“Pah! It may do for sailors and voyageurs and Indians, but never for gentlemen, mademoiselle.”
When Mère Lunde was a little affronted she gave Renée the full length of the syllables.
Renée went out and looked at the flowers again, and up and down the street. “If there was any news,” she said to herself, “Uncle Denys would come and tell me.”
“Mère Lunde, I am going over to Madame Marchand’s with my work,” she exclaimed. “I do hope they have brought in no end of beads and spangles. What do you suppose the Indian women did before the French came here?”
That was beyond the simple mère’s comprehension.
M. Marchand was returning from his dinner.
“I just ran down to hear the luck, ma’m’selle; they had a splendid voyage and no mishap. And André Valbonais—you would not know him!”
She nodded indifferently, but would ask no questions. Wawataysee sat out under a pretty rose arbor that was heavy with pink buds. There were four babies now, sturdy Gaspard and Denys tumbling about on the grass, Renée, with her fair hair and her father’s deep blue eyes, much more French than Indian, and baby François. Wawataysee was more lovely than ever, Renée thought, but she did not understand that it was the largeness and sweetness of life so intimately connected with others.
“Did M’sieu Denys come home?” Wawataysee asked.
“No. I suppose it is all a hurly-burly down there. It is good to have something to stir up the town now and then,” Renée returned brightly.