CHAPTER XII – HER ANSWER
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.”
CHAPTER XIII – PASSING YEARS
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?