The Crossing by Winston Churchill (page 10)

“Charleston, ‘Napolis . . . Philadelphia . . . everywhere,” he answered.

“Now,” said he, “‘mgoin’ t’ bed.”

I applauded this determination, but doubted whether he meant to carry it out. However, I conducted him to the back room, where he sat himself down on the edge of my four-poster, and after conversing a little longer on the subject of Mr. Jackson (who seemed to have gotten upon his brain), he toppled over and instantly fell asleep with his clothes on. For a while I stood over him, the old affection welling up so strongly within me that my eyes were dimmed as I looked upon his face. Spare and handsome it was, and boyish still, the weaker lines emphasized in its relaxation. Would that relentless spirit with which he had been born make him, too, a wanderer forever? And was it not the strangest of fates which had impelled him to join this madcap expedition of this other man I loved, George Rogers Clark?

I went out, closed the door, and lighting another candle took from my portfolio a packet of letters. Two of them I had not read, having found them only on my return from Philadelphia that morning. They were all signed simply “Sarah Temple,” they were dated at a certain number in the Rue Bourbon, New Orleans, and each was a tragedy in that which it had left unsaid. There was no suspicion of heroics, there was no railing at fate; the letters breathed but the one hope,–that her son might come again to that happiness of which she had robbed him. There were in all but twelve, and they were brief, for some affliction had nearly deprived the lady of the use of her right hand. I read them twice over, and then, despite the lateness of the hour, I sat staring at the candles, reflecting upon my own helplessness. I was startled from this revery by a knock. Rising hastily, I closed the door of my bedroom, thinking I had to do with some drunken reveller who might be noisy. The knock was repeated. I slipped back the bolt and peered out into the night.

“I saw dat light,” said a voice which I recognized; “I think I come in to say good night.”

I opened the door, and he walked in.

“You are one night owl, Monsieur Reetchie,” he said.

“And you seem to prefer the small hours for your visits, Monsieur de St. Gre,” I could not refrain from replying.

He swept the room with a glance, and I thought a shade of disappointment passed over his face. I wondered whether he were looking for Nick. He sat himself down in my chair, stretched out his legs, and regarded me with something less than his usual complacency.

“I have much laik for you, Monsieur Reetchie,” he began, and waved aside my bow of acknowledgment “Before I go away from Louisville I want to spik with you,–this is a risson why I am here. You listen to what dat Depeau he say,–dat is not truth. My family knows you, I laik to have you hear de truth.”

He paused, and while I wondered what revelations he was about to make, I could not repress my impatience at the preamble.

“You are my frien’, you have prove it,” he continued. “You remember las’ time we meet?” (I smiled involuntarily.) “You was in bed, but you not need be ashame’ for me. Two days after I went to France, and I not in New Orleans since.”

“Two days after you saw me?” I repeated.

“Yaas, I run away. That was the mont’ of August, 1789, and we have not then heard in New Orleans that the Bastille is attack. I lan’ at La Havre,–it is the en’ of Septembre. I go to the Chateau de St. Gre–great iron gates, long avenue of poplar,–big house all ’round a court, and Monsieur le Marquis is at Versailles. I borrow three louis from the concierge, and I go to Versailles to the hotel of Monsieur le Marquis. There is all dat trouble what you read about going on, and Monsieur le Marquis he not so glad to see me for dat risson. ‘Mon cher Auguste,’ he cry, ‘you want to be of officier in gardes de corps? You are not afred?'” (Auguste stiffened.) “‘I am a St. Gre, Monsieur le Marquis. I am afred of nothings,’ I answered. He tek me to the King, I am made lieutenant, the mob come and the King and Queen are carry off to Paris. The King is prisoner, Monsieur le Marquis goes back to the Chateau de St. Gre. France is a republic. Monsieur–que voulez-vous?” (The Sieur de St. Gre shrugged his shoulders.) “I, too, become Republican. I become officier in the National Guard,–one must move with the time. Is it not so, Monsieur? I deman’ of you if you ever expec’ to see a St. Gre a Republican.”

I expressed my astonishment.

“I give up my right, my principle, my family. I come to America–I go to New Orleans where I have influence and I stir up revolution for France, for Liberty. Is it not noble cause?”

I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask Monsieur Auguste why he left France, but the uselessness of it was apparent.

“You see, Monsieur, I am justify before you, before my frien’s,–that is all I care,” and he gave another shrug in defiance of the world at large. “What I have done, I have done for principle. If I remain Royalist, I might have marry my cousin, Mademoiselle de St. Gre. Ha, Monsieur, you remember–the miniature you were so kin’ as to borrow me four hundred livres?”

“I remember,” I said.

“It is because I have much confidence in you, Monsieur,” he said, “it is because I go–peut-etre–to dangere, to death, that I come here and ask you to do me a favor.”

“You honor me too much, Monsieur,” I answered, though I could scarce refrain from smiling.

“It is because of your charactair,” Monsieur Auguste was good enough to say. “You are to be repose’ in, you are to be rely on. Sometime I think you ver’ ole man. And this is why, and sence you laik objects of art, that I bring this and ask you keep it while I am in dangere.”

I was mystified. He thrust his hand into his coat and drew forth an oval object wrapped in dirty paper, and then disclosed to my astonished eyes the miniature of Mademoiselle de St. Gre,–the miniature, I say, for the gold back and setting were lacking. Auguste had retained only the ivory,–whether from sentiment or necessity I will not venture. The sight of it gave me a strange sensation, and I can scarcely write of the anger and disgust which surged over me, of the longing to snatch it from his trembling fingers. Suddenly I forgot Auguste in the lady herself. There was something emblematical in the misfortune which had bereft the picture of its setting. Even so the Revolution had taken from her a brilliant life, a king and queen, home and friends. Yet the spirit remained unquenchable, set above its mean surroundings,–ay, and untouched by them. I was filled with a painful curiosity to know what had become of her, which I repressed. Auguste’s voice aroused me.

“Ah, Monsieur, is it not a face to love, to adore?”

“It is a face to obey,” I answered, with some heat, and with more truth than I knew.

“Mon Dieu, Monsieur, it is so. It is that mek me love–you know not how. You know not what love is, Monsieur Reetchie, you never love laik me. You have not sem risson. Monsieur,” he continued, leaning forward and putting his hand on my knee, “I think she love me–I am not sure. I should not be surprise’. But Monsieur le Marquis, her father, he trit me ver’ bad. Monsieur le Marquis is guillotine’ now, I mus’ not spik evil of him, but he marry her to one ol’ garcon, Le Vicomte d’Ivry-le-Tour.”

“So Mademoiselle is married,” I said after a pause.

“Oui, she is Madame la Vicomtesse now; I fall at her feet jus’ the sem. I hear of her once at Bel Oeil, the chateau of Monsieur le Prince de Ligne in Flander’. After that they go I know not where. They are exile’,–los’ to me.” He sighed, and held out the miniature to me. “Monsieur, I esk you favor. Will you be as kin’ and keep it for me again?”

I have wondered many times since why I did not refuse. Suffice it to say that I took it. And Auguste’s face lighted up.

“I am a thousan’ times gret’ful,” he cried; and added, as though with an afterthought, “Monsieur, would you be so kin’ as to borrow me fif’ dollars?”

CHAPTER IV

OF A SUDDEN RESOLUTION

It was nearly morning when I fell asleep in my chair, from sheer exhaustion, for the day before had been a hard one, even for me. I awoke with a start, and sat for some minutes trying to collect my scattered senses. The sun streamed in at my open door, the birds hopped on the lawn, and the various sounds of the bustling life of the little town came to me from beyond. Suddenly, with a glimmering of the mad events of the night, I stood up, walked uncertainly into the back room, and stared at the bed.

It was empty. I went back into the outer room; my eye wandered from the shattered whiskey bottle, which was still on the floor, to the table littered with Mrs. Temple’s letters. And there, in the midst of them, lay a note addressed with my name in a big, unformed hand. I opened it mechanically.

“Dear Davy,”–so it ran,–“I have gone away, I cannot tell you where. Some day I will come back and you will forgive me. God bless you! NICK.”

He had gone away! To New Orleans? I had long ceased trying to account for Nick’s actions, but the more I reflected, the more incredible it seemed to me that he should have gone there, of all places. And yet I had had it from Clark’s own lips (indiscreet enough now!) that Nick and St. Gre were to prepare the way for an insurrection there. My thoughts ran on to other possibilities; would he see his mother? But he had no reason to know that Mrs. Temple was still in New Orleans. Then my glance fell on her letters, lying open on the table. Had he read them? I put this down as improbable, for he was a man who held strictly to a point of honor.

And then there was Antoinette de St. Gre! I ceased to conjecture here, dashed some water in my eyes, pulled myself together, and, seizing my hat, hurried out into the street. I made a sufficiently indecorous figure as I ran towards the water-side, barely nodding to my acquaintances on the way. It was a fresh morning, a river breeze stirred the waters of the Bear Grass, and as I stood, scanning the line of boats there, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to confront a little man with grizzled, chestnut eyebrows. He was none other than the Citizen Gignoux.

“You tek ze air, Monsieur Reetchie?” said he. “You look for some one, yes? You git up too late see him off.”

I made a swift resolve never to quibble with this man.

“So Mr. Temple has gone to New Orleans with the Sieur de St. Gre,” I said.

Citizen Gignoux laid a fat finger on one side of his great nose. The nose was red and shiny, I remember, and glistened in the sunlight.

“Ah,” said he, “’tis no use tryin’ hide from you. However, Monsieur Reetchie, you are the ver’ soul of honor. And then your frien’! I know you not betray the Sieur de St. Gre. He is ver’ fon’ of you.”

“Betray!” I exclaimed; “there is no question of betrayal. As far as I can see, your plans are carried on openly, with a fine contempt for the Federal government.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“‘Tis not my doin’,” he said, “but I am–what you call it?–a cipher. Sicrecy is what I believe. But drink too much, talk too much–is it not so, Monsieur? And if Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet, ze governor, hear they are in New Orleans, I think they go to Havana or Brazil.” He smiled, but perhaps the expression of my face caused him to sober abruptly. “It is necessair for the cause. We must have good Revolution in Louisiane.”

A suspicion of this man came over me, for a childlike simplicity characterized the other ringleaders in this expedition. Clark had had acumen once, and lost it; St. Gre was a fool; Nick Temple was leading purposely a reckless life; the Citizens Sullivan and Depeau had, to say the least, a limited knowledge of affairs. All of these were responding more or less sincerely to the cry of the people of Kentucky (every day more passionate) that something be done about Louisiana. But Gignoux seemed of a different feather. Moreover, he had been too shrewd to deny what Colonel Clark would have denied in a soberer moment,–that St. Gre and Nick had gone to New Orleans.

“You not spik, Monsieur. You not think they have success. You are not Federalist, no, for I hear you march las night with your frien’,–I hear you wave torch.”

“You make it your business to hear a great deal, Monsieur Gignoux,” I retorted, my temper slipping a little.

He hastened to apologize.

“Mille pardons, Monsieur,” he said; “I see you are Federalist–but drunk. Is it not so? Monsieur, you tink this ver’ silly thing–this expedition.”

“Whatever I think, Monsieur,” I answered, “I am a friend of General Clark’s.”

“An enemy of ze cause?” he put in.

“Monsieur,” I said, “if President Washington and General Wayne do not think it worth while to interfere with your plans, neither do I.”

I left him abruptly, and went back to my long-delayed affairs with a heavy heart. The more I thought, the more criminally foolish Nick’s journey seemed to me. However puerile the undertaking, De Lemos at Natchez and Carondelet at New Orleans had not the reputation of sleeping at their posts, and their hatred for Americans was well known. I sought General Clark, but he had gone to Knob Licks, and in my anxiety I lay awake at nights tossing in my bed.

One evening, perhaps four days after Nick’s departure, I went into the common room of the tavern, and there I was surprised to see an old friend. His square, saffron face was just the same, his little jet eyes snapped as brightly as ever, his hair–which was swept high above his forehead and tied in an eelskin behind–was as black as when I had seen it at Kaskaskia. I had met Monsieur Vigo many times since, for he was a familiar figure amongst the towns of the Ohio and the Mississippi, and from Vincennes to Anse a la Graisse, and even to New Orleans. His reputation as a financier was greater than ever. He was talking to my friend, Mr. Marshall, but he rose when he saw me, with a beaming smile.

“Ha, it is Davy,” he cried, “but not the sem lil drummer boy who would not come into my store. Reech lawyer now,–I hear you make much money now, Davy.”

“Congress money?” I said.

Monsieur Vigo threw out his hands, and laughed exactly as he had done in his log store at Kaskaskia.

“Congress have never repay me one sou,” said Monsieur Vigo, making a face. “I have try–I have talk–I have represent–it is no good. Davy, it is your fault. You tell me tek dat money. You call dat finance?”

“David,” said Mr. Marshall, sharply, “what the devil is this I hear of your carrying a torch in a Jacobin procession?”

“You may put it down to liquor, Mr. Marshall,” I answered.

“Then you must have had a cask, egad,” said Mr. Marshall, “for I never saw you drunk.”

I laughed.

“I shall not attempt to explain it, sir,” I answered.

“You must not allow your drum to drag you into bad company again,” said he, and resumed his conversation. As I suspected, it was a vigorous condemnation of General Clark and his new expedition. I expressed my belief that the government did not regard it seriously, and would forbid the enterprise at the proper time.

“You are right, sir,” said Mr. Marshall, bringing down his fist on the table. “I have private advices from Philadelphia that the President’s consideration for Governor Shelby is worn out, and that he will issue a proclamation within the next few days warning all citizens at their peril from any connection with the pirates.”

I laughed.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Marshall,” said I, “Citizen Genet has been liberal with nothing except commissions, and they have neither money nor men.”

“The rascals have all left town,” said Mr. Marshall. “Citizen Quartermaster Depeau, their local financier, has gone back to his store at Knob Licks. The Sieur de St. Gre and a Mr. Temple, as doubtless you know, have gone to New Orleans. And the most mysterious and therefore the most dangerous of the lot, Citizen Gignoux, has vanished like an evil spirit. It is commonly supposed that he, too, has gone down the river. You may see him, Vigo,” said Mr. Marshall, turning to the trader; “he is a little man with a big nose and grizzled chestnut eyebrows.”

“Ah, I know a lil ’bout him,” said Monsieur Vigo; “he was on my boat two days ago, asking me questions.”

“The devil he was!” said Mr. Marshall.

I had another disquieting night, and by the morning I had made up my mind. The sun was glinting on the placid waters of the river when I made my way down to the bank, to a great ten-oared keel boat that lay on the Bear Grass, with its square sail furled. An awning was stretched over the deck, and at a walnut table covered with papers sat Monsieur Vigo, smoking his morning pipe.

“Davy,” said he, “you have come a la bonne heure. At ten I depart for New Orleans.” He sighed. “It is so long voyage,” he added, “and so lonely one. Sometime I have the good fortune to pick up a companion, but not to-day.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” I said.

He looked at me incredulously.

“I should be delighted,” he said, “but you mek a jest.”

“I was never more serious in my life,” I answered, “for I have business in New Orleans. I shall be ready.”

“Ha,” cried Monsieur Vigo, hospitably, “I shall be enchant. We will talk philosophe, Beaumarchais, Voltaire, Rousseau.”

For Monsieur Vigo was a great reader, and we had often indulged in conversation which (we flattered ourselves) had a literary turn.

I spent the remaining hours arranging with a young lawyer of my acquaintance to look after my business, and at ten o’clock I was aboard the keel boat with my small baggage. At eleven, Monsieur Vigo and I were talking “philosophe” over a wonderful breakfast under the awning, as we dropped down between the forest-lined shores of the Ohio. My host travelled in luxury, and we ate the Creole dishes, which his cook prepared, with silver forks which he kept in a great chest in the cabin.

You who read this may feel something of my impatience to get to New Orleans, and hence I shall not give a long account of the journey. What a contrast it was to that which Nick and I had taken five years before in Monsieur Gratiot’s fur boat! Like all successful Creole traders, Monsieur Vigo had a wonderful knack of getting on with the Indians, and often when we tied up of a night the chief men of a tribe would come down to greet him. We slipped southward on the great, yellow river which parted the wilderness, with its sucks and eddies and green islands, every one of which Monsieur knew, and I saw again the flocks of water-fowl and herons in procession, and hawks and vultures wheeling in their search. Sometimes a favorable wind sprang up, and we hoisted the sail. We passed the Walnut Hills, the Nogales, the moans of the alligators broke our sleep by night, and at length we came to Natchez, ruled over now by that watch-dog of the Spanish King, Gayoso de Lemos. Thanks to Monsieur Vigo, his manners were charming and his hospitality gracious, and there was no trouble whatever about my passport.

Our progress was slow when we came at last to the belvedered plantation houses amongst the orange groves; and as we sat on the wide galleries in the summer nights, we heard all the latest gossip of the capital of Louisiana. The river was low; there was an ominous quality in the heat which had its effect, indeed, upon me, and made the old Creoles shake their heads and mutter a word with a terrible meaning. New Orleans was a cesspool, said the enlightened. The Baron de Carondelet, indefatigable man, aimed at digging a canal to relieve the city of its filth, but this would be the year when it was most needed, and it was not dug. Yes, Monsieur le Baron was energy itself. That other fever–the political one–he had scotched. “Ca Ira” and “La Marseillaise” had been sung in the theatres, but not often, for the Baron had sent the alcaldes to shut them up. Certain gentlemen of French ancestry had gone to languish in the Morro at Havana. Yes, Monsieur de Carondelet, though fat, was on horseback before dawn, New Orleans was fortified as it never had been before, the militia organized, real cannon were on the ramparts which could shoot at a pinch.

Sub rosa, I found much sympathy among the planters with the Rights of Man. What had become, they asked, of the expedition of Citizen General Clark preparing in the North? They may have sighed secretly when I painted it in its true colors, but they loved peace, these planters. Strangely enough, the name of Auguste de St. Gre never crossed their lips, and I got no trace of him or Nick at any of these places. Was it possible that they might not have come to New Orleans after all?

Through the days, when the sun beat upon the awning with a tropical fierceness, when Monsieur Vigo abandoned himself to his siestas, I thought. It was perhaps characteristic of me that I waited nearly three weeks to confide in my old friend the purpose of my journey to New Orleans. It was not because I could not trust him that I held my tongue, but because I sought some way of separating the more intimate story of Nick’s mother and his affair with Antoinette de St. Gre from the rest of the story. But Monsieur Vigo was a man of importance in Louisiana, and I reflected that a time might come when I should need his help. One evening, when we were tied up under the oaks of a bayou, I told him. There emanated from Monsieur Vigo a sympathy which few men possess, and this I felt strongly as he listened, breaking his silence only at long intervals to ask a question. It was a still night, I remember, of great beauty, with a wisp of a moon hanging over the forest line, the air heavy with odors and vibrant with a thousand insect tones.

“And what you do, Davy?” he said at length.

“I must find my cousin and St. Gre before they have a chance to get into much mischief,” I answered. “If they have already made a noise, I thought of going to the Baron de Carondelet and telling him what I know of the expedition. He will understand what St. Gre is, and I will explain that Mr. Temple’s reckless love of adventure is at the bottom of his share in the matter.”

“Bon, Davy,” said my host, “if you go, I go with you. But I believe ze Baron think Morro good place for them jus’ the sem. Ze Baron has been make miserable with Jacobins. But I go with you if you go.”

He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the St. Gre’s, their public services, and before he went to sleep he made the very just remark that there was a flaw in every string of beads. As for me, I went down into the cabin, surreptitiously lighted a candle, and drew from my pocket that piece of ivory which had so strangely come into my possession once more. The face upon it had haunted me since I had first beheld it. The miniature was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief which Polly Ann had bought for me in Lexington. Shall I confess it?–I had carefully rubbed off the discolorations on the ivory at the back, and the picture lacked now only the gold setting. As for the face, I had a kind of consolation from it. I seemed to draw of its strength when I was tired, of its courage when I faltered. And, during those four days of indecision in Louisville, it seemed to say to me in words that I could not evade or forget, “Go to New Orleans.” It was a sentiment–foolish, if you please–which could not resist. Nay, which I did not try to resist, for I had little enough of it in my life. What did it matter? I should never see Madame la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour.

She was Helene to me; and the artist had caught the strength of her soul in her clear-cut face, in the eyes that flashed with wit and courage,–eyes that seemed to look with scorn upon what was mean in the world and untrue, with pity on the weak. Here was one who might have governed a province and still have been a woman, one who had taken into exile the best of safeguards against misfortune,–humor and an indomitable spirit.

CHAPTER V

THE HOUSE OF THE HONEYCOMBED TILES

As long as I live I shall never forget that Sunday morning of my second arrival at New Orleans. A saffron heat-haze hung over the river and the city, robbed alike from the yellow waters of the one and the pestilent moisture of the other. It would have been strange indeed if this capital of Louisiana, brought hither to a swamp from the sands of Biloxi many years ago by the energetic Bienville, were not visited from time to time by the scourge!

Again I saw the green villas on the outskirts, the verdure-dotted expanse of roofs of the city behind the levee bank, the line of Kentucky boats, keel boats and barges which brought our own resistless commerce hither in the teeth of royal mandates. Farther out, and tugging fretfully in the yellow current, were the aliens of the blue seas, high-hulled, their tracery of masts and spars shimmering in the heat: a full-rigged ocean packet from Spain, a barque and brigantine from the West Indies, a rakish slaver from Africa with her water-line dry, discharged but yesterday of a teeming horror of freight. I looked again upon the familiar rows of trees which shaded the gravelled promenades where Nick had first seen Antoinette. Then we were under it, for the river was low, and the dingy-uniformed officer was bowing over our passports beneath the awning. We walked ashore, Monsieur Vigo and I, and we joined a staring group of keel boatmen and river-men under the willows.

Below us, the white shell walks of the Place d’Armes were thronged with gayly dressed people. Over their heads rose the fine new Cathedral, built by the munificence of Don Andreas Almonaster, and beside that the many-windowed, heavy-arched Cabildo, nearly finished, which will stand for all time a monument to Spanish builders.

“It is Corpus Christi day,” said Monsieur Vigo; “let us go and see the procession.”

Here once more were the bright-turbaned negresses, the gay Creole gowns and scarfs, the linen-jacketed, broad-hatted merchants, with those of soberer and more conventional dress, laughing and chatting, the children playing despite the heat. Many of these people greeted Monsieur Vigo. There were the saturnine, long-cloaked Spaniards, too, and a greater number than I had believed of my own keen-faced countrymen lounging about, mildly amused by the scene. We crossed the square, and with the courtesy of their race the people made way for us in the press; and we were no sooner placed ere the procession came out of the church. Flaming soldiers of the Governor’s guard, two by two; sober, sandalled friars in brown, priests in their robes,–another batch of color; crosses shimmering, tapers emerging from the cool darkness within to pale by the light of day. Then down on their knees to Him who sits high above the yellow haze fell the thousands in the Place d’Armes. For here was the Host itself, flower-decked in white and crimson, its gold-tasselled canopy upheld by four tonsured priests, a sheen of purple under it,–the Bishop of Louisiana in his robes.

“The Governor!” whispered Monsieur Vigo, and the word was passed from mouth to mouth as the people rose from their knees. Francois Louis Hector, Baron de Carondelet, resplendent in his uniform of colonel in the royal army of Spain, his orders glittering on his breast,–pillar of royalty and enemy to the Rights of Man! His eye was stern, his carriage erect, but I seemed to read in his careworn face the trials of three years in this moist capital. After the Governor, one by one, the waiting Associations fell in line, each with its own distinguishing sash. So the procession moved off into the narrow streets of the city, the people in the Place dispersed to new vantage points, and Monsieur Vigo signed me to follow him.

“I have a frien’, la veuve Gravois, who lives ver’ quiet. She have one room, and I ask her tek you in, Davy.” He led the way through the empty Rue Chartres, turned to the right at the Rue Bienville, and stopped before an unpretentious house some three doors from the corner. Madame Gravois, elderly, wizened, primp in a starched cotton gown, opened the door herself, fell upon Monsieur Vigo in the Creole fashion; and within a quarter of an hour I was installed in her best room, which gave out on a little court behind. Monsieur Vigo promised to send his servant with my baggage, told me his address, bade me call on him for what I wanted, and took his leave.

First, there was Madame Gravois’ story to listen to as she bustled about giving orders to a kinky-haired negro girl concerning my dinner. Then came the dinner, excellent–if I could have eaten it. The virtues of the former Monsieur Gravois were legion. He had come to Louisiana from Toulon, planted indigo, fought a duel, and Madame was a widow. So I condense two hours into two lines. Happily, Madame was not proof against the habits of the climate, and she retired for her siesta. I sought my room, almost suffocated by a heat which defies my pen to describe, a heat reeking with moisture sucked from the foul kennels of the city. I had felt nothing like it in my former visit to New Orleans. It seemed to bear down upon my brain, to clog the power of thought, to make me vacillating. Hitherto my reasoning had led me to seek Monsieur de St. Gre, to count upon that gentleman’s common sense and his former friendship. But now that the time had come for it, I shrank from such a meeting. I remembered his passionate affection for Antoinette, I imagined that he would not listen calmly to one who was in some sort connected with her unhappiness. So a kind of cowardice drove me first to Mrs. Temple. She might know much that would save me useless trouble and blundering.

The shadows of tree-top, thatch, and wall were lengthening as I walked along the Rue Bourbon. Heedless of what the morrow might bring forth, the street was given over to festivity. Merry groups were gathered on the corners, songs and laughter mingled in the court-yards, billiard balls clicked in the cabarets. A fat, jolly little Frenchman, surrounded by tripping children, sat in his doorway on the edge of the banquette, fiddling with all his might, pausing only to wipe the beads of perspiration from his face.

“Madame Clive, mais oui, Monsieur, l’ petite maison en face.” Smiling benignly at the children, he began to fiddle once more.

The little house opposite! Mrs. Temple, mistress of Temple Bow, had come to this! It was a strange little home indeed, Spanish, one-story, its dormers hidden by a honeycombed screen of terra-cotta tiles. This screen was set on the extreme edge of the roof which overhung the banquette and shaded the yellow adobe wall of the house. Low, unpretentious, the latticed shutters of its two windows giving it but a scant air of privacy,–indeed, they were scarred by the raps of careless passers-by on the sidewalk. The two little battened doors, one step up, were closed. I rapped, waited, and rapped again. The musician across the street stopped his fiddling, glanced at me, smiled knowingly at the children; and they paused in their dance to stare. Then one of the doors was pushed open a scant four inches, a scarlet madras handkerchief appeared in the crack above a yellow face. There was a long moment of silence, during which I felt the scrutiny of a pair of sharp, black eyes.

“What yo’ want, Marse?”

The woman’s voice astonished me, for she spoke the dialect of the American tide-water.

“I should like to see Mrs. Clive,” I answered.

The door closed a shade.

“Mistis sick, she ain’t see nobody,” said the woman. She closed the door a little more, and I felt tempted to put my foot in the crack.

“Tell her that Mr. David Ritchie is here,” I said.

There was an instant’s silence, then an exclamation.

“Lan’ sakes, is you Marse Dave?” She opened the door–furtively, I thought–just wide enough for me to pass through. I found myself in a low-ceiled, darkened room, opposite a trim negress who stood with her arms akimbo and stared at me.

“Marse Dave, you doan rec’lect me. I’se Lindy, I’se Breed’s daughter. I rec’lect you when you was at Temple Bow. Marse Dave, how you’se done growed! Yassir, when I heerd from Miss Sally I done comed here to tek cyar ob her.”

“How is your mistress?” I asked.

“She po’ly, Marse Dave,” said Lindy, and paused for adequate words. I took note of this darky who, faithful to a family, had come hither to share her mistress’s exile and obscurity. Lindy was spare, energetic, forceful–and, I imagined, a discreet guardian indeed for the unfortunate. “She po’ly, Marse Dave, an’ she ain’ nebber leabe dis year house. Marse Dave,” said Lindy earnestly, lowering her voice and taking a step closer to me, “I done reckon de Mistis gwine ter die ob lonesomeness. She des sit dar an’ brood, an’ brood–an’ she use’ ter de bes’ company, to de quality. No, sirree, Marse Dave, she ain’ nebber sesso, but she tink ’bout de young Marsa night an’ day. Marse Dave?”

“Yes?” I said.

“Marse Dave, she have a lil pink frock dat Marsa Nick had when he was a bebby. I done cotch Mistis lookin’ at it, an’ she hid it when she see me an’ blush like ’twas a sin. Marse Dave?”

“Yes?” I said again.

“Where am de young Marsa?”

“I don’t know, Lindy,” I answered.

Lindy sighed.

“She done talk ’bout you, Marse Dave, an’ how good you is–“

“And Mrs. Temple sees no one,” I asked.

“Dar’s one lady come hyar ebery week, er French lady, but she speak English jes’ like the Mistis. Dat’s my fault,” said Lindy, showing a line of white teeth.

“Your fault,” I exclaimed.

“Yassir. When I comed here from Caroliny de Mistis done tole me not ter let er soul in hyah. One day erbout three mont’s ergo, dis yer lady come en she des wheedled me ter let her in. She was de quality, Marse Dave, and I was des’ afeard not ter. I declar’ I hatter. Hush,” said Lindy, putting her fingers to her lips, “dar’s de Mistis!”

The door into the back room opened, and Mrs. Temple stood on the threshold, staring with uncertain eyes into the semi-darkness.

“Lindy,” she said, “what have you done?”

“Miss Sally–” Lindy began, and looked at me. But I could not speak for looking at the lady in the doorway.

“Who is it?” she said again, and her hand sought the door-post tremblingly. “Who is it?”

Then I went to her. At my first step she gave a little cry and swayed, and had I not taken her in my arms I believe she would have fallen.

“David!” she said, “David, is it you? I–I cannot see very well. Why did you not speak?” She looked at Lindy and smiled. “It is because I am an old woman, Lindy,” and she lifted her hand to her forehead. “See, my hair is white–I shock you, David.”

Leaning on my shoulder, she led me through a little bedroom in the rear into a tiny garden court beyond, a court teeming with lavish colors and redolent with the scent of flowers. A white shell walk divided the garden and ended at the door of a low outbuilding, from the chimney of which blue smoke curled upward in the evening air. Mrs. Temple drew me almost fiercely towards a bench against the adobe wall.

“Where is he?” she said. “Where is he, David?”

The suddenness of the question staggered me; I hesitated.

“I do not know,” I answered.

I could not look into her face and say it. The years of torment and suffering were written there in characters not to be mistaken. Sarah Temple, the beauty, was dead indeed. The hope which threatened to light again the dead fires in the woman’s eyes frightened me.

“Ah,” she said sharply, “you are deceiving me. It is not like you, David. You are deceiving me. Tell me, tell me, for the love of God, who has brought me to bear chastisement.” And she gripped my arm with a strength I had not thought in her.

“Listen,” I said, trying to calm myself as well as her. “Listen, Mrs. Temple.” I could not bring myself to call her otherwise.

“You are keeping him away from me,” she cried. “Why are you keeping him away? Have I not suffered enough? David, I cannot live long. I do not dare to die–until he has forgiven me.”

I forced her, gently as I might, to sit on the bench, and I seated myself beside her.

“Listen,” I said, with a sternness that hid my feelings, and perforce her expression changed again to a sad yearning, “you must hear me. And you must trust me, for I have never pretended. You shall see him if it is in my power.”

She looked at me so piteously that I was near to being unmanned.

“I will trust you,” she whispered.

“I have seen him,” I said. She started violently, but I laid my hand on hers, and by some self-mastery that was still in her she was silent. “I saw him in Louisville a month ago, when I returned from a year’s visit to Philadelphia.”

I could not equivocate with this woman, I could no more lie to her sorrow than to the Judgment. Why had I not foreseen her question?

“And he hates me?” She spoke with a calmness now that frightened me more than her agitation had done.

“I do not know,” I answered; “when I would have spoken to him he was gone.”

“He was drunk,” she said. I stared at her in frightened wonderment. “He was drunk–it is better than if he had cursed me. He did not mention me? Or any one?”

“He did not,” I answered.

She turned her face away.

“Go on, I will listen to you,” she said, and sat immovable through the whole of my story, though her hand trembled in mine. And while I live I hope never to have such a thing to go through with again. Truth held me to the full, ludicrous tragedy of the tale, to the cheap character of my old Colonel’s undertaking, to the incident of the drum, to the conversation in my room. Likewise, truth forbade me to rekindle her hope. I did not tell her that Nick had come with St. Gre to New Orleans, for of this my own knowledge was as yet not positive. For a long time after I had finished she was silent.

“And you think the expedition will not get here?” she asked finally, in a dead voice.

“I am positive of it,” I answered, “and for the sake of those who are engaged in it, it is mercifully best that it should not. The day may come,” I added, for the sake of leading her away, “when Kentucky will be strong enough to overrun Louisiana. But not now.”

She turned to me with a trace of her former fierceness.

“Why are you in New Orleans?” she demanded.

A sudden resolution came to me then.

“To bring you back with me to Kentucky,” I answered. She shook her head sadly, but I continued: “I have more to say. I am convinced that neither Nick nor you will be happy until you are mother and son again. You have both been wanderers long enough.”

Once more she turned away and fell into a revery. Over the housetop, from across the street, came the gay music of the fiddler. Mrs. Temple laid her hand gently on my shoulder.

“My dear,” she said, smiling, “I could not live for the journey.”

“You must live for it,” I answered. “You have the will. You must live for it, for his sake.”

She shook her head, and smiled at me with a courage which was the crown of her sufferings.

“You are talking nonsense, David,” she said; “it is not like you. Come,” she said, rising with something of her old manner, “I must show you what I have been doing all these years. You must admire my garden.”

I followed her, marvelling, along the shell path, and there came unbidden to my mind the garden at Temple Bow, where she had once been wont to sit, tormenting Mr. Mason or bending to the tale of Harry Riddle’s love. Little she cared for flowers in those days, and now they had become her life. With such thoughts in my mind, I listened unheeding to her talk. The place was formerly occupied by a shiftless fellow, a tailor; and the court, now a paradise, had been a rubbish heap. That orange tree which shaded the uneven doorway of the kitchen she had found here. Figs, pomegranates, magnolias; the camellias dazzling in their purity; the blood-red oleanders; the pink roses that hid the crumbling adobe and climbed even to the sloping tiles,–all these had been set out and cared for with her own hands. Ay, and the fragrant bed of yellow jasmine over which she lingered,–Antoinette’s favorite flower.

Antoinette’s flowers that she wore in her hair! In her letters Mrs. Temple had never mentioned Antoinette, and now she read the question (perchance purposely put there) in my eyes. Her voice faltered sadly. Scarce a week had she been in the house before Antoinette had found her.

“I–I sent the girl away, David. She came without Monsieur de St. Gre’s knowledge, without his consent. It is natural that he thinks me–I will not say what. I sent Antoinette away. She clung to me, she would not go, and I had to be–cruel. It is one of the things which make the nights long–so long. My sins have made her life unhappy.”

“And you hear of her? She is not married?” I asked.

“No, she is not married,” said Mrs. Temple, stooping over the jasmines. Then she straightened and faced me, her voice shaken with earnestness. “David, do you think that Nick still loves her?”

Alas, I could not answer that. She bent over the jasmines again.

“There were five years that I knew nothing,” she continued. “I did not dare ask Mr. Clark, who comes to me on business, as you know. It was Mr. Clark who brought back Lindy on one of his trips to Charleston. And then, one day in March of this year, Madame de Montmery came.”

“Madame de Montmery?” I repeated.

“It is a strange story,” said Mrs. Temple. “Lindy had never admitted any one, save Mr. Clark. One day early in the spring, when I was trimming my roses by the wall there, the girl ran to me and said that a lady wished to see me. Why had she let her in? Lindy did not know, she could not refuse her. Had the lady demanded admittance? Lindy thought that I would like to see her. David, it was a providential weakness, or curiosity, that prompted me to go into the front room, and then I saw why Lindy had opened the door to her. Who she is or what she is I do not know to this day. Who am I now that I should inquire? I know that she is a lady, that she has exquisite manners, that I feel now that I cannot live without her. She comes every week, sometimes twice, she brings me little delicacies, new seeds for my garden. But, best of all, she brings me herself, and I am always counting the days until she comes again. Yes, and I always fear that she, too, will be taken away from me.”

I had not heard the sound of voices, but Mrs. Temple turned, startled, and looked towards the house. I followed her glance, and suddenly I knew that my heart was beating.

CHAPTER VI

MADAME LA VICOMTESSE

Hesitating on the step, a lady stood in the vine-covered doorway, a study in black and white in a frame of pink roses. The sash at her waist, the lace mantilla that clung about her throat, the deftly coiled hair with its sheen of the night waters–these in black. The simple gown–a tribute to the art of her countrywomen–in white.

Mrs. Temple had gone forward to meet her, but I stood staring, marvelling, forgetful, in the path. They were talking, they were coming towards me, and I heard Mrs. Temple pronounce my name and hers–Madame de Montmery. I bowed, she courtesied. There was a baffling light in the lady’s brown eyes when I dared to glance at them, and a smile playing around her mouth. Was there no word in the two languages to find its way to my lips? Mrs. Temple laid her hand on my arm.

“David is not what one might call a ladies’ man, Madame,” she said.

The lady laughed.

“Isn’t he?” she said.

“I am sure you will frighten him with your wit,” answered Mrs. Temple, smiling. “He is worth sparing.”

“He is worth frightening, then,” said the lady, in exquisite English, and she looked at me again.

“You and David should like each other,” said Mrs. Temple; “you are both capable persons, friends of the friendless and towers of strength to the weak.”

The lady’s face became serious, but still there was the expression I could not make out. In an instant she seemed to have scrutinized me with a precision from which there could be no appeal.

“I seem to know Mr. Ritchie,” she said, and added quickly: “Mrs. Clive has talked a great deal about you. She has made you out a very wonderful person.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Temple, “the wonderful people of this world are those who find time to comfort and help the unfortunate. That is why you and David are wonderful. No one knows better than I how easy it is to be selfish.”

“I have brought you an English novel,” said Madame de Montomery, turning abruptly to Mrs. Temple. “But you must not read it at night. Lindy is not to let you have it until to-morrow.”

“There,” said Mrs. Temple, gayly, to me, “Madame is not happy unless she is controlling some one, and I am a rebellious subject.”

“You have not been taking care of yourself,” said Madame. She glanced at me, and bit her lips, as though guessing the emotion which my visit had caused. “Listen,” she said, “the vesper bells! You must go into the house, and Mr. Ritchie and I must leave you.”

She took Mrs. Temple by the arm and led her, unresisting, along the path. I followed, a thousand thoughts and conjectures spinning in my brain. They reached the bench under the little tree beside the door, and stood talking for a moment of the routine of Mrs. Temple’s life. Madame, it seemed, had prescribed a regimen, and meant to have it followed. Suddenly I saw Mrs. Temple take the lady’s arm, and sink down upon the bench. Then we were both beside her, bending over her, she sitting upright and smiling at us.

“It is nothing,” she said; “I am so easily tired.”

Her lips were ashen, and her breath came quickly. Madame acted with that instant promptness which I expected of her.

“You must carry her in, Mr. Ritchie,” she said quietly.

“No, it is only momentary, David,” said Mrs. Temple. I remember how pitifully frail and light she was as I picked her up and followed Madame through the doorway into the little bedroom. I laid Mrs. Temple on the bed.

“Send Lindy here,” said Madame.

Lindy was in the front room with the negress whom Madame had brought with her. They were not talking. I supposed then this was because Lindy did not speak French. I did not know that Madame de Montmery’s maid was a mute. Both of them went into the bedroom, and I was left alone. The door and windows were closed, and a green myrtle-berry candle was burning on the table. I looked about me with astonishment. But for the low ceiling and the wide cypress puncheons of the floor the room might have been a boudoir in a manor-house. On the slender-legged, polished mahogany table lay books in tasteful bindings; a diamond-paned bookcase stood in the corner; a fauteuil and various other chairs which might have come from the hands of an Adam were ranged about. Tall silver candlesticks graced each end of the little mantel-shelf, and between them were two Lowestoft vases having the Temple coat of arms.

It might have been half an hour that I waited, now pacing the floor, now throwing myself into the arm-chair by the fireplace. Anxiety for Mrs. Temple, problems that lost themselves in a dozen conjectures, all idle– these agitated me almost beyond my power of self-control. Once I felt for the miniature, took it out, and put it back without looking at it. At last I was startled to my feet by the opening of the door, and Madame de Montmery came in. She closed the door softly behind her, with the deft quickness and decision of movement which a sixth sense had told me she possessed, crossed the room swiftly, and stood confronting me.

“She is easy again, now,” she said simply. “It is one of her attacks. I wish you might have seen me before you told her what you had to say to her.”

“I wish indeed that I had known you were here.”

She ignored this, whether intentionally, I know not.

“It is her heart, poor lady! I am afraid she cannot live long.” She seated herself in one of the straight chairs. “Sit down, Mr. Ritchie,” she said; “I am glad you waited. I wanted to talk with you.”

“I thought that you might, Madame la Vicomtesse,” I answered.

She made no gesture, either of surprise or displeasure.

“So you knew,” she said quietly.

“I knew you the moment you appeared in the doorway,” I replied. It was not just what I meant to say.

There flashed over her face that expression of the miniature, the mouth repressing the laughter in the brown eyes.

“Montmery is one of my husband’s places,” she said. “When Antoinette asked me to come here and watch over Mrs. Temple, I chose the name.”

“And Mrs. Temple has never suspected you?”

“I think not. She thinks I came at Mr. Clark’s request. And being a lady, she does not ask questions. She accepts me for what I appear to be.”

It seemed so strange to me to be talking here in New Orleans, in this little Spanish house, with a French vicomtesse brought up near the court of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette; nay, with Helene de St. Gre, whose portrait had twice come into my life by a kind of strange fatality (and was at that moment in my pocket), that I could scarce maintain my self-possession in her presence. I had given the portrait, too, attributes and a character, and I found myself watching the lady with a breathless interest lest she should fail in any of these. In the intimacy of the little room I felt as if I had known her always, and again, that she was as distant from me and my life as the court from which she had come. I found myself glancing continually at her face, on which the candle-light shone. The Vicomtesse might have been four and twenty. Save for the soberer gown she wore, she seemed scarce older than the young girl in the miniature who had the presence of a woman of the world. Suddenly I discovered with a flush that she was looking at me intently, without embarrassment, but with an expression that seemed to hint of humor in the situation. To my astonishment, she laughed a little.

“You are a very odd person, Mr. Ritchie,” she said. “I have heard so much of you from Mrs. Temple, from Antoinette, that I know something of your strange life. After all,” she added with a trace of sadness, “it has been no stranger than my own. First I will answer your questions, and then I shall ask some.”

“But I have asked no questions, Madame la Vicomtesse,” I said.

“And you are a very simple person, Mr. Ritchie,” continued Madame la Vicomtesse, smiling; “it is what I had been led to suppose. A serious person. As the friend of Mr. Nicholas Temple, as the relation and (may I say?) benefactor of this poor lady here, it is fitting that you should know certain things. I will not weary you with the reasons and events which led to my coming from Europe to New Orleans, except to say that I, like all of my class who have escaped the horrors of the Revolution, am a wanderer, and grateful to Monsieur de St. Gre for the shelter he gives me. His letter reached me in England, and I arrived three months ago.”

She hesitated–nay, I should rather say paused, for there was little hesitation in what she did. She paused, as though weighing what she was to say next.

“When I came to Les Iles I saw that there was a sorrow weighing upon the family; and it took no great astuteness on my part, Mr. Ritchie, to discover that Antoinette was the cause of it. One has only to see Antoinette to love her. I wondered why she had not married. And yet I saw that there had been an affair. It seemed very strange to me, Mr. Ritchie, for with us, you understand, marriages are arranged. Antoinette really has beauty, she is the daughter of a man of importance in the colony, her strength of character saves her from being listless. I found a girl with originality of expression, with a sense of the fitness of things, devoted to charitable works, who had not taken the veil. That was on her father’s account. As you know, they are inseparable. Monsieur Philippe de St. Gre is a remarkable man, with certain vigorous ideas not in accordance with the customs of his neighbors. It was he who first confided in me that he would not force Antoinette to marry; it was she, at length, who told me the story of Nicholas Temple and his mother.” She paused again, and, reading between the lines, I perceived that Madame la Vicomtesse had become essential to the household at Les Iles. Philippe de St. Gre was not a man to misplace a confidence.

“It was then that I first heard of you, Mr. Ritchie, and of the part which you played in that affair. It was then I had my first real insight into Antoinette’s character. Her affection for Mrs. Temple astonished me, bewildered me. The woman had deceived her and her family, and yet Antoinette gave up her lover because he would not take his mother back. Had Mrs. Temple been willing to return to Les Iles after you had providentially taken her away, they would have received her. Philippe de St. Gre is not a man to listen to criticism. As it was, Antoinette did not rest until she found where Mrs. Temple had hidden herself, and then she came here to her. It is not for us to judge any of them. In sending Antoinette away the poor lady denied herself the only consolation that was left to her. Antoinette understood. Every week she has had news of Mrs. Temple from Mr. Clark. And when I came and learned her trouble, Antoinette begged me to come here and be Mrs. Temple’s friend. Mr. Ritchie, she is a very ill woman and a very sad woman,–the saddest woman I have ever known, and I have seen many.”

“And Mademoiselle de St. Gre?” I asked.

“Tell me about this man for whom Antoinette has ruined her life,” said Madame la Vicomtesse, brusquely. “Is he worth it? No, no man is worth what she has suffered. What has become of him? Where is he? Did you not tell her that you would bring him back?”

“I said that I would bring him back if I could,” I answered, “and I meant it, Madame.”

Madame la Vicomtesse bit her lip. Had she known me better, she might have smiled. As for me, I was wholly puzzled to account for these fleeting changes in her humor.

“You have taken a great deal upon your shoulders, Mr. Ritchie,” she said. “They are from all accounts broad ones. There, I was wrong to be indignant in your presence,–you who seem to have spent your life in trying to get others out of difficulties. Mercy,” she said, with a quick gesture at my protest, “there are few men with whom one might talk thus in so short an acquaintance. I love the girl, and I cannot help being angry with Mr. Temple. I suppose there is something to be said on his side. Let us hear it–I dare say he could not have a better advocate,” she finished, with an indefinable smile.

I began at the wrong end of my narrative, and it was some time before I had my facts arranged in proper sequence. I could not forget that Madame la Vicomtesse was looking at me fixedly. I reviewed Nick’s neglected childhood; painted as well as I might his temperament and character–his generosity and fearlessness, his recklessness and improvidence. His loyalty to those he loved, his detestation of those he hated. I told how, under these conditions, the sins and vagaries of his parents had gone far to wreck his life at the beginning of it. I told how I had found him again with Sevier, how he had come to New Orleans with me the first time, how he had loved Antoinette, and how he had disappeared after the dreadful scene in the garden at Les Iles, how I had not seen him again for five years. Here I hesitated, little knowing how to tell the Vicomtesse of that affair in Louisville. Though I had a sense that I could not keep the truth from so discerning a person, I was startled to find this to be so.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” she said quickly. “And in the morning he had flown with that most worthy of my relatives, Auguste de St. Gre.”

I looked at her, finding no words to express my astonishment at this perspicacity.

“And now what do you intend to do?” she asked. “Find him in New Orleans, if you can, of course. But how?” She rose quickly, went to the fireplace, and stood for a moment with her back to me. Suddenly she turned. “It ought not to be difficult, after all. Auguste de St. Gre is a fool, and he confirms what you say of the expedition. He is, indeed, a pretty person to choose for an intrigue of this kind. And your cousin,–what shall we call him?”

“To say the least, secrecy is not Nick’s forte,” I answered, catching her mood.

She was silent awhile.

“It would be a blessing if Monsieur le Baron could hang Auguste privately. As for your cousin, he may be worth saving, after all. I know Monsieur de Carondelet, and he has no patience with conspirators of this sort. I think he would not hesitate to make examples of them. However, we will try to save them.”

“We!” I repeated unwittingly.

Madame la Vicomtesse looked at me and laughed out right.

“Yes,” she said, “you will do some things, I others. There are the gaming clubs with their ridiculous names, L’Amour, La Mignonne, La Desiree” (she counted them reflectively on her fingers). “Both of our gentlemen might be tempted into one of these. You will drop into them, Mr. Ritchie. Then there is Madame Bouvet’s.”

“Auguste would scarcely go there,” I objected.

“Ah,” said Madame la Vicomtesse, “but Madame Bouvet will know the names of some of Auguste’s intimates. This Bouvet is evidently a good person, perhaps she will do more for you. I understand that she has a weak spot in her heart for Auguste.”

Madame la Vicomtesse turned her back again. Had she heard how Madame Bouvet had begged me to buy the miniature?

“Have you any other suggestions to make?” she said, putting a foot on the fender.

“They have all been yours, so far,” I answered.

“And yet you are a man of action, of expedients,” she murmured, without turning. “Where are your wits, Mr. Ritchie? Have you any plan?”

“I have been so used to rely on myself, Madame,” I replied.

“That you do not like to have your affairs meddled with by a woman,” she said, into the fireplace.

“I give you the credit to believe that you are too clever to misunderstand me, Madame,” I said. “You must know that your help is most welcome.”

At that she swung around and regarded me strangely, mirth lurking in her eyes. She seemed about to retort, and then to conquer the impulse. The effect of this was to make me anything but self-complacent. She sat down in the chair and for a little while she was silent.

“Suppose we do find them,” she said suddenly. “What shall we do with them?” She looked up at me questioningly, seriously. “Is it likely that your Mr. Temple will be reconciled with his mother? Is it likely that he is still in love with Antoinette?”

“I think it is likely that he is still in love with Mademoiselle de St. Gre,” I answered, “though I have no reason for saying so.”

“You are very honest, Mr. Ritchie. We must look at this problem from all sides. If he is not reconciled with his mother, Antoinette will not receive him. And if he is, we have the question to consider whether he is still worthy of her. The agents of Providence must not be heedless,” she added with a smile.

“I am sure that Nick would alter his life if it became worth living,” I said. “I will answer for that much.”

“Then he must be reconciled with his mother,” she replied with decision. “Mrs. Temple has suffered enough. And he must be found before he gets sufficiently into the bad graces of the Baron de Carondelet,–these two things are clear.” She rose. “Come here to-morrow evening at the same time.”

She started quickly for the bedroom door, but something troubled me still.

“Madame–” I said.

“Yes,” she answered, turning quickly.

I did not know how to begin. There were many things I wished to say, to know, but she was a woman whose mind seemed to leap the chasms, whose words touched only upon those points which might not be understood. She regarded me with seeming patience.

“I should think that Mrs. Temple might have recognized you,” I said, for want of a better opening.

“From the miniature?” she said.

I flushed furiously, and it seemed to burn me through the lining of my pocket.

“That was my salvation,” she said. “Mrs. Temple has never seen the miniature. I have heard how you rescued it, Mr. Ritchie,” she added, with a curious smile. “Monsieur Philippe de St. Gre told me.”

“Then he knew?” I stammered.

She laughed.

“I have told you that you are a very simple person,” she said. “Even you are not given to intrigues. I thank you for rescuing me.”

I flushed more hotly than before.

“I never expected to see you,” I said.

“It must have been a shock,” she said.

I was dumb. I had my hand in my coat; I fully intended to give her the miniature. It was my plain duty. And suddenly, overwhelmed, I remembered that it was wrapped in Polly Ann’s silk handkerchief.

Madame la Vicomtesse remained for a moment where she was.

“Do not do anything until the morning,” she said. “You must go back to your lodgings at once.”

“That would be to lose time,” I answered.

“You must think of yourself a little,” she said. “Do as I say. I have heard that two cases of the yellow fever have broken out this afternoon. And you, who are not used to the climate, must not be out after dark.”

“And you?” I said.

“I am used to it,” she replied; “I have been here three months. Lest anything should happen, it might be well for you to give me your address.”

“I am with Madame Gravois, in the Rue Bienville.”

“Madame Gravois, in the Rue Bienville,” she repeated. “I shall remember. A demain, Monsieur.” She courtesied and went swiftly into Mrs. Temple’s room. Seizing my hat, I opened the door and found myself in the dark street.

CHAPTER VII

THE DISPOSAL OF THE SIEUR DE ST. GRE

I had met Helene de St. Gre at last. And what a fool she must think me! As I hurried along the dark banquettes this thought filled my brain for a time to the exclusion of all others, so strongly is vanity ingrained in us. After all, what did it matter what she thought,–Madame la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour? I had never shone, and it was rather late to begin. But I possessed, at least, average common sense, and I had given no proof even of this.

I wandered on, not heeding the command which she had given me,–to go home. The scent of camellias and magnolias floated on the heavy air of the night from the court-yards, reminding me of her. Laughter and soft voices came from the galleries. Despite the Terror, despite the Faubourg Saint-Antoine, despite the Rights of Man and the wars and suffering arising therefrom, despite the scourge which might come to-morrow, life went gayly on. The cabarets echoed, and behind the tight blinds lines of light showed where the Creole gentry gamed at their tables, perchance in the very clubs Madame la Vicomtesse had mentioned.

The moon, in her first quarter, floated in a haze. Washed by her light, the quaintly wrought balconies and heavy-tiled roofs of the Spanish buildings, risen from the charred embers, took on a touch of romance. I paused once with a twinge of remembrance before the long line of the Ursuline convent, with its latticed belfry against the sky. There was the lodge, with its iron gates shut, and the wall which Nick had threatened to climb. As I passed the great square of the new barracks, a sereno (so the night watchmen were called) was crying the hour. I came to the rambling market-stalls, casting black shadows on the river road,–empty now, to be filled in the morning with shouting marchands. The promenade under the willows was deserted, the great river stretched away under the moon towards the forest line of the farther shore, filmy and indistinct. A black wisp of smoke rose from the gunwale of a flatboat, and I stopped to listen to the weird song of a negro, which I have heard many times since.

CAROLINE.

In, de, tois, Ca-ro-line, Qui ci ca ye, comme ca ma chere? In, de tois, Ca-ro-line, Quo fair t’-apes cri–e ma chere? Mo l’-aime toe con-ne ca, C’est to m’ou–le, c’est to mo prend, Mo l’-aime toe, to con-ne ca–a c’est to m’oule c’est to mo prend.

Gaining the promenade, I came presently to the new hotel which had been built for the Governor, with its balconied windows looking across the river–the mansion of Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet. Even as I sat on the bench in the shadow of the willows, watching the sentry who paced before the arched entrance, I caught sight of a man stealing along the banquette on the other side of the road. Twice he paused to look behind him, and when he reached the corner of the street he stopped for some time to survey the Governor’s house opposite.

Suddenly I was on my feet, every sense alert, staring. In the moonlight, made milky by the haze, he was indistinct. And yet I could have taken oath that the square, diminutive figure, with the head set forward on the shoulders, was Gignoux’s. If this man were not Gignoux, then the Lord had cast two in a strange mould.

And what was Gignoux doing in New Orleans? As if in answer to the question two men emerged from the dark archway of the Governor’s house, passed the sentry, and stood for an instant on the edge of the shadow. One wore a long Spanish cloak, and the other a uniform that I could not make out. A word was spoken, and then my man was ambling across to meet them, and the three walked away up Toulouse Street.

I was in a fire of conjecture. I did not dare to pass the sentry and follow them, so I made round as fast as I could by the Rue St. Pierre, which borders the Place d’Armes, and then crossed to Toulouse again by Chartres. The three were nowhere to be seen. I paused on the corner for thought, and at length came to a reluctant but prudent conclusion that I had best go back to my lodging and seek Monsieur early in the morning.

Madame Gravois was awaiting me. Was Monsieur mad to remain out at night? Had Monsieur not heard of the yellow fever? Madame Gravois even had prepared some concoction which she poured out of a bottle, and which I took with the docility of a child. Monsieur Vigo had called, and there was a note. A note? It was a small note. I glanced stupidly at the seal, recognized the swan of the St. Gre crest, broke it, and read:–

“Mr. Ritchie will confer a favor upon la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour if he will come to Monsieur de St. Gre’s house at eight to-morrow morning.”

I bade the reluctant Madame Gravois good night, gained my room, threw off my clothes, and covered myself with the mosquito bar. There was no question of sleep, for the events of the day and surmises for the morrow tortured me as I tossed in the heat. Had the man been Gignoux? If so, he was in league with Carondelet’s police. I believed him fully capable of this. And if he knew Nick’s whereabouts and St. Gre’s, they would both be behind the iron gateway of the calabozo in the morning. Monsieur Vigo had pointed out to me that day the gloomy, heavy-walled prison in the rear of the Cabildo,–ay, and he had spoken of its instruments of torture.

What could the Vicomtesse want? Truly (I thought with remorse) she had been more industrious than I.

I fell at length into a fevered sleep, and awoke, athirst, with the light trickling through my lattices. Contrary to Madame Gravois’s orders, I had opened the glass of my window. Glancing at my watch,–which I had bought in Philadelphia,–I saw that the hands pointed to half after seven. I had scarcely finished my toilet before there was a knock at the door, and Madame Gravois entered with a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and her bottle of medicine in the other.

“I did not wake Monsieur,” she said, “for he was tired.”

She gave me another dose of the medicine, made me drink two cups of coffee, and then I started out with all despatch for the House of the Lions. As I turned into the Rue Chartres I saw ahead of me four horses, with their bridles bunched and held by a negro lad, waiting in the street. Yes, they were in front of the house. There it was, with its solid green gates between the lions, its yellow walls with the fringe of peeping magnolias and oranges, with its green-latticed gallery from which Monsieur Auguste had let himself down after stealing the miniature. I knocked at the wicket, the same gardienne answered the call, smiled, led me through the cool, paved archway which held in its frame the green of the court beyond, and up the stairs with the quaint balustrade which I had mounted five years before to meet Philippe de St. Gre. As I reached the gallery Madame la Vicomtesse, gowned in brown linen for riding, rose quickly from her chair and came forward to meet me.

“You have news?” I asked, as I took her hand.

“I have the kind of news I expected,” she answered, a smile tempering the gravity of her face; “Auguste is, as usual, in need of money.”

“Then you have found them,” I answered, my voice betraying my admiration for the feat.

Madame la Vicomtesse shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“I did nothing,” she said. “From what you told me, I suspected that as soon as Auguste reached Louisiana he would have a strong desire to go away again. This is undoubtedly what has happened. In any event, I knew that he would want money, and that he would apply to a source which has hitherto never failed him.”

“Mademoiselle Antoinette!” I said.

“Precisely,” answered Madame la Vicomtesse. “When I reached home last night I questioned Antoinette, and I discovered that by a singular chance a message from Auguste had already reached her.”

“Where is he?” I demanded.

“I do not know,” she replied. “But he will be behind the hedge of the garden at Les Iles at eleven o’clock–unless he has lost before then his love of money.”

“Which is to say–“

“He will be there unless he is dead. That is why I sent for you, Monsieur.” She glanced at me. “Sometimes it is convenient to have a man.”

I was astounded. Then I smiled, the affair was so ridiculously simple.

“And Monsieur de St. Gre?” I asked.

“Has been gone for a week with Madame to visit the estimable Monsieur Poydras at Pointe Coupee.” Madame la Vicomtesse, who had better use for her words than to waste them at such a time, left me, went to the balcony, and began to give the gardienne in the court below swift directions in French. Then she turned to me again.

“Are you prepared to ride with Antoinette and me to Les Iles, Monsieur?” she asked.

“I am,” I answered.

It must have been my readiness that made her smile. Then her eyes rested on mine.

“You look tired, Mr. Ritchie,” she said. “You did not obey me and go home last night.”

“How did you know that?” I asked, with a thrill at her interest.

“Because Madame Gravois told my messenger that you were out.”

I was silent.

“You must take care of yourself,” she said briefly. “Come, there are some things which I wish to say to you before Antoinette is ready.”

She led me toward the end of the gallery, where a bright screen of morning-glories shaded us from the sun. But we had scarce reached the place ere the sound of steps made us turn, and there was Mademoiselle Antoinette herself facing us. I went forward a few steps, hesitated, and bowed. She courtesied, my name faltering on her lips. Yes, it was Antoinette, not the light-hearted girl whom we had heard singing “Ma luron” in the garden, but a woman now with a strange beauty that astonished me. Hers was the dignity that comes from unselfish service, the calm that is far from resignation, though the black veil caught up on her chapeau de paille gave her the air of a Sister of Mercy. Antoinette had inherited the energies as well as the features of the St. Gre’s, yet there was a painful moment as she stood there, striving to put down the agitation the sight of me gave her. As for me, I was bereft of speech, not knowing what to say or how far to go. My last thought was of the remarkable quality in this woman before me which had held her true to Mrs. Temple, and which sent her so courageously to her duty now.

Madame la Vicomtesse, as I had hoped, relieved the situation. She knew how to broach a dreaded subject.

“Mr. Ritchie is going with us, Antoinette,” she said.

“It is perhaps best to explain everything to him before we start. I was about to tell you, Mr. Ritchie,” she continued, turning to me, “that Auguste has given no hint in his note of Mr. Temple’s presence in Louisiana. And yet you told me that they were to have come here together.”

“Yes,” I answered, “and I have no reason to think they have separated.”

“I was merely going to suggest,” said the Vicomtesse, firmly, “I was merely going to suggest the possibility of our meeting Mr. Temple with Auguste.”

It was Antoinette who answered, with a force that revealed a new side of her character.

“Mr. Temple will not be there,” she said, flashing a glance upon us. “Do you think he would come to me–?”

Helene laid her hand upon the girl’s arm.

“My dear, I think nothing,” she said quietly; “but it is best for us to be prepared against any surprise. Remember that I do not know Mr. Temple, and that you have not seen him for five years.”

“It is not like him, you know it is not like him,” exclaimed Antoinette, looking at me.

“I know it is not like him, Mademoiselle,” I replied.

Madame la Vicomtesse, from behind the girl, gave me a significant look.

“This occurred to me,” she went on in an undisturbed tone, “that Mr. Temple might come with Auguste to protest against the proceeding,–or even to defend himself against the imputation that he was to make use of this money in any way. I wish you to realize, Antoinette, before you decide to go, that you may meet Mr. Temple. Would it not be better to let Mr. Ritchie go alone? I am sure that we could find no better emissary.”

“Auguste is here,” said Antoinette. “I must see him.” Her voice caught. “I may never see him again. He may be ill, he may be starving–and I know that he is in trouble. Whether” (her voice caught) “whether Mr. Temple is with him or not, I mean to go.”

“Then it would be well to start,” said the Vicomtesse.

Deftly dropping her veil, she picked up a riding whip that lay on the railing and descended the stairs to the courtyard. Antoinette and I followed. As we came through the archway I saw Andre, Monsieur de St. Gre’s mulatto, holding open the wicket for us to pass. He helped the ladies to mount the ponies, lengthened my own stirrups for me, swung into the saddle himself, and then the four of us were picking our way down the Rue Chartres at an easy amble. Turning to the right beyond the cool garden of the Ursulines, past the yellow barracks, we came to the river front beside the fortifications. A score of negroes were sweating there in the sun, swinging into position the long logs for the palisades, nearly completed. They were like those of Kaskaskia and our own frontier forts in Kentucky, with a forty-foot ditch in front of them. Seated on a horse talking to the overseer was a fat little man in white linen who pulled off his hat and bowed profoundly to the ladies. His face gave me a start, and then I remembered that I had seen him only the day before, resplendent, coming out of church. He was the Baron de Carondelet.

There was a sentry standing under a crape-myrtle where the Royal Road ran through the gateway. Behind him was a diminutive five-sided brick fort with a dozen little cannon on top of it. The sentry came forward, brought his musket to a salute, and halted before my horse.

“You will have to show your passport,” murmured Madame la Vicomtesse.

I drew the document from my pocket. It was signed by De Lemos, and duly countersigned by the officer of the port. The man bowed, and I passed on.

It was a strange, silent ride through the stinging heat to Les Iles, the brown dust hanging behind us like a cloud, to settle slowly on the wayside shrubbery. Across the levee bank the river was low, listless, giving off hot breath like a monster in distress. The forest pools were cracked and dry, the Spanish moss was a haggard gray, and under the sun was the haze which covered the land like a saffron mantle. At times a listlessness came over me such as I had never known, to make me forget the presence of the women at my side, the very errand on which we rode. From time to time I was roused into admiration of the horsemanship of Madame la Vicomtesse, for the restive Texas pony which she rode was stung to madness by the flies. As for Antoinette, she glanced neither right nor left through her veil, but rode unmindful of the way, heedless of heat and discomfort, erect, motionless save for the easy gait of her horse. At length we turned into the avenue through the forest, lined by wild orange trees, came in sight of the low, belvedered plantation house, and drew rein at the foot of the steps. Antoinette was the first to dismount, and passed in silence through the group of surprised house servants gathering at the door. I assisted the Vicomtesse, who paused to bid the negroes disperse, and we lingered for a moment on the gallery together.

“Poor Antoinette!” she said, “I wish we might have saved her this.” She looked up at me. “How she defended him!” she exclaimed.

“She loves him,” I answered.

Madame la Vicomtesse sighed.

“I suppose there is no help for it,” she said. “But it is very difficult not to be angry with Mr. Temple. The girl cared for his mother, gave her a home, clung to her when he and the world would have cast her off, sacrificed her happiness for them both. If I see him, I believe I shall shake him. And if he doesn’t fall down on his knees to her, I shall ask the Baron to hang him. We must bring him to his senses, Mr. Ritchie. He must not leave Louisiana until he sees her. Then he will marry her.” She paused, scrutinized me in her quick way, and added: “You see that I take your estimation of his character. You ought to be flattered.”

“I am flattered by any confidence you repose in me, Madame la Vicomtesse.”

She laughed. I was not flattered then, but cursed myself for the quaint awkwardness in my speech that amused her. And she was astonishingly quick to perceive my moods.

“There, don’t be angry. You will never be a courtier, my honest friend, and you may thank God for it. How sweet the shrubs are! Your chief business in life seems to be getting people out of trouble, and I am going to help you with this case.”

It was my turn to laugh.

“You are going to help!” I exclaimed. “My services have been heavy, so far.”

“You should not walk around at night,” she replied irrelevantly.

Suddenly I remembered Gignoux, but even as I was about to tell her of the incident Antoinette appeared in the doorway. She was very pale, but her lips were set with excitement and her eyes shone strangely. She was still in her riding gown, in her hand she carried a leather bag, and behind her stood Andre with a bundle.

“Quick!” she said; “we are wasting time, and he may be gone.”

Checking an exclamation which could hardly have been complimentary to Auguste, the Vicomtesse crossed quickly to her and put her arm about her.

“We will follow you, mignonne,” she said in French.

“Must you come?” said Antoinette, appealingly. “He may not appear if he sees any one.”

“We shall have to risk that,” said the Vicomtesse, dryly, with a glance at me. “You shall not go alone, but we will wait a few moments at the hedge.”

We took the well-remembered way through the golden green light under the trees, Antoinette leading, and the sight of the garden brought back to me poignantly the scene in the moonlight with Mrs. Temple. There was no sound save the languid morning notes of the birds and the humming of the bees among the flowers as Antoinette went tremblingly down the path and paused, listening, under the branches of that oak where I had first beheld her. Then, with a little cry, we saw her run forward–into the arms of Auguste de St. Gre. It was a pitiful thing to look upon.

Antoinette had led her brother to the seat under the oak. How long we waited I know not, but at length we heard their voices raised, and without more ado Madame la Vicomtesse, beckoning me, passed quickly through the gap in the hedge and went towards them. I followed with Andre. Auguste rose with an oath, and then stood facing his cousin like a man struck dumb, his hands dropped. He was a sorry sight indeed, unshaven, unkempt, dark circles under his eyes, clothes torn.

“Helene! You here–in America!” he cried in French, staring at her.

“Yes, Auguste,” she replied quite simply, “I am here.” He would have come towards her, but there was a note in her voice which arrested him.

“And Monsieur le Vicomte–Henri?” he said. I found myself listening tensely for the answer.

“Henri is in Austria, fighting for his King, I hope,” said Madame la Vicomtesse.

“So Madame la Vicomtesse is a refugee,” he said with a bow and a smile that made me very angry.

“And Monsieur de St. Gre!” I asked.

At the sound of my voice he started and gave back, for he had not perceived me. He recovered his balance, such as it was, instantly.

“Monsieur seems to take an extraordinary interest in my affairs,” he said jauntily.

“Only when they are to the detriment of other persons who are my friends,” I said.

“Monsieur has intruded in a family matter,” said Auguste, grandly, still in French.

“By invitation of those most concerned, Monsieur,” I answered, for I could have throttled him.

Auguste had developed. He had learned well that effrontery is often the best weapon of an adventurer. He turned from me disdainfully, petulantly, and addressed the Vicomtesse once more.

“I wish to be alone with Antoinette,” he said.

“No doubt,” said the Vicomtesse.

“I demand it,” said Auguste.

“The demand is not granted,” said the Vicomtesse; “that is why we have come. Your sister has already made enough sacrifices for you. I know you, Monsieur Auguste de St. Gre,” she continued with quiet contempt. “It is not for love of Antoinette that you have sought this meeting. It is because,” she said, riding down a torrent of words which began to escape from him, “it is because you are in a predicament, as usual, and you need money.”

It was Antoinette who spoke. She had risen, and was standing behind Auguste. She still held the leather bag in her hand.

“Perhaps the sum is not enough,” she said; “he has to get to France. Perhaps we could borrow more until my father comes home.” She looked questioningly at us.

Madame la Vicomtesse was truly a woman of decision. Without more ado she took the bag from Antoinette’s unresisting hands and put it into mine. I was no less astonished than the rest of them.

“Mr. Ritchie will keep this until the negotiations are finished,” said the Vicomtesse.

“Negotiations!” cried Auguste, beside himself. “This is insolence, Madame.”

“Be careful, sir,” I said.

“Auguste!” cried Antoinette, putting her hand on his arm.

“Why did you tell them?” he demanded, turning on her.

“Because I trust them, Auguste,” Antoinette answered. She spoke without anger, as one whose sorrow has put her beyond it. Her speech had a dignity and force which might have awed a worthier man. His disappointment and chagrin brought him beyond bounds.

“You trust them!” he cried, “you trust them when they tell you to give your brother, who is starving and in peril of his life, eight hundred livres? Eight hundred livres, pardieu, and your brother!”

“It is all I have, Auguste,” said his sister, sadly.

“Ha!” he said dramatically, “I see, they seek my destruction. This man”–pointing at me–“is a Federalist, and Madame la Vicomtesse”–he bowed ironically–“is a Royalist.”

“Pish!” said the Vicomtesse, impatiently, “it would be an easy matter to have you sent to the Morro–a word to Monsieur de Carondelet, Auguste. Do you believe for a moment that, in your father’s absence, I would have allowed Antoinette to come here alone? And it was a happy circumstance that I could call on such a man as Mr. Ritchie to come with us.”

“It seems to me that Mr. Ritchie and his friends have already brought sufficient misfortune on the family.”

It was a villanous speech. Antoinette turned away, her shoulders quivering, and I took a step towards him; but Madame la Vicomtesse made a swift gesture, and I stopped, I know not why. She gave an exclamation so sharp that he flinched physically, as though he had been struck. But it was characteristic of her that when she began to speak, her words cut rather than lashed.

“Auguste de St. Gre,” she said, “I know you. The Tribunal is merciful compared to you. There is no one on earth whom you would not torture for your selfish ends, no one whom you would not sell without compunction for your pleasure. There are things that a woman should not mention, and yet I would tell them without shame to your face were it not for your sister. If it were not for her, I would not have you in my presence. Shall I speak of your career in France? There is Valenciennes, for example–“

She stopped abruptly. The man was gray, but not on his account did the Vicomtesse stay her speech. She forgot him as though he did not exist, and by one of those swift transitions which thrilled me had gone to the sobbing Antoinette and taken her in her arms, murmuring endearments of which our language is not capable. I, too, forgot Auguste. But no rebuke, however stinging, could make him forget himself, and before we realized it he was talking again. He had changed his tactics.

“This is my home,” he said, “where I might expect shelter and comfort. You make me an outcast.”

Antoinette disengaged herself from Helene with a cry, but he turned away from her and shrugged.

“A stranger would have fared better. Perhaps you will have more consideration for a stranger. There is a French ship at the Terre aux Boeufs in the English Turn, which sails to-night. I appeal to you, Mr. Ritchie, “–he was still talking in French–“I appeal to you, who are a man of affairs,”–and he swept me a bow,–“if a captain would risk taking a fugitive to France for eight hundred livres? Pardieu, I could get no

farther than the Balize for that. Monsieur,” he added meaningly, “you have an interest in this. There are two of us to go.”

The amazing effrontery of this move made me gasp. Yet it was neither the Vicomtesse nor myself who answered him. We turned by common impulse to Antoinette, and she was changed. Her breath came quickly, her eyes flashed, her anger made her magnificent.

“It is not true,” she cried, “you know it is not true.”

He lifted his shoulders and smiled.

“You are my brother, and I am ashamed to acknowledge you. I was willing to give my last sou, to sell my belongings, to take from the poor to help you–until you defamed a good man. You cannot make me believe,” she cried, unheeding the color that surged into her cheeks, “you cannot make me believe that he would use this money. You cannot make me believe it.”

“Let us do him the credit of thinking that he means to repay it,” said Auguste.

Antoinette’s eyes filled with tears,–tears of pride, of humiliation, ay, and of an anger of which I had not thought her capable. She was indeed a superb creature then, a personage I had not imagined. Gathering up her gown, she passed Auguste and turned on him swiftly.

“If you were to bring that to him,” she said, pointing to the bag in my hand, “he would not so much as touch it. To-morrow I shall go to the Ursulines, and I thank God I shall never see you again. I thank God I shall no longer be your sister. Give Monsieur the bundle,” she said to the frightened Andre, who still stood by the hedge; “he may need food and clothes for his journey.”

She left us. We stood watching her until her gown had disappeared amongst the foliage. Andre came forward and held out the bundle to Auguste, who took it mechanically. Then Madame La Vicomtesse motioned to Andre to leave, and gave me a glance, and it was part of the deep understanding of her I had that I took its meaning. I had my forebodings at what this last conversation with Auguste might bring forth, and I wished heartily that we were rid of him.

“Monsieur de St. Gre,” I said, “I understood you to say that a ship is lying at the English Turn some five leagues below us, on which you are to take passage at once.”

He turned and glared at me, some devilish retort on his lips which he held back. Suddenly he became suave.

“I shall want two thousand livres Monsieur; it was the sum I asked for.”

“It is not a question of what you asked for,” I answered.

“Since when did Monsieur assume this intimate position in my family?” he said, glancing at the Vicomtesse.

“Monsieur de St. Gre,” I replied with difficulty, “you will confine yourself to the matter in hand. You are in no situation to demand terms; you must take or leave what is offered you. Last night the man called Gignoux, who was of your party, was at the Governor’s house.”

At this he started perceptibly.

“Ha, I thought he was a traitor,” he cried. Strangely enough, he did not doubt my word in this.

“I am surprised that your Father’s house has not been searched this morning,” I continued, astonished at my own moderation. “The sentiments of the Baron de Carondelet are no doubt known to you, and you are aware that your family or your friends cannot save you if you are arrested. You may have this money on two conditions. The first is that you leave the province immediately. The second, that you reveal the whereabouts of Mr. Nicholas Temple.”

“Monsieur is very kind,” he replied, and added the taunt, “and well versed in the conduct of affairs of money.”

“Does Monsieur de St. Gre accept?” I asked.

He threw out his hands with a gesture of resignation.

“Who am I to accept?” he said, “a fugitive, an outcast. And I should like to remind Monsieur that time passes.”

“It is a sensible observation,” said I, meaning that it was the first. His sudden docility made me suspicious. “What preparations have you made to go?”

“They are not elaborate, Monsieur, but they are complete. When I leave you I step into a pirogue which is tied to the river bank.”

“Ah,” I replied. “And Mr. Temple?”

Madame la Vicomtesse smiled, for Auguste was fairly caught. He had not the astuteness to be a rogue; oddly he had the sense to know that he could fool us no longer.

“Temple is at Lamarque’s,” he answered sullenly.

I glanced questioningly at the Vicomtesse.

“Lamarque is an old pensioner of Monsieur de St. Gre’s,” said she; “he has a house and an arpent of land not far below here.”

“Exactly,” said Auguste, “and if Mr. Ritchie believes that he will save money by keeping Mr. Temple in Louisiana instead of giving him this opportunity to escape, it is no concern of mine.”

I reflected a moment on this, for it was another sensible remark.

“It is indeed no concern of yours,” said Madame la Vicomtesse.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“And now,” he said, “I take it that there are no further conscientious scruples against my receiving this paltry sum.”

“I will go with you to your pirogue,” I answered, “when you embark you shall have it.”

“I, too, will go,” said Madame la Vicomtesse.

“You overwhelm me with civility, Madame,” said the Sieur de St. Gre, bowing low.

“Lead the way, Monsieur,” I said.

He took his bundle, and started off down the garden path with a grand air. I looked at the Vicomtesse inquiringly, and there was laughter in her eyes.

“I must show you the way to Lamarque’s.” And then she whispered, “You have done well, Mr. Ritchie.”

I did not return her look, but waited until she took the path ahead of me. In silence we followed Auguste through the depths of the woods, turning here and there to avoid a fallen tree or a sink-hole where the water still remained. At length we came out in the glare of the sun and crossed the dusty road to the levee bank. Some forty yards below us was the canoe, and we walked to it, still in silence. Auguste flung in his bundle, and turned to us.

“Perhaps Monsieur is satisfied,” he said.

I handed him the bag, and he took it with an elaborate air of thankfulness. Nay, the rascal opened it as if to assure himself that he was not tricked at the last. At the sight of the gold and silver which Antoinette had hastily collected, he turned to Madame la Vicomtesse.

“Should I have the good fortune to meet Monsieur le Vicomte in France, I shall assure him that Madame is in good hands” (he swept an exultant look at me) “and enjoying herself.”

I could have flung him into the river, money-bag and all. But Madame la Vicomtesse made him a courtesy there on the levee bank, and said sweetly:–

“That is very good of you, Auguste.”

“As for you, Monsieur,” he said, and now his voice shook with uncontrolled rage, “I am in no condition to repay your kindnesses. But I have no doubt that you will not object to keeping the miniature a while longer.”

I was speechless with anger and shame, and though I felt the eyes of the Vicomtesse upon me, I dared not look at her. I heard Auguste but indistinctly as he continued:–

“Should you need the frame, Monsieur, you will doubtless find it still with Monsieur Isadore, the Jew, in the Rue Toulouse.” With that he leaped into his boat, seized the paddle, and laughed as he headed into the current. How long I stood watching him as he drifted lazily in the sun I know not, but at length the voice of Madame la Vicomtesse aroused me.

“He is a pleasant person,” she said.

CHAPTER VIII

AT LAMARQUE’S

Until then it seemed as if the sun had gotten into my brain and set it on fire. Her words had the strange effect of clearing my head, though I was still in as sad a predicament as ever I found myself. There was the thing in my pocket, still wrapped in Polly Ann’s handkerchief. I glanced at the Vicomtesse shyly, and turned away again. Her face was all repressed laughter, the expression I knew so well.

“I think we should feel better in the shade, Mr. Ritchie,” she said in English, and, leaping lightly down from the bank, crossed the road again. I followed her, perforce.

“I will show you the way to Lamarque’s,” she said.

“Madame la Vicomtesse!” I cried.

Had she no curiosity? Was she going to let pass what Auguste had hinted? Lifting up her skirts, she swung round and faced me. In her eyes was a calmness more baffling than the light I had seen there but a moment since. How to begin I knew not, and yet I was launched.

“Madame la Vicomtesse, there was once a certain miniature painted of you.”

“By Boze, Monsieur,” she answered, readily enough. The embarrassment was all on my side. “We spoke of it last evening. I remember well when it was taken. It was the costume I wore at Chantilly, and Monsieur le Prince complimented me, and the next day the painter himself came to our hotel in the Rue de Bretagne and asked the honor of painting me.” She sighed. “Ah, those were happy days! Her Majesty was very angry with me.”

“And why?” I asked, forgetful of my predicament.

“For sending it to Louisiana, to Antoinette.”

“And why did you send it?”