The child was playing hostess to the young wife with the ease and grace of a true Frenchwoman, and displaying the adornments of her room. This and that had come from Mattawissa, who made beautiful articles that Uncle Gaspard sent to New Orleans, and who was sweet and friendly, not like some of the morose old Indian women about. But then Mattawissa was not old. Gaspard smiled at the little girl’s chatter, and explained briefly. “One would hardly think such a pretty innocent thing could belong to old Antoine! Is he still in with the river pirates? His goods must be hidden somewhere. He does not keep them in the house, it would seem, for the guards found nothing when they searched.” “He is a shrewd old dog,” replied Gaspard. “But his wife and his daughter were of a different kind. And you see he could not have taken charge of the child.” Marchand nodded. The dinner was certainly Mère Lunde’s best. The men had their talk about trade and who was prospering, but the two girls, who sat side by side, had some gay laughs, and occasionally hard work to understand each other. Wawataysee, the Firefly, as she was called in her native language, knew a little French and a little English, and often confused them. Renée had picked up a few words of English, but the tongue was quite despised at that time. And when the dinner was through they went out to walk, pausing at the little old church and the priest’s house on the way to the fort, and the little plot about. Father Valentine came out and gave them a cordial greeting. Denys did the honors. The priest bent his head close to Marchand’s. “You have been true and fair with this beautiful girl?” he asked a little anxiously. “She is your lawful wife?” “Yes, oh, a thousand times yes. Here is the good father’s signature and that of the witnesses. It was at the little mission at St. Pierre’s.” He took out a bundle of papers in a deerskin wallet. Tied securely in a little package by itself was the priest’s certificate. Father Valentine nodded, well pleased. “And she is a baptized Christian,” he added. “I wish you both much happiness.” “Suppose you keep this awhile for me,” said Marchand, “while I am changing about. I hardly know yet where I shall settle.” “Gladly will I oblige you. But why not stay here, my son? St. Louis needs industry and energy and capable citizens for her upbuilding.” “I am thinking of it, I confess. I have already met with a warm welcome from old friends.” They walked round about the fort. Wawataysee knew curious legends of Pontiac and had heard of the siege of Detroit. Indeed, many of the Hurons had participated in it. And here was the end of so much bravery and energy, misdirected, and of no avail against the invincible march of the white man. CHAPTER VII AT THE KING’S BALL It was a very gay summer to Renée de Longueville. Rosalie Pichou protested and grew angry at being superseded.