THE CROSSING by WINSTON CHURCHILL

made a common cause, but it was Hippolyte who spoke.
``Monsieur,'' he cried, ``you seek your friend? Ha, we
have found him,--we will lead you to him.''
``Where is he?'' said Colonel Chouteau, repressing
another laugh.
``On the pond, Monsieur,--in a boat, Monsieur, with
Suzanne, Monsieur le Colonel! And, moreover, he will
come ashore for no one.''
``Parbleu,'' said the Colonel, ``I should think not for
any arguments that you two could muster. But we will
go there.''
``How far is it?'' I asked, thinking of Monsieur Gratiot.
``About a mile,'' said Colonel Chouteau, ``a pleasant
walk.''
We stepped out, Hippolyte and Gaspard running in
front, the Colonel and Monsieur Gratiot and myself
following; and a snicker which burst out now and then told us
that Benjy was in the rear. On any other errand I should
have thought the way beautiful, for the country road, rutted
by wooden wheels, wound in and out through pleasant
vales and over gentle rises, whence we caught glimpses
from time to time of the Mississippi gleaming like molten
gold to the eastward. Here and there, nestling against
the gentle slopes of the hillside clearing, was a low-thatched
farmhouse among its orchards. As we walked, Nick's
escapade, instead of angering Monsieur Gratiot, seemed
to present itself to him in a more and more ridiculous
aspect, and twice he nudged me to call my attention to the
two vengefully triumphant figures silhouetted against the
moon ahead of us. From time to time also I saw Colonel
Chouteau shaking with laughter. As for me, it was
impossible to be angry at Nick for any space. Nobody else
would have carried off a girl in the face of her rivals for
a moonlight row on a pond a mile away.
At length we began to go down into the valley where
Chouteau's pond was, and we caught glimpses of the
shimmering of its waters through the trees, ay, and
presently heard them tumbling lightly over the mill-dam.
The spot was made for romance,--a sequestered vale, clad
with forest trees, cleared a little by the water-side, where
Monsieur Lenoir raised his maize and his vegetables. Below
the mill, so Monsieur Gratiot told me, where the creek lay
in pools on its limestone bed, the village washing was
done; and every Monday morning bare-legged negresses
strode up this road, the bundles of clothes balanced on
their heads, the paddles in their hands, followed by a stream
of black urchins who tempted Providence to drown them.
Down in the valley we came to a path that branched
from the road and led under the oaks and hickories towards
the pond, and we had not taken twenty paces in it before
the notes of a guitar and the sound of a voice reached our
ears. And then, when the six of us stood huddled in the
rank growth at the water's edge, we saw a boat floating
idly in the forest shadow on the far side.
I put my hand to my mouth.
``Nick!'' I shouted.
There came for an answer, with the careless and
unskilful thrumming of the guitar, the end of the verse:--
``Thine eyes are bright as the stars at night,
Thy cheeks like the rose of the dawning, oh!''
``Helas!'' exclaimed Hippolyte, sadly, ``there is no
other boat.''
``Nick!'' I shouted again, reenforced vociferously by
the others.
The music ceased, there came feminine laughter across
the water, then Nick's voice, in French that dared everything:--
``Go away and amuse yourselves at the dance. Peste,
it is scarce an hour ago I threatened to row ashore and
break your heads. Allez vous en, jaloux!''
A scream of delight from Suzanne followed this sally,
which was received by Gaspard and Hippolyte with a rattle
of sacres, and--despite our irritation--the Colonel,
Monsieur Gratiot, and myself with a burst of involuntary
laughter.
``Parbleu,'' said the Colonel, choking, ``it is a pity to
disturb such a one. Gratiot, if it was my boat, I'd delay
the departure till morning.''
``Indeed, I shall have had no small entertainment as a
solace,'' said Monsieur Gratiot. ``Listen!''
The tinkle of the guitar was heard again, and Nick's
voice, strong and full and undisturbed:--
``S'posin' I was to go to N' O'leans an' take sick an' die,
Like a bird into the country my spirit would fly.
Go 'way, old man, and leave me alone,
For I am a stranger and a long way from home.''
There was a murmur of voices in the boat, the sound of
a paddle gurgling as it dipped, and the dugout shot out
towards the middle of the pond and drifted again.
I shouted once more at the top of my lungs:--
``Come in here, Nick, instantly!''
There was a moment's silence.
``By gad, it's Parson Davy!'' I heard Nick exclaim.
``Halloo, Davy, how the deuce did you get there?''
``No thanks to you,'' I retorted hotly. ``Come in.''
``Lord,'' said he, ``is it time to go to New Orleans?''
``One might think New Orleans was across the street,''
said Monsieur Gratiot. ``What an attitude of mind!''
The dugout was coming towards us now, propelled by
easy strokes, and Nick could be heard the while talking
in low tones to Suzanne. We could only guess at the
tenor of his conversation, which ceased entirely as they
drew near. At length the prow slid in among the rushes,
was seized vigorously by Gaspard and Hippolyte, and the
boat hauled ashore.
``Thank you very much, Messieurs; you are most
obliging,'' said Nick. And taking Suzanne by the hand, he
helped her gallantly over the gunwale. ``Monsieur,'' he
added, turning in his most irresistible manner to Monsieur
Gratiot, ``if I have delayed the departure of your boat, I
am exceedingly sorry. But I appeal to you if I have not
the best of excuses.''
And he bowed to Suzanne, who stood beside him coyly,
looking down. As for 'Polyte and Gaspard, they were
quite breathless between rage and astonishment. But
Colonel Chouteau began to laugh.
``Diable, Monsieur, you are right,'' he cried, ``and
rather than have missed this entertainment I would pay
Gratiot for his cargo.''
``Au revoir, Mademoiselle,'' said Nick, ``I will return
when I am released from bondage. When this terrible
mentor relaxes vigilance, I will escape and make my way
back to you through the forests.''
``Oh!'' cried Mademoiselle to me, ``you will let him
come back, Monsieur.''
``Assuredly, Mademoiselle,'' I said, ``but I have known
him longer than you, and I tell you that in a month he
will not wish to come back.''
Hippolyte gave a grunt of approval to this plain speech.
Suzanne exclaimed, but before Nick could answer footsteps
were heard in the path and Lenoir himself, perspiring,
panting, exhausted, appeared in the midst of us.
``Suzanne!'' he cried, ``Suzanne!'' And turning to
Nick, he added quite simply, ``So, Monsieur, you did not
run off with her, after all?''
``There was no place to run, Monsieur,'' answered Nick.
``Praise be to God for that!'' said the miller, heartily,
``there is some advantage in living in the wilderness,
when everything is said.''
``I shall come back and try, Monsieur,'' said Nick.
The miller raised his hands.
``I assure you that he will not, Monsieur,'' I put in.
He thanked me profusely, and suddenly an idea seemed
to strike him.
``There is the priest,'' he cried; ``Monsieur le cure
retires late. There is the priest, Monsieur.''
There was an awkward silence, broken at length by an
exclamation from Gaspard. Colonel Chouteau turned his
back, and I saw his shoulders heave. All eyes were on
Nick, but the rascal did not seem at all perturbed.
``Monsieur,'' he said, bowing, ``marriage is a serious
thing, and not to be entered into lightly. I thank you
from my heart, but I am bound now with Mr. Ritchie on
an errand of such importance that I must make a sacrifice
of my own interests and affairs to his.''
``If Mr. Temple wishes--'' I began, with malicious
delight. But Nick took me by the shoulder.
``My dear Davy,'' he said, giving me a vicious kick, ``I
could not think of it. I will go with you at once. Adieu,
Mademoiselle,'' said he, bending over Suzanne's unresisting
hand. ``Adieu, Messieurs, and I thank you for your
great interest in me.'' (This to Gaspard and Hippolyte.)
``And now, Monsieur Gratiot, I have already presumed
too much on your patience. I will follow you, Monsieur.''
We left them, Lenoir, Suzanne, and her two suitors,
standing at the pond, and made our way through the path
in the forest. It was not until we reached the road and
had begun to climb out of the valley that the silence was
broken between us.
``Monsieur,'' said Colonel Chouteau, slyly, ``do you
have many such escapes?''
``It might have been closer,'' said Nick.
``Closer?'' ejaculated the Colonel.
``Assuredly,'' said Nick, ``to the extent of abducting
Monsieur le cure. As for you, Davy,'' he added, between
his teeth, ``I mean to get even with you.''
It was well for us that the Colonel and Monsieur
Gratiot took the escapade with such good nature. And
so we walked along through the summer night, talking
gayly, until at length the lights of the village twinkled
ahead of us, and in the streets we met many parties
making merry on their homeward way. We came to Monsieur
Gratiot's, bade our farewells to Madame, picked up our
saddle-bags, the two gentlemen escorting us down to the
river bank where the keel boat was tugging at the ropes that
held her, impatient to be off. Her captain, a picturesque
Canadian by the name of Xavier Paret, was presented to
us; we bade our friends farewell, and stepped across the
plank to the deck. As we were casting off, Monsieur
Gratiot called to us that he would take the first occasion
to send our horses back to Kentucky. The oars were
manned, the heavy hulk moved, and we were shot out
into the mighty current of the river on our way to New
Orleans.
Nick and I stood for a long time on the deck, and the
windows of the little village gleamed like stars among the
trees. We passed the last of its houses that nestled
against the hill, and below that the forest lay like velvet
under the moon. The song of our boatmen broke the
silence of the night:--
``Voici le temps et la saison,
Voici le temps et la saison,
Ah! vrai, que les journees sont longues,
Ah! vrai, que les journees sont longues!''
CHAPTER X
THE KEEL BOAT
We were embarked on a strange river, in a strange boat,
and bound for a strange city. To us Westerners a halo
of romance, of unreality, hung over New Orleans. To us
it had an Old World, almost Oriental flavor of mystery and
luxury and pleasure, and we imagined it swathed in the
moisture of the Delta, built of quaint houses, with courts
of shining orange trees and magnolias, and surrounded by
flowering plantations of unimagined beauty. It was most
fitting that such a place should be the seat of dark intrigues
against material progress, and this notion lent added zest
to my errand thither. As for Nick, it took no great sagacity
on my part to predict that he would forget Suzanne
and begin to look forward to the Creole beauties of the
Mysterious City.
First, there was the fur-laden keel boat in which we
travelled, gone forever now from Western navigation. It
had its rude square sail to take advantage of the river
winds, its mast strongly braced to hold the long tow-ropes.
But tow-ropes were for the endless up-river journey, when
a numerous crew strained day after day along the bank,
chanting the voyageurs' songs. Now we were light-manned,
two half-breeds and two Canadians to handle the oars in
time of peril, and Captain Xavier, who stood aft on the
cabin roof, leaning against the heavy beam of the long,
curved tiller, watching hawklike for snag and eddy and
bar. Within the cabin was a great fireplace of stones,
where our cooking was done, and bunks set round for the
men in cold weather and rainy. But in these fair nights
we chose to sleep on deck.
Far into the night we sat, Nick and I, our feet dangling
over the forward edge of the cabin, looking at the glory of
the moon on the vast river, at the endless forest crown, at
the haze which hung like silver dust under the high bluffs
on the American side. We slept. We awoke again as
the moon was shrinking abashed before the light that
glowed above these cliffs, and the river was turned from
brown to gold and then to burnished copper, the forest to a
thousand shades of green from crest to the banks where the
river was licking the twisted roots to nakedness. The
south wind wafted the sharp wood-smoke from the chimney
across our faces. In the stern Xavier stood immovable
against the tiller, his short pipe clutched between his
teeth, the colors of his new worsted belt made gorgeous
by the rising sun.
``B'jour, Michie,'' he said, and added in the English he
had picked up from the British traders, ``the breakfas'
he is ready, and Jean make him good. Will you have
the grace to descen'?''
We went down the ladder into the cabin, where the odor
of the furs mingled with the smell of the cooking. There
was a fricassee steaming on the crane, some of Zeron's bread,
brought from St. Louis, and coffee that Monsieur Gratiot
had provided for our use. We took our bowls and cups
on deck and sat on the edge of the cabin.
``By gad,'' cried Nick, ``it lacks but the one element
to make it a paradise.''
``And what is that?'' I demanded.
``A woman,'' said he.
Xavier, who overheard, gave a delighted laugh.
``Parbleu, Michie, you have right,'' he said, ``but Michie
Gratiot, he say no. In Nouvelle Orleans we find some.''
Nick got to his feet, and if anything he did could have
surprised me, I should have been surprised when he put
his arm coaxingly about Xavier's neck. Xavier himself
was surprised and correspondingly delighted.
``Tell me, Xavier,'' he said, with a look not to be
resisted, ``do you think I shall find some beauties there?''
``Beauties!'' exclaimed Xavier, ``La Nouvelle Orleans
--it is the home of beauty, Michie. They promenade
themselves on the levee, they look down from ze gallerie,
mais--''
``But what, Xavier?''
``But, mon Dieu, Michie, they are vair' difficile. They
are not like Englis' beauties, there is the father and the
mother, and--the convent.'' And Xavier, who had a
wen under his eye, laid his finger on it.
``For shame, Xavier,'' cried Nick; ``and you are balked
by such things?''
Xavier thought this an exceedingly good joke, and he
took his pipe out of his mouth to laugh the better.
``Me? Mais non, Michie. And yet ze Alcalde, he mek
me afraid. Once he put me in ze calaboose when I tried
to climb ze balcon'.''
Nick roared.
``I will show you how, Xavier,'' he said; ``as to climbing
the balconies, there is a convenance in it, as in all else.
For instance, one must be daring, and discreet, and nimble,
and ready to give the law a presentable answer, and lacking
that, a piastre. And then the fair one must be a fair one
indeed.''
``Diable, Michie,'' cried Xavier, ``you are ze mischief.''
``Nay,'' said Nick, ``I learned it all and much more
from my cousin, Mr. Ritchie.''
Xavier stared at me for an instant, and considering that
he knew nothing of my character, I thought it extremely
impolite of him to laugh. Indeed, he tried to control
himself, for some reason standing in awe of my appearance,
and then he burst out into such loud haw-haws that the
crew poked their heads above the cabin hatch.
``Michie Reetchie,'' said Xavier, and again he burst into
laughter that choked further speech. He controlled himself
and laid his finger on his wen.
``You don't believe it,'' said Nick, offended.
``Michie Reetchie a gallant!'' said Xavier.
``An incurable,'' said Nick, ``an amazingly clever rogue
at device when there is a petticoat in it. Davy, do I do
you justice?''
Xavier roared again.
``Quel maitre!'' he said.
``Xavier,'' said Nick, gently taking the tiller out of his
hand, ``I will teach you how to steer a keel boat.''
``Mon Dieu,'' said Xavier, ``and who is to pay Michie
Gratiot for his fur? The river, she is full of things.''
``Yes, I know, Xavier, but you will teach me to steer.''
``Volontiers, Michie, as we go now. But there come a
time when I, even I, who am twenty year on her, do not
know whether it is right or left. Ze rock--he vair'
hard. Ze snag, he grip you like dat,'' and Xavier twined
his strong arms around Nick until he was helpless. ``Ze
bar--he hol' you by ze leg. An' who is to tell you how
far he run under ze yellow water, Michie? I, who speak
to you, know. But I know not how I know. Ze water,
sometime she tell, sometime she say not'ing.''
``A bas, Xavier!'' said Nick, pushing him away, ``I
will teach you the river.''
Xavier laughed, and sat down on the edge of the cabin.
Nick took easily to accomplishments, and he handled the
clumsy tiller with a certainty and distinction that made
the boatmen swear in two languages and a patois. A
great water-logged giant of the Northern forests loomed
ahead of us. Xavier sprang to his feet, but Nick had
swung his boat swiftly, smoothly, into the deeper water
on the outer side.
``Saint Jacques, Michie,'' cried Xavier, ``you mek him
better zan I thought.''
Fascinated by a new accomplishment, Nick held to the
tiller, while Xavier with a trained eye scanned the troubled,
yellow-glistening surface of the river ahead. The wind
died, the sun beat down with a moist and venomous sting,
and northeastward above the edge of the bluff a bank of
cloud like sulphur smoke was lifted. Gradually Xavier
ceased his jesting and became quiet.
``Looks like a hurricane,'' said Nick.
``Mon Dieu,'' said Xavier, ``you have right, Michie,''
and he called in his rapid patois to the crew, who lounged
forward in the cabin's shade. There came to my mind
the memory of that hurricane at Temple Bow long ago, a
storm that seemed to have brought so much sorrow into
my life. I glanced at Nick, but his face was serene.
The cloud-bank came on in black and yellow masses,
and the saffron light I recalled so well turned the living
green of the forest to a sickly pallor and the yellow river
to a tinge scarce to be matched on earth. Xavier had the
tiller now, and the men were straining at the oars to send
the boat across the current towards the nearer western
shore. And as my glance took in the scale of things, the
miles of bluff frowning above the bottom, the river that
seemed now like a lake of lava gently boiling, and the
wilderness of the western shore that reached beyond the
ken of man, I could not but shudder to think of the conflict
of nature's forces in such a place. A grim stillness
reigned over all, broken only now and again by a sharp
command from Xavier. The men were rowing for their
lives, the sweat glistening on their red faces.
``She come,'' said Xavier.
I looked, not to the northeast whence the banks of
cloud had risen, but to the southwest, and it seemed as
though a little speck was there against the hurrying film
of cloud. We were drawing near the forest line, where a
little creek made an indentation. I listened, and from
afar came a sound like the strumming of low notes on a
guitar, and sad. The terrified scream of a panther broke
the silence of the forest, and then the other distant note
grew stronger, and stronger yet, and rose to a high hum like
unto no sound on this earth, and mingled with it now was a
lashing like water falling from a great height. We
grounded, and Xavier, seizing a great tow-rope, leaped into
the shallow water and passed the bight around a trunk.
I cried out to Nick, but my voice was drowned. He seized
me and flung me under the cabin's lee, and then above
the fearful note of the storm came cracklings like gunshots
of great trees snapping at their trunk. We saw
the forest wall burst out--how far away I know not--
and the air was filled as with a flock of giant birds, and
boughs crashed on the roof of the cabin and tore the
water in the darkness. How long we lay clutching each
other in terror on the rocking boat I may not say, but
when the veil first lifted there was the river like an angry
sea, and limitless, the wind in its fury whipping the foam
from the crests and bearing it off into space. And
presently, as we stared, the note lowered and the wind was
gone again, and there was the water tossing foolishly, and
we lay safe amidst the green wreckage of the forest as by a
miracle.
It was Nick who moved first. With white face he
climbed to the roof of the cabin and idly seizing the great
limb that lay there tried to move it. Xavier, who lay on
his face on the bank, rose to a sitting posture and crossed
himself. Beyond me crowded the four members of the
crew, unhurt. Then we heard Xavier's voice, in French,
thanking the Blessed Virgin for our escape.
Further speech was gone from us, for men do not talk
after such a matter. We laid hold of the tree across the
cabin and, straining, flung it over into the water. A great
drop of rain hit me on the forehead, and there came a
silver-gray downpour that blotted out the scene and drove
us down below. And then, from somewhere in the depths
of the dark cabin, came a sound to make a man's blood run
cold.
``What's that?'' I said, clutching Nick.
``Benjy,'' said he; ``thank God he did not die of fright.''
We lighted a candle, and poking around, found the negro
where he had crept into the farthest corner of a bunk
with his face to the wall. And when we touched him he
gave vent to a yell that was blood-curdling.
``I'se a bad nigger, Lo'd, yes, I is,'' he moaned. ``I
ain't fit fo' jedgment, Lo'd.''
Nick shook him and laughed.
``Come out of that, Benjy,'' he said; ``you've got another
chance.
Benjy turned, perforce, the whites of his eyes gleaming
in the candle-light, and stared at us.
``You ain't gone yit, Marse,'' he said.
``Gone where?'' said Nick.
``I'se done been tole de quality 'll be jedged fust, Marse,''
Nick hauled him out on the floor. Climbing to the
deck, we found that the boat was already under way,
running southward in the current through the misty rain.
And gazing shoreward, a sight met my eyes which I
shall never forget. A wide vista, carpeted with wreckage,
was cut through the forest to the river's edge, and
the yellow water was strewn for miles with green boughs.
We stared down it, overwhelmed, until we had passed
beyond its line.
``It is as straight,'' said Nick, ``as straight as one of her
Majesty's alleys I saw cut through the forest at Saint-Cloud.''
* * * * * * *
Had I space and time to give a faithful account of this
journey it would be chiefly a tribute to Xavier's skill, for
they who have not put themselves at the mercy of the
Mississippi in a small craft can have no idea of the
dangers of such a voyage. Infinite experience, a keen eye, a
steady hand, and a nerve of iron are required. Now, when
the current swirled almost to a rapid, we grazed a rock
by the width of a ripple; and again, despite the effort of
Xavier and the crew, we would tear the limbs from a huge
tree, which, had we hit it fair, would have ripped us from
bow to stern. Once, indeed, we were fast on a sand-bar,
whence (as Nick said) Xavier fairly cursed us off. We
took care to moor at night, where we could be seen as little
as possible from the river, and divided the watches lest we
should be surprised by Indians. And, as we went southward,
our hands and faces became blotched all over by
the bites of mosquitoes and flies, and we smothered
ourselves under blankets to get rid of them. At times we
fished, and one evening, after we had passed the expanse
of water at the mouth of the Ohio, Nick pulled a hideous
thing from the inscrutable yellow depths,--a slimy, scaleless
catfish. He came up like a log, and must have weighed
seventy pounds. Xavier and his men and myself made two
good meals of him, but Nick would not touch the meat.
The great river teemed with life. There were flocks
of herons and cranes and water pelicans, and I know not
what other birds, and as we slipped under the banks we
often heard the paroquets chattering in the forests. And
once, as we drifted into an inlet at sunset, we caught sight
of the shaggy head of a bear above the brown water, and
leaping down into the cabin I primed the rifle that stood
there and shot him. It took the seven of us to drag him
on board, and then I cleaned and skinned him as Tom had
taught me, and showed Jean how to put the caul fat
and liver in rows on a skewer and wrap it in the bear's
handkerchief and roast it before the fire. Nick found
no difficulty in eating this--it was a dish fit for any
gourmand.
We passed the great, red Chickasaw Bluff, which sits
facing westward looking over the limitless Louisiana forests,
where new and wondrous vines and flowers grew, and came
to the beautiful Walnut Hills crowned by a Spanish fort.
We did not stop there to exchange courtesies, but pressed
on to the Grand Gulf, the grave of many a keel boat before
and since. This was by far the most dangerous place on
the Mississippi, and Xavier was never weary of recounting
many perilous escapes there, or telling how such and such
a priceless cargo had sunk in the mud by reason of the
lack of skill of particular boatmen he knew of. And
indeed, the Canadian's face assumed a graver mien after the
Walnut Hills were behind us.
``You laugh, Michie,'' he said to Nick, a little
resentfully. ``I who speak to you say that there is four foot on
each side of ze bateau. Too much tafia, a little too much
excite--'' and he made a gesture with his hand expressive
of total destruction; ``ze tornado, I would sooner have
him--''
Bah!'' said Nick, stroking Xavier's black beard, ``give
me the tiller. I will see you through safely, and we will
not spare the tafia either.'' And he began to sing a song
of Xavier's own:--
`` `Marianson, dame jolie,
Ou est alle votre mari?' ''
``Ah, toujours les dames!'' said Xavier. ``But I tell
you, Michie, le diable,--he is at ze bottom of ze Grand
Gulf and his mouth open--so.'' And he suited the action
to the word.
At night we tied up under the shore within earshot of
the mutter of the place, and twice that night I awoke with
clinched hands from a dream of being spun fiercely against
the rock of which Xavier had told, and sucked into the
devil's mouth under the water. Dawn came as I was
fighting the mosquitoes,--a still, sultry dawn with thunder
muttering in the distance.
We breakfasted in silence, and with the crew standing
ready at the oars and Xavier scanning the wide expanse
of waters ahead, seeking for that unmarked point whence
to embark on this perilous journey, we floated down the
stream. The prospect was sufficiently disquieting on that
murky day. Below us, on the one hand, a rocky bluff
reached out into the river, and on the far side was a timberclad
point round which the Mississippi doubled and flowed
back on itself. It needed no trained eye to guess at the
perils of the place. On the one side the mighty current
charged against the bluff and, furious at the obstacle, lashed
itself into a hundred sucks and whirls, their course marked
by the flotsam plundered from the forests above. Woe
betide the boat that got into this devil's caldron! And
on the other side, near the timbered point, ran a counter
current marked by forest wreckage flowing up-stream.
To venture too far on this side was to be grounded or at
least to be sent back to embark once more on the trial.
But where was the channel? We watched Xavier with
bated breath. Not once did he take his eyes from the
swirling water ahead, but gave the tiller a touch from time
to time, now right, now left, and called in a monotone for
the port or starboard oars. Nearer and nearer we sped,
dodging the snags, until the water boiled around us, and
suddenly the boat shot forward as in a mill-race, and we
clutched the cabin's roof. A triumphant gleam was in
Xavier's eyes, for he had hit the channel squarely. And
then, like a monster out of the deep, the scaly, black
back of a great northern pine was flung up beside us and
sheered us across the channel until we were at the very
edge of the foam-specked, spinning water. But Xavier
saw it, and quick as lightning brought his helm over and
laughed as he heard it crunching along our keel. And so
we came swiftly around the bend and into safety once
more. The next day there was the Petite Gulf, which
bothered Xavier very little, and the day after that we
came in sight of Natchez on her heights and guided our
boat in amongst the others that lined the shore, scowled
at by lounging Indians there, and eyed suspiciously by a
hatchet-faced Spaniard in a tawdry uniform who represented
his Majesty's customs. Here we stopped for a day
and a night that Xavier and his crew might get properly
drunk on tafia, while Nick and I walked about the town
and waited until his Excellency, the commandant, had
finished dinner that we might present our letters and
obtain his passport. Natchez at that date was a sufficiently
unkempt and evil place of dirty, ramshackle houses and
gambling dens, where men of the four nations gamed and
quarrelled and fought. We were glad enough to get
away the following morning, Xavier somewhat saddened
by the loss of thirty livres of which he had no memory, and
Nick and myself relieved at having the passports in our
pockets. I have mine yet among my papers.
``Natchez, 29 de Junio, de 1789.
``Concedo libre y seguro paeaporte a Don David Ritchie
para que pase a la Nueva Orleans por Agna. Pido y encargo
no se le ponga embarazo.''
A few days more and we were running between low
shores which seemed to hold a dark enchantment. The
rivers now flowed out of, and not into the Mississippi, and
Xavier called them bayous, and often it took much skill
and foresight on his part not to be shot into the lane they
made in the dark forest of an evening. And the forest,
--it seemed an impenetrable mystery, a strange tangle of
fantastic growths: the live-oak (chene vert), its widespreading
limbs hung funereally with Spanish moss and
twined in the mistletoe's death embrace; the dark cypress
swamp with the conelike knees above the yellow backwaters;
and here and there grew the bridelike magnolia
which we had known in Kentucky, wafting its perfume
over the waters, and wondrous flowers and vines and trees
with French names that bring back the scene to me even
now with a whiff of romance, bois d'arc, lilac, grande
volaille (water-lily). Birds flew hither and thither (the
names of every one of which Xavier knew),--the whistling
papabot, the mournful bittern (garde-soleil), and the
night-heron (grosbeck), who stood like a sentinel on the
points.
One night I awoke with the sweat starting from
my brow, trying to collect my senses, and I lay on my
blanket listening to such plaintive and heart-rending
cries as I had never known. Human cries they were,
cries as of children in distress, and I rose to a sitting
posture on the deck with my hair standing up straight, to
discover Nick beside me in the same position.
``God have mercy on us,'' I heard him mutter, ``what's
that? It sounds like the wail of all the babies since the
world began.''
We listened together, and I can give no notion of the
hideous mournfulness of the sound. We lay in a swampy
little inlet, and the forest wall made a dark blur against
the star-studded sky. There was a splash near the boat
that made me clutch my legs, the wails ceased and began
again with redoubled intensity. Nick and I leaped to our
feet and stood staring, horrified, over the gunwale into
the black water. Presently there was a laugh behind us,
and we saw Xavier resting on his elbow.
``What devil-haunted place is this?'' demanded Nick.
``Ha, ha,'' said Xavier, shaking with unseemly mirth,
``you have never heard ze alligator sing, Michie?''
``Alligator!'' cried Nick; ``there are babies in the water,
I tell you.''
``Ha, ha,'' laughed Xavier, flinging off his blanket and
searching for his flint and tinder. He lighted a pine knot,
and in the red pulsing flare we saw what seemed to be a
dozen black logs floating on the surface. And then
Xavier flung the cresset at them, fire and all. There was
a lashing, a frightful howl from one of the logs, and the
night's silence once more.
Often after that our slumbers were disturbed, and we
would rise with maledictions in our mouths to fling the
handiest thing at the serenaders. When we arose in the
morning we would often see them by the dozens, basking
in the shallows, with their wide mouths flapped open waiting
for their prey. Sometimes we ran upon them in the
water, where they looked like the rough-bark pine logs
from the North, and Nick would have a shot at them.
When he hit one fairly there would be a leviathan-like
roar and a churning of the river into suds.
At length there were signs that we were drifting out of
the wilderness, and one morning we came in sight of a
rich plantation with its dark orange trees and fields of
indigo, with its wide-galleried manor-house in a grove.
And as we drifted we heard the negroes chanting at their
work, the plaintive cadence of the strange song adding
to the mystery of the scene. Here in truth was a new
world, a land of peaceful customs, green and moist. The
soft-toned bells of it seemed an expression of its life,--so
far removed from our own striving and fighting existence
in Kentucky. Here and there, between plantations, a
belfry could be seen above the cluster of the little white
village planted in the green; and when we went ashore
amongst these simple French people they treated us with
such gentle civility and kindness that we would fain have
lingered there. The river had become a vast yellow
lake, and often as we drifted of an evening the wail of a
slave dance and monotonous beating of a tom-tom would
float to us over the water.
At last, late one afternoon, we came in sight of that
strange city which had filled our thoughts for many days.
CHAPTER XI
THE STRANGE CITY
Nick and I stood by the mast on the forward part of
the cabin, staring at the distant, low-lying city, while
Xavier sought for the entrance to the eddy which here
runs along the shore. If you did not gain this entrance,
--so he explained,--you were carried by a swift current
below New Orleans and might by no means get back save
by the hiring of a crew. Xavier, however, was not to be
caught thus, and presently we were gliding quietly along
the eastern bank, or levee, which held back the river from
the lowlands. Then, as we looked, the levee became an
esplanade shaded by rows of willows, and through them
we caught sight of the upper galleries and low, curving
roofs of the city itself. There, cried Xavier, was the
Governor's house on the corner, where the great Miro
lived, and beyond it the house of the Intendant; and
then, gliding into an open space between the keel boats
along the bank, stared at by a score of boatmen and idlers
from above, we came to the end of our long journey. No
sooner had we made fast than we were boarded by a
shabby customs officer who, when he had seen our passports,
bowed politely and invited us to land. We leaped
ashore, gained the gravelled walk on the levee, and looked
about us.
Squalidity first met our eyes. Below us, crowded
between the levee and the row of houses, were dozens of
squalid market-stalls tended by cotton-clad negroes. Beyond,
across the bare Place d'Armes, a blackened gap in
the line of houses bore witness to the devastation of the
year gone by, while here and there a roof, struck by the
setting sun, gleamed fiery red with its new tiles. The
levee was deserted save for the negroes and the river
men.
``Time for siesta, Michie,'' said Xavier, joining us; ``I
will show you ze inn of which I spik. She is kep' by my
fren', Madame Bouvet.''
``Xavier,'' said Nick, looking at the rolling flood of the
river, ``suppose this levee should break?''
``Ah,'' said Xavier, ``then some Spaniard who never
have a bath--he feel what water is lak.''
Followed by Benjy with the saddle-bags, we went down
the steps set in the levee into this strange, foreign city.
It was like unto nothing we had ever seen, nor can I give
an adequate notion of how it affected us,--such a mixture
it seemed of dirt and poverty and wealth and romance.
The narrow, muddy streets ran with filth, and on each
side along the houses was a sun-baked walk held up by
the curved sides of broken flatboats, where two men might
scarcely pass. The houses, too, had an odd and foreign
look, some of wood, some of upright logs and plaster, and
newer ones, Spanish in style, of adobe, with curving
roofs of red tiles and strong eaves spreading over the
banquette (as the sidewalk was called), casting shadows
on lemon-colored walls. Since New Orleans was in a
swamp, the older houses for the most part were lifted
some seven feet above the ground, and many of these
houses had wide galleries on the street side. Here and
there a shop was set in the wall; a watchmaker was to be
seen poring over his work at a tiny window, a shoemaker
cross-legged on the floor. Again, at an open wicket, we
caught a glimpse through a cool archway into a flowering
court-yard. Stalwart negresses with bright kerchiefs
made way for us on the banquette. Hands on hips, they
swung along erect, with baskets of cakes and sweetmeats
on their heads, musically crying their wares.
At length, turning a corner, we came to a white wooden
house on the Rue Royale, with a flight of steps leading up
to the entrance. In place of a door a flimsy curtain
hung in the doorway, and, pushing this aside, we followed
Xavier through a darkened hall to a wide gallery that
overlooked a court-yard. This court-yard was shaded by
several great trees which grew there, the house and
gallery ran down one other side of it; and the two remaining
sides were made up of a series of low cabins, these
forming the various outhouses and the kitchen. At the
far end of this gallery a sallow, buxom lady sat sewing at
a table, and Xavier saluted her very respectfully.
``Madame,'' he said, ``I have brought you from St. Louis
with Michie Gratiot's compliments two young American
gentlemen, who are travelling to amuse themselves.''
The lady rose and beamed upon us.
``From Monsieur Gratiot,'' she said; ``you are very
welcome, gentlemen, to such poor accommodations as I
have. It is not unusual to have American gentlemen in
New Orleans, for many come here first and last. And I
am happy to say that two of my best rooms are vacant.
Zoey!''
There was a shrill answer from the court below, and a
negro girl in a yellow turban came running up, while
Madame Bouvet bustled along the gallery and opened the
doors of two darkened rooms. Within I could dimly see
a walnut dresser, a chair, and a walnut bed on which was
spread a mosquito bar.
``Voila!, Messieurs,'' cried Madame Bouvet, ``there is
still a little time for a siesta. No siesta!'' cried Madame,
eying us aghast; ``ah, the Americans they never rest--
never.''
We bade farewell to the good Xavier, promising to see
him soon; and Nick, shouting to Benjy to open the saddlebags,
proceeded to array himself in the clothes which had
made so much havoc at St. Louis. I boded no good from
this proceeding, but I reflected, as I watched him dress,
that I might as well try to turn the Mississippi from its
course as to attempt to keep my cousin from the search
for gallant adventure. And I reflected that his indulgence
in pleasure-seeking would serve the more to divert
any suspicions which might fall upon my own head. At
last, when the setting sun was flooding the court-yard, he
stood arrayed upon the gallery, ready to venture forth to
conquest.
Madame Bouvet's tavern, or hotel, or whatever she was
pleased to call it, was not immaculately clean. Before
passing into the street we stood for a moment looking
into the public room on the left of the hallway, a long
saloon, evidently used in the early afternoon for a dining
room, and at the back of it a wide, many-paned
window, capped by a Spanish arch, looked out on the
gallery. Near this window was a gay party of young men
engaged at cards, waited on by the yellow-turbaned Zoey,
and drinking what evidently was claret punch. The sounds
of their jests and laughter pursued us out of the house.
The town was waking from its siesta, the streets filling,
and people stopped to stare at Nick as we passed. But
Nick, who was plainly in search of something he did
not find, hurried on. We soon came to the quarter
which had suffered most from the fire, where new houses
had gone up or were in the building beside the blackened
logs of many of Bienville's time. Then we came to a
high white wall that surrounded a large garden, and within
it was a long, massive building of some beauty and
pretension, with a high, latticed belfry and heavy walls and
with arched dormers in the sloping roof. As we stood
staring at it through the iron grille set in the archway
of the lodge, Nick declared that it put him in mind of
some of the chateaux he had seen in France, and he
crossed the street to get a better view of the premises.
An old man in coarse blue linen came out of the lodge
and spoke to me.
``It is the convent of the good nuns, the Ursulines,
Monsieur, he said in French, ``and it was built long ago
in the Sieur de Bienville's time, when the colony was
young. For forty-five years, Monsieur, the young ladies
of the city have come here to be educated.''
``What does he say?'' demanded Nick, pricking up his
ears as he came across the street.
``That young men have been sent to the mines of
Brazil for climbing the walls,'' I answered.
``Who wants to climb the walls?'' said Nick, disgusted.
``The young ladies of the town go to school here,'' I
answered; ``it is a convent.''
``It might serve to pass the time,'' said Nick, gazing
with a new interest at the latticed windows. ``How much
would you take, my friend, to let us in at the back way
this evening?'' he demanded of the porter in French.
The good man gasped, lifted his hands in horror, and
straightway let loose upon Nick a torrent of French
invectives that had not the least effect except to cause a
blacksmith's apprentice and two negroes to stop and stare
at us.
``Pooh!'' exclaimed Nick, when the man had paused
for want of breath, ``it is no trick to get over that wall.''
``Bon Dieu!'' cried the porter, ``you are Kentuckians,
yes? I might have known that you were Kentuckians,
and I shall advise the good sisters to put glass on the wall
and keep a watch.''
``The young ladies are beautiful, you say?'' said Nick.
At this juncture, with the negroes grinning and the
porter near bursting with rage, there came out of the lodge
the fattest woman I have ever seen for her size. She
seized her husband by the back of his loose frock and
pulled him away, crying out that he was losing time by
talking to vagabonds, besides disturbing the good sisters.
Then we went away, Nick following the convent wall
down to the river. Turning southward under the bank
past the huddle of market-stalls, we came suddenly upon
a sight that made us pause and wonder.
New Orleans was awake. A gay and laughing throng
paced the esplanade on the levee under the willows, with
here and there a cavalier on horseback on the Royal Road
below. Across the Place d'Armes the spire of the parish
church stood against the fading sky, and to the westward
the mighty river stretched away like a gilded floor. It
was a strange throng. There were grave Spaniards in
long cloaks and feathered beavers; jolly merchants and
artisans in short linen jackets, each with his tabatiere, the
wives with bits of finery, the children laughing and
shouting and dodging in and out between fathers and mothers
beaming with quiet pride and contentment; swarthy boatmen
with their worsted belts, gaudy negresses chanting
in the soft patois, and here and there a blanketed Indian.
Nor was this all. Some occasion (so Madame Bouvet
had told us) had brought a sprinkling of fashion to
town that day, and it was a fashion to astonish me.
There were fine gentlemen with swords and silk waistcoats
and silver shoe-buckles, and ladies in filmy summer
gowns. Greuze ruled the mode in France then, but New
Orleans had not got beyond Watteau. As for Nick and
me, we knew nothing of Greuze and Watteau then, and we
could only stare in astonishment. And for once we saw
an officer of the Louisiana Regiment resplendent in a
uniform that might have served at court.
Ay, and there was yet another sort. Every flatboatman
who returned to Kentucky was full of tales of the
marvellous beauty of the quadroons and octoroons, stories
which I had taken with a grain of salt; but they had not
indeed been greatly overdrawn. For here were these
ladies in the flesh, their great, opaque, almond eyes
consuming us with a swift glance, and each walking with a
languid grace beside her duenna. Their faces were like
old ivory, their dress the stern Miro himself could scarce
repress. In former times they had been lavish in their
finery, and even now earrings still gleamed and color
broke out irrepressibly.
Nick was delighted, but he had not dragged me twice
the length of the esplanade ere his eye was caught by a
young lady in pink who sauntered between an elderly
gentleman in black silk and a young man more gayly
dressed.
``Egad,'' said Nick, ``there is my divinity, and I need
not look a step farther.''
I laughed.
``You have but to choose, I suppose, and all falls your
way,'' I answered.
``But look!'' he cried, halting me to stare after the
girl, ``what a face, and what a form! And what a carriage,
by Jove! There is breeding for you! And Davy, did
you mark the gentle, rounded arm? Thank heaven these
short sleeves are the fashion.''
``You are mad, Nick,'' I answered, pulling him on,
``these people are not to be stared at so. And once I
present our letters to Monsieur de Saint-Gre, it will not
be difficult to know any of them.''
``Look!'' said he, ``that young man, lover or husband,
is a brute. On my soul, they are quarrelling.''
The three had stopped by a bench under a tree. The
young man, who wore claret silk and a sword, had one
of those thin faces of dirty complexion which show the
ravages of dissipation, and he was talking with a rapidity
and vehemence of which only a Latin tongue will admit.
We could see, likewise, that the girl was answering with
spirit,--indeed, I should write a stronger word than
spirit,--while the elderly gentleman, who had a goodhumored,
fleshy face and figure, was plainly doing his best
to calm them both. People who were passing stared curiously
at the three.
``Your divinity evidently has a temper, ``I remarked.
``For that scoundel--certainly,'' said Nick; ``but come,
they are moving on.''
``You mean to follow them?'' I exclaimed.
``Why not?'' said he. ``We will find out where they
live and who they are, at least.''
``And you have taken a fancy to this girl?''
``I have looked them all over, and she's by far the best
I've seen. I can say so much honestly.''
``But she may be married,'' I said weakly.
``Tut, Davy,'' he answered, ``it's more than likely, from
the violence of their quarrel. But if so, we will try again.''
``We!'' I exclaimed.
``Oh, come on!'' he cried, dragging me by the sleeve,
``or we shall lose them.''
I resisted no longer, but followed him down the levee,
in my heart thanking heaven that he had not taken a
fancy to an octoroon. Twilight had set in strongly, the
gay crowd was beginning to disperse, and in the distance
the three figures could be seen making their way across
the Place d'Armes, the girl hanging on the elderly
gentleman's arm, and the young man following with seeming
sullenness behind. They turned into one of the narrower
streets, and we quickened our steps. Lights
gleamed in the houses; voices and laughter, and once the
tinkle of a guitar, came to us from court-yard and gallery.
But Nick, hurrying on, came near to bowling more than
one respectable citizen we met on the banquette, into the
ditch. We reached a corner, and the three were nowhere
to be seen.
``Curse the luck!'' cried Nick, ``we have lost them.
The next time I'll stop for no explanations.''
There was no particular reason why I should have been
penitent, but I ventured to say that the house they had
entered could not be far off.
``And how the devil are we to know it?'' demanded
Nick.
This puzzled me for a moment, but presently I began
to think that the two might begin quarrelling again, and
said so. Nick laughed and put his arm around my neck.
``You have no mean ability for intrigue when you put
your mind to it, Davy,'' he said; ``I vow I believe you are
in love with the girl yourself.''
I disclaimed this with some vehemence. Indeed, I had
scarcely seen her.
``They can't be far off,'' said Nick; ``we'll pitch on a
likely house and camp in front of it until bedtime.''
``And be flung into a filthy calaboose by a constable,''
said I. ``No, thank you.''
We walked on, and halfway down the block we came
upon a new house with more pretensions than its neighbors.
It was set back a little from the street, and there
was a high adobe wall into which a pair of gates were
set, and a wicket opening in one of them. Over the wall
hung a dark fringe of magnolia and orange boughs. On
each of the gate-posts a crouching lion was outlined dimly
against the fainting light, and, by crossing the street, we
could see the upper line of a latticed gallery under the
low roof. We took our stand within the empty doorway
of a blackened house, nearly opposite, and there we waited,
Nick murmuring all sorts of ridiculous things in my ear.
But presently I began to reflect upon the consequences of
being taken in such a situation by a constable and dragged
into the light of a public examination. I put this to Nick
as plainly as I could, and was declaring my intention of
going back to Madame Bouvet's, when the sound of voices
arrested me. The voices came from the latticed gallery,
and they were low at first, but soon rose to such an angry
pitch that I made no doubt we had hit on the right house
after all. What they said was lost to us, but I could
distinguish the woman's voice, low-pitched and vibrant as
though insisting upon a refusal, and the man's scarce adult
tones, now high as though with balked passion, now shaken
and imploring. I was for leaving the place at once, but
Nick clutched my arm tightly; and suddenly, as I stood
undecided, the voices ceased entirely, there were the sounds
of a scuffle, and the lattice of the gallery was flung open.
In the all but darkness we saw a figure climb over the
railing, hang suspended for an instant, and drop lightly to the
ground. Then came the light relief of a woman's gown
in the opening of the lattice, the cry ``Auguste, Auguste!''
the wicket in the gate opened and slammed, and
a man ran at top speed along the banquette towards the
levee.
Instinctively I seized Nick by the arm as he started out
of the doorway.
``Let me go,'' he cried angrily, ``let me go, Davy.''
But I held on.
``Are you mad?'' I said.
He did not answer, but twisted and struggled, and
before I knew what he was doing he had pushed me off
the stone step into a tangle of blackened beams behind.
I dropped his arm to save myself, and it was mere good
fortune that I did not break an ankle in the fall. When I
had gained the step again he was gone after the man, and
a portly citizen stood in front of me, looking into the doorway.
``Qu'est-ce-qu'il-y-a la dedans?'' he demanded sharply.
It was a sufficiently embarrassing situation. I put on
a bold front, however, and not deigning to answer, pushed
past him and walked with as much leisure as possible
along the banquette in the direction which Nick had
taken. As I turned the corner I glanced over my shoulder,
and in the darkness I could just make out the man
standing where I had left him. In great uneasiness I
pursued my way, my imagination summing up for Nick
all kinds of adventures with disagreeable consequences.
I walked for some time--it may have been half an hour
--aimlessly, and finally decided it would be best to go
back to Madame Bouvet's and await the issue with as
much calmness as possible. He might not, after all, have
caught the fellow.
There were few people in the dark streets, but at length
I met a man who gave me directions, and presently found
my way back to my lodging place. Talk and laughter
floated through the latticed windows into the street, and
when I had pushed back the curtain and looked into the
saloon I found the same gaming party at the end of it,
sitting in their shirt-sleeves amidst the moths and insects
that hovered around the candles.
``Ah, Monsieur,'' said Madame Bouvet's voice behind
me, ``you must excuse them. They will come here and
play, the young gentlemen, and I cannot find it in my
heart to drive them away, though sometimes I lose a
respectable lodger by their noise. But, after all, what would
you?'' she added with a shrug; ``I love them, the young
men. But, Monsieur,'' she cried, ``you have had no
supper! And where is Monsieur your companion?
Comme il est beau garcon!''
``He will be in presently,'' I answered with
unwarranted assumption.
Madame shot at me the swiftest of glances and laughed,
and I suspected that she divined Nick's propensity for
adventure. However, she said nothing more than to bid
me sit down at the table, and presently Zoey came in with
lights and strange, highly seasoned dishes, which I ate
with avidity, notwithstanding my uneasiness of mind,
watching the while the party at the far end of the room.
There were five young gentlemen playing a game I
knew not, with intervals of intense silence, and boisterous
laughter and execrations while the cards were being
shuffled and the money rang on the board and glasses were
being filled from a stand at one side. Presently Madame
Bouvet returned, and placing before me a cup of wondrous
coffee, advanced down the room towards them.
``Ah, Messieurs,'' she cried, ``you will ruin my poor
house.''
The five rose and bowed with marked profundity.
One of them, with a puffy, weak, good-natured face,
answered her briskly, and after a little raillery she came
back to me. I had a question not over discreet on my
tongue's tip.
``There are some fine residences going up here, Madame,''
I said.
``Since the fire, Monsieur, the dreadful fire of Good
Friday a year ago. You admire them?''
``I saw one,'' I answered with indifference, ``with a
wall and lions on the gate-posts--''
``Mon Dieu, that is a house,'' exclaimed Madame; ``it
belongs to Monsieur de Saint-Gre.''
``To Monsieur de Saint-Gre!'' I repeated.
She shot a look at me. She had bright little eyes like
a bird's, that shone in the candlelight.
``You know him, Monsieur?''
``I heard of him in St. Louis,'' I answered.
``You will meet him, no doubt,'' she continued. ``He
is a very fine gentleman. His grandfather was Commissarygeneral
of the colony, and he himself is a cousin of
the Marquis de Saint-Gre, who has two chateaux, a house
in Paris, and is a favorite of the King.'' She paused, as
if to let this impress itself upon me, and added archly,
``Tenez, Monsieur, there is a daughter--''
She stopped abruptly.
I followed her glance, and my first impression--of
claret-color--gave me a shock. My second confirmed
it, for in the semi-darkness beyond the rays of the candle
was a thin, eager face, prematurely lined, with coal-black,
lustrous eyes that spoke eloquently of indulgence. In an
instant I knew it to be that of the young man whom I
had seen on the levee.
``Monsieur Auguste?'' stammered Madame.
``Bon soir, Madame,'' he cried gayly, with a bow;
``diable, they are already at it, I see, and the punch in
the bowl. I will win back to-night what I have lost by
a week of accursed luck.''
``Monsieur your father has relented, perhaps,'' said
Madame, deferentially.
``Relented!'' cried the young man, ``not a sou. C'est
egal! I have the means here,'' and he tapped his pocket,
``I have the means here to set me on my feet again,
Madame.''
He spoke with a note of triumph, and Madame took a
curious step towards him.
``Qu'est-ce-que c'est, Monsieur Auguste?'' she inquired.
He drew something that glittered from his pocket and
beckoned to her to follow him down the room, which
she did with alacrity.
``Ha, Adolphe,'' he cried to the young man of the puffy
face, ``I will have my revenge to-night. Voila!!'' and
he held up the shining thing, ``this goes to the highest
bidder, and you will agree that it is worth a pretty
sum.''
They rose from their chairs and clustered around him
at the table, Madame in their midst, staring with bent
heads at the trinket which he held to the light. It
was Madame's voice I heard first, in a kind of frightened
cry.
``Mon Dieu, Monsieur Auguste, you will not part with
that!'' she exclaimed.
``Why not?'' demanded the young man, indifferently.
``It was painted by Boze, the back is solid gold, and the
Jew in the Rue Toulouse will give me four hundred livres
for it to-morrow morning.''
There followed immediately such a chorus of questions,
exclamations, and shrill protests from Madame Bouvet,
that I (being such a laborious French scholar) could
distinguish but little of what they said. I looked in
wonderment at the gesticulating figures grouped against the
light, Madame imploring, the youthful profile of the
newcomer marked with a cynical and scornful refusal. More
than once I was for rising out of my chair to go over and
see for myself what the object was, and then, suddenly, I
perceived Madame Bouvet coming towards me in evident
agitation. She sank into the chair beside me.
``If I had four hundred livres,'' she said, ``if I had four
hundred livres!''
``And what then?'' I asked.
``Monsieur,'' she said, ``a terrible thing has happened.
Auguste de Saint-Gre--''
``Auguste de Saint-Gre!'' I exclaimed.
``He is the son of that Monsieur de Saint-Gre of whom
we spoke,'' she answered, ``a wild lad, a spendthrift, a
gambler, if you like. And yet he is a Saint-Gre, Monsieur,
and I cannot refuse him. It is the miniature of Mademoiselle
Helene de Saint-Gre, the daughter of the Marquis,
sent to Mamselle 'Toinette, his sister, from France. How
he has obtained it I know not.''
``Ah!'' I exclaimed sharply, the explanation of the
scene of which I had been a witness coming to me swiftly.
The rascal had wrenched it from her in the gallery and
fled.
``Monsieur,'' continued Madame, too excited to notice
my interruption, ``if I had four hundred livres I would
buy it of him, and Monsieur de Saint-Gre pere would
willingly pay it back in the morning.''
I reflected. I had a letter in my pocket to Monsieur de
Saint-Gre, the sum was not large, and the act of Monsieur
Auguste de Saint-Gre in every light was detestable. A
rising anger decided me, and I took a wallet from my
pocket.
``I will buy the miniature, Madame,'' I said.
She looked at me in astonishment.
``God bless you, Monsieur,'' she cried; ``if you could see
Mamselle 'Toinette you would pay twice the sum. The
whole town loves her. Monsieur Auguste, Monsieur
Auguste!'' she shouted, ``here is a gentleman who will
buy your miniature.''
The six young men stopped talking and stared at me
With one accord. Madame arose, and I followed her
down the room towards them, and, had it not been for
my indignation, I should have felt sufficiently ridiculous.
Young Monsieur de Saint-Gre came forward with the
good-natured, easy insolence to which he had been born,
and looked me over.
``Monsieur is an American,'' he said.
``I understand that you have offered this miniature for
four hundred livres,'' I said.
``It is the Jew's price,'' he answered; ``mais pardieu,
what will you?'' he added with a shrug, ``I must have
the money. Regardez, Monsieur, you have a bargain.
Here is Mademoiselle Helene de Saint-Gre, daughter of
my lord the Marquis of whom I have the honor to be a
cousin,'' and he made a bow. ``It is by the famous court
painter, Joseph Boze, and Mademoiselle de Saint-Gre
herself is a favorite of her Majesty.'' He held the
portrait close to the candle and regarded it critically.
``Mademoiselle Helene Victoire Marie de Saint-Gre, painted
in a costume of Henry the Second's time, with a ruff, you
notice, which she wore at a ball given by his Highness
the Prince of Conde at Chantilly. A trifle haughty, if
you like, Monsieur, but I venture to say you will be
hopelessly in love with her within the hour.''
At this there was a general titter from the young
gentlemen at the table.
``All of which is neither here nor there, Monsieur,'' I
answered sharply. ``The question is purely a commercial
one, and has nothing to do with the lady's character or
position.''
``It is well said, Monsieur,'' Madame Bouvet put in.
Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gre shrugged his slim
shoulders and laid down the portrait on the walnut
table.
``Four hundred livres, Monsieur,'' he said.
I counted out the money, scrutinized by the curious
eyes of his companions, and pushed it over to him. He
bowed carelessly, sat him down, and began to shuffle the
cards, while I picked up the miniature and walked out of
the room. Before I had gone twenty paces I heard them
laughing at their game and shouting out the stakes.
Suddenly I bethought myself of Nick. What if he should
come in and discover the party at the table? I stopped
short in the hallway, and there Madame Bouvet overtook
me.
``How can I thank you, Monsieur?'' she said. And
then, ``You will return the portrait to Monsieur de
Saint-Gre?''
``I have a letter from Monsieur Gratiot to that gentleman,
which I shall deliver in the morning,'' I answered.
``And now, Madame, I have a favor to ask of you.''
``I am at Monsieur's service,'' she answered simply.
``When Mr. Temple comes in, he is not to go into that
room,'' I said, pointing to the door of the saloon; ``I have
my reasons for requesting it.''
For answer Madame went to the door, closed it, and
turned the key. Then she sat down beside a little table
with a candlestick and took up her knitting.
``It will be as Monsieur says,'' she answered.
I smiled.
``And when Mr. Temple comes in will you kindly say
that I am waiting for him in his room?'' I asked.
``As Monsieur says,'' she answered. ``I wish Monsieur
a good-night and pleasant dreams.''
She took a candlestick from the table, lighted the candle,
and handed it me with a courtesy. I bowed, and made
my way along the gallery above the deserted court-yard.
Entering my room and closing the door after me, I drew
the miniature from my pocket and stood gazing at it for I
know not how long.
CHAPTER XII
LES ILES
I stood staring at the portrait, I say, with a kind of
fascination that astonished me, seeing that it had come to
me in such a way. It was no French face of my imagination,
and as I looked it seemed to me that I knew Mademoiselle
Helene de Saint-Gre. And yet I smile as I write
this, realizing full well that my strange and foreign
surroundings and my unforeseen adventure had much to do
with my state of mind. The lady in the miniature might
have been eighteen, or thirty-five. Her features were of
the clearest cut, the nose the least trifle aquiline, and by
a blurred outline the painter had given to the black hair
piled high upon the head a suggestion of waviness. The
eyebrows were straight, the brown eyes looked at the world
with an almost scornful sense of humor, and I marked that
there was determination in the chin. Here was a face that
could be infinitely haughty or infinitely tender, a mouth
of witty--nay, perhaps cutting--repartee of brevity and
force. A lady who spoke quickly, moved quickly, or
reposed absolutely. A person who commanded by nature
and yet (dare I venture the thought?) was capable of a
supreme surrender. I was aroused from this odd revery
by footsteps on the gallery, and Nick burst into the room.
Without pausing to look about him, he flung himself
lengthwise on the bed on top of the mosquito bar.
``A thousand curses on such a place,'' he cried; ``it is
full of rat holes and rabbit warrens.''
``Did you catch your man?'' I asked innocently.
``Catch him!'' said Nick, with a little excusable
profanity; ``he went in at one end of such a warren and came
out at another. I waited for him in two streets until an
officious person chanced along and threatened to take me
before the Alcalde. What the devil is that you have got
in your hand, Davy?'' he demanded, raising his head.
``A miniature that took my fancy, and which I bought.''
He rose from the bed, yawned, and taking it in his hand,
held it to the light. I watched him curiously.
``Lord,'' he said, ``it is such a passion as I might have
suspected of you, Davy.''
``There was nothing said about passion,'' I answered
``Then why the deuce did you buy it?'' he said with
some pertinence.
This staggered me.
``A man may fancy a thing, without indulging in a
passion, I suppose,'' I replied.
Nick held the picture at arm's length in the palm of his
hand and regarded it critically.
``Faith,'' said he, ``you may thank heaven it is only a
picture. If such a one ever got hold of you, Davy, she
would general you even as you general me. Egad,'' he
added with a laugh, ``there would be no more walking
the streets at night in search of adventure for you. Consider
carefully the masterful features of that lady and
thank God you haven't got her.''
I was inclined to be angry, but ended by laughing.
``There will be no rivalry between us, at least,'' I said.
``Rivalry!'' exclaimed Nick. ``Heaven forbid that I
should aspire to such abject slavery. When I marry, it
will be to command.''
``All the more honor in such a conquest,'' I suggested.
``Davy,'' said he, ``I have long been looking for some
such flaw in your insuperable wisdom. But I vow I can
keep my eyes open no longer. Benjy!
A smothered response came from the other side of the
wall, and Benjy duly appeared in the doorway, blinking
at the candlelight, to put his master to bed.
We slept that night with no bed covering save the
mosquito bar, as was the custom in New Orleans. Indeed, the
heat was most oppressive, but we had become to some
extent inured to it on the boat, and we were both in such
sound health that our slumbers were not disturbed. Early
in the morning, however, I was awakened by a negro song
from the court-yard, and I lay pleasantly for some minutes
listening to the early sounds, breathing in the aroma of
coffee which mingled with the odor of the flowers of the
court, until Zoey herself appeared in the doorway, holding
a cup in her hand. I arose, and taking the miniature from
the table, gazed at it in the yellow morning light; and
then, having dressed myself, I put it carefully in my
pocket and sat down at my portfolio to compose a letter
to Polly Ann, knowing that a description of what I had
seen in New Orleans would amuse her. This done, I went
out into the gallery, where Madame was already seated at
her knitting, in the shade of the great tree that stood in
the corner of the court and spread its branches over the
eaves. She arose and courtesied, with a questioning smile.
``Madame,'' I asked, ``is it too early to present myself
to Monsieur de Saint-Gre?''
``Pardieu, no, Monsieur, we are early risers in the South
for we have our siesta. You are going to return the portrait,
Monsieur?''
I nodded.
``God bless you for the deed,'' said she. ``Tenez,
Monsieur,'' she added, stepping closer to me, ``you will tell his
father that you bought it from Monsieur Auguste?''
I saw that she had a soft spot in her heart for the rogue.
``I will make no promises, Madame,'' I answered.
She looked at me timidly, appealingly, but I bowed
and departed. The sun was riding up into the sky, the
walls already glowing with his heat, and a midsummer
languor seemed to pervade the streets as I walked along.
The shadows now were sharply defined, the checkered
foliage of the trees was flung in black against the yellowwhite
wall of the house with the lions, and the greenlatticed
gallery which we had watched the night before
seemed silent and deserted. I knocked at the gate, and
presently a bright-turbaned gardienne opened it.
Was Monsieur de Saint-Gre at home. The gardienne
looked me over, and evidently finding me respectable,
replied with many protestations of sorrow that he was not,
that he had gone with Mamselle very early that morning
to his country place at Les Iles. This information I
extracted with difficulty, for I was not by any means versed
in the negro patois.
As I walked back to Madame Bouvet's I made up my
mind that there was but the one thing to do, to go at once
to Monsieur de Saint-Gre's plantation. Finding Madame
still waiting in the gallery, I asked her to direct me thither.
``You have but to follow the road that runs southward
along the levee, and some three leagues will bring you to it,
Monsieur. You will inquire for Monsieur de Saint-Gre.''
``Can you direct me to Mr. Daniel Clark's?'' I asked.
``The American merchant and banker, the friend and
associate of the great General Wilkinson whom you sent
down to us last year? Certainly, Monsieur. He will no
doubt give you better advice than I on this matter.''
I found Mr. Clark in his counting-room, and I had not
talked with him five minutes before I began to suspect
that, if a treasonable understanding existed between
Wilkinson and the Spanish government, Mr. Clark was
innocent of it. He being the only prominent American in the
place, it was natural that Wilkinson should have formed
with him a business arrangement to care for the cargoes
he sent down. Indeed, after we had sat for some time
chatting together, Mr. Clark began himself to make
guarded inquiries on this very subject. Did I know
Wilkinson? How was his enterprise of selling Kentucky
products regarded at home? But I do not intend to burden
this story with accounts of a matter which, though it
has never been wholly clear, has been long since fairly
settled in the public mind. Mr. Clark was most amiable,
accepted my statement that I was travelling for pleasure,
and honored Monsieur Chouteau's bon (for my purchase
of the miniature had deprived me of nearly all my ready
money), and said that Mr. Temple and I would need
horses to get to Les Iles.
``And unless you purpose going back to Kentucky by
keel boat, or round by sea to Philadelphia or New York,
and cross the mountains,'' he said, ``you will need good
horses for your journey through Natchez and the Cumberland
country. There is a consignment of Spanish horses
from the westward just arrived in town,'' he added, ``and
I shall be pleased to go with you to the place where they
are sold. I shall not presume to advise a Kentuckian on
such a purchase.''
The horses were crowded together under a dirty shed
near the levee, and the vessel from which they had been
landed rode at anchor in the river. They were the scrawny,
tough ponies of the plains, reasonably cheap, and it took no
great discernment on my part to choose three of the strongest
and most intelligent looking. We went next to a saddler's,
where I selected three saddles and bridles of Spanish
workmanship, and Mr. Clark agreed to have two of his
servants meet us with the horses before Madame Bouvet's
within the hour. He begged that we would dine with him
when we returned from Les Iles.
``You will not find an island, Mr. Ritchie,'' he said;
``Saint-Gre's plantation is a huge block of land between
the river and a cypress swamp behind. Saint-Gre is a
man with a wonderful quality of mind, who might, like his
ancestors, have made his mark if necessity had probed him
or opportunity offered. He never forgave the Spanish
government for the murder of his father, nor do I blame
him. He has his troubles. His son is an incurable rake
and degenerate, as you may have heard.''
I went back to Madame Bouvet's, to find Nick emerging
from his toilet.
``What deviltry have you been up to, Davy?'' he
demanded.
``I have been to the House of the Lions to see your
divinity,'' I answered, ``and in a very little while horses
will be here to carry us to her.''
``What do you mean?'' he asked, grasping me by
both shoulders.
``I mean that we are going to her father's plantation,
some way down the river.''
``On my honor, Davy, I did not suspect you of so much
enterprise,'' he cried. ``And her husband--?''
``Does not exist,'' I replied. ``Perhaps, after all, I
might be able to give you instruction in the conduct of
an adventure. The man you chased with such futility
was her brother, and he stole from her the miniature of
which I am now the fortunate possessor.
He stared at me for a moment in rueful amazement.
``And her name?'' he demanded.
``Antoinette de Saint-Gre,'' I answered; ``our letter is
to her father.''
He made me a rueful bow.
``I fear that I have undervalued you, Mr. Ritchie,'' he
said. ``You have no peer. I am unworthy to accompany
you, and furthermore, it would be useless.''
``And why useless!'' I inquired, laughing.
``You have doubtless seen the lady, and she is yours,
said he.
``You forget that I am in love with a miniature,'' I
said.
In half an hour we were packed and ready, the horses
had arrived, we bade good-by to Madame Bouvet and
rode down the miry street until we reached the road
behind the levee. Turning southward, we soon left
behind the shaded esplanade and the city's roofs below
us, and came to the first of the plantation houses set back
amidst the dark foliage. No tremor shook the fringe
of moss that hung from the heavy boughs, so still was
the day, and an indefinable, milky haze stretched between
us and the cloudless sky above. The sun's rays pierced
it and gathered fire; the mighty-river beside us rolled
listless and sullen, flinging back the heat defiantly. And
on our left was a tropical forest in all its bewildering
luxuriance, the live-oak, the hackberry, the myrtle, the
Spanish bayonet in bristling groups, and the shaded places
gave out a scented moisture like an orangery; anon we
passed fields of corn and cotton, swamps of rice, stretches
of poverty-stricken indigo plants, gnawed to the stem by
the pest. Our ponies ambled on, unmindful; but Nick
vowed that no woman under heaven would induce him to
undertake such a journey again.
Some three miles out of the city we descried two
figures on horseback coming towards us, and quickly
perceived that one was a gentleman, the other his black
servant. They were riding at a more rapid pace than
the day warranted, but the gentleman reined in his
sweating horse as he drew near to us, eyed us with a
curiosity tempered by courtesy, bowed gravely, and put
his horse to a canter again.
``Phew!'' said Nick, twisting in his saddle, ``I thought
that all Creoles were lazy.''
``We have met the exception, perhaps,'' I answered.
``Did you take in that man?''
``His looks were a little remarkable, come to think
of it,'' answered Nick, settling down into his saddle
again.
Indeed, the man's face had struck me so forcibly that I
was surprised out of an inquiry which I had meant to
make of him, namely, how far we were from the Saint-Gre
plantation. We pursued our way slowly, from time to
time catching a glimpse of a dwelling almost hid in the
distant foliage, until at length we came to a place a little
more pretentious than those which we had seen. From
the road a graceful flight of wooden steps climbed the
levee and descended on the far side to a boat landing, and
a straight vista cut through the grove, lined by wild
orange trees, disclosed the white pillars and galleries of a
far-away plantation house. The grassy path leading
through the vista was trimly kept, and on either side of
it in the moist, green shade of the great trees flowers
bloomed in a profusion of startling colors,--in splotches
of scarlet and white and royal purple.
Nick slipped from his horse.
``Behold the mansion of Mademoiselle de Saint-Gre,''
said he, waving his hand up the vista.
``How do you know?'' I asked.
``I am told by a part of me that never lies, Davy,'' he
answered, laying his hand upon his heart; ``and besides,''
he added, ``I should dislike devilishly to go too far on
such a day and have to come back again.''
``We will rest here,'' I said, laughing, ``and send in
Benjy to find out.''
``Davy,'' he answered, with withering contempt, ``you
have no more romance in you than a turnip. We will go
ourselves and see what befalls.''
``Very well, then,'' I answered, falling in with his
humor, ``we will go ourselves.''
He brushed his face with his handkerchief, gave
himself a pull here and a pat there, and led the way down the
alley. But we had not gone far before he turned into a
path that entered the grove on the right, and to this
likewise I made no protest. We soon found ourselves in a
heavenly spot,--sheltered from the sun's rays by a dense
verdure,--and no one who has not visited these Southern
country places can know the teeming fragrance there.
One shrub (how well I recall it!) was like unto the perfume
of all the flowers and all the fruits, the very essence
of the delicious languor of the place that made our steps
to falter. A bird shot a bright flame of color through the
checkered light ahead of us. Suddenly a sound brought
us to a halt, and we stood in a tense and wondering
silence. The words of a song, sung carelessly in a clear,
girlish voice, came to us from beyond.
``Je voudrais bien me marier,
Je voudrais bien me marier,
Mais j'ai qrand' peur de me tromper:
Mais j'ai grand' peur de me tromper:
Ils sont si malhonnetes!
Ma luron, ma lurette,
Ils sont si malhonnetes!
Ma luron, ma lure.''
``We have come at the very zenith of opportunity,'' I
whispered.
``Hush!'' he said.
``Je ne veux pas d'un avocat,
Je ne veux pas d'un avocat,
Car ils aiment trop les ducats,
Car ils aiment trop les ducats,
Ils trompent les fillettes,
Ma luron, ma lurette,
Ils trompent les fillettes,
Ma luron, ma lure.''
``Eliminating Mr. Ritchie, I believe,'' said Nick,
turning on me with a grimace. ``But hark again!''
``Je voudrais bien d'un officier:
Je voudrais bien d'un officier:
Je marcherais a pas carres,
Je marcherais a pas carres,
Dans ma joli' chambrette,
Ma luron, ma lurette
Dans ma joli' chambrette,
Ma luron, ma lure.''
The song ceased with a sound that was half laughter,
half sigh. Before I realized what he was doing, Nick,
instead of retracing his steps towards the house, started
forward. The path led through a dense thicket which
became a casino hedge, and suddenly I found myself peering
over his shoulder into a little garden bewildering in color.
In the centre of the garden a great live-oak spread its
sheltering branches. Around the gnarled trunk was a
seat. And on the seat,--her sewing fallen into her lap,
her lips parted, her eyes staring wide, sat the young lady
whom we had seen on the levee the evening before. And
Nick was making a bow in his grandest manner.
``Helas, Mademoiselle,'' he said, ``je ne suis pas
officier, mais on peut arranger tout cela, sans doute.''
My breath was taken away by this unheard-of audacity,
and I braced myself against screams, flight, and other
feminine demonstrations of terror. The young lady did
nothing of the kind. She turned her back to us, leaned
against the tree, and to my astonishment I saw her slim
shoulders shaken with laughter. At length, very slowly,
she looked around, and in her face struggled curiosity
and fear and merriment. Nick made another bow, worthy
of Versailles, and she gave a frightened little laugh.
``You are English, Messieurs--yes?'' she ventured.
``We were once!'' cried Nick, ``but we have changed,
Mademoiselle.''
``Et quoi donc?'' relapsing into her own language.
``Americans,'' said he. ``Allow me to introduce to you
the Honorable David Ritchie, whom you rejected a few
moments ago.''
``Whom I rejected?'' she exclaimed.
``Alas,'' said Nick, with a commiserating glance at me,
``he has the misfortune to be a lawyer.''
Mademoiselle shot at me the swiftest and shyest of
glances, and turned to us once more her quivering shoulders.
There was a brief silence.
``Mademoiselle?'' said Nick, taking a step on the garden
path.
``Monsieur?'' she answered, without so much as looking around.
``What, now, would you take this gentleman to be?''
he asked with an insistence not to be denied.
Again she was shaken with laughter, and suddenly to
my surprise she turned and looked full at me.
``In English, Monsieur, you call it--a gallant?''
My face fairly tingled, and I heard Nick laughing with
unseemly merriment.
``Ah, Mademoiselle,'' he cried, ``you are a judge of
character, and you have read him perfectly.''
``Then I must leave you, Messieurs,'' she answered,
with her eyes in her lap. But she made no move to go.
``You need have no fear of Mr. Ritchie, Mademoiselle,''
answered Nick, instantly. ``I am here to protect you
against his gallantry.''
This time Nick received the glance, and quailed
before it.
``And who--par exemple--is to protect me against--
you, Monsieur?'' she asked in the lowest of voices.
``You forget that I, too, am unprotected--and
vulnerable, Mademoiselle,'' he answered.
Her face was hidden again, but not for long.
``How did you come?'' she demanded presently.
``On air,'' he answered, ``for we saw you in New
Orleans yesterday.''
``And--why?''
``Need you ask, Mademoiselle?'' said the rogue, and
then, with more effrontery than ever, he began to sing:--
`` `Je voudrais bien me marier,
Je voudrais bien me marier,
Mais j'ai grand' peur de me tromper.' ''
She rose, her sewing falling to the ground, and took a
few startled steps towards us.
``Monsieur! you will be heard,'' she cried.
``And put out of the Garden of Eden,'' said Nick.
``I must leave you,'' she said, with the quaintest of
English pronunciation.
Yet she stood irresolute in the garden path, a picture
against the dark green leaves and the flowers. Her age
might have been seventeen. Her gown was of some soft
and light material printed in buds of delicate color, her
slim arms bare above the elbow. She had the ivory
complexion of the province, more delicate than I had yet seen,
and beyond that I shall not attempt to describe her, save
to add that she was such a strange mixture of innocence
and ingenuousness and coquetry as I had not imagined.
Presently her gaze was fixed seriously on me.
``Do you think it very wrong, Monsieur?'' she asked.
I was more than taken aback by this tribute.
``Oh,'' cried Nick, ``the arbiter of etiquette!''
``Since I am here, Mademoiselle,'' I answered, with
anything but readiness, ``I am not a proper judge.''
Her next question staggered me.
``You are well-born?'' she asked.
``Mr. Ritchie's grandfather was a Scottish earl,'' said
Nick, immediately, a piece of news that startled me into
protest. ``It is true, Davy, though you may not know
it,'' he added.
``And you, Monsieur?'' she said to Nick.
``I am his cousin,--is it not honor enough?'' said he.
``Yet you do not resemble one another.''
``Mr. Ritchie has all the good looks in the family,'' said
Nick.
``Oh!'' cried the young lady, and this time she gave
us her profile.
``Come, Mademoiselle,'' said Nick, ``since the fates have
cast the die, let us all sit down in the shade. The place
was made for us.''
``Monsieur!'' she cried, giving back, ``I have never in
my life been alone with gentlemen.''
``But Mr. Ritchie is a duenna to satisfy the most
exacting,'' said Nick; ``when you know him better you will
believe me.''
She laughed softly and glanced at me. By this time we
were all three under the branches.
``Monsieur, you do not understand the French customs.
Mon Dieu, if the good Sister Lorette could see me now--''
``But she is safe in the convent,'' said Nick. ``Are
they going to put glass on the walls?''
``And why?'' asked Mademoiselle, innocently.
``Because,'' said Nick, ``because a very bad man has
come to New Orleans,--one who is given to climbing
walls.''
``You?''
``Yes. But when I found that a certain demoiselle had
left the convent, I was no longer anxious to climb them.''
``And how did you know that I had left it?''
I was at a loss to know whether this were coquetry or
innocence.
``Because I saw you on the levee,'' said Nick.
``You saw me on the levee?'' she repeated, giving
back.
``And I had a great fear,'' the rogue persisted.
``A fear of what?''
``A fear that you were married,'' he said, with a
boldness that made me blush. As for Mademoiselle, a color
that vied with the June roses charged through her cheeks.
She stooped to pick up her sewing, but Nick was before
her.
``And why did you think me married?'' she asked in a
voice so low that we scarcely heard.
``Faith,'' said Nick, ``because you seemed to be
quarrelling with a man.''
She turned to him with an irresistible seriousness.
``And is that your idea of marriage, Monsieur?''
This time it was I who laughed, for he had been hit
very fairly.
``Mademoiselle,'' said he, ``I did not for a moment think
it could have been a love match.''
Mademoiselle turned away and laughed.
``You are the very strangest man I have ever seen,''
she said.
``Shall I give you my notion of a love match,
Mademoiselle?'' said Nick.
``I should think you might be well versed in the subject,
Monsieur,'' she answered, speaking to the tree, ``but here
is scarcely the time and place.'' She wound up her sewing,
and faced him. ``I must really leave you,'' she said.
He took a step towards her and stood looking down into
her face. Her eyes dropped.
``And am I never to see you again?'' he asked.
Monsieur!'' she cried softly, ``I do not know who
you are.'' She made him a courtesy, took a few steps in
the opposite path, and turned. ``That depends upon your
ingenuity,'' she added; ``you seem to have no lack of it,
Monsieur.''
Nick was transported.
``You must not go,'' he cried.
``Must not? How dare you speak to me thus,
Monsieur?'' Then she tempered it. ``There is a lady here
whom I love, and who is ill. I must not be long from her
bedside.''
``She is very ill?'' said Nick, probably for want of
something better.
``She is not really ill, Monsieur, but depressed--is not
that the word? She is a very dear friend, and she has
had trouble--so much, Monsieur,--and my mother
brought her here. We love her as one of the family.''
This was certainly ingenuous, and it was plain that the
girl gave us this story through a certain nervousness, for
she twisted her sewing in her fingers as she spoke.
``Mademoiselle,'' said Nick, ``I would not keep you
from such an errand of mercy.''
She gave him a grateful look, more dangerous than any
which had gone before.
``And besides,'' he went on, ``we have come to stay
awhile with you, Mr. Ritchie and myself.''
``You have come to stay awhile?'' she said.
I thought it time that the farce were ended.
``We have come with letters to your father, Monsieur
de Saint-Gre, Mademoiselle,'' I said, ``and I should like
very much to see him, if he is at leisure.''
Mademoiselle stared at me in unfeigned astonishment.
``But did you not meet him, Monsieur?'' she demanded.
``He left an hour ago for New Orleans. You must have
met a gentleman riding very fast.''
It was my turn to be astonished.
``But that was not your father!'' I exclaimed.
``Et pourquoi non?'' she said.
``Is not your father the stout gentleman whom I saw
with you on the levee last evening?'' I asked.
She laughed.
``You have been observing, Monsieur,'' she said.
``That was my uncle, Monsieur de Beausejour. You
saw me quarrelling with my brother, Auguste,'' she went
on a little excitedly. ``Oh, I am very much ashamed of
it. I was so angry. My cousin, Mademoiselle Helene
de Saint-Gre, has just sent me from France such a
beautiful miniature, and Auguste fell in love with it.''
``Fell in love with it!'' I exclaimed involuntarily.
``You should see it, Monsieur, and I think you also
would fall in love with it.''
``I have not a doubt of it,'' said Nick.
Mademoiselle made the faintest of moues.
``Auguste is very wild, as you say,'' she continued,
addressing me, ``he is a great care to my father. He
intrigues, you know, he wishes Louisiane to become French
once more,--as we all do. But I should not say this,
Monsieur,'' she added in a startled tone. ``You will not
tell? No, I know you will not. We do not like the
Spaniards. They killed my grandfather when they came
to take the province. And once, the Governor-general
Miro sent for my father and declared he would put
Auguste in prison if he did not behave himself. But I
have forgotten the miniature. When Auguste saw that
he fell in love with it, and now he wishes to go to France
and obtain a commission through our cousin, the Marquis
of Saint-Gre, and marry Mademoiselle Helene.''
``A comprehensive programme, indeed,'' said Nick.
``My father has gone back to New Orleans,'' she said,
``to get the miniature from Auguste. He took it from
me, Monsieur.'' She raised her head a little proudly.
``If my brother had asked it, I might have given it to
him, though I treasured it. But Auguste is so--
impulsive. My uncle told my father, who is very angry. He
will punish Auguste severely, and--I do not like to
have him punished. Oh, I wish I had the miniature.''
``Your wish is granted, Mademoiselle,'' I answered,
drawing the case from my pocket and handing it to her.
She took it, staring at me with eyes wide with wonder,
and then she opened it mechanically.
``Monsieur,'' she said with great dignity, ``do you mind
telling me where you obtained this?''
``I found it, Mademoiselle,'' I answered; and as I spoke
I felt Nick's fingers on my arm.
``You found it? Where? How, Monsieur?''
``At Madame Bouvet's, the house where we stayed.''
``Oh,'' she said with a sigh of relief, ``he must have
dropped it. It is there where he meets his associates,
where they talk of the French Louisiane.''
Again I felt Nick pinching me, and I gave a sigh of
relief. Mademoiselle was about to continue, but I
interrupted her.
``How long will your father be in New Orleans,
Mademoiselle?'' I asked.
``Until he finds Auguste,'' she answered. ``It may be
days, but he will stay, for he is very angry. But will
you not come into the house, Messieurs, and be presented
to my mother?'' she asked. ``I have been very--
inhospitable,'' she added with a glance at Nick.
We followed her through winding paths bordered by
shrubs and flowers, and presently came to a low house
surrounded by a wide, cool gallery, and shaded by
spreading trees. Behind it were clustered the kitchens and
quarters of the house servants. Mademoiselle, picking
up her dress, ran up the steps ahead of us and turned
to the left in the hall into a darkened parlor. The floor
was bare, save for a few mats, and in the corner was a
massive escritoire of mahogany with carved feet, and there
were tables and chairs of a like pattern. It was a room
of more distinction than I had seen since I had been in
Charlestown, and reflected the solidity of its owners.
``If you will be so kind as to wait here, Messieurs,''
said Mademoiselle, ``I will call my mother.''
And she left us.
I sat down, rather uncomfortably, but Nick took a stand
and stood staring down at me with folded arms.
``How I have undervalued you, Davy,'' he said.
``I am not proud of it,'' I answered shortly.
``What the deuce is to do now!'' he asked.
``I cannot linger here,'' I answered; ``I have business
with Monsieur de Saint-Gre, and I must go back to New
Orleans at once.''
``Then I will wait for you,'' said Nick. ``Davy, I have
met my fate.''
I laughed in spite of myself.
``It seems to me that I have heard that remark before,''
I answered.
He had not time to protest, for we heard footsteps in
the hall, and Mademoiselle entered, leading an older lady
by the hand. In the light of the doorway I saw that she
was thin and small and yellow, but her features had a
regularity and her mien a dignity which made her impressing,
which would have convinced a stranger that she was
a person of birth and breeding. Her hair, tinged with
gray, was crowned by a lace cap.
``Madame,'' I said, bowing and coming forward, ``I am
David Ritchie, from Kentucky, and this is my cousin, Mr.
Temple, of Charlestown. Monsieur Gratiot and Colonel
Chouteau, of St. Louis, have been kind enough to give us
letters to Monsieur de Saint-Gre.'' And I handed her
one of the letters which I had ready.
``You are very welcome, Messieurs,'' she answered, with
the same delightful accent which her daughter had used,
``and you are especially welcome from such a source.
The friends of Colonel Chouteau and of Monsieur Gratiot
are our friends. You will remain with us, I hope,
Messieurs,'' she continued. ``Monsieur de Saint-Gre will
return in a few days at best.''
``By your leave, Madame, I will go to New Orleans at
once and try to find Monsieur,'' I said, ``for I have
business with him.''
``You will return with him, I hope,'' said Madame.
I bowed.
``And Mr. Temple will remain?'' she asked, with a
questioning look at Nick.
``With the greatest pleasure in the world, Madame,''
he answered, and there was no mistaking his sincerity.
As he spoke, Mademoiselle turned her back on him.
I would not wait for dinner, but pausing only for a sip
of cool Madeira and some other refreshment, I made my
farewells to the ladies. As I started out of the door to
find Benjy, who had been waiting for more than an hour,
Mademoiselle gave me a neatly folded note.
``You will be so kind as to present that to my father,
Monsieur,'' she said.
CHAPTER XIII
MONSIEUR AUGUSTE ENTRAPPED
It may be well to declare here and now that I do not
intend to burden this story with the business which had
brought me to New Orleans. While in the city during
the next few days I met a young gentleman named Daniel
Clark, a nephew of that Mr. Clark of whom I have spoken.
Many years after the time of which I write this Mr.
Daniel Clark the younger, who became a rich merchant
and an able man of affairs, published a book which sets
forth with great clearness proofs of General Wilkinson's
duplicity and treason, and these may be read by any who
would satisfy himself further on the subject. Mr. Wharton
had not believed, nor had I flattered myself that I
should be able to bring such a fox as General Wilkinson
to earth. Abundant circumstantial evidence I obtained:
Wilkinson's intimacy with Miro was well known, and I
likewise learned that a cipher existed between them. The
permit to trade given by Miro to Wilkinson was made no
secret of. In brief, I may say that I discovered as much
as could be discovered by any one without arousing
suspicion, and that the information with which I returned to
Kentucky was of some material value to my employers.
I have to thank Monsieur Philippe de St. Gre for a
great deal. And I take this opportunity to set down the
fact that I have rarely met a more remarkable man.
As I rode back to town alone a whitish film was spread
before the sun, and ere I had come in sight of the
fortifications the low forest on the western bank was a dark
green blur against the sky. The esplanade on the levee
was deserted, the willow trees had a mournful look, while
the bright tiles of yesterday seemed to have faded to a
sombre tone. I spied Xavier on a bench smoking with
some friends of his.
``He make much rain soon, Michie,'' he cried. ``You
hev good time, I hope, Michie.''
I waved my hand and rode on, past the Place d'Armes
with its white diagonal bands strapping its green like
a soldiers front, and as I drew up before the gate of
the House of the Lions the warning taps of the storm
were drumming on the magnolia leaves. The same gardienne
came to my knock, and in answer to her shrill cry
a negro lad appeared to hold my horse. I was ushered
into a brick-paved archway that ran under the latticed
gallery toward a flower-filled court-yard, but ere we reached
this the gardienne turned to the left up a flight of steps
with a delicate balustrade which led to an open gallery
above. And there stood the gentleman whom we had
met hurrying to town in the morning. A gentleman he
was, every inch of him. He was dressed in black silk,
his hair in a cue, and drawn away from a face of remarkable
features. He had a high-bridged nose, a black
eye that held an inquiring sternness, a chin indented, and
a receding forehead. His stature was indeterminable.
In brief, he might have stood for one of those persons of
birth and ability who become prime ministers of France.
``Monsieur de St. Gre?'' I said.
He bowed gracefully, but with a tinge of condescension.
I was awed, and considering the relations which
I had already had with his family, I must admit that I
was somewhat frightened.
``Monsieur,'' I said, ``I bring letters to you from
Monsieur Gratiot and Colonel Chouteau of St. Louis. One of
these I had the honor to deliver to Madame de St. Gre,
and here is the other.''
``Ah,'' he said, with another keen glance, ``I met you
this morning, did I not?''
``You did, Monsieur.''
He broke the seal, and, going to the edge of the gallery,
held the letter to the light. As he read a peal of thunder
broke distantly, the rain came down in a flood. Then he
folded the paper carefully and turned to me again.
``You will make my house your home, Mr. Ritchie,
he said; ``recommended from such a source, I will do all
I can to serve you. But where is this Mr. Temple of
whom the letter speaks? His family in Charlestown is
known to me by repute.''
``By Madame de St. Gre's invitation he remained at
Les Iles,'' I answered, speaking above the roar of the rain.
``I was just going to the table,'' said Monsieur de St.
Gre; ``we will talk as we eat.''
He led the way into the dining room, and as I stood on
the threshold a bolt of great brilliancy lighted its yellowwashed
floor and walnut furniture of a staid pattern. A
deafening crash followed as we took our seats, while
Monsieur de St. Gre's man lighted four candles of green
myrtle-berry wax.
``Monsieur Gratiot's letter speaks vaguely of politics,
Mr. Ritchie,'' began Monsieur de St. Gre. He spoke
English perfectly, save for an occasional harsh aspiration which
I cannot imitate.
Directing his man to fetch a certain kind of Madeira, he
turned to me with a look of polite inquiry which was
scarcely reassuring. And I reflected, the caution with
which I had been endowed coming uppermost, that the
man might have changed since Monsieur Gratiot had seen
him. He had, moreover, the air of a man who gives a
forced attention, which seemed to me the natural consequences
of the recent actions of his son.
``I fear that I am intruding upon your affairs,
Monsieur,'' I answered.
``Not at all, sir,'' he said politely. ``I have met that
charming gentleman, Mr. Wilkinson, who came here to
brush away the causes of dissension, and cement a friendship
between Kentucky and Louisiana.''
It was most fortunate that the note of irony did not
escape me.
``Where governments failed, General Wilkinson
succeeded,'' I answered dryly.
Monsieur de St. Gre glanced at me, and an enigmatical
smile spread over his face. I knew then that the ice was
cracked between us. Yet he was too much a man of the
world not to make one more tentative remark.
``A union between Kentucky and Louisiana would be a
resistless force in the world, Mr. Ritchie,'' he said.
``It was Nebuchadnezzar who dreamed of a composite
image, Monsieur,'' I answered; ``and Mr. Wilkinson forgets
one thing,--that Kentucky is a part of the United
States.''
At that Monsieur St. Gre laughed outright. He became
a different man, though he lost none of his dignity.
``I should have had more faith in my old friend Gratiot,
he said; ``but you will pardon me if I did not recognize
at once the statesman he had sent me, Mr. Ritchie.''
It was my turn to laugh.
``Monsieur,'' he went on, returning to that dignity of
mien which marked him, ``my political opinions are too
well known that I should make a mystery of them to you.
I was born a Frenchman, I shall die a Frenchman, and I
shall never be happy until Louisiana is French once more.
My great-grandfather, a brother of the Marquis de St.
Gre of that time, and a wild blade enough, came out with
D'Iberville. His son, my grandfather, was the Commissarygeneral
of the colony under the Marquis de Vaudreuil.
He sent me to France for my education, where I was introduced
at court by my kinsman, the old Marquis, who took
a fancy to me and begged me to remain. It was my father's
wish that I should return, and I did not disobey him. I
had scarcely come back, Monsieur, when that abominable
secret bargain of Louis the Fifteenth became known, ceding
Louisiana to Spain. You may have heard of the revolution
which followed here. It was a mild affair, and the
remembrance of it makes me smile to this day, though with
bitterness. I was five and twenty, hot-headed, and French.
Que voulez-vous?'' and Monsieur de St. Gre shrugged his
shoulders. ``O'Reilly, the famous Spanish general, came
with his men-of-war. Well I remember the days we waited
with leaden hearts for the men-of-war to come up from the
English turn; and I can see now the cannon frowning
from the ports, the grim spars, the high poops crowded
with officers, the great anchors splashing the yellow water.
I can hear the chains running. The ships were in line of
battle before the town, their flying bridges swung to the
levee, and they loomed above us like towering fortresses.
It was dark, Monsieur, such as this afternoon, and we poor
French colonists stood huddled in the open space below,
waiting for we knew not what.''
He paused, and I started, for the picture he drew had
carried me out of myself.
``On the 18th of August, 1769,--well I remember
the day,'' Monsieur de St. Gre continued, ``the Spanish
troops landed late in the afternoon, twenty-six hundred
strong, the artillery rumbling over the bridges, the horses
wheeling and rearing. And they drew up as in line of
battle in the Place d'Armes,--dragoons, fusileros de
montanas, light and heavy infantry. Where were our white
cockades then? Fifty guns shook the town, the great
O'Reilly limped ashore through the smoke, and Louisiana
was lost to France. We had a cowardly governor, Monsieur,
whose name is written in the annals of the province
in letters of shame. He betrayed Monsieur de St. Gre
and others into O'Reilly's hands, and when my father was
cast into prison he was seized with such a fit of anger
that he died.''
Monsieur de St. Gre was silent. Without, under the
eaves of the gallery, a white rain fell, and a steaming
moisture arose from the court-yard.
``What I have told you, Monsieur, is common
knowledge. Louisiana has been Spanish for twenty years. I
no longer wear the white cockade, for I am older now.''
He smiled. ``Strange things are happening in France, and
the old order to which I belong'' (he straightened
perceptibly) ``seems to be tottering. I have ceased to intrigue,
but thank God I have not ceased to pray. Perhaps--
who knows?--perhaps I may live to see again the lily of
France stirred by the river breeze.''
He fell into a revery, his fine head bent a little, but
presently aroused himself and eyed me curiously. I need
not say that I felt a strange liking for Monsieur de St. Gre.
``And now, Mr. Ritchie,'' he said, ``will you tell me
who you are, and how I can serve you?''
The servant had put the coffee on the table and left the
room. Monsieur de St. Gre himself poured me a cup
from the dainty, quaintly wrought Louis Quinze coffeepot,
graven with the coat of arms of his family. As we
sat talking, my admiration for my host increased, for I
found that he was familiar not only with the situation in
Kentucky, but that he also knew far more than I of the
principles and personnel of the new government of which
General Washington was President. That he had little
sympathy with government by the people was natural,
for he was a Creole, and behind that a member of an order
which detested republics. When we were got beyond these
topics the rain had ceased, the night had fallen, the green
candles had burned low. And suddenly, as he spoke of
Les Isles, I remembered the note Mademoiselle had given
me for him, and I apologized for my forgetfulness. He
read it, and dropped it with an exclamation.
``My daughter tells me that you have returned to her a
miniature which she lost, Monsieur,'' he said.
``I had that pleasure,'' I answered.
``And that--you found this miniature at Madame
Bouvet's. Was this the case?'' And he stared hard at me.
I nodded, but for the life of me I could not speak. It
seemed an outrage to lie to such a man. He did not
answer, but sat lost in thought, drumming with his fingers
on the tables until the noise of the slamming of a door
aroused him to a listening posture. The sound of subdued
voices came from the archway below us, and one of
these, from an occasional excited and feminine note, I
thought to be the gardienne's. Monsieur de St. Gre
thrust back his chair, and in three strides was at the edge
of the gallery.
``Auguste!'' he cried.
Silence.
``Auguste, come up to me at once,'' he said in French.
Another silence, then something that sounded like
``Sapristi!'' a groan from the gardienne, and a step was
heard on the stairway. My own discomfort increased,
and I would have given much to be in any other place in
the world. Auguste had arrived at the head of the steps
but was apparently unable to get any farther.
``Bon soir, mon pere,'' he said.
``Like a dutiful son,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre, ``you
heard I was in town, and called to pay your respects, I am
sure. I am delighted to find you. In fact, I came to
town for that purpose.''
``Lisette--'' began Auguste.
``Thought that I did not wish to be disturbed, no
doubt,'' said his father. ``Walk in, Auguste.''
Monsieur Auguste's slim figure appeared in the
doorway. He caught sight of me, halted, backed, and stood
staring with widened eyes. The candles threw their light
across his shoulder on the face of the elder Monsieur de
St. Gre. Auguste was a replica of his father, with the
features minimized to regularity and the brow narrowed.
The complexion of the one was a clear saffron, while the
boy's skin was mottled, and he was not twenty.
``What is the matter?'' said Monsieur de St. Gre.
``You--you have a visitor!'' stammered Auguste, with
a tact that savored of practice. Yet there was a sorry
difference between this and the haughty young patrician
who had sold me the miniature.
``Who brings me good news,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre,
in English. ``Mr. Ritchie, allow me to introduce my son,
Auguste.''
I felt Monsieur de St. Gre's eyes on me as I bowed, and
I began to think I was in near as great a predicament as
Auguste. Monsieur de St. Gre was managing the matter
with infinite wisdom.
``Sit down, my son,'' he said; ``you have no doubt been
staying with your uncle.'' Auguste sat down, still staring.
``Does your aunt's health mend?''
``She is better to-night, father,'' said the son, in English
which might have been improved.
``I am glad of it,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre, taking a
chair. ``Andre, fill the glasses.''
The silent, linen-clad mulatto poured out the Madeira,
shot a look at Auguste, and retired softly.
``There has been a heavy rain, Monsieur,'' said
Monsieur de St. Gre to me, ``but I think the air is not yet
cleared. I was about to say, Mr. Ritchie, when my son
called to pay his respects, that the miniature of which we
were speaking is one of the most remarkable paintings I
have ever seen.'' Auguste's thin fingers were clutching
the chair. ``I have never beheld Mademoiselle Helene
de St. Gre, for my cousin, the Marquis, was not married
when I left France. He was a captain in a regiment of his
Majesty's Mousquetaires, since abolished. But I am sure
that the likeness of Mademoiselle must be a true one, for it
has the stamp of a remarkable personality, though Helene
can be only eighteen. Women, with us, mature quickly,
Monsieur. And this portrait tallies with what I have heard
of her character. You no doubt observed the face,
Monsieur,--that of a true aristocrat. But I was speaking of
her character. When she was twelve, she said something
to a cardinal for which her mother made her keep her
room a whole day. For Mademoiselle would not retract,
and, pardieu, I believe his Eminence was wrong. The
Marquise is afraid of her. And when first Helene was
presented formally she made such a witty retort to the
Queen's sally that her Majesty insisted upon her coming to
court. On every New Year's day I have always sent a
present of coffee and perique to my cousin the Marquis,
and it is Mademoiselle who writes to thank us. Parole
d'honneur, her letters make me see again the people
amongst whom she moves,--the dukes and duchesses,
the cardinals, bishops, and generals. She draws them to
the life, Monsieur, with a touch that makes them all
ridiculous. His Majesty does not escape. God forgive
him, he is indeed an amiable, weak person for calling a
States General. And the Queen, a frivolous lady, but
true to those whom she loves, and beginning now to
realize the perils of the situation.'' He paused. ``Is
it any wonder that Auguste has fallen in love with his
cousin, Monsieur? That he loses his head, forgets that
he is a gentleman, and steals her portrait from his
sister!''
Had I not been so occupied with my own fate in the
outcome of this inquisition, I should have been sorry for
Auguste. And yet this feeling could not have lasted, for
the young gentleman sprang to his feet, cast a glance
at me which was not without malignance, and faced his
father, his lips twitching with anger and fear. Monsieur
de St. Gre sat undisturbed.
``He is so much in love with the portrait, Monsieur,
that he loses it.''
``Loses it!'' cried Auguste.
``Precisely,'' said his father, dryly, ``for Mr. Ritchie
tells me he found it--at Madame Bouvet's, was it not,
Monsieur?''
Auguste looked at me.
``Mille diables!'' he said, and sat down again heavily.
``Mr. Ritchie has returned it to your sister, a service
which puts him heavily in our debt,'' said Monsieur de
St. Gre. ``Now, sir,'' he added to me, rising, ``you have
had a tiresome day. I will show you to your room, and
in the morning we will begin our--investigations.''
He clapped his hands, the silent mulatto appeared with
a new candle, and I followed my host down the gallery
to a room which he flung open at the far end. A great
four-poster bedstead was in one corner, and a polished
mahogany dresser in the other.
``We have saved some of our family furniture from
the fire, Mr. Ritchie,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre; ``that
bed was brought from Paris by my father forty years ago.
I hope you will rest well.''
He set the candle on the table, and as he bowed there
was a trace of an enigmatical smile about his mouth. How
much he knew of Auguste's transaction I could not
fathom, but the matter and the scarcely creditab]e part
I had played in it kept me awake far into the night. I
was just falling into a troubled sleep when a footstep on
the gallery startled me back to consciousness. It was
followed by a light tap on the door.
``Monsieur Reetchie,'' said a voice.
It was Monsieur Auguste. He was not an imposing
figure in his nightrail, and by the light of the carefully
shaded candle he held in his hand I saw that he had
hitherto deceived me in the matter of his calves. He
stood peering at me as I lay under the mosquito bar.
``How is it I can thank you, Monsieur!'' he exclaimed
in a whisper.
``By saying nothing, Monsieur,'' I answered.
``You are noble, you are generous, and--and one day
I will give you the money back,'' he added with a burst
of magniloquence. ``You have behave very well, Monsieur,
and I mek you my friend. Behol' Auguste de St.
Gre, entirely at your service, Monsieur.'' He made a
sweeping bow that might have been impressive save for
the nightrail, and sought my hand, which he grasped in
a fold of the mosquito bar.
``I am overcome, Monsieur,'' I said.
``Monsieur Reetchie, you are my friend, my intimate''
(he put an aspirate on the word). ``I go to tell you one
leetle secret. I find that I can repose confidence in you.
My father does not understan' me, you saw, Monsieur, he
does not appreciate--that is the Engleesh. Mon Dieu,
you saw it this night. I, who spik to you, am made for
a courtier, a noble. I have the gift. La Louisiane--she
is not so big enough for me.'' He lowered his voice still
further, and bent nearer to me. ``Monsieur, I run away
to France. My cousin the Marquis will help me. You
will hear of Auguste de St. Gre at Versailles, at Trianon,
at Chantilly, and peut-etre--''
``It is a worthy campaign, Monsieur,'' I interrupted.
A distant sound broke the stillness, and Auguste was
near to dropping the candle on me.
``Adieu, Monsieur,'' he whispered; ``milles tonneres, I
have done one extraordinaire foolish thing when I am
come to this house to-night.''
And he disappeared, shading his candle, as he had come.
CHAPTER XIV
RETRIBUTION
During the next two days I had more evidence of
Monsieur de St. Gre's ability, and, thanks to his conduct
of my campaign, not the least suspicion of my mission to
New Orleans got abroad. Certain gentlemen were asked
to dine, we called on others, and met still others casually
in their haunts of business or pleasure. I was troubled
because of the inconvenience and discomfort to which my
host put himself, for New Orleans in the dog-days may be
likened in climate to the under side of the lid of a steam
kettle. But at length, on the second evening, after we
had supped on jambalaya and rice cakes and other dainties,
and the last guest had gone, my host turned to me.
``The rest of the burrow is the same, Mr. Ritchie, until
it comes to the light again.''
``And the fox has crawled out of the other end,'' I
said.
``Precisely,'' he answered, laughing; ``in short, if you
were to remain in New Orleans until New Year's, you
would not learn a whit more. To-morrow morning I
have a little business of my own to transact, and we shall
get to Les Iles in time for dinner. No, don't thank me,''
he protested; ``there's a certain rough honesty and earnestness
ingrained in you which I like. And besides,'' he
added, smiling, ``you are poor indeed at thanking, Mr.
Ritchie. You could never do it gracefully. But if ever
I were in trouble, I believe that I might safely call on
you.''
The next day was a rare one, for a wind from somewhere
had blown the moisture away a little, the shadows
were clearer cut, and by noon Monsieur de St. Gre and I
were walking our horses in the shady road behind the
levee. We were followed at a respectful distance by
Andre, Monsieur's mulatto body-servant, and as we rode
my companion gave me stories of the owners of the different
plantations we passed, and spoke of many events of
interest in the history of the colony. Presently he ceased
to talk, and rode in silence for many minutes. And then
he turned upon me suddenly.
``Mr. Ritchie,'' he said, ``you have seen my son. It
may be that in him I am paying the price of my sins.
I have done everything to set him straight, but in vain.
Monsieur, every son of the St. Gre's has awakened sooner
or later to a sense of what becomes him. But Auguste
is a fool,'' he cried bitterly,--a statement which I could
not deny; ``were it not for my daughter, Antoinette, I
should be a miserable man indeed.''
Inasmuch as he was not a person of confidences, I felt
the more flattered that he should speak so plainly to me,
and I had a great sympathy for this strong man who could
not help himself.
``You have observed Antoinette, Mr. Ritchie,'' he
continued; ``she is a strange mixture of wilfulness and
caprice and self-sacrifice, and she has at times a bit of
that wit which has made our house for generations the
intimates--I may say--of sovereigns.''
This peculiar pride of race would have amused me in
another man. I found myself listening to Monsieur de
St. Gre with gravity, and I did not dare to reply
that I had had evidence of Mademoiselle's aptness of
retort.
``She has been my companion since she was a child,
Monsieur. She has disobeyed me, flaunted me, nursed me
in illness, championed me behind my back. I have a little
book which I have kept of her sayings and doings, which
may interest you, Monsieur. I will show it you.''
This indeed was a new side of Monsieur de St. Gre, and
I reflected rather ruefully upon the unvarnished truth of
what Mr. Wharton had told me,--ay, and what Colonel
Clark had emphasized long before. It was my fate never
to be treated as a young man. It struck me that Monsieur
de St. Gre had never even considered me in the
light of a possible suitor for his daughter's hand.
``I should be delighted to see them, Monsieur,'' I
answered.
``Would you?'' he exclaimed, his face lighting up as
he glanced at me. ``Alas, Madame de St. Gre and I have
promised to go to our neighbors', Monsieur and Madame
Bertrand's, for to-night. But, to-morrow, if you have
leisure, we shall look at it together. And not a word
of this to my daughter, Monsieur,'' he added apprehensively;
``she would never forgive me. She dislikes my
talking of her, but at times I cannot help it. It was only
last year that she was very angry with me, and would not
speak to me for days, because I boasted of her having
watched at the bedside of a poor gentleman who came
here and got the fever. You will not tell her?''
``Indeed I shall not, Monsieur,'' I answered.
``It is strange,'' he said abruptly, ``it is strange that
this gentleman and his wife should likewise have had
letters to us from Monsieur Gratiot. They came from
St. Louis, and they were on their way to Paris.''
``To Paris?'' I cried; ``what was their name?''
He looked at me in surprise.
``Clive,'' he said.
``Clive!'' I cried, leaning towards him in my saddle.
``Clive! And what became of them?''
This time he gave me one of his searching looks, and it
was not unmixed with astonishment.
``Why do you ask. Monsieur?'' he demanded. ``Did
you know them?''
I must have shown that I was strangely agitated. For
the moment I could not answer.
``Monsieur Gratiot himself spoke of them to me,'' I said,
after a little; ``he said they were an interesting couple.''
``Pardieu!'' exclaimed Monsieur de St. Gre, ``he put
it mildly.'' He gave me another look. ``There was
something about them, Monsieur, which I could not fathom.
Why were they drifting? They were people of quality
who had seen the world, who were by no means paupers,
who had no cause to travel save a certain restlessness.
And while they were awaiting the sailing of the packet
for France they came to our house--the old one in the
Rue Bourbon that was burned. I would not speak ill of
the dead, but Mr. Clive I did not like. He fell sick of the
fever in my house, and it was there that Antoinette and
Madame de St. Gre took turns with his wife in watching
at his bedside. I could do nothing with Antoinette,
Monsieur, and she would not listen to my entreaties, my prayers,
my commands. We buried the poor fellow in the alien
ground, for he did not die in the Church, and after that my
daughter clung to Mrs. Clive. She would not let her go,
and the packet sailed without her. I have never seen such
affection. I may say,'' he added quickly, ``that Madame
de St. Gre and I share in it, for Mrs. Clive is a lovable
woman and a strong character. And into the great sorrow
that lies behind her life, we have never probed.''
``And she is with you now, Monsieur?'' I asked.
``She lives with us, Monsieur,'' he answered simply,
``and I hope for always. No,'' he said quickly, ``it is not
charity,--she has something of her own. We love her,
and she is the best of companions for my daughter. For
the rest, Monsieur, she seems benumbed, with no desire to
go back or to go farther.''
An entrance drive to the plantation of Les Iles, unknown
to Nick and me, led off from the main road like a green
tunnel arched out of the forest. My feelings as we entered
this may be imagined, for I was suddenly confronted
with the situation which I had dreaded since my meeting
with Nick at Jonesboro. I could scarcely allow myself
even the faint hope that Mrs. Clive might not prove to
be Mrs. Temple after all. Whilst I was in this agony
of doubt and indecision, the drive suddenly came out on
a shaded lawn dotted with flowering bushes. There was
the house with its gallery, its curved dormer roof and its
belvedere; and a white, girlish figure flitted down the
steps. It was Mademoiselle Antoinette, and no sooner
had her father dismounted than she threw herself into
his arms. Forgetful of my presence, he stood murmuring
in her ear like a lover; and as I watched them my
trouble slipped from my mind, and gave place to a vaguer
regret that I had been a wanderer throughout my life.
Presently she turned up to him a face on which was written
something which he could not understand. His own
stronger features reflected a vague disquiet.
``What is it, ma cherie?''
What was it indeed? Something was in her eyes which
bore a message and presentiment to me. She dropped
them, fastening in the lapel of his coat a flaunting red
flower set against a shining leaf, and there was a gentle,
joyous subterfuge in her answer.
``Thou pardoned Auguste, as I commanded?'' she said.
They were speaking in the familiar French.
``Ha, diable! is it that which disquiets thee?'' said her
father. ``We will not speak of Auguste. Dost thou
know Monsieur Ritchie, 'Toinette?''
She disengaged herself and dropped me a courtesy, her
eyes seeking the ground. But she said not a word. At
that instant Madame de St. Gre herself appeared on the
gallery, followed by Nick, who came down the steps with
a careless self-confidence to greet the master. Indeed, a
stranger might have thought that Mr. Temple was the
host, and I saw Antoinette watching him furtively with
a gleam of amusement in her eyes.
``I am delighted to see you at last, Monsieur,'' said my
cousin. ``I am Nicholas Temple, and I have been your
guest for three days.''
Had Monsieur de St. Gre been other than the soul of
hospitality, it would have been impossible not to welcome
such a guest. Our host had, in common with his daughter,
a sense of humor. There was a quizzical expression
on his fine face as he replied, with the barest glance at
Mademoiselle Antoinette:--
``I trust you have been--well entertained, Mr. Temple.
My daughter has been accustomed only to the society of
her brother and cousins.''
``Faith, I should not have supposed it,'' said Nick,
instantly, a remark which caused the color to flush deeply
into Mademoiselle's face. I looked to see Monsieur de
St. Gre angry. He tried, indeed, to be grave, but smiled
irresistibly as he mounted the steps to greet his wife, who
stood demurely awaiting his caress. And in this interval
Mademoiselle shot at Nick a swift and withering look as
she passed him. He returned a grimace.
``Messieurs,'' said Monsieur de St. Gre, turning to us,
``dinner will soon be ready--if you will be so good as to
pardon me until then.''
Nick followed Mademoiselle with his eyes until she had
disappeared beyond the hall. She did not so much as
turn. Then he took me by the arm and led me to a bench
under a magnolia a little distance away, where he seated
himself, and looked up at me despairingly.
``Behold,'' said he, ``what was once your friend and
cousin, your counsellor, sage, and guardian. Behold the
clay which conducted you hither, with the heart neatly
but painfully extracted. Look upon a woman's work,
Davy, and shun the sex. I tell you it is better to go
blindfold through life, to have--pardon me--your own
blunt features, than to be reduced to such a pitiable state.
Was ever such a refinement of cruelty practised before?
Never! Was there ever such beauty, such archness, such
coquetry,--such damned elusiveness? Never! If there
is a cargo going up the river, let me be salted and lie at
the bottom of it. I'll warrant you I'll not come to life.''
``You appear to have suffered somewhat,'' I said,
forgetting for the moment in my laughter the thing that weighed
upon my mind.
``Suffered!'' he cried; ``I have been tossed high in the
azure that I might sink the farther into the depths. I
have been put in a grave, the earth stamped down, resurrected,
and flung into the dust-heap. I have been taken
up to the gate of heaven and dropped a hundred and fifty
years through darkness. Since I have seen you I have
been the round of all the bright places and all the bottomless
pits in the firmament.''
``It seems to have made you literary,'' I remarked
judicially.
``I burn up twenty times a day,'' he continued, with a
wave of the hand to express the completeness of the
process; ``there is nothing left. I see her, I speak to her,
and I burn up.''
``Have you had many tete-a-tetes?'' I asked.
``Not one,'' he retorted fiercely; ``do you think there
is any sense in the damnable French custom? I am an
honorable man, and, besides, I am not equipped for an
elopement. No priest in Louisiana would marry us. I
see her at dinner, at supper. Sometimes we sew on the
gallery,'' he went on, ``but I give you my oath that I have
not had one word with her alone.''
``An oath is not necessary,'' I said. ``But you seem to
have made some progress nevertheless.''
``Do you call that progress?'' he demanded.
``It is surely not retrogression.''
``God knows what it is,'' said Nick, helplessly, ``but
it's got to stop. I have sent her an ultimatum.''
``A what?''
``A summons. Her father and mother are going to the
Bertrands' to-night, and I have written her a note to meet
me in the garden. And you,'' he cried, rising and
slapping me between the shoulders, ``you are to keep
watch, like the dear, careful, canny, sly rascal you
are.''
``And--and has she accepted?'' I inquired.
``That's the deuce of it,'' said he; ``she has not. But I
think she'll come.''
I stood for a moment regarding him.
``And you really love Mademoiselle Antoinette?'' I
asked.
``Have I not exhausted the language?'' he answered.
``If what I have been through is not love, then may the
Lord shield me from the real disease.''
``It may have been merely a light case of--tropical
enthusiasm, let us say. I have seen others, a little
milder because the air was more temperate.''
``Tropical--balderdash,'' he exploded. ``If you are
not the most exasperating, unfeeling man alive--''
``I merely wanted to know if you wished to marry
Mademoiselle de St. Gre,'' I interrupted.
He gave me a look of infinite tolerance.
``Have I not made it plain that I cannot live
without her?'' he said; ``if not, I will go over it all
again.''
``That will not be necessary,'' I said hastily.
``The trouble may be,'' he continued, ``that they have
already made one of their matrimonial contracts with a
Granpre, a Beausejour, a Bernard.''
``Monsieur de St. Gre is a very sensible man,'' I
answered. ``He loves his daughter, and I doubt if he
would force her to marry against her will. Tell me, Nick,''
I asked, laying my hand upon his shoulder, ``do you love
this girl so much that you would let nothing come between
you and her?''
``I tell you, I do; and again I tell you, I do,'' he replied.
He paused, suddenly glancing at my face, and added,
``Why do you ask, Davy?''
I stood irresolute, now that the time had come not daring
to give voice to my suspicions. He had not spoken
to me of his mother save that once, and I had no means
of knowing whether his feeling for the girl might not
soften his anger against her. I have never lacked the
courage to come to the point, but there was still the
chance that I might be mistaken in this after all. Would
it not be best to wait until I had ascertained in some way
the identity of Mrs. Clive? And while I stood debating,
Nick regarding me with a puzzled expression, Monsieur
de St. Gre appeared on the gallery.
``Come, gentlemen,'' he cried; ``dinner awaits us.''
The dining room at Les Iles was at the corner of the
house, and its windows looked out on the gallery, which
was shaded at that place by dense foliage. The room,
like others in the house, seemed to reflect the decorous
character of its owner. Two St. Gre's, indifferently
painted, but rigorous and respectable, relieved the
whiteness of the wall. They were the Commissary-general
and his wife. The lattices were closed on one side, and
in the deep amber light the family silver shone but dimly.
The dignity of our host, the evident ceremony of the meal,
--which was attended by three servants,--would have
awed into a modified silence at least a less irrepressible
person than Nicholas Temple. But Nick was one to carry
by storm a position which another might wait to
reconnoitre. The first sensation of our host was no doubt
astonishment, but he was soon laughing over a vivid
account of our adventures on the keel boat. Nick's imitation
of Xavier, and his description of Benjy's terrors after the
storm, were so perfect that I laughed quite as heartily;
and Madame de St. Gre wiped her eyes and repeated
continually, ``Quel drole monsieur! it is thus he has
entertained us since thou departed, Philippe.''
As for Mademoiselle, I began to think that Nick was
not far wrong in his diagnosis. Training may have had
something to do with it. She would not laugh, not she,
but once or twice she raised her napkin to her face and
coughed slightly. For the rest, she sat demurely, with
her eyes on her plate, a model of propriety. Nick's
sufferings became more comprehensible.
To give the devil his due, Nick had an innate tact which
told him when to stop, and perhaps at this time Mademoiselle's
superciliousness made him subside the more quickly.
After Monsieur de St. Gre had explained to me the horrors
of the indigo pest and the futility of sugar raising, he
turned to his daughter.
`` 'Toinette, where is Madame Clive?'' he asked.
The girl looked up, startled into life and interest at once.
``Oh, papa,'' she cried in French, ``we are so worried
about her, mamma and I. It was the day you went away,
the day these gentlemen came, that we thought she would
take an airing. And suddenly she became worse.''
Monsieur de St. Gre turned with concern to his wife.
``I do not know what it is, Philippe,'' said that lady;
``it seems to be mental. The loss of her husband weighs
upon her, poor lady. But this is worse than ever, and she
will lie for hours with her face turned to the wall, and
not even Antoinette can arouse her.''
``I have always been able to comfort her before,'' said
Antoinette, with a catch in her voice.
I took little account of what was said after that, my
only notion being to think the problem out for myself,
and alone. As I was going to my room Nick stopped me.
``Come into the garden, Davy,'' he said.
``When I have had my siesta,'' I answered.
``When you have had your siesta!'' he cried; ``since
when did you begin to indulge in siestas?''
``To-day,'' I replied, and left him staring after me.
I reached my room, bolted the door, and lay down on
my back to think. Little was needed to convince me
now that Mrs. Clive was Mrs. Temple, and thus the lady's
relapse when she heard that her son was in the house was
accounted for. Instead of forming a plan, my thoughts
drifted from that into pity for her, and my memory ran
back many years to the text of good Mr. Mason's sermon,
``I have refined thee, but not with silver, I have chosen
thee in the furnace of affliction.'' What must Sarah
Temple have suffered since those days! I remembered
her in her prime, in her beauty, in her selfishness, in her
cruelty to those whom she might have helped, and I wondered
the more at the change which must have come over
the woman that she had won the affections of this family,
that she had gained the untiring devotion of Mademoiselle
Antoinette. Her wit might not account for it, for that
had been cruel. And something of the agony of the
woman's soul as she lay in torment, facing the wall,
thinking of her son under the same roof, of a life misspent
and irrevocable, I pictured.
A stillness crept into the afternoon like the stillness of
night. The wide house was darkened and silent, and
without a sunlight washed with gold filtered through the
leaves. There was a drowsy hum of bees, and in the distance
the occasional languishing note of a bird singing
what must have been a cradle-song. My mind wandered,
and shirked the task that was set to it.
Could anything be gained by meddling? I had begun
to convince myself that nothing could, when suddenly I
came face to face with the consequences of a possible
marriage between Nick and Mademoiselle Antoinette. In
that event the disclosure of his mother's identity would
be inevitable. Not only his happiness was involved, but
Mademoiselle's, her father's and her mother's, and lastly
that of this poor hunted woman herself, who thought at
last to have found a refuge.
An hour passed, and it became more and more evident
to me that I must see and talk with Mrs. Temple. But
how was I to communicate with her? At last I took out
my portfolio and wrote these words on a sheet:--
``If Mrs. Clive will consent to a meeting with Mr. David
Ritchie, he will deem it a favor. Mr. Ritchie assures Mrs.
Clive that he makes this request in all friendliness.''
I lighted a candle, folded the note and sealed it,
addressed it to Mrs. Clive, and opening the latticed door I
stepped out. Walking along the gallery until I came to
the rear part of the house which faced towards the outbuildings,
I spied three figures prone on the grass under
a pecan tree that shaded the kitchen roof. One of these
figures was Benjy, and he was taking his siesta. I
descended quietly from the gallery, and making my way to
him, touched him on the shoulder. He awoke and stared
at me with white eyes.
``Marse Dave!'' he cried.
``Hush,'' I answered, ``and follow me.''
He came after me, wondering, a little way into the grove,
where I stopped.
``Benjy,'' I said, ``do you know any of the servants
here?''
``Lawsy, Marse Dave, I reckon I knows 'em,--some of
'em,'' he answered with a grin.
``You talk to them?''
``Shucks, no, Marse Dave,'' he replied with a fine scorn,
``I ain't no hand at dat ar nigger French. But I knows
some on 'em, and right well too.''
``How?'' I demanded curiously.
Benjy looked down sheepishly at his feet. He was
standing pigeon-toed.
``I done c'ressed some on 'em, Marse Dave,'' he said at
length, and there was a note of triumph in his voice.
``You did what?'' I asked.
``I done kissed one of dem yaller gals, Marse Dave.
Yass'r, I done kissed M'lisse.''
``Do you think Melisse would do something for you if
you asked her?'' I inquired.
Benjy seemed hurt.
``Marse Dave--'' he began reproachfully.
``Very well, then,'' I interrupted, taking the letter from
my pocket, ``there is a lady who is ill here, Mrs. Clive--''
I paused, for a new look had come into Benjy's eyes.
He began that peculiar, sympathetic laugh of the negro,
which catches and doubles on itself, and I imagined that
a new admiration for me dawned on his face.
``Yass'r, yass, Marse Dave, I reckon M'lisse 'll git it to
her 'thout any one tekin' notice.''
I bit my lips.
``If Mrs. Clive receives this within an hour, Melisse
shall have one piastre, and you another. There is an
answer.''
Benjy took the note, and departed nimbly to find
Melisse, while I paced up and down in my uneasiness as to
the outcome of the experiment. A quarter of an hour
passed, half an hour, and then I saw Benjy coming through
the trees. He stood before me, chuckling, and drew from
his pocket a folded piece of paper. I gave him the two
piastres, warned him if his master or any one inquired for
me that I was taking a walk, and bade him begone.
Then I opened the note.
``I will meet you at the bayou, at seven this evening. Take
the path that leads through the garden.''
I read it with a catch of the breath, with a certainty
that the happiness of many people depended upon what
I should say at that meeting. And to think of this and
to compose myself a little, I made my way to the garden
in search of the path, that I might know it when the time
came. Entering a gap in the hedge, I caught sight of the
shaded seat under the tree which had been the scene of
our first meeting with Antoinette, and I hurried past it
as I crossed the garden. There were two openings in the
opposite hedge, the one through which Nick and I had
come, and another. I took the second, and with little
difficulty found the path of which the note had spoken.
It led through a dense, semi-tropical forest in the
direction of the swamp beyond, the way being well beaten, but
here and there jealously crowded by an undergrowth of
brambles and the prickly Spanish bayonet. I know not
how far I had walked, my head bent in thought, before I
felt the ground teetering under my feet, and there was the
bayou. It was a narrow lane of murky, impenetrable
water, shaded now by the forest wall. Imaged on its
amber surface were the twisted boughs of the cypresses
of the swamp beyond,--boughs funereally draped, as
though to proclaim a warning of unknown perils in the
dark places. On that side where I stood ancient oaks
thrust their gnarled roots into the water, and these knees
were bridged by treacherous platforms of moss. As I
sought for a safe resting-place a dull splash startled me,
the pink-and-white water lilies danced on the ripples,
and a long, black snout pushed its way to the centre of
the bayou and floated there motionless.
I sat down on a wide knee that seemed to be fashioned
for the purpose, and reflected. It may have been about
half-past five, and I made up my mind that, rather than
return and risk explanations, I would wait where I was
until Mrs. Temple appeared. I had much to think of,
and for the rest the weird beauty of the place, with its
changing colors as the sun fell, held me in fascination.
When the blue vapor stole through the cypress swamp,
my trained ear caught the faintest of warning sounds.
Mrs. Temple was coming.
I could not repress the exclamation that rose to my lips
when she stood before me.
``I have changed somewhat,'' she began quite calmly;
``I have changed since you were at Temple Bow.''
I stood staring at her, at a loss to know whether by
these words she sought to gain an advantage. I knew
not whether to pity or to be angry, such a strange blending
she seemed of former pride and arrogance and later
suffering. There were the features of the beauty still,
the eyes defiant, the lips scornful. Sorrow had set its
brand upon this protesting face in deep, violet marks
under the eyes, in lines which no human power could
erase: sorrow had flecked with white the gold of the
hair, had proclaimed her a woman with a history. For
she had a new and remarkable beauty which puzzled and
astonished me,--a beauty in which maternity had no place.
The figure, gowned with an innate taste in black, still kept
the rounded lines of the young woman, while about the
shoulders and across the open throat a lace mantilla was
thrown. She stood facing me, undaunted, and I knew
that she had come to fight for what was left her. I knew
further that she was no mean antagonist.
``Will you kindly tell me to what circumstance I owe
the honor of this--summons, Mr. Ritchie?'' she asked.
``You are a travelled person for one so young. I might
almost say,'' she added with an indifferent laugh, ``that
there is some method and purpose in your travels.''
``Indeed, you do me wrong, Madame,'' I replied; ``I am
here by the merest chance.''
Again she laughed lightly, and stepping past me took
her seat on the oak from which I had risen. I marvelled
that this woman, with all her self-possession, could be the
same as she who had held her room, cowering, these four
days past. Admiration for her courage mingled with my
other feelings, and for the life of me I knew not where to
begin. My experience with women of the world was,
after all, distinctly limited. Mrs. Temple knew, apparently
by intuition, the advantage she had gained, and she
smiled.
``The Ritchies were always skilled in dealing with
sinners,'' she began; ``the first earl had the habit of hunting
them like foxes, so it is said. I take it for granted that,
before my sentence is pronounced, I shall have the pleasure
of hearing my wrong-doings in detail. I could not ask
you to forego that satisfaction.''
``You seem to know the characteristics of my family,
Mrs. Temple,'' I answered. ``There is one trait of the
Ritchies concerning which I ask your honest opinion.''
``And what is that?'' she said carelessly.
``I have always understood that they have spoken the
truth. Is it not so?''
She glanced at me curiously.
``I never knew your father to lie,'' she answered; ``but
after all he had few chances. He so seldom spoke.''
``Your intercourse with me at Temple Bow was quite
as limited,'' I said.
``Ah,'' she interrupted quickly, ``you bear me that
grudge. It is another trait of the Ritchies.''
``I bear you no grudge, Madame,'' I replied. ``I asked
you a question concerning the veracity of my family, and
I beg that you will believe what I say.''
``And what is this momentous statement?'' she asked.
I had hard work to keep my temper, but I knew that I
must not lose it.
``I declare to you on my honor that my business in New
Orleans in no way concerns you, and that I had not the
slightest notion of finding you here. Will you believe
that?''
``And what then?'' she asked.
``I also declare to you that, since meeting your son, my
chief anxiety has been lest he should run across you.''
``You are very considerate of others,'' she said. ``Let
us admit for the sake of argument that you come here by
accident.''
It was the opening I had sought for, but despaired of
getting.
``Then put yourself for a moment in my place, Madame,
and give me credit for a little kindliness of feeling, and a
sincere affection for your son.''
There was a new expression on her face, and the light
of a supreme effort in her eyes.
``I give you credit at least for a logical mind,'' she
answered. ``In spite of myself you have put me at the
bar and seem to be conducting my trial.''
``I do not see why there should be any rancor between
us,'' I answered. ``It is true that I hated you at Temple
Bow. When my father was killed and I was left a homeless
orphan you had no pity for me, though your husband
was my mother's brother. But you did me a good turn
after all, for you drove me out into a world where I learned
to rely upon myself. Furthermore, it was not in your
nature to treat me well.''
``Not in my nature?'' she repeated.
``You were seeking happiness, as every one must in
their own way. That happiness lay, apparently, with
Mr. Riddle.''
``Ah,'' she cried, with a catch of her breath, ``I thought
you would be judging me.''
``I am stating facts. Your son was a sufficient
embarrassment in this matter, and I should have been an
additional one. I blame you not, Mrs. Temple, for anything
you have done to me, but I blame you for embittering
Nick's life.''
``And he?'' she said. It seemed to me that I detected
a faltering in her voice.
``I will hide nothing from you. He blames you, with
what justice I leave you to decide.''
She did not answer this, but turned her head away
towards the bayou. Nor could I determine what was in
her mind.
``And now I ask you whether I have acted as your friend
in begging you to meet me.''
She turned to me swiftly at that.
``I am at a loss to see how there can be friendship between
us, Mr. Ritchie,'' she said.
``Very good then, Madame; I am sorry,'' I answered.
``I have done all that is in my power, and now events will
have to take their course.''
I had not gone two steps into the wood before I heard
her voice calling my name. She had risen, and leaned
with her hand against the oak.
``Does Nick--know that you are here?'' she cried.
``No,'' I answered shortly. Then I realized suddenly
what I had failed to grasp before,--she feared that I
would pity her.
``David!''
I started violently at the sound of my name, at the new
note in her voice, at the change in the woman as I
turned. And then before I realized what she had done
she had come to me swiftly and laid her hand upon
my arm.
``David, does he hate me?''
All the hope remaining in her life was in that question,
was in her face as she searched mine with a terrible
scrutiny. And never had I known such an ordeal. It seemed
as if I could not answer, and as I stood staring back at her
a smile was forced to her lips.
``I will pay you one tribute, my friend,'' she said; ``you
are honest.''
But even as she spoke I saw her sway, and though I
could not be sure it were not a dizziness in me, I caught
her. I shall always marvel at the courage there was in
her, for she straightened and drew away from me a little
proudly, albeit gently, and sat down on the knee of the
oak, looking across the bayou towards the mist of the
swamp. There was the infinite calmness of resignation in
her next speech.
``Tell me about him,'' she said.
She was changed indeed. Were it not so I should have
heard of her own sufferings, of her poor, hunted life from
place to place, of countless nights made sleepless by the
past. Pride indeed was left, but the fire had burned away
the last vestige of selfishness.
I sat down beside her, knowing full well that I should
be judged by what I said. She listened, motionless, though
something of what that narrative cost her I knew by the
current of sympathy that ran now between us. Unmarked,
the day faded, a new light was spread over the waters, the
mist was spangled with silver points, the Spanish moss
took on the whiteness of lace against the black forest
swamp, and on the yellow face of the moon the star-shaped
leaves of a gum were printed.
At length I paused. She neither spoke, nor moved--
save for the rising and falling of her shoulders. The
hardest thing I had to say I saved for the last, and I was
near lacking the courage to continue.
``There is Mademoiselle Antoinette--'' I began, and
stopped,--she turned on me so quickly and laid a hand
on mine.
``Nick loves her!'' she cried.
``You know it!'' I exclaimed, wondering.
``Ah, David,'' she answered brokenly, ``I foresaw it
from the first. I, too, love the girl. No human being
has ever given me such care and such affection. She--
she is all that I have left. Must I give her up? Have
I not paid the price of my sins?''
I did not answer, knowing that she saw the full cruelty
of the predicament. What happiness remained to her
now of a battered life stood squarely in the way of her
son's happiness. That was the issue, and no advice or
aid of mine could change it. There was another silence
that seemed to me an eternity as I watched, a helpless
witness, the struggle going on within her. At last she
got to her feet, her face turned to the shadow.
``I will go, David,'' she said. Her voice was low and
she spoke with a steadiness that alarmed me. ``I will
go.''
Torn with pity, I thought again, but I could see no
alternative. And then, suddenly, she was clinging to me,
her courage gone, her breast shaken with sobs. ``Where
shall I go?'' she cried. ``God help me! Are there no
remote places where He will not seek me out? I have
tried them all, David.'' And quite as suddenly she
disengaged herself, and looked at me strangely. ``You are
well revenged for Temple Bow,'' she said.
``Hush,'' I answered, and held her, fearing I knew not
what, ``you have not lacked courage. It is not so bad as
you believe. I will devise a plan and help you. Have
you money?
``Yes,'' she answered, with a remnant of her former
pride; ``and I have an annuity paid now to Mr. Clark.''
``Then listen to what I say,'' I answered. ``To-night
I will take you to New Orleans and hide you safely. And
I swear to you, whether it be right or wrong, that I will
use every endeavor to change Nick's feelings towards you.
Come,'' I continued, leading her gently into the path,
``let us go while there is yet time.''
``Stop,'' she said, and I halted fearfully. ``David
Ritchie, you are a good man. I can make no amends to
you,''--she did not finish.
Feeling for the path in the blackness of the wood, I
led her by the hand, and she followed me as trustfully
as a child. At last, after an age of groping, the heavy
scents of shrubs and flowers stole to us on the night air,
and we came out at the hedge into what seemed a blaze
of light that flooded the rows of color. Here we paused,
breathless, and looked. The bench under the great tree
was vacant, and the garden was empty.
It was she who led the way through the hedge, who
halted in the garden path at the sound of voices. She
turned, but there was no time to flee, for the tall figure of
a man came through the opposite hedge, followed by a
lady. One was Nicholas Temple, the other, Mademoiselle
de St. Gre. Mrs. Temple's face alone was in the shadow,
and as I felt her hand trembling on my arm I summoned
all my resources. It was Nick who spoke first.
``It is Davy!'' he cried. ``Oh, the sly rascal! And
this is the promenade of which he left us word, the
solitary meditation! Speak up, man; you are forgiven for
deserting us.
He turned, laughing, to Mademoiselle. But she stood
with her lips parted and her hands dropped, staring at my
companion. Then she took two steps forward and stopped
with a cry.
``Mrs. Clive!''
The woman beside me turned, and with a supreme
courage raised her head and faced the girl.
``Yes, Antoinette, it is I,'' she answered.
And then my eyes sought Nick, for Mrs. Temple had
faced her son with a movement that was a challenge, yet
with a look that questioned, yearned, appealed. He, too,
stared, the laughter fading from his eyes, first astonishment,
and then anger, growing in them, slowly, surely. I shall
never forget him as he stood there (for what seemed an
age) recalling one by one the wrongs this woman had done
him. She herself had taught him to brook no restraint,
to follow impetuously his loves and hates, and endurance
in these things was moulded in every line of his finely cut
features. And when he spoke it was not to her, but to
the girl at his side.
``Do you know who this is?'' he said. ``Tell me, do
you know this woman?''
Mademoiselle de St. Gre did not answer him. She
drew near, gently, to Mrs. Temple, whose head was
bowed, whose agony I could only guess.
``Mrs. Clive,'' she said softly, though her voice was
shaken by a prescience, ``won't you tell me what has
happened? Won't you speak to me--Antoinette?''
The poor lady lifted up her arms, as though to embrace
the girl, dropped them despairingly, and turned away.
``Antoinette,'' she murmured, ``Antoinette!''
For Nick had seized Antoinette by the hand, restraining
her.
``You do not know what you are doing?'' he cried
angrily. ``Listen!''
I had stood bereft of speech, watching the scene
breathlessly. And now I would have spoken had not
Mademoiselle astonished me by taking the lead. I have thought
since that I might have pieced together this much of her
character. Her glance at Nick surprised him momentarily
into silence.
``I know that she is my dearest friend,'' she said, ``that
she came to us in misfortune, and that we love her and
trust her. I do not know why she is here with Mr.
Ritchie, but I am sure it is for some good reason.'' She
laid a hand on Mrs. Temple's shoulder. ``Mrs. Clive,
won't you speak to me?''
``My God, Antoinette, listen!'' cried Nick; ``Mrs. Clive
is not her name. I know her, David knows her. She is
an--adventuress!''
Mrs. Temple gave a cry, and the girl shot at him a
frightened, bewildered glance, in which a new-born love
struggled with an older affection.
``An adventuress!'' she repeated, her hand dropping,
``oh, I do not believe it. I cannot believe it.''
``You shall believe it,'' said Nick, fiercely. ``Her name
is not Clive. Ask David what her name is.''
Antoinette's lips moved, but she shirked the question.
And Nick seized me roughly.
``Tell her,'' he said, ``tell her! My God, how can I do
it? Tell her, David.''
For the life of me I could not frame the speech at
once, my pity and a new-found and surprising respect
for her making it doubly hard to pronounce her sentence.
Suddenly she raised her head, not proudly, but with a
dignity seemingly conferred by years of sorrow and of
suffering. Her tones were even, bereft of every vestige
of hope.
``Antoinette, I have deceived you, though as God is my
witness, I thought no harm could come of it. I deluded
myself into believing that I had found friends and a refuge
at last. I am Mrs. Temple.''
``Mrs. Temple!'' The girl repeated the name sorrowfully,
but perplexedly, not grasping its full significance.
``She is my mother,'' said Nick, with a bitterness I had
not thought in him, ``she is my mother, or I would curse
her. For she has ruined my life and brought shame on a
good name.''
He paused, his breath catching for very anger. Mrs.
Temple hid her face in her hands, while the girl shrank
back in terror. I grasped him by the arm.
``Have you no compassion?'' I cried. But Mrs. Temple
interrupted me.
``He has the right,'' she faltered; ``it is my just
punishment.''
He tore himself away, and took a step to her.
``Where is Riddle?'' he cried. ``As God lives, I will
kill him without mercy!''
His mother lifted her head again.
``God has judged him,'' she said quietly; ``he is beyond
your vengeance--he is dead.'' A sob shook her, but she
conquered it with a marvellous courage. ``Harry Riddle
loved me, he was kind to me, and he was a better man than
John Temple.''
Nick recoiled. The fierceness of his anger seemed to
go, leaving a more dangerous humor.
``Then I have been blessed with parents,'' he said.
At that she swayed, but when I would have caught her
she motioned me away and turned to Antoinette. Twice
Mrs. Temple tried to speak.
``I was going away to-night,'' she said at length,
``and you would never have seen or heard of me more.
My nephew David--Mr. Ritchie--whom I treated cruelly
as a boy, had pity on me. He is a good man, and he was
to have taken me away-- I do not attempt to defend myself,
my dear, but I pray that you, who have so much charity,
will some day think a little kindly of one who has sinned
deeply, of one who will love and bless you and yours to her
dying day.''
She faltered, and Nick would have spoken had not
Antoinette herself stayed him with a gesture.
``I wish--my son to know the little there is on my side.
It is not much. Yet God may not spare him the sorrow
that brings pity. I--I loved Harry Riddle as a girl.
My father was ruined, and I was forced into marriage with
John Temple for his possessions. He was selfish,
overbearing, cruel--unfaithful. During the years I lived
with him he never once spoke kindly to me. I, too, grew
wicked and selfish and heedless. My head was turned by
admiration. Mr. Temple escaped to England in a manof-
war; he left me without a line of warning, of farewell.
I--I have wandered over the earth, haunted by remorse,
and I knew no moment of peace, of happiness, until you
brought me here and sheltered and loved me. And even
here I have had many sleepless hours. A hundred times
I have summoned my courage to tell you,--I could not.
I am justly punished, Antoinette.'' She moved a little,
timidly, towards the girl, who stood motionless, dazed by
what she heard. She held out a hand, appealingly, and
dropped it. ``Good-by, my dear; God will bless you for
your kindness to an unfortunate outcast.''
She glanced with a kind of terror in her eyes from the
girl to Nick, and what she meant to say concerning their
love I know not, for the flood, held back so long, burst
upon her. She wept as I have never seen a woman weep.
And then, before Nick or I knew what had happened,
Antoinette had taken her swiftly in her arms and was
murmuring in her ear:--
``You shall not go. You shall not. You will live with
me always.''
Presently the sobs ceased, and Mrs. Temple raised her
face, slowly, wonderingly, as if she had not heard aright.
And she tried gently to push the girl away.
``No, Antoinette,'' she said, ``I have done you harm
enough.''
But the girl clung to her strongly, passionately. ``I
do not care what you have done,'' she cried, ``you are
good now. I know that you are good now. I will not
cast you out. I will not.''
I stood looking at them, bewildered and astonished by
Mademoiselle's loyalty. She seemed to have forgotten
Nick, as had I, and then as I turned to him he came
towards them. Almost roughly he took Antoinette by the
arm.
``You do not know what you are saying,'' he cried.
``Come away, Antoinette, you do not know what she has
done--you cannot realize what she is.''
Antoinette shrank away from him, still clinging to
Mrs. Temple. There was a fearless directness in her
look which might have warned him.
``She is your mother,'' she said quietly.
``My mother!'' he repeated; ``yes, I will tell you what
a mother she has been to me--''
``Nick!''
It passes my power to write down the pity of that appeal,
the hopelessness of it, the yearning in it. Freeing herself
from the girl, Mrs. Temple took one step towards
him, her arms held up. I had not thought that his hatred
of her was deep enough to resist it. It was Antoinette
whose intuition divined this ere he had turned away.
``You have chosen between me and her,'' he said; and
before we could get the poor lady to the seat under the
oak, he had left the garden. In my perturbation I glanced
at Antoinette, but there was no other sign in her face save
of tenderness for Mrs. Temple.
Mrs. Temple had mercifully fainted. As I crossed the
lawn I saw two figures in the deep shadow beside the
gallery, and I heard Nick's voice giving orders to Benjy
to pack and saddle. When I reached the garden again
the girl had loosed Mrs. Temple's gown, and was bending
over her, murmuring in her ear.
* * * * * * *
Many hours later, when the moon was waning towards
the horizon, fearful of surprise by the coming day, I was
riding slowly under the trees on the road to New Orleans.
Beside me, veiled in black, her head bowed, was Mrs. Temple,
and no word had escaped her since she had withdrawn
herself gently from the arms of Antoinette on the gallery
at Les Iles. Nick had gone long before. The hardest
task had been to convince the girl that Mrs. Temple
might not stay. After that Antoinette had busied herself,
with a silent fortitude I had not thought was in her,
making ready for the lady's departure. I shall never
forget her as she stood, a slender figure of sorrow, looking
down at us, the tears glistening on her cheeks. And I
could not resist the impulse to mount the steps once more.
``You were right, Antoinette,'' I whispered; ``whatever
happens, you will remember that I am your friend. And
I will bring him back to you if I can.''
She pressed my hand, and turned and went slowly into
the house.
BOOK III
LOUISIANA
CHAPTER I
THE RIGHTS OF MAN
Were these things which follow to my thinking not
extraordinary, I should not write them down here, nor should
I have presumed to skip nearly five years of time. For
indeed almost five years had gone by since the warm summer
night when I rode into New Orleans with Mrs. Temple.
And in all that time I had not so much as laid eyes on my
cousin and dearest friend, her son. I searched New
Orleans for him in vain, and learned too late that he had
taken passage on a packet which had dropped down the
river the next morning, bound for Charleston and New
York.
I have an instinct that this is not the place to relate in
detail what occurred to me before leaving New Orleans.
Suffice it to say that I made my way back through the
swamps, the forests, the cane-brakes of the Indian country,
along the Natchez trail to Nashville, across the barrens to
Harrodstown in Kentucky, where I spent a week in that
cabin which had so long been for me a haven of refuge.
Dear Polly Ann! She hugged me as though I were still
the waif whom she had mothered, and wept over the little
presents which I had brought the children. Harrodstown
was changed, new cabins and new faces met me at every
turn, and Tom, more disgruntled than ever, had gone
a-hunting with Mr. Boone far into the wilderness.
I went back to Louisville to take up once more the
struggle for practice, and I do not intend to charge so
much as a page with what may be called the even tenor
of my life. I was not a man to get into trouble on my
own account. Louisville grew amazingly; white frame
houses were built, and even brick ones. And ere Kentucky
became a State, in 1792, I had gone as delegate to
more than one of the Danville Conventions.
Among the nations, as you know, a storm raged, and the
great swells from that conflict threatened to set adrift and
wreck the little republic but newly launched. The noise
of the tramping of great armies across the Old World shook
the New, and men in whom the love of fierce fighting was
born were stirred to quarrel among themselves. The
Rights of Man! How many wrongs have been done
under that clause! The Bastille stormed; the Swiss Guard
slaughtered; the Reign of Terror, with its daily procession
of tumbrels through the streets of Paris; the murder
of that amiable and well-meaning gentleman who did his
best to atone for the sins of his ancestors; the fearful
months of waiting suffered by his Queen before she, too,
went to her death. Often as I lighted my candle of an
evening in my little room to read of these things so far
away, I would drop my Kentucky Gazette to think of a
woman whose face I remembered, to wonder sadly whether
Helene de St. Gre were among the lists. In her, I was
sure, was personified that courage for which her order will
go down eternally through the pages of history, and in my
darker moments I pictured her standing beside the guillotine
with a smile that haunted me.
The hideous image of that strife was reflected amongst
our own people. Budget after budget was hurried by the
winds across the sea. And swift couriers carried the news
over the Blue Wall by the Wilderness Trail (widened
now), and thundered through the little villages of the
Blue Grass country to the Falls. What interest, you will
say, could the pioneer lawyers and storekeepers and
planters have in the French Revolution? The Rights of
Man! Down with kings! General Washington and Mr.
Adams and Mr. Hamilton might sigh for them, but they
were not for the free-born pioneers of the West. Citizen
was the proper term now,--Citizen General Wilkinson
when that magnate came to town, resplendent in his
brigadier's uniform. It was thought that Mr. Wilkinson
would plot less were he in the army under the watchful
eye of his superiors. Little they knew him! Thus the
Republic had a reward for adroitness, for treachery, and
treason. But what reward had it for the lonely, embittered,
stricken man whose genius and courage had gained
for it the great Northwest territory? What reward had
the Republic for him who sat brooding in his house above
the Falls--for Citizen General Clark?
In those days you were not a Federalist or a Democrat,
you were an Aristocrat or a Jacobin. The French parties
were our parties; the French issue, our issue. Under the
patronage of that saint of American Jacobinism, Thomas
Jefferson, a Jacobin society was organized in Philadelphia,
--special guardians of Liberty. And flying on the
March winds over the mountains the seed fell on the black
soil of Kentucky: Lexington had its Jacobin society,
Danville and Louisville likewise their patrons and
protectors of the Rights of Mankind. Federalists were not
guillotined in Kentucky in the summer of 1793, but I
might mention more than one who was shot.
In spite of the Federalists, Louisville prospered, and
incidentally I prospered in a mild way. Mr. Crede, behind
whose store I still lived, was getting rich, and happened
to have an affair of some importance in Philadelphia. Mr.
Wharton was kind enough to recommend a young lawyer
who had the following virtues: he was neither handsome
nor brilliant, and he wore snuff-colored clothes. Mr.
Wharton also did me the honor to say that I was cautious
and painstaking, and had a habit of tiring out my adversary.
Therefore, in the early summer of 1793, I went to
Philadelphia. At that time, travellers embarking on such a
journey were prayed over as though they were going to
Tartary. I was absent from Louisville near a year, and
there is a diary of what I saw and felt and heard on this
trip for the omission of which I will be thanked. The
great news of that day which concerns the world--and
incidentally this story--was that Citizen Genet had
landed at Charleston.
Citizen Genet, Ambassador of the great Republic of
France to the little Republic of America, landed at
Charleston, acclaimed by thousands, and lost no time.
Scarcely had he left that city ere American privateers had
slipped out of Charleston harbor to prey upon the commerce
of the hated Mistress of the Sea. Was there ever
such a march of triumph as that of the Citizen Ambassador
northward to the capital? Everywhere toasted and
feasted, Monsieur Genet did not neglect the Rights of
Man, for without doubt the United States was to declare
war on Britain within a fortnight. Nay, the Citizen
Ambassador would go into the halls of Congress and
declare war himself if that faltering Mr. Washington
refused his duty. Citizen Genet organized his legions as he
went along, and threw tricolored cockades from the windows
of his carriage. And at his glorious entry into
Philadelphia (where I afterwards saw the great man with
my own eyes), Mr. Washington and his Federal-Aristocrats
trembled in their boots.
It was late in April, 1794, when I reached Pittsburg on
my homeward journey and took passage down the Ohio
with a certain Captain Wendell of the army, in a Kentucky
boat. I had known the Captain in Louisville, for
he had been stationed at Fort Finney, the army post
across the Ohio from that town, and he had come to
Pittsburg with a sergeant to fetch down the river some dozen
recruits. This was a most fortunate circumstance for me,
and in more ways than one. Although the Captain was a
gruff and blunt man, grizzled and weather-beaten, a
woman-hater, he could be a delightful companion when
once his confidence was gained; and as we drifted in the
mild spring weather through the long reaches between the
passes he talked of Trenton and Brandywine and Yorktown.
There was more than one bond of sympathy between
us, for he worshipped Washington, detested the
French party, and had a hatred for ``filthy Democrats''
second to none I have ever encountered.
We stopped for a few days at Fort Harmar, where the
Muskingum pays its tribute to the Ohio, built by the
Federal government to hold the territory which Clark
had won. And leaving that hospitable place we took up
our journey once more in the very miracle-time of the
spring. The sunlight was like amber-crystal, the tall
cottonwoods growing by the water-side flaunted a proud
glory of green, the hills behind them that formed the first
great swells of the sea of the wilderness were clothed in a
thousand sheens and shaded by the purple budding of the
oaks and walnuts on the northern slopes. On the yellow
sandbars flocks of geese sat pluming in the sun, or rose at
our approach to cast fleeting shadows on the water, their
HONK-HONKS echoing from the hills. Here and there a hawk
swooped down from the azure to break the surface and
bear off a wriggling fish that gleamed like silver, and at
eventide we would see at the brink an elk or doe, with
head poised, watching us as we drifted. We passed here
and there a lonely cabin, to set my thoughts wandering
backwards to my youth, and here and there in the dimples
of the hills little clusters of white and brown houses, one
day to become marts of the Republic.
My joy at coming back at this golden season to a country
I loved was tempered by news I had heard from Captain
Wendell, and which I had discussed with the officers at
Fort Harmar. The Captain himself had broached the
subject one cool evening, early in the journey, as we sat
over the fire in our little cabin. He had been telling me
about Brandywine, but suddenly he turned to me with a
kind of fierce gesture that was natural to the man.
``Ritchie,'' he said, ``you were in the Revolution
yourself. You helped Clark to capture that country,'' and he
waved his hand towards the northern shore; ``why the
devil don't you tell me about it?''
``You never asked me,'' I answered.
He looked at me curiously.
``Well,'' he said, ``I ask you now.''
I began lamely enough, but presently my remembrance
of the young man who conquered all obstacles, who compelled
all men he met to follow and obey him, carried me
strongly into the narrative. I remembered him, quiet,
self-contained, resourceful, a natural leader, at twenty-five
a bulwark for the sorely harried settlers of Kentucky;
the man whose clear vision alone had perceived the value
of the country north of the Ohio to the Republic, who had
compelled the governor and council of Virginia to see it
likewise. Who had guarded his secret from all men, who
in the face of fierce opposition and intrigue had raised a
little army to follow him--they knew not where. Who
had surprised Kaskaskia, cowed the tribes of the North in
his own person, and by sheer force of will drew after him
and kept alive a motley crowd of men across the floods
and through the ice to Vincennes.
We sat far into the night, the Captain listening as I
had never seen a man listen. And when at length I had
finished he was for a long time silent, and then he sprang
to his feet with an oath that woke the sleeping soldiers
forward and glared at me.
``My God!'' he cried, ``it is enough to make a man
curse his uniform to think that such a man as Wilkinson
wears it, while Clark is left to rot, to drink himself under
the table from disappointment, to plot with the damned
Jacobins--''
``To plot!'' I cried, starting violently in my turn.
The Captain looked at me in astonishment.
``How long have you been away from Louisville?'' he
asked.
``It will be a year,'' I answered.
``Ah,'' said the Captain, ``I will tell you. It is more
than a year since Clark wrote Genet, since the Ambassador
bestowed on him a general's commission in the army
of the French Republic.''
``A general's commission!'' I exclaimed. ``And he is
going to France?'' The nation which had driven John
Paul Jones from its service was now to lose George Rogers
Clark!
``To France!'' laughed the Captain. ``No, this is
become France enough. He is raising in Kentucky
and in the Cumberland country an army with a cursed,
high-sounding name. Some of his old Illinois scouts--
McChesney, whom you mentioned, for one--have been
collecting bear's meat and venison hams all winter. They
are going to march on Louisiana and conquer it for the
French Republic, for Liberty, Equality--the Rights of
Man, anything you like.''
``On Louisiana!'' I repeated; ``what has the Federal
government been doing?''
The Captain winked at me and sat down.
``The Federal government is supine, a laughing-stock--
so our friends the Jacobins say, who have been shouting
at Mr. Easton's tavern all winter. Nay, they declare that
all this country west of the mountains, too, will be broken
off and set up into a republic, and allied with that
most glorious of all republics, France. Believe me, the
Jacobins have not been idle, and there have been strangelooking
birds of French plumage dodging between the
General's house at Clarksville and the Bear Grass.''
I was silent, the tears almost forcing themselves to my
eyes at the pathetic sordidness of what I had heard.
``It can come to nothing,'' continued the Captain, in a
changed voice. ``General Clark's mind is unhinged by--
disappointment. Mad Anthony[1] is not a man to be caught
sleeping, and he has already attended to a little expedition
from the Cumberland. Mad Anthony loves the General,
as we all do, and the Federal government is wiser than
the Jacobins think. It may not be necessary to do
anything.'' Captain Wendell paused, and looked at me
fixedly. ``Ritchie, General Clark likes you, and you
have never offended him. Why not go to his little house
in Clarksville when you get to Louisville and talk to him
plainly, as I know you can? Perhaps you might have
some influence.''
[1] General Wayne of Revolutionary fame was then in command of
that district.
I shook my head sadly.
``I intend to go,'' I answered, ``but I will have no
influence.''
CHAPTER II
THE HOUSE ABOVE THE FALLS
It was May-day, and shortly after dawn we slipped into
the quiet water which is banked up for many miles above
the Falls. The Captain and I sat forward on the deck,
breathing deeply the sharp odor which comes from the wet
forest in the early morning, listening to the soft splash of
the oars, and watching the green form of Eighteen Mile
Island as it gently drew nearer and nearer. And ere the
sun had risen greatly we had passed Twelve Mile Island,
and emerging from the narrow channel which divides Six
Mile Island from the northern shore, we beheld, on its
terrace above the Bear Grass, Louisville shining white in
the morning sun. Majestic in its mile of width, calm, as
though gathering courage, the river seemed to straighten
for the ordeal to come, and the sound of its waters
crying over the rocks far below came faintly to my ear
and awoke memories of a day gone by. Fearful of the
suck, we crept along the Indian shore until we counted
the boats moored in the Bear Grass, and presently above
the trees on our right we saw the Stars and Stripes floating
from the log bastion of Fort Finney. And below the fort,
on the gentle sunny slope to the river's brink, was spread
the green garden of the garrison, with its sprouting
vegetables and fruit trees blooming pink and white.
We were greeted by a company of buff and blue officers
at the landing, and I was bidden to breakfast at their
mess, Captain Wendell promising to take me over to
Louisville afterwards. He had business in the town, and
about eight of the clock we crossed the wide river in one
of the barges of the fort and made fast at the landing in
the Bear Grass. But no sooner had we entered the town
than we met a number of country people on horseback,
with their wives and daughters--ay, and sweethearts--
perched up behind them: the men mostly in butternut
linsey hunting shirts and trousers, slouch hats, and red
handkerchiefs stuck into their bosoms; the women marvellously
pretty and fresh in stiff cotton gowns and Quaker
hats, and some in crimped caps with ribbons neatly tied
under the chin. Before Mr. Easton's tavern Joe Handy,
the fiddler, was reeling off a few bars of ``Hey, Betty
Martin'' to the familiar crowd of loungers under the big poplar.
``It's Davy Ritchie!'' shouted Joe, breaking off in the
middle of the tune; ``welcome home, Davy. Ye're jest in
time for the barbecue on the island.''
``And Cap Wendell! Howdy, Cap!'' drawled another,
a huge, long-haired, sallow, dirty fellow. But the Captain
only glared.
``Damn him!'' he said, after I had spoken to Joe and
we had passed on, ``HE ought to be barbecued; he nearly
bit off Ensign Barry's nose a couple of months ago.
Barry tried to stop the beast in a gouging fight.''
The bright morning, the shady streets, the homelike
frame and log houses, the old-time fragrant odor of
cornpone wafted out of the open doorways, the warm greetings,
--all made me happy to be back again. Mr. Crede rushed
out and escorted us into his cool store, and while he
waited on his country customers bade his negro brew a
bowl of toddy, at the mention of which Mr. Bill Whalen,
chief habitue, roused himself from a stupor on a tobacco
barrel. Presently the customers, having indulged in the
toddy, departed for the barbecue, the Captain went to the
fort, and Mr. Crede and myself were left alone to talk
over the business which had sent me to Philadelphia.
At four o'clock, having finished my report and dined
with my client, I set out for Clarksville, for Mr. Crede
had told me, among other things, that the General was
there. Louisville was deserted, the tavern porch vacant;
but tacked on the logs beside the door was a printed bill
which drew my curiosity. I stopped, caught by a familiar
name in large type at the head of it.
``GEORGE R. CLARK, ESQUIRE,
``MAJOR-GENERAL IN THE ARMIES OF FRANCE AND
COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE FRENCH
REVOLUTIONARY LEGION ON THE
MISSISSIPPI RIVER.
``PROPOSALS
``For raising volunteers for the reduction of the Spanish
posts on the Mississippi, for opening the trade of the said river
and giving freedom to all its inhabitants--''
I had got so far when I heard a noise of footsteps within,
and Mr. Easton himself came out, in his shirt-sleeves.
``By cricky, Davy,'' said he, ``I'm right glad ter see ye
ag'in. Readin' the General's bill, are ye? Tarnation, I
reckon Washington and all his European fellers east of
the mountains won't be able ter hold us back this time.
I reckon we'll gallop over Louisiany in the face of all the
Spaniards ever created. I've got some new whiskey I 'low
will sink tallow. Come in, Davy.''
As he took me by the arm, a laughter and shouting
came from the back room.
``It's some of them Frenchy fellers come over from
Knob Licks. They're in it,'' and he pointed his thumb
over his shoulder to the proclamation, ``and thar's one
young American among 'em who's a t'arer. Come in.''
I drank a glass of Mr. Easton's whiskey, and asked
about the General.
``He stays over thar to Clarksville pretty much,'' said
Mr. Easton. ``Thar ain't quite so much walkin' araound
ter do,'' he added significantly.
I made my way down to the water-side, where Jake
Landrasse sat alone on the gunwale of a Kentucky boat,
smoking a clay pipe as he fished. I had to exercise
persuasion to induce Jake to paddle me across, which he
finally agreed to do on the score of old friendship, and he
declared that the only reason he was not at the barbecue
was because he was waiting to take a few gentlemen to
see General Clark. I agreed to pay the damages if he
were late in returning for these gentlemen, and soon he
was shooting me with pulsing strokes across the lake-like
expanse towards the landing at Fort Finney. Louisville
and the fort were just above the head of the Falls, and
the little town of Clarksville, which Clark had founded,
at the foot of them. I landed, took the road that led
parallel with the river through the tender green of the
woods, and as I walked the mighty song which the Falls
had sung for ages to the Wilderness rose higher and
higher, and the faint spray seemed to be wafted through
the forest and to hang in the air like the odor of a summer rain.
It was May-day. The sweet, caressing note of the
thrush mingled with the music of the water, the dogwood
and the wild plum were in festal array; but my heart was
heavy with thinking of a great man who had cheapened
himself. At length I came out upon a clearing where
fifteen log houses marked the grant of the Federal
government to Clark's regiment. Perched on a tree-dotted
knoll above the last spasm of the waters in their two-mile
race for peace, was a two-storied log house with a little,
square porch in front of the door. As I rounded the
corner of the house and came in sight of the porch I halted
--by no will of my own--at the sight of a figure sunken
in a wooden chair. It was that of my old Colonel. His
hands were folded in front of him, his eyes were fixed but
dimly on the forests of the Kentucky shore across the
water; his hair, uncared for, fell on the shoulders of his
faded blue coat, and the stained buff waistcoat was
unbuttoned. For he still wore unconsciously the colors of
the army of the American Republic.
``General!'' I said.
He started, got to his feet, and stared at me.
``Oh, it's--it's Davy,'' he said. ``I--I was expecting
--some friends--Davy. What--what's the matter,
Davy?''
``I have been away. I am glad to see you again,
General.
``Citizen General, sir, Major-general in the army of the
French Republic and Commander-in-chief of the French
Revolutionary Legion on the Mississippi.''
``You will always be Colonel Clark to me, sir,'' I
answered.
``You--you were the drummer boy, I remember, and
strutted in front of the regiment as if you were the colonel.
Egad, I remember how you fooled the Kaskaskians when
you told them we were going away.'' He looked at me,
but his eyes were still fixed on the point beyond. ``You
were always older than I, Davy. Are you married?''
In spite of myself, I laughed as I answered this question.
``You are as canny as ever,'' he said, putting his hand
on my shoulder. ``Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,--they
are only possible for the bachelor.'' Hearing a noise, he
glanced nervously in the direction of the woods, only to
perceive his negro carrying a pail of water. ``I--I was
expecting some friends,'' he said. ``Sit down, Davy.''
``I hope I am not intruding, General,'' I said, not
daring to look at him.
``No, no, my son,'' he answered, ``you are always
welcome. Did we not campaign together? Did we not--
shoot these very falls together on our way to Kaskaskia?''
He had to raise his voice above the roar of the water.
``Faith, well I remember the day. And you saved it,
Davy,--you, a little gamecock, a little worldly-wise hopo'-
my-thumb, eh? Hamilton's scalp hanging by a lock,
egad--and they frightened out of their five wits because
it was growing dark.'' He laughed, and suddenly became
solemn again. ``There comes a time in every man's life
when it grows dark, Davy, and then the cowards are
afraid. They have no friends whose hands they can reach
out and feel. But you are my friend. You remember
that you said you would always be my friend? It--it
was in the fort at Vincennes.''
``I remember, General.''
He rose from the steps, buttoned his waistcoat, and
straightened himself with an effort. He looked at me
impressively.
``You have been a good friend indeed, Davy, a faithful
friend,'' he said. ``You came to me when I was sick, you
lent me money,''--he waved aside my protest. ``I am
happy to say that I shall soon be in a position to repay
you, to reward you. My evil days are over, and I spurn
that government which spurned me, for the honor and
glory of which I founded that city,''--he pointed in the
direction of Louisville,--``for the power and wealth of
which I conquered this Northwest territory. Listen! I
am now in the service of a republic where the people have
rights, I am Commander-in-chief of the French Revolutionary
Legion on the Mississippi. Despite the supineness
of Washington, the American nation will soon be at war
with Spain. But my friends--and thank God they are
many--will follow me--they will follow me to Natchez
and New Orleans,--ay, even to Santa Fe and Mexico if
I give the word. The West is with me, and for the West
I shall win the freedom of the Mississippi. For France
and Liberty I shall win back again Louisiana, and then I
shall be a Marechal de Camp.''
I could not help thinking of a man who had not been
wont to speak of his intentions, who had kept his counsel
for a year before Kaskaskia.
``I need my drummer boy, Davy,'' he said, his face
lighting up, ``but he will not be a drummer boy now. He
will be a trusted officer of high rank, mind you. Come,''
he cried, seizing me by the arm, ``I will write the
commission this instant. But hold! you read French,--I
remember the day Father Gibault gave you your first
lesson.'' He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a letter,
and handed it to me. ``This is from Citizen Michaux, the
famous naturalist, the political agent of the French
Republic. Read what he has written me.''
I read, I fear in a faltering voice:--
``Citoyen General:
``Un homme qui a donne des preuves de son amour pour la
Liberte et de sa haine pour le despotisme ne devait pas
s'adresser en vain au ministre de la Republique francaise.
General, il est temps que les Americains libres de l'Ouest
soient debarasses d'un ennemie aussi injuste que meprisable.''
When I had finished I glanced at the General, but he
seemed not to be heeding me. The sun was setting above
the ragged line of forest, and a blue veil was spreading over
the tumbling waters. He took me by the arm and led me
into the house, into a bare room that was all awry. Maps
hung on the wall, beside them the General's new commission,
rudely framed. Among the littered papers on the
table were two whiskey bottles and several glasses, and
strewn about were a number of chairs, the arms of which
had been whittled by the General's guests. Across the
rough mantel-shelf was draped the French tricolor, and
before the fireplace on the puncheons lay a huge bearskin
which undoubtedly had not been shaken for a year.
Picking up a bottle, the General poured out generous
helpings in two of the glasses, and handed one to me.
``The mists are bad, Davy,'' said he ``I--I cannot
afford to get the fever now. Let us drink success to the
army of the glorious Republic, France.''
``Let us drink first, General,'' I said, ``to the old
friendship between us.''
``Good!'' he cried. Tossing off his liquor, he set down
the glass and began what seemed a fruitless search among
the thousand papers on the table. But at length, with a
grunt of satisfaction, he produced a form and held it
under my eyes. At the top of the sheet was that muchabused
and calumniated lady, the Goddess of Liberty.
``Now,'' he said, drawing up a chair and dipping his
quill into an almost depleted ink-pot, ``I have decided to
make you, David Ritchie, with full confidence in your
ability and loyalty to the rights of liberty and mankind,
a captain in the Legion on the Mississippi.
I crossed the room swiftly, and as he put his pen to
paper I laid my hand on his arm.
``General, I cannot,'' I said. I had seen from the first
the futility of trying to dissuade him from the expedition,
and I knew now that it would never come off. I was
willing to make almost any sacrifice rather than offend him,
but this I could not allow. The General drew himself up
in his chair and stared at me with a flash of his old look.
``You cannot?'' he repeated; ``you have affairs to
attend to, I take it.''
I tried to speak, but he rode me down.
``There is money to be made in that prosperous town of
Louisville.'' He did not understand the pain which his
words caused me. He rose and laid his hands affectionately
on my shoulders. ``Ah, Davy, commerce makes a man
timid. Do you forget the old days when I was the
father and you the son? Come! I will make you a
fortune undreamed of, and you shall be my fianancier
once more.''
``I had not thought of the money, General,'' I answered,
``and I have always been ready to leave my business to
serve a friend.''
``There, there,'' said the General, soothingly, ``I know
it. I would not offend you. You shall have the commission,
and you may come when it pleases you.''
He sat down again to write, but I restrained him.
``I cannot go, General,'' I said.
``Thunder and fury,'' cried the General, ``a man might
think you were a weak-kneed Federalist.'' He stared at
me, and stared again, and rose and recoiled a step. ``My
God,'' he said, ``you cannot be a Federalist, you can't have
marched to Kaskaskia and Vincennes, you can't have been
a friend of mine and have seen how the government of the
United States has treated me, and be a Federalist!''
It was an argument and an appeal which I had foreseen,
yet which I knew not how to answer. Suddenly there came,
unbidden, his own counsel which he had given me long ago,
``Serve the people, as all true men should in a Republic,
but do not rely upon their gratitude.'' This man had
bidden me remember that.
``General,'' I said, trying to speak steadily, ``it was you
who gave me my first love for the Republic. I remember
you as you stood on the heights above Kaskaskia waiting
for the sun to go down, and you reminded me that it was
the nation's birthday. And you said that our nation was
to be a refuge of the oppressed of this earth, a nation made
of all peoples, out of all time. And you said that the
lands beyond,'' and I pointed to the West as he had done,
``should belong to it until the sun sets on the sea again.''
I glanced at him, for he was silent, and in my life I can
recall no sadder moment than this. The General heard,
but the man who had spoken these words was gone forever.
The eyes of this man before me were fixed, as it were,
upon space. He heard, but he did not respond; for the
spirit was gone. What I looked upon was the tortured
body from which the genius--the spirit I had worshipped
--had fled. I turned away, only to turn back in anger.
``What do you know of this France for which you are
to fight?'' I cried. ``Have you heard of the thousands of
innocents who are slaughtered, of the women and children
who are butchered in the streets in the name of Liberty?
What have those blood-stained adventurers to do with
Liberty, what have the fish-wives who love the sight of
blood to do with you that would fight for them? You
warned me that this people and this government to which
you have given so much would be ungrateful,--will the
butchers and fish-wives be more grateful?''
He caught only the word GRATEFUL, and he rose to his
feet with something of the old straightness and of the
old power. And by evil chance his eye, and mine, fell
upon a sword hanging on the farther wall. Well I
remembered when he had received it, well I knew the
inscription on its blade, ``Presented by the State of
Virginia to her beloved son, George Rogers Clark, who by the
conquest of Illinois and St. Vincennes extended her empire
and aided in the defence of her liberties.'' By evil chance,
I say, his eye lighted on that sword. In three steps he
crossed the room to where it hung, snatched it from its
scabbard, and ere I could prevent him he had snapped it across
his knee and flung the pieces in a corner.
``So much for the gratitude of my country,'' he said.
* * * * * * *
I had gone out on the little porch and stood gazing over
the expanse of forest and waters lighted by the afterglow.
Then I felt a hand upon my shoulder, I heard a familiar
voice calling me by an old name.
``Yes, General!'' I turned wonderingly.
``You are a good lad, Davy. I trust you,'' he said. ``I
--I was expecting some friends.''
He lifted a hand that was not too steady to his brow
and scanned the road leading to the fort. Even as he
spoke four figures emerged from the woods,--undoubtedly
the gentlemen who had held the council at the inn that
afternoon. We watched them in silence as they drew
nearer, and then something in the walk and appearance of
the foremost began to bother me. He wore a long, doublebreasted,
claret-colored redingote that fitted his slim figure
to perfection, and his gait was the easy gait of a man who
goes through the world careless of its pitfalls. So intently
did I stare that I gave no thought to those who followed
him. Suddenly, when he was within fifty paces, a cry
escaped me,--I should have known that smiling, sallow,
weakly handsome face anywhere in the world.
The gentleman was none other than Monsieur Auguste
de St. Gre. At the foot of the steps he halted and swept
his hand to his hat with a military salute.
``Citizen General,'' he said gracefully, ``we come and
pay our respec's to you and mek our report, and ver'
happy to see you look well. Citoyens, Vive la Republique!
--Hail to the Citizen General!''
``Vive la Republique! Vive le General!'' cried the
three citizens behind him.
``Citizens, you are very welcome,'' answered the General,
gravely, as he descended the steps and took each of them
by the hand. ``Citizens, allow me to introduce to you my
old friend, Citizen David Ritchie--''
``Milles diables!'' cried the Citizen St. Gre, seizing me
by the hand, ``c'est mon cher ami, Monsieur Reetchie.
Ver' happy you have this honor, Monsieur;''and snatching
his wide-brimmed military cocked hat from his head he
made me a smiling, sweeping bow.
``What!'' cried the General to me, ``you know the
Sieur de St. Gre, Davy?''
``He is my guest once in Louisiane, mon general,''
Monsieur Auguste explained; ``my family knows him.''
``You know the Sieur de St. Gre, Davy?'' said the
General again.
``Yes, I know him,'' I answered, I fear with some brevity.
``Podden me,'' said Auguste, ``I am now Citizen Captain
de St. Gre. And you are also embark in the glorious
cause-- Ah, I am happy,'' he added, embracing me with
a winning glance.
I was relieved from the embarrassment of denying the
impeachment by reason of being introduced to the other
notables, to Citizen Captain Sullivan, who wore an undress
uniform consisting of a cotton butternut hunting shirt
He had charge on the Bear Grass of building the boats for
the expedition, and was likewise a prominent member of
that august body, the Jacobin Society of Lexington. Next
came Citizen Quartermaster Depeau, now of Knob Licks,
Kentucky, sometime of New Orleans. The Citizen
Quartermaster wore his hair long in the backwoods
fashion; he had a keen, pale face and sunken eyes.
``Ver' glad mek you known to me, Citizen Reetchie.''
The fourth gentleman was likewise French, and called
Gignoux. The Citizen Gignoux made some sort of an
impression on me which I did not stop to analyze. He
was a small man, with a little round hand that wriggled
out of my grasp; he had a big French nose, bright eyes
that popped a little and gave him the habit of looking
sidewise, and grizzled, chestnut eyebrows over them.
He had a thin-lipped mouth and a round chin.
``Citizen Reetchie, is it? I laik to know citizen's name
glorified by gran' cause. Reetchie?''
``Will you enter, citizens?'' said the General.
I do not know why I followed them unless it were to
satisfy a devil-prompted curiosity as to how Auguste de
St. Gre had got there. We went into the room, where the
General's slovenly negro was already lighting the candles
and the General proceeded to collect and fill six of the
glasses on the table. It was Citizen Captain Sullivan
who gave the toast.
``Citizens,'' he cried, ``I give you the health of the
foremost apostle of Liberty in the Western world, the General
who tamed the savage tribes, who braved the elements,
who brought to their knees the minions of a despot king.''
A slight suspicion of a hiccough filled this gap. ``Cast
aside by an ungrateful government, he is still unfaltering
in his allegiance to the people. May he lead our Legion
victorious through the Spanish dominions.
``Vive la Republique!'' they shouted, draining their
glasses. ``Vive le citoyen general Clark!''
``Louisiana!'' shouted Citizen Sullivan, warming,
``Louisiana, groaning under oppression and tyranny, is
imploring us with uplifted hands. To those remaining
veteran patriots whose footsteps we followed to this distant
desert, and who by their blood and toil have converted
it into a smiling country, we now look. Under
your guidance, Citizen General, we fought, we bled--''
How far the Citizen Captain would have gone is
problematical. I had noticed a look of disgust slowly creeping
into the Citizen Quartermaster's eyes, and at this juncture
he seized the Citizen Captain and thrust him into a chair.
``Sacre vent!'' he exclaimed, ``it is the proclamation--
he recites the proclamation! I see he have participate in
those handbill. Poof, the world is to conquer,--let us
not spik so much.''
``I give you one toast,'' said the little Citizen Gignoux,
slyly, ``we all bring back one wife from Nouvelle Orleans!
``Ha,'' exclaimed the Sieur de St. Gre, laughing,; the
Citizen Captain Depeau--he has already one wife in
Nouvelle Orleans.''[1]
[1] It is unnecessary for the editor to remind the reader that
these are not Mr. Ritchie's words, but those of an adventurer.
Mr. Depeau was an honest and worthy gentleman, earnest enough in
a cause which was more to his credit than to an American's.
According to contemporary evidence, Madame Depeau was in New
Orleans.
The Citizen Quartermaster was angry at this, and it did
not require any great perspicacity on my part to discover
that he did not love the Citizen de St. Gre.
``He is call in his country, Gumbo de St. Gre, said
Citizen Depeau. ``It is a deesh in that country. But to
beesness, citizens,--we embark on glorious enterprise.
The King and Queen of France, she pay for her treason
with their haids, and we must be prepare' for do the sem.''
``Ha,'' exclaimed the Sieur de St. Gre, ``the Citizen
Quartermaster will lose his provision before his haid.''
The inference was plain, and the Citizen Quartermaster
was quick to take it up.
``We are all among frien's,'' said he. ``Why I call you
Gumbo de St. Gre? When I come first settle in Louisiane
you was wild man--yes. Drink tafia, fight duel,
spend family money. Aristocrat then. No, I not hold
my tongue. You go France and Monsieur le Marquis de
St. Gre he get you in gardes du corps of the King. Yes, I
tell him. You tell the Citizen General how come you
Jacobin now, and we see if he mek you Captain.''
A murmur of surprise escaped from several of the
company, and they all stared at the Sieur de St. Gre. But
General Clark brought down his fist on the table with
something of his old-time vigor, and the glasses rattled.
``Gentlemen, I will have no quarrelling in my presence,''
he cried; ``and I beg to inform Citizen Depeau that
I bestow my commissions where it pleases me.''
Auguste de St. Gre rose, flushing, to his feet.
``Citizens,'' he said, with a fluency that was easy for him, ``I
never mek secret of my history--no. It is true my
relation, Monsieur le Marquis de St. Gre, bought me a
pair of colors in the King's gardes du corps.''
``And is it not truth you tremple the coackade, what I
hear from Philadelphe?'' cried Depeau.
Monsieur Auguste smiled with a patient tolerance.
``If you hev pains to mek inquiry,'' said he, ``you must
learn that I join le Marquis de La Fayette and the National
Guard. That I have since fight for the Revolution.
That I am come now home to fight for Louisiane, as
Monsieur Genet will tell you whom I saw in Philadelphe.''
``The Citizen Capitaine--he spiks true.''
All eyes were turned towards Gignoux, who had been
sitting back in his chair, very quiet.
``It is true what he say,'' he repeated, ``I have it by
Monsieur Genet himself.''
``Gentlemen,'' said General Clark, ``this is beside the
question, and I will not have these petty quarrels. I may
as well say to you now that I have chosen the Citizen
Captain to go at once to New Orleans and organize a regiment
among the citizens there faithful to France. On
account of his family and supposed Royalist tendencies he
will not be suspected. I fear that a month at least has
yet to elapse before our expedition can move.''
``It is one wise choice,'' put in Monsieur Gignoux.
``Monsieur le general and gentlemen,'' said the Sieur de
St. Gre, gracefully, ``I thank you ver' much for the
confidence. I leave by first flatboat and will have all things
stir up when you come. The citizens of Louisiane await
you. If necessair, we have hole in levee ready to cut.''
``Citizens,'' interrupted General Clark, sitting down
before the ink-pot, ``let us hear the Quartermaster's
report of the supplies at Knob Licks, and Citizen Sullivan's
account of the boats. But hold,'' he cried, glancing
around him, ``where is Captain Temple? I heard that he
had come to Louisville from the Cumberland to-day. Is
he not going with you to New Orleans, St. Gre?''
I took up the name involuntarily.
``Captain Temple,'' I repeated, while they stared at me.
``Nicholas Temple?''
It was Auguste de St. Gre who replied.
``The sem,'' he said. ``I recall he was along with you
in Nouvelle Orleans. He is at ze tavern, and he has had
one gran' fight, and he is ver'--I am sorry--intoxicate--''
I know not how I made my way through the black woods
to Fort Finney, where I discovered Jake Landrasse and his
canoe. The road was long, and yet short, for my brain
whirled with the expectation of seeing Nick again, and
the thought of this poor, pathetic, ludicrous expedition
compared to the sublime one I had known.
George Rogers Clark had come to this!
CHAPTER III
LOUISVILLE CELEBRATES
``They have gran' time in Louisville to-night, Davy,''
said Jake Landrasse, as he paddled me towards the Kentucky
shore; ``you hear?''
``I should be stone deaf if I didn't,'' I answered, for
the shouting which came from the town filled me with
forebodings.
``They come back from the barbecue full of whiskey,''
said Jake, ``and a young man at the tavern come out on
the porch and he say, `Get ready you all to go to Louisiana!
You been hole back long enough by tyranny.'
Sam Barker come along and say he a Federalist. They
done have a gran' fight, he and the young feller, and Sam
got licked. He went at Sam just like a harricane.''
``And then?'' I demanded.
``Them four wanted to leave,'' said Jake, taking no
trouble to disguise his disgust, ``and I had to fetch 'em
over. I've got to go back and wait for 'em now,'' and
he swore with sincere disappointment. ``I reckon there
ain't been such a jamboree in town for years.''
Jake had not exaggerated. Gentlemen from Moore's
Settlement, from Sullivan's Station on the Bear Grass,--
to be brief, the entire male population of the county
seemed to have moved upon Louisville after the barbecue,
and I paused involuntarily at the sight which met my
eyes as I came into the street. A score of sputtering,
smoking pine-knots threw a lurid light on as many hilarious
groups, and revealed, fantastically enough, the boles
and lower branches of the big shade trees above them.
Navigation for the individual, difficult enough lower down,
in front of the tavern became positively dangerous. There
was a human eddy,--nay, a maelstrom would better describe
it. Fights began, but ended abortively by reason of
the inability of the combatants to keep their feet; one
man whose face I knew passed me with his hat afire,
followed by several companions in gusts of laughter, for
the torch-bearers were careless and burned the ears of
their friends in their enthusiasm. Another person whom
I recognized lacked a large portion of the front of his
attire, and seemed sublimely unconscious of the fact. His
face was badly scratched. Several other friends of mine
were indulging in brief intervals of rest on the ground,
and I barely avoided stepping on them. Still other
gentlemen were delivering themselves of the first impressive
periods of orations, only to be drowned by the cheers of
their auditors. These were the snatches which I heard
as I picked my way onward with exaggerated fear:--
``Gentlemen, the Mississippi is ours, let the tyrants who
forbid its use beware!'' ``To hell with the Federal
government!'' ``I tell you, sirs, this land is ours. We
have conquered it with our blood, and I reckon no Spaniard
is goin' to stop us. We ain't come this far to stand still.
We settled Kaintuck, fit off the redskins, and we'll march
across the Mississippi and on and on--'' ``To Louisiany!''
they shouted, and the whole crowd would take it
up, ``To Louisiany! Open the river!''
So absorbed was I in my own safety and progress that I
did not pause to think (as I have often thought since)
of the full meaning of this, though I had marked it for
many years. The support given to Wilkinson's plots, to
Clark's expedition, was merely the outward and visible
sign of the onward sweep of a resistless race. In spite of
untold privations and hardships, of cruel warfare and
massacre, these people had toiled over the mountains into
this land, and impatient of check or hindrance would, even
as Clark had predicted, when their numbers were sufficient
leap the Mississippi. Night or day, drunk or sober, they
spoke of this thing with an ever increasing vehemence,
and no man of reflection who had read their history could
say that they would be thwarted. One day Louisiana
would be theirs and their children's for the generations to
come. One day Louisiana would be American.
That I was alive and unscratched when I got as far as
the tavern is a marvel. Amongst all the passion-lit faces
which surrounded me I could get no sight of Nick's, and I
managed to make my way to a momentarily quiet corner
of the porch. As I leaned against the wall there, trying
to think what I should do, there came a great cheering
from a little way up the street, and then I straightened
in astonishment. Above the cheering came the sound of
a drum beaten in marching time, and above that there burst
upon the night what purported to be the ``Marseillaise,''
taken up and bawled by a hundred drunken throats and
without words. Those around me who were sufficiently
nimble began to run towards the noise, and I ran after
them. And there, marching down the middle of the
street at the head of a ragged and most indecorous column
of twos, in the centre of a circle of light cast by a pineknot
which Joe Handy held, was Mr. Nicholas Temple.
His bearing, if a trifle unsteady, was proud, and--if I
could believe my eyes--around his neck was slung the
thing which I prized above all my possessions,--the
drum which I had carried to Kaskaskia and Vincennes!
He had taken it from the peg in my room.
I shrink from putting on paper the sentimental side of
my nature, and indeed I could give no adequate idea of my
affection for that drum. And then there was Nick, who
had been lost to me for five years! My impulse was to
charge the procession, seize Nick and the drum together,
and drag them back to my room; but the futility and
danger of such a course were apparent, and the caution for
which I am noted prevented my undertaking it. The
procession, augmented by all those to whom sufficient
power of motion remained, cheered by the helpless but
willing ones on the ground, swept on down the street and
through the town. Even at this late day I shame to write
it! Behold me, David Ritchie, Federalist, execrably sober,
at the head of the column behind the leader. Was it
twenty minutes, or an hour, that we paraded? This I
know, that we slighted no street in the little town of
Louisville. What was my bearing,--whether proud or
angry or carelessly indifferent,--I know not. The glare
of Joe Handy's torch fell on my face, Joe Handy's arm
and that of another gentleman, the worse for liquor, were
linked in mine, and they saw fit to applaud at every step
my conversion to the cause of Liberty. We passed time
and time again the respectable door-yards of my Federalist
friends, and I felt their eyes upon me with that look which
the angels have for the fallen. Once, in front of Mr.
Wharton's house, Mr. Handy burned my hair, apologized,
staggered, and I took the torch! And I used it to good
advantage in saving the drum from capture. For Mr.
Temple, with all the will in the world, had begun to
stagger. At length, after marching seemingly half the
night, they halted by common consent before the house
of a prominent Democrat who shall be nameless, and,
after some minutes of vain importuning, Nick, with a
tattoo on the drum, marched boldly up to the gate and
into the yard. A desperate cunning came to my aid. I
flung away the torch, leaving the head of the column in
darkness, broke from Mr. Handy's embrace, and, seizing
Nick by the arm, led him onward through the premises, he
drumming with great docility. Followed by a few
stragglers only (some of whom went down in contact with the
trees of the orchard), we came to a gate at the back which I
knew well, which led directly into the little yard that fronted
my own rooms behind Mr. Crede's store. Pulling Nick
through the gate, I slammed it, and he was only beginning
to protest when I had him safe within my door, and
the bolt slipped behind him. As I struck a light
something fell to the floor with a crash, an odor of alcohol
filled the air, and as the candle caught the flame I saw a
shattered whiskey bottle at my feet and a room which had
been given over to carousing. In spite of my feelings I
could not but laugh at the perfectly irresistible figure my
cousin made, as he stood before me with the drum slung in
front of him. His hat was gone, his dust-covered clothes
awry, but he smiled at me benignly and without a trace of
surprise.
``Sho you've come back at lasht, Davy,'' he said. ``You're
--you're very--irregular. You'll lose--law bishness.
Y-you're worse'n Andy Jackson--he's always fightin'.''
I relieved him, unprotesting, of the drum, thanking my
stars there was so much as a stick left of it. He watched
me with a silent and exaggerated interest as I laid it on
the table. From a distance without came the shouts of
the survivors making for the tavern.
``'Sfortunate you had the drum, Davy,'' he said gravely,
`` 'rwe'd had no procession.''
``It is fortunate I have it now,'' I answered, looking
ruefully at the battered rim where Nick had missed the
skin in his ardor.
``Davy,'' said he, ``funny thing--I didn't know you
wash a Jacobite. Sh'ou hear,'' he added relevantly, ``th'
Andy Jackson was married?''
``No,'' I answered, having no great interest in Mr.
Jackson. ``Where have you been seeing him again?''
``Nashville on Cumberland. Jackson'sh county
sholicitor,--devil of a man. I'll tell you, Davy,'' he
continued,laying an uncertain hand on my shoulder and speaking
with great earnestness, ``I had Chicashaw horse--Jackson'd
Virginia thoroughbred--had a race--'n' Jackson
wanted to shoot me 'n' I wanted to shoot Jackson. 'N' then
we all went to the Red Heifer--''
``What the deuce is the Red Heifer?'' I asked.
``'N'dishtillery over a shpring, 'n' they blow a horn when
the liquor runsh. 'N' then we had supper in Major Lewish's
tavern. Major Lewis came in with roast pig on platter.
You know roast pig, Davy? . . . 'N' Jackson pulls out's
hunting knife n'waves it very mashestic. . . . You know
how mashestic Jackson is when he--wantshtobe?'' He
let go my shoulder, brushed back his hair in a fiery
manner, and, seizing a knife which unhappily lay on the
table, gave me a graphic illustration of Mr. Jackson about
to carve the pig, I retreating, and he coming on. ``N' when
he stuck the pig, Davy,--''
He poised the knife for an instant in the air, and then,
before I could interpose, he brought it down deftly through
the head of my precious drum, and such a frightful,
agonized squeal filled the room that even I shivered
involuntarily, and for an instant I had a vivid vision of a pig
struggling in the hands of a butcher. I laughed in spite
of myself. But Nick regarded me soberly.
``Funny thing, Davy,'' he said, ``they all left the room.''
For a moment he appeared to be ruminating on this singular
phenomenon. Then he continued: `` 'N' Jackson was
back firsht, 'n' he was damned impolite . . . 'n' he shook
his fist in my face'' (here Nick illustrated Mr. Jackson's
gesture), `` 'n' he said, `Great God, sir, y' have a fine talent
but if y' ever do that again, I'll--I'll kill you.' . . .
That'sh what he said, Davy.''
``How long have you been in Nashville, Nick?'' I
asked.
``A year,'' he said, ``lookin' after property I won rattlean'-
shnap--you remember?''
``And why didn't you let me know you were in Nashville?''
I asked, though I realized the futility of the
question.
``Thought you was--mad at me,'' he answered, ``but
you ain't, Davy. You've been very good-natured t' let
me have your drum.'' He straightened. ``I am ver'
much obliged.
``And where were you before you went to Nashville?''
I said.
``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. Strangly 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 dingyuniformed
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 rivermen
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 manywindowed,
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, broadhatted
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, flowerdecked
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 von 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?''
``A whim,'' said the Vicomtesse. ``I had always written
twice a year either to Monsieur de St. Gre or Antoinette,
and although I had never seen them, I loved them. Perhaps
it was because they had the patience to read my
letters and the manners to say they liked them.''
``Surely not, Madame,'' I said. ``Monsieur de St. Gre
spoke often to me of the wonderful pictures you drew of
the personages at court.''
Madame la Vicomtesse had an answer on the tip of her
tongue. I know now that she spared me.
``And what of this miniature, Monsieur?'' she asked.
``What became of it after you restored it to its rightful
owner?''
I flushed furiously and fumbled in my pocket.
``I obtained it again, Madame,'' I said.
``You obtained it!'' she cried, I am not sure to this
day whether in consternation or jest. In passing, it was
not just what I wanted to say.
``I meant to give it you last night,'' I said.
``And why did you not?'' she demanded severely.
I felt her eyes on me, and it seemed to me as if she
were looking into my very soul. Even had it been otherwise,
I could not have told her how I had lived with this
picture night and day, how I had dreamed of it, how it
had been my inspiration and counsel. I drew it from my
pocket, wrapped as it was in the handkerchief, and
uncovered it with a reverence which she must have marked,
for she turned away to pick a yellow flower by the
roadside. I thank Heaven that she did not laugh. Indeed,
she seemed to be far from laughter.
``You have taken good care of it, Monsieur,'' she said.
``I thank you.''
``It was not mine, Madame,'' I answered.
``And if it had been?'' she asked.
It was a strange prompting.
``If it had been, I could have taken no better care of it,''
I answered, and I held it towards her.
She took it simply.
``And the handkerchief?'' she said.
``The handkerchief was Polly Ann's,'' I answered.
She stopped to pick a second flower that had grown by
the first.
``Who is Polly Ann?'' she said.
``When I was eleven years of age and ran away from
Temple Bow after my father died, Polly Ann found me in
the hills. When she married Tom McChesney they took
me across the mountains into Kentucky with them. Polly
Ann has been more than a mother to me.''
``Oh!'' said Madame la Vicomtesse. Then she looked
at me with a stranger expression than I had yet seen in
her face. She thrust the miniature in her gown, turned,
and walked in silence awhile. Then she said:--
``So Auguste sold it again?''
``Yes,'' I said.
``He seems to have found a ready market only in you,''
said the Vicomtesse, without turning her head. ``Here
we are at Lamarque's.''
What I saw was a low, weather-beaten cabin on the
edge of a clearing, and behind it stretched away in prim
rows the vegetables which the old Frenchman had planted.
There was a little flower garden, too, and an orchard.
A path of beaten earth led to the door, which was open.
There we paused. Seated at a rude table was Lamarque
himself, his hoary head bent over the cards he held in his
hand. Opposite him was Mr. Nicholas Temple, in the
act of playing the ace of spades. I think that it was the
laughter of Madame la Vicomtesse that first disturbed
them, and even then she had time to turn to me.
``I like your cousin,'' she whispered.
``Is that you, St. Gre?'' said Nick. ``I wish to the
devil you would learn not to sneak. You frighten me.
Where the deuce did you go to?''
But Lamarque had seen the lady, stared at her wildly
for a moment, and rose, dropping his cards on the floor.
He bowed humbly, not without trepidation.
``Madame la Vicomtesse!'' he said.
By this time Nick had risen, and he, too, was staring at
her. How he managed to appear so well dressed was a
puzzle to me.
``Madame,'' he said, bowing, ``I beg your pardon. I
thought you were that--I beg your pardon.''
``I understand your feelings, sir,'' answered the
Vicomtesse as she courtesied.
``Egad,'' said Nick, and looked at her again. ``Egad,
I'll be hanged if it's not--''
It was the first time I had seen the Vicomtesse in
confusion. And indeed if it were confusion she recovered
instantly.
``You will probably be hanged, sir, if you do not mend
your company,'' she said. ``Do you not think so, Mr.
Ritchie?''
``Davy!'' he cried. And catching sight of me in the
doorway, over her shoulder, ``Has he followed me here
too?'' Running past the Vicomtesse, he seized me in his
impulsive way and searched my face. ``So you have
followed me here, old faithful! Madame,'' he added,
turning to the Vicomtesse, ``there is some excuse for my
getting into trouble.''
``What excuse, Monsieur?'' she asked. She was smiling,
yet looking at us with shining eyes.
``The pleasure of having Mr. Ritchie get me out,'' he
answered. ``He has never failed me.''
``You are far from being out of this,'' I said. ``If the
Baron de Carondelet does not hang you or put you in the
Morro, you will not have me to thank. It will be
Madame la Vicomtesse d'Ivry-le-Tour.''
``Madame la Vicomtesse!'' exclaimed Nick, puzzled.
``May I present to you, Madame, Mr. Nicholas
Temple?'' I asked.
Nick bowed, and she courtesied again.
``So Monsieur le Baron is really after us,'' said Nick.
He opened his eyes, slapped his knee, and laughed. ``That
may account for the Citizen Captain de St. Gre's absence,''
he said. ``By the way, Davy, you haven't happened by
any chance to meet him?
The Vicomtesse and I exchanged a look of understanding.
Relief was plain on her face. It was she who
answered.
``We have met him--by chance, Monsieur. He has
just left for Terre aux Boeufs.''
``Terre aux Boeufs! What the dev-- I beg your
pardon, Madame la Vicomtesse, but you give me something
of a surprise. Is there another conspiracy at Terre
aux Boeufs, or--does somebody live there who has never
before lent Auguste money?''
Madame la Vicomtesse laughed. Then she grew serious
again.
``You did not know where he had gone?'' she said.
``I did not even know he had gone,'' said Nick.
``Citizen Lamarque and I were having a little game of piquet--
for vegetables. Eh, citizen?''
Madame la Vicomtesse laughed again, and once more
the shade of sadness came into her eyes.
``They are the same the world over,'' she said,--not to
me, nor yet to any one there. And I knew that she was
thinking of her own kind in France, who faced the guillotine
without sense of danger. She turned to Nick. ``You
may be interested to know, Mr. Temple,'' she added,
``that Auguste is on his way to the English Turn to take
ship for France.''
Nick regarded her for a moment, and then his face
lighted up with that smile which won every one he met,
which inevitably made them smile back at him.
``The news is certainly unexpected, Madame,'' he said.
``But then, after one has travelled much with Auguste it
is difficult to take a great deal of interest in him. Am I
to be sent to France, too?'' he asked.
``Not if it can be helped,'' replied the Vicomtesse,
seriously. ``Mr. Ritchie will tell you, however, that you are
in no small danger. Doubtless you know it. Monsieur
le Baron de Carondelet considers that the intrigues of the
French Revolutionists in Louisiana have already robbed
him of several years of his life. He is not disposed to be
lenient towards persons connected with that cause.''
``What have you been doing since you arrived here on
this ridiculous mission?'' I demanded impatiently.
``My cousin is a narrow man, Madame la Vicomtesse,''
said Nick. ``We enjoy ourselves in different ways. I
thought there might be some excitement in this matter,
and I was sadly mistaken.''
``It is not over yet,'' said the Vicomtesse.
``And Davy,'' continued Nick, bowing to me, ``gets his
pleasures and excitement by extracting me from my
various entanglements. Well, there is not much to tell.
St. Gre and I were joined above Natchez by that little
pig, Citizen Gignoux, and we shot past De Lemos in the
night. Since then we have been permitted to sleep--no
more--at various plantations. We have been waked up
at barbarous hours in the morning and handed on, as it
were. They were all fond of us, but likewise they were
all afraid of the Baron. What day is to-day? Monday?
Then it was on Saturday that we lost Gignoux.''
``I have reason to think that he has already sold out to
the Baron,'' I put in.
``Eh?''
``I saw him in communication with the police at the
Governor's hotel last night,'' I answered.
Nick was silent for a moment.
``Well,'' he said, ``that may make some excitement.''
Then he laughed. ``I wonder why Auguste didn't think
of doing that,'' he said. ``And now, what?''
``How did you get to this house?'' I said.
``We came down on Saturday night, after we had lost
Gignoux above the city.''
``Do you know where you are?'' I asked.
``Not I,'' said Nick. ``I have been playing piquet with
Lamarque most of the time since I arrived. He is one of
the pleasantest men I have met in Louisiana, although a
little taciturn, as you perceive, and more than a little deaf.
I think he does not like Auguste. He seems to have known
him in his youth.''
Madame la Vicomtesse looked at him with interest.
``You are at Les Iles, Nick,'' I said; ``you are on
Monsieur de St. Gre's plantation, and within a quarter
of a mile of his house.''
His face became grave all at once. He seized me by
both shoulders, and looked into my face.
``You say that we are at Les Iles?'' he repeated slowly.
I nodded, seeing the deception which Auguste had
evidently practised in order to get him here. Then Nick
dropped his arms, went to the door, and stood for a long
time with his back turned to us, looking out over the
fields. When finally he spoke it was in the tone he used
in anger.
``If I had him now, I think I would kill him,'' he said.
Auguste had deluded him in other things, had run
away and deserted him in a strange land. But this matter
of bringing him to Les Iles was past pardon. It was
another face he turned to the Vicomtesse, a stronger face,
a face ennobled by a just anger.
``Madame la Vicomtesse,'' he said, ``I have a vague
notion that you are related to Monsieur de St. Gre. I
give you my word of honor as a gentleman that I had no
thought of trespassing upon him in any way.''
``Mr. Temple, we were so sure of that--Mr. Ritchie
and I--that we should not have sought for you here
otherwise,'' she replied quickly. Then she glanced at me as
though seeking my approval for her next move. It was
characteristic of her that she did not now shirk a task
imposed by her sense of duty. ``We have little time,
Mr. Temple, and much to say. Perhaps you will excuse
us, Lamarque,'' she added graciously, in French.
``Madame la Vicomtesse!'' said the old man. And,
with the tact of his race, he bowed and retired. The
Vicomtesse seated herself on one of the rude chairs, and
looked at Nick curiously. There was no such thing as
embarrassment in her manner, no trace of misgiving that
she would not move properly in the affair. Knowing Nick
as I did, the difficulty of the task appalled me, for no man
was likelier than he to fly off at a misplaced word.
Her beginning was so bold that I held my breath,
knowing full well as I did that she had chosen the very note.
``Sit down, Mr. Temple,'' she said. ``I wish to speak to
you about your mother.''
He stopped like a man who had been struck, straightened,
and stared at her as though he had not taken her
meaning. Then he swung on me.
``Your mother is in New Orleans,'' I said. ``I would
have told you in Louisville had you given me the chance.''
``It is an interesting piece of news, David,'' he answered,
``which you might have spared me. Mrs. Temple did not
think herself necessary to my welfare when I was young,
and now I have learned to live without her.''
``Is there no such thing as expiation, Monsieur?'' said
the Vicomtesse.
``Madame,'' he said, ``she made me what I am, and when
I might have redeemed myself she came between me and
happiness.''
``Monsieur,'' said the Vicomtesse, ``have you ever
considered her sufferings?''
He looked at the Vicomtesse with a new interest. She
was not so far beyond his experience as mine.
``Her sufferings?'' he repeated, and smiled.
``Madame la Vicomtesse should know them,'' I interrupted;
and without heeding her glance of protest I continued,
``It is she who has cared for Mrs. Temple.''
``You, Madame!'' he exclaimed.
``Do not deny your own share in it, Mr. Ritchie,'' she
answered. ``As for me, Monsieur,'' she went on, turning
to Nick, ``I have done nothing that was not selfish. I
have been in the world, I have lived my life, misfortunes
have come upon me too. My visits to your mother have
been to me a comfort, a pleasure,--for she is a rare person.''
``I have never found her so, Madame,'' he said briefly.
``I am sure it is your misfortune rather than your
fault, Mr. Temple. It is because you do not know her
now.''
Again he looked at me, puzzled, uneasy, like a man who
would run if he could. But by a kind of fascination his
eyes went back to this woman who dared a subject sore
to the touch--who pressed it gently, but with determination,
never doubting her powers, yet with a kindness and
sympathy of tone which few women of the world possess.
The Vicomtesse began to speak again, evenly, gently.
``Mr. Temple,'' said she, ``I am merely going to tell you
some things which I am sure you do not know, and when
I have finished I shall not appeal to you. It would be
useless for me to try to influence you, and from what Mr.
Ritchie and others have told me of your character I am sure
that no influence will be necessary. And,'' she added,
with a smile, ``it would be much more comfortable for us
both if you sat down.''
He obeyed her without a word. No wonder Madame
la Vicomtesse had had an influence at court.
``There!'' she said. ``If any reference I am about to
make gives you pain, I am sorry.'' She paused briefly.
``After Mr. Ritchie took your mother from here to New
Orleans, some five years ago, she rented a little house in
the Rue Bourbon with a screen of yellow and red tiles at
the edge of the roof. It is on the south side, next to the
corner of the Rue St. Philippe. There she lives absolutely
alone, except for a servant. Mr. Clark, who has charge
of her affairs, was the only person she allowed to visit her.
For her pride, however misplaced, and for her spirit we
must all admire her. The friend who discovered where
she was, who went to her and implored Mrs. Temple to let
her stay, she refused.''
``The friend?'' he repeated in a low tone. I scarcely
dared to glance at the Vicomtesse.
``Yes, it was Antoinette,'' she answered. He did not
reply, but his eyes fell. ``Antoinette went to her, would
have comforted her, would have cared for her, but your
mother sent her away. For five years she has lived there,
Mr. Temple, alone with her past, alone with her sorrow
and remorse. You must draw the picture for yourself.
If the world has a more terrible punishment, I have not
heard of it. And when, some months ago, I came, and
Antoinette sent me to her--''
``Sent you to her!'' he said, raising his head quickly.
``Under another name than my own,'' Helene continued,
apparently taking no notice of his interruption. She
leaned toward him and her voice faltered. ``I found your
mother dying.''
He said nothing, but got to his feet and walked slowly
to the door, where he stood looking out again. I felt for
him, I would have gone to him then had it not been
for the sense in me that Helene did not wish it. As for
Helene, she sat waiting for him to turn back to her, and
at length he did.
``Yes?'' he said.
``It is her heart, Mr. Temple, that we fear the most.
Last night I thought the end had come. It cannot
be very far away now. Sorrow and remorse have killed
her, Monsieur. The one thing that she has prayed for
through the long nights is that she might see you once
again and obtain your forgiveness. God Himself does not
withhold forgiveness, Mr. Temple,'' said the Vicomtesse,
gently. ``Shall any of us presume to?''
A spasm of pain crossed his face, and then his expression
hardened.
``I might have been a useful man,'' he said; ``she
ruined my life--''
``And you will allow her to ruin the rest of it?'' asked
the Vicomtesse.
He stared at her.
``If you do not go to her and forgive her, you will
remember it until you die,'' she said.
He sank down on the chair opposite to her, his head
bowed into his hands, his elbows on the table among the
cards. At length I went and laid my hands upon his
shoulder, and at my touch he started. Then he did a
singular thing, an impulsive thing, characteristic of the
old Nick I had known. He reached across the table and
seized the hand of Madame la Vicomtesse. She did not
resist, and her smile I shall always remember. It was the
smile of a woman who has suffered, and understands.
``I will go to her, Madame!'' he said, springing to his
feet. ``I will go to her. I--I was wrong.''
She rose, too, he still clinging to her hand, she still
unresisting. His eye fell upon me.
``Where is my hat, Davy?'' he asked.
The Vicomtesse withdrew her hand and looked at me.
``Alas, it is not quite so simple as that, Mr. Temple,''
she said; ``Monsieur de Carondelet has first to be reckoned
with.''
``She is dying, you say? then I will go to her. After
that Monsieur de Carondelet may throw me into prison,
may hang me, may do anything he chooses. But I will
go to her.''
I glanced anxiously at the Vicomtesse, well knowing
how wilful he was when aroused. Admiration was in her
eyes, seeing that he was heedless of his own danger.
``You would not get through the gates of the city.
Monsieur le Baron requires passports now,'' she said.
At that he began to pace the little room, his hands
clenched.
``I could use your passport, Davy,'' he cried. ``Let
me have it.''
``Pardon me, Mr. Temple, I do not think you could,''
said the Vicomtesse. I flushed. I suppose the remark
was not to be resisted.
``Then I will go to-night,'' he said, with determination.
``It will be no trouble to steal into the city. You say
the house has yellow and red tiles, and is near the Rue
St. Philippe?''
Helene laid her fingers on his arm.
``Listen, Monsieur, there is a better way,'' she said.
``Monsieur le Baron is doubtless very angry with you,
and I am sure that this is chiefly because he does not
know you. For instance, if some one were to tell him
that you are a straightforward, courageous young man, a
gentleman with an unquenchable taste for danger, that
you are not a low-born adventurer and intriguer, that you
have nothing in particular against his government, he
might not be quite so angry. Pardon me if I say that he
is not disposed to take your expedition any more seriously
than is your own Federal government. The little Baron
is irascible, choleric, stern, or else good-natured, goodhearted,
and charitable, just as one happens to take him.
As we say in France, it is not well to strike flint and steel
in his presence. He might blow up and destroy one.
Suppose some one were to go to Monsieur de Carondelet
and tell him what a really estimable person you are, and
assure him that you will go quietly out of his province at
the first opportunity, and be good, so far as he is
concerned, forever after? Mark me, I merely say SUPPOSE.
I do not know how far things have gone, or what he may
have heard. But suppose a person whom I have reason
to believe he likes and trusts and respects, a person who
understands his vagaries, should go to him on such an
errand.''
``And where is such a person to be found,'' said Nick,
amused in spite of himself.
Madame la Vicomtesse courtesied.
``Monsieur, she is before you,'' she said.
``Egad,'' he cried, ``do you mean to say, Madame, that
you will go to the Baron on my behalf?''
``As soon as I ever get to town,'' she said. ``He will
have to be waked from his siesta, and he does not like
that.''
``But he will forgive you,'' said Nick, quick as a flash.
``I have reason to believe he will,'' said Madame la
Vicomtesse.
``Faith,'' cried Nick, ``he would not be flesh and blood
if he didn't.''
At that the Vicomtesse laughed, and her eye rested
judicially on me. I was standing rather glumly, I fear,
in the corner.
``Are you going to take him with you?'' said Nick.
``I was thinking of it,'' said the Vicomtesse. ``Mr.
Ritchie knows you, and he is such a reliable and reputable
person.''
Nick bowed.
``You should have seen him marching in a Jacobin
procession, Madame,'' he said.
``He follows his friends into strange places,'' she retorted.
``And now, Mr. Temple,'' she added, ``may we trust you to
stay here with Lamarque until you have word from us?''
``You know I cannot stay here,'' he cried.
``And why not, Monsieur?''
``If I were captured here, I should get Monsieur de St.
Gre into trouble; and besides,'' he said, with a touch of
coldness, ``I cannot be beholden to Monsieur de St. Gre.
I cannot remain on his land.''
``As for getting Monsieur de St. Gre into trouble, his
own son could not involve him with the Baron,'' answered
Madame la Vicomtesse. ``And it seems to me, Monsieur,
that you are already so far beholden to Monsieur de St.
Gre that you cannot quibble about going a little more into
his debt. Come, Mr. Temple, how has Monsieur de St.
Gre ever offended you?''
``Madame--'' he began.
``Monsieur,'' she said, with an air not to be denied,
``I believe I can discern a point of honor as well as you.
I fail to see that you have a case.''
He was indeed no match for her. He turned to me
appealingly, his brows bent, but I had no mind to meddle.
He swung back to her.
``But Madame--!'' he cried.
She was arranging the cards neatly on the table.
``Monsieur, you are tiresome,'' she said. ``What is it
now?''
He took a step toward her, speaking in a low tone, his
voice shaking. But, true to himself, he spoke plainly.
As for me, I looked on frightened,--as though watching
a contest,--almost agape to see what a clever woman
could do.
``There is--Mademoiselle de St. Gre--''
``Yes, there is Mademoiselle de St. Gre,'' repeated the
Vicomtesse, toying with the cards.
His face lighted, though his lips twitched with pain.
``She is still--''
``She is still Mademoiselle de St. Gre, Monsieur, if that
is what you mean.''
``And what will she think if I stay here?''
``Ah, do you care what she thinks, Mr. Temple?'' said
the Vicomtesse, raising her head quickly. ``From what I
have heard, I should not have thought you could.''
``God help me,'' he answered simply, ``I do care.''
Helene's eyes softened as she looked at him, and my
pride in him was never greater than at that moment.
``Mr. Temple,'' she said gently, ``remain where you are
and have faith in us. I begin to see now why you are so
fortunate in your friends.'' Her glance rested for a brief
instant on me. ``Mr. Ritchie and I will go to New Orleans,
talk to the Baron, and send Andre at once with a message.
If it is in our power, you shall see your mother very soon.''
She held out her hand to him, and he bent and kissed it
reverently, with an ease I envied. He followed us to the
door. And when the Vicomtesse had gone a little way
down the path she looked at him over her shoulder.
``Do not despair, Mr. Temple,'' she said.
It was an answer to a yearning in his face. He gripped
me by the shoulders.
``God bless you, Davy,'' he whispered, and added,
``God bless you both.''
I overtook her where the path ran into the forest's
shade, and for a long while I walked after her, not breaking
her silence, my eyes upon her, a strange throbbing in
my forehead which I did not heed. At last, when the
perfumes of the flowers told us we were nearing the
garden, she turned to me.
``I like Mr. Temple,'' she said, again.
``He is an honest gentleman,'' I answered.
``One meets very few of them,'' she said, speaking in
a low voice. ``You and I will go to the Governor. And
after that, have you any idea where you will go?''
``No,'' I replied, troubled by her regard.
``Then I will tell you. I intend to send you to Madame
Gravois's, and she will compel you to go to bed and rest.
I do not mean to allow you to kill yourself.''
CHAPTER IX
MONSIEUR LE BARON
The sun beat down mercilessly on thatch and terrace,
the yellow walls flung back the quivering heat, as Madame
la Vicomtesse and I walked through the empty streets
towards the Governor's house. We were followed by
Andre and Madame's maid. The sleepy orderly started
up from under the archway at our approach, bowed
profoundly to Madame, looked askance at me, and declared,
with a thousand regrets, that Monsieur le Baron was
having his siesta.
``Then you will wake him,'' said Madame la Vicomtesse.
Wake Monsieur le Baron! Bueno Dios, did Madame
understand what it meant to wake his Excellency? His
Excellency would at first be angry, no doubt. Angry?
As an Andalusian bull, Madame. Once, when his Excellency
had first come to the province, he, the orderly, had
presumed to awake him.
``Assez!'' said Madame, so suddenly that the man
straightened and looked at her again. ``You will wake
Monsieur le Baron, and tell him that Madame la Vicomtesse
d'Ivry-le-Tour has something of importance to say
to him.''
Madame had the air, and a title carried with a Spanish
soldier in New Orleans in those days. The orderly fairly
swept the ground and led us through a court where the
sun drew bewildering hot odors from the fruits and flowers,
into a darkened room which was the Baron's cabinet. I
remember it vaguely, for my head was hot and throbbing
from my exertions in such a climate. It was a new room,
--the hotel being newly built,--with white walls, a
picture of his Catholic Majesty and the royal arms of
Spain, a map of Louisiana, another of New Orleans
fortified, some walnut chairs, a desk with ink and sand
and a seal, and a window, the closed lattice shutters of
which showed streaks of light green light. These doubtless
opened on the Royal Road and looked across the
levee esplanade on the waters of the Mississippi. Madame
la Vicomtesse seated herself, and with a gesture which
was an order bade me do likewise.
``He will be angry, the dear Baron,'' she said. ``He is
harassed to death with republics. No offence, Mr. Ritchie.
He is up at dawn looking to the forts and palisades to
guard against such foolish enterprises as this of Mr.
Temple's. And to be waked out of a well-earned siesta
--to save a gentleman who has come here to make things
unpleasant for him--is carrying a joke a little far.
Mais--que voulez-vous?''
She gave a little shrug to her slim shoulders as she
smiled at me, and she seemed not a whit disturbed concerning
the conversation with his Excellency. I wondered
whether this were birth, or training, or both, or a natural
ability to cope with affairs. The women of her order had
long been used to intercede with sovereigns, to play a
part in matters of state. Suddenly I became aware that
she was looking at me.
``What are you thinking of?'' she demanded, and
continued without waiting for a reply, ``you strange man.''
``I was thinking how odd it was,'' I replied, ``that I
should have known you all these years by a portrait, that
we should finally be thrown together, and that you should
be so exactly like the person I had supposed you to be.''
She lowered her eyes, but she did not seem to take
offence. I meant none.
``And you,'' she answered, ``are continually reminding
me of an Englishman I knew when I was a girl. He was
a very queer person to be attached to the Embassy,--not
a courtier, but a serious, literal person like you, Mr. Ritchie,
and he resembled you very much. I was very fond of
him.''
``And--what became of him?'' I asked. Other questions
rose to my lips, but I put them down.
``I will tell you,'' she answered, bending forward a
little. ``He did something which I believe you might
have done. A certain Marquis spoke lightly of a lady,
an Englishwoman at our court, and my Englishman ran
him through one morning at Versailles.''
She paused, and I saw that her breath was coming more
quickly at the remembrance.
``And then?''
``He fled to England. He was a younger son, and poor.
But his King heard of the affair, had it investigated, and
restored him to the service. I have never seen him since,''
she said, ``but I have often thought of him. There,'' she
added, after a silence, with a lightness which seemed
assumed, ``I have given you a romance. How long the
Baron takes to dress!''
At that moment there were footsteps in the court-yard,
and the orderly appeared at the door, saluting, and speaking
in Spanish.
``His Excellency the Governor!''
We rose, and Madame was courtesying and I was bowing
to the little man. He was in uniform, his face perspiring
in the creases, his plump calves stretching his
white stockings to the full. Madame extended her hand
and he kissed it, albeit he did not bend easily. He spoke
in French, and his voice betrayed the fact that his temper
was near slipping its leash. The Baron was a native of
Flanders.
``To what happy circumstance do I owe the honor of
this visit, Madame la Vicomtesse?'' he asked.
``To a woman's whim, Monsieur le Baron,'' she answered,
``for a man would not have dared to disturb you. May I present
to your Excellency, Mr. David Ritchie of Kentucky?''
His Excellency bowed stiffly, looked at me with no
pretence of pleasure, and I had had sufficient dealings
with men to divine that, in the coming conversation, the
overflow of his temper would be poured upon me. His
first sensation was surprise.
``An American!'' he said, in a tone that implied
reproach to Madame la Vicomtesse for having fallen into
such company. ``Ah,'' he cried, breathing hard in the
manner of stout people, ``I remember you came down
with Monsieur Vigo, Monsieur, did you not?''
It was my turn to be surprised. If the Baron took a
like cognizance of all my countrymen who came to New
Orleans, he was a busy man indeed.
``Yes, your Excellency,'' I answered.
``And you are a Federalist?'' he said, though petulantly.
``I am, your Excellency.''
``Is your nation to overrun the earth?'' said the Baron.
``Every morning when I ride through the streets it seems
to me that more Americans have come. Pardieu, I declare
every day that, if it were not for the Americans, I should
have ten years more of life ahead of me.'' I could not
resist the temptation to glance at Madame la Vicomtesse.
Her eyes, half closed, betrayed an amusement that was
scarce repressed.
``Come, Monsieur le Baron,'' she said, ``you and I have
like beliefs upon most matters. We have both suffered
at the hands of people who have mistaken a fiend for a
Lady.''
``You would have me believe, Madame,'' the Baron put
in, with a wit I had not thought in him, ``that Mr. Ritchie
knows a lady when he sees one. I can readily believe it.''
Madame laughed.
``He at least has a negative knowledge,'' she replied.
``And he has brought into New Orleans no coins, boxes,
or clocks against your Excellency's orders with the image
and superscription of the Goddess in whose name all
things are done. He has not sung `Ca Ira' at the theatres,
and he detests the tricolored cockades as much as you do.''
The Baron laughed in spite of himself, and began to
thaw. There was a little more friendliness in his next
glance at me.
``What images have you brought in, Mr. Ritchie?'' he
asked. ``We all worship the sex in some form, however
misplaced our notions of it.''
There is not the least doubt that, for the sake of the
Vicomtesse, he was trying to be genial, and that his remark
was a purely random one. But the roots of my hair seemed
to have taken fire. I saw the Baron as in a glass, darkly.
But I kept my head, principally because the situation had
elements of danger.
``The image of Madame la Vicomtesse, Monsieur,'' I said.
``Dame!'' exclaimed his Excellency, eying me with a
new interest, ``I did not suspect you of being a courtier.''
``No more he is, Monsieur le Baron,'' said the Vicomtesse,
"for he speaks the truth.''
His Excellency looked blank. As for me, I held my
breath, wondering what coup Madame was meditating.
``Mr. Ritchie brought down from Kentucky a miniature
of me by Boze, that was painted in a costume I once wore
at Chantilly.''
``Comment! diable,'' exclaimed the Baron. ``And how
did such a thing get into Kentucky, Madame?''
``You have brought me to the point,'' she replied,
``which is no small triumph for your Excellency. Mr.
Ritchie bought the miniature from that most estimable of
my relations, Monsieur Auguste de St. Gre.''
The Baron sat down and began to fan himself. He even
grew a little purple. He looked at Madame, sputtered,
and I began to think that, if he didn't relieve himself, his
head might blow off. As for the Vicomtesse, she wore an
ingenuous air of detachment, and seemed supremely
unconscious of the volcano by her side.
``So, Madame,'' cried the Governor at length, after I
know not what repressions, ``you have come here in behalf
of that--of Auguste de St. Gre!''
``So far as I am concerned, Monsieur,'' answered the
Vicomtesse, calmly, ``you may hang Auguste, put him in
prison, drown him, or do anything you like with him.''
``God help me,'' said the poor man, searching for his
handkerchief, and utterly confounded, ``why is it you
have come to me, then? Why did you wake me up?'' he
added, so far forgetting himself.
``I came in behalf of the gentleman who had the
indiscretion to accompany Auguste to Louisiana,'' she
continued, ``in behalf of Mr. Nicholas Temple, who is
a cousin of Mr. Ritchie.''
The Baron started abruptly from his chair.
``I have heard of him,'' he cried; ``Madame knows where
he is?''
``I know where he is. It is that which I came to tell
your Excellency.''
``Hein!'' said his Excellency, again nonplussed. ``You
came to tell me where he is? And where the--the other
one is?''
``Parfaitement,'' said Madame. ``But before I tell you
where they are, I wish to tell you something about Mr.
Temple.''
``Madame, I know something of him already,'' said the
Baron, impatiently.
``Ah,'' said she, ``from Gignoux. And what do you
hear from Gignoux?''
This was another shock, under which the Baron fairly
staggered.
``Diable! is Madame la Vicomtesse in the plot?'' he
cried. ``What does Madame know of Gignoux?''
Madame's manner suddenly froze.
``I am likely to be in the plot, Monsieur,'' she said. ``I
am likely to be in a plot which has for its furtherance that
abominable anarchy which deprived me of my home and
estates, of my relatives and friends and my sovereign.''
``A thousand pardons, Madame la Vicomtesse,'' said the
Baron, more at sea than ever. ``I have had much to do
these last years, and the heat and the Republicans have
got on my temper. Will Madame la Vicomtesse pray
explain?''
``I was about to do so when your Excellency
interrupted,'' said Madame. ``You see before you Mr. Ritchie,
barrister, of Louisville, Kentucky, whose character of
sobriety, dependence, and ability'' (there was a little
gleam in her eye as she gave me this array of virtues)
``can be perfectly established. When he came to New
Orleans some years ago he brought letters to Monsieur de
St. Gre from Monsieur Gratiot and Colonel Chouteau of
St. Louis, and he is known to Mr. Clark and to Monsieur
Vigo. He is a Federalist, as you know, and has no sympathy
with the Jacobins.''
``Eh bien, Mr. Ritchie,'' said the Baron, getting his
breath, ``you are fortunate in your advocate. Madame la
Vicomtesse neglected to say that she was your friend, the
greatest of all recommendations in my eyes.''
``You are delightful, Monsieur le Baron,'' said the
Vicomtesse.
``Perhaps Mr. Ritchie can tell me something of this
expedition,'' said the Baron, his eyes growing smaller as
he looked at me.
``Willingly,'' I answered. ``Although I know that your
Excellency is well informed, and that Monsieur Vigo has
doubtless given you many of the details that I know.''
He interrupted me with a grunt.
``You Americans are clever people, Monsieur,'' he said;
``you contrive to combine shrewdness with frankness.''
``If I had anything to hide from your Excellency, I
should not be here,'' I answered. ``The expedition, as
you know, has been as much of a farce as Citizen Genet's
commissions. But it has been a sad farce to me, inasmuch
as it involves the honor of my old friend and Colonel,
General Clark, and the safety of my cousin, Mr. Temple.''
``So you were with Clark in Illinois?'' said the Baron,
craftily. ``Pardon me, Mr. Ritchie, but I should have
said that you are too young.''
``Monsieur Vigo will tell you that I was the drummer
boy of the regiment, and a sort of ward of the Colonel's.
I used to clean his guns and cook his food.''
``And you did not see fit to follow your Colonel to
Louisiana?'' said his Excellency, for he had been trained
in a service of suspicion.
``General Clark is not what he was,'' I replied, chafing a
little at his manner; ``your Excellency knows that, and
I put loyalty to my government before friendship. And
I might remind your Excellency that I am neither an
adventurer nor a fool.''
The little Baron surprised me by laughing. His
irritability and his good nature ran in streaks.
``There is no occasion to, Mr. Ritchie,'' he answered.
``I have seen something of men in my time. In which
category do you place your cousin, Mr. Temple?''
``If a love of travel and excitement and danger
constitutes an adventurer, Mr. Temple is such,'' I said.
``Fortunately the main spur of the adventurer's character is
lacking in his case. I refer to the desire for money. Mr.
Temple has an annuity from his father's estate in Charleston
which puts him beyond the pale of the fortune-seeker,
and I firmly believe that if your Excellency sees fit to
allow him to leave the province, and if certain disquieting
elements can be removed from his life ``(I glanced at the
Vicomtesse), ``he will settle down and become a useful
citizen of the United States. As much as I dislike to
submit to a stranger private details in the life of a member
of my family, I feel that I must tell your Excellency
something of Mr. Temple's career, in order that you may
know that restlessness and the thirst for adventure were
the only motives that led him into this foolish undertaking.''
``Pray proceed, Mr. Ritchie,'' said the Baron.
I was surprised not to find him more restless, and in
addition the glance of approbation which the Vicomtesse
gave me spurred me on. However distasteful, I had the
sense to see that I must hold nothing back of which his
Excellency might at any time become cognizant, and
therefore I told him as briefly as possible Nick's story,
leaving out only the episode with Antoinette. When I
came to the relation of the affairs which occurred at Les
Iles five years before and told his Excellency that Mrs.
Temple had since been living in the Rue Bourbon as Mrs.
Clive, unknown to her son, the Baron broke in upon me.
``So the mystery of that woman is cleared at last,'' he
said, and turned to the Vicomtesse. ``I have learned
that you have been a frequent visitor, Madame.''
``Not a sparrow falls to the ground in Louisiana that
your Excellency does not hear of it,'' she answered.
``And Gignoux?'' he said, speaking to me again.
``As I told you, Monsieur le Baron,'' I answered, ``I
have come to New Orleans at a personal sacrifice to induce
my cousin to abandon this matter, and I went out last
evening to try to get word of him.'' This was not
strictly true. ``I saw Monsieur Gignoux in conference
with some of your officers who came out of this hotel.''
``You have sharp eyes, Monsieur,'' he remarked.
``I suspected the man when I met him in Kentucky,''
I continued, not heeding this. ``Monsieur Vigo himself
distrusted him. To say that Gignoux were deep in the
councils of the expedition, that he held a commission from
Citizen Genet, I realize will have no weight with your
Excellency,--provided the man is in the secret service of
his Majesty the King of Spain.''
``Mr. Ritchie,'' said the Baron, ``you are a young man
and I an old one. If I tell you that I have a great respect
for your astuteness and ability, do not put it down to
flattery. I wish that your countrymen, who are coming down
the river like driftwood, more resembled you. As for Citizen
Gignoux,'' he went on, smiling, and wiping his face,
``let not your heart be troubled. His Majesty's minister
at Philadelphia has written me letters on the subject. I
am contemplating for Monsieur Gignoux a sea voyage to
Havana, and he is at present partaking of my hospitality
in the calabozo.''
``In the calabozo!'' I cried, overwhelmed at this example
of Spanish justice and omniscience.
``Precisely,'' said the Baron, drumming with his fingers
on his fat knee. ``And now,'' he added, ``perhaps Madame
la Vicomtesse is ready to tell me of the whereabouts
of Mr. Temple and her estimable cousin, Auguste. It
may interest her to know why I have allowed them their
liberty so long.''
``A point on which I have been consumed with curiosity--
since I have begun to tremble at the amazing thoroughness
of your Excellency's system,'' said the Vicomtesse.
His Excellency scarcely looked the tyrant as he sat
before us, with his calves crossed and his hands folded on
his waistcoat and his little black eyes twinkling.
``It is because,'' he said, ``there are many French
planters in the province bitten with the three horrors''
(he meant Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity), ``I sent six
to Havana; and if Monsieur Etienne de Bore had not, in
the nick of time for him, discovered how to make sugar
he would have gone, too. I had an idea that the Sieur de
St. Gre and Mr. Temple might act as a bait to reveal the
disease in some others. Ha, I am cleverer than you
thought, Mr. Ritchie. You are surprised?''
I was surprised, and showed it.
``Come,'' he said, ``you are astute. Why did you
think I left them at liberty?''
``I thought your Excellency believed them to be harmless,
as they are,'' I replied.
He turned again to the Vicomtesse. ``You have picked
up a diplomat, Madame. I must confess that I misjudged
him when you introduced him to me. And again, where
are Mr. Temple and your estimable cousin? Shall I tell
you? They are at old Lamarque's, on the plantation of
Philippe de St. Gre.''
``They were, your Excellency,'' said the Vicomtesse.
``Eh?'' exclaimed the Baron, jumping.
``Mademoiselle de St. Gre has given her brother eight
hundred livres, and he is probably by this time on board
a French ship at the English Turn. He is very badly
frightened. I will give your Excellency one more
surprise.''
``Madame la Vicomtesse,'' said the Baron, ``I have
heard that, but for your coolness and adroitness, Monsieur
le Vicomte, your husband, and several other noblemen
and their ladies and some of her Majesty's letters and
jewels would never have gotten out of France. I take
this opportunity of saying that I have the greatest respect
for your intelligence. Now what is the surprise?''
``That your Excellency intended that both Mr. Temple
and Auguste de St. Gre were to escape on that ship.''
``Mille tonneres,'' exclaimed the Baron, staring at her,
and straightway he fell into a fit of laughter that left him
coughing and choking and perspiring as only a man in his
condition of flesh can perspire. To say that I was
bewildered by this last evidence of the insight of the
woman beside me would be to put it mildly. The
Vicomtesse sat quietly watching him, the wonted look of
repressed laughter on her face, and by degrees his
Excellency grew calm again.
``Mon dieu,'' said he, ``I always like to cross swords
with you, Madame la Vicomtesse, yet this encounter has
been more pleasurable than any I have had since I came
to Louisiana. But, diable,'' he cried, ``just as I was
congratulating myself that I was to have one American the
less, you come and tell me that he has refused to flee.
Out of consideration for the character and services of
Monsieur Philippe de St. Gre I was willing to let them
both escape. But now?''
``Mr. Temple is not known in New Orleans except to
the St. Gre family,'' said the Vicomtesse. ``He is a man
of honor. Suppose Mr. Ritchie were to bring him to
your Excellency, and he were to give you his word that
he would leave the province at the first opportunity? He
now wishes to see his mother before she dies, and it was
as much as we could do this morning to persuade him
from going to her openly in the face of arrest.''
But the Baron was old in a service which did not do
things hastily.
``He is well enough where he is for to-day,'' said his
Excellency, resuming his official manner. ``To-night
after dark I will send down an officer and have him
brought before me. He will not then be seen in custody
by any one, and provided I am satisfied with him he may
go to the Rue Bourbon.''
The little Baron rose and bowed to the Vicomtesse to
signify that the audience was ended, and he added, as he
kissed her hand, ``Madame la Vicomtesse, it is a pleasure
to be able to serve such a woman as you.''
CHAPTER X
THE SCOURGE
As we went through the court I felt as though I had
been tied to a string, suspended in the air, and spun. This
was undoubtedly due to the heat. And after the astonishing
conversation from which we had come, my admiration
for the lady beside me was magnified to a veritable awe.
We reached the archway. Madame la Vicomtesse held me
lightly by the edge of my coat, and I stood looking down
at her.
``Wait a minute, Mr. Ritchie,'' she said, glancing at the
few figures hurrying across the Place d'Armes; ``those
are only Americans, and they are too busy to see us standing
here. What do you propose to do now?''
``We must get word to Nick as we promised, that he
may know what to expect,'' I replied. ``Suppose we go
to Monsieur de St. Gre's house and write him a letter?''
``No,'' said the Vicomtesse, with decision, ``I am going
to Mrs. Temple's. I shall write the letter from there
and send it by Andre, and you will go direct to Madame
Gravois's.''
Her glance rested anxiously upon my face, and there
came an expression in her eyes which disturbed me
strangely. I had not known it since the days when Polly
Ann used to mother me. But I did not mean to give up.
``I am not tired, Madame la Vicomtesse,'' I answered,
``and I will go with you to Mrs. Temple's.''
``Give me your hand,'' she said, and smiled. ``Andre and
my maid are used to my vagaries, and your own countrymen
will not mind. Give me your hand, Mr. Ritchie.''
I gave it willingly enough, with a thrill as she took it
between her own. The same anxious look was in her eyes,
and not the least embarrassment.
``There, it is hot and dry, as I feared,'' she said, ``and
you seem flushed.'' She dropped my hand, and there was
a touch of irritation in her voice as she continued: ``You
seemed fairly sensible when I first met you last night, Mr.
Ritchie. Are you losing your sanity? Do you not realize
that you cannot take liberties with this climate? Do as I
say, and go to Madame Gravois's at once.''
``It is my pleasure to obey you, Madame la Vicomtesse,''
I answered, ``but I mean to go with you as far as Mrs.
Temple's, to see how she fares. She may be--worse.''
``That is no reason why you should kill yourself,'' said
Madame, coldly. ``Will you not do as I say?''
``I think that I should go to Mrs. Temple's,'' I answered.
She did not reply to that, letting down her veil
impatiently, with a deftness that characterized all her
movements. Without so much as asking me to come after her,
she reached the banquette, and I walked by her side through
the streets, silent and troubled by her displeasure. My
pride forbade me to do as she wished. It was the hottest
part of a burning day, and the dome of the sky was like a
brazen bell above us. We passed the calabozo with its iron
gates and tiny grilled windows pierced in the massive walls,
behind which Gignoux languished, and I could not repress
a smile as I thought of him. Even the Spaniards sometimes
happened upon justice. In the Rue Bourbon the
little shops were empty, the doorstep where my merry
fiddler had played vacant, and the very air seemed to
simmer above the honeycombed tiles. I knocked at the door,
once, twice. There was no answer. I looked at Madame
la Vicomtesse, and knocked again so loudly that the little
tailor across the street, his shirt opened at the neck, flung
out his shutter. Suddenly there was a noise within, the
door was opened, and Lindy stood before us, in the darkened
room, with terror in her eyes.
``Oh, Marse Dave,'' she cried, as we entered, ``oh,
Madame, I'se so glad you'se come, I'se so glad you'se
come.''
She burst into a flood of tears. And Madame la
Vicomtesse, raising her veil, seized the girl by the
arm.
``What is it?'' she said. ``What is the matter, Lindy?''
Madame's touch seemed to steady her.
``Miss Sally,'' she moaned, ``Miss Sally done got de
yaller fever.''
There was a moment's silence, for we were both too
appalled by the news to speak.
``Lindy, are you sure?'' said the Vicomtesse.
``Yass'm, yass'm,'' Lindy sobbed, ``I reckon I'se done
seed 'nuf of it, Mistis.'' And she went into a hysterical
fit of weeping.
The Vicomtesse turned to her own frightened servants
in the doorway, bade Andre in French to run for Dr. Perrin,
and herself closed the battened doors. There was
a moment when her face as I saw it was graven on my
memory, reflecting a knowledge of the evils of this world,
a spirit above and untouched by them, a power to accept
what life may bring with no outward sign of pleasure or
dismay. Doubtless thus she had made King and Cardinal
laugh, doubtless thus, ministering to those who crossed
her path, she had met her own calamities. Strangest of
all was the effect she had upon Lindy, for the girl ceased
crying as she watched her.
Madame la Vicomtesse turned to me.
``You must go at once,'' she said. ``When you get to
Madame Gravois's, write to Mr. Temple. I will send Andre
to you there.''
She started for the bedroom door, Lindy making way
for her. I scarcely knew what I did as I sprang forward
and took the Vicomtesse by the arm.
``Where are you going?'' I cried. ``You cannot go in
there! You cannot go in there!''
It did not seem strange that she turned to me without
anger, that she did not seek to release her arm. It did
not seem strange that her look had in it a gentleness as
she spoke.
``I must,'' she said.
``I cannot let you risk your life,'' I cried, wholly
forgetting myself; ``there are others who will do this.''
``Others?'' she said.
``I will go. I--I have nursed people before this. And
there is Lindy.''
A smile quivered on her lips,--or was it a smile?
``You will do as I say and go to Madame Gravois's--at
once,'' she murmured, striving for the first time to free
herself.
``If you stay, I stay,'' I answered; ``and if you die, I die.''
She looked up into my eyes for a fleeting instant.
``Write to Mr. Temple,'' she said.
Dazed, I watched her open the bedroom doors, motion
to Lindy to pass through, and then she had closed them
again and I was alone in the darkened parlor.
The throbbing in my head was gone, and a great clearness
had come with a great fear. I stood, I know not how
long, listening to the groans that came through the wall, for
Mrs. Temple was in agony. At intervals I heard Helene's
voice, and then the groans seemed to stop. Ten times I
went to the bedroom door, and as many times drew away
again, my heart leaping within me at the peril which she
faced. If I had had the right, I believe I would have carried
her away by force.
But I had not the right. I sat down heavily, by the
table, to think and it might have been a cry of agony
sharper than the rest that reminded me once more of the
tragedy of the poor lady in torture. My eye fell upon the
table, and there, as though prepared for what I was to do,
lay pen and paper, ink and sand. My hand shook as I
took the quill and tried to compose a letter to my cousin.
I scarcely saw the words which I put on the sheet, and I
may be forgiven for the unwisdom of that which I wrote.
``The Baron de Carondelet will send an officer for you tonight
so that you may escape observation in custody. His
Excellency knew of your hiding-place, but is inclined to be
lenient, will allow you to-morrow to go to the Rue Bourbon, and
will without doubt permit you to leave the province. Your
mother is ill, and Madame la Vicomtesse and myself are
with her.
``DAVID.''
In the state I was it took me a long time to compose this
much, and I had barely finished it when there was a knock
at the outer door. There was Andre. He had the immobility
of face which sometimes goes with the mulatto, and
always with the trained servant, as he informed me that
Monsieur le Medecin was not at home, but that he had left
word. There was an epidemic, Monsieur, so Andre feared.
I gave him the note and his directions, and ten minutes after
he had gone I would have given much to have called him
back. How about Antoinette, alone at Les Iles? Why
had I not thought of her? We had told her nothing that
morning, Madame la Vicomtesse and I, after our conference
with Nick. For the girl had shut herself in her room, and
Madame had thought it best not to disturb her at such a
stage. But would she not be alarmed when Helene failed
to return that night? Had circumstances been different,
I myself would have ridden to Les Iles, but no inducement
now could make me desert the post I had chosen. After
many years I dislike to recall to memory that long afternoon
which I spent, helpless, in the Rue Bourbon. Now
I was on my feet, pacing restlessly the short breadth of
the room, trying to shut out from my mind the horrors
of which my ears gave testimony. Again, in the intervals
of quiet, I sat with my elbows on the table and my head
in my hands, striving to allay the throbbing in my temples.
Pains came and went, and at times I felt like a
fagot flung into the fire,--I, who had never known a sick
day. At times my throat pained me, an odd symptom in
a warm climate. Troubled as I was in mind and body,
the thought of Helene's quiet heroism upheld me through it
all. More than once I had my hand raised to knock at the
bedroom door and ask if I could help, but I dared not; at
length, the sun having done its worst and spent its fury, I
began to hear steps along the banquette and voices almost
at my elbow beyond the little window. At every noise I
peered out, hoping for the doctor. But he did not come.
And then, as I fell back into the fauteuil, there was borne
on my consciousness a sound I had heard before. It was
the music of the fiddler, it was a tune I knew, and the
voices of the children were singing the refrain:--
``Ne sait quand reviendra,
Ne sait quand reviendra.''
I rose, opened the door, and slipped out of it, and I must
have made a strange, hatless figure as I came upon the
fiddler and his children from across the street.
``Stop that noise,'' I cried in French, angered beyond all
reason at the thought of music at such a time. ``Idiots,
there is yellow fever there.''
The little man stopped with his bow raised; for a moment
they all stared at me, transfixed. It was a little elf in blue
indienne who jumped first and ran down the street, crying
the news in a shrill voice, the others following, the fiddler
gazing stupidly after them. Suddenly he scrambled up,
moaning, as if the scourge itself had fastened on him, backed
into the house, and slammed the door in my face. I returned
with slow steps to shut myself in the darkened
room again, and I recall feeling something of triumph over
the consternation I had caused. No sounds came from the
bedroom, and after that the street was quiet as death save
for an occasional frightened, hurrying footfall. I was tired.
All at once the bedroom door opened softly, and Helene
was standing there, looking at me. At first I saw her
dimly, as in a vision, then clearly. I leaped to my feet
and went and stood beside her.
``The doctor has not come,'' I said. ``Where does he
live? I will go for him.''
She shook her head.
``He can do no good. Lindy has procured all the remedies,
such as they are. They can only serve to alleviate,''
she answered. ``She cannot withstand this, poor lady.''
There were tears on Helene's lashes. ``Her sufferings
have been frightful--frightful.''
``Cannot I help?'' I said thickly. ``Cannot I do something?''
She shook her head. She raised her hand timidly to
the lapel of my coat, and suddenly I felt her palm, cool
and firm, upon my forehead. It rested there but an
instant.
``You ought not to be here,'' she said, her voice vibrant
with earnestness and concern. ``You ought not to be
here. Will you not go--if I ask it?''
``I cannot,'' I said; ``you know I cannot if you stay.''
She did not answer that. Our eyes met, and in that
instant for me there was neither joy nor sorrow, sickness
nor death, nor time nor space nor universe. It was
she who turned away.
``Have you written him?'' she asked in a low voice.
``Yes,'' I answered.
``She would not have known him,'' said Helene; ``after
all these years of waiting she would not have known him.
Her punishment has been great.''
A sound came from the bedroom, and Helene was gone,
silently, as she had come.
* * * * * * *
I must have been dozing in the fauteuil, for suddenly
I found myself sitting up, listening to an unwonted noise.
I knew from the count of the hoof-beats which came from
down the street that a horse was galloping in long strides
--a spent horse, for the timing was irregular. Then he
was pulled up into a trot, then to a walk as I ran to the
door and opened it and beheld Nicholas Temple flinging
himself from a pony white with lather. And he was
alone! He caught sight of me as soon as his foot touched
the banquette.
``What are you doing here?'' I cried. ``What are you
doing here?''
He halted on the edge of the banquette as a hurrying
man runs into a wall. He had been all excitement, all
fury, as he jumped from his horse; and now, as he looked
at me, he seemed to lose his bearings, to be all bewilderment.
He cried out my name and stood looking at me
like a fool.
``What the devil do you mean by coming here?'' I
cried. ``Did I not write you to stay where you were?
How did you get here?'' I stepped down on the banquette
and seized him by the shoulders. ``Did you receive my
letter?''
``Yes,'' he said, ``yes.'' For a moment that was as far
as he got, and he glanced down the street and then at the
heaving beast he had ridden, which stood with head drooping
to the kennel. Then he laid hold of me. ``Davy, is
it true that she has yellow fever? Is it true?''
``Who told you?'' I demanded angrily.
``Andre,'' he answered. ``Andre said that the lady
here had yellow fever. Is it true?''
``Yes,'' I said almost inaudibly.
He let his hand fall from my shoulder, and he shivered.
``May God forgive me for what I have done!'' he said.
``Where is she?''
``For what you have done?'' I cried; ``you have done
an insensate thing to come here.'' Suddenly I remembered
the sentry at the gate of Fort St. Charles. ``How did
you get into the city?'' I said; ``were you mad to defy
the Baron and his police?''
``Damn the Baron and his police,'' he answered, striving
to pass me. ``Let me in! Let me see her.''
Even as he spoke I caught sight of men coming into the
street, perhaps at the corner of the Rue St. Pierre, and
then more men, and as we went into the house I saw that
they were running. I closed the doors. There were cries
in the street now, but he did not seem to heed them. He
stood listening, heart-stricken, to the sounds that came
through the bedroom wall, and a spasm crossed his face.
Then he turned like a man not to be denied, to the bedroom
door. I was before him, but Madame la Vicomtesse
opened it. And I remember feeling astonishment that
she did not show surprise or alarm.
``What are you doing here, Mr. Temple?'' she said.
``My mother, Madame! My mother! I must go to her.''
He pushed past her into the bedroom, and I followed
perforce. I shall never forget the scene, though I had
but the one glimpse of it,--the raving, yellowed woman
in the bed, not a spectre nor yet even a semblance of the
beauty of Temple Bow. But she was his mother, upon
whom God had brought such a retribution as He alone
can bestow. Lindy, faithful servant to the end, held the
wasted hands of her mistress against the violence they
would have done. Lindy held them, her own body rocking
with grief, her lips murmuring endearments, prayers,
supplications.
``Miss Sally, honey, doan you know Lindy? Gawd'll
let you git well, Miss Sally, Gawd'll let you git well,
honey, ter see Marse Nick--ter see--Marse--Nick--''
The words died on Lindy's lips, the ravings of the
frenzied woman ceased. The yellowed hands fell limply
to the sheet, the shrunken form stiffened. The eyes of
the mother looked upon the son, and in them at first was
the terror of one who sees the infinite. Then they softened
until they became again the only feature that was
left of Sarah Temple. Now, as she looked at him who
was her pride, her honor, for one sight of whom she had
prayed,--ay, and even blasphemed,--her eyes were all
tenderness. Then she spoke.
``Harry,'' she said softly, ``be good to me, dear. You
are all I have now.''
She spoke of Harry Riddle!
But the long years of penance had not been in vain.
Nick had forgiven her. We saw him kneeling at the
bedside, we saw him with her hand in his, and Helene
was drawing me gently out of the room and closing the
door behind her. She did not look at me, nor I at her.
We stood for a moment close together, and suddenly
the cries in the street brought us back from the drama in
the low-ceiled, reeking room we had left.
``Ici! Ici! Voici le cheval!''
There was a loud rapping at the outer door, and a voice
demanding admittance in Spanish in the name of his
Excellency the Governor.
``Open it,'' said Helene. There was neither excitement
in her voice, nor yet resignation. In those two words was
told the philosophy of her life.
I opened the door. There, on the step, was an officer,
perspiring, uniformed and plumed, and behind him a crowd
of eager faces, white and black, that seemed to fill the
street. He took a step into the room, his hand on the hilt
of his sword, and poured out at me a torrent of Spanish of
which I understood nothing. All at once his eye fell upon
Helene, who was standing behind me, and he stopped in
the middle of his speech and pulled off his hat and bowed
profoundly.
``Madame la Vicomtesse!'' he stammered. I was no
little surprised that she should be so well known.
``You will please to speak French, Monsieur,'' she said;
``this gentleman does not understand Spanish. What is
it you desire?''
``A thousand pardons, Madame la Vicomtesse,'' he said.
``I am the Alcalde de Barrio, and a wild Americano has
passed the sentry at St. Charles's gate without heeding
his Excellency's authority and command. I saw the man
with my own eyes. I should know him again in a
hundred. We have traced him here to this house, Madame
la Vicomtesse. Behold the horse which he rode!'' The
Alcalde turned and pointed at the beast. ``Behold the
horse which he rode, Madame la Vicomtesse. The animal
will die.''
``Probably,'' answered the Vicomtesse, in an even tone.
``But the man,'' cried the Alcalde, ``the man is here,
Madame la Vicomtesse, here, in this house!''
``Yes,'' she said, ``he is here.''
``Sancta Maria! Madame,'' he exclaimed, ``I--I who
speak to you have come to get him. He has defied his
Excellency's commands. Where is he?''
``He is in that room,'' said the Vicomtesse, pointing at
the bedroom door.
The Alcalde took a step forward. She stopped him by
a quick gesture.
``He is in that room with his mother,'' she said, ``and
his mother has the yellow fever. Come, we will go to
him.'' And she put her hand upon the door.
``Yellow fever!'' cried the Alcalde, and his voice was
thick with terror. There was a moment's silence as he
stood rooted to the floor. I did not wonder then, but I
have since thought it remarkable that the words spoken
low by both of them should have been caught up on the
banquette and passed into the street. Impassive, I heard
it echoed from a score of throats, I saw men and women
stampeding like frightened sheep, I heard their footfalls
and their cries as they ran. A tawdry constable, who
held with a trembling hand the bridle of the tired horse,
alone remained.
``Yellow fever!'' the Alcalde repeated
The Vicomtesse inclined her head.
He was silent again for a while, uncertain, and then,
without comprehending, I saw the man's eyes grow
smaller and a smile play about his mouth. He looked at
the Vicomtesse with a new admiration to which she paid
no heed.
``I am sorry, Madame la Vicomtesse,'' he began,
``but--''
``But you do not believe that I speak the truth,'' she
replied quietly.
He winced.
``Will you follow me?'' she said, turning again.
He had started, plainly in an agony of fear, when a
sound came from beyond the wall that brought a cry to
his lips.
Her manner changed to one of stinging scorn.
``You are a coward,'' she said. ``I will bring the
gentleman to you if he can be got to leave the bedside.''
``No,'' said the Alcalde, ``no. I--I will go to him,
Madame la Vicomtesse.''
But she did not open the door.
``Listen,'' she said in a tone of authority, ``I myself
have been to his Excellency to-day concerning this
gentleman--''
``You, Madame la Vicomtesse?''
``I will open the door,'' she continued, impatient at the
interruption, ``and you will see him. Then I shall write a
letter which you will take to the Governor. The gentleman
will not try to escape, for his mother is dying. Besides,
he could not get out of the city. You may leave
your constable where he is, or the man may come in and
stand at this door in sight of the gentleman while you are
gone--if he pleases.''
``And then?'' said the Alcalde.
``It is my belief that his Excellency will allow the
gentleman to remain here, and that you will be relieved
from the necessity of running any further risk.''
As she spoke she opened the door, softly. The room
was still now, still as death, and the Alcalde went forward
on tiptoe. I saw him peering in, I saw him backing away
again like a man in mortal fear.
``Yes, it is he--it is the man,'' he stammered. He put
his hand to his brow.
The Vicomtesse closed the door, and without a glance
at him went quickly to the table and began to write.
She had no thought of consulting the man again, of asking
his permission. Although she wrote rapidly, five
minutes must have gone by before the note was finished
and folded and sealed. She held it out to him.
``Take this to his Excellency,'' she said, ``and bring me
his answer.'' The Alcalde bowed, murmured her title,
and went lamely out of the house. He was plainly in an
agony of uncertainty as to his duty, but he glanced at the
Vicomtesse--and went, flipping the note nervously with
his finger nail. He paused for a few low-spoken words
with the tawdry constable, who sat down on the banquette
after his chief had gone, still clinging to the bridle. The
Vicomtesse went to the doorway, looked at him, and
closed the battened doors. The constable did not protest.
The day was fading without, and the room was almost in
darkness as she crossed over to the little mantel and stood
with her head laid upon her arm.
I did not disturb her. The minutes passed, the light
waned until I could see her no longer, and yet I knew
that she had not moved. The strange sympathy between
us kept me silent until I heard her voice calling my
name.
``Yes,'' I answered.
``The candle!''
I drew out my tinder-box and lighted the wick. She
had turned, and was facing me even as she had faced me
the night before. The night before! The greatest part
of my life seemed to have passed since then. I remember
wondering that she did not look tired. Her face was sad
her voice was sad, and it had an ineffable, sweet quality at
such times that was all its own.
``The Alcalde should be coming back,'' she said.
``Yes,'' I answered.
These were our words, yet we scarce heeded their
meaning. Between us was drawn a subtler communion
than speech, and we dared--neither of us--to risk
speech. She searched my face, but her lips were closed.
She did not take my hand again as in the afternoon. She
turned away. I knew what she would have said.
There was a knock at the door. We went together to
open it, and the Alcalde stood on the step. He held in
his hand a long letter on which the red seal caught the
light, and he gave the letter to the Vicomtesse, with
a bow.
``From his Excellency, Madame la Vicomtesse.''
She broke the seal, went to the table, and read. Then
she looked up at me.
``It is the Governor's permit for Mr. Temple to remain
in this house. Thank you,'' she said to the Alcalde; ``you
may go.''
``With my respectful wishes for the continued good
health of Madame la Vicomtesse,'' said the Alcalde.
CHAPTER XI
``IN THE MIDST OF LIFE''
The Alcalde had stopped on the step with an exclamation
at something in the darkness outside, and he backed,
bowing, into the room again to make way for some one.
A lady, slim, gowned and veiled in black and followed
by a negress, swept past him. The lady lifted her veil
and stood before us.
``Antoinette!'' exclaimed the Vicomtesse, going to her.
The girl did not answer at once. Her suffering seemed
to have brought upon her a certain acceptance of misfortune
as inevitable. Her face, framed in the black veil,
was never more beautiful than on that night.
``What is the Alcalde doing here?'' she said.
The officer himself answered the question.
``I am leaving, Mademoiselle,'' said he. He reached
out his hands toward her, appealingly. ``Do you not
remember me, Mademoiselle? You brought the good
sister to see my wife.''
``I remember you,'' said Antoinette.
``Do not stay here, Mademoiselle!'' he cried. ``There
is--there is yellow fever.''
``So that is it,'' said Antoinette, unheeding him and
looking at her cousin. ``She has yellow fever, then?''
``I beg you to come away, Mademoiselle!'' the man
entreated.
``Please go,'' she said to him. He looked at her, and
went out silently, closing the doors after him. ``Why
was he here?'' she asked again.
``He came to get Mr. Temple, my dear,'' said the
Vicomtesse. The girl's lips framed his name, but did not
speak it.
``Where is he?'' she asked slowly.
The Vicomtesse pointed towards the bedroom.
``In there,'' she answered, ``with his mother.''
``He came to her?'' Antoinette asked quite simply.
The Vicomtesse glanced at me, and drew the veil
gently from the girl's shoulders. She led her, unresisting,
to a chair. I looked at them. The difference in their
ages was not so great. Both had suffered cruelly; one
had seen the world, the other had not, and yet the contrast
lay not here. Both had followed the gospel of helpfulness
to others, but one as a religieuse, innocent of the
sin around her, though poignant of the sorrow it caused.
The other, knowing evil with an insight that went far
beyond intuition, fought with that, too.
``I will tell you, Antoinette,'' began the Vicomtesse;
``it was as you said. Mr. Ritchie and I found him at
Lamarque's. He had not taken your money; he did not
even know that Auguste had gone to see you. He did
not even know,'' she said, bending over the girl, ``that he
was on your father's plantation. When we told him that,
he would have left it at once.''
``Yes,'' she said.
``He did not know that his mother was still in New
Orleans. And when we told him how ill she was he
would have come to her then. It was as much as we
could do to persuade him to wait until we had seen Monsieur
de Carondelet. Mr. Ritchie and I came directly to
town and saw his Excellency.''
It was characteristic of the Vicomtesse that she told this
almost with a man's brevity, that she omitted the stress
and trouble and pain of it all. These things were done;
the tact and skill and character of her who had accomplished
them were not spoken of. The girl listened
immovable, her lips parted and her eyes far away. Suddenly,
with an awakening, she turned to Helene.
``You did this!'' she cried.
``Mr. Ritchie and I together,'' said the Vicomtesse.
Her next exclamation was an odd one, showing how the
mind works at such a time.
``But his Excellency was having his siesta!'' said
Antoinette.
Again Helene glanced at me, but I cannot be sure that
she smiled.
``We thought the matter of sufficient importance to
awake his Excellency,'' said Helene.
``And his Excellency?'' asked Antoinette. In that
moment all three of us seemed to have forgotten the
tragedy behind the wall.
``His Excellency thought so, too, when we had explained
it sufficiently,'' Helene answered.
The girl seemed suddenly to throw off the weight of
her grief. She seized the hand of the Vicomtesse in both
of her own.
``The Baron pardoned him?'' she cried. ``Tell me what
his Excellency said. Why are you keeping it from me?''
``Hush, my dear,'' said the Vicomtesse. ``Yes, he
pardoned him. Mr. Temple was to have come to the city
to-night with an officer. Mr. Ritchie and I came to this
house together, and we found--''
``Yes, yes,'' said Antoinette.
``Mr. Ritchie wrote to Mr. Temple that his Excellency
was to send for him to-night, but Andre told him of the
fever, and he came here in the face of danger to see her
before she died. He galloped past the sentry at the gate,
and the Alcalde followed him from there.''
``And came here to arrest him?'' cried Antoinette.
Before the Vicomtesse could prevent her she sprang from
her chair, ran to the door, and was peering out into the
darkness. ``Is the Alcalde waiting?''
``No, no,'' said the Vicomtesse, gently bringing her
back. ``I wrote to his Excellency and we have his permission
for Mr. Temple to remain here.''
Suddenly Antoinette stopped in the middle of the floor,
facing the candle, her hands clasped, her eyes wide with
fear. We started, Helene and I, as we looked at her.
``What is it, my dear?'' said the Vicomtesse, laying a
hand on her arm.
``He will take it,'' she said, ``he will take the fever.''
A strange thing happened. Many, many times have I
thought of it since, and I did not know its meaning then.
I had looked to see the Vicomtesse comfort her. But
Helene took a step towards me, my eyes met hers, and in
them reflected was the terror I had seen in Antoinette's.
At that instant I, too, forgot the girl, and we turned to see
that she had sunk down, weeping, in the chair. Then we
both went to her, I through some instinct I did not fathom.
Helene's hand, resting on Antoinette's shoulder,
trembled there. It may well have been my own weakness which
made me think her body swayed, which made me reach
out as if to catch her. However marvellous her strength
and fortitude, these could not last forever. And--Heaven
help me--my own were fast failing. Once the room had
seemed to me all in darkness. Then I saw the Vicomtesse
leaning tenderly over her cousin and whispering in her
ear, and Antoinette rising, clinging to her.
``I will go,'' she faltered, ``I will go. He must not know
I have been here. You--you will not tell him?''
``No, I shall not tell him,'' answered the Vicomtesse.
``And--you will send word to me, Helene?''
``Yes, dear.''
Antoinette kissed her, and began to adjust her veil
mechanically. I looked on, bewildered by the workings
of the feminine mind. Why was she going? The
Vicomtesse gave me no hint. But suddenly the girl's
arms fell to her sides, and she stood staring, not so much
as a cry escaping her. The bedroom doors had been
opened, and between them was the tall figure of Nicholas
Temple. So they met again after many years, and she who
had parted them had brought them together once more.
He came a step into the room, as though her eyes had
drawn him so far. Even then he did not speak her name.
``Go,'' he said. ``Go, you must not stay here. Go!''
She bowed her head.
``I was going,'' she answered. ``I--I am going.''
``But you must go at once,'' he cried excitedly. ``Do
you know what is in there?'' and he pointed towards the
bedroom.
``Yes, yes, I know,'' she said, ``I know.''
``Then go,'' he cried. ``As it is you have risked too
much.''
She lifted up her head and looked at him. There was
a new-born note in her voice, a tremulous note of joy in
the midst of sorrow. It was of her he was thinking!
``And you?'' she said. ``You have come and remained.''
``She is my mother,'' he answered. ``God knows it was
the least I could have done.''
Twice she had changed before our eyes, and now we
beheld a new and yet more startling transformation.
When she spoke there was no reproach in her voice, but
triumph. Antoinette undid her veil.
``Yes, she is your mother,'' she answered; ``but for many
years she has been my friend. I will go to her. She cannot
forbid me now. Helene has been with her,'' she said,
turning to where the Vicomtesse stood watching her
intently. ``Helene has been with her. And shall I,
who have longed to see her these many years, leave
her now?''
``But you were going!'' he cried, beside himself with
apprehension at this new turning. ``You told me that you
were going.''
Truly, man is born without perception.
``Yes, I told you that,'' she replied almost defiantly.
``And why were you going?'' he demanded. Then I
had a sudden desire to shake him.
Antoinette was mute.
``You yourself must find the answer to that question,
Mr. Temple,'' said the Vicomtesse, quietly.
He turned and stared at Helene, and she seemed to
smile. Then as his eyes went back, irresistibly, to the
other, a light that was wonderful to see dawned and grew
in them. I shall never forget him as he stood, handsome
and fearless, a gentleman still, despite his years of wandering
and adventure, and in this supreme moment unselfish.
The wilful, masterful boy had become a man at last.
He started forward, stopped, trembling with a shock of
remembrance, and gave back again.
``You cannot come,'' he said; ``I cannot let you take this
risk. Tell her she cannot come, Madame,'' he said to
Helene. ``For the love of God send her home again.''
But there were forces which even Helene could not stem.
He had turned to go back, he had seized the door, but
Antoinette was before him. Custom does not weigh at
such a time. Had she not read his avowal? She had his
hand in hers, heedless of us who watched. At first he
sought to free himself, but she clung to it with all the
strength of her love,--yet she did not look up at him.
``I will come with you,'' she said in a low voice, ``I will
come with you, Nick.''
How quaintly she spoke his name, and gently, and timidly
--ay, and with a supreme courage. True to him through
all those numb years of waiting, this was a little thing--
that they should face death together. A little thing, and
yet the greatest joy that God can bestow upon a good
woman. He looked down at her with a great tenderness,
he spoke her name, and I knew that he had taken her at
last into his arms.
``Come,'' he said.
They went in together, and the doors closed behind them.
* * * * * * *
Antoinette's maid was on the step, and the Vicomtesse
and I were alone once more in the little parlor. I
remember well the sense of unreality I had, and how it
troubled me. I remember how what I had seen and heard
was turning, turning in my mind. Nick had come back
to Antoinette. They were together in that room, and Mrs.
Temple was dying--dying. No, it could not be so. Again,
I was in the garden at Les Iles on a night that was all
perfume, and I saw the flowers all ghostly white under the
moon. And then, suddenly, I was watching the green
candle sputter, and out of the stillness came a cry--the
sereno calling the hour of the night. How my head
throbbed! It was keeping time to some rhythm, I knew
not what. Yes, it was the song my father used to sing:--
``I've faught on land? I've faught at sea,
At hume I've faught my aunty, O!''
But New Orleans was hot, burning hot, and this could not
be cold I felt. Ah, I had it, the water was cold going to
Vincennes, so cold!
A voice called me. No matter where I had gone, I
think I would have come back at the sound of it. I listened
intently, that I might lose no word of what it said.
I knew the voice. Had it not called to me many times in
my life before? But now there was fear in it, and fear
gave it a vibrant sweetness, fear gave it a quality that
made it mine--mine.
``You are shivering.''
That was all it said, and it called from across the sea.
And the sea was cold,--cold and green under the gray
light. If she who called to me would only come with the
warmth of her love! The sea faded, the light fell, and I
was in the eternal cold of space between the whirling
worlds. If she could but find me! Was not that her hand
in mine? Did I not feel her near me, touching me? I
wondered that I should hear myself as I answered her.
``I am not ill,'' I said. ``Speak to me again.''
She was pressing my hand now, I saw her bending over
me, I felt her hair as it brushed my face. She spoke again.
There was a tremor in her voice, and to that alone I
listened. The words were decisive, of command, and with
them some sense as of a haven near came to me. Another
voice answered in a strange tongue, saying seemingly:--
``Oui, Madame--male couri--bon dje--male couri!''
I heard the doors close, and the sound of footsteps
running and dying along the banquette, and after that my
shoulders were raised and something wrapped about them.
Then stillness again, the stillness that comes between
waking and sleeping, between pain and calm. And at times
when I felt her hand fall into mine or press against my
brow, the pain seemed more endurable. After that I recall
being lifted, being borne along. I opened my eyes
once and saw, above a tile-crowned wall, the moon all
yellow and distorted in the sky. Then a gate clicked,
dungeon blackness, half-light again, ascent, oblivion.
CHAPTER XII
VISIONS, AND AN AWAKENING
I have still sharp memories of the tortures of that
illness, though it befell so long ago. At times, when my
mind was gone from me, I cried out I know not what of
jargon, of sentiment, of the horrors I had beheld in my
life. I lived again the pleasant scenes, warped and
burlesqued almost beyond cognizance, and the tragedies were
magnified a hundred fold. Thus it would be: on the
low, white ceiling five cracks came together, and that was
a device. And the device would take on color, red-bronze
like the sumach in the autumn and streaks of vermilion,
and two glowing coals that were eyes, and above them
eagles' feathers, and the cracks became bramble bushes.
I was behind the log, and at times I started and knew
that it was a hideous dream, and again Polly Ann was
clutching me and praying me to hold back, and I broke
from her and splashed over the slippery limestone bed of
the creek to fight single-handed. Through all the fearful
struggle I heard her calling me piteously to come back to
her. When the brute got me under water I could not
hear her, but her voice came back suddenly (as when a
door opens) and it was like the wind singing in the
poplars. Was it Polly Ann's voice?
Again, I sat with Nick under the trees on the lawn at
Temple Bow, and the world was dark with the coming
storm. I knew and he knew that the storm was brewing
that I might be thrust out into it. And then in the blackness,
when the air was filled with all the fair things of
the earth torn asunder, a beautiful woman came through
the noise and the fury, and we ran to her and clung to
her skirts, thinking we had found safety. But she thrust
us forth into the blackness with a smile, as though she
were flinging papers out of the window. She, too, grew
out of the design in the cracks of the ceiling, and a
greater fear seized me at sight of her features than when
the red face came out of the brambles.
My constant torment was thirst. I was in the prairie,
and it was scorched and brown to the horizon. I searched
and prayed pitifully for water,--for only a sip of the
brown water with the specks in it that was in the swamp.
There were no swamps. I was on the bed in the cabin
looking at the shifts and hunting shirts on the pegs, and
Polly Ann would bring a gourdful of clear water from the
spring as far as the door. Nay, once I got it to my lips,
and it was gone. Sometimes a young man in a hunting
shirt, square-shouldered, clear-eyed, his face tanned and
his fair hair bleached by the sun, would bring the water.
He was the hero of my boyhood, and part of him indeed
was in me. And I would have followed him again to
Vincennes despite the tortures of the damned. But when
I spoke his name he grew stouter before me, and his eyes
lost their lustre and his hair turned gray; and his hand
shook as he held out the gourd and spilled its contents
ere I could reach them.
Sometimes another brought the water, and at sight of
her I would tremble and grow faint, and I had not the
strength to reach for it. She would look at me with eyes
that laughed despite the resolution of the mouth. Then
the eyes would grow pitiful at my helplessness, and she
would murmur my name. There was some reason which
I never fathomed why she could not give me the water, and
her own suffering seemed greater than mine because of it.
So great did it seem that I forgot my own and sought to
comfort her. Then she would go away, very slowly, and
I would hear her calling to me in the wind, from the stars
to which I looked up from the prairie. It was she, I
thought, who ordered the world. Who, when women
were lost and men cried out in distress, came to them
calmly, ministered to them deftly.
Once--perhaps a score of times, I cannot tell--was
limned on the ceiling, where the cracks were, her miniature,
and I knew what was coming and shuddered and
cried aloud because I could not stop it. I saw the narrow
street of a strange city deep down between high houses,
--houses with gratings on the lowest windows, with
studded, evil-looking doors, with upper stories that toppled
over to shut out the light of the sky, with slated roofs
that slanted and twisted this way and that and dormers
peeping from them. Down in the street, instead of the
King's white soldiers, was a foul, unkempt rabble, creeping
out of its damp places, jesting, cursing, singing. And in
the midst of the rabble a lady sat in a cart high above it
unmoved. She was the lady of the miniature. A window
in one of the jutting houses was flung open, a little man
leaned out excitedly, and I knew him too. He was Jean
Baptiste Lenoir, and he cried out in a shrill voice:--
``You must take off her ruff, citizens. You must take
off her ruff!''
There came a blessed day when my thirst was gone,
when I looked up at the cracks in the ceiling and
wondered why they did not change into horrors. I
watched them a long, long time, and it seemed incredible
that they should still remain cracks. Beyond that I would
not go, into speculation I dared not venture. They
remained cracks, and I went to sleep thanking God. When
I awoke a breeze came in cool, fitful gusts, and on it
the scent of camellias. I thought of turning my head,
and I remember wondering for a long time over the
expediency of this move. What would happen if I did!
Perhaps the visions would come back, perhaps my head
would come off. Finally I decided to risk it, and the first
thing that I beheld was a palm-leaf fan, moving slowly.
That fact gave me food for thought, and contented me for
a while. Then I hit upon the idea that there must be
something behind the fan. I was distinctly pleased by
this astuteness, and I spent more time in speculation.
Whatever it was, it had a tantalizing elusiveness, keeping
the fan between it and me. This was not fair.
I had an inspiration. If I feigned to be asleep, perhaps
the thing behind the fan would come out. I shut my
eyes. The breeze continued steadily. Surely no human
being could fan as long as that without being tired!
I opened my eyes twice, but the thing was inscrutable.
Then I heard a sound that I knew to be a footstep upon
boards. A voice whispered:--
``The delirium has left him.''
Another voice, a man's voice, answered:--
``Thank God! Let me fan him. You are tired.''
``I am not tired,'' answered the first voice.
``I do not see how you have stood it,'' said the man's
voice. ``You will kill yourself, Madame la Vicomtesse.
The danger is past now.''
``I hope so, Mr. Temple,'' said the first voice. ``Please
go away. You may come back in half an hour.''
I heard the footsteps retreating. Then I said: ``I am
not asleep.''
The fan stopped for a brief instant and then went on
vibrating inexorably. I was entranced at the thought of
what I had done. I had spoken, though indeed it seemed
to have had no effect. Could it be that I hadn't spoken? I
began to be frightened at this, when gradually something
crept into my mind and drove the fear out. I did not
grasp what this was at first, it was like the first staining of
wine on the eastern sky to one who sees a sunrise. And
then the thought grew even as the light grows, tinged by
prismatic colors, until at length a memory struck into my
soul like a shaft of light. I spoke her name, unblushingly,
aloud.
``Helene!''
The fan stopped. There was a silence that seemed an
eternity as the palm leaf trembled in her hand, there was
an answer that strove tenderly to command.
``Hush, you must not talk,'' she said.
Never, I believe, came such supreme happiness with
obedience. I felt her hand upon my brow, and the fan
moved again. I fell asleep once more from sheer weariness
of joy. She was there, beside me. She had been
there, beside me, through it all, and it was her touch
which had brought me back to life.
I dreamed of her. When I awoke again her image
was in my mind, and I let it rest there in contemplation.
But presently I thought of the fan, turned my head, and
it was not there. A great fear seized me. I looked out
of the open door where the morning sun threw the checkered
shadows of the honeysuckle on the floor of the gallery,
and over the railing to the tree-tops in the court-yard.
The place struck a chord in my memory. Then my eyes
wandered back into the room. There was a polished
dresser, a crucifix and a prie-dieu in the corner, a fauteuil,
and another chair at my bed. The floor was rubbed to
an immaculate cleanliness, stained yellow, and on it lay
clean woven mats. The room was empty!
I cried out, a yellow and red turban shot across the
window, and I beheld in the door the spare countenance
of the faithful Lindy.
``Marse Dave,'' she cried, ``is you feelin' well, honey?''
``Where am I, Lindy?'' I asked.
Lindy, like many of her race, knew well how to assume
airs of importance. Lindy had me down, and she
knew it.
``Marse Dave,'' she said, ``doan yo' know better'n dat?
Yo' know yo' ain't ter talk. Lawsy, I reckon I wouldn't
be wuth pizen if she was to hear I let yo' talk.''
Lindy implied that there was tyranny somewhere.
``She?'' I asked, ``who's she?''
``Now yo' hush, Marse Dave,'' said Lindy, in a shrill
whisper, ``I ain't er-gwine ter git mixed up in no disputation.
Ef she was ter hear me er-disputin' wid yo', Marse
Dave, I reckon I'd done git such er tongue-lashin'--''
Lindy looked at me suspiciously. ``Yo'-er allus was
powe'rful cute, Marse Dave.''
Lindy set her lips with a mighty resolve to be silent.
I heard some one coming along the gallery, and then I
saw Nick's tall figure looming up behind her.
``Davy,'' he cried.
Lindy braced herself up doggedly.
``Yo' ain't er-gwine to git in thar nohow, Marse Nick,''
she said.
``Nonsense, Lindy,'' he answered, ``I've been in there
as much as you have.'' And he took hold of her thin
arm and pulled her back.
``Marse Nick!'' she cried, terror-stricken, ``she'll done
fin' out dat you've been er-talkin'.''
``Pish!'' said Nick with a fine air, ``who's afraid of her?''
Lindy's face took on an expression of intense amusement.
``Yo' is, for one, Marse Nick,'' she answered, with the
familiarity of an old servant. ``I done seed yo' skedaddle
when she comed.''
``Tut,'' said Nick, grandly, ``I run from no woman.
Eh, Davy?'' He pushed past the protesting Lindy into
the room and took my hand.
``Egad, you have been near the devil's precipice, my
son. A three-bottle man would have gone over.'' In
his eyes was all the strange affection he had had for me
ever since ave had been boys at Temple Bow together.
``Davy, I reckon life wouldn't have been worth much if
you'd gone.''
I did not answer. I could only stare at him, mutely
grateful for such an affection. In all his wild life he had
been true to me, and he had clung to me stanchly in
this, my greatest peril. Thankful that he was here, I
searched his handsome person with my eyes. He was
dressed as usual, with care and fashion, in linen breeches
and a light gray coat and a filmy ruffle at his neck. But
I thought there had come a change into his face. The
reckless quality seemed to have gone out of it, yet the
spirit and daring remained, and with these all the sweetness
that was once in his smile. There were lines under
his eyes that spoke of vigils.
``You have been sitting up with me,'' I said.
``Of course,'' he answered patting my shoulder. ``Of
course I have. What did you think I would be doing?''
``What was the matter with me?'' I asked.
``Nothing much,'' he said lightly, ``a touch of the sun,
and a great deal of overwork in behalf of your friends
Now keep still, or I will be getting peppered.''
I was silent for a while, turning over this answer in my
mind. Then I said:--
``I had yellow fever.''
He started.
``It is no use to lie to you,'' he replied; ``you're too
shrewd.''
I was silent again for a while.
``Nick,'' I said, ``you had no right to stay here. You
have--other responsibilities now.''
He laughed. It was the old buoyant, boyish laugh of
sheer happiness, and I felt the better for hearing it.
``If you begin to preach, parson, I'll go; I vow I'll have
no more sermonizing. Davy,'' he cried, ``isn't she just
the dearest, sweetest, most beautiful person in the world?''
``Where is she?'' I asked, temporizing. Nick was not
a subtle person, and I was ready to follow him at great
length in the praise of Antoinette. ``I hope she is not
here.''
``We made her go to Les Iles,'' said he.
``And you risked your life and stayed here without
her?'' I said.
``As for risking life, that kind of criticism doesn't come
well from you. And as for Antoinette,'' he added with
a smile, ``I expect to see something of her later on.''
``Well,'' I answered with a sigh of supreme content,
``you have been a fool all your life, and I hope that she
will make you sensible.''
``You never could make me so,'' said Nick, ``and besides,
I don't think you've been so damned sensible yourself.''
We were silent again for a space.
``Davy,'' he asked, ``do you remember what I said when
you had that miniature here?''
``You said a great many things, I believe.''
``I told you to consider carefully the masterful features
of that lady, and to thank God you hadn't married her.
I vow I never thought she'd turn up. Upon my oath
I never thought I should be such a blind slave as I have
been for the last fortnight. Faith, Monsieur de St. Gre
is a strong man, but he was no more than a puppet in his
own house when he came back here for a day. That lady
could govern a province,--no, a kingdom. But I warrant
you there would be no climbing of balconies in her dominions.
I have never been so generalled in my life.''
I had no answer for these comments.
``The deuce of it is the way she does it,'' he continued,
plainly bent on relieving himself. ``There's no noise, no
fuss; but you must obey, you don't know why. And yet
you may flay me if I don't love her.''
``Love her!'' I repeated.
``She saved your life,'' said Nick; ``I don't believe any
other woman could have done it. She hadn't any thought
of her own. She has been here, in this room, almost constantly
night and day, and she never let you go. The
little French doctor gave you up--not she. She held
on. Cursed if I see why she did it.''
``Nor I,'' I answered.
``Well,'' he said apologetically, ``of course I would have
done it, but you weren't anything to her. Yes, egad, you
were something to be saved,--that was all that was
necessary. She had you brought back here--we are in
Monsieur de St. Gre's house, by the way--in a litter, an
she took command as though she had nursed yellow fever
cases all her life. No flurry. I said that you were in
love with her once, Davy, when I saw you looking at the
portrait. I take it back. Of course a man could be very
fond of her,'' he said, ``but a king ought to have married
her. As for that poor Vicomte she's tied up to, I reckon
I know the reason why he didn't come to America. An
ordinary man would have no chance at all. God bless
her!'' he cried, with a sudden burst of feeling, ``I would
die for her myself. She got me out of a barrel of trouble
with his Excellency. She cared for my mother, a lonely
outcast, and braved death herself to go to her when she
was dying of the fever. God bless her!''
Lindy was standing in the doorway.
``Lan' sakes, Marse Nick, yo' gotter go,'' she said.
He rose and pressed my fingers. ``I'll go,'' he said,
and left me. Lindy seated herself in the chair. She held
in her hand a bowl of beef broth. From this she fed me
in silence, and when she left she commanded me to sleep
informing me that she would be on the gallery within
call.
But I did not sleep at once. Nick's words had brought
back a fact which my returning consciousness had hitherto
ignored. The birds sang in the court-yard, and when the
breeze stirred it was ever laden with a new scent. I
had been snatched from the jaws of death, my life was
before me, but the happiness which had thrilled me was
gone, and in my weakness the weight of the sadness which
had come upon me was almost unbearable. If I had had
the strength, I would have risen then and there from my
bed, I would have fled from the city at the first opportunity.
As it was, I lay in a torture of thought, living over
again every part of my life which she had touched. I
remembered the first long, yearning look I had given the
miniature at Madame Bouvet's. I had not loved her then.
My feeling rather had been a mysterious sympathy with
and admiration for this brilliant lady whose sphere was
so far removed from mine. This was sufficiently strange.
Again, in the years of my struggle for livelihood which
followed, I dreamed of her; I pictured her often in the
midst of the darkness of the Revolution. Then I had the
miniature again, which had travelled to her, as it were,
and come back to me. Even then it was not love I felt
but an unnamed sentiment for one whom I clothed with
gifts and attributes I admired: constancy, an ability to
suffer and to hide, decision, wit, refuge for the weak, scorn
for the false. So I named them at random and cherished
them, knowing that these things were not what other
men longed for in women. Nay, there was another quality
which I believed was there--which I knew was there
--a supreme tenderness that was hidden like a treasure
too sacred to be seen.
I did not seek to explain the mystery which had brought
her across the sea into that little garden of Mrs. Temple's
and into my heart. There she was now enthroned, deified;
that she would always be there I accepted. That I would
never say or do anything not in consonance with her standards
I knew. That I would suffer much I was sure, but
the lees of that suffering I should hoard because they
came from her.
What might have been I tried to put away. There was
the moment, I thought, when our souls had met in the little
parlor in the Rue Bourbon. I should never know. This
I knew--that we had labored together to bring happiness
into other lives.
Then came another thought to appall me. Unmindful
of her own safety, she had nursed me back to life through
all the horrors of the fever. The doctor had despaired,
and I knew that by the very force that was in her she had
saved me. She was here now, in this house, and presently
she would be coming back to my bedside. Painfully I
turned my face to the wall in a torment of humiliation--
I had called her by her name. I would see her again, but
I knew not whence the strength for that ordeal was to
come.
CHAPTER XIII
A MYSTERY
I knew by the light that it was evening when I awoke.
So prisoners mark the passing of the days by a bar of sun
light. And as I looked at the green trees in the courtyard,
vaguely troubled by I knew not what, some one came
and stood in the doorway. It was Nick.
``You don't seem very cheerful,'' said he; ``a man ought
to be who has been snatched out of the fire.''
``You seem to be rather too sure of my future,'' I said,
trying to smile.
``That's more like you,'' said Nick. ``Egad, you ought
to be happy--we all ought to be happy--she's gone.''
``She!'' I cried. ``Who's gone?''
``Madame la Vicomtesse,'' he replied, rubbing his hands
as he stood over me. ``But she's left instructions with
me for Lindy as long as Monsieur de Carondelet's Bando
de Buen Gobierno. You are not to do this, and you are
not to do that, you are to eat such and such things, you
are to be made to sleep at such and such times. She came
in here about an hour ago and took a long look at you
before she left.''
``She was not ill?'' I said faintly.
``Faith, I don't know why she was not,'' he said. ``She
has done enough to tire out an army. But she seems well
and fairly happy. She had her joke at my expense as she
went through the court-yard, and she reminded me that we
were to send a report by Andre every day.''
Chagrin, depression, relief, bewilderment, all were
struggling within me.
``Where did she go?'' I asked at last.
``To Les Iles,'' he said. ``You are to be brought there
as soon as you are strong enough.
``Do you happen to know why she went? I said.
``Now how the deuce should I know?'' he answered.
``I've done everything with blind servility since I came
into this house. I never asked for any reason--it never
would have done any good. I suppose she thought that
you were well on the road to recovery, and she knew that
Lindy was an old hand. And then the doctor is to
come in.''
``Why didn't you go?'' I demanded, with a sudden
remembrance that he was staying away from happiness.
``It was because I longed for another taste of liberty,
Davy,'' he laughed. ``You and I will have an old-fashioned
time here together,--a deal of talk, and perhaps a
little piquet,--who knows?''
My strength came back, bit by bit, and listening to
his happiness did much to ease the soreness of my heart
--while the light lasted. It was in the night watches
that my struggles came--though often some unwitting
speech of his would bring back the pain. He took delight
in telling me, for example, how for hours at a time I had
been in a fearful delirium.
``The Lord knows what foolishness you talked, Davy,
said he. ``It would have done me good to hear you had
you been in your right mind.''
``But you did hear me,'' I said, full of apprehensions.
``Some of it,'' said he. ``You were after Wilkinson
once, in a burrow, I believe, and you swore dreadfully
because he got out of the other end. I can't remember
all the things you said. Oh, yes, once you were talking
to Auguste de St. Gre about money.''
``Money?'' I repeated in a sinking voice.
``Oh, a lot of jargon. The Vicomtesse pushed me out
of the room, and after that I was never allowed to be there
when you had those flights. Curse the mosquitoes! He
seized a fan and began to ply it vigorously. ``I remember.
You were giving Auguste a lecture. Then I had
to go.''
These and other reminiscences gave me sufficient food
for reflection, and many a shudder over the possibilities of
my ravings. She had put him out! No wonder.
After a while I was carried to the gallery, and there I
would talk to the little doctor about the yellow fever
which had swept the city. Monsieur Perrin was not
much of a doctor, to be sure, and he had a heartier dread
of the American invasion than of the scourge. He worshipped
the Vicomtesse, and was so devoid of professional
pride as to give her freely all credit for my recovery. He
too, clothed her with the qualities of statesmanship.
``Ha, Monsieur,'' he said, ``if that lady had been King
of France, do you think there would have been any States
General, any red bonnets, any Jacobins or Cordeliers?
Parbleu, she would have swept the vicemongers and
traitors out of the Palais Royal itself. There would have
been a house-cleaning there. I, who speak to you, know it.''
Every day Nick wrote a bulletin to be sent to the
Vicomtesse, and he took a fiendish delight in the composition
of these. He would come out on the gallery with ink
and a blank sheet of paper and try to enlist my help. He
would insert the most ridiculous statements, as for
instance, ``Davy is worse to-day, having bribed Lindy
to give him a pint of Madeira against my orders.'' Or,
``Davy feigns to be sinking rapidly because he wishes to
have you back.'' Indeed, I was always in a torture of
doubt to know what the rascal had sent.
His company was most agreeable when he was recounting
the many adventures he had had during the five years
after he had left New Orleans and been lost to me. These
would fill a book, and a most readable book it would be if
written in his own speech. His love for the excitement
of the frontier had finally drawn him back to the Cumberland
country near Nashville, and he had actually gone
so far as to raise a house and till some of the land which
he had won from Darnley. It was perhaps characteristic
of him that he had named the place ``Rattle-and-Snap'' in
honor of the game which had put him in possession of it,
and ``Rattle-and-Snap'' it remains to this day. He was
going back there with Antoinette, so he said, to build a
brick mansion and to live a respectable life the rest of his
days.
There was one question which had been in my mind to
ask him, concerning the attitude of Monsieur de St. Gre.
That gentleman, with Madame, had hurried back from
Pointe Coupee at a message from the Vicomtesse, and had
gone first to Les Iles to see Antoinette. Then he had
come, in spite of the fever, to his own house in New
Orleans to see Nick himself. What their talk had been
I never knew, for the subject was too painful to be dwelt
upon, and the conversation had been marked by frankness
on both sides. Monsieur de St. Gre was a just man, his
love for his daughter was his chief passion, and despite all
that had happened he liked Nick. I believe he could not
wholly blame the younger man, and he forgave him.
Mrs. Temple, poor lady, had died on that first night of
my illness, and it was her punishment that she had not
known her son or her son's happiness. Whatever sins
she had committed in her wayward life were atoned for,
and by her death I firmly believe that she redeemed him.
She lies now among the Temples in Charleston, and on
the stone which marks her grave is cut no line that hints
of the story of these pages.
One bright morning, when Nick and I were playing
cards, we heard some one mounting the stairs, and to my
surprise and embarrassment I beheld Monsieur de St. Gre
emerging on the gallery. He was in white linen and
wore a broad hat, which he took from his head as he
advanced. He had aged somewhat, his hair was a little
gray, but otherwise he was the firm, dignified personage I
had admired on this same gallery five years before.
``Good morning, gentlemen,'' he said in English; ``ha,
do not rise, sir'' (to me). He patted Nick's shoulder
kindly, but not familiarly, as he passed him, and extended
his hand.
``Mr. Ritchie, it gives me more pleasure than I can
express to see you so much recovered.''
``I am again thrown on your hospitality, sir,'' I said,
flushing with pleasure at this friendliness. For I admired
and respected the man greatly. ``And I fear I have been
a burden and trouble to you and your family.''
He took my hand and pressed it. Characteristically, he
did not answer this, and I remembered he was always careful
not to say anything which might smack of insincerity.
``I had a glimpse of you some weeks ago,'' he said, thus
making light of the risk he had run. ``You are a
different man now. You may thank your Scotch blood and
your strong constitution.''
``His good habits have done him some good, after all,''
put in my irrepressible cousin.
Monsieur de St. Gre smiled.
``Nick,'' he said (he pronounced the name quaintly,
like Antoinette), ``his good habits have turned out to be
some advantage to you. Mr. Ritchie, you have a faithful
friend at least.'' He patted Nick's shoulder again.
``And he has promised me to settle down.''
``I have every inducement, sir,'' said Nick.
Monsieur de St. Gre became grave.
``You have indeed, Monsieur,'' he answered.
``I have just come from Dr. Perrin's, David,''--he
added, ``May I call you so? Well, then, I have just come
from Dr. Perrin's, and he says you may be moved to Les
Iles this very afternoon. Why, upon my word,'' he
exclaimed, staring at me, ``you don't look pleased. One
would think you were going to the calabozo.''
``Ah,'' said Nick, slyly, ``I know. He has tasted
freedom, Monsieur, and Madame la Vicomtesse will be in
command again.''
I flushed. Nick could be very exasperating.
``You must not mind him, Monsieur,'' I said.
``I do not mind him,'' answered Monsieur de St. Gre,
laughing in spite of himself. ``He is a sad rogue. As
for Helene--''
``I shall not know how to thank the Vicomtesse,'' I
said. ``She has done me the greatest service one person
can do another.''
``Helene is a good woman,'' answered Monsieur de St.
Gre, simply. ``She is more than that, she is a wonderful
woman. I remember telling you of her once. I little
thought then that she would ever come to us.''
He turned to me. ``Dr. Perrin will be here this
afternoon, David, and he will have you dressed. Between five
and six if all goes well, we shall start for Les Iles. And
in the meantime, gentlemen,'' he added with a stateliness
that was natural to him, ``I have business which takes me
to-day to my brother-in-law's, Monsieur de Beausejour's.''
Nick leaned over the gallery and watched meditatively
his prospective father-in-law leaving the court-yard.
``He got me out of a devilish bad scrape,'' he said.
``How was that?'' I asked listlessly.
``That fat little Baron, the Governor, was for deporting
me for running past the sentry and giving him all the
trouble I did. It seems that the Vicomtesse promised to
explain matters in a note which she wrote, and never did
explain. She was here with you, and a lot she cared about
anything else. Lucky that Monsieur de St. Gre came back.
Now his Excellency graciously allows me to stay here, if I
behave myself, until I get married.''
I do not know how I spent the rest of the day. It
passed, somehow. If I had had the strength then, I believe
I should have fled. I was to see her again, to feel
her near me, to hear her voice. During the weeks that
had gone by I had schooled myself, in a sense, to the
inevitable. I had not let my mind dwell upon my visit to
Les Iles, and now I was face to face with the struggle for
which I felt I had not the strength. I had fought one
battle,--I knew that a fiercer battle was to come.
In due time the doctor arrived, and while he prepared
me for my departure, the little man sought, with misplaced
kindness, to raise my spirits. Was not Monsieur going to
the country, to a paradise? Monsieur--so Dr. Perrin
had noticed--had a turn for philosophy. Could two
more able and brilliant conversationalists be found than
Philippe de St. Gre and Madame la Vicomtesse? And
there was the happiness of that strange but lovable young
man, Monsieur Temple, to contemplate. He was in luck,
ce beau garcon, for he was getting an angel for his wife.
Did Monsieur know that Mademoiselle Antoinette was an
angel?
At last I was ready, arrayed in my best, on the gallery,
when Monsieur de St. Gre came. Andre and another
servant carried me down into the court, and there stood a
painted sedan-chair with the St. Gre arms on the panels.
``My father imported it, David,'' said Monsieur de St.
Gre. ``It has not been used for many years. You are
to be carried in it to the levee, and there I have a boat
for you.''
Overwhelmed by this kindness, I could not find words
to thank him as I got into the chair. My legs were too
long for it, I remember. I had a quaint feeling of unreality
as I sank back on the red satin cushions and was borne
out of the gate between the lions. Monsieur de St. Gre and
Nick walked in front, the faithful Lindy followed, and people
paused to stare at us as we passed. We crossed the Place
d'Armes, the Royal Road, gained the willow-bordered
promenade on the levee's crown, and a wide barge was
waiting, manned by six negro oarsmen. They lifted
me into its stern under the awning, the barge was cast
off, the oars dipped, and we were gliding silently past the
line of keel boats on the swift current of the Mississippi.
The spars of the shipping were inky black, and the setting
sun had struck a red band across the waters. For a while
the three of us sat gazing at the green shore, each wrapped
in his own reflections,--Philippe de St. Gre thinking,
perchance, of the wayward son he had lost; Nick of the
woman who awaited him; and I of one whom fate had
set beyond me. It was Monsieur de St. Gre who broke
the silence at last.
``You feel no ill effects from your moving, David?''
he asked, with an anxious glance at me.
``None, sir,'' I said.
``The country air will do you good,'' he said kindly.
``And Madame la Vicomtesse will put him on a diet,''
added Nick, rousing himself.
``Helene will take care of him,'' answered Monsieur
de St. Gre.
He fell to musing again. ``Madame la Vicomtesse has
seen more in seven years than most of us see in a lifetime,''
he said. ``She has beheld the glory of France,
and the dishonor and pollution of her country. Had the
old order lasted her salon would have been famous, and
she would have been a power in politics.''
``I have thought that the Vicomtesse must have had a
queer marriage,'' Nick remarked.
Monsieur de St. Gre smiled.
``Such marriages were the rule amongst our nobility,''
he said. ``It was arranged while Helene was still in the
convent, though it was not celebrated until three years
after she had been in the world. There was a romantic
affair, I believe, with a young gentleman of the English
embassy, though I do not know the details. He is said
to be the only man she ever cared for. He was a younger
son of an impoverished earl.''
I started, remembering what the Vicomtesse had said.
But Monsieur de St. Gre did not appear to see my
perturbation.
``Be that as it may, if Helene suffered, she never gave a
sign of it. The marriage was celebrated with great pomp,
and the world could only conjecture what she thought of
the Vicomte. It was deemed on both sides a brilliant
match. He had inherited vast estates, Ivry-le-Tour,
Montmery, Les Saillantes, I know not what else. She
was heiress to the Chateau de St. Gre with its wide
lands, to the chateau and lands of the Cote Rouge in
Normandy, to the hotel St. Gre in Paris. Monsieur le Vicomte
was between forty and fifty at his marriage, and
from what I have heard of him he had many of the
virtues and many of the faults of his order. He was a
bachelor, which does not mean that he had lacked
consolations. He was reserved with his equals, and distant
with others. He had served in the Guards, and did not
lack courage. He dressed exquisitely, was inclined to the
Polignac party, took his ease everywhere, had a knowledge
of cards and courts, and little else. He was cheated by
his stewards, refused to believe that the Revolution was
serious, and would undoubtedly have been guillotined had
the Vicomtesse not contrived to get him out of France in
spite of himself. They went first to the Duke de Ligne,
at Bel Oeil, and thence to Coblentz. He accepted a
commission in the Austrian service, which is much to his
credit, and Helene went with some friends to England.
There my letter reached her, and rather than be beholden
to strangers or accept my money there, she came to us.
That is her story in brief, Messieurs. As for Monsieur
le Vicomte, he admired his wife, as well he might,
respected her for the way she served the gallants, but he
made no pretence of loving her. One affair--a girl in
the village of Montmery--had lasted. Helene was
destined for higher things than may be found in Louisiana,''
said Monsieur de St. Gre, turning to Nick, ``but now that
you are to carry away my treasure, Monsieur, I do not
know what I should have done without her.''
``And has there been any news of the Vicomte of late?''
It was Nick who asked the question, after a little.
Monsieur de St. Gre looked at him in surprise.
``Eh, mon Dieu, have you not heard?'' he said. ``C'est
vrai, you have been with David. Did not the Vicomtesse
mention it? But why should she? Monsieur le Vicomte
died in Vienna. He had lived too well.''
``The Vicomte is dead?'' I said.
They both looked at me. Indeed, I should not have
recognized my own voice. What my face betrayed, what
my feelings were, I cannot say. My heart beat no faster,
there was no tumult in my brain, and yet--my breath
caught strangely. Something grew within me which is
beyond the measure of speech, and so it was meant to be.
``I did not know this myself until Helene returned to
Les Iles,'' Monsieur de St. Gre was saying to me. ``The
letter came to her the day after you were taken ill. It
was from the Baron von Seckenbruck, at whose house the
Vicomte died. She took it very calmly, for Helene is not
a woman to pretend. How much better, after all, if she
had married her Englishman for love! And she is much
troubled now because, as she declares, she is dependent
upon my bounty. That is my happiness, my consolation,''
the good man added simply, ``and her father, the Marquis,
was kind to me when I was a young provincial and a
stranger. God rest his soul!''
We were drawing near to Les Iles. The rains had
come during my illness, and in the level evening light the
forest of the shore was the tender green of spring. At
length we saw the white wooden steps in the levee at the
landing, and near them were three figures waiting. We
glided nearer. One was Madame de St. Gre, another was
Antoinette,--these I saw indeed. The other was Helene,
and it seemed to me that her eyes met mine across the
waters and drew them. Then we were at the landing.
I heard Madame de St. Gre's voice, and Antoinette's in
welcome--I listened for another. I saw Nick running
up the steps; in the impetuosity of his love he had seized
Antoinette's hand in his, and she was the color of a red
rose. Creole decorum forbade further advances. Andre
and another lifted me out, and they gathered around me,
--these kind people and devoted friends,--Antoinette
calling me, with exquisite shyness, by name; Madame de
St. Gre giving me a grave but gentle welcome, and asking
anxiously how I stood the journey. Another took my
hand, held it for the briefest space that has been marked
out of time, and for that instant I looked into her eyes.
Life flowed back into me, and strength, and a joy not to
be fathomed. I could have walked; but they bore me
through the well-remembered vista, and the white gallery
at the end of it was like the sight of home. The evening
air was laden with the scent of the sweetest of all shrubs
and flowers.
CHAPTER XIV
``TO UNPATHED WATERS, UNDREAMED SHORES''
Monsieur and Madame de St. Gre themselves came
with me to my chamber off the gallery, where everything
was prepared for my arrival with the most loving care,--
Monsieur de St. Gre supplying many things from his
wardrobe which I lacked. And when I tried to thank
them for their kindness he laid his hand upon my
shoulder.
``Tenez, mon ami,'' he said, ``you got your illness by
doing things for other people. It is time other people
did something for you.''
Lindy brought me the daintiest of suppers, and I was
left to my meditations. Nick looked in at the door, and
hinted darkly that I had to thank a certain tyrant for my
abandonment. I called to him, but he paid no heed, and
I heard him chuckling as he retreated along the gallery.
The journey, the excitement into which I had been plunged
by the news I had heard, brought on a languor, and I was
between sleeping and waking half the night. I slept to
dream of her, of the Vicomte, her husband, walking in his
park or playing cards amidst a brilliant company in a
great candle-lit room like the drawing-room at Temple
Bow. Doubt grew, and sleep left me. She was free now,
indeed, but was she any nearer to me? Hope grew
again,--why had she left me in New Orleans? She had
received a letter, and if she had cared she would not have
remained. But there was a detestable argument to fit that
likewise, and in the light of this argument it was most
natural that she should return to Les Iles. And who was
I, David Ritchie, a lawyer of the little town of Louisville,
to aspire to the love of such a creature? Was it likely
that Helene, Vicomtesse d'Ivry-le-Tour, would think twice
of me? The powers of the world were making ready to
crush the presumptuous France of the Jacobins, and the
France of King and Aristocracy would be restored.
Chateaux and lands would be hers again, and she would go
back again to that brilliant life among the great to which
she was born, for which nature had fitted her. Last of all
was the thought of the Englishman whom I resembled.
She would go back to him.
Nick was the first in my room the next morning. He
had risen early (so he ingenuously informed me) because
Antoinette had a habit of getting up with the birds, and
as I drank my coffee he was emphatic in his denunciations
of the customs of the country.
``It is a wonderful day, Davy,'' he cried; ``you must
hurry and get out. Monsieur de St. Gre sends his
compliments, and wishes to know if you will pardon his absence
this morning. He is going to escort Antoinette and me
over to see some of my prospective cousins, the Bertrands.''
He made a face, and bent nearer to my ear. ``I swear
to you I have not had one moment alone with her. We
have been for a walk, but Madame la Vicomtesse must
needs intrude herself upon us. Egad, I told her plainly
what I thought of her tyranny.''
``And what did she say?'' I asked, trying to smile.
``She laughed, and said that I belonged to a young
nation which had done much harm in the world to everybody
but themselves. Faith, if I wasn't in love with
Antoinette, I believe I'd be in love with her.''
``I have no doubt of it,'' I answered.
``The Vicomtesse is as handsome as a queen this
morning,'' he continued, paying no heed to this remark.
``She has on a linen dress that puzzles me. It
was made to walk among the trees and flowers, it is as
simple as you please; and yet it has a distinction that
makes you stare.''
``You seem to have stared,'' I answered. ``Since when
did you take such interest in gowns?''
``Bless you, it was Antoinette. I never should have
known, said he. ``Antoinette had never before seen the
gown, and she asked the Vicomtesse where she got the
pattern. The Vicomtesse said that the gown had been
made by Leonard, a court dressmaker, and it was of the
fashion the Queen had set to wear in the gardens of the
Trianon when simplicity became the craze. Antoinette is
to have it copied, so she says.''
Which proved that Antoinette was human, after all,
and happy once more.
``Hang it,'' said Nick, ``she paid more attention to that
gown than to me. Good-by, Davy. Obey the--the
Colonel.''
``Is--is not the Vicomtesse going with you?'' I asked
``No, I'm sorry for you,'' he called back from the gallery.
He had need to be, for I fell into as great a fright as
ever I had had in my life. Monsieur de St. Gre knocked
at the door and startled me out of my wits. Hearing that
I was awake, he had come in person to make his excuses
for leaving me that morning.
``Bon Dieu!'' he said, looking at me, ``the country has
done you good already. Behold a marvel! Au revoir,
David.''
I heard the horses being brought around, and laughter
and voices. How easily I distinguished hers! Then I
heard the hoof-beats on the soft dirt of the drive. Then
silence,--the silence of a summer morning which is all
myriad sweet sounds. Then Lindy appeared, starched
and turbaned.
``Marse Dave, how you feel dis mawnin'? Yo' 'pears
mighty peart, sholy. Marse Dave, yo' chair is sot on de
gallery. Is you ready? I'll fotch dat yaller nigger,
Andre.''
``You needn't fetch Andre,'' I said; ``I can walk.''
``Lan sakes, Marse Dave, but you is bumptious.''
I rose and walked out on the gallery with surprising
steadiness. A great cushioned chair had been placed there
and beside it a table with books, and another chair. I sat
down. Lindy looked at me sharply, but I did not heed
her, and presently she retired. The day, still in its early
golden glory, seemed big with prescience. Above, the
saffron haze was lifted, and there was the blue sky. The
breeze held its breath; the fragrance of grass and fruit
and flowers, of the shrub that vied with all, languished
on the air. Out of these things she came.
I knew that she was coming, but I saw her first at the
gallery's end, the roses she held red against the white
linen of her gown. Then I felt a great yearning and a
great dread. I have seen many of her kind since, and
none reflected so truly as she the life of the old regime.
Her dress, her carriage, her air, all suggested it; and she
might, as Nick said, have been walking in the gardens of
the Trianon. Titles I cared nothing for. Hers alone
seemed real, to put her far above me. Had all who bore
them been as worthy, titles would have meant much to
mankind.
She was coming swiftly. I rose to my feet before her.
I believe I should have risen in death. And then she was
standing beside me, looking up into my face.
``You must not do that,'' she said, ``or I will go
away.''
I sat down again. She went to the door and called, I
following her with my eyes. Lindy came with a bowl of
water.
``Put it on the table,'' said the Vicomtesse.
Lindy put the bowl on the table, gave us a glance, and
departed silently. The Vicomtesse began to arrange the
flowers in the bowl, and I watched her, fascinated by her
movements. She did everything quickly, deftly, but this
matter took an unconscionable time. She did not so
much as glance at me. She seemed to have forgotten my
presence.
``There,'' she said at last, giving them a final touch.
``You are less talkative, if anything, than usual this morning,
Mr. Ritchie. You have not said good morning, you
have not told me how you were--you have not even
thanked me for the roses. One might almost believe that
you are sorry to come to Les Iles.''
``One might believe anything who didn't know, Madame
la Vicomtesse.''
She put her hand to the flowers again.
``It seems a pity to pick them, even in a good cause,''
she said.
She was so near me that I could have touched her. A
weakness seized me, and speech was farther away than
ever. She moved, she sat down and looked at me, and
the kind of mocking smile came into her eyes that I knew
was the forerunner of raillery.
``There is a statue in the gardens of Versailles which
seems always about to speak, and then to think better of
it. You remind me of that statue, Mr. Ritchie. It is the
statue of Wisdom.''
What did she mean?
``Wisdom knows the limitations of its own worth,
Madame,'' I replied.
``It is the one particular in which I should have thought
wisdom was lacking,'' she said. ``You have a tongue, if
you will deign to use it. Or shall I read to you?'' she
added quickly, picking up a book. ``I have read to the
Queen, when Madame Campan was tired. Her Majesty
poor dear lady, did me the honor to say she liked my
English.''
``You have done everything, Madame,'' I said.
``I have read to a Queen, to a King's sister, but never yet
--to a King,'' she said, opening the book and giving me
the briefest of glances. ``You are all kings in America
are you not? What shall I read?''
``I would rather have you talk to me.''
``Very well, I will tell you how the Queen spoke English.
No, I will not do that,'' she said, a swift expression
of sadness passing over her face. ``I will never mock her
again. She was a good sovereign and a brave woman
and I loved her.'' She was silent a moment, and I thought
there was a great weariness in her voice when she spoke
again. ``I have every reason to thank God when I think
of the terrors I escaped, of the friends I have found. And
yet I am an unhappy woman, Mr. Ritchie.''
``You are unhappy when you are not doing things for
others, Madame,'' I suggested.
``I am a discontented woman,'' she said; ``I always
have been. And I am unhappy when I think of all those
who were dear to me and whom I loved. Many are dead,
and many are scattered and homeless.''
``I have often thought of your sorrows, Madame,'' I
said.
``Which reminds me that I should not burden you with
them, my good friend, when you are recovering. Do you
know that you have been very near to death?''
``I know, Madame,'' I faltered. ``I know that had it not
been for you I should not be alive to-day. I know that
you risked your life to save my own.''
She did not answer at once, and when I looked at her
she was gazing out over the flowers on the lawn.
``My life did not matter,'' she said. ``Let us not talk
of that.''
I might have answered, but I dared not speak for fear
of saying what was in my heart. And while I trembled
with the repression of it, she was changed. She turned
her face towards me and smiled a little.
``If you had obeyed me you would not have been so
ill,'' she said.
``Then I am glad that I did not obey you.''
``Your cousin, the irrepressible Mr. Temple, says I am
a tyrant. Come now, do you think me a tyrant?''
``He has also said other things of you.''
``What other things?''
I blushed at my own boldness.
``He said that if he were not in love with Antoinette,
he would be in love with you.''
``A very safe compliment,'' said the Vicomtesse.
``Indeed, it sounds too cautious for Mr. Temple. You must
have tampered with it, Mr. Ritchie,'' she flashed. ``Mr.
Temple is a boy. He needs discipline. He will have too
easy a time with Antoinette.''
``He is not the sort of man you should marry,'' I said,
and sat amazed at it.
She looked at me strangely
``No, he is not,'' she answered. ``He is more or less
the sort of man I have been thrown with all my life.
They toil not, neither do they spin. I know you will not
misunderstand me, for I am very fond of him. Mr. Temple
is honest, fearless, lovable, and of good instincts. One
cannot say as much for the rest of his type. They go
through life fighting, gaming, horse-racing, riding to
hounds,--I have often thought that it was no wonder
our privileges came to an end. So many of us were steeped
in selfishness and vice, were a burden on the world. The
early nobles, with all their crimes, were men who carved
their way. Of such were the lords of the Marches. We
toyed with politics, with simplicity, we wasted the land,
we played cards as our coaches passed through faminestricken
villages. The reckoning came. Our punishment
was not given into the hands of the bourgeois, who would
have dealt justly, but to the scum, the canaille, the demons
of the earth. Had our King, had our nobility, been men
with the old fire, they would not have stood it. They
were worn out with centuries of catering to themselves.
Give me a man who will shape his life and live it with all
his strength. I am tired of sham and pretence, of cynical
wit, of mocking at the real things of life, of pride, vainglory,
and hypocrisy. Give me a man whose existence
means something.''
Was she thinking of the Englishman of whom she had
spoken? Delicacy forbade my asking the question. He
had been a man, according to her own testimony. Where
was he now? Her voice had a ring of earnestness in it
I had never heard before, and this arraignment of her own
life and of her old friends surprised me. Now she seemed
lost in a revery, from which I forebore to arouse her.
``I have often tried to picture your life,'' I said at last.
``You?'' she answered, turning her head quickly.
``Ever since I first saw the miniature,'' I said.
``Monsieur de St. Gre told me some things, and afterwards I
read `Le Mariage de Figaro,' and some novels, and some
memoirs of the old courts which I got in Philadelphia last
winter. I used to think of you as I rode over the
mountains, as I sat reading in my room of an evening.
I used to picture you in the palaces amusing the Queen
and making the Cardinals laugh. And then I used to
wonder--what became of you--and whether--'' I hesitated,
overwhelmed by a sudden confusion. for she was
gazing at me fixedly with a look I did not understand.
``You used to think of that?'' she said.
``I never thought to see you,'' I answered.
Laughter came into her eyes, and I knew that I had
not vexed her. But I had spoken stupidly, and I reddened.
``I had a quick tongue,'' she said, as though to cover
my confusion. ``I have it yet. In those days misfortune
had not curbed it. I had not learned to be charitable.
When I was a child I used to ride with my father to the
hunts at St. Gre, and I was too ready to pick out the
weaknesses of his guests. If one of the company had a trick
or a mannerism, I never failed to catch it. People used
to ask me what I thought of such and such a person, and
that was bad for me. I saw their failings and pretensions,
but I ignored my own. It was the same at Abbaye aux
Bois, the convent where I was taught. When I was presented
to her Majesty I saw why people hated her. They
did not understand her. She was a woman with a large
heart, with charity. Some did not suspect this, others
forgot it because they beheld a brilliant personage with
keen perceptions who would not submit to being bored.
Her Majesty made many enemies at court of persons who
believed she was making fun of them. There was a dressmaker
at the French court called Mademoiselle Bertin,
who became ridiculously pretentious because the Queen
allowed the woman to dress her hair in private. Bertin
used to put on airs with the nobility when they came to
order gowns, and she was very rude to me when I went
for my court dress. There was a ball at Versailles the
day I was presented, and my father told me that her
Majesty wished to speak with me. I was very much
frightened. The Queen was standing with her back to
the mirror, the Duchesse de Polignac and some other
ladies beside her, when my father brought me up, and her
Majesty was smiling.
`` `What did you say to Bertin, Mademoiselle?' she
asked.
``I was more frightened than ever, but the remembrance
of the woman's impudence got the better of me.
`` `I told her that in dressing your Majesty's hair she
had acquired all the court accomplishments but one.'
`` `I'll warrant that Bertin was curious,' said the Queen.
`` `She was, your Majesty.'
`` `What is the accomplishment she lacks?' the Queen
demanded; `I should like to know it myself.'
``It is discrimination, your Majesty. I told the woman
there were some people she could be rude to with impunity.
I was not one of them.'
`` `She'll never be rude to you again, Mademoiselle,'
said the Queen.
`` `I am sure of it, your Majesty,' I said.
``The Queen laughed, and bade the Duchesse de
Polignac invite me to supper that evening. My father was
delighted,--I was more frightened than ever. But the
party was small, her Majesty was very gracious and spoke
to me often, and I saw that above all things she liked to
be amused. Poor lady! It was a year after that terrible
affair of the necklace, and she wished to be distracted
from thinking of the calumnies which were being heaped
upon her. She used to send for me often during the
years that followed, and I might have had a place at court
near her person. But my father was sensible enough to
advise me not to accept,--if I could refuse without
offending her Majesty. The Queen was not offended; she
was good enough to say that I was wise in my request.
She had, indeed, abolished most of the ridiculous etiquette
of the court. She would not eat in public, she would not
be followed around the palace by ladies in court gowns,
she would not have her ladies in the room when she was
dressing. If she wished a mirror, she would not wait for
it to be passed through half a dozen hands and handed
her by a Princess of the Blood. Sometimes she used to
summon me to amuse her and walk with me by the water
in the beautiful gardens of the Petit Triano. I used to
imitate the people she disliked. I disliked them, too. I
have seen her laugh until the tears came into her eyes
when I talked of Monsieur Necker. As the dark days
drew nearer I loved more and more to be in the seclusion
of the country at Montmery, at the St. Gre of my girlhood.
I can see St. Gre now,'' said the Vicomtesse, ``the thatched
houses of the little village on either side of the high-road,
the honest, red-faced peasants courtesying in their doorways
at our berline, the brick wall of the park, the iron
gates beside the lodge, the long avenue of poplars, the
deer feeding in the beechwood, the bridge over the shining
stream and the long, weather-beaten chateau beyond
it. Paris and the muttering of the storm were far away.
The mornings on the sunny terrace looking across the
valley to the blue hills, the walks in the village, grew very
dear to me. We do not know the value of things, Mr.
Ritchie, until we are about to lose them.''
``You did not go back to court?'' I asked.
She sighed.
``Yes, I went back. I thought it my duty. I was
at Versailles that terrible summer when the States General
met, when the National Assembly grew out of it,
when the Bastille was stormed, when the King was
throwing away his prerogatives like confetti. Never did the
gardens of the Trianon seem more beautiful, or more sad.
Sometimes the Queen would laugh even then when I mimicked
Bailly, Des Moulins, Mirabeau. I was with her
Majesty in the gardens on that dark, rainy day when the
fishwomen came to Versailles. The memory of that night
will haunt me as long as I live. The wind howled, the
rain lashed with fury against the windows, the mob tore
through the streets of the town, sacked the wine-shops,
built great fires at the corners. Before the day dawned
again the furies had broken into the palace and murdered
what was left of the Guard. You have heard how they
carried off the King and Queen to Paris--how they bore
the heads of the soldiers on their pikes. I saw it from
a window, and I shall never forget it.''
Her voice faltered, and there were tears on her lashes.
Some quality in her narration brought before me so vividly
the scenes of which she spoke that I started when she had
finished. There was much more I would have known, but
I could not press her to speak longer on a subject that gave
her pain. At that moment she seemed more distant to
me than ever before. She rose, went into the house, and
left me thinking of the presumptions of the hopes I had
dared to entertain, left me picturing sadly the existence
of which she had spoken. Why had she told me of it?
Perchance she had thought to do me a kindness!
She came back to me--I had not thought she would.
She sat down with her embroidery in her lap, and for some
moments busied herself with it in silence. Then she said,
without looking up:--
``I do not know why I have tired you with this, why I
have saddened myself. It is past and gone.''
``I was not tired, Madame. It is very difficult to live
in the present when the past has been so brilliant,'' I
answered.
``So brilliant!'' She sighed. ``So thoughtless,--I
think that is the sharpest regret.'' I watched her fingers
as they stitched, wondering how they could work so rapidly.
At last she said in a low voice, ``Antoinette and Mr.
Temple have told me something of your life, Mr. Ritchie.''
I laughed.
``It has been very humble,'' I replied.
``What I heard was--interesting to me,'' she said,
turning over her frame. ``Will you not tell me something of
it?''
``Gladly, Madame, if that is the case,'' I answered.
``Well, then,'' she said, ``why don't you?''
``I do not know which part you would like, Madame.
Shall I tell you about Colonel Clark? I do not know
when to begin--''
She dropped her sewing in her lap and looked up at me
quickly.
``I told you that you were a strange man,'' she said.
``I almost lose patience with you. No, don't tell me
about Colonel Clark--at least not until you come to him.
Begin at the beginning, at the cabin in the mountains.''
``You want the whole of it!'' I exclaimed.
She picked up her embroidery again and bent over it
with a smile.
``Yes, I want the whole of it.''
So I began at the cabin in the mountains. I cannot say
that I ever forgot she was listening, but I lost myself in
the narrative. It presented to me, for the first time, many
aspects that I had not thought of. For instance, that I
should be here now in Louisiana telling it to one who had
been the companion and friend of the Queen of France.
Once in a while the Vicomtesse would look up at me
swiftly, when I paused, and then go on with her work
again. I told her of Temple Bow, and how I had run
away; of Polly Ann and Tom, of the Wilderness Trail
and how I shot Cutcheon, of the fight at Crab Orchard,
of the life in Kentucky, of Clark and his campaign. Of
my doings since; how I had found Nick and how he had
come to New Orleans with me; of my life as a lawyer in
Louisville, of the conventions I had been to. The morning
wore on to midday, and I told her more than I believed
it possible to tell any one. When at last I had
finished a fear grew upon me that I had told her too much.
Her fingers still stitched, her head was bent and I could
not see her face,--only the knot of her hair coiled with
an art that struck me suddenly. Then she spoke, and her
voice was very low.
``I love Polly Ann,'' she said; ``I should like to know
her.''
``I wish that you could know her,'' I answered,
quickening.
She raised her head, and looked at me with an
expression that was not a smile. I could not say what it was,
or what it meant.
``I do not think you are stupid,'' she said, in the same
tone, ``but I do not believe you know how remarkable
your life has been. I can scarcely realize that you have
seen all this, have done all this, have felt all this. You
are a lawyer, a man of affairs, and yet you could guide
me over the hidden paths of half a continent. You know
the mountain ranges, the passes, the rivers, the fords, the
forest trails, the towns and the men who made them!''
She picked up her sewing and bent over it once more.
``And yet you did not think that this would interest me.''
Perchance it was a subtle summons in her voice I heard
that bade me open the flood-gates of my heart,--I know
not. I know only that no power on earth could have held
me silent then.
``Helene!'' I said, and stopped. My heart beat so wildly
that I could hear it. ``I do not know why I should dare
to think of you, to look up to you--Helene, I love you,
I shall love you till I die. I love you with all the strength
that is in me, with all my soul. You know it, and if you
did not I could hide it no more. As long as I live there
will never be another woman in the world for me. I love
you. You will forgive me because of the torture I have
suffered, because of the pain I shall suffer when I think of
you in the years to come.''
Her sewing dropped to her lap--to the floor. She
looked at me, and the light which I saw in her eyes flooded
my soul with a joy beyond my belief. I trembled with a
wonder that benumbed me. I would have got to my feet
had she not come to me swiftly, that I might not rise.
She stood above me, I lifted up my arms; she bent to me
with a movement that conferred a priceless thing.
``David,'' she said, ``could you not tell that I loved you,
that you were he who has been in my mind for so many
years, and in my heart since I saw you?''
``I could not tell,'' I said. ``I dared not think it.
I--I thought there was another.''
She was seated on the arm of my chair. She drew back
her head with a smile trembling on her lips, with a lustre
burning in her eyes like a vigil--a vigil for me.
``He reminded me of you,'' she answered.
I was lost in sheer, bewildering happiness. And she
who created it, who herself was that happiness, roused me
from it.
``What are you thinking?'' she asked.
``I was thinking that a star has fallen,--that I may
have a jewel beyond other men,'' I said.
``And a star has risen for me,'' she said, ``that I may
have a guide beyond other women.''
``Then it is you who have raised it, Helene.'' I was
silent a moment, trying again to bring the matter within
my grasp. ``Do you mean that you love me, that you will
marry me, that you will come back to Kentucky with me
and will be content,--you, who have been the companion
of a Queen?''
There came an archness into her look that inflamed me
the more.
``I, who have been the companion of a Queen, love you,
will marry you, will go back to Kentucky with you and
be content,'' she repeated. ``And yet not I, David, but
another woman--a happy woman. You shall be my
refuge, my strength, my guide. You will lead me over
the mountains and through the wilderness by the paths
you know. You will bring me to Polly Ann that I may
thank her for the gift of you,--above all other gifts in
the world.''
I was silent again.
``Helene,'' I said at last, ``will you give me the
miniature?''
``On one condition,'' she replied.
``Yes,'' I said, ``yes. And again yes. What is it?''
``That you will obey me--sometimes.''
``It is a privilege I long for,'' I answered.
``You did not begin with promise,'' she said.
I released her hand, and she drew the ivory from her
gown and gave it me. I kissed it.
``I will go to Monsieur Isadore's and get the frame,''
I said.
``When I give you permission,'' said Helene, gently.
I have written this story for her eyes.
CHAPTER XV
AN EPISODE IN THE LIFE OF A MAN
Out of the blood and ashes of France a Man had arisen
who moved real kings and queens on his chess-board--
which was a large part of the world. The Man was
Napoleon Buonaparte, at present, for lack of a better name,
First Consul of the French Republic. The Man's eye,
sweeping the world for a new plaything, had rested upon
one which had excited the fancy of lesser adventurers, of
one John Law, for instance. It was a large, unwieldy
plaything indeed, and remote. It was nothing less than
that vast and mysterious country which lay beyond the
monster yellow River of the Wilderness, the country
bordered on the south by the Gulf swamps, on the north by
no man knew what forests,--as dark as those the Romans
found in Gaul,--on the west by a line which other
generations might be left to settle.
This land was Louisiana.
A future king of France, while an emigre, had been to
Louisiana. This is merely an interesting fact worth
noting. It was not interesting to Napoleon.
Napoleon, by dint of certain screws which he tightened
on his Catholic Majesty, King Charles of Spain, in the
Treaty of San Ildefonso on the 1st of October, 1800, got
his plaything. Louisiana was French again,--whatever
French was in those days. The treaty was a profound
secret. But secrets leak out, even the profoundest; and
this was wafted across the English Channel to the ears of
Mr. Rufus King, American Minister at London, who
wrote of it to one Thomas Jefferson, President of the
United States. Mr. Jefferson was interested, not to say
alarmed.
Mr. Robert Livingston was about to depart on his
mission from the little Republic of America to the great
Republic of France. Mr. Livingston was told not to
make himself disagreeable, but to protest. If Spain was
to give up the plaything, the Youngest Child among the
Nations ought to have it. It lay at her doors, it was
necessary for her growth.
Mr. Livingston arrived in France to find that Louisiana
was a mere pawn on the chess-board, the Republic he
represented little more. He protested, and the great
Talleyrand shrugged his shoulders. What was Monsieur talking
about? A treaty. What treaty? A treaty with Spain
ceding back Louisiana to France after forty years. Who
said there was such a treaty? Did Monsieur take snuff?
Would Monsieur call again when the Minister was less
busy?
Monsieur did call again, taking care not to make himself
disagreeable. He was offered snuff. He called again,
pleasantly. He was offered snuff. He called again. The
great Talleyrand laughed. He was always so happy to
see Monsieur when he (Talleyrand) was not busy. He
would give Monsieur a certificate of importunity. He
had quite forgotten what Monsieur was talking about on
former occasions. Oh, yes, a treaty. Well, suppose there
was such a treaty, what then?
What then? Mr. Livingston, the agreeable but
importunate, went home and wrote a memorial, and was
presently assured that the inaccessible Man who was
called First Consul had read it with interest--great
interest. Mr. Livingston did not cease to indulge in his
enjoyable visits to Talleyrand--not he. But in the
intervals he sat down to think.
What did the inaccessible Man himself have in his
mind?
The Man had been considering the Anglo-Saxon race,
and in particular that portion of it which inhabited the
Western Hemisphere. He perceived that they were a
quarrelsome people, which possessed the lust for land and
conquest like the rest of their blood. He saw with
astonishment something that had happened, something
that they had done. Unperceived by the world, in five
and twenty years they had swept across a thousand miles
of mountain and forest wilderness in ever increasing
thousands, had beaten the fiercest of savage tribes before
them, stolidly unmindful of their dead. They had come
at length to the great yellow River, and finding it closed
had cried aloud in their anger. What was beyond it to
stop them? Spain, with a handful of subjects inherited
from the France of Louis the Fifteenth.
Could Spain stop them? No. But he, the Man, would
stop them. He would raise up in Louisiana as a monument
to himself a daughter of France to curb their ambition.
America should not be all Anglo-Saxon.
Already the Americans had compelled Spain to open
the River. How long before they would overrun Louisiana
itself, until a Frenchman or a Spaniard could scarce
be found in the land?
Sadly, in accordance with the treaty which Monsieur
Talleyrand had known nothing about, his Catholic Majesty
instructed his Intendant at New Orleans to make ready to
deliver Louisiana to the French Commission. That was in
July, 1802. This was not exactly an order to close the River
again--in fact, his Majesty said nothing about closing the
River. Mark the reasoning of the Spanish mind. The
Intendant closed the River as his plain duty. And Kentucky
and Tennessee, wayward, belligerent infants who
had outgrown their swaddling clothes, were heard from
again. The Nation had learned to listen to them. The
Nation was very angry. Mr. Hamilton and the Federalists
and many others would have gone to war and seized the
Floridas.
Mr. Jefferson said, ``Wait and see what his Catholic
Majesty has to say.'' Mr. Jefferson was a man of great
wisdom, albeit he had mistaken Jacobinism for something
else when he was younger. And he knew that Napoleon
could not play chess in the wind. The wind was rising.
Mr. Livingston was a patriot, able, importunate, but
getting on in years and a little hard of hearing.
Importunity without an Army and a Navy behind it is not
effective--especially when there is no wind. But Mr.
Jefferson heard the wind rising, and he sent Mr. Monroe
to Mr. Livingston's aid. Mr. Monroe was young, witty,
lively, popular with people he met. He, too, heard the
wind rising, and so now did Mr. Livingston.
The ships containing the advance guard of the colonists
destined for the new Louisiana lay in the roads at Dunkirk,
their anchors ready to weigh,--three thousand men, three
thousand horses, for the Man did things on a large scale.
The anchors were not weighed.
His Catholic Majesty sent word from Spain to Mr.
Jefferson that he was sorry his Intendant had been so
foolish. The River was opened again.
The Treaty of Amiens was a poor wind-shield. It blew
down, and the chessmen began to totter. One George of
England, noted for his frugal table and his quarrelsome
disposition, who had previously fought with France, began
to call the Man names. The Man called George names,
and sat down to think quickly. George could not be said
to be on the best of terms with his American relations, but
the Anglo-Saxon is unsentimental, phlegmatic, setting
money and trade and lands above ideals. George meant
to go to war again. Napoleon also meant to go to war
again. But George meant to go to war again right away,
which was inconvenient and inconsiderate, for Napoleon
had not finished his game of chess. The obvious outcome
of the situation was that George with his Navy would get
Louisiana, or else help his relations to get it. In either
case Louisiana would become Anglo-Saxon.
This was the wind which Mr. Jefferson had heard.
The Man, being a genius who let go gracefully when he
had to, decided between two bad bargains. He would sell
Louisiana to the Americans as a favor; they would be
very, very grateful, and they would go on hating George.
Moreover, he would have all the more money with which
to fight George.
The inaccessible Man suddenly became accessible. Nay,
he became gracious, smiling, full of loving-kindness,
charitable. Certain dickerings followed by a bargain passed
between the American Minister and Monsieur Barbe-
Marbois. Then Mr. Livingston and Mr. Monroe dined
with the hitherto inaccessible. And the Man, after the
manner of Continental Personages, asked questions.
Frederick the Great has started this fashion, and many
have imitated it.
Louisiana became American at last. Whether by destiny
or chance, whether by the wisdom of Jefferson or the
necessity of Napoleon, who can say? It seems to me,
David Ritchie, writing many years after the closing words
of the last chapter were penned, that it was ours
inevitably. For I have seen and known and loved the people
with all their crudities and faults, whose inheritance it was
by right of toil and suffering and blood.
And I, David Ritchie, saw the flags of three nations
waving over it in the space of two days. And it came to
pass in this wise.
Rumors of these things which I have told above had
filled Kentucky from time to time, and in November of
1803 there came across the mountains the news that the
Senate of the United States had ratified the treaty between
our ministers and Napoleon.
I will not mention here what my life had become, what
my fortune, save to say that both had been far beyond my
expectations. In worldly goods and honors, in the respect
and esteem of my fellow-men, I had been happy indeed.
But I had been blessed above other men by one whose
power it was to lift me above the mean and sordid things
of this world.
Many times in the pursuit of my affairs I journeyed
over that country which I had known when it belonged
to the Indian and the deer and the elk and the wolf and
the buffalo. Often did she ride by my side, making light
of the hardships which, indeed, were no hardships to her,
wondering at the settlements which had sprung up like
magic in the wilderness, which were the heralds of the
greatness of the Republic,--her country now.
So, in the bright and boisterous March weather of the
year 1804, we found ourselves riding together along
the way made memorable by the footsteps of Clark and
his backwoodsmen. For I had an errand in St. Louis
with Colonel Chouteau. A subtle change had come upon
Kaskaskia with the new blood which was flowing into it:
we passed Cahokia, full of memories to the drummer boy
whom she loved. There was the church, the garrison,
the stream, and the little house where my Colonel
and I had lived together. She must see them all, she
must hear the story from my lips again; and the telling of
it to her gave it a new fire and a new life.
At evening, when the March wind had torn the cotton
clouds to shreds, we stood on the Mississippi's bank,
gazing at the western shore, at Louisiana. The low,
forest-clad hills made a black band against the sky, and
above the band hung the sun, a red ball. He was setting,
and man might look upon his face without fear. The
sight of the waters of that river stirred me to think of
many things. What had God in store for the vast land
out of which the waters flowed? Had He, indeed, saved
it for a People, a People to be drawn from all nations,
from all classes? Was the principle of the Republic to
prevail and spread and change the complexion of the
world? Or were the lusts of greed and power to increase
until in the end they had swallowed the leaven? Who
could say? What man of those who, soberly, had put
his hand to the Paper which declared the opportunities of
generations to come, could measure the Force which he
had helped to set in motion.
We crossed the river to the village where I had been so
kindly received many years ago--to St. Louis. The
place was little changed. The wind was stilled, the blue
wood smoke curled lazily from the wide stone chimneys
of the houses nestling against the hill. The afterglow
was fading into night; lights twinkled in the windows.
Followed by our servants we climbed the bank, Helene
and I, and walked the quiet streets bordered by palings.
The evening was chill. We passed a bright cabaret from
which came the sound of many voices; in the blacksmith's
shop another group was gathered, and we saw faces eager
in the red light. They were talking of the Cession.
We passed that place where Nick had stopped Suzanne
in the cart, and laughed at the remembrance. We came
to Monsieur Gratiot's, for he had bidden us to stay with
him. And with Madame he gave us a welcome to warm
our hearts after our journey
``David,'' he said, ``I have seen many strange things
happen in my life, but the strangest of all is that Clark's
drummer boy should have married a Vicomtesse of the old
regime.
And she was ever Madame la Vicomtesse to our good
friends in St. Louis, for she was a woman to whom a title
came as by nature's right.
``And you are about to behold another strange thing
David,'' Monsieur Gratiot continued. ``To-day you are on
French territory.''
``French territory!'' I exclaimed.
``To-day Upper Louisiana is French,'' he answered.
``To-morrow it will be American forever. This morning
Captain Stoddard of the United States Army, empowered
to act as a Commissioner of the French Republic, arrived
with Captain Lewis and a guard of American troops. Today,
at noon, the flag of Spain was lowered from the staff
at the headquarters. To-night a guard of honor watches
with the French Tricolor, and we are French for the last
time. To-morrow we shall be Americans.''
I saw that simple ceremony. The little company of
soldiers was drawn up before the low stone headquarters,
the villagers with heads uncovered gathered round about.
I saw the Stars and Stripes rising, the Tricolor setting.
They met midway on the staff, hung together for a space,
and a salute to the two nations echoed among the hills
across the waters of the great River that rolled impassive by.
AFTERWORD
This book has been named ``The Crossing'' because I
have tried to express in it the beginnings of that great
movement across the mountains which swept resistless over
the Continent until at last it saw the Pacific itself. The
Crossing was the first instinctive reaching out of an infant
nation which was one day to become a giant. No annals
in the world's history are more wonderful than the story
of the conquest of Kentucky and Tennessee by the
pioneers.
This name, ``The Crossing,'' is likewise typical in another
sense. The political faith of our forefathers, of which the
Constitution is the creed, was made to fit a more or less
homogeneous body of people who proved that they knew
the meaning of the word ``Liberty.'' By Liberty, our
forefathers meant the Duty as well as the Right of man to
govern himself. The Constitution amply attests the
greatness of its authors, but it was a compromise. It was an
attempt to satisfy thirteen colonies, each of which clung
tenaciously to its identity. It suited the eighteenth-century
conditions of a little English-speaking confederacy
along the seaboard, far removed from the world's strife and
jealousy. It scarcely contemplated that the harassed
millions of Europe would flock to its fold, and it did not
foresee that, in less than a hundred years, its own citizens
would sweep across the three thousand miles of forest and
plain and mountain to the Western Ocean, absorb French
and Spanish Louisiana, Spanish Texas, Mexico, and California,
fill this land with broad farmsteads and populous
cities, cover it with a network of railroads.
Would the Constitution, made to meet the needs of the
little confederacy of the seaboard, stretch over a Continent
and an Empire?
We are fighting out that question to-day. But The
Crossing was in Daniel Boone's time, in George Rogers
Clark's. Would the Constitution stand the strain? And
will it stand the strain now that the once remote haven of
the oppressed has become a world-power?
It was a difficult task in a novel to gather the elements
necessary to picture this movement: the territory was
vast, the types bewildering. The lonely mountain cabin;
the seigniorial life of the tide-water; the foothills and
mountains which the Scotch-Irish have marked for their
own to this day; the Wilderness Trail; the wonderland
of Kentucky, and the cruel fighting in the border forts
there against the most relentless of foes; George Rogers
Clark and his momentous campaign which gave to the
Republic Ohio, Indiana, and Illinois; the transition period
--the coming of the settler after the pioneer; Louisiana,
St. Louis, and New Orleans,--to cover this ground, to
picture the passions and politics of the time, to bring the
counter influence of the French Revolution as near as possible
to reality, has been a three years' task. The autobiography
of David Ritchie is as near as I can get to its
solution, and I have a great sense of its incompleteness.
I had hoped when I planned the series to bring down
this novel through the stirring period which ended, by a
chance, when a steamboat brought supplies to Jackson's
army in New Orleans--the beginning of the era of steam
commerce on our Western waters. This work will have
to be reserved for a future time.
I have tried to give a true history of Clark's campaign
as seen by an eyewitness, trammelled as little as possible
by romance. Elsewhere, as I look back through these pages,
I feel as though the soil had only been scraped. What
principality in the world has the story to rival that of John
Sevier and the State of Franklin? I have tried to tell the
truth as I went along. General Jackson was a boy at the
Waxhaws and dug his toes in the red mud. He was a
man at Jonesboro, and tradition says that he fought with a
fence-rail. Sevier was captured as narrated. Monsieur
Gratiot, Monsieur Vigo, and Father Gibault lost the money
which they gave to Clark and their country. Monsieur
Vigo actually travelled in the state which Davy describes
when he went down the river with him. Monsieur Gratiot
and Colonel Auguste Chouteau and Madame Chouteau are
names so well known in St. Louis that it is superfluous to
say that such persons existed and were the foremost citizens
of the community.
Among the many to whom my apologies and thanks are
due is Mr. Pierre Chouteau of St. Louis, whose unremitting
labors have preserved and perpetuated the history and
traditions of the country of his ancestors. I would that I
had been better able to picture the character, the courage,
the ability, and patriotism of the French who settled
Louisiana. The Republic owes them much, and their
descendants are to-day among the stanchest preservers of her
ideals.
WINSTON CHURCHILL.