“It is a strange story,” said Mrs. Temple. “Lindy had never admitted any

one, save Mr. Clark. One day early in the spring, when I was trimming my

roses by the wall there, the girl ran to me and said that a lady wished

to see me. Why had she let her in? Lindy did not know, she could not

refuse her. Had the lady demanded admittance? Lindy thought that I would

like to see her. David, it was a providential weakness, or curiosity,

that prompted me to go into the front room, and then I saw why Lindy had

opened the door to her. Who she is or what she is I do not know to this

day. Who am I now that I should inquire? I know that she is a lady, that

she has exquisite manners, that I feel now that I cannot live without

her. She comes every week, sometimes twice, she brings me little

delicacies, new seeds for my garden. But, best of all, she brings me

herself, and I am always counting the days until she comes again. Yes,

and I always fear that she, too, will be taken away from me.”

I had not heard the sound of voices, but Mrs. Temple turned, startled,

and looked towards the house. I followed her glance, and suddenly I knew

that my heart was beating.

CHAPTER VI. MADAME LA VICOMTESSE

Hesitating on the step, a lady stood in the vine-covered doorway, a

study in black and white in a frame of pink roses. The sash at her

waist, the lace mantilla that clung about her throat, the deftly coiled

hair with its sheen of the night waters--these in black. The simple

gown--a tribute to the art of her countrywomen--in white.

Mrs. Temple had gone forward to meet her, but I stood staring,

marvelling, forgetful, in the path. They were talking, they were coming

towards me, and I heard Mrs. Temple pronounce my name and hers--Madame

de Montméry. I bowed, she courtesied. There was a baffling light in the

lady’s brown eyes when I dared to glance at them, and a smile playing

around her mouth. Was there no word in the two languages to find its way

to my lips? Mrs. Temple laid her hand on my arm.

“David is not what one might call a ladies’ man, Madame,” she said.

The lady laughed.

“Isn’t he?” she said.

“I am sure you will frighten him with your wit,” answered Mrs. Temple,

smiling. “He is worth sparing.”

“He is worth frightening, then,” said the lady, in exquisite English,

and she looked at me again.

“You and David should like each other,” said Mrs. Temple; “you are both

capable persons, friends of the friendless and towers of strength to the

weak.”

The lady’s face became serious, but still there was the expression I

could not make out. In an instant she seemed to have scrutinized me with

a precision from which there could be no appeal.

“I seem to know Mr. Ritchie,” she said, and added quickly: “Mrs. Clive

has talked a great deal about you. She has made you out a very wonderful

person.”

“My dear,” said Mrs. Temple, “the wonderful people of this world are

those who find time to comfort and help the unfortunate. That is why you

and David are wonderful. No one knows better than I how easy it is to be

selfish.”

“I have brought you an English novel,” said Madame de Montoméry, turning

abruptly to Mrs. Temple. “But you must not read it at night. Lindy is

not to let you have it until to-morrow.”

“There,” said Mrs. Temple, gayly, to me, “Madame is not happy unless she

is controlling some one, and I am a rebellious subject.”

“You have not been taking care of yourself,” said Madame. She glanced at

me, and bit her lips, as though guessing the emotion which my visit

had caused. “Listen,” she said, “the vesper bells! You must go into the

house, and Mr. Ritchie and I must leave you.”

She took Mrs. Temple by the arm and led her, unresisting, along the

path. I followed, a thousand thoughts and conjectures spinning in my

brain. They reached the bench under the little tree beside the door, and

stood talking for a moment of the routine of Mrs. Temple’s life. Madame,

it seemed, had prescribed a regimen, and meant to have it followed.

Suddenly I saw Mrs. Temple take the lady’s arm, and sink down upon

the bench. Then we were both beside her, bending over her, she sitting

upright and smiling at us.

“It is nothing,” she said; “I am so easily tired.”

Her lips were ashen, and her breath came quickly. Madame acted with that

instant promptness which I expected of her.

“You must carry her in, Mr. Ritchie,” she said quietly.

“No, it is only momentary, David,” said Mrs. Temple. I remember how

pitifully frail and light she was as I picked her up and followed Madame

through the doorway into the little bedroom. I laid Mrs. Temple on the

bed.

“Send Lindy here,” said Madame.

Lindy was in the front room with the negress whom Madame had brought

with her. They were not talking. I supposed then this was because Lindy

did not speak French. I did not know that Madame de Montméry’s maid was

a mute. Both of them went into the bedroom, and I was left alone.

The door and windows were closed, and a green myrtle-berry candle was

burning on the table. I looked about me with astonishment. But for the

low ceiling and the wide cypress puncheons of the floor the room might

have been a budoir in a manor-house. On the slender-legged, polished

mahogany table lay books in tasteful bindings; a diamond-paned bookcase

stood in the corner; a fauteuil and various other chairs which might

have come from the hands of an Adam were ranged about. Tall silver

candlesticks graced each end of the little mantel-shelf, and between

them were two Lowestoft vases having the Temple coat of arms.

It might have been half an hour that I waited, now pacing the floor, now

throwing myself into the arm-chair by the fireplace. Anxiety for Mrs.

Temple, problems that lost themselves in a dozen conjectures, all

idle--these agitated me almost beyond my power of self-control. Once I

felt for the miniature, took it out, and put it back without looking at

it. At last I was startled to my feet by the opening of the door, and

Madame de Montméry came in. She closed the door softly behind her, with

the deft quickness and decision of movement which a sixth sense had told

me she possessed, crossed the room swiftly, and stood confronting me.

“She is easy again, now,” she said simply. “It is one of her attacks. I

wish you might have seen me before you told her what you had to say to

her.”

“I wish indeed that I had known you were here.”

She ignored this, whether intentionally, I know not.

“It is her heart, poor lady! I am afraid she cannot live long.” She

seated herself in one of the straight chairs. “Sit down, Mr. Ritchie,”

she said; “I am glad you waited. I wanted to talk with you.”

“I thought that you might, Madame la Vicomtesse,” I answered.

She made no gesture, either of surprise or displeasure.

“So you knew,” she said quietly.

“I knew you the moment you appeared in the doorway,” I replied. It was

not just what I meant to say.

There flashed over her face that expression of the miniature, the mouth

repressing the laughter in the brown eyes.

“Montméry is one of my husband’s places,” she said. “When Antoinette

asked me to come here and watch over Mrs. Temple, I chose the name.”

“And Mrs. Temple has never suspected you?”

“I think not. She thinks I came at Mr. Clark’s request. And being a

lady, she does not ask questions. She accepts me for what I appear to

be.”

It seemed so strange to me to be talking here in New Orleans, in this

little Spanish house, with a French vicomtesse brought up near the court

of the unfortunate Marie Antoinette; nay, with Hélène de St. Gré, whose

portrait had twice come into my life by a kind of strange fatality

(and was at that moment in my pocket), that I could scarce maintain

my self-possession in her presence. I had given the portrait, too,

attributes and a character, and I found myself watching the lady with

a breathless interest lest she should fail in any of these. In the

intimacy of the little room I felt as if I had known her always, and

again, that she was as distant from me and my life as the court from

which she had come. I found myself glancing continually at her face, on

which the candle-light shone. The Vicomtesse might have been four and

twenty. Save for the soberer gown she wore, she seemed scarce older than

the young girl in the miniature who had the presence of a woman of the

world. Suddenly I discovered with a flush that she was looking at me

intently, without embarrassment, but with an expression that seemed

to hint of humor in the situation. To my astonishment, she laughed a

little.

“You are a very odd person, Mr. Ritchie,” she said. “I have heard so

much of you from Mrs. Temple, from Antoinette, that I know something of

your strange life. After all,” she added with a trace of sadness, “it

has been no stranger than my own. First I will answer your questions,

and then I shall ask some.”

“But I have asked no questions, Madame la Vicomtesse,” I said.

“And you are a very simple person, Mr. Ritchie,” continued Madame la

Vicomtesse, smiling; “it is what I had been led to suppose. A serious

person. As the friend of Mr. Nicholas Temple, as the relation and (may

I say?) benefactor of this poor lady here, it is fitting that you should

know certain things. I will not weary you with the reasons and events

which led to my coming from Europe to New Orleans, except to say that I,

like all of my class who have escaped the horrors of the Revolution, am

a wanderer, and grateful to Monsieur de St. Gré for the shelter he gives

me. His letter reached me in England, and I arrived three months ago.”

She hesitated--nay, I should rather say paused, for there was little

hesitation in what she did. She paused, as though weighing what she was

to say next.

“When I came to Les Îles I saw that there was a sorrow weighing upon

the family; and it took no great astuteness on my part, Mr. Ritchie,

to discover that Antoinette was the cause of it. One has only to see

Antoinette to love her. I wondered why she had not married. And yet I

saw that there had been an affair. It seemed very strange to me, Mr.

Ritchie, for with us, you understand, marriages are arranged. Antoinette

really has beauty, she is the daughter of a man of importance in the

colony, her strength of character saves her from being listless. I found

a girl with originality of expression, with a sense of the fitness of

things, devoted to charitable works, who had not taken the veil. That

was on her father’s account. As you know, they are inseparable. Monsieur

Philippe de St. Gré is a remarkable man, with certain vigorous ideas

not in accordance with the customs of his neighbors. It was he who first

confided in me that he would not force Antoinette to marry; it was she,

at length, who told me the story of Nicholas Temple and his mother.” She

paused again, and, reading between the lines, I perceived that Madame la

Vicomtesse had become essential to the household at Les Îles. Philippe

de St. Gré was not a man to misplace a confidence.

“It was then that I first heard of you, Mr. Ritchie, and of the part

which you played in that affair. It was then I had my first real insight

into Antoinette’s character. Her affection for Mrs. Temple astonished

me, bewildered me. The woman had deceived her and her family, and yet

Antoinette gave up her lover because he would not take his mother

back. Had Mrs. Temple been willing to return to Les Îles after you had

providentially taken her away, they would have received her. Philippe de

St. Gré is not a man to listen to criticism. As it was, Antoinette did

not rest until she found where Mrs. Temple had hidden herself, and then

she came here to her. It is not for us to judge any of them. In sending

Antoinette away the poor lady denied herself the only consolation that

was left to her. Antoinette understood. Every week she has had news of

Mrs. Temple from Mr. Clark. And when I came and learned her trouble,

Antoinette begged me to come here and be Mrs. Temple’s friend. Mr.

Ritchie, she is a very ill woman and a very sad woman,--the saddest

woman I have ever known, and I have seen many.”

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

“Tell me about this man for whom Antoinette has ruined her life,” said

Madame la Vicomtesse, brusquely. “Is he worth it? No, no man is worth

what she has suffered. What has become of him? Where is he? Did you not

tell her that you would bring him back?”

“I said that I would bring him back if I could,” I answered, “and I

meant it, Madame.”

Madame la Vicomtesse bit her lip. Had she known me better, she might

have smiled. As for me, I was wholly puzzled to account for these

fleeting changes in her humor.

“You have taken a great deal upon your shoulders, Mr. Ritchie,” she

said. “They are from all accounts broad ones. There, I was wrong to be

indignant in your presence,--you who seem to have spent your life in

trying to get others out of difficulties. Mercy,” she said, with a quick

gesture at my protest, “there are few men with whom one might talk thus

in so short an acquaintance. I love the girl, and I cannot help being

angry with Mr. Temple. I suppose there is something to be said on his

side. Let us hear it--I dare say he could not have a better advocate,”

she finished, with an indefinable smile.

I began at the wrong end of my narrative, and it was some time before I

had my facts arranged in proper sequence. I could not forget that Madame

la Vicomtesse was looking at me fixedly. I reviewed Nick’s neglected

childhood; painted as well as I might his temperament and character--his

generosity and fearlessness, his recklessness and improvidence. His

loyalty to those he loved, his detestation of those he hated. I told

how, under these conditions, the sins and vagaries of his parents had

gone far to wreck his life at the beginning of it. I told how I had

found him again with Sevier, how he had come to New Orleans with me

the first time, how he had loved Antoinette, and how he had disappeared

after the dreadful scene in the garden at Les Îles, how I had not seen

him again for five years. Here I hesitated, little knowing how to tell

the Vicomtesse of that affair in Louisville. Though I had a sense that I

could not keep the truth from so discerning a person, I was startled to

find this to be so.

“Yes, yes, I understand,” she said quickly. “And in the morning he had

flown with that most worthy of my relatives, Auguste de St. Gré.”

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

perspicacity.

“And now what do you intend to do?” she asked. “Find him in New

Orleans, if you can, of course. But how?” She rose quickly, went to

the fireplace, and stood for a moment with her back to me. Suddenly she

turned. “It ought not to be difficult, after all. Auguste de St. Gré is

a fool, and he confirms what you say of the expedition. He is, indeed,

a pretty person to choose for an intrigue of this kind. And your

cousin,--what shall we call him?”

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

her mood.

She was silent awhile.

“It would be a blessing if Monsieur le Baron could hang Auguste

privately. As for your cousin, he may be worth saving, after all. I know

Monsieur de Carondelet, and he has no patience with conspirators of this

sort. I think he would not hesitate to make examples of them. However,

we will try to save them.”

“We!” I repeated unwittingly.

Madame la Vicomtesse looked at me and laughed outright.

“Yes,” she said, “you will do some things, I others. There are the

gaming clubs with their ridiculous names, L’Amour, La Mignonne, La

Désirée” (she counted them reflectively on her fingers). “Both of our

gentlemen might be tempted into one of these. You will drop into them,

Mr. Ritchie. Then there is Madame Bouvet’s.”

“Auguste would scarcely go there,” I objected.

“Ah,” said Madame la Vicomtesse, “but Madame Bouvet will know the names

of some of Auguste’s intimates. This Bouvet is evidently a good person,

perhaps she will do more for you. I understand that she has a weak spot

in her heart for Auguste.”

Madame la Vicomtesse turned her back again. Had she heard how Madame

Bouvet had begged me to buy the miniature?

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

the fender.

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

“And yet you are a man of action, of expedients,” she murmured, without

turning. “Where are your wits, Mr. Ritchie? Have you any plan?”

“I have been so used to rely on myself, Madame,” I replied.

“That you do not like to have your affairs meddled with by a woman,” she

said, into the fireplace.

“I give you the credit to believe that you are too clever to

misunderstand me, Madame,” I said. “You must know that your help is most

welcome.”

At that she swung around and regarded me strangely, mirth lurking in her

eyes. She seemed about to retort, and then to conquer the impulse. The

effect of this was to make me anything but self-complacent. She sat down

in the chair and for a little while she was silent.

“Suppose we do find them,” she said suddenly. “What shall we do with

them?” She looked up at me questioningly, seriously. “Is it likely that

your Mr. Temple will be reconciled with his mother? Is it likely that he

is still in love with Antoinette?”

“I think it is likely that he is still in love with Mademoiselle de St.

Gré,” I answered, “though I have no reason for saying so.”

“You are very honest, Mr. Ritchie. We must look at this problem from

all sides. If he is not reconciled with his mother, Antoinette will not

receive him. And if he is, we have the question to consider whether he

is still worthy of her. The agents of Providence must not be heedless,”

she added with a smile.

“I am sure that Nick would alter his life if it became worth living,” I

said. “I will answer for that much.”

“Then he must be reconciled with his mother,” she replied with decision.

“Mrs. Temple has suffered enough. And he must be found before he gets

sufficiently into the bad graces of the Baron de Carondelet,--these two

things are clear.” She rose. “Come here to-morrow evening at the same

time.”

She started quickly for the bedroom door, but something troubled me

still.

“Madame--” I said.

“Yes,” she answered, turning quickly.

I did not know how to begin. There were many things I wished to say, to

know, but she was a woman whose mind seemed to leap the chasms, whose

words touched only upon those points which might not be understood. She

regarded me with seeming patience.

“I should think that Mrs. Temple might have recognized you,” I said, for

want of a better opening.

“From the miniature?” she said.

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

pocket.

“That was my salvation,” she said. “Mrs. Temple has never seen the

miniature. I have heard how you rescued it, Mr. Ritchie,” she added,

with a curious smile. “Monsieur Philippe de St. Gré told me.”

“Then he knew?” I stammered.

She laughed.

“I have told you that you are a very simple person,” she said. “Even you

are not given to intrigues. I thank you for rescuing me.”

I flushed more hotly than before.

“I never expected to see you,” I said.

“It must have been a shock,” she said.

I was dumb. I had my hand in my coat; I fully intended to give her the

miniature. It was my plain duty. And suddenly, overwhelmed, I remembered

that it was wrapped in Polly Ann’s silk handkerchief.

Madame la Vicomtesse remained for a moment where she was.

“Do not do anything until the morning,” she said. “You must go back to

your lodgings at once.”

“That would be to lose time,” I answered.

“You must think of yourself a little,” she said. “Do as I say. I have

heard that two cases of the yellow fever have broken out this afternoon.

And you, who are not used to the climate, must not be out after dark.”

“And you?” I said.

“I am used to it,” she replied; “I have been here three months. Lest

anything should happen, it might be well for you to give me your

address.”

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

“Madame Gravois, in the Rue Bienville,” she repeated. “I shall remember.

À demain, Monsieur.” She courtesied and went swiftly into Mrs. Temple’s

room. Seizing my hat, I opened the door and found myself in the dark

street.

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

I had met Hélène de St. Gré at last. And what a fool she must think me!

As I hurried along the dark banquettes this thought filled my brain for

a time to the exclusion of all others, so strongly is vanity ingrained

in us. After all, what did it matter what she thought,--Madame la

Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour? I had never shone, and it was rather late to

begin. But I possessed, at least, average common sense, and I had given

no proof even of this.

I wandered on, not heeding the command which she had given me,--to go

home. The scent of camellias and magnolias floated on the heavy air of

the night from the court-yards, reminding me of her. Laughter and soft

voices came from the galleries. Despite the Terror, despite the Faubourg

Saint-Antoine, despite the Rights of Man and the wars and suffering

arising therefrom, despite the scourge which might come to-morrow, life

went gayly on. The cabarets echoed, and behind the tight blinds lines of

light showed where the Creole gentry gamed at their tables, perchance in

the very clubs Madame la Vicomtesse had mentioned.

The moon, in her first quarter, floated in a haze. Washed by her light,

the quaintly wrought balconies and heavy-tiled roofs of the Spanish

buildings, risen from the charred embers, took on a touch of romance.

I paused once with a twinge of remembrance before the long line of the

Ursuline convent, with its latticed belfry against the sky. There

was the lodge, with its iron gates shut, and the wall which Nick had

threatened to climb. As I passed the great square of the new barracks,

a sereno (so the night watchmen were called) was crying the hour. I

came to the rambling market-stalls, casting black shadows on the river

road,--empty now, to be filled in the morning with shouting marchands.

The promenade under the willows was deserted, the great river stretched

away under the moon towards the forest line of the farther shore,

filmy and indistinct. A black wisp of smoke rose from the gunwale of a

flatboat, and I stopped to listen to the weird song of a negro, which I

have heard many times since.

CAROLINE. †

In, dé, tois, Ca-ro-line, Qui ci ça yé, comme

ça ma chére? In, dé, tois, Ca-ro-line, Quo

fair t’-apés cri--é ma chére? Mo l’-aimé toé to

con-né ça, C’est to m’ou--lé, c’est to mo prend, Mo

l’-aimé toé, to con-né ca -- a c’est to m’oulé c’est

to mo prend.

Gaining the promenade, I came presently to the new hotel which had been

built for the Governor, with its balconied windows looking across the

river--the mansion of Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet. Even as I sat on

the bench in the shadow of the willows, watching the sentry who paced

before the arched entrance, I caught sight of a man stealing along the

banquette on the other side of the road. Twice he paused to look behind

him, and when he reached the corner of the street he stopped for some

time to survey the Governor’s house opposite.

Suddenly I was on my feet, every sense alert, staring. In the moonlight,

made milky by the haze, he was indistinct. And yet I could have taken

oath that the square, diminutive figure, with the head set forward on

the shoulders, was Gignoux’s. If this man were not Gignoux, then the

Lord had cast two in a strange mould.

And what was Gignoux doing in New Orleans? As if in answer to the

question two men emerged from the dark archway of the Governor’s house,

passed the sentry, and stood for an instant on the edge of the shadow.

One wore a long Spanish cloak, and the other a uniform that I could not

make out. A word was spoken, and then my man was ambling across to meet

them, and the three walked away up Toulouse Street.

I was in a fire of conjecture. I did not dare to pass the sentry and

follow them, so I made round as fast as I could by the Rue St. Pierre,

which borders the Place d’Armes, and then crossed to Toulouse again by

Chartres. The three were nowhere to be seen. I paused on the corner for

thought, and at length came to a reluctant but prudent conclusion that I

had best go back to my lodging and seek Monsieur early in the morning.

Madame Gravois was awaiting me. Was Monsieur mad to remain out at night?

Had Monsieur not heard of the yellow fever? Madame Gravois even had

prepared some concoction which she poured out of a bottle, and which I

took with the docility of a child. Monsieur Vigo had called, and there

was a note. A note? It was a small note. I glanced stupidly at the seal,

recognized the swan of the St. Gré crest, broke it, and read:--

“Mr. Ritchie will confer a favor upon la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour if he

will come to Monsieur de St. Gré’s house at eight to-morrow morning.”

I bade the reluctant Madame Gravois good night, gained my room, threw

off my clothes, and covered myself with the mosquito bar. There was no

question of sleep, for the events of the day and surmises for the morrow

tortured me as I tossed in the heat. Had the man been Gignoux? If so, he

was in league with Carondelet’s police. I believed him fully capable of

this. And if he knew Nick’s whereabouts and St. Gré’s, they would both

be behind the iron gateway of the calabozo in the morning. Monsieur Vigo

had pointed out to me that day the gloomy, heavy-walled prison in

the rear of the Cabildo,--ay, and he had spoken of its instruments of

torture.

What could the Vicomtesse want? Truly (I thought with remorse) she had

been more industrious than I.

I fell at length into a fevered sleep, and awoke, athirst, with the

light trickling through my lattices. Contrary to Madame Gravois’s

orders, I had opened the glass of my window. Glancing at my

watch,--which I had bought in Philadelphia,--I saw that the hands

pointed to half after seven. I had scarcely finished my toilet before

there was a knock at the door, and Madame Gravois entered with a

steaming cup of coffee in one hand and her bottle of medicine in the

other.

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

She gave me another dose of the medicine, made me drink two cups of

coffee, and then I started out with all despatch for the House of the

Lions. As I turned into the Rue Chartres I saw ahead of me four horses,

with their bridles bunched and held by a negro lad, waiting in the

street. Yes, they were in front of the house. There it was, with its

solid green gates between the lions, its yellow walls with the fringe

of peeping magnolias and oranges, with its green-latticed gallery

from which Monsieur Auguste had let himself down after stealing the

miniature. I knocked at the wicket, the same gardienne answered the

call, smiled, led me through the cool, paved archway which held in its

frame the green of the court beyond, and up the stairs with the quaint

balustrade which I had mounted five years before to meet Philippe de

St. Gré. As I reached the gallery Madame la Vicomtesse, gowned in brown

linen for riding, rose quickly from her chair and came forward to meet

me.

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

“I have the kind of news I expected,” she answered, a smile tempering

the gravity of her face; “Auguste is, as usual, in need of money.”

“Then you have found them,” I answered, my voice betraying my admiration

for the feat.

Madame la Vicomtesse shrugged her shoulders slightly.

“I did nothing,” she said. “From what you told me, I suspected that as

soon as Auguste reached Louisiana he would have a strong desire to go

away again. This is undoubtedly what has happened. In any event, I knew

that he would want money, and that he would apply to a source which has

hitherto never failed him.”

“Mademoiselle Antoinette!” I said.

“Precisely,” answered Madame la Vicomtesse. “When I reached home last

night I questioned Antoinette, and I discovered that by a singular

chance a message from Auguste had already reached her.”

“Where is he?” I demanded.

“I do not know,” she replied. “But he will be behind the hedge of the

garden at Les Îles at eleven o’clock--unless he has lost before then his

love of money.”

“Which is to say--”

“He will be there unless he is dead. That is why I sent for you,

Monsieur.” She glanced at me. “Sometimes it is convenient to have a

man.”

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

“And Monsieur de St. Gré?” I asked.

“Has been gone for a week with Madame to visit the estimable Monsieur

Poydras at Pointe Coupée.” Madame la Vicomtesse, who had better use

for her words than to waste them at such a time, left me, went to

the balcony, and began to give the gardienne in the court below swift

directions in French. Then she turned to me again.

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

she asked.

“I am,” I answered.

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

on mine.

“You look tired, Mr. Ritchie,” she said. “You did not obey me and go

home last night.”

“How did you know that?” I asked, with a thrill at her interest.

“Because Madame Gravois told my messenger that you were out.”

I was silent.

“You must take care of yourself,” she said briefly. “Come, there are

some things which I wish to say to you before Antoinette is ready.”

She led me toward the end of the gallery, where a bright screen of

morning-glories shaded us from the sun. But we had scarce reached the

place ere the sound of steps made us turn, and there was Mademoiselle

Antoinette herself facing us. I went forward a few steps, hesitated,

and bowed. She courtesied, my name faltering on her lips. Yes, it was

Antoinette, not the light-hearted girl whom we had heard singing

“Ma luron” in the garden, but a woman now with a strange beauty that

astonished me. Hers was the dignity that comes from unselfish service,

the calm that is far from resignation, though the black veil caught

up on her chapeau de paille gave her the air of a Sister of Mercy.

Antoinette had inherited the energies as well as the features of the St.

Gré’s, yet there was a painful moment as she stood there, striving to

put down the agitation the sight of me gave her. As for me, I was bereft

of speech, not knowing what to say or how far to go. My last thought

was of the remarkable quality in this woman before me which had held her

true to Mrs. Temple, and which sent her so courageously to her duty now.

Madame la Vicomtesse, as I had hoped, relieved the situation. She knew

how to broach a dreaded subject.

“Mr. Ritchie is going with us, Antoinette,” she said. “It is perhaps

best to explain everything to him before we start. I was about to tell

you, Mr. Ritchie,” she continued, turning to me, “that Auguste has given

no hint in his note of Mr. Temple’s presence in Louisiana. And yet you

told me that they were to have come here together.”

“Yes,” I answered, “and I have no reason to think they have separated.”

“I was merely going to suggest,” said the Vicomtesse, firmly, “I was

merely going to suggest the possibility of our meeting Mr. Temple with

Auguste.”

It was Antoinette who answered, with a force that revealed a new side of

her character.

“Mr. Temple will not be there,” she said, flashing a glance upon us. “Do

you think he would come to me--?”

Hélène laid her hand upon the girl’s arm.

“My dear, I think nothing,” she said quietly; “but it is best for us

to be prepared against any surprise. Remember that I do not know Mr.

Temple, and that you have not seen him for five years.”

“It is not like him, you know it is not like him,” exclaimed Antoinette,

looking at me.

“I know it is not like him, Mademoiselle,” I replied.

Madame la Vicomtesse, from behind the girl, gave me a significant look.

“This occurred to me,” she went on in an undisturbed tone, “that Mr.

Temple might come with Auguste to protest against the proceeding,--or

even to defend himself against the imputation that he was to make use

of this money in any way. I wish you to realize, Antoinette, before you

decide to go, that you may meet Mr. Temple. Would it not be better

to let Mr. Ritchie go alone? I am sure that we could find no better

emissary.”

“Auguste is here,” said Antoinette. “I must see him.” Her voice caught.

“I may never see him again. He may be ill, he may be starving--and I

know that he is in trouble. Whether” (her voice caught) “whether Mr.

Temple is with him or not, I mean to go.”

“Then it would be well to start,” said the Vicomtesse.

Deftly dropping her veil, she picked up a riding whip that lay on the

railing and descended the stairs to the courtyard. Antoinette and I

followed. As we came through the archway I saw André, Monsieur de St.

Gré’s mulatto, holding open the wicket for us to pass. He helped the

ladies to mount the ponies, lengthened my own stirrups for me, swung

into the saddle himself, and then the four of us were picking our way

down the Rue Chartres at an easy amble. Turning to the right beyond the

cool garden of the Ursulines, past the yellow barracks, we came to the

river front beside the fortifications. A score of negroes were

sweating there in the sun, swinging into position the long logs for the

palisades, nearly completed. They were like those of Kaskaskia and our

own frontier forts in Kentucky, with a forty-foot ditch in front of

them. Seated on a horse talking to the overseer was a fat little man in

white linen who pulled off his hat and bowed profoundly to the ladies.

His face gave me a start, and then I remembered that I had seen him only

the day before, resplendent, coming out of church. He was the Baron de

Carondelet.

There was a sentry standing under a crape-myrtle where the Royal Road

ran through the gateway. Behind him was a diminutive five-sided brick

fort with a dozen little cannon on top of it. The sentry came forward,

brought his musket to a salute, and halted before my horse.

“You will have to show your passport,” murmured Madame la Vicomtesse.

I drew the document from my pocket. It was signed by De Lemos, and duly

countersigned by the officer of the port. The man bowed, and I passed

on.

It was a strange, silent ride through the stinging heat to Les Îles,

the brown dust hanging behind us like a cloud, to settle slowly on the

wayside shrubbery. Across the levee bank the river was low, listless,

giving off hot breath like a monster in distress. The forest pools were

cracked and dry, the Spanish moss was a haggard gray, and under the sun

was the haze which covered the land like a saffron mantle. At times a

listlessness came over me such as I had never known, to make me forget

the presence of the women at my side, the very errand on which we rode.

From time to time I was roused into admiration of the horsemanship of

Madame la Vicomtesse, for the restive Texas pony which she rode was

stung to madness by the flies. As for Antoinette, she glanced neither

right nor left through her veil, but rode unmindful of the way, heedless

of heat and discomfort, erect, motionless save for the easy gait of her

horse. At length we turned into the avenue through the forest, lined

by wild orange trees, came in sight of the low, belvedered plantation

house, and drew rein at the foot of the steps. Antoinette was the first

to dismount, and passed in silence through the group of surprised house

servants gathering at the door. I assisted the Vicomtesse, who paused

to bid the negroes disperse, and we lingered for a moment on the gallery

together.

“Poor Antoinette!” she said, “I wish we might have saved her this.” She

looked up at me. “How she defended him!” she exclaimed.

“She loves him,” I answered.

Madame la Vicomtesse sighed.

“I suppose there is no help for it,” she said. “But it is very difficult

not to be angry with Mr. Temple. The girl cared for his mother, gave

her a home, clung to her when he and the world would have cast her off,

sacrificed her happiness for them both. If I see him, I believe I shall

shake him. And if he doesn’t fall down on his knees to her, I shall ask

the Baron to hang him. We must bring him to his senses, Mr. Ritchie. He

must not leave Louisiana until he sees her. Then he will marry her.” She

paused, scrutinized me in her quick way, and added: “You see that I take

your estimation of his character. You ought to be flattered.”

“I am flattered by any confidence you repose in me, Madame la

Vicomtesse.”

She laughed. I was not flattered then, but cursed myself for the quaint

awkwardness in my speech that amused her. And she was astonishingly

quick to perceive my moods.

“There, don’t be angry. You will never be a courtier, my honest friend,

and you may thank God for it. How sweet the shrubs are! Your chief

business in life seems to be getting people out of trouble, and I am

going to help you with this case.”

It was my turn to laugh.

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

far.”

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

Suddenly I remembered Gignoux, but even as I was about to tell her of

the incident Antoinette appeared in the doorway. She was very pale, but

her lips were set with excitement and her eyes shone strangely. She was

still in her riding gown, in her hand she carried a leather bag, and

behind her stood André with a bundle.

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

Checking an exclamation which could hardly have been complimentary to

Auguste, the Vicomtesse crossed quickly to her and put her arm about

her.

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

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

sees any one.”

“We shall have to risk that,” said the Vicomtesse, dryly, with a glance

at me. “You shall not go alone, but we will wait a few moments at the

hedge.”

We took the well-remembered way through the golden-green light under the

trees, Antoinette leading, and the sight of the garden brought back to

me poignantly the scene in the moonlight with Mrs. Temple. There was no

sound save the languid morning notes of the birds and the humming of the

bees among the flowers as Antoinette went tremblingly down the path

and paused, listening, under the branches of that oak where I had first

beheld her. Then, with a little cry, we saw her run forward--into the

arms of Auguste de St. Gré. It was a pitiful thing to look upon.

Antoinette had led her brother to the seat under the oak. How long

we waited I know not, but at length we heard their voices raised, and

without more ado Madame la Vicomtesse, beckoning me, passed quickly

through the gap in the hedge and went towards them. I followed with

André. Auguste rose with an oath, and then stood facing his cousin

like a man struck dumb, his hands dropped. He was a sorry sight indeed,

unshaven, unkempt, dark circles under his eyes, clothes torn.

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

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

come towards her, but there was a note in her voice which arrested him.

“And Monsieur le Vicomte--Henri?” he said.

I found myself listening tensely for the answer.

“Henri is in Austria, fighting for his King, I hope,” said Madame la

Vicomtesse.

“So Madame la Vicomtesse is a refugee,” he said with a bow and a smile

that made me very angry.

“And Monsieur de St. Gré!” I asked.

At the sound of my voice he started and gave back, for he had not

perceived me. He recovered his balance, such as it was, instantly.

“Monsieur seems to take an extraordinary interest in my affairs,” he

said jauntily.

“Only when they are to the detriment of other persons who are my

friends,” I said.

“Monsieur has intruded in a family matter,” said Auguste, grandly, still

in French.

“By invitation of those most concerned, Monsieur,” I answered, for I

could have throttled him.

Auguste had developed. He had learned well that effrontery is often

the best weapon of an adventurer. He turned from me disdainfully,

petulantly, and addressed the Vicomtesse once more.

“I wish to be alone with Antoinette,” he said.

“No doubt,” said the Vicomtesse.

“I demand it,” said Auguste.

“The demand is not granted,” said the Vicomtesse; “that is why we have

come. Your sister has already made enough sacrifices for you. I know

you, Monsieur Auguste de St. Gré,” she continued with quiet contempt.

“It is not for love of Antoinette that you have sought this meeting.

It is because,” she said, riding down a torrent of words which began to

escape from him, “it is because you are in a predicament, as usual, and

you need money.”

“Hélène!”

It was Antoinette who spoke. She had risen, and was standing behind

Auguste. She still held the leather bag in her hand.

“Perhaps the sum is not enough,” she said; “he has to get to France.

Perhaps we could borrow more until my father comes home.” She looked

questioningly at us.

Madame la Vicomtesse was truly a woman of decision. Without more ado she

took the bag from Antoinette’s unresisting hands and put it into mine. I

was no less astonished than the rest of them.

“Mr. Ritchie will keep this until the negotiations are finished,” said

the Vicomtesse.

“Negotiations!” cried Auguste, beside himself. “This is insolence,

Madame.”

“Be careful, sir,” I said.

“Auguste!” cried Antoinette, putting her hand on his arm.

“Why did you tell them?” he demanded, turning on her.

“Because I trust them, Auguste,” Antoinette answered. She spoke without

anger, as one whose sorrow has put her beyond it. Her speech had

a dignity and force which might have awed a worthier man. His

disappointment and chagrin brought him beyond bounds.

“You trust them!” he cried, “you trust them when they tell you to give

your brother, who is starving and in peril of his life, eight hundred

livres? Eight hundred livres, pardieu, and your brother!”

“It is all I have, Auguste,” said his sister, sadly.

“Ha!” he said dramatically, “I see, they seek my destruction. This

man”--pointing at me--“is a Federalist, and Madame la Vicomtesse”--he

bowed ironically--“is a Royalist.”

“Pish!” said the Vicomtesse, impatiently, “it would be an easy matter to

have you sent to the Morro--a word to Monsieur de Carondelet, Auguste.

Do you believe for a moment that, in your father’s absence, I would have

allowed Antoinette to come here alone? And it was a happy circumstance

that I could call on such a man as Mr. Ritchie to come with us.”

“It seems to me that Mr. Ritchie and his friends have already brought

sufficient misfortune on the family.”

It was a villanous speech. Antoinette turned away, her shoulders

quivering, and I took a step towards him; but Madame la Vicomtesse made

a swift gesture, and I stopped, I know not why. She gave an exclamation

so sharp that he flinched physically, as though he had been struck. But

it was characteristic of her that when she began to speak, her words cut

rather than lashed.

“Auguste de St. Gré,” she said, “I know you. The Tribunal is merciful

compared to you. There is no one on earth whom you would not torture for

your selfish ends, no one whom you would not sell without compunction

for your pleasure. There are things that a woman should not mention, and

yet I would tell them without shame to your face were it not for your

sister. If it were not for her, I would not have you in my presence.

Shall I speak of your career in France? There is Valenciennes, for

example--”

She stopped abruptly. The man was gray, but not on his account did the

Vicomtesse stay her speech. She forgot him as though he did not exist,

and by one of those swift transitions which thrilled me had gone to the

sobbing Antoinette and taken her in her arms, murmuring endearments

of which our language is not capable. I, too, forgot Auguste. But no

rebuke, however stinging, could make him forget himself, and before we

realized it he was talking again. He had changed his tactics.

“This is my home,” he said, “where I might expect shelter and comfort.

You make me an outcast.”

Antoinette disengaged herself from Hélène with a cry, but he turned away

from her and shrugged.

“A stranger would have fared better. Perhaps you will have more

consideration for a stranger. There is a French ship at the Terre aux

Bœufs in the English Turn, which sails to-night. I appeal to you, Mr.

Ritchie,”--he was still talking in French--“I appeal to you, who are

a man of affairs,”--and he swept me a bow,--“if a captain would risk

taking a fugitive to France for eight hundred livres? Pardieu, I could

get no farther than the Balize for that. Monsieur,” he added meaningly,

“you have an interest in this. There are two of us to go.”

The amazing effrontery of this move made me gasp. Yet it was neither the

Vicomtesse nor myself who answered him. We turned by common impulse

to Antoinette, and she was changed. Her breath came quickly, her eyes

flashed, her anger made her magnificent.

“It is not true,” she cried, “you know it is not true.”

He lifted his shoulders and smiled.

“You are my brother, and I am ashamed to acknowledge you. I was willing

to give my last sou, to sell my belongings, to take from the poor to

help you--until you defamed a good man. You cannot make me believe,” she

cried, unheeding the color that surged into her cheeks, “you cannot make

me believe that he would use this money. You cannot make me believe it.”

“Let us do him the credit of thinking that he means to repay it,” said

Auguste.

Antoinette’s eyes filled with tears,--tears of pride, of humiliation,

ay, and of an anger of which I had not thought her capable. She was

indeed a superb creature then, a personage I had not imagined. Gathering

up her gown, she passed Auguste and turned on him swiftly.

“If you were to bring that to him,” she said, pointing to the bag in

my hand, “he would not so much as touch it. To-morrow I shall go to the

Ursulines, and I thank God I shall never see you again. I thank God I

shall no longer be your sister. Give Monsieur the bundle,” she said to

the frightened André, who still stood by the hedge; “he may need food

and clothes for his journey.”

She left us. We stood watching her until her gown had disappeared

amongst the foliage. André came forward and held out the bundle to

Auguste, who took it mechanically. Then Madame La Vicomtesse motioned

to André to leave, and gave me a glance, and it was part of the deep

understanding of her I had that I took its meaning. I had my forebodings

at what this last conversation with Auguste might bring forth, and I

wished heartily that we were rid of him.

“Monsieur de St. Gré,” I said, “I understood you to say that a ship is

lying at the English Turn some five leagues below us, on which you are

to take passage at once.”

He turned and glared at me, some devilish retort on his lips which he

held back. Suddenly he became suave.

“I shall want two thousand livres Monsieur; it was the sum I asked for.”

“It is not a question of what you asked for,” I answered.

“Since when did Monsieur assume this intimate position in my family?” he

said, glancing at the Vicomtesse.

“Monsieur de St. Gré,” I replied with difficulty, “you will confine

yourself to the matter in hand. You are in no situation to demand terms;

you must take or leave what is offered you. Last night the man called

Gignoux, who was of your party, was at the Governor’s house.”

At this he started perceptibly.

“Ha, I thought he was a traitor,” he cried. Strangely enough, he did not

doubt my word in this.

“I am surprised that your father’s house has not been searched this

morning,” I continued, astonished at my own moderation. “The sentiments

of the Baron de Carondelet are no doubt known to you, and you are aware

that your family or your friends cannot save you if you are arrested.

You may have this money on two conditions. The first is that you leave

the province immediately. The second, that you reveal the whereabouts of

Mr. Nicholas Temple.”

“Monsieur is very kind,” he replied, and added the taunt, “and well

versed in the conduct of affairs of money.”

“Does Monsieur de St. Gré accept?” I asked.

He threw out his hands with a gesture of resignation.

“Who am I to accept?” he said, “a fugitive, an outcast. And I should

like to remind Monsieur that time passes.”

“It is a sensible observation,” said I, meaning that it was the first.

His sudden docility made me suspicious. “What preparations have you made

to go?”

“They are not elaborate, Monsieur, but they are complete. When I leave

you I step into a pirogue which is tied to the river bank.”

“Ah,” I replied. “And Mr. Temple?”

Madame la Vicomtesse smiled, for Auguste was fairly caught. He had not

the astuteness to be a rogue; oddly, he had the sense to know that he

could fool us no longer.

“Temple is at Lamarque’s,” he answered sullenly.

I glanced questioningly at the Vicomtesse.

“Lamarque is an old pensioner of Monsieur de St. Gré’s,” said she; “he

has a house and an arpent of land not far below here.”

“Exactly,” said Auguste, “and if Mr. Ritchie believes that he will save

money by keeping Mr. Temple in Louisiana instead of giving him this

opportunity to escape, it is no concern of mine.”

I reflected a moment on this, for it was another sensible remark.

“It is indeed no concern of yours,” said Madame la Vicomtesse.

He shrugged his shoulders.

“And now,” he said, “I take it that there are no further conscientious

scruples against my receiving this paltry sum.”

“I will go with you to your pirogue,” I answered, “when you embark you

shall have it.”

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

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

bowing low.

“Lead the way, Monsieur,” I said.

He took his bundle, and started off down the garden path with a grand

air. I looked at the Vicomtesse inquiringly, and there was laughter in

her eyes.

“I must show you the way to Lamarque’s.” And then she whispered, “You

have done well, Mr. Ritchie.”

I did not return her look, but waited until she took the path ahead

of me. In silence we followed Auguste through the depths of the woods,

turning here and there to avoid a fallen tree or a sink-hole where the

water still remained. At length we came out in the glare of the sun and

crossed the dusty road to the levee bank. Some forty yards below us was

the canoe, and we walked to it, still in silence. Auguste flung in his

bundle, and turned to us.

“Perhaps Monsieur is satisfied,” he said.

I handed him the bag, and he took it with an elaborate air of

thankfulness. Nay, the rascal opened it as if to assure himself that he

was not tricked at the last. At the sight of the gold and silver which

Antoinette had hastily collected, he turned to Madame la Vicomtesse.

“Should I have the good fortune to meet Monsieur le Vicomte in France,

I shall assure him that Madame is in good hands” (he swept an exultant

look at me) “and enjoying herself.”

I could have flung him into the river, money-bag and all. But Madame

la Vicomtesse made him a courtesy there on the levee bank, and said

sweetly:--

“That is very good of you, Auguste.”

“As for you, Monsieur,” he said, and now his voice shook with

uncontrolled rage, “I am in no condition to repay your kindnesses. But I

have no doubt that you will not object to keeping the miniature a while

longer.”

I was speechless with anger and shame, and though I felt the eyes of

the Vicomtesse upon me, I dared not look at her. I heard Auguste but

indistinctly as he continued:--

“Should you need the frame, Monsieur, you will doubtless find it still

with Monsieur Isadore, the Jew, in the Rue Toulouse.” With that he

leaped into his boat, seized the paddle, and laughed as he headed into

the current. How long I stood watching him as he drifted lazily in the

sun I know not, but at length the voice of Madame la Vicomtesse aroused

me.

“He is a pleasant person,” she said.

CHAPTER VIII. AT LAMARQUE’S

Until then it seemed as if the sun had gotten into my brain and set it

on fire. Her words had the strange effect of clearing my head, though I

was still in as sad a predicament as ever I found myself. There was the

thing in my pocket, still wrapped in Polly Ann’s handkerchief. I

glanced at the Vicomtesse shyly, and turned away again. Her face was all

repressed laughter, the expression I knew so well.

“I think we should feel better in the shade, Mr. Ritchie,” she said

in English, and, leaping lightly down from the bank, crossed the road

again. I followed her, perforce.

“I will show you the way to Lamarque’s,” she said.

“Madame la Vicomtesse!” I cried.

Had she no curiosity? Was she going to let pass what Auguste had hinted?

Lifting up her skirts, she swung round and faced me. In her eyes was

a calmness more baffling than the light I had seen there but a moment

since. How to begin I knew not, and yet I was launched.

“Madame la Vicomtesse, there was once a certain miniature painted of

you.”

“By Boze, Monsieur,” she answered, readily enough. The embarrassment was

all on my side. “We spoke of it last evening. I remember well when

it was taken. It was the costume I wore at Chantilly, and Monsieur le

Prince complimented me, and the next day the painter himself came to our

hotel in the Rue de Bretagne and asked the honor of painting me.” She

sighed. “Ah, those were happy days! Her Majesty was very angry with me.”

“And why?” I asked, forgetful of my predicament.

“For sending it to Louisiana, to Antoinette.”

“And why did you send it?”

“A whim,” said the Vicomtesse. “I had always written twice a year either

to Monsieur de St. Gré or Antoinette, and although I had never seen

them, I loved them. Perhaps it was because they had the patience to read

my letters and the manners to say they liked them.”

“Surely not, Madame,” I said. “Monsieur de St. Gré spoke often to me of

the wonderful pictures you drew of the personages at court.”

Madame la Vicomtesse had an answer on the tip of her tongue. I know now

that she spared me.

“And what of this miniature, Monsieur?” she asked. “What became of it

after you restored it to its rightful owner?”

I flushed furiously and fumbled in my pocket.

“I obtained it again, Madame,” I said.

“You obtained it!” she cried, I am not sure to this day whether in

consternation or jest. In passing, it was not just what I wanted to say.

“I meant to give it you last night,” I said.

“And why did you not?” she demanded severely.

I felt her eyes on me, and it seemed to me as if she were looking into

my very soul. Even had it been otherwise, I could not have told her how

I had lived with this picture night and day, how I had dreamed of it,

how it had been my inspiration and counsel. I drew it from my pocket,

wrapped as it was in the handkerchief, and uncovered it with a reverence

which she must have marked, for she turned away to pick a yellow flower

by the roadside. I thank Heaven that she did not laugh. Indeed, she

seemed to be far from laughter.

“You have taken good care of it, Monsieur,” she said. “I thank you.”

“It was not mine, Madame,” I answered.

“And if it had been?” she asked.

It was a strange prompting.

“If it had been, I could have taken no better care of it,” I answered,

and I held it towards her.

She took it simply.

“And the handkerchief?” she said.

“The handkerchief was Polly Ann’s,” I answered.

She stopped to pick a second flower that had grown by the first.

“Who is Polly Ann?” she said.

“When I was eleven years of age and ran away from Temple Bow after

my father died, Polly Ann found me in the hills. When she married Tom

McChesney they took me across the mountains into Kentucky with them.

Polly Ann has been more than a mother to me.”

“Oh!” said Madame la Vicomtesse. Then she looked at me with a stranger

expression than I had yet seen in her face. She thrust the miniature in

her gown, turned, and walked in silence awhile. Then she said:--

“So Auguste sold it again?”

“Yes,” I said.

“He seems to have found a ready market only in you,” said the

Vicomtesse, without turning her head. “Here we are at Lamarque’s.”

What I saw was a low, weather-beaten cabin on the edge of a clearing,

and behind it stretched away in prim rows the vegetables which the old

Frenchman had planted. There was a little flower garden, too, and an

orchard. A path of beaten earth led to the door, which was open. There

we paused. Seated at a rude table was Lamarque himself, his hoary head

bent over the cards he held in his hand. Opposite him was Mr. Nicholas

Temple, in the act of playing the ace of spades. I think that it was

the laughter of Madame la Vicomtesse that first disturbed them, and even

then she had time to turn to me.

“I like your cousin,” she whispered.

“Is that you, St. Gré?” said Nick. “I wish to the devil you would learn

not to sneak. You frighten me. Where the deuce did you go to?”

But Lamarque had seen the lady, stared at her wildly for a moment, and

rose, dropping his cards on the floor. He bowed humbly, not without

trepidation.

“Madame la Vicomtesse!” he said.

By this time Nick had risen, and he, too, was staring at her. How he

managed to appear so well dressed was a puzzle to me.

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

that--I beg your pardon.”

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

courtesied.

“Egad,” said Nick, and looked at her again. “Egad, I’ll be hanged if

it’s not--”

It was the first time I had seen the Vicomtesse in confusion. And indeed

if it were confusion she recovered instantly.

“You will probably be hanged, sir, if you do not mend your company,” she

said. “Do you not think so, Mr. Ritchie?”

“Davy!” he cried. And catching sight of me in the doorway, over her

shoulder, “Has he followed me here too?” Running past the Vicomtesse,

he seized me in his impulsive way and searched my face. “So you have

followed me here, old faithful! Madame,” he added, turning to the

Vicomtesse, “there is some excuse for my getting into trouble.”

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

with shining eyes.

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

never failed me.”

“You are far from being out of this,” I said. “If the Baron de

Carondelet does not hang you or put you in the Morro, you will not have

me to thank. It will be Madame la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour.”

“Madame la Vicomtesse!” exclaimed Nick, puzzled.

“May I present to you, Madame, Mr. Nicholas Temple?” I asked.

Nick bowed, and she courtesied again.

“So Monsieur le Baron is really after us,” said Nick. He opened his

eyes, slapped his knee, and laughed. “That may account for the Citizen

Captain de St. Gré’s absence,” he said. “By the way, Davy, you haven’t

happened by any chance to meet him?”

The Vicomtesse and I exchanged a look of understanding. Relief was plain

on her face. It was she who answered.

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

Bœufs.”

“Terre aux Bœufs! What the dev--I beg your pardon, Madame la Vicomtesse,

but you give me something of a surprise. Is there another conspiracy at

Terre aux Bœufs, or--does somebody live there who has never before lent

Auguste money?”

Madame la Vicomtesse laughed. Then she grew serious again.

“You did not know where he had gone?” she said.

“I did not even know he had gone,” said Nick. “Citizen Lamarque and I

were having a little game of piquet--for vegetables. Eh, citizen?”

Madame la Vicomtesse laughed again, and once more the shade of sadness

came into her eyes.

“They are the same the world over,” she said,--not to me, nor yet to any

one there. And I knew that she was thinking of her own kind in France,

who faced the guillotine without sense of danger. She turned to Nick.

“You may be interested to know, Mr. Temple,” she added, “that Auguste is

on his way to the English Turn to take ship for France.”

Nick regarded her for a moment, and then his face lighted up with that

smile which won every one he met, which inevitably made them smile back

at him.

“The news is certainly unexpected, Madame,” he said. “But then, after

one has travelled much with Auguste it is difficult to take a great deal

of interest in him. Am I to be sent to France, too?” he asked.

“Not if it can be helped,” replied the Vicomtesse, seriously. “Mr.

Ritchie will tell you, however, that you are in no small danger.

Doubtless you know it. Monsieur le Baron de Carondelet considers that

the intrigues of the French Revolutionists in Louisiana have already

robbed him of several years of his life. He is not disposed to be

lenient towards persons connected with that cause.”

“What have you been doing since you arrived here on this ridiculous

mission?” I demanded impatiently.

“My cousin is a narrow man, Madame la Vicomtesse,” said Nick. “We enjoy

ourselves in different ways. I thought there might be some excitement in

this matter, and I was sadly mistaken.”

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

“And Davy,” continued Nick, bowing to me, “gets his pleasures and

excitement by extracting me from my various entanglements. Well, there

is not much to tell. St. Gré and I were joined above Natchez by that

little pig, Citizen Gignoux, and we shot past De Lemos in the night.

Since then we have been permitted to sleep--no more--at various

plantations. We have been waked up at barbarous hours in the morning and

handed on, as it were. They were all fond of us, but likewise they were

all afraid of the Baron. What day is to-day? Monday? Then it was on

Saturday that we lost Gignoux.”

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

put in.

“Eh?”

“I saw him in communication with the police at the Governor’s hotel last

night,” I answered.

Nick was silent for a moment.

“Well,” he said, “that may make some excitement.” Then he laughed.

“I wonder why Auguste didn’t think of doing that,” he said. “And now,

what?”

“How did you get to this house?” I said.

“We came down on Saturday night, after we had lost Gignoux above the

city.”

“Do you know where you are?” I asked.

“Not I,” said Nick. “I have been playing piquet with Lamarque most of

the time since I arrived. He is one of the pleasantest men I have met in

Louisiana, although a little taciturn, as you perceive, and more than

a little deaf. I think he does not like Auguste. He seems to have known

him in his youth.”

Madame la Vicomtesse looked at him with interest.

“You are at Les Îles, Nick,” I said; “you are on Monsieur de St. Gré’s

plantation, and within a quarter of a mile of his house.”

His face became grave all at once. He seized me by both shoulders, and

looked into my face.

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

I nodded, seeing the deception which Auguste had evidently practised in

order to get him here. Then Nick dropped his arms, went to the door, and

stood for a long time with his back turned to us, looking out over the

fields. When finally he spoke it was in the tone he used in anger.

“If I had him now, I think I would kill him,” he said.

Auguste had deluded him in other things, had run away and deserted him

in a strange land. But this matter of bringing him to Les Îles was past

pardon. It was another face he turned to the Vicomtesse, a stronger

face, a face ennobled by a just anger.

“Madame la Vicomtesse,” he said, “I have a vague notion that you

are related to Monsieur de St. Gré. I give you my word of honor as a

gentleman that I had no thought of trespassing upon him in any way.”

“Mr. Temple, we were so sure of that--Mr. Ritchie and I--that we should

not have sought for you here otherwise,” she replied quickly. Then she

glanced at me as though seeking my approval for her next move. It was

characteristic of her that she did not now shirk a task imposed by

her sense of duty. “We have little time, Mr. Temple, and much to say.

Perhaps you will excuse us, Lamarque,” she added graciously, in French.

“Madame la Vicomtesse!” said the old man. And, with the tact of his

race, he bowed and retired. The Vicomtesse seated herself on one of the

rude chairs, and looked at Nick curiously. There was no such thing as

embarrassment in her manner, no trace of misgiving that she would not

move properly in the affair. Knowing Nick as I did, the difficulty of

the task appalled me, for no man was likelier than he to fly off at a

misplaced word.

Her beginning was so bold that I held my breath, knowing full well as I

did that she had chosen the very note.

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

mother.”

He stopped like a man who had been struck, straightened, and stared at

her as though he had not taken her meaning. Then he swung on me.

“Your mother is in New Orleans,” I said. “I would have told you in

Louisville had you given me the chance.”

“It is an interesting piece of news, David,” he answered, “which you

might have spared me. Mrs. Temple did not think herself necessary to my

welfare when I was young, and now I have learned to live without her.”

“Is there no such thing as expiation, Monsieur?” said the Vicomtesse.

“Madame,” he said, “she made me what I am, and when I might have

redeemed myself she came between me and happiness.”

“Monsieur,” said the Vicomtesse, “have you ever considered her

sufferings?”

He looked at the Vicomtesse with a new interest. She was not so far

beyond his experience as mine.

“Her sufferings?” he repeated, and smiled.

“Madame la Vicomtesse should know them,” I interrupted; and without

heeding her glance of protest I continued, “It is she who has cared for

Mrs. Temple.”

“You, Madame!” he exclaimed.

“Do not deny your own share in it, Mr. Ritchie,” she answered. “As for

me, Monsieur,” she went on, turning to Nick, “I have done nothing

that was not selfish. I have been in the world, I have lived my life,

misfortunes have come upon me too. My visits to your mother have been to

me a comfort, a pleasure,--for she is a rare person.”

“I have never found her so, Madame,” he said briefly.

“I am sure it is your misfortune rather than your fault, Mr. Temple. It

is because you do not know her now.”

Again he looked at me, puzzled, uneasy, like a man who would run if he

could. But by a kind of fascination his eyes went back to this woman

who dared a subject sore to the touch--who pressed it gently, but

with determination, never doubting her powers, yet with a kindness and

sympathy of tone which few women of the world possess. The Vicomtesse

began to speak again, evenly, gently.

“Mr. Temple,” said she, “I am merely going to tell you some things which

I am sure you do not know, and when I have finished I shall not appeal

to you. It would be useless for me to try to influence you, and from

what Mr. Ritchie and others have told me of your character I am sure

that no influence will be necessary. And,” she added, with a smile, “it

would be much more comfortable for us both if you sat down.”

He obeyed her without a word. No wonder Madame la Vicomtesse had had an

influence at court.

“There!” she said. “If any reference I am about to make gives you pain,

I am sorry.” She paused briefly. “After Mr. Ritchie took your mother

from here to New Orleans, some five years ago, she rented a little house

in the Rue Bourbon with a screen of yellow and red tiles at the edge

of the roof. It is on the south side, next to the corner of the Rue St.

Philippe. There she lives absolutely alone, except for a servant. Mr.

Clark, who has charge of her affairs, was the only person she allowed to

visit her. For her pride, however misplaced, and for her spirit we must

all admire her. The friend who discovered where she was, who went to her

and implored Mrs. Temple to let her stay, she refused.”

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

the Vicomtesse.

“Yes, it was Antoinette,” she answered. He did not reply, but his eyes

fell. “Antoinette went to her, would have comforted her, would have

cared for her, but your mother sent her away. For five years she has

lived there, Mr. Temple, alone with her past, alone with her sorrow and

remorse. You must draw the picture for yourself. If the world has a more

terrible punishment, I have not heard of it. And when, some months ago,

I came, and Antoinette sent me to her--”

“Sent you to her!” he said, raising his head quickly.

“Under another name than my own,” Hélène continued, apparently taking

no notice of his interruption. She leaned toward him and her voice

faltered. “I found your mother dying.”

He said nothing, but got to his feet and walked slowly to the door,

where he stood looking out again. I felt for him, I would have gone to

him then had it not been for the sense in me that Hélène did not wish

it. As for Hélène, she sat waiting for him to turn back to her, and at

length he did.

“Yes?” he said.

“It is her heart, Mr. Temple, that we fear the most. Last night I

thought the end had come. It cannot be very far away now. Sorrow and

remorse have killed her, Monsieur. The one thing that she has prayed for

through the long nights is that she might see you once again and

obtain your forgiveness. God Himself does not withhold forgiveness, Mr.

Temple,” said the Vicomtesse, gently. “Shall any of us presume to?”

A spasm of pain crossed his face, and then his expression hardened.

“I might have been a useful man,” he said; “she ruined my life--”

“And you will allow her to ruin the rest of it?” asked the Vicomtesse.

He stared at her.

“If you do not go to her and forgive her, you will remember it until you

die,” she said.

He sank down on the chair opposite to her, his head bowed into his

hands, his elbows on the table among the cards. At length I went and

laid my hands upon his shoulder, and at my touch he started. Then he did

a singular thing, an impulsive thing, characteristic of the old Nick I

had known. He reached across the table and seized the hand of Madame la

Vicomtesse. She did not resist, and her smile I shall always remember.

It was the smile of a woman who has suffered, and understands.

“I will go to her, Madame!” he said, springing to his feet. “I will go

to her. I--I was wrong.”

She rose, too, he still clinging to her hand, she still unresisting. His

eye fell upon me.

“Where is my hat, Davy?” he asked.

The Vicomtesse withdrew her hand and looked at me.

“Alas, it is not quite so simple as that, Mr. Temple,” she said;

“Monsieur de Carondelet has first to be reckoned with.”

“She is dying, you say? then I will go to her. After that Monsieur de

Carondelet may throw me into prison, may hang me, may do anything he

chooses. But I will go to her.”

I glanced anxiously at the Vicomtesse, well knowing how wilful he was

when aroused. Admiration was in her eyes, seeing that he was heedless of

his own danger.

“You would not get through the gates of the city. Monsieur le Baron

requires passports now,” she said.

At that he began to pace the little room, his hands clenched.

“I could use your passport, Davy,” he cried. “Let me have it.”

“Pardon me, Mr. Temple, I do not think you could,” said the Vicomtesse.

I flushed. I suppose the remark was not to be resisted.

“Then I will go to-night,” he said, with determination. “It will be no

trouble to steal into the city. You say the house has yellow and red

tiles, and is near the Rue St. Philippe?”

Hélène laid her fingers on his arm.

“Listen, Monsieur, there is a better way,” she said. “Monsieur le Baron

is doubtless very angry with you, and I am sure that this is chiefly

because he does not know you. For instance, if some one were to tell him

that you are a straightforward, courageous young man, a gentleman with

an unquenchable taste for danger, that you are not a low-born adventurer

and intriguer, that you have nothing in particular against his

government, he might not be quite so angry. Pardon me if I say that he

is not disposed to take your expedition any more seriously than is your

own Federal government. The little Baron is irascible, choleric, stern,

or else good-natured, good-hearted, and charitable, just as one happens

to take him. As we say in France, it is not well to strike flint and

steel in his presence. He might blow up and destroy one. Suppose some

one were to go to Monsieur de Carondelet and tell him what a really

estimable person you are, and assure him that you will go quietly out

of his province at the first opportunity, and be good, so far as he is

concerned, forever after? Mark me, I merely say suppose. I do not know

how far things have gone, or what he may have heard. But suppose a

person whom I have reason to believe he likes and trusts and respects,

a person who understands his vagaries, should go to him on such an

errand.”

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

himself.

Madame la Vicomtesse courtesied.

“Monsieur, she is before you,” she said.

“Egad,” he cried, “do you mean to say, Madame, that you will go to the

Baron on my behalf?”

“As soon as I ever get to town,” she said. “He will have to be waked

from his siesta, and he does not like that.”

“But he will forgive you,” said Nick, quick as a flash.

“I have reason to believe he will,” said Madame la Vicomtesse.

“Faith,” cried Nick, “he would not be flesh and blood if he didn’t.”

At that the Vicomtesse laughed, and her eye rested judicially on me. I

was standing rather glumly, I fear, in the corner.

“Are you going to take him with you?” said Nick.

“I was thinking of it,” said the Vicomtesse. “Mr. Ritchie knows you, and

he is such a reliable and reputable person.”

Nick bowed.

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

said.

“He follows his friends into strange places,” she retorted. “And now,

Mr. Temple,” she added, “may we trust you to stay here with Lamarque

until you have word from us?”

“You know I cannot stay here,” he cried.

“And why not, Monsieur?”

“If I were captured here, I should get Monsieur de St. Gré into trouble;

and besides,” he said, with a touch of coldness, “I cannot be beholden

to Monsieur de St. Gré. I cannot remain on his land.”

“As for getting Monsieur de St. Gré into trouble, his own son could

not involve him with the Baron,” answered Madame la Vicomtesse. “And it

seems to me, Monsieur, that you are already so far beholden to Monsieur

de St. Gré that you cannot quibble about going a little more into his

debt. Come, Mr. Temple, how has Monsieur de St. Gré ever offended you?”

“Madame--” he began.

“Monsieur,” she said, with an air not to be denied, “I believe I can

discern a point of honor as well as you. I fail to see that you have a

case.”

He was indeed no match for her. He turned to me appealingly, his brows

bent, but I had no mind to meddle. He swung back to her.

“But Madame--!” he cried.

She was arranging the cards neatly on the table.

“Monsieur, you are tiresome,” she said. “What is it now?”

He took a step toward her, speaking in a low tone, his voice shaking.

But, true to himself, he spoke plainly. As for me, I looked on

frightened,--as though watching a contest,--almost agape to see what a

clever woman could do.

“There is--Mademoiselle de St. Gré--”

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

with the cards.

His face lighted, though his lips twitched with pain.

“She is still--”

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

mean.”

“And what will she think if I stay here?”

“Ah, do you care what she thinks, Mr. Temple?” said the Vicomtesse,

raising her head quickly. “From what I have heard, I should not have

thought you could.”

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

Hélène’s eyes softened as she looked at him, and my pride in him was

never greater than at that moment.

“Mr. Temple,” she said gently, “remain where you are and have faith in

us. I begin to see now why you are so fortunate in your friends.” Her

glance rested for a brief instant on me. “Mr. Ritchie and I will go to

New Orleans, talk to the Baron, and send André at once with a message.

If it is in our power, you shall see your mother very soon.”

She held out her hand to him, and he bent and kissed it reverently, with

an ease I envied. He followed us to the door. And when the Vicomtesse

had gone a little way down the path she looked at him over her shoulder.

“Do not despair, Mr. Temple,” she said.

It was an answer to a yearning in his face. He gripped me by the

shoulders.

“God bless you, Davy,” he whispered, and added, “God bless you both.”

I overtook her where the path ran into the forest’s shade, and for a

long while I walked after her, not breaking her silence, my eyes upon

her, a strange throbbing in my forehead which I did not heed. At last,

when the perfumes of the flowers told us we were nearing the garden, she

turned to me.

“I like Mr. Temple,” she said, again.

“He is an honest gentleman,” I answered.

“One meets very few of them,” she said, speaking in a low voice. “You

and I will go to the Governor. And after that, have you any idea where

you will go?”

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

“Then I will tell you. I intend to send you to Madame Gravois’s, and

she will compel you to go to bed and rest. I do not mean to allow you to

kill yourself.”

CHAPTER IX. MONSIEUR LE BARON

The sun beat down mercilessly on thatch and terrace, the yellow walls

flung back the quivering heat, as Madame la Vicomtesse and I walked

through the empty streets towards the Governor’s house. We were followed

by André and Madame’s maid. The sleepy orderly started up from under the

archway at our approach, bowed profoundly to Madame, looked askance at

me, and declared, with a thousand regrets, that Monsieur le Baron was

having his siesta.

“Then you will wake him,” said Madame la Vicomtesse.

Wake Monsieur le Baron! Bueno Dios, did Madame understand what it meant

to wake his Excellency? His Excellency would at first be angry, no

doubt. Angry? As an Andalusian bull, Madame. Once, when his Excellency

had first come to the province, he, the orderly, had presumed to awake

him.

“Assez!” said Madame, so suddenly that the man straightened and looked

at her again. “You will wake Monsieur le Baron, and tell him that Madame

la Vicomtesse d’Ivry-le-Tour has something of importance to say to him.”

Madame had the air, and a title carried with a Spanish soldier in New

Orleans in those days. The orderly fairly swept the ground and led us

through a court where the sun drew bewildering hot odors from the fruits

and flowers, into a darkened room which was the Baron’s cabinet. I

remember it vaguely, for my head was hot and throbbing from my

exertions in such a climate. It was a new room,--the hotel being newly

built,--with white walls, a picture of his Catholic Majesty and

the royal arms of Spain, a map of Louisiana, another of New Orleans

fortified, some walnut chairs, a desk with ink and sand and a seal, and

a window, the closed lattice shutters of which showed streaks of light

green light. These doubtless opened on the Royal Road and looked

across the levee esplanade on the waters of the Mississippi. Madame la

Vicomtesse seated herself, and with a gesture which was an order bade me

do likewise.

“He will be angry, the dear Baron,” she said. “He is harassed to death

with republics. No offence, Mr. Ritchie. He is up at dawn looking to the

forts and palisades to guard against such foolish enterprises as this

of Mr. Temple’s. And to be waked out of a well-earned siesta--to save

a gentleman who has come here to make things unpleasant for him--is

carrying a joke a little far. Mais--que voulez-vous?”

She gave a little shrug to her slim shoulders as she smiled at me, and

she seemed not a whit disturbed concerning the conversation with his

Excellency. I wondered whether this were birth, or training, or both, or

a natural ability to cope with affairs. The women of her order had long

been used to intercede with sovereigns, to play a part in matters of

state. Suddenly I became aware that she was looking at me.

“What are you thinking of?” she demanded, and continued without waiting

for a reply, “you strange man.”

“I was thinking how odd it was,” I replied, “that I should have known

you all these years by a portrait, that we should finally be thrown

together, and that you should be so exactly like the person I had

supposed you to be.”

She lowered her eyes, but she did not seem to take offence. I meant

none.

“And you,” she answered, “are continually reminding me of an Englishman

I knew when I was a girl. He was a very queer person to be attached to

the Embassy,--not a courtier, but a serious, literal person like you,

Mr. Ritchie, and he resembled you very much. I was very fond of him.”

“And--what became of him?” I asked. Other questions rose to my lips, but

I put them down.

“I will tell you,” she answered, bending forward a little. “He did

something which I believe you might have done. A certain Marquis spoke

lightly of a lady, an Englishwoman at our court, and my Englishman ran

him through one morning at Versailles.”

She paused, and I saw that her breath was coming more quickly at the

remembrance.

“And then?”

“He fled to England. He was a younger son, and poor. But his King heard

of the affair, had it investigated, and restored him to the service. I

have never seen him since,” she said, “but I have often thought of

him. There,” she added, after a silence, with a lightness which seemed

assumed, “I have given you a romance. How long the Baron takes to

dress!”

At that moment there were footsteps in the court-yard, and the orderly

appeared at the door, saluting, and speaking in Spanish.

“His Excellency the Governor!”

We rose, and Madame was courtesying and I was bowing to the little man.

He was in uniform, his face perspiring in the creases, his plump calves

stretching his white stockings to the full. Madame extended her hand and

he kissed it, albeit he did not bend easily. He spoke in French, and his

voice betrayed the fact that his temper was near slipping its leash. The

Baron was a native of Flanders.

“To what happy circumstance do I owe the honor of this visit, Madame la

Vicomtesse?” he asked.

“To a woman’s whim, Monsieur le Baron,” she answered, “for a man would

not have dared to disturb you. May I present to your Excellency, Mr.

David Ritchie of Kentucky?”

His Excellency bowed stiffly, looked at me with no pretence of pleasure,

and I had had sufficient dealings with men to divine that, in the coming

conversation, the overflow of his temper would be poured upon me. His

first sensation was surprise.

“An American!” he said, in a tone that implied reproach to Madame

la Vicomtesse for having fallen into such company. “Ah,” he cried,

breathing hard in the manner of stout people, “I remember you came down

with Monsieur Vigo, Monsieur, did you not?”

It was my turn to be surprised. If the Baron took a like cognizance of

all my countrymen who came to New Orleans, he was a busy man indeed.

“Yes, your Excellency,” I answered.

“And you are a Federalist?” he said, though petulantly.

“I am, your Excellency.”

“Is your nation to overrun the earth?” said the Baron. “Every morning

when I ride through the streets it seems to me that more Americans

have come. Pardieu, I declare every day that, if it were not for the

Americans, I should have ten years more of life ahead of me.” I could

not resist the temptation to glance at Madame la Vicomtesse. Her eyes,

half closed, betrayed an amusement that was scarce repressed.

“Come, Monsieur le Baron,” she said, “you and I have like beliefs upon

most matters. We have both suffered at the hands of people who have

mistaken a fiend for a Lady.”

“You would have me believe, Madame,” the Baron put in, with a wit I had

not thought in him, “that Mr. Ritchie knows a lady when he sees one. I

can readily believe it.”

Madame laughed.

“He at least has a negative knowledge,” she replied. “And he has brought

into New Orleans no coins, boxes, or clocks against your Excellency’s

orders with the image and superscription of the Goddess in whose name

all things are done. He has not sung ‘Ça Ira’ at the theatres, and he

detests the tricolored cockades as much as you do.”

The Baron laughed in spite of himself, and began to thaw. There was a

little more friendliness in his next glance at me.

“What images have you brought in, Mr. Ritchie?” he asked. “We all

worship the sex in some form, however misplaced our notions of it.”

There is not the least doubt that, for the sake of the Vicomtesse, he

was trying to be genial, and that his remark was a purely random one.

But the roots of my hair seemed to have taken fire. I saw the Baron

as in a glass, darkly. But I kept my head, principally because the

situation had elements of danger.

“The image of Madame la Vicomtesse, Monsieur,” I said.

“Dame!” exclaimed his Excellency, eying me with a new interest, “I did

not suspect you of being a courtier.”

“No more he is, Monsieur le Baron,” said the Vicomtesse, “for he speaks

the truth.”

His Excellency looked blank. As for me, I held my breath, wondering what

coup Madame was meditating.

“Mr. Ritchie brought down from Kentucky a miniature of me by Boze, that

was painted in a costume I once wore at Chantilly.”

“Comment! diable,” exclaimed the Baron. “And how did such a thing get

into Kentucky, Madame?”

“You have brought me to the point,” she replied, “which is no small

triumph for your Excellency. Mr. Ritchie bought the miniature from that

most estimable of my relations, Monsieur Auguste de St. Gré.”

The Baron sat down and began to fan himself. He even grew a little

purple. He looked at Madame, sputtered, and I began to think that, if he

didn’t relieve himself, his head might blow off. As for the Vicomtesse,

she wore an ingenuous air of detachment, and seemed supremely

unconscious of the volcano by her side.

“So, Madame,” cried the Governor at length, after I know not what

repressions, “you have come here in behalf of that--of Auguste de St.

Gré!”

“So far as I am concerned, Monsieur,” answered the Vicomtesse, calmly,

“you may hang Auguste, put him in prison, drown him, or do anything you

like with him.”

“God help me,” said the poor man, searching for his handkerchief, and

utterly confounded, “why is it you have come to me, then? Why did you

wake me up?” he added, so far forgetting himself.

“I came in behalf of the gentleman who had the indiscretion to accompany

Auguste to Louisiana,” she continued, “in behalf of Mr. Nicholas Temple,

who is a cousin of Mr. Ritchie.”

The Baron started abruptly from his chair.

“I have heard of him,” he cried; “Madame knows where he is?”

“I know where he is. It is that which I came to tell your Excellency.”

“Hein!” said his Excellency, again nonplussed. “You came to tell me

where he is? And where the--the other one is?”

“Parfaitement,” said Madame. “But before I tell you where they are, I

wish to tell you something about Mr. Temple.”

“Madame, I know something of him already,” said the Baron, impatiently.

“Ah,” said she, “from Gignoux. And what do you hear from Gignoux?”

This was another shock, under which the Baron fairly staggered.

“Diable! is Madame la Vicomtesse in the plot?” he cried. “What does

Madame know of Gignoux?”

Madame’s manner suddenly froze.

“I am likely to be in the plot, Monsieur,” she said. “I am likely to be

in a plot which has for its furtherance that abominable anarchy which

deprived me of my home and estates, of my relatives and friends and my

sovereign.”

“A thousand pardons, Madame la Vicomtesse,” said the Baron, more at sea

than ever. “I have had much to do these last years, and the heat and

the Republicans have got on my temper. Will Madame la Vicomtesse pray

explain?”

“I was about to do so when your Excellency interrupted,” said Madame.

“You see before you Mr. Ritchie, barrister, of Louisville, Kentucky,

whose character of sobriety, dependence, and ability” (there was a

little gleam in her eye as she gave me this array of virtues) “can be

perfectly established. When he came to New Orleans some years ago he

brought letters to Monsieur de St. Gré from Monsieur Gratiot and Colonel

Chouteau of St. Louis, and he is known to Mr. Clark and to Monsieur

Vigo. He is a Federalist, as you know, and has no sympathy with the

Jacobins.”

“Eh bien, Mr. Ritchie,” said the Baron, getting his breath, “you are

fortunate in your advocate. Madame la Vicomtesse neglected to say that

she was your friend, the greatest of all recommendations in my eyes.”

“You are delightful, Monsieur le Baron,” said the Vicomtesse.

“Perhaps Mr. Ritchie can tell me something of this expedition,” said the

Baron, his eyes growing smaller as he looked at me.

“Willingly,” I answered. “Although I know that your Excellency is well

informed, and that Monsieur Vigo has doubtless given you many of the

details that I know.”

He interrupted me with a grunt.

“You Americans are clever people, Monsieur,” he said; “you contrive to

combine shrewdness with frankness.”

“If I had anything to hide from your Excellency, I should not be here,”

I answered. “The expedition, as you know, has been as much of a farce as

Citizen Genêt’s commissions. But it has been a sad farce to me, inasmuch

as it involves the honor of my old friend and Colonel, General Clark,

and the safety of my cousin, Mr. Temple.”

“So you were with Clark in Illinois?” said the Baron, craftily. “Pardon

me, Mr. Ritchie, but I should have said that you are too young.”

“Monsieur Vigo will tell you that I was the drummer boy of the regiment,

and a sort of ward of the Colonel’s. I used to clean his guns and cook

his food.”

“And you did not see fit to follow your Colonel to Louisiana?” said his

Excellency, for he had been trained in a service of suspicion.

“General Clark is not what he was,” I replied, chafing a little at his

manner; “your Excellency knows that, and I put loyalty to my government

before friendship. And I might remind your Excellency that I am neither

an adventurer nor a fool.”

The little Baron surprised me by laughing. His irritability and his good

nature ran in streaks.

“There is no occasion to, Mr. Ritchie,” he answered. “I have seen

something of men in my time. In which category do you place your cousin,

Mr. Temple?”

“If a love of travel and excitement and danger constitutes an

adventurer, Mr. Temple is such,” I said. “Fortunately the main spur of

the adventurer’s character is lacking in his case. I refer to the

desire for money. Mr. Temple has an annuity from his father’s estate in

Charleston which puts him beyond the pale of the fortune-seeker, and I

firmly believe that if your Excellency sees fit to allow him to leave

the province, and if certain disquieting elements can be removed from

his life” (I glanced at the Vicomtesse), “he will settle down and become

a useful citizen of the United States. As much as I dislike to submit to

a stranger private details in the life of a member of my family, I feel

that I must tell your Excellency something of Mr. Temple’s career, in

order that you may know that restlessness and the thirst for adventure

were the only motives that led him into this foolish undertaking.”

“Pray proceed, Mr. Ritchie,” said the Baron.

I was surprised not to find him more restless, and in addition the

glance of approbation which the Vicomtesse gave me spurred me on.

However distasteful, I had the sense to see that I must hold nothing

back of which his Excellency might at any time become cognizant, and

therefore I told him as briefly as possible Nick’s story, leaving out

only the episode with Antoinette. When I came to the relation of the

affairs which occurred at Les Îles five years before and told his

Excellency that Mrs. Temple had since been living in the Rue Bourbon as

Mrs. Clive, unknown to her son, the Baron broke in upon me.

“So the mystery of that woman is cleared at last,” he said, and turned

to the Vicomtesse. “I have learned that you have been a frequent

visitor, Madame.”

“Not a sparrow falls to the ground in Louisiana that your Excellency

does not hear of it,” she answered.

“And Gignoux?” he said, speaking to me again.

“As I told you, Monsieur le Baron,” I answered, “I have come to New

Orleans at a personal sacrifice to induce my cousin to abandon this

matter, and I went out last evening to try to get word of him.” This was

not strictly true. “I saw Monsieur Gignoux in conference with some of

your officers who came out of this hotel.”

“You have sharp eyes, Monsieur,” he remarked.

“I suspected the man when I met him in Kentucky,” I continued, not

heeding this. “Monsieur Vigo himself distrusted him. To say that Gignoux

were deep in the councils of the expedition, that he held a

commission from Citizen Genêt, I realize will have no weight with your

Excellency,--provided the man is in the secret service of his Majesty

the King of Spain.”

“Mr. Ritchie,” said the Baron, “you are a young man and I an old one. If

I tell you that I have a great respect for your astuteness and ability,

do not put it down to flattery. I wish that your countrymen, who are

coming down the river like driftwood, more resembled you. As for Citizen

Gignoux,” he went on, smiling, and wiping his face, “let not your heart

be troubled. His Majesty’s minister at Philadelphia has written me

letters on the subject. I am contemplating for Monsieur Gignoux a sea

voyage to Havana, and he is at present partaking of my hospitality in

the calabozo.”

“In the calabozo!” I cried, overwhelmed at this example of Spanish

justice and omniscience.

“Precisely,” said the Baron, drumming with his fingers on his fat knee.

“And now,” he added, “perhaps Madame la Vicomtesse is ready to tell me

of the whereabouts of Mr. Temple and her estimable cousin, Auguste. It

may interest her to know why I have allowed them their liberty so long.”

“A point on which I have been consumed with curiosity--since I have

begun to tremble at the amazing thoroughness of your Excellency’s

system,” said the Vicomtesse.

His Excellency scarcely looked the tyrant as he sat before us, with

his calves crossed and his hands folded on his waistcoat and his little

black eyes twinkling.

“It is because,” he said, “there are many French planters in the

province bitten with the three horrors” (he meant Liberty, Equality, and

Fraternity), “I sent six to Havana; and if Monsieur Étienne de Boré had

not, in the nick of time for him, discovered how to make sugar he would

have gone, too. I had an idea that the Sieur de St. Gré and Mr. Temple

might act as a bait to reveal the disease in some others. Ha, I am

cleverer than you thought, Mr. Ritchie. You are surprised?”

I was surprised, and showed it.

“Come,” he said, “you are astute. Why did you think I left them at

liberty?”

“I thought your Excellency believed them to be harmless, as they are,” I

replied.

He turned again to the Vicomtesse. “You have picked up a diplomat,

Madame. I must confess that I misjudged him when you introduced him to

me. And again, where are Mr. Temple and your estimable cousin? Shall I

tell you? They are at old Lamarque’s, on the plantation of Philippe de

St. Gré.”

“They were, your Excellency,” said the Vicomtesse.

“Eh?” exclaimed the Baron, jumping.

“Mademoiselle de St. Gré has given her brother eight hundred livres, and

he is probably by this time on board a French ship at the English

Turn. He is very badly frightened. I will give your Excellency one more

surprise.”

“Madame la Vicomtesse,” said the Baron, “I have heard that, but for your

coolness and adroitness, Monsieur le Vicomte, your husband, and several

other noblemen and their ladies and some of her Majesty’s letters and

jewels would never have gotten out of France. I take this opportunity of

saying that I have the greatest respect for your intelligence. Now what

is the surprise?”

“That your Excellency intended that both Mr. Temple and Auguste de St.

Gré were to escape on that ship.”

“Mille tonneres,” exclaimed the Baron, staring at her, and straightway

he fell into a fit of laughter that left him coughing and choking and

perspiring as only a man in his condition of flesh can perspire. To say

that I was bewildered by this last evidence of the insight of the woman

beside me would be to put it mildly. The Vicomtesse sat quietly watching

him, the wonted look of repressed laughter on her face, and by degrees

his Excellency grew calm again.

“Mon Dieu,” said he, “I always like to cross swords with you, Madame la

Vicomtesse, yet this encounter has been more pleasurable than any I have

had since I came to Louisiana. But, diable,” he cried, “just as I was

congratulating myself that I was to have one American the less, you come

and tell me that he has refused to flee. Out of consideration for the

character and services of Monsieur Philippe de St. Gré I was willing to

let them both escape. But now?”

“Mr. Temple is not known in New Orleans except to the St. Gré family,”

said the Vicomtesse. “He is a man of honor. Suppose Mr. Ritchie were to

bring him to your Excellency, and he were to give you his word that he

would leave the province at the first opportunity? He now wishes to

see his mother before she dies, and it was as much as we could do this

morning to persuade him from going to her openly in the face of arrest.”

But the Baron was old in a service which did not do things hastily.

“He is well enough where he is for to-day,” said his Excellency,

resuming his official manner. “To-night after dark I will send down

an officer and have him brought before me. He will not then be seen in

custody by any one, and provided I am satisfied with him he may go to

the Rue Bourbon.”

The little Baron rose and bowed to the Vicomtesse to signify that the

audience was ended, and he added, as he kissed her hand, “Madame la

Vicomtesse, it is a pleasure to be able to serve such a woman as you.”

CHAPTER X. THE SCOURGE

As we went through the court I felt as though I had been tied to a

string, suspended in the air, and spun. This was undoubtedly due to the

heat. And after the astonishing conversation from which we had come, my

admiration for the lady beside me was magnified to a veritable awe. We

reached the archway. Madame la Vicomtesse held me lightly by the edge of

my coat, and I stood looking down at her.

“Wait a minute, Mr. Ritchie,” she said, glancing at the few figures

hurrying across the Place d’Armes; “those are only Americans, and they

are too busy to see us standing here. What do you propose to do now?”

“We must get word to Nick as we promised, that he may know what to

expect,” I replied. “Suppose we go to Monsieur de St. Gré’s house and

write him a letter?”

“No,” said the Vicomtesse, with decision, “I am going to Mrs. Temple’s.

I shall write the letter from there and send it by André, and you will

go direct to Madame Gravois’s.”

Her glance rested anxiously upon my face, and there came an expression

in her eyes which disturbed me strangely. I had not known it since the

days when Polly Ann used to mother me. But I did not mean to give up.

“I am not tired, Madame la Vicomtesse,” I answered, “and I will go with

you to Mrs. Temple’s.”

“Give me your hand,” she said, and smiled. “André and my maid are used

to my vagaries, and your own countrymen will not mind. Give me your

hand, Mr. Ritchie.”

I gave it willingly enough, with a thrill as she took it between

her own. The same anxious look was in her eyes, and not the least

embarrassment.

“There, it is hot and dry, as I feared,” she said, “and you seem

flushed.” She dropped my hand, and there was a touch of irritation in

her voice as she continued: “You seemed fairly sensible when I first

met you last night, Mr. Ritchie. Are you losing your sanity? Do you not

realize that you cannot take liberties with this climate? Do as I say,

and go to Madame Gravois’s at once.”

“It is my pleasure to obey you, Madame la Vicomtesse,” I answered, “but

I mean to go with you as far as Mrs. Temple’s, to see how she fares. She

may be--worse.”

“That is no reason why you should kill yourself,” said Madame, coldly.

“Will you not do as I say?”

“I think that I should go to Mrs. Temple’s,” I answered.

She did not reply to that, letting down her veil impatiently, with a

deftness that characterized all her movements. Without so much as asking

me to come after her, she reached the banquette, and I walked by her

side through the streets, silent and troubled by her displeasure. My

pride forbade me to do as she wished. It was the hottest part of a

burning day, and the dome of the sky was like a brazen bell above us.

We passed the the calabozo with its iron gates and tiny grilled windows

pierced in the massive walls, behind which Gignoux languished, and

I could not repress a smile as I thought of him. Even the Spaniards

sometimes happened upon justice. In the Rue Bourbon the little shops

were empty, the doorstep where my merry fiddler had played vacant, and

the very air seemed to simmer above the honeycombed tiles. I knocked

at the door, once, twice. There was no answer. I looked at Madame la

Vicomtesse, and knocked again so loudly that the little tailor across

the street, his shirt opened at the neck, flung out his shutter.

Suddenly there was a noise within, the door was opened, and Lindy stood

before us, in the darkened room, with terror in her eyes.

“Oh, Marse Dave,” she cried, as we entered, “oh, Madame, I’se so glad

you’se come, I’se so glad you’se come.”

She burst into a flood of tears. And Madame la Vicomtesse, raising her

veil, seized the girl by the arm.

“What is it?” she said. “What is the matter, Lindy?”

Madame’s touch seemed to steady her.

“Miss Sally,” she moaned, “Miss Sally done got de yaller fever.”

There was a moment’s silence, for we were both too appalled by the news

to speak.

“Lindy, are you sure?” said the Vicomtesse.

“Yass’m, yass’m,” Lindy sobbed, “I reckon I’se done seed ‘nuf of it,

Mistis.” And she went into a hysterical fit of weeping.

The Vicomtesse turned to her own frightened servants in the doorway,

bade André in French to run for Dr. Perrin, and herself closed the

battened doors. There was a moment when her face as I saw it was graven

on my memory, reflecting a knowledge of the evils of this world, a

spirit above and untouched by them, a power to accept what life may

bring with no outward sign of pleasure or dismay. Doubtless thus she had

made King and Cardinal laugh, doubtless thus, ministering to those who

crossed her path, she had met her own calamities. Strangest of all was

the effect she had upon Lindy, for the girl ceased crying as she watched

her.

Madame la Vicomtesse turned to me.

“You must go at once,” she said. “When you get to Madame Gravois’s,

write to Mr. Temple. I will send André to you there.”

She started for the bedroom door, Lindy making way for her. I scarcely

knew what I did as I sprang forward and took the Vicomtesse by the arm.

“Where are you going?” I cried. “You cannot go in there! You cannot go

in there!”

It did not seem strange that she turned to me without anger, that she

did not seek to release her arm. It did not seem strange that her look

had in it a gentleness as she spoke.

“I must,” she said.

“I cannot let you risk your life,” I cried, wholly forgetting myself;

“there are others who will do this.”

“Others?” she said.

“I will go. I--I have nursed people before this. And there is Lindy.”

A smile quivered on her lips,--or was it a smile?

“You will do as I say and go to Madame Gravois’s--at once,” she

murmured, striving for the first time to free herself.

“If you stay, I stay,” I answered; “and if you die, I die.”

She looked up into my eyes for a fleeting instant.

“Write to Mr. Temple,” she said.

Dazed, I watched her open the bedroom doors, motion to Lindy to pass

through, and then she had closed them again and I was alone in the

darkened parlor.

The throbbing in my head was gone, and a great clearness had come with

a great fear. I stood, I know not how long, listening to the groans

that came through the wall, for Mrs. Temple was in agony. At intervals

I heard Hélène’s voice, and then the groans seemed to stop. Ten times

I went to the bedroom door, and as many times drew away again, my heart

leaping within me at the peril which she faced. If I had had the right,

I believe I would have carried her away by force.

But I had not the right. I sat down heavily, by the table, to think, and

it might have been a cry of agony sharper than the rest that reminded me

once more of the tragedy of the poor lady in torture. My eye fell upon

the table, and there, as though prepared for what I was to do, lay pen

and paper, ink and sand. My hand shook as I took the quill and tried to

compose a letter to my cousin. I scarcely saw the words which I put on

the sheet, and I may be forgiven for the unwisdom of that which I wrote.

“The Baron de Carondelet will send an officer for you to-night so that

you may escape observation in custody. His Excellency knew of your

hiding-place, but is inclined to be lenient, will allow you to-morrow

to go to the Rue Bourbon, and will without doubt permit you to leave the

province. Your mother is ill, and Madame la Vicomtesse and myself are

with her. “DAVID.”