“And you—you stay here and are Ma’m’selle Barbe’s king,” she said in a tone of plaintive reproach that went to his heart.
“That is only for to-night. There are other queens beside her.”
“But she is your queen.” The delicate emphasis amused him, it betrayed the rankling jealousy.
“And you are my queen as well, to-morrow, next week, all the time. So do not grudge her an hour or two. See, I am going to give you her rose, my rose, to take home with you.”
She smiled, albeit languidly, and held out her small hand, grasping it with triumph.
He broke the stem as he drew it out, leaving the pin in his coat.
“Now let me see you wrapped up snug and tight. Mind you don’t get any cold. Tell Mère Lunde to warm the bed and give you something hot to drink.”
She nodded and the party went to the dressing room. The two Indian women chattered in their own language, or rather in a patois that they had adopted. Wawataysee was very happy, and her soft eyes shone with satisfaction. Her husband thought her the prettiest woman in all St. Louis.
Renée gave her orders and Mère Lunde attended to them cheerfully.
“For if you should fall ill again our hearts would be heavy with sorrow and anxiety.” she said.