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
