“But you see you were mistaken. You gave him hard and unjust judgment. I suppose he must have loved me or he wouldn’t have wanted to marry me. There is no lack of pretty girls in the town.”
She held her head with triumphant assurance. Her eyes were brimming over, her red lips full of saucy curves, in which seemed to lurk budding kisses for some lover.
But André blundered, as inexperience sometimes will.
“It is not only the beauty, ma’m’selle. Laure Eudeline is like a picture, but without a sou or a silver spoon for her portion. Has M. Laflamme looked at her twice? And you have a dot that would make many men covet you. Every one knows it will only grow larger in M’sieu Denys’s hands. And I dare say he would like the pleasure of handling it.”
Renée had rarely thought of her fortune. And the most exquisite, the most romantic dream of a young girl is to be loved for herself alone. André had suddenly dashed this enchanting belief to fragments. Yes, there was the fortune, a hard, solemn fact. Must she suspect every one henceforward?
“André,” she cried in passionate anger, “you are small and mean and suspicious! I hate you!”
It was the truth, since André had heard Madame Aubry and one or two others commend Monsieur Laflamme for his wisdom. Some man would marry Mademoiselle de Longueville in a year or two. But it was an unfortunate way of putting her on guard. And it stings a girl with mortification to hear a man belittled who has paid her the compliment of a marriage proposal.
The young fellow walked away. There was something fine and solid about him, she had to admit, angry as she was. Almost as tall as Uncle Gaspard and with a compact, yet lithesome figure, carrying his head well, stepping with decision and having an air of command with most people, but never with her, for she ruled him.
Her anger was short-lived, after all. When she quarrelled with him there always came up a procession of remembrances. She knew now what might have been her fate as a captive, and he had saved her from that. He had gone without food that she and Wawataysee would not lose their strength until they had reached some place of safety. He had carried her that last night. Yes, she was an ungrateful, exasperating little thing, and after all she did not really hate him. She would not even want him to go out of her life. Suddenly she thought she would not even like him to love some other girl.
He had a long conversation with Gaspard Denys that comforted him a good deal. Denys was like an older brother, taking a great interest in his advancement, advising him as to what was best to do with his savings, but as yet he had never said, “You had better marry some nice, thrifty girl.” Somehow he was very glad of that.