A Little Girl in Old St. Louis by Amanda M. Douglas
CHAPTER XX
WHEN A WOMAN WILL
"What ails the child?" inquired Mere Lunde. "She has not been likeherself the last fortnight. And now she is in there, crying as if herheart would break. It is all that Andre Valbonais, I know. Why does henot marry her and be done with it?"
"But if she will not?" Gaspard Denys shrugged his shoulders and drew hisbrow into a frown.
"In my time a man knew how to make a woman say yes. And a woman knewwhen she was going to get a good husband, which is of the Lord. GaspardDenys, you have spoiled her!"
Yes, he had spoiled her. A man did not know how to bring up a girl. Butshe was so sweet in all her wilfulness, so loving in spite of littletempers and authoritative ways, so dear to him, that if she had wantedto walk over his body with her dainty feet he could hardly have refusedher. He went into her room and took her in his arms.
"You are too good to me!" she cried presently. "And I am a miserable,hateful, quarrelsome, selfish little thing, wanting my own way and thennot happy or satisfied with it. Oh, how will you endure me years andyears, getting queerer as I grow old! For now we will have to live heretogether always. I have sent Andre away. Oh, will you care?"
There was no use arguing. She had cried herself into an unreasonablepassion. She had had her way. How much of it was regret? None of it wassatisfaction.
"Well, dear, then we must get along," and his tone had a tranquillizingcheerfulness in it. "There is no one I would like as well for a son----"
"But you do not want to go to that wretched New Orleans?" in a tone ofincredulity.
She raised her head from his shoulder. Her swollen eyes and tear-stainedface melted his heart.
"You know we were going some time. It is well worth seeing. But we donot need to take Andre."
"Yet you like him so," with her old waywardness.
"Yes. And I am sorry you do not."
She hid her face again. She _did_ like him. She felt it in the hot colorthat stained her cheek.
"He will be gone a year--that is not long," she said in a rather hopefultone.
"Or, he might decide to stay longer. If he has nothing to call himback----"
They would be lonely without him. She would be lonely. After all, therewere few young men to compare with him. And some time--if he was _quite_sure she did not care for him, he might marry. She never could marry anyone else, but, then--men were different. Oh, here was one who had neverput a woman in his first love's place! And Andre was all alone in theworld. Yes, he would need a wife----
"Oh, Uncle Gaspard, I am not worth all this love!" she criedremorsefully.
"You will always be worth it to two men," he said in so gentle a tonethat it pierced her heart. "I am much older than you, dear, and some dayI shall be called upon to take the journey from which one never returns.Then you will be left quite alone."
What made her think of the little girl in the old chateau to whom thedays were so long and lonesome? Yet, it would be very sad to be leftalone. And--after all----
There are so many "after alls" in life. And so many things seeminsurmountable when looked at in a moment of passion. Uncle Denys couldnever give her wholly away, had never planned to do that. Fathers andmothers were happy to have their children married, and here she wouldnot do this for the best friend she had, nor for the man who loved hersincerely--that she loved--a little.
"You ought to shut me up in the loft and keep me on--on pemican, whichyou know I hate, and declare you would never let me out until--until----"
"A woman's love must always be a free gift, Renee, darling. And if youdo not love Andre it would be sinning against him to marry him."
She knew down deep in her heart that she did love him, that she hadwaited these two years because there was no one like him to her. Ofcourse, she had not really meant that he should throw up his fineprospects, but be willing to for her sake. And she knew now it was allvery foolish and wicked, and that she deserved to be left alone foryears and years and have them all full of sorrowful regret.
"I am going to turn over a new leaf, indeed I am," and she slipped outof Uncle Gaspard's arms. "See what a fright I have made of myself withred eyes and swollen face, and my hair frousled. Dinner must be nearlyready. Oh, what a long morning! And I have made you unhappy, when I loveyou so much," in accents of tenderest regret.
He kissed her and went away.
They were very silent at dinner. Mere Lunde grumbled because they ate solittle. Then Uncle Gaspard went out. The boats were loading up withlead, as well as other materials, and he was interested in that, andneeded as well.
No one came during the evening. She heard the violins and singing up thestreet, the fiddles and dancing down below. The fire was all out; no onewanted it after the cooking was done. There were some black charred endsand piles of ashes. It had a melancholy appearance. And then she fanciedherself as old as Mere Lunde, sitting by the chimney corner, only MereLunde had married the man of her choice--it seemed now to Renee thatevery one must have done so--and though her two sons were dead, she hadhad them once; and everybody must die some time. But to die withouthaving been very happy, that made her shudder. And, then, to know thatone had cast it away rather than give up a whim of will.
So the next day passed and the next. Sunday she and Uncle Gaspard wentto church. There would only be one Sunday more for Andre--ten days. Forher--how many?
Coming down the path they glanced at each other. What wonderfullanguages live in the depths of the eyes! Andre came to her side, andthen she colored and the hand he took trembled, but she did not withdrawit. They walked on homeward. She never knew whether any one spoke ornot. Uncle Gaspard was lingering behind, giving thanks that he waslikely to get his heart's desire.
They paused at the garden gate. He opened it for her to pass. There wasmidsummer richness and bloom in it, the homely every-day herbs givingout a sweetness in their plain flowering that was reviving. He followedher, but she made a little pause at the vine-clad arbor.
"I am wilful and delight in my own way," she began, and the wordstrembled on the fragrant air. "I am like a briar that pricks you whenyou would gather the rose----"
"But the rose is sweet for all that. And--I will take the rose."
Then he kissed her throbbing red lips, her fluttering eyelids, just ashe had dreamed of doing many a time. And the bliss was sweeter than anydream.
There was not much time to waste. Mere Lunde protested at first at beingleft alone, but there would be Chloe, and the Marchands to look afterher, and neighbors were kindly.
Not much fuss was made in those days over wedding trousseaus. Often onedress went through families, was even borrowed. But Renee had no need ofthat.
So they went to church on Sunday and heard the banns called, and everyone nodded to his next neighbor with the confident air of having knownit all along. The next day Gaspard Denys gave his darling away, and thepriest joined their hands and blessed them. Madame Chouteau gave themthe wedding feast, which was a mid-day dinner in the grand old house,much the finest residence in St. Louis. It had not the boisterousness ofmost weddings, for only the better part of the community were invited.Madame Chouteau could do that.
They drank the bride's health and gave her all good wishes. The menconsidered Andre very lucky and he thought himself so, but Renee'sfortune scarcely counted, since he would make one for himself.Everything seemed sweet and solemn to Renee, and she was awed in asacred sort of way as this new life unfolded before her.
They walked in quite a procession afterward. Gaspard Denys had MadameGardepier. They talked a little about the bridegroom, then she said:
"Monsieur Denys, you have done a faithful duty toward the child. Youwill miss her much. One can never be quite the same again. Is it trueyou are going to New Orleans also?"
"Yes, madame. I have not been there for years."
She had hoped it was not so. If he were lonely, he might turn to othersfor consolation. And if the child went out of his life----
"But will her husband agree to
"He is like a son to me, and he knows it. You see, I am old enough to behis father also."
"Ah, M'sieu Denys, you should have had children of your very own, and awoman to love in your home. You have such a noble and tender heart youcould have made some one so happy."
Her heart beat as she said it. Why could he not be roused to the hopeeven now?
"I think you know that I loved the child's mother, and that we wereunfairly separated. If she had lived--but she died. And when I heard thelittle one was sent across the sea by her father, who had small regardfor her, it was as if her mother, leaning over the wall of heaven,called to me, and I did what I knew would set her heart at rest."
"But she had heaven and all the saints. And in that land of the blestone cannot long for human loves. It is to those left on earth to whomthey are precious," she returned, with a little longing in her tone. Shehad been waiting for Renee's marriage to take her out of his life. Whyshould the child have so much?
"I think they know, those blessed ones. Ah, madame, if you had beendying, instead of your husband, and leaving the little one, would younot have pleaded with the very angels that some one might be raised upto care for her? And if that had been one to whom she would be doublydear! So the child in one sense has been like my own."
And always her rival, Barbe Gardepier felt. Her last hope seemed to dropas one lets fall a withered flower that has been sweet and is stillfreighted with some dear remembrances.
They paused at her sister's house.
"You will come in and say good-by to-morrow?"
"Yes," and he bowed.
Why should things go so wrong in the world? Renee Freneau defrauded of alifelong happiness, of life itself, and she who had seen such a blissfulpossibility twice in her short life shut out from what would have beenher brightest happiness.
He went his way thoughtfully. He had been so long used to a man'sliberty that he did not care to enchain himself with matrimony. Andsurely he would give Renee no rival to her children.
It was a gorgeous day and the fleet of boats glided out with music andmany a "_Bon voyage!_" The little girl had vanished, but Reneeremembered the first night she came, when in the bend of the river theypassed the old ruined heap, and the old French post-house going todecay. Was it in some other life? She still had Uncle Denys, and she wasglad. What a wonderful thing it was to love a woman's memory all theseyears!
It was a pleasant journey, with only a few storms, one severe enough tomake them run into an inlet to get out of the fierce sweep of the river.There was Cahokia, whose ruins were still visible. Kaskaskia, despoiledof much of its valuable front, the town high now above the river.Strange and curious sights to one who had been no farther than St.Charles.
How would St. Louis look when they went back to it? Renee wondered. Forthis to her was a marvellous city, more brilliant than any dream evermade it. It seemed as if the whole world must have been gathered in itwhen one heard the confusion of tongues.
They did not return the next summer, for still the business could notspare Andre. But Monsieur Chouteau came down, and there were journeysabout to places of such bloom and beauty and mystery that one almost hadto hold one's breath.
Strange things, too, were happening in the world beyond the great riverthat seemed all to them. The colonies were growing more stable, beingwelded together by chains of interest and pride and patriotism into agrand country, but the Mississippi River would always be its boundary.It could not pass that, men thought.
Over seas there were tumults and wars, and France in the throes of amost fearful revolution. They heard a great deal about it here. Howhundreds of the nobility were thrown in prison, the King and Queenexecuted and the mob quarrelling with its leaders.
Renee thought of the two little brothers in Paris that she had seen onthe day of her journey. And the Count. He was among the nobility, and hewas her father. She shuddered over the horrible doings. And here was herother father, bright and happy and always considering what would be forher pleasure.
Sometimes they read an unspoken wish in each other's eyes.
"It is not quite St. Louis," she would say, with a half smile meant tobe gay, but was pensive instead.
"No. But we will return presently," the eyes full of cheerful light andthe tone hopeful.
"And never leave it again?"
"I am glad you cannot forget it."
"Oh, there is no place like the home and the friends of childhood--thelarger childhood, when everything is impressed on one's heart. The oldhouse and the shop and the wide chimneys and Mere Lunde, and theMarchands with their babies. I know what it is to be an exile."
Still she and Andre were very happy, taking the leisure of life like twochildren, growing into each other's souls, laughing over some of the oldtimes. And she would say:
"How could you love me so well when I was horrid and provoking andtormented you so?"
"But you had moments of rare sweetness, ma'm'selle; and sometimes thebee works a long while before he can extract the honey."
"And you have never once been sorry?"
"The sorrow would have come if I had not gained you--a lifelong sorrow."
"And I like your strength, your determination, your resolution, Andre.Oh, I like you altogether. I would not have one thought or line of youchanged."
"You yielded so sweetly, ma'm'selle. It is the rose without the thorns.And such tenderness! Ah, I do not wonder Father Gaspard gave up allother women for love of you!" kissing the crown of her head, a trick hehad learned from Denys.
"Not altogether for me," smiling with the distant look in her eyes, asif she saw a heavenly vision. "For my mother as well. I wish I couldremember her better, but I was so small. And do you know, Andre, I usedto act like a fiend sometimes, I was so afraid he would love Barbe. Andnow and then a great wave of sorrow sweeps over me, thinking of all shehas missed."
"Madame Gardepier is a lovely woman. Still she does not look like thosewho have had their heart's longing satisfied. There is something stillneeded."
"And I could not even yet give up Papa Gaspard. I am still selfish. Areyou jealous, Andre?" raising beauful, beseeching eyes to him.
"He gave you to me long before you gave yourself--the treasure of hislife. I lost my father so young that I cannot tell what such a lovewould have been like, but I know it could not be any tenderer. One seesit in his eyes and the comfort he takes, the immeasurable content. Buthe is longing for home. Dear, we will never leave St. Louis again."
They often made love to each other, she with a freedom that wifehood hadgiven her which was enchanting. Gaspard Denys took deep satisfaction inhis two children. There was one more dream, but that was for someafter-day fruition.
There was a much greater spirit of energy in this queer, half-submergedtown, with its muddy streets that sometimes were positive streams. Theambition of the outside world was stirring them, the interest thatvaried commerce brings. There were new boats being builded for the oldfirm, and in one of these Renee went up the river again to her old home.
There had been no great freshet since the one that had wrought suchdestruction, but the swift current of spring had torn away some of theold obstructions. Noble bluffs had settled to sunken ridges, banks hadslipped into the river and formed other high places full of greenery andwild bloom. Caves of rocks swept out and left high in some other place.It was wild and curious with a peculiar beauty. Its partly ruined townswere recovering. There were little hamlets set so near the river's edgeone wondered people had the courage to plant them there. And there wasall the Illinois side, the new country showing already the energy of thenew race combined of many peoples.
Renee might have left St. Louis yesterday, so little had it changed inthe two years. The levee was in a better condition, some new docks hadbeen built. And, as usual, there was the throng to see the boats comein, pouring down from the Rue de la Tour and the Rue de la Place intothe Rue Royale. Yet it was like an e
It was old St. Louis, but the little girl had gone forever. MadameValbonais, prettier than ever and with a style that was foreign to thesmall town. Monsieur, grown a little stouter, fine and strong, yetsmiling with a face of gladness. Gaspard Denys, keeping close watch overthe mulatto nurse in gay coif and bright gown, who had in her arms thelittle son of madame.
A triumphal procession escorted her home. How curiously dry the streetswere, and almost prim after the southern irregularity; the riotoustangle of vines, the balconies full of ladies with fans, chatting andwaving to the passers-by, throwing coquettish smiles. The old French airthat had grown settled in fifty years, the queer houses, and oh, yes,here was the garden, and Mere Lunde watching at the gate, more bent thanever, crying tears of joy, and in her broken voice repeating, "Oh, mylittle one! Oh, my little one!"
Yet it was strange, too, after all that luxuriance of growth and bloomand fragrance, queer, crooked, busy streets, gay wine shops with opendoors and tables of men within playing cards or fiddling or singingsongs. Birds of every color and richest plumage filling the air withmelody, iridescent lizards creeping about winking with their brightblack eyes, alligators sunning themselves in the ooze, snakes glidingabout unmolested, throngs of almost naked children shining in theirblackness, ready to sing and dance, turn a dozen somersaults or walkupside down for a copper--the vivid panorama still floated before hereyes and gave her queer, mixed impressions.
Most of the people seemed to have stood still. Two or three very oldones had died and several babies, but others had come to replace them.Not a new house had been built; the stockade was getting dilapidated.The Government House had been painted afresh, but the old court-housewas dingy enough. The priest's house had been repaired, the littlegarden was lovely with roses that were always blooming, and the Chouteaugrounds were like a beautiful park, so well kept and thrifty.
"Oh," Andre said, "I wonder if you will be sick with longing for all thegayety and loveliness we have left behind?"
"Why, then, we can go there again," she answered merrily, with bright,contented eyes and a winsome smile. "It is so restful here. And PapaGaspard is so happy."
He was hale and hearty and had not turned the half-century yet. Then hewas full of plans. They would move the shop down on the Rue Royale andbuild a new room on to the old house. He had brought home some ideas ofimprovement and comfort, of larger living. It was not likely St. Louiswould always stand still.
Madame Marchand was delighted to get her friend back again. There was anew little girl, but Renee kept her beauty and winsomeness. Wawatayseewas still lithe and slim--it belonged to her tribe--and M. Marchand was asdevoted as ever. Oh, what days of talk it took to make up all the past!
And Madame Gardepier had married and gone over to the Illinois side tolive on a big plantation. Pierre Menard had a mill for sawing boards anda brewery for beer, no end of slaves and servants, full fifty years ofage, and two grown sons married. He coveted the little AngeliqueGardepier and sued hard for the mother, who would have a luxurious life.
"But thou wilt be an American truly," sighed Madame Renaud.
There was still a great prejudice against the Illinois people. Theirreligion, or, rather, lack of religion, was a great stumbling-block.Then their roaming lives, their apparent disregard of home ties, thatwere so strong with the French.
But monsieur adored her in a very complimentary fashion, and she wasfain to satisfy her heart with it. Sometimes when the red-gold splendorswere fading from the sky, leaving the bluffs and pearl-gray spaces onthe opposite side like long avenues where the light shone through, BarbeMenard would glance over and wonder what particular merit there was inRenee de Longueville that the good God should have given so much to her.