A Little Girl in Old St. Louis

“Oh, not badly,” with a cheerful smile. “I knew you would go to friends who would be overjoyed to see you, and I wandered down a street, trying to find an inn, for I was not sure I would be allowed to stop in the street all night. So in my inquiry I met some one who knew my uncle, Pierre Valbonais, who, it seems, is at work in your great mill, and who lives beyond the court-house, in the Rue des Grainges. My faith, but you are a very hospitable folk,” and his eyes shone with a joyous light. “This M. Pion would give me some supper and a bed, and we talked over my adventures smoking our pipes.”

“I am glad you found a friend. It was our desire to take you in. And your relative?” with a slight hesitation.

“I found my way to the mill, and the uncle greeted me cordially. There is an aunt and some cousins, it seems, and I am to make my home with them for the present. Moreover, I find there is plenty of work to do and I shall be happy. Where is the little maid?”

Wawataysee explained Renée’s grief at finding her uncle had not returned from his search. Then M. Marchand took him through to the shop, and was so earnest in his gratitude that it touched Valbonais deeply.

Renée came out of her garden corner as he was going away. Her pretty eyes were swollen with weeping.

“Oh, little one, you were so brave on the journey, amid all the hardships, that you must not lose heart now! And I hear your uncle has made many trips with the traders, so he knows about the Indians and is not likely to let them take him unawares. He will return, surely.”

She cast her eyes down and made no reply. She would not be comforted even by him.

The Renauds came over in the afternoon, and though the girls followed her to the garden, she would not be amused with their chatter. What did she care about a new frock or a tea-drinking on the green by the fort, or games and plays?

“She is very disagreeable and cold,” said Elise to Sophie as they were walking home. “I suppose because she has a ‘de’ before her name she thinks she can put on any airs. But I am older and shall have a lover first. Of course, M. Denys will return. He always has before.”

So everybody thought. And a child cannot be unhappy forever when every one joins to dispel her sorrow. She thawed out very slowly. André hardly knew what to make of her, she was so grave and indifferent.

He had found employment in the mill and felt quite elated. Madame Valbonais liked him very much. There was one son a trapper, though he did not take very long journeys. Then there were two bright girls who were not averse to having such an attractive cousin.

Through them he came to know the Renauds, and Barbe he thought extremely winsome. Before a fortnight had passed he was in the merrymakings and dances, and having a most enjoyable time. It did not trouble him now that he had been in more than one peril of his life.

The lieutenant-governor who had proved himself so unworthy was recalled. M. Cruzat was fortifying the town more securely than it had ever been, but for some time any body of Indians going back and forth roused a feeling of distrust and fear. Pleasure parties were careful not to trust themselves too far away.

Mère Lunde begged Wawataysee to remain with them, as M. Marchand was taking charge of the business. When Mattawissa came in with her pretty work and various articles, many of which went down to New Orleans, she and the young wife made very good friends.

“She will take every one away from me,” thought the child with a swelling heart, and she grew more reserved. Even Mère Lunde had to yield to the sweetness of Wawataysee. Sometimes she sang really beautiful Indian songs and described vividly the dances and entertainments, though there were many in which only old women were allowed.

July began to ripen fruits and fill the farmers with joy at the prospect of abundant crops. But Renée counted the weeks sadly. She was growing pale and thinner, and roamed about like an unquiet ghost. She would not play with the children, but rambled desolately by herself and occasionally stole down to the end of the stockade and ventured out to see her grandfather. He seemed nearly always at home now, sitting outside his neglected-looking cabin smoking his pipe and patching his clothes or making moccasins, on which he put stout soles of skin. He would nod and occasionally push a stool to her, which was the round of a log, and motion her to be seated.

One day he said sharply: “Has anything been heard of Gaspard Denys? Some traders have come in.”

She knew that. They had been at the shop.

“They have not seen him,” she admitted sorrowfully.

“There would be news if he had been killed.”

“Oh! oh!” A sharp pang went to the child’s heart. To have another put her dread into words was like confirming it.

“That might be,” said the old man. “The pitcher may go to the spring without spout or handle, but it gets an unlucky knock at the last.”

She was silent.

“He made me give you to him. He bound me with signing a paper. Then if you are his, what he has comes naturally to you. There is the house and the garden. And the shop, with all its stores. Gaspard Denys has a strong box. There may be gold and silver in it. It belongs to you.”

Renée stared at him. His skin was browner than ever, and his face wrinkled in every direction. His hair was unkempt, his eyes were so squinted up that they looked like two sparks merely.

“Oh,” she cried, “what should I want with it all, and no Uncle Gaspard?”

“It will be a good dot. It will make you a good marriage when the time comes. And they must not get it away from you.”

“They? Who?” in surprise.

“That man and his half-Indian wife. Ah, I have seen people before, men who can plan adroitly. And I tell you now he shall not have it. When the time comes I shall turn him out neck and heels, and we will see! I shall not have you cheated out of your rights, Renée de Longueville.”

“I don’t understand. If it is M. Marchand you mean – ” and she eyed the old man resolutely.

“Who asked him to come in there? Gaspard Denys locked up his place, and he and that old woman opened it. They had no right, I say.”

He struck the flat stone beside him with his fist, but it did not seem to hurt that member.

“It was Mère Lunde’s home. And she looks for him every day. Oh, if word came that he was dead we should both die of grief!”

Her lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears.

“Bah! No one dies of grief. And I will keep you out of that man’s clutches. I am your grandfather and I have some rights.”

Renée shuddered at the fierce old man. She had used to feel afraid of him, but it seemed of late that she did not fear anything, the darkness of the night nor the thunder storms, when it appeared as if the town would be hurled into the river. What if he should really claim her, if – if – Oh, she would a hundred times rather stay with M. Marchand, even if he was kissing and caressing Wawataysee half the time.

“I must go,” she said, rising. She had been trying to esteem him a little now that she was so lonely, but all the endeavor was like water spilled on the ground, and he had broken the bowl.

“You will come again. No one shall cheat you out of your rights,” nodding vigorously.

She turned away. First she thought she would walk along the river. It crept lazily to-day, yellow in the yellow sunshine. But when she reached the Rue Royale she turned into that. She did not care to pass the Renauds’ – why was it that she could not love any one any more? that her heart seemed like lead in her bosom? So she went up to the Rue de l’Eglise straight on to the little church. She had not been Saturday afternoons of late. She knew the catechism and the prayers, and the children’s drawl seemed to spoil it for her. Sometimes people prayed for things and they came. Well, she was praying all the time for Uncle Gaspard’s return. Maybe it ought to be asked for in the church. She crept in softly.

The little old place was very, very plain. Even the altar and the high altar had but few decorations at this time. There was a candle burning and it shed a pale glow. There was a basin of holy water, and she reverently made the sign of the cross with it. Then she knelt down on the floor and clasped her small hands.

“O holy God,” she prayed, “O Christ, son of the holy God, listen to my sorrow, I beseech thee. Send back Uncle Gaspard, for my life is so lonely without him. Keep him safe from all danger.”

It seemed so different to pray here. She would come every day now. This was God’s house.

It was strange and she did not understand it a bit, but her heart felt lighter. The old garden was gay with bloom. Chatte came to meet her, arched his back and waved his tail like a flag, looking at her out of green, translucent eyes with a black bar straight up and down. She stooped and patted him and he began to purr with delight. He was as fond as she of sitting in Uncle Gaspard’s lap.

Mère Lunde was pounding green grapes, great, luscious wild grapes, into a mash. Then she would strain out the seeds and make a most delicious jam with maple sugar. How fragrant the room was with the spicy scent! She went up and kissed her tenderly, and tears came to the woman’s eyes at the unexpected caress.

Wawataysee sat by the open window doing some beautiful beadwork. M. Marchand was busy sorting goods and piling them up on the shelves, and whistling soft and low like the wood thrush. Well, why should he not be happy, now that he had Wawataysee back? And she had been almost angry about it – no, not angry, but hurt, and – perhaps she was selfish. Ah, think of her grandfather being here and turning things about, making it dismal and wretched! No, he should not order the place and turn out these two who had been so kind. Perhaps the Governor would know what was right. She would pray it might never happen. That would be another petition. And without understanding how religion comforted, she was happier.

CHAPTER XII – HER ANSWER

It was strange how petitions grew. Renée used to walk gravely up to the old church – the door was never fastened – and slip in and say her prayer. Once a woman came who had lost her little baby.

“Oh,” she said, when they had exchanged sorrows, “I think thou wilt be comforted. Gaspard Denys has come back times before. Many of our husbands and brothers have returned. But my little baby cannot return. I may live many, many years and grow old, and in all that time I shall never see him!”

Yes, that was a great sorrow, and a long waiting.

August came in. Pears and plums were ripening, and various articles were being put by for winter use. Sometimes the season was long and cold, and it was well to be prepared. Men worked in the fields to gather the early crops, and the young people had merry dances at night. The days began to grow a little shorter already.

Some one said as she stepped out of church one afternoon: “There is a small fleet coming down the river. Pierre Chouteau expects one of his in next week, but that will have a dozen or more.”

“That is only Latour’s. He has been up to St. Charles,” was the answer. “They have a great abundance of corn this season.”

Next week! Renée’s little heart beat with a great bound of joy. And after that boats would be coming in weekly, Indians with canoes full of furs, dried venison and fish from the lakes. If one of them brought Uncle Gaspard!

She went down to the rise of ground, almost like an embankment, long since worn away. She could see over the small throng. The first boat was moored; it had bales of something. The second had some passengers, women among them. A man was standing up, and suddenly he waved his hand. Who was it? It was waved again.

“Oh! oh!” She dropped down. All the air was full of sparks, and the river seemed turning round and getting mingled with the sky. When the mist cleared away she saw a confused throng of people, some leaping ashore, and a hurly-burly of voices. Had that brief vision been a dream? She felt strangely weak, then she laughed without knowing why and her eyes overflowed with tears.

A tall form came climbing up the hill with long strides, and then she was clasped in strong arms, she felt kisses on her forehead, she was lifted off her feet.

“Little one!” the voice said; and only one thing in her after life sounded as sweet. “Little one, oh, thank heaven you were saved!”

Then they sat down on the grass the sun had scorched into a dried mat.

“Did you come thinking to meet me?”

“I meant to come every time after this to meet the boats. Oh, you are alive! The fierce Indians have not killed you.”

How her voice trembled with emotion, and her hands were clasped tight about his arm!

“They have not had much chance.” How good it was to hear the old cheerful laugh. “And Wawataysee is safe, as well? Did Marchand recover? I have heard no news of the dear old town, but of you I heard long ago, and it made my heart as light as a bird mounting up to the sky. Perhaps it will please even your gentle heart to know that Black Feather, the treacherous Indian chief, is dead. You see, I hardly knew which direction to take and went wrong several times. Then I heard Elk Horn had sold some female captives to Black Feather, who had taken them up the Illinois River. When I reached an encampment where there had been a terrific storm I heard Black Feather had been seriously injured and had finally been moved to an interior encampment, where there was a medicine man. So, after a search, I found them. In spite of the medicine man the chief had died, and they had given him a grand funeral. His followers had dispersed. But I was told that, after the storm, some captives had escaped and he had been so angry he had two Indians put to death. So then I retraced my steps. Many a time I wondered if I should find you in the forests, dead from hunger and fatigue. Whether you had gone down the river – but you could not do that, unless some friendly boat had offered. I passed some lodges where they had not known of any wanderers, and at last met two Peoria Indians, who said the three escaped captives had reached them and been taken to St. Louis.”

He pressed the child closer, looked down in the fond, eager eyes that were shaded in a mist of emotion, and felt the eager grasp of the small hand. How much she cared, this motherless and well-nigh fatherless girl.

“It was Wawataysee they wanted, but your fate might have been as bad. They might have left you somewhere to starve – ” Yet did not the pretty child’s face give evidence of coming beauty? only to an Indian this was not the rich, appealing beauty of his own tribes. And the present was so much to the red man, the triumphs, satisfactions, joys and revenges of to-day.

“Oh,” she said, with a long, quivering breath, “I am so glad! so glad! It runs all over me,” and she laughed softly. “And you will never go away again? They are building the wall all around the town and putting sharp-pointed sticks through the top. The children do not go out on the prairies any more; they are afraid.”

“I do not think we are in much danger. Farther to the east the Indians are joining tribes, stirred up by the English fighting the colonists. But we have nothing to do with their quarrels. And this attack was a mortification to them. Few, if any, of our friendly Indians were concerned in it. Oh, little one, thank God that you and Wawataysee are safe.”

“But M. Marchand thanks God for Wawataysee!” she said, with a touch of resentment.

He smiled at that. When she was older she would demand every thought of one’s heart.

“Shall we go down now?”

“Mère Lunde will be so glad.” She arose and hopped gleefully on one foot, holding his hand as she went part of the way around him. The last rays of golden light in the sky made bewildering shadows and gleams about her and she looked like a fairy sprite.

The town was already lapsing into quiet. No one had need to grumble at the length of working days in this pastoral town and time. Others had come in from journeys, and in more than one home feasting had begun. The boats had been fastened securely, the river was growing dark with shadows, and purple and gold clouds were drifting across the heavens.

“Let us go this way,” Renée said.

This way was up to the Rue de l’Eglise, and she turned into that. Here and there a friend caught his hand and he had to pause for a few words of cordial welcome.

“What now, little one?” as she drew him aside.

She looked up with a sweetly serious expression, though a flush of half-embarrassment wavered over the small face.

“I went to church every afternoon to say a prayer for you that you might come home. I thought the good God would rather hear it in His own house – ”

“Did you, my little darling?” he exclaimed, deeply touched.

“And now” – she hesitated – “I think I ought to go and thank Him. Men do that when the Governor grants their wishes.”

“Yes, yes! And I will go, too.”

Ah! there was much to be thankful for, and he felt a little conscience-smitten that he had not made more of a point of it.

The church was quite dark, with a candle burning on each side of the high altar. She led him clear up to the chancel steps, and there they knelt together. The little girl might not have understood all the fine points of belief that the world had fought over since Christ had died for all, and was still warring about, but her gratitude was sincere and earnest if not spiritual, at least in a devout spirit.

Gaspard Denys was moved by something he had never experienced before, and touched by the child’s tender, fervent faith.

Coming out, they met old Père Rierceraux, leaning on his cane. He had been godfather to little Mary Pion, the first child baptised by Father Meurin when there had been no church at all and only a tent in the woods. The rude little building was a temple to him, and thither he came every night to see that no harm was likely to befall it, and commend it to the watchful care of God.

“It is Gaspard Denys!” he said in a voice a little broken by the weight of years. “So thou hast come home from perils and hast devotion enough to thank God and the saints for it. There will be merry hearts to-night, quite unmindful of this. Ma’m’selle, I have noted thy devoutness also. The Holy Mother have thee in her keeping.”

It was quite dusk now and the houses were lighted up. At the Pichous’ they were playing already on the fiddles. Then there was this turn.

The good news had preceded Denys. The household had come out to meet him and there was great joy. Mère Lunde had already set a little feast, and they wondered at the loitering.

There had never been any welcome like this in his life before, no one to be greatly glad when he came or sorrowful when he went. It was like a new life, and his heart expanded, his pulses thrilled with a fervent joy. The beautiful Indian wife who smiled at him and then turned her eyes to her husband with an exquisite tenderness; the little girl whose gladness was so true and deep that her eyes had the soft lustre of tears now and then, and smiles that went to his heart; Mère Lunde’s happy, wrinkled old face, in her best coif and kerchief; and presently, neighbors coming in with joyous greetings. For in those days they shared each other’s joys and sorrows.

The remembrance of the cruel May day vanished. Flowers were growing over the graves of the dead in the little churchyard. Many of the captives had found their way back; some, indeed, lay in silent places far from kindred. They did not forget, but they were a light-hearted people, and their religion was not of the morbid, disquieting kind. Conscience with them had a few salient points of right and wrong, the rest did not touch their simple lives.

There was a gay autumn, with wine-making and brewing of spiced or plain beer, of meat and fish salted and dried, of corn gathered and wheat ground and the thrifty preparations for winter. All the meadow lands were abloom with autumnal flowers, the trees were gorgeous in all the coloring sun and winds and dew could devise, and the haze of the resplendent Indian summer hung over it all. There were nutting parties to the woods, but they were cautious and went well protected.

Trappers and traders came in, and the talk was of wilderness trails and Indian villages friendly and unfriendly, of deer and mink and otter and beaver, sable, marten and beautiful fox and wolfskins from the far north. Many of the fleets went straight down the river to New Orleans, others came up from there with beads and gewgaws and spun silk and threads of various colors, calicoes and blankets and coarse thick stuffs for tents. There was much dickering, great supplies of arms and ammunitions, and then the crowd melted away and only familiar faces were seen again. The country round about put on its white coverlet of snow to keep warm the little earth children, streams and ponds were frozen over and all was merriment again.

François Marchand and his pretty wife set up a home of their own only a short distance away, but business had increased so much that it needed the attention of both. Next year they would buy some boats or have them built, and do some trading up and down the river.

André Valbonais was much pleased with his new home and the cordiality of his relatives. He soon attracted the attention of Colonel Chouteau, for he had considerable education, and was put in a clerkship, which gratified him extremely. But he often ran up to the Rue de Rive to chat with Denys and Marchand over their adventures, and to watch the pretty, dark-eyed girl who always sat so close to her uncle and held his hand.

And then came the winter gayeties. Throngs of children went out on the great mound when the snow had a crust on it, and the girls, gathering up their skirts, squatted down and were given a little push, and away they went, swift as an arrow. One would tumble over and roll down to the bottom, throwing about numerous little fleets, but they were so well wrapped in furs no one was ever hurt. The great achievement was to spin the whole length without a break.

It was merry again at Christmastide, and Renée enjoyed it much more than last year; but there was a tender devoutness in her worship. Then the great Feast of Lights, Epiphany and all the fun and frolic. André was chosen a king by one of the pretty girls. He was a fine dancer and a very good-looking young fellow.

Perhaps it made Renée more light-hearted to know that Barbe had a real lover, and that he hardly allowed her to smile at any one else. She was not quite betrothed as yet, but there could be no objections. He belonged to a good New Orleans family, and was in a trading house second only to the Chouteaus’. All the Guions said it would be an excellent match, and Barbe was plenty old enough to marry. Bachelor girls had not come in fashion, and when one had passed twenty the younger girls really flouted her and thought she ought to step in the background.

She danced once with Gaspard Denys. No, he had never been a real lover. But if he had not gone to Quebec after this little girl – well, all things might have been different. And as well Jean Gardepier as any one. She would go to New Orleans with him when he went down on trading expeditions, and the gayety would delight her. She would have some fine clothes and jewels, still she sighed a little when Denys took her back to her sister.

“And here is Elise the second,” said Madame Renaud gayly. “See what a tall girl she has grown. You must dance once with her. Oh, how soon they are women, and then it is lovers and husbands. Gaspard, are you going to stay single forever?” and Madame laughed softly.

“I’m such an old fellow now! I feel like a grandfather to these young girls,” he returned jocosely.

But Elise thought him charming, and in her turn almost envied Renée.

Years unmarked by any special events pass on almost unheeded. Trade came and went. A few new houses were built. Young people were married, new children were born. Families came from across the river, not liking their English neighbors over well. Occasionally there was an Indian alarm, but St. Louis had the good fortune to live mostly at peace with her red neighbors, while many of the Illinois towns suffered severely.

One of the events of the summer that delighted Renée was the birth of Wawataysee’s baby. It was a great marvel to her, though there were plenty of babies about. It was more French than Indian. It had beautiful large dark eyes and was a very fine specimen of babyhood. It was named for Uncle Gaspard, who was its godfather, and Wawataysee pleaded that Renée should be godmother.