Renée was restless as a bird. She listened to the singing. There was one very musical French song that was not as fulsome as the others, and she wondered a little about it. Then the voices in chorus cried out: “Good-night, master; may good luck be yours. Good-night, young mistress; may your dreams be sweet of your true love.”
Then the songs were heard in the distance, and presently André Valbonais came in.
“Did you hear Laflamme?” he asked. “He and Monette went out for the fun, but they sang some beautiful songs. M’sieu Denys, do you not think it time some of this foolishness was broken up? Not that I have anything against serenading, and really they did finely at the Commandant’s. But the soldiers were out, and that helped.”
“It’s an old habit. And the young fellows enjoy it.”
“André, are you getting too old for fun? Why, I think it’s quite delightful. I was sure I heard a new voice. And it is the first time I have been serenaded. Oh, dear! I wonder who I shall dream about?”
Yes, she had only been a child; now she was a young girl, not quite a woman, a gay, wilful, enchanting young girl. Did Denys know it? He was lazily stretched out, with his hands in his pockets, gazing at the fire, dreaming of long ago, and Renée Freneau, of another time and Barbe Guion.
André gave a little cough. “Of your true love, ma’m’selle.”
“There are so many,” with a laughable assumption of weariness. “And to doubt their truth would be cruel.”
“There can be only one true love.”
“But each serenader thinks his the true one.”