“Oh, Monsieur Denys, thank heaven!”
Madame Renaud came rushing down with a wild cry and flung her arms around her sister.
“Let me take the child,” Gaspard said, while the two women fell into each other’s embrace.
A pretty little thing of three or so, with rings of dark hair about her forehead and curiously tinted eyes, black with golden shades in them. She laid her hand confidingly on his shoulder. Children always trusted him.
“Marie! Marie!” called Madame Gardepier. “Take the little Angelique. Monsieur Denys, how can I thank you?”
She was lovelier than ever with her eyes full of tears. Elise had been crying over her.
Marie was maid and slave, about as much Spanish as African, slim and graceful, and with the beauty belonging to the mixed blood. The child made no demur, but bestowed a dainty smile upon him.
“Oh—it is nothing.” He had not come expecting to meet her, though he had wondered a little about her.
“But to be here again! To have a welcome from you, an old friend! Yes, it is joy indeed.”
Christophe Baugenon had his arms about his sweetheart. They were glad to have half the world share their joys, in those early days when honesty was more than style or culture.