"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 Iles, Nick," I said; "you are on Monsieur de St. Gre'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 Iles?" 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 Iles 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. Gre. 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 inLouisville 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," Helene 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 Helene did not wish it. As for Helene, 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?"
Helene 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 theBaron 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 withLamarque 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. Gre into trouble; and besides," he said, with a touch of coldness, "I cannot be beholden to Monsieur de St. Gre. I cannot remain on his land."
"As for getting Monsieur de St. Gre 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. Gre that you cannot quibble about going a little more into his debt. Come, Mr. Temple, how has Monsieur de St. Gre 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. Gre—"
"Yes, there is Mademoiselle de St. Gre," 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. Gre, 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."
Helene'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 Andre 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."
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 Andre 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 Iknew when I was a girl. He was a very queer person to be attached to theEmbassy,—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, butI 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 laVicomtesse?" 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 'Ca 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. Gre."
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. Gre!"
"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 doesMadame 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. Gre 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 theBaron, 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 Genet'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 hisExcellency, 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 Iles 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 Genet, 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 Etienne de Bore 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. Gre 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. Gre."
"They were, your Excellency," said the Vicomtesse.
"Eh?" exclaimed the Baron, jumping.
"Mademoiselle de St. Gre 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.Gre 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. Gre I was willing to let them both escape. But now?"
"Mr. Temple is not known in New Orleans except to the St. Gre 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."
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. Gre'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 Andre, 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. "Andre 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 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 Andre 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 Andre 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 Helene'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."
In the state I was it took me a long time to compose this much, and I had barely finished it when there was a knock at the outer door. There was Andre. He had the immobility of face which sometimes goes with the mulatto, and always with the trained servant, as he informed me that Monsieur le Medecin was not at home, but that he had left word. There was an epidemic, Monsieur, so Andre feared. I gave him the note and his directions, and ten minutes after he had gone I would have given much to have called him back. How about Antoinette, alone at Les Iles? Why had I not thought of her? We had told her nothing that morning, Madame la Vicomtesse and I, after our conference with Nick. For the girl had shut herself in her room, and Madame had thought it best not to disturb her at such a stage. But would she not be alarmed when Helene failed to return that night? Had circumstances been different, I myself would have ridden to Les Iles, but no inducement now could make me desert the post I had chosen. After many years I dislike to recall to memory that long afternoon which I spent, helpless, in the Rue Bourbon. Now I was on my feet, pacing restlessly the short breadth of the room, trying to shut out from my mind the horrors of which my ears gave testimony. Again, in the intervals of quiet, I sat with my elbows on the table and my head in my hands, striving to allay the throbbing in my temples. Pains came and went, and at times I felt like a fagot flung into the fire,—I, who had never known a sick day. At times my throat pained me, an odd symptom in a warm climate. Troubled as I was in mind and body, the thought of Helene's quiet heroism upheld me through it all. More than once I had my hand raised to knock at the bedroom door and ask if I could help, but I dared not; at length, the sun having done its worst and spent its fury, I began to hear steps along the banquette and voices almost at my elbow beyond the little window. At every noise I peered out, hoping for the doctor. But he did not come. And then, as I fell back into the fauteuil, there was borne on my consciousness a sound I had heard before. It was the music of the fiddler, it was a tune I knew, and the voices of the children were singing the refrain:—
"Ne sait quand reviendra,Ne sait quand reviendra."
I rose, opened the door, and slipped out of it, and I must have made a strange, hatless figure as I came upon the fiddler and his children from across the street.
"Stop that noise," I cried in French, angered beyond all reason at the thought of music at such a time. "Idiots, there is yellow fever there."
The little man stopped with his bow raised; for a moment they all stared at me, transfixed. It was a little elf in blue indienne who jumped first and ran down the street, crying the news in a shrill voice, the others following, the fiddler gazing stupidly after them. Suddenly he scrambled up, moaning, as if the scourge itself had fastened on him, backed into the house, and slammed the door in my face. I returned with slow steps to shut myself in the darkened room again, and I recall feeling something of triumph over the consternation I had caused. No sounds came from the bedroom, and after that the street was quiet as death save for an occasional frightened, hurrying footfall. I was tired.
All at once the bedroom door opened softly, and Helene was standing there, looking at me. At first I saw her dimly, as in a vision, then clearly. I leaped to my feet and went and stood beside her.
"The doctor has not come," I said. "Where does he live? I will go for him."
She shook her head.
"He can do no good. Lindy has procured all the remedies, such as they are. They can only serve to alleviate," she answered. "She cannot withstand this, poor lady." There were tears on Helene's lashes. "Her sufferings have been frightful—frightful."
"Cannot I help?" I said thickly. "Cannot I do something?"
She shook her head. She raised her hand timidly to the lapel of my coat, and suddenly I felt her palm, cool and firm, upon my forehead. It rested there but an instant.
"You ought not to be here," she said, her voice vibrant with earnestness and concern. "You ought not to be here. Will you not go—if I ask it?"
"I cannot," I said; "you know I cannot if you stay."
She did not answer that. Our eyes met, and in that instant for me there was neither joy nor sorrow, sickness nor death, nor time nor space nor universe. It was she who turned away.
"Have you written him?" she asked in a low voice.
"Yes," I answered.
"She would not have known him," said Helene; "after all these years of waiting she would not have known him. Her punishment has been great."
A sound came from the bedroom, and Helene was gone, silently, as she had come.
* * * * * * *
I must have been dozing in the fauteuil, for suddenly I found myself sitting up, listening to an unwonted noise. I knew from the count of the hoof-beats which came from down the street that a horse was galloping in long strides—a spent horse, for the timing was irregular. Then he was pulled up into a trot, then to a walk as I ran to the door and opened it and beheld Nicholas Temple flinging himself from a pony white with lather. And he was alone! He caught sight of me as soon as his foot touched the banquette.
"What are you doing here?" I cried. "What are you doing here?"
He halted on the edge of the banquette as a hurrying man runs into a wall. He had been all excitement, all fury, as he jumped from his horse; and now, as he looked at me, he seemed to lose his bearings, to be all bewilderment. He cried out my name and stood looking at me like a fool.
"What the devil do you mean by coming here?" I cried. "Did I not write you to stay where you were? How did you get here?" I stepped down on the banquette and seized him by the shoulders. "Did you receive my letter?"
"Yes," he said, "yes." For a moment that was as far as he got, and he glanced down the street and then at the heaving beast he had ridden, which stood with head drooping to the kennel. Then he laid hold of me. "Davy, is it true that she has yellow fever? Is it true?"
"Who told you?" I demanded angrily.
"Andre," he answered. "Andre said that the lady here had yellow fever.Is it true?"
"Yes," I said almost inaudibly.
He let his hand fall from my shoulder, and he shivered.
"May God forgive me for what I have done!" he said. "Where is she?"
"For what you have done?" I cried; "you have done an insensate thing to come here." Suddenly I remembered the sentry at the gate of Fort St. Charles. "How did you get into the city?" I said; "were you mad to defy the Baron and his police?"
"Damn the Baron and his police," he answered, striving to pass me. "Let me in! Let me see her."
Even as he spoke I caught sight of men coming into the street, perhaps at the corner of the Rue St. Pierre, and then more men, and as we went into the house I saw that they were running. I closed the doors. There were cries in the street now, but he did not seem to heed them. He stood listening, heart-stricken, to the sounds that came through the bedroom wall, and a spasm crossed his face. Then he turned like a man not to be denied, to the bedroom door. I was before him, but Madame la Vicomtesse opened it. And I remember feeling astonishment that she did not show surprise or alarm.
"What are you doing here, Mr. Temple?" she said.
"My mother, Madame! My mother! I must go to her."
He pushed past her into the bedroom, and I followed perforce. I shall never forget the scene, though I had but the one glimpse of it,—the raving, yellowed woman in the bed, not a spectre nor yet even a semblance of the beauty of Temple Bow. But she was his mother, upon whom God had brought such a retribution as He alone can bestow. Lindy, faithful servant to the end, held the wasted hands of her mistress against the violence they would have done. Lindy held them, her own body rocking with grief, her lips murmuring endearments, prayers, supplications.
"Miss Sally, honey, doan you know Lindy? Gawd'll let you git well, Miss Sally, Gawd'll let you git well, honey, ter see Marse Nick—ter see—Marse—Nick—"
The words died on Lindy's lips, the ravings of the frenzied woman ceased. The yellowed hands fell limply to the sheet, the shrunken form stiffened. The eyes of the mother looked upon the son, and in them at first was the terror of one who sees the infinite. Then they softened until they became again the only feature that was left of Sarah Temple. Now, as she looked at him who was her pride, her honor, for one sight of whom she had prayed,—ay, and even blasphemed,—her eyes were all tenderness. Then she spoke.
"Harry," she said softly, "be good to me, dear. You are all I have now."
She spoke of Harry Riddle!
But the long years of penance had not been in vain. Nick had forgiven her. We saw him kneeling at the bedside, we saw him with her hand in his, and Helene was drawing me gently out of the room and closing the door behind her. She did not look at me, nor I at her.
We stood for a moment close together, and suddenly the cries in the street brought us back from the drama in the low-ceiled, reeking room we had left.
"Ici! Ici! Voici le cheval!"
There was a loud rapping at the outer door, and a voice demanding admittance in Spanish in the name of his Excellency the Governor.
"Open it," said Helene. There was neither excitement in her voice, nor yet resignation. In those two words was told the philosophy of her life.
I opened the door. There, on the step, was an officer, perspiring, uniformed and plumed, and behind him a crowd of eager faces, white and black, that seemed to fill the street. He took a step into the room, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and poured out at me a torrent of Spanish of which I understood nothing. All at once his eye fell upon Helene, who was standing behind me, and he stopped in the middle of his speech and pulled off his hat and bowed profoundly.
"Madame la Vicomtesse!" he stammered. I was no little surprised that she should be so well known.
"You will please to speak French, Monsieur," she said; "this gentleman does not understand Spanish. What is it you desire?"
"A thousand pardons, Madame la Vicomtesse," he said. "I am the Alcalde de Barrio, and a wild Americano has passed the sentry at St. Charles's gate without heeding his Excellency's authority and command. I saw the man with my own eyes. I should know him again in a hundred. We have traced him here to this house, Madame la Vicomtesse. Behold the horse which he rode!" The Alcalde turned and pointed at the beast. "Behold the horse which he rode, Madame la Vicomtesse. The animal will die."
"Probably," answered the Vicomtesse, in an even tone.
"But the man," cried the Alcalde, "the man is here, Madame la Vicomtesse, here, in this house!"
"Yes," she said, "he is here."
"Sancta Maria! Madame," he exclaimed, "I—I who speak to you have come to get him. He has defied his Excellency's commands. Where is he?"
"He is in that room," said the Vicomtesse, pointing at the bedroom door.
The Alcalde took a step forward. She stopped him by a quick gesture.
"He is in that room with his mother," she said, "and his mother has the yellow fever. Come, we will go to him." And she put her hand upon the door.
"Yellow fever!" cried the Alcalde, and his voice was thick with terror. There was a moment's silence as he stood rooted to the floor. I did not wonder then, but I have since thought it remarkable that the words spoken low by both of them should have been caught up on the banquette and passed into the street. Impassive, I heard it echoed from a score of throats, I saw men and women stampeding like frightened sheep, I heard their footfalls and their cries as they ran. A tawdry constable, who held with a trembling hand the bridle of the tired horse, alone remained.
"Yellow fever!" the Alcalde repeated
The Vicomtesse inclined her head.
He was silent again for a while, uncertain, and then, without comprehending, I saw the man's eyes grow smaller and a smile play about his mouth. He looked at the Vicomtesse with a new admiration to which she paid no heed.
"I am sorry, Madame la Vicomtesse," he began, "but—"
"But you do not believe that I speak the truth," she replied quietly.
He winced.
"Will you follow me?" she said, turning again.
He had started, plainly in an agony of fear, when a sound came from beyond the wall that brought a cry to his lips.
Her manner changed to one of stinging scorn.
"You are a coward," she said. "I will bring the gentleman to you if he can be got to leave the bedside."
"No," said the Alcalde, "no. I—I will go to him, Madame la Vicomtesse."
But she did not open the door.
"Listen," she said in a tone of authority, "I myself have been to hisExcellency to-day concerning this gentleman—"
"You, Madame la Vicomtesse?"
"I will open the door," she continued, impatient at the interruption, "and you will see him. Then I shall write a letter which you will take to the Governor. The gentleman will not try to escape, for his mother is dying. Besides, he could not get out of the city. You may leave your constable where he is, or the man may come in and stand at this door in sight of the gentleman while you are gone—if he pleases."
"And then?" said the Alcalde.
"It is my belief that his Excellency will allow the gentleman to remain here, and that you will be relieved from the necessity of running any further risk."
As she spoke she opened the door, softly. The room was still now, still as death, and the Alcalde went forward on tiptoe. I saw him peering in, I saw him backing away again like a man in mortal fear.
"Yes, it is he—it is the man," he stammered. He put his hand to his brow.
The Vicomtesse closed the door, and without a glance at him went quickly to the table and began to write. She had no thought of consulting the man again, of asking his permission. Although she wrote rapidly, five minutes must have gone by before the note was finished and folded and sealed. She held it out to him.
"Take this to his Excellency," she said, "and bring me his answer." The Alcalde bowed, murmured her title, and went lamely out of the house. He was plainly in an agony of uncertainty as to his duty, but he glanced at the Vicomtesse—and went, flipping the note nervously with his finger nail. He paused for a few low-spoken words with the tawdry constable, who sat down on the banquette after his chief had gone, still clinging to the bridle. The Vicomtesse went to the doorway, looked at him, and closed the battened doors. The constable did not protest. The day was fading without, and the room was almost in darkness as she crossed over to the little mantel and stood with her head laid upon her arm.
I did not disturb her. The minutes passed, the light waned until I could see her no longer, and yet I knew that she had not moved. The strange sympathy between us kept me silent until I heard her voice calling my name.
"Yes," I answered.
"The candle!"
I drew out my tinder-box and lighted the wick. She had turned, and was facing me even as she had faced me the night before. The night before! The greatest part of my life seemed to have passed since then. I remember wondering that she did not look tired. Her face was sad, her voice was sad, and it had an ineffable, sweet quality at such times that was all its own.
"The Alcalde should be coming back," she said.
"Yes," I answered.
These were our words, yet we scarce heeded their meaning. Between us was drawn a subtler communion than speech, and we dared—neither of us—to risk speech. She searched my face, but her lips were closed. She did not take my hand again as in the afternoon. She turned away. I knew what she would have said.
There was a knock at the door. We went together to open it, and the Alcalde stood on the step. He held in his hand a long letter on which the red seal caught the light, and he gave the letter to the Vicomtesse, with a bow.
"From his Excellency, Madame la Vicomtesse."
She broke the seal, went to the table, and read. Then she looked up at me.
"It is the Governor's permit for Mr. Temple to remain in this house.Thank you," she said to the Alcalde; "you may go."
"With my respectful wishes for the continued good health of Madame laVicomtesse," said the Alcalde.