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 laughed.
After a moment he said, “Isn’t there a towel or a cloth of some kind? I
dried myself in the air.”
“I told you I had not any accommodations for womenkind. You should have
left her at the convent. Farther back, it is De Longueville’s business
to care for her.”
“But you see he did not. You and he are her only blood kin, and you both
cast her off. It is well she has found a friend.”
“The convent and the Sisters would have been better.”
“Come, man, some sort of a towel,” exclaimed Denys imperatively.
Antoine rummaged in the old chest, and presently brought forth one.
Denys noted that it was soft and fine and not of home manufacture. Then
he led Renée out to the little basin and, dipping the towel in, washed
her face and hands.
“Oh, how good it feels!” she cried delightedly.
Gaspard had grown quite used to playing lady’s maid. He took a comb out
of its case of Indian work that he carried about in his pocket, and
combed out the tumbled hair. She winced now and then at a bad tangle,
and laughed on the top of it. Then he bent over and kissed her on the
forehead. She caught his head in her small arms and pressed her soft
cheek against his caressingly.
“I love you, Uncle Gaspard,” she exclaimed. “But I don’t love that old
man in there. Are you sure he is my grandfather? I couldn’t live here. I
should run away and live with the birds and the squirrels.”
“And the Indians.”
“But that Light of the Moon was sweet and pretty.”
“Yes. I should like to have brought her with us for your maid.”
“Oh, that would have been nice!” She clapped her hands. “What is over
there?” nodding her head.
“That is St. Louis—the fort, the palisades, the stockade to keep out the
Indians.”
“There are no Indians in France,” she said retrospectively.
“No. And I have wondered a little, Renée, if you would not rather be
back there.”
“And not have you?” She clung to his arm.
He gave a little sigh.
“Oh, are you not glad to have me? Does no one want me?”
The pathos of the young voice pierced his heart.
“Yes, I want you. I had no one to care for, no brothers or sisters or——”
“Men have wives and children.” There was a touch of almost regret in her
tone, as if she were sorry for him.
“And you are my child. We will go in town to-day and find some one to
look after you. And there will be children to play with.”
“Oh, I shall be so glad. Little girls?”
“Yes. I know ever so many.”
“I saw my little brothers in Paris as we came through. They were very
pretty—at least their clothes were. And papa’s wife—well, I think the
Queen couldn’t have had any finer gown. They were just going to the
palace, and papa kissed me farewell. It was very dreary at the old
château. And when the wind blew through the great trees it seemed like
people crying. Old Pierre used to count his beads.”
What a strange, dreary life the little girl had had! It should all be
better now. The child of the woman he had loved!
“If grandfather is rich, as Marie said, why does he live that way?”
She made a motion toward the house.
“No one knows whether he is rich or not. He trades a little with the
Indians and the boats going up and down the river.”
The shrill summons to breakfast reached them.
They went in, the child holding tightly to Gaspard’s hand. It seemed as
if her grandfather looked more forbidding now than he had last night. He
was both sulky and surly, but the viands were appetizing, and this
morning Renée felt hungry. Gaspard was glad to see her eat. The old man
still eyed her furtively.
“Well?” he interrogated, as they rose from the table, looking meaningly
at Gaspard.
“We are going in the town, the child and I,” Gaspard replied briefly.
Antoine nodded.
Oh, what a morning it was! The air seemed fairly drenched with the new
growth of everything; the tints were indescribable. Some shrubs and
flowers had begun to bloom. Renée had seen so much that was cold and
bleak, trees leafless and apparently lifeless amid the almost black
green of hemlocks and firs. Streams and pools frozen over, and a
coldness that seemed to penetrate one’s very soul. At Detroit it had
softened a little and all along the journey since then were heralds of
warmth and beauty. The child, too, expanded in it, and the changes in
her face interested Gaspard intently. He was a great lover of nature
himself.
Early St. Louis was all astir. From the bustle, the sound of voices, the
gesticulation, and running to and fro, it appeared as if there might be
thousands of people instead of six or seven hundred. Everything looked
merry, everybody was busy. There was a line of boats coming, others
already at the primitive landings, Indians and trappers in picturesque
attire, gay feathers and red sashes; fringes down the sides of their
long leggings and the top of their moccasins. Traders were there, too,
sturdy brown-faced Frenchmen, many of whom had taken a tour or two up in
the North Country themselves, and had the weather-beaten look that comes
of much living out of doors. Children ran about, black-eyed,
rosy-cheeked, shrill of voice. Small Indians, with their grave faces and
straight black hair, and here and there a squaw with her papoose
strapped to her back.
Gaspard Denys paused a moment to study them. He really had an artist’s
soul; these pictures always appealed to him.
They came in the old Rue Royale, skirting the river a short distance,
then turned up to the Rue d’Eglise. Here was a low stone house, rather
squat, the roof not having a high peak. A wide garden space, with fruit
trees and young vegetables, some just peeping up from brown beds and a
great space in front where grass might have grown if little feet had not
trodden it so persistently. A broad porch had a straw-thatched roof, and
here already a young girl sat spinning, while several children were
playing about.
“Lisa! Lisa!” called the girl, rising. “Ah, Monsieur Denys, we are very
glad to see you. You have been absent a long while. You missed the
merry-making and—and we missed you,” blushing.
A pretty girl, with dark eyes and hair done up in a great coil of
braids; soft peachy skin with a dainty bloom on the cheek and a dimple
in the broad chin. Her lips had the redness of a ripe red cherry that is
so clear you almost think it filled with wine.
“And I am glad to see you, Barbe,” taking her outstretched hand. “Ought
I to say ’ma’m’selle’ now?” glancing her all over, from the braids done
up to certain indications in the attire of womanhood.
She blushed and laughed. “Oh, I hope I have not grown as much as that. I
should like always to be Barbe to you.”
“But some day you may be married. Then you will be madame to everybody.”
“Lise thinks I have too good a home to give up lightly. I am very
happy.”
Madame Renaud came out of the house. She was taller and larger than her
sister, but with the same dark eyes and hair. Her sleeves were rolled up
above her elbows and showed a plump, pretty arm; her wide, homespun
apron nearly covered her.
“Oh, Gaspard—M’sieu Denys! You are such a stranger and we have missed
you much, much,” with an emphasis. “We were not sure but some Quebec
belle would capture you and keep you there. You will have warm welcomes.
Whose is the child?”
The other children had stopped their play and were edging nearer Renée,
who in turn shrank against Denys.
“I have come to talk about the child. May I not come in? Are you busy?”
“With bread and cakes. We are not so poorly off if we have a bad name,”
smiling with amusement. “Here is a chair, and a stool for the little
one. She looks pale. Is she not well?”
“She has had a long journey. First across the ocean, then from Quebec in
not the pleasantest of weather for such a tramp. But she has not been
ill a day.”
Denys placed his arm over the child’s shoulder, and she leaned her arms
on his knee.
Madame Renaud raised her eyebrows a trifle.
“You remember the daughter of Antoine Freneau?”
“Yes—a little. He took her to Canada and married her to some great
person and she died in France. Poor thing! I wonder if she was happy?”
She, too, knew of the gossip that Denys had been very much in love with
this girl, and she stole a little furtive glance; but the man’s face was
not so ready with confessions. Much hard experience had settled the
lines.
“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.