There was still a great prejudice against the Illinois people. Their religion, or, rather, lack of religion, was a great stumbling-block. Then their roaming lives, their apparent disregard of home ties, that were so strong with the French.
But monsieur adored her in a very complimentary fashion, and she was fain to satisfy her heart with it. Sometimes when the red-gold splendors were fading from the sky, leaving the bluffs and pearl-gray spaces on the opposite side like long avenues where the light shone through, Barbe Menard would glance over and wonder what particular merit there was in Renée de Longueville that the good God should have given so much to her.
[CHAPTER XXI—FROM ACROSS THE SEA]
In the second year after Renée’s return two signal events happened. A new little boy was born. She had coveted a girl for Papa Gaspard to love as he had loved her, but one had to be content with what God sent, and the boy was bright and strong.
“No,” Papa Gaspard said when they were talking it over one day, “there will be plenty of time for girls. I am not sorry. But I shall ask a gift of you and André, now that little Gaspard’s place is filled. Give him to me. Let him take my name. It would be a grief to me to have it die out. Let there be a new Gaspard Denys growing up into a brave boy, a good, upright man, we hope. You have your fortune and André will make another. There will be enough to keep a dozen children from starving,” with a bright, amused laugh. “I will make a new will and give the boy what I have left. The lead interest is increasing and will be a fortune by itself. So if you and André consent. It is not as if I wanted to take him away; it is simply that he shall be Gaspard Denys. In the old time they put a St. to it, but that was in France. We are going to be a new people.”
“Oh, Uncle Gaspard!” and she hid her face on his breast, while her arms went around his neck. “The best out of my life is hardly good enough for you. I give you my boy with my whole heart.”
André Valbonais said the same thing. So the Governor and the priest settled all the legal points, and this, with the certificate of his birth and baptism and the will of his godfather, Gaspard Denys, were locked up in a strong box for any time that they might be needed.
A bright, sturdy little fellow was Gaspard, extravagantly fond of his grandfather and his constant companion. He had his mother’s soft brown eyes and her curly hair.
One afternoon when the sun had lain warm and golden all about, Renée Valbonais sat sewing on the wide porch that had been pushed out large enough for a room. Overhead and at the sides it was a cluster of vines and blossoming things that shook out fragrance with every waft of wind. The baby was tumbling about and chattering in both French and Spanish, for he picked up words easily. Sheba, the nurse, and Chloe were just outside in the garden. Mère Lunde was napping in her easy-chair. It was a pretty picture of comfort.
Renée merely glanced up as a young man entered the gate and looked about him with a touch of uncertainty. Some message from her husband, doubtless. It was so tranquil they might go out in the canoe. He came up slowly and then paused, glanced hesitatingly at her, taking off his cap and bowing. His attire was well worn, but different from the common habiliments. His figure and air was that of the cities—she had seen such young men in New Orleans.