took one side of his host and placed the little girl opposite her grandfather. She evinced no surprise. She had seen a good deal of rough living since leaving old Quebec.
Antoine broke the bread in chunks and handed it to each. The dish of corn was passed and the venison steak divided.
“After this long tramp I would like to have something stronger than your home-brewed coffee, though that’s not bad. Come, be a little friendly to a returned traveller,” exclaimed the guest.
“You should have had it without the asking, Gaspard Denys, if you had given me a moment’s time. You came down the Illinois, I suppose?”
“To St. Charles. There the boat was bound to hang up for the night. But Pierre Joutel brought us down in his piroque after an endless amount of talk. There was a dance at St. Charles. So it was dark when we reached here. Lucky you are outside the stockade.”
“And you carried me,” said the child, in a clear, soft voice that had a penetrative sound.
Antoine started. Why should he hear some pleading in the same voice suddenly strike through the years?
Gaspard poured out a glass of wine. Then he offered the bottle to Antoine, who shook his head.
“How long since?” asked Gaspard mockingly.
“I do not drink at night.”
“Renée, you are not eating. This corn is good, better than with the fish. And the bread! Antoine, you could change the name of the town or the nickname. Go into the baking business.”
Freneau shrugged his shoulders.
Scarcity of flour and bread had at one time given the town the appellation of Pain Court. Now there were two bakeries, but many of the settlers made excellent bread. Freneau’s bread cake was split in the middle and buttered, at least Gaspard helped himself liberally and spread the child’s piece with the soft, sweet, half-creamy compound.
“You must eat a little of the meat, Renée. You must grow rosy and stout in this new home.”
The men ate heartily enough. Everything was strange to her, though for that matter everything had been strange since leaving the old château. The post-chaise, the day in Paris, the long journey across the ocean, the city of Quebec with its various peoples, and the other journey through lakes and over portages. Detroit, where they had stayed two days and that had appeared beautiful to her; the little towns, the sail down the Illinois River to the greater one that seemed to swallow it up.
Marie Loubet had said her rich grandfather in the new country had sent for her, and that her father did not care for her since his sons were born. Indeed, he scarcely gave her a thought until it occurred to him that her American-French grandfather was well able to provide for her. Her mother’s dot had been spent long ago. He wanted to sell the old château and its many acres of ground, for court living was high, and the trend of that time was extravagance.
“You had better place your daughter in a convent,” said the amiable stepmother, who had never seen the little girl but twice. “The boys will be all we can care for. I hope heaven will not send me any daughters. They must either have a large dot or striking beauty. And I am sure this girl of yours will not grow up into a beauty.”
Yet her mother had been beautiful the Count remembered. And he smiled when he thought of the dower he had exacted from the old trader. No doubt there was plenty of money still, and this grandchild had the best right to it. She might like it better than convent life.
Marie’s lover had emigrated two years before, and had sent her money to pay her passage. Why, it was almost a miraculous opening. So Renée de Longueville was bundled off to the new country.
And now she sat here, taking furtive glances at her grandfather, who did not want her. No one in her short life had been absolutely cross to her, and she was quite used to the sense of not being wanted until she met Gaspard Denys. Of the relationships of life she knew but little; yet her childish heart had gone out with great fervor to him when he said, “I loved your mother. I ought to have married her; then you would have been my little girl.”
“Why did you not?” she asked gravely. Then with sweet seriousness, “I should like to be your little girl.”
“You shall be.” He pressed her to his heart, and kissed down amid the silken curls.
So now she did not mind her grandfather’s objection to her; she knew with a child’s intuition he did not want her. But she could, she did, belong to Uncle Gaspard, and so she was safe. A better loved child might have been crushed by the knowledge, but she was always solacing herself with the next thing. This time it was the first, the very first thing, and her little heart gave a beat of joy.
Yet she was growing tired and sleepy, child fashion. The two men were talking about the fur trade, the pelts that had come in, the Indians and hunters that were loitering about. It had been a long day to her, and the room was warm. The small head drooped lower with a nod.
There was a pile of dressed skins one side of the room, soft and silken, Freneau’s own curing.
Gaspard paused suddenly, glanced at her, then rose and took her in his arms and laid her down on them tenderly. She did not stir, only the rosy lips parted as with a half smile.
“Yes, tell me what to do with her,” Antoine exclaimed, as if that had been the gist of the conversation. “You see I have no one to keep house; then I am out hunting, going up and down the river, working my farm. I couldn’t be bothered with womankind. I can cook and keep house and wash even. I like living alone. I could send her to New Orleans,” raising his eyes furtively.
“You will do nothing of the kind,” said the other peremptorily. “Antoine Freneau, you owe me this child. You know I was in love with the mother.”
“You were a mere boy,” retorted the old man disdainfully.
“I was man enough to love her then and always. I have never put any one in her place. And the last time we walked together over yonder by the pond, I told her I was going up north to make money for her, and that in a year I should come back. I was twenty, she just sixteen. I can see her now; I can hear her voice in the unformed melody of the child’s. We made no especial promise, but we both knew. I meant to ask your consent when I came back. Seven months afterward, on my return, I found you had whisked her off and married her to the Count, who, after all, cared so little for her that her child is nothing to him. I don’t know what lies you told her, but I know she would never have given me up without some persuasion near to force.”
The old man knew. It had been a lie. He kept out of Gaspard’s way for the next two years, and it was well for him.
“There was no force,” he returned gruffly. “Do you not suppose a girl can see? He was a fine fellow and loved her, and she was ready to go with him. No one dragged her to church. Well, the priest would have had something to say. They are not wild Indians at Quebec, and know how to treat a woman.”
Gaspard had never forced more than this out of him. But he was sure some trickery had won the day and duped them both.
“Well, what have you gained?” mockingly. “You might have kept your daughter here and had grandchildren growing up about you, instead of living like a lonely old hermit.”
“The life suits me well enough,” in a gruff tone.
“Then give me the child that should have been mine. You don’t want her.”
“What
