“You are very good.” His voice was much shaken, and shadows seemed to waver over his eyes. “And I was not good to you, Gaspard Denys, in that old time. You were but a boy. You had your fortune to make. She loved you and I meant to wean her away—and—I did not want her to know how I was—trading. The Count fell in love with her, though when the matter was most settled he wrung a dowry out of me, curse him! But she was a Countess. And he should have kept the child. What did he mean by sending her here?”
He had made many pauses and now lay back exhausted, his face growing grayer. Gaspard roused the nurse.
“Go up to the church,” he said, “the priest’s house, and bring some one. Quick! The man is dying.”
It was some time before he roused again.
“Renée,” he murmured, “you will be a great lady in France. Your mother’s mother was, and fled away because a king loved her. A king!” He laughed shrilly and a rattle came in his throat. “And you must go back to them, to your own kind. This wild life is not for you. As for that young stripling, he is dancing at the Guinolee and singing love songs to pretty girls. Thou art not the only pretty girl in St. Louis, Renée——”
Then there was a long silence. Once or twice Gaspard thought him dead, but he started and muttered both French and Indian words. It was near midnight when the good father came, and he shook his head sadly.
Gaspard roused Antoine a little.
“I fear it is too late,” in a regretful tone, while a look of pity crossed his face. “Still we must try to the last moment. Antoine Freneau, it is I, Père Lemoine. Listen! Death is near. Dost thou repent of thy sins, which have been many, doubtless, hidden from man but not escaping the eye of God? There may yet be mercy vouchsafed.”
The dying man clutched the blanket and stared dully, yet he seemed to listen.
“Oh, yes, yes!” he cried suddenly. “At St. Anne’s down the river. Yes, we both confessed——”