“There would be news if he had been killed.”
“Oh! oh!” A sharp pang went to the child’s heart. To have another put her dread into words was like confirming it.
“That might be,” said the old man. “The pitcher may go to the spring without spout or handle, but it gets an unlucky knock at the last.”
She was silent.
“He made me give you to him. He bound me with signing a paper. Then if you are his, what he has comes naturally to you. There is the house and the garden. And the shop, with all its stores. Gaspard Denys has a strong box. There may be gold and silver in it. It belongs to you.”
Renée stared at him. His skin was browner than ever, and his face wrinkled in every direction. His hair was unkempt, his eyes were so squinted up that they looked like two sparks merely.
“Oh,” she cried, “what should I want with it all, and no Uncle Gaspard?”
“It will be a good dot. It will make you a good marriage when the time comes. And they must not get it away from you.”
“They? Who?” in surprise.
“That man and his half-Indian wife. Ah, I have seen people before, men who can plan adroitly. And I tell you now he shall not have it. When the time comes I shall turn him out neck and heels, and we will see! I shall not have you cheated out of your rights, Renée de Longueville.”