It was strange how petitions grew. Renée used to walk gravely up to the old church—the door was never fastened—and slip in and say her prayer. Once a woman came who had lost her little baby.
“Oh,” she said, when they had exchanged sorrows, “I think thou wilt be comforted. Gaspard Denys has come back times before. Many of our husbands and brothers have returned. But my little baby cannot return. I may live many, many years and grow old, and in all that time I shall never see him!”
Yes, that was a great sorrow, and a long waiting.
August came in. Pears and plums were ripening, and various articles were being put by for winter use. Sometimes the season was long and cold, and it was well to be prepared. Men worked in the fields to gather the early crops, and the young people had merry dances at night. The days began to grow a little shorter already.
Some one said as she stepped out of church one afternoon: “There is a small fleet coming down the river. Pierre Chouteau expects one of his in next week, but that will have a dozen or more.”
“That is only Latour’s. He has been up to St. Charles,” was the answer. “They have a great abundance of corn this season.”
Next week! Renée’s little heart beat with a great bound of joy. And after that boats would be coming in weekly, Indians with canoes full of furs, dried venison and fish from the lakes. If one of them brought Uncle Gaspard!
She went down to the rise of ground, almost like an embankment, long since worn away. She could see over the small throng. The first boat was moored; it had bales of something. The second had some passengers, women among them. A man was standing up, and suddenly he waved his hand. Who was it? It was waved again.
“Oh! oh!” She dropped down. All the air was full of sparks, and the river seemed turning round and getting mingled with the sky. When the mist cleared away she saw a confused throng of people, some leaping ashore, and a hurly-burly of voices. Had that brief vision been a dream? She felt strangely weak, then she laughed without knowing why and her eyes overflowed with tears.
A tall form came climbing up the hill with long strides, and then she was clasped in strong arms, she felt kisses on her forehead, she was lifted off her feet.
“Little one!” the voice said; and only one thing in her after life sounded as sweet. “Little one, oh, thank heaven you were saved!”
Then they sat down on the grass the sun had scorched into a dried mat.
“Did you come thinking to meet me?”
“I meant to come every time after this to meet the boats. Oh, you are alive! The fierce Indians have not killed you.”
How her voice trembled with emotion, and her hands were clasped tight about his arm!
“They have not had much chance.” How good it was to hear the old cheerful laugh. “And Wawataysee is safe, as well? Did Marchand recover? I have heard no news of the dear old town, but of you I heard long ago, and it made my heart as light as a bird mounting up to the sky. Perhaps it will please even your gentle heart to know that Black Feather, the treacherous Indian chief, is dead. You see, I hardly knew which direction to take and went wrong several times. Then I heard Elk Horn had sold some female captives to Black Feather, who had taken them up the Illinois River. When I reached an encampment where there had been a terrific storm I heard Black Feather had been seriously injured and had finally been moved to an interior encampment, where there was a medicine man. So, after a search, I found them. In spite of the medicine man the chief had died, and they had given him a grand funeral. His followers had dispersed. But I was told that, after the storm, some captives had escaped and he had been so angry he had two Indians put to death. So then I retraced my steps. Many a time I wondered if I should find you in the forests, dead from hunger and fatigue. Whether you had gone down the river—but you could not do that, unless some friendly boat had offered. I passed some lodges where they had not known of any wanderers, and at last met two Peoria Indians, who said the three escaped captives had reached them and been taken to St. Louis.”
He pressed the child closer, looked down in the fond, eager eyes that were shaded in a mist of emotion, and felt the eager grasp of the small hand. How much she cared, this motherless and well-nigh fatherless girl.
“It was Wawataysee they wanted, but your fate might have been as bad. They might have left you somewhere to starve—” Yet did not the pretty child’s face give evidence of coming beauty? only to an Indian this was not the rich, appealing beauty of his own tribes. And the present was so much to the red man, the triumphs, satisfactions, joys and revenges of to-day.
“Oh,” she said, with a long, quivering breath, “I am so glad! so glad! It runs all over me,” and she laughed softly. “And you will never go away again? They are building the wall all around the town and putting sharp-pointed sticks through the top. The children do not go out on the prairies any more; they are afraid.”
“I do not think we are in much danger. Farther to the east the Indians are joining tribes, stirred up by the English fighting the colonists. But we have nothing to do with their quarrels. And this attack was a mortification to them. Few, if any, of our friendly Indians were concerned in it. Oh, little one, thank God that you and Wawataysee are safe.”
“But M. Marchand thanks God for Wawataysee!” she said, with a touch of resentment.
He smiled at that. When she was older she would demand every thought of one’s heart.
“Shall we go down now?”
“Mère Lunde will be so glad.” She arose and hopped gleefully on one foot, holding his hand as she went part of the way around him. The last rays of golden light in the sky made bewildering shadows and gleams about her and she looked like a fairy sprite.
The town was already lapsing into quiet. No one had need to grumble at the length of working days in this pastoral town and time. Others had come in from journeys, and in more than one home feasting had begun. The boats had been fastened securely, the river was growing dark with shadows, and purple and gold clouds were drifting across the heavens.
“Let us go this way,” Renée said.
This way was up to the Rue de l’Eglise, and she turned into that. Here and there a friend caught his hand and he had to pause for a few words of cordial welcome.
“What now, little one?” as she drew him aside.
She looked up with a sweetly serious expression, though a flush of half-embarrassment wavered over the small face.
“I went to church every afternoon to say a prayer for you that you might come home. I thought the good God would rather hear it in His own house—”
“Did you, my little darling?” he exclaimed, deeply touched.
“And now”—she hesitated—“I think I ought to go and thank Him. Men do that when the Governor grants their wishes.”
“Yes, yes! And I will go, too.”
Ah! there was much to be thankful for, and he felt a little conscience-smitten that he had not made more of a point of it.
The church was quite dark, with a candle burning on each side of the high altar. She led him clear up to the chancel steps, and there they knelt together. The little girl might not have understood all the fine points of belief that the world had fought over since Christ had died for all, and was still warring about, but her gratitude was sincere and earnest if not spiritual, at least in a devout spirit.
Gaspard Denys was moved by something he had never experienced before, and touched by the child’s tender, fervent faith.
Coming out, they met old Père Rierceraux, leaning on his cane. He had been godfather to little Mary Pion, the first child baptised by Father Meurin when there had been no church at all and only a tent in the woods. The rude little building was a temple to him, and thither he came every night to see that no harm was likely to befall it, and commend it to the watchful care of God.
“It is Gaspard Denys!” he said in a voice a little broken by the weight of years. “So thou hast come home from perils and hast devotion enough to thank God and the saints for it. There will be merry hearts to-night, quite unmindful of this. Ma’m’selle, I have noted thy devoutness also. The Holy Mother have thee in her keeping.”
It was quite dusk now and the houses were lighted up. At the Pichous’ they were playing already on the fiddles. Then there was this turn.
The good news had preceded Denys. The household had come out to meet him and there was great joy. Mère Lunde had already set a little feast, and they wondered at the loitering.
There had never been any welcome like this in his life before, no one to be greatly glad when he came or sorrowful when he went. It was like a new life, and his heart expanded, his pulses thrilled with a fervent joy. The beautiful Indian wife who smiled at him and then turned her eyes to her husband with an exquisite tenderness; the little girl whose gladness was so true and deep that her eyes had the soft lustre of tears now and then, and smiles that went to his heart; Mère Lunde’s happy, wrinkled old face, in her best coif and kerchief; and presently, neighbors coming in with joyous greetings. For in those days they shared each other’s joys and sorrows.
The remembrance of the cruel May day vanished. Flowers were growing over the graves of the dead in the little churchyard. Many of the captives had found their way back; some, indeed, lay in silent places far from kindred. They did not forget, but they were a light-hearted people, and their religion was not of the morbid, disquieting kind. Conscience with them had a few salient points of right and wrong, the rest did not touch their simple lives.
There was a gay autumn, with wine-making and brewing of spiced or plain beer, of meat and fish salted and dried, of corn gathered and wheat ground and the thrifty preparations for winter. All the meadow lands were abloom with autumnal flowers, the trees were gorgeous in all the coloring sun and winds and dew could devise, and the haze of the resplendent Indian summer hung over it all. There were nutting parties to the woods, but they were cautious and went well protected.
Trappers and traders came in, and the talk was of wilderness trails and Indian villages friendly and unfriendly, of deer and mink and otter and beaver, sable, marten and beautiful fox and wolfskins from the far north. Many of the fleets went straight down the river to New Orleans, others came up from there with beads and gewgaws and spun silk and threads of various colors, calicoes and blankets and coarse thick stuffs for tents. There was much dickering, great supplies of arms and ammunitions, and then the crowd melted away and only familiar faces were seen again. The country round about put on its white coverlet of snow to keep warm the little earth children, streams and ponds were frozen over and all was merriment again.
François Marchand and his pretty wife set up a home of their own only a short distance away, but business had increased so much that it needed the attention of both. Next year they would buy some boats or have them built, and do some trading up and down the river.
André Valbonais was much pleased with his new home and the cordiality of his relatives. He soon attracted the attention of Colonel Chouteau, for he had considerable education, and was put in a clerkship, which gratified him extremely. But he often ran up to the Rue de Rive to chat with Denys and Marchand over their adventures, and to watch the pretty, dark-eyed girl who always sat so close to her uncle and held his hand.
And then came the winter gayeties. Throngs of children went out on the great mound when the snow had a crust on it, and the girls, gathering up their skirts, squatted down and were given a little push, and away they went, swift as an arrow. One would tumble over and roll down to the bottom, throwing about numerous little fleets, but they were so well wrapped in furs no one was ever hurt. The great achievement was to spin the whole length without a break.
It was merry again at Christmastide, and Renée enjoyed it much more than last year; but there was a tender devoutness in her worship. Then the great Feast of Lights, Epiphany and all the fun and frolic. André was chosen a king by one of the pretty girls. He was a fine dancer and a very good-looking young fellow.
Perhaps it made Renée more light-hearted to know that Barbe had a real lover, and that he hardly allowed her to smile at any one else. She was not quite betrothed as yet, but there could be no objections. He belonged to a good New Orleans family, and was in a trading house second only to the Chouteaus’. All the Guions said it would be an excellent match, and Barbe was plenty old enough to marry. Bachelor girls had not come in fashion, and when one had passed twenty the younger girls really flouted her and thought she ought to step in the background.
She danced once with Gaspard Denys. No, he had never been a real lover. But if he had not gone to Quebec after this little girl—well, all things might have been different. And as well Jean Gardepier as any one. She would go to New Orleans with him when he went down on trading expeditions, and the gayety would delight her. She would have some fine clothes and jewels, still she sighed a little when Denys took her back to her sister.
“And here is Elise the second,” said Madame Renaud gayly. “See what a tall girl she has grown. You must dance once with her. Oh, how soon they are women, and then it is lovers and husbands. Gaspard, are you going to stay single forever?” and Madame laughed softly.
“I’m such an old fellow now! I feel like a grandfather to these young girls,” he returned jocosely.
But Elise thought him charming, and in her turn almost envied Renée.
Years unmarked by any special events pass on almost unheeded. Trade came and went. A few new houses were built. Young people were married, new children were born. Families came from across the river, not liking their English neighbors over well. Occasionally there was an Indian alarm, but St. Louis had the good fortune to live mostly at peace with her red neighbors, while many of the Illinois towns suffered severely.
One of the events of the summer that delighted Renée was the birth of Wawataysee’s baby. It was a great marvel to her, though there were plenty of babies about. It was more French than Indian. It had beautiful large dark eyes and was a very fine specimen of babyhood. It was named for Uncle Gaspard, who was its godfather, and Wawataysee pleaded that Renée should be godmother.
“For you are the two people I love best after my husband,” said the Indian woman proudly. “You are like a little sister.”
Renée was very glad to be that now. She was learning to rejoice in the happiness of others.
Then Barbe Guion had a very pretty wedding, and the boat in which she was going to New Orleans was trimmed with flags. It was a long journey then, sometimes a dangerous one; less so at this season. And Barbe might be gone a whole year. There was a great turnout to wish her godspeed. She looked very bright and happy in her wedding gear.
Renée took Uncle Gaspard’s hand and glanced up in his face, which was rather grave.
“Are you sorry?” she asked.
“Sorry? What a question, child! Why should I be sorry?”
“She loved you very much,” was the answer, in a low tone.
“Nonsense! I am old enough to be her father. And Barbe married of her own free will.”
“I wish you had been my true father,” Renée subjoined gravely. And strange to say, she pitied Barbe in her secret heart, yet she was glad she had gone so far away.
Renée went now and then to see her grandfather. It seemed as if he grew older and thinner and more morose, yet her sympathy went out to him curiously. She had heard the talk that he was suspected of being in league with the river pirates and supplying the Indians with rum, which was against the laws. One ship had been caught, the pirates overmastered, four of them sent to New Orleans in irons, and two had been wounded and drowned in an attempt to swim away. She felt a good deal troubled. He would not talk of the affair when she mentioned it.
“But you are so lonely here outside the palisade. Why do you not come in?” she inquired.
“It suits me well enough,” he answered roughly. “I did not ask you to stay here. And you need not come for my pleasure.”
“But if the Indians should attack you some time?”
“Bah! The Indians know me better,” with a scowl of disdain.
“Is Antoine Freneau my grandfather really?” she asked that evening as she sat in the moonlight with Denys.
“Why, yes,” in amaze at her question.
“Then it would be wicked not to—to have some regard for him,” she remarked unwillingly.
Gaspard did not answer at once. Antoine had dropped down year by year. He had not always been so churlish, though his discourteous, hermit-like ways were of long standing. He had never doubted but that he had been the father of the girl he loved, yet she had come up as a lily out of a quagmire. But how could Renée respect or regard him? And how little he cared for her!
“That’s a difficult question. We shall have to ask the good père some day. He understands these matters.”
“But—I belong to you, surely?”
“You belong to me!” He clasped her hand fervently.
“And I shall always stay here?”
“Always, until some young lover comes;” but he drew her closer, as if he disputed her being taken away.
“You shall be my lover,” with a gay laugh. “If ever I draw a bean at the king’s ball you shall be my king.”
Renée de Longueville was fifteen and very fair to look upon, if not as beautiful as Madame Marchand, or perhaps as some of the belles of the town. She was slight and not very tall, and her hair had not grown much darker. Her eyes kept their soft wondering expression, sometimes a curious depth that told of vehement emotions, ardent joys and a capacity for suffering. But most people looking at the gay young face when it smiled would only have read archness and mirth and a great capacity for enjoyment.
Some curious events had been happening. The colonies had beaten England and won their freedom, their recognition. From the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi River it was all America. This side of the river it was Spain still, a kind of French Spain. Commandant Cruzat was well-liked and very social. Madame was charming. There were balls at the Government House and at the handsome old Chouteau residence, that had been improved year by year. A long gallery ran around two sides above the first story, and it made a delightful place for dancers. The roof was high, with both ends cut off as it were, broken by two chimneys and two dormer windows. Downstairs a broad piazza also, and here the gentlemen would sit and smoke and discuss business and the changes that were going on around them, while within, Madame Chouteau dispensed charming hospitality.
St. Louis was still in an idyllic state, gay, joyous, friendly and hospitable, with much simplicity of living. Others besides the Chouteaus had enlarged their borders. Gaspard Denys had built two rooms and raised the roof of his house so as to make a storeroom and one little chamber, where Chloe, the slave, slept. Mère Lunde still took charge of the house, but Denys insisted she should have some help, and then no question was made of buying one. They were well treated and had good homes, and were not overworked.
One of the new rooms was Uncle Gaspard’s, the other Renée’s, while her old one was transferred to Mère Lunde, who at first thought she could never sleep on a bedstead. And Renée’s room was quite a marvel of prettiness. Great strips of white birch bark on which dainty pictures were worked went from floor to ceiling, while between was soft gray plaster. Sometimes this was stained in various colors. Then there were shelves about on which were displayed odd bits of Indian work—a bowl, a vase, or a pretty basket. Many of these came from Mattawissa’s hands and not a few from Wawataysee’s.
Now Madame Marchand had a dainty little girl, christened Renée. Her gracious air, her refinement and beauty, and her romantic story as well, had made her many friends, and M. Marchand was one of the thriving business men, very much honored and respected. Not infrequently he and Gaspard were called into council on some important question.
And though the palisades and gates and towers were still looked upon as a means of defence, the inhabitants ventured to enlarge their borders without. Several bands of friendly Indians had settled toward the northern and western ends. Parties no longer hesitated to wander through the woods, and the children often went out to pick wild strawberries that grew so plentifully all about. Then there were grapes and a delicious kind of wild plum, pears and apples, and melons cultivated in the gardens, with various small fruits.
Renée de Longueville had come in possession of quite a fortune; at least, Uncle Gaspard held it in trust for her. And it made her quite a person of consequence.
Antoine Freneau had grown really afraid to carry on his illicit trade after the capture of the Red Rover. She had stores for him, and for weeks he trembled when he saw two or three men approaching his cabin. He was old and he resolved he would do no more at it. This he tried to explain to those who came for a supply. True, he brought up his whiskey and sold it as long as it lasted, but unfortunately the Indians used to securing their indulgence in that manner would not believe it. They brought furs, often stolen from the traders, and insisted that he should exchange. They always came after nightfall, and sped away again in the dark.
Angry at length at their repeated efforts, he would not open his door. The bar within was very strong and he felt himself secure. But the old stanchion had decayed at the ground point, and one night it gave way at their united efforts.
Antoine found himself defenceless against the angry mob. They bound him and began to ransack the place. Bringing to light one jug of whiskey, they were confident there was more. They searched every corner, every nook, but in vain. And then they fell upon the old man, beat him and tortured him until he was limp and lifeless they thought, when, taking a pack of the most valuable furs, they decamped.
It was not until noon of the next day that some one in passing noted the unusual appearance and halted at the cabin. The old man lay on the floor. He had revived from unconsciousness, but his hands were securely fastened behind him, his face was bruised and swollen and everything in disorder. He gave the alarm and some kindly neighbors came to his assistance. Then another went for Gaspard Denys.
Perhaps nothing could have happened that would have rehabilitated Antoine Freneau in the pity and good will of his fellow-men sooner. Unsocial and under suspicion for years, asking and taking nothing from them, seldom giving them a good word, his helplessness appealed now to their sympathy. Gaspard had his wounds and bruises attended to, the house made a little orderly, and found a slave woman who would care for him. That he had been robbed was evident. Even the puncheon floor had been torn up, and disclosed a sort of pit in which something had evidently been stored.
Old Doctor Montcrevier came, but he shook his head doubtfully. The old man breathed and occasionally opened heavy, wandering eyes. But on the third day he rallied.
“Gaspard Denys!” he moaned. “Send—tell him,” and then he lapsed away again.
Denys came and watched with him through the night. Several times his name escaped the old man’s lips. Gaspard gave him some brandy he had brought.
He opened his eyes again and gazed around piteously, resting them finally upon Gaspard.
“I cannot think,” rubbing his forehead in a dazed fashion. “They were Indians. They wanted rum. I had none, only one jug I kept in case—in case I should need it. I am an old man, Gaspard. They—they beat me.”
“Yes. Can you tell who they were? No strange Indians have been seen about.”
Even here the old man’s cunning came uppermost. He would not betray himself. He shook his head slowly.
“Some marauding parties. Perhaps from the river.”
“The river! See if they are coming!” starting up in affright.
“No one is coming,” in a reassuring tone.
“Gaspard, am I hurt much? Oh, help me! I do not want to die. I hate death! I want to live;” and he tried to raise himself, but fell back exhausted.
“Would you like to have the priest?” Gaspard could think of no other aid in this extremity.
“No! no! I will not die! They come to your deathbed. Stay with me yourself.”
“What can I do?”
He was silent a long while. His breath came slowly and with effort, and shudders ran over him.
“Renée,” he said presently. “You have the child, Gaspard?”
“Yes; you gave her to me.”
“If you had died—your money——”
“I had made a will. Everything would have gone to her.”
“That was right—right. Gaspard, there is some gold—is any one listening?” moving his eyes in a frightened way.
“No, no!”
“There is some gold and silver put away. You might better take it. Thieves may come again. Carry me to the chimney.”
He was a heavy burden. Gaspard put him down on some blankets.
“See! Count the stones. The third stone.” The eyes were wild in their eagerness.
“This!” pointing. “Take it out.”
Gaspard worked with both strength and energy. It was fitted in very securely, but it gave way at length.
“The next one.”
When that came out a small iron box was visible, and Gaspard worked it loose.
“Take it with you. It will be hers when I die. There is no one else. But not until—I have the key—and—but I am not going to die!” with fierce energy.
“No, no,” soothingly. “Take a little of this cordial.”
But the signs of death were there and Gaspard read them truly. Could he warn? That was for the priest.
“You are very good.” His voice was much shaken, and shadows seemed to waver over his eyes. “And I was not good to you, Gaspard Denys, in that old time. You were but a boy. You had your fortune to make. She loved you and I meant to wean her away—and—I did not want her to know how I was—trading. The Count fell in love with her, though when the matter was most settled he wrung a dowry out of me, curse him! But she was a Countess. And he should have kept the child. What did he mean by sending her here?”
He had made many pauses and now lay back exhausted, his face growing grayer. Gaspard roused the nurse.
“Go up to the church,” he said, “the priest’s house, and bring some one. Quick! The man is dying.”
It was some time before he roused again.
“Renée,” he murmured, “you will be a great lady in France. Your mother’s mother was, and fled away because a king loved her. A king!” He laughed shrilly and a rattle came in his throat. “And you must go back to them, to your own kind. This wild life is not for you. As for that young stripling, he is dancing at the Guinolee and singing love songs to pretty girls. Thou art not the only pretty girl in St. Louis, Renée——”
Then there was a long silence. Once or twice Gaspard thought him dead, but he started and muttered both French and Indian words. It was near midnight when the good father came, and he shook his head sadly.
Gaspard roused Antoine a little.
“I fear it is too late,” in a regretful tone, while a look of pity crossed his face. “Still we must try to the last moment. Antoine Freneau, it is I, Père Lemoine. Listen! Death is near. Dost thou repent of thy sins, which have been many, doubtless, hidden from man but not escaping the eye of God? There may yet be mercy vouchsafed.”
The dying man clutched the blanket and stared dully, yet he seemed to listen.
“Oh, yes, yes!” he cried suddenly. “At St. Anne’s down the river. Yes, we both confessed——”
Whether he understood any of the service was doubtful, but the good priest did his duty according to his conscience and the times. But before he had ended the last prayer both knew he was dead, and had passed without a struggle.
“I will stay the rest of the night with you,” said the priest. “And since you have the child, I suppose you will be the proper person to take charge. It is supposed the old man had not a little wealth—if the marauders did not take it all away.”
The woman came in to prepare the body. Round the old man’s neck was a strong bit of wire like cord, and a key. Gaspard took this. It fitted the box.
After daylight they took a survey of the place. There were some firearms stored away, blankets, furs that were motheaten and of little value, some Indian habiliments; but it was evident the place had been pretty thoroughly ransacked.
So they buried Antoine Freneau, and for some days it was the sensation of the little town. Gaspard Denys now took the formal guardianship of Renée de Longueville. He had the record of her mother’s marriage, her birth and christening. Some of the goods were worth saving, the others were distributed among the poorest of the Indians about.
In an old chest of curious workmanship Gaspard found a false bottom. In this compartment were some laces and embroideries, a wedding veil that Renée’s grandmother had doubtless worn, the certificate of her marriage to Antoine Freneau and considerable valuable jewelry, with some unset stones. And when they examined the strong box it proved an unexpected fortune for Renée de Longueville.
Then the old house was suffered to go to ruin. Some Indians went there for shelter, but soon left. They had been roused at midnight by unearthly noises and seen the figure of old Freneau in its grave-clothes; so the story gained credence that the place was haunted. Even after it had fallen into an unsightly heap the mysterious noises were heard and no one would pass it after nightfall.
Renée was very much shocked at first. She had not loved her grandfather, but there had always been a curious pity in her tender soul for him in what she considered his loneliness. She went in the church and prayed for his soul, for she knew God was merciful. Had He not watched over Uncle Gaspard and sent him safely home?
And now Renée de Longueville was quite an heiress and had some really beautiful heirloom jewels, besides the laces and the exquisite veil. Her grandmother’s people must have been of some account. But no one would have imagined Antoine Freneau a handsome or attractive young man, and a favorite among the pretty girls of Old New Orleans. The miser-like propensities had grown with the years, and he had found, he thought, an easy way of making money by being in league with the river pirates on the one hand and roving bands of Indians on the other. He had skilfully evaded detection if not always suspicion, and now that he had suffered almost martyrdom in the end, the generous, cordial people were not the kind to fling up these vague accusations.
So the sorrow was over and it was winter again, full of merriment and gayety, and lovers wooing young girls. Elise Renaud had been married and Sophie was quite a belle. Rosalie Pichou was the mother of two babies and had a comfortable home, though her husband traded with New Orleans and was often gone months at a time. They had to guard against the river pirates, who frequently sallied out from some peaceful-looking covert, hidden by woods or a bend in the stream. Occasionally there were Indians lying in wait, but the men always went well armed, and generally in quite a fleet, with the goods, the wheat and corn in barges or flat-bottomed boats, with several canoes for swiftness if they saw a chance of chastising their enemies. It was comparatively easy to go down the river, and as each boat had a mast and sails, they sped along beautifully in a favorable wind. But coming back was generally the trial, as the tide was against them. Sometimes two boatmen would walk along the river bank and pull a rope like the later towing line, while those on the boat steered and with long poles kept the prow from running into the bank and avoided the snags.
But before Christmas all the boats that were expected had come in; the others would remain at New Orleans until more favorable weather. And this year there was to be a grand ball at the Government House before the king’s ball took place, for in the last trip up the river several young men had arrived. One was to be secretary to the Commandant. Two were on their way to Canada and would start when the spring opened.
Sophie Renaud had run in, full of the news.
“And you have so many pretty things to wear!” she cried half enviously. “Your uncle always seems to know, while you might as well ask a stick as to ask my father to bring you home anything worth while. And the pretty frock Aunt Barbe sent me last summer is all in shreds. Ma mère declares I ought to have fawnskin, like an Indian girl. And did you see Madame Marchand’s lovely feather cape on Sunday? It has a row of bluebird feathers around it that are dazzling.”
Yes, Renée had seen the cape often while it was being made. Three years it had taken Wawataysee to collect the feathers. She had so many beautiful ideas.
“It would set me crazy to do such a thing!”
Renée laughed. Sophie always flew from one point to another, and delighted in attire.
“Wawataysee is coming to see what will be most suitable,” returned Renée.
“And shall I have to wear the old white silk Cousin Guion gave me? It has been washed, but mother has pressed it like new. And one of the young men is very handsome. I saw him as I passed the court-house. Laflamme I believe he is called, and I predict he will set all the girls’ hearts in a flame if he dances anything as he looks. I hope we all get a chance. And oh, what fun the king’s ball will be! I just hope I shall be a queen!”
Renée tossed her pretty head. For the girls in those days gossiped pretty much as they do now, and were just as eager for pleasure.
André Valbonais dropped in as he often did. He was a great favorite, and now that he was doing so well under the very eyes of M. Chouteau, he could afford to have a steady sweetheart. Early marriages were much in vogue, and though a dot was very good, many a nice girl was married with only some household articles and bedding.
Truth to tell, André had been very much captivated with Madame Marchand. Her bravery through those wearisome days and nights of the return, her sweetness and patience with the little one, had made her an angel to be adored. M. Marchand’s gratitude knew no bounds; indeed, he had been treated with brotherly affection by them both. Suddenly his eyes had been opened. It was an insult to any sweet, honorable woman to covet her, especially when she loved her husband as Wawataysee did. And André struggled to cast the sin out of his heart. She never even dreamed of such a thing, and for worlds he would not have incurred her displeasure.
But this it was that had made him care less for the young girls about. He could not offer any of them a heart that was half another’s.
So in a certain fashion he had been devoted to Renée because she was such a child, and there was no danger he believed.
“There will be a great time, I suppose, at the ball,” he said, sitting by the splendid log fire at Gaspard Denys’. “One of my cousins is to dance with the new Secretary, Monsieur Rivé. He came to the mill with the Governor.”
M. Cruzat was often styled that, but the real Governor of all Louisiana had his capital at New Orleans. This was the Lieutenant.
“And is he very handsome?”
“Oh, good-looking enough,” indifferently. “M. Laflamme will take the winning card. Renée, do not get a heartbreak over him. Take warning.”
“I shall not get a heartbreak over anybody,” with a saucy smile.
“Ah, your time has not yet come!” blowing out wreaths of delicate smoke.
“André, I want you to dance the first dance with me.”
“I am at your service, ma’m’selle. But three new young men and a pretty girl—you do me great honor,” and he made a bow, with an odd, amused smile.
“Do you suppose I am going to stand around and cast wistful eyes at these strangers?” she cried with pretty, mock indignation. “And I shall be in the very first dance, too.”
“I am made supremely happy, ma’m’selle.”
“And if there is any—if you see me looking—well, disconsolate, you will ask me again.”
There was a charming imperiousness in her tone.
“I will obey, ma’m’selle, with great delight.”
“And—André, who will be the prettiest girl there?”
“Merci! Little one, how can I make a choice?”
“I will tell you: Lucie Aubry, and she will dance with the Secretary the first thing.”
“Lucie Aubry has not all the beauty of St. Louis.”
“Oh, if she had, what would be left for us?” and Renée made a mirthfully despairing face.
“You need not feel alarmed.”
“Oh, I don’t,” with enchanting gayety. “In the first place, I am not tall enough, not grand enough. Then my hair should be raven black, and it is such a funny no-color.”
“It is very handsome,” he replied decidedly. “Sometimes in the sun it looks as if it had gold dust sprinkled over it. And then I’ve seen it look as if the top of every wave was touched with silver.”
“That is very beautiful, André. I will try to recall the compliment when it looks to me like a gray-brown. And my nose, see——”
“Ma’m’selle, you wrinkle it up and it makes you look piquant, saucy. You couldn’t make it bad if you tried.”
“Oh, yes! Look!” She put her finger to the tip of it and gave it a tiny hitch and then laughed.
“That shows your curved lips and your lovely teeth. Even that wouldn’t make you a fright.”
“Oh, André, how good and comforting you are! But Wawataysee, with her little Indian blood, is a hundred times handsomer. Only—I am very glad I suit you and Uncle Gaspard. He thinks I grow like my mother.”
She had been half-dancing round the room in the blaze of the logs. Families often kept no other light. Now she came and sat down opposite him, demure as a nun. She had so many fascinating, changeful ways. He had always considered her a child, but now she was a charming young girl. This was one of the places where Valbonais felt entirely at home, because there was no danger of being misinterpreted by any watchful mamma. He was not quite ready to marry.
Denys came in and pushed his seat near Renée, who leaned her head on his shoulder. Now the golden lights shone in her hair—not yellow-gold, but the richer, deeper color—and a soft rose tint played over her cheek, while her mouth dimpled at the corners as if she was amused at something. There would not be many prettier girls at the ball, Valbonais thought.
Wawataysee looked over the “treasures” that one way and another had come into the possession of Gaspard Denys. True, it was a kind of idyllic time in the history of the town, so far as regarded society. Some of the families had a gown or a mantilla of lace and fringe that had been handed down, voyaged from Canada, or more directly from France and New Orleans. Such articles were only taken out on great occasions, a few times in the year. But the woman in plain attire had just as delightful a time if she was vivacious and sparkling and a good dancer.
For this was the chief amusement of the women. The men had their shooting matches, not only as a pastime but a good practice, where to be an excellent marksman was often a protection against Indians; but the hunts served to provide much of the family living. Many of these people had come of the better class peasant stock, who from time immemorial had danced on the greensward on fête days, and not infrequently on Sunday afternoon, their only holidays.
There were no theatres, few books, and many of the elder people read with so much difficulty that they lost interest in it. Oftener legends and family stories were told over on summer evenings when old and young sat out in the moonlight, ate little spiced cakes and drank birch beer.
Wawataysee fashioned a frock for Renée out of some silvery threaded stuff that had soft blue disks here and there, looking almost like bits of fur. Round the shoulders was a band of blue feathers from jay and marten and bluebird, skilfully arranged on a strip of cloth. Her full, girlish throat and arms were bare except for some bracelets and a string of pearls. Her hair was gathered up in a great knot on top of her head and fastened with a silver comb set with jewels. When she entered the ballroom leaning on her uncle’s arm half the assemblage turned to look at her.
The largest space in the Government House had been cleared for dancing. There were smaller connecting rooms, and all had been trimmed with evergreens. The warmth brought out their pungent fragrance. Here a cluster of scarlet berries, there a branch of brown-red oak, a handful of yellow hickory leaves bunched like a sunflower. Here was the Commandant, M. Cruzat, and his staff, with their military accoutrements much tarnished by wear, and the soldiers at the fort who had worn out those kept some little shred, perhaps the old buttons, to indicate their standing. But the young men were in noticeably fresh array.
Madame Cruzat and the elegant Madame Chouteau were on the other side with several ladies, bowing and smiling and making a place for some of the elders. Around the room were ranged seats of rough boards covered with blankets. In one of the smaller apartments was the band, though it was composed mostly of violins.
The elders were to have the upper end of the room in the Court minuet, the younger people next and in the adjoining rooms. M. Laflamme, a distinguished-looking young man with an air of what we should call society, spoke to a lady standing near, who brought him over to Mademoiselle de Longueville. And at that instant Valbonais approached smiling and extending his hand.
She listened to the request with the most dainty modesty. “I regret, monsieur,” she said in a low tone, “but it is a previous engagement.” And now Lucie Aubry might have the pleasure in welcome. She would not throw over an old friend for a new acquaintance. She held her head up very proudly and danced the minuet as if she had been a queen.
After that the real pleasure began. Old and young, with little formality, yet with the kind of breeding the French never forgot, and took into the forests with them. André need not have watched for Renée’s half warning. If she could have danced with three in the same set, she had the opportunity.
M. Laflamme was a little piqued, but he captured her at last.
“Ma’m’selle,” in a pause, “you are a true French girl, name and all. You might have come from Paris.”
“As I did once upon a time,” smiling out of bewitching eyes.
“Ah! Can you remember?”
“I was there but one day. At the house of my father. A little child, eight years or so.”
“Not the Count de Longueville?”
“The Count de Longueville. At least, one Count. There may be many,” she replied, with drooping, mischievous eyes.
“But—he has a wife and two sons, the one I mean.”
“My own mother died,” and the grave tone was tenderly sweet. “I hardly knew her. Then I was sent to her people, my grandfather here at St. Louis.”
“Not—oh, no, not Monsieur Denys!”
“He is not old enough,” she replied, with a touch of vexation. “No. And now that relative is dead. Monsieur, tell me about my little brothers.”
“I never saw them, but know there are two. They are away somewhere being educated. Madame the Countess is at court, one of the handsome women that swell the Queen’s train.”
A sort of protest sped through Renée’s pulses. Her mother was lying in an unheeded grave. She remembered being taken to it several times. And the Count had forgotten about her; another stood in her place. They two were gay and happy.
“You would like to go back to France?” tentatively.
“No, monsieur,” and she raised her pretty head proudly. “I would not leave Uncle Denys for all France has to offer,” in a clear, decisive tone.
“You rate him very highly. I almost envy him, ma’m’selle,” bowing very low. “There is another dance——”
Uncle Denys brought up Monsieur Rivé, who had been merely presented to her in the early part of the evening, and he begged for the pleasure of dancing with her.
“I thought you were engaged,” said Laflamme in a quick tone to Renée.
“I did not say so, monsieur,” she replied in a low tone. “But it is not considered best to dance right along with one person. I do not quite know the fashion of courts,” raising demure, but fascinating eyes.
“She would do for a court,” he ruminated.
Renée meanwhile swam away like a graceful bird in a maze of sunshine. M. Rivé was delighted. He had been dancing with Madame Aubry, who had grown rather stout, and Madame Garis, who was always a little stiff, as she had descended on both sides from nobility, though it was long ago; but she desired to keep up a certain state. The mothers expected to have the young men pay them the compliment of at least one dance.
But what grace and elegance this young creature possessed! And the pretty, flower-like face was enchanting in its enjoyment.
“Do you often have such balls as this?” he asked presently. “I was quite averse to coming to St. Louis, but I hardly dared decline the appointment. I thought you—” and he paused.
“Well, what did you think, monsieur?” with an arch look and in a merry voice. “That we were part Indian and lived in wigwams?”
“Oh, no!” coloring. “But we are quite gay at New Orleans. There are many Spanish people, and the creole women are very beautiful and exquisite dancers, though they seem a race quite by themselves. And we have a theatre. You see, it is the great port. So much trade comes to us—the vessels from Europe, and from some of the cities in the colonies that have so lately gained their independence.”
“I shall go to New Orleans some time. My uncle has promised me. In the summer, perhaps.”
“Oh, not next summer!”
“Why not?” with a dainty toss of the head.
“Because I am to stay here a year whether or no.”
“Monsieur,” with gay audacity, “I believe your business has something to do with writing letters and keeping accounts. I cannot help you there, so it could make but little difference.”
“But we shall have the winter. What is this I hear about the king’s ball? Or is it a series of balls?”
“Oh, monsieur, that is a delight!” She gave a brief description of it. “And there are four queens. Each chooses a king.”
“I hope you will be a queen. But to have your high honor depend on so great a chance seems rather discouraging.”
“Still, the king may choose you next time. Then it doesn’t always depend upon a bean,” laughing with gay softness.
“What an odd plan! Ma’m’selle, I hope I may be a king. I never thought of such an honor before. And I have chosen my queen already.”
The violins dragged out a last slow note. The fiddlers had not learned to blow it out with a sort of ecstasy. Then André Valbonais came, for the next dance was his and he was very glad. If there was such a thing as an especial belle of the evening, it was Renée de Longueville. These new gay fellows must not crowd him out, he resolved.
There was a promenade after that. Renée fell out of the ranks and insisted upon sitting down a few minutes.
“Go and find Sophie Renaud for me,” she said to André in a dainty tone of command.
“And leave you here alone?”
“I am going to crawl in this corner and rest a bit. And I wonder where Uncle Denys is?”
“He has been talking to the Governor. M. Cruzat is not above listening to the needs of the people. There are to be improvements along the levee.”
She waved her hand in dismissal. Then she wondered, with a bit of feminine inconsistency, who would be first to find her out. This would be a lovely corner for a chat.
A voice caught her ear. She heard her name mentioned in a complimentary manner.
“She is very well born. Although you do not seem to make much of that here.”
That was Monsieur Laflamme’s peculiarly cultivated accent.
“Yes, on the one side. The other, her grandfather—well, no one is quite certain. But he left her a fortune and some handsome jewels. How he obtained both no one really knows.”
“I suppose many things have to be condoned in this new country. In fact, they have to be in most places,” laughing ironically. “The world is quite turned upside down, but money is on the top everywhere. And the uncle, he has several interests I have heard. He has no family.”
“He is not a real relative, but a sort of godfather or guardian. She is like a child to him. There is a story that he was in love with her mother when they were children. Besides his trading business he has an interest in the lead mines. And it is said there are some wonderful discoveries of salt that hunters have found. We shall distance you more southern people some day.”
“Then M. Denys is one of your prosperous citizens?”
“Oh, yes, monsieur! We are proud of him.”
“And the young lady will be his heiress?”
“Most likely. It is hardly probable that he will marry now. Monsieur Laflamme, if you are looking for a wife with a comfortable dot, here is your opportunity. A pretty girl, too. Well spoiled; but a husband, if he has any sense, soon trains a girl aright when she is young.”
Madame Aubry laughed with an inflection of satisfaction. French mothers seem matchmakers by instinct. She had informed herself about the newcomers. The two travellers were men of no especial fortunes, and though she was pleased to have Lucie dance with them, she had other views for her daughter, who would have no great dowry. Genevieve had a pretty home near by, and she did not want Lucie to go away. She had her eye on a very well-to-do person who had already made the proper advances to her. She could afford to be generous with her neighbors’ maids.
Renée sprang up suddenly, her face aflush with anger. That any one would consider her fortune made her indignant. She had some fanciful ideas of love, gleaned largely from Wawataysee and her husband, who since the attack on St. Louis had guarded her with the utmost devotion, purchasing a strong, burly slave to be her guard and to watch over his babies. During his two journeys North she had lived at the Denys’s house. There had been other love matches as well, where the question of dowry had hardly been thought of, though every mother and father were delighted to have a hand in the bride’s plenishing.
She almost ran into M. Rivé. Then she laughed and drew herself up with a gesture of half dignity, half amusement. And there was Sophie Renaud and Valbonais, who looked from one to the other and wondered why Renée had sent him away. He fancied he read some confusion in her face.
“The gentlemen are invited to the office,” said a servant. “There are pipes and liquors and cards for those who love play. The ladies will be refreshed in the anteroom,” designating the corridor with a wave of his hand.
There were several tables spread here with delicacies that it was supposed men cared little about. Spiced wines and cordials, fruit dried and sugared, dainty cakes and various confections. No one thought of a great supper. The girls crowded by themselves and laughed and chatted, counting up the times they had danced and the captures they had made, and what their real lovers had said. In the simplicity of their enjoyment there was little heart-burning.
“Renée,” exclaimed one of the group, “we shall have to look out for ourselves! Why, you have only been a child hitherto, and here are all the men paying court and compliments to you! However, you cannot have my Jean, for he has spoken to the priest, and though maman thinks it but short notice, she will get me ready.”
Rose Boucher threw back her head and laughed, showing her pearly teeth.
“Oh,” said Renée merrily, “and last winter we had such nice times skating on the pond! Now you will not let him skate with us or help us up the mound or anything!”
The tone was so disconsolate and the face so full of mock despair that it was amusing.
“Not I, indeed! You’re not going to have the whole world, Renée de Longueville, if you have a rich uncle and have danced with all these newcomers, and had all the room looking at you in your beautiful gown and your high comb. Has it real diamonds? Dear me! It behooves us to get betrothed as soon as possible when these young things set up for admirers.”
So they teased her good-humoredly and she laughed in return, but it seemed as if she were two people instead of one—a girl enjoying everything and a woman fearing some things.
But presently they returned to the dancing. Monsieur Laflamme sought her out at once. Her first impulse was to decline with high dignity, then a gleam of mirth shone in her eyes and she accepted. If he wanted to begin wooing, let him. The inborn coquetry of her nature rose to the surface. She was bright with a certain childish audacity and her piquancy attracted him. If he chose he could win her very easily. People in this New World were making fortunes readily, but Paris would be the place to spend them.
Mothers began presently to gather up their charges and express their pleasure to Madame Cruzat. The fathers had a touch of gallantry as well. It was very gratifying to feel that the Commandant had their interests truly at heart and cared for the town.
André Valbonais came to find Renée.
“I am to see you safe home,” he said. “M. Denys is wanted in a little council they are having.”
The girl made no demur. How lovely they looked in their fur hoods, their cheeks still rosy, their eyes bright, their chatter full of joy. Laflamme studied them and wondered who Valbonais could be, with his unquestioning authority.
They went down the Rue Royale a happy, light-hearted crowd, crunching the snow under their feet and looking up at the stars that seemed to shine with unwonted brilliance, as if they had really usurped the place of the moon. And here was the Chouteau house, a great white mound, the dormer windows in the roof like some curious eyes. The throng thinned out. Renée and André turned up their own street.
“And did you like those newcomers very much?” he began, as if they were continuing a conversation.
“They were nice dancers—yes, elegant dancers.”
“They’re much interested in the king’s ball. Renée, if you draw a bean, who shall you choose?”
“Oh, how can I tell? The handsomest man.”
“The handsomest are not always the worthiest.”
“That sounds like a grandam. Why should one care for a night? One dances for the pleasure.”
“But it may lead to——”
“To all manner of ills, such as falling in love. I suppose that is a very great ill. Were you ever in love, André?” laughing in a mocking mood.
“Oh, with you, a hundred times! Else I should not be so ready to do your bidding.”
“But with any one else?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“But you said you were in love with me.” Her tone had in it the daintiest bit of upbraiding.
“Yes, when I ran away with you and Wawataysee. When I watched over you day and night. When I do your bidding now as if I was your slave.”
“There’s another kind of love.”
“Ma’m’selle, that’s too sacred to talk about lightly.”
Dragon, the great hound, was watching at the gate. He made no objection when André opened it, but he looked up and down the street.
“Your master will come presently. He is all right,” said André. “Or, if you like to, go for him.”
Dragon signified that he did. André opened the door. Mère Lunde was asleep in her chair. She had piled several logs on the fire, and they had just burst into a blaze that glorified the apartment. Another hound lay half asleep in the warmth, but he beat his tail to let them know that he heard.
Renée threw off her wraps, took out her comb and shook her hair over her shoulders. What a shining mass it was! Her eyes were softly bright in their quartz-like glow. André thought she had not looked as beautiful the whole evening, and he was glad without knowing just why.
“Good-night,” he said abruptly. “Friga will see that no harm befalls you.”
“Thank you, André,” and she smiled upon him with a sweetness that he took outside with him.
“She will be a flirt,” he said to himself. “But, after all, she is only a child and she doesn’t know what deep, heartfelt love is. Heaven keep her from the knowledge until she has had her fling. The bright, winsome things have the most power.”
Renée was standing there when Uncle Gaspard came in. He put his arms around her and kissed her shining head and drooping eyelids.
“You had a nice time?”
“It was splendid!” in a joyous tone.
“I like that young Rivé very much. M. Cruzat is well pleased with him. Go to bed, kitten.”
The very next day, when a company were out skating, M. Laflamme and several others joined the party. If Renée had been lovely in her dancing gown, she was infinitely more bewitching in this half Indian skating attire. Laflamme had made some farther inquiries this morning and found Madame Aubry had not exaggerated. He had been something of a spendthrift and was now going to Montreal to get his portion of a family estate that had fallen in, but whether it could be turned speedily to money was rather doubtful. It was a long journey, he learned, and though he had begun it with a spirit of adventure, his courage in the matter was rather oozing out. What if he stayed here and wooed this charming girl who threw him a fascinating smile now and then, and knew so little of the world that she could easily be won? The journey in the summer would be more agreeable, and with her for a companion——
The next day was the New Year and the fun began early. The streets were musical with fiddles and songs. Lovers had puzzled their brains for pretty rhymes, and many, it must be confessed, were rather lame; but the frosty air carried the melody, and no one was over-critical.
Renée had numberless serenades to her soft, love-inspiring eyes, her cheeks that would make roses envious, her ripe lips where kisses blossomed, her shining hair that was like a crown, her lithe figure, her feet that were not large enough to make a print in the snow.
Gaspard Denys sat one side of the broad fireplace, in the glow of the ruddy flame, and listened with amusement. The year before he had gone for Renée he had joined the merry throng. Barbe Guion was a pretty young girl, and the Renauds had invited him in. And somehow no one ever quite knew whether Barbe was happy or not. The first time her husband came up with the boats she could not accompany him on the severe journey. While he was in St. Louis her little boy was born and died. Once afterward Gardepier had taken the expedition, but Barbe was not well and had sent loving messages; was very happy with her little daughter. He wondered what led him to think of her this night!
Renée was restless as a bird. She listened to the singing. There was one very musical French song that was not as fulsome as the others, and she wondered a little about it. Then the voices in chorus cried out: “Good-night, master; may good luck be yours. Good-night, young mistress; may your dreams be sweet of your true love.”
Then the songs were heard in the distance, and presently André Valbonais came in.
“Did you hear Laflamme?” he asked. “He and Monette went out for the fun, but they sang some beautiful songs. M’sieu Denys, do you not think it time some of this foolishness was broken up? Not that I have anything against serenading, and really they did finely at the Commandant’s. But the soldiers were out, and that helped.”
“It’s an old habit. And the young fellows enjoy it.”
“André, are you getting too old for fun? Why, I think it’s quite delightful. I was sure I heard a new voice. And it is the first time I have been serenaded. Oh, dear! I wonder who I shall dream about?”
Yes, she had only been a child; now she was a young girl, not quite a woman, a gay, wilful, enchanting young girl. Did Denys know it? He was lazily stretched out, with his hands in his pockets, gazing at the fire, dreaming of long ago, and Renée Freneau, of another time and Barbe Guion.
André gave a little cough. “Of your true love, ma’m’selle.”
“There are so many,” with a laughable assumption of weariness. “And to doubt their truth would be cruel.”
“There can be only one true love.”
“But each serenader thinks his the true one.”
He had not joined in the foolishness.
“What they think does not so much matter, ma’m’selle. It is what is in the woman’s heart.”
“And she cannot go out serenading her true love.”
“Would you want to, ma’m’selle?”
“I should like to find out who he was,” and she laughed.
Denys roused himself suddenly and began to talk business. André was working his way up in the Chouteau mill and was in high favor with its owners. What would happen when the spring opened, for St. Louis was growing to be a larger business centre? England, the talk was, had ceded her rights to the river and all the eastern shore to the new colonial government, which would make fresh treaties with Spain. The Ohio River was another promising branch. In fact, everything seemed tending to strange and uncertain prospects.
Denys would have been more than amazed if a vision of fifty years later had crossed his brain there in the firelight. And a hundred years—that would have sent him quite crazy.
But the king’s ball was the next thing. They were such a pleasure-loving people at this time; indeed, the winters would have been very dreary without the pleasure.
So the merry crowd came and the cake was made. Everybody who could gathered as usual, and the children added zest in the early part of the evening, exchanging their gifts and eating their étrennes. The stately dances of the elder people, and then the gavotte, the airy passe-pied, and afterward the merry spinning round in all kinds of fancy steps, in which some of the young men excelled.
Then twelve boomed out and one of the matrons cut the cake, another dealt out the pieces just as they came, so there should be no favoritism. Renée’s had in it no bean—was she glad or sorry? For two pairs of eyes watched her eagerly.
“I shall have to wait until next year!” she exclaimed, with a captivating moue of disappointment.
“Or the next ball,” said Laflamme. “I hope some one will take pity on me. I should like a taste of royalty.”
Sure enough he was chosen. Monsieur Rivé as well. Monette had been tempted by a hunting expedition. He was not so fond of merriment, and had left a sweetheart in New Orleans.
Laflamme was rather annoyed. He had to pay his devotion to his queen, but he would make up for it next time. André had no rival to fear then, though Renée was besieged with invitations.
Yet with all the apparent freedom, a young man waited to be asked by the head of the house before presenting himself to any young lady. And there was no madame here looking out that this rose should not be left on the household stem.
There are natures that opposition whets into ardent desire, and Laflamme’s was one of these. He had become a guest at Madame Aubry’s, but he was too well bred to ask so great a favor of her so soon. Yet at the night of the second ball he was impatiently waiting. As Renée emerged from the dressing-room he handed her the bouquet, and she accepted it with a smile, but she was a little vexed at heart. She would rather have had the compliment from Monsieur Rivé, but she was gratified to be a queen.
For somehow her heart rather misgave her. Out on the pond skating, or in the merry sledging parties, she had managed to evade any special overtures. There were other young men who considered her bright and pretty, but to them she was still an eager, rather spoiled child, hardly to be considered in a fair field for winning, though more than one had counted up her possible fortune. There was another virtue among these simple people, loyalty. One young man rarely interfered with another’s sweetheart. A peculiar kind of consent had given her to André Valbonais. He was doing well, a steady young fellow and high in favor with Pierre Chouteau, who entrusted a great deal of the business to his care. Then he was in and out at Gaspard Denys’, as no young man would be unless he was willing to give him his darling Renée.
Laflamme danced with her, and the grace and lightness of her step made it an exquisite pleasure. He glanced over the girls. There were many who were pretty with the charm of youth, some who were lovely with the finer dowry of beauty, that wifehood and motherhood only enhances. A few generations ago these settlers, many of them, came from peasant stock, and at least on one side she had fine blood. It showed in her with the many indescribable points that he could distinguish readily. Still, he would not have taken any woman with poverty unless it were some court favorite the King or Queen would dower.
True, Gaspard Denys might marry and raise up sons and daughters, but he would make sure that Renée had her portion of his wealth. And although this was a wild, uncultivated sort of life, there were possibilities of gain in it. The lead mines were believed to be inexhaustible, though the method of working them was imperfect. Denys had a share in the enterprise and sometimes spent weeks at Fort Chartres, as the lead was sent from there to New Orleans. At such times the Marchands came over to stay, or André Valbonais slept in the house.
Laflamme had enjoyed his bachelorhood extremely, and admitted to himself it would be a bother to have to think about a wife. But if his Montreal affairs should prove unsuccessful it might be a most excellent thing to have a dependence to fall back upon. And when it came to that he would not be really compelled to take Renée to France; he would, no doubt, return to America.
They had finished their dance, but M. Laflamme still kept Renée’s hand and held her attention by some amusing incidents until the music began again. Then she was fain to release it. No one had asked her for this dance—there had been no opportunity.
“I have you, little prisoner.” he said, with a meaning smile. “Come, this is too delightful to forego.”
“No, I would rather not dance,” hesitatingly.