CHAPTER III – A NEW HOME

In after years, when Renée de Longueville looked back at what seemed the real beginning of her life, everything about the old town was enveloped in a curious glamour. For it was all abloom. Such flowers, such great trees in pink and white, such fragrance everywhere, and everybody moving to and fro, as if impelled by some strange power. What were they all doing? And the children were so merry. To a little girl who had been mewed up in an old château, rather gloomy at that, and no one about but elderly servants, the transition was mysterious, quite beyond the child’s depth. But she felt the new life in every limb, in every nerve, and she was full of joy.

The streets of the old town, if not wide, were comparatively straight; those running along the river the longest, those stretching up to the fort only a few squares. Nearly every homestead had its separate lot or garden, enclosed by some sort of rude fence. Outside were the fields, cultivated largely in common; woodlands and an immense prairie stretching out to the northwest. Beside the fort were several towers in which ammunition was stored, although the Spanish government had a great fancy for building these.

Gaspard Denys was very busy cleaning up his place and making some alterations. In his heart he began to feel quite like a family man. Most of the stores were kept in the residences, except those down on the levee. The people seldom suffered from depredations. Their treatment of the Indians was uniformly honorable, and they kept them as much as possible from the use of ardent spirits. The slaves were happy in their lot. Indeed, a writer in early eighteen hundred speaks of the town as arcadian in its simplicity and kindliness to its dependents. Women never worked in the fields, and much of the housework was done by the slaves and Indian women. Holidays were frequent, in which all joined. In the summer, out-of-doors sports and dances often took place, very much like modern picnics, at which one frequently saw parties of Indians. There were no hostelries; but if a stranger came in town he was sheltered and treated to the best. Hospitality was considered one of the first duties.

There was one large room in the log part of the house, but Denys resolved to build another. His little girl should have a place of her very own, and from time to time he would find adornments for it. Here she should grow to womanhood. Antoine Freneau was not a young man when he had married; and though people who did not meet with accidents lived to a good old age, he was old already. He always pleaded poverty, though he did considerable dickering in the way of trade, and it was surmised that his business dealings would not stand honest scrutiny, and his unsocial habits did not endear him to the joyous community. Still, whatever he had left would come to Renée. He, Denys, would make sure of that.

Renée soon became domesticated with the Renauds. Elise and Sophie played about most of the time, and were jolly, laughing little girls. Twice a week they went to the house of the good Father Lemoine, who taught them to read and write and gave them some knowledge of mathematics, which was quite necessary in trading. Twice a week the boys went, and on Saturday they repeated the catechism orally.

Denys called in a little help; but every man was his own builder, with some cordial neighborly assistance. So they raised the posts and studding, and fastened the cross ties – round on the outside, the smooth part, or middle, going on the inside. The interstices were filled with mortar made of tough grass and clay that hardened easily. Sometimes this was plastered on the inside, but oftener blankets were hung, which gave a bright and cheerful appearance, and warmth in winter.

The stone part was cleared up and put in order. It had a big chimney, part of which was in the adjoining room. Denys spread about quantities of sweet grass to neutralize the musty smell; though the clear, beautiful air, with its mingled perfumes, was doing that. On the shelves he spread some of his wares, implements of different sorts were ranged about the walls. Near the door was a counter; back of it two iron-bound chests, very much battered, that he had bought with the place and the small store of goods from the family of the dead owner. These held his choicest treasures, many of which he had brought from Quebec, which were to please the ladies.

The voyages up and down the river were often tedious, and sometimes the traders were attacked by river pirates, who hid in caves along the banks and drew their boats up out of sight when not needed. Peltries and lead went down to New Orleans, wheat and corn and imported articles were returned. There were some troublesome restrictions, and about as much came overland from Detroit.

If Renée made friends with the Renaud household, they had no power to win her from Uncle Gaspard. They had insisted on his accepting their hospitality, though he devoted most of his time to the work he was hurrying forward. Now and then he came just at dusk and spent the night, but was always off early in the morning before Renée was up.

She often ran up the street, sometimes reaching the house before he started. The children were ready enough to go with her, but she liked best to be alone. She had a curious, exclusive feeling about him, young as she was.

“But he is not your true uncle,” declared Elise, one day when she had laid her claim rather strenuously. “Mamma said so. Your uncles have to be real relations.”

“But he said when we were in Quebec that he was my uncle – that I was to be his little girl,” was the defiant rejoinder.

“And if your gran’père had not agreed?”

“I would never have stayed there. It makes me shiver now. I would – yes, I would have run away.”

“He is not like our gran’père, who is a lovely old man, living up by the Government House. And gran’mère gives us delightful little cakes when we go there. And there are uncles and aunts, real ones. Barbe is our aunt.”

Renée’s small heart swelled with pride and a sense of desolation. She had gathered already that Grandpapa Freneau was not at all respected; and there were moments when she felt the solitariness of her life – the impression that she had in some sense been cast off.

“But my father is at the palace of the King of France. He came to see me on an elegant horse, and his clothes were splendid. And there are two little brothers. Oh, such fine people as there are in Paris.”

That extinguished the little girls. It was true that now the French had gotten over their soreness about the transfer. They never meddled with politics, but they still loved the old flag. The Spanish governors had been judicious men thus far.

So that night Renée slipped out from the supper table and sped like a little sprite along the Rue Royale, and then up the Rue de Rive. The moon was coming over the river with a pale light, as if she was not quite ready for full burning. She heard the sounds of hammering, and rushed in the open doorway.

“Well, little one! Your eyes are so bright that if you were an Indian girl I should call you Evening Star.”

“I wanted to see you so,” in a breathless fashion.

“What has happened?”

“Why, nothing. Only the day seemed so long.”

“You went to the father’s?”

“Oh, yes,” rather indifferently.

“Why didn’t you run over then? You might have taken supper with me.”

“Because – there were Elise and Sophie.”

“But there was supper enough to go round. We had some fine broiled fish. Mère Lunde is an excellent cook.”

“Oh, when can I come to stay?” Her tone was full of entreaty, and her eyes soft with emotion.

“But – you won’t have any little girls to play with.”

“I don’t want any one but you.”

He had paused from his work, and now she sprang to him and encircled him as far as she could with her small arms.

“You are not homesick?” It would be strange, indeed, since she had never had a true home.

“I don’t know. That,” giving her head a turn, “is not my real home.”

“Oh, no. But they have all been good to you. Ma’m’selle Barbe is very fond of you.”

“Oh, everybody is good and kind. Even Louis, though he teases. And Père Renaud. But not one of them is you —you.”

“My little girl!” He stooped over and hugged her, kissed her fondly. The child’s love was so innocent, so sincere, that it brought again the hopes of youth.

“And you will always keep me – always?” There was a catch in her breath like a sob.

“Why, yes. What has any one said to you?” with a slight touch of indignation.

“Sophie said you were not my own uncle. What would make you so? Can you never be?”

There was a pathos in her tone that touched him to the heart, even as he smiled at her childish ignorance, and was wild to have the past undone.

“My dear, you can hardly understand. I must have been your mother’s brother.”

“Oh, then you would have belonged to that hateful old man!” and she gave her foot a quick stamp. “No, I should not want you to.”

He laughed softly. He would have been glad enough to belong to the hateful old man years ago, and belong to the child as well.

“It doesn’t matter, little one,” he said tenderly. “I shall be your uncle all my life long. Don’t bother your head about relationships. Come, see your room. It will soon be dry, and then you shall take possession.”

It had been whitewashed, and the puncheon floor – laid in most houses, it being difficult to get flat boards – stained a pretty reddish color. The window had a curtain hung to it, some of the Canadian stuff. One corner had been partitioned off for a closet. There was a box with a curtain tacked around it, and a white cover over it, to do duty as a dressing-table. There were two rustic chairs, and some pretty Indian basket-like pouches had been hung around.

“Oh, oh!” she cried in delight. “Why, it is as pretty as Ma’m’selle Barbe’s – almost as pretty,” correcting herself. “And can I not come at once?”

“There must be a bed for you to sleep on, though we might sling a hammock.”

“And Mère Lunde?”

“Come through and see.”

In one corner of this, which was the ordinary living room, was a sort of pallet, a long box with a cover, in which Mère Lunde kept her own belongings, with a mattress on the top, spread over with a blanket, answering for a seat as well. She had despoiled her little cottage, for Gaspard Denys had said, “It is a home for all the rest of your life if you can be content,” and she had called down the blessings of the good God upon him. So, here were shelves with her dishes, some that her mother had brought over to New Orleans as a bride; china and pewter, and coarse earthenware acquired since, and queer Indian jars, and baskets stiffened with a kind of clay that hardened in the heating.

“Welcome, little one,” she exclaimed cheerfully. “The good uncle gets ready the little nest for thee. And soon we shall be a family indeed.”