There were several busy days, and friends that proffered André a warm welcome. The Valbonais cousins were wedded long ago, but they claimed him quite as cordially, and the old people were proud enough of him. The Marchands offered him their home, and were delighted to have him drop in. Then he was being asked to dine or sup with the Chouteaus, and he was at the Government House, for his intelligent understanding of other subjects besides commercial matters made him a desirable guest.
Renée experienced a curious sensation, as if she was being neglected. She had lost her old power over him, which was mortifying. He teased her a little, then he let her trifle with him and say saucy things. But it was like a bird with a chain; he brought her back, he let her see it was only playing. Then she grew indignant and flounced away, met him coldly the next time, or was proud and silent.
Uncle Gaspard never raised a finger in the matter.
“I do not like him. I almost hate him!” she cried vehemently one day. “Of course, I know he saved me in that dreadful peril, but he has been thanked a hundred times over. And we do not owe him anything.”
“Oh, yes,” Uncle Gaspard said tenderly, as he pressed her to his heart. “I owe him a great deal. For if I had lost you——”
“And you could never give me to any one else?”
“Well, whoever wanted one would have to take both.”
Presently the trafficking was about over. The Indians had gone to their respective lodges, the voyageurs sailed up the river, and now only occasional boats and canoes came in. André was not so busy. He joined the parties on their rambles when he was certain Renée would be among them. He did not hesitate to make himself agreeable to other demoiselles. She could not help drawing contrasts. He had certain ways of the better class, though social lines were not strongly marked and few people knew what culture meant. He talked Spanish fluently; he was quite an adept in English, though he had acquired a little of that before. But the difference was largely one of manner, the small, delicate attentions that went to her heart and understanding. Uncle Gaspard always had some of them, M. Marchand also, and a few of the others. The rather rough good nature had much honesty, but it was not so flattering to a girl of Renée’s cast.
There were times when she was quite as jealous as she had ever been of Uncle Gaspard. Yet it was strange to be so shaken by his coming when she told herself she did not care for him, to have the touch of his hand thrill through every nerve, to have the steady glance of his eye conquer the spirit of rebellion until there was nothing left except the thin outside crust, that would surely fall at the next assault if she did not run away. This was cowardly, too, and she despised herself for it, but she was not the first who had escaped in this fashion.
He was amused. In the earlier days he had experienced a great terror at the thought of losing her. It might be the elder man’s wisdom had helped open his eyes. He liked her piquant independence, and he learned, too, there was a mood of most fascinating dependence as well. But she never wholly gave up.