It was after the meal was over and the guests departed that Alaine, looking at Mathilde, said, “And Pierre?”
“He has not sent a word nor a line. We fear he is no more.”
Alaine sighed. Of her lovers, who were left? François, a wreck, a man whose days were numbered. Étienne, who had married another, and who had never been a possibility in Alaine’s opinion. The two who had loved her best, who of all had received affection from her, these were gone. She leaned back in her chair and slow tears rolled down her cheeks.
Mathilde came and stood over her. “So pale and wistful you look, dear Alaine, and I am too happy to be here before you. What can I do not to have it seem so great a contrast for you, my sister Alaine? For you are my sister.”
“And I never had one,” sighed Alaine.
“Think, then, now I have father, mother, sister, and brother, I who lately had no one. Think of that, Alaine. I, too, a year ago was desolate, and now how happy I am! If I needed anything to complete my joy, it was your return, and to-day brings me that. I can almost say I love France, I am so at peace. Do you know, my uncle will not speak French save at home, and he calls his children by the English names John and Margaret and James. He says he is not French, that this is his country and he owes it his allegiance, and so say I. Let us forget France, I tell Gerard. We have had merry times here together, and still shall have. Now that you return there will be occasion for many a frolic. I shall take you to a little festivity to-morrow, the fête-day of Suzanne Gombeau. We shall dance and sing, and you will be at home again among your friends.”
“Dance? I dance?” Alaine shook her head. “My heart is too heavy for me to be light-footed. I will stay at home, Mathilde.”
“We will see what Mère Michelle will say to that. She is so glad to-day she could dance herself, I think.”
Michelle stood gazing at her darling. “I cannot yet believe it,” she told her, “and I would hear more of those strange journeys of yours, of Father Bisset and Madame Herault. Well do I remember her, a handsome young woman so blithe and so brilliant.” She shook her head. Alaine’s tale of Jeanne had greatly moved her. “And you knew not what became of her? That is strange,” she remarked at the close of Alaine’s tale of Jeanne’s disappearance.
“We do not know whether she was taken away by force or whether she went willingly. I hope the latter.” This had been the one thought which had given Alaine comfort. If Jeanne had accompanied the raiders on their retreat she might be able to lend some protection to Lendert, she and Ricard. The Indians, however, might have become enraged at what they felt to be treachery on Jeanne’s part and she, too, might be prisoner.