A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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St Armand beckoned the woman, who had been making desperate signs of
disapprobation to Jeanne.

"Tell me the story of this little girl," he said authoritatively.

"Monsieur, she is mine and M. Bellestre's. Even the priest has no right
to take her away."

"No one will take her away, my good woman. Do not fear." For Pani's face
was pale with terror and her whole form trembled. "Did you know nothing
about this woman who brought her to you?"

Pani told the story with some hesitation. The Indian woman talked very
fair French. To what tribe she had belonged, even the De Longueils had
not known otherwise than that she had been sent to Detroit with some
Pawnee prisoners.

"It is very curious," he commented. "I must go to the Recollet house and
see these articles. And now tell me where I can find you--for I am due
at the banquet given for General Wayne."

"It is in St. Joseph's street above the Citadel," said Jeanne. "Oh, will
you come? And perhaps you will not mind if I ask you some questions
about the things that puzzle me," and an eager light shone in her eyes.

"Oh, not at all. Good day, little one. I shall see you soon," and he
waved his hand.

Jeanne gave a regretful smile. But then he would come. Oh, how proud he
looked on his handsome horse! She felt as if something had gone out of
the day, but the sun was shining.

At the corner of old St. Louis street they paused. Here was M. De Ber's
warehouse,--the close, unfragrant smell of left-over furs mingling with
other smells and scenting the summer air. There was almost everything in
it, for it had great depth though not a very wide frontage: hardware of
many kinds, firearms, rough clothing such as the boatmen and laborers
wore, blankets, moccasins, and bunches of feathers, that were once in
great demand by the Indians and were still called upon for dances,
though they were hardly war dances now, only held in commemoration.

Pierre threw down the bundle he was shifting to the back of the place.

"Have you seen Marie this morning, Jeanne?"

There was a slow, indifferent shake of the head. The child's thoughts
were elsewhere.

"Then you do not know?" The words came quick and tumbled out of his
throat, as it were. He was so glad to tell Jeanne his bit of news first,
just as he had been glad to find the first flowers of spring for her, to
bring her the first fruits of the orchard and the first ripe grapes. How
many times he had scoured the woods for them!

"What has happened?" The boy's eyes were shining and his face red to its
utmost capacity, and Jeanne knew it was no harm.

"Madame Ganeau came to tea last night. Delisse is to be married next
month. They are to get the house ready for her to go into. It is just
out of St. Anne's street, not far from the Recollet house. It will be
Delisse's birthday. And Marie is to be one of the maids."

"Oh, that will be fine," cried Jeanne eagerly. "I hope I can go."

"Of course you will. I'll be sure of that," with an assumption of
mannishness. "And a great boat load of finery comes in to Dupree's from
Quebec. M. Ganeau has ordered many things. Oh, I wish I was old enough
to be some one's lover!"

"I must go and see Marie. And oh, Pierre, I have seen the great general
who fought the Indians and the British so bravely."

Pierre nodded. It made little difference to the lad who fought and who
won so that they were kept safe inside of the stockade, and business was
good, for then his father was better natured. On bad days Pierre often
had a liberal dose of strap.

"Come, Pani, let us go to Madame De Ber's."

Marie was out on the doorstep tending the baby, who was teething and
fretful. Madame was cooking some jam of sour plums and maple sugar that
was a good appetizer in the winter. There was always a baby at the De
Bers'.

"And Delisse is to be married! Pierre told me."

"Yes; I wanted to run up this morning, but Aurel has been so cross. And
I am to be one of the maids. At first mother said that I had no frock,
but Madame Ganeau said get her a new one and it will do for next summer.
I have outgrown most of my clothes, so they will have to go to Rose. All
the maids are to have pink sashes and shoulder knots and streamers. It
will take a sight of ribbon. But it will be something for my courting
time, and the May dance and Pentecost. O dear, if I had a lover!"

"Thou foolish child!" declared her mother. "Girls are never satisfied to
be girls. And the houseful of children that come afterward!"

Marie thought of all the children she had nursed, not her own. Yet she
kissed little Aurel with a fond heart.

"And Delisse--" suggested Jeanne.

"Oh, Delisse is to wear the wedding gown her sisters had. It is long and
has a beautiful train, some soft, shiny stuff over white silk, and lace
that was on her _grand'mere's_ gown in France, and satin slippers. They
are a little tight, Delisse declares, and she will not dance in them,
but they have beautiful buckles and great high heels. I should be afraid
of tipping over. And then the housekeeping. All the maids go to drink
tea the first Sunday, and turn their cups to see who gets the next
lover."

Jeanne gave a shrug of disdain.

Marie bent over and whispered that she was sorry Louis Marsac had gone.
He was so nice and amusing.

"Is he going to wait for you, Jeanne? You know you can marry whom you
like, you have no father. And Louis will be rich."

"He will wait a long while then and tire of it. I do not like him any
more." Her lips felt hot suddenly.

"Marie, do not talk such nonsense to Jeanne. She is only a child like
Rose, here. You girls get crack-brained about lovers."

"Come," said Pani. "Let us get a pail and go after wild plums. These
smell so good."

"And, Pani, look if the grapes are not fit to preserve," said Madame De
Ber. "I like the tart green taste, as well as the spice of the later
ripeness."

Jeanne assented. She was so glad Louis Marsac had gone. Why, when she
had liked him so very much and been proud to order him about, and make
him lift her over the creeks, should she experience such a great
revulsion of feeling? Two long years! and when he returned--

"I can take Pani and run away, for I shall be a big girl then," and she
laughed over the plan.

What a day it was! The woods were full of fragrant odors, though here
and there great patches had been cut and burned so as to afford no
harbor to the Indians. Fruits grew wild, nuts abounded, and oh, the
flowers! Jeanne liked these days in the woods, but what was there that
she did not like? The river was an equal pleasure. Pani filled her pail
with plums, Jeanne her arms with flowers.

The new house of Delisse Ganeau became a great source of interest. It
had three rooms, which was considered quite grand for a young couple.
Jacques Graumont had a bedstead, a table, and a dresser that had been
his mother's, a pair of brass candlesticks and some dishes. Her mother
looked over her own stores, but the thriftier kind of French people put
away now and then some plenishing for their children. She was closely
watched lest Delisse should fare better than the other girls. Sisters
had sharp eyes.

There was her confession to be made, and her instruction as to the
duties of a wife, just as if she had not seen her mother's wifely life
all her days!

"I like the Indian way best," cried Jeanne in a spirit of half
contrariness. "Your husband takes you to his wigwam and you cook his
meal, and it is all done with, and no fuss. Half Detroit is running
wild."

"Oh, no," replied Pani, amused at the child's waywardness. "I dare say
the soldiers know nothing about it. And your great general and the
ladies who give dinners. After all it is just a few people. And, little
one, the Church wants these things all right. Then the husbands cannot
run away and leave the poor wives to sit and cry."

"I wouldn't cry," said the child with determination in her voice, and a
color flaming up in her face.

Yet she had come very near crying over a man who was nothing to her. She
was feeling hurt and neglected. One day out in her dainty canoe she had
seen a pleasure party on the river and her hero was among them. There
were ladies in beautiful garments and flying ribbons and laces. Oh, she
could have told him among a thousand! And he sat there so grandly,
smiling and talking. She went home with a throbbing heart and would eat
no supper; crawled into her little bed and thrust her face down in the
fragrant pillow, but her fist was doubled up as if she could strike some
one. She would not let the tears steal through her lids but kept
swallowing over a big lump in her throat.

"Mam'selle," said the tailor's wife, who was their next door neighbor,
"yesterday, no, it was the day before when you and Pani were out--you
know you are out so much," and she sighed to think how busily she had to
ply her needle to suit her severe taskmaster--"there came a gentleman
down from the Fort who was dreadfully disappointed not to find you. He
was grand looking, with a fine white beard, and his horse was all
trapped off with shining brass. I can't recall his name but it had a
Saint to it."

"St. Armand?" with a rapid breath.

"Yes, that was it. Mademoiselle, I did not know you had any such fine
friends."

Jeanne did not mind the carping tone.

"Thank you. I must go and tell Pani," and she skipped away, knowing that
Pani was not in the house, but she wanted to give vent to her joy.

She danced about the old room and her words had a delight that was like
music. "He has not forgotten me! he has not forgotten me!" was her glad
song. The disappointment that she had missed him came afterward.

For although Detroit was not very large at this time, one might have
wandered about a good deal and not seen the one person it would have
been a pleasure to meet. And Jeanne was much more at home outside the
palisade. The business jostling and the soldiers gave her a slight sense
of fear and the crowding was not to her taste. She liked the broad, free
sweep outside. And whether she had inherited a peculiar pride and
delicacy from the parents no one knew; certain it was she would put
herself in no one's way. Others came to her, she felt then every one
must.

She could not have understood the many claims upon Monsieur St. Armand.
There were days when he had to study his tablets to remember even a
dinner engagement. He was called into council by General Wayne, he had
to go over to the Canada side with some delicate negotiations about the
upper part of the Territory, he was deeply interested in the opening and
working of the copper mines, and in the American Fur Company, so it was
hardly to be wondered at that he should forget about the little girl
when there were so many important things.

The wedding was not half so tiresome then. And oh, what glorious weather
it was, just enough sharpness at night to bring out all the fragrant
dewy smells! The far-off forests glowed like gardens of wonderful bloom
when the sun touched them with his marvelous brilliancy. And the river
would have been a study for an artist or a fairy pen.

So one morning the bell of old St. Anne's rung out a cheerful peal. It
had been rebuilt and enlarged once, but it had a quaintly venerable
aspect. And up the aisle the troop of white clad maidens walked
reverently and knelt before the high altar where the candles were
burning and there was an odor of incense beside the spice of evergreens.

The priest made a very sacred ceremony of the marriage. Jeanne listened
in half affright. All their lives long, in sickness and health, in
misfortune, they must never cease to love, never allow any wavering
fancies, but go on to old age, to death itself.

Delisse looked very happy when her veil was thrown back. And then they
had a gala time. Friends came to see the new house and drink the bride's
health and wish the husband good luck. And the five bridesmaids and
their five attendants came to tea. There was much anxiety when the cups
were turned, and blushes and giggles and exclamations, as an old Indian
woman, who had a great reputation for foretelling, and would surely have
been hung in the Salem witchcraft, looked them over with an air of
mystery, and found the figure of a man with an outstretched hand, in the
bottom of Marie De Ber's cup.

"And she's the youngest. That isn't fair!" cried several of the girls,
while Madelon Dace smiled serenely, for she knew when the next trappers
came in her lover would be among them, and a speedy wedding follow.
Marie had never walked from church with a young man.

Then the dance in the evening! That was out of doors under the stars, in
the court at the back of the house. The Loisel brothers came with their
fiddles, and there was great merriment in a simple, delightful fashion,
and several of the maids had honeyed words said to them that meant a
good deal, and held out promises of the future. For though they took
their religion seriously in the services of the Church, they were gay
and light hearted, pleasure loving when the time of leisure came, or at
festivals and marriages.

CHAPTER V.

AN UNKNOWN QUANTITY.

"There was a pretty wedding to-day in St. Anne's," said Madelon Fleury,
glancing up at Laurent St. Armand, with soft, dark eyes. "I looked for
you. I should have asked you formally," laughing and showing her pearly
teeth, "but we had hardly thought of going. It was a sudden thing. And
the bridesmaids were quite a sight."

"There is an old English proverb," began Madame Fleury--

"'Who changes her name and not the letter,
Marries for worse and not the better.'

and both names begin alike."

"But they are French," appended Lisa, brightly. "The prediction may have
no effect."

"It is to be hoped it will not," commented Monsieur Fleury. "Jacques
Graumont is a nice, industrious young fellow, and not given to drink.
Now there will be business enough, and he is handy and expert at boat
building, while the Ganeaus are thrifty people. M. Ganeau does a good
business in provisioning the traders when they go north. Did you wish
the young couple success, Madelon?"

The girl flushed. "I do not know her. We have met the mother
occasionally. To tell the truth, I do not enjoy this mixing up of
traders and workmen and--" she hesitated.

"And quality," appended Lisa, with a mischievous glance at her sister.

"We are likely to have more of it than less," said her father, gravely.
"These Americans have some curious ideas. While they are proud enough to
trace their ancestry back to French or English or even Italian rank,
they taboo titles except such as are won by merit. And it must be
confessed they have had many brave men among them, heroes animated by
broader views than the first conquerors of the country."

"Yes," exclaimed St. Armand, "France made a great mistake and has lost
her splendid heritage. She insisted on continuing the old world policy
of granting court favorites whatever they asked, without studying the
conditions of the new world. Then England pinned her faith and plans to
a military colonization that should emanate from a distant throne. It is
true she gave a larger liberty, a religious liberty, and exploited the
theory of homes instead of mere trading posts. The American has improved
on all this. It is as if he said, 'I will conquer the new world by force
of industry; there shall be equal rights to homes, to labor, to'--there
is a curious and delightful sounding sentence in their Declaration,
which is a sort of corner stone--'life, liberty, and pursuit of
happiness.' One man's idea of happiness is quite different from
another's, however;" smiling.

"And there will be clashing. There is much to do, and time alone can
tell whether they will work out the problem."

"They seem to blend different peoples. There is the Puritan in the East,
who is allowing his prejudices to soften; there are the Dutch, about the
towns on the Hudson, the Friends in Pennsylvania, the proud old
cavaliers in Virginia and Carolina."

"And the Indians, who will ever hate them! The French settlements at the
West, up and down the mighty river, who will never forget La Salle,
Tonti, Cadillac, and the De Bienvilles. There's a big work yet to do."

"I think they will do it," returned St. Armand, his eyes kindling. "With
such men as your brave, conciliatory General Wayne, a path is opened for
a more reasonable agreement."

"You cannot trust the Indians. I think the French have understood them
better, and made them more friendly. In many respects they are children,
in others almost giants where they consider themselves wronged. And it
is a nice question, how much rights they have in the soil."

"It has been a question since the world began. Were not the children of
Israel commanded to drive the Canaanites out of their own land? Did not
the Romans carry conquests all over Europe? And the Spaniard here, who
has been driven out for his cruelty and rapacity. The world question is
a great tree at which many nations have a hack, and some of them get
only the unripe fruit as the branches fall. But the fruit matures
slowly, and some one will gather it in the end, that is certain."

"But has not the Indian a right to his happiness, to his liberty?" said
Laurent, rather mischievously. He had been chaffing with the girls, yet
listening to the talk of the elders.

"In Indian ethics might makes right as elsewhere. They murder and
destroy each other; some tribes have been almost wiped out and sold for
slaves, as these Pawnee people. Depend upon it they will never take
kindly to civilization. A few have intermarried, and though there is
much romance about Rolfe and his Indian princess, St. Castin and his,
they are more apt to affiliate with the Indians in the next generation."

"My young man who was so ready to fight was a half-breed, I heard," said
Laurent. "His French father is quite an important fur trader, I learned.
Yet the young fellow has been lounging round for the past three months,
lying in the sun outside the stockade, flirting and making love alike to
Indian and French maids, and haunting Jogue's place down on the river.
Though, for that matter, it seems to be headquarters for fur traders. A
handsome fellow, too. Why has he not the pride of the French?"

"Such marriages are a disgrace to the nation," said Madame Fleury,
severely.

"And that recalls to my mind,--" St. Armand paused with a retrospective
smile, thinking of the compliment his little friend had paid him,--"to
inquire if you know anything about a child who lives not far from the
lower citadel, in the care of an Indian woman. Her name is Jeanne
Angelot."

The girls glanced at each other with a little curl of the lip as St.
Armand's eyes wandered around.

"My father met her at the flag-raising and was charmed with her eyes and
her ignorance," said Laurent, rather flippantly.

"If I were going to become a citizen of Detroit I should interest myself
in this subject of education. It is sinful to allow so many young people
to grow up in ignorance," declared the elder St. Armand.

"Most of our girls of the better class are sent to Montreal or Quebec,"
exclaimed Madame Fleury. "The English have governesses. And there is the
Recollet school; there may be places outside the stockade."

Monsieur Fleury shook his head uncertainly. "Angelot, Angelot," he
repeated. "I do not know the name."

"Father Gilbert or Father Rameau might know. Are these Angelots
Catholics?"

"There is only one little girl."

"Oh!" a light broke over Madame's face. "I think I can recall an event.
Husband, you know the little child the Bellestres had?"

"I do not remember," shaking his head.

"It was found queerly. They had a slave who became its nurse. The
Bellestres were Huguenots, but Madame had a leaning toward the Church
and the child was baptized. Madame Bellestre, who was a lovely woman,
deferred to her husband until she was dying, when Father Rameau was sent
for and she acknowledged that she died in the holy faith. There was
some talk about the child, but M. Bellestre claimed it and cares for it.
Under the English reign, you know, the good fathers had not so much
authority."

"Where can I find this Father Rameau?"

"At the house beside the church. It is headquarters for the priests who
come and go. A delightful old man is the father, though I could wish at
times he would exercise a little more authority and make a stand for our
rights. I sometimes fear we shall be quite pushed to the wall."

St. Armand had come of a long line of Huguenots more than one of whom
had suffered for his faith. He was a liberal now, studying up religion
from many points, but he was too gallant to discuss it with a lady and
his hostess.

The young people were getting restive. It was just the night for
delightful canoeing on the river and it had been broached in the
afternoon. Marie the maid, quite a superior woman, was often intrusted
with this kind of companionship. Before they were ready to start a young
neighbor came in who joined them.

Monsieur Fleury invited his guest to an end porch shaded by a profusion
of vines, notable among them the sweetbrier, that gave out a fragrant
incense on the night air. Even here they could catch sounds of the music
from the river parties, for the violin and a young French habitan were
almost inseparable.

"Nay," he replied, "though a quiet smoke tempts the self-indulgent side
of my nature. But I want to see the priest. I am curiously interested
in this child."

"There were some whispers about her, Monsieur, that one does not mention
before young people. One was that she had Indian blood in her veins,
and--" here Madame Fleury lowered her voice almost to a whisper,--"and
that Madame Bellestre, who was very much of the _haute noblesse_, should
be so ready to take in a strange child, and that M. Bellestre should
keep his sort of guardianship over her and provide for her. Some of the
talk comes back to me. There have been many questionable things done we
older people know."

St. Armand gave an assenting nod. Then he asked himself what there was
about the child that should interest one so much, recalling her pretty
eager compliment that he resembled a king, or her vague idea of one.

His dinner dress set him off to a fine advantage. It was much in the old
French fashion--the long waistcoat of flowered satin and velvet with its
jeweled buttons; the ruffled shirt front, the high stock, the lace cuffs
about the hand, the silken small clothes and stockings. And when he was
dressed in furs with fringed deerskin leggings and a beaver cap above
the waving brown hair, with his snowy beard and pink cheeks, and his
blue eyes, he was a goodly picture as well.

The priest's house was easily found. The streets were full of people in
the early evening, for in this pleasant weather it was much more
refreshing out of door than in. The smells of furs and skins lingered
in the atmosphere, and a few days of good strong wind was a godsend. The
doorways were full, women caressing their babies and chanting low
lullabies; while elsewhere a pretty young girl hung over the lower half
of the door and laughed with an admirer while her mother sat drowsing
just within.

A tidy old woman, in coif and white apron over her black gown, bowed her
head as she answered his question. The good father was in. Would the
stranger walk this way?

Pere Rameau was crossing the hall. In the dim light, a stone basin
holding oil after the fashion of a Greek lamp, the wick floating on top,
the priest glanced up at his visitor. Both had passed each other in the
street and hardly needed an introduction.

"I hope I have not disturbed you in any way," began M. St. Armand in an
attractive tone that gained a listener at once. "I have come to talk
over a matter that has a curious interest for me, and I am told you have
the key, if not to the mystery exactly, to some of the links. I hope you
will not consider me intrusive."

"I shall be glad to give you any information that is possible. I am not
a politician, Monsieur, and have been trained not to speak evil of those
appointed to rule over us."

He was a tall, spare man with a face that even in the wrinkles and
thinness of age, and perhaps a little asceticism, was sweet and calm,
and the brown eyes were soft, entreating. Clean shaven, the chin showed
narrow, but the mouth redeemed it. He wore the black cassock of the
Recollets, the waist girded by a cord from which was suspended a cross
and a book of devotions.

"Then if it is a serious talk, come hither. There may be a little smoke
in the air--"

"I am a smoker myself," said St. Armand cordially.

"Then you may not object to a pipe. I have some most excellent tobacco.
I bethink me sometimes that it is not a habit of self-sacrifice, but the
fragrance is delightful and it soothes the nerves."

The room was rather long, and somewhat narrow. At the far end there was
a small altar and a _prie dieu_. A candle was burning and its light
defined the ivory crucifix above. In the corner a curtained something
that might be a confessional. Indeed, not a few startling confessions
had been breathed there. An escritoire with some shelves above,
curiously carved, that bespoke its journey across the sea, took a great
wall space and seemed almost to divide the room. The window in the front
end was quite wide, and the shutters were thrown open for air, though a
coarse curtain fell in straight folds from the top. Here was a
commodious desk accommodating papers and books, a small table with pipes
and tobacco, two wooden chairs and a more comfortable one which the
priest proffered to the guest.

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