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Jeanne Angelot climbed a slight ascent where great jagged stones had probably been swept down in some fierce storm and found lodgment. Tufts of pink flowers, the like of which she had not seen before, hung over one ledge. They were not wild roses, yet had a spicy fragrance.
Louis street where the imported goods from Montreal and Quebec were kept. Laces and finery for the quality, silks and brocades, hard as the times were. Jeanne tripped along gayly. She would be happy this morning anyhow, as if she was putting off some impending evil. "Take care, child! Ah, it is Jeanne Angelot. Did I run over thee, or thou over me?" laughing.
And Jeanne Angelot may be only very little French, though her skin has bleached up clearer, and she puts on delicate airs with her accent. She will not make a good wife." "You are talking of Jeanne," and the big body nearly filled the window, that had no hangings in summer, and the sash was swung open for air. Pierre leaned his elbows on the sill, and his face flushed deeply.
Her eyes were sunken, with grayish shadows underneath, her cheeks had a hollow where fullness should have been, her lips were compressed in a nearly straight line. She was not old, but asceticism had robbed her of every indication of youth, had made severity the leading indication in her countenance. "Jeanne Angelot," she repeated. "You are quite sure, Father, those garments belonged to her?"
That Jeanne Angelot had been carried off by Indians seemed most likely. Such things were still done. But many of the superstitious shook their heads. She had come queerly as if she had dropped from the clouds, she had gone in the same manner. Perhaps she was not a human child. All wild things had come at her call, she had talked to them in the woods.
That was the old signal for the Indians and whoever lived outside the palisades to retire. He bowed again and walked up to the Fort and the Parade. "Angelot," he said to himself, knitting his brow. "Where have I heard the name away from Detroit? She will be a pretty girl and I must keep an eye on her."
Mam'selle, are many of the neighborhood girls mated?" "Oh, a dozen or so," laughed Rose. "But let me see, the wild little thing, Jeanne Angelot, that used to amuse the children by her pranks, still roams the woods with her Pani woman." "Then she has not found a lover?" carelessly. "She plays too much with them, Monsieur. It is every little while a new one.
She was extravagantly fond of him, and he prospered in many things, but he envied the Sieur Angelot his standing and his power, though he could never have attained either. Pierre De Ber was a good son and a great assistance to his father in recovering their fortunes. After awhile he married, largely to please his mother, but he made an excellent husband.
Afterward there were games of various sorts, tests of strength, running and jumping, and the Indian game of ball, which was wilder and more exciting than the French. "Oh, here you are!" exclaimed Rose De Ber. On one side was Martin Lavosse, a well-favored young fellow, and on the other a great giant, it seemed to Jeanne. For a moment she felt afraid. "Why, it isn't Jeanne Angelot?"
Some new boats had come in. One and another nodded to Jeanne; but just as she was turning a hand touched her arm, too lightly to be the jostle of the throng. She was in no mood for familiarities, and shook it off indignantly. "Mam'selle Jeanne Angelot," a rather rich voice said in a laughing tone. She guessed before she even changed the poise of her head. What cruel fate followed her!
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