The Crossing

The Crossing Page 30

by Winston Churchill

  CHAPTER V. THE HOUSE OF THE HONEYCOMBED TILES

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

  Again I saw the green villas on the outskirts, the verdure-dottedexpanse of roofs of the city behind the levee bank, the line of Kentuckyboats, keel boats and barges which brought our own resistless commercehither in the teeth of royal mandates. Farther out, and tuggingfretfully 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 fromthe West Indies, a rakish slaver from Africa with her water-line dry,discharged but yesterday of a teeming horror of freight. I looked againupon the familiar rows of trees which shaded the gravelled promenadeswhere Nick had first seen Antoinette. Then we were under it, for theriver was low, and the dingy-uniformed officer was bowing over ourpassports beneath the awning. We walked ashore, Monsieur Vigo and I,and we joined a staring group of keel boatmen and river-men under thewillows.

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

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

  Here once more were the bright-turbaned negresses, the gay Creole gownsand scarfs, the linen-jacketed, broad-hatted merchants, with those ofsoberer and more conventional dress, laughing and chatting, the childrenplaying despite the heat. Many of these people greeted Monsieur Vigo.There were the saturnine, long-cloaked Spaniards, too, and a greaternumber than I had believed of my own keen-faced countrymen loungingabout, mildly amused by the scene. We crossed the square, and with thecourtesy of their race the people made way for us in the press; and wewere no sooner placed ere the procession came out of the church. Flamingsoldiers of the Governor’s guard, two by two; sober, sandalled friarsin brown, priests in their robes,--another batch of color; crossesshimmering, tapers emerging from the cool darkness within to pale by thelight of day. Then down on their knees to Him who sits high above theyellow haze fell the thousands in the Place d’Armes. For here was theHost itself, flower-decked in white and crimson, its gold-tasselledcanopy upheld by four tonsured priests, a sheen of purple under it,--theBishop of Louisiana in his robes.

  “The Governor!” whispered Monsieur Vigo, and the word was passed frommouth to mouth as the people rose from their knees. François LouisHector, Baron de Carondelet, resplendent in his uniform of colonel inthe royal army of Spain, his orders glittering on his breast,--pillar ofroyalty and enemy to the Rights of Man! His eye was stern, his carriageerect, but I seemed to read in his careworn face the trials of threeyears in this moist capital. After the Governor, one by one, the waitingAssociations fell in line, each with its own distinguishing sash. So theprocession moved off into the narrow streets of the city, the people inthe Place dispersed to new vantage points, and Monsieur Vigo signed meto follow him.

  “I have a frien’, la veuve Gravois, who lives ver’ quiet. She have oneroom, and I ask her tek you in, Davy.” He led the way through the emptyRue Chartres, turned to the right at the Rue Bienville, and stoppedbefore an unpretentious house some three doors from the corner. MadameGravois, elderly, wizened, primp in a starched cotton gown, opened thedoor herself, fell upon Monsieur Vigo in the Creole fashion; and withina quarter of an hour I was installed in her best room, which gave out ona little court behind. Monsieur Vigo promised to send his servant withmy 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 aboutgiving orders to a kinky-haired negro girl concerning my dinner. Thencame the dinner, excellent--if I could have eaten it. The virtues ofthe former Monsieur Gravois were legion. He had come to Louisiana fromToulon, planted indigo, fought a duel, and Madame was a widow. So Icondense two hours into two lines. Happily, Madame was not proof againstthe habits of the climate, and she retired for her siesta. I sought myroom, almost suffocated by a heat which defies my pen to describe, aheat reeking with moisture sucked from the foul kennels of the city. Ihad felt nothing like it in my former visit to New Orleans. It seemedto bear down upon my brain, to clog the power of thought, to make mevacillating. Hitherto my reasoning had led me to seek Monsieur deSt. Gré, to count upon that gentleman’s common sense and his formerfriendship. But now that the time had come for it, I shrank from sucha meeting. I remembered his passionate affection for Antoinette, Iimagined that he would not listen calmly to one who was in some sortconnected with her unhappiness. So a kind of cowardice drove me first toMrs. Temple. She might know much that would save me useless trouble andblundering.

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

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

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

  “What yo’ want, Marse?”

  The woman’s voice astonished me, for she spoke the dialect of theAmerican 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 doora 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, Ithought--just wide enough for me to pass through. I found myself in alow-ceiled, darkened room, opposite a trim negress who stood with herarms 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 donegrowed! Yassir, when I heerd from Miss Sally I done comed here to tekcyar ob her.”

  “How is your mistress?” I asked.

  “She po’ly, Marse Dave,” said Lindy, and paused for adequate words. Itook note of this darky who, faithful to a family, had come hither toshare her mistress’s exile and obscurity. Lindy was spare, energetic,forceful--and, I imagined, a discreet guardian indeed for theunfortunate. “She po’ly, Marse Dave, an’ she ain’ nebber leab
e dis yearhouse. Marse Dave,” said Lindy earnestly, lowering her voice andtaking a step closer to me, “I done reckon de Mistis gwine ter die oblonesomeness. She des sit dar an’ brood, an’ brood--an’ she use’ terde bes’ company, to de quality. No, sirree, Marse Dave, she ain’ nebbersesso, 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 abebby. I done cotch Mistis lookin’ at it, an’ she hid it when she see mean’ 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 speakEnglish jes’ like the Mistis. Dat’s my fault,” said Lindy, showing aline of white teeth.

  “Your fault,” I exclaimed.

  “Yassir. When I comed here from Caroliny de Mistis done tole me not terlet er soul in hyah. One day erbout three mont’s ergo, dis yer lady comeen 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 thethreshold, 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 forlooking at the lady in the doorway.

  “Who is it?” she said again, and her hand sought the door-posttremblingly. “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 didyou not speak?” She looked at Lindy and smiled. “It is because I am anold woman, Lindy,” and she lifted her hand to her forehead. “See, myhair is white--I shock you, David.”

  Leaning on my shoulder, she led me through a little bedroom in the rearinto a tiny garden court beyond, a court teeming with lavish colorsand redolent with the scent of flowers. A white shell walk divided thegarden and ended at the door of a low outbuilding, from the chimney ofwhich blue smoke curled upward in the evening air. Mrs. Temple drew mealmost 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 andsuffering were written there in characters not to be mistaken. SarahTemple, the beauty, was dead indeed. The hope which threatened to lightagain 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 astrength 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 himaway? Have I not suffered enough? David, I cannot live long. I do notdare to die--until he has forgiven me.”

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

  “Listen,” I said, with a sternness that hid my feelings, and perforceher expression changed again to a sad yearning, “you must hear me. Andyou must trust me, for I have never pretended. You shall see him if itis 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 onhers, and by some self-mastery that was still in her she was silent. “Isaw him in Louisville a month ago, when I returned from a year’s visitto Philadelphia.” I could not equivocate with this woman, I could nomore lie to her sorrow than to the Judgment. Why had I not foreseen herquestion?

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

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

  “He was drunk,” she said. I stared at her in frightened wonderment. “Hewas 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 thewhole of my story, though her hand trembled in mine. And while I live Ihope never to have such a thing to go through with again. Truth held meto the full, ludicrous tragedy of the tale, to the cheap character ofmy old Colonel’s undertaking, to the incident of the drum, to theconversation in my room. Likewise, truth forbade me to rekindle herhope. I did not tell her that Nick had come with St. Gré to New Orleans,for of this my own knowledge was as yet not positive. For a long timeafter I had finished she was silent.

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

  “I am positive of it,” I answered, “and for the sake of those who areengaged in it, it is mercifully best that it should not. The day maycome,” I added, for the sake of leading her away, “when Kentucky will bestrong 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 headsadly, but I continued: “I have more to say. I am convinced that neitherNick nor you will be happy until you are mother and son again. You haveboth 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. Templelaid 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 livefor it, for his sake.”

  She shook her head, and smiled at me with a courage which was the crownof 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 whatI have been doing all these years. You must admire my garden.”

  I followed her, marvelling, along the shell path, and there cameunbidden to my mind the garden at Temple Bow, where she had once beenwont to sit, tormenting Mr. Mason or bending to the tale of HarryRiddle’s love. Little she cared for flowers in those days, and now theyhad become her life. With such thoughts in my mind, I listened unheedingto her talk. The place was formerly occupied by a shiftless fellow, atailor; and the court, now a paradise, had been a rubbish heap. Thatorange tree which shaded the uneven doorway of the kitchen she had foundhere. Figs, pomegranates, magnolias; the camellias dazzling in theirpurity; the blood-red oleanders; the pink roses that hid the crumblingadobe and climbed even to the sloping tiles,--all these had been setout and cared for with her own hands. Ay, and the fragrant bed of yellowjasmine 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. Gré’sknowledge, without his consent. It is natural that he thin
ks me--I willnot 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 nightslong--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 notdare ask Mr. Clark, who comes to me on business, as you know. It wasMr. Clark who brought back Lindy on one of his trips to Charleston. Andthen, one day in March of this year, Madame de Montméry came.”

  “Madame de Montméry?” I repeated.

  “It is a strange story,” said Mrs. Temple. “Lindy had never admitted anyone, save Mr. Clark. One day early in the spring, when I was trimming myroses by the wall there, the girl ran to me and said that a lady wishedto see me. Why had she let her in? Lindy did not know, she could notrefuse her. Had the lady demanded admittance? Lindy thought that I wouldlike 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 hadopened the door to her. Who she is or what she is I do not know to thisday. Who am I now that I should inquire? I know that she is a lady, thatshe has exquisite manners, that I feel now that I cannot live withouther. She comes every week, sometimes twice, she brings me littledelicacies, new seeds for my garden. But, best of all, she brings meherself, 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 knewthat my heart was beating.

  CHAPTER VI. MADAME LA VICOMTESSE

  Hesitating on the step, a lady stood in the vine-covered doorway, astudy in black and white in a frame of pink roses. The sash at herwaist, the lace mantilla that clung about her throat, the deftly coiledhair with its sheen of the night waters--these in black. The simplegown--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 comingtowards me, and I heard Mrs. Temple pronounce my name and hers--Madamede Montméry. I bowed, she courtesied. There was a baffling light in thelady’s brown eyes when I dared to glance at them, and a smile playingaround her mouth. Was there no word in the two languages to find its wayto 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 bothcapable persons, friends of the friendless and towers of strength to theweak.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

  She took Mrs. Temple by the arm and led her, unresisting, along thepath. I followed, a thousand thoughts and conjectures spinning in mybrain. They reached the bench under the little tree beside the door, andstood 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 uponthe bench. Then we were both beside her, bending over her, she sittingupright 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 thatinstant 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 howpitifully frail and light she was as I picked her up and followed Madamethrough the doorway into the little bedroom. I laid Mrs. Temple on thebed.

  “Send Lindy here,” said Madame.

  Lindy was in the front room with the negress whom Madame had broughtwith her. They were not talking. I supposed then this was because Lindydid not speak French. I did not know that Madame de Montméry’s maid wasa 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 wasburning on the table. I looked about me with astonishment. But for thelow ceiling and the wide cypress puncheons of the floor the room mighthave been a budoir in a manor-house. On the slender-legged, polishedmahogany table lay books in tasteful bindings; a diamond-paned bookcasestood in the corner; a fauteuil and various other chairs which mighthave come from the hands of an Adam were ranged about. Tall silvercandlesticks graced each end of the little mantel-shelf, and betweenthem were two Lowestoft vases having the Temple coat of arms.

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

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

  “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.” Sheseated 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 wasnot just what I meant to say.

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

  “Montméry is one of my husband’s places,” she said. “When Antoinetteasked 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 alady, she does not ask questions. She accepts me for what I appear tobe.”<
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  It seemed so strange to me to be talking here in New Orleans, in thislittle Spanish house, with a French vicomtesse brought up near the courtof the unfortunate Marie Antoinette; nay, with Hélène de St. Gré, whoseportrait had twice come into my life by a kind of strange fatality(and was at that moment in my pocket), that I could scarce maintainmy self-possession in her presence. I had given the portrait, too,attributes and a character, and I found myself watching the lady witha breathless interest lest she should fail in any of these. In theintimacy of the little room I felt as if I had known her always, andagain, that she was as distant from me and my life as the court fromwhich she had come. I found myself glancing continually at her face, onwhich the candle-light shone. The Vicomtesse might have been four andtwenty. Save for the soberer gown she wore, she seemed scarce older thanthe young girl in the miniature who had the presence of a woman of theworld. Suddenly I discovered with a flush that she was looking at meintently, without embarrassment, but with an expression that seemedto hint of humor in the situation. To my astonishment, she laughed alittle.

  “You are a very odd person, Mr. Ritchie,” she said. “I have heard somuch of you from Mrs. Temple, from Antoinette, that I know something ofyour strange life. After all,” she added with a trace of sadness, “ithas 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 laVicomtesse, smiling; “it is what I had been led to suppose. A seriousperson. As the friend of Mr. Nicholas Temple, as the relation and (mayI say?) benefactor of this poor lady here, it is fitting that you shouldknow certain things. I will not weary you with the reasons and eventswhich 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, ama wanderer, and grateful to Monsieur de St. Gré for the shelter he givesme. His letter reached me in England, and I arrived three months ago.”

  She hesitated--nay, I should rather say paused, for there was littlehesitation in what she did. She paused, as though weighing what she wasto say next.

  “When I came to Les Îles I saw that there was a sorrow weighing uponthe 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 seeAntoinette to love her. I wondered why she had not married. And yet Isaw that there had been an affair. It seemed very strange to me, Mr.Ritchie, for with us, you understand, marriages are arranged. Antoinettereally has beauty, she is the daughter of a man of importance in thecolony, her strength of character saves her from being listless. I founda girl with originality of expression, with a sense of the fitness ofthings, devoted to charitable works, who had not taken the veil. Thatwas on her father’s account. As you know, they are inseparable. MonsieurPhilippe de St. Gré is a remarkable man, with certain vigorous ideasnot in accordance with the customs of his neighbors. It was he who firstconfided 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.” Shepaused again, and, reading between the lines, I perceived that Madame laVicomtesse had become essential to the household at Les Îles. Philippede St. Gré was not a man to misplace a confidence.

  “It was then that I first heard of you, Mr. Ritchie, and of the partwhich you played in that affair. It was then I had my first real insightinto Antoinette’s character. Her affection for Mrs. Temple astonishedme, bewildered me. The woman had deceived her and her family, and yetAntoinette gave up her lover because he would not take his motherback. Had Mrs. Temple been willing to return to Les Îles after you hadprovidentially taken her away, they would have received her. Philippe deSt. Gré is not a man to listen to criticism. As it was, Antoinette didnot rest until she found where Mrs. Temple had hidden herself, and thenshe came here to her. It is not for us to judge any of them. In sendingAntoinette away the poor lady denied herself the only consolation thatwas left to her. Antoinette understood. Every week she has had news ofMrs. 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 saddestwoman I have ever known, and I have seen many.”

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

  “Tell me about this man for whom Antoinette has ruined her life,” saidMadame la Vicomtesse, brusquely. “Is he worth it? No, no man is worthwhat she has suffered. What has become of him? Where is he? Did you nottell her that you would bring him back?”

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

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

  “You have taken a great deal upon your shoulders, Mr. Ritchie,” shesaid. “They are from all accounts broad ones. There, I was wrong to beindignant in your presence,--you who seem to have spent your life intrying to get others out of difficulties. Mercy,” she said, with a quickgesture at my protest, “there are few men with whom one might talk thusin so short an acquaintance. I love the girl, and I cannot help beingangry with Mr. Temple. I suppose there is something to be said on hisside. 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 Ihad my facts arranged in proper sequence. I could not forget that Madamela Vicomtesse was looking at me fixedly. I reviewed Nick’s neglectedchildhood; painted as well as I might his temperament and character--hisgenerosity and fearlessness, his recklessness and improvidence. Hisloyalty to those he loved, his detestation of those he hated. I toldhow, under these conditions, the sins and vagaries of his parents hadgone far to wreck his life at the beginning of it. I told how I hadfound him again with Sevier, how he had come to New Orleans with methe first time, how he had loved Antoinette, and how he had disappearedafter the dreadful scene in the garden at Les Îles, how I had not seenhim again for five years. Here I hesitated, little knowing how to tellthe Vicomtesse of that affair in Louisville. Though I had a sense that Icould not keep the truth from so discerning a person, I was startled tofind this to be so.

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

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

  “And now what do you intend to do?” she asked. “Find him in NewOrleans, if you can, of course. But how?” She rose quickly, went tothe fireplace, and stood for a moment with her back to me. Suddenly sheturned. “It ought not to be difficult, after all. Auguste de St. Gré isa 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 yourcousin,--what shall we call him?”

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

  She was silent awhile.

  “It would be a blessing if Monsieur le Baron could hang Augusteprivately. As for your cousin, he may be worth saving, after all. I knowMonsieur de Carondelet, and he has no patience with conspirators of thissort. 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 outright.

  “Yes,” she said, “you will do some things, I others. There are thegaming clubs with their ridiculous names, L’Amour, La Mignonne, LaDésirée” (she counted them reflectively on her fingers). “Both of ourgentlemen 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 namesof some of Auguste’s i
ntimates. This Bouvet is evidently a good person,perhaps she will do more for you. I understand that she has a weak spotin her heart for Auguste.”

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

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

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

  “And yet you are a man of action, of expedients,” she murmured, withoutturning. “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,” shesaid, into the fireplace.

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

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

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

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

  “You are very honest, Mr. Ritchie. We must look at this problem fromall sides. If he is not reconciled with his mother, Antoinette will notreceive him. And if he is, we have the question to consider whether heis 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,” Isaid. “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 getssufficiently into the bad graces of the Baron de Carondelet,--these twothings are clear.” She rose. “Come here to-morrow evening at the sametime.”

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

  “Madame--” I said.

  “Yes,” she answered, turning quickly.

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

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

  “From the miniature?” she said.

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

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

  “Then he knew?” I stammered.

  She laughed.

  “I have told you that you are a very simple person,” she said. “Even youare 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 theminiature. It was my plain duty. And suddenly, overwhelmed, I rememberedthat 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 toyour 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 haveheard 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. Lestanything should happen, it might be well for you to give me youraddress.”

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

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

  CHAPTER VII. THE DISPOSAL OF THE SIEUR DE ST. GRE

  I had met Hélène de St. Gré at last. And what a fool she must think me!As I hurried along the dark banquettes this thought filled my brain fora time to the exclusion of all others, so strongly is vanity ingrainedin us. After all, what did it matter what she thought,--Madame laVicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour? I had never shone, and it was rather late tobegin. But I possessed, at least, average common sense, and I had givenno proof even of this.

  I wandered on, not heeding the command which she had given me,--to gohome. The scent of camellias and magnolias floated on the heavy air ofthe night from the court-yards, reminding me of her. Laughter and softvoices came from the galleries. Despite the Terror, despite the FaubourgSaint-Antoine, despite the Rights of Man and the wars and sufferingarising therefrom, despite the scourge which might come to-morrow, lifewent gayly on. The cabarets echoed, and behind the tight blinds lines oflight showed where the Creole gentry gamed at their tables, perchance inthe 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 Spanishbuildings, risen from the charred embers, took on a touch of romance.I paused once with a twinge of remembrance before the long line of theUrsuline convent, with its latticed belfry against the sky. Therewas the lodge, with its iron gates shut, and the wall which Nick hadthreatened to climb. As I passed the great square of the new barracks,a sereno (so the night watchmen were called) was crying the hour. Icame to the rambling market-stalls, casting black shadows on the riverroad,--empty now, to be filled in the morning with shouting marchands.The promenade under the willows was deserted, the great river stretchedaway under the moon towards the forest line of the farther shore,filmy and indistinct. A black wisp of smoke rose from the gunwale of aflatboat, and I stopped to listen to the weird song of a negro, which Ihave heard many times since.

  CAROLINE. †

  In, dé, tois, Ca-ro-line, Qui ci ça yé, comme ça ma chére? In, dé, tois, Ca-ro-line, Quo fair t’-apés cri--é ma chére? Mo l’-aimé toé to con-né ça, C’est to m’ou--lé, c’est to mo prend, Mo l’-aimé toé, to con-né ca -- a c’est to m’oulé c’est to mo prend.

  Gaining the promenade, I came presently to the new hotel which had beenbuilt for the Governor, with its balconied windows looking across theriver--the mansion of Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet. Even as I sat onthe bench in the shadow of the willows, watching the sentry who pacedbefore the arched entrance, I caught sight of a man stealing along thebanquette on the other side of the road. Twice he paused to look behindhim, and when he reached the corner of the street he stopped for sometime 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 takenoath that the square, diminutive figure, with the head set forward onthe shoulders, was Gignoux’s. If this man were not Gignoux, then theLord had cast two in a strange mould.

  And what was Gignoux doing in New Orleans? As if in answer to thequestion 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 notmake out. A word was spoken, and then my man was ambling across to meetthem, and the three walked away up Toulouse Street.

  I was in
a fire of conjecture. I did not dare to pass the sentry andfollow 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 byChartres. The three were nowhere to be seen. I paused on the corner forthought, and at length came to a reluctant but prudent conclusion that Ihad 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 hadprepared some concoction which she poured out of a bottle, and which Itook with the docility of a child. Monsieur Vigo had called, and therewas a note. A note? It was a small note. I glanced stupidly at the seal,recognized the swan of the St. Gré crest, broke it, and read:--

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

  I bade the reluctant Madame Gravois good night, gained my room, threwoff my clothes, and covered myself with the mosquito bar. There was noquestion of sleep, for the events of the day and surmises for the morrowtortured me as I tossed in the heat. Had the man been Gignoux? If so, hewas in league with Carondelet’s police. I believed him fully capable ofthis. And if he knew Nick’s whereabouts and St. Gré’s, they would bothbe behind the iron gateway of the calabozo in the morning. Monsieur Vigohad pointed out to me that day the gloomy, heavy-walled prison inthe rear of the Cabildo,--ay, and he had spoken of its instruments oftorture.

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

  I fell at length into a fevered sleep, and awoke, athirst, with thelight trickling through my lattices. Contrary to Madame Gravois’sorders, I had opened the glass of my window. Glancing at mywatch,--which I had bought in Philadelphia,--I saw that the handspointed to half after seven. I had scarcely finished my toilet beforethere was a knock at the door, and Madame Gravois entered with asteaming cup of coffee in one hand and her bottle of medicine in theother.

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

  She gave me another dose of the medicine, made me drink two cups ofcoffee, and then I started out with all despatch for the House of theLions. 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 thestreet. Yes, they were in front of the house. There it was, with itssolid green gates between the lions, its yellow walls with the fringeof peeping magnolias and oranges, with its green-latticed galleryfrom which Monsieur Auguste had let himself down after stealing theminiature. I knocked at the wicket, the same gardienne answered thecall, smiled, led me through the cool, paved archway which held in itsframe the green of the court beyond, and up the stairs with the quaintbalustrade which I had mounted five years before to meet Philippe deSt. Gré. As I reached the gallery Madame la Vicomtesse, gowned in brownlinen for riding, rose quickly from her chair and came forward to meetme.

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

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

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

  Madame la Vicomtesse shrugged her shoulders slightly.

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

  “Mademoiselle Antoinette!” I said.

  “Precisely,” answered Madame la Vicomtesse. “When I reached home lastnight I questioned Antoinette, and I discovered that by a singularchance 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 thegarden at Les Îles at eleven o’clock--unless he has lost before then hislove 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 aman.”

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

  “And Monsieur de St. Gré?” I asked.

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

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

  “I am,” I answered.

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

  “You look tired, Mr. Ritchie,” she said. “You did not obey me and gohome 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 aresome 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 ofmorning-glories shaded us from the sun. But we had scarce reached theplace ere the sound of steps made us turn, and there was MademoiselleAntoinette herself facing us. I went forward a few steps, hesitated,and bowed. She courtesied, my name faltering on her lips. Yes, it wasAntoinette, not the light-hearted girl whom we had heard singing“Ma luron” in the garden, but a woman now with a strange beauty thatastonished me. Hers was the dignity that comes from unselfish service,the calm that is far from resignation, though the black veil caughtup 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.Gré’s, yet there was a painful moment as she stood there, striving toput down the agitation the sight of me gave her. As for me, I was bereftof speech, not knowing what to say or how far to go. My last thoughtwas of the remarkable quality in this woman before me which had held hertrue to Mrs. Temple, and which sent her so courageously to her duty now.

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

  “Mr. Ritchie is going with us, Antoinette,” she said. “It is perhapsbest to explain everything to him before we start. I was about to tellyou, Mr. Ritchie,” she continued, turning to me, “that Auguste has givenno hint in his note of Mr. Temple’s presence in Louisiana. And yet youtold 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 wasmerely going to suggest the possibility of our meeting Mr. Temple withAuguste.”

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

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

  Hélène laid her hand upon the girl’s arm.

  “My dear, I think nothing,” she said quietly; “but it is best for usto 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,--oreven to defend himself against the imputation that he was to make useof this money in any way.
I wish you to realize, Antoinette, before youdecide to go, that you may meet Mr. Temple. Would it not be betterto let Mr. Ritchie go alone? I am sure that we could find no betteremissary.”

  “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 Iknow 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 therailing and descended the stairs to the courtyard. Antoinette and Ifollowed. As we came through the archway I saw André, Monsieur de St.Gré’s mulatto, holding open the wicket for us to pass. He helped theladies to mount the ponies, lengthened my own stirrups for me, swunginto the saddle himself, and then the four of us were picking our waydown the Rue Chartres at an easy amble. Turning to the right beyond thecool garden of the Ursulines, past the yellow barracks, we came to theriver front beside the fortifications. A score of negroes weresweating there in the sun, swinging into position the long logs for thepalisades, nearly completed. They were like those of Kaskaskia and ourown frontier forts in Kentucky, with a forty-foot ditch in front ofthem. Seated on a horse talking to the overseer was a fat little man inwhite 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 onlythe day before, resplendent, coming out of church. He was the Baron deCarondelet.

  There was a sentry standing under a crape-myrtle where the Royal Roadran through the gateway. Behind him was a diminutive five-sided brickfort 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 dulycountersigned by the officer of the port. The man bowed, and I passedon.

  It was a strange, silent ride through the stinging heat to Les Îles,the brown dust hanging behind us like a cloud, to settle slowly on thewayside shrubbery. Across the levee bank the river was low, listless,giving off hot breath like a monster in distress. The forest pools werecracked and dry, the Spanish moss was a haggard gray, and under the sunwas the haze which covered the land like a saffron mantle. At times alistlessness came over me such as I had never known, to make me forgetthe 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 ofMadame la Vicomtesse, for the restive Texas pony which she rode wasstung to madness by the flies. As for Antoinette, she glanced neitherright nor left through her veil, but rode unmindful of the way, heedlessof heat and discomfort, erect, motionless save for the easy gait of herhorse. At length we turned into the avenue through the forest, linedby wild orange trees, came in sight of the low, belvedered plantationhouse, and drew rein at the foot of the steps. Antoinette was the firstto dismount, and passed in silence through the group of surprised houseservants gathering at the door. I assisted the Vicomtesse, who pausedto bid the negroes disperse, and we lingered for a moment on the gallerytogether.

  “Poor Antoinette!” she said, “I wish we might have saved her this.” Shelooked 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 difficultnot to be angry with Mr. Temple. The girl cared for his mother, gaveher 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 shallshake him. And if he doesn’t fall down on his knees to her, I shall askthe Baron to hang him. We must bring him to his senses, Mr. Ritchie. Hemust not leave Louisiana until he sees her. Then he will marry her.” Shepaused, scrutinized me in her quick way, and added: “You see that I takeyour estimation of his character. You ought to be flattered.”

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

  She laughed. I was not flattered then, but cursed myself for the quaintawkwardness in my speech that amused her. And she was astonishinglyquick 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 chiefbusiness in life seems to be getting people out of trouble, and I amgoing to help you with this case.”

  It was my turn to laugh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  We took the well-remembered way through the golden-green light under thetrees, Antoinette leading, and the sight of the garden brought back tome poignantly the scene in the moonlight with Mrs. Temple. There was nosound save the languid morning notes of the birds and the humming of thebees among the flowers as Antoinette went tremblingly down the pathand paused, listening, under the branches of that oak where I had firstbeheld her. Then, with a little cry, we saw her run forward--into thearms of Auguste de St. Gré. It was a pitiful thing to look upon.

  Antoinette had led her brother to the seat under the oak. How longwe waited I know not, but at length we heard their voices raised, andwithout more ado Madame la Vicomtesse, beckoning me, passed quicklythrough the gap in the hedge and went towards them. I followed withAndré. Auguste rose with an oath, and then stood facing his cousinlike a man struck dumb, his hands dropped. He was a sorry sight indeed,unshaven, unkempt, dark circles under his eyes, clothes torn.

  “Hélène! You here--in America!” he cried in French, staring at her.

  “Yes, Auguste,” she replied quite simply, “I am here.” He would havecome 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 laVicomtesse.

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

  “And Monsieur de St. Gré!” I asked.

  At the sound of my voice he started and gave back, for he had notperceived me. He recovered his balance, such as it was, instantly.

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

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

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

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

  Auguste had developed. He had learned well that effrontery is oftenthe 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 havecome. Your sister has already made enough sacrifices for you. I knowyou, Monsieur Auguste de St. Gré,” 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 toescape from him, “it is because you are in a predicament, as usual, andyou need money.”

  “Hélène!”

  It was Antoinette who spoke. She had risen, and was standing behindAuguste. 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 lookedquestioningly at us.

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

  “Mr. Ritchie will keep this until the negotiations are finished,” saidthe 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 withoutanger, as one whose sorrow has put her beyond it. Her speech hada dignity and force which might have awed a worthier man. Hisdisappointment and chagrin brought him beyond bounds.

  “You trust them!” he cried, “you trust them when they tell you to giveyour brother, who is starving and in peril of his life, eight hundredlivres? 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. Thisman”--pointing at me--“is a Federalist, and Madame la Vicomtesse”--hebowed ironically--“is a Royalist.”

  “Pish!” said the Vicomtesse, impatiently, “it would be an easy matter tohave 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 haveallowed Antoinette to come here alone? And it was a happy circumstancethat 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 broughtsufficient misfortune on the family.”

  It was a villanous speech. Antoinette turned away, her shouldersquivering, and I took a step towards him; but Madame la Vicomtesse madea swift gesture, and I stopped, I know not why. She gave an exclamationso sharp that he flinched physically, as though he had been struck. Butit was characteristic of her that when she began to speak, her words cutrather than lashed.

  “Auguste de St. Gré,” she said, “I know you. The Tribunal is mercifulcompared to you. There is no one on earth whom you would not torture foryour selfish ends, no one whom you would not sell without compunctionfor your pleasure. There are things that a woman should not mention, andyet I would tell them without shame to your face were it not for yoursister. 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, forexample--”

  She stopped abruptly. The man was gray, but not on his account did theVicomtesse 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 thesobbing Antoinette and taken her in her arms, murmuring endearmentsof which our language is not capable. I, too, forgot Auguste. But norebuke, however stinging, could make him forget himself, and before werealized 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 Hélène with a cry, but he turned awayfrom her and shrugged.

  “A stranger would have fared better. Perhaps you will have moreconsideration for a stranger. There is a French ship at the Terre auxBœufs 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 area man of affairs,”--and he swept me a bow,--“if a captain would risktaking a fugitive to France for eight hundred livres? Pardieu, I couldget 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 theVicomtesse nor myself who answered him. We turned by common impulseto Antoinette, and she was changed. Her breath came quickly, her eyesflashed, 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 willingto give my last sou, to sell my belongings, to take from the poor tohelp you--until you defamed a good man. You cannot make me believe,” shecried, unheeding the color that surged into her cheeks, “you cannot makeme 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,” saidAuguste.

  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 wasindeed a superb creature then, a personage I had not imagined. Gatheringup her gown, she passed Auguste and turned on him swiftly.

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

  She left us. We stood watching her until her gown had disappearedamongst the foliage. André came forward and held out the bundle toAuguste, who took it mechanically. Then Madame La Vicomtesse motionedto André to leave, and gave me a glance, and it was part of the deepunderstanding of her I had that I took its meaning. I had my forebodingsat what this last conversation with Auguste might bring forth, and Iwished heartily that we were rid of him.

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

  He turned and glared at me, some devilish retort on his lips which heheld 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?” hesaid, glancing at the Vicomtesse.

  “Monsieur de St. Gré,” I replied with difficulty, “you will confineyourself 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 calledGignoux, 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 notdoubt my word in this.

  “I am surprised that your father’s house has not been searched thismorning,” I continued, astonished at my own moderation. “The sentimentsof the Baron de Carondelet are no doubt known to you, and you are awarethat 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 leavethe province immediately. The second, that you reveal the whereabouts ofMr. Nicholas Temple.”

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

  “Does Monsieur de St. Gré 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 shouldlike to remind Monsieur that time passes.”

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

  “They are not elaborate, Monsieur, but they are complete. When I leaveyou 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 notthe astuteness to be a rogue; oddly, he had the sense to know that hecould 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. Gré’s,” said she; “hehas a house and an arpent of land not far below here.”

  “Exactly,” said Auguste, “and if Mr. Ritchie believes that he will savemoney by keeping Mr. Temple in Louisiana instead of giving him thisopportunity 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 conscientiousscruples against my receiving this paltry sum.”

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

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

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

  “Lead the way, Monsieur,” I said.

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

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

  I did not return her look, but waited until she took the path aheadof 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 thewater still remained. At length we came out in the glare of the sun andcrossed the dusty road to the levee bank. Some forty yards below us wasthe canoe, and we walked to it, still in silence. Auguste flung in hisbundle, and turned to us.

  “Perhaps Monsieur is satisfied,” he said.

  I handed him the bag, and he took it with an elaborate air ofthankfulness. Nay, the rascal opened it as if to assure himself that hewas not tricked at the last. At the sight of the gold and silver whichAntoinette 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 exultantlook at me) “and enjoying herself.”

  I could have flung him into the river, money-bag and all. But Madamela Vicomtesse made him a courtesy there on the levee bank, and saidsweetly:--

  “That is very good of you, Auguste.”

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

  I was speechless with anger and shame, and though I felt the eyes ofthe Vicomtesse upon me, I dared not look at her. I heard Auguste butindistinctly as he continued:--

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

  “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 iton fire. Her words had the strange effect of clearing my head, though Iwas still in as sad a predicament as ever I found myself. There was thething in my pocket, still wrapped in Polly Ann’s handkerchief. Iglanced at the Vicomtesse shyly, and turned away again. Her face was allrepressed laughter, the expression I knew so well.

  “I think we should feel better in the shade, Mr. Ritchie,” she saidin English, and, leaping lightly down from the bank, crossed the roadagain. 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 wasa calmness more baffling than the light I had seen there but a momentsince. How to begin I knew not, and yet I was launched.

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

  “By Boze, Monsieur,” she answered, readily enough. The embarrassment wasall on my side. “We spoke of it last evening. I remember well whenit was taken. It was the costume I wore at Chantilly, and Monsieur lePrince complimented me, and the next day the painter himself came to ourhotel in the Rue de Bretagne and asked the honor of painting me.” Shesighed. “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 eitherto Monsieur de St. Gré or Antoinette, and although I had never seenthem, I loved them. Perhaps it was because they had the patience to readmy letters and the manners to say they liked them.”

  “Surely not, Madame,” I said. “Monsieur de St. Gré spoke often to me ofthe wonderful pictures you drew of the personages at court.”

  Madame la Vicomtesse had an answer on the tip of her tongue. I know nowthat she spared me.

  “And what of this miniature, Monsieur?” she asked. “What became of itafter 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 inconsternation 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 intomy very soul. Even had it been otherwise, I could not have told her howI 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 reverencewhich she must have marked, for she turned away to pick a yellow flowerby the roadside. I thank Heaven that she did not laugh. Indeed, sheseemed 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 aftermy father died, Polly Ann found me in the hills. When she married TomMcChesney 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 strangerexpression than I had yet seen in her face. She thrust the miniature inher 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 theVicomte
sse, 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 oldFrenchman had planted. There was a little flower garden, too, and anorchard. A path of beaten earth led to the door, which was open. Therewe paused. Seated at a rude table was Lamarque himself, his hoary headbent over the cards he held in his hand. Opposite him was Mr. NicholasTemple, in the act of playing the ace of spades. I think that it wasthe laughter of Madame la Vicomtesse that first disturbed them, and eventhen she had time to turn to me.

  “I like your cousin,” she whispered.

  “Is that you, St. Gré?” said Nick. “I wish to the devil you would learnnot 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, androse, dropping his cards on the floor. He bowed humbly, not withouttrepidation.

  “Madame la Vicomtesse!” he said.

  By this time Nick had risen, and he, too, was staring at her. How hemanaged to appear so well dressed was a puzzle to me.

  “Madame,” he said, bowing, “I beg your pardon. I thought you werethat--I beg your pardon.”

  “I understand your feelings, sir,” answered the Vicomtesse as shecourtesied.

  “Egad,” said Nick, and looked at her again. “Egad, I’ll be hanged ifit’s not--”

  It was the first time I had seen the Vicomtesse in confusion. And indeedif it were confusion she recovered instantly.

  “You will probably be hanged, sir, if you do not mend your company,” shesaid. “Do you not think so, Mr. Ritchie?”

  “Davy!” he cried. And catching sight of me in the doorway, over hershoulder, “Has he followed me here too?” Running past the Vicomtesse,he seized me in his impulsive way and searched my face. “So you havefollowed me here, old faithful! Madame,” he added, turning to theVicomtesse, “there is some excuse for my getting into trouble.”

  “What excuse, Monsieur?” she asked. She was smiling, yet looking at uswith shining eyes.

  “The pleasure of having Mr. Ritchie get me out,” he answered. “He hasnever failed me.”

  “You are far from being out of this,” I said. “If the Baron deCarondelet does not hang you or put you in the Morro, you will not haveme 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 hiseyes, slapped his knee, and laughed. “That may account for the CitizenCaptain de St. Gré’s absence,” he said. “By the way, Davy, you haven’thappened by any chance to meet him?”

  The Vicomtesse and I exchanged a look of understanding. Relief was plainon her face. It was she who answered.

  “We have met him--by chance, Monsieur. He has just left for Terre auxBœufs.”

  “Terre aux Bœufs! What the dev--I beg your pardon, Madame la Vicomtesse,but you give me something of a surprise. Is there another conspiracy atTerre aux Bœufs, or--does somebody live there who has never before lentAuguste 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 Iwere having a little game of piquet--for vegetables. Eh, citizen?”

  Madame la Vicomtesse laughed again, and once more the shade of sadnesscame into her eyes.

  “They are the same the world over,” she said,--not to me, nor yet to anyone 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 ison his way to the English Turn to take ship for France.”

  Nick regarded her for a moment, and then his face lighted up with thatsmile which won every one he met, which inevitably made them smile backat him.

  “The news is certainly unexpected, Madame,” he said. “But then, afterone has travelled much with Auguste it is difficult to take a great dealof 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 thatthe intrigues of the French Revolutionists in Louisiana have alreadyrobbed him of several years of his life. He is not disposed to belenient towards persons connected with that cause.”

  “What have you been doing since you arrived here on this ridiculousmission?” I demanded impatiently.

  “My cousin is a narrow man, Madame la Vicomtesse,” said Nick. “We enjoyourselves in different ways. I thought there might be some excitement inthis matter, and I was sadly mistaken.”

  “It is not over yet,” said the Vicomtesse.

  “And Davy,” continued Nick, bowing to me, “gets his pleasures andexcitement by extracting me from my various entanglements. Well, thereis not much to tell. St. Gré and I were joined above Natchez by thatlittle pig, Citizen Gignoux, and we shot past De Lemos in the night.Since then we have been permitted to sleep--no more--at variousplantations. We have been waked up at barbarous hours in the morning andhanded on, as it were. They were all fond of us, but likewise they wereall afraid of the Baron. What day is to-day? Monday? Then it was onSaturday that we lost Gignoux.”

  “I have reason to think that he has already sold out to the Baron,” Iput in.

  “Eh?”

  “I saw him in communication with the police at the Governor’s hotel lastnight,” 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 thecity.”

  “Do you know where you are?” I asked.

  “Not I,” said Nick. “I have been playing piquet with Lamarque most ofthe time since I arrived. He is one of the pleasantest men I have met inLouisiana, although a little taciturn, as you perceive, and more thana little deaf. I think he does not like Auguste. He seems to have knownhim in his youth.”

  Madame la Vicomtesse looked at him with interest.

  “You are at Les Îles, Nick,” I said; “you are on Monsieur de St. Gré’splantation, and within a quarter of a mile of his house.”

  His face became grave all at once. He seized me by both shoulders, andlooked into my face.

  “You say that we are at Les Îles?” he repeated slowly.

  I nodded, seeing the deception which Auguste had evidently practised inorder to get him here. Then Nick dropped his arms, went to the door, andstood for a long time with his back turned to us, looking out over thefields. 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 himin a strange land. But this matter of bringing him to Les Îles was pastpardon. It was another face he turned to the Vicomtesse, a strongerface, a face ennobled by a just anger.

  “Madame la Vicomtesse,” he said, “I have a vague notion that youare related to Monsieur de St. Gré. I give you my word of honor as agentleman 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 shouldnot have sought for you here otherwise,” she replied quickly. Then sheglanced at me as though seeking my approval for her next move. It wascharacteristic of her that she did not now shirk a task imposed byher sense of duty. “We have little time, Mr. Temple, and much to say.Perhaps you will excuse us, Lamarque,” sh
e added graciously, in French.

  “Madame la Vicomtesse!” said the old man. And, with the tact of hisrace, he bowed and retired. The Vicomtesse seated herself on one of therude chairs, and looked at Nick curiously. There was no such thing asembarrassment in her manner, no trace of misgiving that she would notmove properly in the affair. Knowing Nick as I did, the difficulty ofthe task appalled me, for no man was likelier than he to fly off at amisplaced word.

  Her beginning was so bold that I held my breath, knowing full well as Idid that she had chosen the very note.

  “Sit down, Mr. Temple,” she said. “I wish to speak to you about yourmother.”

  He stopped like a man who had been struck, straightened, and stared ather 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 inLouisville had you given me the chance.”

  “It is an interesting piece of news, David,” he answered, “which youmight have spared me. Mrs. Temple did not think herself necessary to mywelfare 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 haveredeemed myself she came between me and happiness.”

  “Monsieur,” said the Vicomtesse, “have you ever considered hersufferings?”

  He looked at the Vicomtesse with a new interest. She was not so farbeyond his experience as mine.

  “Her sufferings?” he repeated, and smiled.

  “Madame la Vicomtesse should know them,” I interrupted; and withoutheeding her glance of protest I continued, “It is she who has cared forMrs. Temple.”

  “You, Madame!” he exclaimed.

  “Do not deny your own share in it, Mr. Ritchie,” she answered. “As forme, Monsieur,” she went on, turning to Nick, “I have done nothingthat 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 tome 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. Itis because you do not know her now.”

  Again he looked at me, puzzled, uneasy, like a man who would run if hecould. But by a kind of fascination his eyes went back to this womanwho dared a subject sore to the touch--who pressed it gently, butwith determination, never doubting her powers, yet with a kindness andsympathy of tone which few women of the world possess. The Vicomtessebegan to speak again, evenly, gently.

  “Mr. Temple,” said she, “I am merely going to tell you some things whichI am sure you do not know, and when I have finished I shall not appealto you. It would be useless for me to try to influence you, and fromwhat Mr. Ritchie and others have told me of your character I am surethat no influence will be necessary. And,” she added, with a smile, “itwould be much more comfortable for us both if you sat down.”

  He obeyed her without a word. No wonder Madame la Vicomtesse had had aninfluence 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 motherfrom here to New Orleans, some five years ago, she rented a little housein the Rue Bourbon with a screen of yellow and red tiles at the edgeof 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 tovisit her. For her pride, however misplaced, and for her spirit we mustall admire her. The friend who discovered where she was, who went to herand implored Mrs. Temple to let her stay, she refused.”

  “The friend?” he repeated in a low tone. I scarcely dared to glance atthe Vicomtesse.

  “Yes, it was Antoinette,” she answered. He did not reply, but his eyesfell. “Antoinette went to her, would have comforted her, would havecared for her, but your mother sent her away. For five years she haslived there, Mr. Temple, alone with her past, alone with her sorrow andremorse. You must draw the picture for yourself. If the world has a moreterrible 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,” Hélène continued, apparently takingno notice of his interruption. She leaned toward him and her voicefaltered. “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 tohim then had it not been for the sense in me that Hélène did not wishit. As for Hélène, she sat waiting for him to turn back to her, and atlength he did.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “It is her heart, Mr. Temple, that we fear the most. Last night Ithought the end had come. It cannot be very far away now. Sorrow andremorse have killed her, Monsieur. The one thing that she has prayed forthrough the long nights is that she might see you once again andobtain 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 youdie,” she said.

  He sank down on the chair opposite to her, his head bowed into hishands, his elbows on the table among the cards. At length I went andlaid my hands upon his shoulder, and at my touch he started. Then he dida singular thing, an impulsive thing, characteristic of the old Nick Ihad known. He reached across the table and seized the hand of Madame laVicomtesse. 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 goto her. I--I was wrong.”

  She rose, too, he still clinging to her hand, she still unresisting. Hiseye 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 deCarondelet may throw me into prison, may hang me, may do anything hechooses. But I will go to her.”

  I glanced anxiously at the Vicomtesse, well knowing how wilful he waswhen aroused. Admiration was in her eyes, seeing that he was heedless ofhis own danger.

  “You would not get through the gates of the city. Monsieur le Baronrequires 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 notrouble to steal into the city. You say the house has yellow and redtiles, and is near the Rue St. Philippe?”

  Hélène laid her fingers on his arm.

  “Listen, Monsieur, there is a better way,” she said. “Monsieur le Baronis doubtless very angry with you, and I am sure that this is chieflybecause he does not know you. For instance, if some one were to tell himthat you are a straightforward, courageous young man, a gentleman withan unquenchable taste for danger, that you are not a low-born adventurerand intriguer, that you have nothing in particular against hisgovernment, he might not be quite so angry. Pardon me if I say that heis not disposed to take your expedition any more seriously than is yourown Federal gove
rnment. The little Baron is irascible, choleric, stern,or else good-natured, good-hearted, and charitable, just as one happensto take him. As we say in France, it is not well to strike flint andsteel in his presence. He might blow up and destroy one. Suppose someone were to go to Monsieur de Carondelet and tell him what a reallyestimable person you are, and assure him that you will go quietly outof his province at the first opportunity, and be good, so far as he isconcerned, forever after? Mark me, I merely say suppose. I do not knowhow far things have gone, or what he may have heard. But suppose aperson whom I have reason to believe he likes and trusts and respects,a person who understands his vagaries, should go to him on such anerrand.”

  “And where is such a person to be found,” said Nick, amused in spite ofhimself.

  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 theBaron on my behalf?”

  “As soon as I ever get to town,” she said. “He will have to be wakedfrom 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. Iwas 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, andhe is such a reliable and reputable person.”

  Nick bowed.

  “You should have seen him marching in a Jacobin procession, Madame,” hesaid.

  “He follows his friends into strange places,” she retorted. “And now,Mr. Temple,” she added, “may we trust you to stay here with Lamarqueuntil 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. Gré into trouble;and besides,” he said, with a touch of coldness, “I cannot be beholdento Monsieur de St. Gré. I cannot remain on his land.”

  “As for getting Monsieur de St. Gré into trouble, his own son couldnot involve him with the Baron,” answered Madame la Vicomtesse. “And itseems to me, Monsieur, that you are already so far beholden to Monsieurde St. Gré that you cannot quibble about going a little more into hisdebt. Come, Mr. Temple, how has Monsieur de St. Gré ever offended you?”

  “Madame--” he began.

  “Monsieur,” she said, with an air not to be denied, “I believe I candiscern a point of honor as well as you. I fail to see that you have acase.”

  He was indeed no match for her. He turned to me appealingly, his browsbent, 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 onfrightened,--as though watching a contest,--almost agape to see what aclever woman could do.

  “There is--Mademoiselle de St. Gré--”

  “Yes, there is Mademoiselle de St. Gré,” repeated the Vicomtesse, toyingwith the cards.

  His face lighted, though his lips twitched with pain.

  “She is still--”

  “She is still Mademoiselle de St. Gré, Monsieur, if that is what youmean.”

  “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 havethought you could.”

  “God help me,” he answered simply, “I do care.”

  Hélène’s eyes softened as she looked at him, and my pride in him wasnever greater than at that moment.

  “Mr. Temple,” she said gently, “remain where you are and have faith inus. I begin to see now why you are so fortunate in your friends.” Herglance rested for a brief instant on me. “Mr. Ritchie and I will go toNew Orleans, talk to the Baron, and send André 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, withan ease I envied. He followed us to the door. And when the Vicomtessehad 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 theshoulders.

  “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 along while I walked after her, not breaking her silence, my eyes uponher, 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, sheturned 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. “Youand I will go to the Governor. And after that, have you any idea whereyou will go?”

  “No,” I replied, troubled by her regard.

  “Then I will tell you. I intend to send you to Madame Gravois’s, andshe will compel you to go to bed and rest. I do not mean to allow you tokill yourself.”

 

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