“And you have never been a queen in your own right,” he remarked with a gleam of amusement. “You ought to try your luck.”
“Before I get old and have to wear a coif,” shaking her head in mock despair. “Oh, let us both go!”
She had to coax a good deal and insist stoutly that she would not stir a step without him. And, of course, he had to yield.
She listened to the songs and the solicitations, and sent Mère Lunde out with a generous contribution.
This time she did not care so much about her gown. It was pretty enough. She had a beautiful necklace that Mattawissa had given her, made of blue and white shells that came from the southerly Atlantic coast and were held in high esteem among the Indians and considered of great value in the way of trade, as they were used in wampums. They were ground in a peculiar fashion, with a small hole drilled in them and strung on a chain. In dancing, as they touched each other the jingle had a peculiar musical sound.
Madame Gardepier and one of her nieces cut the cake when the midnight bell sounded.
“You must have a piece, Renée,” said Madame Elise Borrie, who was plump and smiling and the mother of three children. “But,” in a mischievous whisper, “they will fight to be chosen king. We shall learn who is your favorite.”
“I’ve never had any luck,” returned Renée in a tone of mock disappointment.
“And I’ve never cut the cake before! Oh, you must take a piece from me! There will be luck in it.”
Renée took the piece laughingly, spread out her handkerchief, and broke it in two or three fragments. Out fell the ring.