Part 50 (2/2)

”But you will,” she said, and her arms were about his neck, her soft, warm cheek was pressed to his, and he could feel her heart beat against his. ”It pains me, too, for see, I love you. I have a right to love you.

I must make amends for the pang of the other defection. And you will tell _her_, yes. I think I ought to be sister to her. And there are the two charming boys and Angelique--she will let me love them. I will not take their love from her.”

He drew a long breath. ”I know not how to consent, and yet I see that it would be the finest and loveliest duty. I honor you for desiring it. I must think and school myself,” smiling sadly.

He consulted M. St. Armand on the matter.

”Give her into my guardians.h.i.+p for a while,” that gentleman said. ”It is n.o.ble in her to care for her foster mother to the last. I shall be in and out of Detroit, and the Fleurys will be most friendly. And look you, _mon cousin_, I have a proffer to make. I have a son, a young man whose career has been most honorable, who is worthy of any woman's love, and who so far has had no entanglements. If these two should meet again presently, and come to desire each other, nothing would give me greater happiness. He would be a son quite to your liking. Both would be of one faith. And to me, Jeanne would be the dearest of daughters.”

The Sieur Angelot wrung the hand of his relative.

”It must be as the young people wish. And I would like to have her a little while to myself.”

”That is right, too. I could wish she were my daughter, only then my son might miss a great joy.”

So the matter was settled. M. and Madame Fleury would have opened their house to Jeanne and her charge, but it was best for them to remain where they were. Wenonah came in often and Margot was always ready to do a service.

One day Jeanne went down to the wharf to see the vessel depart for the North. It was a magnificent June morning, with the river almost like gla.s.s and a gentle wind from the south. She watched the tall figure on the deck, waving his hand until the proud outline mingled with others and was indistinct--or was it the tears in her eyes?

M. St. Armand had some business in Quebec, but would remain only a short time.

It seemed strangely solitary to Jeanne after that, although there was no lack of friends. Everybody was ready to serve her, and the young men bowed with the utmost respect when they met her. She took Pani out for short walks, the favorite one to the great oak tree where Jeanne had begun her life in Detroit. Children played about, brown Indian babies, grave-faced even in their play, vivacious French little ones calling to each other in shrill _patois_, laughing and tumbling and climbing. Had she once been wild and merry like them? Then Pani would babble of the past and stroke the soft curls and call her ”little one.” What a curious dream life was!

They were busy with the governor's house and the military squares and the old fort. The streets were cleared up a little. Houses had been painted and whitewashed. Stores and shops spread out their attractions, booths were flying gay colors and showing tempting eatables. All along the river was the stir of active life. People stayed later in the streets these warm evenings and sat on stoops chatting. Young men and maids planned pleasures and sails on the river and went to bed gay and light-hearted. Was there any place quite like Old Detroit?

Early one morning while the last stars were lingering in the sky and the east was suffused with a faint pink haze, a scarlet spire shot up that was not sunrise. No one remarked it at first. Then a broad flash that might have been lightning but was not, and a cry on the still air startled the sleepers. ”Fire! Fire!”

Suddenly all was terror. There had been no rain in some time, and the inflammable buildings caught like so much tinder. From the end of St.

Anne's street up and down it ran, the dense smoke sometimes hiding the flames. Like the eruption of a great crater the smoke rose thick, black, with here and there a tongue of flame that was frightful. The streets were so narrow and crowded, the appliances for fighting the terrible enemy so limited, that men soon gave up in despair. On and on it went devouring all within its reach.

Shop keepers emptied their stores, hurried their stocks down to the wharf, and filled the boats. Furniture, century-old heirlooms, were tumbled frantically out of houses to some place of refuge as the fire swept on, carried farther and farther. Daylight and sunlight were alike obscured. Frantic people ran hither and thither, children were gathered in arms, and hurried without the palisades, which in many instances were burned away. And presently the inhabitants gave way to the wildest despair. It was a new and terrible experience. The whole town must go.

Jeanne had been sleeping soundly, and in the first uproar listened like one dazed. Was it an Indian a.s.sault, such as her father had feared presently? Then the smoke rushed into every crack and crevice.

”Oh, what is it, what is it?” she cried, flinging her door open wide.

”Oh, Mam'selle,” cried Margot, ”the street is all aflame. Run! run!

Antoine has taken the children.”

Already the streets were crowded. St. Anne's was a wall of fire. One could hardly see, and the roar of the flames was terrific, drowning the cries and shrieks.

”Come, quick!” Margot caught her arm.

”Pani! Pani!” She darted back into the house. ”Pani,” she cried, pulling at her. ”Oh, wake, wake! We must fly. The town is burning up.”

”Little one,” said Pani, ”nothing shall harm thee.”

”Come!” Jeanne pulled her out with her strong young arms, and tried to slip a gown over the shaking figure that opposed her efforts.

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