CHAPTER XII. LES ILES
I stood staring at the portrait, I say, with a kind of fascination thatastonished me, seeing that it had come to me in such a way. It was noFrench face of my imagination, and as I looked it seemed to me that Iknew Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré. And yet I smile as I write this,realizing full well that my strange and foreign surroundings and myunforeseen adventure had much to do with my state of mind. The lady inthe miniature might have been eighteen, or thirty-five. Her featureswere of the clearest cut, the nose the least trifle aquiline, and by ablurred outline the painter had given to the black hair piled high uponthe head a suggestion of waviness. The eyebrows were straight, the browneyes looked at the world with an almost scornful sense of humor, and Imarked that there was determination in the chin. Here was a face thatcould be infinitely haughty or infinitely tender, a mouth of witty--nay,perhaps cutting--repartee of brevity and force. A lady who spokequickly, moved quickly, or reposed absolutely. A person who commandedby nature and yet (dare I venture the thought?) was capable of a supremesurrender. I was aroused from this odd revery by footsteps on thegallery, and Nick burst into the room. Without pausing to look abouthim, he flung himself lengthwise on the bed on top of the mosquito bar.
“A thousand curses on such a place,” he cried; “it is full of rat holesand rabbit warrens.”
“Did you catch your man?” I asked innocently.
“Catch him!” said Nick, with a little excusable profanity; “he went inat one end of such a warren and came out at another. I waited for himin two streets until an officious person chanced along and threatened totake me before the Alcalde. What the devil is that you have got in yourhand, Davy?” he demanded, raising his head.
“A miniature that took my fancy, and which I bought.”
He rose from the bed, yawned, and taking it in his hand, held it to thelight. I watched him curiously.
“Lord,” he said, “it is such a passion as I might have suspected of you,Davy.”
“There was nothing said about passion,” I answered hotly.
“Then why the deuce did you buy it?” he said with some pertinence.
This staggered me.
“A man may fancy a thing, without indulging in a passion, I suppose,” Ireplied.
Nick held the picture at arm’s length in the palm of his hand andregarded it critically.
“Faith,” said he, “you may thank heaven it is only a picture. If sucha one ever got hold of you, Davy, she would general you even as yougeneral me. Egad,” he added with a laugh, “there would be no morewalking the streets at night in search of adventure for you. Considercarefully the masterful features of that lady and thank God you haven’tgot her.”
I was inclined to be angry, but ended by laughing.
“There will be no rivalry between us, at least,” I said.
“Rivalry!” exclaimed Nick. “Heaven forbid that I should aspire to suchabject slavery. When I marry, it will be to command.”
“All the more honor in such a conquest,” I suggested.
“Davy,” said he, “I have long been looking for some such flaw in yourinsuperable wisdom. But I vow I can keep my eyes open no longer. Benjy!”
A smothered response came from the other side of the wall, and Benjyduly appeared in the doorway, blinking at the candlelight, to put hismaster to bed.
We slept that night with no bed covering save the mosquito bar, as wasthe custom in New Orleans. Indeed, the heat was most oppressive, but wehad become to some extent inured to it on the boat, and we were bothin such sound health that our slumbers were not disturbed. Early in themorning, however, I was awakened by a negro song from the court-yard,and I lay pleasantly for some minutes listening to the early sounds,breathing in the aroma of coffee which mingled with the odor of theflowers of the court, until Zoey herself appeared in the doorway,holding a cup in her hand. I arose, and taking the miniature from thetable, gazed at it in the yellow morning light; and then, having dressedmyself, I put it carefully in my pocket and sat down at my portfolio tocompose a letter to Polly Ann, knowing that a description of what Ihad seen in New Orleans would amuse her. This done, I went out into thegallery, where Madame was already seated at her knitting, in the shadeof the great tree that stood in the corner of the court and spread itsbranches over the eaves. She arose and courtesied, with a questioningsmile.
“Madame,” I asked, “is it too early to present myself to Monsieur deSaint-Gré?”
“Pardieu, no, Monsieur, we are early risers in the South for we have oursiesta. You are going to return the portrait, Monsieur?”
I nodded.
“God bless you for the deed,” said she. “Tenez, Monsieur,” she added,stepping closer to me, “you will tell his father that you bought it fromMonsieur Auguste?”
I saw that she had a soft spot in her heart for the rogue.
“I will make no promises, Madame,” I answered.
She looked at me timidly, appealingly, but I bowed and departed. The sunwas riding up into the sky, the walls already glowing with his heat, anda midsummer languor seemed to pervade the streets as I walked along. Theshadows now were sharply defined, the checkered foliage of the treeswas flung in black against the yellow-white wall of the house with thelions, and the green-latticed gallery which we had watched the nightbefore seemed silent and deserted. I knocked at the gate, and presentlya bright-turbaned gardienne opened it.
Was Monsieur de Saint-Gré at home. The gardienne looked me over, andevidently finding me respectable, replied with many protestations ofsorrow that he was not, that he had gone with Mamselle very early thatmorning to his country place at Les Îles. This information I extractedwith difficulty, for I was not by any means versed in the negro patois.
As I walked back to Madame Bouvet’s I made up my mind that there wasbut the one thing to do, to go at once to Monsieur de Saint-Gré’splantation. Finding Madame still waiting in the gallery, I asked her todirect me thither.
“You have but to follow the road that runs southward along the levee,and some three leagues will bring you to it, Monsieur. You will inquirefor Monsieur de Saint-Gré.”
“Can you direct me to Mr. Daniel Clark’s?” I asked.
“The American merchant and banker, the friend and associate of thegreat General Wilkinson whom you sent down to us last year? Certainly,Monsieur. He will no doubt give you better advice than I on thismatter.”
I found Mr. Clark in his counting-room, and I had not talked withhim five minutes before I began to suspect that, if a treasonableunderstanding existed between Wilkinson and the Spanish government, Mr.Clark was innocent of it. He being the only prominent American in theplace, it was natural that Wilkinson should have formed with him abusiness arrangement to care for the cargoes he sent down. Indeed, afterwe had sat for some time chatting together, Mr. Clark began himself tomake guarded inquiries on this very subject. Did I know Wilkinson? Howwas his enterprise of selling Kentucky products regarded at home? ButI do not intend to burden this story with accounts of a matter which,though it has never been wholly clear, has been long since fairlysettled in the public mind. Mr. Clark was most amiable, accepted mystatement that I was travelling for pleasure, and honored MonsieurChouteau’s bon (for my purchase of the miniature had deprived me ofnearly all my ready money), and said that Mr. Temple and I would needhorses to get to Les Îles.
“And unless you purpose going back to Kentucky by keel boat, or round bysea to Philadelphia or New York, and cross the mountains,” he said,“you will need good horses for your journey through Natchez and theCumberland country. There is a consignment of Spanish horses from thewestward just arrived in town,” he added, “and I shall be pleased to gowith you to the place where they are sold. I shall not presume to advisea Kentuckian on such a purchase.”
The horses were crowded together under a dirty shed near the levee, andthe vessel from which they had been landed rode at anchor in the river.They were the scrawny, tough ponies of the plains, reasonably cheap, andit took no great discernment on
my part to choose three of the strongestand most intelligent looking. We went next to a saddler’s, where Iselected three saddles and bridles of Spanish workmanship, and Mr. Clarkagreed to have two of his servants meet us with the horses before MadameBouvet’s within the hour. He begged that we would dine with him when wereturned from Les Îles.
“You will not find an island, Mr. Ritchie,” he said; “Saint-Gré’splantation is a huge block of land between the river and a cypress swampbehind. Saint-Gré is a man with a wonderful quality of mind, who might,like his ancestors, have made his mark if necessity had probed him oropportunity offered. He never forgave the Spanish government for themurder of his father, nor do I blame him. He has his troubles. His sonis an incurable rake and degenerate, as you may have heard.”
I went back to Madame Bouvet’s, to find Nick emerging from his toilet.
“What deviltry have you been up to, Davy?” he demanded.
“I have been to the House of the Lions to see your divinity,” Ianswered, “and in a very little while horses will be here to carry us toher.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, grasping me by both shoulders.
“I mean that we are going to her father’s plantation, some way down theriver.”
“On my honor, Davy, I did not suspect you of so much enterprise,” hecried. “And her husband--?”
“Does not exist,” I replied. “Perhaps, after all, I might be able togive you instruction in the conduct of an adventure. The man you chasedwith such futility was her brother, and he stole from her the miniatureof which I am now the fortunate possessor.”
He stared at me for a moment in rueful amazement.
“And her name?” he demanded.
“Antoinette de Saint-Gré,” I answered; “our letter is to her father.”
He made me a rueful bow.
“I fear that I have undervalued you, Mr. Ritchie,” he said. “You haveno peer. I am unworthy to accompany you, and furthermore, it would beuseless.”
“And why useless!” I inquired, laughing.
“You have doubtless seen the lady, and she is yours," said he.
“You forget that I am in love with a miniature,” I said.
In half an hour we were packed and ready, the horses had arrived, webade good-by to Madame Bouvet and rode down the miry street until wereached the road behind the levee. Turning southward, we soon leftbehind the shaded esplanade and the city’s roofs below us, and came tothe first of the plantation houses set back amidst the dark foliage.No tremor shook the fringe of moss that hung from the heavy boughs, sostill was the day, and an indefinable, milky haze stretched betweenus and the cloudless sky above. The sun’s rays pierced it and gatheredfire; the mighty river beside us rolled listless and sullen, flingingback the heat defiantly. And on our left was a tropical forest in allits bewildering luxuriance, the live-oak, the hackberry, the myrtle, theSpanish bayonet in bristling groups, and the shaded places gave out ascented moisture like an orangery; anon we passed fields of corn andcotton, swamps of rice, stretches of poverty-stricken indigo plants,gnawed to the stem by the pest. Our ponies ambled on, unmindful; butNick vowed that no woman under heaven would induce him to undertake sucha journey again.
Some three miles out of the city we descried two figures on horsebackcoming towards us, and quickly perceived that one was a gentleman, theother his black servant. They were riding at a more rapid pace than theday warranted, but the gentleman reined in his sweating horse as hedrew near to us, eyed us with a curiosity tempered by courtesy, bowedgravely, and put his horse to a canter again.
“Phew!” said Nick, twisting in his saddle, “I thought that all Creoleswere lazy.”
“We have met the exception, perhaps,” I answered. “Did you take in thatman?”
“His looks were a little remarkable, come to think of it,” answeredNick, settling down into his saddle again.
Indeed, the man’s face had struck me so forcibly that I was surprisedout of an inquiry which I had meant to make of him, namely, how far wewere from the Saint-Gré plantation. We pursued our way slowly, fromtime to time catching a glimpse of a dwelling almost hid in the distantfoliage, until at length we came to a place a little more pretentiousthan those which we had seen. From the road a graceful flight of woodensteps climbed the levee and descended on the far side to a boat landing,and a straight vista cut through the grove, lined by wild orange trees,disclosed the white pillars and galleries of a far-away plantationhouse. The grassy path leading through the vista was trimly kept, and oneither side of it in the moist, green shade of the great trees flowersbloomed in a profusion of startling colors,--in splotches of scarlet andwhite and royal purple.
Nick slipped from his horse.
“Behold the mansion of Mademoiselle de Saint-Gré,” said he, waving hishand up the vista.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I am told by a part of me that never lies, Davy,” he answered, layinghis hand upon his heart; “and besides,” he added, “I should dislikedevilishly to go too far on such a day and have to come back again.”
“We will rest here,” I said, laughing, “and send in Benjy to find out.”
“Davy,” he answered, with withering contempt, “you have no more romancein you than a turnip. We will go ourselves and see what befalls.”
“Very well, then,” I answered, falling in with his humor, “we will goourselves.”
He brushed his face with his handkerchief, gave himself a pull here anda pat there, and led the way down the alley. But we had not gone farbefore he turned into a path that entered the grove on the right, and tothis likewise I made no protest. We soon found ourselves in a heavenlyspot,--sheltered from the sun’s rays by a dense verdure,--and no onewho has not visited these Southern country places can know the teemingfragrance there. One shrub (how well I recall it!) was like unto theperfume of all the flowers and all the fruits, the very essence of thedelicious languor of the place that made our steps to falter. A birdshot a bright flame of color through the checkered light ahead of us.Suddenly a sound brought us to a halt, and we stood in a tense andwondering silence. The words of a song, sung carelessly in a clear,girlish voice, came to us from beyond.
“Je voudrais bien me marier, Je voudrais bien me marier, Mais j’ai qrand’ peur de me tromper: Mais j’ai grand’ peur de me tromper: Ils sont si malhonnêtes! Ma luron, ma lurette, Ils sont si malhonnêtes! Ma luron, ma luré.”
“We have come at the very zenith of opportunity,” I whispered.
“Hush!” he said.
“Je ne veux pas d’un avocat, Je ne veux pas d’un avocat, Car ils aiment trop les ducats, Car ils aiment trop les ducats, Ils trompent les fillettes, Ma luron, ma lurette, Ils trompent les fillettes, Ma luron, ma luré.”
“Eliminating Mr. Ritchie, I believe,” said Nick, turning on me with agrimace. “But hark again!”
“Je voudrais bien d’un officier: Je voudrais bien d’un officier: Je marcherais a pas cárres, Je marcherais a pas cárres, Dans ma joli’ chambrette, Ma luron, ma lurette Dans ma joli’ chambrette, Ma luron, ma luré.”
The song ceased with a sound that was half laughter, half sigh. Before Irealized what he was doing, Nick, instead of retracing his steps towardsthe house, started forward. The path led through a dense thicket whichbecame a casino hedge, and suddenly I found myself peering over hisshoulder into a little garden bewildering in color. In the centre ofthe garden a great live-oak spread its sheltering branches. Around thegnarled trunk was a seat. And on the seat,--her sewing fallen into herlap, her lips parted, her eyes staring wide, sat the young lady whom wehad seen on the levee the evening before. And Nick was making a bow inhis grandest manner.
“Hélas, Mademoiselle,” he said, “je ne suis pas officier, mais on peutarranger tout cela, sans doute.”
My breath was taken away by this unheard-of audacity, and I bracedmyself against screams, flight, and other feminine demonstrations ofterror. The young lady did nothing of the kind. She turned her backto us, leaned against the tre
e, and to my astonishment I saw her slimshoulders shaken with laughter. At length, very slowly, she lookedaround, and in her face struggled curiosity and fear and merriment. Nickmade another bow, worthy of Versailles, and she gave a frightened littlelaugh.
“You are English, Messieurs--yes?” she ventured.
“We were once!” cried Nick, “but we have changed, Mademoiselle.”
“Et quoi donc?” relapsing into her own language.
“Americans,” said he. “Allow me to introduce to you the Honorable DavidRitchie, whom you rejected a few moments ago.”
“Whom I rejected?” she exclaimed.
“Alas,” said Nick, with a commiserating glance at me, “he has themisfortune to be a lawyer.”
Mademoiselle shot at me the swiftest and shyest of glances, and turnedto us once more her quivering shoulders. There was a brief silence.
“Mademoiselle?” said Nick, taking a step on the garden path.
“Monsieur?” she answered, without so much as looking around.
“What, now, would you take this gentleman to be?” he asked with aninsistence not to be denied.
Again she was shaken with laughter, and suddenly to my surprise sheturned and looked full at me.
“In English, Monsieur, you call it--a gallant?”
My face fairly tingled, and I heard Nick laughing with unseemlymerriment.
“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he cried, “you are a judge of character, and youhave read him perfectly.”
“Then I must leave you, Messieurs,” she answered, with her eyes in herlap. But she made no move to go.
“You need have no fear of Mr. Ritchie, Mademoiselle,” answered Nick,instantly. “I am here to protect you against his gallantry.”
This time Nick received the glance, and quailed before it.
“And who--par exemple--is to protect me against--you, Monsieur?” sheasked in the lowest of voices.
“You forget that I, too, am unprotected--and vulnerable, Mademoiselle,” he answered.
Her face was hidden again, but not for long.
“How did you come?” she demanded presently.
“On air,” he answered, “for we saw you in New Orleans yesterday.”
“And--why?”
“Need you ask, Mademoiselle?” said the rogue, and then, with moreeffrontery than ever, he began to sing:--
“‘Je voudrais bien me marier, Je voudrais bien me marier, Mais j’ai grand’ peur de me tromper.’”
She rose, her sewing falling to the ground, and took a few startledsteps towards us.
“Monsieur! you will be heard,” she cried.
“And put out of the Garden of Eden,” said Nick.
“I must leave you,” she said, with the quaintest of Englishpronunciation.
Yet she stood irresolute in the garden path, a picture against the darkgreen leaves and the flowers. Her age might have been seventeen. Hergown was of some soft and light material printed in buds of delicatecolor, her slim arms bare above the elbow. She had the ivory complexionof the province, more delicate than I had yet seen, and beyond thatI shall not attempt to describe her, save to add that she was such astrange mixture of innocence and ingenuousness and coquetry as I had notimagined. Presently her gaze was fixed seriously on me.
“Do you think it very wrong, Monsieur?” she asked.
I was more than taken aback by this tribute.
“Oh,” cried Nick, “the arbiter of etiquette!”
“Since I am here, Mademoiselle,” I answered, with anything butreadiness, “I am not a proper judge.”
Her next question staggered me.
“You are well-born?” she asked.
“Mr. Ritchie’s grandfather was a Scottish earl,” said Nick, immediately,a piece of news that startled me into protest. “It is true, Davy, thoughyou may not know it,” he added.
“And you, Monsieur?” she said to Nick.
“I am his cousin,--is it not honor enough?” said he.
“Yet you do not resemble one another.”
“Mr. Ritchie has all the good looks in the family,” said Nick.
“Oh!” cried the young lady, and this time she gave us her profile.
“Come, Mademoiselle,” said Nick, “since the fates have cast the die, letus all sit down in the shade. The place was made for us.”
“Monsieur!” she cried, giving back, “I have never in my life been alonewith gentlemen.”
“But Mr. Ritchie is a duenna to satisfy the most exacting,” said Nick;“when you know him better you will believe me.”
She laughed softly and glanced at me. By this time we were all threeunder the branches.
“Monsieur, you do not understand the French customs. Mon Dieu, if thegood Sister Lorette could see me now--”
“But she is safe in the convent,” said Nick. “Are they going to putglass on the walls?”
“And why?” asked Mademoiselle, innocently.
“Because,” said Nick, “because a very bad man has come to NewOrleans,--one who is given to climbing walls.”
“You?”
“Yes. But when I found that a certain demoiselle had left the convent, Iwas no longer anxious to climb them.”
“And how did you know that I had left it?”
I was at a loss to know whether this were coquetry or innocence.
“Because I saw you on the levee,” said Nick.
“You saw me on the levee?” she repeated, giving back.
“And I had a great fear,” the rogue persisted.
“A fear of what?”
“A fear that you were married,” he said, with a boldness that mademe blush. As for Mademoiselle, a color that vied with the June rosescharged through her cheeks. She stooped to pick up her sewing, but Nickwas before her.
“And why did you think me married?” she asked in a voice so low that wescarcely heard.
“Faith,” said Nick, “because you seemed to be quarrelling with a man.”
She turned to him with an irresistible seriousness.
“And is that your idea of marriage, Monsieur?”
This time it was I who laughed, for he had been hit very fairly.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I did not for a moment think it could havebeen a love match.”
Mademoiselle turned away and laughed.
“You are the very strangest man I have ever seen,” she said.
“Shall I give you my notion of a love match, Mademoiselle?” said Nick.
“I should think you might be well versed in the subject, Monsieur,” she answered, speaking to the tree, “but here is scarcely the time andplace.” She wound up her sewing, and faced him. “I must really leaveyou,” she said.
He took a step towards her and stood looking down into her face. Hereyes dropped.
“And am I never to see you again?” he asked.
“Monsieur!” she cried softly, “I do not know who you are.” She made hima courtesy, took a few steps in the opposite path, and turned. “Thatdepends upon your ingenuity,” she added; “you seem to have no lack ofit, Monsieur.”
Nick was transported.
“You must not go,” he cried.
“Must not? How dare you speak to me thus, Monsieur?” Then she temperedit. “There is a lady here whom I love, and who is ill. I must not belong from her bedside.”
“She is very ill?” said Nick, probably for want of something better.
“She is not really ill, Monsieur, but depressed--is not that theword? She is a very dear friend, and she has had trouble--so much,Monsieur,--and my mother brought her here. We love her as one of thefamily.”
This was certainly ingenuous, and it was plain that the girl gave usthis story through a certain nervousness, for she twisted her sewing inher fingers as she spoke.
“Mademoiselle,” said Nick, “I would not keep you from such an errand ofmercy.”
She gave him a grateful look, more dangerous than any which had gonebefore.
“And besides,” he went on, “we have come to stay
awhile with you, Mr.Ritchie and myself.”
“You have come to stay awhile?” she said.
I thought it time that the farce were ended.
“We have come with letters to your father, Monsieur de Saint-Gré,Mademoiselle,” I said, “and I should like very much to see him, if he isat leisure.”
Mademoiselle stared at me in unfeigned astonishment.
“But did you not meet him, Monsieur?” she demanded. “He left an hour agofor New Orleans. You must have met a gentleman riding very fast.”
It was my turn to be astonished.
“But that was not your father!” I exclaimed.
“Et pourquoi non?” she said.
“Is not your father the stout gentleman whom I saw with you on the leveelast evening?” I asked.
She laughed.
“You have been observing, Monsieur,” she said. “That was my uncle,Monsieur de Beauséjour. You saw me quarrelling with my brother,Auguste,” she went on a little excitedly. “Oh, I am very much ashamedof it. I was so angry. My cousin, Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré, hasjust sent me from France such a beautiful miniature, and Auguste fell inlove with it.”
“Fell in love with it!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
“You should see it, Monsieur, and I think you also would fall in lovewith it.”
“I have not a doubt of it,” said Nick.
Mademoiselle made the faintest of moues.
“Auguste is very wild, as you say,” she continued, addressing me, “he isa great care to my father. He intrigues, you know, he wishes Louisianeto become French once more,--as we all do. But I should not say this,Monsieur,” she added in a startled tone. “You will not tell? No, I knowyou will not. We do not like the Spaniards. They killed my grandfatherwhen they came to take the province. And once, the Governor-general Mirosent for my father and declared he would put Auguste in prison if he didnot behave himself. But I have forgotten the miniature. When Augustesaw that he fell in love with it, and now he wishes to go to France andobtain a commission through our cousin, the Marquis of Saint-Gré, andmarry Mademoiselle Hélène.”
“A comprehensive programme, indeed,” said Nick.
“My father has gone back to New Orleans,” she said, “to get theminiature from Auguste. He took it from me, Monsieur.” She raised herhead a little proudly. “If my brother had asked it, I might have givenit to him, though I treasured it. But Auguste is so--impulsive. My uncletold my father, who is very angry. He will punish Auguste severely,and--I do not like to have him punished. Oh, I wish I had theminiature.”
“Your wish is granted, Mademoiselle,” I answered, drawing the case frommy pocket and handing it to her.
She took it, staring at me with eyes wide with wonder, and then sheopened it mechanically.
“Monsieur,” she said with great dignity, “do you mind telling me whereyou obtained this?”
“I found it, Mademoiselle,” I answered; and as I spoke I felt Nick’sfingers on my arm.
“You found it? Where? How, Monsieur?”
“At Madame Bouvet’s, the house where we stayed.”
“Oh,” she said with a sigh of relief, “he must have dropped it. Itis there where he meets his associates, where they talk of the FrenchLouisiane.”
Again I felt Nick pinching me, and I gave a sigh of relief. Mademoisellewas about to continue, but I interrupted her.
“How long will your father be in New Orleans, Mademoiselle?” I asked.
“Until he finds Auguste,” she answered. “It may be days, but he willstay, for he is very angry. But will you not come into the house,Messieurs, and be presented to my mother?” she asked. “I have beenvery--inhospitable,” she added with a glance at Nick.
We followed her through winding paths bordered by shrubs and flowers,and presently came to a low house surrounded by a wide, cool gallery,and shaded by spreading trees. Behind it were clustered the kitchens andquarters of the house servants. Mademoiselle, picking up her dress,ran up the steps ahead of us and turned to the left in the hall intoa darkened parlor. The floor was bare, save for a few mats, and in thecorner was a massive escritoire of mahogany with carved feet, andthere were tables and chairs of a like pattern. It was a room ofmore distinction than I had seen since I had been in Charlestown, andreflected the solidity of its owners.
“If you will be so kind as to wait here, Messieurs,” said Mademoiselle,“I will call my mother.”
And she left us.
I sat down, rather uncomfortably, but Nick took a stand and stoodstaring down at me with folded arms.
“How I have undervalued you, Davy,” he said.
“I am not proud of it,” I answered shortly.
“What the deuce is to do now?” he asked.
“I cannot linger here,” I answered; “I have business with Monsieur deSaint-Gré, and I must go back to New Orleans at once.”
“Then I will wait for you,” said Nick. “Davy, I have met my fate.”
I laughed in spite of myself.
“It seems to me that I have heard that remark before,” I answered.
He had not time to protest, for we heard footsteps in the hall, andMademoiselle entered, leading an older lady by the hand. In the lightof the doorway I saw that she was thin and small and yellow, buther features had a regularity and her mien a dignity which made herimpressing, which would have convinced a stranger that she was a personof birth and breeding. Her hair, tinged with gray, was crowned by a lacecap.
“Madame,” I said, bowing and coming forward, “I am David Ritchie, fromKentucky, and this is my cousin, Mr. Temple, of Charlestown. MonsieurGratiot and Colonel Chouteau, of St. Louis, have been kind enough togive us letters to Monsieur de Saint-Gré.” And I handed her one of theletters which I had ready.
“You are very welcome, Messieurs,” she answered, with the samedelightful accent which her daughter had used, “and you are especiallywelcome from such a source. The friends of Colonel Chouteau and ofMonsieur Gratiot are our friends. You will remain with us, I hope,Messieurs,” she continued. “Monsieur de Saint-Gré will return in a fewdays at best.”
“By your leave, Madame, I will go to New Orleans at once and try to findMonsieur,” I said, “for I have business with him.”
“You will return with him, I hope,” said Madame.
I bowed.
“And Mr. Temple will remain?” she asked, with a questioning look atNick.
“With the greatest pleasure in the world, Madame,” he answered, andthere was no mistaking his sincerity. As he spoke, Mademoiselle turnedher back on him.
I would not wait for dinner, but pausing only for a sip of cool Madeiraand some other refreshment, I made my farewells to the ladies. As Istarted out of the door to find Benjy, who had been waiting for morethan an hour, Mademoiselle gave me a neatly folded note.
“You will be so kind as to present that to my father, Monsieur,” shesaid.
CHAPTER XIII. MONSIEUR AUGUSTE ENTRAPPED
It may be well to declare here and now that I do not intend to burdenthis story with the business which had brought me to New Orleans. Whilein the city during the next few days I met a young gentleman namedDaniel Clark, a nephew of that Mr. Clark of whom I have spoken. Manyyears after the time of which I write this Mr. Daniel Clark the younger,who became a rich merchant and an able man of affairs, published a bookwhich sets forth with great clearness proofs of General Wilkinson’sduplicity and treason, and these may be read by any who would satisfyhimself further on the subject. Mr. Wharton had not believed, nor hadI flattered myself that I should be able to bring such a fox as GeneralWilkinson to earth. Abundant circumstantial evidence I obtained:Wilkinson’s intimacy with Miro was well known, and I likewise learnedthat a cipher existed between them. The permit to trade given by Miro toWilkinson was made no secret of. In brief, I may say that I discoveredas much as could be discovered by any one without arousing suspicion,and that the information with which I returned to Kentucky was of somematerial value to my employers.
I have
to thank Monsieur Philippe de St. Gré for a great deal. And Itake this opportunity to set down the fact that I have rarely met a moreremarkable man.
As I rode back to town alone a whitish film was spread before the sun,and ere I had come in sight of the fortifications the low forest on thewestern bank was a dark green blur against the sky. The esplanade onthe levee was deserted, the willow trees had a mournful look, while thebright tiles of yesterday seemed to have faded to a sombre tone. I spiedXavier on a bench smoking with some friends of his.
“He make much rain soon, Michié,” he cried. “You hev good time, I hope,Michié.”
I waved my hand and rode on, past the Place d’Armes with its whitediagonal bands strapping its green like a soldier’s front, and as I drewup before the gate of the House of the Lions the warning taps of thestorm were drumming on the magnolia leaves. The same gardienne came tomy knock, and in answer to her shrill cry a negro lad appeared to holdmy horse. I was ushered into a brick-paved archway that ran under thelatticed gallery toward a flower-filled court-yard, but ere we reachedthis the gardienne turned to the left up a flight of steps with adelicate balustrade which led to an open gallery above. And therestood the gentleman whom we had met hurrying to town in the morning. Agentleman he was, every inch of him. He was dressed in black silk, hishair in a cue, and drawn away from a face of remarkable features. Hehad a high-bridged nose, a black eye that held an inquiring sternness, achin indented, and a receding forehead. His stature was indeterminable.In brief, he might have stood for one of those persons of birth andability who become prime ministers of France.
“Monsieur de St. Gré?” I said.
He bowed gracefully, but with a tinge of condescension. I was awed, andconsidering the relations which I had already had with his family, Imust admit that I was somewhat frightened.
“Monsieur,” I said, “I bring letters to you from Monsieur Gratiot andColonel Chouteau of St. Louis. One of these I had the honor to deliverto Madame de St. Gré, and here is the other.”
“Ah,” he said, with another keen glance, “I met you this morning, did Inot?”
“You did, Monsieur.”
He broke the seal, and, going to the edge of the gallery, held theletter to the light. As he read a peal of thunder broke distantly, therain came down in a flood. Then he folded the paper carefully and turnedto me again.
“You will make my house your home, Mr. Ritchie,” he said; “recommendedfrom such a source, I will do all I can to serve you. But where is thisMr. Temple of whom the letter speaks? His family in Charlestown is knownto me by repute.”
“By Madame de St. Gré’s invitation he remained at Les Îles,” I answered,speaking above the roar of the rain.
“I was just going to the table,” said Monsieur de St. Gré; “we will talkas we eat.”
He led the way into the dining room, and as I stood on the thresholda bolt of great brilliancy lighted its yellow-washed floor and walnutfurniture of a staid pattern. A deafening crash followed as we took ourseats, while Monsieur de St. Gré’s man lighted four candles of greenmyrtle-berry wax.
“Monsieur Gratiot’s letter speaks vaguely of politics, Mr. Ritchie,” began Monsieur de St. Gré. He spoke English perfectly, save for anoccasional harsh aspiration which I cannot imitate.
Directing his man to fetch a certain kind of Madeira, he turned tome with a look of polite inquiry which was scarcely reassuring. And Ireflected, the caution with which I had been endowed coming uppermost,that the man might have changed since Monsieur Gratiot had seen him.He had, moreover, the air of a man who gives a forced attention, whichseemed to me the natural consequences of the recent actions of his son.
“I fear that I am intruding upon your affairs, Monsieur,” I answered.
“Not at all, sir,” he said politely. “I have met that charminggentleman, Mr. Wilkinson, who came here to brush away the causes ofdissension, and cement a friendship between Kentucky and Louisiana.”
It was most fortunate that the note of irony did not escape me.
“Where governments failed, General Wilkinson succeeded,” I answereddryly.
Monsieur de St. Gré glanced at me, and an enigmatical smile spread overhis face. I knew then that the ice was cracked between us. Yet he wastoo much a man of the world not to make one more tentative remark.
“A union between Kentucky and Louisiana would be a resistless force inthe world, Mr. Ritchie,” he said.
“It was Nebuchadnezzar who dreamed of a composite image, Monsieur,” Ianswered; “and Mr. Wilkinson forgets one thing,--that Kentucky is a partof the United States.”
At that Monsieur St. Gré laughed outright. He became a different man,though he lost none of his dignity.
“I should have had more faith in my old friend Gratiot,” he said; “butyou will pardon me if I did not recognize at once the statesman he hadsent me, Mr. Ritchie.”
It was my turn to laugh.
“Monsieur,” he went on, returning to that dignity of mien which markedhim, “my political opinions are too well known that I should make amystery of them to you. I was born a Frenchman, I shall die a Frenchman,and I shall never be happy until Louisiana is French once more. Mygreat-grandfather, a brother of the Marquis de St. Gré of that time, anda wild blade enough, came out with D’Iberville. His son, my grandfather,was the Commissary-general of the colony under the Marquis de Vaudreuil.He sent me to France for my education, where I was introduced at courtby my kinsman, the old Marquis, who took a fancy to me and begged meto remain. It was my father’s wish that I should return, and I did notdisobey him. I had scarcely come back, Monsieur, when that abominablesecret bargain of Louis the Fifteenth became known, ceding Louisiana toSpain. You may have heard of the revolution which followed here. It wasa mild affair, and the remembrance of it makes me smile to this day,though with bitterness. I was five and twenty, hot-headed, and French.Que voulez-vous?” and Monsieur de St. Gré shrugged his shoulders.“O’Reilly, the famous Spanish general, came with his men-of-war. WellI remember the days we waited with leaden hearts for the men-of-war tocome up from the English turn; and I can see now the cannon frowningfrom the ports, the grim spars, the high poops crowded with officers,the great anchors splashing the yellow water. I can hear the chainsrunning. The ships were in line of battle before the town, their flyingbridges swung to the levee, and they loomed above us like toweringfortresses. It was dark, Monsieur, such as this afternoon, and we poorFrench colonists stood huddled in the open space below, waiting for weknew not what.”
He paused, and I started, for the picture he drew had carried me out ofmyself.
“On the 18th of August, 1769,--well I remember the day,” Monsieur deSt. Gré continued, “the Spanish troops landed late in the afternoon,twenty-six hundred strong, the artillery rumbling over the bridges, thehorses wheeling and rearing. And they drew up as in line of battle inthe Place d’Armes,--dragoons, fusileros de montañas, light and heavyinfantry. Where were our white cockades then? Fifty guns shook the town,the great O’Reilly limped ashore through the smoke, and Louisiana waslost to France. We had a cowardly governor, Monsieur, whose name iswritten in the annals of the province in letters of shame. He betrayedMonsieur de St. Gré and others into O’Reilly’s hands, and when my fatherwas cast into prison he was seized with such a fit of anger that hedied.”
Monsieur de St. Gré was silent. Without, under the eaves of the gallery,a white rain fell, and a steaming moisture arose from the court-yard.
“What I have told you, Monsieur, is common knowledge. Louisiana has beenSpanish for twenty years. I no longer wear the white cockade, for I amolder now.” He smiled. “Strange things are happening in France, and theold order to which I belong” (he straightened perceptibly) “seems to betottering. I have ceased to intrigue, but thank God I have not ceased topray. Perhaps--who knows?--perhaps I may live to see again the lily ofFrance stirred by the river breeze.”
He fell into a revery, his fine head bent a little, but presentlyaroused himself and eyed me curiously. I need not say t
hat I felt astrange liking for Monsieur de St. Gré.
“And now, Mr. Ritchie,” he said, “will you tell me who you are, and howI can serve you?”
The servant had put the coffee on the table and left the room. Monsieurde St. Gré himself poured me a cup from the dainty, quaintly wroughtLouis Quinze coffeepot, graven with the coat of arms of his family. Aswe sat talking, my admiration for my host increased, for I found that hewas familiar not only with the situation in Kentucky, but that healso knew far more than I of the principles and personnel of the newgovernment of which General Washington was President. That he had littlesympathy with government by the people was natural, for he was a Creole,and behind that a member of an order which detested republics. When wewere got beyond these topics the rain had ceased, the night had fallen,the green candles had burned low. And suddenly, as he spoke of LesÎsles, I remembered the note Mademoiselle had given me for him, andI apologized for my forgetfulness. He read it, and dropped it with anexclamation.
“My daughter tells me that you have returned to her a miniature whichshe lost, Monsieur,” he said.
“I had that pleasure,” I answered.
“And that--you found this miniature at Madame Bouvet’s. Was this thecase?” And he stared hard at me.
I nodded, but for the life of me I could not speak. It seemed an outrageto lie to such a man. He did not answer, but sat lost in thought,drumming with his fingers on the tables until the noise of the slammingof a door aroused him to a listening posture. The sound of subduedvoices came from the archway below us, and one of these, from anoccasional excited and feminine note, I thought to be the gardienne’s.Monsieur de St. Gré thrust back his chair, and in three strides was atthe edge of the gallery.
“Auguste!” he cried.
Silence.
“Auguste, come up to me at once,” he said in French.
Another silence, then something that sounded like “Sapristi!” a groanfrom the gardienne, and a step was heard on the stairway. My owndiscomfort increased, and I would have given much to be in any otherplace in the world. Auguste had arrived at the head of the steps but wasapparently unable to get any farther.
“Bon soir, mon père,” he said.
“Like a dutiful son,” said Monsieur de St. Gré, “you heard I was intown, and called to pay your respects, I am sure. I am delighted to findyou. In fact, I came to town for that purpose.”
“Lisette--” began Auguste.
“Thought that I did not wish to be disturbed, no doubt,” said hisfather. “Walk in, Auguste.”
Monsieur Auguste’s slim figure appeared in the doorway. He caught sightof me, halted, backed, and stood staring with widened eyes. The candlesthrew their light across his shoulder on the face of the elder Monsieurde St. Gré. Auguste was a replica of his father, with the featuresminimized to regularity and the brow narrowed. The complexion of the onewas a clear saffron, while the boy’s skin was mottled, and he was nottwenty.
“What is the matter?” said Monsieur de St. Gré.
“You--you have a visitor!” stammered Auguste, with a tact that savoredof practice. Yet there was a sorry difference between this and thehaughty young patrician who had sold me the miniature.
“Who brings me good news,” said Monsieur de St. Gré, in English. “Mr.Ritchie, allow me to introduce my son, Auguste.”
I felt Monsieur de St. Gré’s eyes on me as I bowed, and I began to thinkI was in near as great a predicament as Auguste. Monsieur de St. Gré wasmanaging the matter with infinite wisdom.
“Sit down, my son,” he said; “you have no doubt been staying with youruncle.” Auguste sat down, still staring. “Does your aunt’s health mend?”
“She is better to-night, father,” said the son, in English which mighthave been improved.
“I am glad of it,” said Monsieur de St. Gré, taking a chair. “André,fill the glasses.”
The silent, linen-clad mulatto poured out the Madeira, shot a look atAuguste, and retired softly.
“There has been a heavy rain, Monsieur,” said Monsieur de St. Gré tome, “but I think the air is not yet cleared. I was about to say, Mr.Ritchie, when my son called to pay his respects, that the miniature ofwhich we were speaking is one of the most remarkable paintings I haveever seen.” Auguste’s thin fingers were clutching the chair. “I havenever beheld Mademoiselle Hélène de St. Gré, for my cousin, the Marquis,was not married when I left France. He was a captain in a regiment ofhis Majesty’s Mousquetaires, since abolished. But I am sure that thelikeness of Mademoiselle must be a true one, for it has the stamp of aremarkable personality, though Hélène can be only eighteen. Women, withus, mature quickly, Monsieur. And this portrait tallies with what I haveheard of her character. You no doubt observed the face, Monsieur,--thatof a true aristocrat. But I was speaking of her character. When she wastwelve, she said something to a cardinal for which her mother made herkeep her room a whole day. For Mademoiselle would not retract, and,pardieu, I believe his Eminence was wrong. The Marquise is afraid ofher. And when first Hélène was presented formally she made such a wittyretort to the Queen’s sally that her Majesty insisted upon her comingto court. On every New Year’s day I have always sent a present of coffeeand périque to my cousin the Marquis, and it is Mademoiselle who writesto thank us. Parole d’honneur, her letters make me see again thepeople amongst whom she moves,--the dukes and duchesses, the cardinals,bishops, and generals. She draws them to the life, Monsieur, with atouch that makes them all ridiculous. His Majesty does not escape. Godforgive him, he is indeed an amiable, weak person for calling a StatesGeneral. And the Queen, a frivolous lady, but true to those whom sheloves, and beginning now to realize the perils of the situation.” Hepaused. “Is it any wonder that Auguste has fallen in love withhis cousin, Monsieur? That he loses his head, forgets that he is agentleman, and steals her portrait from his sister!”
Had I not been so occupied with my own fate in the outcome of thisinquisition, I should have been sorry for Auguste. And yet this feelingcould not have lasted, for the young gentleman sprang to his feet, casta glance at me which was not without malignance, and faced his father,his lips twitching with anger and fear. Monsieur de St. Gré satundisturbed.
“He is so much in love with the portrait, Monsieur, that he loses it.”
“Loses it!” cried Auguste.
“Precisely,” said his father, dryly, “for Mr. Ritchie tells me he foundit--at Madame Bouvet’s, was it not, Monsieur?”
Auguste looked at me.
“Mille diables!” he said, and sat down again heavily.
“Mr. Ritchie has returned it to your sister, a service which puts himheavily in our debt,” said Monsieur de St. Gré. “Now, sir,” he added tome, rising, “you have had a tiresome day. I will show you to your room,and in the morning we will begin our--investigations.”
He clapped his hands, the silent mulatto appeared with a new candle, andI followed my host down the gallery to a room which he flung open at thefar end. A great four-poster bedstead was in one corner, and a polishedmahogany dresser in the other.
“We have saved some of our family furniture from the fire, Mr. Ritchie,”said Monsieur de St. Gré; “that bed was brought from Paris by my fatherforty years ago. I hope you will rest well.”
He set the candle on the table, and as he bowed there was a trace ofan enigmatical smile about his mouth. How much he knew of Auguste’stransaction I could not fathom, but the matter and the scarcelycreditable part I had played in it kept me awake far into the night. Iwas just falling into a troubled sleep when a footstep on the gallerystartled me back to consciousness. It was followed by a light tap on thedoor.
“Monsieur Reetchie,” said a voice.
It was Monsieur Auguste. He was not an imposing figure in his nightrail,and by the light of the carefully shaded candle he held in his hand Isaw that he had hitherto deceived me in the matter of his calves. Hestood peering at me as I lay under the mosquito bar.
“How is it I can thank you, Monsieur!” he exclaimed in a whi
sper.
“By saying nothing, Monsieur,” I answered.
“You are noble, you are generous, and--and one day I will give you themoney back,” he added with a burst of magniloquence. “You have behavevery well, Monsieur, and I mek you my friend. Behol’ Auguste de St. Gré,entirely at your service, Monsieur.” He made a sweeping bow that mighthave been impressive save for the nightrail, and sought my hand, whichhe grasped in a fold of the mosquito bar.
“I am overcome, Monsieur,” I said.
“Monsieur Reetchie, you are my friend, my intimate” (he put an aspirateon the word). “I go to tell you one leetle secret. I find that I canrepose confidence in you. My father does not understan’ me, you saw,Monsieur, he does not appreciate--that is the Engleesh. Mon Dieu, yousaw it this night. I, who spik to you, am made for a courtier, a noble.I have the gift. La Louisiane--she is not so big enough for me.” Helowered his voice still further, and bent nearer to me. “Monsieur, Irun away to France. My cousin the Marquis will help me. You will hearof Auguste de St. Gré at Versailles, at Trianon, at Chantilly, andpeut-être--”
“It is a worthy campaign, Monsieur,” I interrupted.
A distant sound broke the stillness, and Auguste was near to droppingthe candle on me.
“Adieu, Monsieur,” he whispered; “milles tonneres, I have done oneextraordinaire foolish thing when I am come to this house to-night.”
And he disappeared, shading his candle, as he had come.