Rose stopped suddenly, rather embarrassed, for all her bravado.
"I used to live here," as if apologizing.
"Yes. But Mère Dubray was not your mother."
"No. Nor Catherine Arlac."
The woman shook her head. "I know not many people. We live on the other side. And the babies come so fast I have not much time. But Pierre say now we must have bigger space and garden for the children to work in. So we are glad when Mère Dubray go up to the fur country with her man. You were ill, they said. But you do not look ill. Did you not want to go with her?"
"Oh, no, no. And I live clear up there," nodding to the higher altitude. "M'sieu Hébert is there and Madame. And a beautiful lady, Madame Giffard. I did not love Mère Dubray."
"If I have a child that will not love me, it would break my heart. What else are little ones for until they grow up and marry in turn?"
"But—I was not her child."
"And your mother."
"I do not know. She was dead before I could remember. Then I was brought from France."