The Rose of Old St. Louis

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by Mary Dillon


  CHAPTER XIV

  A CREOLE LOVE-SONG

  "So sweetly she bade me adieu, I thought that she bade me return."

  For three days we had been floating down the Great River, and forthree days I had kept my word. Mademoiselle had not been annoyed byme; she had hardly seen me. Much to my captain's vexation, I hadrefused to take my meals with him and mademoiselle, though our cozytable of three had been one of the brightest parts of my dream when Iwas planning this trip.

  It was nearing the supper-hour on the evening of this third day. Themen were making ready to tie up for the night (for navigation on theriver at night was a dangerous matter), and for the hundredth time Iwas wishing with all my heart that I had not been so rash as to makethat promise to keep out of mademoiselle's way. The vision of a hotsupper comfortably served in her warm and cozy cabin was of itselfsufficiently enticing, as all my meals since coming aboard had beenbrought to me in any out-of-the-way corner of the deck, and I hadfound them but cold comfort. Not that my resolution was weakening,though my captain let no meal-hour pass without doing his best toweaken it, and more than once had brought me a message frommademoiselle herself begging me to join them at table. No; I was asfixed as ever, and, in a way, enjoying my own discomfort, since topose as a martyr ever brings with it a certain satisfaction which isits own reward.

  The weather had been clear and mild up to this time; but this eveningan icy sleet was beginning to fall, and I glanced at mademoiselle'scabin window, brightly lighted and eloquent of warmth and dryness, andfetched a great sigh as I looked. A voice at my elbow said:

  "Monsieur is sad?--or lonely, perhaps?"

  I started, for I had supposed myself entirely alone on that end of theboat--the men all busy with their tying-up preparations forward, andmademoiselle and the captain in the cabin. I lifted my hat and bowedceremoniously.

  "Neither, Mademoiselle."

  Mademoiselle hesitated. I saw she felt repulsed, and I secretlygloried in her embarrassment. Neither would I help her out by addinganother word; I waited for what she might say further.

  "Monsieur," she said presently, "you have shown me much kindness inthe past, and done me great service. I would like to have you knowthat I am not ungrateful."

  "I do not desire your gratitude, Mademoiselle," I said coldly (thoughit hurt me to speak so when she was so evidently trying to be friendlywith me). "No gentleman could have done less, even if he were not aFrench gentleman."

  The light from her cabin window fell full upon her. I could see thatshe colored quickly at my retort, and half started to go away, butturned back again.

  "Monsieur," she said earnestly, "I have a very humble apology to maketo you. I hope you will forgive me for my rude and wicked speech. Iwas beside myself with sorrow at the thought of being so suddenly tornfrom my friends, and for the time nothing else weighed with me, noteven that you had just saved my life at the peril of your own. Ah, howcould I have been so base! I wonder not that you will not even look atso mean a creature, and you do well to shun her as if she were vile."

  No man could have resisted her sweet humility. For a moment all myanger melted.

  "Mademoiselle, do not apologize to me!" I cried. "If there are anyapologies to be made, it is I who should make them for not knowing howto understand and appreciate what you felt."

  A quick radiance sprang into her eyes, and with a childlike abandonshe extended both her hands to me.

  "Then you forgive me?" she cried.

  I took one hand and held it in both mine, and as I bent my knee Ilifted it to my lips.

  "If I am forgiven, my Queen," I answered softly.

  Her dark eyes, tender and glorious, looked down into mine. For amoment I forgot she was a great lady in France; to me she was only themost bewitching and adorable maiden in the wide world. She waswearing a heavy capote to shield her from the weather, but the hoodhad fallen slightly back, and the falling sleet had spangled thelittle fringe of curls about her face with diamonds that sparkled inthe candle-shine, but were not half so bright as her starry eyes. Icould have knelt forever on the icy deck if I might have gazed foreverinto their heavenly depths. But in a minute she let the white lidsfall over them.

  "Rise, Monsieur," she said gently. "You are forgiven, but on onecondition."

  "Name it, my Queen!" And I rose to my feet, but still held her hand."No condition can be too hard."

  "That you come to supper with us to-night, and to every meal while Iam on your boat."

  The condition fetched me back to earth with a shock. I remembered allthe cause, and I answered moodily:

  "My word has been given, Mademoiselle; I cannot go back on my word."

  "Your word was given to me, and I absolve you from it," she said.

  "But in the presence of others," I objected. "I am bound by it, unlessI be shamed before them."

  "Only your captain is here," she said, still gently; "and he, too,urges it."

  But still I was obdurate. Then at last she drew away her hand andlifted her head proudly.

  "Your Queen commands you!" she said haughtily, and turned and walkedaway. Yet she walked but slowly. Perhaps she thought I would overtakeher, or call her back and tell her I had yielded. But I was stillfighting with my stubborn pride, and let her go. I watched her closeher cabin door, then for five minutes I strode rapidly up and down,the slippery deck.

  "Your Queen commands you!" I thrilled at her words. My Queen! Yes, butonly if I were her king. Now that I was away from her, and her glowingeyes were not melting my heart to softest wax, I was resolved neveragain to submit to her tyranny and caprice. I would go to supper,because she commanded it; but I would never for a moment forget thatshe was a great lady of France, and I a proud citizen of America--tooproud to woo where I could only meet with scorn.

  So I went to my cabin and made a careful toilet, and when Yorke cameto call me to supper, I presented myself in mademoiselle's cabin. Ihad not been in it since she had come aboard, and, though I hadcarefully planned and arranged every detail of it for her comfort, Iwould not have known it for the same place. What she had done to it Iknow not; a touch here, a touch there, such as women's fingers knowhow to give, and the bare and rough boat's cabin had become a daintylittle boudoir. The round table, draped in snowy linen, with placesset for three; the silver and glass shining in the rays from two tallcandles; Yorke and mademoiselle's maid Clotilde bringing in each asmoking dish to set upon it; and mademoiselle standing beside it likethe glowing heart of a ruby, her dark beauty well set off by a gown ofcrimson paduasoy, with rich lace through which the graceful neck androunded arms gleamed white and soft: it all looked to me like apicture from one of Master Titian's canvases, and I could hardlybelieve that if I should look through the closely drawn curtains Iwould see the rough and dirty decks of our barge, and, beyond, thedark forest of the Illinois shore, where even now hostile savagesmight be lurking, ready to spring upon us with blood-curdling yells.

  The captain was already there, chatting gaily with mademoiselle as Icame in, and he had the delicacy to make his greeting of me as naturaland unsurprised as if I had never been absent from the little board,while mademoiselle added a touch of gracious cordiality to hers.

  I was on my mettle. Determined that never again, even to herself,should she call me a boy, I summoned to my aid all the _savoir-faire_I could command. I was (at least, in my own estimation, and I hopedalso in hers) the elegant man of the world, discoursing at ease onevery fashionable topic, and, to my own amazement, parrying everythrust of her keen repartee, and sometimes sending her as keen inreturn. I think the situation had gone to my head. Certainly I hadnever before thought myself a brilliant fellow, but when I rose tomake my bow to mademoiselle (and it was indeed a very grand one), Ihoped that even in her mind I would not suffer by comparison with anyFrench gentleman, no, though it were the chevalier himself.

  I did not see mademoiselle again until the midday meal next day; forall the morning I was busy with the men, making the difficult anddangerous turn from the G
reat River into the Ohio, past Fort Massac.Once in the Ohio, there was no surcease from hard work--poling,paddling, or cordelling, sometimes all three together, to climb therushing stream.

  Punctually at the noon-hour I presented myself at table, and again atsupper, and my good star did not desert me. Quip and repartee andmerry tale and polished phrase were all at my tongue's end, and no onecould have been more amazed than I at my own brilliancy.

  But I lingered not a moment after the meal was over, and I never sawmademoiselle between times. If she came out to take the air on deck, Iwas hard at work with the men, sometimes taking my turn at paddling,sometimes, though not often, at poling; but our crew of FrenchCanadians were better at that than I. Indeed, there are no suchfellows in the world for navigating these dangerous Western waters.

  The weather had grown mild, and often in the evening I envied Yorke(who had straightway, of course, made desperate love to Clotilde, whowas old enough to be his mother), sitting in the bow of the boat andthrumming his banjo lightly as he sang her some creole love-song hehad picked up in St. Louis.

  Our trip was fast drawing to a close. The last evening on the riverhad arrived. We would tie up one more night; all hands at the cordelleand the poles, we would reach Mrs. O'Fallon's by noon, in time fordinner. I had determined not to linger there at all. I should go on,the same afternoon, to my uncle's plantation, not many miles away,and the next day start for the East. I had told mademoiselle I wouldsay good-by to her forever when we reached Mrs. O'Fallon's, but in myown mind I was saying good-by to her now. It had been for several daysthat I had felt the weight of this approaching hour, and my brilliancehad gradually departed. I had grown duller and quieter at eachsucceeding meal, and mademoiselle, too, had grown quieter (she couldnever be dull). Sometimes I fancied she looked sad, and once I wassure I recognized the trace of tears in her beautiful eyes. There wasnothing strange in that; it would have been strange indeed if shecould have left home and friends, and started on a long and dangerousjourney (with no companion but the faithful negro woman who had beennurse and lady's-maid and trusted friend for ten long years, but whowas still but servant and slave), and had not often been overcome withsadness. Indeed, there were times, when she was merriest at the table,when I had mentally accused her of heartlessness as I thought of thetwo fond old people mourning for her in Emigre's Retreat. So, though Iwould have liked to attribute some of mademoiselle's sadness to anapproaching separation, I had no grounds for so doing, and I scoffedat myself for the attempt.

  That last night at supper I made a desperate effort to be my gayest,but it was uphill work, and the more so because neither the captainnor mademoiselle seconded my efforts with any heartiness; so whensupper was ended, feeling that the hour had at last come, I stood asmademoiselle rose from her seat, and instead of excusing myself atonce, as had been my custom, I lingered.

  "Mademoiselle," I said, "we have had our last meal aboard together(God prospering our voyage), and I desire to thank you for yourcourtesy, and to say to you that whatever there may have been in ourintercourse during our brief acquaintance not pleasant to either of usto hold in remembrance, I hope you will banish it from your memory, asI shall from mine. I shall think of these weeks always as among thebrightest of my life, and perhaps, had I been a chevalier of Franceinstead of an American boy, I should not so easily have said good-byto the Rose of St. Louis; it would have been au revoir instead!"

  I was standing as I said it all formally, with the air of one makingpretty compliments: for I did not wish mademoiselle to know how everyword was from the depths of my heart; nor would I have lightlybetrayed myself before my captain, who was not apparently listening,but had turned to give some instructions to Yorke.

  Mademoiselle's color came and went as I spoke. She did not answer mefor a moment, and when she did it was in a low tone, and she seemed tospeak with effort:

  "Monsieur, you are ungenerous! You will never forgive my unhappyspeech. Permit me to say you have taught me that a chevalier of Francemay be outshone by an American gentleman in bravery, manliness, truth,and honor--in every virtue except the doubtful one of knowing how toutter pleasant insincerities to us maidens. And I will not saygood-by. Am I not to see you again?"

  "I will certainly see you in the morning, Mademoiselle, but there maybe no time for more than a word, and so I take this opportunity to saygood-by."

  "I will not say good-by, Monsieur"--with the old wilful toss of thehead. "I will tell your captain he is not to let you go back toPhiladelphia so soon. But no matter where you go, I will never saygood-by; it shall always be au revoir."

  She smiled up at me with such bewitching grace that perforce I smiledback at her, and if she had but asked me this evening, as she had onmany others, to linger in her cozy cabin for a game of piquet, I wouldnot have had the courage to say no. But she did not ask me, and, muchas I longed to stay, there was nothing for me to do but to pick up myhat and say, with the best grace I could:

  "I thank you with all my heart, Mademoiselle, and, for to-night atleast, au revoir!"

  An hour later my captain and I were leaning on the rail in the sternof the boat, looking up at the tree-crowned bluffs standing darkagainst the moonlight and listening to the soft lapping of the wateragainst the boat's sides. We did not realize that we were hidden by agreat pile of peltries, as high as our heads, which Captain Clarke wastaking back to Kentucky with him to sell on commission for PierreChouteau, until we heard voices. Mademoiselle and Clotilde hadevidently found a seat on the other side of the pile of pelts, andmademoiselle was speaking in plaintive tone:

  "And they would not let me bring Leon with me! He at least would haveloved me and been a companion and protector when all the world forsakeme."

  Then Clotilde's rich negro voice:

  "Mademoiselle, I find out why they not let you bring Leon. Mr. Yorketell me last night. Leon shot, the night before we come away."

  There was a heartrending cry, and then a torrent of swift French:

  "Leon shot! My Leon! Why have they not told me? Oh, the villains! Whoshot him, Clotilde? My poor angel! My Leon! No one left to love yourpoor mistress!" And much more that I cannot recall, I was so excitedand angry that that rascal Yorke should have caused her such needlesspain. But every word of Clotilde's next speech was graven on my heartas with a knife of fire.

  "Mr. Yorke say they all hear the shot, and they all run out to seewhat the matter, and there stood the lieutenant with pistol in hishand, and Yorke say he don' _think_ he shoot him, but--"

  Clotilde had no chance to say another word.

  "Shoot my Leon! He! Ah, I could not have believed such baseness! Henever forgave him for throwing him down-stairs! His last act beforeleaving Emigre's Retreat! Oh, mon Dieu, what perfidy! What a monster!"

  And every word was so interrupted with sighs and moans and sobs aswould have melted a heart of stone.

  As for me, I was nearly turned to stone, such horror did I feel thatshe should think me guilty of so base a deed. I had no thought ofacting in my self-defense, but my captain started up at once with aquick exclamation, and, seizing my arm, dragged me around the pile ofpelts. There was mademoiselle, seated on a low bundle of them, weepingas if her heart would break, and Clotilde trying in vain to stay thetorrent she had set loose.

  "Mademoiselle," said the captain, quickly, "there has been someterrible mistake. It was the chevalier who shot Leon; it was this lad"(laying his arm affectionately across my shoulders) "who saved hislife."

  Now half the joy of this speech to me was taken out of it by thecaptain's way of treating me as a boy--I think the captain neverthought of me in any other light; and I made up my mind on the instantthat I should seize the very first opportunity to beg him, at least inmademoiselle's presence, to treat me as a man.

  But mademoiselle was so concerned with the matter of the captain'sspeech, she paid no heed to its manner; and it chagrined me not alittle that her first thought was for Leon, and not that I wasinnocent.

  "Saved his life!" she cried. "Is
my Leon alive?"

  "He is, Mademoiselle," I said coldly, "and I have every reason tobelieve he is doing well. My 'last act' before leaving Emigre'sRetreat was to visit him in Narcisse's cabin. I renewed his dressing,and left minute instructions as to his care. We had thought to spareyou this anxiety, Mademoiselle, but two blundering servants haveundone our plans."

  "Ah, Monsieur," cried mademoiselle, impetuously, springing to her feetand extending both her hands to me in her pretty French fashion, "howunjust I have been to you! How can I ever thank you enough for yourcare of my poor Leon? Your last act in the cold and dark of the earlymorning, and the hurry of departure, to see that my Leon was takencare of, and I have accused you of making it one of base revenge! Ah,Monsieur, can you ever forgive me?" half whispering.

  I had taken her hands and was holding them as I looked down into herradiant eyes. I bent low and kissed them both, first one and then theother, as I said (very low, so that the captain and Clotilde shouldnot hear):

  "Mademoiselle, I can forgive you everything."

  But I needed not to speak so low, for when I lifted my head thecaptain and Clotilde had both disappeared. And whither they had gone,or why, I neither knew nor cared. For now a mad intoxication seizedme. This was the last evening I should ever spend with mademoiselle inthis world; why should I not enjoy it to the full? For the hundredthtime we had had our misunderstanding and it had cleared away; nowthere should be no more misunderstandings, no more coldness, nothingbut joy in the warm sunshine of her smiles.

  So I begged her once more to be seated and to atone for all that wasunkind in the past by letting me talk to her. There could have been nobetter place, outside of her cozy cabin, for this long-dreamed-oftete-a-tete, which now at last was to have a realization, than thisshe had herself chosen. The pile of pelts at her back kept off theeast wind, the young moon in the west shone full upon her face, sothat I could feast my eyes upon its glorious beauty (for the lasttime, I said to myself) and interpret every changing expression.

  And yet, just at first, I was afraid I was going to be disappointed,after all. Mademoiselle was embarrassed and constrained, and it wasI--I, the gauche and unsophisticated "boy"--who had to gently disarmher fears and lead her back to her bright and natural way. And this ishow I did it. Mademoiselle had seated herself at my request, almostawkwardly, if awkwardness were possible to her, so much afraid was sheshe was not doing quite the proper thing.

  "I cannot imagine what has become of Clotilde," she said nervously. "Idid not send her away."

  "I think she has gone to find Yorke and set him right about Leon," Ianswered, smiling.

  She smiled slightly in return, but still with some embarrassment.

  "Mademoiselle," I said, "have you observed that Yorke has been makinghimself very agreeable to Clotilde?"

  "What folly!" she exclaimed. "Clotilde is an old woman. I spoke to herabout it quite seriously to-day."

  "And what did she say, Mademoiselle?"

  "She said that she found Yorke most entertaining. 'One must beamused,' were her words, and she made me feel very young with herworldly wisdom. 'We do not contemplate matrimony, Mam'selle, but Mr.Yorke and I both think there may be an affinity of spirit, regardlessof difference in age'! I was amazed at her philosophical attitude."

  "How did you reply to her, Mademoiselle?"

  "She quite took my breath away, but I only said, 'Clotilde, you willoblige me by seeing as little as possible of Yorke on the remainder ofthe trip.' I had fully intended to keep her with me this evening, andnow she has slipped away. I think I ought to go and find her," halfrising as she spoke.

  "By no means," I answered quickly. "Indeed, I am quite on Clotilde'sside."

  "On Clotilde's side! Impossible, Monsieur! Such arrant nonsense!"

  All this time I had been standing, for from a maidenly shyness (rathernew in her, and which I liked) she would not ask me to sit beside her,and there was no other seat. Now I said:

  "Mademoiselle, if you will permit me to share your bundle of pelts, Ibelieve I can prove to you that it is not such arrant nonsense, afterall."

  "Certainly, Monsieur," a little stiffly; "I am sorry to have kept youstanding so long."

  She drew her skirts a little aside, and I sat down, quite at the otherend of the bundle of pelts, but nearer to her than I had been in manylong days. Then, in a purposely didactic and argumentative way, Icited to her all the instances in history I could think of, winding upwith Cleopatra and Ninon de l'Enclos, until by entering into theargument she had entirely forgotten herself and her embarrassment.Then suddenly into a little break in our conversation there came theclear whinny of Fatima. She was on the other boat, tied close to ours,and as we were in the stern and she in the bow, she had no doubt heardher master's voice and was calling him. I was greatly tempted to callher by the whistle she knew, but I did not quite dare. She would havebroken all possible bounds to come to me in answer to that whistle,and I would not have been surprised to see her clear the space betweenthe two boats.

  "That was Fatima," mademoiselle said, and sighed a little.

  "Yes," I said, "and I think I could tell what your sigh meant."

  "Did I sigh?"

  "Yes, and it meant, 'I wish it were Leon.'"

  "Yes," she said; "I was thinking how much Fatima loves you, and Leon,too, as soon as he was able to forgive your disgracing him so. I thinkall dogs and horses love you, Monsieur."

  "That is because I love them, Mademoiselle."

  "Does love always beget love?"

  "Not always, Mademoiselle; sometimes it begets scorn."

  "Then I suppose the love dies?"

  "No, Mademoiselle; unhappily, it but grows the stronger."

  "That is folly, is it not?"

  "Mademoiselle, if you will allow me to be a philosopher likeClotilde--love has no regard for sense or wisdom, else would Yorkelove one of his own age, and I would love one of my own country and myown rank."

  She said not a word for a long time, but sat with downcast eyes.Suddenly she lifted them, and they shone with a softer radiance than Ihad ever seen in them before.

  "Of what were you thinking, Mademoiselle?" I said gently.

  She hesitated a moment, and then like the soft sigh of a zephyr cameher words:

  "I was wishing you were a chevalier of France."

  "And I, Mademoiselle, was wishing you were a maiden of St. Louis, as Isupposed you were when I first saw you."

  "I would not have been of your country, even then," she said, withdelicious shyness, half looking at me, half looking away in prettyconfusion.

  "Not now, but you soon would be. St. Louis will belong to us someday."

  "Never!" She spoke in hot haste, all the patriot firing within her,and looking full at me with flashing eyes. "St. Louis will be Frenchsome day, as it used to be, I believe with all my heart; but American,_never_!"

  "Mademoiselle, we had a wager once. Shall we have one more?"

  "Is it that St. Louis will one day be American?"

  "Yes."

  "I am very willing to wager on that, for it is a certainty for me.What shall be the stakes?"

  "Mademoiselle, they would be very high."

  "I am not afraid."

  I thought for a moment, and then I shook my head.

  "Mademoiselle, I dare not. I am sure St. Louis will one day be ours,but the time may be long, and by that day the worst may have happened.You may have found your chevalier of France."

  She looked up at me in a quick, startled way, which changed graduallyto her old proud look.

  "Monsieur, I know not what stakes you had in mind, but this I know: if'twere a lady's hand it were unworthy you and her. A lady's hand isfor the winning by deeds of prowess or by proof of worth, not bybetting for it as though 'twere a horse or a pile of louis d'or."

  "Mademoiselle," I cried in an agony of shame, "forgive me, I beg.Forgive a poor wretch who saw no chance of winning by prowess orworth, and who was so desperate that he would clutch at any straw tohelp him win his hea
rt's desire."

  Her look softened at once, and when she spoke again 'twas in hergentlest tones.

  "Monsieur," she said, "to-morrow we part, and it would seem there isbut little chance that we shall see each other again in this world.Fate has placed our lots on different continents, with wide seasbetween. But for to-night let us forget that. Let us think we are tomeet every day, as we have met in these weeks, and let us have a happymemory of this last evening to cherish always."

  I could not speak for a moment. Her voice, its sweet tones breaking alittle at the last, unmanned me. I turned away my head, for I wouldnot let her see the workings of my face, nor my wet eyes, lest shethink me boyish again. It was the sealing of my doom, but I had knownit always. And there was a drop of sweet amid the bitter that I hadnever dared hope for. She, too, was sad--then she must care a little.In a minute I was able to turn toward her again and speak in a firm,low voice.

  "You are right, Mademoiselle; we will be happy to-night. Come," Isaid, rising and extending my hand to her, "let us go watch therevelers on the other boat; they, at least, are troubled by no uselessregrets."

  She put her hand in mine, and we went back by the stern rail and stoodwatching the scene below us.

  A plank had been thrown from one boat to the other to make easycommunication, and the crew of our boat, with the exception of the twoleft always on guard, had crossed over. They had cleared a space fordancing, and lighted it by great pine-knots cut from the forest closeby. Yorke, set high on a pile of forage with his beloved banjo, wasplaying such music as put springs into their heels. Canadians andnegroes were all dancing together--the Frenchmen with gracefulagility, the negroes more clumsily, even grotesquely, but with arhythm that proved their musical ear. Clotilde and a negress cook werethe only women, and greatly in demand by both Frenchmen and negroes.Clotilde rather scorned partners of her own color, and was choosingonly the best-looking and the best dancers of the white men, with acaprice worthy of her mistress, I thought, and probably in imitationof her. Yorke did not seem to mind, but with the gayest good humorcalled out the figures as he played. Suddenly, as he wound up the lastfigure with a grand flourish, he beckoned to a little Canadian who hadbeen specially agile in the dance, and they held a whisperedconsultation. Then Yorke resigned his banjo to him, and, leaping downinto the middle of the floor, seized Clotilde about the waist withoutso much as saying "By your leave," and shouted:

  "Choose partners for a waltz!"

  Consternation followed, for not more than half a dozen had ever seenthe new French dance. But when the little Canadian started up with hiswitching _trois-temps_, Yorke and Clotilde glided off rhythmically toits strains, the half-dozen followed, more or less skilfully, and therest stood round gazing in respectful admiration.

  Now I had learned the waltz at home in Philadelphia, but it had neverbeen danced at the St. Louis parties, and I knew not whethermademoiselle knew the step or not. Yet was I seized with a greatdesire to follow Yorke's example.

  "Mademoiselle," I said timidly, "why cannot we have a dance here? See,there is a clear space on the deck, and the music is good."

  "I waltz but poorly, Monsieur," she answered, looking up at me with abright blush. "Madame Saugrain taught me the step, but I havepractised it but little."

  "Then we will be the better matched," I answered gaily. But when I hadput my arm around her waist, and one of her beautiful hands rested onmy shoulder, and I held the other in my firm clasp, I was seized withsuch trembling at my boldness in daring to hold her so near thatalmost my feet refused to move. Yet as soon as we were both gliding tothe Canadian's music there was no longer any fear in my heart, only agreat longing that the music might never cease and that we could go onforever circling to its strains. Wild thoughts whirled in my brain.Why need mademoiselle go back to Paris? I believed, as I bent my headand looked into her dark eyes uplifted to mine, that only a littlepersuasion would be needed to make her give it all up. And I said tomyself, "I will try."

  But the music stopped. Mademoiselle gently withdrew herself from myencircling arm, and suddenly cold reason returned. How could I dreamof betraying Dr. Saugrain's trust! How could I think of persuading herto relinquish the glories awaiting her for me! And, most of all, howcould I dare to think she could be persuaded!

  Mademoiselle had thrown off her capote before beginning to dance; Ipicked it up and put it around her, and led her back to her seat onthe pelts. But she would not sit down.

  "No, Monsieur," she said; "our evening is over. I am going to mycabin. Will you send for Clotilde and tell her that I want her?"

  "Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" I cried, my heart in my mouth to beg hernot to leave me without one word of hope. But then I stopped. It wasall over; the world had come to an end.

  "It is good-by, then, Mademoiselle?" I said steadily, and holding outmy hand to her.

  "No, Monsieur," she said, with that voice that from the first time Iheard it had ever seemed to me the sweetest in the world. "'Tis _aurevoir--toujours, toujours au revoir_!"

  I watched her close her cabin door and turned back to my place by therail, black despair in my heart, but just one little ray of hopebrightening it--her courageous _au revoir_. Over the plank came Yorkeand Clotilde, and strolled slowly up the deck together, Yorkethrumming his banjo and singing a creole love-song he had learned inSt. Louis:

  "Tous les printemps Tan' de nouvelles, Tous les amants Changent de maitresses. Qu'ils changent qui voudront, Pour moi, je garde la mienne."

  Insensibly my heart lightened. "Pour moi, je garde la mienne," I saidaloud, and added in a whisper:

  "Yes--though I must first win her, and win I will!"

 

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