A Little Girl in Old St. Louis

“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.

CHAPTER VII – AT THE KING’S BALL

It was a very gay summer to Renée de Longueville.

Rosalie Pichou protested and grew angry at being superseded.

“She is only an Indian after all,” the girl exclaimed disdainfully. “And my mother thinks it a shame M’sieu Marchand should have married her when there were so many nice girls in St. Louis.”

“But she is beautiful and sweet. And, Rosalie, Uncle Gaspard will not care to have you come if you say ugly things about her.”

“Well, I can stay away. There are plenty of girls to play with. And I shall soon be a young ma’m’selle and have lovers of my own, then I shall not care for a little chit like you. You can even send the cat back if you like.”

The cat had grown big and beautiful and kept the place free from mice and rats, which was a great object in the storeroom. Uncle Gaspard said he would not trade it for a handsome silver foxskin, which everybody knew was worth a great deal of money in France.

Madame Marchand made many friends by her grace and amiability. She taught Renée some beautiful handiwork, and with the little girl was always a welcome visitor at Mattawissa’s, though at first they had as much difficulty understanding each other’s Indian language as if it had been English. But what a lovely, joyous summer it was, with its walks and water excursions up and down the river and on the great pond!

On Saturday she went with Renée to be instructed in the Catechism, and whichever father was there he seemed impressed with Wawataysee’s sweet seriousness and gentle ways.

Then autumn came on. The great fields of corn were cut, the grapes gathered and the wine made. The traders came in again and boats plied up and down. Uncle Gaspard was very busy, and the men about said, making money. The women wondered if Renée de Longueville would get it all, and what old Antoine Freneau had; if so she would be a great heiress.

There were nuts to gather as well, and merry parties haunted the woods for them. Oh, what glorious days these were, quite enough to inspirit any one! Then without much warning a great fleecy wrap of snow fell over everything, but the sledging and the shouting had as much merriment in it.

Gaspard Denys did not want Renée to go to midnight mass at Christmastide.

“Oh, I am so much bigger and stronger now,” she said. “I am not going to be such a baby as to take cold. Oh, you will see.”

She carried her point, of course. He could seldom refuse her anything. And the next morning she was bright enough to go to church again. And how sweet it was to see the children stop on the porch and with bowed heads exclaim, “Your blessing, ma mère, your blessing, mon père,” and shake hands with even the poorest, giving them good wishes.

Then all parties went home to a family breakfast. Even the servants were called in. Then the children ran about with the étrennes to each other.

“Uncle Gaspard,” Renée said, “I want to take something to my grandfather. He brought me that beautiful chain and cross last year, and I made a cake that Mère Lunde baked, and candied some pears, thinking of him.”

“Perhaps he is not home. You can never tell.”

“He was yesterday. M. Marchand saw him. Will you go?”

“You had better have Mère Lunde. I am busy. But if I can find time I will walk down and meet you. And – Renée, do not go in.”

“I will heed,” she answered smilingly.

The road was hardly broken outside the stockade. Once or twice she slipped and fell into the snow, but it was soft and did not hurt her. Mère Lunde grumbled a little.

“There is a smoke coming from the chimney,” Renée cried joyfully. “Let us go around to the kitchen door.”

They knocked two or three times. They could hear a stir within, and presently the door was opened a mere crack.

“Grandfather,” the child began, “I have come to wish you a good Christmas. I am sorry you were not at church to hear how the little babe Jesus was born for our sakes, and how glad all the stars were, even, so glad that they sang together. And I have brought you some small gifts, a cake I made for you, alone, yesterday. You made me such a beautiful gift last year when I was ill.”

“And you’ve come for another! That’s always the way,” he returned gruffly.

“No, grandfather, I do not want anything, only to give you this basket with good wishes and tell you that I am well and happy,” she said in a proud, sweet voice, and set the basket down on the stone at the doorway. “It would not be quite right for you to give me anything this year.”

Her gray fur cloak covered her, and her white fur cap over her fair curls gave her a peculiar daintiness.

“Good-by,” she continued, ”with many good wishes.”

He looked after her in a kind of dazed manner. And she did not want anything! True, she had enough. Gaspard Denys took good care of her —he was too old to be bothered with a child.

But she skipped along very happily. The Marchands were coming in to supper, and in the meanwhile she and Mère Lunde would concoct dainty messes. She would not go out sledding with the children lest she should take cold again.

It was all festival time now. It seemed as if people had nothing to do but to be gay and merry. Fiddling and singing everywhere, and some of the voices would have been bidden up to a high price in more modern times.

And on New Year’s day the streets were full of young men who went from door to door singing a queer song, she thought, when she came to know it well afterward. Part of it was, “We do not ask for much, only the eldest daughter of the house. We will give her the finest of the wine and feast her and keep her feet warm,” which seemed to prefigure the dance a few days hence. Sometimes the eldest daughter would come out with a contribution, and these were all stored away to be kept for the Epiphany ball.

In the evening they sang love songs at the door or window of the young lady to whom they were partial, and if the fancy was returned or welcomed the fair one generally made some sign. And then they said good-night to the master and mistress of the household and wished them a year’s good luck.

If a pretty girl or even a plain one was out on New Year’s day unattended, a young fellow caught her, kissed her, and wished her a happy marriage and a prosperous year. Sometimes, it was whispered, there had a hint been given beforehand and the right young fellow found the desired girl.

But the king’s ball was the great thing. In the early afternoon the dames and demoiselles met and the gifts were arranged for the evening. Of the fruit and flour a big cake was baked in which were put four large beans. When all was arranged the girls and the mothers donned their best finery, some of it half a century old, and kept only for state occasions. The older people opened the ball with the minuet de la cour, which was quite grand and formal.

Then the real gayety began. With it all there was a certain charming respect, a kind of fine breeding the French never lost. Old gentlemen danced with the young girls, and the young men with matrons. Children were allowed in also, and had corners to themselves. It was said of them that the French were born dancing.

There were no classes in this festivity. Even some of the upper kind of slaves came, and the young Indians ventured in.

Gaspard Denys took the little girl, who was all eagerness. M. and Madame Garreau brought their guests, the Marchands, for society had quite taken in the beautiful young Indian, who held her head up so proudly no one would have dared to offer her a slight.

Among the gayest was Barbe Guion. She had not taken young Maurice, who had gone off to New Orleans. People were beginning to say that she was a bit of a coquette. Madame Renaud announced that Alphonse Maurice was too trifling and not steady enough for a good husband. In her heart Barbe knew that she had never really meant to marry him.

At midnight the cake was cut and every young girl had a piece. This was the great amusement, and everybody thronged about.

“A bean! a bean!” cried Manon Dupont, holding it high above her head so all could see.

Then another, one of the pretty Aubry girls, whose sister had been married at Easter.

“And I, too,” announced Barbe Guion, laughing.

They cleared a space for the four queens to stand out on the floor. What eager glances the young men cast.

Manon Dupont chose her lover, as every one supposed she would, but there was no fun or surprise in it, though a general assent.

“And how will she feel at the next ball when he has to choose a queen?” said some one. “She is a jealous little thing.”

Ma’m’selle Aubry glanced around with a coquettish air and selected the handsomest young fellow in the room.

Who would Barbe Guion choose? She looked dainty enough in a white woollen gown with scarlet cloth bands; and two or three masculine hearts beat with a thump, as the eyes fairly besought.

Gaspard Denys was talking with the burly commandant of the fort, though it must be admitted there was very little to command. She went over to him and handed him her rose.

He bowed and a slight flush overspread his face, while her eyes could not conceal her delight.

“You do me a great deal of honor, ma’m’selle, but you might have bestowed your favor on a younger and more suitable man. I thank you for the compliment,” and he pinned the rose on his coat.

She smiled with a softened light in her eyes.

“It is the first time I have had a chance to choose a king,” she said in a caressing sort of voice. “I could not have suited myself better. And – I am almost eighteen. Elise was married a year before that.”

“You are not single for lack of admirers, ma’m’selle.” She remembered he used to call her Barbe. “What did you do with Alphonse, send him away with a broken heart?”

“His was not the kind of heart to break, monsieur. And a girl cannot deliberately choose bad luck. There is sorrow enough when it comes unforeseen.”