"Oh, no, Martin, nor the prettiest, nor the girl who will make the best wife. And I do not want any lovers, nor to be married, which, I suppose, is a queer thing. Sometimes I think I will stay in the house altogether, but it is so warm and gets dreary, and out-of-doors is so beautiful with sunshine and fragrant air. But if I cannot be friends with anyone—"
"We will be friends, then," said Martin Lavosse.
CHAPTER XII.
PIERRE.
When Madame De Ber found that Pierre was growing moody and dispirited and talked of going up north again, her mother's heart relented. Moreover, she could not but see that Jeanne was a great favorite in spite of her wild forest ways and love of solitude with a book in hand. Her little nook had become a sort of court, so she went there no more, for some one was sure to track her. And the great oak was too well known. She would drop down the river and fasten her canoe in some sheltered spot, and finding a comfortable place sit and read or dream. The chapel parson was much interested in her and lent her some wonderful books,—a strange story in measured lines by one John Milton, and a history of France that seemed so curious to her she could hardly believe such people had lived, but the parson said it was all true and that there were histories of many other countries. But she liked this because Monsieur St. Armand had gone there.
Yet better than all were the dreams of his return. She could see the vessel come sailing up the beautiful river and the tall, fine figure with the long, silken beard snowy white, and the blue eyes, the smiling mouth, hear the voice that had so much music in it, and feel the clasp of the hand soft as that of any of the fine ladies. Birds sang and insects chirped, wild ducks and swans chattered to their neighbors, and great flocks made a dazzle across the blue sky. Some frogs in marshy places gave choruses in every key, but nothing disturbed her.
What then?
Something different would come to her life. An old Indian squaw had told her fortune a year agone. "You will have many lovers and many adventures," she said, "and people coming from far to claim you, but you will not go with them. And then another old man, like a father, will take you over the seas and you will see wonderful things and get a husband who will love you."
What if M. St. Armand should want to take her over the sea? She did not belong to anybody; she knew that now, and at times it gave her a mortifying pain. Some of the ladies had occasionally noticed her and talked with her, but she had a quick consciousness that they did not esteem her of their kind. She liked the lovely surroundings of their lives, the rustle of their gowns, the glitter of the jewels some of them wore, their long, soft white fingers, so different from the stubby hands of the habitans. Hers were slim, with pink nails that looked like a bit of shell, but they were not white. Perhaps there was a little Indian blood that made her so lithe and light, able to climb trees, to swim like a fish, and gave her this great love for the wide out-of-doors.