Nickand I stood by the mast on the forward part of the cabin, staring at the distant, low-lying city, while Xavier sought for the entrance to the eddy which here runs along the shore. If you did not gain this entrance,—so he explained,—you were carried by a swift current below New Orleans and might by no means get back save by the hiring of a crew. Xavier, however, was not to be caught thus, and presently we were gliding quietly along the eastern bank, or levee, which held back the river from the lowlands. Then, as we looked, the levee became an esplanade shaded by rows of willows, and through them we caught sight of the upper galleries and low, curving roofs of the city itself. There, cried Xavier, was the Governor's house on the corner, where the great Miro lived, and beyond it the house of the Intendant; and then, gliding into an open space between the keel boats along the bank, stared at by a score of boatmen and idlers from above, we came to the end of our long journey. No sooner had we made fast than we were boarded by a shabby customs officer who, when he had seen our passports, bowed politely and invited us to land. We leaped ashore, gained the gravelled walk on the levee, and looked about us.
Squalidity first met our eyes. Below us, crowded between the levee and the row of houses, were dozens of squalid market-stalls tended by cotton-clad negroes. Beyond, across the bare Place d'Armes, a blackened gap in the line of houses bore witness to the devastation of the year gone by, while here and there a roof, struck by thesetting sun, gleamed fiery red with its new tiles. The levee was deserted save for the negroes and the river men.
“Time for siesta, Michié,” said Xavier, joining us; “I will show you ze inn of which I spik. She is kep' by my fren', Madame Bouvet.”
“Xavier,” said Nick, looking at the rolling flood of the river, “suppose this levee should break?”
“Ah,” said Xavier, “then some Spaniard who never have a bath—he feel what water is lak.”
Followed by Benjy with the saddle-bags, we went down the steps set in the levee into this strange, foreign city. It was like unto nothing we had ever seen, nor can I give an adequate notion of how it affected us,—such a mixture it seemed of dirt and poverty and wealth and romance. The narrow, muddy streets ran with filth, and on each side along the houses was a sun-baked walk held up by the curved sides of broken flatboats, where two men might scarcely pass. The houses, too, had an odd and foreign look, some of wood, some of upright logs and plaster, and newer ones, Spanish in style, of adobe, with curving roofs of red tiles and strong eaves spreading over thebanquette(as the sidewalk was called), casting shadows on lemon-colored walls. Since New Orleans was in a swamp, the older houses for the most part were lifted some seven feet above the ground, and many of these houses had wide galleries on the street side. Here and there a shop was set in the wall; a watchmaker was to be seen poring over his work at a tiny window, a shoemaker cross-legged on the floor. Again, at an open wicket, we caught a glimpse through a cool archway into a flowering court-yard. Stalwart negresses with bright kerchiefs made way for us on the banquette. Hands on hips, they swung along erect, with baskets of cakes and sweetmeats on their heads, musically crying their wares.
At length, turning a corner, we came to a white wooden house on the Rue Royale, with a flight of steps leading up to the entrance. In place of a door a flimsy curtain hung in the doorway, and, pushing this aside, we followedXavier through a darkened hall to a wide gallery that overlooked a court-yard. This court-yard was shaded by several great trees which grew there; the house and gallery ran down one other side of it; and the two remaining sides were made up of a series of low cabins, these forming the various outhouses and the kitchen. At the far end of this gallery a sallow, buxom lady sat sewing at a table, and Xavier saluted her very respectfully.
“Madame,” he said, “I have brought you from St. Louis with Michié Gratiot's compliments two young American gentlemen, who are travelling to amuse themselves.”
The lady rose and beamed upon us.
“From Monsieur Gratiot,” she said; “you are very welcome, gentlemen, to such poor accommodations as I have. It is not unusual to have American gentlemen in New Orleans, for many come here first and last. And I am happy to say that two of my best rooms are vacant. Zoey!”
There was a shrill answer from the court below, and a negro girl in a yellow turban came running up, while Madame Bouvet bustled along the gallery and opened the doors of two darkened rooms. Within I could dimly see a walnut dresser, a chair, and a walnut bed on which was spread a mosquito bar.
“Voilá! Messieurs,” cried Madame Bouvet, “there is still a little time for a siesta. No siesta!” cried Madame, eying us aghast; “ah, the Americans they never rest—never.”
We bade farewell to the good Xavier, promising to see him soon; and Nick, shouting to Benjy to open the saddle-bags, proceeded to array himself in the clothes which had made so much havoc at St. Louis. I boded no good from this proceeding, but I reflected, as I watched him dress, that I might as well try to turn the Mississippi from its course as to attempt to keep my cousin from the search for gallant adventure. And I reflected that his indulgence in pleasure-seeking would serve the more to divert any suspicions which might fall upon my own head. At last, when the setting sun was flooding the court-yard, hestood arrayed upon the gallery, ready to venture forth to conquest.
Madame Bouvet's tavern, or hotel, or whatever she was pleased to call it, was not immaculately clean. Before passing into the street we stood for a moment looking into the public room on the left of the hallway, a long saloon, evidently used in the early afternoon for a dining room, and at the back of it a wide, many-paned window, capped by a Spanish arch, looked out on the gallery. Near this window was a gay party of young men engaged at cards, waited on by the yellow-turbaned Zoey, and drinking what evidently was claret punch. The sounds of their jests and laughter pursued us out of the house.
The town was waking from its siesta, the streets filling, and people stopped to stare at Nick as we passed. But Nick, who was plainly in search of something he did not find, hurried on. We soon came to the quarter which had suffered most from the fire, where new houses had gone up or were in the building beside the blackened logs of many of Bienville's time. Then we came to a high white wall that surrounded a large garden, and within it was a long, massive building of some beauty and pretension, with a high, latticed belfry and heavy walls and with arched dormers in the sloping roof. As we stood staring at it through the iron grille set in the archway of the lodge, Nick declared that it put him in mind of some of the châteaux he had seen in France, and he crossed the street to get a better view of the premises. An old man in coarse blue linen came out of the lodge and spoke to me.
“It is the convent of the good nuns, the Ursulines, Monsieur,” he said in French, “and it was built long ago in the Sieur de Bienville's time, when the colony was young. For forty-five years, Monsieur, the young ladies of the city have come here to be educated.”
“What does he say?” demanded Nick, pricking up his ears as he came across the street.
“That young men have been sent to the mines of Brazil for climbing the walls,” I answered.
“Who wants to climb the walls?” said Nick, disgusted.
“The young ladies of the town go to school here,” I answered; “it is a convent.”
“It might serve to pass the time,” said Nick, gazing with a new interest at the latticed windows. “How much would you take, my friend, to let us in at the back way this evening?” he demanded of the porter in French.
The good man gasped, lifted his hands in horror, and straightway let loose upon Nick a torrent of French invectives that had not the least effect except to cause a blacksmith's apprentice and two negroes to stop and stare at us.
“Pooh!” exclaimed Nick, when the man had paused for want of breath, “it is no trick to get over that wall.”
“Bon Dieu!” cried the porter, “you are Kentuckians, yes? I might have known that you were Kentuckians, and I shall advise the good sisters to put glass on the wall and keep a watch.”
“The young ladies are beautiful, you say?” said Nick.
At this juncture, with the negroes grinning and the porter near bursting with rage, there came out of the lodge the fattest woman I have ever seen for her size. She seized her husband by the back of his loose frock and pulled him away, crying out that he was losing time by talking to vagabonds, besides disturbing the good sisters. Then we went away, Nick following the convent wall down to the river. Turning southward under the bank past the huddle of market-stalls, we came suddenly upon a sight that made us pause and wonder.
New Orleans was awake. A gay and laughing throng paced the esplanade on the levee under the willows, with here and there a cavalier on horseback on the Royal Road below. Across the Place d'Armes the spire of the parish church stood against the fading sky, and to the westward the mighty river stretched away like a gilded floor. It was a strange throng. There were grave Spaniards in long cloaks and feathered beavers; jolly merchants and artisans in short linen jackets, each with his tabatière, the wives with bits of finery, the children laughing andshouting and dodging in and out between fathers and mothers beaming with quiet pride and contentment; swarthy boat-men with their worsted belts, gaudy negresses chanting in the soft patois, and here and there a blanketed Indian. Nor was this all. Some occasion (so Madame Bouvet had told us) had brought a sprinkling of fashion to town that day, and it was a fashion to astonish me. There were fine gentlemen with swords and silk waistcoats and silver shoe-buckles, and ladies in filmy summer gowns. Greuze ruled the mode in France then, but New Orleans had not got beyond Watteau. As for Nick and me, we knew nothing of Greuze and Watteau then, and we could only stare in astonishment. And for once we saw an officer of the Louisiana Regiment resplendent in a uniform that might have served at court.
Ay, and there was yet another sort. Every flatboatman who returned to Kentucky was full of tales of the marvellous beauty of the quadroons and octoroons, stories which I had taken with a grain of salt; but they had not indeed been greatly overdrawn. For here were these ladies in the flesh, their great, opaque, almond eyes consuming us with a swift glance, and each walking with a languid grace beside her duenna. Their faces were like old ivory, their dress the stern Miro himself could scarce repress. In former times they had been lavish in their finery, and even now earrings still gleamed and color broke out irrepressibly.
Nick was delighted, but he had not dragged me twice the length of the esplanade ere his eye was caught by a young lady in pink who sauntered between an elderly gentleman in black silk and a young man more gayly dressed.
“Egad,” said Nick, “there is my divinity, and I need not look a step farther.”
I laughed.
“You have but to choose, I suppose, and all falls your way,” I answered.
“But look!” he cried, halting me to stare after the girl, “what a face, and what a form! And what a carriage,by Jove! There is breeding for you! And Davy, did you mark the gentle, rounded arm? Thank heaven these short sleeves are the fashion.”
“You are mad, Nick,” I answered, pulling him on, “these people are not to be stared at so. And once I present our letters to Monsieur de Saint-Gré, it will not be difficult to know any of them.”
“Look!” said he, “that young man, lover or husband, is a brute. On my soul, they are quarrelling.”
The three had stopped by a bench under a tree. The young man, who wore claret silk and a sword, had one of those thin faces of dirty complexion which show the ravages of dissipation, and he was talking with a rapidity and vehemence of which only a Latin tongue will admit. We could see, likewise, that the girl was answering with spirit,—indeed, I should write a stronger word than spirit,—while the elderly gentleman, who had a good-humored, fleshy face and figure, was plainly doing his best to calm them both. People who were passing stared curiously at the three.
“Your divinity evidently has a temper,” I remarked.
“For that scoundel—certainly,” said Nick; “but come, they are moving on.”
“You mean to follow them?” I exclaimed.
“Why not?” said he. “We will find out where they live and who they are, at least.”
“And you have taken a fancy to this girl?”
“I have looked them all over, and she's by far the best I've seen. I can say so much honestly.”
“But she may be married,” I said weakly.
“Tut, Davy,” he answered, “it's more than likely, from the violence of their quarrel. But if so, we will try again.”
“We!” I exclaimed.
“Oh, come on!” he cried, dragging me by the sleeve, “or we shall lose them.”
I resisted no longer, but followed him down the levee, in my heart thanking heaven that he had not taken a fancy to an octoroon. Twilight had set in strongly, the gay crowd was beginning to disperse, and in the distancethe three figures could be seen making their way across the Place d'Armes, the girl hanging on the elderly gentleman's arm, and the young man following with seeming sullenness behind. They turned into one of the narrower streets, and we quickened our steps. Lights gleamed in the houses; voices and laughter, and once the tinkle of a guitar came to us from court-yard and gallery. But Nick, hurrying on, came near to bowling more than one respectable citizen we met on the banquette, into the ditch. We reached a corner, and the three were nowhere to be seen.
“Curse the luck!” cried Nick, “we have lost them. The next time I'll stop for no explanations.”
There was no particular reason why I should have been penitent, but I ventured to say that the house they had entered could not be far off.
“And how the devil are we to know it?” demanded Nick.
This puzzled me for a moment, but presently I began to think that the two might begin quarrelling again, and said so. Nick laughed and put his arm around my neck.
“You have no mean ability for intrigue when you put your mind to it, Davy,” he said; “I vow I believe you are in love with the girl yourself.”
I disclaimed this with some vehemence. Indeed, I had scarcely seen her.
“They can't be far off,” said Nick; “we'll pitch on a likely house and camp in front of it until bedtime.”
“And be flung into a filthy calaboose by a constable,” said I. “No, thank you.”
We walked on, and halfway down the block we came upon a new house with more pretensions than its neighbors. It was set back a little from the street, and there was a high adobe wall into which a pair of gates were set, and a wicket opening in one of them. Over the wall hung a dark fringe of magnolia and orange boughs. On each of the gate-posts a crouching lion was outlined dimly against the fainting light, and, by crossing the street, we could see the upper line of a latticed gallery under thelow roof. We took our stand within the empty doorway of a blackened house, nearly opposite, and there we waited, Nick murmuring all sorts of ridiculous things in my ear. But presently I began to reflect upon the consequences of being taken in such a situation by a constable and dragged into the light of a public examination. I put this to Nick as plainly as I could, and was declaring my intention of going back to Madame Bouvet's, when the sound of voices arrested me. The voices came from the latticed gallery, and they were low at first, but soon rose to such an angry pitch that I made no doubt we had hit on the right house after all. What they said was lost to us, but I could distinguish the woman's voice, low-pitched and vibrant as though insisting upon a refusal, and the man's scarce adult tones, now high as though with balked passion, now shaken and imploring. I was for leaving the place at once, but Nick clutched my arm tightly; and suddenly, as I stood undecided, the voices ceased entirely, there were the sounds of a scuffle, and the lattice of the gallery was flung open. In the all but darkness we saw a figure climb over the railing, hang suspended for an instant, and drop lightly to the ground. Then came the light relief of a woman's gown in the opening of the lattice, the cry "Auguste, Auguste!" the wicket in the gate opened and slammed, and a man ran at top speed along the banquette towards the levee.
Instinctively I seized Nick by the arm as he started out of the doorway.
“Let me go,” he cried angrily, “let me go, Davy.”
But I held on.
“Are you mad?” I said.
He did not answer, but twisted and struggled, and before I knew what he was doing he had pushed me off the stone step into a tangle of blackened beams behind. I dropped his arm to save myself, and it was mere good fortune that I did not break an ankle in the fall. When I had gained the step again he was gone after the man, and a portly citizen stood in front of me, looking into the doorway.
“Qu'est-ce-qu'il-y-a la dedans?” he demanded sharply.
It was a sufficiently embarrassing situation. I put on a bold front, however, and not deigning to answer, pushed past him and walked with as much leisure as possible along the banquette in the direction which Nick had taken. As I turned the corner I glanced over my shoulder, and in the darkness I could just make out the man standing where I had left him. In great uneasiness I pursued my way, my imagination summing up for Nick all kinds of adventures with disagreeable consequences. I walked for some time—it may have been half an hour—aimlessly, and finally decided it would be best to go back to Madame Bouvet's and await the issue with as much calmness as possible. He might not, after all, have caught the fellow.
There were few people in the dark streets, but at length I met a man who gave me directions, and presently found my way back to my lodging place. Talk and laughter floated through the latticed windows into the street, and when I had pushed back the curtain and looked into the saloon I found the same gaming party at the end of it, sitting in their shirt-sleeves amidst the moths and insects that hovered around the candles.
“Ah, Monsieur,” said Madame Bouvet's voice behind me, “you must excuse them. They will come here and play, the young gentlemen, and I cannot find it in my heart to drive them away, though sometimes I lose a respectable lodger by their noise. But, after all, what would you?” she added with a shrug; “I love them, the young men. But, Monsieur,” she cried, “you have had no supper! And where is Monsieur your companion?Comme il est beau garçon!”
“He will be in presently,” I answered with unwarranted assumption.
Madame shot at me the swiftest of glances and laughed, and I suspected that she divined Nick's propensity for adventure. However, she said nothing more than to bid me sit down at the table, and presently Zoey came in with lights and strange, highly seasoned dishes, which I atewith avidity, notwithstanding my uneasiness of mind, watching the while the party at the far end of the room. There were five young gentlemen playing a game I knew not, with intervals of intense silence, and boisterous laughter and execrations while the cards were being shuffled and the money rang on the board and glasses were being filled from a stand at one side. Presently Madame Bouvet returned, and placing before me a cup of wondrous coffee, advanced down the room towards them.
“Ah, Messieurs,” she cried, “you will ruin my poor house.”
The five rose and bowed with marked profundity. One of them, with a puffy, weak, good-natured face, answered her briskly, and after a little raillery she came back to me. I had a question not over discreet on my tongue's tip.
“There are some fine residences going up here, Madame,” I said.
“Since the fire, Monsieur, the dreadful fire of Good Friday a year ago. You admire them?”
“I saw one,” I answered with indifference, “with a wall and lions on the gate-posts—”
“Mon Dieu, that is a house,” exclaimed Madame; “it belongs to Monsieur de Saint-Gré.”
“To Monsieur de Saint-Gré!” I repeated.
She shot a look at me. She had bright little eyes like a bird's, that shone in the candlelight.
“You know him, Monsieur?”
“I heard of him in St. Louis,” I answered.
“You will meet him, no doubt,” she continued. “He is a very fine gentleman. His grandfather was Commissary-general of the colony, and he himself is a cousin of the Marquis de Saint-Gré, who has two châteaux, a house in Paris, and is a favorite of the King.” She paused, as if to let this impress itself upon me, and added archly, “Tenez, Monsieur, there is a daughter—”
She stopped abruptly.
I followed her glance, and my first impression—of claret-color—gave me a shock. My second confirmedit, for in the semi-darkness beyond the rays of the candle was a thin, eager face, prematurely lined, with coal-black, lustrous eyes that spoke eloquently of indulgence. In an instant I knew it to be that of the young man whom I had seen on the levee.
“Monsieur Auguste?” stammered Madame.
“Bon soir, Madame,” he cried gayly, with a bow; “diable, they are already at it, I see, and the punch in the bowl. I will win back to-night what I have lost by a week of accursed luck.”
“Monsieur your father has relented, perhaps,” said Madame, deferentially.
“Relented!” cried the young man, “not a sou.C'est égal! I have the means here,” and he tapped his pocket, “I have the means here to set me on my feet again, Madame.”
He spoke with a note of triumph, and Madame took a curious step towards him.
“Qu'est-ce-que c'est, Monsieur Auguste?” she inquired.
He drew something that glittered from his pocket and beckoned to her to follow him down the room, which she did with alacrity.
“Ha, Adolphe,” he cried to the young man of the puffy face, “I will have my revenge to-night.Voilà!” and he held up the shining thing, “this goes to the highest bidder, and you will agree that it is worth a pretty sum.”
They rose from their chairs and clustered around him at the table, Madame in their midst, staring with bent heads at the trinket which he held to the light. It was Madame's voice I heard first, in a kind of frightened cry.
“Mon Dieu, Monsieur Auguste, you will not part with that!” she exclaimed.
“Why not?” demanded the young man, indifferently. “It was painted by Boze, the back is solid gold, and the Jew in the Rue Toulouse will give me four hundred livres for it to-morrow morning.”
There followed immediately such a chorus of questions,exclamations, and shrill protests from Madame Bouvet, that I (being such a laborious French scholar) could distinguish but little of what they said. I looked in wonderment at the gesticulating figures grouped against the light, Madame imploring, the youthful profile of the newcomer marked with a cynical and scornful refusal. More than once I was for rising out of my chair to go over and see for myself what the object was, and then, suddenly, I perceived Madame Bouvet coming towards me in evident agitation. She sank into the chair beside me.
“If I had four hundred livres,” she said, “if I had four hundred livres!”
“And what then?” I asked.
“Monsieur,” she said, “a terrible thing has happened. Auguste de Saint-Gré—”
“Auguste de Saint-Gré!” I exclaimed.
“He is the son of that Monsieur de Saint-Gré of whom we spoke,” she answered, “a wild lad, a spendthrift, a gambler, if you like. And yet he is a Saint-Gré, Monsieur, and I cannot refuse him. It is the miniature of Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré, the daughter of the Marquis, sent to Mamselle 'Toinette, his sister, from France. How he has obtained it I know not.”
“Ah!” I exclaimed sharply, the explanation of the scene of which I had been a witness coming to me swiftly. The rascal had wrenched it from her in the gallery and fled.
“Monsieur,” continued Madame, too excited to notice my interruption, “if I had four hundred livres I would buy it of him, and Monsieur de Saint-Grépèrewould willingly pay it back in the morning.”
I reflected. I had a letter in my pocket to Monsieur de Saint-Gré, the sum was not large, and the act of Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gré in every light was detestable. A rising anger decided me, and I took a wallet from my pocket.
“I will buy the miniature, Madame,” I said.
She looked at me in astonishment.
“God bless you, Monsieur,” she cried; “if you could seeMamselle 'Toinette you would pay twice the sum. The whole town loves her. Monsieur Auguste, Monsieur Auguste!” she shouted, “here is a gentleman who will buy your miniature.”
The six young men stopped talking and stared at me with one accord. Madame arose, and I followed her down the room towards them, and, had it not been for my indignation, I should have felt sufficiently ridiculous. Young Monsieur de Saint-Gré came forward with the good-natured, easy insolence to which he had been born, and looked me over.
“Monsieur is an American,” he said.
“I understand that you have offered this miniature for four hundred livres,” I said.
“It is the Jew's price,” he answered; “mais pardieu, what will you?” he added with a shrug, “I must have the money.Regardez, Monsieur, you have a bargain. Here is Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré, daughter of my lord the Marquis of whom I have the honor to be a cousin,” and he made a bow. “It is by the famous court painter, Joseph Boze, and Mademoiselle de Saint-Gré herself is a favorite of her Majesty.” He held the portrait close to the candle and regarded it critically. “Mademoiselle Hélène Victoire Marie de Saint-Gré, painted in a costume of Henry the Second's time, with a ruff, you notice, which she wore at a ball given by his Highness the Prince of Condé at Chantilly. A trifle haughty, if you like, Monsieur, but I venture to say you will be hopelessly in love with her within the hour.”
At this there was a general titter from the young gentlemen at the table.
“All of which is neither here nor there, Monsieur,” I answered sharply. “The question is purely a commercial one, and has nothing to do with the lady's character or position.”
“It is well said, Monsieur,” Madame Bouvet put in.
Monsieur Auguste de Saint-Gré shrugged his slim shoulders and laid down the portrait on the walnut table.
“Four hundred livres, Monsieur,” he said.
I counted out the money, scrutinized by the curious eyes of his companions, and pushed it over to him. He bowed carelessly, sat him down, and began to shuffle the cards, while I picked up the miniature and walked out of the room. Before I had gone twenty paces I heard them laughing at their game and shouting out the stakes. Suddenly I bethought myself of Nick. What if he should come in and discover the party at the table? I stopped short in the hallway, and there Madame Bouvet overtook me.
“How can I thank you, Monsieur?” she said. And then, “You will return the portrait to Monsieur de Saint-Gré?”
“I have a letter from Monsieur Gratiot to that gentleman, which I shall deliver in the morning,” I answered. “And now, Madame, I have a favor to ask of you.”
“I am at Monsieur's service,” she answered simply.
“When Mr. Temple comes in, he is not to go into that room,” I said, pointing to the door of the saloon; “I have my reasons for requesting it.”
For answer Madame went to the door, closed it, and turned the key. Then she sat down beside a little table with a candlestick and took up her knitting.
“It will be as Monsieur says,” she answered.
I smiled.
“And when Mr. Temple comes in will you kindly say that I am waiting for him in his room?” I asked.
“As Monsieur says,” she answered. “I wish Monsieur a good-night and pleasant dreams.”
She took a candlestick from the table, lighted the candle, and handed it me with a courtesy. I bowed, and made my way along the gallery above the deserted court-yard. Entering my room and closing the door after me, I drew the miniature from my pocket and stood gazing at it for I know not how long.
I stoodstaring at the portrait, I say, with a kind of fascination that astonished me, seeing that it had come to me in such a way. It was no French face of my imagination, and as I looked it seemed to me that I knew Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré. And yet I smile as I write this, realizing full well that my strange and foreign surroundings and my unforeseen adventure had much to do with my state of mind. The lady in the miniature might have been eighteen, or thirty-five. Her features were of the clearest cut, the nose the least trifle aquiline, and by a blurred outline the painter had given to the black hair piled high upon the head a suggestion of waviness. The eyebrows were straight, the brown eyes looked at the world with an almost scornful sense of humor, and I marked that there was determination in the chin. Here was a face that could be infinitely haughty or infinitely tender, a mouth of witty—nay, perhaps cutting—repartee of brevity and force. A lady who spoke quickly, moved quickly, or reposed absolutely. A person who commanded by nature and yet (dare I venture the thought?) was capable of a supreme surrender. I was aroused from this odd revery by footsteps on the gallery, and Nick burst into the room. Without pausing to look about him, he flung himself lengthwise on the bed on top of the mosquito bar.
“A thousand curses on such a place,” he cried; “it is full of rat holes and rabbit warrens.”
“Did you catch your man?” I asked innocently.
“Catch him!” said Nick, with a little excusable profanity; “he went in at one end of such a warren and came out at another. I waited for him in two streets until anofficious person chanced along and threatened to take me before the Alcalde. What the devil is that you have got in your hand, Davy?” he demanded, raising his head.
“A miniature that took my fancy, and which I bought.”
He rose from the bed, yawned, and taking it in his hand, held it to the light. I watched him curiously.
“Lord,” he said, “it is such a passion as I might have suspected of you, Davy.”
“There was nothing said about passion,” I answered hotly.
“Then why the deuce did you buy it?” he said with some pertinence.
This staggered me.
“A man may fancy a thing, without indulging in a passion, I suppose,” I replied.
Nick held the picture at arm's length in the palm of his hand and regarded it critically.
“Faith,” said he, “you may thank heaven it is only a picture. If such a one ever got hold of you, Davy, she would general you even as you general me. Egad,” he added with a laugh, “there would be no more walking the streets at night in search of adventure for you. Consider carefully the masterful features of that lady and thank God you haven't got her.”
I was inclined to be angry, but ended by laughing.
“There will be no rivalry between us, at least,” I said.
“Rivalry!” exclaimed Nick. “Heaven forbid that I should aspire to such abject slavery. When I marry, it will be to command.”
“All the more honor in such a conquest,” I suggested.
“Davy,” said he, “I have long been looking for some such flaw in your insuperable wisdom. But I vow I can keep my eyes open no longer. Benjy!”
A smothered response came from the other side of the wall, and Benjy duly appeared in the doorway, blinking at the candlelight, to put his master to bed.
We slept that night with no bed covering save the mosquito bar, as was the custom in New Orleans. Indeed, the heat was most oppressive, but we had become to someextent inured to it on the boat, and we were both in such sound health that our slumbers were not disturbed. Early in the morning, however, I was awakened by a negro song from the court-yard, and I lay pleasantly for some minutes listening to the early sounds, breathing in the aroma of coffee which mingled with the odor of the flowers of the court, until Zoey herself appeared in the doorway, holding a cup in her hand. I arose, and taking the miniature from the table, gazed at it in the yellow morning light; and then, having dressed myself, I put it carefully in my pocket and sat down at my portfolio to compose a letter to Polly Ann, knowing that a description of what I had seen in New Orleans would amuse her. This done, I went out into the gallery, where Madame was already seated at her knitting, in the shade of the great tree that stood in the corner of the court and spread its branches over the eaves. She arose and courtesied, with a questioning smile.
“Madame,” I asked, “is it too early to present myself to Monsieur de Saint-Gré?”
“Pardieu, no, Monsieur, we are early risers in the South for we have our siesta. You are going to return the portrait, Monsieur?”
I nodded.
“God bless you for the deed,” said she. “Tenez, Monsieur,” she added, stepping closer to me, “you will tell his father that you bought it from Monsieur Auguste?”
I saw that she had a soft spot in her heart for the rogue.
“I will make no promises, Madame,” I answered.
She looked at me timidly, appealingly, but I bowed and departed. The sun was riding up into the sky, the walls already glowing with his heat, and a midsummer languor seemed to pervade the streets as I walked along. The shadows now were sharply defined, the checkered foliage of the trees was flung in black against the yellow-white wall of the house with the lions, and the green-latticed gallery which we had watched the night before seemed silent and deserted. I knocked at the gate, and presently a bright-turbanedgardienneopened it.
Was Monsieur de Saint-Gré at home. Thegardiennelooked me over, and evidently finding me respectable, replied with many protestations of sorrow that he was not, that he had gone with Mamselle very early that morning to his country place at Les Îles. This information I extracted with difficulty, for I was not by any means versed in the negro patois.
As I walked back to Madame Bouvet's I made up my mind that there was but the one thing to do, to go at once to Monsieur de Saint-Gré's plantation. Finding Madame still waiting in the gallery, I asked her to direct me thither.
“You have but to follow the road that runs southward along the levee, and some three leagues will bring you to it, Monsieur. You will inquire for Monsieur de Saint-Gré.”
“Can you direct me to Mr. Daniel Clark's?” I asked.
“The American merchant and banker, the friend and associate of the great General Wilkinson whom you sent down to us last year? Certainly, Monsieur. He will no doubt give you better advice than I on this matter.”
I found Mr. Clark in his counting-room, and I had not talked with him five minutes before I began to suspect that, if a treasonable understanding existed between Wilkinson and the Spanish government, Mr. Clark was innocent of it. He being the only prominent American in the place, it was natural that Wilkinson should have formed with him a business arrangement to care for the cargoes he sent down. Indeed, after we had sat for some time chatting together, Mr. Clark began himself to make guarded inquiries on this very subject. Did I know Wilkinson? How was his enterprise of selling Kentucky products regarded at home? But I do not intend to burden this story with accounts of a matter which, though it has never been wholly clear, has been long since fairly settled in the public mind. Mr. Clark was most amiable, accepted my statement that I was travelling for pleasure, and honored Monsieur Chouteau'sbon(for my purchase of the miniature had deprived me of nearly all my ready money), and said that Mr. Temple and I would need horses to get to Les Îles.
“And unless you purpose going back to Kentucky bykeel boat, or round by sea to Philadelphia or New York, and cross the mountains,” he said, “you will need good horses for your journey through Natchez and the Cumberland country. There is a consignment of Spanish horses from the westward just arrived in town,” he added, “and I shall be pleased to go with you to the place where they are sold. I shall not presume to advise a Kentuckian on such a purchase.”
The horses were crowded together under a dirty shed near the levee, and the vessel from which they had been landed rode at anchor in the river. They were the scrawny, tough ponies of the plains, reasonably cheap, and it took no great discernment on my part to choose three of the strongest and most intelligent looking. We went next to a saddler's, where I selected three saddles and bridles of Spanish workmanship, and Mr. Clark agreed to have two of his servants meet us with the horses before Madame Bouvet's within the hour. He begged that we would dine with him when we returned from Les Îles.
“You will not find an island, Mr. Ritchie,” he said; “Saint-Gré's plantation is a huge block of land between the river and a cypress swamp behind. Saint-Gré is a man with a wonderful quality of mind, who might, like his ancestors, have made his mark if necessity had probed him or opportunity offered. He never forgave the Spanish government for the murder of his father, nor do I blame him. He has his troubles. His son is an incurable rake and degenerate, as you may have heard.”
I went back to Madame Bouvet's, to find Nick emerging from his toilet.
“What deviltry have you been up to, Davy?” he demanded.
“I have been to the House of the Lions to see your divinity,” I answered, “and in a very little while horses will be here to carry us to her.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, grasping me by both shoulders.
“I mean that we are going to her father's plantation, some way down the river.”
“On my honor, Davy, I did not suspect you of so much enterprise,” he cried. “And her husband—?”
“Does not exist,” I replied. “Perhaps, after all, I might be able to give you instruction in the conduct of an adventure. The man you chased with such futility was her brother, and he stole from her the miniature of which I am now the fortunate possessor.”
He stared at me for a moment in rueful amazement.
“And her name?” he demanded.
“Antoinette de Saint-Gré,” I answered; “our letter is to her father.”
He made me a rueful bow.
“I fear that I have undervalued you, Mr. Ritchie,” he said. “You have no peer. I am unworthy to accompany you, and furthermore, it would be useless.”
“And why useless!” I inquired, laughing.
“You have doubtless seen the lady, and she is yours,” said he.
“You forget that I am in love with a miniature,” I said.
In half an hour we were packed and ready, the horses had arrived, we bade good-by to Madame Bouvet and rode down the miry street until we reached the road behind the levee. Turning southward, we soon left behind the shaded esplanade and the city's roofs below us, and came to the first of the plantation houses set back amidst the dark foliage. No tremor shook the fringe of moss that hung from the heavy boughs, so still was the day, and an indefinable, milky haze stretched between us and the cloudless sky above. The sun's rays pierced it and gathered fire; the mighty river beside us rolled listless and sullen, flinging back the heat defiantly. And on our left was a tropical forest in all its bewildering luxuriance, the live-oak, the hackberry, the myrtle, the Spanish bayonet in bristling groups, and the shaded places gave out a scented moisture like an orangery; anon we passed fields of corn and cotton, swamps of rice, stretches of poverty-stricken indigo plants, gnawed to the stem by the pest. Our ponies ambled on, unmindful; but Nickvowed that no woman under heaven would induce him to undertake such a journey again.
Some three miles out of the city we descried two figures on horseback coming towards us, and quickly perceived that one was a gentleman, the other his black servant. They were riding at a more rapid pace than the day warranted, but the gentleman reined in his sweating horse as he drew near to us, eyed us with a curiosity tempered by courtesy, bowed gravely, and put his horse to a canter again.
“Phew!” said Nick, twisting in his saddle, “I thought that all Creoles were lazy.”
“We have met the exception, perhaps,” I answered. “Did you take in that man?”
“His looks were a little remarkable, come to think of it,” answered Nick, settling down into his saddle again.
Indeed, the man's face had struck me so forcibly that I was surprised out of an inquiry which I had meant to make of him, namely, how far we were from the Saint-Gré plantation. We pursued our way slowly, from time to time catching a glimpse of a dwelling almost hid in the distant foliage, until at length we came to a place a little more pretentious than those which we had seen. From the road a graceful flight of wooden steps climbed the levee and descended on the far side to a boat landing, and a straight vista cut through the grove, lined by wild orange trees, disclosed the white pillars and galleries of a far-away plantation house. The grassy path leading through the vista was trimly kept, and on either side of it in the moist, green shade of the great trees flowers bloomed in a profusion of startling colors,—in splotches of scarlet and white and royal purple.
Nick slipped from his horse.
“Behold the mansion of Mademoiselle de Saint-Gré,” said he, waving his hand up the vista.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I am told by a part of me that never lies, Davy,” he answered, laying his hand upon his heart; “and besides,”he added, “I should dislike devilishly to go too far on such a day and have to come back again.”
“We will rest here,” I said, laughing, “and send in Benjy to find out.”
“Davy,” he answered, with withering contempt, “you have no more romance in you than a turnip. We will go ourselves and see what befalls.”
“Very well, then,” I answered, falling in with his humor, “we will go ourselves.”
He brushed his face with his handkerchief, gave himself a pull here and a pat there, and led the way down the alley. But we had not gone far before he turned into a path that entered the grove on the right, and to this likewise I made no protest. We soon found ourselves in a heavenly spot,—sheltered from the sun's rays by a dense verdure,—and no one who has not visited these Southern country places can know the teeming fragrance there. One shrub (how well I recall it!) was like unto the perfume of all the flowers and all the fruits, the very essence of the delicious languor of the place that made our steps to falter. A bird shot a bright flame of color through the checkered light ahead of us. Suddenly a sound brought us to a halt, and we stood in a tense and wondering silence. The words of a song, sung carelessly in a clear, girlish voice, came to us from beyond.
"Je voudrais bien me marier,Je voudrais bien me marier,Mais j'ai qrand' peur de me tromper:Mais j'ai grand' peur de me tromper:Ils sont si malhonnêtes!Ma luron, ma lurette,Ils sont si malhonnêtes!Ma luron, ma luré."
“We have come at the very zenith of opportunity,” I whispered.
“Hush!” he said.
"Je ne veux pas d'un avocat,Je ne veux pas d'un avocat,Car ils aiment trop les ducats,Car ils aiment trop les ducats,Ils trompent les fillettes,Ma luron, ma lurette,Ils trompent les fillettes,Ma luron, ma luré."
“Eliminating Mr. Ritchie, I believe,” said Nick, turning on me with a grimace. “But hark again!”
"Je voudrais bien d'un officier:Je voudrais bien d'un officier:Je marcherais a pas cárres,Je marcherais a pas cárres,Dans ma joli' chambrette,Ma luron, ma luretteDans ma joli' chambrette,Ma luron, ma luré."
The song ceased with a sound that was half laughter, half sigh. Before I realized what he was doing, Nick, instead of retracing his steps towards the house, started forward. The path led through a dense thicket which became a casino hedge, and suddenly I found myself peering over his shoulder into a little garden bewildering in color. In the centre of the garden a great live-oak spread its sheltering branches. Around the gnarled trunk was a seat. And on the seat,—her sewing fallen into her lap, her lips parted, her eyes staring wide, sat the young lady whom we had seen on the levee the evening before. And Nick was making a bow in his grandest manner.
“Hélas, Mademoiselle,” he said, “je ne suis pas officier, mais on peut arranger tout cela, sans doute.”
My breath was taken away by this unheard-of audacity, and I braced myself against screams, flight, and other feminine demonstrations of terror. The young lady did nothing of the kind. She turned her back to us, leaned against the tree, and to my astonishment I saw her slim shoulders shaken with laughter. At length, very slowly, she looked around, and in her face struggled curiosity and fear and merriment. Nick made another bow, worthy of Versailles, and she gave a frightened little laugh.
“You are English, Messieurs—yes?” she ventured.
“We were once!” cried Nick, “but we have changed, Mademoiselle.”
“Et quoi donc?” relapsing into her own language.
“Americans,” said he. “Allow me to introduce to you the Honorable David Ritchie, whom you rejected a few moments ago.”
“Whom I rejected?” she exclaimed.
“Alas,” said Nick, with a commiserating glance at me, “he has the misfortune to be a lawyer.”
Mademoiselle shot at me the swiftest and shyest of glances, and turned to us once more her quivering shoulders. There was a brief silence.
“Mademoiselle?” said Nick, taking a step on the garden path.
“Monsieur?” she answered, without so much as looking around.
“What, now, would you take this gentleman to be?” he asked with an insistence not to be denied.
Again she was shaken with laughter, and suddenly to my surprise she turned and looked full at me.
“In English, Monsieur, you call it—a gallant?”
My face fairly tingled, and I heard Nick laughing with unseemly merriment.
“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he cried, “you are a judge of character, and you have read him perfectly.”
“Then I must leave you, Messieurs,” she answered, with her eyes in her lap. But she made no move to go.
“You need have no fear of Mr. Ritchie, Mademoiselle,” answered Nick, instantly. “I am here to protect you against his gallantry.”
This time Nick received the glance, and quailed before it.
“And who—par exemple—is to protect me against—you, Monsieur?” she asked in the lowest of voices.
“You forget that I, too, am unprotected—and vulnerable, Mademoiselle,” he answered.
Her face was hidden again, but not for long.
“How did you come?” she demanded presently.
“On air,” he answered, “for we saw you in New Orleans yesterday.”
“And—why?”
“Need you ask, Mademoiselle?” said the rogue, and then, with more effrontery than ever, he began to sing:—
"'Je voudrais bien me marier,Je voudrais bien me marier,Mais j'ai grand' peur de me tromper.'"
She rose, her sewing falling to the ground, and took a few startled steps towards us.
“Monsieur! you will be heard,” she cried.
“And put out of the Garden of Eden,” said Nick.
“I must leave you,” she said, with the quaintest of English pronunciation.
Yet she stood irresolute in the garden path, a picture against the dark green leaves and the flowers. Her age might have been seventeen. Her gown was of some soft and light material printed in buds of delicate color, her slim arms bare above the elbow. She had the ivory complexion of the province, more delicate than I had yet seen, and beyond that I shall not attempt to describe her, save to add that she was such a strange mixture of innocence and ingenuousness and coquetry as I had not imagined. Presently her gaze was fixed seriously on me.
“Do you think it very wrong, Monsieur?” she asked.
I was more than taken aback by this tribute.
“Oh,” cried Nick, “the arbiter of etiquette!”
“Since I am here, Mademoiselle,” I answered, with anything but readiness, “I am not a proper judge.”
Her next question staggered me.
“You are well-born?” she asked.
“Mr. Ritchie's grandfather was a Scottish earl,” said Nick, immediately, a piece of news that startled me into protest. “It is true, Davy, though you may not know it,” he added.
“And you, Monsieur?” she said to Nick.
“I am his cousin,—is it not honor enough?” said he.
“Yet you do not resemble one another.”
“Mr. Ritchie has all the good looks in the family,” said Nick.
“Oh!” cried the young lady, and this time she gave us her profile.
“Come, Mademoiselle,” said Nick, “since the fates have cast the die, let us all sit down in the shade. The place was made for us.”
“Monsieur!” she cried, giving back, “I have never in my life been alone with gentlemen.”
“But Mr. Ritchie is a duenna to satisfy the most exacting,” said Nick; “when you know him better you will believe me.”
She laughed softly and glanced at me. By this time we were all three under the branches.
“Monsieur, you do not understand the French customs.Mon Dieu, if the good Sister Lorette could see me now—”
“But she is safe in the convent,” said Nick. “Are they going to put glass on the walls?”
“And why?” asked Mademoiselle, innocently.
“Because,” said Nick, “because a very bad man has come to New Orleans,—one who is given to climbing walls.”
“You?”
“Yes. But when I found that a certain demoiselle had left the convent, I was no longer anxious to climb them.”
“And how did you know that I had left it?”
I was at a loss to know whether this were coquetry or innocence.
“Because I saw you on the levee,” said Nick.
“You saw me on the levee?” she repeated, giving back.
“And I had a great fear,” the rogue persisted.
“A fear of what?”
“A fear that you were married,” he said, with a boldness that made me blush. As for Mademoiselle, a color that vied with the June roses charged through her cheeks. She stooped to pick up her sewing, but Nick was before her.
“And why did you think me married?” she asked in a voice so low that we scarcely heard.
“Faith,” said Nick, “because you seemed to be quarrelling with a man.”
She turned to him with an irresistible seriousness.
“And is that your idea of marriage, Monsieur?”
This time it was I who laughed, for he had been hit very fairly.
“Mademoiselle,” said he, “I did not for a moment think it could have been a love match.”
Mademoiselle turned away and laughed.
“You are the very strangest man I have ever seen,” she said.
“Shall I give you my notion of a love match, Mademoiselle?” said Nick.
“I should think you might be well versed in the subject, Monsieur,” she answered, speaking to the tree, “but here is scarcely the time and place.” She wound up her sewing, and faced him. “I must really leave you,” she said.
He took a step towards her and stood looking down into her face. Her eyes dropped.
“And am I never to see you again?” he asked.
“Monsieur!” she cried softly, “I do not know who you are.” She made him a courtesy, took a few steps in the opposite path, and turned. “That depends upon your ingenuity,” she added; “you seem to have no lack of it, Monsieur.”
Nick was transported.
“You must not go,” he cried.
“Must not? How dare you speak to me thus, Monsieur?” Then she tempered it. “There is a lady here whom I love, and who is ill. I must not be long from her bedside.”
“She is very ill?” said Nick, probably for want of something better.
“She is not really ill, Monsieur, but depressed—is not that the word? She is a very dear friend, and she has had trouble—so much, Monsieur,—and my mother brought her here. We love her as one of the family.”
This was certainly ingenuous, and it was plain that the girl gave us this story through a certain nervousness, for she twisted her sewing in her fingers as she spoke.
“Mademoiselle,” said Nick, “I would not keep you from such an errand of mercy.”
She gave him a grateful look, more dangerous than any which had gone before.
“And besides,” he went on, “we have come to stay awhile with you, Mr. Ritchie and myself.”
“You have come to stay awhile?” she said.
I thought it time that the farce were ended.
“We have come with letters to your father, Monsieur de Saint-Gré, Mademoiselle,” I said, “and I should like very much to see him, if he is at leisure.”
Mademoiselle stared at me in unfeigned astonishment.
“But did you not meet him, Monsieur?” she demanded. “He left an hour ago for New Orleans. You must have met a gentleman riding very fast.”
It was my turn to be astonished.
“But that was not your father!” I exclaimed.
“Et pourquoi non?” she said.
“Is not your father the stout gentleman whom I saw with you on the levee last evening?” I asked.
She laughed.
“You have been observing, Monsieur,” she said. “That was my uncle, Monsieur de Beauséjour. You saw me quarrelling with my brother, Auguste,” she went on a little excitedly. “Oh, I am very much ashamed of it. I was so angry. My cousin, Mademoiselle Hélène de Saint-Gré, has just sent me from France such a beautiful miniature, and Auguste fell in love with it.”
“Fell in love with it!” I exclaimed involuntarily.
“You should see it, Monsieur, and I think you also would fall in love with it.”
“I have not a doubt of it,” said Nick.
Mademoiselle made the faintest ofmoues.
“Auguste is very wild, as you say,” she continued, addressing me, “he is a great care to my father. He intrigues, you know, he wishesLouisianeto become French once more,—as we all do. But I should not say this, Monsieur,” she added in a startled tone. “You will not tell? No, I know you will not. We do not like the Spaniards. They killed my grandfather when they came to take the province. And once, the Governor-generalMiro sent for my father and declared he would put Auguste in prison if he did not behave himself. But I have forgotten the miniature. When Auguste saw that he fell in love with it, and now he wishes to go to France and obtain a commission through our cousin, the Marquis of Saint-Gré, and marry Mademoiselle Hélène.”
“A comprehensive programme, indeed,” said Nick.
“My father has gone back to New Orleans,” she said, “to get the miniature from Auguste. He took it from me, Monsieur.” She raised her head a little proudly. “If my brother had asked it, I might have given it to him, though I treasured it. But Auguste is so—impulsive. My uncle told my father, who is very angry. He will punish Auguste severely, and—I do not like to have him punished. Oh, I wish I had the miniature.”
“Your wish is granted, Mademoiselle,” I answered, drawing the case from my pocket and handing it to her.
She took it, staring at me with eyes wide with wonder, and then she opened it mechanically.
“Monsieur,” she said with great dignity, “do you mind telling me where you obtained this?”
“I found it, Mademoiselle,” I answered; and as I spoke I felt Nick's fingers on my arm.
“You found it? Where? How, Monsieur?”
“At Madame Bouvet's, the house where we stayed.”
“Oh,” she said with a sigh of relief, “he must have dropped it. It is there where he meets his associates, where they talk of the FrenchLouisiane.”
Again I felt Nick pinching me, and I gave a sigh of relief. Mademoiselle was about to continue, but I interrupted her.
“How long will your father be in New Orleans, Mademoiselle?” I asked.