"Monsieur Bigot gave it to me. He has everything the king's stores will buy. His slave was carrying a basketful."
"I do not like Monsieur Bigot. His face is blotched, and he kisses little girls."
"His apples are better than his manners," observed the boy, waiting, knife in hand, for her to come and see that the division was a fair one.
She tiptoed out from the gallery of the commandant's house, the wind blowing her curls back from her shoulders. A bastion of Fort St. Louis was like a balcony in the clouds. The child's lithe, long body made a graceful line in every posture, and her face was vivid with light and expression.
"Perhaps your sick mother would like this apple, Monsieur Jacques. We do not have any in the fort."
The boy flushed. He held the halves ready on his palm.
"I thought of her; but the surgeon might forbid it, and she is not fond of apples when she is well. And you are always fond of apples, Mademoiselle Anglaise."
"My name is Clara Baker. If you call me Mademoiselle Anglaise, I will box your ears."
"But you are English," persisted the boy. "You cannot help it. I am sorry for it myself; and when I am grown I will whip anybody that reproaches you for it."
They began to eat the halves of the apple, forgetful of Jacques's sick mother, and to quarrel as their two nations have done since France and England stood on the waters.