day and put her in it.”
“Bah! And you are off months at a time!”
“There would be some one to look after her. I shall not lead this roving life forever. If she were less like her mother you might keep her, since you were so won by her father. And I am not a poor man, Antoine Freneau.”
“She is such a child.” Did Gaspard mean that some day he might want to marry her?
“That is what I want. Oh, you don’t know – ”
He paused abruptly. Antoine could never understand the longing that had grown upon him through these weeks to possess the child, to play at fatherhood.
“No, I shall not be likely to marry,” almost as if he had suspected what was in Antoine’s pause, but he did not. “And I’ve envied the fathers of children. They had something to work for, to hope for. And now I say I want Renée because she is such a child. I wish she could stay like this just five years; then I’d be willing to have her grow up. But I know you, Antoine Freneau, and you won’t take half care of her; you couldn’t love her, it isn’t in you. But you shall not crowd her out of love.”
“You talk like a fool, Gaspard Denys! But if you want the child – I am an old man, and I tell you frankly that I don’t know what to do with her. I would have to change my whole life.”
“And I would be glad to change mine for such a cause. You must promise not to interfere in any way. We will have some writings drawn up and signed before the priest.”
Antoine gave a yawn. “To-morrow, or any time you like. What are you going to do now? It is late. If you will take a shakedown in the other room – you see, I’m not prepared for visitors.”
“Yes; I have slept in worse places. The child has a box of clothes at St. Charles. Hers will have to do for to-night.”
He straightened out the impromptu bed and fixed the child more comfortably. He was tired and sleepy himself. Antoine lighted a bit of wick drawn through a piece of tin floating in a bowl of oily grease and took it in the storeroom, where both men soon arranged a sort of bunk.
“Good-night,” said Antoine, and shut the door.
But he did not go to bed. The fire had mostly burned out, and now the torch dropped down and the room was full of shadows. He sat awhile on the edge of the bed and made it creak; then he rose and opened the shutter very softly, creeping out. Even then he listened suspiciously. Turning, he ran swiftly down to the river’s edge, through the wet sedge of last year’s grass. Then he gave a low whistle.
Some one answered with an oath. “We were just going away,” in a hissing French voice. “What the devil kept you so?”
“I could not get away. There was a fellow,” and Antoine prefaced the excuse with an oath. “He wouldn’t go; I had to fix a bunk for him.”
“Antoine Freneau, if you betray us – ” in a threatening tone.
“Ah, bah! Would I kill the goose that lays golden eggs? Come, hurry.”
They unloaded some cases from the piroque and dumped them on the soft ground.
“Now, carry them yourself. What! No barrow? You are a fool! But we must be off up the river.”
There was considerable smuggling in spite of the watchfulness of the authorities. Duties were levied on so many things, and some – many, indeed – closely under government supervision.
Antoine Freneau tugged and swore. The cases of brandy were not light. He went back and forth, every time peering in the window and listening; but all was quiet. The cases he hid among the trees. He had drawn some tree branches, ostensibly for firewood, and covered the cases with this brush until he could dispose of them more securely.
Once, several years before, his house had been thoroughly ransacked in his absence. He knew he was suspected of unlawful dealings, and he had a dim misgiving that Gaspard had one end of the secret. He had more than once been very overbearing.
He came in wet and tired, and, disrobing himself, crawled into bed. Fine work, indeed, it would be to have a housekeeper and a prying child! He laughed to think Gaspard fancied that he would be unwilling to give her up.
Still he had hated Count de Longueville that he should have extorted so much dowry. But then it seemed a great thing to have titled grandsons and a daughter with the entrée of palaces, although he would never have gone to witness her state and consequence.
Every year money had grown dearer and dearer to him, though, miser like, he made no spread, never bragged, but pleaded poverty when he paid church dues at Christmas and Easter.
CHAPTER II – OLD ST. LOUIS
Soon after daylight the strong west wind drove away the rain and clouds. The air was soft and balmy, full of the indescribable odors of spring. Birds began their pipings; robin and thrush and meadow-larks and wood-pigeons went circling about on glistening wings.
Antoine found himself some dry clothes and kindled his fire. He would bake a few corn cakes; they had demolished the loaf of bread last night. There was a flitch of dried bacon and some eggs.
The door opened, and Gaspard wished his host good-morning. Renée was still asleep.
There was a little rivulet that emptied in the mill pond, and near the house Freneau had hollowed out quite a basin. Gaspard went down here for his morning ablutions. A tall, well-developed man, just turned of thirty with a strong, decisive face, clear blue eyes that could flash like steel in a moment of indignation, yet in the main were rather humorous; chestnut hair, closely cropped, and a beard trimmed in the same fashion. He soused his head now in the miniature basin and shook it like a water dog. Then he drew in long breaths of the divine morning air, and glanced about with a sort of worship in his heart, took a few steps this way and that. Antoine watched him with bated breath, he was so near the secret.
But Denys had heard nothing in the night. He was tired and had slept soundly. Suddenly he bethought himself of the little girl and went into the house. Antoine was preparing breakfast. Renée was sitting up, glancing round. She had been in so many strange places this did not disturb her.
She rose upright now, and stretched out her hands with a half-timid, half-joyous smile.
“Uncle Gaspard,” she said, “where are we?”
Old Antoine raised his head. The French was so pure, the voice had an old reminder of the one back of her mother.
“We are at St. Louis, child.”
“And where is the King?”
“Oh, my little girl, back in France. There is no king here. And we are not French any longer, but Spanish.”
“I am French.” She said it proudly.
“We keep our hearts and our language French. Some day there may be another overturn. I do not see as it matters much. The Spanish are pretty good to us.”
“Good! And with these cursed river laws!” grumbled Antoine.
“If report says true, it can’t interfere very much with you.”
“Report is a liar,” the man flung out savagely.
Gaspard Denys
