"Jean Coeur," I repeated. "That is no name for a man——" Suddenly I remembered, years ago—years and years since—hearing Guy Johnson cursing some such man. Then in an instant all came back to me; and she seemed to divine it, for her small hand clutched my arm and her eyes were widening as I turned to meet them.
"Lois," I said unsteadily, "there was a man called Jean Coeur, deputy to the adventurer, Joncaire. Joncaire was the great captain who all but saved this Western Continent to France. Captain Joncaire was feared, detested, but respected by Sir William Johnson because he held all Canada and the Hurons and Algonquins in the hollow of his hand, and had even gained part of the Long House—the Senecas. His clever deputy was called Jean Coeur. Never did two men know the Indians as these two did."
I thought a moment, then: "Somewhere I heard that Captain Joncaire had a daughter. But she married another man—one Louis de Contrecoeur——" I hesitated, glanced again at the name scratched on the glass over the lock of hair, and shook my head.
"Jean Coeur—Louis de Contrecoeur. The names scarce hang together—yet——"
"Look at this!" she whispered in a low, tense voice, and laid a bit of printing in my hand.
It was a stained and engraved sheet of paper—a fly-leaf detached from a book of Voltaire. And above the scroll-encompassed title was written in faded ink: "Le Capitaine Vicomte Louis Jean de Contrecoeur du Regiment de la Reine." And under that, in a woman's fine handwriting: "Mon coeur, malgre; mon coeur, se rendre a Contrecoeur, dit Jean Coeur; coeur contre coeur."
"That," she said, "is the same writing that the birch bark bears, sewed in my moccasins."
"Then," I said excitedly, "your mother was born Mademoiselle Joncaire, and you are Lois de Contrecoeur!"
She sat with eyes lowered, fingering the stained and faded page. After a moment she said:
"I wrote to France—to the Headquarters of the Regiment de la Reine—asking about my—father."