Amanda Douglas - A Little Girl in Old St. Louis

He would not go away after she had fallen asleep, but wrapped himself in a blanket and leaned his head on the foot of her bed. Now and then she moaned a little, which gave him a pang, and after midnight she grew very restless. The fever was coming on again. Mère Lunde roused her and gave her another potion, and before daylight she had prepared the corn bath again. The fever did not seem to be as obstinate. By noon she was quite comfortable. Father Lemoine brought in the vicar general, who was going back to Ste. Genevieve. This was a great honor, and Mère Lunde brought out some wine that had come from the real vineyards of France.

Father Meurin heard the little girl’s story. He had known of Antoine Freneau, indeed, he had performed the first marriage and given the first baptism in the little town. That was in a tent, because there was no church. And the first services had been held in the fields, for the church had been built hardly ten years.

“She would be in poor hands if left to her grandfather,” he admitted. “And I hope she will be rightly brought up. If you had a wife, M. Denys.”

“I have rambled about so much I have had no time to marry,” he returned rather drily. “But now I shall settle down.”

“I hope so. It is what the towns need, steady occupancy. And you will deal rightly with the child and see that she is brought up as a daughter of the Church should be. You are quite sure her mother – ” he finished the question with his eyes.

“I saw the marriage register in the cathedral at Quebec. Then her mother was taken to France, where she died,” Denys answered.

The vicar nodded, satisfied. He repeated the prayer for the recovery of the sick and gave them all a kindly blessing with his adieu.

Gaspard Denys fell into a brown study. She was not his child, to be sure. Would it make any difference any time in the future? Ought there to be some woman different from Mère Lunde – bah! it would be years before Renée was grown up. And the little one wanted no one to share his love. He was glad – that would always be an excuse to himself. He never could put any one in the place he had hoped to set Renée Freneau.

Renée mended slowly. She had indeed been very ill. She was so weak that it tired her to sit up among the pillows in her bed. And one day when she insisted upon getting up she dropped over into Mère Lunde’s arms.

“Where is all my strength gone to?” she inquired pettishly.

“ Pauvre petite ,” it was queer, and the good woman had no science to explain it.

But her throat improved and her voice cleared up, the fever grew lighter every day and she began to have some appetite. Friends came in to inquire and sympathize and bring delicacies. Madame Renaud offered her services, but no one was really needed, though the cordial, smiling face did Renée good. Ma’m’selle Barbe brought the two little girls, who looked awestricken at the pale face, where the eyes seemed bigger than ever.

Uncle Gaspard made a sort of settle on which they could put some cushions and blankets so that she could be brought out to the living room and watch Mère Lunde at her work. Then he improved upon it and made it into a kind of chair with a back that could be raised and lowered by an ingenious use of notches and wooden pins. He was getting so handy that he made various useful articles, for in those days in these upper settlements there were so few pieces of furniture that could be purchased, unless some one died and left no relatives, which was very seldom. Proud enough one was of owning an article or a bit of china or a gown that was a family heirloom.

“Oh,” he said one evening when she was comfortably fixed and the blaze of the great logs lighted up the room and made her pale face a little rosy, “I had almost forgotten – you have been so ill it drove most other things out of my mind. Your grandfather came up here on Christmas day and brought you a gift.”

“A gift! Oh, what was it?”

“Mère Lunde had not forgotten, but she had a superstitious feeling about it. I will get it for you,” Gaspard said.

He returned from the adjoining room with the box in his hand. It was very securely fastened with a twisted bit of deerskin, which was often used for cord.

“Open it,” she begged languidly.

He cut the cord but did not raise the cover. She held it some seconds in her hand.

“Uncle, do you remember you told me about a girl who opened a box and let troubles out all over the world?”

“But she was bidden not to. Grandpère Antoine did not leave any such word as that,” smilingly.

She raised the cover slowly. There was a bit of soft white fur in the bottom and on it lay a golden chain and a cross, with a pearl set where the arms and upright met. In the clasp was a smaller pearl. She held it up silently.

“The good saints must have touched his soul!” ejaculated Mère Lunde. “A beautiful cross! It is gold?” with a questioning glance at Denys.

Renée handed it to him.

“Oh, yes, gold of course. And your grandfather seemed quite moved with pity for you. I saw him again this morning, but he said, ‘Oh, I did not think she would die.’”

Renée’s eyes were wide open, with a startled light. “Did anybody think – that?” and her voice trembled.

“You may be sure I did not,” exclaimed Denys with spirit, almost with joyousness. “I would not have let you go.”

She held out both arms to him, and he clasped her to his heart.

“But people are compelled to sometimes,” said Mère Lunde gravely.

“We were not compelled. And now you are to get well as rapidly as possible. Everybody has been having a merry time with the king’s ball, and you have missed it. But there is next year.”

How far away next year seemed! Spring, and summer, and autumn.

“How long have I been ill? It is queer, but I don’t seem to remember clearly,” trying to think, and studying the leaping blaze that seemed like a group of children playing tag, or hide and seek.

“It is almost a month. First it was pretty bad,” and he compressed his lips with a queer expression and shook his head. Now he had let his hair grow quite long, as most of the men did, and the ends fell into a sort of curl.

“And then – Mère Lunde, the things you gave me were very bad and bitter, and my head used to go round, I remember. Sometimes things stood on the ceiling in such a funny position. And then to be like a baby, hardly able to walk.”

She gave a soft, languid ripple of a laugh. Ah, what if he had lost her!

“And when can I go out?”

“Oh, not in a long while. It is bitter cold, even the river is full of ice chunks. But you may dance at the next king’s ball.”

“The king’s ball?” inquiringly.

“Not the King of France,” with a gentle smile. “When the Christ was born three kings came to do Him honor. And the feast is always kept.”

“The blessed Epiphany,” explained Mère Lunde. “Though why it should be given over to all this merry-making I can’t see.”

“Did you ever go?” asked Renée.

“Oh, yes. But not last year – I had started for Canada. And the year before I was up with the hunters.”

“Tell me about it.”

He sat down beside her. She was twisting the chain about her fingers.

“There is not much to do for the people who stay here in the winter, though New Orleans is twice as gay. So they have the balls. There are four queens, pretty young girls, and they each choose a king and open the ball with him. Then they dance. But the old people and a good many of the children go as well. And there is dancing and jollity and a feast of good things to eat, and much laughing and jesting and falling in love, with the marrying at Easter. Next year we will go.”