CHAPTER IX. “CHERCHEZ LA FEMME”
Sunday came with the soft haziness of a June morning, and the dew suckeda fresh fragrance from the blossoms and the grass. I looked out of ourwindow at the orchard, all pink and white in the early sun, and acrossa patch of clover to the stone kitchen. A pearly, feathery smoke waswafted from the chimney, a delicious aroma of Creole coffee pervaded theodor of the blossoms, and a cotton-clad negro à pieds nus came down thepath with two steaming cups and knocked at our door. He who has tastedCreole coffee will never forget it. The effect of it was lost upon Nick,for he laid down the cup, sighed, and promptly went to sleep again,while I dressed and went forth to make his excuses to the family. Ifound Monsieur and Madame with their children walking among the flowers.Madame laughed.
“He is charming, your cousin,” said she. “Let him sleep, by all means,until after Mass. Then you must come with us to Madame Chouteau’s, mymother’s. Her children and grandchildren dine with her every Sunday.”
“Madame Chouteau, my mother-in-law, is the queen regent of St. Louis,Mr. Ritchie,” said Monsieur Gratiot, gayly. “We are all afraid of her,and I warn you that she is a very determined and formidable personage.She is the widow of the founder of St. Louis, the Sieur Laclède,although she prefers her own name. She rules us with a strong hand,dispenses justice, settles disputes, and--sometimes indulges in themherself. It is her right.”
“You will see a very pretty French custom of submission to parents,”said Madame Gratiot. “And afterwards there is a ball.”
“A ball!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
“It may seem very strange to you, Mr. Ritchie, but we believe thatSunday was made to enjoy. They will have time to attend the ball beforeyou send them down the river?” she added mischievously, turning to herhusband.
“Certainly,” said he, “the loading will not be finished before eighto’clock.”
Presently Madame Gratiot went off to Mass, while I walked with MonsieurGratiot to a storehouse near the river’s bank, whence the skins, neatlypacked and numbered, were being carried to the boats on thesweating shoulders of the negroes, the half-breeds, and the Canadianboatmen,--bulky bales of yellow elk, from the upper plains of theMissouri, of buffalo and deer and bear, and priceless little packagesof the otter and the beaver trapped in the green shade of the endlessNorthern forests, and brought hither in pirogues down the swift river bythe red tribesmen and Canadian adventurers.
Afterwards I strolled about the silent village. Even the cabarets weredeserted. A private of the Spanish Louisiana Regiment in a dirty uniformslouched behind the palings in front of the commandant’s quarters,--aquaint stone house set against the hill, with dormer windows in itscurving roof, with a wide porch held by eight sturdy hewn pillars;here and there the muffled figure of a prowling Indian loitered, or abarefooted negress shuffled along by the fence crooning a folk-song. Allthe world had obeyed the call of the church bell save these--and Nick. Ibethought myself of Nick, and made my way back to Monsieur Gratiot’s.
I found my cousin railing at Benjy, who had extracted from thesaddle-bags a wondrous gray suit of London cut in which to array hismaster. Clothes became Nick’s slim figure remarkably. This coat was cutaway smartly, like a uniform, towards the tails, and was brought in atthe waist with an infinite art.
“Whither now, my conquistador?” I said.
“To Mass,” said he.
“To Mass!” I exclaimed; “but you have slept through the greater part ofit.”
“The best part is to come,” said Nick, giving a final touch to hisneck-band. Followed by Benjy’s adoring eyes, he started out of the door,and I followed him perforce. We came to the little church, of uprightlogs and plaster, with its crudely shingled, peaked roof, with its tinybelfry crowned by a cross, with its porches on each side shading theline of windows there. Beside the church, a little at the back, was thecuré’s modest house of stone, and at the other hand, under spreadingtrees, the graveyard with its rough wooden crosses. And behind thesegraves rose the wooded hill that stretched away towards the wilderness.
What a span of life had been theirs who rested here! Their youth,perchance, had been spent amongst the crooked streets of some Frenchvillage, streets lined by red-tiled houses and crossing limpid streamsby quaint bridges. Death had overtaken them beside a monster tawnyriver of which their imaginations had not conceived, a river which drawstribute from the remote places of an unknown land,--a river, indeed,which, mixing all the waters, seemed to symbolize a coming race whichwas to conquer the land by its resistless flow, even as the Mississippibore relentlessly towards the sea.
These were my own thoughts as I listened to the tones of the priest asthey came, droningly, out of the door, while Nick was exchanging jokesin doubtful French with some half-breeds leaning against the palings.Then we heard benches scraping on the floor, and the congregation beganto file out.
Those who reached the steps gave back, respectfully, and there came anelderly lady in a sober turban, a black mantilla wrapped tightly abouther shoulders, and I made no doubt that she was Monsieur Gratiot’smother-in-law, Madame Chouteau, she whom he had jestingly called thequeen regent. I was sure of this when I saw Madame Gratiot behind her.Madame Chouteau indeed had the face of authority, a high-bridged nose, adetermined chin, a mouth that shut tightly. Madame Gratiot presented usto her mother, and as she passed on to the gate Madame Chouteau remindedus that we were to dine with her at two.
After her the congregation, the well-to-do and the poor alike, pouredout of the church and spread in merry groups over the grass: keelboatmen in tow shirts and party-colored worsted belts, the blacksmith,the shoemaker, the farmer of a small plot in the common fields inlarge cotton pantaloons and light-wove camlet coat, the more favored inskull-caps, linen small-clothes, cotton stockings, and silver-buckledshoes,--every man pausing, dipping into his tabatière, for a word withhis neighbor. The women, too, made a picture strange to our eyes, thematrons in jacket and petticoat, a Madras handkerchief flung about theirshoulders, the girls in fresh cottonade or calamanco.
All at once cries of “‘Polyte! ‘Polyte!” were heard, and a nimble youngman with a jester-like face hopped around the corner of the church,trundling a barrel. Behind ‘Polyte came two rotund little men perspiringfreely, and laden down with various articles,--a bird-cage with twoyellow birds, a hat-trunk, an inlaid card box, a roll of scarlet cloth,and I know not what else. They deposited these on the grass beside thebarrel, which ‘Polyte had set on end and proceeded to mount, encouragedby the shouts of his friends, who pressed around the barrel.
“It’s an auction,” I said.
But Nick did not hear me. I followed his glance to the far side of thecircle, and my eye was caught by a red ribbon, a blush that matched it.A glance shot from underneath long lashes,--but not for me. Besidethe girl, and palpably uneasy, stood the young man who had been calledGaspard.
“Ah,” said I, “your angel of the tumbrel.”
But Nick had pulled off his hat and was sweeping her a bow. The girllooked down, smoothing her ribbon, Gaspard took a step forward, andother young women near us tittered with delight. The voice of Hippolyterolling his r’s called out in a French dialect:--
“M’ssieurs et Mesdames, ce sont des effets d’un pauvre officier qui estmort. Who will buy?” He opened the hat-trunk, produced an antiquatedbeaver with a gold cord, and surveyed it with a covetousness that wasadmirably feigned. For ‘Polyte was an actor. “M’ssieurs, to own such ahat were a patent of nobility. Am I bid twenty livres?”
There was a loud laughter, and he was bid four.
“Gaspard,” cried the auctioneer, addressing the young man of thetumbrel, “Suzanne would no longer hesitate if she saw you in such a hat.And with the trunk, too. Ah, mon Dieu, can you afford to miss it?”
The crowd howled, Suzanne simpered, and Gaspard turned as pink asclover. But he was not to be bullied. The hat was sold to an elderlyperson, the red cloth likewise; a pot of grease went to a housewife, andthere was a veritable scramb
le for the box of playing cards; and at lastHippolyte held up the wooden cage with the fluttering yellow birds.
“Ha!” he cried, his eyes on Gaspard once more, “a gentle present--apresent to make a heart relent. And Monsieur Léon, perchance you willmake a bid, although they are not gamecocks.”
Instantly, from somewhere under the barrel, a cock crew. Even the yellowbirds looked surprised, and as for ‘Polyte, he nearly dropped the cage.One elderly person crossed himself. I looked at Nick. His face wasimpassive, but suddenly I remembered his boyhood gift, how he hadimitated the monkeys, and I began to shake with inward laughter. Therewas an uncomfortable silence.
“Peste, c’est la magie!” said an old man at last, searching with anuncertain hand for his snuff.
“Monsieur,” cried Nick to the auctioneer, “I will make a bid. But firstyou must tell me whether they are cocks or yellow birds.”
“Parbleu,” answered the puzzled Hippolyte, “that I do not know,Monsieur.”
Everybody looked at Nick, including Suzanne.
“Very well,” said he, “I will make a bid. And if they turn out to begamecocks, I will fight them with Monsieur Léon behind the cabaret. Twolivres!”
There was a laugh, as of relief.
“Three!” cried Gaspard, and his voice broke.
Hippolyte looked insulted.
“M’ssieurs,” he shouted, “they are from the Canaries. Diable, un bergerdoit être généreux.”
Another laugh, and Gaspard wiped the perspiration from his face.
“Five!” said he.
“Six!” said Nick, and the villagers turned to him in wonderment. Whatcould such a fine Monsieur want with two yellow birds?
“En avant, Gaspard,” said Hippolyte, and Suzanne shot another barbedglance in our direction.
“Seven,” muttered Gaspard.
“Eight!” said Nick, immediately.
“Nine,” said Gaspard.
“Ten,” said Nick.
“Ten,” cried Hippolyte, “I am offered ten livres for the yellow birds.Une bagatelle! Onze, Gaspard! Onze! onze livres, pour l’amour deSuzanne!”
But Gaspard was silent. No appeals, entreaties, or taunts could persuadehim to bid more. And at length Hippolyte, with a gesture of disdain,handed Nick the cage, as though he were giving it away.
“Monsieur,” he said, “the birds are yours, since there are no morelovers who are worthy of the name. They do not exist.”
“Monsieur,” answered Nick, “it is to disprove that statement that Ihave bought the birds. Mademoiselle,” he added, turning to the flushingSuzanne, “I pray that you will accept this present with every assuranceof my humble regard.”
Mademoiselle took the cage, and amidst the laughter of the village atthe discomfiture of poor Gaspard, swept Nick a frightened courtesy,--onethat nevertheless was full of coquetry. And at that instant, to cap thesituation, a rotund little man with a round face under a linen birettagrasped Nick by the hand, and cried in painful but sincere English:--
“Monsieur, you mek my daughter ver’ happy. She want those bird eversence Captain Lopez he die. Monsieur, I am Jean Baptiste Lenoir, ColonelChouteau’s miller, and we ver’ happy to see you at the pon’.”
“If Monsieur will lead the way,” said Nick, instantly, taking the littleman by the arm.
“But you are to dine at Madame Chouteau’s,” I expostulated.
“To be sure,” said he. “Au revoir, Monsieur. Au revoir, Mademoiselle.Plus tard, Mademoiselle; nous danserons plus tard.”
“What devil inhabits you?” I said, when I had got him started on the wayto Madame Chouteau’s.
“Your own, at present, Davy,” he answered, laying a hand on my shoulder,“else I should be on the way to the pon’ with Lenoir. But the ball is tocome,” and he executed several steps in anticipation. “Davy, I am sorryfor you.”
“Why?” I demanded, though feeling a little self-commiseration also.
“You will never know how to enjoy yourself,” said he, with conviction.
Madame Chouteau lived in a stone house, wide and low, surrounded bytrees and gardens. It was a pretty tribute of respect her children andgrandchildren paid her that day, in accordance with the old French usageof honoring the parent. I should like to linger on the scene, and tellhow Nick made them all laugh over the story of Suzanne Lenoir and theyellow birds, and how the children pressed around him and made himimitate all the denizens of wood and field, amid deafening shrieks ofdelight.
“You have probably delayed Gaspard’s wooing another year, Mr. Temple.Suzanne is a sad coquette,” said Colonel Auguste Chouteau, laughing, aswe set out for the ball.
The sun was hanging low over the western hills as we approached thebarracks, and out of the open windows came the merry, mad sounds ofviolin, guitar, and flageolet, the tinkle of a triangle now and then,the shouts of laughter, the shuffle of many feet over the puncheons.Within the door, smiling and benignant, unmindful of the stiflingatmosphere, sat the black-robed village priest talking volubly to anelderly man in a scarlet cap, and several stout ladies ranged along thewall: beyond them, on a platform, Zéron, the baker, fiddled as thoughhis life depended on it, the perspiration dripping from his brow,frowning, gesticulating at them with the flageolet and the triangle. Andin a dim, noisy, heated whirl the whole village went round and round andround under the low ceiling in the valse, young and old, rich and poor,high and low, the sound of their laughter and the scraping of their feetcut now and again by an agonized squeak from Zéron’s fiddle. From timeto time a staggering, panting couple would fling themselves out, helpthemselves liberally to pink sirop from the bowl on the side table,and then fling themselves in once more, until Zéron stopped from sheerexhaustion, to tune up for a pas de deux.
Across the room, by the sirop bowl, a pair of red ribbons flaunted, apair of eyes sent a swift challenge, Zéron and his assistants struckup again, and there in a corner was Nick Temple, with characteristiceffrontery attempting a pas de deux with Suzanne. Though Nick wasignorant, he was not ungraceful, and the village laughed and admired.And when Zéron drifted back into a valse he seized Suzanne’s plumpfigure in his arms and bore her, unresisting, like a prize amongthe dancers, avoiding alike the fat and unwieldy, the clumsy and thespiteful. For a while the tune held its mad pace, and ended with ashriek and a snap on a high note, for Zéron had broken a string. Amid aburst of laughter from the far end of the room I saw Nick stop before anopen window in which a prying Indian was framed, swing Suzanne at arm’slength, and bow abruptly at the brave with a grunt that startled himinto life.
“Va-t’en, méchant!” shrieked Suzanne, excitedly.
Poor Gaspard! Poor Hippolyte! They would gain Suzanne for a dance onlyto have her snatched away at the next by the slim and reckless younggentleman in the gray court clothes. Little Nick cared that the affairsoon became the amusement of the company. From time to time, as heglided past with Suzanne on his shoulder, he nodded gayly to ColonelChouteau or made a long face at me, and to save our souls we could nothelp laughing.
“The girl has met her match, for she has played shuttle-cock with allthe hearts in the village,” said Monsieur Chouteau. “But perhaps it isjust as well that Mr. Temple is leaving to-night. I have signed a bon,Mr. Ritchie, by which you can obtain money at New Orleans. And donot forget to present our letter to Monsieur de Saint Gré. He has adaughter, by the way, who will be more of a match for your friend’sfascinations than Suzanne.”
The evening faded into twilight, with no signs of weariness from thedancers. And presently there stood beside us Jean Baptiste Lenoir, theColonel’s miller.
“B’soir, Monsieur le Colonel,” he said, touching his skull-cap, “thewater is very low. You fren’,” he added, turning to me, “he stay longtime in St. Louis?”
“He is going away to-night,--in an hour or so,” I answered, withthanksgiving in my heart.
“I am sorry,” said Monsieur Lenoir, politely, but his looks belied hiswords. “He is ver’ fond Suzanne. Peut-être he marry her, but
I thinknot. I come away from France to escape the fine gentlemen; long time agothey want to run off with my wife. She was like Suzanne.”
“How long ago did you come from France, Monsieur?” I asked, to get awayfrom an uncomfortable subject.
“It is twenty years,” said he, dreamily, in French. “I was born in theQuartier Saint Jean, on the harbor of the city of Marseilles nearNotre Dame de la Nativité.” And he told of a tall, uneven house of fourstories, with a high pitched roof, and a little barred door and windowat the bottom giving out upon the rough cobbles. He spoke of the smellof the sea, of the rollicking sailors who surged through the narrowstreet to embark on his Majesty’s men-of-war, and of the King’s whitesoldiers in ranks of four going to foreign lands. And how he had becomea farmer, the tenant of a country family. Excitement grew on him, and hemopped his brow with his blue rumal handkerchief.
“They desire all, the nobles,” he cried, “I make the land good, andthey seize it. I marry a pretty wife, and Monsieur le Comte he want her.L’bon Dieu,” he added bitterly, relapsing into French. “France is forthe King and the nobility, Monsieur. The poor have but little chancethere. In the country I have seen the peasants eat roots, and in thecity the poor devour the refuse from the houses of the rich. It was wewho paid for their luxuries, and with mine own eyes I have seen theirgilded coaches ride down weak men and women in the streets. But itcannot last. They will murder Louis and burn the great châteaux. I, whospeak to you, am of the people, Monsieur, I know it.”
The sun had long set, and with flint and tow they were touchingthe flame to the candles, which flickered transparent yellow in thedeepening twilight. So absorbed had I become in listening to Lenoir’sdescription that I had forgotten Nick. Now I searched for him among thepromenading figures, and missed him. In vain did I seek for a glimpseof Suzanne’s red ribbons, and I grew less and less attentive to themiller’s reminiscences and arraignments of the nobility. Had Nick indeedrun away with his daughter?
The dancing went on with unabated zeal, and through the open door in thefainting azure of the sky the summer moon hung above the hills like agreat yellow orange. Striving to hide my uneasiness, I made my farewellsto Madame Chouteau’s sons and daughters and their friends, and withColonel Chouteau I left the hall and began to walk towards MonsieurGratiot’s, hoping against hope that Nick had gone there to change. Butwe had scarce reached the road before we could see two figures in thedistance, hazily outlined in the mid-light of the departed sun and thecoming moon. The first was Monsieur Gratiot himself, the second Benjy.Monsieur Gratiot took me by the hand.
“I regret to inform you, Mr. Ritchie,” said he, politely, “that my keelboats are loaded and ready to leave. Were you on any other errand Ishould implore you to stay with us.”
“Is Temple at your house?” I asked faintly.
“Why, no,” said Monsieur Gratiot; “I thought he was with you at theball.”
“Where is your master?” I demanded sternly of Benjy.
“I ain’t seed him, Marse Dave, sence I put him inter dem fine clothes‘at he w’ars a-cou’tin’.”
“He has gone off with the girl,” put in Colonel Chouteau, laughing.
“But where?” I said, with growing anger at this lack of consideration onNick’s part.
“I’ll warrant that Gaspard or Hippolyte Beaujais will know, if they canbe found,” said the Colonel. “Neither of them willingly lets the girlout of his sight.”
As we hurried back towards the throbbing sounds of Zéron’s fiddle Iapologized as best I might to Monsieur Gratiot, declaring that if Nickwere not found within the half-hour I would leave without him. My hostprotested that an hour or so would make no difference. We were about topass through the group of loungers that loitered by the gate when thesound of rapid footsteps arrested us, and we turned to confront twopanting and perspiring young men who halted beside us. One was HippolyteBeaujais, more fantastic than ever as he faced the moon, and the otherwas Gaspard. They had plainly made a common cause, but it was Hippolytewho spoke.
“Monsieur,” he cried, “you seek your friend? Ha, we have found him,--wewill lead you to him.”
“Where is he?” said Colonel Chouteau, repressing another laugh.
“On the pond, Monsieur,--in a boat, Monsieur, with Suzanne, Monsieur leColonel! And, moreover, he will come ashore for no one.”
“Parbleu,” said the Colonel, “I should think not for any arguments thatyou 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 andMonsieur Gratiot and myself following; and a snicker which burst outnow and then told us that Benjy was in the rear. On any other errand Ishould have thought the way beautiful, for the country road, rutted bywooden wheels, wound in and out through pleasant vales and over gentlerises, whence we caught glimpses from time to time of the Mississippigleaming like molten gold to the eastward. Here and there, nestlingagainst the gentle slopes of the hillside clearing, was a low-thatchedfarmhouse among its orchards. As we walked, Nick’s escapade, instead ofangering Monsieur Gratiot, seemed to present itself to him in a more andmore ridiculous aspect, and twice he nudged me to call my attention tothe two vengefully triumphant figures silhouetted against the moonahead of us. From time to time also I saw Colonel Chouteau shakingwith laughter. As for me, it was impossible to be angry at Nick forany space. Nobody else would have carried off a girl in the face of herrivals for a moonlight row on a pond a mile away.
At length we began to go down into the valley where Chouteau’s pondwas, and we caught glimpses of the shimmering of its waters through thetrees, ay, and presently heard them tumbling lightly over the mill-dam.The spot was made for romance,--a sequestered vale, clad with foresttrees, cleared a little by the water-side, where Monsieur Lenoir raisedhis maize and his vegetables. Below the mill, so Monsieur Gratiot toldme, where the creek lay in pools on its limestone bed, the villagewashing was done; and every Monday morning bare-legged negresses strodeup this road, the bundles of clothes balanced on their heads, thepaddles in their hands, followed by a stream of black urchins whotempted Providence to drown them.
Down in the valley we came to a path that branched from the road andled under the oaks and hickories towards the pond, and we had not takentwenty paces in it before the notes of a guitar and the sound of a voicereached our ears. And then, when the six of us stood huddled in the rankgrowth at the water’s edge, we saw a boat floating idly in the forestshadow 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 ofthe guitar, the end of the verse:--
“Thine eyes are bright as the stars at night, Thy cheeks like the rose of the dawning, oh!”
“Hélas!” exclaimed Hippolyte, sadly, “there is no other boat.”
“Nick!” I shouted again, reënforced vociferously by the others.
The music ceased, there came feminine laughter across the water, thenNick’s voice, in French that dared everything:--
“Go away and amuse yourselves at the dance. Peste, it is scarce an hourago I threatened to row ashore and break your heads. Allez vous en,jaloux!”
A scream of delight from Suzanne followed this sally, which was receivedby Gaspard and Hippolyte with a rattle of sacrés, and--despite ourirritation--the Colonel, Monsieur Gratiot, and myself with a burst ofinvoluntary laughter.
“Parbleu,” said the Colonel, choking, “it is a pity to disturb such aone. Gratiot, if it was my boat, I’d delay the departure till morning.”
“Indeed, I shall have had no small entertainment as a solace,” saidMonsieur Gratiot. “Listen!”
The tinkle of the guitar was heard again, and Nick’s voice, strong andfull and undisturbed:--
“S’posin’ I was to go to N’ O’leans an’ take sick an’ die, L
ike 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 gurglingas it dipped, and the dugout shot out towards the middle of the pond anddrifted 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 thedeuce 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 MonsieurGratiot. “What an attitude of mind!”
The dugout was coming towards us now, propelled by easy strokes, andNick could be heard the while talking in low tones to Suzanne. We couldonly guess at the tenor of his conversation, which ceased entirely asthey drew near. At length the prow slid in among the rushes, was seizedvigorously by Gaspard and Hippolyte, and the boat hauled ashore.
“Thank you very much, Messieurs; you are most obliging,” said Nick. Andtaking Suzanne by the hand, he helped her gallantly over the gunwale.“Monsieur,” he added, turning in his most irresistible manner toMonsieur Gratiot, “if I have delayed the departure of your boat, Iam exceedingly sorry. But I appeal to you if I have not the best ofexcuses.”
And he bowed to Suzanne, who stood beside him coyly, looking down. Asfor ‘Polyte and Gaspard, they were quite breathless between rage andastonishment. But Colonel Chouteau began to laugh.
“Diable, Monsieur, you are right,” he cried, “and rather than havemissed this entertainment I would pay Gratiot for his cargo.”
“Au revoir, Mademoiselle,” said Nick, “I will return when I am releasedfrom bondage. When this terrible mentor relaxes vigilance, I will escapeand 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 thanyou, 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. Suzanneexclaimed, but before Nick could answer footsteps were heard in thepath and Lenoir himself, perspiring, panting, exhausted, appeared in themidst of us.
“Suzanne!” he cried, “Suzanne!” And turning to Nick, he added quitesimply, “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 someadvantage 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 curé retires late. Thereis the priest, Monsieur.”
There was an awkward silence, broken at length by an exclamation fromGaspard. Colonel Chouteau turned his back, and I saw his shouldersheave. All eyes were on Nick, but the rascal did not seem at allperturbed.
“Monsieur,” he said, bowing, “marriage is a serious thing, and not to beentered into lightly. I thank you from my heart, but I am bound now withMr. Ritchie on an errand of such importance that I must make a sacrificeof my own interests and affairs to his.”
“If Mr. Temple wishes--” I began, with malicious delight. But Nick tookme by the shoulder.
“My dear Davy,” he said, giving me a vicious kick, “I could not think ofit. I will go with you at once. Adieu, Mademoiselle,” said he, bendingover Suzanne’s unresisting hand. “Adieu, Messieurs, and I thank you foryour great interest in me.” (This to Gaspard and Hippolyte.) “And now,Monsieur Gratiot, I have already presumed too much on your patience. Iwill follow you, Monsieur.”
We left them, Lenoir, Suzanne, and her two suitors, standing at thepond, and made our way through the path in the forest. It was not untilwe reached the road and had begun to climb out of the valley that thesilence was broken between us.
“Monsieur,” said Colonel Chouteau, slyly, “do you have many suchescapes?”
“It might have been closer,” said Nick.
“Closer?” ejaculated the Colonel.
“Assuredly,” said Nick, “to the extent of abducting Monsieur le curé.As for you, Davy,” he added, between his teeth, “I mean to get even withyou.”
It was well for us that the Colonel and Monsieur Gratiot took theescapade with such good nature. And so we walked along through thesummer night, talking gayly, until at length the lights of the villagetwinkled ahead of us, and in the streets we met many parties makingmerry on their homeward way. We came to Monsieur Gratiot’s, bade ourfarewells to Madame, picked up our saddle-bags, the two gentlemenescorting us down to the river bank where the keel boat was tugging atthe ropes that held her, impatient to be off. Her captain, a picturesqueCanadian by the name of Xavier Paret, was presented to us; we bade ourfriends farewell, and stepped across the plank to the deck. As we werecasting off, Monsieur Gratiot called to us that he would take the firstoccasion to send our horses back to Kentucky. The oars were manned, theheavy hulk moved, and we were shot out into the mighty current of theriver on our way to New Orleans.
Nick and I stood for a long time on the deck, and the windows of thelittle village gleamed like stars among the trees. We passed the last ofits houses that nestled against the hill, and below that the forest laylike velvet under the moon. The song of our boatmen broke the silence ofthe night:--
“Voici le temps et la saison, Voici le temps et la saison, Ah! vrai, que les journées sont longues, Ah! vrai, que les journées sont longues!”
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