Gaspard Denys had wondered more than once about Barbe’s married life, and at Gardepier’s second visit to St. Louis he was quite convinced that he was not the kind of man to make a tender, clinging heart happy. Women throve and blossomed in an atmosphere of love; grew cold, pale and listless when this was denied. It was their natural sustenance. Had this hastened Renée Freneau’s death?
And when he saw Marchand’s devotion and Wawataysee’s delicious joy in it, he could not tell why, but he wished such a marriage had been Barbe’s good fortune.
He never asked himself what might have happened if he had not gone to Canada for Renée de Longueville. He had started adventuring first in a desperate frame of mind, and then grown to like it exceedingly. He had purchased the old house to assist a family in distress who had lost husband and father. On his way home with his little Renée he had resolved to set up a household, to keep the child under his guardianship, for he knew well Freneau would not want her. She was so clinging, so sweet. She was a part of the adorable girl he had loved. If he had been certain of her happiness he might have let her fade from his mind, but a fear had always rankled with a thorn-prick.
Did she know, would she know that he meant to lavish the love that should have been hers on the child? What was that country like? Surely the soul could not linger in the grave, and if it was given to one to have glimpses of those left behind, she must rejoice.
With his heart so engrossed he could not think, indeed, was not tempted to a strong feeling for any other woman. Barbe was pretty and sweet—young men were attracted to her—and he felt quite old compared with her. Then there was so much business to occupy him, and presently Barbe was married without a sigh of regret on his part.
The little jealous feeling Renée displayed rather amused him. He hardly understood the child’s passionate fondness, but was not her exclusive love something she inherited from her mother? He liked to think so.
Now she was half woman and still kept the child’s eager fondness. She had no real lovers, even if she had been asked in marriage. And he did not want to give her up. When he sat in the fascinating blaze of the log fire and steeped his brain in the haze of his pipe, visions stole softly about him. He saw Renée a happy wife, the mother of sweet, enchanting children who would climb his knees, half strangle him with baby arms and press soft faces against his, prattle of their love in turn. No, she must never go away. And who would he like as well as André!
And she liked him, too, in spite of her wilful manner of flouting him. She was ready enough to put him in the face of any imaginary danger. He was a fine, generous, wholesome young fellow, with a good business. And he, Denys, could wait. He was not in so great a hurry to share Renée, but he felt there was no life, no joy to a woman comparable with wifehood and motherhood. And he wanted his darling to have the best of everything.
She was very quiet the next morning and stole furtive glances at him, too proud to make any inquiry as to whether he had passed a pleasant evening. After breakfast André came with a face of eager light, and yet perplexity.
“What is it now?” asked Denys.