A Little Girl in Old Detroit

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"Shall we have a light? Marcel, bring a candle."

"Nay," protested the visitor, "I enjoy this dimness. One seems more
inclined to talk, though I think I have heard a most excellent reason
educed for such a course;" and a mirthful twinkle shone in his eyes.

The priest laughed softly. "It is hardly applicable here. I sat
thinking. The sun has been so brilliant for days that the night brings
comfort. You are a stranger here, Monsieur?"

"Yes, though it is not my first visit to Detroit. I have gone from New
York to Michilimackinac several times, to Montreal, Quebec, to France
and back, though I was born there. I am the guest of Monsieur Fleury."

The priest made an approving inclination of the head.

"One sees many strange things. You have a conglomerate, Pere Rameau. And
now a new--shall I say ruler?"

"That is the word, Monsieur. And I hope it may last as long as the
English reign. We cannot pray for the success of La Belle France any
more."

"France has her own hard battles to fight. Yet it makes one a little sad
to think of the splendid heritage that has slipped from her hands, for
which her own discoverers and priests gave up their lives. Still, she
has been proved unworthy of her great trust. I, as a Frenchman, say it
with sorrow."

"You are a churchman, Monsieur?"

"A Christian, I hope. For several generations we have been on the other
side. But I am not unmindful of good works or good lives."

Pere Rameau bowed his head.

"What I wished to talk about was a little girl," St. Armand began,
after a pause. "Jeanne Angelot, I have heard her called."

"Ah, Monsieur, you know something about her, then?" returned the priest,
eagerly.

"No, I wish I did. I have crossed her path a time or two, though I can't
tell just why she interests me. She is bright, vivacious, but curiously
ignorant. Why does she live with this Indian woman and run wild?"

"I cannot tell any further than it seems M. Bellestre's strange whim.
All I know of the child is Pani's story. The De Longueils went to France
and the Bellestres took their house. Pani had been given her freedom,
but remained with the new owners. She was a very useful woman, but
subject to curious spells of longing for her olden friends. Sometimes
she would disappear for days, spending the time among the Indian squaws
outside the stockade. She was there one evening when this child was
dropped in her lap by a young Indian woman. Touchas, the woman she was
staying with, corroborates the story. The child was two years or more
old, and talked French; cried at first for her 'maman.' Madame Bellestre
insisted that Pani should bring the child to her. She had lost a little
one by death about the same age. She supposed at first that some one
would claim it, but no one ever did. Then she brought the child to me
and had it christened by the name on the card, Jeanne Angelot. Madame
had a longing for the ministrations of the Church, but her husband was
opposed. In her last illness he consented. He loved her very dearly. I
think he was afraid of the influence of a priest, but he need not have
been. She gave me all the things belonging to the child, and I promised
to yield them up to the one who claimed her, or Jeanne herself when she
was eighteen, or on her wedding day when she was married. Her husband
promised to provide for the child as long as she needed it. He was very
fond of her, too."

"And was there no suspicion?" St. Armand hesitated.

The pale face betrayed a little warmth and the slim fingers clasped each
other.

"I understand, Monsieur. There was and I told him of it. With his hand
on God's word he declared that he knew no more about her than Pani's
story, and that he had loved his wife too well for his thoughts ever to
stray elsewhere. He was an honest, upright man and I believe him. He
planned at first to take the child to New Orleans, but Mademoiselle, who
was about fourteen, objected strenuously. She _was_ jealous of her
father's love for the child. M. Bellestre was a large, fair man with
auburn hair and hazel eyes, generous, kindly, good-tempered. The child
is dark, and has a passionate nature, beats her playmates if they offend
her, though it is generally through some cruel thing they have done. She
has noble qualities but there never has been any training. Yet every one
has a good word for her and a warm side. I do not think the child would
tell a lie or take what did not belong to her. She would give all she
had sooner."

"You interest me greatly. But would it not be wiser for her to have a
better home and different training? Does M. Bellestre consent to have
her grow up in ignorance?"

"I have proposed she and Pani should come to the Recollet house. We have
classes, you know, and there are orphan children. Several times we have
coaxed her in, but it was disastrous. She set our classes in an uproar.
The sister put her in a room by herself and she jumped out of the window
and threatened to run away to the woods if she were sent again. M.
Bellestre thinks to come to Detroit sometime, when it will be settled no
doubt. His daughter is married now. He may take Jeanne back with him."

"That would be a blessing. But she has an eager mind and now we are
learning that a broader education is necessary. It seems a pity--"

"Monsieur, there are only two lines that seem important for a woman. One
is the training to make her a good wife and mother, and in new countries
this is much needed. It is simplicity and not worldly arrogance,
obedience and not caviling; first as a daughter, then as a wife. To
guide the house, prepare the meals, teach her children the holy truths
of the Church, and this is all God will require of her. The other is to
devote her whole life to God's work, but not every one has this gift.
And she who bears children obeys God's mandate and will have her
reward."

"Whether the world is round or square," thought the Sieur St. Armand,
but he was too courteous even to smile. Jeanne Angelot would need a
wider life than this, and, if unduly narrowed, would spring over the
traces.

"You think M. Bellestre means to come?"

"He has put it off to next year now. There is so much unrest and
uncertainty all over the country, that at present he cannot leave his
business."

St. Armand sighed softly, thinking of Jeanne.

"Would you show the clothes and the trinkets?"

"O yes, Monsieur, to a person like you, but not to the idly curious.
Indeed, for that matter, they have been mostly forgotten. So many things
have happened to distract attention."

He rose and went to the old escritoire. Unlocking a drawer he took out a
parcel folded in a piece of cloth.

"The clothes she wore," he said, "even to the little shoes of deerskin.
There is nothing special about them to denote that she was the child of
a rich person."

That was very true, St. Armand saw, except that the little stockings
were fine and bore the mark of imported goods. He mused over them.

The priest opened a small, oblong box that still had the scent of snuff
about it. On it was the name of Bellestre. So that was no clew.

"Here is the necklet and the little ring and the paper with her name.
Madame Bellestre placed these in my hand some time before she died."

The chain was slender and of gold, the locket small; inside two painted
miniatures but very diminutive, and both of them young. One would hardly
be able to identify a middle aged person from them. There was no mark or
initials, save an undecipherable monogram.

"It is a pity there are no more chances of identification," St. Armand
said. "This and the stockings come from France. And if the poor mother
was dead--"

"There are so many orphans, Monsieur. Kind people take them in. I know
of some who have been restored to their families. It is my dream to
gather them in one home and train them to useful lives. It may come if
we have peace for a while."

"She has a trusty guardian in you."

"If I could decide her fate, Monsieur. Truly she is a child of the
Church, but she is wild and would revolt at any abridgment of her
liberty. We may win her by other means. Pani is a Christian woman though
with many traits of Indian character, some of the best of them,"
smiling. "It cannot be that the good Father above will allow any of his
examples to be of none effect. Pani watches over her closely and loves
her with untiring devotion. She firmly upholds M. Bellestre's right and
believes he will return. The money to support them is sent to M. Loisel,
the notary, and he is not a churchman. It is a pity so many of out brave
old fathers should die for the faith and the children not be gathered in
one fold. In Father Bonaventure's time it was not so, but the English
had not come."

The good priest sighed and began folding up the articles.

"Father Gilbert believes in a stricter rule. But most of the people have
years of habit that they put in the place of faith. Yet they are a good,
kindly people, and they need some pleasures to compensate for their hard
lives. They are gay and light-hearted as you have no doubt seen, but
many of them are tinctured with Indian superstitions as well. Then for a
month, when the fur traders come in, there is much drinking and
disorder. There have been many deep-rooted prejudices. My nation cannot
forgive the English for numberless wrongs. We could always have been
friends with the Indians when they understood that we meant to deal
fairly by them. And we were to blame for supplying them with fire water,
justly so called. The fathers saw this and fought against it a century
ago. Even the Sieur Cadillac tried to restrict them, though he did not
approve the Jesuits. Monsieur, as you may have seen, the Frenchman
drinks a little with the social tendency of his race, the Indian for the
sake of wild expansion. He is a grand hero to himself, then, ready for a
war dance, for fighting, cruelty, rapine, and revenge. I hope the new
nation will understand better how to deal with them. They are the true
children of the forest and the wilderness. I suppose in time they would
even destroy each other."

St. Armand admitted to himself that it was hard to push them farther to
the cold, inhospitable north, which would soon be the only hunting
ground left them unless the unknown West opened a future resource.

"They are a strange race. Yet there have been many fierce peoples on our
earth that have proved themselves amenable to civilization."

"Let us hope for better times and a more lasting peace. Prejudices die
out in a few generations." Then he rose. "I thank you sincerely for your
kindness, father, and hope you will be prospered in your good work, and
in the oversight of the child."

"You are not to remain--"

St. Armand smiled. "I have much business on my hands. There are many
treaty points to define and settle. I go to Washington; I may go to
France. But I wish you all prosperity under the new government."

The priest bowed.

"And you will do your best for the child?"

"Whatever I am allowed to do, Monsieur."

There was still much soreness about religious matters. The English
laxity had led to too much liberty, to doubting, even.

They bade each other a cordial adieu, with hopes of meeting again.

"Strange there should be so many interested in the child," St. Armand
mused. "And she goes her own way serenely."

CHAPTER VI.

IN WHICH JEANNE BOWS HER HEAD.

General Anthony Wayne was a busy man for the next few weeks, though he
was full of tireless activity to his finger tips. There was much to be
done in the town that was old already and had seen three different
regimes. English people were packing their worldly goods and starting
for Canada. Some of the French were going to the farther western
settlements. Barracks were overhauled, the palisades strengthened, the
Fort put in a better state of defense. For there were threats that the
English might return. There were roving bands of Indians to the north
and west, ready to be roused to an attack by disaffected French or
English.

But the industrious inhabitants plied their vocations unmindful of
change of rulers. Boat loads of emigrants came in. Stores of all kinds
were dumped upon the wharf. The red painted windmills flew like great
birds in the air, though some of the habitans kept to their little home
hand mill, whose two revolving stones needed a great expenditure of
strength and ground but coarsely. You saw women spinning in doorways
that they might nod to passers-by or chat with a neighbor who had time
to spare.

The children played about largely on the outside of the palisade. There
were waving fields of maize that farmers had watched with fear and
trembling and now surveyed with pride. Other grains were being
cultivated. Estates were staked out, new log houses were erected, some
much more pretentious ones with great stone chimneys.

Yet people found time for pleasure. There were canoe loads of merry
girls going down or up the river, adroitly keeping out of the way of the
larger craft and sending laughing replies to the chaff of the boatmen.
And the evenings were mostly devoted to pleasure, with much music and
singing. For it was not all work then.

Jeanne roamed at her own wayward will, oftenest within the inclosure
with Pani by the hand. The repairs going on interested her. The new
soldiers in their Continental blue and buff, most of it soiled and worn,
presented quite a contrast to the red and gold of the English to which
their eyes had become so accustomed. Now and then some one spoke
respectfully to her; there was much outward deference paid to women even
if the men were some of them tyrants within.

And Jeanne asked questions in her own fearless fashion. She had picked
up some English and by dint of both languages could make herself
understood.

"Well?" exclaimed a young lieutenant who had been overseeing some work
and cleaning up at the barracks, turning a smiling and amused face
towards her, "well, Mademoiselle, how do you like us--your new
masters?"

"Are you going to be masters here for long? Are you sure the English
will not come back?"

She raised her head proudly and her eyes flashed.

"It looks as if we might stay," he answered.

"You will not be everybody's master. You will not be mine."

"Why, no. What I meant was the government. Individuals you know have
always a certain liberty."

She wondered a little what individuals were. Ah, if one could know a
good deal! Something was stirring within her and it gave her a sort of
pain, perplexing her as well.

What a bright curious face it was with the big eyes that looked out so
straightforwardly!

"You are French, Mam'selle, or--"

"Am I like an Indian?"

She stood up straight and seemed two or three inches taller. He turned a
sudden scarlet as he studied the mop of black curling hair, the long
lashes, through which her eyes glittered, the brown skin that was sun
kissed rather than of a copper tint, the shapely figure, and small hands
that looked as if they might grasp and hold on.

"No, Mam'selle, I think you are not." Then he looked at Pani. "You live
here?"

"Oh, not far away. Pani is my--oh, I do not know what you call
it--guard, nurse, but I am a big girl now and do not need a nurse.
Monsieur, I think I am French. But I dropped from the clouds one evening
and I can't remember the land before that."

The soldier stared, but not impertinently.

"Mam'selle, I hope you will like us, since we have come to stay."

"Ah, do not feel too sure. The French drove out the Indians, the English
conquered the French, and they went away--many of them. And you have
driven out the English. Where will the next people come from?"

"The next people?" in surprise.

"The people to drive you out." She laughed softly.

"We will not be driven out."

"Are you as strong as that?"

"Mam'selle, we have conquered the English from Maine to the Carolinas,
and to the Mississippi river. We shall do all the rest sometime."

"I think I shall be an American. I like people who are strong and can
never be beaten."

"Of course you will have to be an American. And you must learn to speak
English well."

"Monsieur," with much dignity, "if you are so grand why do you not have
a language of your own?"

"Because"--he was about to say--"we were English in the beginning," but
the sharp, satirical curves lurking around her mouth checked him. What
an odd, piquant creature she was!

"Come away," and Pani pulled her hand. "You talk too much to people and
make M'sieu idle."

"O Pani!" She gave an exultant cry and sprang away, then stopped short.
For it was not only her friend, but a number of gentlemen in military
attire and mounted on horses with gay trappings.

Monsieur St. Armand waved his hand to her. She shrank back and caught
Pani's gown.

"It is General Wayne," said the lieutenant, and paid him something more
than the demands of superior rank, for admiration was in his eyes and
Jeanne noticed it.

"My little friend," said St. Armand, leaning down toward Jeanne, "I am
glad to see you again." He turned a trifle. The general and his aids
were on a tour of inspection, and now the brave soldier leaped from the
saddle, giving the child a glance.

"I have been coming to find you," began Monsieur. "I have many things to
say to your attendant. Especially as in a few days I go away."

"O Monsieur, is it because you do not like--" her eyes followed the
general's suite.

"It is because I like them so well. I go to their capital on some
business, and then to France. But I shall return in a year, perhaps. A
year is not very long."

"Just a winter and a summer. There are many of them to life?"

"To some lives, yes. I hope there will be to yours, happy ones."

"I am always happy when I can run about or sail on the river. There are
so many delightful things when no one bothers you."

"And the bothers are, I suppose, when some one considers your way not
the best for you. We all meet with such things in life."

"My own way is the best," she replied, willfully, a daring light
shining in her eyes. "Do I not know what gives me the most pleasure? If
I want to go out and sing with the birds or run mad races with the dogs,
or play with the children outside, that is the thing which gives me joy
and makes my blood rush warm and bright in my veins. Monsieur, I told
you I did not like to be shut up."

"Well, well. Remain in your little cottage this afternoon, and let me
come and talk to you. I think I will not make you unhappy."

"Your voice is so sweet, Monsieur, but if you say disagreeable things,
if you want me to learn to sew and to read--and to spin--the De Bers
have just had a spinning wheel come. It is a queer thing and hums
strangely. And Marie will learn to spin, her mother says. Then she will
never be able to go in the woods for wild grapes and nuts. No, I cannot
spend my time being so busy. And I do not care for stockings. Leggings
are best for winter. And Touchas makes me moccasins."

Her feet and ankles were bare now. Dainty and shapely they were, and
would have done for models.

"Monsieur, the soft grass and the warm sand is so pleasant to one's
feet. I am glad I am not a grand lady to wear clumsy shoes. Why, I could
not run."

St. Armand laughed. He had never seen such a free, wild, human thing
rejoicing exultantly in its liberty. It seemed almost a shame to capture
her--like caging a bird. But she could not always be a child.

General Wayne had made his round and given some orders, and now he
reappeared.

"I want to present you to this little girl of Detroit," began M. St.
Armand, "so that in years to come, when she hears of all your exploits,
she will be proud that she had the honor. Jeanne Angelot is the small
maid's name. And this is our brave General Wayne, who has persuaded the
Indians to peace and amity, and taught the English to keep their word.
But he can fight as well as talk."

"Monsieur, when they gave you welcome, I did not think you looked grand
enough for a great general. But when I come near by I see you are brave
and strong and determined. I honor you, Monsieur. I am glad you are to
rule Detroit."

"Thank you, my little maid. I hope Detroit will become a great city, and
that you may live many years in it, and be very happy."

She made a courtesy with free, exquisite grace. General Wayne leaped
into his saddle and waved his hand.

"What an odd and charming child," he remarked to St. Armand. "No woman
of society could have been more graceful and less abashed, and few would
own up change of opinion with such naive sweetness. Of course she is a
child of the people?"

"I am interested in learning who she really is;" and St. Armand repeated
what he knew of her story.

"Her mother may have been killed by the Indians. There will be many a
sad romance linked in with our early history, Sieur St. Armand."

As for Jeanne Angelot, many a time in after years she recalled her
meeting with the brave general, and no one dreamed then that his
brilliant career was to end so soon. Until November he held the post,
repairing fortifications, promulgating new laws, redressing abuses,
soothing the disaffected and, as far as he could, studying the best
interests of the town. In November he started for the East, but at
Presque Isle was seized with a fatal malady which ended his useful and
energetic career, and proved a great loss to the country.

Monsieur St. Armand was late in keeping his word. There had been many
things pressing on his attention and consideration. Jeanne had been very
restless. A hundred desires flew to her mind like birds on the wing.
Never had there seemed so many charms outside of the walls. She ran down
to see Marie at the new spinning wheel. Madame De Ber had not used one
in a long time and was a little awkward.

"When I have Marie well trained I think I will take thee in hand," she
said, rather severely. "Thou wilt soon be a big girl and then a maiden
who should be laying by some garments and blankets and household gear.
And thou canst not even knit."

"But why should I? There are no brothers and sisters, and Wenonah is
glad to make garments for me. Though I think M. Bellestre's money pays
for them. And Touchas sends such nice fur things."

"I should be ashamed to have other people work while I climbed trees and
ran about with Indian children. Though it is half suspected they are
kin to thee. But the French part should rule."

Jeanne threw up her head with a proud gesture.

"I should not mind. I often feel that they must be. They like liberty,
so do I. We are like birds and wild deer."

Then the child ran back before any reply could be made. Yet she was not
as indifferent as she seemed. She had not minded it until lately, but
now when it came in this sort of taunt she could not tell why a
remembrance of Louis Marsac should rise before her. After all, what did
a little Indian blood matter? Many a girl smiled on Louis Marsac, for
they knew his father was a rich fur trader. Was it the riches that
counted?

"He will not come," she said half angrily to Pani. "The big ladies are
very proud to have him. They wear fine clothes that come from France,
and they can smile and Madame Fleury has a harp her daughters play upon.
But they might be content with the young men."

"It is not late yet," trying to console her darling.

"Pani, I shall go outside the gates. I am so tired. I want to run races
to get my breath. It stops just as it does when the fog is in the air."

"No, child, stay here a little longer. It would be sad to miss him. And
he is going away."

"Let him go. I think all men are a great trouble! You wait and wait for
them. Then, if you go away they are sure to come."

Pani laughed. The child was brimming over with unreason. Yet her eyes
were like stars, and in an uncomprehended way the woman felt the charm
of her beauty. No, she would never part with her.

"O Pani!" The child sprang up and executed a _pas seul_ worthy of a
larger audience. Her first impulse was to run to meet him. Then she
suddenly subsided from some inexplicable cause, and a flush came to her
cheek as she dropped down on a seat beside the doorway, made of the
round of a log, and folded her hands demurely, looking out to the
barracks.

Of course she turned when she heard the steps. There was a grave
expression on her face, charming innocence that would have led anyone
astray.

Pani rose and made an obeisance, and brought forward a chair.

"Or would Monsieur rather go in doors?" she inquired.

"O no. Little one--" he held out his hand.

"I thought you had forgotten. It is late," she said plaintively.

"I am a busy man, my child. I could wish for a little of the freedom
that you rejoice in so exuberantly, though I dare say I shall have
enough on my journey."

What a companion this gay, chattering child would be, going through new
scenes!

"Mademoiselle, are you ever serious? Or are you too young to take
thought of to-morrow?"

"I am always planning for to-morrow, am I not, Pani? And if it rains I
do not mind, but go the same, except that it is not always safe on the
river, which sometimes seems as if the giant monster of the deep was
sailing about in it."

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