The hospitality of my Creole friends had not cooled in my absence, and
my visits were as frequent as of yore. I had now much to tell them of.
My prairie excursion had furnished me with facts--deeds upon which I
could descant. It pleased me to fancy I had an attentive listener in
Adele. I could make Luis listen too at times--especially when I dwelt
upon the merits of Olympe. No doubt it would have flattered me to
believe that Adele was a little jealous, but I could not tell. I only
knew that she liked better to hear me discourse upon the wonders of
prairie land, than to listen to the praises of Olympe. But Adele had
much romance in her disposition, and the plumed and painted horsemen of
the plains--the chivalry of modern days--almost rival in interest the
steel-clad heroes of the mediaeval time--certainly they are quite as
brave, and perhaps not much more barbaric.
My visits to the Rue Bourgogne were of daily recurrence. Besides the
other occupation, I could not help closely regarding the behaviour of
Luis. I was watching for some sign, but day after day passed without
his showing any. The letter had not yet come to hand. My position was
a strange one. With one word I could have made De Hauteroche supremely
happy; and yet my promise hindered me from uttering that word. It was
really tantalising to be thus restrained--for the pleasure of giving
happiness is almost equal to that of receiving it.
A week passed, and still no word--no sign of the letter having been
received; and then the half of another week without report. Two
mail-packets I knew had come down from Saint Louis--for I had taken the
pains to ascertain this fact--but neither brought the precious epistle.
Had Madame Dardonville not written after all? or had her letter
miscarried?
The former I could not reconcile with probability, after what she had
said: the latter was perfectly probable, considering the character of
the American post-office, and the adventurous vagaries that sometimes
occur to an American mail bag, in its transit upon the great western
rivers.
Still the route from Saint Louis to New Orleans was a direct one. There
was but one shipment from port to port, and where could be the risk?
I was puzzled, therefore, at the non-arrival of the letter. In truth, I
was something more than puzzled. At times I felt a vague feeling of
uneasiness as to its fate; and this was more definite, when I reflected
on the incident that had occurred at the post-office on the morning
after my return. I could not well doubt that some one asked for a
letter for Luis De Hauteroche; for though the words were mumbled in a
low tone, they reached my ear with sufficient distinctness. At the time
I had not the shadow of a doubt about the name.
Did De Hauteroche receive a letter that morning, and from Saint Louis?
For reasons given, I had never asked him, but I could no longer see any
harm in putting the question. If an unimportant letter, he might not
remember it; and whether or no, the question would surprise and puzzle
him. But no matter. It was important I should have an answer--yes or
no. I needed that to resolve a doubt--a dark suspicion that was shaping
itself in my mind.
I came to the determination to call upon him: and at once put the
interrogatory--_outre_ as it might seem.
I was preparing to sally forth from my hotel chamber, when a somewhat
impetuous knock at the door announced an impatient visitor. It was the
man I was about to seek--Luis De Hauteroche himself.
I saw that he was strangely excited about something. "My friend," he
exclaimed on entering, "what can this mean? I have just had a letter
from Saint Louis--from Madame Dardonville--and for the life of me I
cannot comprehend it. It speaks of a will--of conditions--of Olympe--of
strange contingencies. _Mon Dieu_! I am perplexed. What is it? You
have lately seen Madame. Perhaps you can explain it? Speak, friend!
can you?"
While giving utterance to this incoherent speech, De Hauteroche had
drawn out a letter, and thrust it into my hand. I opened and read:--
"_Mon cher Luis,--Since my letter, accompanying the copy of my lamented
husband's will, I find that my duties as administratrix will detain us
in Saint Louis a week longer than I had anticipated. If you have not
started, therefore, before receiving this, I wish to suggest a change in
our programme--that is, instead of coming alone, you should bring Adele
along with you, and we can all return together. Perhaps your young
English friend would be of the party; though, from the anxiety which he
exhibited at the first appearance of frost here, perhaps he thinks our
Saint Louis climate too cold for him. He shall be welcome
notwithstanding_.
"_You could come by the `Sultana,' which I see by the New Orleans papers
is to sail on the 25th. Come by her if possible, as she is our
favourite boat, and I should wish to go back in her_.
"_Yours sincerely_,
"_Emilie Dardonville_."
"_P.S.--Remember, Luis, that your choice is free, and though I shall be
proud to have you for my son-in-law, I shall put no constraint upon
Olympe. She knows the conditions of her father's will, and I have no
fear of her desiring to controvert what was with him a dying wish. I am
well assured that her heart is still her own; and since you have always
been the favourite friend of her childhood, I think I might promise you
success as a suitor. But in this, and everything else relating to the
conditions of the will, you must act, dear Luis, as your heart dictates.
I know your honourable nature, and have no fear you will act wrongly_."
"E.D."
By the time I had finished reading, De Hauteroche had become more
collected.
"When did you last hear from Madame Dardonville?" I asked.
"About a month ago--only once since the letter announcing our friend's
death."
"And your sister--has she had a letter since?"
"None--except the note brought by yourself from Olympe."
"That could not be the letter referred to here. There was no copy of a
will?"
"I never heard of such a thing. This is the first intimation I have
had, that Monsieur Dardonville had made a will; and the postscript both
surprises and perplexes me. Madame Dardonville speaks of conditions--of
Olympe being bound by some wish of her father! What conditions? What
wish? Monsieur, for heaven's sake, explain to me if you can?"
"_I can_!"
Story 2, Chapter XI.