“And you recollect,” I went on, not heeding his formula, “how I came to the Portage a bride, and lived in the old cabins that the soldiers had occupied—­”

“Eh b’an! oui—­oui—­”

“And how you helped make the garden for me—­and how Plante and Manaigre finished the new house so nicely while Monsieur John was away for the silver—­and how there was a feast after it was completed—­”

“Ah! oui, oui—­pour le sur.”

“And where are all our people now?” I asked, turning to Therese.  “Louis Frum dit Manaigre—­is he living?”

“Oh, Madame Kinzie!  You remember that—­Manaigre having two names?”

“Yes, Therese—­I remember everything connected with those old times at the Portage.  Who among our people there are living?”

“Only Manaigre is left,” she said.

“Mais, mais, Therese,” interposed the old man, “Manaigre’s daughter Genevieve is living.”  It was a comfort to find our visit of such miraculous benefit to his memory.

“And the Puans—­are any of them left?” I asked.

“Not more than ten or twelve, I think—­” Again her grandfather promptly contradicted her:—­

“Mais, mais, je compte b’an qu’il y en a quinze ou seize, Therese;” and he went quite glibly over the names of such of his red friends as still hovered around their old home in that vicinity.

He was in the full tide of gay reminiscence, touching upon experiences and adventures of long ago, and recalling Indian and half-breed acquaintances of former days, when footsteps approached, and the entrance of eager, curious visitors suddenly reminded him of his appointed role.  It was marvellous how instantaneously he subsided into the superannuated driveller who was to bear away the bell from Old Parr and all the Emperor Alexander’s far-sought fossils.

“Je suis vieux, vieux—­l’an mil sept cent vingt-six—­le treize Septembre, a Detroit—–­ je ne puis rappeler rien.”

Not another phrase could “all the King’s armies, or all the King’s men,” have extorted from him.

So we left him to the admiring comments of the new-comers.  I think it should be added, in extenuation of what would otherwise seem a gross imposture, that his granddaughter was really ignorant of Crely’s exact age—­that he, being ever a gasconading fellow, was quite ready to personate that certain Joseph Crely whose name appears on the baptismal records of the Church in Detroit of the year 1726.  He was, moreover, pleased with the idea of being gaily dressed and going on a tour to see the world, and doubtless rejoiced, also, in the prospect of relieving his poor granddaughter of a part of the burden of his maintenance.  He was probably at this time about ninety-five years of age.  There are those that knew him from 1830, who maintain that his age was a few years less; but I take the estimate of Mr. Kinzie and H.L.  Dousman, of Prairie du Chien, who set him down, in 1864, at about the age I have assigned to him.