Part 7 (2/2)
”O yes, M'sieu. I looked sharp.”
”And were you pleased?” Something in her expression led him to think she was not quite satisfied, yet he smiled.
”I think you are grander,” she returned, simply.
Then he laughed, but it was such a tender sound no one could be offended at it.
”Monsieur,” with a curious dignity, ”did you ever see a king?”
”Yes, my child, two of them. The English king, and the poor French king who was put to death, and the great Napoleon, the Emperor.”
”Were they very--I know one splendid word, M'sieu, _magnifique_, but I like best the way the English say it, magnificent. And were they--”
”They were and are common looking men. Your Was.h.i.+ngton here is a peer to them. My child, kings are of human clay like other men; not as good or as n.o.ble as many another one.”
”I am sorry,” she said, with quiet gravity, which betrayed her disappointment.
”And you do not like General Wayne?”
”O Monsieur, he has done great things for us. I hear them talk about him. Yes, you know I _must_ like him, that is--I do not understand about likes and all that, why your heart suddenly goes out to one person and shuts up to another when neither of them may have done anything for you. I have been thinking of so many things lately, since I saw you. And Pierre De Ber asked the good father, when he went to be catechised on Friday, if the world was really round. And Pere Rameau said it was not a matter of salvation and that it made no difference whether it was round or square. Pierre is sure it must be a big, flat plain. You know we can go out ever so far on the prairies and it is quite level.”
”You must go to school, little one. Knowledge will solve many doubts.
There will be better schools and more of them. Where does your father live? I should like to see him. And who is this woman?” nodding to Jeanne's attendant.
”That is Pani. She has always cared for me. I have no father, Monsieur, and we cannot be sure about my mother. I haven't minded but I think now I would like to have some parents, if they did not beat me and make me work.”
”Pani is an Indian?”
”Yes. She was Monsieur Bellestre's servant. And one day, under a great oak outside the palisade, some one, an Indian squaw, dropped me in her lap. Pani could not understand her language, but she said in French, 'Maman dead, dead.' And when M. Bellestre went away, far, far to the south on the great river, he had the little cottage fixed for Pani and me, and there we live.”
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 p.a.w.nee 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.
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