"Oh, Madame Kinzie! You remember that—Manaigre having two names?"
"Yes, Thérèse—I remember everything connected with those old times at the Portage. Who among our people there are living?"
"Only Manaigre is left," she said.
"Mais, mais, Thérèse," interposed the old man, "Manaigre's daughter Geneviève is living." It was a comfort to find our visit of such miraculous benefit to his memory.
"And the Puans—are any of them left?" I asked.
"Not more than ten or twelve, I think—" Again her grandfather promptly contradicted her:—
"Mais, mais, je compte b'an qu'il y en a quinze ou seize, Thérèse;" and he went quite glibly over the names of such of his red friends as still hovered around their old home in that vicinity.
He was in the full tide of gay reminiscence, touching upon experiences and adventures of long ago, and recalling Indian and half-breed acquaintances of former days, when footsteps approached, and the entrance of eager, curious visitors suddenly reminded him of his appointed rôle. It was marvellous how instantaneously he subsided into the superannuated driveller who was to bear away the bell from Old Parr and all the Emperor Alexander's far-sought fossils.
"Je suis vieux, vieux—l'an mil sept cent vingt-six—le treize
Septembre, à Detroit—- je ne puis rappeler rien."
Not another phrase could "all the King's armies, or all the King's men," have extorted from him.