“That’s a difficult question. We shall have to ask the good père some day. He understands these matters.”
“But—I belong to you, surely?”
“You belong to me!” He clasped her hand fervently.
“And I shall always stay here?”
“Always, until some young lover comes;” but he drew her closer, as if he disputed her being taken away.
“You shall be my lover,” with a gay laugh. “If ever I draw a bean at the king’s ball you shall be my king.”
[CHAPTER XIII—PASSING YEARS]
Renée de Longueville was fifteen and very fair to look upon, if not as beautiful as Madame Marchand, or perhaps as some of the belles of the town. She was slight and not very tall, and her hair had not grown much darker. Her eyes kept their soft wondering expression, sometimes a curious depth that told of vehement emotions, ardent joys and a capacity for suffering. But most people looking at the gay young face when it smiled would only have read archness and mirth and a great capacity for enjoyment.
Some curious events had been happening. The colonies had beaten England and won their freedom, their recognition. From the Atlantic Ocean to the Mississippi River it was all America. This side of the river it was Spain still, a kind of French Spain. Commandant Cruzat was well-liked and very social. Madame was charming. There were balls at the Government House and at the handsome old Chouteau residence, that had been improved year by year. A long gallery ran around two sides above the first story, and it made a delightful place for dancers. The roof was high, with both ends cut off as it were, broken by two chimneys and two dormer windows. Downstairs a broad piazza also, and here the gentlemen would sit and smoke and discuss business and the changes that were going on around them, while within, Madame Chouteau dispensed charming hospitality.
St. Louis was still in an idyllic state, gay, joyous, friendly and hospitable, with much simplicity of living. Others besides the Chouteaus had enlarged their borders. Gaspard Denys had built two rooms and raised the roof of his house so as to make a storeroom and one little chamber, where Chloe, the slave, slept. Mère Lunde still took charge of the house, but Denys insisted she should have some help, and then no question was made of buying one. They were well treated and had good homes, and were not overworked.