“Yass’r, yass, Marse Dave, I reckon M’lisse ‘ll git it to her ‘thout any

one tekin’ notice.”

I bit my lips.

“If Mrs. Clive receives this within an hour, Mélisse shall have one

piastre, and you another. There is an answer.”

Benjy took the note, and departed nimbly to find Mélisse, while I paced

up and down in my uneasiness as to the outcome of the experiment. A

quarter of an hour passed, half an hour, and then I saw Benjy coming

through the trees. He stood before me, chuckling, and drew from his

pocket a folded piece of paper. I gave him the two piastres, warned him

if his master or any one inquired for me that I was taking a walk, and

bade him begone. Then I opened the note.

“I will meet you at the bayou at seven this evening. Take the path that

leads through the garden.”

I read it with a catch of the breath, with a certainty that the

happiness of many people depended upon what I should say at that

meeting. And to think of this and to compose myself a little, I made my

way to the garden in search of the path, that I might know it when the

time came. Entering a gap in the hedge, I caught sight of the shaded

seat under the tree which had been the scene of our first meeting with

Antoinette, and I hurried past it as I crossed the garden. There were

two openings in the opposite hedge, the one through which Nick and I had

come, and another. I took the second, and with little difficulty

found the path of which the note had spoken. It led through a dense,

semi-tropical forest in the direction of the swamp beyond, the way being

well beaten, but here and there jealously crowded by an undergrowth

of brambles and the prickly Spanish bayonet. I know not how far I had

walked, my head bent in thought, before I felt the ground teetering

under my feet, and there was the bayou. It was a narrow lane of murky,

impenetrable water, shaded now by the forest wall. Imaged on its

amber surface were the twisted boughs of the cypresses of the swamp

beyond,--boughs funereally draped, as though to proclaim a warning of

unknown perils in the dark places. On that side where I stood ancient

oaks thrust their gnarled roots into the water, and these knees were

bridged by treacherous platforms of moss. As I sought for a safe

resting-place a dull splash startled me, the pink-and-white water lilies

danced on the ripples, and a long, black snout pushed its way to the

centre of the bayou and floated there motionless.

I sat down on a wide knee that seemed to be fashioned for the purpose,

and reflected. It may have been about half-past five, and I made up my

mind that, rather than return and risk explanations, I would wait where

I was until Mrs. Temple appeared. I had much to think of, and for the

rest the weird beauty of the place, with its changing colors as the

sun fell, held me in fascination. When the blue vapor stole through the

cypress swamp, my trained ear caught the faintest of warning sounds.

Mrs. Temple was coming.

I could not repress the exclamation that rose to my lips when she stood

before me.

“I have changed somewhat,” she began quite calmly; “I have changed since

you were at Temple Bow.”

I stood staring at her, at a loss to know whether by these words she

sought to gain an advantage. I knew not whether to pity or to be angry,

such a strange blending she seemed of former pride and arrogance and

later suffering. There were the features of the beauty still, the

eyes defiant, the lips scornful. Sorrow had set its brand upon this

protesting face in deep, violet marks under the eyes, in lines which no

human power could erase: sorrow had flecked with white the gold of the

hair, had proclaimed her a woman with a history. For she had a new and

remarkable beauty which puzzled and astonished me,--a beauty in which

maternity had no place. The figure, gowned with an innate taste in

black, still kept the rounded lines of the young woman, while about the

shoulders and across the open throat a lace mantilla was thrown. She

stood facing me, undaunted, and I knew that she had come to fight for

what was left her. I knew further that she was no mean antagonist.

“Will you kindly tell me to what circumstance I owe the honor of

this--summons, Mr. Ritchie?” she asked. “You are a travelled person for

one so young. I might almost say,” she added with an indifferent laugh,

“that there is some method and purpose in your travels.”

“Indeed, you do me wrong, Madame,” I replied; “I am here by the merest

chance.”

Again she laughed lightly, and stepping past me took her seat on the

oak from which I had risen. I marvelled that this woman, with all

her self-possession, could be the same as she who had held her room,

cowering, these four days past. Admiration for her courage mingled with

my other feelings, and for the life of me I knew not where to begin. My

experience with women of the world was, after all, distinctly limited.

Mrs. Temple knew, apparently by intuition, the advantage she had gained,

and she smiled.

“The Ritchies were always skilled in dealing with sinners,” she began;

“the first earl had the habit of hunting them like foxes, so it is said.

I take it for granted that, before my sentence is pronounced, I shall

have the pleasure of hearing my wrong-doings in detail. I could not ask

you to forego that satisfaction.”

“You seem to know the characteristics of my family, Mrs. Temple,” I

answered. “There is one trait of the Ritchies concerning which I ask

your honest opinion.”

“And what is that?” she said carelessly.

“I have always understood that they have spoken the truth. Is it not

so?”

She glanced at me curiously.

“I never knew your father to lie,” she answered; “but after all he had

few chances. He so seldom spoke.”

“Your intercourse with me at Temple Bow was quite as limited,” I said.

“Ah,” she interrupted quickly, “you bear me that grudge. It is another

trait of the Ritchies.”

“I bear you no grudge, Madame,” I replied. “I asked you a question

concerning the veracity of my family, and I beg that you will believe

what I say.”

“And what is this momentous statement?” she asked.

I had hard work to keep my temper, but I knew that I must not lose it.

“I declare to you on my honor that my business in New Orleans in no way

concerns you, and that I had not the slightest notion of finding you

here. Will you believe that?”

“And what then?” she asked.

“I also declare to you that, since meeting your son, my chief anxiety

has been lest he should run across you.”

“You are very considerate of others,” she said. “Let us admit for the

sake of argument that you come here by accident.”

It was the opening I had sought for, but despaired of getting.

“Then put yourself for a moment in my place, Madame, and give me credit

for a little kindliness of feeling, and a sincere affection for your

son.”

There was a new expression on her face, and the light of a supreme

effort in her eyes.

“I give you credit at least for a logical mind,” she answered. “In

spite of myself you have put me at the bar and seem to be conducting my

trial.”

“I do not see why there should be any rancor between us,” I answered.

“It is true that I hated you at Temple Bow. When my father was killed

and I was left a homeless orphan you had no pity for me, though your

husband was my mother’s brother. But you did me a good turn after all,

for you drove me out into a world where I learned to rely upon myself.

Furthermore, it was not in your nature to treat me well.”

“Not in my nature?” she repeated.

“You were seeking happiness, as every one must in their own way. That

happiness lay, apparently, with Mr. Riddle.”

“Ah,” she cried, with a catch of her breath, “I thought you would be

judging me.”

“I am stating facts. Your son was a sufficient embarrassment in this

matter, and I should have been an additional one. I blame you not,

Mrs. Temple, for anything you have done to me, but I blame you for

embittering Nick’s life.”

“And he?” she said. It seemed to me that I detected a faltering in her

voice.

“I will hide nothing from you. He blames you, with what justice I leave

you to decide.”

She did not answer this, but turned her head away towards the bayou. Nor

could I determine what was in her mind.

“And now I ask you whether I have acted as your friend in begging you to

meet me.”

She turned to me swiftly at that.

“I am at a loss to see how there can be friendship between us, Mr.

Ritchie,” she said.

“Very good then, Madame; I am sorry,” I answered. “I have done all that

is in my power, and now events will have to take their course.”

I had not gone two steps into the wood before I heard her voice calling

my name. She had risen, and leaned with her hand against the oak.

“Does Nick--know that you are here?” she cried.

“No,” I answered shortly. Then I realized suddenly what I had failed to

grasp before,--she feared that I would pity her.

“David!”

I started violently at the sound of my name, at the new note in her

voice, at the change in the woman as I turned. And then before I

realized what she had done she had come to me swiftly and laid her hand

upon my arm.

“David, does he hate me?”

All the hope remaining in her life was in that question, was in her face

as she searched mine with a terrible scrutiny. And never had I known

such an ordeal. It seemed as if I could not answer, and as I stood

staring back at her a smile was forced to her lips.

“I will pay you one tribute, my friend,” she said; “you are honest.”

But even as she spoke I saw her sway, and though I could not be sure it

were not a dizziness in me, I caught her. I shall always marvel at the

courage there was in her, for she straightened and drew away from me

a little proudly, albeit gently, and sat down on the knee of the oak,

looking across the bayou towards the mist of the swamp. There was the

infinite calmness of resignation in her next speech.

“Tell me about him,” she said.

She was changed indeed. Were it not so I should have heard of her own

sufferings, of her poor, hunted life from place to place, of countless

nights made sleepless by the past. Pride indeed was left, but the fire

had burned away the last vestige of selfishness.

I sat down beside her, knowing full well that I should be judged by

what I said. She listened, motionless, though something of what that

narrative cost her I knew by the current of sympathy that ran now

between us. Unmarked, the day faded, a new light was spread over the

waters, the mist was spangled with silver points, the Spanish moss took

on the whiteness of lace against the black forest swamp, and on the

yellow face of the moon the star-shaped leaves of a gum were printed.

At length I paused. She neither spoke, nor moved--save for the rising

and falling of her shoulders. The hardest thing I had to say I saved for

the last, and I was near lacking the courage to continue.

“There is Mademoiselle Antoinette--” I began, and stopped,--she turned

on me so quickly and laid a hand on mine.

“Nick loves her!” she cried.

“You know it!” I exclaimed, wondering.

“Ah, David,” she answered brokenly, “I foresaw it from the first. I,

too, love the girl. No human being has ever given me such care and such

affection. She--she is all that I have left. Must I give her up? Have I

not paid the price of my sins?”

I did not answer, knowing that she saw the full cruelty of the

predicament. What happiness remained to her now of a battered life stood

squarely in the way of her son’s happiness. That was the issue, and no

advice or aid of mine could change it. There was another silence that

seemed to me an eternity as I watched, a helpless witness, the struggle

going on within her. At last she got to her feet, her face turned to the

shadow.

“I will go, David,” she said. Her voice was low and she spoke with a

steadiness that alarmed me. “I will go.”

Torn with pity, I thought again, but I could see no alternative. And

then, suddenly, she was clinging to me, her courage gone, her breast

shaken with sobs. “Where shall I go?” she cried. “God help me! Are there

no remote places where He will not seek me out? I have tried them all,

David.” And quite as suddenly she disengaged herself, and looked at me

strangely. “You are well revenged for Temple Bow,” she said.

“Hush,” I answered, and held her, fearing I knew not what, “you have not

lacked courage. It is not so bad as you believe. I will devise a plan

and help you. Have you money?”

“Yes,” she answered, with a remnant of her former pride; “and I have an

annuity paid now to Mr. Clark.”

“Then listen to what I say,” I answered. “To-night I will take you to

New Orleans and hide you safely. And I swear to you, whether it be

right or wrong, that I will use every endeavor to change Nick’s feelings

towards you. Come,” I continued, leading her gently into the path, “let

us go while there is yet time.”

“Stop,” she said, and I halted fearfully. “David Ritchie, you are a good

man. I can make no amends to you,”--she did not finish.

Feeling for the path in the blackness of the wood, I led her by the

hand, and she followed me as trustfully as a child. At last, after an

age of groping, the heavy scents of shrubs and flowers stole to us on

the night air, and we came out at the hedge into what seemed a blaze of

light that flooded the rows of color. Here we paused, breathless, and

looked. The bench under the great tree was vacant, and the garden was

empty.

It was she who led the way through the hedge, who halted in the garden

path at the sound of voices. She turned, but there was no time to flee,

for the tall figure of a man came through the opposite hedge, followed

by a lady. One was Nicholas Temple, the other, Mademoiselle de St.

Gré. Mrs. Temple’s face alone was in the shadow, and as I felt her hand

trembling on my arm I summoned all my resources. It was Nick who spoke

first.

“It is Davy!” he cried. “Oh, the sly rascal! And this is the promenade

of which he left us word, the solitary meditation! Speak up, man; you

are forgiven for deserting us.”

He turned, laughing, to Mademoiselle. But she stood with her lips parted

and her hands dropped, staring at my companion. Then she took two steps

forward and stopped with a cry.

“Mrs. Clive!”

The woman beside me turned, and with a supreme courage raised her head

and faced the girl.

“Yes, Antoinette, it is I,” she answered.

And then my eyes sought Nick, for Mrs. Temple had faced her son with a

movement that was a challenge, yet with a look that questioned, yearned,

appealed. He, too, stared, the laughter fading from his eyes, first

astonishment, and then anger, growing in them, slowly, surely. I shall

never forget him as he stood there (for what seemed an age) recalling

one by one the wrongs this woman had done him. She herself had taught

him to brook no restraint, to follow impetuously his loves and hates,

and endurance in these things was moulded in every line of his finely

cut features. And when he spoke it was not to her, but to the girl at

his side.

“Do you know who this is?” he said. “Tell me, do you know this woman?”

Mademoiselle de St. Gré did not answer him. She drew near, gently, to

Mrs. Temple, whose head was bowed, whose agony I could only guess.

“Mrs. Clive,” she said softly, though her voice was shaken by a

prescience, “won’t you tell me what has happened? Won’t you speak to

me--Antoinette?”

The poor lady lifted up her arms, as though to embrace the girl, dropped

them despairingly, and turned away.

“Antoinette,” she murmured, “Antoinette!”

For Nick had seized Antoinette by the hand, restraining her.

“You do not know what you are doing?” he cried angrily. “Listen!”

I had stood bereft of speech, watching the scene breathlessly. And now I

would have spoken had not Mademoiselle astonished me by taking the lead.

I have thought since that I might have pieced together this much of her

character. Her glance at Nick surprised him momentarily into silence.

“I know that she is my dearest friend,” she said, “that she came to us

in misfortune, and that we love her and trust her. I do not know why she

is here with Mr. Ritchie, but I am sure it is for some good reason.” She

laid a hand on Mrs. Temple’s shoulder. “Mrs. Clive, won’t you speak to

me?”

“My God, Antoinette, listen!” cried Nick; “Mrs. Clive is not her name. I

know her, David knows her. She is an--adventuress!”

Mrs. Temple gave a cry, and the girl shot at him a frightened,

bewildered glance, in which a new-born love struggled with an older

affection.

“An adventuress!” she repeated, her hand dropping, “oh, I do not believe

it. I cannot believe it.”

“You shall believe it,” said Nick, fiercely. “Her name is not Clive. Ask

David what her name is.”

Antoinette’s lips moved, but she shirked the question. And Nick seized

me roughly.

“Tell her,” he said, “tell her! My God, how can I do it? Tell her,

David.”

For the life of me I could not frame the speech at once, my pity and

a new-found and surprising respect for her making it doubly hard to

pronounce her sentence. Suddenly she raised her head, not proudly, but

with a dignity seemingly conferred by years of sorrow and of suffering.

Her tones were even, bereft of every vestige of hope.

“Antoinette, I have deceived you, though as God is my witness, I thought

no harm could come of it. I deluded myself into believing that I had

found friends and a refuge at last. I am Mrs. Temple.”

“Mrs. Temple!” The girl repeated the name sorrowfully, but perplexedly,

not grasping its full significance.

“She is my mother,” said Nick, with a bitterness I had not thought in

him, “she is my mother, or I would curse her. For she has ruined my life

and brought shame on a good name.”

He paused, his breath catching for very anger. Mrs. Temple hid her face

in her hands, while the girl shrank back in terror. I grasped him by the

arm.

“Have you no compassion?” I cried. But Mrs. Temple interrupted me.

“He has the right,” she faltered; “it is my just punishment.”

He tore himself away, and took a step to her.

“Where is Riddle?” he cried. “As God lives, I will kill him without

mercy!”

His mother lifted her head again.

“God has judged him,” she said quietly; “he is beyond your vengeance--he

is dead.” A sob shook her, but she conquered it with a marvellous

courage. “Harry Riddle loved me, he was kind to me, and he was a better

man than John Temple.”

Nick recoiled. The fierceness of his anger seemed to go, leaving a more

dangerous humor.

“Then I have been blessed with parents,” he said.

At that she swayed, but when I would have caught her she motioned me

away and turned to Antoinette. Twice Mrs. Temple tried to speak.

“I--I was going away to-night,” she said at length, “and you would never

have seen or heard of me more. My nephew David--Mr. Ritchie--whom I

treated cruelly as a boy, had pity on me. He is a good man, and he was

to have taken me away--I do not attempt to defend myself, my dear, but

I pray that you, who have so much charity, will some day think a little

kindly of one who has sinned deeply, of one who will love and bless you

and yours to her dying day.”

She faltered, and Nick would have spoken had not Antoinette herself

stayed him with a gesture.

“I wish--my son to know the little there is on my side. It is not much.

Yet God may not spare him the sorrow that brings pity. I--I loved Harry

Riddle as a girl. My father was ruined, and I was forced into marriage

with John Temple for his possessions. He was selfish, overbearing,

cruel--unfaithful. During the years I lived with him he never once spoke

kindly to me. I, too, grew wicked and selfish and heedless. My head was

turned by admiration. Mr. Temple escaped to England in a man-of-war; he

left me without a line of warning, of farewell. I--I have wandered

over the earth, haunted by remorse, and I knew no moment of peace, of

happiness, until you brought me here and sheltered and loved me. And

even here I have had many sleepless hours. A hundred times I have

summoned my courage to tell you,--I could not. I am justly punished,

Antoinette.” She moved a little, timidly, towards the girl, who stood

motionless, dazed by what she heard. She held out a hand, appealingly,

and dropped it. “Good-by, my dear; God will bless you for your kindness

to an unfortunate outcast.”

She glanced with a kind of terror in her eyes from the girl to Nick, and

what she meant to say concerning their love I know not, for the flood,

held back so long, burst upon her. She wept as I have never seen a woman

weep. And then, before Nick or I knew what had happened, Antoinette had

taken her swiftly in her arms and was murmuring in her ear:--

“You shall not go. You shall not. You will live with me always.”

Presently the sobs ceased, and Mrs. Temple raised her face, slowly,

wonderingly, as if she had not heard aright. And she tried gently to

push the girl away.

“No, Antoinette,” she said, “I have done you harm enough.”

But the girl clung to her strongly, passionately. “I do not care what

you have done,” she cried, “you are good now. I know that you are good

now. I will not cast you out. I will not.”

I stood looking at them, bewildered and astonished by Mademoiselle’s

loyalty. She seemed to have forgotten Nick, as had I, and then as I

turned to him he came towards them. Almost roughly he took Antoinette by

the arm.

“You do not know what you are saying,” he cried. “Come away, Antoinette,

you do not know what she has done--you cannot realize what she is.”

Antoinette shrank away from him, still clinging to Mrs. Temple. There

was a fearless directness in her look which might have warned him.

“She is your mother,” she said quietly.

“My mother!” he repeated; “yes, I will tell you what a mother she has

been to me--”

“Nick!”

It passes my power to write down the pity of that appeal, the

hopelessness of it, the yearning in it. Freeing herself from the girl,

Mrs. Temple took one step towards him, her arms held up. I had not

thought that his hatred of her was deep enough to resist it. It was

Antoinette whose intuition divined this ere he had turned away.

“You have chosen between me and her,” he said; and before we could get

the poor lady to the seat under the oak, he had left the garden. In my

perturbation I glanced at Antoinette, but there was no other sign in her

face save of tenderness for Mrs. Temple.

Mrs. Temple had mercifully fainted. As I crossed the lawn I saw two

figures in the deep shadow beside the gallery, and I heard Nick’s voice

giving orders to Benjy to pack and saddle. When I reached the garden

again the girl had loosed Mrs. Temple’s gown, and was bending over her,

murmuring in her ear.

Many hours later, when the moon was waning towards the horizon, fearful

of surprise by the coming day, I was riding slowly under the trees on

the road to New Orleans. Beside me, veiled in black, her head bowed, was

Mrs. Temple, and no word had escaped her since she had withdrawn herself

gently from the arms of Antoinette on the gallery at Les Îles. Nick had

gone long before. The hardest task had been to convince the girl that

Mrs. Temple might not stay. After that Antoinette had busied herself,

with a silent fortitude I had not thought was in her, making ready for

the lady’s departure. I shall never forget her as she stood, a slender

figure of sorrow, looking down at us, the tears glistening on her

cheeks. And I could not resist the impulse to mount the steps once more.

“You were right, Antoinette,” I whispered; “whatever happens, you will

remember that I am your friend. And I will bring him back to you if I

can.”

She pressed my hand, and turned and went slowly into the house.

BOOK III. LOUISIANA

CHAPTER I. THE RIGHTS OF MAN

Were these things which follow to my thinking not extraordinary, I

should not write them down here, nor should I have presumed to skip

nearly five years of time. For indeed almost five years had gone by

since the warm summer night when I rode into New Orleans with Mrs.

Temple. And in all that time I had not so much as laid eyes on my cousin

and dearest friend, her son. I searched New Orleans for him in vain, and

learned too late that he had taken passage on a packet which had dropped

down the river the next morning, bound for Charleston and New York.

I have an instinct that this is not the place to relate in detail what

occurred to me before leaving New Orleans. Suffice it to say that I

made my way back through the swamps, the forests, the cane-brakes of the

Indian country, along the Natchez trail to Nashville, across the barrens

to Harrodstown in Kentucky, where I spent a week in that cabin which had

so long been for me a haven of refuge. Dear Polly Ann! She hugged me as

though I were still the waif whom she had mothered, and wept over

the little presents which I had brought the children. Harrodstown was

changed, new cabins and new faces met me at every turn, and Tom, more

disgruntled than ever, had gone a-hunting with Mr. Boone far into the

wilderness.

I went back to Louisville to take up once more the struggle for

practice, and I do not intend to charge so much as a page with what may

be called the even tenor of my life. I was not a man to get into trouble

on my own account. Louisville grew amazingly; white frame houses were

built, and even brick ones. And ere Kentucky became a State, in 1792, I

had gone as delegate to more than one of the Danville Conventions.

Among the nations, as you know, a storm raged, and the great swells from

that conflict threatened to set adrift and wreck the little republic but

newly launched. The noise of the tramping of great armies across the

Old World shook the New, and men in whom the love of fierce fighting was

born were stirred to quarrel among themselves. The Rights of Man! How

many wrongs have been done under that clause! The Bastille stormed; the

Swiss Guard slaughtered; the Reign of Terror, with its daily procession

of tumbrels through the streets of Paris; the murder of that amiable

and well-meaning gentleman who did his best to atone for the sins of his

ancestors; the fearful months of waiting suffered by his Queen before

she, too, went to her death. Often as I lighted my candle of an evening

in my little room to read of these things so far away, I would drop my

Kentucky Gazette to think of a woman whose face I remembered, to wonder

sadly whether Hélène de St. Gré were among the lists. In her, I was

sure, was personified that courage for which her order will go down

eternally through the pages of history, and in my darker moments I

pictured her standing beside the guillotine with a smile that haunted

me.

The hideous image of that strife was reflected amongst our own people.

Budget after budget was hurried by the winds across the sea. And swift

couriers carried the news over the Blue Wall by the Wilderness Trail

(widened now), and thundered through the little villages of the Blue

Grass country to the Falls. What interest, you will say, could the

pioneer lawyers and storekeepers and planters have in the French

Revolution? The Rights of Man! Down with kings! General Washington and

Mr. Adams and Mr. Hamilton might sigh for them, but they were not

for the free-born pioneers of the West. Citizen was the proper term

now,--Citizen General Wilkinson when that magnate came to town,

resplendent in his brigadier’s uniform. It was thought that Mr.

Wilkinson would plot less were he in the army under the watchful eye of

his superiors. Little they knew him! Thus the Republic had a reward for

adroitness, for treachery, and treason. But what reward had it for the

lonely, embittered, stricken man whose genius and courage had gained for

it the great Northwest territory? What reward had the Republic for

him who sat brooding in his house above the Falls--for Citizen General

Clark?

In those days you were not a Federalist or a Democrat, you were an

Aristocrat or a Jacobin. The French parties were our parties; the

French issue, our issue. Under the patronage of that saint of American

Jacobinism, Thomas Jefferson, a Jacobin society was organized in

Philadelphia,--special guardians of Liberty. And flying on the March

winds over the mountains the seed fell on the black soil of Kentucky:

Lexington had its Jacobin society, Danville and Louisville likewise

their patrons and protectors of the Rights of Mankind. Federalists were

not guillotined in Kentucky in the summer of 1793, but I might mention

more than one who was shot.

In spite of the Federalists, Louisville prospered, and incidentally I

prospered in a mild way. Mr. Crede, behind whose store I still lived,

was getting rich, and happened to have an affair of some importance in

Philadelphia. Mr. Wharton was kind enough to recommend a young lawyer

who had the following virtues: he was neither handsome nor brilliant,

and he wore snuff-colored clothes. Mr. Wharton also did me the honor to

say that I was cautious and painstaking, and had a habit of tiring

out my adversary. Therefore, in the early summer of 1793, I went to

Philadelphia. At that time, travellers embarking on such a journey were

prayed over as though they were going to Tartary. I was absent from

Louisville near a year, and there is a diary of what I saw and felt

and heard on this trip for the omission of which I will be thanked. The

great news of that day which concerns the world--and incidentally this

story--was that Citizen Genêt had landed at Charleston.

Citizen Genêt, Ambassador of the great Republic of France to the litle

Republic of America, landed at Charleston, acclaimed by thousands, and

lost no time. Scarcely had he left that city ere American privateers had

slipped out of Charleston harbor to prey upon the commerce of the hated

Mistress of the Sea. Was there ever such a march of triumph as that of

the Citizen Ambassador northward to the capital? Everywhere toasted and

feasted, Monsieur Genêt did not neglect the Rights of Man, for

without doubt the United States was to declare war on Britain within

a fortnight. Nay, the Citizen Ambassador would go into the halls of

Congress and declare war himself if that faltering Mr. Washington

refused his duty. Citizen Genêt organized his legions as he went along,

and threw tricolored cockades from the windows of his carriage. And at

his glorious entry into Philadelphia (where I afterwards saw the great

man with my own eyes), Mr. Washington and his Federal-Aristocrats

trembled in their boots.

It was late in April, 1794, when I reached Pittsburg on my homeward

journey and took passage down the Ohio with a certain Captain Wendell of

the army, in a Kentucky boat. I had known the Captain in Louisville, for

he had been stationed at Fort Finney, the army post across the Ohio from

that town, and he had come to Pittsburg with a sergeant to fetch down

the river some dozen recruits. This was a most fortunate circumstance

for me, and in more ways than one. Although the Captain was a gruff and

blunt man, grizzled and weather-beaten, a woman-hater, he could be a

delightful companion when once his confidence was gained; and as we

drifted in the mild spring weather through the long reaches between the

passes he talked of Trenton and Brandywine and Yorktown. There was more

than one bond of sympathy between us, for he worshipped Washington,

detested the French party, and had a hatred for “filthy Democrats”

second to none I have ever encountered.

We stopped for a few days at Fort Harmar, where the Muskingum pays

its tribute to the Ohio, built by the Federal government to hold the

territory which Clark had won. And leaving that hospitable place we took

up our journey once more in the very miracle-time of the spring. The

sunlight was like amber-crystal, the tall cottonwoods growing by the

water-side flaunted a proud glory of green, the hills behind them that

formed the first great swells of the sea of the wilderness were clothed

in a thousand sheens and shaded by the purple budding of the oaks and

walnuts on the northern slopes. On the yellow sandbars flocks of geese

sat pluming in the sun, or rose at our approach to cast fleeting shadows

on the water, their honk-honks echoing from the hills. Here and there

a hawk swooped down from the azure to break the surface and bear off a

wriggling fish that gleamed like silver, and at eventide we would see at

the brink an elk or doe, with head poised, watching us as we drifted.

We passed here and there a lonely cabin, to set my thoughts wandering

backwards to my youth, and here and there in the dimples of the hills

little clusters of white and brown houses, one day to become marts of

the Republic.

My joy at coming back at this golden season to a country I loved was

tempered by news I had heard from Captain Wendell, and which I had

discussed with the officers at Fort Harmar. The Captain himself had

broached the subject one cool evening, early in the journey, as we

sat over the fire in our little cabin. He had been telling me about

Brandywine, but suddenly he turned to me with a kind of fierce gesture

that was natural to the man.

“Ritchie,” he said, “you were in the Revolution yourself. You helped

Clark to capture that country,” and he waved his hand towards the

northern shore; “why the devil don’t you tell me about it?”

“You never asked me,” I answered.

He looked at me curiously.

“Well,” he said, “I ask you now.”

I began lamely enough, but presently my remembrance of the young man who

conquered all obstacles, who compelled all men he met to follow and obey

him, carried me strongly into the narrative. I remembered him, quiet,

self-contained, resourceful, a natural leader, at twenty-five a bulwark

for the sorely harried settlers of Kentucky; the man whose clear vision

alone had perceived the value of the country north of the Ohio to the

Republic, who had compelled the governor and council of Virginia to see

it likewise. Who had guarded his secret from all men, who in the face

of fierce opposition and intrigue had raised a little army to follow

him--they knew not where. Who had surprised Kaskaskia, cowed the tribes

of the North in his own person, and by sheer force of will drew after

him and kept alive a motley crowd of men across the floods and through

the ice to Vincennes.

We sat far into the night, the Captain listening as I had never seen

a man listen. And when at length I had finished he was for a long

time silent, and then he sprang to his feet with an oath that woke the

sleeping soldiers forward and glared at me.

“My God!” he cried, “it is enough to make a man curse his uniform to

think that such a man as Wilkinson wears it, while Clark is left to rot,

to drink himself under the table from disappointment, to plot with the

damned Jacobins--”

“To plot!” I cried, starting violently in my turn.

The Captain looked at me in astonishment.

“How long have you been away from Louisville?” he asked.

“It will be a year,” I answered.

“Ah,” said the Captain, “I will tell you. It is more than a year since

Clark wrote Genêt, since the Ambassador bestowed on him a general’s

commission in the army of the French Republic.”

“A general’s commission!” I exclaimed. “And he is going to France?” The

nation which had driven John Paul Jones from its service was now to lose

George Rogers Clark!

“To France!” laughed the Captain. “No, this is become France enough.

He is raising in Kentucky and in the Cumberland country an army with a

cursed, high-sounding name. Some of his old Illinois scouts--McChesney,

whom you mentioned, for one--have been collecting bear’s meat and

venison hams all winter. They are going to march on Louisiana and

conquer it for the French Republic, for Liberty, Equality--the Rights of

Man, anything you like.”

“On Louisiana!” I repeated; “what has the Federal government been

doing?”

The Captain winked at me and sat down.

“The Federal government is supine, a laughing-stock--so our friends the

Jacobins say, who have been shouting at Mr. Easton’s tavern all winter.

Nay, they declare that all this country west of the mountains, too,

will be broken off and set up into a republic, and allied with that most

glorious of all republics, France. Believe me, the Jacobins have not

been idle, and there have been strange-looking birds of French plumage

dodging between the General’s house at Clarksville and the Bear Grass.”

I was silent, the tears almost forcing themselves to my eyes at the

pathetic sordidness of what I had heard.

“It can come to nothing,” continued the Captain, in a changed voice.

“General Clark’s mind is unhinged by--disappointment. Mad Anthony ¹ is

not a man to be caught sleeping, and he has already attended to a little

expedition from the Cumberland. Mad Anthony loves the General, as we all

do, and the Federal government is wiser than the Jacobins think. It may

not be necessary to do anything.” Captain Wendell paused, and looked

at me fixedly. “Ritchie, General Clark likes you, and you have never

offended him. Why not go to his little house in Clarksville when you get

to Louisville and talk to him plainly, as I know you can? Perhaps you

might have some influence.”

¹ General Wayne of Revolutionary fame was then in command of that

district.

I shook my head sadly.

“I intend to go,” I answered, “but I will have no influence.”

CHAPTER II. THE HOUSE ABOVE THE FALLS

It was May-day, and shortly after dawn we slipped into the quiet water

which is banked up for many miles above the Falls. The Captain and I sat

forward on the deck, breathing deeply the sharp odor which comes from

the wet forest in the early morning, listening to the soft splash of the

oars, and watching the green form of Eighteen Mile Island as it gently

drew nearer and nearer. And ere the sun had risen greatly we had passed

Twelve Mile Island, and emerging from the narrow channel which divides

Six Mile Island from the northern shore, we beheld, on its terrace above

the Bear Grass, Louisville shining white in the morning sun. Majestic in

its mile of width, calm, as though gathering courage, the river seemed

to straighten for the ordeal to come, and the sound of its waters crying

over the rocks far below came faintly to my ear and awoke memories of a

day gone by. Fearful of the suck, we crept along the Indian shore until

we counted the boats moored in the Bear Grass, and presently above the

trees on our right we saw the Stars and Stripes floating from the log

bastion of Fort Finney. And below the fort, on the gentle sunny slope to

the river’s brink, was spread the green garden of the garrison, with its

sprouting vegetables and fruit trees blooming pink and white.

We were greeted by a company of buff and blue officers at the landing,

and I was bidden to breakfast at their mess, Captain Wendell promising

to take me over to Louisville afterwards. He had business in the town,

and about eight of the clock we crossed the wide river in one of the

barges of the fort and made fast at the landing in the Bear Grass. But

no sooner had we entered the town than we met a number of country

people on horseback, with their wives and daughters--ay, and

sweethearts--perched up behind them: the men mostly in butternut linsey

hunting shirts and trousers, slouch hats, and red handkerchiefs stuck

into their bosoms; the women marvellously pretty and fresh in stiff

cotton gowns and Quaker hats, and some in crimped caps with ribbons

neatly tied under the chin. Before Mr. Easton’s tavern Joe Handy,

the fiddler, was reeling off a few bars of “Hey, Betty Martin” to the

familiar crowd of loungers under the big poplar.

“It’s Davy Ritchie!” shouted Joe, breaking off in the middle of the

tune; “welcome home, Davy. Ye’re jest in time for the barbecue on the

island.”

“And Cap Wendell! Howdy, Cap!” drawled another, a huge, long-haired,

sallow, dirty fellow. But the Captain only glared.

“Damn him!” he said, after I had spoken to Joe and we had passed on, “he

ought to be barbecued; he nearly bit off Ensign Barry’s nose a couple of

months ago. Barry tried to stop the beast in a gouging fight.”

The bright morning, the shady streets, the homelike frame and log

houses, the old-time fragrant odor of corn-pone wafted out of the open

doorways, the warm greetings,--all made me happy to be back again.

Mr. Crede rushed out and escorted us into his cool store, and while he

waited on his country customers bade his negro brew a bowl of toddy, at

the mention of which Mr. Bill Whalen, chief habitué, roused himself from

a stupor on a tobacco barrel. Presently the customers, having indulged

in the toddy, departed for the barbecue, the Captain went to the fort,

and Mr. Crede and myself were left alone to talk over the business which

had sent me to Philadelphia.

At four o’clock, having finished my report and dined with my client, I

set out for Clarksville, for Mr. Crede had told me, among other things,

that the General was there. Louisville was deserted, the tavern porch

vacant; but tacked on the logs beside the door was a printed bill which

drew my curiosity. I stopped, caught by a familiar name in large type at

the head of it.

“GEORGE R. CLARK, ESQUIRE,

“MAJOR-GENERAL IN THE ARMIES OF FRANCE AND COMMANDER-IN-CHIEF OF THE

FRENCH REVOLUTIONARY LEGION ON THE MISSISSIPPI RIVER.

“Proposals

“For raising volunteers for the reduction of the Spanish posts on the

Mississippi, for opening the trade of the said river and giving freedom

to all its inhabitants--”

I had got so far when I heard a noise of footsteps within, and Mr.

Easton himself came out, in his shirt-sleeves.

“By cricky, Davy,” said he, “I’m right glad ter see ye ag’in. Readin’

the General’s bill, are ye? Tarnation, I reckon Washington and all his

European fellers east of the mountains won’t be able ter hold us back

this time. I reckon we’ll gallop over Louisiany in the face of all

the Spaniards ever created. I’ve got some new whiskey I ‘low will sink

tallow. Come in, Davy.”

As he took me by the arm, a laughter and shouting came from the back

room.

“It’s some of them Frenchy fellers come over from Knob Licks. They’re

in it,” and he pointed his thumb over his shoulder to the proclamation,

“and thar’s one young American among ‘em who’s a t’arer. Come in.”

I drank a glass of Mr. Easton’s whiskey, and asked about the General.

“He stays over thar to Clarksville pretty much,” said Mr. Easton. “Thar

ain’t quite so much walkin’ araound ter do,” he added significantly.

I made my way down to the water-side, where Jake Landrasse sat alone on

the gunwale of a Kentucky boat, smoking a clay pipe as he fished. I

had to exercise persuasion to induce Jake to paddle me across, which

he finally agreed to do on the score of old friendship, and he declared

that the only reason he was not at the barbecue was because he was

waiting to take a few gentlemen to see General Clark. I agreed to pay

the damages if he were late in returning for these gentlemen, and soon

he was shooting me with pulsing strokes across the lake-like expanse

towards the landing at Fort Finney. Louisville and the fort were just

above the head of the Falls, and the little town of Clarksville, which

Clark had founded, at the foot of them. I landed, took the road that led

parallel with the river through the tender green of the woods, and as

I walked the mighty song which the Falls had sung for ages to the

Wilderness rose higher and higher, and the faint spray seemed to be

wafted through the forest and to hang in the air like the odor of a

summer rain.

It was May-day. The sweet, caressing note of the thrush mingled with the

music of the water, the dogwood and the wild plum were in festal array;

but my heart was heavy with thinking of a great man who had cheapened

himself. At length I came out upon a clearing where fifteen log houses

marked the grant of the Federal government to Clark’s regiment. Perched

on a tree-dotted knoll above the last spasm of the waters in their

two-mile race for peace, was a two-storied log house with a little,

square porch in front of the door. As I rounded the corner of the house

and came in sight of the porch I halted--by no will of my own--at

the sight of a figure sunken in a wooden chair. It was that of my old

Colonel. His hands were folded in front of him, his eyes were fixed but

dimly on the forests of the Kentucky shore across the water; his hair,

uncared for, fell on the shoulders of his faded blue coat, and the

stained buff waistcoat was unbuttoned. For he still wore unconsciously

the colors of the army of the American Republic.

“General!” I said.

He started, got to his feet, and stared at me.

“Oh, it’s--it’s Davy,” he said. “I--I was expecting--some friends--Davy.

What--what’s the matter, Davy?”

“I have been away. I am glad to see you again, General.”

“Citizen General, sir, Major-general in the army of the French Republic

and Commander-in-chief of the French Revolutionary Legion on the

Mississippi.”

“You will always be Colonel Clark to me, sir,” I answered.

“You--you were the drummer boy, I remember, and strutted in front of the

regiment as if you were the colonel. Egad, I remember how you fooled the

Kaskaskians when you told them we were going away.” He looked at me, but

his eyes were still fixed on the point beyond. “You were always older

than I, Davy. Are you married?”

In spite of myself, I laughed as I answered this question.

“You are as canny as ever,” he said, putting his hand on my shoulder.

“Liberty, Equality, Fraternity,--they are only possible for the

bachelor.” Hearing a noise, he glanced nervously in the direction of the

woods, only to perceive his negro carrying a pail of water. “I--I was

expecting some friends,” he said. “Sit down, Davy.”

“I hope I am not intruding, General,” I said, not daring to look at him.

“No, no, my son,” he answered, “you are always welcome. Did we not

campaign together? Did we not--shoot these very falls together on our

way to Kaskaskia?” He had to raise his voice above the roar of the

water. “Faith, well I remember the day. And you saved it, Davy,--you, a

little gamecock, a little worldly-wise hop-o’-my-thumb, eh? Hamilton’s

scalp hanging by a lock, egad--and they frightened out of their five

wits because it was growing dark.” He laughed, and suddenly became

solemn again. “There comes a time in every man’s life when it grows

dark, Davy, and then the cowards are afraid. They have no friends whose

hands they can reach out and feel. But you are my friend. You remember

that you said you would always be my friend? It--it was in the fort at

Vincennes.”

“I remember, General.”

He rose from the steps, buttoned his waistcoat, and straightened himself

with an effort. He looked at me impressively.

“You have been a good friend indeed, Davy, a faithful friend,” he said.

“You came to me when I was sick, you lent me money,”--he waved aside my

protest. “I am happy to say that I shall soon be in a position to repay

you, to reward you. My evil days are over, and I spurn that government

which spurned me, for the honor and glory of which I founded that

city,”--he pointed in the direction of Louisville,--“for the power and

wealth of which I conquered this Northwest territory. Listen! I am

now in the service of a republic where the people have rights, I

am Commander-in-chief of the French Revolutionary Legion on the

Mississippi. Despite the supineness of Washington, the American nation

will soon be at war with Spain. But my friends--and thank God they

are many--will follow me--they will follow me to Natchez and New

Orleans,--ay, even to Santa Fé and Mexico if I give the word. The West

is with me, and for the West I shall win the freedom of the Mississippi.

For France and Liberty I shall win back again Louisiana, and then I

shall be a Maréchal de Camp.”

I could not help thinking of a man who had not been wont to speak of his

intentions, who had kept his counsel for a year before Kaskaskia.

“I need my drummer boy, Davy,” he said, his face lighting up, “but he

will not be a drummer boy now. He will be a trusted officer of high

rank, mind you. Come,” he cried, seizing me by the arm, “I will write

the commission this instant. But hold! you read French,--I remember

the day Father Gibault gave you your first lesson.” He fumbled in his

pocket, drew out a letter, and handed it to me. “This is from Citizen

Michaux, the famous naturalist, the political agent of the French

Republic. Read what he has written me.”

I read, I fear in a faltering voice:--

“Citoyen Général:

“Un homme qui a donné des preuves de son amour pour la Liberté et de sa

haine pour le despotisme ne devait pas s’adresser en vain au ministre de

la République française. Général, il est temps que les Américains libres

de l’Ouest soient débarassés d’un ennemie aussi injuste que méprisable.”

When I had finished I glanced at the General, but he seemed not to be

heeding me. The sun was setting above the ragged line of forest, and a

blue veil was spreading over the tumbling waters. He took me by the arm

and led me into the house, into a bare room that was all awry. Maps hung

on the wall, beside them the General’s new commission, rudely framed.

Among the littered papers on the table were two whiskey bottles and

several glasses, and strewn about were a number of chairs, the arms

of which had been whittled by the General’s guests. Across the rough

mantel-shelf was draped the French tricolor, and before the fireplace on

the puncheons lay a huge bearskin which undoubtedly had not been

shaken for a year. Picking up a bottle, the General poured out generous

helpings in two of the glasses, and handed one to me.

“The mists are bad, Davy,” said he; “I--I cannot afford to get the fever

now. Let us drink success to the army of the glorious Republic, France.”

“Let us drink first, General,” I said, “to the old friendship between

us.”

“Good!” he cried. Tossing off his liquor, he set down the glass and

began what seemed a fruitless search among the thousand papers on the

table. But at length, with a grunt of satisfaction, he produced a form

and held it under my eyes. At the top of the sheet was that much-abused

and calumniated lady, the Goddess of Liberty.

“Now,” he said, drawing up a chair and dipping his quill into an almost

depleted ink-pot, “I have decided to make you, David Ritchie, with full

confidence in your ability and loyalty to the rights of liberty and

mankind, a captain in the Legion on the Mississippi.”

I crossed the room swiftly, and as he put his pen to paper I laid my

hand on his arm.

“General, I cannot,” I said. I had seen from the first the futility of

trying to dissuade him from the expedition, and I knew now that it would

never come off. I was willing to make almost any sacrifice rather than

offend him, but this I could not allow. The General drew himself up in

his chair and stared at me with a flash of his old look.

“You cannot?” he repeated; “you have affairs to attend to, I take it.”

I tried to speak, but he rode me down.

“There is money to be made in that prosperous town of Louisville.” He

did not understand the pain which his words caused me. He rose and laid

his hands affectionately on my shoulders. “Ah, Davy, commerce makes a

man timid. Do you forget the old days when I was the father and you the

son? Come! I will make you a fortune undreamed of, and you shall be my

fianancier once more.”

“I had not thought of the money, General,” I answered, “and I have

always been ready to leave my business to serve a friend.”

“There, there,” said the General, soothingly, “I know it. I would not

offend you. You shall have the commission, and you may come when it

pleases you.”

He sat down again to write, but I restrained him.

“I cannot go, General,” I said.

“Thunder and fury,” cried the General, “a man might think you were a

weak-kneed Federalist.” He stared at me, and stared again, and rose and

recoiled a step. “My God,” he said, “you cannot be a Federalist, you

can’t have marched to Kaskaskia and Vincennes, you can’t have been a

friend of mine and have seen how the government of the United States has

treated me, and be a Federalist!”

It was an argument and an appeal which I had foreseen, yet which I knew

not how to answer. Suddenly there came, unbidden, his own counsel which

he had given me long ago, “Serve the people, as all true men should in a

Republic, but do not rely upon their gratitude.” This man had bidden me

remember that.

“General,” I said, trying to speak steadily, “it was you who gave me my

first love for the Republic. I remember you as you stood on the heights

above Kaskaskia waiting for the sun to go down, and you reminded me that

it was the nation’s birthday. And you said that our nation was to be a

refuge of the oppressed of this earth, a nation made of all peoples, out

of all time. And you said that the lands beyond,” and I pointed to the

West as he had done, “should belong to it until the sun sets on the sea

again.”

I glanced at him, for he was silent, and in my life I can recall no

sadder moment than this. The General heard, but the man who had spoken

these words was gone forever. The eyes of this man before me were fixed,

as it were, upon space. He heard, but he did not respond; for the

spirit was gone. What I looked upon was the tortured body from which the

genius--the spirit I had worshipped--had fled. I turned away, only to

turn back in anger.

“What do you know of this France for which you are to fight?” I cried.

“Have you heard of the thousands of innocents who are slaughtered, of

the women and children who are butchered in the streets in the name of

Liberty? What have those blood-stained adventurers to do with Liberty,

what have the fish-wives who love the sight of blood to do with you that

would fight for them? You warned me that this people and this government

to which you have given so much would be ungrateful,--will the butchers

and fish-wives be more grateful?”

He caught only the word grateful, and he rose to his feet with something

of the old straightness and of the old power. And by evil chance his

eye, and mine, fell upon a sword hanging on the farther wall. Well I

remembered when he had received it, well I knew the inscription on its

blade, “Presented by the State of Virginia to her beloved son, George

Rogers Clark, who by the conquest of Illinois and St. Vincennes extended

her empire and aided in the defence of her liberties.” By evil chance,

I say, his eye lighted on that sword. In three steps he crossed the room

to where it hung, snatched it from its scabbard, and ere I could prevent

him he had snapped it across his knee and flung the pieces in a corner.

“So much for the gratitude of my country,” he said.

I had gone out on the little porch and stood gazing over the expanse of

forest and waters lighted by the afterglow. Then I felt a hand upon my

shoulder, I heard a familiar voice calling me by an old name.

“Yes, General!” I turned wonderingly.

“You are a good lad, Davy. I trust you,” he said. “I--I was expecting

some friends.”

He lifted a hand that was not too steady to his brow and scanned the

road leading to the fort. Even as he spoke four figures emerged from the

woods,--undoubtedly the gentlemen who had held the council at the inn

that afternoon. We watched them in silence as they drew nearer, and then

something in the walk and appearance of the foremost began to bother me.

He wore a long, double-breasted, claret-colored redingote that fitted

his slim figure to perfection, and his gait was the easy gait of a man

who goes through the world careless of its pitfalls. So intently did I

stare that I gave no thought to those who followed him. Suddenly, when

he was within fifty paces, a cry escaped me,--I should have known that

smiling, sallow, weakly handsome face anywhere in the world.

The gentleman was none other than Monsieur Auguste de St. Gré. At

the foot of the steps he halted and swept his hand to his hat with a

military salute.

“Citizen General,” he said gracefully, “we come and pay our respec’s to

you and mek our report, and ver’ happy to see you look well. Citoyens,

Vive la République!--Hail to the Citizen General!”

“Vive la République! Vive le Général!” cried the three citizens behind

him.

“Citizens, you are very welcome,” answered the General, gravely, as he

descended the steps and took each of them by the hand. “Citizens, allow

me to introduce to you my old friend, Citizen David Ritchie--”

“Milles diables!” cried the Citizen St. Gré, seizing me by the hand,

“c’est mon cher ami, Monsieur Reetchie. Ver’ happy you have this honor,

Monsieur;” and snatching his wide-brimmed military cocked hat from his

head he made me a smiling, sweeping bow.

“What!” cried the General to me, “you know the Sieur de St. Gré, Davy?”

“He is my guest once in Louisiane, mon général,” Monsieur Auguste

explained; “my family knows him.”

“You know the Sieur de St. Gré, Davy?” said the General again.

“Yes, I know him,” I answered, I fear with some brevity.

“Podden me,” said Auguste, “I am now Citizen Captain de St. Gré. And

you are also embark in the glorious cause--Ah, I am happy,” he added,

embracing me with a winning glance.

I was relieved from the embarrassment of denying the impeachment by

reason of being introduced to the other notables, to Citizen Captain

Sullivan, who wore an undress uniform consisting of a cotton butternut

hunting shirt. He had charge on the Bear Grass of building the boats for

the expedition, and was likewise a prominent member of that august

body, the Jacobin Society of Lexington. Next came Citizen Quartermaster

Depeau, now of Knob Licks, Kentucky, sometime of New Orleans. The

Citizen Quartermaster wore his hair long in the backwoods fashion; he

had a keen, pale face and sunken eyes.

“Ver’ glad mek you known to me, Citizen Reetchie.”

The fourth gentleman was likewise French, and called Gignoux. The

Citizen Gignoux made some sort of an impression on me which I did not

stop to analyze. He was a small man, with a little round hand that

wriggled out of my grasp; he had a big French nose, bright eyes

that popped a little and gave him the habit of looking sidewise, and

grizzled, chestnut eyebrows over them. He had a thin-lipped mouth and a

round chin.

“Citizen Reetchie, is it? I laik to know citizen’s name glorified by

gran’ cause. Reetchie?”

“Will you enter, citizens?” said the General.

I do not know why I followed them unless it were to satisfy a

devil-prompted curiosity as to how Auguste de St. Gré had got there.

We went into the room, where the General’s slovenly negro was already

lighting the candles and the General proceeded to collect and fill six

of the glasses on the table. It was Citizen Captain Sullivan who gave

the toast.

“Citizens,” he cried, “I give you the health of the foremost apostle of

Liberty in the Western world, the General who tamed the savage tribes,

who braved the elements, who brought to their knees the minions of a

despot king.” A slight suspicion of a hiccough filled this gap. “Cast

aside by an ungrateful government, he is still unfaltering in his

allegiance to the people. May he lead our Legion victorious through the

Spanish dominions.”

“Vive la République!” they shouted, draining their glasses. “Vive le

citoyen général Clark!”

“Louisiana!” shouted Citizen Sullivan, warming, “Louisiana, groaning

under oppression and tyranny, is imploring us with uplifted hands. To

those remaining veteran patriots whose footsteps we followed to this

distant desert, and who by their blood and toil have converted it into

a smiling country, we now look. Under your guidance, Citizen General, we

fought, we bled--”

How far the Citizen Captain would have gone is problematical. I

had noticed a look of disgust slowly creeping into the Citizen

Quartermaster’s eyes, and at this juncture he seized the Citizen Captain

and thrust him into a chair.

“Sacré vent!” he exclaimed, “it is the proclamation--he recites the

proclamation! I see he have participate in those handbill. Poof, the

world is to conquer,--let us not spik so much.”

“I give you one toast,” said the little Citizen Gignoux, slyly, “we all

bring back one wife from Nouvelle Orléans!”

“Ha,” exclaimed the Sieur de St. Gré, laughing, “the Citizen Captain

Depeau--he has already one wife in Nouvelle Orléans.” ¹

¹ It is unnecessary for the editor to remind the reader that these are

not Mr. Ritchie’s words, but those of an adventurer. Mr. Depeau was an

honest and worthy gentleman, earnest enough in a cause which was more

to his credit than to an American’s. According to contemporary evidence,

Madame Depeau was in New Orleans.

The Citizen Quartermaster was angry at this, and it did not require

any great perspicacity on my part to discover that he did not love the

Citizen de St. Gré.

“He is call in his country, Gumbo de St. Gré,” said Citizen Depeau. “It

is a deesh in that country. But to beesness, citizens,--we embark on

glorious enterprise. The King and Queen of France, she pay for her

treason with their haids, and we must be prepare’ for do the sem.”

“Ha,” exclaimed the Sieur de St. Gré, “the Citizen Quartermaster will

lose his provision before his haid.”

The inference was plain, and the Citizen Quartermaster was quick to take

it up.

“We are all among frien’s,” said he. “Why I call you Gumbo de St. Gré?

When I come first settle in Louisiane you was wild man--yes. Drink

tafia, fight duel, spend family money. Aristocrat then. No, I not hold

my tongue. You go France and Monsieur le Marquis de St. Gré he get you

in gardes du corps of the King. Yes, I tell him. You tell the Citizen

General how come you Jacobin now, and we see if he mek you Captain.”

A murmur of surprise escaped from several of the company, and they all

stared at the Sieur de St. Gré. But General Clark brought down his

fist on the table with something of his old-time vigor, and the glasses

rattled.

“Gentlemen, I will have no quarrelling in my presence,” he cried; “and

I beg to inform Citizen Depeau that I bestow my commissions where it

pleases me.”

Auguste de St. Gré rose, flushing, to his feet. “Citizens,” he said,

with a fluency that was easy for him, “I never mek secret of my

history--no. It is true my relation, Monsieur le Marquis de St. Gré,

bought me a pair of colors in the King’s gardes du corps.”

“And is it not truth you tremple the coackade, what I hear from

Philadelphe?” cried Depeau.

Monsieur Auguste smiled with a patient tolerance.

“If you hev pains to mek inquiry,” said he, “you must learn that I join

le Marquis de La Fayette and the National Guard. That I have since fight

for the Revolution. That I am come now home to fight for Louisiane, as

Monsieur Genêt will tell you whom I saw in Philadelphe.”

“The Citizen Capitaine--he spiks true.”

All eyes were turned towards Gignoux, who had been sitting back in his

chair, very quiet.

“It is true what he say,” he repeated, “I have it by Monsieur Genêt

himself.”

“Gentlemen,” said General Clark, “this is beside the question, and I

will not have these petty quarrels. I may as well say to you now that

I have chosen the Citizen Captain to go at once to New Orleans and

organize a regiment among the citizens there faithful to France. On

account of his family and supposed Royalist tendencies he will not be

suspected. I fear that a month at least has yet to elapse before our

expedition can move.”

“It is one wise choice,” put in Monsieur Gignoux.

“Monsieur le général and gentlemen,” said the Sieur de St. Gré,

gracefully, “I thank you ver’ much for the confidence. I leave by first

flatboat and will have all things stir up when you come. The citizens of

Louisiane await you. If necessair, we have hole in levee ready to cut.”

“Citizens,” interrupted General Clark, sitting down before the ink-pot,

“let us hear the Quartermaster’s report of the supplies at Knob Licks,

and Citizen Sullivan’s account of the boats. But hold,” he cried,

glancing around him, “where is Captain Temple? I heard that he had come

to Louisville from the Cumberland to-day. Is he not going with you to

New Orleans, St. Gré?”

I took up the name involuntarily.

“Captain Temple,” I repeated, while they stared at me. “Nicholas

Temple?”

It was Auguste de St. Gré who replied.

“The sem,” he said. “I recall he was along with you in Nouvelle Orléans.

He is at ze tavern, and he has had one gran’ fight, and he is ver’--I am

sorry--intoxicate--”

I know not how I made my way through the black woods to Fort Finney,

where I discovered Jake Landrasse and his canoe. The road was long,

and yet short, for my brain whirled with the expectation of seeing Nick

again, and the thought of this poor, pathetic, ludicrous expedition

compared to the sublime one I had known.

George Rogers Clark had come to this!

CHAPTER III. LOUISVILLE CELEBRATES

“They have gran’ time in Louisville to-night, Davy,” said Jake

Landrasse, as he paddled me towards the Kentucky shore; “you hear?”

“I should be stone deaf if I didn’t,” I answered, for the shouting which

came from the town filled me with forebodings.

“They come back from the barbecue full of whiskey,” said Jake, “and a

young man at the tavern come out on the porch and he say, ‘Get ready you

all to go to Louisiana! You been hole back long enough by tyranny.’ Sam

Barker come along and say he a Federalist. They done have a gran’ fight,

he and the young feller, and Sam got licked. He went at Sam just like a

harricane.”

“And then?” I demanded.

“Them four wanted to leave,” said Jake, taking no trouble to disguise

his disgust, “and I had to fetch ‘em over. I’ve got to go back and wait

for ‘em now,” and he swore with sincere disappointment. “I reckon there

ain’t been such a jamboree in town for years.”

Jake had not exaggerated. Gentlemen from Moore’s Settlement, from

Sullivan’s Station on the Bear Grass,--to be brief, the entire male

population of the county seemed to have moved upon Louisville after the

barbecue, and I paused involuntarily at the sight which met my eyes as I

came into the street. A score of sputtering, smoking pine-knots threw

a lurid light on as many hilarious groups, and revealed, fantastically

enough, the boles and lower branches of the big shade trees above them.

Navigation for the individual, difficult enough lower down, in front of

the tavern became positively dangerous. There was a human eddy,--nay, a

maelstrom would better describe it. Fights began, but ended abortively

by reason of the inability of the combatants to keep their feet; one

man whose face I knew passed me with his hat afire, followed by several

companions in gusts of laughter, for the torch-bearers were careless

and burned the ears of their friends in their enthusiasm. Another person

whom I recognized lacked a large portion of the front of his attire, and

seemed sublimely unconscious of the fact. His face was badly scratched.

Several other friends of mine were indulging in brief intervals of

rest on the ground, and I barely avoided stepping on them. Still other

gentlemen were delivering themselves of the first impressive periods of

orations, only to be drowned by the cheers of their auditors. These were

the snatches which I heard as I picked my way onward with exaggerated

fear:--

“Gentlemen, the Mississippi is ours, let the tyrants who forbid its use

beware!” “To hell with the Federal government!” “I tell you, sirs,

this land is ours. We have conquered it with our blood, and I reckon no

Spaniard is goin’ to stop us. We ain’t come this far to stand still.

We settled Kaintuck, fit off the redskins, and we’ll march across the

Mississippi and on and on--” “To Louisiany!” they shouted, and the whole

crowd would take it up, “To Louisiany! Open the river!”

So absorbed was I in my own safety and progress that I did not pause

to think (as I have often thought since) of the full meaning of this,

though I had marked it for many years. The support given to Wilkinson’s

plots, to Clark’s expedition, was merely the outward and visible sign of

the onward sweep of a resistless race. In spite of untold privations and

hardships, of cruel warfare and massacre, these people had toiled over

the mountains into this land, and impatient of check or hindrance would,

even as Clark had predicted, when their numbers were sufficient leap the

Mississippi. Night or day, drunk or sober, they spoke of this thing

with an ever increasing vehemence, and no man of reflection who had read

their history could say that they would be thwarted. One day Louisiana

would be theirs and their children’s for the generations to come. One

day Louisiana would be American.

That I was alive and unscratched when I got as far as the tavern is a

marvel. Amongst all the passion-lit faces which surrounded me I could

get no sight of Nick’s, and I managed to make my way to a momentarily

quiet corner of the porch. As I leaned against the wall there, trying to

think what I should do, there came a great cheering from a little way up

the street, and then I straightened in astonishment. Above the cheering

came the sound of a drum beaten in marching time, and above that there

burst upon the night what purported to be the “Marseillaise,” taken up

and bawled by a hundred drunken throats and without words. Those around

me who were sufficiently nimble began to run towards the noise, and I

ran after them. And there, marching down the middle of the street at the

head of a ragged and most indecorous column of twos, in the centre of

a circle of light cast by a pine-knot which Joe Handy held, was Mr.

Nicholas Temple. His bearing, if a trifle unsteady, was proud, and--if

I could believe my eyes--around his neck was slung the thing which

I prized above all my possessions,--the drum which I had carried to

Kaskaskia and Vincennes! He had taken it from the peg in my room.

I shrink from putting on paper the sentimental side of my nature, and

indeed I could give no adequate idea of my affection for that drum. And

then there was Nick, who had been lost to me for five years! My impulse

was to charge the procession, seize Nick and the drum together, and drag

them back to my room; but the futility and danger of such a course were

apparent, and the caution for which I am noted prevented my undertaking

it. The procession, augmented by all those to whom sufficient power of

motion remained, cheered by the helpless but willing ones on the ground,

swept on down the street and through the town. Even at this late day

I shame to write it! Behold me, David Ritchie, Federalist, execrably

sober, at the head of the column behind the leader. Was it twenty

minutes, or an hour, that we paraded? This I know, that we slighted no

street in the little town of Louisville. What was my bearing,--whether

proud or angry or carelessly indifferent,--I know not. The glare of

Joe Handy’s torch fell on my face, Joe Handy’s arm and that of another

gentleman, the worse for liquor, were linked in mine, and they saw

fit to applaud at every step my conversion to the cause of Liberty. We

passed time and time again the respectable door-yards of my Federalist

friends, and I felt their eyes upon me with that look which the angels

have for the fallen. Once, in front of Mr. Wharton’s house, Mr. Handy

burned my hair, apologized, staggered, and I took the torch! And I used

it to good advantage in saving the drum from capture. For Mr. Temple,

with all the will in the world, had begun to stagger. At length, after

marching seemingly half the night, they halted by common consent before

the house of a prominent Democrat who shall be nameless, and, after some

minutes of vain importuning, Nick, with a tattoo on the drum, marched

boldly up to the gate and into the yard. A desperate cunning came to my

aid. I flung away the torch, leaving the head of the column in darkness,

broke from Mr. Handy’s embrace, and, seizing Nick by the arm, led him

onward through the premises, he drumming with great docility. Followed

by a few stragglers only (some of whom went down in contact with the

trees of the orchard), we came to a gate at the back which I knew well,

which led directly into the little yard that fronted my own rooms behind

Mr. Crede’s store. Pulling Nick through the gate, I slammed it, and he

was only beginning to protest when I had him safe within my door, and

the bolt slipped behind him. As I struck a light something fell to the

floor with a crash, an odor of alcohol filled the air, and as the candle

caught the flame I saw a shattered whiskey bottle at my feet and a room

which had been given over to carousing. In spite of my feelings I could

not but laugh at the perfectly irresistible figure my cousin made, as he

stood before me with the drum slung in front of him. His hat was gone,

his dust-covered clothes awry, but he smiled at me benignly and without

a trace of surprise.

“Sho you’ve come back at lasht, Davy,” he said. “You’re--you’re

very--irregular. You’ll lose--law bishness. Y-you’re worse’n Andy

Jackson--he’s always fightin’.”

I relieved him, unprotesting, of the drum, thanking my stars there

was so much as a stick left of it. He watched me with a silent and

exaggerated interest as I laid it on the table. From a distance without

came the shouts of the survivors making for the tavern.

“‘Sfortunate you had the drum, Davy,” he said gravely, “‘rwe’d had no

procession.”

“It is fortunate I have it now,” I answered, looking ruefully at the

battered rim where Nick had missed the skin in his ardor.

“Davy,” said he, “funny thing--I didn’t know you wash a Jacobite. Sh’ou

hear,” he added relevantly, “th’ Andy Jackson was married?”

“No,” I answered, having no great interest in Mr. Jackson. “Where have

you been seeing him again?”

“Nashville on Cumberland. Jackson’sh county sholicitor,--devil of a

man. I’ll tell you, Davy,” he continued, laying an uncertain hand on

my shoulder and speaking with great earnestness, “I had Chicashaw

horse--Jackson’d Virginia thoroughbred--had a race--‘n’Jackson wanted

to shoot me ‘n’I wanted to shoot Jackson. ‘N’then we all went to the Red

Heifer--”

“What the deuce is the Red Heifer?” I asked.

“‘N’dishtillery over a shpring, ‘n’they blow a horn when the liquor

runsh. ‘N’then we had supper in Major Lewish’s tavern. Major Lewis came

in with roast pig on platter. You know roast pig, Davy?... ‘N’Jackson

pulls out’s hunting knife n’waves it very mashestic.... You know how

mashestic Jackson is when he--wantshtobe?” He let go my shoulder,

brushed back his hair in a fiery manner, and, seizing a knife which

unhappily lay on the table, gave me a graphic illustration of Mr.

Jackson about to carve the pig, I retreating, and he coming on. “N’when

he stuck the pig, Davy,--”

He poised the knife for an instant in the air, and then, before I could

interpose, he brought it down deftly through the head of my precious

drum, and such a frightful, agonized squeal filled the room that even I

shivered involuntarily, and for an instant I had a vivid vision of a pig

struggling in the hands of a butcher. I laughed in spite of myself. But

Nick regarded me soberly.

“Funny thing, Davy,” he said, “they all left the room.” For a moment

he appeared to be ruminating on this singular phenomenon. Then he

continued: “‘N’Jackson was back firsht, ‘n’he was damned impolite...

‘n’he shook his fist in my face” (here Nick illustrated Mr. Jackson’s

gesture), “‘n’he said, ‘Great God, sir, y’have a fine talent, but if

y’ever do that again, I’ll--I’ll kill you.’ That’sh what he said,

Davy.”

“How long have you been in Nashville, Nick?” I asked.

“A year,” he said, “lookin’ after property I won rattle-an’-shnap--you

remember?”

“And why didn’t you let me know you were in Nashville?” I asked, though

I realized the futility of the question.

“Thought you was--mad at me,” he answered, “but you ain’t, Davy. You’ve

been very good-natured t’ let me have your drum.” He straightened. “I am

ver’ much obliged.”

“And where were you before you went to Nashville?” I said.

“Charleston, ‘Napolis... Philadelphia... everywhere,” he answered.

“Now,” said he, “‘mgoin’ t’ bed.”

I applauded this determination, but doubted whether he meant to carry

it out. However, I conducted him to the back room, where he sat himself

down on the edge of my four-poster, and after conversing a little

longer on the subject of Mr. Jackson (who seemed to have gotten upon his

brain), he toppled over and instantly fell asleep with his clothes on.

For a while I stood over him, the old affection welling up so strongly

within me that my eyes were dimmed as I looked upon his face. Spare and

handsome it was, and boyish still, the weaker lines emphasized in its

relaxation. Would that relentless spirit with which he had been born

make him, too, a wanderer forever? And was it not the strangest of fates

which had impelled him to join this madcap expedition of this other man

I loved, George Rogers Clark?

I went out, closed the door, and lighting another candle took from my

portfolio a packet of letters. Two of them I had not read, having found

them only on my return from Philadelphia that morning. They were all

signed simply “Sarah Temple,” they were dated at a certain number in the

Rue Bourbon, New Orleans, and each was a tragedy in that which it had

left unsaid. There was no suspicion of heroics, there was no railing at

fate; the letters breathed but the one hope,--that her son might come

again to that happiness of which she had robbed him. There were in all

but twelve, and they were brief, for some affliction had nearly deprived

the lady of the use of her right hand. I read them twice over, and

then, despite the lateness of the hour, I sat staring at the candles,

reflecting upon my own helplessness. I was startled from this revery by

a knock. Rising hastily, I closed the door of my bedroom, thinking I

had to do with some drunken reveller who might be noisy. The knock was

repeated. I slipped back the bolt and peered out into the night.

“I saw dat light,” said a voice which I recognized; “I think I come in

to say good night.”

I opened the door, and he walked in.

“You are one night owl, Monsieur Reetchie,” he said.

“And you seem to prefer the small hours for your visits, Monsieur de St.

Gré,” I could not refrain from replying.

He swept the room with a glance, and I thought a shade of disappointment

passed over his face. I wondered whether he were looking for Nick. He

sat himself down in my chair, stretched out his legs, and regarded me

with something less than his usual complacency.

“I have much laik for you, Monsieur Reetchie,” he began, and waved aside

my bow of acknowledgment “Before I go away from Louisville I want to

spik with you,--this is a risson why I am here. You listen to what dat

Depeau he say,--dat is not truth. My family knows you, I laik to have

you hear de truth.”

He paused, and while I wondered what revelations he was about to make, I

could not repress my impatience at the preamble.

“You are my frien’, you have prove it,” he continued. “You remember las’

time we meet?” (I smiled involuntarily.) “You was in bed, but you not

need be ashame’ for me. Two days after I went to France, and I not in

New Orleans since.”

“Two days after you saw me?” I repeated.

“Yaas, I run away. That was the mont’ of August, 1789, and we have not

then heard in New Orleans that the Bastille is attack. I lan’ at

La Havre,--it is the en’ of Septembre. I go to the Château de St.

Gré--great iron gates, long avenue of poplar,--big house all ‘round a

court, and Monsieur le Marquis is at Versailles. I borrow three louis

from the concierge, and I go to Versailles to the hotel of Monsieur

le Marquis. There is all dat trouble what you read about going on, and

Monsieur le Marquis he not so glad to see me for dat risson. ‘Mon cher

Auguste,’ he cry, ‘you want to be officier in gardes du corps? You are

not afred?’” (Auguste stiffened.) “‘I am a St. Gré, Monsieur le Marquis.

I am afred of nothings,’ I answered. He tek me to the King, I am made

lieutenant, the mob come and the King and Queen are carry off to Paris.

The King is prisoner, Monsieur le Marquis goes back to the Château de

St. Gré. France is a republic. Monsieur--que voulez-vous?” (The Sieur

de St. Gré shrugged his shoulders.) “I, too, become Republican. I become

officier in the National Guard,--one must move with the time. Is it

not so, Monsieur? I deman’ of you if you ever expec’ to see a St. Gré a

Republican.”

I expressed my astonishment.

“I give up my right, my principle, my family. I come to America--I go to

New Orleans where I have influence and I stir up revolution for France,

for Liberty. Is it not noble cause?”

I had it on the tip of my tongue to ask Monsieur Auguste why he left

France, but the uselessness of it was apparent.

“You see, Monsieur, I am justify before you, before my frien’s,--that

is all I care,” and he gave another shrug in defiance of the world

at large. “What I have done, I have done for principle. If I remain

Royalist, I might have marry my cousin, Mademoiselle de St. Gré. Ha,

Monsieur, you remember--the miniature you were so kin’ as to borrow me

four hundred livres?”

“I remember,” I said.

“It is because I have much confidence in you, Monsieur,” he said, “it is

because I go--peut-être--to dangere, to death, that I come here and ask

you to do me a favor.”

“You honor me too much, Monsieur,” I answered, though I could scarce

refrain from smiling.

“It is because of your charactair,” Monsieur Auguste was good enough to

say. “You are to be repose’ in, you are to be rely on. Sometime I think

you ver’ ole man. And this is why, and sence you laik objects of art,

that I bring this and ask you keep it while I am in dangere.”

I was mystified. He thrust his hand into his coat and drew forth an oval

object wrapped in dirty paper, and then disclosed to my astonished eyes

the miniature of Mademoiselle de St. Gré,--the miniature, I say, for

the gold back and setting were lacking. Auguste had retained only the

ivory,--whether from sentiment or necessity I will not venture. The

sight of it gave me a strange sensation, and I can scarcely write of the

anger and disgust which surged over me, of the longing to snatch it from

his trembling fingers. Suddenly I forgot Auguste in the lady herself.

There was something emblematical in the misfortune which had bereft

the picture of its setting. Even so the Revolution had taken from her

a brilliant life, a king and queen, home and friends. Yet the spirit

remained unquenchable, set above its mean surroundings,--ay, and

untouched by them. I was filled with a painful curiosity to know what

had become of her, which I repressed. Auguste’s voice aroused me.

“Ah, Monsieur, is it not a face to love, to adore?”

“It is a face to obey,” I answered, with some heat, and with more truth

than I knew.

“Mon Dieu, Monsieur, it is so. It is that mek me love--you know not how.

You know not what love is, Monsieur Reetchie, you never love laik me.

You have not sem risson. Monsieur,” he continued, leaning forward and

putting his hand on my knee, “I think she love me--I am not sure. I

should not be surprise’. But Monsieur le Marquis, her father, he trit me

ver’ bad. Monsieur le Marquis is guillotine’ now, I mus’ not spik evil

of him, but he marry her to one ol’ garçon, Le Vicomte d’Ivry-le-Tour.”

“So Mademoiselle is married,” I said after a pause.

“Oui, she is Madame la Vicomtesse now; I fall at her feet jus’ the sem.

I hear of her once at Bel Oeil, the château of Monsieur le Prince

de Ligne in Flander’. After that they go I know not where. They are

exile’,--los’ to me.” He sighed, and held out the miniature to me.

“Monsieur, I esk you favor. Will you be as kin’ and keep it for me

again?”

I have wondered many times since why I did not refuse. Suffice it to say

that I took it. And Auguste’s face lighted up.

“I am a thousan’ times gret’ful,” he cried; and added, as though with

an afterthought, “Monsieur, would you be so kin’ as to borrow me fif’

dollars?”

CHAPTER IV. OF A SUDDEN RESOLUTION

It was nearly morning when I fell asleep in my chair, from sheer

exhaustion, for the day before had been a hard one, even for me. I awoke

with a start, and sat for some minutes trying to collect my scattered

senses. The sun streamed in at my open door, the birds hopped on the

lawn, and the various sounds of the bustling life of the little town

came to me from beyond. Suddenly, with a glimmering of the mad events of

the night, I stood up, walked uncertainly into the back room, and stared

at the bed.

It was empty. I went back into the outer room; my eye wandered from the

shattered whiskey bottle, which was still on the floor, to the table

littered with Mrs. Temple’s letters. And there, in the midst of them,

lay a note addressed with my name in a big, unformed hand. I opened it

mechanically.

“Dear Davy,”--so it ran,--“I have gone away, I cannot tell you where.

Some day I will come back and you will forgive me. God bless you! NICK.”

He had gone away! To New Orleans? I had long ceased trying to account

for Nick’s actions, but the more I reflected, the more incredible it

seemed to me that he should have gone there, of all places. And yet I

had had it from Clark’s own lips (indiscreet enough now!) that Nick and

St. Gré were to prepare the way for an insurrection there. My thoughts

ran on to other possibilities; would he see his mother? But he had no

reason to know that Mrs. Temple was still in New Orleans. Then my glance

fell on her letters, lying open on the table. Had he read them? I put

this down as improbable, for he was a man who held strictly to a point

of honor.

And then there was Antoinette de St. Gré! I ceased to conjecture here,

dashed some water in my eyes, pulled myself together, and, seizing

my hat, hurried out into the street. I made a sufficiently indecorous

figure as I ran towards the water-side, barely nodding to my

acquaintances on the way. It was a fresh morning, a river breeze stirred

the waters of the Bear Grass, and as I stood, scanning the line of boats

there, I heard footsteps behind me. I turned to confront a little man

with grizzled, chestnut eyebrows. He was none other than the Citizen

Gignoux.

“You tek ze air, Monsieur Reetchie?” said he. “You look for some one,

yes? You git up too late see him off.”

I made a swift resolve never to quibble with this man.

“So Mr. Temple has gone to New Orleans with the Sieur de St. Gré,” I

said.

Citizen Gignoux laid a fat finger on one side of his great nose. The

nose was red and shiny, I remember, and glistened in the sunlight.

“Ah,” said he, “‘tis no use tryin’ hide from you. However, Monsieur

Reetchie, you are the ver’ soul of honor. And then your frien’! I know

you not betray the Sieur de St. Gré. He is ver’ fon’ of you.”

“Betray!” I exclaimed; “there is no question of betrayal. As far as I

can see, your plans are carried on openly, with a fine contempt for the

Federal government.”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“‘Tis not my doin’,” he said, “but I am--what you call it?--a cipher.

Sicrecy is what I believe. But drink too much, talk too much--is it not

so, Monsieur? And if Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet, ze governor,

hear they are in New Orleans, I think they go to Havana or Brazil.”

He smiled, but perhaps the expression of my face caused him to sober

abruptly. “It is necessair for the cause. We must have good Revolution

in Louisiane.”

A suspicion of this man came over me, for a childlike simplicity

characterized the other ringleaders in this expedition. Clark had had

acumen once, and lost it; St. Gré was a fool; Nick Temple was leading

purposely a reckless life; the Citizens Sullivan and Depeau had, to say

the least, a limited knowledge of affairs. All of these were responding

more or less sincerely to the cry of the people of Kentucky (every day

more passionate) that something be done about Louisiana. But Gignoux

seemed of a different feather. Moreover, he had been too shrewd to deny

what Colonel Clark would have denied in a soberer moment,--that St. Gré

and Nick had gone to New Orleans.

“You not spik, Monsieur. You not think they have success. You are not

Federalist, no, for I hear you march las’ night with your frien’,--I

hear you wave torch.”

“You make it your business to hear a great deal, Monsieur Gignoux,” I

retorted, my temper slipping a little.

He hastened to apologize.

“Mille pardons, Monsieur,” he said; “I see you are Federalist--but

drunk. Is it not so? Monsieur, you tink this ver’ silly thing--this

expedition.”

“Whatever I think, Monsieur,” I answered, “I am a friend of General

Clark’s.”

“An enemy of ze cause?” he put in.

“Monsieur,” I said, “if President Washington and General Wayne do not

think it worth while to interfere with your plans, neither do I.”

I left him abruptly, and went back to my long-delayed affairs with a

heavy heart. The more I thought, the more criminally foolish Nick’s

journey seemed to me. However puerile the undertaking, De Lemos at

Natchez and Carondelet at New Orleans had not the reputation of sleeping

at their posts, and their hatred for Americans was well known. I sought

General Clark, but he had gone to Knob Licks, and in my anxiety I lay

awake at night, tossing in my bed.

One evening, perhaps four days after Nick’s departure, I went into

the common room of the tavern, and there I was surprised to see an old

friend. His square, saffron face was just the same, his little jet eyes

snapped as brightly as ever, his hair--which was swept high above his

forehead and tied in an eelskin behind--was as black as when I had seen

it at Kaskaskia. I had met Monsieur Vigo many times since, for he was a

familiar figure amongst the towns of the Ohio and the Mississippi,

and from Vincennes to Anse à la Graisse, and even to New Orleans. His

reputation as a financier was greater than ever. He was talking to my

friend, Mr. Marshall, but he rose when he saw me, with a beaming smile.

“Ha, it is Davy,” he cried, “but not the sem lil drummer boy who would

not come into my store. Reech lawyer now,--I hear you make much money

now, Davy.”

“Congress money?” I said.

Monsieur Vigo threw out his hands, and laughed exactly as he had done in

his log store at Kaskaskia.

“Congress have never repay me one sou,” said Monsieur Vigo, making a

face. “I have try--I have talk--I have represent--it is no good. Davy,

it is your fault. You tell me tek dat money. You call dat finance?”

“David,” said Mr. Marshall, sharply, “what the devil is this I hear of

your carrying a torch in a Jacobin procession?”

“You may put it down to liquor, Mr. Marshall,” I answered.

“Then you must have had a cask, egad,” said Mr. Marshall, “for I never

saw you drunk.”

I laughed.

“I shall not attempt to explain it, sir,” I answered.

“You must not allow your drum to drag you into bad company again,” said

he, and resumed his conversation. As I suspected, it was a vigorous

condemnation of General Clark and his new expedition. I expressed my

belief that the government did not regard it seriously, and would forbid

the enterprise at the proper time.

“You are right, sir,” said Mr. Marshall, bringing down his fist on the

table. “I have private advices from Philadelphia that the President’s

consideration for Governor Shelby is worn out, and that he will issue

a proclamation within the next few days warning all citizens at their

peril from any connection with the pirates.”

I laughed.

“As a matter of fact, Mr. Marshall,” said I, “Citizen Genêt has been

liberal with nothing except commissions, and they have neither money nor

men.”

“The rascals have all left town,” said Mr. Marshall. “Citizen

Quartermaster Depeau, their local financier, has gone back to his store

at Knob Licks. The Sieur de St. Gré and a Mr. Temple, as doubtless you

know, have gone to New Orleans. And the most mysterious and therefore

the most dangerous of the lot, Citizen Gignoux, has vanished like an

evil spirit. It is commonly supposed that he, too, has gone down the

river. You may see him, Vigo,” said Mr. Marshall, turning to the trader;

“he is a little man with a big nose and grizzled chestnut eyebrows.”

“Ah, I know a lil ‘bout him,” said Monsieur Vigo; “he was on my boat two

days ago, asking me questions.”

“The devil he was!” said Mr. Marshall.

I had another disquieting night, and by the morning I had made up my

mind. The sun was glinting on the placid waters of the river when I made

my way down to the bank, to a great ten-oared keel boat that lay on the

Bear Grass, with its square sail furled. An awning was stretched over

the deck, and at a walnut table covered with papers sat Monsieur Vigo,

smoking his morning pipe.

“Davy,” said he, “you have come à la bonne heure. At ten I depart for

New Orleans.” He sighed. “It is so long voyage,” he added, “and so

lonely one. Sometime I have the good fortune to pick up a companion, but

not to-day.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” I said.

He looked at me incredulously.

“I should be delighted,” he said, “but you mek a jest.”

“I was never more serious in my life,” I answered, “for I have business

in New Orleans. I shall be ready.”

“Ha,” cried Monsieur Vigo, hospitably, “I shall be enchant. We will talk

philosophe, Beaumarchais, Voltaire, Rousseau.”

For Monsieur Vigo was a great reader, and we had often indulged in

conversation which (we flattered ourselves) had a literary turn.

I spent the remaining hours arranging with a young lawyer of my

acquaintance to look after my business, and at ten o’clock I was aboard

the keel boat with my small baggage. At eleven, Monsieur Vigo and I were

talking “philosophe” over a wonderful breakfast under the awning, as

we dropped down between the forest-lined shores of the Ohio. My host

travelled in luxury, and we ate the Creole dishes, which his cook

prepared, with silver forks which he kept in a great chest in the cabin.

You who read this may feel something of my impatience to get to New

Orleans, and hence I shall not give a long account of the journey. What

a contrast it was to that which Nick and I had taken five years before

in Monsieur Gratiot’s fur boat! Like all successful Creole traders,

Monsieur Vigo had a wonderful knack of getting on with the Indians, and

often when we tied up of a night the chief men of a tribe would come

down to greet him. We slipped southward on the great, yellow river which

parted the wilderness, with its sucks and eddies and green islands,

every one of which Monsieur knew, and I saw again the flocks of

water-fowl and herons in procession, and hawks and vultures wheeling in

their search. Sometimes a favorable wind sprang up, and we hoisted

the sail. We passed the Walnut Hills, the Nogales, the moans of the

alligators broke our sleep by night, and at length we came to Natchez,

ruled over now by that watch-dog of the Spanish King, Gayoso de Lemos.

Thanks to Monsieur Vigo, his manners were charming and his hospitality

gracious, and there was no trouble whatever about my passport.

Our progress was slow when we came at last to the belvedered plantation

houses amongst the orange groves; and as we sat on the wide galleries

in the summer nights, we heard all the latest gossip of the capital of

Louisiana. The river was low; there was an ominous quality in the heat

which had its effect, indeed, upon me, and made the old Creoles shake

their heads and mutter a word with a terrible meaning. New Orleans was

a cesspool, said the enlightened. The Baron de Carondelet, indefatigable

man, aimed at digging a canal to relieve the city of its filth, but

this would be the year when it was most needed, and it was not dug. Yes,

Monsieur le Baron was energy itself. That other fever--the political

one--he had scotched. “Ça Ira” and “La Marseillaise” had been sung in

the theatres, but not often, for the Baron had sent the alcaldes to shut

them up. Certain gentlemen of French ancestry had gone to languish in

the Morro at Havana. Yes, Monsieur de Carondelet, though fat, was on

horseback before dawn, New Orleans was fortified as it never had been

before, the militia organized, real cannon were on the ramparts which

could shoot at a pinch.

Sub rosa, I found much sympathy among the planters with the Rights of

Man. What had become, they asked, of the expedition of Citizen General

Clark preparing in the North? They may have sighed secretly when I

painted it in its true colors, but they loved peace, these planters.

Strangely enough, the name of Auguste de St. Gré never crossed their

lips, and I got no trace of him or Nick at any of these places. Was it

possible that they might not have come to New Orleans after all?

Through the days, when the sun beat upon the awning with a tropical

fierceness, when Monsieur Vigo abandoned himself to his siestas, I

thought. It was perhaps characteristic of me that I waited nearly three

weeks to confide in my old friend the purpose of my journey to New

Orleans. It was not because I could not trust him that I held my tongue,

but because I sought some way of separating the more intimate story of

Nick’s mother and his affair with Antoinette de St. Gré from the rest of

the story. But Monsieur Vigo was a man of importance in Louisiana, and

I reflected that a time might come when I should need his help. One

evening, when we were tied up under the oaks of a bayou, I told him.

There emanated from Monsieur Vigo a sympathy which few men possess, and

this I felt strongly as he listened, breaking his silence only at long

intervals to ask a question. It was a still night, I remember, of great

beauty, with a wisp of a moon hanging over the forest line, the air

heavy with odors and vibrant with a thousand insect tones.

“And what you do, Davy?” he said at length.

“I must find my cousin and St. Gré before they have a chance to get

into much mischief,” I answered. “If they have already made a noise, I

thought of going to the Baron de Carondelet and telling him what I

know of the expedition. He will understand what St. Gré is, and I will

explain that Mr. Temple’s reckless love of adventure is at the bottom of

his share in the matter.”

“Bon, Davy,” said my host, “if you go, I go with you. But I believe ze

Baron think Morro good place for them jus’ the sem. Ze Baron has been

make misérable with Jacobins. But I go with you if you go.”

He discoursed for some time upon the quality of the St. Gré’s, their

public services, and before he went to sleep he made the very just

remark that there was a flaw in every string of beads. As for me, I went

down into the cabin, surreptitiously lighted a candle, and drew from

my pocket that piece of ivory which had so strangely come into my

possession once more. The face upon it had haunted me since I had first

beheld it. The miniature was wrapped now in a silk handkerchief which

Polly Ann had bought for me in Lexington. Shall I confess it?--I had

carefully rubbed off the discolorations on the ivory at the back, and

the picture lacked now only the gold setting. As for the face, I had a

kind of consolation from it. I seemed to draw of its strength when I was

tired, of its courage when I faltered. And, during those four days of

indecision in Louisville, it seemed to say to me in words that I could

not evade or forget, “Go to New Orleans.” It was a sentiment--foolish,

if you please--which could not resist. Nay, which I did not try to

resist, for I had little enough of it in my life. What did it matter? I

should never see Madame la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour.

She was Hélène to me; and the artist had caught the strength of her

soul in her clear-cut face, in the eyes that flashed with wit and

courage,--eyes that seemed to look with scorn upon what was mean in the

world and untrue, with pity on the weak. Here was one who might have

governed a province and still have been a woman, one who had taken

into exile the best of safeguards against misfortune,--humor and an

indomitable spirit.

CHAPTER V. THE HOUSE OF THE HONEYCOMBED TILES

As long as I live I shall never forget that Sunday morning of my second

arrival at New Orleans. A saffron heat-haze hung over the river and the

city, robbed alike from the yellow waters of the one and the pestilent

moisture of the other. It would have been strange indeed if this capital

of Louisiana, brought hither to a swamp from the sands of Biloxi many

years ago by the energetic Bienville, were not visited from time to time

by the scourge!

Again I saw the green villas on the outskirts, the verdure-dotted

expanse of roofs of the city behind the levee bank, the line of Kentucky

boats, keel boats and barges which brought our own resistless commerce

hither in the teeth of royal mandates. Farther out, and tugging

fretfully 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 from

the West Indies, a rakish slaver from Africa with her water-line dry,

discharged but yesterday of a teeming horror of freight. I looked again

upon the familiar rows of trees which shaded the gravelled promenades

where Nick had first seen Antoinette. Then we were under it, for the

river was low, and the dingy-uniformed officer was bowing over our

passports beneath the awning. We walked ashore, Monsieur Vigo and I,

and we joined a staring group of keel boatmen and river-men under the

willows.

Below us, the white shell walks of the Place d’Armes were thronged with

gayly dressed people. Over their heads rose the fine new Cathedral,

built by the munificence of Don Andreas Almonaster, and beside that the

many-windowed, heavy-arched Cabildo, nearly finished, which will stand

for all time a monument to Spanish builders.

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

procession.”

Here once more were the bright-turbaned negresses, the gay Creole gowns

and scarfs, the linen-jacketed, broad-hatted merchants, with those of

soberer and more conventional dress, laughing and chatting, the children

playing despite the heat. Many of these people greeted Monsieur Vigo.

There were the saturnine, long-cloaked Spaniards, too, and a greater

number than I had believed of my own keen-faced countrymen lounging

about, mildly amused by the scene. We crossed the square, and with the

courtesy of their race the people made way for us in the press; and we

were no sooner placed ere the procession came out of the church. Flaming

soldiers of the Governor’s guard, two by two; sober, sandalled friars

in brown, priests in their robes,--another batch of color; crosses

shimmering, tapers emerging from the cool darkness within to pale by the

light of day. Then down on their knees to Him who sits high above the

yellow haze fell the thousands in the Place d’Armes. For here was the

Host itself, flower-decked in white and crimson, its gold-tasselled

canopy upheld by four tonsured priests, a sheen of purple under it,--the

Bishop of Louisiana in his robes.

“The Governor!” whispered Monsieur Vigo, and the word was passed from

mouth to mouth as the people rose from their knees. François Louis

Hector, Baron de Carondelet, resplendent in his uniform of colonel in

the royal army of Spain, his orders glittering on his breast,--pillar of

royalty and enemy to the Rights of Man! His eye was stern, his carriage

erect, but I seemed to read in his careworn face the trials of three

years in this moist capital. After the Governor, one by one, the waiting

Associations fell in line, each with its own distinguishing sash. So the

procession moved off into the narrow streets of the city, the people in

the Place dispersed to new vantage points, and Monsieur Vigo signed me

to follow him.

“I have a frien’, la veuve Gravois, who lives ver’ quiet. She have one

room, and I ask her tek you in, Davy.” He led the way through the empty

Rue Chartres, turned to the right at the Rue Bienville, and stopped

before an unpretentious house some three doors from the corner. Madame

Gravois, elderly, wizened, primp in a starched cotton gown, opened the

door herself, fell upon Monsieur Vigo in the Creole fashion; and within

a quarter of an hour I was installed in her best room, which gave out on

a little court behind. Monsieur Vigo promised to send his servant with

my 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 about

giving orders to a kinky-haired negro girl concerning my dinner. Then

came the dinner, excellent--if I could have eaten it. The virtues of

the former Monsieur Gravois were legion. He had come to Louisiana from

Toulon, planted indigo, fought a duel, and Madame was a widow. So I

condense two hours into two lines. Happily, Madame was not proof against

the habits of the climate, and she retired for her siesta. I sought my

room, almost suffocated by a heat which defies my pen to describe, a

heat reeking with moisture sucked from the foul kennels of the city. I

had felt nothing like it in my former visit to New Orleans. It seemed

to bear down upon my brain, to clog the power of thought, to make me

vacillating. Hitherto my reasoning had led me to seek Monsieur de

St. Gré, to count upon that gentleman’s common sense and his former

friendship. But now that the time had come for it, I shrank from such

a meeting. I remembered his passionate affection for Antoinette, I

imagined that he would not listen calmly to one who was in some sort

connected with her unhappiness. So a kind of cowardice drove me first to

Mrs. Temple. She might know much that would save me useless trouble and

blundering.

The shadows of tree-top, thatch, and wall were lengthening as I walked

along the Rue Bourbon. Heedless of what the morrow might bring forth,

the street was given over to festivity. Merry groups were gathered on

the corners, songs and laughter mingled in the court-yards, billiard

balls clicked in the cabarets. A fat, jolly little Frenchman, surrounded

by tripping children, sat in his doorway on the edge of the banquette,

fiddling with all his might, pausing only to wipe the beads of

perspiration from his face.

“Madame Clive, mais oui, Monsieur, l’ petite maison en face.” Smiling

benignly at the children, he began to fiddle once more.

The little house opposite! Mrs. Temple, mistress of Temple Bow, had come

to this! It was a strange little home indeed, Spanish, one-story, its

dormers hidden by a honeycombed screen of terra-cotta tiles. This screen

was set on the extreme edge of the roof which overhung the banquette

and shaded the yellow adobe wall of the house. Low, unpretentious,

the latticed shutters of its two windows giving it but a scant air of

privacy,--indeed, they were scarred by the raps of careless passers-by

on the sidewalk. The two little battened doors, one step up, were

closed. I rapped, waited, and rapped again. The musician across the

street stopped his fiddling, glanced at me, smiled knowingly at the

children; and they paused in their dance to stare. Then one of the

doors was pushed open a scant four inches, a scarlet madras handkerchief

appeared in the crack above a yellow face. There was a long moment of

silence, during which I felt the scrutiny of a pair of sharp, black

eyes.

“What yo’ want, Marse?”

The woman’s voice astonished me, for she spoke the dialect of the

American 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 door

a 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, I

thought--just wide enough for me to pass through. I found myself in a

low-ceiled, darkened room, opposite a trim negress who stood with her

arms 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 done

growed! Yassir, when I heerd from Miss Sally I done comed here to tek

cyar ob her.”

“How is your mistress?” I asked.

“She po’ly, Marse Dave,” said Lindy, and paused for adequate words. I

took note of this darky who, faithful to a family, had come hither to

share her mistress’s exile and obscurity. Lindy was spare, energetic,

forceful--and, I imagined, a discreet guardian indeed for the

unfortunate. “She po’ly, Marse Dave, an’ she ain’ nebber leabe dis year

house. Marse Dave,” said Lindy earnestly, lowering her voice and

taking a step closer to me, “I done reckon de Mistis gwine ter die ob

lonesomeness. She des sit dar an’ brood, an’ brood--an’ she use’ ter

de bes’ company, to de quality. No, sirree, Marse Dave, she ain’ nebber

sesso, 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 a

bebby. I done cotch Mistis lookin’ at it, an’ she hid it when she see me

an’ 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 speak

English jes’ like the Mistis. Dat’s my fault,” said Lindy, showing a

line of white teeth.

“Your fault,” I exclaimed.

“Yassir. When I comed here from Caroliny de Mistis done tole me not ter

let er soul in hyah. One day erbout three mont’s ergo, dis yer lady come

en 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 the

threshold, 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 for

looking at the lady in the doorway.

“Who is it?” she said again, and her hand sought the door-post

tremblingly. “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 did

you not speak?” She looked at Lindy and smiled. “It is because I am an

old woman, Lindy,” and she lifted her hand to her forehead. “See, my

hair is white--I shock you, David.”

Leaning on my shoulder, she led me through a little bedroom in the rear

into a tiny garden court beyond, a court teeming with lavish colors

and redolent with the scent of flowers. A white shell walk divided the

garden and ended at the door of a low outbuilding, from the chimney of

which blue smoke curled upward in the evening air. Mrs. Temple drew me

almost 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 and

suffering were written there in characters not to be mistaken. Sarah

Temple, the beauty, was dead indeed. The hope which threatened to light

again 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 a

strength 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 him

away? Have I not suffered enough? David, I cannot live long. I do not

dare to die--until he has forgiven me.”

I forced her, gently as I might, to sit on the bench, and I seated

myself beside her.

“Listen,” I said, with a sternness that hid my feelings, and perforce

her expression changed again to a sad yearning, “you must hear me. And

you must trust me, for I have never pretended. You shall see him if it

is 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 on

hers, and by some self-mastery that was still in her she was silent. “I

saw him in Louisville a month ago, when I returned from a year’s visit

to Philadelphia.” I could not equivocate with this woman, I could no

more lie to her sorrow than to the Judgment. Why had I not foreseen her

question?

“And he hates me?” She spoke with a calmness now that frightened me more

than her agitation had done.

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

gone.”

“He was drunk,” she said. I stared at her in frightened wonderment. “He

was 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 the

whole of my story, though her hand trembled in mine. And while I live I

hope never to have such a thing to go through with again. Truth held me

to the full, ludicrous tragedy of the tale, to the cheap character of

my old Colonel’s undertaking, to the incident of the drum, to the

conversation in my room. Likewise, truth forbade me to rekindle her

hope. 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 time

after I had finished she was silent.

“And you think the expedition will not get here?” she asked finally, in

a dead voice.

“I am positive of it,” I answered, “and for the sake of those who are

engaged in it, it is mercifully best that it should not. The day may

come,” I added, for the sake of leading her away, “when Kentucky will be

strong 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 head

sadly, but I continued: “I have more to say. I am convinced that neither

Nick nor you will be happy until you are mother and son again. You have

both 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. Temple

laid 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 live

for it, for his sake.”

She shook her head, and smiled at me with a courage which was the crown

of 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 what

I have been doing all these years. You must admire my garden.”

I followed her, marvelling, along the shell path, and there came

unbidden to my mind the garden at Temple Bow, where she had once been

wont to sit, tormenting Mr. Mason or bending to the tale of Harry

Riddle’s love. Little she cared for flowers in those days, and now they

had become her life. With such thoughts in my mind, I listened unheeding

to her talk. The place was formerly occupied by a shiftless fellow, a

tailor; and the court, now a paradise, had been a rubbish heap. That

orange tree which shaded the uneven doorway of the kitchen she had found

here. Figs, pomegranates, magnolias; the camellias dazzling in their

purity; the blood-red oleanders; the pink roses that hid the crumbling

adobe and climbed even to the sloping tiles,--all these had been set

out and cared for with her own hands. Ay, and the fragrant bed of yellow

jasmine 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’s

knowledge, without his consent. It is natural that he thinks me--I will

not 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 nights

long--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 not

dare ask Mr. Clark, who comes to me on business, as you know. It was

Mr. Clark who brought back Lindy on one of his trips to Charleston. And

then, one day in March of this year, Madame de Montméry came.”

“Madame de Montméry?” I repeated.