“Well, it would take a great deal of something to buy you. It would have to be more valuable than money. I don’t care so much for money myself.”
He put his arm about her and hugged her up close. He was sitting at a massive old desk that he had bought with the place. It seemed crowded full of various articles.
“But you love me better than any one else?”
“Any one else? Does that mean ever so many people love you? The Renaud children, and Ma’m’selle Barbe, and—perhaps—your grandfather?”
“Oh, you know I don’t mean that!” Her cheek flushed with a dainty bit of vexation. “The others like me well enough, but you—how much do you love me?”
“The best of any one. Child, I do not think you will ever understand how dear you are to me. There is no measurement for such love.”
That was the confession she wanted. Her face was radiant with delight—a child’s pleasure in the present satisfaction.
She glanced around. “Do you mean to sell all these things?” she asked wonderingly.
“Oh, yes and many more. I ought to be down on the Rue Royale, where people could find me easily. But I took a fancy to this old place, and the man was in my debt; so he paid me with it. It would not be so pleasant to live down there, on the lower side, by the levee. But I shall stay here and wait till the people come to me. After all, for a few years, if we get enough to eat and a little to wear, it will suffice.”
“And what then?” with captivating eagerness.