Indians left.”