It was old St. Louis, but the little girl had gone forever. Madame Valbonais, prettier than ever and with a style that was foreign to the small town. Monsieur, grown a little stouter, fine and strong, yet smiling with a face of gladness. Gaspard Denys, keeping close watch over the mulatto nurse in gay coif and bright gown, who had in her arms the little son of madame.
A triumphal procession escorted her home. How curiously dry the streets were, and almost prim after the southern irregularity; the riotous tangle of vines, the balconies full of ladies with fans, chatting and waving to the passers-by, throwing coquettish smiles. The old French air that had grown settled in fifty years, the queer houses, and oh, yes, here was the garden, and Mère Lunde watching at the gate, more bent than ever, crying tears of joy, and in her broken voice repeating, “Oh, my little one! Oh, my little one!”
Yet it was strange, too, after all that luxuriance of growth and bloom and fragrance, queer, crooked, busy streets, gay wine shops with open doors and tables of men within playing cards or fiddling or singing songs. Birds of every color and richest plumage filling the air with melody, iridescent lizards creeping about winking with their bright black eyes, alligators sunning themselves in the ooze, snakes gliding about unmolested, throngs of almost naked children shining in their blackness, ready to sing and dance, turn a dozen somersaults or walk upside down for a copper—the vivid panorama still floated before her eyes and gave her queer, mixed impressions.
Most of the people seemed to have stood still. Two or three very old ones had died and several babies, but others had come to replace them. Not a new house had been built; the stockade was getting dilapidated. The Government House had been painted afresh, but the old court-house was dingy enough. The priest’s house had been repaired, the little garden was lovely with roses that were always blooming, and the Chouteau grounds were like a beautiful park, so well kept and thrifty.
“Oh,” André said, “I wonder if you will be sick with longing for all the gayety and loveliness we have left behind?”
“Why, then, we can go there again,” she answered merrily, with bright, contented eyes and a winsome smile. “It is so restful here. And Papa Gaspard is so happy.”
He was hale and hearty and had not turned the half-century yet. Then he was full of plans. They would move the shop down on the Rue Royale and build a new room on to the old house. He had brought home some ideas of improvement and comfort, of larger living. It was not likely St. Louis would always stand still.
Madame Marchand was delighted to get her friend back again. There was a new little girl, but Renée kept her beauty and winsomeness. Wawataysee was still lithe and slim—it belonged to her tribe—and M. Marchand was as devoted as ever. Oh, what days of talk it took to make up all the past!
And Madame Gardepier had married and gone over to the Illinois side to live on a big plantation. Pierre Menard had a mill for sawing boards and a brewery for beer, no end of slaves and servants, full fifty years of age, and two grown sons married. He coveted the little Angelique Gardepier and sued hard for the mother, who would have a luxurious life.
“But thou wilt be an American truly,” sighed Madame Renaud.