“Then the Count married again. He is in the King’s service at the palace. They sent the child over to her grandfather. I went to Canada for her.”
“And this is Renée Freneau’s child. Poor thing!”
She glanced intently at the little girl, who flushed and cast down her eyes. Why was she always a poor thing?
“And that is no home for her.”
“I should think not! Home, indeed, in that old cabin, where men meet to carouse, and strange stories are told,” said madame decisively.
“I am to be her guardian and look after her. I think I shall settle down. I have tramped about enough to satisfy myself for one while. I shall go into trading, and have some one keep a house for me and take care of the child. Meanwhile I must persuade some one to give her shelter and oversight.”
“Yes, yes, m’sieu,” encouragingly.
“And so I have come to you,” looking up, with a bright laugh.
Gaspard Denys very often obtained just what he wanted without much argument. Perhaps it was not so much his way as his good judgment of others.
“And so I have come to you,” he repeated. “If you will take her in a little while, I think she will enjoy being with children. She has had a lonely life thus far.”
“Poor thing! Poor little girl, to lose her mother so soon! And you think old Antoine will make no trouble?”
“Oh, no, no! He would not know what to do with her.”
Madame Renaud laughed derisively, and gave a nod, throwing her head back, which displayed her pretty throat.
“So I shall look after her. He will never interfere. It will not be for long. And how shall I appear putting on fatherly airs?” in a tone of amusement.
“Louis is but two and thirty, and you – ”
“Have just turned thirty,” subjoined Gaspard.
“And little Louis is twelve, stout and sturdy and learning to figure as well as read under the good père. Then there are three others, and papa is as proud of them as was ever any hen with her chicks. I never heard that Chanticleer was a pattern of fatherly devotion.”
They both laughed at that.
“And, Gaspard, you should have settled upon some nice girl at the balls. You have been chosen king times enough.”
He flushed a trifle. “I have been quite a roamer in strange places, and at first had a fancy for a life of adventure. But, as I said, I think of settling down now. And if you will keep the little girl for me until I get a home – ”
“And you want a good housemaid. Gaspard, Mère Lunde has lost her son. True, he was a great burden and care, and she has spent most of her little fortune upon him. I think she would be glad – ”
“The very person. Thank you a thousand times, Madame Renaud. I should want some one settled in her ways, content to stay at home, and with a tender heart. Yes, Mère Lunde will be the very one.
“She was going to the père’s; then his niece came from Michilimackinac. They had bad work at the Mission with the Indians, and she just escaped with her life and her little boy.”
“Yes; I will see her. It is advised that you get the cage before you find the bird; but the bird may be captured elsewhere if you wait too long. The child’s box comes in from St. Charles; they would not stir a step farther last night. I must go and look after it. Then I can send it here? And Louis will not kick it out of doors when he comes?” smiling humorously.
“He will be liker to keep the little one for good and all and let you whistle,” she retorted merrily.
“Thank you a hundred times until you are better paid. And now I must be going. I expect the town will almost look strange.”
“And plain after gay Quebec; and Detroit, they say, has some grand people in it. But, bah, they are English!” with a curl of the lip.
He rose now. Madame Renaud had not been idle, but had rolled out dough fairly brown with spices and cut it in little cakes of various shapes, filling up some baking sheets of tin.
“You will leave the child? Renée – what is her name? It has slipped my mind.”
“Renée de Longueville.”
The child clung to his hand. “I want to go with you,” she said in a tone of entreaty.
“Yes, and see St. Louis? He is her king or was until she touched this Spanish soil.”
“The Spaniards have been very good to us. But we all hope to go back again some day. Renée, will you not stay and play with the children? There is Sophie, about your age or a little older, and Elise – ”
“No,” she returned with a long breath; “I want Uncle Gaspard.”
“Adopted already? Well, you will bring her in to dinner?” with a cordial intonation.
“If not, to supper.”
“You will tire her to death dragging her around.”
“Oh, heaven forefend,” in mock fear.
He paused a moment or two and glanced at Renée, half questioningly, but she still clung to him.
They took their way along the street, but from every corner they had a glimpse of the river, now flowing lazily along. The French seemed to have a fancy for building their towns on the margin of a river. Partly, perhaps, from fear of the Indians, but quite as much from innate sociability, as they preferred compactness, and did not branch out into farms until later on. But many of these squares had not more than three or four houses; some, indeed, only one, the rest devoted to a garden.
Here was the market, but there were not many customers this morning, though the stands were attractively arranged. And beyond was the old Laclede mansion. He it was who had laid out the town and named its streets. On the main street was his large store, but it was then the end of Rue Royale. He had welcomed the emigration from Fort Chartres when the English had taken possession, and set a band of workmen building log houses for them. His own house was quite roomy and imposing.
Then they went down to the levee, which presented a busy and picturesque sight. Boats were being unloaded of bales of furs and articles of merchandise. Indians with blankets around them or with really gay trappings; coureur de bois; Frenchmen, both jolly and stern, chaffering, buying, sending piles of skins away on barrows, paying for them in various kinds of wares, arms, ammunition, beads and trinkets, though these were mostly taken by the squaws.
Denys found his parcels and the box belonging to the child, and responded to the cordial greetings.
“Here, Noyan,” he called to a man who had just trundled his barrow down and who paused to make an awkward salutation. He had a blue cotton kerchief tied round his head, buckskin trousers, and a sort of blouse coat made of coarse woollen stuff, belted in loosely; but it held a pouch containing tobacco and his knife, and a small hatchet was suspended from it.
“M’sieu Denys! One has not seen you for an age! Were you up to the north? It is a good sight. And have you been making a fortune?”
The wide, smiling mouth showed white, even teeth.
“Not up in the fur regions. I took Canada this time.”
“Then thou hast lots of treasures that will set the dames and the maids crazy with longing. They are gay people in those old towns, and the state they keep is something like a court, I hear. Have you brought home Madame Denys? Is it not high time?”
“Past time,” returning the laugh. “But our good Pierre Laclede is content to remain a bachelor, and why not I?”
“I am afraid thou art hard to suit. Surely we have pretty maids here; and at New Orleans it is said they make a man lose his head if they do but smile on him. A dangerous place that!” and he laughed merrily.
“Are you busy?”
“Yes and no. I am to look after M. Maxent’s boat load, but it will not be in until noon. So, if I can catch a job I am ready.”
“Then you are the man for me. Come. They have piled up the freight here on the wharf. I am a lucky fellow to meet you. I feel quite strange after my long absence. I suppose the old storehouse has not burned down? It could not well be robbed,” and Monsieur Denys laughed with gay indifference.
“When a man has only the coat on his back he need not be afraid of thieves.”
“Unless he fall among Indians.”
“Ah, bah! yes,” with a comical shrug. “And sometimes they take his skin.”
There were bales strapped up, with thongs of hide over the coarse covering; some sacks made of hide; several boxes bound about with bands of iron. Noyan looked them over and considered.
“I must go twice, M’sieu Denys,” looking askance as if his employer might object.
“Very well. This box is to go to Madame Renaud’s.”
The man nodded, and began to pile on the goods, fastening them with some stout straps.
“Do you go, too?”
“Oh, yes. Here, Jaques, sit on this box and guard these two bundles, and earn a little more than your salt.”
A shock-headed boy, with a broad, stupid face, had been looking on indifferently, and now he dropped on the box like a weight of lead, with a grunt that meant assent and a grin that betokened satisfaction.
“We must retrace our steps,” said Denys to the little girl. “But it is not far.”
They passed the market again. They turned into the Rue de Rive, just beyond the Rue Royale. A building of rough stone, with a heavy doorway that looked as if it had been deserted a long while, which was true enough. A broad bar had fastened it securely, and the great lock might have guarded the treasures of Niebelungs.
Denys unlocked it with some difficulty, threw open the door and unfastened the shutter.
“Whew! What a musty old hole! It must be cleaned up. I will attend to that to-morrow. Dump the things in here, and then go for the others.”
On the western end was an addition of hewn logs, with big posts set in the corners. Denys marched around and surveyed it. There was a space of neglected ground, with two or three fine trees and a huddle of grape-vines fallen to the ground. It did not look altogether inviting. But just beyond was the Rue de la Tour that led straight out to the old fort, and only a step farther was the church and the priest’s house. Then, it would not be very far from the Renauds.
Renée was watching him as he peered about.
“It looks a dull place for a little girl!” he exclaimed.
“Are you going to live here?” with some curiosity.
“Oh, yes. But it will be fixed up. And – a flower garden,” hesitatingly.
“I don’t mind if you are here,” and she slipped her hand in his with a gesture of possession.
“And we will have a nice old woman to get our meals and make our beds and keep the house tidy. Oh, it will be all right when it is cleared up. And you will soon know some little girls. And we can take walks around.”
She started suddenly. A bird up in the tree poured forth a torrent of melody. Her eyes grew luminous, her lips quivered, her pale cheeks flushed.
“Oh, birds!” she cried. “I used to talk to them at the château and feed them with crumbs. They would come to my hand.”
“You shall tame them here. Oh, we will have nice times together,” and now he pressed her hand.
The sweetness of her little face went to his heart. Yes, she was like her mother.
Noyan came with the next load, threw off the few parcels, and took his way to Madame Renaud’s. Denys locked his door again and they turned away.
“Now we will go and find Mère Lunde. It is up somewhere by the fort. That will be quite a landmark for you. And the great Indian chief, Pontiac, that I told you about at Detroit, lies buried there.”
“I do not think I like Indians,” she returned gravely. “Only the babies are so odd, and the little children. It is a pity they should grow up so cruel.”
“We have kept very good friends with them thus far.”
They had begun to build the new palisades. Yes, here was the fort, and the Guion house, and the grave that she did not care to linger over. Then they turned into the street of the Barns, La rue des Granges, and soon found Mère Lunde, who was cooking a savory pottage, and welcomed Gaspard Denys warmly.
A little old Frenchwoman such as artists love to paint. She was round in the shoulders, made so by much stooping over her son and her work in the tiny garden, where she raised much of her living. She was wrinkled, but her eyes were bright, and her cheeks still had a color in them. She wore the coif, her best one being white, but this a sort of faded plaid. Her skirt just came to her ankles, and to-day she had on sabots, that made a little clatter as she stepped round. Over her shoulders was pinned a small gray kerchief. She looked so cheerful and tidy, so honest and kindly, that she went to one’s heart at once.
M’sieu must hear about her son, poor lad – all she had to live for. Yet, perhaps, it was well the Good Father took him before she went. And now she worked a little for the neighbors. Everybody was kind to her. And would they not partake of her simple meal? It was not much, to be sure, but it would make her very happy.
Denys admitted that he was hungry, and Renée’s eyes had an assenting light in them. Over the meal he made his proposal, which Mère Lunde accepted with tears in her eyes.
“God is good,” she said, crossing herself devoutly. “Father Meurin said I must have faith, and something would come. Oh, how can I thank you! Yes, I will gladly keep your house, and care for the child, and strive to please you every way. Oh, it is, indeed, the best of fortune to happen to me, when life had begun to look lone and drear.”
“To-morrow, then, we will begin to clear up.”
“Yes; to-morrow,” she replied cheerfully.
CHAPTER III – A NEW HOME
In after years, when Renée de Longueville looked back at what seemed the real beginning of her life, everything about the old town was enveloped in a curious glamour. For it was all abloom. Such flowers, such great trees in pink and white, such fragrance everywhere, and everybody moving to and fro, as if impelled by some strange power. What were they all doing? And the children were so merry. To a little girl who had been mewed up in an old château, rather gloomy at that, and no one about but elderly servants, the transition was mysterious, quite beyond the child’s depth. But she felt the new life in every limb, in every nerve, and she was full of joy.
The streets of the old town, if not wide, were comparatively straight; those running along the river the longest, those stretching up to the fort only a few squares. Nearly every homestead had its separate lot or garden, enclosed by some sort of rude fence. Outside were the fields, cultivated largely in common; woodlands and an immense prairie stretching out to the northwest. Beside the fort were several towers in which ammunition was stored, although the Spanish government had a great fancy for building these.
Gaspard Denys was very busy cleaning up his place and making some alterations. In his heart he began to feel quite like a family man. Most of the stores were kept in the residences, except those down on the levee. The people seldom suffered from depredations. Their treatment of the Indians was uniformly honorable, and they kept them as much as possible from the use of ardent spirits. The slaves were happy in their lot. Indeed, a writer in early eighteen hundred speaks of the town as arcadian in its simplicity and kindliness to its dependents. Women never worked in the fields, and much of the housework was done by the slaves and Indian women. Holidays were frequent, in which all joined. In the summer, out-of-doors sports and dances often took place, very much like modern picnics, at which one frequently saw parties of Indians. There were no hostelries; but if a stranger came in town he was sheltered and treated to the best. Hospitality was considered one of the first duties.
There was one large room in the log part of the house, but Denys resolved to build another. His little girl should have a place of her very own, and from time to time he would find adornments for it. Here she should grow to womanhood. Antoine Freneau was not a young man when he had married; and though people who did not meet with accidents lived to a good old age, he was old already. He always pleaded poverty, though he did considerable dickering in the way of trade, and it was surmised that his business dealings would not stand honest scrutiny, and his unsocial habits did not endear him to the joyous community. Still, whatever he had left would come to Renée. He, Denys, would make sure of that.
Renée soon became domesticated with the Renauds. Elise and Sophie played about most of the time, and were jolly, laughing little girls. Twice a week they went to the house of the good Father Lemoine, who taught them to read and write and gave them some knowledge of mathematics, which was quite necessary in trading. Twice a week the boys went, and on Saturday they repeated the catechism orally.
Denys called in a little help; but every man was his own builder, with some cordial neighborly assistance. So they raised the posts and studding, and fastened the cross ties – round on the outside, the smooth part, or middle, going on the inside. The interstices were filled with mortar made of tough grass and clay that hardened easily. Sometimes this was plastered on the inside, but oftener blankets were hung, which gave a bright and cheerful appearance, and warmth in winter.
The stone part was cleared up and put in order. It had a big chimney, part of which was in the adjoining room. Denys spread about quantities of sweet grass to neutralize the musty smell; though the clear, beautiful air, with its mingled perfumes, was doing that. On the shelves he spread some of his wares, implements of different sorts were ranged about the walls. Near the door was a counter; back of it two iron-bound chests, very much battered, that he had bought with the place and the small store of goods from the family of the dead owner. These held his choicest treasures, many of which he had brought from Quebec, which were to please the ladies.
The voyages up and down the river were often tedious, and sometimes the traders were attacked by river pirates, who hid in caves along the banks and drew their boats up out of sight when not needed. Peltries and lead went down to New Orleans, wheat and corn and imported articles were returned. There were some troublesome restrictions, and about as much came overland from Detroit.
If Renée made friends with the Renaud household, they had no power to win her from Uncle Gaspard. They had insisted on his accepting their hospitality, though he devoted most of his time to the work he was hurrying forward. Now and then he came just at dusk and spent the night, but was always off early in the morning before Renée was up.
She often ran up the street, sometimes reaching the house before he started. The children were ready enough to go with her, but she liked best to be alone. She had a curious, exclusive feeling about him, young as she was.
“But he is not your true uncle,” declared Elise, one day when she had laid her claim rather strenuously. “Mamma said so. Your uncles have to be real relations.”
“But he said when we were in Quebec that he was my uncle – that I was to be his little girl,” was the defiant rejoinder.
“And if your gran’père had not agreed?”
“I would never have stayed there. It makes me shiver now. I would – yes, I would have run away.”
“He is not like our gran’père, who is a lovely old man, living up by the Government House. And gran’mère gives us delightful little cakes when we go there. And there are uncles and aunts, real ones. Barbe is our aunt.”
Renée’s small heart swelled with pride and a sense of desolation. She had gathered already that Grandpapa Freneau was not at all respected; and there were moments when she felt the solitariness of her life – the impression that she had in some sense been cast off.
“But my father is at the palace of the King of France. He came to see me on an elegant horse, and his clothes were splendid. And there are two little brothers. Oh, such fine people as there are in Paris.”
That extinguished the little girls. It was true that now the French had gotten over their soreness about the transfer. They never meddled with politics, but they still loved the old flag. The Spanish governors had been judicious men thus far.
So that night Renée slipped out from the supper table and sped like a little sprite along the Rue Royale, and then up the Rue de Rive. The moon was coming over the river with a pale light, as if she was not quite ready for full burning. She heard the sounds of hammering, and rushed in the open doorway.
“Well, little one! Your eyes are so bright that if you were an Indian girl I should call you Evening Star.”
“I wanted to see you so,” in a breathless fashion.
“What has happened?”
“Why, nothing. Only the day seemed so long.”
“You went to the father’s?”
“Oh, yes,” rather indifferently.
“Why didn’t you run over then? You might have taken supper with me.”
“Because – there were Elise and Sophie.”
“But there was supper enough to go round. We had some fine broiled fish. Mère Lunde is an excellent cook.”
“Oh, when can I come to stay?” Her tone was full of entreaty, and her eyes soft with emotion.
“But – you won’t have any little girls to play with.”
“I don’t want any one but you.”
He had paused from his work, and now she sprang to him and encircled him as far as she could with her small arms.
“You are not homesick?” It would be strange, indeed, since she had never had a true home.
“I don’t know. That,” giving her head a turn, “is not my real home.”
“Oh, no. But they have all been good to you. Ma’m’selle Barbe is very fond of you.”
“Oh, everybody is good and kind. Even Louis, though he teases. And Père Renaud. But not one of them is you —you.”
“My little girl!” He stooped over and hugged her, kissed her fondly. The child’s love was so innocent, so sincere, that it brought again the hopes of youth.
“And you will always keep me – always?” There was a catch in her breath like a sob.
“Why, yes. What has any one said to you?” with a slight touch of indignation.
“Sophie said you were not my own uncle. What would make you so? Can you never be?”
There was a pathos in her tone that touched him to the heart, even as he smiled at her childish ignorance, and was wild to have the past undone.
“My dear, you can hardly understand. I must have been your mother’s brother.”
“Oh, then you would have belonged to that hateful old man!” and she gave her foot a quick stamp. “No, I should not want you to.”
He laughed softly. He would have been glad enough to belong to the hateful old man years ago, and belong to the child as well.
“It doesn’t matter, little one,” he said tenderly. “I shall be your uncle all my life long. Don’t bother your head about relationships. Come, see your room. It will soon be dry, and then you shall take possession.”
It had been whitewashed, and the puncheon floor – laid in most houses, it being difficult to get flat boards – stained a pretty reddish color. The window had a curtain hung to it, some of the Canadian stuff. One corner had been partitioned off for a closet. There was a box with a curtain tacked around it, and a white cover over it, to do duty as a dressing-table. There were two rustic chairs, and some pretty Indian basket-like pouches had been hung around.
“Oh, oh!” she cried in delight. “Why, it is as pretty as Ma’m’selle Barbe’s – almost as pretty,” correcting herself. “And can I not come at once?”
“There must be a bed for you to sleep on, though we might sling a hammock.”
“And Mère Lunde?”
“Come through and see.”
In one corner of this, which was the ordinary living room, was a sort of pallet, a long box with a cover, in which Mère Lunde kept her own belongings, with a mattress on the top, spread over with a blanket, answering for a seat as well. She had despoiled her little cottage, for Gaspard Denys had said, “It is a home for all the rest of your life if you can be content,” and she had called down the blessings of the good God upon him. So, here were shelves with her dishes, some that her mother had brought over to New Orleans as a bride; china and pewter, and coarse earthenware acquired since, and queer Indian jars, and baskets stiffened with a kind of clay that hardened in the heating.
“Welcome, little one,” she exclaimed cheerfully. “The good uncle gets ready the little nest for thee. And soon we shall be a family indeed.”
She lighted a torch and stood it in the corner, and smiled upon Renée.
“Oh, I shall be so glad to come!” cried the child joyfully. “And my room is so pretty.”
She looked with eager eyes from one to the other.
“And the garden is begun. There are vines planted by ma’m’selle’s window. In a month one will not know the place. And it is near to the church and the good father’s house.”
“But I wouldn’t mind if it was a desert, so long as you both were here,” she replied enthusiastically.
“We must go back, little one. They will wonder about you. Just be patient awhile.”
“And thou hast no cap,” said Mère Lunde.
“Oh, that does not matter; the night is warm. Adieu,” taking the hard hand in her soft one. Then she danced away and caught Gaspard’s arm.
“Let us walk about a little,” she pleaded. “The moon is so beautiful.” If they went direct to the Renauds’, he would sit on the gallery and talk to Barbe.
“Which way?” pausing, looking up and down.
“Oh, toward the river. The moon makes it look like a silver road. And it is never still except at night.”
That was true enough. Business ended at the old-fashioned supper time. There was one little French tavern far up the Rue Royale, near the Locust Street of to-day; but the conviviality of friends, which was mostly social, took place at home, out on the wide porches, where cards were played for amusement. The Indians had dispersed. A few people were strolling about, and some flat boats were moored at the dock, almost indistinguishable in the shade. The river wound about with a slow, soft lapping, every little crest and wavelet throwing up a sparkling gem and then sweeping it as quickly away.
From here one could see out to both ends. The semi-circular gates terminated at the river’s edge, and at each a cannon was planted and kept in readiness for use. Now and then there would be vague rumors about the English on the opposite shore. The new stockade of logs and clay surmounted by pickets was slowly replacing the worn-out one.
Renée was fain to linger, with her childish prattle and touching gestures of devotion. How the child loved him already! That a faint tint of jealousy had been kindled would have amused him if he had suspected it.
When they turned back in the Rue Royale they met M. Renaud enjoying his pipe.
“Ah, truant!” he exclaimed; “they were beginning to feel anxious about you. Barbe declared you might stay all night. Was it not true you had threatened?”
“They would not have me,” she returned laughingly, her heart in a glow over the thought that when she did stay permanently, there would be no need of Uncle Gaspard going to the Renauds’.
“Was that it?” rather gayly. “The girls will miss thee. They are very fond of thee, Renée de Longueville.”
Then Renée’s heart relented with the quick compunction of childhood.
“M. Laclede’s fleet of keel boats will be up shortly, I heard to-day. The town must give him a hearty welcome. What a man he is! What energy and forethought! A little more than twenty years and we have grown to this, where there was nothing but a wild. Denys, there is a man for you!”
“Fort Chartres helped it along. I was but a boy when we came over. My mother is buried there, and it almost broke my father’s heart to leave her.”
“Those hated English!” said Renaud, almost under his breath. “The colonies have revolted, it is said. I should be glad to see them driven out of the country.”
“Yes, I heard the talk at Quebec and more of it as I came down the lakes. But the country is so big, why cannot each take a piece in content? Do you ever think we may be driven out to the wilderness?”
“And find the true road to India?” with a short laugh. “Strange stories are told by some of the hunters of inaccessible mountains. And what is beyond no one knows,” shrugging his shoulders.
No one knew whether the gold-fields of La Salle’s wild dreams lay in that direction or not. There were vague speculations. Parties had started and never returned. The hardy pioneers turned their steps northward for furs. And many who heard these wild dreams in their youth, half a century later crossed the well-nigh inaccessible mountains and found the gold. And before the century was much older ships were on their way to the East of dream and fable.
Barbe and Madame Renaud were out on the porch in the moonlight, and it was very bright now. Denys would not stay, and soon said good-night to them, going back to his work by a pine torch.
Renée counted the days, and every one seemed longer. But at last the joyful news came.
“We shall run over often,” declared Sophie, who had a fondness for the little girl in spite of childish tiffs.
Renée was busy enough placing her little store of articles about, discovering new treasures, running to and fro, and visiting Mère Lunde, who had a word of welcome every time she came near.
“It will be a different house, petite,” she said, with her kindly smile.
The garden could not compare with the Renauds in the glory of its gay flower-beds. Two slaves of a neighbor – they were often borrowed for a trifle – were working at it. A swing had been put up for the little lady.
But somehow, when the afternoon began to lengthen, when Uncle Gaspard had gone up to the Government House on some business, and Mère Lunde was in a sound doze over the stocking she was knitting, Renée felt strangely solitary. She missed the gay chat of Madame Renaud and her sister and the merriment of the children. There seemed none immediately about here. She strolled around to the front of the store; the door was locked, and it looked rather dreary.
She was glad to-morrow was the day for the classes to meet. Why, it was almost as lonesome as at the old château!
That evening Uncle Gaspard brought out his flute, which filled her with delight. The violin was the great musical instrument in St. Louis – the favorite in all the French settlements. But the flute had such a tender tone, such a mysterious softness, that it filled her with an indescribable joy. And there was none of the dreadful tuning that rasped her nerves and made her feel as if she must scream.