Neighbors came out to greet them. It was like a triumphal procession. Indeed, it seemed as if all the streets were full of gay, cheerful chatter. For in those days there was very little letter-writing; indeed, many fine housekeepers and excellent women did not know how to write.
Late in the afternoon the sisters were alone. Nearly every one had been discussed, and Barbe knew about most of the marriages and deaths, the new babies, the few newcomers and the general prosperity, as well as the losses.
“I was extremely pleased with that young Valbonais,” Barbe said. “He has improved very much. Is he connected in business now with Monsieur Denys?”
“Oh, no; he remains with the Chouteaus. But he is a frequent guest, and one can almost see how it will end,” laughing with a certain satisfaction.
“You mean—with the child?”
“Yes. She is a very pretty girl. She was at two of the balls last winter, though not a queen. There was a stranger, two of them, staying with the Governor. One cared little for gayety; the other was much smitten with the attractive Renée, and there was talk, but it fell through. It was said that he really did ask for her hand. But I think M. Denys would much rather have her remain here. She is like a child to him.”
Barbe nodded. “Still she is old enough to marry.”
“Oh, yes. Then her grandfather left quite a fortune, as I have told you. She is very young for her years, though—a child in some things.”
Barbe drew a long breath. “It is a little singular that M. Denys has never married,” she said indifferently.
“Oh, he may marry yet. There is always time for a man.”