“You!” Petit Marc burst into a rousing laugh. “My faith, Jeanne, you will have to walk backward for more than one year before you come to where you left off being a lady.”
Jeanne glowered at him. “I have not forgotten how,” she returned; “but you, Petit Marc, could never have been a gentleman even at your best, and when you were there in Paris, of which you pretend to know so much. Circumstances did not need to change you so noticeably. For me, I repeat, I do not forget, and one need not wear court manners to be called a good woman.”
Petit Marc became suddenly sober, although he said, lightly enough, “Ta, ta, Jeanne, it was but a rough joke, the like you have heard dozens of times. You are become suddenly touchy, and no wonder. You shall not complain of me again, and if you need me, I, too, will remember that it does not take court manners to make one a good man. I will remember that—if I can.” He laughed again. Nothing long disturbed his gay humor. He would be ready for a jocular remark a moment after he had killed his worst enemy or buried his best friend. He stretched his huge length along the bench and looked good-naturedly at Jeanne, who responded with a half-smile. “I pray you keep to that,” she said. “If I want you, I shall expect you to come.”
“I will come.” He rose to his feet. “But at present I go. I will look in to-morrow, Jeanne. Adieu, mademoiselle.” He bowed with a grace not learned from savages and went out.
“Ta, ta, ta,” said Jeanne. “He is not so bad, after all, and we shall need him some day. I shall not soon forget what he has done for us all, poor Petit Marc.” She sighed, but recovered herself at once. She was stoically gay with Alaine, who, nervous and overwrought, was none too amiable these days. It seemed that the association with Jeanne had given back some of the petulance of her childhood.
“You are so big, so like a man, Jeanne,” she would say. “How can you pretend to know what a girl feels? You keep me shut up here like a rabbit in a hutch, and I want to go; I must go. I am weary of this life. How long do we stay?”
“Till I learn to remember the graces of my youth,” Jeanne would reply, laughing. “You will be ashamed of me there among your friends. How does one carry a train, for example?” And she would give her blanket a sweep across the floor with the air of a court lady.
“So foolish you are, Jeanne. We do not wear court clothes at New Rochelle, and besides, you know they do not countenance the papists there. So, what are you going to do about that?”
“Am I, then, a papist?” Jeanne looked meditative. “I think I buried all that with Jacques. I am whatever is convenient, Alaine. I am like those fish which are one thing up here among the French and another down there with the Dutch. Call me whichever you will, I am to the taste of whoever likes me. I am a man, am I? Then come sit on my knee and be my sweetheart.” And she would seize Alaine bodily, giving her a sounding smack, and jolt her up and down till she begged for mercy.
It was worth while to see this daughter of the woods go stalking off, gun in hand, in the direction of the Indian village, where she was well known and liked for her fearlessness, her kindliness, and her skill. The Man-Wife they called her, or Jeanne the white brave. Whistling she would go, her great snow-shoes planted dexterously at every step, and returning, would bring such game as she had shot or trapped or could barter for. More than once Alaine had begged the life of a wounded squirrel or a timid rabbit, till the lodge by degrees became the home of several of these pets, these serving as company for Alaine, who, in Jeanne’s absence, bolted and barred in, passed long solitary hours.