BY THE FIRESIDE
Renée mended slowly. She had indeed been very ill. She was so weak that
it tired her to sit up among the pillows in her bed. And one day when
she insisted upon getting up she dropped over into Mère Lunde’s arms.
“Where is all my strength gone to?” she inquired pettishly.
“_Pauvre petite_,” it was queer, and the good woman had no science to
explain it.
But her throat improved and her voice cleared up, the fever grew lighter
every day and she began to have some appetite. Friends came in to
inquire and sympathize and bring delicacies. Madame Renaud offered her
services, but no one was really needed, though the cordial, smiling face
did Renée good. Ma’m’selle Barbe brought the two little girls, who
looked awestricken at the pale face, where the eyes seemed bigger than
ever.
Uncle Gaspard made a sort of settle on which they could put some
cushions and blankets so that she could be brought out to the living
room and watch Mère Lunde at her work. Then he improved upon it and made
it into a kind of chair with a back that could be raised and lowered by
an ingenious use of notches and wooden pins. He was getting so handy
that he made various useful articles, for in those days in these upper
settlements there were so few pieces of furniture that could be
purchased, unless some one died and left no relatives, which was very
seldom. Proud enough one was of owning an article or a bit of china or a
gown that was a family heirloom.
“Oh,” he said one evening when she was comfortably fixed and the blaze
of the great logs lighted up the room and made her pale face a little
rosy, “I had almost forgotten—you have been so ill it drove most other
things out of my mind. Your grandfather came up here on Christmas day
and brought you a gift.”
“A gift! Oh, what was it?”
“Mère Lunde had not forgotten, but she had a superstitious feeling about
it. I will get it for you,” Gaspard said.
He returned from the adjoining room with the box in his hand. It was
very securely fastened with a twisted bit of deerskin, which was often
used for cord.
“Open it,” she begged languidly.
He cut the cord but did not raise the cover. She held it some seconds in
her hand.
“Uncle, do you remember you told me about a girl who opened a box and
let troubles out all over the world?”
“But she was bidden not to. Grandpère Antoine did not leave any such
word as that,” smilingly.
She raised the cover slowly. There was a bit of soft white fur in the
bottom and on it lay a golden chain and a cross, with a pearl set where
the arms and upright met. In the clasp was a smaller pearl. She held it
up silently.
“The good saints must have touched his soul!” ejaculated Mère Lunde. “A
beautiful cross! It is gold?” with a questioning glance at Denys.
Renée handed it to him.
“Oh, yes, gold of course. And your grandfather seemed quite moved with
pity for you. I saw him again this morning, but he said, ‘Oh, I did not
think she would die.’”
Renée’s eyes were wide open, with a startled light. “Did anybody
think—that?” and her voice trembled.
“You may be sure I did not,” exclaimed Denys with spirit, almost with
joyousness. “I would not have let you go.”
She held out both arms to him, and he clasped her to his heart.
“But people are compelled to sometimes,” said Mère Lunde gravely.
“We were not compelled. And now you are to get well as rapidly as
possible. Everybody has been having a merry time with the king’s ball,
and you have missed it. But there is next year.”
How far away next year seemed! Spring, and summer, and autumn.
“How long have I been ill? It is queer, but I don’t seem to remember
clearly,” trying to think, and studying the leaping blaze that seemed
like a group of children playing tag, or hide and seek.
“It is almost a month. First it was pretty bad,” and he compressed his
lips with a queer expression and shook his head. Now he had let his hair
grow quite long, as most of the men did, and the ends fell into a sort
of curl.
“And then—Mère Lunde, the things you gave me were very bad and bitter,
and my head used to go round, I remember. Sometimes things stood on the
ceiling in such a funny position. And then to be like a baby, hardly
able to walk.”
She gave a soft, languid ripple of a laugh. Ah, what if he had lost her!
“And when can I go out?”
“Oh, not in a long while. It is bitter cold, even the river is full of
ice chunks. But you may dance at the next king’s ball.”
“The king’s ball?” inquiringly.
“Not the King of France,” with a gentle smile. “When the Christ was born
three kings came to do Him honor. And the feast is always kept.”
“The blessed Epiphany,” explained Mère Lunde. “Though why it should be
given over to all this merry-making I can’t see.”
“Did you ever go?” asked Renée.
“Oh, yes. But not last year—I had started for Canada. And the year
before I was up with the hunters.”
“Tell me about it.”
He sat down beside her. She was twisting the chain about her fingers.
“There is not much to do for the people who stay here in the winter,
though New Orleans is twice as gay. So they have the balls. There are
four queens, pretty young girls, and they each choose a king and open
the ball with him. Then they dance. But the old people and a good many
of the children go as well. And there is dancing and jollity and a feast
of good things to eat, and much laughing and jesting and falling in
love, with the marrying at Easter. Next year we will go.”
“I will keep my chain to wear then.” She put it back in the box. “And
when I am well I will go down and thank grandfather.”
“Yes, yes, that will be the right thing to do. I will take you.”
Then they were silent awhile. “Tell me some of the stories you know,”
she entreated.
“I have told you so many.”
“But you can think of one more,” in her coaxing tone. “Away up in the
north and the endless fields of snow, and where does it end?”
“At the North Pole, I believe.”
“And what is that?” eagerly.
“We will have to ask Dr. Montcrevier. I have never been farther than
Hudson’s Bay.”
“But people can’t live in such endless cold!”
“I think not. Only polar bears and the white and silver fox, and they
come down in the winter. And then there are islands hundreds of miles
away below us, where it is always summer.”
“What a queer world!” She smiled absently as if she could hardly take it
in. “Have you been there?”
“Only to New Orleans. Some day we will go there, too.”
“Oh, how much there is to do. Yes, one must live a long while to do it
all,” and a thoughtful expression deepened her eyes.
“And you are tired, little one. You must go to bed.”
It was strange to get so tired. She had been tired many times on the
long journey from Canada, but not like this. She was very glad she had
not died, however, though she had no very clear idea about death, except
that it meant going to another world. Uncle Gaspard was here, and that
was one reason why she wanted to stay.
Presently she began to go about and take pleasure in having the children
come in and tell her about their sports. The life was so simple, the
main thing seemed to be the good times. No one troubled about education
and there were no “higher branches” to vex one’s soul. There was much
less dissipation here than in New Orleans or even Detroit, where people
from other towns were continually mingling.
One day Uncle Gaspard took her out on his sledge. She had never dreamed
of anything so splendid. Great fields of snowy white, as far as the eye
could see, dotted here and there with a cluster of wigwam poles and
brown skins stretched on the outside for warmth. A little blue-gray
smoke curled lazily upward, and then the bluest sky over it all. The air
was exhilarating and brought a color to her pale cheeks, and made her
eyes glow like stars.
Then spring came. The white blanket melted away, the evergreens and
spruces scented the air with their new growth; the little streams rushed
hither and thither as if they were joyfully carolling, birds sang and
built everywhere. Children were out for wild flowers, and raced around
like deers. Some days the old mound was alive with them, then they were
down to Chouteau’s pond. The boys and often some girls went up the river
in canoes. There was the old rock of Fort St. Louis with its story of a
hundred years agone, of how La Salle had built a fort and planted an
Indian colony, that, when its leader had gone, dwindled and went back to
its native tribes. How there had been a fierce quarrel between the
Illinois and the Outgamies, and the Illinois had fled to the top of the
rock and stayed there until starvation stared them in the face and
French intervention came to their assistance.
Then business opened and Gaspard Denys found his hands full. His wide
acquaintance with the hunters and his dealings with the Indians brought
him in a great deal of trade. There was a continual loading and
unloading of boats, the levee was thronged. Denys had to take in a
clerk, and his evenings were devoted to straightening accounts and
preparing for the next day, and it seemed to Renée as if he was always
busy now, with no time for stories.
Easter brought a gay festival and several weddings. The young
_voyageurs_ were warmly welcomed home and there was always a feast or a
ball given in their honor. When the houses were too small, they went out
and danced on the green. Marriages seemed an especially social affair.
The families on both sides made the agreement and were mutually pleased.
It was seldom a young couple disregarded the respect universally paid to
parents, and though there was much pioneer life there was a kind of
elegance and refinement among the women with all their vivacious gayety.
The admixture of Spanish blood was no bad element.
One of the young traders had brought home with him a beautiful Indian
wife, lawfully wedded by one of the mission priests. These mixed
marriages were not in much favor with the French. Now and then a trapper
brought in one and stayed a few months, but she nearly always preferred
to share his hunting expeditions. Still, there were some comfortably
settled, whose families years afterward were very proud of their Indian
descent.
François Marchand found an old friend in Gaspard Denys. It does not take
a decade to cement a friendship made over camp-fires and days filled
with adventures and dangers. They had not met in two years, and the
youth, who seemed but a stripling to Gaspard then, was now a fine young
fellow, his slim figure filled out, his thin face rounded with certain
lines of energy, determination, and good health. His clear blue eyes
were resolute and undaunted; his chestnut hair was cropped close, which
made him less of an object for an Indian’s scalping knife.
“How the town has grown!” he exclaimed with great earnestness. New St.
Louis would have laughed at the idea that twenty or thirty families
could add much importance. But there had been a few new houses built,
sundry additions made to older ones where families had increased.
Colonel Chouteau was beautifying the house and grounds where his
lamented chief and dear friend had lived. The government house had been
repaired, though the new occupant seemed much more indifferent than his
people, and cared very little for the interest of the town in general.
“We shall have a fine place by and by,” returned Denys. “True, New
Orleans has the mouth of the great river, but if no boats come down,
what then? And we are the half-way house, the north and the south both
need us. If it were not for these troublesome restrictions on trade, and
the fear of the British.”
“France, it seems, has sided with the colonies, and Spain has given them
a certain sympathy,” returned Marchand. “You hear a good deal of talk up
north. The fur dealers of New Amsterdam are quite sure the colonies will
win in the end, though by my faith it doesn’t look very promising now,”
and he gave a doubtful laugh.
“Almost five years of losing and winning! Well, they are plucky not to
be discouraged. But what troubles me a little are the English over
there!” nodding to the eastward. “If some fine day they descend upon
us—well, we shall be wiped out, that is all about it! The government at
New Orleans does not seem to care, and sends us this drunken, insolent
fellow for commandant, who is as set in his own ways as a mule.”
“The English will be kept busy enough on the eastern coast defending
their ports and trying to capture the cities. Faith! it is a great and
glorious country, and I hardly know which has the best, the east or the
west. If some day the way is cleared to the Pacific coast, and then,
presto! India!”
India was still a dream of the advancement of commerce. The western
empire was to turn more than one brain.
Denys studied the young face in the glow of youthful enthusiasm.
“Marchand, you should have been a soldier,” he said.
“Well, which side shall I take?” mockingly. “I am French. Those cursed
English have driven us out of Canada. Thank Heaven we have left some
graves of heroes there. But I wonder what Louis le Grand could have been
thinking of to allow himself to be despoiled of such a magnificent
estate! And here we were all turned over to Spain without even a chance
to fight for our homes in the New World,” and Marchand gave a strong,
scornful laugh. “There are still the Indians left.”
“We have kept good friends with them so far.”
“But the British can stir them up easily. Rum and firearms may do the
mischief. Still, it is true that some day I may have to fight for my
life, or something I hold dearer than life.”
“Are you going back north?”
Marchand shook his head. He was sitting on a pile of skins leaning
against the wall, picturesque in his _voyageur’s_ attire, which was
highly ornamented with Indian work. Now and then in the intervals of
talk he blew out a volume of smoke from his pipe, or made rings in the
air when he took it from his mouth. There was something jaunty and
light-hearted about him in spite of the resolute eyes.
“Nay,” with a shake of the head, “I have cut myself out of that. I like
the life, too. Denys, were you ever very much in love? But no, that is a
foolish question, for you are the sort of man to fight for the one who
roused your soul. And so many pretty girls are here in St. Louis!”
“Yes, I heard you had married,” evading the half inquiry.
“I want you to see her, my beautiful Indian prize. Though I suspect
there is a strain of French blood back of her mother, who was brought
somewhere from Canada. And when her father was killed at one of those
dreadful massacres up on the strait (her mother had died before), she
and her brother were adopted in one branch of the Huron tribe. Her
brother married a chief’s daughter. I saw her first more than a year
ago, in the winter. She was only a child, not as forward as most Indian
maids. And last winter we met again, and yes, fell in love with each
other. The squaw who had been like a mother to her consented. But
straightway there was trouble. Her brother had chosen a brave for her, a
fellow noted for his fighting propensities and his love of drink. It was
surmised that he was buying her. She shrank from him with horror. He had
had two wives already, and rumor said he had beaten one to death. I was
ready to leave with my men and pack, and she came to me in terror and
despair. She would have killed herself, I know, before she could have
gone to such a brute. We loved each other, and the old woman Nasauka
pitied us, and had a strong liking for me. So it was arranged. I was to
start with my people, leaving her behind. When the train was several
days under way I was to remain at a given point where Nasauka was to
meet me with the girl, and then return to ward suspicion from the right
track. I only hope the poor woman did not suffer for her kindly sympathy
for us. We made our way along without any alarm. At a mission station a
priest married us. And now we are safe here and doubtless unsuspected.
But I shall not expose myself to any dangers, at least for several years
to come. There are other trails to work on. Or we may go farther south.”
“Quite a romantic story, Marchand. The saints be praised that you
rescued her from such a life, though I think she would have chosen death
rather. I have known of several instances. Yes, it will be safer not to
visit the old hunting ground, even if the brave solaces himself with a
new wife.”
“And now you must see her. I know there is a little prejudice, and,”
with a cynical sort of smile, “if I had a sister I should not let her
marry an Indian if I had to shut her up in a convent. But there are many
charming Indian girls and kindly hearted squaws, true as steel, who will
suffer anything rather than betray. Strange, too, when you find so much
deceit and falseness and cruelty among the men.”
“The women take all the virtues, perhaps. Yes, I shall be glad to
welcome you. To-morrow you will bring her to dine with us. Meanwhile,
you have found a home?”
“With the Garreaus. Pierre did the same thing, you know, and is happy
enough with his two pretty children. Ah, when you see my beautiful wife
you will not wonder that I went mad for her,” laughing with a kind of
gay triumph.
Ah, if he had been brave enough at twenty to fly with Renée Freneau! But
would she have dared an unblessed marriage? And then neither dreamed of
such a result from the journey to Canada.
“I shall not blame you,” Gaspard answered gravely. “And if you want a
staunch friend, here he is,” springing up and holding out his hand.
“A thousand thanks, Gaspard Denys. I wanted to tell you my story. It is
not for every one, only the fact that I have loved and married her. And
now it grows late. Good-night.”
They clasped hands again cordially. Denys shut his shop door and went
through to the other room. Mère Lunde was telling over some beads. Renée
sat in the chimney corner, but the fire was out long ago.
“Why did you let that man talk so long to you?” with pretty
imperiousness. “And I grew very sleepy. But I wanted to say good-night.”
“He had much to relate, a story you will like to hear sometime. And he
is coming to-morrow to bring a pretty Indian wife that he found up by
the Strait of Michilimackinac. That is a long name, is it not?”
“And is the strait long—as long as to the end of the millpond?”
“It is of more account. It connects the big Lake Michigan with Lake
Huron.”
Geography had not come to be one of the studies, and the only maps were
the traders’ rough outlines of journeys.
She was not considering the lakes. Her thoughts were as rapid as a
bird’s flight.
“Is she like Mattawissa?”
“Oh, younger, much younger. Only a girl. Fifteen or sixteen perhaps.
They will come to dinner to-morrow. Mère Lunde,” raising his voice a
little, “we shall have guests to-morrow. Give us a good dinner.”
“Guests! How many?” in a cheerful tone.
“Oh, only two. A young trader and his wife, a pretty Indian girl.
Unless, indeed, some one else drops in.”
This often happened in a town where there were no inns, and sometimes
led to rather amusing episodes when a traveller mistook the wide-open
doors and a bountiful table for a hostelry.
“Did you see her?” asked Renée, following out her own thoughts.
“No, but I have known him some time. He was a young lad here in the
town, François Marchand.”
Mère Lunde shut down the cover of the box that held her beads, and
picked up the end of her stout apron. It always seemed to assist her
memory.
“Marchand. And a boy. Had he very blue eyes?”
“Yes, and he has them still,” laughed Denys.
“Then I know. He was a nice lad. It is a thousand pities he has married
an Indian. Yes, you shall have a good dinner. Renée, it is time thou
went to bed.”
Renée rose and kissed Uncle Gaspard. She had, ever since her illness,
that seemed to have drawn them nearer together, if such a thing had been
possible.
As a great honor the next day, she brought out her pretty bowl and
filled it with flowers. Uncle Gaspard had made a small table with a
drawer that held Mère Lunde’s beads and some other choice articles, and
had a shelf low down on which was kept a work-basket with sewing
materials, for at times Renée was seized with a fit of devotion to her
needle. On the top of the table she set the bowl.
Curious eyes had followed François Marchand down the Rue de l’Eglise.
For with a vanity quite natural the young girl had taken in her flight
her beautifully ornamented dress that would have adorned any Indian
bride. Long afterward in the Marchand family they used to display
grandmère’s exquisitely worked suit.
Gaspard Denys with Renée by the hand went out to the gate to bid them
welcome. Renée almost stared. A slim, graceful figure of medium height,
with a face that in some towns would have attracted more attention than
the attire. Large, soft eyes of dusky, velvety blackness, a complexion
just tinted with Indian blood, the cheeks blossoming in the most
exquisite rose hue, while the lips were cherry red. Her long hair was
brushed up from her straight, low brow, held with a band of glittering
bead work, and falling about her shoulders like a veil, much softer and
finer than ordinary Indian hair. Her short skirt had a band of shining
white feathers overlapping each other, with here and there a cluster of
yellow ones that resembled a daisy. The fine, elegantly dressed fawnskin
was like velvet. The bodice was wrought with beads and variously colored
threads and a sort of lace the Indian women made, though it was an
infrequent employment, being rather tedious. Over her shoulders a cape
of soft-dressed, creamy skin, with designs worked here and there in fine
detail.
She colored daintily on being presented to M. Denys, and he in turn
brought forward his little protégé, who held up her head proudly and
felt almost as tall. But a second glance conquered Renée. She proffered
both hands cordially.
“Oh, I am sure I shall like you,” she cried frankly. How could any one
help adoring so much beauty! For Renée was not envious of beauty alone.
The young wife took the hands with glad pressure, and they went in
together.
“Here is a friend who remembers you,” said Denys to Marchand. “Her son
died, and at that juncture I wanted a housekeeper. She fits in
admirably.”
Mère Lunde trembled with delight when he shook her hand so heartily and
expressed his pleasure at seeing her again, declaring that she had grown
younger instead of older, which was true enough, so great a restorer is
freedom from care and fear of coming want.
“But the child?” said Marchand with curiosity in his eyes.
The child was playing hostess to the young wife with the ease and grace
of a true Frenchwoman, and displaying the adornments of her room. This
and that had come from Mattawissa, who made beautiful articles that
Uncle Gaspard sent to New Orleans, and who was sweet and friendly, not
like some of the morose old Indian women about. But then Mattawissa was
not old.
Gaspard smiled at the little girl’s chatter, and explained briefly.
“One would hardly think such a pretty innocent thing could belong to old
Antoine! Is he still in with the river pirates? His goods must be hidden
somewhere. He does not keep them in the house, it would seem, for the
guards found nothing when they searched.”
“He is a shrewd old dog,” replied Gaspard. “But his wife and his
daughter were of a different kind. And you see he could not have taken
charge of the child.”
Marchand nodded.
The dinner was certainly Mère Lunde’s best. The men had their talk about
trade and who was prospering, but the two girls, who sat side by side,
had some gay laughs, and occasionally hard work to understand each
other. Wawataysee, the Firefly, as she was called in her native
language, knew a little French and a little English, and often confused
them. Renée had picked up a few words of English, but the tongue was
quite despised at that time. And when the dinner was through they went
out to walk, pausing at the little old church and the priest’s house on
the way to the fort, and the little plot about.
Father Valentine came out and gave them a cordial greeting. Denys did
the honors.
The priest bent his head close to Marchand’s.
“You have been true and fair with this beautiful girl?” he asked a
little anxiously. “She is your lawful wife?”
“Yes, oh, a thousand times yes. Here is the good father’s signature and
that of the witnesses. It was at the little mission at St. Pierre’s.”
He took out a bundle of papers in a deerskin wallet. Tied securely in a
little package by itself was the priest’s certificate.
Father Valentine nodded, well pleased. “And she is a baptized
Christian,” he added. “I wish you both much happiness.”
“Suppose you keep this awhile for me,” said Marchand, “while I am
changing about. I hardly know yet where I shall settle.”
“Gladly will I oblige you. But why not stay here, my son? St. Louis
needs industry and energy and capable citizens for her upbuilding.”
“I am thinking of it, I confess. I have already met with a warm welcome
from old friends.”
They walked round about the fort. Wawataysee knew curious legends of
Pontiac and had heard of the siege of Detroit. Indeed, many of the
Hurons had participated in it. And here was the end of so much bravery
and energy, misdirected, and of no avail against the invincible march of
the white man.