Gaspared Denys stirred the fire in his shop and threw himself on a pile of skins and was asleep in five minutes. It had been a long while since he had danced all night.
They all slept late. There was no need of stirring early in the morning. They made no idol of industry, as the energetic settlers on the eastern coast did. Pleasure and happiness were enough for them. It ran in the French blood.
When Gaspard woke he heard a sound of an eager chattering voice. He rubbed his limbs and stretched himself, looked down on his red sash and then saw a withered red rose that he tossed in the fire.
“Ah, little one, you are as blithe as a bee,” was his greeting.
“Oh, Uncle Gaspard, you have on your ball clothes. When did you come home?” she asked.
“I dropped asleep in them. I am old and stiff this morning. I tumbled down on a pile of skins and stayed there.”
“You don’t look very old. And—are you a king now?” rather curiously.
“I must be two weeks hence. Then I resign my sceptre, and become an ordinary person.”
“And Mère Lunde said you had to choose a new queen.” There was a touch of elation in her voice.
“That is so. And I told Ma’m’selle Guion I should look out for the very prettiest girl. I shall be thinking all the time.”