"Oh, I must go," Jeanne said, with breathless eagerness. "I shall remember all your kindness through my whole life."
"Home is home," laughed good-humored Loudac.
Very happy and light-hearted was Jeanne Angelot. There would be nothing more to fear from Louis Marsac. How had they settled it, she wondered.
Owaissa had said that she sent the child home under proper escort. Louis Marsac ground his teeth, and yet—did he care so much for the girl only to gratify a mean revenge for one thing?—the other he was not quite sure of. At all events Jeanne Angelot would always be the loser. The Detroit foundling,—and he gave a short laugh like the snarl of a dog.
Delightful as everything was, Jeanne counted the days. She was up at the great house and read to its lovely mistress, sang and danced with baby Angelique, taking hold of the tiny hands and swinging round in graceful circles, playing games with the boys and doing feats, and trying to laugh off the lamentations, which sometimes came near to tears.
"How strange," said Miladi the last evening, "that we have never heard your family name. Or—had you none?"
"Oh, yes, Madame. Some one took good care of that. It was written on a paper pinned to me; and," laughing, "pricked into my skin so I could not deny it. It is Jeanne Angelot. But there are no Angelots in Detroit."
Miladi grasped her arm so tightly that Jeanne's breath came with a flutter.
"Are there none? Are you quite sure?" There was a strained sound in her voice wont to be so musical.
"Oh, yes. Father Rameau searched."