"I don't believe such nonsense. In one of the Sieur's books there is a story of some people who believed there was a spirit in everything. There were gods of the waters, of the trees, of the winds, and the Indians are much like them. I've never found any of their gods, have you?"
"No"—rather reluctantly. "But Wanamee has. And sometimes they bring back dead people."
"Then they don't always eat them," and the boy laughed.
She had meant to tell miladi of her tryst and beg her to come out and see the star, but when she found her not only indifferent, but fretful, she refrained and was glad presently that she had this delicious secret to herself. But there was a great mystery. Sometimes the star was different. Instead of being golden, it was a pale blue, and then almost red. Was it that way in France, she wondered.
She came to have a strange fondness for the stars, and to note their changes. Was it true that the old people M'sieu Ralph had read about, the Greeks, had seen their gods and goddesses taken up to the sky and set in the blue? There were thrones mounted with gems, there were figures that chased each other; to-night they were here, to-morrow night somewhere else. But the star that came out first was hers, and she sent a message across the ocean with it. And the star said in return, "I am thinking of you."
He did think of her, and tried to trace out some parentage. Catherine Defroy had gone from St. Malo, a single woman. Then by all the accounts he could find she must have spent two years in Paris. Clearly she was not mother of the child.
After all, what did it matter? Rose would probably spend her life in New France. If it was never proven that she came of gentlefolks, Laurent Giffard would hardly consent to his wife's mothering her. He had a good deal of pride of birth.
The winter passed away and this year spring came early, unchaining the streams and sending them headlong to the rivers; filling the air with the fragrant new growth of the pines, hemlocks, and cedars, the young grasses, and presently all blossoming things. The beauty touched Rose deeply. No one understood, so she only talked of these strange things to the trees and the stars at night. Often she was a merry romp, climbing rocks, out in a canoe, which she had learned to manage perfectly, though sometimes Pani accompanied her, sometimes Pierre Gaudrion, who was growing fast and making himself very useful to Du Parc.
As for the Sieur, he found much to engross his attention. There was a new trading company that had the privilege of eleven years. There was another volume of voyages and discoveries, the maps and illustrations finely engraved. Then he had laid before the secretary of the King the urgent need of some religious instruction. Acadia had quite a thriving Jesuit mission. This order was not in high favor with Champlain, who deprecated their narrowness. The Sieur Houel recommended the Récollets, and four willing missionaries were finally chosen. The company had fitted up a large vessel and were taking all the stores they could purchase or beg, and quite a number of emigrants of a better class than heretofore.
They were all warmly welcomed, and found the colonists in very good order. The enthusiastic priest startled them by kneeling on the soil and devoutly consecrating it to God, and giving thanks that He had called them to this new and arduous field of labor. The coarse gray cassock girt at the waist with a bit of rope, the pointed hood, which often hung around their necks and betrayed the shaven crown, their general air of poverty and humility attracted attention, but did not so much appeal to the colonists or the Indians. They were fearful of the new order of things.
Quebec had enlarged her borders somewhat. The one-roomed hut had spread out into two or three apartments. The gardens had increased. Some roads had been made, the workmen taking the stone quarried to add to their own houses. Still they received the fathers with a certain degree of cordiality.
Champlain set aside ground for their convent, and they first erected an altar and celebrated Mass. Père Dolbeau was the officiating priest. The people, most of whom came from curiosity, knelt around on the earth, while cannon from the ramparts announced the mystic services. The Giffards joined in them reverentially, but Rose was full of wonderment. Indeed, her joy was so great at seeing Destournier again that she could give thanks for nothing else.
Then they erected a rude hut and discussed the work that lay before them. Le Caron would go to the Hurons, Dolbeau to the Montagnais, Jamay and Du Plessis would take charge of Quebec and the outlying provinces, and planned to build a chapel.
Destournier had been successful with his grant. He bad been made seignior of a large tract outside of the town, which was destined one day to be a part of it. Here he settled some friendly Indians, and several of the new-comers, who were to till the soil under his directions, and raise different crops to ward off the scarcity of rations in the winter. He would build a house for himself and live among them.
"But why not remain in the fort?" asked miladi. "What charm can you find with those ignorant people? Though perhaps peas and beans, radishes and cabbages may console one for more intellectual pursuits."
"I shall only spend the days with them at present," he returned, with a smile.
And now again came the influx of the fur-traders. It had been a good season and from the new settlement of Montreal to Tadoussac, vessels were packing away the precious freight. Champlain had gone with a body of soldiers to help defend a town the Iroquois had threatened to attack. The missions thus far had borne no fruit. Indeed the new teaching of the Récollets in its severity was not pleasant. The Hurons were seized with a panic after losing several of their leaders and the Sieur was wounded. All winter the people at Quebec waited anxiously for their leader, and parties set out to see if they could find any tidings. At last they were sighted, and great was the joy at finding their beloved chieftain well and unharmed. But he was not allowed to remain long in his pet settlement. There were disputes and altercations, and he was summoned to France.
"Another year we shall go ourselves," announced Laurent Giffard to his wife. "We have enough now to make ourselves comfortable, and I doubt if the company can weather through. At all events I shall be glad to be well out of it. Art thou glad of the prospect?"
"There is great commotion with the King and his mother, and between Huguenot and Catholic," she made answer slowly. "Does the Sieur Destournier throw up his schemes in disgust as well?"
"Ah, I think he is wedded to the soil. The Governor trusts everything to him, and Du Parc, and both are capable men. But truth to tell I have lost faith in the colony. I hear the Virginians and the Bostonnais are doing much better. France cannot, or will not, spend the money, nor send the men to put the place on a sure foundation. The Indians grow more troublesome. They hate being meddled with by the priests. They take wives when they want them, and send them away when they are tired of them. They torture prisoners—some day the priests will have a taste of it themselves."
"They are all horrible," she said, with a shiver.
"And we will go back to La Belle France. I fancy I can manage a sort of preferment with Dubissay, who has the ear of the Queen mother at present. At all events I am tired of this turmoil, and thou,ma mie, art wasting thy beauty in this savage land."
He stooped and kissed her. If he had been ready last year, she would have hailed the prospect with delight. Why did it not seem so attractive now?
"And the child?" she asked presently, her eyes fixed on the floor.
Was the tone indifferent?
"How much dost thou love her,ma mie? At first thy heart was sore for the loss of our own, but time heals all such wounds. Destournier left no stone unturned to discover her parentage, and failed. I think she has been some one's love child. True we could give her our name, and with a good dowry she could marry well. But she will want some years of convent training to tone her down."
"And if we should leave her here? Though they say Miladi de Champlain comes over soon, and there may be a court with maids of honor."
He laughed. "What I fancy is this, though I am no seer. Destournier is fond of her, fatherly now, but she is shooting up into a tall girl. There will not be so many years between them as the Sieur and Mademoiselle Boullé. And some day he will take her to wife. 'Twere a pity to spoil the romance. She adores him."
Miladi bit her lip hard, and drew her brow into a sharp frown.
"What nonsense!" she made answer.
"Destournier is a fine fellow, and will be a rich one some day."
"The more need that he should marry in his own station."
"But there is talk of reproducing home titles in this new land. And Baron Destournier can raise his wife to his own station. If the child should not be amenable to training, or develop some waywardness, there might be sorrow, rather than joy or satisfaction in thine heart."
"There will be time enough to consider," she returned.
He left the room. She went out on the shady side of the gallery, and looked down over the town. The two under discussion a moment ago were climbing the steep rocks instead of taking the path where steps were cut. The wind blew her shining hair about, her face was filled with ripples of laughter. He took her arm and she would have no help, but sprang like a deer from point to point, then turned to throw her merriment at him.
"Yes, miladi would take her to France. What if some day he should follow?"
The Governor spent a month in intense satisfaction, enlarging the borders of his pet garden, talking with M. Hébert, who had been watching the growth of some fine fruit trees imported from northern France, that had blossomed and were perfecting a few specimens of fruit. He thought sometimes it would be a joy to give up all cares and rest in cultivating the soil. If the summers were short everything grew abundantly. There were several rare plants, also, that they had acclimated.
"Bring thy wife over and be content," advised M. Hébert, in a cordial tone, "and enjoy the governorship."
M. de Champlain laughed. But presently he said: "Friend, you little know the delights of an explorer who brings new countries to light, who builds cities that may continue after him. The route to India has not yet been located. The fields of gold and silver have not been discovered. The lilies of France have not been planted over there," nodding his head. "We must go before the Spaniard gets a foothold. Yet there are delights I must confess that even Horace longed for—a garden."
But if he longed for it at times he found the restless current hurrying him on. Some disaffected members of the company were bringing charges against him, desiring to depose him from the governorship. But Condé, who had again come into power, knew there was not another man who would work so untiringly for the good of New France, or make it bring in such rich returns.
The colony passed a very fair winter. It was in the latter part of April that one night an alarm was given and the big bell at the fort rang out its call to arms.
The messenger had trudged through the snow and was breathless.
"An Indian attack. The Iroquois are burning the settlement, and murdering our people. To arms! to arms!"
There had been no Indian raid for a long while. Destournier had tried to fortify the back of his plantation. There were Montagnais and Algonquins of the better type living there peaceably. It was not altogether cupidity. An Iroquois woman had been found cruelly murdered, and the wandering band laid it at once to the settlement. It took only a brief while to work themselves up to a frenzy.
It did not take long to plan revenge. There was no chief at the head; indeed, in these roving bands it was every brave for himself. And now after a powwow, since they were not large enough in numbers to attack the fort, and they found some of the Indian converts were in the new settlement, they determined on an onslaught.
The barricade at the back was high and strong. It was not so well fortified on the side toward the fort, and they pushed through a weak place at the end, lighted their torches, and commenced a treacherous assault. Roused from their slumbers, and terrified to the last degree, the air was soon filled with shrieks, and bursting in doors, the houses were set on fire. They were wary enough to guard their loop-hole for escape, but they found themselves outnumbered, and in turn had to fight for their own lives. The blazing huts lighted up the snow in a weird fashion; the shrieks and cries and jargon of the Iroquois added to the frightfulness. Yet the struggle was brief. The enemy, finding themselves on the losing side, began to fly, pursued by the soldiers, and indeed, many of the inhabitants.
Destournier roused at the first alarm, and Du Parc gave orders that were speedily obeyed. The citadel was in a glow of light and wild commotion.
Giffard ran down the stone steps with his musket. Destournier barred his way.
"Some of us have no wives," he said briefly. "Go back and keep guard until we see what the dastardly attack means."
"There are wives and children in the settlement," was the reply, but he paused while Destournier ran on. When he was out of sight, Giffard followed.
The soldiers pursued the flying band, but they presently plunged into the woods and crept on stealthily, while the pursuers returned. The gray morning began to dawn on the smoking ruin and the fitful blazes that the men were trying hard to extinguish with the snow. Destournier went from one to another. A few huts had not been disturbed, and crying women and children were crowding in them. Some bodies lay silent on the blood-stained snow. Destournier had taken great pride in the surprise he had thought to give the Governor on his return, and here lay most of his hopes in ruins.
He gave orders that the wounded should be taken to the fort for treatment. It was a gratification to find two Iroquois dead, and when a soldier despatched a wounded one he made no comment. It was pitiful when the sun rose over the scene of destruction.
"Still there could not have been a large body, or the carnage would have been more complete," he said, with some comforting assurance.
"You had better come in for some breakfast," an officer remarked. "You look ghastly, and you are blood-stained."
He glanced down at his garments. "Yes," he said, "I will take your advice. I want something hot to drink. And we must send some food over there."
Rose came flying in as he was demolishing a savory slice of venison.
"Where is M. Giffard?" she cried. "Miladi is so frightened. She wants him at once. Oh, wasn't it dreadful! Thank the saints you are safe!"
"Giffard!" He had caught two or three glimpses of him in the mêlée. "He may be attending to the wounded. He is a brave fellow in an emergency. I must find him."
He swallowed the brandy and water and rushed down to the improvised hospital. A dozen or more were being fed and nursed by Wanamee and two other Indian women. The priest, too, was kindly exhorting courage and patience. Giffard was not here. No one had seen him. He ran over the crusty, but trodden-down snow, stained here and there with blood. The sun had risen gorgeously, and there was a decided balminess in the air. He glanced at the insides of the huts. The furry skins had not been good conductors of flames, and the snow on the roofs had saved them. Beside the two dead Iroquois there was an Abenaqui woman and her child. In the huts that were intact, the frightened women and children had huddled. Some of the men were already appraising possible repairs.
"They went this way," announced an Algonquin, in his broken French. He had been employed about the fort and found trusty.
The path was marked with blood and fragments of clothing, bags of maize, that they had dropped in their flight—finding them a burthen. Here lay an Iroquois with a broken leg, who was twisting himself along. The Algonquin hit him a blow over the head with the stout club he carried.
"He will not get much further," he commented, as the Indian dropped over motionless.
"Have you seen M. Giffard?" Destournier asked.
"Non, non. The men came back."
"He is not at the fort."
"Shall we follow on?"
Destournier nodded.
They heard a step crunching over the snow and waited breathlessly.
It was Jacques Roleau they saw as he came in sight, one of the workmen at the fort. He gestured to them that all was right.
"They have fled, what was left of them," he explained. "I despatched two wounded Iroquois that they had left behind. There are two of our men that they must have made prisoners, the M'sieu at the fort who has the pretty wife, and young Chauvin"—and he paused, as if there was more to say.
"Wounded?"
He shook his head sadly.
"Dead?" Destournier's breath came with a gasp.
"Both dead, M'sieu, but strange, neither has been scalped."
"Let us push on," exclaimed Destournier sadly.
They followed the trail. After a short distance a body had been dragged evidently. Roleau led the way through a tortuous path until they came in sight of a small vacant spot where sometime Indians had camped, as they could tell by the scorched and blackened trees. A nearly nude body had been fastened to one and a few dead branches gathered, evidently for a fire.
Destournier stood speechless. The head hung down, the face was unmarred, save for a few scratches, and he gave thanks for that. But his heart was heavy within him. The poor body had been stabbed and cut, yet it had not bled much, it seemed.
He would have felt relieved if he had known the whole story. Two stalwart bucks had seized Giffard just beyond the settlement and hurried him along at such a pace that he could hardly breathe. They fastened his arms behind, each man grasping an elbow, and fairly galloped, until one of them caught his foot in a fallen tree and went down. In the fall Giffard's temple struck against a stone that knocked him senseless. He might have revived, but he was hurried along by a stout leathern thong slipped under the armpits, and was then dragged a dead weight. They had stopped for a holocaust and bound him to a tree, while they despatched the younger man. But there was difficulty in finding anything dry enough to burn, so they had amused themselves by gashing the dead body. Then suddenly alarmed they had plunged farther into the forest, leaving one of their own wounded that Roleau had finished.
Giffard had been captured in a moment of incautiousness, but the sights and the wantonness had fired his blood and roused a spirit of retaliation.
They had nearly stripped both bodies, and carried off the garments.
"If you can manage, M'sieu," exclaimed their guide, "I will take the young fellow." He stooped, picked him up, and threw him over his shoulder.
"You will find him a heavy burthen," as the man staggered a little.
"I can carry. Do not fear," nodding assurance.
Destournier took off his fur coat and wrapped it about the poor body. Each took hold of the improvised litter and they commenced their melancholy journey. How could Madame Giffard stand it, for she really did love him. The man's heart ached with the sincerest pity.
They laid down their burthens inside the settlement in one of the partly destroyed cabins. Du Parc came thither to meet them.
"Ah," he exclaimed, "that fine young fellow who was going to be a great success. The company wanted him back in France. And his poor wife! The blow will kill her."
"I wished him to remain within for her sake. He was no coward, either. I would give the whole settlement if it would restore him to life. The Governor thought it an excellent, but venturesome plan. But we must have colonists if ever we are to make a town that will be an honor to New France."
"It is not such a complete ruin. We have lost two men, one woman, and three children. Five Iroquois bodies have been found and two are badly wounded."
"And two more out in the woods. They had better be buried, so as to stir up no more strife. It could not have been a large party, or we would have suffered more severely."
"The English have had many of these surprises. I think we have been fortunate, even if we have fewer in numbers. And it would have been worse if there had been growing crops."
"I shall have the fortifications strengthened. And perhaps it would be well to keep guard."
They left Roleau in charge of the bodies and turned to the fort. The wounded had been made comfortable.
Rose sprang down the steps to meet Destournier.
"Oh, have you found him? Miladi is almost dead with grief and anxiety. She is sure they have killed M. Giffard."
"Poor wife! How will we tell her?"
"Oh, then he is dead?" The child's face was blanched with terror.
"Yes, he has been killed by the cruel savages. But we have brought home his body. Who is with her?"
"Wanamee and Madawando, who is saying charms over her. She is the medicine woman who brought back the Gaudrion baby when he was dead. Oh, can you not make her bring back M. Giffard? Miladi will surely die of grief. Couldn't they put some one in his place? Wouldn't the great God listen to the priest's prayers?" and she raised her humid, beseeching eyes.
"My child, you loved him dearly."
"Sometimes. Then he made me feel—well, as if I could run away. He was never cross. Oh, I think it was because he loved Miladi so very much, there was no room for any one else. And that is why I love you so—because you have no one belonging to you."
"We are alike in that," he made answer.
He saw Wanamee presently.
"She goes from one dying fit to another. Madawando brings her back. But if he is dead, M'sieu, why should they not let her join him?"
Would she be happier in that great unknown land with him. What was there here for her?
And some way he felt in part responsible. He had risked his life to save Destournier's property.
There were sad days in the fort. The weather came off comparatively pleasant, and the half-ruined huts were repaired, the wounded healed, the losses made good, as far as possible. The dead Iroquois were put in a trench, but better sepulture was provided for the colonists, and the services over the body of M. Giffard were in a degree military. The two Récollet priests were kindness and devotion personified, and they said prayers every hour in their rude little chapel, where a candle was kept burning before the altar.
They frowned severely on what they termed the mummeries of Madawando. Even the Indian converts, and they were few enough, lapsed into charms and incantations in times of trouble. They willingly had their children baptized, as if this was one of the charms to ward off danger. But the priests labored with unabated courage.
Miladi seemed to hover a long while between the two worlds, it was thought, but the real spring was coming on, and all nature was reviving. She had never quite wanted to die, so at the lowest ebb she seemed to will herself back to life by some occult power.
Rose meanwhile had run quite wild, but she had been Destournier's companion in his walks, in his canoe journeys; sometimes with Marie Gaudrion, she was in and out of the settlement, and as she understood a little of the several Indian languages, she was quite a favorite; but Destournier felt troubled about her at times. She was very fearless, very upright, and detected the subterfuges of the children of the wilderness, condemning them most severely. But they never seemed angry with her.
Sometimes he thought he would send her to France and begin her education in a convent. But could the wild little thing who skipped and danced and sung, climbed rocks and trees, managed a canoe, tamed birds that came and sang on her shoulder, endure the dull routine of convent life? She could read French quite fluently. She had taken an immense fancy to Latin, and caught the lines so easily when Destournier read them from musical Horace, or the stirring scenes of the Odyssey, the only two Latin books he owned. And her head was stuffed full of wild Indian tales.
"I wonder," she said one day, as she sat on the rocks, leaning against Destournier's knee, the soft wind playing through the silken tendrils of her hair—"I wonder if you should die whether I could be like miladi, and want the room dark and have every one go in the softest moccasins, and have headaches and the sound of any one's voice pierce through you like a knife. It would be terrible."
"Why do you think of that?"
"Because I love you best of everybody. The Governor is very nice, but he is in France so much and you are here. Then we can climb rocks together and sit in the forests and hear the trees talk. I go to M. Giffard's grave and say over the spells Madawando taught me, to bring him back, but he does not come. If he could, miladi would be bright and gay again, and we would dance and sing, and have merry times. If you died I should want to die, too."
He was touched by the child's simple devotion.
"I am not going to die. Your Madawando told me I should live to be very old. There were some curious lines in my hand."
"I am so glad," she said simply.
"But you had better not tell the good priest that you are trying to bring M. Giffard back to life in this Indian fashion. They think it a sin."
"I do not like the priests, in their dirty gray gowns, and their heads looking as if they had been scalped. Only when they read in their book. It sounds like those great people in the wars of Troy."
And this was a little Christian girl. Were not the priests also praying that the souls in purgatory might be lightened of their burden? and he smiled.
But somehow miladi pressed heavily upon his conscience. M. Giffard had come tohisassistance, to save his property, as well as to save human lives. He lost sight of the great brotherhood of mankind, of the heroism of a truly noble soul. Was there anything he could do to lighten her burthen?
At last she expressed a desire to see him. He had looked to find her wasted away with grief, changed so that it would be sorrow to look upon her. She was pale, but, it seemed, more really beautiful than he had ever known her. Her gown was white, and she had a thin black scarf thrown around her shoulders which enhanced her fairness. There could be no shopping for mourning in this benighted country.
"I thought I should go to him," she said in her soft, half-languid voice. "But the good Père believes there is something for me to do and that I must be content to remain, and thankful to live. But all is so changed. Sometimes I make myself believe that Laurent has gone back to France to settle matters. He counted so on our return. And that he will come again for me."
"You would like to go to friends?"
"Alas, there are not many. Some have gone to England, some to Holland, not liking the new King's policy. And some are dead. I should have no one to make a home for me. A woman's loneliness is intense. She cannot turn to business, nor go out and find friends."
That was true enough. He pitied her profoundly.
"Is it true our Governor is bringing his new wife to Quebec?" she asked presently.
"So the trading vessels have said. They are already loading up with furs, and trade seems brisk. Of course it brings great confusion. I have taken charge of M. Giffard's bales that came in last week. They had better be sent as usual. The Paris firm is eager for them. They are a fine lot. What is your pleasure?"
"Oh, relieve me of all care that you can. I am so helpless. Laurent did everything. Women were never meant for business, he thought. I am no wiser than a child."
She looked so helpless, so sweet, so dependent.
"I shall be glad to do what I can. Yes, it would be no place for a woman. She could not manage matters. And if you like to trust me——"
"I would trust you in all things. Laurent thought your judgment excellent. He cared so much for you. Oh, if you will take charge——"
She looked up with sweet, appealing eyes. Did he not owe her some protection and care? He was pondering silently.
"You have relieved me of such a burthen. I think I shall get well now. I hardly knew whether I wanted most to live or die."
"Life is best, sweetest." It would be for her. He uttered the sentence involuntarily.
"You make it so." Her eyes were bewitchingly downcast and a faint color fluttered over her face, while her pretty hands worked nervously.
He paced the gallery afterward in the twilight, when the stars were slowly finding their way through the blue vault overhead, and the river plashed by with its monotone of music. She might desire to return to France; this life in the wilderness did not appeal to delicate women. Yet she had taken it very cheerfully, he thought.
If she decided to stay—there was one way in which he could befriend her, perhaps make her happy again. Marriage was hardly considered the outcome of love in that period, many other considerations entered into it. There were betrothals where the future husband and wife saw each other for the first time. And they did very well. His ideas of married life were a sort of good-fellowship and admiration, if the woman was pretty; good cooking and a desire to please among the commoner ones. At four and twenty he had not given the matter much consideration. Madame Giffard was full thirty, but she looked like a girl in her lightness and grace. And he owed the memory of M. Giffard something. This step would make amends and allay a troublesome sort of conscience in the matter.
Eustache Boullé, the Governor's brother-in-law, had been not a little surprised when his sister was helped off the vessel at Tadoussac. He greeted her warmly.
"But I never believed you would come to this wild country," he exclaimed, with a half-mischievous smile. "I am afraid the Sieur has let his hopes of the future run riot in his brain. He can see great things with that far gaze of his."
"But a good wife follows her husband. We have had a rather stormy and tiresome passage, but praised be the saints, we have at last reached our haven."
"I hope you will see some promise in it. We on the business side do not look for pleasure alone."
"It is wild, but marvellously fine. The islands with their frowning rocks and glowing verdure, the points, and headlands, the great gulf and the river are really majestic. And you—you are a man. Two years have made a wondrous change. I wish our mother could see you. She has frightful dreams of your being captured by Indians."
He laughed at that.
"Are the Indians very fierce here?" she asked timidly.
"Some tribes are, the Hurons. And others are very easily managed if you can keep fire-water away from them."
"Fire"—wonderingly.
"Rum or brandy. You will see strange sights. But you must not get frightened. Now tell me about our parents."
The Sieur was quite angry when he heard some boats had been up the river, and bartered firearms and ammunition for peltries. It was their desire to keep the white man's weapons away from the savages.
Pontgrave had left a bark for the Governor, and Eustache joined them as they went journeying on to Quebec. It was new and strange to the young wife, whose lines so far had been cast in civilized places. The wide, ever-changing river, the rough, unbroken country with here and there a clearing, where parties of hunters had encamped and left their rude stone fireplaces, the endless woods with high hills back of them, and several groups of Indians with a wigwam for shelter, that interested her very much. Braves were spread out on the carpet of dried leaves, playing some kind of game with short knives and smoking leisurely. Squaws gossiping and gesticulating with as much interest as their fairer sisters, their attire new and strange, and papooses tumbling about. They passed great tangles of wild grapes that scented the air, here and there an island shimmering with the bloom of blueberries.
Then the great cliff of Quebec came in sight. Latterly it had taken on an aspect of decay that caused the Governor to frown. The courtyard was littered with rubbish from a building that had actually fallen down, and a new one was being erected. And though some of the houses were quite comfortable within, the exterior was very unattractive, from the different materials, like patches put on to add warmth in winter.
The cannon rang out a salute, and the lilies of France floated in the brilliant sunshine. Officers and men had formed a sort of cordon, and from the gallery several ladies looked down and waved handkerchiefs. The Héberts, with their son and daughter, a few other women, a little above the peasant rank, had joined them and Madame Giffard, who still essayed a rôle of delicacy.
The Sieur took formal possession again in the name of the new Governor General, the Duke of Montmorency. Then they repaired to the little chapel, where the priest held a service of thanksgiving for their safe arrival.
The Récollets had chosen a site on the St. Charles river, some distance from the post, and had begun the erection of a church and convent, for headquarters. Madame Champlain was pleased to hear this and held quite a lengthy talk with Père Jamay, who was glad to find the new wife took a fervent interest in religion, for even among the French women he had not awakened the influence he had hoped for, in his enthusiasm.
Eustache began a tour of observation. Perched on a rock with a great hemlock tree back of her, he saw a small human being that he was quite sure was not an Indian girl. She was talking to something, and raised her small forefinger to emphasize her words. What incantation was she using?
As he came nearer he saw it was a flock of pigeons. She had been feeding them berries and grains of rye. They arched their glossy necks and cooed in answer. He watched in amaze, drawing nearer. What sprite of the forest was this?
Did she feel the influence that invaded her solitude? She glanced up with wide startled eyes at the intruder, and looked at first as if she would fly.
"Do not be afraid, I will not harm you," said a clear, reassuring voice. "Are you charming the wild things of the forest? Your incantation was in French—do they understand the language?"
"They understand me."
There was a curious dignity in her reply.
"You are French, Mam'selle?"
"I came from France a long while ago, so long that I do not remember."
"Was it in another life? Are you human, or some forest nymph? For you are not out of childhood."
"I do not understand."
"But you must belong to some one——"
"No," she said proudly. "I have never really belonged to any one. M'sieu Destournier is my good friend, and miladi took me when the Dubrays went to the fur country. But she has been ill, and she does not like me as she used."
"But you must have a home——"
"I live at the post, mostly with Wanamee. Some days my lady sends for me. But I like out-of-doors, and the birds, and the blue sky, and the voice of the falling waters that are always going on, and the great gray rocks, where I find mossy little caves with red bloom like tiny papooses, and the tall grasses that shake their heads so wisely, as if they knew secrets they would never tell. And the birds—even some of the little lizards with their bright black eyes. They are dainty, not like the snakes that go twisting along."
"Are you not afraid of them?"
"I do not molest them," calmly.
"You should have been down at the post. The Governor's wife has come."
"Yes, I saw her. And I did not like her. But the Sieur was always kind to me. He used to show me journeys on the maps, and the great lakes he has seen. He has been all over the world, I believe."
"Oh, no. But I think he would like to. Why do you not like Madame de Champlain?"
She studied him with a thoughtful gaze.
"M'sieu Ralph told me when he went to France he was betrothed to a pretty little French girl, and that some day he would bring her here to be his wife. I was glad of the little girl. I like Marie Gaudrion, but she has to care for the babies and—she does not understand why I love the woods and the rocks. And I thought this other littlegirl——"
She was so naïve that he smiled, but it was not the smile to hurt one.
"She was a little girl then. But every one grows. Some day you will be a woman."
"No, I will not. I shall stay this way," and she patted the ground decisively with her small foot, the moccasin being little more than a sandal, and showed the high arch and shapely ankle that dimpled with the motion.
"I am afraid you cannot. But I think you will like Madame when you know her. I am her brother, though I have not seen her for over two years."
She studied him attentively. The birds began to grow restless and circled about her as if to warn off the intruder. Then she suddenly listened. There was a familiar step climbing the rock.
M'sieu Destournier parted the hemlock branches.
"I thought I should find you here. Why did you run away? Ah, M. Boullé," but the older man frowned a little.
"She left the company because my sister was grown up and not the little girl she imagined. Is she a product of the forest? Her very ignorance is charming."
"I am not ignorant!" she returned. "I can read a page in Latin, and that miladi cannot do."
"She is a curious child," explained Destournier, "but a sweet and noble nature, and innocent is the better word for it. The birds all know her, and she has a tame doe that follows her about, except that it will not venture inside the palisade. I'm not sure but she could charm a wolf."
"The Loup Garou," laughed the younger man. "I think nothing would dare harm her. But I should like my sister to see her. Oh, I am sure you will like her, even if she is a woman grown."
"Come," said Destournier, holding out his hand.
The pigeons had circled wider and wider, and were now purplish shadows against the serene blue. Rose sprang up and clasped Destournier's hand. But she was silent as they took their way down.
"Whatever bewitched my august brother-in-law about this place I cannot see. Except that the new fort will sweep the river and render the town impregnable from that side. It will be the key of the North. But Montreal will be a finer town at much less cost."
Rose was fain to refuse at the last moment, but M'sieu Ralph persuaded. The few women of any note were gathered in the room miladi had first occupied. Rose looked curiously at the daughter of M. Hébert—she was so much taller than she used to be, and her hair was put up on her head with a big comb.
"Thou art a sweet child," said Madame de Champlain. "And whose daughter may she be?"
It was an awkward question. Destournier flushed unconsciously.
"She is the Rose of Quebec," he made answer, with a smile. "Her parents were dead before she came here."
"Ah, I remember hearing the Governor speak of her, and learned that there were so few real citizens in Quebec who were to grow up with the town as their birthright. It is but a dreary-looking place, yet the wild river, the great gulf, the magnificent forests give one a sense of grandeur, yet loneliness. And my husband says it is the same hundreds of miles to the westward; that there are lakes like oceans in themselves. And such furs! All Paris is wild with the beauty of them. Yet they lie around here as if of no value."
"You would find that the traders appraise them pretty well," and he raised his brows a trifle, while a rather amused expression played about his eyes.
"Is there always such a turmoil of trade?"
"Oh, no. The traders scatter before mid-autumn. The cold weather sets in and the snow and ice are our companions. The small streams freeze up. But the Sieur has written of all these things in his book."
He looked inquiringly at her for a touch of enthusiasm, but her sweet face was placid.
"Monsieur my husband desired that I should be educated in his religion in the convent. We do not take up worldly matters, that is not considered becoming to girls and women. We think more of the souls that may be saved from perdition. The men go ahead to discover, the priests come to teach these ignorant savages that they have souls that must be returned to God, or suffer eternally."
There spoke the devotee. Destournier wondered a little how the Sieur had come to choose a dévote for a wife. For he was a born explorer, with a body and a will of such strength that present defeat only spurred him on. But where was there a woman to match him, to add to his courage and resolve! Perhaps men did not need such women. Destournier was not an enthusiast in religious matters. He had been here long enough to understand the hold their almost childish superstitions had on the Indians, their dull and brutish lack of any high motive, their brutal and barbarous customs. They were ready to be baptized a dozen times over just as they would use any of their own charms, or for the gain of some trifle.
Madame seemed to study the frank face of the little girl. How beautiful her eyes were; her eager, intelligent, spirited face; the fine skin that was neither light nor dark, and withstood sun and wind alike, and lost none of its attractive tints. But she was so different from the little girls sent to the nuns for training. They never looked up at you with these wide-open eyes that seemed to question you, to weigh you.
"There is no convent here where you can be taught?" addressing herself to the child.
"The fathers are building one. But it is only for the men. The women cook and learn to dress deerskins until they are like velvet. They must make the clothing, for not a great deal comes from France. And it would only do for ladies like you and Madame Giffard."
"But there must be some education, some training, some prayers," and the lady looked rather helpless.
She was very sweet and beautiful in her soft silken dress of gray, that was flowered in the same color, and trimmed with fur and velvet. From her belt depended a chain of carved ivory beads and a crucifix, from another chain a small oval looking-glass in a silver frame. Her flaring collar of lace and the stomacher were worked in pearls. Many Parisians had them sewn with jewels.
"I can read French very well," said Rose, after a pause. "And some Latin."
"Oh, the prayers, and some of the old hymns——"
"No, it isn't prayers exactly—except to their gods. There are so many gods. Jove was the great one."
"Oh, my child, this is heresy. There is but one God and the Holy Virgin, and the saints to whom you can make invocation."
"Well, then I think you have a number of gods. Do you pray to them all? And what do you pray for?"
"For the wicked world to be converted to God, for them to love Him, and serve Him."
"And how do they serve Him?" inquired the child. "If He is the great God Father Jamay teaches He can do everything, have everything. It is all His. Then why does He not keep people well, so they can work, and not blight the crops with fierce storms. Sometimes great fields of maize are swept down. And the little children die; the Indians kill each other, and at times the white men who serve them."
"Oh, child, you do not understand. There must be convents in this new world for the training of girls. They must be taught to pray that God's will may be done, not their own."
"How would I know it was God's will?" asked the irreverent child, decisively, yet with a certain sweetness.
"The good Father would tell you."
"How would he know?"
"He lives a holy life in communion with God."
"What is the convent like?" suddenly changing her thoughts.
"It is a large house full of little ones, the sisters' cells, the novices' cells——"
"There are some at the post. They put criminals in them. They are filthy and dark," with a kind of protesting vehemence.
"These are clean, because they are whitewashed, and you scrub the floor twice a week. There is a little pallet on which you sleep, aprie-dieu——"
"What is that?" interrupted the child.
"A little altar, with a stone step on which you kneel. And a crucifix at the top, a book of prayer and invocation. Many of the sisters pray an hour at midnight. All pray an hour in the morning, then breakfast and the chapel for another hour, with prayers and singing. After that the classes. The little girls are taught the catechism and manners, if they are to go out in the world, sewing and embroidery. At noon prayers again and a little lunch, then work out of doors for an hour, and running about for exercise, catechising again, singing, supper and a chapel hour, and then to bed. But the nuns spend the evening in prayer, so do the devout."
"Madame, I shall never go in a convent, if the Fathers build one for girls. I like the big out-of-doors. And if God made the world He made it for some purpose, that people should go out and enjoy it. I like the wilderness, the great blue sky, the sun and the stars at night, the trees and the river, and the birds and the deer and the beautiful wild geese, as they sail in great flocks. If I was shut up in a cell I should beat my head against the stones until it was a jelly, and then I should be dead."
Madame de Champlain looked at the child in amaze. In her decorous life she had known nothing like it.
"And I wish there were no women. I do not like women any more. Men are better because they live out of doors and do not pray so much. Except the priests. And they are dirty."
Then she turned away and went out on the gallery, with a curiously swelling heart. Oh, why was not Marie Gaudrion different? What made people so unlike. If there was some one——
"Ha, little maid, where are you running to so fast?" exclaimed a laughing voice. "Have you seen my sister yet?"
Eustache Boullé caught her arm, but she shook him off, and stood up squarely, facing him. What vigor and resolution there was in her small bewitching face.
"Hi, hi! thou art a plucky littlefille, ready for a quarrel by the looks of thy flashing eyes. What have I done to thee, that thou shouldst shake me off as a viper?"
"Nothing! I am not to be handled roughly. I am going my way, and I think it will not interfere with thine."
A pleasant smile crossed his face which made him really attractive, and half disarmed her fierceness.
"My way is set in no special lines until I return to Tadoussac. Hast thou seen my sister?"
She nodded.
"Every one loves her. She is as good as she is beautiful. And she will charm thee," in a triumphant tone, gathering that the interview had not already done this.
"I am not to be charmed in that fashion. Yes, she is beautiful, but she would like me to be put in a convent. And I would throw myself in the river first."
"There are no convents, little one. And but few people to put into them. In a new country it is best that they marry and have families. When there are too many women then convents play a useful part."
"Let me pass," she cried disdainfully, but not trying to push aside.
"Tell me where you go!"
"To Mère Gaudrion's to see that soft-headed Marie. I wish she had some ideas, but she is good and cheerful, and does as she is told."
"You are not very complimentary to your friend."
"But if I said she had a bad temper, and told what was not true, and slapped her little brothers and sisters, that would be a falsehood. And if I said she understood the song of the birds and the sough of the wind among the trees, and the running, tumbling little streams that are always saying 'oh! let me get to the gulf as soon as possible, for I want to see what a great ocean is like,' it would not be true either. I like Marie," calmly.
"Thou art a curious little casuist. I am glad you like her. It shows that you are human. There are strange creatures in the woods and wilds of this new world."
"There is the Loup Garou, but I have not seen him. He gets changed from a man to a fierce dog, and if you kill the dog, the man dies. There is the Windigo, and the old medicine woman can call strange things out of a sick person who has been bewitched, and then he gets well. But M. Destournier laughs at these stories."
The young man had been backing slowly toward the steps and she had followed without taking note.
Now he said—"Let me help you down."
"I am not lame, M'sieu, neither am I blind."
"Will you take me to see Marie Gaudrion?"
"You would laugh at her, I see it in your eyes."
"Are my eyes such telltales?"
He had not the placid fairness of his sister, and his chestnut hair curled about his temples. His cheeks were red enough for a girl.
"Why should you want to see her?"
"I want to see all there is in Quebec. I want to know how the colony progresses. I may put it in a book."
"Like the Governor. But you could not make maps out of people," with an air of triumph.
"I'm not so sure. See here."
He drew from his pocket a roll and held one of the leaves before her eyes.
"Oh, that is old Temekwisa sitting out by the hut. And, M'sieu, he looks half drunken, as he nearly always is. And that is Jacques Barbeau breaking stone. Why, it is wonderful. And who else have you?"
There were several Indians in a powwow around the fire, there was a woman with a papoose on her back, and a few partly done.
"And the Sieur—and your sister?" eagerly.
"I have tried dozens of times and cannot please myself. The Indians have about the same salient points, and that lack of expression when they are tranquil. They are easy to do. And I can sometimes catch the fierce anger. At home I would have a teacher. Here I have to go by myself, try, and tear up. Then I am busy with many other things."
Her resentment had mostly subsided. His gift, if it could be called that, fascinated her. She had reproduced wonderful pictures in her brain, but to do them with her hand would be marvellous, like the Sieur writing his books.
They had reached the garden of the Gaudrions. Pierre was employed regularly now and was studying the plans of the new fort. Marie was seated on the grass, cutting leather fringe for garments and leggings. You could use up otherwise useless bits that way. The Mère was farther down pulling weeds from the carrot bed, and directing the labors of two children, at whom she shook a switch now and then. Marie had a baby on each side of her, tumbling about in the grass.
She looked up and nodded, while a heavy sort of smile settled about her lips, the upper one protruding a little, on account of two prominent teeth. Eustache had seen the peasant type at home, the low forehead, the deep-set eyes, the short nose, flattened at the base, the wide mouth and rather broad, unmeaning countenance, the type of women who bear burthens without complaining and do not resent when they are beaten. Marie had an abundance of blue-black hair, a clear skin, and a soft color in her cheeks.
Boullé glanced from one to the other, the lithe figure, the spirited face, the eyes that could flash and soften and sparkle with mirth almost in a minute, it seemed. What a distance lay between them.
"Marie, this is"—then Rose paused and flushed, and glanced at her unbidden companion.
"I am Eustache Boullé and my sister is the wife of the Governor de Champlain. And though I have been up and down the river I have never really visited Quebec before."
Marie nodded and went on cutting fringe.
"And he has done pictures—Temekwisa, that you would know in a minute. He did them with a pencil. Show them to her," she ordered, in a pretty peremptory manner, as with a graceful gesture of the hand she invited him to be seated on the grass, deftly rolling one baby over, who stared an instant, and then fell to sucking his fist.
Marie's heavy face lighted up with a kind of cheerful surprise.
"Why did you not go up and see them come in? And after the service of thanks, almost everybody went to see our dear Sieur's wife. She is beautiful in the face and wears a silken gown, and a little cap so fine you can see her hair through it. And she has small hands that look like snow, but not many rings, like Madame Giffard."
"Ma mèrewent to the prayers, but we could not both go. I saw the line of boats and heard the salute. And your sister will live here with the Governor?"
Eustache wanted to laugh, but commanded his countenance.
"Yes, though 'tis a dreary place to live in after gay France. I long to go back."
"They are to build a new fort. My father will work on it, and my brother, Pierre. And he wonders that you do not come oftener, Rose."
"There has not been a moonlight in a long while. I cannot come in the dark. And now he wants his own way in all the plans and I like mine. He has grown so big he is not amusing any more."
"But he likes you just as well," the girl said naïvely.
Eustache glanced. Rose did not change color at this frank admission.
Then the gun boomed out to announce the day's work for the government was over.
Rose sprang up. "It will soon be supper time," she said.
"Stay and have it with us. There are some cold roasted pigeons, with spiced gravy turned over them. You shall have a whole one."
"You are very good, Marie, but there are so many men about who have been drinking too much, that M. Destournier would read me a long lecture."
"But Pierre would walk up with thee."
Eustache had gathered up his pictures. They had only been an excuse to prolong his interview with Rose.
"I will see that no harm comes to your friend. Adieu, Mam'selle," and he bowed politely, at which Marie only stared.
"We are very good friends, are we not?" as he was parting with the pretty child.
"But I might not like you to-morrow," archly.
The new fort was begun on the summit of the cliff, almost two hundred feet above the water, and the guns would command it up and down. A good deal of stone was used. New houses were being reared in a much better fashion, the crevices thickly plastered with mortar, the chimneys of stone, with generous fireplaces. Destournier had repaired his small settlement and added some ground to the cultivated area.
"The only way to colonize," declared the Sieur. "If we could rouse the Indians into taking more interest. Civilization does not seem to attract them, though the women make good wives, and they are a scarce commodity. The English and the Dutch are wiser in this respect than we. When children are born on the soil and marry with their neighbors, one may be sure of good citizens."
The church, too, was progressing, and was called Notre Dame des Anges. Madame de Champlain was intensely religious, and used her best efforts to further the plans. She took a great interest in the Indian children, and when she found many of the women were not really married to the laborers around the fort, insisted that Père Jamay should perform the ceremony. The women were quite delighted with this, considering it a great mark of respect.
She began to study the Algonquin language, which was the most prevalent. She had brought three serving women from France, but they were not heroic enough to be enamored of the hardships. There was so little companionship for her that but for her religion she would have had a lonely time. The Héberts were plain people and hardly felt themselves on a par with the wife of their Governor, though Champlain himself, with more democratic tastes, used often to drop in to consult the farmer and take a meal.
Madame Giffard was not really religious. She was fond of pleasure and games of cards, and really hated any self-denial, or long prayers, though she went to Mass now and then. But between her and the earnest, devoted Hélène there was no sympathy.
The new house was ready by October. Hélène would fain have had it made less comfortable, but this the Governor would not permit. It would be hung with furs when the bitter weather came in.
No one paid much attention to Rose, who came and went, and wandered about at her own sweet will. Eustache Boullé was fairly fascinated with her, and followed her like a shadow when he was not in attendance on his sister. He persuaded her to sit for a picture, but it was quite impossible to catch her elusive beauty. She would turn her head, change the curve of her pretty lips, allow her eyes to rove about and then let the lids drop decorously in a fashion he called a nun's face; but it was adorable.
"I shall not be a nun," she would declare vehemently.
"No, Mam'selle, thou art the kind to dance on a man's heart and make him most happy and most wretched. No nun's coif for that sunny, tangled mop of thine."
He would fain have lingered through the winter, but a peremptory message came for him.
"I shall be here another summer and thou wilt be older, and understand better what life is like."
"It is good enough and pleasant enough now," she answered perversely.
"I wonder—if thou wilt miss me?"
"Why, yes, silly! The splendid canoeing and the races we run, and I may be big enough next summer to go to Lachine. I would like to rush through the rapids that Antoine the sailor tells about, where you feel as if you were going down to the centre of the world."
"No woman would dare. It would not be safe," he objected.
"Men are not always lost, only a few clumsy ones. And I can swim with the best of them."
"M. Destournier will not let you go."
"He is not my father. I belong just to myself, and I will do as I like."
She stamped her foot on the ground, but she laughed as well. He was not nineteen yet, but a man would be able to manage her.
She did miss him when he was gone. And it seemed as if Marie grew more stupid and cared less for her. And that lout of a Jules Personeau would sit by her on the grass, or help her pick berries or grapes and open them skilfully, take out the seeds or the pits of plums, and place them on the flat rocks to dry. He never seemed to talk. And Rose knew that M. Destournier scolded because he was not breaking stone.
He was building a new house himself, and helping the Sieur plan out the path from the fort up above to the settlement down below. They did not dream that one day it would be the upper and the lower town, and that on the plain would be fought one of the historic battles of the world, where two of the bravest of men would give up their lives, and the lilies of France go down for the last time. Quebec was beginning to look quite a town.
Destournier's house commanded his settlement, which was more strongly fortified with a higher palisade, over which curious thorn vines were growing for protection. He had a fine wheat field, and some tobacco. Of Indian corn a great waving regiment planted only two rows thick so as to give no chance for skulking marauders.
The house of M. Giffard was falling into decay. Miladi had sent to France early in the season for many new stuffs and trinkets, and the settlement of some affairs, instead of turning all over to Destournier. The goods had come at an exorbitant price, but there had been a great tangle in money matters, and at his death his concessions had passed into other hands.
"They always manage to rob a woman," he thought grimly.
"I supposed you were to leave things in my hands," he said, a little upbraidingly, to her.
"I make you so much trouble. And you have so much to do for the Governor and your settlement, and I am so weak and helpless. I have never been strong since that dreadful night. I miss all the care and love. Oh, if you were a woman you would know how heart-breaking it was. I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead!"
"And you do not care to go back to France?"
"Do not torment me with that question. I should die on the voyage. And to be there without friends would be horrible. I have no taste for a convent."
A great many times the vague plan had entered his mind as a sort of duty. Now he would put it into execution.
"Become my wife," he said. He leaned over and took her slim hands in his and glanced earnestly into her eyes, and saw there were fine wrinkles setting about them. What did it matter? She needed protection and care, and there was no woman here that he could love as the romances described. He was too busy a man, too practical.
She let her head drop on his broad breast. She had dreamed of this and used many little arts, but had never been sure of their effect. There were the years between, but she needed his strength and devotion more than a younger woman.
"Oh, ought I be so happy again?" she murmured. "There is so much that is strong and generous to you that a woman could rest content in giving her whole life to you, her best love."
He wished she had not said that. He would have been content that her best love should lie softly in the grave, like an atmosphere around the sleeping body of Laurent Giffard, whom he had admired very much, and who had loved his wife with the fervor of youth. He drew a long breath of pity for the man. It seemed as if he was taking something away from him.
"Is it true?" she asked, in a long silence.
"That I shall care for you, yes. That you will be my wife." Then he kissed her tenderly.
"I am so happy. Oh, you cannot think how sad I have been for months, with no one to care for me," and her voice was exquisitely pathetic.
"I have cared for you all this while," he said. "You were like a sister to whom I owed a duty."
"Duty is not quite love," in her soft murmurous tone, touching his cheek caressingly.
He wondered a little what love was like, if this tranquil half pity was all. Madame de Champlain was like a child to her husband, the women emigrants thus far had not been of a high order, and the marriages had been mostly for the sake of a helpmeet and possible children. The Governor had really encouraged the mixed marriages, where the Indian women were of the better sort. A few of them were taking kindly to religion, and had many really useful arts in the way of making garments out of dressed deerskins. He chose rather some of those who had been taken prisoners and had no real affiliation with the tribes. They felt honored by marrying a white man, and now Père Jamay performed a legal and religious ceremony, so that no man could put away his wife.
"Oh, what do you think!" and Rose sprang eagerly to Destournier, catching him by the arm with both hands and giving a swing, as he was pacing the gallery, deep in his new plans. "It is so full of amusement for me. And I can't understand how she can do it. Jules Personeau is such a stupid! And that great shock of hair that keeps tumbling into his eyes. It is such a queer color, almost as if much sitting in the sun was turning it red."
"What about Jules? He is very absent-minded nowadays, and does not attend to his work. The summer will soon be gone."
"Oh, it isn't so much about Jules. Marie Gaudrion is going to marry him."
"Why, then I think it is half about Jules," laughing down into the eager face. "A girl can't be married alone."
"Well, I suppose you would have to go and live with some one," in a puzzled tone. "But Jules has such rough, dirty hands. He caught me a few days ago and patted my cheek, and I slapped him. I will not have rough hands touch me! And Marie laughs. She is only thirteen, but she says she is a woman. I don't want to be a woman. I won't have a husband, and be taken off to a hut, and cook, and work in the garden. M'sieu, I should fly to the woods and hide."
"And the poor fellow would get no dinner." He laughed at her vehemence. "I suppose Jules is in love and we must excuse his absent-mindedness. Will it be soon?"
"Why, yes, Jules is getting his house ready. Barbe is to help her mother and care for the babies. I like Marie some," nodding indecisively, "but I wish there was a girl who liked to run and play, and climb trees, and talk to the birds, and oh, do a hundred things, all different from the other."
She gave a little hop and a laugh of exquisite freedom. She was full of restless grace, as the birds themselves; her blooming cheeks and shining eyes, the way she carried her head, the face breaking into dimples with every motion, the mouth tempting in its rosy sweetness. He bent and kissed her. She held him a moment by the shoulders.
"Oh, I like you, I like you," she cried. "You are above them all, you have something,"—her pretty brow knit,—"yet you are better than the Sieur even, the best of them all. If you will wait a long while I might marry you, but no other, no other," shaking her curls.
He laughed, yet it was not from her naïve confession. She did not realize what she was saying.
"How old am I?" insistently.
"About ten, I think."
"Ten. And ten more would be twenty. Is that old?"
"Oh, no."
"And Madame de Champlain was twelve when she was married in France. Well, I suppose that is right. And—two years more! No, M'sieu, I shall wait until I am twenty. Maybe I shall not want to climb trees then, nor scramble over rocks, nor chase the squirrels, and pelt them with nuts."
"Thou wilt be a decorous little lady then."
"That is a long way off."
"Yes. And Wanamee is calling thee."
"The priest says we must call her Jolette, that is her Christian name. Must I have another name? Well, I will not. Good-night," and away she ran.
He fell into rumination again. What would she say to his marriage? He had a misgiving she would take it rather hardly. She had not been so rapturously in love with miladi of late, but since the death of her husband, the rather noisy glee of the child had annoyed her. She would be better now. Of course they would keep the child, she had no other friends, nor home.
Marie Gaudrion's marriage was quite a mystery to Rose. That any one could love such an uncouth fellow as Jules, that a girl could leave the comfortable home and pretty garden, for now the fruit trees had grown and were full of fragrant bloom in the early season, and the ripening fruit later on, and go to that dismal little place under the rocks.
"You see it will be much warmer," Jules had said. It was built against the rock. "This will shield us from the north wind and the heavy snows, and another year we will take a place further down in the allotment. I will lay in a store of things, and we will be as happy as the squirrels in their hollow tree."