She found that quite an entertainment. The old market was not much, a little square with some stalls, all kept by old women, it seemed. One had cakes, the croquecignolles, the great favorite with everybody. A curious kind of dry candied fruit, and a sausage roll that the men and boys from the levees bought and devoured with hearty relish. Then there was a stall of meats and a portly butcher in a great white gown. Some of the stands were there only two or three days in the week. Most of the inhabitants looked out for their own stores, but there were the boatmen and the fur traders, and the voyageurs. There was but one bake shop, so the market stall was well patronized.
Some one called to Renée as she neared her own corner, and she turned. It was a little girl she had seen in the class at the priest’s house.
“I am glad you have come here to live,” she began. “Your name is Renée de Long——”
“Renée de Longueville,” with a touch of formality.
“And mine is Rosalie Pichou. I live just down in the street below. I have five brothers and not one sister. How many have you?”
“None at all.”
“Oh, I shouldn’t like that. And I am always wishing for a sister. But one of my brothers will be married shortly, only he is not coming home to live.”
“Do you like him to marry?”
“Oh, yes, we shall have a gay time and a feast. And then there will be the new house to visit. Andre is just twenty-one, Pierre is eighteen, Jules sixteen, and I am twelve. I am larger and older than you.”
They had walked up to the gate. Mère Lunde stood by it. “Will you not come in and see Renée?” she asked, on the child’s behalf.