“I don’t understand. If it is M. Marchand you mean——” and she eyed the old man resolutely.
“Who asked him to come in there? Gaspard Denys locked up his place, and he and that old woman opened it. They had no right, I say.”
He struck the flat stone beside him with his fist, but it did not seem to hurt that member.
“It was Mère Lunde’s home. And she looks for him every day. Oh, if word came that he was dead we should both die of grief!”
Her lip quivered, her eyes filled with tears.
“Bah! No one dies of grief. And I will keep you out of that man’s clutches. I am your grandfather and I have some rights.”
Renée shuddered at the fierce old man. She had used to feel afraid of him, but it seemed of late that she did not fear anything, the darkness of the night nor the thunder storms, when it appeared as if the town would be hurled into the river. What if he should really claim her, if—if—Oh, she would a hundred times rather stay with M. Marchand, even if he was kissing and caressing Wawataysee half the time.
“I must go,” she said, rising. She had been trying to esteem him a little now that she was so lonely, but all the endeavor was like water spilled on the ground, and he had broken the bowl.
“You will come again. No one shall cheat you out of your rights,” nodding vigorously.
She turned away. First she thought she would walk along the river. It crept lazily to-day, yellow in the yellow sunshine. But when she reached the Rue Royale she turned into that. She did not care to pass the Renauds’—why was it that she could not love any one any more? that her heart seemed like lead in her bosom? So she went up to the Rue de l’Eglise straight on to the little church. She had not been Saturday afternoons of late. She knew the catechism and the prayers, and the children’s drawl seemed to spoil it for her. Sometimes people prayed for things and they came. Well, she was praying all the time for Uncle Gaspard’s return. Maybe it ought to be asked for in the church. She crept in softly.